“So what the bleedin’ ‘ell do we do now?” Neil-the-manager asked, his pudgy fingers continually straying to his inside jacket pocket where I guessed he kept his cigarettes. I hoped it was his cigarettes. If it was a gun we were in more trouble than I’d thought. “No offence to whichever of you’s the real Cain, and by the way my money’s on the one who actually woke up where he was supposed to this morning, but one of you is quite enough for anyone. Two of you ain’t going to sell twice as many records, that’s for bleedin’ sure. So how are we going to find out which is which?”
“DNA testing?” bloody-nose Cain—my Cain—suggested.
Neil looked like he wanted to spit, but didn’t reckon that’d go down any better than smoking in Mrs Shepney’s house. “Press’d have a bleedin’ field day. You want them
