‘Hello, Rowan love. Oh, I love the new hair – that colour is just so you!’

Stop sodding about, you old trout. Send her through the back. . .

‘You go on through, there’s cake and tea.’

‘Em, OK. . .’

Logan licked his lips.

The door handle turned.

Here we go. Nice and easy. No one gets hurt.

The door swung open.

Chapter 39

39

Rowan steps into the room. Normally the place is alive with pale yellow and blue: the fuzzy-edged auras of old men and women. Short twists of beige for forgotten dreams. Wisps of grey for lost loved ones.

But today it’s empty.

Someone’s cleared the benches, emptied the shelves.

The only noise is the radio: a DJ burbling away about how great the weekend weather’s going to be in London.

The hydraulic return unit swings the door closed behind her.

Clunk.

Where are all the people?

Breath catches in her throat. Something’s wrong. Ma said there’d be tea and cake. . . It was a lie.

And then the noise – right behind her – a tiny speaker blaring out a tinny rendition of that song from the Wizard of Oz, the one about the scarecrow being thick. It’s a ringtone.

A man’s voice comes so close she can almost feel his breath on her neck: ‘Buggering hell. . .’

The song dies a sudden death.

She doesn’t turn around, doesn’t have to. ‘Detective Inspector McRae.’

The man who doesn’t know if he’s an Angel or a Hand of Death.

Black tendrils coil around her legs and chest.

The Kirk is my shield and my sword. The Kirk is my shield and my sword.

Blood thumps in her throat, each breath crackling deep inside her.

RUN.

She takes a step forward and a police officer uncurls herself from beneath one of the benches. Blue and red fizzing trails probe the area around her.

Rowan stops.

The Angel of Death clears his throat. ‘It’s OK, Agnes. You’re safe now.’ And he manages to sound as if he actually believes that.

Safe? How can she possibly be safe?

The door at the back of the room leads out into the alleyway behind the row of shops. All she needs to do is get there.

What I do in its service lights a fire in God’s name.

Another step.

Hands wrap themselves around her shoulders. A gentle touch that burns like a fistful of ice.

‘You’ll be OK, it’ll all be—’

She pistons her right elbow back, hard into his stomach, and warm breath explodes in her ear. Everything goes into slow motion. He lets go and falls back, crumpling around himself, hissing in pain.

Tenet Two: ‘Know thine enemy, for knowledge is power and power is victory.’

She’s watched him through his bedroom window, a towel wrapped around his waist, twenty-six little shining scars making constellations on his stomach. Old knife wounds never really fade.