Half past ten and Josie’s on her knees, earning them enough cash for three wrappers of Heroin and a Big Mac with fries. The guy’s something in accounting from the look of him, dressed in a Barbour jacket and checked shirt with his chinos round his ankles. Leaning against the wall, grunting as Josie’s mouth works its magic.

Hiding in the shadows, Milne gives the guy’s car a once over. It’s an anonymous Renault with all the panache of a bottle of brown sauce. Perfect. Milne fingers the half brick in his pocket and crosses the road. He doesn’t even let the guy finish before smashing him over the back of the head.

Josie sits back on the doorstep, giggling as Milne pops the Renault’s boot and tries to manhandle the guy inside. He’s still breathing, but the bastard weighs a ton! A quick search of his pockets turns up car keys, house keys, credit cards, a wallet with a hundred quid in it – result – and half a packet of cigarettes. Milne strips him naked and ties him up with his own clothes. The man just lies there, pale, curled up like a foetus, bleeding onto the dark blue carpet. Milne slams the boot shut, then he and Josie smoke the guy’s cigarettes. Telling jokes about—

It’s cold, barely past dawn, but he’s running for all he’s worth, chasing down the blond kid from Robert Gordon’s private school, diving at him, dragging him to the ground. The rugby ball flies off to one of the other wee boys on the opposite team, but Milne doesn’t care, just starts punching and kicking the blond kid. Hammering away until the teacher acting as a referee drags him off. Shouting and swearing.

The wee blond kid lies on the frosty grass, curled up in a ball, bleeding and crying. And Milne has no idea why he did it. But he’s crying too. And the teacher hauls him round and screams in his face—

It’s after midnight, but they’re nowhere near sleepy. A hundred quid goes a long way if you know what you’re doing. One of Josie’s mates sells them a couple of wrappers of heroin each and a litre bottle of Asda’s own-label vodka – shoplifted fresh that afternoon by a gang of eight-year-old girls. And then Josie and Milne are driving off to McRitchie’s house in the guy’s stolen car, pausing to shoot-up in a lay-by off the A90. Taking the long way round.

Milne parks down the road a bit, where they’ve got a good view of the cottages, but far enough away not to draw any attention. This is the difficult bit, figuring out where the septic tank is. Sometimes it’s right up close to the house, sometimes it’s more than a field away. But it always—