In a few minutes the car had reached the airfield and was skirting its perimeter on the way to the flying boat docks. The tall silvery fins of the boats could be seen here and there above the complex of quayside sheds and portable offices. A number of men, their clothing marked with dayglo panels, were flying between the quay and the boats anchored further out in the estuary, registering on the edge of Hasson’s vision as a constant agitation of colourful specks.

Nunn brought the car to a halt in a parking bay which was outside the mesh fence of the departure area. As Hasson’s department head, he had been burdened with most of the behind-the scenes work associated with smuggling Hasson out of the country and finding a place where he could live in safe obscurity for three months. No formal machinery existed for hiding and protecting key witnesses whose lives could be under threat, and 9 Captain Nunn had been put to considerable trouble to find a suitable host for Hasson in another country. In the end he had come to an arrangement with a Canadian police officer who had been on an exchange visit to the Coventry force some years earlier. Nun was a man who hated anything to upset his administrative routine and now he was anxious to get Hasson off his hands.

“We won’t go in with you, Rob,” he said, switching off the engine. “The Less we’re seen together the better. No point in taking any chances.”

“Chances!” Hasson snorted to show his disapproval of what he thought of as a charade. “What chances? Sullivan is a mobster, but he’s also a business man and he knows he’ll be finished if he starts killing cops.”

Nun drummed with his fingers on the serrated rim of the steering wheel. “We’re not cops Rob — we’re air cops. And people kill us all the time. How many of your original squad are still alive?”

“Not many.” Hasson turned his head away to hide an unexpected, unmanning quiver of his lower lip.