Mickey had handed him a small plastic wallet.

‘Lewis’s SIM card. You can empty his account out. It’s yours. All of it.’

‘And the bad news.’

‘You’ll have to vanish. And I don’t mean moving to the seaside. Proper vanish.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Martin. I never intended for it to come to this, but you need to get out. Sharpish.’

‘What, you mean like abroad?’

Mickey had nodded. Waiting in silence while Martin shook his head and looked up at the dawn sky.

‘I knew this would end up with me getting fucked, one way or another. He sighed. ‘Worth it, for Katie, but all the same… How long do you think I’ve got?’

‘No idea. But you’re probably on Castagna’s computer somewhere. And the Met will take this as their chance to pull his empire to pieces. Starting with a raid on the house to search for illegal weapons. You probably want to be gone inside twenty-four to forty-eight.’

His friend had sighed.

‘It ain’t like I’ve got that much to leave behind. And I can’t say I’ll miss the business. Or emptying bins, for that matter. Got any ideas?’

Mickey had held out the plastic wallet containing Joe’s fake passport and credit cards.

‘This’ll help. Get his pic replaced with yours and the passport will get you into Qatar and let you stay there for as long as you need to. Just make sure you pay enough to get a decent job done. It was a good choice by Joe, Qatar’s probably the nicest country without a UK extradition treaty. Although there’s always Cape Verde if it gets too much. There’s a hundred grand of travelling money on the cards. Keep in touch with me through the usual email address. I’ll let you know when it looks safe to come back. And don’t spend it all at once.’

He’d tried calling Roz. Number blocked. Called Tamara to tell her it was safe to go home and got fairly short shrift there too. Hardly surprising, given Mark’s disappearance. And so there he was. Out from under the falling piano but surveying the ruins of his life. A wreckage for whose creation he had no-one else to blame. His wife thoroughly estranged. His best friend forced to go on the run. And his head populated by the ghosts of the men he’d killed. Waiting to terrorise his dreams. Just as he was wondering if he might be best just eating a bullet, his Job phone rang. The number instantly recognisable. LX, of course. Who else?

‘Michael Bale.’

‘Michael. Philip Green.’

Mickey, frantically stuffing his personal feelings back down where he could keep them under control.

‘Sir.’ Perhaps a little terse, but not bad under the circumstances.