Sleaford Noir 1 Read online

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  However, McTeague took advantage of my enforced absence by sending me to have a word with Finnigan. I tracked the old ex-Provo bomber to his lair in Antwerp after spending too long looking for him in his old stamping grounds around Rotterdam's Europoort area. That is a story in itself; but one for another time.

  I found him with his Thai mail order bride – well, who else would look at a man with Finnigan's face? – in a coffee shop overlooking the medieval cathedral. I explained that it would be far better for him to cut ties with Wheelan and resume business with McTeague. Of course, Finnigan protested that he was protected by the Romanian.

  Taking my time, I looked around the coffee shop and told him that I couldn't see any Romanians in here but I was sitting opposite with a razor sharp Gerber combat knife strapped to my thigh and a Honda Fireblade superbike capable of hitting one hundred and fifty miles per hour within quarter of a mile's distance parked outside for my getaway.

  "Not in these streets it's not doing one hundred and fifty," Finnigan said with a smile. But that was bravado and nothing else. Both of us knew I'd found him once and I could find him again. Did he still feel so protected now? Finnigan got the message loud and clear and said he'd cut off Wheelan's supply routes.

  I later found out that the old fox played off both ends against each other and supplied both men. I can't say I blame him.