Styles came to a halt by the sink, and Porter saw him look down at his feet. He adjusted his grip on Campbell, and leant backwards to get a better view. Locke sat upright, back against the cupboard door beneath the sink. His eyes were blank, mouth drooping at the corners as if he’d had a stroke. Porter saw the fresh splash of red on his shirt like a carnation in bloom, and knew instantly where the stray bullet had ended up.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, opting to just close his eyes for a second in relief that he hadn’t been on the end of it. He looked down at Campbell again, no longer a threat. Just a pitiful man who had sold his soul years ago. Porter rolled off him and sat with his back to the wall, facing Locke.

‘You OK, boss?’ asked Styles.

Porter shook his head. ‘I’m pretty fucking far from OK. I’m alive, though. That’ll have to do for now.’ He didn’t trust himself to stand up straight away, feeling his hands trembling as the adrenaline rush of the last minute exited stage right. Instead he sat fixed in a staring contest with Alexander Locke, wondering how close Campbell had come to squeezing the last ounce of pressure. Too close.

MARY – APRIL 1983

She is careful. She waits until she hears the snick of the latch closing before she swings her legs out of bed. She hopes she’s wrong, partly because she hasn’t the faintest idea what she’ll do if she’s right. Confront him? What if he isn’t alone? What if she is there, whoever she is? Mary hopes she doesn’t exist. Hopes that it’s just work. She doesn’t ask too many questions about what he does. Learnt to take a healthy disinterest years ago, but the late-night calls set her insecurities scurrying in all directions like an Andrex puppy with loo roll in tow.

She grabs her silk robe from the back of the door. Alexander brought it back from a business trip to Hong Kong. Not one she would have picked for herself. It’s too bright, too garish for her. Crimson, splashed with ash-white flowers she takes for azaleas. But she wears it for him. To keep him happy. Story of her life.