‘His brother?!’ The lad’s eyes widened. ‘You’re shitting me.’

  Jay was used to hearing that. They looked absolutely nothing alike. Apart from having entirely different physiques, Jay was white and Karl was mixed race.

  ‘No,’ replied Jay. ‘No, no shitting.’

  The lad waved him in. ‘Ah, you might as well come with… I’ll take you up.’

  28

  Boyd looked at the crowded Incident Room. Hatcher had followed through on her promise to provide him with all the resources he’d need to get the job done. She’d got Sutherland to pull half of Flack’s team off gazing-at-their-own-navel duty to help in the hunt for Jay. For the first time since joining Sussex Police, he was addressing a full room.

  It was a hard-to-justify sell for Boyd. He had to tell this many detectives, all crammed into one room, that they were on the hunt for a single bloke who’d merely punched another. Sutherland stood beside him at the front for moral support, but Hatcher was there, right at the back by the door, watching his every move.

  ‘Okay – settle down, everyone,’ he began. ‘This operation –’ Sutherland handed him a printout with the name selected randomly by LEDS – ‘Operation Flapjack is a manhunt. We’re looking for a bloke called Jason Turner.’ He pressed the PowerPoint clicker and Jay’s face appeared on the screen behind him. ‘He’s thirty-three years old and he’s a doorman who works at CuffLinks nightclub. He’s wanted for a home invasion and the violent assault of one Roland Hammond.’

  Already he could see puzzled faces as the group before him looked around at the manpower assembled.

  ‘Turner’s a big guy,’ he continued. You’ve got to sell it, mate. She’s watching you like a hawk. ‘He’s got a violent disposition and a hair-trigger temper. And he’s quite possibly suffering some kind of mental breakdown. Most importantly, boys and girls… it’s possible he may be armed.’

  That helped clear up a few of the confused expressions.

  ‘He’s done a runner and basically, folks, we need him back in custody before he beats the crap out of some other random person.’

  ‘Or decides to use that gun,’ added Sutherland.

  ‘What kind of a gun, boss?’ asked one of Flack’s seconded team.

  ‘Sorry, mate, you are?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘DI Shannon. Are we talking sawn-off shotgun, handgun, rifle?’

  ‘A handgun,’ Boyd answered. ‘The victim wasn’t able to identify what kind. Or whether it was even real.’

  ‘But we have to assume it may be real,’ cautioned Sutherland.

  Boyd had to nod along. Although, he thought, if Jay had access to a bloody gun, why the hell hadn’t he brought it along when they could have done with one a year ago?

  ‘And we’re going to have to move pretty quickly,’ Boyd added. ‘Hence the number of us crammed in here this morning. I’m not going to tie-up man-hours with a long brief now – we need to get moving.’ Boyd picked out Minter. ‘DS Minter’s my second and action log gatekeeper.’

  ‘Surely a DI –’ called out Shannon.

  ‘Minter’s my second,’ Boyd replied firmly, cutting him off with a glare. ‘Now then, tasks… Warren, ANPR hits for Turner’s van. White Ford Transit, Foxtrot-Papa-nineteen-Juliet-Hotel-Tango.’

  ‘On it, guv.’

  ‘We need a detailed bio on Jason Turner and we need to put out an All Forces Warning on him,’ said Boyd. ‘Check on LEDS for previous; check on socials for any family or friends he might have gone to. Apparently he has a half-brother called Marcus. DI Shannon, pick a pair from this litter to help you.’

  Shannon nodded. ‘Right.’

  ‘Turner works out at the White Rock Gym and he has a few buddies up there…’ Boyd checked his notepad. ‘We’re looking for some bulky lads who have nicknames: Jimbo, Growler and Rocky.’ He paused to let the chuckles die down. ‘Basically ask around for anybody who Turner worked out with regularly.’ He picked out O’Neal. ‘O’Neal, let’s have you… and let’s see… DC Fox, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yessir,’ Fox replied.

  ‘He also has a side business upcycling old furniture. There’s a lock-up garage he uses at the end of Crescent Garden Road as his workshop. I want some bodies over there; he may have client phone numbers and contacts that could prove useful. Let’s interview them. Finally, Sully? Where are you?’

  A hand went up near the back. ‘Over here!’

  ‘Where are you with his phone?’

  ‘Already cracked that particular nut open, Boyd.’ He looked very pleased with himself. ‘Passcode was Okeke’s date of birth.’

  For crying out loud, Jay… really?

  Sully went on. ‘I’ve got his contact list and access to his various social media apps, his photos, his Facebook friends. There’s quite a dump of information to go through.’

  ‘All right,’ said Boyd. ‘The rest of the team is on that, then. Let’s see if we can get a few useful names and numbers. Okay.’ Boyd clapped his hands together. ‘Chop, chop, everyone.’

  His eyes flickered across to Hatcher. She gave him a discrete nod – content, it seemed, that they were on the same page – then she quietly left the room.

  29

  Jay had been expecting something a little more swanky and corporate, given all the bragging Karl had done the last time they’d had a pint together. What with all his big talk about developing software and making big money through data-mining, Jay had been picturing a building composed of mirrored glass and chrome nestled in beautifully landscaped gardens.

  Instead he’d walked into what looked like a condemned building full of teenage squatters. The narrow stairwell was all bare boards and flaky handrail, the walls a mottled patchwork of lingering faded wallpaper and bare plaster. On each floor, Jay got a glimpse into tall-ceilinged rooms with picture rails and fireplaces – rooms that once had been grand but were now cluttered with Ikea desks and cubicle partitions, twisting nests of network cables and computer monitors decorated with Post-it notes and action figures. They passed one room where camouflage netting had been attached to a hook in the ceiling and hung like the canvas of a circus tent.

  Despite the chaotic interior, every floor was as quiet as a monastery, the only sound the sporadic clattering of computer keys and the tsk-tsk-tsk of music leaking from headphones.

  At the top of the last flight of stairs, Jay’s guide cut him loose. ‘Karl’s in there,’ he said, pointing to an open door. Jay thanked him, rapped his knuckles on the door and peered in.

  Karl sat with his back to the door and he was staring at several screens of multicoloured, indented gobbledygook computer code. He was wearing a big set of headphones – the kind musos call ‘cans’ – that made his gently bobbing head look comically tiny. Jay stepped into the room and lightly tapped him on the shoulder. Karl raised a finger to indicate he’d be a moment longer, then finally peeled his eyes from the screens and looked round.

  ‘Fuck me!’ he gasped, tearing his headphones off. ‘What the hell are you doing here, Jay?!’

  ‘Hey there, little bro,’ Jay replied. ‘I need some help.’

  Karl’s eyes were already big, magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses, but now they bulged like some badly drawn manga character. ‘Russian mafia??’

  ‘Christ, mate!’ hissed Jay. ‘Keep it down, will you!’

  Karl had taken him to a greasy-spoon American-style diner that looked out on to Marine Parade. Midday, mid-week, mid-winter, as it was, the place was virtually empty, and jazz music filled the void that would normally have been a hubbub of noisy conversations shouted over plates of fish and chips.

  Karl’s cheeks dimpled with a nervous smile. ‘This is a wind-up, right?’

  Jay shook his head. ‘I didn’t even hit him, Karl. I mean… I just tackled him really, but the little shit claims I nearly beat him to death at gunpoint.’

  ‘Gun?’ Karl whispered. ‘You’ve got a gun?!’

  ‘Have I arse,’ Jay scowled. ‘It’s all bullshit. I’m being set up, aren’t I?’

  ‘By the Russian mafia?!’

  ‘Crissake!’ Jay hissed. ‘Can you stop saying that out loud!’ He looked around, half expecting a scrum of men in black suits and sunglasses to converge on him.

  Karl swore under his breath. ‘Crap, Jay… you’re really in deep shit, man.’

  ‘Yeah, well, thanks for nothing. I’ve managed to work that bit out.’ He sipped his mug of tea. ‘Sam said I should come and find you.’

  Karl looked surprised. ‘Are you guys still an item?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jay replied defensively. ‘Why wouldn’t we be?’

  Karl shrugged. ‘No reason, just…I mean, she’s… you know, degree-level smart. And you’re…’

  Jay’s brows rose. ‘Go on…’ he challenged.

  ‘Not,’ Karl finished lamely.

  There was a pause and they both laughed.

  ‘Okay,’ Karl said. ‘So what was Sam’s thinking? You bunk down with me for a while?’

  Jay nodded. ‘Just for a bit. Until this mess settles down.’

  ‘Bro, I’m no expert on OCGs but –’

  ‘OCGs?’ Jay asked, confused.

  ‘Organised criminal groups – don’t you watch Line of Duty, bro? There’s a universal rule they all live by, which is that you’re never allowed to lose face. If you roughed up the boss’s son, there’s only one way this can go… He’ll make a messy example of you.’

  ‘That’s pretty much what Sam said.’ Jay absently fiddled with the salt and pepper pots on the table.

  ‘Well, you can’t go back,’ Karl said. ‘This kind of thing doesn’t just settle down. As soon as you’re spotted back in Hastings… you’ll be mincemeat.’

  ‘She also said that.’

  Karl shook his head. ‘Why the hell did you assault a mafia boss’s son in the first place?’

  During the drive over this morning, Jay had pondered how much to share with his brother. He figured the Russians probably wouldn’t be that bothered how much Karl knew if they found out that he was hiding him. He decided to tell him the lot – the full monty, including his first encounter with the Salikovs last January.

  30

  Roland Hammond took a deep breath to steady his nerves.

  I’ve got this. I’ve got this. He repeated those words in his head like a shaman’s chant as one of his father’s lackeys – a snaggle-toothed, wiry old bastard – accompanied him in the lift to the top floor of the hotel. Rovshan had block-booked the penthouse suite and all the other rooms on that floor for a few weeks in a bid to get away from the noise and dust at his Eaton Square home.

  The lift doors pinged and opened. The lackey – Gregor, or it might have been Gregori – led him along the carpeted hallway to the double doors at the end.

  ‘You wait here,’ he said. He cracked one door open, stepped inside and closed it gently behind him.

  Since his father had moved from Georgia to London at the beginning of the year, it had been surprisingly difficult to get any face-to-face time with him. Roland’s calls were diverted to the old man’s consiglieri, Karovic, who assured him that his father would talk with him when he had more time.

  ‘Your father has many matters to attend to at the moment.’

  Roland could hear voices beyond the door, softly spoken ones. He didn’t bother trying to lean in to hear what was being said as it would be in Georgian. During his prep-school years, Mother had paid for him to have private lessons, but Roland had only managed to pick up a few phrases. Languages just weren’t his thing, and anyway she’d repeatedly told him over the years that, one day, his father intended to become a British citizen.

  So why learn, right?

  A door opened and Gregor stepped out. ‘He will see you,’ he said gruffly.

  Roland straightened his tie, patted down his wavy hair and entered the room, the double doors clicking shut behind him.

  The hotel suite was large and luxurious and decorated like a museum diorama celebrating Louis XVI-level extravagance. His father was stretched out on a chaise longue in a deep-blue silk house coat beside a crackling fire.

  ‘Roland,’ he called with a deep rasping voice. ‘You come sit down with me.’

  Roland’s footsteps echoed on the marble floor, then suddenly hushed as he stepped onto a thick rug. The last time he’d actually spoken to his father had been three weeks ago when the old man had given him the task of scouting Hastings. He half suspected the old man had just wanted him out of the townhouse for a while. There was an awkwardness between them now that Rovshan had finally made the move to London. Father and son they may be, but they were essentially strangers.

  The previous time before that, when Roland had spoken to him before the move, had been during the spring the year before in Tbilisi, Georgia. It had been at the wedding of Rovshan’s other son, Revaz – his favourite son, Roland suspected. He had never been able to think of that foreign side as his family. The wedding had been a lavish and traditional celebration that had lasted for several days. If he was honest, it had been several intimidating days. His mother hadn’t been invited, to avoid any awkwardness between Rovshan’s ex-wife and her. But, as the blood of his father, Roland had no choice but to attend. His lack of Georgian had been embarrassing, more so because most of the Salikov family had at least a workable knowledge of the English language under their belts. He’d felt like an outsider. The village idiot. He’d been fairly certain that he’d been an object of ridicule to everyone there.

  ‘Father,’ said Roland, bending down and offering the old man a kiss on one cheek.

  ‘Sit, boy, sit,’ Rovshan said, gesturing at the armchair beside him.

  His father looked like a pale shadow of the man he’d been last summer. He’d lost some weight; his hair was a little longer than Roland knew he liked. And, he noticed, beneath his housecoat Rovshan was wearing pyjamas.

  The death of his daughter, Zophia, over a year ago, and the more recent death of Revaz, soon after his wedding, had taken its toll on the old man.

  ‘How are you?’ asked Roland.

  Rovshan shrugged. ‘Very busy. Also very tired.’

  ‘I’ve seen the town house. It’s going to be impressive when it’s all complete.’

  Rovshan nodded. ‘This is the point. To make the impression. The Salikovs have come to UK to stay.’

  ‘Right.’ Roland smiled. ‘How’s the transition of… things going?’

  His father ignored the question and adjusted the cushions behind his back, wheezing as he did so. ‘Now… Roland… you and I must talk.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Blue-grey eyes settled on his English son; he absently pinched his lips in thought for a moment. ‘Tell me, Roland, why did you kill this man in… Hastings?’

  I’ve got this. I’ve got this.

  ‘Father, now… you recall you gave me this job of looking for investment opportunities down there? And I found some very promising ones. Along the seafront. Cash-only businesses that we can use to filter your money. A lot of them are struggling and –’

  ‘Enough,’ interrupted Rovshan. ‘Why did you kill this man?’

  I’ve got this. Roland took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m trying to tell you, Father. We had a problem. A local civil servant…we call them planning officers over here. Basically, he needs to approve the purchase of any businesses by vetting the source of the money. You know how it is these days.’

  ‘So?’ Rovshan shrugged. ‘You bribe. You convince.’

  ‘Which I tried and…’ Roland puffed out air. ‘It didn’t go so well.’

  ‘So you killed him?!’

  ‘No… no! I didn’t. But I… yes… I was looking into a way to… remove him. You know, cautiously, carefully.’

  Christ. Pull yourself together. Every time he’d met his Georgian father had been a nerve-wracking experience; it was like being sent to the headmaster’s study or, he almost chuckled, Darth Vader’s private Sith temple. He took another deep breath. ‘I was discussing this… situation… on the phone. And… a man happened to overhear me.’

  ‘This man you killed?’

  Roland pressed his lips together, then nodded.

  The old man tutted and shook his head. ‘You are careless. Very careless, boy.’

  ‘I know. I know. I… knew it was stupid. But look – I had to do something quickly. He heard the p-planning officer’s name. And if, you know, if something then happened to that chap then… You see? We would have had a bigger problem. I took a decision… I know it was a rash one but –’

  ‘This is not Georgia,’ cut in Rovshan. ‘This is UK. We have to be much more careful!’

  ‘I know. I know. I… know…’ Roland could hear his voice wobble, making him sound weak – something he knew that his father would find off-putting. And disappointing. He steadied himself. ‘I did what I thought was right. And I did it quickly,’ he said firmly.

  The old man said nothing for a while, then finally he nodded. ‘This matter is over, then?’

  God, if only he could say yes. If only that was the end of this.

  ‘There is still a problem, sir.’

  His father’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘He told what he’d heard to his friend. And this friend knows that I killed him. This man came to my place and attempted to blackmail me.’ Roland really needed to get this next bit right. ‘He said he knew I killed the man… said he knew why, and that he wanted some money. So – and I… I think this next bit was clever – this was a clever call…’

  Rovshan Salikov waited patiently.

  ‘So I set him up. I made it look like he attempted to kill me.’

  Rovshan nodded slowly. ‘This part I know about. Miko inform me you went to the police and claim the man attack you… with a gun?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Roland studied his father’s face, looking for a sign as to what he was thinking. The old man was either going to erupt with rage and berate him for his reckless stupidity or…

  A mischievous smile slowly began to stretch across Rovshan’s dry lips. ‘This was clever,’ he uttered.