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growth and numbered several blue chips among its impressive roster of clients. It had secured the main hospitality contract for the Palace of Westminster two years previously and had, by all accounts, performed well enough to suggest that the relationship would be long-lasting.
    The warehouse that served the contract was at 19 Crown Road in Edmonton. Ibrahim Yusof parked his car on the street, as was his habi t, and walked the short distance to the premises. Ibrahim was wearing a simple pair of jeans and a denim shirt. He wore glasses with wire rims, and his hair was clipped tight to his scalp. He had shaved off his beard months ago, but he still found his fingers darting up to his chin every now and again, as if surprised that his whiskers had been removed. He was of average height and average build. Nothing about him was out of the ordinary. He was the kind of anonymous man who could slip into a crowd and just disappear.
    He opened the door and looked at the machine they used to clock in and out. It seemed pointless to go through with that particular rigmarole this morning, but Ibrahim knew that it was important to maintain the appearance of normality, so he took his card from the rack, slid it into the slot so that the time was stamped onto it, and then replaced it. He checked through the other cards. The only other employees present were the two men who stocked the firm’s lorries before they went out each morning.
    It was as he expected.
    The company rented both floors of the warehouse. The first floor was taken up by four small, dingy offices that were only rarely used. Ibrahim jogged up the stairs and moved quickly down the short corridor to make sure they were empty. It wasn’t impossible that one of the managers had popped in, and since the manager might not have clocked in, Ibrahim didn’t want to be negligent and allow himself to be surprised. The offices were empty. That was good. He went back down and locked the front door.
    The open space where they parked the company vehicles dominated the ground floor. The company drove Mercedes Sprinter panel vans, and there was space for three of them in the warehouse. The drivers had backed them inside last night, and the doors stood open as the two warehousemen replenished the supplies carried within.
    ‘Morning,’ Ibrahim called out.
    The warehousemen were Bill and Dave. They seemed like decent enough types. Ibrahim had worked for Monarch for two months, and the two had never been anything other than pleasant towards him. Bill was in his fifties and celebrated his support of Tottenham Hotspur with a tattoo of the club’s crest on his beefy forearm. Dave was younger. He had just become a father, and he regularly complained that he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since his son had been born.
    ‘Glad you’re here,’ Bill said. ‘Simon hasn’t turned up yet.’
    ‘Really?’ Ibrahim said, playing dumb.
    ‘Ten minutes late, he hasn’t called – nothing.’
    Dave was in the back of one of the trucks. ‘Out on the piss again,’ he called. ‘Not the first time he’s bailed after a night out. He’ll call in sick when he wakes up – you’ll see.’
    ‘Gonna get himself fired if he keeps that up.’ Bill indicated one of the Mercedes. ‘Your truck’s done.’
    ‘Thanks,’ Ibrahim said.
    ‘I’m going for a dump,’ Bill said.
    The bathroom was at the rear of the building. Bill took his copy of the Sun from his bag and headed to the back.
    ‘Fuck’s sake!’ Dave complained. ‘I was going to have a piss. No way I’m going in there after you.’
    ‘Up yours!’ Bill said as he disappeared from view.
    Ibrahim walked around to the back of the van. ‘Have you called the office?’
    ‘What for?’
    ‘Simon?’
    ‘Not yet. Was just going to finish loading up, then I was gonna give him a ring. I’d rather give him the chance to get in.’
    Very good.
    Ibrahim reached into his bag and pulled out the Beretta 92 that he had fitted with a 9mm AAC Ti-Rant