He pulled out, and circled through the bigger car park for the services. It took three laps before he found it. The little Citroën was hidden away in the lorry park by the boundary fence. To avoid Vicky seeing his car, Slater chose a slot in the main car park about fifty yards away, where with binoculars he could keep the Citroën in view. Vicky was in the driving seat and Crystal in the passenger side, the silhouette of her big head of frizzy hair a giveaway. The two women were deep in conversation. There was no sign of Ozzy. Slater scanned the nearby vehicles, most of which were articulated lorries. He couldn’t work out which vehicle Crystal had come from. Wherever it was, Ozzy would surely be inside. His view was suddenly blocked by a van which had pulled into the adjacent slot. Slater realised he had to get closer. He pulled on a baseball cap, big sunglasses and a face mask, then slipped on a grubby high-vis tabard, as worn by almost all truck drivers. Finally, he plucked out an empty plastic coffee container from the cupholder. He emerged from the Nissan and headed for the lorry nearest the Citroën.

The disguise was perfect. He’d used it many times before. Vicky and Crystal continued talking. Slater went in front of the truck, past a couple of picnic benches strewn with burger wrappers and coke bottles, and sat on the boundary fence pretending to drink from the coffee container. From this vantage point, with the Citroën just twenty yards away, he also could see the entire car park. He just didn’t know where Crystal had parked. He didn’t know her car, but the nearest non-commercial vehicle was a good sixty yards away. He risked looking at his watch.

Fifteen minutes later the women were still talking. Normally, he’d be as patient as a saint. Sitting and waiting is the default activity of all private investigators. But now, so close to the money, and so much money, he was getting itchy. Where the hell was Ozzy?