An idiot. He’d been made to look an idiot.
Well he’d have his revenge. Rolly Thompson was a dead man walking. Assuming he took the usual route home from the pub.
His wiped his sweating palms on his jeans, felt his stomach knot and twist.
A swaying figure came into view. His fingers flexed on the knife handle, trying to get a comfortable grip as he prepared to launch himself out from behind the bushes.
Barry Halpin stared at the bathroom mirror. The man staring back looked defeated; pasty skin, black bags under bloodshot eyes.
Revenge had seemed a good idea with a skinful of beer and whisky chasers. It had lost its appeal the second he tasted the blood spurting from Rolly’s neck.
There was a crash downstairs, the cry of ‘Police!’ and the thump of heavy boots on stairs.
An idiot. He’d been a bloody idiot.