The threat tore through Chandler’s skin, puncturing his lungs. He now wished that he had brought Heath and had handed him over. He could have dealt with the guilt later, gone to confession alongside his daughter and purged his soul.

‘Please, don’t,’ said Chandler. ‘Just tell me where they are.’

‘They’re safe. For now.’

For now. Chandler could feel his hand itching to go for his gun. Gabriel could obviously see it too.

‘You don’t want to do that, Chandler. Then you won’t be able to save your children. God only saves souls – not the bodies they belong to.’

‘Please, I’ll—’

‘You’ll what? Go back and get what I asked for?’

Chandler considered the request. What did Heath’s life matter? As opposed to his two kids? Surely two for one was a fair trade? His eyes adjusted to the faint light at the edge of the beam, allowing him to identify the dark, almost silhouetted figure in front of him, a solitary shape. The urge to shoot Gabriel there and then fought to the surface.

Again Gabriel seemed to read his intentions. ‘Sergeant, your kids will be in big trouble if I don’t return.’

‘Where have you put them?’

‘Ah. That I can’t tell you. Not yet. Now, take out your gun – slowly – and leave it on the ground.’

‘I know who you are,’ said Chandler. Gabriel didn’t respond.

‘David Taylor. Davie Taylor.’

The silhouette smiled, the teeth catching the faint light, a true smile, maybe the first genuine emotion that he had witnessed from Gabriel.

‘That took a while, didn’t it?’ There was an element of relief in Gabriel’s voice. ‘I honestly thought that you would have recognized me earlier. It was really my only worry . . . but after seeing you in the station, talking to you and riding in the car with you to the hotel, I realized you didn’t have a clue. You’d forgotten about me just like you forgot about my family.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Chandler.

‘What do I mean? Nearly eleven years ago we left here and that was it. The book closed, no one there for us after. Job done. Job failed. On to the next one. Abandoned, another failure by the police swept under the carpet. The others, like your partner Mitchell, I expected it from. But you, Chandler, I remember you being close to my dad. On us like glue, comforting us, guiding us, praying with us. Leading us nowhere.’

‘I . . . I tried to be a friend,’ said Chandler. He didn’t know what else to say.

‘If you were such a friend, why weren’t you in contact with us after? Not even a phone call. A simple call to ask how we were coping. That might have been enough to stop it.’