Trying to make him listen for once, to get some sense into that bone-solid head of his, Mary gave it to him straight: 'It's either this or they'll evict us – just stop it!'

Taffy immediately stepped back, raising his hands. Fine, okay with me, go right ahead. As the men got to the front door Taffy bent down and yanked the carpet, bellowing out his defiance, taking their legs away and sending all three of them colliding into each other, the TV set doing a wobbly as they very nearly dropped it. 'I'm helping them, woman,' Taffy explained reasonably, coming forward with a strange smile on his face. 'I'm not gonna hurt anyone.' Mary cringed, hating the blank expression that gave away nothing. It was as if his face was a mask – only his eyes were alive, and very very dangerous.

The two men in brown got the door open and got out, having gently deposited the TV set at the bottom of the stairs. Taffy helped the man in the suit on his way with a shove in the back and a boot up the jacksi, and slammed the door on the whole mangy pack of them.

'You don't say a word unless you have to. I'll do the talking, just nod your head, right?'

Steve nodded and said, 'Right.' Or that's what Dillon thought he said. Sometimes he could understand Steve plain as day, other times it was a mangled croak, like a bullfrog with an attack of hiccups.

The radio had said cloudy with the possibility of showers, but there was blue sky and a faint breeze, not cold, almost a touch of spring in the air. They came down the concrete stairway from Dillon's flat, brisk and purposeful, wearing identical grey suits (bought off adjacent pegs), slim black ties, and rubber-soled black shoes. Freshly shaved, hair trimmed and groomed, the pair of them moved with a lightness of step and casual agility that only came with a regime of hard punishing exercise, coupled with the discipline to maintain the body as an efficient fighting machine, because in their profession if you weren't superbly fit, you were dead. Most civilians were slobs; ten minutes on Heartbreak Hill at The Depot in Aldershot would give them cardiac arrest.

'Frank… Frank!'

Dillon looked up to see Susie's tousled head poking over the third-floor parapet. 'What?'

'Somebody called Taffy – said it's very important.'

'What?'

'On the telephone!'

'Tell him to call tonight,' Dillon shouted, striding off with Steve across the paved courtyard, not bothering to look back.

As they came round the corner into the street, Dillon nodded towards a royal-blue Mercedes idling at the kerb, a young black guy at the wheel. Done out in a chauffeur's garb of neat dark jacket, crisp white shirt and black tie, he exuded the same hard, clean energy as the other two, giving Dillon a broad cheery grin.

'He was only on transport,' Dillon told Steve in a muttered aside as they came up, 'but he's a good lad.'

They climbed in the back, Dillon doing the introductions. 'Cliff Morgan, Steve Harris…' Cliff stuck his hand out, but Steve seemed too busy settling himself on the contoured, brushed upholstery, taking in the walnut trim, the plush fixtures and fittings.

'Appreciate this, Cliff,' said Dillon, slapping his shoulder. 'We owe you one!'

Cliff gave a quick nod, shifted into Drive, and off they shot.

Avoiding the gridlock of Oxford Street, Cliff cut across Tottenham Court Road and jinked up the backstreets to Portland Street, the Merc surging smoothly into Regent's Park Crescent, the classical, elegant facade of white and pale cream stonework bathed in gentle sunshine. To Dillon, this part of town had the alien reek of wealth and power; he felt like a non-swimmer whose feet couldn't quite touch bottom, and a knot of apprehension tightened in his stomach, making it hard to catch his breath. Embassies and trade missions – diplomats and bureaucrats – the nameless, faceless power-brokers of the globe inhabiting a rarefied stratosphere he knew nothing of and could barely imagine. Of course, blokes like him and Steve weren't meant to – that was the whole point. That was how these high-flying wankers kept their closed shop nice and cosy and exclusive.

Blokes like him and Steve were just expected to sort it all out when they'd made a balls of it. Shovel up the shit after it had hit the fan. It seemed to Dillon he'd been doing that all his life.

From the glove compartment Cliff took a glossy laminated folder, fancily embossed with the name Samson Security Company, and handed it to Dillon. Cliff seemed a bit on edge himself, Dillon thought, even though it was their picnic.

'Here – just do exactly as I've told you,' Cliff said, eyes steady and serious. 'You got all the legit stuff here, but any letters you got from HQ, show 'em.' Dillon patted his jacket to show he'd remembered to bring them. 'They particularly asked for guys with terrorist training – your Army records should clinch it.'

'Oh yeah?' drawled Steve sarcastically. 'Yours ga-get you – this – did it…'

'Shut it!' Dillon snapped from the side of his mouth.

'What did he say?' asked Cliff.

Dillon opened the door. 'Nothing, and look, thanks mate.'

'Don't foul up on me Frank, this is a good firm, a good job, I don't want to lose it.'

Dillon winked. He didn't intend to blow this one, with or without Steve's help. He shoved Steve out ahead of him and warned him to keep his mouth shut, but Steve brushed his hand aside.

'He ga – a ugh-pratt, only-Ever g-hone transport.'

Dillon straightened his tie, giving a warning look to Steve, who, for all his problems seemed incredibly relaxed. His hair was washed and combed, he had shaved and was wearing a clean shirt that Susie had pressed for him and one of his suits from when he had been in the money. He looked more like the old Steve, handsome, his green eyes clear, and standing a good three inches taller than Dillon. Steve was back. This was the first time Frank realised how far he had come in so short a time.

'G-after'gu – Mate', Steve smiled, giving a mock bow, but he did follow Dillon, nervously touching his throat, aware that the tie was irritating his skin. He hated wearing collars, they restricted him, made him fearful he would not be able to get to his tube fast enough if he had an emergency… but then he knew Dillon was there, that made him feel safe. As if in confirmation he tapped Dillon's shoulder, and winked… 'We'll G-it gub job, – no problem.'

Dillon shrugged Steve's hand away. Bloody Steve was his problem and he knew it, even doubted if getting him back on his feet was all that good a thing as he was now bound to help him even further. It was like the blind leading the blind.

The house was a fortress. After the battery of security cameras covering the portico entrance, the white-barred windows of double-paned, shatter-resistant glass, the steel-lined bombproof front door, Dillon was expecting at least an X-ray scan and body frisk. But the letter of accreditation did the trick, that and their neat, respectable appearance – amazing what you could get away with wearing a suit and tie, Dillon always thought. Stroll into Buckingham Palace, have tea with the Queen, maybe even get to sit on her bed.

They were conducted across the marble-floored hallway, large black and white squares like a giant chessboard, and along a carpeted corridor into an ante-room with dark red walls and a gleaming parquet floor, and told to sit and wait on ornate gilt chairs outside a pair of huge double doors with curved handles in the shape of scimitars. They looked to be made of solid gold, and it wouldn't have surprised Dillon to learn that they were. A crystal chandelier tinkled faintly from some non-existent breeze.

Given the choice, Dillon would have opted for a ten-mile tab in Advanced Wales with full pack rather than endure this. He was glad he'd showered that morning and put on fresh underclothes, he didn't want to sully the opulent atmosphere.