The Big Man waved his hand, telling him to get on with it.

‘I’ve got a hire car outside, need to get rid of it and get another motor. I didn’t know who else to come to…’

‘Hired in your name?’

‘No.’

‘Model?’

‘Lexus.’

The Big Man nodded. ‘OK. Tell Parki I said it’s OK and you’ve to get a few grand as well.’ He looked at Pat expectantly.

‘Oh. Um, thanks very much.’

‘Yes?’

Bewildered by the non sequitur Pat glanced behind him.

‘No…?’ prompted the Big Man, turning his ear, wanting to hear something. Pat frowned, he couldn’t guess what that was.

‘Sorry?’

Bizarrely, the Big Man chortled to himself and said Pat’s name a few times. He sighed and looked at him. ‘I knew it.’ He stood up and walked over to the sideboard, reached down and took out a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. He unscrewed the lid and poured two shots into crystal glasses that looked dusty, smiling all the while.

It hit Pat like a slap on the back of the head. The Big Man knew. He knew about the van, the guns and the pillowcase, and he thought Pat understood or he’d have dragged it out, made him guess.

He handed Pat a glass, and lifted the other to his mouth. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Going?’

‘The thing. With Eddy, how’s it going?’

Pat held the glass to his mouth and breathed in a cloud of bitter whisky.

‘Aye,’ said the Big Man. ‘Ye can see me after – square up then.’

They owed him money. Eddy owed the Big Man money. That’s how they got the van, the guns, the brand new clothes, the fucking face paint Eddy had asked him to put on in the bedsit before. Pat had struggled to stay out of all this and it turned out now that Eddy had gone to the Big Man for capital and betrayed him from the off.

‘Still attending to your devotions?’ He was frowning up at Pat, serious, nodding, as if this was what really mattered to him.

Pat downed the whisky in a oner, gasping, ‘No. I’m not religious.’

The Big Man held his glass but didn’t drink. ‘That’s a shame,’ he said into the glass. ‘That’s a shame. Our faith is what holds us together. Used to be a culture, a family, what kept us together. Now folk go sometimes, don’t do confession, only pray sometimes. It’s not a finger buffet. Ye can’t just pick and choose bits of it to please yourself.’

Pat put the glass down on the sideboard. ‘I better get going.’

‘Aye, tell Eddy I’ll expect him.’

Gordon let him out and leaned in for a silent order from his boss, trotted after Pat down the stairs, into the barn-sized living room and overtook him, whispering to Parki. Parki nodded and put down his paper on the Victorian card table. It was open at a picture of a topless bird. She looked very pleased with herself. He stood up slowly and made his way over to the window, peering out into the street. Pat hoped he didn’t spot the police.

‘The Kia’s a bird’s car but it’s reliable.’

It was a kind offer and Pat appreciated it. ‘That’s good of ye, Parki.’

But Parki brushed it aside. ‘What the Big Man says, goes.’ He reached into an antique wall cupboard sitting on the floor and pulled out a set of keys. ‘Go out the back. Round to the lock-ups, third door in.’

Pat blinked hard as he took the car key. ‘Thanks, man.’

‘How ye keeping anyway?’

Pat shrugged.

Parki pulled a wad of notes out of his back pocket, peeled ten one-hundred notes off and handed them to Pat. ‘How’s your Malki? Never seen him for ages.’

Pat took the keys out of his pocket, the pen torch and Eddy’s house keys were on it, and handed them to Parki, backing away across the room. ‘Ye off now?’ said Parki, still trying to work out what was going on.

‘Have tae, man,’ said Pat quietly. ‘Got somewhere I have to be.’

Morrow was sitting in the car outside Annie Tait’s house with Harris when the call came. The registration was bogus, belonged to another make, another year, another car altogether.

She picked up the radio mike and gave her first order on the case: two squads to come and follow the car, see where it went when it left here. It was a long shot but they didn’t have any short shots so it would have to do.

They waited until they knew the unmarked cars were in position, marking both entrances to the scheme before Harris started the engine and pulled out.

Gobby had looked through them as well and agreed with Harris that there was something to see. They left the tapes for Morrow in her office but it was hard for her to concentrate on the screen, resentful thoughts about Bannerman kept piercing her concentration. Phrases she would like to say to him if it came to a fight, which it never would, pointless articulations of the exact nature of his wrongs; selfish, careerist, self-important, coward, twat, arse, fucking arse. She knew from long past experience that rehearsing a fight that would never happen was a short-lived luxury. Initially intoxicating, it didn’t help any, just wound her up even more.

She forced her eyes to the screen but couldn’t focus because the image was blurry anyway. Mr Anwar’s videos had been used over and over again and the magnetic tapes had been stretched at the top sometimes, cutting out important bits of the picture with hyperactive diagonal lines. Intermittent waves of snow descended across the image as well and she found herself leaning this way and that, as if she could see past the obstacle. In the faded grey colours of the shop nothing seemed interesting except the extent of Mr Anwar’s concern with tidying up the sweet shelves.

Every time someone bought a chocolate bar or a bag of crisps he’d wait until they had left and then, slightly guiltily, skirt around the counter to straighten the shelves. Johnny Lander was there a lot, sitting silently on the stool next to him. He’d nip around and straighten the shelves without being asked.

Twat.

Another snow-front shimmied down the screen and she stood up quickly, almost over-balancing her chair, stepping over to the door and flinging it open. ‘Harris!’ she shouted out into the corridor, ‘come in here and tell me what I’m supposed to be looking at. My head’s bursting looking at this.’

Harris appeared at the door, pleased finally to have his pain acknowledged and pulled over a chair. She sat down next to him and mumbled a clumsy apology. He ignored it and she appreciated it.

‘Right.’ He held a hand out to the back of her chair and together they shuffled back ten feet from the screen and watched. ‘Sit back from the screen or you’ll get a migraine and shut your eyes a bit.’

He sped the tape on a little, reeling through hours of Lander and Anwar’s relationship in minutes. The two old men hurried around the shop Keystone style, Johnny Lander energetic, disappearing from view often, stacking shelves, bringing tea, Aamir still. The men had a curious intimacy, rarely speaking but sitting a little closer to each other than most men would, never really looking at each other, preferring to face the counter when they were sitting.

A series of customers shifted in and out, commuters, absent as they bought fags or snacks or papers, hardly noticing the shop or the men as they daydreamed their way to work.

‘Here,’ said Harris, changing the speed and shuffling his chair towards the screen.

The woman caught the attention because of how present she was. Tall, she definitely looked tall, and slim. Middle-class hair, no flashes of colour or inappropriate blonde streaks but shiny brown hair, long and brushed. She wore white trousers with brown boots underneath and a shirt that was waisted to show off her figure. As soon as the door opened and the top of her head appeared in the frame Aamir Anwar warmed and stepped off his stool to greet her. Johnny Lander dropped off his chair and disappeared towards the back door.