Bowman stood up and stuffed the bottle of pills into his pocket. He left Roidhead on the floor moaning in pain, skulked out of the master bedroom and quickly cleared the three guest bedrooms down the other side of the corridor. Once he was sure no one else was lurking inside the apartment, he moved back into the master bathroom and heaved Roidhead to his feet. He pressed the cold tip of the Ruger barrel against the nape of the heavy’s neck.

‘Get moving,’ Bowman snarled, ‘or I’ll paint your boss’s bathroom red.’

Roidhead staggered out of the master bathroom, cursing and moaning as Bowman forced him down the hallway and into the living room. Webb stood guard over Seguma and Lang, the Ruger at his side. Lang stared at the two soldiers, a look of sheer hatred etched across his face. Bowman frogmarched Roidhead across the room, and dumped him in one of the empty armchairs.

‘Rooms are clear,’ he said.

‘You bastards,’ Lang hissed as he caught sight of Roidhead’s bruised and bloodied face. ‘What have you done to Tony?’

‘We had an argument,’ Bowman said. ‘Your man lost.’

‘Sorry, boss,’ Roidhead, aka Tony Hutton, mumbled. ‘One of ’em clobbered me from behind. Couldn’t do nothing.’

‘Keep your mouth shut, son. Not a fucking word.’

Bowman nodded at the tyrant. ‘Where are your bodyguards?’

‘At the hotel,’ Seguma said, his voice shaking. ‘I left them there.’ He glanced at Lang. ‘David advised me not to bring them.’

‘They’re not downstairs? Outside? In the car park?’

‘I came here alone.’

‘Who drove you?’

‘The chauffeur. From the hotel.’

‘No one else knows you’re here?’

‘No one.’ Seguma stared anxiously at Bowman. ‘What’s going on here? Who are you people working for?’

Bowman didn’t reply. Instead, he turned to Webb and said, ‘I’ll get the wagon. You keep an eye on this lot.’

‘I’d watch your mate, if I were you, son,’ Lang said to Webb. ‘He doesn’t look too good from where I’m sitting.’

Webb’s gaze skimmed across the room, looking from the mobster to his colleague. ‘What’s he talking about?’

‘Nothing,’ Bowman said. ‘Just a touch of the flu, like I said.’

An ugly laugh escaped from Lang’s throat. ‘Yeah, that must be it.’

‘Shut up,’ Bowman said.

He bolted out of the living room, detoured into Lang’s master bedroom and paced over to the walk-in wardrobe. Bowman ditched his courier-branded jacket, polo shirt and cap, grabbed a designer shirt and striped blazer from the rack. He found a pair of Gucci shades in a mirrored cabinet, completed the look with a baseball cap emblazoned with the crest of the yacht club. Then checked himself out in the mirror. The disguise wouldn’t fool anyone up close. But from a distance, through a tinted car windscreen, he could pass for David Lang.