In the back office of the police station, where local priorities were listed on a poster as combating anti-social driving and curbing speeding on the Llanwrtyd Wells road beyond Beulah, the staff had all gone home. They did the debrief and the pictures were downloaded on to a laptop and…

‘There was a message for you, Badger.’ The team was run by a an officer from the Box and he’d looked pleased to have the clear-cut portraits of the guy in the rimless glasses. The tails were waiting to track them back into Luton where the van had been hired. ‘A call for you.’

He was looking for a shower, and a meal to warm his guts, and his bed in the small hotel where they were billeted – and where they were thought to be from a flood-prevention unit. He took the piece of paper from the hand offering it and shoved it into his smock’s inner pocket.

‘I’d read it if I were you, Badger, and I’d call them.’

He hadn’t taken it out again. ‘Actually, boss, I’ve done a bloody long stag – and a pretty good one for results. A wash, food and bed are my priorities. Who called?’

‘I’m not your fucking answer-phone, young man. A guy from Six, actually. From the dirty-raincoat crowd south of the river. Maybe he wants to take you off our hands. I’d say that work from Six would suit anyone with as high an opinion of themselves as you, because it would be exacting and likely tax a genius. We’ll miss you. Do me a favour? Just ring him.’

He called the number, and it was answered. He said who he was and that he was replying to the call. He’d expected to be told why he’d been singled out, but heard a monotonously flat voice tell him where he should be and when. There were no plaudits, just brusque business. He said, into the phone, ‘If it’s a job for croppies, I like to work with my mate as oppo. He’s Ged…’ The suggestion was ignored. The voice repeated where he should be the next day, and at what time.