Chapter Sixteen Razor #2
She turned back to me. “Then this is your opportunity to tell us what happened. In your words. And let me be clear, if you lie to me, I will still defend you. But I will not be ambushed by the prosecution because you tested my patience. Is that understood?”
My jaw tightened. “Yeah.”
She studied me for a moment longer. “Then start at the beginning.”
I stared at the table for a moment. At the grain in the wood. At my hands resting there. Scarred, blemished, familiar. Hands that had done things I didn’t pretend were clean. I’d been sticking to no comment for so long, it felt strange to get the chance to speak.
“I got a call early doors.” I looked up. “From my boss.”
“Your boss?” She peered at me over the rim of her glasses.
Right. No half-truths. “Cormac O’Rourke.”
She nodded once. “All right. Continue.”
“He asked me to do a drop. That was the first thing that felt off.”
“Why?”
“I don’t handle goods anymore.” I paused, choosing my words. “I’d moved up. Handling gear wasn’t my job.”
“What was?”
I glanced at Tristan without meaning to. His eyes were on the notes he’d written.
Imogen’s voice cut in, calm but firm. “Mr Slade, remember this conversation is privileged. Everything you say here is for your defence. Nothing leaves this room.”
I wasn’t bothered about the people outside this room hearing. Most of the people outside probably already knew it anyway. It was saying it in front of Tristan. Of laying it bear. Telling him who he’d had in his bed.
“I ran things.”
Silence. They all looked at me waiting.
I sighed. “Lines. Clubs. People. Movement. Who goes where. What goes where. When. Who gets paid. Who don’t. Or won’t. Who needs reminding.”
Imogen peered up over her notes. “Enforcement?”
“Yeah. That too.” I gave a short nod. “If something slipped… I fixed it.”
“How?”
I held her gaze. “Depends what needed fixing.” I shrugged. “Sometimes it’s a conversation.” I flexed my fingers on my knee, feeling the old scars stretch. “Sometimes it ain’t.”
I realised then, as I laid out all the bad shit I’d been doing for years without flinching, that this was where they decided how hard they were willing to fight for me.
If I was even worth all the hassle. But the biggest sledgehammer to my skull right then was how I finally got what Tristan had meant.
That no random brief would fight for men like me in a case like this.
I’d get represented, sure. Like the last lot.
But fight? Risk anything? Stick their neck out? Nah. I weren’t worth fighting for.
Unless they thought I was.
Unless…they cared.
Not about winning or the outcome. But about me.
I peeked at Tristan then and my heart clenched.
“And where were you when that call came in?” Imogen glanced up from her notes.
Shit.
Didn’t see that one coming.
And after what had just clicked into place, there was no way I was dragging Tristan any deeper into this than I already had. Every instinct I’d ever learned—street, survival, self-preservation—kicked in at once.
Don’t answer.
Say nothing.
No comment.
But Tristan spoke anyway. “With me.”
Mercer stilled beside me. Imogen leant back in her chair, eyes on Tristan, tapping her pen on the file before she set it down.
“I declared the relationship.” Tristan stared her down, unflinching.
“You declared a prior relationship, yes.” She closed her eyes. “You did not declare that he left your bed and was arrested the same day.”
“I said it had ended. Which it had.”
I glanced down at the table, unsure what the fuck to say or even feel about that. Tried not to feel anything at all.
Imogen pinched the bridge of her nose. “That’s not the question.” She rubbed a hand over her forehead, collecting herself, then looked between us.
“It shouldn’t matter,” Tristan said. “It’s irrelevant to the charge.”
“You of all people should know that it does matter. It matters to management. To risk. And it matters because if this comes out the wrong way, it won’t be the Crown using it first.” She turned to me then. “Thank you for not answering, Mr Slade.”
I wasn’t sure if you’re welcome was wanted there. So I stuck with no comment.
She turned back to Tristan. “You should have told me.”
“I told you what was necessary.”
“Then I’m telling you what’s necessary now: do not gloss over important details I need to know again.” Imogen pointed a warning finger at him. “This does not disqualify you, nor does it change our instructions. But it does mean we ring-fence this information completely.”
Mercer nodded, making a note.
Imogen looked among the three of us, one at a time. “No one else needs to know this. It is irrelevant to the offence unless one of you makes it relevant. Do you understand me?”
Tristan scrubbed a hand down his face. “The prosecution will ask, though.”
“They probably will.” Imogen circled a line on her pad with her pen.
“And we will respond that it is irrelevant where Mr Slade was, that he is entitled to privacy, that the person he was with is entitled to privacy, and that compelling disclosure would be disproportionate and contrary to his Article 8 rights.”
Tristan nodded once.
“Good. Then we proceed.” She glanced down at her notes. “So, you received a call at an undeclared location and were asked to do a drop.”
“Yeah. I told him to get someone else. He insisted.”
“Why?”
I hesitated. Then answered honestly. “Because he knew I was backing away. It was a test. Of loyalty. He wanted to see if I’d still jump when he said jump, even when it wasn’t my job to jump anymore and I knew something was off.”
“And how did he persuade you?”
“Same way he always does.” I folded my arms. “He dangled what I wanted, offered me a reward for being a good little foot soldier.”
“What type of reward?”
“My freedom.”
No one in this room missed the irony of how that turned out.
Imogen sighed. “So you attended the drop?”
“I went to the location, but I went clean. Took an empty bag. I half-expected it to be Cormac himself, to be honest. Or for him to be recording it. I thought the whole thing was a setup to scare me back into line.”
“Did you expect police intervention?”
“No. I had a hunch, but I figured if it happened, I’d be out within twenty-four hours. No product. No evidence. Why I did it like that.” I paused. “Except—”
“Except the Crown relied on intelligence-led evidence to keep you in custody,” Imogen finished.
“Yeah. Which means the intelligence could only have come from Cormac.”
She wrote that down. “And what can you tell me about Kyan Gibbon’s death?”
Heat crept up my spine. I shifted in my seat, suddenly wishing I hadn’t layered up. “It weren’t me, but it wasn’t random either. He either knew too much, said the wrong thing, or he was expendable collateral meant to scare me.”
“Did you see it happen?”
“No.”
“Did you order it?”
“No.”
“Did Cormac?”
I paused. “I didn’t hear the order. Nor did I see it delivered. But yeah.”
Imogen held my gaze, making sure I meant it. Then struck the match. “Your DNA has been found in the warehouse. And prints.”
“Yeah. They would be. I was there, sure. But it was done before I arrived. Like I said, he was used to scare me, get me back in line.”
Imogen wrote that down. “So who else was involved?”
“Cormac has a right-hand man. Niall Doyle. He handles the jobs that need burying. Keeps everyone compliant. He did Kyan. On Cormac’s orders.”
“Any witnesses?”
“One. Tyler Morgan.”
Imogen looked up. “Who’s Tyler?”
“My second. He ran things when I was…” I shifted, cracked my neck. “Unavailable one weekend. He got called to a warehouse in Battersea by Cormac. Walked in on Kyan already dead. Then I was told to give the same message to Tyler.”
“What message?”
“That he didn’t run anything without me. That he remembered who he answered to.”
“And did you deliver that message?”
I swallowed. Hated that I had to say it. “Yeah. Enough.” I glanced down at my hands. They were shaking unlike when I’d delivered that message to Tyler.
She wrote Tyler’s name down. “And have you spoken to him since?”
“No.”
“Could he be a witness for the defence?”
I shook my head. “No. He’ll be terrified. He’ll say whatever Cormac wants him to.”
And that was when it hit.
Like a blade slipping between my ribs.
My so-called mercy, bleeding heart, as Tyler used to sneer, had meant the only man in that warehouse with a voice would end up using it against me.
Because I’d beaten him blue. It wouldn’t matter to him that I stopped short of killing him.
That I dragged him to the hospital. That I shoved a wad of cash into his girlfriend’s shaking hands and made sure he got home breathing.
None of that counted.
All that would count was fear. And the man who controlled it. And that one choice, sparing him, was coming back to finish the job for Cormac. I thought I was being different. Better. Turns out I’d been careless. Tyler had warned me. Said my leniency would come back on me. It was biting now.
Hard.
Tristan blinked as if only catching up. “So…just to clarify. You’re not guilty.”
I turned to him. “No. Not on those charges, no. You knew that.”
“And that’s how you’d like to plead?”
“Yeah.”
He looked away, tension rolling off him in waves. As if part of him had braced for a different answer. Or afraid of what this one meant. I wanted to reach out. Touch his hand. But I kept mine flat on my thighs and said nothing.
Imogen didn’t miss it.
“Right.” She closed her folder. “This is what happens next. The Crown Court will list a Plea and Trial Preparation Hearing. That’s where a formal not guilty plea will be entered.
After that, we’ll get disclosure. We’ll see what the prosecution actually has and, more importantly, what they don’t.
” She looked at me squarely. “Until then, you comply with every bail condition. No improvisation. No heroics. You speak to no one about this case except us. If anything changes, you tell us immediately.”
I nodded.
“We’ll be in contact.” She stood. “This meeting stays in this room. Tristan will see you out.”
Mercer gathered the papers. Chairs shifted. The moment was over.
Tristan rose, and I followed him. We moved through the corridors side by side, close enough that I could feel him without touching him. The air between us was heavy, charged. At reception, I slowed enough to let my fingers brush his hand.
“Hey.” I leant in, voice low. “You okay?”
For a heartbeat, he didn’t answer. Then he curled his hand into a fist and stepped away, the contact gone as if it had never happened.
“I’m fine.” He rubbed that hand over his forehead. “There’s… a lot to get through.”
“Yeah.” I angled my head. “Sorry about the whole where-were-you thing.”
“It was always going to come out. I should’ve seen it coming.”
We stopped at the exit. And for a second, he looked at me. Properly. From the worn trainers to the borrowed cardigan, gaze lingering. Then, as if he couldn’t help it, he tugged the lapel of my knitwear.
“You look good in this.”
I arched a brow. “Yeah? You into tough men in cardigans now?”
His mouth curved. “I’m into you in cardigans.” He tipped his head, brushed my chest as if he’d found lint that wasn’t there. “You look… homely.”
Homely.
That word did stupid things to my chest.
God, I wanted to kiss him. Pull him into me. Take his hand and walk out of there as if we belonged to each other. I wanted to show him who I could be. Who I was trying to become. That there was something after this mess—even if I didn’t fully believe it yet.
Then I saw the falter behind his eyes. Fear wearing a tailored suit and calling itself control. Pressure sitting under the skin. Threats had a look to them. You learnt that fast in my world.
I put my lips to his ear. “Call Lennon.”
He blinked. “Sorry?”
“If you need me. Or anyone.” I dipped back to hold his gaze. “Call Lennon.”
His shoulders sagged, as if something in him finally gave. “I can’t.”
I nodded. Didn’t push. But the words lodged deep.
‘I can’t’, wasn’t, ‘I don’t want to’ or ‘I don’t need to’.
Which meant there was someone behind him.
I turned to go, then stopped. Turned back.
It didn’t matter how big I was. Or the reputation that used to clear pavements.
None of that meant a fucking thing right now.
Not when he was a sitting duck. I could already see the hook in him.
I hated that more than anything. Hated that everything I’d done was to protect those I loved, and I couldn’t do it now.
Fuck. It hit me. Loved.
Bollocks.
I dipped down to catch his eye, lowering my voice so only he could hear. “Think of the lake.”
Tristan frowned. “What?”
“Remember that I jump in. No matter the danger. For you, I’ll jump right in.”
I hope he got the rest. Read between the lines or whatever. The part I didn’t say. About what happens when someone puts their hands on what I care about. And yeah, maybe it was inappropriate. Given where I was standing. What I was accused of. But I needed to give him something.
A line back to me.
A reminder that he wasn’t alone.
Proof that he was mine.
His hand twitched. Once. As if he wanted to reach out.
He didn’t.