McGregor led him inside to a series of dingy ground-floor offices. He was invited to take a seat and he found himself wondering if they knew. Was he unwittingly walking into a t rap that at some point would be sprung, armed men guffawing at his pathetic attempts to escape? Not for the first time it struck him that he had literally no idea of what he was getting himself into.

After sitting there a while, feeling like a guy in a dentist’s waiting room, they appeared. A phalanx. The Red Arrows, if the Red Arrows were provincial thugs led by a big guy with a navy sweatshirt stretched over a huge belly, who took a draw from a cigarette and said, as though he had been rehearsing it, ‘My name is Raymond Doyle. And right now, you’re alive because I say so.’

‘I came of my own accord,’ replied Abbott flatly, still sitting, refusing to be intimidated by the entourage.

‘You think, do you?’ said Doyle. ‘Here, come with me. There’s a few things I want to know.’

‘I don’t know if I can help you,’ said Abbott.

‘How about we decide that in my office?’ He turned to one of his men. ‘Have you patted him down?’ The guy looked shifty in return, shaking his head, a guilty no. ‘Well, then do it!’ roared Doyle.

The guy gave Abbott a pat down, but it was so cursory he missed the Gerber knife in Abbott’s boot. Amateurs, reflected Abbott as Doyle headed the group out of the reception area onto what had once been a factory floor and then across that to a set of metal steps at the other end. Up they went in silence until they reached a gantry above, close to the mouth of a large, funnelled inlet, which led to a huge machine beneath.

Doyle stopped, took a final drag of his cigarette and then flicked it into the funnel.

Abbott looked at him. ‘Expensive ashtray.’

‘Meat grinder,’ said Doyle. Close by was a large red stop/ start button, and he punched it, grinning as the machine started up with a deafening whine. The sound of grinding industrial blades came from below. ‘Your friend Abbott will be going in there later. Scutter, too,’ he yelled over the sound of the machine starting up. Abbott tensed, wondering if this was it, until just as suddenly Doyle punched the red button again and the machine wound down.

Doyle led the group into an office which boasted views out over the empty factory. He took a seat behind a large desk.

‘So you’re Owen Flyte?’

Abbott nodded. ‘But you already know that.’