Free Thunder in the Blood by Graham Hurley

gazing out of the window, his long, pale face quite blank.
    ‘Agreed,’ he said.
    ‘He’s working for Six, and for us as well. You probably know that already.’ I paused, half-expecting a response, but Priddy didn’t say a word. ‘He’s frightened.’ I said, ‘His business is collapsing and his marriage as well. In the office, they’d say that made him dangerous.’
    Priddy frowned. ‘Dangerous?’ he murmured.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You mean that?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Dangerous to whom?’ He looked at me for the first time, the beginnings of a half-smile playing on his face. ‘Well?’ he said finally.
    ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘That’s why I need a little help.’
    We went to his flat, a big, sunny apartment with tall, handsome rooms and some exquisite furniture. I stood at the window in the sitting room, looking out, while Priddy made coffee in the kitchen. When he returned, he was carrying a cafetière and two cups on a tray.
    I nodded at the big overmantel, the detail beautifully picked out, daring shades of green, wholly successful. ‘Who’s the interior decorator?’ I said. ‘Your wife?’
    Priddy nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘as it happens.’
    ‘Is she up here a lot?’
    ‘Often enough.’
    He sat down on the sofa and began to pour the coffee, and Iwondered how long it would be before he got to the point. He’d spent most of the meal examining me through half-closed eyes, letting me prattle on while he explored the possibilities. I hadn’t the slightest intention of going to bed with him, but I was uncertain how I’d handle saying no. He glanced up, holding out my coffee. Thin, bone-china cups. Not cheap.
    ‘Customs and Excise,’ he said abruptly. ‘Tell me about Customs and Excise.’
    I gazed at him. It wasn’t at all what I’d expected. ‘I don’t know about Customs,’ I said. ‘Should I?’
    He looked at me a moment, speculative. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘I think you should.’ He paused. ‘Working for that busy Mr Stollmann.’
    I blinked. ‘You know Stollmann?’
    ‘Of him. Not personally.’
    ‘I see.’ I paused, looking up. ‘So what do you want to know? Specifically?’
    ‘About Alloway. What the Customs people make of him. Where he fits in that little world of theirs.’ He paused again. ‘Can do?’
    I nodded, automatic assent. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘of course.’
    ‘Good.’
    He finished his coffee and glanced at his watch, and for the first time I realized quite how cleverly he’d played the last hour and a half. I’d agreed to meet him in order to bend his arm. Instead, without any great effort, he’d bent mine. I swallowed the last of the coffee and put the cup on the tray.
    ‘A steer on the DTI codes would be a help,’ I said.
    Priddy glanced up at me, and nodded. ‘I’m sure,’ he said. ‘Give me a ring.’
    He got up and straightened his tie. Half-way to the door, he paused in front of the mirror in the overmantel, checking his appearance and running a hand over the back of his head.
    ‘You like the place?’ he said. ‘Approve?’
    ‘Yes, it’s very nice.’
    ‘Good.’ His eyes met mine in the mirror. ‘Then you’ll know where to come next time.’

5
    In one of the cardboard boxes on my bedroom floor is an audio cassette. In Wesley’s scrawl, it’s labelled ‘Bollocking, Derek, 17 September 1987’. On the cassette is a complete record of an exchange between Wesley and Derek Aldridge at the point when Wesley was out of hospital and on the mend, and well enough to realize what had happened to his precious dope-smuggling exposé. I’m including bits of it here, not because the story itself is especially significant (it isn’t), but because the conversation launched Wesley on the path that led to Geneva and to the revelations that begin this book. It’s also, more importantly, the authentic sound of the man in action. At full throttle, as I later realized, Wesley Keogh could be a terrifying spectacle.
    The tape begins with Wesley