He arrived at Southbank Parklands at ten to eight. A pale sun had broken through the cloud, but it wasn’t enough to take the chill off the biting wind that whipped around him, bending the tops of the palm trees fringing the small man-made beach. It was two weeks into September, supposedly spring, but winter was hanging on, determined not to go without a fight. Far from the ideal day to be walking around half-naked.
He’d phoned Joe just before seven. ‘Sorry I can’t come in, I’ve got a gastro bug.’ All he had to do was think of Frank beating him to a pulp when he discovered that Operation Luce End had failed, to conjure up a suitably unwell tone of voice.
As expected, Joe was not pleased. ‘You’d better not let me down tomorrow, boy,’ he commanded before hanging up on him. The undertone was
