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‘Rogan josh.'

‘My fave … see you later.'

They pecked. Henry stepped back on the grass verge as she pulled away, waving, him waving back. Then he turned to make his way to the crime scene, his mind still churning with what had happened over the last eight hours or so.

He had no reason to look up and see or notice the Nissan Note that had been parked up on the forecourt of the petrol station at the nearby junction. No reason to clock it and remember it. No reason to see it drive off the forecourt, shoot through the lights and follow Alison's four by four.

He ducked under the cordon tape and walked down the lane. On his right were fields but on the left were the houses, each one large and detached, all different and some, like Percy Astley-Barnes's, with grounds that spread all the way back to the lazy curve in the River Wyre. It was a small enclave of wealth and peace – but last night someone had brought terror and murder to it.

The whole lane was jam-packed with police cars, marked and unmarked, specialist and general, uniform and detective. Henry's car had been blocked in by these other vehicles and he knew he would have trouble finding the drivers of the offending ones when he wanted to move.

Despite what he'd told Alison, however, he was in no hurry.

He was exhausted, had brushed with death and damn near frozen his bollocks off, but the fact remained he had stumbled into a double murder and let a killer go, so he still had his job to do.

Although he'd been fleeing for his life, he was still very annoyed he had let the bastard go. He just hoped he'd injured him with the flare and maybe dinked him with the Maglite.

At the front gate a uniformed cop was keeping a log of all the comings and goings. Henry dragged out his sodden wallet and slid out his warrant card, which fortunately was laminated and had survived the dunking intact. The officer noted down his name and directed Henry to the back of a Crime Scene Investigator's van where forensic suits and elasticated slip-on shoe covers were being dished out. Basic kit for a serious crime.

He dipped under the crime scene tape and walked up the gravel driveway towards the house, as he had done the night before.

Percy's Aston Martin was still there, as was the Fiat 500 which, he had since learned, belonged to Percy's girlfriend, who was called Charlotte Bowers and, he had also learned, had been shot dead alongside Percy.

The black Porsche was gone. The killer's car. The rental.

Henry paused on the driveway, trying a bit of cognitive recall from the night before, retracing his steps in his mind and wondering if he had seen anything of importance before he reached the point of contact with the killer, after which things were just a bit blurry because all he'd been focused on was saving his own skin, not gathering evidence. He hadn't even known what he'd walked into at that point in the driveway and had only learned for sure what had actually gone on when he was later lying freezing in the hospital, teeth still clattering, bones shaking, and he'd been visited by the night duty detective sergeant. The DS had come, first to check how Henry was, then to brief him about what had happened and, most importantly, to glean any evidence from Henry that might be useful in catching a fleeing assassin.

The sergeant confirmed that this did look like a professional hit, a hypothesis given extra kudos by Henry's description of a killer who was even professional enough to wear a protective forensic suit, someone who didn't want to leave anything behind.

The guy was probably a hired hit man, and at that moment in time Henry knew more about him than anyone else because he had looked him in the eye, at least before concentrating on the gun in his hand. He was definite he could recognize him again and point the accusing finger at him.

And I will, Henry thought grimly. He continued on his walk up to the front door of Percy's house where another uniformed constable hovered, clipboard in hand, recording all arrivals and departures into the actual crime scene. Whilst the officer wrote down his name, Henry glanced across the garden from the top of the short flight of steps, back to the electronic gates, then over the wide, well-trimmed lawn that dipped to the river, and the tiny jetty where Percy's speedboat had been moored. It wasn't there now but Henry knew an RNLI lifeboat had towed it into the small marina at Fleetwood.

‘Sir?'

Henry turned back to the PC, who had stepped aside to allow him into the house. Henry gave him a nod and walked into the crime scene.

In the expansive hallway beyond the vestibule, Henry saw two men in forensic suits talking head to head. One was DCI Woodcock, head of the local CID, who had helped Henry interview the child killer the day before. The other was the Home Office Pathologist, Professor Baines, whom Henry knew well.

Woodcock nodded as Baines explained something to him, listening intently to an expert opinion on something. Then they both glanced sideways and saw Henry watching them. Baines's serious face turned brighter at the sight of Henry. The two men had known each other for too many years and they had lost count of the number of dead bodies across which they'd faced each other.

‘Boss,' Woodcock said. Pete Woodcock was definitely in line for a job on FMIT. He was a good, solid detective in his mid-thirties, also a decent leader and decision maker, someone who, Henry guessed, would make a brilliant senior investigating officer (SIO) in due course. Henry liked him and was slowly beckoning him to FMIT.

‘Morning, guys,' Henry said, joining them.

‘How are you, boss?'

‘Cold, embarrassed – but generally shipshape.' He smiled.

‘Better cold than dead,' Baines said, ‘and on my slab.'

‘Good point,' Henry agreed. He gave Baines a pat on the arm and said, ‘Glad you're here for this one, mate.' He looked back at Woodcock. ‘Where are we up to?'

Henry swallowed as his eyes took in the actual murder scene. The two bodies lying on the plush-carpeted floor of the lounge, not yet moved, still lying in the exact positions in which they'd fallen.

Knowing the forensic and crime scene work had been done without having moved the bodies so far, Henry allowed himself to circle them slowly from a distance of about two metres, taking his time, pausing, crouching, hands in pockets, simply using his eyes and brain while Woodcock told him what they had so far.

Which was precious little, and most of it related solely to the scene in front of Henry.

‘Blood pattern analysis suggests the female was killed first, then the male,' the DCI was saying. ‘Both bound and gagged … we think the killer was holding the female hostage until the male arrived home … then she was murdered in front of him …'

Henry nodded and thought,
she let the killer in
.

‘He vomited, as you can see,' Woodcock said.

Henry frowned, looking at the two bodies, trying to re-imagine the sequence of events and work out why or how things had happened in a certain way. Percy had made the frantic call to Lisa. Meanwhile the killer had arrived at the house in the Porsche (good choice of car to allay suspicion), held the female prisoner, waited for Percy to land, which he did, overpowered him and tied him up, then killed them both, woman first. (Was Percy made to see this? Was this getting a message across to him? Henry thought.) It was all fairly easy to work out.

He rubbed his face, looking at the horrific gunshot wounds and the spread of blood underneath and around the bodies. Then he looked at Baines. ‘Any observations, Prof?'

‘Nothing you haven't already been told or worked out, I suppose. But the victims were both in kneeling positions when they were first shot in the temple. The second shot came when they were on the floor, although I'm pretty certain I'll find that the second shot wasn't necessary to dispatch either victim. The first one did the job.'

Henry's mind became fuzzy all of a sudden and he knew he had to sit down. He perched on an armchair next to a small round table on which was a cup and saucer. He glanced into the cup and saw cold tea covering the bottom of it.

His head cleared.

‘A guy who doesn't make mistakes,' he ventured. ‘A pro, a murderer, who ensures he stays forensically clean, even down to the fact that he uses a revolver instead of a pistol which chucks shell casings all over the place; they have a tendency to roll into places you can't always recover them from. But he's made a few errors here, not least when I turned up and cocked it up for him. I saw his car, I saw him, I think I hurt him, hopefully, and, best part of all, he didn't wash his tea cup.'

‘Where the fuck is this bitch going?' Hawke growled at the wheel of the Nissan Note. The car he was following seemed to be travelling for ever and he was getting annoyed now, wondering if it was worth it … though he knew it was.

He had travelled behind the four by four all the way from the point where the woman driver dropped the detective off, then along the A586 through Great Eccleston and St Michael's on Wyre until it hit the A6. She turned left and headed towards Lancaster.

In spite of the raging pain in his chest and upper right arm, Hawke kept to his task.

The four by four drove through Lancaster and straight on to the A683, under the M6 at junction 34 and out into the rural area that was the valley of the River Lune.

‘Fuckin' bitch going?' he demanded again, not having a clue as to where he was as they drove through a village called Caton and continued along that ‘A' road until eventually bearing right before reaching Hornby, on to very narrow country roads that wound and twisted and were virtually devoid of traffic, making following her without alerting her much harder. He kept a respectable distance, guessing that even if she had seen him behind her, she wouldn't be too concerned. Why would she be? She had no reason to suspect that a hit man was following her.

She drove quickly and confidently along these tight roads which she obviously knew well, cutting and speeding into corners with skill.

Hawke kept her in sight.

Eventually she reached a village signposted as Kendleton, the road plunging down into it. She slowed and turned into the car park of a large old pub called the Tawny Owl, jumped out of her car and walked swiftly in through the front entrance. The place was open for business and as Hawke drove past he saw a sign advertising en suite rooms, breakfasts, morning and afternoon teas and coffees, lunches and dinners.

He swung the car around at the first available turning point and came back into the village, into the pub car park, stopping alongside the four by four.

He was going to go in and say hello.

But first, he needed to re-grease himself.

He slid off his zip-up jacket, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it down, having to contort his neck in order to be able to look down at his injury. He peeled off the gauze and revealed the ugly, weeping burn on the upper right quarter of his chest, shoulder and bicep where the flare had hit him. Hawke hissed at the pain as he reached for the soothing ointment he had with him and spread it carefully across the wound, gritting his teeth and wincing. He knew he needed proper medical treatment, but that would have to wait until he had done his homework. He replaced the gauze and eased his shirt and jacket back on, then swallowed a handful of extra strong ibuprofen tablets, just to take the edge off the pain. He checked his face in the rear view mirror and snarled at the crescent-shaped cut on his forehead caused by the lucky throw of the torch; fortunately it had now stopped bleeding. Then he was out of the car, walking towards the pub.

He looked at the sign above the door on which the licensee's name was displayed: Alison Marsh. His eyes glanced over the ego-certificates on the wall just inside the entrance. This was a pub-cum-hotel really, advertising half a dozen rooms, and had been awarded various accolades by tourist boards and the local council.

The aroma of frying bacon wafted out, making him feel suddenly hungry.

He had not eaten since his plunge into the river off the jetty and now he was famished. A full English breakfast was just what he needed, so he pushed his way through the revolving door and entered.

To his left, in the dining room, an oldish couple were being served breakfast by a young waitress and as he entered the woman he had just tailed all the way here emerged from the kitchen, fastening on an apron.

She smiled at Hawke. ‘Good morning.'

‘Hi there … saw the sign for breakfasts. Not too late, I hope?'

‘Not at all.' She beamed pleasantly. ‘Would you like to take a seat in the dining room and I'll bring a menu?'

‘Very kindly of ya.'

He went into the dining room and saw there were actually two couples breakfasting. He nodded amicably at them and found a seat at the table by the bow window, overlooking the car park and the village further down the road. The woman came back with the menu.

‘Would you like a drink to be going on with?'

‘Filter coffee?'

She nodded.

‘This is a great place,' he said generously. ‘Is it yours?'

‘Yes.' She smiled proudly.

He looked at her face, which was very pretty, though there was something slightly out of kilter with it … plastic surgery – not much, but there if you looked.

‘Wow! Y'run it with your husband?'

She smiled shyly. ‘No … I don't have one of those …'

‘Oh gosh, sorry, didn't mean to pry.'

‘No, it's not that.'

‘Hey – no problem.' He glanced at the menu, then raised his eyes. ‘Full English, I reckon … rude not to.'

She nodded. ‘You're an American.'

‘Yeah, just passing through,' he drawled, putting it on thick. ‘Checking out the Lake District.'

‘Ah well, you're slightly off target.'

‘Well,' he corrected himself, ‘I know that, but just following my nose, I guess, exploring all around.'

‘Don't blame you … it may not be the Lakes around here, but it's just as nice … where are you staying?'