Collusion by Stuart Neville

himself to finish his pint before leaving. He phoned Roscoe Patterson to see if he had anything on tonight.
    Less than thirty minutes took Lennon to the apartment block overlooking Carrickfergus Marina. Roscoe said nothing when he opened the door to the penthouse flat, and Lennon followed him through the entrance hall to the living room. The shaven-headed, bull-shouldered man took a seat and resumed his computer game. His thick fingers moved over the controller with a curious grace. Uniformed soldiers died under a hail of gunfire on the massive plasma screen, the shiny new Playstation 3 whirring in the cabinet beneath it.
    ‘Sit down,’ Roscoe said. ‘She’s got a punter in. He’ll not be long.’ His face creased in an absent-minded grin. ‘They never are.’
    Lennon lowered himself into the leather sofa facing Roscoe. The floor resonated as the surround-sound system’s woofer made the most of the game’s explosions.
    ‘The neighbours don’t complain about the noise?’ Lennon asked.
    Roscoe winked. ‘Just the once,’ he said. ‘There’s only a couple here during the week, anyway. The rest is holiday lets or weekend places.’
    Lennon shifted, trying to get comfortable as his jeans slid across the leather.
    ‘I heard you lifted Dandy Andy,’ Roscoe said as he blew someone’s head off.
    ‘That’s right,’ Lennon said.
    ‘Good job,’ Roscoe said. ‘He’s a cunt. Will he do time?’
    ‘A little. Not much.’
    Roscoe shrugged. ‘Better than nothing,’ he said.
    Lennon watched the blurred tattoos on Roscoe’s forearms flex and ripple as he worked the controller. ‘You know what Rankin’s gripe with Crozier was?’
    ‘Don’t be asking me that,’ Roscoe said. ‘I’m not touting for you.’
    ‘I heard Crozier was palling up with the Lithuanians,’ Lennon said. ‘He was filling the gap Michael McKenna left when he got his brains blown out. He was supplying the muscle while they supplied the girls. He was letting them set up their own places on McKenna’s old turf.’
    ‘Know nothing about it,’ Roscoe said. ‘Ah, fuck! Look, I got shot now ’cause of you.’
    ‘So you and your boys are okay with Crozier doing business with the Liths?’ Lennon asked. ‘You know they pay dues to the Republicans, don’t you? Crozier’s putting money in their pockets.’
    ‘Dirty business, that,’ Patterson said. ‘Them Liths are trafficking girls in from all over the fucking place, Russia, Ukraine, all them auld shitty holes. Keeping them doped up so they can have them doing punters for fuck all money. Slaves, like. I don’t hold with that. I deal in quality, not quantity. You pay a bit more, but you know the girl’s there of her own free will, and she’s getting her fair share of the money. And she’ll be so clean she’ll squeak when you stick it to her.’
    You’re a prince among pimps,’ Lennon said.
    Roscoe grinned. ‘I should put that on my business cards. Anyway, so long as I’m turning a pound, Crozier can give the Liths free blowjobs for all I care. And the taigs. No offence, like. Now, either change the subject or fuck off.’
    ‘Fair enough,’ Lennon said. ‘Who’ve you got on tonight?’
    ‘Debbie,’ Roscoe said.
    ‘Debbie?’
    ‘Edinburgh Uni. She’s doing her Master’s in commercial law, she tells me. Whatever the fuck that means. I normally just bring her over on weekends, but she’s got some bills to pay. Fucking lovely wee thing, she is. You’ll like her.’
    A door opened in the entrance hall, and Lennon heard the rustling of clothes. The shadow of a man, his head bowed, passed the door.
    ‘Everything all right?’ Roscoe called.
    ‘Yes, thank you,’ a small voice replied.
    ‘Dead on,’ Roscoe said. ‘You can let yourself out.’
    The apartment door opened and closed.
    ‘Give her a minute to clean up,’ Roscoe said.
    You boys talk amongst yourselves,’ Lennon said. ‘About what’s going on. Who’s doing what to who, that sort of thing.’
    Aye,’ Roscoe