Traffic! He hated being stuck in traffic. He had been forced to sit in a queue of vehicles crawling out of the City. Normally he would have carved his way through such an obstruction regardless of the effect upon or the reaction of other drivers. On this occasion he had been a good boy and crawled along with the mugs. No point in attracting the attention of some nosy traffic cop who might delay him even longer. He had built some slack into his timings, so he had gritted his teeth and got on with it, however much it irritated him.

With a virtually clear road ahead, he relaxed and smiled to himself. He would get down to Stranraer and dump this heap of junk in a carpark, paying the appropriate fee so it would not attract attention until he was gone past caring.

He would then have a beer in one of the pubs near the terminal along with dozens of others waiting for the boat. Then he would be off. Simple as that.

The road took him past Kilmarnock and round the outskirts of Ayr and on down the coast. Only one small problem remained. Beyond Turnberry he came to the town of Girvan. He turned off the main road and parked. Leaving the car, he strolled along the harbour wall. His hand was in his jacket pocket gripping the handle of his pistol. He paused, looked around him and, when satisfied he could not be observed, pulled out the gun.

‘Time for you and I to part company, my old friend.’

He stroked the handle and almost caressed the cold metal. Its feel was very familiar, almost comforting. McGarry was not a man given to sentimentality but he was almost saddened by the prospect of parting with the gun. It had served him well over many years. It had faithfully carried out his wishes and, more to the point, had never let him down. It had saved his life on more than one occasion.

He looked at the gun, the water, then back to the gun.

‘No. You deserve better. Anyway, I might just need you. However, you I don’t need.’

He threw two spent cartridge cases into the water.

He returned to the car. In the side-door pocket was a duster. He wrapped the gun in the cloth and placed it in his suit carry.

‘Right. Stranraer and home.’

McAllister leaned forward to pick up the mike but was beaten to the punch when the radio crackled into life.

‘Target has just entered the terminal. Target has just entered the terminal. Wearing dark calf-length raincoat – belted at waist. No hat. Brown leather suit carry.’

‘Keep him under observation. When he goes to get on the boat, take him down. No unnecessary risks – but take him down.’