He’d already thrown up twice before he left the office in a taxi to meet Josef and hand over the five grand. Now he sat on a bench in Kelvingrove Park, dwarfed by its vastness, staring gloomily at the lush greenery rolled out in front of him in all its summer splendour like a painting by one of the old masters.He swallowed his queasiness, one hand firmly on the hold-all he was about to part with, and looked at his watch. It was 7.30 in the morning. Any minute now … The park was deserted, except for the occasional gluttonfor-punishment jogger who didn’t even look in his direction as he sat reading the Post. The story on the front page about refugees disappearing, coming on top of everything else had put the wind up the already unnerved Frank. At least the article wasn’t suggesting any of the stuff he was involved in. It was merely floating the line that many refugees were unaccounted for, hinting that they could have disappeared into the black economy. One line suggested that vigilantes may be behind their disappearance.
