‘I know my cars, sir,’ Johnson said, still inscrutably polite. ‘I was talking about Robert Browning.’

‘Dunno him, was he a car designer, too?’

‘No, he was a poet.’

‘Ah.’

Clive Johnson stepped back and spoke quietly into his radio. Moments later a dog handler appeared, with an eager white-and-brown spaniel on a leash with a fluorescent yellow harness.

‘Just a routine check, sir,’ Johnson said. And instantly noticed a nervous twitch below the man’s right eye.

‘Yeah, of course.’

The handler lifted the dog into the trailer, then clambered up to join it. Immediately, the dog started moving around the Ferrari, occasionally jumping up.

‘Make sure it don’t scratch the paintwork, I’ll get killed if there’s any marks on it,’ Mickey said.

‘Don’t worry, sir,’ Clive Johnson said. ‘Her claws are clipped regularly, her paws are softer than a chamois leather.’

The handler opened the passenger door and let the dog inside. It clambered over the driver’s seat then, tail wagging, jumped down into the footwell and sniffed hard.

Its demeanour and reaction were a sign to its handler that the dog had found something.

Mickey watched it, warily. His boss had told him not to worry, they’d used new wrappers, devised by a Colombian chemist, that would stop sniffer dogs from finding anything. He hoped his boss was right. Certainly, the dog seemed happy enough – it was wagging its tail.

5

Monday 26 November

As the dog handler led the spaniel back down from the rear of the trailer, he exchanged a knowing glance with Clive Johnson, who climbed up and peered into the car. Looking at the spoked wood-rim steering wheel. The dials. The gear lever with its traditional Ferrari notched gate. He opened the door and leaned in, sniffing, and that was when his suspicions increased. Authentic classic cars had an ingrained smell of worn leather, old metal and engine oil.

This car did not smell right.

He removed a wallet stuffed with £50 notes from the door pocket. Sniffer dogs were trained to smell not only drugs but also cash. Was it going to turn out to be just an innocent wad of cash in a wallet, after all this? Hopefully not.

He jumped back down onto the shed floor, turning to Starr. ‘I’m seizing the wallet and its contents pending further investigation as the cash could be evidence of criminal activity.’ He sealed the wallet into an evidence bag in front of him.

Mickey could feel his anger and anxiety growing. ‘What are you doing, is that really necessary?’

Johnson ignored the question. ‘Is the car driveable?’

‘Yes,’ Mickey said, pointedly.

‘Good. What I’d like you to do, please, is reverse the car onto the floor. I need to weigh it.’

‘Weigh it?’

‘Yes, please.’

The butterflies now raised a shitstorm inside Mickey’s belly. He tried not to let that show. ‘No problem.’ He began removing the wheel blocks.