He walked past me, back inside the building. "I did it," he said. "Gave you a chance, eh?"

"Aye. What are friends for?"

I drove a few streets away before parking under the orange glow of a street-light and taking the phone out of my pocket.

Rule number one: never interfere with a crime scene. Maybe I was getting carried away. Maybe I was getting stupid. Maybe I knew that I had made a promise to my client and had to do everything within my power to close this case.

There was a girl's life at stake.

And the police could handle that better than...

I'd started this. Ros called me a stubborn b.a.s.t.a.r.d with good reason.

I scrolled down the last received calls. A few anonymous numbers, then: KirstMob. Received earlier that evening, just past six.

I dialled.

Waited.

A girl's voice: "h.e.l.lo?" She sounded nervous, as though she wasn't sure she should really be answering.

"Kirsty..."

"Uh..."

"I know it's you. We need to talk... if you're in trouble "

"Who are you?"

"I work for your father... he just needs to know that you're all right."

There was silence. I thought for a second that she might hang up. But instead, she broke down in tears on the other end of the line.

...to know that you're all right...

Like by that point, there was ever a chance.

Kirsty met me on a street corner, near a group of high rises due for demolition. With the lights off, the windows boarded up and their shadows soaking up any light, they were imposing monoliths; reminders of a social failure that we try to deny.

She sat on the kerb, her knees tucked up against her chest. Her head rose slightly on my approach. She looked so small and fragile.

I parked the car, got out and walked round. Even in the half light, I could see her pale skin standing out against the dark patches of bruises on her face.

Her summery dress seemed torn and dishevelled and the backs of her hand were dirty, covered with... something.

I didn't want to draw conclusions, sat down beside her.

"Your dad's worried for you."

"I cannae go home. No after... Just... just tell Dad that this is better than..." She raised her hands to her face. I saw the backs of her hands clearly, realised it wasn't just mud and dirt.

"Tell me what happened."

"I can't..."

"Tom Foster had a violent history and "

"Its no his fault, not really."

"You can't say it was your "

"Like h.e.l.l I'm saying that!" She got to her feet, and suddenly she seemed filled with a rightous anger that seemed to flow through the ground like an electric charge. Her muscles tensed and her expression was filled with hate. "No Fosty's fault, no my fault that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Mick "

"He told me you split up."

"More like he sold me on. Like his b.l.o.o.d.y property."

I felt sick, couldn't bring myself to stand. Looking at Kirsty, seeing that anger and realising it masked a fear and shame that had been coursing through her. Because of what had been done to her.

And what she had done herself.

She came with me in the end. I took her to a hospital.

Called her father.

Then Sandy.

I didn't say much other than I had found her, that something had happened. Figured she could tell the police the rest if she wanted to.

Davey arrived at the hospital, looking like he'd gained decades in the s.p.a.ce of a few days. His eyes were red raw, supported by bags. He saw me in the reception at Ninewell's A&E, came over and said, "Tell me."

I shook my head. "She's been through some... I won't lie and say she's fine, Davey. But she's alive and she'll pull through this."

"Oh, Jesus."

I grabbed the attention of a nurse. Davey insisted on seeing his daughter. I waited until she relented and then slipped outside.

My mobile started to ring. I looked at the number.

Sandy.

He could ask his questions later.

I made sure I dumped Fosty's mobile in the Tay before driving home.

Ros was asleep on the sofa, the light from the TV illuminating her gently. Graham Norton on the BBC fawning over whatever celebrity he could get his hands on.

I clicked it off.

Ros stretched.

"Hon?"

I kissed her on the forehead, told her I needed a shower.

She was already in bed when I got out. I slipped beneath the sheets, draped an arm around her waist, felt her body heat and took comfort in the simple fact of her presence.

She turned over so that she could look at me. "There's something "

"This is me," I said, trying it with a smile.

"Yeah, guess there's always something, huh?" That Alabama accent usually sounded so comforting and yet there was a sting behind it, something I couldn't quite identify. "Always." She held it a moment. "Sandy called."

"Aye?"

"I know what your work is, Sam. I know who you are. And I accept it all... but sometimes I worry."

I was silent for a moment. "I know. Lately, I've been "

She finished for me. "...A little intense. That's how I'd say it, hon."

"Really?"

She waited a while before saying, "I love you, babe."

"I love you, too."

"You know what that means, hon? That sometimes, you have to let me in."

The phone woke me around three o'clock.

Davey said, "What'd they do tae my girl?"

I felt confused and sluggish, his words taking a moment to register. "Davey, what the h.e.l.l...?"

"What'd they do tae her?" His voice was slurred with drink.

"We'll talk in the morning."

"We'll talk now."

I slipped out of bed. Ros, awake now as well, looked at me and her brow creased gently with concern.

"You need to get some rest, Davey. We'll talk in the morning."

"We'll talk now!" He sounded like a cornered animal, snarling at me down the line. And then: "Christ, Sam, please, we need tae..."

I said, "Davey, tell me where you are."

Mick the Mick's door had been heaved off its hinges. Like a tornado had swept through the building with deadly intent.

No one else around. The neighbours maybe thinking it better to keep themselves to themselves. Or else they were so used to the sounds of violence in the night that none of them even thought about calling the police.

I walked in.

Mick the Mick was on the floor, his body shuddering gently, tears mixing with blood on his face. A right mess. Worse than I'd left him. And this made me stop in my tracks a look of grat.i.tude when I walked in.

Davey was on the sofa, smoking a cigarette. His fingers and hands stained with Mick's blood. He was bright red, a nice sweat worked up. Dressed in a white t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. If it wasn't for the location and the blood he could have been relaxing after a workout.

"Irish here wouldn't have lasted long in the ring, aye?"

"Aye, maybe there's that."

"Any one of my lads couldae killed him. One blow. Knocked that sorry head ae his right off his shoulders." He looked meaningfully towards Mick, who whimpered and ducked his head into his chest. "That mean I'm getting sloppy as I'm getting on?"

"No," I said. "It means... it means you know what you're doing."

"Nah," said Davey. "I want tae kill him. Knock his block right off."

"Then why call me?"

"When I've had a few drinks, like, I get emotional."

"Don't we all?"

"Chrissakes," Mick whimpered, "I don't want to die!"

Davey flicked his cigarette at Mick. Caught the poor sod in the face with the ash end. Mick screamed. "Christ, lad," said Davey, "Keep your gob shut!"

"You called me," I said, "because you don't really want to kill him."

"That so?" Davey laughed hard.

"Aye, its so." I stepped forward. "I know you feel like you could do it. Like you should do it. And a p.r.i.c.k like Mick, thinking about what he did, aye, he'd deserve it, too."

"Aw, Jesus."