Snapper and Loy had permitted only one visitor to their den in the front bedroom. They denied access to rubber-neckers, but they'd let her come. She'd acted the part of a health visitor, in a foghorn voice, at the front door. No way she would have made it over the back-garden fence off the rear entry. She'd cleared the biscuit plate. They thought she was gold-minted.

'They come off the street and make it a red-letter day,' Winnie said softly, from the back.

'Yes, Boss,' the chauffeur from the pool answered.

'You can spend a year or two on a fishing expedition, identify the one who seems right, and find you've wasted your time. Then a Joe comes in off the street, and spills it all out.'

'A bit beyond my horizons, Boss.'

She was driven south, fast and smooth. Ninety miles an hour, outside lane. The car's headlights ate the darkness of a November evening, and the wipers worked overtime.

'I feel it in my water. It's a fucking goer, this one. It's got legs.'

He didn't answer her, concentrated on the road ahead.

She remembered the body in the mortuary.

Her secure phone rang, and she dragged it out of her pocket.

'Is it good to speak? Secure?' her chief asked.

'Fine. Shoot.'

'The DDG called you?'

'He did.'

'I've been asked to clarify. Winnie, no offence.'

'Why should there be?'

'If it turns up right, if it's evidence that points to murder . . .'

'A long way down the road. If, yes.'

'Everything would need to be done in a transparent and legal way. The intention would be for the gaining of a conviction at the Central Criminal Court. It would be done with circumspection and by the book.'

'Of course, Chief.'

'It needed saying.'

'You know me, Chief. Sir William Blackstone, judge, 1753 to 1765: "Better that ten guilty men go free than one innocent man suffers . . ." There won't be anything if it's kosher that you'd lose sleep over, Chief. Believe me.'

'Thank you, Winnie.'

The phone went back into her pocket. She remembered how they had zipped up the bag and the hearse had carried it to the airport, how she had fought with a British Airways manager, and with the aircraft's pilot . . . She could remember nearly every minute of the funeral, and every word she had said every time she'd gone down to the parents and made the same promise that she would not rest until . . . Winnie Monks had never knowingly reneged on a promise.

3.

'If you have to, get hold of his balls and squeeze.'

'I get your drift, Boss.'

'If he's a busted flush, kick him and give him another kick from me.'

'Yes, Boss.'

Looking down at her watch, Winnie Monks slapped Caro Watson's shoulder boyishly. 'Time you were on the move and good fucking luck to you, kid.'

There were a few service staff in Thames House during the long night hours the canteen would do coffee and sell pre-wrapped sandwiches but the faces of the two Afro-Caribbean staff had lit at the entry of the big lady with the booming voice, and there had been something across the cash desk that was close to a hug and the greeting a family might have used. Perhaps not even the director general, if he had come down here during the night, would have been offered egg, bacon and sausage, and while the smell had drifted from the kitchen, they had talked. Then they had eaten, pushed aside the plates, and the table had been covered with the text of a signal from Baku. Each word, each phrase and each sentence had been lifted from the page, weighed, considered and valued. A table had been occupied by technical staff on the other side of the canteen, some night-duty people had been in and gone, and a section head had called by in a dinner jacket and had read through a file over a glass of gassy water before heading home. Winnie Monks and Caro Watson had been hunched over their table. Winnie had said, 'The trouble with this sort of caper is that you want to believe. You're desperate to pick it up and run with it . . . and when you throw in the bit about the dummy in the lay-by, kicking the head and laughing, it rings so fucking true.'

'You don't want to hear the downside,' Caro Watson had said. 'I didn't speak to the Tremlett woman. She had some function on, but a Royal Marine had sat in sounded a good man. He'd done the first Gulf as a senior NCO. Hauled him out of his bed. Like getting blood from a stone, but the bottom line which he finally conceded was that he believed everything the kid had told them. A typical nerd, great at a keyboard and useless at any other interaction, who'd been wronged, nose severely out of joint. It's copper-bottomed hatred, in the marine's book . . .'

They'd talked some more. If cash was involved, how high could Caro go? A down-payment and increments or a single sum? What if he asked for asylum?

How high? 'As low as you can get away with, Caro.'

Down payment or one-off? 'Let the hatred do the business, not greed.'

Asylum? 'In the short term, not even to be dangled . . . utterly vague. If he's real, we'll want him there.'

She stood up and waved in the direction of the kitchen. 'That was great, guys. There's places for you in Heaven with the angels.'

Laughter spilled back at her. It must have been for her. A CD player, out of sight, started to blast out calypso and two orange juices were presented. They toasted each other and nearly choked on the rum lacing it. Winnie whooped, and Caro giggled.

'God speed, kid.'

'Thanks, Boss. I'll get hold of them and squeeze.'

'Maybe twist a bit, too.'

They went off down the corridor. Caro Watson lugged an overnight bag and had a laptop case slung off her shoulder. She wore jeans, a sweater, an anorak and good walking shoes. A beanie poked out of a pocket. That was all good because the boy would likely be frightened of a smartly dressed woman. Winnie had asked, and been assured, that her Russian was up to speed. The building seemed like a cathedral of silence and their footsteps an intrusion into its dignity.

'Do you need a pep-talk, Caro?'

'Actually, Boss, I'd resent that.'

'Samuel Johnson know who I mean?'

'Boss.'

'He wrote: ''Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.'' I don't believe in turning the other cheek or all the forgiveness shit. It was a crime and we don't lose sight of it.'

'I hear you.'

'Good girl. Wish it was me who was flying.'

'So you could get your hands on those bollocks, Boss?'

'Something like that.'

They crossed the central atrium and the night skies pressed down on the glass roof. The latest cutbacks had determined that the heating was lowered at night. Not even a rat, Winnie Monks thought, would come to Thames House for succour.

At the back of the building there was a drive-in for the car pool. A vehicle was waiting, the engine ticking. Two men sat inside it, and a driver.

Caro Watson walked briskly to the car, and the driver was out, had the boot and the rear door open. Winnie recalled that when the girl had been little more than a rookie at Thames House she'd had lovely hair. It had been her pride and joy. A week after the return from Budapest, and before the funeral, it had been cut short not in a smart salon to create a gamine effect, the Audrey Hepburn look, but apparently with garden shears. It was tidier now, and better kept, but still had little style.

The boot lid was slammed, and Caro Watson sank into the car.

'Hold tight,' Winnie Monks murmured, 'and squeeze them till he squeaks.'

It had been a horrid funeral. Some such occasions, where Winnie Monks came from in the upper valleys of South Wales, could be joyous with the beauty of the music. The parents had been fed with half-truths at best, lies at worst, and had not known that their son was involved in an arms procurement investigation, or the circumstances of his death. They had been told that he had been involved as a pedestrian in a motor accident, to explain the facial injuries. They would not have seen his body below the throat and noted that his right hand was severed at the wrist. One side of the church, in an Oxfordshire village within sight of the Chiltern hills, had been filled with local people, and the other by the load from London, a coachful. Winnie had read a lesson Caro Watson had cried right through the service. The director, his deputy, his section leaders and every last one of the Graveyard Team had been there. Afterwards they had stayed a decent interval, then had boarded the coach again and left the village. Ten miles down the road the director had spoken to the driver and they'd pulled in at the next pub. That was where the wake had taken place and the drink was on the director's credit card. They'd all been pissed when they'd got back to the building overlooking the Thames. Secrets had been guarded, and the inquest had been a formality, but a year later on the anniversary Winnie had returned to the village, laid her own flowers on a well-tended grave and called on the parents. She went back each year on that September day had last been there less than two months before.

She was seldom emotional, but when the gateman let the car out her prayers went with it. Then she set off for a lonely home. A new day had already started as she stood at the bus stop, and it would be a big one: either a crushing disappointment or a clenched-fist triumph . . .

'Belt up, Ed God, you can moan for Britain.'

But Ed kept going. The retired second-hand Ford dealer from an Essex suburb had a captive audience and would milk the moment.

'Leave it, Vera. Didn't you hear them? They're going to Marbella, first time. Don't know one end of it from the other. I'm only being helpful.'

'You're miserable and it's nothing to do with you.'

'It's common good manners to share experience . . . What I'm saying to you both is that the Costa del Sol has changed in recent years. You want to be careful.'

The flight had been delayed and the rain had come on heavily. On take-off, the buffeting of the wind as they'd clawed for altitude had frightened Posie Jonno too, but he'd hidden his nerves. She'd caught his hand in hers.

'Costa del Crime, isn't it? I'm not talking about the old gangsters who were there when there wasn't extradition. No, it's the hooligan yobs who've flooded the place. Not just British Poles, Albanians, Serbs, Moroccans, Irish. Any language you want to hear, you'll get it on the Costa, and all looking for a fast buck. Plus the place is going down the drain so they have to hustle harder. What do they do if they can't find punters to buy hash, or the white stuff? Stands to reason, they-'

'Ed, you wouldn't know a drug-dealer if he bit your bum. Leave them alone.' The woman wore a contented smile.

'If they can't sell hash or cocaine, they have to mug and thieve to make ends meet. Stay on the inside of the pavement and always have your handbag, love, on the inside of you. Leave your main cash and your passport in the hotel safe. Don't even think of using credit cards.'

'God, you're a pain, Ed.'

'And the punters? Scum of the earth are attracted down to the Costa del Crime, and they want their drugs. How do addicts pay for them? They have to steal. Watch out for knives and don't be in dark streets. Be aware . . . There are some big beasts on the Costa now and they have bodyguards all round them. It's a dangerous place and the big villains would seem to back me . . . It's going downhill.'

'Ed, you're upsetting her.'

Posie sat very still beside him and held his hand in a vice grip. They were supposed to be on holiday and this man was pouring bilge water over it.

'No, I'm not. I-'

Jonno chipped in: 'Do me a favour, mate and shut up. Leave us alone. We're on holiday and expecting to have a good time. Enjoy your misery on your own.'

'No need to get heavy with me!'

'Shut it and keep it shut.' Jonno couldn't remember the last time he had issued a threat that implied violence. He would have moved but the flight was full.

The woman snorted. 'Best leave it, Ed.'

Jonno knew nobody who had been on the wrong side of the law. He had never been inside a gaol and had not even sat in the public gallery of a Crown Court. He reckoned that if he found himself near a criminal situation he'd get to the far side of the road fast, stay out of it.

On the patio at the Villa del Aguila, Pavel Ivanov sat with Rafael, his lawyer. They smoked and sipped fresh-pressed lemonade.

'And the boat, where?'

'I think a week out. I would assume your investment would be repaid within a further week the monies will move fast and the surcharge on the loan. We are considering where to advise a placement at greatest benefit to you.'

It was understood between them that the woman who worked on potential investment opportunities at the lawyer's offices would not come here. Neither she nor her employer regarded that as a slight on Ivanov's part; she was installed in a small, tastefully furnished studio home in the centre of the old town, where the Moors had been. No gossip could be carried back to the Motherland that a local mistress occupied the bed that Anna, his wife, would sleep in during her two visits each year to Marbella. There was much that the client and the lawyer agreed on.

'And the possible complex in the hills?'

'We consider most of the wrinkles now flattened out, and the town hall is more amenable. The current economic confusions make job opportunities more desirable. But we might wish for other sources of finance so that the load is spread wider.'

They had met within two weeks of Pavel Ivanov reaching the Costa. There had been a quiet dinner at a shadowed table in the poolside restaurant of the Marbella Club, and they had found a common tongue in English. An invitation from a Pole had brought them together. They had been introduced, a drink ordered, and the man from Gdansk who had good links to Kaliningrad up the Baltic coast and with people in northern Russia had slid away and left them. The much-feared street-fighter from St Petersburg, home of the most powerful Mafiya groups, and the elegant Spanish lawyer had made an instant impression on each other. An alliance had been formed. He had brought tens of millions of euros and dollars to the table, and extreme levels of wealth opportunity to the Spaniard; the Spaniard had made the introductions that enabled the incomer to buy the acquiescence of an official with influence in the city's planning office, another in the mayoral chambers, and the co-operation of a middle-ranking detective from the Unidad de Drogas y Crimen Organizado, who worked from the National Police building near the A7 junction. And Rafael had made a simple but subtle demand of the Russian: the winding up of criminal enterprises and a journey along the road of legitimacy.

'I have a man coming to meet with me.'

'Welcome or unwelcome?'

'In a former life I was the Tractor. In his present life, he is the Major. Before coming here, I never achieved the heights he has climbed to.'

'What heights?'

'The heights of his roof. You understand me? Of course you do. He is protected by the highest reaches of authority. He has a history from Afghanistan. He was State Security, now is a free operator but used by senior personalities. He can kill for the state, trade for the state, invest for the state. He can go his own way. He is not a man I tell to fuck off out of my life when he tries to come close. Those personalities wish to export hard currency, to invest and to wash very considerable sums of hard currency . . . What is the expression, about my life here, that we use?'

'We say it is ''under the radar''. Quiet, not attracting attention, fulfilling social and fiscal obligations. Are there not creatures that change their skin?'

'The chameleon is the lizard that alters colour for better camouflage. I do not call myself a lizard. Perhaps the radar had picked me up and they hear that the old Tractor has done well and legitimised his life. He has washed his hands and his money. Perhaps if they wished, or if I tell him to fuck off, he can disturb me.'

'Can you live with it, the visit?'

'Of course. Not a difficulty. Rafael, I tell you, I have become more cautious. I look at myself in a mirror and try to remember how I was. There were men who were brought to see me in St Petersburg they might have been officials from the fuel or electricity-supply companies. When they were led into the room, they had pissed their trousers. I was not going to harm them, or their families. I only wanted co-operation. The sight of me made fear.'

'It is different now, Pavel. You are a man of business. The sun shines on you.'

'Hard to remember who I was who they were.'

Alex sat in the shade behind them and Marko was to their right. He could hear the women in the house and the children played with plastic toys. He grimaced. 'Maybe I will need a little of an old skin, or an old colour, on my back.'

'I cannot yet be definite with advice, but I am considering suggesting the monies from the boat opportunities an aberration of our general policy but too good to miss go into the complex in the hills. They should be moved fast, and with a minimum of a tail to be chased.'