Anderson’s nerve almost failed him, but he continued. ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

Bolton shook his head slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching with half a smile. He looked to Locke. The older man shrugged, folding his arms. Bolton turned to Patchett now, a flick of his head towards Anderson.

Patchett was on his feet now, moving towards Anderson. The detective stepped in to meet him. He might have left his physical prime back in the mists of time that were the nineties, but some things were automatic, hardwired, and he moved with a speed that surprised even him, powered by adrenaline with a healthy dose of fear. Patchett aimed a punch at his head. Anderson slapped it off course with his right hand, reaching his left underneath and around to fasten on Patchett’s wrist. Patchett paused for a beat, taken aback at the failure to land his blow. Anderson saw his chance and took it, driving a stiff jab with his now free right hand, connecting with Patchett’s nose. Cartilage popped as the nose flattened unceremoniously against the cheek. Anderson was no Floyd Mayweather, but with his considerable weight behind it, the impact was still jarring.

He had no plan as such, so when Patchett stumbled backwards and toppled towards the wall, he felt a moment of elation. Arresting Bolton was the one hope he had. His line to his colleagues would be that he suspected they had a leak based on the fictitious claim of Mike Gibson as the inside man. He’d say he took it upon himself to infiltrate Locke’s organisation, not knowing who in the force he could trust. He would pin his hopes on Bolton being old-school and keeping his mouth shut on everything, including him, and deal with whatever retribution Locke might try to mete out at a later stage.

He knew it was weak, but it was his only play. Deny, deny and deny again. Everything he’d received was in cash, untraceable, and that was under a board in his mother’s attic. Ride out the storm, and maybe, just maybe, he could walk away from this.

A shout came from the hallway, Stenner’s voice bellowing a warning.

‘Coppers outside. Head for the back. Go, go, go.’ Short, to the point.