As he waited, he drummed his fingers on the desk while Big Barry sat with his hands on his lap, staring into space, uncharacteristically quiet.

'Helicopter's in the air,' said Bridges. 'ETA less than one minute.'

'Suspect has just come off at junction four. Over.'

'Well, where's he going?' demanded Big Barry, before adding a belated 'Over.'

'We're not sure yet,' answered the controller with the first trace of uncertainty in his voice. 'Just waiting until he passes through another camera. Over.'

Bolt cursed. This was the problem with relying on all the fancy new technology. You could find just about anyone anywhere, but the problem was, not always when you needed to.

The silence in the room was deafening. They were all relying on a man they couldn't see who was sitting in front of a computer screen in Hendon.

The speaker crackled as the controller came back on the line. 'We've just picked him up on the North Circular roundabout. Looks like he's just turned on to the A113 heading south. Over.'

'I have unmarked vehicles one minute away and the helicopter should be overhead any second now. Over.'

There was a pause. Bolt could almost hear the seconds ticking.

Then DAC Bridges came back over the mike. 'Helicopter is now above junction four but he doesn't have the eyeball yet.' Another pause. 'He's now above the A113, but still no eyeball. Over.'

They all waited. No one said a word. Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute.

'The helicopter can't see a blue Mazda anywhere on the A113,' said Bridges, irritably. 'I repeat: we can't see suspect vehicle anywhere. Over.'

'Has he not passed any other cameras?' asked Bolt, leaning towards the mike.

'There's one on the junction with the A119 approximately one and a half miles south. It hasn't picked him up yet. Over.'

'What's traffic like on the A113 south?' asked Big Barry. 'Over.'

'I'm not in a position to see,' answered the controller. 'It might be stuck in a jam. Over.'

Bridges immediately cut in, sounding angry. 'There's no jam. The helicopter reports traffic light. It's moving south but still doesn't have the eyeball. Over.'

'He's got to have turned off,' said the controller, 'but he won't get far. There are cameras east and west of him. As soon as he passes another one, we'll pick him up. Over.'

'We can't lose this bloody car,' said Bolt, louder than he meant to.

But as a minute turned into two, and then three, it was becoming clear that they had.

'He must have stopped somewhere. Over.'

'The helicopter's circling, but no sign yet. We also have unmarked cars in the area. I'm dispatching them into side streets off the A113. Over.'

Big Barry muttered something under his breath.

Bolt shook his head, exasperated. Finally he stood up, too restless to stay seated any longer. 'Have you got a London A to Z in here anywhere, sir?' he asked Big Barry. 'I need something tangible to look at.'

'I don't think it's going to help us much,' grunted Big Barry, but he reached into his desk drawer and after a couple of seconds pulled one out and handed it to Bolt, who didn't think it was going to be much help either.

He found the relevant page and immediately saw the name of the borough where the blue Mazda had last been seen.

Wanstead. Why did that seem familiar?

Then he realized. The forwarding address Rob Fallon had given him on the phone earlier had been in Wanstead.

He groaned.

'What is it?' demanded Big Barry, leaning forward.

'They're after Fallon again. He's in Wanstead now, at his mate's place.'

'What's the address?'

Bolt patted his pockets. 'It's in my notebook downstairs.'

He tore out of there and down the corridor, ignoring his team as he ran through the open-plan area into his own office and, without even acknowledging Obanje, who was diligently making notes with a phone to his ear, scrabbled round his desk under the piles of paperwork for his notebook.

It was another thirty seconds before he was on the phone to Big Barry reading out the address of Dominic Moynihan, knowing he'd made a terrible mistake allowing Fallon to leave the hospital without his armed guard. 'Get officers there straight away!' he yelled, hoping he wasn't too late.

Fifty-seven

As my eyes opened and I wiped the blood away with my good hand, I could see Dom still pacing the room.

Seeing me stir, he grabbed the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and waved it at me angrily. 'If you try and move, you'll get more of the same. I mean it as well. This is about my life now. My fucking life, mate. And right now it's more important than anything, including our friendship. It's why I've got to do what I've got to do.' He turned away and kept pacing up and down, the bottle in his hand, every so often glancing across to check I wasn't trying anything.

Every part of me was in absolute agony. If I'd taken every last painkiller the hospital had sent me away with I would have been dead before the pain eased. It was that bad. My head. My face. My arm. Even my side where I'd been hit by Bolt's car. Everything.

But as I lay there, blinking as I tried to focus on Dom, my fear was even stronger.

'What do you mean you've got to do what you've got to do?' I asked him. It was difficult to force out the words. 'And who were you speaking to on the phone?'

Dom continued pacing, studiously ignoring me, but even with my vision still blurred I could see that his jaw was wobbling. He was a man under serious pressure.

'Please, Dom, let me go. I'm your mate.'

'Shut the fuck up,' he hissed, staring straight ahead.

'I don't know what you've got involved in, but there's got to be a way out. It's not too late to give yourself up and help Jenny. You haven't actually done anything that badly wrong yet.' I didn't know if any of this was actually the case, of course, but I was getting desperate.

He kept pacing. 'You don't understand. It is too late, OK? Too fucking late to do anything.'

'It's not,' I said, putting every last ounce of effort into trying to sound convincing. 'It's never too late. It really isn't-'

But it was, because as I pleaded with him and he carried on pacing there was a loud knock on the front door.

He stopped dead, just like that, and looked at me with a pained expression in his eyes. Then he mouthed the words 'I'm sorry' as the full extent of his betrayal hit both of us, and turned and left the room.

I knew then that I'd used up all my nine lives, that this really was my very last chance.

A second later Dom came back in again, and this time there was a man behind him in a boiler suit, and before I saw his face I knew without a doubt that it would be him.

'So, Rob Fallon, we meet again,' he said quietly in that harsh Northern Irish accent, and I saw that he was holding the same gun with cigar-shaped silencer that he'd killed Maxwell with the previous night.

Dom was ashen-faced. 'I don't want to see any of this,' he said, turning away. 'Please do it quick.'

'I will,' answered the other man, 'and you don't have to worry about seeing anything.' With a casual movement, he lifted the gun and shot Dom through the chin, knocking him back into a bookcase. He slid down it, slowly disappearing from view behind the opposite sofa. All without making a sound.

The Irishman now turned to me, a cruel smile just about making itself known on the tight, pale face. 'So, it looks like it's time for goodbye, Mr Fallon.'

I no longer had the will to fight, and the pain was intense, but I wasn't going to go quietly either. 'You know, I meant to tell you before,' I said as loudly as I could. 'You really are one ugly fucker.'

The smile disappeared. 'But I'm a live one, aren't I? And at the moment, that's more important.'