“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.

“That’s enough!”

Christie swiveled towards the voice. Rebus had his hands bunched by his sides, as if spoiling for a fight.

“What are you doing here?” Christie called out.

“Arresting you,” Siobhan Clarke said, stepping into the clearing and holding open her ID. Christie’s men looked to their boss for instructions. Christie pointed at Rebus.

“You’re the one who wanted this in the first place!” he complained.

Clarke ignored him, telling him he was under arrest. Christie had eyes only for Rebus, and those eyes were burning.

“Two of you against three of us?” he announced. “Look around—plenty of room for a few more graves.”

“He might be stupid,” Clarke interrupted, gesturing towards Rebus, “but I’m not. Back-up’s about five minutes away.”

“What do we do?” one of Christie’s men was asking his boss. Rebus recognized him: Marcus, doorman and driver. Christie took a moment to weigh up the options.