I wait five minutes, then another five, to make sure he’s well gone. My hands are shaking – the cold is hitting me – and I make sure my gun’s pointing behind me, into the house. When I’m positive he’s not going to try coming back, I holster up and ring Steve.

He picks up fast. ‘You OK?’

‘I’m grand. Where are you?’

‘I’m only in the pub round the corner – what’s it called, the Something Inn. I thought just in case – I mean, I know you’re well able, but . . . Is he, like, still there? Or . . . ?’

He wants to know if I’ve got a corpse on my sitting-room floor. ‘He left. Can you come back here?’

‘Yeah,’ Steve says, too promptly – now the little spa thinks I want to cry on his shoulder. ‘Be there in five.’

He’s hurrying down the road in three, wind grabbing at his scarf. ‘Jesus, relax the kacks,’ I say, opening the door for him. ‘The gaff isn’t on fire.’

‘You OK?’

‘Like I already said. I’m grand. Did you leave your pint?’

‘I did, yeah. I thought—’

His hair is sticking out sideways, all orange and urgent. ‘You bleeding drama queen, you,’ I say. ‘Want a drink to make up for it?’

‘Sure. Thanks.’

I head into the kitchen and go for the booze cupboard. ‘Whiskey OK?’

‘Yeah, fine.’ Steve hangs in the doorway and has a good look around the room, to avoid looking at me. He says, to the kitchen window, ‘I saw him. His face, like.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Me too.’

Steve waits for me to say something else. I say, ‘Ice?’

‘Yeah. Please.’ He watches me set out glasses and pour – my hands are rock-steady again. ‘Did you . . . ? I mean, are you going to see him again?’

I pass him a glass. ‘I’m guessing no. I told him if I do, I’ll shoot him.’

The loud, startled snort that escapes Steve makes me realise how it sounds, and all of a sudden I’m laughing too. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Steve says, through a wave of laughter. ‘I don’t think that went the way he was planning.’

That makes me worse. ‘The poor fucker. I’d almost feel sorry for him, you know that?’

‘Seriously?’

‘No. I hope he shat himself.’ That leaves the pair of us helpless, leaning against walls. I wipe my eyes, knock back my whiskey and pour myself another. ‘Here,’ I say, holding out my hand for Steve’s glass. ‘You’ve earned it. I’d say you thought I wanted your help to dispose of a body, did you?’