‘OK.’ Frank levelled his fork at her. ‘And how does any of that link with death by defibrillator?’

‘Look,’ Hawkins interjected, ‘I can’t tell you how everything connects. For all we know, the lads could have been collecting a second-hand barbecue they bought on eBay, and never went anywhere near the bloody church. Which is why we need to do a bit more detective work before we start arguing about who’s making the biggest assumptions.’ She hesitated, pleased when her outburst yielded slightly stunned silence.

She continued, ‘First I want our mystery gunman found; they’re worth questioning at least. Frank, you and Chris look into that.’

The DI grimaced, apparently not bothered that Chris saw, as Hawkins turned to Yasir. ‘Amala, you and Aaron are responsible for finding out if our three victims were interested in anything religious that might have taken them to Cold Christmas church, because if they did go there, perhaps the same man that attacked us attacked them. Understood?’

Everyone except Frank nodded.

‘Good. Then let’s call that end of discussion.’ Hawkins took a mouthful of curry, too hungry to care if it tasted any better than it looked.

The house was jarringly still when Hawkins crept in, well after eleven.

She eased the front door closed and stood in the silent darkness of the hallway, listening for some kind of acknowledgement she was home, or an inadvertent noise to denote Mike’s presence. Nothing.

He was either out, or out cold.

She waited, regretting her return to Becke House after the pub. Her intention had been to delay going home until Mike got worried enough to call.

Except by quarter past ten, no call had come.

She sighed and went through the deserted living room to the kitchen, turning on just the under cupboard lights. She rattled the cat flap with her foot and waited, but after a good twenty seconds, Admiral Kirk hadn’t appeared.

Hawkins walked to the bin and flipped it open to find two empty Iams packets, while the recycling box held beer bottles, tin trays and yet another menu from the local Indian restaurant. Mike was upstairs asleep.

Albeit probably in the spare room.

She felt a small twinge of relief.

She filled a glass of water, turned out the lights and went to bed.

26

The young man’s chest undulated in time with his breathing.

Rapid.

Uncontrolled.

Betraying the panic within.

The paddles moved into position, cold metal on pallid, bare skin, drawing muted protest.

To no avail.

The buttons depressed, deploying the machine’s electrical charge.

The victim jerked, his heart’s rhythm disrupted.

Death imminent.

Hawkins jolted awake.

She fought the duvet, kicking it clear, her heart racing, feeling the chilled rush of air on sweat-saturated skin. She wrenched herself sideways, scrabbling for the bedside lamp, finding the switch, dimly lighting the room. Her eyes darted from corner to corner in the gathering glow, seeking undefined threats.

But she was alone.