Brothers' Tears by J. M. Gregson Read Free Book Online Page B

this stage, Steve. But I suppose you have a right to know who’ll be paying your wages. So yes, Mr Lennon. He’s prepared to take you on. He’s taking over most of your organisation following the unfortunate demise of James O’Connor. And he wants as smooth a transition as possible. So he’s prepared to take on you and whichever two of your staff you recommend. You’d be deputy to me, of course.’ He ran his hand lightly over the front of his waistcoat, fingering the watch-chain as if it offered him reassurance. ‘But you’d be second in line in our security department. It’s a very generous offer, if you ask me.’
    Steve wanted to say that he didn’t ask him, that he’d had quite enough of this patronising nonsense. But this fellow was making a generous offer on behalf of his employer, offering a job to a rival in the same trade of violence. He was going to have to work with the Jamaican. If the man was vain enough to indulge in silly charades like this, he might even take over from him, in due course.
    Tracey took a deep breath and stood up. There was no possibility of refusal. He knew too much about the empire of James O’Connor for that. If he opted out of work for the new ownership, he might well be eliminated. He thrust out his hand and said, ‘I accept, subject to proper remuneration. I’m sure I can rely on Mr Lennon for that.’
    The man in the waistcoat winced again at Tracey’s mention of that name. He had planned to reveal it himself at this stage to this man who would operate in his shadow. But he stood up and thrust his hand forward. ‘Peter Coleman. Here’s to a long and successful working relationship.’
    Middle management making a new appointment. Steve completed the bizarre playlet by shaking the big hand firmly, then closing his left hand over the right as the two big men came together. He wondered how many victims these hands had dispatched in the last ten years.

FIVE
    T here had been a mill here once. It had been built in bright-red brick, with a square tower at one end, like that of a great church. A chimney had risen high at the other, dwarfing everything else around. The long terraces of low houses had been built in meaner brick, but they had been homes to many hundreds of people. The streets here had once reverberated with the sound of clogs clattering to work, hastening to beat the morning whistle at the factory gates, to shut their wearers in with the greater clatter of the steam-driven machines within the smooth brick walls.
    All that was long gone. Percy Peach didn’t remember it, but he’d seen pictures and been instructed in his primary school on the proud industrial heritage of the area. Manchester had been not only the workshop of the world but also Cottonopolis, and Brunton had been one of the great cotton-spinning towns. Now all was changed, changed utterly. That expression came back to Percy from some point in his chequered school career.
    The area was now part of an industrial estate. There were bright new buildings with big windows. Volkswagens and Audis and Toyotas dominated the car parks, as if to remind people that the world had moved on. The headquarters of O’Connor Industries was a surprisingly small building near the entrance to the estate. It had ample parking and a much more impressive entrance than any of the utilitarian buildings which predominated here. Dark red wooden doors opened between a pair of high granite pillars, a style determinedly out of fashion with more muted modern styles.
    Jan Derkson rose automatically to greet them, as she had greeted so many hundreds of visitors here before. She said, ‘We can go through into Mr O’Connor’s room if you like. We won’t be disturbed there.’
    â€˜Then let’s go there. We certainly don’t want to be disturbed,’ said the bald-headed man in the trim grey suit. ‘I’m DCI Peach and this is