Like the majority of my fellow Brits, I do not like to be in the presence of guns.

The largely law-abiding person should have no need for a firearm in the day-to-day trudge of life. Let's face it, the vast bulk of anti-social scumbags and felons get along with their nefarious practices on this island perfectly well without them.

Yet here I was, an accessory to an armed man whose cast-iron balls seemed to have been forged in Satan's kiln. This was a guy who had graphically displayed his talent for violence only an hour ago, and with a certain practiced flair at that.

I was about to embark on God-knows-what, while leaving a twenty stone henchman hog-tied in the getaway vehicle. I was as jumpy as a snake in a crate full of mongooses... mongeese... Whatever.

Ty undid the buckle of the canvas straps securing the drop panel at the rear of the Bedford. With a few sharp tugs, he rolled Tweedledum to the edge and looped the rope that bound him through a steel eye fastener in the bed of the lorry.

The unfortunate man began to thrash around again. His hands had gone a deep purple colour and spittle foamed from the corners of his mouth.

"Be a good boy and let me gag you, and you'll be out of there in no time," Ty said, wadding a large oily rag in his fist.

Tweedledum snarled at him, seemingly having recovered some of his piss, or vinegar. I wasn't sure that either substance would help him much with his current predicament.

"Be like that, then," Ty smiled sweetly.

He jumped up into the back of the Bedford and, with a swift move, had grabbed Tweedledum tightly by the nostrils, inserting a finger in each and pulling back hard. This bent the man's head backwards and forced his mouth open, at which point Edge nonchalantly rammed home the rag.

"Fifteen minutes at most big fella, then I'm done with you. Breathe through your nose and relax. I don't want to have to dispose of your corpse," Ty advised the hapless hulk, who snuffled and grunted in reply.

I had ceased to be amazed by the day's events. I felt a little numb, as if I had been out in the cold for too long. This was all coming as rather a shock to my system. I followed Ty as he sauntered up to the intercom on the door with the air of a man at peace with the world.

"Yes?" the tinny speaker buzzed with a woman's voice.

"Tyrone Edge to see Mr. Michaels," Edge spoke calmly into the grill.

"Is this really a good idea?" I said, more in hope than expectation that anything might come from the question.

After a moment, the door lock clicked. He pulled it open then turned and winked at me.

The floor of the entry hall was tiled in an intricate pattern. An ostentatiously gaudy mock chandelier lit the walls which were lined with artistic photos of properties developed by Michaels. The far end of the corridor opened out onto a small reception area, carpeted in the same rough tiles that can be found in a doctor's waiting room.

A young woman in a neat jacket, low-cut blouse and a too-short skirt sat behind an Ikea desk, flanked by ficuses. A telephone rested on either side of the desktop and the woman spoke into one handset while artfully dialling a number on the other.

There were no chairs in the reception area, just a table with a kettle and various drink-making ingredients. Ty breezed straight past the woman toward a heavy looking door, which had the word 'Michaels' painted on it in decorative Victorian script. With no further ceremony, he opened the door and strode inside.

The woman's face contorted as she dropped the receiver of the phone on which she was dialling, and abruptly ended the conversation on the other one. Leaping up from her seat, she tottered after Ty atop a pair of stilt-like heels. I followed in her shapely teetering wake and entered Michaels' office behind her behind.

Michaels sat behind a mahogany desk so large that the timber could have fashioned Noah enough room to take four of everything and a spare wife or two for those boring winter evenings.

He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit that screamed bespoke, his grey hair swept back on his head like the swell of the North Sea. The sovereign rings on his steepled fingers would have kept an African dictator in enough guns to see off an attempted coup.

Pictures of property and an assortment of luxury items hung around the office walls. A pristine white yacht dazzled in azure water, a beach hut nestled atop golden sand among swaying palms and a jet-black sports car with a licence plate that I recognized from the checks I had run.

Michaels himself did not seem overly alarmed at the abrupt entrance of Ty. In fact, he smiled at us knowingly. It was the twisted grin of the man who had eaten your last egg for breakfast after he fucked your wife.

"Gentlemen," he nodded, rocking back in his cavernous, padded office chair and casually crossing one leg over the other, resting it ankle-to-knee.

"Mr. Michaels, sir! I'm so sorry. They just burst straight in while I was on the phone to the council," the receptionist whimpered.

"That's OK, Jane," he said, giving her a look that suggested it was very much not OK.

"Why don't you take an early lunch?" he said, recovering some poise.

The woman turned to leave just as Michaels added "Oh, and Jane? Please contact Mr. Strunk and tell him he will be needed here to witness a signature immediately."

"Of course, sir. Right away," she squeaked, scurrying back out of the door, struggling to maintain her balance on those towering heels.

Michaels sighed deeply, evidently content, as if savouring the smell of his office.

"So, you've seen sense Tyrone? You know the country life is not all it's cracked up to be; the inbred locals, nothing to do, and then there's all that shit," he uttered the last remark with a smug finality.

"I knew you were more of a businessman than your uncle, and that you'd see a good opportunity when it was under your nose. Now, I'll just get the papers my solicitor prepared, then it's just the signature and of course your cheque," Michaels said, opening a heavy draw.

Ty stood placidly while the other man spoke. When he had finished, Ty drew a chair up to the desk and sat down slowly.

"I'm not here to sell. Nor will I ever be," Edge said.

I found a seat and used it, arranging myself slightly behind Ty. I could clearly see the bulge in the back of Ty's shirt made by the stock of the gun. I told myself that maybe if I kept an eye on it then everything would be fine, nothing could go wrong or get out of hand. We were just here to ask questions. Just questions.

"Then to what do I owe the pleasure, Tyrone?" Michaels' voice flowed like an oil slick over cormorants.

"You have not come all this way to water my plants and ogle my secretary!" he chortled at his own feeble bon mot.

"I thought it best that I come and talk to you. That way we can save each other a lot of time and aggravation," Ty said, his voice retaining that level monotone that belied his intentions.

"Indeed?" Michaels arched an eyebrow, it danced above his eye to a persistent rhythm that honest people can't hear.

"You are aware of Holly Corner, as owned by the late Professor Wimple?" Ty said, more statement than question.

"I am, I offered the old man a good price for it, too," Michaels replied.

"It burned to the ground last night. Luckily Dr. Wimple was a guest at my property, or she may well have died," Ty stated, matter-of-factly.

A look of surprise flashed across Michaels' face. I couldn't help but wonder whether it was for our benefit.

"That's... tragic. But I don't see what it has to do with me," Michaels' steepled his fingers in front of his chest.

"Let me clarify the situation for you then," Ty crossed his legs, ankle resting on knee in imitation of Michaels. "The land that Holly Corner stands on is adjacent to your recent development at Burrell Deeping. You have already made an offer for it. If you owned the property, you would demolish the cottage anyway so the fact that it has been gutted is of no consequence to you," Ty paused, waiting for an acknowledgement that never came.

"A number of people seem to have been intimidated into selling their properties in the village over the past couple of months. I wonder who might have bought them?" he added, rhetorically.

"Then there are the bizarre threatening phone calls that Martha received, and the fact that you are no stranger to arson," I chimed in. Michaels' looked right through me, his eyes shrinking into tiny black coals of hate.

"I have no criminal convictions; those cases were all tragic accidents. I am as alarmed as you are to hear of the fire, but it is certainly none of my concern. Now if you gentlemen have quite finished, I think you should leave." He stood up and placed both palms on his vast desk.

"I strongly suggest that you don't come back," Michaels said, pointing at Ty who looked at him, his face blank. A loud knocking on the door broke the moment.

"Yes!" Michaels snapped. The door opened and the frame was entirely filled by the bulk of the second goon who lumbered inside. Enter Tweedledee.

"Jane said you needed ..." he saw us, and recognition flickered across his face like a match struck in the dark "...you!"

"These men were just leaving, Lincoln. Please see that they do," Michaels commanded.

I sighed, knowing where this was going.

"We haven't quite concluded our conversation," Ty said flatly. Tweedledee strode behind him and laid a vast paw on his shoulder.

"Mr Michaels' says you is finished here," he growled.

Edge shot out of the chair quicker than a cobra's strike. Tweedledee's hand had moved from his shoulder and Ty rammed it behind the man's back in a wristlock which bent the big man over at the waist.

The gun had appeared in Ty's right hand. I could definitely keep a better eye on it now, but things did not seem to be improving. Ty brought the stock down hard on Lincoln's skull, which was still bandaged from our first encounter. There was a sharp cracking noise and Lincoln crumbled to the floor, out for the count.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" Michaels spluttered.

Ty released his hold on the unconscious man and crossed the room. He grabbed Michaels by the collar and spun him around so that he could see out of the window, providing an excellent view of Norman trussed up in the back of the Bedford below.

"I am demonstrating two things; firstly that your hired gorillas are of an exceptionally poor standard, and secondly neither they, nor you, intimidate me in the least," Ty replied.

The sight of Tweedledum hog-tied and smeared in shit made Michaels gurgle. He seemed to have lost his cool and was unsure of how to regain it.

"Now, sit!" Edge thrust him down into his chair, his hair was ruffled and a bead of sweat emerged on his forehead.

"But... Wh..." Michaels began.

"Shut up. The only words I want out of you are the truth. If I even half-think you are pulling my dick, I will blow the shit inside your head all over this lovely desk," Ty said drawing the hammer back on the semi-automatic and placing it gently behind Michaels' ear. He looked across the gleaming mahogany surface at me.

"In fact, Satchmo you had better move. Brain matter is extremely hard to wash out of your clothes," Ty said, offering the kind of housework tips that I never knew I needed.

I was not in the mood to argue, I rose and backed against a wall. Michaels whimpered.

"So, here it is, Martin... I can call you Martin, can't I?" Edge said sarcastically, Michaels' nodded sheepishly.

"Did you have Martha's house torched? Think carefully before you answer, this desk looks exorbitantly expensive."

Michaels shook his head vigorously. Ty grasped his hair and bounced his face from the wooden surface like a basketball, then held it pressed against the wood and replaced the gun more firmly to his temple.

"Perhaps you didn't understand the question. You get one more chance; did you have anything to do with the arson at Holly Corner?" Ty asked, his voice still deadpan.

"No!" Michaels wailed, sobbing loudly.

"Sorry Martin, I just don't believe you," Edge said, shaking his head and squeezing the trigger. My eyes goggled and I sucked in my breath. Ty was executing this man in front of me.

"Wait!" I shouted, but too late.

There was a loud click. The gun did not bark, and Michaels' head did not burst. I let out an enormous sigh of relief.

"Silly me. No round in the chamber," Ty said, mock-scornfully.

A dark patch had appeared in Michaels' groin and liquid pooled at his feet under the chair, filling the room with the acrid smell of urine.

"I don't make that kind of mistake often. You got lucky, Martin," Edge said lightly, patting Michaels on the head, which was still securely rooted to the desk.

"If I ever see you or either of your over-sized apes again, I will be back, and I will kill you. How's that for a fucking deal?" Ty stated.

Michaels' nodded. His face was mixed with shame and relief and his cheeks were smeared with tears. Ty walked to the door and turned the brass knob with one hand as he tucked away the pistol with the other,

"Come on Satchmo, we have things to do." he called over his shoulder "Oh, and Martin, have someone move that shit you put on my drive this morning or I'll make you eat it with a teaspoon."

*

I was driving us back to Pebble Deeping after we had picked my car from the flat. We sat in silence for some time.

Ty had released Tweedledum, who had promptly attempted to attack him but collapsed instead to the ground; his limbs failing him. Edge just laughed.

I had spent the first five minutes hyperventilating; still a little shocked at the absolute transformation I had seen in Ty. He knew that I was upset, but made no attempt to talk to me, or to explain what he had done. Part of me felt sorry for Michaels, another part of me said don't be so stupid, the man is a shitbag.

I repeatedly checked the rear-view mirror; expecting to see flashing blue lights and hear the wail of police sirens. Surely Michaels would call the authorities.

"I really thought you had shot him." I said finally, watching the city centre melt into tower blocks and precincts.

"So did he," Ty replied.

"This ..." I waved my arm, "This is all new to me. I get the impression it is not so new to you."

"I have led a colourful life Satchmo. Dealing with people like Martin Michaels always leaves you feeling dirty. It is nothing he didn't deserve and, unlike some of your more subtle methods, we have actually learned something," Ty replied.

"What's that? That a grown man wets himself when he thinks he's going to die? That you can kick the arse of a man twice your size?" My tone was harsh, but Ty did not react and merely shook his head.

"No Satchmo, we know that Michaels has been making low level and mostly amateur attempts to scare me off my land. More importantly, we know that he did not have anything to do with the arson of Martha's place." I stared at him. "Which, of course, begs the interesting question..."

"Who did burn it down?" I interrupted.

"Precisely," he replied, tapping the windowpane thoughtfully.

I pondered this but couldn't make any headway. I had assumed Michaels had done it, but now I was back in the dark.

"He could have lied. Michaels, I mean," I said quietly. Ty shook his head in response.

"What about the death of your uncle and the Professor?" I asked.

"Those fat turds may have been able to kill Jonah and the professor, but Morgan would have cut them a new arsehole with one hand tied behind his back," Ty smiled as if reliving a fond memory.

"Are you serious? At his age?" I asked.

"Satchmo, my uncle made me look like Mother Teresa," he replied with a laugh.

"A couple of years ago he was in Algeria on, ah, business. Three drunk French Foreign Legionnaires thought his wallet might help them get more absinthe. Morgan put two of them in hospital, and the third through a shop window. He was over 70 at the time.

No, it would have taken someone a lot more professional to take Morgan down. Lincoln and Norman would have been picking their teeth out for their shit for a week," he concluded.

There was a mental image I didn't need as we completed our journey back to Pebble Deeping in a lighter form of silence.

I was confused and still suspected that Michaels had something to do with all of this. He obviously had too much to gain by removing Martha and Ty from their land. Increasing the size of his plot would mean the creation of up to eight more homes and therefore adding least an extra two million quid to his development in Burrell Deeping. Of course, this would cause a corresponding increase in the value making its way back into Michaels's pocket.

The temptation to revert to type and burn Martha out of her home must have been strong.

I was a little worried that Michaels might not heed Ty's warning and would simply up the stakes.

After all, Jonah had been killed by somebody, the house had been torched by somebody, and it all pointed back to the vast desk of Martin Michaels Jnr.