Mark flicked a glance at his solicitor and she gave a slight nod. He turned back to Clare. ‘He wanted someone shot.’ Then he sat back, as though relieved to have told them. ‘He wanted me to shoot someone. Kill them.’

‘What did you say?’

‘What you’d expect. Said I wasn’t a killer. Wasn’t my kind of thing. I’d find a way to get the money.’ He picked up the cup and drank again. Then he said, ‘But that wasn’t an option.’

‘What do you think he meant by that?’ Clare asked.

He met her eye. ‘He said I had two bonny wee boys. The pair of them. Said he’d seen them playing in the garden. Kicking a ball around and playing on the trampoline. Described them. Even knew their names.’ His voice was husky now and he cleared his throat. ‘Said it’d be an awful shame if something happened.’

Clare said, ‘Just to be clear, Mark, this man who asked you to shoot someone dead implied, if you didn’t agree, something might happen to your children? Is that correct?’

Mark’s hand went to his face and he rubbed his cheek. He blinked a couple of times then said, ‘Aye.’ He sounded hoarse now and the solicitor was looking at him.

‘Are you okay to continue, Mr Mooney?’ she said.

‘Aye, a’m fine. Better to get it done.’

Clare smiled. ‘Thank you. I can see this isn’t easy.’

Mark nodded and Clare went on.

‘What happened next?’

‘The guy on the phone, said he’d get me a job for a week at a posh house in the country. He’d lay on the weapon, show me where to hide myself. Said he’d make sure the lad went up to the treetop walk on the Saturday morning. He’d be a sitting duck. All I had to do was to wait. Even said he’d put some other poor sod in the frame for it. Someb’dy with previous he’d make sure was in the town on the Saturday morning.’

Clare glanced at Chris. Zac. It had to be. That message telling him to wait for a package that never arrived. He’d been telling the truth all along. Whoever had planned this had left nothing to chance. But who was behind it? ‘Go on, Mark.’

‘So, I said what had the lad done? Why did he want him shot? And he tells me some tale about the lad being ill. Cancer. Said it was one of his oldest friends. Didn’t want him suffering. So they’d give him a great party: booze, girls, the works. And in the morning he’d make sure he was up on the walkway. Spin him some yarn about the best place in Scotland to see the sun come up. He said, who wouldn’t want to go that way?’

‘What did you think about that?’ Clare said.