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I crank up the stereo. "Sweet Caroline" by Neil Diamond. Not my personal favourite, but still a great tune. I sing my lungs out as the truck chugs along at fifty.
I'm trying to keep the speed reasonable so I don't draw attention from any arsehole traffic cops. They have a nasty habit of hiding in cars behind bushes with their speed guns.
The last thing I need is them asking me who I am, or what I'm carrying.
But I need to make time, too.
As I slow down for a queue at a roundabout, I grab the map off the dash and open it out against the steering wheel. I run a finger along the A-roads to London, seeing if there's a faster way back to the city. If I don't get there on time, I don't get paid. That was the deal, Randall said. And a cushy number like this once a week . . . I'll soon be
