He was screaming all right, but he was also cursing and threatening retribution. Most people begged for mercy or offered to double what he was being paid so he would leave them alone. He had a grudging admiration for George Thomas. But a deal was a deal. He was hot and sweating so he left the man and made his way up from the cellar to the small kitchen above. He had bought this place for a song, and it was perfect for what he needed. A tumbledown old farmhouse and twenty-five acres of arable land, worth fuck-all in the present climate. Still, there was a chance it might change. If he ever got planning permission this lot would be worth the national debt. Whatever happened, it was perfect for his little earner. He washed his hands clean of blood and made himself a sandwich – a thick doorstep of ham, cheese and pickle. He was starving. He poured a mug of tea and sat at the table, looking through the holiday brochures he had picked up a few days earlier. The boys would love Disney World again, but he fancied something a bit more exotic.
