He always cut to the chase, but Tom figured £100 was reasonable in the circumstances. Usually Tom could have sourced informant rewards from central police funds, but it took a whole heap of applications and reports and would take time he didn’t have.

‘It’s a deal. When can I get it? Bear in mind that the answer I want to hear is “right away”. I’m in a hurry.’

‘How about the café on Chapel Market in an hour? You can buy me a tea?’ Lucky said cheerfully.

‘One hour. See you then,’ Tom said and hung up.

He dialled another number on the burner phone, which was answered quickly. ‘My dear boy, I thought you’d never call!’ boomed Stan.

‘Can you speak?’

‘Fire away. I’m nearly at work, just in the car.’

‘Is Taylor in today?’

‘He should be. Diary says he’s in all week and he’s on-call as well.’

‘Is he still using the Jag?’

‘Yes. Especially since you nicked the Passat.’

It suddenly hit Tom that the VW was still with Pet. He guessed he should sort that, as well as his own car in Shepherds Bush, soon.

‘Can you text me when he gets in? I need to have two minutes in the back yard with the car and I need you to keep him occupied and out of sight of the car.’

‘No problems. Soon as I see him,’ Stan said.

‘Thanks, speak later.’

*

The café was a typical North London establishment: nothing flash, no lattes, no flat whites, no pastries; just tea, coffee and fry-ups. The place was about half-full of office staff and hi-vis-clad construction workers, all enjoying the tantalisingly tasty repast that flowed over the counter all day.

Lucky was already sitting at a booth when Tom arrived, a cup of tea and a half-eaten bacon sandwich in front of him. He nodded as Tom sat in front of him and smiled. He was a scrawny man in his early forties with sharp features and deep blue eyes that shone with intelligence and cunning. He was a good thief but deplored violence and was liked by all, which was what made him such good value as a source of intelligence.

Tom ordered a tea from the wordless and scowling owner, who wore a stained apron and a purple rinse hair-do.

‘So, will this work then, Lucky?’ Tom asked.

‘On my baby’s life, yes, Tommy-boy. It’s a cracking bit of kit as long as all you want is to get in the car without damage.’

‘Last I checked, you don’t have any kids, Lucky. Who’d want your genetics?’ Tom asked with a grin.

‘Ouch! A dagger through my heart, Tom. You are a cruel man. You got something for me?’

Tom reached into his jacket pocket and pushed an envelope across the table and then took a swig of the strong, almost bitter, tea.