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Chapters (124)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Acclaim for Frank Gardner’s Luke Carlton thrillers
  4. Also by Frank Gardner
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. 81
  88. 82
  89. 83
  90. 84
  91. 85
  92. 86
  93. 87
  94. 88
  95. 89
  96. 90
  97. 91
  98. 92
  99. 93
  100. 94
  101. 95
  102. 96
  103. 97
  104. 98
  105. 99
  106. 100
  107. 101
  108. 102
  109. 103
  110. 104
  111. 105
  112. 106
  113. 107
  114. 108
  115. 109
  116. 110
  117. 111
  118. 112
  119. 113
  120. 114
  121. 115
  122. Epilogue
  123. Acknowledgements
  124. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

Inside the tiny bathroom he switched on his personal phone. Just one missed call: Elise. He scrolled through the settings function to double-check he had location services switched off so no one could casually trace his whereabouts. He sent her a holding text, then switched his phone off again. In front of the mirror, still partially steamed up from Jenny’s shower, he peeled off his clothes and examined the livid purple bruise that had spread down the whole of his left side. His face was a mess, too, with some purpling beneath his left eye. He would have to stay out of trouble for now – he was in no condition to get into any more fights.

Luke turned the water temperature as hot as he could bear it, then stood beneath the shower with his head back and his eyes shut, savouring the cleansing, scalding stream of water as it washed away the grime and corruption of that police cell. He had only just turned off the shower and was standing there, steam coming off his shoulders and towelling himself dry, when there was a knock on the bathroom door. He realized he hadn’t bothered to lock it.

42

Epsom, Surrey

Friday, 11 March, 1147hrs GMT

DR CHRIS COPPINGER never made it to A & E at Epsom General Hospital. In fact, he chose not to. When he paused at the traffic lights he reached up to his neck and touched lightly beneath his ears. It confirmed all his worst fears. Buboes. Swellings. One on either side. It told him all he needed to know. In that precise moment he knew that he was infected with the virus. He felt sadness and a strange calm. Forty-two years old and there was so much he had left unfinished, so much he had still wanted to achieve. His thesis on atmospheric chemistry in the Arctic, his anthology of amateur poetry, his hopes and plans to start a family one day. None of that was going to happen now.