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flapped open but despite the cold night air Winter was sweating. He splashed through a puddle then he heard a metal door rattle. As he stumbled over a step the hands holding his arms gripped even tighter. They forced him to his knees and he felt the THE SOLITARY MAN 29 barrel of a gun press against the back of his neck. He took a deep breath and fought to stop himself shaking. It wasn't the first time that Billy Winter had been at the wrong end of a loaded gun, but that didn't make the experience any easier to handle.
    'Whatever they're paying you, I'll treble it,' he said. There was no reply and Winter wondered if they'd heard him through the bag. 'Whatever they're paying . . .' he began but the gun barrel clipped the side of his head and he realised it was pointless to continue. He heard muffled voices, and footsteps, and then the metal door clanged shut. The gun barrel was taken away and the hood was pulled off his head. A single light shone into his eyes and he squinted. There was a strong acrid smell that he realised was pig manure, and something sweeter. Straw, maybe. He was in a barn, or a shed, somewhere pigs were kept.
    Tears pricked his eyes and he blinked them away. He didn't want his captors to think that he was crying; it was the bright light that was making his eyes water. It had been a long, long time since Billy Winter had cried.
    'Who are you?' he asked. 'What do you want?'
    He could just about make out a figure holding the torch. Blue jeans and white trainers, now flecked with mud. A second figure walked from behind Winter and stood next to the man with the torch. He was holding a sawn-off shotgun, a gloved finger hooked around the trigger. It was a pump-action Remington, Winter realised, five shells. Winter stared at the finger on the trigger.
    'If it's money, I can give you all the money you want,' said Winter quietly.
    The finger tightened.
    'What is it, then? Political? Is this political? I've got friends . . .'
    Winter flinched as the finger pulled back the trigger. He screamed with rage and turned his head away. There was no explosion, no hail of shot, just a hammer clicking down on an empty chamber. Winter's bowels turned liquid and he felt urine stream down his leg. He began to gag and he retched but nothing came up, just a bitter taste at the back of his mouth. 'You bastards,' he mumbled.
    Gloved hands grabbed his hair and forced him to look straight ahead, into the torch beam. A third figure appeared, a man wearing 30 STEPHEN LEATHER a long coat. Winter squinted up at the new arrival. He wasn't wearing a ski mask and Winter recognised him.
    'Thomas?' he said.
    'Hello, Billy,' said Thomas McCormack. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his coat and he wore a" red woollen scarf wrapped tightly around his neck as if he feared catching a chill.
    'What's this about, Thomas?'
    'Ray Harrigan,' said McCormack.
    'Harrigan? What about him?'
    'We want him back.'
    Winter cleared his throat and swallowed. 'So why didn't you use the blower? Why the heavies?'
    McCormack peered over the top of his spectacles. 'I wanted you to know how serious this was, Billy. I wanted you to be in no doubt what will happen if you don't bring the Harrigan boy home.'
    'I thought we were friends, Thomas. I thought we had an understanding.'
    McCormack shrugged. 'An understanding, perhaps, but not a friendship, Billy.'
    'It's not my fault Harrigan got caught.'
    'So whose fault would it be? They were your contacts, you put the meeting together.'
    'Maybe someone talked.'
    'Not Ray Harrigan,' insisted McCormack. 'The boy went through the trial without saying a word. If anyone talked it was one of your people. That makes it your responsibility.'
    Winter nodded slowly. 'Okay. I'll do what I can, Thomas.'
    McCormack shook his head. 'That's not good enough, Billy. You bring him back, or next time the shotgun won't be empty.'
    As if to emphasise McCormack's words, the man with the shotgun waved it menacingly in front of Winter's face.