Bloody hell, someone’s nicked it. He looked around angrily but saw no one. The couple were still deep in conversation, he with his hands on the table, she clutching a large handbag tightly to her stomach. He looked at the floor, but no, it hadn’t rolled off. Someone was taking the piss.

He stood up and walked to the bar to get a replacement off Jamie.

He didn’t see the couple stand up and leave, but by the time he’d returned to his table, they’d cleared off. Shame, he thought. That woman clutching the bag had been a bit of a looker.

DAY 7

Tuesday

West Ealing, West London

‘Kippy, here girl.’ Graham Clifton slapped his leg and Kippy, a lethargic retriever, ambled across the kitchen. He grabbed a parka coat and clipped a lead around the dog’s collar.

Kippy had been Cheryl’s idea. ‘It’ll be company for me – and good exercise.’ She’d not added ‘for you’, but the missing words had floated unsaid in the air. Graham Clifton looked down at his belly. One too many takeaways maybe.

He grabbed a packet of Benson & Hedges from the hall table and felt for a lighter in his jeans. If he had to get up at 6.30am, then at least he could have a fag, he thought as he stepped through the front door.

That was better, he thought as he pulled the smoke down into his lungs. The best smoke of the day, that first head rush that lifted the spirits and cleared the heaviness from his chest. It was worth smoking just for that. At the end of his drive, he looked left to where a white Ford Fiesta was parked in the cul-de-sac under the street lamp. It looked like it had been left overnight, only there was someone sitting in the front looking at a map. Good luck to you, feller, he thought, if you’re trying to find a house, the numbering on this estate is atrocious. He threw down the cigarette butt and yanked the lead. Kippy reluctantly followed.

#

The woman in the car watched through the side mirror until the man with the dog had gone around the corner. The door opened and she stepped out. She slipped a plastic glove on her hand and pulled out a clear plastic bag. Bending over quickly, she picked up his still-smouldering cigarette butt and wafted it around until it was cool enough to go in the bag. Then she folded it over and got back in the car.

#

CTOC, St Pancras, London

Gabriel met Skeffington and Campbell outside the cafe on the ground floor as she was taking a mug of coffee back upstairs.

‘You look like you’ve won the lottery, Skeffington,’ she said.

‘Pretty close, ma’am,’ said Skeffington. ‘Just come down from the video unit. They’ve got a decent visual match on one of the Pall Mall gunmen.’

Gabriel perked up.

‘He’s a Douglas Glenister,’ said Skeffington. ‘Dougie to his mates, ex-squaddie, thirty-seven, divorced, one kid. Served in Afghanistan, left the army eight years ago and now a school caretaker – sorry, apparently he’s a school premises manager, for fuck’s sake.’