Roo’s strong view was that I needed to remain in the scene to gather as much information as possible for the lead-up to termination. This would mean doing a raft of fresh deals with offenders to get updated intelligence. His blunt appraisal was: “It’s fucken dangerous, mate, but you’ve got to front up back at the Schooner as if it’s bizzo as usual. It’ll show the fuckers you’re not a nark, too.”

... What neither Roo nor I knew was that I was to be compromised in the worst way possible by the very department I was out there risking my life for.

I never contemplated turning it down. There was no cautionary sage advice about potential downsides, but even if there had been I would have ignored it. When you agree to enter the undercover programme you can never comprehend how you will be affected. You have changed the course of your life. It is impossibly uninformed consent.

As we got closer, the cop began walking out on to the road. About now Rick began screaming, “Run that motherfucker down, kill the fucker!”

A chorus sprang up from the back seat: “Waste the fucker, take him out!”

This was a good opportunity to cement my rep, I thought. I kept accelerating. There’s no way he’s going to walk right in front of me, I figured. It was a high-stakes game of chicken... This incident became folklore in the scene and made my cover almost bulletproof: the night Marcus tried to kill a pig.

In the wake of the termination, intelligence confirmed that there remained a bounty on my head. It was simple: I was the evidence. If I didn’t make it to trial, convictions would not hold up. I disappeared to a safe house in the South Island foothills. Clear skies, clean air and verdant countryside were my buffers. For six months, aside from returning to Auckland for trials, I left the house only to go for a run and get the newspaper. It was a time for reflection and massaging a tortured mind. Police psychological support was not forthcoming.

I had submitted a written complaint of fraud and spoken to other Anti Economic Crimes Unit investigators, but their superior was not particularly interested in formalities. He had heard enough about my suspect ...“Two weeks,” said Lieutenant Abdullah in slow measured English. “Two weeks and we will have him in here. It will be quick, we will deal with him. If he doesn’t talk, we will torture him,” he said unblinkingly. Unsure quite how to respond, I said, “Thanks, thanks for that. I am most appreciative.”