Done. He bent, retrieving the spent cartridge case from the ground. Then tucked his calling card up under Warren’s coat collar. Where it wouldn’t be found by anyone searching the corpse for valuables. Let the forensics crew find it in a few hours. Not even Martin knew about the card, Mickey’s own little secret. Him and Nemesis, of course. An untraceable rectangle of white cardboard. Letters and a symbol traced on using a kid’s plastic template bought in a toy shop. A message to one very special man.

He stood, walking quickly but quietly back up the alley. Unscrewed the suppressor and dropped it back into the thick-walled ziplock bag in his pocket. Along with the spent round. Then the pistol. Gloves peeled off, balled up and into the same bag. Balaclava pulled off and tucked in on top. He closed the seal tightly, then refastened the pocket.

At the alley’s end he turned left, adopting a brisk pace. Just a man on his way to the pub, walking with purpose. But no urgency, nothing to catch the eye. Rejoining the High Road two hundred yards further up at a steady pace. Restraining his eagerness to get to his alibi. They were waiting for him in the pub, of course. Pints half-empty while his sat untouched. Calling at him to ‘come on, you lightweight, have some of this!’ as he crossed the saloon bar towards the gents’. He grimaced, miming urination. Waving away their jibes that yeah, he’d better make some room.

The toilet was empty, its single cubicle’s door yawning wide. Mickey grabbed a handful of paper towels. Ducked into the lavatory and bolted the door. Opened the thin top window and passed the ziplock out to Martin. Who took it and was gone. Pulled a small spray bottle from another pocket, aiming the nozzle at his coat. Disinfectant, a brisk squirt and rub. Paper towels went into the pan stained light brown, gunshot residue from his sleeve. Scrubbing and dumping fresh towels into the water until they came away clean.

He flushed, dipping the rest of the wad in the water and rinsing off the cleaner’s scent. Sniffed the arm and nodded. Good enough. He’d shot fifty rounds of qualification that afternoon, so any residual trace could be put down to that. He flushed again, waited to be sure the paper was gone.

Opened the door and examined himself carefully in the mirror. No blood specks on his skin or clothing. No obvious trace of having used the gun. Nothing to indicate he’d just shot a man point-blank in the face. And then stared back into his victim’s bloodshot eyes without a hint of remorse. Turned to the door, bracing himself for abuse.

‘Here he is!’ Deano held his pint up for inspection, theirs all empty. ‘Get this fucker down you and get back to the bar, tight arse!’