In the darkness of the alley, McNab had barely registered the face. Now he studied it in more detail. Purple shrapnel scars and burn scars pitted Private McArthur’s left cheek, neck and chest. No doubt the explosion had fucked with his hearing too. Probably left him with headaches. Being hit in the head by flying shrapnel, McNab had been informed, was like having a knitting needle stabbed into your eardrum. Agonizing, unbearable and long-lasting.

The black echo.

No wonder the poor bastard had looked for a way out of that pain. And heroin, ‘the joy plant’, had been his saviour.

Registering that someone was in the room, the eyes flickered cautiously open. McNab watched as first confusion then fear flooded them.

‘You got stabbed,’ McNab said as though this was news. ‘Your attacker aimed for the kidneys. You’re lucky he missed.’ He paused. ‘I found you in the alley behind the Rock Cafe and called an ambulance.’

The bewildered look at this part of the story suggested he was perplexed as to why McNab had bothered, then a light bloomed in his eyes.

‘You’re a fucking cop.’

‘Detective Sergeant Michael McNab. Pleased to meet you, Private H. McArthur.’ McNab dangled the metal tag he’d recovered at the scene. ‘H for Harry, like Prince Harry, that other famous soldier.’

The guy’s face suddenly creased up and for a brief and uncomfortable moment McNab thought he would break down and weep. How he might proceed with a sobbing ex-soldier, McNab had no idea. That, he thought, was where DS Clark would have come in useful.

However, the tears did not materialize. Prince Harry instead tried to pull himself up in the bed, which was an obviously painful experience.

‘Better not to do that,’ McNab offered. ‘I speak from experience, mate.’

‘When can I get out of here?’

‘That’s for the doctors to decide.’

He shot McNab a worried look. ‘Are you arresting me?’

‘For what? Getting stabbed in an alley?’

An idea seemed to come to him and he said, ‘I did it myself. Wanted it all over with.’

McNab assumed a thoughtful expression. ‘You did? What happened to the knife?’

By his lack of response, Harry hadn’t worked on that aspect of his story yet.

McNab carried on with his own version. ‘One Malcolm Stevenson, commonly known as Wee Malky, left the Rock Cafe by the fire escape that led to the alley where you were. I followed him.’

A glimmer of recognition and fear played on McArthur’s face before he shook his head. ‘I was out of it, didn’t see anyone.’

McNab nodded as though he understood his reticence.

‘Why’d you quit the army, Private?’

The question caught him off guard, so his answer, when it came, was close to the truth – as revealed by McNab’s recent enquiries.

‘They chucked me out.’ He pointed to his scarred face. ‘Not pretty enough for their recruitment videos.’