‘Coward.’ She pulled out a book of matches – close up on her hands as she struck one, then twisted the book so they all caught fire – then a low angle, looking up past the terrified man at her standing there.

‘PLEASE!’

‘We found a dead body, Saturday evening,’ Logan pointed at the screen, ‘just like that! Exactly like that.’

‘Burn. Like you’ll burn in hell.’ A vicious smile. ‘It’ll be good practice for you.’ The blazing matchbook tumbled through the air, hit the tyre, and blue and yellow flames leapt up, cracking around the rim of the rubber.

The man on his knees screamed, wrenching himself from side to side, making the chains rattle. Close up on his face, wreathed in black smoke. . .

Zander waved a hand. ‘Can you pause it there, David? ’

On the screen, the burning man lurched to a complete halt, mouth open in a wide scream.

Standing at the front of the room, cadaverous David pulled out a laser pointer and ran a bright red dot around the man’s face. ‘Do you see it? ’

‘Yes, compositing really needs to be tighter. And can we lose the snot? It’s just a bit. . .’ He wiggled his fingers. ‘Too mucusy.’

Logan settled back into his seat. ‘It’s exactly the same set-up: kneeling, chained to a stake, tyre over his head and under his left arm.’

Zander frowned, pulling his chin in, making ripples across his wobbly throat. ‘The necklacing of Thomas Leis is a key scene. We’re being very faithful to the book here – the fans would have a fit if we changed it.’

‘It’s in the book? ’

‘Pivotal to our understanding of Mrs Shepherd’s character.’

Steel squinted down towards the front of the room.

The big gaunt man had produced a small plastic bag of something. He pulled what looked like a child’s finger from the bag and popped it into his mouth. Crunching.

Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘David. . .? ’ Then she stood. ‘Holy crap in a handbag, it’s no’, is it? David Insch? ’ She cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘HOY, INSCHY? THAT YOU? ’

She was off her head. There was no way that was ex-DI Insch. Insch was the size of a barn: a six-foot-two perpetual-motion eating machine with anger-management issues.

David hauled his shoulders back, chest out, chin up – pulling a dangly fold of skin with it. ‘Detective Inspector Steel.’

There was no mistaking that withering, disappointed tone.

‘It is you! The boy Insch, as I live and fornicate. . .’ Her mouth hung open in a lopsided grin. ‘What the hell happened? You look like someone’s draped a deflated bouncy castle over a stepladder.’

‘Age hasn’t improved you any, has it? You still have the manners of a two-year-old.’

Zander clapped his hands. ‘Excellent. I’d forgotten you all knew each other. David, why don’t you sort out DCI Steel and DS McRae, and I’ll get back to work? ’