Initially there was no sound from inside Shankhill’s premises. Pugh was about to knock again when he heard what sounded like a rustle of newspaper on the other side of the door. He knew what that would be: Turk, that great slab of meat and bone that Shankhill called a minder, getting irritably up from his stool, rolling up whichever of the daily rags he’d been reading – probably something with lots of tits, bums and suspenders – shoving it into his jacket pocket, and …

‘Yeah, who is it?’ came Turk’s voice through the wood.

It was a curious accent. Pugh couldn’t place it. He’d always assumed from the guy’s nickname, and because of his swarthy complexion and short tangle of oily black hair, that he’d originated in the Middle East somewhere. Not that it was important. All that really mattered where Turk was concerned was that he was six-foot four at least, and that he worked out daily, and/or did lots of steroids, which had built him a herculean physique. Reputedly, he liked nothing better than to imprint his many sovereign rings on the bodies and faces of those his employer took issue with.

‘It’s Malcom Pugh. I need to see Roy.’

A snicker of laughter sounded on the other side. ‘You never get tired of it, do you?’

‘I’m not here for a loan … I want to pay him back.’

‘Yeah?’ Turk sounded amused, as though this had to be a scam and he wasn’t buying it.

‘Seriously. Come on, Turk … Roy’s expecting me.’

There were two resounding clanks as, first, a top bolt was drawn back, and then a lower bolt. The door started to open, and Pugh put his foot on the step only to be struck from behind as somebody barrelled into his back.

It threw him forward into the door, which bounced inward with tremendous force, impacting massively on the guy behind it. There was a crump of splintering wood and a garbled grunt from Turk, and Pugh – who was too stunned to know what was happening – was grabbed by the back collar of his anorak, a gloved hand slapped across his mouth, and forced inside.

The immediate interior was a narrow space at the foot of a steep, dank stairway. A single grimy fanlight only weakly illuminated its wet brick walls and the stool to one side. Turk lay sprawled backward on the foot of the stairs, the lower half of his face spattered crimson from a smashed nose. Pugh, meanwhile, had his legs kicked from under him, pitching him down onto his knees, as two burly bodies crammed into the tiny space behind him, moving with catlike stealth. The door closed with a thud, but its top bolt was shoved back into place as quickly and quietly as possible.