Now they found themselves in what would once have been the bar area, which even though it was unused and derelict, was comparatively habitable considering the state of outside. It even seemed to have a working bar. Sitting on a banquette seat along one wall was a nervous-looking guy whose eyes travelled to McGregor and Abbott. A customer, thought Abbott. What kind of guy was so desperate to get his rocks off that he went to a place where the doormen carried machetes?

Answer? A degenerate.

At a table on the other side of the room sat three men who looked like security. They’d been playing cards but were gazing over curiously, as was a black guy with dreadlocks who stood behind the bar. Along with the optics and pumps were monitors showing feeds from the front and back of the pub.

‘Mr McGregor,’ said the guy behind the bar. ‘Can I get you a beer?’

‘Aye, I’ll have a beer. And one for my friend here, Mr Flyte.’

‘Who is Mr Flyte?’ said the barman, dead-eyed. As he spoke, he drew back the leather waistcoat he wore, displaying the handle of another machete beneath.

‘He’s providing security for Mr McGregor,’ said Abbott, sweeping back his own shirt to expose the butt of his Glock and gratified to see the guy’s eyes widen a little in response. Just a touch.

McGregor chuckled. ‘Fucking hell, this is like bringing your bird to meet your parents.’

‘Excuse me,’ the voice was small and came from the guy sitting on the banquette. He had stood up. ‘I’m sorry, but I think I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Sit down, your room’ll be ready soon,’ barked one of the guys from the card table.

McGregor stared at him, waited until he’d regained his seat and then said to the barman, ‘Tell you what, I’ll leave that beer as long as that’s all right with you, Mr Flyte?’

It was. It was more than all right with Abbott, who had been wondering how a refusal might play; indeed, had been wondering whether he wanted to refuse at all, and besides, guilt could take a day off as this was duty, not addiction.

‘Where’s Sweaty?’ asked McGregor. ‘Is he in the cellar?’

Sweaty.

Abbott felt his jaw clench, breathing through his nose as the barman nodded. McGregor and Abbott moved off, through a door at one side of the bar and down stone steps into the cellar.

Here, the walls were bare brick, dark and damp.

Here, too, was Sweaty.