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retort from Henry or Rik Dean.
    â€˜Let’s hear what he has to say, then,’ Henry said. ‘Mr Last?’
    â€˜I had nothing to do with this robbery or the killing of that security guard. I was at home all day yesterday with the exception of spending half an hour in the garden. It was a nice day, but I spent most of it watching TV and DVDs. End of,’ he concluded.
    Henry nodded, pouted, considering the pithy statement. Then his eyes levelled with Last’s. ‘I don’t believe you. However, you have some very serious allegations to answer anyway in connection with the firearms found at your premises. What we intend to do is this: check out your story, have the guns forensically examined and speak to you again in two weeks’ time, unless something comes to light which necessitates an earlier conversation.’
    â€˜Does that mean you’re giving me bail?’
    â€˜With certain conditions, yes.’
    â€˜Which really means you have fuck all on me—’
    â€˜Mr Last,’ the solicitor cut in quickly, warning him with a look that said, ‘Shut it.’
    Henry smirked. ‘That remains to be seen, Mr Last.’
    It was one of Steve Flynn’s most unpleasant experiences and when the rather intimately fitted microphone was extracted from his clothing, his relief was evident. He was a shy man at heart, did not like to blow his own trumpet, and retelling his deeds of derring-do (not mentioning a rifle) was arse-twitching for him. He had been cross-examined in court on many occasions but he found sitting in front of a camera being asked inane questions by a smarmy presenter was far more painful.
    â€˜You were brilliant,’ Gill Hartland told him. ‘Now what they want to do is go out on the boat so you can take them to where the rescue actually took place and maybe show you fishing as well.’
    Flynn’s face screwed up for the umpteenth time. ‘Why – what are you getting out of this, Gill?’
    She regarded him cynically. ‘On this occasion, nothing. I’m doing it for the reasons I’ve already told you. I’ve got the connections to get this story told and the fact that you’re a bit of a hunk and can string more than three sentences together – unlike most of my clients – is a bonus. You’re a hero, Flynn – bask in it.’
    â€˜Y’think I could get a modelling contract?’
    â€˜Mm, age may be against you there,’ she kidded, but then her eyes narrowed. ‘But I could get you on a dozen daytime chat shows and you could sell your story to a women’s magazine I have a contact with. I bet I could get you twenty-five grand out of all this . . .’
    â€˜Whoa – hold it right there.’ Flynn raised his hands to stop her before she really got into her flow, her eyes sparkling with possibilities. ‘Let’s just leave it at this, shall we? I’ve already had my fill of the media, ta.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t the money come in useful?’
    â€˜Any money would come in useful, but not this way. Not my scene.’
    â€˜OK babe, fair enough,’ she relented.
    â€˜Besides which, I don’t want some greedy agent taking twenty per cent of my hard-earned dough.’

FOUR
    F elix Deakin had become a creature of habit. He knew better than most that routine could be fatal in his line of work, because once the enemy, whoever they might be, whichever side of the fence they might be on – law or lawless – got to know where you were and what you might be doing at any point in the day, they could use that knowledge and move in for the kill. It was a fact of life, and regularity and predictability were things Deakin had been at pains to avoid ever since he’d learned as a youngster on the streets that the packages his father asked him to deliver were not full of caster sugar.
    But for the moment he was past caring and couldn’t give a toss who knew