‘No, just kill him. He’s caused us enough trouble already.’

Just then, the unconscious body on the ground stirred and let out a pained groan. Banks said, ‘McCulloch’s coming round.’

Hacker’s employer tossed Banks the bottle of pills. ‘Give him a couple of these, if that’s what he needs. Then get him loaded into the van and we’ll bring him to the estate.’

The snatch had worked perfectly. The one good thing Angus Baird had done was to alert them to be on the lookout for Ewan McCulloch’s camper van. Macleod and Coull had spotted it in the police station car park the moment they’d arrived for work that morning, notifying Hacker’s employer just moments later. The plan had taken shape quickly and efficiently. Their preparations made, Hacker and the newly arrived crew had sped from the castle to the chosen ambush spot in their unmarked van, following their employer’s silver Rolls Royce Cullinan. Now they not only had McCulloch, but the name of the poacher, who would be dealt with soon enough.

First it was McCulloch’s turn. By the time he recovered consciousness they were already en route back to base and he awoke to find himself bound and gagged in the back of the van. His captors removed the tape from his mouth long enough to dry-feed him two of his heart pills. Boonzie kicked and struggled as best he could, but he was still weak and soon gave up trying. By the time they arrived at their destination, he was asleep again, his breathing shallow. They bundled him out of the van and carried him to the secure, inescapable place beneath the castle in which they intended to keep him for the rest of his life.

While the crew took care of their task, Hacker’s employer climbed the stairs to his study. He closed the door, hung up his coat and loosened his tie, then lit an Arturo Fuente cigar and settled in a plush leather armchair with a satisfied smile on his face. He had a great deal to be satisfied about, and not just because his current plans were moving along so nicely. Whenever he sat here in the luxurious splendour of his private domain overlooking all his stately acres and surrounded by the trappings of wealth, it was impossible not to be reminded of how very far he’d come from his comparatively humble roots.

His name was Charles Stuart, but it hadn’t always been. He had been born and raised Peter Charles Johnson and only much later, as an ambitious young man setting out to make his first million, adopted the surname that he believed reflected his true birthright and identity.