‘You didn’t expect what?’ Hale asked, clinging determinedly to consciousness.

‘I didn’t think that you’d lead me to Tina. I’d given up on her. I was content with the rest of them. Longman, Blunt, Reid. They were going to be enough. And then I heard you talking about Tina in Reid’s kitchen. Heard Levy send you up here. All I had to do was follow you. And you led me straight to her.’

‘You . . . you . . .’ Hale felt what was left of his adrenaline surge with nowhere to go. The thought that he had brought Hirst here – that he had led him to Jessica – was too much. ‘You . . . fucking . . .’

Hirst placed his pistol on the arm of the living room sofa as Hale tried to speak. Then he reached around to the back of his waist.

‘That’s why it was a gun this time. I had to keep it simple. No time to plan.’ Hirst’s hand had returned to his side. It was not empty. ‘But you still get a knife, Steve. You deserve for me to do this right. You deserve to die like a man, for giving me Tina.’

Hirst took a step forward. Slowly. Deliberately.

‘Nothing more to say?’

Hale opened his mouth as he fought off the darkness. No sound came out.

‘Shame,’ said Hirst. ‘I was enjoying the chat.’

Hirst lowered himself to a knee as he reached Hale. He placed his left hand on Hale’s chest, an eight-inch blade held firm in his right. Then he fixed his pale eyes on to those of his victim.

‘I don’t know where we go after this, Steve. But wherever it is, enjoy the ride.’

Hirst spoke the final sentence with a broad, lifeless smile as he brought the blade down hard.

SIXTY

Michael Devlin stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. Warm water dripped from his body as he stepped into the bedroom, wetting the deep-blue carpet with every step. It wouldn’t matter. Any damage done would be rectified within hours. One of the few upsides of hotel living.

Michael paid no attention to the increasingly damp floor. Or to much else. Like every waking moment of the past fourteen hours, only two things occupied his mind: Derek Reid and Karl Hirst. The only other thing beginning to break that cycle was his headache. The result of a combination of grief, stress and alcohol.

Michael could not afford to be in this state. Certainly not today. He tried to shake it off, to get his mind moving. He glanced towards the bedside table at the clock face below the wireless Bose iPod dock, as he had done so often during his mainly sleepless night. At least it now read a more acceptable time: 6.23 a.m.

The day had started. It was time for him to join it.

It took just a minute to dry the rest of his body. Done, he threw the towel into the corner of the room, onto a pile of clothes he had dumped there the night before. Michael was usually a tidy man. Meticulous. But not this morning. And certainly not last night.