'This whole fucking building's a safe, Neil. If I'd known you were giving away the combination I'd have changed the bloody locks.'

'Yes, well. Nothing I can do about it, Frank, I'm afraid he's on his own now. And if anyone is well placed to get themselves out of the shit it's him.'

Frank's secretary Sheena poked her head round the door and mouthed to Frank, 'I'll come back.'

Frank shook his head and waved her in.

'Got to go, Frank. I'll call you later. There's only a handful of us know anything about the Thevshi, and even less who he really is. Chances are the Provos won't know what the hell to make of it. I wouldn't worry. I'm sure he can handle himself.'

Chrysaor hung up.

Frank lowered the phone from his ear and turned.

'Sorry to interrupt, sir,' said Sheena.

'I was finished anyway. What's up?'

'Been a few sightings of Lep McFarlane cutting around his old haunts. Just thought you'd want to know.'

Frank looked surprised. 'Lep McFarlane! Really? I thought that little weasel was dead.'

Chapter 7.

Tuscaloosa, Maundy Thursday, late

Marie was standing at the main entrance of her two-storey Sixties apartment building using her foot to jam open the door. The small lobby behind her was in darkness and the concierge had clocked off for the night.

The cop standing on the step below was trying to act casual: hands on hips like he owned the place, still wearing his sunglasses even though it was dark.

Marie had hoped that Sheriff Bill Clay would drop her at the main gate, but he'd insisted on parking up and walking her all the way to her door.

She was staring at him with a vacant expression, not really paying attention any more. The guy sounded like he was reading from a book like he was just out of cop academy. Wouldn't matter if he was telling you your grandmother had been hacked to death by a psycho or you'd just won the lotto, it'd all come out the same. He didn't listen either: liked the sound of his own voice too much, which she found odd as it only had one goddamn tone.

No matter how many times she'd corrected him, he still called her 'Mary' instead of 'Marie', so she decided to call him 'Ball' instead of 'Bill'. So far he hadn't noticed.

Marie was looking forward to a bath; she was tired and wanted to wash away the smell of institutions from her clothes. Must be the floor-polish they used or something, but the smell in the cop station reminded her of school. Local County probably had a contract with a cleaning firm that did all the municipal buildings, which would account for them all smelling the same.

She figured it was a good contract to have, then caught herself: Ball Clay was so dull he'd made her think about cleaning products?

Marie hadn't eaten anything since lunchtime and her stomach was beginning to hurt. If she didn't eat every couple of hours her blood sugar dropped and she got ratty.

The interview process had taken nearly eight hours and it was now well after eleven in the evening. At the station they'd offered to get her a burger brought in from across the street, but who the hell ate that shit any more? Cops, obviously, thought Marie.

They'd seemed genuinely disappointed when she turned it down. Even tried to persuade her that the burgers were the best in Tuscaloosa.

'The guy uses real beef.'

'As opposed to what?' she'd wanted to ask, but that would have meant getting involved in another conversation, so she'd kept her mouth shut.

Sheriff Ball Clay was still talking.

'Do you know any other tunes?' Marie heard herself say.

At least it stopped him.

'Excuse me?'

'I'm sorry my mind was elsewhere which is really where I want to be too.'

'You sure you don't want me to see you up to your apartment, ma'am?'

'No really! Please! I'll be fine.'

'Sure, well if there's anything we can get for you, you just let me know.'

'Do you do deliveries?'

He looked up at her with no expression on his big dumb face.

Marie sighed, 'Do you do humour?'

'Excuse me, ma'am?'

Marie was finished with trying to be nice. 'Is this going to take much longer Ball? We've been standing here so long my legs need waxing to get rid of the new growth.'

'No ma'am, I'm nearly through. Here's my card. Got all the numbers you'll ever need on it.' He handed a card to her that had his photograph on the front looking like he had someone's finger stuck up his ass. 'Just call the mobile, get straight to me. The whole force is carrying them these days. Makes you wonder how we managed before. We're gonna sit right over there, in that there vehicle for the rest of the evening, make sure you're okay.'

Just as Ball turned to point at the patrol car parked in one of the bays, someone came up behind him. The guy had to duck to avoid getting an elbow in his face.

'Excuse me, sir,' said Ball.

'Sure,' said the guy, flicking the cop a look.

Marie recognised the guy, but couldn't remember his name; one of her neighbours from the floor below.

She smiled half-heartedly.

'Hi.'

The guy nodded to her and mumbled back at her. 'Hi.'

The guy didn't really look at Marie as he squeezed past her through into the lobby. The brown takeaway bag he was carrying smelled good: something Asian, Indian food maybe?

There was just no stopping this cop. 'One of our Trauma team will be in to talk to you first thing in the morning. They'll take you through this whole situation; explain what happens if you need to go to court, make sure you're familiar with the procedure, and there's a couple of FBI agents driving down from Birmingham might want a word too, so don't book any holidays just yet.' He grinned like the finger had been taken out his ass . . . and something bigger put in its place. As he backed away he made a clicking sound with his tongue that made Marie want to reach out and strangle him.

It wasn't just the tiredness that was making her feel this way: it was the lack of food.

'You sleep safe, ma'am, you under the protection of the Tuscaloosa Sheriff's Department now.'

'Great,' she replied and made the same clicking sound right back at him. 'I was worried I'd have to take a sedative, but now I know you guys are looking out for me I'm sure I'll be fine . . . If I do have trouble sleeping I'll just run through everything you've just been saying: that should knock me out for a couple of days.'

Bill Clay smiled at her like she'd said 'Thank you.'

'You welcome, ma'am.'

Marie made sure the building's main door was securely locked then turned and walked wearily through the lobby. She thought about checking her mailbox, but she didn't even have the energy to do that.

The lingering smell of Indian food was making her mouth water. First thing she'd do was order some to be delivered, then mix herself a large whiskey sour and hope that the alcohol might blind her mind's eye enough to stop the flashbacks.

Every time she closed her eyes she could see the creepy guy in the shades flying through the air with his chest ripped open. The ringing in her ears seemed to grow louder with each replay. And the bitch of it all was that her mind kept playing the scene back in slow motion.

She would run a bath and change into some fresh clothes and get drunk.

Marie was still wearing the sweatshirt from work that said 'McHales' on the front: she'd only just noticed it was speckled with tiny spots of blood. Who the blood belonged to was a question for another time. Her hair looked like shit too.

She pushed through the double doors into the main stairwell and climbed to the first landing, then stopped for a moment. It was the first time she'd been on her own all day.

She wished there was someone waiting for her in the apartment, someone she could offload to, tell everything she'd been through, how it had made her feel, how scared she'd been, then cuddle up and fall asleep, wrapped up safe.

Marie stood there in the dark empty stairwell with her head bowed and let a tear run down her face. She'd never seen violence like that before: for real, up close. The memory of it made her shudder.

It was much more brutal, much more savage than she could ever have imagined. And yet, at the same time there was something so matter-of-fact, so ordinary about it. That's what had taken her by surprise and left her feeling sick to the stomach. Alive one minute, dead the next.

She'd seen footage once of a Viet Cong prisoner being shot in the head watched in disgust as blood spurted from the hole in the guy's skull while he sank slowly to the ground: his eyes still focused.

She had the same sense of repulsion now, but a hundred times worse.

The tears were falling freely.

Marie wasn't sure how long she'd been standing like that, when she was startled by a sudden noise echoing along the lobby.

Someone was pulling at the main door.

From the din they were making it was obvious they were eager to get in, but didn't have a key.

Marie tried to stay calm, but the day's events had left her feeling edgy and vulnerable.

They were rattling the door, kicking it, trying to force it open: the sound amplified and distorted by the marble floor and solid concrete walls.

She flipped the light switch on the landing, but there was no bulb so she had to clamber up two flights of stairs in darkness: her heart pumping like it was going to burst out of her chest and grab her by the throat.

When she reached the third floor she pushed her shoulder against the heavy inner door.

It opened on to a long, covered balcony overlooking a large inner courtyard that served all of the apartments. There was a lit pool and flat grassy lawn with uplighters illuminating some of the bigger plants.

Marie tried the light switch there too, but it wasn't working either.

She stopped.

There was a movement in the shadows halfway along the balcony.

Marie could make out the tall figure of a man standing outside her apartment door . . . standing there like he was waiting for her. It was difficult to tell the light was so bad but it looked like the guy from downstairs who had pushed past her at the main door a few minutes ago.

She wanted to turn and run, but whoever had been trying to get into the building had obviously succeeded and the sound of footsteps could be heard echoing noisily up the stairwell behind her.

Her only option was to move forward: meet the guy head-on and ask him what the hell he was doing standing outside her front door.

She wished she could remember his name.

As she drew near he started speaking.

'What kept you?' he asked.

Marie stared at him for a moment.

'I was having a little "me time" in the lobby,' she replied. 'And I couldn't find the off button for the sheriff.'

The guy held up the brown paper bag.

'You hungry?'

His voice was familiar, but somehow didn't match the face.

'Is it Indian?' asked Marie.

'Thai.'

It was only then that Marie realised.

'Do you know how to mix a whiskey sour?' she asked.

'No,' he replied. 'Do you know how to pour a beer?'

Marie started to get the keys out of her bag.