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because at the last second, he leaps to one side, belly-flopping onto the bonnet of some poor sod’s Renault Megane with a huge crash. It takes
me a moment to realize that it is in fact The Wolverine’s car and that now he’s definitely going to be walking home tonight.
    I keep driving, gliding round the bend and onto the main road. Mission almost accomplished.
    “Thanks for that,” says Vanya, leaning over and putting a hand on my arm. She smells nice, and I think there might be passion in her pale eyes, although to be fair, I’ve been
wrong about this sort of thing before.
    “What the hell was that all about?” I ask her, and she tells me.
    Apparently, Stephen Humphrey is providing lucrative defence contracts to one of The Crim’s front companies in return for cash. A very big contract is coming up and, on hearing that The
Crim is driving one of the new BMWs, Humphrey wants to take possession of the car in lieu of his usual payment. The Crim reluctantly agrees and Humphrey and Vanya go for a spin. Vanya, however, has
been tiring of Humphrey of late, and they end up having a violent argument. In the ensuing mêlée, Vanya physically removes the MP from the car, damaging his toupee in the process, and
then drives off home, concluding that actually London life isn’t for her. She decides to take the 7-Series and drive it, and her meagre possessions, back to Slovakia.
    But just as she’s leaving, The Crim and his boys turn up, along with a crooked-haired Humphrey thirsting for revenge. Which is where I came in.
    I ask her if she’s going to take the plane home now.
    She looks disappointed. “Is this really your car?” she asks.
    “I’m afraid it is,” I tell her.
    “So,” she says, looking at me with an interest she’s never shown before, “what are you going to do? The men you attacked are going to be pretty upset and I understand
that Mr Sneddon is a very powerful man.”
    It’s a good question, and one I haven’t really given a lot of thought to. “We’ll have to see,” I say enigmatically.
    By this time, we’ve pulled up outside Aunt Lena’s house. I know that whatever happens, I’ve got to keep her out of the way of The Crim, who’s going to be looking to
settle scores in any way he can.
    But there’s something odd here. In Aunt Lena’s one-car carport sits another 7-Series, brand new like mine. I park up behind it and, taking the spare keys from Vanya, just in case she
decides to do another runner, tell her to wait for me.
    As I reach the front door, it opens and who should I see standing there but the fugitive himself, cousin Kevin? He immediately opens fire with a barrage of excuses for his absence, as well as
heartfelt apologies and gestures of thanks. The whole tirade’s a pile of bullshit, of course, but you have to give him ten out of ten for effort.
    “Where’s your mum?” I ask him, and then remember that I actually told her to stay round her friend Marjorie’s house on the next street until all this boiled over.
    “Have you got The Crim’s money?” I demand. “He reckons it’s thirty-four grand.”
    “Thirty-four thousand?” he pipes up. “That’s ruinous. Tell you the truth,” he adds, which is usually the prelude to a lie, “I’ve been down in Monaco.
Made some money on the tables. Had everything ready for The Crim, but then I saw this motor in the showroom near the casino . . .” He motions towards the car, “and I just had to have
it. It’s beautiful, Billy,” he says. “Supreme engineering.”
    “I know,” I answer, “I’ve got one. So, I’m taking it you haven’t got the money.”
    He gives me a rueful expression. “Supreme engineering doesn’t come cheap.”
    “No, it doesn’t,” I say, pondering the evening I’ve had, then clap him on the shoulder. “Look, stay here tonight, Kevin, and we’ll straighten out The Crim in
the morning. I’m just popping off back home.”
    We say our goodbyes and I get back in the car, and put a