Sure enough, it felt as though the whole pub did An American Werewolf in London, the conversation dying, eyes turning his way as he walked in. Was it simply that kind of pub? Or was it him? Either way, he was reassured to feel the weight of the Glock at the bottom of his rucksack. A few days booze-free and he was hardly what you’d call combat ready, but even at half speed, he was still good.

He took a stool positioned in front of a tap, arranging himself. He wore the Finchley Sportsman T-shirt, black over-shirt, the normal drill.

‘You all right there?’ said the barman, predictably.

Abbott ordered a beer. ‘Just a pint of the cooking, please, mate,’ he replied, and steeled himself not to drink it. The barman, probably the landlord, lingered, and Abbott wondered if he should read anything into that. In his recent experience, most of them seemed to scurry away as soon as possible. ‘Actually, you might be able to help,’ said Abbott when he’d paid for the beer, fingertipping the glass away from himself at the same time. ‘I’m looking for an old mate. He liked a drink. Might be somebody you know.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said the landlord. Again, Abbott was used to these guys closing down and going into guarded mode. This one? Not so much.

Abbott told him the name. Jason Scutter. Again, where Abbott had learned to expect a shake of the head, this guy nodded.

‘Yes, I know him.’

‘He lives round here?’

‘He lives the other side of town, two doors down from my sister, as it happens. He’s a bad lot.’

‘Is that so?’

‘The kind who should be in jail or better still in the ground.’

‘Well, I guess you won’t want to help me find him, then?’

The barman leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘Except that I don’t think you’re any friend of his, are you? You want to see him for some other reason, am I right?’

‘Yes, mate, you’re right,’ replied Abbott. ‘Me and him have business.’

‘Thought as much. I’ll tell you where to find him, but you need to give me your word that if anybody asks, you didn’t get it from me.’

Abbott looked around at what was more or less an empty pub. Just one old guy in a flat cap drinking at a table out of earshot. ‘Scout’s honour,’ he said.

The barman turned away. A moment later, he held out a scrap of paper. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

If this was a trap, then it was well laid, thought Abbott as he took himself outside and rang for a taxi.

And if it is a trap, then you’re walking right into it.

But that guy seemed like he had history with Scutter. And after all, wasn’t this why he was here?