She was no longer anxious or depressed. Tearful or bereft. That was all in the past and finished with, like those things had happened to someone else. It had been painful, yes, but it was worth it. So, so worth it.

Claire smiled. She might have felt happier in her life but she couldn’t remember when. She certainly had not felt as happy as this for a long, long time.

Then she heard sounds from the hallway.

‘Julie?’

Thumping on the walls and floor, bangs and scuffles. It sounded like someone was playing football or wrestling. Or fighting.

A shiver ran through Claire. Oh no. God no. Not him, not now . . .

‘Julie . . .’

Claire’s voice was more frantic this time, unable to hide the alarm at what she was hearing, who she imagined was responsible for the noise.

A final thump, then silence.

‘Julie?’

No reply.

With great difficulty Claire managed to pull herself upright from the sofa. The speed with which she got up left her feeling slightly light-headed. She picked up her mobile from the coffee table, left the room and stepped into the hallway. She had a good idea of who to expect there and was ready to call for help. Even the police if needs be. Anything to get rid of him.

She turned the corner. And stopped dead, her mouth open. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t the scene before her. No way could she have expected that. It was horrific. Too horrific for her mind to process. She couldn’t take in what had happened.

Her eyes dropped to the floor and she saw Julie. Or what was left of her.

‘Oh God . . .’

Then she saw the figure standing over her best friend and she began to understand. She knew that her own, ordinary life had stopped with the knock on the door. She was living through something else now. A horror film, perhaps. A nightmare.

The figure saw her. Smiled.

Claire saw the blade. Shining under the hallway light, blood dripping on to the carpet. She tried to run but her legs wouldn’t work. She tried to scream but couldn’t send the right signals from her brain to her mouth. She just dropped her mobile. Stood there, unable to move.

Then the figure was on her.

One punch and everything went black.

Claire opened her eyes, tried to sit up. But she couldn’t move. Her arms, hands, back, nothing. Her eyes closed again. Even her eyelids felt heavy. Very heavy. She tried once more to force them apart, managed. But it was a struggle just to keep them open.

She could only look upwards. Not even from side to side. She recognised the ceiling of her bedroom. The overhead light was on, blinding her. She tried to blink the light away but her heavy eyelids remained closed. She instinctively knew that wasn’t good, so she forced them open, light or no light.

She tried to make out what was happening. A shadow was moving on the ceiling, large and looming, like something from an old black and white horror movie. Doing something out of her line of vision.

Claire remembered what had happened. The figure in the hall, the attack. And Julie. Julie . . .

She opened her mouth, tried to scream. No sound at all came out. A wave of panic passed through her. She had been paralysed in some way. Drugged. She felt her eyes close again. Forced them open once more. It was a struggle, the biggest of her life, but she couldn’t allow them to close. She knew now that if she did, she would be dead.

She tried to move her lips, make sounds, call for help. Nothing. No matter how loudly she screamed in her head - and it felt like she was screaming all the time now - all that trickled out of her mouth was a puppy-like whimper.

She saw the shadow on the ceiling move closer to her.

No, don’t . . . get off me, get away from me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me . . .

Useless. Just made her head hurt, her inner ear trill.

Claire felt her eyelids being pulled down again, fought to push them up. It was getting harder each time. As was breathing, her lungs slowing with each poisoned breath she took. Panic and fear only helped her heart to speed-pump the crippling drug round her body. She knew she didn’t have long.

Somebody help . . . please . . . just break down the door, help . . .

The shadow of the figure now loomed above her, blocking out the overhead light. Claire felt confusion on top of fear and panic: who were they? Why were they doing this?

Then she saw the scalpel. And she knew.

Not my baby . . . please, not my baby . . .

The figure bent over her, light glinting along the scalpel’s razor-edged blade.

No . . . help me, oh God, help me . . .

Began to cut.

Claire felt nothing. Saw only the intruder’s grotesque shadow thrown across the ceiling, the light exaggerating the sawing motion of the arm.

God, no, please . . . please someone, help me, help me, no . . .

Eventually the figure straightened up. Stood over Claire. Smiled. Something in its hand, red and dripping.

No . . .

Another smile and the red, dripping thing was taken from her sight. Claire couldn’t scream or move. She couldn’t even cry.

The shadow moved towards the door and was gone. Claire was left alone, screaming and shouting in her head. She tried to pull her arms up, move her legs. No good. It was too much effort. Even breathing was too much effort.

She felt her lungs slow down. Her eyelids close. She could hear the pump of blood round her body slowing down, down . . .

She tried one last time to fight it but it was no use. Her body was closing down. And she was powerless to stop it.

Her lungs stopped inflating, her heart stopped beating.

Her eyes closed for the final time.

2

‘Oh my God . . .’

Detective Inspector Philip Brennan, Chief Investigating Officer with the Major Incident Squad, donned surgical gloves, pulled the hood of his pristine crinkling paper suit over his head and stood on the threshold of hell. He knew that when he pulled back the yellow crime-scene tape and entered, he would be crossing a line between order and chaos. Between life and death.

He lifted the tape, stepped inside. So much blood . . .

‘Jesus . . .’

The tape fell back into place, the line crossed. No going back now. He took in the scene before him and knew he would never leave this apartment, mentally or emotionally, until he had found who had done this. And perhaps not even then.

The hallway looked like an abattoir. Covered in so much blood, as if several litres of red paint had been dropped from a great height, splashing up the walls and over the floor like a grisly action painting, fading to brown as it dried. But paint didn’t smell like that. Like dirty copper and rancid meat. He tried breathing though his mouth. Felt it on his tongue. Tasting as bad as it smelled. Sweat prickled his body, adding to his discomfort.

‘Can someone turn the heating off?’ he shouted.

Other white-suited individuals moved about the apartment. Intense, focused. He noticed that a few of them were carrying paper bags, some full. They were issued in extreme cases to catch any vomit that might contaminate the crime scene. One of the officers acknowledged his request, went to find the thermostat.

The body still lay in the hallway, ready to be stretchered off to the mortuary for autopsy. The SOCOs had finished extracting every last piece of information from the scene but had left the body in place so Phil could examine it, find something to kick-start his investigation.

He looked down, swallowed hard. A woman was lying there, her torso twisted, her arms outstretched and grasping, as if she had been trying to hang on to the last breath as it left her body. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. A vicious slash had taken out both jugular vein and artery on either side of her neck. He could see she had struggled by the patterns made by her arms in the blood on the wooden floor. Like bloodied angel’s wings.