‘Five hundred metres.’

A minute later, McMullen swung south.

Behind him, Fred West did the same.

‘Old police HQ on the left,’ said Carr. ‘Going right after this olive farm.’

‘Seen,’ said McMullen. ‘Next right.’

He started to make the turn, and then had to stop sharp for a man who was crossing with a donkey pulling a small water bowser.

Behind him, Fred McMullen jammed on the anchors, and behind Fred a local was forced into the same manoeuvre.

The donkey was going nowhere, because of traffic on the opposite side of the road.

Three vehicles back, the local driver started blowing his horn, and waving his fist out of the window.

The old man sat on the water bowser, oblivious, and waiting for a truck to lumber past.

‘Fucking hell,’ said Kev McMullen. ‘Why the fuck would you cross this road here?’

Carr leaned forward and looked into his wing mirror.

‘He’s just an old boy,’ he murmured. ‘Chilled as fuck.’

‘Unlike the cunt behind us.’

The man was now leaning on the horn, so that it made one long, continuous noise.

‘Aye.’

In the other vehicle, Geordie Skelton was watching the scene unfold in his own wing mirror.

‘Twat’s getting out, man,’ he said, to Fred West. ‘Coming your side.’

Fred put his hand on the Sig Sauer on his hip.

‘Steady,’ said Geordie. ‘He’s just late home from the camel farm.’

The guy drew level, but now he could see that the problem was not of Fred West’s making, so the anger went out of him; he shouted a few things at the old man with the donkey, threw Fred a shrug, and returned to his car.

‘Jesus,’ said Fred.

Ahead of them, the old man and his donkey finally crossed, and Carr and McMullen started off.

‘Three klicks,’ said Carr, looking at his handheld GPS.

‘Three klicks,’ said McMullen.

A kilometre on, they had left the built-up area behind and were heading into the outskirts of the town.

On either side were walled-off compounds, and squares of palms, all laden with the dates that the region was famous for. As they got further from the centre of Houn, the groves became more spread out, and the compounds, too.

An old Mercedes passed them going the other way, but apart from that they saw not a soul.

‘Kilometre to go,’ said Carr.

‘Roger,’ said McMullen.

He stopped and killed the lights. Each man put on his helmet, pulled down his HMNOs, and the night turned green.

Kev waited five minutes before rolling forwards again, in as high a gear as the heavily laden Hilux would take, and keeping his revs low, until he was five hundred metres away – sound travels further in still, humid air, and they were now at the absolute limit of vehicle noise from the target.