I stared at him lying on the floor, the water gushing over his body. When I was sure he wasn’t moving, I went to the wall and turned off the tap. The outpouring dwindled to a trickle and then stopped.

I stood, breathless, dripping, wondering if I’d killed him. I wasn’t prepared to get close enough to find out if he was faking it. I kicked him savagely in the balls. Not a flicker. Slamming the door of the tank room behind me, I ran through into the workshop and dragged a heavy Victorian dressing table across the floor, shoving it against the tank-room door. It took me a while. It was a hefty beast and I had to stop twice to draw breath. I didn’t think Vlad would be coming round any time soon, but when he did, I wanted to be bloody sure he couldn’t break out.

The little wooden door into the workshop was broken, hanging off its hinge. There was nothing I could do to secure it. I had to move fast. I stumbled down the lane until Maisie’s cottage came into view. My keys were still in the gutter where I dropped them. I selected Maisie’s key and let myself into her cottage. She was still fast asleep. Jacko jumped down from his windowsill, and for once, failed to bark, but circled my ankles, wagging his tail. I patted him briefly. ‘Thanks for trying,’ I whispered.

As I picked up Maisie’s phone and dialled, she began to stir.

‘Police,’ I said breathlessly as a voice asked which service I required. I was dripping wet, trembling, and my right hand was bruised and puffing up nicely. Maisie, finally waking, noticed none of this. She just blinked at me as I stood there, holding her phone.

‘You still ’ere?’ she said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

‘It’s like The Adventures of Robin Hood,’ Ricky said, grinning. ‘I wish I could have seen you, swinging about on that thing like Errol Flynn on a chandelier.’

‘Errol who?’ I asked sweetly. He poked out his tongue.

‘How’s your hand, Juno?’ Morris asked anxiously. ‘Is it still hurting?’

‘A bit,’ I admitted. It was barely twenty-four hours since my encounter with Vlad and actually, it was hurting a lot. I gazed ruefully at my bruised knuckles, at the bandage around my palm.

‘Well, I think you deserve a medal,’ he told me proudly, slicing up a Victoria sponge.

‘That’ll be the day! I don’t think Inspector Ford approves of me at all.’ He had interviewed me that morning, asking me lots of questions. I’d told him all about my fight with Vlad. I didn’t mention the kick in the balls.