Dean Foley wasn’t, by his own admission, a subtle man. Or an overly cautious man. That wasn’t to say he was an unintelligent man. Quite the opposite.
Many of his enemies had thought that, given his temperament and proclivities, he was some ignorant Neanderthal who only knew to strike out. How to hurt, not to think. They had used that assumption against him, underestimated him. They were no longer around to rue that mistake.
He preferred to think of himself as Alexander the Great faced with the Gordian knot. Taking a sword to the most complex puzzle, splitting it down the middle, moving forwards. He knew that some would be surprised he even knew who Alexander the Great was, let alone what he had achieved. He had been to school once. And seen Hollywood films. A couple of people had laughed and pointed out to him that Alexander the Great had been gay. They too were no longer around to contemplate their error of judgement.
So when he saw the man who was now calling himself Tom Killgannon in the art room, he did not confront him. Foley was, in his own mind, responding the best way he knew. Injuries came later. Thinking came first.
He sat slumped in his armchair, watching daytime TV. Endless property programmes, shows about moving abroad or to the country. He would have dismissed them as care home viewing before but now he was inside. If he was honest with himself, he was becoming hooked. Colour images of long white beaches or rolling, bucolic countryside. He even liked the interiors. The freedom to walk from the living room to the kitchen then out onto the patio. Imagining himself taking a long, leisurely stroll round spacious interiors with the presenters, sometimes thinking of stopping off in one of those bedrooms too. Those presenters were tasty. Young, fit, enthusiastic. But that was secondary. It was the homes he’d grown to love. He’d gone as far as to paint them, hang them on his cell wall.
Looking away from the screen and the paintings around the rest of his cell, and that familiar depression would hit once more. The weight of where he was. Yes, he had everything he could possibly get in here but he was paying for it. And the money wouldn’t last for ever. He knew that. He just hoped it would be there for as long as he was here. He was never going to be released. He just had to make everything as enjoyable as he possibly could. But he knew he would never be able to walk round some spacious country house and call it his own. He’d never drink wine in the kitchen or lounge, potter around in the garden, feel the sun on his face. Not anymore. And that hurt. Those feelings could curdle into anger. Well now he had someone to take it out on.
Tom Killgannon.
The beard had been a surprise. And the long hair. He had always been close cropped, ex-army. Now he looked as though he’d been living in the wild since they last met. But the eyes were the same. He couldn’t hide them. That green. Overly sensitive for a muscle-bound thug, showing a depth of intelligence that was rare in the people Foley dealt with. That was why he had recruited him. Knew him to be more than just a physical threat. And he had been right. Tom Killgannon quickly rose up the ranks of Foley’s empire until he was one of his most trusted advisors.
Tom Killgannon – ridiculous name – Mick Eccleston was the name Foley knew him by. And the fact that Foley’s empire went down so hard and so fast, was all down to Eccleston’s testimony. After the trial, Mick had disappeared. He had tried to look for him, spent money and manpower on it, used every contact on any side of the law, but Mick Eccleston was nowhere to be found. The man was a ghost. Then he discovered Mick had a sister. And that Mick wasn’t his real name. He kept the sister under surveillance for months, thinking he might contact her, but no. Nothing. Eventually Foley began to believe he was dead, so successfully had he vanished.
He remembered the conversation they had the night Mick betrayed him. About crossing Foley, about running. About revenge. About digging more than two graves. Foley smiled at the memory. This was more than just revenge though. He believed Mick had taken something belonging to him. And now he had the perfect opportunity to ask him where it was. And yes. Revenge. He smiled. Too good. Too good.
He deliberately hadn’t said anything in the art room. He knew Mick had recognised him. He had watched him surreptitiously, taking great pleasure as his expression changed from near boredom to abject fear. Mick had even walked past Foley while he was painting and Foley, so good, hadn’t even looked up, acknowledged his presence. Perfect. So now he would be back on his wing, terrified of what Foley was going to do next.
A knock at his cell door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Baz.’
‘Come in, then.’
Foley flicked the remote at the TV, turning the screen to black. The young man with the wrecked face entered. Foley looked up at him from his easy chair. ‘What you got for me?’
Baz began to empty his pockets on the table, taking out crumpled notes, coins. He smoothed out the notes, stacked up the coins. Stood back, waiting for his handiwork to be admired. Foley looked at it.
‘Jesus, that it? New shipment not arrived yet?’
‘Any time now. We’re making do with what we’ve got, stretching it as far as it’ll go.’
Foley took the money, pocketed it. Sat back, regarded Baz once more. ‘Got a job for you.’
‘Yes, Mr Foley.’ A statement, not a question. Baz would do whatever was asked of him, he was a good, loyal soldier.
‘Is Kim on today? Can’t remember.’ Before Baz could answer Foley continued. ‘Doesn’t matter. If not her, one of the other ones. Skippy’ll do.’ He leaned forwards, wrote something in a notebook, tore out the page, passed it to Baz. ‘I want him to find out everything he can about this bloke here. What wing he’s on, what he’s in for, where he comes from, everything. In fact just tell him to print off his file and bring it along to me. Can you do that?’
‘Yeah, Mr Foley. Course.’
‘Good lad. Oh, and be subtle. Know what that means?’
Baz nodded. Face impassive. ‘Yes, Mr Foley.’
‘Good. Then tell him to come straight back to me when he’s got everything, yeah? Soon as.’
‘Right, Mr Foley.’
Baz waited for his official dismissal then left.
Foley sat back, looked at the black screen, not wanting to put the TV on again. Not just yet. He thought of Alexander the Great, taking his sword to the Gordian knot. Yeah, he could have done that with Mick Eccleston or Tom Killgannon. Had someone take care of him straight away. Have him bleeding out in the showers or the dinner queue by now. But that wouldn’t give him anything he wanted. Not the satisfaction he craved, and, more importantly, not the answer to his questions. And that, if he tried to look at the situation objectively, was more important. Or equally as important.
He sat back, smiled to himself. That was the thing about knots. You couldn’t always cut through them. Sometimes the joy was in unravelling them slowly.