A Killing … or TwoNo more than two kilometres downstream from Tower Bridge, Michael Hamon sat in his makeshift control room aboard a creaking, rotting hulk of an abandoned fishing vessel. The rain drummed on the rusted roof, and the cold bit deep into his very bones. Huddled over the screen of his computer, he pressed a tissue against his nose and longed for some semblance of warmth.
He watched the ensuing fire-fight, saw Bremen helping the girl from the car. A girl he knew. Cerys. The screen zoomed into the action just as the car exploded, Bremen thrown into the air like a toy. But he got up. He still lived.
Which was more than could be said for Cerys.
He saw her, the woman he shared so much with, engulfed in the blast, her body disintegrating, nothing more than a black, shrivelled twi
