'I understand,' I whispered. All my anger had dissolved now and terror was back in the ascendant. 'I won't tell anyone, I swear it.'

'It's a little bit too late for that now, isn't it? You've already been blabbing to the police, telling them about what you thought you saw last night. Who else have you told?'

How the hell did he know that? Had he been following me somehow?

I knew immediately I couldn't betray Dom, but still I hesitated before answering, 'No one,' trying to look as confident in the lie as possible.

He spotted the hesitation. The whip-thin mouth curled up at either end in a knowing smile. 'I don't think you're taking me very seriously, are you, Mr Fallon?' he asked, placing an exaggerated emphasis on my name, driving home the fact that he was the one in control. 'Even though I've just executed your friend. I could cut you into little pieces right now, but you're lucky. Killing you might draw unwanted attention, what with the fact that you've been blabbing to the police, so for the moment it's easier to keep you alive. But if you keep bullshitting me, I might decide that it's easier just to be rid of you.'

I swallowed, the movement painful under the knife blade.

'I asked you a question: who else have you told? Answer it, cunt.'

'No one,' I whispered, meeting his intense stare, willing him to believe me.

He moved away suddenly, causing me to sway and almost fall, but I stayed where I was against the wall as he picked up the hipflask and thrust it into my hand again. 'You have exactly one minute to drink the contents of this bottle,' he announced calmly, moving the knife back and forth in front of my face. 'If you spill any, or hesitate at all for any reason, I'll begin to remove pieces of flesh.' He glanced at his watch. 'Starting now.'

I unscrewed the cap and caught the sickly scent of Scotch, a drink I'd despised since throwing up on it at a party aged sixteen. I took a deep breath and gulped a mouthful down, grimacing against the fiery taste. Visions of my own disfigurement danced across my mind, and my hands shook as I forced down more, thinking that if I had to suffer then I may as well be drunk. I wanted to throw up, but ignored the feeling and carried on. It's amazing what the threat of serious, life-altering violence can make you do. I even began to get used to the sour, fiery taste as I steadily emptied the flask. And all the time he stood watching me, the same calm, matter-of-fact expression on his face, and all the time I feared him completely because I knew that when he spoke of cutting pieces off me he was telling the absolute truth.

The room began to spin as I let the empty flask fall to the floor, and I worked hard to steady myself.

'Phone the police officer you dealt with,' he ordered, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the mobile phone I'd left in my jacket at Jenny's place. 'Tell her that you've been depressed lately and drinking too much, and that you made the story of the kidnapping up, and are sorry to have wasted her time. Say anything else and you'll be dead before you finish the sentence. Understand?'

I fumbled round in my pocket for Tina Boyd's business card, then dialled her number. She didn't answer, and after about ten rings the number went to message. I then said exactly what he'd told me to say, slurring out the words, still having difficulty standing up straight, before flicking the phone shut.

'So now you keep quiet, get on with your life, and never mention the girl's name again. That way, you and your family stay alive.'

I made no move to resist as he grabbed me by the hair and swung me round so I was facing the wall. The bile rose in my throat and I had to work hard to swallow it down.

'If you ever see me again,' he whispered, coming close to my ear, 'it means that it's your time to die. To lose every experience you ever had. For ever. Just like poor Ramon.'

And then he slammed me face first into the wall and the whole room exploded in pain and darkness.

Fifteen

Islington CID was bedlam when Tina turned up for duty that night. There'd been a serious stabbing incident that afternoon after two groups of kids from rival schools had clashed outside a fried chicken takeaway on the Holloway Road, leaving a fifteen-year-old in intensive care with life-threatening injuries. Most of her day-shift colleagues were still there, trying to collate the numerous witness statements and trawl through the CCTV tapes, and she was immediately roped in to help, only just finding the time to arrange a courier to get the USB stick containing the camera footage from Jenny's apartment over to Matt Turner at the FSS. She'd spoken to him earlier for the first time since visiting him in hospital over a year earlier, and though he really didn't owe her any favours, he'd told her he'd look at it straight away.

It was almost three hours before the place emptied and Tina was left on her own with a pile of paperwork, finally able to collect her thoughts. It had been a pretty awful day. To be reminded of the existence of Paul Wise and the fact that he was free and living it up in the Med after what he'd done to the man she'd once loved was bad enough, but she'd never have been reminded of it if it hadn't been for Rob Fallon. Not only had he sent her on a wild goose chase, wasting her time, but just to put the icing on the cake he'd also ruined her day's sleep. When she picked up his drunken voice-mail message she'd come close to throwing her phone against the nearest wall, such was her frustration. As if drinking heavily lately was some kind of excuse. Tina drank too heavily on occasion too, and had done so ever since Wise had had her lover murdered, but she made sure she kept it under control. She would never allow herself to get to the stage where she blurred fantasy with reality.

She'd had a drink that night, something she never normally did before shifts. A large glass of red before she left her flat, gulped down, and two cigarettes in succession. It was a stupid move, and she'd cleaned her teeth twice to cover any smell. Another thing to blame that prick Fallon for. She felt like charging him with wasting police time but, to be honest, it wasn't worth the paperwork.

'No point crying over spilt milk, girl,' she said aloud, lighting a cigarette at her desk, against all the rules. She took a long drag and put her feet up on the pile of statements next to her PC, feeling rebellious. That lazy sod Hunsdon was still off sick, meaning once again she was all alone. It was, she thought bleakly, the story of her life.

Her phone rang. If it was Fallon again she decided she'd give him a real earful, but it wasn't. It was Matt Turner.

'Christ, you're working late,' Tina said, blowing a line of smoke towards the ceiling.

'How about you? Anything happening on the old night shift?'

'The usual. Murder, robbery and mayhem. Don't tell me you've managed to have a look at that stick already.'

'I certainly have.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to waste your time. The whole thing was a hoax. I should have told you earlier.'

'Really? That's odd.'

'Why?'

'Because the footage you gave me has been tampered with.'

Tina removed her feet from the desk and sat up in her seat, frowning. 'Are you sure?'

'Course I'm sure. It wasn't even a very good job. It was just spliced and thirty seconds were taken out. I managed to retrieve it as well.'

'And what did it show?'

'A man and a woman coming up to the front door.'

'Describe them.'

'The man was an IC1, early thirties, with dark curly hair. She was late twenties, blonde, and very attractive if I may say so.'

Rob Fallon and Jenny Brakspear. So something had happened. Tina felt a stab of excitement. 'Thanks, Matt,' she said. 'You've been a great help.'