‘You got me there, Detective. I have nothing new on the Brankos: they still appear to be in London. He’s not tried to call you and he’s not used the phone apart from one call to Arken about ten minutes ago. There’s been no movement at the house, but we think one of them went out for a cigarette a few minutes ago. I can send you a screen grab to your tablet.’

Tom reached for the tablet and saw a mail icon appear on the screen. Selecting it, he saw a blurred image, zoomed in on the farmhouse. Tom took in the sight of Cameron’s battered Land Rover and the smarter-looking Mercedes both at the front of the house, a two-bedroom place set well back from a small farm track, about half a mile from the nearest road. He saw smoke drifting from the chimney and the top of a figure stood outside the door, a glow in front of his face.

His approach would have to be stealthy and he was thankful of the forthcoming inclement weather. He did not fear rain. ‘If it ain’t raining, it ain’t training’: the words of his old troop sergeant rang in his ears.

‘Thanks, Pet,’ he said and then, as an afterthought, ‘If Branko calls, will you be able to patch him in to this comms system?’

‘No problem.’

‘That’s great; means I don’t need to carry the satellite. I still have to prepare so I’m signing off. I will call in again later.’

He appreciated the help he was being given, but he was conscious that it was now down to him, although the thought didn’t make him nervous, it made him determined. He switched off the communications set and removed the earpiece, tucking both items into his inside jacket zipped pocket.

He took the boiling kettle and made another black tea.

Once more it was him, on his own: the little boy from Sarajevo.

*

He retrieved a small camouflaged day-sack from the locked cupboard in the bothy, another item that he’d held onto after leaving the military. Digging through it he found a folding pocketknife, a tactical pocket-torch, and a stick of camouflage cream which resembled a matt green double-ended, large lipstick.

He smeared the green and brown camouflage cream across his face, making sure that the pattern he daubed roughly corresponded with the pattern on his CS95 combat smock. He ensured that his ears, back of his neck, hands, and arms up to his elbows were appropriately covered. Concealment was going to be his best friend that night: he needed to stay invisible even if he did not believe they would be expecting him. He had left London just over three hours ago: that was only long enough to drive as far as Birmingham on a good day.

He stood and began a physical check of all his kit.