Leo Freeman was one of his former colleagues in the Met and he only ever got in touch to provide updates on a man named Andrew Sullivan, who was the main reason James and Annie had moved out of London.

James opened up the email and learned that Scotland Yard wanted to question Sullivan in connection with a gangland murder that had taken place in the capital a week ago.

‘I thought you’d want to know that the bastard has dropped off our radar,’ Freeman wrote. ‘He’s not at home and we haven’t been able to trace him. I’ll keep you informed of progress. Meanwhile, stay vigilant.’

James felt a ripple of unease; Sullivan was one of London’s most vicious gang bosses. He’d served thirteen months of a life sentence for murdering a nightclub owner but was released from prison fifteen months ago after a man who was himself already serving life for another murder confessed to the killing. There was no doubt in James’s mind that the confessor was lying. After all, he had nothing to lose since he would almost certainly die in prison given his age and the length of his sentence.

As it was James who secured Sullivan’s conviction while working with Scotland Yard’s Murder Investigation Team – and because previous to that he’d spent time with the National Crime Agency, where he and his team caused serious disruption to Sullivan’s illicit activities – Sullivan had made it known upon his release that he intended to seek revenge.

He blamed James for putting him away and for the fact that whilst he was in prison his wife of five years had left him and took their four-year-old son with her, moving abroad to make sure he wouldn’t find her.

In a phone call a year ago, he’d told James, ‘You and me have some unfinished business. So sooner or later we’ll be meeting up. And it’ll be at a time and place of my choosing.’

During the past year James had come to believe that Sullivan now posed less of a threat because he hadn’t been in touch again and his movements in London were being monitored by the Met. Even Annie had stopped worrying about him and he was rarely mentioned these days.

But the fact that he had now vanished from the Met’s radar made James wonder if he would seek to settle old scores before the net closed in on him once again.

‘Here’s your coffee, guv. Milk, no sugar.’

DC Abbott’s voice broke into his thoughts and he was glad because he didn’t want to spend any more time fretting over Andrew Sullivan. He told himself that there was probably no need, anyway.

‘That’s kind of you,’ he said, taking the Styrofoam cup that she held out for him. ‘Did you have a good Christmas?’