‘You going to cut my throat, Tom?’ I said, knowing that was exactly what he was going to do.

‘Should have done it when I had the chance the first time.’

I looked at the old man opposite me. ‘You should have gone to the police, Len. If you wanted justice for your granddaughter. You should have come to us. Not waited for Rambo here to turn up.’

Monk laughed. ‘Who was going to get justice for Anya? Or for Len here? The police? The courts? You? You with your soft judges and weak laws and tricky lawyers selling rich man’s justice? You with your bad back!’

‘Enough,’ Len said.

And I turned my head just in time to see the old man shoot me in the chest.

The roar of the .410 split the air.

I was blown backwards and over and flat on my back with my head in the open fireplace, the deafening sound of the .410 fired in a tiny space still ringing somewhere deep inside my eardrums, and I was calling for Jesus and God to help me as my fingers scrabbled at my heart.

The excruciating pain of two cracked ribs beneath massive bruising told me that I was not yet dead.

The .410 shell had ripped a hole in my leather jacket and my T-shirt but had not passed through the lightweight CV1 body armour.

I kept calling for Jesus and God.

‘You’re better off shooting him in the head,’ Monk said. ‘I need to go home now.’

‘Yes,’ Len said. ‘Go to them now. Go to your family. It is time. Your work here is done. Thank you, my beloved friend. Thank you, my brother.’

I struggled to sit up but the pain in the top half of my body held me down. I could not move.

Oh God . . . oh Jesus . . .

I realised that the chair I had been sitting on was underneath me, smashed to pieces.

I saw Zukov kiss Tom Monk hard on the mouth and I saw Monk leave the cottage without looking back.

Len shuffled off to his bedroom, and when he came back he had a box of shells with him. I saw him break the .410, laboriously push in a three-inch red shell, then snap it shut.

Oh God . . . oh Jesus . . .

He shuffled across to where I was lying and pointed the shotgun at my face.

Oh God . . . oh Jesus . . .

‘No!’

Edie Wren was in the doorway.

Len Zukov swung the shotgun at her and paused.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘What do you want? Talk to me. Please talk to me, sir.’

He looked at her face for a moment and then, as if in answer, he placed the shotgun on the floor and, half crouching, set the barrel under his chin.

I heard Edie scream and I heard the shotgun roar but then the darkness overwhelmed me and the night was black.

Chapter 37

37