‘It’s a myth told about old-school criminals that they don’t hurt the innocent,’ he said. ‘We already know that’s not true. But aside from what they might excuse as collateral damage, they like to tell themselves that the rule is you don’t hurt non-combatants. You’re only fair game if you’re in the game. But the truth is that your definition of a combatant eventually becomes anybody who stands between you and what you want.’

Ingrams looked away, his gaze towards the windows but his mind’s eye somewhere much further distant, somewhere Jasmine suspected she’d never like to see.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked at her with that vulnerability she’d glimpsed in the car just after they left Bain’s house.

‘I’m not an evil man, Jasmine. But I’m not a good one either. McLeod was right. You can leave a name behind, but you can’t escape who you are. Coming back here, seeing the fear on Bain’s face, the hatred in that policewoman’s … it’s made me realise I can’t separate one life from another. I need to put a name to my sins, and I need to wear that name.’

‘So you’re Glen Fallan again?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Tron’s a stupid name.’

Stolen Glances

Laura’s mobile rang as they walked back to their car, parked directly adjacent to the main entrance of the Bay Tree restaurant. The Bay Tree sat at a T-junction on the main road through Thornton Bridge. During evenings and lunchtimes there were normally cars trailed all along the secondary road parallel to the side of the building, the restaurant’s cottage origins denying it the luxury of a dedicated car park. It was mid-afternoon, but they’d still have managed to find a space closer than their previous visit no matter the hour. The place was closed for business today, and until further notice.

The staff had all been hanging around, looking a little lost. There was no work for them to do, but they evidently felt they had to be there, perhaps as a show of willing, or maybe just to find out whether they would still have jobs.

Catherine and Laura’s inquiries found that neither Callahan nor Fleeting had turned up on Thursday at all. According to Callahan’s wife – a peroxide moll from Central Casting who was fair chewing the scenery in playing the grieving widow, perhaps in case anybody doubted her genuine sadness at being left with a two-million-pound mansion and God knows how much more in other saleable assets – Frankie had left their house at eight o’clock on Thursday morning. He hadn’t said where he was going, but it was the last time she ever saw him.