“He drives a Bentley Continental that comes with a Vodafone tracking contract. I’ve been in their database for months. Took me five minutes to find the car and spoof the data to me. We’ll know where the car is at all times.”

“Where is it now?”

“At his warehouse. I’ve looked through the last week’s data. He follows a routine most days: leaves the house at midday, plays golf, drives to the warehouse, stays there for an hour or two, then heads into Manchester to eat. He sometimes goes home after that, sometimes goes to a club.”

“Excellent. Good work.”

“What do we do now?” Chase said.

“Scout the warehouse and the route he takes to the city. You want to come with me?”

Chase stood up. “Sure.”

Hicks looked up. “When are we going to make our move?”

“You see any reason to wait?”

“None at all.”

“We’ll aim for tomorrow,” Milton said.

21

Milton, Chase and Ziggy made their way down to the street where the Ford Galaxy had been left. It was old and battered, with a dent on the rear end and duct tape securing the wing mirror to the side. It was perfect. Ziggy opened the back door and pulled himself inside. Milton and Chase got in the front. The interior was tired and tatty, but Milton had no problem with that. It was inconspicuous, which was the main quality that it needed to have. He put the key in the ignition and turned it; the engine grumbled to life and, after a moment of spluttering, it settled into a steady thrum.

“We good?” Chase said.

“Think so.”

He turned around and looked back into the rear of the MPV. There were two rows of seats in a similar condition to the ones up front. The windows were tinted, offering only minimal visibility from the outside. That was good. Ziggy had taken a spot at the back of the MPV and had already opened his rucksack to take out two of his laptops.

“Will this be okay for you?” Milton asked him.

“Should be fine.”

“Good. Let’s get going.”

Milton put the vehicle into first gear and pulled out.

“This guy, then,” Chase said. “Jackson. What do we know?”

Milton glanced in the rear-view. “Ziggy?”

He recited it from memory. “Anthony William Jackson, born on the sixth of July 1970 in Ormskirk. Long list of previous convictions as a teenager—robbery, assault, all the usual highlights—but he’s been more careful the older he’s become. He has properties in the Wirral, a villa in Tuscany and a beachfront condominium in Miami. Previously included on the Sunday Times Rich List, although they referred to his front business—the buying and selling of lead—rather than the real source of his wealth.”

“Which is?”

“The buying and selling of cocaine.”

“The police don’t know about him?”