Abel and Bradley were inside the container again but this time it was almost full, with cardboard boxes on pallets secured by straps. A narrow, twisting path led to the back. Bradley hated small spaces but their conversation couldn’t be overheard here so he sucked up the tightness in his chest and aimed to keep it short.
‘I dunno what Roscoe’s problem is, boss,’ Abel said. His eyes were bloodshot, and he lacked the usual energy Bradley was accustomed to. Late night.
‘Explain.’
‘He’s looking over his shoulder all the time. Cops visited him and then bailed up one of his men outside the building insisting that Hardy is in communication with them,’ Abel said.
‘Good luck with that. He’s not going to tell them if he is and anyway, Malcolm Hardy has to be master of the disappearing act. Who e
