Ridley had updated Interpol and now half the police forces in the bloody world were looking for four women, buying and selling high-end goods at a pace. Monaco, Rio, Zurich, Monte Carlo: anywhere known for its rich visitors was being looked into. The waiting was almost painful.

Jack and Laura sat together at her desk as he fed her names of forgers from the eighties and she checked them on the system.

Marcia Armante—dead. Thomas Sykes—alive: Alzheimer’s. Scott Hughes—dead. Dougie Marshall—alive: care home. Rachel Yarborough—alive: glaucoma.

Laura couldn’t believe they were looking at such decrepit old relics. But Jack was encouraged. Eddie had mentioned that Dolly knew Dougie and Marcia very well, because they’d both worked closely with Harry. They were his go-to forgers.

“Once you got involved with Harry,” Eddie had said, “he never let you go. Treated you right, mind, as long as he got it back tenfold.”

Eddie had explained that, after the first underpass raid went so badly wrong, Harry had been nursed back to health by Trudie. He’d suffered minor burns in the explosion and bits of him were all wrapped up like a mummy. Trudie had been sent to get him a new passport—Eddie didn’t know which forger he’d chosen, but it had to have been Dougie or Marcia. And seeing as Marcia was dead, Dougie was top of Jack’s list.

As Jack pulled his coat on, Ridley came out of his office for an update. His every instinct screamed What the fuck are you doing, chasing a pensioner in a care home? But he didn’t say anything, because he also knew that his every instinct had let him down recently.

The care home had directed Jack to Marshall’s Bookmakers, in Croydon, Dougie went in every day to help his son, Gareth, run the family business.

Jack entered through a side door and up a dirty, stained staircase, half-blocked by a stairlift. There was so little room that he had to slide along the wall as he climbed. On the landing, he passed an old bathroom with a few remaining dark green tiles clinging on to their old grout for dear life. There was a dirty towel hanging over the rail, a stained tub and a toilet that Jack could smell from the corridor. It was truly horrible.

There was a closed door at the end of the corridor. There was no sign, and the paint had seen far better days, but this had to be Dougie’s office. Jack knocked lightly, pushed down on the handle and swung the door open.

Dougie Marshall was sitting at his desk behind a plume of noxious cigar smoke when Jack walked in uninvited. He wore a wide, shoulder-padded, pale blue and pink tweed jacket with a yellow shirt and mismatched tie. He was obese, with a flushed complexion and a bulbous red nose. There was a cigar clamped between his yellow teeth, which were almost the same color as the final few strands of hair that had been combed over his otherwise bald head. In front of Dougie and to his left was a stack of promotional flyers for the bookies, and to his right were some sticky labels showing their new web address. Dougie was sticking one label on each flyer and then creating a third stack ready for distribution in the street, no doubt by spotty teens wanting to earn pocket money.