‘Nothing. His phone made and received a few calls: at least one to Arken and one from a number in Nigeria. Want to guess who?’

‘Let me guess. Adebayo?’

‘Boom! He’s run off. He must have got a false passport as there’s no trace of him leaving with his own. I guess he didn’t fancy his chances.’

Damn, Tom thought. That made the solicitor untouchable if he’d fled. He pushed the thought out of his mind; there was nothing he could do about it now.

‘Anything else to report?’

‘I managed to trace the Mercedes. There’s not so many of that model registered in Glasgow, so I ran all the possibles from the PNC through the ANPR database. We got just the one that hit all the ANPR cameras between Glasgow and Aviemore, where it turned off.’ She sounded pleased with herself as she reeled off the registration plate number.

‘It’s not registered to Arken, but I did manage to get an image of it on the A9 at the Perth roundabout, and I’m as sure as I can be that there were three people on board. So that’s how many there are for you to deal with,’ she said, still sounding quite smug.

‘Thanks, Pet, that’s useful. You are a magician.’

‘Other than that, Branko and his boys’ phones are all still hitting the same cell mast as before, so I guess they’re waiting for you to hand over the card tomorrow. Unless they are using untraceable communications as well.’

‘I have to go, Pet. I’m going quiet now unless I have to speak to Branko. Are you familiar with the click system?’

‘I ask a question, you answer two clicks for yes, one for no, right? Three deliberate separate clicks for ask-me-questions?’

‘Spot on.’

‘Be careful, Tom.’

‘I’m always careful,’ Tom said as he began to move towards the farmhouse.

He moved carefully as he approached Cregganmore Farmhouse, in full patrol mode: eyes scanning, senses tuned in. He listened as intently as the wind would allow, the butt of the MP7 tucked firmly into his shoulder. He was entirely familiar with the environment, having played in those same woods as a child. The forest smells were familiar to him: the heady, resinous pine scent and the soft earthy smell of the fertile soil. The ground was soft underfoot, and he tried as best as he could to be as silent and stealthy as his surroundings would allow. Even with the wind masking his movements, the covert approach was as natural to him as breathing.

Every twenty steps or so, he adopted a crouched stance and scanned a full 360 degrees, observing for anything alien to the environment: the muscle-memory of patrol skills as strong as ever.