‘That all depends, really. If you’re upfront and I don’t smell any bull, there ain’t any reason why I should top you off, is there?’

Woodrow frowned. ‘But I’ll still know where your place is.’

Mike laughed aloud and made Woodrow jump. ‘Come on, I already know you’re a police informant. I came from the cop shop. How the fuck did you think I knew where you were?’

Woodrow was confused, but as long as he could escape with his life, he really didn’t give a shit. Then it occurred to him that if Regan was prepared to spare him his life, why would he do so when the location of his lock-up could be revealed?

The answer came as soon as they entered the place. Woodrow wasn’t used to the countryside and wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone where he was, even if he’d had the mind to do so. The location was unusual, but anything outside of London was completely alien to him. Surrounding cabins and acres of land disguised the large metal lock-up. It would appear to the unsuspecting Joe Public as a garage for the car collector enthusiast. Yet once inside the building, it was a very different picture.

Mike prodded Woodrow in the back, forcing him to walk through the doorway.

Staffie and Willie were inside, standing over Dez and Randy, who were tied to chairs. They were gagged, and yet they were still trying to run their mouths.

Woodrow slumped his shoulders. ‘Jesus, man, what the fuck?’ His words were slow and drawn out.

‘Sit down!’ demanded Mike, as he placed the gun back inside his belt. Staffie and Willie stood alongside Mike, while Lou stayed outside the lock-up, keeping watch.

‘Right, now you tell me what I wanna know, and if you try and fuck me over, then your brothers here will get hurt.’

Woodrow was seated on a chair opposite his brothers. He averted his eyes from them. There was no way he could witness his siblings getting tortured, and he fervently wished Dez would remove the cocky expression from his face.

Mike towered over the man. ‘Right, question number one: who’s the Governor?’

‘Fuck, I dunno, man,’ replied Woodrow, unconvincingly.

‘Wrong answer, mate.’

Mike’s cold dove-grey eyes penetrated those of Woodrow’s, who gulped in pitiful terror at those chilling words.

The sizeable tool racks were filled with everything from screwdrivers to nail guns, all housed in the familiar red Snap-on toolboxes. Mike pulled out a heavy-duty spanner. In one quick movement, he cracked Dez across the left kneecap. Everyone except Mike cringed at the sound of the bone splitting.

‘No!’ screamed Woodrow. ‘Come on, man, I really don’t know who he is!’

The spanner was lifted high and swung again as if Mike was playing cricket. This time, the tool connected with Dez’s right kneecap and left him writhing in pain.