Dead Man's Footsteps

from sprinkler systems, some dripping blood or showering slivers of glass. Bit-part players in a weird early-morning carnival.
    A BMW suddenly jumped in the air, yards from where he stood, and came down on its roof minus its front end. Then he saw the black cloud rising, tumbling straight towards him like a tidal wave.
    Gripping the handle of his bag, he turned and followed them. Not knowing where he was going, he just ran, putting one foot in front of the other, towing his bag, not sure, not even caring, whether his briefcase was still on top. Running to keep ahead of the black cloud, of the falling tower that he could hear, thundering, rumbling in his ears, in his heart, in his soul.
    Running for his life.

19
OCTOBER 2007
    By now the lift seemed alive, like some preternatural creature. When Abby breathed, it sighed, creaked, moaned. When she moved, it swayed, twisted, rocked. Her mouth and throat were parched; her tongue and the inside of her mouth felt like blotting paper, instantly absorbing any tiny drop of saliva she produced.
    A cold, persistent draught was blowing on her face. She fumbled in the darkness for the cursor button on her phone, then pressed it to activate the light on the display. She did this every few minutes, to check whether there was any signal and to bring a small but desperately welcome ray of light into her unstable, swaying prison cell.
    No signal.
    The time on the display read 1.32 p.m.
    She tried dialling 999 yet again. But the feeble signal had gone.
    With a shiver, she again read the text that had come through:
    I know where you are .
    Despite not recognizing the number, she knew who it was; there was only one person who could have sent it. But how did he have her number? That was what reallyworried her at this moment. How the hell do you know my number?
    It was a pay-as-you-go phone, which she had bought for cash. She’d seen enough cop shows on television to know that was what crooks did so their calls could not be traced. These were the phones drug dealers used. She had bought it to keep in touch with her mother, who now lived in nearby Eastbourne, to see if she was OK, while pretending to her that she was still abroad and was well. Almost as importantly, the phone was so she could keep in touch with Dave – and occasionally send pictures. It was hard being apart for this long from someone you loved.
    The thought suddenly occurred to her: had the sender gone to her mother? But even if he had, he wouldn’t have got her number. She was always careful to withhold it. Besides, when she had called yesterday, her mum had said nothing and sounded fine.
    Could he have been following her, seen where she bought the phone and got the number that way? No. No chance. She had bought it from a small mobile phone shop in a side street off Preston Circus, where she had been able to make doubly sure no one was observing her. At least, as best she could.
    Was he here in the building now? What if he was responsible for trapping her like this? And was using the time to break into her flat…? What if he was in the flat now, searching?
    What if he found—
    Unlikely.
    She looked at the display again.
    The words scared her more and more. Coils of fear spiralled inside her. She stood up in panic, pressing the cursor again as the light went off, pushing her fingers inthe crack between the doors for the hundredth time, trying to force them apart, weeping in frustration.
    They wouldn’t move.
    Please, please open. Oh, God, please open .
    The lift swayed wildly again. An image flashed in her mind of divers in a shark cage, with a Great White nosing against the bars. That’s what he was like. A Great White. A numb, unfeeling predator. She must have been mad, she decided, to have agreed to this.
    If ever there had been a moment in her life when her resolve to succeed faltered, and she would willingly have traded all she had just to turn the clock back, it was now.

20
OCTOBER 2007
    Blowflies or bluebottles – or blue-arsed flies, as the Aussies called them – can scent a dead body from twelve miles away. Which gives them a considerable amount in common with crime reporters, Roy Grace was fond of telling members of his team. They feed on the fluid protein excretions that ooze from a decomposing cadaver. Not much different from crime reporters there either, he liked to add.
    And, no surprise, there was one outside the door of the SOCO van at this very moment, the Argus ’s most persistent – and best