For two months, Davy and Ghashide worked together as Davy memorised every detail of the operation. How they laundered the money was a unique part of the operation.

"Cash is the key to our business," said Ghashide. "The dealers pay us in cash, but the banks always question large deposits. In the beginning, we had a problem, hundreds of thousands of pounds and nowhere to keep it safe. But the Association's accountant had a brainstorm and purchased thirty out-of-date launderettes in and around London. It took a ton of money to refurbish and fit new equipment. The next step was to create our new company, Wash and Go. With a legitimate business to operate, a staff member paid the profits and a prearranged sum into the firm's bank account." He chuckled as he said, "We even paid the tax on it."

Ghashide had an attentive audience in Davy and enjoyed reiterating how successful he had become. If some over-zealous tax inspector decided to check their operation, the Association had infiltrated the local tax office. The upshot being, they could cover their tracks. They were a company that made a profit and provided the local community with a helpful cheap service.

The business entangled Davy more. One morning he woke early, washed, shaved, drove to Ghashide's place and waited outside. He watched the man he despised sit next to him.

"Where to?"

"Nine Elms. Make for the gasometers. You can't miss them."

It took over an hour to reach the area. Davy drove within the speed limit. Being stopped by the police for speeding could make life difficult. As they passed Battersea Park, Ghashide directed him towards Brixton. After a few miles, they turned left at the next junction.

"Keep driving until you can see a large red building. Follow the signs, turn into the car park and stop."

Twenty minutes later, Davy parked at the front of the large building.

"You'll find this interesting," said Ghashide as he exited the car and walked towards a small door to the right of a large shuttered entrance.

Davy followed, his eyes scanning the silver plaque on the wall, Wash and Go Laundry Services. Once inside, the noise became deafening. In every conceivable space, washing machines, air-driven presses and dryers operated. He noted Ghashide was nodding to a man sitting in a small office who watched a bank of monitors. They strolled to another closed door at the far end of the building. Ghashide pressed a code into the security lock, opened the door and beckoned Davy to follow. Once through, it closed automatically.

Davy observed that the space was windowless, and three large steel containers, the sort used on container ships, occupied much of the floor space. A man dressed in a white coverall appeared from one of the containers.

He welcomed Ghashide and guided them to the first container. Here, six young girls mixed and prepared substances while one man shifted heavy boxes into the next section.

"So, what do you think?" asked Ghashide.

"Impressive."

Ghashide explained how his team mixed and packaged the drugs ready for distribution and sale for half an hour.

"What about security?"

"Cameras, six surveillance cameras and an alarm system designed for us courtesy of the Metropolitan Police. It covers the exterior of the building. Dr Kemal controls the girls. They are Bulgarian, bought and paid for."

"How can that be?"

"We pay the parents a sum of money so they can feed their family, and you own them. Where can they go? They have no money, barely speak English. Dr Kemal tells them they can earn their freedom working in a brothel. Their lives are of no importance. As a bonus, we allow them a daily fix, but we sell them to pimps if they become dependent. Druggies are not reliable."

Davy thought you're in it, Ghashide, right up to your slimy little arse. He made mental notes on the operation. "This is one hell of a setup."

"It meets a need, and we can move it on the back of a lorry to a new location. Anyway, it's time to go."

Ghashide climbed into the car alongside Davy, who drove in silence. As they neared Battersea Bridge, the traffic slowed to a crawl. When the line of cars moved forward, he saw a traffic warden directing them around a crash. At the end of the bridge, a vehicle had become wedged under the chassis of a juggernaut.

A police helicopter hovered overhead for a few seconds and disappeared southwards. A group of spiky-haired youths strutted in front of Davy's car. One stopped and stubbed a cigarette out on the bonnet.

"Jesus Christ, did you see what that creep did?" Davy's hands gripped the wheel, but common sense prevailed.

The youth saw Davy's face, laughed and gave him the V sign before strolling away. At once, he closed the gap between his car and the one in front.

"Patience," said Ghashide.

The warden waved them on. Davy concentrated on the car in front, whose passenger was leaning half out of the window staring at the wreckage. He never understood the ghoulish behaviour of some people.

Once clear, he accelerated away and soon dropped Ghashide at his home.

While still fresh in his mind, Davy recorded every detail of the day in his notebook. Aware that if discovered, he hid the document in a place known only to him.

To date, seventeen agents worked the major holiday resorts. The plan allowed for some losses, but the supply of quality drugs remained constant. Some days his conscience nagged a little at the lives he was helping to destroy. His consolation was his efforts would result in the most notable drugs bust ever.

***

Angie kept Harman-Smith updated with snippets of information. One day whilst talking, she asked, "How much longer will Jones be working with us?"

"For as long as it takes. I gave that villain hope, but that can be a cruel master."

"Didn't you say he could have a new identity and be a free man?"

"Oh, yes, I may have said something like that," He continued in a low voice. "But, Angie, he's a murderer, and God knows what else. If I must, I'll dangle him on a hook and see what the dogs do. Allow him his ignorance."

"I couldn't agree more," said Angie. "The priority is getting the job done." She wondered who was playing what game with whom.

Angie and Davy had, on many occasions, discussed and agreed to continue working until they were able to leave the country.

Davy closed the notebook in front of him and placed it on his desk.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Thinking – how the hell do we finish this job and get on with our lives. Smith wants Kent's head on a platter. Somehow or other I must arrange a meeting. I'll need to make a call."

"Be careful."

***

When her telephone rang, Janice continued working on a story. Ann, her secretary, answered. Janice waved her right hand, indicating she did not want to be disturbed.

Ann cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. "Someone named Harman-Smith wants to see you. Shall I tell him to make an appointment?"

Her mind raced. Harman Smith had found her instead of the other way around. "No. Tell him to come to my office, and I think you should take a coffee break."

Ann smiled and left the room.

She glanced up as Harman-Smith walked in and flashed a firm look. Wearing an immaculate dark-blue suit, another man followed, dressed in a dark-blue suit. "This is my assistant, Harry."

Tweedledum and Tweedledee, she thought, smiling.

She studied her unexpected guests. "Have a seat, Mr Harman-Smith." With her elbows on the desk, she clasped her hands under her chin. She said nothing but gazed at the two men in front of her.

Harman-Smith met the challenge of her deep blue eyes.

His look of indifference placed her on her guard.

"Miss Janice Anne Porter, or do you prefer your married name, Mrs Viper?"

She stared straight at him. "Either will do."

"Are you acquainted with a Mr James Roden?"

She shook and inclined her head. "What would you say if I told you I'd never heard of him?"

"I'm asking the questions."

Janice grinned. "Jimmy often does little jobs for me. He's one of the best at trailing nasty people. I hope he's okay."

Harman-Smith sat back in the chair. "Let's say he's having an all-expenses-paid sabbatical. Don't fret yourself: no harm will come to him. Why were you having me followed? If you choose to say nothing, I will make your life hell."

"Is that a threat?" she asked.

"No," His stare was cold. "It's a promise."

She rose from her chair and walked around the office as she thought for a moment. "If I give you information on a David Jones, will you fill in the missing pieces?"

Harman-Smith smiled. "It depends."

She stopped by a window. Turned and hesitated. "Depends on what?"

He laughed and then became serious. "On what, you tell me."

She had already decided to tell him a fraction of her information. Janice began pacing again. "Some time ago, Adrian, my husband, rescued Jones from a damaged yacht. The authorities took him to a French hospital. My husband visited and found him up and well. He telephoned me, thinking this man's story might be of interest. Before I arrived, your people spirited him away. He was far from dead because you buried a different man. I'm an investigative journalist, and I made it my business to find out why."

"You have been a busy bee. I understand where we went wrong. I was never aware of your husband's visit." He hesitated, "I can explain. This operation has been a shambles, and I will deal with those concerned. Mr Jones - it's not his real name, by the way - works for my agency. Did you know he murdered a house full of people before going on the run? He escaped in his boat, but the Bay of Biscay did its worst. Luckily for us, your gallant husband and his band of sailors were on hand to rescue him. Our Mr Jones has now returned to the fold. I'm afraid you don't have a story. Now, we'd better be leaving."

Harman-Smith and Harry stood, turned and strode to the door. He smiled dryly at her. "And I thought you had information of interest, but I'm not always right."

He opened the door, and they left.

For Janice, this was a sticky situation. She accepted he was lying, but without his assistance, there was no story, she dialled reception.

"Yes, Mrs Porter, can I help?"

"Will you pass a message to the gentlemen in dark blue suits just about to leave the building? I know David Jones' real name."

Harman-Smith thanked the woman at reception, turned and made his way, with Harry, back to Janice's office. They sat on the same chairs. "Miss Porter, what else do you think you know?"

She fought back a smile as he watched. There was intelligence in those eyes, but she had the upper hand. It might work; all she had to do was stage-manage the scenario to her advantage. Standing, she turned her back on her guests. She peered out of the window at the dull overcast sky. Out there was another world where David Jenkins ran free. Unruffled, she faced her adversary. "David Jones's real name is David Jenkins, and I can prove it. I have all the relevant information to back my claim." She returned to her chair and sat down at her desk, leant back and clasped her hands behind her head.

Caught off guard, Harman-Smith looked surprised. "You'll have to do better."

She ran the tip of her little finger along her lips. "If what you say is correct, what rank did your man hold in the Royal Navy?"

Harman-Smith's face remained blank. "I'm impressed."

A faint smile crossed her face. Experience told her when someone was avoiding a question. "You haven't a clue. I can tell you, David Jenkins is no fool. There's a wild card in your pack, and he's out there doing whatever. From what you've told me, he disappears when he wants to."

"Can we get to the point?" said Harman-Smith.

"You have a problem because I can print my story."

Harman-Smith became agitated, the tone of his voice harsh. "Do, and my man disappears. I'll bring him in."

Harman-Smith and Harry stood and strolled towards the door.

"I won't let go."

Harman-Smith shrugged and strolled out.

Harry pulled a pair of leather driving gloves from his pocket. While he made himself comfortable behind the wheel, Harry said, "We can't call Jones in: we're too bloody close to cracking the Association."

"I make those decisions, not you. I must consider a way to shut that woman up."

Harry said nothing, and for the rest of the journey, remained silent.

***

The following morning showed all the signs of being a bright day as Janice travelled by train to York. She had hardly slept, her mind tossing around the plight of David Jones. Was she correct in her assumptions? A nagging doubt remained. She needed to talk with someone she could trust.

On her arrival at York, a taxi ordered by Adrian was waiting. As they sped through the countryside, she relaxed. Her flat in Southampton was adequate as a work base; at home, she could be herself.

By late afternoon, the weather changed; an overcast sky replaced the sun. By the time she arrived home, the cars windscreen wipers operated continuously. The taxi passed through the open gates and turned up the gravel path from the main road, and their Georgian house came into view. She gazed at the well-tended lawn and the profusion of rhododendrons and azaleas.

Adrian appeared on the entrance steps, wearing jeans and an open-necked white shirt. He hugged her. "I've missed you."

She held him tight. "I've missed you too. It's so good to be home."

They entered the lounge, where the flames of a log fire danced in the grate. The warmth and security dispelled her uncertainties.

Mrs Duke, their housekeeper, entered and asked when they would like dinner. This woman was a surrogate mother to them both, and Janice gave her a big hug. Mrs Duke repeated the question. Adrian said, "Just tell us when it's ready."

Later and having eaten, they retreated to the lounge with their coffee. Seated on the plush sofa, Janice laid back into Adrian's body, feeling his warmth and strength. They were together, and for the moment, nothing else mattered.

The following day, the clouds rolled away, and the sun shone through their bedroom curtains. Janice thought this was as near perfect as life got as she nestled close to Adrian.

After breakfast, Adrian went into his office, agreeing to finish work by lunchtime. Likewise, Janice had immersed herself in frenetic activity: she had decided to tell Harman-Smith everything. If David Jones was working undercover, the last thing she wanted was to have his death on her conscience. She collated the information and saved it on disk, ready for her next meeting, whenever it might be.

For Adrian and Janice, the afternoon was their time, and nothing could distract them. The telephone rang as Mrs Duke entered the main lounge. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but something horrible has happened."

Adrian picked up the receiver. "Good afternoon."

Janice seeing tears in Mrs Dukes' eyes, asked, "What's the matter?" Mrs Duke retained her composure. "Heathrow. They say terrorists have exploded several bombs, causing many casualties."

Adrian replaced the receiver. "That was your editor, and he'd like you to return straight away. This faction, claim to be followers of Bin Laden, have, without any warning, planted explosive devices in every UK airport."

"It's on the telly," said Mrs Duke.

Together, they entered the kitchen and watched it unfold before them.

For Janice, her relaxing interlude was at an end. The next train to Southampton was her priority.