Choked

47

Midnight. And Alessandro couldn’t sleep.

He often felt like that before a fight. Tense. Agitated. Wired. His body just a machine of sinew and muscle, primed, fuelled and ready to be put to use. Coiled and unable to relax. His mind was focused on that one specific event, anticipating it, working towards it. Making and countering moves in his head, trying to out-think, outguess his opponent before the first punch had even been thrown. He planned and plotted. Tried to come up with an offensive strategy that would defeat his opponent while minimising the pain to himself. He had jabbed and weaved his way round the room all evening. And now he lay staring at the ceiling, the walls, unable to think of anything else.

Except Katrina. His girlfriend until two nights ago, when his anger, jealousy and fists had got the better of him. He knew that what he had done was wrong, but that still hadn’t stopped him. The others had all been interchangeable, forgettable. But not her. She had got into his head, this one. And she still hadn’t called. Not one word, one text. Nothing.

He had texted her. Repeatedly. Apologising. Saying he knew that he had done wrong, that it was all his fault. Asking for her forgiveness. Then, when there still no reply, begging for her forgiveness. He had checked his phone regularly. Too regularly.

And now he couldn’t sleep. So he might as well stop pretending.

He sat up, threw the covers back. Swung himself over the edge of the bed, sat head in hands. He could feel the tension zinging round his body, his fingers static, his muscles humming like electric cabling. He stood up. Paced the room. Desperately, bouncing off the walls. It seemed smaller than usual, a zoo enclosure for a captured animal. He sat back down again. There was nothing he could do. He could find no outlet for his pent-up rage, his frustration. He had to wait until the fight. Let it all out then. Channel it. Make it count.

He looked round the room once more. It was run-down, cheaply furnished. Everything either rented, second hand or stolen. Nothing cared for, looked after. No value to anything. A mess. The room was his life.

He flexed and unflexed his fists. Tried to relax his jaw. He had been grinding his teeth unconsciously. Channel, he thought once more. Focus. Make it count.

He had to win this one. Had to. He couldn’t keep living like this. Had to move on. That was why he had agreed to this fight. Make some money, let him and Katrina move somewhere else, somewhere decent. Have a good life together. A happy life.

And pay off his gambling debts. That was how he had got into this in the first place. Drinking, gambling, fighting. The unholy trinity, the nuns at school used to say. What he used to see at home. And that was him. The father and the son. The father in the son. Both imbued with the same unholy ghost. When he had become indebted to several people that he should have known better than to be indebted to, namely Mr Picking, it was suggested that he put his fists to good use. Start paying off some of that interest, said Mr Picking with a smile that had different meanings for both of them. Knowing what was waiting for him if he said no, Sandro realised he had no choice.

Before the first fight, he was terrified. He had fought before, won most of them. But they were scraps, clashes. Arguments settled. This was something different. He had stood there at the back of the barn, watching the crowd. Hearing them baying and cheering at the sight of blood. Watching them get turned on by two men hitting each other until they were unrecognisable. This wasn’t the kind of fighting he was used to. This was gladiatorial combat.

And then it had been his turn. And he was scared. He saw the man he was supposed to face. A big guy, tough-looking, a traveller carrying his hardships on his body. And angry. A total stranger, angry at Sandro for no reason. Ready to make him hurt.

If Sandro didn’t make him hurt first.

So Sandro went at him. Arms flailing, punching, jabbing. Wildly, desperately. No plan, no technique.

The bout didn’t last long. Less than one round. Sandro took a smack to the ear, went down and stayed down. He was dragged out of the ring, face and body bruised and bleeding. His benefactor and debtor was waiting at the ringside.

‘You were shit,’ Mr Picking had said. Then, to his attendants, ‘Patch him up and send him home. He’ll get better.’

And he had. Once Sandro had recovered, he had been put in to another fight. And another. He had improved, until eventually he was like his first opponent, big and angry and wearing the hardships of his life on his body.

And yet he still hadn’t settled enough of Mr Picking’s debt to be free of him. But Sandro had been around long enough. He understood how it worked now. He knew what Mr Picking was like, how he operated. And he doubted he ever would be free.

But he had to do something if he wanted to get out. He had to bet on himself. He would wait until he got there, see what the odds were and then put plenty on himself to win. It was risky; it could lead people to think the fight was rigged. No. He had to be secretive about the bet, then go out there and fight to win.

No pressure, then.

He stood up once more, pacing the room. Maybe he should go back to bed. Try to get some sleep. But he couldn’t. There was the fight, but there was Katrina too. He wondered where she was now. What she was doing.

And who she was doing it with.

Thinking that, his insides turned to acid.

And then he heard a knock at the door.

He stopped pacing, startled. Looked at it as if he could see through it, see who was calling. He checked his watch. Nearly half past midnight.

Another knock.

His heart jumped. He knew who it was.

Katrina …

The acid gone from his insides, he ran to the door, ready to pull it open. Ready for his lover to fall into his arms. Ready to do anything, say anything to start again.

Hand on the lock, he stopped. What if it wasn’t Katrina? What if it was Mr Picking or one of his associates? Telling him to lose. Telling him what kind of punishment he had to take. It had happened before. If that was the case, his plans would all fall through.

Another knock.

His heart hammering, he knew he had no choice. He had to open the door.

He flung it wide open. And stared. Stunned.

Standing there was his sister, Marina.

She looked at him. ‘Sandro … ’

And collapsed on to the floor.

48

The needle was pushed into the Golem’s ruined flesh. Poked through, pulled out again, leaving a visceral red trail. He watched, his eyes flat, his expression detached. His mind somewhere else altogether.

When he had woken up, the interior of his car looked like an abattoir. The thought was almost amusing. Because the only meat butchered in there had been his own.

Before he passed out, he had phoned Michael Sloane. Told him it hadn’t gone to plan, that he was injured and needed picking up. He left the phone on so the GPS could track him down.

Sloane, clearly not wanting to be seen to be involved, sent two of his lieutenants. They hauled the Golem from his car, laying him in the back of a Transit van, and torched his car. That didn’t upset him. He was never angry at the loss of possessions. Besides, he would invoice for the cost of a replacement.

He had lost consciousness again then, but he knew where they would be taking him. Dr Bracken. The Golem didn’t know whether ‘Doctor’ was an honorary title or an actual one, or whether Bracken was currently a doctor or not, but it didn’t matter. He had been treated by the man before. And no doubt he would be again. And he wasn’t the only one.

Bracken was well known as the go-to guy for patching up people who didn’t want to leave a paper trail or go through the system. He never asked questions.

The Golem knew where he must be. Down a secluded path off a roundabout between Romford and Ongar in the badlands of Essex. The road was quite picturesque at first, with overhanging branches and muntjac deer skipping about. There was even a large old country house at what seemed like the end of the road, nestling in amongst the trees. But take the unmade road at the side of the country house and travel down there until the branches were no longer overhanging but closing in claustrophobically and the deer dared not go because they might not make it out alive again, and there was the house of Dr Bracken. A huge, heavy metal gate sat at the far end of the unmade road, the kind that survivalists or a far-right group might hole up behind. All around the house was a high fence, electrified, topped with razor wire. Several signs, hand-painted and not always accurately spelled, had been erected to deter anyone not put off by the gate: Keep Out, Private Propity, Strangers Not Wellcome.

And that was where the Golem was being patched up.

He studied Bracken as the man worked on his arm. He was small, frail-looking, but his eyes burned with an intensity that often seemed to be the only thing animating his scrawny frame. Like he was lit and powered by an individual fire within. A fire that burned with a dark, ugly light.

Probably the same light that powered the soldiers who killed my mother, raped my family. Destroyed my village and homeland, the Golem thought. But it didn’t matter at the moment. The doctor was helping him, patching him up, so he would call a truce.

Besides, he knew where he lived.

Bracken pushed the needle in again. The Golem smelled what he always did coming off the man. Alcohol, sweat. And something more. Fear and despair. Bracken didn’t do this by choice. Perhaps this wasn’t his place after all. Perhaps he was just a prisoner here. The Golem didn’t care. As long as he patched him up, got him working again.

‘Met you before,’ Bracken slurred as he worked. ‘Don’t usually remember them, but you stick out. The skin.’

‘I killed some people who killed my family. Then I was dead inside. My skin turned grey. Then I was dead outside.’

Bracken nodded. ‘You take any colloidal silver?’

‘Of course,’ said the Golem. ‘I take many things to keep me healthy and strong. Is good. Heals you. Keeps you fit. Stops Aids, they say.’

‘And turns your skin grey.’

The Golem thought about that. ‘No. It is because I am dead inside.’

‘Whatever works for you, son,’ said Bracken, and kept pushing the needle.

Bracken used big, looping strokes, like he was stitching leather or hide, and thick black thread. The local anaesthetic hadn’t blocked out all the pain. The Golem had to rely on himself to do that.

His side had been done first. The easiest wound to clean, treat, stitch and bandage. Then the knife slashes to his arm. Again, relatively simple. But his left arm was proving problematic. It had been chewed to bits.

‘You should probably have a skin graft on this,’ Bracken had said. ‘Reconstructive surgery. It’s the only thing that’ll save it. Make it good again.’

‘I don’t have time,’ said the Golem. ‘I am working. Put me together again, send me back out there.’

‘You’ll be going nowhere for the next few days, state you’re in,’ Bracken said.

‘No,’ said the Golem, not arguing but stating. ‘Patch me up. Send me back. I am working. I have job to finish.’

Bracken waved his hand, shrugged. Not his problem. ‘As you wish … ’

He pulled the last length of thread through the Golem’s arm, tied it, cut it. Stood back. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Best I can do.’

The Golem stood up, looked at himself in the mirror.

‘I wouldn’t do that, you’ll be unsteady on your feet … ’

The Golem stood firm. Regarded his reflection.

More wounds to heal. More life markers on his body. More scars to carry. He could live with them. But Bracken was right. His left arm was a mess.

‘Bandage me up,’ he told Bracken.

‘That arm needs more than bandage.’

‘And it will get it. After I finish job.’

Shrugging once more, Bracken bandaged the Golem’s arm. The Golem kept looking at himself.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘Pills?’

‘What?’

‘Pills. You give me pills. You know the kind. You give before.’

‘Oh, now look … that’s not, that’s not a good idea … ’

‘Pills now. You know. The kind to make me strong. To make me not give in. The kind that make me feel no pain.’

‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea. You don’t … They’re dangerous. They could damage you when you take them. Hurt you.’

‘If they do,’ the Golem said, eyes hard and flat, ‘then I won’t feel it. Pills. Now.’

49

Mickey Philips had received the call over an hour ago. Murder in Jaywick. Get yourself there as quickly as possible.

Now he parked as near to the crime-scene tape as he could. Silenced the Fleet Foxes CD that had been playing and made his way to the barrier, warrant card at the ready.

Fleet Foxes, for God’s sake. It was something Phil had burned for him and left in the car, insisting he listen to it. He had played it once, under sufferance, then relegated it to the bottom of the glove box, treating it with the contempt he reserved for most of his boss’s music. At least he hadn’t launched this one out of the window on the A12. The same couldn’t be said for Neil Young’s Sleeps With Angels album.

But today he had enjoyed it. Especially ‘Your Protector’; that track had struck a chord with him. Played it three times. Even started singing along. And he knew why.

Anni. And the night they had just spent together.

As he walked, he thought back. They had sat together on the sofa in her living room. Glass of wine in her hand, beer in his. Budvar. Because she knew he liked it. He hadn’t noticed at the time, but afterwards he realised that she must have got that in especially for him in case he ever called round. That made him smile.

Anni had been curled in one corner, legs beneath her, Mickey at the other end. Trying to relax but remaining upright and forward instead. She had put some music on. Fleet Foxes.

‘Not usually my thing,’ she had said. ‘Phil downloaded it for me. It’s really grown on me.’

Mickey nodded. Sipped his beer, listened to the harmonies. Something about coming down from the mountain, being gone too long. It wasn’t bad.

‘I think he did me a copy too,’ he said. ‘Never played it.’

‘You should. You might like it.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, looking at her, ‘I might.’

‘After a hard day at work,’ she said, ‘glass of wine, this music, great way to unwind.’

‘Yeah,’ he said.

She placed her wine glass on a side table. Took a deep breath, let it out. Mickey watched her breasts rise and fall as she did so. He couldn’t help it. He put the can to his lips, noticed his hand was shaking. Swallowed hard on the beer, put it down too. His body was burning with desire mixed with a fear of rejection. He looked along the sofa at Anni. She smiled at him.

‘I can think of a better way to relax, though.’

She moved towards him. He thought of picking up his beer can again, draining it, just to take in some courage, but left it where it was. She had worked her way along until she was beside him. She placed her hand on his chest, ran her fingers down his shirt front. Her touch felt good.

She looked at him. Eyes locking with eyes. She smiled. Moved her head in towards him.

The first kiss. The first proper kiss between them. Her tongue was in his mouth, he met hers with his. Touching, exploring, mouth on mouth. Her lips so warm, so soft. Just like he had imagined. And he had imagined this a lot.

He pulled away. Looked at her. She smiled once more, eyes lit by an inner fire.

‘D’you think … ’ he said.

‘Yes … ’ Her voice breathy.

‘D’you think we should be doing this? What with … y’know. Everything that’s happened today.’

She sat back from him. ‘Don’t you want to?’

‘Yes, but … ’ He sighed. ‘The boss. Everything that’s happened.’

She sat back from him. ‘If you don’t want to … ’

‘I do.’

‘Come on, then.’ She leaned forward. ‘After today, I think this is just what we need.’

And she was back beside him, mouth on his, hands running over his clothed body, finding buttons, zips. Undoing them. Pulling his shirt off, breaking off from their kiss to slide her hands over his chest, smile.

He moved in to her neck, began kissing her there, hands slowly caressing her. Moving gently inside her T-shirt, down her chest …

She pushed herself against him. He kept caressing her. Her hands found the buttons of his jeans, began working them open. He kept his hands above her breasts.

Anni stopped what she was doing, looked at him.

‘You OK?’ she said, voice a near-whisper.

He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘You sure you want to do this?’

‘Yeah … ’ He frowned. ‘Why?’

‘You just seem … I don’t know. Like you’re holding back.’

‘Holding back? No, I’m … I’m not.’

‘Good.’

And she bit his neck. He loved it. Felt an electrically sexual charge run through him. His hands moved down to her breasts. She groaned, pushed her body towards him again. His strokes became slightly more urgent. She stopped once more.

‘Don’t you fancy me?’

‘What? Yeah, course … ’

‘Then show me. I won’t break, you know.’

He sighed. ‘I know, but … ’

‘What?’

‘I’m just … I’m sorry. I just … you’re someone special. To me. Very special. And you know … I respect you.’

‘Good. So you should. And you can still respect me.’ She smiled. ‘In the morning. But tonight, I want some fun.’

‘Permission granted,’ he said, smiling.

And from then on, Mickey didn’t have to be told twice.

50

After Mickey had left, Anni couldn’t get back to sleep.

She lay there in bed, replaying the events of the previous night over and over in her head. And they were worth replaying. She and Mickey had just … fitted. Not at first, though. Mickey had seemed reticent. She had found it quite sweet. But since sweet wasn’t the defining feature she looked for in a man — it wasn’t even in the top ten — she had gently but firmly shown him that that wasn’t what she wanted. And he had responded.

Oh yes, he had responded.

The night had been wonderful from then on. Filthy and tender by turns, thrillingly fast at times, achingly slow at others. Anticipation and fulfilment in equal measure.

But with Mickey gone, something else took hold of her mind. The CCTV footage of Marina in the garage from the day before. She kept replaying it over and over in her head. They had missed something, she was sure of it.

She ran through it once more, and … there it was.

Anni was up, showered and out of her flat in record time, calling ahead to tell the farmer’s wife from the garage that she was coming back, asking her to have the CCTV footage ready to view again. And not to empty the bins.

Less than thirty minutes later, she was standing in the back room of the service station, looking at the TV screen. She saw Marina standing impatiently in line, waiting to be served. Watched as she looked up at the CCTV camera then moved forward in the queue, bought her mints. Took one, threw the wrapper on the floor.

‘There it is,’ said Anni. ‘Stop it there.’ She pointed at the screen. ‘See?’

The farmer’s wife paused the footage.

‘She … throws the wrapper on the floor,’ said the woman, a puzzled look on her face.

‘Yes, she does. Have you swept up since then?’

‘Yes, but … ’

Anni pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket. ‘Can you show me where the bins are, please?’

The farmer’s wife took her outside to the back of the building, where black bags and flattened cardboard boxes were piled up. She told Anni which bag was the likeliest. Anni spread newspaper on the ground, split the bag, tipped the contents out. She talked as she sifted.

‘I thought it was just rubbish,’ she said. ‘At first. Just her being untidy. But then … ’ her hands worked over the garbage, unfolding every piece of paper she could find, ‘I thought of the way she found the CCTV camera, looked at it. It bugged me. And watching it back now … ’ she held up a piece of paper; discarded it, ‘I knew I was right.’

The farmer’s wife was standing beside her, watching. ‘How d’you mean?’

‘The look,’ said Anni. ‘At first I thought she was just checking where the camera was. Thinking about avoiding it. But no. She looks at the camera, then looks to the floor.’

‘So?’

‘Not just anywhere, but to a specific part of the floor. The identical same spot that she threw that bit of rubbish down at.’

‘Oh,’ said the farmer’s wife, her voice becoming excited. ‘You think she’s left you a clue? From the wrapper on those mints?’

‘Not the wrapper. She just wanted to make us think it was a wrapper. She was being subtle in case … I don’t know. Someone else was watching? But she hoped one of us would see what she was doing.’ She held up a piece of paper. Smiled. ‘Here it is.’

As she unfolded the paper, the farmer’s wife leaned in closer to see. ‘It’s a postcode,’ she said. ‘She sent you a message.’

‘She certainly did.’

Anni thanked the woman, who said she would clear up, and that she was glad to help. Then she made her way to the pool car she had borrowed from the station, a Fiesta, buzzing like she had just speed-downed thirty espressos.

Thank God it’s got sat nav, she thought, and keyed in the coordinates. She was ready to go.

She just had one phone call to make first.

51

‘So who called it in?’ Mickey Philips asked the uniform next to him, walking down the common approach path towards the crime scene. The morning was white, fogbound. The mist curled round him like a character in a Steve Ditko comic.

The circus had arrived before him. The house and grounds had been cordoned off behind black and yellow crime-scene tape, fluttering in the breeze like disgruntled wasps. Through the fog, the white-suited forensics team were treading carefully and warily, sticking to the square metal stepping stones of the CAP, not wanting to tread on the wrong thing, explode some hidden time bomb. They never failed to remind Mickey of a team of scientists in some Hollywood blockbuster, trying to halt the spread of a deadly virus or chemical spillage. The most visible symbol to observers that something in their ordered world had gone very wrong.

Ahead of them, two white plastic tents had been erected, both to preserve the crime scene and to obscure the view of any TV news crews. Mickey had noticed a couple getting into place as he pulled up. Finding good positions for their cameras and reporters. White mist, white tents, white-suited people. Wouldn’t make for the most dynamic TV pictures.

Since Mickey was with the Major Incident Squad, he tried to avoid the crews. If they recognised him as he approached, they might think there was a story to be had, and that would make his job even more difficult.

The uniform by the inner cordon checked his notes, hurried to keep up with him. ‘Someone out walking their dog. Proper angry old man. Saw a lump on the lawn.’ He pointed to the first white tent. ‘Thought it was someone asleep. A tramp, he said. Went to … ’ He checked his notes. ‘Berate the person, as he said.’

‘Berate? He used that word?’

The uniform nodded. ‘His exact word.’

‘Go on.’

‘Right.’ He looked down at his notes once more. ‘He then realised they were dead dogs. Went up to the house to complain, found the body. And here we are.’

‘Given a statement?’

‘Yep. Got it. Very angry. Apparently there should be a law against killing dogs, he reckons.’

‘Whereas doing it to people is fine. Thanks.’

The uniform went back to his duties.

Mickey reached the first white tent. He pulled on the offered white paper suit, shoe covers and gloves. He asked if it was OK to enter, was given an affirmative. The corpses of the two dogs took centre stage. Forensics had positioned a workbench at the side. The bodies had been marked, catalogued, inspected. The surrounding area cordoned off, subject to investigation. Mickey always regarded a crime scene as a spiral. Start at the edge, work inwards to the centre — the crime itself. And once that story was told, a conclusion could then be worked towards.

‘What have we got?’

Jane Gosling, another MIS DS, turned to him. He knew her well. Pleasant temperament, passionate about amateur dramatics. He made a mental note: must get round to seeing her in something. Only polite.

‘Two dead dogs,’ she said, deliberately stating the obvious. She was a large woman, and although she filled out the white suit, she carried herself with a grace that belied her size.

‘Great observation,’ said Mickey, bending down. ‘You’ll go far.’

Jane joined him. ‘This one here … ’ she pointed to the dog on the right, ‘seems to have taken a punch to the neck. Then a boot to the head. Or something heavy.’

‘And that’s what killed it?’

‘Not sure. The head’s at an angle; looks like its neck’s been snapped.’

‘Jesus. And the other?’ He indicated the second dog. ‘Someone’s had a right go at this one.’

‘They have. Blood all over its face. What we think is that it attacked someone and they fought back.’

‘Must have been a hell of a fighter. More than one of them?’

‘Don’t know. Yet. We’re still examining the footprints around the area. We’ve only found one set so far.’

‘One person did this? Jesus … ’

‘And look at the dog. What’s been done to it. It looks like it attacked someone.’ She gestured with the tip of her pen towards its mouth. ‘See there? Bits of flesh on its fangs.’

‘Should be able to get some good DNA off that.’

‘Hopefully. All that blood can’t be the dog’s own.’

He felt himself staring at it, appalled but fascinated. ‘But … what happened? It looks like its head’s been ripped apart.’

‘It has. Something very strong’s been put in its jaw. And the jaw’s been pulled apart.’

‘And that’s what killed it?’

‘It’s got a broken neck too. That seems the most likely. At this stage. But it would have died from the injuries anyway.’

Mickey shook his head. ‘I don’t get it. Why rip a dog apart, leave it for dead, then put it out of its misery?’

Jane stood up. ‘Beats me. But if it’s just one person who’s done all this, we’ve got a maniac on the loose.’

‘A very strong maniac.’

‘Right.’

Mickey straightened up. ‘Thanks, Jane. Carry on.’

He made to leave the tent. Jane placed a hand on his arm, stopped him. ‘Any news?’

He knew what she was talking about. ‘Phoned the hospital before I came here. Said he’d had a good night. He’s stable. Wouldn’t tell me anything more.’

Jane sighed. ‘What they told me. We’ve been playing this game a long time. Don’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad one.’

‘No,’ said Mickey. ‘Not so much fun being on the other side for once, is it?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Body’s in the next tent. Good luck.’

Mickey stepped back into the fog. Not thinking about Phil or Anni. Just concentrating on the job in hand.

Going to inspect the body.

52

The two laptops lay side by side. Perfectly squared off. Different makes, models, but both holding secrets waiting to be uncovered.

Michael Sloane stared down at them. Smiled. He loved the precision of their placing, the symmetry they created. Two rectangular puzzle pieces just waiting to be unlocked. They held full specifics of the operation against him: intercepted and recorded conversations, dealings he didn’t want made public, methods of permanently dealing with opponents. Not to mention all their plans of revenge in full detail.

‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘Worth dying for. Obviously.’

He turned. The Golem was standing behind him. To attention, face as impassive as ever, an automaton waiting for a command. But Sloane sensed there was something more to him. It seemed like his mind wasn’t there. He moved towards him. ‘Why are you standing there?’

The Golem’s gaze seemed to be far away. At Sloane’s words, his eyes returned to the world. Like a reconnaissance craft that had been charting the outer reaches of infinite space.

‘You’re back with us,’ said Sloane. ‘Good.’

‘Sorry?’ The Golem’s voice was quiet, quizzical. Not, as Sloane had noted before, the expected voice of a killer.

‘Why are you standing there? Here, in this room? You should be in bed. Hospitalised.’

‘I … ’ the eyes were phasing out once more, ‘am strong. Mind over matter. We feel pain … only if we allow ourselves to be hurt by it.’

‘Right.’ Drugs, thought Sloane. Has to be. ‘You got the laptop. Good. And Watts is out of the way. But you let the rest of them escape.’

‘I … yes. It is embarrassment to me.’

‘It’s more than that. It’s dangerous. And not just for you. For me as well. You’ve left far too many loose ends.’

‘I … apologise.’

‘You’ll have to do more than that. You’ll have to make it right.’ He looked the Golem up and down. His side, his arms were bandaged. He wore a loose shirt to cover them. He looked pale. Or rather, thought Sloane, a lighter shade of grey. ‘Can you do that?’

‘I can.’

‘Good. But what happened yesterday could be very damaging to me. Permanently damaging, even. And I’m not prepared to allow that to happen. Not after everything I’ve done. So I need that damage limited. Stopped. And I have to know, are you capable of doing it? Today, now, in the state you’re in?’

The Golem looked Sloane directly in the eyes. He was back, focused. No doubt about it. To look in the Golem’s eyes was to stare death in the face. Sloane blinked. Swallowed hard.

‘I can do it. Today. I am in perfect state.’ He moved forward. Sloane took a step back. ‘I feel no pain. I am … super man.’

‘Good. Then let’s … let’s crack on.’

‘Also … ’ The Golem moved, wouldn’t let him get away.

Sloane waited.

‘Also I need to redeem myself.’

‘Redeem?’

‘I am professional. I allowed … error of judgement. I considered all alarm systems except one. I did not consider dogs. It was sloppy. I need to redeem.’

‘Good.’

‘I will redeem.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘What must I do?’

Sloane returned his attention to the two laptops. ‘We need to know where she’s gone. And him, whatever he’s calling himself now. And the kid. I can’t see her getting rid of either of them. They’re her insurance. She still thinks she can win with them. How wrong she is.’

He sat down at the desk. ‘We need to find her. Hopefully one of these should give us a clue as to where they are. We also need to know if she’s still in contact with the psychologist and what we can do about that.’ He sighed. ‘I should have got rid of her when I had the chance,’ he said, more to himself than anyone else. ‘Too soft, that’s my trouble.’

Dee chose that moment to enter the room. Sloane looked round at her. She was dressed in a clinging black velour leisure suit, trainers. Hair tied back. No make-up. There was no trace of the provocatively sexual being of the previous day. She was all business now.

‘Nice of you to drop by.’

‘I’ve been working out.’ She crossed the floor towards him. Didn’t even give the Golem a second look.

Sloane smiled to himself. He never knew where he was with her. He couldn’t predict how she would behave from one second to the next, what sort of mood she would be in, what would come out of her mouth or even what she would be wearing. Those capricious mood-swings had been very entertaining in the past. Exciting. And dangerous too. But he liked that about her. No. He loved that about her. His special switch bitch …

‘I’m just briefing our friend, darling,’ he said.

She stared at him.

‘Damage limitation. Before it’s too late.’

Her reply was cut off by the phone ringing. Neither of them made a move to answer it.

‘Probably the police again,’ said Sloane. ‘They called round last night. We’ll just pretend we’re not in again.’

No response from Dee.

‘I’ve briefed the house slave. They won’t get through.’

Nothing.

Sloane looked between the Golem and Dee. Tried to work out which one was the more impassive. Couldn’t decide.

The house slave entered clutching a handset, her hand over the mouthpiece. Sloane looked at her. ‘You know we’re not to be disturbed,’ he said, voice low. ‘I left you strict instructions. Do you enjoy your punishments?’

She trembled. Passed the phone over. ‘I think … think you need to answer, sir.’ Bowed her head. Stood there as if awaiting a blow.

He took the phone, quelled the anger rising within him. Spoke. ‘Sloane.’

‘Hello, Michael.’

It took him a few seconds before he recognised the voice. Then he understood why the house slave had been insistent. She had avoided her punishment. Unless she still wanted it, of course.

‘Hello, Helen,’ he said. ‘A pleasant surprise.’

At the mention of the name, Dee’s head swung round, eyes burning into him, as if she could see the woman on the other end of the phone. She knew who it was.

‘Jeff’s dead,’ said Helen Hibbert.

‘So I heard,’ said Sloane. ‘My condolences.’

‘You know why I’m calling. I have to see you. I’m coming round.’

Sloane mustered a smile. ‘Of course, Helen. Always a pleasure.’

The phone went dead. He handed it back to the house slave, who left the room. Dee was still staring at him.

‘Let’s hope,’ he said, ‘that it’s not too late for all this damage limitation.’

The other two said nothing.

53

The fog was lifting. Not nearly enough for the sun to appear, but just enough for Mickey to make out the tall, cadaverous shape of pathologist Nick Lines standing ahead of him by the second tent. He looked like a ghost, or the Grim Reaper, ready to carry dead souls over to the afterlife. He beckoned to Mickey, entered the tent. Mickey couldn’t shake the feeling that by following Lines, he was stepping out of one world and into another.

And in a sense he was. Phil Brennan, after a few too many beers, had once explained it to him.

‘The ordinary world,’ he had said, ‘the normal, everyday world, the nine-to-five, alarm clock, EastEnders of an evening and dinner out on a Saturday world, is the one that most people inhabit. But that’s not for us, Mickey. Not for us.’

Mickey had listened, thinking that if nothing else, he’d have a good story to tell the rest of the team the next morning about what the boss had come out with when he was drunk.

‘We stand on the threshold,’ Phil had continued. ‘We’re the gatekeepers to the other world. Where the dead live, the raped, the mutilated … the abandoned. The blind, the voiceless. The real world doesn’t want to know, Mickey. They don’t want to be reminded that it exists. Because if they knew, if they really, really knew what it was like … they wouldn’t be able to get up the next morning.’

Mickey had listened. Nodded.

‘And it’s our job — you, me, Anni, the rest of the team … our job to make sure the two worlds never collide. Or hardly ever. And we do that … you know how we do that?’

Mickey had said he didn’t.

‘We do that by giving a voice to the voiceless. By speaking up for them. The murdered, the raped, the mutilated. The victims. We give them a voice. We find who did this to them.’ He had taken another drink. Found his glass empty. ‘MIS. Major Incidents. Doesn’t begin to cover it. We’re the gatekeepers, Mickey. All that stands between one world and the next. Never forget that, Mickey. Never forget that.’

And Mickey hadn’t. He hadn’t gone into work the next day and made jokes about what the boss had come out with when he was drunk. He had gone on his next case — a double murder of teenage twin girls — remembering Phil’s words. Acting on them. When he finally amassed enough evidence against their killer — their father — and charged him, leading to a successful conviction, those words had come back to him. And there was nothing funny or ridiculous about them. Just an honest job description of what he did.

So when he stepped across the threshold of the white tent, he was prepared for what awaited him. Nick Lines was already there, staring down at the sight before him.

‘There,’ Lines said, accompanied by a quick wrist-flick gesture, in case Mickey was in any doubt as to what he was referring. ‘Down there.’

Mickey looked. It had once been a man. And his death hadn’t been easy. His face was swollen, dark. His eyes wide and staring, dotted and streaked with leaked blood from burst capillaries.

‘Cerebral hypoxia,’ said Nick Lines.

‘You mean he was strangled. Choked.’

Lines didn’t answer. He wasn’t given to wasting time on unnecessary words. His dismissive manner and haughty attitude always made Mickey feel inferior. He was fairly sure it was a pose the pathologist had worked up, a mask he had initially worn to hide his own all-too-human reactions to his work. But like most masks worn for any length of time, instead of hiding the wearer, the wearer had grown into it.

Nick Lines was kneeling down, studying the corpse.

‘Contusions to the neck … major bruising either side of the trachea … abrasions, scratches from fingernails … ’ He looked up at Mickey. ‘I’d say you’re looking for a very strong man with very large hands.’

‘Large hands?’

‘He was strangled with only one hand. With quite a wide span. He got both carotid arteries. If the lack of oxygen didn’t kill our boy, the cardiac arrest would have.’ He straightened up. ‘So he’s got at least one large hand. Although in my experience, I’ve found this sort generally carry two.’

‘Not always.’ If it wasn’t Nick’s erudition that made Mickey feel inferior, his attempts at humour always made him defensive.

‘True. Although I think in this case we can assume that.’ He glanced round at the ground covered by the tent. Forensics had made a thorough examination of it. ‘There was a fight here. One on one. And by the way blows were traded, it’s clear that both participants had two arms. Although … ’ He knelt down once more. Pointed to an area of earth that had been heavily sampled. ‘Blood in the soil. Been taken for analysis. Shame. Nitrogen, calcium and phosphorous. Very good fertiliser. If they’d left it, they’d have lovely cauliflowers.’

Mickey said nothing. He could find no words with which to reply to that. Instead he said, ‘Time of death?’

‘Hard to say without a full post-mortem. But given the rate of lividity and the weather conditions, I’d say within twenty-four hours. Possibly less.’

‘Thanks. Any idea who he was? Why he was here?’

Nick Lines didn’t even look at him as he spoke. ‘I just do the biology. Metaphysics is your job.’

‘Thanks, Nick.’

‘Any time.’ Nick Lines straightened up, the remains of a playful smile fading from his lips. ‘I will say one thing. It’s the same chap who did those two dogs over there. No doubt about that. Same degree of strength, same area of the body attacked. The throat. The neck. Such a small, weak area for such an important job.’

‘Does that tell us anything about him?’

Nick Lines shrugged. ‘Well if you wanted me to do your job for you, I’d tell you that he had done this before. Or is probably a professional, given that he knew what to go for and where to target.’

‘A hit man?’

Lines shook his head. ‘Sorry. You’ve run out of questions. You’ll have to find your answers elsewhere.’

Mickey prepared to leave. With his opinion of Nick Lines unchanged and relieved to be leaving the man behind.

Before he could go, Lines stopped him. He looked straight at Mickey. Addressed him directly. ‘How is he?’

Mickey knew who he was talking about.

‘No change, last I heard. I’m sure they’ll let us know when there’s some news.’

Nick Lines nodded. Sighed. ‘Always difficult when it’s one of our own, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Mickey. ‘It is.’

It was the first time he had felt he was on the same side as Nick Lines.

54

Tyrell opened his eyes and found he wasn’t where he had expected to be.

No grey walls, no barred windows. No thin sheet over the top of him. Nothing familiar, nothing safe. Just light all around. Cramp growing like plant roots within him.

He tried to uncoil himself, straighten, sit up. His back screamed out as he did so, fighting to stop him. He lay back down again. Looked round. Tried to orient himself. His neck hurt. He saw daylight through windows. Trees. Mist. Felt the fog in his bones, the cold, his muscles cramped and seized. Then he remembered.

The car. They had slept in the car.

If it could be called sleeping. He had passed out with a combination of anxiety and exhaustion and didn’t feel rested. He began to remember why they had ended up where they were.

They had left the house and caravan, the woman driving, him in the passenger seat and the little girl in the back. She had been crying, screaming. He didn’t blame her. They had watched as a huge grey giant of a man had appeared, fought off the dogs and killed them in as bloody a manner as possible. Then moved on to the house, where he had strangled Jiminy Cricket.

They hadn’t waited for him to get to them.

Jumping into the boxy silver car, they had driven away, as fast and as far as they could manage, until they ran out of adrenalin and road. He had tried to calm the little girl, tell her that everything was going to be all right and that she shouldn’t get so upset. The woman had told him not to be so soft. Told him to shut up and stop telling the kid lies. He had felt like screaming and crying then.

He tried to sit up again. Slower this time, working with his back not fighting it. Managed to get himself into a sitting position. He looked into the back of the car. Josephina was sitting there, eyes wide in terror, too scared to move, her hands clamped hard between her legs.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked her.

‘Wee … need wee-wee … ’

He looked round again. The woman was sitting in the driving seat. Head back, eyes closed, mouth open. Asleep.

‘Come on then … ’

He opened the car door, began to uncurl his body. Josephina opened the back one, got out. Looked at him to see what she should do next.

‘Go on, over there in those trees,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be waiting here for you.’

She did as he said, hurrying away.

‘Aw, how sweet.’

He turned. The woman was out of the car and standing next to him. She looked terrible. Her make-up had rubbed away, leaving a face that looked like a patchwork quilt. Red and pitted in parts, smooth in others. It looked like it had been assembled from different pieces, none of which quite matched. The markings continued down her neck and on to her body, where they were hidden by her clothes. As he watched, she put her hand to her head, adjusted her hair. Tyrell noticed how shiny and plastic it was. Then he realised. She was wearing a wig.

‘She’s upset,’ he said. ‘She’s had a bad shock. She shouldn’t be here.’

The woman gave a contemptuous snort. Looked round. ‘None of us should be here.’

He saw Josephina from the corner of his eye as she approached them. She spotted the woman and stopped walking, not wanting to come any further.

‘Get her over here,’ said the woman. ‘Don’t want her running off. That’s all we need.’

Tyrell turned to the child, attempted a smile. ‘Don’t worry, Josephina,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe as long as you’re with me.’

Wary, Josephina made her way forward. Tyrell kept his hand outstretched. She came towards him, took it. He held on to her.

‘Lady … ’ said Josephina, looking round.

Tyrell glanced at the woman, then back to the child. ‘I’ll keep the lady away from you. Don’t worry.’

The woman shook her head. ‘Stop telling her it’ll be OK. Stop lying to her.’

Tyrell felt anger rise within him once more. This woman seemed to be able to bring that out in him very easily. ‘I’m not lying to her. I mean it. It’s the truth.’ He felt himself holding tight to Josephina. ‘I won’t let anyone hurt her.’

The woman gave another contemptuous snort. ‘Yeah. Right. Whatever. You saw what happened back at the house. You saw what the Golem did to Graham.’ Her mind slipped into a reverie. ‘Graham, oh God, Graham … ’

Tyrell was more interested in something else she’d said. ‘The Golem?’

She looked at him, eyes red-rimmed and wild. Focus coming back, her words just a perfunctory explanation. ‘Yeah. The Golem. That’s his name.’

‘But why is … why did he do that? Why is he after us? Who is he?’

She shook her head. ‘Questions, questions … He wants to stop me. And you. And he’s a killer. That’s all you need to know.’

Tyrell couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘What about … ’ He gestured towards Josephina.

‘And anyone who gets in his way.’

Tyrell’s head was spinning. Hurting from more than the cramp and the sunlight. ‘But … why? Who sent him?’

She looked at him. Straight. There was pity in the look. Tyrell didn’t know if it was for him or herself. ‘Ghosts,’ she said. ‘Ghosts from the past. They’re after us. They’re always after us … ’

‘Then … we’ll go to the police. Tell them what’s happened.’

Her eyes became slits, her mouth narrowed. ‘Don’t be stupid. We can’t go to the police, can we? Remember? If we do, it’ll be the end of everything. No money, no future.’

Tyrell said nothing.

‘D’you want to go back inside? Is that it? Because that’s what would happen. At the very least.’ She shot Josephina a glance. The girl flinched. ‘And God knows what would happen to her without you to protect her … ’

Tyrell felt like crying. At that moment prison didn’t sound too bad. But he wouldn’t leave Josephina with this woman. Definitely not.

‘So that’s why you’re doing this? Money for you, a future for me.’

‘Got it in two,’ she said.

A thought occurred to him. He had to voice it. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t care about me. About giving me a future. Just so long as you get your money. That’s right, isn’t it?’

Her eyes flashed. It was like glimpsing a monster hidden behind a mask. ‘Yes. The money. Because by Christ, I’m owed it.’ She moved closer to him. He flinched, stepped backwards, taking Josephina with him. The woman’s lips twisted into an ugly smile. ‘Can’t you remember? Why you went inside? Why you were put away?’

‘No,’ said Tyrell, eyes screwed tight shut. ‘No. I don’t remember. Don’t want to remember. I never remember.’

‘You mean you don’t remember what happened? Any of it?’

‘I … ’ Tyrell could feel his mind slipping back at her words. Could see the bodies before him. Feel the shotgun in his hands. ‘No … ’ He shook his head. Tried to dislodge the memory, think about something else.

She watched him. ‘What about me? Don’t you even remember me?’

‘No,’ Tyrell said, shaking his head, not looking at her. ‘I’ve never seen you before. Not before this, anyway.’

She smiled. Regained some control. Turned away. ‘Good. Let’s keep it that way. For now.’

Tyrell’s heart was slowing. He was trying to think. He would have remembered meeting this woman before, he was sure. All he knew about her was that he didn’t like her, didn’t trust her and didn’t want to be with her. And that made up his mind.

‘I’m going,’ he said.

She turned back to him. ‘What?’

‘I’m going. And I’m taking Josephina. You … you can do what you like.’

‘Oh really?’

‘Yeah. Yeah really.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Tyrell turned. The woman was holding a gun, pointing it at him.

‘I really don’t think so … ’

55

‘Thought I’d find you in here.’

‘Love a gadget, me. You know that.’

Mickey had made his way into the kitchen. He found a pile of electronic equipment on the table, a mass of wires. And DS Adrian Wren.

Jane Gosling and Adrian Wren were often paired up together. The Birdies, as they had become affectionately known. But whereas Jane was large and gregarious, Adrian was the opposite. Everything about him was thin. His frame, his hair, his features. He was a marathon runner in his spare time, a subject on which he was obsessive to the point of exhausting. A conversation with Adrian and Mickey felt like he’d run a marathon himself. His other passion was electronics. Anything at a crime scene that needed a plug and an instruction manual and he was straight in.

‘So what have we got here, then?’ asked Mickey. ‘Any ideas?’

Adrian looked down at the mess before them, rubbed his chin. ‘Well, this here … ’ He pointed to a small black box. It had an illuminated screen, several buttons and lights, jacks for leads. ‘I reckon that’s a GPS tracker.’

‘Right.’

‘And I reckon it’s been connected to … ’ he indicated the centre of the table, ‘something here. Probably a laptop, from the space made. And given the tangle of wires and the way everything has been left, I’d say whoever was here took off in a hurry.’

‘Probably when the dog murderer appeared.’

‘That what we’re calling him? The dog murderer?’

Mickey gave a grim smile. ‘Press loves a nickname.’

‘He killed a man, too.’

‘Yeah. And you know what the media are like. Given the choice between reporting on the murder of a human and the death of a dog, you know which one they’ll always go for.’

‘Right. So dog murderer it is.’

Mickey straightened up, looked round the kitchen. The electronics, gleaming silver and black, were at odds with the surroundings. The sink and cupboards looked over forty years old, and any attempt at upkeep, or even cleaning, had long since been abandoned. The lino on the floor was cracked and stained, leaving huge threadbare gaps over the discoloured and dirty floorboards. The furniture was mismatched and well used. The windows were opaque with dirt, the walls a deep, greasy nicotine orange. Dishes at the side of the sink indicated that there had been three people here; two large plates, one small one, by Mickey’s reckoning.

Lovely, he thought, and returned his gaze to the equipment on the table. ‘So what was all this used for?’

‘Well, if it is a GPS system, which I strongly suspect, then it’s been used to track someone. Or to see if someone’s tracking them. Either way.’

Mickey frowned. ‘And there’s no way of knowing who? Or why?’

‘Not without that computer. But if — or should I say when — we find out who, then it shouldn’t be too difficult to see why.’

‘Ah,’ said Mickey. ‘Police work.’

‘Right.’ Adrian gave a grim smile. ‘Find that laptop, Sergeant.’

‘At once.’

Adrian opened his mouth to speak. Mickey knew what he was going to ask but didn’t think he could talk about Phil again, so he thanked Adrian and turned towards the door leading to the rest of the house.

‘Forensics done in here, are they?’

Adrian shrugged, already back examining the electronics. ‘Don’t know. They let me in, so it must be OK.’

Mickey moved out of the kitchen. The rest of the house was in a similar state. The place had been allowed to fall into serious neglect. He needed to find out who had lived there and what had happened to them.

He walked down the hallway — all peeling, faded floral paper, spreading triangles of mildew in the corners and everything coated in several layers of grease and dirt — and went up the stairs. Sleeping bags and mattresses on the floor. Clothes and belongings, litter and debris, from two people sharing the room. In the bathroom, more of the same. A few cosmetics, a fairly new bar of soap, the logo not yet washed off, the wrapper balled up on the floor, a half-used bottle of shampoo. Like someone had been camping indoors. Or squatting. Plenty of stuff for forensics to be going on with.

He went back downstairs and into the living room. Through the filthy windows he could see the team moving about like ghosts in the mist. He looked round the room. A portable TV had been hooked up in the corner, a cheap aerial on top of it. The settee was huge, horsehair stuffing falling out of it. An old blanket had been used as a throw. And on the door handle, a rope.

He crossed the room, looked at it. It hung down over a sheet-covered mattress. A small bowl at the side. This must be where the third one had been sleeping. He looked at the rope once more. Tied up? Against their will, a captive? Christ …

He hurried back into the kitchen. Adrian was still poring over the GPS system. ‘Adrian, can you get the team together? Need to have a few words.’

It took a few minutes, but soon everyone was assembled outside the house, away from any TV cameras. They all stood there looking at him, expectant.

I’ve got to inspire them, Mickey thought. Say the kind of thing Phil would say if he was here. Send them off to do their jobs. Make them the best they can be. Searching for Marina would have to wait. This case would now take priority. That was how the system worked.

‘Right, listen up,’ he said, unconsciously echoing the words Phil always used to start a briefing. They were listening. ‘The boss, as you all know, isn’t here. And in his absence, it falls to me to take charge. So here’s what we’ve got and here’s what we’ll do. First thing. Identification of the deceased. Jane, coordinate with uniforms. Get this area canvassed, door to door. I know neighbours are a bit thin on the ground round here, but someone saw the dogs so they may have seen something else. Hopefully something suspicious.’

‘Like a murderer coming up the drive?’ asked Jane.

‘Exactly that. And Adrian, it looks like someone’s either rented this place or was squatting here. Obviously rented would be best and easiest for us. Get on to that. Check rental agencies, find out who owns this place, who owns that caravan out there.’

Adrian nodded, making notes in his electronic notebook.

‘And something else.’ Mickey’s phone rang. He ignored it. He tried to continue speaking, but the phone was insistent. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’d better get that.’ He took it from his pocket, checked the display. Anni. Not now, he thought. Later. I’m working here.

But then so is she …

He looked up, aware of everyone watching him. Knew he had no choice. Pressed the answer button. Turned away from them.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Listen, I’m in the middle of—’

‘Yeah, I know,’ she said. ‘And I wouldn’t phone if it wasn’t important.’

‘Right.’

Just work colleagues again. No mention of the previous night.

‘I’ve been back to see the farmer’s wife at the service station, watched the CCTV footage again. I had an idea.’

Mickey waited.

‘And Marina, she’s sent us a message. That thrown-away wrapper. It had a postcode written on it.’

‘Brilliant. If you can—’

‘No, just listen. I put it into my sat nav, and guess where it came up with?’

‘No idea, tell me.’

‘Where you are now. After she left the garage, Marina was on her way to where you are … ’

Mickey let the phone slip away from his face. His heart was hammering; he felt numb. He turned back to the group, saw them all staring at him. Thought of the mattress in the living room. The rope tied to the door handle.

‘Shit … ’ he said. ‘Listen up. There was someone kept here against their will. And I think I’ve worked out who it was. Josephina. Marina and Phil’s kid … ’

56

DS Jessie James threw her head back, dry-swallowed two paracetamol. This was becoming a habit.

Just one quick drink, she had told herself. Just one. Then back home for her regular Saturday night in with Terry. Takeaway, maybe a DVD. Then Sunday they had planned a day out. A run out to Audley End, maybe, make the most of Terry’s National Trust membership. Dinner in some quaint country gastropub. She had told him she was on call, but neither of them thought she would be called in. But that was before she was handed this case.

So the previous night she had found herself dropping in to her neighbourhood pub on the way home. Just the one, she had said to herself. Just the one. A quick gin and tonic. Support the local economy, and all that. Maybe Terry would join her. They could make a night of it.

But of course he was at her house, DVD on the TV stand, takeaway menu in hand. Waiting for her. So she would just have the one. It went down so fast she barely noticed it. So she had another. And another. And when she arrived home, the house was dark, cold and empty.

So she had another drink.

She had noticed this pattern before when she was working on a case as big as this one. She would pull away from those closest to her, make excuses not to spend time with them. It was the only way she was capable of working. And it always involved alcohol. She was surprised Terry put up with it. She doubted he would for much longer.

DC Deepak Shah was looking out of the window. Away from the house, away from her. He had kept his eyes averted all the time she had sat there taking the tablets. He had made no comment, no judgement, but his lack of comment was judgement enough.

Jessie looked at him. He still had his eyes averted. ‘What?’

He stayed where he was. ‘I didn’t say anything. Ma’am.’

‘You didn’t have to,’ she said, running her tongue over her teeth. Feeling the bitter grit beneath. ‘I think we’ve worked together long enough for me to know when I’ve disappointed you in some way.’

He turned, looked at her. Slowly. ‘What you do in your free time has nothing to do with me. As long as you can still function when we’re working together, that’s fine. Ma’am.’ He looked away again.

Jessie kept staring straight ahead at the big front door of the Sloane house. Willing it to open.

The two of them had visited the Sloanes as their last call on their way home the previous night. As soon as Deepak had taken the call concerning ownership of the car left parked outside the destroyed cottage in Aldeburgh, the Sloane residence had jumped to the top of their list for investigation. They had pulled up in the early evening, gasping audibly. The house, situated in Playford, between Ipswich and Woodbridge, was a huge, imposing sixteenth-century hall.

Jessie had stood at the front gates, spoken to the intercom. The voice on the other end had tried to fob her off, but she had been insistent. The gates had opened and they had both walked up the drive past the gatehouse, over the footbridge to the door of the main hall, trying to pretend they weren’t overawed. They flashed their warrant cards, asked to speak to Michael Sloane and were told by the housekeeper that he was out and wouldn’t be back that night. They asked when he would return and were greeted with a shrug. They left a message asking him to call them and departed. The gates closed behind them.

That had been that.

And Jessie had spent the rest of the night hiding in a bottle.

Deepak, on the other hand, hadn’t been idle.

He had called in at the station, run a check on Michael Sloane. Found out that he ran one of the biggest industrial farming operations in the east of England, with trade and shipping links to Europe. A very wealthy man, a very well-connected businessman. They would have to tread carefully when they spoke to him.

‘Oh God, that’s all we need,’ Jessie had said, groaning. ‘Involving one of the Chief Constable’s golfing mates in this investigation. We’ll have to be careful how we handle this, Deepak, me old mate. Or you and me’ll be back in uniform working in Traffic.’

‘We don’t know that he knows the Chief Constable,’ Deepak had replied.

‘No, we don’t. But until we learn otherwise, let’s just assume.’

‘There was something else,’ Deepak said. ‘A couple of things, actually.’

Jessie waited.

‘I don’t know if you remember, but the Sloanes were involved in a huge case a few years back. Their father remarried and their new stepbrother took a shotgun to the whole family.’

‘Oh,’ said Jessie. ‘Those Sloanes.’

‘Indeed. Michael and his sister survived but needed a lot of patching up. They took over the family business, extended into Europe and became recluses at the same time.’

‘A sister and brother? Holed up in that house together? Weird.’

‘And there’s something else. Get this. Jeff Hibbert, our dead man from yesterday, was one of the chief gangmasters for Sloane’s Farms.’

Despite the headache, something prickled at the back of Jessie’s neck. ‘Oh. Now that’s interesting. A mystery man gives Hibbert’s address at the scene of a crime and then disappears. Hibbert is then found murdered. And Michael Sloane’s car is found at the scene of the first crime. Interesting … ’

They had cancelled their plans for Sunday and come to pay Michael Sloane another visit.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Jessie. ‘You know what was odd about last night?’

Deepak said he didn’t.

‘The housekeeper. She never asked why we were here. Two detectives rock up on your doorstep to speak to your boss. Never once did she ask what it was about. Don’t you think that’s strange?’

‘Maybe she didn’t think it was her place,’ Deepak said.

‘Or maybe we were expected,’ said Jessie.

They had resumed their vigil while they decided what to do.

Their minds were made up for them. As they watched, an Ipswich city cab pulled up. The passenger got out, paid the driver, watched the car pull away before turning to look at the gates.

‘Hey,’ said Jessie, ‘see who that is?’

Deepak nodded. He was looking towards the house now. ‘Helen Hibbert. Widow of the parish. Wonder what she wants?’

They watched as Helen Hibbert walked up to the gate, pressed the intercom, spoke. Waited.

‘No chance,’ said Jessie.

‘Shouldn’t have sent that cab away.’

Then the gate swung open and Helen Hibbert was admitted.

They looked at each other.

‘Someone’s home now,’ said Deepak. ‘Should we follow?’

Jessie thought for a few seconds. ‘Let’s just wait,’ she said. ‘See what happens. No hurry.’ She smiled. ‘Besides, we wouldn’t want to crash the party, would we?’

57

Even though Michael Sloane had agreed to see her, Helen Hibbert hadn’t thought it would be this simple. Just walk up to the gate, announce herself, walk in. But as she approached the house, the gravel crunching beneath her heels, she began to remember that dealing with the Sloanes was never straightforward. Her previous experiences with them had been exhausting. Countering their lies, dodging their deceits had taken all her skill and concentration. Trying to get anything from them had been a nightmare.

But at least she was in and they were going to meet with her. That was the first step. Now all she had to do was make sure she didn’t lose her nerve. Got what she came for.

No pressure, then.

She walked up to the front door, ready to ring the bell. Before she could, the door opened. The housekeeper stood there. Silent. Expectant.

Helen cleared her throat. ‘I’m here to see Michael Sloane. He’s expecting me.’

‘Mr Sloane is unavailable at the moment.’

‘You mean he’s out?’

‘He is unavailable.’

Helen felt anger rising with her. The Sloanes up to their old tricks. Messing her around again. ‘No,’ she said, speaking slowly so that this foreign woman could understand. ‘I phoned him. He said he would be here. He is expecting me.’

‘He is unavailable.’ Her voice, her face flat, unreadable. ‘Miss Dee is available to meet with you.’

Oh God, thought Helen. The weird sister. Brilliant.

She sighed. ‘OK. She’ll have to do.’

The housekeeper ushered her in, shut the door behind her. Once inside, Helen looked around. She had been in the house a couple of times before. Rare occasions, when Jeff — with Helen as his plus one — had been invited to the odd party. The Sloanes had tastes that overlapped somewhat with the Hibberts’. She had felt the place then to be cold and empty; even with all those people mingling, drinking and enjoying each other’s intimacies, it hadn’t seemed like a warm place. Now, with just echoing blank walls and the odd little piece of angular furniture, the interior of the house looked even more severe. Like a boutique hotel, to be admired rather than stayed in.

Helen was led into another room. It had two sofas facing each other. All black leather and chrome. A glass and metal table between them, the top polished and bare. And not much else. It was like a private doctor’s waiting room. Or a very high-priced psychiatrist.

Helen had been in some posh places before. Plenty of them when she was still with Jeff and they used to make a habit of trying to enjoy themselves in the flashiest way possible, but there was something different about this house, this room. It wasn’t flash and it wasn’t posh. Although in its way it ended up being both of those things. It was designed to intimidate. Yes, it said, we’re rich. Richer than you. But we’re harsher than you. Colder than you. And because of that we could crush you. So don’t you forget it. At least that was how it made Helen feel. And she was sure she wasn’t the only one.

The housekeeper left the room quickly, as if she couldn’t bear to be in it either. Helen wasn’t alone for long. She glanced up and saw Dee Sloane standing in the doorway. She jumped.

‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘I’m light on my feet.’

Dee Sloane walked into the centre of the room. She was right. Helen hardly heard her. She sat on the sofa opposite. Helen appraised her. Hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. No make-up. Her small, lithe body covered by a pink velour tracksuit. She curled her legs beneath her, stared at Helen.

‘You wanted to see us.’

‘I wanted to see your brother.’

‘He’s not available.’ Eyes dark, unreadable.

Silence fell.

Helen felt uncomfortable. Dee looked perfectly composed. Anger started to resurface in Helen once more. She could feel her breathing speed up, her body vibrate.

‘You wanted to see us,’ Dee said again.

‘Yes,’ said Helen, controlling her temper, ‘I did. And I’m sure you know why.’

Dee waited.

‘Jeff’s dead.’

Dee nodded. ‘Very sad.’

‘He was murdered,’ said Helen, the words spat out. ‘You know that.’

Dee frowned. ‘Why should I know that?’

‘Because you killed him.’

Dee’s eyebrows raised themselves in surprise. ‘Me?’ Her face all innocent.

‘No,’ said Helen. ‘Not you personally. You would never get involved. Never dirty your hands. Your style is to get someone to do it for you.’

Dee leaned forward slightly, as if genuinely interested, frown still in place. ‘And why would I do that?’

Helen leaned forward too, opened her mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come out. She sat back. Looked round. A thought had occurred to her. ‘I’m not saying.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’ve probably got this room bugged. And you’ll use my words against me in some way if you get the chance.’ She leaned forward once more. ‘But you know. So drop the Little Miss Innocent bullshit. Let’s talk.’

Several emotions seemed to pass over Dee’s face. Quick, fleeting and unreadable to Helen. Like coal-black crows flapping behind her eyes. Eventually she smiled. The effect was as though her body had suddenly become possessed by a human being.

‘We can talk in here,’ she said, head and shoulders dropping. ‘It’s safe.’ A sigh escaped from her like a dying breath. ‘It’s … Michael.’ She looked up at Helen, eye to eye. ‘He did it. He killed Jeff.’

It was what Helen had wanted to hear, but now she was unsure of what to say next.

And that was when she saw the tear roll down Dee’s cheek.

58

Jessie looked at her watch. Deepak stared out of the car window. Tension had ebbed away to boredom and Helen Hibbert was still in the house.

‘Put the radio on if you like,’ Jessie said.

‘Thought you had a headache,’ he replied, face still at the window.

She shrugged.

‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘I can do without.’

Jessie’s phone rang. She was grateful for the distraction. It was Mickey Philips, his voice breathless and urgent, as if he had run a long distance to deliver an important message.

‘We’ve found where Josephina Brennan was being kept,’ he said, ignoring niceties.

Jessie’s boredom disappeared as he told her about the discovery at the house in Jaywick, the dead body, the dead dogs. The message Marina had left for them.

‘It’s your team investigating, so I thought you’d want the heads up.’

‘Thanks. You got a name for the body yet?’

‘There’s a car at the scene registered to a Graham Watts. Looks like his driving licence photo, so we think it might be him. The name ring any bells?’

Jessie thought. ‘Graham Watts? No. But I’ll get it looked into.’

Deepak registered the name as she said it, took out his phone, started accessing the internet.

‘Appreciate it,’ said Mickey. ‘You getting on it now?’

‘I’ll pass it on. We’re following someone who may be able to lead us to Jeff Hibbert’s killer and we can’t break off from that. I’ll get the DS dealing with Josephina to give you a call and liaise. Sort out whose patch is whose.’

‘Cheers.’ There was a pause. ‘Well, speak soon.’ He hung up.

Jessie did likewise, turned to Deepak. ‘Got anything?’

He glanced up from his iPhone. ‘Not yet. I’ll keep looking.’

There was so much adrenalin coursing round Jessie’s system she could barely sit still now. She called the station. Gave them Mickey’s news. Then she turned her attention back to the gates. Deepak looked up.

‘They must be getting on well in there,’ he said. ‘Wonder what they’re talking about?’

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ she said.

59

Helen didn’t know what to do. Of all the responses she had expected from Dee, this was definitely not among them.

‘Yes,’ Dee continued, ‘I know all about it. Why wouldn’t I?’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Why wouldn’t I …? ’

Helen looked round quickly, checking the doors. ‘Where is Michael? Is he here? Is he going to—’

‘Don’t worry.’ Dee leaned forward over the glass table and touched Helen’s hand. Pressed down firmly. Helen noticed that her hand was warm. Comforting. She had expected it to be cold. Something else surprising.

Dee gave Helen a shaky smile of reassurance, then sat back, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a paper tissue she had produced from her sleeve. Helen stared.

Dee’s head dropped once more. Soon her shoulders were shaking. Helen could tell even before the sobs came that she was crying. ‘I … Oh, it’s no good … Listen, I can’t … It’s Michael. He’s … ’ Dee stood up. ‘Look at this.’ She unzipped her velour tracksuit top, pulled up her T-shirt. ‘Look.’

Helen looked. She saw huge welts along the woman’s stomach, yellowing bruises all joined together like a painful daisy chain. Dee pulled her T-shirt up further. More of the same.

‘This is what he does to me,’ Dee said, her lip trembling, tears still on her cheeks. ‘This is what he does to me all the time … ’ She sat down again, head in hands, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. ‘They’re all over, all over … my, my body … ’

‘But if I remember, I thought you liked—’

‘Playing’s one thing,’ said Dee through her tears. ‘It’s fun, it’s consensual. But this … ’

Helen stared at her. She had never liked Dee. Always found her creepy and strange, lacking any kind of human dimension, any kind of connectivity. When they had sat down to talk, she had expected her to try something. But she had never seen this coming. And now she understood. It explained everything. The way Dee was, her character, her manner … all because of this.

‘I’m … I’m so sorry, Dee. It must be … horrible.’

Dee looked up, eyes red-rimmed. ‘Oh, you have no idea.’

‘And from your own brother … ’

Dee nodded silently. ‘Why … why did you come here, Helen? What did you want?’

‘I … ’ Helen was thrown by the question. She had almost forgotten. ‘It’s about Jeff. I just wanted you to know that … that whatever he was up to, I had no part in it.’

Dee looked at her sharply. ‘Do you know where they are now? What they’re planning?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’ Her head went back down. The sobbing started up again. ‘Did you … ’ It was hard to make out the words through the sobs. ‘Did you want money — is that it? Money to say nothing about … anything?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose I did.’

Dee nodded through her tears. ‘Come here, get money, walk away and keep quiet.’ She sighed. ‘How easy.’ Another sigh. ‘How easy … ’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Take your money. Fine. I don’t care. And walk away. You won’t say anything. I know. You’ve seen what he did to Jeff. You don’t want that to happen to you.’

‘No. Definitely not. I won’t say anything. You know me.’ Helen couldn’t believe how easy this was.

‘I know, Helen. Money buys your loyalty.’ Dee looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Money can buy anyone’s loyalty … ’

‘What d’you mean?’

Dee looked up, straight at Helen. ‘I can talk to you. We used to be close, once.’

Helen couldn’t remember that, but she kept listening.

‘It’s Michael. I want to … to leave.’

Helen shrugged. ‘Then leave. There’s nothing stopping you.’

‘Oh but there is, Helen, there is. He’s got all the money. I’ve got nothing. I have to beg him for anything I want.’

‘But he’s your brother, not your husband. I’d never stay with a man who did that to me.”

‘Doesn’t matter what he is. The fact is I can’t leave him.’

Helen sat back, thinking. A plan came to her. She leaned forward once more. ‘Dee, that money you mentioned. To pay me off. Where were you going to get it from?’

‘Michael’s account. Or the company account.’ She frowned as if the answer was obvious. ‘Why?’

‘How d’you get it?’

‘Internet banking. Transfer it to my account.’

Helen smiled. ‘Then why don’t you just transfer a huge amount for yourself and leave him?’

Dee looked like the idea had never occurred to her. ‘But … I couldn’t … ’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’d find me … track me down and … like Jeff … ’

Helen thought again. This was her area of expertise. Getting money out of men. ‘Why not set up a new account and siphon funds off into that? Make it a shell company, some kind of subsidiary, a fake, and little by little take money from him until you’ve got enough to get away on?’

Dee thought about it, then shook her head. ‘It’s good, but … ’

‘But what?’

‘I want to get away now.’

‘What, right now? Today, you mean?’

Dee nodded. ‘This thing with Jeff, it’s … too much. Too far. I can’t stay here any longer.’ She leaned across the table, took Helen’s hands. ‘Help me. Please.’

‘Right,’ said Helen, her business head firmly on. ‘How much can you get out of his account in cash, today?’

‘Cash? I don’t know … not much. But he does have a safe in the house.’

A shiver of anticipation ran through Helen. ‘How much is in there?’

‘He usually keeps about … seventy, a hundred thousand in cash … ’

Helen could barely contain her excitement. ‘Then go and get it.’

A cloud passed over Dee’s face. ‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘He watches me all the time, never lets me out of his sight … ’ She fell silent. ‘He’s going out later.’

‘What time?’

She chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘Seven. Tonight.’

‘There’s your window of opportunity, then,’ said Helen, holding Dee’s hand. ‘Here’s what we’ll do. This afternoon you set up a fake account. Make it at a high street bank with a branch you can get to. At seven o’clock you clear out the safe. Then, with your bag packed, come and meet me and we’ll take off and lie low somewhere. When a few days have passed and the new account has gone through, we walk into a branch of the bank and close the account, taking the money with us. How does that sound?’

Dee’s eyes were wide. ‘Can we do that?’

‘Of course we can. Cut me in and I’ll make sure it works.’

‘The two of us together?’ Dee laughed.

‘The two of us together.’

‘And you’ll … you’ll come with me?’

‘Course I will. Make a new start together. Just the two of us.’ Or just the three of us, thought Helen, including the money.

Dee was smiling. She had never looked more human. I’ve really misjudged her, thought Helen.

They arranged when and where to meet later that night, and Helen left the house elated. It couldn’t have gone better if she had planned it.

60

Well,’ said Deepak, watching Helen Hibbert leave, ‘she’s looking pleased with herself.’

Helen Hibbert got into a taxi. She had almost skipped towards it, grinning.

‘Doesn’t she, though?’ said Jessie. ‘Wonder what all that was about.’

Deepak had his hand on the door handle. ‘Let’s find out, shall we?’

‘Yes,’ said Jessie, getting out the other side, ‘let’s.’

They walked up to the gate.

Jessie’s headache, like the fog, had just about disappeared.

61

Marina opened her eyes to find herself in a strange bed in a strange room. She flung back the covers, began to panic. Then remembered.

Her brother, Alessandro. Jaywick.

She sank back down again. Closed her eyes once more.

Jaywick. She had driven here the night before, straight after going to the house. She shivered. The house. Her stomach turned over at the memory. She felt something in her hand, looked down. Lady, Josephina’s toy dog, clutched tight. Her knuckles were white, fingers locked stiff. She closed her eyes, blocking out the light. She had turned up on his doorstep and collapsed from exhaustion.

She remembered the drive. Jaywick never got any better. Just south of Clacton, it was originally a small town of 1930s prefab holiday chalets for Londoners to vacation in. Many of them had decided to move there permanently. The intervening years hadn’t been kind. Like a promising young starlet overtaken by career excesses, the original dimensions were still in place but the place was now a ruin. A very English shanty town, an Essex City of God. The chalets were all rundown, some derelict, their windows and doors smashed in and turned over to tramps and squatters. Crack dens thrived. Some owners had attempted imaginative home improvements — a caravan attached to the side of one house in place of an extension; a dormer window too heavy for the structure and forcing the lower floor to collapse. The streets were narrow, tarmac and concrete cracked open, decorated with massive waterlogged potholes, choked with weeds and shrubs. The houses crammed together. Here and there were decent homes, well-maintained attempts to hold back the decay, but it was like a swimmer going against the tide.

Marina had last been to Jaywick for the opening of the Martello Tower art gallery a few years ago. From the clothes they wore and the way they spoke, she doubted everyone she met at the opening was local. And driving through the streets, seeing the boarded-up shops, cafés and pubs, she had wondered what sort of person would live there.

Now she knew. Her brother.

‘You’re awake.’

She opened her eyes once more. Alessandro was standing at the end of the bed. Mug of something hot in one hand. He sat down next to her. She felt the bed almost give under his weight. He handed her the mug.

‘Drink this.’

She put it to her lips, sipped. It was awful.

‘What is it?’

‘Supposed to be tea.’ He shrugged. ‘Never was very good at the domestic stuff.’ He looked down at the carpet. ‘Don’t drink it if you don’t want to.’

She put it down beside her, sat up. Looked around. It was the main room of one of the chalet bungalows. She was lying on a fold-out sofa bed. The sheets and duvet were faded and worn thin, on the wrong side of clean. What other furniture there was seemed to have been either collected or gathered up rather than intentionally bought. Off in a galley to the right was something that looked more like an Al Qaeda biological weapons testing facility than a kitchen. The room smelt of damp and dirt and lonely, desperate male.

She caught Alessandro looking at her. Knew he was seeing the room through her eyes. And from his downcast expression, he was probably thinking something similar.

‘So.’ He looked up. ‘What brings you here?’ His eyes were sharp, his voice forming a hard, brittle shell around the words. ‘Must be serious. Thought you’d lost my number.’

Marina didn’t rise to his words, although she could feel herself gearing up for a fight. He was her brother. He knew which of her buttons to press. Just as she knew his. Instead she tried another sip of tea. Managed to swallow it. Not too bad when you get used to it, she thought, hoping she never had to get used to it.

She replaced the mug on the floor, ignoring the improbably breasted cartoon blonde on its side. Noticed that its interior was ringed brown like a centuries-old tree. Looked up at her brother and sighed. Awake but still tired. ‘Where do I start?’

‘The beginning.’ He looked at his watch.

‘Am I keeping you from something?’

‘Got to be somewhere later. Tell me what’s happened. Not every day my sister collapses on my doorstep.’

She told him. Hesitant at first, then with growing confidence as she became involved in the telling. Starting with the cottage, the planned Easter break. The fire, then … nothing. The hospital. The phone. Love Will Tear Us Apart. The calls.

‘I tried to reason with them, find out what they wanted from me, talk to them like a human being, make them see me as one … ’ She sighed. ‘I tried.’

She resumed her story. The chase with the police round the motel. Bet Sandro likes that, she thought. ‘Then I called at a service station. And when I knew where I was going, I tried to leave a message for … for the police.’

He snorted. ‘What for?’

‘So they could help me out.’

‘Thought they told you not to do that.’

‘They did, but I thought I was on my way to where Josephina was being kept. If I could get word to the police, have them turn up while I was there, then they could get Josephina back for me.’ She sighed. ‘I thought they’d be able to help.’

‘And they couldn’t.’

She shook her head. ‘No one could … ’ She moved on to the house on the way to Clacton. Turning up there, finding Josephina’s toy. And the dead body. ‘Then I came here. Didn’t want to stick around there. Couldn’t.’

Alessandro frowned. ‘So why didn’t you go to the police then? Much as I hate them, they would be the people to talk to.’

Marina sighed. ‘Because … I couldn’t. Someone still has Josie. Or at least I hope they do. Otherwise … ’ Her voice trailed off.

She felt tears form behind her eyes. Refused to give in to them. Not in front of Sandro. He waited while she composed herself, resumed her story.

‘Anyway,’ she said, wiping her tears, her nose on her sleeve, ‘I couldn’t call the police. They weren’t there when I turned up so I don’t think they got my message. Which might be a good thing. Because if the person who’s got Josie knew I’d contacted them, they might hurt her.’

‘And have they been in touch again?’

She sighed, shook her head.

‘Maybe it was the dead body you found. Maybe that was him.’

Another sigh. ‘Maybe. I don’t know … I don’t know … ’

She felt herself unravelling again, managed to hold herself together.

Silence fell in the room. Eventually Sandro spoke.

‘So,’ he said, ‘you came here.’

She nodded.

‘Why? Haven’t you got anywhere else to go?’

She gave a sad little laugh. ‘Something like that.’

‘What d’you want me to do?’

She looked at him again, eyes lit by a desperate light. ‘Help me.’

He looked surprised. ‘How can I do that?’

She leaned forward, imploring. ‘You know people. People I don’t. You’ve got connections I haven’t got. Ways of contacting people.’

Sandro’s voice was icing over. ‘And why would I have all that?’

‘Because … because that’s the kind of circles you move in.’

‘You mean I’m a criminal.’

‘I didn’t say that. I—’

‘Yeah, you did. That’s what you meant.’

She sighed. ‘Please, Sandro. I need your help to find my daughter. Will you help me?’

He stared at her, thinking. Looked away. She watched his eyes rove over the walls, the furniture. He turned back to her.

‘No,’ he said.

62

Jessie smoothed her hair down, arranged her jacket. Cleared her throat. And pressed the buzzer for the intercom. She and Deepak stood outside the gates of the Sloanes’ house, ready to go through the same ritual as the previous night.

The intercom was answered by the same non-English voice claiming that there was no one available to talk to the police and saying that they should call back later.

Time to be proactive, thought Jessie.

‘We’re investigating the death of Jeffrey Hibbert, who used to work for the Sloanes. We’ve just watched his widow leave, and since we believe she was here for the same reason as we are, we’d like to talk to whoever she talked to, please.’

There was another shared look between the two detectives. Then the gate swung open. Jessie gave Deepak a thumbs-up gesture. ‘You’re impressed by my silver tongue. Go on, admit it.’

Deepak shook his head. Managed a smile. ‘At least you didn’t lose your temper.’

‘I’m saving that for when we get inside.’

They walked up the gravel drive and into the house.

They were shown into the living room, asked to sit on one of the two sofas and left alone, the door shut. They exchanged glances.

‘Money in industrial farming,’ said Deepak, looking round.

Jessie looked at the glass and metal table in front of her. ‘Bet this table cost more than we both earn in a month,’ she said.

Deepak looked at it, grimacing. ‘Money doesn’t buy you taste,’ he said.

The door opened. In swept a woman; small, compact, dressed in a pink velour tracksuit and trainers that had never seen the outdoors or even the inside of a gym, hair pulled severely back from her face, no make-up. She walked briskly to the sofa opposite them, sat down, her back straight. Looked at them, her gaze businesslike.

‘I’m Dee Sloane. You asked to see my brother, Michael. I’m afraid he’s indisposed. And you are?’

Jessie and Deepak produced their warrant cards, gave their names.

‘And this is in connection with the death of one of our ex-employees?’

‘That’s right,’ said Jessie, taking the lead in the questioning. ‘There are a few things we’d like to talk to you about.’

Dee Sloane frowned. ‘Is this serious? Should I have a solicitor present?’

‘That’s up to you,’ said Deepak, as breezily as possible.

Jessie managed a smile. ‘Let’s see how we go.’

Dee sat there, waiting. Her face expressionless, her body straight, alert, but in repose. Receptive. Giving the impression that she was relaxed, waiting, but Jessie wasn’t fooled. She had learned how to interpret body language over the years, and she could see that Dee Sloane was seriously uncomfortable. On edge, even.

And there was something else. In the short space of time since Jessie had met the woman, she had taken an instant dislike to her. She tried not to do that, to pre-judge, especially in the course of her work. Sometimes she would feel it from a paedophile or rapist or wife-abuser, that creepily bad vibe, especially if they tried to be friendly and obsequious with her. Then she would have to work through that feeling in order to do her job properly. And that was the vibe that Dee Sloane was giving off. It might have been a chemical thing or a personality thing, but there was something about her that was not right. Jessie glanced at Deepak, tried to see if he was experiencing the same thing. But her partner’s gaze was impassive.

Right, thought Jessie. She had shaken off her hangover, banished all thoughts of the previous night. She was in the zone, ready to do her job.

63

Marina couldn’t believe what she had just heard. Not from Sandro. Her own brother. She would have expected it from the other one, but not from him. He was always the more decent of the two. The more reachable. He must have changed.

‘What? What …?’

‘I said no.’

‘But … but … I told you what’s happened … My baby, they’ve got my baby … ’

‘And they want you to do a psychological evaluation on some nutter, then they’ll give her back?’

She nodded.

He shrugged. ‘Then do it. What’s the problem?’

‘What did I just say? There’s a dead body and Josephina’s missing … ’

‘Why you anyway? And why go to all the trouble of snatching your kid to get you? Why not just phone you?’

‘I don’t know why. There must be something more to it, another reason.’

‘And you think I can do something about it?’

‘Yes! You know people. All right, maybe not the people who’ve done this, but … but they must have told somebody. Someone else must know.’ She leaned forward, grabbed his sleeve. ‘Please … please help me. My daughter’s gone, my husband’s … ’ She shook her head, not wanting to think about it. ‘Please … I’ve got no one.’

He looked at her, eyes locking, seeming to weaken. Then he pulled himself away from her, stood up. Began pacing the room, his back to her.

‘That’s a good one,’ he said, laughing. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘I’m all you’ve got.’ More walking. Nodding to himself as if two different conversations were going on in his head. ‘All you’ve got … ’ He turned to her. Pointed. ‘And where were you all these years? Eh? Where were you when I was on my own, when I was … ’ He shook his head angrily, as if trying to dislodge something. ‘Yeah. I know where you were. With your copper boyfriend.’ The words spat out. ‘Your university friends. Yeah. Didn’t want to know me then, did you? Didn’t want to know any of us.’ He turned away, began pacing once more.

‘Works two ways, Sandro,’ she said, getting out of bed, standing. ‘Where were you in my life all this time?’

He turned back to her. His face angry, red, right in hers. ‘You didn’t want me. You didn’t want any of us in your life. You made that perfectly clear. How we weren’t good enough for you.’

‘That’s … that’s not true … ’

‘Yes it fuckin’ is. You were ashamed of us. You said so.’

Marina said nothing. Sandro stared at her. Took her silence for assent.

‘Thought so.’ He gave another mirthless laugh. ‘Thought so … ’

The hurt was disappearing, replaced by anger. She wasn’t going to let him talk to her like that. ‘Yeah? Well maybe I did think I was better than the rest of you. And you know what? Maybe I was. Because I wanted to make something of my life. Do something. Not just be stuck in the house with that sick bastard smacking us around.’

Sandro said nothing. Turned away from her once more.

She followed him, not letting him alone. She tried to drop her voice, sound reasonable. ‘So now I’m here. And I’m asking for your help. Please.’

Another snort. ‘Please? Begging now? So you need my help and I’ve got to fuckin’ jump? Is that it? Click your fuckin’ fingers and I come runnin’? Yeah? Fuck you.’

She stared him down, eye to eye. ‘You sound just like Dad.’

He raised his arm, pulled it back. ‘I should give you the flat of my hand … ’

‘And now you are him. Just like Dad.’

She looked at him with undisguised contempt.

Something cracked behind Sandro’s eyes. ‘No I’m not. I’m not … ’ His voice wavered, like he was trying to convince himself. ‘I’m nothing like Dad … ’

She moved right up close to him. Almost whispering. ‘Then prove it. Prove you’re not.’

‘Shut up.’ He looked at her. Eyes soft, wet, like broken eggs.

‘Prove you’re not by helping me find my daughter.’

He tried to meet her gaze. Couldn’t. Turned away. ‘Just leave,’ he said. ‘Get out.’

Marina stayed where she was.

‘I said leave … ’ Sandro was almost snarling with anger.

‘Fine,’ she said, moving towards the door. ‘I’ll go. And you can stay here and live with yourself. Just like Dad and proud of it.’

‘Shut up … ’

She reached the door, turned. ‘I’m just glad our mother isn’t alive to see you do this.’

‘What?’ Sandro recoiled like he had been slapped.

‘You heard.’ She turned the handle.

Behind her, he sighed. It was like the last breath of a dying man. Or the first breath of a newborn. ‘OK.’

She turned. ‘Does that mean you’ll help?’

His hands went to his eyes. He couldn’t look at her.

‘What d’you want me to do?’

64

Jessie was just starting to question Dee Sloane. Deepak was next to her.

‘Do you drive a Fiat Punto?’

Dee Sloane’s eyes widened at the question. She hesitated. ‘No … What has this to do with the death of one of our ex-employees?’

Jessie ignored the question. ‘Does your brother Michael drive a Fiat Punto?’

‘No he doesn’t.’ She didn’t ask a question this time, just waited.

Jessie nodded. ‘Right.’ She said nothing more, appeared to be thinking. In reality, she was waiting.

‘Can I ask what this is about?’ Dee Sloane was starting to look tense.

Jessie kept her voice, her movements as languid as possible. ‘It’s just that a Fiat Punto was found burned out at the scene of an arson attack in Aldeburgh a couple of days ago.’

‘And you think … what? That Michael or myself was responsible for the attack? That’s ridiculous.’

‘Were you?’ Jessie tried to keep the question light, even allowing a smile to play at the corners of her mouth.

Dee Sloane didn’t answer. Just regarded Jessie with haughty contempt, as if the question was beneath her.

Jessie dropped the smile as she spoke. ‘We checked, and the car is registered to your brother. Was your brother in Aldeburgh two days ago?’

‘No. He wasn’t.’

‘Were you?’

‘No.’

‘Someone was,’ said Deepak. ‘And they were driving your brother’s car.’

Dee Sloane said nothing.

‘Was it stolen?’ asked Jessie.

‘No,’ said Dee. ‘We have a car for the staff to use. It may have been that one.’

‘But registered in your brother’s name.’

‘Yes.’

‘Not your company’s.’

Dee Sloane hesitated. ‘No.’

‘Why?’

Dee moved around on the sofa as if she couldn’t get comfortable. ‘It’s … something to do with tax. I think. Our accountant proposed it.’

‘Right.’ Jessie nodded as if that was cleared up. She saw Dee begin to relax. Keep going, she thought. ‘D’you have many staff?’ The question almost chatty.

‘Two housekeepers. Two kitchen staff.’

Jessie sat back, eyes widening. ‘Just like Downton. D’you watch that? I love it.’

Dee said nothing, but seemed to bask in Jessie’s words.

‘So which servant had the car?’

Dee looked thrown. ‘What?’

‘Which servant had the car? Who took it to Aldeburgh? When it got burnt out.’

‘I … I’d have to check. I don’t know.’ Dee was back to finding the sofa uncomfortable again.

‘And they never mentioned it?’ asked Deepak.

‘Something like that would be pretty major,’ said Jessie. ‘Losing a car. Especially when it’s in your boss’s name. Bet he wasn’t happy about that.’

Dee was beginning to look trapped. Jessie smiled inwardly. Then stopped herself. Just because she’d taken an instant dislike to the woman didn’t mean Dee was bad. Then she thought back to the others she had taken instant dislikes to and what they had been responsible for. No, she thought again. Trust your instincts.

‘So you don’t know who had the car?’ she said.

‘No.’

‘And you don’t know what they were doing in Aldeburgh?’

‘No,’ said Dee, clearly rattled. ‘I don’t know what they get up to on their days off.’

‘So you don’t know who it was or what they were doing but you know it was their day off. Could you find out for us, please?’

‘Why?’

‘We’d like to speak to whoever it was.’

‘They were present at a crime scene,’ said Deepak. ‘Might be a witness.’

Dee leaned forward, fire in her eyes. ‘I’m going to ask you to leave. You said you wanted to speak to me about the death of an ex-employee. And you haven’t done. So please go.’

Jessie didn’t respond, just nodded. ‘Oh, what did Helen Hibbert want?’ Again she made the question sound like a casual enquiry. She had no intention of leaving, not until she had asked the questions she wanted to ask. And she would use all of her tricks and techniques to make sure she did so.

‘Sorry?’ Again Dee looked rattled.

‘She left just before we came in. What did she want?’

Dee looked between the two of them. Like a trapped animal, thought Jessie.

‘She … wanted to talk about her husband.’

‘Who used to work for you.’

‘Yes.’

Dee seemed to think that was enough. Jessie said nothing, her silence encouraging the other woman to fill the void with words.

It worked. ‘Her husband had been ill. Cancer.’ Dee’s voice took on a heavy, solemn tone. ‘She wanted to let us know. About his death.’

‘Doesn’t she have a phone?’ asked Deepak.

Jessie noticed rage behind Dee’s eyes, quickly suppressed. Gotcha, she thought.

‘She … she wanted to do it in person.’

‘He meant that much to you?’ said Jessie. ‘As an ex-employee.’

‘We were fond of Jeff. He was a … loyal employee.’

Her words were so hollow, thought Jessie, that she doubted even Dee believed them. ‘You know, it’s funny,’ she said, in the kind of tone she would use if she was discussing an article she had just read in Heat, ‘we only saw him two days ago.’

Dee said nothing.

‘There was someone at the cottage when it went up. He saved a woman’s life, stopped her going back in. Very brave. We asked him for an address. He gave us Jeff Hibbert’s. Why d’you think that was?’

‘How would I know?’

‘He didn’t give us Jeff Hibbert’s name, though. Said he was called Stuart Milton.’ She leaned closer. ‘Name mean anything to you?’

‘No.’ Dee’s voice was as flat and dead as her eyes were trying to be.

‘And then Jeff Hibbert goes and gets murdered just after our visit.’

‘Wasn’t cancer,’ said Deepak. ‘He was murdered.’

Dee’s mouth moved once more but no sound came out. ‘He … his wife said.’

‘And we can’t find this Stuart Milton anywhere. Have you got any photos of your brother?’ asked Jessie.

Dee, caught off guard once more, thrown by Jessie’s sudden change of questioning, couldn’t answer immediately. ‘I … Not to hand. No.’

‘None in the house?’ Incredulity in her voice.

‘We’re not that kind of family.’ Struggling to regain control.

Jessie smiled. ‘We’ll find one from somewhere, don’t worry.’

‘Why do you need one?’ Dee’s voice was rising, becoming shrill.

Jessie shrugged, smiled. ‘In an inquiry like this, we can’t rule anything out.’

Dee said nothing, but her eyes darted from one to the other, all round the room. Still rattled, thought Jessie, still uncomfortable. Good. Just where I want her.

‘Did you know that Stuart Sloane was released from jail yesterday?’

Dee just stared straight ahead. Jessie watched her face, her eyes. The woman seemed to be auditioning answers, deciding which one to give, which one would be best received.

‘I … we … heard something. No one informed us officially, though.’ She leaned forward, suddenly on the offensive. ‘I would have expected someone to have done that. Common courtesy if nothing else.’

Jessie shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Sloane, but if we went round informing every victim of crime when a perpetrator was released, we’d have little time to do anything else.’

‘Be that as it may, someone should have informed us. Given the seriousness of the crime.’

‘Maybe you’re right.’ Jessie frowned, leaned forward too. ‘How d’you feel about it?’ Her voice light, genuinely enquiring.

‘How do I feel about what?’

‘Stuart Sloane being released. Aren’t you worried he might come after you again? Try to finish what he started?’

Dee opened her mouth to answer, bit the response off. Instead she thought for a few seconds. ‘We’re not worried. No. We don’t even know which part of the country he’s in.’

‘Although I’m sure you could find out if you wanted to.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Just that someone with your money and influence could find out where he was. If you wanted to.’

Dee Sloane didn’t answer the question. ‘I think it’s time for you to leave.’

Once again Jessie ignored her. ‘D’you think Stuart Sloane knew Jeff Hibbert?’

‘I … don’t know. Probably not.’

‘D’you think Stuart Sloane killed Jeff Hibbert?’

‘No. I don’t. I don’t know.’ She stood up. ‘Now please leave. If you have any more questions or accusations to make, you should do so through my solicitor.’

Jessie frowned, her voice dripping reason. ‘Accusations, Ms Sloane? What have we accused you of?’

‘Just … ’ Dee pointed to the door. ‘Just … please leave. Now.’

Jessie and Deepak rose, made their way to the door. Once there, Jessie turned. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘one more thing. Do you or your brother know someone called Marina Esposito?’

Dee looked taken aback. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard of her.’

Jessie and Deepak were shown out.

They waited until they were past the gates before they started talking.

‘Very well handled, ma’am.’

‘Thank you, Deepak. I told you, watch and learn.’

‘Incisive,’ he said. ‘You’ll get a job on Loose Women yet.’

‘Thanks, smartarse.’

But Deepak wasn’t finished. ‘And “one more thing”? Are you channelling Columbo now?’

She smiled. ‘Always worked for him.’ They kept walking back to the car. ‘So what did you think? Impressions.’

Deepak frowned. ‘Didn’t like her. Can’t say why. Just … something about her I didn’t like.’

‘Strange. I felt the same way. Must be a chemical thing.’

‘Or she’s guilty of something.’

‘There could be that.’

They reached the car. Before they got in, Deepak spoke to Jessie over the roof. ‘That last question? The one about Marina Esposito?’

‘What about it?’

‘Only truthful answer she gave.’

Jessie smiled. ‘My thoughts exactly.’

They got in the car, drove away.

65

Eileen Brennan looked at her son’s face. They had removed the tape from his eyes. That was something, she thought. A gesture to be hopeful about.

She was holding his hand once more, clasping it with both hers, frightened it would be taken away from her. And talking. Incessantly. Telling him all the things she hadn’t been able to say to him when he had been around, all the things she had kept inside, decided not to share, thinking there would be another time to do so, a later time, a better time. But the events of the last couple of days had changed her.

‘And … and I’m telling you all this because … ’ A sigh. ‘Because. Because I should say them to you. Before it’s too late. There were things I wanted to say to Don, should have said to Don … ’ She drifted, her eyes watery glass. ‘And now, now I never will … ’ Another sigh. ‘So … there is no better time. There is no time. There’s only now … ’

She kept talking, kept clasping his hand. Telling him about her husband. His father. Don.

‘I met him by chance, you know. And I didn’t like him. Not at first. I didn’t like policemen, see. I was a social worker then, properly political, militant you’d probably say now. We thought they were the enemy. And they could be at times. But not all the time. And not all of them. I thought he was at first. All cocky, Jack Regan, throwing his weight around.’ She laughed, eyes no longer in the room. ‘He said he was just doing it to impress me. Told me that years later. Thought it would be the kind of thing I’d go for. Didn’t know me at all well … ’

She drifted off. Lost in memories. Came back again.

‘Kept asking me out. Eventually I said yes, just to shut him up. And he was different. To what he had been, to the others too. Softer, gentler. Talked about his work, about the things he’d seen. Some of the problem families he’d dealt with, the things he wished he’d been able to do but couldn’t. To put things right. I liked him … ’

She smiled at the memory, clung to it, instead of facing the present.

‘And then we … ’

Phil’s eyes moved. Eileen missed it.

‘We started to see each other regularly. And I knew. He was the one. The one for me … ’

Phil’s eyes moved again. Flickered back and forth beneath his eyelids.

This time Eileen noticed.

‘No … no … ’

She looked round to see if there was a nurse in sight. Not a seizure, an attack. She couldn’t bear that.

His eyes kept moving. His body moved too. Shoulders lifting up, dropping, as if he didn’t have the energy to move fully.

‘Phil … ’ Eileen didn’t know what to do. She held on to his hand. ‘No, don’t … don’t go, I’ve got so much more to say to you … ’

Then his eyes opened. Fully.

Eileen stared.

‘Phil?’

She watched as they focused, flinched from the light in the room, closed again.

‘Phil?’

And opened once more. Slowly this time, cautiously.

‘Phil?’

He saw her now. Smiled.

‘Phil … ’

The tears sprang from Eileen’s eyes, ran down her cheeks. A nearby nurse hurried in.

But Eileen didn’t notice.

She had her son back.

66

‘So you could handle them, could you? That’s right, is it?’ Dee sat on the sofa. Unmoving. Stared as Michael paced the floor before her. Stared hard.

‘Just police, you said. “Nothing to worry about. Wrap them round my little finger.”’ He waggled his own finger to emphasise the point. ‘Well you couldn’t. They outsmarted you. I told you to say nothing, let Nickoll handle it, get the solicitor to run interference, but you knew best. Now look at it … ’

He walked away from her.

She stared after him, eyes like laser beams boring into him, pulling him back. ‘I was trying to clear up your mess, Michael. That’s all I was doing. The mess you made. The mess you deliberately made.’

He turned back, stood over her. Most people would have felt intimidated, would have backed down. But Dee wasn’t most people. She stared up at him, unblinking. ‘The mess you made. Leaving the car in front of the cottage. Letting it get burnt out.’

‘Precisely. I didn’t have time to move it, so I did the next best thing. Left it to burn.’

‘But it didn’t burn enough, did it? They traced it back here. They may even find some DNA in it.’

Michael shrugged, attempting nonchalance. Failed in his attempt. ‘So? Of course there’s my DNA in the car. I drive it. Yours’ll be in there too, probably.’ He tried to lighten his voice once more. ‘Nickoll’ll tie them up. We pay that fat fuck enough, let him earn his money for once. Keep them off our backs.’ He stared at her. ‘Like we should have done earlier today.’

Dee ignored his response, kept staring up at him. ‘And the false name and address? Stuart Milton? At Hibbert’s address? Couldn’t you have just drawn them a map?’ She fixed him with a cold, unblinking stare. ‘They’ll find you, Michael. They’ll come for you. And then what?’

He opened his mouth, retort at the ready, but snapped his lips closed once more, biting it back. Instead he sat down on the sofa opposite. Leaned forward, hands clasped together.

‘You know what you are, Michael?’

‘Do tell, Dee.’

‘You’re like some celebrity who’s got it all but still isn’t satisfied, that’s what you’re like. You’ve got everything but it’s too easy. And you’re bored. Now you’ve got to mess it all up.’

He sighed, ran his hand through his hair.

‘I’m not going to be part of your celebrity meltdown, Michael. You can go down if you want to. But you’re not taking me with you. I’ve come too far and worked too hard for that.’

He sighed once more, let his hands drop. ‘Look,’ he said, voice full of reconciliation, ‘we have to work together on this. Not fight each other. There’s a way out. I’m sure of it.’

Dee didn’t reply.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’ve spoken to some of our contacts on the force. Asked them about this DS James woman. And they all say we’ve got nothing to worry about.’

‘Really.’

‘Yes, really. She’s an alky. Doesn’t know if she’s coming or going. Incompetent.’

‘She didn’t seem that incompetent a couple of hours ago.’

‘It’s her sidekick you’ve got to watch out for. He’s the sharp one.’ Michael put his head back, thinking. ‘And he hasn’t seen me.’

‘So?’

‘So there’s only her word for what I look like. The man she spoke to. We can work with that. We can handle her.’

Dee was staring straight ahead. In the room but lost to her thoughts. She was thinking, plotting, strategising. She had done this for years. And she always came up with something. A way out, a way forward. Ever since …

Her eyes came back into focus. She looked at Michael. Calmly, levelly. Then she spoke.

‘She has to go.’

Michael blinked. ‘What?’

‘She has to go.’

‘Yeah, but … she’s a police officer. We can’t just … get rid of her.’

‘Why not?’ Her voice was light, inconsequential, as if she was discussing buying a new ornament or painting the room. ‘We did it with Hibbert. Very cleverly. Very carefully. He won’t be traced back to us.’

‘Yeah, but … she’s a police officer … They’re untouchable.’

‘No they’re not. We just do it differently. Not be crude and obvious, like Hibbert. And not with the Golem. We have to be more subtle.’

‘But … ’

‘We have to. And we will.’

Michael said nothing. Ran his hands through his hair once more.

Dee stood up. Crossed the room. Stood over him. He looked up to her as she spoke. ‘This is damage limitation. It has to be done.’

‘But—’

‘And if you won’t do it, I will.’

He stared up at her.

‘An accident, I think,’ said Dee. ‘No. A disappearance. We could do this one together.’ She climbed on top of him, one leg at either side. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Us both … getting our hands dirty … together … ’

He felt his erection spring up as soon as her body rested on his. She always had this effect on him.

Always.

And he loved it.

‘Helen Hibbert is already lined up. So what’s the difference? We do another one at the same time … ’

She unzipped her velour top, peeled it off. Michael watched as she did so. Then she took off her T-shirt, pulled it over her head. She stared down at him, eyes locked. Reached behind her, unclasped her bra. Let it fall.

‘I’ll do it without you,’ she said.

He swallowed. Hard. ‘No, I’ll … I’ll do it … with you … ’

She smiled. ‘Good.’

And pulled her hand back, let it go. Slapping his face. Hard.

He stared up at her, the pain setting off explosions all over his body, his erection straining for release.

‘Are you with me?’ She was breathing heavily.

‘Yes … yes, I’m with you … ’

‘Good.’

She hit him again. Harder this time.

And he loved her for it.

67

Tyrell stared at the gun. It was a handgun, an automatic. He knew that much. Dull silver, heavy-looking. He stared right down the barrel, into that small round black hole that could kill him at any second. Fascinated but repelled.

Tyrell hated guns. Always had. But he knew how mesmerising they were.

He held Josephina close, clutched the little girl tight to his side. Looked at the woman holding the automatic. A thought crossed his mind.

‘I don’t know your name.’

She frowned, taken aback by the question. Tyrell said nothing, waited for her to speak, to move.

‘Amy,’ she said.

‘Is that really your name?’

‘It’ll do.’

‘You said I know you. I don’t know anybody called Amy.’

‘No. You don’t. Now.’ She looked directly into Tyrell’s eyes, ignoring Josephina. ‘We’re in a situation here. A bad situation. And the only way out, the only way to get what we want, is to keep our nerve. Isn’t it?’

Tyrell said nothing.

‘It’s not to go to the police, or do anything like that. Is it, Tyrell?’

He still didn’t reply.

Amy swung the gun on to Josephina, stuck it in her face. The girl screamed. Tried to burrow into Tyrell’s leg. He clutched her all the harder.

‘I asked you a question.’

‘No … ’ said Tyrell, not entirely sure what she had said but guessing what answer she wanted to hear.

‘Good. That’s better. Do what I tell you and you’ll be fine. Both of you.’

Tyrell felt Josephina clinging to him. He looked down the barrel of the gun again. Knew what had to be done. Knew he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t do the right thing.

‘No,’ he said.

Amy stared at him, eyes narrowing, darkening. ‘What?’

‘I said no. I’m not going to do what you say.’ He looked down at Josephina. ‘We’re not going to do what you say.’

Amy moved forward, still holding the gun on him, her finger curling round the trigger.

Tyrell backed away, the little girl with him. ‘Just let Josephina go,’ he said, wishing he felt as confident as he was trying to sound. ‘Let her go. Back to her mother.’

‘We still want her mother.’

‘No. No we don’t. I’ve been thinking. Let her go.’

‘We still need her … ’ Amy was starting to breathe heavily, her voice becoming more ragged, more angry.

‘Just forget it,’ Tyrell said. ‘Forget everything. Let Josephina go. I’ll say you didn’t do any harm. You didn’t mean it. That it was all an accident. A … a misunderstanding.’

‘And what about you?’ Amy’s voice was now dangerously low, calm. ‘What will you do?’

‘I’ll go back inside. I know that. And I’m prepared. I don’t care. In fact I’d prefer it, really.’

Amy lunged at him. Tyrell never saw her coming, she moved so quickly. Josephina screamed, let go of his leg, ran away. Amy pushed the gun in his face. He felt the cold metal against his cheek, felt it knock painfully against his teeth as she pushed it into his flesh.

He looked into her eyes. Saw madness.

And something else.

He had seen those eyes before …

‘The recognition of friends is not always easy, Doctor … ’ Tyrell managed to say against the barrel of the gun.

Amy pulled away from him, stared. Eyes wide, like she had just seen a ghost. ‘What? What did you just say?’

‘The recognition of friends is not always easy, Doctor.’

‘Why did you say that? Why?’ She waved the gun about in front of him. He thought she meant to aim it at him, but her hand was too unsteady. He was worried it could go off at any time, hit Josephina. He looked round tried to find the girl. Couldn’t see her.

‘Why?’ Amy was almost shouting now.

‘It’s what … him. The dead man. Jiminy Cricket. He said it to me when he picked me up. I think he thought it should mean something. He said a few things like that.’

Amy seemed to relent. The hand holding the gun dropped a little. She seemed suddenly tired. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Right.’

‘What does it mean, then?’ said Tyrell. ‘Is it important?’

‘It was something … something he always said. Graham loved his quotes.’

‘Who’s Graham?’

‘Jiminy Cricket, who d’you think?’

‘Oh.’ Tyrell thought about the name. Decided he preferred Jiminy Cricket.

Amy continued. ‘He was always quoting things. Old films and TV shows. That one’s a Dr Who story. The Doctor meets someone he knew at a different point in his timeline. Someone he’d grown up with. And he doesn’t recognise them.’ She looked at him. Quickly. Then away. ‘That’s all.’

Tyrell said nothing. Just stared at her. Thought about her words. Thought about her eyes.

Eyes he’d seen before …

A different point in his timeline …

He looked round, suddenly remembering Josephina. Saw her cowering behind a tree. He tried to smile at her. She didn’t return it. He didn’t blame her.

He turned back to Amy. She had something else in her hand now.

‘What … what are you doing?’

She put the phone to her ear. Her broken, patchwork face had a resigned look to it. She seemed tired.

‘Phoning the kid’s mother,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Getting this thing sorted once and for all … ’

68

‘I just don’t know,’ said Marina. ‘Just don’t know anything any more … ’

Sandro was sitting opposite her, the sofa bed folded away. He was still wearing his workout gear and had made her a mug of instant coffee. Marina hated instant, never drank it. But she had thanked him and taken it gratefully. The mug sat on the floor, half drunk and ignored.

‘Don’t know what?’ Sandro had forgone the coffee, was draining an energy drink can. He finished it, crushed it, threw it at the already overflowing rubbish bin in the galley kitchen. Missed. It clattered down the side to the floor but he didn’t seem unduly worried by that. ‘Sounds like this is enough to fuck anyone’s head up.’

‘Yeah, but I’m … usually stronger than this. I’ve had to be.’ She looked up, directly at him. ‘Some of the things I’ve done, situations I’ve been in … ’ She shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t believe.’

‘Like what?’

She almost smiled. ‘I’ll tell you sometime.’

Sandro nodded, shrugged. ‘Tell me now.’

Marina gave an almost-laugh to accompany the almost- smile. ‘I used to think that a client wanting to kill me was the worst thing that could happen. That was before I was captured when I was pregnant and held in an underground cage where some maniac wanted to breed from me.’

‘Jesus … ’

‘I know. That was after he’d put my old partner into a coma by smashing his head in with a hammer.’

Sandro stared.

‘And then there was the time I tried to rescue a chained-up kid from a madman who wanted to sacrifice him. With sharpened gardening tools.’

Sandro’s mouth was wide open.

‘And almost got killed by a bent police officer in the process.’

‘Ah, now that I can believe.’

She sighed. ‘But now I just feel … I don’t know. Weak? Helpless? I don’t know … ’

She sighed. Out of the corner of her eye she became aware of Sandro watching her. She looked up once more.

‘What?’

‘I had no idea.’ He shook his head, trying to let what she had just told him settle in his mind. ‘That you did … that you’d done … anythin’ like that.’

She looked straight at him. ‘Why would you? You don’t know anything about my life.’

‘I just thought, you know. You did your hours, sorted people’s heads out, got well paid and … ’

‘Swanned off to some champagne bar?’

‘I was goin’ to say the theatre and some fancy restaurant. But yeah. Somethin’ like that.’

Another almost-smile. Wistful, the kind given to a treasured memory or a fond fantasy. ‘I wish it was that easy. But when I’m called in to a case, especially the kind that Phil works, the major incidents, then it’s always something serious.’

‘And after all this, you feel weak. Why?’

She looked directly at him. No smiles any more. ‘Because my husband’s gone. My daughter’s gone. Maybe for ever. I’ve lost everything.’ She stood up. ‘This is not like me. Not like me at all.’ She could feel the anger rising in her. Impotent, unchannelled rage.

‘Like Dad,’ said Sandro.

Marina wheeled round, turned on him. ‘No I’m not. Don’t ever say that.’

Sandro was taken aback by the vehemence of her words. ‘I only meant that Dad had passed the fightin’ gene down. That’s all. Calm down.’

She stood over him. ‘Don’t tell me to calm down. And I’m not like Dad. Mum was the strong one.’

Sandro frowned. ‘What? She did nothin’. Let him hit her. What’s so strong about that? She was soft.’

‘She was not soft, Sandro. She did what a mother’s supposed to do. Protected her children.’

He still looked confused. ‘How? He used to smack her as well.’

‘She took the blows that were meant for us. As much as she could. She let him hit her rather than us. I’m not saying that was the best way to go about things, but she stood up to him in the only way she knew how. To go through that, to endure what he did to her, that’s what made her strong.’

Sandro said nothing, thought for a while. ‘Yeah,’ he said eventually. ‘Yeah. I see what you mean.’

‘You’d know what I mean if you had kids.’ She looked at him. ‘Do you have kids?’

He looked taken aback at the question. ‘Ah … don’t think so.’

‘But you’d know. Believe me.’

He didn’t reply. Instead he stood up, went to the kitchen. Got himself another energy drink. Cracked it open.

‘You’re drinking a lot of those,’ said Marina.

‘Need the energy. Got a fight tonight.’

Marina’s turn to frown. ‘A fight.’

‘Yeah. ‘’Swhat I do. One of the things.’

‘What kind of fight?’

He looked away from her. ‘Bare-knuckle.’

‘What?’

‘Ah look, don’t start. I got in with these Irish travellers. Gypsies, y’know. They do it. Part of their culture, an’ that.’

‘Part of their culture? All of their culture. Sandro, they’re bred to fight. They’re born fighting.’

He locked his eyes on hers. ‘And I wasn’t?’

Marina couldn’t find the words to reply. Her eyes slid away from his.

‘Anyway,’ said Sandro, ‘I’ve always been handy with my fists. Just found a way to make a bit of money out of them, that’s all.’

‘And get yourself seriously injured in the process.’

‘That never happens.’

‘You mean it hasn’t happened yet.’

He didn’t reply.

‘What … how did you get into this?’

He shrugged, tried to keep his explanation light and short on facts. ‘Did a bit of sparrin’ with them. Couple of bouts.’ He shrugged again, like he was carrying something large and uncomfortable on his back. ‘They’re mates. Good mates. An’ it’s how they settle their grievances.’

‘But you’re doing it … what, professionally?’

‘Ah, you know how it is, when there’s big blokes hittin’ each other, an’ one wins and one loses, there’s money to be made. Next thing you know, I’m in the ring.’

She looked round the room. ‘I’m guessing you haven’t seen much of it. This money.’

He looked away once more. ‘Yeah, well … ’ He rubbed his face with his hand. ‘Not all of us get to go to university, do we?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘The rest of us just have to … do what we can.’

Marina looked at him. ‘Are you in trouble, Sandro?’

He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I’m always in trouble. According to you.’

‘Do you owe money, is that it?’

He didn’t seem to want to answer, but the words reluctantly left his mouth. ‘Bit. But there’s a bout tonight.’ He raised the energy drink to his lips. ‘That’s what this is for. Win that an’ I’ve paid more of it off.’

‘Oh, Sandro … ’

His features hardened. ‘Don’t give me pity. Like I said, we weren’t all as lucky as you.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean … ’

‘I’ll still help you. I said I would. But I have to do that first.’

Whatever Marina was going to say next remained unsaid.

Love Will Tear Us Apart.

She grabbed her bag, snatched the phone out, put it straight to her ear. Heard a woman’s voice.

‘Listen … ’

69

Mickey and Anni had reached a dead end.

‘And this was the last reported sighting?’ said Anni.

Mickey turned round. ‘Yeah. After this, she’s … in the wind.’

They were following Marina’s trail on DCI Franks’s orders. After what they had discovered at the house, Mickey had expected to stay in charge of that, but Franks had different ideas.

‘I want you two out looking for Marina,’ he had said on the phone, directly after Mickey had received the call from Anni and they had realised who the child in the house had been. ‘The Birdies can deal with everything there. They can look for the missing girl. They’ll need to liaise with Suffolk since they’re already working on it. It’ll be a joint operation. I want you two trying to track down Marina. We find one of them, hopefully we find all of them.’

Mickey had tried to argue, saying that it wasn’t a good idea — and in fact against police policy — to investigate someone in the same department.

‘But you’re not, are you?’ Franks had replied.‘Investigating. You’re just looking for her. Granted, you find her and everything else might fall into place, but at the moment you’re just two colleagues tracking down a missing person who just happens to be known to you. Which should give you more insight into her whereabouts.’

Put like that, Mickey conceded, he could see the logic.

So he had waited for Anni to arrive, then they had both taken off in Mickey’s car, following the last known sighting they had of Marina: a small yellow car on the way to Clacton, seen passing a housing development that seemed to reach a dead end on a cliff against the North Sea.

Mickey stood there hearing the waves below, feeling the cold air all around.

He also felt something else. Anni’s arm snaking round his waist, her hand stroking his side. He looked round. She was right next to him.

‘You OK?’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ he replied, still staring past the houses to the sea. ‘Just … trying to think where she could have gone.’

Her grip tightened. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

He turned to her. Eye to eye. She really was exceptionally beautiful, he thought. He turned his head away, wondering what she was thinking. Anni stayed where she was.

‘I loved last night.’

Her voice sounded so small and warm against the cold air around him. He turned to her once more. Smiled.

‘So did I,’ he said. And laughed.

‘What’s the matter?’ She looked concerned.

‘It’s just … Nothing.’

‘No it’s not. What’s the matter?’

‘Oh … just stupid stuff. Worried that I’d messed everything up. That’s all.’

‘And why would you have done that?’

‘Because I have a tendency to. Everything that I want to go well, if I meet someone a bit special, it just … you know. You know what I mean.’

‘You haven’t messed everything up. Honestly.’ Her grip tightened.

He responded. ‘Good.’

She smiled. It gave way to a laugh. ‘So I’m a bit special, am I?’

He reddened. ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

‘Not special needs, you mean?’

‘Definitely not.’

His phone rang. He answered it. Milhouse.

‘You working today, then?’ Mickey asked.

‘We’re all on overtime for this one.’

‘Justice never sleeps,’ said Mickey. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Got some information for you. Emailing it over. The dead man’s been identified. Graham Watts.’

Mickey thought. ‘The guy whose car it was. Anything on him?’

‘Used to work for the Sloane family.’

‘Now that rings a bell.’

‘It should,’ continued Milhouse. ‘Stuart Sloane, the adopted boy who went mad with a shotgun and killed his family, was released from prison yesterday. And he’s gone missing. Graham Watts used to work for the family. Didn’t part on good terms, apparently.’

‘Connection, you reckon?’

‘The universe doesn’t believe in coincidences,’ said Milhouse. ‘And neither do I. But I just provide the information; what you do with it’s up to you.’

‘Do my best.’

‘You should have the email now. Happy hunting.’

He hung up.

‘Milhouse?’ asked Anni.

‘Tell you in the car.’

They turned, made their way back to Mickey’s car. Anni hadn’t removed her hand.

Mickey hadn’t removed his either.

70

‘Your voice is different,’ said Marina. ‘I’m not talking to a Dalek any more.’ There was no reply. ‘And you’re a woman.’

‘Well done.’ The voice was trying to sound flippant. And failing. It just sounded tired.

Marina felt there was a vacuum where the woman’s control should have been, and decided to fill it. ‘Look. It’s all gone wrong for you.’

‘Has it?’

‘I went to the house. I saw the body.’ No response, so she kept going. ‘Why don’t you give up, yeah? Just let me have my daughter back and we can leave it. It’s all gone wrong. Let’s salvage something. Give me my daughter and we can walk away. What d’you say?’

‘What a coincidence,’ said the woman’s voice. ‘I was just going to propose that myself.’

Marina said nothing. Just felt her heart rise at the possibility of the whole ordeal being over. Tried not to get too excited.

‘But there’s a condition.’

Her heart sank once more. She should have expected that. ‘OK, then,’ she said, as calm as she could manage. ‘Tell me what the condition is.’

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Marina’s first thought was that the woman had hung up. She was gone, and with her the last chance of seeing Josephina alive. But she came back. Thinking, thought Marina. Planning what to say next.

‘You … you still have a job to do. I — we — want you to do the job still.’

Marina’s mind whirled. She tried to think quickly, compartmentalise her maternal instincts, react once more not as a desperate mother but a trained psychologist. That last sentence had been rich in undisclosed meaning. Marina had to examine it, turn it round, use it against the speaker, make it a key to character, motivation. Force the woman to reveal herself.

Still have a job to do. She still wants me to diagnose Stuart Sloane, Marina thought. She couldn’t let go of that idea. But the way she had said it, there had been no conviction in her voice. Like she knew the situation was reaching the end and she was preparing to salvage what she could out of it. A resignation, a sense of avoiding defeat.

But that doesn’t mean she’s defeated, thought Marina. It just means she wants to avoid defeat. At any cost? Depending how unhinged she is, there’s no telling what she might do.

I — we … Self-correction. Gave too much of herself away with the first word. She’s on her own. Her partner — in crime or whatever respect — is gone. Marina had seen the body. But the caller still wanted to give the impression that there was more than one of her. That she wasn’t doing this alone. Was that because she wanted to seem more powerful? Or did she just miss him?

Want you to do the job still. Want you to do the job still … She ran the words in her head. The phrase seemed simple enough on first hearing, but again it was revealing of itself. The phrasing was haphazard, the sentence structure poor. Indicative of a disordered mind.

Marina tried to add everything up. She had a woman who was losing the stomach for her actions but who nevertheless wanted things to be finished the way she had planned. A woman who was missing her partner. A woman who wasn’t stable to begin with and whose mind was now slipping into dangerous territory. Something to work with.

‘Listen,’ said Marina, in her professional, compassionate voice. ‘We can end this now. You can end this now. Just give me Josephina back and that will be that.’

A sigh from the other end of the phone, then silence.

Marina pressed on. ‘Look. I know you’re finding this hard. Very hard. Especially on your own. Especially with what happened to … your partner. That must have been awful for you.’ No response. She weighed something up in her mind. Yes. Kept going. ‘I know what it’s like to lose a partner. Like a part of your heart has been taken away. Part of yourself. And you feel … like you’re never going to be whole again.’ She tried to keep her voice even. Tried not to think of Phil.

She became aware of Sandro beside her, listening intently.

‘But you also feel you have to keep going. Because if you don’t, then … it’s all been for nothing.’ She waited, let the words sink in. ‘It’s a bad time. A hell of a bad time. But I can help you too. If you’d let me.’

‘How?’ The voice dead, monotone.

‘Because that’s what I do. That’s my job.’

Silence returned to the other end of the line. In the background, Marina could make out a girl’s voice.

‘Is that Josephina? Is she there?’

‘Yes,’ said the woman, in a tone Marina couldn’t read.

‘Put her on. Let me talk to her.’

More silence.

‘Please. I’m her mother. If you want this to end well, if you want me to help, put her on.’

There were sounds from the other end that Marina couldn’t read. Scraping, movement. Then a small voice on the phone.

‘Hello.’

Marina felt her defences begin to crumble. She tried to hold herself together. ‘Hello, darling. It’s Mummy. Are you OK?’

‘Home … Home … ’

‘I’m coming to get you very soon, darling.’ Marina forced back the sudden tears that sprang into her eyes. ‘Very soon. It won’t be long now.’

‘Want Mummy. Daddy. Home.’

‘I know, baby. Are you OK? They haven’t … haven’t hurt you?’

‘Want Lady.’

Marina felt her heart break. ‘You’ll get Lady. Don’t worry. I’ve got her.’

‘When—’

The phone was snatched away from her.

‘Josie? Josie?’

‘You’ve said enough.’ The woman was back. Her voice more together now. Less penetrable. ‘You know I’ve still got her. And you know what you have to do to get her back.’

‘And I’ll do it. Then I’ll get my daughter back and it’ll all be over. OK?’

‘Yes.’

Marina was about to speak again. She felt Sandro tugging at her sleeve. Her first instinct was to ignore him, but he was insistent. She turned. He was thrusting a piece of paper at her. She took it. Looked at it.

‘Where the bout’s on,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘Tonight. Arrange to meet her there.’

Marina was about to dismiss the idea out of hand, but stopped herself. It wasn’t a bad idea. There would be plenty of people, the woman wouldn’t be tempted to do anything rash in such a crowd, and Marina would have Sandro as backup. Not perfect, but the best that she could hope for.

‘We’ll meet tonight,’ she said, voice as strong as she could make it. ‘I’ve got a location.’

‘I’ll choose the location,’ said the woman.

‘Yeah. You haven’t got a very good track record of this, have you? I’ll choose. There won’t be any police there, I promise.’

‘How do I know?’

‘Because when I tell you what it is and where it’s at, you’ll understand. There’s a bare-knuckle boxing match going on tonight.’ She read from the paper Sandro had given her. ‘Leeson’s Farm. Near Manningtree. On the Roman Road. I’ve got directions if you need them.’

‘I’ll find it.’

‘Good.’

‘This is your last chance. You got that? You try to mess me about, do anything other than what you’ve said you’ll do, try to get out of what you’ve agreed, and you’ll never see your daughter again. Got it?’

‘Got it. And by the way,’ said Marina. She felt the anger rising in her once more, but this time made no attempt to stop it. ‘You do anything to my daughter, and I will kill you with my bare hands. As slowly as possible.’

The phone went dead.

Marina sat back. Drained. Sandro came and sat next to her. Smiled at her.

‘Well done, girl,’ he said. ‘We’ll make an Esposito out of you yet.’

71

Tyrell looked at Amy. She had changed since the phone call. And he didn’t know if it was for the better.

She was standing on her own, looking down at the ground, the phone hanging loose in one hand, the gun in the other. Her mouth was moving, talking to someone who wasn’t there. She began to move around, taking small steps as she spoke, completely unaware that the other two were there.

Tyrell thought this was his chance. He could run for it. Take Josephina and go. Leave Amy to whatever was in her head. He gathered the little girl next to him. Looked round for a way out. There was forest on all sides. He could just pick her up and run. Any direction, didn’t matter. The woman was probably too far gone inside her own head to notice.

‘Mummy … ’ Josephina was looking upset again. He hated to see her looking upset.

‘Yes, Josephina. I’ll take you to see your mummy.’

And he was ready to go.

But something stopped him. Something nagged at him about Amy. She had looked familiar when she got close up to him. He still didn’t know who she was or how he knew her, but there was definitely something familiar about her.

The eyes. That was what did it. The eyes.

He knew them but he didn’t. Couldn’t explain why. Or how. Her eyes. And something else. When she had got mad with him before, got angry. That was familiar too.

He couldn’t place it. The memory was just out of reach in his mind. When he tried to grab it, it slipped away like smoke.

He watched her some more. Tried to see her eyes, but her head was down.

It was like watching a ghost. He remembered a comic he used to read when he was little. An American comic that he wasn’t supposed to have because it belonged to the boy he’d been told to call brother. Deadman. That was the name of the character. Deadman. He had a bald head, a white face, black eyes and a red acrobat’s costume, and there was something about him that Tyrell had loved. Deadman was, as his name suggested, dead. But he could make his spirit live by putting it into other people’s bodies. And then he would have adventures. When Tyrell looked at Amy now, that was what he saw. Deadman. A spirit living in someone else’s body.

He just didn’t know whose spirit it was.

He glanced at Josephina, looked back at Amy. This was it. Run for it.

But he couldn’t.

He looked at Amy again. It wasn’t just her being Deadman. She was troubled. She was behaving the way she was, doing the things she was doing because she was unhappy. Not right inside. And he couldn’t just walk away and leave her. Not without trying to help her.

So instead of running away, he walked towards her.

‘Amy … ’

She didn’t look up, didn’t even acknowledge that she had heard him. Just kept walking round, talking to the invisible person she was having a conversation with.

Tyrell got nearer. ‘Amy … ’

She looked up then. Her eyes were wild, pinwheeling, struggling to focus on him, to recognise where she was.

‘Are you … are you OK?’

She turned away from him. But before she did, he saw a flash of … something … in her eyes. More madness? Sadness? He didn’t know what.

‘Leave me alone.’

He stayed where he was. ‘I just thought … ’ Then stopped. He didn’t know what he just thought.

She turned back to him. There was no mistaking what was in her eyes now. Hatred. Pure, unmistakable hatred.

‘I said leave me alone.’ She was spitting, hissing at him. ‘I wish … I wish I had never met you, wish you’d never come into my life … you freak, you retard … you … Everything that’s wrong, everything that’s been wrong, it’s all because of you … ’

He stared at her, didn’t know what to say.

‘You ruined everything. You ruined my life.’

Conflicting emotions ran through Tyrell. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. He didn’t know who she was, why she was saying these things. He knew he recognised her, or at least there was something familiar about her, but …

‘I never … ’ he said.

‘What.’

‘I never ruined your life.’

She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really. I’d have remembered.’

And that was when she pulled the gun on him again.

He stared down the barrel once more, not knowing whether he was going to live or die. This time, though, it felt different. Like it was happening to someone else and not him. Like it didn’t matter either way. Like he didn’t care.

Amy screamed and turned away from him, lowering her shaking arm as she did so.

‘No … you have to live … I hate it, but you have to live … ’

He stared at her. Knowing she was too far gone, unreachable by anyone.

He glanced at Josephina, who was looking confused as to why he hadn’t taken her to see her mummy.

He sighed.

Wished he had just taken the girl and run when he had the chance.

72

‘So how are you feeling? Sorry. Bet you’re sick of people asking you that.’

Phil Brennan smiled at the nurse. ‘Not yet,’ he said.

She smiled back. ‘Good.’

The nurses and the consultant had been in and drips had been checked, monitors studied, tests carried out. Everything from near-forensic scrutiny of charts to fingers before his eyes and gauging reactions. The consultant eventually declared herself satisfied and left him alone. Phil had asked questions, but the only answer he had been given was to rest.

He had never been good at resting or at doing what he was told.

‘Need to … get up … ’ He tried to sit up, put the weight of his body on his arms, pull himself upright. Pain tracked his every move. He slumped slowly back.

The nurse was checking his notes. ‘I wouldn’t try to move if I were you. Not yet.’

‘Can’t … lie here … ’ he said, trying again.

She turned her attention to him. ‘No. You need to rest.’

He shook his head. It felt like his brain was in sloshing about in a bowl of water. ‘Can’t … I … What happened? Will somebody tell me … what happened?’

‘I will.’

DCI Gary Franks was standing in the doorway. The nurse turned to him. ‘I’m sorry, but Mr Brennan isn’t allowed visitors until—’

He held up his warrant card. ‘It’s all right, love. It’s work.’

The nurse reluctantly didn’t argue any more. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’ She left the room.

Franks took a seat next to the bed, pulled it up close to Phil. ‘How you feeling?’

Phil tried to shrug. ‘Felt better … I suppose. Just … hurt all over.’

‘They giving you enough drugs?’

Phil managed the ghost of a smile. ‘Can’t … complain there.’

‘Good.’ Franks looked around, as though checking they were alone. His voice dropped. ‘What have they told you? About what happened?’

‘Nothing. No one says … anything. Where’s … Marina?’

‘We’ll come to that in a minute. Just got to talk to you first.’

Phil frowned, trying to process Franks’s words through his drug- and pain-fogged brain. ‘What …?’

‘First of all, they say you’re going to be OK. No brain damage. Well, no more than you had already.’ Franks laughed at his own joke.

‘Ha ha … ’ Phil moved his hand up to the side of his head, felt bandages. He noticed his hands were bandaged too. He felt his skin, found ridges, painful and swollen to the touch. ‘What do I look like?’

‘An oil painting,’ said Franks. ‘Something by Picasso.’

‘You’re full of them today.’

‘Or Frankenstein.’

‘How … long have I been asleep?’

‘Just a day or so. Not too long.’

‘A day or so … not too bad. Thought you were going to say … years. What happened?’

‘What can you remember?’

‘Nothing.’

‘The cottage? Aldeburgh?’

Phil frowned. At Franks’s words, he felt a part of his memory detach itself from the huge expanse of blackness in his subconscious and float slowly towards his conscious mind. ‘Yes, the cottage … we went to Aldeburgh for the … the weekend.’

‘That’s right. Well … ’ All traces of humour fell away from Franks’s face.

Phil scrutinised him. He recognised that look. All professional sympathy. It was the one police officers gave that transformed anxious relatives into grieving ones. ‘What … what’s happened …?’

‘The cottage … there was an explosion.’

Phil waited.

‘Don was … ’ Franks sighed. ‘Don died in it.’

Phil pulled the bedclothes back and tried to swing his legs round to the floor. The effort cost him, and he was soon out of breath.

‘What you doing?’

‘Getting … up … ’

‘No you’re not.’

‘Can’t … can’t lie here like … this … ’ He put one hand on the bedside cabinet, tried to pull himself out of bed. ‘Got to … to … ’

Franks placed a restraining hand, gentle but firm, on Phil’s chest. ‘You’ve got to stay where you are. Get well again.’

Phil shook his head, ignoring the swimming sensation. ‘No. Don’s dead … Got to—’

‘No, Phil.’ Franks used his most authoritative voice. ‘You need to stay where you are.’

Phil, exhausted and riddled with pain, flopped back on the bed. He stared at Franks. ‘Where’s … Marina? I want to see … Marina … ’

Franks paused. This was the bit he had been dreading.

73

Sandro stared at his sister. She had come off the phone on a high. Fired up, angry, ready to go and get Josephina there and then. But because there could be no immediate action, her emotion began to subside. And when the adrenalin dissipated away into her system, she hit a down.

‘Can I … Is … You all right?’ The words felt foreign on his tongue. He checked his watch. Not long to go now. He looked again at Marina. He couldn’t leave her like this. ‘Look, I’ve … Is there …?’

She sighed. ‘I want my family back.’

Sandro knew who she meant. He didn’t think she had intended the words to hurt, and after all these years he wasn’t sure they did. But she was still his sister.

‘Why don’t you … phone the hospital? See how Phil is?’

She looked up once more. ‘You think I don’t want to? You think I don’t want to do that every second of the day? I tried it once before and look what happened.’

‘Try it again. On that phone they call you on. What’s the worst thing that can happen? Now?’

‘You know what. I never see Josie again.’

‘After the way the woman was in that last call? That won’t happen. She wants this over as much as you now. Or you could do it from here.’

‘Even more risky,’ she said. ‘They could trace it right back here.’ She thought once more. ‘I’ll find a phone box. Call from there.’

‘A workin’ one? Round here? Good luck with that.’

‘There must be one somewhere … ’

‘Can’t think.’

She stood up. ‘I’m going to go and look. See if I can find one.’

Sandro looked like he wanted to object but couldn’t think of a reason. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You want me to come with you?’

‘I’ll be fine. The walk should take my mind off things, hopefully.’

She left the house before he could say anything more. It was cold outside, the sun seeming distant. She walked the broken, pitted roads looking for a phone box, or somewhere that would have a public phone. She came across the Broad way, a collection of shops, cafés and a pub that looked like it had given up fighting for life and accepted a slow, crumbling death.

And there she found a phone box.

She ran to it, willing it to be undamaged and working. To her amazement, it was. The cubicle stank of stale bodily fluids and the handset was greasy and filthy to the touch, but it had a dialling tone. Even the vandals have given up on this place, she thought.

She took out a piece of paper from her pocket with the hospital’s number on it. Dialled it. Once connected, she took a deep breath, told them who she was and who she was calling for. And waited. A nurse eventually came back on the line, but not before she had heard a click. She knew someone was listening.

‘Your husband’s come round,’ the nurse said. ‘He’s stable.’

Relief flooded her body, nearly took her legs away. ‘Oh … oh. Can I … can I talk to him?’

‘He’s sleeping at the moment.’

‘Is he OK? He’s not … ’

‘He’s shaky, but he’s doing fine.’ There was a pause. She heard someone talking in the background. ‘If you can give me your number?’

‘Just … just tell him … ’ She sighed. ‘Oh, he knows.’

She hung up, leaned against the filthy wall of the box, unable to move for a few minutes.

He’s alive, she thought. Phil’s alive. Get Josie back and we’re a family again. The euphoria she was experiencing soon subsided as she thought about her daughter.

She looked at the phone once more. The thought that Phil was well and alive gave her strength. She drew from it. And came to a decision. She picked up the receiver again, ignoring the rank smell coming off it, and placed it to her ear.

While she had been walking, she had come up with a plan. Call Anni, give her the address of the bare-knuckle fight. Tell her to get Mickey and the rest of the team there to pick up Josephina’s kidnapper. Keep a low profile at the event, only move when given the nod. Sandro wouldn’t mind, she was sure of that. Well, she hoped he wouldn’t mind.

Right, she thought. Good. That sounds like a plan. Her finger was poised over the buttons when she realised she didn’t have Anni’s number. It was programmed into her phone and she usually called it from her contacts list. She had never bothered to learn it.

She put the receiver down once more, slamming it harder than she had meant to, angry that her plan couldn’t go ahead. She stared at it, as if that would make it connect to Anni’s phone, then turned her back, stared out along the desolate stretch of Jaywick seafront, her heart sinking.

Then she had an idea. She turned back to the phone, picked up the receiver, smiling to herself as she did so. DCI Franks. She knew his number.

‘Easy to remember,’ he had said to her when she had first met him and was programming it into her phone, ‘Six, six, six, three, three, three. A devil and a half of a number.’ And he had laughed.

The quip had been rehearsed, but he was right, she had remembered.

She closed her eyes to recall the first five digits, then called the number. Her heart was hammering as she waited for him to answer.

‘DCI Franks.’

She took a deep breath, another. ‘It’s Marina.’ She didn’t know what he would say next or how he would react, so she jumped in quickly. ‘Listen. I haven’t got long … ’

74

Anni had always hated coming in to work on a Sunday. Easter Sunday even more so. The police station on Southway in Colchester was virtually empty. Just a minimum of officers and shift-working support staff keeping the building going over the weekend. The excesses of Saturday night had been mopped up, and with no football scheduled, those on call were making the most of not having to be there unless absolutely needed. Or working the murder in Jaywick, looking for Josephina.

She sat at her desk, booted up her computer. Mickey was beside her. After Milhouse’s call, they had decided to go back to the station to check through records.

Walking into the building alongside Mickey, Anni had felt that those few people there were all staring at them. They know, she was thinking, they know what we’ve done. That we’re now lovers. And they’re judging us for it. Through the main door, down the corridor, into the MIS office. Feeling eyes, seen and unseen, staring at her. She had glanced at Mickey a few times, just to see if he was feeling the same thing. He was staring straight ahead, not looking at her.

Yep, she thought. He’s feeling the same thing.

In the MIS office, at her desk, she had reverted to police officer mode. And now she was engrossed in what was appearing on her screen.

‘Graham Watts,’ she said.

Mickey scooted his chair across, sat next to her, looked at the screen. She was aware of his arm brushing against hers, his thigh. She could feel the heat from his body. More intoxicating than cannabis.

Mickey kept staring at the screen, not looking at her.

‘Here,’ she said. ‘Worked for the Sloanes.’ She peered closer. ‘High up too. Very high. Trusted lieutenant, the works. Started as a gangmaster on the farm, worked his way up. When they diversified into industrial farming, he got promoted. And then … Oh. They let him go. Cut him off, apparently, just like that. That’s when the law became involved.’

‘How?’ asked Mickey, turning to look at her.

‘Cautioned for threatening behaviour. Says here they owed him money. Lots of it. Cut him off without a pension. He tried to talk to them about it, then said he was going to expose them. That was the word he used, expose. The Sloanes said he had nothing on them, that he threatened them, made up a lot of lies. Tried to attack them, got a bit handy.’

Mickey read the next few lines on her screen. ‘They never pressed charges. Just let it go. And he never exposed anything.’ He looked sideways at her. ‘You know what that means.’

Anni nodded. ‘He may not have got his pension, but they gave him enough to keep him quiet.’

‘Exactly. Maybe they didn’t pay him enough to keep him quiet for long.’

‘You think that’s what this is?’ she asked, turning to him. ‘Extortion? Blackmail gone wrong?’

‘Could be. Maybe he ran out of money. Came back for more.’

‘And you think, what, that the Sloanes had him killed?’

‘Worth bearing in mind.’

They kept looking at each other. Anni saw a gleam in Mickey’s eye, a slight upward pull at the sides of his mouth. He moved in closer to her.

‘Stop it … ’

‘Haven’t done anything.’

‘And you’re not going to. We’ve got work to do.’

They went back to the screen.

‘The Sloanes,’ said Mickey. ‘Brother and sister. Bloodbath house of death, and all that.’

‘That’s them.’

He tapped some keys, brought up a different screen. ‘Yeah. Thought so. They were left for dead when their adopted brother went mental with a shotgun. He killed the rest of the family, including his own mother. Stuart Sloane, that was his name.’

Anni frowned. ‘Stuart Sloane … ’

Mickey peered closer. ‘And here’s something else. Guess who the first person was to find Stuart Sloane with the shotgun?’

‘No idea.’

‘Graham Watts.’

Anni looked at him. ‘Interesting. When was this?’

‘Sixteen, seventeen years ago.’

She turned back to her screen. ‘Stuart Sloane was released on Friday. He never made it to the hostel. Disappeared.’

‘And now Graham Watts is dead.’

Anni shrugged. ‘Coincidence?’

‘Dunno.’ Mickey sat back, thinking. ‘There’s something else. Wait … Didn’t … ’ He frowned in concentration. ‘Wasn’t there some connection with them in that murder case Jessie James was looking into?’

Anni smiled. ‘Just can’t take her seriously with that name.’

‘That guy she went to question. Turned up dead. He had some connection with the Sloanes, I think.’

Mickey’s phone rang. He checked the display. ‘Franks,’ he said. He picked up.

Anni watched him as his eyes widened.

‘Is she OK?’

She knew immediately who he was talking about, and gestured for him to put the phone on loudspeaker, but he was concentrating too intently on what Franks was saying. She moved closer and tried to follow the conversation, but it was too one-sided, so she settled for waiting until it had finished.

Eventually Mickey hung up. Anni looked at him expectantly. ‘Well?’

‘Marina called. She’s alive and well. He’s going to meet her tonight.’

Questions tumbled through Anni’s mind, one fast on the heels of another.

‘That’s all I know,’ Mickey said, pre-empting what she was about to say next. ‘All he could tell me.’

‘So are we on for tonight too, whatever it is?’

‘No, we’re not.’ Mickey sounded disappointed. ‘I told him we were turning up connections in the murder of Graham Watts and the Suffolk murder. He wants us to keep working that. Apparently our presence might cause a distraction.’ Mickey’s intonation made it clear what he thought about that.

‘Is that so?’

‘We’re too closely associated with Marina.’

‘So we’re good enough to look for her but not good enough to bring her in.’

‘Apparently.’

‘So we just stay here. Keep on keeping on.’

‘Yeah.’ He thought for a few seconds. ‘I’m glad she’s OK, though.’

‘Hope she’s looked after my car.’ Anni looked again at the screen. ‘And we’ve got plenty to be going on with. We’ll be here for a while, I think.’

‘We will.’

She looked round. The office was empty apart from them. She turned back to him, a glint in her eye this time. ‘You ever wanted to have me here, on my desk?’

Mickey’s mouth dropped open. Words seem to form but failed to escape.

Anni giggled, pushed her leg nearer to his. ‘Have I shocked you?’

Mickey swallowed, blinked. Twice. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Not shocked.’

‘What then?’

The glint reappeared in his eye.

‘Just amazed that you can read my mind … ’

75

Marina had never experienced anything like it.

The barn was huge, modern and functional. Metal sheets clad to a concrete skeleton. Concrete floor. It had been cleared of its day-to-day use with bales of hay pushed to the walls alongside farming machinery, but it couldn’t shake off the farm smell: animal waste, nitrates. Marina was sure it never would. That smell had permeated into the foundations. But it was about to be joined by other, more pungent smells. Sweat. Blood. Money.

She had returned to Sandro’s house and told him the news about Phil. Sandro hugged her, somewhat awkwardly. She knew that wasn’t the kind of thing he was comfortable with but was pleased he had done it. Because that gesture of affection made her, for the first time in her life, feel an abiding love for him. And she was sure he knew it.

And that in turn made her feel guilty about the phone call she had made to Franks. But she would deal with that later, as Sandro had to prepare for the fight and she had to ready herself too. She was going to get her daughter back. No matter what it took.

Sandro emerged from the bathroom, his gym bag over his shoulder, all tracked and hoodied up. She tried to talk to him but he barely responded. She checked his eyes. Her brother wasn’t there any more. In his place was another person. Harder, colder, angrier. A fighter. Marina had flinched. She had looked in her brother’s eyes and glimpsed their father.

They had taken Sandro’s near-dead and rusted-out Mondeo, as she didn’t want to be spotted in Anni’s car. They had driven in near silence. Next to each other but inhabiting different worlds. Both focused on what they had to do in the next few hours.

Turning off the main road and driving up to the farm, Marina had been amazed. They had had to join a long queue of cars to get in. She had expected them all to be like Sandro’s — junkers and clunkers, all tattered and falling apart. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Although there were a fair few cars like that, there were also plenty top-of-the-range numbers, BMWs, Mercs, some Lexus models, dotted about.

There was also security on the gate. Stringent, serious. Big guys who looked like they could double for the night’s entertainment took money and gave directions. Sandro didn’t pay. He was just given a nod of recognition, directed to a field that had been turned into a car park. There, as in the queue to get in, status symbols rubbed bumpers with working Land Rovers, pristine 4x4s, Transits and rust buckets. It was, Marina was amazed to discover, one of the most truly democratic gatherings she had ever been to. All united in their wish to watch two people beat each other up.

Marina followed Sandro to the barn. When they reached the entrance, he stopped, turned to her.

‘Time to part company for a bit, kid.’

Marina looked round. She didn’t welcome the idea of being left alone in this environment. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Got to get ready.’ He held up his fists. ‘Got to prepare.’

‘Right. Of course. Good luck.’ She kissed him on the cheek.

He smiled. ‘Jesus Christ, woman, you’ll be gettin’ me a reputation for being soft.’

She smiled in return, then quickly scanned the entering crowd.

‘They’ll be here. Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘And you know where I’ll be when you need me.’ He walked away. Turned. ‘I’m third on the card, remember.’

Marina watched as Sandro walked towards a group of men just inside the door. An older man stood in the centre of the gathering, the men around him bodyguards or acolytes. He was middle-aged, well dressed. His corpulent figure and red and pink features made him look like a huge boiled pig. Marina recognised him. Milton Picking, one of the biggest gangsters in the region.

Is that who Sandro owes money to? she wondered. Is that who he’s fighting for? Oh baby brother, what have you got yourself involved in?

Sandro was greeted by Picking, then taken away by his followers. Marina took a deep breath, another. Stepped inside.

76

Inside the barn, a fight was just about to start. The centre of the building had been cleared and straw strewn on the concrete floor. Marina was confused by that, thinking at first that straw wasn’t sturdy or thick enough to absorb an impact and make for a sprung base on which to fight. Then she realised what it was for, and with that realisation came a small wave of nausea: it was there to mop up the blood.

A rope had been placed round the centre, marking out the ring. The bales of hay stacked on all sides almost to the ceiling acted as tiered seating. Wooden benches made up the first few rows. Trestle tables served as a bar. It was crowded.

She looked round at the crowd. Like the vehicles outside, it reflected the same patchwork make-up of different types. She recognised the travellers straight away. Jeans and polo shirts; they all looked like they could handle themselves and would be happy for a turn in the ring. There were also plenty of women with them, young, blonde and orange, dressed like sexualised Barbie dolls. And children, the boys mini-mes of their fathers. Dressed the same, running round shrieking, doing their own bare-knuckle sparring in the corners.

There were other types. Men with Marbella tans and expensively tasteless clothes, chunky gold jewellery and reset noses. On their arms Chigwell-opulent trophy wives and mistresses.

And everyone in between. The career gamblers and born losers. The nine-to-fivers seeking a thrill. The curious. Those claiming it as research. All there with one thing in common: they enjoyed watching other people get hurt.

Marina checked her phone. Nothing. The place was noisy, so she kept it in her hand. An announcement was made: the first fight was about to start. She sat down on one of the benches, looking round all the time, scanning the crowd for Josephina. She couldn’t see her.

The first two fighters were brought out. They were teenagers, boys. Both had the hard bodies and wild eyes of travellers. They were led into the ring and she saw immediately that even if they weren’t making money from it, they would still be doing it for fun.

All around, the crowd were on their feet, baying and calling, the excitement palpable, the air thick with sweat and bloodlust. She saw money change hands as odds were made and bets taken. She watched as the two boys squared up to each other, fists in front of their faces, ready.

The referee looked like he could have just walked in from the crowd. He spoke with the familiar Irish-Essex traveller twang, implored the two fighters to make it a good clean fight. They both nodded, eyes fixed on the other. He went on to remind them that one clean hit was worth ten dirty ones, but it was clear they weren’t listening to him. They were both ready to hurt.

The bell went. They danced round each other as the crowd shouted encouragement. Marina was suddenly surrounded by baying red faces. The boys became braver, started fighting. Fists were flung, blows placed. Marina heard the flat slap of knuckle on skin, like a butcher tenderising a side of pork. Felt the blows as they landed.

The larger boy had the footwork. He seemed able to dance out of his opponent’s way, deflect shots intended to damage one part of his anatomy to another, less painful one. This just infuriated the smaller one. He began to throw out shots faster, harder. Wilder. One connected with the bigger boy’s ear and he fell to the ground, cracking his head on the concrete.

That was it, thought Marina, the fight would be stopped.

But it wasn’t. The fallen boy put his hand to his ear, cried out in pain and anger. The referee was holding back the smaller boy, who was mad-eyed with rage, dancing about, trying to get at his opponent.

The bigger boy climbed back to his feet, blood trickling from his ear. Marina wasn’t an expert, but she thought that could be dangerous. The referee thought differently, however, and, after consultation with the fighter, allowed the bout to proceed.

The smaller boy had seen his advantage. His own bloodlust was high. He pressed forward. The bigger one stood his ground, tried to fight off the blows, but Marina, and the rest of the crowd, could see it was just a matter of time. The smaller one kept hitting. One blow connected with his opponent’s nose. Marina heard bone and cartilage shatter. She closed her eyes. The crowd cheered. The small boy jumped out of the way as blood fountained out. He skipped to the side, threw a punch against the damaged ear. The other boy went down. Didn’t get back on his feet this time.

The fight was over, the smaller boy declared the winner. He was jumping up and down, dancing while still in the ring, face a mask of his own and his opponent’s blood, looking like the fight was just a prelude, ready to take on anyone, everyone.

He was led away.

The crowd’s bloodlust temporarily sated, the noise in the barn dampened down to an excited hubbub. More money changed hands as bets were called in and placed for the next bout. Marina, still sitting by herself, felt physically ill.

She checked the phone in her hand. No call.

She looked back at the ring, at the blood on the straw. Couldn’t believe her own brother was going to be in there soon. Couldn’t believe she was here to watch him.

Fresh straw was thrown over the bloodied straw. She looked round once more. Still no sigh of Josephina. She couldn’t even see Sandro. She waited.

The next fight was announced and two more fighters were brought into the ring. The same procedure as before started. Marina wasn’t sure she could watch it all again.

She didn’t have to.

Love Will Tear Us Apart.

She grabbed the phone, put it straight to her ear. Turned away from the action.

‘Where is she?’ she shouted. ‘Where’s my daughter?’

The voice on the phone sucked in air. ‘Well played.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘You must think you’re so clever. Arranging to meet here. Thinking that you’d be safe amongst all these people. That you’d be able to snatch your daughter and make a run for it. Not agree to your part of the arrangement. Am I right?’

‘Where is she? Where’s my daughter?’ Marina was screaming now. No one could hear her above the baying crowd.

The voice gave no reply.

‘Where is she?’

‘Look.’

‘Where?’

‘At the back of the hall. Right at the back. Behind you.’

Marina turned. The crowd were on their collective feet, shouting and screaming and fist-pumping. Marina tried to look through them, look past them. The bales of hay had a gap between them, making a narrow passageway. It was in almost virtual darkness, but she concentrated, managed to separate the shadows. She made out a figure. A small figure. Her heart almost pounded its way out of her chest.

‘Josephina … ’

She started to run towards her, pushing, fighting her way through the crowd.

‘Not just yet,’ said the voice on the phone. ‘Stay where you are.’

Confused and apprehensive, she stopped running.

‘Look. Look again at your little girl. What else can you see?’

Marina looked. And saw a flash of light in the darkness, glinting from something metallic.

A gun.

Pointed at her daughter’s head.

77

Helen Hibbert pulled her coat closer to her neck. She didn’t think it would make much difference, but she felt like it was doing something positive to keep out the cold, damp and fog.

She had reached Harwich with plenty of time to spare, constantly checking her mirror in case those two coppers were following her. She hadn’t seen them or noticed any car that gave any indication of following. Although since her knowledge of that came exclusively from Hollywood movies, she wasn’t entirely sure.

And now she walked, the only person out, her heels clacking and crunching, echoing all around. Behind her were houses, flats. Both old and old-looking. In keeping with the local character. The land stopped the other side of her. She could make out shapes in the fog, lights over the water from the port. It looked like something from a science fiction film, a hulking, crash-landed mothership sitting ominous and indistinct in the mist.

She walked along the footpath towards the agreed spot. A lifeboat station was on her right, the runway positioned on the stony shingle beach. On the other side of her were landed wooden boats. Pulled in and piled up. The dark disguising the fact that most of them, holed and rotting, would never set sail again. Their final resting place. Their graveyard.

She kept walking, away from the houses and flats now, finding herself alone. The boats were now piled up on both sides. Her breath caught from something more than cold. The overhead street lights cast deep, dark shadows, providing perfect cover for muggers and rapists. She could see ahead to where the path was clear and open, where it rejoined the rest of the town and her assignation was to take place, but to get there she had to walk through this first.

She moved slowly, eyes darting, alert for any sudden movement, any attack, listening for changes in sound. She could hear only the white-noise drone of the waves breaking against the shingle beach. That and the beating of her own heart.

She tried to joke with herself, think of it as a final test to go through before starting her new life. Go into the darkness, come out in the light. Just her and the weird sister. How was that going to work? Would they get on? Have much in common? If Helen had been asked earlier, she would have said no. Definitely not. But now she wasn’t so sure. There had seemed to be a connection when they talked. Kindred spirits, and all that. And there was the money, too. That was probably what would keep them together.

She clutched her coat more tightly about her, kept a firm grip on her suitcase. Despite telling herself there was nothing to worry about, she wished she had something else to hold, something she could use as a weapon if she needed to.

And then she heard something. Or someone.

She turned. The sound came from her left. Movement, someone coming towards her. Helen froze. Then heard a voice.

‘Hello, Helen.’

She turned. It was Dee. Sliding out of the shadows.

Smiling.

78

‘Well I wish we’d stopped. That’s all I’m saying.’ Jessie looked sulkily out of the car window.

Deepak sighed and shook his head. A reply felt unnecessary. She knew what he was thinking, what he would say. They were working, they might lose Helen Hibbert if they stopped now, the fish and chip shop would still be there once they had finished … all that. She knew what he would say because she had heard it all before. Many times.

‘Look,’ said Deepak, staring through the windscreen. ‘If she goes any further down there, we’re going to lose her.’

‘Then we get out of the car and follow her.’

Deepak didn’t look happy about that.

‘What, now you don’t want to follow her?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s cold. I didn’t bring appropriate clothing.’

Jessie smiled, looked away.

After leaving the Sloane house, they had gone back to Helen Hibbert’s flat to question her and found her leaving, pulling a suitcase behind her. They had followed her, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Deepak was very good, she had to give him that. All the way down the A14 to Harwich. Sometimes he had been one car behind her, sometimes two or three. At one point he was even in front. But he never once lost sight of her. And never let her know she was being tailed.

They had pulled back as she had negotiated the old narrow lanes of Harwich, waiting until she had parked and got out before bringing their car alongside her. They had watched as she set off walking, pulling her suitcase behind her.

‘Looks like she’s got a hot date,’ said Jessie, then turned to Deepak. ‘Sorry. Cold date.’

‘Very funny,’ he said, face straight.

They watched her walk towards the stacked old boats.

‘Very brave,’ said Deepak.

‘Or stupid,’ said Jessie.

‘Maybe she’s meeting someone there,’ said Deepak.

‘Let’s hope it’s who she wants to meet.’

Deepak leaned over to the glove compartment, took out a pair of miniature binoculars.

‘You think of everything, don’t you?’ said Jessie. ‘Apart from bringing warm clothing, of course.’

Deepak ignored her, watched Helen Hibbert.

‘She’s stopped,’ he said.

‘Let me see.’ Jessie made a grab for the binoculars. Deepak held her off.

‘Just a minute.’ He kept watching. ‘There’s somebody with her.’

‘Let me see.’

Again he stopped her. He smiled. ‘Well, well, well … ’

‘What? What?’ Jessie scowled. ‘I hate it when you do this.’

He put the binoculars down, turned to his superior. ‘This gets better.’

79

Right at this very second, Tyrell had never hated himself more. Never could hate himself more.

They had arrived there with no trouble. Once Amy saw what kind of venue it was and what was happening there, she had become angry. Striding up and down in the car park, swearing, ranting to herself that she had allowed herself to be duped, played. Josephina and Tyrell had just stood there, silent. She had then hurried them inside, pulled them to the back of the hall, hidden from the rest of the punters by the huge hay bales. And that was when she had handed him the gun, told him to hold it against Josephina’s head. The little girl had just stared at him, her eyes brimming with tears, threatening to spill over.

‘Tell her,’ Amy had said, ‘that if she doesn’t stand still and do what she’s told, she won’t get to see her mother. Ever.’

Tyrell had stared at the gun in his hand, felt its cold heaviness, then looked at the girl and back to Amy. He had shaken his head. ‘No. I won’t.’

‘Really?’ Amy had smiled then. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘One of us has to do it. You want me to? Shall I? Do you trust me?’ He didn’t have to answer her. She knew what he was thinking. She smiled, seeing he had no choice. ‘Thought so.’

He had looked between Amy and Josephina and reluctantly held on to the gun. ‘I hate guns,’ he said to Amy. ‘And I really, really hate you.’

She shrugged. ‘Not the first time you’ve told me that. Just do as you’re told. And make sure she does what she’s told. And don’t get clever. Don’t even think about using it on me.’

He hadn’t. Not until she had said it. And by then it was too late.

‘Just do it. We get this done, go back to the house, get sorted and it’s all over.’

Tyrell’s hand was shaking. He really did hate guns. The sound they made, the look of them, the heft of them. They were cold, hard. Dead to the touch.

And now he was standing there, holding the automatic on a child. A child he had made promises to, who trusted him. Now she couldn’t look at him. She was shaking too. The threatened tears had never happened only because she was too frightened to cry.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m not … not going to hurt you. You know that … ’

He didn’t know if he was speaking to the child or to himself.

‘I know … you won’t believe me, but please … I want you to go back to your mother. I want you to go home.’ He sighed. ‘I want to go home too.’

All around were too many people making too much noise. Screaming and braying. Worse even than the worst nights in prison. At least then he was on his own, just listening to the noise. Here he was right among it. In the thick of it. He didn’t know what to do, couldn’t think.

So he just stood there, holding the gun. Hating himself. Josephina wouldn’t even look at him. That really hurt. Knowing he had let her down, betrayed her trust. And he had done it by being weak. Making the wrong decisions, the wrong choices.

And that made him angry with himself.

He looked again at the gun. At the child. At Amy next to him, talking on the phone.

At the gun. Again.

Yes. He was hurt. Yes. He was angry.

It was time to do something about it.

80

‘You bitch … ’ Marina started to move through the crowd.

‘I’ve told you already. Stay where you are.’

Marina knew this wasn’t the time to antagonise the woman, so she did as she was told and stopped moving. She kept the phone clamped to her ear.

‘That’s better,’ said the woman. ‘I just wanted you to see that she’s still alive, that she’s unhurt. That I haven’t been lying to you.’

‘I need to see her,’ said Marina.

‘You can see her from where you are. She’s fine.’

Marina knew she should react as a psychologist would, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘Bitch … ’

‘Whatever. You get her back when you’ve completed your part of the deal. Not before. Do that and everything will be fine.’

Marina wanted to look round but didn’t dare. Was Franks nearby? Could he see her or Josephina? Could he see the gun? It was hidden from most of the crowd, so she doubted it. But she hoped he was watching her and could read her reactions. She had to play for time, so she reined her emotions in. Tried to keep calm, focus. ‘Right. I’m here. You want me to give a report on your patient. Shall we do this now?’

‘I had hoped we could. But this venue isn’t particularly conducive to conversation, is it?’

‘Well, we could … ’ A wall of sound sprang up around Marina as she spoke. The fight was over. Most people were cheering, some booing, shouting out threats. Marina, her back to the ring, ignored it. She also missed seeing Sandro appear and stand at the ringside. He didn’t see her either. He was focused, in the place he needed to be to fight.

Marina gave another surreptitious look round. Still no sign of Franks. ‘We could go somewhere else,’ she said.

‘We could. In fact we have to, since we can’t do anything here.’

‘Where is he?’ asked Marina. ‘Stuart Sloane, where are you keeping him?’

‘He’s right here.’

Marina looked around. ‘Right where?’

‘Right in front of you.’

Marina realised who she meant. Her heart skipped a beat. ‘That’s him? The one holding a gun on my daughter?’

‘Your new client. Don’t sound so surprised. I’d ask him to wave, but he’s busy.’

Marina felt her legs begin to tremble. ‘And you want me to declare him sane.’

‘Oh yes. He’s sane, all right.’

Marina fought the urge to scream. ‘Then why is he holding a gun on my daughter?’

‘Because I told him to. He’s protecting my investment, Dr Esposito. So don’t do anything stupid, or it’ll get very messy.’

The trembling in Marina’s legs spread to her whole body. She wanted to rush over and grab her daughter, call the woman’s bluff, take whatever came her way and run. She looked round once more, desperate for Franks’s intervention.

‘Who you looking for?’

‘What?’ Marina had been too blatant. ‘I’m not … not looking for anyone.’

‘You looked round like you were waiting for a bus.’

‘I was just … No … ’ And then she saw him. Off to her left, trying to walk through the crowd as unobtrusively as possible. He had spotted her, was coming closer.

She had to signal, tell him to keep back. She caught his eye, shook her head.

‘Who’s that? What are you doing?’

‘I’m … Nothing.’ Franks picked up the signal. Stopped moving.

‘Liar. You were … ’ There was a pause on the line, followed by a sharp intake of breath. ‘Bitch.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’ve set me up.’

Marina felt her stomach churn. ‘No I haven’t, I—’

‘Don’t lie to me. You’ve set me up, haven’t you? That’s why you wanted to meet here. Who is it? Who were you signalling to? Bitch … ’

Marina was going to argue but couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t incriminate her further. The woman would be able to tell that she was lying.

The woman gave a sigh that was almost a growl. She spoke quickly. ‘Why couldn’t you just have done what you were told, eh? Why? Why did you have to … ’ Another sigh, another growl. ‘You’ve done it now, bitch. ‘I’m not responsible for what happens next.’

The phone died in Marina’s hand.

81

Mickey was relieved that he and Anni hadn’t had sex in the office.

They had both been seriously tempted, but common sense had eventually prevailed. They had kept working on the task before them, just giving occasional suggestive hints, quick, surreptitious strokes of arms and thighs, tantalising little promises of what they could expect from each other later.

They had focused, gone to work. Pulled out everything they could find about Michael and Dee Sloane, their company and their lives.

‘Right,’ said Mickey, leaning back from the screen and rubbing his eyes, putting together what they had found out so far. ‘Graham Watts … ’

‘The dead guy from the house in Jaywick,’ said Anni, sitting on the edge of the desk, swinging her legs back and forth and eating a packet of vending machine crisps. ‘First on the scene to find the bodies that Stuart Sloane was supposed to have killed.’

‘Yep. Now. Jeffrey Hibbert.’

‘The victim in the murder case Calamity Jane’s working on.’

‘Very funny. Hibbert and Watts used to work together. For the Sloanes.’

Anni kept listening. Mickey checked the screen, his notes on the desk. ‘They were both high up,’ he said. ‘Started as workers, went on to be gangmasters on the farms, did their own recruitment, hiring and firing, all that.’

‘Farms,’ said Anni through a mouthful of crisps.

‘What?’

‘You said farms. Plural.’

Mickey leaned forward, helped himself to a crisp.

‘Oi!’

‘Thanks.’ He continued. ‘Salt and vinegar. Not my favourite.’

‘I’ll remember that in future. Always get them. Stop you from nicking them.’

‘Anyway, yes. Farms plural. After the death of their parents, the Sloane siblings diversified the portfolio, you might say. It was like they were just waiting for their father’s death to take over the family business and get it going. They started speculating. Bought up shares in the industrial farms that were emerging in Europe at the time. Worked those shares up to controlling interests in most cases.’

‘Industrial farming? Lovely.’

Mickey nodded. ‘Saw a documentary on it once. Horrible. Almost put me off eating meat.’

‘Almost. Carry on.’

‘Right. The Sloanes diversified. Import — export, taking control of the supply chain. The works. Eventually they sold their farm, set up an umbrella company, Sloane Holdings.’

‘So where do Hibbert and Watts come into this?’ asked Anni.

‘Glad you asked. Apparently, according to the official version put out by the Sloanes, Graham Watts didn’t like the direction the company was taking and voiced his displeasure. As a result, he was kicked out. And since Hibbert was a close friend, he got the chop too.’ Mickey stole another crisp.

‘Stop it!’

‘Not bad, actually. Could get used to them. Anyway, they were both kicked out. But they made a fuss. Started mouthing off: they knew where the bodies were buried, were going to ruin the Sloanes, yada yada, blah blah.’

‘The usual stuff.’

‘Yep. But the thing was, their version contradicted the Sloanes’. Watts and Hibbert said it wasn’t about the expansion of the business. They were more than happy with that, it made them more money.’

‘What then?’

‘The Sloanes themselves.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well … ’ Mickey looked at the screen once more. ‘Michael Sloane made a full recovery after the shooting. His wounds weren’t that serious. But Dee Sloane, the sister, wasn’t so lucky. She had to keep going abroad for treatment. Expensive treatment. Word was she wasn’t quite right in the head. Needed mental as well as physical treatment.’

‘Not surprised after what she’d been through.’

‘No. And apparently she was never the same afterwards. Had to live as a recluse. But I’ve found something else, too. Some kind of weird sex parties.’

Anni smiled. ‘How weird?’

‘Get your mind out of the gutter, Hepburn. I don’t know. But Watts and Hibbert alluded to them. In fact they were supposed to have been part of them. Rumour was that Watts and Dee Sloane had something going and the brother didn’t like it. Then something else happened. Remember that case a few years ago? Dead cockle pickers at Wrabness?’

‘Yeah. Migrant workers. Left out when the tide came in. Big court case.’

‘Yeah, huge. And it was the Sloanes. It could have broken them. But they got away with it.’

‘How?’

‘Witnesses retracted their stories, a couple even disappeared. No evidence of negligence. Death by misadventure. The Sloanes got off as lightly as possible. They started to diversify their business interests shortly after that.’

Anni screwed up her crisp packet, threw it in the bin. ‘Not people to mess with.’

‘Nope. And apparently a few of their business rivals have disappeared after dealing with them too.’

‘You mean gone out of business?’

‘No. I mean disappeared. Without a trace. Investigations took place … ’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing. Like they’d vanished off the face of the earth. Sloanes completely untouchable.’

‘Jesus. So where does Stuart Sloane fit in? Is he after revenge too?’

‘God knows.’ Mickey took his phone out. ‘I’ll give Jessie a call. She might have discovered something. She’s been working this case too.’

‘Don’t you think she would have contacted us if she had?’

‘Maybe.’ Mickey smiled. ‘Maybe she’s scared of you. Doesn’t want to call in case you answer.’

‘Maybe she fancies me,’ said Anni.

‘Maybe.’

‘And you can take that look off your face as well, Philips,’ she said, laughing.

Mickey dialled the number.

82

Tyrell watched as Amy ended the call and put the phone away in her jeans pocket. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes stayed downcast on the floor. She didn’t look good.

The whole situation didn’t look good.

Tyrell glanced at Josephina, back to Amy. The woman shook her head. ‘We’ve been set up,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Little Josephina’s mummy doesn’t want her back as much as she said.’

Tyrell was confused. ‘I don’t … ’ He looked at Amy, searching her face for answers. He read familiar emotions in her eyes. Anger. Madness. But he saw something new, something he hadn’t yet seen there. Despair. And somehow he found that more distressing.

The crowd on the bales were still looking in the other direction, still screaming. He stood behind them at the back wall, between two hay bale seating areas, feeling like the still point in a raging storm. The calm eye.

But he was anything but calm. His heart was racing, panic threatening to overwhelm him. He could see Josephina’s mother beside the ring, a mass of people between them. She looked distraught. Josephina was straining, desperate, crying to be free, to go and see her. Her cries were lost in the screaming crowd. He looked again at Amy. She had gone back into herself, unmoving.

‘What … what did she say?’

Amy didn’t reply. Didn’t even acknowledge that she had heard.

Must be the noise, thought Tyrell. He tried again, louder.

‘What did she say? What’s happening now?’

‘She’s betrayed us,’ said Amy. It sounded like the voice of a dead person.

Tyrell shivered. ‘What? What d’you mean?’

Amy turned to him. Her eyes too were like those of a dead person. ‘She told someone else. And they’re coming for us. They’re going to take you away. And me.’

From the way she was speaking, Tyrell thought he was expected to feel shocked or angry. But all he felt was relief. They could take him away. Put him back in prison. And he could rest.

‘But I’m not going to let her win. And I’m not going to let him win either … ’

‘What d’you mean? Who are you talking about?’

‘The kid’s no good to us now.’

‘So we can let her go?’

Another sigh from Amy. She looked him straight in the eye. And what he saw there scared him. ‘Don’t be stupid. No. We kill her. Now.’

83

‘Oh thank God,’ said Helen, her heart rate slowing, hand clutching her chest. ‘It’s you.’

Dee smiled. ‘Who else were you expecting?’

Helen managed a small, tight laugh. ‘I don’t know. It’s just … ’ She looked round, gestured at the piled-up boats. ‘You know. Scary. Never know who could be hanging around in there.’

Dee’s smile didn’t waver. ‘You’re right. You don’t.’

Helen gave another laugh, stood there regaining her breath. ‘So,’ she said, ‘are we off?’

‘Have you got everything you need?’

Helen pointed to her suitcase. ‘Everything in here. For now.’

‘You didn’t tell anyone that you were coming here, that you were meeting me?’

‘No. I told you I wouldn’t.’

‘And you weren’t followed?’

A mental image of the two police officers flashed briefly into her head. She discounted it. No. There had been no one following her. She had checked. ‘No. Just me.’

‘Good.’

‘Have you got … ’ Helen paused, not wanting to appear mercenary, ‘the money?’

‘Everything’s sorted,’ Dee said. Then she nodded, as if deep in thought, as if reaching a conclusion about something. ‘Yes. Everything’s sorted.’

Helen smiled. ‘Great. Let’s go.’

Dee placed a hand on Helen’s arm. There was power in the grip. Heavy restraint.

‘Ow, that hurt. What are you …?’

Helen’s sentence remained unfinished. Behind Dee, from further in the piles of stacked boats, a shadow detached itself. A huge shadow. It came slowly towards Helen, appeared in the street light. It was a man, one of the biggest she had ever seen. Hulking, grey-skinned. Arms wrapped in dirty, bloodied bandages. His eyes caught the light. Glittered, dancing to a demented tune Helen hoped she would never hear.

He moved slowly towards her.

‘You’re right,’ said Dee, cruel laughter undercutting her words. ‘You never know who’s hanging around in here … ’

84

Jessie and Deepak were out of the car and making their way towards the piled-up fishing boats when they heard the scream.

‘Come on,’ said Jessie.

Deepak was already running. Across the grass, down the path. Keeping out of sight of the main walkway, making sure he couldn’t be seen. He reached the side of the stacked boats. Began to edge his way cautiously and silently but quickly along to the lit path, keeping hidden as he went.

Jessie caught up with him, joined him. Together they reached the corner.

Another scream, muffled this time, forcibly restrained.

They shared a glance. Deepak nodded.

They were both poised, ready to rush forward.

Jessie returned Deepak’s nod.

Ready to spring forward, surprise whoever was there.

Then her phone rang.

85

Tyrell looked down at Josephina. Saw her round, tear-filled eyes staring back up at him. No, he thought. I’m better than that. ‘I’m not a killer,’ he said aloud. ‘I don’t care what they say, I’m not a killer … ’

His mind slipped back. He couldn’t help it; he was so stressed, it just happened. He was back in the house, back in that room. On that day. With that shotgun cradled in his arm.

He remembered. It had been his mother’s wedding day. And he was so happy for her. He had been out for a walk, round the grounds, away from the house, the family. Enjoying himself. Planning his future. And when he had come back, he had found …

He knew what he had found. Bodies everywhere. Blood. Mess. The man he was trying to call his father. Like something from a horror movie. And his mother. Oh God, his mother … lying next to him. He was holding her, as if he had tried to protect her. Both of them dead. Gone.

That was when he had retreated. Found somewhere in his head to hide, to stay. And he had been there ever since.

But there was something else, some other memory …

Jiminy Cricket. Appearing before him, telling him what to do. And he had done it. Done as he was told. So numb, so dead from what he had just seen, he had done it.

And another memory was there too …

He closed his eyes. Didn’t want to bring it back, yet knew he had to. His mind was a fairground ride now. It might make him feel sick, it might scare him, it might make him wish he was dead. But he had to go through with it. He couldn’t get off until it had ended.

Until it had shown him everything it had to show him.

The other room. His brother. His sister.

Or the two people his mother had wanted him to call brother and sister.

Both lying there. Blood everywhere. But not dead. Moving. Looking up at him. Pretending. Like it was all some game.

He looked across at Amy. And it was like he was suddenly struck by lightning. He knew. He knew exactly what was happening.

‘I’m not a killer,’ he said aloud once more. ‘And I never have been … ’

He stared at Amy.

‘I know who you are.’

She smiled. ‘Well done, Einstein. Now do what you’re told.’

‘I’m not a killer,’ he said. ‘I would never kill a child. Never.’ He clutched Josephina tightly to him. ‘And I won’t let you hurt her either.’

‘Just do it! Do as you’re told. Then it’s time to go.’

‘I would never kill a child. Never.’ He swung the gun round, pointed it at Amy. ‘I know who you are.’

Amy was about to throw back a nasty, glib remark at him, but she saw the look in his eyes, stopped.

‘I know who you are. And what you’ve done to me. And my life.’

She said nothing.

‘You’ve taken my life … ’

He squeezed the trigger.

86

The Golem stopped, his arm round the woman’s throat, poised to snap. Dee Sloane had placed a restraining hand on his arm. They both looked towards the sound of the phone ringing.

The Golem didn’t want to stop. It didn’t matter who was there, he could take care of them too. Take care of all of them. There was nothing he couldn’t do. Nothing …

Dee Sloane was gesturing silently to him. Nodding her head, moving her arm. The back of the boats. Take the woman to the back of the boats. Continue there.

He nodded and was about to move.

That was when the woman screamed again.

‘Help me, oh God, help … help me … ’

The Golem began dragging her, but it was too late. Her screaming had alerted the person on the phone. Or persons. Two of them. Both running towards him.

‘Leave her,’ shouted Dee. ‘Deal with them.’

He dropped the woman, turned to the two newcomers. A man and a woman. The woman’s mouth was open and she was shouting something, making an identification of herself, giving him an instruction. She might even have said police, but he wasn’t listening. He was doing as he was told.

He moved forward, grabbed her round the throat. She dropped her phone but it kept ringing. He squeezed.

And stopped. Because he was aware of something on his back. He turned. The other one, the Indian man, had picked up an oar and was swinging it towards the Golem’s back. And again.

The Golem felt only the slightest irritation, but the man’s aim was good and strong and he started to lose his footing. The man was tiring a little but still going. The Golem took his hand away from the woman, turned to face this new challenge. Swung out a fist.

Missed.

The man was small, wiry. Reflexes sharp. He dodged, twisted.

The Golem swung again. The man ducked. The Golem’s fist connected with one of the stacked boats. The pile tottered, but didn’t fall. The Golem looked at his hand. His knuckles were skinned, splinters of wood sticking out of the exposed flesh like spikes, but he felt nothing. Dr Bracken’s pills were wonderful.

Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of the woman kneeling on the ground, scrabbling for the phone. That couldn’t happen. As she reached for it, fingers almost there, he kicked her arm. Heard the bone snap. She screamed, collapsed.

‘This is taking too long! Finish it!’

Dee’s voice.

The Golem turned, acknowledging his instructions. Turned back to the pair before him.

She was right. Time to finish this.

87

Marina felt as though she had been paralysed and forced to watch her worst nightmare. She couldn’t move for fear Stuart Sloane would shoot her daughter. She couldn’t stay where she was because she had to do something. Josephina was staring at her. Eyes shining with tears, demanding answers. Why are you standing there? Why won’t you help me, Mummy? Answers Marina couldn’t give.

The man holding the gun clutched her tighter.

Time slowed down. The voices around her phased out, people began to move in slow motion.

Marina’s brother screams, runs past her, heads towards the man with the gun. Moves slowly in Marina’s mind, yet also swiftly.

The man swings his gun sideways, away from Josephina. Even from this distance, Marina can see his finger squeezing the trigger, can sense that he is about to fire. She opens her mouth to scream. A dull roar emerges.

Sandro reaches the gunman. And is on him. The gunman looks up, eyes wide with surprise, mouth attempting to speak, no words coming out.

Sandro’s hand clamps round the gunman’s hand, wrenches the gun away from him, throws it behind him.

The gunman tries to shout something. His words don’t make it.

Sandro pulls back his arm, balls his fingers into a fist. Brings the fist down into the man’s face.

Hard.

Marina sees the man let go of Josephina.

Her daughter is free.

Time starts again. And Marina is back in the present. She can move once more.

‘Josephina!’

Her legs free, she began shoving her way through the crowd. Sandro’s exit from the ring had attracted attention. People were beginning to look towards the back of the arena, trying to see what she was looking at, what she was running towards.

She pushed, shouted, tried to force her way through, to get to her daughter. All around her were screams, rushing bodies, crushing her, stopping her from progressing. She caught only glimpses of her brother, her daughter, the crowd pressing in, obscuring her view. She pushed hard, moving forward all the while.

Then stopped suddenly as a pair of big, heavy hands clamped themselves on her shoulders.

She tried to shake them off, couldn’t. Turned to scream at them to let her go.

‘Don’t worry, love,’ said a familiar Welsh voice. ‘I’m here, I’ve got you. You’re safe now.’

DCI Gary Franks.

She turned back to where she had been headed.

Her brother, her daughter were now completely lost to the crowd.

88

‘Taking ages to answer,’ said Mickey.

‘Maybe she’s got a hot date.’ Anni was sitting on the desk once more, swinging her legs.

Mickey waited. ‘Not going to voicemail, either. Strange.’

‘Not really. It is Sunday night. Easter Sunday. Maybe she’s at home. Not everyone’s like us. Some people have social lives.’

The phone was answered. Mickey held up a hand, indicating this to Anni.

‘Hi, Jessie?’

‘Oh, so it’s Jessie now, is it?’ Anni was speaking just loud enough to be heard on the other end.

Mickey waved his hand at her, trying to shush her. ‘Mickey Philips here. I’m just—’

He stopped dead. The voice on the other end of the phone spoke.

‘You’re too late, Mickey Philips. Whoever you are. Much too late … ’

The line went dead.

Anni had a wisecrack planned. The expression on Mickey’s face froze it in her mouth.

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘We’ve got trouble.’

89

‘No!’ shouted Marina, throwing off Franks’s hand. ‘My daughter, my daughter’s down there … ’ She wriggled free from him and ran forward. He followed.

All around was chaos. Franks and his team had identified themselves as police officers and the crowd were panicking, desperately clambering towards the exits. The fight was over. The fight to avoid arrest for taking part in an illegal activity had begun.

Marina pushed her way through with a new-found strength. She wished that strength had been in evidence a few minutes ago. Eventually the barn began to clear, and she could make her way through the crowd. She reached the spot where Josephina had been. Her brother and the gunman were being marched away by police officers, arms up behind their backs. The woman she had spoken to on the phone had gone too.

‘He’s my … my brother … ’ she called out, but no one heard her.

She looked round, scanned the faces in the barn. Checked behind the bales, on the seats. Nothing. She turned to Franks, panic rising.

‘Where’s my … where’s my daughter?’

He answered, but she didn’t hear him. She searched frantically. Pulled everything apart. But the woman was gone.

And so was Josephina.