The car had been parked in the same spot for weeks, one tyre slowly deflating. Windows illegally tinted to the point of opacity. A fading black respray, battered steel wheels brush-painted matt black. Someone’s attempt to make their Astra look street, back in the long-distant day. Now just an embarrassment. A car nobody would ever buy at auction. Or steal. Or, most importantly, even notice. Perfect.

He’d purchased it for cash. Generous cash, no V5, no questions asked. Taken it to an out-of-the-way piece of waste ground. Drilled out the vehicle identification number and changed the plates. Left it there until four the next morning, then driven it to its final resting place. A five-minute journey. Mickey wearing a baseball cap to hide his face from cameras. Driven it straight onto the estate. Gambling that any sentries would either be half-asleep or just ignore such a piece of shit. Parked it and walked quietly away. And then ignored it for so long that it had become part of the underground landscape. Long enough for any CCTV of his short drive to have been overwritten.

And now, two days after Warren’s death, he was ready to follow up. Ready to show Joe Castagna that he was serious. Deadly serious. Ready to start the clock.

He’d rehearsed the whole thing, pretty much, except for the noisy part. Talked it through with Martin. Whose considered opinion had been that Mickey was taking a proper risk this time.

‘This ain’t the same as popping Warren, right? You could get shot. No way round that.’

Mickey had shrugged. Supremely confident in his abilities when it came to a gunfight. Especially with the weapon now resting on his lap.

‘What else?’

‘They might see you in the car as they arrive to make the pickup.’

Mickey nodded. That was obvious enough.

‘Or they might already be on brown alert, given the way you offed Warren. Have the car park scouted before they arrive.’

Mickey had considered that possibility too. Gang kids, perhaps, employed to check out the routes in and out of the block for threats. Which was why he’d bought a car with blacked-out glass all round. Illegal, but perfect.

‘They do that; I’ll have the scouts instead. Still sends a message.’

Martin stared at him disapprovingly. ‘They’ll be kids, Mickey. You sure you want to kill kids?’

Mickey shook his head. ‘Have you listened to any drill music? These aren’t kids, they’re just not fully grown yet. But they’re adult where it counts.’ He tapped his head. ‘In here they’re all psychopaths.’

‘You do know we’ll be getting called the same thing, if we get caught in the act?’

He sat in the Astra, seat as low as it would go. Black balaclava already in place, cheap supermarket sunglasses over his eyes to render him invisible behind the smoked glass. Looked at his watch, raising the sunglasses momentarily: 16.01.