He noticed that Milton’s hand was shaking a little; drops fell over the lip of the glass and dribbled down the glass.

“SAS,” he said eventually. “Is it that obvious?”

“Oh, I don’t know — you stay in long enough and you get to know the signs.”

“I was hoping it’d wash off eventually.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I haven’t been a soldier for years.”

“Why’d you get out?”

“We’ve all got our own stories,” he said. A jet from City airport arced away to the south. A bloated pigeon alighted on the table opposite and was shooed off again. Rutherford could see that Milton had no interest in talking about whatever it was that had happened to him. “What have you been doing since?”

“Some things I can’t talk about,” he said with a shake of his head. They had both finished their drinks. Milton stood. “How about a coffee? We can work out how I can help you with the club.”

Rutherford watched him negotiate the crowd gathered at the door. He knew that there was a lot that Milton wasn’t telling him, and he guessed — well, it was pretty obvious, really — that he was still involved in soldiering in some capacity or another. The reticence was not what he would have expected of a grunt who was selling his experience as a mercenary; for his money, the discretion made it more likely that he was involved in something like intelligence. The conclusion led to more questions than it answered: what, for example, was an intelligence agent doing getting involved with a little hoodrat from Hackney? A spook? What sense did that make?

Rutherford had no idea how to even begin answering that one.

Milton returned with two cappuccinos.

“So,” he said. “The boxing club. You’re struggling. How can I help?”

“I can always do with more hands,” Rutherford said thoughtfully. “There’s a list of what’s wrong with that place that’s as long as my arm, man. The roof leaks, the wiring’s all over the place, the walls need painting, the canvasses are torn and stained with God only knows what — there’s only so much that I can do on my own, you know, with the club to run. If you’re serious —?”

“I am.”

“ — then I’d say thank you very much. That would make a big difference.”

“Fine. How about tomorrow morning? See what I can do?”

Rutherford raised his cup. “You bringing that younger you mentioned?”

“I’m working on that,” Milton said.

22

Christopher Callan, Number Twelve, drove across town to Hackney, following his satnav to Victoria Park. It was a hot, sticky night, and he drove with the windows open, the warm breeze blowing onto his face. He looked around distastefully. It was a mongrel area: million-pound houses cheek-by-jowl with slum-like high rises. He reversed into a parking space in one of the better streets, locked the car and set off the rest of the way on foot. His destination was marked on his phone’s map, and he followed it across the southern end of the park, alongside a wide boating lake with a fountain throwing water into the air and Polish immigrants fishing for their dinners from the banks. Finally, he turned onto Grove Road.

Milton had used his phone earlier and HQ had located the signal, triangulating it to the terrace that Callan was approaching. He picked his way along the untidy road until he reached the address, passing by on the other side before turning and passing back again. That side of the road was comprised of cheap terraced housing that might, once, have been pleasant. It was far from pleasant today, with the occasional property that had been well maintained standing out amidst the pitiful neglect of its neighbours.

Callan wondered what Milton was doing in a place like this. He slowed as came up beside number eleven, taking everything in: the rotting refrigerator in the gutter; the broken staves of the fencing across the road, lashed around with chicken wire; the bars on the doors and ground floor windows. The windows of the house were open and the curtains were drawn, the puce-coloured fabric puffing in and out of the opening, ruffled by the sweaty breeze. A lamp was on inside, the light flickering on and off as the curtains swayed. Callan couldn’t tell if anyone was home.

A Volvo was parked by the side of the road. Callan recognised it from Milton’s file. The car looked at home among the battered heaps that filled the parking spaces around it. He slowed as he passed the Volvo and, moving quickly and smoothly, dipped down to and slapped a magnetic transmitter inside the wheel arch.

Callan did not want to tarry. He had no desire to draw attention to himself. He did not think that he had ever met Milton before but he could not completely discount the possibility that he might somehow have known him. No point in taking chances.

He reached the end of the road, paused for a final look back again, and set off for the main road. He took out his phone and dialled.

“Callan,” said Control.

“Hello, sir. Can you talk?”

“Are you there?”

“I’m just leaving now. Awful place. Small house in a terrace. Looks like council housing. It’s a sink estate, not a good area, kids out on the street corners, pitbulls, messy, rubbish left out to rot in the gardens — you can picture the scene, I’m sure. God only knows what he’s doing here.”

“You’ve no idea?”

“None at all.”

“What about the house — did you look inside?”

“Couldn’t. I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t at home. I didn’t try and get any closer than the street. I can come back for that.”

As he walked back along the fringes of the Estate he noticed that he was being followed. Two older teenagers on BMXs were lazily trailing him, kicking the bikes along on the other side of the road.

“What about his car?”

“You can tell Tech that the tracker has been fixed.”

Callan took a right turn off the main road and watched as the two boys bounced down off the kerb and crossed against the flow of the traffic. The two started to close the distance between them.

“Sorry, sir. I’ll have to call you back.”

He pressed the toggle on the headphones to end the call. The road turned sharply to the left and Callan stopped to wait for the boys. They rolled up to him. They both wore baseball caps pulled down low with their hoods tugged up so that the fabric sat on the brim. The bottom half of their faces were covered with purple bandanas. Only their eyes were visible. It was impossible to guess their age but they were both large and rangy, their bikes almost comically small for them.

“Got the time, bruv?” the first boy said with insouciant aggression, putting his foot down and stopping. If he replied to the request, no doubt the next step would have been for him to have been relieved of his watch, together with his phone and wallet.

“Time you got off home, I reckon.”

The boy rolled a little closer. “You want to watch who you’re giving lip to, lighty. You could end up in a lot of mess.” The second boy got off his bike and walked forwards. He hawked up a ball of phlegm and spat it at Callan’s feet. “Give me your phone.”

Callan felt his skin prickle and his muscles tightening. The sensation was familiar to him. The surge of adrenaline. Fight or flight. It was rarely flight with him. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said, meekly.

The second boy took his hand out of the pocket of his jacket. He was holding a kitchen knife in his fist. “Give me your phone and your cash, aight, else you’re gonna get jooked.”

The boy came closer, and Callan let him. When he was within arm’s reach he lashed out suddenly with his right hand, the fingers held out straight, the thumb bracing them from beneath. The strike landed perfectly, and forcefully, Callan’s hard fingertips jabbing into the boy’s throat, right into the larynx. He dropped the knife and clutched his throat as he staggered back, choking, temporarily unable to draw breath. The first boy tried to hike up his jacket so that he could get to the knife he was carrying in his belt but he was impeded by his bike and was far too slow. Callan closed the distance between them with a quick hop and, bending his arm, struck the boy in the face with the point of his right elbow. The pedals tripped the boy as he staggered away and he fell onto his back, blood already running from his broken nose. The boy Callan had struck in the throat was still gasping for breath, and Callan almost lazily cast him to the floor, sweeping his legs out from beneath him. He crouched down and grabbed the boy by the scruff of his collar. He raised his head six inches from the pavement and then crashed it backwards, slamming his crown against the edge of the kerb, fracturing his skull and knocking him out.