It was not difficult to see why. He sat there like Yoda. No, not like Yoda, the other one, Jabba, stewing in his own juice – the juice in this case being a mix of biscuits and booze and stubble and cigarette smoke. He wore an old England shirt, three lions on his chest, just to the side of which was a stain that might have been ketchup or blood.

He turned as they entered. ‘Mr McGregor,’ he said through a mouthful of biscuit. There was a packet of Hobnobs on the desk in front of him, the screwed-up wrappers of several more there, too, while in front of him was a series of monitors, arranged in a wraparound formation, each showing CCTV images.

Some were of outside, front and back, two more of the pub’s communal areas. Most, though, were of rooms, the sharp end of the operation.

In one, a young girl no older than nine sat on the edge of a bed in her night clothes. In another was a woman – older, thank God for small mercies – emaciated, sitting at a table, her hands shaking as she rolled herself a cigarette; in the third, a client, a vast sweating hulk of a man, who completely obscured whoever it was he was currently paying to abuse. Another room was clearly some kind of communal area. In here were more girls. Again, very, very young. There were other youngsters, one of whom held a dustpan and brush. Support staff, no doubt.

All told, Abbott counted around ten of them. Not all of them kids, depending on your definition of the word. But all of them trafficked. He had always known that he hadn’t needed to go as far as Thailand to face off with child traffickers; he knew that it was happening in this country, too; more and more frequently as more and more desperate people poured in. But to see it up close, having it rubbed in his face? That was different.

Abbott tore his eyes away from the screens as Sweaty spoke. ‘This is your new enforcer, is it?’ he said, mouth still moving around the biscuit, already reaching for its replacement.

‘Meet Mr Flyte,’ said McGregor.

Sweaty nodded in greeting at Abbott, taking the opportunity to give him a long, appraising look. Abbott could not bring himself to respond, even for the purposes of his cover. You helped kill my brother, he thought. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his Diesels, and he was digging his nails into his palms, trying to control his anger.

‘Business good, is it?’ asked McGregor.

‘Always good,’ replied Sweaty.

‘I see you got a new customer upstairs. I hope he’s been fully vetted.’

‘Of course.’

‘He seemed a bit nervous to me, pal,’ said McGregor warningly.

Sweaty nodded. ‘I make sure the boys have a word with him before he leaves,’ he said, and grinned, revealing black teeth.