An HGV had appeared from nowhere and was now parked there. It was a huge thing, its trailer laden with goods covered in green tarpaulins. Its nearside wheels were on the pavement; it wasn’t blocking the entrance entirely – there was room to get past in a car like a Golf. The problem was that it hadn’t been there before.

O’Grady sat stiffly, trying to detect any sign of movement, and initially seeing nothing.

It was entirely possible that someone had legitimately left it. But in the last hour or so? When it was nearly three o’clock in the morning? Beyond Long Acre, an access road followed a circular route around Crowley Bus Station. It wasn’t the most obvious place for a long-distance lorry driver to pull up and grab himself forty winks.

O’Grady glanced at the briefcase on the front passenger seat, and then pulled the Taurus from his belt and placed it on top of it.

What? some inner voice asked. You’re just going to drive on past it? And if someone opens fire as you do, you’re going to engage them in gun-play?

It was ridiculous, of course. There was no sign anyone was there, but the back of the lorry was covered. And if he edged past it, which he’d have to do slowly because it would be a tight fit, there’d be nothing to stop them opening up on him with maybe three or four weapons from near point-blank range. They’d have raked his entire vehicle before he could return a single shot.

‘Fuck!’ he hissed. ‘Shit!’

He threw the Golf into reverse, fresh sweat damp on his brow. There was no real question. That wagon had appeared from nowhere, at the dead of night. And it had parked virtually at his door. There was no point pretending this might be a coincidence.

The Golf juddered backward until he was level with the office again. He stopped, climbed out, walked round to the passenger door, opened it, snatched the Taurus, tucked it back into his belt and grabbed the briefcase.

He closed the car door quietly and left it unlocked, concerned that to hit the fob would set the sidelights flashing, which might attract attention.

Unless he was prepared to chance the HGV, there was no way out of the cul-de-sac on wheels. On the face of it, it seemed like madness to attempt a getaway on foot, but they might not be expecting that. Plus, the Crew were central Manchester-based. They wouldn’t know every highway and by-way in Crowley. He could still outfox them. He stood close to the side of the building, where he was hidden in shadow, turned and strode in the opposite direction.

There was at least one ginnel leading out of Long Acre. He wasn’t sure where it led to. But his local knowledge had to be better than theirs.