Only when he was lying on his side, coughing up blood and teeth, did Bolt turn round to deal with Amanda.

Mo still had hold of her, but only just. She was stamping on his foot, and trying to drive her head back into his, fighting like a bucking bronco, while he stumbled about, desperately trying to keep his grip.

And then, as Bolt leaned his arm back to throw a punch at her, she broke free and, with a scream of rage, went for him with the Stanley knife.

He moved to one side, dodging her easily, his fist connecting perfectly with her jaw as she turned towards him, sending her flying backwards. She tripped over Mo and landed sprawling on her side on the scuffed grass, the Stanley knife clattering out of sight behind her.

As Mo went over to comfort the terrified girl (a pretty, mixed-raced teenager of around seventeen, who’d been tied and gagged), Bolt walked over to Amanda, who was trying to crawl away. He slammed a foot down into the centre of her back, driving the wind right out of her.

‘I don’t normally hit women,’ he said, ignoring the burning in his knuckles. ‘But in your case, I’m happy to make an exception.’ He leaned down so his face was close to her ear, feeling the satisfaction of a job well done. ‘Amanda Rowan. I’m arresting you for the murders of George Rowan and Ivana Hanzha.’

Fifty-six

Three days later

SCOPE SAT ON the edge of the hospital bed, a small bag containing his belongings at his feet, waiting to find out if they were going to let him go.

Two armed officers with Heckler & Kochs had been stationed outside his room the whole time he’d been getting treatment for the gunshot wound he’d received in the farmhouse, and they were still there now. He’d also been interviewed twice under caution by detectives from Scotland’s Specialist Crime Division, who’d been very interested to find out the extent of his involvement that night. Luckily, Scope had had time to work on his story. He’d admitted to the killing of the gunman at Jock’s house and taking his gun, but claimed that it was self-defence. When pressed as to why he’d not called the police then, he’d claimed that he’d panicked and gone looking for the family who’d hired the canoes, worried for their safety. He’d denied killing the Russian guy who’d shot at Casey because there was nothing tying him to the scene, but had admitted shooting the two men and the old lady at the farmhouse. Again, though, he’d claimed self-defence, and whether the detectives had believed him or not, they hadn’t actually arrested him which, right now, he was taking as a positive sign.

There was a knock on the door and a tall, broad-shouldered guy in a suit came in. He had the demeanour of authority, coupled with an underlying hardness you sometimes get with certain big city cops who have spent time dealing with the more serious criminals, a look that was accentuated by his short, military-style haircut and the three vicious little scars bunched together on one cheek. Scope liked him immediately.

‘Mr Scopeland, I’m DCS Mike Bolt from the Met’s Homicide and Serious Crime Command.’ He smiled and put out a hand.

‘You’re a long way from home,’ said Scope, getting up to shake it, while trying not to wince from the movement.

‘Still hurting?’ asked Bolt, sitting down on a chair next to the bed.

Scope didn’t sit back down. ‘It’s on the mend,’ he said. ‘The bullet passed through without hitting anything too serious, but it did manage to break two ribs, and they’re going to take a while to heal.’

‘I’ve had cracked ribs. They hurt. Are you sure you’re ready to leave?’

‘There’s not much more they can do for me so yeah, I’d like to. The question is, am I allowed?’

‘Why don’t you sit back down for a minute? I don’t like having conversations when I’m craning my neck.’

Reluctantly, Scope did as suggested.

‘I’ve been looking at your record, Mr Scopeland.’

‘Are you allowed to call me Scope? No one’s called me Mr Scopeland for so many years that sometimes I forget it’s me.’

‘Okay, Scope it is. I read about your role in the Stanhope Siege.’

‘What can I say? Trouble seems to have a habit of sniffing me out.’

‘I’ve heard a lot of people say that. Most of them were criminals.’

‘I’m no criminal, Mr Bolt,’ said Scope. ‘I didn’t ask to get involved in the Stanhope Siege. And I didn’t ask to get involved in this.’

‘You killed three men and a woman, Scope. That’s a lot of dead bodies.’

‘It was self-defence. Every one of them was pointing a gun at me when I shot them.’

Bolt nodded slowly. ‘I’m willing to go along with that. More importantly, so are the Scottish police. Mainly because of the special circumstances of this case. But I ought to tell you that if trouble sniffs you out again, and you end up being discovered surrounded by bodies with another gun in your hand, I don’t think any of us are going to be quite as charitable.’ He leaned forward in his seat, fixing Scope with his piercing blue eyes. ‘Do you hear what I’m saying?’

Scope smiled. He couldn’t help himself. ‘I hear exactly what you’re saying. I’ll learn to turn the other cheek.’

‘Do that. I’d appreciate it.’

‘How are Jess and Casey? No one seems to want to talk to me too much about them.’

‘They’re both recovering extremely well, but you know what they say about kids and resilience. To be honest, it’s the main reason you haven’t been charged. Your actions almost certainly saved those kids’ lives, and I reckon there would have been a public outcry if you’d been put away for killing the people you did. Suffice to say, and this is off the record, they weren’t very nice people.’

‘No, I gathered that. Who did they work for?’

Bolt laughed, getting to his feet. ‘I can’t tell you that, Scope, but both the Met and the Scottish police are building criminal cases against a lot of people. Everyone involved is going to be brought to justice, I promise you that, even though it may take some time.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Scope, getting up as well. ‘I’ll check the papers.’

‘There are a couple of people who want to see you before you go,’ said Bolt. ‘They’re waiting outside.’

As Scope followed him out of the door, he saw Jess and Casey in the corridor next to a small, slightly overweight Asian guy who also looked like a cop.

Bolt stepped aside as Casey came dashing forward, holding a piece of paper in her hands. She was wearing jeans, a flowery top, and a very big smile. ‘Thank you for saving us,’ she said. ‘I made you a thank-you card.’ She thrust it into his hands.

Scope was overcome with a wave of emotion, and for a second he thought he was going to lose it and burst into tears. The picture on the front of the card was of a big stick figure and two smaller figures that were obviously Casey and Jess on either side. ‘That’s lovely,’ he told her. ‘Thank you. And I’m glad I had the chance to help you.’

She put her arms round his waist and gave him a big hug, and he felt her warmth against him, bringing back long-ago memories of fatherhood.

‘Come on, Case, leave the poor guy alone,’ said Jess, prising her sister off him before putting out a hand. ‘Thanks from me, too. We wouldn’t have made it without you.’

He gave her hand a squeeze. ‘You look very well, considering what you’ve been through.’

And she did. Her right arm was bandaged where the dog had bitten her, and she was on crutches, courtesy of the gunshot wound she’d received, but otherwise she looked largely unscathed. Scope knew from his military experience that the worst of an individual’s suffering was on the inside, but something about the positive expression on Jess’s face suggested she was going to recover from this.

‘I’m going to be okay,’ she said. ‘We both are.’