It was one of four the firm owned south of the river and three were being rented out. They’d been purchased through fake companies so they wouldn’t fall victim to seizure warrants if ever he was arrested and charged with an offence. The place in Park Crescent was currently occupied by two of his most reliable crew members – Johnny Devonshire and Pat Knowles. He let them live there for free because the place was frequently used for all kinds of activities, including the storage of drugs and stolen goods, clandestine meetings with corrupt coppers and officials, and as a safe house for those who needed to drop out of sight for a while.

It was a detached property close to the hospital, with an integral garage and a small front garden enclosed by high hedges that provided a degree of privacy.

Johnny and Pat were expecting him and, as the car pulled up at the kerb, the front door was opened and they both stepped outside.

They were tall, muscle-bound hard cases, and had worked as a team since sharing a prison cell at the Scrubs some years ago.

Slack told Mike to wait in the car while he got out to shake hands with Johnny and Pat.

‘Good to see you, boss,’ Pat said. ‘We weren’t sure you’d ever manage to get here.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s been hectic guys. Plus, I was playing safe because the Old Bill have been watching me.’

He entered the house and took off his overcoat, which he handed to Johnny.

‘Any problems with our lodger?’ he asked.

Johnny shook his head. ‘None at all. We’ve been feeding him sleeping pills so he’s been as quiet as a mouse.’

‘Right. Well after tonight he’ll be off your hands.’

Slack walked along the corridor to the door that led to the basement.

‘I’ll go down and sort him by myself,’ he said. ‘Do me a favour and put the kettle on. I’m sure I’ll fancy a cuppa when I’ve finished.’

He pulled the door open and stepped inside. The light was already on and as he descended the stairs he felt his pulse quicken.

The basement was large and gloomy and was often packed with illicit contraband. But now it was virtually empty except for the man who was sitting on a bare mattress with his back to the wall and one hand cuffed to a metal ring secured to the floor.

He was a sinewy guy with a crew cut and a face half covered with stubble. Pale and glassy-eyed, he was wearing a roll-neck sweater and jeans.

There were two blankets next to him on the mattress and the air around him stank of shit.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Slack spoke first as his face morphed into a mask of pure hatred.