Tom crossed over to the Asda superstore and made his way straight to the electronics section to purchase a simple Nokia phone and a £50 top-up voucher, paid for with cash so that nothing could link him with them. His iPhone and the one taken from Martin remained in airplane mode, safely stashed in his bag. His route had been circuitous, and only paid for in cash; he was off-grid and hiding in plain sight.

He strode up to the check-in desk at the Ramada Hotel. It seemed clean, modern, and anonymous and perfect for Tom’s purposes. He fixed the smiling, pretty receptionist with his most self-effacing smile. A name badge announced her as Beata, her smile was wide and genuine, and she had dark curly hair and vivid blue eyes.

‘May I help you, sir?’ she said in a Polish accent.

‘I’d like a room for a night, please.’

Her smile widened. ‘No problem, sir. We only have a queen-sized room left at one hundred and ten pounds with breakfast. Is this okay?’

‘Fine,’ said Tom, handing over a pre-paid MasterCard in the name of Tom Johnson. The name was replicated on a genuine driving licence that bore his picture, issued to him while he was in the SRR.

He had obtained the bank card a while ago as an insurance policy for events such as this. His time with SRR had made him very careful, always expecting the worst. The work had been such that, if his identity had become known in some circles, then contracts on his head would have followed. He had killed two prominent Republicans in Northern Ireland, as well as the two Al-Qaeda operatives he’d despatched in 2005 while rescuing Mike Brogan. Tom was a careful man by nature, and the option of £2,000 in untraceable funds was attractive. Using his own credit card at that moment would have been akin to painting a target on his chest and waiting for the bad guys to come. Not for the first time he silently thanked his own in-built caution.

It was a lesson he had learnt from his childhood: life can take a turn at a moment’s notice. Some lessons you never forget.

Beata handed over a plastic card room key accompanied with a brilliant smile. ‘Room 231, Mr Johnson. Enjoy your stay.’

*

The first-floor room was just as Tom had expected: clean and tidy, with two huge beds alongside each other and a spotless bathroom. It overlooked the front of the hotel, giving Tom a good view of the road in front as well as South Ruislip Station.

Tom sent a simple text to Mike. ‘Room 231, Tom Johnson’.

Within a minute the reply came in from the familiar number.

‘Affirmative. Pet visiting you 1900hrs. We’ll speak soon. Stay safe, buddy.’