When he’d got the assignment for Brant, he’d nearly said no. A cop is a whole other league and the fallout was ferocious, but if you want to move up? Too, the guy who took Brant out was going to be legend, could double, shit, triple his fees. There wasn’t a major villain in South-East London who didn’t want Brant out of the picture. But the bastard, maybe it was his Irish blood, he had the luck of the very devil. Terry had gone along to meet with the man who wanted the hit, he’d been picked up by a BMW on the Clapham Road, and just one occupant in the car, the driver.

He’d opened the door, asked:

‘Terry Dunne?’

When Terry Dunne nodded, the guy said:

‘Hop in, old chap.’

Spokelike a Tory outrider, and he had the looks to match. In his forties, with a ruddy face, prominent nose, beady eyes, and an air of… what did they call it in the posh papers… yeah, bonhomie. Terry learned that word in Scrabble with his old lady. She was a bitch for them frog words, but he’d liked the ring of it, used it every chance. Mind you, the pubs, clubs of Brixton, Kennington, Stockwell, you didn’t get to use it much. Unless you wanted your card marked as pillow biter. You used a word like that, you better be carrying.

The man drove them to Canary Wharf, asking:

‘You’re not in a hurry old bean, are you?’

Not if he was being paid and, as if reading his thoughts, the guy said:

‘You will, of course, be amply rewarded for your time.’

Terry got a good look at him, sneakily, of course, didn’t pay to be too inquisitive. He wondered if the guy was a messenger but doubted it, he had the air of being the main contractor, Terry was surprised, usually, all sorts of middle men were involved. The guy brought the car to a smooth stop on the wharf, asked:

‘Are you at all cognisant with Detective Sergeant Brant?’

Cognisant?

Fuck.