Winter Falls by Sainsbury Ian W

Author:Sainsbury, Ian W [Sainsbury, Ian W]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B09J65PV5D
Publisher: Fuse Books
Published: 2021-10-09T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty

Winter watched the van from the monitor on his study desk. Locked inside, tied up, was little Tom Lewis, if it was really him. Still very much alive. Calling himself, and Winter shook his head in disbelief when he first heard it, Tom Brown. What kind of idiot kept the same first name in the witness protection programme?

And there was the problem. According to the paperwork and his fellow-workers, Tom Lewis really was an idiot, a classic idiot, the 'somewhere there's a village missing an idiot' variety of idiot. One or two sandwiches short of a picnic. Not the sharpest tool in the box. Lights on, but no one at home. Well, someone was at home, but that someone was an idiot. In short, the man cable-tied and moaning as Winter's men dragged him out of the van and marched him to the dungeon had, as the liberal elite would no doubt call it, severe learning difficulties.

Actually, Winter mused, the politically correct term was apt in this instance. Tom Lewis hadn't yet learned the consequences of crossing Robert Winter. But that omission could be remedied.

He pushed the intercom. "Penny."

"Sir?"

"Show Strickland straight in when he comes up. A pot of Darjeeling for me. Double espresso for my guest."

While he waited, Winter switched the view on the monitor to the dungeon. The tattooed gang leader didn't look happy under the harsh lights; pacing and mumbling, biting his nails. For someone who styled himself a stone-cold killer afraid of no one, it only took twenty-four hours of captivity to turn him into a whimpering child scuttling into the far corner every time the door opened. Amazing how quickly, and effectively, a permanently lit room broke someone. Disrupting the sleep cycle softened a subject up. Almost as effective as removing fingers and toes, though not as much fun.

Winter propped the study door open. Expecting Strickland to knock would have been disrespectful. If Strickland walked in without knocking, that, too, would have been a problem. The showing of respect in violent criminal organisations was, Winter mused, as useless and frustrating a habit as knowing which fork to use for pâté. If you were supposed to use a bloody fork at all. The only significant difference being that making an error in dining etiquette might provoke a raised eyebrow, whereas not asking after the daughter of one of the Glasgow Italian bosses resulted in your courier being sent back in little pieces.

Strickland walked in, stuck out his hand for a brief, firm handshake with two seconds of eye contact, then sat down opposite his old boss.

"Good to see you, John," Winter lied.

"You, too, Robert. You're looking well," came the insincere response.

In his army days, John Strickland had topped an unofficial sniper leaderboard. He showed a rare talent for killing. His job options once back in Britain proved limited.

Organised crime was not short of violent men and women. The trade attracted certain rage-fuelled dissenters who, if they didn't end up in prison first, joined organisations like Winter's hoping to channel their anger into a lucrative career.

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