Fry remembered her ‘CUT’ technique. Create distance. Use cover. Transmit and ask for assistance. She had to watch her assailant’s hands; stay alert, state red. Expect to get cut. She felt behind her with her left hand for the sliding handle of the door. She pulled it open quickly and slipped through the gap. Maggie feinted suddenly with the knife, and Fry jumped backwards, stumbled as her ankle sent another jolt of agony through her. Now they were in the auction ring itself. They moved from side to side, back and forth, manoeuvring for advantage, reluctant to get too close, their movements mirroring each other’s. Fry began to imagine that Maggie was mimicking her, dragging one leg as she moved.

The first lights of approaching police vehicles flickered through the wooden slats in the walls, bouncing their colours against the ceiling lights and the pen sides. They distorted shapes in the auction ring and created dozens of new shadows that cascaded through the tiers of seats. It was almost as if there was an entire crowd up there, waving, stamping their feet, cheering, ready to give the thumbs down to the defeated.

Fry cursed herself silently. It was always the case that you weren’t wearing your stab-proof vest when you needed it. The heavy vest hindered her movement, and she had left it off. Uniformed officers had a side-handled baton, a much better weapon against a knife attack. An ASP was more easily concealed, but it was an attacking weapon, not designed for defence against a knife. If Fry had been in uniform, she would have been better equipped. But now she was aware of the thinness of her jacket, a flimsy layer of fabric that provided no protection at all from a blade. She felt as though her chest and abdomen were exposed and vulnerable. She was also aware of her bare hands, the left held out, palm facing Maggie, the classic defensive gesture taught in the personal safety handbooks. She imagined her palm being cut, the tendons of her fingers severed.

‘It’s so ironic, Diane,’ said Maggie. ‘Because I think that you were looking for someone, too. The search can take you to some strange places, can’t it?’

They stared at each other – Maggie cool, Fry becoming more angry.

‘Who is she, Diane?’ said Maggie. ‘Who is the woman you’re looking for?’

‘None of your business.’

Fry lunged forward and struck with her ASP at Maggie’s knife hand. But in that moment of anger, she had made her mistake – she had forgotten her injured leg. Her knee threw her off balance, enough for Maggie to jerk her arm out of the way and let the baton hiss harmlessly past her wrist. Before she could right herself again, Fry glimpsed a flicker of steel as the knife came towards her. She closed her eyes just one second before the point of the blade carved open her skin.