‘Tall, about six feet. Quite thin. Fair hair. He was wearing dark clothing. Black bomber jacket perhaps.’

‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’

‘Yes. For sure.’

‘Do you see him here in court?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you point him out?’

Thomson turned immediately to the dock, raised his right arm and pronounced, ‘There. Charles Gallagher.’

There was considerable agitation in the public gallery. A number of jurors scribbled notes. Lord Cowden was ostentatiously marking his notebook with a red pencil. Muirhead tried to exude an air of outward calm.

‘How sure are you, Mr Thomson?’

‘As sure as I can be.’

‘Why?’

‘I went to school with him. I knew him. I recognised him.’

‘ “I knew him. I recognised him,” ’ repeated the Advocate Depute, slowly and deliberately.

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you very much.’

His Lordship adjourned for lunch and left the bench to a rising level of noise emanating from every corner of the court. There was much to discuss, for players and spectators alike.

Muirhead confined himself to a single pertinent question: ‘Why the hell didn’t I know that was coming?’

The blank looks on the faces of his solicitor and junior told him the question would prove to be rhetorical.

One person did not join in the chattering as the spectators walked down the stairs from the public gallery and into the street. Annie Boyle’s mind was racing.

She had stared at the back of the man who had killed her son. The man they said had killed her son. She tried to hate, tried to be angry, tried to feel – something.

She had studied Barclay Thomson while he gave his evidence. Watched his body language. Listened intently to his voice. Very convincing. None of this had given her any sense of satisfaction. She had come to the court seeking answers. Perhaps in search of some peace of mind. She had found neither. More questions – fewer answers. More agitation – less peace. This was wrong – very wrong.

Nothing could bring her son back. She had spent her life trying to protect her family. She had fought to persuade her husband that he should keep the boys out of the business. She had failed. She had tried to encourage her sons to be careful. To avoid making enemies. She had failed.

She had grown weary of the name ‘Boyle’ being spat out or whispered as if it was a word to be spoken only in hatred or fear. She had prayed for this to change. Her prayers had gone unanswered. She had failed and failed and failed again. She had always given Hugh his rightful place as head of the family. She knew she could not tie her children to her indefinitely. She had recognised and respected the fact that the boys were now men and must be allowed to take decisions for themselves and make their own mistakes. She had taken a back seat – but had sat on it for far too long. She knew she could not turn the clock back. But no longer was she prepared simply to be an observer. Never again would she allow her family’s name to be synonymous with dishonesty, wrongdoing, violence or terror. One Boyle at least would do what was right.