Free Revenger by Tom Cain

about the place – helps persuade the masses that they need a short, sharp shock. On the other hand, if he really wants to persuade the rest of us that he’s basically a decent, reasonable chap, he hardly wants to be associated with louts and skinheads.’ He turned back to the rest of the room with raised, inquisitive eyebrows. ‘You didn’t plant them, did you, Grantham?’
    ‘If I did, would you really want me to tell you?’
    Strictly speaking, Jack Grantham had no professional interest in events on UK soil. Those were the preserve of the police and MI5. That was the very reason Young had approached him for, as he put it, ‘A special consultative role, reporting solely to me and thus to the Prime Minister.’
    Young was determined to use any methods necessary to stamp out Mark Adams and his new party before they became an even more serious threat to the established political order. That task required someone who had no direct ties to domestic law-enforcement; someone who understood that there were times when a problem was so serious that unconventional methods were required – the kind of methods that could never and would never be discussed in public. Grantham fitted the bill perfectly.
    For his part, Grantham’s unrelenting ambition would be satisfied by even closer access to Number 10 and the promise of an accelerated knighthood. His greed, a relatively minor vice in his case, was covered by the assurance of a significant performance bonus on completion of his task. Meanwhile – and this was an essential consideration for a man who loved intrigue, but was very easily bored – his interest and curiosity were piqued by the lengths to which the government was prepared to go to discredit and destroy a political opponent.
    With Grantham already in the bag, Young just had his traditional enemies to worry about.
    ‘Anything you’d like to add, Brian?’ Young asked.
    Brian Smallbone, Young’s opposite number as political advisor to the Leader of the Opposition, shook his head. ‘Not at the moment, no. It all seems to be going well enough. Let’s just enjoy the show.’

13
    THERE WERE TIMES when Paula Miklosko wondered why she’d ever bothered getting married or working for a living. It wasn’t that she regretted committing herself to her husband Marek. True, they couldn’t have come from much more different backgrounds: she was a half-Ghanaian, half-Welsh Baptist; he was a Czech Catholic. But they loved each other as much now as the day they’d met six years ago, and that was all Paula cared about. She wanted him, and was longing for the day when they could afford to start a family together.
    In the meantime, she had something she’d always dreamed of: a little hairdressing salon of her own. She’d saved up since she left college to put down the deposit. Marek and his pals had done a great job gutting the old interior and giving it a whole new look. If she was given even half a chance, she knew she had the talent, the energy and the determination to make a real go of it.
    So far, trade was holding up all right. Even in times of hardship, women still wanted their hair to look nice. But they couldn’t pay as much for it as they’d done a few years ago, and the tips were pitiful. Meanwhile , prices and taxes just kept rising all the time, and even when Marek and his crew charged rock-bottom rates they still found it hard getting building or decorating work.
    After years of apparent immunity from the general decline of the British property market, London prices had collapsed in recent months. All the wealthy foreigners were leaving town, and banks had finally stopped paying bonuses. Without all that silly money the price-bubble had burst. Nobody was moving house. Nobody could afford to tart up the houses they’d got. Even if they could, what was the point? Areas that had once been promoted as up-and-coming were now little better than warzones. Even the respectable, desirable parts of the city were overrun