Abbott thought of the bloke who’d got out of the second taxi. Could be something. Could be nothing.

He moved to the front window and peered outside. Nothing. Glanced to the French windows. Same. He turned back to Scutter. ‘And this hitman? He’s been sent to protect you from me?’

Scutter chuckled. ‘Well, that’s what McGregor told me. I rather doubt it, though. For one thing, he seemed awfully keen that I should be here, considering his claim to have my best interests at heart. “Oh, there are two gunmen on the way, one of whom wants you dead. Just stay where you are, eh?” Doesn’t quite scan, does it? Hmm . . .’ Scutter put his finger to his lips, fake-thinking. ‘Why might that be? And then the penny dropped that if I were them then I’d want me out of the picture. Basically, any picture – whichever way you look at it, upside down or back to front – is vastly improved without me in it.’

‘You seem fairly laid-back about that.’

Scutter sighed. ‘I never meant him any harm, you know, your brother. I mean, I personally never meant him any harm, but it’s true that my aim was to deliver him into the hands of people who would have meant him harm, and for that I fully deserve more than the sentence I served. For that I deserve to die.’

‘Who? Who were you going to give him to? Doyle?’

Scutter laughed. ‘The Doyles are paid employees, bouncers, enforcers. Nothing more.’

‘They seem to command an awful lot of respect.’

‘Round here they do. Say my uncle’s name and watch them shake with fear. But that’s the locals.’

‘OK.’ Abbott raised his pistol. ‘This is the bit where I ask you questions, and you answer them. I need to know about the fat guy.’

‘Fat guy?’

‘This second guy who was in your car the day you picked up Chris. Who was he?’

‘How about I tell you after you and I cut a little deal?’

Abbott gave a short, dry laugh.

‘I’m holding a gun on you.’

It was as though Scutter wasn’t listening. ‘You can help me get out of here safely.’

‘I don’t care about your safety.’ He nudged with the Glock. ‘Who was he?’

A bead of sweat ran down Scutter’s temple. ‘And if I tell you?’

‘Try if you don’t.’

Scutter swallowed. A second bead of sweat escaped his hairline. ‘OK, look, as a gesture of good faith, I’ll tell you. How about that?’

‘How about you tell me as a gesture of wanting to stay alive?’

Another prod.

‘OK, OK . . . His name is Sweaty.’

‘“Sweaty”? Now there’s a name to conjure with.’ And something told Abbott that a man who went by the name ‘Sweaty’ was far more likely to conform to his paedophile preconceptions.