Cynthia Doyle looked across at her husband, who looked at her. She shook her head. Doyle nodded in acknowledgement, as though making up his mind. ‘Mr Flyte, do us a favour and put a bullet in Marky here.’

Marky began to wail, struggling against the two guards who stood with their hands on each shoulder preventing him from rising. ‘In here?’ said Abbott.

‘Why not? Here and now,’ said Doyle.

‘Look, I’m sure you’ve made your point,’ said Abbott. ‘Can you really imagine Marky killing Sweaty?’

‘Well, at the moment he’s the most likely culprit, isn’t he?’

‘Come on, it only happened a couple of hours ago. It’s far too early to say. Have you found out whether there was anybody round at The Freemasons kicking off? Somebody with a grudge?’

But Doyle was no longer listening. His attention went to McGregor. ‘A couple of hours ago? Did you tell our friend Mr Flyte here that it happened a couple of hours ago?’

McGregor shook his head slowly. ‘No, boss, I can’t say that I did.’

Doyle turned back to Abbott. ‘How would you know that, Mr Flyte?’

‘Well, that’s when I was out walking. And if we’re back to saying that I’m the trigger man then I refer you to my previous answer.’

‘Because you’re a loyal and trustworthy employee, aren’t you?’

‘If you like.’

‘Then do what you’re being paid to do as my enforcer and enforce. Put a bullet in this man.’

Abbott drew his sidearm.

‘Good man,’ said Doyle.

Abbott put it back to the back of Marky’s head.

‘Wait,’ said Doyle, ‘have you got a silencer for that thing?’

‘They call it a suppressor, boss,’ said McGregor, ‘and yes, he has. I saw it at Scutter’s pad.’

‘Because it’s another funny thing that nobody heard the gunshot. Sweaty was killed in the cellar. I reckon if you fired a gun in that cellar then the whole pub would hear. Unless, of course, it was fitted with a silencer. Or a suppressor.’

‘What’s the point of all this?’ snarled Abbott. ‘You seem convinced it’s me.’

‘I will be if you don’t put a bullet in Marky.’

The odds were bad, he knew. He could maybe take out two guys before the rest drew their guns, and if that happened, then he was a dead man. Mission failure.

‘I’m not gonna do it here,’ he said, trying to buy himself some time.

‘Why’s that, then?’

‘Well, there’s the mess for one thing.’

Doyle raised his chin. ‘Yes, there was apparently quite a mess when somebody put one in Sweaty. Perhaps that’s what you’re thinking of.’