‘Hello, DC Pete Rhymes speaking,’ said a chirpy, cockney voice on the other end.

‘Buster, it’s Tom. Don’t say my name out loud if you’re in company.’

‘You’re fine, mate. I’m at home on-call, and I’m also hearing some fucking bullshit rumours about you being of interest in a murder in Willesden,’ he said in his familiar machine-gun-speed voice.

‘Can we meet? I need some help.’

‘Of course, buddy. Where?’

‘Usual place, about midday?’

‘I’ll be there. Stay safe, my little Polish friend.’ And with that, he was gone.

*

The ‘usual place’ was the Punch and Judy in Covent Garden, a busy pub in the centre of the square. Its attraction was its popularity with tourists: two people could speak freely and never be noticed amongst the throngs of visitors buying over-priced food and drink.

Tom arrived slightly after midday and saw his old friend sat in a corner booth in the darkest corner of the hostelry, nursing a drink. He ordered two pints of lager at the bar and went and sat in front of Buster. There was no handshake or hug, just a knowing smile that was more than adequate as he placed the beer in front of him.

‘I love it when you give me beer, Borat,’ smiled Buster.

‘I know you well, cockney wanker.’ And they both giggled like schoolchildren.

‘So, what’s going down? I’m hearing stories about a UC going rogue and getting his informant killed.’

Tom sighed and brought Buster up to speed on events.

‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ Buster’s voice was a shocked and forced whisper, his meaty face screwed up with the news. ‘I knew there was a lot more to it but no one’s saying much. No one knows of our history at SRR, so I’ve not been asked anything: it’s just the usual police rumour mill.’

‘I’m ninety-nine percent sure that the main man is DCI Simon Taylor, my boss at Kilburn,’ said Tom. ‘The second is someone at Ilford nick, where the solicitor was taken and some evidence wiped. The third, I think, is NCA at SW1. They’ve had my phone and bank hooked up and I only managed to escape getting kidnapped because the guy had a slightly moody-looking warrant card.’ Tom paused again, aware that the story was ridiculous when said out loud.

‘Do you have evidence of this?’

‘Nothing admissible. I’ve had a bit of help along the way which I’ll tell you about another time. I’m hoping you can do some research on the Professional Standards’ intelligence systems to see if there’s anything known about Taylor and accomplices. I’ve got the Serbian Mafia after me, backed up with access to all the law enforcement databases and resources. I need to identify the lot of them before I can plan my next move.’