So well hidden that Rob Hardy almost drove past it. He stepped on his brakes and brought the Vauxhall 1100 to a halt on the other side of the road. He switched off his lights and his engine. He turned to see Mick Ferguson clambering out of the van and heading across the road towards him. Hardy swung himself out from behind the wheel and greeted the other man. ‘You took your fucking time,’ Ferguson grunted. ‘I’ve been freezing my bollocks off in that van for the last twenty minutes.’ Hardy shrugged. ‘Have you got them?’ the other man asked, smiling as he saw Hardy reach into the back of his car and grasp a well-secured sack which he dragged free. A chorus of squeals and whines came from inside and Ferguson looked at his companion approvingly. Then his eyes shifted back to the sack, which was twisting and writhing as if it were alive. The two men walked back across the deserted road, satisfied that no more traffic would come this way at such a late hour. It was well past one a.m.
