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hands on a nice hijacked refrigerated supermarket truck."
    "I can imagine," I muse. "Okay. I'll look out for over-zealous personal security items on Pizza Boy, defending himself with extreme prejudice. I hope he's brought something fun. By the sound of dinner, Terry might have to crack open a Rennie. He might even belch. Don't you remember the fibreglass chop suey? He just coughed it up like a hairball and got minor haemorrhoids."
    "His body's got to give out at some point. We're hoping it's soon, before his kids get too old to miss him."
    "It's probably one of his kids delivering the pizza," I mutter. "Okay, I'm guessing YOU want the Mercedes getaway van. How do you want Pizza Boy?"
    "If he pulls out an offensive weapon, in a body bag," they respond. "If he pulls out anything from a bicycle chain down, detain him for uniform to take away. If all he does is hand over pizza, let him go. We'll follow him from his pick-up point, because as of now, the Merc's going nowhere except to be tucked up nice and warm in Special Unit's depot. While the drivers are on their way down the nick to answer some questions about impersonating roadside service personnel."
    "What about Terry's Meals on Wheels?" I ask. "Are you willing to chance it?"
    "He's definitely eaten worse," they tell me. "We looked at this kid's shopping list on the internet. Would give a dog a bit of a hangover. But knowing Dyer, he'll probably get away with a few days off sick and some Dioralyte."
    I leave the mobile on Speakerphone as I stick it in the dash. Pizza Boy approaches the front door, carefully balancing Death By Dinner, and then rings the doorbell on Terry's period mews house. I'm watching Pizza Boy's hands closely. He's still got his motorcycle gloves on, but I'm guessing it's as much not to absorb transient toxins as to leave fingerprints. I'm interested in case they go for any of his pockets, and what else might emerge.
    "Sorry, did you want camera view?" I ask head office, drumming my fingers on the Beretta barrel, as it rests on my knee under the steering wheel.
    "No, we've got CCTV on the lamp-post right outside his door," they reassure me.
    Terry's frame fills the doorway, blocking any internal view of his house. His wallet emerges from his pocket, in a hand resembling a rack of pork ribs, and he towers over the boy's ropey figure while he counts notes laboriously, swaying slightly in a very familiar way. Pissed already, I hear myself and Pizza Boy think simultaneously.
    Terry stops counting and sways a bit more. I see the boy's helmet angle quizzically, as if saying: Are you all right?
    The wallet falls. Terry's swaying is abruptly ended by the doorframe, as his left side gives way. He doesn't so much slump as wedge upright, his eyes looking alarmed, mouth opening and shutting like a landed fish.
    Pizza Boy takes a faltering step back, and looks around urgently, as Terry starts to keel. I'm already halfway out of the car, remembering to grab my phone on the way out.
    "No contact, no contact," head office order. "Hit not carried out."
    "I can see that," I say, crossing the road. Pizza Boy turns and looks at me, and I point to the food parcel he's still holding, with the muzzle of the Beretta. "Put that down, and call an ambulance."
    "I can't just leave this lying around," the lad falters, skin pallor lightening visibly under his pushed-up visor.
    "I don't care if it crawls away into the bushes, it's not your problem any more. He is." I wave the gun in Terry's direction. "Get an ambulance on the phone. You're going to tell them what I tell you to say."
    The Pizza Boy drops his delivery and pulls out a Blueberry, dialling Emergency Services. I look at Terry Dyer, now on his knees on the step, gripping the doorframe with his right hand so that the meaty knuckles are stark white. Gibberish comes out of his mouth as he sees the gun in my hand.
    I'm just glad he hasn't looked up at my face. Not because I'm aware that by the look of things, he's having trouble