Sweetwater is shifting weight from leg to leg, almost bouncing with glee, delighted at the emotional carnage. ‘Settle down, children. Settle down.’ He cackles once more, overjoyed that his script is unfolding so well. ‘So, Titus, just to be clear, I wasn’t responsible for any of these deaths, was I? Not Molloy, not Fuller, not your sister. Say it.’
‘Molloy wasn’t me.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re dumber than I thought.’ He grabs the judge by the hair, but this time the old man has both hands up, protecting what remains of his ears. Sweetwater draws the knife quickly through the fingers of the left hand, severing nothing, but leaving a deep and bloody gash, blood seeping.
‘Jesus wept,’ says the judge, anger in his voice. ‘You’ll pay for this, you arsehole.’
‘No doubt I will,’ says Sweetwater, before again addressing the son. ‘So, tell your father, tell Martin. Why was it necessary to kill your sister and Fuller?’
‘I was protecting us. You. Me. All of us. They knew all about the Mess. They were closing in on Mollisons.’
‘So you took it upon yourself to eliminate them?’
‘Yes. For the greater good.’
‘And did you seek my advice? My permission?’
‘No,’ says Titus, the passion draining out of his voice.
Sweetwater shifts his gaze to Martin. ‘You following this? This white-bread lawyer here, this lily-livered motherfucker, is working alongside a fully paid-up member of the Chicago mob, and yet he decides to kill a couple of innocents without even thinking to mention his plan to me.’ And again his attention shifts back to the son. ‘Why was that, Titus? How could you have been so fucking stupid?’
But Titus seems to have sunken below speaking. He’s sobbing, alternating between looking at his father and the floor, as if lifting his gaze to meet Sweetwater’s is a physical impossibility. His face is racked by guilt and self-pity. The judge is also in pain, real pain. It’s not the loss of his ears or the pulsing gash in his hand, Martin understands; it runs much deeper than that. His daughter, murdered by his son. How could losing ears even compete with that level of agony?
Sweetwater continues. ‘So what you two gentlemen need to consider—especially you, Martin, as you write your account—is this: why did the brother kill the sister? To protect Mollisons, to protect me, to protect his own precious arse? Or was it more than that? Was it simply that he couldn’t bear the thought that it was his sister who would expose him, diminish him, send him to prison, belittle him for all time in their father’s eyes? Expose him as the corporate counsel to a mafia-controlled company? The High Court justice, a knight of the realm, and his high-flying daughter, a Supreme Court judge, the golden girl, always the favoured child, always the high achiever, whereas this pathetic little shit’s only way to gain anything like status and money was to become a corporate criminal for Mollisons. Before that, he couldn’t even keep his membership of the Mess.’
Martin hears the contempt in Sweetwater’s voice, can only wonder at it. How could one criminal, a member of the mafia no less, be so scathing about another transgressor?
As if to answer Martin’s question, Sweetwater, his voice imbued with true emotion at last, spits at Titus Torbett, ‘You miserable little bastard. You have no idea of poverty, of deprivation, of abuse. Growing up in this house, with all your privileges. I never had a choice, not like you. Yet I made more of myself than you will ever be. And now they’re coming for me. Why? Because a spoilt child got outshone in his father’s eyes by a girl.’
Now there is near silence: Martin can hear Sweetwater breathing heavily with emotional exertion, Titus Torbett sobbing with self-pity and the judge wheezing with pain. Is that it? Martin wonders. Has Sweetwater extracted all the information he requires? Has he inflicted all the pain he desires, exacted his retribution? What now? Is he just going to walk out, leave them like this?
Martin decides it’s time to talk. He looks Sweetwater in the eye. ‘I’ve got it all. I understand it. I will publish it. There is no need to go any further. It’s enough.’
But it’s not Sweetwater who responds. A deeper voice speaks, backed up by a gun with a deeper register. ‘No. We’re not finished just yet,’ says Henry Livingstone, stepping out of the shadows. He places the barrel of his gun square in Harry Sweetwater’s back. ‘Drop the knife, cunt.’
chapter forty
She tries again, and again Martin doesn’t answer. Indeed, he seems to have turned his phone off altogether; it’s redirecting straight to voicemail. She hangs up, not bothering to leave another message. She tries to locate him on the tracking app, but it doesn’t seem to be working.
‘Hey, Yev, is the tracker on the fritz? I thought it was still working.’
‘Should be. Give us a look.’ He takes Mandy’s phone, frowns. ‘That’s weird. I’m showing up clear as day.’ He checks his own phone. ‘And I can see you.’ He shrugs. ‘Either he has his phone powered off completely, or he’s underground or something.’
‘Train?’
‘No. There’s reception in the tunnels.’
‘Right. How’s the video?’
‘Almost done downloading. I just want to make sure I back it all up before we give a copy to the cops.’ Yev returns to his work station, spools through, double-checking. ‘Okay. All good.’ Then silence.
‘C’mon, let’s go,’ says Mandy, anxious to get this done.
‘Shit,’ says Yev. ‘There’s more.’
‘What?’
‘Come see.’
‘What is it?’
‘There’s a new recording. Someone else visiting.’
She joins him, silent as he works at the controls. ‘This is straight off the site, so not high quality.’ He starts moving through. Again it is night-time, lit up by the floodlights, the cameras and recorders triggered. But this time it’s different. There is nothing furtive about the man walking up to the front door, no attempt to disguise his identity: the suit, the oiled hair,
