‘The thing that . . . gets me,’ Stanford slurred three hours later, ‘is the community bloody naysayers. I mean, I get it, I do. Someone comes into your house and takes your stuff . . . that’s terrible. It’s like house rape, that’s what it is. But, fuck me, Jack, people soon forget all the good you’ve done for them, just ’cos you let one little northern Greek bastard slip through your fingers.’ Mike and Jack sniggered into their pints as Stanford went on. ‘We’ll get this Panagos prick and they won’t say “thank you”, they’ll say “about time”. Because this one cuts deep. This one has impacted an entire community for far too long. They’re scared, and that’s my fault. It’s not my fault, but it is my fault. I really, really appreciate you coming here. Both of you . . .’ Jack took this as his cue to get Stanford home before he started telling him and Mike that he loved them.

Stanford was first in the following morning, and he was raring to go. He looked as bright as a button, as fresh as a daisy and, as long as you didn’t stand too close, you’d never know that he was probably still too drunk to be at work. Jack and Stanford set off towards Manchester, where they were due to be met at midday by DI Leticia Margate. The plan was for them all to go to The Codfather and arrest Panagos as he prepped for the lunchtime crowd. However, at half past eight, before they’d even hit the M25, Stanford got a call from DI Margate, to say that Panagos was heading south. Stanford’s excitement was palpable – he was about to get the opportunity to arrest his nemesis on his own patch.

A few hours later Wimbledon Common was scattered with undercover officers disguised as dog-walkers, joggers, litter-pickers, duck-feeders, young lovers . . . all lining the pathways just waiting for a red mobility scooter to trundle past. They communicated back and forth for hours as Panagos weaved around the Common, then out into the streets, then back into the Common. After four hours, it became clear that Panagos had his sights set on one particular house on Parkside, just along from the private hospital: by early evening, the owners of this property were making no secret of packing their BMW with small suitcases for a weekend away. As expected, Panagos made his way back to his Merc parked on Copse Hill, he folded his scooter and placed it in the boot, then got into his car, made light work of a packed lunch and took a nap.

As night fell, Panagos, dressed in dark clothes and carrying a rucksack, set off again through the Common back towards Parkside, strolling unhurriedly as if he didn’t have a care in the world.