Boonzie halted and crouched rock-still in the frosty bushes, watching as the poacher packed up and tidied away his kit. From the shadows of the trees near the shoreline protruded the rear end of an old Subaru four-wheel-drive that had been backed down a track through the woods. The poacher had opened up the tailgate. Boonzie observed the greenlit figure going back and forth with bits and pieces of equipment to stow in the boot, taking his time, very much at home in his element and quite unaware he was being observed. He struggled up the bank to the 4x4 with a large oblong box that reminded Boonzie of a military ammo crate. Boonzie guessed it contained the poacher’s haul of fish. Judging by its weight, it looked like he’d had a successful night.

Soon the poacher would be ready to leave. Then would be the time for Boonzie to make his move.

After four hours of freezing his bollocks off out here, Jamie McGlashan was looking forward to getting back to the bothy, polishing off his quarter bottle of Bell’s with two or three slices of rabbit pie and crawling into his sleeping bag with a nice hot water bottle. Tired and cold and wet he might be, but satisfied in the knowledge that his night’s catch would put a couple of tasty meals in his belly and bring him in a few quid besides.

It was still a damn sight better than working for a living, that was for sure. Jamie had never had any luck in that department, and had given up on it long ago. He wasn’t much of a people person. He loved the solitude and the silence of the remote wild places where he’d spent all of his life. This was where his heart was. Plus, nothing the outside world had to offer could possibly compare with the rush of clandestine excitement when you snagged a big juicy salmon. The thrill of forbidden fruit. Maybe that was why he kept coming back to his favourite loch, where he’d been fishing man and boy. It was kind of an addiction.

Hooked. Jamie had to chuckle at his own joke. As he sat on the edge of the tailgate to yank off his waders, he reflected more seriously that a person would have to be bloody addicted, not to mention a total daftie, to venture anywhere near the spot where, helpless and transfixed with horror, he’d seen a man being murdered. He would never forget Ross Campbell’s screams as the killers hurled him into the water. The poor bastard’s last moments of panic when they pushed him under the surface. The awful instant when the wild splashing and gurgling finally ended and he bobbed back up to the surface, face down, slimy with weeds and very obviously dead even from where Jamie had been watching it all take place.