And there, numbers seven, eight and nine. Without any signage. Seven and nine with their doors bricked up, the frontage painted a nice dark green. The paint unspoiled by any hint of graffiti. Enough of a clue as to who owned those arches in itself. A gimballed CCTV camera casting its impassive stare down at the middle arch. The proverbial dollars to donuts that was one camera that had never been vandalised.

He clicked on it, zooming in to examine the central arch. A heavy-looking door. Probably steel-lined. Electric bolts to lock it into the brickwork, as well, most likely. No keyhole, numeric pad or any other obvious means of locking or unlocking. Which implied twenty-four/seven occupation. Always someone there to open the door.

The text notification light flickered again. No words, just a picture. Mickey tapped it, waiting while the file opened. Hand-drawn. A floor plan of the three arches. Showing how they connected to form one large space in three segments. The left-hand arch, number seven, labelled ‘STORAGE’. The middle arch accessed by the front door. Which was labelled ‘STEEL-LINED, WILL NEED EXPLOSIVES’. Explosives? Who did this guy think he was?

The door separated from the rest of the arch by a full-height internal wall. Keeping the draft out and maintaining privacy, Mickey guessed. The arch space behind it labelled ‘GUARDROOM/LIVING QUARTERS’. Probably enough space for a couple of dozen men, if they slept on camp beds. An army, if Joe chose to mobilise. But it was number nine, the right-hand arch, that was the most interesting. A thick black line closing it off from number eight. And labelled ‘DOOR – HEAVY’. The word ‘heavy’ underlined. And number nine itself was labelled ‘COMMAND CENTRE’. With a hastily added further comment: ‘JOE’S BUNKER – YOUR GUN DEALER FRIEND HELD HERE.’

He sat back and looked at his phone screen for a long moment. Whoever Nemesis was, he – or she – clearly knew about the threat to Mickey and those around him. And was offering the one way he could remove that threat at a single stroke. Except it would take a demolition expert to blow the doors open. And expert close-quarters battle skills to clear out Joe’s army…

An assault squad.

Mickey reached for his wallet. Pulling Shaw’s card out and looking at it. Just a phone number. He shrugged. Dialled the number. Which was answered at the second ring. Whoever had answered saying nothing. Waiting for the caller to self-identify.

‘Mr Shaw? It’s Mickey Bale.’

A moment more of silence. Thinking time, perhaps. Or just the call going through whatever filers and security Shaw deemed necessary.

‘Mickey known as Michael at work. I seem to remember reading somewhere that you’re not Sir Patrick’s protection officer anymore. They made it official then?’

‘They did.’

‘But that’s not why you’re calling, is it?’

‘No.’

‘So…?’