‘Just the one,’ Bull replied. ‘We’re both driving.’

‘Always a cop, eh?’

‘Always.’

Duffy poured a good measure into Bull’s glass before refilling his own. He held it up, towards Bull.

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ Bull replied, tipping his glass to Duffy’s. ‘So, what was so important?’

‘Straight to business, eh?’

‘No offence, Will, but the less time we’re together the less risk we’re both taking.’

Duffy made a point of looking around the empty room, then back to Bull. He raised an eyebrow.

‘Whatever you say, big man.’

‘So?’

‘We’ve got some information from Mansour. Might be worth looking into.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘To start with, you were right about Romeo. They knew each other alright.’

‘How?’

‘In the worse possible way. Mansour says Romeo was involved in the bomb.’

Bull’s eyes widened. His own analysis had been taking him in the same direction. Why else would Romeo – or whoever Romeo was working for – have sought to stack the evidence so heavily against Mansour? Still, such explicit confirmation was a surprise.

‘Involved in what way?’ he asked.

‘In every way,’ Duffy replied. ‘He gave Mansour the bag that he planted in the hold.’

‘Romeo supplied the bomb?’

‘According to Mansour, aye.’

‘Jesus.’

Bull sat back into his chair and took a swig of wine.

‘Tell me everything.’

Bruce Bull had been inside The Spaniards Inn for almost forty minutes. Forty minutes in which the first few snowflakes had grown into a full January blizzard, heavy enough that an inch already sat on the front of his Mercedes.

Bull was steady on his feet as he reached his car. The second glass of wine did not seem to have affected him as he climbed into the driver’s seat and turned on the engine. A few moments later the Mercedes was moving, exiting the car park.

Will Duffy soon followed. His departure from the car park was more dramatic in his Maserati, with a roar of the engine, a rear wheel-spin and full-tilt acceleration.

It was in every way a more attention-grabbing vehicle, something it didn’t need to be. Because both Bruce Bull and Will Duffy had the full focus of the only person there to give it.

Special Agent Frank Hart had been careful to park his rental car away from Duffy’s Maserati, and so he had been able to sit unobserved as Bruce Bull arrived. He had watched unnoticed as the two men spoke inside, in full view of the window that looked out onto the car park.

And by the time they had left he was sat under the protection of a windscreen full of snow.

With both gone, Hart started his engine. As Duffy had done, he turned right at the car park exit. From here he could immediately see the lawyer’s rear lights on the road far ahead. He accelerated, just enough to close some distance but not enough to draw attention to himself.

As the rear of the car came closer, Hart held down the voice control button on the Audi’s steering wheel.