Harlan was wondering what he could do next. Disaster upon disaster had piled in on him, but he could rise again. After his meet with Javier, he would start to regroup. Smooth things over there, reassure the cartel that he was still their man. Get some new boys together, people he could trust – not like that bastard Ludo and that waste of space Nipper, who’d both let him down so badly.

He thought – briefly – that maybe something off had happened to them. But no. No way. Two hard cunts, searching the safe English countryside for one helpless girl? Nah. They’d given up, cleared off out of it; moved on to pastures new. Later, when all this was settled down, he’d find them. He’d track them down. And then they’d be sorry.

Yeah, it would all be OK. He’d talk to his associates in Manchester and Liverpool, make sure everything was fine with them and that they hadn’t lost faith in his ability to pull this all back together. Of course they would have heard about all the misfortunes that had befallen him. They knew his manor just as surely as he knew theirs. There were people in place all around him, he knew that, reporting any dirt they found on him back to their masters. So they knew damned well – just as Javier knew – that he was in a hole.

But he could dig himself out.

He was certain of it.

From the city he drove the Porsche back to the Essex house. The grass was even longer now, no security on the gate. He let himself into the house. Empty. No cleaners. Nothing. The whole place looked tired. Dead flowers drooped in a stinking vase in the hall. In Nula’s sitting room, on the mantelpiece, stood the two urns containing Charlie’s and Nula’s ashes. Turning away from them, he went back out into the hall, running his hand up the bannister as he went up to the master bedroom. His fingers came away coated with dust.

Things were going to have to change. He admitted to himself that he had lost grip lately. Let things slide. But not any more. After he’d settled things down with the cartel, he’d be back in the driving seat. Javier was meeting him at the Savoy. And he was looking forward to it. He’d grease up that little wop bastard with oily promises and grand reassurances, and Javier would soak up every word and go back to Bogota to tell the cartel that Harlan was back in control.

Soon, he would be. He promised himself that.

He’d wobbled a bit. But that was in the past.