Tom was improvising wildly yet something was working. Vestey was nodding slowly, as he rolled out the names, no doubt flash-banging images in his head. A hand came up to his face to wipe away a tear.

‘You understood that, and his need to make a difference, to make something happen, and you fixed it for him. Was it at your place he said his last prayers, on the mat in your spare room?’

Vestey registered a flicker of interest but said nothing.

‘And his girlfriend’s out there somewhere. She’s seen his name all over the media, but who can she go and grieve with? Who will hold her hand and say—’

‘She’s not grieving.’

‘How come?’

‘She sent him.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘He did it for her. That’s how strong their tribe is. Mine, I just fucked them up.’ Tears were now falling down his face, into his lap. He suddenly looked fragile, like a sad schoolboy.

‘Mate, have some more water. You want a brew, two sugars?’

Vestey kept his head low. ‘I don’t need anything.’

Then he jumped up and charged at the guard, who was still by the door.

Tom sprang after him. He knew what was happening.

‘Mick, don’t!’

But it was too late. Vestey had got both hands on the guard and was using both hands to try to get his pistol from him. Two more guards came in, weapons drawn.

Tom was now on the other side of the table. ‘No!’

But he knew it was too late and that the guards would do the right thing. As soon as they saw Vestey had physical contact, just a touch of the weapon, two loud, dull thuds filled the room.

Chapter 81

81

The garage had once been a KwikFit, but had changed hands several times and was now owned by a company called Expo. The main windows had been bricked up with breeze blocks and there was no sign of any business being done. It was on a back-street of lock-ups and small industrial units, none of which seemed to be much in use.

Rafiq touched the wipers and the Transit’s screen cleared of the grey, greasy rain that was bucketing down. Of all the short straws, this one beat the lot. It was moments like these when he had to have a quiet laugh about signing up for MI5. Recruitment had warned him to forget James Bond, that much of the work was mundane, but that didn’t begin to cover it. And he had turned down Goldman Sachs. His best mate, who had graduated from LSE with him, was now in Manhattan pulling in a hundred K a year. And here he was sitting in a surveillance Transit on a backstreet in Hatfield. Hatfield! And now it was raining. Was twenty-three too early for a mid-life crisis?