Even so, the blonde beauty at the other side of the table was now regarding him with a doubtful expression. ‘She just upped and walked?’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think it would last, either. But it has.’

‘Except that now she’s fallen on hard times?’

‘Well … I wouldn’t say hard times as such. But maybe her life isn’t all it could be.’

‘And you want to do the right thing by her … by dragging her back into this one?’

McCracken regarded her thoughtfully. Charlie was by no means dumb.

‘That’s actually a good point,’ he said. He signalled to a waiter for the bill. ‘That’s a very good point indeed.’

It was late evening now and around them the restaurant was gradually emptying.

Redwood’s was part of Crowley Old Hall, a Tudor manor house and Grade I listed building on the border between Crowley and Salford. It had gone to ruin until ten years ago, when its transformation into a cordon bleu restaurant had brought the whole site back to life.

Even here in the dining room, it epitomised olde-worlde charm, with its low, gnarly beams, its dark oil portraits and its suits of Cromwellian armour standing sentry-like along the walls. But it was going on for 9.30 now, and, this being a Tuesday, most of the tables were being draped with fresh linen and arranged with cutlery and accoutrements for the lunchtime crowd tomorrow. It was time to go.

‘Well, Frankie,’ Charlie said, as they strolled arm in arm into the car park. ‘You’ve really shown a girl a good time tonight.’

‘You enjoyed the meal, didn’t you?’

‘The meal was great. The revelations … not so much.’

McCracken couldn’t disagree with that. Sometimes, passing fancies could prove expensive for all concerned. They crossed the tarmac to where Mick Shallicker leaned against the Bentley playing on his iPad, McCracken so lost in these thoughts that he didn’t notice the shadowy form lurking in the shrubbery on the car park’s right edge.

‘Hey, Frank!’ it called, stepping out behind them.

Everything then happened in a rush. McCracken heard the voice but was distracted by the sight of Shallicker snapping upright and dashing towards them, reaching under his jacket. He spun around, seeing a figure he recognised: moustached, with mussed grey hair over a sweat-damp face, its Burberry trenchcoat flapping open on a crumpled shirt and loosely knotted tie.

Then he realised that the figure was pointing a pistol at him, and firing.