The images had awoken the ‘other’ Michael. The less civilised, more primitive survivor he had long left behind. It was that ‘other’ Michael who had already taken charge as the cab took the first right-hand turn into Lonsdale Square.

‘I’m almost there,’ Michael said, his voice flat. ‘I have to go.’

‘Michael, please. If Derek doesn’t answer the door then promise me you won’t go inside.’

‘I can’t do that,’ Michael replied. ‘If Hirst is out then he’s behind all of this. And that means Derek’s in danger.’

‘But what if you’re right?’ Sarah’s voice was becoming frantic. ‘What if it is Hirst? What if he’s still in there?’

‘Then he won’t leave that house alive.’ Michael disconnected and turned to the taxi driver. ‘Stop here.’

The cab stopped abruptly. Michael stepped out, threw a twenty-pound note through the open window and began to run.

Reid’s home was halfway along the left-hand side of the square. Not visible from where the cab had stopped. The greenery of the private garden around which the tall townhouses were built saw to that. It was an obstruction that would last only a few steps.

Michael’s eyes stayed fixed ahead as he ran, not blinking in the intense sunlight. In just moments he saw the front of the house, carefully constructed to match the surrounding homes. Rebuilt after an ordeal Michael had thought would be his worst experience in his former home.

Except the worst was perhaps still to come.

It took a few moments to see that the front door was open, revealed by the growing angle as he moved closer. The sight made Michael speed up. Only one thought on his mind.

Hirst.

Michael’s fear had passed, replaced by a focused determination to find and to harm whoever had targeted Derek Reid. That was what drove Michael now.

If Hirst is inside, Hirst will pay.

Michael’s speed somehow increased as he grew closer. Fast enough that, as he reached the house, he passed through the doorway clumsily, his shoulder colliding with the hallway wall as he banked left. The impact slowed him but it did not stop him.

If only it had.

The door that separated Reid’s hallway from his lounge was open, giving a clear view of the room’s front half and revealing what Michael had feared the most, visible in all its dreadful glory.

A sight that brought Michael to his knees.

FIFTY-FIVE

‘Drink this.’

Sarah’s shaking hand placed a crystal glass on the worktop of Derek Reid’s kitchen island. Inches from Michael’s right hand. The glass was half-filled. Irish whiskey. Two doubles, at least. Reid had not been a whiskey man; he preferred grape over grain. But what he had been was an excellent host, and so he always had a supply on hand for his friend.

Sarah had watched Reid pour countless times. She knew where he kept the strong stuff.

‘Thanks.’ Michael’s voice was soft. The voice of a man bereft.

Sarah wiped a tear from her own eye as she watched Michael drink. It was not his first glass of the day. It would not be his last.