The details in the passport were of a George Markham, from Grantley in Essex. The man already had a one-year tourist passport, as well as a ten-year passport with eighteen months on it. Larry knew that something not quite kosher was going down, but he was stumped as to what it was.

Something rang a warning bell in his head but he could not put his finger on it.

He went back to his desk and slipped the thousand pounds from the envelope into his wallet. At least he had been paid promptly. Nowadays that was something in itself.

Tony Jones walked into Sexplosion and poured himself a large Scotch. He drank it down, the alcohol biting into his throat and stomach, burning his ulcer.

The enormity of what he knew about George Markham was weighing him down. He felt sick every time he thought about it.

All his life Tony had lived among villains, pimps and prostitutes. He had dealt with most of the so-called gang bosses in his time. In his business it was inevitable you would stumble across them at some time or another.

He had always prided himself on his ability to work side by side with the most violent men, keeping his business going and his head above water. He never made their Christmas card lists but they had afforded him a modicum of respect.

His shop was one of the oldest in the West End. His father had run it for years, before handing it over to his only son. Tony wanted to hand it over to his son one day. It was a lucrative business now that porn was more socially acceptable. He had dealt with prostitutes who would give Frank Bruno food for thought before fighting them and with pimps who would carve you up as soon as look at you. Yet none of these people had ever frightened him like George Markham, the little man with the funny smile.

He poured himself another stiff drink and Emmanuel waltzed into the back of the shop, his heavily mascaraed eyelids fluttering.

‘I need a bit of help out here, Tone, if you don’t mind. I’ve been run off my feet.’

Tony glared at the boy.

‘Emmanuel, piss off and don’t come in here again today unless we get busted by the Filth or Joan Collins comes in to buy a vibrator. All right?’

The boy pursed his cherry red lips and stormed out of the room. He could be so bitchy, could Tony Jones. He noticed a new customer in a neat brown suit and immediately cheered up. He liked the newies.

He smiled at the man. His nicest smile. He had all day. By the looks of it Tony was going to drink himself stupid. He’d been doing that a lot lately.

‘Can I help you?’

The man in the brown suit smiled sheepishly.

Emmanuel smiled back widely. He was worth a fifty at least.