His escape route was in place. He had dyed his hair and his beard. He was well aware that the police were crawling over the City looking for him. Not that this was a cause for concern. He had spent his life outwitting smarter opponents than the Glasgow polis. He had a car garaged less than a hundred yards away, and had stolen it himself – a piece of Japanese crap which was indistinguishable from every other piece of Japanese crap. The tax disc had been skilfully altered to match the new number plate which in turn matched the number of a car which he knew to be owned by a newsagent in Paisley. Only a very thorough examination would disclose the forged disc and nothing in a Police National Computer check would suggest the car was stolen. When he was ready, he would drive to Stranraer. He had false identity documents. He would walk casually onto the ferry and then home. No problem – he had done it many times before.

And yet his normally supreme confidence was lacking its customary authority. Agitation was not a sensation with which he was overly familiar. But he was agitated and he did not care for it, one little bit. Yes, he was leaving Scotland, but he had no intention of running off with his tail between his legs. He intended to leave a message behind. A reminder. A lasting monument to his ruthless efficiency. This meant he had to take to the streets and therein lay danger. The police he could deal with but there were other eyes out there, eyes connected to mouths which were bought and paid for. For all the time he had spent in Glasgow, it was not his city. Friend and foe could be indistinguishable and were frequently one and the same. He had contempt for his failed paymaster but did not underestimate the perils of his situation. A cornered rat is at its most dangerous and is capable of the most irrational attack, and McGarry could sense danger. He could almost smell it. He had survived so far because of his ability to manoeuvre around any potential threat. Now this may not be possible. He would have to take risks. He had been treated with disrespect. Such a wrong could not be allowed to pass. It was a matter of professional pride.

He stroked the handle of the Browning pistol which lay on the seat at his side.

‘Time for you and me to have a bit of a chat – a rather one-sided chat.’

‘Staring at it won’t make it any better.’

‘At least we’d get ten out of ten for neatness.’

‘Thank you, Donald.’

‘You keep telling me to be positive.’

‘Positive, yes. Sarky, no!’

‘Ooooooooooh!’

‘Come on chaps. We’ve got a pretty document listing eight witnesses and apart from Tomzack, none of them is any bloody use.’

‘It’s got to be the mother for starters. Hasn’t it?’

‘What do you think, Jack?’