

Lone Shark

by

Tin Larrick

Copyright © Tin Larrick 2013

Smashwords Edition

Lone Shark

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred,

distributed, leased, licensed, publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Copyright © Tin Larrick 2013

Tin Larrick has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's

imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover art © by Wendy Clarke 2013. Reproduced by kind permission of the artist

****

PART ONE

Miscreants

****

### the prologue

I didn't know it at the time, but when I first met Kim Layrona she was about to commit suicide. And, on reflection, I should have just let her jump.

It was getting dark when I finally caught up with her. She was on the Hornsey Lane Bridge, gazing south onto the City skyline with that wistful expression that people wear when they reflect on their lives one final time. In the Hermès cashmere coat and Louis Vuitton clutch she looked positively statuesque.

Theoretically, it could have worked out well for both of us. I could have just hung back, waited for her to sort herself out and then collected the money without even breaking sweat, while she got to make sure she still looked pretty for the funeral.

And she was pretty. God, she was beautiful. She was sexy, rich, alone and in desperate need of saving. Isn't that every man's dream?

But when she told me not to come any closer, that she was going to jump, I blurted out that I'd been sent to kill her. How do you continue a conversation from there? Clearly, she had been expecting some do-gooding platitudes about having everything to live for, so when she got the opposite, it stopped her in her tracks. Since we both had the same objective, the usual suicidal stand-offs didn't really apply – and so we just stared at each other, in ever-decreasing circles of confusion.

She'd been standing perfectly still, head held high with the wind breathing through her hair – a picture of elegance. Then she'd put one foot on the rail and clambered up in a surprisingly ungraceful manner.

I'd put my hands up in a conciliatory manner. I'd forgotten about how strong the wind can be. One thing being a cop in a town with a lot of high buildings teaches you is that the wind may seem innocuous to begin with, but it can knock you off balance, it can make you hear things that aren't there, and it can chill you to the bone in minutes. Your body tends not to listen to you as much when it's cold.

I knew, even then, that I was going to find it very difficult to kill this woman. The temptation to finally inject a little professionalism and night-creeper kudos into my two-bit life – even if the job title of career assassin wasn't one you'd want on your CV – had seemed irresistible earlier. But when the thinking got closer to the doing, I knew I was going to have some difficulties when it came to pulling the trigger, proverbial or otherwise. I'd envisaged some sleepless nights and an increased hankering for whisky, but had assumed that I would eventually get over it, and that, like the dentist, it would get easier with time.

It was pretty obvious there'd be no getting over this woman. Even if I could have taken the life from those pretty eyes, I would surely have had to follow. Like I said, I should have just let her jump. Everyone would have been a winner.

But the real problem was that, if I didn't kill her, I would be in extremely serious trouble indeed.

***

one

New Year's Eve.

The day he died.

I visited Pelly twice a year. Once on his birthday, and once on his deathday. As it happened, these dates were within two weeks of each other, so for fifty weeks of the year I didn't visit.

But I couldn't do it cold.

As always, The Crown o' Thorns looked closed. It was in a town I'd been to before, but still didn't know the name of. I'd only ever been there when it was dark. It was out in the sticks, some nothing town in that no man's land between the London Orbital and the Garden of England.

I pushed open the door. Punters turned to me and stared. No revelry in here tonight. Nobody in their right mind came here unless they were en route to somewhere else, the only kind of place where someone on the run can stop and take a breather.

I glanced around the bar. Spit and sawdust, dark and bare. The neon sign overhanging the bar haphazardly buzzed beer glory at me. Time had taken a wide detour around this langolier-eaten fleapit – it felt like everything, everyone, should have moved on a long time ago.

Not unlike me.

It was two double whiskies before the paralysis eased, and when I left The Crown o' Thorns the sun had already set. By the time I arrived at the church the sky was a murky blue, dimly lit by the pale white of a diluted moon casting ambivalent shadows over the landscape.

There was no one in the cemetery. I didn't think there would be. People visiting graves like sunshine and tweeting birdies and leaves. I didn't feel like I had any business feeling comfortable.

Bryan 'Pelly' Pelham and I had joined the Metropolitan Police at the same time, eight years earlier. We were in the same intake. Two things he already had when he came out of the womb – one was the nickname 'Pelly,' the other was his bottomless capacity for alcohol.

His after-hours parlour trick was to seek out nubile WPCs in the bar and offer to bench-press them – which he would then do, right there in the bar, to the amusement of his audience – and, more often than not, the shrieking delight of whoever had volunteered to be the dumbbell. Usually the trick was performed with a full pint resting on his stomach.

In our first week of training at Hendon we'd been made to perform various research tasks on promoting diversity and present our findings to the class. I had been delivering a particularly insightful piece on the consequences of oppressive interviewing techniques on mentally vulnerable detainees, when Pelly, in the audience, had held up a piece of paper with BOLLOCKS written on it in marker pen. I lost my thread and nearly blew a gasket laughing. That stunt got us both called before the course inspector.

Two weeks later, this same purple-faced inspector bawled at Pelly for having a five o'clock shadow on parade. Pelly – the ex-squaddie – was otherwise immaculate - lint-free, shoes like mirrors and creases you could cut your finger on – and took this as a personal slight. Now, I knew Pelly, and the big lug was so chock-full of testosterone that he could shave at six in the morning and still look like Captain Birdseye come lunchtime.

Pelly had seethed quietly for the next thirteen weeks, and then, the night before we graduated, the class migrated to a nightclub after the formal dining-in. Pelly spent the evening eyeballing the inspector in between pints of snakebite. I'd stayed close to him after noticing his hungry look – and managed to intercept him as he strode across the dance floor, intent on crunching the glass in the inspector's face. I'd grabbed his arm and yelled. Startled, he'd dropped the glass, kept his job and avoided prison.

The following morning, as we lined up for the passing-out parade, Pelly had tickled my neck and said thanks handsome. Then, as we fell in, he passed out.

It was the same old reflections I always had when I visited him. There was nothing new to think about, and how could there be? Still, it kept my overactive imagination from seeing zombie hands pushing up from the dirt, lit by the full moon.

I could hear the split-lip platitudes at his wake:

A copper's copper.

Salt of the earth.

A real character.

I could only guess at that, though, because I hadn't been there.

I said nothing. I just did my bit and sat staring at his headstone. I didn't say anything. Talking to a headstone seemed asinine to me.

I stood up after losing the feeling in my left buttock. It was cold, and I had to go and see Dico. I touched the banknotes in my pocket, and thought - I should send this to Jetta, but how could I? It was all I had. Maybe after Dico settled up after tonight's gig, I could send her a few quid.

"Sorry about all this, Pel. See you in a fortnight," I muttered, and walked to the BMW, under a navy blue sky peppered with starry blemishes.

*

I have good days and bad.

A good day is when my mind unconsciously relaxes, maybe after a couple of uneventful weeks, and I check over my shoulder and under my car less frequently.

A bad day leaves me crippled with paranoia and guilt, unable to function on any level, afraid to go out or even move.

On the bad days the temptation to call someone – a cop, a priest, anyone – and confess all, beg them to make it stop, in the hope the slate will be wiped clean and I will be free again, is almost irresistible. The bad days keep me sharp, focused, alert.

The irony being that when they finally get me, it will be on a good day.

****

two

"D'ya want some then, you fucker? I'll fuckin' kill ya!"

Neck tendons straining, teeth bared like a frightened primate, his grating roar banged up into the corners of the small room. I sank further into my chair, the wooden spindles hard against the small of my back.

"You're a dead man!"

He leaned in so close that his brown Chris Waddle mullet – crazy-bouffed from too much conditioner – tickled my face.

"After that, sideswipe their legs and get them in the happy sacs when they go down. They'll stay down. And before the fight, go for volume. Let the fear set in. Loud is GOOD!"

I nodded in mute understanding, my throat dry.

"Also, if you want to make 'em proper plural-eyed, carry some grains of quick-dry cement in your pocket. Flick it in the eyes. Eyes are wet, see..." He clicked his fingers. "Fucks 'em up very nicely."

I lit a cigarette. Dico parked his six-five frame on the chair opposite me and reached for the newspaper on the table. Lesson over.

You could say he was my informant, but only because if you wanted to know something, you asked Dico. He still threw work my way, otherwise I doubt I would have tolerated the tutorials from his seamier days as a bouncer; before which, he'd been an almost-pro heavyweight until he'd suffered a bad KO that had dented his confidence in basic motor functions.

He'd returned to the profession after the door work dried up, except this time it was bare-knuckle in the basement of any pub that would have him. He was still built like a barrel of pork shoehorned into a regulation Fred Perry polo, with the functional sturdiness of the underground pugilist. There was nothing sculpted or in any way aesthetically pleasing about him - and the slight wobble at his jowl and stomach said that he liked good living but hated sit-ups.

Dico's latest venture was to buy a pub further down Coldharbour Lane so he could eke out the rest of his days peacefully smacking the bejesus out of any challenger foolish enough to take off his shirt. He also owned controlling stock in a furniture showroom on Atlantic Road, Brixton \- a totally no-frills place under the arches and blue metal stanchions of Brixton Railway Station, owned by the Dixon family since 1925. This was where we now sat, in the nicotine-caked staff room, hidden in the dark recesses of the storage warehouse at the rear of the store. The warehouse was piled high with stacks of polythene-wrapped mattresses and flat-packed wardrobes, and beyond the huge rolling shutter door was the damp, slick concrete of Station Road market. The night wind blew the deserted stalls' green-and-white tarpaulins around like flames, and rattled the stacks of stored advertising chalkboards against the brick of the railway arch.

I watched him read, then looked at my watch.

"Would you look at this?" he said, indicating a colour spread about bodybuilding. "Nutritious diet my arse. These guys get shitfaced before a show to dehydrate, so the skin shrinks over the muscles. For added definition. Fucking tarts."

"Are we going?" I asked.

He put the paper down, got up and stretched. We left by the loading bay at the rear of the warehouse.

"You go on," I said. "I need to shake hands with the inspector."

He nodded and I paid a quick visit to the little boys' room. When I got outside I was a little disgruntled – if unsurprised – to see that the BMW's engine was already running, the lights were off, and cigar smoke was curling up from the passenger window.

Cheeky bastard. Always had to prove a point. No doubt just showing me he could steal my pride and joy if he really wanted to. It was true that what he didn't know about Bavaria's best-known export wasn't worth knowing, but I really wished he didn't feel the need to demonstrate it every five minutes.

Checking around briefly, I trod my cigarette underfoot, and got in the driver's side.

*

We traversed the magazine-cover friendliness of bars and restaurants plotted around the University of Greenwich and the Cutty Sark, rolled past a corridor of rundown lock-up garages under the railway arches in Deptford and wound up in an industrial estate somewhere opposite the Isle of Dogs.

No one had been near the place in years. Warehouses and factories stood silent and empty, and the meeting was set to happen in the customer car park of a now out-of-business superstore.

The petrol station tucked away behind the trees still had the signs up, and the pumps looked as if they might still be in use. If not for the ravages of Time, the chipboard hoardings covering the storefront and the faded, seriously out-of-date numbers up on the roadside denoting the price of a litre, one might think that it was still operational. Rumour had it that the station still sat atop an enormous underground reservoir of petroleum.

I, of course, knew better. I screwed my eyes shut as I felt the liquid race down the hose, and summoned the comforting image of forecourt chaos - frenzied hordes of commuters filling up their cars in a panic; respectable businessmen swinging punches with prices skyrocketing before their very eyes.

The caustic liquid hit the back of my throat, and I gagged and spluttered while maintaining the wherewithal to shove the hose into the jerry can. This had taken quite some practice - the first time I siphoned off my private stash I had managed to drench myself in several gallons of petrol.

The retching gradually subsided. I had become pretty good at gauging the size of the can, and when it was near the brim I carefully removed the hose and allowed the remainder to drain back into the tank.

I climbed out of the enormous grave, emptied the can into the BMW's tank, and then lowered myself back in for another run. It was an old steel single-skin tank that, for whatever reason, had not been properly decommissioned when the petrol station folded, and I had discovered it corroded, rotting, and dotted with wooden bungs all over it where someone had tried to plug the leaks. The whole thing was an environmental disaster waiting to happen, but until it happened, it hadn't happened. Sure, the stuff was a bit gummy here and there, but some carefully-selected lawnmower additives had yet to let me down.

I was filling the can for the final time when I heard the distant growl of an engine – from deep in the hole, it sounded like an aircraft.

I heard the door of the BMW open.

"Jackson!" Dico hissed. "Will you get a move on? He's here."

"Fuck. He's early," I muttered to myself, shaking the hose out.

The failing iron ladder was attached to the tank by only a couple of bolts; I scrambled up it, hanging on with one hand while I slid the can across the surface of the forecourt. I clambered out and started replacing the jigsaw of concrete fragments that covered the crack in the forecourt.

"Will you fucking leave that?" Dico called, as headlights appeared in the distance, away on the main road.

I didn't answer, but shook my head as I re-garnished the area with foliage. This was my little secret. I made one final journey with a heavy branch – managing to kick the jerry can across the ground as I did so.

It rolled over and over across the forecourt, losing the cap as it went, spraying petroleum in every direction. The stench filled the air, and it dripped over the leaves and down into the cracks in the concrete.

"Oh, shit," I said, frozen to the spot.

The headlights were getting nearer.

"Jackson!"

I unfroze and got back into the BMW. I swilled from a bottle of water, trying to rinse the acrid taste from my mouth.

Dico inhaled and whistled.

"Jesus, Jackson. Smells like you got a leak. Be easier just to pay for it."

"Just don't smoke."

I started the engine, and watched the needle on the fuel gauge creep up to 'FULL.' It was worth it.

The place was black and unforgiving. The shrill bite of the December wind swooped down from the sky, sending bits of litter tumbling across the concrete. Heavy metal cables rattled against the empty flagpoles upon which they were fixed, which swayed gently with each new gust.

I cruised into the middle of the car park, and slowed to a halt. London's night sky was polluted with an umbrella of orange and purple, with rows of blue arc lights dotted against it. I switched off the headlights. Dico yawned, and stretched his legs out on the dash while we waited for the car to arrive.

A small voice inside my left ear told me that my continued association with Dico Dixon would, sooner or later, prove hazardous to my health. He didn't generally say, and I didn't generally ask, but I'd been caddying for him long enough to know that his activities weren't exactly kosher – midnight meetings in deserted car parks seldom are – but Christ, I really needed the money.

Tonight I was contingency muscle, just to watch Dico's back while he made his trade. I was also on driving detail - Dico didn't like distractions when he was doing business, his absent driving licence notwithstanding.

I turned on the radio.

"... the world's financial institutions are in crisis tonight after global shares plummeted to record lows. Ahead of April's G19 summit in London, the Chancellor is in Washington to hold emergency talks with the President..."

"She's certainly in something," I said. "Not just Washington."

I turned the dial away from the discussion forum until I found a station playing some Coltrane. I drummed my fingers on my leg, and touched the tiepin on my lapel. It was shaped like a dolphin and had once been the colour of brass, but age had worn the sheen away. I liked dolphins.

Dico noticed.

"Nervous?" he asked.

"No."

Yeah, right.

"It's nothing. I've dealt with this guy coupla times. He's a nonce."

"I said I wasn't nervous."

To dissuade further conversations about my nervous habit, I took my jacket off and threw it in the back.

I faced forwards again and tried to focus on one of the arc lights. The insides of my nose felt stripped raw, and my breath was coming in a low, rapid whistle – whether due to the petrol fumes or anxiety, I wasn't sure.

Considering we were more or less in central London, I couldn't believe how deathly silent the place was. The only sound was the whistle of the wind through an unseen breach in the BMW's aging bodywork. There were no people, no cars, no enterprise – it was as if the receivers had swarmed in like locusts, leaving only the barren husks of the buildings; with their hundreds of square yards of chipboard-covered windows and doors, it was as if someone were trying to bury a dirty little secret.

"Heads up, kid," Dico said, sitting up straight and ducking his hand down the side of the seat. "Here he comes."

I snapped off the radio. Ahead of us, a dark green Vauxhall estate in dire need of a respray was moving slowly across the car park towards us.

When it was about twenty feet away, its headlights and engine died away. It coasted to a stop alongside my car.

I wound down my window, and a blast of icy air swept in. The driver of the estate did the same. He had black hair and a thick smattering of stubble. He looked Arabic. He also looked nervous. Two on one - for a brief moment I felt a bit sorry for him. I peered down at the tiny gap he'd left between the two vehicles, and tried to break the ice. Put him at ease.

"Mind my fucking car," I said.

His eyebrows went up, and then he scowled.

There was movement beside me, and Dico affirmed his status as chair of the meeting by producing a grubby-looking Glock 17 semi-automatic which he stretched across me to point at the Arab's head.

Born in Fulham well before it became trendy to do so, Dico wasn't quite a true Cockney, but his tendency to cry at the episode where Del Boy finally makes it rich made him enough of a geezer to carry it off. That, and his unrelenting fondness for wearing shorts.

The way he told it, he had retired from anything too illegal, and only took the occasional score to treat himself and Mrs Dico. I knew he wasn't averse to a little bit of credit card fraud, he occasionally provided the odd drug mule and he sometimes sold hooky electronics out the back of the furniture shop.

However, an untraceable, unlicensed army-surplus semi-automatic handgun was a new one on me, although I didn't show it. Instead I stared straight ahead in silence while Dico talked across me.

"Hello, Tariq. Do us a favour. Put your hands on the wheel, and don't do anything sudden."

Tariq slowly acquiesced, the scowl not leaving his face. There was a numb silence while he and Dico eyeballed each other, during which Tariq's nose started to quiver with curiosity as the petrol fumes reached it.

"Where's the gear?" Dico asked.

"Down here," Tariq said, in an accent that didn't sound like it had ever been further east than Dagenham. He indicated the passenger seat with his eyes.

"Okay. In a minute I'll ask you to pass it over. In the meantime, tell your friend to get up off the floor."

"What are you on about, mate? This is a fine way to treat a friend. You don't trust me? This is supposed to be a business transaction. I could..."

With a flourish, Dico racked the slide of the Glock and chambered a round. I just about managed not to flinch - this was surely for show. If he fired we would all be in trouble – muzzle flash and petrol fumes make strange bedfellows.

Tariq ceased his protest and barked something in pitch-perfect Farsi in the direction of the back seat. Another guy rose from behind the back seat with his hands up, also looking nervous. Dico covered them both with the weapon, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher.

"Pass the case over, Tariq. Use your left hand only, then put it back on the steering wheel. Do it slowly," he warned.

Tariq muttered something under his breath as he handed the case over. I felt like doing the same.

I took it from him, one hand on the handle and the other supporting the base. The case was grey metal, like a flight case, and as I took it I noticed that it was extremely cold, with a sheen of condensation on the exterior.

Condensation?

The few remaining alarm bells that hadn't yet gone off started to ring. I carefully put the case on the seat between Dico and me, and stared at him silently until he caught my eye. I dropped my eyes to the case and shook my head - the movement was slight, almost imperceptible - but Dico caught it.

He was lowering the gun when Tariq spoke again.

"Alright to go, then?"

Dico stopped lowering the gun.

I, like Dico, turned to look at Tariq. His voice had been laced with bravado, but a line of sweat had erupted on his brow - not unlike the dicky briefcase he'd just given us.

"Mate, we need..." Tariq's eyes were wide, his chest visibly rising and falling as he sucked in breaths through his nose like a man who'd spent a long time underwater.

"Shut up. I heard what you said. No." Dico's voice had a cautious tone. "No, you can't go yet." He leaned across me and peered at Tariq, gently nudging me with the barrel of the gun as he did so. I eased the BMW into gear. Tariq didn't appear to notice.

"What's your hurry, sweetheart?" Dico asked, frowning. "I want to talk to you for a bit about some things. Like, your girlfriend hiding behind the seat. That's a new one on me. Don't you trust me any more?"

"Of course..."

Tariq was sweating freely now. He gripped the wheel and rubbed his hands back and forth as if revving a motorcycle, the brown knuckles now white.

"So what's with the sniper?"

"I just... I wanted... we..."

Dico, quick as a flash, grabbed the case and threw it back through the open window into their car. At the same time I snapped off the handbrake and peeled out in reverse. The tyres shrieked and smoked as we jammed across the car park. I could feel the back sliding, but I knew the BMW's every handling foible, and I held her steady.

We covered about a hundred and fifty yards to the edge of the car park, then I wrenched the hand brake on, and spun the car through ninety degrees, biting almost clean through my tongue in the process. I yanked the hand brake off again, stamped the throttle at the same time, and gunned the car back onto the main road.

The slip joined a flyover above the car park that descended onto the Blackwall Tunnel Approach. I pulled over to the side of the bridge and looked down at the estate sitting in the middle of the car park.

When the explosion ripped through the car, it obliterated everything within a thirty-yard radius, which was twenty yards further than either Tariq or his mate had managed to run from the moment that they had flung open the doors. Their heads jerked back as the explosion propelled them forwards, and then they were lost to the flames.

The BMW rocked from the blast wave, and from the road I could feel the heat on my face magnified through the windscreen. The fire rumbled like thunder, and the flames began to lick along the ground, igniting foliage as it went, creeping perilously close to my underground reservoir.

"Jesus... Jesus Christ..." I mumbled, although my swollen and bleeding tongue could only really manage Deeduth Tithe.

Dico saw where the fire was headed.

"Go. Drive!" he yelled.

In the distance, the lights of Canary Wharf and the O2 arena in the night sky were warm and inviting. At least, I thought - as I stamped the accelerator and headed south - they seemed so in the rear view mirror.

Shooters Hill Road looked like the highway to hell – long, dark and totally straight – but it took us south-east and away from trouble. We made good progress at first, but when we were alongside Shooters Hill golf course I suddenly had to pull over. I ran from the car into the blackness of the undergrowth that separated the road from the sixteenth green, and brought up my stomach. I puked until I couldn't breathe, then walked back to the car, wiping my face with the back of my sleeve.

Dico was chuckling as I got back in the BMW. Fortunately nothing had passed us while I was bringing up my guts. It was dead all around. I slammed the door and rotated my neck, unable to shift the stink of petrol from my brain. Feeling like the failed offspring of Dick Turpin, I shut my eyes, and for a moment there was only the sound of my breathing and the whisper of the black trees that lined the road.

"Some getaway driver," Dico laughed. "We're not five miles away yet, kid."

My response was interrupted by a second, massive explosion that roared in my ears and thumped the sky so hard I felt my guts shake. We both turned around and saw, out of the rear windscreen, my private underground petrol stash in the distance - ignited in a single enormous blaze that bloomed up into the sky. I don't know how far we were from it, but I swear I felt the heat on my face.

A hideous plunging feeling went from my oesophagus to my stomach and I thought I might throw up again. It's never good to see headline news in the making and know you're the cause of it.

I winced and turned my head.

"I guess now you'll have to buy it like everyone else," Dico said. He clapped me on the back, presumably as some form of consolation. "Besides, no one's got petrol cars any more, kid."

I could have punched him, although he did have a point. Drivers of non-electric vehicles these days were on the same level of social acceptability as drink-drivers and suicide bombers.

"I don't believe it," I said, acid in the back of my throat.

Sirens in the distance. My heart was already yammering in my chest, but sirens elicit an almost Pavlovian panic-response in me, and my hands began to shake.

"Come on," Dico said. "This place will be getting busy soon."

"I don't believe it," I said again. "What... what the fuck was all that about?" I asked, pulling back onto the road. "I thought you said he was cool."

Dico drummed his fingers on the dashboard.

"I was afraid something like that might happen."

"Oh, you were? Christ... I mean, I'm happy to help you out, Dico, but I surely don't need to remind you that sticking my head above the parapet is the last thing I need right now. I mean, what the fuck are you into here?"

I was taking large gulps of air as I tried to control my nerves – I wasn't sure what scared me most – how close we'd come to being incinerated or the thought that we may yet be caught rather too close to the crime scene. When a police helicopter suddenly chugged overhead I decided it was the latter.

Dico sighed.

"Last few weeks or so he's been asking around about me. I told him before we made the deal not to try anything clever, but then you shouldn't place faith in words."

"So what was his problem?"

"I've switched allegiances. Got a new supplier. American," he added with a nudge, as if that explained everything. "Tariq – the little prick - appears to be trying to dissuade the competition. It's understandable, but fuck – it's a free market, ain't it?"

"I think that only applies if you're VAT-registered."

"Well, I wish they wouldn't take it out on me."

It was a typical Dico non-answer. He wouldn't disclose anything he didn't want disclosed, and if I continued trying to interrogate him he would just tell me that being ignorant was for my own good.

We approached the rear of Atlantic Road Furniture Stores, and I pulled out of the watchful yellow canopy of the street lights into the loading bay, grateful for the shadows.

"That place... that was my petrol supply for the next ten years, at least. It was a fucking goldmine," I groaned.

"Wrong," Dico said, an insouciant grin on his Sheffield Steel chops. "Gold is holding its value."

I lit a cigarette and glared at him.

"What now?" I asked, through gritted teeth.

"Tariq was a nobody, really. A broker at best. But his people are obviously a little itchy. Don't worry, I'll sort them out, but probably best you lie low for a bit."

He paused for a moment, and looked thoughtful.

"But don't leave town, eh? I may need your help again in a day or two."

I leaned my head back against the seat, the dissipation of adrenaline leaving me suddenly exhausted.

"Happy New Year," I sighed.

I got out and prised the cloned plates from the bumpers of my car, and flung them in the boot. I left Dico in Atlantic Road and headed back to my bedsit. To describe it as home would be a bit of a stretch, and after tonight's escapades I didn't think I'd be hanging around there for long anyway.

I drove past living room windows, where the New Year celebrations reached a crescendo, and eventually I got my nerves under control. Jazzed arpeggios, candle flicker, whisky crystallised through snowflake tumblers - Christ, I could do with one. The new year rolled in and the old one turned and quietly lumbered off to die, head down, like a world weary dinosaur.

The thump of the explosion still rang in my ears. I was still - still \- on the run, but this wasn't Hatch's doing. It wasn't subtle enough, but this thought was of no comfort, and neither was the idea that if he knew someone else was on my tail he might ease up. That would just be too good to be true.

By any standard, four years is a long time to be on the run. For a policeman innocent of the accusations being levelled at him, it's even longer. When you're a cop, you make a lot of insalubrious connections that most ordinary citizens would never need to even think about, all in the pursuit of justice. But being a cop means there's always a big blue arm around your shoulder, one that acts as a safety net should the shitbags ever get too friendly.

What I'm saying is – when either fate or circumstance dictate that you're no longer a cop, when that big blue arm vanishes – the easiest thing is to become a criminal.

****

three

My pulse had only just returned to normal when Dico summoned me two days later.

It was late when I left London. Few lights were on - corner bedrooms, the green/blue flicker of a television in a darkened sitting room. Litter blew across the black road as I followed it south.

Dico's house – a none-too-shabby haunt right off the cover of Homes and Gardens – stood on the south edge of Westerham, where the metropolitan suburbs ended and the Kent countryside began. It was exactly the kind of place that a successful businessman might own. Just not a businessman like Dico.

I pulled into the driveway, listening for the crunch of tyres on gravel. I killed the engine and went to switch off the radio, my reluctant hands resting on the dial for a second or two before I clicked off the final bars of Freddie Freeloader.

Sandra, Dico's wife, opened the door as I walked up the garden path, wearing an admonishing look.

"Finally decided to show your face, then," she said, folding her arms.

"Hi, Sandra," I said.

The stern look gave way to a Cosmo-cover smile and she flung her arms around my neck and followed up with a kiss on both cheeks. Not just a Euro double-peck; there was proper pressure there. Her lips were warm on my face. Despite my rather tremulous mood, I managed to grin at her.

"Tart," Dico said, appearing behind his wife.

"Come on, sweetie, get your backside in here."

She took my hand and led me into the house as if they were hosting a cheese-and-wine party. Dico disappeared into the kitchen. I sat down, and Sandra walked over to the drinks cabinet.

"Drink?" she asked.

"Whisky, thanks," I said, adding: "Better make it a double. How are you, Sandra?"

"All the better for seeing you, darling. Where have you been hiding yourself?"

"I go where the work takes me," I said, and left it at that, hoping to cauterise the small talk. Maybe she thought it was a cheese-and-wine evening.

She handed me a tumbler of Bushmills, her fingers brushing mine briefly.

"Neat - am I right?"

"Perfect." I took a gulp and shuddered as the liquid burned the back of my throat, wondering if Sandra kept a league table of Dico's associates.

"You're my favourite, you know that?" She'd obviously got the hint about the small talk.

"Your favourite what?"

Her mouth crinkled into a pink smirk.

"Please excuse me, honey. I have to go and get changed. Help yourself to another drink – I don't mind that you're not old enough for spirits yet. It's so cute."

She left the living room and headed for the bedroom. I watched her go. The former pole dancer looked good tonight, no doubt about it. From her snug outfit I made an idle observation - no panties. I watched her slink across the room. She certainly walked it like she talked it.

I considered Dico more a vice than a friend, but it was enough for me to make all my observations of Sandra from a strictly neutral standpoint. She had been a single parent – impregnated by the local drug dealer – when Dico had more or less rescued her from the ground floor of Mandela House. The kid was twenty now, off serving as cannon-fodder in Helmand or wherever.

I obeyed Sandra's last command and made for the gloss-black drinks cabinet again as Dico returned to the lounge and flopped onto the sofa. I ascribed the total lack of taste in the Dixon marital home to Sandra's sudden improvement in fortunes all those years ago. It looked like an operating theatre in black. You can take the girl out of Peckham, et cetera.

"You really need a homely touch in here," I said, vocalising my thoughts as I poured myself another Irish and one for Dico, noting from the delicate swirls of the bottle's green-and-gold label that it was probably contraband. I hadn't seen anything but plain block-printed white labels since alcohol packaging went the same way as cigarettes.

"Yeah, I know," he said. "That's why I want the pub. Mark my territory. All this," – he waved a hand round the room – "all this is Sandy's work. All this minimalist post-modern bullshit is her idea. It's not me at all."

I handed him the drink, and sat opposite him in the big black leather easy chair that matched the big black leather sofa.

I leaned forward.

"So, what have you got for me?" I asked.

Dico flung something onto the glass-top table, where it landed with a clank. It was a small cellophane bag with a police crest on one side.

"Remember that fiasco with Tariq the other night?" he said.

"Are you kidding? I haven't slept for forty-eight hours." I picked up the bag. It contained a partly-melted vodka bottle and the charred remains of a mobile phone handset.

"Hydrogen peroxide," Dico said. "Mobile phone initiator, with an arming switch in one of the briefcase catches. Not very much, and from what my guy in Special Branch says, pretty crude, but enough to do anyone in a fifty-yard radius."

I turned the bag over in my hand.

"The condensation?"

"Liquid explosive - unstable as fuck. Most likely it was packed with ice to keep it cool, but of course that all evaporated in the blast."

"Jesus. Or should that be Allah?"

Dico pulled a face – yeah right.

"Tariq was no martyr. The only jihad he knew about ran in the two-thirty at Cheltenham. Besides, it was only you, me and a shitload of petroleum. Where's the glory in that? No, that was an assassination attempt, kid, and purely for our benefit."

I sat back and exhaled, fear unwrapping itself on my body again. Holy fucking shit. "Why, for God's sake?"

"Someone somewhere is getting antsy about the new guy I'm bringing in."

"The American?"

"That's right. No one is happy about having to deal with new competition, especially when they think they've got the market cornered."

"The way I hear it, it's the Americans that got us into this. Who is he?"

"His cover is that he's a Wall Street fixer, over to help out in the City."

"In real life?"

"He's my meal ticket. A couple of deals with this guy's hardware and I can retire properly, once and for all."

"Hardware?"

"Yeah, you know. Merchandise."

"Am I right in thinking that you've decided to move up in the world? That why people are trying to singe your eyebrows?"

He shrugged.

"You don't get ahead in this game by making friends."

I still wasn't getting any answers, but by now I wasn't sure I wanted them.

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Nothing major. He's flying into town tomorrow night. I need you to meet him at the terminal and drive him to the airport Travelodge."

I snorted. "You're splashing out."

"He needs to remain incognito. The Hilton's too central. Just pick him up, keep your eyes and ears open and make sure he gets to the hotel safely. Here."

He handed me a slip of paper with the guy's name and flight details on it. I glanced at it briefly, then set my Zippo on the paper and dropped it in the ashtray. It flared for a moment or two, and then died.

"What's the fee?"

"Hundred."

I snorted, and held up the exhibit bag.

"You joking? Hundred quid for this kind of risk?"

"Every little helps."

"If this is your going rate it's no wonder you can afford to retire to the sun."

"Look, it's just a babysitting job. That's all. You want it or not?"

"Reduced to wet nursing your precious new signings," I sighed. "Much more of this and I'll be applying for a job at your bloody furniture shop."

"We could use you." He sat back in the chair, suddenly thoughtful. "Jackson, why don't you leave all this?"

"All this what?"

"This." He waved a hand. "All this cheap hustling crap."

"Don't tell me. Make Something Of Myself?"

"Yeah, nice corporate lifestyle. I know times are tough, but there's got to be any number of decent startup companies in the smoke that would jump at the chance for an ex-cop, especially one with some life left in him. You're young. Life is long. You've got fuckin' 'A' Levels. Why don't you do it?"

"In case you'd forgotten, my ability to lead a conventional life is pretty fucking impossible at present."

Dico's eyes narrowed.

"Hatch?"

"Who else?"

"Well, if you play with matches..."

"Yeah, thanks. I can do without the told-you-sos, Dico."

He shrugged.

"Just trying to give you the benefit of my experience, kid."

I drained the whisky and stood up.

"I'll take it. Tell your man I'll be there."

"Good. Now, give us the bag and fuck off. My man has to get it back to the exhibits store before it's missed, and we've got to get going."

Dico pulled a wad of banknotes from his pocket, and peeled off two twenties and a ten. He thrust them towards me.

"Half down, half on completion."

"Tell me you're joking," I said, for the second time in as many minutes.

"I need to know he's safe."

"I don't believe this."

"It's a hundred quid."

"It's fifty quid. You forgetting I've got to buy my petrol now? This isn't even half a tank."

"Just get him to the hotel, and call me. You drive from there to here, and we'll settle up. Easy."

I stood up, snatching the cash from him.

"Jetta's not getting much this month."

"You still send her money?"

"When I can."

"Look... if anything else comes up, I'll throw it your way, okay? You'll be top of my list."

I regretted bringing it up. It sounded like emotional blackmail, because that's exactly what it was. It wasn't Dico's fault Jetta was a widow. It was my own cross to bear, and charity from Dico was the last thing I wanted in any case. Not out of any sense of pride or principles, but just because he'd never let me forget it.

Sandra emerged from the bedroom, and sat down next to Dico while she finished her hair. She looked fantastic. I looked at the bling on her fingers, and realised that, to keep Mrs Dico in the manner to which she had clearly become accustomed, Dico's scores had to be more than occasional.

"You ready?" Dico asked his wife, then proceeded to clamp his mouth on hers, trapping whatever answer might have been forthcoming.

I whistled.

"I'd better leave you two to it. Where are you off to?"

"Dinner. Sandy wants to renew our vows. We're warming up."

"Well, congratulations. Thanks for the drink, Sandra." I pecked her on the cheek, trying not to inhale her perfume.

"Any time, hun. Be good," she said, a hair clip in her mouth. I opened the front door and saluted them goodbye. I heard them giggling as I walked off down the path, then the door closed and left me alone outside.

I unlocked the BMW and thought about what Dico had said as I drove. Like most of my other conversations with him, it had been one way – all I seemed to do was humour him.

I knew he had more than a few casual staff on his payroll – and doubtless Sandra had sized up every one – but somehow I doubted they all suffered the wisdom of his patriarchal tendencies. Besides, it seemed a bit rich for him to be shepherding me away from a life of crime when he seemed to be doing more than okay out of it.

Only later would I realise that he hadn't been advising me at all.

Far from it.

He'd been warning me, and I would wish I had listened to him.

****

four

I pulled into the short stay car park, and stepped out underneath the shrill overhead lights. I crushed my cigarette underfoot, and headed past gaggles of holidaymakers towards the main arrivals hall of Gatwick's South Terminal.

With what little I had left of the money I bought a coffee and cigarettes. Since my petrol reserve had gone up in smoke, most of Dico's down payment had gone on fuelling up my car. Most people short of a few quid would have stuck it on a credit card, or borrowed from someone else - friends, parents, whatever. I didn't have a credit card, nor were any of the other options open to me. My fiscal options were limited to whatever was in my pocket, and honesty was hitting it hard. I was not yet considering theft, but it was on the horizon.

I looked out across the airfield. Rain pattered lightly against the glass, distorting the bright field of amber cast over everything by the powerfully lit runways.

I scanned the area around me for anything that seemed out of place. A young student-type with a holdall was slowly nodding off to my right, and directly in front of me a bearded man in his fifties was curled up on three seats, fast asleep.

I walked down to the concourse and, with one foot on the rail that separated tired passengers from eager relatives and drivers with name boards, watched the news on a giant screen above my head. Breaking headlines scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

"...NIKKEI INDEX 'TUMBLES IN TAILSPIN' OVERNIGHT..."

A monitor flickered as it refreshed its display. Virgin Atlantic flight VS028 from Orlando began to disembark, and a stream of travellers began to flow out of the arrivals gate.

"...EXPERTS PREDICT FINANCIAL MELTDOWN AS GLOBAL RECESSION LOOMS..."

"I never know what the difference is between 'financial meltdown' and 'recession.' And I'm supposed to be the expert."

The voice came from behind me.

"I don't understand why they can't just print more money," I said, not taking my eyes from the screen.

"You my ride?"

"How did you know?" I turned around to see a short fat man with a houndstooth jacket and yellow shirt standing in front of me. He grinned, showing a row of bad teeth. His jowl wobbled.

"Dico said to look for the guy with the dolphin tiepin and the permanent scowl."

He put down his bags and stuck out a sweaty hand.

"William Kupferberg."

"Jackson Towne."

"Glad to meet you. Dico says you're an ex-cop."

I dropped the handshake and rolled my eyes.

"Dico's a good guy," he said.

"Shame his wallet isn't as big as his mouth."

"Don't worry. Looks like freelance is the best place to be," he said.

"What?"

He nodded at the screen. I turned around to see silent images of a stream of po-faced graduates walking out of some investment bank in Canary Wharf, carrying their possessions in cardboard boxes.

"...THOUSANDS LOSE JOBS AS HEINEMANN BANK CALLS IN THE RECEIVERS..."

"Guess the bonuses and fast cars turned into pumpkins at midnight," Kupferberg said.

"Remind me never to hire Dico as a career adviser," I said, my eyes still on the screen.

"Huh?"

"Nothing." I stepped forward to pick up the suitcase, and froze.

Behind Kupferberg, about fifteen feet away, was a tall, heavily-built man on the cusp of forty. He had a brown haircut you could set your watch by, and he was wearing a navy Berghaus fleece, tartan lumberjack shirt, combats and DMs. He was looking away towards the arrivals gate rather than at us, but that didn't mean anything.

Cop.

Definitely a cop.

He didn't look armed, but his outfit was bulky, and I couldn't tell for sure. I thought back rapidly - if some bright spark senior officer had called the Greenwich explosion as a potential terrorist incident, then it might attract the kind of resources that I was staring at right now. I certainly didn't have anything else outstanding on my sheet that warranted this kind of covert attention.

There were no other tell-tale signs - no radio earpiece or anything - but the fucker stood out like a pube in a sherry trifle. He may as well have been in uniform. I didn't recognise him, but if he was surveillance, Trident, or even SO15, then there was no reason that I would have. And although the Met kept a close eye on the big ports, Gatwick was the South East Regional Police's patch.

I inched closer to Kupferberg, and gently took hold of his elbow as I inclined my mouth to his ear.

"Mr Kupferberg, we have to go. Now," I whispered.

"What is it?" he said, pulling away slightly.

I pulled him back.

"There's a cop about ten feet away from us. Don't look. We'll just walk away normally, towards the exit doors." I made to take the briefcase from him, but he pulled it out of my reach.

"I'll take it, if you don't mind," he said.

"Fine. This way - I'm parked in the short stay."

I steered him in the right direction, using his body to hide me from the surveillance officer until I had my back to him. We walked across the concourse, a stupid smile of bewilderment on Kupferberg's fat face.

The concourse narrowed by the railway station entrance. Opposite the station gates was a pharmacy, on the corner of a row of shops. I stopped, and pulled at Kupferberg's sleeve so he did the same.

"What is it?" he asked.

I ignored him, and instead made a show of scanning through a revolving newspaper stand. I chanced a look at the cop.

He was on one knee, tying a shoelace. Still no sign that he was armed, but as he rose he spoke into his fist.

"Oh, shit," I muttered.

"What is it?" Kupferberg asked again.

"Look, Mr Kupferberg, given your associations, I don't imagine you're any more keen on making the acquaintance of the police than I am. But unless you want your picture taken with a British bobby from the inside of a cell, shut up and do what I tell you."

He nodded, worry spreading over his face.

"Okay, take the cases, and walk normally to the exit doors. Over there, by the Airtours check-in desk."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't get paid unless I get you to the hotel. If I don't even get you out of the airport I will probably have to repay the advance, which will piss me off. So go."

He sloped off.

I scanned the row of shops, my heart thumping. I tried to look normal, but it was getting difficult. The urge to run was overwhelming. Having been on the other side, I'd never understood why criminals tried to run when surrounded by police, when the odds where so stacked against them. In the last four years it had become a bit clearer, although it had nothing to do with sense.

Kupferberg got level with the Airtours desk, and waited obediently. He turned around to face me, but just as I was about to catch his eye, there was a shout, and my view of him was obliterated by a herd of travellers. They converged on the desk next to Airtours, apparently from nowhere, and their number quickly multiplied to a couple of hundred. There was more shouting, which turned to baying, and the general mood had the potential to go badly wrong.

A terrified-looking holiday rep rushed past me, accompanied by a security guard.

"Hey," I said, touching the guard's sleeve as he passed. "What's going on?"

"Tour operator's just folded," he called over his shoulder. "These people aren't getting their holiday."

My good fortune, I thought. My eyes came to rest on a luggage outlet, and an idea came to me, one to double the confusion nicely.

I paid for the cheapest briefcase I could find. It cost twenty quid. That was me cleaned out. I cursed Dico under my breath, and hoped Kupferberg had enough for dinner for two.

Sorry, Jetta.

I declined a carrier bag with a smile, and bit the price tags off the case as soon as I was out of the shop, making sure the cop wasn't in sight.

I used the shop's south entrance to leave so I was on the other side of the concourse. I waited until one of the airport security guards was in view, and then knelt down to tie up my shoelace, placing the case on the floor next to me, near an escalator.

I stood up, leaving the case on the floor where it was, and hurried over to the security guard.

"Excuse me, excuse me, sir," I panted, pointing over at the escalator. "Someone has left a bag over there. I think it might be a bomb."

I said this deliberately loudly, and caught the attention of several passing passengers. The guard looked around nervously, as if I'd just said Father Christmas didn't exist in front of his four year-old daughter.

It wasn't quite panic, but it was good enough. The guard didn't know whether to run towards the bag or away from it, but the ripples of unease spread through the crowds like wildfire. There was no screaming, but a sudden surge of movement.

Once the guard's colleagues and the regular uniformed police patrols arrived at the location, there was a sufficient mix of confusion, morbid curiosity and panic for me to walk calmly over to where Kupferberg was waiting without having to worry about the cop having spotted me.

I chanced a look over my shoulder. I couldn't see him, so I took Kupferberg's arm and led him to the exit channel. We walked briskly along the corridor to the car park. I heard a muffled tannoy announcement from behind me - the only word I caught was 'evacuate.'

I smiled to myself.

We made it to the exit and towards the lifts. Kupferberg was grimacing and clutching his side.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's just my stomach..." He rooted around in his briefcase and popped a couple of antacids. "Guddam ulcer."

The lift arrived. The doors slid open and we stepped inside.

"What do you do, exactly?" I said as the doors slid shut.

"I guess you'd call me a... troubleshooter."

"What kind of trouble do you shoot?"

"Ask a lot of questions, dontcha?"

I shrugged.

The lift juddered to a halt. We stepped out, and walked to the car. I put his case in the boot, and opened the door for him.

We drove out of the airport.

"Dico's in the market. He's broadening his horizons and needs good people around him. I guess that's why you work for him. You did a nice job with the cop."

We drove past the set-down area, where hundreds of people were being shepherded outside - a supposedly safe distance from where I had dumped the bag.

"It's not hard to outwit the police," I said. "Just do something they're not expecting."

"Well, you'd know. So how come you're not a cop any more?"

I said nothing, hoping he'd get the hint.

"I'd say the public sector's the safest place to be in this day and age. So at your age, I'm guessing you either decided to get out and look for something that paid better, or you got kicked out." He turned to me, a slit-eyed grin on his sallow face. "And judging by the contempt you showed for those jobless bankers, I'd guess it was the latter."

I shrugged.

"So?"

"So what did you do? To get thrown out?"

"Nothing I want to share with you."

The BMW thundered underneath a brightly-lit underpass. The thudding sound of the engine echoed around us briefly, and then we were back onto the carriageway, pinpoints of airport lights twinkling out of the window. An aeroplane dwindled to a speck on the horizon, and the lights lining the road blipped over the car.

We arrived at the Travelodge. I parked the BMW in the drop-off area outside the front, behind a taxi. I hung back in the deep blue foyer while Kupferberg checked in at the desk.

My mobile phone rang. I never save numbers to mobile phones. I memorise the ones I need. It can save a lot of aggro further down the line. This number I recognised as Dico, although I'd guessed that before I looked at it.

"Yes, dear?"

"Have you got him?" Dico said.

I looked over at the desk at Kupferberg, who was simultaneously trying to rub his ulcerated stomach with one hand and sign for the room with the other.

"The acidic Jew? Yes, I've got him."

"Look after him. And listen to what he says. You could learn something."

I ended the call as Kupferberg finished poncing about, and took his case up to the room.

I dumped the case in the hallway and dropped my keys on the table. He walked past me into the room and picked up the phone.

"Mind if I just use your bathroom?" I asked.

"Sure. You want a coffee? I'm calling room service."

"No thanks," I said, and closed the door of the bathroom behind me. I urinated, washed my hands and face, and then stared at myself in the mirror, resisting the urge to pull faces at my reflection.

Twenty-nine. The age when most of my contemporaries would be getting serious – in work, in prosperity, in relationships. That age when success becomes measured in bullet-point lists as their generation prepares to assume ownership of the world.

At this particular stage in the game I could offer little more than a thick mop of black hair and a slightly mad, Travis Bickle-stare. My skin was pale from four years of hiding, and the blue-tinged light left no shadows. Not many white men can boast a head of pure-black hair, however, which I ascribed to some intertwined European ancestry that I would never know about. An old girlfriend had once described me as an illegitimate cross between Cillian Murphy and Jeremy Renner. In any case, the contrast was inescapable. Black and white, yin and yang, light and dark - staring back at me from the mirror.

I turned off the light and left the bathroom, drying my hands on a paper towel. Kupferberg was flicking through some muted TV channels. The briefcase was open on his lap, his hands hidden by the open lid.

"I'll be off then," I said, still drying my hands.

He didn't reply, but produced a brutal-looking .45 and pointed it at my face. The light glinted on the weapon's mirror-like chrome surface.

Having a gun pointed at you is a curiously numbing experience. Fear, panic, loss of bodily control, an irresistible urge to shield one's eyes – these all feature at one point or another. Anger comes later, if at all. For me, there were all these things, plus a strange sense of relief, and a long-established determination to never let the bastards see how scared you are.

"Come on, then. Do it. You'd be doing me a favour." I crumpled the paper towel and tossed it into a nearby bin.

He frowned. I was pinned by the empty black hole at the end of the barrel, but this was not the first time I'd been threatened with a firearm, and fear then gave way to logic. He may have been salesman of the month, but he was no marksman. It was a big, clumsy weapon and he was only holding it with one hand. Even at a distance of ten or so feet, he could still miss.

I took a step towards him. He grinned and turned the briefcase around. It contained three similarly shiny pistols, all nestled comfortably in the salesman's briefcase of demo samples.

The exciting events of the last few days suddenly made a little more sense, as did Dico's evasive attempts to explain them. The surveillance cop at the airport was probably Op Trident.

"How did you get it through Customs?" I asked, pointing at the case. "The Border Agency has retinal scans, thumbprints, state-of-the-art search arches and the best CCTV you'll get outside the security services. Things aren't what they used to be. What's the trick?"

"The hell with the coffee," he said, replacing the .45 and closing the lid of the briefcase. "You want to get a drink?"

"No, forget it," I said. "My job is done - I got you here safely. I'm not that interested in the details."

"Whatever you say, pal. How much was this gig worth?"

"Enough."

"Let's get a drink. We can talk business."

I capitulated and he stood up. As he walked past me I grabbed his tie and slammed him up against the wall, clamping my other hand around his fleshy neck.

Not a marksman, not a fighter. He clawed at my hands and hissed as I squeezed.

"Don't ever point a gun at me again," I said, keeping my voice level. He managed a weak nod, and I released him.

Once he'd got his breath back we walked down to the hotel bar. It was a dimly-lit, soulless place. Two or three sole businessmen sat alone at tables, punching data furiously into their laptops, connected to the whole world yet still alone in this godforsaken stopover a stone's throw from the airport. Since the police kicked me out, I'd been scraping a living from jobs with varying degrees of legality. In four years the work had brought me to many lonely hotels and darkened bars like this one, and in each one I'd seen various incarnations of the lone travelling businessman. I looked over at one of them, his look of serious concentration framed by a square of light projected onto his face by the laptop.

We sat at the bar. Kupferberg bought double whiskies with Budweiser chasers. I frowned. The hired help wasn't used to this much generosity, and I was instantly suspicious.

"Planning a big session?" I said, nodding at the row of drinks.

"This one's for the ride," he said, tapping the beer, "and this one's for pointing a gun at you. My bad, okay?"

Something wasn't sitting right, and although I hadn't really believed he was going to shoot me, it was hard to shift the image of the gun barrel in my face.

"What do you want, Mr Kupferberg?"

"Dico said you're a good man - reliable, competent, careful. A professional. We need people like that."

"Did he now? I'm honoured."

"He also said your sarcasm gets on his nerves, but that he can live with it because it's better than shooting your mouth off."

I buttoned it.

"You looking for work?"

"I'm always looking for work."

Kupferberg slid his business card across the bar to me.

"We got a job for you."

"Go on."

"It's more than you've taken on before, but Dico reckons you can handle it."

"So why isn't Dico talking to me about it?"

"He will. We're a team here, but you'll be doing it for me."

"What is it?"

"It's a hit."

A beat.

I inhaled.

"How much?" I croaked.

"Ten grand."

A tall man in a black suit walked up to the bar and stood behind Kupferberg. I nodded slightly. Kupferberg got the message, and stopped talking. The guy ordered his drink, and the barman served it. The two of them made small talk, and the guy turned to go.

Kupferberg sipped his beer. "Dico will give you all the details, but I..."

He stopped talking, and his voice tailed off in a wheeze.

Later I would wonder how long it had taken me to realise he'd been stabbed. Probably less than a second, but it seemed like longer.

The colour just drained from his face, like someone had switched him to monochrome, and his expression sagged in shock.

The guy in the black suit hadn't even changed pace. I barely noticed him leave the bar. You need a fair amount of force to drive a blade through a person's flesh, requiring the kind of sudden movement you would probably notice in a quiet bar - the kind of ambient movement I'd been trained to watch out for as a cop. The moment when drunken bravado outside a nightclub becomes a full-on brawl.

But I hadn't seen it. Just the guy in the black suit turning and walking past, about the same time that Kupferberg turned white and collapsed forwards. When I replayed it later, as I would do many times, I did recall a brief, unexpected movement, but the guy could have been stretching, or extending his arm to reveal his watch so he could check the time. There had been movement, but not enough to galvanise my reactions. Kupferberg was already bleeding out while his assailant melted out of this dive hotel.

I half caught Kupferberg as he fell forwards onto the floor, and wrapped him in a bear hug as I tried to lower him carefully onto his back. One of my hands was around a love handle, and I could feel blood pumping out between my fingers.

"Jesus... Jesus Christ. Kupferberg? Are you okay? Help! I need some help over here."

I didn't look up, but I sensed no movement in my peripheral vision, and I guessed that the lonely businessmen in the bar hadn't yet realised what had happened, or they were rooted to the spot. The barman was nowhere to be seen.

Kupferberg's eyes were blinking haphazardly, like he had something in them. Blood had completely soaked his horrible yellow shirt and houndstooth jacket combo. I ripped the shirt open to get a better idea of the wounds, but the huge amount of blood made it difficult to tell.

There were two wounds that I could find, both to the mid-torso. One was making a sucking noise, which was bad news. Punctured lung, most likely.

How? How the hell had this guy stabbed Kupferberg twice with such little fuss? As I tried to apply pressure to the wounds I felt the unpleasant realisation that this was a professional hit, which by turns meant it was a bad idea to hang around.

"I don't feel very good," Kupferberg hissed. "I'm cold."

"I'm not surprised. You're pissing claret like a garden sprinkler," I said, realising as I said it that this might not comfort a dying man. "Don't worry, you'll be fine," I added, without much conviction.

"I'll... I'll call an ambulance," muttered a fat businessman who had wandered a little closer, although still keeping his distance.

"No!" I said. Mistake. The guy looked surprised, and then suspicious, and then afraid. "No... I mean, there's no point. He's had it."

Kupferberg groaned.

I tried to think. My car was outside in the drop-off zone. I had taken off the cloned plates once we'd left the airport, and hadn't bothered to put them back on before we got to the hotel. If this was a professional hit, then it seemed safe to assume that chummy would have disabled the hotel's CCTV system beforehand.

Or maybe he wouldn't have. I couldn't depend on it, and my car would be a pretty strong lead once the video footage showed the deceased getting out of it. So a hasty exit was not an option.

I had to sit tight.

Thankfully, Kupferberg's assailant had already left the scene and had used a knife rather than a firearm. This meant that the first responders would likely just be local plod. A firearm would have meant helicopters, armed officers, containment, negotiators - all kinds of worry-inducing measures. Of course, once Kupferberg took his last breath they would call in the CID and treat it as murder, but I could buy myself a little time before that.

When the first of the flashing blue lights appeared outside the hotel lobby, I was relieved to see it was an ambulance. A couple of paramedics rushed in and tried to stabilise the bleeding American while I babbled on about my first aid attempts. Fortunately for me, he was still alive, which meant that the cops' attention would be divided equally between the hospital and the hotel. If he'd died on the spot, I'd have never got out. Detectives hate it when this happens - what they would have really liked was for the paramedics just to let him die in situ so they could get on with the business and not risk losing any evidence from the body being in transit. All this life-saving stuff just gets in the way of the investigation.

A couple of patrol officers hurried in as the ambulance was leaving - Christ, they looked younger than me. One slowed suddenly when he saw the blood on the floor, but the other was pretty good. He ushered everyone away from his 'scene,' as he put it, and then went about canvassing everyone in the bar. The other one started to roll out some blue tape around the bar and then the outer building.

I feigned a blend of shock and hysteria - which, thankfully, did not take much pretence.

"I don't know... I don't know what happened, sir," I blathered. "We were just sitting having a drink, then this other guy appeared out of nowhere and went for him."

"Can you describe the other man?" the cop asked, scribbling in his notebook.

"Not really. White man, tall, dark suit. That's it, really."

"How do you know the victim?"

"I don't know him - he's just a fare. I'm a minicab driver. I picked him up at Gatwick and drove him here. He offered me a drink."

"Your name, sir?"

"It's, er, Sam. Samuel Easter. Here's my card."

I handed him a business card with a bunch of fake details for the cover I tended to use.

"I thought he'd just hit him. I didn't realise he'd been stabbed. Oh, Christ!" I looked down at the blood on my hands and began to wail. The patrol officer took pity on me and got me a seat and a glass of water.

The cop was good, dammit. He swabbed some blood samples from my hands and then allowed me to clean the blood off them. Once he'd sorted me out, he told me to sit tight and then spoke into his radio.

I caught the words 'serious,' 'professional' and 'organised.' This I took as my cue to leave. I did not want to be around when the CID arrived, especially if Kupferberg died in the interim. I slipped out of a fire exit. The cops did not notice, or if they did, they didn't care - they already had a name.

Once in my car and back on the motorway, the adrenaline almost wiped me out, and I had to pull over. My hand went to the tiepin on my lapel - inadvertently covering my heart as I did so - and I felt a little better. The amount of self-control needed to pretend to be a witness was huge, but it was always worth it. Based on my co-operative demeanour the cop had simply recorded my name and not checked my identity or anything like that. This gave me a pretty good head start - especially because I'd have been prime suspect if I'd done a runner, for that reason alone.

I was nervous. The two gimps at the retail park, and now Dico's hatchet man, who hadn't survived longer than two hours beyond getting his passport stamped. There was some big heat closing in fast from somewhere, and it seemed sensible to get some distance between myself and the business.

I wondered about the cop at the airport. We'd lost him, but how long would it take for the systems to cross-reference us against the incident at the hotel? Local officers would have no idea of a surveillance operation, but the CID would marry it up eventually and then have some questions. I'd bought myself enough to get out of the hotel, but that was it. The unmistakable ham-fisted knocking of a detective at my door could still be expected.

I wasn't happy about a surveillance operation on my tail. I was small fry, and it was not helping my livelihood. Likewise Dico, who, although higher up the food chain, was hardly John Gotti.

I suddenly felt like live bait. I took the next exit off the motorway, and headed towards Dico's place. While it would have been sensible to try a few tactics to avoid leading them to Dico, I was both pissed off with him and unconvinced that the surveillance team had yet re-established their tail.

Plus he owed me fifty quid.

****

five

The house was in darkness. I banged on the front door. After a few minutes Dico opened it a crack, wearing only pyjama bottoms. The whisky fumes came off him in waves.

"Dico?"

"Yeah?"

Something was clearly wrong, but fuck it. Me first.

"We've got a big problem. You need to pack."

He said nothing.

"Are you going to let me in, or what?"

He pushed the door open and sauntered off to the lounge. I followed him in. He collapsed on the sofa and began to chug from a partly-demolished bottle of Wild Turkey – pretty label, more contraband. I looked around.

The place was a far cry from the domestic bliss that had reigned earlier. Now it looked like something else with 'domestic' in the title. Crockery and glasses lay in pieces on the floor. A floor lamp had been upended. The big black leather easy chair was now on its back.

"Well, your pal Kupferberg showed me his merchandise," I said. "At least now I know why hanging around with you is getting less appealing by the day."

"It's nothing, kid. A few guns."

"Where are they ending up, I wonder?"

"Don't worry about it. It's nothing that's going to worry the UN."

"It's a dirty fucking business, Dico, whichever way you slice it."

I righted the lamp and switched it on. As Dico raised the bottle, his fist curled around the neck, I saw the cuts to his knuckles.

"Listen, Dico, we don't have a lot of time. Trident were all over Kupferberg at the airport, and..."

"She left me, Jackson," Dico interrupted.

"What? Sandra?"

"We get to the restaurant, yeah? We're sitting down, holding hands. I ask her if she's wearing panties, she tells me she's leaving me."

"Jesus."

"I had a fucking brochure with me. For ocean cruises. I was trying to take the renewing-the-vows thing seriously. Then this."

"You didn't knock her about, did you?"

He burped. "Self-defence."

"Could... could anyone have called the police?"

"Doubt it. No one would have heard, not out here."

"What about her?"

He shook his head.

"Are you sure? Cops are the last thing you need right now."

"Guess what else? She's mugged me off for some fucking geezer in the City. Some banker. She had the nerve to tell me that."

I sat down opposite him, and spoke slowly and softly.

"Dico, listen to me. I'm sorry for your troubles, I really am. But - and I'll try to use words of one syllable here - we are in deep shit. Kupferberg is dead. He was sliced and diced, right in front of me. Not only that, but there were surveillance cops all over us at the airport. Now I wish I hadn't shaken them off."

Dico finally looked me in the eye. He didn't speak for a long time.

"You don't get paid, then."

Ordinarily this would have got my blood up, but at that point robbing a bank for some cash seemed safer.

"I think you may have underestimated how strongly your new-found friends want to eliminate their competitors. I'm hoping that's the reason he didn't go for me. Warning shot. What the fuck are you into here?"

Dico covered his face with his hands.

"I love her, kid."

A flash-frame of Sandra's breasts appeared in my mind, but I tried to maintain at least a semblance of concern.

"Come on, Dico. I mean - are you that surprised?"

"I lived for her, Jackson. I've got no reason to do anything. I just..." He went silent.

"I know you don't want to hear this, but your marriage licence had a few points on it, you know what I mean? I mean, it was only a matter of time, really..."

"Fuck you!" he slurred, launching himself off the sofa to swing a fist in my direction. Being on the receiving end of a Dico Dixon haymaker would have been about as much fun as a car crash, but fortunately I saw it coming a mile off. I ducked underneath it and brought my knee up into his solar plexus.

It winded him badly. He collapsed in a pile and began dry-retching. I picked up his wallet from the glass coffee table and withdrew a few twenties.

"This is a loan, okay?" I said. "You'll get it back. I just do not have a bean."

He puked on the carpet. It sounded like he was yelling at it.

"When you've sobered up, I advise you to pack a bag and disappear for a while, at least until I work out what's going on."

As I made to go, he wheezed my name. I turned to look at him.

"Fuck's sake."

Like an exasperated parent, I turned and went up to the bedroom. I stuffed a load of Dico's clothes into a holdall, and followed it up with shaving stuff and some cash from his bedside drawer.

In a shoe box on top of the wardrobe was an assortment of old photographs of him and Sandra – nice ones, of them on holiday and stuff. There were even some love letters.

Underneath these was a gun; the Glock that Dico had brought to the meeting with Tariq. I checked under the barrel – the serial number had been scrubbed. I thought for a moment, then added it to the holdall, along with some rounds I found in a make-up bag.

I slung the holdall over my shoulder and went downstairs. Dico, mercifully, had stopped throwing up, so I hooked one of his massive arms around my neck and hauled him out to the BMW.

"Vomit in my car and I'll murder you," I said.

"I want... my bed," he groaned, as I dumped him in the passenger seat.

"No way," I said. "You can't stay here. You don't know she - or someone - didn't call the police. That's the last thing you need. Not only that, but you're assuming she left you. With all the crap that's going on, it's just as likely someone's got to her."

I turned to look at him. His eyes widened as my words registered, and then he passed out.

There was a slim manila file poking out of his inside pocket. I leaned forward so my mouth was near his ear.

"The first wife is the cheapest..." I sang softly, to the tune of Cat Stevens.

Dico only snored.

I carefully removed the file, uncurled it and had a look at the papers inside.

My breathing got heavy.

Kupferberg hadn't been lying about a hit. The details were right there in my hands. Name, photograph, home address, workplace and a log detailing the results of some amateur surveillance. There were even some observations about the best time and place to do the kill undetected.

Kupferberg's words were still lingering in my brain.

The job. The money.

But... more than that. The accolade.

Professional.

I pulled out his business card, my fingers brushing the dolphin as I did so.

Professional.

This was my opportunity.

I started the car, and that glorious 2.5 litre turbo-injected straight-six growled into life. I turned in Dico's driveway, and speared it onto the night road.

A chance for redemption.

My first kill.

****

six

I don't know why the cop stopped us. Best guess was that Dico's bare gorilla arm, swathed in tribal tattoos and resting on the sill of the open window, just piqued his curiosity.

When the blue lights appeared in my rear-view, my stomach sank. We had taken back roads from Westerham and joined the M23 somewhere up near Redhill. We were in Surrey - but only just - and so I had a horrible feeling they were bordersnakes. The trouble I had escaped at Gatwick was less than ten miles south, but while the airport was technically in Sussex, county policing these days was meaningless. The Met's road police, however, had a tendency to insidiously patrol in and out of their own territory along the motorway corridors that surrounded the capital. This was not strictly official, but after the 2015 regional mergers, a national road police force was inevitable, and so the Met – as always – wanted to be ahead of the game.

My BMW was as near to clean as it could get. New plates. Insured in a false name. Even if some hot-shot detective had joined the dots, no way would the rank-and-file have picked it up yet.

Minor traffic infringements didn't bother me, not like they do your average Middle Englander. Fines, taxes, registration requirements – an assortment of bureaucracy intended to keep you in line. If Average Joe gets a parking ticket or a fine for an overdue tax disc, he pays it. He might complain and argue a bit, but he will pay it. Because he has to.

But if you're outside the loop, like me, it's a bit different. I get a parking ticket, I ignore it. Then the reminders come, with the fine getting bigger each time, and then the summons. Now, I move around a lot. I use different IDs, so a summons hitting the mat is pretty unlikely, and even if it did, who's to say I'm the person it's addressed to? Besides, I'd seen the queues at the county court. The revenues from parking fines were just one way of making more money, but in this day and age, fewer and fewer people felt inclined to pay them. The system was logjammed, which meant more were slipping through the net.

But let's just say I do end up in court. I have no auditable source of income. I say I can't pay it. The magistrate with her M&S two-piece and comfortable shoes will roll her eyes with maternal impatience, and give me another chance. Or she'll say - based on my abject unemployability - pay a pound a week or something equally ridiculous. I don't pay it, there's a tiny possibility – depending on who I've failed to pay – that I'll end up in custard. But only a tiny possibility, and only for a matter of weeks. And I can do prison time. It doesn't bother me.

That's the worst case scenario. And it isn't that bad by any stretch. But for Mr Average Joe, it just isn't an option, because he has a job, a mortgage, a statutory requirement to be clean. He doesn't have the guts to just let it play and test the system a bit. My advice? Do nothing. Go slack. Be as passive and unhelpful as possible. You might just be surprised at just how much civil enforcement relies on your willing participation. You might find it quite liberating.

The cop appeared at my window. No hat. I breathed a sigh of relief. Not a bordersnake - no way the traffic cops go anywhere without their stupid white lids.

I wound the window down.

"Smells like a brewery in here." He grinned.

"It's not me, officer. My mate's had a skinful."

We both looked over at Dico, who was sparko in the passenger seat."Don't be offended if I don't take your word for it," the cop said, waving a breathalyser.

I stood on the roadside as he did his spiel, and then I blew obediently into the little machine.

He made small talk while the machine computed the result.

"Late one?"

"Yeah."

"Where you off to?"

"Home," I said.

"Where's that?"

"London."

Small talk, my arse. His radio crackled into life on his lapel. A line of sweat broke out across my brow. Was this a put-up? Experience told me otherwise, but you never know.

The temperature suddenly seemed to drop a few degrees as I remembered that Dico's Glock was sitting quietly in the boot of the car. I felt my sinuses clear and my pulse double, but tried not to show it. It was just a traffic stop, so unless they had a fantastic bit of intelligence from somewhere, they had no reason to go rummaging around in the boot.

I quickly scanned the northbound and southbound lanes, and the darkness beyond the hard shoulder. Suddenly I could hear the detective in his office pulling strings – just pull him over. Traffic stop. Keep it simple. Ruffle his feathers. You never know what you might find.

I peered into the car. Dico was still out of it. Hold it together, Jackson.

The breathalyser bleeped. It came up zero.

"Can I go now?"

The cop nodded slowly, my eagerness making him suspicious.

"Hey," he called.

I turned.

"You've got a headlight out."

Definitely not traffic. Bordersnakes would have booked me up for that one.

*

Mildly unnerved by the episode with the local cop, I stopped on the hard shoulder and threw Dico's Glock into the darkness.

At Heathrow I turned off the M25 onto the M4, the elevated portion of the Great West Road snaking east over the city, giant billboards and brightly lit office blocks rising up from the unseen earth below. It was a clear night, and the glass-fronted buildings reflected the moon and the navy sky in their smooth surfaces.

They housed financial institutions, pharmaceutical conglomerates and manufacturing giants. Most were in darkness, the occasional square of light dotted around the glass hulls like the blocks in a crossword puzzle, and I couldn't help noticing the concentration of enormous banners that adorned most of the buildings:

OFFICE SPACE TO LET

VACANT

ALL ENQUIRIES

It seemed the Golden Mile had lost some of its sheen. Only nine months earlier, a huge, seven-storey showroom for a well-known German car manufacturer, whose powerfully-lit glass frontage was visible from the road, had opened amidst much fanfare. This was both for the sheer magnificence of the modern architecture, contents that went way beyond any normal car showroom and untold promise for the consumer. Even this was now dark and empty, the glass frontage whitewashed and covered with the letting agent's posters.

I didn't want to imagine what darkness lay, far below the flyover, at the unseen foot of these once-heaving temples of commerce.

Toscanini's namesake was a charming little Italian restaurant off Ealing Broadway. The streets were quiet when we arrived, taxis and a night bus my only company on the road, and the restaurant was already closed. I pressed my nose to the glass and peered in. There were no signs of life beyond the little round tables in the window with the red-and-white checked tablecloths and the carafes covered in candle wax.

For a minute I wondered if Toscanini's had gone out of business as well, but then remembered he'd also got himself a gig as understudy chef sous de partie at some one-stop shop for geriatrics on the outskirts of London. They kept him on retainer for whenever they needed him – quite how he managed that one I don't know.

His flat was only a mile or so away, off Hanger Lane. I carried on past Ealing Broadway Underground station and parked outside his apartment block. It was a white stucco building, lit on all sides by powerful ground lamps, with green edges on the doorframes, window sills and balustrades. It was set in some carefully-tended grounds, and the lawn stretched a couple of hundred yards or so back to where it met the railway line.

I dragged Dico from the car. The green-and-white theme continued indoors, with the narrow entrance hallway and stairwell covered with ceramic tiles that made me think of a swimming pool. With not inconsiderable difficulty I hawked Dico up three flights of stairs to Toscanini's floor.

He did not look happy to see us. He answered the door bare-chested, his mobile in one hand and a clean nappy in the other. There was a sprinkling of dark stubble on his face, and the small St Christopher around his neck caught the dim yellow light from the stairwell.

He was still a dead ringer for Rafael Nadal, even with the shaven head, and his intelligent brown eyes were both suspicious and anxious.

"What... are you doing here?" he said in Oxford-cloth English.

"Christ, Tosca. When did you become a father?" I said.

"Eleven weeks ago."

"Your missus isn't here, is she?"

"She is sleeping."

"Good. Give me a hand with Dico."

He started to protest, then thought better of it. He helped me dump the huge galoot on the sofa in the living room, then disappeared into the baby's bedroom.

"Why don't these bloody places have lifts?" I said, pulling Dico's boots off. They were like Viking longboats.

"What's going on?" he said as he came back to the living room, this time feeding a small white bundle in his arms from a bottle. Some strands of black hair poked out of the top of the bundle, and the baby gurgled happily while it drank.

"Domestic. Him and Sandra. She left him, he threw a few fucks into her before she left. Silly twit. Had to get him out in case she called the police."

I decided to keep the story basic. Too many details would have just complicated matters.

Dico groaned, a loud mooing noise that sounded like a profanity.

"So what the hell is wrong with your place?" Tosca hissed, his eyes darting towards the closed bedroom door. "You live about ten minutes down the road."

"You don't even want to know," I said, collapsing onto an armchair. "Got a beer, Tosca?"

"Kitchen," he said.

I went to the kitchen and found a box of Rolling Rock in the fridge. Proper Rolling Rock, with the lovely green and blue labels. More contraband. I took four bottles to the living room and handed a couple to Tosca.

"I didn't know you could still get these," I said. "Thought they'd gone out of business like every other bloody thing."

"You just need to know who to ask," he said. It didn't surprise me. Tosca was valuable to Dico and countless others because of his connections and ability to source pretty much anything you wanted.

"Dico can sleep it off here," he said, "but you must be gone before Elena wakes up."

"Consider it done," I said. "Hey, I heard you were trying stay clean."

"I have a family now."

"Dico will be gutted. Your restaurant must be doing well."

"Not really," he said. "But I've branched out into takeaways. No one is eating out these days. People stay in. Pizza delivery does well during hard times."

"That a fact?" I said, and the conversation fizzled out from there.

We drank in silence, me thinking at ninety miles an hour, him knowing there was far more going on than he knew; wanting to know, but not wanting to find himself wading into a conspiracy.

"So what now?" he asked.

I didn't take my eyes from the unconscious Dico. Neither did he.

I stood up and stretched.

"Fuck it," I said. "I'm going to the movies."

*

It was a midnight rerun of Heat, showing in Hammersmith. I'd seen it before. Michael Mann's neon cityscapes usually had me enthralled, but that night all I could think was - I wish I was in De Niro's crew. They were proper professionals, not like the amateur bunch of fucking clowns Dico was running. And even when De Niro gets caught, it's because he allows it to happen, because he wants it to happen. No way would it have happened against his will.

We weren't in that position.

I hurried out of the auditorium and lit a cigarette. I am not a nicotine addict. In fact, truth be told, I don't even like smoking that much. But I am addicted to it for other reasons. I like smoking. It helps me say 'fuck you.'

The harsh lights of the foyer made me screw up my eyes. Like an addict going cold turkey, it took a moment to come back to reality. At first I couldn't take it, and I had to rush past the exodus of customers and their asinine post-movie debriefs.

A steady rain had started during the movie. I walked slowly through it, across the car park. Once I was in the car, I felt better. I headed back towards Ealing. I tried to picture my own face in my mind, but I couldn't remember it; all I saw was De Niro's. I pulled the rear-view towards me. I didn't like what I saw, so I punched the mirror away; it twisted diagonally up towards the ceiling.

I opened the window and the rain blew in, spattering my face. It was cold. The sky rumbled, thunder rippling across its belly.

I needed drink. I wanted to lose myself among the drinkers, I wanted to paint myself a backdrop in every crooked bar I could find. But at this time of night that meant pitching up in the West End, and as I didn't have a pot to piss in and I'd suddenly become Dico's bloody chaperone, I put off the bender for another night.

I let myself into Toscanini's flat using the key he'd given me. It was dark and silent. Dico was still out of it in the front room.

I went over to Toscanini's rather impressive vinyl collection and put on some Oscar Peterson at a low volume.

I pinched another Rolling Rock from the fridge and sat opposite Dico. When Night Train closed he snapped awake and sat bolt upright on the sofa.

"What the fuck!..." he cried.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. I slapped him hard across the face, more out of fright than anything else.

"Would you shut the fuck up?" I hissed. "You'll wake the baby."

He turned to me, as if seeing me for the first time. His hand went to his head. Outside, the storm began to take hold, and a steady sheet of rain fell against the window. It sounded like misplaced applause.

"Oh, flaming Christ, my head. What's going on?"

"We're at Tosca's place."

"We're in London?"

"I had to get you out. There's all kinds of shit going on. You knocking Sandra about didn't help, especially if she went to the cops."

"She wouldn't do that... oh, Sandy. Where is she?"

"I don't know."

"Is she okay?"

"I don't know."

He began to cry.

"Oh great. You're still pissed."

I went to the kitchen to make coffee for him. When I returned, he was on the balcony, looking out at the trains as they eased in and out of Ealing Broadway.

"You jump, you're on your own," I said.

"You've got to do it, kid," he said, his voice disappearing out into the night.

I swallowed.

"What?"

"The job Kupferberg gave you. You have to do it."

He turned, and ducked back into the room. I handed him the coffee.

"Sit down," he said.

I obeyed, like a tit in a trance.

"So you do remember," I said eventually.

"Fuck me, Jackson, I can hold a drink. I ought to knock your block off, winding me like that. Feel like I've done a hundred sit-ups. What time is it?"

"Three."

I lit a cigarette for him. His face was solemn and tear-stained.

"What did he tell you?" Dico asked.

"Nothing at all. Just that there was someone that needed... eliminating."

"This ain't James-fucking-Bond," he said. "Don't mince your words. We need someone dead. Murdered. In the ground."

"Yeah, all right, I get the idea. I found your directive."

I held up the slim manila file I had taken from his pocket the night before.

"Christ, what are you still doing with that?" he said. "I told you this ain't a film. The bloody thing ain't going to self-destruct in ten seconds."

I took my lighter out, then thought better of it.

"I need it," I said, slipping them inside my pocket. "Photograph. I'll ditch it later."

He shrugged.

"What did she do?" I asked.

"The fuck are you talking about - 'what did she do?' It's none of your concern. You do the job, you take the money. End of."

"Christ, you're tetchy when you're hungover."

He took a deep breath, and ran his hands through his mullet.

"I ain't saying much. Suffice to say, this is another fine mess she's got us into. Kupferberg, cops, fucking bomb-in-a-briefcase assassinations. It's all down to her. You want a quiet life, you do the job. Now, I'm not saying another word. Are you going to do it or not?"

"Are you going to pay me this time?"

His eyes narrowed. "Of course."

"Kupferberg said it was worth fifteen grand."

"Nice try. He said ten, not a penny more. You got access to chrome?" he asked.

"Are you serious? Of course I don't."

"Where's my Glock?"

"Tossed it."

He rolled his eyes.

"I'll get Tosca to sort you out."

"Is that necessary?"

"Trust me, provided you lose it properly afterwards, a firearm is the safest way to do it. Besides, Kupferberg may be dead, but I still need to road-test his merchandise."

I got up to leave. At the doorway I stopped and turned.

"What about you?" I said. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to break every bone in his body and get my woman back," Dico said.

"Isn't that a Marvin Gaye song?" I said, and left.

****

seven

I ran.

I followed the Hanger Lane gyratory west. A steady stream of cars flew past me on the dual carriageway, kicking up spray that fell with the drizzle onto the peak of my old baseball cap.

I ran down through the bright subway, around the deserted Park Royal industrial estates and back onto the main road. The road inclined sharply over the Underground line, and I went at it hard past the station; lightning flashes heating the sky, indistinguishable from the electric flashes of the underground trains as they rocketed beneath my feet.

Thoughts began to grow in coherence as my feet thudded out a regular rhythm. It seemed fairly likely to me, especially at this early stage, that my sudden disappearance from the Gatwick Travelodge while William Kupferberg's body was still warm would probably arouse enough suspicion in the mind of the Senior Investigating Officer for me to be a prime suspect.

In which case, how would they find me? I had given some false details to the cop at the scene, and I changed my aliases every few months, so they wouldn't trace me that way. The BMW was a possibility, but I changed the plates so often that the possibility remained slim.

There might be CCTV, but that relied on someone seeing the image and recognising me. That left the cop himself, which was the weakness of the 'terrified witness' cover story. He had seen and spoken to me, and my face and voice had been loaded into his mind. This made him a pretty good witness. Some highly-trained, hot-shot detective would unleash the Jedi mind-tricks of a cognitive interview onto the plod, then, once they'd finished beasting him for letting me leave the scene, they would upload the images from his brain onto a sketch or an e-fit. First they would show the likeness to the local cops. Then the rest of the region. Then onto the National Crime Agency. Then they might even try the College of Policing's Crime Faculty, see if they could tap up the security services or some geek in his mother's basement for some facial-mapping recognition software. When that failed, they might go public.

And that I could do without.

All of which made it pretty stupid to go back to my flat. My reasoning had three strands. First, it was early enough in the investigation that any snapshot of my visage, on a cop's brain or otherwise, probably had yet to find its way onto a durable format. Secondly, there was stuff in the flat that I needed. And finally – fuck it.

It would be a once-only visit. I would go in, clear out what I needed, and leave, never to return. Simple.

The flat was a godforsaken bedsit in some converted Victorian slumlord's dream, right in the middle of Tunbridge Wells. When he'd shown me around, I had told said slumlord I needed to be on the commuter belt. The joke wasn't funny. The look on the slumlord's face was.

The road was a narrow link through the town, crammed on both sides with a vertebrae of Victorian properties that had been converted for a similar purpose. The stench of old nights and stale alcohol drifted out of the basement vents like a heavy gas.

It was shortly before seven in the morning when I arrived. Before going to the flat I walked to the end of the road where there was a small grocery store that I often used. I had intended to stock up on food and cigarettes for the road, but when I got there, it was boarded up, with a TO LET sign stuck on the door. Out of business.

As I stepped inside the flat, I paused for a moment in the hallway as the front door closed behind me, to see if my entry had caused any consternation. It had not.

I could smell tobacco and damp. There was a television on somewhere on the third or fourth floor. The communal bathroom at the end of the hallway had its door shut, which probably meant that the Greek bum who lived above me was in there preparing for a day of purse dipping and scoring brown.

My room was the first one you came to, on the right off the entrance hall, before one arrives at the stairs. This had been a defining criterion in my choice. Whether you're talking job, home, car, life – a spontaneous, undetected escape is of paramount importance to me.

I slipped my key in the Yale lock and stepped inside the room, none of the occupants any the wiser. Once upon a time it had been the front room of a very respectable Victorian domicile.

There was an unexpected rustling at my feet. I looked down. I was standing on a newspaper.

I bent down to pick it up. The Guardian? Someone had poked today's edition of The Guardian under my door? Who reads The Guardian in this house? Come to that, who in this house reads full stop?

The front page was the usual liberal sprinkling of the latest on the financial gloom and some Arts Council grumbling about reduced capital funding cutting the heart out of creative industries. Suck it up, I thought, distracted. All art is suffering.

I sidelined my politics and focused my mind rather sharply when I got to page three. There, between a piece on toxic subprime mortgage debt and the future of quangos was a large, worryingly well-defined CCTV still of yours truly.

It had been enlarged from a wider shot of the concourse of Gatwick Airport's South Terminal, and clearly showed me ushering a bemused William Kupferberg towards the exit doors and his certain death. The quality was thus not great, but it was still good enough for me to sound just a little south of cuckoo if I subsequently tried to claim to a jury that it wasn't me. Unless it was a jury of Guardian-readers.

The banner caption was stark and foreboding:

WITNESS APPEAL

POLICE SEEK PRIME SUSPECT IN GANGLAND MURDER HUNT

DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN?

My first reaction was to turn three-sixty on the spot in case anyone was watching me. My mug in the national press was not good news, and my initial observations were, well, trifling. 'Gangland' was a little extreme, but then the term was idiomatic anyway. And 'prime suspect?' Come on, let's not be elitist about it. And bizarrely, my biggest worry was whether or not I would have to ditch the car.

Dammit. I should have stayed put in the hotel, however demanding the act had been. I should have been the perfect witness and simpered a while longer for the benefit of the cops.

While my brain raced I reached behind my Killer's Kiss poster into a small hollowed-out recess in the plaster where I kept emergency cash and rations, including a driving licence for Mr Samuel Easter. I grabbed the lot and replaced the poster.

I headed out of Tunbridge Wells in the BMW. With my local shop having folded, I had to stop at the monstrous new Sainsbury's on the edge of the A21 – a flagship so huge that, not only did it claim to stock absolutely everything, but it was too big to walk round. Instead, motorised buggies like golf carts were provided for the shoppers to fly around in.

It was, in my humble experience, unusual for the cops to go public quite so early on in the investigation, and on a national scale, no less. On one hand, that was reassuring, because it meant that they must have precious little else by way of evidence. On the other, I was not quite ready for stardom just yet.

There was only one thing for it.

I was going to have to grow a beard.

****

eight

Self-control is vital when it comes to burglary.

I took the hi-vis jacket and hard hat out of the boot and slipped them on. I finished up with a clipboard and a pair of blue latex gloves.

It was early enough that there were few people around, but not so early that my presence, site foreman-disguise notwithstanding, would arouse suspicion.

I walked boldly up the long path to the door at the rear of the house, and paused. I didn't look round. Nothing screams suspicious like, well, behaving suspiciously. Act like you own the place, especially in a hi-vis jacket, and no one will give you a second look.

A car engine started somewhere in the distance – not a common sound these days. The only other sound was the dawn chorus of starlings in the trees that lined the Victorian suburb. I removed some keys from my pocket and jangled them near the handle as if unlocking the door with one hand, while jemmying the lock with the other.

The door popped open, and I stepped in. Still empty. No furniture, no curtains, and an assortment of junk mail piled up near the letterbox.

That was where I was headed. I got down on my knees and sifted through the window-cleaning flyers, takeaway menus and other crap, until I found the two envelopes I was looking for.

I tore them open. Bingo. One had a gleaming new credit card in it, the other had the PIN. I slipped them into my pocket and left the way I came.

It took one call from a payphone to activate the card, using an unnecessarily gruff Scottish accent, and then I went to the nearest ATM and withdrew £500 in cash.

And so it would go - £500 a day until I maxed out the card. It was a bit labour-intensive, but as scams went, it was reasonably profitable and relatively low risk.

I would research vacant houses for sale on the internet, usually repossessions, and shortlist likely candidates. I would case the places, and, assuming everything was fine, I would get the name of the last occupier from the electoral register. Prefixes like 'Prof' or 'Rev' or 'Dr' were an added bonus.

Half an hour in an internet café was all I needed to submit an online application for a new credit card in the name of the last occupier. I would give it a few weeks, then check back at the house for any evidence of success.

It didn't always work - repossessions often mean a bad credit rating - but I had started the venture well before the crash, in the days of easy credit and ask-no-questions lending, and I did better than 50/50.

Casing the houses was vital. Once, I stumbled on a covert police operation who were using the empty house for surveillance. They'd been unloading their van when I approached, and I made a hasty tactical withdrawal.

And I suffered little in the way of conscience - if the banks ever caught up with the previous occupier, he would no doubt – and quite reasonably – deny ever making the application, placing the debt in a permanent state of limbo. Thus the banks were the only real losers, and I think we can all live with that.

To keep it safe I operated up and down the country, and didn't target anything other than vacant repossessions. But this kind of thing happens all the time, and the banks seldom report it to the police. When they do, it gets passed to some local beat bobby, and the enquiries usually rely on CCTV of the withdrawal at the cash machine, which, 99% of the time, is a complete dead end. Even if there was a good shot of the thieving miscreant, getting videos from banks is notoriously hard work for cops. It has to go via the compliance people at head office and blah blah blah and it's usually less hassle for the bank just to write off the loss.

Rob a bank with a shotgun, however, and they'll find you and you'll do serious time, even if there isn't much difference in the profit.

£100 went straight in an envelope. I went to the nearest supermarket, and lifted an envelope from the birthday card aisle, then used a Post Office pen to scribble Jetta's address on the envelope.

It seemed pathetic. No note, no return address, £100 of stolen cash in a stolen envelope. You fucking loser, I thought, as I dropped it in the postbox. You'd have stolen the stamp as well, if they didn't keep them behind the counter.

Still, with a few quid in my pocket, the plan seemed sound. I could stay low until nightfall, put my target to rest, collect my money from Dico immediately and go from there to Cyprus or any other near-ish country without an extradition treaty.

Running I can live with.

****

nine

I crawled out from under a heavy sleep. Feverish dreams had burned in my brain and pushed my head into the pillow, and it took me a good few seconds to work out where I was.

I had stopped the night in an airport hotel, selected mainly for its proximity to the motorway. Its proximity to a multiplex was also a deciding feature, especially as they were playing a one-off screening of Ronin.

'Masterless samurai,' roaming the globe as hired guns. Now, that I liked. I could identify with that. That had a touch of class about it, a little romance. Why didn't I feel like that about my own non-profession?

Because you haven't pulled the trigger yet.

I poured some water, and as I set the glass down, my eyes stopped on the slim file detailing the life of my target, Kim Layrona.

The sober-looking, cream-coloured manila file looked worryingly professional, like it had been yanked from a filing cabinet deep in CIA or MI5 headquarters or something. The stark, typewritten words inside did little to undo this perception.

Kim Layrona, thirty-eight years old, the youngest of three girls born in Stevenage to a piano teacher and – rather disturbingly – a Crown Court circuit judge. Attended Queenswood Girls' School and graduated from LSE with a first in Economics and Government.

Next to the pedigree information was a photograph. It was a deliberately posed picture, very formal, like an old school portrait. She had thick, honey-coloured hair cut in a straight bob, and the make-up and jewellery suggested a carefully-calculated balance between femininity and boardroom toughness. But her face was soft, and her rather enigmatic smile – mouth closed, no teeth showing – was framed by lips shiny with a sticky-looking pink gloss, and there was a sparkle of fun in her icy grey eyes.

I stared at the image for a good long while.

On the next page were work details. She worked for a company called Medusa Chenaix, a private corporation based in the City. Aside from some meaningless brochure drivel about strategy, vision and global reputation, there was next to no detail about what Medusa Chenaix actually did. In any case, Kim Layrona had apparently had been with the firm two years and was head of Risk and Compliance.

This troubled me a little. I was having difficulty reconciling Dico's suggestion that this woman could somehow be responsible for Kupferberg's murder, police surveillance and Tariq's attempt to blow Dico and I into the weeds.

I looked at her portrait again, and felt a flutter in my stomach as I imagined the words DECEASED or TERMINATED stamped across her photograph in a bold red stencil.

I flicked the lighter and the manila assassination order form was consigned to history. It may have seemed like a cinematic extravagance, but pieces of paper like this were the kind of thing that upset juries.

My mobile phone was on the floor next to the bed. I called Dico's number, and tried not to let my mind run away with itself when I heard Tosca's voice.

"Where's Dico?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

"He is indisposed," he said, his voice deadpan.

"The fuck does that mean?" I snapped.

"It means they have him. La polizia."

Oh, shit.

"You fucking what? Are you sure? What for?"

"It seems the police do not like men who beat their women."

A wisp of relief, but not much of one.

"Sandra made a complaint?"

"Dico wants me to hook you up," he said. "You need to meet me."

"I'm not sure about this, Tosca. This woman isn't a threat. She looks like a bloody merchant banker."

"That isn't for me to say."

"It doesn't make sense. This is basically a turf war between some not-very-nice villains. What does a City executive have to do with it?"

"You ever see ten thousand pounds, Jackson? It looks good, bundles of cash sitting there on a table for you. She might even be able to invest it for you first. My advice? Do the job you've been paid to do and don't ask questions. Now, you need to meet me."

"I don't know, Tosca. Life has got pretty fucking complicated in the last few days."

I hung up, and sat up on the edge of the bed.

I opened the curtain a fraction, just to satisfy myself that the place wasn't contained by armed police. As it was, there was nothing to see besides a dark alleyway. Sunrise was yet an hour or so away. A steady flow of rainwater flew off the gutter and streamed down the window frame. The water picked up the radiance from the car park lights and seemed to open up possibilities.

My mobile rang again. It was still in my hand. I lifted it up and looked at the screen, and a cold oh, shit feeling scuttled down my back. I tried to convince myself that I was wrong, but my formidable capacity for remembering numbers meant it was a pretty futile gesture.

I knew the number.

I knew who was calling, and I wasn't having any of it.

I stared dumbly at the device in my hand until it stopped ringing and went to voicemail, and then I left through a fire exit in the corridor outside my room and walked to the car.

The cold night air swept across my head as I crossed the car park. I could have done with departing at a more civilised hour, but the early start was necessary, given that I could afford neither the room nor the petrol I was about to fill up with.

I had shoved all my stuff from the flat into bin bags and put them in the BMW the previous night. The sum total of my worldly possessions didn't even take up half the boot space.

It's very difficult not to get existential at moments like this.

I started the engine. The bloody fuel tank was flashing empty again. I'd already skipped out on the bill for the hotel room, and it seemed a bit much to leave the fuel bill unpaid as well.

Now, if you bilk a petrol bill in the normal, dim-witted way – that is, fill the tank and go screaming off the forecourt without so much as a by-your-leave – then the petrol station staff will pull your number plate from CCTV and the police will take a report. They'll stick a marker on your car – vehicle used in petrol theft – and every time you go past one of the country's myriad fixed automatic number plate recognition cameras it will instantly tell the cops where you are, when you got there and what you had for breakfast.

If, however, you summon the gusto for a bit of a remorseful act and leave them some contact details, then the police won't even put pen to paper. They might not even take the call. What they will do is utter the five most wonderful words in a cop's vocabulary – THIS IS A CIVIL MATTER – and tell the petrol station supervisor making the complaint to instruct a solicitor.

So I filled up the tank, went into the shop, put on my most contrite expression, and explained that I was very sorry, but I did not have enough money to pay for the fuel.

Fortunately, the cashier was an adolescent drone whose limited intelligence was surpassed only by his mediocre social skills. I explained that I would pay as soon as I could, and offered William Kupferberg's business card as a means of both facilitating future contact and as a demonstration of my good will.

Times are hard, my friend.

As I drove out of the petrol forecourt, leaving the unpaid fuel bill behind me, my mobile rang again. I looked at it. Same number.

The same fucking number.

A cold, involuntary shudder ran through me.

I moved into the inside lane, and, without slowing down, lobbed the phone out of the window onto the verge while it was still ringing.

No way he could have tracked me down already. No way.

****

ten

Medusa Chenaix was based in a glass-fronted office block in Gray's Inn Road, sitting between two derelict warehouses; ex-homes to third-sector organisations who had apparently thrown in the towel some years previously. The word "CONDEMNED" had been crudely sprayed on each building, barely readable amongst the inventive graffiti.

I pulled up opposite the building and tucked the BMW behind a UPS van. The fourteen-storey building towered above me like a watchful parent. It was set a little way back from the road, its glass surface bouncing everything on the opposite side of the street back in the direction it came. The exterior offered no clue as to the kind of business Medusa Chenaix undertook.

Gray's Inn Road was thick with the blanket of afternoon smog and traffic. I didn't know how long I'd have to wait, so I sank a little lower in my seat and began watching the flotilla of executives trawling in and out of Medusa Chenaix. Their body language was tense – with brothers and sisters in the Square Mile feeling the bite of economic misery, perhaps they feared they would be next.

I passed the time smoking, my eyes fixed on the front of the building, Kim Layrona's file on my lap. I still hadn't convinced myself that I was going to be able to pull this off, but I was going through the motions of reconnaissance, telling myself that I needed to make an informed decision. Even if the opportune moment were to present itself this evening, I hadn't brought the weapon with me. People were far too vigilant these days, and sitting still in a City street for hours on end was enough for someone to make a well-meaning phone call to London's finest.

Medusa Chenaix workers began to file out about five o'clock. Most of them were making for a bar a little way down the street. I sat up and strained my eyes, but didn't pick up on anything I recognised.

Rush hour had all but died away when a blonde woman in a cashmere overcoat left the building with an insistent walk. I recognised her instantly, with no need to consult the photograph.

I watched her in the wing mirror as she walked down Gray's Inn Road towards me. My hands tightened on the steering wheel as she walked in and out of my view.

She passed the car without even glancing in my direction, and I watched her walk into a bar a little further down the road. I parked in a side street and shoved a fixed penalty notice under the windscreen wiper.

I kept an assortment of the notices in my glove box, stolen from under the windscreen wipers of offending vehicles in local authority areas up and down the country. The idea is that the traffic wardens see the ticket, assume the violation has already been dealt with, and leave it alone. So far it hasn't let me down, and I've saved a small fortune in parking charges.

I darted down an alley that ran adjacent to the bar. There was a window along the side of the building. Kim Layrona was sitting alone at a corner table, by the front window, looking out onto the road. Twice colleagues walked past her table and gave a deferential nod, one that implied they were well used to her preference to sit by herself.

She bought a drink and returned to her table. Under her immaculately styled bob of hair, her face was stern, but weary, as if it took some effort to retain a neutral expression.

She had not been sitting down long when she suddenly got up again and walked over to another table. She disappeared out of my sight briefly, but I shifted my position slightly and saw that she'd seated herself at another table. A man in an expensive grey suit sat opposite her.

She initiated the talk, her face remaining impassive, her brows furrowed. He did not seem to say much and only spoke, it appeared, when answering her questions. Neither of them seemed particularly animated, though he seemed to nod frequently.

Although I could only see the side of his head, he was obviously younger than she was, and I thought perhaps she was administering a reprimand to a subordinate, or conducting an interview. But when he got up and returned later with two drinks, I recognised the symptoms of social ritual. She was picking him up.

The conversation that followed seemed economical at best. They continued their discussion in the same austere fashion for another ten or so minutes, during which time her face ranged from indifferent to near fierce and back again. But at one point she smiled briefly, and she became another person. Her eyes lit up and seemed to twinkle; she placed a hand on his, and made her request - although the determination of a face used to getting its own way meant it was probably more like a demand.

They downed their drinks and made to get up. I was across the road and back in my car before they left the bar.

They walked to a car parked a little way down the road, him taking the driver's side. They pulled out into traffic, and I tailed them from two cars back. Traffic was heavy and slow moving, and I didn't lose sight of them.

They went to his place, or so I guessed - the address didn't match the one in the file. It was a Victorian townhouse in Maida Vale. I carried on past the house, parked, and watched them in my rear view mirror.

When they had disappeared inside the house I got out of the car and crossed the road, looking around for signs of life. There were none. The house was surrounded on all sides by lush green oaks and willows, and even the next door neighbour would have had a hard time spotting me.

I pushed aside a rubbish bin and sneaked down the side of the house, my heart pounding in my throat. I vaulted the wooden gate that led into the very tidy garden and clocked them in the living room as I walked past the window.

I took a sweep around the room and verified my assumption that the place belonged to him. Moreover, the place also belonged to his family. Expensive portraits of his wife and daughter lined the walls above the upright piano. I squinted at the portraits. His wife was definitely not the woman sitting on the sofa right now. Kim Layrona was looking around the room with the same impassive look as before, then she reached into her handbag and began chopping out lines of cocaine on the glass coffee table.

He came into the room and sat next to her. He'd taken off his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves in preparation for the bout. They both snorted the shit in earnest, then she slipped off her own jacket, and sank to her knees on the floor.

She had her back to me as she knelt in front of him, but the look of greedy anticipation on his face was clear to me. She undid her blouse, button by button, and his head began to move back and forth slightly, unconsciously willing her on. It was painfully slow, and she knew it. Eventually the blouse slipped down off her back. She unclasped the white bra also, waiting momentarily, drinking in the look of stark hunger on his face before she removed the garment, permitting her breasts to fall forth. I saw him sigh. She leaned forward and gently undid the zip on his trouser.

Her back was deadly smooth, and I could see the muscles working under the skin as her blonde head bobbed up and down. At one point he reached out to touch her breasts, and she firmly halted his dizzy reach.

He started to claw at the sofa, and she stopped, slipping off her skirt and panties, the long, muscled torso tapering off into soft buttocks. I lit a cigarette. She got up and sat on the sofa, facing me, and for a second I thought she had seen me. I exhaled smoke, my mouth suddenly dry.

She was clearly in control. She took his head and put it between her legs, and I could see her murmuring instructions and moving his head with her hands. Her face was blank as he moved to find his line, then her eyes fluttered closed and her back arched off the sofa as he heeded her demands.

She came with convulsions, and didn't stop to regain breath, but pushed him further onto the floor and lowered herself onto him. She fucked him with insistent thrusts, one arm stretched out behind her for support, the other on his stomach.

I saw the glare in her eye as she issued some kind of warning, but he was lost on some wanton plane, and she hurriedly dismounted just before the climax shuddered out of him.

I turned and left the window, vaulted the gate, and walked slowly back to my car.

Jackson, get your gun.

****

### eleven

It was three more days of tailing Kim Layrona before I finally decided to make my move, with her routine considerably more mundane than that first day. I spent the day convincing myself that I had it in me, psyching myself up with push-ups and other nonsense. But I was determined to do it sober.

My body was sharp around the edges, and resembled a network of criss-crossed copper wires. It was the product of my existence - over the last four years eating had become a generally pleasureless experience that I undertook for functional purposes only. I took on only those calories that I needed, and I knew my body well enough to know exactly when that was. With no burning desire to prolong my life any further than necessary, however, I found the benefits of exercise more meditative than physical - it helped tune my mind on the bad days.

For reasons I didn't really want to explore, Tosca wanted to meet near Newhaven port, a deceptively-named shithole sandwiched between Brighton and Eastbourne on the Sussex coast.

I arrived with time to spare and parked on a stretch of wasteland between the port entrance and the patchwork of depots stretching back to the industrial incinerator. I switched off the engine, lit a cigarette and prepared to wait.

He had picked a good location. The place was deserted. Huge silo bins stood empty and silent on all sides. It was a ghost town at the best of times, and tonight it seemed as if everything had been switched off, save for the occasional swish of rubber on tarmac from the flyover above.

Across the road from the wasteground was a retail park. Many of the stores had closed down; giant, empty warehouses covered in graffiti-stained boarding, washed blue by the lights of the car park.

I smoked the cigarette quickly, and, such were my nerves, lit another. This one relaxed me. I wondered if my tolerance for nicotine was rising steadily, or whether it rose according to my state of nervousness.

That would make sense.

Because right then I was pretty fucking nervous.

The minutes ticked by, like lightning.

I heard the sound of a car approaching, and saw it coast down the slip road. It stopped directly facing me, as if we were about to engage in some head-on game of chicken. I heard the engine die, and a figure got out and began walking to the car.

Tosca tapped the window. I found it hard to believe that such an ardent family man would contrive to dress like a Sopranos extra, but with the orange polyester overshirt hanging loose and open over a tight white wife-beater, the St Christopher and the cigarette dangling from his lips, this was exactly the look he achieved, without any effort whatsoever.

He passed a dirty blue rucksack to me. I placed it on the passenger seat, surprised by the weight, and rummaged through it. An oily-looking Glock, two additional clips and a bundle of grubby, foul-smelling twenty-pound notes.

"Hollow-points," he said.

"I see why Dico calls you 'the quartermaster,'" I said.

"Five down, the rest on completion," he said. "Make sure you lose it afterwards. The river would be best."

Five down? I'd need a jiffy bag. Jetta would be impressed.

"Look, Tosca," I said. "I'm not sure about this."

"What you mean?"

"I mean this woman is nothing. I've tailed her for nearly a week. Other than a pretty wild attitude to partying, she's harmless. It doesn't make sense. She's no villain. She's clean, for God's sake."

"Are you scared?"

"Of course I'm fucking scared. I'm not ashamed to admit that this is new to me..."

"Promotion."

"...and there's far too much heat around for me to feel comfortable. Isn't there another way?"

"It isn't my contract. You need to speak to Dico."

"Is he out?"

"I don't know. I'll find out."

"This is bullshit. Ten grand will barely get me out of Europe. I need eyes in the back of my head."

Tosca leaned down and rested his tattooed forearms on the door sill. The hair on them was thick and curly like a rug, silhouetted silver by the arc lights across the road.

"Look, Jackson," he said. "I've come out of retirement for this. I want no more of this life. I suggest you get out as well. Finish this bit of business, collect, then go and lay low somewhere. Enjoy yourself."

He straightened up. I nodded, more to humour his attempts at reassurance than any comfort I was supposed to feel.

"And Dico's going to want proof of death," he said, making to leave.

"Doesn't he trust me?" I called.

"Not for him," he called back. "The people that sold him the contract. The people that want her dead."

****

twelve

On the day Kim Layrona nearly died – twice – she broke the routine I had by now memorised.

At six-thirty on January seventh she walked out of Medusa Chenaix, but unlike her colleagues, and unlike the nine or so other times I had watched her, she walked straight past the bar and carried on down the street - towards, I realised, the Underground station. She was walking slowly, and I kept her in view long enough to stick another fixed penalty notice under my windscreen wiper and follow her on foot.

She took the Underground north. I boarded the carriage behind hers and watched her through the smeared glass window separating the carriages. She was sitting quietly, rocking gently in unison with her fellow travellers.

She changed at Tottenham Court Road and took the Northern Line north. I was only a few feet or so behind her, but the concentration of rush-hour workers was so dense there was no way she could have noticed me.

This time I chanced being a bit closer, and stood near the doors. She hadn't noticed me - in fact, she hadn't noticed anyone. This was a real thousand-yard stare. I chanced a look at my fellow passengers in case anyone was paying me too much attention, but I needn't have worried. They were positively catatonic.

By the time she got off at Archway, the throng had thinned out, and I was sitting only ten feet or so away, confident now that she was too preoccupied to notice anything.

She began a slow walk up the Archway Road, and stopped in the Charlotte Despard. I continued past the pub entrance and walked around the corner into Despard Road, a cul-de-sac ending with a subway footpath that led under the Archway Road.

I scanned through the windows until I found her. I leaned on the railings of the subway as I watched her, using a builder's skip full of old MDF and white appliances as cover.

In the City, as the jaws of economic depression continued to bite, the post-work socialising was strained and rigid with tension. But this was Camden, and the muffled tumult of laughter from within sounded almost victorious.

Kim Layrona was not laughing. She was sitting alone at a table near a side window, looking out onto the Archway Road. I watched her silently for ten minutes, without altering my gaze once. During that time she finished her drink and scribbled something on a document taken from her bag.

She downed her wine in one, and, having made similarly short work of a second glass, got up to leave. I frowned, not realising until later that this was pure Dutch courage.

She continued the steep ascent up the Archway Road, climbing the footpath to the Hornsey Lane Bridge. Christ, I thought, if this was her walk home she'd have quads of steel.

But it wasn't her regular commute. In fact, the penny didn't drop that this was a once in a lifetime visit to Suicide Bridge until she was standing right in the middle of it, staring out at the Archway Road.

She was standing perfectly still, head held high with the wind breathing through her hair – a picture of elegance.

I had crossed the road when she turned to face the city, and so now she had her back to me as she gazed out at London. I followed her gaze, and thought of Pelly's grave, out there in a concrete scrapyard.

I looked left. The road was clear. The only traffic was a soothing soft-loud-soft grumble coming from under the bridge. The sun had long since disappeared under a winter horizon.

The thought that a more opportune moment would not present itself suddenly threatened to paralyse me, but I reached around to where the weapon was tucked into the waistband at the small of my back, and my hand closed around the grip. It felt cold and real in my hand.

It was a distance of about twenty feet. I chambered a round as quietly as I could, and then levelled the weapon at the back of her head, trying to calm my breathing. Marksmanship is all about breathing. That, and knowing when to take the shot. Don't rush, but when it's right, don't delay.

I tried to focus. I set my feet, and rested my finger on the trigger, trying to keep it smooth and assess how much pressure would be needed before the trigger engaged the firing pin and she let rip, trying to ignore the fear in my throat and the knot in my stomach, trying not to be distracted by the future – her wounds; my escape; an unexpected witness.

Kim Layrona remained unmoving, oblivious to my presence, her only movement the wind ruffling her hair.

I closed one eye and aligned the sights, the red and white lights of London melting to a blur in the background as I focused on the two white dots at the end of the barrel.

I squeezed gently, the cold metal trigger sitting right in the middle of my distal phalange, exactly halfway between the fingertip and joint. I braced myself for the explosion, the recoil, and pictured the simultaneous instant collapse of the woman before me.

My senses were trembling, on edge, and I caught a sudden waft of her perfume, carried across the road by the wind. It could have been my imagination, but either way, my trigger finger froze. It would not listen to me any longer. It would not move any further. My brain had disengaged.

I couldn't do it.

I put the gun down by my side. She was still motionless.

Then she put one foot on the rail and clambered up in a surprisingly ungraceful manner.

I put the gun back into my waistband and shouted.

*

Twenty minutes later, she was back in the Charlotte Despard. This time I was sitting opposite her, nursing a badly-needed double Teacher's while she frowned at the glass of wine she hadn't expected to be having.

She was breathing steadily, apparently unaware of my gaze. She wasn't much older than in her photograph; this side of forty, blonde hair slightly tousled from the wind on the bridge. She was perfectly styled - designer clothes, expensive jewellery, rich perfume, that no-nonsense business look. She had a slight overbite and when she spoke I saw a thin metal brace across her top and bottom teeth - the kind of dental work one would normally expect to see on a teenage girl. She did not seem particularly self-conscious about it – and her teeth looked fine to me – but I wondered if that was why she was not showing teeth in the photograph I had of her. This, and the high colour in her cheeks from being out in the cold gave her face a curiously innocent look.

Conversation was sparse. My badly-shredded nerves were demanding my full attention, while she was clearly wrestling with several issues. Number one - she had expected to be dead by now. Number two - and I admit I was pondering the same question - why did the man sent to kill her stop her from committing suicide? Number three - why didn't she just use some pills or something?

The one question that I had expected to be top of the agenda \- that of why I had been sent to kill her - didn't seem to feature at all.

She looked up at me, still frowning.

"Why didn't you just let me jump?" she asked for the third time. Her voice was quiet.

I shrugged. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a hairbrush.

"Is it a contract thing?" she said, pulling the teeth of the brush through her hair. "You don't get paid if the target doesn't die by your hand?"

It was a fair point, and one I hadn't really considered. Knowing Dico, any small print that would enable him to save some money was worth exploiting. Words like 'contract' and 'target,' however, went some way to answering why she wasn't interested my reasons, and I realised that my protestations that she couldn't possibly be mixed up with gangsters assumed rather a lot. Don't judge a person by their dossier, and all that.

"Or was it because you want to fuck me?"

I flinched inside, but didn't show it. It sounded like a challenge, and I let it go.

"You sound like you'd been expecting it," I offered.

Now she shrugged.

"You're too young to be a hitman." She sounded almost apologetic.

"I'm not a hitman. Not really."

"In fact, you're probably too young to be drinking whisky," she said, looking at the tumbler in my hand.

"Only by a few months," I said, rolling the glass between my palms, thinking – if I had a pound for every time I heard that. I wasn't sure that the government's recent changes to the minimum drinking ages – staggered by strength; you couldn't touch spirits until you hit thirty – were doing much to ease the burden on the NHS, but they certainly weren't doing much for my self-esteem. "It's not stopped me before."

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Jackson," I said without hesitation, even though my well-worn alias of 'Sam' had been on the tip of my tongue.

"I'm Kim."

"I know."

She didn't speak.

"Do you want another drink?" I asked.

"Fuck yes," she said.

I explained to her that I'd left my car in Gray's Inn Road, and, after she agreed to my suggestion that I at least drive her home, we rode the Underground together from Suicide Bridge back to the City.

Or at least, I thought she had agreed. We walked up Gray's Inn Road. As we approached the car, an ambulance flew past, sirens wailing, closely followed by a police car doing much the same.

I opened the car door for her.

She turned to face me, half a smile on her face.

"So what now?" she said.

Like a prat, I smiled back.

"Whatever comes naturally," I said, going along with the banter. I later realised that what she was really asking was - despite my interception of her suicide attempt - was it still my intention to fulfil the contract on her head?

I turned around to walk to the driver's side, and pulled up short. The police car had parked further down the road. In front of it was the ambulance. The blue lights of both were still blazing. I inched backwards. The cop got out, put on his white hat, and walked slowly to the ambulance. A paramedic got out of the driver's door.

I relaxed a little. The cop hadn't even noticed me. The bemusing tableau held my gaze, though, because when the little black notebook came out and the paramedic started jumping about excitedly, I realised what was happening.

Christ, I thought. He's writing him up.

The cop pulled off the ticket and handed it triumphantly to the paramedic, whose protests ended and shoulders slumped as he realised he was not going to talk his way out of it. His body language changed to what the hell is this world coming to and similar disbelieving expressions.

I couldn't really believe it either. Had the cop really just given a paramedic a ticket for speeding while on a shout? Were the authorities that desperate for money that they would...

I did not have the opportunity to consider it further. I felt something extremely hard and heavy thump against the back of my head. The next sensation I was aware of was grit in my mouth, and the cold, wet surface of Gray's Inn Road against my cheek.

I wasn't quite unconscious, but almost. I was just dimly aware of her heels clacking back over to the driver's side, and of her warm hands moving up and down my body until she found my car keys. There was the sound of a door closing, a brief pause while she fiddled about, the sound of the engine starting, and my beautiful, immaculate, 1987 BMW 325i in vermilion red headed south on Gray's Inn Road, stolen from me by the stunning woman I was supposed to kill.

****

### thirteen

I was jolted awake by a thundering pain in my head. I was lying on a trolley in the A&E department of UCL. There was a second, growling pain in my stomach and the realisation that I had not eaten for two days. I sat up suddenly, and retched up bile into one of those cardboard hats.

I sat back heavily, exhausted from the effort. To my amazement, there was a concerned face watching me. The face of Dico's dearly-departed wife, Sandra.

"Hello, beautiful," she said. "Feeling better?"

"Hello, Sandy," I croaked. "What happened?"

"Paramedics found you lying in the rain somewhere in the City. They thought you were off your head on something."

I shook my head.

"How did you know where to find me?"

She smiled.

"I'm still listed as your next of kin."

"You are? Oh, Christ, my head."

She stood up and came over. She held my hand and kissed my forehead. Her lips felt wonderful. Her perfume was intoxicating.

She stood up, and I touched her face. There was a slight swelling on the left side of her jaw, and a purple eye that was turning grey. A cut above her eye had been sealed with a Steri-strip, the white of the dressing stark against her dark skin.

"You look more in need of this place than I do."

She smiled again.

"You should see the other guy."

"Well, actually, I did. Found him at the bottom of a bottle. Took him to Tosca's place, and he skipped out. Tosca told me later he'd been lifted. What happened to him?"

"I didn't call the old bill," she said, folding her arms. "Friend of mine saw the injuries, decided I was a classic case of battered-wife-in-denial and called them for me. Without my knowledge," she added.

"And they locked him up?"

"Course they did. Domestic violence – they can do what they like. They only threw him out when they came to me for my statement, and I told them where to go. I tell you, they nearly had me in for assaulting a constable when I found out she'd called them. Backstabbing bitch."

"So have you two, er, reconciled?"

She shook her head.

"I meant what I said. I've left him. I don't love him any more." She was matter-of-fact about it, as if it would have been unnatural to do otherwise. She didn't love him, so she left. Simple.

"He loves you."

She rolled her eyes.

"God, I know. I hope he doesn't do anything stupid."

"You mean like knock seven bells out of you?"

"I'm more worried about James."

"James?" I said, and then realised she was talking about her new man. "Oh, James."

"Come on, let's get you out of here."

She helped me off the trolley.

"Where's my stuff?"

I looked around my cubicle, checking the small storage cupboards and the convenient recess under the trolley where they stash the stuff of heart attack victims and trauma patients. Sometimes they get it back, sometimes there's no need.

"Nurse said you came in with nothing," Sandra said, confirming my fears. I didn't even have the BMW any more, my sole worldly possession. And, I realised, the dirty blue rucksack containing a handgun, ammunition, and five thousand dirty pounds, had been in the boot when it was stolen. An awful thought occurred to me, and my hand flew to my lapel. I breathed a sigh of relief – my dolphin tiepin was still there.

I collapsed onto the trolley again, my head in my hands. I had taken about a hundred out of the down payment for essentials and a new pre-pay mobile phone, but the rest was in the rucksack.

Sandy helped me off the trolley, and, forgoing the discharge formalities, slipped me out of a side door. The place was heaving, and nobody noticed. We took a taxi out of the City, east towards Rotherhithe.

The apartment block was in Canada Water, near Southwark Park, and as I looked up at the building I whistled. It had to cost seven figures, and it would be a long hustle before I could get anywhere like this.

I followed Sandra into the building, where she retrieved a small pile of post from a pigeon hole in the lobby. She keyed in a code to get the lift to work and we slid silently upwards. I was unsurprised to discover that the lift doors opened out directly into an enormous white living room with parquet flooring, halogen spotlights and a U-shaped leather sofa spread around three walls. The sofa could have comfortably accommodated the Corleone family and most of its rivals, and the living room was still big enough for five-a-side football.

In the centre of the living room, fixed from floor to ceiling, was a shiny metal pole that, had I not known Sandra better, might have been for its own sake.

"Memory lane?" I said, pointing at the pole.

"Just a hobby, these days," she said. "But James likes it."

She put the post on a counter top and went into the kitchen to mix drinks. I glanced briefly at the name on the letters – Dr James Gabriel.

"He's a doctor?" I asked.

"Not that kind. He has a PhD in International Economic Analysis, or something. He likes to use the title."

Cock. I went over to the window and took in the view of the Thames. The entire north-facing wall was glass. The apartment was on the Rotherhithe bend, with Tower Bridge and the Gherkin at 30 St Mary Axe visible on the skyline.

Sandy brought drinks over in Manhattan glasses. I sipped mine. It was sweet and strong, and the throb in my head eased just a little.

She took my hand and I allowed myself to be guided onto the chocolate leather sofa, opposite which was a wafer-thin flat-screen television that was almost the same length as my car.

"How's your head?" she asked, lighting a cigarette and placing it in my mouth.

"Bit better now, thank you. I take it this is James's place?"

She nodded, a little embarrassed.

"When's he home?"

"Not for days. Conference or something in Stockholm."

"What does he do again?"

"He works in the City. Top dog at a blue-chip."

"Any famous neighbours?"

"A few. That TV chef – forgotten his name – lives on the next floor down. Most of them work in the City, though."

A derisory snort escaped me. She opened up a small hatch in the sofa and pressed a button. Flamenco Sketches began playing from somewhere, and seemed to fill the whole room. I guessed there were speakers concealed everywhere.

"If you want to take a long, hard, honest look at yourself, then the alternative take is the only way to go," I said.

She smiled, not understanding, and stretched out on the sofa like a cat. She was wearing skinny jeans and a gold shirt. I didn't think she'd worked in a club for several years, but as she stretched the muscles of her pole-dancer's body were visible through the satin.

"I'd forgotten that you were down on entrepreneurs," she said.

"Who, me? You don't think I'd like to live somewhere like this?"

"If you put your mind to it, you could. But I know you, honey, and you'd rather be free and poor than spend the rest of your natural life in debt. James may earn, but he couldn't pay cash for this place. No one could, not the way things are now. Maybe before things took a dive, but..."

"My heart bleeds."

"You still in that horrible little squat?"

"No, I had to leave. After the last gig Dico gave me, I got more column inches than Jordan."

"So, where?"

I thought about it.

"Well, I bilked the hotel I stayed at last night, so I guess I'm technically of no fixed abode at present."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" She moved closer to me on the sofa. "You can stay here until you recover. I'll look after you."

She stroked my hair. The thought of being mothered by Sandra, if only for a day or two, was vaguely appealing.

"If you insist."

She moved closer again, removed the cigarette from my mouth, took a drag herself, and placed it in an ashtray.

"That gig went totally south, Sandra."

"I know."

Her lips touched my forehead.

"Dico hired me for muscle, and the guy was dead an hour after meeting me."

As I said the word muscle she squeezed my bicep.

"I tried to talk to Dico about it, but by then you'd skipped out and he was suffering with serious attitude sickness. I still don't know what the hell was going on."

"Mm-hmm," she said. Her lips had moved onto my cheek.

"Dico told me this guy was a Wall Street fixer, over to help out the Governor of the Bank of England or whatever. I mean, I knew that was his cover, but..."

I paused as her lips found mine, and her tongue slipped inside my mouth.

"Well, I don't need to play it down for your benefit," I continued as she moved her mouth to the other side of my face and down my neck. "It was definitely a front. The guy was an arms dealer, for Christ's sake. Dico was buying artillery off him. I mean, Christ..."

Her hand moved up over where a belly might have been - had I been softer-edged and given to occupying sofas more frequently than I did - and she began to undo my shirt buttons.

"Jackson, you've no idea how long I've waited to do this."

"Me too, baby," I murmured as her hands slipped inside my shirt and foud my abdomen.

"And you've been working out..."

Her lips found my neck, my chest, and then my stomach; long, sucking kisses; quiet moans escaping her mouth.

"I just can't believe how fucked up everything is," I said, leaning my head back on the sofa, the leather cool on the back of my neck.

I closed my eyes as her hands went to my belt, turquoise fingernails working the buckle. "I'm just glad you found me. My next-of-kin? You're the only person I've got in the whole world..."

My eyes snapped open.

My next-of-kin.

I grabbed her wrist.

"What's the matter?" she said, alarmed.

She sat back on the floor. I sat up, and stared at her.

"My next-of-kin?" I said. "Sandra, the last time I went to a doctor you hadn't even... finished pole-dancing school, or whatever. I don't have a next-of-kin listed anywhere. I don't have anything listed anywhere. That's how I work. I'm invisible. I don't want people to find me."

"I don't understand," she said.

"Sandy, don't lie to me. Tell me how you found me."

"It's the truth, honey. The hospital called me. How am I supposed to know what records they have and what they don't?"

"In that case, how did they find you? You've got a new address, a new man, a new life."

I put my head in my hands. It was pounding again.

"Baby, all this shit the last few days has made you paranoid. It's all okay, I promise. You need to let me take care of you." She moved closer to me, those turquoise fingers reaching for my belt again.

I pushed her away again, shaking my head.

"Stop it. It doesn't make sense. None of this does. You were married to Dico for fifteen years. You go to the trouble of leaving him for some City jockstrap, and before you've even unpacked you're seducing me on his sofa?"

"I want you, Jackson. I've wanted you for ages."

She grabbed my crotch and squeezed. It felt good. I groaned.

"James wants you too."

What?

I shoved her away and stood up. She overbalanced onto the floor.

"Get the hell off me!" I said. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

She sprang to her feet, angry now.

"What - I'm not good enough for you? This old pole-dancing bitch doesn't have enough to turn you on?"

"Weird shit aside, Sandy, Dico was – is – my friend."

"You think you can just blow me out like that? Who do you think you are? You've pissed off some serious people, Jackson. If I were you I'd live a little – you might not make it to the end of next week."

Her nostrils were flaring as she spoke, and she was gesticulating wildly with her hands. I was silent, hoping that in her anger she might fill in some blanks.

"It doesn't look good for you, Jackson, but I know you're in over your head, and you're good people. A good worker."

"What is this? My annual appraisal?"

"Don't you get it? We want you on our side."

"Well, flattered as I am by your campaign to recruit from under-represented groups, I think it's time I left."

The sarcastic comment came out before I realised what she was saying. It was like a light going on.

"Wait. Are you saying this was a honeytrap?"

She folded her arms and pursed her lips. Moments of clarity were jostling for position in my brain, like a sudden thaw after a long winter. Like – maybe Sandy knew quite a bit about William Kupferberg's murder, thank you very much. Maybe she also knew a bit about the exploding briefcase that Dico and I had narrowly managed to avoid. Maybe she cooked up the I-love-you-no-longer story when she discovered we'd survived it.

I shook my head in disbelief.

"You wanted me dead? You wanted Dico dead?"

"It wasn't like that..."

"You murdering, psycho bitch..."

Those turquoise nails again – only this time they were flying through the air. She dug them into the left side of my face, getting good purchase before ripping them downwards. The sound was like two Velcro straps being pulled apart.

I staggered backwards, blood pouring from my face. Suddenly Dico's drunken claim of self-defence didn't sound quite so ludicrous. She came for me again, and I was so stunned I only barely managed to block her arcing arm with mine. Christ, she was strong. Don't fuck with a pole-dancer, even a retired one.

I gathered the faculties to give her a shove, and then bolted for the lift. I jabbed at the button and waited. I turned - Sandra had darted the thirty feet or so to the kitchen where she was in the process of securing possession of a butcher's knife.

Fortunately, one of the things you pay for in an apartment like this is the privilege of not having to wait for the lift. The doors slid soundlessly open and I tumbled backwards inside.

I jabbed at the LOBBY button, just as she began to sprint for the lift, knife held aloft, ready to strike. There was a moment's panic when I remembered she had used a keycode to get the lift working, but as the doors slid shut and she crashed against them, I realised that you only needed the code to get in, not to get out.

Once out of the building, I sprinted towards Southwark Park, the blood pounding in my head and out of the wounds in my face. Driven by fear, I was unable to even look round in case the snarling banshee was on my heels, like the worst kind of nightmare.

Eventually, surrounded by tranquil images of picnickers, kids' football games and couples strolling among the green, I slowed my pace and got my breath back. The bleeding, panting lunatic drew a few curious gazes, and so I pulled my jacket off and pressed it to my face. I could feel the dolphin tiepin cold against my cheek.

I found an empty bench a respectable distance from anyone, and slumped heavily into it.

There was, of course, the small matter of what the fuck was going on.

****

### fourteen

I sat on the bench, my head in my hands, feeling no shame in my shame. On paper, my recent accomplishments were truly spectacular. One – I had failed, while on bodyguarding duty, to prevent the death of my charge. Two – I had not yet fulfilled the job I had been assigned to do, that of ending the life of one Kim Layrona. Three - if I didn't get on and do it, I would at least have to give back the five thousand, which could be problematic, seeing as I didn't have it any more. Four – not only had I failed to hit the target, I had allowed said target to get the drop on me long enough to steal my car. And fifth – the fantasy of being seduced by Mrs Dico Dixon had finally been realised, and it had ended like a bad remake of Fatal Attraction, with me scurrying from Canada Water in mortal fear for my life.

Embarrassment didn't cover it.

In the end, with nowhere else to go, I resolved to go back to UCL, tail between my legs, to have my face wounds treated. This turned out to be a canny move, because, having sidestepped the process of being formally discharged, the hospital had reported me missing. When I resurfaced, they cancelled the call before the police had been dispatched to take a report. That suited me – my tolerance of cops was already getting lower than it had ever been.

My disappearing act meant my cubicle was no longer vacant, and so I found an empty trolley in a yellow-lit corridor and collapsed heavily onto it; back where I had been less than three hours previously, with nothing more to show for my excursion than the four talon stripes down my left cheek.

I was quietly hoping that the hospital would admit me, at least for the one night. I had absolutely nowhere to stay, nothing to eat, and not a penny to my name.

A nurse approached. She had a kind face, which crinkled into a frown when she saw me alone on a trolley in a corridor in London.

"Doctor says you're fine. Mild concussion. Take it easy for a couple of days and keep those wounds clean."

I had blamed the attack on a savage cat that had taken a dislike to me during my brief absence, which wasn't a million miles from the truth. The nurse handed me a clipboard and a pen to sign my discharge form. On top of the paperwork was a cream-coloured envelope, with the initials 'JT' written in ink on the front.

I removed it and frowned.

"What's this?" I asked, returning the clipboard.

"I don't know," she said as she turned to go. "Someone left it at reception for you."

Against my better judgment, I opened the envelope. It was a 'Get Well Soon' card with purple lilies on the front. I opened it.

Heard you took a tumble.

Wish you the best for a speedy recovery.

Don't want it to be too easy.

C.H.

I swung my legs around and sat up. How the fuck had he found me? I was fucking homeless.

That feeling in my gullet again. I reached for another cardboard hat, but I wasn't quick enough, and vomited onto the 'Get Well' card.

*

Industrial-thickness cardboard is surprisingly warm. That is, until you get it wet. I made this observation from the only Soho doorway I had found that no one seemed to mind my occupying - in a narrow lane somewhere between the Dog and Duck and Prêt à Manger. The night had started reasonably enough – I was warm enough to sleep, but when the rain started to lick at my makeshift bed around two in the morning, I had awoken; freezing cold, my shivering only accelerated the disintegration of the cardboard until there was precious little between me and the sodden concrete.

I drifted in and out of consciousness for the remainder of the night, unsure if the jazz I could hear was from Ronnie Scott's up the road or in my head. The traffic noise from the Charing Cross Road was real enough, however.

I woke up with a stiff, painful neck and a hot, unwashed feeling between my legs. Bizarrely, however, the worst part of sleeping rough was the revolting yellow taste in my mouth.

I'd had little other choice after UCL booted me out. My Soho doorway was a far cry from Sandy's glittering City fuck pad, and for more than a brief moment I cursed myself for being so principled about her behaviour – the way I felt when I woke up, I would have allowed her to dance on my spine in stilettos if I could have just shared her warm bed.

As I flung off my shredded cardboard duvet, I found a twenty-pound note on top of it, apparently placed there by some loaded night creeper. My first reaction was suspicion – nothing's free in this world, and I felt sure that if I spent the money someone would come back wanting something in return.

I wandered through the underworld of streets; long, narrow lanes lacing Soho in a grid. There seemed to be no way to get in anywhere - every building was a back entrance, a loading bay or a basement. No fronts. Every time I turned a corner I seemed to be on a street that was both longer and narrower than the last; stretching to a point; a labyrinth I couldn't get out of.

I mentally ran through my case load of empty houses awaiting credit cards. I knew none of my target houses were in central London, and I was pretty sure I had nothing active in any case – Dico's promise of more work and promotion had caused me to let it slide. I still had an old bank card in my pocket – despite the long-expired use-by date and my certain knowledge that the account presented more archaeological interest than the Temple of Doom, I tried it anyway. The machine ate the card. I never saw it again.

I wanted to send the twenty to Jetta, but eventually hunger got the better of me and in Shaftesbury Avenue I succumbed to a McDonald's breakfast, cigarettes and a toothbrush. Anyway, what would she think – a lone twenty pound-note turning up in the post? That someone's taking the piss?

My need for self-control means I've never had the stomach for drugs, and so with the remainder of the money I indulged my only other habit – a morning screening of Once Upon a Time in America in Leicester Square. It wouldn't have been my first choice, but Christ, I needed to get my money's worth.

The film held my interest. I almost managed to forget myself, but when it finished and I stepped outside, the icy swirls of January wind threatened to finish me off.

I stood in Leicester Square, fingering the new mobile phone, the urge to call Dico almost irresistible. He would want to know, surely, that his wife had sold us both out - worse, that she was complicit in our attempted assassination?

Or would he? He hadn't wanted to listen when I'd tried to tell him that Sandra's infidelity was hardly front page news, and that was true whether he was drunk or sober.

Quite apart from all this, I knew that he would not want to hear from me until I had news that Kim Layrona was dead. I had already missed one opportunity, and, before long, he would be trying to find me, wanting to know why she was still alive. I needed the money. I was fucking desperate.

I touched my now-bloody tiepin, somehow managing to gather my nerve, and resolved to retrieve both my car and its contents from the woman that had stolen them from me.

****

### fifteen

The wind was warm as it blew out of the tunnel, and the slow, distant vibrating became a low rumble, which in turn became a thundering growl as the twin lights of the underground train burst into the platform's curved shell. I closed my eyes and let the billowing air toss my tie up into the air and blow the edges of my fringe.

I tucked the tie back into the overalls, then stepped onto the train as the doors hissed apart in front of me. As the train moved off, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the curved glass of the facing door. It was fuzzy, but no one in the City was going to give this maintenance man a second look.

The train pulled into the brightly lit Chancery Lane station, and a peeling poster proclaiming the virtues of cheap air travel suddenly replaced my reflection. I stepped off the train and made my way briskly to the exit.

Medusa Chenaix looked larger than I remembered it. I approached the entrance as casually as I could, placed my hand on the heavy chrome handle of the revolving door and pushed my way inside.

Inside, the lobby was all white. The high ceiling was pock-marked with halogens. To the left, alongside the huge, tinted glass window that formed the front of the lobby, was a pair of black leather sofas, designed with wrought iron curly feet, and asymmetrical backrests, like they had undergone a transformation in the Hall of Mirrors and the wind had changed.

On the right was the reception desk, with two mirrored lifts either side of it. Behind the desk, on the white wall, the company logo - a capital M overlapping a C underneath it - hung in solid-looking, three-dimensional Times Roman letters. A huge chrome clock hung above the desk.

The lobby was teeming with people, and the constant dull murmur of chatter that never rose above a certain volume echoed and swirled up into the farthest recesses of the ceiling.

"May I help you?" The receptionist remained fixed to the VDU, but there was clearly no doubt her sharp tone was aimed at me. I had walked straight past, intending to make straight for the lifts. I stopped and went guiltily over to the desk.

"Printer maintenance in Compliance," I mumbled, sliding my fake business card across the counter.

She made a call, watching me with suspicion as she did so. I looked at my feet so the baseball cap hid my eyes.

"Reception here," she said briskly into the phone. "I have a Mr Easter here from..." – she squinted at the card – "... Quad Engineering."

It had only taken a few set-up calls earlier in the week to get me an appointment. The person on the other end of the phone spoke for a few moments, and then the receptionist hung up.

"Fill in the visitor book, please," she said.

I wrote down my phoney details and she handed me a visitor's pass in a plastic wallet. I nodded thanks, then darted inside a lift before the door closed. I put down the toolbox and adjusted the overalls and belt, having liberated the entire ensemble from a Ford Transit in Holborn while its driver unloaded boxes.

There was no one else in the lift besides a tall, heavily made-up woman. I would have made her for a tom almost immediately, but for the fact that the toms I used to know were decidedly more ropey than this one, and the fact that it was the middle of the day in a reasonably prominent city office block.

The rain mac she was wearing almost covered her from head to foot, but the high heels and the black fishnets were obvious. She had a Louis XV head of blonde curls, and she was holding the mac closed.

The doors whirred open on the tenth floor, and I stepped out into the Global Compliance & Management Control Department – words that did not make the actual function of Medusa Chenaix any clearer to me.

Immediately opposite the lift was a partitioned waiting area, with two armchairs, a water cooler and a large yucca. On the partition board were the photographs, names and job descriptions of Medusa Chenaix's big cheeses, and I realised the photograph of Kim Layrona in my assassin's briefing bundle had been copied from this board.

There was no one in the corridor, and somewhere in the distance I could hear a photocopier churning out hundreds of the same performance report.

Heels clicked behind me. The woman from the lift brushed past me in a wave of perfume, and she sashayed towards a conference room past the lifts as if she were on a catwalk.

At the door of the conference room was a man in a suit. The lights in the room were off, and the blinds covering the glass walls were shut. He watched the woman come towards him, a hungry look on his face. He held the door open for her, catching my eye as she walked past him into the conference room. As he shut the door I swear I heard that rain mac fall to the floor.

I stared at the closed door for a moment, and then refocused myself on work. To the right of the lifts was the main office, an open-plan grid of workstations, and beyond that, on the far wall, a row of executive offices. I put my head down and headed through the grid towards the far end, hedging my bets that Kim Layrona used one of the executive offices. As I threaded my way through the main floor, I chanced a sideways look from under my cap.

Each workstation was partitioned off, a wall around the worker, and I realised that only about a third of the desks looked occupied. The rest were either bare or stacked with boxes containing the effects of an office worker about to migrate - not, it appeared, through choice.

I had to work quickly. No one paid me any attention, but this was because I moved confidently, like I was fully conversant with my purpose. If I had dithered, or looked lost, or I had ambled slowly around looking in the various offices, someone would have challenged me.

Near the row of executive offices was a workstation that appeared to be in use, but its occupier was not present. There was a jacket on the back of the chair and a pair of spectacles resting on a pile of spreadsheet printouts, and I guessed the owner would be back soon. I had deliberately timed my visit for lunchtime.

Without hesitating I marched into the work area and began to unload my tools. As I made a show of dismantling the printer, I peered out at the name plates on the office doors.

I had to squint, but KIM LAYRONA - HEAD OF RISK AND COMPLIANCE was displayed on a brass name plate on an office door about thirty feet away. For the next five or six minutes I observed it. The office was partitioned off from the main floor by glass walls. With the blinds open, I detected no activity inside, and the corridor outside was quiet as well.

I had to move now. I quickly shoved my stuff back into the toolbox and closed the lid.

"What's the problem?"

I looked around. An overweight man in his thirties with big teeth and a mole on his forehead stood over me. Evidently the user of the workstation wanted his space back. I reopened the toolbox and, as casually as I could manage, busied myself with the faux-repair, hiding my face beneath the baseball cap.

"Oh, nothing major," I said, tapping the printer with a screwdriver. "Just a routine check of this model. Had some complaints that a batch has been dying on us. We've just got to check the datecodes on all the machines and determine whether they're in the bad batch."

"What if they are in the bad batch?" He flopped into his swivel chair with a sigh.

"They'll catch fire." He was silent. "Don't worry. If it was going to go wrong it would have done so by now."

He didn't answer. I heard him tapping keys as he logged back into his computer terminal.

"Yeah, we've got about five thousand to check nationwide. Pretty big job. Still, it's cheaper than recalling them all."

"Mmm."

I smiled to myself. He picked up the phone and started dialling, not even slightly interested in me.

"Hi, Collette, it's Jake up in Compliance. We need to run a drill on the business continuity plans... no, no, it's just a tabletop exercise..."

I shut the toolbox and got up to go. Nothing in his words gave me any clue about the business of Medusa Chenaix.

"...anyway, the estates people reckon it might be too expensive to keep anyway... ah, hang on a second. All okay then?" I heard him call to me as I walked away.

"Good as gold," I called back, without turning round.

He resumed his telephone conversation without another word in my direction, and I made straight for Kim Layrona's office. I knocked sharply and walked right in without breaking stride.

The office was empty. I let the door shut quietly behind me, and angled the blinds. As offices went, it was pretty average. Not badly sized, and the huge espresso machine styled like the smokestacks of a Mississippi steam ship was a nice touch, but even for someone that had never worked in an office it was instantly forgettable.

I kicked the toolbox under the desk and scanned the surface of the desk.

There was little of interest, other than the large oil canvas of a transatlantic yacht that, along with the coffee machine, indicated some maritime interest on the part of the occupier. I wasn't quite sure what I'd been hoping for - a forgotten BlackBerry, perhaps a diary, or maybe even my car keys. I nudged the mouse and the Charlie Brown screensaver disappeared, but the VDU was locked and password-protected.

I scanned the room again, realising that the thing I had really wanted to find in here was Kim Layrona herself, and then I saw a red light flashing silently on a small white box next to the desk phone.

The temptation to play her voicemails was strong, but it would have been difficult for the maintenance man to explain that one away, and so I moved into phase two of the plan. I removed the baseball cap and overalls and hid them under the desk with the toolbox. I quickly checked my reflection in the polished chrome of the espresso machine - the suit was a pretty good fit, and with the young beard I could have stepped right off Wall Street circa 1988.

The suit had been harder to come by without shoplifting, but the maintenance man routine in the gym locker room and some doctored dry-cleaning tickets had got me everything I needed.

To complete the image, I sat down in the big leather swivel chair, resisting the urge to spin it round and round. I crossed my legs and steepled my fingers in front of my face in my best impression of the executive at work, and hit the PLAY button on the digital voicemail box. I reclined in the chair as the messages played.

<<BLEEP>>

"Kim, hi, it's David. I've got rough slides for you to see ahead of Tuesday's committee presentation. I'll bring them down this afternoon..."

<<BLEEP>>

"Kim Layrona, we understand you are one of today's driven women. A hectic lifestyle means the little things may not have been given the thought they deserve. Yet life assurance gives you peace of mind and takes only a quick telephone call. My name is Susannah. I can give you a personal quote. Call me at I Me Mine on 0845-300-1900..."

<<BLEEP>>

"Hello, Ms Layrona, it's Charlotte. I'm dreadfully sorry, but my mother was taken very ill in the night. I've had to take her to the hospital. I'll call you this afternoon. The itinerary for the auditors' visit is in my top drawer. Sorry again. Bye..."

<<BLEEP>>

"Kim, Michael here. I'd like to have a word with you. I'm a little bit concerned about... well, just call me back, ok? I'll be back from the G19 pre-meet Sunday evening - unless I get snarled up in the Italian protests - but I'm on my mobile..."

<<BLEEP>>

"Kim, it's David again. The Risk Committee has put the presentation back to Tuesday, so if it's okay with you I'll tart up these slides a bit before I show them to you. Give me a day or two, okay? I've got Gabriel breathing down my neck, so you can probably expect a call from him as well..."

<<BLEEP>>

"Kim, Alexander. Can I talk to you about the next round of lay-offs? I know times are tough, but I think if we overdo it the company will find itself without any corporate memory when things finally start picking up again. Assuming they ever do, of course..."

<<BLEEP>>

"Hey baby, you know who this is. I've got a new product for you to sample - investment-grade rating - I think you know what I mean. The party's waiting, you just need to call. Be good..."

<<BLEEP>>

"Kim Layrona, as a valued Womankind credit account customer, you cannot afford to miss out on the astronomical end-of-season sale at the Womankind warehouse. All designer items have reductions of at least 30%, and every hundredth customer will be permitted a ninety-second trolley dash. So, let your hair down..."

<<BLEEP>>

"Kim, James. That fixer from Wall Street is due in tomorrow. We need to talk about Project Ghost before he gets here. I'll be out of the office the rest of the week looking at the contingency plans, but you can get me on my mobile. Call me. It's urgent..."

<<BLEEP>>

<<BLEEP>>

<<BLEEP>>

The messages ended. I sat in stunned silence for a moment, then grabbed a post-it note and a pencil and played the last message again.

As it played I scribbled on the post-it:

James?

Wall St fixer = WK?

Project Ghost?

The message ended, and I sat back in the chair again, my mind racing. The accent belonging to 'James' had been a US-UK hybrid. He had to be talking about Kupferberg, didn't he? How many Wall Street fixers could there be? Or rather, how many could there be that wanted Kim Layrona dead?

I leaned forward, intending to erase the messages, but the door opened.

My heart drummed in my chest, but I kept my composure long enough to maintain my self-assured posture - as a consequence, it was the new arrival that looked uncomfortable.

I recognised him as the man from the conference room. He was composed - apart from the smudge of white on his nose, you'd never be able to tell that he'd just had some high-class prostitute bent over the boardroom conference table. He didn't recognise me, and why would he? I'd been wearing overalls when he saw me, and I now had a suit on.

He was just the right side of forty, had a couple of inches on me, and his golden coiffure looked expensive. His faux-olive skin and grey suit were both immaculately pressed, and I could tell, even with the suit, that he was remarkably fit. He looked surprised to see me, and his chlorine-blue eyes glittered like a psychopath's.

"Oh! I'm sorry. I was looking for Kim." He looked around, then behind the door.

"She's not here," I said, instantly recognising the transatlantic voice from the voicemail message.

"Apparently." He made no attempt to excuse himself, and instead ventured further into the room, a hand outstretched, his words faintly laced with malice. Up close, the array of products on his body made him smell like a woman. "And who are you, exactly?"

I raised an eyebrow, and then slowly extended a hand without getting up. I returned the handshake, hard enough for him to feel it, but not so hard that he would realise I was picturing myself stabbing him in the head with a shard of glass.

"Sam Easter, Craven Risk and Security. I have a meeting with Kim. I'm a little early." I touched my own nose with my finger and nodded towards his.

"Oh? She didn't mention it." He brushed the powder from his nose with no reaction at all.

I smiled. Even through the act, the temptation to tell the guy to mind his own fucking business was very strong. Nothing like a bit of corporate arrogance to give the façade a boost.

"Well, she's a big girl. I'm sure she doesn't tell you everything."

He grinned, apparently enjoying the fact that I wasn't taking his crap. I decided to have a little fun.

"But, since you ask, she's got some troubleshooter over from Wall Street, and she wanted to discuss his credibility."

He didn't flinch.

"His... credibility? Like, what, exactly?"

"I'm sorry," I said. "Who did you say you were?"

"James Gabriel, Chief Operating Officer."

Well I fucking never.

"Good to meet you, James. In the current climate, Medusa Chenaix is getting on for being the last man standing. Certainly as far as hedge funds go." It was a stab in the dark.

"We run a tight ship." He angled his face towards me, smiling and frowning at the same time. Maybe I'd got it wrong.

"I'm sure."

"What happened to your face?" he asked.

"You really don't want to know," I said, completely unable to suppress a grin. "Well, James, I'm sure Kim will be along any minute, so..."

He stood still, refusing to take the hint. He was in his own kitchen and did not want to be pushed around by some young whippersnapper acting like he owned the place. I could understand that. I made it easy for him.

"So, you need to leave now. Client confidentiality, and all that."

He still didn't move, but he was thinking about it. I nodded towards the door, and he finally turned and left.

I sat back down in the chair. I had enjoyed that. Not only because I had got one over on a jumped-up City prat, but because I had slipped almost effortlessly into character. My capacity for bullshit was still alive and kicking, if a little rusty.

So that was the legendary Dr James Gabriel, new-found squeeze of the erstwhile Mrs Dixon. More or less what I had been expecting, but if I had wanted to push the guy through the tenth-floor window, what would Dico like to do to him?

I drummed my fingers on the desk. I had stumbled onto something here, even if not all the dots were connected. William Kupferberg - Wall Street troubleshooter-cum-arms dealer, putting out contracts on Kim Layrona, the supervision of which had passed to Dico following Kupferberg's untimely demise. Dico's wife had left him for a City executive, who was acquainted, at the very least, with both the fixer and his target. Sandy, whom I now suspected was complicit in Kupferberg's murder and the attempt on Dico and I, had made mention of James Gabriel 'wanting' me too. In my haste to escape her talons I hadn't enquired further, but it sounded as if Gabriel was battening down his hatches and trying to surround himself with some kind of protection. Despite this, Gabriel had not recognised me, so with the alias he had no reason to suspect who I was. Nor did I know, at this stage, whether he and Kim were allies, or if their relationship was a little more fractious.

With any luck, I would find out shortly. The door opened and Kim Layrona walked in. She frowned when she saw the blinds were shut, and she opened them from the doorway before advancing into the room.

She inhaled sharply and stopped in her tracks when she saw me in her seat. From the look on her face it was clear the outgoing James Gabriel had not given her a heads-up. I didn't move. Neither did she.

"Surely you can't be that surprised to see me," I said, eventually.

She had turned quite pale, and her breathing was shallow. She took a step backwards, and half-fell, half-sat at one of four chairs around a small conference table in the corner of the office.

"There's... there's a lot of witnesses," she said, gesturing to the main office outside.

"I've met one or two of them. Had the pleasure of meeting COO Gabriel. He's a charmer."

"He's not the COO..." she scoffed, but then her voice tailed off, and the look of derision turned into one of confusion. "You've only just met him? But..."

"Look, calm down." I stood up, and began to wriggle back into my overalls. "I just want my car back. Where is it?"

"Parked it. Near my house." She sounded like a surly teenager rumbled for some misdemeanour or other.

"Well then, I suggest we go and get it."

"Now?"

"Yes. Now." I crossed the room and sat down opposite her. "Why don't you drop the startled rabbit routine? You sucker-punched me and stole my car. I just want what's mine, and I'm perfectly willing to be reasonable about it."

She nodded, and stood up. I did the same. There were inches between us. I raised my right hand and gently clasped her by the throat, her breath on my hand, the line of metal on her teeth glinting through her parted lips.

"Witnesses," she said, turning her head away.

"Indeed." I dropped my hand.

"I'm not taking the blame for those scratches."

"No, after you left me face down in a puddle, my day got a whole lot worse."

I gestured towards the door, then grabbed the toolbox and followed her through the open plan office towards the lifts. We weren't given a second look.

We arrived at the lifts.

"Kim?"

We turned towards the author of the voice. James Gabriel stood in the doorway of the darkened conference room. Maybe he'd gone back to check for evidence.

"Everything okay?"

She walked over to him, and exchanged a brief, inaudible conversation. She made to leave, and he grabbed her arm to stop her. He muttered something else in her ear, and they both looked at me while he said it. He noticed my overalls, and frowned.

He released his grip and she walked back over as the lift arrived. It descended almost silently. This was good, because if it had been any louder I might not have heard the muffled sound of multiple sirens as we neared the lobby. A flicker of sweat broke out on my back.

The lift doors slid open, and the sirens were muffled no longer, but clear as a bell and getting louder. Five or six patrol cars converged on Medusa Chenaix. They had to be here for me, didn't they?

"They're here for you," Kim said.

"Tell me something I don't know," I said.

"Act naturally."

"I said something I don't know."

She took my hand, and I allowed myself to be led towards the main doors. All routine activity froze as pedestrians and Medusa Chenaix staff alike stopped to gawp at the siege of blue lights.

We were already on the street when the first patrol car stopped, and before the cops disembarked, Kim Layrona turned suddenly, so she was facing me, and planted her mouth on mine.

It was a ferocious kiss, pushing me backwards until we came up against the wall of the building.

I was aware of seven or eight cops charging into the building, and a couple running past us to check for side and rear exits. Despite all this, the kiss had my full attention. It was warm, her lips and tongue soft, with an enthusiasm that I convinced myself had to be genuine. Her scent was exquisite, and the montage of intimate scenes that ticker-taped through my brain was as intoxicating as it was unfamiliar.

There was a lull in the excitement as the cops fanned out, a sergeant stationed in the lobby to co-ordinate the search, and Kim pulled her mouth away from mine. She smiled at the stunned look on my face.

"James Gabriel wants me dead," she said, her hands in my hair. "Do you want to get a coffee?"

****

PART TWO

Malted and Sweet

****

### sixteen

We ducked down Coley Street, and walked south, arm in arm, as casually as possible. It worked. No one gave us a second look, and once we made it to the Underground station, we were home free.

As we rode the underground train east, Kim let me in on the joke. Gabriel, either as a result of Rain Man-esque powers of recollection - or, as was more likely, of some insider info - had called the cops to say he believed the man from the airport CCTV footage in the newspaper a week or so ago was currently at large on the tenth floor of the Medusa Chenaix building in a rather natty Boss three-piece. If I hadn't had the presence of mind to put my overalls back on, I might not have been so lucky.

Kim lived in a huge apartment in Bermondsey – not, I realised with mild angst, a million miles from Sandra's love nest. Once upon a time it had been a Docklands warehouse; now the red brick walls, iron uprights and solid wooden beams made it a very fashionable loft, no doubt giving rise to words in the spec like original, character, authentic, chic and possibly bollocks.

The apartment was, obviously, rich. But it didn't look as if a rich woman inhabited it; rather, it looked more like a bunch of students had come over, thrown a party, and left a cluster of jumble behind as a goodbye. Mess was strewn all over the place like a sixth-form common room - laundry, empty wine bottles, pizza boxes and DVDs lay scattered around the place. There was more than a little evidence of drug use.

I walked to the window and opened the blinds, taking in my second executive view of the City in as many days. It was there, beyond the widescreen windows; the jagged forest of the capital, the snaking Thames, the fast streaks of cloud etched on the sky.

"Last time I was in an apartment like this I barely got out with my life," I said as Kim crossed the living room and handed me an espresso.

"Disgruntled husband, was it?" she said.

"More or less. They a bulk buy or something?" I said, pointing with my cup towards the kitchen, where the same steam ship coffee machine I'd seen in Kim's office was replicated.

She shrugged. "Novelty crap. I've been into sailing and marine stuff since I was little. My dad used to take me, taught me about navigating and communications, things like that. It makes good coffee, though."

I put down my cup.

"The stunt back at the bank."

"The kiss, you mean?"

I cleared my throat.

"Well, it got me out of the clutches of London's finest."

"I know it did."

"So... thanks."

"You're welcome."

"I guess you're thinking we're even now," I said.

"Couldn't hurt."

"You realise that if I don't kill you, someone else will."

She looked a bit crestfallen.

"Someone seems to think you're a bit of a liability. Better that we string it out a bit longer."

She opened her mouth to speak.

"Now, where's my car?" I interrupted.

She gestured towards the apartment door, and I followed her down in the lift to an underground car park. Outside the lift doors was a small, deserted vestibule that opened out onto the car park itself – where, had she not gone to the bridge, I had originally planned to shoot her. As we passed through it into the dimly lit car park proper I idly noted that it would have been a perfect setting.

The BMW was parked in a bay marked VISITORS ONLY. I examined it like a prospective buyer.

"It's as you left it," she said, a little defensively.

I got up from my crouching position on the floor.

"I didn't leave it. It left me," I said.

"I just drove it straight here and parked it. It's a lovely ride. Twenty years old and sweet as a nut. Not unlike you."

"Did you spring for the congestion charge?"

She stuck her tongue out. I went to the boot. I assumed the blue rucksack - wherever it was - still had the sidearm and cash in it, but this was pretty much irrelevant, seeing as the rucksack itself was no longer in the boot.

I rifled through the bin bags, upending the clothes into the boot space as I searched. The clothing smelled of stale cigarettes.

"Where is it?" I demanded.

"Where is what?" she said, folding her arms.

"The rucksack. The blue one."

"I don't know. I never even went into the boot."

"For fuck's sake..."

"I didn't..."

For appearance's sake, I continued the fruitless search for a few minutes more, and then stood up straight. I ran my hands through my hair in exasperation.

"Look, I tonked you on the head, and drove it here. I parked it, and went up to my flat. That's it."

"Shit shit shit."

I looked at her, then began pacing around the car, hands on hips. She was easy to believe, but if she was telling the truth, someone very skilful had broken into the boot. There wasn't a mark anywhere. I decided not to push it. Not yet, anyway.

"Someone must have..."

"Do you have any idea what was in it?" I said.

"Surprise me."

"The gun I was going to shoot you with, and the down payment for doing it."

Her expression became playful.

"Down payment? How much?"

"Five thousand."

"That's parking change. I'll give you... How much?!"

"Five thousand," I repeated, the irritation obvious.

"Five thousand?"

"Down payment." I had now noticed her vexation, and it cheered me up.

"What was the full amount?"

"Ten."

"Ten? Ten?! You'd kill me for ten thousand?"

"It isn't personal. That's the going rate. That's what they'd pay anyone."

An arc of headlights pirouetted across our little tableau from the other end of the car park. There was a faint peal of tyres on smooth concrete, and the car disappeared into a dark recess somewhere.

"I've spent twice that on a weekend away."

Despite the boasting, the thought was so alien to me that it got under my skin. For all I could tell, twice that would keep me in bread for a year.

"Good for you," I mumbled. "You realise that if I renege on the contract, I have to return the money. With the money gone, my hands are kind of tied where killing you is concerned."

"Look, honey. I'll make you an offer. Five grand a week, minimum four weeks, and you don't leave my side."

I didn't say anything. She smiled and took the keys from me. She blipped the doors locked, linked her arm through mine and led me back to the lift.

She hadn't missed a beat. Someone had made an offer, she had countered and was now the high bidder. The fact that the commodity in question was her life didn't seem to feature, nor did the fact that I was starting to feel like a bit of livestock being auctioned off.

In the apartment I sat down in a huge armchair and stared out at the Thames, while Kim Layrona poured drinks into chunky tumblers.

She handed me the drink, a mischievous smile still on her face. I don't know what it was, but it was good. It had the malt taste of whisky, but was sweeter, and somehow warmer.

"Why does James Gabriel want you dead?"

Her smile disappeared, and she took a large bolt of the drink. She sat down, reached for a remote control and switched on the television.

Predictably, the main news items were all about the financial chaos. The video footage I had seen at the airport, of now-jobless bankers trudging through Canary Wharf with cardboard boxes, was proving a favourite. The ticker-tape headlines were talking about the latest, loss, crash or closure.

"A few weeks, maybe less, and Medusa Chenaix will go the same way," she said. "James is like thousands of others across the financial sector - he's seen it coming, he knows he's to blame, but all the time he's making a profit he doesn't care."

The news piece segued into another. The Commissioner of the Met had tendered his resignation after a vote of no confidence by the Metropolitan Police Authority, spearheaded by the Mayor of London. The words 'demonstrable accountability' were used, and the correspondent suggested that the resignation had come about as a consequence of the soaring crime rates.

The rising crime rate wasn't really the issue, however. It was the reasons behind it. Property crime was on the increase - which, they said, was to be expected in a depression – it was no longer a recession – but the levels were astronomical. Street robberies in the capital had tripled in the last quarter; so too domestic violence, as people struggled to make ends meet. Fraudulent insurance claims were through the roof. New trends were emerging, too, like flash looting – hordes of young men storming into stores like locusts and stripping the shelves of its entire stock in minutes, while the locals and the police looked on helplessly. Postmen were being mugged for parcels and letters – in some really bad areas they were being given police escorts while they did their rounds.

I thought of the cop writing up the speeding paramedic. The whole thing had a desperate edge to it, the correspondent said. Burglars disturbed in the daytime no longer cut their losses and fled - they confronted their victims and used whatever force was necessary to escape with their spoils. In some cases the burglars even loitered conspicuously outside in broad daylight, waiting for the householders to leave for work, school and errands.

The outgoing Commissioner had a few words to say as well, and he wasn't reticent about throwing a few fucks into the mayor. The rise in crime was due to the dire economic situation, he said, and scapegoating by laying it all at the police's door wouldn't change a thing.

I thought he looked quite relieved to be going.

I turned back to Kim.

"What's Gabriel into?"

"You name it – subprime, dirty floating, couple of Ponzis on the go."

"What about weapons?"

She frowned.

"Weapons?"

"Yeah. Defence. Small arms and explosives mainly, but maybe some military-grade stuff as well."

She shook her head.

"I don't think so. That would make it easy. If he was financing that kind of thing I could just go to the police. He's a bit more subtle than that."

"What about the company?"

"Medusa? It's a beast, of that there's no doubt. They've got subsidiaries in investment, technology, land securities, some pharmaceutical R&D. Net profits last year two hundred and twenty-four million."

I thought for a moment. Beast was right.

"What's Project Ghost?" I asked.

She frowned again, like I was asking stupid questions.

"That's nothing. It's just a business continuity plan."

"A what?"

"You know, a contingency plan for keeping the ship afloat in the event of something going wrong with the infrastructure."

"Such as?"

"Fire, flood, terrorism, mass outbreak of food poisoning. Know your fire exits - that kind of thing."

"Global credit crash?" I wondered aloud. She didn't answer. "So as head of risk I guess you're hardly Miss Popular," I said.

"Tell me about it. They call mine the Told-You-So Department. All the time he's on a roll, no one gives a shit. Everybody knows the Ponzis will fold, but he's made money out of them for at least two big investors, so until someone loses and starts complaining, Medusa Chenaix aren't interested. Nor are the police or the SFO."

"Until it all goes tits-up."

"Told you so."

"So what's the point of a risk manager, then?"

"Satisfy the regulators. Just so Medusa Chenaix can say they have one. Make no mistake, I'm barely tolerated in that place. Do more than the bare minimum, and you're accused of being a nagging wife. Dig your heels in - threaten to go public - and get a contract on your head. A contract. I mean, can you fucking believe it?"

She slammed the empty tumbler down on the coffee table, and then looked sideways at me like she'd suddenly remembered how we'd come to be in the same room together.

"Did you know it was coming?" I asked.

She shrugged. "It was the logical progression of things. It started with a quiet word in a corridor with the GC head, which became coffee with the CEO, which became a grilling by the board, which became threatening phone calls, which became mysterious men following me late at night."

Christ, I knew how she felt.

"It doesn't make sense," I said. "No big company likes a whistleblower, but paying hitmen to take you out, well, migrating from fraud to contract murder is a bit of a jump, wouldn't you say?"

She stared at me, wide-eyed, and then left the room.

"Or am I being naïve?" I called after her.

She returned a few moments later with a bundle of papers that she chucked carelessly on the coffee table. The papers fluttered down onto the table and floor. One of them landed on the arm of the chair I was sitting on.

It was a cream-coloured piece of letter-writing paper. Written on it, in cartoon-horror red ink, was a message:

KEEP YOUR FUCKING MOUTH SHUT, BITCH

I leaned forward and picked up a couple more.

ENJOY YOUR NEXT FUCK, IT MIGHT BE YOUR LAST

CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES. WELL, YOURS

BLOW THE WHISTLE AND WE'LL BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF, CUNT

TELL THE POLICE IF YOU WANT, YOU'LL BE DEAD IN A DAY

Amongst the messages were some similarly crude cartoons. One was of a stick figure wearing a T-shirt that bore the slogan GRASS. Said figure was being savaged by a pack of wild dogs.

There were also surveillance photographs of Kim – of her leaving her apartment, parking her car, going to work, leaving the pub.

She picked up another piece of paper and passed it to me. It was a copy of her mortgage statement. Medusa Chenaix had a stake in the apartment - fees and interest hikes of varying degrees of enormity kept appearing on the balance sheet, and she was a gnat's wing away from defaulting on a loan whose size had, in the last year, outstripped the value of the apartment by a not inconsiderable margin.

"It's cumulative," she said. "They're closing down my avenues, squeezing me dry to try to make loyalty look appealing. One of the M&A unit heads hinted yesterday that if I get onside the mysterious administration charges on my mortgage account will suddenly disappear."

"Did you go to the police?"

"Are you serious? Have you read the messages?"

That was something, at least. I looked again at the mortgage statement. I was no maths genius, but it didn't take much to see that it would take the best part of never to settle this particular debt.

"The night I went to the bridge, it just seemed like an easy option."

Her voice was small and strained, with none of the cool business talk or playfulness I'd seen earlier. When I looked at her there were tears in her eyes, and she looked like a scared child.

"You okay?" I asked.

She didn't answer, instead choosing to grind her jaw in frustration and anger.

"If it's any consolation – and I know this presumes a lot – I know how you feel."

She didn't knock me down in that melodramatic how-could-you-possibly-know way you see on soap operas, but instead leaned forward, seeming genuinely interested.

"You do? How? What happened?" She opened her eyes even wider, with a hunger to empathise with someone who knew what it was like to have been through the mill.

"Do you want another drink?" I said, deliberately avoiding the question.

She nodded. I picked up the tumblers and went out to the kitchen. The bottle was on the counter. It was some Cuban spirit I'd never heard of.

When I returned Kim had cleared away the dossier of hate mail and was now organising battle lines of cocaine on her coffee table. I declined with a shake of the head, and just watched her sort herself out. It was suddenly and painfully erotic. She got down on her knees and snorted up the stuff through a rolled-up hundred-pound note. I'd never even seen one – they'd been issued the year before, and I couldn't understand how, in this day and age, circulating new denominations could possibly be a priority. Their advantage seemed to be purely practical; in fact, the only people they benefited, as far as I could tell, were criminals.

"You a Catholic?" she asked, sniffing and rubbing her nose.

"Not exactly. I like being in control of myself."

"Then you're stronger than I am. When the world has turned to shit I just want to escape to Neverland."

"You'll forgive me, but the moral high ground seems to jar a bit with the wild party-girl routine."

"You're probably right, but I'm not just dealing in abstracts. A woman came to the bank one day. She'd lost her house and was in a refuge. Polish woman - she didn't speak much English, but she'd done some of her own research and got to know the detail of the subprime stuff and wanted some answers from the people who were forcing the workforce to live in tents."

"What happened?"

"Security threw her out. She cracked her head on the pavement and they didn't even call an ambulance."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. I stood there, like the other greedy bastards, and let them do it."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I know I'm not perfect, but I have a strong sense of right and wrong. My father was a judge."

I said nothing.

"What?" she said, slightly irritable. "Is this where you tell me you were born in a mental hospital?"

"HMP Holloway, actually."

"Are you serious?" she said.

"Deadly."

Kim stared at me for a moment, trying to decide whether I was telling the truth – which I was – and then she rubbed some residual dregs into her gum. For a split-second I worried about her dislodging her brace. Orthodontists can be mean when their handiwork has been interfered with.

The anxiety seemed to have evaporated from her body. Her eyes were still wide, but they were now dark and hungry. She crept over to me, on all fours, like a predatory cat. She rested her head on my knee, and looked up at me.

"You made a mistake earlier. With your car analogy," I blathered.

"How so?"

"I'm older than twenty."

"From where I'm sitting, not by much."

She pulled herself up and landed another one of those irresistible kisses on me. I couldn't feel the brace. Her breath was heavy with intoxication.

"I also said the car was a sweet ride. Can I say the same about you?"

I could continue the banter of 40s Hollywood noir no longer, and took her face in my hands, responding urgently to her kisses.

"How do you know I won't kill you?"

"I don't," she said. "But it's turning me on regardless."

I didn't say anything. She began to unbutton her shirt, not taking her gaze from mine. The room was silent, except for our breathing and the rustle of fabric as she slipped it down off her shoulders. She kissed my face and neck, then stopped and spoke, her mouth millimetres from mine.

"I know, Jackson."

I backed my head away slightly, the merest fraction of an inch.

"I know you watched me fuck that guy. I saw you."

Her lips brushed mine; her breathing came a little heavier.

"Did you like it?" she whispered, stroking my mouth with hers. "Did you like watching me fuck?"

I lightly slipped one bra strap down off her smooth shoulder.

"I'd never spoken to him before. I didn't even find out his name."

I grabbed the back of her head and pulled her mouth onto mine. I heard her breath hitch, and when I looked up, her eyes glimmered with saline tears.

She led me into her bedroom, and waited for me to strip. She lay on the bed, ripe with desire. She reached down and took me in her hand, guiding me into her.

"I'm wet," she murmured. "Inside me, please."

I began to move inside her, and she gripped the headboard spindles as we rocked; her eyes screwed shut, her mouth open in a yawn of pleasure.

*

The sex was wild. Kim was acrobatic, theatric and dramatic, but I felt like I had when I had seen her with the guy from Maida Vale - like I was on the outside looking in. The doors on the row of walk-in wardrobes opposite the bed were made entirely of mirrors, and the reflection of the polychromatic Andy Warhol print of Marilyn Monroe hanging above the bed seemed to grin at me.

Afterwards she kissed me long and slow on the mouth, and got out of bed. She walked to the kitchen, stark naked, and returned with two more tumblers of that malted, sweet drink from Cuba. She handed one to me. That could be our screen name, I thought. Malted and Sweet. No prizes for guessing who was who.

She got back into bed, and lit cigarettes.

"What are you thinking about?" she said, passing one to me.

"That I should be a window cleaner on a block like this," I said, gesturing towards the cinema-screen windows that were totally untroubled by such niceties as curtains or blinds.

She laughed.

"Come on," she said.

"Honestly? Okay, I'm thinking that our truce is a little, er, fragile."

She grabbed my exposed hipbone and squeezed hard.

"You'd be quite right. Gentlemen's agreements are always a little risky in the City. I prefer a bit of leverage."

"That's what I thought. You could give me up to the cops any time you like."

"Well, don't kill me, and I won't. Seems fair?"

"Talking practically, James Gabriel is unlikely to know that it's me that's got the contract on you, correct?" I said.

"I suppose."

"So how long before he starts thinking – you really should have stopped turning up for work by now?"

"Not long. Few days."

"After which he'll start asking questions about the good money he's invested in having you removed from the equation."

"If I wanted someone dead, I wouldn't have the first idea how to go about it. You don't Google hitmen. How would he have known where to go?"

"I don't know. Maybe one of his investors had street connections. What I do know is that you don't seem too bothered about your prospective killer being in your bed. I get the feeling you like living dangerously."

She slipped her hand further south, under the duvet, and breathed in my ear.

"I don't think you could have done it."

I said nothing, suddenly alarmed by this woman's intuition.

"Why do the cops want you?" she said.

I finished the drink.

"It's a long story. You'd better get another round in."

She obeyed, this time grinning at me as she put on the first thing she found on the floor - which happened to be the shirt I had discarded not an hour earlier. The one I had lifted from the gym locker. It barely covered her naked backside. That shirt had had quite a day.

While she was gone I found a remote control next to the bed. After pressing all the buttons a television screen rose slowly from a recess somewhere at the foot of the bed. It was as wide as the bed, as thin as a credit card and had a brushed steel frame with the Apple logo in the middle. I ended my codfish impression and switched it on. Sky News was swinging back and forth like a pendulum between bankers' misery and the impending G19 summit. And try as I might, I couldn't get used to wholly computer-generated newsreaders. Sure, it was a moneysaver, but what had happened to all the real ones? Were they working in ASDA?

Kim came back with more of the sweet drink. For a moment it made me think of the perpetual intoxicating spell of the lotus flower, and at that moment, this suited me fine.

"It was a job. Nothing too complicated. I had to babysit a contact for an associate of mine. Someone was ahead of us, though, and got the drop on him in the hotel. Stabbed him to death. Police must have retraced his steps and caught me with him on CCTV."

"Did you have anything to do with it?" she asked, putting out the cigarette.

"No. Wrong place, wrong time."

"Well then, what are you worried about?"

"Me and the police don't really rub along too well. I used to be one." This last part I blurted out unintentionally. She pulled the shirt around her chest, and scanned the room for anything incriminating. Given that she'd been sucking up Class 'A' substances earlier this seemed a little pointless, but it was an unconscious, guilty reflex, one I had seen several times when people heard the words I'm a police officer.

"What happened?" she said when her eyes came full circle and landed on mine again.

"Got kicked out."

"Curiouser and curiouser. Do tell."

My usual rule of never saying anything to anyone seemed to be evaporating fast around this woman. Worse still, talking to her felt rather too comfortable. Lotus flower indeed.

"Excessive force," I said, as nonchalantly as possible. "Guy had been beating his wife. Same old story, she never made a complaint. One day she decided to take the kid and leave him. He came home while she was packing."

Kim's playful expression had disappeared and she was staring at me, wide-eyed.

Going to tell her about Pelly, are you? Go on - that will really impress her.

"Neighbour called it in. I was first on scene. She already had a broken jaw. The boy - just a toddler - had seen it all. I knew it would be the same as always, so when we took him in I took a detour round the back of an old warehouse. Dispensed a little summary justice. No more and no less than what he'd been doing to her."

"And they sacked you?"

"Nothing else they could do, really. I broke the law, he made a complaint, and that was that."

"Would you do it again?"

"In a heartbeat."

She leaned her head on my chest.

"So you became a hitman?"

"Hardly. But I'm not qualified for anything kosher. My best contacts were criminals and scumbags, so I freelanced for them. Some of it legal, most of it not."

"Seems like they're promoting you."

"I have to eat."

"Are you married?"

"Are you serious? I can barely look after myself. Not married, no kids, no home. The only thing I own is the BMW."

"And the shirt on my back."

"Can't even claim title to that, I'm afraid."

She sat up, frowned, and took it off. As she did so her fingers found the dolphin tiepin, which I had taken the trouble of moving from my own jacket to the overalls and then to the suit.

"Is this important to you?" she said.

"Why do you ask?"

"You touch it a lot."

"I'll tell you one day."

"Was it a woman?"

I stared at her. And there was me thinking I never gave anything away.

She took the remote control from me and pointed it at the screen. The steady monotone of Sky News was replaced with Gilda.

"You like movies?" I asked.

"Who doesn't?"

I smiled to myself as Rita Hayworth did her legendary hair flick.

Kim moved over to me, and draped her body across my lap, her arms around my neck. She looked up at me, and smiled. The brace was there again, somehow a constant metal reminder that she had a past, that she had once been a child much like any other; despite that, every choice she had ever made had led her to right now.

I looked down at her, and she gave me a deep kiss.

"Was it always your plan to seduce your way out of trouble?"

She kissed her way down my chest, onto my abdomen, and then her head disappeared under the duvet.

"Not really."

I made love to her again, and we glided together with slick ease. Afterwards, she kissed me again and disappeared off to the bathroom. I lay in her enormous bed, only winning the fight against a blissful sleep when an idea came to me.

Dico didn't answer until the eleventh ring.

"Who's this?" he said. In the background I could hear the lorries and general chatter of Atlantic Road Furniture Stores.

"It's Jackson."

"Another new mobile?"

"You know me. What happened with the cops? You know, the thing with Sandra?"

"No complaint. No comment. No charge."

"You didn't mention me?"

"Are you soft? Did you not hear what I just said?"

"Clear as fucking crystal," I said, grimacing and holding the phone away from my ear.

"So, you got news for me?"

"News?"

"Yeah. The woman. Have you done it yet?"

Through the open bathroom door I could see Kim through the steamed glass of a shower room big enough for a rugby sevens team. Her naked form gently danced left and right under the stream of water, her skin glowing against the black tiles. I could hear her singing.

"Well, I'm working on it," I said. He didn't buy it.

"Look, kid, time's marching on."

"Dico, I think you've been sold a dummy."

"What are you talking about?"

"This woman isn't a threat. She's being set up."

"Oh, Christ. Tell me you're not shagging it."

In the mirror, Marilyn Monroe eyeballed me.

"Dico, listen. I found him."

"Found who?"

"The guy. Sandra's... the one she's with."

"Who is he?" His voice had hardened like a lake freezing over.

"Guy in the City." I rattled off Gabriel's workplace, address, description and general movements.

"Thanks, Jackson. How did you find him?"

"Long story. He's linked to Kim."

There was a moment's silence on the line.

"Well, I owe you one."

"Owe me this. I want you to cancel the contract on Kim Layrona."

"You are shagging it. In other circumstances I would congratulate you. But these ain't other circumstances."

"Do this for me, and we're even."

"For one thing, kid, it ain't my contract to cancel. For another, she's a fucking bank terrorist, and for yet another, if you don't do it, you have to give me the down payment back, with fifty cents on the dollar for every day you've had your grubby mitts on it."

That could be a problem.

"Dico, she's nothing. Gabriel is trying to set her up. He's benter than an Enron balance sheet, and she's about to blow the whistle. She was talking about speaking to Panorama, for Christ's sake."

"I love you like a son, Jackson, but you don't want to be owing me money. And I ain't in the habit of calling off decent work just because the target's got a nice rack."

"Dico, come on. I..." I felt like a teenager pleading with his dad for an advance on his allowance.

"Don't you need the money?"

"Of course," I said, thinking it wise not to mention Kim's counter-bid.

"Well then, why are we even discussing this? Besides, if word gets out that you've gone over to the other side, there'll be two names on that contract. Hers and yours. And if you don't kill her, I'll find someone who will."

I didn't say anything.

"And one other thing," he said. I could hear him smiling now. "There's a bonus. Something more than money."

"Yes?" I croaked.

"I'm only passing on a message, so it doesn't mean a lot to me, but my contact said you'd jump at the chance."

"Spit it out, for fuck's sake."

"If you kill her, he'll set you free."

My grip on the phone increased so hard that the screen cracked. I felt like I was falling through space, and the phone was the only handhold I had. Ten million questions suddenly formed in my brain.

"What did you just say?" was the one I opted for first.

"You heard. Kill her, and you're a free man. All charges dropped, all misdeeds forgiven. A clean slate."

"Don't fuck with me, Dico."

"Jackson," he said, still smiling, but softly now. He knew he had me. "Words of one syllable. Kill the bitch."

****

seventeen

"Happy birthday, Pelly."

January fourteenth. He'd have been thirty-nine.

I could almost hear Jetta's voice.

He would have been.

But he'll always be thirty-four.

Because of you.

I'd never met her. Never confronted her with my guilt. Never even had it corroborated that she did, in fact, blame me for her husband's death.

But that didn't matter, because I blamed me. And I just sent those piddly amounts of anonymous cash whenever I could.

I'd driven to his grave shortly after midnight, leaving Kim sparko in bed after too much cocaine, champagne and fucking. Her stamina impressed me - in four hours or so she would be getting up for work, and no one at Medusa Chenaix would have any idea that she'd been almost paralysed with intoxication the night before.

I parked in a gravel trap near the main gates, exploited a weakness in the perimeter wall that I knew of, and walked the two hundred or so yards through the huge cemetery to Pelly's grave.

I sat in the cold, grateful for the presence of mind that had led to me bringing the rather voluminous hip flask, and looked at his name on the headstone.

BRYAN 'PELLY' PELHAM

JAN 14, 1978 - DEC 31, 2012

BELOVED HUSBAND OF JETTA

REST EASY, SON

No Loving father of... Was that my fault as well?

I tried to do my normal thing – sit and reflect and try not to think about zombies – but I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't even give over half an hour to thinking about something other than myself.

In fact, all I could think about was Kim.

Although no money had materialised yet, I had been getting room and board as her unofficial live-in bodyguard for two days, and had taken the opportunity to creep out while she slept. The forty-five minute drive had caused my mind to swell into a flash-flood of thoughts.

I glugged from the hip flask, and tried to think through my options, indecision knotting my stomach, questions taking root in my brain.

What did you mean, Dico?

Who's your contact?

How can he set me free?

Why does he want her dead?

What is Gabriel up to?

On hearing Gabriel's name, Dico had acted like it meant nothing to him. He wasn't one for subterfuge, which suggested that, although he had inherited the contract on Kim from Kupferberg, he knew no more about who put it out. But it was Gabriel that wanted Kim dead. I had it from the horse's mouth.

But Gabriel couldn't free me. There was only person that could free me, and although Hatch was still the master puppeteer – and had been for four years – he had nothing to do with Kim, Kupferberg or Dico.

I absently picked at the moss on Pelly's headstone.

On the one hand, I could muster the grapes to kill Kim, collect five thousand, and eke out a few more weeks of my hand-to-mouth, day-to-day existence until the next headache. Although, if I believed Dico, the end of Kim's life could be the start of mine. Dico knew about most of my cat-and-mouse history with Hatch, which meant he also knew that I'd have a pop at the Prime Minister if it meant I could get out of Hatch's claws.

On the other hand, I could let Kim live and see what played out. Dico would come after me for the money when I refused to kill her, but he might be having too much fun hunting James Gabriel to prioritise it. And when Kim came across with the fee she had suggested, paying Dico off wouldn't be insurmountable.

But freedom, Jackson. An end to this miserable existence. The slate wiped clean. No more punishment. It would be like redemption.

I breathed deeply, feeling the cold air coat the inside of my lungs, and forced myself to return to the present. The booze had dissolved some of the usual self-consciousness I felt when talking to a slab of rock.

"I sent Jetta some money, Pelly."

Nothing.

"Pel, if I were a singer, who would I be?"

Silence.

"Max Bygraves."

He didn't laugh.

I didn't expect him to. It's a crap joke.

"Sorry, Pel."

Before I knew it, the rather voluminous hip flask was empty, and I knew myself only a little better than when I had arrived.

"See you next year, I guess."

I walked up the path between the neatly trimmed plots to the car, just a little more unsteady on my feet than was sensible, thinking - in the dark, all the flowers look black. I went to the boot to fish out the magnetic L-plates I used to deflect attention on the odd occasion when I was driving just a teeny-weeny bit over the limit. You can drive like a blind narcoleptic with flippers on when you're sporting L-plates, and no one will give you a second glance.

I opened the boot and, to my surprise, the blue rucksack was there. I snatched it up. The Glock was still inside.

But the cash was gone - in its place was a little note.

Too easy. Get it done.

Hatch. Hatch had been here? While I had been sitting getting quietly pissed and piles and telling shit jokes?

I should have guessed. It would be just like him to have a Bavarian motor expert in his pocket - the kind that could break into my car undetected.

Christ, I was on edge. The little fuck-yous from Hatch, the little reminders that he could get to me whenever and wherever he wanted, were once little more than a bi-annual event, like a church fete. But they were increasing in frequency, and I could only assume he had me under surveillance. This was not a comforting thought, and the closer he got, the more I felt like he was building up to something. So, seeing as he was decent enough to return my weapon, I was going to arm myself. I tucked the weapon into my jacket and drove off, singing Happy Birthday to Pel as I went.

To kill, or not to kill. When you stripped away the rewards being offered in either case, it all boiled down to whether you could live with yourself afterwards.

****

eighteen

I dreamed. Throughout my unconscious montage, I was constantly aware of my clammy hands. I didn't remember details, but there were faceless people running; blood, water, exhaustion.

Why the two people opposite wanted to know what I had been up to, I'll never know. Out of the window, the river was a long way down. The train swayed from side to side.

Alarmingly.

I sat down against the door, never wondering why the seats had been ripped out. Knowing I'd get up with soot on my back, but never wondering why they hadn't repainted it since the fire. Charred, blackened walls made it dark inside.

I recognised the two men opposite me. They sat aloof, and made heated demands of my squandered middle years. From their questioning I guessed I had known them from school, but they could have been from anywhere.

Reflex speech.

I felt compelled to answer, knowing that no answer would satisfy; no attention earned, not here.

The conversations grew tiresome.

The train stopped at an elevated platform. I gratefully disembarked, following the queue over the mesh platform, footsteps resonating metal on metal. A white iron staircase led down to the road at ground level.

All of a sudden it was my turn to take the staircase, and the ground seemed a long way down - in fact, I couldn't see it. The stairs were miles apart, and the whole staircase seemed to be shaking in the wind as it descended through the clouds. It creaked as it swayed. A low hubbub of voices from behind urged me on.

Warm hands guided my arms. I gripped the handrail tightly and, terrified, placed a foot down onto the next step. Taking it slow, I moved down the staircase, voices all the time behind me.

Go on.

You can do it.

Halfway down three stairs had disappeared, and I had to turn around and descend as if it was a ladder. It was at this point that I started to cry. I continued down, the voices seeming louder. Then I looked down, and saw that as I neared the bottom a crowd had gathered, all gazing at me with concern.

Eventually I reached the bottom, and stepped off into relief. Worried arms held me, and then the cheers started. Loud, rippling, raucous applause for my effort.

I turned around and looked at the staircase. It was just a normal white iron staircase, from the platform to the road.

The cheers got louder. I felt sick with shame. Happy whoops filled the air – he's done it, you know! He did it!

The dream melted into another - Kim singing me a lullaby in soft whispers. Her image floated briefly through my mind with a smile.

I swallowed hard, felt bile rise. I awoke slowly and unwillingly, with my arm around Kim, holding her tight, close. It was still dark, with some hours to go before the dawn. I rose onto my elbows and looked down at her. She lay next to me, and I slowly stroked my fingers up and down her naked back as she slept.

I got up and walked to the window. London stretched out beneath me like a lake full of neon algae. I lit a cigarette and looked up at the sky. It was absolutely clear, not quite black, and clusters of stars were patched across the dark blue veil. The horizon curved slightly at either end of my field of vision - I felt as if I were the only person awake in the whole of London.

The starry sky lured wisps of smoke out of thousands of chimneys, curling upwards like snake-charmers wooing snakes out of their baskets.

"Jackson? Jackson?" she whispered.

It was morning. I looked over at Kim, and realised I had my hand around her throat.

"What have you been dreaming about?" She seemed unperturbed.

I released my hand in horror and fell onto my back.

"You don't want to know."

I got up and put the kettle on, while Kim, in her dressing gown, went to retrieve the day's post from the doormat. In less than a fortnight we had settled into a basic kind of domesticity. It was an incongruity for both of us, and yet moments like these were like insistent reminders that it was unavoidable. This had happened to me before, and on every occasion bar one, I had bolted. On the occasion that I had welcomed it, my bubble had been well and truly burst.

As the kettle boiled and clicked off, I heard the hum of voices from the apartment front door. One belonged to Kim, the other to a man. I couldn't hear what they were saying.

I ran into the bedroom and grabbed the Glock. I shoved it into the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back and ran, bare-chested, for the door.

There were two men there, not one. They didn't look older than thirty, and they were in good shape. They wore expensive suits and the smug look of people who knew the law and liked imposing it on others.

"What's going on?" I asked Kim. Her face was scared.

"Oh good, another witness," the one in front said. His suit was beige – although the catalogue probably called it ochre or something – and the tie was salmon pink.

"I wasn't talking to you," I said, eyeballing him.

"I see you've got yourself some protection," he said to Kim.

I stepped forward.

"You'd best get the fuck out of here, right now," I said.

He didn't budge, and he showed no concern at my aggressive tone.

I took another step forward. When this didn't seem to faze him either, the gun came out from behind my back and I pointed it at his forehead.

It was not a sensible thing to do, but I simply couldn't stop myself, and when I saw the look on his face, I knew it was worth it.

His eyebrows went up and his Adam's apple yo-yoed in his throat as he swallowed. He still didn't move, but now it looked like this was because he was frozen to the spot. His partner imitated him.

"Get lost," I said through gritted teeth.

He managed to nod, and then the two of them turned and hurried away down the corridor to the lift.

The one in the beige suit looked back as they escaped, and I kept my eyes on his as I kicked the apartment door shut.

I went into the kitchen. Kim was perched on a bar stool, looking at a cream-coloured piece of paper. Her expression went from puzzlement to anger to resigned amusement, all in the space of five seconds.

"What was that all about?" I asked Kim.

"It's a gagging order," she said in a small voice, not looking up. "Medusa Chenaix. They say they'll take me for every penny if I go public."

"I see." I thought about it for a moment. "Look, this isn't the Dark Ages. Isn't there protection for whistleblowers in this day and age?"

"Yes, there is. Full legal protection. But only if you go to your employer first."

I sat back, momentarily at a loss for words.

"Fucking genius," was all I managed.

"Clever, isn't it?"

"But you can't be the only one in the City with this around their neck."

"I'm not. But no one will say anything."

"Why the hell not?"

She shook her head.

"Why would they? Keep your head down, say nothing, show loyalty, and you too can achieve six-figure bonuses before you're forty. Even if you were ever compensated by a tribunal, it would be a fraction of what you could have hoped to make if you'd kept your mouth shut. If you live long enough," she added.

"Kim... it doesn't make sense. If they've taken the risk of sending you death threats, why would they bother with a gagging order?"

"I don't know. What are you thinking?"

"That gagging orders and unfair mortgage charges are one thing, but if they ever sued you for going public, the death threats and illegal surveillance would rather discredit their case."

"Maybe they don't intend taking me to court. Maybe they'll stop at threats."

"Or maybe the death threats are from someone else entirely."

She went a little pale.

"Like who?"

"I don't know, but it might be a good idea to find out. Maybe some of Gabriel's investors aren't exactly the kind of people you bring out your best china for."

An image of Dico's face swam into my brain. It disappeared when Kim gave a low groan and slipped forward off the bar stool. She managed to grab hold of the side of the kitchen counter before she collapsed completely.

I rushed forward and helped her up. She was ice-white, and making hoarse sobbing noises.

"Hey, it's okay. Take it easy," I said, and carried her through to the bedroom. I laid her carefully on the bed and got her some water and a cold facecloth for her forehead. I raised her legs onto a stack of cushions and eventually the colour came back to her cheeks.

"I think you need to ease up on the partying," I said.

She clutched my arm.

"Jackson... the money I promised you. To stay with me."

"Yes?"

"I haven't... I'm penniless. They've taken everything."

"What do you mean?"

"The mortgage charges, the salary reduction, the freeze on my accounts. They're squeezing me dry, backing me into a corner. I owe thousands."

Oh, shit.

Money and freedom. The two cards on the table for killing Kim. Up until now, money wasn't going to be an issue, but all of a sudden it was back in the equation.

Her eyes were wide as she stared at me, wanting to know what I was going to do about it. For a moment I actually thought she was pleading with me to kill her, to get her out of the black hole she found herself in.

She was, I realised, a lot like me - or she would be when she ended up with nothing. Unlike me, however, she had just been trying to do the right thing, and this was starting to vex me.

"The bastards," I said, and meant it.

"Jackson, I can't pay you. Doesn't this mean..."

Technically, she was right. But it's the kind of thing that someone might need to feel reassured about.

"Kim - I'm not going to kill you. Honestly, money isn't everything."

"What about this morning?"

"The hand round the neck thing? Don't read too much into it. It happens to wives of forty years all the time."

"Be serious for a moment."

I shut my mouth.

"I'm starting to think..."

She stopped mid-sentence. We both turned towards the sound - an unremarkable fizz accompanied by a tiny tinkling of glass. It took me a moment, but then I grabbed the back of Kim's head - always the head, control the head, the body will follow - and pulled her down onto the floor so the bed was between us and the window.

"Get down!" I yelled.

"What..." she shrieked, still not having worked out what was going on.

She landed on top of me. I still had my hand on the back of her head. Bizarrely, she kissed me.

"Not the time," I said.

"What the fuck is going on?" she asked.

I rolled onto my front, pointed at the small round hole in the window and the slightly larger hole in Marilyn Monroe's teeth, not a foot from where she had been sitting.

The blood drained from her face. For a moment I thought she was going to faint again.

"Oh..." was all she said.

I looked around. There was too much open ground to cover between here and the door, and through those floor-to-ceiling picture windows we were sitting ducks. Fortunately, a lifetime of being on edge meant the gun was within arm's reach, on the floor by the bedside cabinet.

Okay, it was a sniper. Not an especially good sniper - he had missed - but still presumably professional enough to use a decent weapon. The chance of someone having called the cops on him was small. When I started returning fire with my big, noisy, clumsy weapon, that would all change.

I chanced a look around the corner of the bed. The apartment had picture windows on both its north- and south-facing sides. The view out of the north windows - of the Thames, St Paul's, the Tate Modern and the City of London skyline - were an estate agent's wet dream. The view out of the south windows, however - the direction from which the bullet had come - may as well have been a mirror of Kim's apartment. There was a block opposite, separated only by a narrow lane barely wide enough for a car.

That was probably why he had missed - the trajectory had been too sharp. That meant he was on the roof, rather than in one of the apartments opposite. This was good.

Another fizz, another tinkle, this time followed by a small thud as the bullet lodged in the rather sturdy wooden frame of the Norwegian bedstead. The bed jerked across the floor, only by an inch or so, but I had been leaning my forehead on it to peer out, and it struck my temple. I growled in irritation.

He was now firing blind. He was still there, trying to keep us cornered. This was also good. A true professional would have cut his losses and moved off.

I pulled Kim to me. She didn't look good. On the verge of panic.

"Kim..."

She was still staring at the hole in Marilyn Monroe. I took her head in my hands and turned it so I had her attention.

"We have to get out of here," I said.

She nodded, dumbly.

"Who lives opposite?" I asked.

"What? What?"

"The flat across the lane. Who lives there?"

She screwed her eyes shut as she tried to recall.

"Not sure. A man, I think. Alone. He lives alone."

"Works in the City?"

Despite herself, she managed a scornful look.

"What else?"

"So - good chance there's no one home this time of day?"

"Yes... why? What are you..."

"Run!" I yelled.

We darted out from behind the bed and bolted for the door. I pointed my weapon in the direction of the window and let off four rounds. The sound was deafening. The glass shattered in an opaque curtain of cracks, and the entire pane slid out onto the floor. Kim screamed, and suddenly the situation was very violent, and very real. If there were any more of those little fizz sounds, we didn't hear them.

We made it to the lift. I slapped the button for the car park with the butt of the gun. Kim was wide-eyed and open-mouthed, looking at nothing. I tucked the gun into my waistband and grabbed her.

"Kim." I slapped her face. "Kim!"

Her attention slowly focused on me. She raised a hand to her cheek - unconsciously, it seemed.

"Are you hit? Are you okay?"

"I... I think so."

I didn't know which question she was answering, and so I performed a cursory examination of her body for wounds. We'd made it out unscathed so far.

"Listen, Kim," I said, more gently. "Remember what you did for me at the bank? We need to do that again."

She looked bewildered. "You want to kiss?"

"We need to act normal. The only reason we got out of there is because no one paid us any attention. I know it's hard..." - Lord, did I know - "...but it's the only way out."

My heart felt like Dico - the none-too-shabby heavyweight almost-pro - was using it as a speedball. For just a second I leaned my head back on the wall of the lift.

I could hear the call in my head, reverberating around Courtroom One at Southwark Crown Court as the tape was played back for the benefit of the jury.

-Police, what's your emergency?

-I... I thought I heard gunfire.

-Your location please, sir?

-Bermondsey Wall...um, in a flat in Shad Thames.

-Can you describe the sound you heard?

-Three or four really loud bangs. They were like explosions. The building opposite... there's holes in the glass.

That would be enough. The emergency call-handler would keep him on the line, working in the details - the exact location, what he could see, whether he had any experience with firearms, but the incident would have already been fired over to the controllers, who would acknowledge, read and then broadcast over the air.

Borough patrol cars, TSG carriers and ARVs would all drop what they were doing and converge on Bermondsey like machines possessed. In these early moments, the broad-brush information rendered them largely blind, and so the emphasis was on containment.

Which meant we had to get the fuck out of Dodge.

****

nineteen

Kim sat in the passenger seat while I changed the number plates. It seemed to take forever, and I was sure that any moment now our way out would be blocked by a wall of unfriendly police vehicles. I forced myself to focus - I was using as much time looking over my shoulder as I was working.

I finished fiddling, and we cruised out of the car park, five miles an hour below the speed limit.

"Doesn't this thing go any faster?" Despite the question, the earlier trepidation had gone from her voice. In fact, she almost sounded like she was getting her kicks.

"I think you know the answer to that, seeing as you used quarter of a tank on a three-mile journey when you borrowed it. Besides..."

"I know, we need to act normal."

"Exactly."

"Oh Christ, I left my bag behind," she said, looking over her shoulder as we headed towards the City.

"You can't go back. Anything left behind stays behind," I said.

She looked at me.

"Everything?"

"It's too dangerous," I said.

"BlackBerry, clothes, money, laptop?"

"Even your soft furnishings," I said, unable to keep the disdain from my voice, and then added, "Listen, I've enjoyed living your way, but I'm afraid now you're going to have to live my way. Sorry."

"Are you kidding? I can't wait." She kicked off her heels and stretched her legs up over the dashboard.

I looked over at her.

"Act normal," she said, slipping her sunglasses on.

Any feelings of pity, puzzlement or paranoia I felt at her apparently romantic notions of life as a free agent were dulled as two marked BMW area cars, the 5-series - granddads' cars, if you ask me - raced past in the opposite direction, sirens howling. They made a staccato whoom-whoom as they whipped past. The Met was one of the few remaining businesses in the world that still used petrol cars, and the sudden breach of the peace made me jump.

I forced myself not to grimace, but my hands went white on the steering wheel. I looked in the rear view mirror. No sudden brake lights, no screech of tyres, no handbrake turn.

Once we'd crossed Blackfriars Bridge and turned west onto the Victoria Embankment, I was able to open up the BMW a little bit between traffic signals. Not much, but just enough for me to feel a little more comfortable with the distance.

The City was still no place to get lost, however. I couldn't shake the feeling that every single traffic camera would be honing in on my beloved car. The road here was wide, straight, and - to my dismay - reasonably clear of traffic, moving or otherwise.

Perfect conditions for a hard stop.

In my mind, three unmarked cars - powerful; Audis, maybe BMWs - pulled in front, alongside, and behind; boxing us in, grinding alongside my beautiful 3-series, forcing us to a stop. In my mind, seven or eight big guys in Berghaus fleeces and jeans poured out, dice band POLICE caps going on first, then nasty-looking MP5s being levelled at my window.

Armed police!

Driver, show me your hands.

Don't do anything I don't tell you to do.

Kim's hand on my leg. I looked over at her, jolted from my nightmare. The thought of being caught was suddenly unbearable.

"Honey..." she said. "Act normal, remember?"

Honey? I didn't know if she was mired in some Bonnie and Clyde (or should that be Malted and Sweet?) fantasy or what, but in any case, she was right. Like a proper amateur, I had only missed a red light by punching the BMW through the amber, nudging up above the speed limit, and stamping on the anchors behind a rather tidy DB10 at the next red light.

"The guy shooting at us at the apartment probably knows your car and the number plates you've got for it, but he's unlikely to have called the police. Whoever did call the police probably didn't know any more than they heard shots. So staying calm and keeping the attention off us has to be a good move, yes?"

She was right. The same theory had been forming in my own head, but had not yet articulated itself. We'd beaten the containment, which meant we had some breathing space - not much, but a bit. I turned north and onto the Strand, just to change the route.

"Besides which," she said. "You're just one of a long list of problems needing police attention right now."

She pointed past me to the street outside the driver's window. Outside Barclays Bank, just past the Savoy, a horde of scruffy-looking people with placards were shouting. A couple of them were in the process of gluing themselves to the window, while three more had linked arms and were sitting across the entrance.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"G19 in a few weeks," she said. "They must just be getting warmed up."

"Occupational hazard for you guys, I suppose," I said.

"Are you kidding? It doesn't affect us at all. The guys on the trading floor find it enormously amusing. On their lunch break they take bets on who the police will hit first."

"Doesn't it hurt the market?"

"Hardly."

I watched the fraggles unleash their diatribe upon the institution, while some red-faced security guys tried to drop-kick the bunch blocking the doorway. One was on a mobile phone, presumably calling the cops. Further up the road the same thing was happening outside Vodafone, Starbucks and Citibank, while the Italians were staging a sit-in in the spot they had occupied ever since the G20 reduced by one, and I wondered...

I heard the car before I saw it. Above the gently-whirring ambience of London's largely-electric traffic flow, the screech of tyres and whine of an engine like a baby having a tantrum were clearly audible.

A black London cab appeared in my rear view mirror. I knew it was the one making all the noise because the back fishtailed as it flew around the corner onto Kingsway. The driver stomped on the throttle, weaving in and out of the traffic to catch us up.

There were a few angry horns as the gliding cars realised some oaf was breaking the cardinal rule of not making up ground in inner-city traffic unfairly.

It didn't seem to bother him, however, and he was a tasty enough driver to close the gap to three or four car-lengths within a few seconds.

Central London was not the best place to give the BMW a workout, but circumstances prevailed. I dropped into second gear to speed past a courier van, then as Kim started to say "What...?" I wrenched the wheel left and booted down Keeley Street.

It was a more or less tidy manoeuvre – only a cycle courier had to dive for cover – but the cab was doing a pretty good job of keeping up.

It didn't make a great deal of sense, but then that was proving to be fairly common these days. A high-speed pursuit through London in the middle of the day was hardly subtle, which led me to think that the guy chasing us had little to lose.

A right and then a left at the New Connaught Rooms brought us onto Newton Street. An underpass led under a large building under construction; as such, the underpass was closed off by various construction barriers and signage. In a heartbeat, the ROAD AHEAD CLOSED sign grew from a small red dot to the size of the entire windscreen. I tried my best impression of a rally driver to weave around the signs, but I just ended up ploughing through them to get onto Newton Street. I winced as a large plastic barrier thunked off the BMW's front bumper.

For a moment I thought we'd lost him, and then my heart sank as I looked in the mirror and saw the hunter in the black cab emerge from the wreckage I had left behind.

If I'd thought that weaving and antisocial accelerating was going to draw some disapproval from my fellow road users, then bulldozing a construction site meant people were going to start calling the cops.

"We've got to get off the road," Kim said, verbalising my thoughts. But how to do it without the cretin in the cab trying to take our heads off? Fortunately he seemed discerning enough to refrain from taking pot shots at us from his taxi, but he still appeared very keen not to lose us.

This thought scared me, and I stamped the throttle and sprinted in second gear to the end of Newton Street. The narrow street was now, mercifully, free of traffic or other obstructions, and the BMW's acceleration meant we were able to put a little bit of distance between us and the cab.

At the end of the street the NO RIGHT TURN sign flashed past us. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and yanked the car right onto High Holborn - into the face of oncoming one-way traffic.

Kim screamed. Two white Transit vans were cruising towards us. One jerked over to the left of the road when he saw me, the other just sounded its horn and waited for me to get out of the way.

I was happy to oblige. I pulled the BMW over to the left and thumped up onto the kerb - taking out a couple of hastily-abandoned bicycles – and turned into Southampton Place.

"Is he following?" I yelled.

Kim turned around.

"I... I don't know," she said.

I floored the BMW. The wheels dropped off the kerb with a jaw-tingling crunch – I tried not to think about my alloys - and the engine screamed to redline as it roared along Southampton Place. The one-way street was straight and more or less empty, with building works coning off the whole right hand side, and only the odd delivery van double parked on the left.

I had the BMW up to nearly eighty by the time we reached the end of the road – even if the psycho-cabbie had been brave enough to follow us into the face of one-way traffic, if we could get to the end of Southampton Place before he got onto it, we might lose him.

We shot past the lovely, exclusive Georgian townhouses – over half of them for sale – then as we approached the red traffic light at the end of the road, I stabbed the horn with my palm, and, without releasing it, belted straight through the traffic lights and into the peaceful and lovingly-tended Bloomsbury Square Gardens – which, as luck would have it, had a gravel path traversing its entire length that was just the right width for a BMW 3-series.

There was a screech and a sickening bang at the lights behind us as a whispering Ford Iago ploughed into another one. Now I really was unpopular with my fellow Londoners. Desecrating parkland tends to create headlines in the Daily Mail.

Pedestrians, picnickers and dog walkers all took evasive action as I steamed through the park without easing up. I was aware of Kim pressed into the seat beside me, grimly clutching it with white hands, rigid with fear as if she were riding the world's most unfun rollercoaster.

Once we were through the gardens I swung the car left onto Great Russell Street. I glanced in the rear view mirror – although two or three black London cabs were visible, none seemed to be bearing down on me like Cerberus in a bad mood.

I eased off the throttle, although my gradually-growing confidence did not extend to stopping at a zebra crossing, much to the disgust of the geriatric that was waiting to cross.

A left turn onto Bury Place and then another right onto Gilbert Place and I was quietly confident that we'd lost both him and any public-spirited citizens that might have been following us, cameras and mobile phones held aloft, fanned by the flames of community cohesion.

Gilbert Place was just wide enough for one car, and the tall buildings looming up on either side of the narrow street created an urban trench that I felt rather comfortable in, especially when I heard the sirens go racing past on Great Russell Street.

A left turn would have taken us onto the pedestrianised, one-way part of Museum Street – away from the cops – but scattering the coffee drinkers and shoppers on the terraces was a bit much, even for me. So I waited until the convoy of angry police cars had gone, then turned left onto Great Russell Street, left again onto Coptic Place, then doubled back round to the south end of Museum Street where I turned into the cool darkness and sweet relief of the NCP (Holborn) multi-storey car park.

By this time I was bimbling along like all the other patrons of Drury Lane, infected with only a mild impatience as I sought out a matinee parking space, and no one gave us a second look.

I parked the car in the farthest, darkest recess I could find within the car park, switched the engine off, and waited.

The sudden silence was like a thunderstorm in my ears, the only sound the tick-tick-tick-tick of the red-hot engine.

"What now?" Kim whispered. Her voice sounded loud.

"Ssh," I said. From the bowels of the building I could hear a cruising engine, and the squeal of tyres on the glossy concrete of the car park's floor.

The engine got louder as it ascended.

"Stay here," I said to Kim.

I got out of the car as quietly as I could, and moved to the ramp that led onto our floor. A concrete pillar supporting the ramp up to the next level offered some cover, and I drew the weapon.

The engine got louder. I leaned my head back, and the concrete pillar was unexpectedly cold on my crown. Was I losing my hair?

I waited, trying to control my breathing, the gun clasped in both hands, the barrel pointing at the ground.

Then the black cab was right next to me. It pulled up the ramp and stopped when its headlights flooded over the BMW.

I ran forward and poked the gun through the open driver's window.

"Armed police! Don't fucking move! Hands on the wheel!" I screamed. I pressed the warrant card to the glass - the one I had not used in a very, very long time.

Impersonating a police officer. Section 90(1) Police Act 1996. Six months in prison or a £5,000 fine, or both.

Oh, excellent.

The driver was a white, craggy man in his sixties, with lank yellow hair combed back over his scalp. His face was scattered with white, yellow and black rice-grain stubble that looked like a lamb biryani gone wrong.

His eyes widened with shock and fear when I yelled at him. In the gloom it took him a second to realise that the thing in my hand was a firearm; he splayed his hands on the dashboard and obediently headbutted the steering wheel, sounding the horn in a continuous blare.

"Please God, don't shoot me. I haven't done anything. Take anything you want. I have money..." he babbled, his voice frantic.

"Take anything I want? This isn't a robbery. I just told you I'm the police."

"Yes, sorry, sorry, I'm scared. I'm so scared!" He yelled this last part.

I kept the gun on him. He began to cry.

"Just calm down. Relax," I said, which was pretty pointless in the circumstances. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just stay still and be quiet."

His head was still pressed against the steering wheel, and he nodded a couple of times, sounding the horn each time he did so. Bib-bib-bib \- it sounded like a duck laughing.

I took a couple of steps away from the cab and listened. There were no sounds in the car park, other than those you'd expect to hear. No indication that anyone was coming up to our floor.

I moved around the cab, my gun trained on the inside, looking out for a briefcase, a rucksack, a snooker cue case – anything that might indicate that this was our sniper.

As I circled the cab, I thought about how likely it was that this was our guy. His snivelling act was pretty convincing. Once he'd come up to the floor and found the BMW he wouldn't have had time to process anything before I'd screamed in his ear. If he'd been our guy I would have expected the merest fraction of a second before the idea to play dumb materialised. This guy hadn't hesitated at all.

In other words, I was convinced, which either meant he wasn't our man, or that he was very, very good.

There was a small green satchel on the front seat.

"Empty that," I said.

He did so. Sandwiches, cigarettes, a thermos, a mobile phone and a newspaper fell out onto the passenger seat. I put the gun away and went back to the driver's window.

"Got your licence?" I asked.

He handed it over. If it wasn't genuine, then it was pretty good.

I memorised the details – Frank Pitcher, 24/11/1953, of 34 Durban Road, West Norwood.

"Thanks for your co-operation, sir. Sorry about the mix-up. We're looking for a suspect in a black cab, which, as you can imagine, is no easy task. I guess that's why he's using one."

"No problem, officer."

"What are you doing up here?"

"I hide up here to eat my sandwiches. Only place I can get a break undisturbed."

"I guess I kind of spoiled that for you. Thanks. Be safe on the roads."

I handed the licence back and turned to walk back to the BMW, showing the cab driver my back.

Big mistake.

"Jackson!" Kim yelled.

The engine of the cab howled and there was a thud as Frank Pitcher punched the throttle. I just had time to dive to my right, drawing him away from Kim and the BMW. The nose of the cab lurched up from the ground like a rabid dog as it accelerated towards me.

I hit the ground and rolled as fast as I could, but still felt a bolt of pain in my right leg as the front nearside wheel of the cab thumped over it.

There was a crunch of metal as the front of the cab ploughed into the wall of the car park. Frank Pitcher still had his foot pressed down on the accelerator; impeded by the wall of the car park, the screaming engine went up another two octaves and the tyres spun furiously on the smooth surface as the front of the cab scraped along the wall in a shower of sparks.

Any small hope that this was an accident, that Frank Pitcher had suffered a heart attack or something, evaporated when he crunched into reverse, backed up, and tried to have another go.

I pulled myself to my feet, and collapsed again almost immediately. I looked down at my leg. It was bleeding freely through a rip in my jeans, collecting grease and dirt as it flowed, and something about its general shape and appearance looked pretty wrong.

I tried to take a step, and a yellow pain like a backbone being yanked whole from a fish ratcheted up my leg.

The cab revved again, the headlights on full. I couldn't see much in the windscreen besides my own scared expression, but I thought I saw the flashing teeth of the cabbie grinning through the glass.

Fear, pain, and a sudden tiredness prevented me from moving, and I was unable to do any more than press my body against the wall of the car park, the grimy air of London caking on my neck, and wait for the impact. For some reason I was most worried about the bumper scoring my shins.

The engine revved again, I heard the clutch engage – and then Kim was there at the driver's window. Some now-insane part of my brain felt irritation that she was interfering with the inevitable, but then there was a flash of black, and she swung the jack through the driver's open window.

It connected hard with Frank Pitcher's head – I could hear the crunch even over the noise of the engine – and in an equally swift movement she reached in and grabbed the keys out of the ignition, switching off the entire scene in a heartbeat.

She was breathing hard, looking around, her eyes not finding mine for nearly half a minute. She let the jack fall from her hand, and it clanged on the ground, the sound echoing around the car park.

I took a tentative step forward, and fortunately my wonky leg held up. I shuffled arrhythmically slowly across to the cab, my feet scuffling along the concrete, and peered in the driver's window.

Frank had slumped over onto his left side. A mix of blood and a yellow fluid trickled unhappily out of his right ear canal and there was a large dark red swelling on the side of his head.

I looked down at the jack. There was a sticky red mess on the end of it, with strands of hair and particles of something else that was white and unspeakable.

I gently took hold of Kim's arm and gently steered her towards the BMW.

"I... I think you'll have to drive," I said.

She looked down at my leg, then back at the cab, and then into my eyes. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, and in her eyes was a film of tears mixed with disbelief at what she had just done.

"Hey, you can't go into shock," I said. "I'm the one with a gammy leg."

I touched her chin.

"You've got some cojones, I'll give you that," I said. "Most people freeze in a situation like that. You're the reason I'm not roadkill right now. Thank you, Kim."

At the sound of her name, she seemed to snap out of it, and we went to our respective doors. Before I got in I paused to listen out for any tell-tale signs of trouble – loud voices, converging sirens, helicopter rotors – but it all sounded perfectly normal.

"Let's go," I said as I got in. "Easy on the throttle, she's a bit jumpy until you open her up a bit, and..."

"I have driven this car before, you know," she said.

"Oh, you're back with us, then?"

She reversed out of the space. We headed back out onto London's streets, and headed west. It was an uneventful journey, and by the grace of someone or other, we'd avoided the latest shitstorm.

The journey was slow and steady, until Kim pulled over suddenly in Ladbroke Grove.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I need to call an ambulance. There's a payphone there."

I understood where she was coming from.

"Okay," I said. "But don't use the payphone. Keep driving. I'll call from the mobile."

I made the call, using a high-pitched Australian accent, and kept the details brief. Location, age and condition of casualty.

After I'd made the call, Kim seemed to relax a bit, and we pressed on.

"What now?" she said. "You need a hospital for that leg."

As she said it my leg pulsed with pain, causing me to climb up the seat.

"Can't do it. Not just yet," I said. "Few tumblers of whisky and some sticking plaster and I'll be fine. Want to play doctors and nurses?"

She laughed. I made another call.

Tosca wasn't answering - this was a new phone, and he either didn't answer calls from numbers he didn't know, or - equally likely - he had somehow sensed it was me and had muttered no-a fuckin way in the Italian accent that only surfaced when he was pissed off.

Tosca hadn't been amused when I turned up unannounced on his doorstep with a mate in tow, but in the absence of other options, I had to repeat the trick - even if his hospitality did evaporate. Kim was easier on the eye than Dico, anyway.

But much to my disgust, given the effort it took to climb the stairs, he had cleared out. On the door to his Ealing flat was a notice – MORTGAGE REPOSSESSION – CALL AGENT FOR BELOW-MARKET PRICES! There was a big, clumsy hasp and padlock on the door, but it went after a couple of whacks with my shoulder, the impact radiating all the way down into my leg.

The flat was indeed empty. Carpets, curtains, the whole fucking shebang."Christ," I muttered to myself, hobbling from room to room. "Was it something I said?"

In one of the rooms was a huge mud-coloured stain that had soaked into the bare wall and floorboards. From the size and general shape – spatter on the wall, heavy pooling on the floor – I knew it was blood.

As I left the flat, something caught my eye. I turned back to the notice on the front door. There, in the bottom-right corner, was a capital 'M,' overlapping and on top of a capital 'C.' The logo of Medusa Chenaix.

I staggered back down to the car, dumping the mobile phone and the jack in a nearby bottle bank. I got to the car about the same time as Kim, who had stocked up on supplies from a nearby pharmacy, including a new pre-pay mobile phone – one of the old clunky iPhone 5s.

I had hoped Tosca would be able to hook us up with a safe house - well, safe room - that I knew he sometimes used. But in the face of the endless, disinterested ringing on the other end of the phone, it was going to have to be the Good B&B Guide.

There were two competing priorities in existence. One was to get out of London and into one of the regional police areas – such things increase the odds of escape exponentially – and the other was to get off the road and out of sight as soon as possible.

In the end the latter option won out, and we found a likely bolthole in Harlesden. It was an old Victorian guest house, set back from the road, with a yellowing sign in the window that said B&B – VACANCIES. It was good enough for me. Kim parked the BMW in a side street, far enough away for it not to look associated with the place.

"You're going to have to ditch it, you know," Kim said as we walked away, her arm through mine to support me as I hobbled.

"No fucking way."

"At least switch to something else for a while."

I silently conceded the point as we approached the guest house.

I left the landlord a useless credit card as a deposit, agreeing to pay at the end of the week. I wrote Mr and Mrs S. Easter, Ipswich in his yellowing guest book.

He showed us to a tiny room. The furniture and décor were ancient, the wood of the armoire, floorboards and bedstead harbouring old smells of tobacco, sweat and gin. It was clean and warm, however, and the remainder of the guest house appeared deserted out of season. It would do.

Kim fell back onto the bed, her legs in the air. She was grinning. Rain battered the window and bounced off the rainbow oil pattern of the single streetlight through the window behind her. She kicked off her shoes and began to unbutton her shirt.

"Now what are you doing?" I asked.

"Unpacking." The grin got wider.

I lowered myself carefully onto the edge of the bed.

"If we're lying low, we need to pass the time somehow," she said, getting up onto her knees to rub my shoulders.

"Although," she continued, "I would question the logic of staying in London. We're only a couple of hours from Folkestone. Drive overnight and we could disappear into Europe."

"Remember your passport, did you?"

She was silent, no doubt remembering that her passport was in the top drawer of some bureau in the corner of the living room that was, no doubt, crawling with armed police at that very moment.

She got down off the bed, helped me remove my jeans, and began to swab the muck from my leg.

"Well, what about north? We could get up to Carlisle by morning, stop overnight, and then hole up in the Highlands somewhere."

"In a log cabin, no doubt."

"Why not?"

"And then what?"

She didn't answer, instead concentrating on her bandaging.

"I don't think it's broken," she said.

"Kim, right now there are police all over your apartment. Most likely scenario is that the sniper disappeared without a trace, which leaves them following up reports of gunfire and a lot of damage to your executive vista. There's CCTV around the place, which might have both the car and us leaving the scene. They'll figure you were either caught in the crossfire or that you're keeping some bad company - the kind that gets snipers on your tail."

"Snipers like you?" She stopped what she was doing and looked up at me.

"Whatever. The point is that in either case the party line will be that they're worried about you. They may even circulate you as missing, which means you could very well see yourself on the ten o'clock news. You can also bet that they'll be at Medusa Chenaix before the market closes. The cops will eventually work out that they were there only a few days ago following up on a sighting of me. If they work out that we're together - and they probably will - they might think I'm holding you hostage. Christ knows what Gabriel will tell the police, but he'll work out that his latest attempt on your life failed, and he'll try again - probably adding my name to his shit list."

She finished bandaging my leg and stood up to survey her efforts. "There. Good as new."

I stood up and tested the leg. It still throbbed but it was feeling better. I pulled on my jacket and hobbled to the door.

"Where are you going?" she said.

"Just a quick sweep," I said, and left the room.

I shuffled down the stairs and performed an inelegant circuit of the B&B – just to quell the little insect in my brain. The roads were quiet, the vehicles all soaked in condensation and clearly not occupied. If we were under surveillance, it was pretty good, and I tried to make the distinction between paranoia and caution.

When I got back, my leg was burning, and Kim was struggling with a bottle of wine. I watched her from the doorway.

"I know it might not be the time, but I need a bloody drink," she said, not looking up. "Are you going to help me, or what?"

I didn't answer. She looked up.

"What's the matter?"

"Kim..."

"Yes?"

"We need... I think we need a plan. In case we get separated."

"What do you suggest?"

I went over and opened the wine for her.

"There's a band I know. Jazz. They're not big, but they've got a small following around South London. If we get separated, then get to a computer, and leave a message for me on their Facebook page. I'll do the same."

"Okay. What's the name of the band?"

"The Artisan Liquidators."

"The what?"

"The Art... hang on."

There was some stationery on the bedside cabinet. I hobbled over, sat down on the bed and scribbled The Artisan Liquidators onto some of the notepaper. She took it and read the name.

"You know, looking over your shoulder every time you leave the house gets a bit tedious," I said.

"Are you speaking from experience?"

I shrugged, and she sat down next to me.

"Is it something to do with the tiepin?"

I wanted to tell her. Christ, I really did. But not now.

"I've done this a long time. I've lived out of the boot of my car for the best part of four years. There's no end to it, no future. You just survive, one day to the next. I've done it for too long."

"But always alone." She leaned forward and pressed her lips against mine. I pushed her off.

"Kim, I'm serious. It might sound romantic now, but you'll get sick of it after a few weeks, maybe sooner." I winced and stood up again.

"Come over here," she said, and helped me into a wing chair with a faded floral print. "So what do you suggest?"

"We put an end to it. We take the fight to them. Counter-attack. Ride it out, get to the bottom of it."

"How?" she said, pulling a footstool over so I could rest my leg on it.

"I'm not sure."

I thought about Dico, and wondered how long before he made his move on Gabriel. That could be the kick-start I needed. It would certainly improve my reputation, and that's the secret of life, isn't it?

"I used to be an investigator," I said. "That's what we need to do. Stop worrying about the body count and look at who's pulling the strings. Medusa Chenaix isn't just a bank, and there's more to Project Ghost than a set of contingency plans – I just don't know what. We need to get back into Medusa Chenaix to find out. Find out who Gabriel's been dealing with, and what he's been dealing in. All the time we're running scared we'll be clueless. But there's one thing that needs to happen for us to get a head start."

"What's that?"

I held her hand.

"You have to die."

****

twenty

Two days' convalescence with Kim looking after me and the leg had improved markedly. I could have happily stretched it out to a week or so, but we had work to do. With whisky, painkillers and the odd bit of extra TLC from Kim, I had gone from a hobble to a slight limp quite nicely, which I was none too relieved about.

I was quietly grateful that Tosca had introduced me to Newhaven port when we had met for the handover of the gun - a more perfect setting would have been hard to come by.

I looked down at Kim's still form. She was wearing the Hermès cashmere coat, the one I remembered from when I first met her, except now it was grimy and splashed with blood. There was more blood and other nameless matter in her hair, and a cut on her cheek.

She was lying awkwardly, wedged half-under an old caravan that, during the day, doubtless did a roaring trade as a tea wagon. Kim's body was behind the caravan, in a small space where there was little else but a thicket of weeds.

I looked around. The tea wagon was parked in a gravel-strewn enclosure fenced off with barbed wire. The slip road branched off from the main flyover and descended to the industrial depots - the enclosure was at the gated entrance to the incinerator service road.

I was fortunate that the latest phone, the one Kim had bought from the pharmacy, was equipped with a not-especially good camera. A surfeit of megapixels might spoil the illusion.

The only street lights were from the flyover above, and they barely reached down here. The moon was out, though, and in the moonlight her face was pale and drawn, her mouth open, the brace glinting. I had to hand it to her - she was a trooper. Paranoia and fear about what might happen to her had turned into something of a shitstorm when those fears were realised, but she'd proven herself pretty redoubtable, and she'd done what was necessary.

I took the photograph and sent it to Dico. I gave it a few moments and then called him.

"What the fuck you sending me this for?"

"You got it, then?"

"Yeah, I got it. Heartbreaking."

"What do you mean?" He was already suspicious that Kim and I were involved - which, I suppose, we were.

"Means I got to get a new fucking phone now."

"What for?"

"You don't think this counts as incriminating evidence?"

"It's your own fault for wanting proof of death. The fuck else do you expect?"

"I normally get my people to verify death with the mortuary."

"More fool you, then. There isn't going to be a body."

He was silent for a moment.

"Nice to hear you've finally grown some grapes, Jackson. It's about time."

"Yeah, yeah. When do I collect?"

"I'll call you. Tomorrow. Keep this number. I'll have a new one."

I ended the call. Behind the enclosure was a patch of wasteground that stretched to the unguarded railway lines leading from Newhaven Harbour station out of town. I juggled the phone in the palm of my hand for a moment, and then used a boundary-fielder's throw to lob the phone towards the railway.

"Blood on the tracks," I said, and knelt down beside Kim. "Kim? Kim, honey? Come on, wake up."

I lifted her up, as gently as I could, and pulled her out of the rather ignominious space between the caravan and the thicket of weeds. I laid her head on my knees and began to massage her neck.

"Come on, Kim. Wake up," I called, surprised by the sound of the tenderness in my own voice. It wasn't contrived, but it was alien to my ears, like something out of a film, maybe a concerned husband trying to revive his unconscious wife after a car crash, or some bollocks.

A minute passed, maybe two, and I was just starting to panic when she murmured and began to come round. I took off my jacket and covered her with it - the way it fell meant the dolphin tiepin was just by her lips.

Her eyes opened. They were sightless for a moment, but then they focused. Recognition swam into them and she touched my face.

"You know, you're the only person I've got on this planet," she said.

"Come on, it's freezing. Let's get you out of here."

She was groggy, but okay. I gave her some water and got her in the hire car \- a grey Mondeo that was so nondescript it was beautiful - and the heating fired up in no time.

"Did it work?" she asked as we headed towards Brighton.

"I think so. I think so."

"How's your arm?"

I looked down. Blood was seeping through the bandage.

"Okay, I think. How's your neck?"

She craned her head back and massaged the right side of her neck. She closed her eyes, her face suddenly serene, lit by the blip-blip-blip of the passing streetlights as they rolled over the car in a sodium heartbeat, and I felt a flutter of fear and vulnerability in my stomach. God, what was happening to me?

"I feel a bit light-headed, but okay, I think."

I had used a Stanley blade to carve a wound into my arm, and had stood gawping at it in mild shock, before Kim pulled me to her in a fierce embrace so that I bled on her coat, skin and hair. Once she looked sufficiently doused in claret, I backhanded her across the face - the bit I didn't like - and wrapped my arm around her neck from behind, squeezing it between my forearm and bicep, being careful to avoid the windpipe. Seven seconds or so of direct pressure to the carotid artery and she had collapsed, unconscious, and I had dragged her behind the caravan to arrange my little set-piece tableau.

"So what now?"

"You fancy a movie?"

****

twenty-one

The flames licked around the hire car as we walked away from it, our bloody clothes inside. One more to my list of auditable crimes, and it seemed like we were reaching the point of no return. Maybe we weren't, not really. Maybe it was just that, with Kim in tow, I felt a long-dormant sense of responsibility, a duty to not drag her down with me.

Big of you, said the Jetta in my head.

Maybe events were overtaking me - with every new misdemeanour, I was fast losing a grip of what I needed to do cover my tracks. One fine day the police would kick my door in - I had resigned myself to that much - but since meeting Kim I no longer had a proper handle on which particular episode they would be interested in.

The thought of being caught still filled me with dread. Not prison – I could handle that, just about. And the thought of marching into a police station to face the music and take whatever was coming my way on the chin, just to clear the slate, had a perverse kind of appeal. I was just about young enough that I really could start again, but the thought of running, running, running, and not being able to get away made me rigid with fear.

Four years. Not that long, really, but long enough to be living outside the infrastructure. It was a curious feeling - like being a time traveller or invisible visitor. I could see the trappings of normal life - cars, jobs, taxes, families, pensions, allocated recreation, retirement - but I wasn't part of it. And despite everything that had happened to me since I pissed off Hatch and got Pelly killed, there had always been a small part of me that believed I could just drop everything and return to a straight life anytime I wanted.

Clearly not the case. It was now sinking in - only after four years - that I could not just walk into the Man's office and say Okay, I give up, I'll take the 9-5 office job, the starter home and the Ford Focus estate. I'll only play when I don't have to get up for work, and I'll find a reasonably normal girlfriend. We'll get married, buy a house, have kids and plan for retirement. I will keep my head down, abide by the rules, vote and face up to my responsibilities.

I couldn't do it, even if I wanted to. Hatch wouldn't let me. There would be a heavy price to pay, some painful lessons to learn and some nasty wounds to cauterise before I could play that card.

In other words, things had to get worse before they could get better.

And while I believed these things on Monday, by Wednesday I knew, deep down, that I could never do it. I knew what I needed, but no-one seemed to understand the need to walk in the rain, to wait in the dark under street lamps, or to relentlessly chain smoke French cigarettes. And although I had qualms about exercising my raison d'être as an assassin, I'd been on the fence about killing Kim up until the episode with the two morons at her front door.

Since that moment, and as I looked at Kim's face, glowing in the flames, I knew for sure that I was not an assassin.

I was a protector.

I was her protector.

Many years ago, that's what I signed up to be. A protector of those unable, for whatever reason, to protect themselves from those that victimised them.

A lot had happened to me since then – and I no longer wore the uniform – but I still believed it. If I was going to kill anyone, no way was it going to be the little person. This woman was being run out of town by a bunch of rich, faceless men, and now, for far less than the cost of a new car, somebody wanted her dead.

And there was no way I was going to allow that to happen. Yes, maybe Dico was telling the truth. Maybe, for the cost of Kim's life, Hatch really did intend to set me free. For four years, that was all I wanted.

But you know what? Fuck him.

Who wants freedom when it's on someone else's terms, when it's being dangled like a carrot in front of you?

She saw me looking. She moved closer, and took my hand while we watched the car burn. Looking at her blonde hair lit white by the flames, I suddenly felt - and not for the first time - like I was in a movie - North by Northwest or something.

What is a straight life anyway?

See? Difficult not to get existential.

*

The club was in Greek Street. There was soft lighting in the place, plenty of room for shadows, and a pretty jazz singer was turning over Billie Holliday and Lady Ella covers.

It was not a particularly sensible move, but movies were my drug. The Coronet Cinema in Notting Hill had been showing A Beautiful Mind, and when we walked out, I felt intoxicated - my anxiety dulled, my courage refuelled and my endorphins telling me good things like - you two can take on the world and win, and laugh about it when you're old and grey because your million-year marriage saw off everything else. So when Kim put a hand on mine and said let's get a drink, I said - fuck it, why not?

I finished the coffee. The service was good - the waitress was moving in our direction with a refill before I'd set the cup back down on the table. Kim was drinking a Mai Tai – with full colour labels on the El Dorado.

She smiled and asked if there was anything else we wanted.

I asked her how come everyone is smoking, and she smiled again - this time showing teeth - and just said love finds a way. So, feeling like I was in a Prohibition-era funeral parlour, I lit one of my own, and one for Kim, then clinked my glass against hers.

"To Malted and Sweet," I said.

Kim smiled, and I glanced a look at the stage, where the singer was doing tai-chi with her hands while singing a soft, slow take on Night and Day. The muted trumpet and baritone sax swung off each other and into the audience, where they snagged the smoke from a hundred illegal cigarettes before drifting up into the rafters.

"So what now?" Kim said.

"Phase Two. We find out what the hell's going on. We go back to Medusa Chenaix and work out what Gabriel was up to. Who he's servicing, and what he's dealing in."

"How are we going to do that?"

"We're not. I am."

"But..."

"We can't go in during business hours. It will have to be at night."

"You mean break in?"

"That's why you're not coming."

She was quiet for a moment.

"I can help with that."

I picked up my drink.

"There's a guy I know in HR. Elliott. He knows some of what Medusa Chenaix have been doing to me. He's about as close as I can get to an ally. I'll speak to him. He can at least get us into the building without having to smash windows."

"Can you trust him?"

"Yes. He's not a money man. When I was trying to decide whether to go public I gave him a box of papers to keep safe."

A ridiculous image came to mind - a clandestine meeting between Kim and Elliott after hours, fingers lightly brushing as a box of damning evidence was handed over.

Kim reached across the table and touched my face.

"You going to keep the beard?" she asked.

"You don't like it?" I said, banishing my adolescent jealousies.

"I do. But I would like to see your face."

"Necessity is the mother of invention, and all that. Once we're living off bananas in a non-extradition country I'll buy a razor."

She was quiet for a moment.

"You know when you bled on me?" she said. "That turned me on."

"Nothing compared to knocking you out," I said, my eyes fixed on the band. I could feel her smile. It was bizarrely erotic, but anyway.

"... well, yeah, I can get 'em, but bear in mind this is a very late order, so you'll be looking at another fifty on top of that..."

The voice came slicing through my head like chewing broken glass. Distracted, I looked around for the owner, and found him without too much difficulty. He was sitting at a nearby table, a wideboy-of-the-world and his woman, fused together into one semi-detached monster. He was completely bald, with heavy gold hoops through both ear lobes; she was a red-faced bottle-blonde with a barbed-wire tattoo, a baboon-arse cleavage and bigger muscles than me.

"...you got it all wrong, mate," he rasped. "These are genuine. This ain't no fake crap. This is the real fackin' McCoy..." He flipped his telephone from hand to hand as he talked.

Kim touched my hand and pulled me back to the conversation.

"When are you going to collect?" she said.

"I don't know..."

She pulled her seat a little closer to me.

"You don't know? You did send him the photograph?"

"I did."

"Well?"

"He said he was going to call me. Tomorrow."

"So what's the problem?"

"I tossed my phone."

"Jackson..."

"... yeah, I can get you the Hilfigers, but they're goin' pretty fackin' quick. CKs as well, mm hmm... but anyway mate, enough shop. Did you score with that bird I introduced you to? Yeah? Nice one, you cant. Did you dose her with the man fat? Nice goin'..."

I looked over again. The woman tugged at his arm.

"Gary... Gary..."

He shrugged her off. I looked over again, and noticed that he had Gary tattooed on his forearm, above a fire-breathing dragon and St George flag. Presumably a reminder.

"I love watching adverts on the telly." This was her now, apropos of apparently nothing. "They're so cool these days." She sighed dreamily and gazed off into the distance.

"...nah mate, I know. She ain't got much between the ears, but then you don't want 'em for talk, do ya? She is a slapper, yeah, but where would we be without slappers?..."

A fortuitous trumpet solo drowned out the next bit, and I turned back to Kim, who was staring at me intently.

"Well?" she said.

"Look, Kim. This was not a moneyspinning exercise. This was to get certain people off our backs. Collecting on a job that I know I didn't do might be stretching it a bit. I don't think Dico would take kindly to being defrauded. We need to cut our losses and thank Christ that we've bought ourselves some breathing space."

"What do we do for money?"

I wasn't quite sure what to say. With what little she had left in the bank, Kim had sprung for the now-torched hire car and some new clothes, but it wouldn't last forever.

"I'll think of something," I said, with more assurance than I felt.

"... well, alright mate, I'll see about the YSLs, but don't 'old your breff. Okay mate, catch ya later." The skinhead clicked off the phone and turned his attention to the band in the corner. "What the fack is this shit? Oi! Oi!" He hammered on the table, yelling at no one in particular. "Play some fackin' tunes!"

"He gets away with it, then," Kim said.

"Who?"

"Gabriel." There was anger in her voice.

"What do you mean?"

"Dead. Not dead. He doesn't care. I'm out of the picture, that's all that matters, and he carries on doing what he was doing in the knowledge that he saw off the people that were meant to keep him in check."

"Kim, you shouldn't underestimate just how handy it can be to have people think you're dead. And if I know Dico..."

"What?"

"Just remember what I said. We take the fight to them."

The band started to play Me and Mrs Jones, and Kim got up and walked to the tiny dance floor. No questions, no invitation, she just knew what she wanted to do and did it. She turned to face me, moving her body slowly in time to the music. The floor was full of people. Men and women alike watched her dancing alone.

I couldn't tear my eyes from her. She was moving moving moving to the music. She closed her eyes and craned her head back, knowing I was watching her, open-mouthed. Single men inched over to her, like moths to a flame, and tried to catch her attention with their own moves.

Any other time, the old hackles might have gone up in this insecure street hustler. But she ignored the lotharios, didn't stop moving, just kept dancing, never once taking her eyes from mine, and I couldn't care less about the men dancing around her.

Her self-confidence was staggering. The guys dancing around her saw where she was looking, and saw that she wouldn't be persuaded, and they gradually moved off. She drilled into me with her eyes, a smile on her lips.

Time to go, she mouthed.

I nodded, dumbly.

I stood up and went to the bar, and groaned as I found myself waiting behind the National Front gubber while he settled his bill. I shifted from foot to foot, until the conversation in front of me became tense.

"What you mean, 'declined?'"

"It's been declined. Have you got another card?" The barman was unsympathetic.

"No, I ain't got another fackin' card. Try it again."

"I've tried it twice. Can you pay or not?"

The skinhead was well stacked in the shoulders and arms, but he was not more than five foot five. I could see a deep crimson colour rising from the neck to his ears and thence all over his head.

"Look, mate, there's something wrong with your fackin' machine."

"I don't think there is."

"You trying to say I'm some kind of mug? Some kind of ponce?" He was brittle with aggression, and the terse responses of the barman were priming him nicely.

I moved alongside him and signalled one of the other bar staff while they argued, but he took this as an affront, and I became a secondary target.

I felt a strong hand on my left forearm. I breathed, touched the tiepin on my lapel with my right hand, and looked down at his hand. There was a small swastika tattoo near the index knuckle.

"Oi, mate, there's a fackin' queue here."

I shrugged.

"Times are tough, friend," I said.

"You what? You fackin' what?" he said. His curses were spat with venom, as if from a nail gun.

I nodded towards the machine that had rejected his credit card. Kim appeared by my side, about to say something.

"Kim, honey," I said in her ear, barely noticing that honey tripped naturally off the tongue – in this episode, Malted and Sweet go for broke. "I'll be okay. You need to get out of here."

"Jackson..."

"I'm serious. I'll find you. You need to go."

She turned and left without further protest, and I shook my head as I watched her go. No complaints, no arguing, no histrionics - she saw what needed to be done and did it. I was impressed - she had etched out an unspoken code of survival and was sticking to it.

I turned back to my little bald friend.

"Take your hand off my arm, please," I said.

"What the fack is your problem?"

I lit a cigarette, sucked on it, and stuck out my tongue at him, like Kim had done when I had grilled her about my car. His brow furrowed, trying to work out what my play was, and, while he was distracted, I extinguished my cigarette on his swastika.

He yowled in pain and shock, and snatched his hand away. Half a second later his fist looped through the air and connected with my face. It didn't have too much strength - I didn't go down, but my face snapped to one side and I felt warm blood well up in my nose and on my cheek where his sovereign rings had opened the flesh. I wiped it with my sleeve and looked up to where he stood, jiggling nervously from foot to foot; waiting for me to square up.

I was dimly aware of movement from the dark corners of the club. Big men, running towards the scene of the commotion. I had to move quickly.

I swung my right fist from down low, and held his stare. His mouth had already started to crinkle into a smirk when he saw that the arc of my punch was going to fall short by a good six inches, and he stood still, waiting for me to find clean air.

He didn't realise that this was deliberate. I stepped into the punch, and as my fist swung past him, I snapped my elbow round from the side. It connected sharply with his jaw, making a sound like two large rocks being knocked together, and his head whipped backwards. He tumbled back, off balance, and crashed into a cluster of hurriedly-vacated chairs. Blood erupted from where a tooth had spiked his lip.

Then we were separated by door staff - strong hands on my shoulders and under my arms. I raised my hands in surrender, and was frogmarched to the door, as meek as a lamb. My opponent was most disgruntled, however, and I was released at the entrance doors so my captors could assist their colleagues with the hissing, spitting nutcase.

The fresh night air felt good. I moved away from the club and scanned the street, the streetlights reflecting off the rain-slicked concrete like wet paint. There was no sign at all of Kim.

There wasn't a breath of wind, and every tiny sound in the street reached my ears – rain dripping from a gutter; invisible voices; muffled sirens from the other side of the Thames.

I retreated from the light into a doorway, lit another cigarette and watched the entrance doors.

My diminutive adversary was tossed bodily onto the street a few seconds later. His uncomprehending girlfriend dutifully followed - on foot - and held his jacket out to him.

The doors shut behind them. He stood, panting with rage, hunting me with his eyes. As it dawned on him that I was nowhere to be seen, he snatched his jacket from the woman and shrugged it on, cursing and yowling.

I flicked the cigarette. It arced through the air like a tiny orange meteorite, and landed in a puddle. He looked over at me, and I caught his eye for the merest fraction of a second before I turned and walked off in the opposite direction.

I passed an electronics shop. In the window, eight or nine television sets were on, all set to Sky News. The CGI newsreaders were introducing an item about the mayor. It seemed that, following the Commissioner of the Met having his head stuck on a spike outside New Scotland Yard, the vote of no confidence had now extended to the mayor - he also had resigned from office like a rat leaving a ship.

So in these dark days, London was now without a police chief and a mayor, and it seemed the vultures were circling.

On the television, a journalist was conducting a silent interview with one of the candidates. He was pissed at something - getting red in the face, gesticulating wildly and bouncing up and down in his chair. I guessed he was a socialist.

I wondered what he would do when he got home. I wondered if 'the fight' was always on his mind. I wondered what else he thought about. Everyone has a dark part of themselves; yet for me, that's all there was. If you don't have secrets, you're already dead.

Holy shit.

The image cut to another one of the mayoral candidates being interviewed on the mute television. A flash of yellow caught my eye.

It couldn't be.

I pressed my nose to the metal shutter protecting the window, getting as close as I could. The flash of yellow was a large golfing umbrella, under which stood the candidate, standing on a rain-soaked Vauxhall Bridge. The umbrella was sprinkled with the Medusa Chenaix logo, but it wasn't this that caught my eye. It was the man underneath the umbrella.

No fucking way...

Banner headlines scrolled across the screen:

PROJECT GHOST LAUNCHED – FLAGSHIP MAYORAL CAMPAIGN EXPECTED TO...

I heard footsteps behind me, and before I could turn around there were hands on my neck, trying to force me to the ground. I spun on my heel and tried to free myself, and we became entwined in an embarrassing clinch as he tried to hit me, and I tried to prise him off.

His girlfriend was in the corner of my eye, watching us dance without emotion on her face; maybe even looking past us at the billboard on the other side of the street.

He grabbed the back of my neck, right under my occipital lobe, and twisted my head so I was facing him. His grip was like a pincer; even so, I could feel his oily fingers sliding on my skin. He rammed his other fist into my gut and held it there.

"You didn't do it," he hissed, pulling my head towards him as if we were about to kiss. His breath had the fruity stench of stale booze. "You didn't kill her."

I continued to struggle, pretending I hadn't heard him, ignoring the thought that a bald psycho with swastika tattoos is exactly the kind of person Hatch would deploy...

"You missed your chance, lover. Now we do both of you..."

"Fuck... fuck you," I managed.

He brought up his fist from my gut and slammed the base of his palm into my face, and a fresh burst of blood erupted from my nose. A sudden screaming rage closed out the periphery of my vision and my teeth ground together in a grimace of fury. Jabbing at him sharply with my elbow, my hand closed around the gun, its cool metal form real and reassuring. We were still so closely entangled that there was barely room to wedge it between us, but I forced it up and pressed the barrel hard against his stomach. There was a split-second where he realised just what the fuck was going on, then thinking about doing and doing without thinking became confused.

The shot was deafening in the still night air; the force of the expulsion jarred him backwards. My trigger hand flashed white hot like it was on fire, the muzzle flash at such close range cocooning the heat in the little bubble created by our bodies.

The metallic stench of expelled propellants stung my eyes and nose, and my ears were filled with an elastic clang as the sound of the gunshot reverberated around the street; its residual echo seemed to hang in the still night air forever.

He stopped struggling and stared at me hard, wide-eyed with shock as his grip went slack and he slid to the ground, the life evaporating out of him. As he dropped I heard the tinkle as the expended shell casing dropped to the pavement – we had been wedged so tightly together that it must have been caught up between us.

Slow dawning - I was the only one standing, and his empty gaze was boring into me.

With the exhaustion the rage was displaced, and I left him alone. I stared down at his body in horrified wonder, dark blood flowing from his back, running off the pavement into the gutter, flowing with the rain down into the storm drain. I looked at the gun. I looked at her, my breath coming in sharp, painful stabs. She was still standing silent, blank; head tilted to one side. Again I expected screams, again there were none. I looked again at the gun, then summoned my self-control and did the only sensible thing.

I called the cops.

****

twenty-two

Don't believe everything you see on television - police interviews are boring as hell.

Personally, I think it's a form of oppression. Cops no longer shout and scream at you for an admission (they don't call them confessions any more). They ask you millions of trivial questions about things apparently unrelated to anything, and grind you down until you'll say anything to get out of there.

Or at least, they do for serious crime. Especially murder. It's a finely-honed science, designed to wring every little drop of information from your suspect in a painfully methodical way. Even if you choose to say absolutely nothing, for a murder investigation you can still expect three or four interviews of one to two hours each.

And that's what it was. A murder investigation.

As the drain-brain's life ebbed away, I had placed the gun in his hand before anyone could see what was happening. I'd also had the presence of mind to retrieve the spent casing, wipe it down and then roll it between the deceased's forefinger and thumb before tossing it again. Then, using the mobile phone I found in his pocket, I called 999.

My first words:

I think I've just killed a man.

On the surface of it, this might run contrary to the instincts of many, but I remain convinced it meant the difference between 36 hours in a police station and 36 years in Wandsworth's biggest land-tooth.

My cell was about ten feet by sixteen, with pea-green metal walls, a steel chemical toilet and an intercom. It was reasonably new, so the walls were free of graffiti and bodily fluids, but the stench of vomit and booze permeated the whole cell block, and somewhere down the corridor some lunatic was smashing his head against his cell door while howling at the moon.

As I sat on the cell floor staring at the walls, I felt a bit like doing the same.

I'd felt strangely complete when the handcuffs had been slipped around my wrists and I'd been led to a patrol car. Strangely elated. My penis pulsed, briefly - go figure, Freudians. Maybe it was all the attention, or the nostalgia awakened by the blue strobes and yellow jackets dotted around a night crime scene.

Or maybe it had something to do with my nomadic existence. Living literally day-to-day might appeal to certain members of the rat race, but for me, knowing that for at least 24 hours I had precious little control over what happened to me was strangely liberating.

The thought of being judged - not just for this, but my whole miserable life - was equally appealing. This comes of spending great chunks of my life alone. Lubricated by Glenfiddich, I'd once mentioned this to Dico. I'd said to him that I wanted to sit down - with my Maker, with a woman, whoever - and examine my life, and I wanted them to pass judgment. Not in some Catholic confessional way, but just to know that someone might have given a passing fuck.

Know what he said? He said – You want to be judged? Go to a GUM clinic.

You don't automatically get the right to a phone call when you're arrested in this country. That's an urban myth. It's a privilege, issued at the discretion of the custody officer. You do, however, get the right to free legal advice, the right to consult the Codes of Practice and the right to have someone notified of your arrest.

I said no to all three. There was only person I would want notified, but I didn't want Kim any closer to a police station than she needed to be, and I didn't know where was in any case. She was uppermost in my mind, though. My worry for her was debilitating in both its strength and incongruity.

I'm not sure the cops bought it, but they had a difficult time proving otherwise, and having a strong will counts for a hell of a lot in this life.

My story went something like this:

Yes, I was involved in a fight, provoked entirely by chummy. He started it. I acted in self-defence. The gun was his. He pulled it out. I tried to get it off him. It accidentally went off, close range.

That was the basic premise, but I eventually learned from the interviewing detectives that it had been embellished nicely by the collection of witnesses. The barman confirmed that, after his credit card had been declined, the bovver boy had been aggressive off the bat – and, indeed, threw the first punch. The door staff confirmed that I was passive and compliant, whereas the deceased had been thrashing like a lunatic. They also confirmed that when they ejected him, I was nowhere to be seen - meaning I wasn't hanging around waiting to settle things.

Nobody mentioned the cigarette burn. Even the girlfriend of my unfortunate victim - whose name, I learned in one of the many interviews, was Gary Wallace - confirmed that I had been walking away when the second round started. And my theatrical attempts at CPR were the first thing the emergency services saw when they arrived on scene. Moreover, my volunteered blood sample was free of intoxicants - the deceased had been four times over the drink-drive limit.

That said, they didn't like the fact that the CCTV footage showed that I'd been sitting with a woman who now could not be found. They also didn't like the fact that I claimed not to know who she was - just a woman I picked up. Never found out her name.

The only other slight sticking point had been that the girlfriend had no idea the late Mr Wallace owned a firearm, much less that he brought it to a nightclub. However, my clean sheet, compared with Mr Wallace's impressive history of convictions for racially-aggravated violence, put a little bow on my defence.

Oh, they didn't take my word for it. They tried everything. Guilt-tripping, accusations of lying, asking the same questions over and over again in the hope I'd slip up. But I stuck to my story, and they had precious little to counter with.

I can't deny that I was worried about my future for a good proportion of that time, but my confidence suddenly arrived during the penultimate interview, when the odds improved rather significantly in my favour. Midway through a question, the lead detective – a fifty-something fat man who looked like he hankered desperately for the days of the dinosaur – looked at his watch, stood up and left the interview room without warning. He hadn't finished his sentence. He hadn't even switched off the tapes.

There followed a commotion in the corridor outside the interview room, and for a moment I thought maybe the prisoners had taken over the cell block and were rioting. I got up from my seat and put my ear to the door.

Three or four deep male voices, all engaged in a heated argument. Through the heavy door, a lot of it was unintelligible, but I picked out one or two sentences, most from the interviewing detective:

"I don't give a fuck! I do not work for free."

"Pay my overtime, or I'm downing tools and going home right now."

"I'm not massaging your figures - the bosses need to know that if they're not going to pay, then they're going to lose cases."

I sat back down, a little wiser. It appeared these austere times had brought about something of a police overtime-vacuum, and the interviewing detective's sudden departure had been to make a point.

A younger detective concluded the interview, but while he was obviously more accommodating than his disgruntled saboteur of a colleague, he was far less experienced, and did not have the benefit of the momentum of the previous interviews.

And so here I sat, staring at the walls of my cell, waiting for whatever was coming next. Police custody is a bit like hospital – you just wait and wait and wait, with no real idea of what will happen next or when.

So far, there had been four interviews totalling just shy of seven hours. Another one was possible, but while being returned to my cell for a fourth time, I had definitely overheard the words 'bail' and 'release' in a hushed conversation between the CID and the custody officer. They asked me to confirm my address - I gave them the bedsit in Tunbridge Wells, and they were happy enough with that. As far as I know, they didn't even try to check it out.

So I tried not to get too excited, but I'd been in custody for thirty hours – much longer and they'd have to either charge me or get a warrant of further detention from a magistrate. Maybe they privately thought Gary Wallace got what he deserved. Maybe they even believed some of what I told them. Some criminals, when they get away with something, feel an irrepressible urge to be smug, to brag about the fact that they got one over on the cops.

I felt no such temptation, which was just as well, because with what happened next any bravado would have disappeared in a puff of smoke.

There was a chirruping noise and the cell door swung open. The dinosaur lead detective – the one that had abandoned the final interview – stood in the doorway.

With him was a huge bear of a man in a corduroy jacket. He had a shock of white hair, a thin-lipped lantern jaw and a brandy-rouged nose. Had Pelly seen middle age, this is how I imagined he would have looked. He leaned on the cell door, one hand in his pocket, and the other holding a case file in yellow smokers' fingers.

"Thought you'd gone home on principle," I said to the dinosaur, not taking my gaze from the walls.

"I'm just off now. Didn't want to miss this, though."

That made me look at him.

"This gentleman would like to speak to you," he said.

"Mr Easter? Samuel Easter?" the bear said.

I looked past him. My name was scribbled in marker pen on a board by the door. I said nothing.

"My name's Carr. I'd like to have a chat with you about the murder of Detective Constable Bryan Pelham. Think you called him Pelly?"

****

twenty-three

Some old nicks have ancient interview rooms with dirty corduroy sound-proofing on the walls, a greasy film on the tabletop from a thousand hands, and old iron benches bolted to the concrete floors.

This one didn't. This was a modern interview room in a modern police station, and it was decked out in neutral shades of grey and green that seem to feature in most new public sector buildings. It could have been a doctor's surgery or a social worker's office. It smelled of vanilla air freshener and had about as much character as a tax return.

I was, however, distracted from all the extraneous detail by the photographs spread across the table.

They were good quality photographs. Glossy A4 prints that showed every little detail, taken by an expert forensic photographer using a pretty decent camera.

The photographs were ordered like a storyboard. The photographer had started with a wide angle shot of the whole scene.

A dark, deserted road at midnight.

A square of crime scene tape.

A 2005 Chrysler 300 lying on its roof, mangled almost beyond recognition; the twisted, crumpled metal and trail of shattered glass suggested it had been travelling at quite a speed and had flipped several times before coming to rest.

Then closer.

A white tent covering a corpse.

A pool of black fluid on the road surface.

A hissing plume of escaping vapour, frozen in a moment.

Close-up inside the car.

A carrier bag full of prescription drugs.

An empty bottle of Teacher's.

A bloody handprint on the dashboard.

Hair and a couple of teeth mashed into a gummy red stain on the steering wheel.

Then closer, inside the tent.

A huge man in a black donkey jacket, lying awkwardly on his side; arms and legs forming a swastika, as if he'd been trying to mimic a sprinter in full flow while lying down.

His face pancaked by the impact, lips and eyelids vaporised by the heat.

A dark, wet patch at the crotch of his cream-coloured chinos.

An angry black gash in his side.

Dark red marks on his neck.

I looked up at Carr. His arms were folded, his face impassive, but his eyes were almost pitying. Grizzly old detectives like him love to spar with their suspects, but such overwhelming evidence sometimes takes the wind out of their sails a bit.

"Strangle marks on his neck. Your fingerprints in blood on the dashboard. That wound in his side, the Forensic Collision Unit thought it was caused by a shard of metal from the engine block. Then, four years later, the local authority decides to cut back the verges and they find a knife. His blood on the blade. Your prints on the handle."

I winced.

"And then there was that bizarre voice recording on his mobile phone. He was drunk, talking to someone. Jackson, don't... Jackson, don't do it. Get out now... You want me to play it?"

"That's alright," I said.

"Of course, we didn't know who the prints belonged to until you got lifted for the murder of Gary Wallace. Then the system lit up like a pinball machine. What's funny is that happened more or less around the same time as the council decided to trim those verges. What do you make of that?"

"Coincidence?" I offered.

"Don't believe in them."

"Who did you say you were, again? You're not regular CID, so what are you? Special Branch? NCA?"

"It's a bit more complicated than that," he said. He stood up and stretched, dark damp rings under his armpits. "Come on."

He opened the door to the airless interview room led me to the charge desk, where I stood obediently in front of Carr and the custody officer – female, blonde, skin like a flapjack.

"What's the time, please?" I said.

"One," said the custody officer, not looking up from her screen.

She hit a button on the keyboard and a nearby printer spat out a single sheet. Carr picked it up and read aloud in a wooden monotone.

"Samuel Easter, you are charged with the murder of Detective Constable Bryan Pelham on Monday, 31st December 2012. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now anything you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you want to say anything in answer to the charge?"

"It's a fit-up," I said, after a moment's thought.

Carr looked disappointed.

"They all say that."

*

I didn't sleep, even though the cell block was now quiet – the howling lunatic down the corridor had either gone or passed out.

The custody officer had refused my bail – it was murder, after all. The cell lights had been dimmed when Carr had walked me back from the charge desk, but there was a powerful moon shining through a tiny, frosted window near the ceiling. There was a faint murmur of traffic in the distance, and the occasional siren.

I looked over at the cell door. Occasionally the thought that I couldn't leave just whenever the hell I wanted caused a surge of fear through my system, but it wasn't insurmountable. The temptation to fall on my knees and beg for Carr's mercy, to tell him everything, had been pretty strong, right up until the moment he showed me those photographs and told me about the fingerprint match. Once that was on the table, I realised there was no point saying anything at all. In the face of the evidence, the fact of whether I'd actually killed him or not seemed moot. The best plan I could muster was a Bambi-eyes routine for the jury.

The cell door opened, and a small, depressingly familiar cream-coloured envelope fluttered through the gap. It was decent quality, the kind you might use for a wedding invitation. I had a horrible feeling I even knew the brand.

"From your brief," whispered a voice.

This was not good news either. At no point during my stay had I asked for legal advice – much to the delight of my custodians.

There, printed in block letters in the middle of the envelope's sole occupant:

Did you really think I wouldn't do it?

You bastard, Hatch.

My body was still, but my mind was racing. The business at the club, that hadn't been a simple disagreement between two men in a club. No, it seemed Hatch had upgraded his harassment campaign from phone calls and post-it notes to BNP psychos - one whose last words suggested that our attempt to fake Kim's death had failed. The big question nagging at me was why Hatch was interested in Kim \- or, indeed, what he had to do with Gabriel. Gabriel was the one orchestrating the price on Kim's head.

Wasn't he?

The implications caused my breathing to start coming in dry, shallow gasps. Kim's death had started out as a gig. More than I'd taken on before, but a gig nonetheless. Kupferberg, Dico and Gabriel were cooking something up together and they all, between them, wanted Kim dead. Dico had hinted, with his promise of freedom, that Hatch was somehow involved. Knowing Dico, his verbiage could simply have been a way to motivate me, but if he was right, if Hatch did indeed want Kim dead too, then I felt sure it had something to do with Project Ghost.

Project Ghost. Two words I had first heard in Kim Layrona's office, supposedly an unnecessarily enigmatic name for what she'd called a 'business continuity plan.' Now it was all over the six o'clock news, along with its author - Hatch. If Hatch was involved with Gabriel, Dico and Kupferberg then there was no question that he was the one calling the shots.

It was clearly no coincidence that Project Ghost had leapt from being a banking contingency programme to a political campaign vehicle, but I didn't know how or why, and there was no way I could figure it out sitting in this tiny metal box.

I tried to consider my options. In about six hours I would be led out to a waiting prison van with the other overnight remand prisoners and taken off to Westminster Magistrates' Court. There was a slim possibility that if I really hammed it up with the bench then I might get bail, but if I didn't, then the options were suddenly much more limited. There would be no point trying to escape from a cell, be it in prison, a police station or the basement of a magistrates' court. The vulnerable points of this process – as far as my custodians were concerned – were the journey from the cell to the van, and then again from the van to the court cells. Generally, the more you can engineer being outside, the better the opportunities for spontaneous, ill-gotten liberty.

But how to do it? I'd be cuffed and controlled for all of it – I'd been charged with murder, for Christ's sake – and these days there were very few corners of London that weren't covered by CCTV.

I tried to weigh up the statistics. A not guilty plea would keep a trial at bay for up to eighteen months, during which time I'd suffer the slightly more tolerable conditions of being a remand prisoner rather than a serving con. A tactical 11th-hour guilty plea together with a huge show of remorse and contrition and my otherwise clean sheet would go in my favour. My remand time would count double off my eventual sentence. If the Crown accepted a manslaughter plea, then with the aggravating circumstances – cop on cop – I could be out in four years. If they held out for murder, then I'd still be looking at seven or more.

A heavy wave of depression came over me as I mentally eliminated the options.

It looked like I was going to prison.

The thought knotted my stomach, although I managed to damp down the panic. I got up to walk over to the metal chemical toilet, and as I sat on the bitingly cold metal, an idea came to me.

The toilet was positioned so that the CCTV camera could only see the back of whoever was sitting on it. I don't know if it was designed to afford some small dignity to the user, but in any case, it worked to my advantage.

I looked down between my legs into the toilet. Even in the darkened cell, the neon blue of whatever industrial-grade toilet cleaner was visible.

I slowly moved my hand down into the toilet. I had to be careful - any tomfoolery in the cell would be instantly spotted and would only result in closer scrutiny - maybe a couple of cops staying in the cell with me, which I certainly didn't want.

I scooped a small amount of the electric blue toilet water into my hand, and then slowly, ever so slowly, I started to drink a small amount.

As the burning, acrid liquid slid down my throat like a serrated blade ploughing through my oesophagus, I tried to think what Pelly would make of this. Especially as I'd had nothing to do with his death.

Nothing whatsoever.

****

### twenty-four

In less than an hour I was in agony, and I started to worry that I'd either done myself some serious damage, or that I'd be too ill to carry out the plan. There was fire in my throat and stomach, and a horrible, gagging cough that had me scrabbling for air. It felt like I was drowning.

As I writhed in the gloom on the floor, I cursed aloud, wondering why I didn't have a crew of hardened dog-loyal cronies just ready and waiting to bulldoze the cell walls to get me out. That way I could have engineered my escape without worrying about irreparable damage to my insides.

I heard the jangle of keys as the jailer came down the corridor on his rounds. The keys were entirely part of the image, as not a single door in the building had a lock – they were all activated by a coded keypad or swipe card.

The timing was good – as the door swung open I crawled over to the toilet and began to vomit. I heard the jailer mutter oh shit and he jabbed the intercom.

"Can I have some lights in 18, please? And you'd better get the nurse down here."

He leaned over me as I shoved my head further down the toilet.

"Are you alright, mate?"

I collapsed onto my back – I must have been presenting with all the right colours, for the jailer visibly recoiled.

"I don't feel very good," I said.

"You don't look too crash hot, either."

He helped me onto the bunk – basically an extension of the walls and floor that formed a box in the corner – and yelled again for the nurse.

For the thirty-odd hours before I was charged, and for the five hours afterwards, I had been a model prisoner. 99% of the time, well-behaved prisoners stay that way, and arseholes do the same – although the Jekyll-and-Hyde transition from drunk lunacy to sober remorse is often quite impressive. Despite the obvious advantages, using good behaviour as a ruse to achieve a particular end seldom happens. If a prisoner suddenly decides to run or get punchy, you can usually spot it coming a mile off.

As I curled up into a ball and groaned – theatrics quite unnecessary – the nurse and the custody officer arrived in the cell. The nurse was a stern old matron with cold hands – she rattled off some fatuous questions that I guess passed for triage, and then told the custody officer to call an ambulance.

This was where opportunities started to open up. It was nearly six in the morning. The custody officer would have to call the night duty patrol sergeant to ask for a couple of cops to escort me to hospital. With shift handover less than an hour away, the duty sergeant would grumble and drag his heels and complain and ask if it couldn't wait until the early shift booked on. The custody officer would say no, actually it can't and then the duty sergeant would grudgingly agree and then do nothing until the ambulance actually arrived at the cell block and then the custody officer would have to call him again to ask where the escort was. The fact that it was a murder suspect might chivvy him along a bit, but not much.

I played all this out in my head – actually, it distracted me from the pain in my stomach – but when the two cops arrived at the cell, not only did I know that I had been right, but from the looks on their faces I guessed they were probably about to go into rest days after a long week, and did not want to be late off. They were tired, impatient, and thoroughly pissed off.

The paramedics helped me onto a trolley and passed me a cardboard hat to throw up into. One of the cops clapped a handcuff around my wrist and locked the other one to the trolley. Then he called up the control room on his radio asking them to make damn sure the early shift were dispatched pronto to relieve him and his colleague.

The lead paramedic – God love him – stopped the trolley in the middle of the corridor. He was an old guy with a huge belly and kind eyes.

"Is that really necessary?" the paramedic said to the cop.

"Yes, it really is," replied the cop. "Murder suspect. Cuffs stay on."

"I think you're meant to cuff his wrists. I don't think you're allowed to cuff him to the trolley."

A shard of pain like a lightning bolt flashed through my stomach, and forced me to sit bolt upright like I'd been electrocuted. The movement caused the handcuff chain to lock tight.

"Uncuff him from the trolley," the custody officer said. "Cuff his wrists together, if you must."

The cop glared at everyone, but seemed happy to take the path of least resistance if it meant he would be off duty sooner.

"He'd better not be faking it," the cop muttered.

"Does he look like he's faking it?" the paramedic asked.

I caught a glimpse of myself on the CCTV as I was wheeled past a monitor, and saw what he meant. I looked dreadful – chalk-white, with grey shadows in my eye sockets that made my face look like the underside of a mushroom. I began to get quite worried, particularly when the paramedics felt the need to make the short journey to St Thomas's hospital with their lights and sirens on.

I bet the cop was pleased.

*

Most people hate waiting in A&E, and I'm sure most of the staff take the view that if the wait bothers you that much, there can't be that much wrong with you. By the same token, when a team of doctors and nurses scramble for your trolley within two minutes of arriving, that can't be great news.

They wheeled me into the resus bay and curtained off the cubicle. They put up saline drips, shoved an oxygen mask on, and gave me a couple of injections. The really nice bit was when they inserted a tube into my nose. I could feel it slithering up and then down into the back of my throat like an insidious worm.

"This tube is going down into your stomach. It's going to suck out whatever's in there," said a pretty nurse.

I didn't need to know that.

The two cops stood a little way away. The lead doctor saw them, and broke away from the gaggle. He was a little more forthright than the paramedic.

"Those cuffs needs to come off," he said.

"Sorry, doctor, no way. He's a murder suspect. They stay on."

"I don't care if he's the Boston Strangler. They are prejudicial to his care and they will come off."

The cop exchanged glances with his colleague, and then did as he was told.

"You two can wait outside," the doctor said to the cops.

"Doctor..."

"Don't worry, if he makes a sudden and miraculous recovery and bolts for freedom, I'll be sure to let you know." The doctor's sarcasm was lost on nobody.

God bless you, doc.

As the fluid was sucked out of my stomach – now there's a peculiar feeling – I began to feel better very quickly. Adrenaline began to shoot through my system as I realised now or never was fast approaching.

The excitement around me began to die down. The pretty nurse came back and leaned over me. I could smell her shampoo. It was heavenly, and Kim's face flashed through my mind.

"Hard part's over. Now we just have to see how you go over the next couple of hours. Doctor wants to perform an endoscopy later to see how your insides are, then you'll be going up to the ward overnight."

"Thank you, nurse," I whispered. Strength was flowing back to me, and I turned up the wounded soldier routine a notch. "What time is it, please?"

"Almost seven in the morning," she said.

There was a call from an unseen person elsewhere in the resus bay, and she hurried off.

A minute or so later, I heard the cops talking – ...yeah, he's got a stomach bug or something... no, he looks like shit; he won't give you any trouble... – and I realised they were handing over to their early turn counterparts.

My cubicle was one of a row of about six or seven in the main major treatment bay. The cops were directly outside mine, but my cubicle was separated from the others by only a curtain. It was, in theory, possible to get from my cubicle to the one at the other end - a distance of about fifty feet – with only a curtained partition providing any obstacle.

It was now or never. Both the cops and the nursing staff were distracted, and I was alone in the cubicle.

I rolled quietly off the trolley and landed in a crouching position on the floor. Only a dull ache in my stomach remained, and, curiously, a feeling of extreme hunger as my juices did the fandango.

On a shelf under the trolley was a polythene bag with the meagre collection of belongings that had been confiscated from me when I'd arrived at the cell block. I grabbed the bag and quickly checked it contained everything I had come in with. Some loose change, the BMW keys, a lighter – and my dolphin tiepin.

I moved away from where the cops were standing and peered past the curtained partition into the next cubicle. An unconscious woman in her eighties lay on a trolley, an oxygen mask on her face. There was no one with her. I removed her handbag from the storage space under the trolley, and moved to the edge of the cubicle.

From what I could see, there were two main ways into the emergency unit – the double doors right outside my cubicle – where the cops were talking – and another set of doors at the far end of the emergency unit that led to a long corridor and the main body of the hospital.

The four or five cubicles beyond mine and Granny's were empty, and I moved quietly through them, hugging the back wall, being careful not to knock oxygen cylinders or emergency call buttons.

The last cubicle, the one closest to the doors, was curtained off. I could see feet moving around below the hem of the curtain.

There was a distance of about twenty feet between the last cubicle and the double doors, and I would have to cover this distance across the open ground of the main admin area.

I walked briskly past the cubicle, bracing myself for the shouts and the rugby tackles, but none came. I pushed one of the double doors.

Nothing happened.

I pushed again, trying not to freak out. Every hair on my body suddenly stood to attention.

It was locked. I was trapped.

I took a step back, not daring to look behind me, and saw a small white square on the wall that looked like a light switch – PRESS TO EXIT.

I did as instructed, the door lock was released, and I stepped out into the corridor. There was no relief – several things had yet to happen before this could be classed as a successful venture. The smell of industrial-strength disinfectant wafted past me as the door swung shut.

The corridor was deserted, and was mainly in darkness – despite being after seven in the morning, the whole place was presumably still set to night lighting. I took the opportunity to sprint to the end of the corridor and gain some ground while there was no one to see me. It made my stomach hurt like hell, like I'd done a thousand sit-ups, but I pressed on. There was still a dull ache in my leg from where the taxi had hit me, but it had healed up reasonably well.

The corridor was about fifty metres long, and at the end of it I found myself in the Lambeth Wing, which was rather too close to the main entrance for my liking. I doubled back and turned onto a bank of lifts and a staircase. As I turned the corner I thought I heard some shouts from the A&E department I had just vacated.

Someone's in trouble, I thought, and it isn't just me.

I jabbed at the lift call button, then rifled through Granny's handbag. I pocketed about a hundred pounds in cash and a very old mobile phone, and then I dumped the bag in a nearby bin. Somewhere in the distance there was a tannoy announcement. It could have been all staff be on the lookout for escaped murder suspect Samuel Easter, but it could also have been Dr Brennan report to ward sister.

The lift was taking too long, and so I carried on and turned into another long corridor that took me into the South Wing. It was lit with dim egg-yolk wall lights that gave the whole place a dreamlike quality. This corridor was also empty, and so I broke into a run again.

The timing was pretty good – the early shift workers were taking over from the night shift workers, so the place was gradually waking up, but the business-hours staff were still an hour or so away. Rush hour would be building outside, and I had to turn all these factors to my advantage – guilty or innocent, I was now a murder suspect on the run.

I was still in my custody-issue blue tracksuit and green foam plimsolls, and I forced myself to think. If I couldn't get start planning even a few minutes ahead, this would be all over very quickly.

As I thought this I passed a laundry bin parked in the corridor. I grabbed a set of theatre blues and darted into the empty recovery bay of an operating room further down the corridor. I hid behind a partition and threw the blues on. As an added bonus I chanced upon a lonely stethoscope on a counter, which I hung around my neck.

I hurried back into the corridor and made myself walk. I passed a couple of nurses. They had their coats on, and were chatting merrily. Just finished for the night, I guessed.

"Night," they said in unison. One giggled as I passed.

This was the crucial time. The cops – all four of them, the night cops weren't going home now for a very long time – would be searching the hospital as best they could. They would be alerting security and staff, but the word wouldn't have spread very far yet. One of the cops – you would think – would be calling the control room, who would be calling the duty sergeant, who would be calling the duty inspector. The shift changeover would only add to the hiatus.

Once the control room and supervisors were involved, a contingency plan would be implemented, a strategy set, and a multitude of resources deployed to lock down the hospital.

Until that happened, it would be headless-chicken time. As with the sniper at Kim's apartment, I had to get out before they put containment on, otherwise the jig was up.

I ducked into a male locker room and the door shut behind me. I paused for a moment, until I was satisfied that the only one breathing was me, then lifted a denim jacket from a peg before heading back into the corridor. Every time I passed an empty staff room or office I grabbed something to add to my disguise – spectacles, some pens, an operating mask, gloves, anything.

The worst-case scenario was that one of the four cops would get lucky and chance upon me – until a supervisor was involved I didn't think there would be much structure to their searching.

I turned a corner – and came face to face with the worst-case scenario. A cop was walking towards me. He wasn't one of the two that had brought me, and so I assumed it was one of the early turn relief.

I instinctively slowed my pace, horror pulsing through me, and forced myself to look ahead, straight past him, trying to look like a doctor with a purpose. I nearly got away with it, but as I looked over my shoulder the cop frowned, did a double-take, and then a triple-take. Even then I'm not sure he would have trusted his suspicions had my self-control not snapped. Panic won out, and I put my head down and bolted for the end of the corridor.

"Hey!" he yelled. He spun round on the spot and took off after me, yelling into his radio. "Control, suspect Easter sighted in the South Wing of St Thomas's. He's dressed as a doctor; I am in pursuit..."

The controller said something in reply, and the cop tried to give my location, but the pursuit required his utmost attention.

I rounded a corner, and kept going. I thought I was losing him, but that was immaterial - if he kept giving away my secrets on his radio, I would be going nowhere fast.

Around the next corner, I summoned the smarts to stop and duck behind it. I flattened myself against the wall, waiting for the cop's thundering footsteps and panting lungs to approach, and then I stuck my leg out when he was almost on top of me.

He blundered into my leg at full pelt, tripped headlong, and skidded about ten feet along the highly-polished floors on his backside.

He was momentarily dazed, and I didn't let him readjust. I ran up to him, grabbed his stab vest by the collar, and jabbed him hard in the nose with a short, powerful thrust of my right fist.

His head snapped back and hit the floor, and while his hands instinctively flew to his exploding nose, I grabbed the small canister of incapacitant spray from his belt, and unloaded it into his face.

For a moment there was no reaction, and when he grabbed my neck with strong hands I was terrified it hadn't worked. Then, after about five seconds, he howled with agony and his hands went from my neck to claw at his burning eyes. The frantic voices of colleagues could be heard on his radio trying to get information about the suspect.

I grabbed the radio from his belt, and quickly searched him until I found a mobile phone. He made a feeble, unseeing attempt to shoo me away with flailing hands.

I unclipped the battery from the radio and instantly silenced the radio chatter. I pocketed the battery and the mobile phone, the cloud of incapacitant spray reigniting my earlier coughing fit. I began to blink rapidly as the vapour got into my eyes – Christ, it hurt. I hated to think how he was feeling; unlike the cop, I had mercifully avoided temporary blindness.

I took off again, trying to get my coughing under control, and then when I was round the corner I dumped his radio battery and mobile phone in a bin. I ran as hard as I could until I reached the southernmost exit of St Thomas's.

I stood in the doorway and shrugged on the denim jacket, stuffing the polythene property bag into an inside pocket. There was a freezing wind sweeping off the Thames, and I turned up my collar, the edges scratching against my now almost-impressive beard.

My stomach and throat throbbed in the cold, although the wind went some way to cooling my stinging eyes. It had been, I guessed, no more than about eight minutes since I rolled off the trolley, and things would be getting organised any minute now, especially once the fallen soldier was found and gave away my rather clever disguise.

I needed to reduce the odds a bit.

I felt for the old lady's mobile phone and punched in 999.

"Police emergency."

"Is... is there something going on at St Thomas's?" I said.

"Sir?"

"Well, there's a couple of police cars here, with more arriving, and I've just seen a man in a black overcoat and black beanie hat go sprinting out of A&E."

"How long ago was this?"

"A minute or two."

"Can you describe him?"

"What's going on?"

"Just the description, please, sir."

"White man. Tall, quite lean, almost wiry, with a beard. Aged about thirty. Looked like black hair under the hat. Had funny looking shoes on, like plimsolls. He was quite good looking, too. He looked freaked out, though."

"Which way did he go?"

"He ran out of A&E, then out of the main entrance towards Westminster Bridge. North, I think."

"What's your name, sir?"

"It's Everheart. Dr Ross Everheart. I'm a neurologist here."

I ended the call and stepped onto Lambeth Palace Road, then moved away from the street on to the bank of the Thames. It was a brisk, clear day, perfect for a walk by the river – just not today. I wound back my arm and hurled the phone into the river.

I listened out for the sirens converging on Westminster Bridge, then turned and walked steadily south, towards Lambeth Bridge, in the opposite direction.

****

### twenty-five

Twenty minutes later I was wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt – dolphin tiepin now safely re-attached – and jeans, bought for a fiver from a charity store. The reflective vest was an added bonus. Superdrug provided breakfast and a Bic razor and ten minutes in the public toilets of the Elephant & Castle shopping centre consigned the beard to history – shame, that. Another fifteen in a dingy, yellow-walled barbershop and my George Harrison moptop circa A Hard Day's Night was reduced to a number-one-all-over buzzcut. The barber was a Romanian gentleman who kept grinning like he knew who I was but was nevertheless only too happy to help. His grin spread when I tipped him double and asked him to forget me.

Once all this was done nearly an hour had passed, and I guessed the search phase would be winding down in favour of intelligence and investigation. The cops would be narrowing down my movements with CCTV, but by the time they'd figured out how to use and download it, that could take another hour. Would they go public? It seemed likely. I was a murder suspect, after all.

I took a perhaps-unnecessarily complicated route back to Harlesden, zig-zagging back and forth using a combination of buses, Underground trains and good old-fashioned walking. I kept the hood up, but no one seemed to be particularly interested in me.

After an hour I was back at the guest house. It did not appear that Kim had been back there, nor had she left any messages. I packed up what meagre possessions we had accumulated in our four days there, waited till three in the morning, and crept out - another unpaid bill left by Mr S. Easter of Ipswich. The guy had been friendly and kind, and I felt miserable that he would be four days out of pocket when he found out the credit card may as well have been made of chocolate.

There was a horrible sinking in my stomach at the thought of not being able to contact Kim - and, I realised with dismay, because I was separated from her. I tried to snap myself out of it. The last time this happened... well, it didn't bear thinking about.

In this world of instant communication it struck me as archaic that, in the event of us getting separated, we had no means of contacting each other besides hoping that messages would be passed in the middle of the night, like - God help me - Romeo and Juliet, or something.

This relied, to a large extent, on one second-guessing the intentions and likely actions of the other. Despite circumstance and our totally different lives, Kim and I had bonded so quickly that I had assumed she would naturally try to find me. It didn't occur to me that she might drop me like a bad habit.

As I approached the BMW I saw a white object under the windscreen wiper, which became a parking ticket in a white plastic envelope as I approached. I frowned. The car was legally parked.

I got to within about twenty feet of the car, and stopped. Better do a recce before getting so close that it would be difficult to deny it was mine.

I whirled around on the spot, checking for tell-tale signs of surveillance - parked Transit vans, cruising cars with multiple occupants, empty houses up for sale, joggers in woolly hats - and saw nothing.

I walked past the car to the end of the road, counting seven houses. I crossed the road to the right, then ran back across the road, turned left and began to sprint. I headed along the next street until I reached an alleyway that serviced the rear gardens of the houses I had just passed. I ducked down the alleyway, counted seven houses, and carried on past another three until I found one that had clear passage to the front - through the garden, onto the patio, over a small gate and down a narrow passage to the front garden. This route I took at speed, and then I vaulted the low front wall, crawled across the pavement on my belly, and hauled myself up into the car. I must have looked bloody mental.

I started the engine and roared out of the street. The penny dropped as I pulled into the petrol station forecourt half a mile down the road. I retrieved the plastic envelope from under the wiper, and tore it open.

There was a note inside, along with a swipe card marked VISITOR.

Did I fool you?

Knew you'd come back for this heap of junk.

Spoke to E - green light for MC - card enclosed.

If you get this before 22/1, meet me at my place. I'll wait.

Hope you're ok.

K

I bilked yet another tank of petrol, and, as if the carnival of flashing blue lights was already behind me, floored the BMW – opening up that itchycoo engine – punched it onto the motorway, and north.

Heap of junk?

*

I pulled the hood closer as I stood behind the old woman in the queue, and watched over her shoulder as she keyed in her PIN on the little machine at the till. She was and so slow and doddery that reading it was painfully easy. 6... 4... 3... 4... Most likely her birthday.

They did away with signatures and cheques in the early twenty-first century, then as soon as the old dears got used to that they changed overnight to contactless scan readers that took half a second. She was obviously a Chip and PIN stalwart. She wedged the card back in the fat red purse and shuffled out with the carrier bag of groceries.

I followed her at a comfortable distance. She was hardly going to get away from me. The purse was in a large wicker bag over her little tartan trolley, and I felt reasonably sure that I could dip my hand in undetected while she was distracted.

She went into a charity shop. Perfect - no CCTV, and it was occupied only by similarly geriatric ladies - customers and staff alike.

She began to browse the shelves for romantic fiction. She found one she wanted, and browsed the pages. I waited a minute or two, and it seemed she was engrossed. The lady at the till became engaged with a customer, and I moved forward to take my chance.

Then, in the periphery of my vision, something outside caught my eye, and without a second's further hesitation, I turned and left the shop. The one thing I didn't hesitate over was cutting my losses and getting out, and I walked hurriedly onto the street, the ILONDON! beanie low on my head.

I couldn't have done it in any case. I wasn't worried about emptying her account - the bank would compensate her, no question. But what if she had turned at the crucial moment, and caught me in the act? What if she had tried to fight me off? What if, in the heat of the moment and despite my internal ground rules, I used force to prise the purse from her? What if I had hurt her? A purse-dipping offence for an otherwise reasonably clean, well-spoken young man – murder charge notwithstanding – might have been a fine, probation and community service, but purse thefts can change very quickly to full-on street robberies with the elderly victims sidelined with broken hips and the like, and that means serious time. It's not beyond the realms of fantasy for them to die of shock, either. And people have a tendency to run to the aid of old ladies - I could have been back in a cell again inside twenty-four hours, ensnared by a public-spirited flock of the great unwashed.

But this wasn't the reason I had abandoned my plans. No, as I passed another newsagent, the reason for turning tail was again displayed on a stack of newspapers, in foreboding block letters:

MANHUNT

****

### twenty-six

When all was said and done, I guess I had to hand it to him.

If I'd killed Kim, conventional wisdom said I could have been free.

But I hadn't killed her, and within mere days of cementing the decision not to, I was suddenly facing life in prison for murdering Pelly - a murder suspect on the run.

Pretty clever, really.

The newspapers were stacked by the door of the newsagent's. Underneath was my custody photo – lots of hair and a reasonably thick beard – and a digitally-created facsimile of what I might look like without either. Fortunately the simulated image was – in my view – a far cry from the real thing.

It was a discomforting feeling, but an operation such as this relied as much on intelligence as it did an eagle-eyed member of the public. They would interview and debrief friends, family and criminal associates. They would interrogate mobile phone usage and use cell site analysis to try to get a fix on my location. They would place old addresses under surveillance and tap the phone lines of old girlfriends.

Fortunately, my own intelligence file was going to be pretty skinny. In fact, as far as the police were concerned, my first proven offence was Pelly's murder – what utter tosh – and so they would have precious few people, places and facts to work with. They certainly wouldn't have a clue about my phone. The two biggest weaknesses were the fact that they might be able to put Kim and I together, and any kind of result that might come from the media appeal. It was a slim chance, as far as I was concerned, but a chance nonetheless.

My fists balled as I stared at the newspaper headline, anger suddenly hot in my chest, and I began to grind my teeth. I knew who had really killed Pelly, and here I was taking the rap for it, my escape proof enough in the eyes of the evening news that I was guilty. The cops were no good to me – they believed what they had. They would go to Jetta and say we finally got him, Mrs Pelham. We got the scumbag that killed your husband. Then they'd have to tell her that he'd escaped.

It was way beyond a joke. I could take no more of this running scared lark. It was time to put a stop to it. I had to find Kim, avoid the police, and then take the fight to Chuck Hatch, once and for all.

Kim's note said to meet her before January twenty-second. According to the car clock I had missed her by a day. The minor matter of the murder charge notwithstanding, I resolved to carry on regardless, break into Medusa Chenaix, then chance going to Kim's in the hope she would still be there. Little voices told me it's a trap, it's not her, the police will be watching, but I ignored them all for the tiniest chance of seeing her again.

*

Much as it pained me, I took Kim's advice and dumped the BMW in the darkest corner of the long-stay car park at Gatwick Airport, then boosted an old Astra from some grotty council estate in Crawley. I got the engine going, ambled round the corner and parked, listening for activity - sirens, footsteps, lights - anything.

Nothing came. It was after midnight – if I was lucky, I theorised a minimum of maybe five hours before anyone reported the car stolen. Just in case, I half-obliterated the number plates with mud to confuse any automatic number-plate recognition cameras.

To mitigate the risk further, I took back roads through the countryside. It takes a brave man to go burgling in the countryside – landowners, dogs and traps make it rather hazardous, but a careless farmer had left a shotgun under the tarp of a Land Rover. It was in good working order - if ancient and grubby - and I found a box of cartridges in the glove box. I wrapped it all in the tarp and slung the whole lot in the boot of the Astra.

It was about one-thirty in the morning when I got to South London. As I got to Brixton, the pace of traffic slowed to a crawl, even though the volume of vehicles was not especially great. As I passed Atlantic Road I realised it was because the road was in a dreadful condition, and littered with cars as a consequence. Two were on the central reservation – wheel-less, smashed to pieces and presumably stripped of everything valuable – while another was half-in, half-out of a pothole so massive it was more like a crater. A couple more had been similarly beached by great fissures in the road's surface.

The near-side wheels of the Astra dropped into an enormous pothole with a sickening crunch, and I thanked the alloy gods that my BMW was safe in the Gatwick long-stay.

I narrowly avoided another pothole - this one larger than a bathtub - and rounded the corner onto the Stockwell Road, where hordes of people were queuing outside the Academy. The sign above the door said Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine, but judging by the kettles, blankets and rucksacks in their collective possession, the masses outside looked less like progressive electro-punk aficionados than they did out-and-out refugees.

There was a policeman directing traffic. When he held up a hand for me to stop I gasped for breath as if someone had just sucked all the air out of the world.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit...

Options ticked through my mind – quick U-turn, run him over, stop and reverse – but I wasn't quick enough to decide, and I stopped the car in front of him.

He walked over to my window and tapped it.

"What's going on, officer?" I said as politely as I could, feeling sure he could hear the tremor in my voice.

"Power's out all over Moorlands. Been two days now. It's like the Superdome in there."

"What's with the roads?"

"They're fucked, is what."

"Is that the official term?"

"Borough council can't afford to repair them, and..."

He stopped talking, and frowned. He inched closer, and reached for the torch on his belt.

"Everything alright, officer?" I asked, my stomach doing cartwheels.

"What's your name, sir?"

"It's Ross..."

There was a loud crashing from across the street as two youths began to fight with the metal shutters of an electronics shop in an attempt to gain entry. The policeman abandoned his post in pursuit of the youths, and I drove on as calmly as I could, the adrenaline pumping around my system causing my hands to shake on the wheel.

I looked in the rear view mirror as I went. Apparently the apocalypse wasn't going to happen overnight. It was a bit more insidious than that. Maybe that made it easier to ignore.

Nine lives, indeed.

I turned on the car stereo as I was thinking this. I was thinking about some jazz, but instead I got a rock station of some description.

I rounded the corner and stopped at a zebra crossing. The guy wanting to cross was in a wheelchair, one of those sporty ones. He looked a bit older than me, but still young, maybe in his mid-thirties. Looked like he might have been a war vet. He had a Siberian husky that waited obediently with him.

As they crossed, my headlights caught the bright eyes and brilliant white chest of this beast. The dog looked me dead in the eye as it trotted across the road, the guy wheeling himself across the road alongside it. I stared at the dog as it crossed, and at two in the morning, with the steady echo of Knocked Up by Kings of Leon soundtracking the whole tableau, I couldn't tear my eyes away.

Just us three, pal, the dog's eyes seemed to say. Just us three.

They reached the other side and disappeared off back towards the Academy. I remained where I was, staring away down the empty street, lights and darkness jostling for position.

*

I drove right through the empty city and got to Gray's Inn Road without further incident. I saw Medusa Chenaix up on the right, the glass black and serene by night, bouncing the lights of the capital back onto itself.

I turned off Gray's Inn Road onto a side street, and tucked the Astra in behind a large skip, away from prying eyes.

According to Kim, Medusa Chenaix did not consider 24-hour security a necessity, given that their contents were of little interest to the lay burglar. Moreover, Medusa Chenaix recognised that some of its workers chose to keep strange hours, and liked to facilitate the needs of those choosing to come in so late they were early. During the day - once you had cleared reception, anyway - most of the offices were accessible to the other, but after-hours, a swipe card was required to firstly enter and then move from one area of the building to another. I crossed the road to a side door, and snapped the card Elliott had given her through the reader.

I held my breath. There was a moment's pause, and then it chirped in a friendly manner and made a clunk as the lock slid free.

Nice one, Elliott.

I pushed the door open and found myself in total blackness. I took a few tentative steps forward, and an eerie blue light filled what now appeared as a stairwell. There was none of the pomp of the main entrance - the stairwell was purely functional, and looked like it was probably used for little else besides deliveries and fire drills.

Before I let the door close I checked that I knew where to find the door release, and then I went to the foot of the stairs. I looked up. It was surreal - the staircase and that blue operating-theatre light ascended beyond my natural vision. There was a low whirring coming from somewhere in the building, but beyond that, it was total silence.

I checked my watch. It was after two in the morning. Having visited Medusa Chenaix before, I was under no illusions about the size of the building, and the thought that it was totally empty and pitch black did not motivate me to move any further.

So what are you going to do? Stand here all night?

The alternative was to say to Kim, when I eventually caught up with her, that I was too scared to move beyond the first door. This thought finally moved my leaden feet forwards, and I began to climb the stairs, rubbing the dolphin tiepin like I was trying to start a fire.

As I ascended, I realised it was the light that was shredding my nerves - the horrible, underwater, MRI-scanner blue light. If it had been a bit more normal, I might have been okay.

I concentrated on counting floors, trying not to worry about the fact that if it took this much effort just to go forwards, how was I going to engage my brain sufficiently to do what I needed to do when I found Gabriel's office?

On each landing, the floor numbers were stencilled on the wall next to the exit door with military unfriendliness. However, they did cause an image to flash through my mind - Bruce Willis in Die Hard, as it happens - and this provided a small comfort.

I made slow progress on the first couple of flights, mainly because I kept spinning around on the spot with my torch, convinced I had heard the insidious footsteps of some killer alien squid, ready to leap out from a broom cupboard to drink my brains. Fortunately, Gabriel's office was on the tenth floor, and by the time I got to it I was so knackered that my imagination had been curbed somewhat.

The exit door from the stairwell required no swipe card, and it squeaked open. This room had no lights on - motion-activated or otherwise - but there was a faint glow hanging over the room caused by the late-night activity of a hundred or so computer screens. This halo allowed me to just about get the layout of the main office. I shone my torch, and my bearings improved. To my left was the bank of lifts, and beyond that the conference room where Gabriel had entertained his lunchtime treat.

That meant that the pale glow was the main office I had traversed once before. Kim's office was at the end of it, and Gabriel's a few doors down.

I took a deep breath, and stepped towards the glow, trying to keep my torch focused, trying to ignore the dancing shadows, trying to concentrate on my breathing so as not to leave room for tiny noises in the silence.

My torch picked up something to my right, and my heart went off like an alarm clock. Out of the corner of my eye I swore I could see a face at one of those silent screens, sitting still and impassive, illuminated by the screen.

Like a ghost.

I waved the torch back and forth like Luke-bloody-Skywalker, and realised it was my eyes having a proper laugh at my expense.

I had to keep moving, had to keep focused, just to keep panic at bay.

I took the last thirty feet of the office floor at perhaps a slightly quicker pace than I needed to, and arrived at Kim's office.

I shone the torch through the window. It looked untouched. All her stuff was still there; she might just as well have been on holiday.

I moved further down the row of executive offices. This was the tricky bit. The executive offices did not have swipe-card entry - they were only under lock and key - but Gabriel's office was obviously locked. Kim had suggested I come up with a way to surreptitiously break in without leaving evidence that I had done so.

Yeah, right.

I took a small run up and planted my size-ten against the weak part of the door. It took two hits, and flew open, with only minor - albeit detectable – damage.

Once inside I was relieved to find that I was not in total darkness. The blinds of the plate-glass windows were open, and the sodium smog of the City was visible outside, offering some small reprieve from the black.

I went to the window and looked out at the City skyline. Some of the office blocks in the distance had little squares of light on. Cleaners, perhaps? Late workers trying to meet a deadline? Or predators like me, trying to find out the secrets of the moneymen and turn it against them?

I nudged the mouse, and the screen flared into life. A low humming started up as the machine came to life. For a moment I felt exposed - anyone walking past the office would have clearly seen my face, illuminated torchlight bright by the blue-white light of the screen.

I logged onto Gabriel's workstation. Kim knew his password - and no doubt he knew hers, and someone else knew someone else's, and the floor manager knew all of the traders' passwords, and so on.

This was a seize-and-sift exercise - dump the whole lot onto a USB drive, and pick out the useful bits later. This was a sound plan, because I would not have been able to concentrate - and if I had, I would have been vulnerable, because my mind would have been elsewhere.

But the night terrors were beginning to pass, and I was quite satisfied that I was the only one in this huge ghostly building. That's not to say I minded being nervous - sharp nerves kept me on edge, ready to run at any moment, able to get that vital split-second head start. If I were to relax - God forbid - if I were to lose that edge, it might mean the difference between life and death.

I had left the door to Gabriel's office open. It was not pleasant, watching the ghostly glow of light above the main office, but better this than shutting the door, because then I would have to open it, to find... what, exactly?

And then I found it.

A shared document folder labelled Project Ghost.

I double-clicked it, and pages of files scrolled across the screen. Cold, clean air suddenly raced through my nose into my lungs as the adrenaline pumped around my system.

Tempting as it was, I did not have time to examine any of it, and so highlighted the whole lot and clicked 'Copy.'

Files poured onto the USB drive. Emails, memos, minutes of meetings, spreadsheets. File names caught my eye as they flashed up on the screen – CH memo Dec 2015, Hardware consignment, Evac+relocation plans, Media releases 2016, Medusa Chenaix accounts receivable – and I sat back in the chair as the red light of the USB drive winked intermittently while the data was uploaded. If Gabriel was off the reservation, then would he really have the details written down anywhere formal? Just as likely that... I leaned forward and swiped all of the post-it notes from where they were stuck to the monitor. I shoved them into the small rucksack I had brought with me, thought for a moment, then did the same with the notes and scribbles that littered his incredibly untidy desk.

While doing so I knocked a glossy folder onto the floor. I picked it up. It was a brochure for an estate agency specialising in riverfront apartments for the City's rich. I opened it - inside was a draft spec for an apartment about to go on the market. I looked at the photographs, and realised I recognised the enormous living room, which I should have done, given that I barely escaped from it with my life.

It appeared Gabriel was selling his and Sandra's fuck pad. The price tag was on the front in bold numerals - it may as well have been in a foreign language. I checked the on-screen display. Another two minutes before the data dump finished.

I wondered idly why he was selling up. Sandra had said he couldn't really afford it, although maybe he was dumping everything before prices really...

Voices.

I froze, prickles climbing all over my body like an army of ants, and strained to hear.

This was ridiculous. My imagination was ridiculous. I couldn't tell what was real and what...

Again. Muffled voices, and footsteps. Then a thump.

Holy fucking shit. I wasn't imagining it. There was someone else in the bloody building with me, and by the sound of it, they weren't a million miles away.

I looked back at the screen. Still a minute to go.

From where I sat, I had pretty much a clear view of the main office - and, I realised - the bank of lifts at the other end. The only reason I knew this was because at that moment a line of light appeared at the bottom of the centre lift. It glowed fiercely, as if fighting to burst forth and flood the darkness with its brilliance.

The line rose to the top of the doors, and the lift doors slid open. A rectangle of light appeared, along with the silhouette of a man. He stood in the centre of the lift doors, stock still, and faced out into the main office. With the light behind him he was just a black outline.

Remaining frozen seemed the most sensible option, but, quite frankly, I was powerless to do much else. Could he see me? It seemed unlikely. No way he could have heard me - there were a good hundred feet between us.

A quick glance at the screen. Thirty seconds to go. There was a sudden dull ache in my stomach as my bowels knotted.

The doors began to close, and the figure disappeared behind them. The office was plunged into darkness again as the lift ascended.

I reached into the rucksack and felt the reassuring coldness of the gun. They were going up. This was good, because it meant they were less likely to intercept me than if they had been going down. It was also bad, because I had not the first fucking clue who they were, what they were doing here, and whether there were any more of them. For all I knew they were stationed at all the exits. Come out. You are surrounded.

Thirty seconds to go.

I touched the tiepin.

Come on. Come the fuck on!

There.

Done.

I yanked the USB drive out, tipped the rest of the paperwork into my bag, including the spec for his newly-available waterfront heaven - well, you never know - and logged off the system.

I was half out of my chair when I registered the message on the screen.

Thank you. You are now logged off.

Last interactive logon session 01:37:41 24/01/17

Christ. That wasn't me. But someone had logged onto the system half an hour before I had.

*

My stealthy sprint across the main office was undone somewhat by the door to the staircase I had come in through. The door swung open a little too easily, and the metal handle clanged against the wall of the stairwell with a sickeningly resonant bong that seemed to reverberate around the lovely acoustics of the empty building.

Where were they? Would they have heard that?

As if in reply, a door opened and then closed somewhere far above me. When this noise was followed by a couple of deep voices, I realised they were in the stairwell.

I looked up. I couldn't see them in that blue nothing-light, and didn't wish this to change. I thundered down the stairs, trying strenuously not to panic, the adrenaline in my legs propelling me faster than I was entirely comfortable with.

I reached the ground floor vestibule, and paused for just a moment before I flung the outer door open, chancing a look back up the middle of the apparently infinite staircase.

There was nothing. No voices, no movement, no rapid gunfire.

I had no further wish to reduce this advantage. I threw the door open and ran back down to the street to the Astra. It was still there, partially hidden behind the skip. It occurred to me - albeit vaguely - that as my current ride was stolen, there was no particular urgency to return to this one. I could have taken off on foot and found something else. Mixed it up a bit.

But I knew the Astra would start the same way it had done when I first boosted it, I knew it had a little fuel in it and I knew it was easier to steal cars from a Crawley sinkhole estate than it was from the middle of the City of London. It was just a question of demographics.

I turned the car around in the road, and floored it to the end of the street. As I pulled onto Gray's Inn Road, the relief started to trickle through me, and I suddenly thought - perhaps incongruously - most things in life come down to how you feel.

As I passed the black glass front of Medusa Chenaix, I slowed down a little, unable to resist the urge to just check one more time for any telltale signs of activity - lights, broken windows, masked men storming the building with machine pistols.

I opened the car window and looked up at Medusa Chenaix. There was what looked like a helipad light blinking on top of the building, although I didn't think it was big enough for that. I craned my neck to look at it through the windscreen - and got yet another shock.

Standing on the edge of the roof, silhouetted black on black, yet still clearly visible, was a human. His head was craned forward and facing upwards, like the figurehead of some doomed ship. The breeze was stronger on the roof, and the wind tossed his tie around like a feather.

I stamped on the brakes, and squealed to a halt. I took my eyes off the statuesque figure for only a second as I got out of the car, but in that interlude, the figure had stopped standing and started falling.

I watched every stage of his descent as if in slow motion. I had time to think about other things. I wondered what was going through his mind as he fell. Maybe he was racking his brains trying to think of some deeply profound thought to be his last, and was mightily - if briefly - pissed off when nothing came to mind before he hit the ground.

He fell silently, his body already lifeless.

One-Mississippi.

Two-Mississippi.

Three-Miss...

Apart from an up-and-down flick of the head like a man who just wants five more minutes in bed, there was no bounce; just the abrupt hit-and-stick impact of an egg smashing on a tiled floor. Had this been a cartoon, it would have been funny.

He had landed some fifty feet from me, and after staring at the crumpled corpse for a second – for that was surely what he was – I ran over. I spun three-sixty as I approached, eyeballing for cops, cameras, anything. I looked up at the top of the building. Nothing. The body had landed on its front, and through the suit I felt broken bones as I turned it over, like a bag of loose gravel.

The head had taken a lot of the impact, and the skull had shattered somewhere near the orbit. A shard of scalp half an inch thick was sticking up like a piece of hairy coconut shell. Blood and brain matter had spat across the road surface like vomit, but apart from the nose, which seemed to have vanished, the face was more or less intact below the cheekbones.

I felt a chill pass through me - a chill of recognition. It was not a concrete facial identification - you needed a whole face for that - but there was something about the general proportions of the body, the well-tanned colour of the now-dead skin, and the ridiculous two-tone coiffure in gold and copper.

I gathered my wits, then looked around again. Gray's Inn Road was deserted. I reached inside his jacket and located a set of keys, BlackBerry and wallet. I opened the wallet, pocketing the cash first - almost £700 \- and flung out receipts and photographs until I found a driving licence and an American Express platinum card. I held the card face down from me for a moment, as if the close-up was coming from behind my shoulder. I slowly turned it over, and read the name on the bottom left hand corner of the card.

It was James Gabriel.

****

twenty-seven

Sirens in the distance, echoing around the City's urban canyons.

I jumped to my feet. Was it Gabriel I had seen in the lift? Had he come here, logged on to his workstation - perhaps to send some final message - then gone up to the roof to top himself?

It was possible, but strange. I looked up at the roof of Medusa Chenaix, half-expecting to see the outline of Dico's mullet and the nuclear-white of his Fred Perrys. There was nothing there, and besides, this MO would have been over far too quickly for his enjoyment. The body had no obvious signs of the torture I would have expected on the body of the buffoon that stole Dico's wife. Who's to say it wasn't just a straightforward suicide?

Either eventuality presented a host of questions with grim answers. I had to get back to Kim's place, in case there was any tiny possibility that she was still there.

I turned and sprinted for the Astra, and belted through the streets back to Bermondsey. Act normal was the advice in my brain, but the panic yawing in my belly was edging it out. A murder fugitive screaming through the streets of London at 3am with a loaded firearm and a stolen Astra was the stuff of Channel Five documentaries - how I avoided being spotted I do not know.

After getting south of the river I got it together a bit, and found a deserted depot. I carefully rolled the Astra into the Thames – rescuing the tarp bundle containing the shotgun and shells first – and then sprinted the mile or so back to Kim's apartment.

I arrived back at the block with an apprehensive feeling in my gut. I resisted the urge to sprint straight up to the apartment, and instead took slow steps around the building, looking for out-of-place vehicles and suspicious characters - much like myself, in fact.

I rounded the corner of the building, and shuffled along the perimeter wall. The threatening gloom of the underground car park could have contained anything or anyone, and under the powerful arc lights of the front courtyard, I was a sitting duck. I ran to the back of the building, intending to climb into the car park from the rear and do a thorough sweep.

The shotgun felt good in my hands, and seemed to bring balance to my predicament. It was substantial and required both my hands, not juddering around like a pistol in my nervous grip.

I looked around. Nothing. Just claustrophobia from the tall blocks on either side. Thin, crooked; waiting to fall or grow.

After satisfying myself that the perimeter was clear, I buzzed myself into the block using the pass key Kim had given me, and took the stairs up to the apartment.

The door was locked. I slowly turned the key and opened it. The apartment was dark. Fear kept my feet moving at no more than a shuffle, and beyond the entrance hallway I was virtually paralysed.

"Kim? Kim, are you there? Are you okay?"

I edged into the apartment, feeling for the light switch.

I found it, but before I could switch it on there was a rush of movement from the direction of the kitchen. A figure bolted across the gloom at speed, the moonlight through the industrial windows casting a silhouette across the wall.

Unlikely to be Kim. This was a man, and a big one.

Voices - from out in the street? Or the hallway behind me? I strained to listen, but there was no clear way to tell.

I had to act, but I was frozen to the spot. I was terrified for Kim - and at that moment I didn't care who knew it. Perhaps rashly, I aimed the gun high. I emptied it – two rounds exploded into the apartment's far wall with a deep boom, wrecking that lovely original character brickwork. I reloaded and let off two more.

Our relationship was unconventional to say the least, but shooting holes in her Docklands apartment every time I visited was not a good way to maintain interest.

In the night stillness, the sound was deafening. As my hearing gradually returned to me, I made out panicked shouts, dogs barking, and - bizarrely - car alarms going off.

There was more movement. At least two of them. If Kim was here, she hadn't reacted to the gunshots, meaning she was either unable to do so, or - as I really, really hoped – somewhere else entirely.

Had I led them to her?

Them? Who them? Who was I talking about? Hatch? Police? Some nameless paranoid hybrid of the two? My upper hand had disappeared, and fear had taken over. Everyone's afraid of masked men in the dark - get hold of them, pull off the mask, and it's never as bad as you think.

A theory I believed in, but, at that moment, one that was conveniently absent.

Whoever they were, I had to lead them away from here. Kim was no dummy, and she had taken to the life of street hustler remarkably quickly - that is, the need to move quickly in the middle of the night without asking questions.

I turned tail and ran out of the apartment, fumbling in my jacket for more rounds as I did so.

As I reloaded the weapon again, I saw another figure at the end of the stairs, coming towards me. I unloaded a shot, again aiming high, and the figure dived to the floor.

I turned one-eighty, back down the hallway to the staircase and ran down the stairs, faster than was probably safe.

The lighting in the stairwell flickered on as I entered, activated by motion sensor. I thundered downstairs, the shotgun at port-arms; hearing voices, hearing cars, hearing sirens - but I couldn't tell what was real and what was in my head.

A door opened above me - He's down there! - and that was real.

I kept going, heading for the underground car park, hoping to get there first and take cover in the darkness.

The door to the car park flew open, and more motion sensor lights flicked on. So much for the cover of darkness.

Only about half of the residents' parking bays actually had cars in them. They were what you might expect - Porsche, Lotus, a beautiful black M6 hard-top coupe - and a slightly incongruous Ford Econoline van with blacked out windows.

The back of the van was facing me, the rear doors open. There was nothing in it besides a refrigeration unit mounted on the driver partition. I didn't like the look of it at all.

I stood, unsure of what to do next, unable to dislodge myself from the doorway I had just passed through to venture further forwards. I shut my eyes.

Distant sirens. Dogs still barking. The car alarm had stopped, but lights from apartment blocks across the way were still going on.

And then a sound.

Crying - no, more like whimpering - in the darkness.

A female.

Kim.

The lights suddenly went off, and the car park was black again. I nearly had a heart attack, and then realised it was because I hadn't moved for two minutes and the motion sensors had deactivated.

I shuffled forwards, trying to pick up her voice again, but it had stopped.

"Kim?" My voice sounded weak and fragile.

The shuffling wasn't enough to activate the lights, and I decided that I didn't want them, not if the cops or whoever were on their way.

I shuffled some more and raised the weapon, willing my eyes to adjust to the murk.

They did, but not fast enough.

Movement. Bad movement. A blunt instrument swung at me out of the darkness. Right towards my eyes. I felt a sudden urge to touch my tiepin, but couldn't get there in time.

There was no pain, just that sensation of something moving swiftly through the gloom; an enormous, crushing pressure, radiating through the brain like a tsunami, and a crazy self-rebuke - how could you be so careless?

I hate to say it, but everything went black.

****

### twenty-eight

I had my eyes closed for a good long while after I had rediscovered consciousness. I was reluctant to open my eyes, as this would mean acknowledging the seismic throbs that were wracking my head. Slowly, ever so slowly, I opened my eyes, then wished I hadn't. The light was like burning, and I could only manage to squint. Even then I couldn't focus. I tried to reach into my jacket pocket - where I thought my sunglasses were - then made the indignant-yet-unsurprising discovery that my hands were tied behind my back.

I tried the eyes again. It was a little easier this time. Three blobs gradually fizzled into focus. Three men. No, four. One sitting down, three standing. I recognised the one sitting down instantly, and my reaction was one of relief.

Chuck Hatch.

He looked more or less as I remembered – tall, pale; heavy glasses sitting on a completely hairless head and a face like a stack of folded pancakes – a man approaching the back end of his fifties without so much as a gram of body fat. Sort of like an uncooked Scott Glenn without hair. His skin was so white that even in the dim light I could see the top part of the little swastika tattoo peeking over the shirt collar of his extremely expensive suit.

As my brain gradually warmed up, I realised that I recognised the man standing at Hatch's left shoulder. It was the quartermaster, Toscanini. Was he the one that had been helping Hatch to keep tabs on me? Several other similar thoughts occurred to me with considerable dismay, but I didn't show it. I had learned a long time ago not to react to surprises in front of others. There might always be another explanation.

I didn't recognise the other two. The one standing at Hatch's right shoulder was thin and nervous-looking. The one on Toscanini's left was large and middle-aged. Lines of perpetual frowning were etched on his leathery face. He had a short black haircut and a complicated arrangement of facial hair. He and Tosca were eyeballing me with their hands clasped in front of them like Hale and Pace.

I craned my neck and tried to rotate some life into it, taking the opportunity to take in my surroundings. I was tied to a chair in what appeared to be a rather dank basement. It was about the size of a double garage, with stairs leading down from a door on the left, and the only window was in the top right corner, smeared with grime and with bars across it. The only light in the room came from behind me and cast a blue-tinged glow over my captors.

In the corner, underneath the window, was an untidy stack of junk - pallets, rope and a cable reel. Besides that, the basement was reasonably clear - apart from the row of coffins that were sitting at equal intervals – two on either side of my chair. Only when I saw them did I notice the sickly vinegar smell of embalming chemicals.

I looked at the men, trying to look defiant through the pain. There was a long silence. None of them took their eyes from me.

"May I have a cigarette?" I said eventually. My voice was a croaky monotone.

Facial Hair walked - minced - over to me. His hip-swaying gait was amusing for a man his size, but for some reason I didn't find it funny. He produced a cigarette from a metal case and slipped it between my lips, lighting it with ignition that seemed to come from nowhere. I inhaled deeply, and coughed.

Hatch shifted slightly, as if awakening, and started to speak.

"Caught you," he said with a horrible smile.

"Where's Kim?" I said, showing my hand before I realised what I was doing.

"Soft spot for her, have we? Fatal error, Mr Towne; allowing your enemies to see your weaknesses. But then, you were always a bit of a romantic fool, were you not?"

Something made me look down. My tiepin was gone.

"Where's my dolphin?"

He ignored the question.

"Where the fuck's my dolphin?" I felt my control snap like a pan boiling over; heat and emotion and tears filled my chest, and I struggled to keep it down. Seeing him here, again, after all this time, everything was rushing to the surface.

I took deep breaths, and got myself under control.

Easy.

Ride it out.

"Kill me, then."

He looked surprised.

"Kill you?"

"Isn't that why you've finally shown yourself? You've been toying with me for ages. Framed me for Pelly's murder. I guess you finally moved in for the kill."

"Much as it pains me, Jacko, you are worth more to me alive. Besides, the fun is in the chase. It was perhaps a little careless of you to get your mug all over the national press twice in the same month, but you were rather put on the spot."

"So, you caught me. What now?" I managed, eventually.

"Well, despite our history, Mr Towne, you are still a fairly shrewd operator, especially given your limited resources."

"Try telling that to William Kupferberg." I said.

Or Pelly, I thought.

"In fairness, you couldn't have been expected to protect him, even if you had known what was coming his way. Equality of arms, and all that. I don't like weeds, Jacko, particularly if they're coming my way, and that bloody Yank was in danger of becoming a thorn in my side."

"Am I next?"

"All in good time, Jacko. Much as I would like to see you in the ground, I am in need of your skills."

"Why? You need a new campaign manager?"

He smiled.

"Can I count on your vote?"

"Not if you were the last fascist on earth."

"You sound a little naïve, Mr Towne. In these lean times, people are coming around to my way of thinking, you know. It's amazing what the prospect of the dole queue can do for your principles. It very quickly becomes 'every man for himself,' and before you know it, you're ahead in the polls."

"You really think you're in with a shout?"

"I say we let the votes do the talking, which brings us around to my point. For someone with such a dim view of capitalist society, you seem to be spending a disproportionate amount of time in the Square Mile."

"Just work."

"Police work?"

"Fuck you."

He smiled again - a thin, reptilian smirk.

"No, of course not. Cheap, hustling work, no doubt. And said work has brought you onto the fringes of a portfolio owned by a Mr \- sorry, Dr \- James Gabriel?"

"Sorry. Client confidentiality."

He sighed.

"Look, Jacko, why don't you drop the surly teenager routine? All I have is a simple business proposition."

"All?"

He made a snorting nose at the back of his throat and spat violently onto the ground.

"For now."

"I'm not discussing anything until I know who I'm talking to."

He leapt to his feet, a sudden movement that made me jump, and rushed over. He pushed his nose against mine.

"You understand that I could have killed you any time I wanted, don't you?" he hissed. "The only reason I haven't because fucking with you is such sport. I also need your services - much as it pains me to say it. You think..."

I lurched forward, snarling like a rabid dog, and clamped my jaws around his nose. It burst with a satisfying schlup and I tasted his blood in my mouth. Tosca and the other goon rushed over. Facial Hair took a flying kick at my scapula, which dislodged me, and sent me sprawling backwards, still attached to the chair.

"Budderfugger!" Hatch cried through the handkerchief he had pressed to his face, and then barked an instruction to fetch an ice compress at the nervous-looking one, who was looking on in horror.

There was a minute or so of quadrophonic laboured breathing. I was on my back, taking in the industrial vents on the ceiling of the basement. From my prone position I could now see - albeit upside down - where the light was coming from. It was a corner cubicle with glass walls, in which the contents of an open coffin were awaiting embalming underneath a blue, harsh light, like that of an operating theatre.

"Get him up," Hatch said.

The two goons lifted the chair upright, Tosca's face inches from mine as he did so. I was reasonably satisfied by now that he was not about to launch a spectacular rescue plan, but even if he were biding his time, I ought to help maintain the illusion.

"You fucking Judas," I hissed. "You just pissed at the world because your lot got booted out of G20?"

He was turning to walk away, but on hearing this, he spun round on his heel and grabbed me by the neck, cutting off my air supply.

"Figlio di una mignotta," he hissed. "You got me into this. I had my retirement planned until you show up on my door. I lose my house, my wife, my baby. So don't blame me for doing what I have to."

I wanted to say Was it you, Tosca? You helping Hatch keep tabs on me? but the words were choked out of me.

He released me and went back over to Hatch, while I sucked in air gratefully.

Hatch eyeballed me over the now-red handkerchief, and shrugged his jacket off. He hadn't planned for this, and I saw any kind of disruption to his planned agenda as a bonus. We should be thankful for small mercies.

Facial Hair took Hatch's jacket and draped it carefully over the chair Hatch had been sitting on. He changed hands so his left was holding the handkerchief, strode over, and belted me with a backhand. It was a good, solid strike that caught me plumb on the side of the face. The chair lurched, and teetered on its centre of gravity for a moment, before crashing to the floor again. This time I landed on my side, and the side of my head smacked against the damp concrete floor.

"Get him up again," Hatch said.

Tosca and Facial Hair obliged. The next blow was a sharp jab to the bridge of my nose. My head flew backwards - although this time I remained upright - and double-barrelled blood poured down my face. The pain radiated up into my head with a kind of freezing, heavy numbness.

After a minute or so that initial wave subsided a little, although it still hurt like hell. I eyeballed Hatch and spat a large gobbet of blood - both Hatch's and mine - onto the floor. The nervous man returned with a white bundle. Fuck knows where he got a cold compress from, this time of night, and then I realised we could be anywhere, any time.

"I wish I had a camera," I said, during the brief episode of first aid that took place as Hatch ditched the hanky and applied the compress. "For the cost of one first-class stamp to the papers, I could cripple your political career before it's even begun."

"All politicians expect at least one tabloid scandal in their careers. It's an occupational hazard," Hatch said. "In fact, if handled well, it can make your career. Look at Clinton."

"Which one?"

He shooed the question away with a hand.

"Anyway, the difference between other politicians and myself is that while they might bitch and moan about being caught in the Mirror with their pants down, I am a 100% bona fide nasty villain, and I do not give a flying fuck."

He took a deep breath, and got himself together. Blood gurgled in the back of his throat.

"But I am primarily a businessman, and that is why we are here. And in answer to your earlier question, this is Mr Erwin, and Mr Toscanini I believe you know."

"Yes, he's an old flame of mine. Aren't you, Tosca dear?"

"Toscanini was a conductor, you fucking ignoramus," Hatch said. "Tosca is an opera, by Puccini." He stretched his neck and pointed at the nervous man. "Anyway, going back to my introductions, this is Elliott Greene."

I looked up, and frowned. Elliott?

"Yes, Elliott. You may recognise the name. Ms Layrona's confidante within the confines of Medusa Chenaix HR."

Christ, of course. No wonder he looked nervous.

"What's he doing here?"

"That, Mr Towne, is a very good question."

Without taking his eyes from mine, Hatch nodded towards Facial Hair, who, as effortlessly as he had with the lighter, reached inside his jacket, pulled out a sidearm, and shot Elliott in the face. The deafening noise reverberated around the basement. Elliott flew backwards, limbs flailing, and slumped down against the wall behind him. A black pool slicked out across the stone floor.

I hung my head and looked at my shoes. Blood dripped onto the tips. I couldn't believe I was here. I couldn't believe, despite all the little warnings he'd given me, I had allowed him to get the drop on me. To my surprise, a sob escaped me, and a tear dripped off my eyelashes and splashed on the dusty floor.

"Don't let's forget, Jacko, that I can get to you anywhere, any time. I've no doubt that with your recent escapades you are punching well above your weight, with limited allies to depend on. And whatever number you did have is now down by one."

He came forwards again - this time stopping short of biting distance.

"Cards on the table, Jacko. You betrayed me twice. You are lucky to be alive."

I shook my head.

"I loved her."

"She wasn't yours to love. But I've taken revenge by raising hell for you. I would be happy to stop at that, but as you seem to have foisted your romantic notions onto the Layrona woman, I could take it that one step further."

I felt my eyes widen. Just the mention of her name was enough to strip any bravado from me.

"Please... please don't hurt Kim."

For a moment he looked almost sympathetic.

"Then will you just listen to me?"

"I'm tied to a chair, aren't I? What else am I going to do? You might say you have a captive audience."

He shook his head again. "If your ladykilling tendencies don't get you killed, your tongue almost definitely will." He produced a slim panatella from his jacket, sat down and began smoking it delicately. I kept quiet this time, and waited for him to finish the story.

"Mr Greene was here to prove - again - that it is pointless to try to outgun me. Utterly pointless. Mr Toscanini, as you probably know, is a handy man to know for general supplies. The interests of Mr Erwin lie principally with the more generic recovery of the UK economy."

"Really? Because he looks like a Chuck Hatch knuckledragger to me."

"Admittedly, he does represent a more, ah, clandestine branch of government recovery efforts. Surely you didn't think that the blatherings of the Chancellor and the Governor of the Bank of England were the extent of the effort being put into improving the GDP? Even a dystopian like you must understand that the men in power will do anything - and I do mean anything - to protect their money?"

"So what is he?" I said, nodding towards the boar hog. "The bank police?"

"'Financial regulator' is a more fitting term."

"Regulator? That's slick, even for you."

"It's a growth industry, you know. It cannot have escaped your attention, Jacko, that times are fucking hard. The need to foster recovery, support our financial institutions and get the GDP back in the black is the global priority at the moment."

"I could do with a fucking bail-out, that's for sure," I said, before I could help myself. He gave me a look like an exasperated teacher - which was funny, given that a moment ago I'd tried to chew his face off.

"Such desperate times inevitably result in some corner-cutting, but they also provide opportunities for some, ah, creativity and innovation. What do you think happens when the CEO of a crippled bank walks into the sunset with his bonus while the workers all go home and tell their families that they're out of work? The Daily Mail will bitch about it, the public will chunter about it, the lawyers will scratch their heads and the government will curry favour with whoever's shouting the loudest in the hope that it will all eventually go away. Said CEO might cave in to public outrage and give it back, but it's not fucking likely. You can't legally recover it, so that's where we come in. We get it back."

"How very noble of you."

"And you think they can just walk away without a blot on their conscience when it all goes tits? The working man suffers while the bankers get fat."

I thought of his power yacht and stakes in a Formula 1 racing team, but said nothing.

"A debtor is a debtor, and they still have to fucking pay, one way or another. The Dr Gabriels of this world can't do it, so we do."

"You mean how repayments suddenly materialise when faced with the prospects of losing one's kneecaps?"

"Indeed. It's win-win. We scratch the places Dr Gabriel - and others like him - cannot reach, while in the meantime the party line is that my campaign priority is to bring these fat cats down a peg or two. Do you have any idea how many votes I will win by exposing Dr Gabriel as a money-launderer - money used to put firearms into the hands of children?"

Your firearms, I thought.

"See it now - Dr Gabriel was one of several thousand amoral, greedy, money-grabbing cants that are putting the stoppers on this country getting itself out of a hole. It's time people like him were reined in. Can't lose."

He said it just like that - cants \- the careful diction slipping a little into the Bow Bells tra-la-la of his younger days.

"Nice speech. Proper Robin Hood you are, except after he'd finished with Prince John he didn't blame the immigrants for everything else. So – and I may regret asking this – what do you get out of all this?"

His face crinkled into a sour smile.

"Dr Gabriel provides us with strategic finance consultancy services."

"You mean he launders your dirty money."

"Call it what you want, Mr Towne. Fact is, there's always stuff going on behind the scenes. As far as Medusa Chenaix is concerned, Kim Layrona didn't know the half of it - yes, there might have been some questionable moral practices on the trading floor - but I couldn't afford to have the rock turned over. Know what I mean? I couldn't be doing with all the publicity. Just wanted her quiet, you understand?"

I tried not to think about why Hatch kept referring to Kim in the past tense.

"I sold the contract to Gabriel, he sold it - through Kupferberg - to your mate Dixon, who sold it to you. Unfortunately, you fucked it up, so the debt lies with you."

I swallowed.

"Relax, I was paid for it, so I don't give a monkey's. She hasn't gone running to teacher yet, and since being seen out with you her credibility has taken a bit of a nosedive anyway. No, what's been causing me prostate problems of late is that the good Dr Gabriel decided he didn't want to play any more. Didn't want to do my accounting, either. This upset me."

He paused and looked at the end of the cigar.

"It was very easy to dislike Dr Gabriel. He thought he was invincible. He also thought he had the nous to take on the street and win - keep the wideboys in bread and they'll keep coming back for more. That kind of thing."

"Was?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You said 'was.' You know he's dead?"

"But of course, Mr Towne."

It slowly dawned on me that perhaps Gabriel had not been entirely willing to throw himself off a building. Maybe he just needed that gentle prod in the right direction - in this case, straight down.

"You killed him."

"Astute observation. Admittedly a fake suicide was decidedly more, ah, flagrant than was necessary, as the post-mortem will undoubtedly highlight his crushed windpipe. Still, intimidation was the only way to get him to see sense. Unfortunately, Dr Gabriel was one of a typically twenty-first century breed of male, and rather clumsily failed to make the distinction between stupidity and courage."

He flicked ash onto the floor.

"I can't be doing with it, Jacko. I need my bank managers to be pliant. Do as they're fucking told. Unfortunately, in this day and age, that is a dwindling quality."

"I thought you were all for creativity and innovation."

His face fell.

"Not from them, you silly prick. Me."

The man was insane, but I had to admit it was clever. Hatch had effectively been running Medusa Chenaix from the wings, pulling Gabriel's strings and coercing him into laundering the proceeds of his ill-gotten enterprises, with the failsafe that, as part of his manifesto, he could expose Gabriel any time he wanted. Or chuck him off an office block.

"So what do you want with me?"

He grimaced and winked at the same time, like there was something irritating stuck between his teeth.

"Dr Gabriel wasn't totally stupid. He bought himself a little insurance policy before he started trying to run the show. In short, he hid all my fucking money."

"What did you kill him for, then?"

He shrugged and flicked more ash onto the floor.

"Lost my temper. Can you imagine?" He shook his head. "Wanted me to back off and leave him alone. The fucking nerve of the guy - trying to control the game."

"Puts a ding in your campaign cover story, doesn't it? How are you going to expose him if he's already dead?" I said.

He waved a disinterested hand.

"The body's already gone, Jacko. Missing, in fear of career suicide; he'll turn up in a ditch somewhere soon enough, and it will be explained away by the company he was keeping. Certainly no one will miss the shit-nosed embezzler."

The penny was slowly beginning to drop.

"You want me to help you find your money? What makes you think I know anything about it?"

"I don't think you do - yet. But you will, and when you do, we will all sit round the table, drink your health, and split it evenly."

"And if I refuse?"

Hatch flashed a look at Mr Erwin, who disappeared, returning a few moments later wheeling a small trolley. On top of it was a bank of small screens and a laptop. He fiddled with the set-up, and then stood aside.

An image swam into view. I squinted, and shuffled forwards on my chair. The quality wasn't great. It looked like a CCTV feed from an outside camera. It was night, the image washed with that unreal hue cast by an array of outdoor arc lights.

I shuffled a little closer, and recognised the long-stay car park at Gatwick Airport. Right by the perimeter fence, with the airfield just visible in the distance.

In the centre of the image was my BMW. Only about half the surrounding bays were occupied.

My heart sank, but I said nothing.

"You don't love her, you know," Hatch said. "You think you do, but she just represents your one shining opportunity to get out of the personal hell I've created for you, and you've latched onto that like a horny dog. You think that if you can just tie off your loose ends, you can escape with her into the sunset."

"What are you, my psychiatrist?"

"It was the same with Valentina," Hatch continued. "But in that case, she represented your escape from the hell created for you by the Metropolitan Police. She represented all the things you wanted, but couldn't have. Things you felt you were entitled to simply by virtue of being human. It was no different, really, except she was mine."

He spat this last word with a venom that suggested time had not healed either of our wounds. I hung my head and said nothing.

"Of course, the car is the only possession I've allowed you to have. I needed some collateral - some leverage in the event of your deciding not to comply. But now I know of your soft spot for your target, I guess we have no further use for the car."

The image before me flashed brilliant white, like the feed had been pulled, and then, when it faded, I saw the smoking, charred remains of my precious BMW - wheels and other parts strewn about the place, the twisted metal of the scorched chassis still sitting neatly within the bay.

"One day soon," I said, quietly, "I'll make you pay for that."

He tutted. "To answer your earlier question - if you refuse, well, at the very least the status quo will be maintained. But your only collateral now is the Layrona woman."

"Don't kill her," I said again, needlessly.

"Kill her? Of course not. It will be far worse than that. No, I will simply recreate the little exile I have created for you over the last four years. And don't make the mistake of thinking you'll be in it together."

He fumbled around behind the trolley and pulled out a newspaper. He held it up. It was the CCTV from Gatwick Airport, showing Kupferberg and I.

"It may have disappeared from the pages of the nation's press, but the police still want to speak to you about Mr Kupferberg's demise. Not to mention your escaping lawful custody on a murder charge, your involvement in the disappearance of one Kim Layrona, and a host of other petty offences."

"I've been in police custody once since then."

"And it would be no great hardship to hand you back. Despite their regional mergers, technological advances and more than a handful of public inquiries, one of the shortcomings of the modern police is that their ability to join things up remains rudimentary at best. You know - better than I, in fact - that you only have to cross a few local authority borders to significantly improve your chances of remaining undetected. However, a few carefully chosen pointers to the local constabulary should cause a few light bulbs to go on. If you don't do this, Kim Layrona will eke out an existence not dissimilar to yours for the last few years - no money, no friends, no credit, no work - while you spend the prime of your life in prison."

I nodded. Hatch went on.

"If, on the other hand, you agree to go to work, I will declare a ceasefire in the interim."

That got my attention. I looked up.

"A ceasefire?"

He smiled.

"Indeed. And if you are successful, I will allow you and Ms Layrona - should you wish it - to swan off to the country cottage, free from my usual intrusions."

"You mean - forever?"

"If you live that long, then yes. We'll call it quits on a permanent basis."

"So you're saying - help you find your money, split it, and then you'll leave me alone?"

"Exactly. And on top of that, I will throw the police a few bones to keep them looking in the other direction."

I wasn't sure that I trusted him, but I couldn't pass it up. I couldn't. Kim and I could have a life. It was like a door of light opening. The possibilities swam through my veins like a full-body orgasm.

"I'm in."

"Excellent." He threw the compress on the ground, and put on his jacket. "You know, it's funny - having cast you out from normal, decent society, you've actually made quite a good go of living outside it - in fact, with the world's recent economic problems, I almost think you enjoy it. So it seems incumbent on me to up my game a little bit."

"Meaning what?"

Mr Erwin tossed a pocket knife towards me. It landed on the ground about six feet away, and then he and Tosca suddenly disappeared through an unseen doorway, recessed in the darkness. Hatch gave me a lingering look, and then followed them without another word, leaving the CCTV trolley and the corpse of Elliott Greene in the corner.

"Hey. Hey!" I yelled. "Where's Kim? What have you done with her?"

There was silence.

I gave it about ten minutes before I decided they weren't coming back, then I shuffled over to the knife, rocked the chair until I fell onto the floor alongside it - hurting my shoulder in the process - and then began some Mission: Impossible-style antics in an effort to free myself.

It wasn't easy, but after fifteen minutes I was running up the basement stairs to find myself in the kitchen of Toscanini's restaurant in Ealing. Clearly there was some not-very-legal moonlighting going on – I didn't think the smell of formaldehyde complemented basil and tarragon too well. The clock on the wall behind the counter said it was two in the morning. I checked my pockets - they were all empty. I had no money, no gun and no phone.

There was a tiny toilet at the end of a small, dirty corridor that led from the kitchen to the back door. I gazed at myself in the cracked mirror over the sink. I was a mess. My shirt was covered with blood, most of it my own; my face was stained red, my teeth pink. I felt my nose gingerly, and decided it wasn't broken, even though the pain was like hellfire. I pulled my shirt off, and scrubbed my face clean with paper towels. I threw the shirt in the bin and swiped a T-shirt that was hanging in a locker.

I walked out of the back door, bracing myself for the sound of an alarm. A black object, almost invisible in the darkness, chugged across my path. I realised, with a shudder, that it was a fuck-off huge rat.

I walked around to the front of the restaurant, where the streets were filled with silence. I put my head down and began walking. Hatch's terms were all about my finding a lot of money for him, but the priority in my own mind was finding Kim. In any case, I had no idea where to start, but the streets were black and rain-lashed, and the idea of walking through the rain with my collar turned up was strongly appealing.

There was a barely-audible hiss behind me. I spun around to see another insidiously-silent, totally-electric Ford Iago cruising slowly along Ealing Broadway, like it was following. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw it was only a taxi.

A taxi that stopped alongside me. The driver's window slid open.

"Business that bad you have to kerb-crawl?" I said.

The driver scowled with confusion.

"No, I... some guy paid me to give you this." He held out a plain white envelope. I took it from him and put it in my pocket.

"I'm afraid I need your taxi," I said.

"What?"

I still had the pocket knife, and I held it to his neck.

"Get out of the car, and empty your pockets."

The cabbie looked weathered and battle-hardened, and he stuck his jaw out.

"Get fucked. I'm not..."

I put the knife in my teeth, cupped his jaw with one hand and with the other punched him twice in the face in quick succession; short sharp jabs, the blade cold in my mouth. His eyes stretched in fright, and his bravado evaporated. I hauled him out of the car, and he dropped coins, a lighter and a mobile phone onto the pavement.

"Now get out of here. Go!"

The cabbie ran off, and I drove away. That was a robbery, right there, and another five years easily.

It took a few circuits past the same kebab shop to get my bearings, and then I headed west out of London on the M3.

I drove for about half an hour before I parked the Iago on a bridge over the motorway. I got out and watched the traffic. Three lanes of white headlights raced towards me, and three lanes of red tail lights raced away from me. The wind was fierce, and I gripped the bridge's handrail as I looked over the horizon, where the pregnant sky had wealed a heavy crimson. Still the rain fell, and from somewhere far off I thought I could hear a lone horn echoing out of the blood-red sky.

Inside the envelope was my dolphin tiepin. I pulled it out and juggled it in my hand. I had worn it always, as a reminder of Valentina - although it seemed lately that it served equally as a reminder of Kim. Valentina had given it to me as a token, something to draw strength from, but what had it done for me? This was my life, right here, in the middle of the night on a motorway with only a stolen taxi for company. I wondered if this was how Kim had felt that night on Suicide Bridge.

You don't love her.

Hatch's words. Since I met her, I had been telling myself I didn't. Now someone else had said it, I wanted to scream to the contrary. I wanted to tell her.

Try to tell yourself something you know to be false, and you risk convincing someone else. That's the trouble with voyages of self-discovery. No one else can ever see a difference.

For both our sakes, I should have just let her jump. I had dragged her into my own miserable existence, and she was likely to end up dead or worse.

"Christ, I'm sorry," I said into the wind, not knowing quite who I was saying it to.

Kim?

Pelly?

What is it with you? You meet people you like, and they end up dead.

"I'm sorry."

I wound up my arm and threw the tiepin into the traffic. It flashed briefly and disappeared into the darkness.

"I'm sorry!"

I stared at the sky. The clouds seemed superimposed; brilliance pasted onto turgid dusk. My gritty eyes saw the whole tacky picture in a grainy finish, like some old 'B' movie. I raised my hands and bestowed the sky with divine powers, deliberately imagining it to be some omnipotent entity, some benign ruler to seek counsel from. I tried to scorn it, but drew no comfort. Even I, with my faith to myself and no other. The enormity of the canon dazed me. I tried to ice myself over, as I had done so easily before, but the raw, seething heat rose up in me, wild.

"Fuck you!" I screamed. "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!" I felt the heat overtake me, and that was it. I sank to my knees on the sodden ground and howled like an animal.

****

PART THREE

"Don't tell me he's the good guy..."

****

twenty-nine

After I'd stopped feeling sorry for myself, I stopped in a 24-hour petrol station before I got to the city proper. I dumped the Iago, stole some food and walked the rest of the way into London. I found a boarded up shop front somewhere off the Westway, broke in and curled up behind a stack of packing boxes, unable to do anything else but sleep.

I awoke early to the sound of reverse horns and clunking machinery. Several artics were unloading on the side of the road; hazards blinking, shotgun-riders directing.

I looked at my hands. In the middle of each palm were four white crescents where my nails had dug into my hand, from sleeping with my fists balled. I smacked my lips together, trying to ignore the dead taste in my mouth and the numb throb on my face, and crept out of the back of the shop undetected.

I walked into the City and down the Strand, watching the early morning roadsweepers clear away hundreds of empty wallets, purses and handbags from the side of the road - remnants, I guessed, of the recent surge in street robberies.

The sweepers heaped the wallets into piles at intervals stretching off into the distance. At that time of the morning, the Strand was virtually empty, and the piles were like the casualties of a long battle waiting to be cleared.

I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it refused to budge. My mind was running at a hundred miles an hour - I tried to clear it, to work out some kind of basic plan, but I couldn't articulate my thoughts, so they floated, voiceless, around my brain, while I wandered aimlessly around the capital.

It's funny how one's conscience shrinks in direct proportion to one's need to survive. I exploited the early hour by stealing from a milkman and a postman doing their rounds of Belgravia, and, like the hell junkie I was becoming, found it easy to ignore the little prickle inside my head.

It wasn't personal - both of them were out of sight and engaged on their rounds when I plundered their respective cargo. From the milkman's float I recovered nearly a hundred pounds, most of it in coins, and from the postman's trolley I looked out for birthday cards, the handwritten scrawls of the elderly and the rigid letters containing credit cards. My theory that birthday cards and old-people's letters were the most likely to contain cash proved correct, and I yielded over two hundred pounds. Credit card companies don't send cards and PINs together, but of the five credit cards I found, two had PINs in the same delivery, so by matching the address they were easy to find. Sitting in Green Park to inventory my bounty, I worked out I had access to over five thousand on credit. I kissed the logo on the credit cards and said a silent prayer to the benevolent credit gods Morgan Stanley and RBS.

With money in my pocket, I felt a little better. I dropped two hundred quid in an envelope to Jetta, clearing my conscience for the day, and took the Underground to Monument.

I walked south over London Bridge to Kim's apartment. It had been boarded up with a padlock and hasp, with a repossession notice on the door; exactly the same as the one I had found at Tosca's place – with the Medusa Chenaix logo in the bottom-right corner. With a skittering heart I broke in and saw that it had been cleared out - the bullet holes in the bedroom were the only reminder of the fun we'd had.

Downstairs, in the lobby, her mailbox had been nailed shut. It was as if anyone with the misfortune of crossing Chuck Hatch's path would be systemically erased from society, their dwellings emptied to remind others not to get themselves afflicted with this particular disease. I shuddered as I left, realising that this was exactly what had happened to me.

I turned to go, and then noticed a tiny object hanging from one of the nails on the mailbox.

It was my dolphin tiepin.

How in the name of Christ had it ended up here?

I had no idea, but I knew it was Kim.

She was leaving me a message.

I stared at it for a moment, then snatched it off the nail and sprinted for the door.

*

The internet café was in a basement the middle of Soho, and was principally being used by young men wired up to some online strategy game. They sat, trance-like, more in the game than out of it, and none of them looked like they were going anywhere soon. There seemed to be no light in the basement other than that caused by the burning screens. I found the whole place strangely peaceful.

I sat down at a spare terminal in the middle of the floor, and typed the URL I had memorised:

www.facebook.com/theartisanliquidators

My cursor turned into an egg-timer, and my heart sank as the page reloaded with an error message.

Page not found.

You have may have misspelled the URL, or the link may have expired.

I really hoped it was the former.

Several attempts later, I realised there was nothing wrong with my spelling. I logged into Google and began various searches, trying not to acknowledge the possibility that my only lifeline to Kim had gone. Eventually I found a small notice in one of the local music publications.

The Artisan Liquidators are no longer!

We have enjoyed your company and support, but the time has come to move on.

Adele is going on to further education, John is joining the Marines (boo!) and Karen has got herself a job in aeronautical engineering (oo-er!)

Please do join us for a farewell gig at the Laurel Tree, Camden on January 26th, 2017, and remember - keep on swinging!

I worked out the date in my head - the 'farewell gig' had been a couple of nights ago, maybe even as Hatch's crew were doing Mastermind on me in the basement.

I sent a hopeful email to the moderator, asking if there was any chance of retrieving the comments page on the band's blog, but didn't hold out any hope.

I sat there, as the metered time I had paid for gradually disappeared, second by second, like the countdown to some inevitable knowledge.

I had no idea what Hatch had done with Kim. She could be anywhere in the world.

I had no way of finding her.

She was lost.

"Hey."

I turned to see a tall, thin, bejewelled creature standing in front of me. I tried to gauge his intentions, but his face read nearly as blank as mine did.

"No smoking in here."

I got up and left.

*

I have good days and bad.

A good day is when my mind unconsciously relaxes, maybe after a couple of uneventful weeks, and check over my shoulder and under my car less frequently.

A bad day leaves me crippled with paranoia and guilt, unable to function on any level, afraid to go out or even move.

On the bad days the temptation to call someone – a cop, a priest, anyone – and confess all, beg them to make it stop, in the hope the slate will be wiped clean and I will be free again, is almost irresistible.

But the irony is that when they finally get me, it will be on a good day.

*

The phone box was in King's Cross. As the coins clanked down into the machine I surveyed the array of postcards advertising various Eastern European beauties and thought - who uses phone boxes any more?

I felt something soft under my shoe. I looked down at a spent condom and got my answer.

Lord, give me a sign.

The call was connected and the phone on the other end began to ring. The ringing was faint, tinged with an awful buzzing, and I had to clamp one hand over my other ear to drown out the sound of the traffic. I could feel my heartbeat thumping against my palm.

As the call was put through I imagined a frantic hush descending on the incident room - the hunted proactively going after his hunters, the hapless call taker trying to keep him on the line, the flurry of background activity as the tech-heads tried to get a trace on the line.

The call was answered, and the bored voice on the other end of the line suggested this scenario was not being played out.

"Ops room."

"I think you've been trying to get hold of me," I said.

"Oh yeah? Who might you be?" he asked.

"Where's DC Carr?"

"Who is this?"

"I'm only going to speak to DC Carr."

"Look, sir. Why don't you tell me who you are and what you know, and then maybe we can..."

"You're investigating the murder of a police officer four years ago. You finally got your man last week, but he escaped from hospital."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. I could hear the ambient background noise of several similar conversations taking place.

"Please tell me your name, sir, and what you know about the incident in question."

"Are you reading that off a cue card? I escaped from custody."

"You and every other bugger that's called in today. What do you want?"

This guy's face was occupied by a mouth almost as smart as mine.

"Look, I'm not some whack-job from a mental ward. I'm calling you to say I didn't kill him."

"If you say so. You'll forgive me if I don't start drip-feeding you details of a murder investigation. When you go to the national media for help, you get a lot of cranks calling in."

"How about a joke?" I said. "A man walks into a bar. He's a big lad, drinks half a bottle of Teacher's, takes the rest with him to his Chrysler. Drives home drunk, flips the car and dies. Only, he's got a nine-inch-deep stab wound too, but the knife didn't appear until last week. Conveniently, my prints are on the handle."

There was a rustling sound as the phone was handed over.

"Hello? Sam?"

I shut my eyes when I heard him. Carr's voice was impossibly kind. I had to take a breath to keep from spilling everything.

"What's your first name?" I asked.

There was a pause.

"It's Aaron," he said slowly. "Is Sam Easter your real name?"

"Does that matter? I didn't kill Pelly."

"That's for the jury. Besides, guilty or not, you've added an escape from lawful custody charge to your collection. For a murder suspect that won't be small potatoes."

"Christ, sell it to me, why don't you?"

"Look, the sooner you come in, the easier it will be to believe you."

"Fuck that."

"What do you want, then?"

"I want to tell you I didn't kill him. It was... well, it's a long story."

"You were framed? You had the chance to tell me about it – on tape and with legal advice. You didn't take it. It's too late."

"It's never too late."

"Sam, you know we've got six teams of temps working earlies, lates and nights here?" he said. "They're split into two – half answering the calls from the media release, the other going half through every image from every CCTV camera in London. We will find you, Sam."

"You didn't find Samuel Easter against any records, did you? Didn't find a prior record? No prints, nothing?"

"No."

"I've never used it before, that's why."

"It's your file name now."

"You really think someone with no criminal record would jump to murdering an undercover cop?"

There was another rustling sound as Carr shifted position. The background chatter grew slightly quieter.

"No. No I don't. But Sam – at no point did I tell you he was undercover."

I didn't say anything.

"You had the chance to tell me about it, but it's not too late. If you know something that can help clear your name and point us in a better direction, then I'm happy with that. This isn't personal."

Don't kid yourself, I thought.

"But you've got to start talking, and you've got to come in."

I remained silent.

"I agree with you. I don't think that a cleanskin would start his criminal career with murder. And Pelly was working some heavy cases when he died – that cleanskin wouldn't jump straight into a turf war between arms dealers. Sam... are you a cop?"

"It's a long story."

"You need to come in."

"No fucking way."

"What do you want, Sam? Why are you calling? You want a royal pardon? A guarantee that you won't be prosecuted? My word as a gentleman that it will all come out in the wash?"

I didn't say anything. I didn't want to acknowledge that he'd hit the nail on the head.

"Well, I can't give that to you. I'll throw you a bone - it doesn't look good for you. If you didn't do it, then you need to come in. Start co-operating. It's the only way this will end well for you."

"Goodbye."

"Sam? Sam?"

His voice dwindled and then clicked off as I replaced the receiver.

I wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.

*

Two hours later and I was driving a silver BMW 520 that I found in the Exchange and Mart, bought for £500 from a guy in Herne Hill. It was even older than my dearly-departed 3-series, but it was clean, pretty well-tuned, and perfectly legit - insured, taxed, MoT and registered to a Mr Ross Everheart of an address in Northampton that was scheduled for demolition.

Not knowing how to find Kim was a feeling that was almost paralysing me; despite that, driving without having to worry about the cops was not a feeling to underestimate.

As I drove, a feeling of crumbling humility was moving through me, stripping away my pride, defences and any front I had left. The rawness underneath crystallised into a single coherent thought.

I had to make friends with Dico.

*

When I arrived in Brixton, I stopped outside Atlantic Road Furniture Stores and went in. The store manager - a well-mannered forty-something middle-class white man called Raymond who somehow managed to look thoroughly at home with the street boomboxes and Rasta colours on his wrist - told me Dico had finally laid claim to the pub he had always wanted and was about three hundred yards down Atlantic Road trying to tart it up.

Dico had taken me under his wing after I joined the ranks of disgraced cops, and after eight years I considered him a friend (or a father figure, said the little nutcase in my head) but he'd made it pretty clear of late that our relationship was strictly business. Not that I had high expectations - I didn't need hugging, or anything - but, well, it's nice to know that your friends won't put out a contract on your head if you're a bit late with the rent.

The pub was an impressive three-storey building on the corner of Atlantic Road and Coldharbour Lane, opposite the railway bridge. I walked down Atlantic Road, the aroma of frying spices heavy in the air, and found Dico in the process of painting a new sign over the door, the ladder protesting under his topless weight. He was painting a 'P' in a surprisingly tidy hand - the remainder of the board was blank.

"New management?" I called.

He looked down, frowning.

"Well, fuck me sideways, the prodigal disgrace." He clambered down the ladder. "Nah, Sue wants a change of name. Thinks we can broaden the market."

"Who's Sue?"

"Girl I've been seeing. She's an endoscopy nurse when she ain't helping me out." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "I tell you, the things she wants to do with my bum can't even be legal."

"I hear they're a bit up themselves."

"Christ, you'd think she'd have seen enough of all that shit during the day, but not her. She is a freak."

"What are you going to call it?" I said, nodding towards the sign in an attempt to change the subject.

"'Purgatory.'"

"You're not serious?"

"Why not?"

He was right. It seemed appropriate, given the events of recent weeks.

"Anyway, what happened to you? I called you to sort out your pay, and some fuckin' inbred hick answers it and says he found the phone by the railway line and I should stop harassing him."

"I'm sorry about that. I've had some pretty major problems. Taken a while to get the money together."

"Yeah, well, I don't want to hear about that, I ain't fucking Citizens' Advice. It's no skin off my nose if you don't want paid, kid."

He turned to go into the pub.

"Dico? Sue got any rooms?"

*

The first floor of the pub was taken up with accommodation for the B&B strand of Operation Purgatory – six immaculately decorated rooms with four poster beds, ensuite marble bathrooms you could get lost in and so many shiny surfaces that mirrors were quite unnecessary.

At least, that was the vision Dico had in his head. At present these six chambers of grandeur were chocka with stepladders, dust sheets and decorators' gear. They were all caked with thick dust and there wasn't room for another paintbrush, never mind a woebegone street hustler down on his luck.

What Dico did have, however, was Atlantic Road Furniture Stores. The inside of the showroom was, as I said, strictly no-frills, with cheap dirty linoleum floors, naked lightbulbs hanging on strings, grimy walls that didn't look as if they had been whitewashed since Operation Swamp and a spidery sprawl of damp creeping insidiously across one of the ceiling arches. The whole miserable tableau was topped off with terrific seismic tremors every quarter of an hour when the Southeastern to Orpington thundered overhead.

In the back of the showroom, however, there was a raised platform where they kept the decent stuff, and in the middle was one of those faux-bedroom scenes, like a stage set, created for the illusion of luxury. Partition walls with shelves filled with cardboard shells made to look like a row of paperbacks, ornate drawer fronts glued onto the painted wall cabinets to add some dimension, a polystyrene fireplace and no ceiling, only the cobwebs covering the dingy railway arches high in the warehouse. I imagined some young arty type with dreams of a career designing sets ending up doing these for a living – not so much RSC as MFI.

The bed and lights, however, were quite real, and I collapsed onto a pocket-sprung king-size orthopaedic divan, staring up at those black arches, listening for the agonising howl of the trains overhead. For appearance's sake, I got up to shut the door, but it was cardboard, and just bumped noiselessly against the thin cardboard walls.

Outside this little enclosure were some real wardrobes, but it wasn't like I needed the storage space. On the pile carpet alongside me was an ashtray, a small pile of money, my stolen credit cards, another new pre-pay mobile and, since Hatch had confiscated my weapon, a gun that Dico had supplied. It looked like it he'd pinched it from the Imperial War Museum. I guess this was the cost of his American arms connection being disembowelled in the Gatwick Travelodge.

I lit a cigarette. I was surprised at Dico being out in the open. At first I had thought that if he was behind Gabriel's death, he would have gone to ground, but then I remembered with more than a shudder that it was Hatch that had killed Gabriel.

Dico knew, I was sure of it. He knew I had fallen for Kim – Christ, I had form for it – but I wasn't sure if he still believed that she was dead. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't, but didn't care – it was Gabriel that wanted her dead, after all, and where Dico was concerned the business had probably been overtaken by the personal. He hadn't turned me out on my ear, and that was the main thing. He could probably see I was desperate.

I thought about Kim constantly, but with money in my pocket and a hot meal being cooked in Purgatory by Sue, I finally convinced myself that the headless chicken thing was not doing me any favours. I needed to think. I needed a plan.

Hatch's terms had seemed generous, I knew, but I only gave it a few days before he got in touch wanting a progress report on Gabriel's money. But all I could think about was how to find Kim.

The dolphin on the mailbox. Kim had left that as a message for me, of that there was no doubt. But how the hell had she found it? I tossed it from a motorway bridge in the middle of the night.

And had she discovered the website no longer existed and then left the dolphin, or had she not yet done been to a computer? I had no way of knowing. And in any case, while it was a reassuring proof that I now had pressed against my chest, it didn't bring me any closer to finding her.

There was a knock at the door. Well, not really a knock, a kind of muffled brushing against the cardboard, as if the person on the other side of the door was trying to be polite enough not to fling it open – which is what a proper knock would have done.

It seemed to take huge effort to lift myself from the mattress and slip on some jeans. I walked to the door, bare-chested, the cigarette still in my mouth.

I opened it.

And there she stood.

Kim.

One of the boom boxes on Atlantic Road might have been playing No Woman, No Cry.

She was biting her lip, her eyes red, but you wouldn't have known she'd been through the mill. She certainly looked better than I did. Her anxious look gave way to one of amusement as she registered the slack-jawed amazement on my face.

"Aren't you going to ask me in?"

I opened the door wide, and beckoned her in. I wanted to run to her, to bury my face in her hair, and tell her all the things that had been plaguing my mind the last couple of days.She walked in, pausing only in the doorway to take the cigarette from my mouth and put it in her own.

"It's got potential," she said, standing in the centre of the little stage to check it out.

"It doesn't feel too sturdy, I have to say."

"Nothing a woman's touch couldn't fix."

She walked to the small clingfilmed aperture that passed for a window and looked out at the dark recesses of the warehouse. Then she turned to me, her eyes wide.

"Kim... I'm sorry, I look like shit."

She crossed the room to me and kissed me hard on the mouth, her hands clawing down my back.

"Jesus, Jackson, I've been going out of my mind."

"How... how did you find me?"

We collapsed onto the bed.

"Somewhere we can get a drink?" she asked.

"Purgatory's down the road," I said.

I pulled on a shirt, intending to run down the road and buy a bottle of wine from Sue, but when I opened the door, there was a bottle and two glasses on a tray already outside it. Sue had scribbled a smiley face on a post-it note.

I shut the door and poured Kim a glass.

"This is so cool. If I could tell my sixteen year-old self that her future boyfriend lived in a furniture showroom with a pub next door that delivers I might have left school sooner."

"What else would you tell her?" I said, thinking – cool was not the first word that leapt to mind about my current surroundings, but now she'd said it, it was, kind of. Kind of like we were a couple of kids hiding in a huge mansion house undetected. That's what I liked about her. She could make anything into a good time.

"To stay the hell out of banking," she laughed. Then she sipped her wine and her eyes grew dark as they fixed on mine. "No. I'd tell her that he's a good man, that he's made some bad choices, but that it isn't his fault, and one day soon he'll sort himself out. And that I... I... "

She faltered and looked away. I kissed her.

"Later," I said.

We made love on the divan - well, more or less - and then took it in turns to use the totally ropey shower room at the back of the warehouse.

When we came back, we huddled under a blanket on the bed, both knowing there was plenty of stuff to talk about - logistical stuff, inextricably linked to our future survival - but neither of us wanted to burst the bubble just yet.

"Kim - it's driving me mad. I found my dolphin on your mail box - but I threw the bloody thing onto the motorway in the middle of the night."

"I know you did."

"But how..."

"There was a GPS transmitter on it."

GPS? Was that it? Was that how Hatch had kept tabs on me all these years? Did I have some horrible insidious microchip sellotaped to the inside of my scalp or something? Fortunately sci-fi and I never really got on.

"GPS?" I said.

"Global positioning satellite. I..."

"I know what it stands for. How did you manage to..."

"I found it one night while you were sleeping. Around the time you came up with The Artisan Liquidators idea, actually – nice plan, by the way. I'd been thinking about a contingency for us getting separated as well, except my idea was a bit better than yours. It wasn't hard. You can get them on Ebay."

The dolphin tiepin was lying on top of a bedside table I had borrowed from elsewhere in the showroom. I picked it up and examined it. The transmitter was a tiny grey disc with a hole in the centre that fitted around the base of the pin itself.

"I never noticed," I said stupidly.

Kim took the dolphin from me and pinned it back onto the T-shirt I was wearing.

"I know a little bit about marine communications, remember? I was going to attach a transmitter to the tiepin - thing was, there was already one on it."

"Hatch?"

"I guess. I intercepted the signal, routed it to an iPhone and \- presto."

"So..."

"Shut up a minute. I tracked the signal out west on the M3, and found the little bloody thing sitting on the central reservation under the Bagshot flyover. Do you know how long I had to wait for a gap in the traffic? I must have looked like a proper lunatic. Then I find that The Artisan Liquidators have gone their separate ways and their website is a thing of the past, and so I went back to my flat and left it for you on the mailbox."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, satellite monitoring of your new fella would probably put the stoppers on most burgeoning relationships, I'm sure."

She was right. In other circumstances, it would have ticked the 'psycho' box somewhat, but in ours - well, it was just plain genius.

"So if you intercepted the signal, does that mean Hatch can't get a reading any more?"

"No. It just means that now we can both read it. We ought to ditch it."

"Not yet. Let's let him think he's still got me under the wire."

I shook my head, marvelling at how clever she'd been. She sat up and poured more wine.

"Jackson... why did you throw it away?"

"Well, there's something I need to tell you."

She turned to me and handed me a glass, prompting me with her eyes.

"I'm listening."

"I wasn't kicked out. I'm still... I'm still a cop."

****

### thirty

The story of Chuck Hatch is a good one. You'll like it.

I'd been working undercover for a small team looking to bring on the pains to some organised crime groups. I had worked out a cover as a shy-but-bright young gofer doing some legitimate work for one of the companies that Hatch used to launder money through. I dropped some hints, crashed a few conversations and got myself noticed as a bright young thing. Hatch, in that stupidly paternal Al Pacino way, was impressed and took me under his wing. Must have been my eyes.

That cover story, the one I regularly use about getting kicked out for stomping the wife-beater? That's true. That actually happened, but it was carefully orchestrated by the covert policing unit to make my consequent booting-out look realistic. The criminal charges got dropped after the superintendent in charge slowed the whole thing down so much that chummy got fed up of waiting and eventually refused to go to court, and I quietly resigned - or appeared to - before the tribunal came around.

Nobody knew, not even the ACC heading up the tribunal. They all thought I had gone south, another hot-headed young disgrace who was too quick with his fists. Only two people at NSY knew I was still a police officer - my handler and the superintendent running the unit. These tiny, need-to-know numbers are supposed to protect the UC, but in my case it was counter-productive.

It went well for about eight months. We didn't quite have enough to bring a case, but the intel flow was pretty strong. Then, in a remarkable slice of bad luck – was it ever thus? – I bumped into someone that I had been to school with while bodyguarding Hatch's daughters on a trip to the zoo. Called me by my real name. My defence was crude but effective - I grabbed the simpering prat by the neck and told him to back the fuck off, that he'd made a mistake - but the seed had been planted, and that was enough.

Hatch is no fool. He didn't want to kill me. That would have been too easy. Instead, he launched counter-surveillance on me. He was shadowing me for weeks and I never realised. Not once. I led him to all of them. I handed them to him on a plate. Pelly - that was my handler – died in a horrible car crash while quite significantly over the limit. The superintendent fell foul of a DIY mishap involving a step ladder and a plate glass window - even from my point of view, Hatch's creativity in staging these deaths was pretty impressive.

More than a few people privately thought this was all a bit strange, but there was never enough evidence to prove otherwise. The coroner recorded open verdicts in both cases. Some strategically-minded bright spark may have even said hold on, what if there's a raft of undercover cops out there that we need to bring home to roost? - but even if they had, they wouldn't have been able to find us. The handful of occasions I went to NSY and tried to convince them that I was a police officer, I never got past the desk clerks, and my dream scenario where the aforementioned bright spark came wide-eyed through the door with my file, saying there there, it's okay, we know the whole story, we'll look after you \- well, as Dico might say, that's just pure fucking fantasy league.

I didn't help myself, though, but I wasn't thinking straight, and can you blame me for not pitching it quite right? I was drunk most of the time, I smelled like a landfill site, and - it may surprise you to know - I developed a smart-mouthed sarcasm that didn't endear me to a lot of people. Things were bad enough with Hatch finding out I was job, but would they have taken me back in any case? I had breached the golden rule - don't shack up with the target's wife.

*

Valentina Markova was a Belarusian import whom Hatch had rescued from one of his people-trafficking operations. She'd been lured out of her Minsk slum on the promise of the Western dream, and - unlike the twenty other hopefuls who ended up being pimped in Birmingham, Manchester and London - she'd found it. Hatch had taken Valentina as his wife before she'd barely made it off the container ship.

I always found this a bit odd, given his public stance on immigration, but there we are. I never really knew if he loved her properly or if she was just another bit of bling to go with his collection. He knocked her about, I know that much. But he trusted me, and over time I became Valentina's official bodyguard. And if he did love her, it was easy to see why. It was easy to see why he picked her over the others at Felixstowe docks.

I knew her instantly. When people say they fall in love at first sight, that's what they really mean; when you look at someone and just know them, without all the bullshit dancing preamble that passes for dating. I fell in love with her.

She was the perfect mix of sensuality and comedy; of sex and tenderness; of warmth and fun. She had huge almond eyes, and long panther-black hair that seemed to have a life of its own. And - totally weird - I remember her waist. She used to wear belts that accentuated her hourglass shape, and I used to look at her waist and just want to hold her there.

And she smiled. She smiled a lot, even after Hatch had belted her. I used to hope that she was smiling because I was around.

We never made love, and in a way, I'm glad. My relationship history before Valentina was chequered at best, and pretty much resembled a bad series of pornographic films, only with less warmth. But I can love. I know that much.

We did kiss, however, and it was the most incredible, intoxicating feeling; that exciting feeling of two strangers knowing each other. It was a late summer afternoon, in her bedroom. I was standing by the window, pretending to look out at Hatch's superb garden, but really I was looking at Valentina's reflection in the glass as she put earrings on.

"I know you're watching me," she said in that deep Balkan accent, without taking her eyes from the mirror on her dressing table.

"Who? Me?" I said. Playful.

"Yes, you, Mr Towne. My protector."

She got up and came over, and stood facing me. She had a way of looking up at me but without raising her head. I called it her Lauren Bacall-look, and it had caused me to develop something of a minor white-knight complex.

Her face was pretty clear that week, only sporting the dying yellow remains of a bruise under her left eye. It made me tremble inside, that tension caused by the need to act but being prevented from doing so by no one other than yourself.

I just wanted to hear her say it. Rescue me, Jackson. Take me away from all this. Just once, and I would have charged through the house, obliterating Hatch's goons with a Howitzer just to get at him.

"You don't wear jewellery," she said, when she finally pulled her lips away from mine. "I like that. But I have something for you."

And she pinned something to my lapel. A small brass tiepin, in the shape of a dolphin.

"Remember me with this," she said.

"Are you going somewhere?" I said, unable to keep the fear from my voice.

Valentina said nothing, but kissed me again.

I never saw her again.

Hatch had his suspicions about us, of that I was sure. It was the long silences between us - maybe he'd be drinking coffee, or reading the paper, or flicking through muted news channels, but I would always be standing to attention, unsure where to look, waiting for him to speak.

Maybe he was weighing it up in his mind. Which was worse? The fact that the hired help was in love with his wife, or the fact that the hired help was a cop? In his eyes, maybe they were both as bad as each other, but I always thought it was worse that I was a cop. Pathetically, the only rejoinder that ever came to mind if faced with an accusation of sleeping with his wife was But I didn't sleep with her. I didn't fuck her, I'm in love with her. To my ears, that cushioned the blow. Maybe to his as well, unless he thought she loved me too.

He never mentioned Valentina's sudden absence, and I never asked. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to know that she'd been shot in the head and buried in the concrete foundations of the new leisure centre in Swindon. I didn't want to know that she'd been garrotted with cheese wire and fed to wild pigs.

I didn't want to know those things.

Thus, there was no sudden wrench, no moment of unyielding horror - just a slow, creeping realisation that she was gone and wasn't coming back.

With her out of the picture, he just had to deal with my rather undesirable credentials.

This he did front me with.

"I've killed your handler," he said one day, while pouring a brandy. He could have been asking me where I got my suit. "What's his name? Pelly? It was easier than I thought. I've killed your boss as well."

I didn't think I had any feelings left to spill, but I did. I felt like I was made of sand and had just crumbled in a sudden gust of wind. I was mildly disgusted with myself that, after losing Valentina, I could still be scared for myself.

But I was. I was scared of dying by Hatch's hand. I was scared of the pain he would inflict. I was a double-whammy, for Christ's sake.

He smiled at me.

"You're thinking - what's he going to do to me, yes?" He sloshed his brandy around the enormous glass. "You're thinking - electrodes on the testicles, rabid ferret in the underpants, fingernail extractions - that kind of thing? Yes?"

I said nothing.

"Wrong. What I've got for you is better than that."

And, in retrospect, he was right. If you don't count the monosyllabic desk clerks at NSY, there are only three people in the world that know I am still a cop. One is me. The other is Hatch. And now the third is you, Kim.

Officially, my cover doesn't exist. Nor does my identity. If I were to apply for the police afresh, they would look me up and find a rather real-looking criminal record. A dummy criminal record, engineered for the sake of the cover, but enough to bounce me out of basic vetting. Chuck Hatch severed my links with the police and made damn sure I couldn't get another job, couldn't get credit, couldn't get anywhere. I am a refugee in my own lunchtime.

This has caused something of a vacuum. I can't go back to my old life, but I can't really see any way out of this one either. A large injection of cash would help this perennial limbo, but isn't that the same for everyone?

Every now and then, he sends me a little reminder, just to let me know that he can find me, and could kill me if he wanted to. But he never does. And despite my itinerant nature, he always finds me, apparently with little difficulty. I've given up looking over my shoulder. There's no need. But the knot in the stomach is constant. As the saying goes - I'm a myocardial infarction waiting to happen.

I always thought that one day he will get fed up of the hunt, and just drop me. He might not even bother with the torture. He'll just pop me in the head and leave me to rot on the hard shoulder of a motorway in that no man's land on the edge of the Cotswolds. That's what I thought he was going to do in the basement.

But now he says he'll set me free. If I do what he says.

"Do you believe him?" Kim asked.

"Not one iota. But what choice have I got?"

"You blame yourself." It was a statement.

"Love is like being brainwashed," I said. "You lose people to love. Rule number one for a UC - don't fall in love. Like you have any control over it. They may as well tell you to stop breathing. So yeah, I blame myself. I send money to Pelly's wife - Jetta - whenever I can – not nearly enough. I go to his grave twice a year \- on his birthday and on the date he died."

"Does she blame you?"

"I've no idea. I've never met her. I don't even know if she gets the money."

She had been holding my hand as I told her my story. We had drunk a lot of wine, and she was breathing heavily with the steady rhythm of intoxication. While I had been spilling my guts, Sue had brought in an old electric heater, and the filaments glowed orange on our faces while Kim and I exchanged war stories.

I had been relieved to learn that, although Kim's encounter with 'the bespectacled Nazi cue ball' (as she called him) had been no less unpleasant, it had at least been free from basements, rope and nose-chewing. I was, however, most disquieted to learn that the 'regulator' Martin Erwin - Kim was apparently on first name terms - had taken a shine to Kim, to the extent that both Hatch and Tosca had had to prise him off her in the back of the Econoline. I was even less impressed to learn that Erwin was a sex pest, and had spent two great chunks of his monosyllabic life in prison for rape. Kim, however, seemed to be taking it in her stride.

"You know, I thought I recognised him."

"You probably did. He's the Great White Hope of the Mighty White Right."

"He's running for mayor? Christ on a bike."

"You've heard of champagne socialists?"

"My father all over," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Well, Chuck's a stout fascist. He flits about the globe like a Yukos oligarch in his needle-dick Sunseeker 20, then goes on television to bang on about equality for the working man, which segues nicely into his stance on immigration."

"He's against it?"

"All he's missing is a pillow case with eyeholes cut out."

She frowned.

"How the hell does this happen? He doesn't care who knows he's a gangster, but he can get into politics?"

"You're right, he doesn't care. I threatened to expose him, and he just laughed. He's no different than Gabriel, really, except in Gabriel's case it was the day job that was legit."

"What are we going to do?"

There it was. We. She'd been kidnapped, molested, threatened - but here she was, back for more. She'd sought me out, and now we were a team again.

I touched her face and she kissed me, her eyes awash with tenderness.

"We're going to find Gabriel's money, split it, and then I'm going to put a bullet in Chuck Hatch's temple."

****

thirty-one

The path twisted through the undergrowth like an intestine, coiled up in itself for maximum coverage. It was thick with people, all patiently crammed together.

I was at the very back, and despite the excitement of the others, I could not see what awaited us. The queue moved slowly, and was punctuated at intervals with boards that displayed the estimated wait time from that particular point. From this I deduced that we were in a theme park, waiting for a ride of some description, and I began to absorb some of the excitement of my fellow queue-riders. Why else would someone tolerate such fierce instruction, if there were not something in it for them?

I looked around me. Beyond the path, on all sides, was a huge metal perimeter fence that looked like it was probably electrified. On the other side was dense undergrowth and who knew what else? All I did know was that the fence was out of bounds - restricted, staff only, no access - and that the rules meant we had to stay on the path.

As the queue gradually inched towards the ride, I began to hear screams. Faint screams, but no less agonising for it. I began to hear crunching noises, and the hiss of steam and the clunk of industrial machinery. Fear began to prick my fingertips - I still couldn't see and didn't know what waited for us at the front of the queue, but I knew it was hideous, it was terror, it wanted to eat us...

Despite this, the excitement in the queue continued unabated. There was nothing and no one behind me, only a clear path. My heart began to race with the prospect of escape. I could duck under the wooden rail that lined the path, a quick cumbersome dart through the foliage and I could be up and over the fence before the guards \- for there would be guards - even noticed.

And I did. I went without further deliberation, for fear of talking myself out of it. I bolted for the fence, waiting for the shouts, the gunshots, the pursuit. I gulped down air, the exhilaration of escape pulsing through me.

This was it. This was the real test. Maybe my psychiatrist would say I secretly crave order and stability.

But not today.

Give me rules, give me prohibition, and I will show you free will.

My feet flew free and easy. I was light, and felt like I could almost fly up over the fence.

I was nearly there. Just had to scramble over that fence - twenty, maybe thirty feet tall.

I could do it.

I approached the fence, one hand outstretched...

*

A tractor beam of light from the rising sun broke through the cracks in the boarded-up window onto my face, and I woke up suddenly from the dream; sweat on my brow, heart thudding in my chest, breath coming in hoarse gasps.

I sat for a moment before deciding I was really awake, and reached for the paper cup beside me. The coffee was stone cold, and I put it back on the floor. I had left one threadbare room for another, except the woman I loved was not in this one. Kim was with Dico today, bimbling around the East End trying to put together an escape plan for us. Dico was giving her the benefit of his contacts - passports, cash, transport, routes out of the UK avoiding major ports.

I hoped that was all he was giving her. When he realised Kim's death had been a set-up he'd been irked - on principle - to say the least, but once he actually met her, his demonstrative appreciation had been Dico Dixon-subtle. Moreover, the deadline on the five grand I owed him had been generously extended, and the contract small print forgotten altogether when he'd realised that Hatch had stolen the down payment for a contract he'd already sold on.

I shook my head. I wasn't worried about her falling for his punch-drunk charms. She could handle him.

I checked my watch. It was just after seven. I rubbed my eyes, then walked over to the boarded up window and peered out.

Across the street was an expensive apartment block. I counted up three of the five floors, and squinted. The curtains were half-drawn, and in the chink of room that was visible, I could see the dim flurry of capricious movement - people rushing about from one room to the next. I pulled the chair to the window and positioned it so I could see through the cracks. I sat down and lit a cigarette, and in the empty room the sound of the flame eating away the paper was plainly audible.

At half-seven the front door of the block opened, and the widow of James Gabriel walked down the wide concrete steps, a child attached to each hand. She was a little older than I expected; maybe forty-five, but she was obviously rich, and self-disciplined physically.

She moved quickly. There was tension in her body, and she cast nervous glances up and down the street. Her husband's death had probably put her on edge – although the handful of rough-looking young men stationed at intervals along the street might also have been a factor. They were scavengers – daytime burglars waiting openly for the workers to leave their houses so they could break in. It didn't occur to me until later that this was exactly what I was doing.

I watched her strap the kids into the black MPV, and followed the car with my eyes as it pulled away from the tree-lined kerb. I managed to note the registration, and memorised it as the vehicle dwindled in the distance. The indicator blinked orange briefly; then the car rounded the corner and was gone. I put the cigarette butt in the coffee cup and left the room, tossing the only evidence of my presence into a skip as I crossed the road.

To my surprise, this rather expensive stretch of Victoria was not short of repossession sales and boarded up apartment blocks. One of the first flats I had tried even had evidence of squatters. It seemed nowhere was safe - seven-figure homes and executive lifestyles on one side of the street; on the other, the inescapable hallmarks of deprivation, apparently seeping gradually into every crack of London. The residents' association must have been up in arms.

I had seen the kids from the photographs in Gabriel's wallet, and guessed that Mrs Gabriel would probably take her two kids to school about this time. I had broken into the apartment opposite at three in the morning to keep watch, and my estimate had been correct - Mrs Gabriel had left right on schedule.

I was in possession of Gabriel's house keys, having liberated them from his body, thus getting into the building - and, subsequently, Gabriel's marital home - proved no obstacle.

Once inside the apartment I began to hunt around. It was surprisingly small, and although it was expensively furnished and decorated, it had the clear hallmarks of domesticity - the expensive items far outweighed by the kind of clutter only children can leave behind.

The address was not cheap, but it was nowhere near the magnitude of Gabriel's riverside haunt. I wondered if Mrs Gabriel had any idea. How do you buy an apartment for two million and keep it from the wife? I wondered if Sandra was still ensconced there.

The necessity of visiting was twofold. I had everything from his Medusa Chenaix computer, so now I wanted the contents of his home computer as well. But I was also here for cash. Setting up a reasonable escape plan costs money, and it was stretching my already-titchy reserve. Kim, meanwhile, was applying for loans left, right and centre, before the credit demons caught up with her and shut that little door.

The back catalogue of minor offending was growing, and I felt a stab of humiliation at having to wander around like some third-rate burglar for whatever loose change might have been around, but necessity forced me to it, and, given the eventual spoils, I felt reasonably sure I would be able to live with myself afterwards. There and then I resolved to send Mrs Gabriel some money when Kim and I got our hands on some proper loot.

I chuckled sourly to myself. First Jetta, now the widow Gabriel. Another woman receiving the benefits of my guilt. I should tell Kim that I'd be a fine ex-husband.

I found some change in the kitchen and a few notes in Mrs Gabriel's underwear drawer, then I moved through the cold lino of the kitchen and into the living room, carefully avoiding the collection of rubbery and undoubtedly noisy toys on the floor. On the far wall was a long display unit, showing off mountains of crystal and glass. I rooted through the drawers, and found nothing except old wedding and university photographs. The pair of them at Ascot. The pair of them at the boat race.

Gabriel's eyes in those early pictures told quite a story - already glittering with greed and ambition, but with a warmth that had been totally absent on the times I had met him. Including, of course, the occasion where his crumpled corpse landed at my feet. No warmth there.

Despite myself, I could not resist running my hand down the back of the sofa. I permitted myself a chuckle when I found nothing - only City execs could leave nothing to chance.

I froze suddenly. Behind me I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps on lino. I waited for the accosting voice, and slowly moved my hand to the hard shape of the Luger in my belt. When no voice came, I dared to look round. Stood there in the kitchen, head tilted inquiringly to one side, was the Gabriel family dog. I laughed out loud. The dog walked over to me and lay down at my feet, panting steadily. I patted the head of the beast and gently pushed it off my feet.

The next room was Gabriel's study, and I felt a glimmer of possibility in my stomach. Rows of books lined the far wall, most of them self-help guides and entrepreneur autobiographies. I scoured the shelves briefly for the sake of elimination, and turned my attention to the desk in the middle of the room. It was an old, worn affair, made of solid oak and displaying the kind of charm that comes with antiquity. I briefly thought of how much the desk itself would bring if I punted it, except circumstance forced me to refuse anything heavier than a fifty-pound note.

I rifled through the drawers in each pedestal, finding little of interest. This was no hive of clandestine financial misdemeanours; rather, it was the usual detritus associated with the running of a home - utility bills, bank statements, credit card agreements - none of which were ordered or in files. Like his desk at work, the inside of Gabriel's home desk was cluttered, untidy and disorganised. The paperwork had been flung carelessly into the drawers in the order it had been received and not touched again.

In another drawer I found evidence of Gabriel's fondness for expensive leisure \- rent a Ferrari for a weekend, champagne helicopter cruises to Paris, that kind of thing. The episode with the lunchtime prostitute had not painted a picture of Gabriel as a particularly sentimental man, but, to my surprise, I found another drawer to be full of birthday, Christmas and Father's Day cards from his wife and family that he had collected over the years.

I closed both pedestals. My eyes turned to the drawer in the middle of the desk, which aroused my curiosity, naturally, because it was locked. With some ease I picked the lock, and began sifting through more documents. It was more of the same, but I found schematics and blueprints for a building that, I realised after a few moments, was Medusa Chenaix.

I shut the drawer and switched on the PC that sat on the desk. The home logon password was the same as the work password, and the system booted up. I inserted the USB drive and dumped the whole lot.

As I waited, a flash message popped up in the bottom right of the screen: YOU HAVE 1 NEW MESSAGE. I clicked on the icon and waited for the connection to be made before the message flashed up on the screen.

FROM:sd_3913@googlemail.com

TO:jamesandcheryl@chezgabriel.com

SUBJECT:help

SENT:23:21:14 24/01/2017

J,

cant get you by phone?

something going on

call me asap

S

PS soz for emailing u at hme

I sat for a moment, and then printed the email and scrutinised it. Judging by the initials and the totally unnecessary postscript I was guessing it was from Sandra.

The message had been sent the night Gabriel had died. The same night Hatch and the bank police had cosied up to Kim and I. It seemed pretty logical to assume that the 'something' she was referring to was the arrival of Hatch and the regulators.

I thought for a moment. Did she know he was dead? Sandra and I had not exactly parted on good terms, but she had been my friend for some years before that, and I didn't really want Hatch getting his claws into her, especially if the sex pest Erwin was on the prowl. There was an element of personal honour there, but also self-preservation - if Dico ever found out someone had hurt Sandra and I could have stopped it - well, I was running out of room in my address book for any more enemies.

I couldn't remember her phone number, and couldn't get hold of Dico to ask. I could go to the apartment in person, but that might be too late. I typed a quick reply.

Sandra - get out now.

I thought for a moment, my eyes wandering around the room as I did so, and then added a line:

Meet me if you can - Victoria Station. 9pm tonight. By the information desk.

I hesitated, and clicked SEND. A confirmation message appeared, and I logged off the computer.

I sat at his desk, palms flat on the top, the possibilities of Hatch getting to Sandra playing out in my head. I wondered what to do next. Where to go. I noticed my breathing. It was slow and heavy. I looked at the clock on the wall and watched the seconds tick round, not really registering the time until I heard a key in the lock.

I jumped to my feet. Oh, Christ. It was gone eight-thirty. Gabriel's wife - widow \- had returned. I looked around, spinning wildly in the study, looking for some hiding place. Nothing. I heard the footsteps grow, puncturing the huge silence. Hiding places came and went in my mind, but none of them would have worked.

And then she was there, in the doorway, hanging up her coat, taking off her shoes. I stood, frozen, watching this woman. She had not yet noticed me, but the inevitability meant this was merely a delay - I was powerless to do anything. I felt a warm thrill as I watched her for those few seconds, her everyday routine suddenly exposed to my eyes. I noticed all of her clothes were black. Did she know he was dead? She turned, and her face widened with shock.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" She jumped back, terrified. Her eyes were wide, moist. I tried to calm her down.

"Look, I'm sorry. Please be quiet." I was aware of – and powerless to control – my hand flying to the tiepin.

"What do you want from me? What do you want?"

"Please don't scream. I'm going. I don't want to hurt you. I just made a mistake, that's all."

"Haven't you hurt us enough? What more can you take? Just leave me alone! Leave us alone!"

Don't freak out, I thought. I didn't want to have to get physical. I moved towards the door. She didn't move. I kept my voice steady.

"I'm going, look. I'm not going to hurt you. Just be calm, okay?"

I squeezed past her in the doorway. It was bizarrely intimate. Her hands were gripping the doorframe behind her as she pressed against it, her breathing laboured and heavy. I looked her in the eye for a second, then she turned her head away and I disappeared out of the door.

****

### thirty-two

Victoria Station was its usual flurry of cultural blends and cola-stained sticky floors. I arrived early, bought a coffee from a franchise kiosk that had changed hands every time I came here, and prepared to wait.

I leaned against a pillar near the exit doors to the Underground. It was a good place to meet. Busy, yet nearly every head was craned upwards to look at the huge flickering timetable, so no one was ever interested in anybody else.

Apart from, that is, the two armed cops patrolling slowly around the concourse, brutish-looking MP5s strapped across their chests. I backed slowly around the pillar and kept an eye on them. For a second I swear one of them looked at me and spoke into the radio mic on his lapel, but I could have imagined it.

Although, if I'm honest, it wasn't really the uniformed gun-toting meatheads that worried me, it was the detective in charge that was causing the stomach ulcer. The unseen one in the plain clothes. Someone like Carr, standing impassive in his command centre like Zeus; arms folded, surrounded on all sides by flying screens, Minority Report-style, cataloguing my every move and laughing at my taste in music.

The cops moved off, and my breathing returned to normal. At four minutes after nine I saw the former pole dancer walking hesitantly towards the information desk. She was turning around on the spot, looking confused, unsure of herself. It occurred to me that she might not know Gabriel was dead. If she did, she must have been wondering who the hell sent the email. If she didn't, then might she be hoping to meet with her lover?

I dumped the coffee cup and walked over to her, hands in pockets.

She noticed me as I approached. Her expression shifted as thoughts flew through her mind in an instant. I could read them - surprise at seeing me, concern that it wasn't Gabriel, uncertainty as she remembered how our last encounter had ended, suspicion about whether I was in cahoots with them.

I made it easy.

"Hi, Sandy."

"You sent the email?" she said. Definitely suspicious.

I nodded.

"James is dead," I said, as kindly as I could.

The corners of her mouth turned down and she clamped her eyes shut, trying to keep the tears at bay. She didn't know - in retrospect, why would she? Presumably either Mrs Gabriel or Sandra would have reported him missing. Possibly even both - Sandra doing so seemed less likely, although perhaps, once the adulterer was dead all bets are off and it's every woman for herself?

He'd been dead less than a week. The police would have the body, but I had cleansed it of all obvious ID. A straight facial ID would have been unlikely, but - assuming Mrs Gabriel had reported him missing - the Met would be on the lookout for any missing persons that vaguely matched the description of their well-dressed corpse, which they would confirm with a DNA source from the marital home, such as a toothbrush. If she hadn't reported him missing, then fingerprints and DNA wouldn't go too far unless he had a criminal record. That left dentistry, which took longer than a week.

"Come on," I said, gently taking her arm. "Let's get a drink."

We made for The Divine Comedy, a olde-worlde pub on the upper concourse of the station. This, too, appeared to be a new addition – the last time I'd been here it had been an Italian restaurant. There was football playing silently on a big screen in the corner, but the place was quiet. Sandra slipped on the low step at the entrance, and clutched at my arm. We took a booth by the far wall, below all the theatre masks and poetic slogans.

I bought two scotch sodas from the bar, and sat down opposite her. She was looking at her feet.

"Have you seen Dico?" she said, finally looking up.

"No." The question surprised me. Ever the pragmatist, maybe she was over her grief and already thinking about available lifelines.

"Is he okay?"

"I said I haven't seen him. You're going to go back to him?"

She shrugged. That meant yes in my book.

"What happened?" she asked.

"James Gabriel bit off rather more than he could chew. It seems the Bank of England is resorting to more, er, unorthodox methods to keep the moneymen in check, and the good doctor was top of their shit list."

"What happened?" she said again.

"Sandra... they threw him off a building."

"Motherfuckers," she said, shaking her head as the tears came.

I placed my hand over hers. The nails, I noticed, were bright red today. She slowly controlled herself.

"How... did you know?"

"I was there." Now there was alarm in her face. "I had nothing to do with it, it was just, well, there's a bit of a race on to find his legacy, and it's too close to call."

She started to cry again, and then veered off into the nostalgic, rather neutralising my attempts to impress the urgency of the situation upon her.

"What happened to us, Jackson? We used to be friends."

Despite myself, I remembered my days with Dico and Sandra, nights spent drinking with the pair of them at their place. I remembered like a young son remembers the day he realises he is just like all the beings around them, yet compounded by the knowledge that he will never see his own face. It seemed so distant.

I broke the silence. We were here for a reason.

"Sandra, without leaving anything out, I want to hear everything you know."

"What about what you know?"

"That comes later, but for now, assume this. Assume I know Gabriel is dead. Assume I know he was killed because these Nazi arms dealers had him under the knife, and he tried to wriggle out of it. They were pulling his strings at Medusa Chenaix; he was laundering the proceeds of their enterprises, and he decided to put it away for a rainy day. So now they're desperately shaking down everyone they can to try to find it. Assume this means you, assume this means me, and assume that I know you and Gabriel were trying to get me onside from day one."

She looked mildly apologetic, but with a shit happens look that made me want to slap her.

"Gabriel wanted you to seduce me, I know that. Why?"

"For muscle," she said. "He knew he was getting in over his head, and just wanted to get himself some protection."

Should have gone to a GUM clinic. Dico's voice in my head.

"How did the two of you meet, anyway?" I said, resisting all of the smart remarks that came to mind.

"Through Kupferberg," she said. "It was all business. Dico met Kupferberg, then he met Gabriel, then they all met. Sometimes in public, sometimes at ours. You know how it goes."

"I guess. You put a bunch of grown-ups together over a period of time, something's going to happen sooner or later."

"I wouldn't put it quite like that."

"It's simple anthropology, but anyway. Please continue."

"Well, James wanted to keep it secret, but fuck that. You love me, or you don't. All or nothing. So I left Dico and moved in. Made it official."

"Did Gabriel leave his wife?"

She took a drink and watched me as she did so.

"He was going to."

I didn't press it.

"So anyway," she continued. "After he couldn't use Dico as muscle any more, he needed someone else, someone strong. That's all it was. He just wanted you on the team."

"Why didn't he just advertise in the paper?" I was getting annoyed. "Is that how you hired all his staff?"

"Don't make me out to be some kind of slut. I don't fuck for the hard sell. He just said to get friendly with you. You know, soften you up. In the beginning it seemed kind of... fun."

She gave me a sour look.

"But it didn't work, did it? You were out of my door like lightning."

Was she joking? Did she seriously not remember her psycho-harpy routine?

"Honey, if anybody wants me as their footsoldier, they're never going to retain my services that way."

She gave a sore laugh.

"Tell that to Kim."

"What?" I had to think to start breathing again.

"Kim Layrona. She was James's partner in the scam they were running. She was scared somebody was trying to kill her, so she tried to get herself a little protection as well. She tried the same trick I did, only I guess with much better results. I gather the two of you are a hot little item."

Her tongue was bitterly forked, but I barely noticed, such was the drumming in my chest. I couldn't acknowledge it.

"She wasn't in league with Gabriel. She was trying to stop him."

"She told you that?"

"He wanted her dead before she blew the whistle on him, and I... I..."

Her eyebrows went up.

"You've fallen for her, haven't you? You have? Dear me, Jackson. Getting to be a bit of a... what do you call it? Occupational hazard?"

"Touché," was all I managed.

Kim had used me? It wasn't possible. I didn't believe it, and besides, I wasn't going to take Glenn Close's word for it.

Sandra folded her arms, a small look of triumph on her face. She could see she'd needled me, even if she wasn't quite sure how.

"Sandra... let's just drop the grieving mistress routine for a second. You know as well as I do that Gabriel was up to his neck in it, and I'm guessing you had a little visit from his murderers as well. The night you sent the email?"

"Yeah... how did you get it?"

"I told you - there's a race on to get to his legacy. I hacked into his email account."

She looked simultaneously stunned and impressed, as if she didn't think I had it in me.

"Tell me what happened."

She raised her hands and pulled a face that suggested it was no big deal.

"They came to the flat, had a word, and fucked off. They told me to play nicely with them, tell them what I knew about his money \- which isn't a lot - and that they would be back."

"And I've just told you they threw him off a fourteen-storey building and you're not concerned?"

"They were just doing what gangsters do. You think it's the first time I've seen pork bellies come around trying to frighten the poor little woman? Used to happen with Dico all the time. I just said yeah yeah and then they left."

"But the email..."

"Well, I won't deny I was a little vexed, but it ain't nothing I can't handle."

"Sandra, these people are no joke. They'll be back, and they won't fuck about..." Sandra didn't know about my history with Hatch. She only had bottom-rung, Level-3 security clearance, which meant she knew I was a cop that got kicked out for duffing up a suspect. Dico had a Level-4, which meant he knew this plus he knew I'd messed around with Hatch's woman. Only myself, Hatch and now Kim had Level-5.

"So they'll be back. So what? It's nothing I haven't seen before, but I don't know anything. That was my golden rule with Dico - if you know nothing, you can tell them nothing."

She ran her finger around the rim of her glass.

"And even if I did know anything, what exactly would I gain by telling you?"

I had to hand it to her - if there wasn't an angle, Sandra wouldn't play.

"For starters, these other guys have given you some time to think about playing ball, but they'll be back, and if you pull the routine you're pulling now, they won't stop at just asking nicely."

"There's more?"

"Well, I'd like to think he left you a reasonable chunk of stuff in his will, but if he didn't, you're back in the hustler's queue. Just like me. If you know where his money was going, you won't be able to get it by yourself. We could split it."

"You think you're going to pull one over on these guys? Don't take this the wrong way, Jackson, but I'd feel safer siding with them."

I slapped the table top with an open palm.

"Sandra - they are going to kill you, regardless of what you know or choose to tell them. Do you understand that? Gabriel knew that, and he couldn't risk you talking under duress, so I'm guessing he didn't tell you anything important."

She blinked repeatedly.

"I knew they had him on a short leash, and for a long time. God, he was stressed. Some days I just thought he was going to burst. His cock shrank when he was stressed out. It was the most peculiar thing."

I took a couple of deep breaths, wondering if the former Mrs Dixon was quite the full ticket.

"What about his wife?"

"What about her?" She was instantly defensive, and her eyes hooded over like a feline defending its territory.

"Did the two of you ever speak? Did he tell her anything?"

"I don't fucking know."

Another question formed and died on my lips. I stood up and stretched.

"I wouldn't stay in the apartment, if I were you," I said. "They'll be coming for you. Do you have somewhere you can go?"

She shrugged. "It's on the market."

"So I saw." I didn't bother to ask the question again. "Who profits from that, I wonder? His wife doesn't even know it exists."

I wrote down my latest telephone number on a paper napkin and handed it to her.

"Call me if you need to. But make it quick. I'll be ditching this phone in a week or so."

I backed away, still facing her.

"Be careful, Sandra."

Her face was blank. She hadn't heard me.

****

### thirty-three

I had no burning desire to wander like a pariah around Mayfair, but it's where my feet took me. Besides, I was drawn to the vertical blue neon sign of the Curzon, which was latched onto the building like a praying mantis. Not only that, but I'd arrived in enough time catch a showing of Night and the City, which you'd be hard pushed to find at any other picture house on a wet January evening.

I left before the credits rolled, though. The ease with which Herbert Lom hunts down Richard Widmark as he attempts to bolt through Westminster did not put me at ease, not one bit.

I got back to Atlantic Road Furniture Stores shortly after one. The showroom was shrouded in black, apart from the soft glow of a nightlight from the stage where Kim and I were acting out our little theatre.

I headed for the stage, but a sound from beyond it made me change direction. The stage was at the back of the showroom, and beyond it only a small kitchen, staff room and the awful shower room Kim and I were using. Past this was a door leading into the warehouse proper, with a loading bay for the deliveries.

Dico was standing near the loading bay doors, his outline illuminated by the street lights outside. He had his back to me, his head craned back as if examining the ceiling.

There was someone in front of him. I couldn't see who it was, but from the jewellery on the slender hands clutching his buttocks I could tell it was female, and I could tell from this angle that the female was on her knees. Dico had one hand on his hips and another holding her head, his body rocking slightly as she moved back and forth.

A train rumbled overhead, giving a full two-step on the klaxon as it did so. It sounded like it was laughing.

I backed away into the darkness, nausea welling up in me, and - curiously - a crushing feeling of defeat and hopelessness. I could well imagine husbands returning home to find similar compromising tableaux, but the enraged violence that often followed just seemed to me to be pointless and pathetic.

I climbed the stage, tripping on a step, and pushed the flimsy door open to my little illusion.

There, lying on the bed, was Kim. She was fast asleep.

The relief caused me to stagger backwards. I just about got my balance, otherwise I would have made a Jackson-shaped hole in those paper walls. Relief, and self-castigation on an industrial scale.

I sat carefully on the edge of the bed so as not to wake her, and watched her sleep. What if it all went wrong? How was this cavalier shoot 'em up plan of mine ever going to work? How could I lead her into this? What if – God forbid – something happened to her?

I looked at the revolting rose-petal wallpaper and saw Cheryl Gabriel's anguished face, Pelly's peppery grin and a disoriented warmth that seemed to simultaneously invite and scorn me.

I stood up, and imagined the aftermath. Her weeping parents - her father the judge - a well-funded domestic crusade out on the streets, inevitably got mixed up with the wrong people, just add desire, got her brains blown out.

It suddenly hit me that I was the wrong people.

It's a big, dangerous world out there.

I pulled the covers up around her shoulders, quietly left the cardboard room and stepped out and away under the blanket of nightfall. I smoked. I prefer to smoke when it's dark.

*

I walked down Coldharbour Lane and into Purgatory. The chairs were all up on tables. Sue the endoscopy nurse was sweeping the floor. I couldn't tell for sure, but it didn't look like she'd just sprinted back from Atlantic Road Furniture Stores after giving Dico a blowjob.

She looked up and smiled when I walked in, and went to pour me a drink while I pulled one of the chairs off the table and sat down. She brought a bottle of Jim Beam over with two shot glasses. We clinked glasses and downed one each, then she resumed her sweeping while I had another. I rolled the bottle between my palms, looking at the plain white label with the block-printed letters and thought: Still another six months or so before I'm legally allowed to drink whisky. There are so many rules, it's hard not to break any.

There was no conversation. I was only barely aware of Sue, that rhythmic swish of the broom around the floor. There had been fights in here, music, dancing. Now it was empty and bare, and it felt like life had moved on, and we were all stuck here in the past, unable to go forwards.

The door opened and Dico walked in. He was carrying a black sports bag, one of those leather retro Adidas things just made for carrying swag. He walked over and kissed Sue. I poured him a shot, then reached inside the bag and pulled out two passports.

"How's your digs?" he asked.

"Great, thanks. Tell me, is your furniture shop ever bothered by such minor irritations as customers?"

"Sodomise yourself," he said.

"These are good," I said, flicking through the extremely convincing passports.

"It ain't forgery if my man works in Petty France, right?" Dico said. "Latest version. Even got the little microchip."

"The what?"

"Digital. For the automatic passport-control machines. You get off the boat, walk up to the screen, swipe the passport, and you're through."

"Really?" Nothing so easy ever seemed plausible, but then it had been a long time since I'd been across a border. As far as I was concerned, the only concessions to technology these days were the CGI newsreaders. The flying cars just weren't going to happen.

"You don't even have to speak to a real person," he said. "The machines have more personality, too."

"What else have you got?"

Inside the bag were two mobile phones, two pagers, an Audi skeleton key, two Eurostar tickets from London Waterloo to Brussels and a couple of bundles of euros - about twenty thousand.

"Loan only, kid," Dico said. "On the understanding that I'll get it back - ten cents on the dollar - when you make your score. Plus the five grand that I've been so generous about - only fixed-rate interest, half a point above base."

I picked up one of the pagers and juggled it. It was as thick as a credit card, half as wide and had a small HD screen – thanks to Apple, they'd become fashionable again around 2015.

"Why have you been so generous about it?"

"You can thank Sue for that. She reminded me that you're a mate and you did me a turn. Plus now I've met the woman, I can see why you wouldn't want to blow her brains out."

"How charming."

"I'm serious, kid. She's a keeper, any fool can see that."

"Yes, she is," I said, quietly, my smart mouth briefly silenced.

"Jackson?"

I looked him in the eye.

"You know what you're doing?"

"I should be asking you that, shouldn't I?"

"What do you mean?"

I held up my fist and moved it back and forth near my face, repeatedly sticking my tongue in the inside of my cheek as I did so.

His face darkened.

I mouthed who? He mouthed Sandra.

Oh, great.

"Just turned up out of nowhere," he said.

I was silent. So was he. And when Sue realised we had both stopped talking and were looking at her, she stopped sweeping and stared. She opened her mouth to speak, then turned and left the bar.

I watched her go, then turned back to Dico.

"Just turned up? Out of nowhere? Doesn't that make you suspicious?"

"She's a gold digger, I know that. But I love her, Jackson, I always will."

"A blowjob in a warehouse isn't exactly the world cruise you had planned."

"Start slow, eh? It'll take time for things to get back to how they were. Besides, it was her idea."

"Dico, it's a bit rich for me to start moralising about your love life. My point was - it's just a bit convenient for her to show up like this."

"The gimp is dead."

"I know, but she's still living in his palace." I poured another glass for both of us. The bottle was now standing at half-mast. "I saw her last week."

He sat up in his chair.

"What do you mean?"

"When I broke into Gabriel's place. She sent him an email the night he died. So I replied to the email from Gabriel's study, and we met up."

"Cosy." He wasn't impressed.

"Look, Hatch and his goons got to her. She's walking around without a mark on her, and she suddenly pops back into your life. She defected to save her own skin. She's a mole."

"You are one paranoid fuck. Too many fuckin' movies, that's your problem."

"Dico, she came on to me. After she left you, she turned up out of the blue by my hospital bed, tried to seduce me, then tried to claw my eyes out when I worked out it was a honeytrap. She was trying to get me to bat for Gabriel, and now she's batting for Hatch and trying to find out what you know."

"It's fuckin' bullshit, kid."

"Suppose it isn't. And suppose she can't suck the information out of you? What do you think they'll do to her then?"

He silently knocked back his drink, his head going right back, his eyes staying fixed on the ceiling even after he'd put the glass down.

"Dico, I'm in the same boat. Hatch gave me an option - help us and I'll set you free. Refuse and we'll pin you to the Thames riverbed with a tent pole. You don't think they've said the same thing to her?"

He said nothing. He knew I was right, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. He stood up.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"To bed."

"With Sue?"

"Mind your own fucking business," he said. "But since you ask, yes I am."

He headed for the stairs. Halfway there, he stopped and turned.

"Jackson? Don't say anything, will you?"

I held up the pager.

"Don't fear the bleeper," I said.

****

### thirty-four

I walked along Coldharbour Lane back to Atlantic Road Furniture Stores. An ancient Merc delivery van, solid as a tank, was parked outside. I looked up at the frontage as I arrived. A grimy white light box ran the length of the showroom front, with dirty red letters block printed on it. I shook my head. It was a total dump.

I turned the key in the door, and closed it behind me. I stood for a second in the darkness, wondering what it would feel like to come home to a proper house without worrying that your girl was dead in bed, or that you were going to get jumped from the shadows, or that...

A noise in front of me.

I felt in my belt for the Luger.

The figure emerged from the shadows and clicked on a sprawling 1970s brass floor lamp that resembled a Triffid.

I recognised her instantly. It was James Gabriel's widow, Cheryl. I pulled the gun out and levelled it at her, and lowered it again almost immediately.

Her face was sad and confused. I relaxed. She had not come here for violence or retribution, that much was obvious. She took a couple of tentative steps forward.

I sat down on the edge of a racing car bunk bed, and looked over at the stage at the back of the showroom. There was no movement.

"I know you, don't I?" I said, by way of an opening.

She walked to a rattan garden chair next to a nest of rubberwood tables, and sat down opposite me, hands clasped in her lap, back straight, ankles together.

"Yes. You broke into my house. Two days ago."

"Did... did you go to the police?" I asked.

"No."

"So what are you doing here?"

"It struck me that perhaps you are not an opportunist burglar, and had not picked my house at random for television sets and lockets." I noticed she said my house and not our house.

"What gave you that idea?"

"Why were you in my house?"

I suddenly felt like a guilty schoolboy. "Look, Mrs Gabriel..."

"Why were you in my house? You know my name. Why were you there?"

"Look..."

"My husband is dead. Did you know my husband?"

"Yes, I did."

"Why were you in my house?"

"Will you shut up and calm down?" I hissed, my eyes darting over to where Kim was sleeping. "All right, I was in your house. But Mrs Gabriel, you should know your husband was up to his ears in shit. He had pissed off some very heavy people... " I stopped.

She had begun to unbutton her blouse. She did it slowly, as if in the rites of a seduction, but pain was pulling the corners of her mouth down into an ugly scowl.

"The fuck are you doing?" I said. "Put your damn clothes back on."

I really, really hoped Kim was sleeping through this. I had just gained a little Christmas-spirit insight into how I would feel if I caught her with another man, and although this wasn't at all what it looked like, it couldn't have been anything else.

She slipped off her blouse, and my anxiety disappeared as I gazed at her chest. She was covered in bruising - her breasts, ribcage, navel; massive spirals of pummelled flesh blanketing her torso.

"These people?" she whispered.

"Oh God."

To my relief, she put her blouse back on

"Are you one of those people?"

"No!" I said, momentarily believing myself not to be; though I was, both through blood and paper.

"I knew you weren't." She, on the other hand, seemed convinced. "If I had, I wouldn't be here. Are you involved with them?"

"I chanced into them... well, no, that's not true. One of them clubbed me over the head with a nine-iron one night. They sent me to your place. For information."

"Did you find it?" she asked.

"Mrs Gabriel, I didn't even know what I was looking for."

"Are they paying you?" Her tone was not accusatory, but to ask the question at all seemed puritanical.

"Mrs Gabriel, why else would anyone do anything?"

She shook her head sadly. "I hope you don't really believe that."

"Oh, right, you're going to tell me you really believe that people don't just do things for money? This from the widow of Ponzi's bastard offspring."

She got up and slapped my face. I had said it expecting nothing less. She sat back down.

"I know my husband was not perfect. And I am not blind to the fact that he was unfaithful. But he never treated me badly, or the children."

"Touching," I remarked, wishing I could convince her that I wouldn't have pissed on James Gabriel if he were on fire.

"And then in some respects I'm glad he's gone."

"What respects might they be?"

"Is it over? Can I stop sleeping with the light on for fear someone will break in and murder us all in our beds? Is that a respect that I can be glad he's dead?"

"Is that why you're here?"

"I don't want to live in fear any more. Why did they kill him? Money?"

"What else?"

"Why wouldn't he give it up?"

"He didn't think they really meant to kill him."

She started to cry.

"Mrs Gabriel, I don't know why you're here, but if you came for my help..."

She shook her head. "I just wanted to know that it's over. You're in over your head, as much as I am. I knew it when I caught you. You looked so scared."

I couldn't say anything.

"I'm going away. I'm taking the children and going to the country. I can't stay in that apartment any more."

She rose and crossed the room again. She stretched out a hand, and touched my cheek.

Don't wake up, Kim.

"You've got such a young face," she murmured, shaking her head. She headed for the door, then turned to look at me.

"He never told me a thing about his work. Not a thing. He used to tell me it was for my own good - that he wanted a wife, not a business partner."

"I can understand that," I said. "But men like him have contingencies for their assets and arrangements when they die. It doesn't all just grind to a halt."

"That's what hurts most of all," she said. "He didn't tell me any of it. He told her."

I suddenly felt cold.

"Who?"

"Sandra Dixon. I found her name on some emails. She's the woman he was... with." She had her eyes closed as she said it. "She was his insurance policy. He told her everything."

****

### thirty-five

It was instinct that made me run to her, a reflex. I did not stop to think about it, nor did I question my own motives.

It was nearly two in the morning, and the roads, although wet, were quiet. I ran down Atlantic Road to the independently-operated gravel pit where I had parked the BMW for an exorbitant daily rate.

I pressed on, mentally running through alternative routes, not having enough faith in them to change course.

I double-parked outside the block ten minutes later and sprinted into the building. The glass entrance doors were unlocked. I pushed my way in, and, with no keycode to operate the lift, bolted for the stairs to Sandra's floor.

I stepped out into the hallway. Cool air hit me in the face, and suddenly I needed to urinate. I walked down the hallway. The front door – that is, the door that people who did not have the lift code had to use – was right in the middle of the corridor. There were no other doors. I realised this was because the apartment took up the entire top floor of the building.

This door was also ajar. The hallway was brightly lit, and the inside of the apartment looked dark. I leant forward, and listened hard. I couldn't hear much. I thought I heard a rustling sound, maybe clothing, maybe breath. I didn't know. I pulled the Luger from my jacket – fucking Luger, I ask you – and gently pushed the door open.

Before I went in I noticed the same Medusa Chenaix mortgage repossession notice on the door that I had seen at both Tosca's and Kim's place. What the fuck was this? Gabriel's place was on the market for a tidy sum, and yet the death-knell of foreclosure seemed to be following everyone that had the misfortune to encounter Chuck Hatch. I said silent thanks for being off the property ladder.

There was no one in the hallway of the apartment. I moved quietly forward, the deep carpet soaking up my footsteps, my finger hovering over the trigger.

I moved past the kitchen. All the lights were on. A bottle of mineral water, a loaf of bread, a knife and some jam were on the counter – sandwich interrupted.

The kettle had boiled recently; wisps of steam curled upwards and condensed on the window.

I passed the kitchen. I could hear sounds now - nameless sounds, but clearly ones that alerted me to the fact that there was at least one other living being in the apartment.

The hallway opened out, and I found myself in the five-a-side lounge again. I might have paused to reflect that I had not planned on ever seeing the inside of this place ever again, but I was rather distracted by the sight in front of me.

In contrast to the kitchen, all the lights in the lounge were off. Given that the naked picture windows offered an unobstructed view of both the city and the apartment, depending which side of the glass you were on, this was probably just as well.

Sandra was sprawled over the back of the sofa. Her face was cut and badly bruised. Her skirt had been shoved up around her waist, her legs roughly spread. Hatch was there, so was Erwin. Erwin had his pants down and his cock out. He was between Sandra's legs. He was raping her.

I stood from the doorway watching, the vista only partially obscured by the hobby-horse pole in the middle of the floor. They hadn't seen me, and – bizarrely – I noted the fantastic view of the city by night.

Sandra's head was turned to the side, seemingly looking straight at me, but she didn't seem to register. She might have been unconscious - I couldn't tell. She certainly wasn't resisting.

From being stunned into paralysis, I was surprised at how suddenly strong the urge was to rush forward and stop Erwin, kill the pair of them, save Sandra's life. But I didn't. I couldn't. I might have been able to pop one of them, but the other one would drop me before I could follow it up. I would have been exposing myself unnecessarily. But inertia was difficult, and I didn't like it.

Hatch turned his head, sensing another presence in the room. His face seemed to light up when he saw me.

"Hello, Jacko. Good to see you." I looked at him as he spoke. "Pleased to see you're only a couple of steps behind us on the search." Past his shoulder I could see Erwin panting with exertion as he rammed Sandra. He began making little whining noises. He was getting there. Sandra began to groan. Hatch turned back to the scene. I watched, blank.

Erwin grimaced and groaned as he climaxed. Sandra was murmuring. Erwin withdrew. There was blood. He stuffed his cock back into his pants. Sandra's eyes seemed to focus a little. She looked at me again, and this time her slow mind registered. She lifted her head a little, tried to speak. No words would come, only whimpers. She tried to lift a pleading hand to me. I didn't move. She whispered something. It sounded like a word I knew, but her tongue was thick and I wasn't sure.

It sounded like Dico.

It sounded like Dico - no.

Or even Dico knows.

Neither Hatch nor Erwin noticed. She said it again. I wanted to go to her, wanted to cradle her head and soothe her. But I didn't, and couldn't.

Hatch pulled out a gun and shot her twice in the head. In the darkness, the double-flash was blinding. I wondered if a passing aircraft might have seen it, or someone on the top floor of a building across the river, and if they had, what they might have thought it was.

Sandra's head and raised hand snapped down onto the floor in unison, the life in her literally ending in a flash. She was dead. Hatch turned to me with a look of disappointment, almost regret, on his face.

"Useless bitch."

*

We stood by the main doors to the apartment block. I lit a cigarette, opened the door and leaned on the frame. Hatch looked off into the distance. Erwin kicked his heels some twenty yards away. I wondered what he was thinking.

"Jacko, you look disturbed."

"Did... did you have to do that to her?" I should have kept quiet.

"Unpleasant, if regretfully necessary." Hatch produced one of those slim panatellas again, and lit it – with a match, of all things. I was closer than the last time I saw him smoke one, and the smell was awful.

"What did she say?" he asked.

"Who?"

He didn't answer, but indicated the building with his head.

"I don't know. You lot were up close and personal."

"She said something. Just before she died. I think it was for your benefit."

"Don't ask me. I thought she was batting for your team," I said.

"She was. Her sales pitch was impressive - I credit Mr Dixon with that - but ultimately she was unable to deliver. And you know what I do to people that can't deliver, Jacko. You don't want to be holding out on me."

"Please don't tell me all this was for my benefit," I said.

He grinned.

"Get in the car."

Erwin brought it around. It was a beauty – a brand new purely-electric black Mercedes CLK.

"Let me just move the BMW."

His eyes narrowed.

"It'll get towed where it is. Losing two Beamers in a fortnight would be just bad manners. Come on, Chuck, you owe me that much."

"Don't try anything clever."

The BMW was still right outside the entrance to the block, lights on, driver's door left open. Careless of me. Someone could have reported it as stolen, an obstruction, or just plain weird. Act normal.

I drove it around the corner into a side street and then obediently returned to where Hatch was waiting.

I looked at the Mercedes and then to Hatch.

"Why are you bothering with all this?" I said to him.

"Cars come and go, Mr Towne, but money is forever."

"I swear that's a Carly Simon song."

I got in the back and we took off – Hatch beside me, Erwin driving – back towards the city. I tried not to think about Sandra's body up there in the apartment. Erwin had boarded up the doors to the apartment as we left, and with the mortgage repossession notice on the door, I wondered how long it would be before Sandra's body was found. Maybe not that long – it was still on the market, after all.

"Lovely car. Mind if I smoke in it?"

"I'll have another next week." He waved a hand.

"No Tosca today?"

"Gave him the night off to fix things with his wife."

"How sweet. Where does employing a hot-blooded Latino fit with your manifesto?"

"You really don't understand very much about me at all, do you?"

"Can't believe he joined your gang. Fucker sold his soul."

"It's all he had left to sell."

I lit the cigarette, pretending to have problems with the lighter, and as I did so, I removed the dolphin tiepin from my pocket and clutched it in my fist.

"So where do we go from here?" I said, opening the window a notch.

He said nothing. The electric engine was a barely audible whisper, and the lights of the city rolled off the car's shiny surfaces.

"He was a sneaky fucker, I'll give him that." Hatch was staring out of the window. "He wasn't stupid either. It wasn't practical intelligence, but it was shaped like a businessman's should be."

He turned to me.

"In other words, all decisions he made had to centre around the golden rule of the moneymaker."

"Protect your investments."

"Exactly. And he's done that commendably. Even in death."

I pulled out the USB drive and handed it to Hatch. As he took it I dropped the tiepin down the back of the seat.

"This is everything from Gabriel's work and home computers. This was the graft, but it's raw. I couldn't see anything on here that looks un-kosher, but no doubt you have some LSE monkey on your payroll that can make sense of it."

He gave me a look of fatherly pride. Despite everything, I felt a buzz, and hated myself for it.

He leaned forward and tapped Erwin on the shoulder. The big Mercedes turned off Aldwych and pulled over at the back of the Theatre Royal in Russell Street – appropriately enough, not a million miles from the LSE.

I went to get out, and paused with my hand on the door handle.

"Was there anything else?" Hatch asked.

"I had a run-in with Mrs Gabriel."

"How unfortunate."

"She caught me in her house."

"You surprise me."

"She told me to leave her alone. She told me to stop hurting them. She said hadn't I done enough already."

"Not the kind of parlance usually reserved for creepers."

"That's what I thought."

"Yes, Mrs Gabriel is an exceptionally intelligent woman, and though her husband tried to keep his dealings secret, she guessed something was troubling him, something he had no control over. She guessed that he was being squeezed."

"Did you strongarm her?"

"We approached her after Gabriel's death. She knows nothing."

I got out, and turned to face him. The tinted window of the Mercedes slid down.

"I'll be in touch about our next meeting," Hatch said. "I'll send you a message."

"No doubt. What if I'm on the move?"

He smiled. It was horrible. "You've got style, Jacko. Always keep moving. Oh, and by the way - did you bother to ask Mrs Gabriel how she managed to find you?"

I felt like a witness in the box being taken down a line of questioning that I strenuously wished to avoid.

"Given your, er, underworld connections, I can only assume she followed you. Which might mean that whatever safe house you were holed up in is, well, no longer quite so safe. Especially if you're going to make the silly mistake of keeping shit to yourself."

A feeling of dread made me feel like I was sinking into my shoes. I'd been around Hatch long enough to know a threat when I heard it.

Hatch waved his little finger at me as they pulled away, a solemn look on his face. I watched the Mercedes take off down the road until the brake lights glowed, then it rounded the corner and was gone.

I stood for a moment, just to make sure it wasn't coming back, and then I turned and sprinted back to Brixton, panic firing my every movement.

****

### thirty-six

I was half-dead with exhaustion when I got back to Coldharbour Lane. Orange flames were clawing their way out of the smashed windows of Purgatory. The fire was already too strong to try to get in, so I stood dumbstruck as it curled its way up and around the old building with the lovely dry wooden frontage.

Gawking rubbernecked onlookers were huddled on the crime scene cordon, and the blue strobe lights of the emergency services battled the flames for dominance of the scene as fire engines, ambulances and police cars all screamed to the scene. A TV crew pulled up, and I prayed to God that someone knew what they were doing.

*

I sat on the bed at Atlantic Road Furniture Stores, holding a startled Kim to me. I needed her, but I had a horrible feeling she didn't need me. I knew she would be safer without me, but I - selfishly - couldn't let her go.

Dico and Sue were in hospital. Both were touch-and-go, having peacefully inhaled several lungs' worth of choking black smoke. A stupid little voice in my head was saying - if Dico hadn't allowed Sandra to blow him, he might have wanted sex with Sue, and then they might have both been awake when the first IED sailed through the frosted window of the downstairs saloon.

I didn't know what to say to Kim. She was scared now, proper scared, but of course that was Hatch's plan. He was nothing if not thorough. If you're worried about a mutiny, there's nothing like turning the workforce into nervous wrecks to keep them from being match-fit.

But I was going to fight it. I wasn't yet so scared that my rage had been banished. I could feel it there, smouldering in my belly like the last pieces of blackened wood yet to collapse in Purgatory.

A telephone began to ring from the staff room in the back. I got up to answer it, and saw a cop with a grim look on his face walking through the showroom as I opened the door to our enclosure.

I ignored the cop and walked in the direction of the telephone. It was a harsh, insistent ring, one of those old style beige desk telephones; it had a keypad, but when it came on the production line, keypads were cutting edge.

"Yes?" I could barely part my teeth.

"How's your pal? And his woman? I'd say she hit a bum note..."

"When I find you, Chuck, there's going to be..."

"Shut up, cant," Hatch hissed. "I know what you've been thinking. Think of this as a shot across the bows. Remember our terms. They're good terms, Jacko."

I took a deep breath.

"Okay, so - point taken," I said, looking up at the cop who was now standing in the doorway of the staff room waiting for me to finish on the phone. "What now?"

"What now is - we need to meet."

"In the words of the great Frank Abagnale, Jr. - catch me if you can."

I hung up the phone and took several deep breaths. Maybe only a couple of points, but worth it. I took a deep breath and turned to face the cop.

"I've got some information," I said.

*

The thought that both Erwin and Hatch had basic human routines – eating, sleeping, shitting – took away some of their mystery, what I call the Keyser Soze-effect. The fact that I was about to get a fly-on-the-wall view stripped it away completely, because it gave me the upper hand.

Hatch would come later. For now I wanted Erwin. The GPS transmitter on the tiepin had sent a perfect signal to the iPhone, and I found the Mercedes illegally parked outside a lap-dancing club in Soho. I knew Hatch liked his people to be more careful, but this particular area was so dismal that the car attracted no attention.

It was shortly after two when Martin Erwin staggered out of the club with his fly undone. I felt the warm thrill of success. He walked to the Mercedes and unlocked it with some difficulty – add drunk in charge to the mix – Hatch would not be impressed.

The power of the GPS meant there was no burning need to keep him in sight, which fascinated me. I found an ask-no-questions minicab and got the driver to follow my instructions as I followed the signal on the iPhone.

I followed him back over the river to Stockwell, where he turned into a dingy side street, all graffitied shutters and bulging bin bags.

Erwin had backed the car into a hard standing next to a newsagent's. It had a hand painted sign above it – RESIDENTS ONLY. It was a tight squeeze – given his apparent level of intoxication, he'd done a good job.

A light went on in the flat above the newsagent's as the minicab driver pulled up. I paid the driver and he pulled away. I stood for a moment on the other side of the street, the only sound coming from a corner streetlight that flickered and buzzed as it tried to ignite.

This was so close to Brixton that it had to be a Hatch safe house – doubtless one of hundreds up and down the country, all tactically positioned to cause me grief.

A siren howled way, way off in the distance.

The flat was accessed via a grubby white door right next to the hard standing. I shuffled alongside the Mercedes and peered inside, making a mental note to remember the car keys when I came out so as to rescue my tiepin.

I scanned the area. I worried briefly about CCTV, but, despite being only ten feet from the street, it was too dark to see anything anyway.

The door had only a Yale lock, and it popped open without a fuss. There was nothing on the other side of the door except a staircase. I climbed it, silence rumbling in my ears, my ears cocked for any untoward noises. As I got higher what little light had been offered from downstairs faded completely. The upper floor was mired in black.

The safe house looked like it was being used to store office kit. I moved softly through the narrow hallway, past computer monitors stacked on desks. I turned a corner, and streetlights from somewhere at the rear of the building projected feebly through the rear windows. The windows were dressed with Venetian blinds, and as the light met the blinds the light was sliced into thin lines of amber which were cast onto the wall. These lines were the only illumination.

I moved towards the far wall, and listened through a door. There was a dim strip of light at the bottom of the doorway, and I could hear faint, very faint sounds of a television. Either that or he was getting his end away.

He had left the door slightly ajar. I peered through the gap. He was slouched in an armchair, staring blankly at the screen. The green and blue flickers on the television tunnelled through the thick darkness of the room, the colours changing slightly with each new frame. The light patterns danced on the face of their viewer, illuminating his impassive face with a desperate kind of animation.

It sounded like a low-grade porn flick. Judging by his vacant expression, it wasn't exactly blowing his frock up. I watched him silently.

He grew bored of the fuck film. He changed the channel, and found some sport, another low-key affair. He sat and stared at the images, the volume turned up just enough to give it some atmosphere, although the words themselves were not discernible.

The suppressor was already attached to the barrel. I watched him, losing track of time. He nodded off slowly. I took my chance.

I moved into the room, the door moving soundlessly, and walked over to where he was slumped. I knelt down in front of him, so I blocked the images from being beamed onto his face. I held the gun inches from his face, and flicked on the table lamp that sat next to the armchair.

He awoke, and his carcass contracted with shock. He pushed himself back into the chair with his hands, as if trying to maximise the distance between himself and the gun would cushion the blow. He tried to speak. No words came.

His features twisted with shock and terror. His face was so screwed up that it looked as if someone was using a vacuum cleaner from behind his face, sucking all his features into a ball in the centre of his head. I stood up, the light making me tower over him, and pushed the barrel against his left eye.

"In the dark," I whispered, "what good is a man?"

I pulled the trigger. The shot zinged through him, and his body flew backwards, toppling the chair as the back of his head slapped onto the wall behind him. His bulk hit the wall and slid downwards, where he crumpled on the floor. I stepped over him and picked up his mobile phone and car keys from the table, then dug around in my rucksack for the camera.

Martin Erwin breathed no more.

****

### thirty-seven

"You look good in the daylight, Pelly."

I had broken the habit of a lifetime – well, of the last four years – and gone to see Pelly out of season and in the daylight. I had arrived just after seven-thirty in the morning, and a cold sun was beginning to press against the clouds. January was edging towards February, and the cemetery looked almost appealing, with new crocuses and primroses dotted around the silent field. There were even one or two daffodils.

Despite the early hour, there were already a few people about – lone elderly men and women visiting the graves of spouses departed; middle-aged people visiting parents. There were one or two young couples as well – I tried not to think about who they were visiting.

I dropped to my knees, removed the dolphin tiepin from my jacket and prised the GPS transmitter from it with a tiny blade. I took a look around to make sure no one was watching, and buried the transmitter as surreptitiously as I could in the loose earth. I re-attached the tiepin to my lapel. If this was how Hatch had been finding me with such ease, then fuck him in the ear.

I stood up, and pictured Hatch and his gimps storming into the cemetery and realising they'd been ditched. His face in my mind was a picture.

Back at the car I pulled Martin Erwin's mobile phone from my rucksack. When I switched it on, I was unsurprised to see numerous missed calls from a mobile number that had no caller ID associated with it.

I rang the number.

"Where the fuck have you been, you bloody pervert?"

"Hello, Chuck."

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"Early one for you, Jacko." His voice was brittle with anger. "Should I draw any particular conclusions from the fact that you're using this number?"

"Draw whatever you like."

"I want to meet."

"That's good. So do I. But let's be clear about some things, Hatch. I'm calling the shots now."

I ended the call and walked to the car. I made one more call on Martin Erwin's mobile. This one was to the police. I told them my name was Martin Erwin and that I was responsible for the rape and murder of Sandra Dixon. I gave them the address of Gabriel's love nest, then stopped at Squerryes Court, a very pleasant manor house just south of Westerham, and lobbed the phone over dew-misted grounds into the lake.

Cumulative enterprise – that's the thing. Getting ahead is like melting ice, it's staying ahead that wins prizes. I had taken out Hatch's wingman and ditched the GPS hold he had on me. If I could put phase three into practice, then he might believe I was smarter and stronger than he gave me credit for. I might even get to the money before he realised I was fucking him over.

All I had to do was rescue my secret weapon from its incarceration.

*

"'Ow y'all doin', 'epcats?"

I could reconcile the strains of 50s Hollywood jazz rebop with neither the Balham accent nor its skinny white owner, but he kept the talk cheap, and the trio fired up It Don't Mean A Thing... They weren't at all bad, but they couldn't hold a candle to The Artisan Liquidators.

I saw Hatch sitting at a table by the window. He was alone. I sat down opposite him, and lit a cigarette. The club was cramped, narrow, and aching with red neon, making his milk-white head look like a moon. There was a tall glass with dark liquid in front of him, and he was staring intently at the drink with both his palms flat on the table.

Tension spiked my shoulder as I played out a practice run of the punch in my head. I judged the distance, the speed, the height, and from this angle, I could drop my shoulder and uppercut him, getting my hips behind the drive. In my head I saw his chunky glasses flying backwards and blood erupting on his face, and then I saw door staff, police, unseen goons pinning me prone and the band being silenced in the face of the brawl.

I took two deep breaths and let it go. For now.

He smiled as I sat down.

"You want to kill me so badly it must hurt, cant," he said. "It's written all over your face. I can feel it coming off you like body odour."

I was silent. His smile disappeared when he realised I didn't want to joust.

"What do you know?" he asked, looking over at the band.

"Sue's dead, you know that? Smoke inhalation."

He frowned, like it really bothered him. Cant.

"Collateral damage. No intent, no malice, just one of those things."

"Tell Dico that."

"Don't fuck with me, Jackson. You of all people must know that. That bumbling wideboy Richard Dixon could get you in trouble. You've seen what he's like. Fucking idiot could start a fight in a room by himself. You're a sensible lad, Jackson, but you're easily influenced."

"Sensible?"

"I saw you when you came in. I saw your body tense. You were all ready to lamp me, then thought better of it. Sensible." He leaned across the table and adjusted his glasses. "Don't think I don't know that you're biding your time."

Behind me, the band launched without stopping into a rendition of If You're So Smart, How Come You Ain't Rich?

Because I'm Jackson, said a voice inside my head.

"You're a cunning one," he said, like he knew what I was thinking. "Now, we need to talk business."

I sat back.

"I'm listening."

"Well, you were right about the LSE monkey. You were also right about the stuff you found – the USB drive contained a significant number of complicated investment strategies - extremely mathematical stuff."

"Which is all very nice, but we're way beyond theories, Chuck."

He sniffed.

"Patience, Jacko. I'm about to give you good news. Unfortunately, as well as being posthumously useless, the data was all legit, and very uninteresting."

"That's good news?"

"Will you listen? The LSE monkey picked up on something. The good doctor was not squirrelling away my money in Ponzis, pensions or private equity funds. Not unlike myself, he had an almost childlike interest in hard currency. His view was - if it wasn't in your hand, it wasn't real. And his laundering efforts were both literal and figurative - as well as channelling my cash through many of his legitimate enterprises, he also cleaned it. He would take dirty, grubby bundles of barely-legal conflict tender and turn it into crisp white notes. It was quite something to behold."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, Jacko, that this is a heist. We don't need degrees in economic analysis to liquidate his assets. It's fucking simpler than that. I don't deal in electronic numbers on a screen. I deal in cash, and he was stockpiling it somewhere. My fucking money."

He smacked me on the shoulder when he said cash. It looked like his plan was basically going to boil down to a robbery, and he was clearly excited by the prospect of being on home soil. Given the recent additions to my CV, I realised with gloom that a robbery probably counted as my home soil as well.

"Great. Where is it?" I said.

He waved a hand.

"The practical details are your bit. Find out what, when and where. Fill in the blanks, I'll draft the plan and get the hardware."

"Why do you trust me?" I asked.

He looked faintly dismayed.

"You still haven't learned your lesson? How many of your friends do I have to kill before you get the message? Maybe you should focus on the job at hand. Maybe you should get to that muppet Dico Dixon before I decide to finish him off."

I stared at him.

"Yeah, I know that's what she said to you. Sandra Dixon. Took me a while, but it came to me in a dream. There were plenty of emails and shit on Gabriel's computers to suggest Dico Dixon was more than just a cuckold. He was Gabriel's bitch. If he is the key to this little puzzle then you want to get to him before I do."

Even through my hatred for the man, I was impressed. I still had an advantage over Hatch, but I would have to go some to keep ahead.

"Are you afraid of Dico?"

"This ain't the playground, Jacko. Caution is worth a lot in my game."

"You think you can get to him?" I said, sitting back and folding my arms.

"Please," Hatch scoffed. "You of all people know better than that. I can get to him anywhere."

"Not where he is right now," I said.

The crowd gave it up for a swinging saxophone solo.

"Come on then. You're dying to tell me."

"Well, let's just say I hope the boys in blue have given him his phone call."

The look on his face was priceless.

"He's...?"

"Without liberty. A little help from an anonymous witness and they suddenly had a suspect for the murder of James Gabriel. Motive coming out of his ears."

His eyes moved from side to side as he worked it out in his head, then he gave me a big shit-eating grin.

"You got him arrested to keep him away from me? Fucking hell, it's true you are just muscle to me, Jackson, but you're muscle with a brain."

"Honey, you say the nicest things," I said, and stood up.

"By the way, what did you do to my pal Mr Erwin?"

I said nothing, but dug in my pocket and slid the photograph of Martin Erwin's eyeless face across the table.

That cruel smile didn't budge from his face, but the glass in his hand shattered, spraying fragments over the table. His breathing was furious, his nostrils pulsing like a bull about to charge.

Blood dripped onto the floor, and I turned to leave as the wailing alto sax shrieked to a crescendo, leaving Chuck Hatch carefully pulling particles of glass out of his hand.

****

thirty-eight

I knew Dico was going to spit nails when he found out it was me that got him nicked. The question was - could I explain myself before he gouged my eyes out?

I had taken the risk of returning to Gabriel's apartment block to rescue the BMW. It was still there, which I hoped meant that the cops had not linked it to the discovery of Sandra's body.

I sat in the BMW, opposite Charing Cross police station, my collar pulled up around my ears. The daylight made me feel sick to my stomach; that hollow nausea that comes with hunger, but I felt too sick to eat. The thick, dark skies were heavy on my mind.

Drops of rain began to patter onto the windscreen. My eyes were gritty; despite the clouds, the light felt caustic. Passing cars began to steadily flick on their sidelights as the rain got heavier. I wished the daylight would pass.

I had not vomited. I had even slept, a bit. I was living with murder, probably because I was pretty convinced that my second victim had thoroughly deserved it. I hadn't lost any sleep over my first one either, although I'd made my mind up about him pretty much at face value.

Both were trifling, but while the moral headbanging was greater than the fear of being caught, I found that I did not care one jot about being caught for murdering Martin Erwin. Maybe it was because we were past the point of no return, now, and I believed that even if we got the money Gabriel had hidden and escaped, we'd never fully scrub the blood from our hands.

Succumbing to hopelessness was about the worst thing that could happen. Those sick, nervous feelings in the stomach, the surge of panic at the sight of a police car, that unrelenting paranoia – these subside, and you realise you've got away with it. Lose that focus, that angst, and you get sloppy - before you know it you're eating grit with cold metal on your wrists.

The concrete steps of the police station darkened with rain splashes. Soon they were covered with water, drops slapping onto the ground. It was mid-morning. I smoked, and watched the doors of the station, my eyes a narrow squint.

At around midday, the doors opened, and out stepped my prize. He looked awful. He blinked in the daylight, and glanced around, looking like a newborn baby that didn't know what to do with itself.

I didn't want to collar him outside the station, so I watched him head to the end of the street and hail a taxi. They headed off. I tailed at a safe distance. To my surprise, they went straight through Brixton. It was only after they went through Biggin Hill and over the M25 on the bridge into Westerham that I realised the taxi was heading to the Dixon marital home.

The taxi arrived at the house after about an hour's driving. I parked the BMW some three hundred yards down the road and watched. Dico got out of the taxi, and turned back to lean through the passenger window. His hands were spread in an apologetic manner, and I could see the taxi driver getting animated in the car. It was my guess that Dico was broker than the world. I got out of the car and began walking up the road.

The taxi driver got out as well, and slammed his door with venom. He walked around the front of the car towards Dico, who backed off, trying to talk him down. I ran up the road towards them. Any other time I would have watched with amusement as the taxi driver realised he'd bitten off more than he could chew, but Dico was backing off, and it looked to me like he had no fight left in him.

"Hey!"

The taxi driver turned to me with a questioning look. "What do you want?"

"To avoid trouble."

"Shit-for-brains here ain't got any money. So unless you're gonna pay, there is going to be trouble."

I caught Dico's eye. He was pale with shock. I pulled out a couple of fifties and gave them to the driver. Now he was shocked. Neither of them was as shocked as I, however, at Dico's extreme passivity.

"Keep the change," I said. The driver got back in the car and drove away, not wishing to ask questions. I turned to Dico.

"Any other time, he'd have been on his arse. What's with you?"

He waved a hand.

"Sixty hours in a cell will do that to you. I'm a bit knackered."

"They let you out?" The plan had worked, but I was relieved nonetheless.

He waved his bail notice.

"My ticket to freedom. The fuck are you doing here, anyway?"

"Well, it's a long, tedious story, so I suggest we go inside, get one of those bottles of rare malt from your cellar and I'll tell you what's going on. Shall we?" I gestured to the house. He turned and we walked up the garden path.

The house was awful. It stank of urine and rotten food. There was no heating, power or water, and I guessed Dico hadn't been back to it since I had bundled him into my car after Sandra left him – Christ, was it only four weeks ago?

Dico blundered through the rubbish towards the drinks cabinet, apparently unperturbed by the state.

"See you've done a spot of decorating around here," I remarked, picking my way through the minefield of crap. He turned to look at me for a second from the drinks cabinet. His face was blank. In that moment I realised I didn't know him any more.

He pulled a couple of glasses from the cabinet and poured the whisky. He gave one to me and sat on the sofa. I stayed standing, and lit a cigarette. He didn't notice.

"How was your stay?" I asked.

"The fucking wankers came for me at the hospital. Sue wasn't even cold, and eight of them turned up and dragged me into a van."

He hocked up and spat something nasty into a glass.

"Didn't make it easy on them, though. Those white police shirts are just made for bleeding on." He kissed the knuckles of his right hand.

"I'm sure."

"'Acting on information received,' they said. You know what that means? Means a fucking grass."

"Yeah... about that."

His eyes bored into mine.

"Tell me it wasn't you."

"Well..."

The big lug was across the room and had his hands around my throat before I realised what was going on. He meant it, as well. The tendons stood out on his neck as he squeezed, cutting off my air supply like he'd just turned off a tap; his breath stale, while I pawed uselessly at his white rock knuckles. In less than twenty seconds my vision began to go black and I realised I was dying.

"I was trying to save you... Hatch," I managed to hiss.

He released me, and I collapsed to the ground, sucking in air through my whistling windpipe like an asthmatic shagging a donkey.

It took nearly quarter of an hour for me to be able to speak again. I didn't want to think about long-term damage.

"Speak," he said when he realised I wasn't going to die today.

I hauled myself up onto a chair, still gasping.

"The IED at the pub... that wasn't meant for Sue. Hatch was trying to get you."

"Why?"

"As a message to me. To keep me from getting ideas. To redress the balance a bit."

"So?"

"So I called the cops and gave them your name for Gabriel's murder."

"You fucking what?

"Think about it. It was the only place you'd be safe, and I could buy some time to work stuff out."

"In case you've forgotten, you plonker, it wasn't me that killed him. Unfortunately," he added.

"I know that, which is why I knew you'd get out. But there was enough of a motive to arrest you. I knew they'd give you a hard time for a couple of days and then let you out."

He collapsed heavily onto the sofa, and poured us both a drink.

"That ain't a rescue operation. That's a fuck-you operation."

"It was the best I could do, okay? You know what Hatch has done to me. He could get to you anywhere but there."

I eyeballed him. Time to let him have it.

"Why'd you come back here, Dico?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean – to the house. I need..." I began. Something was not quite right. I got up and went to the stereo. "Can I put a record on?" He didn't answer. I scrolled through the digital list of largely MOR tosh that formed his collection. "Christ. You actually listen to this stuff?"

"What's wrong with it?"

I found some Nina Simone on a movie soundtrack compilation, which, I figured, was as good as it was going to get. Still, it made it all slightly more bearable. I sat down with a cigarette, and felt a little better.

"Why didn't you go back to Atlantic Road? Or the pub?"

"In case you hadn't noticed, the pub needs a lick of paint. And I don't need to be at the furniture shop – I'm only a shareholder, for Christ's sake."

"Yeah – but why here?"

"What is this? Why don't you say what's on your mind, Paxman?"

Fair enough. I lit a cigarette.

"When you told me Sandra left you for Gabriel, you said you didn't know him. 'Mugged me off for some banker,' is what you actually said."

"And?"

"And that was bullshit. You've known him for some time, haven't you?"

Nothing changed in his face. He just shrugged. It made me angry.

"So what the fuck was the deal with you two? Did you have a stake in one of his hedge funds? Or was he just using you for street muscle?"

"That's basically it," he said, not reacting at all to my anger. "These fucking City twats, they all want to be gangsters. That's the problem with legit money. When it all goes wrong, you're all over the news. Dirty money stays underground, no matter what. Gabriel just thought it was safer to be a gangster."

"So when I gave you his name and number, you already knew?"

"'Course I did."

"And that's why you didn't want to cancel the hit on Kim?"

"I had no personal interest in that. But he'd sold it to me, and I to you. No different than a trading bond, really."

"You two sound like a cosy pair. Did you even mind that he was fucking your wife?"

I'd said it expecting him to bolt across the room and finish what he'd started earlier.

But he didn't. He didn't even meet my eyes. I watched him. I wasn't just trying to be smart – believe it or not – I was being provocative to see if he'd give anything away.

And he did.

It was almost imperceptible, but his head jerked, and his eyes flitted over to the fireplace and back in a split second.

I stubbed out the cigarette and was up and over to the fireplace like a shot. I stuck my arm up the chimney and felt around, watching him as I did so. He made no attempt to stop me. He wasn't even looking at me. He was staring at his feet.

There was a recess in the smoke shelf. My hands closed around a hard object. I pulled it out. It was a jewellery box. Inside was a foolscap document wallet. I opened it.

There were architectural blueprints for a building, a handwritten ledger, and the sales brochure for Gabriel's Thames-view penthouse.

There were also photographs.

Photographs of Dico, Sandra and Gabriel. Photographs of them fucking. Real Dutch hardcore, meat sandwich stuff. The three of them together, Dico and Sandra, Sandra and Gabriel, even Gabriel and Dico. Some were taken chez Dixon, some in the boardroom at Medusa Chenaix, and some in the lounge of the penthouse that Gabriel had ensconced Sandra in. Some had been taken in a large bedroom that I didn't recognise, and it wasn't until I compared the pictures with the sales brochure that I realised this was also Gabriel's river fuck pad. I shuddered as I remembered that I'd never actually got as far as seeing the bedroom.

I sat down opposite him, and lit one of his cigars.

"So talk to me."

"They bought me." The tears were starting to come now – real bronchial sobs. "They bought me."

"Ssh, slow down. It's all right." I looked at the ceiling and blew smoke rings. "It's okay. Tell me what you mean."

"They fucking bought me, kid."

"What do you mean?"

"Gabriel and Sandy. When I found out about the two of them – he said, get onside and deal with it, or get out on your ear."

"He paid you to accept their affair?"

He nodded, and grabbed the whisky bottle. He didn't bother with a glass.

"And Sandy went along with it?"

"She thought it was weird to start with, but she was half-cut most of the time. Then she just got used to it, thinking this is how everybody lives in the City."

"I don't think she was far wrong."

I looked again at the pictures. Gabriel had certainly exploited this meretricious deal to the maximum – a round-robin email to some of Dico's closer business associates with these attached and the work would have dried up instantly. I looked at Dico's eyes in the photographs. They were glazed, watery, fucked up. Maybe it wasn't the kind of marital activity you'd engage in sober, but what did I know? Maybe the drugs had been fed to him against his will. Maybe he was so far gone that he'd sucked Gabriel's cock and not realised what was happening.

I put the photographs back and opened the ledger. For a City hedge fund manager, it was extremely basic. Even I understood it. There were four columns –date, amount received in sterling and balance. The fourth column bore a long number – sixteen digits – alongside each entry. I had no idea what these were. A code of some sort, perhaps.

A couple of re-reads and I realised that the amounts were received on the first day of the month. I checked my watch. February 1st was three days away.

"Dico – this ledger..."

"Where is Sandy, Jackson? I want her back."

"Where was he hiding Hatch's money, Dico?" I said, ignoring the question.

"I don't know." His voice was flat.

"Dico, we've got a head start with this." I waved the ledger around. "We can get one over on these bastards."

"I'm sick of money, kid."

Not something you'd ever expect to hear Del Boy say.

I tried to change the subject.

"Dico... these blueprints, they're of the Medusa Chenaix building. I found the same schematics in Gabriel's study. What do they mean? Why are they here?"

"Fuck knows."

"What was going on at Medusa Chenaix? Was he hiding the money here?"

"I don't know, kid," he said, in a tone that suggested we had reached a plateau. "Christ... I'm starving." He eyeballed me as he said it.

I got the hint. I slid the photographs into a pocket at the back of the ledger, and tucked the bundle inside my jacket.

"I'll go and get a Chinese or something."

I picked up my keys. I had my hand on the front door when Dico called out to me from the lounge.

"Jackson? Have you seen Sandy?"

I clamped my eyes shut. How to tell him?

"No," I called back.

"I can't stop thinking about her," he said.

"Yeah," I said, opening the door. "I'll be back soon."

"Jackson?"

The voice was right behind me, and made me jump.

I turned. Dico had walked silently over from the lounge and was right behind me. His eyes were old. So old. I tried to grin at him. He didn't return it.

"Jackson?" he said again.

"What?" My hand was still on the door handle.

"Sandy's dead, isn't she?"

I didn't say anything, but saw his world begin to fade.

****

thirty-nine

The black roads were comforting in their function, leading to other places, taking me away, always away. Always moving.

The steam from the brown paper bag with the Chinese takeaway in it condensed on the passenger window. I thought about Sandra, thought about how to tell Dico she was dead, and that she hadn't died peacefully. That I could have stopped it, but I didn't. I might not have succeeded, but I didn't even try.

The rain fell lightly. The car was stuffy. I opened the window a little, listened to the spray of water flying from tarmac to tyres and back again. It made a steady swish sound.

To take my revenge by exploiting the insider information I had that Hatch didn't, I needed Dico. Dico, however, needed some fire in his belly, and somehow I had to motivate him to come back with me to London, get him to confirm that Medusa Chenaix was the delivery drop and then help me knock over a cash-in-transit van.

The rain had stopped when I got back. It had fallen heavily, and I could smell it in the air as I got out of the car.

"I'm home, dear!" First job had to be to lighten the mood a bit. I walked into the living room, noting that the floor was still covered with junk. I tutted loudly.

"You are a messy bastard. Do you even know what a vacuum cleaner looks like?"

There was no answer. I called out again. I ploughed through the debris, and headed up the stairs.

The landing was dark. I switched on the light. A pair of feet dangled in front of me. I looked up, and saw two silver crescent slits staring down at me from Dico's dead face.

****

### forty

Flames erupted in my head. I punched and kicked his dangling body.

"Stupid bastard! Stupid, stupid bastard!"

It was only when my anger had subsided that I noticed what was behind him. He had secured his death by looping the rope around one of the joists in the loft. The loft hatch was just a loose plane of wood; it had been removed to facilitate the hanging and was now leaning against the wall. Written on it was a single word, in black marker pen:

GHOST

Aren't we all, son?

I could feel the pressure of time, and I had none to spare, especially for dealing with aberrant messages.

I considered burying him, but that would just make it look like murder should he be exhumed – deliberately or otherwise – at a later date. And as soon as he didn't answer bail for killing Gabriel the police would come knocking. So I left him hanging there, swaying slightly from side to side, like a pig carcass in a butcher's shop.

I went back to the fireplace to retrieve the photographs, sales spec and ledger. After my conversation with Hatch, it made more sense. This ledger was it. Gabriel was receiving large amounts of Hatch's cash on the first day of every month, but this was not electronic zeros leaping from one screen to another. This was actual, real, dirty, cash.

But cash of any volume was bulky, and difficult to conceal. Medusa Chenaix was not a deposit bank – in fact, I still wasn't sure exactly what it was – but even if it had been, Gabriel had been off-plot, and this would have been a difficult exercise to conceal.

It was close, but not enough.

I wiped all the surfaces that I thought I could possibly have touched. Then I moved the car out of sight, and carefully removed any further evidence of my presence. I pulled on my gloves and began rooting through the house.

I was furious with him. One might have thought it was understandable, given that he had lost two women in as many days, but with what I had seen in the photographs I was confused by what was important to him and what was not. In the hours leading up to his death I had felt mainly disgust – had James Gabriel or one of his kind offered me money not to make a fuss about an affair with Kim, I would have removed his molars with long-nosed pliers.

And I was still not sure that Dico had been telling me everything. I knew more than I did before arriving at his house, but I still needed confirmation that the money was being hidden at Medusa Chenaix. I did not want to be stranded with the knowledge that James Gabriel had carried his secrets to the grave. I began to search the house.

At first my efforts were calculated. I carefully returned each drawer, each photo album, each item of clothing back to its original position, so as not to leave any tracks.

But then I grew careless with the frustration of fruitless hunting. I began furiously scrabbling through the ex-belongings of both the dead owners of the house. I threw utensils and cutlery on the ground. I ripped clothes and pulled up floorboards and broke mirrors trying to find something that might prove useful.

I searched up and downstairs, in every conceivable place. I found nothing. I was burning to get away.

I searched the bedroom. I found nothing except clean sheets, underwear and Dico's porn stash. I'd had quite enough of that for one day.

I searched the bathroom. I found nothing except unused shaving gear and empty pill bottles strewn about the floor.

I searched the cellar. It was a damp old basement that housed the washing machine and the Dixons' collection of vintage wines.

Cobwebs brushed my face as I made my way down the damp steps. The light was feeble, so I held my lighter up to give as much light as possible. It smelled of old washing powder and rotten wood.

In a corner was an old chest of drawers. Two were missing. I opened the two that were there, and found nothing. I checked behind the washing machine. Nothing. In a rage, I pulled out each bottle and hurled it to the floor, the smell burning my nose.

My search was made more difficult by the fact that I didn't know exactly what I was looking for. I was working on the premise that I'd know if I found it.

I didn't find anything.

*

You only have two choices in trying to take control. You can buy a person's will, or you can break it. I couldn't buy Dico; he'd already sold his soul. I had come from the violent end of the spectrum. But I was nervous, on edge, and I couldn't fuck about. It was a mistake. I had underestimated his fragility.

The vintage brandy flowing across the cellar floor had been a perfect accelerant, and the house had quickly erupted into flames. I sat in the car about a half mile away, my head in my hands, watching the smoke thicken in the sky as the fire took hold.

As the first faint echoes of sirens were carried on the air, I started the engine and headed back to London.

My last trump card was gone. I'd tried to play for both sides at the same time - like, I realised with a shudder, James Gabriel Mk II. And, like the original, I'd fucked it up big time.

****

### forty-one

Kim was not in the den - as I'd taken to calling it - when I got back to Atlantic Road Furniture Stores. I found her in the on the first floor mezzanine - bedroom furniture, home study and lounge suites - sitting at a dressing table.

She was surrounded by papers, spread out across this and several other items of bedroom furniture, working by the light of a bedside lamp. There was a half-empty coffee cup and a cigarette smouldering next to it.

When I saw her, Sandra's sour suspicions were banished in an instant. No way was Kim in league with Gabriel. Why the hell else would she be hanging around? Just to get the money? And even if she were, I was prepared to take the risk.

She looked up as I came over, and took her glasses off.

"I've never seen you with glasses," I said.

"I only wear them at work," she said. "And given that I've done everything but since meeting you, that's probably why you haven't seen me wear them."

She got up and kissed me. I nodded at the chaos on the desks.

"What's this?"

"I've been trying to use my overpriced education to work out exactly where Gabriel's activities were deviating from company policy. See if we can't work out where he was hiding all the laundered money."

"Any luck?"

She picked up the coffee, tasted it, grimaced, and opted for the cigarette instead.

"Not really. He covered his tracks pretty well. I do know that an awful lot of company time was spent on, er, extra-curricular activities. It looks like he was buying up dollar reserves in big amounts for your pal Hatch, mainly from Asian sovereign wealth funds. On the surface of it, his strategy was to build up the national reserves of foreign currency as a hedge against the pound dropping."

"As a cover?"

She shrugged.

"He had to put the dirty money somewhere. I don't think the basic premise of his laundering operation changed much – he just stopped telling his client where he'd put it."

"Christ, you're clever. To me it may as well be in Greek."

"I'm a prodigious talent."

"You certainly are. Does it say anything about where the money is, or how we can get at it?"

"Well, from the blueprints, it looks like Medusa Chenaix. That's only an educated guess, however, and as likely as not."

I opened my mouth to say GHOST, see if it meant anything to her, but then remembered that it would mean telling her Dico had died by his own hand, and I decided to talk about us, talk about the things I should have said on Suicide Bridge.

"Kim... I need to tell you something."

"Uh-oh, that sounds heavy."

I sat down on a swivel chair. She put the cigarette in my mouth, and sat opposite me.

"I think you need to go back to Medusa Chenaix, Kim. Go back to work. Get out of this mess. For your own safety."

"Are you dumping me?" She was grinning.

"Of course not, but look at what's going on. You hang around with me, one or both of us is going to get killed. I couldn't handle it if something or someone hurt you because of me."

"We can't control who we love, Jackson. You said it yourself. Let's stick to the plan - find the money and get out of the country. Together."

"Kim... I - I've killed two men. I'm responsible for more. I'm not exactly who you'd want to bring home to daddy."

Her jaw hardened.

"That's got nothing to do with anything. What you've done is not who you are, and that's true of most people. You've done some bad things, you've made some bad choices, but you're a good person. I'm with you, dammit, and that means the rough with the smooth."

"We're definitely due some smooth."

She got up, and came over. She sat on my lap.

"Jackson... don't worry. It will all be fine, okay? If I didn't want to be around you, I wouldn't be. We can finish this."

"I trust you," I said.

She put her arms around my neck and kissed me.

"And so you should. And I will go back to Medusa Chenaix."

"You will?"

"Yes. But only because to do this thing you need to have someone on the inside."

****

forty-two

The G19 summit was looming. Shops and businesses across London were bracing themselves for the protesters, reinforcing steel shutters and boards with pop-riveted steel sheets and even private security. More than one armoured vehicle I saw had the Medusa Chenaix logo on the side.

I was double-parked outside Medusa Chenaix, on the opposite side of the street. Late morning traffic sped by, the cumulative cacophony of a hundred car horns echoing up into the metropolitan sky.

I lit a cigarette, sat back in the seat, and watched. The morning rush of the rodents trying to get into work on time was beginning to kick out. Now it was all couriers, shoppers, and the rest of the second wave.

Three overnight express vans hitched up onto the kerb outside Medusa Chenaix within seven minutes of each other. There was nothing unusual about the methods - the drivers pulled boxes out, carried them in, and returned satisfied a few minutes later with signed delivery notes or PDAs.

Men and women in suits dribbled in and out every so often, on morning errands, perhaps a decent coffee, maybe faking a temperature and taking the rest of the day off.

I checked my watch. It was nearly eleven. The streets were quieter than they were during rush hour, but it was still busy. Too busy. I could not see how James Gabriel could have received shipments of cash here, especially incognito. I flicked through the ledger, trying to make educated guesses as to the numbers.

A Met traffic car - a Mercedes E-Class Touring - cruised by. I sank into my seat, and watched it roll past. The battenburg chevrons made me nervous. It pulled over to the kerb about thirty yards in front of me, and stopped. There were two of them in there.

I watched them intently for about a minute. They made no move, but sat still. A Parcel Force van pulled in between us. I relaxed a little. The car was clean. I was only double-parked, and the City had traffic wardens for that kind of offence. I turned my attention back to Medusa Chenaix.

I pondered. Maybe the deliveries came at night? I already knew Gabriel got inside at night, but would standard cash-in-transit vans deliver at night? Presumably they would - if the client requested it and if the price was right.

I shook my head and tucked the ledger back into my jacket. These were questions I shouldn't have had to ask. I needed to be completely certain of the routine before I attempted the interception, let alone the destination. And so far I wasn't even close. I looked at the date on the car clock. Two days to go.

I looked ahead again. The Parcel Force van had gone, and the police patrol car had its reverse lights on. They backed up along the kerb until they were about fifteen yards from the car, then stopped. I saw the cop in the driver's seat crane his neck to look at me in the rear view mirror. He could have got closer. Maybe he was looking at the number plate. My heart started to beat faster.

Then Kim was checking the traffic and crossing the road towards me. She was grinning, the brace making her look like a teenager. I watched her approach - her breath froze as it left her, and for some reason this made me want to pull her close to me. Maybe it was because it suggested the merest hint of martyrdom.

"How did it go?" I said as she got in.

"We're in."

I pulled away past the police car and went north. I looked in my rear view mirror more than I looked at the road. The patrol car remained stationary. I breathed a little easier and turned the radio on.

*

Public Enemies took my breath away. In the front row of the Ritzy, in Brixton, I watched myself watching John Dillinger watching Manhattan Melodrama, and thought – he knew, didn't he? He knew they were waiting for him outside the cinema.

When it came to it, would I know? Did I already know, deep down, that there was only one way this was going to end? Was Kim going to stand over my fallen body and cover her face from the horror? Would she faint? Would she scream? Would she be philosophical about the whole thing? Or would she be smart, cut her losses and walk away?

When the credits rolled and the lights came up, I had to wait a while before I could leave, like being forced too soon from a dream. I took Kim's hand and smelled the damp in the air as we left the cinema, unable to keep from checking around me for the sting in the offing, waiting for the insistence of the electric blues guitar to heat the skies and propel me out of there.

It never came.

*

Back at Atlantic Road I got the feeling we had outstayed our welcome. The arrival of this strange young man had brought bad juju - one dead would-be landlady and now an AWOL chairman of the board, assuming the news of Dico's death hadn't already filtered through.

Raymond, the well-mannered store manager, put down the bag of plantain chips he'd been eating.

"Someone came looking for you," he said, in hushed, slightly hostile tones. "Skinny bald guy. Glasses. I swear I've seen him on the telly. Said he wanted to meet with you. He looked vex."

****

### forty-three

I called Hatch and agreed to meet. My GPS stunt proved a point, but I didn't want him killing any more innocent people each time he decided I wasn't behaving. I couldn't outrun him forever, even with my new-found advantage – the ledger – hidden under the mattress back at Atlantic Road Furniture Stores. And besides, I still needed him and his resources to get the money. The revenge would only be complete after I got my grubby little mitts on it. I just hoped I wouldn't fuck it up.

For the first time in a long time, I began to get scared.

I walked through the city night, the feeling of something imminent tightening my chest, the thought that I was helpless to avoid it unconvincing, the thought that I could do nothing while walking a comfort.

I walked into Islington, and waited around on the corner of Claremont Square and Pentonville Road. I looked at the railings on the opposite side of the street, and followed them with my eyes down into Amwell Street. It was a little after one in the morning, and it was cold.

I looked at the row of terraced houses that stretched away down the street. They were crooked, forgotten. I looked at the house behind me. One of the bricks bore an inscription, and was painted red. The inscription said some Victorian illustrator who knew Dickens used to live here. The boarded up windows and the graffiti that swept the boards said that no one gave a fuck.

I saw a man approach from the direction of Amwell Street, on the opposite side of the street. He was walking slowly. His heels cracked on the concrete and made him seem closer than he was. I squinted, tried to make out his face, couldn't. It was too dark, and I couldn't tell what he was looking at. His shoulders were hunched, his hands buried in the pockets of his overcoat.

He stopped, and with gloved hands, produced a packet of cigarettes. Putting one in his mouth, he craned his neck forward, and looked down at the matches in his hands. He flicked the match, and the flare suddenly illuminated his face.

It was Hatch.

He shook the match till it died, then inhaled and carried on walking.

He was some fifty yards from me, and stared. I couldn't tell if he was looking at me or not. I watched his face for a second or two, then looked away and pretended I hadn't seen him.

I looked down Pentonville Road. A motorcycle roared past. I looked back at Hatch out of the corner of my eye. He was motionless, and by now I was convinced he was looking at me. Silence suddenly filled my ears, and for a moment I thought I could hear him breathing.

I looked away again, and then back. He was absolutely still, a dark figure against darkness. I looked, and he seemed to disappear. I had to squint hard to make sure he was still there. I looked down at myself, and wondered how exposed I was. I was dressed in black, and was probably not easy to see either. For a second I thought I was dead, and it was not pleasant.

Fighting the urge to sprint away round the corner, I forced myself to think logically. He wouldn't kill me. Not yet, anyway. I might have good news. He would at least wait until I told him what I had to say before he killed me. Maybe that wasn't even Hatch.

A car rounded the corner behind him. It cruised slowly, its engine quieter than the accusatory sound of the tyres on the road. It coasted to a slow stop behind Hatch. It killed its engine a good ten yards before it stopped completely.

We stood facing each other for a long while, the car headlights behind him making him nothing but a silhouette encased in a shroud of light; a harbinger of some awful revelation. The stand-off was severe - I was the weaker.

The lights snapped off. He stepped off the kerb and began to walk towards me. Blood pounded in my head. I closed my hand around the butt of my gun, waiting for the surprise to be sprung. I thought I saw him smile as he passed underneath a streetlight, but I could have imagined it.

"Good evening, Mr Towne." He was smiling, and despite the polite words, for all the ice in his voice he may as well have been telling me how much he was looking forward to unravelling my large intestine.

"Gotta stop meeting like this."

"Not when investments are at stake."

"That's sound advice."

"So, what progress?"

"Everything's going fine," I repeated. Too vague. His eyes narrowed.

"Convince me."

I took a deep breath, and recited, rather woodenly:

"James Gabriel was taking delivery of shipments of cash. Your cash. He was shorting on foreign currency and using Medusa Chenaix to ship the currency to London from Latin America, Africa and the Japan. To all intents and purposes, he was stocking the UK reserves with sterling, dollars and yen. That was his cover."

"But we know better." As he said this, a van rolled quietly around the corner and pulled up beside us.

"Indeed," I said, distracted by the van.

"What else?"

I turned back to him.

"Regular deliveries. Once a month, on the first day of the month."

"And?"

"February 1st is two days from now."

The side door of the van slid open. It sounded like a rumble of thunder. The interior light went on.

Kim. Bound with rope, gagged, apparently unconscious. A featureless man dressed in black behind her, holding her up with a knife to her throat.

Hatch inched towards me. His breath was warm. "Mr Towne, where is the money going?"

My heart thundered. I had to play for the bluff or come clean and say I didn't know. The former at least bought me some time.

"It's going to Medusa Chenaix." It was half truth, half bluff. I hoped he wouldn't call it.

He did.

He kicked me in the balls. I never saw it coming. I collapsed silently onto the concrete and dry-retched in agony. He squatted over me, and hissed in my ear.

"I do not want to let you out of my sight. Don't take offence at my lack of trust, but I've had volatile nerves ever since meeting you, and I would feel much more comfortable if you remained in my presence until the delivery date."

The blow came down on my neck, and the world dissolved in the momentary relief of unconsciousness. My advantage evaporated, and I was once again in the warm arms of Chuck Hatch.

****

forty-four

The room was huge and dark, apart from a tiny circle of light in the middle. There was a song in the darkness - Walkin' Blues. An acoustic version - Eric Clapton, I think, from his Unplugged album. Just the slide guitar, a steady metronome beating the simple woodblock rhythm, and the voice echoing in the big black room from that tiny circle of light.

****

### forty-five

Winter sunshine burned my eyes open. Cigarette smoke and stuffy car heat made my head hurt. I was in the back seat of a car, sandwiched between Toscanini and the heir apparent to Mr Erwin. It was the driver smoking. Hatch sat in the passenger seat. He must have heard my eyes open, for he turned around to watch me.

"Kim..." I croaked.

"Not quite," he said.

I stared at him, and decided to keep myself to myself.

"What time is it?" I said.

"Ten-thirty. And a good morning to you, Mr Towne." I smacked my lips together. My mouth felt like someone had pissed in it.

"Where are we?"

"In a side street in the Square Mile, some quarter mile from Medusa Chenaix. It is the first of the month, and we are eagerly anticipating, on your invaluable advice, the delivery of my... fucking... money."

A word appeared in neon on the back of my eyelids: GHOST. "Nice timing."

"Carefully administered doses of various pharmaceuticals have kept you sedate until today."

"Mickey is an exceptional raconteur."

Hatch smiled blackly. The goon that was not Toscanini produced a switchblade and flicked it gleefully.

"I hope that we will not be disappointed today," Hatch said.

He pressed the knife against my throat.

"For your sake."

I tensed up, but didn't jerk. The goon's grip increased. I felt the skin break, and a trickle of blood sank down my neck.

"I had originally assumed that Dr Gabriel would have striven for meticulously planned subterfuge to receive his delivery, but it would appear that, given his choice of location, he intended the delivery to come in as a normal secure shipment, and then worry about hiding it when the auditors visited. Several of whom, I would imagine, would be quite easily suborned into a vow of silence."

"He could afford it." The goon removed the knife.

"Certainly, Jacko. The Bank of England's dollar reserves are becoming better stocked by the day, and with such altruism, who's going to ask questions?" Hatch held up the ledger between a thumb and forefinger and swung it like a pendulum.

"Consignment numbers," he said.

I blinked.

"The long numbers by the entries. Consignment numbers for courier deliveries. Obviously, over the course of the day, Medusa Chenaix receives plenty, so we need to get in there and start checking. The first is due around eleven."

"A courier?" I said, like a moron.

"Hiding in plain sight, Jacko."

I reached out and snatched the ledger from him. He let me take it.

"Where's Kim?"

Hatch smiled, and nodded his head vaguely in the direction of Medusa Chenaix.

"Back at work. This is all going to be very public, and a little distraction will tip the balance nicely in our favour."

"What have you done to her?"

"Relax, Jacko. She's fine. But around eleven o'clock, Medusa Chenaix is, regrettably, going to go the way of the dodo. Ms Layrona is going to oversee its demise." He looked at his watch. "Now, come on. Time is advancing."

Tosca got out and walked to the back of the car. He popped the boot and returned in less than a minute and distributed a courier's bag to each of us. Inside each was a switchblade, a shiny new Glock, two spare clips, a two-way radio handset and a balaclava.

"Conceal these until you are ready to use them," Hatch said. "You'll be working with Mr Toscanini and my other colleague here - fresh from the trenches of Basra."

"Enchanté, I'm sure."

"Now I don't need to warn you, Jacko, that, whatever happens now, we're all into the realms of hard time." He held up his own courier bag. "If we have to do that time, best have something waiting for us when we get out, eh?"

"Don't fuck it up for me, then," I said.

He grinned ooh you kidder and turned around again. The driver started the car and we drove to Medusa Chenaix.

*

In the distance, the chanting was steady, but growing in volume. I could hear the dissonant roar of activism and the regular stomp of thousands of feet marching in tandem. There were sirens, klaxon blasts and tinny, disembodied voices barking orders out of unseen PA speakers.

"DOWNING IS DROWNING!"

"YOUR STANDARD MAKES US POOR!"

"UNWANTED TERRORISTS!"

"FUCK THE DOUGHBALLS!"

and my personal favourite –

"Drive TANKS through BANKS!"

The marching boots grew louder, and I guessed the army of protesters was moving in on the City of London. At the end of Gray's Inn Road one or two were visible. One wag was shinning up buildings and lamp posts, using a spray can to obliterate street names.

Nice one, fraggle. That was proper Jackson-warfare. Sabotage and disablement.

Myself, Hatch, Toscanini and the other goon were stationed along Gray's Inn Road, outside Medusa Chenaix. Each was distanced from the other by fifty or so yards. I was positioned directly outside the entrance, where the deliveries would be made.

The pavement was busy with mid-morning users, each with their head down. The smog fumes were unusually strong today - I kept inhaling diesel.

We loitered. No one looked at us. No one ever pays any attention to suits, even if they are behaving suspiciously.

I slipped my sunglasses on. I needed to piss. I shifted my weight from foot to foot. Now I had a weapon again, I wasn't so nervous. If the delivery wasn't kosher, I wondered if I could knock off the other four - three plus the driver - before one of them took me out. It seemed a safe bet that the driver was as well-equipped as we were. I didn't want to underestimate them. I called long odds on my getting out of it safely if it did go wrong.

I remembered how Hatch had got the drop on me at our last meet. It made me wince.

An electric taxi silently swung in to the kerb by me. It got too close - its tyres squeaked along the concrete. A woman got out, passed within a foot of me. She was gorgeous. She didn't look at me.

The traffic noise sounded tinny, self-contained. I caught Hatch's eye, tried to stare him down. He smirked and looked away.

On Hatch's signal I was to approach the delivery driver with a phoney cover story that would allow me to see the consignment number. If we had a winner, I would give the command to intercept.

The escape van was waiting in the side alley adjacent to Medusa Chenaix. It would have to take less than two minutes. If the money was not in our possession after that time had elapsed, the police would almost definitely be on the scene and we would be in serious trouble.

A police car screamed by on full alert. Doppler messed up my ears - I didn't hear it until it was virtually next to me. My whole body tensed up. I looked around anxiously. Still no one was paying attention.

Hatch seemed very sure of himself, but I didn't like it. Maybe he knew something I didn't – consignment numbers aside. No - he would have disposed of me already. Maybe he needed a human shield if it did go wrong.

I stared up at the towering frontage of Medusa Chenaix, the sun glaring off the glass like a mirror. Even if Medusa Chenaix had deposit facilities – like a vault –

how the hell could one man squirrel away regular vanloads of dirty cash so conspicuously?

Maybe he had more help than we knew about. Or maybe Hatch was right – hiding in plain sight was an underestimated tactic. Lord, I should know. Or maybe – despite all the evidence to the contrary - it wasn't coming here at all

It still didn't feel certain. There were still unanswered anomalies. The significance of GHOST was playing havoc with my grey matter.

My hand closed around the butt of the Glock in my pocket. I had Hatch in my sights, but the two goons were between us and he was the best part of two hundred yards away. The likelihood of getting a clean, accurate shot with a pistol depended entirely on a fluke.

So I could walk that two hundred yards, shorten the odds a bit - like to point-blank range, and put the bullet in through his temple like I'd promised Kim. He'd be off my back for good.

There'd be no money. There'd be no escape. The goons would drop me in a heartbeat, and even if they didn't, my freedom with Kim would be fleeting if I shot him in broad daylight in the middle of London on the day when the capital had ten times its usual number of cops.

I don't care.

I don't care.

I want him dead.

I want this over.

I touched the dolphin tiepin with one hand, and slowly withdrew the gun with the other. In my mind I saw the close-up, the sun glinting on the chrome as it emerged from my pocket into daylight.

I was suddenly bumped from behind, and I whirled around, ready to strike.

"Sorry, mate," a voice said.

The guy that had jostled me was a gloomy looking suit carrying a large cardboard box. He was one of several pouring out of Medusa Chenaix, like Day of the Dead.

I said quiet thanks for the fact that I'd left the gun in my pocket.

"What's going on?" I said to the wretched-looking man.

"Medusa Chenaix just folded," he said. "We're all out of work."

Holy Christ. Hatch hadn't been kidding. Distraction was right - the news crews probably weren't far behind. The jobless bankers trudged off down the street, seemingly oblivious to the hordes of protesters at the end of Gray's Inn Road. That could be interesting, Mr Commissioner \- Clash of the Tightwads.

The crackle on my two-way radio fizzed me out of my concerns. It was one of the goons from the northernmost end of the street.

"Ready to give it large?"

Great. The Basra veteran was a geezer.

"What?"

"Target is approaching from the north end of the street. Are you ready?"

"Yeah."

"Top banana. Out."

I looked up the street. A courier van was indicating to pull off the street. It was two hundred yards away. It was moving slowly. It still didn't feel right. A burst of adrenaline flowed through my system. What - or who - was Ghost?

A jolt, a shard of some realisation in my brain. I reached into my jacket and pulled out the ledger. The photographs were still tucked inside the rear pocket, and I rooted around until I found the photograph of Sandra and Gabriel in bed in the bedroom at his love palace.

One hundred yards.

Goon on the radio: "Get set."

The photographs of the same apartment from the estate agent's sales brochure. Pictures of the lounge, kitchen, bedroom.

Bedroom.

Bedroom.

Fifty yards.

Hatch on the two-way: "Wait for my signal."

I looked at the two pictures. The one from the apartment - Sandra and Gabriel in bed.

Thirty yards.

The one from the sales portfolio - the same bedroom, but empty.

Twenty yards.

The same bedroom, but empty. Almost the same angle, same light, same position. As if Sandra and Gabriel and been removed. Exactly the same, but minus Sandra and Gabriel.

Ten yards.

Minus the two people.

The van pulled up in front of me. It was just a standard, boring, Parcel Force delivery van.

I stared at the two pictures. The driver got out and walked around to the back.

Crackle. Hatch: "Now, Jacko, go!"

Still I stared at the pictures.

Crackle. Fizz. "What are you waiting for? Go, you cant!"

I looked up, snapped out of it. I put the pictures back in my pocket. I looked at the driver. I looked both ways down the street and saw the puzzled faces of the three of them advancing, picking up speed. They reached into their pockets and broke into a jog. The driver pulled a box out of the van. They started to run, confused, wanting to go in shooting.

I turned and ran into Medusa Chenaix.

****

### forty-six

I thundered past the receptionist, who was crying into the phone while her colleague packed up their belongings. I sprinted past, and turned the corner towards the lifts.

The doors were beginning to close. I put my head down and charged for the lift. A short woman was in my path - I shoved her to get a clear run. She fell heavily onto the floor with a shocked gasp.

I made it into the lift, expecting shots to pepper my foot as I reached the doors, but none came. The other three were probably still too bewildered to have begun the chase.

The other liftriders tutted loudly as I hurled myself inside, but no one said anything. I got my balance and got out at the next floor, taking the stairs the rest of the way. I was sweating heavily and breathing hard. When three more armed lunatics ran in after me, someone was going to call security. I hoped they had their hands full with the mass redundancies.

On the tenth floor I barged through the stairwell door and ran across the open office, pushing past the stream of workers as they filed out. Heads turned to look at me as I made for Kim's office. She was concentrating on something she was writing, and looked like nothing had ever been different. I suddenly felt bad for trampling all over her life.

I ran to her. She looked up, startled, and went white as I approached.

"Jackson? Thank Christ you're alright. He said... if I didn't do what he said... he'd hurt you..."

"Kim, where is the ghost building? Where is it?"

"The what?" I could see her thinking.

"Kim, please. The money is going to the ghost building, but if we don't get out of here now, the forerunner in the mayoral race and two psychos are going to come running through this office and blow us away. If we're lucky."

She was standing now, and was with it.

"Stairwell," she said.

"Did you bring the BMW?"

"You know I did."

She grabbed my hand and we ran through the office to the stairwell. The collective gaze of the open-mouthed drones followed us out.

The door clattered open and the noise echoed right to the bottom of the building. The white walls were dream-bright, and I didn't know if I trusted my legs to run fast enough. But they would have to.

Three floors down a door burst open. The Basra goon appeared from nowhere, grabbed me by the throat and hurled me to the floor. He drew his switchblade, and advanced slowly. I couldn't see where Kim was.

I slithered backwards on my hands. He lunged. I back-rolled out of the way as he plunged the blade down, and got a boot in his face as I got up. He squealed and toppled backwards, then leapt to his feet, snarling.

He made another move, grabbing for my face. He was all rage, no brains. Clamping his hands around my temples, he left himself open. He squeezed. I felt my eyesight darken. I managed to pull the gun before I blacked out, and he realised too late that a round had zinged through his stomach.

The force of the blast sent his body across the landing, where it smacked into the wall and sank down, a stream of blood flowing thickly out onto the cold metal floor. His eyes were wide with shock, and he gurgled incoherently, dying with a smirk of surprise on his face.

I whirled round, saw Kim, then grabbed the banister as my knees buckled. I shook my head violently to snap out of it. The other two would not be far behind.

We ran down the stairs till we hit the fifth floor, then Kim grabbed me.

"Not this way," she said. She pulled me out of the stairwell into another open-plan office – OPERATIONS was stencilled in large letters across one wall. The office was empty, but I didn't have time to dwell on the irony.

We sprinted across the office. There was another lift on the far wall.

It was cramped and dusty. A toolbox lay in the corner. Kim pressed 'B1' and the lift started to sink, slower than the main lifts.

We caught our breath.

"Nice idea," I said.

"Service lift. It only goes up five floors," she said.

"I pieced it together just now. Dico gave me some of it, you gave me more, Hatch said more or less the same, and I worked out the rest myself. So I wouldn't try anything smart, the goons dosed me up with Mickey Finn until today. And it wasn't until just now, while we were waiting for the cash, that I suddenly realised where the money would go. I mean, I know where, but I don't know where."

I handed her the two photographs.

"Look at these. See the similarities? And see the differences?"

She stared at them.

"This was what he left us," I said. "This was his clue."

"He wanted them off his back, even dead," she murmured. "He wanted us to find it."

The lift reached the basement car park, and the doors slid open and cut a chink of light out through the dim lot. Buzzing sodium lights dotted the ceiling. I followed Kim to the BMW.

We pulled out of the bay. There was a stream of cars waiting to leave - probably before the repo men arrived, or - as Kupferberg had said - before they turned into pumpkins.

Kim didn't wait for the queue. She wrenched the wheel to the right and tore up the inside of the idling cars, the newly-redundant drivers too dejected to even protest. She smashed the BMW through the barrier of the entrance lane into the side alley at the back of Medusa Chenaix.

We passed the escape van, still parked by the kerb. A wisp of smoke drifted out of the driver's window. I sank into my seat. He was still waiting. The others were still inside. Kim drove past, and turned out onto Gray's Inn Road.

We headed south. Once among traffic, I rose up again. It was getting towards noon, and at the south end of Gray's Inn Road lines of police vans were beginning to take convoy positions on the approach to Threadneedle Street, jeered on their way by growing hordes of mordant protesters.

To avoid getting snarled up in traffic, kettled or otherwise delayed I directed Kim south on Blackfriars Bridge into Southwark, avoiding the growing mass that was beginning to march on the Bank of England.

Once we were over the bridge, Kim began to talk.

"The ghost building is at the Concordia Wharf in Bermondsey. It's an exact copy of Medusa Chenaix, down to the smallest detail. All information is backed up onto the mainframe daily, so that, in the event of Medusa Chenaix going up in smoke the staff can be quickly transferred to the ghost building with minimum time loss. Most of the banks do it, as part of their business continuity plans."

"The one difference being that the ghost building is empty, right?" I lit a cigarette, and one for her.

"Completely."

"Project Ghost," I said.

We passed Southwark Cathedral. I looked behind me. Nothing yet. But they would come.

"What's going to happen?" she asked.

"If all goes to plan, we spend no more than five minutes intercepting the money, half an hour from here to London City Airport and wherever the first charter flight is headed. If you're with me." I added.

She looked at me, alarm in her face.

"Of course I am."

The traffic thinned as we hit Jamaica Road. She checked the mirrors.

"Anything?"

"Nothing obvious. I can't tell what I'm more worried about - police, Hatch, or someone else entirely. You don't know which end it's going to come from."

"That's right. You just never know." I blew smoke out of the window. "Welcome to my world."

*

As we neared the wharf, I saw a courier van headed in the same direction. Traffic was very light now - it had to be the target.

"Look, there." I pointed to the van. "Follow it. Keep close." Kim pulled the car across two lanes.

A stream of police vans suddenly thundered past, sirens wailing. They were headed for the Rotherhithe Tunnel.

"Where's the fire?" I said with irritation. The sudden howl of the sirens had aged me ten years.

"Must be going to the Exhibition Centre," Kim said. "That's where the summit is."

"Let's hope they haven't jammed up the airport."

Kim dropped a gear and accelerated to catch up with the courier van. As we got closer I saw that it was liveried in black and yellow with MEDUSA CHENAIX - SECURE LOGISTICS on the side. It turned left into a rough gravel track that led up towards an industrial estate. Kim dropped a gear and closed right up on it. It was a wide vehicle - the driver couldn't see us.

Around the outskirts of the estate were huge, ancient warehouses, some empty, some used for construction work and garages. Medusa Chenaix's ghost building was in the centre of the plot, in the middle of a cluster of newer buildings, administrative blocks for the gears of industry.

We followed the van onto a network of tarmac roads that spiralled into the centre of the estate. I looked around. At the most, a third of all the buildings were in use, and no people seemed to be around.

We approached the cluster of office blocks. A concrete perimeter wall surrounded it. To enter, the van had to pass underneath an electronically controlled barrier that allowed it in. There was no one on the gate, just a CCTV camera watching over everything that entered or left.

The van stopped by the barrier. Kim sneaked up close and tucked it behind. I winced, hoping the omnipotent camera wouldn't see us. The barrier opened, the van rolled slowly on, and we kept close behind, hugging the tailgate.

It pulled up across a large bare concrete apron to the front of the block itself. I looked behind us, saw nothing. The estate was deserted. Kim pulled out of the slipstream and ran with it as it slowed to a halt.

"Wait here." I got out of the car and dusted myself down. I wore my most affable smile as I watched the black windows of the van.

The door of the cab opened. The driver got out. He was an old guy. He eyed me warily. I broke the ice.

"Hey," I said. "James couldn't make it today. He sent me instead."

"And you are?"

"My name's Sam." I extended a hand.

The driver looked at my hand, then back at me.

"You got any ID?"

A second guard appeared from the passenger side. He was younger, and he looked nervous. He approached me briskly, as if he sensed something.

Normally, large cash shipments are delivered in trucks plated like Panzers, with drivers kitted out in ballistic vests and NATO helmets. Gabriel obviously subscribed to the theory that these cause more problems than they solve, and that a nondescript courier van doesn't get a second look most of the time. This was probably a safe theory ninety-nine times out of a hundred, but today was that other time.

I didn't want to waste time. I let the second guard get within my fighting arc, then I pulled out the Glock and swung it at him. The barrel struck him on the temple - he dropped like someone had switched him off, and I levelled the barrel at the driver before he could react.

"I'm afraid this is a robbery," I said. "Just take it easy." I took him by the shoulder and spun him round so he was facing the back of the van.

"Put your hands on your head, and don't do anything I don't tell you to do." I poked the gun into his back. "We take the money, and this is all over inside of two minutes. Now, walk." He did, in a daze.

We rounded the back of the van. The sun greeted us with a blare. I slipped on my sunglasses.

"Okay, open the door." The driver hesitated. "Just do it," I said, pressing the end of the weapon into his spine.

He did as he was told. The back of the van was stacked full of double-bonded cardboard boxes, the label on each one suggesting it contained laser copier paper.

I pulled one of the boxes towards me with my spare hand. Just as I was figuring out how to keep the gun on my hostage and open the box, Kim was there. She took the gun from me and pointed it at the driver.

I looked at her. She was pale, but the gun was steady.

"Just keep still, and everything will be fine," she said.

He wasn't going to argue.

I opened the box with the switchblade. At first glance, the box did indeed contain reams of paper, but, after slicing one of them open, I found they contained sheets of American dollars - the liabilities of the Federal Reserve. Hatch hadn't been lying about the literal laundering – it may have been blood money, but the notes were crisp, white and new. Hiding in plain sight, indeed.

I looked from the van to the car and back, and made some mental calculations. It was a simple equation.

"We'll take the van," I said to Kim.

She looked at me, a half-smile forming on her face.

"We did it," she whispered.

The driver went for the gun.

The shot shattered the silence. Kim and the driver wrestled for a second, then I was on him - a knee to the kidneys and an elbow in the temple and it was over.

I pulled out a ream of dollars and put it in the BMW for the driver, then shouldered him into the back of the car also.

He landed heavily. The consignment note fell from his hand and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up and read the recipient details – and wished I hadn't.

CONSIGNEE:

Samuel Easter.

Medusa Chenaix ghost building.

Happy holidays.

"How the fuck..."

Hatch? Is this you?

A screech of tyres interrupted me. I spun round. A car sped into the lot. It was unmarked, but a fuck-off big black Audi with three aerials on the roof was never going to be good news.

It stopped some fifty yards away, on the edge of the apron. The driver got out and crouched behind the open car door, using it for cover. He shouted Armed police!

There were no further pleasantries. He opened fire, and a chattering of rounds spat from the automatic weapon. I didn't recognise him. I dropped to the ground, and turned around.

To my horror, Kim was rooted to the spot with fear, still holding the gun towards the van driver in the back of the BMW - which now meant directly towards CO19. I scrabbled towards her on my elbows and knees.

"Kim! Drop the fucking gun!"

There was a shout from behind me, and three shots thudded into Kim's chest. Her eyes widened in shock. She sighed as her last breath was blown out of her, and collapsed heavily backwards.

No.

No.

Denial took over immediately, expedited by necessity. It had to - promises of beaches and log cabins and romance vaporised in an instant. A security guard ran out of the ghost building. She opened fire also. Gunshots were coming from both directions.

I cradled her head. There was no music, no moving last words, no romantic agony. She was already dead, her eyes sightless, her warmth sliding away.

Please, Kim, no.

It was turning into the fucking OK Corral. I had no choice but to pull her up against me. I couldn't even close her eyes.

Holding Kim's body in front of me, I grabbed the gun from her fingers and fired at the guard that had run out of the ghost building - thinking that's why the delivery drivers aren't armed. Because the site security fucking is. The shot took her leg, and she collapsed, howling. I tried to pull Kim up into the back of the van, but I couldn't, and there wasn't room anyway.

Another shot thudded into her now-dead body. I felt her jerk against me with the impact, and for an insane second I thought she was still alive.

I had to leave her. I ran to the driver's door. The keys were still in the ignition, but my attempt to clamber in and escape was foiled by a shot pinging off the doorframe, so instead I sprinted towards the building.

I ran to the screaming guard and picked up the gun she'd dropped. I hoisted her up, pulled her to me, let off some rounds of cover fire, and retreated back into the ghost building.

I focused on escape, trying to fight the urge to run back to Kim's body and protect it from further decimation at the hands of London's finest.

Inside the building was a lobby, housing a desk and two chairs. It was empty. On the wall was a bank of monochrome screens, monitoring the whole building. In the far corner was a set of double swing doors. I kicked one open, still dragging the whimpering guard, and stepped out into a huge room.

It was like I hadn't even left Medusa Chenaix. Rows and rows of computers stretched out before me along the length of the room, all the screens blank, all the chairs empty. It was dead. There were no green figures flickering across screens, none of the collective murmur of a million simultaneous telephone conversations, no scurrying workers, each wrapped up in their own transaction. It was huge, still, and deathly quiet.

I looked up at the high ceiling, where dozens of strip lights hummed and buzzed. Hanging from the ceiling were signs over different areas of the room, designating where the staff should go if an evacuation ever should come to pass. "LOGISTICS" read one. "COLLECTIONS" read another. "SECURITY" read another.

It was as if the city's busiest office block had suddenly been switched off, the staff suddenly whisked away. It was an enormous warren, and it worked to my advantage.

*

"What are you going to do to me?" The guard seemed to have overcome her pain.

"Be quiet." We were sitting on the floor of a cramped storage room. A shelving system ran around the walls, containing hundreds of bits of old hardware.

I sat against the door and regained my breath while I inserted a fresh clip into the gun. Dragging a semi-comatose woman up several flights of stairs had been an exhausting effort, and I needed to rest, to prepare for the showdown.

"I said, what are you going to do me?" I had bound her hands and feet with cable tie while she was unconscious, and now she sat, helpless, against the opposite wall.

"And I said be quiet." I could almost hear her mind racing, trying to think of some way to out-psych me.

"You won't get away with this, you know. The emergency services have already been called. We'll be surrounded in minutes."

"Please be quiet." I kept my voice low. All of a sudden it bothered me that to her, I was merely the bad guy. One dimensional - the person described in a training scenario as the subject or the target.

"Talk to me," she said. Her attitude was cocksure. She seemed unfazed. "Don't kill me. Just give up now, walk out and lie down on the floor and you won't die. You'll get a lenient sentence."

"For fuck's sake, will you shut up? Kim would still be alive if not for you, you silly fucking bitch."

"You won't kill me. Too many of you thugs take hostages without planning for the consequences, then can't put their money where their mouth is. You won't be able to do it. You won't be able to kill..."

Before I knew what I was doing, I picked up the gun from the floor and fired at her, deafening both of us in the process. As the shot died away, the silence brought blissful relief. I leaned my head against the door and closed my eyes, soaking up the quiet.

A noise burrowed through the silence. What was it? It sounded like a hissing, maybe from a ventilation pipe or a distant machine. I opened my eyes.

It was the guard. She was still alive. Her eyes were bulging, and the strangled hiss was the only sound she could make as she tried to stem the flow of blood with her bound hands. She was staring at me widely, as if trying to speak. I shot her again. She fell back, dead.

That was it. That was life, no parole. But on reflection, why did I bother? I had lost the woman I loved, and there was no point to anything. But survival is an instinct, and the pain only came later.

I got to my feet and walked over to the guard's body. I leaned over her.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, and began to strip her of her clothes.

*

The guard's uniform wasn't a bad fit, and after shoehorning myself into it I carefully opened the door of the store room.

The outside office area was empty, and the silence rumbled. I could hear nothing - though if I listened hard I could have sworn I heard voices.

I ventured slowly out into the main office area, my heart pounding, my head swivelling every way to make sure I wasn't jumped from behind.

Images of Kim kept flashing before my eyes, and it was getting harder and harder to banish them. Harder and harder to put one foot in front of the other. The impulse to crawl outside and give up was strong.

Panic was there, lurking at the base of my neck, but I managed to keep it down. I hugged the wall, gun drawn, wondering when the attack would come, wishing it would be soon, to end my fucking misery.

The lights were harsh, and I expected someone to be there, everywhere. I wanted to scream. Madness would have been a relief.

I walked – shuffled, my feet not leaving the floor – further out into the room, and made my way down past a row of blank computers, towards the door on the opposite side of the massive room.

I stood with the gun held in front of me, paralysed with indecision, my lungs filling and emptying like an angry piston trying to force its way out of my chest.

Money... money... where's the money?

The money was real enough. It was out there, in the courier van. But the van was off limits, and no doubt was already being secured with crime scene tape.

But where was the rest of it? I couldn't search this massive building alone, and sheer survival – empty-handed or not – had suddenly become the order of the day.

I spun around on the spot, not knowing where to start, the urge to give up washing over me like the tide, becoming stronger by the second. And that consignment note – I had been stitched up.

No. I had to find the money. Walking out of here empty-handed was not an option. I couldn't let them get me. I owed it to her. I had to search. I had to...

A light caught my eye from the corner of the room. One of the computers was on, the flashing light from the monitor casting long shadows across the walls.

It was the only machine in the room that was on. I spun round again, pointing the gun, not believing my eyes when I saw no one there.

I edged towards the flickering screen, taking another look around as I approached, blinking twice before I could focus on the screen.

The screen flared into life. A blinking cursor appeared in the top corner.

A word appeared, green against a black screen. It took up the whole screen.

FOOL.

I stared at the screen, over and over, sweat dripping in my eyes, my stomach clenching.

A second monitor clicked on nearby.

FOOL.

Then a third.

FOOL.

Then a fourth, then a fifth, until every monitor in the room was on, each glaring at me in a silent taunt.

FOOL.

FOOL.

FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL FOOL...

I screamed and kicked the nearest monitor onto the floor, where it smashed and went with a bang.

The commotion outside grew louder. A low buzz, the sound of more and more vehicles surrounding the building. This was a big fucking conspiracy - it sounded like half the Met were in on Operation Fuck Jackson Towne.

I didn't have much to fall back on, having shot my bargaining tool before realising what was going on. The cops were probably trying to figure out how to play a potentially fragile situation. Aah, fuck this. I wanted to come out shooting. Now.

A door clattered open from one of the far corners of the room as the cops breached the entrance. I couldn't tell from which end it had come. I heard shuffling footsteps. I pictured them as nervous as I - it was of some comfort. There was not yet a role assigned to hunter or hunted. It was still to be claimed.

I shoved the gun into my underpants, dropped to the floor, adopted a suitably sprawling position - face up - and covered my face with the guard's hat.

I waited there on the floor, listening to baritone murmurs become words as shuffling footsteps carried them closer.

I listened hard, and picked up at least four of them, probably more. I pictured them kitted out SWAT-style, all ski goggles and protective helmets and other stuff.

"Oh, Christ," one of them exclaimed. They rushed over. With lack of sight, my other senses felt razor sharp. "You two check on the guard. The rest of you come with me."

"Okay, sarge."

I helped out. I raised an arm, pointing to another door, and murmured. "He went that... he went through there."

I heard the rest of them scurry off, boots thudding on the floor. I felt the other two kneel down beside me. I felt one lean over my body.

"Are you okay?" His voice was calm. "Sir? Can you hear me?" He touched my shoulder. I felt his other hand grasp the hat covering my face. He pulled it aside. I felt cool air as it slid off.

No cries, no exclamations of surprise at the positive identity. They were buying it – so far. This would not last once they went to check the wound, however, which they seemed madly keen to do.

To fob them off, I yelled in pain and curled into the foetal position. It did the trick.

"Get him to the ambulance," one said, and the two of them hoisted me up under the arms and dragged me towards the stairs.

They carried me in and out of the empty banks of desks, through the reception area, and stopped at the tinted glass doors. The emergency services had begun their assault on the estate, a symphony of sirens shattering the desolate silence.

An arrangement of sturdy-looking police vehicles had formed a semi-circle around the entrance to the ghost building. Several officers emerged from their cars and began barking into radios and positioning themselves for a full-scale attack.

The two officers yelled into their radios that they were coming out with a casualty, and then fresh air on my face as they jogged across the tarmac to the ambulance.

The courier van was still in situ, as was Kim's body. I could only see her feet \- the rest of her was hidden by the van doors. Already there was crime scene tape and numbered yellow signs marking items for forensic recovery. That's all she was now. Just a crime scene. I prayed to the IPCC gods for the cop that shot her to burn in hell.

More commotion, paramedics around me, calm voices, comforting.

"What a mess," someone muttered. "Okay, is he conscious?"

"Yeah... I am," I whispered.

Strong hands lifted me onto a stretcher, and wheeled me up into an ambulance. The paramedic got inside with me, and called through the hatch.

"Let's go, Rob."

It moved off. The driver gave it some noise. The paramedic leaned over me. "Can you hear me, son?" the paramedic said, concern in his voice. "What's your name?"

"My... my name's..." I let my voice falter.

"What? What's your name?" He inclined his ear to my face.

I raised the gun.

"My name is Jackson Towne."

*

I liberated the paramedics of their radios and ambulance and left them by the road, grateful that the cops had made the mistake of failing to send someone to accompany me. CID would be spitting.

Away.

I floored the ambulance along the outside lane, down the main road out of town. Suburbs and townhouses flicked by me like a short movie reel on repeat. Pre-menstrual living, soaked in apathy like an ether rag.

The thought of how close I had come to being caught hit me hard. My chest tightened and I babbled increasingly-incomprehensible expletives as I drove. And the thought that they were coming, were on me, were probably gaining, was worse even than staring an imminent defeat in the face. The extra morsel of hope made it worse.

Away.

Still in the warped jungle, but every time I looked in the mirror, I expected to see the cavalcade of red, white and blue lights, ever closer, like the yawning chasm of some great abyss.

Away.

In the wing mirror I could see the last scraps of daylight fading away into nothing behind me. I looked ahead again and headed straight for the darkness, leaving the daylight behind for good.

Away.

I drove for a long time, or so it seemed. I was the other side of Biggin Hill, when I reached the bridge that crossed over the M25 into Westerham.

Dico had died not far from here. His voice in my head:

You want to be judged? File a tax return. Or point a gun at police.

The bridge was blocked at the far end. At least a dozen police vehicles. I stamped on the brakes and screeched to a halt in the middle of the bridge. An inspector with a loudhailer blared some jargon at me: Put down the weapon and come out slowly with your hands up. Give it up. You are surrounded. Or maybe that was just in my head. I don't know.

I got out of the ambulance. I didn't put my hands up, and I didn't give up the gun. It was a nice gun.

No slo-mo, no blaze of glory, no Butch-and-Sundance siege, bullshit like that. It doesn't happen like that. It's over in an instant.

Loudhailer: "Your time is up."

"My time is always fucking up." I said it to myself, and no one else.

I pulled the gun from behind me, and raised it.

A series of explosions in my legs, chest and arms, throwing me backwards like I'd been hit by a bus. My knees gave out like they'd been struck with lump hammers, and I collapsed like a concertina onto the cold, damp ground.

As my vision got fuzzy, I tried to take stock of everything, thought about posterity, wondered if there would be any kudos in the answer to the question How did they finally get Jackson Towne? I tried to ignore the thought that the question might never get asked.

I thought I saw Hatch standing shoulder-to-shoulder amongst the people thronged together on the cordon. He was craning his neck, trying to look past the other rubberneckers at me. He looked worried. Genuinely concerned. Had I not resembled a sieve, I might have been surprised by the look in his eyes, but I was too tired to work it out.

A couple of the onlookers recognised the mayoral candidate and there was mild excitement until a few cops got among them and tried to usher Hatch away. He looked like he wasn't having any of it, but a huge bear of a man in a brown suit took him by the shoulders and made Hatch look him in the eye. Lips moved on both sides as words were exchanged – the bear admonishing, Hatch plaintive.

Plaintive? Hatch?

I could have been mistaken. My eyes wouldn't focus properly.

The bear got his way in the end. Chuck Hatch disappeared into the crowd, surrounded by his small entourage. I blinked. My vision was narrowing; the daylight seemed to be at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

The bear ducked under the cordon and walked slowly over to me, to where I had fallen. He stood over me, then knelt down. As he leaned over me his big lantern-jawed face swam into focus.

Pelly? Bryan?

You're not dead after all!

You're here... unless I'm dead too.

Am I dead?

Am I... No.

Not Pelly.

Carr.

The big lug, the big detecting constable.

Carr's face was serious, but not unkind. For just a second I saw an operations room; my picture on a big corkboard; my movements a web of timelines mapped over a huge wall; clerks and detectives alike scurrying about with one common purpose in mind.

I wanted to say to him I guess that's the end of Malted and Sweet, but my voice wouldn't work, and my throat felt thick with red sludge.

Carr touched my shoulder.

Don't try to talk.

I wanted to say: How come you're so pally with him? With Hatch?

Then paramedics and armed police medics alike jostled him out of the way, and the image faded. They crowded around me. I couldn't understand it - they shoot you, then try to help you. As if to say it was for your own good.

This time I heard the music – those Kings of Leon again, Pyro this time, playing out of the sky. The melting day was sinking over the horizon, the sunset just getting further and further away. The road stretched to a point and cars began to flick on their lights. The sky seemed big, bigger than normal, and the air tasted sweet.

I thought of Kim, and my mind got cloudy.

****

the epilogue

Running a hand over his hairless head, Charles Hatch scrutinised his image in the baroque gilt-framed mirror. He had lines, his new beard was emulsion-white; he was old. But the features of age complemented his dignity; he had grown old with grace. And at last that dignity would reward him, for today would be the day when the recognition he so richly deserved would finally be his.

He inched closer to the mirror, and squinted again at his reflection. The little mark on his neck still just peeked over the collar, but the touch-up work had been okay. It just looked like a birth mark. He touched it with his thumb, and smiled.

He turned from the mirror and looked around the office - the office he'd waited a long time to get into, the office he deserved. The marble fireplace, the bronze busts, the solid oak desk, they were all appetisers to today's consummation.

The office door opened and a lithe, immaculately dressed Italian man entered. The glint in his eye might have indicated the mark of a schemer, but he'd proved faithful to the last.

"Ready?" the Italian asked.

"I've been ready for years."

"I could always go instead of you," the Italian said, teasing.

"Nice try, Tosca. You've done all the donkey work, but people don't even know you exist." The bald man smiled, but he held it too long, and it faltered.

"What is it?" Tosca asked.

"It's not an easy run, Tosca. You don't just get here. You get bruised along the way."

"Are you talking about Towne again?"

"Who else?"

"Well, the path of true power never did run smoothly. But now you're here, about to press the flesh, the question is: was it worth it? Can you live with yourself?"

The bald man didn't immediately answer. When he did, it was with a question.

"Why did he... why me?"

Tosca sighed.

"Charles... we've been over this. He was not firing on all cylinders. People like that latch onto people like you. This one got the idea into his head that he was an undercover cop. You get people like that all the time. It's a... how do you say? Occupational hazard?"

"He thought I was a gangster, for Christ's sake. Thought I was out to get him. I mean obsessed."

"Guy was a movie freak, too. Thought he lived in a movie."

"And the woman. The cop?"

"Kim Layrona. Shame about her."

"A shame? It was tragic. Undercover police work – the risks outweigh the rewards, but it's the only way to catch the pricks."

Hatch sighed, and walked back over to the mirror.

"Well, that's why you brought in Project Ghost, right?" Tosca said, walking up behind him. "Bring home all the undercovers; cut loose the ones who were in too deep."

"The ones that had gone native. You'd think the SFO putting them into those corporations would be relatively safe." He rubbed his face.

"Apparently not. But Charles - it's over. He – Towne – has gone. Gone for good."

"Until the next nutter."

Hatch took another good long look at his reflection.

"We need to go." Tosca said.

"You go. I'll be along in a moment."

"Don't keep them waiting." In the mirror, Tosca smiled at him, and Hatch broke into a chuckle. Hatch turned from the mirror; the pair exchanged handshakes and one or two further words of mutual deference, then Tosca left the room.

Hatch turned back to the mirror.

He craned his neck.

It really did look just like a birth mark.

A smile crept across his face, the light never reaching his eyes. He turned away and left the office, walking down the steps to the waiting limousine that would take him through the centre of the adoring throng.

*

The ceremony had finally come around, after months of preparation and campaigning and electioneering, and then it seemed as if the wait had been no time at all. It opened today, with a huge parade around the capital, starting and finishing in the middle of Parliament Square.

The crowds had gathered, the bands were ready, the roar was beginning to grow. The celebration would start with local dances and music, and then the limousine would ride through the streets. After that they would proceed on to Hyde Park, where the inaugural speech would be given.

A huge cheer suddenly drowned out the announcer's clipped tones over the PA, as the limousine turned onto the south end of Whitehall.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls... the new mayor of London Town... Charles Hatch!"

*

Some way down from where the parade began, en route to Festival Hall, was an old hotel, whose neon sign buzzed even in the daylight.

It was no more than a doorway a little way up from the Tottenham Court Road Underground station. The streets around it were eerily empty, the crowds all drawn to the festival's main route to catch a glimpse of the parade. A tall, lean man with a mop of black hair entered the hotel, clutching a guitar case. No one saw him enter.

He walked over to the old man behind the desk.

"Room please," he asked, his voice neutral.

"How long?"

"One night."

"Thirty quid," said the old man, holding out a key. "Fill in the book, please."

The man did so, and noticed the old guy at the desk looking at the case with interest.

"Got a couple of gigs. Camden."

The man nodded.

"What sort of thing?"

"Jazz, mainly. The Artisan Liquidators. Heard of us?"

"Can't say I have," the man laughed. "But if you like jazz, go to Soho. Try Greek Street. Check it out, Mr... Easter," he said, reading the register as the man handed it over.

"Thanks. I will."

He handed over the money, then smiled cordially and climbed the stairs with the keys.

When he reached his room he looked out across the city.

A silent television flickered in the corner of the room. Some ageing movie star was talking to an indifferent host about his prolific career. His desperate, old face was intercut with the blackboned remains of his youth: old prints of films, photographs, and memories.

Ironic that he should be sent back here. After all his work, he should be afforded yet another room with a view of this dirty city by day.

His age was supplemented by the knowledge that he wasn't the same person any more. The person he owed his career to had stopped existing. The desperate look - he would cease to exist when the power was cut. Give me something tangible before the extinction.

Another job to do, another employer, another inward spiral, shading himself from the world, now so tightly insular that he even knew himself less.

The desperate look - give me something real.

Anything.

Please.

Before the tape runs out.

Before I am switched off.

He began to set up the rifle, pausing only to touch the dolphin tiepin on his lapel. It had once been the colour of brass, but age had worn the sheen away, and now only a dull grey remained.

A hollow laugh, and he pointed the rifle down the street towards the oncoming parade.

Stop.

Eject.

THE END

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to wholeheartedly thank my 'test preview' readers, without whom LONE SHARK never would have seen the light of day. Without them, mistakes would have gone unpunished, plot holes would have remained unfilled, geography would have been consigned to the scrapheap and plausibility would have been stretched far tighter than polite society permits. In short, they ensured my 'to do' list became a 'done' list, and I am indebted to all of them.

ANDREA BIRCH

AMBER BURROWS

ROB CAMPBELL

LILY CHILDS

ANNIE FALCONER-GRONOW

CAROL PHILLIPS

MARK TIMLETT

JAN WEEKS

JOHN WELLS

PETER WHITE

And finally, huge thanks indeed to the uber-talented Wendy Clarke, whose incredible design talents have made me changed my outlook on life – now I really really hope people judge the book by its cover!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TIN LARRICK is the pseudonym of a former police officer currently living in the UK. LONE SHARK is Tin's second novel – his first, DEVIL'S CHIMNEY, is available now for all formats.

Tin's third book, MANUKAU BLUEBIRDS, is currently under construction.

If you have enjoyed this eBook, please help other readers discover it by leaving a short review on the site from whence it came. If you didn't like it – well, we can manage that too. Tin loves readers (although he couldn't eat a whole one) and would very much like to hear from you:

Email: tinlarrick@live.co.uk

Twitter: @tinlarrick

Facebook: www.facebook.com/tinlarrick

Blog: http://tinlarrick.blogspot.com/
