The shed wasn’t a way in. It was half glazed and filled with deckchairs; somewhere for people to sit and enjoy the view, or shelter from the rain. But behind it there was an access point with a sloping roof. And a door that had been very firmly locked and bolted, top and bottom, from the inside.

A sixth sense made me glance back through the rain-lashed windows towards the road. Now that I was five metres below my original landing zone, I no longer had a clear line of sight to the stretch of wall I’d jumped from. But I could tell that the headlamps the other side of it were stationary. And the lights on top of the two wagons now standing there were flashing, and blue.

Which explained why the remaining two-thirds of the takeaway team had fucked off, instead of waiting to see what I was going to do next.

A pair of mega-powerful torch beams sparked up and bounced across the level above me. Then they shifted ten metres to the right and began to quarter the one I was on.

5

A white stink vent stood proud of the rail at the far corner of the building. Keeping the access point between me and the torch beams, I moved towards it and looked down.

The rigid plastic pipe ran vertically down the side of the four-storey building, disappearing into the wall beside each of three unlit balconies on the way. I gave the top of it an experimental shove, which was enough to show me that the metal retaining brackets wouldn’t guarantee me a safe trip to the ground.

But it would be strongly bedded at every joint and, fuck it, I didn’t have a choice.

I couldn’t go back.

I couldn’t take the stairs.

I pocketed the UZI and slid between the top and middle rails. Closing my fingers around the bottom one, I lowered myself as far down the wall as I could. Paused for a moment to slow my breathing and blink the rainwater out of my eyes. Grabbed the pipe with my left hand and wedged the toe of my left boot between it and the wall, just above the fixing.

The pipe immediately bowed outwards, but the bracket held steady enough for me to complete the journey to the uppermost balcony. One glance through the window confirmed that nobody was home, so as soon as my feet were on firm stone I stepped back into the arched recess. It didn’t give me much shelter from the storm, but it allowed me to stay out of sight of anyone who might be above me, looking down, or below me, looking up.

Still facing the glass, my back to the handrail, I tilted my head up and, with infinite slowness, leant outwards from the waist until I could scan the length of the parapet, from the stink pipe to the opposite corner of the block.

I thought I saw movement up there, and ducked back under cover.

But when I looked again, I realized it was simply my vision being blurred by the falling water.

I repeated the process, one hand gripping the outer strut of the balcony rail, the other the pipe, toes scrabbling for purchase on the masonry, and managed to reach the next balcony down without separating myself or the pipe from the wall.

A light sprang on as soon as I stepped on to the handrail of balcony number three. I didn’t wait to see who had just come into the room, or how many. One call to the carabinieri was all it would take to really fuck up my night.

For the second time in the last hour I had to make a move without being able to check in advance where I was going. I renewed my grip on the pipe with my left hand, placed the tip of my left boot against the rendering on the far side of it, slid my right hand behind it, and walked two paces further down the wall.

I would have been fully visible to anyone stepping out on to the platform I’d just vacated but, again, the virgin goddess of weather stopped that happening.

Two more paces.

Then two more.

Although the fixings weren’t firm there either, the lack of leverage between the joints worked in my favour, and I was able to drop the last couple of metres to the gravel forecourt.

Much as I liked the idea of the takeaway team consoling themselves over their pizzas, I figured they’d be working their way round to intercept me on the downward path, or possibly to come and pick up what was left of their mate.

The moped was strictly a solo machine, so I reckoned I’d got there a fuck of a lot quicker than they’d be able to. But that didn’t mean I could piss about. I dodged and wove my way through the warren of passageways and cul-de-sacs that linked the blocks to the main, passing a surprising number of people who didn’t seem to want to kill me, and were also sorry they’d forgotten to bring an umbrella.

I twisted as much water as I could out of my jacket and hung it on the passenger seat of the hire car before feeding the ticket machine at the parking garage a day’s worth of euros.

I slotted a SIM card and a battery into my last Nokia as soon as I’d gone through the barrier and punched in Luca’s office number as I drove.

‘Pronto …’

‘I was pinged coming out of the alley.’

‘Pinged?’

‘Spotted. Then followed. Fuck knows who they were. Two youngish bald guys, and a hairier one with a moped. Ring any bells?’

He gave it some thought. ‘I’ve seen a couple of bald guys in the street outside the office … yes … and the moped. I thought they were just stealing handbags.’

‘I think there’s more to it than that. Mafia, probably. Your mate’s mattress shop is obviously a known location. So don’t go there again. Unless you want your kids in the orphans’ basket.’

‘I don’t have any kids.’

‘The same goes for your sister’s kids.’

‘I get the message.’

‘You OK, mate?’

‘Sure. But thanks for the warning.’

‘I’ll call you.’

I pressed the red button and threw the phone out of the window as soon as I hit the flyover out of town. All the arrows pointed to Brindisi, and not just the ones on the autostrada. Rexho Uran had been spotted there. Hesco had gone very still when I mentioned Italy.

Frank was killed on the road to Turin.

His boy had been wearing Città di Brindisi football strip.

They’d been to their villa three times this year.

A bad business, Nick … A bad business …

Minerva was on its way there from Odessa, via Istanbul.

And I was now almost certain that wherever Minerva was, Dijani and the Uran brothers would be too.

If a stripy pole and a downhill rollercoaster hadn’t rattled my brain, maybe I’d have made this journey earlier. But I was where I was, and still alive. That was all that mattered.

If I put my foot down, I reckoned I could be at the port before first light.

6

The rain started to ease when I was halfway to Bari. By the time I veered south, with the dark waters of the Adriatic on my left, it had stopped. I opened all the windows. The wind noise was outrageous, but it would blast some of the dampness out of my ki t. I’d tried turning up the heater when I left Naples, but all it did was fog the windscreen and fill the Seat with steam.

I passed the sign to Brindisi airport, then another to the football stadium, and focused hard on following directions to the port, partly because that was where I needed to go, and partly so I could ignore the kid in the blue and white Città di Brindisi strip who was suddenly sitting beside me.

But Stefan couldn’t be ignored. I should have learnt that fucking ages ago.

‘Nick …’

I tried to lose myself in the noise of the wagon’s tyres against the untreated scars in the road surface. Once you left the toll road, the tarmac went to rat-shit around here. Maybe the Ferrari owners stuck to the autostrada, or the west-coast Riviera.