The handbag lay open, its contents scattered across the floor. I dropped her hand and sprang across the floor to grab it. Poultry cutters caught my eye. They were stained at the tips with blood. Joe’s? Sam’s? Hot bile burned my throat and, as I raked through the other items, I knew I was destroying important evidence but didn’t care. What was that compared to Joe’s life? It was an odd and inexplicable assortment of stuff: a travel-sized vacuum cleaner used in caravans, bags filled with a clump of hair, and a child’s drawing.

In amongst the detritus of her life was a small black journal. In childish writing she had inscribed her name and address.

Donna Cook, Logie Green Farm, Midlothian.

It made sense that she would keep a hostage in the country where no one could hear his screams while she amputated a finger.

‘Bancho!’ I shouted. ‘Send a squad car to this address!’ I threw the book at him. He caught it as I lifted my eyes and locked onto Graham Marshall’s gaze. ‘Tell me,’ he hissed. ‘Did you sell me out?’

I nodded.

If he was cursing me to hell, fair enough–I’d see him there. I’d make him pay for all eternity if Joe was harmed.

Chapter Sixty-Three

I sat beside Bancho in the passenger seat as he drove me out to Midlothian. The car smelt of peppermint chalk as Bancho chewed his way through yet another packet of indigestion tablets. My fingers gripped the edge of the passenger seat as he drove straight through the third set of traffic signals at red; I prayed he’d been on skid training as water lay in pools across the road. The blue light was flashing but I wasn’t convinced it could save us. Relentless, horizontal rain tried to delay our progress; nonetheless, we stayed in the outside lane on the bypass heading towards North Berwick.

Bancho had his foot welded to the floor. I felt hollow. It was a strange and unsettling experience needing Bancho’s help. The muscles in his jaw were clenched tight and I could hear him grinding his teeth. The patrol car had radioed over ten minutes ago that Joe was alive but in a bad way, drugged and tied to a bed, lying in his own filth. There was no mention as yet of Sam Jones, but I assumed she was in the same condition. I didn’t care what Joe looked or smelled like as long as I could hold him. In those last few moments with Donna Cook, I had almost given up hope of ever seeing him again.