But she also had her subject right where she needed him, rattled and alone. Whatever kind of racket was going on at this garage, it was secondary to finding out what happened to Joel Kowalski. And her best chance of doing that was to keep Kask here in his office, no lawyer, no thinking time; just the two of them.

Asking for the truth now, off the record, while Kask still had some hope this might all go away, was a far better bet than taking him into custody, dragging him across London to the nearest station, gifting him an hour or more to think about the consequences of giving up not only his associates but also his business.

By the time she pressed record he’d have his story worked out, or simply clam up. They’d spend weeks chasing him from legal pillar to post, maybe get a conviction for dealing, in the process sacrificing the chance to get information about Kowalski within a time frame they could use.

Clearly Kask wasn’t the brains of this operation – people behind serious organized crime never put themselves front of house – so if Kowalski’s murder was a direct result of his involvement here, she needed to snare the unseen mastermind before they got wind of what was going on at Streatham Motors.

It had to be now.

Kask slunk past her, rounding the desk, and dropped on to the grimy orange seat, which protested his weight with a sharp creak. He placed both hands on the desktop, perhaps anticipating the instruction she would otherwise have given; hung his head.

‘Time for honesty.’ Hawkins leaned on the far edge of the wooden surface, cowing him like a trainer breaking a puppy. She glanced out through the window, relieved to see the two younger men back at work, apparently unaware of Kask’s predicament.

She waited for him to look up, then led his gaze to the bleeding package. ‘What’s really going on here?’

‘Please,’ he rasped, on the verge of tears, ‘I … had no choice.’

She eyed him. ‘Go on.’

‘The drugs.’ Kask began to rise, thought better of it when he caught Hawkins’ resulting glare, and sank again. ‘They forced me to do it.’

‘Who?’

‘The men.’ He waved at implied third parties. ‘They came here two months ago, saying they would wreck my shop if I didn’t do it, burn my home with my children inside. I told them no, so they did this.’ He opened his left hand, to reveal a four-inch slice mark across the palm, healing now, but clearly the warning of someone prepared to make good on their threats.

Hawkins paused, feeling a rush of pity for the man, reassessing the oil-blemished building with its wall of tyres and discarded mechanical parts, as realization dawned.