As such, he had no problem finding a vacant space. He parked and climbed out, straightening his suit and glancing around. A central tower of lighted windows delineated the stairwell in the college’s main building. Closer by, one or two figures sidled between the cars, for the most part academic-types with books and files underarm, carrying keys. None looked as if they were coming over to speak to him. He heard the hum of town centre traffic, but no voice hailed him.

Not that McCracken had expected it. Shallicker had told him the lower car park.

He donned his gabardine overcoat, pulled on a pair of leather gloves and, after locking his car, walked across the open tarmac, finally descending a ramp to a flat, weedy area alongside a waist-high, tubular-steel barrier fencing off a cinder towpath and, beyond that, the dark still waters of the canal. It was now very quiet. The radiance of the road network barely penetrated down to this little-used section.

McCracken strolled into the middle of it and halted.

It was a bold move, but boldness was his way.

And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t taken precautions.

He’d told Shallicker that he wasn’t carrying. That was true. He had no firearm on him at present – Crew underbosses rarely carried when going about day-to-day business, because if they did and they somehow ended up with the police on their case, that would be one sure way to get the book thrown at them. But with as many enemies as this career could generate, they had to be safety-conscious too; that was why he always wore a Kevlar undershirt.

He scanned left to right, seeing no one skulking around. Lazenby was such an amateur that McCracken had expected to find him waiting conspicuously in a corner, like a schoolboy who’d been sent to stand against the wall. But there was no initial sign of him, which seemed odd – until the vehicle directly in front, one of only two parked down here, growled into action.

Its headlights burst to life, bathing McCracken in dazzling whiteness. But when it lurched towards him, he held his ground, hands in pockets.

Lazenby wouldn’t have got where he was if he was completely stupid. He had to know that anything seriously untoward here would not just be the end of him, but of his family too.

And true to form, the vehicle, a beige Ford Galaxy, screeched to a halt just short of McCracken, and the driver’s door was kicked open. A figure clambered quickly out. It was Lazenby, though he was more dishevelled than when McCracken had last seen him. He still wore a three-piece suit, but his tie had been stripped off, his shirt was unbuttoned and his jacket was crumpled. There were marks of old bruising on his face, and a smell of alcohol wafted off him. When he raised a Taurus PT 24/7 in his right hand, it shook erratically.