Flint read his expression and did not like what he saw.

‘I have faith in you. Do not prove it ill-judged.’

He winced. These were not words of encouragement so much as an implied threat of retribution should he fail.

Raven knew immediately this would be a far different prospect to digging a bullet from a shallow wound in Henry’s leg, but one didn’t say that to a man like Flint. He thought about protesting his relative lack of experience in the management of gunshot wounds but quickly changed his mind. It would be better to display a supreme confidence in his own abilities in order to forestall any suggestion of incompetence should the worst happen. To that end, he decided it best to inspect the wound, even if only to confirm his suspicions.

Raven took in the room, with its one tiny window giving onto the back court.

‘Can we move him to where there is better light?’

Flint muttered something to Gargantua and withdrew. He returned momentarily with another of his men, the squat individual Raven thought of as Toad. Between them he and Gargantua lifted the bed with the Weasel on it, while Flint led them across the close to an apartment on the other side. A mother was escorting her children out of the way, clearly told to vacate so that Flint could commandeer her home. Her table was moved, and the bed placed down in its stead before a wide, south-facing window.

The Weasel whimpered as Raven approached, recognising him now that there was enough light.

Words of reassurance came to Raven’s mind, but they would not pass his throat.

‘Help me move him,’ Raven said, addressing the giant. When the man seemed reluctant to assist, he explained: ‘I need to look for a second wound, to ascertain whether the bullet has passed through.’

Raven knew it was academic whether the bullet remained inside the Weasel’s abdomen or not, but he felt obliged to provide a convincing performance. It was important to give the impression that he knew what he was about. His own life might very well depend on it.

Gargantua, with an unexpected gentleness, turned the whimpering man onto his side. The image transported Raven back to that alley off the Canongate. There, it had been he who was helpless, gripped in those massive hands while the Weasel looked on, ready to wield a blade. It ought to have felt like a fitting reversal, but as the movement caused the man to cry out Raven felt guilty about inflicting this unnecessary pain.

Suddenly there was no history between them: he was only a doctor dealing with an injured patient.

‘The ball has not passed through,’ he said, indicating that Gargantua should release his hold on the patient.

‘Can you get it out?’ Flint asked.

Raven sighed. He knew it would make no difference if he did.

‘Let me have a look.’