An ambulance was called, but it arrived at the stadium too late to do anything for Max Linley. He made an undignified corpse, with his back arched and his eyes wide in an expression of horror – not to mention the foam around his gaping mouth. An ugly death.

Rochelle swiftly shepherded the partners into an adjoining room. It had not even occurred to her that David's instruction about the vial in his desk might have been a direct cause of poor, sweet Max's death. She was in shock, of course. Her hands were shaking.

But David – old-fashioned, loyal David – stayed with his friend and confidant until the bitter end. He watched as Max Linley – along with all his dreams and ambitions – slowly died.

When it was finally over, and the paramedics had covered Max with a sheet, David re-joined the partners in the other room.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, gentlemen. But hopefully it provides you with an idea of our set-up here. Mile End is mine. And it always will be. I hope you understand." He spoke calmly, but all the same there was an inescapable edge to his voice that defied them to disagree with him. Individually, each one of these men could annihilate him from the face of the earth. But he knew they would never dare. From that moment onward, he was invincible. He could pin the whole mess on Max – maybe even make out he'd colluded with George McMinn. Which, for all he knew, might be the fucking truth. None of it mattered. With this sweeping display of power, he had convinced them all that he was back on top.

After all, you're only the boss as long as people believe you're the boss.

"Incidentally," he went on, "this unfortunate incident means that Max Linley will need to be replaced. I'd like to propose my son, Wayne, as a candidate."

The partners exchanged more glances and hushed murmurs.

"And who are the other candidates?" somebody asked.

"There are no other candidates."

"In that case, the motion is approved."

Far from casting a pall over the meeting, the death of Max Linley had in fact created a sense of jubilation among the partners. It had been a long time since some of them had scented blood, and they missed it.

"Good," said David. "And I hope you'll continue to bear with me while the debt owed to you by the club is settled. I'm afraid that was the result of certain activities with which I was not directly involved. I don't suppose I need to tell you who was responsible for the financial mismanagement which has left you out of pocket. But you can rely on me."

"We know that, David."

And from that point onward, the meeting was like a convivial reunion between old friends. They reminisced about old times, mutual acquaintances now long-dead, and long-ago trials and triumphs. David Carter had them in the palm of his hand.

"There's something else I ought to mention," David said. All eyes were on him, and a hush fell. "It's a proposal I'd like to make. We all know that this business with the Popovs has become embarrassing and messy. It's caused a lot of unnecessary deaths and violence. So I'm proposing we put an end to it once and for all. A truce, a bargain, a compromise – whatever you want to call it."

"The Russians have deep pockets," Hu Lin observed. "A truce may be the answer here. Have you broached it with Popov?"

"Not yet." David Carter smiled. "I wouldn't do something like that without the approval of the partners."

"Then you have it. But I hope you know what you're doing."

"I do," David assured them. "And of course – I know I don't need to tell any of you this – I'm willing to do whatever it takes to guarantee a positive outcome. Failure is unacceptable, and anyone who gets in my way... well, let's just say that what happened to Max could very easily happen again."

If this was intended as a veiled threat, it was not taken as such by the partners. They saw it as good old David Carter proving himself first among equals once again.

*

As he stood across the street peering at his mother's house, Wayne could not help but remember the opportunity he had missed at the Linley house. How he could have told Chloe everything then and there, and maybe even saved her life. He couldn't let anything like that happen again. Which was why – maybe – the murder of Inspector Edwards was a blessing in disguise. If Edwards had followed him to his mother's place, there was no way he could have kept it a secret from his father. And then who knew what kind of mayhem would have been unleashed?

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Once again, the Popovs had saved his skin. This couldn't go on forever, could it?

Chewing his lip, he crossed over the road and rang the doorbell.

*

One of Yuri Popov's hobbies was cooking. He was quite the gourmet, in fact. In the kitchen of Mikhail Popov's luxury home, he was in the process of grilling some veal cutlets when Mikhail himself appeared in the doorway. Mikhail was an old-fashioned sort of patriarch who did not venture into the kitchen if he could help it, so his presence was a surprise. He was wearing a silk smoking jacket – another concession to his inimitably old-school approach to life.

"Yuri," he said sharply. It was not often that he spoke to his favourite son that way, so Yuri knew he was in trouble.

"Yes, pa?"

"The television news is saying that a man has been killed at a railway station. A policeman. A suspected suicide. His body hung from a bridge across the Thames."

"Terrible," answered Yuri.

"They found a suicide note in his pocket. Edwards is the dead man's name. One of Carter's. Why did you do this, Yuri? I thought you were smarter than that."

Yuri did not bother to deny it. "Edwards was planning to blackmail Wayne Carter. He had been following him for some time, keeping him under surveillance. He was going to threaten to expose Wayne's betrayal of his father."

"And what concern is that of yours?"

Yuri's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, what do we owe Wayne Carter?"

"I don't understand."

That was the moment Stanislaw came into the kitchen from the sprawling green garden. He had been enjoying a kickabout with his nephews, but all the sex, drugs and rock & roll over the years had sapped his energy. He needed to sit down. He came in and slumped at the table, grinning broadly. He did not care that had just walked into the middle of a highly sensitive conversation.

"What I am saying," Mikhail continued, "is that as an asset Wayne Carter has outlasted his usefulness. He served a purpose for a while. But now he has nothing new to offer."

Yuri hung his head. "I'm sorry, pa. I didn't know."

Mikhail came over and hugged him. "It's alright. I forgive you."

Stanislaw watched all this and reflected that if he had fucked up like that, forgiveness would not have been so forthcoming.

*

She was just as Wayne remembered her. It was as if the intervening years had melted away all at once, and he was just a kid again. They both cried and hugged each other tight. She ushered him into her living room, as though afraid that they might be spotted by an interloper.

"Oh Wayne," she said, "my lovely boy. Just as handsome as ever."

"I missed you," Wayne said.

"I missed you too, darling. I tried everything I could to come and see you, but he wouldn't have it. Same with your sister. How is she?"

"She's alright. She married that Jason bloke."

"I’ve heard about him. Read about him online, you know. He sounds like your father. And you know how I feel about your father."

"Yeah," Wayne agreed, "he wants the top job. That's the only reason he sticks around."

His mother made them tea, which she served on the glass coffee table. "How did you find me? I always assumed your dad poisoned you against me. Made you think I was some kind of monster."

"He tried. But I always knew at the back of my mind the way things really were. It just took me a while to acknowledge it. It doesn't matter how I found you. What matters is that I did."

"True enough," she said and kissed him on the forehead.

"It's all falling apart, mum," he said. "I don't know what to do."

"Oh, sweetheart. Tell me all about it."

So he did. From beginning to end, he gave her the story. Commencing with the rift between the Carter and Popov organisations, his injury, Silvertown, the murders of Rob Linley, Chloe Linley, Ronnie Vincent, George McMinn...

She listened with an impassive expression, but he could tell that she was utterly horrified by each new revelation. And rightly so. It had all gone so wrong. Whatever moral compass he had once had, his father had done everything in his power to corrupt and compromise it. Wayne was his father's son; there was no getting away from it.

But it wasn't too late.

"There's still a chance, Wayne,” his mother began once he was done. “You could always go to the police. Face up to what your father's done – and your part in it. Come clean. You might have to do a little time, but I doubt it. If you helped them to bring down your father then I reckon you could get immunity for yourself. You've got the money for a good lawyer, haven't you?"

Wayne, however, shook his head. "I’m not good with money. Never had to be, did I?"

"Well..." his mother sighed. "In that case, maybe it's for the best. Sever all ties, give it all up. So you'll go to prison for a short while. But a jury will take into account the fact you came forward in the end. Your father was the one in control. He bullied you, threatened you. Made you take part in all those awful things."

"Dad would kill me if I even thought about it."

"Don’t say stuff like that. You're mine again now, aren't you? And you've always been my son. I'll do anything for you."

There was something in her eyes that made Wayne believe it. That was the only part of her which had changed: her eyes. They seemed colder now. Harder. They were a reflection of the hardships she had gone through since David Carter kicked her to the kerb. After all, he had turned her into an invisible woman. He had erased her.

There was a long silence, but it was not an uncomfortable one. Rather, it was a moment of tranquillity after all the turmoil. Wayne felt as though a fog was clearing. There might just be a way out after all.