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John Lucas’s head was starting to feel groggy after the half-bottle of whisky he’d consumed earlier. It was that horrible late-in-the-day fug you got from lunchtime drinking. There was only one way round that: carry on.
He poured himself another glass and thought about what had happened at Benjamin Newell’s house. He’d not seen the man for years, but he’d barely changed. He was still the same weaselly, pathetic human being he remembered. He was the sort of person who’d mastermind stealing the Crown Jewels then get nicked for pinching a tin of Brasso to clean them.
What really irked him, though, is that Newell wouldn’t deny thinking Lucas had murdered Freddie Galloway. There’s no honour amongst thieves, as they say, and there was certainly none where Benjamin Newell was involved.
His
