The Range Rover reversed and made a quarter turn so that it was facing down the car park at Milton. The running lights were still on, and, as Milton held his ground, the driver switched on the high beams. Milton wasn’t quite quick enough to look away and had to blink, annoyed with himself, his night vision temporarily compromised.

He heard the sound of a door opening, and then another, and saw the silhouettes of two figures—male, and on the large side—on either side of the vehicle.

“Hands,” one of the men barked out. He spoke English, but his voice bore a heavy Dutch accent. “Let me see your hands.”

Milton slowly put both hands above his head. “Take it easy,” he called out. “We’re all friends here.”

There was no reply, but the shafts of the high beams were interrupted as the first and then the second man stepped through them. They closed the distance to Milton, their shadows thrown forward a hundred feet, elongated shapes that cast their darkness over the Mondeo.

Milton brought one hand down to shield his eyes from the glare.

“Above your head!” one of the men called angrily.

Milton did as he was told. He saw a flicker of movement from behind the Range Rover. At least both men were out of the car and had their attention on him; Hicks would have his chance to do what he needed to do.

“Come on,” Milton called out. “Is this necessary?”

The two of them were close now, and, despite the silhouettes cast by the headlamps, Milton recognised them: it was López’s muscle from the club. They drew together and approached. Milton saw that they were both carrying items. The man on the left had a pistol held down against the side of his leg, and the man on the right was carrying a medium-sized bag.

The man with the gun stayed back, shuffling over so that he could cover Milton as his colleague drew nearer. The man with the bag came up to Milton and held it out. Milton took it, but the man did not release his grip on the handle.

“Coming unannounced to the club like that? Not clever, friend. Don’t do it again.”

The headlamps silhouetted the man almost completely. Behind him, Milton now saw another shadow crouched down by the side of the car: Hicks.

Milton needed to hold them for a moment longer. “Don’t threaten me.”

“You do as you’re told, kutwijf.”

Milton’s Dutch was non-existent, but he knew that he had just been insulted. Hicks was still at the side of the Range Rover. The man with the pistol took a step in Milton’s direction.