He applied the brakes late, the car screeching and sliding to a halt, rubber burning from bald tyres. He sat a moment, inhaling the cloud of toxic gas, eyeing the mass with trepidation and panic, coming to terms with what lay before him. On the road, a trail of deep crimson snaked from a pool that haloed the body’s head.

The arms, the legs were flared in unnatural positions, the face down, eyes closed.

But above all, it was the clothes. Powder-blue shirt, navy shorts, white socks and sensible black shoes.

Chapter 38

Chapter 38

MANOLIS SCRAMBLED FROM his car, rolled the body over, face up. He cradled the man’s limp frame in his arms, felt the head go slack.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Hey!’

Constable Andrew Smith was unconscious. He was breathing – barely – in occasional agonal gurgles and gasps. His face was blackened, bruised, bloody, bones broken, clothes torn, grazes on his elbows, arms and knees. It was clear he’d fallen from a car travelling at high speed. Whether it had been a voluntary or forced exit was harder to discern.

But it actually didn’t matter how he’d fallen. All that did matter were his injuries. The weak pulse in his throat, the chill in his skin, even against the blistering hot asphalt. Sparrow was dying. This ghastly realisation dawned on Manolis in the same instant he ascertained that he was, indeed, on the right track. He eyed the road ahead: empty, but he swore he could smell petrol fumes on the wind. They weren’t far. He was surely close.

He turned back to Sparrow, his handsomely damaged face, his twisted arms, bent at hard-to-view angles. The detective shouted the young cop’s name, slapped his sunken cheeks, tipped water into his mouth. But his voice only echoed, the cheeks turned red and the water dribbled out. Sparrow remained unresponsive. Time ticked.

Easing him flat, Manolis tilted his forehead and lifted his chin to open the airway. Expelling a large rescue breath down Sparrow’s throat, he commenced CPR. Waited, gave a second life-encouraging breath, watched for the chest to rise. No response. Manolis tried again, waited, same outcome. He slid his fingers between the opening of Sparrow’s shirt; with one swift rip, the buttons leapt like hot popcorn, scattering across the warm tarmac. Locating the position of Sparrow’s heart, Manolis began chest compressions. He counted thirty, gave two more breaths, repeated, waited.

No response.

Time ticked on. The fugitives got further away. And Sparrow drifted further from life and closer to death.

Manolis considered his options. All of them were bad. The hospital was miles away. There was no guarantee he would make it in time, and he could already be too late. Perhaps it was better to drive on, to cut his losses and ensure that Sparrow’s demise was not completely in vain.