The BMW turned down a rutted track. Yates cursed as the Rover hit a pothole and mud splashed over the door. Mackie insisted that the car was always in pristine condition so he’d have to be up early in the morning, washing and polishing. The Rover’s headlights picked out a wooden sign with faded paintwork. It was a limestone quarry. Yates was annoyed at the cloak-and-dagger. The meeting could just as easily have taken place in a pub.

The track curved to the right and Yates lost sight of the BMW. He flicked his headlights to main beam and huge tunnels of light carved through the night sky. Ahead he saw huge metal sheds with corrugated-iron roofs and two silos with conveyor belts running up to the top. The road curved back to the left and Yates saw the BMW. It was parked in front of a metal-mesh fence. Yates frowned. The gate into the quarry was padlocked and there was no other vehicle to be seen.

He brought the Rover to a halt and sat there, chewing slowly. Fletcher climbed out of the BMW and walked towards him, his hands in his coat pockets. Yates wound down the window. ‘Where is he, then?’ he asked.

‘Pat’s calling him on the mobile,’ said Fletcher.

‘What’s the story?’

‘He’s a bit wary of being seen, that’s all. Come on, stretch your legs.’

Yates climbed out of the Rover. Fletcher took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Silk Cut. He offered it to Yates. Yates was going to decline, then changed his mind. He spat out his gum and took a cigarette. He shielded it from the wind with his cupped hands while Fletcher lit it for him.

Neary got out of the BMW and leaned against it, his hands in his pockets.

‘How much is he going to give me, your boss?’

‘Don’t worry, he’ll take care of you,’ said Fletcher.

Yates shivered. ‘I’m going to the Philippines,’ he said. ‘Fed up with this weather. Fed up with the whole country.’ He took a long pull on his cigarette and blew a plume of smoke down at the ground.

‘Don’t blame you,’ said Fletcher.

Neary waved for them to go over to the BMW.

‘Now what does he want?’ said Fletcher.

Yates started walking towards Neary. He took another pull on his cigarette and filled his lungs with smoke. It wasn’t just the nicotine he missed, but the smoking. The feel of the cigarette in his hands, the inhaling, holding the smoke in his lungs, exhaling. Even the flicking of ash. They were all tactile sensations that were missing from the gum and the patches. He was going to start smoking again, he thought. So what if he got cancer down the line? He was just as likely to get hit by a bus while crossing the road. ‘How long have you been smoking, Kim?’ he asked.