And he didn’t finish because Abbott pushed the suppressor of the Glock into his mouth.

‘Very carefully go back down the steps,’ whispered Abbott. ‘Don’t make a sound, don’t make any sudden movements.’

Sweaty, his eyes wide, his lips trembling around a mouthful of Hobnob and Glock suppressor, inched carefully back down the steps as Abbott climbed inside the hatch and into the cellar, closing the door behind him. Reaching the stone floor now, Abbott positioned Sweaty back on his chair, swinging it around to face into the room. Behind Sweaty the monitors were on, disgusting images only serving to feed Abbott’s anger.

‘I’m going to take the gun out of your mouth. If you talk louder than a whisper, I’ll kill you. Do I make myself clear?’ Sweaty nodded. ‘Good.’ Abbott slowly withdrew the suppressor from Sweaty’s mouth. With disgust he noted the biscuit crumbs that clung to it.

Sweaty gathered himself. Beady eyes fixed on Abbott, who watched him carefully. Abbott’s eyes flicked to the monitors and their catalogue of torture, and then back to Sweaty’s face.

‘You’re not really Flyte, are you?’ said Sweaty after a moment or so. He was keeping his cool. His voice was low. ‘You’re him. You’re Abbott.’

Abbott nodded.

‘You killed Jason?’

Abbott shook his head. ‘Flyte killed him. I didn’t come here to kill him, same as I’m not here to kill you.’ Sweaty relaxed a little. ‘As long as you tell me what I want to know. Answers. That’s all I want.’

Sweaty nodded, jowly flesh wobbling.

‘You know who I am. Do you remember my brother, Chris?’

Again, Sweaty nodded.

‘What did you want with him that day? And before you answer, don’t you dare insult my intelligence.’

‘What if it’s the truth?’ said Sweaty, a stammer in his voice.

Abbott’s reply came in the form of a bullet that he put in Sweaty’s desk chair, right between his legs, making the fat man jump. The PVC split. Foam bulged from within.

‘OK, OK . . .’ said Sweaty quickly, less cool now. ‘You’ve made your point.’

‘Keep your voice down. Was it for that?’ Abbott indicated the screens. ‘Were you taking him for that?’

Sweaty’s mouth worked. His face shone.

‘Answer me,’ said Abbott.

‘Yes,’ said Sweaty. ‘Something like that, yes. But look, not for us. Me and Jay, we were just drones, man. Fucking worker bees.’

‘Working for Doyle?’

‘Yeah. Doyle. That’s right.’

‘He into that himself, is he? Abusing kids?’

Sweaty nodded.

‘Kids like my brother?’

Sweaty shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what his tastes are.’

‘You would have put Chris to work somewhere like this? Put him on the payroll?’

‘Yeah. Or . . .’

‘Or what?’

‘Or maybe he would have gone down south.’

‘South where?’

‘London.’

‘London? For who?’