Paulie was leaning on his car when Connor pulled up, smoking a fat cigar and blowing the smoke lazily into the night. He seemed relaxed, satisfied, like a man enjoying a smoke after a fine meal. Connor got out of the car, the acrid tang of the cigar hitting his nose as he approached. He glanced around for the problem Paulie had called about but saw nothing except the darkened street and the light still burning in Donna Blake’s flat.
‘Well?’ he asked.
Paulie smiled, showing off the yellowed stumps of his teeth. Rolled himself off the car and stood upright, the outline of Connor’s gun obvious in the awkward way his rumpled jacket hung from him. Connor felt Simon’s eyes on him. Ignored it.
‘Had a wee, ah, incident,’ Paulie said, as he walked round the car. ‘Taxi pulls up about fifteen minutes ago, guy gets out. Twitchy little fucker, all jerky movements and big eyes, like he’d taken a few too many hits of speed.’
Connor looked around the emptiness of the street, felt a sour dread curdle in his gut. ‘What made you think he was a threat?’
Paulie sneered, tension rippling through his shoulders. ‘I knew,’ he said, voice as dark as the shadows. ‘He had the look, seen it enough times. And he headed straight for yer woman’s block of flats.’
Connor snapped a look between the flats and Paulie. ‘Hold on, you’re not telling me that you let . . .’
‘Fuck off.’ Paulie laughed. ‘You think I’d let anyone into that flat after what you said earlier? Course I fucking wouldn’t.’
‘So, what happened to him?’ Connor asked, unease rising. He didn’t like where this was going.
A smile blossomed on Paulie’s face, warm, generous and utterly authentic. For an instant, it changed him from a brooding thug to a kindly uncle, full of good humour and content with the world. In that instant, Connor understood Paulie was the worst kind of predator: a monster without hesitation, who only felt pleasure in the pain of others. ‘Decided to keep him for us to have a little chat with, didn’t I?’
He walked to the rear of the car, fiddled for a moment and opened the boot.
‘Squirrelly little shit, I’ll give him that,’ Paulie said, standing aside to let Simon and Connor look at the captive.
Wide, terrified eyes gazed up at them, framed in sockets that were already turning a dusty purple from the punches he had received. Blood was caked around his nose, dark and lurid against the waxy sheen of his pale, sweat-soaked skin.
‘Puh-please!’ the man said, his jaw chattering as though he were sitting in a bucket of ice. ‘Please don’t hurt me! I’ll stay quiet, I promise! I was only joking around earlier on. I would never, could never . . .’
Connor reached into the boot, grabbed a handful of damp shirt and hauled. Weak fingers skittered across his wrists as he pulled the man out and dragged him to the kerb. ‘Sit down,’ he said.
He obeyed, feverish eyes darting between Connor, Simon and Paulie. Connor could understand his terror. He’d been put in an indefensible position, three men looming over him. Not good.
Connor hunkered down, getting face to face with the man. He felt the briefest moment of recognition, washed away by the reek of stale sweat and beer that seemed to roll off him in waves. ‘Who are you? Why were you trying to get to Donna Blake?’
‘Donna? Donna who? I don’t know who you’re—’
Connor leant forward, unblinking. ‘Don’t bullshit me. My friend here,’ he nodded up at Paulie, ‘said you were heading for her block of flats. If you weren’t going to see her, who were you going to see?’
The man looked down, took a deep breath. When he looked back, Connor saw nothing but desperation in his eyes.
‘Please, just don’t hurt them, okay?’ he said at last, his voice as pathetic as his eyes. ‘I’ll tell you anything you want but, please, just leave them alone. Please . . .’
Connor stood back as the man began to cry, soft sobs that racked his thin shoulders.
I’ll stay quiet. I was only joking.
Don’t hurt them.
‘Who do you think sent us?’ Connor asked, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. ‘And why do you think we’re going to hurt Donna Blake and her son?’
The man’s head whipped up, hope guttering in his eyes. ‘He didn’t send you?’ he whispered. ‘You’re not here for me or Donna? Then who . . .?’
Connor sighed, frustrated. ‘Let’s start again,’ he said. ‘Who are you, and why were you trying to see Donna Blake?’
The man’s eyes flicked between the three men, desperate calculations giving him a feral, feverish look. ‘My name is Mark Sneddon,’ he said at last. ‘I work for the Chronicle. I need to see Donna because I’m in a world of shit and I don’t know where else to turn.’