Looking for body language and pattern incongruity. The latter a term he’d learned from Mickey. Who’d picked it up during his Prot training. Suspicious behaviour, in the language that Martin understood. Because, in his experience, it wasn’t hard to spot an undercover copper. The vibe they gave off was unmistakable. Unable to divest themselves of that bone-deep feeling of power. Their body language that of the master race. In control. Whatever, Martin could spot the feds a mile off, he reckoned.

One time, he’d almost pissed himself laughing. When Mickey’s old mucker Jase Felgate had appeared in the vicinity of a meet. His presence giving Martin enough warning that he was half a mile away before the alleged customer had even got out of his car. A bit lucky, of course. Martin knowing Jason from a few pub sessions back when Mickey and Jason had both been probationers. But Martin definitely had the nose for trouble, he reckoned. And so he took his time. Scoped out the various people who’d come to use the park. And decided that the pitch was clean. Went down to his usual bench to meet the new client. After a few minutes’ wait a skinny youth in a faded Metallica tee and leather jacket strolled up and took a seat. Keeping his distance, obvs. No point in taking needless risks.

‘Neutralise?’

‘Yeah. You Steph? We weren’t sure if you were a bloke or—’

‘A woman? Yeah. Makes it easier for me to slide out from under, if anyone I might not want to meet is looking for the opposite sex. Gives me that little bit of extra time, if I need to leg it.’

Metal Boy nodded. Looking confident enough to Martin, if a little on edge. But hey, who wouldn’t be just a little bit edgy the first time they met their arms dealer, right?

‘Had me fooled. Until I realised this is the bench we agreed. You’re not really called Steph though, right?’

‘Nope. And before you ask, my name’s not important. Let’s get down to—’

‘Your name’s pretty important to me though.’

Martin would have been away on his toes, if he’d been able. Having been in the game long enough to know that people making a soft-footed approach from behind weren’t usually well intentioned. But for one thing, where was the risk? He wasn’t carrying. His modus operandi being to meet and suss out the client. Then go back to his stash and return with the desired equipment. Once payment had been made. And for another thing, a heavy hand had clamped onto his shoulder. And so, taking the path of least resistance – and less likely to get him twatted, he suspected – he subsided back onto the wooden slats.

And looked round, to see who was manhandling him. Ready to protest his innocence.

And saw Joe, grinning down at him.

‘Gotcha.’

Fuck.

46