'Well,' said Windy, holding out the bag. 'These are his teeth.'

They did, indeed, appear to be teeth, together with a fair smattering of gum and blood and gunk.

As I looked at them, a low, pitiful groan came from the room behind them.

'Is he in there?' I asked.

'No,' said Windy.

'He's in the Lagan. We have someone else in there. He used to run one of our companies, until he robbed us blind. Perhaps you've met him?'

I wasn't unduly surprised by how swiftly they had discovered that they had been betrayed, or by their response. They'd had a lot of years to hone their craft. The bag was tied neatly at the top. Windy swung it round once so that it landed in the palm of his hand. He squeezed it.

'You've some big fucking balls on you, Starkey,' said Rab.

'Thanks,' I said.

'Walking in here, facing us down, thinking that cunt down there can protect you.'

'You know,' said Windy, 'that right now he's face down on a snooker table with a cue up his arse.'

'That would appear to contravene the rules,' I said.

Windy shook his head. 'Have you even thought this through?' he asked. 'What's to stop us pulling all of your teeth out until you tell us where our gear is?'

'I thought I'd appeal to your sense of fair play and justice.'

'I was told you were a funny fucker,' snapped Rab.

'It's a widely held belief,' I said.

I think they were a little unsettled by my stupid grin. I have perfected the look over many years. It often makes people want to slap my face. It is not a grin that has anything to do with humour, or smugness; it is a default mechanism to hide the panic and the terror; the same mechanism often causes me to say stupid things. But sometimes, sometimes, it gives people pause for thought. They occasionally make the mistake of thinking that I am smarter than I look, or know something that they do not.

I picked at a fleck of dust on my trousers that an atomic scientist would have struggled to detect.

'Okay,' I said, 'let's be open about this. The reason I'm here is your threat to kill Bobby Murray, and your wish to interfere with his right to live a happy and peacefully hoody life here on the Shankill. I understand he owes you money, and some drugs. But really, you give a fourteen-year-old access, what do you expect. And besides-'

'Besides nothing, you fucking halfwit,' Rab snapped. 'Who do you think you're talking to?'

'Let him finish,' said Windy.

'Thank you, Windy,' I said.

'Don't call me Windy,' said Windy.

'And besides,' I continued, 'you killed his mother. That should be punishment enough.'

They just looked at me.

'What's your point, Starkey?' Rab asked.

'I have your money and I have your drugs; I'm told it's about two million worth. And yes, I'm sure you could make me tell you where it is. To tell you the truth, I usually scream the place down when I get a filling, but that's not really what this is about, is it?'

'Really?' said Windy.

'Really,' I said. 'Look, Windy, most of the time the folks on the hill don't give a fuck what you do up here, as long as you keep it local. They even turn a blind eye when you have your wee wars amongst yourselves. But when I publish the list of people you've been supplying with coke through Malone, the times, the places, the amounts, they will not tolerate that. That's attacking them in their own back patio. They won't be able to stop it getting out any more than you will, but it will give them the mandate to stop you, both of you, once and for all. Maybe you can blackmail the likes of Abagail Pike, but you can't blackmail them all. The moment I go viral with this, you won't last twenty-four hours; it'll make Wikileaks look like a bit of fucking street-corner gossip.'

Rab glanced at Windy. Windy kept his eyes on me.

'You've got it all figured out,' he said.

'Enough of it,' I said. 'Forgetting for the moment your admirable quest to protect us from the Republican hordes, I think at heart you're both just businessmen, and you can see the benefits of making a deal.'

'What kind of a deal?' Rab asked.

'You let Bobby Murray back on the Shankill, you lift all threats against him, his family and friends, and I hold off on releasing the info.'

'So we replace our threats with your threats?' Rab asked.

'Yes, if you like.'

'What about our cash, our gear?' asked Windy.

'Say I give it back to you in stages, once a month, as long as Bobby is okay.'

'Over what time period?'

'Say, six months.'

'And what happens at the end of six months, we have all our gear back? You delete the evidence?'

'Yes.'

'How would we ever be sure of that?'

'Your continued freedom would be the proof.'

'That would only be proof that you hadn't released it. So you would be expecting us to conduct our business under a constant threat?'

'You expect others to.'

Windy got up from the desk and came around to the front, and sat with half his arse on the corner opposite his brother. He folded his arms and said, 'We are the de facto leaders of the Ulster Volunteer Force. If we are beholden to you, that would make you the de facto leader of the Ulster Volunteer Force. That is impossible.'

'It's my final offer.'

'Your final offer!' Rab exploded, and launched himself off the desk, grabbing my jacket and then thrusting his fists into my chest, knocking the chair back on two legs. It teetered for a moment and then fell back. My head cracked off the wooden floor. As the stars sparkled, Rab stood over me and jabbed a finger down. 'Who the fuck do you think . . .?'

He aimed a kick. The only reason it didn't land was because Windy pulled him back and it sailed inches wide. Rab struggled for a moment, but then relaxed as his brother whispered urgently in his ear.

I lay where I was until Windy stepped forward, reached down and grabbed my jacket. He pulled me up. The seat of my trousers stuck with sweat to the chair for a moment, before it fell back. He stood me up straight, released my jacket, and then patted the front of it, like he was a primary school teacher reassuring a fallen child.

'You'll have to forgive my brother,' he said. 'He's not used to being threatened.'

'You're forgiven,' I said.

This did not improve Rab's demeanour.

'We've heard your offer,' said Windy, 'and under the circumstances, it's not unreasonable. In the grand scheme of things, killing Bobby Murray is no longer that important to us.'

'Okay,' I said.

'But my brother and I will need to talk it through.'

'That's not unreasonable.'

'It is good for us that people believe we are ruthless, and vicious, and vengeful. And we can be. That is what we sell. But we aren't like that all the time. We are able to come to perfectly workable business agreements without recourse to threats or violence. Leave it with us, we'll let you know within twenty-four hours.'

I nodded. But I didn't move.

'What?' asked Rab. 'We're done here.'

'I was thinking of a goodwill gesture on your part.'

'Our part . . .? Jesus!'

I nodded at the door in the wall behind them. 'Give me him. He didn't do anything wrong; he thought I was going to shoot him.'

'You?' Windy laughed. 'He gave it all away for nothing. And he's the reason you're here, dictating terms.'

'Nevertheless.'

He weighed it up for a few moments, then without reference to his brother, who was still glaring at me, crossed to the door and opened it halfway. He spoke to someone inside. I couldn't hear what he said. Then he pulled the door open a bit wider and stood back to allow the shuffling, stooped and mash-faced horror that was Derek Beattie to stagger through. His white shirt was bright red in places, darker in others. His torture had clearly been lengthy and systematic. The former owner of Malone Security stopped, swayed, and sank to his knees. He let out a long, shivering groan and his head dropped to his chest, and huge sobs began to shake his entire body.

I moved beside him. I crouched down. 'It's okay Derek, it's all right.'

A slight movement behind him drew my eyes to the open door. At the far end of a spartan room with but one plastic chair, there was a man methodically washing blood from his hands in a sink. As I watched, he turned to lift a small towel off a handrail beside him, and I saw who it was, and knew immediately that far from the situation being resolved through a canny mix of brinksmanship and diplomacy, things were more than likely to go from bad to worse.

Drying his hands: Detective Inspector Springer.

44.

Maxi was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He did not seem unduly surprised to see me stagger into the vestibule supporting a blood-spattered and battered Derek Beattie. He came forward to help, and together we walked Derek along towards our car. As we passed the fenced-off patch of overgrown grass outside the church, I saw that the guy who had invited Maxi to play snooker was lying in there, on his back, with a hideous red weal across his face, and out for the count.

Maxi waited until we'd laid Derek across the back seat, then climbed into the front, before he looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

'Go well?'

'As can be expected. You?'

'We had a disagreement. It was resolved.'

I put my hand to my chest. My heart was thumping like billy-o.

'Thank fuck that's over,' I said. 'They want twenty-four hours to-'

Maxi held up his hand. 'I don't want to know. I've done what I can. The rest is up to you.'

'Okay. I appreciate that.'

He started the engine, indicated and pulled out. I glanced across at the church. Some of the Miller boys were trying to hoist their comrade out and over the fence, but without much success. It was like watching one of those crane games in an amusement arcade, endlessly frustrating but also ultimately disappointing when you realise that what you've won is completely worthless.

'I can drop him at the RVH,' said Maxi, nodding back, 'and you anywhere you want within reason. But I have to get to my party.'

'Wouldn't be the same without you,' I said.

We drove for a little bit in what would have been silence but for the whimpers from the back seat. Derek Beattie had lost half his teeth, his nose was broken, his fingers snapped back. But he was alive. I shuddered to think what state Paddy Barr must have been in before he was finally tossed into the Lagan.

And I was responsible for both of them. I had sent the photo of Paddy outside Jean Murray's burning home to DC Hood. Hood had shown it to his boss, DI Springer. Springer was either in the employ of the Miller brothers, or he had an interesting hobby.

'I know you don't want to hear this,' I said.

'Don't . . .'

'But you need to . . .'

'Just zip it.'

'. . . know what I saw in there.'

'I'm retired in about fifteen minutes.'

'It wasn't the Millers . . .'

'I'm not listening . . .'

'. . . who did this to him.'

He put one hand up to the closest ear and began to sing: 'Lalalalalalalalal . . .'

'They keep their hands clean . . . they employ someone else . . .'