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luck. ‘I’m impressed. Can you show me how it works?’
    Mrs Trent bubbled with delight. ‘Of course, Mr Crane, I can show you your friend arriving if you like.’
    Crane smiled and replied, ‘That would be nice.’
    The monitor gave a clear view of a Jaguar parked outside the shop, with fat Ryan sitting in the passenger seat. Also on the monitor was a good image of a man, whom Crane assumed to be Bradley; it showed him entering the shop. Crane made a mental note of the car number; he thanked Mrs Trent and, with a newspaper tucked under his arm, bid her good day. Elation rippled through him as he made his way back home. The spring in his stride caused a few extra aches, but he did not care – it now seemed all the more bearable – it was nearing payback time.
    Within a few minutes of entering his cottage, Crane phoned an old army colleague at Whitehall. If the Jaguar had been stolen then it would have scuppered things; but a search found that it was legitimate, and he soon had the name and address of the Jaguar’s owner; it was Bradley Kemp, living on a remote farm on the other side of the River Crouch – no more than forty-five minutes away. Crane scanned the used-car pages of the
Southend Echo
and soon found the set of wheels that he wanted; a vehicle that was cheap and reliable. He had to act quickly to stand a chance of recovering his Mustang. His limbs ached as he cycled through the back streets of Southend where he had purchased the car and, with his cycle hanging from the car boot, he rode back in the old, tatty white Mercedes saloon; its five-litre heart was all there as it roared through Rochford back to Canford.
    Dusk began to surround the area as Crane neared Bradley’s farm, and after two passes in front of the property, he parked his newly-acquired, old, inexpensive white Mercedes near some bushes and approached the entrance gate on foot. Still aching from the kicking he had suffered earlier in the day, he did not want to encounter further confrontation at this stage. He eased himself past the five-barred wooden farm gate and crept silently, sidling like a ghost, along the grass edge of the gravel driveway until the house came into view. A pheasant suddenly fluttered noisily across the path ahead; it was soon followed by a fox, picking and sniffing its way across the gravel surface, until they both disappeared through a gap in the hedge.
    The Jaguar was parked at the side of the thatched house. Crane stopped for a moment. From his position, by a hedge in the drive, it was difficult to see whether floodlights were installed. His caution proved right. Suddenly the area was flooded with bright light as the front door opened. Bradley and Ryan stepped outside and walked towards the Jaguar. Crane strained his ears and could only just make out part of their conversation which was carried by a slight breeze. A voice, which he presumed to be Bradley’s, said, ‘I’ll run you back to your place on the way to Southend.’ He recognised Ryan’s voice answering and a harsh laugh ensued and what may have sounded like a reference to Crane, ‘Should’ve broken a few limbs.’
    Within seconds they were in the car and heading out of the drive. Like a rabbit, Crane quickly dropped down on hands and knees, painfully hopping and squeezing through the small gap in the hedge, through which the fox had disappeared a few moments earlier, just as the Jaguar’s headlamps swung round, splashing the vegetation with its bright halogen beams. The car disappeared into the lane and Crane eased himself back through the gap. To avoid any of his movements being detected by the external floodlight sensors, he crept forward in a wide arc stealthily towards the rear of the house. It worked – the floodlights remained off. Although the curtains were drawn, a diffused glimmer could be seen filtering through them, together with the faint glow and the muffled sound of a