‘Nearly there,’ the Weasel said.

Rebus wondered if there’d be any turning back.

They stopped at the gates to a warehouse complex. The driver undid the padlock, pulled the chain free. The gates swung open. In they went. The Weasel ordered the driver to park around the back. There was a plain white van there, more rust than metal. Its back windows had been painted over, turning it into a suitable hearse should occasion demand.

They got out into a salt wind. The Weasel shuffled over towards a door and banged once. The door was pushed open from within. They stepped inside.

A huge open space, filled with only a few packing cases, a couple of pieces of machinery covered with oil-cloth. And two men: the one who’d let them in, and another at the far end. This man was standing in front of a wooden chair. There was a figure tied to the chair, half-hidden by the man. The Weasel led the procession. Rebus tried to control his breathing, which was growing painfully shallow. His heart was racing, nerves jangling. He pushed back the anger, wasn’t sure he could hold it.

When they were eight feet from the chair, the Weasel nodded and the man stood away, revealing to Rebus the terrified figure of a kid.

A boy.

Nine or ten, no older.

One black eye, nose caked with blood, both cheeks bruised and a graze on his chin. Burst lip beginning to heal, trousers torn at the knees, one shoe missing.

And a smell, as if he’d wet himself, maybe even worse.

‘What the hell is this?’ Rebus asked.

‘This,’ the Weasel said, ‘is the little bastard who stole the car. This is the little bastard who lost his nerve at a red light and gunned through it, losing control of the pedals because he could barely reach them. This ...’

The Weasel stepped forward, planted a hand on the kid’s shoulder. ‘This is the culprit.’

Rebus looked at the faces around him. ‘Is this your idea of a joke?’

‘No joke, Rebus.’

He looked at the boy. Dried tear-tracks. Eyes bloodshot from crying. Shoulders trembling. They’d tied his arms behind him. Tied his ankles to the chair-legs.

‘Puh-please, mister ...’

Dry, cracked voice. ‘I ... please ...’

‘Nicked the car,’ the Weasel recited, ‘then did the hit and run, got scared, and dumped the car near where he lives. Took the cassette and the tapes. He wanted the car for a race. That’s what they do, race cars around the schemes. This little runt can start an engine in ten seconds flat.’

He rubbed his hands together. ‘So ... here we all are.’

‘Help me ...’

Rebus recalling the city’s graffiti: Won’t Anyone Help? The Weasel nodding towards one of his men, the man producing a pickaxe-handle.

‘Or the screwdriver,’ the Weasel said. ‘Or whatever you like, really. We are at your command.’

And he gave a little bow.

Rebus could hardly speak. ‘Cut the ropes.’

Silence in the warehouse.