‘She’s seen him,’ says Padua, apologetically. He doesn’t like to disagree with Michael. His brother rarely gets cross, but when he does, Padua hurts for days.

‘Has she?’ Michael shrugs. ‘We don’t know, do we? She saw somebody killing Eva-Jayne but if it were this deabhil that’s got everybody vexed, she’d be in pieces by now, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, Michael …’

The phone trills again. Michael grins at the screen. ‘Helden. Says he doesn’t want the girl. Lying bastard. Trying to play me! Don’t you worry, boy, they’ll pay.’

Padua stares at Roisin. There’s something about the way her hair falls across her features that makes him want to touch her, to drape the tress of inky-blackness upon his knuckles and tuck it behind her ear. He wants to touch her softly, as if she were made of rose petals. He hopes her daddy offers a sensible sum. Michael is a man of his word, and if Daddy doesn’t get him a six-figure thank you, he will, with great regret, allow Padua to play with her. And Padua knows that she won’t enjoy that one bit.

‘There’ll be blood, whatever happens,’ says Padua, quietly. ‘If either one pays, they’ll not forget what we’ve done.’

‘And what have we done? Come to the rescue! Saved a girl, lost in the woods. We’re just getting a little thank you that should have been offered before I had to start making threats …’

Padua jerks his head to the left as a shadow passes in front of the van. The headlights are still gleaming and for a fraction of a second there was a patch of darkness, out there: a flicker of silk.

‘You OK, my little terrier?’

Padua looks at his brother, one finger raised to stop him saying any more. He peers into the near-distance: rain, reflection, metal, shadow …

Michael sees it too, the sudden shift in the quality of the light – the surging adrenaline charge. Michael is peering forward. Padua, at his side, squints into the light and the dark, searching, fear forming a tight knot in his gut.

A sound, from behind.

And then a curved blade, sharp as honed wire.

A moment of hot, burning understanding.

Then his vision is a spray of hot blood, and his head is falling forward on the gaping mouth of his thorax, and in his dying moments he is watching as Michael kicks, bucking like a wild horse, as the long spike of sharpened steel emerges from his ribcage, again, again: a beak pecking through a shell.

When the bodies stop moving, the man in the rear of the van climbs out through the rear doors. Slowly, a master of his craft, he drags the half-brothers into the dirt. Pats them both down, takes wallets, the change in their pockets. Takes Michael’s mobile phone. He drags both bodies towards the bowtop wagon. Over the course of two tiring hours, he arranges the brothers as he wishes them to be found. His employers did not specify what should be done with the two men, but he has made it a point of honour not to allow those to live who would be better served by death. He keeps the tableau simple. When they are found, the scene will speak of a vicious fight. They killed each other – Padua attacking Michael, and the taller man using his last breath to slit his brother’s throat before succumbing to his injuries. Any questions the investigators may have will go unanswered: the answers consumed by the flames.