Joel nodded as hard as he could, still fighting for breath, even though his head didn’t move. But the resistance must have been felt, because the hands lifted, letting Joel drag in a deep, shuddering breath through the cloth.

There was a click, followed by a small whizzing sound.

A pause.

Gentle pressure applied to his chest.

Before the blinding pain crashed in.

1

There were two sharp knocks followed by a muted American rumble. ‘Toni, you in there?’

‘Yes.’ Hawkins glanced up from her perch on the rim of the bath.

‘Come on, already. We’re late.’

‘I know.’ She checked the time on her mobile. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’

There was a pause. ‘You sick?’

‘No. Fine.’

‘Then hustle. Our appointment’s in a half-hour.’

‘Okaaay.’ She tried to stop her voice flaring.

More silence, then, ‘I’ll be out front.’

She listened to his footsteps descending the stairs, heard the front door open and close, and sighed.

Things weren’t going well.

She and DI Mike Maguire had been living together now for almost a year. The love was still there, she didn’t question that, but no patch in their time together had been as rocky as this. Their arguments – regular as ever, but normally just heated banter – had escalated in recent months.

Partly the problem was lack of excitement. They both endured the daily grind of police work because it meant they got to take down a dyed-in-the-wool psychopathic killer once in a while. And to be honest, in the past they’d had their fair share. But their last decent specimen was now inside for life, and there was only one word that encapsulated life in Hawkins’ Murder Investigation Team since his apprehension.

Dull.

There had been murders since, of course; a capital city like London would always produce a steady stream of those. But the seemingly endless flow of domestic homicides, hate killings and drunken, out-of-hand brawls had become like a treadmill with no off switch. Recently every case seemed familiar; the same old story, just with different faces and names.

Hawkins glanced up as an engine kicked over outside the window, indicating that Mike had started the Range Rover, and would shortly pull round in front of the house. She needed to move, but his plan for their morning was her vision of hell.

She sighed as her phone pinged, retrieving it from the window sill and waking the screen, expecting to find an impatient text message from Mike.

Get your ass out here.

Seeing instead:

3xb, circ sus, soc os, 42 Priory Walk, Park Gardens, SW2.

Translated: Three bodies, circumstances suspicious, Scenes of Crime on site, and the location. Exhilaration flared as she called up the address. Brixton. Forty-eight minutes away.