His intention was to see Winters out of surgery and then leave. Get cleaned up and go back to Glasgow. He had no wish to meet Cleverly in the interim, whatever good words Winters had had to say about him.

As for the posh fucker . . .

That particular pet hate would have to wait a little longer to be satisfied. This time it would be done by the book.

Before he left, McNab took Winters’s hand and, leaning close, said, ‘Thanks for everything, mate. I’ll buy you a pint next time we meet.’

McNab rose to go, then halted as Winters’s eyes flickered open for a second. Taking heart from that, he nodded. ‘See you later, mate.’

Firash appeared slightly agitated on McNab’s return to the waiting room.

‘What’s up?’

‘There’s a couple of cops in reception, one in plain clothes.’

‘Okay, we find an alternative route out,’ McNab said.

They followed the sign for the hospital cafe, then exited and doubled back for their vehicle.

‘What now?’ Firash said as he pulled away.

‘I catch the train north.’ McNab couldn’t believe how happy he was to say that.

Sometime later, cleaned up and, most importantly, fed, McNab pocketed the rest of the cash from selling Mark’s stuff and yet another mobile, and proceeded to say his goodbyes.

They were all lined up: Abu-Zar, the older man who’d welcomed him into the fold; counter guy, who turned out to be called Bahnam, which according to Firash meant ‘an honourable man’; Harim, the bulge of the gun still visible.

And Firash, looking bereft.

McNab thanked them all and promised to be back, although he still wasn’t sure if they fully understood his Glasgow accent.

Back in the vehicle and on his way to Euston Station, he told Firash to remember to get in touch with Nurse Jenny. ‘That way you can find out how Winters is doing, and let me know.’

The small smile that played on Firash’s lips suggested that was perhaps already in hand.

‘If the posh fucker is still here in London, I promise you we will find him.’

‘When you do, remember, he’s all mine,’ McNab said.

They shook hands at the entrance to the station and Firash wished him well in his own language – at least, that’s what McNab translated it as. He also told him there was a very good Afghan restaurant on Bridge Street in Glasgow. He should go there in honour of their friendship.

McNab promised that he would.

Picking up his ticket, he headed for the sleeper train. He’d spoken to the boss already and had told him roughly what had happened, promising the full story when he got back. In return, DI Wilson had informed him that Nadia Kowalski and Ava Clouston were due to arrive in Glasgow within the next twenty-four hours.

‘You found the girl, then?’ McNab had said, relieved.