Читать книгу: «Backstabber»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Part Two

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Part Three

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Kimberley Chambers

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

It was a cold February evening. So bloody cold, the car windscreens had started to freeze.

Beads of sweat forming on his forehead, the man wanted to take off his crash helmet, but daren’t. How had it come to this? he mused, even though he already knew the answer. His brother had a screw loose, wasn’t right in the head. He’d never been sane, truth be known. That was obvious, and it should have been dealt with.

There had been some good times, brilliant in fact, but the bad outweighed those massively now. His brother was a ticking time bomb that exploded every now and then, leaving a trail of carnage and sadness. Well, this time he had gone a step too far. Which was why a decision had been made to stop him in his tracks, for ever. There was no other option.

The man’s heart rate went into overdrive as he heard the distinctive sound of an approaching vehicle. He knew without a doubt it was him, could hear the sleek diesel engine, and the song ‘Jealous Guy’ blaring out the speakers. His brother had always been a big fan of Roxy Music, reckoned Bryan Ferry’s voice was second to none.

Sporting the number plate VB1, the black Range Rover screeched to a halt and a tall suited man leapt out. He looked the part, as always. Thick black hair greased back, expensive watch and shiny shoes.

‘Bruv! You shit the life outta me then. Where’s your motor? I’m pleased you called.’

Hands trembling, Michael Butler lifted the gun. ‘I’m sorry, Vinny, I really am. But …’

PART ONE

‘I’m not upset that you lied to me,

I’m upset that from now on I can’t believe you’

Friedrich Nietzsche

CHAPTER ONE
2001

The envelope was one of those extra-large brown padded ones, and as Eddie Mitchell opened it the putrid smell engulfed his nostrils with enough force to make him gag. ‘What the hell! Vinny, Vinny!’ he bellowed.

Having recently acquired premises along the A13 that would soon be opened as a casino, Vinny Butler strolled towards his and Eddie’s office. ‘What’s up with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. And what’s that terrible smell?’

‘Have a look for yourself. I ain’t going back in there.’

Vinny looked in disbelief at the bloodstained box and the two dead rats inside. Both rodents’ throats had been cut. ‘Who the fuck sent that?’

‘I don’t know, do I? Have a look at the postcode and see if there’s a note.’ Eddie was petrified of rats, even dead ones, but he wasn’t about to admit that to his new business partner.

Vinny put his hand inside the envelope and pulled out a typewritten note:

DEUTERONOMY 24:16

FATHERS SHALL NOT BE PUT TO DEATH BECAUSE OF THEIR CHILDREN, NOR SHALL CHILDREN BE PUT TO DEATH BECAUSE OF THEIR FATHERS. EACH ONE SHALL BE PUT TO DEATH FOR HIS OWN SIN.

Eddie could not but help stare at it in total horror. He and Vinny had only bought the gaff less than a fortnight ago and hadn’t overly broadcast their purchase yet.

‘Perhaps it was meant for the previous owner? Not got our names on the envelope, has it?’ Vinny said.

‘Don’t talk bollocks, Vin. Three days ago it was posted, from poxy Romford. You had grief with anyone recently you haven’t told me about?’

‘Don’t ya think I’ve had enough bleedin’ grief with all the incest bollocks and murder of my sacred aunt? I’ve been too busy holdin’ my grievin’, messed-up family together to be gettin’ up to no good.’

Rubbing the stubble of his chin as he usually did when deep in thought, Eddie Mitchell apologized. ‘I’m sorry, mate. It’s just worrying that we’ve already got grief and we ain’t even open yet. It’s obviously a quote from the bible or something. But who would send shit like that – and why?’

Vinny poured two large Scotches and handed a glass to his pal. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Probably some jealous bastard who wishes they were us. Best put it to the back of our minds, eh? I’m not being funny, but we’ve got enough on our plates as it is. Besides, if somebody was truly gunning for us they wouldn’t be sending us warnings. I had something similar happen to me donkey’s years ago. Funeral flower arrangement shaped as a gun, delivered to me mum’s with a card sayin’ “You’re next”. Sod-all came of it. Was probably that wrong ’un Ahmed trying to wind me up. And that’s all this is, a wind-up, so put it out of your mind, OK?’

‘Get rid of them rats and I will. Can hardly forget about it with that stench,’ Eddie complained.

Vinny chuckled, picked up the box, and eyed the dead rats. ‘You’re not scared of ickle rodents, are you, Mitchell?’

‘Leave off. It’s the smell. Making me feel queasy, it is.’

When Vinny sauntered out the office with the deceased Mickey and Minnie, Eddie sprayed some air freshener around before sitting on one of the luxurious leather chairs. Vinny had better not be telling him porkies, because if he was, he’d regret it.

‘You little squirt, what you think you’re doing?’ Harry O’Hara demanded menacingly. Harry and Georgie had been raised by their gypsy father, had only known their little brother for a matter of months, and Harry hated him with a passion.

Petrified of Harry, who was four years his senior, seven-year-old Brett averted his eyes and stared at his lap. If he had one wish in the world it would be that Georgie and Harry had never come to live with him. ‘I’m playing on my PlayStation Two.’

‘I’m playing on my PlayStation Two,’ Harry mimicked in a whiny voice. ‘Gis it ’ere. I wanna have a look.’

Too scared to say no, Brett’s hand shook as he handed over the controls.

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Harry kicked the controls around the room like a football.

‘Stop! You’ll break it,’ Brett pleaded, his eyes welling up.

‘Stop. You’ll break it,’ Harry repeated, in an even sillier voice.

‘What’s all that racket up there? We’re going out in a minute, boys, so get yourselves ready and downstairs, please,’ shouted Frankie Mitchell. The eldest daughter of Eddie Mitchell, Frankie felt much older than her twenty-nine years just lately. She was elated Georgie and Harry were home, but they were bloody hard work. Her once long, glossy, dark hair was now dull and lifeless, her complexion was sallow, everything about her looked worn out. She’d never expected instant harmony, but neither had she expected daily battles and arguments. It was tiring, to say the least.

Grabbing Brett around the neck, Harry warned, ‘You tell Frankie I did anything and you’re dead meat. Got me, cry baby?’ Harry found it hard to believe Brett had the same parents as he and Georgie. The boy was such a wuss which was obviously Frankie’s doing. Brett would’ve been knocked into shape had their dad raised him.

Brett Mitchell nodded. Not for the first time since his brother moved in, he actually wished he was dead.

‘How’s it going? Sorry I couldn’t get here any earlier. Something cropped up with Eddie,’ Vinny Butler explained.

Queenie Butler stood on tiptoes to kiss her eldest son. Both her sons were six-foot-plus strapping, handsome men who wore their hair Brylcreemed and dressed in the finest designer suits and handmade shoes. Everybody always commented on how immaculate and well turned out her boys were, and that made Queenie swell with pride. ‘That’s OK, boy. Your brother and me have got most of the boxes unpacked already. I’ll put the kettle on now.’

Vinny closed the lounge door. ‘How’s she doing?’ he asked in a hushed tone.

‘OK. Better than we expected. Slept well, by all accounts, and she’s already fallen in love with her new garden. Reckons there’s loads more birds to feed round ’ere,’ Michael Butler replied.

‘D’ya reckon it’s an act?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Hard to tell with Mum, but she seems chirpy enough whichever way you look at it.’

Having lived the whole of her life in Whitechapel, seventy-four-year-old Queenie Butler had been forced to up sticks thanks to the brutal cold-blooded murder of her beloved sister, Vivian. Vinny had found his mum a nice bungalow in a quiet road in Hornchurch, and both he and Michael were keeping a close eye on her.

‘Talking about me, are ya?’ Queenie snapped, as she walked in the front room. Vinny was her eldest. He’d be fifty-six soon. Roy, her middle son, was six feet under. Michael was fifty-one.

A doting mother, Queenie could not be prouder of her boys. She’d encouraged them to make something of their lives from a very early age, and they had. Notoriety and wealth were wonderful attributes for a man to have, especially if they had the looks to go with it. Both Vinny and Michael oozed charm, and looked much younger than they should.

‘I was just saying to Michael, that couple opposite seem nice. Spoke to me again, they did. Said you’re to knock there if you need anything,’ Vinny told his mother.

Queenie pursed her thin lips. ‘Don’t like the look of ’em. Remind me of those notrights who had the bungalow next to us down at Kings. Perverts, they were. Swingers.’

‘You don’t know that for sure.’ Michael chuckled.

‘Well, I very much doubt the couple over the road are perverts or swingers. You gotta give people a chance round ’ere, Mum. You don’t want to alienate yourself,’ Vinny said sensibly.

‘I am quite capable of choosing my own friends, thank you. And I’m hardly gonna be bothering to socialize until I’ve given our Vivvy the send-off she thoroughly deserves. You spoken to them bastards any more about releasing the body?’

‘I rung the nick again this morning, but that DI Cater weren’t around. I’ve left another message for him to ring me back. I’d rather speak to the organ grinder than any of his two-bob monkeys,’ Vinny explained.

‘I don’t know what the hold-up is if they’ve got the lads who attacked Auntie Viv. Do you want me to go down to the station and make some noise?’ Michael offered.

‘I’ll tell you what the hold-up is, shall I? Our name is Butler. Always hated you boys since you made something of yourselves. Jealous bastards, because you earn far more money than they can even dream of,’ Queenie said bitterly.

‘Nah. Leave it, Michael – I’ll sort it. And don’t worry, Mum. Auntie Viv’ll have the best send-off the East End’s seen in a long, long time,’ Vinny vowed.

Turning away so her sons couldn’t see her misery, Queenie sniffed then put on her bravest voice. ‘I should bloody well think so an’ all.’

‘Harry, we’re in a restaurant now. Use your knife and fork, love,’ Frankie Mitchell urged.

‘Harry don’t know how to use a knife and fork,’ joked Georgie O’Hara.

‘Shut up, you tart,’ Harry said, grinning at his sister.

‘Please, Harry,’ Frankie pleaded.

Unlike Georgie, who had nice straight teeth and dark hair like their father, plus a cute button slightly turned-up nose like their mum’s, Harry O’Hara looked menacing. His mop of strawberry blonde hair rarely came into contact with a comb or brush, his nose was squashed like a boxer’s thanks to fighting, and he had a missing tooth at the front. He glared at his mother. He could not stand her; the way he saw it, she had ruined his once idyllic life. ‘Nah, prefer eating like this, Frankie,’ he told her. He never called her ‘Mum’ and knew that made her sad.

‘Do as your mother says, boy,’ Stuart Howells ordered. Stuart had been in love with Frankie long before they had got together, but she’d been so scarred by her relationship with Jed O’Hara, it had taken her ages to trust him.

‘Nah. You ain’t my dad, you can’t tell me what to do,’ Harry spat, his voice raised. In a lower voice, he added, ‘Dinlo.’

Realizing her fiancé was about to argue the point, Frankie squeezed his arm. People were already staring at them, like they usually did when they went out as a family. Frankie knew this was because of her children’s unruly behaviour and unusual accents. She’d often seen couples move tables, mumbling the word ‘gypsies’.

‘He’s been home nearly six months now, Frankie. You can’t keep allowing him to get away with the way he treats you,’ Stuart hissed, looking daggers at the child he loathed so much. Stuart had come to rue the day Georgie and Harry had been snatched from the gypsies and returned to Frankie. Their arrival had turned everybody’s lives upside down.

‘Leave my brother alone. Harry’s right. You ain’t our dad and you never will be,’ said thirteen-year-old Georgie. She was fiercely loyal when it came to Harry.

‘Now, let’s stop all this. I don’t want any arguing today of all days. This is Harry’s special day, and I want it to be perfect,’ Frankie said, smiling at her son, who was currently gnawing a lamb chop like a starving animal.

‘Special day. Silly old rabbit’s crotch,’ Harry whispered in his sister’s ear.

When Georgie whispered something back and both children burst out laughing, not wanting them to see she was upset, Frankie excused herself to go to the toilet. Once inside a cubicle, she pulled down the toilet seat, sat on it and allowed the tears to flow. How the hell had it come to this?

Harry had been a loveable four-year-old when Jed O’Hara and his family had disappeared into the night taking Frankie’s children with them. At the time, Frankie was residing in Holloway Prison due to stabbing Jed, and he had custody of the kids. Jed was an English gypsy who originated from Cambridgeshire, and his community stuck together like glue, so finding Georgie and Harry was never going to be easy, even for someone with Eddie Mitchell’s resources. Seven long, excruciating years it had taken until a tip-off from a traveller Frankie had met in prison reunited her with her children. It was one of the best days of her life, but also the worst. Georgie and Harry loathed her on sight and made it clear they didn’t remember her. Frankie had cherished every memory of her precious children and it broke her heart that to them she was no more than a stranger.

As Frankie dabbed her eyes and stared at her unhappy face in the compact mirror, she couldn’t help but think about the last birthday she’d spent with Harry. He’d been such a good little boy as a toddler. Gentle and sweet-natured. Now he was an uncouth, unrecognizable piece of work. But Frankie could not give up on him, or Georgie. It was her duty as a mother to love her children no matter what.

‘Mummy, where are you?’

Her youngest son’s voice snapped Frankie out of her depressive thoughts. Brett was Jed’s child also, had been born while she was in prison. But thankfully, unlike her other two, had been spared ever meeting his arsehole of a father, or sharing his surname.

Plastering a smile on her face, Frankie unlocked the cubicle and held Brett close. Georgie and Harry’s homecoming had turned his little world upside down as well. So much so, that lately Brett preferred staying with her dad and stepmother, Gina, who lived nearby. ‘How’s my favourite boy?’

‘Can I go to Granddad’s now please, Mum?’

‘We haven’t had our dessert yet, darling. Granddad is picking you up from our house later.’

‘I don’t want no dessert. I don’t like Georgie and Harry. They’re nasty and they scare me,’ Brett said, his lip wobbling.

Frankie crouched down. ‘Your brother and sister can’t help the way they are, love. Unlike you, who was brought up in the correct manner, poor Georgie and Harry were dragged up by not-so-nice people. It isn’t their fault, and even though I know this is difficult for you, we must all try to be patient with them and get along. Can you do that for Mummy?’

Knowing it would upset his mother greatly if he told her Harry regularly punched him in the ribs and broke his toys, Brett Mitchell simply nodded sadly.

Vinny Butler sauntered back from the bar. After a hard day’s graft with their mother ordering them about like a pair of skivvies, both he and Michael felt they deserved a drink.

‘Cheers, bruv. I reckon Mum’ll be happy there ya know, in time. Such a nice area, compared to Whitechapel. And with her arthritis, being in a bungalow’ll make life so much easier for her,’ Michael said.

‘Early days yet, but fingers crossed. Any more news on the boys or Roxanne?’

‘There is actually, but I don’t think we should tell Mum until after the funeral. I got a letter in the post from Lee this morning. He’s gone abroad to start afresh with Daniel. Reckons he won’t be coming back to England. He must’ve posted it on the way to the airport or something.’

‘Whereabouts are they?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Didn’t say. Gutted, I am. It’s not quite sunk in yet, but it looks like I’ve lost my sons for good.’

Vinny sighed. He’d been really close to Daniel, and hoped his nephew would stay in contact. It was all such a mess, it really was. Daniel had thought Roxanne was the girl of his dreams; he was so in love with her that when she told him she was pregnant, he’d asked her to marry him. He’d been about to slip the ring on her finger when Michael’s ex, Nancy – who everybody thought had committed suicide years earlier – ran into the registry office screaming, ‘He’s your brother!’ It turned out Roxanne was fifteen, not eighteen as she’d told Daniel, and nobody bar her deceitful mother had known she was Michael’s daughter – and Daniel’s little sister. Vinny shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe everything that’s happened these past few weeks. Even a zonked-out soap writer could not make it up. You spoken to Nancy since it happened?’

‘A couple of days ago. There’s still no word from Roxanne, and Nancy’s worried sick. Nancy mentioned involving the Old Bill again, but I managed to talk her out of it. No way do we want our kids splashed all over the front page of every newspaper. The press would have a sodding field day.’

‘Too right they would. Let’s hope Roxanne’s seen sense and got rid of the baby by now, else it’ll be too late to abort it. What’ll you do if she bastard well keeps it?’

‘Cheer me up, why don’t ya, Vin? Nah, she won’t keep it. What sort of bird chooses to raise their own brother’s child? I know she lied about her age, but you gotta remember Roxanne didn’t have a clue she and Dan were related until Nancy showed up.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on her getting rid of the kid. If you ask me she takes after her mother: a nutjob and a compulsive fucking liar.’

Eddie Mitchell handed his least favourite grandson a card. ‘Happy birthday, boy. I didn’t know what to get you, so thought if I got you vouchers your mum could take you to Lakeside and you could pick something out yourself.’ Eddie hated calling the child Harry. He knew who he’d been named after and why, and that made him feel sick to the stomach.

‘Ta. Can me and Georgie go outside now?’ Harry asked his mother.

‘Yes. But put your jackets on. It’s nippy out there.’

‘Not if you were brought up as a traveller it ain’t. We don’t feel the cold like you gorgers. Come on,’ Harry ordered, grabbing his sister’s arm.

‘And if them blokes come anywhere near us I’m gonna kick ’em in the balls. You can’t keep us here like prisoners for ever, you know,’ Georgie yelled, before slamming the back door.

Eddie glanced at Stuart. They’d been pals long before Stuart had got together with Frankie and both were uncomfortable with the current arrangement. It just wasn’t right.

When Eddie had first snatched the kids from a gypsy site in Scotland, Frankie and Brett had been happily sharing a house in Brentwood with her pal Babs, and Babs’ son, Jordan. The arrival of ‘the devil’s spawn’, as Eddie sometimes referred to Georgie and Harry, soon changed all that. They led poor Jordan a dog’s life, so much so, Babs moved out with her son within a month of their arrival. Frankie couldn’t cope on her own, so Stuart moved in to help out, but every time their backs were turned, Georgie and Harry tried to do a runner. Brentwood station was the last place Eddie had found the banes of his life. They’d been about to board a train when he’d grabbed hold of them from behind.

Frankie had pleaded with her father to find them somewhere more secure, so Eddie had rented a big gaff not far from him. The house had acres around it, and was surrounded by CCTV and six-foot metal railings and gates. He’d also hired a security team and had a little office built near the entrance so the kids could not escape.

‘Georgie does have a point, babe. Reminds me of Colditz, and the lease runs out in eight months. This was only ever meant to be a temporary measure. You’re gonna have to trust ’em at some point. They need to go to school and mix with other kids if they’re ever gonna turn out half normal,’ Eddie advised.

‘No way! Georgie hated school when she was little and ran away even back then. If I send them to school they will just disappear again, I know they will,’ Frankie’s voice was panic-stricken.

Stuart put an arm around his wife-to-be. He’d proposed three months to the day he and Frankie had first got together. They’d been friends for a long time beforehand, but because of all the upheaval surrounding Georgie and Harry, they’d yet to set a date or even discuss the actual wedding. ‘Frankie wants to hire a tutor and teach them from home, Ed,’ Stuart said, raising his eyebrows to show his displeasure.

Eddie was desperate for his daughter to see sense. ‘Ruined everyone’s lives, that pair of little fuckers have. Why d’ya think Brett is upstairs in his bedroom as we speak, Frankie? And why do you think he wants to stay at mine and Gina’s all the time? Because the poor little sod is desperately unhappy, that’s why. Brett’s a shell of his former self and it’s about time you started putting him, yourself and Stuart first, girlie. Let the little bastards run away and see how far they get. The O’Haras no longer live on that site near Glasgow. A desolate piece of land, that is now. And before you ask how I know, I had someone check it out for me. You got to be cruel to be kind sometimes, so if Georgie and Harry think the grass is greener in Scotland, let ’em have a mooch up there. They’ll soon come back with their tails between their sorry legs. You mark my words.’

‘You don’t know Jed like I do. He’ll never let them go. He’ll be waiting and watching in the wings, then as soon as an opportunity arises he’ll snatch Georgie and Harry and take them away. I know you said he’ll never bother me again, Dad, but I’m telling you he will. He’s pure evil.’

Eddie and Stuart shared a knowing look. Nobody bar those present on that fateful night knew exactly what had happened, but perhaps now was the time to let Frankie into a little secret. ‘Jed’s dead, Frankie. So’s his old man,’ Eddie said bluntly.

Frankie looked at her father with an incredulous expression. ‘When? How? Who told you? Why didn’t you tell me?’

Eddie moved over to the sofa and put an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. ‘Because you’d only just got the kids back and had enough on your plate at the time.’

‘Did you kill them?’ Frankie bellowed.

‘No,’ Eddie replied honestly. ‘But I can assure you they’re both dead.’

Tears of anger streaming down her face, Frankie pummelled her father’s chest with her fists. ‘Why did you only tell me you’d scared them away for good? Don’t you know how many nights I’ve laid awake wondering if and when Jed might come back? I will never believe another word that comes out of your mouth. You’re a liar. A wicked, evil liar.’

Eddie grabbed her wrists. ‘Got some front, you have. Talk about pot calling kettle! Slipped your mind to tell me that evil toe-rag you were shacked up with brutally murdered your grandfather, didn’t it?’

‘I explained why I never told you, and you said we’d never mention it again,’ Frankie screamed.

Eddie’s father Harry Mitchell was a legend in East London, and a notorious underworld figure. Until 1988, when he’d been battered to death whilst tucked up in his bed. His killer had never been caught and it only came to light on the day Jed died that he was the one responsible. Frankie knew, by all accounts. She’d heard Jed and his cousin Sammy joking about it. That’s why Frankie had stabbed Jed and ended up in prison. She knew at that point Jed was beyond evil and she needed to get him away from her children. She’d meant to kill him, but unfortunately failed. Frankie hadn’t told her father the truth at the time because she was worried for his safety. She was also scared her dad would get locked up for life and Georgie and Harry would be taken away from her by the authorities. Looking back now, Frankie cursed her stupidity. Even if the authorities had stepped in, her children could not have turned out any worse than they had. And her father was more than capable of looking after his bloody self.

‘You mustn’t tell anybody about Jed and Jimmy, babe. Only I’ll be in trouble too. We all will,’ Stuart warned.

‘Joey was there, wasn’t he? He saw Jed and his old man die.’ Frankie’s twin brother hadn’t been the same person since that night. Though he’d refused to confide in her, she’d known something must have happened to him. ‘No wonder he gave up his bloody job. He’s haunted by what he saw, I bet,’ she cried.

Eddie and Stuart shared an awkward glance. Joey had been the one who pulled the trigger and killed Jed and Jimmy, but Eddie would take that piece of information to his grave with him. So would the other men who’d been there that night: Stuart, Raymond, Terry and Eddie’s eldest son, Gary. His second eldest, Ricky, was already dead when Joey turned up, and the rest of them were tied up and about to die. Joey had saved them all, and saved the day. ‘Joey never saw sod-all. None of us did, OK?’ Eddie growled.

Frankie was about to interrogate her father some more, when Georgie’s screams stopped her. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, leaping up off the sofa.

‘Longtails! Loads of ’em. Hate ’em, I do. Nanny Alice says they’re evil and a curse like magpies. She’s frit to death of them,’ Georgie gabbled.

Eddie was bemused. ‘What’s she on about?’ he asked Stuart.

‘Longtails are a gypsy word for rats. The kids have a phobia of them,’ said Stuart, ‘I saw one yesterday. Think there’s a family of ’em living under the decking.’

Harry put his hands on his hips. ‘’Orrible, they are. Granddad Jimmy once put a dead longtail in Old Man Macca’s bed when he knocked him for a horsebox. Nanny Alice said the curse of the longtail would rub off on Old Man Macca and it did. A week later the old shitcunt crashed the horsebox and died.’

Eddie felt his complexion change colour. Given that Vinny Butler had more skeletons in his closet than a full-to-the-brim graveyard, he’d been sure the dead-rat delivery had been aimed at his partner. Now that seemed unlikely. Too much of a coincidence. Perhaps the remaining O’Haras had tracked him down and sent the rats to the casino?