Mickey poured the rest of the petrol into the car, threw the can in and tossed the cheap sunglasses after it. Took off the boiler-suit and threw it in as well. Added the balaclava, the baseball cap and the black latex gloves. Peeled the black overshoes off his boots, image totally changed. Tossed in a lighted match and waited until the car was burning nicely. Picked up the gun bag and walked quickly to the car Martin had rented for him. Got in, covered the weapon with a blanket, then drove carefully away. Job jobbed.

10

Joe took the news with his usual apparent lack of reaction. Ice cold. An Antarctic ice cap concealing a simmering volcano, as Eddie knew only too well. Shrugged on his Gucci leather jacket and turned his dead eyes on Eddie. Heading for the door.

‘I’ve got men in bodybags down on that estate. So the rest of them need to see me giving a shit.’ A pause, as he thought some more. ‘And I want to talk to your man in charge.’

The latter spat over his shoulder as he climbed into the Rhino. The blacked-out Mercedes AMG G-Wagon he used for everyday business. Armoured, needing the 577 horses under the bonnet to move all that weight. But once it was moving, it moved. Like a charging fucking rhino, Joe had whooped, the first time he gave it the beans. A rare demonstration of enjoyment. The name had instantly stuck.

Big Lewis was driving, wearing a suit tailored to accommodate his shoulder-holster. Lewis Dearlove. An impeccably groomed beast of a man, blessed with the most ill-fitting surname Eddie had ever heard on a man. The biggest and nastiest of Joe’s inner circle. Not a leader, like Eddie. Not legally minded, like Richard. Not a strategist, like Nigel had been. Just a warrior, plain and simple. No need to carry a weapon when you were with Lewis. Because Lewis was a weapon. And totally devoted to Joe. Had been ever since Joe made sure his mum’s last months were peaceful.

The evening traffic was approaching its peak, but Lewis knew all the back doubles. Got them from leafy suburbia to the estate in less than forty-five minutes. Eddie following up in the second car, a nondescript 5-series saloon. Four up with a driver and two of the house bodyguards, both tooled. Busy on his phone, warning his people to be ready for the boss.

They parked the cars close by, in spaces kept empty by low-level gang members. Walked onto the estate through the low-rise, staying clear of the known police presence. Over a dozen or so detectives and forensics officers. Working inside a protective ring of blue-clad SCO19 officers openly carrying assault rifles. SIG MCX. Firing a military spec 5.56mm round. Met standard issue big boys’ toys. When it chose to flex its muscles, the Met could bring that sort of juice to the party by the gallon.