He swallowed hard and turned away from the picture. Then stopped as something caught his eye. 'Shit.'

Mo looked puzzled. 'What is it, boss?'

'Look.' Bolt pointed at the picture, his gloved finger touching the image of the dinner-suited man on the other side of the photo from Moynihan.

It was Sir Henry Portman, the high-flying financier who'd recently been investing the ill-gotten gains of SOCA's number one target, Paul Wise.

The pain in her foot kept coming in savage waves that made her want to pass out, but she knew she couldn't even afford to close her eyes. She'd been shot once before, five years earlier, but that had just been a flesh wound. This was far, far worse. Her forehead was bathed in a drenching, fever-like sweat, while her whole body shivered and juddered in shock.

But she was still conscious. And that meant there was still some hope of escape, however slim it might be. The bastard who'd shot her and murdered Jenny had been called away somewhere. She could hear no noises from downstairs, so she had a little bit of time.

The stink of death and decay in the room was appalling but Tina breathed it in deeply because it helped keep her awake and also reminded her of the fate that lay in store for her if she didn't move soon.

Clenching her teeth and staring at Jenny's slumped body, she let another wave of pain wash over her then forced herself into a sitting position. He'd shot her in the left foot, and the sock – the one that didn't contain the picks – had filled up with blood. Slowly, she used the toes of her other foot to pull it off, wincing against the pain as the material came away from the skin.

It had been a clean shot, the burnt entry hole about an inch back from the second toe, and already the area around it was swelling badly. The bullet had almost certainly smashed one of the metatarsals, and she used her other foot to examine the damage to the sole. There was a much larger exit wound which was still bleeding, but at least the bullet wasn't stuck in there. It was going to be impossible to put any weight on it, but it could have been worse, she supposed. He could have shot her in both feet.

She tried using her bad foot to remove the sock containing the picks but it was so painful that she thought she might pass out, so instead she kept dragging the sock back and forth across the floor, slowly loosening it, until eventually it came off altogether. Sweat poured into her eyes and she had to stop and take some more deep breaths before swivelling herself round on the floor so she could reach down with her hands for the small leather pouch containing her picks.

Like all police officers, Tina knew that handcuffs were designed only as temporary restraints; even the new police-issue ones could all be opened with a single key, making them incredibly easy to pick. Unfortunately, because he'd positioned her palms outwards when putting them on, it made the lock very difficult to reach, and on those occasions when she did actually manage it she couldn't seem to get the lock open before the pick slipped back out. Her hands were shaking, which didn't help. She didn't know if that was caused by the adrenalin-fuelled shock and fear that was coursing through her, or withdrawal symptoms from the booze. Either way, she desperately needed a drink.

Constantly fighting the pain, she forced herself to keep going. Turning her back on Jenny Brakspear's body, she put all her concentration on the all-important task of escape, knowing that the more times she tried, the more likely success would be.

Unless that bastard comes back, of course. To finish off what he's started.

By God, if she got out of here she'd make him suffer. Tina suddenly had a vision of the tables turned and him on his knees in front of her while she pointed the gun at him. She'd make him beg for mercy then she'd put a bullet in his balls and make him scream. Bastard.

The depth of her hatred surprised her. She'd never been a vengeful sort. She didn't think people like that could succeed in the police, and whatever else she could be accused of, Tina had always been a good cop. But it was this burning desire for revenge that, perhaps more than anything else, was keeping her going.

Her wrists ached, sweat continued to pour down her face, but finally she managed to hook the pick inside and turn. The lock opened, and she threw the cuffs off, taking a set of deep breaths, keeping her excitement in check.

Now came the hard part.

She wiped more sweat from her brow, twisted her wrists to get rid of the stiffness, gathered together her picks and placed them back in the leather pouch, then used both socks to bind her injured foot and stop the bleeding, sobbing with the pain it caused. Then slowly, very slowly, she stood up, putting all the weight on her good foot. Clutching her picks, she hopped over to the window and looked out. Although mostly blocked out by the heavy board to which Jenny had been attached, she could just about see across to an old cottage with a line of pine trees behind it. The day was sunny and the scene looked unnervingly peaceful and pretty.

There was no way out. The window was made of toughened glass with only a small area at the top that opened, which was far too small for an adult to get through. And she could now hear banging about and the odd shout from downstairs. It sounded like people working, and it reminded her that someone could come up at any time. She had to hurry.

The door had a single modern cylinder lock. She picked it in under a minute, all the time standing on one foot, then hopped out on to the landing and shut the door behind her. She had to lean against the staircase banister to get her breath back. Already weak from lack of food and water, and now carrying an injury that had lost her a lot of blood, she knew she was running dangerously low on energy levels. She thought about going back into the room where she'd been kept to get her clothes, but that would waste too much time. The most important thing was just to get out. She could worry about anything else afterwards.

Because of her foot, there was no point trying to use the top floor for her getaway, which left only one option. She had to escape via the ground floor.

It seemed to take Tina for ever to get down the staircase. She had to stop and rest every third or fourth stair, knowing full well that at any moment the bastard who'd shot her could come round the corner and see her there. But he didn't – no one did – and eventually she made it to the cramped stairwell at the bottom. A closed door to the left was the only way out, and she could hear people moving about beyond it. She could tell from the acoustics that it was a large open-plan area, probably a warehouse of some sort, which meant it was going to be difficult to get out without being seen.

She tried the handle. It was unlocked and she opened it a crack, peering through into a large barn lit by bright artificial lighting. A parked white lorry with its rear doors open took up her entire field of vision. There was movement inside it, but she couldn't see anyone. Beyond it, the barn doors were closed.

Then suddenly she heard footfalls on the stone floor, only feet away, and as she retreated and part-closed the door a very tall, stick-thin, middle-aged man with a bald head and thick moustache crossed in front of her. He didn't notice her as he walked to the driver's side door, holding something she couldn't quite make out in his hand. She saw him clamber inside and lean into the back.

Bollocks. She knew there was no way of getting past him to the barn doors, not in her current state. She was going to have to wait for an opportunity. Except there wasn't any time. Shit.

Keeping the door open just a crack, she leaned against the wall and kept an eye on what was going on outside, hoping she'd get a lucky break before she collapsed with exhaustion.