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cigarette, squinting into the smoke. Young McGovern returned, tuckinghis mobile phone away, apparently satisfied, and started telling me what a player Eric had been in his prime; about how much the Krays—or was it Jack the Ripper?—had feared that razor, and how Eric had slashed faces to order and got paid by the length of the wounds. “Three farthings a stitch, wasn’t it?” snorted Steve.
    The old man sipped at his lager, stony-faced. I felt a twinge of pity for him, having to sit there and be sneered at by the boss’s son, when all he’d been doing was defending their turf. Then I remembered the vicious old bastard approaching me with his razor open. He probably deserved all of it, and worse.
    Eventually Junior grew tired of baiting Eric and turned back to me. “So how’d you find this place, then?” I’d expected him to lower his voice, but he didn’t seem to care who heard him.
    “I asked around,” I said.
    “Who’d you ask?” Young McGovern’s grin had hardened.
    “It’s in
The Good Pub Guide
,” I said. Junior laughed, as I’d hoped he would, and I tried to steer our conversation in a less risky direction. “I need to speak to the Guvnor. I have a message for him.”
    “Yeah, you said,” said Junior.
    “So can I meet him?”
    “What’s it about, exactly?”
    Why don’t I tell him? I wondered. Let him give the Guvnor the message, give him the Turk’s phone number, let them sort it out between themselves?
    Because as appealing as the impulse was to blurt out the Turk’s demands and do a runner, I didn’t trust anyone to deliver the message but me. Yes, it was dangerous getting involved, but Zoe and I were already involved; I was alive right now because the Turk wanted to use me as an envoy, and if I wanted to stay alive I had to deliver the message in person and see how the Guvnor reacted. The more I knew about each side, the more clout I’d have with the other, and with Amobi.
    “The Turk” was all I said.
    It was all I needed to say. Junior nodded thoughtfully. Picking up his pint, he sank the rest of it in one gulp, then slammed the glass down. “Turn out your pockets,” he said.
    It didn’t take me long: a handful of change, a wallet with a bank card and a travel card, my house keys and my phone. McGovern slid the phone across the counter to where the blousy barmaid rematerialized.
    “Lose that for us, Michelle,” said Junior. Wordlessly she picked up the handset, flipped the back off and lifted out the battery, then started to work the SIM loose.
    “Oi, that’s my phone,” I protested.
    “Tough,” said Junior. He was flicking through my wallet, feeling in the seams and corners—for bugs presumably—while Michelle wrapped up my mobile in a sheet of foil.
    “Don’t I even get the SIM back?”
    “Phones can be traced, SIMs can be traced,” said Junior. I felt a flash of hope: if they were taking me somewhere I couldn’t be traced, maybe it was to meet the Guvnor. Then it struck me how incredibly naive that was. Maybe Junior was just humoring me so I’d go quietly; maybe the Guvnor already knew what the Turk wanted and wasn’t interested in talking, in which case I was surplus to everyone’s requirements. I wondered how many people had entered this pub and never been seen again: somehow I didn’t think Amobi would bring a National Crime Agency unit to raid this place, kicking over tables, roughing up the customers and demanding to know what had become of me; more likely his department would just look for a new snitch and start over.
    “Derek, frisk him,” said Junior. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Large looming behind me, but he waited until I’d placed my hands on the bar and spread my legs a little before he started patting me down. Large Derek was cautious—probably worrying that if he did find anything I’d elbow him in the face—but he was thorough. Down my arms, all over my torso, my front pockets and rear; from the tops of my trouser legs all the