If your opponent was inexperienced, that was. If he wasn’t trying to do to you what you were trying to do to him.

They rolled over broken bits of coffee table and brains and blood and beer and Fast & Furious DVDs, grappling and both trying to find purchase, not just with their hands but with legs and feet, with moves more intricate than any gymnast, any pair of lovers, reason being that there was more at stake. The guy’s thumb found its way into Abbott’s larynx, but he twisted away, using Scutter’s body as cover and managing to scramble to his knees. At the same time the attacker shifted likewise, and for a second they were at rest, on their knees on the carpet, shoulders rising and falling as they caught their breath.

Guns. The MP7 not far away. Abbott’s Glock close at hand. And it was there that Abbott went, diving for it, finger-tips finding it, bringing the butt into his palm, the feeling as welcome as a warm dog and roaring fire in the grate, and swinging it around to bear on his opponent.

It was all the guy could do to stop Abbott pulling the trigger as he launched himself haphazardly forward, crashing into Abbott, who was unable to fire but was able to take advantage of the sudden imbalance, twisting around, bringing his foe with him and using his forward motion against him.

The guy crashed down, Abbott over him, Abbott standing, lifting his foot, stamping hard on the guy’s face once, twice and then a third time for good measure. And then, satisfied that his opponent was beaten, rolled away.

For perhaps thirty seconds he lay there, recovering from the battle. Next, he grabbed the guy by the lapels of his denim jacket, grunting as he heaved him onto the sofa. He was out cold for the time being so Abbott rooted through his pockets and came up with a wallet where, according to his driving licence, his name was Owen Flyte.

Like Abbott, Flyte had carried a backpack, just the size to conceal an MP7. Abbott rooted through it. In here were spare mags for the weapon as well as duct tape. There were also two pieces of paper, folded. One was a photocopied photograph of himself, taken from his forces ID. Scrawled on it was the single word, ‘Abbott’.

A second piece of paper, a picture of Scutter, again the name.

And then the killer’s phone rang.

‘Number not recognised.’

He shouldn’t answer it, he knew. On the other hand, this might be his best chance at moving forward.

He answered. Held the mouthpiece away from himself, mumbled the word, ‘Hello?’

‘Flyte?’

‘You might be in luck. Who’s that?’

‘It’s McGregor. You haven’t replied to my text.’

‘I’ve been busy.’

Abbott tried to piece events together. Evidently Flyte and this McGregor hadn’t previously spoken, just communicated by text.