There was a knock on the door and he turned round as a short, stocky Asian guy with a round jolly face and a frizzy mop of hair that couldn't decide whether it was salt or pepper ambled into the room. Mo Khan looked tired, his big bloodhound eyes sporting heavy bags, and Bolt noticed he was putting on weight round the middle – a result, no doubt, of his latest effort to give up smoking.

'Ah, the wanderer returns,' Bolt said with a smile, glad for the interruption. 'Any joy with that?'

'Some. It seems that Paul Wise is good at cleaning his money.'

'And it took them a month to work that out? He's been a criminal for thirty years. Of course he's good at cleaning his money.'

'Well, they've found out a bit more than that,' said Mo, as the two of them took seats opposite each other. 'They've worked out that he's making a gross annual profit of at least twenty-five million dollars, just from prostitution and drug smuggling. Most of the cash gets smuggled out of the country. Some of it gets sunk into his construction and leisure businesses, particularly the restaurants, where it's difficult to differentiate it from the legitimate takings. The rest of it ends up going through the usual laundering routes and into bank accounts in places like Iceland, Panama, and of course northern Cyprus, before it finally makes its way into Wise's pocket. He loses maybe thirty per cent of the total in turning it from dirty to clean, but he's still raking in huge quantities, and he's got some deal with the authorities over there where he's even managed to defer his tax payments.'

Bolt had long ago given up getting worked up about the personal wealth of the Mr Bigs, but he still whistled through his teeth at the size of these particular figures. 'And who said crime doesn't pay? OK, so how does the report help us?'

Mo shrugged. 'We might be able to disrupt the flow of the cash if we know how he's getting it out of the country and we can intercept it, but from what they say here, it's going to be a nightmare building a watertight money-laundering case against him. He spreads the stuff around too much for that, and the fact that he owns a lot of businesses where large sums of cash are used counts in his favour.'

'So they've been able to find out all these clever statistics and write this big flashy report, but it basically makes no difference.' Bolt shook his head irritably.

'That's about the size of it, boss. There is one piece of good news, though. The credit crunch is hitting Wise hard. Not only are all his legitimate businesses suffering, he's been putting millions into a hedge fund in the City run by some hotshot financier called Sir Henry Portman.'

'Where do I know that name from?'

Mo grinned. 'He was filmed by the News of the World dressed in stockings and suspenders snorting cocaine and cavorting with a succession of high-class prostitutes, one of whom was seen to spank his bare behind with a paddle.'

Bolt raised his eyebrows. 'And that's in the report?'

'No, I just Googled it now.'

'Jesus. But why would I remember that? Those kind of scandals are two a penny.'

'Well, one, he sued them successfully over it for breach of privacy, which made the news. Two, he's a big name in the City and his fund, HPP, has been one of the star performers of the last five years. Up until recently, that is. It's now down more than thirty-five per cent year on year. Which translates into losses in the millions for Wise.'

'Good. At least there's some divine justice. But it still doesn't bring us any closer to getting him. Is there any personal link between Wise and Portman?' Wise had had some good contacts with senior figures in the establishment, which in Bolt's view was one of the key reasons he'd avoided justice so far.

'Not that the report mentions,' said Mo. 'And even if there were, it wouldn't make any difference. The money Wise has been investing goes through a holding company of his, Ratten Holdings, and it's officially clean. According to him, he's just a businessman.'

As Mo spoke, Bolt Googled Sir Henry Portman on his PC and came up with several hundred matches. He clicked the first one and a report of his court victory against the News of the World appeared.

'Listen, boss, do you mind if I make a move? I wanted to take the kids swimming tonight, and time's getting on. I've written up a summary of the report for you to take a look at.'

Bolt smiled. Mo Khan doted on his four kids, and with the long hours they worked at SOCA, time was precious. 'Sure. We're done here. Have fun.'

For a fleeting moment he felt jealous of Mo having a family to go back to. His own wife, Mikaela, had died in a car accident seven years earlier, and he'd never remarried, or had kids.

He pushed the thought aside and turned back to the computer screen, inspecting the colour photo of the distinguished-looking gentleman with the silver hair and the pinstripe suit. In the picture, Sir Henry Portman was standing outside the High Court addressing reporters, alongside his blonde female lawyer, who looked a damn sight better than most of the ones Bolt had to deal with. He wore a serious expression, as befitted the occasion, but there was something vaguely rakish about him, a twinkling in the eyes, and it didn't take that much to imagine him enjoying the attentions of good-looking call girls.

Paul Wise was strongly suspected of being responsible for as many as twenty-five murders, including that of a teenage girl and at least one police officer, even though he used other people to do the actual dirty work, and Bolt wondered whether Portman knew where the money Wise was investing in his funds came from. Or whether he even cared.

After all, in Bolt's experience, when large amounts of money are involved, people tend to forget their morals very, very quickly indeed.

'What she lacked in obvious beauty, she made up for both in talent and enthusiasm,' announced Ramon, describing his conquest of the previous night, a credit controller called Cheryl. 'And I've got to tell you, my man, that even the great Ramon's libido has been temporarily tamed. I am, how you say, fair shagged out.' He grinned and took a toke on his joint, sucking in the smoke and holding it there for a good ten seconds before blowing out a thin stream towards the ceiling.

We were sitting in my bedroom cum living area, Ramon in the old armchair by my bed, me reclined on a couple of beanbags opposite him, a Peroni in my hand. An old Santana album (Ramon's choice) was playing on the iPod, and I was feeling relaxed for the first time in twenty-four hours. I was supposed to be cooking dinner for us both, but somehow I didn't think this was going to be happening any time soon.

'How about you, my man?' he said. 'There were a lot of women in that place last night. Did you attract one with your lethal combination of wit and good looks?'

'Incredible though it might seem, no.' I took a slug from the beer, surprised that I wasn't even tempted to tell him about what had happened to me. I guess at that moment I just wanted to forget about it.

'Ach Roberto,' he said, pointing the joint at me accusingly. 'A good-looking guy like you and you're wasting your youth. One day you're going to sit back and wonder where the time went. Let me tell you something, my man. No one ever regretted that they didn't spend enough time in the office.'

'I don't work in an office.'

'I know you don't. But you've still got to loosen up, my man. Here, have a puff on this little number. It's prime weed. Not any of that skunk shit.' He leaned forward with the joint.

Normally I'd have said no. I rarely smoked dope. It tended to make me both sleepy and incredibly horny at the same time, which was always a pointless combination, especially so when all I had for company was another man, but tonight I felt like throwing caution to the wind. I took it off him and inhaled deeply, enjoying the feeling of smoke in my lungs. I'd given up the cigarettes years back but, like most smokers, I still missed them.