Abbott had said goodbye to the lads at the Welcome Break. He’d assured them that McGregor would be transferring the money into their nominated offshore accounts, and then, before they left, said one more thing: would they be interested in a second mission at some point in the near future, the date yet to be decided? A rescue mission.

‘Who will we be rescuing?’ Tom Brace had asked.

‘Me,’ Abbott had told them, thinking that their money would come out of the cash that Lady Norton was to pay him for the death match. If they all came out of it alive, and provided she continued to hold up her end of the bargain, then he was good for it.

Now Abbott was back in his room at the Travelodge, looking at a 700-millilitre bottle of vodka on his desk and talking to his AV, which was calling to him with a louder voice and even greater urgency than it had in some time, his poor neglected reward centres shrieking at him: come on, you did a good job. You deserve it. You deserve a drink. Just one.

But no. Because while the operation had indeed been a success, in the sense that Doyle was dead, most of his lieutenants were dead, his operation was at an end and, most importantly, the trafficked children released, it was only the beginning, the tip of the iceberg. There was much more to come. More to do.

Perhaps he’d have a drink when it was all over.

Perhaps.

And in the meantime, you, shut the hell up.

As his AV fell silent, not beaten just temporarily quelled, he turned his attention to the CD, pushing it into his laptop to watch it.

There were dozens and dozens of movie files on the CD. He picked one at random. Double-clicked. The image that greeted him was of an empty room, a dirty mattress on the floor. And even though Abbott’s exposure to scenes of abuse was thankfully rare – he had done far more rescuing than he had ever done witnessing – he knew what was coming next, and he steeled himself for it, finding himself forming strange hopes. Please let it be a grown adult. Not a kid. Please, not a kid.

His heart sank when the door opened, and a woman led a child into the room. She held the boy’s hand like a mother would, or a protective older sister, and with a smile she directed the child to the bed. Her lips were moving, the film silent – thank God for that, at least – no doubt bidding him to take a seat, for that’s what he did. He was just a little kid, no more than eleven years old, that age where you can’t hide your emotions even if you try, and right now what Abbott saw on the kid’s face was rank fear. Heartbreaking fear.