Mack nodded.
‘Why?’
‘I worked with them.’
Will leaned forward, his heart racing. ‘Recently?’
Mack shook his head. ‘A long time ago. Before Rossiter got it into his head that he could be Prime Minister.’ He sighed, a trace of smoke chasing his words. ‘Now that’s a fucked up idea, if I’ve ever heard one.’
‘What did you do for them?’
Mack looked away, his gaze falling on the logs burning in the fireplace. He stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray beside him and rubbed his hand over his chin. ‘I was an enforcer.’
Will’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean you tortured people?’
‘No,’ said Mack and lowered his gaze to his hands. ‘I didn’t have the stomach for that. I just roughed people up a bit – the ones that owed money or needed a bit of convincing to sign deals.’
‘How did you get involved?’
‘I needed the money.’ The older man shrugged. ‘I’d been a boxer in my youth. Pretty good. Took a fall too many, and my career was over by the time I was twenty-two.’
‘So you became a criminal?’
‘Lad, when everyone else in your neighbourhood is taking turns to blow things to shit, you do what you have to,’ Mack snapped. ‘It’s not like I had a lot of choice.’
Will frowned. ‘I don’t remember anything in Amy’s notes about Rossiter being paramilitary,’ he said. ‘I thought he worked in construction.’
Mack fidgeted in his seat, pulled out the cigarette packet, and lit up. ‘I’m not talking about paramilitary groups, Will,’ he said, putting the packet next to the ashtray. ‘I’m talking about organised crime.’
‘What, like the mafia?’
Mack cackled, and then started to cough. ‘Oh, if we were that organised, we would have done some real damage.’ He shook his head. ‘No – once the Royal Ulster Constabulary got disbanded, there were a few months where the politicians had their heads up their arses, all trying to agree how a new Northern Ireland police service would work. Everyone had to have their say-so, of course.’ He took a drag on the cigarette, his yellow fingers shaking. ‘In the meantime, a few enterprising men took advantage.’ He shrugged. ‘You can check out the statistics yourself with your…’ he mimed typing with his fingers, ‘internet search or whatever. Crime shot up after 1998. Made some people rich men. Very rich men.’
He leaned forward and glared at Will. ‘And some of those very rich men are now very powerful men. And they don’t want people like your girlfriend digging up their past.’
‘Hang on, Ian Rossiter isn’t Irish – nor is Gregory. So why the hell do I have a copy of a photograph showing you with them and Colin Avery in camouflage?’
‘Rossiter could see the writing was on the wall for the smaller groups running around with guns,’ said Mack. ‘The ones who were never going to get a say-so in the whole devolution process. He started out by offering work to some of them. Y’know – security at construction sites, debt collecting rents, that sort of thing.’
‘What was he doing over in Belfast, though? Isn’t he from Liverpool?’
‘He saw an opportunity,’ explained Mack. ‘Or so he told me. Thing is, once they stopped blowing buildings up and started talking to each other instead, there was a lot of money to be made in redevelopment and construction across Northern Ireland. He got in early, made his mark, and got out quick before the authorities caught up with him.’
‘Where does Gregory come into all this?’
Mack cursed under his breath, and Will was taken aback at the profanity that escaped the older man’s lips.
‘He’s the real brains of the whole set-up,’ said Mack once he’d got his temper back under control. ‘And just as dangerous. He ran the money side of the business for Rossiter – and his security. As far as I can tell, he still does.’
‘I wonder who’s idea it was for Rossiter to run for Prime Minister?’
‘Gregory I expect. He always was the more ambitious of the two, but Rossiter’s more photogenic.’ Mack shrugged. ‘Gregory would be more than comfortable acting as deputy. He’ll be pulling strings in the background, though, mark my words.’
Will leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. ‘I still can’t understand why they’d kill to cover that up, though – I mean, okay, it might cost him the election, but arranging to murder someone? There must’ve been something else going on.’
‘Like what? Got any ideas?
‘No. There’s nothing else in Amy’s notes. I don’t understand why she thought I’d work out what she had found.’
Mack’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, you seem to have been doing all right so far. Who’s helping you?’
Will wondered whether he should tell the old man about Erin’s involvement, and then figured he’d probably find out somehow anyway.
‘Rossiter’s niece.’
It was Mack’s turn to be surprised. ‘Really? What’s her name?’
‘Erin.’
‘Do you trust her?’
‘Yes, I do. She’s already saved me once from Rossiter’s hired thugs.’
The older man grunted and pointed at the fireplace. ‘Put another log on that, would you? I’m too comfortable to move.’
Will rose from the chair and walked the short distance to the hearth. He leaned down, picked out a log, and slung it onto the fire, before straightening. As he was about to turn back to the room, one of the photographs on the mantelpiece caught his attention, and all thought of what he was going to ask Mack froze in his throat.
The silence filled the room, until Mack’s voice reached him.
‘So, you see, I’ve known Erin for quite a while.’
Will stared at the framed photograph in his hand of a man and a small girl, no more than five years old. She clutched a teddy bear, thumb in mouth, while the man pointed at the camera, trying to get her to smile for the photographer.
‘She’s your daughter?’ he said, holding up the frame. ‘When the hell were you going to tell me?’
‘Like you said yourself,’ said Mack. ‘We didn’t know if we could trust you.’
‘So, what’s this all about? A family vendetta or something?’
Mack nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving Will’s. ‘That’s exactly what this is.’ He stabbed his finger at Will. ‘And Amy decided to use it to her advantage.’
Will sank back into the armchair, setting the photograph on the small coffee table next to it. He stared at it for a moment longer, and then tore his gaze away to face Mack.
‘What do you mean, Amy used it?’
Mack slumped back into his own chair and rubbed his hand across his eyes. When he lowered his arm, Will noticed tears glistening in the corners of the man’s eyes and waited.
The older man took a shuddering breath before speaking again.
‘Ian Rossiter molested my little girl,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know until she told me.’ A gasp escaped his lips, and he reached into his trouser pocket and extracted a paper tissue, dabbed at his eyes, and then blew his nose.
‘Jesus, Mack – I’m so sorry,’ murmured Will and looked at his hands.
He waited until the older man’s sobs quietened, then raised his head. ‘Is this why you agreed to help Amy?’
Mack nodded. ‘No one would ever believe Erin if she tried to tell them what he did – he’s got too many powerful friends who would rush to his aid and rubbish her story.’ He blew his nose again, then stood and threw the paper tissue into the hearth.
Will stared into the flames as the tissue flared and caught fire, the material quickly turning to ash.
‘Why didn’t you report him?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t you do something?’
Mack sniffled, picked up the brass poker and jabbed at the logs in the grate. ‘Because I was too damn scared,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how Amy found me,’ he added. ‘When I moved over here, I changed my name and laid low for a few years. Managed to get Erin into a small village school without someone asking too many questions.’
He straightened, and Will saw the fear in the man’s eyes. ‘Ian Rossiter isn’t someone you just go to the police and expect help,’ Mack said. ‘He was terrifying back then – now he’s got too many friends in high places these days.’
Mack leaned down and put the poker back into the bucket next to the fireplace, before returning to his armchair with a sigh.
‘I don’t think your girlfriend knew about Rossiter’s preference for young girls when she met Erin,’ he said ‘I think she had something else on him – some sort of story she was chasing anyway. Then once they started talking, Erin opened up and told her about the abuse. It was Amy who persuaded her to tell me.’
He used the sleeve of his cardigan to wipe his eyes once more.
The shrill ring of the phone in Will’s backpack made them both jump.
‘Shit,’ said Will. ‘I thought I’d switched that off.’ He mumbled an apology, leaned over, and pulled out Amy’s mobile. His own work number was displayed on the screen.
After three rings, the phone fell silent.
‘Do you need to phone someone back?’ asked Mack, squinting through the cigarette smoke that swirled around his face.
Will nodded. ‘I have to step outside,’ he said and hurried from the room, slipping the backpack over his shoulder as he went.
Closing the front door, he walked to the end of the street, hunkering into his thin jacket against the wind.
He glanced over his shoulder and drew out the mobile phone. His heart beating, he glanced at the phone number, wondering what his boss, Jack, would want at such an hour.
‘It’s Will – were you after me?’ he said when the older man picked up the call.
‘Will, thank god. We’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday. I tried Amy’s phone on the off-chance you might have it.’
‘Sorry, the battery in mine had gone flat,’ Will lied. ‘What’s wrong?’
Jack breathed out shakily, and Will heard the familiar squeak of the man’s leather office chair as he sat. ‘Russell Harper’s been killed in an accident.’
Will pulled the phone away from his ear and fought the bile down in his throat. His eyes stung, and he took deep breaths to ward off the dizziness that was threatening to engulf him.
‘When? I mean, how?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. He’d left the office on an errand or something. It’s a bit odd. He told the security guard downstairs to call the police if he didn’t return within the hour.’
Jack sniffled and put the phone down, and Will heard him blow his nose before returning to the phone. ‘Sorry, it’s all a bit of a shock. Anyway, it looks like he was on his way back to the museum from wherever he’d been and was waiting to cross the junction at Russell Square when a bus went past,’ he said. ‘One of the witnesses said a man in the crowd at the pavement waiting to cross might have pushed him, but no one else saw it so the police can’t prove anything.’
Will’s legs began to shake, and he looked around for something to lean against, settling on a low wall covered in graffiti.
Russell had been right, then. He was already being followed. And killed because he emailed a photograph to a friend.
Will gulped in fresh air, the ramifications of what had happened hitting him. It meant Rossiter’s cronies were monitoring his emails as well. He cleared his throat.
‘Don’t they have CCTV cameras everywhere?’
‘Apparently the bus was blocking its view,’ said Jack. ‘We’re all in shock here. I’ve got no idea why he told the security guard to call the police if he didn’t turn up either – have you?’
Will shook his head, then realised he had to speak. ‘No,’ he murmured.
Jack sighed. ‘They asked if he was a drug user. I think they were suggesting it was a drug deal gone wrong. That he was killed by his supplier.’
‘Russell didn’t use drugs,’ Will assured him. ‘He was very much anti-drugs – I think a mate of his overdosed when he was a teenager.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Jack said, his voice relieved. ‘The police say the coroner’s hearing has been set for next month, but it sounds like it’s going to be recorded as an accidental death unless someone comes forward with information.’
‘Jesus.’ Will leaned forward and held his head in his hands, the phone pressed tight to his ear.
‘Where are you anyway?’ asked Jack. ‘Have you been to see Amy?’
Will coughed. ‘Ah, no, not yet.’ He stood and began to pace the pavement. ‘She’s still in intensive care, so the surgeon’s keeping me posted.’
‘How is she?’
‘Not good. I’m going to phone them for an update in a moment.’
‘Okay.’ Jack sighed. ‘I’ll get off the phone so you can do that. I’ll give you a call when I’ve got the details for Russell’s funeral.’
‘Thanks, Jack. I’ll talk to you soon.’
Will ended the call, then turned away from the wall and began to walk.
The wind picked up, buffeting him as he stalked along the pavement, lost in thought. A gust tugged his hair across his face and he pushed it out of his eyes, scowling as he tried to digest the news.
Reaching a bus shelter, he slumped onto the aluminium seat and dialled the number for the hospital, then waited to be put through to the nurse’s station outside the intensive care unit.
He introduced himself to the nurse who answered, then waited while she fetched Amy’s notes.
He jumped when Hathaway’s voice came on the line.
‘Will? Are you in town?’
‘No – I, um, had to catch up with family – I’m a few hours away at the moment. What’s wrong?’
The surgeon sighed. ‘Look, Will, I’ll be honest. It’s not good. Amy’s developed an infection. We’re going to keep her in intensive care until we can be absolutely sure she’s out of danger, but that could be days, maybe weeks.’
‘Is – is there anything I should do?’ Will bit his lip, trying to stop the tremble in his voice. ‘I mean, I can get there this evening if you think…’ He cleared his throat. ‘If you think I need to be there, you know, in case…’
‘It would be better, although I do understand if you have other family issues to resolve,’ said the surgeon. ‘But, please – do try to phone every few hours if you can.’
‘I will.’
‘Good, well, talk to you soon.’
The surgeon hung up, and Will stared at the phone in his hand for a moment before pulling it apart and putting the pieces in his pocket once more.
He rested his elbows on his knees and stared into the road, his thoughts racing, before he stood, brushed off the back of his jeans, and strode back in the direction of the Irishman’s house.
If he was going to avenge Simon and Russell’s deaths and make some sense of why Amy still lay in an induced coma, he had some work to do.