CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

‘You call an ambulance and backup and I’ll see if there’s a way in at the rear,’ James said. ‘Hopefully that will be quicker than trying to force open the front door.’

He rushed towards the side gate, which was thankfully unlocked, and tension gripped him as he hurried through it and along a path that ran between the property wall and the high boundary fence.

Just before reaching the rear garden, he came across a door, which had a large glass panel in it. There were vertical blinds on the inside with gaps between them through which he could see into the kitchen. He tried the handle first but it was locked.

James knew that many people with an external kitchen door tended to leave the key in the lock and he hoped that Hannigan was one of them.

He looked around and spotted several empty clay pots in the flower bed just up ahead. He picked one up and used it to smash the glass door panel, thrusting his arm through and moving his hand around until he felt the key and turned it. Seconds later, he burst into the kitchen and bolted through to the hallway.

Hannigan was still lying on the hardwood floor and James immediately dropped down beside him. The first thing he did was to check that Hannigan was still breathing and relief surged through him when he saw his chest was rising and falling. There was an ugly dark bruise on his forehead but no sign of blood or any other injury, leading James to believe that he’d probably fallen down the stairs and was concussed.

James leapt to his feet and opened the front door. Stevens, who was holding his mobile to his ear, stepped inside.

‘He’s still with us,’ James told him. ‘Wound to the forehead and most likely concussion. I think he must have fallen down the stairs.’

Stevens relayed the information to the emergency service operator and then hung up the phone.

‘Ambulance is on its way and I’ll call for backup now,’ he said.

‘Okay. Stay here while I have a quick look around to make sure there’s no one else in the house.’

James checked upstairs first. There were three bedrooms – one had been converted into a small office – which were all empty and tidy, with no sign of anything markedly out of place or damaged. Back downstairs, he went straight to the living room.

The television was on, the volume low, and there was a near-empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a single glass on the coffee table. Next to them lay a razor blade, a rolled-up ten-pound note and a few small lines of white powder.

Cursing under his breath, James re-entered the hallway to find Stevens in full first-aid mode as he kneeled next to Hannigan. He’d tilted him onto his side and was gently rubbing his back.

‘His breathing is strong and regular,’ he said. ‘Can you get me a cold compress of some kind from the kitchen?’