As she sped off in the direction of Canning Town, she prayed that the Molloys would buy her cover story.

14

The Admiral was an old-school boozer with a squat fortress-like appearance which stood on a street corner in Canning Town in East London. The poky, cramped terraces running away from it in either direction had been workers’ homes in the last century and they stood in the shadow of what had once been a large factory which was now in the process of being developed into luxury housing. Large cranes towered up all around and the air reverberated with the loud clunking of an industrial jackhammer.

Bailey parked just across the road from the pub. A gang of Asian youths sitting on a nearby wall eyed her truculently and she hoped they didn’t try and break into her car. She shot them a don’t-fuck-with-me look and headed across the road to the pub.

Pushing open the door, she was confronted with the sight of a few elderly white men sitting here and there drinking ale from pint glasses. She got a few disinterested glances but nothing more. Motes of dust danced idly in the rays of sunlight coming in through the leaded windows. There was a TV on the wall, but it was switched off. The place was dead.

The traditional decor – dark wood panelling with brass fittings, a cream ceiling and a brown patterned carpet – possessed a ratty, threadbare feel, as if long in need of refurbishment. Or else the pub was trying its hardest to be as unwelcoming as possible to all but the most committed drinkers.

Looking around at the clientele, she couldn’t see anyone who resembled Rick. But then she didn’t actually know what he looked like. She could have researched him beforehand, but the problem with that was that if you showed recognition of someone who you weren’t technically supposed to know, then it instantly raised suspicion. So saying, she was pretty sure none of the old men sitting in here were Rick Molloy.

She went up to the bar. Beneath a framed portrait of the Queen stood a young white barman with a narrow face and a spiv-like appearance.

‘What’ll it be?’ he said with a rodent smile, his eyes darting over her.

‘I’m looking for Rick.’

He didn’t look at all disconcerted by her request. He stuck his thumb over his shoulder. ‘He’s in the back room. He’s expecting you.’

She paused a moment. ‘Is my car going to be all right parked out there?’ she asked, thinking of the gang of youths she’d passed.

He glanced over her shoulder, then shot her a wink. ‘If you’re with the Molloys it will be.’

She nodded in acknowledgement and headed into the dark narrow passage which lay around the side of the bar.

So this was it.

That familiar fear spiked through her gut. She’d felt it on so many jobs and she’d still never got used to it.

Stopping in front of the heavy wooden door of the back room, she took a deep breath before pushing it open and entering.