‘I know, I know, but we need to meet: the three of us, it’s important. I don’t want to talk on the phone but it’s important. I don’t know where the Brankos have gone and Adebayo has legged it to Nigeria. I need you to double-check that as well.’

A short silence followed with the slight hiss of static in the background, but the quality of the bug’s transmission was impressive and as clear as a bell.

‘Okay, tonight at about seven, usual place. At least we can get something to eat and, if we sit outside under the burners, we won’t be overheard. See you then.’

Tom digested this information. He wanted a specific location if his plan was to work as he intended.

Tom heard Taylor coughing slightly before the DCI said, ‘Graham, it’s Si. You okay to speak?’

There was a short pause before he said, ‘We need to meet, mate, urgently. There’s a problem with Novak and we need to sort it, for good. I don’t want to talk on the phone. I’m meeting with Jonesey later at seven. Can you get there?’

Once again there was a short pause before he said. ‘Yeah, that’s the one, big place by HMS Belfast. We can sit outside, get a bite, and talk it through. Okay, see you later. Don’t worry, man: we can sort it.’

There was another pause before Taylor said, ‘Stop worrying, mate! We can sort it between us. Novak is no one. I’ll see you at seven.’

There were muted shuffling sounds followed by the sounds of the car door opening and then being slammed shut.

Pet’s voice emanated from the phone. ‘You get all that?’

‘Clear as a bell. Thank you, Pet.’

Tom put his phone back into his pocket and smiled to himself. They’d described a large pub with outside seating under gas heaters and in the shadow of HMS Belfast. Tom knew that pub: he’d been to it a good few times for a beer and a burger. The Horniman by Hays Galleria on the banks of the Thames, directly opposite HMS Belfast: the old WW2 warship which had been preserved as a tourist attraction.

The pub was huge and bustling and, if you could get a seat outside, it would be the ideal place for a quiet meeting about nefarious activity. He’d even met informants himself there in the past, as it was nice and public and allowed for a discreet chat in an environment where you wouldn’t be overheard.

He sipped his coffee and checked his watch: it was only 11am. Plenty of time.

He picked up his phone and dialled, listening as the phone rang in his ear for about ten seconds before a familiar cockney voice answered. ‘I wondered when you were gonna call me, you cheeky bastard, Borat.’

‘Hello, Buster.’

*