Lazar Zhivko had been luckier. The blast had blown him backwards against the wing mirror of a parked Volvo. The mirror snapped and a three-inch steel shard pierced his back, penetrating his left kidney. Glass fragments from the Kangoo’s shattered windscreen ripped into Lazar’s face and hands, and shredded his clothes. Flames from the burning vehicle spread rapidly to nearby cars and the smoke dipped and swirled in a sudden breeze.

The window of the store room had blown out, and the shop’s alarms were ringing. The two officers had ducked and thrown their arms over their heads, but it was already too late. Smoke billowed across the window and surged through the gaps in the glass. Debris spattered on the cardboard boxes and showered the floor in a layer of grit.

‘Jesus, what was that?’

The radio was already calling for fire appliances and ambulances. The microphones in the shop would be picking up the sound of the explosion and shattering glass.

Even inside the store room they could feel the heat of the flames. The blast had seemed to happen in slow motion, following a blinding flash of light powerful enough to etch the startled faces of the two victims into the retinas of watching eyes. Their faces would be there for days, forever staring, shocked and frightened, opening their mouths to speak, but never uttering a word.

‘It looks as though someone visited the Zhivko brothers after all.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

At Manchester Terminal One, Fry stood in front of W. H. Smith’s, waiting for passengers to emerge from baggage reclaim into the arrivals hall. In the amusement arcade, two teenage boys were playing a grand prix driving game, and the flashing lights were distracting Fry’s attention. She was afraid she’d miss her visitor. But on the other hand, she knew he’d stand out all too well when she saw him.

She recalled Cooper’s comments as she’d left the office to collect Sergeant Kotsev.

‘How will you recognize him?’ he’d asked. ‘He won’t be in uniform, surely.’

‘Well, he’s six foot two inches tall, with black hair, dark brown eyes and a neatly trimmed moustache.’

‘How do you know that? Did his brown eyes just come up in conversation?’

‘Yes.’

But, in fact, the description had been in an email he’d sent her. Fry had discovered it in her inbox immediately after receiving the phone message. Sergeant Kotsev was already in the air by then.

So when he came in sight, Fry recognized him straightaway. He was towing a large black suitcase with four wheels. It seemed to trundle on behind him effortlessly, like the animated luggage in a Terry Pratchett story.