Two more shots fired. Pellets pinged off the tray and off the banisters as he sprinted up the stairs to the landing, turning off his torch again at the top. He leaned the silver tray against the wall, then squeezed into the gap behind the massive stag as another two shots fired. Pellets thudded into the wood panelling above him. Ignoring them, he pushed as hard as he could with his hand.

Shit, it was heavy.

For a moment he wondered if he had misjudged his own strength. The bloody thing would not move.

Come on, come on, come on.

Wedging his back against the wall, he lifted his feet off the ground, one at a time, and pressed them against the belly of the solid animal. Its weight supported him. But his back was starting to slip down the wall. He couldn’t stay here for long. But he had to stay long enough.

Pushing with every ounce of strength he had, he felt the stag finally budge, a few inches.

‘Not a smart move, Roy Grace,’ Esmonde’s voice called out. ‘No way down from there! Monica, you remember all those vile names he called you in court – do the honours, ma chérie!’

Yes, Roy thought, do the honours! He rapped the knife hard against the wood panelling of the wall, deliberately making as loud a noise as he could. Moments later he heard movement in the darkness below him.

He heard a female voice, with a mocking French accent, call out, ‘It will be my pleasure, mon chéri!’

He rapped the knife again and seconds later heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Slowly. Steadily. Getting closer. Nearer.

Taking a deep breath, after years of doing leg-presses in the gym he kicked both legs out, sending the stag toppling over the top step of the landing and tumbling down. Down. Down.

THUMP . . . THUMP . . . THUMP . . .

Then a terrible scream and a crashing noise.

There was a moment of complete silence.

Followed by a horrible gurgling.

He snapped on the torch and looked down. And saw the stag lying on its side with a woman trapped beneath it. Before he switched the torch off again, he saw that one of the antlers had pierced her neck.

Esmonde shouted. ‘Monica! Monica! Are you OK?’

Without waiting, grabbing the tray and again gripping the knife tightly in his teeth, Roy sprinted along the landing. He climbed as fast as he could up the spiral steps of the tower, switching on the torch again as he went. He raced on round and up, his chest heaving, gasping for breath and his whole body pounding, until he stopped at what he guessed to be one spiral turn below the landing where the fuse box was.

3 per cent battery.

Please last. Please, he willed it.

2 per cent.

Then, from down below, he heard Esmonde’s voice again, now an awful scream. ‘Monica, oh my God, Monica! MONICA! Oh Jesus, oh no!’