‘Get off at the next stop,’ he said. ‘Sit on the bench at the farthest end of the platform from the station steps. There’ll be another train coming in from the other direction in a few minutes. Get on it, and it’ll take you back into Manchester. Obviously, leave the bag on the bench.’ He could have cut the call there, but his mood got the better of him. ‘Let me tell you something, my lad … today is the very last day to fuck me around. Any sign of the police, any sign at all, you’ll be all over the internet by tea-time. In fact, it might be fucking worse, okay? I know a certain disturbed character who’s very good at video editing. I only need to click my fingers, and you’re not just shagging trannies, you’re doing goats and pigs as well, and you’re the star turn at kiddie-porn parties. You get my fucking drift, Lightning?’

It went like clockwork.

The Southport train pulled in on time, O’Grady awaiting it at the farthest end of the platform, but now seated on the floor next to the ‘No Members of the Public Past this Point’ signpost, with his lunchbox alongside him, his camera on his chest, and his notebook in hand, every inch the convincing trainspotter. Dean Chesham wasn’t the only person who got out, but the other two who did walked immediately to the stairway. The footballer was also in disguise, though somewhat more ridiculously than O’Grady, wearing an afro wig and shades, and a big fur-collared parka.

He was also carrying a zip-up sports bag, which bulged at the seams.

As instructed, he dumped it on the bench at the farthest end of the platform, paying no attention to the trainspotter only thirty yards away. A train bound in the opposite direction immediately came rumbling in. Chesham dashed over to it, climbed aboard and headed back into the city. No one had got off this train, so the platform was empty again.

As nonchalantly as he was able, O’Grady stood up, ambled to the bench, sat down alongside the abandoned sports bag and took sandwiches and a bottle of orange juice from the lunchbox. For five minutes he consumed his early lunch, all the time watching the stairs and the fences around the station’s perimeter. He’d specifically chosen Hag Fold for the handover because it was only staffed on a part-time basis.

Half an hour passed while he munched contentedly, occasionally showing interest whenever a train passed, scribbling down its details. At the end of half an hour, still in casual mode, he gathered everything together, including Chesham’s bag, strolled to the stairs, ascended and left the station.

Their rendezvous point that day was a derelict boatshed on wasteland just off the River Irwell, on the border between Salford and Bolton.