LITMIR.BIZ

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were fucking careless,’ Danny Carver said. ‘It’s not that hard to stop the snooping if you know how to.’

      ‘And we do know how to,’ Slack said. ‘That’s why they’ve struggled to get close to us.’

      But he could see that whatever he told Piper and the others it was not going to ease their anxiety. So after a while he gave up trying and focused on his meal.

      At three o’clock he told Mike Walker to bring the car around the front.

      ‘We’re going to the house in Park Crescent,’ he said. ‘And you need to make bloody sure we’re not followed.’

      It’s only about six miles from Rotherhithe to Dulwich, but the route Mike took to get there added two miles to the journey.

      He used to be a cabbie so he knew the area like the back of his hand. There was no way the Old Bill could have tailed them without being spotted.

      Dulwich was one of the more serene parts of South London with a picturesque park and a famous college. It was also a good place to invest in property, which was why Slack had bought the house in Park Crescent a few years ago.

      It was one of four the firm owned south of the river and three were being rented out. They’d been purchased through fake companies so they wouldn’t fall victim to seizure warrants if ever he was arrested and charged with an offence. The place in Park Crescent was currently occupied by two of his most reliable crew members – Johnny Devonshire and Pat Knowles. He let them live there for free because the place was frequently used for all kinds of activities, including the storage of drugs and stolen goods, clandestine meetings with corrupt coppers and officials, and as a safe house for those who needed to drop out of sight for a while.

      It was a detached property close to the hospital, with an integral garage and a small front garden enclosed by high hedges that provided a degree of privacy.

      Johnny and Pat were expecting him and, as the car pulled up at the kerb, the front door was opened and they both stepped outside.

      They were tall, muscle-bound hard cases, and had worked as a team since sharing a prison cell at the Scrubs some years ago.

      Slack told Mike to wait in the car while he got out to shake hands with Johnny and Pat.

      ‘Good to see you, boss,’ Pat said. ‘We weren’t sure you’d ever manage to get here.’

      He shrugged. ‘It’s been hectic guys. Plus, I was playing safe because the Old Bill have been watching me.’

      He entered the house and took off his overcoat, which he handed to Johnny.

      ‘Any problems with our lodger?’ he asked.

      Johnny shook his head. ‘None at all. We’ve been feeding him sleeping pills so he’s been as quiet as a mouse.’

      ‘Right. Well after tonight he’ll be off your hands.’

      Slack walked along the corridor to the door that led to the basement.

      ‘I’ll go down and sort him by myself,’ he said. ‘Do me a favour and put the kettle on. I’m sure I’ll fancy a cuppa when I’ve finished.’

      He pulled the door open and stepped inside. The light was already on and as he descended the stairs he felt his pulse quicken.

      The basement was large and gloomy and was often packed with illicit contraband. But now it was virtually empty except for the man who was sitting on a bare mattress with his back to the wall and one hand cuffed to a metal ring secured to the floor.

      He was a sinewy guy with a crew cut and a face half covered with stubble. Pale and glassy-eyed, he was wearing a roll-neck sweater and jeans.

      There were two blankets next to him on the mattress and the air around him stank of shit.

      He opened his mouth to say something, but Slack spoke first as his face morphed into a mask of pure hatred.

      ‘So you’re the trigger-happy cunt who murdered both my son and unborn grandchild,’ he said.

      It was the first time he’d laid eyes on Hugh Wallis since arranging for Danny and a couple of the other lads to snatch him.

      That was a week ago, shortly after one of the bent coppers on the firm’s payroll had leaked his identity.

      He’d been brought here to await his punishment, which Slack had been determined to administer himself.

      ‘Please let me go,’ Wallis pleaded, his eyes wide and bloodshot. ‘I have a family, for Christ’s sake.’

      Slack made a sneering shape with his mouth.

      ‘Do you know who I am?’ he yelled.

      Wallis nodded and a tear streaked down his right cheek.

      ‘You’re Roy Slack.’

      ‘That’s right. And I’m here to pay you back for killing Terry Malone when there was no need. And you did it only a few hours after I broke the news to him that I was his dad. That can’t be allowed to go unpunished.’

      Wallis tried to respond, but Slack held up his hand to stop him.

      ‘I don’t want to hear what you have to say. This is not a fucking court of law where you get to plead your case. As far as I’m concerned you’re as guilty as sin. Terry’s girlfriend was there, as you know. She told everyone what happened. But your lot chose to believe you over her and that ain’t right.’

      Wallis pulled himself up on one knee and started pleading for his life.

      Slack responded by stepping forward and saying, ‘You should count yourself lucky that you’re not being tortured. As much as I’d like to make you suffer I haven’t got the time to piss around.’

      He thrust his right hand into his trouser pocket and when he pulled it out he was clutching a brass knuckle-duster with spikes.

      The fear shone out of the copper’s eyes as Slack clenched his jaw and bared his teeth.

      ‘You took my son away from me before I had a chance to get to know him,’ he said. ‘I had big plans for that boy and you fucked them up. And because you’re a copper you thought you’d get away with it. Well, you were wrong.’

      The first blow tore a chunk out of Wallis’s arm as he raised it to shield his face. He screamed and toppled onto his back.

      Slack jumped onto the mattress and started aiming kicks at the man’s head. Wallis was too weak to put up a fight. He tried to roll onto his side and bring his legs up against his chest, but he wasn’t quick enough.

      Slack dropped down heavily on top of him, and sat astride his stomach. And then he let rip with the knuckleduster, his weapon of choice for the past thirty years.

      He smashed it against his victim’s face, head and throat, tearing flesh and crushing bone and teeth. And he didn’t let up for a full two minutes, by which time Wallis was unrecognisable. And he was dead.

      He’d made a right mess, though, and there was blood everywhere, including on his hands and shirt. But that wasn’t a problem because there was a wardrobe full of spare clobber upstairs.

      He dragged himself to his feet and used his hanky to wipe his blood and prints from the knuckle-duster, which he then slipped back in his pocket.

      He paused to look down at his victim, or, rather, what was left of him.

      ‘That was for you, Terry my son,’ he said. ‘The bastard got what he deserved.’

      Slack walked back up the stairs where Johnny and Pat were waiting for him in the hallway.

      ‘I’m ready for that tea now,’ Slack said.

      ‘Is the guy sorted, boss?’ Pat asked him.

      Slack nodded, a little breathless. ‘It’s time to call the clean-up crew. I want the body to disappear, along with every last trace of

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