‘All right, Boss?’ asked Gary as Max Carter came out of the arrivals gate at Gatwick and strode over to where he stood waiting.
All around them, families were hugging, mothers greeting daughters, couples embracing, throngs of taxi drivers holding up boards with names of travellers. The tannoy droned on in the background, and the noise of voices and incoming aircraft was deafening.
Gary took a look at Max’s angrily set face and thought, Shit. Better tread careful here.
‘Do I look fucking all right?’ snapped Max, shoving his hand luggage at Gary.
Gary put his face straight, twisted it into a fake look of sympathy. Inside, he was triumphant. That cow Annie. He’d been waiting years to get the knife in on that bitch, and now he’d succeeded.
‘I know it’s bloody rough. And I didn’t want to tell you. But shit, what could I do? You had to know.’
‘Yeah,’ Max said.
‘I would have spared you this if I could,’ said Gary. ‘You know that.’
‘Yeah. I do.’
‘So no shooting the messenger, OK, mate?’ said Gary with a sad, sorry smile.
‘No,’ said Max, slapping Gary’s shoulder. ‘None of that. You’ve seen her then? She’s still here?’
‘Too right. She came back when Dolly Farrell got done. I told you about that.’
‘Yeah. Fucking tragic. Right.’ Max sighed and straightened. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here, shall we? We got places to go, things to do.’