I really would like to know where the hell you are . . .

‘Do you think we could do that?’

He listened intently, then clenched his fist in triumph as he heard the answering tone. The bastard wanted to communicate with him.

‘All right then,’ he began. ‘Let’s try to—’

There was a click and the line went dead.

No!

Harland stared at the handset in horror. What had just happened? Had he hung up or was there a problem on the line? He looked around, panicked, but there was nobody else near him. Trembling, he redialled the number and pressed the phone to his ear once more.

Come on, come on, ring . . .

But all he got was a number-unobtainable tone. He tried again, then once more, but it was no use. Something had happened – perhaps the killer had simply run out of battery, or perhaps he’d switched off the phone.

Shit!

As he stood there, alone in the shadows, he was struck by the appalling realisation of what he’d done. He’d ignored procedure and tried to contact the suspect directly. This might have been their best chance to find the killer and he’d rushed it like a bloody amateur. They’d hang him out to dry for this. He was screwed.

Reeling, he stepped back to lean against the wall. It was over, and this time it really was all his own stupid fault. Trembling, his free hand searched his pockets, fingers closing around a box of cigarettes. Fumbling, he jammed one between his lips and sparked his lighter. In the darkness, the flame blinded him, but the tobacco caught and he drew in a desperate wave of smoke. Eyes closed, he held it for a moment before exhaling slowly.

He was still shaking, but it wasn’t as bad now.

Bowing his head, he gripped the cigarette tightly as he wondered what the hell he was going to do.

The distant rumble of the city came to him from far away, mixed with the hum of air-conditioning units on the walls high above him. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, but he’d lit a second cigarette and was rolling it between his fingers when he heard the click. Further back along the alleyway, a door swung open. In the darkness it was hard to see, but he could just make out a figure emerging from the building to his right, carrying a holdall. Soft footsteps reached his ears, echoing off the walls. There was nothing furtive about the figure’s movement, in fact the man was coming towards him – just another weary worker heading for home at the end of a late shift. Harland relaxed, and raised the cigarette to his mouth. The figure walked calmly along the side of the hotel, a silhouette, backlit by the orange glow that filtered in from the street.

He drew on the cigarette, blowing out the smoke as he tried to clear his head, tried to think what he would do now. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the rhythm of the footsteps passing by . . .

. . . and hearing them quicken.

His eyes flickered open. The figure was just beyond him now. Harland watched with a frown, wondering for the first time where this person had come from, where he was going. And his movements seemed somehow different, not so weary now.

He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as he stepped out from the wall and peered after the man. He had to be sure.

‘Excuse me . . .’

The dark shape didn’t stop or show any sign that he’d heard as he walked on up the alley. Harland stepped forward, cold adrenalin rising in him.

‘Hey, you!’ he shouted angrily, and the retreating figure suddenly broke into a run.

A profound sense of fury exploded through Harland as he sprinted after the man. Racing to the end of the alley and around the corner, they emerged onto the broad paved walkway that led along the edge of the dock basin at the back of the two hotels. Lights from the apartment blocks on the opposite side glittered on the dark water below as his feet pounded along the pavement, his quarry no more than fifteen or twenty yards in front of him.

As he ran, Harland glanced around but there were no other officers within shouting distance, and the hotels were soon behind him. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t risk losing the man – he had to stay with him no matter what.

They raced onwards, the figure ahead of him struggling with his bag, which swung around wildly as he powered forward. They ran between the legs of the enormous black cranes that loomed along the quayside, their erect iron arms lost in the darkness above. On the left, a broad plaza stretched away, with uniform rows of ornamental trees slipping by, their thin branches eerily lit by cold blue fairy lights. The man was moving fast, but Harland was holding the distance between them. And still, he saw no one, nobody he could call out to for assistance – it was just the two of them now.

Ahead of them, flights of broad steps led up to the illuminated glass entrance of the exhibition centre, but the man kept right, following the pavement along the water’s edge.

He was making for the bridge.

It dominated the skyline before them – two boxy towers clad in metal, with a slender footbridge slung between them, high above the water. Triangular suspension struts gave the appearance of sails, and a series of red lights glowed in silent warning at the top of each mast. It was the only way across the dock.

Ahead of him, the man turned right, the bag flying out wide from his left hand as he sprinted onto the wooden-floored gangway that led to the nearest of the towers. The rhythmic impact of his footsteps seemed very loud as Harland rounded the corner and pounded onto the gangway after him, the whole structure bouncing under his feet. He was breathing hard now, legs feeling heavy, but a righteous fury carried him on. He wouldn’t let go, not this time.

At the far end of the gangway, his target ducked into the metal-clad tower and disappeared from view. Harland hurried after him, determined not to lose ground.

As he reached the open doorway, he could hear the sound of urgent footsteps echoing down through the tower from the metal steps above him. His breath was failing now, legs burning as he forced himself on, into the cramped stairwell and up the first flight of steps. Head tilted back, he looked up as he climbed, straining for a sight of the hurrying figure above him, but all he could see was a confusing maze of steel stretching up to the deck of the bridge.

At the first landing, he turned and drove himself up another flight, then another. His breathing had become ragged, the metallic echo of his feet reverberating around the enclosed space, drowning out everything else.

Yet another flight of identical steps. Surely this was near the top now. How much further could it go on?

Exhausted, he rounded what must have been the final landing, gasping for air, urging himself to go on. As his eyes flickered up, he saw the movement but by then it was too late.

Dark against the reflected fluorescent lamps, the waiting figure launched himself down from the top of the stairs, blotting out the light behind him. Harland stumbled, desperately trying to dodge to one side, but an outstretched foot caught him in the chest, smashing the last breath out of his lungs. The full weight of his attacker crashed into him, sending him tumbling backwards until his head smacked against a handrail and there was nothing more.

51

‘Ha ha, you got your shoes wet.’ Gary was looking down at him from the riverbank, and laughing. ‘You’ll be in trouble with Mum when we get home.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Shut up yourself, Robbie.’ Gary always called him Robbie, emphasising the second syllable. He hated it.

Scowling, he scrambled up from the slippery stepping stones, drained his shoes as best he could and followed his big brother along the grassy bank. They picked their way slowly along the meandering course of the river, swollen with dark water from several days of rain, before turning aside onto a faint path that led up into a stand of trees. A breath of wind sighed through the leaves overhead, making them shimmer.