‘How much of this do you think Amy found out?’
Mack shrugged. ‘Must have been close. I reckon Rossiter panicked.’
He poured generous measures into two glasses, screwed the cap back on the whiskey bottle, and shuffled across the room to Will, who took one of the drinks from him.
‘It seems a bit extreme: killing four people now, putting a fifth in an induced coma, and getting himself shot in the process.’ He took a sip of the amber liquid, the smooth burn in his throat doing little to calm his nerves, despite Mack’s assurances it would help.
‘Do you doubt me?’
‘No – no, I believe you. I just think he must’ve had help from someone else. Hell of a job to attack a politician’s car in broad daylight and shoot him.’
Mack shrugged. ‘Used to do it all the time.’
Will cocked an eyebrow. ‘Do I want to hear about it?’
‘Probably not.’ Mack sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Look, it’s late. I’m tired. Can we talk about this some more in the morning?’
Will stood, shouldering his backpack. ‘Sure, whatever.’ He pulled his car keys from his pocket.
‘Put those away. You can have the spare room. There’s not a hotel to be found for at least ten miles from here.’
Will bit his lip. ‘Are you sure?’
Mack laughed. ‘Don’t worry, lad. I’m not going to murder you in your sleep.’
Will exhaled, unwilling to admit that was exactly what had been going through his head. ‘Okay.’
He followed Mack out of the living area and up a narrow flight of stairs, each one creaking, the carpet threadbare.
‘You should get these stair treads fixed,’ said Will as they ascended. ‘They sound awful.’
Mack stopped halfway up and glared at Will. ‘They sound awful, as you put it, because they act as an early warning system.’ He turned and stamped up the remaining stairs. ‘If someone decides to try and murder me in my sleep, I’d hear them coming.’
Will swallowed, realised his hands were shaking, and grasped hold of the bannister before jogging up the stairs to join Mack on the small landing.
‘Right,’ said Mack, ignoring his discomfort. ‘Bathroom’s there – I’m in that room, and this is yours.’
He swung open the door to a room filled with boxes, their contents spilled out onto the floor. A worn sofa took up one length of wall under a window. Mack tugged the curtains closed and pointed at the sofa.
‘That’s a bed. You sort it out – I’m too old to bend down there. I’ll go and find some blankets.’
Will stared as he stomped from the room, then exhaled and crouched down until he could work out how the sofa-bed opened out. By the time he’d flattened it, then sat and tested the mattress, groaning at the thought of how his back would be playing up in the morning, Mack had returned.
He thrust a pillow and two blankets at Will. ‘That should do you. I’m an early riser, so I’ll see you when you wake up.’
He turned and left the room.
‘Mack?’
‘What?’ The man appeared at the door, frowning.
‘Thanks.’
‘Whatever.’
Will stood, made the bed, and then stripped down to his boxers. Somehow, he didn’t think sleep would come easily that night.
***
Will blinked, rubbed his hands over his eyes, and panicked, trying to work out where he was, until he remembered.
He sat up in the bed, blinked at the light creeping through the curtains, and decided that the blackbird chirping outside the window was too damn cheerful for such a cold morning.
Pulling on his clothes, he tossed back the blankets to air the sofa bed, and then sniffed.
Someone was cooking, and it smelled good.
He padded down the stairs, following the scent of bacon and eggs, until he found Mack in the kitchen, spatula in hand, shovelling fried tomatoes and mushrooms onto plates.
‘Ah, he’s alive and well,’ he said, then nodded towards the kitchen bench. ‘Help yourself to coffee. Milk’s in the fridge.’
Will waited until the first caffeine rush hit his senses. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘No. Stay out of the way.’
Mack took the frying pan off the heat and dashed over to the toaster where a thin trail of smoke was escaping. ‘Bollocks.’
He punched a button on the front of the toaster, before flapping a tea-towel at a smoke detector next to the door.
‘Okay,’ he said, dropping a plate in front of Will. ‘Dig in.’
Will’s stomach rumbled, and it was some time before the two men spoke again.
‘How well did you get to know Amy?’ Will asked as he put his utensils on the empty plate and pushed it to one side. He wrapped his fingers round his still-warm coffee mug and watched as Mack swept a slice of bread around the remaining juices on his own plate.
The older man shrugged, stuffed the bread in his mouth, and washed it down with a swig of coffee before speaking.
‘She’s a good journalist,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t give up.’ He sighed contentedly, pointed at the dishes, and then stood. ‘Put those in the sink. I’ll wash up later. Come on through to the front room where it’s warmer.’
Will followed him through the house and collapsed into the same armchair he’d taken the previous night.
Mack stirred up the small fire he’d lit that morning and threw another log onto it before settling into his chair.
‘Amy contacted me about six months ago,’ he began. ‘I’ve got no idea how she found me, but she did.’ He shrugged. ‘After I crossed the Sea twenty years ago, I settled here.’
‘Why did you leave?’
Mack shrugged. ‘Things were changing. I guess I was never into all that political shit. I saw an opportunity to make a fast profit while they were all sorting themselves out in the late nineties, but that only lasted a couple of years. By 2001, they were starting to cotton onto a lot of the criminal gangs. It was only a matter of time before I got caught.’
‘Did you?’
‘No. I was lucky,’ said Mack. ‘And smart. I never got greedy. And I made sure I got myself some insurance.’
‘The sort of insurance people would kill for?’
‘Yes.’ Mack looked away and stared into the flames, before he turned back. ‘So, Will Fletcher,’ he said, tapping his fingers on the armrest. ‘You came to me for help. I’ve told you everything I know. I think it’s about time you tell me what you’ve been up to.’
The floodgates opened then, and Will found he couldn’t stop talking. He told Mack about the mysterious phone calls, Simon’s murder, Russell being run over by a bus, and the fact that he believed he was being followed.
Will ran his hand through his hair and sighed. ‘What I don’t understand is why you want to go after Rossiter now, after all these years? You could’ve said something about this ages ago.’
Mack shrugged. ‘I didn’t feel a need to, until now.’
‘Because Rossiter’s suddenly running for Parliament you mean?’
‘No.’ Mack coughed, leaned forward, and stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Because I’m dying.’
‘Great. This is your way of trying to absolve yourself, is it?’
The older man launched from his armchair at a speed belying his age.
Will’s head snapped back as the force of Mack’s open hand met his cheek. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he gasped as he clutched his face, the skin red, raw, and hot.
‘Fuck you.’ Mack stalked back to his armchair, wheezing.
Will sniffled a couple of times, and then raised his head. A wave of mild dizziness blurred his vision, and he blinked. He exhaled, a deep calming breath while his mind processed what he was hearing. He leaned back in his chair and tucked his hands behind his head, contemplating the ceiling.
Then it hit him.
He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes at Mack. ‘You gave your ‘insurance’ to Amy, didn’t you?’
‘No.’
It came out as a whisper, and Will understood. Mack blamed himself for what had happened to Amy.
‘What, then?’
Mack remained still, the silence stretching out between them, until he finally spoke. ‘I told her about it, that’s all. It was enough.’
Will ran over the facts in his mind – everything the man had told him so far. Then it clicked.
‘You’ve got something else on Rossiter and Gregory, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is it?
‘Another photograph.’
Will’s jaw dropped. ‘Another photograph?’ He leaned forward. ‘What photograph?’
Mack stubbed out his cigarette, blew the last of the smoke up towards the ceiling, and turned to Will, his eyes gleaming.
‘The one your father took of Ian Rossiter executing one of his business rivals.’