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was it angry?’
    His head dropped. ‘Ah don’t know,’ he mumbled.
    ‘Sergeant Johnson, why was the dog angry?’
    There was a long pause, then his head came up. ‘Ah stole its food.’
    Hands were at mouths among the jury now. Sam pressed her advantage.
    ‘But you shot the dog.’
    ‘No really.’
    ‘What do you mean, not really ? Either you shot the dog or you didn’t?’
    ‘The gun. It was just a starting pistol. Nae bullets in it.’
    ‘But the dog died?’
    ‘It was an auld dug. A fat dug. Maybe it had a heart attack.’
    A giggle broke out, from relief more than anything.
    The jury was back in an hour. There was no way Johnson could be found innocent of the attempted burglary. But he won a ‘not proven’ on the armed burglary.
    The Sheriff looked disappointed at not being able to send Johnson on to the High Court. But he knew the case didn’t stack up high enough. He made the best of it: ‘I sentence you, Alan Johnson, to five years at His Majesty’s pleasure. Take him away.’
    In front of me, Ishmael shot to his feet. ‘Nooo! This is not justice! This cannot stand!’
    Johnson swayed and called to his pal, ‘I cannae dae this. I cannae face this again! I swear to God, I cannae take it! No’ again!’
    Hands dropped among the jury. They couldn’t look at each other. One woman was in tears and shaking her head. The judge stood.
    ‘Take him down, and clear the court! Any more outbreaks from you, sir, and you will be joining your friend here!’ He aimed his finger directly at Ishmael. Ushers leaped in at the sound of raised voices. Two burly men pinioned Ishmael till the judge had left the court.
    I got out as quickly as I could and into the corridor. I was just in time. Ishmael was being escorted past me in the clutch of the two big men. He was no longer struggling. His face was set. Tears were pouring down the bones and channels of his face. He caught sight of me and stopped. The ushers tugged at him but his wiry determination held them in check for long enough. His red eyes fixed on mine.
    ‘It’s the same crew, Brodie. The same dirty crew that did for your pal! The same rotten system. This is justice?’ He spat on the flagstones. ‘I’m damned if it is!’
    ‘I’m sorry! It could have been worse.’
    ‘How could it have been worse?’ he spat. ‘Five years? Five months will be enough to kill that man!’ His voice dropped and he leaned towards me. ‘A good man goes down. And all the time, the rapists and thieves, the gangsters and drug runners get away with it. It willnae do, Brodie. It willnae do. You of all folk must see that. So help me God, I will show this twice-damned city what true justice is!’
    Me of all folk? Had the April newspapers painted me as some kind of flag-waver for the common man against an unfair justice system? I suppose so. But that was a one-off. There would be no more taking up of arms against a sea of troubles by yours truly.
    As for Ishmael’s oath, with hindsight it wasn’t so much a warning as a prophecy. And in the event it didn’t take five years or months. It took five days for retribution to begin.

FIVE
     
    B ut first there came a more distant rumble of national retribution. The news started filtering through on Monday that a bomb had gone off in Jerusalem. By the afternoon the numbers of British dead were mounting. Some ninety staff of the British Mandate based in the King David Hotel died in the callous attack by Zionist terrorists. The Gazette ’s front page was taken up for the rest of the week with photos and outrage.
    It meant that the news about one man’s death in Barlinnie Prison barely registered. Had we known what it heralded we might have given it more attention. The grapevine in the form of Big Eddie coughed up the news on Wednesday morning. Eddie crept up on me at my desk. There was none of his normal bounce. By Eddie’s standards he was almost tentative.
    ‘That fella that got sent down? The one your girlfriend