It didn’t take very long to match one of the ID photos to Ben’s phone image of the dead man in the snow. It was Grace who found it, inside one of the active dossiers marked C. ‘Got him,’ she said instantly.

Ben looked. The soldier’s name was Kevin O’Donnell. His military photo showed a much slimmer and smoother-featured young soldier, but there was no doubting that it was the same guy. O’Donnell was forty-three years old. He’d been just seventeen when he’d first signed up as an army recruit, twenty-four when he’d enlisted with the Paras, and thirty-two when he’d tested positive in a random drugs test at Colchester Garrison and duly been booted out of the regiment.

As Monty recounted, for the next six years after his discharge O’Donnell had drifted aimlessly from one thing to another, before getting his first conviction for aggravated assault. Four years later, during which time he’d been in and out of prison for increasingly serious crime and somehow hooked up with the Dishonourables, he and a fellow ex-soldier had been pulled in as suspects in the particularly violent London gangland assassination of a known police informer, one Lyle Cunningham. Both had been questioned by CID detectives, but then released due to insufficient evidence. ‘It’s all in here,’ Monty said, tapping the photocopied police report. ‘Since then the two have been occasional associates, involved in a variety of dirty dealings for which, sadly, they’ve been too clever to get caught. But I happen to know plenty about their activities.’

Monty flipped through the file and pulled out a set of grainy photos that looked as if they’d been covertly shot from the back of a surveillance van. They showed O’Donnell walking down a city street in conversation with another man, taller, slimmer, meaner-looking and maybe a year or two younger. The pictures had been taken in summer. O’Donnell was wearing a T-shirt with a palm tree on it, and his friend was clad in a sleeveless hoodie that showed off his toned arms. And the unmistakeable Dishonourables tattoo on his right deltoid.

‘What’s the second guy’s name?’ Ben asked.

‘Oh, you can read all about him, too,’ Monty replied. He returned to the filing cabinet, rooted around for a moment, and came back to the desk with another file that was thicker than O’Donnell’s. As Ben began to leaf through it, Monty said, ‘A real beauty, this one. His name is Carl Hacker. Born in London, joined the army at eighteen. Promising start, showed great ability, and he quickly worked his way up to join the Pathfinders, where he was promoted to staff sergeant.’