As she descended towards the first landing, the echoes of her footfalls drumming behind her like a second pair of feet in fast pursuit, she fought to regain control. She insisted to herself that she wasn’t actually running, merely trying to distance herself from a hazardous situation – but she was on autopilot nevertheless, her legs moving in a blur of speed she was barely conscious of generating.

I have not just seen a dummy come alive in a rocking chair.

The thing had been ridiculously light when it struck her; made from polystyrene or balsa wood, and had been utterly lifeless. But whatever had catapulted it out of the chair meant that she was not alone, and that whoever else was here, they had no good intentions. This suspicion was further fulfilled as she descended the final stairway to ground-level, almost stumbling in the process – only to see the building’s front door now closed. Lucy was sure that she hadn’t left it that way. In fact, it could not be closed – when she’d found it, hadn’t it been broken open?

As she hit the bottom of the stairs, she saw that the upper bolt had been thrown. That explained the mystery. In addition, it was no real problem. She could always draw a bolt back … though it might take time, especially if it was stiff.

And then the figure waiting in the dimness just to the right of the door, spoke to her.

‘Running’s no good,’ it whispered. ‘Running won’t get you anywhere.’

Chapter 31

‘Boss?’ Spicer said. ‘That bloke who wants to see you.’

Bill Pentecost glanced up from the small table in the private dining room at the rear of The Roan Mare, the high-class gastro-pub he owned in Chorlton-cum-Hardy. As always, the table had been set for one; as always, Pentecost, though it was mid-afternoon and he sat alone, was smartly dressed, working his way delicately through a medium-sized portion of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, boiled carrots and baked potatoes, occasionally sipping from a cut-crystal glass of Merlot. He touched his grey lips with a folded napkin as he considered.

‘Sounds like he might have useful intel,’ Spicer added.

Pentecost didn’t count himself an unapproachable man, especially not among his inner cadre of protectors, but Les Spicer, the senior guard on tonight, knew him well enough not to disturb his dinner unless it was something of significance. Though his meal was only half-finished, Pentecost laid his knife and fork alongside his still folded napkin, and nodded.