The man by his side sat upright, body tensed; a third man, in the back, perched on the edge of his seat and rested one arm on the back of the front seat. Behind them, the heart of London was quiet in sleep; at two in the morning only the night-birds prowled. On the periphery of the sprawling, giant city, houses built of dark-red brick stood solid on either side of tree-lined roads. Here and there a light showed at a window, dull yellow. Each house had its low brick wall, separating it from its neighbour; hedges grew thickly, giving privacy to house and garden.

The driver flicked on his head-lights.

“Put them out,” ordered the man by his side.

The driver ignored him. They neared a corner, bright light shining on the windows of a house directly in front, dazzling, warning. The driver slowed down.

“You should’ve turned right,” the passenger next to him said.

“I’m going to turn right.” The driver cut the corner, allowed the beams to sweep the empty road ahead, then switched into darkness. “We can get away quicker,” he said.

“How much farther?” asked the passenger behind him.

“Two minutes. Maybe three.”

The driver’s relaxed manner did not change. Driving with side-lights only, he turned twice again. A house with white walls loomed out of the darkness, tall trees black against the white. He slowed down, switched off the engine, and braked gently; the car stopped with hardly a sound. He switched off the side-lights, and all was dark.

“Ed,” he said softly, “you get out and wait by the wall. Stay there unless you see or hear anyone around. Jay, you come with me as far as the gate. I might need some help. Ed” — he spoke in the same tone; flat, lifeless — “keep off the bottle.”

“Sure,” muttered Ed. “Sure.”

They got out. The driver closed the doors to the first catch to avoid slamming. Ed moved to the wall, the others walked to a corner, a few yards away. The house they were going to enter was built in a shallow cul-de-sac, off the street itself.