But Danny wasn’t so lucky. At eighteen he stabbed to death a man who came onto his girlfriend in a pub. He was convicted of murder and spent twelve years in prison. When released he went to work with a bunch of mercenaries in Libya. After a couple of years in that hellhole, he returned to London and offered his services to his old pal from Peckham.
Slack had been only too pleased to give him a job, and it wasn’t long before Danny became his right-hand man.
‘So have you got any questions, mate?’ Slack asked as he got up from the sofa to pour some more drinks.
‘I’ve got lots, boss,’ Danny said. ‘But they can wait. I’d rather we got down to business and you told me how we’re going to get this party started.’
Slack poured two more whiskies and then sat back down on the sofa.
‘It’s already started, mate,’ he said. ‘Yesterday I spoke to our friend Carlos Cruz in Mexico. He owes me a big favour and I called it in.’
‘What do you want from him?’ Danny asked.
Slack took a deep breath and held it for a second before speaking.
‘I want him to supply us with an assassin,’ he said, as though that were quite a normal request to make. ‘Someone who won’t be on the radar of any law enforcement agency anywhere in Europe. As we all know the best and most prolific contract killers work for the Mexican cartels.’
‘What was his response?’
‘He told me he’d be only too happy to help and that he’d ring me this evening.’
Danny’s brow peaked. ‘So assuming he delivers, what’ll be the next step?’
A slow smile spread across Slack’s face. ‘We then make use of the information that’s been passed onto me by our mole inside the organised crime task force.’
Laura
The task force had a temporary base at New Scotland Yard because the building we usually occupied around the corner was being refurbished. But it suited me because the interior was fresh and modern, and there were spectacular views across the Thames. It was also much closer to the Rose and Crown and a couple of other cosy little watering holes.
I was among the first to leave the pub after four gin and tonics, a ham sandwich and a packet of cheese and onion crisps.
I would have stayed later if it had been Friday, but I had no intention of getting pissed on a Monday night.
I’d enjoyed myself, though. The banter, the camaraderie, the chance to talk about things other than work. Plus, I’d also managed to steer clear of Tony Marsden, who’d spent much of the time chatting up the buxom barmaid.
DCS Drummond had been on good form throughout and had taken particular pleasure in using the occasion to reveal some more good news – that the wife of our colleague, DI Dave Prentiss, had given birth to a baby boy that very afternoon, which was why he wasn’t with us. Prentiss was one of the detectives I got on well with, so I was really happy for him.
After leaving the pub I walked to Embankment tube station and travelled south via the Northern Line to Balham where Aidan and I rented a house just off the High Road.
I got home shortly after nine o’clock. Aidan was watching the television in the living room and he was surprised to see me back so early.
‘What happened?’ he said. ‘Did they run out of booze?’
I laughed. ‘I didn’t dare stay any longer. It was my day off, remember, and I had a couple of wines with lunch. One more alcoholic drink and no way will I be fit for work in the morning.’
He got up from his favourite armchair, pulled me into an embrace, and kissed me tenderly on the mouth.
As always it was just what I needed at the end of a day spent apart. His warm, minty breath and the feel of his body so close to mine gave rise to a familiar sense of gratitude for having him in my life.
I loved him beyond measure and I knew in my heart that I’d always be able to trust him. He wasn’t like Tony Marsden or Kate Chappell’s adulterous husband.
Having got my pulse racing, he helped me off with my coat and offered to make me a cup of coffee.
‘Sit down and relax,’ he said. ‘Fancy a couple of chocolate biscuits?’
‘Does the Pope believe in Christ?’
He gave me another kiss, this time on the forehead, and I watched him slide off into the kitchen.
He was wearing his ‘comfy’ uniform – a pair of black tracksuit bottoms and a baggy blue sweatshirt with more stains on it than a baby’s bib.
I was the only person who ever got to see him like this. Whenever we had visitors he’d put on jeans and a smart jumper and pretend that he didn’t live like a slob while at home.
But the truth was Aidan Bray was one of those men who looked pretty cool whatever they wore.
He was tall and trim with a sporty physique honed during regular sessions in the gym. But it was his face more than anything else that had attracted me to him in the first place. It was more interesting than handsome, and there was an openness to it that drew people in.
His eyes were large and green and set slightly too far apart. His cheeks dimpled when he smiled and his light brown hair was flecked with grey even though he was only thirty-three.
As he disappeared into the kitchen I realised yet again how lucky I was, certainly compared to Kate who had lost all faith in men, and was struggling to get her personal life back on track.
I dropped onto the sofa and exhaled a long breath. In front of me on the television a recorded episode of A Place in the Sun was drawing to a close. Aidan was a big fan, partly because he dreamt of moving to Spain one day to be nearer to his parents who’d retired to the Costa Blanca a few years ago.
I picked up the remote and turned to the BBC News Channel. Within thirty seconds they were running the Harry Fuller story and I watched DCS Drummond facing the media outside the Old Bailey.
‘So tell me more about this bloke Roy Slack,’ Aidan said as he re-entered the living room with my coffee. ‘I gather you’re gunning for him next.’
I looked up, surprised. ‘Have they mentioned him by name on the news?’
‘No. But he’s been all over social media this evening and he was trending on Twitter when I last checked.’
The force was always careful not to name people until they were questioned or charged, especially those who had the means and clout to cause a fuss. The mainstream media also tended to be cautious for fear of litigation. But on the Internet it was a different matter and people didn’t care about such things as libel and defamation.
Aidan handed me my coffee and biscuits and settled back into his armchair, waiting for me to answer his question.
He rarely asked me about my work and the characters we pursued because he knew that there was so much I couldn’t tell him. He had only ever demonstrated a vague curiosity anyway, and that could more often than not be satisfied by reading the Evening Standard.
‘Roy Slack can best be described as a tyrant who presides over this country’s biggest criminal enterprise,’ I explained. ‘He’s the closest we have to the old Mafia godfathers.’
Aidan didn’t want a detailed character assessment of the man, just the lurid headlines. So that was what I gave him.
‘Slack’s