His offering had been as simple as Steph’s, if a little more up to date. Functional product at a reasonable price. Contactable only via the dark web. And all conducted with a high regard for safety and security. Both his own and that of his clients. Buying his replacement ammunition in small quantities from legal firearms holders.

As a result, he had flourished, quietly and without ever raising suspicion. Kept his council job, and never, ever, flashed the cash. No Audi, no Rolex, no drinks all round. Nothing to excite attention or jealousy. While Mickey’s career had pretty much plateaued at the dizzy height of skipper. Nothing wrong with being a sergeant, of course. It was still the rank that made the service work. But Mickey wasn’t ever likely to be an inspector. Too good at the nitty gritty of policing for one thing. And not impressed by the role management were forced to play. Stats, political correctness and the right “optics”. Neither, if he was honest with himself, could he be bothered with the study required.

Martin wasn’t about to give in on the subject without one last try. ‘You said wanted to do Warren. So we did Warren. And now…’

Mickey shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, mate. Warren just isn’t enough.’

The two men stared at each other for a moment before Martin sighed.

‘If you go after him, for Katie, then I’m in. You know I am. I’ve been in since we were thirteen and you spanked that arsehole who was nicking my sandwiches. But this is a whole different ballgame from putting a .22 into a dumb bastard like Warren Margetson. And there’s no way I can get that shooter again. The bloke who supplied it isn’t stupid enough to let the same weapon get used by the same punter twice.’

Mickey shrugged.

‘Obviously. Murder Squad would be all over it. Some twat would come up with a nickname. The .22 Terror. Before you know it there’d be half a dozen detectives on it, and it’d be a thing.’

Martin laughed darkly, shaking his head.

‘A thing? Fuck me, Mickey, it’ll be a fucking thing all right. We start trying to kill our way up this particular tree, it might be the last thing we ever do! And what about Roz? What about your mum and dad? What do you think happens to them if you get caught?’

‘I know. Trust me, I know. But…’

Martin got up and walked away down the length of his kitchen, leaning against the doorframe before speaking again.