It was too late to go back.
His nose itched from the dust. The further he went, the more the room came into view. There was no one there, just the signs of communal living. A large dirty pot in the middle of the floor, the remains of some kind of stew around the sides. There were dishes scattered around the room, the remnants of spliffs in an ashtray made out of a large shell. There was a window, and he saw the metal grille on the other side of that glass. There were bottles underneath containing liquid, rags sticking out. Petrol bombs. It looked like Henry’s group were getting ready for a siege.
As his hand felt along the wall, he came across a doorframe, and then a doorknob, round and wooden. He turned it slowly. As he pushed, he expected to feel the rattle of a locked door, but instead it started to open.
He looked quickly towards the group outside. Still no change. Then he heard a whimper from the room. A young woman.
He made a silent prayer that he was making the right choice, and then pushed the door open fully and stepped inside.
When he closed the door behind him, he put his sleeve across his nose and gagged.
Ted was pushed to his knees, gasping as he felt the crack of Arni’s cane on his shoulder. The grass was damp underneath him.
He looked up at John Abbott, whose arm was stretched towards him, gripping the knife tightly. He could feel the tip against his throat, just pushing, not piercing. A sharp pinprick. It felt wet from blood. Was it his own? The blade trembled lightly, but he knew he couldn’t move.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ Ted whispered, swallowing, pushing his skin harder against the tip. ‘We could stop this. You could blame it on drugs or a breakdown. I could even forget what I saw, because she would have died anyway. But John, let’s end this.’
‘What’s he saying?’ Henry said. ‘Don’t listen to him. It is temptation, that’s all. Remember who he is, what he represents. Think of our mission, what we have planned.’
John faltered.
‘Come with me, John,’ Ted whispered. ‘Just put the blade down. Use it against them.’
‘John, kill him!’ Henry shouted. ‘Don’t give him an opportunity. The time is now.’
John looked back to Henry. The tip of the blade moved away, just a fraction. The grip on his shoulder slackened. Ted moved quickly, his hand snapping upwards to grab John’s forearm.
John yelped, pulled away, making the blade sweep sideways, an instinctive reaction.
Ted gasped as he felt the slash as heat across his skin. John stepped back, shock on his face. He looked at the dagger in his hand, and then at Ted. He turned to the group. Henry was laughing.
Ted coughed. Liquid splashed down the front of his chest. He looked down. There was blood down his shirt. His hand went to his throat. It felt wet. He pulled it away. More blood.
He coughed again, and when he tried to breathe in, the air didn’t make its way to his lungs.
John looked down at him, the dagger limp in his hand now.
Ted could hear laughter. He tried to take another breath, and the night air made him grimace as it rushed into the wound across his throat. But he couldn’t fill his lungs. He coughed again, and he felt the warm, oily taste in his mouth.
He tried to stand up so that he could escape, but the ground didn’t feel even. It was moving so that he swayed with it, his arms out. He felt clammy, his vision speckled, small dots of colour dancing in front of him. He looked at Henry and shivered. Sounds faded, the grass lost its colour, his view like television interference.
He put his hand to his throat again. It was slick now. He tried to look around the group, but nothing was clear. The colours swirled into one and faded out, the sounds gone.
But Henry’s laugh made it through, one last time.
Ted started to fall, the grass rushing to meet him. He knew he wouldn’t feel it hit him.
Sheldon looked at his phone. His hand trembled. Someone else had died. And now Ted Kenyon was in danger.
Dixon put down her glass. ‘What is it?’ she said.
He looked around the room. There were family pictures everywhere. In most of them, there was a young woman, a teenager, skinny, pale and blonde, almost fragile. He guessed it was Gemma, and Sheldon didn’t know who had died at the farmhouse.
‘The farm where Gemma is living,’ he said. ‘Where is it?’
‘Jackson Heights.’
‘I know that, but where?’
‘I don’t know the exact address. I don’t send them bloody Christmas cards,’ she said, bitterly. ‘Some farmhouse, that’s all I know. On a hill somewhere. Why?’
He wondered whether he ought to say something, because only half a story doesn’t tell you whether it has a happy ending.
‘Something’s happened,’ Dixon said, her voice getting shriller. ‘Tell me.’
Sheldon cleared his throat. Whatever Gemma might have done, she was still her daughter. ‘Someone has died up there.’
Dixon’s hand went to her mouth, shaking, tears jumping onto her cheeks. ‘Gemma?’
‘I don’t know.’
As her face went into her hands, Sheldon said, ‘I’m going up there.’
‘Let me come with you.’
‘No, you’re drunk,’ Sheldon said, and then he went towards the door.
‘Sheldon, don’t go!’
He didn’t stay to listen. As he slammed the door behind him, he heard her start to wail. It might not be Gemma, but waiting to find that out wouldn’t help anyone.
When he got outside, he felt the cold night air through his clothes. He didn’t know what to do at first. He wanted to see this through, to be there when Alice’s murderer was caught, but he knew from Charlie’s voice that he had to get people up to the farmhouse.
He jumped in his car and set off towards the police station.
The streets were quiet as he drove. He passed a couple of taxis but that was all. He drove through speed cameras at a rate that would get him a driving ban but there were no flashes to worry him.
His tyres rumbled loudly as he raced up the cobbled ramp. He parked it as close to the door as he could and then he ran into the station, banging against doors. As he got to the Incident Room, he saw that there was only Tracey and Lowther there. No Williams. They looked surprised to see him.
He didn’t wait for any greeting.
‘You need to get some cars. Blue lights, sirens, everything. You need to announce your arrival.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Tracey said.
‘Billy Privett’s murderers are at a farmhouse on Jackson Heights. They’ve killed someone already. Ted Kenyon is next.’
Tracey and Lowther exchanged glances, and then grabbed their coats.
‘I’m coming with you,’ Sheldon said.
‘You’re suspended,’ Tracey said.
‘No, I’m on sick leave, but I feel better again.’
Tracey smiled, and then she ran past Sheldon, heading for the car park.
Donia gasped when she saw it was Charlie.
He felt a surge of relief. She looked uninjured, just scared, with tear stains dried out on her cheeks. He had to keep his arm across his nose though, as the smell in the room was overpowering.
There was a man in a bed, old and frail, with sharp cheekbones that jutted through his grey skin, his mouth like an open wound, red lips around a dark hollow. He smelled like he lived in his bed, left to wallow in his own piss and shit.
