THIRTY-EIGHT
Sometime after three in the afternoon, a worn, dilapidated Ford pulled into the car park of ‘The Galloper’ and three men stepped out into the rain.
Lassiter pulled up his collar and swore under his breath whilst Rachet trudged up alongside him, took a look at the sky, and said, “What a f*****g day.”
“It’s going to get worse,” said Cabel.
“Yeah, for the weasel, and maybe even for that bastard MacMillan,” said Lassiter.
“You can remember the way to the old house?”
“Like it was engraved on my knob,” replied Lassiter. “We’ll have something to eat here, then make our way up when it’s dark. I’m going to make that old fart squeal, then we go round to the weasel’s and find out what he knows about the money.”
“What if he hasn’t got it?”
“If he hasn’t, he’ll know where it is. An
