Arbogast returned the many calls he’d received from Sandy Stirrit although he wasn’t confident the conversation would end well.“Hi Sandy, you called?”“Two bloody days ago, JJ.”“No-one calls me that.” Arbogast was annoyed Sandy thought it was OK to start off with the usual nickname, as if nothing had happened, like he’d been forgiven for some imagined slight. He regretted making the call almost immediately.“I’ve been busy, we haven’t been talking. Chris Guthrie said you’d been in.”“It wasn’t Guthrie that prompted the call though was it?”Arbogast was at his desk. He still had the front cover of the Daily Record on his desk; Sandy’s pulped face was a picture, one he’d rather not see, “Are you OK?”There was a moment’s silence. Sandy was angry. John should have realised how hard it had been for him to come begging for help, but he didn’t know where else to turn.“We need to talk, John, but not on the phone. I know exactly why this happened and who’s behind it.
