But not fast enough.

He managed to plant both hands on the younger man’s back, propelling his opponent forwards as hard as he could. The kid shrieked, half turning as he fell, his left shoulder making heavy contact with the window in the outer wall, cracking it. He cried out as thick shards of glass fell past him on to the floor, a couple of edges glistening red.

He righted himself and lunged at his crumpled prey, but the kid raised his feet, catching him in the chest and face, shoving him painfully aside. He got his hands down, but his left elbow gave way, forcing him to roll on to his back.

He heard the kid scramble up again, and there was a crunch of glass underfoot as the youngster launched himself away. Instinctively he kicked out, connecting with the trailing leg, but somehow his prey stayed upright, bouncing off the wall and sliding from the room, leaving a bloody streak on the paint.

He rolled up into a sprint, and went after his disorientated adversary, picking up the musty stench of mould as he entered the hallway. His left hand gripped the door frame, swinging him through ninety degrees and propelling him forwards. He kicked at the younger man’s heels, sent him sprawling forwards on to all fours. He followed the kid down, grabbing a handful of hair.

Forcing the rag over mouth and nose.

The kid dropped on to his side and writhed feebly, clearly dazed from the fall, his thin frame lacking the strength required to fight him off as the chloroform did its work.

He slumped.

He sat back, breathing hard, looking at the limp form lying on the hallway floor.

When his energy returned, he stood, grabbed the kid’s ankles and hauled him across the rough surface, back into the main room.

He positioned his prey in the centre of the floor, neatly arranging his arms and legs, not wanting to waste the chance he’d created, working quickly in case anyone had heard the screaming and might be coming to investigate. Then he returned to the holdall.

And picked up the defibrillator.

37

Hawkins brought the Giulietta to a halt yet again, and stared out through the top corner of a rain-streaked screen, noting the bleary white strings of Christmas lights suspended between the buildings.

‘Bloody London traffic.’ She huffed, unable to secure a decent view of the traffic lights ahead, sneering at the sat nav when it repeated its currently impossible command.

‘Turn right on to Harley Street.’

‘It isn’t four o’clock yet, ma’am,’ Chris offered tentatively from beside her. ‘We must be almost there.’

Hawkins ignored him, holding up a hand at the vacillating Peugeot driver in front as the cars ahead started to move. ‘It’s light rain, not liquid Armageddon. Go!’

She sensed Chris recoil, and tried to temper her frustration. But they were already late.

And she hated being late.