Every fibre of his body galloped towards a precipice that had opened up two days ago and remained elusive ever since. Here and now, he ran towards it at full speed. The music, the rhythm, the thump of feet, the screams of dancers, the thud of bodies falling over and the heat all colluded to help him towards the edge, and over it. He fell, head first, blind, numbed, alive, dead and on fire.

The only thing he saw as they lay together gasping for air, chests heaving and bodies slippery with sweat, was the face of the guy called Adam.

Chapter 34

Four blocks away, armed police were preparing to enter a flat. They’d been tipped off that Tyrone Fenton was hiding there. Kelly liaised closely with the firearms chief. It was fully within her power to direct the operation once she’d gained authority to use armed officers. That authority had come from a colleague the same rank as Neil Ormond in Ormond’s absence, and Kelly knew it was a stroke of luck. She’d been informed that the superintendent had requested not to be disturbed as he was visiting his friend Thomas Watson at his home. It meant that she could do her job undisturbed. For the moment.

The officers moved into place after a thorough tactical meeting about the pitfalls and snagging points in the area around the flats. From where they waited, they could hear the vague thud of music, but it was not unexpected or unusual. Otherwise, apart from the barricades, which had grown larger throughout the day, the estate was fairly quiet. The rear of the property had already been secured. From her position in the stairwell, Kelly approved the entry at the front, and this was corroborated by the firearms chief. There was a sudden flurry of activity as the officers stormed forward and bashed in the flimsy door, running inside and shouting orders.

‘Get down! Lie down! Don’t move! Armed police!’

There was an agonising wait of around half a minute, and then:

‘Suspects apprehended. Repeat, suspects apprehended. Property secure.’

Kelly let out the breath she’d been holding and went up to the second-floor flat, hoping to meet Tyrone Fenton face to face as he was arrested on suspicion of the murder of Keira Bradley and cautioned. She walked towards the bashed-in door and went inside. The flat smelled stale, of smoke and unwashed bodies. She followed the noise and found a man on the floor, being cuffed by police. The officers from the firearms unit were stood down; it was always a relief that no one had been hurt.

‘He confirmed his name, ma’am.’

‘Thank you.’

It wasn’t Tyrone Fenton.