He was lying on his side, almost in the foetal position, his face slightly shielded. But even from this position Michael could see where his face was bloated and discoloured from where the poison had attacked his immune system. Michael moved towards the body, casting a quick glance at the sprinklers that had delivered his moment of vengeance. The noxious cocktail Smith had devised had dissipated from the air. Although Michael could still feel his skin tingling slightly as he stood in the silent office. Thoughts of Colette and Clare ran through his mind. Trevellion was dead and that was all that mattered. Their deaths hadn’t been for nothing. Michael woke suddenly from his sleep, his eyes shooting open as a cold sweat enveloped him. As his gaze became accustomed to the early morning light he recognised the shapes of the mobile home. One of the blackout curtains was slightly ajar allowing some light to stream into the room across where he was lying on one of the dilapidated sofas. It was then the realisation he’d been dreaming about Trevellion’s death struck him.
