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‘I'm in big trouble.'

‘What kind of trouble?'

‘Criminal trouble.'

Lisa had turned outwards to face the pool again, but spun quickly, guiltily, when the balcony door slid back and the freshly washed, manicured and he-man smelling Rik Dean stepped out with a chilled bottle of San Miguel in his hand. She gave him a helpless look.

‘What kind of criminal trouble?' Lisa asked and shrugged at Rik, who scowled and mouthed silently,
Who is it?

‘I can't tell you over the phone,' Percy said.

‘You can't tell me face to face, either.'

‘Why? I need to see you. You're the only person I can think of.'

‘First, I'm with Rik, and your problems are yours now; second – are you in Lanzarote by any chance?'

‘Uh – no.'

‘Well I am.'

‘Shit,
shit
.'

Lisa squinted painfully at Rik and shrugged again, feeling trapped and definitely not wanting to take a phone call from an ex-lover in the presence of her current lover. Rik – who looked like he'd guessed who was on the other end of the link – wasn't likely to be magnanimous about it.

‘I thought you could help me,' Percy whispered.

‘Me personally?'

‘I need some … advice … no, that's wrong … not advice …'

‘What the hell then?'

‘Protection,' he said. ‘I've gone and truly fucked up and now I think I'm a dead man.'

The tea was just about perfect. Well, just a little stewed, because the events of the moments after Hawke had taken Lottie's phone had got a little fraught and perhaps the teabag had stood just a little too long in the hot water.

Still, it was pleasant enough, nicely fragrant.

Hawke raised his delicate tea cup to Lottie and took another sip but, thinking ahead, he knew he would have to wash the cup thoroughly because his lips had come into contact with it. Another forensic issue.

He shook his head sadly at her. She had made a sudden dash for the back door, but he had been ready for it, tripped her easily, sweeping her feet from under her, sending her sprawling across the tiled kitchen floor.

It seemed like slow motion to him, a ballet. Placing the gun and phone down on a worktop, then dropping on to her with all his weight above his right knee, driving it hard into her spine at the point halfway between her shoulder blades, knocking every last gasp of breath out of her lungs, then pinning her there whilst, methodically, he eased her arms behind her back and reached for the roll of parcel tape he had brought with him. It was ready prepared to rip off the roll, and in moments she was bound. He flipped her over and stuck another strip across her mouth and then continued to wind tape around her head, then underneath her jaw, ensuring he left a gap below her nostrils. He wanted to keep her alive, not suffocate her, because that was all part of the process.

He had dragged her back into the living room, where he had bound her ankles together before heaving her across the sofa, then going back into the kitchen to retrieve his gun and tea, returning to the lounge and settling himself down.

He was prepared to wait for as long as necessary now.

Her terrified eyes watched him.

‘Why's he phoning you?' Rik asked aggressively.

‘He said he was in trouble, didn't know who else to call.'

‘He's never heard of treble-nine?' Rik's voice rose. ‘You know – which service do you require? Or maybe he tried that and asked for “ex-lover, please”.'

‘Rik! It doesn't sound as simple as phoning the police,' Lisa said.

Rik necked a large swallow of his San Mig, unconvinced.

‘Look,' Lisa said softly, ‘I made a mistake with what happened, him and me, and we've been through all the sorrys. He's history, darling, I promise you. Now it's just you and me, babe, honestly. This is the first time he's ever called me since we got back together – and that's why I think it's more complicated than him speaking to a nine-nine-nine operator.'

Rik half-burped, banged his chest with his fist and regarded Lisa.

She smiled wanly and cooed, ‘Honest, babe, love you.' Then the smile turned wicked. ‘Wine and dine me and I'll show you just how much.'

Rik balanced his beer on the balcony rail and turned towards her. A moment later they were in each other's arms, then they staggered back into the apartment where their personal preparation for the night out was smudged and spoiled by lust and bodily fluids.

The lovemaking wasn't a long-drawn-out affair. It was fast, wild and over within minutes when Rik slumped down on to her, snuffling like a truffle pig at her wonderfully smelling, soft neck.

‘Did he say what sort of trouble?' he mumbled, now confident his alpha male position had been re-established, although in truth it had never been in doubt.

‘No, but he said he was a dead man.' She grabbed Rik's bum with both hands, squeezed, dug her nails in and slammed him into her, forcing a long moan of pleasure from him.

‘You know what to do, then,' Rik gasped throatily.

Percy Astley-Barnes sat numbly in the seat of his Aston Martin DB9, his mind blank as he looked at the screen of his iPhone.

‘Oh God,' he whispered, closing his eyes, wondering how long it might take to gas himself on the exhaust fumes emitted by the magnificent sports car, if he could find a hose and then attach it to the tail pipe. With the stringent emission regulations now in force, he guessed it would take a long, long time. Not that he even knew where to find a hosepipe, so committing suicide by those means wasn't really an option.

His only remaining option was to flee. Get home – pack – flee.

Detective Superintendent Henry Christie watched the child killer being led away to the cells, then leaned on the custody office desk to combat a wave of exhaustion, combined with nausea, that rolled through him. The exhaustion from the long day of concentrated evidence gathering that Henry had had, followed by a difficult, protracted interview; the nausea from his shoulder in which, not many months before, he had taken a bullet from a deranged criminal he had cornered. The fact that the criminal was a young female did not make the wound any less painful, and though it was technically healed the pain was still there, always pulsing away and occasionally searing through him like ten thousand volts.

He turned to the local detective chief inspector, who was called Woodcock and had been with him throughout the investigation. ‘Bloody hell, Henry, you're good,' the DCI complimented him genuinely.

Henry acknowledged the accolade with a modest tilt of his head but admitted, ‘He was stuffed whether or not he admitted it. The forensics would have scuppered him.'

‘Yeah, but you didn't let it go, and you could've.'

‘I never like to chuck away an unopened oyster,' Henry said enigmatically as he signed the custody record, and the DCI chuckled. ‘I'll leave it with you from here, Pete,' Henry told him.

Henry strolled out of the custody office into the back yard of Blackpool police station, where he inhaled a long, stuttering breath and massaged his tender shoulder.

It was midnight and Henry needed rest. He had been on the go since six that morning, eighteen hours straight, coffee and fast food his stimulants. His mind was now fuzzy, his body weak. He owned a house on a small estate in the Marton area of Blackpool but now spent most of his time living with his fiancée, Alison, at the Tawny Owl, the pub she owned in Kendleton, a village set far in the northern reaches of the county of Lancashire, at least thirty miles from where he stood. His own house in Blackpool was for sale but it still served as a handy crash-pad for Henry, particularly on days like these.

He really wanted to head up to Kendleton and snuggle up to Alison but wasn't sure he would be able to stop himself from falling asleep at the wheel. Sadly he realized that he would be spending the night alone in a partly furnished house that had once been his marital home, though the memory of that life was slowly starting to diminish. His life had moved on since the tragic death of his wife, Kate, and he knew he had to let go; keep her in a special place in his heart and soul, but wave adios to most of the possessions they once shared. At least the ones that didn't mean anything.

He sighed and shuffled out his mobile phone from his jacket pocket. It had been in silent mode during the interview and the screen showed three missed calls and a text.

One of the calls was from Alison, two from his sister Lisa, and the text was also from Alison. He went to this first, read it with a smile. It was one of those ‘Thinking about you, lover' ones. The missed calls from Lisa puzzled him slightly. He knew she was away on holiday with her groom-to-be Rik Dean, who was now a DCI on Lancashire Constabulary's Force Major Investigation Team (FMIT), which Henry headed jointly with two other detective superintendents.

The fact that the pair of them were away was not what puzzled Henry. It was that, over the last few months since their mother had died, Lisa hadn't really spoken to Henry at all. She had been too engrossed in putting her private life with Rik back together after a stupid fling with a local businessman.

But, there and then, after a sixteen hour day, Henry wasn't curious enough to call her back.

His first call, anyway, had to be to Alison. He knew she would still be up in spite of the late hour. Running a country pub with guest rooms meant she was rarely in bed before one a.m. – and usually up again at six. That was a normal day. Her energy levels made Henry's look like he had the genes of a sloth.

Alison answered quickly, knowing it was Henry calling.

‘Hello, darling.'

‘Hi hon, how's it going?'

‘Busy … last minute in-rush of locals who then basically refused to leave at closing time – in a nice way – so I smiled a lot, took their money, y'know? And the guest rooms are all fully let tonight, so there'll be a dozen full Englishes to cook tomorrow morning.' Henry smiled as he listened to her voice. ‘And how about you?' she asked.

‘Oh, y'know … nailed a child killer … all in a day's work,' he said mock-casually. Then, ‘Look, babe …'

‘You're getting your head down in Blackpool?' she guessed correctly, Henry's tone of voice telegraphing what he was about to say.

‘Yeah, sorry. I'll be on this thing again straight away tomorrow.'

‘No probs. But if you come back here …'

‘I know, I know … warm bum on offer.'

The call ended after a long-drawn-out lovey-dovey exchange as Henry walked through the dimly lit police car park to his car. As he pointed his remote control lock at his Audi convertible, his mobile rang.

Henry frowned at the phone, considering whether or not to answer it.

Henry knew exactly where Percy Astley-Barnes lived. He knew this because, a couple of years before, Henry had been involved in investigating what is known as a tiger kidnap involving Percy. This is where a criminal gang takes members of a family, or employees of a business, hostage and holds them under threat of death or serious bodily harm whilst another member of the family or head of the business, acting under duress, carries out the instructions of the gang. It was a method the IRA had used on several occasions to acquire funds for their cause.

Henry had become involved with Astley-Barnes when the police received information that a brutal, well-organized gang was going to hold some of the staff who worked in Percy's jewellery shops hostage, whilst Percy himself was going to be forced to act under the gang's instructions.

Fortunately the police lay in wait for the gang and arrested them before they struck. Subsequently they were convicted of virtually all the offences Henry could think of to chuck at them and no staff member, or Percy himself, was ever put in danger. A great result.

Which was why Henry knew where Percy lived.

He had tried to call him, having been given the number by Lisa – who sounded more drunk than concerned – but got no reply. Reluctantly Henry decided to drive out to Percy's house which was on the outskirts of Poulton-le-Fylde, a small, pleasant town about three miles east of Blackpool.

He was only going because Lisa's story sounded slightly odd.

From Henry's interaction with Percy over the tiger kidnap attempt he recalled that, despite his posh sounding double-barrelled name and obvious wealth, Percy came across as a down to earth, level-headed businessman, certainly not prone to making spurious claims about his life being under threat. Unless it was.

Which was why Henry decided to touch base with him.

He drove out of Blackpool, was soon on the road out towards Poulton, until he reached a major junction controlled by a set of traffic lights. By bearing left, he crossed into the very rural Pool Foot Lane where Percy's house was situated in about four acres of high-walled, landscaped gardens sloping all the way down to the banks of the River Wyre. The house was only accessible through remotely controlled security gates operated from the house itself or from Percy's car.

Henry had expected to find the heavy wrought iron gates secured and closed. He stopped on the lane and squinted up through the windscreen of the Audi, seeing they were actually wide open. This, he thought, was unusual. Certainly since the attempted kidnap, and following some very strong crime prevention advice, Percy was now ultra-cautious about security, and leaving the gates yawning wide open was a definite no-no.

He paused for a moment, then drove past the entrance and pulled on to the grass verge. He called Percy's mobile number again. It remained unanswered and clicked on to voicemail, at which point Henry ended the call. He reached over to his glove compartment and found his Maglite torch.

H
awke placed the silenced muzzle of the .38 gently against Lottie's left temple. Although he had wrapped the parcel tape around her head, leaving only a slit so she could see, he could see the ultimate fear in the eyes and was happy he had reached this end point on his continuum of terror. At least as far as this woman was concerned.