After two months under his supervision, Cass still didn’t feel he knew Mac any better than he had on day one, and he figured maybe that was how he liked it. If Cass got nicked, all he could say about the big, bald man was that, despite the nickname, he wasn’t Scottish.They’d got up early, and Mac and a younger man Cass didn’t know had driven him to leafy Crouch Hill. Mac pulled the car over on the corner of a wide boulevard.‘First left. Number forty-five. He’s expecting you.’ Mac got out with Cass and gave him a nod and a wink and an envelope with what looked like at least a couple of grand in cash wedged inside.‘From Mr Mullins. To get you started.’Cass took it. He was in no position to be proud – the day for pride was long gone as far as Artie Mullins was concerned. He owed the man, and he owed him big. Between Mullins and Father Michael, Cass felt slightly overwhelmed. Both had helped him, and it was more than just giving him money, or a place to stay: more importantly, both believed in his innocence.
