A shabby green Volkswagen Golf awaited him on the other side of Long Acre, the decade-old rust-bucket registered to a fantasy owner, that he used for tootling around in when he was actually on the job. As he drove, he glanced at his watch again, the clock on the dash having ceased to work some time ago. It was 10.10am. Time was running out, but if he kept his foot down, he’d be okay.

As he hit Pearlman Road, he dug his mobile out and made a call.

‘Yeah?’ Roper said.

‘Where are you?’ O’Grady asked.

‘Where I’m supposed to be. On the 10.05 to Southport.’

‘Any problems?’

‘Nope. Chesham got on at Salford Central, as instructed.’

‘Any sign he’s got a tail?’

‘None whatsoever.’

That was reassuring, because if there was one thing Jon Roper was good at, it was sniffing out undercover cops.

‘He’s not seen you?’ O’Grady asked.

‘He’s in the carriage in front of me. And he’s not looked round once.’

‘Anything with him?’

‘Yeah. He’s got a sports bag.’

‘Good. Where are you now … what’s your next stop?’

‘Swinton.’

‘Right.’ O’Grady was pleased. He’d been a little behind his time, but that meant the train still had four stops to make before the handover. ‘I’m on Manchester Road, heading west. We’ll make the switch, as planned, at Hag Fold. Call me when you leave Atherton.’

‘No problem.’

It was mid-morning, so the traffic was minimal. And quite soon, ahead of schedule, O’Grady had parked on a side-street near Hag Fold railway station. As he applied the handbrake, the phone buzzed in his pocket.

‘We’re leaving Atherton,’ Roper said.

‘Okay,’ O’Grady replied. ‘Sit tight.’

Ordinarily, when they were working a target, precautions like these wouldn’t be necessary. But it was Dean Chesham’s first payment, which made him a potential risk. You hadn’t learned how to read them at this early stage, and you couldn’t afford to take chances. Not that half-arsed countermeasures like these would be effective against a full-scale police obbo, but O’Grady didn’t anticipate that. Chesham had too much to lose. He put on a pair of sunglasses, grabbed his camera and his lunchbox, and, as he strolled towards the station entrance, took out the throwaway mobile. There was only one number listed on it.

‘Yeah?’ came the footballer’s nervous voice.

O’Grady descended the steps, tugging the baseball cap down, so that it hid his face from any security cameras, and idled along the flimsy wooden platform, which, as he’d hoped at this time of day, was deserted.