The Red Lion Inn had been bypassed by the gastropub revolution, just as it was bypassed by the M3. Deep within the Surrey countryside, the brick-built tavern was a mouldering relic of 1960s modernisation and needed serious money spending on it. The bar as usual was bustling. But on this occasion two of the regulars were sitting at the back of the lounge, where the lights were dim and the tables still sticky from lunchtime. Terry Dalton, self-employed air-conditioning engineer, and Nigel Chivers, one-time nightclub bouncer, were excited about a secret project they had been working on for a while. Now they were waiting for the man who could make it all happen.

‘We’ll get one chance at this, and we’ll have to go in hard,’ Chivers said, examining the heavily bitten nails on his giant fists. ‘We ain’t going to film this one, and we ain’t going to post nothing online, right?’

‘Yeah, we should keep it low-key,’ Dalton replied. ‘I’d say zero publicity. Just the three of us. I’m not gonna tell the others, particularly the women. Careless talk costs wives.’

Chivers sniggered. ‘Just give me five minutes with that bastard. Five minutes, that’s all.’ He ground one fist into his open hand.

‘Save some for me,’ Dalton said, eyeing the doorway. ‘My cricket bat’s getting itchy.’

‘Fuck that,’ Chivers said. ‘I’m not wasting my time with injuries. We’ve got to sort him for good.’

Dalton turned back to his mate. ‘You better keep quiet about that when his nibs arrives. I said it was just gonna be a going-over. Andy might get cold feet if we kill him. And we need him on our side.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Chivers said.

‘Nige, he’s the only one who can get the address. You’ve got to be on the inside.’

‘What about Len? You remember, the screw at Wakefield.’

‘I told you. Len says Rollason was ghosted to a category D more than a week ago. They’re keeping a lid on where. So Len’s no use to us no more.’

They both turned to the window at the sound of a car pulling into the car park, and waited for the crunch of boots on gravel. The man who walked in was wearing a scruffy donkey jacket and a baseball cap. More used to being here in uniform, Andrew Wickens scrutinised those at the bar carefully before making his way through to the back of the lounge.

‘Hiya guys, sorry I’m late. Only just got off duty.’

‘Got what we need, Andy?’ Chivers asked.

‘Not yet. It wasn’t on the local database that I have access to, nor the Police National Computer. They’re being very careful with this. Special Branch is running it, and I think I know which officer.’

‘Bastards!’ Chivers banged the table with his fist. ‘Why are they wasting public money protecting people like that?’