Bowman whirled away from him and lunged for the Ruger. Roidhead recovered with astonishing speed and launched himself at Bowman with a maddened roar. He smashed into the SAS man shoulder first, as if he was barging through a locked door. The blow winded Bowman and sent him flying backwards. Pain shot up his spine as he fell back and crashed against the tiled floor. Bowman blinked, looked up and saw Roidhead grabbing the semi-automatic from the countertop. The heavy whirled round to face his floored opponent, his thick finger curled around the trigger. Blood streamed down his waxen face.

Roidhead began squeezing the trigger.

A sudden blur appeared behind the man.

There was a dense metallic thunk, and then Roidhead spasmed and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. The Ruger tumbled from his grip as he pitched forward and dropped to the floor. Like a puppet with the strings cut. Bowman looked up from the slumped figure. He saw Webb standing in the bathroom doorway, gripping a nude statue of a cherub. Fresh blood glistened on the cherub’s bronze face.

Webb nodded at him.

‘You all right?’

Bowman shook his groggy head clear. ‘Thanks, mate.’

‘I heard shouts. Figured you were in trouble.’

‘Bloke had the jump on me. Came out of nowhere. Must have been hiding in one of the guest rooms up the corridor.’

‘Why didn’t you check them rooms first?’

Bowman didn’t answer. Webb looked from the pill bottle to the floored heavy and back at Bowman. A question formed on his lips.

‘Get back to Lang,’ Bowman said as he picked himself off the floor. ‘I’ll plasticuff this fucker.’

‘What’s with the pills?’

‘How the fuck should I know? Lang must have left them out.’

Webb gave him a curious look. Then he turned and left the bedroom, tossing the statue aside on his way out. Bowman dropped to a knee beside Roidhead. The guy was barely conscious. Blood oozed out of a shallow wound on the back of his head, matting his hair. Bowman pinned the heavy’s arms behind his back, slipped the plastic restraints around his wrists and pulled them tight. He patted the guy down, found a creased leather wallet in his back pocket. There was a thin sheath of twenty-pound notes, credit cards, receipts. A driver’s licence gave his name as Tony Hutton.

Bowman picked up the Ruger and pushed the tip against the guy’s cheek.

‘Christ, don’t shoot!’ Hutton begged. ‘I’m just the driver!’

‘Any more of your mates in the apartment?’ Bowman growled.

‘No. It’s just me, the boss and his guest.’

Bowman’s finger tensed around the trigger. He shoved the barrel harder against the heavy’s cheek. ‘You sure about that?’

‘It’s the truth, I swear! There ain’t no one else.’