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“Where’s Pete?” The man held his ground, the bag gripped in both hands.

“Pete’s handcuffed below.” James glanced around, and saw the whole floor was under construction, with plastic stapled to the ceiling to one side, cutting off any clear view of what lay beyond.

“I’m not going to be nicked,” the man said. “That’s not happening.”

Except it was.

James had seen this refusal to face reality in plenty of criminals, and experience told him it was the most dangerous time to be in front of them.

He held his baton out, away from his body, and said nothing in response.

“Get out of my way.” The man took a step toward him, and then swung the bag at James, and he had to jump back, out of range.

With a shout of frustration, the man ran for the stairs, shoving the bag toward James as a sort of shield, and James dodged again, moving behind him and grabbing him by his collar and yanking him backward.

Hartridge appeared, coming up the stairs from below, and with the two of them boxing him in, the man threw the bag straight at Hartridge.

He dodged to the side, fetching up against the bannister, and the bag went flying down the stairs, hit the treads halfway down, and tumbled the rest of the way.

The man stared after his bag, face in agony at the sight of it disappearing below.

“It’s over,” James said.

The man turned back to look at him, face white, and then Hartridge was suddenly right there, and between them, they wrestled him down and handcuffed him.

“Help!”

The cry was faint but James thought it was coming from somewhere above him.

There was a doorway set opposite the top of the stairs, and James approached it, trying to make out what was being shouted from behind it.

“Hello?” he called.

“Teddy Roe?” A voice called.

“Jerry? It’s DS Archer.” James rattled the door handle and found it was locked.

“Teddy Roe went to find the key,” Jerry called.

“Search our friend here,” James told Hartridge. “The key might be on him.”

Hartridge patted him down and came up with a set of keys which he tossed to James.

He worked through them and found one that fit, and opened the door.

Jerry was sitting on a steep set of stairs, looking straight at him, and behind him sat a young woman with long hair half covering her face.

James blinked at the sight of her. “Sarah Bicton?”

“Looks like someone was out hunting for you, too,” Jerry said, turning to look at her.

“You’re a detective?” she asked, pushing her hair behind her ears.

“Yes.” James could see that both her and Jerry looked gaunt and pale, as if they’d been locked up for a while.

“I need to report two murders,” she said. “Someone called Pete killed my father, and his apprentice, Stephen.”

“Stephen?” James asked.