This was where it should have ended: a wee word of warning. Any decent cop would have clocked what he was dealing with. They weren’t blitzed, they weren’t rowdy and, most significantly, they weren’t familiar. Howard, however, decided to lift the pair of them, then went for the hat-trick when Gallacher made the mistake of expressing his incredulity that they were being arrested for pissing up a lane already full of dog shit and broken glass.

They all spent a night in the cells before being charged with breach of the peace and resisting arrest. ‘The polis breach’, the former was known as: a catch-all charge that, with two cops as witnesses, made for a fait accompli, one many folk grudgingly learned to take on the chin whether they merited it or not. Resisting arrest, also engaging the mutual corroboration, was often thrown in there to seal the deal.

For the defendants’ part, had they been blitzed, had they been rowdy, and significantly, had they been frequent fliers, they would quite probably have left it at that: taken the fine and put it down to experience. But they were none of the above: they were three respectable lads who had never been in bother with the law before. They knew the breach charge was an abuse of power, but it was the resisting part that really pissed them off, because it was an outright lie.

They disputed all charges and consequently the case went before the Sheriff Court. That was when Catherine became involved. It wasn’t Howard or McLean who brought her into it, though: it was her sarge, Donald Morrison, someone she had already come to look toward for guidance. He didn’t ask her to do it; he told her she was doing it.

‘We need to nail this,’ he said. ‘Be good experience for you, getting you in the box.’

Catherine was rattled. It wasn’t the end of the innocence, some epiphanic moment of disillusion, but it was still a shock to the system to be so matter-of-factly told to lie in court. However, the Sarge stiffened her resolve by giving her an unmistakable impression regarding two things: that to do this was no big deal; but to refuse was unthinkable.

You always back up your colleagues. It’s the golden rule.

She was coached what to say, and assured she’d be in and out of there in no time. It was a formality, they told her.

They were right about none of this. The only part that took no time was for the defence solicitor to recognise not merely that she was the weak link, but precisely the tactical misjudgement the police had made, a recognition assisted by having been informed by his clients that none of them had seen her there that night.