Abbott sighed. ‘Mr Doyle, you know what I do. You know I’m the best at what I do. If, for whatever reason, I wanted to kill Sweaty – and while we’re on the subject, why would I do that? – then I wouldn’t leave it so everything pointed to me.’

‘No, you wouldn’t, would you?’ agreed Doyle. ‘Not if you really were Owen Flyte. But if you were Alex Abbott, then that might be a different story, don’t you think?’

Abbott shrugged. ‘I fought the man. You didn’t. He was a pro.’

‘A pro who came here wanting to settle a score. Scutter’s dead. But maybe he decided to go on and do a bit more tidying up at the same time, eh? Maybe he found out that Sweaty was involved in trying to take his brother and decided to get a little payback?’

‘Look, Doyle, you’re barking up the wrong tree, that’s all I can say. McGregor will vouch for me. All my work has been in the interests of the business. Your business. You should be thanking me, not suspecting me.’

There was a knock at the office door and Morris appeared, carrying Abbott’s gun. He gave it to McGregor, whispering something to him at the same time, impossible to hear.

McGregor nodded. Morris left.

‘Gun’s fully loaded,’ said McGregor to Doyle.

Doyle nodded slowly. ‘Well, that’s something, then, isn’t it? Give it back to him. I’m sure he’s feeling only half-dressed without it.’

Abbott took his gun, testing the weight of it in his palm before tucking it into the back of his trousers.

‘Johnboy,’ said Doyle, speaking to one of the armed men who stood in the room, ‘bring Marky in, would you, mate?’

Moments later, two more guards manhandled Marky roughly into the room. ‘I haven’t done anything, boss, I swear,’ Marky was saying. ‘Nothing.’

Mrs Doyle spoke now, for the first time since Abbott had arrived. Her voice was high-pitched. ‘Only you’ve always been a bit squeamish about certain aspects of the business, haven’t you, Marky?’

‘I swear, Mrs Doyle.’

‘And you can’t seem to account for yourself.’

‘I was in bed.’ His voice rose. It had a panicked tone. ‘Please. You’ve got to believe me. I’ve got no reason to put a bullet in Sweaty.’

‘Wasn’t no secret that Sweaty treated the kids rough,’ said Mrs Doyle. Abbott looked into her eyes and saw no pity there. No pity at all.

‘I’ll be more strict with them from now on if that’s what you want,’ said Marky.

‘More professional,’ Cynthia Doyle corrected him.

Marky nodded furiously. ‘Yes, yes. That’s just it. I ain’t been strict enough with them. But that’ll change, I promise.’