After a catalogue of screw-ups, Jasmine had been determined to get this establish right, particularly as it was a subcontract from the firm that provided so much of Jim’s business. She decided it would be wise to plan contingencies, and concocted a second, back-up story to be on the safe side.

‘Delta Seven. Subject vehicle turning left left left into the car park Ashton Lane. That’s a stop stop stop. I have one vehicle for cover. Foxtrot Five park and deploy.’

‘Foxtrot Five. Yes yes.’

The address given by the supplier had been number 315. There was a main-door flat at 313, occupying the whole of the ground floor, so the first three possibilities were on the level above it, accessed by the close next door. Jasmine had rung the doorbell on the left-hand flat, which was answered by a hunched old woman, eyeing her suspiciously through the narrow crack permitted by her security chain, a Westie yapping and panting excitedly at her ankles.

‘No, never heard of him,’ the old woman answered.

She got the same at the middle flat from a harassed-looking mum with a baby over one shoulder and a streak of fresh creamy sick across the other. There was no reply at the right-hand flat, so she climbed the stairs and started again on the next landing, where she struck out for a response at the first two doors. She’d try them again on the way back down, just in case.

How did she find herself here, she’d asked herself, as she rang another bell and stood waiting for a response: knocking on doors to empty flats in search of a man she didn’t know, who didn’t want to be found? It was like something out of Beckett. Where along the road had she ended up in this lane and missed the turn-off for a place in a regional rep or even a half-decent touring company? Well, she knew the answer to that one, didn’t she? No mystery there.

She was about to ascend to the next landing when her reverie was interrupted by the door being opened. Her surprise at this belated response was slightly jarring, but nothing like as jarring as being confronted by the subject. Pete Harper, despite being a slippery customer, was evidently no master of disguise, having gone to precisely no trouble to alter his appearance from the two-year-old photo the client had provided Galt Linklater with.

‘Delta Seven. Subject is out out out of the vehicle and walking still walking towards Ashton Lane. Foxtrot Five confirm you are deployed on foot in a position to follow.’

‘No. I mean: Foxtrot Five no no. Still trying to find a non-permit-holder space.’

‘For God’s sake, just pull in any … Radio silence.’