Elvis and his mate on the ground clapped their hands. They seemed to be enjoying the show. And neither of the others looked remotely like George Michael.

The driver reversed back under the wriggly-tin roof and everything shut down.

I heard voices again. Banter. Even a laugh or two.

Elvis came out of the yard and began to retrace his steps down the track. The other two stayed inside with the vehicle. I lay flat by the base of the wall until he had passed. Then I ran at a crouch to the rear of the barn, paralleling him as far as the turning, and followed him back the way we had come.

This time Elvis hung a left before the railway. I stayed on the opposite side of the road as he skirted a massive walled area, part sunken olive grove, part lemon orchard.

The shadows were lengthening. The sky was darkening. Streetlights flickered on. But I didn’t plan to lift him. Not yet, anyway. You don’t snatch the monkey when you’re hoping he’ll lead you to the organ-grinder.

He took a right past a building site, which I realized was the back of Monopoli Hospital, and disappeared into a pedestrian tunnel beneath the track in front of it.

When I got there, it was empty, except for faded splashes of graffiti and three low-wattage lamps. I broke into a run and sweat soon stuck my jeans to my legs like it was trying to stop me moving. I caught a glimpse of Elvis as I climbed out on the far side. He was heading towards the factory chimneys, but before he got to them he quickened his pace and hung a right.

I followed him into a street with a bunch of small-time marine workshops on one side and the boatyard I’d seen from the fortress straight ahead. The gates were shut and there were no lights visible inside. I hung back while he brought some keys out of his skinny jeans, opened it and locked up behind him. He melted into the darkness.

Staying in the shadows, I moved closer to the iron bars. There was a fair amount of ambient light reflecting across the surface of the harbour. I could see a two-storey admin building immediately to my left, firmly shut, and a ribbon of clear concrete curving around behind it.

The rest of the hard standing was filled with a fuck of a lot of boats on stilts, in the process of having their hulls cleaned or their propellers serviced or whatever you do when you lift these things out of the water. Every centimetre of space beneath them was covered with engine parts, chunks of timber and bits of rope. Health and Safety would have loved this place.

I didn’t think you could get to the main cargo quay from there, but you’d be able to keep it under close observation, for sure. Was this Dijani’s forward operating base, or just a vantage-point?

Keeping close to the wall, I stopped, opened my mouth and did the listening trick. All I could hear was the lapping of waves and the metallic clink of whatever boats have in their rigging. I gripped a vertical bar of the gate with each hand and wedged the toe of my boot on the central rail. Then I pulled myself up high enough to be able to grab a couple of the spikes on top and managed to haul myself over them without spearing my bollocks or making it creak or clang.

I dropped almost silently to the ground, listened again, and scanned the area ahead of me for the shape, shine, shadow, silhouette, spacing and movement that indicated the presence of a body in a world of inanimate objects.

Nothing.

I edged across to the first of the boats on stilts, three metres to my half-right, and ducked under it. Keeping low and steering clear of the shit that littered the ground beneath my feet, I worked my way towards the centre of the yard.

After five or six paces I spotted a nice heavy wrench that had been left beside a bunch of dismantled engine parts. I stooped and picked it up, getting a waft of diesel fuel at the same time. I gripped its handle and moved on.

An open-fronted workshop to my left.

The cranes on the cargo quay to my right, like dinosaur skeletons, reaching into the night sky.

Just one vessel tied up between them now. The lamps on the stone wall behind it cast a weak, sulphur-yellow glow, but even at this distance it was enough to backlight the masts and keels and oil drums and a couple of abandoned fridges that separated me from the harbour.

And the big-wheeled gantry that they obviously used to heave all this shit in and out of the water.

And the body standing next to it, stock still, binos glued to his eyes, focused on the open sea.

14

Elvis’s all-black kit blended in nicely with the surrounding stanchions and metalwork, but his polished head stood out like a white Belisha beacon. I took two steps closer and heard his voice. A low murmur.

At first I thought he was talking to a mate I hadn’t seen. The lad in denim on the rowing boat, maybe.

Then I realized he had a mobile or a two-way stuck to his ear, and was communicating with someone off-site. Hidden away in the centre of town, maybe? Or on a container ship that I couldn’t yet see?

Keeping the gantry upright between us, I moved forward again. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying, but I could feel the electricity in the exchange. When I glanced through the harbour mouth, I saw why. A set of ship’s lights glinted just this side of the horizon. There’d been nothing out there an hour ago, so it was heading this way.

Elvis banged the off button and rammed the phone into his back pocket, then raised his binos again.

I knelt slowly and took a good look around beneath the hulls. The gantry was surrounded by boats on stilts. A couple of parked cars occupied the space it would reverse into whenever it swung into action. I plotted a route round to the far side of it, which would give me cover until I was almost within reach of him. He still wasn’t moving.

I couldn’t see anyone else.

Smacking the wrench between his shoulder blades would take him down. If he didn’t know where Anna and the baby were, he’d know where I could find Dijani.

I stepped out from under the hulls as soon as the nearest wagon was between him and me. Still bent at the knees and waist, I remained beneath the roofline as I skirted round the back of them. I was now directly behind Elvis.

I straightened.

The lapping of the waves was louder there, and the metallic rattling in the breeze. Loud enough to camouflage the sound of my approach.

I steadied my breathing as the lights of the boat got closer.

Keeping my weight on the balls of my feet and my eyes between his shoulders, I stole along his side of the dock.

Elvis was shorter than me, trimmer and more toned than Hesco had been. When I was two paces away from him, close enough to smell his aftershave, the wrench raised, a sixth sense alerted him to my presence.

He dropped his binos, swivelled, dipped and took a sideways step towards me. He drove his left shoulder into my chest as I brought down the wrench, only catching him a glancing blow.

He swayed back, eyes flashing, then dipped his right hand into his jeans and brought out a stiletto. At the press of a button, out slid a six-inch blade.

He came at me, left elbow raised, arm bent, knife at the ready. I swung the wrench again, aiming at his wrist. He stepped away, stooped and gathered a small boat anchor on a broken chain and swung it at me, like he was on the set of Gladiator. He connected with the peak of my baseball cap, sweeping it off, and nearly taking my head with it.

I charged into him, aiming the wrench at his knife hand, but he swept the anchor round and knocked it across the hard standing.

I scrambled across the concrete, my eyes focused on the wrench, not worried about what was behind me. I just wanted the weapon.