There was no ring as such, just a concrete floor, turned a slippery red, and a single rope to keep the punters back. In opposite corners, the blond, who the lassie in the booth had referred to, was the taller, with a gym-built physique and a tan that definitely wasn’t out of a bottle. His opponent was smaller and wirier with a shaved head and a red beard. It only took a moment to work out who wasn’t from round these parts.

The bare-knuckle fight invite had promised high stakes and high winnings; only one of the two men he surmised may have paid for the privilege of taking part, and it wasn’t the Glasgow bloke.

McNab placed himself next to an old guy who, by his intense interest, had definitely placed a bet. McNab introduced himself as Micky and asked what the odds were.

The old guy shot him a look. ‘You’re too late, son, they’re about to start.’

‘Who are you rooting for then?’

‘Kenny Boy. The wee bloke with the beard. He’s about to smash that posh fucker’s face in.’

‘I take it Kenny’s local?’

‘Aye. The posh fucker’s from out of town. Been here before, I hear. Pays money to have his pretty face punched.’

McNab wasn’t as sure as his new friend about the outcome. To his eye, the posh fucker looked like a player.

‘Has he got a name?’

‘If he has, I don’t know it. Arrived in a limo with blacked-out windows and two minders.’

McNab was keen to ask who was running the show, but that, he realized, might be a step too far. The last thing he wanted was to be slung out on his ear before he found out what he wanted to know.

A bell was rung and the two men, stripped to the waist, moved towards one another. The only thing McNab knew about scrapping he’d learned as a teenager. After which he’d realized it was better to carry a knife as a first level of self-defence, even if he never actually used it.

He’d got good with a knife, trick-wise. Even shown off his prowess when he was a young recruit at the Police College. Until he was taken aside by the brass and given a severe warning about being in possession of an illegal weapon.

There were no weapons on display here apart from bloody knuckles. The posh fucker’s tan was already spotted, but he was giving as good as he got.

The noise in the room was deafening, the jeers and shouts of encouragement bouncing off the walls. By the expressions around him, there was a lot of money riding on the outcome.