‘I think I should pull him in,’ said William, ‘and spell out the consequences.’

‘Agreed,’ said The Hawk. ‘But if you’re going to stop him doing something he’ll later regret, you’ll have to find him first. And if he does manage to kill Roach, we’ll have an even bigger problem on our hands.’

‘Namely?’

‘He’ll come back to work in a few days’ time and tell you he’s been in mourning or looking after his daughter, but now he wants to get on with the job of putting Faulkner back behind bars. But all he’ll really have on his mind is how he’s going to kill him.’

CHAPTER 23

THE TRAMP WALKED SLOWLY DOWN the road pushing an ancient pram, a cigarette butt drooping from the corner of his mouth. He wore an old army greatcoat that almost touched the ground, along with four combat medals – the only parts of his disguise that were genuine – suggesting he was a veteran of some long-forgotten war. His dark hair was matted and stuck out from under a woollen hat that looked as if it had been a tea cosy in an earlier life. His face was unshaven and you could smell him from several feet away. He clocked the varying reactions he received from those who passed him in the street: sympathy, usually women; disgust, tattooed youths; and some even handed him a pound coin to relieve their guilt.

He approached a pub out of which was blasting ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction’. Don’t worry, he promised those inside, it will only be a matter of time.

As he passed the pub, he kept an eye on the two bouncers who’d been posted on the door to make sure no uninvited guests intruded on the birthday boy’s celebration. He’d arrested one of them several years ago, but the man didn’t give the old git a second look as he shuffled past. If he’d glanced into the pram, all he would have seen was a torn packet of cornflakes, a dented tin box that had once contained ‘Edinburgh’s finest shortbread biscuits’, an empty Kleenex box and a Marlboro packet with one cigarette butt sticking out. A couple of threadbare blankets that Oxfam would have rejected were stuffed into one corner.

When he reached a set of traffic lights, he pressed the button and waited for the little green man to appear before crossing the road. He kept up his slow pace until he came to a crossroads: the demarcation line that unofficially marked the boundary dividing the two empires controlled by the Roaches and the Abbotts. Two aggressive-looking youths were patrolling the pavement on the far side, their sole purpose to ensure a Roach didn’t stray onto the Abbotts’ territory. The tramp stopped and asked one of them for a light.

‘Bugger off, you stupid old fart,’ was the immediate response. So he did. He kept on walking until he reached an unlit alley that even the most passionate young lovers would have avoided, and the police didn’t venture down on their own after dark.