Tom hung up and paused for just a second, gathering his thoughts. If they knew his real identity, it wouldn’t be difficult to trace him. If you have money, anyone can be traced if they live a normal life.

He stood and strode to his bedroom and the built-in wardrobe, removing the suitcase from the floor and peeling the carpet back from the suspended floor to reveal a recessed trapdoor. He lifted the particleboard hatch to reveal a small black Nike rucksack: a legacy from his days in the military, his grab-bag. All Det members had one, to be used in the case of a compromise or emergency that required them to escape and evade. Tom didn’t know what the immediate future held, so some preparation could only be a good thing. After tucking the SD card into his sock, he grabbed his jacket and left the apartment.

*

Tom drove the short distance from his apartment to Holborn Police Station on the edge of the City of London. He decided not to go into the underground car park in case a swift exit was needed. He pulled over on Emerald Street and locked the car up, paying for an hour’s-worth of parking at the nearby meter. The wardens were particularly zealous in that part of Camden and getting towed away at that point was not a great prospect. Hoisting the grab-bag over his shoulder, he made for the rear entrance of the nick by the roller-shuttered underground car park.

He felt calm, despite Neil’s alarming call. He felt sure there would be some exaggeration involved: Ivan had always seemed a bit of a dramatist. The news that Branko senior was out of jail was disconcerting, though; the boys didn’t worry him a bit, but their dad was a different prospect.

He went to the side door adjacent to the vehicle access roller-door and used his warrant card to swipe access into the pedestrian door. His first swipe led to a blinking red light on the keypad. Frowning slightly, he swiped again with the same result. The card entry systems in the Met were notoriously fickle, but he’d never had a problem at Holborn. Swiping again only produced the same blinking red light. He pushed the intercom button and listened to the repetitive tone indicating he should wait while the reception officer got to him.

A voice behind him said, ‘DS Novak?’

Tom turned to see a well-built male, about his own age, smartly dressed in a blue suit and grey tie, with dirty blonde, buzz-cut hair.

‘Who wants to know?’ said Tom, suspicion prickling his senses.

‘I’m DS Martin Green from Witness Protection. I was coming to meet you here at the Borough Commander’s office, but I’m glad I caught you now; we don’t think it’s secure here at Holborn.’ He had a deep, resonant voice with the slightest tinge of a vaguely familiar accent.