“So, the SUV—” Rob stopped Angela mid-sentence with a peck on the lips.

“You’ve asked me this a dozen times.”

Angela smiled, her beautiful brown eyes asking him to humor her one more time.

“The Chevy Suburban was delivered to Amsterdam yesterday morning, collected and driven to the hotel in Düsseldorf by Julia’s lad and put round the back in the bus parking where, lo and behold, the CCTV don’t work too well. So, as long as you’re sure the lad’s trustworthy, we’re sound as a pound.”

Julia’s “lad” had been in Angela’s care and, fifteen years ago, she’d saved his life when he slit his wrists. He’d been systematically abused by his family since birth and he finally snapped. When a boy like that finally meets an adult to love him, his gratefulness knows no bounds. Angela was confident that Julia’s “lad” would kill for her, so hiding a car for her would be a doddle.

Jack was using his mobile phone torch to see the writing on the gravestones in the otherwise dark churchyard. As he moved through the beautifully kept grass, he hated the fact that Charlie popped into his head—a well-kept plot would be important to him. Jack thought about the cemetery just up the road from his mum and dad’s bungalow in Totnes. It was on a hillside overlooking the sea and Jack used to short-cut through it to and from school—he and the lads would pause on one of the numerous benches to drink cider and smoke tabs. It hadn’t felt disrespectful or naughty; it had felt fine. As though the residents really wouldn’t mind them being there. Unlike tonight . . . Tonight Jack felt very disrespectful, traipsing over grave after grave trying to find the name he was looking for.

Just then, a second torch light joined Jack’s—but this one was bigger, brighter and was being held by a broad Glaswegian.

“Who you looking for?”

Jack couldn’t see the man behind the light as his beam was blinding. He could, however, just make out that he was holding a round-head shovel over his right shoulder. Jack immediately got his warrant card from his pocket and held it in the light.

“I’m from the Met,” Jack said. “Sorry if I’m not meant to be here. The gate was open.”

The Glaswegian dipped his torch. He was a small man, wiry, young, tattooed to the hilt.

“Who you looking for?” he repeated.

“Harry Rawlins.”

The Glaswegian started to walk away, so Jack followed.

“Ya drugs polis? I was nicked three years ago for intent to supply. Best thing that ever happened to me. Got put here for ninety days of payback, picking up litter and dog shit—do you know how many people just leave their dog’s shit lying around? Properly boils my piss, that does. When my ninety days was up, I got a job doing exactly the same thing.” The Glaswegian let out a short, sharp belly-laugh. “Funny, right? This was meant to be a punishment and it turned my life around. We buried a lady just after five o’clock and the family left pot plants instead of bunches, so I’m planting them up for her. She’s got a sister landing from Canada in the wee hours and I want the grave to look nice, you know.”