'I know you.' Wright's eyes narrowed as he tried to remember.

'Let me give you a clue.' The man jabbed his head forward, miming a butt.

'Dennis Starkyou were with him that day. Nearly broke my boss's nose.'

The man nodded. 'Might have saved us all a lot of grief if I'd known then who you are.'

'Who am I?'

'You're Hamish Wright's nephew. I just looked at the photos from your dad's funeralit was all over the papersand there was Uncle Hamish. Explains why he told me the stuff was in the self-storage. I ninety per cent believed him, and it turns out he was telling about ninety per cent of the truthisn't that right?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'I'm talking about these.' The man dug in his pocket, producing key after key, tossing them on to the carpet at Wright's feet. 'Four motorbikes, Anthony. Plus the one you rocked up here on. Keys to padlocks, too. So now I need to know where you keep the bikes.' He paused. 'Your uncle wasn't easy to break, but I broke him. And then he snuffed it. Sometimes pain can do that. The body just decides it's had enough. I can do the same to you, Anthony. Or we can make it nice and straightforward.'

'I'm honestly telling you-'

Before he'd ended the sentence, they were on him. Packing tape binding his legs at the ankles, and his hands behind his back. The man held him down, a knee on his throat, almost crushing his windpipe, and a hand clamped over his mouth, removed only to be replaced by more of the silver tape, which was wound around his head a couple of times.

They stood over him when they were finished, while he wriggled on the floor. The man aimed a kick at his midriff, causing him to groan, eyes screwed shut in pain. The woman had yet to speak. She left the room and returned with items from his kitchen drawersknives, scissors, kebab skewers.

'Nice,' the man said, appraising the haul as she laid them out on the floor. He lifted her face towards his and kissed her on the lips. Wright wanted to tell them they were crazy, but all he could do was moan behind the gag. And now the man was crouching in front of him, and the barrel of the gun was pressing into his forehead, so that he felt compelled to screw his eyes shut again.

'I killed Dennis, you know,' the man drawled. 'It wasn't just that I hated his guts. I had to focus everyone's minds elsewhere. Plus he was talking about paying your place of work another visit, and since that was where I'd been told the stuff was stashed...' He paused and scratched one cheek thoughtfully. 'But now Joe's back in Glasgow, meaning I can get my hands on it without anyone knowing.' He glanced around and snatched up the padlock keys in his free hand. 'A garage would be the obvious answer. Nod if I'm warm.'

Wright shook his head and felt a fresh blast of pain as the barrel of the pistol connected with his left temple, slicing it open. With the keys clamped between his teeth, the man picked up one of the knives and pushed it with slow deliberation three quarters of an inch into his victim's shoulder. Behind the gag, Anthony Wright tried to scream.

41.

Malcolm Fox was back at the same spot, on the road leading to the lock-ups. Jude had sent him half a dozen texts telling him how callous he was. They'd been at Mitch's bedside when he'd told her he had to go out for a while.

'How long?'

'A few hours.'

'A few hours?' Because they'd been told by the consultant that their father might only have a few hours.

A few hours.

A few days.

Maybe a week.

This before they'd signed the forms, Jude sobbing all the while. The consultant had asked her if she wanted a sedative, but she'd shaken her head. Her texts were now arriving like blows every twenty minutes or so. Fox sat with his hands resting on the steering wheel, Classic FM at just audible volume on the stereo. A kid on a BMX had ridden past four times, eyeing him inquisitively without stopping. George Jonesthe man with the Caprihad worked on it again, reversing it back inside and locking the garage door only quarter of an hour back, after which, rubbing oil from his hands with a rag, he had headed on foot towards one of the tower blocks. Fox popped a mint into his mouth and sucked on it, hoping it might clear his head. He dropped the packet on the floor and was reaching down to retrieve it when a car passed him. He watched as it crawled towards the lock-ups, coming to a stop between the two rows. Both front doors opened. Female driver, male passenger. In the gathering gloom, he couldn't make out their faces. The man walked down one line of garages and up the other, not pausing until he finally reached the one owned by Anthony Wright.

'Well now,' Fox murmured. He got out of his own car, closing its door quietly, and made his approach on foot, trying to look like a worker slouching homewards. He could hear a metal door shuddering open. Both figures had moved out of his sight line, so he speeded up. When he was close enough to make out the car's number plate, he decided to commit it to memory, but quickly realised he already knew it.

One of the cars from Operation Junior.

He cursed beneath his breath and steadied his pace. A light had gone on inside the lock-up. As Fox approached, he could see that the motorbikes were draped with polythene dust sheets. The two figures, however, were standing by the rear wall, intent on the contents of what looked like a packing crate. Even from behind, he recognised Beth Hastie. When the man half turned, he saw it was Jackie Dyson. Dyson planted a kiss on Hastie's cheek, stopping Fox in his tracks. Too late, thoughDyson had spotted him out of the corner of his eye. He spun around, pointing the pistol at Fox's chest.

'Don't be shy then,' he said. 'In you come.'

'Fuck's he doing here?' Beth Hastie spat.

'It all makes sense,' Fox said, holding up his hands as he took a few steps forward.

'Is that right?'

'Hastie covered for you while you followed Dennis that night to the alley. How long have you two been an item?'

'What are we going to do with him?' Hastie was asking Dyson.

'I'll need to think. Meantime, fetch the roll of tape from the car.'

Hastie did as she was told, giving Fox a cold stare as she passed him.

'So it's true what they say,' Fox commented to Dyson. 'Undercover cops do get turned. I fail to see how you're going to get away with it, though.'

'Is that right?'

'I'm hardly the brightest, and I worked it out.'

'Seems to me you worked out hee fucking haw until we were standing right in front of you.' Hastie had returned with the tape. 'Hands behind your back,' Dyson ordered. Fox did as he was told, his eyes on the man as he spoke.

'That note you left next to Dennis was hardly proof of smart thinkingit didn't have us fooled more than half a day.'

'Muddied the water, though, didn't it? Less chance of Joe cottoning on. Just like torching that pub, giving Darryl Christie something to chew over so he didn't get too interested in Wright's stash.' Dyson examined Hastie's handiwork. 'Do his ankles next,' he commanded her.

'How long have you had the gun?' Fox was asking.

Dyson gave a cold smile. 'Insurance in case the Starks ever rumbled me. When Compston told me there was another nine mil doing the rounds, well, it seemed like kismet.'

Fox felt the tape being wrapped around the hems of his trousers. He tried flexing his wrists, but she'd done a good job, leaving almost no play at all.

'Now take the covering off one of those bikes,' Dyson was saying. 'We're going to wrap you up nice and neat like a mummy, Fox.'

The bike, when revealed, was a gleaming red model, streamlined and built for speed. Dyson muttered his appreciation while the sheet was laid out on the ground. Hastie gave Fox a shove and he could do nothing other than topple on to it. She crouched and wound the tape around his mouth. Then, with her lover's help, she started covering Fox in his makeshift shroud. As more tape was applied, he realised he would suffocate unless they left a gap somewhere.

And a gap didn't seem to be part of their plan.

He began to strain against his bonds, his cries for help muffled. Dyson was grinning as he finished the job. The covering was translucent, and Fox watched as the pair clambered to their feet again. They got to work emptying the crate of its contents, transferring everything to the back of their vehicle. Fox was trying not to panic, trying to keep his breathing shallow. There was a bit of give at his wrists, but not as yet enough. He was working his lips and jaw too, trying to break the seal on the tape, rubbing his face against the thin plastic sheeting but failing to find an edge that might help shift the gag.

Despite himself, his breathing was growing ragged, adrenalin surging through his body.

Yet all the time he watched.

To and fro they went until they were satisfied. Then they paused for a moment to embrace and kiss, only a few feet away from his prone, writhing figure. Dyson squeezed Hastie's hand and she headed outside, Dyson pausing for a moment, his eyes on Fox. Then he switched off the ceiling light and started to leave. Fox's makeshift shroud was beginning to steam up, but he could make out Dyson's figure silhouetted against the night as he stretched up to grab the door and pull it down, locking Fox in his tomb.

Sudden movement.

A woman's shriek.

Someone had come up behind Dyson and hit him with something. Fox thought he could make out a hammer. The pistol clattered to the ground and another figure picked it up. The attacker was delivering a second blow, and then a third and a fourth. Dyson fell to his knees, then on to his front, face against tarmac. Fox had the impression that a second shriek was coming from a distanceBeth Hastie was making a run for it. He found that he was almost holding his breath, the blood pounding in his ears. And now Dysonunconscious at the very leastwas being dragged along the ground by his feet, disappearing from view. Fox got the feeling he was being lifted into the boot of his car. He heard the boot lid slam in confirmation. And now there was a shadowy figure standing at the threshold to the lock-up, as if taking stock. It moved forward into the gloom and knelt in front of Fox, for all the world as if it might be about to pray. But then there was a glint of steel and a knife began to slice through the covering. The figure prised the polythene apart, exposing Fox's face.

Darryl Christie.

He looked Fox up and down, then got his fingernails under the tape and pulled it free of his mouth. Fox took in gulps of air, feeling he might be sick at any moment.

'Dyson killed Dennis,' he blurted out. And was rewarded with a slow nod.

'Anthony told us. They trussed him up too.'

The second figure was waiting a couple of yards away, and Fox realised it was Joe Stark.

'Joe's a traditionalist,' Christie explained. 'No shooters neededjust a nice big claw hammer. I find that admirable.'

'We need to go,' Stark growled.

Christie got back to his feet, brushing dust from the knees of his trousers. 'I'll call it in,' he told Fox. 'The cavalry'll come for you soon.'

'Hastie...?'

'She's running like her life depends on it. Which it probably does. She might actually never stop running.' He began to walk away, pausing only to admire the red motorbike. Then he got into the car and started reversing out of Fox's field of vision. Joe Stark hadn't got into the passenger seatpresumably the car they had come in was nearby. A small pool of liquid shone in the moonlight, all that remained of Jackie Dyson. Fox wondered if he would ever come to learn his real name, the name of the man he had been before he'd been sent into the underworld as a mole.

He didn't suppose it mattered.

The first youth appeared a few minutes later, hood pulled low over his head, a scarf masking the lower half of his face. He studied the prone figure and listened as Fox asked for help. But, saying nothing, all he did was wheel away the red motorcycle. A couple of minutes after that, more hooded figures arrived and took the rest of the haul, leaving Fox to wait for the patrol car with its flashing lights. Siobhan Clarke was there too, helping to cut him free and listening to his story.

'We better check Anthony's okay,' he said, rubbing the circulation back into his hands.

'We'll do that.'

His phone had fallen from his pocket and she picked it up, handing it to him. 'You've got a text,' she said.

He looked at the screen. At the two words written there.

He's gone.

42.

Rebus sat in the living room. It was lit by a single standard lamp in the opposite corner. The curtains were open a few inches and the back door was unlocked. Brillo was curled at his feet as he held the phone to his ear, waiting for it to be answered. He had already had one text from Dave Ritter to the effect that he couldn't say for sure the photo had been of Bryan Holroyd, plus a long call from Deborah Quant expressing her disbelief that the killer had been under her nose the whole time.

'It's often the way, Deb,' Rebus had told her, thinking of how the Acorn House abusers had carried on with their lives undetected.

The ringing tone stopped, replaced by Malcolm Fox's voice.

'Not really a good time, John.'

'Siobhan just told me. Sorry about your father.'

'I'm at the hospital right now.'

'How's Jude?'

'Weirdly calm.'

'And you?'

'Most of me's still lying cocooned in that lock-up.'

'It was Jackie Dyson then?'

'With a little help from his lover. We need to bring in Christie and Stark.'

'It'll happen. Though I don't suppose we'll ever find a body or the car they took it away in.'

'It was still murder.'

'You sure he was dead?'

'He had to be.'

'I know what a good advocate would do with that in court.'

'Nevertheless.'

'Chief Constable's not going to want it getting outundercover officer goes feral, kills two.'

'Nevertheless,' Fox repeated. Then: 'I would have died back there if Christie hadn't come to my rescue. I was stupid not to take back-up.'

'Welcome to my worldit's taken you long enough.'