HARRY DEWHURST LOOKED very prosperous. He even had the paunch to prove it. But he still had the mean eyes of a man who’d made his money off the back of others’ suffering.
‘What can I do for you gentlemen,’ he said as he handed back their carefully scrutinised warrant cards and leaned back against his padded chair.
‘Joey Briggs. Remember him?’
‘Joey Briggs?’
‘Surely you remember him. About five foot ten, skinny, single tattoo. J loves L.’
‘Yes, now you’ve reminded me, I do remember him. I haven’t seen him for must be five, six years. Why? What’s he done?’
‘He’s gone and got himself murdered.’
‘Careless of him.’ Dewhurst looked blandly back at them. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. But as I said, I haven’t seen Joey for a long time.’ His mouth developed a slight sneer. ‘He was always a bit of
