Michael nodded his head. Not entirely sure if Kash was right, but by now too tired to really care. Enough was enough. Michael rose to his feet without warning.

‘It’s getting late. It’s Friday, which means you’ve got two days now before we see you again. Just remember that things have gone better than we ever thought they would, OK? And you’re in a better place than we could have ever expected. It’s not the end of the road yet and there are no guarantees, but I want you to head back tonight happy. OK?’

Michael thrust out his hand. Kash got to his feet and took it. A firmer grip than usual. A stronger shake.

‘Yes, sir. I’ll do that.’

‘Good lad. Now sit yourself back down and we’ll send a guard back to collect you.’

‘Thanks.’

Michael walked out of the door. He turned right and headed towards the metal gates that formed the first of the three sequential secured exit points. Draper was a step behind him, rushing to catch up.

She drew level as they reached the gate.

‘Are you OK, Michael?’

‘I’m . . . I’m fine.’ Michael held his temple as he spoke. As if to press down his growing headache.

‘It’s just that, well, that seemed a little strained in there. You both seem . . . off.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Michael replied. ‘Probably just all this crap that’s running around my head. Ignore it, Jenny. Ignore me.’

It really is nothing, Michael thought to himself. My head’s all over the place and right now there’s only one cure. I need a drink.

SIXTY-FIVE

The journey from the Old Bailey to Smithfield Market was not a long one. Even on foot. With his bags and court dress left in the court building, it had taken Michael barely five minutes to reach the block-length warehouse that sat in the centre of the market. Not far enough to qualify as a good stretch of the legs, and certainly too short a distance to shake Draper, who had insisted on joining him for his much-needed post-court drink.

Once the home of London’s meat trade, Smithfield had long ago transformed into one of the City’s most exclusive districts. The warehouse at its centre held what was left of the butchery shops, while the streets around it now possessed something far more valuable: prime location and late-night alcohol licences. Almost every building housed a bar or a restaurant, each one packed to bursting with big-spending customers. Men and women from the nearby City and stock market. Blowing off steam after another day of playing with the world’s billions.

‘So, where do you think?’ asked Draper.

Michael was leading the way, along the short road that led through the central warehouse and to the busier of Smithfield’s two streets beyond.

‘The Malmaison at the top of Charterhouse Square,’ Michael replied. ‘I’m staying there.’

‘You’re staying there?’ Draper was confused. ‘Why? What’s wrong with home?’

‘It’s complicated.’ Michael did not look across as he spoke. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve got to stay there and I’d rather drink there too. If that’s OK?’