‘Someone was watching the house that evening. It was a last-minute decision, apparently,’ Mullan said. ‘But they saw someone going into the cop’s house and not coming back out again.’

Tony swallowed, glanced at the doorway. It was about six feet to his right, but limping as he was, he’d hardly be through it when the unnamed man would be on him, if he even got that far.

‘Who was it?’

‘You’ll know soon enough,’ Mullan said. ‘Finish your drink and follow me.’

Tony struggled to pour himself a drink, his hand shaking so much the neck of the bottle rang on the edge of the glass several times before he managed to quarter fill the glass. He put down the bottle and, holding the glass two-handed, drained it.

His legs shook as he walked, his hands balled into fists in an attempt to control the shuddering which vibrated along his arms. As he passed the unnamed man, he tensed, refusing to look the man in the eye. All the way to the far door, he expected a bullet to strike him, flinching at the sound of Duggan’s chair scraping on the floor as the man stood.

Mullan continued walking, leading him down a corridor to the door at the end which opened onto a small metal staircase. ‘Down there,’ Mullan said. ‘Someone will be down for you in a while. Help yourself to a drink. We’ll sort Betty out for it later.’

Tony picked his way down the steps, his footsteps echoing metallically off the cellar walls. Crates of empty bottles were piled to one side, while on the other wall, he could make out boxes of spirits, their labels barely readable in the penumbra of the light thrown from a single bulb in the centre of the room.

Amongst the shadows, against the far wall, sat Karen.

‘Are you OK?’ he said, moving over towards her.

She shifted slightly away from him and, at first, he thought she was still angry with him, but then he saw her face. A vertical line of blood had dried along one side of her face, from the cut above her eyebrow to the curve of her jaw.

‘Did he fucking hit you?’ Tony said. ‘I swear to God, I’ll…’ He did not know what to say, knew how absurd such threats were in the situation and so allowed the sentence to die into silence. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked again, finally.

Karen sniffed, wiped at her eyes with her hand, the end of her jumper sleeve balled like a tissue in her fist. ‘I’m all right. He only hit me once.’

‘He hit you?’ Tony spat.

She nodded. ‘What about you?’

Tony blushed a little. ‘Yeah, a few times. He had a bat with nails in it. I think he punctured my calf muscle with it.’

‘Jesus. Are you OK?’