My voice grew harder. “How did this Doyle contact you? Does he work for the Gilligans?”
Ronald lifted his head. “I don’t know.”
He must be lying. “You expect me to believe you took orders off someone you don’t even know?”
“If the price is right, yeah, I do.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Someone paid you to set that bomb?”
“Like I said, I didn’t know it was a bomb.”
I gritted my teeth. This fucker.
“And how much was my father’s life worth?” I growled.
He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Ten grand.”
“Ten grand,” I spat the words. “Is that all?”
He didn’t seem to know what to say about that. That a man like Marlon Wynter had been taken out for the sake of ten grand would be laughable if it wasn’t so fucking tragic.
I leaned down to speak in a low tone, ensuring he could hear me. “I’d have paid you ten times that if you’d come to me with that information and I’d have let you live.”
Who was this man, Doyle? Was he linked to the Gilligans? By removing themselves from the order, were they protecting themselves? It didn’t matter to me. Deep down, I knew they were responsible.
“What does Doyle look like?”
“I dunno. He was just a man. White, dark hair, about six foot. Nothing memorable.”
“How did he contact you? Is his number on your phone?”
I’d already taken Ronald’s mobile off him. I had people who could open it.
“I deleted everything,” Ronald said. “You won’t find any numbers or messages on there.”
My father had a friend in the Met police. I didn’t know how easy it was to recover things that were already deleted, but I was determined to try. If they were able to get the phone to digital forensics, I might be able to get the number of this mysterious Doyle.
I looked to the two men—Smith and Bateman. “I’m done here,” I told them. “Finish things off.”
They knew what was needed.
I turned and walked across the roof to where the lift and stairwell were built into a small extension.
Behind me, Ronald screamed for help, drumming his feet, bucking the chair backwards and forwards. If he wasn’t careful, he’d knock himself off the roof. I wouldn’t be able to put it down to being an accident. The police wouldn’t class it as one with a knife wound in the back of his hand and his arms taped to the chair.
I caught the lift down to the ground floor, ignoring the shouts for help and the subsequent thuds of fists striking flesh.
I needed to drink, and I needed to fuck.
My blood scorched through my veins, and adrenaline pumped my heart. Maybe I should have finished things with Ronald myself instead of leaving it in the hands of my father’s men—my men now.
But this was London, and there was always somewhere open. I’d be able to get a drink, and, looking how I did, it wouldn’t be hard to catch the eye of some gorgeous, scantily clad girl who’d happily spread her legs for me. I glanced down at the white cuff of my shirt peeping from beneath my dark suit jacket. Droplets of blood marred the white material.
Fuck. I knew I should have worn black.
It wasn’t so long ago that I wouldn’t be seen dead in this kind of getup. I’d much rather have been dressed in a leather jacket and ripped jeans. But I was the head of the company now, and it was important I looked the part. The people we did business with wanted to deal with a man, not with someone who had the appearance of a thug
There was nothing I could do about the blood now. I’d have to wait until I got into a club and put some cold water on it—always cold on blood, never hot as it set it into the fabric. That was something I’d learned before I’d even become a man.