Steven Golding looked feral. The man had no saving graces at all, from his rotten teeth to his pock-marked and scarred skin. He was obviously a loner. Michael knew that the man was mentally ill, and that he had been in and out of different institutions for the best part of his life. That was sad. But Michael couldn’t change anything that had happened, even if he had wanted to. Steven Golding looked exactly what he was – a broken-down, disillusioned fantasist, who had been deprived of his whole family as a teenage boy. He was quite obviously madder than a fucking bull with a red-hot poker up its arse, and had managed to infiltrate every aspect of Michael’s life, eventually destroying not just his only daughter but his mother as well.

‘Do you know what, Steven? Stay where you are.’

Michael shut the boot noisily. Then he walked leisurely to one of the outbuildings. It was a shed that had been constructed over twenty years before from a job-lot of corrugated iron, and it was where they kept most of the flammable liquids.

Michael went inside and he felt around for one of the petrol cans that he knew would be there. He felt the weight of it in his hand, and then he shook it gently, relishing the noise of the liquid as it moved around.

He walked back to his Mercedes, calling out to Declan, who he knew had been watching everything from the Portakabin window. When Declan appeared, he gestured to him to open the boot once more. Declan Costello, as always, was more than happy to oblige.

Steven Golding was still curled up. As Michael opened the petrol can and started to pour it all over him, Golding attempted to get up and tried to get out of the boot. Michael Flynn punched him back down. The stench of petrol fumes was heavy in the air.

Steven Golding was terrified, and Michael could see that. His eyes were bulging out of his head with the fear of being burned alive.

‘Answer me one last thing – would you have harmed my grandson?’

Steven Golding shook his head. ‘Of course not. I would have left him alone.’

Michael snorted with derision. ‘Why didn’t you just come after me? I was the culprit, for fuck’s sake!’

Golding looked him in the eye as he said, ‘Too easy. I know you will suffer much more over your Jessie and your mum’s death. Guilt is a very destructive force.’

Michael didn’t answer him. After all, who could argue with the truth? He took a book of matches out of his pocket and, smiling slightly, he said steadily, ‘The truth is, Steven, I’m actually going to enjoy this.’