'If I accept the job.'

'Yeah,' he said with some reluctance, 'if you accept the job. But you know how things are at the moment. We need this cash. Badly. I wouldn't ask you if we didn't, you know that.'

'We've been in this place how long? A year? And you want me to take someone out five kilometres down the road. Don't you think that's just a little bit risky?'

'No one'll ever find the body. We're getting fifteen grand up front. All we need to do is provide photos proving it's been done and we'll get the balance of the cash. And that'll be the end of it.'

That'll be the end of it. I'd heard that one before. 'Last question. Who's the client?'

'Pope. Same as last time.'

'No doubt doing it on behalf of someone else?'

Tomboy nodded vaguely. 'No doubt.'

The mysterious Mr Pope. An old criminal contact of Tomboy's from London, he'd first got in touch a year ago with a business proposition, having tracked down Tomboy all the way to Sabang, which must have taken some doing. The business proposition had been the execution of Richard Blacklip, a British paedophile on the run from the law in the UK who was heading to Manila on a false passport. Someone Pope knew – apparently one of his victims, who was now an adult – wanted Blacklip dead, and Pope had asked Tomboy if he could organize someone reliable to carry out the task.

It might have seemed like a strange request for most people, but Tomboy Darke had been a career criminal all his life (albeit more of a ducker and diver than a man of violence) and had spent many years moving in the sort of circles where such things occasionally happened, and where people weren't so hesitant in asking the question.

And, of course, Tomboy had known just the man.

I sighed loudly, not wanting to get involved in a repeat performance.