Stepping out of the tram, I know I’m being watched and have to fight the urge to glance behind, where many of the officers are alighting. Trying to appear relaxed, I can’t ignore the pounding of my heart as I stride past the ski shop, pausing to adjust my reflection in the large windows before continuing. Opposite me, the white cubic form of the hotel and furniture store shouted its white rendered presence against the subtle Georgian and contemporary red brick and stone shops and apartments. A crisp ring and whoosh announced the arrival of the tram from the station, and I pause to glance over my shoulder at its sleek green and white form, before turning into Adams Walk and heading down the pedestrian path to the steak house.
A burning pain exploded in my thigh. Staggering sideways against the wall with a cry, my head was spinning as I stare wildly around for assistance. Shaking, my legs give way, and I collapsed with a thud as cries of distress and running footsteps fill the air. Tears welled up unbidden in my eyes, and I whimpered as DS Witmore appeared by my side.
“Where did he get you?” He demanded.
“My leg…” I gasp, my throat suddenly dry.
Staring, I watch numbly as he stretched my leg out, pressing against a gushing red stain that spread slowly across the blue jeans. In the clear flood lighting of the flats, I see the red sticky liquid glisten on his hands and overcome by a rush of darkness, loose my fight with consciousness.