Simon Kernick - Deadline

It was obvious that Richardson lived alone. There were no photos or pictures on the walls, nothing to give it the appearance of a home, and no self-respecting woman would put up with the stale smell, which got worse as he went through the lounge and into the kitchen. Washing up was piled high in the sink, which was half full of rusty coloured water, and there were plastic fast food containers everywhere, some still with the remnants of earlier meals.

He gave the bathroom a cursory glance, then carried on through into a bedroom with an unmade double bed and a view straight out on to the next block of identical flats. There was no landline in the flat, and it was definitely empty. There was also no evidence that someone had been held there against their will, or even that anyone female had been there at all recently. Bolt felt a surge of disappointment. He'd been positive he was on to something with Richardson; now unwelcome realization began to break over him.

There was a small cabinet beside the bed with a lamp on it. He checked through the drawers, moving quickly, but found nothing other than underwear and socks. Sighing, he stood back up.

Which was when he heard the movement behind him and the menacing, aggression-laced growl, 'Who the fuck are you?'

Bolt swung round fast, adrenalin surging through him as he came face to face with Marcus Richardson. The first thing that crossed his mind was that Richardson was a lot stockier than he remembered him. The second thing that crossed it was that the former armed robber wasn't going to be waiting for an answer to his question. Instead he came forward fast, his face set hard, and Bolt saw that he had a small wooden cosh in his hand.

'Thought you could fucking rob me, did ya?' he demanded, raising up the cosh for Bolt to see, his biceps rippling beneath his sweat-stained Lonsdale T-shirt, the eyes just as cold and unpitying as they were in the mugshot.

Bolt had to make a decision, fast. He was trapped, with his back to the wall. He could identify himself, say he just wanted to talk, but he knew it would make little difference. In fact, it might make things worse. Richardson had already worked himself up for violence and Bolt knew that if he got the shit kicked out of him now he'd be out of action for days, and with Emma needing him as much as she did he couldn't have that. Not because of the actions of a low-life bottom-feeder like Marcus Richardson.

He experienced a sudden and ferocious sense of injustice, and in that single moment something inside him just snapped. All the tension that had been building up over the past twenty-four hours – the constant frustration, the crushing feeling of impotence – finally found the kind of outlet it had been waiting for. But he knew better than to go in guns blazing.

'Listen, I'm sorry,' he stammered, raising his hands, palms outwards, in a non-confrontational pose.

Richardson grinned, still coming forward, raising his free hand to grab Bolt by the collar.

'You will be, mate.'

Without a sound, or even a change in his contrite expression, Bolt lunged at Richardson, moving so fast that he took the other man completely by surprise. He grabbed both wrists and yanked them apart to create a gap, and before Richardson had time to react Bolt slammed his forehead into the bridge of his opponent's nose.

It was a good hit, but Richardson was no pushover, and though he stumbled, he didn't lose his footing. With an angry, pained grunt, he pulled his weapon hand free of Bolt's grip. But Bolt still had the advantage, and he used it, butting him a second and third time in rapid succession, creating a deep cut just above Richardson 's eye.

This time Richardson did fall backwards, landing on the bed, Bolt going down on top of him with as much force as he could muster. The blood was running into his eyes but Richardson still managed to drive the cosh into Bolt's ribs. Bolt grunted in pain but knew he had to keep up the momentum before the other man got his act together, so he rolled over on to Richardson's weapon arm, effectively limiting the cosh's swing to only a few inches. In such a close-quarters position his head remained his best weapon, and he smashed it down into Richardson 's face again and again, feeling a blind, furious elation. He heard bones crack under his blows and felt blood slick against his forehead.

Richardson struggled under him. He finally managed to get his other hand free, and used it to grab Bolt by the collar of his shirt and push his face away, but on this day of all days Bolt wasn't stopping for anyone. Spotting an opportunity, and with his usual inhibitions temporarily absent, he rammed two fingers first into Richardson's left eye, then into his right, digging them in as far as he could, ignoring the high-pitched shrieks of pain coming from the other man.

Of all his tactics, this was by far the most effective. Temporarily blinded, Richardson howled and waved his arms about uselessly. Bolt jumped up from the bed, twisting the cosh out of his hand and throwing it against the far wall.

'Jesus, stop it! Take what you want!' wailed the ex-con, writhing about on the bed, pawing at a face that had become a mask of blood.

Bolt stared down at him, panting. His head hurt where he'd been using it as a battering ram, and the baguette was lurching around his stomach. But he was still in the zone, his anger not yet sated, the realization of what he was doing still way off in the distance.

'Have you been keeping your nose clean, Richardson?' he demanded.

'What?'

'You heard me. What have you been doing the last few days?'

'What the fuck are you talking about?'

Bolt lunged forward and pulled him up by his T-shirt, slapping him hard across the face.

'I said, what the fuck have you been doing the last few days?' He stuck his face so close to Richardson 's he could smell his blood, confident he was beyond fighting back. 'Tell me where you've been. Now!'

Bolt threw him roughly to the floor. Richardson lay there, squinting up at him. He used his T-shirt to wipe the blood from his eyes, leaving behind a thick stain. His nose looked broken and he was bleeding from several cuts.

'Nowhere,' he answered. 'Just doing my job.'

'What's your job?'

'I'm a labourer. On a site near Wembley. Why do you want to know? And anyway, who the fuck are you?'

'I'm the person who's asking the questions,' Bolt answered, speaking loudly, knowing that the best way of getting answers was to continue the quickfire questions, taking advantage of his dominant position. 'So unless you want more of the same, you answer them.' He stamped a foot down hard on Richardson 's chest as he tried to sit up, knocking him back down. 'Now, where have you just been?'

Richardson looked as if he might make a grab for Bolt's leg, then evidently thought better of it.

'Out,' he said. 'Getting lunch.' He motioned towards the kitchen. 'Check if you don't fucking believe me. It's KFC. Three pieces with fries and coleslaw.'

Bolt had stopped panting now. Above the general stench that pervaded the flat was the unmistakable odour of freshly fried chicken. Realizing he might have made a big mistake, he turned back to Richardson, who was a picture of righteous indignation. In no way whatsoever did he look guilty, and in Bolt's experience people who didn't look guilty generally weren't.

'Are you a copper or something?' demanded Richardson, more confident now as he sensed the doubt in Bolt. 'Because I'm going to fucking sue you if you are, you bastard.' He touched a hand to his face, wiped off more blood. 'Look what you've done to me. That's serious assault, that is.'

But Bolt wasn't going to let things go just yet.

'Scott Ridgers. When was the last time you saw him?'

'You are a fucking copper, aren't you?' Richardson said, sitting back up again.