‘Did you indeed?’ Abbott motioned with his head for support as McGregor helped him aboard. ‘It’s good to have you on the team,’ said Abbott sarcastically.

‘I’m glad you feel that way, pal,’ replied McGregor in kind. ‘Your area, by the way, is the Fear Palace. I’ll see you on the monitors, eh? Don’t let us down, Abbott.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I won’t,’ he said.

And then something odd happened.

McGregor’s eyes flicked behind Abbott, to the rider, who sat astride the bike with his back to them. He said, ‘Your lace is untied. Do you want me to get that for you? Rather than have to unzip you?’ He was looking significantly at Abbott, who went along with it, knowing full well that his laces were fine.

‘Thank you, that would be much appreciated. Not too tight, please.’

McGregor knelt and, as Abbott watched, quickly hoisted up Abbott’s trouser leg and shoved his Gerber knife into his boot, giving it back to him. McGregor stood, looking meaningfully at Abbott. ‘There . . . That should be fine.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Abbott. Though he was glad of the knife, the gesture made him wonder what measures other players would be taking to help their proxies. It made him wonder, too, about McGregor’s loyalties. Could it be that McGregor was trying to send him a message? To show him where his allegiance lay? Difficult to know. Best not to ponder it. Abbott had more immediate things to worry about – like the fact that he was about to go into battle.

They took off, and although Abbott had been half-expecting to hang on for grim life, in fact, his driver took it easy, presumably not wanting to risk harming the precious proxy by throwing him off the back of the bike.

When they stopped, the rider was similarly careful in helping Abbott dismount. Soon, the zip-tie was cut, and moments after that, the rider was back on his bike and racing away.

Abbott looked around. A couple of feet away was a brown hessian bag, the kind of thing people took to health-food shops. Abbott moved quickly to it. The choice of weapon was fundamental. It would dictate how he played the game.

It was a Sig Sauer. Great. Not only was Abbott familiar with the weapon, but it suited his favoured tactic. He didn’t have the patience for a Tom Brace-style wait. Never had. He liked to go on the hunt. Search and destroy. Master of your own destiny.

There was a full mag in the Sig, three more mags in the health-food shop bag. He pulled the slider back, put one up the pipe but left the safety on.

Now what?