Lights shone from the windows of some of the surrounding houses with just enough strength to show that, whoever this guy was, he didn’t look threatening. He was about average height, average build, with neatly combed silver hair over a thin, pinched face, and a trim silver-grey moustache. He wore a buttoned-up Burberry trenchcoat, and underneath that a shirt and tie. Dean glanced down, spying well-pressed trousers with proper creases in them, and leather shoes.

He ventured forward, fishing the car keys from his jacket pocket, but then he spied a second man standing behind the first. This second guy was about the same height as the other, but twice the width. He too wore a jacket and tie, but it bulged around a massive body, while his collar hung open on a neck the girth of a tree-trunk. He had cauliflower ears, a dented nose and small eyes beneath heavy bone brows. He was younger than the first guy, probably somewhere in his mid-forties, with a dense, matted beard and moustache.

‘If it isn’t Black Lightning,’ the guy in the trenchcoat said. By his accent, he was a Manchester man, but it was modified, refined.

‘Do I know you?’ Dean replied.

Trenchcoat looked worried. ‘Sorry, that isn’t racist, is it – Black Lightning? Isn’t that what they call you on the Stretford End?’

‘That’s what they call me, yeah.’

‘Good. Thought so.’

‘If you don’t mind …’ Dean pointed his key at the Honda, but Trenchcoat stayed where he was.

‘Your footwork’s seriously amazing,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you dance through defences like … well, like no one did since the days of Georgie Best.’

Dean glanced again at the Neanderthal visage of the bearded guy behind him. Then he became aware that a third character had circled into view around the other side of the car. This one too was in his forties; he also wore a suit and tie, but was rangy of frame, with a hatchet nose and a messy thatch of dirty blond hair. He now stood directly behind the footballer, blocking any possible retreat.

‘Okay, listen …’ Dean backed into the brick wall. ‘You fellas surely realise I don’t carry money round with me? I mean, I’ve got a few quid.’ He dug into his jeans pocket. ‘You can take that.’

‘I’m surprised you’ve got any left after tonight,’ Trenchcoat said.

Dean offered him a tightly wound roll of twenties. ‘Just take it, yeah?’

‘Relax, Lightning. We’re not here to rob you.’

‘Yeah?’ Dean’s nervous gaze flicked back and forth between them. ‘Well, I’m sure this isn’t a welcome-to-the-neighbourhood party.’

‘More like welcome-to-the-jungle round here,’ the bearded one said. He was Mancunian too, though much more obviously. ‘Ideal for the kinds of tricks you get up to, eh?’