‘Thank you, Mr Muirhead. Very helpful,’ he mused. ‘So something is going on and you believe it’s connected to this little matter. Stomp off if you like. We’ll talk again – soon I suspect.’

Muirhead walked straight into the retiring room, changed out of his court dress in silence and left the building.

Morton and Anderson watched him go. They were used to his moods and knew there were times in a case when he could be totally uncommunicative. Normally, however, they could hazard some guess at the reason. They exchanged quizzical glances. Nothing in the morning’s evidence should have produced this reaction.

‘What’s that all about?’

‘Don’t know, Jack. Something or someone has clearly rattled our leader’s cage. He’ll be fine by two o’clock. Probably just being his usual grumpy self. Maybe didn’t get his leg over last night.’

‘Maybe.’

‘He’ll be fine. You know how he is. Gets worked up about something. Stomps off. Calms down. Back to normal.’

Muirhead would not have agreed. He strode across Glasgow Green. He was trying to light his pipe as he walked and meeting with no success. This only served to increase his anger. When he reached one of the bridges over the river he aimed a kick at the parapet. The pain which shot up his leg snapped him out of his fury. He paused and looked down to the Clyde. ‘What the hell is going on?’, he murmured to himself. The question was addressed at the flowing water – it sullenly failed to respond.

Although he could become completely wrapped up in his day’s work and could be oblivious to whatever else was going on round about him, he was not normally discourteous – at least not intentionally. He was angry that McAllister knew about the incident with the car. He was angry that McAllister rightly suspected that something was going on. He was angry at himself for lending credence by over-reacting. He was angry at himself for being angry. And yet he was troubled. The phone call, the vandalising of the car and now the wheel. Normally he did not believe in coincidence either, so who was he kidding and more to the point, why? Maybe he should get the police involved. But the last thing he wanted was Strathclyde’s finest tramping in and out of his life when he was involved in a complicated case like this. There was really nothing concrete to tell them. No one could influence the way he conducted a trial. But he was becoming agitated by it all. Maybe that was someone’s idea. But why? And who?

He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to two. Time to get back. Get a grip of yourself, you silly arse. Work to be done.

He turned round and bumped into a passer-by.

‘Sorry!’, Muirhead exclaimed.

‘No problem, pal.’

As he walked back to court he snorted, ‘Another guy with an Irish accent!’