‘I can see that, Dr Zhivago. This is Alex Abbott, is it?’ asked McGregor. He was in his late-thirties and wore a cheap leather jacket over a shirt that was open by at least two buttons too many, his dark hair in need of a wash.

‘Yes.’

‘And how do you know that?’

‘From his wallet. And the fact that he matches the description I’ve been given,’ said Abbott, surfing a wave of weirdness, as though he was having an out-of-body experience, pointing a gun at himself as he lay, out cold on a sofa, wearing a Finchley Sportsman T-shirt.

‘Well, you better finish the job, then.’ McGregor indicated the state of Flyte’s face. ‘Better do it quick, too. Looks like he almost killed you.’

‘Sure. He was tough.’

Abbott raised the Glock. Sorry, brother, he thought. You or me. I choose you.

He double-tapped Flyte, whose body jerked on the sofa, bloody beer bottle-tops appearing on his chest. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.

‘OK,’ said McGregor. ‘So now I’m going to take you to meet the boss.’

Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

As they stepped outside the house, Abbott still couldn’t get his head around it. The whole Argos-catalogue setting. The carnage within. McGregor had made a call and assured him that the cleaners were on their way.

‘How did you get here?’ asked the Scotsman now.

Abbott wondered if it was a test. ‘Taxi,’ he said.

‘Well, it’s lucky I got a car then, isn’t it?’ said McGregor, pointing at an electric blue BMW parked at the kerb.

As they left the estate, a white van was arriving, and the two vehicles drew up alongside one another. McGregor’s window slid down and he spoke to the guys in the van. ‘Thanks to our friend here, there’s a lot of cleaning up to be done.’

Three men in the front of the van all looked past McGregor and at Abbott. Strong-arm guys. The kind who worked security, who did odd jobs for the local villains. Right now, Abbott still had his own Glock on board. He had Flyte’s MP7 and the extra mags in his rucksack, too, so he was feeling protected, but if his instinct was correct, then he would be relieved of any weapons as soon as he met the big boss.

He was right.

McGregor drove them out of town to an area that was characterised by a series of car dealerships on either side of a dual carriageway. Gleaming cars. Flags waving in a breeze. Unbeatable offers and incredible credit deals giving way to what looked like a series of industrial estates on the edge of town. McGregor took a left onto a service road, where there was no branding, no parked cars, vans or lorries, and just the one sign saying, ‘Kemptown. No Entry’.

‘Kemptown? What the hell is that?’