Monday 11:30 am

Three hours after leaving London, Tony, now feeling calmer, pulled off the motorway and headed towards East Midlands Airport. He drove a few miles past the airport to Marshfield Farm where he had booked a year’s storage for the horse box.

An old man, wearing a shabby flat cap and big rubber boots, opened the gate for him and directed him to a barn which looked like it hadn’t been used for many years. He backed the horse box into the barn, unhitched the horse box and drove out his Warrior. The farmer closed and locked the barn door and handed two keys to Tony.

“This old barn hasn’t been used since I retired five years ago,” said the farmer. “I’ve been working this land since I was a teenager.”

Tony could tell the the old man wanted to talk, so he interrupted in his best Italian accent, “Me no talk English very good.” As he handed the farmer a stack of cash. “Here money for two years, but I be back next year. I go for business one year.”

The old man looked very happy as he waved goodbye to Tony, who was very relieved that the first part of his plan had gone off without a hitch.

Twenty minutes later, he was in Nuthall, a suburb of Nottingham, knocking on the door of his long-time friend Mark O’Mally. The tall dark man who answered the door took a few seconds to register who was in front him before he gave Tony a big bear hug and said, “Bloody Hell, Tony, what are you doing here? Sorry, mate, great to see you. Come on in. I’ll put the kettle on.”

“The last I hear from you is a Christmas card, and then you show up on my doorstep. What’s up, Tony?” said Mark as he filled the tea kettle.

“Yea, things have been complicated, Marco.”

Since his early schooldays, everyone called him Marco. People thought his name was Marco Mali and that he was of Italian decent, because of his looks and also because he and Tony, whose grandparents were Italian, always hung out together. The name Marco stuck.

“I’m in a spot of trouble. I need your help,” said Tony.