Milton felt a shudder of revulsion.

He assessed the situation. The junkies were too far gone to pose any kind of problem and he discounted them. The two dealers looked fit and strong, and there was a kitchen knife resting on the arm of the sofa. That would be a problem if they could get to it before he had disabled them. He could not discount the possibility that they were armed, either.

Milton suddenly decided.

He sprang across the room and lashed out with the barrel of his pistol. He struck the bigger of the two men across the temple, a stunning blow that dropped him to his knees. The second man stretched across the sofa but Milton had anticipated his move, firing out a kick that struck him in the side of the chest and brought a whistle of pain from him. The man’s hand fell short, the knife dislodged from its perch by the attempt. Milton’s hands grabbed the man in two places — bunching into his singlet and by waist of his trousers — and he heaved him off the sofa and onto the floor. The sharp edges of crushed vials and syringes bit into his face and throat as he tried to find his feet. Milton followed him to the floor, pinning the point of his knee between his shoulder blades and pressing down. He took the Sig and pressed the barrel into the cornrows on the top of the man’s head.

“Pay attention,” he said. “I want you to deliver a message to Bizness. Tell him that this is what I said would happen. If he doesn’t do what I told him to do, tell him that this will keep happening. One crack house at a time. Do you understand? Nod if you do.”

The man jerked his head awkwardly against the floor.

“Alright. You’re going to get up now, and you are going to clear these people out. Then you’re grab your friend over there and get him out, too. If you do anything foolish, I’ll shoot you. Understand?”

Milton got up and backed away. He took the jerrycan and poured the petrol across the floor, on the sofa, sloshing it across the thick curtains. If the boy needed motivation, Milton’s self-evident plan was it. He did as he was told, ushering the crackheads out the back and then returning to collect his friend, propping him up and helping him away.

The room quickly stank of petrol. Milton took out his lighter and thumbed it to flame. He played the lighter over a rag and blue-white flame consumed it hungrily. Milton dropped it onto the sofa and, with a quiet exhalation, the fabric caught fire. The flame spread quickly over the upholstery, stretching higher and higher until it started to scorch the ceiling. It raced across the floor to the walls, a quiet crackling that quickly became a hungry roar, with black smoke billowing up to the roof and then spewing back down again.

Milton went out into the alley gun-first, only holstering the Sig Sauer when he saw that both boys had fled. He walked briskly, making his way back onto the main road and to his car. He unlocked the door and slipped inside.

Across the street, the squat was burning fiercely.

37

Christopher Callan paused outside Flat 609 and then, satisfied that it was the correct address, he knocked firmly, three times, on the door. He heard sounds of activity inside: the chink of pieces of crockery being knocked together, a door opening on a rusty hinge, and then footsteps approaching. A woman opened the door. Callan guessed that she was in her early thirties. Dark black hair, smooth skin, wide eyes, a slender build. She was wearing the uniform of a fast-food chain.

“Yes?”

Callan smiled. “Excuse me. Sorry for disturbing you. Are you Sharon Warriner?

Her eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m detective constable Travis.”

Her face fell. “It’s Elijah, isn’t it?”

“Elijah?”

“My boy — what’s he done?”

“No, Mrs Warriner, it’s not that. Nothing to do with Elijah. Would it be alright if I came inside for a minute?”

“What’s it about?”

She had the usual suspicion of the police, Callan saw. It was to be expected in a place like this. He reached into his jacket pocket and took over the file picture of Milton. “Do you know this man?”

She became confused as she studied the picture. “That’s John.”

“John Milton?”

“Yes. I don’t understand. What’s he done?”

“Can I come in, please? Just five minutes.”

She reluctantly stood aside and let him through. They passed through the small hallway and into the lounge. It was a large room, the décor a little tatty and tired, an old sofa, a table with four chairs, a flatscreen television, PlayStation games scattered across the floor. Sharon stood stiffly; her suspicion had not been assuaged, Callan could see that, and he was not going to be invited to sit. Fair enough. He wouldn’t be long. In some ways, he had already seen enough.

“How do you know Mr Milton?”

“He’s a friend.”

“How did you meet him?”

She paused, her face washed by a moment of worried memory. “I just did,” she said. “What’s this about, please?”

“What’s he doing here?”

“I told you, he’s a friend. He’s helping me with my son.”

“How?”

“I’m sorry, detective, but I don’t understand how any of that is relevant. What has he done wrong?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. Please — how is he helping you?”

She waved her hand agitatedly. “My boy, Elijah, he can be a bit of a handful. Headstrong, like they all are at his age. Mr Milton is” — she paused, searching for the right word, and then repeated the same one again — “helping me with him, like I said. I don’t understand why you’re asking me — has he done something wrong? Should I be worried?”

Should she be concerned? Callan suppressed the smirk. She had no idea. None at all. “No,” he said, “there’s no reason to be concerned. I’m sorry I can’t say any more than that.”

She made for the door. “Then I’m sorry, detective, if you can’t tell me what Mr Milton has done then I’m not sure what else I can do to help.” She opened the door. “Do you mind? I have to get ready for bed. I start work early in the mornings.”

“Of course,” Callan said. “Thank you for your help. Sorry again for disturbing you.”

He looked around again as he allowed her to shepherd him to the door. Unpaid bills on the floor. Paint peeling from the walls. Bars across the windows. What was Number One doing in a place like this, with a woman like this? He supposed that she was pretty, after a fashion, but that wasn’t a good enough reason to explain anything. The only thing that made any sense at all was Control’s contention that something had broken inside Number One’s head and that, if it was true, would not be good for him at all. He politely bid the woman good night and walked over to the balcony as she shut the door behind him. He rested his elbows on the balustrade and looked out over the East End. It was a hot night, the air torpid and sluggish. Sirens wailed in the streets nearby and a group of youngsters had gathered in the open space below, their raucous laughter reaching up to him. Callan did not understand any of it. His task was to gather evidence, not to draw conclusions, and yet he could not help but wonder: what on earth had happened to Number One?

38

Stoke Newington police station was a modern three-story building with wide windows on the ground floor. They were all lit up, lights burning behind them. Pops walked towards the entrance but did not go in. They had one of those old fashioned blue lanterns hanging from the wall and he carried on beneath it and further along the road before he stopped, crossed over, and headed back in the same direction again. He had repeated the pattern for the last half an hour, passing up and down the tree-lined road, thinking about choices and consequences. What he was about to do would change everything for him. There was no point in pretending that it wouldn’t, and the gravity of what he was contemplating frightened him. If he did as he had been asked to do there would be no turning back for him. His life would be yanked off course and sent in a different direction.