He had his rucksack with him, of course. One of the disadvantages of making a complete fool of yourself at your ex-girlfriend’s house and then clambering into the world’s most expensive taxi bound for Derby on a drunken whim is that you tended to come unprepared, but even though mentally his gameplan was not at its best, he at least had the bare bones of his kit with him. Stuff he always kept in his rucksack. His Gerber knife, his Leatherman all-purpose tool, tourniquet with a plastic turning handle, a vacuum-sealed medipack, and of course the Glock. He’d bought his own threaded barrel to replace the factory one. The threaded barrel didn’t look quite as nice – it stuck out more and ruined the gun’s line – but he needed it for the suppressor. No factory firearm came threaded. Even the military had to swap out the barrels. One of the advantages as far as Abbott was concerned was that the replacement Glock barrels could be bought quite cheaply.

So that was what he had. The sum total of his war bag.

‘You all right there?’ said the barman, which was what barmen said these days. Used to be, ‘What can I get you?’ Now it was, ‘You all right there?’ He liked the old question better.

‘Pint of that,’ said Abbott, pointing to a pump that was directly in front of him.

The guy began pulling the pint. He called goodbye to a departing punter over Abbott’s shoulder. Abbott let the customer go before he next spoke. ‘I’m wondering if you might be able to help me.’

‘Landlord’s not here now,’ said the barman without looking up.

‘It’s information, actually.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Quick glance. Finishing up the pint. ‘And what’s in it for me?’

‘I’ve got a fifty-quid note with your name on it if I think the info’s good.’

‘Try me.’

‘Jason Scutter. Do you know the name?’

The barman looked up sharply, as if taking note of Abbott for the first time. Abbott knew that look. He’d seen a few versions of it over the last two days. For that reason he knew the next words out of the barman’s mouth before he even said them. ‘Sorry, mate, you didn’t say who you were?’

‘I’m not police.’

‘I didn’t think you were. Doesn’t make me any less curious.’

‘Do you know Jason Scutter or not?’

The barman shook his head. ‘Can’t say I do.’

‘Then it doesn’t matter who I am, does it?’

‘Well, what if I do hear from him? Who will I contact?’

‘I can leave you my number.’

‘You do that.’