He knew better than most that routine could be fatal in his line of work, because once the enemy, whoever they might be, whichever side of the fence they might be on – law or lawless – got to know where you were and what you might be doing at any point in the day, they could use that knowledge and move in for the kill. It was a fact of life, and regularity and predictability were things Deakin had been at pains to avoid ever since he’d learned as a youngster on the streets that the packages his father asked him to deliver were not full of caster sugar. But for the moment he was past caring and couldn’t give a toss who knew where he was and what he was doing at any time of day. The first habit he’d got into was waking up at six forty-five a.m. precisely every morning. Then he would lie in his king-sized bed, his hands clasped behind his head, listening to the twitter of garden birds in the trees outside and the gentle breathing of the woman next to him. The heat of the Mediterranean day was already rising.
