stretched across the desk. 'I see, really?' He scribbled a number on a pad and chucked it over to Dave while still on the call. 'Well, that is strange, but very rich men can be, can't they? And it's all business for us, no?'

Dave was looking at the number, which had six digits. The Skip Tracer hung up. 'Carrot, see, loan, get it, nosebag, banker nosebag, that is – a loan.'

'He's got over seven hundred grand in his current bloody account!' Dave expostulated.

'£743,485 to be precise,' the Skip Tracer said. 'He's fucking loaded. But I don't do pro bono, my son, no way José, I'm not some fucking ambulance chaser. You'll have to cough up, on the nail, on the nail. And no borrowing to pay me.' Hein Arpee, we call over the points and the runs, we speak often and always of Dave, we revile all mummies. Do this now, and if we meet with Chilmen we will not be surprised.

With a knife Böm hacked off his beard – and to Carl his pitted, bleeding face was alien, disturbing even. No Driver on this estate wears a beard, Böm explained. He spread out the A2Z on the flat bole of a felled smoothbark. This is our route – he tapped the oiled parchment – we're to the northeast of Wyc, between the manors of Hemel and Ban, only a few clicks – by my reckoning – from the start of the Emwun, the great trading route. We can walk this track by night, then