The Cleaner

51

Number Twelve sat in his car. He was parked on the opposite side of the road to the church hall. The street was eerily quiet. A battered old minibus was parked directly in front of him, the stencilled sign on its dirty flanks advertising a Camden gym. He had watched the dozen youngsters pile out of the bus and file into the hall, different sizes and ages, all of them carrying sports bags. The local kids had arrived within the space of half an hour, all similarly equipped. Milton’s car was parked fifty yards away; Callan had followed the tracking beacon from across London. He had not seen him, and assumed that he was inside.

His mobile chirped.

“I have orders for you.”

Callan recognised Control’s voice. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you know where Number One is?”

“He’s in the East End. I have him under surveillance now. What do you want me to do?”

“The Committee has reviewed your report. It’s been decided that he is a risk we cannot take. His behaviour, his likely mental condition — national security is at risk. We have decided that he needs to be retired.”

Callan kept his voice calm and implacable. “Yes, sir. When?”

“Quickly.”

“Tonight should be possible.”

“Very good, Twelve. Let me know when it is done.”

The line went dead.

Callan put the phone back into his pocket. He would have preferred a little longer to plan an operation like this, against a target of Number One’s pedigree, but he did not think it an impediment that need detain him. Number One had no idea that he had been marked for death. Callan had the benefit of the element of surprise, and that would be the only advantage that he would need.

He opened the door, went around to the boot of the car and popped it open. He pulled up the false floor and ran his gaze across the row of neatly arranged weapons. He reached down and stroked his fingers across the cold metal stock of a combat shotgun. He pulled a bandolier over his shoulder and filled the pouches with shells. He didn’t think he’d need more than the two that were already loaded but it didn’t hurt to be prepared. He shut the boot and locked it and got back into the car again. All he needed to do was wait for the right moment.

52

Milton stood with Rutherford next to the ring, both of them watching the action. Elijah was fighting one of the boys from the Tottenham club. The two of them were well matched: the Tottenham boy was a year older and a little bigger, but Elijah was faster and his punches were crisper, with a natural technique that couldn’t be taught. “Boy’s doing good,” Rutherford said, his eyes fixed on the action. “Landing everything he throws. If he don’t knock him out he’ll take him on points, easy.”

Milton thought that was probably right but it didn’t mean that he wasn’t nervous. His own fists jerked a little with each punch and he caught himself holding his breath as the other boy moved in tight and clinched, snagging Elijah around the shoulders and hugging him. Elijah tried to struggle free but the Tottenham boy was strong. The referee called for the break but before he could step in the boy released his right hand and punched, twice, into Elijah’s groin.

The bell sounded.

Elijah spat out his mouthguard. “You hit me low!” he yelled at him.

“Yeah?” the boy called back across the ring at him. “What you gonna do about it, Hackney?”

Rutherford stepped between the ropes. “Elijah!”

“I’m gonna fuckin’ dook you!”

Rutherford reached out a long arm, snagged the collar of Elijah’s singlet and dragged him back to the corner. “Deep breath, younger.”

“He hit me in the nuts!”

Rutherford put one big hand on each shoulder and turned him away. “Yeah, he did, and you lose your temper like you’re fixing to do, chances are this boy ain’t got what it takes to hold you off, and you’ll probably knock him out. But losing your temper like that gets to be a bad habit and, eventually, you’ll come up against someone who’s good enough to get you all fired up and take advantage of it. You’re good enough to go a long way, younger, maybe even make a nice career out of it. You don’t want to get into bad habits that’ll get you in trouble in a fight that really means something — like for your future, you hear what I’m saying?”

Elijah scowled down at the canvas. “Yeah,” he said.

“Now then — you know why he hit you low?”

“Cos I’m better than him.”

“That’s right, younger. Better than him. Much better than he’ll ever get to be, too. There’s one more round coming, aight? I’m going to let you go and you’re going to get back out there, touch his gloves in the middle of the ring like you respect him even though we know you don’t, and then you’re going to box him. You keep your cool, follow the plan we talked about, and wait for the opening. When he gives it to you, then you punish him for hitting you low — you got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright then.” Rutherford pushed the mouthguard back into Elijah’s mouth and let go of his shoulder. “Touch his gloves and away you go.” The bell was rung to signal the start of the third round and the two boys met in the centre of the ring again. They tapped gloves and then sprang apart. Elijah did exactly as Rutherford had instructed: he kept his opponent at arm’s length, stinging him with his jab whenever he tried to get in too close. The older boy tried to rush him but Elijah skipped out of the way, banging in straight rights and lefts into the side of the boy’s face as he sailed harmlessly past. As the seconds wound down he stepped back and lowered his guard, indicating his chin with a clumsy touch of his glove. He’s showboating, Milton thought, a grin breaking out across his face. The other boy swore at the goading, his words muffled by his guard, and rushed in again. Elijah took a step to the side, pivoted on his right foot, and swung a strong right hook into the boy’s guts. His momentum was stopped at once and, his guard dropping to shield his stinging ribs, Elijah powered a left hook that knocked him backwards and, after a comical stumble, he landed on his behind.

The bell sounded and the fight came to an end.

That’s my boy, Milton thought, before he caught himself. Elijah ducked his head to the referee and bumped his right fist against Rutherford’s. He turned to look at Milton but looked away again quickly. Milton nodded at that. Fair enough, he thought. He didn’t know anything about what had happened and, as far as he was concerned, he had caught Milton in bed with his mother. All things considered, he deserved his mistrust.

A week had passed since the riots. Milton had spent most of the time with Elijah in the hospital. Sharon’s condition had stabilised to the extent that the doctors were happy to plan the skin grafts that would fix some of the damage that had been done to her face and the rest of her body. Elijah had refused to leave her side and so Milton had arranged for him to have a spare bed in a suite that was held back for relatives. He made sure that the boy ate and did whatever he could to reassure him that his mother would make a recovery, although he kept some of the information to himself. The doctors were confident that they would be able to help but she had been very badly burnt, they said, and she was always going to be badly scarred. On the sixth day, Sharon was moved from the Burns Unit to a general ward and Milton started to feel more confident that things would start to improve.

He had returned to the hospital after disposing of Bizness. He said nothing about it to Rutherford, but he didn’t need to. The story was on the news that night, buried beneath the clamour of the riots, but once the streets had calmed down again it rose to the top of the bulletins. Bizness, referred to by his given name of Israel Brown, had been murdered by a person or persons unknown. Two of his associates had also been shot and killed. It was quickly dismissed as a gangland argument that had escalated into something more. Bizness was revealed to be a man of many enemies and, when it all came down to it, not many friends. It was difficult to find anyone who was prepared to say that he would be missed.

Milton had been ready to find a hotel but Rutherford told him there was no need for that: he could stay with him. Eventually, Milton had agreed. There was a long list of things that needed to be done to make the hall more suitable for the club’s business and staying nearby enabled him to start earlier and finish later. Rutherford had a small house with two bedrooms, the second used as the office from where he ran the club. There was a sofa bed and, once the desk was pushed to the wall, there was enough space for Milton and the handful of things he had rescued from the rented house. They had spoken about Elijah and, once he was ready to leave the hospital, Rutherford had promised that he would be able to stay, too. Milton doubted that there would be the space for all three of them but he knew that that was moot: he didn’t plan to stay for much longer.

Milton had quickly settled into a routine: he would rise early, at half-five, and go for his run. He would work until eight and then, after showering at the club, he would drive across to the hospital to see Elijah and Sharon. After an hour with them, he would return to Hackney and work through until five, stopping only to buy his lunch from the arcade of takeaways at the end of the road. He stayed at the hospital for a second time until visiting closed for the night, worked until nine or ten and then, finally, returned to the house for something to eat. Rutherford would usually be watching the television and he would join him for half an hour before calling it a day.

It was a hard schedule but it had allowed him to get a lot done. He had fixed the roof properly, replacing the tiles that had been dislodged. He had given the equipment a thorough cleanse, scrubbing the canvasses in both rings until the stains that had been trodden in over years of use had been mostly scoured away. He had whitewashed the walls and mended the damaged fixtures in the toilets.

Rutherford approached him. “You coming?”

“In a couple of hours? I want to finish wiring the plugs.” The biggest task left to do was to renew the wiring, but he had made a start and was keen to press on.

“You work too hard.”

“It’ll get done sooner this way.”

“I’m still not sure why you’re being so good about this.”

“It’s nice to be able to help,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

“Aight,” he said, clapping Milton on the back.

Rutherford went to collect his coat. Milton was about to fetch his tools from the office when Elijah stepped in front of him.

“Hey,” he said, a little awkwardly.

“Alright, Elijah?”

“Thanks for coming.”

“Are you kidding? I loved it. I said you’d be cut out for this, didn’t I?”

He paused awkwardly. “I never said thanks.”

Milton smiled at him. “There’s no need.”

“It was — you know…”

“You don’t have to say anything. I didn’t handle things as well as I could have done, either. That’s how things get to be, sometimes.”

Elijah was struggling for the words. “It’s just — I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful, that’s all.”

“You’ve done well. That fight, tonight, the way you handled him — I’m telling you, Elijah, that was something. I know a little bit about boxing and when Rutherford says you’ve got potential, I reckon he’s about right. You keep working hard and stay away from the street, I’d say there’s a very good chance you’re going to end up doing something pretty useful with these.” He tapped the back of the boy’s hands. “That left hook of yours” — he exhaled theatrically — “it’s something, Elijah, it really is. I wouldn’t want to get on the other side of it. Your mother will be proud of you when she sees what you’ve been doing.”

The mention of Sharon quietened him for a moment.

“You know she’ll be alright,” Milton said.

He looked up at him. “Why did you help us? You never said.” His eyes were wet.

Milton didn’t know how to answer that.

“JaJa!” Rutherford called. The three of them were the last people in the hall. “I want a curry. You coming?”

Elijah hadn’t taken his eyes off Milton’s face.

It was his turn to feel discomfited. “Doesn’t have to be a reason, does there?”

Elijah paused for a moment and then reached out his hand. Milton took it and held it for a moment. “See you later, Milton,” the boy said. He self-consciously scrubbed the back of his hand across his damp eyes. “We’re getting take-out curries. What do you want?”

“You choose. I’m not fussed.”

“You like it hot?”

“Not really.”

Elijah grinned. “Pussy,” he said.

Milton watched the boy make his way back to Rutherford. They made their way out, shutting the door behind them. Milton headed to the back and the small office. There was a desk, a filing cabinet and a battered leather sofa. He collected his bag of tools and went over to the plug that he was fitting. A curry with them sounded good. He was planning on leaving tomorrow and it would be nice to have had an evening with them before he did.

53

Rutherford and Elijah walked along the perimeter of the park. All the boy wanted to do was recount the fight from earlier, constantly asking Rutherford for his opinion and his suggestions for how he could eliminate his faults. It made him smile to see the boy so animated. The evening had been an escape for him, Rutherford could see that, a distraction that meant that he did not have to think about his mother or the ordeal of the last few days. He was a lively, engaged boy, and in his enthusiasm Rutherford could see the premature aging endowed by the street quickly peeled back. He saw him for what he was: a sweet fifteen year old boy, full of the usual insecurities, the usual need for encouragement and acceptance. He was a little full of himself at times, but what young boy wasn’t? Rutherford remembered that he had been much worse.

“Damn it,” Rutherford said.

“What’s the matter?”

“I put the alarm on. Milton will set it off if he opens the door.”

“Want me to run back and tell him?”

“I better do it.” He handed over a set of keys and pointed. “No need for you to come too — we’re nearly there. You know my house? Last one on the left. Let yourself in, make yourself at home. I’ll get the takeaway on the way back — what do you want?”

“Curry,” he said. “Milton, too. Chicken korma for him. Beef madras for me.”

“Two chicken kormas and a beef madras, then. There are DVDs in the living room — put one on if you want. Go on, get inside. Don’t hang around outside, you hear? It still ain’t right around here.”

Rutherford waited until Elijah had crossed the road and was at the door to the maisonette. The door opened and closed, the boy disappearing inside. Satisfied, Rutherford turned on his heel and retraced his steps back to the church hall.

54

Milton put down his screwdriver and concentrated on the aches and pains that registered around his body. His joints throbbed with a dull ague, his muscles felt stiff and there was a deep-seated fatigue all the way in the marrow of his bones. There was no point in pretending; he was getting old. Old and stiff.

He recognised, dimly, that he needed sleep more than anything else.

He was screwing the cover onto the new socket when he heard a knock on the door from outside. He waited, wondering whether he had misheard, but the knock was repeated. Three times, quite hard, urgent. He stood. His eye fell on his Sig Sauer, hanging in the shoulder holster against the back of the nearby chair. There was no need. It was Rutherford or, in the worst case, kids who were mucking about. He tossed it behind the ring, out of sight.

He crossed the wide space to the front door, unlocked it and pulled it back.

Milton did not recognise the man outside.

The man brought up a gun and pointed it directly at his chest.

“Back inside,” he said.

The gun was a Sig Sauer 9mm, like his own. He knew what that meant.

“About time,” he said.

“Inside.”

“Control sent you?”

The man didn’t answer.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Who are you? Eleven? Twelve?”

“Twelve,” he said. The muzzle was aimed at his heart, unwavering in a steady hand, and the man’s face was blank and inscrutable. There would be no sense in appealing to his better nature. He would have no better nature. Twelve followed him into the hall and pushed the door closed with his foot. Milton assessed him. He looked like an athlete with wide shoulders and a tapered trunk. The eyes stared out coldly from beneath pale lashes. They were opaque, almost dead. The eyes of a drowned man.

“What’s this about?”

“Are you armed?” Twelve said. His voice was flat, the sentence trailing away on a dead note.

“No.”

“Pull up your shirt.”

Milton did as he was told.

“Turn around.”

He did.

“Where is it?”

“In the car.”

“Anyone else here?”

“No. Just me. Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”

Again, there was no response. Milton assessed. Was there any way of putting Twelve off his stride? Upsetting his balance? He knew with grim certainty that there was not. Twelve and all the other young agents in Group Fifteen were brutally professional. Milton knew how well he had been trained — he would have gone through the same programme as he had, after all — and he was able to anticipate all of the variables that he would be considering. First, he would assess the threat that Milton posed: significant, but limited as it stood. Second, he would confirm that the surroundings were suitable for an elimination: perfect. Once those quick assessments had been made to his satisfaction he would carry out his orders. It would be quick and efficient. Milton guessed that he had a handful of seconds. A minute if he was lucky and could muddy the waters.

He would not go down without a fight. If there was a chance, a half-chance, he would take it. He assessed the situation himself. Six feet separating him from Twelve. Another indication that the agent was good; not enough to compromise his aim but enough to make sure that Milton could not attack before he could fire. Milton explored his own body, his posture, tensing his muscles and assessing how quickly he might be able to move. The position of his feet. The angle of his hips, of his shoulders. He would need to be decisive but, even then, he knew that his chances were slim. He would certainly be shot before he could reach him and, even if he was not, he did not fancy his chances in unarmed combat with Twelve. He was younger, his muscles more pliant and less damaged and scarred than Milton’s.

“Control sent you?” he asked again, probing for a weakness, some conversational gambit he could spin out into hesitation, then work the hesitation into doubt.

Nothing. He took a step into the hall. The gun did not waver.

“He doesn’t trust me?”

Nothing.

“Come on, Twelve, I’m owed a reason.”

Finally, he answered the question. “Your mental health is in question.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Twelve’s eyes darted left and right, taking in his surroundings, scanning for threats. “Look at this place! What are you now, a handyman?”

Milton ignored that. “It might have been in question before, but it isn’t now. Ten years doing what we do, it’s enough to make you hate the world. I’m not doing it anymore. I’m finished — I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

Twelve turned his gaze back onto Milton. “I used to look up to you,” he said, a cruel smile briefly creasing his alabaster white skin. “You were a legend. But that was then, wasn’t it? Before whatever it is that’s happened to you.”

“Is that what Control thinks? That I’ve gone mad?”

“I’ve been following you. Moving into that dump of a place down the road. That woman you’ve been seeing. And going to those meetings. You’re saying you’re an alcoholic now, with all the intelligence you’re privy to? Fuck, after what happened in France, what did you think he’d think? How could he possibly let that stand? You’ve been classified as a security risk. ‘Most Urgent, Marked for Death.’ What else did you expect? He can’t have you running around like that, can he? You’re a liability.”

He tried to think of something that might deflect Twelve from his mission but there was nothing. “There’s no need for this,” he said, hopelessly.

“Comes to us all in the end. And I can’t lie — this will be the making of me. I’m the one who gets to retire the famous Number One.”

Behind them, the door handle pressed down. Milton saw it first, an advantage of a second or two that his body spent readying itself for sudden action. Twelve heard it too and, the gun continuing to cover Milton, he took a sideways step and then a quarter turn, allowing him to see both Milton and the doorway at the same time. The door opened inwards.

Rutherford stood there.

Oh no.

A warning caught in Milton’s throat, stifled by the steady gun.

“Forgot to tell you about the alarm—” Rutherford said, the sentence trailing away as he noticed the tension in Milton’s posture. His face creased with confusion as he looked to the right, at Twelve, and then that became anxiety as he saw the gun.

“Come inside and shut the door,” Twelve instructed him in the same cold, flat voice.

Milton knew Rutherford had seconds to live. He was a witness, and there could be no witnesses. He had to act, right now, but the gun remained where it was, as if held by a statue, pointed implacably at his heart. Rutherford did as he was told, stepping inside and pushing the door behind him. The mechanism closed with a solid click.

“You don’t need to shoot him,” Milton said, desperately trying to distract Twelve from the course he would already have determined the moment Rutherford set his hand on the door. “He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know who I am. Let him go. We can settle this between us.”

“We’re going to settle it,” Twelve said.

He swung the gun away from Milton and aimed it at Rutherford.

55

In one violent corkscrew of motion, Milton threw himself across the room.

The gun spat out once and then swung back towards Milton again.

Twelve’s reflexes were unbelievably quick and a second — unaimed — shot rung out.

The bullet caught Milton in the shoulder, razor shards of pain lancing down his arm. Milton disregarded it, shut it down, and threw himself into the younger man. He tackled him around the waist, his momentum sending them both stumbling backwards until they clattered against the wall. Twelve tried to bludgeon him with the butt of the gun but he blocked the clumsy swipe, their wrists clashing and the gun falling to the floor. They collapsed downwards, Milton ending up on top, and he drove the point of his elbow into Twelve’s face. He felt the bones of his nose crumple and snap as they crunched together, blood immediately running over the pale white skin. Milton rolled away and scrambled for the gun. His fingers closed around it as Twelve sprung up to his feet, his face twisted with fury.

“Don’t,” Milton said. The pain from his shoulder washed over him in nauseous waves, but he managed to aim the pistol.

Twelve stopped. He was six feet away. Blood ran freely from his broken nose. His eyes shone with anger.

Milton slowly got to his feet. His left shoulder felt as though it had been mangled, the arm hanging uselessly down by his side. He was woozy from the pain. He knew, from experience, that it would get worse. It was the adrenaline that was holding him together, but the pain would overwhelm him eventually. He held the advantage, but he would not have it for long.

“Put the gun down,” Twelve said.

Milton looked across the room. Rutherford body was sprawled across the floor. Twelve’s shot had struck him in the forehead. He had landed in an untidy sprawl, his arms outflung. His body was still. There was no hope for him.

Milton tightened his grip on the pistol. He felt the old, familiar flick of his anger. His finger tightened around the trigger.

“Put it down,” Twelve said calmly.

He tried to tune out the pain. Twelve had sunk down a little, spreading his weight between both legs. He could see that Milton was injured. He would have noticed the way that his aim was slowly dropping, his gun arm gradually falling towards the floor. He would be making the same calculations that Milton had made moments earlier. The distance between them. How quickly he could close it. The odds of a shot stopping him before he could reach his target. Milton knew his weakness was obvious; Twelve would be able to smell it like a shark smells blood.

Milton fought the anger and the pain. “I’m not going to kill you,” he said, his voice quiet. “I’m finished with that, not unless there’s no other choice, and if you’re sensible you won’t back me into a corner.”

“Alright,” Twelve said, showing him his open palms, placating him. “I won’t. Take it easy.”

“I’m not going to kill you but you know I can’t have you following me.”

Milton stiffened his arm, switched to a lower aim and pulled the trigger.

The bullet struck Twelve in the right knee. His face distorted with agony and he fell back.

Milton closed in and swept his good leg. Twelve dropped to the floor. Milton backed away, covering him with the gun, until he reached the door. “Tell Control not to come after me.”

“He’ll come after you,” he gasped through the pain.

“Tell him I’m out.”

Twelve grunted; Milton realised that he was laughing. “We’re never out.”

“I am. Tell him if he sends anyone after me, I’ll send them back in boxes. And then I’ll bring him down.”

He looked again at Rutherford’s unmoving body, then at Twelve, staring up at him through a mask of pain. He reached around and pushed the gun into the waistband of his jeans and pulled out the tails of his shirt to cover it. The pain was reaching a crescendo.

He had to move now.

Right now.

He opened the door and hurried across the road towards the unlit stretch of park. He passed through the open gate and kept going until the darkness swallowed him.

56

The house was empty. Milton had forced his way in through a door to the garden; he put his fist through the glass and unlocked the door from the inside. It was on one of the most expensive streets in the neighbourhood, a long curved cul-de-sac which faced onto the peaceful expanse of a common adjacent to the main area of the park. Expensive SUVs and four-by-fours competed for space on the road. The houses were large, set behind railed front gardens with wide bay windows and broad front doors.

Milton had started to feel faint as he crossed the common. The pain had started to dull and fade, a sensation he knew was dangerous. He kept his hand clamped to his shoulder but the blood kept coming. He knew enough about battlefield medicine to know that a lodged bullet could be sometimes be a blessing, plugging up the entry wound until it could be carefully removed and the blood staunched. Milton had not been so fortunate. This bullet had nicked a vein and the blood continued to seep out around it, squeezing through his fingers and soaking into the fabric of his shirt.

He found a packet of ibuprofen in a first aid box in the bathroom cabinet. He tapped out three and swallowed them dry and then laid out his tools on the kitchen table. He placed an adjustable mirror before the chair and stood an anglepoise lamp next to it, the shade turned so that the bright cone of light was cast back onto the chair. He opened the first aid box again and took a tube of antiseptic gel, a gauze dressing and a roll of bandages. He crossed the room to the gas hob and removed the small kitchen knife from where he had rested it, the blade suspended in the blue flame. He raised the knife before his cheek; the metal glowed red and radiated heat. That was good. He lodged the blade of a larger, broader metal spatula in the flame instead.

He went back to the table and took off his shirt, using it to mop the blood from around the wound. He sat in the wooden chair, adjusting the lamp so that its light fell on the wound and then turning the mirror so that he could stare right into it. A neat hole had been burrowed out, blackened around the edges and scabbed in parts with partly congealed blood. He grimaced with pain as he reached his left hand back up to his left shoulder and then gasped as he used his forefinger and thumb to spread the edges of the wound, opening it so that he could look a little way inside.

He took the knife and, biting down hard on a dish cloth, prodded the hot and sharp tip into the wound, digging deeper until he saw the silver sparkle of the bullet, lodged like a spiteful tumour an inch deep in his flesh.

He took a deep breath and pushed the knife further into his flesh, the sharp point sliding through the skin and into the muscle beneath. The pain yanked him back to wakefulness and then kept climbing; every millimetre of progress, every nudge and tap, was rewarded with a lance of agony that seared into his brain.

He thought about Elijah and Sharon.

He thought about Rutherford.

He felt the tip of the blade touch against the bullet and, with the pain and his weakness shimmering like heat haze before his face, he pressed down harder and then prised the blade back, levering the slug from its burrow and pressing it out until it dropped from the wound and onto the table.

The pain flared once, a crescendo that Milton met by slamming his fist against the table, and then slackened off.

Halfway there.

He swallowed another two ibuprofen and reached over to the hob for the spatula. Closing his eyes and pressing his teeth together, he took the blade and pressed it against the wound, the skin sizzling as the red-hot metal cauterised it. Milton gasped at another vicious wave of pain, clenching the edge of the table until it, too, passed. He inspected the seared, puckered flesh in the mirror. A huge, purple bruise had already bloomed around the wound but the bleeding had stopped. He had done a decent job.

There was no time to pause.

Milton went upstairs and stripped off, taking Twelve’s Sig Sauer into the bathroom with him and showered in the en suite bathroom. He dried himself, daubing antiseptic gel onto the clean wound and then dressing it with the gauze pad, fixing it in place with the roll of bandage. He went into the bedroom and tore through the wardrobe, finding a t-shirt and jeans that fitted him and putting them on.

He had noticed a key fob on the radiator cover in the hall. The fob was attached to a leather swatch decorated with a BMW badge. He left the house through the front door, his revolver hidden beneath a leather jacket he had taken from where it had been slung over the end of the banister. He aimed the fob at the line of parked cars and pressed. There came the familiar double blip and the illumination of the courtesy lights of a large black BMW X5 that had been parked a little way down the road.

Milton opened the door and slid inside. He put Twelve’s revolver on the passenger seat and pressed the engine start. The display reported a full tank of diesel. He let the handbrake out, put the car into gear and pulled slowly into the quiet road.