Mr Fisher lay on his side, wriggling deeper into the Transit, feet scuffing on the plastic sheet. His whole body trembled, muffled sobs coming from beneath the blood-stained pillowcase.

Reuben reached inside and dragged him forward again. Hauled him upright. Then slammed a huge fist into his guts. ‘Right, Mr Fisher. Here’s how this works: you tell us everything, and you get off with a kicking. I think you’re not cooperating, I start breaking things. I think you’re lying to me, I carve you up like a chicken and feed you to the pigs one wee bit at a time. They eat everything: hair, skin, bone.’

He whipped off the pillowcase.

What the bloody hell was he playing at? Soon as Fisher saw their faces there was no way Reuben would let him live. Stupid fat sod: what was Logan supposed to do, stand back and let it happen?

Only Mr Fisher couldn’t see a damn thing. Three strips of duct tape covered his eyes: one horizontal, two vertical, as if they were targets. Another strip covered his mouth. His black hair was long on one side and shaved on the other, a hollow tube stretching out his left earlobe, three silver hoops above it. . . Anthony Chung’s friend: the one who worked in the bar. The one who tried to fight for Agnes Garfield’s honour, and got kneed in the balls for his pains.

Reuben grabbed one corner of the gag and ripped it off, taking the stud in Dan Fisher’s bottom lip with it.

‘Aaaaagh. . . Bastard. . .’ Blood dribbled down his chin.

Dan Fisher. Friend of Anthony Chung. Anthony who always had the best cannabis.

At least now it was obvious where he’d got it from.

Reuben hammered another fist into Fisher’s stomach. Then stood back and waited until he’d stopped retching. ‘Your starter for ten is: who’s stealing weed from the McLeod brothers? ’

A long string of spittle wobbled from his bleeding bottom lip. ‘Oh God. . .’

Reuben sucked in a breath, then shook his head. ‘Wrong answer.’ A Stanley knife blade clicked out, then snicked through the cable-ties holding Dan Fisher’s ankles together. Then he dragged one foot out until it was just hanging over the Transit’s rear bumper.

‘PLEASE! I DON’T—’

The van rocked as Reuben slammed all his weight down on Fisher’s ankle. A muffled pop. And Fisher’s foot didn’t face the front any more.

Two seconds later the screaming started. Reuben gave him a count of three, then shut him up with another fist to the guts.

Logan grabbed his arm – it was solid, like a telegraph pole. ‘That’s enough.’

‘Nah, we’re just getting started.’ He grabbed Fisher’s other foot. ‘Try that again, shall we? Same question.’

Fisher moaned and sobbed, snot shining on his top lip. ‘Please. . . I just sell it on, I don’t know who—’