The machine pistol was familiar to the hand, from his years of practice on Job ranges. Still tight. Well maintained. Barrel clean and magazine springs taut. Two mags, although he only expected to need one. Thirty rounds of 9mm parabellum in each. Selector set to burst. One squeeze, three rounds. A laser projector clipped to its top rail. Put the red dot on the target, squeeze the trigger. And the piece de resistance, the fat, oversized barrel that housed an integral silencer. In the car park’s confines it still would be loud enough. But inaudible to anyone on the floors above.

A pair of gang youngers slouched out of the same stairwell he’d used moments before. Roadman vibe, black Stone Island and Nikes. Both with the obligatory front-worn bumbags. The older of the two close to adulthood. Seventeen, perhaps eighteen. Tall, and angular with the look of muscle to come. Bearded too, probably eager to look old enough for full membership of Joe’s firm. Every move loaded with the need to portray street cool. He performed a desultory eyeball of the car park. One sweeping glance, not even trying to get a look into the Astra through its blackened windows. Just part of the landscape.

He made a call, spoke briefly. Then walked over to the stairs leading up into the flats, practising his hard look. Waited by the door, leaning on the wall and ignoring the younger kid. Twelve, from the look of him, or an immature fourteen. Looking around him like this was all new and exciting. A younger brother, most likely.

The collectors arrived. Their BMW 5 series estate a shining contrast to the car park’s other occupants. A nice shade of blue, Mickey mused. Cool rims too. Who said drug dealers don’t have taste? Four up. Two guards and two to carry the cash. Sharp threads, compared to the gang kids. Hair styled, footballer ’dos and razored facial hair. Chains and diamond studs. They stopped by doors to the main stairwell. Got out and generally posed their way past the scouts. Bad boys, carrying. Heavy with attitude. All doubtless wearing the mandatory Rolex Subs that were the first thing any member of Joe’s gang bought on admission. Mickey had left the Black Bay at home and was wearing a cheap Casio instead.

He glanced at the watch: 16.09. Figured five minutes to make the journey up to the top floor. The time needed to pass through the heavy iron gates that blocked access to both floor and flat. Expected to be locked at all times. And failure to do so just as punishable as embezzlement. Two minutes for minimal small talk, and signing for the bags of cash. With street titles, of course, not their real names, but still accepting responsibility for Joe’s cash. And another five to get back down through the relocked gates.