He wondered what had caused Farek and his crew to decamp so quickly. At first he’d thought it might be a police raid, come to rescue him. But that was stupid; he was no longer answerable to anyone, so how could they know what he was doing? If they did, how would they even begin to look for one man in one of Europe’s busiest capitals?

He felt a stab of pain in his left gut and leant sideways in an attempt to ease it, the chair creaking loudly. He took a deep breath and hissed as the pain was repeated. Something must have got busted when he fell over. A rib, probably. Wrong angle, body twisting, normally strong bone giving way under intense pressure. He hadn’t noticed it before, with the headache pounding inside him, but now it was adding to his discomfort.

The chair creaked again as he sat back up. Fucking thing; the noise was going through his head like a badly tuned violin. How could wood make that kind of racket, high-pitched and relentless?

Then he laughed. In spite of the pain that brought, the action made him almost happy. Fuck, he really was way past his best, just like they’d said. Maybe it was time he retired, took up knitting or gardening, something which didn’t call for too much active brainpower.

He eased his bottom from side to side, his naked skin numb with cold. The movement set up a frantic squealing in the chair beneath him. Jesus and Mary, he’d been sitting here for hours now on a crappy piece of furniture that was literally falling apart, and he hadn’t even noticed!

He started rocking back and forth, tears running down his face. Then he changed direction, going left to right. Stop. Careful. Not too far left. If you’ve got a broken rib and land on it again, it’ll get worse and puncture something. Like your heart, you arse. He went right a bit, then forward and back, working on the joints in the chair, teasing them as hard as he dared, each move more forceful than the last. It was a normal wooden chair with three slats down the back and spindles running between each leg. Probably held together by cheap donkey glue that had dried out thirty years ago. How strong could it be, for Christ’s sake?

A noise intruded on the creaking. He stopped. A car engine somewhere close by. A door slammed, metallic and heavy. A big engine. Too powerful-sounding to be coincidental, too big to be a neighbourhood runaround.

Farek was back.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Caspar threw himself with desperation back into his rocking motion, jamming his body as hard as he could down against each joint of the chair, trying to force them apart almost by willpower. He heard voices, then a door opening and slamming back, the impact echoing through the house like a gunshot. He estimated that he was at the rear of the building, and had probably thirty seconds of useful life remaining before the men reached him. After that, all bets were off and he’d find out at first hand what Bouhassa’s reputation was built on.

With a supreme effort which made the veins of his forehead stand out, he heaved against his bonds and threw himself backwards, tipping the chair until it reached the point of no return. He crashed to the floor, the shock sending shooting pains through his shoulders, neck and head, making him want to throw up. But there wasn’t time. He shook himself, feeling something grinding painfully into his back. Then he rolled sideways, expecting the familiar restraint of his ropes … and continued rolling as the chair fell apart noisily beneath him.

He heard a shout, and heavy footsteps on bare boards. A man’s voice asking where they had left him, and another, indistinct, saying something about the back room. Doors slammed as they checked the other rooms first.

Caspar felt a surge of hope. If the men didn’t know where he was tied up, it couldn’t be Bouhassa or the mental giant. That meant ordinary gang members, sent here with a simple job to do. He twisted desperately, ignoring the pain in his side and flailing at the coils of rope which had now loosened around him but clung like strands of sticky weed. He eventually scrabbled free and hurled the rope away. It landed in one corner, loud on the bare floorboards. Too loud.

A man’s voice queried the noise. He was too close for comfort.

Now Caspar was acting purely on instinct. He bent and grabbed a loose spindle. It had split away from the joint, leaving a sharpened end, a spear of aged and hardened wood. He looked around, assessing his options. There was no other way out of the room except for the door, not now the men were here. A few minutes earlier and he’d have gone for the shuttered window, but that would take too long. He turned to the door.

It slammed back just as he reached it.

A heavyset man stood in the opening. He had a boxer’s broken nose and wore a cheap suit and thick-soled shoes. Built like a brick blockhouse, he held a knife in his hand and had a grin on his face as if he was about to have some fun.

‘Hey – Dede! Come look,’ he yelled. ‘We got a rat in a trap.’

Caspar didn’t have time for niceties. He drove the sharpened spindle into the man’s face, then snapped it down, knocking the knife out of his hand. The boxer screamed and clutched his eyes, blood flowing through his fingers. He staggered back and flailed his other arm, trying to grab hold of Caspar as he barged past.

Caspar turned instinctively to his right and kept moving. He was in a dank hallway with a haze of light at the end. Bare boards, no furniture, no carpet. Street lights throwing an unhealthy glow through the open front door. Enough to show three steps up to another level and then he’d be out in the open and away.

Then another figure stepped out of a doorway along the hall. He was pointing a gun at Caspar and grinning.

Caspar turned and ran. Forward was a no-go; that left back … but away from the room. If there was a front hallway, there must be one to allow access to the rear.

He heard a loud bang and something plucked at his jacket, throwing him off balance against the wall. He staggered and regained his footing, feeling light-headed but still capable of movement. A good sign. Saw a door ahead of him, top half frosted glass, bottom half wood panelling, distant light showing through the glass. A hand reached out from the room he’d just left as the boxer tried to stop him, his breath gusting in anger and pain, the smell of cheap cologne very close. The huge fingers fastened around the shoulder of Caspar’s jacket and his momentum dragged the man from the room. But he was already slowing, the boxer’s bulk too heavy to pull against.

There was another bang, louder this time and closer. The boxer coughed once, his hand sliding off Caspar’s shoulder.

Jesus – he’d been shot by his own man!

It was all the opportunity Caspar was going to get or need. He tore loose and ran straight down the hallway and crashed through the door, eyes tight shut and hands in front of his face, showering himself with bits of rotten wood and broken glass. He felt a stab of cold where his cheek was sliced through by a sliver of glass, but he ignored it. There was too much to lose now by stopping.

He was in an enclosed space smelling of damp and cats. Dark shapes showed up vaguely in the ambient light, a devil’s scrapyard containing an old bicycle, wooden boxes, bits of furniture, an ancient hip bath. The crap of a lifetime abandoned to the elements. He continued running for the end of the space like a forward going for a try. Every house like this had a small gate opening onto a cut-through at the back. It was standard layout in streets like this. Another shot followed him but went wide, spitting chunks of brick from the wall on his right.

Someone shouted.