He still had the shakes. His wife was downstairs. When he’d come home, she’d called to him from the kitchen. He’d called back, but made his way up the stairs and into his study, closing the door after him. When the door was closed, she wouldn’t come in. It meant he was working. The only light came from the lamp post directly outside the window. He could see his desk, covered with paperwork. His degree was framed on the wall. So were photos of him meeting important people, people from sports and TV and business. As a city dignitary, he got to meet lots of people.

But he wished now that he’d never met Stewart Renshaw.

It had all been very friendly at first, very sociable. He accepted an invite to dinner at one of Stewart’s casinos. He accepted some free gaming chips. Then there was another visit, and more chips. The place seemed well run. It wasn’t full of gangsters or lowlifes. It was respectable. Okay, so Stewart was Albert Renshaw’s son, and Albert’s nickname had been ‘The Godfather’. But Stewart had washed his hands clean of all that. He never saw his kid brother George; spoke to him twice a year. Stewart was above board, or seemed so at first.

There had been a day at the races, again as Stewart’s guest. ‘Bring the wife,’ he’d been told. But he’d lied and said she was busy. He wanted an adventure all of his own. He met good-looking women. He met friendly and powerful men. He had a good time. Once, he was offered drugs, a snort of cocaine in the toilets, but he refused. Champagne was quite enough for him.

Back then, it had all seemed enough.

His phone started to vibrate. He lifted it from his pocket and looked at the screen. It was Stewart. Hanley decided not to answer. What was he going to say to the man? It had crossed his mind that the whole thing was a set-up, some sort of play being acted out, so as to cheat him out of the money. But the guns and the blood had seemed real. The fear and the anger had seemed real. Not just special effects, but blood and smoke and the flash from the two guns. And such loud bangs. Three of them. He’d run to his car, hitting another vehicle as he reversed at speed. He had fled the scene of a crime, the scene of a murder. Him: Councillor Andrew Hanley. Head of Planning. And now this…