‘Did you kill Harriet Parr?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Rocco said, panting heavily.
‘Who did she meet that night?’
‘I don’t know.’
Farrelly considered his answer for a few seconds. Then he gave the knob another turn to the right. Rocco was screaming even before the probe made contact with his neck. The convulsions were so extreme, he toppled backwards and his head hit the floor like a ripe watermelon. He was motionless and didn’t appear to be breathing.
‘Fucking great,’ I said. ‘You’ve killed him.’
‘Course I ain’t. He’s just had a bang on the nut.’
Farrelly pulled Rocco up and slapped him across the face. He came round and began giggling like a kid over a dirty joke. Either the electricity or the impact had scrambled Rocco’s brain. The laughing stopped when he realised where he was.
I smelt an unmistakable odour.
‘You dirty bastard,’ Farrelly said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rocco mumbled.
‘Fuck sorry,’ said Farrelly. ‘I don’t want to hear sorry. What I want to hear is the truth about what happened that night. Either you’re gonna tell me, or I’m gonna stick this thing up your shitty arse.’
He held the probe in front of Rocco, who strained away from it like a vampire presented with a crucifix.
‘What was that?’ Farrelly said, cocking his ear. ‘I didn’t quite catch it.’
Either Rocco had decided that silence was the best policy, or was so terrified that he was beyond speech. He didn’t say anything. Instead he began making the appalling whining noise again.
‘Fair enough,’ Farrelly said. He leant over the transformer and switched it off. I couldn’t have been as relieved as Rocco to see the dials dwindle to zero, but it still felt as though someone had unstrapped a piano from my back.
The feeling didn’t last.
‘Open your mouth.’
Rocco’s jaw tensed. He shook his head resolutely.
‘Open fucking wide,’ Farrelly demanded, like a demonic dentist.
When Rocco complied, the probe was inserted into his mouth. Farrelly grabbed the roll of tape and wrapped it around his head several times.
‘Right,’ he said, bending down over the machine again. ‘Five seconds and if I haven’t heard what I want to by then, you’re gonna kop the lot . . .’
‘He can’t tell you anything with that thing halfway down his throat.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Farrelly said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Oh, well, never mind . . .’
‘You’ll kill him.’
Farrelly shrugged and started the countdown.
‘Five . . . four . . . three . . .’
‘Get your finger off the switch or I’ll blow your fucking head off,’ someone said.
Strangely enough it was me.
I wasn’t a complete novice when it came to firearms. Before gun clubs were outlawed, a mate had taken me down to a range underneath the arches at Vauxhall. I’d tried out several weapons and managed to hit the target more often than not. That had been nearly thirty years ago. Pointing a gun at Farrelly was a world away from aiming it at a card full of circles.
Nevertheless, I had picked it up off the crate, interlocked my hands around the butt, and delivered my finger-switch-blow-fucking-head-off line. Admittedly there was a bit of tremble, but at eight feet the chances of missing were zero. I’d even remembered to release the safety.
Farrelly laughed. ‘Are you serious?’ he asked. ‘Put it down, you silly twat.’
‘Get away from the machine.’
‘Or what? You’re gonna shoot me?’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
Farrelly started cackling with laughter. I pointed the pistol three feet wide of his head and pulled the trigger. The sound was ear-shredding.
‘Now, get that thing out of his mouth and cut the tape.’
Farrelly didn’t move. I knew the question he was trying to answer. Ten seconds passed before he drew the right conclusion.
‘You’re fucked,’ he said quietly. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
‘Just do as you’re told.’
If I’d had a bad night, then it had been a total bummer for Rocco. He’d been unable to say anything for the last few minutes, but had conveyed a lot of emotion with his eyes. Having Farrelly approach him with an open lock knife allowed him a final bravura performance. The tape was cut and the probe extracted from his mouth. Then Farrelly sliced through the tape on Rocco’s hands.
‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,’ he said, and carried on saying it as though it were some kind of deliverance mantra. It got on my tits pretty quickly.
‘Shut up and get up,’ I told him, which he did. ‘Now you sit, Farrelly.’
‘What?’
For a moment I thought he was going to come at me regardless. Instead he sat down on the chair. ‘Fasten his hands behind his back,’ I told Rocco.
‘Do I have to?’
‘Only if you don’t want me to shoot you.’
The gun was having a bad effect. A single discharged round and I’d turned into Dirty Harry. That said, it was quicker than please and thank you for getting stuff done. Rocco grabbed the tape and got to work. While his wrists were being secured, Farrelly stared at me as though trying to make my head implode through the power of thought alone.
‘This is what’s going to happen,’ I said. ‘We’ll leave the door partially open so when people turn up for work they’ll find you. You can tell them that you got burgled or something. We’ll have to take your car, but I’ll text you where it is.’
Farrelly kept giving me the stare. For the first time since picking up his gun, my confidence began to ebb. He wasn’t the kind of bloke to forgive and forget over a couple of pints and a heartfelt apology. His jacket was hanging over the chair by the train console. I fished out his car keys and then pressed the door-release button.
Rocco was outside before the shutter was four feet off the ground. I wasn’t too sure what to do with the gun and ended up throwing it on to the roof of the unit. Rocco was standing by Farrelly’s car like a kid who couldn’t wait to go on his holidays. ‘Have you got any paper?’ he asked.
‘Are you thinking of writing your memoirs?’
‘No. I want to . . . you know . . . clean myself up.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said, remembering his little accident. ‘Hang on, I’ll look in the car.’
The best I could find was the RAC Atlas of Great Britain, so Rocco wiped his arse on most of the Home Counties. Despite his efforts, I still drove with the windows down. We were going over the Holborn Viaduct before either of us spoke again.
‘Who was that guy?’ Rocco asked.
‘Frank Parr’s chauffeur.’
‘Chauffeur! He’s a fucking lunatic. D’you think he’d have pressed the switch?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Looked like he was going to.’
‘Doesn’t mean he would have.’
‘Still . . . Thanks for what you did,’ Rocco said, before asking his second question. ‘Would you really have shot him?’
‘What do you think?’
‘You’d have had to.’
‘There we are, then.’
The answer gave Rocco pause for thought.
‘Just so I know for sure,’ I asked as we rounded the corner into Great Queen Street. ‘You really don’t know who Harry was meeting up with?’
‘You think I wouldn’t have told him?’