Whoever’s running the van is out of sight, but her voice is like the rumble of faraway thunder. ‘You want tea, or a juice, or something? ’

‘Irn-Bru.’

He should’ve gone for fillet steak and a bottle of champagne.

‘Coming right up.’

The plan is simple enough: follow him back where he came from, question him, then give him the chance to purify his soul, before delivering it to God. Easy.

Two minutes later, a little red Peugeot hatchback pulls into the lay-by, diesel engine grumbling and rattling to a halt. A large man with a dusting of grey hair around his pale forehead turns and says something to the pair of children in the back, then climbs out into the warm afternoon, leaving a black and green trail behind him. It barbs and swirls around his long black coat. Jabbing at the earth beneath his feet.

Rowan shrinks back against the side of the van. A Raptor. . . This isn’t in the plan. This isn’t in the plan at all.

He stops at the serving hatch and smiles. ‘Aye, aye, Betty. Fit like the day, then? ’

‘Can’t complain, Ian. Usual? ’

‘Aye, and a couple bags of crisps for the wains.’ He turns and waves back at the Peugeot. The children wave back. A young boy and a little girl, her golden hair bobbing about an angelic little face.

‘Oh, aren’t they adorable? ’

‘That’s the joy of grandchildren, you can spoil them rotten and no’ have to worry about the consequences.’ He slips his hand into his coat pocket, pulls out an old-fashioned iPod, and goes thumbing through the menu. ‘You keen on Steppenwolf, Betty? ’

‘More of a Bruce Springsteen girl, myself.’

He pops the earbuds in, then puts the iPod back in his long black jacket. Like the wings of a crow. ‘“Born to be Wild” – can’t beat it. Got a good rhythm.’ He smiles at the Witch. ‘How about you? ’

A shrug. ‘Dunno about old music.’ He reaches up and takes a tin from the counter. Clicks the tab on it and downs a deep draught of Irn-Bru.

Ian takes out a pair of black leather gloves and puts them on. ‘Kinda my theme tune.’ Then he turns and waves at the kids in the car again. Covers his eyes with his gloved hands, then throws them open. ‘Peekaboo!’

The children giggle and do the same back.

Betty shuffles about inside the van, making the springs creak. ‘Here you go, loon, one bacon-and-egg buttie, with chips. Sorry you’ve had a wait. Help yourself to sauce and that.’

The Witch steps forward, reaching for his food, a smile on his face.

One more go at peekaboo, only this time the children don’t peek, they keep their eyes covered as Ian pulls a hammer from his long black coat and cracks the Witch over the back of the head with it.