Names sometimes emerged during an investigation, often coined because they had no idea who was at the centre of it all. Perhaps there was no single boss of the operation, and the Sandman was merely their creation.

Ellie came back in, breaking McNab’s train of thought.

‘Harry wants to get clean. Get his life back. He’s got skills. The army should help get him into work again. They owe him that at least,’ she said in a determined manner.

They did and they ought to, but judging by what was about to blow up in their faces, McNab didn’t think saving an ex-soldier and drug addict would be high on their list of priorities. More likely as much of this as was possible would be swept under the carpet, with MOD law prevailing and no leakage to the press.

‘We’ll get him help,’ McNab heard himself say. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

The look Ellie gave him was worth the grief such an offer would bring.

‘When do you finish here?’ McNab said, his mind already on what might come after.

‘Six,’ she said.

‘I have a job to do now, but what if we ditch the bikes after work and I’ll meet you at the Rock Cafe for a drink and some food?’

She made a face. ‘Yes to meeting up, but could we eat somewhere else?’

‘What about Italian?’ McNab suggested.

‘Better.’ Her face lit up in a smile.

Having settled things with Ellie, McNab now turned his attention to the second and arguably less pleasant job he’d been given by the boss.

Since his sharp exchange in the Isles bar with the ladies’ favourite, Jamie McColl, the idea that Private Galbraith had died somewhere other than the mountain had been growing.

At the time, he’d come out with it just to be thrawn, but ever since then, the suspicion that it might not have been a fall that had massacred the soldier’s face hadn’t gone away. One unrecognizable victim was possible; two, who were more than likely linked, McNab didn’t buy.

And neither did Rhona.

Parking the bike as close to the morgue as possible, McNab steeled himself to enter. A post-mortem could take up to five hours, during which time many smells, none of them pleasant, were known to accumulate. And a mask, as far as McNab was concerned, offered little protection from the stench.

He did hope, however, that arriving late might mean he’d missed most of the messy bits.

The viewing room was vacant, and glancing through the glass, McNab established they were indeed nearing the end of the proceedings. There was no sign of Dr Sissons, who’d apparently departed, leaving his second-in-command to finish up.

That suited McNab fine. Entering, he raised a friendly eyebrow to the SOCOs in attendance and winked at the mortuary assistant, whom he recognized. The blue eyes of Dr Walker acknowledged his arrival.