He could rule out the Boyles. If anything, they would probably want Gallagher on the outside so they could get to him more easily. Kevin’s death was not something which could be avenged by the imposition of a term of imprisonment – however lengthy that might be. So, not the Boyles.

Some police officers might bend the rules and the evidence as they had tried to do with Sammy McPhee. It was not unheard of for policemen to be convinced of the identity of the perpetrator of a crime but find themselves frustrated by their inability to prove it. In such circumstances, a scrap of highly-incriminating evidence might unexpectedly be found in a pocket, a drawer, a motor car.

Before the advent of tape recorders in police stations, a myth was created that when a suspect was in custody, his dealings with the police were conducted in a monastic silence. Only when the individual was to be charged and cautioned that they did not need to say anything, did the suspect feel obliged to speak – usually in order to admit his guilt in a few carefully chosen words. Inevitably this brought the claim, ‘I’ve been fucking verballed up!’

Nowadays, interviews are recorded. People are encouraged to tell their side of the story and preferably to admit guilt. Yet there remains the temptation to insert an on-line admission when the machine is switched off.

OK, so the police might have massaged some evidence, might have leant on a witness or two, but they did not normally run around putting guns to lawyers’ heads. So, not the police.

‘So, who the hell is left? The Gallaghers?’, Muirhead muttered to himself. ‘They’d hardly want one of their own going down the bloody tubes. You’re missing something, James, and you’re talking to yourself. Bed for you!’

Muirhead went to rise from his chair but felt weighed down by a great weariness. This case was getting to him – badly. The threats had alarmed him. The behind-the-scenes activities gave him the feeling that he was not in control. The case was going well, yet there was every danger that it might blow up in his face.

He was tired – very tired. How much violence could you tolerate before you had had enough? To how much death could you remain insensitive? How many times could you bear the responsibility for a man’s liberty before the burden becomes too great? How many judges could you fight with, how many witnesses could you cross-examine, how many juries could you address before the supply of adrenaline finally dried up?

Would he go to court one day and say to himself: ‘I can’t do this any more.’? What if this happened during the present case? What if it happened tomorrow?

This spiral into a slough of depression was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.

‘Mr Muirhead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you recognise my voice? No names please.’

‘Yes.’