The Wrong’un by Catherine Evans

Meet the Newells, a big family of good lookers and hard grafters. From their sleepy working class backwater, the siblings break into Oxford academia, London’s high life, the glossy world of magazine publishing and the stratospheric riches of New York’s hedge funds.

Then there’s Paddy, the wrong’un in their midst, who prefers life’s underbelly.

As things fall apart around his sister Bea, is Paddy behind it all? And why does matriarch Edie turn a blind eye to her son’s malevolence? Will she stand by and watch while he wrecks the lives of her other children? Just how much is she willing to sacrifice to protect her son?

About the author

Catherine Evans is the author of The Wrong’un, and Editor of fictionjunkies, which publishes book and short stories online by authors around the world. She’s a trustee of the Chipping Norton Literary Festival, and lives in Oxfordshire. She’s married with a daughter and three stepdaughters.

As part of the blog tour, it is my pleasure to share an extract of the book.

This excerpt comes near the beginning of the book. Paddy, the black sheep of the Newell family, meets up with Dritton, an old associate from prison in an empty house in North London. Paddy hires Dritton to murder David, his sister’s husband.

The place was in complete darkness. Paddy tried the switch in the hallway. Nothing. He reached into his pocket for his Zippo. The click was loud in the hush and a faint reek of lighter fuel merged with the damp and stale cigarette smoke. The hallway was awash with junk mail that had been kicked here and there to unblock the door. Holding the lighter, he put his head round the living room door. It was empty except for a mouldy sofa and a broken TV set on the floor. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of damp and neglect. He tried the light switch. Still nothing.

The galley kitchen had fitted cabinets above a Formica counter on one side. Two of the cabinet doors hung from their hinges and one of the doors was missing, like a gap in a row of teeth. A small wooden table was pushed against the far wall, flanked by two Formica chairs. On the table were a candle and a couple of boxes of matches, blobs of wax and a chipped saucer full of cigarette butts. Spent matches lay in disarray over the tabletop. More burnt matches and the odd squashed butt lay scattered on the floor. Paddy lit the candle and was about to sit down when he stopped himself and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. He wiped the seat and the back of the chair first.

The front door opened and Dritton came in, quickly shutting the door. He swore softly and blew air from his cheeks like a bellows. He stomped his feet on the floor, scattering snow all over the sea of junk mail. He paused when he saw Paddy’s dark shape behind the candle, then made his way into the kitchen. He pushed back the hood of his jacket to reveal thick dark hair that shone in the candlelight. The English winter had touched his olive skin with a pale yellow pastiness. His face was rescued from prettiness by a hooked nose that had been broken more than once, and an ingrained frown line, like a stab in pastry.

‘Dritton!’ said Paddy. He stood up. The two men gave each other an awkward bear hug. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he went on.

‘You also.’

‘Nice place you have here, I must say.’

‘Would you prefer to meet at your house?’

The corners of Paddy’s mouth twitched. Dritton reached into his inside pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes. He offered one to Paddy, who shook his head.

Dritton lit the cigarette in the flame of the candle and took a deep drag.

‘In my country a house like this would not go to waste.’

‘Still homesick? It’s funny. You lot love your country so much you’ll do anything for it. Except live there.’

‘We’re free of Albania now. I’ll go back soon.’

Paddy was about to say, ‘And I’m the tooth fairy,’ but thought better of it. Dritton was touchy about his country, his ways, his people.

‘I saw Fevze quite recently,’ he said instead.

Dritton looked surprised.

‘Oh yes. I’ve done a bit of work for him.’

‘What kind of work?’

‘You know. Bits and pieces.’

‘And you want me to do something for you?’

‘Yup. I need you to take care of someone.’ Paddy had seen at close quarters over an extended time how meticulous Dritton was. ‘I’m trusting you as a friend that you’ll be professional about it.’

‘Please,’ said Dritton, with a pained expression, as if insulted. He dragged so deeply on his cigarette that it crackled. ‘Who is it?’

Paddy brought out some photographs from an envelope in his briefcase and handed them over. Dritton studied the top photo, a head and shoulders shot of a man in his fifties smiling directly to camera. The picture could have come from a corporate brochure, despite his weatherbeaten skin. The next picture showed the same man dressed casually, drink in hand. In the third, he was tanned and bare-chested, holding up a large fish by the tail. In all of the photos, he looked happy, despite the lines on his face.

‘He saw you in prison,’ said Dritton.

‘Yes. His name is David Grahame,’ said Paddy.

Dritton continued to flick through the photographs, cigarette still in hand. He stopped to study one in particular, in which David Grahame had his arm round a tall blond woman leaning in to him. Dritton narrowed his eyes as he puffed on his cigarette. He looked appraisingly at Paddy.

‘Your sister’s husband?’

Paddy didn’t respond. ‘All the information you need is in here,’ he said, handing over the envelope. ‘Where he lives, where he works, his daily habits. Everything. It could look like a mugging. He walks to work most mornings when it’s still dark and it would be simple—’

Dritton put his hand up, as if for silence.

‘Do you care how it is done?’

‘No. So long as it’s not traced back to me.’

‘You have nothing to fear. What about timing? It’s a problem for you?’

‘Within a month. The end of the month would be best.’ Lorena had just had her twelve-week scan, but he needed a bit of extra time to sort out one or two loose ends.

‘You have the money?’

Paddy picked up his briefcase and brought out a bubble-wrapped A4 envelope. He handed it over. ‘Half now and half when the job is done. As agreed.’

Dritton took the envelope. ‘I will not insult you by counting, my friend.’

Paddy laughed. ‘Go ahead and count. Trust, but verify. It’s a good principle to live by.’