‘Christ what a bloody whitewash,’ muttered Matthews. ‘That old fool put his precious nephew out of the house at the time the bloody thing was being committed. Timing not coinciding, my arse.’

‘Don’t tell me he’s getting to you,’ volunteered his junior, none too helpfully.

‘That will be the day.’

Matthews shot her a filthy look. It did not seem to upset the recipient one whit.

‘In this case, much has gone on behind the scenes. You have had only a flavour of it. It is clear that various factions want Charlie Gallagher to be convicted. Their reasons – we know not. Kevin Boyle was a man with many enemies. Someone wanted him dead and was prepared to go to great lengths to secure that aim.

‘He was coldly gunned down on the streets of Glasgow. Of course such things are deeply offensive and should not happen. Such an act cries out for justice. Justice, not vengeance.

‘The Crown has singularly failed to prove the guilt of the young man in the dock. Moreover it would be a disservice to Kevin Boyle to convict the wrong man of his murder. It would be an injustice to convict Charles Gallagher. Do justice to the living and to the dead. That is all I ask.’

Total silence accompanied James Muirhead as he returned slowly and deliberately to his seat. As he took it, a hundred pairs of lungs exhaled.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, on Monday morning I will charge you then you will retire to consider your verdict. Do not begin to make up your minds until you have heard what I have to say. Regard this as a weekend off and come back refreshed. Ten o’clock please.’

As Lord Cowden was leaving the bench Muirhead stared at Donald Anderson who had taken a fit of the giggles.

‘What’s amusing you? I could do with a laugh.’

‘Only an Edinburgh judge could tell a Glasgow jury to come back refreshed!’

Muirhead smiled wryly. Day ten had come to an end.

Chapter Thirteen

The watchers were growing increasingly bored with watching and waiting. They had been in Stranraer since Friday and it was now Sunday. Police officers are accustomed to waiting in the knowledge that it may bear no fruit, but patience was beginning to wear thin. In their various stations, the talk among them was that this operation was a bummer. Only the Boss seemed to believe the target would arrive and he had told no one the basis for this opinion. A diet of lukewarm Coke and plastic hamburgers was making stomachs rumble.

Privately, even McAllister was beginning to have his doubts. Not that he would admit it, let alone show it. The disappearance of the 14.00 hours ferry into the distance had made it difficult for him to continue to exude an air of confidence, especially one he no longer felt. He snatched up the microphone.