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faded quilted jacket – her father’s – and Wellington boots that belonged to him too. They flopped around her feet, acres too big.
    Orla grabbed the peg bag from inside the kitchen door and hurried out clutching the basket of washing. In the living room of the old farmhouse her parents were watching the news on TV. She’d sat with them through the latest reports about the IRA shooting dead a policeman who’d stumbled upon a bomb-making factory in a Hammersmith basement, and the scandal surrounding Indira Gandhi, who’d now been found guilty of electoral corruption. But when the newsreader announced that a Boeing 727 had crashed at the edge of Kennedy airport, killing over a hundred people, Orla had begun shaking uncontrollably. The footage of wreckage in the water had her reliving her own nightmare struggle for life, the icy sea, the plane sinking, the loss – oh God! – of Redmond.
    She looked around her at the decaying farm buildings. It was hard to believe that they had been reduced to this. Her father, who’d seen to it that the Delaney name inspired fear and respect in London’s ganglands, now a demented old man. Her mother, once so smart, so elegant, now worn down by the strain of caring for him. Her brothers, dead.
    The Delaneys were a spent force.
    And so was she.

10
    Moyross, Ireland, 1973
    ‘Jesus, I’m not sure about this,’ said Pikey.
    Alongside him, crouched down behind Pardew’s parked car, Rufus Malone gave Pikey a scathing look.
    The guy had no balls.
    Things got rough, and he started to squirm like a big girl.
    ‘Shut yer trap,’ hissed Rufus.
    Pikey fell silent.
    Tosser, thought Rufus with a sigh. Rather than squatting here, cramping up in the freezing fucking cold with Pikey groaning on about not being sure, Rufus was wishing he was elsewhere. Time was, being a cousin of the Delaneys would have spared him this sort of crap. Maybe he ought to have stuck to the horse trading around St Mary’s in Limerick. Or kept up with the serious betting on the sulky races, travelling all over Ireland having a piss-up and making a packet.
    The lure of criminality had pulled him from an early age, even in the school playground where he’d pinched other pupils’ marbles with his old oppo Rory. As one of the Delaney clan, he had a reputation to live up to.
    Rufus was built like a rugby player. His size intimidated all but the most determined foe. Added to that, he was fast-moving and had a shock of shoulder-length curly red hair. The hair gave him a primitive, caveman appearance. His facial features were pudgy, not distinctive, but his hard grey eyes promised trouble – and he always delivered.
    He’d moved up the ranks since his schooldays. From regular appearances in the juvenile courts, having progressed from stealing marbles to robbing milkmen and grocery stores, he graduated to the district court on charges of breaking and entering. He became a master at blagging old judges with innocent looks and pleas to spare him, he would never do such a thing again, honest.
    Of course, he always did.
    As a result, he got accustomed to the occupational hazard of brief spells inside. Prison was his finishing school, where he brushed up against real hard cases, learned more about the ways of the world.
    While frequenting the races with his old mate, sometime thief and sometime motor mechanic Rory, he encountered smoother, bigger criminals. People with connections to the provisional IRA and dissident republicans. And, of course, Dublin-based gang bosses who liked the cut of him and were impressed by his Delaney connections, thinking he’d be handy in a scrap. Bosses, middle-aged silverbacks, bulky and mean-eyed, like Big Don Callaghan, who owned Rufus’s arse now – and paid handsomely for the privilege.
    For the time being, Rufus was enforcer for Don’s Island Field gang and he had a job to do. The job was simple. Dispose of a bit of rubbish called Jonathon Pardew, who had been stepping on Big Don’s toes.