‘He’s fine. Why are you so interested?’

‘Well, because he’s a friend, I suppose, but mainly because a really weird thing happened. I had a quick drink with him last Friday night and the following day two blokes, who said they were coppers, called at my flat and told me he had been found dead.’

‘Fuck off they did.’

‘No, seriously. I found out later that they weren’t coppers and obviously he hasn’t been murdered but it just feels strange being told that just before he goes off-grid.’

‘I wouldn’t worry yourself, mate. This sounds like typical Brendan nonsense. He’s obviously upset someone, which he has a knack of doing, and they want a word. They were hoping you would speak to Brendan and in doing so would be delivering a message veiled with the threat of violent retribution. I bet he owes them money or fucked up some job or other. Listen, you don’t need to worry about Brendan. He’s as tricky as they come. He can look after himself just fine. I’ll tell him about what you’ve told me when he rings.’

‘So has he been in touch with you?’

‘Yeah, every day he phones in to update me on the case I’ve got him working on. He’s doing a good job.’

McCoy fiddled with his phone and then showed me the screen. It was a photo of Brendan holding up a pair of socks to his face. The socks were covered in various eye motifs. The message underneath read: ‘Bought these for you cos I know you love a wink LOL’. The message had been sent yesterday at 4:57pm.

‘So have you got a phone number for him?’

‘Yes, I have, but I’m not giving it to you without his permission. Like I say, forget about him and concentrate on your lawyering. Now, that’s your five minutes up. Anything else?’

‘So, is it a real gun?’

‘It’s whatever you want it to be, Gary. Now go on, fuck off.’

I left the office finally convinced that Brendan was alive and kicking. McCoy was right: I should forget about Brendan and get on with my life. Just as I was enjoying that thought, a red BMW pulled up outside the office and parked itself half on the pavement. Out jumped the bald man I had seen at Emily’s estate. He had a bunch of foolscap files under his arm. His shirt was tight and covered in patches of sweat, and he walked right past me without looking my way. In his slipstream, I caught the waft of what can only be described as processed meat. I felt a pang of worry on behalf of Emily. This bloke definitely had the air of a debt collector about him.