He ushered the DC to the far end of the corridor.

‘What is it?’

‘I thought you’d want to hear this, Boss. There’s a problem with the witness – the wino.’

‘McPhee,’ McAllister corrected.

‘Yes. Sorry, Boss.’

‘What’s going on in there?’

‘He’s claiming that he spent last night with some cops going over his statement. They told him to make sure he got it right.’

‘What the fuck! Who?’

‘And they gave him a suit to wear, would you believe?’

After the momentary loss of control, McAllister’s voice ran cold.

‘Who did the asking?’

‘Muirhead.’

‘Has McPhee named them?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You mean he’s not finished?’

‘No. I suspect he’s got something more up his sleeve.’

‘Get back in there.’

In theory, persons waiting to give evidence are not supposed to know what is actually happening in court. True, they may glean snippets from newspapers, radio and television. But, so far as possible, their evidence should be their evidence, untainted by the testimony of other witnesses. However, in the real world, police officers, especially senior officers, do not care for being caught cold. They prefer to have as much advance notice as possible of lines of attack which may be adopted by the defence. To this end, lines of communication between the court and the witness room are usually set up, and kept open.

McAllister paced up and down the corridor. His normally wellordered mind was now in a complete turmoil. None of his squad would dare do such a stupid thing. If they did, they would know that if they were found out, they would end up on permanent points duty for the rest of their careers, if they were lucky. So, who? And more to the point, why? And if Muirhead did indeed have something else up his sleeve, what was it? He almost dreaded to think how much worse things could become. Time to do something. He strode purposefully to the telephone.

He issued some terse instructions and turned away to find himself once again confronted by his DC.

The look on his face ought to have told him the next question was going to prove superfluous.

‘Don’t tell me, it just got worse?’

‘Shit, Boss, and how!’

Sammy had been answering questions about the area where he had found the Mad Dog’s mortal remains. None of these had caused him any difficulty and he had gained in confidence sufficiently to convince himself he had weathered the storm. After the initial hostility his interrogator had been the model of civility. He had to be nearing the end of the road. He was nearly there.

‘Finally, Mr McPhee, you went to an identification parade, did you not?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just two weeks after the events you have been telling us about?’

‘Yes.’

‘And on that parade there was a total of six people?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘As opposed to one man sitting in the dock flanked by two police officers?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’