‘Come on, James. How did you know all that?’

‘I told you Jack, I know what I’m about. Sorry about my mood earlier on.’

‘No problem, James. But why don’t I believe you?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s not what I mean and you know it.’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting I just took a flier and got lucky?’

‘You, James. Never!’

The first week of the trial of Her Majesty’s Advocate against Charles Gallagher had come to an end.

Chapter Seven

Bob Taylor was liked and respected by every officer who had ever worked under him. He was trusted by his superiors and the members of the Procurator Fiscal service. While his approach to his work, and indeed life in general, might seem easygoing, he was a conscientious detective who would work at a case until he was satisfied he had all the right answers.

If a case was going nowhere, he would tell his team to ‘guddle around a bit and see what comes up’. The team members knew that they were being told to go right back to the beginning and check everything in intimate detail. The notion that a case might not be solved was something he would never countenance.

‘A crime is like a crossword puzzle. Every answer is connected to another. Solve one clue and you get help with the next. Every puzzle can be completed: it just takes time and patience. The harder it is, the greater the satisfaction. Anyway, it’s good to lock the bastards up just when they think they’ve got away with it.’

The main reason for his popularity was that he was intensely loyal to his men. He demanded 100 per cent effort. Success belonged to the team. But if someone made a mistake, the team would accept responsibility. He did not believe in public admonitions, let alone bollickings. A telling-off would be delivered in private and invariably left the recipient feeling humbled and embarrassed rather than chastised.

When a young officer had contrived to lose an important document in a case, he had been asked to see the DI. When he returned, his equally young colleagues had gleefully examined the front of his trousers to see if there were any bloodstains where his balls had been cut off. There was no evidence of trauma.

‘He told me I had been very careless and would have to do better if I wanted to get on in the job. I had let everyone down but myself most of all. Then he said he wasn’t angry with me, just very disappointed in me.’

The old heads nodded sagely. Typical Taylor. A boot up the arse would have been painful but quickly forgotten. Instead, the young cop had been made to feel six inches tall, clearly didn’t like it, and certainly would not forget it. He would learn. He would do better.