Now the nightmare was for real. He was trapped with no way out, no chance of waking up. Just the knowledge that only pain and death lay behind every door in front of him. He couldn’t afford trying to recruit outside help from the stalwart comrades he knew would rally to his side, because the sand would too quickly run out of the hourglass before he could make that happen. Couldn’t break the rule of a lifetime and run to the police, because there was no way to tell which of them he could trust and which were corrupt. Couldn’t leave Grace in the hands of Stuart and the Dishonourables. Couldn’t turn away from Boonzie, now that he knew for sure that his friend was alive and a prisoner.

Only one path remained open. Ben just had to accept that Stuart had him by both balls. And that his sole option was to face the man and do whatever he needed to do to make things all right. Or to die knowing that at least his friends hadn’t suffered alone.

If need be, Ben was good with that option.

There was a litter bin outside the village shop. He dumped the bag of groceries into it. Wouldn’t be needing them. Then snapped Brown’s phone in half and dropped the pieces in there, too. Would no longer be needing that, either. He felt suddenly clear-minded and focused as he walked to the Mazda, got behind the wheel and restarted the engine.

Here we go, then.

The map in his mind told him how to get to Charles Stuart’s castle, just a few miles south of Kinlochardaich. He sped out of the village, wipers slapping away the beating snow, the tyres battling for grip on the icy road, and a deathly stillness in his heart.

Ben knew he was getting close to his destination when he reached the bottom of a long, wooded road and saw the estate gates in front of him. The spiked wrought-iron railings stood twenty feet high. A pair of stone lions, not much less than lifesize, eyed him from atop the tall gateposts. He pulled up and waited as two men emerged from a gatehouse. Neither of them looked like the kind of individual who might join up with the Dishonourables. Permanent security staff, Ben guessed. One of them stepped through an inset gate and approached the driver’s side of the Mazda, giving it the eye. Most visitors to the estate probably didn’t show up in twenty-year-old rust buckets stolen from dopeheads. Ben gave his name. The security guy signalled to his colleague and they opened up the main gates and waved him through.