The aunts were still sitting on the kitchen floor in shock when Paddy found them after battering down the front door, but they were OK. He’d then made his way up the stairs to find a bulky brute bleeding like a stuck pig against a closed and battered door.

The first thing Pads did when he got up there was to kick the knife off down the stairs. Better to be safe than sorry. Seeing the man was too badly wounded to cause much more in the way of problems, he’d then knocked on the door.

‘Anyone in here?’ he’d asked.

‘Who is that?’ said a female voice.

‘Police. Can you open the door, please?’

‘Is he still there?’

Paddy looked down at the sweating, groaning man on the floor.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But he’s not going to hurt anyone.’

The door opened. Angel stood there, white-faced.

‘Hello, miss. I’m DS Paddy Hopkins. Do you remember me?’ he said quickly. ‘Are you OK?’

‘My aunts! The women in the kitchen. Are they . . . ?’

‘They’re . . .’ he started, but then Angel pushed past him, past her wounded assailant. She tore down the stairs, past bustling police uniforms, out into the kitchen. Shaking, crying, she flung herself on Aunt June and Aunt Lil, who were crouched on the kitchen floor.

‘Angel!’ Lil hugged her hard. ‘You all right?’

Angel could only nod. She looked at Aunt June. Her head was bleeding.

‘Can we get some help here?’ she shouted, and one of the WPCs said the ambulance would be here in a moment, it was all OK now, just hang on.

‘You sure you’re all right?’ June asked her niece.

‘I’m fine.’

Choked up with unexpected emotion, Angel embraced her aunts. These two and Tom were all she had left in the world. They were her blood. And today she had nearly lost them.

156

There was a shriek of brakes as somehow the driver managed to pull up. Frank Pargeter thumped against the hood of the car, staggered, then ran on. The driver got out, shouting, shaking his fist.

But Frank was already gone.

He was haring on down a steep hill, then veering right into an alley. He kept going, Farmer tight on his tail. Christ, the man could move. But he was slowing. He was running out of steam. Age was telling.

In the alley, Frank kept running. His footsteps were slower now, and Farmer could hear his laboured breathing. Bastard was going to kill himself, drop dead of a heart attack if he kept on with this.

‘Stop! Police!’ yelled Farmer again, but this only seemed to make Frank go faster.

Then Farmer saw the alley was a dead end. There was nothing at its far end but a six-foot wall – and on the other side of it, a large-sounding dog was barking its head off. If Frank tried to get over there, that dog was going to take a piece straight out of his arse.