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on a motor, do ya?’
    ‘Yeah, yeah.’
    ‘What’s access like?’
    ‘There’s a quiet road at the end of a field, then up a long, narrow farm track to their place. No neighbours and no fuckin’ gates.’
    ‘You sure?’
    ‘Of course I’m bloody sure. I know what fucking gates look like, don’t I?’
    McGovern nodded. ‘Good. We can be in and out of there quicker than last time.’
    ‘This motor gents, this Maserati,’ Rooney said, ‘it’s a bit downmarket for us, yeah? Ain’t it a cheap Italian sports car made by Fiat or somethin’?’
    Tremain Rooney, a half-caste Irish-Jamaican and solidly built, didn’t do weights like the other guys as he worked on a building site carrying bricks all day and the only one of the four of them to have a ‘real’ job. He had shoulder length Rasta-style hair and a genial face, which some said made him look girly but this belied a sharp brain, nasty temper, and a deft ability with a flick knife, and having the jumpy fucker in the same room as him made McGovern uneasy.
    ‘Rooney you fucking prat,’ Ehuru said, ‘you might know what’s going on under a car’s bonnet, but you know fuck-all about cars. This motor’s got a four thousand cc engine, costs over a hundred grand and sounds like a sports car should. The fuck you care? We get paid even if we nick a scooter or a Peugeot 208, right Mac?’
    ‘Yep, but listen up, we need to crack on and yak more about the gaff,’ growled McGovern. ‘It looks like an easier take than the last one but I still need to make sure you fuckers know what you're doing, I don’t want any fuck-ups this time.’

SIX
     
     
     
     
    A well dressed man stepped out of Markham House and into spring sunshine. Normally he ‘acclimatised’ before moving out of the sterile, air-conditioned atmosphere of the building behind him, but today he was in too much of a hurry and the sharp blast of cool air swirling up from the seafront, made him gasp. For once, William Lawton’s reason for leaving the office early wasn’t a lie. He told them he was going to see the chairman and this time, he was going to see the chairman.
    The drive to Ditchling was always pleasant in the Aston as it offered a good mix of road conditions to keep him awake, even after a hard day. Driving through Hove was always a pleasure as he could admire the smart houses and the attractive girls, before picking up the by-pass where the car's six-litre engine gave him a thump in the back as it left everyone else for dead.
    His progress came to an abrupt halt at Coldean Lane, which as usual at this time of the early evening, was choked with traffic. Ten minutes later, the long straights and beautiful scenery of the Ditchling Road beckoned, restoring his good mood once again.
    The village of Ditchling was a quintessential Sussex village with rose-covered thatched cottages, narrow streets overhung with oaks and silver birches, quaint pubs selling real ale and traditional English fare, and possessing a colourful heritage dating back to the days of Alfred the Great.
    The sting in the tail for all beautiful villages of this ilk was in attracting thousands of tourists. It was not unusual in mid-summer to find the centre of the village at a complete standstill, clogged with cars, delivery vans, and buses, and with tourists, so intent on reading the blue plaques and looking at old houses, they were unaware they were standing in the road and in grave danger of being mowed down when the traffic started to move again.
    Stavely House, on the eastern outskirts of the village, had stood there for over three hundred years but having been modernised and re-modelled numerous times, it now took on the air of a new house trying to mimic an old style. With six bedrooms, reception rooms, a tennis court, and a swimming pool, it was now too large for one man as Sir Mathew Markham was divorced and his children had all flown the coop, so it was no surprise to see a ‘For Sale’ sign had been erected in the