What did I think I’d find? Longman asked himself. What bloody weapon would have been of use anyway?

Longman had not heard the door open, but that sixth sense that humans possess – that feeling that tells us when we are not alone – had not diminished with age. The bedroom was no longer empty. Longman knew that before he turned to see who had joined him.

‘You?’ Longman’s exclamation was more an accusation than an expression of shock.

It was the eyes. The most soulless Longman had ever seen. He would recognise them anywhere.

‘You remember me.’

The reply was a statement, as sinister as the speaker. A predator born and bred.

‘Some things one never forgets.’ Everything about the man was as Longman remembered. ‘And some people.’

A smile formed on the predator’s lips, but his pale eyes remained cold. It was a smile of triumph, not happiness.

‘True.’

The man moved closer. His pace was slow. Deliberate. A viper finding its range.

‘It’s good you’ve kept that mind of yours,’ he said. ‘Even at your age.’

‘What does that matter?’

The old man spoke with defiance. Those pale, merciless eyes had told him his fate. But he would not face it on his knees.

‘Oh, it matters.’

For the first time there was life in the voice. A reaction to Longman’s own fire. It did not add warmth.

Only inches now separated their bodies as Longman felt a vice-like grip constrict his wrist.

‘Because it means you’ll feel every second of what’s coming.’

TWO

Michael Devlin wiped through the condensation that clung to the bathroom mirror. His reflection stared back at him. Stripped to the waist, a collection of scars dotted his torso. They were remnants of injuries that were rare for men of his so-called ‘civilised’ profession. Permanent reminders of a life more eventful than he had ever intended.

Michael plunged his hands under the running hot water and threw the pool that grew between them onto his already dripping face. The sting of the heat bit into the scar tissue under his left eyebrow. It was a familiar feeling. Another old wound.

Minutes later he was clean-shaven. A full-head plunge into a basin of ice-cold water ended the process. It was an important morning ritual, shocking him to full consciousness ahead of the day.

With his morning fog shifted, he dried himself and quickly finished getting ready, pulling on a bespoke pin-striped three-piece suit that highlighted his tall, triangular frame.

Michael was not a vain man but he understood the importance of appearance. First impressions matter.

Finally ready, he headed downstairs.

The master bedroom and the main bathroom of his Chelsea townhouse were on the building’s second floor. A staircase led upwards to three spare bedrooms and Michael’s home office, and down to a large first-floor bedroom suite. At its bottom was a ground-floor reception, a showroom-standard lounge that was hardly ever used, and a large extended kitchen that was the reason for its neglect.