“Ground’s pretty well frozen—hard to tell if there are tracks there or not.”

“And you an ex–Boy Scout.”

Rebus considered for a moment. “Right,” he said. Then: “No, left.”

“Sure?”

“Fairly.”

“You mean you’re guessing?”

“Fifty-fifty chance, Siobhan.”

“I don’t think Magrath would be thrilled by those odds. How about we stick the lights on full beam and drive like hell?”

“Or go the rest of the way on foot.”

“On foot?” Her eyes had widened a little, her brow furrowing.

“On foot.”

“Together or separately?”

“Bloody hell, Siobhan, do I have to make all the decisions?”

69

The bag was removed from Kenny Magrath’s head. He’d been thumped a few times and his eyes stung. He blinked the world back into focus. There was a near-full moon in a hazy sky, and the smell of moss. Magrath was breathing through his nose, his mouth taped shut, hands bound behind him. Three men made a sort of triangle around him. They seemed very tall, until he worked out he was upright in a shallow grave. He tried to scream, a bubble of blood popping from one nostril. When he started scrabbling out of the pit, one of the men took a step forward and raised a shovel. Magrath knew what that meant, and stayed put. The car they’d brought him in stood a dozen or so yards away, lights dipped, illuminating the scene, picking out occasional slow-motion snowflakes.

“You killed my sister,” someone said. Magrath looked around, unable to pick out the speaker until Darryl Christie bent a little at the waist, establishing eye contact. He was dressed in a dark polo-neck, denims and trainers. Magrath shook his head, feeling a fresh wave of nausea as his brain throbbed with pain.

“This grave was dug for someone else,” Christie went on. “Wrong guy that time. You’re the one I’ve been looking for, so don’t try to deny it.”

But Magrath couldn’t help himself, his muffled voice rising in pitch. Christie turned away as if bored by the performance. He stretched a hand out towards the man next to him. The shovel was placed in it. Christie felt it for heft and balance, raised it over his shoulder and swung it a few times for practice. Magrath was reduced to weeping now, eyes screwed shut. His knees gave way and he landed heavily on the dirt, chin resting against the edge of the grave.

“Ssshhh,” Christie told him, like a parent to a child. Then he arched his body back, lifting the shovel high and bringing it down so that it connected with the ground directly in front of Magrath. Magrath’s eyes flew open, focused on the implement’s gleaming edge. Christie twisted it free and held the shovel in front of him as he crouched down, directly in front of the tearful, snot-nosed Magrath.

“You didn’t think it was going to be quick, did you?” he asked. “Plenty of damage to be done before then. All those lives you took. Just for kicks, eh? No real reason. Nothing that can be explained. It’s not a prison they’ll put you in, it’s a nuthouse. Board games and daytime TV, walks in the garden and a friendly psychiatrist. Reckon that’s fair, do you? All those lives you wrecked, the living as well as the dead. Time for some proper payback. Time for you to feel pain…” He rose again and lifted the shovel, but only to waist height this time, preparing to swing it at Kenny Magrath’s head.