Ian hunkers down beside him, the hammer’s scuffed metal head resting on the dirt. ‘You know what? I believe you. Wasn’t your fault. You’d have to be sodding mental to screw with the McLeods like that, wouldn’t you? And if you did, you wouldn’t stick around afterwards: you’d be on the first flight out of here. Get as far away as you could before they came after you.’

The Witch’s shoulders judder as sobs crack free from his bloody lips. ‘I didn’t . . . it wasn’t me. . . I would . . . would never—’

‘But it doesn’t really matter what I think, does it? If Simon and Colin let you off with this, the next thing you know everyone thinks they’ve gone soft. Don’t want that, do you? ’

‘Please. . .’

‘Course you don’t.’ Ian sticks his earbuds back in, then frowns. ‘Pfff. . . Missed the best bits.’ He produces the iPod and pokes at it.

‘Please, I’ll . . . anything . . . anything you want, it’s . . . it’s yours. . .’ The Witch pushes himself back along the dirty ground. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong!’

‘Here we go.’ Ian puts the iPod away again. Closes his eyes for a moment, nodding in time to the music. Then raises the hammer above his head and swings it down, right into the side of the Witch’s knee. There’s a wet cracking sound. A scream. Then he does it again. And again. Grabbing hold of the Witch’s belt so he can’t scramble away. Keeping the beat with his hammer as he sings along.

A metronome of blood and fear.

Born to be Wild.

Rowan watches until there’s nothing left of the Witch’s knees but pulp and shards of bone, then slips away.

Reuben pulled into the parking space right in front of a glossy edifice of yellow sandstone and emerald-green glass. Posters in the window encouraged people to bet on when the first goal would be scored against Celtic in the Scottish Cup Final on Saturday at Hampden Park, or who’d get red-carded, or injured, with photos of cheery actors holding wads of notes and glasses of champagne. From the look of things, being burned down was the best thing that had happened to the Turf ’n Track in years.

He hauled up the creaky handbrake, then turned to the poor sod in the back. ‘You sit tight, Mr Fisher. My mate Terry’s going to be right here watching you. Doesn’t say much, but he’s a nightmare with a Stanley knife.’ Then the big man hopped out into the overcast afternoon. Looked back in at Logan. ‘You: out.’

It wasn’t as if he had much of an option. . .

He followed Reuben’s broad back towards the Turf ’n Track’s front door. ‘Terry? ’