Ollie, still on a high – How many sugar-free Irn-Brus had he drunk? – had traced the owner of the vehicle which was, ‘wait for it, a Go Wild subsidiary called Combat,’ he said in obvious delight. ‘I’ll text you the address.’

He went on. ‘As for the Kommandant, he doesn’t exist on the police crime photo database. However,’ he paused, ‘I did find him on a trawl of social media. It’s not a great image but it’s him all right, although I don’t have a name. It was taken in a nightclub somewhere in London and he was in the background of a group of females. It’s on an Instagram account of one Lily Peony.’

McNab groaned. ‘Okay, keep trying to find out who the guy is. I suspect he may be a plant in this set-up, but who put him there, I’d like to know.’

‘Maybe he’s Met or serious crime squad?’ Ollie said. ‘I have a super-recognizer pal down there. I could ask him to take a look?’

It was a good idea. ‘Can he keep this under the radar for the moment?’ McNab said.

‘I’ve done the same for him in the past,’ Ollie said. ‘So yeah.’

It was worth a shot, so McNab okayed it. He would have to inform the boss, of course, but maybe not immediately.

‘When will you be back?’ Ollie said. ‘You need to see what we’ve been retrieving from the gaming software on the ship,’ he added excitedly.

McNab wasn’t ready or willing to answer that question . . . yet. ‘Just tell the boss I’ll be in touch.’

The Afghan cafe was open. McNab caught the rich aroma of their coffee on approach.

He had no idea how he would be greeted since Mark’s death, but it was unlikely to be good. Glancing down, he suddenly remembered he was also walking about in Mark’s clothes, which might not go down so well either.

The guy on the counter looked him over, his expression darkening.

McNab decided to dive in anyway. ‘I’m here to talk about Mark,’ he said in what he hoped was a non-combative tone.

If looks could kill, McNab realized, he would now be flat on his back, taking his last breath on this earth. But looks couldn’t kill, he reminded himself. Being strung up and beaten might, but luckily it hadn’t.

‘I think the same folk that did this to me’ – he raised Mark’s shirt for effect – ‘may well have murdered Mark.’

‘You coming here caused his death.’

McNab didn’t have a response for that, apart from saying he was intent on catching the bastards who did it, and to do that he needed access to Mark’s laptop.

After a moment’s silence, his sparring partner pointed to a table. McNab, taking that as an instruction to wait, went and sat down.