George sees the man walk through the door and realises why Locke has asked him here tonight. Nathan Barclay doesn’t recognise him at first. Must be the lack of uniform, but by the time he gets within handshake distance, the confusion on his face tells George he’s been made. Barclay stares at him for a few seconds, then looks to Locke. Realises he’s standing beside the young sergeant, and tries to process what that might mean. Bolton and Rat Face, who George now knows is Oliver Davies, occupy the flanks.

The warehouse is empty at this time of night, and despite the cavernous open space, the five men gathering together so conspiratorially feels almost claustrophobic. George fights the urge to break ranks and head out, anywhere but here. He looks at Barclay’s face, seeing it properly now that he’s closer. Muscles in his jaw twitching back and forth, as if he’s grinding his teeth. Plum-coloured shadows under his eyes. Barclay’s whole body is rigid, and George struggles to read his expression.

‘Nathan,’ says Locke with what George guesses is meant to pass for warmth. ‘Glad you could make it,’ he says, holding out a hand.

‘Where is she?’ Barclay asks. It’s barely above a whisper, and George stiffens. Just the mention of her, even unnamed, is enough to unnerve him.

‘Have you brought it?’ asks Locke.

Barclay doesn’t break eye contact as he reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulls out an envelope and gives it to Locke. George feels like an intruder. Like he has no part in whatever is going on here. Like it or not, though, he is involved. He is the reason this man’s daughter isn’t with him tonight. He isn’t sure what haunts him more: the memory of Natasha splayed on the road, or what he saw in the flat in the hour that followed. What they did.

‘Hope this is all in order, Nathan. We wouldn’t want to have to send you another one.’

George tries not to react. Tries to pretend he doesn’t know what Locke is talking about. Tries and fails to block out the memory of Oliver Davies coming back from what he now knows was the bathroom. Shirt speckled red like a butcher’s apron. Feels light-headed as the image of a disembodied handshake swims before his eyes, her hand dangling from his, minus the one-fingered message intended for her father.

‘It’s done. Just tell me where she is.’ Barclay’s words are dripping with worry.

Locke opens the envelope, scans the contents, nodding in approval. Looks back up at Barclay with something of a twinkle in his eye.