Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

39

“ ’ello, dear.”

“Waddy!” Sandy’s voice came through the mobile loud and clear, from a mountaintop in Wales all the way to America’s godforsaken flatland, and put a pang in his chest. He tried to call every day when he was away for work. It was tougher years back before mobiles and sat phones, but now he was fairly religious about it.

“How are ya?” he asked.

“We’re all fine up here. Nobby’s doing a little better with the kidney medication.”

“Good news, that,” Dwyer said. Nobby was their shepherd, named after the legendary footballer. The shep had a hell of a bark, and unlike the saying, his bite was worse. Dwyer worried about his Sandy when he was away, both because of the enemies he’d collected, and run-of-the-mill arseholes, though she was plenty handy with the iron. He’d made sure of that when they’d first gotten married twenty-four years ago, and he occasionally made her go out and practice. She could fire tight, three-shot bursts while walking with an MP5, but her real skill was with a handgun. She was a cracking good shot with a SIG 9mm.

“You putting the alarm on nights?” he asked.

“Of course, dear.”

“Locking the gates?”

“Of course, dear.”

“The cameras up?”

“They are. Just how you left ’em,” Sandy said. “Any idea when you’ll be home?”

“Not quite yet,” he said. “Soon as I can though …”

Dwyer felt relaxed after he rang off, like he could go to sleep straightaway. Of course he couldn’t and wasn’t going to. Instead, he nosed the Lincoln into a spot in the big parking barn, slapped a cap on his head to look the part of an American punter, and headed inside.