‘You’re short,’ said McGregor to her, and they waited as she translated for the husband. The kid tried to enter the room but was ushered away. The door to the kitchen shut. Abbott steeled himself, unsure if he could go through with another ‘punishment’. The drug dealer was one thing. This pair quite another.

‘But business hasn’t been good,’ she managed, unable to summon the necessary conviction.

‘Well, you see, a little birdie tells me that you’ve been out buying gear. Might be that we have to take our payment in other ways,’ said McGregor, who looked meaningfully towards the kitchen. From within they could hear the kid singing to himself and playing, blissfully unaware of what was happening outside.

Abbott felt his heart harden, wanting to reach for his Glock but keeping his face neutral. Meanwhile, the woman was shaking, pleading with McGregor in Polish and English, McGregor merely nodding, letting his threat stand.

They left the flat, stood out in the hall. McGregor held up a finger. Wait. Then he pulled out a pen, made a mark on the door, although nothing was visible. ‘UV pen,’ he explained. ‘So the boys know.’

‘They don’t get another chance to pay up, then?’

‘Och, no, those two are never going to pay. We might as well move in before they get their act together and ship the kid out.’

As they left the block, McGregor made another mark. He caught Abbott looking. ‘You sure this doesn’t bother you, pal?’ he asked slyly.

Abbott shook his head. ‘Business is business.’

But he thought of the couple upstairs who right now would be living in fear, and at that moment he hated himself even more than usual.

Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

The day of work over, Abbott expected to be dropped in the town centre. Instead, McGregor took them back to Kemptown.

‘What’s all this, then?’ asked Abbott warily. The MP7 was hidden in his hotel room but he carried his Glock and his Gerber knife. Even so, Doyle had the numbers. None of them were likely as fast and accurate as Abbott. But still. Numbers.

‘Don’t you worry your pretty little head, pal,’ smirked McGregor. ‘It’s just that the boss wants a word, that’s all.’

‘A bit early for a performance review, don’t you think?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe the boss just wants to get the measure of you.’

‘What have you told him about me?’ asked Abbott, thinking that if McGregor had informed Doyle about Abbott’s occasional information-gathering exercises then Doyle’s suspicions might have been raised. And if Doyle’s suspicions had been raised, then what might he have in store?

A kid, as it turned out. A kid and a brassy-looking woman, who sat in the factory reception area.