‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I was wondering when you might turn up.’

‘A young policeman I know burned his hands when we collared Bob the Butcher,’ I said. ‘A brave young lad called Billy Greene. He was going to spend his sick leave in Las Vegas. Champagne cocktails by the pool in Caesar’s, chorus girls, all that.’

‘Very nice,’ Monk said.

‘But guess what? They wouldn’t let him in. Sent Billy straight back to Gatwick. Because the Americans fingerprint everyone at the border now. And they couldn’t get any prints off him.’

Monk held up his hands, a mocking gesture of surrender. And for the first time I saw that the reason we could never find any prints at the crime scenes was because the flesh on his hands was as destroyed as the flesh on his face.

‘Remind me to steer clear of Las Vegas,’ he said.

‘So what was in it for you, Tom?’ I said. ‘Keeping your hand in? Spot of vigilante work? Never kicked the killing habit?’

He stopped smiling.

‘Justice,’ he said.

I tried to smile but my mouth merely twisted, and my heart began to hammer in my chest as I realised what was going to happen to me tonight.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s a joke. How can there be justice in a land where they let the bravest and the best sleep on the streets until they work up the nerve to top themselves?’

‘So you cut the throats of Hugo Buck and Adam Jones,’ I said. ‘Botched it with Piggy Philips, didn’t you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he’s going to be taking double games for a while, do you?’

‘But you missed out on Captain King, didn’t you? The Taliban beat you to it.’

Monk’s mask-like face clenched with sudden fury. ‘You’re just another stupid policeman. Captain King was a brave man. A warrior. One more lion led by yet more donkeys. Same story in this country for a hundred years.’ He leaned against the door and shook his head. ‘Captain Ned King was never on my list.’

‘What about Salman Khan?’ I said. ‘Was he still alive when that big house went up in flames? Or did you break in there, open up his throat and then torch the place?’

‘One of his kids had a motorbike,’ Monk said. ‘Have you ever heard of such a thing? A child with his own little motorbike? I served my country for ten years and all I’ve got is a second-hand bicycle.’

‘What outfit were you with in Afghanistan, Tom?’

‘I told you. The Royal Green Jackets.’

‘I don’t think so. You’re too handy with a knife. Too good at creeping around, unarmed combat and covering your tracks. I reckon you were with the Special Forces Support Group. Or maybe the SAS? Or the SBS?’

‘You calling me a liar?’

I nodded.