“But it was Dexter who made it happen, Lawrence. It was Dexter who tampered with the evidence and hid the footage that proved it wasn’t an accident. It was Dexter who killed Jaz and nearly Beau too.” I do something I hadn’t planned, standing and releasing his hand. I turn and pull my shirt up, showing him the mess that is my back. His gasp is weary, weak, and as shocked as it should be.
“You tried to save them,” he whispers.
“I will find out who The Bear is. I will kill him, Lawrence.” I drop my shirt and face him, our talk stoking the anger within. “I need to be on my A-game and worrying whether you’re going to try and top yourself again and distress Beau isn’t going to help me. So do whatever it is you need to do—put your stockings on, your makeup, your fucking wig, I do not care, but now’s the time to pick yourself up.”
I see something lift in the frail man, something significant, and yet I can’t cling to it. Not yet. Not until I see him make moves to rectify this shitstorm he’s caused. A sharp nod. A sniffle. A rough wipe of his eyes. He can’t give me much more in this moment, only an execution.
“I’ll leave you to rest,” I say, giving Lawrence space to mentally stock up on strength. I take a few moments outside his bedroom to cool my hot head before picking up my feet. I pass Esther on the stairs, a tray in her hand. “She’s resting.”
“This is for Lawrence. Doc said some tea and toast would probably go down well. Daniel’s eating his dinner with Rose.”
I smile. Tea. A good old British cup of tea, and Danny’s mum makes a cracking one. “Thanks, Esther.”
“You’re welcome, James. I’ll check in on Beau too. The men just went into Danny’s office.” She continues up the stairs, and I go find the men, bowling into Danny’s office . . .
At the exact moment he swipes a machete and takes off the head of a man.
I stop where I am, avoiding the spray of blood, and watch as the head rolls across the carpet. It slows, doing a little twirl, before coming to a gradual stop at my feet. Eyes on me.
I look up at Danny. “Feel better?” I ask, stepping over the dismembered head, hearing the muffled sound of retching. I peek out the corner of my eye and see Goldie barely containing her need to throw up all over the place. I smile to myself, dropping to the couch. “What did I miss?”
Danny holds out the blade and Ringo is quick to relieve him of it. He looks down at his shirt, flicking at the spots of blood. “Well, Spittle’s dead.”
“So you obviously decided what to do with him.” I look across to his head, thinking Spittle might have been better off letting me at him. “You sure Doc can’t work his magic?”
Danny smirks, dark and dirty, and pulls his cigarettes out, lighting one and exhaling over his words. “He was no good to us anymore.” He toes Spittle’s body with his dress shoe, his lip curling. “Otto got into his bank accounts. A deposit landed yesterday. Two hundred grand.”
I nod, thoughtful. “Payment for services rendered, or services to be rendered?” I muse, wondering—or knowing—if Spittle’s failure to advise Danny that Volodya is still breathing may have also contributed to his gruesome death. “How?” Danny’s had him watched like a hawk since he kindly removed his cock from the meat slicer. How stupid can a man be? Or desperate.
“Otto disabled his mobile phone,” Danny says. “So when he was seen talking on one, it roused suspicion.” He swipes up a clear plastic bag from his desk, and I lean forward, trying to see what’s in it.
“A mobile?”
“Spittle, God bless his heart,” Danny muses, taking another drag of his cigarette, “tried to hide it when he saw Len coming at him. Hid in a cubicle of the men’s restroom at the restaurant he was in. When Len kicked the door in, no mobile phone.”
“He tried to flush it?” Otto asks.
“No. He rammed it up his arse.” Danny smirks, glancing around the room, seeing everyone wince, no doubt their arseholes clenching like mine. “Apparently we need to do internals on our prey now.”
Everyone steps back.
“Are you telling me he was fucking himself with a phone?” I ask, grimacing.
Danny laughs, and it’s a full-on belly laugh, his palm landing on his desk to hold him up. That’s a psycho laugh. I’ve heard my own enough to recognize one. He composes himself, wiping under his eyes. “The question I have is how many calls did he make?” He holds the bag up again, and the tension in the room thickens, everyone’s eyes snapping to each other, wondering which lucky fucker is going to have the honor of handling it to find out who Spittle’s been calling. “Any offers?” Danny asks, giving everyone a moment of his eyes. “No?”
Brad steams through the door in full workout gear, his muscles still pulsing, his forehead pouring sweat. The toe of his trainer nudges Spittle’s head, sending it rolling a few feet across the floor. His eyes widen. “For fuck’s sake, Danny.”
“Good workout?” Danny asks, resting his arse on his desk.
“He’s ex FBI, for Christ’s sake.”
“He’s a fucking snake.” He pushes the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray. “He told The Bear I’m still alive.” He holds up the bag again. “He’s been making calls right under our fucking noses, and he ordered a psycho assassin to murder you, Brad.”
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” I quip, resting back, enjoying the show.
“For fuck’s sake.” Brad yanks a towel from around his neck and wipes his face.
“You’re just pissed because you wanted to end him.”
“Yeah, I fucking did.” He snarls down at Spittle’s head, draws his foot back, and kicks it across the room, the power giving it some height.
“Fuck.” Danny ducks, and Spittle’s head ricochets off the wall behind him, leaving a sizable blob of blood on the paintwork. “You dickhead.”
Oh, Spittle. What a fucking mess he was in. “So what has The Bear got that we haven’t got?” I ask, resting an elbow on the arm of the couch, propping my head up, thinking. “Because there’s got to be an explanation for Spittle being so fucking stupid.” Everyone turns their eyes onto his head, looking at what being stupid gets you when you’re stupid around Danny Black. “I need to burn off some steam.” Balance. I need to stand on my head to clear my head. I get up and move toward the door.
“I’ll hold the pads first,” Danny says, dropping the phone back on his desk. “I don’t care who gets into that phone, but I want answers by tomorrow.” He looks at Brad. “Coming?”
“No, I’ve got to get to the Hiatus.” He pulls his T-shirt over his head. “I can’t fucking believe you’ve murdered Spittle without me.”
“Stop crying about it,” Danny says tiredly. “And someone find me his fucking son.” He catches up with me, and we walk side by side down the corridor to the foyer. “What’s going on with Beau’s uncle?” he asks.
“Stupid fuck tried to kill himself.” We reach the staircase. “Do I have a body yet?”
I don’t like the expression on Danny’s face. “Yeah, about that . . .”