Even now the married couple is missing. Even now they are presumed dead. Jack Dorcha braces up his grandson who has been led by the nose. With Chase having been mortified and Wren terror-stricken, Jack Dorcha cabals to super-impose upon the writing on Chase’s wall a fatal image, and to send Wren down the river of his amphibious justice, by flying in the faces of their temerarious self-induced meltdowns. Once again the tables are being turned. Either Chase weasels what he alleges to harbour or Wren finally unriddles the murders, or they will both be snuffed out. It is no longer a question of Wren empathising with and emulating the trials and tribulations of Glasson and Chase, and no longer a question of Glasson or Chase stumping for it. It is now more of a question as to whether they can ransom their floundering lives and their benighted families. Chase suborns Wren with a salmagundi of afferent experiences, while Wren buffaloes Chase with his unswerving crownings. Can they live with their howlers? Who will win this time? The conscience-stricken retired special adjudicator, the self-violent former employer of torture judges, the atomised crime-writing uncle, the moribund grandfather of gangster hood, the tamed mafioso of Glasgow, the stochastic new murderer, or one of the pertinacious suspects?