McAllister reflected for a moment. It was seriously bad practice to meet someone in circumstances such as those requested without some form of back-up. On the other hand, this was a potentially significant development. It was something he could not ignore and he had little doubt that the terms of the contract were not open for negotiation.

‘Well?’

‘Where and when?’

‘You will come alone.’

A statement.

‘I will come alone. As you would say, no games.’

‘Good. Tomorrow night. The car park at the Exhibition Centre. 11.30. I’ll be driving a red N-registered Volkswagen Golf. It’ll be up to you to find me.’

‘I will.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Goodnight, Superintendent.’

McAllister was relieved that the proposed meeting place was not in the back of beyond. At least he would not be totally isolated. On the other hand, he suspected he was not likely to be in any real danger. Nonetheless, he found himself excited at the prospect of the events which lay ahead. The prospect of getting McGarry was highly pleasing. The prospect of what he might be told was intriguing.

‘Well, Mr McGarry, perhaps you and I will get the chance to have a bit of a chat – at long last. Enjoy your night – the good guys are coming to get you, I hope.’

A head appeared round his door.

‘You said something, Boss?’

‘Just wishing someone a good night.’

‘Eh?’

‘Forget it. It’s this vin ordinaire going to my head.’

‘What kind of a van?’

‘I said forget it!’

Chapter Eleven

Muirhead was a solitary creature. He seldom socialised with his colleagues. He had many acquaintances but very few friends. Social niceties bored him, polite conversation irritated him, enforced gaiety annoyed him. Normally, he was perfectly at ease with his own company. And yet? And yet he was gripped by a wholly unfamiliar sensation. He felt alone. No, he felt lonely.

This case was getting to him as no other he had ever experienced. He had been threatened. His family had been threatened. He had had a gun pointed at his head. He had fallen out with his solicitor. He was fighting a running battle with the prosecutor, the judge and even his client. If he had given the wrong advice, Charlie Gallagher could go down for murder – a murder he may not have committed.

He thought of Gallagher in his cell. Solitary. Isolated. What thoughts were going through his mind? He would have to sit in the dock, his future entrusted to a man he hardly knew and fifteen strangers who owed him nothing. Fear and uncertainty eating in to him. Powerless. Impotent.