She started up the car. ‘CSI’s already in. The house has been secured.’

  ‘Good. Right then, I want to talk to Rigby.’

  ‘Sutherland said I was to take you home.’

  ‘I don’t care. Take me to the bloody station!’

  Aiden Rigby was already in the interview room accompanied by two custody officers, who both looked more than a little relieved as Boyd entered the small room.

  He took the seat directly opposite Rigby; Okeke sat down beside him.

  Rigby smirked. ‘Dog bite your ear off, did it?’

  Ignoring him, Boyd silently settled his notes on the table, then turned the tape recorder on.

  ‘The time is 14.55. Today’s date is the ninth of February. Interviewee is Aiden Rigby. Interviewing officers are DCI William Boyd and DC Samantha Okeke. The interviewee has been read his rights and charged with assaulting a police officer. He has no legal counsel present at this interview.’

  Boyd looked Rigby in the eye. ‘I’m not going to discuss your little fake pharmaceutical business, since that’s another inquiry and another officer’s case. I am, though, going to ask you about Gerald Nix.’

  Rigby’s smirk vanished. Boyd wished, not for the first time, that these interviews included close-up video of the face. The sudden change in Rigby’s expression was worth a thousand words. On the interview tape, however, it was nothing but a pause in conversation.

  ‘For the record,’ said Boyd, ‘Mr Rigby has changed from looking very smug to looking extremely wary.’

  Okeke glanced sideways at him with an expression that clearly said, Can you even do that?

  Rigby was evidently of the same opinion. ‘Fuck off, you can’t say something like that.’

  ‘I can make any observations I want.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Rigby again. ‘This is my normal face when I have to deal with police arseholes.’

  Boyd steepled his fingers in front of him. ‘Now, tell me about your relationship with Gerald Nix.’

  ‘No comment.’

  Boyd sighed inwardly. Great. One of those.

  ‘Did you have a business relationship with Mr Nix?’

  ‘I heard he’s dead,’ said Rigby. He smiled. ‘Got cut up on his little boat and dumped for all the little fishes in the British Channel to gobble up.’

  British Channel – that’s what some of the more bellicose types liked to call it these days. As if leaving Europe had come with the right to claim to as much of the surrounding sea as they wanted.

  Boyd pressed on. ‘You assaulted Gerald Nix in the Golden Dog pub in Rye a couple of years ago. Can you tell me why?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you have a working relationship with Mr Nix? He was advising you on financial matters, wasn’t he?’

  Rigby snorted. ‘Thieving fucking arsehole.’

  ‘Why was he a thieving fucking arsehole? What did he do to you?’

  For a moment it looked as though Rigby was going to take the bait. But then he pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘No comment.’

  Boyd tried a different tack. ‘You were charged and prosecuted with defrauding vulnerable pensioners out of a lot of money four years ago. You made quite a bit, didn’t you?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did Nix invest it for you? Launder it? Hide it for you?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did he hide it from you?’

  Rigby’s glare hardened.

  ‘All that money, Rigby. You got charged, you served time… and now you’ve nothing to show for it. You’ve had to start from scratch with your hokey little pill business. That’s gotta piss you off.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  At least that was refreshing change from ‘no comment’.

  ‘Is that why you kidnapped Mr Nix?’

  Rigby sat back in his chair. ‘I didn’t fuckin’ kidnap him.’

  ‘Is that why you took him out to sea and tortured him? To find out where he’d stashed your money?’

  ‘Fuck off. No comment.’

  ‘You didn’t get what you wanted, though, did you? Is that why you killed him and his girlfriend? Chopped them up –’

  ‘I didn’t fucking do it!’

  ‘Then tried to sink the boat to cover your tracks?’

  ‘I said… I DIDN’T FUCKIN’ DO IT!’

  Boyd studied the man in front of him. Anger was a very telling emotion. It was hard to fake it well but, with a bit of practice, indignant outrage was something a seasoned bullshit artist could pull off. Particularly in an interview room.

  ‘Is that why you sent someone round to Nix’s house? To go through his papers? To see if you could find out where your money was stashed?’

  ‘Why the fuck would I do that?’

  ‘You knew his house was empty.’

  Rigby closed his eyes. ‘I’m glad the lying little wanker is dead. He got what he deserved. But it wasn’t me.’ He opened his eyes again, calmer now. He even managed a cool smile. ‘You’ve got nothing, have you?’ He laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  Rigby leant forward, still smiling. ‘No. Fucking. Comment.’

  DSI Sutherland finally caught up with Boyd and Okeke coming up the stairwell from the interview room.

  ‘Ah, Boyd, there you are.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Look. Chief Super said she insists you clock off early today. You’ve had two run-ins this morning and frankly you really do look a bit shit.’

  Boyd was aware that his shirt was smudged with dirt, the front dotted with his own blood. ‘I’ll get changed, sir.’

  ‘No, you’ll take the afternoon off, Boyd,’ Sutherland replied. ‘There’s nothing more you can do today. CSI are over at Nix’s house and I’ve put DI Grove as officer in charge on Aiden Rigby’s little pharmacy business. So, really, this afternoon you’re free to go home and put your feet up.’

  He had a point. Sully’s report on Nix’s house was the next step in the inquiry. Boyd would only be kicking his heels in the incident room until it came in. And the missing Volvo? Chances were that it was going to turn up smouldering away in a field within the next twenty-four hours.

  ‘Go on,’ said Sutherland, patting his arm. He looked at the bandaging over the ear. ‘You’ve had a hell of clobbering this morning. Sully won’t want you blundering around over in Rye. The uniforms are on the Volvo, and Rigby isn’t going anywhere. For Christ’s sake, go home and recover.’

  He turned to Okeke. ‘Can you take him home, Okeke? Please?’

  She drove him back along the seafront.

  ‘He’s right. You should get some rest this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Take it easy.’

  ‘I’m not a senior citizen who just had their bag snatched, thanks,’ he grumbled.

  Okeke raised a brow at him. ‘But you’re a cat that’s just lost two of its lives.’

  ‘Really? Not the nine-lives metaphor please.’

  ‘Nearly stabbed in the face? Almost dragged by a car? Both could have been fatal. Once the adrenalin wears off and you think about that, it’s going to hit you, guv.’

  She was probably right.

  They drove in silence. It had been stupidly reckless of him to push further into the house when he knew backup was already on the way. He and Okeke should have gone back outside, watched the doors and windows, and waited for the cavalry to arrive. If he’d been even a little bit smarter, he would have had DC Okeke park the car in such a way as to block that Volvo in.

  What an idiot.

  He stirred from his thoughts as she turned right onto Ashburnham Road and started up the long hill.

  ‘Nice part of Hastings, this,’ she said. ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘That’s what trading down from London gets you,’ he muttered. ‘Where are you based?’

  ‘St Leonards. In a not such a nice part. Which number, sir?’

  He couldn’t remember. Instead he pointed to his house.

  Her mouth dropped. ‘You own that?’

  ‘Half of it. The other half is owned by a lady pirate with her own parrot. Don’t ask.’

  She didn’t ask and he didn’t explain. Apparently quirky individuals were common enough in Hastings that there was no need to question him further. She parked outside the low wall in front of his small front garden.

  ‘Thanks for the lift.’ Then he raised his eyebrows. ‘You want a brew?’

  She sighed. ‘Unlike you, guv, I’m still on the clock. Sutherland wants me to head straight back and update him on what happened this morning.’

  Boyd raised a finger. ‘Just remember to say… we heard a noise inside before we enter –’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She leant over towards him. ‘And you take it easy this afternoon, okay?’

  ‘All right, Mum. Not that I’ve got much bloody choice.’

  22

  ‘You’re back early.’

  Emma’s eyes rounded as she stared at the bulbous dressing on the side of Boyd’s head and the scabs peppering his face. ‘Dad! What’s happened?’

  ‘I had a bit of a scrap with a scrote. It’s really not as bad as it looks,’ he said, trying and, from the look on her face, failing to dismiss her concern.

  ‘Ohmygod… are you all right? Come on – you should be sitting down!’

  ‘It’s just some stitches –’ he pointed to the dressing – ‘and a couple of scrapes.’

  ‘Shit.’ She took his coat and led him gently to the lounge. ‘This was meant to be an easy, stress-free first week back! So much for that!’

  ‘Well, at least it’s not been a boring one, eh.’

  She looked at the dressing. ‘Stitches?’

  ‘Just a couple. It’s nothing serious.’

  ‘God. I thought Hastings was going to be peaceful and quiet compared to London!’

  ‘Well, Ems, everywhere has a troublemaker or two. You’d do well to remember that when you’re out and about on the town, you know…’ He smiled. But she wasn’t going to let it drop.

  ‘Dad, how the hell did you get injured? You’re supposed to be office-based.’

  He glanced around the room, looking for distraction and noticed she’d got a couple of logs crackling away in the fireplace. ‘Ooh, real fire! This is nice!’

  ‘Yeah, I got a bag of logs for a couple of pounds from the Tesco Metro. Dad?’

  Ozzie had commandeered the spot right in front of the fire and was tucked up into a dozy circle of contented dog.

  ‘He seems much more relaxed today.’

  ‘I think he likes the fire. Dad…?’

  He looked at her.

  ‘No more getting your hands dirty please?’

  ‘It wasn’t on purpose, Ems. I was –’

  ‘No more.’ He could hear emotion in his daughter’s voice.

  ‘Okay,’ he replied. ‘That’s the plan.’

  She nodded and brushed her hand across her eyes. ‘Cuppa?’

  ‘Oh yes, a cuppa would be bloody lovely. Have we got anything to go with it?’

  ‘We’ve got some mini Bakewells. Fancy one?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  He settled back into his chair as she disappeared into the kitchen.

  Emma regarded him sternly from across the dinner table that evening. ‘I just can’t believe first week back and you come home looking like this.’

  He shrugged. ‘Some berk with a saucepan got spooked and here we are. Not the most glamorous fight I’ve been in…’

  He hadn’t mentioned the knife. Nor would he. He’d told her the lip of the pan had caught his ear, hence the dressing. He certainly hadn’t mentioned being nearly decapitated by his own tie and a Volvo.

  ‘This is just normal old-fashioned rough-and-tumble. I had plenty of injuries like these when I was in uniform. You probably wouldn’t remember.’

  ‘Was this about the yacht case?’

  ‘I was following a lead and I stumbled across some other incidental stuff.’

  Rigby had been an unexpected bonus lead from Jo Bambridge, but maybe his judgement had been a little off-kilter after taking the big bastard down. He’d been feeling a little kick-arse, in a bit of a Dirty Harry mood after that, which was almost certainly why he’d been idiotic enough to go deeper into that house alone when he should have pulled back and waited for assistance to arrive.

  ‘Are you going in to work tomorrow?’ Her tone indicated there was a right and a wrong answer to be had.

  ‘I have to, Ems.’

  She clenched her teeth and tensed her jaw. It was the exact same face she used to pull when she was younger and absolutely refused to eat her greens. He fought the urge to smile.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, what are your plans?’

  She gave in with a sigh. ‘Well, I thought I’d make a start on decorating some of the rooms. The wallpaper’s doing my head in.’

  He nodded in agreement. The wallpaper in some of the rooms was peeling off at the corners, but far more pressing, in his opinion, was replacing the depressing faded patterns. They gave the house, particularly the bedrooms upstairs, a creepy Bates Motel vibe.

  He scooped up another forkful of lentil bake. ‘Plans, Emma. I actually meant longer term. Not just tomorrow.’

  ‘Longer term?’

  Boyd smiled. ‘You’ve been a super-star, Emma. Sorting out everything. The move. The sale…’ He looked down at Ozzie, whose sole focus was the laden fork hovering in front of his mouth. ‘The dog. You’ve got me focusing back on life again.’

  ‘Well, you just needed my boot up your arse, that’s all,’ she said with a grin.

  ‘And a great job you did. But now… it’s my turn.’

  ‘I’m fine, Dad. Don’t you worry about me.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said more firmly. ‘I’ll get a job somewhere round here. Soon. I promise, I’m not going to spend the rest of my life being your housekeeper. Relax.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘First, I just want to brighten it all up a bit. Make it nice. Then I’ll get myself sorted.’

  ‘You could still go to university.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Or college.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Or…’

  ‘Dad?’

  He looked up from his plate. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘One thing at a time, hey?’

  No one makes pillows that cater for bra-cup-shaped ear dressings.

  Now there was a gap in the market worth pitching to the Dragons. Pillows with a hole in the middle that allowed an ear to stick through – perfect for those with one ear hanging off, or prone to sleeping with headphones on.

  Boyd was an on-the-side sleeper: knees drawn up and his arms stretched out straight in front of him like a dog’s front paws. Always on his left side. Of course it had to be that side.

  He turned and lay on his back, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling rose in and watching bare branch shadows wave down at him like cheery skeletons.

  Billy… Only Julia and his parents had ever called him that. ‘Billy Boyd’ sounded like piss-taking from any other mouth. But Julia’d said it with love.

  Billy … Em’s too young to be parenting you, baby.

  Yes, that was exactly what Em was doing. Looking after him, afraid to leave him alone in case he began to spiral down.

  Billy …

  He liked Julia haunting his mind. It happened so rarely, but, when it did, he could almost hear her voice as if she were there beside him, almost smell her presence – the pine-like smell of rosin from her cello strings, that brand of roll-on that he sometimes use to borrow when his ran out…

  Let her go.

  ‘I’m trying but she won’t go,’ he muttered. Emma was stubborn. Like him. Maybe even more so. Add his overwhelming, fatherly love into the mix and he’d lose a battle of wills against her every bloody time.

  You have to push her away then, Billy. Otherwise she’ll never start her own life.

  ‘I know.’

  Show her you’re stronger now.

  He would. He was better than he’d been six months ago – and a different person to this time last year even… But he was mourning a partner and a child. The loss of fifty per cent of his world…

  As was she. And on top of that she had him to look after and worry about. He felt the familiar sense of shame.

  She deserves to begin a new life.

  That she did.

  Sleep on that, love.

  The subtle scent, the whisper of her voice faded. Never truly there in the first place but comforting all the same.

  ‘All right,’ he said, nodding. ‘I’ll do that.’

  23

  ‘It’s not foundation,’ said Boyd. ‘It’s not foundation.’

  Minter leaned over Boyd’s desk and peered more closely him.

  ‘It looks like foundation, boss.’ He squinted. ‘Yes, it definitely looks like lady’s foundation.’

  ‘It’s a medical… ointment,’ he replied irritably. He was damned if he was going to admit to Emma dabbing some concealer over the scabs on his face that morning. She had assured him you couldn’t tell. He’d be having words when he got home – that was for sure.

  ‘Whatever you say, boss,’ Minter said with an irritating wink. ‘You know, whatever floats your boat. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all very inclusive here, aren’t we, team?’

  Boyd ignored the stifled guffaws and glanced down at the blue folder Minter was still holding. ‘SOC examiner’s report on the Nix house, I hope?’

  ‘Indeed it is, boss.’ He handed it over. ‘Sully told me to tell you it’s still nice and warm from his photocopier.’

  Boyd opened the cover and started to scan through the contents. After a few moments he became aware that the detective sergeant was still lingering.

  ‘What now?’ Boyd said with a sigh, still not entirely sure if he was irritated or amused.

  ‘Also,’ said Minter, ‘there was a call from a Mrs Nix. She wanted to know if there were any further developments on the case.’

  ‘Right, thanks. I’ll call her later.’