‘I need this investigated,’ she said, as calmly and resolutely as she could manage. She required it to sound both reasonable and decisive. ‘If you’re right, and it was me they were after, then I need protection. I’m sorry that it’s going to make things awkward for you, but I have to go to the police.’

Her heart was leathering it again, almost as much as when she’d been under fire, and it wasn’t going to slow much until she heard his response, which didn’t come soon.

It was Ingrams’ turn to say nothing. He edged the vehicle forward on to the tarmac and accelerated gradually, warm air blowing through the frames of the shattered rear windows. With him not making a further verbal appeal, she began to wonder what he might do to obstruct her.

‘I can protect you,’ he said eventually. ‘Better than the police. I’ll come back to Glasgow with you, help you look into this.’

Yeah, right, was her first impulse, then she thought of DS McDade and of Sergeant Collins, of how much she had wanted them to take her seriously, then of that sinking realisation that they would only assist her inasmuch as she was, at best, tangential to their interests. Ingrams was offering one-on-one assistance. However, she tempered her temptation by asking herself what reason she had to believe she wasn’t merely tangential to his interests right now too. What motivation did he have to get so involved, beyond keeping the police out of his business?

‘I thought you said this had nothing to do with you. That you know nothing about any of it. Remember that patter?’

‘I do know nothing about any of it, but it’s clearly got something to do with me now. Your boss goes missing and there’s a file with my name and the address of the refuge lying open on his desk. You come and see me by way of following this up and all of a sudden we’re getting shot at. I want to know where I fit into this. Plus they damaged my Land Rover. I’ll be hitting them up for the excess.’

Jasmine thought about it for a while, dabbing at her head some more with the hanky. The blood was still spotting, and now she could feel a hard little lump at one end of the cut, something embedded just under the skin. Wincing a little, she dug at it with a nail and tugged it loose. It came away into the hanky amid a few strands of hair. She picked it clear and held it between her thumb and forefinger. It was a tiny lump of metal.

‘I think my head took a chunk out of your door,’ she said sceptically. ‘Sorry.’

‘Shotgun pellet. Must have been a ricochet. Technically, you’ve been shot in the head and survived. Congratulations.’