Instantly the staircase lights came on. At the same time there was a fierce crackle of electricity. He held the handle down, grimly. And in the same moment he heard a terrible cry, followed by the echoing explosion of a gun discharging.

And he heard an awful, pitiful croaking sound.

‘URR! URRRRRR! URRRRRRRRR!’

He waited several seconds. Then the sharp smell of burning flesh struck his nostrils.

Waving the knife, Roy took a careful step back, down and round. Then, as he took a second step, he saw Esmonde. His left hand was clamped to the rail. His feet, in fancy loafers, were doing a jig that reminded Roy of Irish dancing. His hair, which was gelled flat in the photograph downstairs, was standing on end, as if a thousand invisible strings were pulling the strands. His eyes, inside night-vision goggles, were wide open and bulging as if they were about to pop their sockets. Smoke curled out of each of his ears. His skin was visibly darkening with every second that Roy looked at him, as if he was being cooked from inside.

‘Toasting your freedom, eh, Curtis?’ Roy couldn’t help saying as he yanked the handle back up, plunging them again into darkness. He snapped on his torch – 2 per cent power left – in time to see Esmonde topple backwards.

1 per cent.

Roy just had time to get down the few steps to where the villain lay. He checked his pulse in the remaining light, to be sure he was dead. He pulled the night-vision goggles off the man and put them on himself, just as his phone gave out.

19

In the green glow of the goggles, Roy saw wisps of smoke still curling up from Curtis Esmonde’s body. Squeezing past, he grabbed the gun, broke the barrel open and ejected the spent cartridge. He rummaged in the man’s jacket and found a handful of live cartridges. He pulled out two, stuck them into the barrel and closed it. He pushed the remaining cartridges into his trouser pocket.

He was pretty sure Monica was dead, but did they have a friend here? Downstairs, somewhere? In the house or out in the darkness, waiting for him?

Roy took a few seconds to study the gun, trying to remember what he had learned on firearms courses he had attended. When you closed the barrels on most shotguns, the safety catch – a lever on the top – normally engaged. He tried it one way, where it would not budge, then the other. Well-oiled, it moved smoothly, and stopped with a sturdy click.

The gun was now cocked.

Holding the weapon out in front of him, his finger on the twin triggers, he began inching his way back down the steps. Slowly, carefully, breathing as silently as he could, he went on down, able to see perfectly through the lenses. His finger kept pressure on the trigger, ready to pull it, instantly.