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He peered regretfully into the empty glass. ‘You know what, Maggie? You're too sensible to be working for me. Mind you, a dose of good sense is exactly what I need. There are some nasty people out there.'

‘Tell me about it,' she said. ‘I married one of them. And there's plenty more where he came from.'

‘Too right. Don't suppose you've come across Pete Boyle?' He asked the question as if it were just a casual follow-up, but he glanced nervously towards the pub entrance as he asked it.

She shook her head, adopting the poker-face again. ‘Another local big shot?'

‘Used to be Kerridge's dep. They had some falling out. Word is that Boyle got shafted and ended up inside, but they couldn't make the case stick. Now he's out, and they reckon he's one of those throwing his weight about.'

‘Would make sense,' she agreed. ‘If he thought he'd been shafted by Kerridge. Would give him a motive for taking out a contract on Kerridge's widow, I suppose.'

McGrath gave another glance towards the door. ‘He's a nasty bit of work, anyhow.'

‘Is there a problem, Andy?' She realised that she'd used his name for the first time. She couldn't help herself. One whiff of a lead and she found herself deploying all the tricks and techniques she used with informants. Gain their confidence. Lure them in. Get them relaxed. It was made her good at her job, but there were times when she hated herself for it.

‘Might be. I've had a few deals go tits up recently. People crying off at the last minute. Contacts who've dropped off the radar, you know? Today. I heard one got his stock destroyed in a fire at some storage place in Liverpool. Then someone tells me that Boyle and his associates have been clocked around these parts over the last week or so. This isn't his territory. Wasn't, anyway. But they reckon he sees everywhere as fair game these days.' McGrath had been looking for a way of offloading his anxieties, she thought. That was why he'd been talking so freely. Seeing her as someone to share the pain.

‘The rumour mill might be wrong,' she said. ‘It often is.'

‘But it makes me nervous. Don't like to think Pete Boyle might have his beady eyes on me.'

‘Have to keep your head down,' she said. ‘Try not to draw attention to yourself.'

‘Easier said than done.' McGrath gazed ruefully at his glass. ‘I'm going to risk a second,' he said, finally. ‘Sure you won't join me?'

‘I need to get going, Andy. See you in the morning, okay?' She pushed herself up from the table. ‘Stop at this one, though, eh? It wouldn't be smart to get done for drink-driving, on top of everything else.'

‘Yeah. I usually manage to avoid being a total dickhead, with a bit of encouragement.' He laughed. ‘Sorry. Not like me. One of nature's optimists, usually. Just got me a bit rattled, that's all.'

‘You'll be okay?'

‘Yeah, of course. You get off. Plenty more chances for me to buy you dinner, eh?' He laughed, with a glint of the familiar mischievous lechery back in his eyes.

She smiled back. ‘You know what, Andy? You carry on asking and there's half a chance I might say yes. See you in the morning, eh?'

She made her way to the exit. At the door she paused and glanced back towards McGrath. He was still sitting there, empty glass in front of him, as if waiting for someone to arrive.

He watched as she left the pub, noting her confident stride across the car park. It's the wrong sort of car for her, he thought. She was built for a flash little sporty number, something with a roof you could lower when the sun came out. He'd imagined her blonde hair caught by the wind as she sped down an empty country road, like a model in a car advertisement. Not stuck in some prosaic black Japanese saloon.

She looked different, though. Not so different that he hadn't recognised her. He would have known her anywhere, however different she might appear. In any case, the changes were superficial. She'd dyed her hair a lighter shade of blonde. She was wearing a different style of clothes. More make-up. Tarty, he thought. That was the word.

But, underneath, she was the same person. Pretty, neat, smart in every sense. The same person. She was just doing a job.

And she was good at it, too. This would be a challenge. She was clever and streetwise. She was used to keeping her eyes open. More than that, she was
trained
. She'd be expecting – well, not him. Certainly not him. But someone. She'd be expecting that someone might be behind her.

But he liked the idea of having some competition, a real test of his ability. Something to keep him on his toes, help him hone his skills.

He'd parked his car three rows back in the busy car park, where there was no danger that he'd be seen, even if she stopped to look around. Even if she suspected that someone might be here.

He'd seen no sign of that, though. She'd seemed relaxed enough. She'd glanced round before getting into her car, but that was just force of habit.

He had it all under control. A couple of days earlier, in the small hours of the morning, he'd visited her house. He'd parked half a mile away, off the estate, and made his way silently through the surrounding fields. When he'd reached her house, he'd fixed a magnetic electronic tracking device under one of the wings of her car.

He hadn't really needed to go to those lengths. He could have managed to slip the device unobtrusively under the car even in broad daylight, even if the car was parked in a busy shopping street. That stuff wasn't difficult. If you looked confident enough, people just ignored you. They assumed you were going about some legitimate business, and they didn't trouble themselves too much about what it might be.

It was harder in the dead of night. If anyone caught you, they would know you were up to no good. But he'd done it to test himself. It was just a game. Setting yourself a personal challenge, make the work more interesting.

He'd thought about not using the tracker for the same reasons. But the risks were too great. Keeping a tail on a vehicle was never easy, even with less experienced targets. You couldn't get too close. But if you kept too far back, particularly in a city, you risked losing the target. You found yourself doing stupid things. Jumping lights or overtaking on blind bends. Stuff that got you noticed. Stuff that might get you killed.

But he could follow the tracker through an app on his mobile phone without having to move a muscle. He could trace the little green blob on the electronic map, and know precisely where she was. He could let her go on ahead and follow at a discreet distance, waiting to catch her up. Easy.

He sat motionless in his car, watching as she pulled out of the pub car park into the main road. This time of the evening, she was probably just heading home. If so, he'd leave her be for tonight, unless she showed signs of going out again.

There was no hurry. He always made it clear to clients that, unless they had some urgent requirement – and he would charge extra if that was the case – he would work at his own pace. He had to observe, think, plan. For the moment, they just wanted him to watch. Report any movements that seemed unexpected or significant. Eventually, they'd want him to act. But not yet.

He reported any relevant information to an anonymous voicemail. He received no feedback as to whether his information was useful, and he didn't expect any. If it was valuable, they'd use it. If not, they'd ignore it.

He watched the trace of her movement on the screen of his mobile, checking that she was heading back towards her home. Just as he'd expected.

He smiled faintly, then dialled the number of the voicemail. He left his message after the tone, as requested by the robotic voice. Just the basic details of what he'd observed. He ended the call, tossed the mobile on to the passenger seat, and started the engine.

‘Where are you?'

‘Back room. To the left as you face the bar. Table in the corner. I've a pint waiting for you.'

Brennan pushed his way through the bustling pub. Smart choice, he thought. A crowded Wetherspoon's joint, just off St Peter's Square, crammed full of office workers in the early evening. Not a place likely to attract any of Boyle's associates.

He found Barker and the grass easily enough. Their roles weren't quite as obvious as Barker had suggested, but Barker looked every inch a copper. He was tall, solidly built, obviously in decent shape. Probably late twenties, his hair trimmed short, his expression suggesting the right balance of enthusiasm and cynicism.

The grass was a different proposition. Short, overweight, with greasy greying hair flopping across his forehead. He had a couple of days' growth of beard and could have been anything from thirty to fifty. Nearer thirty, Brennan thought as he sat down, but thirty shitty years. He had the familiar look of the informant – shifty, nervous, ingratiating. He looked, as they always did, as if here was the very last place he wanted to be.

Brennan nodded to Barker then smiled at the grass. ‘Brennan,' he said.

The grass nodded. ‘I'm Kenny,' he said. ‘Just Kenny.'

‘Hello, just Kenny. Mr Barker here says you work with Pete Boyle.'

Kenny blinked, as if Brennan had taken a liberty in speaking the name out loud. ‘Work for various people,' he says. ‘Depends who's paying. I've worked with Boyle.'

‘Working with him at the moment?'

‘What do you want to know?'

‘Off the scene for a bit, wasn't he?'

Kenny laughed. ‘You lot fucked that up. Thought you had Boyle bang to rights. Ran rings round you.'

‘He's a smart boy, Peter Boyle,' Brennan said. ‘Must have caused a few problems, though. Being out of commission. Had to get back.'

‘Can't say. But Jeff Kerridge's missus froze him out. Boyle thought that, with Kerridge out of the way, he could muscle his way to the top of Kerridge's empire. She had other ideas.'

‘And now she's dead, too,' Brennan mused. ‘Boyle behind that?'

‘Christ knows. He's not telling the likes of me.' Kenny looked apologetically across at Barker. ‘I could make out I knew. But Mr Barker here knows I tell the truth.'

‘Course, Kenny. More or less. No mileage in bullshitting Mr Brennan here. He's too smart.'

‘But, yeah, most people seem to think Boyle was behind it. He'd plenty of reasons to want her off the scene. Not the only one, though.'

‘Boyle's looking to take over, is he? That what people are saying?'

‘Seen it myself. Started throwing his weight around over the last couple of months. Show people he's back.'

‘What people?'

‘Anyone who's likely to get in his way. He's in a hurry. Won't care who he crosses.'

‘So what's he doing?'

Kenny looked up, as if suddenly conscious he was in a public place. ‘What I've
seen
,' Kenny said, finally, ‘is stuff designed to scare people off. Some low rent dealer picked off the street and given a beating. Not because he gives a bugger about the dealer, but because he's telling whoever's supplying that this is Pete Boyle's territory. Shops burnt out, places trashed. That kind of stuff.'

‘Making some big enemies, then. Not everyone's easily frightened.'

‘Working so far. Expanding his territory nicely as far as I can see.'

‘You got any evidence? Anything we could use in court?'

Kenny looked at Barker with a smile. ‘You said he was smart, Mr Barker. I'm a grass, Mr Brennan, not a fucking idiot. I'll pass on titbits for a bit of cash in hand, but I'm not going to start collecting fucking
evidence
.'

‘But you know that this is happening? Not just tittle-tattle.'

‘I've seen it. Some of it. There's probably lots more stuff that I don't know about. I just do bits of business for Boyle when he asks me to.'

‘Including beatings?'

‘Jesus, man, look at me. Not my game at all. I'm a leg-man. Fetching and carrying. But I know some involved in the rough stuff. Names that Mr Barker would know.'

‘I can guess,' Barker said. ‘You reckon Boyle's taken anyone else out? Like Mrs K, if he was behind that.'

‘That's what people are saying. Heard all kinds of stories, but I don't know how much is true. But Boyle's got people running scared. Even some of the big boys.'

‘What about you, Kenny? You scared of Boyle?'

Kenny shifted uncomfortably on his chair. ‘I don't scare easily, Mr Brennan. Wouldn't be here if I did. But, yeah, Pete Boyle makes me nervous. He's always been a fucking psychopath.' He paused. ‘Smart bastard, though. One step ahead of you lot. Word is he's got some of you in his pocket.'

Brennan glanced at Barker. ‘Any names, Kenny?'

‘Well above my pay grade. But not small fry.' He shrugged. ‘Could all be bollocks. Boyle likes people to think he's a big shot.'

‘Anything else you can tell us, Kenny? Where's he had you fetching and carrying recently?'

‘A few places,' Kenny said, vaguely. ‘Told Mr Barker about a couple of deals I'm aware of. Small-time stuff. Boyle'll have bigger jobs in the pipeline, but I don't know any details yet. Can maybe get you some stuff.'

‘That would be good, Kenny,' Barker said.

Kenny looked up and Brennan saw him give an almost imperceptible flinch. Something he'd seen. Brennan turned his head casually towards where Kenny had been looking. A knot of people at the far end of the bar. Men in suits, just out of the office. No one Brennan recognised. ‘Something wrong, Kenny?'

Kenny's eyes had snapped back towards Brennan. ‘Not with me,' he said. ‘We done, then?' He was already making a move to stand up.

Brennan hesitated, wondering whether he would get any more out of Kenny. Kenny was looking even more uncomfortable than before. ‘Suppose we are, Kenny. You hear anything else about Boyle, you'll keep Mr Barker informed, won't you?'