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pavement outside. The day is hot and bright, the temperature probably close to eighty already, but these guys are protecting their IDs, which means they're probably up to no good. A couple of them are on mountain bikes, and they are laughing and fooling about as they devour their greasy fare. I catch the eye of one of them - probably no more than sixteen, but big for his age - and he appraises me from the shadows beneath the hood, a predator sizing up potential prey. I meet his gaze with blank disinterest and give it a long second before turning away, at the same time slowing my pace a little so he knows I'm not intimidated. Body language tells the people watching you everything. Keep your poise and your movements assured, and just theright side of casual, and people will know you're not scared and will, almost without exception, leave you alone. This guy and his friends are no different. They ignore me, going back to their food and banter. There are plenty of easier victims out there.
    I stop on the street outside number 33. All the windows are closed, and it looks deserted. As I approach the door, the honk of a car horn startles me. I turn round and see a short, wizened-looking white guy in the driver's seat of the ancient Sierra. He beckons me over with a bony arm.
    I walk up and crouch down by the open car window.
    'Who are you?' he asks in a voice that somehow manages to be high-pitched and gravelly at the same time, as if it belongs to a chain-smoking twelve-year-old. To add to the mix, the accent is pure 'cor blimey' cockney, making the end result a very strange sound.
    'I'm Bone,' I answer, remembering that this is what I've been instructed to call myself. 'I'm here to pick up a briefcase.'
    He looks me up and down carefully yet dispassionately through pale, bloodshot eyes. Istare back at him, thinking he is one of the strangest-looking guys I've seen for a while. His face, partially obscured by long, lank, mousey hair that exposes blotches of pink scalp, is thin and deeply lined, yet somehow the end result gives the impression of agelessness. This guy could be anything between forty and sixty, although nothing about him looks well kept. He is dressed in a cheap brown suit that smells of mothballs, underneath which is a faded Iron Maiden T-shirt that was once black but has now turned the same off-grey pallor as his skin.
    'You've come to the wrong place,' he tells me.
    I notice then that he isn't sweating, even though a steady wave of cloying heat is emanating from the interior of the car.
    'Are you going to tell me where the right one is, then?'
    His eyes dart down. 'What's in the case?'
    'Have you got the one I'm here to collect?' I ask him.
    His face contorts into an unpleasant smile, revealing a plaque-stained jumble of teeth that come straight out of the 'before' posters on a dentist's wall. 'Is it the money?'
    'Have you got the case I'm here to collect or not?'
    He shakes his head ever so slowly. 'No,' he says at last, 'someone else has. I'll take you to him.'
    I step out of the way as he opens the door and slowly climbs out.
    'You got a name?' I ask him.
    'You can call me Sellman,' he says, turning and beckoning for me to follow him.
    At full height, he stands no more than five five, and when he starts walking I see that his right foot drags. All in all, he's not the finest figure of a man you're ever likely to see, but I spot the telltale bulge in the back of his suit that tells me he's armed, and I guess he's the kind of guy who enjoys being underestimated.
    We walk up the street in silence while his eyes move back and forth, taking in everything. It is obvious that he trusts me as much as I trust him. Two Asian kids in Islamic clothes and prayer caps are coming down the pavement in our direction. They talk animatedly and ignore us as they pass, but Sellman's eyes still drift back to them, just to make sure they are nothing more than bona fide passers-by. 'You can't be toocareful,' he says, more to himself