The jury would never see the autopsy pictures.

They should be thankful for that small mercy, Michael thought.

The details would have haunted them. The sight of Martin Galloway alone – his body beaten so badly that every bone in his torso was either fractured or crushed entirely; his hands removed; his knees shattered; his skull caved in from one side – was horrifying. The injuries inflicted on his brother Mark Galloway were worse still.

According to the prosecution it was Mark Galloway who had ‘disrespected’ Darren O’Driscoll’s uncle. If true, the man had more than paid for his ‘crime’. Suffering the same treatment as his brother, the second Galloway had received much more attention after death. The machetes that had been used on both men had focused on Mark Galloway once the twins had breathed their last. His head, arms and legs were all removed, before his broken body was torn apart through sheer ferocity.

It brought to mind nothing less than a medieval execution. An execution that Michael’s mind refused to connect with the nervous, unusual young man ahead of him.

‘Tell me about him, Simon. Tell me about Darren.’

‘What do you want to know?’ Kash did not look up as he spoke. The words were mumbled into his chest.

‘Everything,’ Michael replied. ‘But for now, do you think he was capable of what happened to the Galloways?’

‘Nothing to do with Darren.’

Kash’s answer was quiet. Inaudible, almost. And as short as he could make it. It was a pattern that had developed over the past thirty minutes.

‘I didn’t ask if he did it. I asked if he was capable of it. If he can be this violent.’

No answer. No eye contact. Kash’s gaze did not leave the floor.

Michael pushed his seat back and exhaled heavily. He lifted his hands to his head and ran his fingers through his thick blonde hair.

The sound of Michael’s chair scraping the floor as it moved backwards made Kash jump. It did not make him speak.

‘Look around you, Simon.’ Michael gestured around the room as he tried again.

A small, rickety table and three plastic chairs filled it to capacity. It was hot and dirty. The walls were covered in laminated rules that governed a prisoner’s life.

‘This is your future, son. If you’re not careful you’re going to be stuck in rooms like this for the next twenty-five years. At least. This isn’t a game, Simon. You either help us on this – help us to help you – or you’ll be in here until you’re fifty.’

Kash looked up, his eyes following Michael’s gesture. It took a few moments for the words to sink in.

‘I didn’t do it.’ The words were soft when Kash finally spoke. Like a schoolboy disputing a punishment. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

‘We know that, Simon.’ Andrew Ross cut in. His voice was more sympathetic than Michael’s. ‘That’s why we’re here. That’s why Mr Devlin’s here—’

‘But we can’t do it without you,’ Michael interrupted. He needed Kash to understand. ‘We can’t just make this stuff up. We need you to be honest with us. If you give us the weapons then we’ll go to war for you. But if you hide things from us – if you keep quiet to protect Darren O’Driscoll – then we’re fighting a losing battle.’