Angie's mind raced when she contacted the Centre, but she controlled her voice. As was required, she advised the duty officer on the details of Davy's trip to Spain via Gibraltar.

That evening, Davy and Angie went to the Rutland for a meal. As they ate, she knew that the man she loved was putting a noose around his neck. If anything went wrong, the trap door would open.

"Promise me that you'll be careful." She watched him pick up his fork and push a large portion of steak into his mouth, "I don't know how you can eat at a time like this."

He leaned towards her. "Because I'm scared, and when I'm scared, I eat. I'm the condemned man. The hangman's waiting, and I have my foot on the first step. But, if I can nail this bastard, we're home and dry."

"Do you trust Harman-Smith to let you off the hook?"

"Not a hope in hell. He would double-cross his mother if it meant getting results, but I prefer to face one problem at a time."

"I fancy a large brandy," she said. "What about you?"

"Make mine a double. It might help me sleep." He smiled at her. "Unless you have a better idea?"

She wandered off to the bar, returning a few minutes later with two large Remy Martins. "A drop of the good stuff, and you know what they say about brandy!" She sipped hers and gazed at him.

They walked home, both fearful of what lay ahead. For Angie, the night passed in restless torment. She made fierce love, the last time ending in tears in his arms. He held her close; neither wanted the night to end. The morning came unwanted and too soon.

***

Lightning slashed the sky, and the deluge flooded the gutters. The first crash of thunder woke two sleeping people. Davy glanced at his watch: five o'clock was history, and he had a flight at seven-thirty. He swore and charged around the flat like a headless chicken. Having packed the night before. He washed while Angie telephoned for a taxi, which arrived unusually quickly. Grabbing his bag, he kissed her, charged down the stairs but did not look back.

"Gatwick Airport please, and hurry; I'm late."

Despite the awful weather, the taxi arrived at the terminal in less than forty minutes. Davy dashed to the check-in desk. Gasping for breath, he glanced at his watch and realised there was time to spare. He found Ghashide reading a paper in the departure lounge.

Full, the Airbus 320 climbed skyward. In the rain lashed and cloud-blackened sky, the aircraft headed south. The two men sat in silence. Davy fell asleep, only to wake as the plane hit air pockets approaching the Bay of Gibraltar. Many of the passengers looked anxious. A cabin crew member who was checking seat belts commented for all in the vicinity to hear. "A few potholes today." Causing a few nervous chuckles.

The plane bounced, and Davy's body strained against the seat belt. He peered at the sea out of the window, flat and blue.

The intercom burst into life. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain, David McKewan, speaking. At the moment, we're experiencing a few bumps. I ask that everyone please return to their seats and fasten their belts." He continued. "To our right is the famous Rock, a slice of England sandwiched between Spain and Africa. It's a one-thousand-three-hundred-foot-high limestone creation. Historically, reputed to be one of the Pillars of Hercules, the other being on the coast of North Africa and marks the gateway into the Mediterranean. For Beatles fans, the late John Lennon married Yoko Ono here in 1969. The airport is on a strip of land known locally as the neck. It has so little space that the traffic must stop whenever an aircraft lands or takes off. For your information, anyone requiring a taxi, there are plenty available to take them anywhere for under ten pounds Stirling."

The aircraft banked as he thanked everyone for flying with GB Air. The instant he finished, the descent began.

At the rear of the aircraft, Jimmy-the-Rat relaxed. He studied two photographs, one of Davy Jones and the other of Mark Ghashide. He disliked flying, the plastic food and the arrogant cabin crew who served it. Most of all, he hated being strapped into a seat next to people he didn't know. He felt that if a man were meant to fly, he would have been born with wings. He gripped the armrests as the engines altered their drone during the approach. It was bumpy, but Jimmy sighed with relief and was happy being back on the ground where he belonged. With only hand luggage, he went straight through the passport and customs barriers.

There was little movement in the air, and the heat hung over the airport like a shroud. For a moment, Jimmy thought about the hordes of tourists who paid to cook their bodies in the sun, only to return home like a boiled lobster. To his left, the great Rock jutted into the unblemished blue sky. He removed a scrap of paper; Molly Marsh and a car registration number were on it. His eyes moved left and right. "Where the 'ell was she?"

Molly, one of Harman-Smith's operatives, resident in Gibraltar, knew she was late. The traffic lights changed to green; the smell of burnt rubber dirtied the air behind as she drove like a maniac across the airport runway. With a squeal of tortured tyres, the car stopped alongside Jimmy. She recognised him from a faxed photo and, leaning across, opened the passenger door. "Jimmy, sorry, I'm late. Jump in."

He got in, muttering, "Women."

Molly ignored the comment and drove at speed towards the border.

They waited in a one-mile-long queue of lorries and cars While the Spanish Border police worked to rule.

"We think the Spanish are pathetic," said Molly, "but we have to live with their petty frustrations."

Molly drove fast, but her eyes never left the road. To their left was the sprawling town of Algeciras as she approached the coastal highway.

"I remember that place from years ago," commented Jimmy. "There were loads of grotty little bars filled wiv prostitutes and the old hags who performed some weird and wonderful tricks wiv beer bottles. One session with any of them would see yer at the doc's the next morning. Mind you, in those days yer 'ad to get back across the border before it closed at midnight."

"You don't have to tell me. I used to be a Wren Officer at the radio station in HMS Rooke. Visiting sailors were a total no-go area. Some of the girls thought they knew better and caught a dose of the clap."

"I recollect a couple of lads," said Jimmy, "who tried to swim for it one night and got picked up by the police. They spent a few days in the Spanish nick and missed their ship. The base Commander sent them to the military prison in Colchester. All that for a shag." He chuckled. "Was she worth it? I don't fink so."

Marbella was a moment of respite for Jimmy as he and Molly drank coffee in a waterfront café. Initially, he had assumed that she was one of those tough women that nothing could hurt. After a few hours in her company, he realised that she appeared strong-minded, even harsh in some ways, but she concealed a softness. She had a warmth towards others, which in this business made her weak. They had the information they wanted: William Kent's address and numerous photographs. In a relaxed mood, they travelled back to Gibraltar. Molly, with all her contacts, managed to get him booked on the next flight to London.

***

The formalities of arrival complete, Ghashide led Davy to a waiting car. The driver welcomed them and, apart from a few pleasantries, said little else. The drive to William's villa was mundane. As they wound up the narrow road towards a set of gates, the driver pressed a button on the dashboard, and they swung open. The car eased sedately up the driveway, stopping at the main entrance to the villa.

William was on his veranda, eating lunch. He offered food; both declined in favour of a cup of coffee.

"Gentlemen, let's go and play some golf and talk business in the sunshine. It's so much better than lounging around here."

Davy stared at the luxury that surrounded him. This place was not a home; more like a small palace. The garden area alone contained an Olympic-sized swimming pool and two tennis courts. The whole ambience of the place cried out money. "I hate to mention this," he said, "but I don't play."

William smiled. "We've already taken that into account. You'll be our caddy." He quickly added, "Don't be offended. Always remember, no one can overhear what we discuss in the open air. I find it much safer that way, and I understand that you want me to invest a large sum of money in your idea. Whether you play or not, we do need to discuss details."

Shortly after noon, the three men arrived at the Marbella Golf Club. The staff treated William as if he owned the place. He had his private buggy, along with two sets of clubs, ready for use. He politely dismissed the caddy provided. "Davy, go to the clubhouse and tell them from me to supply you with a comfortable pair of shoes. We can't have you wandering over the greens improperly dressed, can we?"

They waited until he returned. "Let's go, gentlemen." William turned to Ghashide. "Normal rules apply, one hundred pounds a hole."

At the first hole, William asked Davy to outline his plan. The conversation continued in fits and starts until they reached the eighth hole, where they stopped. "Your idea has merit, young man. I don't get involved with the basics of managing the Association, but if we are to go ahead, you'll need my help to set up various factions at this end. A good friend of mine once said, wait for opportunities. The secret is to spot them. Your idea, if I decide to go along with it, will take some time to arrange. I'll need to talk to my Spanish friends about your requirements. Give me time to think about it. This whole thing is ruining my concentration." He studied the green and the position of his ball. "My putter, please."

The game continued, Davy not knowing whether he had sold the idea or not. By the end of the afternoon, Ghashide owed William one thousand pounds; for them, it had been a good day for golf.

On their return to the house, Davy showered and changed into fresh clothes.

William had invited a few of his friends and business associates over for dinner. Davy looked across the terrace from the balcony that led from his room. It was full of people. They stood, chatting and drinking champagne. He had no desire to be there but had no choice. As his eyes panned the garden, he could make out men standing on their own, merging into the shadows or partly concealed by the bougainvillaea. Kent's men, he thought. He left the room and joined the party.

They dined on the terrace. It was more relaxed and better suited to the moment. From the table, you could see Marbella and the small fishing boats moving on the Mediterranean. The far-reaching beams from the lighthouses cast strange shadows along the coast. The women at the table were beautiful, their English impeccable, but it took Davy two seconds to recognise them for what they were. Whether by design or by order, the one William called Laura seemed to favour Davy.

However, the mere thought of Angie overcame any carnal desire. Laura became a no-go area. The party was over, and at the main door, he kissed her on the cheek and said goodbye. Tired from a long day, he climbed the stairs and went to bed.

The following day at breakfast, William enquired if there had been a problem with Laura. Davy laughed, affirming that she was a lovely girl to be with and talk to, but she was not for him.

"Oh, come now," said Ghashide. "What the eyes don't see, the heart won't grieve about."

William interrupted. "If this young man is happy being monogamous, it's up to him. I must say that I admire his strength of character. Most men would have jumped at the chance." They laughed.

Another day at the golf club followed, with further discussion of Davy's plan. William Kent had, overnight, warmed to the idea and began talking details. At the eighteenth hole, he stopped. "Leave your idea with me. I'll see what I can arrange. If it proves viable, we'll talk some more. Now, changing the subject, it's time you tried to learn the ancient game." William pointed to the bag. "Pick it up and follow me to the practice ground."

Davy spent the rest of the day accompanying the club pro while attempting to hit a used almost white golf ball straight. In most instances, its direction remained uncertain. By the time Ghashide and William had finished their round, he felt confident he could hit the ball the first time.

William spoke to the pro for a few minutes and turned to Davy. "Tomorrow, we'll play one round for a few pounds. With your handicap Davy, you could even win!"

***

Janice toyed with the piece of paper in her hands. She looked at the address. Seemingly, David Jones lived there. Again, she asked herself why such information had been so clearly available for Jimmy to see. There must be an ulterior motive. Her curiosity got the better of her.

Early the following day, she was standing in Mall Road, Hammersmith. Thankfully, it was a dry, bright day, ideal for knocking on doors. The entire street consisted of large Edwardian houses, which at one time would have contained whole families and staff. The original builders would never have thought of them as flats and the high prices they now commanded. It seemed astonishing this fugitive could afford to live in such an area when so many found it challenging to make ends meet.

At first, she walked up and down the street, looking and noting the names on each door. The never-ending stream of vehicles thundering across the Hammersmith Flyover at the farthest end of the road crushed any rational thought. At the other end, the peaceful calm of the River Thames made it, by comparison, idyllic. There was an odd assortment of conversions. Many houses altered into two, four or even six flats. It did not take Janice long to figure out how many properties had a number 5.

Starting at the house furthest away from the river, she began knocking on doors. Many of the flats were unoccupied, and she assumed the owners were at work. With one building remaining, the largest in the street, she pressed the buzzer on flat five. The door entry system relayed its metallic sounding message, "Can I help you?" asked a woman.

Asking yet again, she said, "I'm trying to contact a David Jones, or he could be using the name Jenkins. Can you help me?" The line appeared to go dead. She waited, and then the front door opened.

"David Jones or Jenkins? A friend told me he lived in this street."

"He used to live here, but he moved on some time ago. I haven't a clue where. Out of interest, what was your friend's name?"

Under the surface, sensing an air of tension, Janice guessed something was not as it seemed. She played a hunch: "Ronald Harman-Smith, David works for him."

Angie decided to find out more about this unknown woman. "Look, I've put the kettle on. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee? It's no trouble."

Accepting the invitation, she followed this red-haired woman up the stairs and into the flat. She quickly assessed her surroundings and was impressed at the clean and tidy home. The main room had a large, high ceiling and overlooked the river. Filled bookshelves climbed to the top on either side of the fireplace. The walls had been painted maroon, but four large Turner prints broke up its bareness. The curtains were a deep cream and stylishly feminine. No man ever chose those. She placed herself in a chair by the window, gazed out at the bright blue sky and the water traffic as it went by. The woman returned from the kitchen holding two steaming cups of coffee, one of which she gave to Janice.

"Thank you. My name's Janice Porter. I'm a journalist."

"Most people call me Angie. What's with this Jones or Jenkins person? Who is he?"

She considered her reply carefully. "David Jenkins a resourceful man and at one time a member of the Royal Navy but left after an incident. I believe he's in trouble."

The look of unease on Angie's face told its own story.

"You know David, don't you? Otherwise, you wouldn't ask. I'm not here to hurt him; nevertheless, some questions need answers."

"I told you he left ages ago."

Janice knew that what might happen next could go either way. "If that's true, you'll not mind if I have the police watch this flat for a naval deserter."

"Why, why would you want to do that?" Angie asked, her voice wavering.

"I've been told Jones is dead. They buried an old man and gave him David's name.

Angie's hands shook as she asked, "Please, tell me what else you know."

Janice described in detail the bank robbery and the dramatic rescue of David from the sea. I can't prove any of it, so in truth, there's no danger to your boyfriend."

"Who said he's my boyfriend?"

"Well, if he isn't, you appear over concerned."

"Davy and I are in a mess but, if we're left alone, we can sort it out. If you stick your oar in, it could be the final straw. Please go away and leave us alone."

"I'll do as you ask. Later, if you want to talk to someone, here's my card. My telephone number at work and my mobile are on there." She stood up and said goodbye.

On descending the front steps, she reflected on the situation. Angie was a worried woman. What was David involved in? She took a deep breath of fresh air and decided a stroll along the water's edge might help put some pieces of the jigsaw together.