‘Paul Hater. Here’s his picture.’ Rico tossed a police photograph across the desk. ‘He shouldn’t be difficult to spot.’
Baird looked curiously at the photograph. Rico was right. Hater would be easy to identify. He was small and thin. His dome of a forehead was accentuated by heavy eyebrows and a balding head. He had deep-set, dark, staring eyes and a livid white scar that ran from his right eye to his mouth. He reminded Baird of the fanatical prison chaplain he had met when he had visited his brother for the first and only time.
‘He looks as if he’s got a screw loose,’ Baird said, tossing the picture back to Rico. ‘He won’t be difficult to spot. When do we start?’
‘Any time we like,’ Rico said eagerly. ‘The sooner the better.’
Baird nodded.
‘And the money?’
Rico tapped the envelope.
‘Plenty more where that comes from.’
‘How do you know?’
Rico laughed.