McRitchie yanked a drawer open and dragged out a long-bladed kitchen knife. ‘Break into my house? You stupid smack-head bastard!’ He charged forward. ‘I’ll fucking—’ and stepped right in the slick of spilled beans and whisky. His left leg shot out from underneath him and for a brief second everything went into slow motion: the knife sailing through the air, his head sweeping downward and catching the edge of the kitchen table. The loud thunk as it hit. The knife skittering away across the working surface, clattering into the sink. Another thump as McRitchie hit the floor hard. Eyes shut, mouth open wide. Not moving.

Milne grabbed the knife from the sink and crept forward. Trembling. McRitchie was still breathing. But it didn’t take long to fix that.

The guy’s car was in exactly the same place he and Josie had left it two days ago. It even started first time. Milne sat behind the wheel, shivering and shaking, coughing until the world slipped into shades of black and yellow then disappeared.

He came to with his head resting against the wheel and the car’s horn braying in his ear. Snatched himself back upright, felt everything whooooosh around him. And closed his eyes. Forcing it all back down. Turning the key in the ignition.

It had taken every last ounce of strength to drag McRitchie’s heavy arse round to the septic tank, tumbling him in with Josie and her killer. Then a considerable breather before levering the inspection hatch cover back into place. Good job McRitchie had a HUGE stash of speed hidden in his bedroom or there was no way Milne would have managed it. In fact all of McRitchie’s stash was now stuffed into the glove compartment, Milne’s pockets, and under the drivers’ seat. He had enough to last a couple of months, if he was careful and didn’t go mad in the first week.

All he had to do now was get back to the squat and he’d be fine. Sell the car, get some spare cash and live on drugs and delivery pizza until April. Every junky’s dream.

The A90 was quiet as he pulled onto it, face screwed up in concentration, keeping the car at a steady thirty, trying to stay between the white lines. And doing a pretty good job of it too. Three tablets of speed and he was back on form. No more shakes and shivers. No, he was feeling— Oh shite.

A flash of blue light in the rear-view mirror. SHITE!

Eyes front. Maybe it wasn’t for him? Maybe the police wanted to pull someone else over and they were just … No. It was him. And he was too wasted to make a run for it. He pulled over.