Bolton let Patchett lead the way. He knew his way around the Atlas warehouse well enough, but he wanted Murray to see Patchett first. To think he had a reprieve, that it was just to check he was still there. Patchett led him down a long corridor, stopping at the last door on the left, and pulled a small key ring from his pocket.

This mess with Carter didn’t worry Bolton. He could do without the hassle, but he was fairly sure Locke would buy a line about Carter having a go at him. He ran through the worst-case scenario. He would never willingly move against Locke out of loyalty for what the man had done for him over the years. But by the same token, he had always imagined his boss would have drifted off into a retirement villa somewhere tropical, and left him to run the show. Was it so wrong for him to want a bigger piece of the pie while he waited? The only person he’d seen play second fiddle for a longer stint was Prince Charles. He would have been tempted to leave a roller skate neat the stairs at Buckingham Palace long before now if it was him.

Patchett was his man, not Locke’s, and he trusted him as much as he did anyone. Never completely, but enough. Brainless fools like Carter and Murray were another matter. Disposable but dishonest. The irony of what they had done wasn’t lost on him. To skim from him, the way he was skimming from Locke. It was just plain greed to cut other shit in with the product, though. Greed that brought Carter to the attention of the police. Greed that put Murray in the chair in which he now sat.

Bolton smelt him before he saw him. The kind of ripe sweat it took days to cultivate, and a half-dozen washes to get out. Jono Murray had always reminded Bolton of a sulky teenager, even now in his thirties. Face permanently set in a scowl, as if the world owed him a living. Always had an answer for everything. Bolton looked down at where Murray sat tied to a plastic chair. Not so fucking cocky now, was he?

Murray tried to put a brave face on when he saw who had entered the room. He looked up at Bolton, smile as fake as the knock-off Armani jeans that hung off his spindly legs. Add those to a Nike T-shirt two sizes too big, and he could make for a cracking scarecrow. Bolton nodded to Patchett, who closed the door, and moved to stand in front of it.

‘Mr Bolton,’ Jono Murray said with a forced lilt. ‘This is all a mix-up. I didn’t have nuffin to do with whatever Owen had going on.’