He levered himself upright, grabbing hold of the bar at the top of the seat in front. Glancing through the window on the right again, he saw a spread of playing-fields. He raised himself higher, to look through the windows on the left, and there spied another of those bleak, depressing housing estates for which Crowley was so famous. God, it was a crap-hole, this place. No worse than many other parts of Manchester, if he was truthful, despite its reputation, but so typical a slice of modern urban Britain with its gridlocked traffic, boarded shops and desolate blocks of flats.

They swung around another sharp corner, this time heading left. They were now onto the estate, it seemed, and O’Grady was puzzled. Another sharp left followed, and then a sharp right. He was jarred from side to side as the heavy vehicle negotiated narrow streets rendered even narrower by double parking. A hefty clunk echoed up from the lower deck. If O’Grady didn’t know better, he’d have fancied they’d clipped a car.

He moved to the window again, seeing medium-rise apartment blocks sailing past at what felt like reckless speed.

What the hell was going on?

Though he’d wanted to keep a low profile, to the point that he’d let the bus take him wherever it needed to go, he now knew that he had to find out where that was. He made his way along the aisle, swaying as the bus again veered around corners. Near the top of the stairway, he halted, glancing outside. A street-sign had just flickered by: Turton Avenue.

If that was the same Turton Avenue O’Grady knew, it meant they were on Hatchwood Green, which was probably the best example of a sink estate in Northwest England, and beyond which lay only the Aggies, a district of post-industrial spoil land once belonging to Darthill Colliery. If memory served, there was a bus terminus over that way, at the bottom of Pimbo Lane, close to the ruins of the old Bleachworks. And if that was where O’Grady would have to get off, he’d be a long way from a railway station. He’d be a long way from anything.

Irritated as well as confused, he continued along the aisle.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, trying to draw the attention of the guy at the front.

This chap was obviously heading somewhere, so maybe O’Grady was wrong. Maybe the bus would bypass the Aggies and head on into Bolton. But he had to know. He couldn’t just keep making and breaking plans on a whim – not when his life depended on it.

‘Hello.’ He came up next to the passenger at the front. ‘I need to know …’

The words died in his throat.