They were later arriving at the Bull than Hepton had intended: traffic jams all the way out of London, and major roadworks on the road north. Even Sanders’ most manic driving had been unable to make up all the time they’d lost. So it was nearly eight when they pulled into the pub’s gravel car park. There were a dozen or so other cars there. Hepton gave each one a searching inspection as Sanders passed them and stopped at the furthest point into the car park, then executed a three-point turn and drove slowly past the double line of vehicles once again. Hepton looked at him and saw that Sanders was inspecting the cars as meticulously as he himself had done. Satisfied that they were all empty, he pulled up close to the car park’s entrance, ready for a quick getaway.

‘Here goes,’ he said. ‘I’m dying for a pint.’

They walked into the bar by its car park entrance. There were couples at three tables, and a group of possibly underage teenagers huddled around another. A game of darts was taking place, and three men propped up the bar, as though the activity gave their life all meaning. The barman smiled at Hepton and Sanders as they approached.

‘Evening, gentlemen. What’s your poison?’

‘Two pints of Courage bitter,’ Sanders said. He turned to Hepton. ‘That okay with you?’

Hepton nodded dispiritedly. There was no sign of Nick Christopher in the spacious bar, and it was well past his designated time. Either he’d been and gone, or he wasn’t coming. Had Fagin got to him? And if so, what would happen next? Everyone in this bar could be implicated, could be working for Villiers and Harry. He tried not to stare, but it wasn’t easy.

Sanders was managing to look casual about the whole business. Just two men out for a drink. He raised the straight glass to his lips, gulping at the first couple of mouthfuls.

‘Not a bad pint,’ he said.

One of the three men nearby seemed to hear him, and turned his head.

‘You from London?’

Sanders smiled pleasantly. ‘Not originally. But I live there now.’

‘Thought you did,’ said the man, turning back to his friends. ‘Beer’s like piss down there,’ he informed them. ‘And the water, you can’t drink the water. Been through seven pairs of kidneys before it gets to you, been pissed out seven times before you drink it.’

His friends wrinkled their faces and chuckled. Sanders reddened. He was trying to keep up the facade, but Hepton could see he was having trouble. His eyes had acquired a fiery tinge to them, and his free hand rubbed at his armpit, just where the holstered gun nestled.

‘Cheers,’ Hepton said, trying to distract him, lifting his own glass to his lips.