Free The Advent Killer by Alastair Gunn

sure?’
    Actually, Hawkins was pretty certain that the perma-tanned, track-suited granddad Mike couldn’t yet see probably wasn’t their guy, but he’d served his purpose.
    ‘Oh, wait, no. It isn’t him.’ She did her best to look disappointed.
    ‘No, but
that
is.’
    Mike was out of the passenger seat before she had time to react. She turned to look out of the rear window just in time to catch Barclay crossing the road, pointing at something, or some
one
, she couldn’t see.
    She wrenched the key from the ignition and opened the door, standing up to look back down the street. She couldn’t have been more obvious but, thanks to Mike, their cover was probably blown already.
    A dark, olive-skinned man had just entered his garden and was making his way towards the front door. He wore jeans and a tan sports jacket over a creased white shirt.
    It was definitely their guy. Barclay was closing on him, but she couldn’t see Mike. She set off up the street.
    ‘Marcus De Angelo?’ Hawkins heard Barclay say as he moved past the gate.
    She picked up her pace, although she was still fifteen yards away.
    ‘Fuck off.’ The guy struggled with his keys in the door, as if the lock wasn’t working properly.
    ‘We’d like to talk to you.’ Barclay said.
    ‘You’re trespassing, man.’
    ‘Met Police. We need to ask you some questions.’
    De Angelo spun round. ‘
Police?
’
    Hawkins saw his fists clench. He was a big guy, looked like he spent a fair amount of time at the gym. Suddenly, Barclay appeared even more wiry than normal. He shouldn’t have approached De Angelo alone. She reached the gate just as Barclay went for his badge.
    Then De Angelo punched him.
    Barclay sprawled backwards into her, and the pair of them crashed to the ground.
    ‘Shit! Are you OK?’ Hawkins struggled to free herself from under the trainee, who groaned before launching into a coughing fit. She stood up in time to see the front door slam.
    She glanced back at Barclay, who was fighting his way up onto an elbow. It must have been a good shot; he wasn’t going anywhere for a few minutes, and there was still no sign of Mike.
    She’d have to go in alone.
    She ran over and tried the handle, relieved when the door opened into a narrow hallway. ‘Mr De Angelo?’ she shouted. ‘DCI Hawkins, Met Police. Can we talk?’
    Nothing.
    ‘I’m coming inside.’
    She edged into the hall, checking the stairs to her left. He wouldn’t have cornered himself up there. Which left three exits from the hallway: two archways to her right and one door at the end of the hall, closed.
    She moved to the first arch and leaned in. A lounge with a leather three-piece, two potted plants, one big-screen TV. But no De Angelo.
    Hawkins edged towards the second archway, heart battering her ribs, sliding along with her back against the wall.
What the hell was she thinking?
She’d already broken protocol by entering the house, not to mention the fact she was trespassing, while De Angelo had already shown disregard for police authority, and that he was loose with his fists. He could come at her from anywhere, possibly armed. Plus fifty per cent of her back-up had disappeared, and the other half had been knocked on its arse. Yet here was an exposed Antonia Hawkins, casually chasing a potential murderer into his lair.
    Suddenly there were noises from deeper inside the house, and the light at the bottom of the door at the end of the hall showed brighter, as if another had been opened beyond.
    He was going out at the back.
    She ran to the door and flung it open, but De Angelo was already outside. She saw the concentration on his face through the glass; heard the key in the outer lock.
    Shutting her in.
    She shot forwards and grabbed the handle, forcing it down. Their eyes met through the glass. He was inches away, but she saw the look of relief cross his face when they both realized it was locked.
    ‘Sorry, darling.’ He winked. ‘Maybe next time.’
    De Angelo turned and