Either side of her, armed officers in black overalls, the single word 'Police' picked out in white at the front of their vests, were moving silently into position.

No sweat in her palms now and her throat was dry.

'You bastard!' Laughing.

'What?'

'You know.'

'No. What?'

Wary, Vicki walked over to where Grant was stretched out on the bed, cotton sheet folded back below his waist. For a man of his years, she thought, and not for the first time, he was in good shape. Trim. Lithe. He worked out. And when he'd grabbed her just now, fingers tightening about her wrist, it had been like being locked into a vice.

'C'm'ere a minute,' he said. 'Come on.' A smile snaking across his face. 'Not gonna do anythin', am I? So soon after the last time. My age.'

She knew he was lying, of course, but complied. Vicki standing there in a tight white T-shirt and silver thong, the T-shirt finishing well above the platinum ring in her navel. What else was it about but this?

When she'd first met him, a month or so before, it had been at the Motor Show, Birmingham. Vicki not wearing a whole lot more than she was now, truth be told, a couple of hundred quid a day to draw attention to the virtues of a 3.2 litre direct-injection diesel engine, climate control and all-leather interior.

He'd practically bought the vehicle out from under her and later screwed her on the back seat in a lay-by off the A6. 'Christen the upholstery,' he'd said with a wink, tucking a couple of fifty-pound notes down inside her dress. She'd balled them up and thrown them back in his face. He'd paid more attention to her after that.

'I've got this place in London,' he'd said. 'Why don't. you come and stay for a bit.'

'A bit of what?'

The first time he'd seen her naked it had stopped him in his tracks: he'd had more beautiful women before but none with buttocks so round and tight and high.

'Jesus!' he'd said.

'What?'

'You've got a gorgeous arse.'

She'd laughed. 'Just don't think you're getting any of it, that's all.'

'We'll see about that,' he'd said.

Fingers resting lightly just below her hips, he'd planted a careful kiss in the small of her back. 'Who was it?' he'd said, hands sliding down. 'Pushed in his thumb and pulled out a plum? Little Jack Horner? Little Tommy Tucker?'

After that he took her face down on the polished wood floor, bruises on her knees and breasts that smelt of linseed oil.

'Will, don't,' she said now, shaking herself free. 'Not now. I have to go and pee.'

'What's wrong with here?' Pointing at his chest.

'Over you, you mean?'

'Why not? Wouldn't be the first time.'

'You're disgusting.'

'You don't know the half of it.' He reached for her but she skipped away.

'Don't be long,' he said, leaning back against the pillows and watching her as she walked towards the door.

There was access from a courtyard at the rear, stairs leading past three balconies to the upper floor. The loft apartment where Grant lived was entered through double doors, a single emergency exit leading to a fire escape at the furthest end.

Draper close behind her, Maddy turned a corner into the courtyard and flattened herself against the wall. Weapons angled upwards, armed officers were in position at the corners of the square, others scurrying towards the first and second balconies, and she waited for the signal to proceed. When it came, moments later, she sprinted for the stairs.

The walls were exposed brick, furnishings tasteful and sparse. Shifting his position, Grant poured himself another glass of wine. Dusty was still in the CD player and he clicked the remote.

'Why do you listen to that old stuff?' Vicki asked from the far end of the room.

'Greatest white soul singer ever was,' Grant said.

'History,' Vicki replied, approaching.

Grant grinned. 'Like me, you mean?'

'If you like.'

One knee on the bed, she ran her fingers through the greying hairs on his chest and, reaching up, he kissed her on the mouth.

At the head of the stairs, Maddy waited, catching her breath, Draper on the landing below. The outer door to Grant's apartment was in clear sight. Mallory appeared level with Draper and then went on past. There was armament everywhere.

'After a little glory?' the superintendent whispered in Maddy's ear.

'No, sir.'

He smiled and Maddy could smell the mint and garlic on his breath. 'Second fiddle this time, Birch. Sweeping up the odds and ends.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You and your pal Draper. Down a floor. Just in case.'

Mallory moved on towards the door, Repton at his back, two officers wielding sledgehammers in their wake.

Volume high, the interior of the loft pulsated with sound: French horn, strings, piano, and then the voice. Unmistakable.

Vicki reached down and touched Grant's face, straddling him. Arching his back, eyes closed, Grant found her nipples with his fingertips.

Dusty swooped and soared and swooped again.

At the first crash, Grant swung Vicki on to her side and sprang clear, one hand clawing at a pair of chinos alongside the bed, the other reaching past Vicki's head.

The outer door splintered inwards off its hinges.

Fear flooded Vicki's face and she began to scream.

The pistol was tight in Grant's grasp as he turned away.

From the landing below, Maddy heard music, shouts, feet moving fast across bare boards, the slamming of doors.

'What the fuck?' Draper said.

'Move,' Maddy said, pushing him aside. 'Now.'

Positioned on the balcony opposite, one of the police marksmen had Grant in his sights for several seconds, a clear shot through plate glass as he raced down the emergency stairs, but without the order to fire the moment passed and Grant was lost to sight.

'In here,' Maddy said, kicking open the door and ducking low.

Draper followed, swerving left.

Maddy could feel the blood jolting through her veins, her heart pumping fast against her ribs. The room they were in ran the length of the building, iron supports strategically placed floor to ceiling. Some of the floorboards been removed prior to being replaced. Building mat-Is were stacked against the back wall, work begun and then abandoned. Low-level light seeped through windows smeared with grease and dust.

Maddy reached for the switch to her left with no result.

Voices from the stairs, urgent and loud, descending; more shouts, muffled, from the courtyard outside.

'Come on,' Draper said. 'Let's go.'

Maddy was almost through the door when she stopped, alerted by the smallest of sounds. She swung back into the room as Grant eased open the door at the far end and stepped through. Bare-chested, barefoot, pistol held down at his side.

Maddy's voice wedged, immovable, in her throat.

'Police!' Draper shouted. 'Put your weapon on the ground now.'

She would wonder afterwards if Grant had truly smiled as he raised his gun and fired.

Draper collapsed back through the doorway, clutching his neck. Instinctively, Maddy turned towards him and, as she did so, Grant ran forward, jumping through a gap in the boards to the floor below. With barely a moment's hesitation she raced after him; when she braced herself, legs hanging through a gap a metre wide, the boards on either side gave way and she was down.

Grant had landed badly, twisting his ankle, and was scrabbling, crab-like, across the floor, seeking the pistol that had been jarred from his grasp. A 9mm Beretta, hard up against the wall. As he pushed himself up and hopped towards it, Maddy launched herself at him, one hand seizing his ankle and bringing him down. Flailing, his hand struck the squared-off butt of the pistol and sent it spinning beyond reach.