‘…you are now under arrest.’

Suspicion and elation disappeared leaving only the hatred.

McAllister kept his face impassive and his voice flat.

‘I am now going to prefer a charge against you.’

He intoned the words of the caution: ‘The charge is that you did, on this day, in Stranraer, have in your possession a firearm and ammunition without being in possession of a firearms certificate contrary to the Firearms Act of 1968. Do you understand the charge?’

McGarry’s eyes spoke volumes but his lips did not move.

‘Do you have any reply to the charge?’

Only the eyes spoke.

‘Very well, you will now be taken to Glasgow.’

McAllister climbed out of the back of the van, then turned back.

‘You will speak to me – soon.’

McGarry raised his hands and formed his fingers into the shape of a gun. He spat on the floor.

‘Get him to Stewart Street!’

As he walked away, McAllister smiled.

‘So I’ve rattled your cage. And with a bit of luck, I’ve only just started.’

It was six o’clock in the morning. McAllister could contain himself no longer. He had arrived in Glasgow shortly after midnight and confirmed that McGarry was securely locked up. He had permitted himself a glance at the man in his cell. McGarry had had his clothes taken from him and was clad in a white paper overall. He was lying facing the wall. He could detect not even the slightest movement. However, McAllister had no doubt that the man’s senses were functioning on full alert. McGarry was aware someone was there and knew exactly who it was.

He stared again at the police file on his desk. He now knew all that the records could tell him about Thomas Joseph Aloysius McGarry, but there were too many unanswered questions. Far too many!

Still nothing from ballistics. He glared at the phone. He needed a favour, and how! Even at six o’clock in the morning. Especially at six in the morning.

A sleepy, ‘Hello’, answered his call.

‘Bill, I’m sorry to trouble you, it’s Grant McAllister.’

‘Grant…what time…for God’s sake it’s six o’clock in the morning…it’s the middle of the night. I take it this is not a social call?’

As he spoke, his voice was becoming more alert. Bill Scott was the second most senior official in the Procurator Fiscal’s Department in Glasgow. The two men had known each other for many years, indeed since their careers began. Bill Scott was as straight as they came.

‘Bill, I need a favour...a big favour.’

‘You’re not in trouble, are you, Grant?’

‘No, not at all. This is business, not personal.’

‘I’m awake now. Go on.’

‘You may want to get yourself a cup of coffee. This is going to take some time.’

‘Business first. Then coffee.’

McAllister set out the detailed background while the fiscal listened in silence.