Strachan pulled out into the middle of the road, driving on the wrong side, fist pounding the horn of his Dodge, clearing all other traffic out of the way.
Other horns blared back. Rickshaw drivers swore a thousand curses on his ancestors. Pedestrians sprinted to the other side of the road. A horse-drawn cart, turning right, crashed into a row of street stalls as the driver realised this madman wasn’t going to stop.
Strachan raced through the junction, mouth set and horn still shouting his determination to keep going.
Would he get there in time? Or was the inspector already dead? And what about Elina’s mother? Had Allen already murdered her too?
He stomped even harder on the accelerator, feeling the surge through the Buick. No mother was going to die today. Not today.
He turned sharply left along Carter Road. A big Jordan, driven by an old chauffeur, was coming straight towards him. The driver seemed not to see the danger, as if he was blind to anything and everything on the road. Strachan swung left, up on to the pavement. Pedestrians jumped out of the way, hawkers threw their goods up into the air and ran, and one frightened noodle seller stood still, too frightened to move.
Strachan swerved back on to the road, cutting across a pedestrian crossing, narrowly missing the noodle seller.
Up ahead, he could see the Sinza Water Tower looming over the district. He crashed through Sinza Road, turning sharply left, producing a screeching from his tires, echoed by a cacophony of car horns and shouts from irate drivers.
He raced past the refuge. Their visit seemed so long ago, but it had only been a few days. They should have checked the Water Tower when the girl had been found running through the streets, her clothes torn to shreds.
But they didn’t.
He hammered his fist into the horn of the car, forcing a rickshaw driver off the road into the gutter at the side.
He just hoped he wasn’t too late.
He accelerated to a stop outside the Water Tower, flung open the door and dived out.
The street was eerily quiet, empty except for one child playing with a hoop and stick. He pulled out his revolver and sprinted into the courtyard.
He couldn’t be too late. Not this time.