Natasha screams again as the man bounds through the door after her, and she lurches towards the street. Almost trips over her own feet and bowls into the back end of a yellow Ford Cortina. She looks along to her right, towards the shop on the corner, but it’s closed. No cosy glow warming the pavement at this time of night. Her head spins like she’s just got off the waltzer at the fairground. She turns to look the other way, and stops. Light fills her world, like a sun exploding, and she’s weightless. Floating. Free.

CHAPTER TWENTY

It seemed like an eternity to Porter since Styles had put the call in, the minutes oozing by. He caught himself nibbling at the jagged edge of his thumbnail, something he hadn’t done since he was a kid, and folded his arms to avoid further temptation. Thirty years in the making, and it would all come down to thirty seconds. Even just thinking about it, Porter felt his pulse quicken, fists clench.

He felt Styles knock against his arm, looked across and saw his partner gesturing towards the gate. He had been so fixated on the building itself that he hadn’t noticed a dark saloon glide up to the gate. He didn’t need to see into the car to know who was driving.

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ he muttered.

‘Well this just got interesting,’ said Styles.

Porter flicked a glance at him, then looked back at the black Mercedes again. ‘Because of course it was all a bit mundane up until now.’ He leant forward, raising the binoculars and nudging them into focus on the driver’s side window. Locke. What the hell was he doing here? Sure, he owned the place, but this couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

‘So now what?’ asked Styles.

Porter thought for a moment before he spoke. ‘We wait for the others, then we go in. Nothing’s changed.’

‘We could wait till Bolton leaves, and move in on him wherever he ends up? Just playing devil’s advocate for a second, though, what will Campbell say if we go storming in and—’

Porter shook his head. ‘We have to have them both there, or Anderson might wriggle out of it. As long as Locke doesn’t get in the way, or do anything stupid, he can keep for another day. Not even Campbell will have a problem with that.’

He hoped Styles believed his words more than he did himself. If there was even the slightest hint of the operation being anything but perfect, he knew from experience that Campbell would be quick to point the finger. He would be the natural target, but at this point all he cared about was hauling Bolton in. He’d deal with any bullshit Campbell cared to throw at him when all this was over.