A continuation of the extract of “Kissing the Gunner’s Daughter”

The Silent Footsteps

But no-one was there now, dead or alive. Just the two bodies and the scarlet spread between them. Just like the outside of the giant manor house, the only sound that could be heard was silence. A small droplet of blood now fell from the hanging corner of the table cloth and fell silently to the floor. Several similar drops followed, until the marble floor held the blood aloft like liquid mercury and after a while, when the force of gravity became too strong, it dribbled and smoothly and slowly swam across the hard, cold floor, the puddle at the base of the table leg growing ever larger.

A cloud moved over the pale moon, shadowing the silver moonlight, which slowly revealed itself again, uncovering all of the shadowed objects in the room where the men with the corpses now stood. All was black in the shadow, but soon the green, velvet curtains, the scarlet-coloured table and the stern, motionless expression on Inspector Burden’s face were revealed.

His eyes had laid rest on the large bladed implement that was protruding from the back of the woman slumped on the table. His eyes were still, his breathing silent, his face motionless and his body like stone. Some who looked upon him may have thought that he had frozen in shock. It was several minutes before he or anyone else spoke.

“Pemberton,” he said quietly and almost under his breath, “call for the paramedics”.

Pemberton, who was standing not far away from him with his mouth agape, nodded quickly and swiftly left the scene. Karen Malahide moved slowly towards the bodies and pulled a couple of white gloves out of her pockets. She felt the pulse of the woman with her head hung back.

“No pulse” she said sadly, turning to look at Burden. “Nothing”.

“What do you expect?” said Vine, his voice shaking subtly. “With that amount of blood and a hole that size through your chest …”

“It’s alright, Vine” said Wexford. He turned to Malahide to receive the shocked and almost annoyed look on her face due to Vine’s remark.

“He’s not used to these kinds of …” He paused before he continued. “… massacres”.

She nodded and continued to observe the bodies. Burden also cautiously walked around and studied the bodies, taking note of everything that his eyes saw. Burden was very careful with observing these bodies, as he himself often says that the eye may see, but the mind may not.

A pale white feminine hand lay lifeless and still on the scarlet table cloth, almost illuminated by the moonlight now flooding through the broken window. Her pale blue fingertips were such a contrast to the scarlet table and the scarlet dress she was now wearing, that it looked so unnatural, so unreal.

The colour of her skin was also the colour of the edges of the window pane which still remained in place. As the window and the house continued to be bathed in moonlight, the sharp edges looked like knives, sharp cutting blades, ready to attack, so thin, so delicately sharp and lethal. It threw shadows and reflections of this terrifying image on the floor, laying a perfect reflection on the table just by the woman’s head, as she lay there, in a terrifying state, and yet looking so peaceful in her uninterrupted, sudden sleep.

Then, suddenly, Burden remembered something. He stood up abruptly and looked around. Malahide noticed his immediate search for something and wondered what he was thinking about. His eyes scanned the room, every corner and every surface, but he couldn’t seem to find what he was looking for. He turned around and looked down a corridor that he couldn’t see down when he was outside looking through the window because of the abysmal darkness that could not be pierced by human eyes. But still nothing; what he was searching for was nowhere in sight.

“She rang us” he said. Many people turned around at the sudden speech that broke the silence. No-one answered him.

“She rang us” he said a little more confidently, “and yet there is no telephone”.

Everyone then began to look around and found the same frustration as Burden as they discovered that there was indeed no telephone. Many wondered where they kept their telephones, and some questioned in their minds whether indeed the phone call came from this home. But many knew it must have been this home, otherwise how and why else would they have found it? There surely couldn’t be more homes with these sorts of murders occurring, surely …

They soon came to the conclusion that if the telephone was not in here, it must be in another room. No-one volunteered particularly quickly to search the ominous, obscure manor house, so without saying a word, Burden set off by himself first. He walked off down the corridor at a steady pace, looking for any kind of telephone or communication device.

The carpet was of a light purple and made no sound whatsoever when Burden’s large hard shoes walked upon it. Even though the darkness still flooded parts of the house where the moonlight could not reach it, the carpet was still undeniably purple. Burden always said he liked the colour purple, as even through this darkness and horror, it always has a calming affect on you. It was a soft carpet, which was probably why it made no sound, but as he continued to walk along, he noticed that not only did it become some what softer, but it also began to make very discreet sounds: almost squelching, it felt like there had been a flood recently.

Eventually, he came to a place near the end of the corridor where you could not see the floor in-front of you, and here Burden stopped and asked for some light. He could just make out, to the right of him, a huge grand staircase, entirely made out of wood. With light and in happier circumstances, this would undoubtedly be a wonderful country house that many would gladly come to visit and see in all its fabulous glory.

He took a couple of small steps forward and looked around; still no obvious sign of a telephone. However, even if there was a telephone, he probably would not have been able to see it anyway. He took another step forward and he walked into something. It wasn’t a hard stiff object like a wall, it was softer and it rocked as he walked into it.

Vine came up behind him with a torch and placed it into his hand. He gripped it and fiddled around for the switch. He faced the torch forwards away from him and flicked it on. The sudden image of never-before-witnessed horror that was now before them made even the hardest and bravest of hearts jump and quiver in fear.

Gasps and screams cut short from shock were heard by all as the hanging third victim swung before them, eyes and mouth as wide as the moon outside, lips as blue as the other woman’s fingertips at the table, terror written clearly on her pale and lifeless skin.

She was dangling from the magnificent chandelier that hung, still and beautiful, from the carved and decorated ceiling. Her hair was brown like chocolate and it seemed to have been cut or pulled out, as clumps were missing amidst the beautifully combed hair that remained. Her dress was a rich royal blue, and she wore pearls around her neck on a golden chain. In her ears were also pearls, which would have made her look so beautiful, had her face and ears not been the colour they were, due to her lack of breath. A black cord was wound tightly and several times round her smooth, swan-like neck and legs, and it trailed down her body, down her arm, down her side, and eventually trailed along the floor, along the carpet, finally leading to the disabled telephone, sitting on a small, wooden table in the corner.

Malahide, once she had recovered from shock, cautiously came forward, her eyes never leaving the face of the young woman. The swinging woman looked, by Malahide’s estimate, no older than twenty-five. Burden announced that this must be the woman who called them on the telephone, because not only was the telephone itself, though disconnected from the actual wire, tucked into the mass of black cord on her back, but also she seemed to have been more brutally hurt and murdered than the other women, even though the other women were equally brutally killed themselves, so perhaps she was more punished for calling for help. She also had a large purple bruise mark on her cheek, perfectly matching the colour of the carpet.

Malahide also pointed out that although in the telephone call, she’d said “I’m bleeding to death”, there did not seem to be a single drop of blood on her. The answer to this riddle was soon uncovered. Burden thought for a moment, then looked down at the carpet where he had just walked. He noticed that where the carpet was light purple, the tone of the purple had grown darker until it became a deep, royal purple. Just before their feet, it had turned scarlet. Burden knew she must have been severely cut somewhere, and looking up into the poor woman’s eyes, he knew he had to find out.

“Pemberton, have you a pair of scissors?” he said commandingly.

Pemberton squatted on the floor and rummaged around in the bag of equipment he had brought with him. Although at first, his face was grave and unhopeful, he soon brought out a large pair of sharp domestic scissors. He snipped the wire, and it swirled round and round her poor, red neck, flew off her neck and began to hurriedly unravel itself from her legs.

All those present took at least one step back, in fear of being attacked by the flying wire now spinning around and burning her delicate skin and in fear of being too close to the sight they were about to see. As the cord unwound itself before them and eventually flew off the woman, revealing where the scarlet came from and showing them all just how brutal this murderer was to this poor defenceless woman.

As the wire relieved its tightness and left her body, two long, slender and now totally powerless limbs hit the floor with a thud, now almost entirely scarlet coated in dried blood and gruesome beyond belief. Yet still the woman remained there, eyes wide, mouth open, her skin pale with a blue of her own, still, silent and utterly terrifying.

As Burden and his team looked at the figure in astonishment and shock, no-one moved nor uttered a word. All was still, all was silent, save for the slow, gentle rocking of the female corpse and the quiet tinkling of the crystals on the chandelier. The darkness still loomed over everything and everyone, and many of them would gladly have left this gorgeous yet terrible house, had they not been compelled to stay by their eagerness to get to the bottom of this mystery. After many moments of silence, with no movement or speech, the silence was broken.

“We can’t just stay here and stare in fear at these bodies” said Wexford sternly, snapping people out of shock and his voice breaking the silence like the clanging of metal.

“If we split up and search the house for as much more information, maybe we’ll get to the bottom of this mystery before this time tomorrow”.

Most of those present had forgotten just how late it was. The moon was full and high when they had arrived and it was nearly midnight then, and another hour at least must have passed. Maybe even two, no-one was sure.

“Malahide and Pemberton can search the house for more bodies. Vine, go to the police, explain what we know so far and call for more paramedics. Burden and I will search the house for …”

Without warning, it came. With no warning, they suddenly heard it. So quietly and so swiftly, it could easily have gone unobserved. All eyes, in a split second, turned to the stairs. Nothing could be seen, not a shadow or anything, but something was undoubtedly heard.

It was so quick, so secretive, and yet so soft with such great stealth, it was admirable. Some were not sure if they had actually heard something or whether they were imagining things in the darkness, but no-one was willing to take the risk.

“Everyone to where you should be” said Wexford, whispering to make as little noise as possible. Vine skipped back the way they came, past the bodies to find the front door, Pemberton and Malahide stuck together and explored the many downstairs rooms for more victims, and Wexford indicated to Burden to stay with him. Burden nodded, and together they moved towards the stairs.

The banister was coated with varnish and polish, which made the firm wooden banister shine and glisten when the moonlight laid its gentle touch upon it. The stairs themselves had a dark beige carpet with a light purple rim to match the carpet carefully fitted into each corner of every step. Huge paintings and portraits covered the old, cream-coloured walls, untouched masterpieces that would have made wonderful sights for the two Inspectors now passing them, but unfortunately for them, they had no time for art.

Slowly but surely, they crept up the stairs, silently, close together and guns close at hand, for they were armed for protection. Their ears were on high alert, listening to every sound made and listening out for any sound that might be made. For now, however, no sound could be heard, for they were being silent and no sound was being made upstairs. All the time they looked around, quickly turning their heads round and behind them, to make sure that there was no-one there that could cause them grief. These giant stairs seemed to go on forever; up and up and up they climbed, their beating hearts and their breathing quick but quiet, sweat building up in their palms, as their fear and eagerness to find this killer rose.

As they climbed ever higher, the two of them realised that there were small lights hanging from the walls and the ceiling. Their glow was dim and gentle, but it meant that the torch now was no longer needed. Enormous window panes loomed huge and fantastic above them, flooding the ceiling and the opposing walls with moonlight. This still made the Inspector feel uncomfortable and would have much preferred to have just the dim lamplight, as deep down inside, he feared the sight of another gruesome corpse, and the amount of moonlight made him feel that they may encounter more.

After many, many more minutes of climbing, it finally came; the noise they had been hunting for. It was more definite now, and sounded like running. They could not miss this opportunity; the two Inspectors looked at each other for a brief second, regarded each other, and quickly ran after the sound. There was no shadow, no physical person, no sight to be seen; if there was, their eyes did not look up quick enough to see it flee from them. They were certain the sound and the shadow (if there was one) were running away from them, probably in fear, and they were encouraged by this.

They ran up several more flights of stairs. They were so high above the ground floor and they had passed so many corridors and secret little passages that they were sure they must several tens – if not, hundreds – of feet above the earth. But now, their minds were set on one thing, one objective and one goal only: to find this person and give them the justice and the punishment they deserve.

They continued to run with their stakes running high and with nothing to stop them. They ran and ran and ran, up and up and up these stairs, until finally, whoever it was turned off the stairs. They ran into a corridor with a single door.

They saw it slam. Something was in there.

The sound and the invisible shadow was in there.

It had to be, the door could not have slammed like that by coincidence.

They stopped running. They simply stood there, staring at this door. Staring at the handle that they knew they would have to open. Their breathing slowed down and become deep, desperate breaths. They slowly and cautiously advanced towards the door. The Inspectors crept along the long and silent corridor without making a sound and stood by the door, one on each side of the door posts.

The door was large, darkly-coloured and was clearly thick, almost impossible to knock down by force. It was wooden, clearly lined with dark marks from the wood, with a large metal handle, painted gold, that was easily the size of a man’s hand.

Silence, the suspense, the fear and the desperation to capture him overpowering them with every second that passed by. Burden gripped the handle. He gripped it hard. He looked at Wexford, who looked back at him. They nodded at each other. They both drew their guns, and prepared themselves …

Three, two, one …

The handle turned, and Wexford and Burden ran into the room, full speed and in full strength.

“POLICE!” screamed Burden, both Inspectors pointing their revolvers at anyone and anything in the room. To their surprise, nothing and no-one answered. No-one moved. Nothing moved. There was nothing in the room to reply or to move, except for the curtain flapping in the wind.

The Inspectors lowered their guns. Wexford immediately began to search the room, behind curtains, under tables, out of the door, along the corridor, behind the immense tapestry that hung on the wall around the corner, in chests and anywhere else where someone or something could be hiding.

But Burden did nothing. He lowered his gun, lowered his guard and simply stared at the perfect picturesque scene in front of him. He couldn’t believe his eyes. In front of him was something that he had seen before, something that Wexford had not noticed, nor had he thought twice about it. Burden walked forward to the window in front of him. The exact window from downstairs was now there, staring him in the face.

It was exact in every detail, except for the fact that this window was not broken. The same green velvet curtains were flapping harshly in the wind that was much stronger up here than it was downstairs. Around the window were the same window panes as downstairs lightly-coloured and wooden with not a scratch or a mark on it.

“Wexford?” he said, without looking behind him. Wexford immediately looked towards him.

“Do you recognise this window?”

Wexford took a few steps forward and without much certainty in his voice, said that he guessed that it was the one that Pemberton broke to let us in.

“Correct” said Burden. “So why is it up here?”

Wexford didn’t seem to be particularly interested in the window, as he saw no significance in it or how it linked to finding the murderer, so replied with the decent enough guess that many of the windows could have had the same design.

But Burden wasn’t so sure. He was immensely intrigued by this window. Without saying a word and making any special movement of any kind, it was almost calling to him, telling his conscience that there was more to this window than meets the eye, there was something he didn’t know that he needed to to solve this mystery. The window panes, like eyes, stared at him and Burden’s eyes stared back.

He remembered when they were in the room downstairs that the table cloth was scarlet except for the corner by the window. He was trying to piece all of the pieces together, but it didn’t make sense, he couldn’t understand it.

“What are they?” said Wexford, looking down a bit underneath the window pane. “I don’t remember them being there downstairs”.

Burden agreed. They weren’t there before. There were two handle-like objects under the window. Or were they levers?  They shone like metal but looked like wood. They were so intricately carved and created, and once again, Burden was intrigued by them.

He tried the first one. He clutched it and gave it a little turn and a push. He felt the window creak and move. The sound it made and the dust surrounding it implied to the two Inspectors that this window had not been used for a long time. The handle-like lever appeared to be the solution as to how to open and shut the window. This seemed harmless enough and was of no interest nor seemed important to their search, so Burden left it be as a simple window handle.

He then decided to try the second one, to ease his curiosity. He reached out to touch it, but just as his fingers reached it, he stopped.

He hesitated. A premonition came to him. This was somehow different to the other handle. He didn’t know why, he just felt it. He tried to put it out of his mind.

“Did you find anything, Wexford?” he asked, with a slight hint of nervousness in his voice.

“Nothing” said Wexford, his voice still, strong and emotionless.

“Good” said Burden, a small smile appearing on his face, his plan to ignore his premonition having failed, “because I think we just have!”

He pulled and pressed the handle-like object. Before they knew it, the room disappeared. Everything went black. When they’d come round to their senses after this sudden shock, they realised that the floor had disappeared and they had fallen into an abysmal darkness.

They fell several feet very quickly, and landed on something that felt like hard cushions. It was most uncomfortable, but it was nothing compared to how uncomfortable they were about to feel.

Whenever Burden and Wexford go into a house or a building for the first time, the first thing they do is look around at the detail and the design of the building and everything around them; that way they can often get an idea and a feel for the place they are entering. But here, there was nothing; no colour, no detail, no design, nothing. It was all entirely black; it looked like they had just fallen into the vacuum of space. Around them, as their eyes got used to the darkness, they saw that they were surrounded by stone. They were in a huge stone prison.

“I have never seen anything this big” said Wexford, after the two Inspectors had checked that neither of them were hurt.

“Neither have I” said Burden. He stood up with great difficulty – it was pitch-black and he was uneven ground – and had a walk around. He trod on something and he heard a low groan. He turned around, thinking it was Wexford.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Wexford?”

Wexford looked up with a confused look on his face.

“Yes, I’m fine. Why?”

“Just checking” said Burden. He took about a step forward, then heard a  voice.

“Ne regardez pas au-bas”.

It was a quiet, male voice and sounded in great pain. Burden recognised the language as French and knew that Wexford was fluent in the tongue.

“What did you say, Wexford?” said Burden.

Again, Wexford looked up with a very confused look on his face.

“I didn’t say anything” he replied. “Why? What did you hear?”

Burden looked around, confused.

Then he looked down.

A face stared back at him.

A wide-eyed, blue, dead face stared back at him.

Burden suddenly shouted and clapped his mouth with his hand in horror. He realised what he was standing on. He was standing on someone. He was standing on people. Wexford looked in Burden’s direction and saw the body himself. He looked down and saw the bodies under him. He shouted and gasped in sudden shock.

They both realised very suddenly where they were and what they were standing on. They had landed on a colossal pile of human corpses, all dressed in rich dresses and expensive suits, with jewellery and symbols of high status. Many were exceptionally beautiful and handsome, some were very young and there was even the lonely child if you looked around carefully.

However, to their surprise, they noticed that very few of them looked like the hanging female they found under the chandelier, with their mouths wide open, covered in blood and with petrifying looks on their faces. Many of them had died with their eyes open, but many of them looked like they were just sleeping. Although the fear and panic of being surrounded by filthy dead corpses was still strong in their hearts, they could not deny that they did look terribly peaceful, if you could spare a moment to study them carefully.

Burden sat down, his hand still over his mouth, his brow covered in sweat and his skin looking rather pale. He looked like he may be sick, but he had a strong stomach, and simply sat and tried to calm himself down.

But his eyes widened as he saw that the man he had previously stood on had not yet passed from this world. An old, weak hand slowly rose from his weak and dying body, which was about ten feet away from where Burden now sat. Wexford also noticed the rising hand.

“Monsieur …” said a croaky, weak and feeble voice. Both Inspectors rushed over, past the piles of rotting bodies, to the Frenchman. It was only now when they began to smell the rancid smell of the rotting bodies, which had obviously been here for sometime. It was so overpowering, so nauseating, with no windows or gaps for oxygen, breath was becoming short.

They moved over to the man lying on the floor and heaved a female body off his waist. The man seemed old and withered, looking about sixty, and his skin and his body was now so thin, you could clearly see his bones beneath the skin. He was shaking like an innocent child and was clearly afraid.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” said Burden, squatting down by the man’s shoulder.

The French man, using all the energy he had remaining, lifted both arms and placed them on Burden’s shoulders.

“Ils sont tous morts … Ils … tous …” The Frenchman’s voice was quivering, full of fear, pain and desperation.

Burden called Wexford over to translate. Wexford moved forward and, being touched by the poor man’s state held his hand and spoke to him kindly and gently, his face looking down on him with love and pity, emotions which seemed totally lost within the walls of this cursed house. Wexford asked him his name.

“Comment vous appelez vous?”

The Frenchman, although he understood what Wexford said, seemed to ignore what Wexford said so that he could tell his own story.

“J’étais en vacances … ma famille … oh mon Dieu ...” Tears came to his eyes as he said this. The pain and grief in this man’s eyes were almost unbearable to watch without your heart mourning for him also.

“He said he was here on holiday,” Wexford translated for the baffled-looking Burden. “It seems that his family are somewhere here as well”.

The old Frenchman tugged Wexford in desperation to tell him more.

“Ils sont tous morts ... Ils sont tous morts …”

Wexford translated this phrase in his head and he moved back with his eyes open, as it slowly began to click. A look of sadness and fear spread over his face.

“What?” said Burden. “What is it, Wexford?”

“They’re all dead…” Wexford replied, looking slowly towards Burden. The same look as Wexford’s spread over Burden’s face. Both Inspectors looked over their shoulders at the piles upon piles of the deceased behind them.

“They’re all dead …”

Wexford suddenly became angry at this point, and turned back sharply to the Frenchman, gently but firmly gripping his shoulders.

“Qui fait cela à vous? Qui fait cela? Nous sommes le policier. Qui est responsable?!”

(“Who did this to you? Who did this? We are the police. Who is responsible?!”

The Frenchman sighed slowly, but Wexford refused to give up hope. He clenched his teeth and gripped the man’s shoulders ever harder.

“Repondez-vite!”

But the Frenchman heard and said no more. As he sighed loudly and heavily, he sank into the pile of bodies, his eyes open with fear, his mouth slanted and open, his face engraved with sadness from his trauma. Wexford’s eyes widened as he saw the man die in his arms and he laid him there, sat back and sighed.

“What did he say?” said Burden, aware that a man had just died in his friend and colleague’s arms. “Did you tell you anything?”

“No” said Wexford, sadly. “I asked him who was responsible but …” he paused slightly. “Let’s just say he didn’t reply”.

Being catholic, Wexford made a quick sign of the cross, commended him to God, then sat back with Burden and looked around. Burden, however, was thinking about what the man had said. In the last couple of moment, things had just started to make sense.

“They’re all dead …” said Burden under his breath.

Wexford looked at him, expecting some kind of explanation to follow.

“What is it?” he said, urging Burden on.

“He said ‘They’re all dead’, referring to these people down here”.

“Yes” said Wexford, “he did”.

“That’s what the woman said in the phone call” said Burden, a tone of discovery in his voice. “Therefore, she must have known this place existed; she must have known these bodies were down here …”

“She was down here with them” finished Wexford.

“Exactly” said Burden, his idea having finally been completed.

“But then …” said Wexford, deep in thought. For about five seconds, his face was lined with thought and concentration. Then, his eyes widened brightly and his face glistened with hope.

“She must have escaped!” said Wexford, now very hopefully and almost excited.

“Precisely” replied Burden.

But Wexford’s face then sank slightly into confusion.

“But what of the other two women?”

“Perhaps they were with her” said Burden, answering Wexford’s question with an answer that seemed obvious after it had been said.

Wexford nodded his head, agreeing.

“However” said Burden, gravely, “we still have no clue as to who actually did this and who is responsible”.

“True” said Wexford, “true”.

Just then, a thought occurred to him.

“What about Pemberton and Malahide?"

“I don’t know” said Burden, his voice still grave as ever and sounding completely hopeless, which was most unlike the normal Burden.

“I don’t know what has become of them”.

Under his breath, he muttered “Nor do I know what will become of them”.

Wexford looked at Burden, not sure what to say nor what to do in this kind of situation. He was saddened by the look of complete loss of faith from his friend and colleague. He felt that although it seemed inevitable, he could not give up hope of either rescue or freedom, otherwise they would both fail. Surely, he thought, somehow the others would find them? They would come looking for us, wouldn’t they? Surely?

He looked around at the cold, dull, hard stone and the cold, dull and yet soft faces of the sleeping people he now shared his prison with. He wondered why things so terrifying and horrific can still be so beautiful. He then realised that they were victims, just like he was now.

His eye caught the sight of one woman at the bottom of the heap, crushed by all the other bodies. She had long, straight brown hair with tiny curls at the ends and she was wearing a simple yet beautiful red ball gown-like dress. She looked just like his wife, and Wexford, for the first time in his life, wondered if he would ever see her again. He wondered what she was doing now. He wondered what the husband – if there was one – of the dead woman now before him was doing now. Was he mourning the death of the love of his life? Did he even know where she was? Did he know anything of the terrible fate that had befallen her? Perhaps he was here with her? Perhaps he had suffered the same fate? Such a delicate young creature, like a fallen angel, taken and torn by the hands of murderous humans who must have lost all sense of civilisation … and love. Wexford then thought that he must stop thinking these thoughts, for the pit of despair, he knew, would be much darker and so much worse than the one he was sitting in now.

Burden gave a quick release of air from his lips as he sat uncomfortably in his grey and brown suit.

“But, for now” said Burden, more clearly audible to Wexford now, “apart from worrying about them, we have a much larger problem on our hands”.

Both Inspectors looked up to the ceiling.

Wexford read Burden’s mind.

“She escaped” said Wexford reassuringly.

“Yes” said Burden, still looking up at the ceiling, which seemed to be a black abysmal hole so that you couldn’t see the top, “she did. But before we suffocate or die from disease of some form, how do we?”

Wexford stared up at the ceiling along with his colleague; staring at the point of no return and the end of all hope.