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fields enclosed by dry-stone walls, and scattered houses. He turned onto a lane that led to a tall gate set into an equally tall wall. He punched a code into the keypad. An electronic motor whirred to life and the gate slid aside.
    It was twilight, but the downstairs windows were dark. That struck him as odd. His mum always liked to have the house brightly lit up. Unlike her children, she’d been raised in the inner city. And she remained a city girl at heart, easily spooked by the rural night.
    Mark’s eyes were drawn to a flickering, bluish light in his parents’ bedroom window. A new thought came to him. Maybe there was something wrong with his mum. Maybe she was ill in bed. A familiar sense of choking anxiety rose inside him. His mum was the most important person in his life. Where his dad had given him material possessions, she’d given him love and the confidence to be who he was rather than who his dad expected him to be. When he’d told his parents he wanted to study art, his dad had scoffed at the idea, calling it a Mickey-Mouse degree. His mum had stuck up for him, defending his right to make his own decisions. Despite his dad’s contempt for his choice, he hadn’t protested it much. In fact, it seemed to Mark that he was relieved his son harboured no desire to work alongside him. Of course, it was different with Charlotte. Dad had been grooming her for years to follow in his footsteps, teaching her all the ins and outs of his business.
    You’re doing it again , Mark reprimanded himself, concentrating on breathing slowly and deeply as his therapist had taught him. You have to stop torturing yourself like this. There’s nothing you can do about the way things are between you and Dad. And there’s nothing wrong with Mum – at least, nothing serious. If there was, you’d be at the hospital now, not here agonising over the same old shit.
    The anxiety faded and Mark approached the front door. It wasn’t locked, but then it rarely was. There was no need out here, especially not with the high garden walls and CCTV cameras. The first thing he noticed on entering the hallway was the smell of petrol. Another smell lurked underneath it. His nostrils flared as he inhaled its acrid stink, which was vaguely reminiscent of burnt meat. The second thing he noticed was the noise from upstairs. It was a small, tremulous noise, like a child sobbing. Something about it made him shiver as if someone had stepped on his grave. His frowning gaze ascended to the lighted rectangle of his parents’ bedroom doorway.
    ‘Mum! Dad!’ he called. No reply. ‘Charlotte!’ Still no reply.
    What the fuck’s going on here? Mark wondered. He reached for a light-switch, but hesitated as it occurred to him that maybe the lights were off for a reason. He didn’t have a clue as to what that reason might be. It didn’t sound like Charlotte crying up there. When she turned on the waterworks it was loud enough to shatter glass. Maybe it was one of his parents’ friends’ kids. The thought reinforced his suspicion that this had something to do with the business – pretty much all of his parents’ friends were connected to the business in some way.
    Prickles of unease creeping over his scalp, Mark climbed the stairs. Something’s very wrong here , his brain hissed at him. Why didn’t anyone answer you? A lurid picture flashed through his head of his parents and sister bound and gagged. You’re letting your imagination run away with you again , some other part of his brain retorted. Whatever’s going on, there’ll be some perfectly simple explanation for it. But still his body was tensed and ready for flight as he approached his parents’ bedroom. He peered around the doorframe, and what he saw threw his heart into wild palpitations. His dad was standing at the end of the bed, shotgun pressed to his shoulder, its barrel aimed at the doorway.
    Instinctively, Mark jerked back. As he did so the muzzle flashed white, then orange. The boom