Campbell’s arm sagged, gun bobbing gently until it pointed at his own feet. ‘She just ran out,’ he said, voice flat, eyes moistening. ‘I couldn’t stop in time … They just … She hit the other car so hard … I couldn’t …’

‘You?’ Porter gasped. ‘You killed her?’

‘I was trying to help her. Trying to warn her. It was my fault they were going after her in the first place.’ He looked over at Locke. ‘His thugs were already there. If only I’d kept my mouth shut, none of this would have happened.’ He was practically babbling now, getting it all out, relieving himself of the weight he’d carried for thirty years. ‘She was only trying to protect her dad. His business.’

‘Going after her? Who was going after her? Bolton?’

Campbell frowned. ‘Bolton? No, not Bolton. Oliver Davies and some other bloke. Woodley, I think they called him. Big bloke, used to do security at the poker games. Bolton didn’t turn up till later, at the woods. He sent Woodley off to sort my car out before we … before they … well … you know where they took her.’

Porter’s head throbbed. The idea that Bolton might be innocent, of this at least, made his head spin faster.

‘You stupid arse,’ Locke shouted. ‘He had nothing. Still has nothing! Nothing he can prove, anyway. We can both get clear of this, still, George. Just keep your fucking mouth shut and—’

He never finished the sentence. A shadow played on the door frame behind Campbell, a rustle of fabric. Porter instinctively angled his head a few degrees, trying to work out what it was. Styles was outside so surely it couldn’t be him. Whether Campbell heard it too, or whether he reacted to Porter’s movement, he half turned to look over his shoulder. Porter moved without thinking, pushing up, reaching for the hand that held the gun, grabbing his wrist, slamming it against the door frame.

The sound of the gunshot seemed to come at Porter from all sides, echoing in his ears even as he followed through with his charge. Campbell’s fingers opened, and the gun fell, hitting the edge of the bench, spinning to the floor with a clatter that barely registered. Porter folded Campbell’s wrist back on itself, one hand on his arm, forcing him down to the ground. Styles rushed in through the doorway. He must have doubled back, thought Porter. Thank God he did. Beneath him, Campbell had his eyes screwed tight, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, but the sound that came out was barely above a whimper.

‘Locke. Get Locke,’ said Porter, looking over his shoulder, but his view was obscured by the corner of the bench.