As Morris left with Abbott’s beloved Glock nine, they made their way past the meat-grinding machine and into the main office. There the office was packed. Four men, all of whom stood with their hands clasped, the butts of their sidearms visible. All of them regarding Abbott with open hostility.

And here’s you without your gun.

Doyle was there, too, of course. Except that instead of being behind his desk smoking, he stood to one side while in the throne was his wife, Cynthia Doyle. She wore a scowl and Abbott wondered if he should read anything into that. Then again, from his limited experience of Mrs Cynthia Doyle, the scowl was her default expression. Knowing her husband’s proclivities, you could hardly blame her.

‘Flyte, good to see you,’ said Doyle, taking charge. He sounded a little drunk. Not as bad as the other night but getting there. There were pistols on the desk, too. A pair of his ’n’ hers Rugers.

‘Good to see you, too,’ said Abbott.

‘Mac tells me that you’re at the Travelodge, staying in the late Mr Abbott’s room. Is that right?’ said Doyle.

Abbott nodded.

‘He also tells me that you weren’t there when he called to see if you could come out to play.’

‘Like I told him just now, I went for a walk.’

‘See, that’s funny, that is,’ said Doyle, ‘because earlier tonight, maybe even the exact time that you were out for your walk, somebody paid a visit to The Freemasons Arms and shot my man Sweaty in the face.’

‘Jesus,’ said Abbott, trying to calibrate his response into something approaching surprised but not too surprised. Not overacting surprise. ‘Who are you fingering for it? Dissatisfied customer?’

‘Well, no,’ said Doyle, ‘because no customer of Sweaty’s would dare.’

‘Vengeful father, maybe?’

Doyle’s eyes hardened. ‘Same applies. We don’t have many of them in the picture, to be honest, mate. But I’m thinking that being as you’re new to the crew, and that you can’t quite explain your whereabouts, then the person I’m looking for might be stood right here in front of me.’

‘No, mate,’ said Abbott carefully.

‘I ain’t your mate. I’m Mr Doyle to you.’ His men shifted. Cynthia Doyle’s jaw moved, and Abbott realised she was chewing gum.

‘I’m working here as a favour,’ Abbott told Doyle.

‘You ain’t doing no one a favour being here, believe you me. And it don’t matter why you’re working here, you still call me Mr Doyle.’

His men bristled. Their eyes darted. Abbott tried to cool the situation. ‘I apologise, Mr Doyle.’

‘That’s better.’ Doyle seemed to soften a little. ‘Thing is, Mr Flyte, one thing I hate is being taken for a mug. You wouldn’t be taking me for a mug, would you?’