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Observation was his tradecraft, a skill that had kept him alive through countless operations in Europe and beyond.
    Ten more minutes passed. Another groan went up from the horse-fanciers. One punter made a scene of ripping up his betting slip and tossing the scraps into the air like confetti. He pushed his chair back and sauntered across to the bar. It was him the man decided, recognising the target from the surveillance photographs: Daniel Morris Whelan, thirty-eight years old, medium height, slim build, shoulder-length brown hair, a faded St. George’s cross in blue ink tattooed on his neck.
    He watched carefully as Whelan chatted with the barman and took a lager back to the table. He sipped the foam head, watching the latest odds ticker-tape across the bottom of the screen, then headed across the floor to the toilets. It was time.
    The man left his newspaper on the table and casually followed Whelan into the gents, careful to push the door open with his shoulder. It was a foul-smelling convenience, the walls an urban collage of graffiti and rightwing political stickers, the single toilet stall to his right blocked and caked with excrement. Flies hopped and flitted across a thin barred window high on the wall and water dripped noisily, the sound echoing off the once-white tiles. The smell was overpowering. He held his breath and moved past the toilet stall. Whelan was in the far corner, urinating freely, his body swaying slightly as the overflow from the urinal splashed around his worn sports shoes. The other two receptacles were filled with cigarette ends, tissue paper and gobbets of phlegm. He saw Whelan turn, saw him register his unwillingness to use the blocked facilities.
    ‘Cleaner’s on holiday again,’ Whelan quipped. He zipped his fly and wandered over to the sinks, where a stainless-steel wall tile served as a mirror. He didn’t wash his hands. Instead, he pulled a comb from the pocket of his jeans, scraping his long hair back off his forehead and smoothing it down with his other hand.
    The man stepped gingerly across the puddled floor and unzipped his fly. ‘Bloody disgusting,’ he muttered with unrehearsed venom. He saw Whelan study him in the mirror, taking in the jeans and the old combat jacket, the black hair cut aggressively short.
    ‘You new round here?’ Whelan ventured.
    ‘Not really,’ the man replied, his urine splashing loudly. ‘Met a mate just down the road, got me a bit of work. Just as well, coz I need the money bad. I’m still on parole.’
    He noticed Whelan’s eyebrows arch with interest. ‘Really? Where were you banged up?’
    ‘Winchester. Fourteen months. Violent Disorder, GBH.’
    ‘Oh yeah?’ Whelan rinsed his comb under a tap and slipped it into his back pocket. ‘Well, you’re in good company. Lot of ex-cons round here.’
    The man zipped his fly then stood at the sink next to Whelan. No soap of course, or hot water. He rubbed his hands vigorously under the cold tap.
    ‘That’s what you get when you defend your country, stand up for what’s right. It’s all wrong, mate.’ He wrung his hands dry and leaned on the sink, hoping his outburst would have the desired effect.
    ‘Where are you from? Originally?’ Whelan asked. ‘You look a bit... well, you know.’
    ‘My dad’s Italian. From Naples.’ He swiped a hand across his stubble-covered face.
    ‘Italy, eh? Proud fascist history you’ve got over there. What’s your name?’
    ‘Sully.’
    Whelan held out an unwashed hand. ‘I’m Danny. Fancy a drink?’

    They huddled together in a gloomy corner, away from the TV screen and the luckless punters. The table surface was cluttered with empty glasses. Whelan cleared a space and rolled a cigarette, carefully sprinkling a few shards of cannabis resin along its length. He fired it up, tilting his head and blowing out a long thin plume of smoke.
    ‘Fourteen months, yeah? That’s harsh.’
    ‘Proper stitched-up,’ grumbled Sully. ‘Long story short, this