Judas Horse

Chapter 23

The charity buffet was a lavish affair which was to take place partly indoors and partly beneath a marquee. The aroma of hog-roast and barbecues filled the outdoor air whilst, indoors, the air was kept as ‘uncontaminated’ as possible for the vegetarians and vegans.

And everywhere, indoors and out, was wheelchair accessible. Barrowman might have been an arrogant man in his business life, but in his private life he was acutely sensitive to people’s diverse needs — his son had taught him that much.

Oaks, out of uniform, stood on a raised stage just outside the marquee, watching the relatively small crowd of around a hundred early-comers milling about the beer tent.

The stage was made up of sixteen blocks, normally arranged in an eight-by-two pattern in the church hall. Today they were in a two-layered four-by-two pattern, with stairs up the back, so that when Barrowman officially opened the charity buffet, he’d be visible above the three children selected from a local riding school entering on horseback.

Oaks had been relieved and disappointed in equal measure when Mason had taken the undercover job away from him. So Jack had put him front and centre at Barrowman’s event. In truth, Jack didn’t know if their gang would use this crowd as cover at all, but if there was a possibility, then they had to monitor it to keep the community safe.

If any one of the gang slipped through their hands, they could vanish into these crowds, never to be seen again. Thousands of strangers, gangs made up of people with no criminal record... one change of clothes and they’d disappear.

Beyond the hog-roasts and barbecues, dozens more marquees had been erected to act as shade for the horses. Several animals were already there, practising their jumps and getting used to the various noises they’d experience over the coming days: car horns, tannoy announcements, children screaming inside the fenced-off playground, and four local bands all revelling in their half hour of fame, twice a day, for four days.

In the main arena, Charlotte and Judas were cantering across the sawdust floor, kicking up a fine yellow spray as they went. To Jack, they looked wonderful. Judas was impressively tall and broad, with a powerful musculature that rippled beneath his immaculately groomed coat. For Charlotte to be in control of such a beast was deeply impressive, knowing that he’d come to trust her and surrender his independence. Their bond was clear to see. Jack watched, transfixed by Charlotte’s power and authority: how could this amazing woman control a beast such as Judas, but fall foul of a low-life such as Michael De Voe? Jack concluded that it had something to do with the fact that animals were incapable of treacherous, deceitful cruelty; whereas human beings were capable of that and more. Jack quickly left before Charlotte noticed him.

Beyond the marquees for the horses, the church hall had been temporarily converted into a police and ambulance base. This was what always happened during large-scale local events, so seeing numerous police officers, paramedics and first aiders coming and going wasn’t unusual. To all intents and purposes, this event had been organised like any other — and it had to be, because if this gang had been working the area, on and off, for the past three years, they could well have been around the annual equestrian event before. They would know what to expect, and would notice anything out of place.

The final area that Jack walked round was a field at the far end of the extensive site, away from the horses, that had been converted into a helicopter pad. This was something a little bit unusual: a helicopter from a flying school just south of Swindon had been privately hired at the last minute. Gifford had been able to discover that the client who booked the helicopter was a celebrity who wanted to treat their friends to an aerial view of the area. But Gifford didn’t know who the celebrity was, nor where they were staying whilst in the Cotswolds. This was a perfect example of the problem with policing this area: privacy. People paid handsomely for it and therefore felt they were entitled to it. But there was an upside: the field was also going to be used by the police helicopter once it arrived.

Jack headed past the church hall, and out of the event space through one of the numerous fields that had been converted into car parks. Barrowman’s charity buffet was due to open officially in thirty minutes, the crowds were building, and there was an atmosphere of excited anticipation.

Jack watched streams of cars being guided into makeshift parking spaces by teenagers in high-vis jackets. Hundreds of people, all in blissful ignorance, not suspecting that a coordinated series of simultaneous burglaries was about to occur.

Three rows from the front, seven cars from the left, Betina’s white Mercedes blended in with the other vehicles. The aerial was up, and a red ribbon fluttered in the breeze. When the time came, Betina would be able to find her Merc and be gone before the police even knew what had happened.

There was one ‘suite’ in The Fox Hunters B&B. It was a bedroom twice the size of any other, with a sofa and chairs added to create a TV area. It was also south-facing and had patio doors leading into a private, walled area of manicured flowerbeds, an elegant fountain water feature and a netted trampoline, where four-year-old Anthony Yardley had spent every waking minute ever since the family had been installed there. He was having a whale of a time, whilst bedbound Jessica was kept entertained with computer games and room service. Only the parents were not treating this as a holiday: David and Anne Yardley silently worried about their house being turned upside down by strangers, even though they knew it would be keenly protected by police officers inside and out. In the end they trusted DI Gifford, and so relinquished their home to him, confident that it was in good hands.

David Yardley owned a chain of builders’ merchants near Croydon. He left the day-to-day running of the business in the very capable hands of his two sons, both now in their mid-20s. Anne was David’s second wife and he’d moved to the Cotswolds because it was where she needed to be for her career as a riding instructor. David was Jack in reverse: a man who’d followed his wife’s career east to west, rather than west to east as Jack had done. But neither man regretted for a second their decision to follow their women across the country. They were both happily settled in their new homes with the people they loved most in the world. Jack had quickly come to know David and genuinely liked him; he was a smart, level-headed man who weighed up the risk and reward of every decision. He didn’t, as with men like Barrowman, demand success at all times. David was a man who’d failed his way to the top, by learning from every knock-down and by getting up stronger.

David appreciated Jack popping in, even if it was just to reiterate his instructions. ‘With police inside and out, your home will be safe. Please don’t call anyone and please don’t let slip what’s going on. One of my officers will come and take you home as soon as possible.’

Mason and Bevan sat at the breakfast bar in the Yardleys’ kitchen drinking from water bottles and eating shop-bought sandwiches. They were trying to leave no trace of themselves so that when all of this was over the Yardleys could have their home back seemingly untouched. Bevan had been full of questions about this assignment when Gifford and Mason first talked to her about it; not because she was frightened, but because she was a stickler for details and liked to know exactly what was expected of her. She’d openly asked Gifford if he thought she was ‘good enough to not let them down’ and he’d assured her that she was one of the most capable officers he’d ever served with, while he was privately convinced she was young and too inexperienced.

Mason and Bevan had settled into the kitchen because there were three exits from the room. An internal door led into the hallway, a double patio door led into the large enclosed back garden and a solid wood side door opened onto the side-alley — the most likely entry point for the gang as they’d be shielded from prying eyes. The most important door in this kitchen, however, was the glass patio door which provided clear lines of sight for the team of officers currently hiding in the back garden. It was already unlocked and slightly open, allowing for quick entry. Mason and Bevan’s positions at the breakfast bar were also part of the plan: the second everything kicked off, they had been instructed to put this large, tiled kitchen island between themselves and the gang. They were not there to challenge, or arrest anyone. They were the decoys. Because whilst the gang were focused on frightening ‘Mr and Mrs Yardley’ into complying, the police would be entering via the patio doors behind them.

But for now, Mason and Bevan sipped water and ate sandwiches. ‘So, what happened between you and DS Warr?’ Bevan’s question came out of the blue and Mason instinctively adopted a quizzical expression, as if he didn’t know what she was talking about. ‘You were different when you came back from Oxford,’ Bevan continued. ‘He’d got you on-side. With me, it was the fact that he spoke to me like I was working with him, not for him. He saw what I brought to the table and said that “you’re great at the details, Bevan”. No bullshit. That’s what I like about him. There’s no bullshit.’ Bevan stuffed the last quarter of her sandwich into her mouth, indicating that she had now stopped talking and it was Mason’s turn to speak.

‘We had a difference of opinion.’ Mason swigged from his water bottle to give himself time to choose his words carefully. ‘He was right, I was wrong.’ Then Mason laughed. ‘I know that, because he told me.’ When Mason laughed, deep crow’s feet appeared around his eyes and his pure, unabashed smile turned him from a temporary colleague into a person Bevan felt herself wanting to know so much more about.

Barrowman’s mic screeched into life, drawing everyone’s attention in the marquee. From the church hall, Gifford could hear the reverberating echo of his opening words: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I won’t bore you for long. As most of you will know, the annual charity auction held at the golf club two weeks ago was cut short when Sally and I had to leave unexpectedly. That event raises money for St Barnabas’s special school which Mathew used to attend in Gloucester. But today’s event is not meant as a fundraiser; today is a thank you for always being there for us when we needed you... though of course if you choose to pay £20 for a pint of beer, St Barnabas’s will be most grateful. Most importantly, have fun. We’ve had some dark moments of late, so we all deserve a good day.’

All five target homes sat within a seven-kilometre radius of Ascott-under-Wychwood train station. And all five homes were under surveillance by teams of covert officers. Jack was part of the team based outside the Yardley house.

At the bottom of their back garden, the Yardleys had two hen houses. These were low, grey buildings, around three metres wide and seven metres long. They had no windows and two doors that led into a fenced-off area of grass, roughly the same size as the building itself; and one half-sized door at the back of the hut, used for egg collection whilst the hens were outside. Each building was home to a couple of dozen hens who were given the freedom to roam during the day and locked in at night to protect them from foxes and other carnivorous wildlife.

At this precise moment, the hens were all inside one of the huts, leaving plenty of room for Jack’s team inside the other one. Although there were no windows, David Yardley had given them permission to make holes in the wooden side panels.

From his position inside the hen house, Jack could see Mason and Bevan chatting and laughing in the brightly lit kitchen. He noticed that they each looked genuinely interested in what the other had to say and were happily talking over each other, showing an easiness that normally only came with time. Jack couldn’t help but think that they might make a nice couple, if Mason could ever live up to Bevan’s fastidiously high standards.

At the front of this house, a single police officer watched the feed from the Yardleys’ three external CCTV cameras that sat just beneath the guttering, rotating to cover the whole of the outside of the property.

It was another two hours before Jack, along with the other four covert teams, got the call they had been waiting for.

CCTV at Wychwood train station, and the hidden CCTV cameras mounted in the trees along the B4437 to monitor the unauthorised temporary traffic lights, had all picked up an intriguing sequence of images. Around 1 p.m., a silver Mercedes A-class collected three people, all wearing baseball caps, from the Oxford train. By the time this Mercedes passed the hidden cameras on the B4437, it was accompanied by two riders on a red Ducati Streetfighter V4 with custom-made saddle bags. This was noted, but not flagged as relevant until exactly the same thing happened around 2 p.m. A silver Mercedes A-class collected three people, all wearing baseball caps, off the Worcester train. Again, by the time this Mercedes passed the hidden cameras on the B4437, it was accompanied by two riders, on a red Ducati Streetfighter V4 with custom-made saddle bags. The rider of this second Ducati was very clearly wearing Adidas NMDs with red soles.

It was now 2.37 p.m., and twelve outsiders, sharing four getaway vehicles, were now somewhere inside the monitored zone around all five target homes. Jack suspected that neither Betina nor Alberto would have arrived with the hired hands, they’d more than likely been here for a couple of days already, so they would make the numbers up to fourteen. Jack sent out one final message before ordering radio silence: ‘Assume other gang members are already here. Assume other vehicles will also be used. Take nothing as read. Stay in your teams. Don’t get separated. Good luck.’

No one replied, as per protocol, but, inside the hen house, Jack’s second-in-command, Sergeant McDermott, whispered a repeat of his final words — ‘good luck’ — triggering all other officers to whisper it back. Jack knew that every other team on this operation would have just done the same thing.

Then silence.

The officer watching the feed from the Yardleys’ CCTV cameras reported that all was quiet at the front of the house, and down either side... and Jack had visual on the back.

But if the officer been watching the CCTV from the house next door, he’d have seen four shadows moving slowly forwards, using the extensive foliage as cover. They took their time. They climbed the side fence, under overhanging tree branches, and then slid along the fence, behind the trees, until they reached the side alley of the Yardley house. They were, to all intents and purposes, invisible. The swaying shadows from the branches concealed a set of heavy boots... an arm... a crowbar...

To the left of the kitchen door was a small opaque window twelve inches tall and half as wide. A light came on in this room and the distinctive sound of someone urinating could just be heard. Mason was using the toilet.

Inside the kitchen, Bevan was seated at the breakfast bar neatly folding her empty crisp packet and stuffing it inside the sandwich box. The door to the small toilet opened and Mason emerged, drying his hands on his trousers. In the same split second, the side door burst open and a tall, lean masked man brought a crowbar heavily down on the back of Mason’s head, knocking him out cold. The masked man then raced over to Bevan before she could work out what had happened, grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the door of the fridge freezer with such force that it rocked back in its alcove.

Bevan’s eyes were focussed on the man immediately in front of her, but in her peripheral vision, she could see a further three masked men dragging Mason’s body out of the way so that they could close the side door — and then she saw Jack leading the charge across the lawn towards the unlocked patio doors, his radio transmitting the frantic voice of the officer watching the CCTV: ‘They’re in! Oh God, they’re in! Four inside. I repeat, four inside.’

All of this seemed to happen in slow motion and, by the time Bevan’s brain could assess the situation in full, she was standing with her back to the masked man, who had his forearm pushed into her throat and the crowbar pushed so hard into her side, it felt like it had pierced her skin and was now nestling between two of her ribs.

Three of the masked men ran back out of the side door, followed by all of Jack’s team, bar one. Sergeant McDermott went straight to Mason, established signs of life, rolled him into the recovery position and then applied pressure to the gaping wound at the back of his skull. The growing pool of blood on the kitchen floor around Mason’s head contained tiny white flecks that Bevan assumed to be skull fragments, and the look on her face told Jack that Mason was in dire trouble and needed to go to hospital... Now!

Jack stood in front of the open side door and spoke directly to the man in the mask behind Bevan. ‘This is up to me and you now — because you’re the one who can make this go completely tits-up, and I’m the one who can let you escape. We’ve got the other four gangs, so I’m happy. But if you want to be the one that got away, you’re running out of time because backup will be here in seconds.’ Although Jack exuded an air of total confidence, he was fully aware that the man now standing with his arm pushed hard onto Bevan’s throat could well be the same man who snapped a colleague’s hyoid bone just eight months ago.

The masked man took a step towards the side door and Jack moved with him, blocking his exit. ‘If you go, you go alone,’ Jack said. ‘There’s no way you’re leaving with her.’

Jack’s dark, threatening eyes never blinked, while the eyes behind the mask flicked between Jack and the open door. Jack knew that this masked man had trapped himself in a corner, but he also knew that that was a dangerous place for any scared animal to be. If a mistake was going to be made, it would be now. Again, the masked man stepped towards the open side door, holding Bevan so tightly around the throat that she was on tiptoes as they moved as one. Bevan turned her head slightly, creating a tiny space between her windpipe and the crook of the man’s elbow, so she could gulp a desperate mouthful of air.

The man raised his crowbar, extended it towards Jack and whispered three words: ‘I’m the boss.’ In that moment, Jack’s blood ran cold, remembering Mathew’s trembling voice as he spoke of being beaten, over and over, by ‘Oberyn Martell’. His final words to Mathew had been ‘I’m the boss’. This man, with his arm around Bevan’s neck and a crowbar in his hand was Alberto Barro. This man was the weak link they needed to bring De Voe to his knees. Jack maintained his external calm for Bevan’s sake.

The masked man slid his arm from round Bevan’s neck and grabbed a fistful of her hair. The move took less than a second, but a more experienced field officer would have used it to break free. Instead, Bevan stood stock still, staring at Jack, waiting for him to tell her what to do. She had no copper’s instinct — no survival instinct. She was totally relying on Jack to save her. Jack realised he’d misjudged her and wished she was still sitting at her computer surrounded by pastries.

The masked man pulled Bevan backwards and then, with one violent shove, he threw her forwards, still holding her firmly by the hair. She grimaced in pain as her scalp screamed in agony but she managed not to cry out.

Jack wasn’t close enough to make a grab for her, or to make a grab for the man he now believed to be Alberto Barro. The masked man flicked the extended crowbar sideways, indicating that Jack should move out of the way of his exit. Jack seemingly started to do as he was told, but as well as moving left, he also edged forwards. Once the masked man could see a clear route out, he pulled Bevan fiercely towards his chest before throwing her forwards again, this time letting go of her hair. She lurched into Jack’s arms, forcing him to catch her and giving the masked man time to escape. Jack got Bevan back onto her feet, steadied her, then dashed outside.

The Yardley house was at the end of a short gravel drive which Jack could clearly see down to the street at the far end. No one was running away in that direction. At the back of the house, a locked iron gate juddered as though someone had just vaulted over it. Jack leapt the gate and ran down the dirt track beyond. After running in a straight line for about thirty seconds, Jack realised that he was getting nowhere. He had no clue how far this road went and, to his left and right, the fields were scattered with huge rolls of hay, any of which would make a perfect hiding place. He was chasing ghosts.

Furious with himself, Jack started to walk back the way he came. He heard the rustle of bushes behind him one second too late and, as he turned, he walked straight into the heavy crowbar. Jack fell flat onto his back, staring up at the silhouetted masked man who now stood over him. The man spun the crowbar in his hand. He was playing, taunting — his favourite game. The man got out his mobile, found the name Betina and texted:

Then, as the weapon was raised for the final kill, Jack breathed out what he thought might be his last words: ‘Alberto Barro.’ The words made the crowbar freeze, mid-strike. The man took off his mask and laughed. ‘Good for you. What are you going to do... arrest me?’

As his head spun and his vision swirled, Jack’s only hope of survival now was that Alberto loved the sound of his own voice so much, that he would keep taunting Jack until backup arrived. Alberto’s mobile pinged. It was Betina:

Alberto smiled. ‘Know this before I kill you. You haven’t got us all. What you’ve got is cannon fodder. Small fry who don’t even know who they’re working for.’

Jack’s vision was becoming clearer and, with the adrenaline fiercely pumping, dulling the pain in his head, he said simply, ‘Michael De Voe.’ He saw the silhouette before him straighten and tense. Jack smiled. He couldn’t see Alberto’s expression, but he now knew that the police did know who the small fry were working for. And if they knew that, then they knew everything. Although Alberto was the one with a crowbar in his hand, it was his voice that now trembled in fear: ‘Who are you?’

Jack’s voice was deep and steady. ‘Jack Warr.’

At this point, Jack still imagined that he was about to die, but he was determined that his name would be a ghost haunting Alberto Barro’s dreams for the rest of his life. As the crowbar was drawn back, time stood still long enough for Jack to clearly picture Maggie and Hannah. He smiled and focused on his beautiful, love-filled final memory.

Suddenly a voice shouted Jack’s name, sending Alberto fleeing into the field, swiftly followed by adrenaline-fuelled police officers. Someone knelt by Jack’s side — he had no idea who — and they assured him that he was going to be OK.

Barrowman’s charity buffet was a loud, raucous event: exactly what this systematically victimised community needed. The beer tent was packed, the band was on stage belting out a classic pop number, and the low buzz of voices filled the air. Then all of this was abruptly drowned out by the sound of two different types of siren, coming from several directions. Police cars and ambulances. Everyone stopped in their tracks to watch dozens of blue lights flash past.

Barrowman intuitively ran towards the church hall — the only person moving amid the stunned crowds all speculating about what on earth was going on.

Half a mile away, in one of the fields, Betina, wearing tourist clothes, a headscarf and dark glasses, made her way through the sea of cars, towards an aerial sporting a red ribbon, blowing in the breeze.

As Barrowman marched in one direction, DC Oaks was running full-pelt in the other, through the dressage arena chasing a man dressed like a tourist, but wearing very distinctive, red-soled trainers. This man, when approached by Oaks because of the trainers he was wearing, had immediately bolted.

Oaks was transfixed by the flash of red he saw with each stride. This was Adidas Man!

Barrowman saw Oaks, changed direction and made a beeline for him. The arena was covered in a thick layer of coarse sawdust, with a barrier of hay bales to catch any riders who fell. Beyond the hay bales, metal crowd-control barriers were linked together with a hook-and-eye system. Every fifth barrier was left unlinked in order to facilitate the quick response of the St John’s Ambulance if needed, and the Mayor when it came time to hand out the winners’ medals. Barrowman knew where these unlinked barriers were, as he’d made certain he was chair of the health and safety committee. He slid through one of the gaps into the arena and walked calmly around the outside of the hay bales, in an arc that would see him intercept the man Oaks was chasing. When Adidas Man leapt onto the hay bale next to Barrowman, he was so focused on clearing the metal barrier in front of him that he didn’t see Barrowman’s fist until it slammed into his jaw. The man fell backwards into the sawdust, out cold. Oaks came to a stop, resting his hands on his knees as he tried to get his breath back. ‘Is this them?’ Barrowman was furious. Oaks nodded. Barrowman had no further questions for an underling like Oaks, so continued on his path towards the church hall. Gifford was going to be the one in the firing line for keeping Barrowman in the dark!

Adidas Man started to stir and groan, and he lifted one hand towards his head. Oaks quickly slapped the cuff onto the moving hand, spun him onto his front and secured both arms behind his back.

‘What’s your name?’ Oaks said.

‘No English,’ the man replied.

‘Good,’ Oaks said. ‘I’d hate you to report me for calling you an ugly little fuck.’

Adidas Man, in a sudden fury, brought one knee up and tried to turn onto his front, but Oaks kept his weight on the man’s shoulders to hold him still. ‘You understood that,’ he grinned. Oaks then happily read him his rights, then waited for assistance to arrive, knowing he couldn’t safely move him on his own.

The church hall was sectioned off into two areas. As Barrowman strode through the front door, he was met by a scene of calm efficiency as officers dealt with lost children, and first aiders dealt with mild sunstroke and elderly people who had had minor falls. But Barrowman could also hear a buzz of chatter from a second area towards the back of the room that was curtained off from prying eyes, and that was where he headed.

Pulling back the curtain, he saw a bank of screens linked to surrounding CCTV cameras, being monitored by a team of six officers, while Gifford stood in front of several whiteboards displaying an array of information. Barrowman couldn’t make head nor tail of it all — until he spotted a map highlighting the five target properties and probable escape routes. Five properties were going to be burgled and no one had told him!

Barrowman was about to give Gifford a piece of his mind, but was stopped in his tracks by the sudden entrance of a bruised and bloody Jack. He had a blood-soaked bandage towards the back of his head, and blood on his shirt collar. ‘Did we get Betina Barro?’ he shouted. ‘Who’ve we arrested? Names! Come on! And the Adidas NMD guy, did we get him?’ He paused for a moment to get his breath while Barrowman and Gifford looked on in equal bemusement.

‘Alberto escaped from my raid. He said we didn’t get everyone... he texted...’ Jack staggered on the spot, but quickly righted himself. ‘He only cares about... he wouldn’t text anyone else. It had to have been Betina.’

Gifford picked up a chair, took Jack by the arm and sat him down next to an officer seated in front of the CCTV screens. The officer pointed out where each target house was situated, and which ones had ended in arrests. With the exception of Alberto Barro, every other gang member who had arrived at a target home had been arrested.

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Jack mumbled to himself, desperate to put the pieces together. ‘She was here. He texted her, I know he did. And she texted back. So, where was she? If not at any of the target homes, where the hell was Betina Barro?’ Then a memory found its way to the surface and a terrible idea struck him. ‘He called them “cannon fodder”.’ My God! Was it all just smoke and mirrors?’

Emil Borreson was a Swedish Bitcoin dealer who lived in a seven-bed mansion on five acres of land just outside Chipping Norton. He sat at his office desk, his fingers trembling as they hovered over the keyboard of his laptop. Stuck to the art nouveau shade of the desk lamp was a polaroid photograph of a terrified, crying woman seated on the floor of a dark room. Framed photos on the same desk suggested that this woman was Borreson’s wife, or at least his partner. Also visible in the polaroid was a pair of feet, wearing Adidas NMDs. That same man now stood by Emil’s side as together they watched the spinning circle in the middle of the laptop screen.

Betina stood a few yards away, mobile in hand, ignoring its buzzing. She had twelve voicemails from Alberto and she finally pressed play on one of them. ‘Answer my calls! I’ve got away. Have you? You said you were safe — why aren’t you answering me?’ Then another: ‘The police were waiting at every house, I just need to know that you’re safe. Why aren’t you... if this is the cops, pick up. Pick up or... I’ll kill someone. Anyone. Where’s my sister?!’ And another: ‘Betina, if you’re not with the cops, and you are safe, pick up! Or have you betrayed me, Betina? Did you know they were coming? Please don’t tell me that’s it... please! This is that bastard De Voe’s doing. And you let him! When did I become part of the fucking cannon fodder, you bitch? They have your name, Betina. They have his name, so you’re not safe at all. You’d better hope the police find you before I do, darling sister. Because, blood or not, if you’ve betrayed me, I’ll slit your fucking throat!’ Betina listened to the voicemails without any expression on her face.

Adidas Man waved Betina across to the desk. Borreson’s request to cash out his £20 million cryptocurrency account had been granted by the crypto exchange and the money was now on its way to a second bank account. Betina texted De Voe:

With you shortly.

‘Please...’ Borreson’s voice was no more than a whisper. His armpits were dark with sweat. He stared at the image of his wife’s terrified face. ‘Please. Give her back to me.’

Betina assured Borreson that his wife was alive. After they left his home, they’d return to the place she was being held and let her go. Betina moved his laptop and his mobile out of reach, and placed a small camera on the desk in front of him, pointing in his direction. ‘If you move from your desk before your wife walks through that door, I’ll kill her. If you call the police, I’ll kill her.’

Borreson said that he understood. He said it over and over.

‘I know you do, Mr Borreson,’ she said.

Outside Borreson’s mansion, Betina and Adidas Man could hear distant sirens, but the surrounding foliage was too high for them to see any accompanying blue lights. Betina instructed Adidas Man to bin the clothes he was wearing and head back to his bike. He asked about letting ‘the woman’ go, but Betina insisted that there was no time. ‘They’re on to us. We need to run. Now. Leave them both for the police to find.’

The CCTV officer flicked from camera to camera, following the pre-determined escape route back past Ascott-under-Wychwood train station, via the temporary traffic lights.

Nothing.

Jack shook his head. ‘No, they won’t leave the same way they came in. Not now they know we’re on to them.’ All he could think of was that with every passing second Betina, Alberto and Adidas Man were getting further away. ‘Find me another route out!’ The cameras flicked between shots until — ‘Stop!’ Jack couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Betina’s white Mercedes! ‘Track that car and keep sending the coordinates to my mobile. Have we got a helicopter?’ Gifford looked sheepish and said that it had been diverted to a higher priority case at the last minute. ‘Then contact the tourist helicopter that was using the far field,’ Jack snapped. ‘I need it on the ground by the time I get there!’

Jack ran as if his life depended on it. He was not going to be outsmarted by Betina and Alberto Barro, and whoever the hell Adidas Man turned out to be. He lurched from dizzy to clear-headed and back again as he ran. His skull throbbed beneath the bloodied bandage and his mind raced as fast as his body. How the hell did De Voe’s gang get ahead of the police? Did they know they were being watched or was De Voe just playing the odds? What if Betina had seen Jack in the Cotswolds — not today, but days or even two weeks ago — and then recognised him when he went undercover as Richard Delaware? What if De Voe had always known that Jack was a copper and this fiasco was all his fault?

Up ahead, Jack saw the helicopter circling and turning into the wind before and smoothly descending in a vertical hover, until it danced to a halt on the grass.

A sky-blue Ducati Panigale approached a T-junction on an empty back road. To the rider’s left was a sharp bend so even though he thought the road was clear, he had no option but to stop. Before he could pull away again, Alberto stepped into the road in front of him, with his hand in the air and a smile on his face. The rider instinctively lifted his visor, assuming Alberto needed help. Alberto looked apologetic, as though he was lost and needed to ask for directions, but when he got within arm’s length of the rider, Alberto quickly punched through the open visor. The rider’s body shuddered, as though having a seizure. When Alberto pulled his hand away, a small knife could be seen protruding from in between his forefinger and middle finger. Alberto deftly caught the bike as the rider slid lifelessly from it, then removed the helmet, shook the blood from inside it, climbed onto the bike and sped away.

In Jack’s pocket, his mobile phone started pinging as the requested coordinates for the Merc updated. Jack climbed into the back of the helicopter and put on his headphones. The pilot had no clue what was going on: all he’d been told was that he’d been commandeered by the police and was to follow the instructions of the officer who’d meet him at the helipad. But Jack, with his head wound and blood-soaked collar, was not what he was expecting.

Jack handed over his mobile phone and said three words that, in seventeen years as a police officer, he’d never actually uttered before: ‘Follow that car.’