He pulled out of his bag the fat leather pouch that he’d taken from Martin. He unfastened the side-zip and examined the contents. A syringe was secured by a leather loop with a sheathed IV needle already attached. Alongside was a small bottle marked with Cyrillic script with an English translation underneath: Sodium Thiopental.

His concern deepened even further. He had received significant medical training when he was in the military, including on the use of drugs and intravenous injections. This was a fast-acting barbiturate that would render its victim unconscious very quickly. So Martin’s intention was clear: overpower Tom, inject him with the sodium thiopental and secure him properly. Then probably interrogation until Tom revealed the whereabouts of the SD card. The silenced Sig was probably for despatching him once he had handed over the card. His wary respect for his adversaries raised another notch: they not only had resources but also the skills to obtain and administer dangerous, stupefying drugs.

He asked the taciturn driver to drop him on the approach road to the station, paying him with the notes taken from Martin’s wallet. He stashed all the items away back in his bag and got out of the car, walking briskly away.

He decided he needed a drink and a phone as he spotted The Swallow Public House just off the Uxbridge Road. With its Tudor-style beams and floral window boxes and baskets, it looked like a perfect, anonymous bolthole to plan his next move. He needed a firm plan; he was now being sought by Serbian Mafia who clearly wanted him dead.

*

It was just after 11am, so the pub was empty aside from a fat, middle-aged barman leaning against the bar reading a tabloid newspaper. He glanced up at Tom as he walked in and subjected him to a cool appraisal before returning to his paper. It was a typical West London suburban pub struggling to make a living, if the décor was anything to go by. The sour smell of stale beer was strangely comforting to Tom as he approached the bar.

‘You have any malts?’

‘Just White Horse or Bells, mate,’ replied the barman, not looking up from his paper. Tom smiled lightly, wondering how long the pub would last in business with the guy’s charm.

‘Lager it is, then. Fosters, please.’ He wasn’t a whisky snob, but it had to be single malt or he wasn’t bothering. ‘Do you have a payphone?’

‘By the bogs.’ The barman nodded to the toilets at the back of the pub.

Tom paid for the beer, set it down on a table and made his way to the door marked ‘Toilets’, finding the payphone on the wall on the other side. He imagined that the phone was particularly popular with local drug dealers trying to keep their conversations away from the ears of law enforcement officers.