Bad Blood by Mark Sennen Page A

returned. Hero’s welcome, razzmatazz and all.’
    The switch from professional to personal matters caught Savage off guard, but she knew Nesbit was prone to small talk in an effort to distract from the task in hand.
    â€˜Fine. Getting cabin fever from being ashore, but the kids love him being back. I am trying to persuade him to swallow the hook.’
    â€˜Hey?’
    â€˜Meaning to give up his command. A desk job would be better for the children and my stress levels.’
    â€˜Come on, Charlotte,’ Nesbit stopped wiping and turned to give her a quizzical look. ‘Pete giving up the sea would be like you giving up all this.’
    Nesbit returned his attention to the body and shoved the white probe of the thermometer between the man’s buttocks.
    Savage burst out laughing.
    Budgeon played the pressure-washer jet across the concrete floor of the barn. Full power, red water sluicing away in rivulets, specks of white bone gliding along them until they disappeared down the drain. As he worked, a distant ache inched its way across his forehead, all the time diminishing until the feeling became not much more than a mild irritation.
    It felt good. Fucking good.
    At last, things were in motion and he’d made a start. Wheels were turning, the freight train on the move. Nothing was going to stop him now. Nothing.
    The last of the fat bastard’s blood swirled around the drain cover, a gurgling echoing Frankie’s last sounds.
    Please, Ricky, please!
    He’d screamed plenty before the final words, blood spurting everywhere as he thrashed around like a fat, sloppy fish flapping on the riverbank. He’d talked too. Plenty. Facts and figures. Everything Budgeon needed to know about Big K’s business, from turnover to throughput. Budgeon had been impressed. Big K had quite an operation running and Budgeon’s South American friends would be keen to get some of the action.
    Payday.
    Budgeon tidied away the pressure washer and went inside. He’d recorded the local lunchtime news bulletin, and now, back in the house, he played the programme back on the big screen above the fireplace. He sat down on the sofa, cradled a glass of Scotch in his hand and sat back to watch the show.
    An establishing shot panned across the scene before the girlie reporter did her piece to camera. Behind her a sign read ‘Public Conveniences’ and the viewer’s eye was drawn over her shoulder, following in the sign’s direction to alight on the dank building in the background. You could almost smell the piss.
    Nice camerawork, he thought. The guy should win an award. Nice use of the words ‘toilets’ and ‘paedophile’ by the reporter too. And when they cut away to Lester Close and pictures of the little girl flashed up, Budgeon knew the stuff with Frankie had been genius. The message was clear, and there were those out there who would understand it all too well.
    You shall not steal; you shall not deal falsely; you shall not lie to one another.
    Lexi, Big K. They knew the code. And they knew the consequences if you broke it. The thief would lose his hand, the betrayer his life.
    He rubbed his forehead, aware of a slight discomfort, then he touched the remote, pausing the playback as the reporter began to hand back to the studio.
    He took another swig of his drink and swirled the liquid across his teeth before swallowing. The reporter stared out from the TV, smile frozen. She was a pretty one, for sure. A local girl made good, but she wouldn’t be around here for long. London calling and all that.
    London.
    Another home, and more memories.
    After prison, London had seemed the best place to start again. You were anonymous up there, nobody nosing into your affairs, no history to worry about. He’d done fine, made a lot of money. Enough to buy some investment property out in Spain and start to think about retiring to the sun. But then he’d been well and truly screwed and