‘They found her out back. In a part of the building that’s sealed off from the rest. I’m assuming whoever owns the place ran out of money before they could complete the renovations.’ He looked Fleet up and down. ‘You know, you really should get yourself checked out first. At least clean yourself up a bit. What’s Nicky going to think when she sees you?’

Fleet felt the glitch in his own movements. ‘You mean …’

Randy stopped and turned. The confusion on his face turned to understanding. ‘Christ on a tricycle. Did no one tell you she was alive? And then you saw me here, the angel of death himself …’ He broke into a smile. ‘Nicky’s fine, Rob. At least, she’s going to be. I’m here for the same reason you are. And they only haven’t moved her yet because she’s refusing to let them carry her on a stretcher.’

Fleet’s relief burst out of him as laughter. ‘She’s really OK? She’s not hurt, or …’

Randy’s smile broadened. ‘Come and see for yourself.’

There was a separate entrance to the disused wing of the building – a door that appeared to have been boarded up until relatively recently. In place of the planks that had been sealing it shut, a pair of heavy-duty bolts were screwed to the outside. Two padlocks lay broken on the floor, presumably where Fleet’s colleagues had forced them open to gain access.

He and Randy stepped into a room that stank of mildew and dust, the only light coming from the gaps around the plywood that had been nailed over the windows.

Randy led Fleet to the other side of the room and through the broken shell of a corridor – cracked ceiling tiles scattered all over the floor, and electrical wires dangling from gaps in the plaster. There was another door at the end of the passageway, and as before there was a pair of broken padlocks on the floor.

There were two paramedics crouching down just beyond the threshold. Nicky had clearly lost her battle over the stretcher, because she was lying on a gurney between them.

When Fleet approached and said her name, she opened her eyes.

She smiled at him weakly. ‘Have you … solved this thing yet?’ she managed to say. She swallowed. ‘Because I’m pretty sure I know who did it.’

It was hours before they were able to talk to each other properly.

They were at the hospital. Fleet was fine: a few scratches and bruises he didn’t even remember getting, and a cough from all the smoke he’d managed to inhale, but otherwise he’d been given a clean bill of health. As clean a bill of health as an overweight man approaching forty who smoked a dozen cigarettes a day could hope to receive, anyway.