He made himself a resentful bacon sandwich for supper. The last post arrived at eight; if he didn’t hear from Aaron by then, he’d stop worrying. Or he’d throw caution to the winds, run out to a telephone box, and call him. One of the two.

He heard the rattle of the letterbox and the soft thump of a cascade of paper falling to the mat, and went downstairs to collect what would be overwhelmingly his letters. He put them on the stand to sort through them, and almost knocked over the whole pile as Aaron’s hand leapt out at him. He ripped open the letter, fingers fumbling in haste, and shook it out of the envelope.

Joel—

Please come to my flat as soon as you get this. Things have gone badly wrong. Don’t speak to anyone. Come at once.

Aaron

He stared at the familiar hand, a cold feeling of dread coalescing in his stomach. Then he sprinted upstairs for his coat.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE KNOCK AT THE DOOR came in the middle of the afternoon. Aaron didn’t open it. Perhaps that was an excess of caution, but he hadn’t been making friends recently. He called, “Who is it?”

A high-pitched adolescent squawk from the other side. “Telegram.”

That was surely from Joel. Perhaps it was urgent. Perhaps Joel needed him. They’d agreed to keep apart until this was over, however long that might be, but if Joel had reason to get in touch, Aaron had to respond. Not to mention that Aaron had had an appalling day and he wanted Joel, even at the remove of a telegram, with a longing that hurt.

“Can you leave it on the mat?” he called

“Telegram!” the voice squeaked again, uncomprehending.

Damn it. He wasn’t going to risk the boy taking it away. “One moment.”

He opened the door. DDI Colthorne smirked at him.

Aaron went to slam it, but the DDI’s foot was in the way, and as Aaron tried to kick it, Colthorne raised his hand. He held a revolver.

The DDI gestured. Aaron moved numbly backwards; Colthorne kicked the door shut behind him. “Hands on your head. This is loaded; don’t imagine otherwise, and don’t think I won’t shoot. You are going to do as I say.”

“Sir—”

“Shut up. You’ll write a letter, to my dictation. Play the fool and I’ll blow out your brains. Sit down and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Aaron sat at the bureau, hands on his head. Colthorne rested the muzzle of the revolver against his skull, cold and heavy, while he had a look for the gun Aaron didn’t own, then pulled out pen and paper. “Write as I say. ‘Joel. Please come to my flat—”

“No.”