TWITCHING It is Saturday, 5:20 a.m. Like a fox that has gone to earth, Grendon Smith emerges hesitantly from the unhinged communal door of his apartment block and stops to sniff the early morning air. He carries in one hand a smart black leather holdall, and on his back a small and rather worn green army-surplus rucksack, matching his fatigues. Satisfied there are no lurking threats, and jangling a bunch of keys, he hurries across towards a row of dew-covered vehicles on the opposite side of the dismal cul-de-sac. There is a resonant squawk, and the flash of the hazards of a new-looking crimson roadster. He drops his luggage into the passenger footwell, rounds the bonnet and slides into the low-slung driver’s seat. The engine fires into life, wipers flick a film of condensation from the windscreen, and tyres protest as the car snakes out onto Pentonville Road. Had Grendon Smith been inclined to clean his mirrors or rear screen, he might now note that a predator of sorts is indeed on his tail. Keeping its distance, but following the roadster’s every move, is a shabby but deceptively powerful estate, inconspicuous but for its aerial, which is fashioned from a wire coat hanger into the shape of a fish.
