She ducked out of sight, struggling to keep her voice down. ‘Is Aaron still on the line to the local police?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell him there’s about to be a gang murder,’ she hissed. ‘We need back-up here now. Ten officers at least.’

‘Right.’ Amala sounded shocked, but Hawkins heard her relaying the message to Aaron, as she returned to the window.

Inside the building, the girl and her captor had reached the circle. The captor passed the knife to the master, before grabbing the girl and steering her roughly on to the table, where she was forced to lie flat on her back.

The hooded figures around the fire began to chant.

The master raised the knife high above his head, and for a horrific second Hawkins thought he was going to stab the young woman. He pointed the blade skywards and shouted something she didn’t understand. Then he placed the weapon carefully beside the girl.

Hawkins breathed again.

Quickly she reassessed the scene. None of the other participants seemed to be armed, yet there were still seven in the group; too many for them to overpower, even if she brought the other two in to help.

But if these people were going to hurt the girl, she had to do something.

Her mind raced as she watched the master reach down behind the table and produce a small pot decorated with jewels that shone in the firelight. Then he picked up a short, bone-like implement and began stirring the pot’s contents, holding it over the girl.

The chanting grew louder as two of the hooded figures broke off from the rest and approached the table, where they untied the girl’s arms and legs, and began using the ropes to lash her to the table.

Hawkins ducked away. ‘Amala?’

‘I’m here, ma’am.’

‘How long till that back-up gets here?’

It felt like an hour before Amala came back. ‘Aaron says they’re five minutes away.’

‘Five minutes?’ Hawkins felt panic rise. ‘That isn’t fast enough.’

Below her, the hooded figures had rejoined their peers, all of whom were now facing the head of the circle, where the master was still holding the pot over the table, moving it in a slow, repeating figure of eight. The girl was straining against her bonds. The chanting grew louder still.

The master tipped the pot.

Droplets rained on to the girl’s dress, dotting the delicate surface with patches of thick, crimson liquid. Even in the fire’s glow, the colour was unmistakable.

Blood.

Then he reached for the knife.

Hawkins found herself taking the stairs two at a time, barking instructions into the phone, no longer trying to stay silent as she flew back towards ground level. She almost turned an ankle when her foot slipped on a wet step, but she caught her weight painfully on an elbow against the rail and kept going.