Trust Read Online Free PDF Page B

smiled that disarming smile, defusing the sudden tension, and said, “Sugar?”
    I shook my head. And tried not to think too hard about how close I’d come to kissing him on the back of that mad adrenaline rush just now.
    §
    He left me nursing a cup of tea at the granite breakfast bar in the kitchen, while he went to make a call in another room, but I could still hear most of what he said.
    “That bleeding Russian, yeah. The one who looks like Vladimir Putin. The Russian president. Whatever. Him and his tame monkey... Smashed the window, right. Glass everywhere. I think he might have been trying to make a point.”
    The tea was milky and weak, almost white. I decided Dean Bailey wasn’t a man who used the kitchen much at all. He was too busy with other activities.
    “No, I don’t want you to do that. We pick our fights, Lee, yeah? Sometimes you need to know when to walk away. So no, I don’t want you going after him right now, okay? I just need to make a call, get one of Ronnie’s goons to come round and see to my motor. Listen, boy: you still good for tonight? Yeah?”
    I remembered his advice from just before his car window was smashed in with the butt of a pistol: maybe I should just go home now and forget about all this.
    He came back in and smiled. “You still fancy me, or has the adrenaline rush calmed down now?”
    I laughed. “No, you’re safe,” I said, then paused to take a drink of the tea-flavored milk. “Bad luck.”
    He had the decency to look at least a little disappointed.
    “So who were those guys?”
    “You don’t want to know.” He sat opposite me, and reached for his own cup.
    “Sure. So that’s why I just asked.”
    “Russians, Latvians, Ukrainians, I’m not entirely sure.” Those dark eyes were fixed on me, reading me.
    “They first started moving on London in the ’90s. The Soviet Union was breaking up, communism was collapsing, and all kinds of mobs were taking over in the Eastern Bloc and spilling out over here. There were lots of turf wars in the late ’90s. That’s when my old man got in a bit of bother. Locked away fifteen years ago, got a whole-life tariff, no hope of parole. My older brother, Owen, stepped up then, and then me and Lee joined in as we grew up.”
    I did the sums, worked out he must have been around twelve or thirteen when this happened. Had a vision of him as a teen crimelord in his shades and a suit that was too big for him. The image was somewhere between comical and chilling – and bizarrely believable.
    “No parole,” I mused out loud. Even the worst criminals usually had at least some hope of release. Dean’s father must have done something pretty bad.
    Dean nodded. “You really don’t want to know. He got us a few years’ breathing space, but now the Russians are trying to muscle in again – as you just saw.” He raised his eyebrows then, and said, “Hey, I’m real sorry about that. They were right out of order.”
    “No class.”
    He knew I was teasing, using his words back at him, and he smiled.
    “So you and your brothers – Owen and Lee? – do you still see your father?”
    “When we can,” said Dean. “Or I do, anyway. Lee doesn’t really know him that well, he was young when the old man went away. And I don’t really know how close Owen is these days. I think he sees Dad as a reminder of where we could all end up, you know what I mean?”
    “Does your dad still... keep involved?” Odd how just making conversation with someone like Dean Bailey involved such different subject matter to most people.
    His eyes narrowed then, and he said, “Nah. The old man keeps his nose clean these days. Has his eye on a place in a cushty little open prison to see his years out. Doesn’t want anything to mess with that.”
    I nodded, and drank some more tea. My heart was still thumping. Every time I flashed back to that moment when we were showered with glass, and a second or two later, looking out to see that pistol pointing into the car,