the room. From inside he swore he heard another noise.
Someone was in. He went back to the door and was about to let go of the door knocker when he heard another noise. A voice this time?
He eased the window open a few more inches, bit by bit, until there was enough space to squeeze through. He climbed in, parting the heavy curtains. He stood there for a few more seconds. The house was completely silent.
With the curtains shut and overlapping, the room was dark, so much so that it took a while for his eyes to adjust.
There was a smell he recognized but he couldn't think from where. Then it came to him. The fusty smell of old paper. The room smelled airless. Not unlike his own sitting room, the one he had barely used or entered since his parents died. As his eyes grew accustomed, he could see an old battered armchair in front of a gas fire with rings, a large, bulky television, an old piano against the far wall, a table festooned with piles and piles of paper. He tiptoed over and picked one item up, an unopened envelope addressed to Edith Chapman. He went over to the mantelpiece; he could almost smell the dust it was so thick. There was a black and white picture of an old man in an armchair. Then one of a prim old lady outside a church, too self-conscious to smile. Edith Chapman, he presumed. On the floor by the fire was a copy of an old TV listings magazine. He picked it up, the corners curling and crisp. He checked the date. It was more than three years old.
The whole room was like a mausoleum, frozen in time.
Again he felt a hint of recognition. He knew all about that. He hadn't even redecorated since his father died. He slowly pulled his radio from his pocket and called for back-up. Something here wasn't right.
He found another picture. In colour, free of dust. A tall man, dark hair, good looking, troubled, not making eye contact with the camera, beside him a woman perhaps a year or two younger, fresh-faced and healthy, smiling broadly in marked contrast. Was this man Anthony Chapman? If so, the picture appeared to be the only imprint he'd made on this room. Beside it was a cross, also free of dust. Maybe that belonged to him, too.
He went to the door and opened it slowly. He was in a small hallway, stairs in front of him. The house was entirely dark, but his eyes had adjusted. The narrow hall led to a kitchen, from which an odd smell wafted. To the left of that entrance was another door.
There was a sound. Footsteps, perhaps. Wouldn't surprise him if it was mice. The place was probably teeming with them -- or rats. He stood still, not knowing which way to go, desperate to switch on a light, but not wanting to draw attention to himself. There was the sound again.
A light pitter-patter. It's coming from behind that door next to the kitchen, he thought, though in the impenetrable darkness it was easy to lose track of where the sounds came from.
He reached the door. He tried it as gently as he could.
Upstairs there was a heavier noise, a thud. Then a muffled scream, as if it was coming through a radio. He dragged himself up the stairs as quickly as he could, pains shooting down his injured leg, ignoring the fire in his shin.
In the distance he could hear sirens but he paid them no heed. Upstairs was dark; he opened one door. A bathroom.
At last, some daylight. The smell of damp was almost overpowering. He waited for another sound. In front of him was another door. He forced it open and flicked on the light.
A dark-haired man, the same as in the picture on the mantle downstairs, tall, barrel-chested, was standing there.
Both of them stopped, neither said a word.
Who the hell are you?' the voice was plummy, well spoken.
Foster froze. He wondered if back-up had arrived. He had told them to come without sound, that he would meet them and instruct. Not much chance of that now.
'Police,' he said. 'The game's up, Dominic' He paused.
'Or should I call you Anthony?'
The man's face, puce with anger, bled of all colour when he said the name. Foster tried to think. Here he was, sweating, out of condition, his limbs screaming with pain.
There was no way he could overpower this guy and he had no weapon at his disposal. He needed to buy time.
Chapman started to walk towards him. Foster backed off, hands held up to show he was unarmed. He wished he wasn't. 'Help is on its way, Anthony. You can fight me but not the whole army.'
'Liar,' he spat out. Foster could see a knife gripped tightly in his right hand. Foster continued to back away to the top of the stairs. Chapman closed the door of the room behind him, plunging them both into absolute darkness.
The blast of light from the room meant Foster initially couldn't see a thing. He could feel Chapman's presence, though, a grim spectre.
'It's over, Anthony,' he called out.
'Tell me, do you know the Lord?' a disembodied voice said, closer to him than he had thought.
'Not personally, no,' Foster replied.
There was a muffled scream behind them. From the room they had just left.
Well, in that case, too bad.'
He sensed a figure move in the gloom, felt its sick breath. Foster knew there was no other option. He turned and threw himself down the stairs, rolling and tumbling, the wind knocked out of him, sears of pain taking his breath away. He landed in a heap at the bottom, gasping for air, but managed to scramble to his feet. He reached for the front door, hearing Chapman race down the stairs.
The door was locked. The keyhole was empty.
Instinctively Foster turned and hurled himself at the oncoming man's midriff. It surprised Chapman and knocked him off his feet. Foster felt something in his shoulder buckle but he drove his weight through and slammed his assailant into the banister pole. He deflected into the hall and they both hit the floor, dust and lint flying through the air. Chapman had grabbed Foster's shirt and was trying to wrestle him off while the detective tried to locate the other man's arm and stop him striking with the knife.
He grabbed the right arm and held it away, but in doing so lost purchase on the rest of his body. Chapman scrambled out from beneath him and forced him to one side with his left arm. Foster's back was now on the floor, both hands grasping Chapman's knife arm, trying to shake the blade free from his grasp but his grip was iron tight. The pain in his shoulder grew worse but he gritted his teeth, trying to kick up a leg and force Chapman away so he could get clear. Chapman's left hand found his throat, all his weight bearing down. Foster just didn't have the strength. He was starting to choke, his windpipe crushed, pressure immense. But he couldn't remove a hand from Chapman's arm or his knife arm would be free. Strangulation or stabbing, which end do you choose, Grant? He let go of the right arm with one hand and started to prise away the left, gurgling as he did, head feeling like it might explode. As the knife moved closer to his chest. . .
Then Chapman's body tightened and tautened, his back arched and his weight fell on Foster. He screamed out in what Foster thought was bloodlust. Foster expected to feel the top of Chapman's blade pierce his skin, but there was nothing, just the man's heaving body pinning him down, and his hot breath on his cheek. The breathing was shallow and laboured.
A light went on. Foster blinked, like an owl in daylight.
Chapman was a dead weight. He'd stopped moving.
Foster pushed with all the effort he could muster, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. He lifted him enough to squeeze out from underneath. As he did, so he could see a large kitchen knife sticking out of the man's back. In the distance he could hear sirens.
A figure was standing at the foot of the stairs, scowling at Chapman with consuming hatred.
'Gary?' Foster said.
The kid didn't react. Eventually he looked up, face still set hard.
'Thanks,' Foster added wearily. He noticed for the first time that his front was stained by Chapman's scarlet blood, which was now oozing across the threadbare hall carpet.
'I didn't do it for you,' he said.
Wait.'
