He knew Anderson lived near White Hart Lane, but he didn’t seem to be taking a direct route there at the moment. Porter stayed a cautious three cars behind; far enough not to be noticed but close enough to nip through any changing lights or navigate busy roundabouts. His plan was simple. He would tail Anderson to his informant. After they parted, he would stay on the informant but call Anderson. If the news was good and the guy was willing to sit down with them, then there was nothing to worry about, and he would leave it to Anderson to arrange the where and when. If Anderson told him that the guy wasn’t willing to help, then Porter would follow him back to whatever rock he crawled under and try a little persuasion of his own; nothing physical, but Porter could be quite persuasive when he needed to be, and his need was as great now as it had ever been.

He followed Anderson through a series of turns onto the A10, and along as far as Stoke Newington, before he finally saw the Honda pull into a parking space ahead on the left. Porter didn’t want to risk driving past. He didn’t know if Anderson would recognise his car, but couldn’t take a chance that he’d be spotted if he continued. He pulled sharply to the left with a flash of his indicator, and into a space a hundred feet behind Anderson.

It suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t know what direction Anderson would walk when he got out, and frantically scanned the interior of the car, looking for something he could conceivably hold up to block his face. The best he managed was the service log from the glove box, but his fears were unfounded as he watched Anderson haul himself out and cross the road with something between a walk and a waddle. Porter shook his head. It was just as well the big man was retiring. He would have more chance of winning The X Factor than he would of passing another physical.

Porter waited to see which way he headed before making a move himself. He was ready to open his door when he saw Anderson vanish into a cafe with a Turkish flag draped in the window, reappearing a few minutes later with a plastic bag big enough to pass as an emergency aid food parcel. He hoped, for Anderson’s sake, and that of his recently weakened heart, that he had help lined up to tackle it, maybe his mystery informant, maybe his girlfriend. He doubted that he would be spotted from this distance, but grabbed his hastily acquired logbook shield as extra insurance and peered around the edge to watch for the Honda pulling away.