‘Good morning, sir, I am with the UK Border Force,’ Johnson said with consummate politeness.

‘Morning, officer!’ Mickey said in his Brummy accent. ‘Bit of a ride that was. Good to be on terra firma!’

The man had almost comically thick lenses, which made his eyes look huge, Mickey thought.

‘I’ll bet it is, sir. I’m not much of a seafarer myself. Just a few questions.’

‘Yeah, of course, no problem.’

The man’s voice seemed to have risen several octaves, Clive Johnson noticed. ‘I will need to see the documentation for your load. Have you come from anywhere nice?’

‘Dusseldorf, in Germany.’

‘And where’s your destination?’

‘Near Chichester. I’m delivering a vehicle for LH Classics.’ He jerked a finger over his shoulder. ‘They’ve purchased this vehicle on behalf of a client and they’re going to prep it for a race in the Goodwood Members’ Meeting.’

‘And what is the vehicle you are transporting?’

‘A 1962 Ferrari – 250 Short Wheelbase.’

‘Pretty rare. Didn’t one of these sell at auction recently for nearly £10 million, if I’m correct?’ Clive Johnson said.

‘You are correct. But that had better racing history than this one.’

Johnson nodded approvingly. ‘Quite some car.’

‘It is, believe me – I wouldn’t want to be the guy responsible for driving it in a race!’

‘Let’s start with your personal ID. Can I see it, please?’

Starr handed him his passport.

‘Are you aware, sir, of the prohibitions and restrictions of certain goods such as drugs, firearms and illegal immigrants for example?’

‘It’s only the car and me!’ Starr said cockily, pointing his thumb towards the trailer.

Johnson then asked him a number of questions regarding the placing of the vehicle in the unit and its security on the journey, which Starr answered.

‘Can I now see the paperwork for the vehicle?’ Johnson said.

Mickey lifted a folder off the passenger seat and handed it to him. Johnson made a show of studying it for some while. Then he said, ‘I’d like to see the vehicle, please, sir.’

Immediately he noticed the man’s fleeting hesitation. And the isolated beads of perspiration rolling down his forehead.

‘Yeah, sure, no problem.’

Mickey got out of his car, butterflies in his stomach, telling himself to keep calm. Keep calm and all would be fine. In a few minutes he’d be on the road and heading home to Stuie. He went to the rear of the trailer unit, unlocked it and pulled open the doors to reveal the gleaming – almost showroom condition – red Ferrari.

Clive Johnson ogled the car. Unable to help himself, he murmured, ‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?’

‘You what?’ Mickey said.

‘Robert Browning. That’s who wrote it.’

‘Oh,’ Mickey said, blankly. ‘I think you’re mistaken. David Brown – he was the man who created Aston Martins. DB – that stood for David Brown.’