Tom spent the rest of the journey catnapping, his newfound energy apparently spent. He woke up with a start every time the train lurched or screeched a little too loud, then sank back into a fitful slumber. Good, thought Kate. Sleep it off.

At last they arrived at their stop, deep in the Bronx. Neither of them said much while they waited for the bus to arrive, but it was a comfortable silence. As it turned out, they didn’t have long to wait. The sun was low and dusky pink as a bus took them through a clean, urban landscape of malls and parks and schools; it certainly didn’t look like the hotbed of crime and terror she’d heard about from films and TV. But, then, she had learned that few things were ever as they seemed.

Night had well and truly fallen by the time the bus dropped them off. With the time approaching seven-thirty, they crossed a cordoned-off stretch of parkland to reach Gun Hill bridge. It was a dark, ornate structure that hunched long and low over the river below; the water resembled a strip of tarnished silver in the moonlight. An angular mass of scaffolding and tarpaulins clung to one side of the bridge which was closed for repairs. Streetlamps stood flanking it like mute sentries, but they were broken and dark. Only one still shone, rooted in the middle of the bridge.

‘Let’s make straight for there,’ Tom said.

Kate agreed. ‘At least we’ll be able to see who’s coming.’

As they crossed the dark bridge, Kate felt unease tease and itch at the back of her mind. It was too quiet out here. The solitary streetlamp cast strange shadows as its light threaded the intricate ironwork of the balustrade below. Then, Kate felt a shiver run through her. A dark figure was crouched at the foot of the streetlamp.

It rose up as they approached. The light glinted off a square of plastic in front of the figure’s hooded face.

‘Polar?’ Kate shot a surprised glance at Tom. ‘What are you doing out here?’

‘Where’s Ramone?’ Tom added. ‘Is he with you?’

Slowly, Polar shook his head and lowered his camera. He pulled a photo from the pocket of his grey hooded top and passed it to Kate in silence.

She angled it in the dim light to see what it was. And swore. Bile rose in her chest. Tom snatched the photo away for a closer look. Then let it fall it to the floor.

‘Oh, my God,’ he said quietly.

It was a picture of Ramone, lying in a pool of blood, his throat slit open.

‘Why?’ Kate whispered shakily. ‘When did this …?’ She felt cut up inside. ‘Polar, for God’s sake, what happened?’

She looked imploringly at the silent hooded figure. And then she caught the yellow gleam in Polar’s eyes.