“I could overtake again,” Clarke suggested, breaking off as she saw that, without signaling, the car in front was turning off the road onto a dirt track. There was a gate, but it had been left open. Clarke drove past and kept driving, while Rebus watched the 4x4’s taillights until they were swallowed up by trees.

“We’re safe,” he said. Clarke stopped the car and did a three-point turn, switching off her lights and crawling towards the open gate.

“Just like Hammell said,” she muttered. The Merc had disappeared from view. Clarke slid down her window and listened for its engine. “Still on the move.”

“Then we move, too.”

The Audi began to head cautiously up the track, both front windows lowered. Despite the flurries and the sharp night air, Rebus stuck his head out, watching and listening. The route wound uphill into a pine-scented forest, reminding him of Edderton. When they reached a fork, Clarke stopped the car, turning off the engine as a precaution.

“Hear anything?”

“No,” Rebus told her.

“No lights either.”

“You think they’ve stopped?” He had lowered his voice.

“Maybe.”

“Do we go left or right?”

“You tell me.”

“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

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.