Susie, seated next to him, watched with bated breath. She nodded and smiled at Mrs Marway, who nodded and smiled back. The room seemed very warm, almost claustrophobic. It was lavishly decorated, with embossed wallpaper and fringed wall hangings and framed prints, rich fabrics and furry rugs everywhere, cabinets with built-in spotlights showing off shelves of china, crystal and copperware. Expensive, quite impressive, but a bit overwhelming for Susie's taste.

'He's been fair to me from day one,' Marway was telling Dillon frankly. He leaned back at ease in his winged armchair, fingers clasped together, legs elegantly crossed, a crease in his trousers that could have sliced cheese. 'And if you open an account, show a good cash flow…' He spread his hands. No problem. Plain sailing.

'We made over five grand, first week,' Dillon revealed after a slight hesitation. '… No thanks,' he said politely, refusing the small silver tray of cakes and biscuits proffered by their hostess.

'That's good, just one car.' Marway was impressed. 'Word of advice. Don't ask for just the amount you need, you'll have to give yourself manoeuvrability. If I were you, I'd specialise. With the army experience your men all have, terrorist training… make that your speciality.' He pursed his lips, eyes gazing meditatively at a hanging brass lantern. 'At a low, thirty. But try for forty.'

Dillon nearly dropped his cup. 'Thousand?!'

Marway nodded. 'But you can't have my receptionist.'

Dillon's head went forward at that, and Marway's grave face broke into a smile. 'Just joking. But I believe one of the reasons my business runs smoothly is because I use my family – my three brothers, a cousin, two uncles – all drive for me. It's a family concern.'

Dillon finished his tea and gratefully put the cup safely back in its saucer. 'My lads are my family,' he said, standing. He put out his hand and Marway got up to shake it. 'Thanks for this,' Dillon added, meaning it, 'and for…' He indicated Susie. 'She driving yet?'

'Test next month, isn't it, Susie?' Marway said with a smile.

Dillon looked quickly at Susie, gawking a little. Susie smiled at the carpet, flushing.

Later, as they were undressing in the lamplight, Dillon said, 'So you think you'll pass?' His feelings were at sixes and sevens, not sure whether he felt proud, or threatened, or what.

'I don't know.' Susie crawled into bed and lay down on the pillow, eyes closed. 'I can still have lessons then?'

'I'm sorry… he's an okay bloke.' Dillon sat on the edge of the bed in his jockey shorts, elbows on his knees. 'Things have been getting on top of me – well, Jimmy. He means well.' He sighed, shaking his head. 'It's just so easy for him, he's been out longer. Well, to be honest,' Dillon admitted in a rare moment of confession, 'he's arranged most of it…'

'What about the others – Cliff, and, and -' Susie yawned.

'Harry. Harry Travers. He's okay, and Cliff. It's just… Jimmy.' Dillon picked at some loose skin on his thumb. 'There was a night, in Northern Ireland, there were ten of us, me and my lads, and we were…'

A soft snore made him look round. Dillon reached over and drew the bedcover up around his wife's shoulder. He gently touched her cheek. He said in a whisper, 'I'm trying, Susie.'

By shoving the desk forward a couple of feet and pushing the chairs to the wall, Harry had found a space for his doss bag. With a chicken vindaloo, mushroom pilau and two brinjal bhajis keeping the lid on five pints of bitter and two large Jamesons, he was well away, snoring loudly. From above, the faint sound of Annie Lennox, the murmur of voices and laughter, but Harry slept on.

Two shapes slid past the window, silhouetted in the streetlight. The clink of something metallic, the protesting groan of timber, and then a sharp crack as full leverage was applied.

Harry stopped a mid-snore. His eyes came open. He held his breath, listening. The splintering of wood from the passage confirmed it; he hadn't been dreaming. In one movement he slid out of the sleeping bag, kicked it under the desk, rocked himself up. Barefooted, wearing his old maroon tracksuit with the blue regimental crest and the word 'Airborne' on the left breast, he moved to his bergen and from a side pouch slid out a nine-inch iron bar with a bulbous end.

A slit of light appeared under the door as someone flashed a torch.

Harry crept round the desk, flattened himself against the wall. Torchlight fanned out under the door. A floorboard creaked. Harry raised the iron bar. The knob twisted and the door slowly opened.

Harry waited just long enough to check out there was more than one, and as the torchbeam swept the office, let the first man have it, downward smash, on the back of the head, knocking him cold. He swung round to face the second man, a big sod, framed in the doorway, and beckoned to him with a smile.

'Come on, you bastard… come on!'

The man lunged. Something glinted in his hand. Harry pivoted on the balls of his feet, chopped the wrist as the blade went for him, and heard a clatter of metal. The man stumbled forward under his own momentum. Harry clipped him with the iron bar, and the man collided with the desk, sending it crashing over. He was up fast, hurling the telephone, a chair, anything he could lay his hands on. Then it was Harry's turn. He saw the right hook coming, parried it with his left arm, brought up the iron bar and clouted the man across the ear. The man staggered, nearly fell, regained his balance. Harry followed in with a heel to the knee-cap and finished it off with a head-butt. It was a job well done, neat, tidy, professional, and Harry, softly rifting vindaloo fumes, felt quite pleased with himself.

Cliff's jaw sagged as he took in the shambles. 'Bloody hell, does Frank know yet?' he asked, stepping over a broken chair. He looked round, shaking his head, and then saw the two figures hunched against the wall, shirts pulled up and knotted over their heads, arms between their knees, hands and feet tied together.

Harry leaned against the overturned desk. One sleeve of his tracksuit was rolled up, his forearm bandaged and taped. He straightened up as Dillon walked in and stopped dead in the doorway, staring. Susie appeared behind him, peering round his shoulder.

Scratching his head, Harry launched in, 'They broke in last night. I didn't even feel it,' pointing to the bandage, 'but one of 'em slashed me arm, so when I done the business… Hello, love,' he greeted Susie, 'I went to the hospital. I just got back.'

'I'll go,' Susie said. She looked up into Dillon's face. 'I thought it all sounded too good to be true.'

'Susie!' Dillon called as she stumped out. He half-turned to go after her and changed his mind. He looked at the wrecked office and then at the two men, trussed up like IRA suspects. 'You didn't call the police?'

'No.' Harry moved across to them. 'I might have been a bit nasty, I gave 'em both a hell of a whack…' It sounded more apologetic than boastful. 'And then when I turned the lights on -' reaching down and yanking up one of the shirts ' – I recognised him!'

So did Dillon. It was Newman's minder, Colin, the one with the widow's peak and the permanent five o'clock shadow, only now it was a nine o'clock shadow the morning after. His hair was matted with blood, and it had caked down one side of his face. There was a sock stuffed in his mouth, which was why his bulging-eyed fury was restricted to apoplectic gurgles and choking grunts.

Dillon was puzzled. 'What did they want? Did they get our cash? I mean – why wreck the place?'

'Ask him! Or whichever -' Harry tore off the shirt, revealing the other man's head, which had an open gash along the jawline and two bloodshot eyes separating a yellow bruise ' – you want!'