‘According to the sign I’ve just passed, I’m not too far from Rotherham.’

‘What’re you doing there?’

‘You know me, babe. I go where the money is.’

‘Will you be home soon?’

‘A couple more days. Thursday or Friday.’

‘I just had a visitor. She said she’ll be ringing you.’

‘Who’s that, then?’

‘A woman from the police. About the Focus.’ There’s a moment of silence. ‘Brian? Are you there?’

‘Yes, I’m here. Bad signal. What about the Focus?’

‘She says they’ve found it, but she didn’t say where. I asked her about the insurance, but she said I have to ring them to sort it out. She said they won’t be giving the car back any time soon. Apparently it’s been used in a crime.’

‘What crime?’

‘She wouldn’t say. They haven’t found your stuff, though. She’d come all the way from Thames Valley.’

‘Thames Valley? What have they got to do with it?’

‘How should I know? Anyway, she’s going to ring you. She wants to know where it was taken from, though I told her you’d given them all the details when you reported it stolen. I said I thought it was Hartlepool. Was I right?’

‘Thereabouts. Did you give her this number?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d better get off the phone, then, hadn’t I?’

‘I’ll ring you later, shall I?’

‘You do that,’ says Birch. ‘Love you. Gotta go.’

He ends the call, and drives on grim-faced. Traffic news comes on the radio, with reports of hold-ups at junction 33 on the M1, in the Rotherham area.

But Birch’s Vauxhall is on an urban dual carriageway where traffic is running freely, and the next exit is signposted Aylesbury. Above the road noise, something is rattling in the boot.

There’s a lay-by coming up and he pulls into it. On the seat beside him there’s another phone, a cheap, low-function pay-as-you-go similar to the one he’s just been speaking on. Using the second phone, he dials a number from the contacts book, tapping the steering-wheel with impatience while it rings out.

‘What’s up?’

The voice that’s answered is terse.

‘We might have a problem.’

‘What problem?’

‘I’m expecting a call from the filth.’

A silence. Then, ‘What’re you talking about?’

‘Sheila gave them my number. They’re asking questions about the car.’

There’s a sigh of relief.

‘Is that all? I thought it was something serious. How can they not ask questions about the car? They’re just joining the dots. Even they’re not so stupid as to ignore a gift like that. Just stay calm and stick to the story. They’ve got nothing on you, so you give them their DNA samples and their dabs if they want them and let them eliminate you from their enquiries.’

‘I’m not happy giving them DNA.’