Michael held his hands out in a gesture of supplication. He knew that his late arrival would not be overlooked by Declan – tardiness was his pet hate.
‘I’m sorry, Declan, but I had to sort some stuff out at home.’
Michael looked immaculate as always; the man had clearly spent a long time on his appearance. It was Michael Flynn’s only vanity, he never looked anything other than perfect. Declan knew that his haphazard approach to life was the antithesis of Michael’s. Declan was getting larger by the month and he had never been what anyone would call a looker. Unlike Michael Flynn, however, he didn’t care about that. Michael, though, looked every inch the part of the well-heeled Face, from the expensive gold watch to his perfect haircut.
‘You know why I called this meeting, so let’s not fuck about, eh?’
Michael laughed at his friend’s attitude; only Declan would dare to talk to him like that – only Declan could get away with it. He shook his head slowly in mock disbelief. ‘OK, hold your fucking horses! It’s sorted, all right?’ He was being deliberately contrite, apologising without saying a word.
‘I’m gonna need a bit more than that, Michael, and you fucking know it.’
The smile was gone now, and Declan was reminded of just how hazardous confronting someone like Michael Flynn could be. Like Patrick, his late brother, the man was capable of literally anything if crossed. He would do well to remember that, even if he had the man’s respect and his affection.
‘I know what you’re saying, Declan. Believe me, I’ve tried to build bridges. I’ve given them every opportunity to sort the situation out between them. Jeffrey Palmer was willing to swallow his knob. He knew he had dropped a humungous fucking bollock from the off. But Jermaine O’Shay has been a real pain. He just won’t let it go – not even for me.’
Declan sat down suddenly, and looked out of the large picture window that had a really magnificent view over the river. It was a cold day, overcast, a typical March morning. The threat of spring was in the air, and London looked like shit. He sighed. He could already see exactly where this was going. If Michael Flynn requested a personal favour, he expected the person to agree immediately.
‘So what are you saying, Michael?’
Michael dragged a chair over to where Declan was sitting, and settled in beside him. Then, after a few moments, he said quietly, ‘I’ve thought about this long and hard. I even asked Jermaine, as a friend, to overlook Jeffrey’s faux pas, put it behind him. They are both good men. But he won’t.’
Declan looked at Michael, saw the suppressed anger in his face, and the way that Michael was trying to hide it. But Declan knew him too well. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’
Michael grinned amiably, all white teeth and stunning good looks. ‘What else can I do, Declan? I have been left with no fucking choice. They have to go.’
It was as Declan had expected. He couldn’t change anything even if he wanted to. ‘I see. Both men are well connected. It will be noticed.’
Michael smiled easily once again. ‘I should hope so too! This is a fucking warning, mate. It’s my way, or no way.’
Declan watched quietly as Michael picked imaginary dirt from his trousers using his manicured nails, pretending everything was normal.
‘When are you going to do it?’
Michael looked over the river; he loved this view, he loved these offices. They spelt success to him. His legitimate businesses were booming, and that was important. He knew that if you earned enough legit money, it made it so much harder for anyone to find a reason to investigate your finances. He paid a lot of money out to keep his life on track – not just to accountants and secretarial staff, but also to the police, and the people the police dealt with. But it was worth every penny spent. He had more Filth and CPS on his bankroll than the Metropolitan Police Force. He paid off people all over the country. It made good business sense.
He looked at Declan, knew that the man was not sure about the latest developments. That wasn’t unexpected, but he knew Declan would go along with him as always. ‘We are going to do it tonight, mate. I’ve arranged a sit down at the scrapyard.’
Declan nodded his agreement, as Michael knew he would.
‘I think I’ve been good, actually. Normally, I would have taken them out much earlier. But now I’ve had enough.’
Chapter Sixty-Five