‘Jesus,’ mutters McAvoy.

‘He’ll do it too,’ says Kincaid. ‘“Hit him where it hurts the most. Nothing matters to Teague more than family”.’

McAvoy rolls his thoughts around, trying to think like a police officer. ‘You have him,’ he says, at last. ‘You’ve got him in custody.’

Kincaid nods. ‘Partly for his own protection. He can’t do what Aeron wants because he’s on suicide watch. And he can’t get a message to his kin. If it weren’t for his bellyaching about his police officer son-in-law – his blood over the water – we wouldn’t have had to institute a TTL. I’m not saying we were in two minds, because that would suggest we’re proper bastards, but suffice to say there were some dissenting voices. An operation like this, it’s easy to fuck it up. Thankfully, as I say, you’ve got friends.’

McAvoy rubs his forehead, smearing blood on his brow as if anointing himself for violence. ‘So he’s here. You know where he is. Where Fin is …’

Kincaid holds up his hands, palms towards the heavens. ‘I think I’ve given you quite a lot, matey. Time for something in return.’

‘No,’ says McAvoy, shaking his head. ‘You don’t barter with my boy’s life. Tell me what you know.’

‘He’s here,’ says Kincaid, slowly, considering his options. ‘Mobile phone traced to this locality.’ He looks around him. ‘Could well be to this actual building, if I’ve got my bearings. It was my bright idea to check the satellite tower against your address. That led the boss to book his flight, and me to make the rather daft suggestion that I come too.’

‘But where is he now?’ asks McAvoy, urgently. ‘Where’s he taken him?’ His thoughts smack against the inside of his skull like drumsticks on a timpani. He has so many questions, but none of the answers matter save for the whereabouts of his boy.

‘I wish I had the answers,’ says Kincaid, and seems to mean it. ‘He came over on a fishing boat, we know that much. Stole a vehicle from a dock in North Wales. Changed cars and rang home not far off Sheffield. Spent a night on a houseboat on the Ouse at Goole. Then this place. Couple of nights at least. Time to find himself a bolthole – somewhere he could take his time.’

McAvoy stares at Kincaid, the last of the colour draining from his face. ‘Take his time with my son?’

Kincaid has the sense to look ashamed of himself. ‘He knows you’re a police officer. Can’t be sure what you will do. He might have demands he wants you to meet but nothing about him suggests that to be true. I think he’ll use him as leverage. Maybe get you to do some of the dirty work for him. Maybe drive him in to the Teague compound and let him open fire. I don’t know. But he’s a psychopath and a murderer, sergeant. And I’m sorry this warning came too late …’