Taylor always thought that he, Jones, and Albrechtsen were a formidable unit. When on the NCA, they had brought down some serious criminals and managed to feather their own nests and enjoy the fruits of their labour. A stupid Bosnian immigrant wasn’t going to stop them; he had no idea who he was dealing with.

Tucking his phone into his pocket, he stood and walked along the corridor towards the car park to call the boys; they had plans to make regarding Novak. He wasn’t worried anymore and began to smile as he felt his confidence rising, knowing that others had tried to bring him down in the past and all had failed. Because he was so smart.

35

Tom sat in the café around the corner from the nick, a large cappuccino and a half-eaten bruschetta on the stainless-steel table in front of him. It was one of the new types of establishments that had been springing up in the Kilburn area since the chic and cool families had started moving in, once they could no longer afford the property prices in Maida Vale or Notting Hill. The walls were lined with shelves of produce full of expensive pastas, antipasti, and Italian wines. No single chair matched another and the whole place had a shabby-chic feel that was as false as it was welcoming. The exodus of the traditional working-class population had also led to the exodus of the traditional greasy spoon café, to be replaced by delicatessens that served paninis, focaccia, and fifteen different types of coffee. Tom was unsure what he felt about that as he enjoyed a good, old-fashioned fry-up as much as the next man. He was fussy about his coffee, however, and very much enjoyed well-made Italian snacks, so it was honours-even as far as he was concerned.

The café was bustling with a large group of middle-class mums, sat gossiping on a large sofa while their kids played happily on the rug by their feet; posh accents mixed with the babble of the children resulting in a happy buzz.

Tom felt the phone vibrate in his pocket and, checking the display, saw it was Pet calling.

‘Hi, Pet, what can you tell me?’

‘Taylor is calling one of his buddies, clear as a bell. You want to listen? I can patch you in?’

‘Do it.’

There was a clicking in his ear that was then replaced by the voice of the man he had, just fifteen minutes ago, been having a confrontation with.

‘Gareth, it’s Si. We have a problem with Novak,’ Taylor said.

Tom could only hear Taylor’s half of the conversation. He hoped it would be enough.