My cellphone rang and saved me the indignity of completely falling apart in front of Paul. Not that it was a call I valued. It was time to front up at the station and answer the hard questions while they performed a post-mortem on my actions. I wondered who ‘they’ would be. The thought of DI Johns being on the panel turned my innards into a seething mass of worms again. Mind you, Smithy had said he’d have a word to higher powers. I prayed to God he had, and that Johns would be off my case and off my back.

Paul had offered me a lift down to the station and had been astute enough not to bother with idle chitchat along the way. Instead, my mind drifted to the strains of the Rolling Stones. I was relieved he had classic taste in music. His home town was Gore, home of Country and Western, but he didn’t subscribe to their favourites. Small mercies.

He pulled up outside the station and turned to me as I undid the seat belt. ‘All the best with the debrief. You’ll be fine, you’ve got nothing to worry about.’ That’s what everyone was telling me, but it was scant comfort. It was me, not them, who had to front up and bear the scrutiny. Another burden on an already crap day.

‘I hope you’re right. Hey, thanks for checking up on me, and thanks for the lift.’

Before I could move to get out of the car, he leaned over and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Tell it exactly like it happened, keep it simple and drop in key words like “public safety” and “risk”. And if you feel like going out later to drown your sorrows and need some company, give me a call.’ Tonight was the last thing on my mind, but I was touched by the sentiment.

‘I don’t know what I feel like at this stage, but thanks anyway.’

I got out of the car and heard him call out, ‘Look after yourself, Sam,’ before I closed the door and with stomach churning, turned to face the music.

‘Sam, can I have a word?’ It was Sergeant Watson, one of the Intelligence officers.

‘Yeah, sure, Bruce. What’s up?’

He’d caught me in the second-foor hallway, on my way to the interview room.

‘You know that fellow you asked us to check out from the circus, Zarvo Krunic? We’ve turned up something rather interesting.’ He opened the manila folder he was holding and rearranged the contents so there were two photographs side by side. The first one I recognised as the picture taken yesterday of a serious-looking Zarvo that Jeff Arnott had supplied me with. The second picture was of a grinning, olive-skinned man, European, curly brown hair, mid-thirties I’d guess and not too bad looking.