Only one event made him wobble – ever so slightly. A memo from the Assistant Chief Constable landed on his desk informing him of a strategy meeting for senior officers, on the very day he would be in Milan. Although he was scrupulously honest and had never bent, let alone broken a rule, McAllister realised he needed a reason to avoid this gathering. He seriously needed an excuse; he desperately needed a convincing lie. Illness? A family funeral? What if he was seen at the airport? Would he get away with the funeral being abroad? Worse still, what if he was spotted in the crowd by someone watching the game on television? Now he was being ridiculous. There would be eighty thousand people there and the cameras would be concentrating on the play, not the crowd, and almost certainly not on him. But if he was seen, would he be disciplined? His reputation for integrity would be destroyed. He might even be demoted. His income would be reduced. His pension affected. How would he explain it to his wife? This was verging on the ridiculous. He was actually in a mild panic.

‘Fucking bastards!’ McAllister did not normally swear. Not that he was a prude. He just found the use of foul language in general and the ‘F’ word in particular, to be unnecessary except in extremis. This time he was prepared to make an exception. The memo he was staring malevolently at had been signed by Assistant Chief Constable Alex Scott, who had retired a year previously. He had allowed himself to be taken in by a fake. But it was a bloody good fake.

‘Fucking bastards!’, he shouted into the squad room. This profanity from the boss caused a moment of stunned silence, followed swiftly by an outburst of hysterical laughter.

McAllister did not discover the author of the forgery, but strongly suspected Detective Inspector Bob Taylor, his second in command. Taylor had twenty eight years service, was looking forward to his retirement, cared not one whit that his boss was nine years his junior, and was a renowned practical joker. He was the only one who would risk such a thing. If he was found out, he was the only one who would get away with it, and wouldn’t care a damn if he didn’t.

A chair was drawn back and McAllister was aware of a figure sitting down opposite him.

‘Good morning, Bob.’

‘Well, that remains to be seen, boss. Do you want the good news or the bad news?’

McAllister was by now focused on his DI. If this was another prank he would be ready for it. He steepled his fingers under his chin in his typical, ‘I am now concentrating’ pose.

‘The good news is there’s been a murder.’

McAllister slammed his hands flat down on the table.