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My phone rings.
My other phone. Another cheap-as-chips burner with a number I gave to Clarke.
He's on the other end. A happy little pig rolling around in his own s**t.
“You unwrap my present?“ I ask.
"Edgar Grezda," he says. "Albanian Mafia."
"He talking yet?" I ask.
"He will," Clarke says.
“And the people in the clinic?"
"The patients are in care. The staff are being questioned.”
"Well, make it stick," I say. "Don't let 'em off the hook."
"Don't worry, Charlie. Everyone wants a win on this one. Top Brass. High Court. Parliament. The whole lot.”
"And this Grezda," I say. "He's a big fish?”
“He’s a prize, but I think we can get a plea bargain. Reel in someone bigger.”
"The thought of him getting off—bloody grates on me,” I say.
"Grates on all of us," Clarke says. "But you
