A ripple began, then a long shuddering icy wave washed up from the soles of his feet, scrabbling up his thighs to focus on his crotch. He would have urinated again, had he had any liquid left in his body.

At this point he heard them approach, the clang of the door and then the advance of the long shaft of light which ended at him.

It seemed it was time to rock and roll again.

The three figures came forward together, the outer two almost as broad as they were high, replicas of one another. Only their tattoos differentiated between them. He’d named them Mutt and Jeff, after the Second World War double agents who had spied for the Allies. They were playing out their good cop, bad cop roles. Having time to study their torsos through drug-addled eyes, McNab knew that Mutt preferred being adorned with naked women. Jeff was more inclined to Nazi symbols. McNab had observed this at close quarters.

At first he hadn’t clocked where he might have seen them before, because back then they’d been fully suited, and the truth was most minders looked much the same. But the more he saw them, the more he believed that they’d been at the bare-knuckle fight with the posh fucker. Which was probably why they were enjoying themselves so much.

Their boss had never stripped or taken part himself. He was the Kommandant, the one, McNab suspected, who dictated when, where and how. Had he seen him before? McNab couldn’t be sure.

By the look of their pupils, Mutt and Jeff were always high on something, probably cocaine. How many times had McNab wished they’d give him that drug instead of the cocktail that was supposed to free his tongue to answer their questions?

He tried to prepare himself for the next bout, but at that moment all he wanted was for them to put his lights out, like they’d done in Glasgow.

Then something happened. The boss proceeded to take off his shirt and, with a smile, said, ‘It’s my turn.’

With a nod from him, Mutt and Jeff freed McNab’s wrists from the rings and he slumped forward onto his knees. The excruciating pain stopped the breath in his throat, just as his heart raced off into a bloody sunset.

Through all of this, he heard the two henchmen being dismissed and, struggling to lift his head, realized the Kommandant and he were alone.

In seconds, his head was dragged back and a knife placed at his throat.

‘Well done, Jock,’ he hissed. ‘You haven’t told us a fucking thing. Heard you were good with a chib. You’re going to grab this off me and take yourself out of here.’

52

As Rhona took the turn-off to Houton Bay, she spotted a police car parked outside Magnus’s place, which had to mean Erling was there.