It was another reason Michael felt uncomfortable – and a little guilty – about his premature promotion. The fact that he was now deemed – wrongly, Michael felt – a safer bet than Derek Reid.

He wondered if Ross perhaps shared the same view.

‘About Derek,’ Ross began. ‘You know I didn’t want to lose him, right? It wasn’t my call.’

‘I know.’ Michael needed no explanation. ‘But Simon would’ve been better off if it had been. Your call, I mean.’

‘He has you now, Michael.’

‘He would still have been better served. There’s no one better than Derek.’

‘Not even you?’

‘Not even me. Especially when I have less than a week to get myself ready for trial.’

A clanking mechanical sound interrupted Ross as he opened his mouth to respond. Both he and Michael turned to face its source.

The prison’s automated metal gate was slowly opening. It was the one route in and out of the complex that did not sit at the top of a staircase. As it slid aside, the sound of aggressive rap music filled the air.

For a moment Michael thought it was coming from inside the gate. He quickly realised his mistake as he spotted the source of the harsh lyrics.

A black BMW M760Li sat barely thirty feet away, parked against the kerb in a long line of cars. Until now its tinted windows had hidden its occupants and suppressed the beat of its stereo system. But now its doors had opened.

Three young black men in their early twenties – if not younger – stepped out.

‘Seriously? They’re in a hundred-thousand-pound car? Outside of a bloody prison?’ Ross did not keep the disbelief from his voice. ‘They turn up here of all places, in that thing, blaring out music about guns and gangs. And then they wonder how the police find them?’

‘You know them?’

‘Not those three. But plenty like them.’ Ross indicated the car with a nod of his head. ‘I remember when villains had to be smart to earn that kind of cash.’

‘Maybe someone else is smart.’ Michael gestured towards the prison gate as he spoke. Subtly, so only Ross could notice.

The gate was now fully open. Large enough for a prison van to pass through. The width and height were unnecessary. A lone figure stepped out as the gate began to close. He was older than the BMW’s occupants by a generation. Tall with broad shoulders, he carried the few belongings he must have accumulated in prison in one hand, inside a transparent plastic sack.

One of the BMW men approached and was handed the sack without a word of greeting. A clear indication of rank. The man ignored the car’s other occupants, too, as he climbed into the front passenger’s seat and closed the door. The music that had filled the quiet street stopped an instant later.

The newly released prisoner had asserted his unquestioned authority.

‘Christ,’ muttered Ross.

They watched the original three men climb into the car. The air of menace that had surrounded them minutes before had been utterly dispelled. Replaced by complete subservience.