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Eight in the morning. I head out first thing for a brew and a sausage butty. I find an internet café and take a seat at a terminal. The desks are cramped, the computers slow. But the place is clean and modern and they let you make your own brew. Which I like, 'cause most places put in too much milk or too little. Or they tickle it with the teabag and you end up drinking brown water.
I tuck into the sausage butty and open the file Detective Clarke gave me. I look at what they've got. Not much after four to five years. It's like watching highlights from a nil-nil game of footie. Opportunities are few. Whoever they're after, they're no slouches. The bosses remain in the background. And they have a network of bent coppers to call on. Meaning they're always ready in advance when the police
