By the time Priest had made his way to the control box, the shooter had gone, as he’d expected, leaving behind the empty gun and the holdall bag.

Fuck it!

He looked back at the stage. Dominique’s body was slouched against the back wall, a trail of blood across the stage floor. Priest had walked right into the middle of a set-up. Dominique had confessed his crimes and Priest had played the part of the witness. The paedophile had been right: they were both puppets.

But who’s the puppet master?

His phone was ringing. He answered to find Rowlinson at the other end.

‘Priest?’ Rowlinson sounded anxious. ‘Simeon’s toxicology report’s back from the lab.’

‘And?’

‘Simeon didn’t die of asphyxia. He died from CO2 retention. He suffocated but not because someone wrapped his head with cling film; the bit we found in his mouth must have been planted there to throw us off.’

‘CO2 retention,’ Priest repeated, his mind racing. ‘You mean he was poisoned by his own breath. In an airtight room or something?’

‘Meaning that the point of death could have been hours or even days after the killer got hold of him.’

‘Oh, shit.’ The significance suddenly dawned on Priest as he stared down at the holdall bag lying in a heap on the floor. I’ve seen that somewhere before.

Rowlinson continued to talk urgently in his ear. ‘It means that all the alibis The Real Byte staff had have all gone out of the window!’

‘Tiff, Dominique Elias was just shot in front of me.’

‘What? Who the fuck shot him?’

Suddenly it occurred to Priest where he had seen that bag, and everything fell into place. It was in court on the first day. ‘The same guy that murdered Simeon and Alexia. Karl Jones, the tech guy.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because he left his bag here.’

*

Karl Jones was sweating profusely from pores he didn’t even know he had. Abandoning the gun and the bag hadn’t been in the plan but the fucking lawyer had been far more animated than he’d expected. He assumed he would have been rooted to the spot at the sound of the gun, but the irritating bastard had actually tried to make it up to the control box.

At least he had recovered the phone and the MacBook. He had the evidence, all he needed to bring back true balance was the boy.

By now the delivery guy would be well on his way, transporting the safe.

He had left Julian drugged in the back of a Ford Mondeo estate, parked round the corner from the theatre.

Picking him up had been easy. Karl had just said he was his uncle and handed over a faked letter from the boy’s mother. They didn’t even read it! Fortunately, the boy was as dim-witted as his nefarious father.