Oblivion threatened to overwhelm her as she fought against his weight, still unable to free herself. She rested, waiting for the nausea to recede, and tried again. This time she managed to shove the unconscious killer aside, watching him for a few seconds afterwards, to make sure he hadn’t come to.

Then she rolled on to all fours and crawled unsteadily towards Mike, the pain in her head shattering after the exertion. She reached his side as interference invaded her sight, realizing as heat ran up the back of her neck that she was going to pass out.

Her arms gave, and she dropped head first on to his chest.

As darkness won.

57

Hawkins stood outside the door for a long time.

An air conditioning fan turned in the vent overhead, currently the only out-of-hours noise on this floor of Becke House. She focused on its faint hum, no more than a distant rumble she would have been oblivious to. Before …

But the world had changed.

Over the past four days, detail had slipped from its surface, to leave the muted veneer of normality overpowered by an ever-intensifying symphony of undercurrents. Footsteps, traffic noise, the rush of blood in her veins; the previously unheeded mechanics of existence had risen to dominate.

And now they wouldn’t let go.

She spent thirty-four hours in hospital, where dull voices had reached her as if they were being broadcast through water, and a further seventy at home, in a dazed stupor that never amounted to sleep, waiting for the fug of disorientation to clear.

It hadn’t.

At that point, only one course of action had seemed to offer any chance of respite.

She stepped nearer the door, close enough to pick up the vague tapping of keys on the other side. Her timing hadn’t been calculated; it was mere coincidence that today happened to be Wednesday: the only evening Tristan Vaughn habitually stayed late in his office, departing each week at exactly eight o’clock for some mystery arrangement either closer to work than home, or that hadn’t been disclosed to his wife.

Perhaps both.

There were several rumours about the appointment’s nature, from barbershop quartets to S&M, the speculation only intensified because he never mentioned any interest that might have covered the slot. Hawkins’ only concern was that the chief superintendent was here now.

Alone.

She raised a hand and knocked, the curt thud of knuckles on solid wood clawing at her attention in the increasingly familiar way.

A beat, then, ‘Come in.’

She entered, closing the door behind her, turning to face her boss.

Vaughn looked up from his laptop. ‘Antonia. I didn’t expect to see you—’

‘I know.’

‘Sit, please.’ He motioned to the chair in front of his desk, his expression conveying concern as she approached. ‘How are you?’