Kid opened another window. Looking like a standard email program. Revealing a dialogue between himself, albeit using a different name, and the aforementioned Steph.

‘You just emailed him? I thought we had to be super careful?’ Joe was a little incredulous. The kid unable to hide a smirk.

Eddie, realising that his tech guy was close to engaging Joe’s ever-present ire, intervened again. ‘Not email. The two magic words are Tails and PGP. Tails is the USB stick. PGP is Pretty Good Privacy. Seems all these programs have clever names like that. Means Acid here can email this Steph without any way the geezer can trace him back.’

Joe nodded again, like this was all making sense to him. Read the chat between Ac1d, posing as a random called Neutralise, and Steph.

‘So he’s offering you a choice of guns. Including an MP5 and two clips of ammo. No .22 though.’

Eddie shook his head. ‘No. And we didn’t ask for one either. Way too obvious.’

‘You haven’t answered yet.’

‘No.’ Eddie, knowing from long experience the limits of his autonomy, had gone so far and no further. ‘I thought you’d want to be part of this.’

Being Eddiespeak, for Joe taking complete control. A wise judgement.

‘Too right I do. Good work, Ed. And you too, er, Acid.’

‘So, what do you want me to reply, Mr Castagna?’

‘Let’s see…’ Joe, thinking hard. ‘Tell them that you’re making the enquiry on behalf of a client. Some gang banger who doesn’t understand all this dark web stuff. Ask how much he wants to rent us the MP5 for a day. And how much the ammo is per round fired.’

Kid nodded and started typing. Fast. ‘Done.’

‘Excellent.’ Joe, beneficent in the face of apparent success, said, ‘Good work, Eddie, and you, son. Eddie, sort the kid out with a suitable cash payment. Make it generous too. You, Acid, are on the payroll.’

22

Two in the morning. Mickey supposedly away, on overtime. Which was what he’d told Roz. Except Mickey wasn’t anywhere near a government residence. Mickey was sitting in a car in the north London suburbs. Checking his gear. Keeping an eye on the mirrors while he did it. In case someone should wander past and clock the arsenal on his lap. Although the car was calculated to avoid any interest. Another dead-end dealer, another dead-end motor. A late Nineties Nissan Micra in light blue – or at least mostly. The rest over-sprayed with primer. A car bought to be ignored. Parked within two streets of what was about to become a media firestorm.