In a Place of Darkness

38

‘We’re bang on five thirty; please contain your enthusiasm. It’s dark and wet out there, but good news! It’s going to get darker and wetter today. So, let’s celebrate with a slice of the Mighty Beetroot.’

A slow piano melody burbled out of the clock radio.

Urgh...

‘If you’re still here at eight, it’s Holly Janowski — till then you’re stuck with me, Jane Forbes. It’s the Very Early in the Morning Show, and this is “Hearts In Darkness”!’

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

A miserable voice burst into song:

Angus’s eyes snapped open, and there was the ceiling of his bedroom. Looming like a hammer, and his bed was the anvil.

His mouth made a sticky sssscklack noise as he prised it open, releasing the bitter taste of last night’s beer and too many bourbons.

He blinked at the ceiling-hammer. ‘Awake! I’m awake...’

His hand thumped down on the old clock radio and blessed silence settled into the room. Followed by the whump-whump-whump of blood in his throat. Working its way up into his swollen cranium. Getting louder with every beat.

A long shuddery breath rattled out, smelling even worse than it tasted.

Angus blinked again, looking down at the wee hairy face staring back at him from his chest as if he were the most wonderful thing in the whole wide world. Oh, to be a little fuzzy dog.

Why was...? He was still wearing his jacket. And his shirt. And his trousers. And his damp socks. And everything else.

How much did he drink last—

There was a subterranean gurgle, followed by a burp.

Nope.

Wee Hamish had a stretch and hopped down from Angus’s chest.

Which was probably wise.

Another gurgle, another burp.

Angus swallowed. Hissed out a long, sour breath.

Yellow and green burst across the back of his brain, sweeping forward in a tsunami of burning gravel, making cold sweat fizzle across his skin.

Definitely nope.

He jerked bolt upright, both hands clamped over his mouth, and scrambled from the room.

Angus lurched back into the bedroom, towel wrapped around his middle, yesterday’s fighting suit draped over one arm, little nuggets of toilet paper stuck to his cheeks like mini Japanese flags. Head pounding — because there was no paracetamol in the whole house. Unless Mum had some squirrelled away in her room. And there was no way he was waking her up to find out.

Instead, he gave the suit a sniff.

Bit beery.

More than a bit wrinkled.

But what choice did he have?

Erm...

OK.

He hurried out into the hall, opened the cleaning-cupboard door, and gave his suit a quick once-over with Mr Sheen’s furniture polish. Then took it back to his bedroom for a quick squirt of Lynx Africa, just in case.

He scrambled into fresh socks, pants, and a clean shirt, then the suit.

Tie.

Where the hell was his tie?

He was definitely wearing it in the pub last night, wasn’t he?

The clock radio clicked over to 06:01.

No time to worry about that now.

Through to the kitchen, where Wee Hamish greeted a breakfast of budget-friendly dried dogfood with the usual twirly dance of delight, crunching merrily away as Angus investigated the untouched stovies.

The coagulated lump of mushy potato had leached a thin grey liquid onto the plate, like bin-juice, and...

Nope.

He closed his eyes, gripped the edge of the work surface, breathing in little shallow puffs. Not that there was anything left to bring up.

Couldn’t leave last night’s dinner just sitting there, though. Mum would be hurt. Worse, she might make him eat it tonight.

He dug an old bread bag from the recycling and scraped the stovies into it. Tied a knot in the top and rammed it into the bin. Covering it with whatever else was in there so she wouldn’t see.

Then gave the plate a quick wash — abandoning it on the draining board as his phone launched into the crappy-marimba tune that meant it was time to get the hell out of the flat or miss the bus.

Quick, quick, quick, quick, quick.

Angus struggled into his damp shoes and out onto the balcony.

Bloody hell...

If anything, the weather was even worse than yesterday. Wind snarled and whirled between the three tower blocks, rain hurling itself against the concrete, puddling across the walkway. And the sky was coal-black, with only the faintest smear of fire around the valley’s lip to show the day even existed.

Even the streetlights could barely puncture the darkness.

Angus locked up and staggered towards the stairwell.

What a great day to have a massive hangover.

The radiator’s ping-clang-gurgle filled the air with warmth, raising steam from Angus’s jacket — laid along the top of it, arms hanging over the sides. His shoes were tucked underneath — stuffed with newspaper pilfered from the Media Office’s recycling pile.

One huge benefit of them giving Dr Fife his own private office was no one else was here to break the calm. Not even Dr Fife, because at ten past seven, he’d still be lying in his pit, all scarred and snoring it up. Dreaming of cults and beatings and a dead boy wearing his real name...

Angus puffed out a long breath and took a scoof of Rampant Gorilla — the last one in the filing cabinet — pairing it with yesterday’s stale cheese sandwich and two paracetamol borrowed from Monster Munch. Then went back to wrestling with Behavioral Analysis for Law-Enforcement Personnel (Crime-Scene Indicators, Forensic Red Flags, & Interview Guidance).

Who the hell wrote this stuff? Online terms and conditions were clearer than this.

So far, the yellow legal pad he’d borrowed to take notes in only had the book’s title printed at the top in nice, neat biro letters, today’s date, and a big ‘WTAF????!??’ Underlined three times.

This must be what it was like for old people trying to work Netflix...

The office door opened and in slouched PC Derek McConachie, AKA: Dusty. Droopy of eye and red of nose. Sniffing.

There was more than a hint of football hooligan about him, with tattoos poking from the sleeves of his black Police Scotland T-shirt and a couple of nicks taken out of his left ear. That’s what you got for getting into pub brawls wearing earrings.

He scuffed right up to Angus and flicked him on the shoulder.

‘Ow!’

‘Rotten sod.’ Dusty hauled in a snochery sniff. ‘Hours and hours and hours I was: going round those buggering cars. In the cold. And the rain.’

‘Sorry.’ He forced a smile. ‘Find anything?’

‘Nah. Almost caught my death, but...’ One of his basset-hound eyes scrunched up, top lip twitching as he made a gnnnnnnnnngnnnn... kind of noise. He shuddered, then slumped. ‘Hate it when that happens.’ Dusty wiped his nose with a scabby hanky. ‘If you see Noodles coming: run. Says she spent three hours last night watching all the CCTV footage from outside the station. Aye, and all the stuff they put out on the news too. Looking for your Mr Four-B.’

No idea.

Dusty dabbed a dreep from the end of his nose. ‘“Bloody Beardy Baldy Bloke”. She’s got eyes like pickled beetroot the day.’

‘Don’t blame me! I just passed on a tip.’

‘Yeah, well, like I said: run. Cos if there’s one thing Noodles knows it’s how to hold a... a... a...’ His eye scrunched up again, but this time the gnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn-ing ended in a thundering sneeze. He scrubbed at his nose and top lip. Then blinked and shook his head. ‘Grudge.’

A knock rang out at the door, then it opened and in marched DCI Monroe with DS Sharp in tow. Both of them grim-faced. As if they were about to tell some poor victim’s family about a car crash or murder.

Dusty nodded at them. ‘Boss. Sarge.’

DS Sharp checked her clipboard. ‘Thought you were on door-to-doors today.’

‘Sarge.’ And off he scurried, closing the door behind him.

A DEFCON 3 sneeze boomed out in the corridor.

Monroe thumped into the spare seat. ‘Where’s Dr Fife?’ His nostrils twitched. ‘And why does it smell like my nan’s front room in here?’

‘Boss.’ Angus stood to attention, not looking at the steaming Mr Sheened jacket draped over the radiator. ‘He’s probably still a bit... jet-lagged. Doesn’t like to start till nine. Ish.’

DS Sharp ran an appraising eye up and down Angus. ‘You seem a bit “jet-lagged” too. Rough night?’

He kept his eyes on DCI Monroe. ‘You instructed us to blow off steam, Boss.’ Digging out the scrunched-up receipts from the Shoogly Peg and placing them on the desk. ‘For the petty cash?’

Monroe swept them up and pocketed the lot. ‘You’ve seen the Castle News and Post this morning?’

‘Sorry, Boss: Dr Fife wanted me to bone-up on this.’ Pointing at the impenetrable textbook. ‘Did they print it?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ DS Sharp grimaced, eyes wide. ‘Big time.’

‘Any chance we can minimize the damage, Angus? Make him see this isn’t so big a deal?’

Ah...

Angus bit his top lip. Then pulled in a deep breath. ‘We might have a problem there.’

Monroe sat back in his chair, mouth hanging open as Angus finished his story. ‘And it’s a cult?’

‘He’s convinced that if they find out he’s here they’ll come after him.’

‘An actual religious...’ Monroe waved his hands. ‘...woo-woo, here-comes-the-Rapture, let’s-all-drink-the-Kool-Aid cult?’

DS Sharp folded her arms. ‘Assuming your mate on the Knap is wrong, about Dr Fife not being who he says he is.’

‘True.’ More frowning from the Boss. ‘Then we’d better go with Angus’s plan. Laura: get on to every hospital north of Inverness — if they’ve treated this... Mordecai—’

‘Malachi, Boss.’ Angus gave a wee deferential bow of the head, because senior officers really didn’t like being corrected. ‘Malachi Ezekiel McNabb.’

‘Should be a distinctive enough name. Find out if he’s got dwarfism or not. And see if you can’t get the original investigation notes on the murdered kid from N Division. Might still have them?’

She checked her watch. ‘Boss.’ Then bustled out.

As the door closed behind her, Monroe plucked a legal pad from the piled-up paperwork that littered the desk — it was covered with Dr Fife’s drunken-chicken scrawl, punctuated by hand-drawn diagrams and footnotes. He flipped through the pages, as if they might somehow make sense. ‘What’s your opinion of the man, Angus?’

Good question.

After last night, with Gillian fawning all over him, that was very much up for debate. Which was petty and probably unfair. But then so was life...

‘Are you asking if he raped and killed a fourteen-year-old boy forty-plus years ago?’

Monroe dumped the pad back on the pile. ‘You’re the one who’s worked with him more than anyone else.’

‘Yeah, but... That’s, like, only two-and-a-bit days.’

A nod. ‘Where was he Thursday night, Friday morning, when the Lundys were killed?’

Angus licked his top lip. ‘Wasn’t he with you, Boss? Interviewing Kate Paisley and Sean McGilvary?’

‘Till half two, maybe three o’clock, tops. After that...?’

‘I was at the hotel, trying to wake him up: about ten to eight?’

‘So nearly five hours unaccounted for.’

The radiator gurgled like an upset stomach.

A muffled conversation moved past in the corridor outside.

But in here, they just frowned at each other.

Angus leaned forward. ‘We’re not seriously—’

‘I mean, how would he move the bodies?’

‘Yeah, but maybe that’s why the Fortnight Killer has disciples? “We are legion”, according to Kate Paisley.’

‘Yes, but...’ Monroe looked up at all the notes covering the three whiteboards. ‘I mean, he can’t be.’

‘No. Can’t be.’

‘It’s just...’ A grimace. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years as a police officer, Angus, it’s: never trust a clever bastard, they’re always up to something.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘And if it turns out he’s dodgy, the press will tear us apart.’ Monroe tapped a finger against the tabletop, eyes focused on somewhere just outside the room. Then nodded and got to his feet. ‘Till we know he’s telling the truth about the whole growing-up-in-a-cult thing, stick to him like seagull shite on a suede jacket.’

‘Boss.’

‘Well?’ Monroe stood there, brow furrowed, staring at Angus. ‘What are you waiting for? Shift.’

‘Yes, Boss.’ Angus grabbed his newspapered shoes and his furniture-polished jacket, and made himself scarce.

Wind whipped down Jessop Street, as if it hated the very setts beneath Angus’s feet — howling rain into his face as he lumbered towards the Bishop’s View Hotel in another borrowed XXL high-vis.

The downpour battered against the cathedral opposite, gurgling in the rones and downpipes, rivering its way along the gutters — making white-water rafts of empty Coke tins. Sparkling as it slashed through the streetlights’ glow to bounce off the pavements and cars and hungover detective constables.

Angus hurried up the stairs and into the shelter of reception. Shaking himself like Wee Hamish after a soggy walk, sending droplets spattering onto the welcome mat and tartan carpet beyond.

The TV was playing to a completely empty dining room again as he hurried past and up the stairs:

‘...significant damage to power lines over the last twenty-four hours, and it looks as if that trend’s going to continue till Storm Findlay finally moves out into the North Sea tomorrow...’

Taking the steps two at a time, all the way up to the third floor.

Striding across the landing to the Isbister suite, pulling out his duplicate key on the way.

Slipping it into the lock as he knocked, then counted to ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Angus turned the key and stepped inside. After all, no one else ever waited to be asked, did they.

With the curtains closed, the living room lurked in treacle-thick gloom, but what little light seeped in from the hall made it look as if an O Division search team had been through it. Discarded socks lay in the middle of the carpet, along with one platform cowboy boot. The other had been abandoned on top of the couch. A pair of trousers slumped over the back of an armchair, a shirt and leather jacket draped across the coffee table’s swanky books and magazines. But it wasn’t just clothes — three open wine bottles sat on the mantelpiece, next to a row of dirty glasses.

Pfff...

Looked as if Dr Fife had celebrated falling off the wagon after thirty years by going on a serious bender.

‘Hello?’

Angus threw open the curtains, letting in a thin smear of early-morning light — painting last night’s detritus in shades of depressing grey. Technically the sun had been up for an hour, but it was almost impossible to tell.

Oldcastle: got to love it.

He stripped off his high-vis, folding it so the dry side faced outwards before dumping it on the couch.

‘Hello?’

Still nothing.

Angus was halfway across the lounge when the bedroom door opened. Good. At least he wouldn’t have to drag Dr Fife from his bed this...

Shite.

He juddered to a halt and stood there. Mouth full of cottonwool, stomach full of magpies, veins full of battery acid.

‘Morning, Angus.’ Gillian yawned her way across to the kitchenette door, dressed in nothing but a man’s shirt — Dr Fife’s going by the length of the sleeves. It was long enough in the body to cover anything explicit, but stopped halfway down her forearms, showing off a forest of scar tissue. ‘Can’t believe I missed the morning broadcasts.’ Without all that make-up, she was like a different person. Someone younger and a lot less... well, pretty. Which was maybe a bit sexist, but it was true.

She paused in the doorway for a yawn and a scratch.

Dr Fife was just visible through the open bedroom door — a silhouette, sitting on the edge of the mattress, head in his hands.

Scratch over, Gillian slouched into the kitchenette. ‘I’m making coffee: you want some?’

Angus stared as the sound of cupboards opening and closing clacked and thumped out of the little cooking area. Jaw clenched so tightly his teeth squeaked.

Bastard.

Utter, bloody, complete bastard.

He stormed across the lounge and barged through the bedroom door.

The blackout curtains were doing their job, but a bedside light cast its soft golden gaze across one side of the crumpled duvet and the room’s occupant. All very serene and romantic.

Angus clicked on the overhead lights, making Dr Fife’s scar-ridden skin glow milk-bottle white.

He flinched away from the sudden brightness, one hand coming up to shield bloodshot, blackened eyes as he wobbled away on the edge of the bed. Wearing nothing more than a pair of boxer shorts and that stupid shield-knot necklace of his. ‘Jesus!’

And yes, his body looked like a road atlas of pain, and he’d suffered a horrible abusive childhood, but tough shit, because he had this coming.

Angus hauled in a great-big breath and bellowed it into Dr Fife’s face. ‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?’

He winced, both hands over his ears. ‘Sonofabitch... Can we not—’

‘No!’ Angus dropped into a hard whisper, every syllable sharp as an axe. ‘You knew I liked her!’

Dr Fife grabbed the duvet and hauled it over his half-naked body. ‘Get the hell out of my bedroom!’

‘Here’s me sticking up for you and all the time you’re sticking... it in Gillian!’

He scrambled off the bed, squaring up to Angus, chin out, glaring, those battered eyes ripened into terrible fruit. ‘That’s enough!’

‘All my life, I’ve had to play by the rules — work hard, do the right thing — and in you waltz like a fucking wrecking ball who can’t keep it in his pants!’

Dr Fife raised a fist, as if that could do anything. ‘I’m warning you.’

‘You’re a selfish wanker!’ Angus loomed, teeth bared. ‘Well? What have you got to say for yourself, you two-faced, immoral—’

The fist snapped forward, right into Angus’s groin.

Fire ripped through his body, exploding out from the impact point like a nuclear detonation — buckling his knees, jab-stabbing through his stomach, stealing all the breath from his lungs as he clutched his aching balls and sank to the floor.

Fuck...

Ow...

Bloody...

Turned out, that fist was a lot more dangerous than it looked.

Dr Fife sniffed. ‘What have I got to say for myself?’ Flexing his treasonous hand. ‘NYPD don’t call me “The Vasectomist” for nothing.’

39

Angus perched sideways on the chaise longue, tilted over to one side so he could cup his throbbing testicles.

Dr Fife pulled a baggy, grey, long-sleeved T-shirt on over his scarred torso. A stylized skull-and-crossbones grinned out from the fabric as he scowled and muttered away. ‘...barging in here like an asshole, shouting the odds...’ He jabbed a finger in Angus’s direction. ‘You pleased with yourself?’

Did he sodding look pleased?

Angus glowered back.

‘Well, what did you expect?’ Dr Fife hauled his trousers on. ‘And for your information, not that it’s any of your goddamned business, nothing happened. OK?’

‘You punched me in the nuts!’

‘Yeah, and you deserved it. She’s a human being, not your property.’

...

Urgh.

He had a point.

That’s what wounded pride and knackered bollocks got you.

Angus shrugged one shoulder, turned his head away, and huffed out a barely audible ‘Sorry.’

Dr Fife produced a clean pair of socks from the wardrobe. ‘Angus, I’m getting as far away from this horrible city as I can, before the Brethren come looking for me, but...’ He paused, one sock on, one sock off. ‘But it would be nice to know I’d made at least one friend before I go.’ A sigh. ‘Don’t have a lot of those.’

The sound of a sad spiritual lilted in from the kitchenette, muffled by the bedroom door. Gillian had a good voice: almost haunting as she sang of the dark woods calling, and the dark things lurking there.

Dr Fife pulled on his other sock, then stood still as a gravestone, listening to her sing.

Angus let loose a big, long breath, then winced himself upright. Towering over Dr Fife, who frowned up at him. Probably wondering if this was going to devolve into another punch-in-the-balls scenario. Angus stuck his hand out.

There was a pause.

Then Dr Fife shook it.

Which meant they had officially reached an accord.

Truce.

Friends.

Though neither of them said anything about it. Because, you know, they were men and that’s not the kind of thing men did.

Dr Fife cleared his throat. ‘Wonder what’s happened with that coffee?’

Rain attacked the living-room window, streetlights shuddering as the storm ravaged the city.

Clearly, Gillian hadn’t just been busy in the kitchenette, because all the scattered clothes now sat in a neat pile on the couch, all folded and tidy. She’d cleared the bottles and empty glasses away too. Even the cushions looked plumped.

Her voice wafted out through the open kitchenette door as she bustled about with extra-large mugs and the machine:

Gillian turned, mouth clicking shut as she saw them both standing there, watching her. Pink exploded across her pale cheeks.

‘Sorry.’ She looked down at the mugs in her hands. Pulling her shoulders in, making herself smaller. ‘I didn’t mean to...’

Dr Fife smiled. ‘It’s OK. You’ve got a beautiful voice.’

She bit her bottom lip, then forced a painful smile. ‘Coffee! Yes. Everyone loves coffee...’ She crept into the room and handed one mug to him and the other to Angus. ‘I hope it’s OK, I’ve never used a machine like that before, but don’t drink it if it’s horrible, it’s probably horrible. Sorry.’ She reached out to take Dr Fife’s mug back. ‘I should just throw it away, better give it back and I’ll try harder, and—’

‘I’m sure it’ll be lovely.’

‘Thanks.’ Angus raised his mug. ‘You not having any?’

She stared at him. ‘The men are always served first.’ Then averted her eyes again. ‘Sorry.’

OK, that was... weird.

Dr Fife reached out and stroked her arm, voice calm and soft. ‘Hey, hey: don’t worry. I know there was a bit of shouting, but it’s nothing: a misunderstanding. We’re all friends again. Right, Angus?’

And the weird kept on coming.

But he played along, anyway. ‘Definitely.’ Then took a sip of his freshly made fancy-coffee-machine frothy-cappuccino thing, with a sprinkling of chocolate on top and what smelled like caramel syrup. Very professional-looking, and it tasted absolutely...

Bloody hell.

He blinked as the bitter sourness gave way to sickly sugar, then back to bitter again. It took some doing, but he managed to force it down — doing his best not to shudder. ‘Wow...’

Her whole face lit up. ‘Really? You’re not just saying that?’

How could anyone screw that up? You put the pod in the machine and you pressed the button. It wasn’t rocket science. You didn’t have to swim to Colombia and roast the beans yourself.

Dr Fife took a big swig. Froze. Raised both eyebrows as he swallowed. Then forced a smile. ‘That’s gotta be the best damn coffee I’ve had since I got here.’

Gillian gave a couple of little happy hops, clapping her fingertips together, then headed back into the kitchenette for her own mug.

Soon as she was gone, Dr Fife grimaced, mouth wide, tongue curling forwards, like a cat about to bring up a hairball. ‘Jesus...’

Yup.

Angus wandered over to the window. ‘So where do you want to start today? Could try the other victims’ houses?’

‘You’re kidding, right? Soon as I’m packed, I’m on the first flight outta here. When the Brethren see that thing in the paper, they’ll come running and I ain’t hanging around. Sayonara, Oldcastle — konnichiwa, LA.’

‘Ah... There might be a tiny problem with that. Oldcastle International Airport’s cancelled all flights, because of Storm Findlay.’

‘Brilliant. Just...’ He took another swig of ‘coffee’, curled his head to one side and winced. ‘Then I’ll drive to Edinburgh.’

‘Planes are grounded all over Scotland. You could get a train down south — try Heathrow, or Luton — but the trains aren’t running either. You’ve got landslips, flooding, trees down on the line...’

‘Then I’ll drive to Heathrow.’

‘Only everyone who can’t get a flight out of Scotland’s doing the same, so everything’s overbooked.’

Dr Fife covered his face with his free hand and made a little strangled screaming noise.

Which was all the cover Angus needed to ditch his horrible coffee in the big pot plant by the window. He forced a bit of cheer into his voice and stood up straight — shoulders back, chest out, filling the space like a bulldozer in a damp suit. ‘Come on, it’s not that bad! You think these “Brethren” are going to try anything with me standing there? Course they won’t.’ He checked his watch. ‘And it’s only twenty-four hours; be back to normal tomorrow.’

‘Urgh...’ Dr Fife drooped. Took another mouthful of coffee. Cringed and stuck his tongue out again. ‘Twenty-four hours.’ Not sure if it was hunger, or a reaction to Gillian’s foul coffee, but his stomach let loose a cluster of wheezy popping sounds, then a low growl.

‘One more day.’ Angus smiled. ‘What’s the worst that can happen, right?’ That got him a scowl. ‘It’ll be great: we’ll catch the Fortnight Killer, big party, and tomorrow you’re off back to the States with the happy thanks of Oldcastle’s citizens ringing in your ears.’

Another shuddering mouthful. ‘I hate this stupid city.’

The whirrs and clunks of the fancy coffee machine ground their way out of the kitchenette as Gillian committed another hate crime against hot beverages.

Time to change the subject, before Dr Fife decided to abandon the city and lay low somewhere less murdery.

Angus nodded towards the kitchenette. ‘Any idea what that was about?’

‘“The men are always served first”? Yeah.’ He watched her through the open door. ‘Remember what I said about Venn diagrams, cults, and conspiracy theories? Turns out you and me ain’t the only ones carrying round a sackful of childhood trauma.’

Because everyone was broken in their own way.

Some just hid it better than others.

OK, this wasn’t helping.

Angus had another go: ‘So... Councillor Mendel’s, or the Healey-Robinsons’? Or we could try another one of Kate Paisley’s homers?’ Doubt it would turn up much they hadn’t already found out from their visit to Mrs Baldwin-Cooper’s secret library, but it had to be better than Option Number Three: ‘Or there’s the PM on Dr Fordyce, and the one on Councillor Mendel.’

After all, who didn’t love watching Professor Twining post-mortem partially decomposed corpses? And the sights and smells would really complement a monster hangover.

‘Hmmm...’ Dr Fife frowned out through the lounge window as Storm Findlay hammered rain into the cathedral’s stained glass. ‘There’s no point doing a geographical analysis — victims are targeted all over the place, so he doesn’t adhere to boundary conditions. Victimology has kinda limited value here, cos he’s not targeting a single type, he’s targeting multiples.’ Another round of popping and gurgling grumbled out from Dr Fife’s stomach and he rubbed at it, not taking his eyes off the jagged granite wedding cake opposite.

‘Thought you said he was going after a police officer next?’

‘Yeah, but motivationally speaking it should be someone on Operation Telegram. We know he likes targeting people in power, so you’re looking at... detective sergeant and above? Probably detective inspector.’

‘So that means: DCI Monroe; DIs Tudor and Cohen; or DSs Massie, Kilgour, and Sharp.’

‘But from a practical point of view, you don’t wanna go near them with a stick. Too dangerous — they’re on their guard, right? More chance of getting caught. What you want is a victim who ain’t on the case, so they’re...’ This time the pop and gurgle was drowned out by full-on intestinal whale song, forcing Dr Fife to curl up till it passed — teeth bared, eyes clenched shut. Finally, he straightened up, free hand pressed against his belly, mouth open until a belch rattled loose. Wincing, he smacked his lips a couple of times, then swigged down more coffee. Squirmed. ‘Damn stuff’s like Clorox mixed with burnt shit.’ He grimaced into his mug. ‘What I remember from my drinking days is: best thing for a hangover? Get yourself a whole heap of greasy carbs and processed meat. Think we should continue this discussion over one of your healthy Scottish breakfasts.’ Dr Fife knocked back the last gulp of vile coffee, shuddering as he dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Before she makes any more of that fuck-flavoured ass-water.’

The smell of hot fat and deep-fried things permeated the Walie Nieve. Being just around the corner from the Shoogly Peg, it enjoyed the same microclimate, meaning Gillian was safe to pace about outside — just visible through the café’s fogged-up windows — arguing with someone on her phone while she vaped. Behind her, the castle’s granite blade towered above the sandstone buildings, fading away into the misty drizzle.

In here, it was all painted white, with scuffed, dark-red lino on the floor; little two-seater tables featured dented legs and scratched tops; and blue plastic chairs. The wooden counter boasted a till and a heated display case full of pies.

A handful of couples and a pair of lone breakfasters occupied most of the small café, working their way through full fry-ups and assorted butties; triangular wedges of toast lined up in wire racks like small crunchy stegosauruses...

Crappy hold music burbled out of Angus’s phone as he reached across the table and liberated a spare mushroom from Dr Fife’s plate. Well, he’d finished anyway: bolting off to the toilet as the whales sang their ominous tune, leaving behind a sausage, two rashers of bacon, half a disk of black pudding, a hash brown, most of a fried egg, a lump of clootie dumpling, and at least half a dozen mushrooms.

Gillian had given up on her breakfast too, abandoning a small ham-cheese-and-mushroom omelette for the ‘breath of fresh air’ she was currently enjoying.

They’d pushed two little tables together, now littered with plates and cutlery and mugs. With nobody to tidy up the debris but Angus.

Another mushroom disappeared.

Munch, munch, munch.

He’d wiped his plate clean with the last slice of toast — leaving not so much as a smear of bean juice behind — then plonked the thing on the counter, freeing up space for the list of Kate Paisley’s homers. With a big red ‘X’ through Mrs Baldwin-Cooper’s swanky home in Auchterowan.

OK, so there was no guarantee that Ryan had worked on every one of these, but if they found a couple more, that would be something, wouldn’t it? They’d got a passable eFit out of Mrs Baldwin-Cooper; maybe Dr Fife was right and someone out there knew who Ryan was?

Question was: which address to hit next? Because—

His phone ding-buzzed in his hand, interrupting the Stylophone rendition of ‘Greensleeves’.

ELLIE:

Well, well, well. ‘Achondroplasia’. Look who got all politically correct.

Angus poked out a reply:

He frowned at the cursor.

Never mind DS Sharp’s medical search, should he tell Ellie the important news of the day or not?

She’d hardly been supportive of the whole thing.

Downright horrible, to be honest.

Yeah, but she had given him a lift last night.

And if you couldn’t tell your best friend, who could you tell?

Monroe’s tiny tinny voice scrawked out of the phone’s speaker, freezing Angus’s thumbs. ‘Angus? You still there?’

He deleted that last, unfinished line and hit ‘SEND’. Then stuck the phone to his ear. ‘Still here, Boss.’

‘And Dr Fife’s sure? About it being one of the senior officers next?’

‘Kind of. Unless Ryan’s playing it safe, in which case it’ll be someone who isn’t on the case.’

Monroe grunted. ‘Well, if it’s only DS and up, at least that means most of the team’s safe. And we’ve got another thirteen days before he tries anything.’

‘Yeah... except it might be sooner, cos he knows we’re closing in.’

You could almost hear Monroe’s face puckering at that. ‘I’m thinking of renaming you “Constable Pain In The Hoop”.’

‘Sorry, Boss.’

‘Positive thinking, Angus! We’re in a better position than we’ve been since this whole thing kicked off.’ There was a pause. ‘Speaking of which, what’s Dr Fife’s plan?’

‘We’re going to hit the rest of Kate Paisley’s homers. See if we can’t dig up something else on Ryan. They’re good at covering their tracks now, but Dr Fife thinks it might’ve taken them a while to work out the kinks. Could be clues at the earlier jobs.’

DS Massie’s voice muffled out in the background. ‘Boss?’

‘Hold on, Angus.’ Monroe must have turned away from the phone, because he got a lot quieter. ‘If it’s bad news, I don’t want to hear.’

‘Your missus on the phone: says it’s urgent. Something about a knackered boiler and flooded kitchen? She sounds really upset.’

‘They only just got that fitted! Oh, for...’ Monroe groaned like a rusty crypt door. Then he was back at full volume again: ‘Keep me informed. If you find something, anything, I want to know, ASAP.’

‘Boss.’

And he was off.

Angus slipped the phone back into his pocket and rescued the last of Dr Fife’s mushrooms.

‘I don’t think there’s anything left.’

Oops.

Angus wiped his fingertips on a napkin as Dr Fife slump-scuffed out from the door marked ‘TOILETS ARE FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY’.

He lurched back to the table. With his sunglasses hooked into the neck of his skull-and-crossbones top, the full horror of his post-vomit face was on show: pale skin, dark bags under his bloodshot blackeyes, a smear of dark-blue stubble on sallow cheeks...

‘Sorry.’ Angus pointed at the breakfast he’d just been pilfering, as the embarrassment of getting caught whooshed up his neck. ‘Thought you’d finished.’

‘Liver, spleen, kidneys, colon, stomach... All of it.’ Dr Fife collapsed into his seat. ‘Never been so sick in my life.’

Ahhh... So that’s what he’d meant by ‘nothing left’.

Dr Fife grimaced at the remains of his breakfast, then pushed it away towards Angus with a grunt.

Cool.

A sausage joined the ranks of the saved, anointed with a quick dip in red sauce. Munchity crunchity. ‘Feeling better?’

The sunglasses were unhooked and slipped into place, hiding the bruising. ‘Scratch that — there was this one time in Honduras, back when I was twenty-one. Jesus... Thought I was gonna die!’

‘They’re getting a load of calls about that eFit. Sounds like mostly time-wasters, though.’ Angus popped over to the counter, where a well-thumbed copy of that morning’s Castle News & Post lay on a pile of equally scuffed tabloids, with ‘FOR CAFE PATRONS ONLY: DO NOT STEAL!!!’ printed across the top in wonky Sharpie letters.

Dr Fife rubbed at his stomach. ‘Think it was the haggis that did it. Blood sausage is bad enough, but haggis and... what was the fried grey stuff?’

‘Clootie dumpling.’

‘Gah...’ Another shudder.

Angus held the paper out, finger pointing at the sidebar on the front page, where Mrs Baldwin-Cooper’s eFit of Ryan had been squeezed in along with ‘POLICE APPEAL FOR INFORMATION → SEE PAGE 4’. Of course, the main image was a photo of Dr Fife’s face — a telephoto shot, with a patrol car and what might’ve been the Lundys’ house in the background, beneath the headline ‘FBI SPECIALIST HELPS HAPLESS COPS’.

Dr Fife took a swig of café coffee and swirled it around. Giving it a good squoosh between his teeth, before looking around, cheeks bulging. He grabbed Gillian’s empty mug and spooted the gritty mouthful into it. Then held out a hand. ‘Give.’

‘You sure you want to—’

The fingers snap-snap-snapped.

Fair enough. Angus handed it over and Dr Fife glowered at his own face:

‘“FBI serial-killer specialist, Dr Jonathan Fife” — brackets — “fifty-four...”’ A sniff. ‘Bastards. “...flew over from California three days ago to help struggling Oldcastle Police catch Satan’s Messenger. The four-foot-five forensic psychologist...”’ He slapped the paper with the back of his hand. ‘How did these fuckers know what height I am? I’m wearing three-inch lifts, for Christ’s sake! What was the point of that?’ Slapping the newsprint again. ‘“...born with dwarfism, but that hasn’t stopped him working with US law enforcement to...” blah, blah, bullshit, bullshit, bull...’

A gurgling growl sounded, deep within his body, and Dr Fife’s eyes went wide, his face pale and shiny as spoiled milk. ‘Nope.’

He scrambled out of his seat and sprinted for the toilet again — one hand clamped over his mouth — narrowly beating a woman in a Winslow’s Supermarket tabard with a copy of Hey You! magazine tucked under one arm.

The door slammed shut and the lock clicked.

Tabard Woman threw her arms up in frustration, dropped her magazine, picked it up again with a big, hammy, did-you-see-that? sigh. Then took up position by the door, checking her watch and tutting every thirty seconds.

Angus retrieved the Castle News & Post, chewing on a cold rasher of bacon as he skimmed the front page, then flicked through to the centre spread, where Micky Slosser’s ‘exclusive’ continued. Eyes widening as he took in the horror.

Oh, that wasn’t good.

That wasn’t good at all.

40

They’d given over a whole quarter-page to the photo Ellie had shown them last night in the pub: Dr Fife smiling away, holding a hotdog and a beer, unaware he was a supporting feature in his wee girl’s selfie.

‘CATCHING KILLERS TAKES TERRIBLE TOLL ON FAMILY LIFE’ according to the headline.

The article was Slosser the Tosser’s usual overblown mix of melodrama, gossip, and run-on sentences, but three bits stood out:

And:

And best of all:

Oh yeah. Dr Fife was not going to like that one bit.

They might as well have printed a map to his daughter’s school and ex-wives’ homes.

Just have to hope the Castle News & Post wasn’t popular with US cartel bosses, mob enforcers, and serial killers.

God, it would be online as well though, wouldn’t it. Available all over the world to anyone who felt like googling Dr Fife’s name.

Slosser the bloody Tosser.

Angus removed the whole centre-page spread, folding it up and sticking it in his pocket. No matter what the Sharpie warning said.

The Walie Nieve’s door chimed, and in scuffed Gillian — cleaning her boots on the mat. She’d put on the full smoky-eyed make-up before leaving the hotel, transforming herself from a timorous, plain-Jane girl-next-door into a glamorous siren again.

Weird the way women could do that. Artfully apply a bit of colour, a squirt of hairspray, and suddenly they were a completely different person.

She smiled at him, and something in Angus’s chest lurched.

Still, too late to worry about that now.

Too late for a lot of things.

Gillian gazed off towards the toilets and its impatient, one-woman queue. ‘How is he?’

‘Says it was the haggis.’

‘It’s a challenging breakfast item if you’re not used to spicy sheep’s lungs.’

True. ‘And nothing to do with the bathtub-full of Stella and bourbon he put away last night.’

She pulled out her chair and sat. Fidgeted with her cutlery. Glanced at the newspaper, then did the same with the list of Kate Paisley’s homers — though both were upside down from her point of view.

Anything to avoid making eye contact, eh?

Angus cleared his throat. ‘Gillian, about that balding hairy bloke you—’

‘I wanted to explain. To you. While he’s not here.’ Breath. ‘About last night.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘No, it’s...’ She tore little strips from her napkin. Shifted in her seat. ‘My mum and dad joined a commune on North Uist when I was three. I grew up there. You know those Christian sects that believe in tolerance and forgiveness and love and healing?’

He nodded.

Gillian slipped her leather jacket off and pulled up one sleeve of her top, showing off that network of scar tissue. ‘The Apostles of the Shining Water weren’t that kind of sect.’

So, it wasn’t self-harm. It was child abuse.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I hated it. The rules. The prayers. The... The beatings.’ A sour laugh and she lowered her sleeve. ‘Dad loved every minute, though. Said it wasn’t enough to batter the sin out of ourselves, we had to confront the Great Sinful Outside and cleanse their sins too. On my ninth birthday the Elders caught him making pipe bombs out of fertilizer and rusty nails for a trip to Kyle of Lochalsh.’ Gillian stared down at the tattered napkin. ‘He wouldn’t recant; said we were all too soft and full of sin — even though they beat him and beat him and beat him...’ A tear welled over the edge of her bottom lid, dripping onto the back of her hand. ‘That night, I saw them load Dad onto the Apostles’ rusty old fishing boat. And that was that.’

Shit.

‘Did they...?’

She wiped at her eyes. ‘Think so.’

‘Jesus. And you were nine?’

Gillian reached for her coffee mug, but Angus plucked it from her fingers. You know, what with it being the mug Dr Fife rinsed his vomity mouth into.

‘Probably best not. It’s... cold. We’ll get some fresh.’

‘Yes. Of course.’ She looked up for the first time since sitting down, gazing at him with glittering, pink-rimmed eyes. ‘That’s why I... You see, Jonathan: he’s... like me. He knows what growing up with all that’ — Gillian made a crackly gesture with both hands — ‘craziness is like. I’m sorry.’

Angus sat back in his seat.

What a bloody awful childhood. No wonder she’d grown into a strange wee person: with her scars, and her inferiority complex, and her conspiracy theories. Doing her best to make sense of a world that must be a million miles from the violent, religious hellhole she grew up in.

He reached across the table and patted her hand. ‘It’s OK. Honestly.’

A small smile made more tears break free and she wiped them away. ‘Plus, my therapist says I have serious daddy issues, so: you know.’

He passed her another napkin. ‘Did anyone tell the police — about the Apostles...?’

‘Dumping Dad’s body in the Minch?’ She blew her nose on the napkin, all wet and snottery. ‘Who’d care? We’re just “religious nutters”, right?’

And speaking of nutters:

The loo door swung open and out slumped Dr Fife, pale and sweaty, shambling towards the table like a partially reanimated corpse.

Tabard Woman threw him a sharp ‘About time!’ then hurried inside to spend some quality time with her magazine. Locking the door behind her.

Gillian stood. ‘Jonathan? Are you all right?’

‘Feeling much better now, thanks.’ Patting his stomach as he leaned on the tabletop as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. ‘Yeah... constitution like a concrete buffalo.’

‘Maybe you should go back to the hotel? Lie down for a bit.’

‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ Sweat beaded across his top lip and forehead. ‘Got a killer to catch.’ He dug out his wallet, but it slipped from his fingers as he tried to open it — hitting the table next to his plate, setting the cutlery rattling. Dr Fife blinked at it. Swallowed hard. ‘Any chance you could sort the check out, Angus? I’m gonna get some fresh air.’ He walked to the café door on stiff legs, struggled the door open, then tottered out into the misty drizzle. Soon as he was six feet from the door, he grabbed the nearest lamppost — propping himself upright and looking as if he was either about to collapse or puke himself inside out.

Yeah...

Gillian scrunched up her snotty napkin and dumped it in the vomity coffee. ‘You will look after him, won’t you?’

‘Course I will.’ Angus waved for the bill. ‘We’re only going to visit a few places today, nothing strenuous.’ Tucking the list back into his jacket pocket.

She frowned out through the window at the rounded figure. ‘Thanks, Angus, you’re a good friend.’

And, sadly, nothing more.

Dr Fife slouched back against the Mini’s bonnet, face in his hands. ‘Have you not finished yet?’

The car park round the back of the Bishop’s View Hotel was a dark hole of a place, hemmed in by the buildings on either side — three storeys of rain-darkened grey with mean-spirited windows glaring down on the rectangle of potholed tarmac. The far end wasn’t much better — a red-brick cliff face, pockmarked with mullioned glass and an archway out onto Wheelwright Road.

Angus shifted his grip on the spanner, undoing a locking nut that held Dr Fife’s pedal extension in place — freeing it from the accelerator. Then went back in again for the one fixed to the brake.

You’d think it would be sheltered in here, with buildings on all four sides, but the wind swirled around the car park, spinning leaves and empty takeaway containers into a scabby semi-cyclone. But at least it’d stopped raining before the puddles had joined together into a full-blown loch.

‘Ha!’ One last twist and the metal contraption came free. He clanked it onto the driver’s seat, along with its companion, and stood. ‘Finished.’

Dr Fife didn’t show his face, just groaned and drooped even further.

Angus carried the pedal extenders round to the boot. ‘What was it you said about people not being able to “hold their liquor”?’

No reply.

He wedged them in under the box of custom SOC suits, so they wouldn’t rattle around back there. ‘Where do you want to go first? Start with the oldest and work forward, or with the newest and go back? Or with the nearest, and sort of spiral out?’

‘I can hold my liquor just fine.’

Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that.

Angus closed the boot, then opened the passenger door and held it, till Dr Fife scuffed over and collapsed inside with a whimper.

‘Oh yeah.’ Smiling as he closed the door. ‘Now who’s the lightweight?’

Angus stripped off his high-vis, then squeezed himself in behind the wheel. Fiddled with the seat till there was room to breathe and he wasn’t sardined against the controls any more. Dumped his borrowed jacket on the back seat.

Dr Fife scowled across the car. ‘Can we get on with it, please?’

‘Hold on.’ He dug into his pocket and held out a fistful of carrier bags. ‘In case you’re caught short. With the vomiting.’ Cheery smile. ‘Don’t want you losing your deposit on the nice clean hire car.’

He started the engine, shifted the lever to ‘R’, and eased backwards out of their spot as the drizzle started up again. Speckling the windscreen.

The Mini jerked to a hard stop, lurching them both back into their seats.

A wee cry burst free, and Dr Fife grabbed the dashboard. ‘Are you trying to make me hurl?’

‘Sorry. Not used to driving an automatic.’ He shoved the lever forward to ‘D’ and crept the Mini out past rows of expensive motor cars, making for the exit. ‘So oldest to newest, or—’

The car slammed to a sudden halt again, throwing them forwards into their seatbelts as they emerged through the narrow archway, ready to join the road.

‘Aaaargh!’

‘Sorry. Keep thinking I’m pressing the clutch.’

Dr Fife scrunched his face up, eyes closed, teeth bared. ‘Oldest, newest, I don’t care. Just stop driving like a dick!’

‘Oldest it is, then.’ He pulled onto Wheelwright Road, with its expensive shops and twee tearooms, and the car lurched to another abrupt stop. Angus definitely wasn’t smiling. Not even a little bit. Honest. ‘Sorry.’

And they were off again, before Dr Fife could start swearing or crying.

Or possibly both...

Mrs Jessica Woodry: 32 Guillemot Crescent — 09:00

It was a bland beige-and-magnolia semi in a row of bland beige-and-magnolia semis in a bland beige-and-magnolia housing estate in Logansferry.

Mrs Woodry blew another cloud of cigarette smoke out the open lounge window, fiddling with the tie of her baggy hoody, a tabby cat rubbing against the hem of her bow-legged jeans. ‘Yeah, well, it was cheaper than all the other cowboys quoted, and she did a good job.’

Outside, the sky was dark as a politician’s heart — rain clattering down.

‘Right.’ Angus nodded, scribbling that into his notebook. ‘And she rewired the whole place?’

‘If she’s not paid tax on it, that’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Uh-huh. And what about joinery: you get any woodwork done?’

Mrs Woodry sooked on her cigarette’s filter, making the glowing tip fizzzz. ‘Mind you, what’s the point of paying tax? The buggers only spend it on giving their rich mates contracts and screwing us over!’

‘Yes, but did you get any—’

‘Don’t need to. My Colin’s father-in-law’s a joiner.’

Fair enough.

Mr Albert Gartly: 144 York Street — 09:20

For some reason, Mr Gartly thought it was acceptable for a man in his late sixties to dye his hair boot-polish black. It was fooling no one. And neither were the bright-white trainers, turn-ups on his jeans, or My Chemical Romance T-shirt. His third-floor flat was all leather and chrome too, as if he’d hit a three-quarter-life crisis and set up as a ‘groovy’ bachelor.

He leaned against the kitchen’s central island, overlooking the storm-tossed garden at the back of the building, flicking the switch on a big range cooker, off and on and off and on. ‘You see, soon as I got it installed, it kept blowing the fuses every time I turned it on, and Kate was simply a marvel.’ His eyes went all misty and wistful. ‘I don’t know what I would’ve done without her.’

Ms Imogen McCormack: 12 Miller Row — 09:40

‘No woodwork at all?’ Angus tried not to look as Ms McCormack bent all the way over to touch her toes in skintight Lycra running shorts.

It was a lovely big house in Castleview, part of a long Georgian terrace. Three storeys of sharp sandstone, overlooking a church where the funeral directors were busy carrying a coffin up the steps, ready for the performance to begin. Ignoring the lashing rain as if it were an earthly matter of no concern to them or their client.

Ms McCormack balanced on one leg, the other foot pulled up to her buttock. A bright-pink sweatband pinned down her bouncy brown curls, a towel draped over her shoulder as she limbered up. The elliptical trainer, in the corner of the living room, looked as if it’d never been used as a clothes horse in its life. ‘Well, the Paisley woman said she had a mate who could refit the study, but the cost was astronomical. What’s wrong with Ikea? That’s what I want to know.’

‘Yeah. Right.’ As if Angus could even aspire to the giddy heights of a Billy bookcase.

His eyes drifted back to the window. The garden out back might be huge, but the one in front of the house was a more modest rectangle of grass, separated from the road by a wrought-iron fence. Dr Fife’s Mini sat right outside it, with the man himself zonked out in the passenger seat. So no help there, then.

He frowned. ‘Don’t suppose this friend of hers gave you a written estimate?’

A snort. ‘If they did, it went in the bin months ago. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s clutter.’ Which explained why, apart from the elliptical trainer and the yoga mat, the lounge was minimalist and immaculate. She stuck her elbows out, twisting her spine from one side to the other. ‘Now is there anything else? Only I’ve got a Zoom meeting with the Italians at half ten and I really need to get my five miles in before then.’

Mrs Harriet Sneddon: The Elms, Dunross Street — 10:15

Angus grimaced out at the storm, zipped up his high-vis, then stepped out of the swish townhouse, just down the road from Moffat Park. Very nice. It even had an old oak tree out front — naked branches shuddering in the wind — with a Jaguar parked underneath it.

He turned and nodded at Mrs Sneddon. ‘Thanks.’

She ran a hand through her grey hair, and smiled back. ‘Are you sure you can’t stay for tea?’ All wrapped up in her chinos and bulky Icelandic jumper. ‘I have chocolate cake?’

Which was seriously tempting.

Angus hunched his back against the weather. ‘I’d love to, but I’m on duty.’ And they had a killer on the loose. ‘Thanks anyway. Sorry.’

She stayed at the open door, waving as he scarpered down the path.

He waved back, then scrambled in behind the Mini’s wheel.

‘Gah...’ God, it was horrible out there.

It was horrible in here too — the cheesy-bitter stink of vomit-soured breath mingling with a sort of damp-dog fug.

Dr Fife was slumped in the passenger seat — reclined all the way back — mouth hanging open. Face pale and waxy, with a faint sheen of sweat. Snoring away.

Hard to imagine why any woman wouldn’t find that devastatingly attractive.

Angus wiped the rain from his face and shook it into the footwell. Then reached over and prodded him with a damp finger. ‘You awake?’

‘No...’

‘How much did you drink when you got back to the hotel? I mean, I’ve seen hangovers before, but you belong in the record books. Or the mortuary.’

‘Funny. Hilarious.’ Dr Fife winced his way up, bringing the seatback with him. ‘Just ain’t used to it like I once was. Outta practice.’ He squinted out through the shimmering windscreen. ‘Anything?’

‘Nah. So far everyone’s had electrical work done and sod-all joinery.’ Seatbelt. Engine. But Angus didn’t drive off, he sat there, frowning across the car at the forensic psychologist’s trembling corpse. ‘You want to get some coffee or something? Maybe yoghurt? Put a bit of lining on your stomach? Or are you more a hair-of-the-dog person?’

That got him a grimace. ‘If I die, don’t let the bastards bury me here. I hate—’

‘“This city”. Yeah, you mentioned that.’

‘And I’m not some sort of alcoholic, OK? Yeah, I was the kinda guy who liked to party, but soon as I stopped, I stopped. No cravings, no DTs, no nothing.’ He wiped a hand across his sweaty face. ‘Never been to a goddamned “meeting” in my life.’

‘OK...’ Angus pulled away from the kerb, pausing only for a farewell wave to Mrs Sneddon, who still stood in her open door.

A lonely old widow, with no kids and a bunch of dead friends.

What was the point of a swish house and chocolate cake if you had no one to share them with?

Christ, that was a cheery thought...

Shite. Buggery. Crap. Shite. Shite.

Angus high-stepped around the puddles, one hand holding his fold-out hood from flipping back, the other clutching the paper bag to his chest as he hurried across the parking area, making for the Mini.

In summer, this was a favourite spot for families and romantic trysts — overlooking the downhill sweep of Montgomery Park, past the trees, the leisure centre, the boating lake, the swathes of emerald grass... But today the whole area was drained of colour, and there wasn’t much visible beyond the dark mass of Kings River: swallowed by undulating sheets of grey rain.

Not surprisingly, they hadn’t exactly struggled to find a parking spot. The only other soul out here was a figure lumbering across the sodden grounds with a drookit spaniel and a misbehaving umbrella.

And good luck to them.

Angus leapt into the Mini, making the whole thing bounce as he landed in the driver’s seat. ‘It’s getting worse out there.’

No response.

Because Dr Fife was sparked out again, lying flat in his reclined seat, snoring like a rusty bandsaw, with that greatcoat doing blanket duty. The kindest thing might be to pull it up over his face and call the pathologist.

But they still had work to do.

Angus poked him. ‘Hoy, Rip Van Lightweight!’

He struggled to the surface, blackened eyes squinting in the cold grey light. ‘’M’wake. ’M’wake...’ Then peered across the car. ‘Oh, not you again...’

‘That’s what I get for doing you a favour?’ Angus held out the paper bag. ‘You want this or not?’

‘Hmmph.’ He thumped back onto his improvised bed. ‘I don’t need more sick bags.’

‘Look inside.’

There was a suspicious pause, then Dr Fife dipped into the bag, coming out with a big carton of off-brand chocolate-flavoured yoghurt drink.

Angus nodded. ‘And I bought that with my own money, so you’re welcome.’

Dr Fife blinked at the container, then twisted off the lid and took a sip. Rocked his head from side to side a couple of times, then shrugged. ‘Could be worse.’

It was so nice to be appreciated.

Angus unzipped his high-vis and gave it a shoogle, making his own private cloudburst in the footwell. ‘You can score Steven McFall off the list as well. Didn’t get any joinery done: new bathroom suite and set of smoke alarms. But it wasn’t Ryan who did the plumbing and tiling, Kate Paisley brought a woman along for that bit.’

Dr Fife knocked back a much bigger swig. ‘Another disciple?’

‘Who knows? It was that long ago, Mr McFall can’t remember her name or what she looked like; didn’t ask questions; paid in cash.’

‘I see...’ Frowning out through the window at the storm-whipped park, drinking chocolate yoghurt, and rubbing his stomach. Then: ‘How many we got left?’

‘Half a dozen. Two more in Blackwall Hill, one in the Wynd, one in Castleview, one in Shortstaine, and number six is a fancy-sounding place just north of the city.’

‘You know what I think? I think...’ He lowered the carton as some sort of uptown funk rattled out from an inside pocket. He fumbled it out, one-handed, without looking, and held it as far away as his arm would reach. Flinching in the opposite direction. ‘You... do it.’

Great.

Sidekick and secretary. Lucky him.

But Angus accepted it anyway and pressed the button. ‘Dr Fife’s phone. Can I help you?’

‘Angus?’ It was Gillian’s voice, only higher and a bit strangled. ‘Is everything OK? Did something happen to—’

‘He’s fine. Just too lazy to answer his own phone.’

Dr Fife gave him the finger, but clearly his heart wasn’t in it.

‘Thank God for that... I just wanted to make sure he was OK and you weren’t... you know.’ A breath. ‘Fighting.’

Yeah...

Looking at the shrivelled, yoghurty lump in the passenger seat, chances were a stiff fart would’ve killed him. Never mind actual fighting.

Speaking of dead bodies:

Angus took a deep breath. ‘Gillian, I think you should make a formal statement: about your dad. I mean, I can raise it with my boss, but it’d really help if we had names and dates and things.’

Silence.

‘I know he was an abusive monster, and you deserved better, but if they really did kill him—’

‘So...’ Her voice positively ached with forced brightness. ‘...how are you getting on with your list? Of places you’re visiting?’

‘We’ve got a specialist unit dedicated to cold cases, and they’ve got a really good track record, so—’

‘Just, if you’re in the neighbourhood we could maybe meet up for lunch? I could bring a picnic or something?’

‘Gillian—’

‘Well, I say “picnic”’ — the words getting faster and faster — ‘I know it’s not really the weather for a picnic, but sometimes that’s fun, isn’t it, in the car when it’s raining, like you’re a kid again, but you’re warm and dry and safe, because nobody’s trying to batter the sin out of you...’

The only sound was the storm, clawing at the Mini’s roof.

Dr Fife slugged away at his chocolate stomach-liner.

Angus sighed. ‘Just think about it, OK?’

It was barely a whisper: ‘Sorry. I can’t...’ Then the forced cheeriness returned. ‘Where are you?’

‘Drinking yoghurt in Montgomery Park. Even the ducks have gone home.’

The breath caught in her throat. ‘I am sorry, Angus. For everything.’

‘Yeah.’ His shoulders dipped. ‘Me too.’ Then he hung up, sat there staring down at the blank phone screen.

Dr Fife nudged him. ‘Are you still moping about that?’

‘What? No. Course not.’ A half-shrug. ‘None of my business.’

‘Anyway, you’ve got Ellie.’

‘I don’t “have” anyone — we’re friends, that’s all.’

‘Pfff... I’ve seen the way Ellie acts. The way she gets a bug up her ass every time Gillian talks to you.’ He took a yoghurty swig. ‘Sooner or later you’ll both get shitfaced somewhere and try it on. And yes: it’ll be clumsy and embarrassing, but maybe it’ll go somewhere? Maybe you’ll wind up with someone you love who loves you back.’

Chance would be a fine thing.

Angus forced a smile. ‘You think?’

Dr Fife nodded, then toasted him with the carton. ‘Maybe — in this wild, crazy adventure we call life — the real treasure is the friends we bang along the way.’

41

Mr Daniel Hilson: 72 Thurbury Drive — 11:45

Angus held on to his high-vis’s hood, hurrying down the driveway, past a boxy old Volvo estate that had to be an antique. From here, high up on Blackwall Hill, there was little more than a handful of waterlogged fields between the row of nondescript bungalows and the lowering skies. No sweeping views across the city — everything had been swallowed by a maw of soggy grey.

He yanked open the Mini’s door and hurled himself in behind the wheel.

Shuddered.

Dripped.

Sagged.

Dr Fife was fast asleep, yet again. Bone dry, wrapped up cosy in his greatcoat blanket, while Angus did all the running about in the horrible rain and the yuck.

Still, at least he didn’t look like a greasy cadaver any more. In a dimly lit room, he might even pass for human.

Angus thumped him one. ‘Are you going to actually do something today?’

‘Arrgh! ’M’wake!’ Fife wrestled his way upright. Blinking. ‘Where...?’ Then a wince. ‘Oh Christ... Not this again.’ Dr Fife slumped back down, wiping the drool from his Vandyke. ‘Anything?’

‘Detective Constable Angus MacVicar saves the day.’ Stretching the pause for effect. ‘Mr Hilson got a built-in wardrobe made for his master bedroom by guess who?’ Angus produced the eFit and gave it a shoogle. ‘Ta-daaaa.’

Dr Fife sat up again. ‘Ryan.’

‘Only he didn’t call himself “Ryan”, he called himself “Jack MacKinnoch”, and he left an actual invoice. Once again: ta-daaaa!’ He held up the printout, but where the eFit was all creased from being folded and stuffed in a pocket over and over again, the invoice was safely ensconced in a clear-plastic document sleeve. ‘There’s even an address!’

Angus pulled out his phone and scrolled through the contacts to ‘DCI MONROE’. Sitting there as it rang. And rang. And rang. And rang...

An electronic voice emanated from the handset: ‘YOU HAVE REACHED THE TECHZEDMOBILE MESSAGING SERVICE FOR...’

Then Monroe, awkward and stilted: ‘Blair Monroe.’

‘PLEASE LEAVE A MESSAGE AFTER THE TONE.’

Bleeeeeeep.

‘Boss? It’s Angus. DC MacVicar? I think we’ve got an ID for Ryan. I’ll try DS Massie. OK, bye.’ He hung up and called her instead, putting a hand over the microphone as it rang. ‘Wasn’t answering his phone.’

A scowl. ‘Thank you for this important update.’

‘That yoghurt must be working if you’ve got the energy to be a sarcastic—’

‘What?’ DS Massie didn’t exactly sound friendly. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Sarge? Think I know Ryan’s real name!’

‘So do half the nutters in Oldcastle. Got two hundred and thirty-six potential IDs to wade through as it is.’

Time to impress: ‘Yeah, but mine comes from an invoice he gave for a homer in Blackwall Hill. “Jack MacKinnoch”, Flat Nine F, Blackburn Court.’

‘Pffff...’ Well, maybe impress was too strong a word. ‘Hold on.’ Her voice went all muffled. ‘Monster Munch: PNC on one Jack MacKinnoch... I know you are, but that’s the upside of me outranking you. Hop to it... I heard that!’ Then Massie was back to full volume. ‘Honestly, the Boss sods off for a couple of hours and they all think it’s Lord of the Flies.’ A sniff. ‘How many more places have you got to visit?’

Angus pulled out the list, drawing a red line through ‘D HILSON, 72 THURBURY DRIVE, BWH’. Which meant they had: ‘Four left.’

‘Then you’ll be finished in plenty of time to make Dr Fordyce’s post mortem, won’t you.’

Oh, buggering hell.

Just what they needed...

Her voice went distant and fuzzy again. ‘Monster Munch: where’s my PNC check?’

An even fainter Monster Munch grumbled out an answer. ‘Aye, aye, keep yer knickers on, Yer Majesty. Jack MacKinnoch, twenty-seven; three parking tickets and a decree for no’ paying his rent; chippy wi’ the coonsil.’

Excitement crackled out of DS Massie. ‘You wee beauty!’

And there it was.

Angus turned to Dr Fife. ‘MacKinnoch’s a joiner with Oldcastle City Council!’ They sodding had him.

Then Monster Munch had to go and ruin it all: ‘Died three years ago, when a scaffy’s wagon took a shortcut through his van. Mind the Parkway was closed for twa days? Nightmare.’

Angus groaned.

So close...

Dr Fife stared at him, one eyebrow raised.

Wind rocked the Mini.

A stampede of rain turned the windscreen opaque.

On the other end of the phone, all the excitement drained from DS Massie’s voice. ‘Let me guess, he lived at—’

‘Blackburn Court, Nine F. Got a family of Afghani asylum seekers staying there now.’

‘You hear that, Sherlock?’

Angus drooped back in his seat. ‘Sarge.’

‘So keep looking. PM’s at two. Sharp.’ And the line went dead.

He covered his face with his hands and let loose a wee moan. ‘Shite...’ Before taking a deep breath and peering out between his fingers. ‘Jack MacKinnoch died in a collision with a... you’d call it a “garbage truck”, three years ago. Address was the deceased’s flat.’

‘Hmmm...’ Dr Fife frowned as wind sang its way around the door seals. ‘This might not be as bad as it looks. OK, so maybe Ryan just saw the notice in the papers, and thought “Yeah, I’m having that as an alias,” or maybe he knew this Jack MacKinnoch personally. They’re both joiners, right?’ Dr Fife sat up, bringing the reclined seat with him. ‘Maybe Ryan thinks “No way I’m paying tax on some piece-of-shit side-hustle job, but this guy wants an invoice, so I gotta get myself a fake name to put on it, and who better than my dead buddy? Not like he’s gonna complain if the IRS turn up at his grave.”’

He nodded to himself a couple of times, bottom lip pulled in between his teeth, as if he was tasting the idea. Then pointed. ‘Call Massie back and tell her to get her flat ass round to whatever council department runs the maintenance and construction crews here. Flash that identikit picture about, knock some heads together if they gotta.’

Flat ass?

Angus curled one shoulder up. ‘I am not going to tell her that.’

‘Pussy.’

‘Yeah. No more yoghurt for you.’

Dr Fife pulled out his mobile. ‘Fine: I’ll tell her.’

He was on his own with that one. Some people just had a death wish, and—

Angus’s phone ding-buzzed.

DCI MONROE:

Wow...

He stared at the screen. Read the text message again. Then a third time.

Holy shit.

On the other side of the car, Dr Fife was being an arsehole to DS Massie. ‘Cos I say so, that’s why. Why’d you think your boss got me in from the States: cos I know stuff, sweetheart, so get those—’

Angus hit him on the arm. ‘Hang up.’

But Dr Fife just turned his back. ‘Yeah, that’s right, I said “sweetheart”.’

Angus hit him again. ‘Hang up!’

He scowled from the passenger seat, still on the phone. ‘Oh yeah? Well—’

Time to go for the full dead-arm treatment.

Thwack.

‘HANG UP!’

‘Sonofabitch!’ Dr Fife finally did what he was told, rubbing at the muscle Angus just punched. ‘What the hell?’

Angus opened his mouth, ready to read him DCI Monroe’s text...

Yes, but what if Dr Fife was part of the ‘no one’ he wasn’t supposed to tell?

Monroe knew he’d be with the forensic psychologist — told him he had to stick to the guy like seagull poop — so when he wrote ‘Tell no one and bring Dr Fife with you’ maybe that’s because it was OK for Angus to tell Dr Fife? But if that was the case, why say ‘Tell no one’?

Angus’s mouth clicked shut again.

Might be a good idea to play this safe. After all, Dr Fife would find out when they got to Wardmill anyway.

For better or worse.

Dr Fife glared at him. ‘Well?’

‘It’s just... we should probably go there ourselves. To the council’s Works Department.’ OK, that was good. ‘Like you said about not trusting idiots to do the important jobs?’

The glare turned into a frown. ‘Yeah, I’m probably right.’ He launched a backhander into Angus’s arm. ‘But no more hitting!’ Giving Angus’s arm another slap.

‘Sorry. Got carried away. You know, in all the excitement.’

‘Hmmph.’ Dr Fife settled back in his seat, eyes closed. ‘Of course I was right. Always am.’

A long flat breath hissed through Angus’s lips.

Seemed to have got away with it.

He looked at the text one last time:

No way this would end well.

Angus started the car and headed off into the storm.

Wardmill was one of those old planned villages, set up by rich mill owners so they could play philanthropist as they controlled every aspect of their workforce’s lives. It sat just outside Oldcastle proper, on the other side of the Swinney, a mix of terraced sandstone houses on the uphill side, and red-brick warehouses and repurposed factories on the down. The kind of buildings trendy IT firms and hipster breweries moved into.

Dr Fife snored gently in the passenger seat as Angus stuck to the exact speed limit. Because what if he got pulled over for speeding? Or dodgy driving? Word would get back to DS Massie and the rest of the team before you could say ‘Investigation compromised’ and God knew what would happen then.

Angus took the turning onto Farfield Road, a swanky street of big houses on the westernmost edge of the village, all sitting in great-big gardens with mature trees and sprawling rhododendrons — their colours muted in the cold, grey light.

Edengrange was halfway down, guarded by a pair of stone gateposts topped with a carved mermaid on one side and a harpy on the other.

Quick check in the rear-view mirror to make sure he wasn’t being followed, and Angus drove between the two, scrunching onto a gravel driveway that ended in a turning circle boasting a Range Rover Sport and a little red hatchback.

The house was huge. A three-storey mansion masquerading as a castle, complete with battlements and an iron-banded front door. Big double garage, off to one side. Eight-foot stone wall around the property. The only thing missing was a moat.

Don’t know what DCI Monroe’s wife did for a living, but there was no way he could afford this on a police officer’s salary.

A big magnolia tree sat beside the drive. The poor thing was in early bloom, and Storm Findlay had battered the living hell out of the opened buds, scattering pink-and-purple petals all over the two parked cars and the driveway. The vast rhododendron on the other side of the garage had got as far as budding, but hadn’t risked going any further — its thick green leaves shining like slabs of liver as the bush bucked and writhed in the wind.

Angus parked between the Range Rover and the hatchback.

Guess now they’d find out what this was all about.

He huffed out a breath.

Nodded.

Switched off the engine.

Then poked Dr Fife. ‘We’re here.’

‘Mmmph! Wake! ’M’wake...’ Snorking and spluttering upright. ‘Where...?’ He peered out at the rain-battered garden. ‘What?’ Then undid his seatbelt. ‘This is the council building? Bit small, isn’t it?’

‘No.’ Angus climbed out into the storm, slamming the car door and hauling up his hood.

Gusts of wind shoved and barged past him, whipping the bushes around the driveway, making the trees shudder and creak. Rain pummelling his back as he crunched his way towards the grand stone portico with its twee fake-portcullis and great wooden door. Off to one side, a leylandii hedge thrashed like a monster, ready to break free and devour all that stood in its way.

The portico, when he reached it, was like a little oasis of calm and sanity.

That is, until Dr Fife arrived. He bustled in out of the rain, hackles up. ‘This ain’t no council building. You wanna tell me what’s going on?’

‘Your guess is good as mine.’

Angus reached for the doorbell... then stopped.

Never mind locked, Edengrange’s front door wasn’t even shut. It swung halfway open, then clunked back again, deadbolt bouncing off the lock as wind billowed across the house’s façade.

Dr Fife pulled his chin in. ‘What kinda asshole doesn’t close their front door in this?’

Angus reached for the handle.

‘Careful!’ He grabbed Angus’s arm. ‘Just in case.’

‘Maybe the latch is dodgy or something?’

‘Or maybe it ain’t.’

Yeah... He was probably right.

It was a struggle, getting a pair of nitrile gloves on over his damp hands, but Angus wriggled his fingers more or less into place. ‘Right.’ He took hold of the handle and pushed the door wide, revealing a decent-sized porch with a bench seat down one side — wellies underneath. Coats hanging opposite. The floor: one big swathe of sisal matting.

It squelched beneath Angus’s feet as he tiptoed inside. Soggy from all the rain that’d blown in through the swinging door.

The inner door was partially glazed, but the hall behind it was dark, making it hard to pick out any details beyond a big staircase lurking there. A couple of red teardrops marked the glass — glistening and sticky. What looked like a scarlet fingerprint was smeared across the handle. And the whole door rattled in its frame as the wind gusted.

Dr Fife inched up beside him, voice compressed to a whisper: ‘Yeah, I’m getting a real bad feeling about this. We should call it in.’

‘Course we should.’

Trouble was: who to call? If the investigation was compromised, any one of them could be... what, working for the Fortnight Killer? Nah, that sounded insane. But you didn’t become a detective chief inspector by being an idiot, and DCI Monroe’s text was very clear: Tell no one...

Deep breath.

Angus opened the internal door and slipped into a large hallway: wooden panelling halfway up the walls, beneath a liberal sprinkling of photos and paintings; black-blue-and-white tiles on the floor; that big staircase sweeping up to the left, curling around as it rose to a balcony that ran around three sides of the open space.

Cold enough that his breath misted in front of his face, before fading away.

Five or six panel doors led off the hallway, but a line of teeny red dots marked a path across the tiles, leading to — or from — only one of them. It lay slightly ajar on the right-hand side, nearest the entrance.

Dr Fife stayed in the porch, but his whisper got sharper. ‘Why aren’t you calling this in?’

‘Stay right there.’ Angus crept across the hall, following the trail of blood.

‘What, you suddenly lost the fence post up your ass? Now’s not the time to lose the fence-post up your ass!’

Angus raised a finger and leaned one ear towards the narrow gap between the panel door and the frame.

There was a faint... something. Hard to make out. Maybe breathing?

He pulled back. Braced himself. Placed his palm against the wood, but nowhere near the handle — the other side, by the hinges, to avoid contaminating any potential fingerprints.

In three. Two. One.

He shoved the door wide and lunged into what was clearly a dining room.

The curtains were drawn, but a chandelier hung from the high ceiling, casting its glittering light over yet more wood panelling, oil paintings, a sideboard, and a Welsh dresser full of fancy china. A pair of mahogany standard lamps added their illumination from the far side of a large walnut dining table with matching chairs.

But all of that faded away as Angus stared at the star of the show: a middle-aged woman, dressed in a blue-and-white Breton top, sitting directly opposite the door, with both hands screwed palms-down to the tabletop.

Bright scarlet blossomed down the front of her stripy top, spreading out from the Post-it note screwed to the middle of her chest: ‘COME AND GET ME!’ A heavy gag of black material stretching her mouth wide.

Her eyes glittered from the dark sockets, mascara streaks running down both cheeks. Glaring at him as he stood there, staring like a numpty.

Holy crap... She was alive.

42

The woman’s eyes widened, throat clenching as she screamed behind the gag.

Angus stared.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

But he had to call an ambulance. Had to call for backup. Forensics. The whole circus. No matter what DCI Monroe said.

And he had to get her out of here.

Screwdriver.

He needed a screwdriver.

Where the hell did...

Wait: Dr Fife had one in that multitool thing of his — the one he’d used to unscrew the vent-cover in Sean McGilvary’s bedroom.

Angus forced the tremble out of his voice: ‘It’s going to be OK. I need to get—’

A loud bang sounded out in the hall somewhere, like a door slamming.

He spun around, knees bent, hands raised in the defensive position just like they taught you in Officer Safety Training.

But there was no one there.

He glanced over his shoulder.

She was yelling something at him, behind the gag, but all that came out were muffled grunts and growls.

‘Just... Shh... OK? Sorry. I’ll only be a minute.’ He tiptoed to the open door and peered out into the hall as she shouted and shouted and shouted at his back.

No sign of anyone.

‘Dr Fife?’

The porch door was shut. Probably the wind. But you’d think Dr Fife would’ve been in the way. Or stopped it. Or something.

Angus stepped out onto the tiles, pulling his phone from his pocket — still safely cocooned in its ziplock bag.

OK.

Had to call someone.

Question was: who?

He eased the porch door open... but Dr Fife was nowhere to be seen. Nothing in here but wellies and coats and a drowned welcome mat.

The front door was shut too — which meant someone had unsnibbed the deadbolt.

He marched over there and yanked the door wide, letting in a spattering of ice-cold rain. ‘Dr Fife?’

The three cars were exactly where they should’ve been. The wind battered more blossom from the magnolia, while the rhododendron snarled and writhed.

‘DR FIFE!’

Still nothing.

Angus closed the door again.

Yeah, this wasn’t good.

Deep breath.

Time to call Control.

He stepped back inside and listened to it ring.

A cheery female voice burst out of the speaker: ‘Aye, aye? If it’s no’ DC MacVicar! Battered any good suspects lately?’

Angus snibbed the deadbolt, making sure no one was sneaking into the house behind him, then strode across the hall. ‘I need backup and an ambulance: right now!’ He threw open the door opposite the dining room — a cosy lounge, with leather sofas, tastefully decorated in country tones.

No one there.

Control went straight into professional mode: ‘Go ahead.’

The next room was a study. Wall-to-wall bookcases and a standing desk.

Still no sign of Dr Fife.

‘DCI Monroe’s house: Edengrange, Farfield Road, Wardmill. Don’t know the postcode.’

Door Number Three revealed a small WC.

Unoccupied.

‘Got an IC-One female with severe injuries to both hands and chest. Possibly other trauma. Think it’s Monroe’s wife.’

Door Four: a brand-new kitchen, with nice units and worktops. None of which looked in the least bit flooded. Not so much as a puddle on the fancy, patterned tiles.

‘Monroe’s missing — possibly abducted.’

‘Shite...’ There was a pause, filled with the staccato clatter of a computer keyboard. ‘DC MacVicar, can you—’

‘It was the Fortnight Killer.’ He checked around the back of the central island: no Dr Fife. ‘Don’t know if I disturbed Ryan before he could kill her, but Mrs Monroe’s screwed to the dining-room table.’

More keyboard noises.

Angus locked the back door, then stepped out into the hall again. ‘Hello?’

‘Hud oan... Right. Ambulance is on its way. Rerouting nearest patrol cars...’

‘Might need roadblocks on Wardmill Road and the A9405.’

‘Working on it.’ A scrunching sound muffled her voice. ‘Brucie! Get the Operation Telegram bods on the blower — code black, DCI Monroe’s house!’ Then she must’ve let go of the headset’s microphone, because everything was clear again. ‘OK, the phone’s going to go quiet for a wee bit: I need to make a couple of calls. Find somewhere safe to hole up and protect the victim till backup arrives.’

‘Roger.’

‘And don’t do anything stupid, like getting yourself killed!’

Then silence.

Not even hold music.

Not getting killed sounded like a good idea.

He did a quick three-sixty, scanning the upper balcony, then backed towards the dining room, keeping his eyes on the stairs and the landing above.

‘DR FIFE! Where the wanking hell have you—’

A voice. Right behind him. Smug and cold: ‘Should’ve run when you had the chance.’

43

Angus spun around, already halfway into the defensive position when a pickaxe handle slammed into his shoulder.

Fire raced across his back and down his left arm, the nerves burning as he staggered.

‘Hoooo-yeah!’ A broad-shouldered wee hardman with a Freddie Mercury moustache grinned at him. Curly hair sticking out from under a blue Oldcastle Warriors woolly hat. Gold tooth at the front. About the same age as Angus, but in plaster-spattered grey overalls. Work boots. Yellow-and-orange work gloves wrapped around the pickaxe handle, holding it like a short sword. ‘You big bastards is all the same. All mouth, but sod-all in the trouser department.’ He tossed the handle into the air, caught it, and swung it — all in one fluid motion.

The end cracked against the side of Angus’s head, sending him sprawling. Yellow-and-brown lights flashed through the walls and ceiling, accompanied by the sound of a thousand funeral bells.

He hit the ground hard, phone flying from his hand to spin across the tiles towards the open dining-room door.

‘You’re surplus to requirements, Big Guy!’

Bastard...

Angus shoved himself over, onto his front, and crawled after his phone. Blood trickled down the side of his face, spattering onto the blue-black-and-white tiles, smearing beneath his hands.

The man with the moustache followed, ambling along. Using his weapon as a swagger stick. ‘Lucky for you, really.’

Don’t stop: keep moving.

‘See: I’ve got a cell ready and waiting, and a whole heap of toys to show you what we do with Elite wankers.’ He grabbed the pickaxe handle in both hands, raised it over his head, then clattered it down on Angus’s left forearm.

A horrible cracking noise rattled up to join his throbbing shoulder, followed by a deluge of rusty nails, driven into the skin by the handful.

The arm wouldn’t take his weight any more, pitching him forward onto his face. The tiles cold and slick against Angus’s cheek.

The Bastard laughed. ‘Oops. Clumsy me.’

He raised the pickaxe handle again, probably hoping to shatter the right arm as well, but Angus rolled sideways, both legs kicking out.

One foot missed, but the other clipped the handle on the way down, knocking it out of the Bastard’s hands. Sending it bang-thump-crashing away across the floor.

‘You just won yourself a kneecapping!’ He scrabbled off to retrieve his weapon.

Angus’s right hand closed around the fallen phone, but he kept on going, crawling into the dining room.

He stuck one corner of the ziplock bag between his teeth and hauled himself up the dining table, one-handed. Ruined forearm clutched against his chest as it burned.

Mrs Monroe glared at him over her gag. As if this was somehow all his doing.

That ringing noise was getting louder, and shaking his head did nothing to help — just spattered drips of scarlet across the polished walnut and made the room spin like a carousel.

A singsong voice came from the doorway: ‘Knock, knock.’ The Bastard was back, pickaxe handle slung casually over one shoulder. An arrogant strut to his walk. All the time in the world.

Angus staggered around to the other side of the table, putting it between them. Dropped the phone into his hand. ‘EMERGENCY! I’M UNDER ATTACK! REPEAT, UNDER—’

The pickaxe handle clipped the top of his mobile, and the Samsung went flying end over end into the Welsh dresser, where it smashed straight through a soup tureen.

Bastard.

Utter. Complete. Fucking. Bastard.

‘I HAVEN’T EVEN FINISHED PAYING FOR THAT!’

‘’S OK.’ Lining up another shot. ‘Your Direct Debits keep going for a while after you’re dead.’ The handle swung in a flat arc, heading straight for Angus’s face.

Angus flinched back, and it whistled by less than an inch away, but one of those standard lamps stopped him retreating any further. Banging into his throbbing shoulder, the tassels on the lightshade fluttering at his bloody cheek.

Wait a minute.

Oh yeah.

He took hold of the lamp and yanked it away from the wall — hard enough to strip the flex from the plug.

Time to see how arrogant the Bastard was when faced with a makeshift halberd. OK, the long poles usually came with an axeblade, a spike, and a hook on the end, but a tasselled shade would have to do.

Muscle memory kicked in as Angus twirled the thing twice, then whacked it down. Pinning that pickaxe handle to the tabletop.

The Bastard’s eyes went wide.

Damn right.

Angus snapped his new weapon up again, twisting and lunging, catching the Bastard right in the face with the lampshade. Bursting the bulb with a sharp pop.

A scream blared out and the Bastard stumbled back, blood gushing from his lacerated nose. Because that’s what happens when someone jams broken glass and a metal light-fitting into it.

Press the advantage.

Angus leapt — left foot onto a dining chair, propelling himself up onto the tabletop, then from there into the air. Swinging his halberd with its battered shade. The chandelier exploded into a thousand glittering shards as the standard lamp ploughed through them. Angus tightened his grip on the wooden shaft, bringing it cracking down on the Bastard’s head hard enough to break the lamp in two.

The Bastard wobbled, then pitched over backwards, through the open doorway and into the hall. Landing like a sack of tatties.

Oh, LARPing’s really silly.

You all look ridiculous: dressing up in cloaks and cardboard armour, pretending to be elves and wizards, and hitting each other with sticks.

Well, who was laughing now?

Angus jumped down from the tabletop and strode after the Bastard, left arm clutched against his chest, right hand gripping the lamp’s broken remains. The wire down the middle hadn’t snapped, so now the two bits of wood hinged in the middle. Like an oversized, half-arsed nunchuck.

The Bastard groaned, scarlet oozing from the brim of his torn woolly hat to dribble down his face, mingling with the blood from his tattered nose. He rolled over onto his side and Angus swung the lamp at him.

It wasn’t easy to control, now it was in two barely connected bits, but the end still battered into the Bastard’s thigh with a satisfying thwack — making him howl. He curled into a ball, one hand holding his leg, the other clutching his head.

And now he was subdued, it was time to arrest the—

An ear-ringing PANG splintered the air, followed by a sizzling crack, and a thumb-sized chunk of doorframe exploded into tiny slivers of wood, right beside Angus’s head.

Why would the doorframe...?

Another PANG rang out and a lump of wall turned into plaster dust and fragments of torn lath.

Which is when the truth finally made it through Angus’s pounding head.

‘GUN!’ He hit the deck, scrambling backwards on all threes, into the dining room.

He kicked the door shut, rolling out of the way as a trio of bullet holes punched their way through the wood. Struggled to his feet.

A muffled cry came from the hall outside.

It was followed by a woman’s voice — hard and sour. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

The Bastard let loose another whimper. ‘Oh God, I’m bleeding!’

‘You stupid wee shite: you were supposed to kill him!’

Two more gunshots ripped through the door.

Mrs Monroe screamed behind her gag as the bullets gouged tracks into the tabletop.

‘He called the cops. I saw him call the cops!’

‘Why do you have to screw everything up?’

A scream of pain rattled through the door.

‘Get in the van.’ A pause. ‘GET IN THE FUCKING VAN!’

Boots scrabbled on the tiled floor, followed by another three barks from the gun, punching splintered holes through the dining-room door. Carving twisted grooves across the polished walnut.

Then a click.

And a howl of rage.

Oh, thank God for that — the Bastard’s friend was out of bullets.

She kicked the punctured door. ‘THIS ISN’T OVER!’

Then those boots clattered away into the distance.

After that, the only sounds were the blood whumping in Angus’s ears, his own rasping breath, and Mrs Monroe hissing air in and out through her nose.

They’d survived.

Angus slumped against the dining-room table for a moment.

Come on: not over yet.

He gave himself a shake, then marched to the window and threw open one side of the curtains, letting in the pale afternoon light.

The Bastard hurpled out through the gateposts, moving like Igor’s ghost, dragging his left leg, still trying to hold his bashed-up head together.

No sign of the gunwoman.

A long, shuddering breath abandoned Angus’s lungs, and he folded forward — grabbing a knee with his one good hand. Holding himself up as blood dripped from his head to the oatmeal carpet.

Staying there till the urge to puke faded a little.

Then straightened up and moved over to the Welsh dresser, where his phone lay in the shattered remains of the soup tureen. The ziplock bag was still intact, but the phone’s screen had turned into a spider’s web of cracked glass.

Pressing the power button made the thing flicker into life, but the icons were smeared on one side and out of focus on the other. Strange parallel lines of pixels glowing in magenta and cyan all the way down the screen — like the bars on a cage.

He held it up to his ear. ‘Hello? Control?’

Nothing.

‘Hello?’

Hard to tell if he was still on hold, or if his mobile was just totally knackered. ‘Hello? DC MacVicar to Control, can you hear me?’

Complete and utter silence.

So much for that.

He stuck the bag back in his pocket and forced a smile.

‘Mrs Monroe? It’s OK: they’ve gone.’ He lurched over there. ‘Are you all right? Have you been shot?’

Didn’t look like it.

As far as he could tell, other than the screws through both hands, the one in her chest, and the egg-sized lump on the back of her head, she was fine. Well, maybe not ‘fine’, but the bullets all seemed to have missed her, and that was the important thing.

He reached for the gag. ‘Let’s get this off you.’

Untying the knots wasn’t easy with only one working hand, but he finally got it off her, and pulled out the rag stuffed inside her mouth.

Mrs Monroe coughed and spluttered. Retched a couple of times. Spat something yellow and viscous onto the tabletop. Then creased her eyes shut and took a long, deep breath. ‘YOU NEARLY GOT US KILLED, YOU SILLY BASTARD!’

Angus backed away from the table as she launched into a full-on rant.

There was just no pleasing some people...

44

The ambulance lights strobed in through the living-room window, chasing shadows around the walls, making the whole place spin even faster as Angus propped himself up against the sill.

DI Tudor was out there, supervising as a pair of paramedics loaded Mrs Monroe into the back of their ambulance, faces creased up as the rain lashed down.

Was nice in here, though. Old-fashioned and comforting, with its piles of paperbacks on the coffee table and open tub of Quality Street. Well-padded sofa and armchairs. Happy family photos and an oil-painting of a springer spaniel. Cosy.

Even if the room wouldn’t stop whirling.

DS Massie was head-to-toe in PPE, Tyvek suit going zwip-zwop as she paced the room, giving someone a hard time on her phone. ‘I don’t care if they’re driving the Popemobile — everyone gets stopped and searched. Everyone!’

No one had given him an SOC suit.

She, DS Kilgour, and DI Tudor were all rustling about like crumpled ghosts, but Angus was stuck in his battered, double-breasted funeral outfit and blood-slicked high-vis. Shirt was probably ruined. As was the towel he’d found in the downstairs loo — held against his head to staunch the constant seeping dribbles of bright red.

Outside, one of the paramedics hopped down from the back and folded the elevator ramp thing up, closed the door, and hurried round to the driver’s side. The ambulance’s siren gave a single Vwoooooip! and off went Mrs Monroe. Pausing at the gateposts so a PC could shift the cordon of ‘POLICE’ tape.

As the ambulance disappeared off down Farfield Road, one of the scene examiners’ manky Transit vans crunched onto the gravel drive, taking its place in front of the house.

The circus had arrived.

Ya-ta da-da-da-da ya-ta yaaaa-da...

All they were missing were the Procurator Fiscal, a handful of clowns, and a trapeze artist.

Angus blinked.

No idea where that came from.

Yeah...

Taking a pickaxe handle to the head probably hadn’t been a great idea. As if the hangover wasn’t bad enough.

DS Massie stopped pacing. ‘Right. Good... Uh-huh... I know... OK. Will do.’ She hung up and sagged. ‘Buggering hell.’ Then rounded on him, finger inches from his face, glaring behind her safety goggles. ‘You’ve got ten seconds to explain why I shouldn’t kick your arse from here to Fiddersmuir!’

‘Sarge?’ How was this his fault?

‘What were you thinking? You should’ve called it in, right away!’

‘I got a text...’ Angus pulled out his poor battered phone. Took four goes on the power button to get it to start this time, and the ziplock bag was smeared with blood, but he cleaned it with a gob of spit and one of the less blood-soaked corners of the hand towel. He tapped the icon again and again and again till his text messages appeared.

DCI MONROE:

He held his phone out. ‘That’s why.’

She curled her lip. ‘And you actually believed that came from the Boss?’

‘Well, yeah, I mean why wouldn’t—’

‘Monroe never sent a text in his life that didn’t contain at least three emojis.’

What?

‘But the investigation is compromised! Someone told the papers about the Post-it notes. Someone told them about Dr Fife working with us.’

DS Massie’s face soured. ‘Speaking of the narcissistic tosspot: where is he?’

Good question.

Outside, the SE team decamped from their Transit van and dragged a pair of large holdalls from the back. The entrance marquee had arrived. Not that they were going to have much luck erecting it in this weather. It’d be halfway to Dundee by lunchtime.

Fingers snapped right in front of his nose. ‘Angus! Focus.’

‘Sorry, Sarge.’ Wonder what concussion smelled like. Cos right now, the whole room stank of old pennies and black pepper.

There was a knock on the door and in shambled DS Kilgour, dressed head-to-toe in rustling white. He nodded at them. ‘Rhona. Angus the Terrible.’ Then stuck his gloved hands on his hips. ‘Well, this is what we call “An Unmitigated, Cocking Disaster”.’

DS Massie glowered. ‘It isn’t funny.’

‘Do I look like I’m laughing?’ He peered at Angus and his blood-drenched towel. ‘How’s the head?’

A sharp, bitter laugh from DS Massie. ‘Hollow. Or solid granite, depending on your perspective.’ She snatched the phone from Angus’s hand. ‘The boy thinks Monroe sent this.’

‘Really?’ Kilgour frowned at the cracked screen. ‘Where’s the half-dozen smiley-slash-winky-slash-grumpy faces?’

‘That’s what I said.’ She poked Angus’s high-vis. ‘Now where’s Fife?’

‘I... don’t know. I found Mrs Monroe, turned round, and he’d disappeared. No sign of him.’ With the ambulance lights gone, the room should’ve slowed down a bit, but it was battering around like a wonky merry-go-round. And closing his eyes just made it go faster. ‘Any chance I could sit down, Sarge? Only it’s getting kind of...?’ He made a wobbly hand gesture.

DS Kilgour fiddled with Angus’s phone. Gave it a shoogle. Then a proper shake. Turning in circles, holding the ziplock above his head, as if he was struggling to get a signal. ‘How come you’re not off to the hospital, Angus the Terrible?’

DS Massie hooked a thumb at the window. ‘Irene didn’t want to share an ambulance with him, on account of his being a lumbering great tit.’ Then pointed. ‘Sit down, you idiot.’

Oh, thank God for that.

Angus half sat, half collapsed into the sofa. Which probably caused no end of bloodstains on the upholstery, but it couldn’t be helped.

‘Don’t mind DS Massie, Angus, she’s just grumpy because she’s worried about you.’

A snort. ‘Worried about the Boss, more like. Not answering his mobile, no GPS fix from his Airwave. Best guess is this Ryan arsehole attacked Irene, made her lure the Boss here with that call about the flooded kitchen, then abducted him. Same as he did with Dr Fordyce and all the other poor bastards.’ She folded her arms, pulling them tight. ‘So, yeah: I’m worried.’

Angus’s phone let out a distorted ping — the ‘sent message’ alert — and straight away, an answering ding-buzz sounded inside DS Massie and Kilgour’s SOC suits.

‘Just sent you a copy of that text.’ Kilgour returned Angus’s mobile. ‘We should get the phone company to triangulate Monroe’s position.’

She stared at him. ‘Yes, thank you, Captain Mansplaining. I’ve already got a warrant being fast-tracked for that.’ Then moved around so she was in front of Angus. ‘Laura spoke to the hospital, up in Teuchterville: they couldn’t find any medical records for a Malachi Ezekiel McNabb. Mind you, it’s forty years ago — nothing was digitized then.’ A shrug. ‘Doesn’t prove anything either way, but still...’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah.’

‘OK.’ DS Kilgour shrugged. ‘Somebody want to fill me in?’

‘We don’t know if Dr Fife really is Dr Fife.’

‘Are we talking...?’

She nodded. ‘There’s plenty of serial killers who wangle their way into investigations. They get off on the power. Saw it on a true-crime documentary.’

‘Which would complicate things.’ Kilgour settled his bum on the sofa’s arm. ‘So, Dr Fife’s either been abducted by a murderous bunch of scumbags, or he set this whole thing up, took the Boss hostage, and buggered off with his... what did he call them, “disciples”?’

‘About the size of it.’

Kilgour whistled behind his mask. ‘Perfect. Just. Bloody. Perfect.’ A long breath. ‘We need to...’

There was more, but he seemed to have developed some sort of speech impediment — his mouth kept moving, but all that came out was a whooshing booming barrage of noise. As if Angus had water in his ears.

Something was up with the lights in here too. The room kept slipping out of focus, the colours turning sharp and far too bright.

And for some reason, DS Kilgour and DS Massie didn’t seem to notice any of it. You’d think detective sergeants would have better observational skills.

He should really tell them.

Yeah, but that would mean getting into an argument and Angus was far too comfy for that. Sitting here on this nice soft couch.

Warm and comfortable and sleepy.

He blinked.

Then did it again, only slower.

Think anyone would mind if he closed his eyes for a second?

Been a long day, after all.

...

...

...

...

‘What the hell’s going on in here?’

Angus’s eyes flickered open to find DI Tudor standing over him, staring, mouth hanging open, facemask dangling under his chin. And he was sideways, which was a bit weird. But that might’ve been Angus’s fault, because he seemed to have keeled over at some point and now lay slumped across the sofa.

Tudor knelt in front of him, one hand shaking his shoulder. ‘Angus? Can you hear me?’

‘’M’wake.’

Then Tudor turned, jabbing a gloved finger at Massie and Kilgour. ‘What’s this man doing, lying here, bleeding on the Boss’s couch, when he should be off getting medical attention?’

That seemed to come as a surprise to DS Kilgour. ‘Oh, buggering... Er... We were just working on a timeline, Guv, piecing together DCI Monroe’s—’

‘It can wait. Things are bad enough without Detective Constable MacVicar dying from a head injury!’

The room slipped out of focus again, and darkness seeped in from the corners, swallowing the world.

‘Get him to A-and-E, now!’

‘OK, same again.’ Dr Fotheringham flicked the pen-torch’s light into Angus’s left eye, then away again, holding a finger up on her other hand for him to focus on. She was nice, in a harassed, sort-of-haunted kind of way. Late thirties maybe? With a sensible haircut, green scrubs, pink Crocs, and pretty Asian features in an oval face.

Admissions Ward D was a windowless, soulless, eight-bed room on the second floor of Castle Hill Infirmary, whose cracked terrazzo floor was stitched together with ancient duct tape and, in one spot over by the communal sink, cardboard. And every bed was full.

To be honest, the scratchy sheets and itchy blanket was nowhere near as comfortable as DCI Monroe’s couch.

‘Right.’ Dr Fotheringham sat on the edge of Angus’s bed. ‘Well, pupil response is normal, so you’re probably not going to pop your clogs before the end of my shift.’ She scrunched her face to one side. ‘We could keep you in for observation. Unless you’ve got someone at home to keep an eye on you?’

‘I’ll be fine, honest.’ Plus it would be nice to get out of this peek-a-boo arseless hospital gown.

She pointed at the swathe of bandages holding a paperback-sized lump of gauze in place, just above his ear. ‘Twelve stitches; lucky you didn’t fracture your skull. But if you’re sure? Can’t say we don’t need the bed.’ The penlight tapped against the fibreglass cast that covered his left arm from elbow to knuckles — the fingers poking out the end already purpling with bruises. ‘Take care of that arm though, or we’ll have to open it up and stick half a Meccano set in there. Ruin your sex life.’

‘So I can go?’

‘Get dressed. They’ll give you your discharge papers and some painkillers at the desk on the way out.’ Dr Fotheringham winked. ‘Don’t forget to tip your nurse if you want the good stuff.’ She stood, gathering up her things.

‘Any word on Mrs Monroe?’

‘In Recovery now. Apparently, that screw in her sternum was this close’ — holding up two fingers a hair’s breadth apart — ‘to puncturing her superior vena cava. If they’d used the same great-big screws they stuck through her hands, she’d be dead by now.’ Dr Fotheringham patted his leg through the blanket. ‘Now get the heck out of my hospital.’ She got as far as the end of his bed. Stopped. Turned. ‘Oh, and you’ve got a visitor.’

Angus scrambled out onto the cold grey floor. Wobbled a bit. Sat down hard on the crunchy mattress.

Dr Fotheringham stared at him, one perfectly plucked eyebrow raised.

‘Got up too quick. Sorry.’

‘Don’t make me change my mind about discharging you.’ And off she went.

Soon as she’d cleared the ward doors, Angus pulled the curtains around his bed, then wrestled his way out of that sexy bumless robe — because undoing the ties at the back was a massive challenge.

He dumped it on the boxy bedside unit thing, with its battered veneer door and scratched, square mirror.

Yeah...

Not a great sight, to be honest.

They’d given his face a once-over with a damp rag before putting in the stitches, but the naked bloke reflected back at him still had blood matted into his hair where it stuck out from the bandages. A dark-red stain started halfway down his neck, carried on across his chest, into his groin, and halfway down the left thigh.

A shower would’ve been nice, but there wasn’t time.

Getting his pants on was another battle, but the trousers were worse. Socks: completely impossible.

A woman’s voice came from just outside his curtained realm. ‘Hello? Angus?’ Crap, it was Gillian.

‘Hold on!’ He dug his bloody shirt from the unit and got his right arm into the sleeve. No way in hell the cast was fitting the left one, though.

‘Angus?’

‘Yeah, just a minute!’ He pinned his broken arm against his chest and had a bash at buttoning the shirt over the top. Which was every bit as impossible as putting on socks one-handed. ‘Oh, for God’s sake...’

The curtains parted a teeny bit, and Gillian’s head popped in. ‘Sorry. Are you all right? Only it sounded as if...’ She watched him struggle. ‘OK.’ Then slipped inside and stood in front of him, a blush whooshing up her neck to the tips of her ears as she buttoned him up in silence.

Heat burned through Angus’s cheeks.

Soon as she fastened the last button, he tucked his shirttails into his trousers. Thankfully, she didn’t offer to help with that bit.

‘How did you know I was—’

She looked down at his naked feet. ‘Do you need help with your socks?’ Kneeling before he could say anything.

Which meant he had to sit on the plastic chair beside the bed to free his feet up. ‘Honestly, you don’t have to.’

She did anyway, unrolling the things before pulling them over his toes. ‘I couldn’t get in touch with Jonathan anywhere, and then it was on the radio that something happened and you’d been hurt. Well, not you, you. Not on the radio anyway, but then they put your photo on the Knap website, and I was really worried, and I phoned the station, but they wouldn’t tell me anything, so I came right over, and said I was your sister. Shoes?’

OK...

‘In the cabinet thing.’

She pulled them out and slipped them on him. ‘Jonathan speaks so highly of you, Angus. Says you’re the only police officer here with an ounce of brains.’ Doing up the laces. ‘He trusts you.’ And finishing off with a double bow. Then sat back on her heels, looking up at him as he stood.

‘Thanks for doing that, it was... very kind of you.’

‘No problems.’

A theatrical ‘Ahem!’ entered the curtained-off space around the bed, and there was Ellie. Looking from Angus: standing there; to Gillian: on her knees in front of him; and back again. ‘Kinda formal way to end a blowjob.’

Gillian scrambled to her feet, that nuclear blush of hers fizzing through the make-up. ‘Oh, no! I was only helping Angus put on his shoes.’ A smile. ‘Ellie! It’s lovely to see you again. I like your jacket.’

Ellie ignored her. ‘What’s this about you almost dying?’

‘They’re discharging me.’ He retrieved his suit jacket from the unit. The thing was all stiff down one side — starched with dried blood, the fabric turned a matt shade of very dark brown against the original black. He shoved his right arm into the sleeve, then turned, and turned, trying to get his left shoulder into the jacket too. Not managing at all.

Gillian put a warm hand against his chest, stopping him spinning, then pulled the jacket into place, and then did up the four buttons. ‘There we go.’ She pulled his blood-smeared high-vis from the cupboard and popped it over his shoulders. Like a Mafia Don.

Ellie curled her lip. ‘You look like crap.’

‘Thanks.’ He pulled the curtains back with his working hand as Ellie produced her phone and stuck it under his nose.

‘Any comment for our loyal and discerning readers?’

Really? After everything he’d just been through?

No concern. No sympathy. No ‘How are you, Angus, you must feel terrible!’ No, it was straight to ‘GIVE ME A STORY!’

Some friend.

His jaw tightened. ‘No comment.’

Angus marched past her and out of the room.

There was a little nurses’ station in the corridor, near the door to the lifts, where a glum-faced nurse with freckles and a perm was poking away at a computer keyboard. ‘Name?’ Sounding as bored as she looked.

‘Angus MacVicar.’

Gillian hurried through from the ward. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

No sign of Ellie.

The nurse slapped an A4 printout on the desk and followed it with a prescription. ‘Discharge papers. And we’re all out of co-dydramol and co-codamol.’ She plonked a small pack of paracetamol in front of him. ‘That’s what happens when bastards keep underfunding the NHS.’

Great.

Para-sodding-cetamol was going to make a massive difference to a broken arm and a bashed-up head. He scooped the lot off the desk and lumbered through the double doors.

Behind him, Gillian’s voice creeped out a quiet ‘Sorry’. Then she scurried after him. ‘Angus?’

He mashed his thumb on the down button. ‘I’m fine. Never better.’

Ellie sauntered through, hands in her pockets. ‘You want a hurl?’

The rattle-and-clank of machinery long past its best grumbled out from the lift shaft.

Angus scowled at the dented metal doors.

Gillian shuffled her feet. ‘Err... It’s OK, I’ve got the car with me. And you’ve got deadlines and stories to file, right? High-flying senior crime reporter and everything. It must be really exciting...’ She cleared her throat. Stared down at her boots.

Ding.

The lift doors juddered open with a metallic squeal and Angus stepped into a scarred stainless-steel box. Graffiti on all four walls. The light guttered, exuding a miserly yellow glow that did little to dispel the gloom.

He pressed the button marked ‘G: YELLOW ZONE + EXIT’.

Ellie folded her arms, nostrils flaring. ‘What?’

‘I’d better...’ Gillian pointed, then slipped past into the lift. ‘Sorry.’

Angus glared. ‘That’s all I am to you, isn’t it: a joke and a story.’ He stabbed the ‘→I←’ button. ‘Bye, Ellie.’

The doors screeked and quivered shut, leaving her out in the corridor.

He kept his finger on the button, so she couldn’t open them again.

The lift creaked and groaned, descending to the ground floor, and Gillian put her hand on his good arm. Nodded. Keeping her eyes on the scuffed and grimy floor. Didn’t say a word.

Angus let his head fall back. ‘Yeah.’

Because what else was there to say?

45

Angus pulled out his phone as they marched through the hospital’s Yellow Zone, past rows of grey doors with little white plaques on them, and waiting areas full of misery and despair.

Bloody thing wouldn’t power up on the first go. Or the second. Or third. He ripped the ziplock open with his teeth — after all, what was the bloody point any more?

The power button made a weird buzzing noise as he held it down until finally the display bloomed into life.

In addition to being all cracked and covered in glitching pixels, the touchscreen sensors were all out of whack, so getting his contacts up was an even bigger struggle than turning the phone on. Not helped by having to do it one-handed.

He jabbed his thumb down on ‘DS MASSIE’ about a dozen times before his phone registered the input and called her mobile. Only instead of ringing, it made electronic gurgling noises as the splintered screen flickered.

‘Angus? What are... Are you OK?’

He forced his face into a smile. ‘They let me out early, for good behaviour.’

The hospital exit was an airlock with automatic doors — lined with posters about mental health and cancers and staying the hell away from the Castle Hill Infirmary if you had a potentially fatal, highly infectious respiratory disease.

The first set of doors squeaked out of Angus’s way, with Gillian trotting along beside him, still not saying anything.

‘Just wondering, Sarge: any sign of the Boss? Or Dr Fife?’

‘I’m going to forgive you confusing me for your bloody secretary again, because of that thump on the head, but don’t push it.’

Soon as the outer doors opened, the wind rushed in.

Rain had darkened the concrete fascia, but there was enough of an overhang to keep the worst of it out. Making a wee shelter for the handful of people in their hospital pyjamas crammed in here to smoke cigarettes, beneath a sign saying you weren’t allowed to do that within fifteen metres of the hospital buildings.

‘But, Sarge—’

‘The answer is no to both.’ She sniffed. ‘And that’s it — you get sod-all else. You’re officially off on the sick, understand? Three days’ leave, minimum.’

Angus stopped on the edge of the sheltered area. Grimacing out at the downpour as it scoured the road and surrounding buildings. ‘You can’t do that, Sarge! I’m part of the team; I’m Dr Fife’s sidekick. I need to help!’

A sigh. Then DS Massie’s voice softened a little. ‘You already helped, Angus. We’ve got the eFit you did with Byron out to every newspaper and TV station in the country. We’ve got your statement generating actions in HOLMES. We’ve got Irene Monroe, still alive to tell us what happened — well, soon as she comes off the sedatives — because of you. I get that you need to help, I really do. But you also need to not die from a brain haemorrhage, you daft bastard. Tudor’ll have my arse on a stick if you snuff it.’

‘But—’

‘No.’ The hard edges were back. ‘And that’s final. You’re off the case till I get a note from a doctor saying you won’t make a shite-load of paperwork for me by dropping dead!’ She left an ominous pause. ‘Are. We. Clear?’

Angus sagged. ‘Sarge.’

‘Now go home and get some rest!’ She hung up.

He yanked the phone from his ear as a piercing squeal erupted from the speaker. The display fizzed with mismatched pixels... then died. And no amount of pressing, squeezing, or poking made it live again.

Up on level five of the infirmary car park, the flooding had spread across three-quarters of the sodden tarmac, leaving less than two dozen useable spaces, unless you had your wellies on. Only one person had decided to risk it: abandoning their vehicle to the cold and damp.

Wind moaned through the metal cladding, but at least they were out of the rain here, trapped beneath the concrete lid of the floor above. Which kind of begged the question — where had all this water come from?

Gillian led the way to a grubby wee Renault Clio, whose bonnet didn’t match the rest of the car. Its wings seemed to be about fifty-fifty rust and filler. She stuck her key in the driver’s door and unlocked it, then did the same on the passenger side. ‘Central locking doesn’t work. Sorry. It’s a bit... manky.’ Opening the door for him.

It wasn’t easy, shoving a bit of brightness into his voice, but Angus had a go. ‘No, it’s fine. Thanks. Great.’ He sank into the passenger seat.

Weirdly, even though the Clio’s exterior was manky as a scabby dog, the interior was showroom clean and filled with the sharp-sweet scent of lemon. Which seemed to be coming from the cardboard Smurf that dangled from the rear-view mirror.

He wriggled free of the high-vis, and pulled his seatbelt on. ‘Honestly, thanks for the lift. You didn’t have to.’

‘No, it’s nothing. Just, you know, when you and Ellie...’ She stuck the key in the ignition. Took a deep breath. And stared out through the driver’s window, voice small and shaky. ‘Angry voices are how the beatings always start.’

Poor sod.

‘Was it hard: leaving the Apostles?’

The battery whined as the starter motor struggled and struggled till finally the engine caught. Coughing and spluttering into life. Sounding more like a big tractor than a wee car.

She pulled on a brave smile. ‘Wasn’t easy.’ They rattled out of the parking spot towards the down-ramp. ‘After Dad... after they threw his body in the Minch, I tried to run away. They chained me to the bedroom wall. Couldn’t even pee without someone watching. I was only nine.’

Rainwater gurgled down the ramp from the floor above, which explained the flooding on this level. Gillian negotiated the little rapids, and took them down to level four.

‘They kept me on that chain, like I was a... rabid dog, or something, for four years, till they trusted me enough to take it off.’ Her chin came up. ‘Took me another three and a half to get out of there, but I did it.’

‘How?’

‘Ah.’ She kept her eyes straight ahead. ‘I might’ve set fire to something. Accidentally. Officer.’

Down the ramp to level three.

Angus smiled. ‘You’re lucky I’m officially off duty.’

Gillian smiled back. ‘Oh, you have no idea...’

The further down the multistorey they went, the busier it got. Soon every level was crammed with cars — hopeful idiots circling like hyenas, hoping to pick off a parking spot, and then the Clio bumped down the final ramp and out into the storm-battered afternoon.

Stopping at the junction with Vyas Street to let a catering truck grumble past.

‘Jonathan says you live in Kingsmeath, right? One of the tower blocks?’

Angus watched an ambulance roar away into the distance. ‘Actually, would it be OK to head back over to Wardmill? Or is that too far out of your way?’

‘Thought the doctor said you had to go home. Take it easy. Because of the head injury?’

A car horn blared out of the multistorey behind them, echoing against the concrete.

Gillian flinched. ‘Sorry.’ And pulled out onto the road. ‘They could’ve cracked your skull. What if you get a brain haemorrhage or something? No, I’m taking you home.’

Behind them, a shiny, never-been-near-the-countryside-or-a-job-site four-by-four pickup truck growled out of the car park, the driver making wanking gestures in the Clio’s rear-view mirror.

‘He’s missing, Gillian. Dr Fife. Jonathan. I don’t know if they took him, or if he went voluntarily because he’s one of them. But either way, I have to find him.’

‘But he would never—’

‘I know, but that’s how it looks to some people. And if he’s in danger, he needs me. Us.’

The Clio drifted to a halt at the roundabout, and Gillian turned to stare at Angus.

‘The doctor said—’

‘Just drop me off at Wardmill: I’ll nab Dr Fife’s hire car and go looking. Please.’

It took a while, but eventually Gillian’s shoulders rounded. She shook her head. ‘You can’t drive.’ Holding up her left arm. ‘How you going to change gear?’

‘It’s an automatic.’ He dug into his jacket pocket. ‘And I’ve still got the keys.’

Deep breath. ‘No. It’s too dangerous.’

Sod.

Still, it’d been worth a go.

He’d just have to raid his savings for a taxi, because God knew when the next bus going that way would be.

Gillian reached across the car and squeezed Angus’s knee. ‘Like you say, Jonathan needs us. I’ll drive you.’ She checked the empty roundabout. ‘Where we going?’

Yeah, but what if it wasn’t safe?

What if something happened?

What if he said no, and she just followed him anyway?

She sat there, looking at him. Jaw clenched; eyes steely. Not for turning...

And, you know, it wouldn’t hurt to have a little help.

He pulled the list of Kate Paisley’s homers from his pocket — all battered and crumpled, with dark-scarlet stains soaked into the paper. ‘We’ve got four left: the Wynd, Castleview, Shortstaine, and one north of the city.’

‘OK.’ She ran her eyes from the bandage on his head to the stiff and discoloured black suit jacket, across his bloodstained shirt, then down his scuffed trousers to the dull-red drips on his shoes. ‘But first you need to get changed. Look like something out of Reservoir Dogs.’

Fair enough.

Gillian unlocked the door to Flat 4B and stepped into a friendly little hallway. ‘Come in, come in.’

The carpet was so old that the pattern had worn off down the middle. A couple of jackets hung on one side of the door with a velveteen painting of the Dalai Lama, giving a thumbs up, on the other.

Four doors led off, not including the front one, but none of them were open.

‘Sorry. It’s all a bit of a mess...’

No, it really wasn’t. OK, so everything was a little threadbare, but it was clean.

She closed the door behind him and snibbed the lock. Then pulled the handle to make sure. Helped him off with his stained high-vis.

Angus blinked at the happy Dalai Lama. ‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Probably. Robbie was about your size. I mean, he was a complete prick, but he was big with it.’ A smile. ‘Hold on.’

This was going to be a disaster, wasn’t it.

She opened the second door on the right, exposing a double bedroom barely large enough for the mock four-poster bed and wardrobe that’d been squeezed in there. Then reached in, under the wooden bedframe, and pulled out one of those big plastic wheelie boxes. ‘I know people would probably think it’s weird, holding onto his stuff after he left, but he owes me, like, three hundred quid, and I thought he might come back if I kept it.’ A frown. ‘He didn’t.’

Gillian folded the plastic lid back and produced a tweed jacket from the box. ‘Not a splot of blood in sight.’ Popping it onto the bed.

A weird scratching noise rasped out from behind Door Number Four.

Angus pointed. ‘Is that normal?’

She placed a bright-yellow waistcoat beside the jacket. ‘It’s just Bartholomeow Farquharson McFuzzypants wanting his tea.’ Tweed trousers next, followed by a checked shirt, tartan boxers, and white socks. She scooped it all up and stood, presenting it like a suit of armour to a medieval knight. ‘Here.’

Angus accepted the lot, doing his best not to look ungrateful.

‘I know, I know: he was a total young fogey. But I was kinda into that...’ She stroked the tweed jacket. ‘Like I said: daddy issues.’ Then opened the third door. ‘You can change in here. I’ll go feed The Beast.’

At first glance, it was a dark little cupboard, but Gillian flicked the light switch, illuminating a small, windowless bathroom. It should’ve been poky, but it’d been done up like a miniature version of one from a swanky hotel. The bath was short, but it was deep, wrapped around with Welsh slate and topped by a fancy three-point shower. Elegant shower curtain. Small but stylish sink and toilet.

Everything in its place, no dust, no mould on the silicon, no water spots on the taps, no hardened toothpaste residue in the sink. Even the grout looked clean.

Turning on the light set a small extractor fan buzzing its way up to an idling whummumumumum.

‘Thanks.’ Angus ducked inside and locked the door behind him, before wriggling out of his bloodstained clothes. Which was much easier than wriggling into them.

The man reflected in the long, mirrored medicine cabinet looked like something out of a cheap horror movie. But the gore wasn’t fake. In addition to all the blood down one side, a twin line of bruises peeked over his shoulder — exactly a pickaxe handle’s width apart. He curled his top lip at the sight, then held his broken arm above his head and gave the armpit an experimental sniff.

Flipping heck...

Sour and oniony with hints of long-dead kebab.

He leaned towards the door. ‘GILLIAN? GILLIAN, IS IT OK IF I TAKE A SHOWER? I’M ALL CLARTY WITH BLOOD.’

‘What?’

‘CAN I HAVE A WASH?’

‘Oh... OK. I suppose. Erm... hold on.’ About twenty seconds later, there was a knock on the door, and when Angus unlocked it — peering around the edge, keeping his naked body hidden behind the wooden panels — there was Gillian with a bath sheet and a bin bag. ‘You want to give me your dirty clothes?’

Her eyes flickered past Angus as he handed them over, then her whole face went radish-red. ‘It’s... towel.’ Holding it out as she stared. ‘Towel for drying. Whhhh... Bag for your... you know... cast.’ She crumpled that through the narrow gap between door and frame. ‘Yes. I’d better... Sorry. Erm.’ And she was gone.

Strange as a bag of herrings, that one.

Nice, and kind, and sweet, and pretty too, but definitely odd.

Angus closed the door and locked it again.

Not that there was anything wrong with being odd.

He turned to hang the towel on the rail and froze.

Naked Angus stared back at him from the big, mirrored medicine cabinet.

That’s why she’d been acting all weird — she’d had a full-length ogle at his naked backside the whole time.

Well, that was humiliating.

He scrunched his face up and curled into himself.

Took a couple of deep breaths.

Sighed.

Then pulled the bin bag over his fibreglass cast and climbed into the shower.

Maybe a good hard scrub would wash the embarrassment away?

Even with the extractor running, after a fifteen-minute shower of shame the traitorous mirror had fogged up.

Angus flipped it the Vs as he towelled off.

Had to admit, that felt a lot better. Even if it had been a pain in the arse keeping his bandages dry.

He slipped into the borrowed boxers — having first checked that they were definitely clean — then stood there, head on one side, little finger wiggling away in his left ear. Trying to dislodge the water sloshing about in there. And making no difference whatsoever.

What he needed was a cotton bud.

He popped open the medicine cabinet and stared.

Wow.

There was an electric toothbrush and a bottle of make-up remover in there, but about ninety percent of the cabinet was stuffed with packets and packets and tubs and more packets of pills. All of which bore pharmacy stickers.

No cotton buds, though.

Angus closed the medicine cabinet.

That was a massive amount of medication.

He opened the cabinet again and had a careful rummage — putting everything back exactly where he found it. Thus ensuring he’d never get a job on an O Division search team.

Gillian had a sizeable collection of anti-anxiety drugs, antidepressants, sleeping tablets, pills for abnormal heartbeats, high blood pressure, low blood pressure, indigestion, a wide assortment of painkillers, and quite a few unopened boxes of pills that could’ve been anything. Like ‘SEROQUEL’.

Suppose it wasn’t that surprising, given she’d grown up in a commune of violent religious arseholes...

Most of the pharmacy labels were made out to ‘MISS GILLIAN KILBRIDE’, but there were a few boxes of antidepressants for ‘MR ROBERT SNEETH’, and one of diazepam too.

Angus weighed Mr Sneeth’s escitalopram in his palm, then slotted it back into place and closed the medicine cabinet door.

None of his business.

Besides, she’d said ‘Robbie’ left some stuff here.

Just because she had a whole pharmacy of drugs, didn’t mean she had a problem, did it? And even if she did, now wasn’t the time to bring it up. Not with Dr Fife, DCI Monroe, and Olivia Lundy about to suffer a horrible death.

Everything else could wait.

He pulled on Robbie’s checked shirt.

The guy must’ve been huge, because Angus’s left arm, complete with cast, slipped easily into the sleeve, leaving plenty of room to spare. It was much easier to do up the buttons with one-and-a-half hands, but the front billowed out like a deflated bouncy castle. The trousers could easily have taken a couple of pillows before the waistband was anywhere near tight.

Angus gave his bloodstained belt a rinse in the sink, wiping it dry with toilet paper. That reined the trousers in. Tightening the strap at the back of the waistcoat made it more-or-less wearable, but the tweed jacket swamped him.

Not the sleeves — they were the right length — but the shoulders and front were far too big. As if he were a wee kid playing dress-up in an adult’s clothes.

Still, it was better than the Reservoir Dogs cosplay outfit.

Barefoot, Angus picked up his new socks and padded out into the hall.

All the doors were closed, but the washing machine whirred and churned away in the kitchen, and muffled voices sounded from inside Door Number Four. Where The Beast had been scratching.

‘Gillian?’

He knocked on the door — gently this time, not the Police Officer’s Official Three — then let himself into a living room as threadbare and tidy as the hall. A bookcase in the corner groaned under the weight of self-help titles, next to a couch covered in a charity-shop quilt. A small TV sat opposite, playing The Great British DIY Workshop, in the shade of a big cat tree that’d been scratched raw in places.

Gillian was on the couch with a chunky grey cat in her lap. Stroking a rumbling purr from it as she poked away at her phone.

A brash Geordie accent burst out of the telly: ‘Anthony and Donna have both decided to make their picnic tables out of recycled wood, but Anthony’s decision to use reclaimed railway sleepers has come with some... unexpected problems...’

Onscreen, a man in a Numbered Onions T-shirt thumped a sticky chunk of wood down onto a workbench, then sniffed at his fingers, before a look of utter horror dawned.

‘And that’s why you’re never supposed to go in the station.’

Angus waved. ‘Gillian?’

She let loose a squeal, flinching so hard that her cat had to scrabble to maintain its spot. She clamped her stroking hand over her heart and stared at him. ‘Angus!’ A deep breath was followed by a nervous laugh. ‘It’s been so long since I’ve had... friends over. Sorry.’ She put her phone away.

The man in the T-shirt held his hands far away from his face. ‘Oh my God, that’s rank!... Oh, I’m going to be sick... How could anyone—’

Gillian pointed the remote, shutting off Anthony’s realization that railway sleepers weren’t just brown because of the creosote. Then moved The Beast from her lap, getting a sharp, indignant meow for her trouble. ‘Honestly: I thought you were, like, Robbie’s ghost there for a moment. Only... thinner.’ She gave herself a shake. ‘I polished your shoes, and sponged off your fluorescent jacket. Ready to head?’

‘Just about. Need help with socks again.’

She stood and took them from his hand with a wee smile. ‘You look good.’ Stroking his arm. ‘Tweed suits you.’

No: he looked like Rupert Bear had shagged Toad of Toad Hall, but Angus smiled back and nodded anyway.

The Beast settled onto the couch and had a wash.

Downstairs, someone shouted at the television.

A bus rumbled by in the distance.

And she was still stroking his arm.

Angus swallowed. ‘Better get going.’

‘What? Oh, yes. Right. Sorry.’ Gillian let go and turned to kiss her cat on the head. ‘Bartholomeow Farquharson McFuzzypants — you’re in charge. Watch the house while Mummy’s away.’ Then turned back to Angus. Blinked a couple of times as she gazed at all that oversized tweed. ‘Ah: socks and shoes first. Yes. Sorry. Sorry.’

And she was on her knees again.

Angus kept his eyes focused straight ahead.

This was turning into a very confusing day...

46

Mrs Judith McKinnick: 8 Pearson Drive — 18:15

Angus limped down the driveway, wincing as rats sank their teeth into his stitched-together head, burrowed deep inside his aching shoulder, and rampaged up and down his broken arm with their sharp little claws.

But other than that? Just bloody dandy.

It was another swanky street: big modern four-or five-bedroom villas, in the plusher part of Shortstaine, overlooking Moncuir Wood. Where every home had flash cars parked on its lock-block driveway. For someone who whinged on about the Global Elite, Kate Paisley certainly liked her customers rich and extravagant.

The sun had barely put in an appearance since dawn, but now it glowed deep red around the valley’s rim — as if its throat had been cut — bringing the streetlights flickering into life. Glowing gold in the hammering rain. The woods were a thick swathe of darkness, but the streetlights picked up again in Logansferry and Castle Hill, fading into the night as Storm Findlay swallowed Kingsmeath and Blackwall Hill.

Angus braced himself against the howling wind, opened the Clio’s passenger door and tumbled inside, setting the whole thing rocking on its springs.

Closed his eyes, just for a moment, till the rats quietened down...

The tick, tick tick-tick-tick tick, tick, tick of thumbs on a smartphone scrabbled across the car.

Deep breath.

He huffed it out, wriggling in his seat, which seemed to have developed horrible lumps and angles since they arrived here ten minutes ago.

‘Angus?’

He opened his eyes, and there was Gillian, holding out a wee hand towel.

‘You’ll catch your death in this.’

‘Mrs McKinnick didn’t get any joinery done.’ He pulled his high-vis’s hood back, and scrubbed his face dry. ‘Didn’t recognize either of the eFits.’

‘Are you OK? Only you look—’

‘I’m fine.’ Which was a lie almost as big as the house he’d just left.

She lowered her eyes, picking at the skin around her fingernails. ‘I was thinking. Maybe we should wait till tomorrow, when it’s not blowing a gale?’

Just reaching for the seatbelt set his battered shoulder alight. Pulling it on poured petrol on the flames. He hissed and grimaced, clicking the buckle home. ‘You want to find him, don’t you? Jonathan?’

‘Of course I do! I just don’t want to lose you in the process.’ She started the car, turned the blowers up full, and pulled away from the kerb. Headlights sweeping through the downpour as she let loose a little sigh. ‘Where next?’

He checked the list. ‘Castleview’s closest, then the Wynd.’

‘Wouldn’t it be quicker to just phone? Or get a patrol car to do it?’

For God’s sake. Why did everyone think they knew better? ‘Dr Fife says, “Most people are arseholes and idiots.”’ Almost barking the words out. ‘“If something important needs done, do it yourself.”’

Sod. That had come out far harsher than necessary.

Gillian bit her bottom lip, eyes on the road, not saying anything.

She took a right at the junction, swapping the fancy homes of Pearson Drive for the modest bungalows of Monastery Road.

Her mouth quivered.

‘I’m sorry; that wasn’t meant to sound so...’ Angus raised his good hand then let it fall again. ‘Think the local anaesthetics must be wearing off, or something.’ He tried for a smile. ‘I’m just... a bit sore.’ Would’ve helped if he hadn’t left his NHS-issue paracetamol back at her place, in his blood-soaked suit. Like an idiot. ‘It’s not you, honestly.’

She nodded, but didn’t say a single word.

Great.

He’d screwed this up too...

Mr Jeremy Dalgarno: 4 Strachan Lane — 18:41

‘I’ll be sure to let them know.’ Angus hobbled out of the porch into the storm.

Mr Dalgarno stuck his nose in the air. ‘You do that. We pay more than enough council tax to keep these hooligans from dropping their litter all over the riverbank!’ His tweed suit was a much better fit than Angus’s borrowed affair, and probably a heck of a lot more expensive too. With the white hair swept back from a high forehead, aquiline nose, and busy hands, it gave him the air of a retired detective from an Agatha Christie book. Only with fewer social graces.

He threw Angus a crisp ‘Goodbye’, and thumped the door shut, exiling him to the lands of wind and rain.

Tosser.

Angus hauled his high-vis hood up and limped away down the drive, going as fast as his aching body would allow. Rain hissing through the leaves and branches of the massive garden, crackling against his fluorescent-yellow jacket.

Strachan Lane lay on the eastern edge of Castleview — big granite houses on one side, the wooded riverbank on the other. A view out across the golf course, the River Wynd, and on to Minch Kirk and its cemetery. God knew how much somewhere like this must be worth, but it was probably millions.

So what the hell did Mr Dalgarno have to whinge about? He should try living in a tower block with knackered lifts and teenage gangs roaming the streets.

The driveway ended at a set of eight-foot-high wrought-iron gates, with ‘DALGARNO’ worked into the design.

Angus gave them a shove, but they wouldn’t budge.

Maybe it was a pull, instead?

Still nothing.

A buzzing noise sounded from the ivy-covered wall, and the gate swung open, all on its own.

He looked back towards the house, and there was Mr Dalgarno, standing in the drawing room’s bay window with a remote in one hand and a whisky in the other.

Angus gave him a little wave, but got sod-all back.

Typical.

He slipped out through the gates onto the pavement and hobbled over to Gillian’s Clio. The wind tried to rip the passenger door from his hand, but he gritted his teeth and held on, easing himself into the seat and hauling it shut again.

Then sat there, graveyard still, face all creased up, eyes screwed tightly shut, teeth bared as the rats threw a ceilidh for their arsonist friends.

Gillian kept her voice very small. ‘You know, it’s OK if you want to stop. You’ve been very brave, Angus, but you’ll fall apart if you don’t get some rest.’

He hissed a breath through clenched teeth. ‘I just need a minute.’

‘Please let me help you.’

Every muscle and vertebra howled as he edged himself fully back into the seat. ‘Can’t... just abandon him.’

‘There’s, like, a million cops out there, looking for Jonathan. You’re knackered — you nearly died today.’

They sat there, in silence, as rain hammered on the Clio’s roof.

Then Gillian cleared her throat. ‘Look. I kinda thought this might happen and...’ She reached across the car.

Angus’s eyes snapped open, in case she was—

But she opened the glove compartment and pulled out a small tub of prescription drugs instead.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t—’

‘They’re only little ones.’ Giving the tub a shake. ‘You got a prescription for thirty-mil co-dydramol, right? This is just co-codamol, and it’s only eight milligrams, see?’ She showed him the label. ‘These are like Smarties, really. Only less chocolatey?’ Opening the child-safety cap and tipping two lozenge-shaped pills into the palm of her hand. ‘You can’t help him if you can’t move.’

Angus stared at the pills, then out at the storm raging across the valley — whipping whitecaps from the river below, shuddering the trees, hurling rain to bounce from the tarmac and rattle the Clio’s bodywork.

She had a point.

And, as Gillian said: they were only little.

He took them from her warm palm. ‘Thanks.’

‘Hold on, this’ll help.’ She dug into her door pocket, emerging with a bottle of flavoured water. Flipped open the sports cap. And held it out.

Angus washed his co-codamol down with a good swig of—

Jesus, that was horrible. Acrid and bitter — the fake-strawberry flavour barely took the edge off. And then the aftertaste hit.

‘I know.’ Gillian nodded as he shuddered. ‘But it’s got essential salts, minerals, and vitamins in it. The government want to ban sugar, because that means manufacturers have to put artificial sweeteners in everything, and research shows most of those interfere with your amygdala, cos the plan’s to keep us all docile. Even though aspartame is disgusting and carcinogenic.’ She took the bottle back. ‘That’s why you should always read the label.’

Bet she’d had Covid and it’d screwed with her tastebuds, because her coffee was awful too.

But she meant well.

Angus forced the bitter taste down. ‘Thanks.’

She turned in her seat and stared at him. ‘You sure you don’t want to go home?’

‘I can’t just give up.’

She nodded. Sighed. ‘The Wynd next?’

‘The Wynd.’

She pulled the car around in a lurching three-point-turn and drove off into the storm.

Jack & Chloe Maxwell: Fenrith House, Persephone Avenue — 19:15

Angus hauled open the passenger door and thumped into the seat with a hissing wheeze. Blinking just seemed to stir up the dots floating across his vision, but he did it anyway. Gritted his teeth. Shook his head.

It didn’t clear the dots. Or the angry buzzing in his shoulder, skull, and arm.

‘Angus?’

He squinted across the car and there was Gillian, staring back at him, with a pensive look on her face.

She pointed. ‘Door?’

Oh, right. Right.

The door.

Rain was getting in.

He clunked the door shut again. ‘Sorry.’

‘You OK?’

No.

Another blink sent the dots dancing once more. ‘Jack and Chloe Maxwell. You should see their house: it’s like something off an advert for rich, smug turdwads.’ Not the kind of language he would normally use in front of a civilian, like Gillian, but boy were they smug. ‘He’s a political advisor to the local MSP, she’s an investment banker, with a Bentley and a holiday home in the Dordogne. They paid Kate Paisley and Ryan to redo their wine cellar.’

Gillian’s eyes widened. ‘Didn’t Jonathan say the next victims were going to be bankers?’

‘That’s what I was thinking.’ He pulled out his phone — now liberated from its ziplock bag — and pressed the power button. Nothing. So he squeezed it instead. Still nothing. Tried again. And again.

What was wrong with the bloody...

Ah, right. It had gone to the Great Phone Shop in the Sky, remember?

He let a little groan rumble free, then stuffed the thing back in his pocket. ‘Phone’s dead.’ Leaving a nice long pause for her to leap in and offer. But she didn’t. So: ‘Can I borrow yours? Promise I won’t search for nudes.’

‘I...’ Gillian pulled back in her seat as bright pink whooshed up her neck and cheeks. ‘That’s...’

‘Sorry. Sorry.’ He scrubbed his good hand across his face. ‘Don’t know why I said that.’

A squall of rain jostled the Clio — windscreen wipers struggling to keep up.

‘Maybe... because you’re really tired? It’s been a long day. Lots of stuff happening.’

‘Sorry.’ He gave himself a shake, sending water dribbling from his high-vis into the seat and footwell. ‘Can I borrow your phone to call the station and tell them about the Maxwells? Please?’

She frowned at him, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

Angus kept his big mouth shut.

But eventually Gillian nodded. ‘OK.’ Then produced her mobile, unlocked it, and passed it to him.

Took three goes to remember the right number for Control, but he got there, setting it ringing.

She tugged at his fluorescent-yellow sleeve. ‘Then can we go home?’

‘Just one more address left. We’re—’

‘O Division, Control Room, who’s calling please?’ The same voice as last time, but taking no chances with an unknown number.

‘It’s DC MacVicar — can you put me through to DS Massie? I’ve got some info for her.’

‘Hud oan.’

The line went silent.

‘Please, Angus: you’re acting a bit...’ Her fingers writhed like upturned beetles. ‘What if it’s a concussion? Maybe we should take you back to the hospital? Maybe something’s gone wrong?’

‘I’ll be fine. Probably just low blood sugar. Been a long time since breakfast, and—’

‘Hoy!’ DS Massie did not sound happy. ‘What did I tell you? Three days! Doctor’s note! No being a pain in my—’

‘Sarge: Mr and Mrs Maxwell, Fenrith House, Persephone Avenue, the Wynd. Got a positive on the eFit of Ryan—’

‘Do you never bloody listen?’

‘This is important! Mrs Maxwell’s an investment banker and she’s had work done by Ryan, just like the Lundys. She’s probably the Fortnight Killer’s next target! You need to get a patrol car out here and—’

‘And you need to go home! Thank you for the tip; we’ll follow it up. You. Will. Go. Home. Before. You. Kill. Yourself! I’m not telling you again.’ She left one of her trademark ominous pauses. ‘I’m circulating a lookout request, Angus, and if back shift find you out and about, you’re spending the rest of the night in custody. For your own sodding good. Am I making myself plain, Constable?’

Just couldn’t win, could he.

Angus closed his eyes and let his head boink, gently, against the passenger window. ‘Sarge.’

‘Go home!’ And with those rousing words of thanks and encouragement, she hung up on him.

He scowled at the mobile’s blank screen for a couple of breaths, then returned the thing to Gillian. ‘Thanks.’

‘Whoever it was, on the phone, they told you to get some rest, didn’t they?’

He produced the list again — battered and creased and going floppy from being handled with damp fingers — and drew two red lines through Fenrith House. Then pulled in a sharp breath as those twelve stitches in his head snarled beneath their gauze padding. Which set his arm throbbing again. Then his shoulder. Like some sort of torture-filled game of KerPlunk, stealing the air from his lungs.

Angus sat there, jaw clenching and unclenching, till the spasm passed. He slumped back in his seat. ‘One... address left.’

‘We need to get you home, so—’

‘Come on, we owe it to Dr Fife.’ Shifting his weight from one hip to the other, struggling to find a position that didn’t hurt so much. ‘I’m just a bit stiff, that’s all.’

She chewed on a fingernail, gnawing away till it was ragged and bleeding on one side. Then reached for the glove compartment. ‘Here.’ Shaking two more pills from the tub and holding them out, along with that horrible strawberry-flavoured water again.

He popped the tablets, chasing them down with a gulped mouthful. Grimaced and shuddered at all those essential salts, minerals, and vitamins.

Gah...

He handed the bottle back. ‘Thanks.’

‘Angus?’ She squeezed his arm, a wheedling, pleading tone seeping into her voice: ‘Are you sure we can’t go home?’

‘We’re almost done.’

Gillian’s head drooped. ‘That’s what worries me.’

She put the car in gear.

47

Something was wrong with the map he’d found in the glove compartment. The roads and gridlines kept slipping in and out of focus, and the paper wouldn’t fold properly, and the whole thing was about as big as a duvet cover, and how were you supposed to work with that in the passenger seat of a rusty-but-spotless Renault Clio, parked in a half-flooded lay-by?

Didn’t help that he was having to do it all by the meagre glow of the car’s courtesy light.

This was impossible.

They’d made it up beyond the rim of the valley, north of Blackwall Hill, far removed from Oldcastle’s streetlights and their sickly glow.

Out here there was nothing but darkness.

Well, darkness and the Glendorcha distillery. And its bonded warehouses. And the eight-foot-high, razor-wire-topped chain-link fence surrounding both. Other than that, the world had dissolved into vague silhouettes in the gloom.

Gillian fidgeted behind the wheel, worrying another nail down to a serrated, bloody stub as rain growled against the windscreen and those silhouettes writhed in the wind.

The wipers clunked and squeaked, clearing twin rainbows through the downpour, showing off the brown road sign mounted at the end of the lay-by for a moment — ‘PARRACK WOODS 2 ~ BRAECAIRN FOREST 2½’ — before the downpour swallowed it again.

‘I don’t like this, Angus. It’s horrible out here. What if something happens? What if we get squashed by a tree, or the road’s blocked, or there’s flooding?’ She nodded, agreeing with herself. ‘We should go home.’

‘We’ll be fine. It’s easy.’ He pulled the map right up to his nose and squinted at it. ‘Erm... I think we go that way.’ Pointing in the same direction as the road sign.

She took a deep breath, then crawled the car out of the lay-by, skirting first the massive puddle and then the distillery’s chain-link barricade. Sitting forward in her seat, hunched over the steering wheel and peering out through the hammering rain. ‘Talk to me.’

‘What?’ He did his best to fold the map back up again. ‘I am talking to you.’

‘I’m nervous enough, driving in this. Just...’ She tightened her grip on the wheel — knuckles bunching as the car forged through a spreading lake of muddy water, sending twin arcs of brown spwoooshing up and over the bonnet. ‘So you live at home with your mum? That’s nice?’

Ha.

Nice wasn’t exactly the first word Angus would’ve chosen.

‘Well, she throws a wobbly when I’m late for dinner. Complains that I never do the washing up — even though I do it all the time. But... she means well. It’s all been a bit hard for her, you know? Dealing with Dad’s death.’

Another one of those brown signs went by, pointing left into the darkness: ‘PARRACK WOODS 1½’. Behind it, a clump of trees thrashed, jagged arms reaching for the car like a hungry animal.

‘Uh-huh.’

Angus frowned. ‘Never really thought about it at the time, but I guess we used to be pretty well off. Dad worked for an oil company, so we’d have fancy foreign holidays and nice new cars. She was a “lady who lunches”, and I went to private school. Had a lovely golden retriever called Westminster.’ He puffed out his cheeks. Poor old Westminster. ‘Don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone, do you.’ Or at least he didn’t. ‘After Dad died, it all evaporated. We moved down here and Mum got a job as a dinner lady to pay the bills. That was a culture shock.’ He produced a sad smile for the little boy reflected in the passenger window, with a bandaged head and blood matted in his hair. ‘But at least we had plenty of food in those days. She used to bring home the leftovers...’

And yeah, to begin with it felt dirty — living off the remnants of some state-school kids’ Turkey Twizzlers, chips, jam sponge and custard, but it’d been better than going to bed hungry.

Bed.

Lovely soft cosy bed.

Warm and droopy with sleep.

Where you could close your eyes and just drift off.

Where nobody bullied you for your posh accent, or being taller than all the other kids.

Where everything didn’t hurt, and you still had a nice big bedroom with all the latest toys and a golden retriever...

...

...

‘Angus?’

...

‘ANGUS!’

Something thumped into his arm.

‘Mmmph?’ He sat up straight, blinking at the squealing windscreen wipers. ‘Sorry. Yes. Where...?’

Gillian hunched over the wheel again. ‘Your mum’s a dinner lady.’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ A stretch made something pop in his neck, as if he’d been stabbed with an icicle. ‘Not is: was. Her knees went, so she’s on disability now. Doesn’t exactly pay the bills. And I think it hurts, you know? Being thrown away like that.’

Gillian blinked, and a little tear trickled down her cheek. ‘She sounds like a lovely woman.’

Suppose that must be true, especially if your own mother raised you in a brutal, bible-thumping cult of pious island bastards.

‘Oh, she’s a proper nightmare at times, but... she’s my mum. It’s just... she gets extra squirrelly around the anniversary of Dad’s death.’ Shaking his head sent the dots swirling again. ‘Kids-on she’s fine, but everything becomes that bit more brittle. So, next Tuesday will be a bag of laughs.’ He braced himself against the dashboard until it stopped rotating. ‘Suppose I don’t have to tell you about weird mums, right? Growing up with the Apostles?’

A nod. Then Gillian wiped her eyes, smudging the black wingtips. ‘I’m sorry.’

He reached across the car and patted her on the arm. ‘Yeah, me too.’

A T-junction loomed in the headlights, with another road sign pointing off to the left: ‘BRAECAIRN FOREST 1½’. Gillian slowed the Clio to a walking pace, easing around the turn.

Angus smiled. ‘Will you look at that...’ Pointing away into the dark. ‘I used to LARP up here, when I was a kid.’

Hang on.

Angus sat up a little straighter. ‘That’s where we found Dr Lundy’s body. You don’t think...?’

‘No. That was on the other side of the woods, remember?’

‘Was it?’ A yawn made his jaw pop, followed by a little shiver. ‘Yeah. Suppose it was. Maybe that’s why they chose the spot — because they’d been working in the area?’

The car grumbled along like a busted tractor, blowers roaring, windscreen wipers thumping.

Gillian tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. ‘Do you know the stories about Braecairn Forest?’

‘Mmmm?’ He settled deeper into his seat.

‘Once, long ago, when the mountains were young and trees could still speak, there lived a family of cannibals in the deep dark woods. They built cairns from the skulls of their breakfast, filled the streams with the blood of their dinner, and patched together beasts and monsters from the skins of their supper...’ She turned the blowers down a notch. Which was nice, because she didn’t have to talk so loud, and she had a lovely soothing voice. ‘Course, this was back at the end of the seventeenth century, when the “Ill Years” famine hit, and the Great Old Forest stretched all the way south to Kings River and north to Farrabroch. Now there’s only a few wee patches left.’

Her phone ding-buzzed with an incoming text message, but she ignored it and kept on down the rain-lashed road. ‘They didn’t start out as cannibals. That only came after the famine hit. All over Scotland about fifteen percent of the population starved to death, but in this bit of the world it was one in four.’

Bet that was a lot of people.

All hungry in their beds.

In the middle distance, a spine of darker black jutted out into the fields — its back hunched and rippling in the storm.

She bit her bottom lip, gazing out through the sweeping wipers at the stormy night. ‘Can you imagine a worse time to be alive? You’ve got one of the coldest bits of the Little Ice Age, the Nine Years War is still raging, there’s only been one successful harvest in the last five years, and there’s rampant poverty.’

On the other side of the road, another slab of darkness reared out of the gloom, and Braecairn Forest swallowed the car. Tree trunks and branches shining in the Clio’s headlights — making inky shadows slither as they passed. No other lights to be seen.

Gillian’s voice faded to a whisper. ‘No wonder they ate each other.’

Most of the trees were thick, heavy pines, but here and there the pale naked skeletons of beech and ash slunk between their well-fed brethren. Slippery in the twisting gloom.

These were exactly the sort of woods where a family of starving cannibals would live, making monsters.

Even the storm was too scared to enter.

The car slowed to a halt and Gillian cleared her throat. ‘We can still turn around and go home, Angus.’ Gazing across the car at him. ‘Please?’

He blinked at her.

Poor Gillian, with her horrible childhood and her murdered father and her smudged, teary eyes.

Another yawn rippled its way through Angus, leaving him sagging against the door. Voice going all fuzzy around the edges. ‘He’s out there somewhere, Gillian. We can’t... we can’t give up.’

A sigh. A nod. Then the Clio moved forward again, heading deeper into the dark woods.

It wasn’t long before a hand-painted sign flared in the headlights: ‘MAINS OF INVERMINNOCH →’, and she took the turning onto a gritty track that rolled and wallowed with water-filled potholes. Winding away between the looming trees.

Dark.

Even with the blowers turned down, warm air oozed out into the footwell, working its way up Angus’s legs and chest. Cocooning him against the storm. Wrapping him in its tender arms.

Making his eyelids droop.

They’d be there soon.

Should really stay awake.

Yeah...

...

Should really...

Angus snorked. Opened his eyes and blinked out through the Clio’s windscreen. ‘Where...?’

It was a clearing, deep in the woods by the look of it, surrounded by battlements of oak and Scots pine. And everything was still — no howling wind, no lashing rain, just the cold light of a gibbous moon, shining down through a gap in the clouds.

Maybe this was the eye of the storm?

At its centre reared a Scottish baronial tower: L-shaped; five-and-a-bit storeys tall, the lower two floors wrapped in scaffolding with a skin of poles and tarpaulin reaching all the way up the long end of the building to its steeply pitched slate roof. All turned monochrome in the moonlight.

The track ended at a wide turning circle, where a rusty builder’s van sat next to a huge pile of broken slate and another of crumbling stone. It had probably all been in gravel at one point, but now grass and weeds crawled across it, blurring the line between the driveway and an overgrown lawn of tussocks and reeds. Whin and broom creeping in from the forest’s edge.

Gillian’s mouth pinched, her eyes glittering in the dashboard lights. ‘We’re here.’ She parked next to the van. ‘Angus, I... I want you to know I tried, I really did.’ Patting him on the leg. ‘But you... you’re just so stubborn.’ Then let go. ‘I’m sorry.’

Eh?

‘What’s...’ He shook his head, turning the car into a fairground waltzer. ‘Wait a minute...’

The passenger door opened and a Freddie Mercury tribute act grinned in at him. The bastard still wore his manky overalls, but he’d swapped the torn woolly hat for a swathe of bandages of his own — probably holding his head together after Angus lamped him one. Literally. An asterisk of microporous tape held a wad of gauze over whatever was left of his nose. His voice was as bunged-up and cheery as a decongestant commercial. ‘Hey, big fella. Thought you’d never get here. How’s the arm?’

Then his fist clattered into Angus’s face.

48

Gillian grabbed at Angus’s high-vis. ‘Don’t!’

Before the world stopped spinning, the Bastard reached in and unclipped Angus’s seatbelt. There was a brief tug of war, but he was clearly stronger than Gillian — hauling Angus out of the car and onto the gravel driveway.

A boot slammed into Angus’s stomach, folding him up, then another, and another. Sending something far bigger than rats scrabbling through his body, all claws and teeth.

He shielded his head with his arms, knees drawn up tight to protect his insides as the boot thumped home.

‘NOT SO FUCKING BIG NOW, ARE YOU?’

Get up.

Get up!

But his arms and legs were lead-lined coffins full of rotten bones.

‘WANT SOME MORE?’ The boot stomped down on Angus’s ribs, and probably would’ve again if it wasn’t for the ominous shclick-clack of a gun being cocked.

‘Tony! I said “Don’t”!’

The Bastard, AKA: Tony, backed away a couple of paces, and when Angus unwrapped the arms from his head, there was Gillian, standing beside the Clio with a semi-automatic pistol pointed right at Tony’s head.

‘You gotta be shitting me.’ The Bastard raised his hands. ‘This prick is the enemy. He’s the Elite we’re fighting against!’

‘Elite?’ She jabbed her free hand at Angus. ‘He lives in a crappy wee flat, in a tower block, in Kingsmeath, with his mum!’

It took almost everything Angus had to roll over onto his back, arms and legs reduced to floppy useless things that wouldn’t take his weight.

Gillian glared at Tony.

Tony glared at Gillian.

Angus groaned.

The house’s front door clicked open, and a woman stepped outside, crunching her way across the weed-strewn gravel. She had a paint-smeared puce sweatshirt and grey joggy-bottoms, long brown hair and heavy eyebrow-length fringe, stubby fingers, lots of teeth. A forty-something dowdy lump in a mid-twenties body.

She curled her lip. ‘What’s with all the wanking about? Get him inside already.’

Tony flexed his fists. ‘Ask her. She’s gone native.’

Gillian lowered the gun. ‘This isn’t necessary.’ Then lowered her eyes. ‘We’re supposed to be better than that. Better than them.’

The Woman jerked a thumb at the house. ‘In!’ Then squatted down in front of Angus. ‘Here’s a joke for you, Pig. A journalist, a politician, a lawyer, a doctor, two police officers, and a teeny forensic psychologist walk into a meat grinder...’ She flashed him a basilisk’s grin. ‘Stop me if you’ve heard it before.’

Nothing worked any more. He couldn’t even pull away.

She patted him on the cheek. ‘You’re going to love the punchline.’ Then grabbed one shoulder of Angus’s borrowed high-vis.

Tony took the other, and together they dragged him across the weedy gravel towards the house, huffing and puffing with the effort.

The moonlight faded, and drizzle misted down from the low black sky. Wind mourned through the trees...

They hauled him past the exoskeleton of scaffolding to an arched recess, through an open door, and into a big fancy hall.

A stone staircase dominated the space, sweeping up to the next floor. The steps were old enough to have dips worn in the middle of them, but brand-new wooden bannisters shone in the pendant lighting. Two, maybe three doors led off to other parts of the house, and a passageway disappeared into its depths, behind the staircase. The place should’ve been festooned with paintings and tartan and stuffed animal heads, like the Bishop’s View Hotel, but instead everything was slick and modern. Nothing interfering with the clean sweep of magnolia walls, or the unblemished oatmeal carpet.

The Woman jerked them to a halt on the patch of coir matting, just inside the door. Breathing hard. ‘Hold on, hold on... put a... towel under his feet... for God’s sake... Don’t want drag marks... on the nice new carpet.’

Tony groaned, then let go — causing Angus’s battered shoulder to thump down against the mat as he grumbled away.

Didn’t hurt, though.

Nothing hurt any more.

Instead, the aches and stabbing and throbbing pains had been replaced by warm marshmallow.

Angus squinted up at the Woman, but she wouldn’t stay in focus. His tongue didn’t want to cooperate either: ‘You’ll... Won’t get...’

‘Let me guess: “You’ll never get away with it”, or “The police are on their way”? Cos we will, and they’re not.’ She grinned. ‘No one’s coming to save you.’

Gillian stepped into the hall, still clutching the gun, but not pointing it at anyone. She looked at Angus as if he was an injured puppy, tied to a breeze block, ready to be hurled into the river. ‘I tried to get you to go home, but you wouldn’t listen.’ Her eyebrows pinched. ‘This isn’t how it was meant to be: I put plenty of sleeping pills and antidepressants in your coffee this morning... It would’ve been painless.’

Great.

And he’d let her give him pills.

Moron.

She hunched her shoulders. ‘But Jonathan threw it all up, and I don’t know what went wrong with yours. Put enough in there to down a hippo. Sorry.’

Angus forced himself up onto his elbows, pushing out each word like a kidney stone. ‘I ditched it... in the pot plant... because your coffee... was rank.’ Come on, he could do this. ‘Gillian Kilbride... I’m arresting... arresting you under... Section one of... the Criminal Justice—’

‘Shut up.’ The Woman put her foot on his chest and shoved him back down again. ‘Thought you said he was out for the count.’

Gillian winced. ‘He’s had four zopiclone and a bunch of sertraline and Seroquel dissolved in water and strawberry vodka; he’s not going to be any trouble.’ Smiling down at him as if they were old friends, not so much as an ounce of malice in her voice: ‘Are you, Angus?’

The Woman snorted. ‘Yeah. And my shite smells of Christmas trees.’ She threw open Angus’s jacket. ‘I want his phone, his belt, and anything sharp.’

Gillian went through his pockets, cheeks bright red as she fiddled his belt off.

Then Tony reappeared from the passageway under the stairs, unfurling a tatty bath sheet. ‘Happy now?’

‘Yeah: ecstatic.’ The Woman watched him lift Angus’s feet and plonk them down on the towel. ‘Cable-tie the bugger’s wrists and ankles first, you idiot!’

‘God’s sake...’ But he dug a handful of thick black strips from the pocket of his overalls and threaded one around Angus’s ankles, fastening it with a zwwwwiiip. Then added a second one, just for luck. Before jamming a boot under Angus’s shoulder and half kicking, half flipping him over onto his front.

Gillian’s gun snapped up again. ‘I told you!’

‘Jesus, you’re as bad as her!’ He knelt and hauled Angus’s hands behind his back. Zwwwwiiip. Zwwwwiiip. ‘Better?’

‘No.’

He muttered something — too low to make out — then tucked the towel around Angus’s feet, tying the ends together.

They didn’t bother flipping Angus back over again. Instead, Tony and the Woman took hold of his armpits and dragged him through a door on the right, into an empty room. It had the same spotless beige carpet, same clean magnolia walls, but a line of fitted bookcases stretched down one whole side — immaculate, book-free, and floor to ceiling.

Now that Angus’s belt was gone, there was nothing to keep his oversized, borrowed trousers from sliding down around his knees.

As if this wasn’t undignified enough.

The Woman raised her voice as they dragged him into the middle of the room. ‘Look what we got!’ The words echoing around the empty room.

And in marched Ryan, dressed in a brown hoodie and blue jeans. His bright-white trainers discoloured and scuffed from the chase at Sadler Road. Faded Tartantula festival T-shirt. Trimmed beard and long black hair. For some reason, he looked as if he’d talk in a transatlantic drawl, to go with the wannabe-rockstar look, but when he spoke what came out was a Highlands and Islands accent almost identical to Gillian’s. ‘Give you any trouble?’

Tony sniffed: ever the hardman. ‘Tried, but I put him straight. Again.’

‘Oh dear.’ Ryan tutted at Angus, dangling there between Tony and the Woman. ‘Who’s a bad house guest?’ He took a three-step run-up and slammed his foot into Angus’s ribs.

Gillian flinched, but the gun stayed by her side. Clearly, she was a lot braver around Tony than she was with Ryan.

The air roared back into Angus’s lungs as he hung there, gasping.

Ryan stuck his hands in his hoodie’s pockets. ‘Take him downstairs.’

The Woman pulled out an RFID fob — black, with a red band around the middle. Just like Kate Paisley’s one. She reached into one of the bookcase shelves, near the middle of the set, and pressed it against the wood until something inside went clunk. Then placed both hands on the nearest uprights and pushed.

A whole three-foot-wide section sank into the bookcases, only coming to a halt when it had retreated behind the rest of them. Another clunk and she shoved it sideways instead, hidden castors rumbling as it slipped out of the way, concealed by the shelves in front.

LED lights bloomed, illuminating a short passageway with a flight of stairs at the end. Heading down.

Tony didn’t wait for the Woman to come back and help; instead, he hooked both hands deep into Angus’s armpits and hauled him into the passageway, to the top of the stairs.

Then shoved him over the edge.

49

Angus tumbled down a narrow flight of steep stairs, bumping off the walls, battering off the steps, then coming to a sudden stop with a crunching thump.

It should’ve hurt a lot more than it did — which was one benefit of trusting bloody Gillian Two-Faced Poisoning Scumbag Kilbride. At least he was well anaesthetized.

And didn’t drunk people survive more accidents because they didn’t tense up? Which was lucky, because he could barely move.

More LED strip lights sparked into life as he lay there on his side, both arms twisted behind his back, legs pinned together, face pressed against a cool, smooth floor of polished concrete.

It was bigger than the secret dungeon under number one-thirty-two Sadler Road — about twelve feet square, lined with chipboard. But instead of one cell, there were two: facing each other across the room. Both secured with twin handles and a large, hinged locking mechanism. Each held in place with a chunky padlock.

Those weren’t the only doors, though. A third — heavy-looking and wooden — sat beneath a wall-mounted sign that probably lit up when you switched it on. Red background with the word ‘RECORDING’ in white, above ‘STUDIO IN USE’.

Which wasn’t exactly reassuring.

Ryan’s lilting Highland accent echoed down from upstairs. ‘You bloody idiot!’

‘What?’ Tony’s hardman bravado transformed into a petulant whine: ‘He tried to bash my brains in with a standard lamp, remember? Look what he did to my face!’

‘You trying to ruin everything? Is that it? What if he broke his neck?’

‘Oh, come on, Ryan: we’re killing him anyway, aren’t we? He’s a fascist jackboot for the Cabal! Who cares?’

Angus closed his eyes and rocked his right shoulder forward. Then back. Then forward. Then back. Putting a bit more energy into it each time until, at last, he toppled over onto his front. Breath hissing against the concrete.

Which should make it a little safer for what he was about to do.

He dragged in a deep breath and swallowed it. Opened his mouth and clenched his battered stomach. A gurgling, gagging sound bubbled out from his throat.

‘And what if that broken neck isn’t just a broken neck? What if it’s a punctured lung, or a compound fracture, and he’s down there bleeding all over the place? WHICH YOU’LL HAVE TO CLEAN UP, YOU MUPPET!’

‘All right, all right. I get it. I’m sorry.’

Angus retched and squirmed, jerking his stomach muscles in and out as he rocked. Mouth open, throat stretched. The blood swelling in his face as he strained and strained and strained...

A wee dry boak hacked out nothing more than a string of spittle.

‘Maybe you’re not suited to this kinda work, Tony. Maybe you shouldn’t be part of the team?’

The petulant tone turned into something more like fear. ‘Jesus, Ryan, it was just a mistake. Didn’t mean anything by it.’

Another deep breath and Angus tried again, clenching and straining till tears blurred his vision and his eyes were about to pop.

‘Maybe we should throw you a going-away party? Like we did for Shona.’

Come on, you dirty bastard...

A bitter, stinking wash of antidepressants and sleeping pills and water and strawberry vodka hurked from his mouth. Spattering across the polished concrete. He heaved again. And again. Getting as much out of his system as possible, till there was nothing left but bile and air.

Vomit spread out in a slick of clear-pinkish-foamy liquid — which, hopefully, was that colour because of the beans he’d had at breakfast, and not because all this crap was dissolving the lining of his stomach.

He forced himself over onto his back, and then again, onto his other side, keeping going till he’d put a bit of distance between himself and the foul-smelling puddle.

Then lay there, panting. Spitting out the sour remnants.

‘Honest, Ryan: if he’s broken anything I’ll clean it up! Spick and span. Like new!’

‘You better.’

‘Yes, Ryan. Not a problem at all. Great.’

Angus blinked the tears from his eyes.

OK, so the world was still waltzing around his head, but you couldn’t just puke this stuff up and be instantly better. It’d take a while to work its way out of his system. And at least now it wouldn’t get any worse.

What he needed was a plan.

And a weapon.

Yes, but there was nothing in here, was there. Just him and the bloody cells. And even if there were something, he was in no position to wield it with his hands cable-tied behind his back.

Bootsteps clumped on the steps. Someone was coming.

OK: Plan B.

Angus went limp. Drooping, as if he’d passed out, or been knocked unconscious in his plummet down the stairs. Right eye shut, left one peeking out into the basement.

Which actually helped slow the room’s swirling dance.

Tony appeared, face scrunched like a toddler’s fist. Voice a muttering grumble, too quiet to be heard by anyone in the lounge above. Because he was nowhere near as brave as he thought. ‘Yes, Ryan; no, Ryan; what did your last slave die of, Ryan.’ He pulled a key from his pocket — small, with a round head. ‘Thinks he’s God’s gift...’

He slipped the key into the padlock opposite the stairs, popped it open, and swung the locking bars out of the way. Then took hold of the handles and levered the cell’s door from its frame. It had the same thick layers of polystyrene and acoustic insulation sandwiched between two slabs of chipboard as the dungeon at Sadler Road.

As soon as the door popped open, the stench of stale sweat and human waste collapsed out into the basement.

Tony didn’t even flinch at the smell. What with his nose being standard-lamped and everything.

He propped the door up against the wall. ‘I’ll show him. See how he likes it when I bash his sodding head in...’

He stomped towards Angus, bending, arms out ready to grab him, and stepped right into that puddle of vomit. Turned out a frothy pool of liquid on top of polished concrete made for a very low-friction surface and Tony’s foot skidded out from underneath him, arms pinwheeling as he crashed down on his arse.

The padlock key pinged against the floor, bouncing away as Tony sat there: eyes screwed shut, teeth bared, hissing and growling in pain. Then a look of disgust crawled across his face as he raised his wet hands from the concrete. ‘What the...?’

It soaked into the fabric of his overalls, turning the material dark grey all around his backside, sleeves, and legs.

He stared at his glistening, dripping fingers. ‘Oh, you dirty bastard!’

Angus narrowed his hidden eye.

That key had come to rest not far from the door to Cell Number Three, a couple of feet from Angus’s no-longer-shiny shoes. It glinted in the LED lights.

Tony was still sitting there, in the puke, trying to flick frothy pink bile off his hands.

Good.

Angus let free a pantomime groan — not hard, given the state of his poor ribs, and jammed his feet down hard into the concrete. Pinning them there as he curled up, dragging his torso and head closer to Cell Number Three.

‘God, it’s everywhere!’ Tony struggled to his knees, hauling himself up the bars outside Cell Number One, boots slipping in the slithery mess.

One more groan-and-curl, and Angus was less than two inches from the fallen key.

Come on, you wee shite...

Tony Bambied out of the puddle and stood there, turning in a circle, pulling at his overalls, clearly more concerned about his covering of vomit than anything else. ‘Gah...!’ Then his boot flashed out, catching Angus on the thigh.

Which stung a bit, but the remnants of Gillian’s drug cocktail smothered the worst of it.

A grunt burst free, and Angus curled up tight as an ammonite. Protecting his innards, and bringing the key right under his face.

He opened his mouth and scooped the padlock key up with his tongue. Biting down on it as Tony’s boot landed again. And again.

The Bastard went for one more, but stepped in the slithery puddle during the run-up and nearly went his whole length. He skidded to a halt, holding onto the basement wall. Breathing hard. ‘Not so... clever now... are you?’

Tony wiped his hands on his overalls, grabbed Angus’s high-vis lapels, and hauled him backwards, through the puddle, and into the open cell.

Inside, it wasn’t much bigger than the one at Sadler Road. There was even a body, like last time, only this one wasn’t wrapped in plastic. Instead, it lay naked, bruised, and bloodied, slumped against the far wall — not thin enough to be DCI Monroe. So someone else...

What the cell also had was Dr Fife.

He was scrunched into the corner, furthest away from the corpse, hands behind his back, ankles cable-tied together. Blinking in the harsh LED light.

One eye was swollen almost shut and fresh blood caked his squint nose. He said something, but all that came out was an indecipherable series of grunts — muffled by the rag stuffed into his mouth, held in place by what looked like a pair of leggings knotted around his head. They’d taken his greatcoat, but left him his jeans, platform cowboy boots, and skull-and-crossbones top.

Tony dumped Angus on the floor, howched long and hard, then spat on him. ‘You’re gonna learn what happens when the people rise up against you Elite bastards.’ Bending over to snarl in Angus’s ear. Aping the Woman. ‘And I’m gonna enjoy ripping the balls right off you.’

He yanked the towel from around Angus’s feet, stepped out of the cell, and thunked the insulated door back into place.

The whole cell went dark.

The padlock’s click was barely audible.

And then silence.

Complete, lightless, suffocating silence.

Slowly, the sound of someone else breathing hissed and whoomped through the pitch-black air. Because Dr Fife would be finding it hard, what with the broken nose and gag.

Angus shifted the key with his tongue, pinning it against the inside of his cheek, out of swallowing or choking range. ‘You OK?’

Whatever Dr Fife’s reply, none of it was comprehensible. Didn’t sound happy, though. Shock, horror.

‘Yeah, thought so.’ He rested his head against the cell floor — smooth and cool, like the concrete outside. ‘If it’s OK with you, I’m just going to lie here till the world stops spinning...’

Again, the response was incomprehensible, but definitely rude.

Just like old times.

Surprisingly enough, with all that crap out of his stomach, things were settling down again: the walls no longer pulsed and whirled, and feeling was coming back to his arms and legs. Which was a mixed blessing, after all the beatings.

The real pain hadn’t kicked in yet, though, so there was probably a limited window before he was unable to move again.

Better make the most of it.

‘You awake?’

More muffled swearing.

‘OK, then.’ He wormed his way along the concrete, until his head bumped into Dr Fife. ‘Scoot down, so you’re on the floor.’

This time the angry mumbling went on for quite some time.

‘For once, can you just do what you’re told?’

A grunt. Then there was a scuffing noise, followed by a grunt.

OK, then.

Angus rolled over, shoogling about until he could feel the forensic psychologist’s curly hair. Which put his head more-or-less level with the small of Angus’s back. Angus’s fingers walked, poked, and prodded till they hit face — producing outraged mumbles.

‘Hold still!’

It took a while, working one-handed, but he wedged his fingers in between the leggings and Dr Fife’s cheeks, hauling and twisting and pulling and yanking on the elasticated fabric till that lump of rag popped out of Dr Fife’s mouth.

‘Ow! Ow! Ow! Watch the beard. Watch the beard!’

Angus let go.

‘Jesus...’ A couple of deep breaths followed. Then a hissing noise. ‘Ow.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘What now?’

‘This is all your fault.’ Which was entirely true.

‘Shut up and let me think. Has to be a way out of here.’

‘You’re only just starting an escape plan now? What the hell have you been doing?’

‘Before, it was only me, you idiot. Now I’ve got a blunt object to work with: you. That changes things.’

Well, it was time for the ‘blunt object’ to dazzle with his brilliance.

‘The key.’ Slipping it from his lips onto the floor. ‘Tony — the guy who chucked me in here — he dropped the padlock key. I’ve got it.’ Shoogling about again, so the thing was grabbable with his fingers.

‘The lock’s on the outside of the cell, you idiot! How’s that supposed to help?’ A frustrated sigh rang out in the darkness. ‘Son of a bitch...’

‘I know it’s on the outside. But the key has sharp little metal teeth, hasn’t it. Unless you’ve got some secret FBI trick to get these wanking cable-ties off?’

Silence.

‘Didn’t think so.’ Angus twisted the key around in his hand, turning it so the flat edge of the blade was against his index finger, pressing the teeth against the first cable-tie, and sawed. Back and forth and back and forth across the smooth plastic. Which wasn’t easy, given the position he had to contort his wrist into. But it was this or sit here, waiting for Tony to come back with a pair of pliers.

How would Ellie put it?

Ah, yes: ‘Thank you, Angus, you’re a genius, Angus. Oh, don’t mention it, Jonathan. No, really, your brilliance and intellect are an inspiration to—’

‘All right, all right. We get it!’

Saw, saw, saw, saw, saw...

‘Who’s the idiot now?’

Saw, saw, saw, saw, saw...

‘I reserve judgement till it works.’

Saw, saw, saw, saw, saw...

Dr Fife spat something out into the darkness. ‘If it does work, we have to be totally ruthless, OK? When these motherfuckers come back: we go for them. No holds barred. Kill or be killed.’

Saw, saw, saw, saw, saw...

‘I’m a police officer! We don’t—’

‘That’s why we’re here! Because they want to kill a police officer.’

‘No: we’re here because you decided it would be a good idea to shag someone who turned out to be part of the sodding conspiracy!’

Saw, saw, saw, saw, saw...

Dr Fife cleared his throat. ‘That doesn’t change—’

‘You’re supposed to be this red-hot forensic psychologist: how could you be such a crap judge of character? Getting manipulated by that... two-faced... pill-poisoning...’

Saw, saw, saw, saw, saw...

For Christ’s sake, was this bloody thing never going to break?

‘I know, OK? But that doesn’t change anything.’ Deep breath. ‘Angus, the chances of us getting out of this alive are vanishingly slim. You saw what they do to their victims. They turned Leonard Lundy’s head into a sack of mush!’ His voice dropped. ‘I’d rather die fighting.’

Saw, saw, saw, saw, saw...

‘Yeah? Well, I’d rather not die at all.’

Saw, saw, snap.

Oh, halle-frigging-lujah — the first cable-tie pinged off into the black.

‘Got one!’ Angus set to work on number two.

The only noise was the key’s teeth sawing away at heavy-duty plastic.

‘And I didn’t “shag” anyone.’

‘Yeah, I totally believe you.’

‘I didn’t!’ Dr Fife huffed and puffed in the darkness. ‘It wasn’t because of the booze. I mean, that probably didn’t help, but when I was younger I could down a bottle of tequila and still be up all night. Like a flagpole.’ A small laugh broke free, bitter as bile. ‘The reason I’m so pissed at that journalist bastard publishing stuff about where Courtney lives isn’t just because of cartel killers. Angus, what if the Brethren decide Megan’s the Dawn Child?’

‘Cos she’s your firstborn.’

‘I wish. When I turned eleven, the Brethren made me sleep with someone at the church. Well, not “sleep” sleep: screw. Right on the altar. In front of everyone.’ Pause. ‘That was a weird birthday.’

Angus kept on sawing.

‘It’s no fun losing your virginity with your mum and dad and all the neighbours watching. Only the baby didn’t bring forth the End of Days, she made it to three years old, before measles got her. Because vaccines are “the Devil’s work”.’ A dull thunking sound came from his direction, as if he’d just bounced his head off the wall. ‘So you know what they did? They changed the prophecy. Decided I can’t just knock-up some random woman, it needs to be a specific special lady to make the Dawn Child.’

Jesus... Father to a dead child at only fourteen.

How could anyone cope with something like that?

And wasn’t fourteen when Dr Fife’s father beat him so badly he ended up in hospital?

‘So go back to wherever your dad’s stupid cult is, get someone pregnant and have done with it. They get their Dawn Child and their apocalypse; you get on with your life, not having to worry about them any more. Everyone wins.’

‘I’m not condemning any kid of mine to live with those joyless, violent, bible-bashing sons of bitches.’

This bastarding cable-tie was proving even tougher than the first one.

‘So no: I didn’t “shag” Gillian.’ There was that laugh again. ‘Casual sex is kinda difficult with all that hiding under the bed.’

‘Come on!’

‘I couldn’t get it up, OK? You happy now?’

‘Not you: this stupid...’ The cable-tie snapped. ‘Ha!’ And then the pain set in, grinding through his shoulders as he finally moved his hands around to the front of his body for the first time in ages. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, twisting the wrist as it burned and screamed. ‘Cramp! Cramp...’

‘It’s a lot of pressure, not knowing if your next orgasm’s gonna kick off Armageddon.’

Angus slumped back against the floor. ‘Everything aches...’

‘No wonder I’m in therapy.’

Soon as he’d got his breath back, he shuffled his bum into a sitting position, bracing his aching shoulders against the wall and pulling his knees up against his chest so he could reach the cable-ties around his ankles. Sawing away again. Pulling upwards this time and putting some muscle into it.

‘Hoy! At least do my hands first!’

‘What a great idea.’ Angus kept going. ‘Because that way... if Tony, Ryan, or any of the others come back... we’ll be able to hop away like happy little Easter bunnies.’ Upping the pressure on the makeshift blade by pushing his ankles forward. ‘This way, if it happens... I can carry you out of here.’

Come on, come on, come on...

Growling at the thing now, teeth bared, breath hissing in and out as he sawed and sawed and sawed and—

Snap.

Angus slumped back. Peching and heeching like a smoker on a treadmill. ‘One more... to go...’

50

Angus held onto Dr Fife’s wrists with one hand, the other sawing away with the key — which was getting a bit hot with all the friction. Not sure if that made it more efficient at cutting through industrial-grade plastic cable-ties or not...

One thing was certain, though: this would go a lot quicker if Dr Fife wouldn’t keep shifting about. ‘Will you hold still?’

‘Ow! Cut the plastic, not the skin!’

‘Told you to hold still.’

They sat in silence for a bit — the only sounds being the duddering rasp of little metal teeth on plastic, and Angus’s laboured breathing.

Dr Fife hissed out a sigh. ‘So, you gonna tell me what your dad did, or not? You know: the thing you’re “not supposed to talk about”?’

‘I’m busy.’

‘You got somewhere more important to be?’

Bastarding cable-ties were never going to give...

‘Or we could talk about your inability to grow free of your mother’s shadow and self-actualize towards a mutually fulfilling sexual relationship with Ellie Nottingham?’

Finally, the bloody thing snapped.

‘Thank God for that.’ Angus stuck the hot little key in Jonathan’s hand. ‘You can do... your own ankles.’ He collapsed flat on his back, breathing hard; whoever invented cable-ties could stick their knob in a blender full of Scotch bonnet chillis and set it on pulse.

‘Angus, we’re probably gonna die here, so what’ve you gotta lose? Might do you good to get it off your chest?’

Nope.

‘Angus?’

Still nope.

‘Hey: I shared with you; don’t be a dick.’

Maybe if he ignored him, Dr Fife would go away...

‘I’ll just keep bugging you till you tell me. Or they kill us.’

Wonderful.

‘Anyone ever told you you’re a pain in the arse?’

‘My first and second wives may have mentioned it.’

Urgh...

He stared up into the featureless dark. ‘Dad was a senior accountant at an oil company. Did the books for a bunch of charities in his spare time, played golf, tinkered about in his shed, took Mum and me to Paris and San Francisco and Rio and Rome...’ Hard to imagine it now. ‘Then one morning, we got up and he just wasn’t there. They pulled him out the River Dee two days later. He’d got drunk, filled his pockets with rocks, and jumped right in.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘All Mum’s friends rallied round, of course. Till one of those charities found out he’d skimmed thousands from their accounts. Soon as that came out, the casseroles and sympathy dried up. Then the other charities started looking at their books. And so did the oil company.’

Hard not to see her face, standing there, blinking back the tears, as the police searched Dad’s study, looking for evidence of secret bank accounts.

‘Mum had to sell the house, the car, furniture. Everything.’ Angus raised his arms, as if he was giving away the world. ‘And that’s how we ended up in Kingsmeath.’ He let his arms fall back, the fibreglass cast clunking against the concrete floor. ‘Happy now?’

‘Hmmm...’ A thoughtful pause. ‘Let me guess: one of the charities he defrauded was your megacysty one.’

‘Megalencephalic leukoencephalopathy with subcortical cysts: the Molly Ormond Foundation. Yeah. So far we’ve paid back the Royal Deeside Childhood Leukaemia Trust and the Smile Happy Intervention Partnership. They do cleft-palate operations on poor kids in Indonesia, Cambodia, and Vietnam.’ It was hard, keeping the anger out of his voice, so Angus didn’t bother: ‘He had a hundred and twenty-three thousand, eight hundred and ninety-seven pounds from the Molly Ormond bank account. It’ll take decades.’

And that was his life, all laid out before him in a never-ending slog of long hours and overtime and scrimping and penny-pinching and never having anything nice to show for it.

What a time to be alive...

Dr Fife reached out in the darkness, found Angus’s arm and gave it a squeeze. ‘I know you might not wanna hear this, Angus, but your father was a massive, thieving asshat.’

Yup.

Which was why they never spoke about it.

Angus gave himself a shake. ‘Anyway, this isn’t getting those cable-ties off. You’d better get sawing.’

The duddering rasp started up again.

‘Just cos he’s your dad doesn’t mean you’re responsible for his crimes or his debts.’ Sawing away. ‘But I suppose it explains why you’ve got a massive stick up your butt about everything.’

Angus had another go at changing the subject. ‘Who’s our dead body?’

‘Best guess? Monroe.’

‘Can’t be: not thin enough.’

‘Then it’s Kevin Healey-Robinson... Unless they’ve killed someone else we don’t know about?’

‘You haven’t checked?’

The sawing stopped. ‘In the dark. With my wrists and ankles tied together, and a gag in my mouth? Oh yeah: I’ve been exploring my ass off.’

It was always the poor detective constable that had to do all the nasty jobs, wasn’t it.

The sound of key-on-plastic snarled away as Angus hauled his trousers up, then got down on his hand and knees, shuffling along the wall — left arm held out in front of him, fingers reaching from their fibreglass cocoon to skitter across the concrete floor.

Searching, and searching, and searching, and—

Angus’s fingertips brushed the unmistakeable clammy softness of bare skin.

‘Got him.’

Kind of weird, though. You’d think a dead body would be colder than that. It was almost as if—

A soft, mushy voice whispered out in the darkness. ‘Kill me...’

‘JESUS FUCK!’ Angus scrabbled backwards. Sat flat on his bum. Staring into the void.

Dr Fife stopped sawing again. ‘What? What’s happened?’

‘Please... k... kill me.’

‘He’s alive!’

Tiny sobs jagged out of a gurgling throat. ‘Please...’

Come on, you silly bastard: take control of the situation, like they taught you.

Deep breath. ‘Mr Healey-Robinson? It’s the police. You’re...?’ It was hard to know how to finish that sentence without either a massive lie, or a deeply depressing truth.

Luckily, Dr Fife didn’t have anywhere near as many scruples. ‘You’re safe now. We got a SWAT team on the way; this is all gonna be over soon.’

One way or the other...

Angus slipped off his high-vis jacket. ‘Here, put this on.’ Helping the poor sod get his arms into the sleeves. Trying not to wince at the sticky patches of fresh wounds and knobbly lines of scabbed tissue.

Soon as he was covered up, Angus scrambled back across the cell to Dr Fife. ‘Have you got those bloody cable-ties off yet? I can’t carry two people.’

‘Sonofabitch.’

Saw, saw, saw, saw, saw...

Dr Fife shuffled back from visiting Kevin Healey-Robinson. He reached out, then poked Angus, keeping his voice down to barely a whisper. ‘He’s got a fever: poor bastard’s hands are like microwaves. We gotta get outta here soon, or he’s gonna die.’ A grunt. ‘And so are we.’

Angus matched the low volume. ‘OK, how’s this for a plan? We break down the door, charge up the stairs, batter our way through the bookcase, and arrest everyone.’

‘Excellent. Love it. Especially the bit where we make so much noise the dead can hear us — cos that way, by the time we get to the top of the stairs, every asshole in this goddamned house will be lined up ready to shoot us.’ The dull thunk-thunk of knuckles on chipboard sounded in their dungeon cell. ‘Maybe, instead of making a racket, we could be a bit more sneaky?’ He gave Angus a shove. ‘See if you can find the edge of the door.’

It had to be a pretty snug fit, given that they’d not seen a chink of light since Tony shut them in here.

Angus slid his fingertips along the chipboard, slow and methodical. Feeling between the lumps and bumps of glued-together wood slivers, looking for a straight groove marking the join between door and...

‘Got it. Now what?’

‘Here.’ Dr Fife’s hands worked their way down Angus’s arm, then pressed the padlock key into his hand. ‘Try prising the wood off. Pick the insulation apart. Dig us out of here.’

Seriously?

‘With a key?’ A crowbar, maybe, but a key? ‘What happened to your multitool?’

‘Surprisingly enough, they confiscated it. And my phone. And my belt. The key’s all we got.’

Wonderful.

Angus sighed. Shrugged in the darkness. Then found the edge of the door again. It fitted tight against the wall panels all the way around, but there was the teeniest crack in the bottom corner, maybe a millimetre wide. Angus poked one of the key’s teeth into it, because that was all that would fit, and wiggled it from side to side, up and down, rocking it, shoving it, twisting it... until something fell onto the back of his hand.

He ran his fingers over it — all that effort for a thumbnail-sized sliver of chipboard.

‘This is going to take forever.’

‘It’ll take three lifetimes if you don’t get moving. His. Mine. And yours.’

Yeah.

Fair enough.

Angus dug the key into the crack again: digging and digging and digging...

Christ knew how long it’d taken, but Angus finally managed to flake away enough slivers to make a hole just big enough to get all four fingertips into. The chipboard scratched and scraped as he forced them in there, squishing his way through the foam padding, then hooked his fingers up behind the wood.

He braced both feet against the wall. Took a deep breath. And pulled. Hard as possible. Stiffening his back. Shoving with his heels.

Come on, you utter...

A creak rang out, then a crack, then a splintering bang as a piece of chipboard broke free from the door — big as a ragged sheet of A4.

‘Ha!’

‘Did it work?’

‘Catch.’ He gently tossed the lump towards Dr Fife’s voice. It pocked onto the concrete.

Angus reached into the new hole. OK, so it would probably be easier with two hands, but he only had the one to work with.

Crack, crunch, scrunch.

This time the door gave up a slab of wood about the size of a laptop.

He heaved off chunk after chunk — dumping them all on the floor at his feet, until there was no more chipboard on this side of the door.

He sagged back on his heels, breathing hard. ‘That’s... that’s it.’

‘Give me the key.’

‘Told you... I pulled... the chipboard—’

‘To cut the insulation with, you lump.’

Oh.

Angus handed it over, leaning against the wall as Dr Fife went to work, filling the air with the crackling fizz of grey acoustic foam being ripped free of its gluey bonds. Followed by the chip, chip, squeak, and squeal of what had to be polystyrene.

Soon as he had his breath back, Angus reached out — fingertips searching for Dr Fife, then giving him a wee shove. ‘Shift over.’

Going by the feel of it, Dr Fife had managed to make a dent in the polystyrene about the size of an orange. And he still wasn’t through it. ‘Is this all you’ve done?’

‘Well, I don’t see you doing any better!’

‘Watch and learn.’ He searched through the fallen bits of chipboard for the most jagged bit, took a good hold of the flattest side, and whacked the sharp edge into the polystyrene. Digging it in there like a shovel before wrenching it left and right till a hunk of the stuff shrieked and popped free.

He went exploring with his fingers again.

The insulation had to be at least three inches thick, but there was rockwool underneath so all Angus had to do was jam his good hand in there and rip the lot of it out — taking the polystyrene insulation with it, hurling it over his shoulder in great skreiching hunks till there was nothing left.

Angus dropped his voice to a whisper again. ‘That’s me through to the chipboard.’

‘OK.’ Dr Fife handed over the key. ‘Nice and careful now — don’t want them to hear us upstairs. Quiet as a squirrel fart.’

Angus felt for the edge, where the outer door joined the outer wall, but before he could work the key into the minute gap, the whole sheet of chipboard popped outward, and the only thing holding it up was the padlock and hasp. Which worked as a one-point hinge. Meaning the whole slab of chipboard tilted downwards at speed.

He scrabbled forwards, grabbing the bottom edge just before it clattered against the basement floor.

Holy shit that was close.

A thin, grey light flooded into their cell.

He levered the door back up again, twisted it a couple of degrees, then pulled. Working the bottom corner back inside the cell. Shoogling and wriggling the thing until it was free of the doorway.

Oh yeah.

Score one for Team Angus.

The locking bars didn’t really block the exit — there was enough of a gap between the mechanism’s metal frame and the doorway to worm out through, but that wasn’t going to do Kevin Healey-Robinson any good. Not in his state.

But luckily, Angus had a key.

OK, so it was a bit sticky after all it’d been through, but a bit of solid twisting and the mechanism popped open with a click.

He swung the bars out of the way and stepped into the basement proper.

Right: weapons.

Only there was nothing in here, other than the cells, the padlocks, and those bars.

And the ‘Studio’, of course.

Angus pulled up his baggy trousers and limped over there.

Dr Fife emerged from the cell. ‘Where are you going, you idiot?’ Pointing back into the dark. ‘We need to get him outta here!’

‘Thought you wanted to go down fighting.’ Angus grabbed the studio door and pulled. The thing was heavy, coming open with an air-tight pfwooming noise, exposing a lightless, echoing space. Cold.

Not refrigerated, just... cold.

A line of eight or nine switches were just visible by the door, and he flicked the nearest one — setting the sign above the door glowing blood-red: ‘RECORDING ~ STUDIO IN USE’.

The scarlet glow seeped past Angus into the dark, chilly space. Glinting off things hidden in the gloom.

The next switch flooded the room with eye-searing white light. It sparkled back from the stainless-steel sheets that covered every surface in here: walls, floor, and ceiling.

He hissed, shielding his eyes with his fibreglass cast, scrunching them into tiny slits. Waiting for shapes to come into stinging focus.

Though it might have been better if they hadn’t.

Beneath his feet, the metal surface sloped down towards an open grate, about two-thirds of the way in — not far from a heavy-duty wooden chair. It was bolted to the floor, in the middle of the room, complete with pristine leather tie-down straps.

Network points were set into the wall opposite the lights, next to a line of electrical sockets with those ‘for outside use’ covers on them.

A tap stuck out of the stainless steel, within easy reach of the door, mounted at waist-height. Presumably so you could hose the place down from outside. Nothing else.

Angus flicked the switch again, plunging the room into darkness, leaving only the ‘RECORDING’ light on. Giving the whole basement an abattoir glow.

Yeah...

Dr Fife’s voice whispered out behind him. ‘What the goddamn hell was that?’

Appropriate choice of words.

Blinking the swirling yellow dots from his eyes, Angus backed out of the studio, letting the door creep shut under its own weight. Pfwoom.

A nudge from Dr Fife. ‘Well?’

He turned. ‘You really don’t want to know.’

‘Of course I do. If anything, I want to know more.’ Dr Fife stood on his tiptoes, as if that would help him see through the heavy studio door. ‘What: they got cameras and stuff? A desk, and a green screen?’

Angus shook his head, but the room was tattooed across his retinas. ‘Just... We seriously need to get out of here.’ The opened padlock for their cell door was still hooked into the hasp. He pulled it free, weighing it in his good hand.

Might work.

Better than nothing, anyway.

‘Grab the gag.’

But Dr Fife wasn’t listening — he was struggling with the studio door.

‘Leave it alone and go get the gag.’

A grunt, and Dr Fife hauled the thing open far enough to see inside. Whatever the blood-red light touched was enough to make him stare for a moment, then flinch away from the handle. The door eased itself shut again with that airtight sound, and he stood there. Staring.

‘Told you. Now, will you please grab the gag?’

Dr Fife blinked at him.

‘I need you to trust me, OK? Grab the gag.’

‘Holy shit...’ Dr Fife turned his eyes back towards the studio door for a couple of breaths, shuddered, then ducked back into the cell. Emerging moments later with the rag that had been stuffed in his mouth and the pair of leggings used to hold it there. He held them out. ‘You realize what that room means, don’t you?’

‘Said you wouldn’t want to know.’ Took a bit of doing, but Angus undid the knot in the leggings as Dr Fife paced.

‘Either they’ve named their torture chamber the “studio” as a sick joke, or they’re filming this shit. Why would they film it...?’

Angus shook out the leggings, held them up in the scarlet light. Couldn’t see any holes in them. Still, better safe than sorry — he tucked the left leg into the right, shoving his arm down there till the toes lined up.

‘Option one: they’re idiots, filming themselves committing murder — AKA: Bestiality-Self-Incriminating-Moron Disorder. Option two: they’re actually broadcasting this stuff...’ Dr Fife’s brow creased, lips moving as if he were tasting that idea.

Angus tied a knot in the newly made single leg, just above the heel, then wrapped the padlock in the rag and stuffed it through the leghole. Shoogling the whole thing till it rested up against the knot.

A nod. ‘How else are they gonna get their message across? The police don’t tell anyone about the Post-its, so who’s seeing their warning message? No one, that’s who. So how are they gonna change the world? They can’t. They gotta go global.’

Another knot right next to the padlock trapped it in place. Followed by another couple, just in case.

‘Are you listening to me?’

‘Nope.’ Angus tied another knot every three or four inches, till there was no leg left. With any luck the whole thing would be much stronger than the original fabric. He tossed the trussed-up leggings to Dr Fife, who curled his lip, as if he’d just been handed a used condom.

‘What the hell is—’

‘I was our LARPing group’s resident armourer. Think of it as a chained flail without the handle, or a freehand mace. You hold on tight and swing it like a baseball bat.’ He mimed taking a swing. ‘Hopefully the padlock doesn’t just go straight through the fabric. Might only get one or two blows in before it rips, so make them count.’ He grimaced at the closed studio door. ‘Unless you want to end up “on camera”.’

‘Hmmm...’ Dr Fife weighed the mace in his hands, then held it out. ‘Wouldn’t you be better—’

‘I’m carrying Kevin Healey-Robinson.’ Angus slipped off the tweed jacket and ripped the lining out of it, twisting the thin material into a makeshift belt to keep his trousers up. Not great, but it would do.

‘Yeah...’ Fife bared his teeth and looked back at the cell. ‘I don’t think Kev’s gonna make it.’

‘We can’t just leave him here!’

‘I know, I know, but it’s gonna be hard enough getting outta this alive, without dragging extra...’ Dr Fife pursed his lips as he frowned at the other cell door. ‘You don’t suppose Monroe’s in there?’

Angus followed his gaze.

Sodding hell.

Dr Fife stuck his hand out. ‘Gimme the key.’

Ryan’s people must’ve got the padlocks as a job lot, because the same key opened this one too. Dr Fife pocketed the lock, then swung the bars out of the way. Stepping back to let Angus take hold of the handles and lever the door-plug from its frame.

The smell that slumped out after it reeked of stale sweat and iron and raw sewage.

Angus risked a slightly louder whisper. ‘Boss?’

No reply.

‘Detective Inspector Monroe?’

Silence.

He glanced at Dr Fife, who shook his head.

OK then.

Angus took a deep breath and stepped inside.

51

The studio’s ‘RECORDING’ light cast its horror-film glow through the open cell door — barely reaching more than a couple of feet into the rank, silent space.

Angus shuffled forwards, the fingertips on his left hand skiffing along the side wall, the right one out to stop him banging into the end of the cell. Moving slow and careful. Feeling his way.

If it was anything like the box they’d just escaped from, there couldn’t be much further to go...

And then his foot bumped into something.

Soft.

OK.

He squatted down, running his good hand over a confusing mass of naked flesh with too many limbs and—

A bellow of rage split the darkness, and something slammed into Angus’s chest, tipping him over backwards, thumping down on top of him as he hit the concrete floor. Bony hands scrabbling up his torso to wrap around his neck and squeeze.

Growling and snarling.

‘Help!’ He grabbed the wrists and pulled, but those fingers locked on tight, strangling the words in his throat. ‘Help... me!’ Heels shoving against the concrete, pushing himself back towards the door.

Brown blobs, like dried blood, bloomed in the corners of Angus’s eyes, overlaying the darkness as he ground his shoes into the polished concrete. Pressure building behind his eyes. Lungs burning.

The grip tightened, trying to wring the life out of him.

Another shove and he’d made it back into the scarlet glow. One more and the strangling bastard’s face loomed out of the gloom above him. Only there was something seriously wrong with it — the features all swollen and lopsided, a sharp nose crushed into a gristled stub.

Bloody hell.

It was DCI Monroe.

Dr Fife’s voice worried in from the basement outside. ‘What’s happening?’

Angus prised at the fingers, getting just enough air in to stop his head from popping. ‘Get your... arse in here... and help me!’

‘Goddamnit...’

‘Boss!... Boss, it’s me!’

Monroe hauled Angus’s head up off the floor.

‘It’s DC MacVic—’

Then slammed it down, bouncing it off the concrete with a ringing thunk. Then another one. And another.

Dr Fife scrambled into the cell. ‘Oh, for...’ He knelt beside them, cupping Monroe’s face in both hands.

A roar, and the Boss tried to drag his head away. Slamming Angus’s skull against the floor.

‘Stop it, you silly bastard!’ Fife gave Monroe’s ruined face a shake. ‘It’s us! We’re rescuing you!’

The banging stopped, fingers loosening around Angus’s throat — letting him haul in a deep rasping breath.

Oh, thank God for that.

Monroe’s voice was soft and wet, the words barely there: ‘Dogstor Ffffiff?’

‘Yup. And I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t strangle my sidekick.’

He let go of Angus and sat back — right arm curled around his ribs. Shoulders drooping as he leaned over to one side. Lungs making unhealthy rattling-gargle noises. Then, ‘Wrrrs backuft?’

Dr Fife helped him to his feet. It took three goes to get Monroe upright, and even then he wobbled like a newborn foal, free hand trembling out to steady himself against the wall. Whatever had fuelled the attack on Angus had burned itself out, leaving him shrunken and trembling.

Monroe tried again: ‘Wrrrs backuft?’

‘Yeah...’ Dr Fife helped him towards the cell door. ‘Funny story.’ Leaving Angus lying there.

They shuffled out into the basement.

‘Turns out we got...’ A sharp intake of breath. ‘What the fuck did they do to you?’

‘Thrrrs nnugh backuft?’ The words might’ve been mangled, but there was no mistaking the catch in them. As if tears weren’t far behind.

Angus rolled over and got to his knees. Wheezing. Free hand rubbing his crushed throat.

Jesus — that man had one hell of a grip.

‘We got abducted by the same assholes that grabbed you. But we’re getting outta here. I promise.’

Angus inched his way deeper into the cell again, feeling his way back towards the far wall, where that fleshy lump with too many limbs had been. Because there was no way that’d all been DCI Monroe.

‘Orrgh Godg, weer augh goeen dzo die...’

The body was pressed against the wall, still and silent.

‘Hello?’ He ran his hand along the clammy skin, searching for the head. ‘Can you hear me?’

OK — that was definitely a breast, so the body was female. Which made it Olivia Lundy. Probably.

He followed the line up to her shoulder, then neck, searching for the right place to feel for a pulse.

Please, please, please, please...

It was barely a flutter, but it was there.

She was alive.

‘Yes: thank you!’

Angus scooped his good hand under one armpit, wedged his fibreglass cast into the other, and dragged her out of there.

In the abattoir light, it was unmistakeably Olivia Lundy. Only something awful had happened to her. She was covered in horrific bruising, wrapping around her body like the world’s cruellest Rorschach-inkblot test. Scrapes and cuts were interspersed with scabbed-over wounds, but worst of all were her legs. It looked as if someone had twisted the bones all out of shape.

DCI Monroe wasn’t much better. Welts and scratches covered his thin, wiry frame, the damage too fresh to have darkened into proper bruising. Out here, his face looked even worse: swollen and misshapen, both eyes puffed out so far it would be a miracle if he could actually see anything; jaw misshapen; the nose of a boxer who’d never made it past the first round. Three fingers on his left hand were crooked and hooked — broken or dislocated — but both hands were dark with blood. A trio of glistening black holes marked the palms where the screws went through. And he’d still managed to half-throttle Angus.

Olivia Lundy bore the same stigmata. And they both had thick, dark lines around their wrists, chest, throat, and ankles. Probably from those straps on the studio chair...

Angus lowered her to the floor, then picked up his baggy tweed jacket and arranged it over her — hiding her nakedness. ‘Boss?’

Dr Fife pointed. ‘Is she...?’

‘Only just.’

‘So now we got three people to rescue.’ He huffed out a long breath, looking down at her immobile body. ‘Gonna have to leave them here.’

Monroe jabbed his tortured hands out. ‘Nnnngh!’

Angus stripped off his borrowed waistcoat and shirt. ‘The Boss is right: we can’t just abandon—’

‘We’re not abandoning you.’ Dr Fife squeezed Monroe’s arm. ‘We’re not abandoning anyone: we’re being sensible. They’re crippled; you’re blind. And OK, so I can maybe guide you outta here, but think Angus can carry two bodies and fight off a whole gang of murderous assholes?’

‘I won’t leave them.’ Angus draped the shirt over Monroe’s shoulders, so at least he was wearing something. Then climbed back into the waistcoat. Which probably looked ridiculous, but was better than having your nipples on show. ‘We’ll figure something out.’

‘Nnnngh.’ The Boss raised his broken jaw. ‘Hsss riigh.’

Seriously?

‘But we can’t—’

‘Yeah, we can.’ Dr Fife’s eyes drifted towards the staircase. ‘Once we’ve won, we call in a SWAT team and a whole fleet of ambulances.’ A small, sad smile. ‘If we lose, we’re all dead anyway.’

Angus led the way up the stairs, creeping like a ninja. Not making so much as a squeak. The further he climbed, the darker it got as they left the scarlet glow of the studio light behind.

He patted the pocket of the waistcoat, checking the key was still in there. Not much of a weapon, but protruding between two fingers in a well-curled fist it’d probably still do a decent bit of damage. The other padlock hung heavily in his trouser pocket. Not sure what it would be good for — too small for a knuckle duster, unless he wore it as a ring? Might work. Either way: when dungeon-crawling, a good adventurer never left equipment behind.

Dr Fife laboured up the stairs behind him, clutching his freehand mace.

What could go wrong?

The illumination died just before the top of the stairs, blocked out by their bodies and the distance, leaving Angus in the pitch dark.

He took a deep breath and held out his good hand, skimming his fingertips along the surface. Of course, it would be quicker to use both hands, but then there was the risk of his cast banging against something in the gloom and tipping off the Cult of Bastards that they were trying to escape.

OK — that definitely felt like an L-shaped alcove at the end of the short passageway, which would be where the bookcase slid back and in behind the other ones, out of the way. A pair of handles were set into what had to be the shelves that moved, but a gentle tug on them did nothing, and neither did a full-on pull.

Angus let go, barely breathing the words: ‘It’s locked.’

Dr Fife’s voice whispered up at him. ‘Look for a door catch.’

‘Gee, do you think?’

He made another pass with his fingertips, spreading out to the sides of the stairwell too. Then inside the alcove. And finally, the floor and ceiling. ‘Nothing.’

A pause.

‘OK. It’s opened from the outside by an RFID fob, so maybe it’s the same from the inside? Luckily, some of us keep our wits about us when flat-arsed detective sergeants demand we hand over all the evidence.’ The muted sound of rummaging filled the small space, then: ‘Here.’ He patted Angus on the ribs, keeping his hand there till Angus reached for it. And pressed a small lozenge-shape into Angus’s palm.

Like an extra-large liquorice comfit.

‘The key fob you stole from Kate Paisley?’ Typical. ‘Wait, where have you been hiding... Actually, I don’t want to know.’

He gripped it between his fingers and ran it over the wooden surfaces, searching for the same spot the Woman had used to unlock this secret passage in the first place. ‘Come on, you dirty, hidden, sneaky little’ — a click sounded, followed by a sliver of pale-grey light that marked one edge of the bookcase/door — ‘beauty.’

Dr Fife poked him in the back. ‘Remember: totally ruthless. No holds barred.’

A horrible notion, but what other choice did they have?

Angus nodded. ‘Kill or be killed.’

He took hold of the handles and eased the secret door towards himself, no more than an inch at a time, so slowly that the castors trundling in their tracks were barely audible at all.

When it was level with the recess, the bookcase changed direction — flooding the passageway with light as it slid sideways into the alcove with a faint clunk.

After the basement gloom, even a single lightbulb burning in the room outside was enough to render everything invisible: washed out in the unaccustomed glare.

They stayed where they were, not moving as the bare room slowly unfaded into view. Pale carpet. Pale walls. Pale ceiling. And a window, looking out on the storm-racked night.

No welcoming committee armed with guns, knives, pickaxe handles, or anything else.

A long shuddery breath rattled out from Angus’s lungs.

Thank Christ for that.

He crept through the gap, keeping low, head tilting from side to side. Listening.

Other than the wind throwing its shoulder against the double glazing, it was silent. He lowered his voice even further, though. Just in case. ‘Can’t hear anyone.’

Dr Fife tiptoed after him, holding out the freehand mace. ‘You take it.’

‘Don’t be daft: I’m not leaving you unarmed.’

‘But I don’t know how to—’

‘Swing it like a baseball bat, remember?’

His brow darkened. ‘Do I look like a jock to you?’

Angus stared at him. Standing there, all hunched over, seemingly unable to decide if it was better to bite his lips or lick them, shifting from one cowboy boot to the other.

No. He did not.

But it was too late to do anything about that now.

‘If it all kicks off, I can’t be worrying about you not defending yourself.’

‘Great.’ Dr Fife slumped. ‘We’re all gonna die...’

‘That’s the spirit.’ Angus crept along the line of bookcases, making for the door they’d dragged him in through. The one that led off the hall. He pointed at the handle, then at Dr Fife.

Held the finger to his lips.

Then raised another two to join it.

Dr Fife slunk around to the other side of the door and reached for the handle. Nodded.

OK.

Here we go.

Angus held out his three fingers. Then two. Then one. And clenched his fist.

Dr Fife turned the handle and inched the door open about a hand’s width.

Angus peered through the gap.

The hall was as empty as the living room, with a clear run to the front door and freedom.

He slipped out into the hallway, scanning the room with its grand staircase and multiple doors — all closed.

Time to move.

Angus gave Dr Fife a thumbs-up, and picked his way across the carpet, slow and silent, to that big square of sisal matting just inside the front door.

Dr Fife sneaked after him.

Here we go.

Angus reached for the handle and a lilting, Highlands and Islands accent boomed out behind them, echoing off the bare walls:

‘Very rude to sneak off without saying goodbye.’

52

Sod.

Angus turned, slowly, both hands up as he stepped around and in front of Dr Fife, hiding him. ‘All right, let’s all stay calm.’

Ryan wandered down the big stone staircase — an iPad in one hand, that revolver of his in the other. Pointed right at Angus’s face.

One of the other hallway doors opened and the Woman appeared, brandishing a lump hammer and a Stanley knife.

Bit redundant, given the gun, but OK.

Angus pulled his shoulders back, and took a couple of paces forward, making himself as big as possible. Increasing Dr Fife’s shield. ‘Doesn’t have to go this way!’

‘I should’ve killed you on the rugby pitch.’

Now it was the living-room door’s turn. A young man stood on the threshold, in scuffed jeans and an Oldcastle Warriors replica shirt. Early twenties, lots of spots, big jaw, eagle’s-beak nose, narrow eyes, and shoulder-length blond curls. Armed with a heavy-browed scowl and a vicious-looking slater’s axe — like a heavy, rectangular metal trowel with a jagged spike welded onto one side.

Ryan gave the new boy a smile. ‘Bob — these guys have let our other guests out of their rooms. You want to do something about that?’

Bob slapped the slater’s axe against his palm. ‘Oh aye.’ He slipped back into the living room.

‘OK.’ Dr Fife’s quietest whisper yet sounded at Angus’s elbow. ‘Door’s open in three, two, one...’

A whoomph of cold air rushed into the hall, bringing with it the snap and groan of wind hammering the tarpaulin-coated scaffolding, overlaid by the downpour’s angry-snake hiss.

‘Run!’

Angus turned, free hand grabbing the door’s edge as he sprinted through it and slammed the thing shut behind him.

Spotlights made Mains of Inverminnoch glow scabby grey against the stormy night, the landscape reduced to a trembling black smear against a dark sky.

Gillian’s crappy Clio and the rusty builder’s van were still parked right outside the house, both dancing with sparks of rain — caught in the spotlights’ glare.

Dr Fife skidded to a halt on the weedy gravel.

Angus nearly collided with him. ‘Don’t just stand...’

Oh, no.

So that was why he’d stopped.

The van’s engine roared into life, headlights snapping on. Then the driver’s door popped open and Tony climbed out into the rain, with his broken nose, bandaged head, and pickaxe handle.

A second man emerged from the passenger side — late thirties, clean-shaven, side parting, sensible jumper. Like a cross between a golf-club bore and a Tory MP. He swung a baseball bat up to rest on his shoulder.

Then the back doors creaked, and the third newcomer jumped down. There was something oddly familiar about him... Not much older than Angus, but thin and angular, with hands like tarantulas. A thick beard that spread down his neck and disappeared into the collar of his hiking jacket. The van’s headlights gleamed off the big bald patch at the back of his head as he moved to join his mates, carrying a crowbar and a claw-hammer.

Of course: he was the spitting image of the guy Gillian said had been hanging around at the press scrum outside Divisional Headquarters. Mr Four-B.

And last, but not least, the Clio’s driver’s door swung wide and out she climbed. Clutching that semi-automatic pistol. Giving Angus a pained smile.

Dr Fife beamed, stepping towards her with his arms wide. ‘Gillian!’ He jabbed a finger at the gun in her hand, then looked up at Angus. ‘See? Finally: someone in this goddamn hellhole has the sense to bring a—’

‘She’s on their side, you idiot!’

‘She’s what?’ He frowned. ‘Don’t be...’ Turned and stared. ‘But...’

Gillian winced, biting her bottom lip. ‘Sorry.’

‘HOW COULD YOU BE ON THEIR SIDE?’

Ryan strolled out through the front door, with the Woman right behind him. ‘Yeah, we wondered where her loyalties lay as well. Turns out being nice to you was just a bit of an aberration. Wasn’t it, Gillian?’

‘Yes, Ryan.’

‘And you know who your friends are.’

‘Yes. Definitely.’ Gillian lowered her eyes and scrunched up a little. Making herself smaller. ‘Death to the Cabal.’

A nod. Then Ryan smiled at Angus. ‘I see you’ve already met Steve and William.’ Gesturing at the guy with the baseball bat, then the one with the crowbar. ‘Much better to do it out here, don’t you think? Be a shame to get blood all over Christine’s lovely paintwork.’

The Woman nodded. ‘It’s a bastard to clean up.’

He raised the revolver. ‘What do you fancy: beaten to death right now... or come back inside and be an object lesson for millions? Your call.’

Angus backed away, hands up again. Squashing the tremble out of his voice. ‘Come on, Ryan, we don’t have to do this.’ Nice and calm.

The Woman, Christine, grinned. ‘Oh, we so do.’

Dr Fife glared at Gillian for a couple of breaths as the rain pummelled down, then shook his head and took a step towards Ryan. ‘I thought, maybe, you were on some sort of righteous crusade, but you’re just as bad as the rest of them, aren’t you? Just as corrupt.’ Looking him up and down. ‘Christ, you’re a disappointment.’

Oh great, that was all they needed.

Angus grabbed Dr Fife’s shoulder, dropping his voice to a hissing whisper: ‘Why are you antagonizing him?’

‘Because that’s what I do, remember?’ He shook Angus off. ‘See, when you were taking your frustrations out on poor bastards like Dr Fordyce, it kinda made sense. She represents the medical establishment, so she’s gotta be held responsible for all your antivax nightmares, right? And OK, it was cockeyed and stupid, but there was a logic to it.’

The guy with the crowbar — William? — crept closer. So did Tony, Steve, and Christine.

‘Don’t matter that the vaccine probably saved millions and millions and millions of lives, you still made Dr Fordyce wear the thorny crown. Punished her for sins that never existed.’

Ryan narrowed his eyes. ‘Bollocks. They filled their murder jab with experimental proteins. That’s why so many people are still sick. It destroyed their immune systems. It fucked with their brains!’

The house glowed in the headlights and spotlights, casting a circle of light that extended twenty, maybe thirty feet out into the weed-and-tussocked lawn. All they had to do was make it that far, then they could run off into the darkness, right? That would make it harder to get a bullet in the back, right?

Possibly.

If they were really, really lucky.

Angus took another handful of Dr Fife’s long-sleeved top and dragged him back a couple more steps.

At least this time the forensic psychologist didn’t struggle free. ‘Doesn’t matter that Councillor Mendel campaigned for better hospitals and care homes and a decent working wage — you decided he was a paedo, because some random greasy douchebag on the internet told you politicians drink the blood of murdered kids in a pizza-restaurant basement.’

Tony slapped the pickaxe handle against his open palm. ‘How do you think they get to be politicians? They have to take the Cabal’s test, like all them TV stars in the seventies!’

‘Yeah!’ Christine raised her lump hammer. ‘Blood of the innocent. They’re drinking kids’ blood!’

William shook his crowbar. ‘Fuckin’ preach!’

They crept closer.

‘Doesn’t matter that Kevin Healey-Robinson is a Political and Lifestyle Correspondent — he spends most of his time writing about “fifteen ways to spend a wet weekend in Oldcastle”, for God’s sake!’

‘He was a political hack!’ Steve curled his lip, as if he’d just stepped in something. ‘A lying, lefty, elitist bastard, pushing the establishment’s war-mongering, military agenda. Hiding the truth!’

Any closer and they’d be within baseball-bat swinging range.

Dr Fife threw his hands out, getting louder. ‘Olivia Lundy negotiated land deals for supermarkets. Where does that fit in?’

Angus kept going, pulling Dr Fife with him.

Another twenty feet and they’d cross from the pool of light into the gloom.

Ryan sniffed. ‘Lawyers are the locusts of the woke plague, and—’

‘Oh, GROW UP!’ Fife jabbed a finger at the house. ‘You’re broadcasting torture-porn on the internet for clicks and money!’

Rain squalled across the gravel driveway, crackling off the tarpaulin as it writhed in the wind.

Tony, William, Steve, and Christine edged closer. Like the four bloody horsemen.

‘You strap some poor bastard into that chair and you slowly murder them, while outraged, racist, right-wing, fascism-curious motherfuckers cheer and stick dollars in your G-string!’

The cultists stopped moving at that, glancing back at their Great Leader as he stood there, face darkening.

Eighteen feet to go...

‘Revolutions cost money.’ Ryan raised his gun to point at the building behind him. ‘You think somewhere like this comes cheap? When the Great Reset happens, you’ll be glad people like us bought the guns and ammunition and explosives to fight back!’

Tony punched the air. ‘Great Awakening!’

Sixteen...

‘Wait.’ Angus stared. ‘You’re buying explosives? Who’s selling you explosives?’

Christine crept nearer. ‘Think you’ve got more pressing things to worry about, Hodor.’

Dr Fife gave her the finger for that. ‘You lot are no better than the other far-right internet shock jocks: peddling snake oil and lies and fear and division and hate, just to line your own pocket.’

Fourteen...

‘THEY’RE NOT LIES!’ Ryan took a step out from the tarpaulin’s cover and rain slashed across his face, wind whipping that long dark hair back as he bared his teeth. ‘I know the vaccines fuck with people’s brains, because my father was fine before they pumped that shite into his arm. Didn’t even recognize me by the time he died!’ Ryan jabbed his gun at the world. ‘The truth’s out there, plain as sliced white bread, but you... you’ve got your heads bent in supplication and deference, and you won’t look!’ He cocked the revolver’s hammer. ‘Well, we’ll bloody well make you look.’

Twelve...

Tony took a practice swing with his pickaxe handle. ‘Enough talk. Let’s do this.’

Christine raised her lump hammer — a cut-price frumpy Thor in a paint-smudged sweatshirt. ‘DEATH TO THE CABAL!’

Ten...

‘Yeah.’ Ryan’s mouth pursed, and he looked away. Voice dead and flat. ‘Death to the Cabal.’

William bellowed out a guttural war cry and charged, with Tony, Steve, and Christine right behind.

Angus had run out of time.

53

William’s crowbar flew — swinging right for Angus’s face.

Thankfully he missed — though only by a fraction of an inch — but Tony and his pickaxe handle were close behind. Using the gap to lunge in and slam the bloody thing down on Angus’s shoulder, sending him crashing down onto the weed-infested gravel.

Bastard... The same aching, half-dead shoulder he’d battered back at DCI Monroe’s house. And Gillian’s drugs were definitely wearing off now, because a wave of burning ice pulsed through Angus’s chest, radiating out from the impact point.

Steve circled closer, baseball bat up and ready to strike.

But Tony held out a hand as he danced closer. ‘Watch and learn, boys!’ Laughing like a hyena. Leaping, swinging the pickaxe handle overhead to slam it down on Angus’s head.

Hell, no.

Angus rolled and it smashed into the driveway instead, flinging up chips of gravel.

‘ANGUS!’ Dr Fife: somewhere off to the left. ‘FOR GOD’S SAKE: HELP!’

Angus scrambled to his feet and William rushed in, the crowbar flying in a sharp, flat arc. Close enough to take a button off the borrowed waistcoat.

Buggering hell, this was not going well...

‘ANGUS, I’M NOT JOKING!’ Then the scuff-clatter of feet on gravel.

‘I’m busy!’ He glanced towards the noise, but that just gave Steve an opening to rush in — hammering his baseball bat into Angus’s back.

He staggered forward into the Clio, stomach hitting the bonnet, bending him over as that bat came crashing down again, right across his shoulders. Hard enough to clatter his teeth together.

Over by the van, Dr Fife howled in pain.

Angus shoved himself off the car, spinning around as the baseball bat whistled towards his head.

But he didn’t duck this time: he propelled himself forward, fibreglass cast raised, blocking the bat halfway along its length. Then grabbed the neck of Steve’s sensible jumper and hauled him forward.

His eyes went wide. And Angus’s forehead crashed right into his face.

There was a crack, a grunt, and a spatter of blood — glowing like rubies in the building’s spotlights.

Angus shoved him away again, keeping hold of the jumper in case he needed another headbutt, and Steve staggered, eyes half shut now, nose shattered, mouth hanging open to show two missing teeth at the front. The baseball bat fell from his fingers.

Good.

A bellow of rage and Angus yanked him off his feet. Up and over Angus’s battered shoulder, hurling him like a sack of dogfood, flipping him upside down and crashing him, full length, on his back, into the Clio’s roof. Putting enough force into it to buckle the metal and send a lightning-burst of cracks shattering their way across the windscreen.

The ancient car’s security system kicked in: horn blaring its Morse Code distress call as the hazard lights flashed in the storm.

One.

Angus snatched the baseball bat from the gravel at his feet, twirling around as William charged, crowbar sizzling through the rain, coming for his head again.

But this time, Angus was armed.

He parried the crowbar, twisting the bat in a classic circular disarm. The crowbar flew from William’s fingers, twirling end over end, straight into the van’s windscreen. Impaling it like the world’s rustiest unicorn.

A backhand swing of the baseball bat smashed into William’s knee and down he went: screaming, clutching the ruined joint in both hands as that claw-hammer of his went skittering off under the car.

Two.

Another cry of pain blared out of Dr Fife. ‘ANGUS! FOR GOD’S SAKE!’

‘Still busy!’ Facing Tony and his pickaxe handle.

The Bastard howched, chewed, then spat on William as he lay there howling. ‘Fucking amateurs.’ He snarled forward, charging, pickaxe handle raised high, bringing it down hard, aiming for Angus’s skull.

Angus dropped to one knee, using the baseball bat as a shield — and the handle clattered into it. Which was Angus’s cue to ram his fibreglass cast upward, as violently as possible, right into Tony’s balls. Because Dr Fife wasn’t the only one who could perform a Furious-Flying-Fist Vasectomy, and Angus was much bigger and a hell of a lot stronger.

Which meant Tony parted company with the ground, jerking about two feet into the air, before tumbling over Angus’s head, carried by his own momentum. He cleared the Clio’s mismatched bonnet and hit the gravel on the other side, tumbling across the driveway and crashing into that big pile of broken slates. Sending avalanches of sharp grey wreckage clattering and slithering to the ground.

Three.

Which left Christine, Ryan, Gillian, and Bob. Wherever he was.

Angus scrambled to his feet, baseball bat at the ready.

Wouldn’t do much good against a pair of guns, but it was better than just giving in and being tortured to death.

Ryan stared at the carnage. ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

Gillian hadn’t moved, just stood there, clutching the semi-automatic to her chest.

But Christine seemed to be having fun. She circled Dr Fife, making him turn around and around to face her. Moving her Stanley knife like the head of a snake. Bobbing and weaving the glittering triangular blade.

She’d already managed to carve four slashes across his arms, the blood dribbling down his long-sleeved top. Glowing bright scarlet in the Clio’s headlights.

Dr Fife still clutched the freehand mace, but he wasn’t using the thing. It was meant to be a weapon, not a sodding security blanket.

Right.

Angus stepped towards them, spinning the baseball bat as if it were Conan’s sword. Whirling it left and right as he advanced across the driveway.

‘No you don’t.’ Ryan pulled the trigger and his revolver barked like an angry Rottweiler.

The bullet crackled through the air, right past Angus’s ear, making him flinch as it clanged into the builder’s van.

Jesus...

Not sure if that was meant to be a warning shot, or a genuine murder attempt. Either way, Ryan didn’t look too pleased about it. He lined up for another go.

Angus glanced from him to Dr-Fife-and-Christine and back again. Crouching low, baseball bat raised. As if that was going to help.

Christine slashed forward, ripping another gash across Dr Fife’s right arm. ‘Dance, midget monkey boy!’

‘Sonofabitch!’ Dr Fife shuffled around again, left hand clasped over the new wound, blood welling up between his fingers. Mace dangling at the end of his right.

Another bullet tore through the night, and a spider’s web exploded across the van’s passenger window.

‘Bastard...’ Ryan changed his stance — feet shoulder-width apart, gun in both hands now. As if he was on a shooting range.

Christine lunged in with her lump hammer, but Dr Fife stumbled backwards, nearly losing his footing as the thing swung past.

Snarling, he lashed out with his freehand mace, chasing the hammer, and the padlock smashed right into her elbow with a crack of metal on bone.

The lump hammer tumbled from her fingers, and she staggered to a halt, staring at the misshapen lumpy joint. Then the shrieking started, curled up at the waist, holding onto her shattered elbow.

Ryan marched a couple of feet closer, took up his firing pose, and the revolver barked again. A gout of steam hissed from the van’s radiator, pluming out into the downpour. Thank God shooting people was more difficult than it looked on TV.

And given that Ryan was such a crap shot, maybe rushing him wasn’t a stupid idea after all? OK, so there was a very real risk of getting shot at short range, but just standing here, like a hulking great lemon, was even more risky. Ryan was going to get lucky eventually. Especially as he kept shuffling nearer.

As Christine wailed, Dr Fife planted his feet — swinging his freehand mace as if he was in a batting cage at the local ballpark.

The padlock connected with the left side of her face, crumpling the cheekbone and spinning her around in a spurt of fresh rubies. She crashed into the scaffolding, setting one of the poles ringing, then collapsed in a motionless heap.

‘Ha!’ Dr Fife punched the air. ‘Who’s dancing now, you prejudiced asshole?’

Four.

This time, when the revolver barked, what was left of the van’s windscreen exploded, releasing its crowbar horn. ‘Hold still!’

OK. Time to move.

But Angus only managed a couple of steps before the gun went off again. Three times in quick succession — one bullet vanished into the night, one kicked shrapnel out of the gravel, less than eight inches from Angus’s foot, and the third punched a hole in the Clio’s front wing.

How many shots was that?

Six? Seven?

Thought revolvers only had six chambers?

What kind of Hollywood-movie bullshit was this?

Ryan bellowed out his frustration, then jabbed the smoking gun at Gillian. ‘Would you like to fucking help at some point?’

She still hadn’t moved. But as Ryan glared, she lowered her eyes, shuffling her boots on the wet gravel, hair plastered to her head. ‘Sorry...’

Angus took a deep breath and stepped forwards. ‘It’s over, Ryan. Put the gun down.’

‘It’s not over. It’s never over!’

OK.

Angus took a couple of paces sideways, putting himself between Dr Fife and the two gun-toting nutjobs. Trying hard not to look too menacing with a broken arm and a baseball bat. ‘Let’s all just calm down. All right?’

‘You Elite bastards think we’ll just bend over and take it. Well, we won’t!’ Ryan launched into a rant about globalists and cabals and government agencies and viruses... but while Angus was watching, he wasn’t really listening.

Instead he slipped a whisper from the corner of his mouth, keeping his lips as still as possible. ‘Dr Fife: I’m going to move left, slowly. Stay behind me.’ He inched over, keeping his front facing Gillian and Ryan. ‘Soon as you have a clear line to the edge of the house, run like a bloody cheetah. Make for the woods and don’t look back.’

Dr Fife was barely audible over the rain. ‘You think I’m just gonna abandon you?’ A grunt. ‘Besides, what’s to stop this asshole shooting me in the back?’

‘Me.’

Ryan’s face had gone a worrying shade of puce as he waved his gun at the big bad world. ‘...call them conspiracies, because that’s what they are! The people have had your fascist boot on their necks for so long...’ Blah, blah, blah.

Dr Fife hissed out a shuddery breath. ‘I’ll call for help. Try not to die before it gets here.’ He patted Angus on the back. ‘Three. Two. One.’ And he was off — cowboy boots hitting the gravel at speed.

Soon as the first step sounded, Angus marched towards Ryan and Gillian, waving his arms like a drunk man learning semaphore. ‘I’M NOT THE ELITE, YOU IDIOTS! I’M JUST A GUY TRYING TO MAKE PEOPLE’S LIVES A LITTLE BETTER BY CATCHING MURDEROUS ARSEHOLES LIKE YOU!’

That got their attention.

Now to keep it.

Back in his LARPing days, he’d had a great berserker yell that frightened the crap out of the other kids. Maybe now was the time to dust it off? He bellowed it out, whirling the baseball bat in a full sword-spinning display: left, right, behind his back, then round the front — held up in the best two-handed grip he could manage with one arm in a fibreglass cast.

And charged straight for Ryan.

Whose eyes went wide. ‘Shit...’

Ryan fumbled the gun, almost dropping it as Angus rushed towards him, a one-man stampede, bellowing, weapon whirling, ready to break the evil bastard’s—

The revolver barked like a big dog in a little house and something thumped into Angus’s leg — sharp and stinging. The sting turned into an ache, then an acetylene torch, cutting its way through his thigh. All in the time it took for his foot to hit the ground again.

Then the whole leg collapsed, and down he went, tumbling along the gravel drive, until he lay in a tangled heap barely six feet from Ryan’s trainers.

Holy, bastarding hell, that hurt.

Ryan leapt into the air, both hands up like Rocky at the end of the old film. ‘YES!’ He gave himself a double fist pump. ‘Get fucking in!’

That really, seriously, bloody hurt.

Ryan pressed something on the gun and the cylinder hinged out, spilling brass casings to ping and bounce off the ground. Reloading it one bullet at a time as Angus struggled and growled and swore his way along the gravel — reaching for the fallen baseball bat.

Could still cripple the bastard from here. Take a kneecap out. Or rupture a testicle. Anything to stop him before he finished putting more bullets in that buggering gun.

Ryan slipped the last one home and snapped the cylinder back into place. ‘Got to love good old Smith and Wesson.’

Angus’s fingers curled around the baseball bat’s handle.

Probably only going to get one go at this, SO MAKE IT GOOD.

He rolled over, swinging the bat around as fast as it would go, aiming for—

The gun roared and a bullet slammed into Angus’s chest, punching him to the ground.

54

Fire. Roaring and crackling across his chest. Burning through his shoulder blade. Napalm in his veins.

Angus hauled in a tortured breath, stoking the flames. Then snarling it out between clenched teeth.

The baseball bat slipped from his fingers as he curled around the pain, good hand pressed against the source of the blaze — high on the left side, just below his collar bone.

Not — quite — dead — yet.

‘See?’ Ryan jabbed that bloody gun at him and turned to Gillian. ‘That’s how it’s done!’ He kicked the baseball bat away. ‘Want to know how we knew you were out of your cell, big guy? Thermal-imaging camera and microphones in the ceiling, keeping an eye in the dark.’ He looked out across the scene of carnage, towards that big pile of slates. ‘WHICH SOMEONE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MONITORING.’

Tony writhed on his slithery throne, both hands wrapped around whatever was left down there.

‘I’LL DEAL WITH YOU LATER!’ The revolver’s dark barrel pointed straight at Angus’s face. ‘Say goodbye, pig.’

Gillian slapped one hand over her ear, pressing the handle of her semi-automatic against her head with the other. ‘STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!’

Ryan closed his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose, mouth clamped in a thin, hard line. ‘You knew it would come to this, Gillian. What did you think we were going to do with them, bake rainbow-kitten cupcakes?’

‘But I didn’t want—’

‘WELL, YOU SHOULD’VE POISONED THEM PROPERLY, SHOULDN’T YOU!’

She flinched back against the rusty van, and stared down at her boots.

‘Jesus Christ.’ Ryan paced towards the van and back again, waving the revolver about like a conductor’s baton. ‘He’s going to die, Gillian. Out here, or in there — in the chair, live on the dark web.’

Her eyes glistened in the Clio’s flashing hazard lights. ‘Please, Ryan, he was... he was nice to me. And so was Jonathan. They didn’t treat me like some freak.’

‘What is wrong with you? THEY’RE THE ENEMY!’

They stood there in the driving rain as Angus bit down on the pain.

Short, sharp breaths.

Not dead yet, remember?

There had to be a way out of this.

Ryan stared up into the downpour. ‘Why do I bother? Why? What possible... DO YOU SEE WHAT HE DID TO STEVE AND WILLIAM AND TONY? What that little munchkin bastard did to Christine?’ Pointing his revolver at her crumpled body, then out across the driveway; taking in Steve, motionless on the Clio’s roof; Tony vomiting on the pile of slates; William sobbing over his ruined knee; the van with its shattered windows.

No more steam gushed out of the radiator; instead the van’s engine coughed and choked, a grinding noise coming from under the bonnet, until it finally sputtered into silence.

Rain shimmered through the Clio’s headlights as the security system gave up the ghost. Killing the horn and the blinking orange lights.

It hissed against the gravel. Drummed against the tarpaulins. Soaked through Angus’s borrowed waistcoat and tweed trousers.

Wrinkles bunched up between Ryan’s eyebrows. ‘Wait a minute...’

Gillian spun around, looking left and right and left again. ‘But...’

‘WHERE THE HELL’S THE FUCKING DWARF? Oh, for...’ Ryan folded up, the gun and a fist clenched over his head as a growl of frustration ripped free. When he straightened up again, his whole face trembled. ‘Don’t just stand there: FIND HIM!’

She pulled her shoulders in, head ducking, shrinking into herself. Even her voice became smaller. ‘Don’t... Ryan, please. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please. I’ll find him! I swear, I’ll find Jonathan and I’ll...’ Her mouth fell open as she stared towards the far corner of the building.

Great.

That was just sodding great.

Dr Fife was back, standing there with his hands up.

When he should’ve been miles away: flagging down a car, commandeering the driver’s phone, and getting half of O Division charging over here ASAP.

Fife lowered his arms. ‘It’s not too late to do the right thing, Ryan.’ Strolling past the scaffolding, voice calm, as if this whole situation were nothing out of the ordinary. ‘I’ve called the cops; they’ll be here soon. Time to put down the gun and walk away while you can.’ He smiled a non-threatening smile. ‘Come on, Ryan, this has all spiralled out of control, hasn’t it. You don’t really want to hurt anyone.’

Ryan stared at him. ‘Have you not been paying attention? That’s exactly what we want! That’s the whole fucking point!’ Jabbing his gun at the storm. ‘It’s how we get them to wake up!’

Dr Fife glanced at Angus — lying there with blood soaking through his borrowed waistcoat and trousers.

‘I told you...’ Angus forced an arm under himself and shoved till he was almost sitting up. ‘I told you... to keep... running!’

‘There has to be a better way, Ryan. Cos if you make yourself into a monster, how are you any different from the Cabal?’

‘Let me think.’ He aimed the revolver at Angus’s face again. ‘Gillian: take your wee friend downstairs and stick him in the chair. I’ll take care of the Missing Link here.’

She bit her lip. ‘But, Ryan, this isn’t—’

‘DO WHAT YOU’RE FUCKING TOLD!’

‘Wait! Wait.’ Dr Fife hurried forward, till he stood between Angus and the gun. Hands out. ‘Look: I know how it feels to lose a father, Ryan. Someone you admire and respect and look up to.’

Ryan lowered the gun, so it pointed at Dr Fife instead, and pulled back the hammer.

Tears glittered in Gillian’s eyes. ‘Don’t shoot him, Ryan! Please don’t. Please!’

‘All those years, doing everything you can to make your pop proud of you. Feeling like nothing would ever be good enough. And—’

‘I told you to take the little bastard downstairs!’

‘And now he’s dead and you’re trying to make sense of this screwed-up, unfair world — lashing out at the kinda people who sort of represent everything that’s ever gone wrong.’ Dr Fife’s voice softened. ‘But life’s more complicated than that.’

Ryan blinked, gun drooping. ‘It shouldn’t be.’

‘I know.’ Dr Fife held out a hand, palm up, for the revolver. ‘Angus is my friend, Ryan. Please don’t kill my friend.’

‘They don’t care about us.’ The gun’s barrel drifted down to point at the ground. ‘All they care about is their power and their money and their plans to turn us into good little sheep...’

‘Come on, Ryan: give me the gun and we can talk about it. That’ll be nice, yeah? Just you and me, putting the world to rights.’

‘I AM NOT A SHEEP!’ The revolver snapped up and barked again.

Dr Fife stumbled backwards, tripped over Angus’s legs and went down, eyes wide. A red circle, like the tip of a magic marker, made a hole in the chest of his long-sleeved top, slightly left of centre, straight through the skull-and-crossbones printed on it.

It spread, blooming like a poppy, damp and scarlet in the Clio’s lights.

Dr Fife stared at the growing stain, hands trembling in front of the bullet hole, then he slumped sideways and lay there, mouth open. Bleeding into the gravel.

Gillian howled in pain, staggering closer. ‘YOU KILLED HIM!’

‘THAT WAS THE IDEA! Jesus... Just cos you let him crawl between your legs, doesn’t mean—’

Her gun thundered and a dot appeared, right between Ryan’s eyebrows — the back of his head popping like an overripe tomato, spraying pink and red with chunks of white and grey.

It was as if someone had severed all his muscles with a single stroke, and Ryan collapsed like a sack of disconnected bones. His revolver rattled away across the gravel, disappearing under the knackered van. Well out of reach.

She fell to her knees beside Dr Fife — gun-hand squeezed against her mouth, the other pressed against his chest. Rocking back and forth. Face going pink, then puce, before a tortured sob wailed free.

It wasn’t meant to end like this.

Why couldn’t he just keep running, like he was supposed to?

THAT WAS THE BUGGERING PLAN.

Angus gritted his teeth and crawled over to Dr Fife. Breathing hard. Hissing through the flames that roared through his leg and shoulder.

This wasn’t the plan.

Gillian stared at him, mascara streaking down her pale cheeks, eyes bloodshot and shining. ‘Fix him.’

Silly, silly bastard.

Why did he come back?

Angus fumbled for a pulse. ‘Come on, Dr Fife, please don’t do this...’

‘FIX HIM!’ The semi-automatic’s barrel pressed against Angus’s forehead — the metal still hot from blowing the back off Ryan’s skull. ‘If Jonathan dies, you die.’

Was that a pulse?

Something faint flickered beneath his fingertips again.

It was. But probably not for long.

‘We need an ambulance, right now. Might already be too late.’

‘I’ve got explosives; if he dies, EVERYONE DIES!’ The gun wrenched away from Angus’s head and two shots pounded out. One made Christine’s body twitch, the other silenced William’s crying. He pitched forward and lay there, bleeding out onto the weed-strewn gravel.

She swung the semi-automatic back around, shoving the searing metal into Angus’s cheek. ‘Now fix him!’

55

How? How the living hell was he supposed to do that?

Angus looked down the length of the gun, then along her arm to her tear-streaked face. Creased and swollen. Puffy eyes glaring back at him. Demanding he wave a magic wand and make a sucking chest wound disappear.

He placed a hand over the wound — leaning on it, pressing down. That was what you were meant to do, right? Apply pressure?

Blood seeped out through his fingers.

This was stupid.

Dr Fife would bleed to death in his arms, and then Gillian would kill him.

But he was not going out snivelling and begging. ‘Call an ambulance, or — he — will — die.’

‘FIX HIM!’ Bellowing right in Angus’s face. ‘Or I swear to God: I will blow your fucking—’

A ringing metal CLANG burst across the rainy night, then Gillian’s eyes rolled up in her head and she slowly pitched over onto the gravel.

God knew how DCI Monroe had managed to sneak up behind Gillian — probably the storm and all the shouting and threats and blood — but he stood over her now, holding that slater’s axe in his deformed hand. Wearing nothing but the baggy shirt Angus had lent him, freshly smeared with blood and torn at the shoulder.

He looked simultaneously awful — with his swollen, battered face and damaged limbs — while also being the most lovely sight Angus had ever seen.

Monroe wobbled, as if staying upright was taking all the energy he had. But at least now they knew he wasn’t blind. Not that he could be seeing much through those slashed-grapefruit eyelids.

Angus nodded. ‘Thanks, Boss.’

The slater’s axe tumbled from his hand and clanked against the ground. ‘Isss thag augh ovv rem?’ His left leg quivered, the muscles clenching and unclenching beneath the bloodstains and scabs. ‘Wvvee neid tghhhh...’ And the leg gave way, collapsing him onto the driveway. Curled on his side, with his arms at ten to four. Legs frozen as if he’d been running away.

‘Boss?’

No reply. Monroe just lay there.

The wind changed direction, snapping the building’s tarpaulin skin against its scaffolding skeleton as rain strafed the battlefield.

And it looked as if Angus was the only one still standing.

Well, sitting.

Well, vaguely upright, anyway.

So it was up to him to save the day.

Ryan’s right leg was just within reach — Angus grabbed it, hauling the body towards him. That ruptured head left a slick of scarlet behind — flecked with shards of bone and soggy clumps of greyish pink.

‘Gimme your phone.’

A quick rummage through Ryan’s pockets turned up a scuffed Motorola. Password protected, of course, but there was a button on the lock screen marked ‘EMERGENCY CALL’.

Angus pressed it, cradling Dr Fife’s body as it rang and rang and rang...

Sirens wailed in the distance, then the flickering blue-and-whites of a patrol car, travelling at speed, glimmered between the trees. Then another one. Closely followed by an ambulance.

Backup had finally arrived.

Too little, too late.

At least the air ambulance had got here first.

It sat about sixty feet from the house, rotors slowly turning as rain howled down.

The paramedics finished strapping Dr Fife to the stretcher and picked the whole thing up. An oxygen mask obscured that ridiculous Vandyke of his, skin waxy and pale, a saline drip — hanging from a stand fixed to the stretcher — disappearing into one arm.

Angus limped after them as they hurried towards the waiting helicopter. Using the baseball bat as a walking stick. ‘Will he be OK?’

‘We’re pushing fluids hard as we can, but...’ The paramedic sucked her teeth. ‘If he makes it as far as the trauma ward I’d be amazed.’

Her mate hauled the air ambulance’s door open, peering up at the storm-thrashed night. ‘Assuming we don’t crash on the way back.’

They struggled the stretcher inside, then clambered in after it.

The woman stared at Angus — propped up against the side of the helicopter, covered in blood, teeth gritted. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

Angus nodded. ‘Never better. Go. Save him.’

She grimaced, then trundled the door shut.

The moment it clacked into place, the engines picked up pace, the whine building in volume as the rotor blades quickened.

‘JUST... TRY, OK?’ Angus hobbled out of the way, staying low as the whump-whump-whump turned into a clattering roar.

The bright-yellow machine clawed its way off the ground, bobbing and weaving as the wind shoved and jostled, gaining altitude till it was up above the trees. Peeling away to hammer home for Castle Hill Infirmary at top speed.

Angus waved his only working arm at it as the yellow dot faded into the night, standing there till even the navigation lights had disappeared.

Then sagged.

Turned.

And shambled back towards the house, leaning heavily on the baseball bat, because right now it was the only thing holding him up.

William lay slumped where Gillian’s bullet had found him, and so did Christine. Ryan was spreadeagled on the gravel, limbs all stretched out from being dragged close enough to search. But Steve had gone from the Clio’s roof, and Tony no longer threw up on the pile of discarded slates.

Angus lurched the last three steps into the gap between the tarpaulin-wrapped scaffolding and the building, out of the wind and the rain. Grabbing the poles to keep himself upright.

Inside, the lounge was all lit up, warm and welcoming.

DCI Monroe sat on the bloodstained oatmeal carpet, slumped against the empty bookcases. He raised a shaky thumbs-up at Angus, then let his arm flop back down again.

Poor sod.

But at least he was still alive. Not to mention inside, out of the storm.

That was something.

And yes, Angus could’ve imprisoned Bob and Tony and Steve in there too, but somehow this felt more poetic.

The three of them were hunched against the scaffolding poles, one arm either side of an upright, wrists fastened together with far more cable-ties than was strictly necessary. Ankles too. And they were going nowhere.

Gillian got the special treatment, though: she was fixed in place with Angus’s handcuffs.

She looked up at him, eyes and nose all puffy and flushed. Her make-up had smudged away to almost nothing, leaving her looking small and so much younger again. Vulnerable. Hard to tell if the blood smeared across her clothes was Angus’s, Ryan’s, or Dr Fife’s. There was more than enough to go around, anyway.

Gillian blinked, voice trembling. ‘Is he...?’

Hard to know what to say.

The truth seemed unnecessarily cruel — so Angus nodded, pulled on a fake smile, and lied. ‘Course he is. Medics say he’ll be up and about in no time.’

A warm smile broke free. ‘Good. That’s good. I’m glad. He’ll be fine.’ Followed by a small, trembling laugh. ‘Phew! Right?’ Rolling her eyes. ‘God, what a night!’

Angus frowned out at the storm, where William’s hiking jacket twitched in the wind. ‘Why did you tell me about... your friend?’ Though that seemed a weird way to describe him, given what she’d done. ‘You know: hanging around the press packs, being creepy?’

‘Dunno. Just trying to be helpful.’ She sat forward. ‘Do you think they’ll let me visit Jonathan? In hospital?’

Not a chance in hell.

But he nodded again. ‘We’ll see.’

The sirens died, followed by the scrunch of tyres on gravel as the first patrol car slid to a halt, right in front of the tower. All four doors popped open and a firearms team piled out into the rain, guns up and ready, crouching over as they ran towards the house.

Sergeant Lincoln took the lead — thin, with narrow eyes and a flattened nose. Hecker & Koch MP5 pointing at the centre of Angus’s chest. As if he hadn’t had more than enough of that already today. ‘ARMED POLICE, HANDS IN THE AIR, NOW!’

Easier said than done.

Angus’s left arm wouldn’t move at all, and the right one barely made it as high as his shoulder before the world throbbed in and out in waves of black and brown. ‘You took your sodding time...’