Yates reached out and touched the gleaming wooden veneer around the car’s instruments. Real craftsmanship, he thought.

A car pulled up behind the Rover. It was a BMW, a nice motor, the five series, thought Yates, but it didn’t have the quality of the Rover. The BMW was a car to drive but the Rover was a car to be driven in. It was a crucial difference. Long before he’d become a professional driver, Yates had been a car salesman and had spent a year selling Rolls-Royces in a Mayfair showroom. He’d always been able to spot a serious buyer because they’d get into the back of the car, not the front.

Yates watched the BMW in his rear-view mirror. The headlights flashed. Yates frowned. Normally they came to him. He twisted in his seat. The men stayed in the BMW. He frowned. What the hell were they playing at? He switched off the engine and climbed out. The BMW’s headlights flashed again.

Yates walked to the driver’s side. The window wound down and Pat Neary grinned up at him. ‘Stan the man,’ he said.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Yates. ‘I’m not supposed to see you until next week.’

‘Change of plan,’ said Neary.

‘There’s no plan to change,’ said Yates. ‘I give you information on HODO’s movements, you give me a brown envelope.’

‘Our boss wants a word,’ said Neary.

Kim Fletcher was in the passenger seat. He grinned. ‘He’ll make it worth your while, Stan.’

Yates looked up and down the road. There were headlights about a mile away but the car turned off to the left. ‘What does he want to talk about?’

‘He wants to pick your brains.’

‘About what?’

‘That’s why he wants to see you, Stan. Says he doesn’t want to work through me on this.’

Yates licked his lips. ‘How much?’

‘Didn’t want to tell me, Stan, but he said he’d make it worth your while.’ Fletcher sighed. ‘Look, if you’re not interested just tell me and I’ll pass the message on.’

‘I’m not saying I’m not interested,’ said Yates hastily. ‘It’s just I’ve always worked with you.’

‘And I work for him,’ said Fletcher. ‘It’s his money you’re salting away.’

Yates thought about it. ‘Where?’

‘He’s waiting for you, not far away. Follow us in your motor, okay?’

Yates went back to his car, spat out his chewing gum, climbed in and started the engine.

The BMW flashed its headlights, then pulled out and drove on. Yates followed at a safe distance. His mouth was dry and he wanted a drink. Yates never drank while driving. In his twenty-seven years at the wheel he’d never so much as touched a glass of shandy while he was working. But as he followed the BMW through the darkness, he wanted a whiskey, badly. And he wanted a cigarette.