From silence to chaos, and back again in seconds. The seatbelt has knocked the wind clean out of him and he gulps in a hungry lungful. He flings the door open and tries to get out but the belt pulls him back in. He stabs a thumb at the button and falls out onto the road. She is lying on her side, face mercifully covered by a veil of hair, torso twisted at an unnatural angle. George feels the hot bile scald his throat as it wells up, splattering on the tarmac, splashing his hands like warm rain.

Footsteps running towards him, skidding to a halt. He looks up, the confusion and bad lighting giving him a few seconds of grace before he sees their masks, and realises how well and truly fucked he really is.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

James Bolton’s feet moved fast, but his mind moved faster, jumping from one problem to the next. The crumpled lump of lard that used to be Anderson was already purged from his thoughts.

Evade and escape, in that order. If anyone got in his way, well, he’d deal with that when it happened. All coppers were smart-arses in his book, always thinking they were one step ahead. That applied in the interrogation room as much as out in the real world, so he knew they’d start by covering the exits and trying to flush him out. They’d expect a big lad like him to fight his way through their lines, which was precisely why he wouldn’t do it.

Bolton was no fool. As big as he was, if they cornered him with enough bodies, he’d go down eventually, no matter how many he took with him. Even King Kong let go of the Empire State eventually. You didn’t last long in this business without a healthy dose of paranoia, and with paranoia came contingency plans. He could have done without Locke to worry about. His boss was in good shape for his age, but they could have moved much faster without him. He toyed with suggesting that Locke stand his ground and wait for the coppers. They were here for him, not Locke, and he might even be able to buy them extra time. No, scratch that. There was a dead copper, at least he hoped Anderson was dead, in his warehouse. They’d not overlook that in a hurry, even if the copper in question was as dirty as a pair of wellies at Glastonbury. Locke was in this with him for now whether he liked it or not.

Stenner was waiting up ahead, holding open the door that led to the warehouse. He was already vaguely aware of footsteps behind him. Could be Patchett. Could be coppers. No time to check.

‘Boss,’ Stenner barked as Bolton passed him.