But alive. Arms and legs intact. No bit of him purloined for an edible meat product. Let’s be thankful for that, at least.

He was on the move, lying across the back seat of a large vehicle, probably a Range Rover, travelling at speed. For some moments, he lay still, not wanting to reveal to whoever was up front that he’d re-entered the land of the living. Opening one eye, he was able to get a visual on his surroundings. Surreptitiously, he moved his arm to check, and sure enough, his gun was gone, ditto his Gerber.

As for his company, he could make out a driver in the front seat, and from the back of his head knew that it was McGregor. The passenger seat was empty, which came as a surprise. As far as he could tell, it was just him and McGregor in the car. He considered overpowering McGregor but on the other hand maybe not. Instead, he made a play of groaning, as though he were just waking up. ‘Abbott,’ said McGregor from the front seat, and Abbott, having become so accustomed to being called Flyte in recent days, experienced a moment of disconnection.

‘McGregor,’ he replied, deliberately overplaying his grogginess. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

‘Well, for a start, pal, you’re not dead and this is neither heaven nor hell even though I’m here. Mr Doyle sends his regards, by the way.’

‘Right. Great. So how come I’m not dead?’

‘Doyle just wanted to give you a scare, that’s all. Fact is, you’re a protected species. We’ve been given orders from on high that you’re not to be harmed. Not only that, but somebody wants to meet you.’

‘Who? Kilgore? Juliet?’

McGregor’s eyes flicked in the rear-view. ‘Oh aye. You’ve heard about her, have you?’

‘Name’s come up.’

‘Doyle, eh? Blabbermouth.’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘Figures. Fuckin’ pisshead. Tell you what, you’ll find out everything you need to know in due course. In the meantime . . .’ McGregor tossed a phone handset over his shoulder that Abbott caught. It was his own phone. ‘Doyle was hoping you might give him a call. There’s a matter he’d like to discuss.’

Abbott pulled himself to a sitting position, did as he was asked and dialled Doyle.

‘Abbott,’ said Doyle.

‘You wanted to speak to me.’

‘Too right.’ Doyle’s voice was loud and at a pitch that upset Abbott’s poor, throbbing head even more. ‘I’ll accept your apologies for what you done, shall I?’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Abbott, feeling behind his ear and wincing. What had hit him? A cosh, probably.

‘Good,’ said Doyle. ‘We’ll put any unpleasantness in the past, eh? Fact of the matter is, we’re on the same side at the end of the day.’