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stop walking. Harrison stood and watched him go.
    Then, just as Van Hulle was about to descend, Harrison hurried after him. ‘Oh yes, Isaiah? Just remembered something I wanted to ask you.’
    ‘Yes?’ Van Hulle stopped a couple of steps down, wanting to go on but reluctant to appear rude even to a man he detested.
    ‘Yes. A friend of mine is interested in buying that old car showroom down on The Parade. Seems to be some uncertainty over the identity of the other parties in the running. You wouldn’t know what the situation is would you?’
    Van Hulle raised his eyebrows. He paused a moment before answering. ‘I’m aware of the site you refer to, Mr Harrison, but I’m not the best person to answer your questions. My company principally deals with civil engineering projects and social housing. We have little involvement in commercial property.’ He gave a narrow smile. ‘Our work is on different lines. “Build you cities for your little ones, and folds for your sheep.” We follow a different path.’
    ‘Oh well,’ Harrison shrugged. ‘Just thought you might have heard. I know my friend is quite keen on the place. Might be willing to come to an arrangement. Develop a partnership, that sort of thing.’
    Van Hulle gave a quick nod and hurried down the stairs and out of sight.

5. Shifting Ground
    Monday, 8.03pm:
    For Daniel Harper, the nightmare did not end with his fiancée walking past him in the street. There were more twists of the knife yet to come.
    After finally abandoning the lamppost on the High Street, he continued home to William Street. It was a slow walk; the pain from the bruises up his left side seemed to get worse rather than better. The discomfort did, however, help take his mind off the insanity of the past couple of hours. None of it made sense and it seemed easier to grit his teeth and concentrate on walking than try and work it out.
    When Harper finally hobbled into William Street, it was with a great sense of relief. The street looked the same as usual: a backwater of terraced red-brick houses, lines of parked cars broken by the mature trees dotted along the pavements on either side. The orange glow of the streetlights gave the scene a warming comfort.
    There were few people about and none Harper recognised.
    He and Becca had bought the flat a few months earlier. Because of the work needed to make it habitable, they had not actually moved in until about five weeks ago. There had been little time to make new friends and, so far, they were only on nodding terms with a few fellow residents.
    But Harper was happy to go unrecognised. He was too confused, tired and angry to exchange the mildest pleasantries. He continued up William Street in silence, limping past trees, cars, piles of dead leaves and the odd wheelie-bin out ready for emptying in the morning.
     
    It was only as he drew closer to number eleven that he began to worry. The usual red Transit van was parked next door but there was something wrong with the steps leading to his and Becca’s first floor flat.
    At first glance, Harper could not work out what was wrong; it simply did not register. But as he drew closer it dawned on him and a cold blade of doubt slid into his stomach. He blinked in disbelief. Part of him wanted to stop and turn round, walk away and go to the other end of the street: see if it worked better coming from that direction. But he kept walking: reluctant and with an acid taste rising up his throat.
    A couple of doors away, Harper paused. Above the low brick walls at the side of the steps, he could see the straggly branches of a small buddleia. The bush was growing from a crack in the wall where the flight turned to go up to their door.
    He blanched. A tight fist gripped his heart and he felt himself cringe, both externally and internally. A shiver ran down his spine and a twinge of nausea made his stomach twist.
    The bush should not, and could not, be there. Harper had removed the buddleia himself. It was one of the