What struck him most was the difference between the two players. Kenny wanted to win, no doubt about that. He was skilful. An artful dodger, whose every punch counted. As for the posh fucker, he had the look of a killer. He wasn’t here simply to win. He wanted to beat the wee guy into the ground. For him, this looked like a fight to the death. For a terrible moment, McNab wondered if it might be. There was enough blood spraying about the place to resemble a Friday night in A&E after a gang fight.

‘When is it over?’ he asked his new pal.

‘When one of them doesn’t get up again.’

The crack that put Kenny on the concrete sounded like a bone snapping. If Kenny had even considered trying to drag himself up, the posh fucker put an end to that when he made a move to stamp on his head.

McNab heard his own shout before he realized he’d uttered it.

‘Fuck’s sake. You’ll kill him.’

The voices dropped to nothing as McNab entered the ring to stand in front of a prostrate Kenny.

The steel-blue eyes were now fastened on McNab. ‘You have a problem with me finishing the fight?’

‘The fight’s finished,’ McNab said. ‘He went down. It’s over.’

‘Not until I say it is.’

McNab thought his reactions were fast, but they weren’t quick enough. As the fist came towards him, he dodged, but not quite in time. A roar went up from the crowd and he heard bets being thrown around, all of them on him to lose.

His brain suggested he declare himself a police officer, but he knew if he did it might make things worse. And who would find his dead body here in this warehouse?

So he swung back, getting a jab in at those blue eyes, before the man’s two minders grabbed his arms and let their boss finish him.

Another face swam in front of him, suggesting it was over and they had better leave.

The last thing McNab remembered was the lights going out as a mad scramble of male bodies stepped over and on him to get to the door.

24

They’d taken a break from dealing with the evidence from the Glasgow fire scene to compare notes, Chrissy being particularly keen to tell Rhona about the handbag.

‘It’s a Mayfair bag from Aspinal of London,’ she quoted, ‘and is hand-crafted from the finest deep shine black croc print Italian calf leather. It features two inner compartments separated by a central zipped pocket, secured with our enduring shield lock closure.’

Rhona studied the set of images, both outer and inner views of the aforementioned bag.

‘It does look the same,’ she admitted.

‘And it costs six hundred and fifty pounds,’ Chrissy finished triumphantly. ‘At that price they probably have records of the purchasers.’