The Blood Detective

'But if I turn anticlockwise . . .'

He felt the screws turn. The gap between the top and bottom of his jaw became wider once more.

If I keep screwing like this, then eventually your jawbone will break - very slowly.'

He continued to turn, thread by thread. Foster felt the strain on his jaw as it was pushed back to the position it was in when he woke up. The skin at the side of his lips had split. Breathing was a struggle once more. Foster felt himself fading, unable to get the air he needed because the widening of his mouth tightened his neck and constricted the airway.

The fight was leaving him, his thoughts starting to drift. . .

The barbiturates had come from the street. A drug dealer, who passed them information from time to time, said he would get hold of them for the right price. Three days later they met in a carpark and he was handed the vial.

'You sure you know what you're doing here?' the dealer had asked. 'My mate says that's some heavy shit.'

Foster reassured him. Did not tell him it was for his own father.

That night his father wanted to do it. His affairs had been put in order, nothing was left undone. They sat at the kitchen table as the night fell and drank a bottle of Chateau Montrose 1964. Rain had decimated the crop that year, but the Montrose was picked before the storms came, a true rarity. His father had long been saving it.

He drank it in a state of reverie. Before he took the first sip, he stared long and hard at the beautiful red hue, then buried his nose in the glass and inhaled deeply. A look of contentment was written across his face. When he took a sip, so did Foster. The wine was like liquid velvet, the acidity correct, the tannins gentle and mellow. It was the silkiest wine he had ever tasted. His father savoured each drop like it was nectar of the finest fruit.

When he finished the glass, he stood up. Not even allowing himself more than one glass in the last few minutes of his life.

'Don't do it, Dad,' Foster said, voice breaking.

'This life holds little more for me,' his father said. 'The cancer will kill me in a year. It will eat and eat away at me. I would rather retain some control and choose the time of my leaving.'

'What changed, Dad? You were so full of fight'

His father held up his hand to quieten him. Don't give me the first degree,' he said slowly. Euthanasia means 'easy death' and I want it to be that way. Respect my decision.

There are some fights you can't win and there are some fights you don't want to win. Now you can leave if you want. I'll understand. You're implicated enough as it is.' As he stood up, he looked at Foster. 'One day you'll understand.'

His father went upstairs. Foster followed, not quite believing this was happening.

In his room, his father plumped up some pillows and lay down. Next to the bed on a table was the vial. Foster climbed on to the bed; tears stung his cheeks. Helplessness. There was nothing he could do. Fear. This man had always been there.

Nothing was said. They hugged. His father told him he loved him and was proud of him. Foster, breaking down, returned the gesture.

His father edged backwards on his throne of pillows. Then he picked up the vial, turned the top and emptied seven white pills into the palm of his hand. He looked at Foster, smiled, eyes wet. Then he threw the pills into his mouth and took a hefty swig of water.

'Now, this may hurt.' The killer was back, his voice dragging Foster from the brink.

He started to turn the screws.

Heather's car slammed to a halt on Bramley Road.

On the way, as they careered through the narrow, streetlit warren of Notting Dale, she had phoned through for an armed response team to assist them.

Then she turned to Nigel.

'Foster will keep himself alive as long as possible,'

she muttered, her jaw firm.

Her faith in him appeared unshakable. Nigel was desperate to believe her. It was only a half-hour from midnight.

They jumped out, Nigel clutching an Ordnance Survey map from 1893 and a small torch. He marched forwards, checking their position against the map, trying to work out where Pamber Street might have been. Above them the Westway, which carved through the area like a concrete river, pulsated with evening traffic. They walked along a short road leading down to an underground car park, Heather and the team following Nigel's steps.

Nigel could see as he passed a series of five-a-side football pitches that Pamber Street was no more, one of the streets razed when the overhead motorway was built. The map told him that Pamber Street had lain north of the Westway. With his finger he traced the angle of the road and looked up at one of the characterless brick blocks of flats that studded the area. He veered towards one. In the distance he heard a van pull up at speed. He turned to see it disgorge a troop of armed response officers. More should be on their way.

'Keep going,' Heather gasped. 'Find the flat.'

Nigel headed straight for a block that appeared to stand on the same patch of ground as Pamber Street.

Few of the flats were illuminated. There was the thud of footsteps on the ground as the armed team caught them up. Nigel and Heather reached the entrance and made for the stairs.

'Where now?' Heather asked breathlessly.

'Number 12,' Nigel said, bounding up the stairs.

The number of Segar Kellogg's shop. Instinct told him his descendant would have picked a flat of the same number. They reached the second level and made their way across the corridor linking the flats. The armed team was now alongside them. Nigel stopped outside number 12. No one said a word.

Nigel stepped back. His eyes glanced to his right, where he could see lights and vehicles descending on the area from all sides. Then they met Heather's. Her dark eyes were wide with fear, expectation. He felt his heart beat firm and insistent against his ribcage, as if attempting to force its way out.

The team of four men took up their positions, strapping on pairs of night-vision goggles. The flat was silent, no light from within. On the silent count of three, one officer battered the door and it fell with a sonorous thump. The others poured through shouting. Heather followed them, and Nigel's curiosity ushered him through in her slipstream.

The men marched around the flat screaming warnings. Nigel, his eyes not yet accustomed to the light, braced himself for the sound of a gun. Nothing came. The small living room was empty. The single bedroom, too. They burst through into the kitchen: nothing. The air was fusty, sweet-smelling. In the darkness he heard Heather's voice.

'Are you sure it was number 12?' she screamed, her tone accusatory.

'Yes,' he whispered hoarsely.

He was certain. He felt himself shrink visibly.

Another group of officers appeared in the doorway.

One of them flicked a light switch, lighting the room, making Nigel squint.

In the middle of the small, spartan sitting room was a large, white fridge-freezer; the only item in there save a wooden chair. Nigel and Heather looked at each other. One of the ART pulled the fridge door open. Empty but for half a carton of milk. He pulled the first drawer of the freezer open. Nothing. Then the second. Immediately he stepped back. Heather moved in, Nigel at her shoulder. He could see a bed of ice stained watery-red. On it lay a pair of hands and what appeared to be a wig, though a flap of blue-black skin betrayed its true origin.

Darbyshire's hands, MacDougall's scalp. They had the right place.

'Too late,' Heather drawled numbly.

The ringing in Foster's ears was incessant. It drowned out everything: the voice of his potential killer, the quickening beat of his heart, even his own pathetically shallow breaths. Speaking was too much effort. The pain in his body from his many wounds had drifted away. Indeed, he could not feel his body at all. The only sensation was the ringing. Suddenly it stopped.

He felt light, ready to float free. Peace and contentment flowed through him.

Then he felt the bed beneath him once more, as if slammed back into his body, aware immediately of the