Abbott found himself leaning forward. ‘Jason Scutter?’

‘Yeah, him.’

His dad was drifting a little. ‘Yeah, go on,’ pressed Abbott. ‘He saw Scutter in his car?’

‘Yeah, that’s what he said. He said he saw him in his car . . .’

‘Yeah. And?’

‘He said there was another bloke with him.’

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

It was rather – no, more than that – it was really childish. But when Fiona had got together with the guy from the Ministry of Defence, and when that guy had moved into the home that Fiona had previously shared with Abbott, Abbott had come up with a rather childish nickname for him.

He had called him Cuckoo.

He and Cuckoo had not exactly hit it off. Abbott was rough-hewn special forces. A soldier trained to kill and good at it. Cuckoo was, as far as Abbott was concerned, a pen pusher, a paper shuffler. The two men could hardly have been more different.

But then, when Nathan had disappeared, Cuckoo made the trip to Singapore to alert Abbott. The search to find Nathan could scarcely have ended more badly, but throughout it all, Cuckoo had been a huge help and support. To say that Abbott had gained a new understanding and respect for him was putting things mildly.

Still, when it was all over, Cuckoo had to go back to Fiona. The two were by now married and whatever she was told, Fiona could not let go of the notion that Abbott was primarily responsible for Nathan’s death. That, more than anything, put a stop to any burgeoning friendship between the two men.

Well, that and the fact that Abbott’s only true friend came in cans and bottles.

Fiona was right, of course, despite what Cuckoo told her. Abbott was responsible. Of course he was. Not directly. He had not literally lit the fire that ended up causing Nathan’s death. But metaphorically? Yes, in many ways, he had. Fiona was right. The issue being that she could not possibly, not in a million years, have hated Abbott as much as he hated himself.

Now, Abbott found himself at RAF Chicksands, where he paid his way into the museum and had a wander around the Ministry of Defence exhibits, passing among other visitors, staring in at glass-fronted cabinets displaying weapons of the past, uniforms, as well as a reconstruction of an air-raid shelter where kids had their pictures taken wearing gas masks. Piped into the exhibits were sounds of battle, explosions and gunshots that made Abbott’s palms sweat.

He located a quiet corner of the museum, unhooked his backpack and reached inside for the trusty bottle, took a quick hit and put it back, waited for the booze to do its job.

‘Abbott.’

The voice came from behind and he wheeled quickly to see that Cuckoo stood behind him, wearing a suit.

‘You look well, Cuckoo,’ said Abbott, stuffing the bottle back in his bag under Cuckoo’s disapproving gaze. ‘Have you lost weight?’