Zigic rubbed her shoulders until she stopped sobbing but the feeling of helplessness had settled in his chest, a feeling so strong it was like a physical restraint on every breath he took.
Suddenly all the complaints he had felt petty and futile. So what if he wasn’t comfortable taking money from her parents? So what if he didn’t like the idea of his children being whisked off into some privileged enclave?
His principles felt like self-indulgence compared to what Milan was going through. The high-minded ideals of someone who wouldn’t have to live with the consequences of their actions.
‘Okay,’ he said, kissing her head. ‘This is the right thing to do.’
Anna turned and slipped her arms around him, buried her face in his neck, and he felt the pain in his chest begin to dissipate instantly.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
The phone woke her, the ringtone blaring at such an urgent pitch that she was on her feet and looking around for it before she’d fully shaken off the dream she was having.
‘It’s alright, it’s mine,’ Billy said, digging it out from between the sofa cushions where her head had been a moment before.
Ferreira sat back down, letting the wooziness clear. She looked at the time on the BBC news channel: it was barely eleven and she’d fallen asleep on the sofa. It had been a long day, she reassured herself, as she picked up the book she’d dropped and put it on the coffee table.
Billy was pacing around the room, nodding. ‘Good stuff, Col. You called it. I owe you a fiver.’
He looked wired, his missing suspect George Batty back in town by the sound of it.
‘Yeah, wait for me. I’ll be ten minutes, tops.’
Ferreira followed him into the bedroom, flopped onto the mattress, watching him dress for action.
‘Where did Batty show up?’ she asked. ‘Not at his mum’s?’
‘His dealer’s. That boy’s priorities are all messed up.’
‘He’ll be docile when you bring him in, anyway.’
‘And we get the dealer for harbouring,’ Billy said, looking almost obscenely pleased with himself.
She knew the case had been weighing on him, even with the Walton investigation running alongside it. Nobody liked losing a suspect. It felt like a personal affront, the sense of failure only deepening with every day you didn’t bring them in.
‘You look shattered,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
‘For Christ’s sake, get some sleep.’
‘No,’ she said, but she stayed where she was, curled up at the foot of the bed. ‘I’m going to wait up for you like a dutiful girlfriend.’
He grinned, slapped her backside and walked out of the room.
A couple of seconds later his phone rang again and she heard him stop to answer it in the hallway.
‘We’ll go for him now,’ he said firmly, listened briefly, then lowered his voice. ‘I’ll meet you there, don’t go in without me.’
The door opened and closed, slamming hard.
Ferreira looked at the clothes he’d left on the floor, wondering why Murray had called back only to have the same conversation. Or were Weller and Bloom already overstepping the mark? He’d taken them in for extra eyes but they were both eager to stake their claim in the office.
She rolled off the bed and went into the living room, closed the curtains and switched on an extra lamp. She’d stay up for a while yet, have another go at the book she felt like she’d been reading for weeks now. There never seemed to be time for it as much as she was enjoying the story. Long days leaving her brain numb by the evening with not enough mental energy left for anything but the simplest TV programmes. She’d tried reading in bed before work but Billy was a morning person and seemed to consider any book she had in her hand as a rival and would do his damnedest to distract her from it.
She was two chapters in when she heard the noise.
A low whirring coming from the hallway.
Some distant part of her brain that barely registered knew what it was, drove her up and towards the door as it increased in pitch and speed.
An electric lock pick, entry tool of choice for cat burglars and stalkers.
Ferreira dashed into the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the block. Her vision already swimming, her heart already hammering against her ribs.
She held the knife low by her side, gripping the handle so hard it hurt. She wanted to run but there was nowhere to go. She wanted to hide but she knew he’d find her.
The door opened and she felt everything beyond the room fall away into nothingness. There was only her held breath and the cold metal in her palm and the sound of his footsteps coming closer, barely four paces between the front door and the kitchen, and without meaning to she was moving to meet him, her wrist angling, turning the blade, and then they were face to face and she slashed up through the air between them, slicing open Walton’s bare arm from elbow to shoulder.
She saw the cut, white then red, then his fist coming at her faster than she could duck away from it. She heard bone break and she was temporarily blind, her head snapping back so hard it rattled her brain against her skull.
The knife dropped from her hand and she dropped down after it. Blood on the floor. Hers and his.
And then she was moving again. His hand knotted in her hair, dragging her out of the kitchen. She made a desperate snatch at the knife, her fingertips grazing it but he was too strong, pulling her clear too quickly.
‘You wanted my
