‘Who else was there that night? There were four of you. Bolton and Davies I know about. Who’s the mystery man?’

Locke’s eyes widened, just for a second, but there it was. Porter knew he had hit the nail on the head, and went to push home the advantage while Locke was off balance, an idea landing front and centre in his mind. He went with it before he had a chance to think it through fully, but it felt right.

‘Know what I think? I think you’ve had a police officer on your payroll for quite some time. I think there’s no way you could have stayed one step ahead for as long as you have without a little birdie whispering in your ear every time we were looking in your direction.’

Locke’s expression shifted, losing some of its defiance, and Porter finally started to feel pieces slotting into place.

‘When did Anderson first start working for you? How did you twist his arm? Was he just after extra cash, or did you actually have something on him?’

Locke coughed again, but this one turned into a smile, despite the obvious pain. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself, Detective? You might be meeting him again sooner than you think.’

Porter saw Locke looking past him, and turned a fraction too late. The blow caught him just behind the ear, and he crumpled to the floor, back rebounding off the nearest cupboard door. Black spots danced in front of him, and he managed to plant a palm to halt his fall. The left side of his head burnt like it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper. He pushed sideways with both feet, unsure if whoever had hit him was coming in with a follow-up shot. None came, though, and he looked up, blinking to clear his vision.

Superintendent George Campbell stood over him, staring at the gun in his own hand like he wasn’t sure how it had gotten there. Porter stared into the barrel. Shit! It was the one from next door. Why had he not picked it up, moved it at the very least?

‘Impeccable timing, George,’ said Locke. ‘Let’s crack on, then, shall we? I’ve got a doctor waiting to patch me up.’

Campbell looked confused. ‘Crack on? How the hell do we crack on from here? I need to think this through. Need to—’

‘George!’ Locke’s voice was like a cracked whip. ‘You need to step up. I need you to put a bullet in your man here, and get me the hell out of here.’

‘That wasn’t what we agreed. You said if I got you to whoever is going to stitch you up, then we’re done: I’m free and clear.’