Simon Kernick - Severed

His presence here is no coincidence, I'm sure of that. Yet I still don't know what it's got to do with me. I was just one of several hundred troops who operated in his little fiefdom many years ago. He wouldn't remember me from Adam.

It looks like methodical work, so whoever was torturing him wanted information, and was prepared to take him apart step by step in the pursuit of answers. There's a deep cut about three-quarters of an inch long just beneath his left eye, where it appears his torturer was about to make an effort to gouge out this one too. Finger-like tears of blood have run down from the wound and stained his cheek. I wonder if this is about the briefcase. Was someone trying to get him to reveal its location? Incredibly, the evidence suggests he was holding out even after they'd taken out his eye.

I let go of his head and take a step back, focusing my attention on the peach-coloured shirt. A long, thin blood trail runs down its side from a darker spot further up. Cause of death is a single stab wound to the heart. Blood is still bubbling from the spot, which means that the fatal blow was delivered recently. Very recently.

I can hear movement behind me. Lucas is coming into the room.

And in that one split second everything comes together and I realize that I've been set up again. Whoever killed these three men was expecting me to come here. And only two people in the world could possibly have known I was coming. One was Alannah. The other was Lucas.

But Alannah didn't know I had Eddie Cosick's address.

Which leaves my best friend. The man whose life I saved. Who served with me in Bosnia, and who also came into contact with the man who changed his name to Eddie Cosick. Who knows all about the scars on my back. Who seems to have plenty of money for a lowly PI dealing with divorce cases and the occasional missing person. Who wasn't expecting my visit this afternoon. Who had no choice but to pretend to help me when I turned up out of the blue, but who has in fact provided me with very little that I can usefully use. I knew about Iain Ferrie anyway, and it was only a matter of time before I got his full name. And the finger… The finger could so easily have been a plant to throw me off the scent.

I feel an ominous sense of dread as I realize that Lucas has now supplied me with a gun containing no ammunition, while his is almost certainly loaded.

There's movement behind my back and I swing round fast as a fresh injection of adrenalin courses through me.

Lucas is standing in the doorway, his Walther PPK pointed straight at me.

He stares at me for what feels like an eternity, then his gun arm wobbles and the PPK drops to the floor, hitting the thick carpet with barely a noise. His mouth opens, but only blood comes out, a thick rivulet that runs down his chin. He stumbles, and I see that he's clutching his side with one hand, and that his shirt's wet.

'Oh Jesus.'

He bangs into the wall, bounces off it, and falls to his knees. Horrified, I watch as my friend of close to twenty years rolls over onto his side and begins to convulse. His right foot lashes out like a whip and hits the door with a bang.

This is the moment the spell's broken and the realization finally hits me that the Vampire is here right now, possibly only feet away. He has a knife, I have an unloaded gun. He's extremely proficient with his weapon, mine is useful only as a blunt instrument.

But I'm not going to stand here waiting to die.

Turning the Browning round in my hand so that I can use it as a bludgeon, I run forward, jumping over Lucas, and do a diving roll onto the balcony, sliding along the carpet on my back, weapon held ready to throw, until the banister stops my momentum.

There's no-one here. Not in front or behind. The balcony's empty.

I remember Ferrie's words. He's invisible, like something out of a nightmare.

I jump up, trying to ignore the sight of Lucas's twitching, and kick open the adjacent door. I count to two and do another rolling dive inside, hurtling along the carpet before jumping up again, the gun held in my right hand like a tomahawk. I know I'm taking a huge risk, but rage and frustration drive me on. This is my last chance to confront the bastard who's eluded me all day.

The room, though, is dark and empty. An unmade bed faces an open bay window that lets in the faint sounds of normality from the outside world: the low hum of traffic; the sound of a piano playing in the jazz concert in the park. Such a huge contrast to the nightmarish charnelhouse I'm in now.

I retrace my steps, coming back out onto the balcony. Lucas is barely moving. I run over to the door on the other side of the room to where Eddie Cosick still sits. The killer must have been behind one of these two doors. There is no other way he would have been able to ambush Lucas, not in the few seconds he had. Lucas was good, too. A bit out of practice, but still not the kind of guy to have been surprised easily.

I kick open the door. Another darkened room, the window open at the far end.

Then I stop dead. Something is playing a tune in my pocket. It's not the phone Lucas gave me earlier; that's now on vibrate. I suddenly realize that I'm still carrying the mobile my blackmailer gave me, and I haven't turned the damn thing off. I rummage around in my front right pocket, pull out the phone, and the tinny noise of the 'Funeral March' fills the silence. The screen says 'Anonymous Call'. I almost don't answer, but in the end my curiosity's too great.

'Yeah?' I say, my eyes darting round the emptiness of the room.

'You're looking in the wrong place,' states the robotic voice. The tone is calm and mocking.

I stride back onto the balcony. 'Where the fuck are you?'

'Somewhere you're never going to find me. Give up, Tyler. I've got the briefcase. It's over.'

Anger surges through me as I think about what this bastard's done.

'I'm going to get you for this.'

'No,' says the voice, with complete confidence, 'you're not. Goodbye, Tyler.'

'Who are you?' I shout as my frustration finally boils over. 'Who the fuck are you?'

But the connection's broken. I'm venting my rage at nothing.

Slowly, still shocked, I replace the phone in my pocket, knowing that, possibly for the first time in my life, I am completely out of my league. Then I remember Lucas.

The gun's no use to me – not that it ever was – and I throw it down on the carpet and run back to where he fell. He's on his back now. Choking noises come from deep within his throat, and I can see that his blood is everywhere.

'You're going to be all right, mate,' I whisper, turning him onto his side.

He coughs weakly. I put my hand in his mouth to clear the airway, and pull out a lump of thick red drool. He shivers, and his eyes roll back in his head.

'Come on, Lucas,' I hiss, feeling for a pulse, 'don't die on me.'

It takes me a couple of seconds to locate one, and when I do, it's faint and very slow. His blood pressure is falling and his heart is beginning to shut down. My hand moves across to the spot where the knife was shoved into him. The blade went between two of the upper ribs and has almost certainly pierced the heart. He's dying. My friend, Lucas, is dying.

I shove my fingers into the wound to try to stem the flow of the blood, and talk in his ear. But I know it's all over, and I feel sick in the knowledge that I'm the one who dragged him into this. Worse still, in those final moments I doubted his motives, believing him to be part of the conspiracy that's been targeting me.

I know I have to do something. On the battlefield, a soldier is expected to do everything he can to evacuate a wounded comrade, even if his injuries are such that it looks like he may not make it. I'm in no position to administer first aid, so if there is a chance of saving Lucas, I have to call an ambulance. I owe it to him. But I can't stay here. Not in a house full of corpses; not after everything else that's happened today. Now more than ever, I need to find the bastard behind this.