“This is a bit different to the other police stations.”
Michael took a chair across the table from him. “How many police stations have you been in, exactly?”
Foster fidgeted in his seat and looked down at his hands. “One, but it was nothing like this.”
Frank sat next to Michael. He set a brown folder on the table in front of him but didn’t open it. Michael knew what was in there: crime scene photos, just in case Foster needed a little prompting. Hopefully they wouldn’t have to use them.
“So,” Frank began. “You have something to tell us?”
Foster fidgeted some more. “I texted him that night.”
“What night?”
“The Friday night he was killed… the twenty-fourth.”
Michael refrained from saying he was actually killed on the Saturday morning. Instead, he said, “We know you texted him; we saw the phone records. You called him too. We just don’t know what you talked about.”
“I told him to meet me after the fight.”
Both Michael and Frank stared at him. “Were you at the fight?” Frank asked.
“Yeah. I knew he was supposed to go down in the second round. He’d told me earlier. But he said he wasn’t going to. He knew he’d lose—no one beats the Assassin these days—but it’s in what round you go down that counts.”
“And the two of you came up with a different plan?” Michael guessed.
Foster let out a long sigh. “Yeah. Fucking stupid, I know. But we both needed the cash, and who the fuck would know, right?”
Smith, obviously. Michael had an idea where this was going. “Go on.”
“We didn’t arrive together, deleted all the texts we sent as soon as we read them, just in case. I put a bet on, Charlie went down in round three, and that was that. Easy.” He’d started to sweat—a thin layer of moisture covered his forehead, and he wiped it away with his hand. “I don’t have any bloody idea how they found out.”
“But they did, right?”
Foster ducked his head, then ran both hands through his hair. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “They did.”
“What happened?”
“I went to collect my winnings, and instead of the cash I was expecting, I got an envelope.” He paused. “At first I thought,weird, they’ve given me a cheque.” Rolling his eyes, he added, “I know how stupid that sounds now, but I’d had a few drinks by then.”
“I take it there wasn’t a cheque inside,” Frank said dryly.
“No. It was a note. It said they knew what I’d done. What me and Charlie had done. And that I should arrange to meet Charlie in that alleyway at 1.30 a.m. but not turn up.”
Bollocks. Michael had hoped either Smith or one of his men had actually threatened him. “And you just did it?”
At least he had the grace to look ashamed. “Like I said, I’d had a few drinks by that point. And the bottom of the note said it was in my best interests to do as asked and not to tell anyone.” He glanced up, eyes wild. “That was a threat, right? And everyone knows Smith’s men carry guns. What was I supposed to do?”
Michael had heard enough of his excuses. “Oh, I don’t know… maybe realise you were in over your head and call the police?”
“But we were at an illegal fight. Me and Charlie could both have been arrested!”
“Instead, Charlie’s dead. Didn’t work out so well for him, did it?”
“No.” Foster hung his head again. “I didn’t think they were going to kill him. Maybe beat him up a bit, but he was a boxer, he was used to that.”
Michael stared at him, incredulous. “So you set up Charlie to save yourself?” He shook his head when Foster didn’t answer. “Do you still have the note?”
He shook his head. “No. I ripped it up and threw it away. The guy who gave it to me insisted on watching me do it.”
