They drove through Caernarfon itself and came off the main road, crossing the River Seiont just before it made its final loop towards the mouth to empty its contents into open water. Evans lived in an old farmhouse with whitewashed walls and a thatched roof. Smoke seeped lazily from the chimney, dancing on the breeze and disappearing into nothing. A Land Rover was parked under a nearby oak tree, its white paint camouflaged behind splashes of mud dried black and a layer of dust from long hours of use.

They had made a decision not to call ahead. People had a tendency to suddenly remember urgent commitments and not be around to open the door when you told them your arrival time in advance. Porter rapped four times in quick succession and stood back from the door, looking around as he waited. As close to Caernarfon as it was, the house had a secluded feel to it, set back from the main road with a line of trees casting a protective arm around the west side and a line of wooden fencing to the east. Porter preferred the ebb and flow of the city, the life that pulsed through it with all its sounds and smells. It had a vitality all of its own, from the low rumble of the Underground and the indeterminate murmuring of large crowds of people to the symphony of scents assaulting the nostrils at places like Borough Market. That was his world.

A blurred silhouette moved behind the opaque glass door, and a key scraped then squeaked in a lock. The door swung open to reveal a man six inches shorter than Porter. He guessed him to be in his late sixties, wearing an old green sweater and dark blue jeans. His once rusty brown hair had a frosting of white around the edges, and the beard that exploded from his chin reminded Porter of Gimli the dwarf from The Lord of the Rings.

He stared at them from beneath eyebrows almost as dense as the beard, and raised them like two arching caterpillars in an unspoken question.

‘Mr Evans?’ said Porter.

‘I am he,’ Evans replied, with a curt nod. His voice was low like an idling car engine, with the unmistakable sing-song lilt of the Welsh accent.

Porter quickly introduced himself and his partner. ‘We’d like to ask you some questions about a case we’re working on. It involves a number of companies and individuals, some of whom you’ve done business with in the past.’

Evans held Porter’s gaze as he spoke. ‘Son, I’ve not worked a day in nearly twenty years. Just enjoying my retirement. I think you’ve wasted your petrol coming here.’

‘That’s when we’re taking about, Mr Evans,’ said Styles. ‘Nineteen years ago. You sold the three companies you owned to Locke & Winwood.’