A warning shout followed him beyond the drapes, down a corridor towards a door. McNab reached it before his pursuer caught up. He flung it open, stepped inside and shut it behind him, just as a shoulder slammed it.

A tall figure rose from behind a desk. ‘DS McNab? I wondered when you’d decide to come through.’

Counter guy, in now, fired something unintelligible at the man, and was duly ordered out in English together with a request for more coffee. ‘My visitor looks like he needs one.’

He waved McNab to a seat and introduced himself.

‘Apologies for the wait. My Afghan friends take my security very seriously. They didn’t like the look of you.’ He paused. ‘You said Ava was in danger. Is that true?’

‘You weren’t answering her messages. She told me you might be here. She asked if I would check up on you,’ McNab told him.

‘So here I am. Alive and well. What about you?’ He gestured to McNab’s facial bruising, which matched his own.

‘A little argument at a bare-knuckle fight.’

Mark looked interested. ‘So they’re on offer in Glasgow too. Any names?’

McNab didn’t answer. If an exchange of information was expected, he wasn’t going to be the one to go first.

‘You told Ava to warn me about Cleverly. Why?’ he said instead.

Mark sat back in his chair. ‘The Met don’t want me investigating Go Wild. In fact, they’re trying to stop me. I suspect they’re doing the same with Police Scotland.’ He eyed McNab. ‘Am I right?’

McNab didn’t answer.

‘You’re planning to meet with the Met while you’re down here?’ he said.

When McNab still didn’t respond, Mark gave a little laugh. ‘The girl in Glasgow is not Olivia Newton Richardson. But hey, you knew that already.’

‘Who was she?’ McNab demanded.

‘My guess? A trafficked female supplied by Go Wild for one of their games.’

‘And the handbag?’

Mark shrugged. ‘You’re the detective, not me.’ Reading McNab’s expression, he added, ‘You’ve checked out Olivia’s flat? Any sign of the Met having been there?’ When McNab said nothing, he looked thoughtful again. ‘What did you remove for DNA sampling?’

McNab thought about the glasses and the Polish vodka display.

‘If someone wants you to believe the dead girl is Olivia, then you’ll get a match from the flat with your fire girl. If not . . .’

He gave a half-smile, before adding, ‘Even you, as a police officer, cannot imagine the kind of cover stories those in authority can cook up, even when you yourself know the real truth.’