‘They’ve changed position. CTR had them using the other van, facing away from this position,’ said Brace. ‘It’s one of the reasons we chose it.’

‘Change of sentries. This lot probably prefer a different van. It’s no reflection on Ward or Miller. No CTR should ever dictate fact over flexibility.’

Abbott kept his cool when inside he was wincing. The over-sight – because at the end of the day, and for whatever reason, that’s what it was – meant they had to approach from the front. Not ideal, but then again, the SF team had stealth, surprise and the cover of a dark, almost moonless night on their side. Added to that, both sentries were seemingly absorbed in their mobile phones.

‘We still operational?’ asked Brace.

‘Nothing changes,’ said Abbott, ‘You know what to do.’ Pulling his balaclava over his face, he headed down the stairs and made his way back to the ground. ‘All call signs, prepare to move.’

Chapter 39

CHAPTER 39

‘What the fuck is going on here?’ barked Doyle. He looked up, angrily stubbing out a cigarette as his office unexpectedly began to fill with people, including—

‘Cynthia! What the fuck are you doing here? Finn? McGregor?’

‘Today is the day, boss,’ said McGregor. He was holding a cake on which was written the words ‘King of Derby’.

Doyle lit another cigarette. ‘What day?’ He was beginning to redden. ‘What’s going on? Will someone please tell me what’s going on?’

‘Calm down, darling,’ squeaked Cynthia Doyle. ‘It’s just a little surprise, that’s all.’ Behind her, Marky had entered the room with a platter full of lager and Cynthia needed no invitation to reach out and pluck one for herself. ‘Me and Mac decided that we should have a little celebration to mark the fact that it’s – how many years?’ Brow furrowed, she looked to McGregor.

His eyes darted.

‘Och, five years I think, Mrs Doyle.’

‘Five years since what?’ said Doyle angrily, half-rising from his desk, the cigarette jammed between his lips. There was the crack and fizz as more tins of lager were opened, the sight and sound of which only enraged him further.

‘Five years since we defeated the Kemps,’ said Cynthia. ‘Five years since you became . . .’ her hand swept across the cake presented by McGregor, ‘King of Derby.’

Angrily, Doyle stubbed out his cigarette in the middle of the cake. ‘You have got to be fucking kidding me,’ he said. Growing redder and redder.

Cynthia realised that she had made a mistake and turned to McGregor, planning to demand an answer.

Weirdest thing, though: McGregor, far from being contrite or terrified by the sudden volcanic anger of her husband, looked as though he was trying to suppress a smile.

Chapter 40

CHAPTER 40