‘I have and I think I am fucked off with your bullshitting. When our mutual friend is safely out of harm’s way on a long-term basis, call me and then I will settle your bill. OK? Did you hear me? Answer me damn it!’

‘You just fucked up. The deal’s off, but the debt is still due. I’ll settle it my way. I’ll be in touch. You’ll know when.’

‘Look, there’s no need for that. Just be patient. I’ve no intention of cheating you. Why should I?...You still there?’

The phone was dead.

Grant McAllister was awaiting Bob Taylor’s arrival. It was Sunday afternoon and the squad room beyond his office was reasonably quiet with only two or three officers on the phone or reading reports. McAllister stared at the notepad in front of him. The page was blank. Never before had he been so troubled by a case. Too many unexplained and apparently unrelated events. But were they truly unrelated? And why was he uncomfortable every time he thought of Gallagher in the dock?

He had no doubt that someone was trying to get at James Muirhead. The answers to the questions who and why eluded him for the time being. Matters were not helped by the fact that the arrogant sod would not co-operate. Indeed, he was being intentionally obstructive. If he wanted to play silly buggers, maybe he should just let him get on with it. Unfortunately, the bogey wheels of this prosecution were beginning to work their way loose and were threatening to fall off. McAllister needed to know who had the spanner.

Two witnesses had been the subject of interference. To have someone like Barbara Potter being threatened was, unfortunately, not unusual. She was weak, vulnerable and had become caught up in events which were way out of her league. One of the biggest problems facing the police was the pressure put on witnesses by accused persons and their cohorts. But Sammy McPhee, this was quite different. It was certainly not normal for witnesses to be got at by police officers. He was determined to find out who was responsible for this, and when he did he would make it his personal business to retire them from the force, permanently.

It troubled him deeply that the police had been unable to find any trace of Tam McGarry, Kevin Boyle’s minder. Why had he not been with his boss when he was shot? Why had he apparently disappeared immediately after the shooting? McAllister did not believe in coincidences, and certainly not of this magnitude.