He came to a decision. ‘Time to go, my son!’

It was not in his nature to sneak anywhere, but while the girl made the coffee he dressed and tiptoed down the stairs, then opened and closed the door behind him with all the practised skill of the housebreaker he had been in his younger days. To his relief, the dark metallic blue 3-series M3 BMW was parked directly outside the house. He pointed the key fob at it and three rapid beeps emanated from the car. Only when he was cosseted in the leather driver’s seat and had started the 320-bhp engine did he feel he could begin to relax. Looking around, he recognised the street in which he was parked and realised that he was only about half a mile from home.

Kevin caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror and began to laugh.

‘Get a grip of yourself, you tosser. This tart’s got you in some fucking state. Fuck it, I’m getting this sorted out.’ His sense of anxiety was replaced by more familiar anger. He would find out who this Mike was, and what the girl was up to, even if he had to knock the truth out of her. At least that would make him feel better.

He switched off the ignition and put his hand on the door lever. Had he not been in such a state, he might have taken note of a light-coloured car parked down the street. He might have seen a figure leaving the car and converting a woollen hat into a Balaclava. He might have reacted to the gun which the man carried in his right hand. These oversights were the last ones he would ever make.

The only indication he had of approaching danger was the sound of breaking glass. An instant before two ninemillimetre bullets penetrated his brain, Kevin Boyle issued his last meditation on earth.

‘What the fuck…?’

Chapter Two

‘Morning Betty, cup of tea and two rolls and bacon please.’

‘Sorry son, the bacon’s all finished.’

‘Give me a couple of rolls and sausage, then.’

‘The sausage is all still froze, son, you’ll have to wait a wee while.’

‘Have you got any eggs, ones that are not still frozen?’

‘Oh aye, we’ve got plenty of eggs.’

‘Right, give me a cup of tea and two fried egg rolls, please.’

‘Sorry son, the rolls has no arrived yet.’

Grant McAllister was an outstandingly good detective, both in his own opinion and that of his police colleagues. Despite his failure to procure a breakfast, very little avoided his finely-tuned senses. He knew the instant he tasted it that the tepid liquid in the cup was tea. After all, that was what he had asked for. Mind you, if he had just been handed the stuff, far from drinking it, he would almost certainly have sent it to the forensic science laboratory for analysis.