‘Where are they?’ she asked.

  ‘Sevenoaks, Kent, I think she said,’ said Boyd, looking down at his notes. ‘See if you can visit them this afternoon. Get a DNA swab for us will you and dig up some more details from his school days?’

  He turned to Minter. ‘And we need Westfield’s, Meadows’ and Whitehead’s phone records,’ he continued. ‘I’ve got a strong suspicion there’s a lot of back-and-forth communication over the years that we’re missing out on. We don’t know which service providers any of them used but, if we can track them down, they might still have the data.’

  ‘On it, boss,’ Minter replied.

  ‘Right,’ Boyd said, standing up. ‘Let’s get to it, people.’

  33

  Okeke set her beer down. ‘When?’

  Jay picked up a spiced drumstick and took a hearty bite out of it. ‘Next month,’ he replied, his mouth full. ‘It’s in Croydon, south London.’

  She sighed. ‘I know where Croydon is. How long for?’

  Jay pulled a face. ‘The training course is over three days.’

  She looked at him. ‘Why are you doing your guilty face?’

  ‘What? I’m not doing a guilty face.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  He suspected she was probably right – it was one very good reason why Jay had never joined Poker Night with Louie and the other doormen at CuffLinks. ‘See, the thing is I’ll have to stay over a couple of nights.’

  ‘You can get a train there and back each day, can’t you?’

  ‘There’s some evening activities on the course.’

  ‘Evening activities?’ She raised a brow. ‘Like going on the piss with your fellow PIs?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I mean, proper in-the-field training.’

  McGuire had told Jay about the course this afternoon. The three-day event would cover a lot of theory, but during the two evenings the instructors would be getting them to put it into practice. Apparently McGuire had done the course several years ago, and the three instructors who ran it were ex-Mossad, ex-CIA and ex-KGB.

  ‘We get to do a simulation,’ Jay told her.’ They call it Hunting the Bear.’

  She rolled her eyes at the ridiculous name. ‘What the bloody hell?’

  ‘One of the instructors is the bear, right? And we have to tail him across London without being marked.’ Jay grinned. ‘McGuire said it’s a real hoot.’

  ‘Hoot?’

  ‘You know, fun. We get to do “box pattern” tailing on foot like, you know, MI5 do. Use all the latest spy kit: bugs, thermal cameras an’ shit.’

  Okeke shook her head and chuckled. She looked around the Nando’s restaurant; it was busy and noisy this evening. ‘It’s going to be one big party game for you, isn’t it? Frickin’ trip to Disneyland for three days.’

  He nodded energetically. ‘Can’t wait. It sounds bonkers.’

  ‘Do you get a nice shiny truncheon or something at the end of it? A goody bag?’

  Jay looked at her. ‘This is serious, proper-level training, Sam.’

  ‘Covert surveillance. In just three days?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s an intense course.’

  She took a sip of her beer. ‘What does your bro make of all this?’

  Jay had had a beer with his brother a couple of weeks ago. His reaction to Jay’s new career direction had been the same as Sam’s: bemused scepticism.

  ‘Karl?’ he replied. ‘He thinks it’s all one big fucking joke.’ He sighed. ‘Be nice to feel like at least one of you two believed in me.’

  Okeke leant across the table and stroked his forearm. ‘Babe, I do believe in you. It’s just…’

  ‘Just?’

  ‘Well, I mean…’ He could see she was doing her best to temper her words. ‘What happened last year in Brighton was –’

  ‘A wake-up call, Sam,’ he cut in. ‘A reminder that we can get busy dreaming or get busy doing.’

  Okeke frowned. ‘But you never dreamed of being a private eye before all that crap went down! Not that you said to me, anyway. You and Louie were all about upcycling furniture. Setting up a carpentry business. Not snooping into dustbins or sneaking around after unfaithful husbands.’

  Jay dropped his chicken drumstick onto his plate. ‘Louie’s murder made me realise that I want to take down the bad guys. I want to help nail some well-deserving dickheads.’ He licked his fingers. ‘And, as you’ve already pointed out, I’m never going to be police material… so this is the next best thing.’

  ‘I never said that,’ she replied.

  ‘Not in those words. But you were pretty dismissive about it when I suggested joining the police.’

  She winced, then rubbed her eyes, absently smearing the eyeliner she’d put on for this evening. ‘It’s not that I don’t think you could hack it as a police officer. It’s just…’

  ‘Just.’ He smiled. ‘That word again.’

  ‘Look, being in the police involves following rules, protocols, obeying orders, heaps of paperwork… and exams – and that just isn’t you, Jay.’

  ‘I’ve just done six months of exams, Sam. And passed them.’

  ‘I meant the obeying orders bit. Mostly. You can’t just take off and go rogue in the middle of a case when it suits you.’

  ‘Why not? Boyd does.’ Jay had her there. And she knew it.

  She looked around her, then lowered her voice. ‘He didn’t have much choice at the time, if you recall. Not with the Nix case, and not with what happened to you.’

  ‘But he does go rogue. You’ve told me God knows how many times, that he –’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s his look-out,’ she snapped. ‘He’s my boss, right? It’s on his head if he gets caught out cutting corners or breaking rules. Personally, I don’t. I play by the rules. Which probably makes me a bit boring, but it means I get to keep my job, the wage that pays our bills, and the pension that will come at the end of it.’

  She realised she’d come across too harshly. Once again, she reached across the table. ‘You and Boyd are the same kind of bloke.’

  Jay raised a brow, wondering where she was going with that. ‘Which is?’

  ‘We’ll bloody wing it,’ she said, doing a fair job of mimicking Boyd. ‘Don’t worry – we’ll just fudge the paperwork, Okeke.’

  Jay nodded approvingly at her impersonation. ‘How is he, by the way?’

  ‘Boyd?’ She hunched her shoulders and shook her head. ‘He’s…’ She paused, took another slug of beer, then swilled it around her mouth. ‘Yeah, he’s okay. Same old, same old.’

  Jay narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s called a displacement tick.’

  ‘A what-the-what?’

  ‘What you just did. Hitting the beer. It’s a stalling tactic.’

  ‘What are you – a psychologist, all of a sudden?’

  ‘I read it.’ He smiled. ‘In an actual book, with pages and everything.’ He leant forward. ‘So, have you two fallen out over something?’

  ‘No!’ she replied quickly. ‘It’s just…’

  ‘Ah, there it is.’ He grinned, pleased with himself. ‘Something.’

  ‘It’s none of your business is what it is, babes.’

  ‘Are him and Charlotte having problems?’

  ‘No, they’re fine. Look, Jay… stop trying to be a private dick! It’s none of your business. It’s a personal –’

  ‘He’s unwell?’ Jay cut in.

  She rolled her eyes. Not at him, he suspected, but at herself for giving too much away in what she wasn’t saying. ‘Is it something serious?’ he pressed.

  Okeke looked away, her eyes picking out things to distract her. She cleared her throat. ‘It could be.’

  ‘Shit,’ muttered Jay. ‘It’s not something like cancer, is it?’

  She cocked her head as she looked back at him. The answer was pretty much stamped on her face.

  He let out a heavy sigh. ‘Fuck. A bad one?’

  ‘It’s an early diagnosis,’ she added. ‘He seems to think it’s no big deal.’

  Jay shook his head. As far as he was concerned, Boyd was a brick wall that no one could knock down, a local piece of towering geology that you could drive around or over, but certainly not miss. He was Charles Bronson and Sherlock Holmes blended together and smothered in concrete. Not that he was going to share this with anyone – even Sam – but Boyd was someone who Jay felt he could be. One day. If he put his back into it.

  ‘Shit. That’s really shit.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ she added. ‘It’s early days. And cancer isn’t the inevitable shitshow it used to be, right?’

  He nodded. ‘Fingers crossed, eh?’

  Their conversation died out for a few minutes as they pushed chicken wings and fries around their plates, then finally Okeke spoke again. ‘Actually, thinking about it… maybe you’re right.’ She sighed. ‘Maybe this is the right job for you.’

  ‘It is,’ Jay replied. ‘And I’m going to do well at it. I’m going to learn everything I can from McGuire while I’m working for him. And then…’

  ‘And then?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll go it alone, of course. Be my own boss.’

  She hesitated for a moment, then picked up her beer bottle and raised it for him to clink his against. ‘To that, babes, to being your own boss… one day.’

  He clinked his bottle against hers. ‘Damn right.’

  34

  Monday morning, and Boyd really wasn’t in the mood for banter. And Sully, of all people, was back from his week’s leave and full of himself. In the Incident Room, he was telling the team how he’d spent the week in Cornwall at some gathering of Dungeons and Dragons nerds, cosplaying in the countryside, playing the role of some spell-casting mage. Boyd could see a few faint flecks of face paint clinging to what remained of the frizzy blonde hair on his head.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Sully, concluding his detailed account of his adventures in the Cornish countryside. He gently patted one of Magnusson’s broad shoulders. ‘How did my stand-in perform while I was away?’

  Magnusson looked at him and raised her brows. ‘Incredibly, Kevin, we actually managed to cope without you.’

  ‘I’m sure you did your best,’ Sully replied. ‘You got an interesting one, I see. How typical. I turn my back for two minutes…’

  ‘You’ve read up?’ asked Boyd.

  Sully nodded. ‘I spent the weekend catching up on things. Chopped-up bodies in boxes, Karen, you jammy bugger.’

  ‘Well, if you do choose to bugger off and play wizards with your little friends…’ Magnusson said, patting his head.

  The others laughed.

  Boyd sighed, relieved. Well, at least he’s caught up. Good. He wasn’t going to have to waste an hour of this morning’s meeting getting Sully up to speed and fielding his questions. He really, really wasn’t in the mood to joust with him today.

  The CT scan that was supposed to be scheduled for this morning had been bumped to Wednesday. According to the technician who’d rung him apologetically this morning, the large doughnut-shaped machine at Conquest Hospital needed to be recalibrated. Or something. Whatever the reason, it meant another forty-eight hours of wondering whether he was riddled with secondary tumours or not.

  ‘Right, that’s enough,’ he said. ‘Settle down, kids. Let’s get straight to business.’

  The Incident Room fell silent.

  ‘Okeke, where are we with Robin Whitehead’s parents?’

  ‘I spoke to them Friday afternoon, guv, and I got a swab from both of them.’

  ‘And I had that sent over to Ellessey,’ Magnusson added. ‘They said they’d fast-track it for us. Hopefully we’ll have a result today or tomorrow.’

  ‘The last time they saw Robin,’ Okeke continued, ‘was the day before his welcome-home bash in London. It was a brief visit. They said he was too busy to stay long as he had things to sort out.’

  ‘Things to sort out?’ Boyd pressed.

  ‘He didn’t say. They presumed stuff to do with accommodation and starting his job.’

  ‘Did he tell them anything about his new job?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘His mum said she thought it was something to do with finance,’ Okeke replied. ‘A “fancy city job” were her words. She said he was excited about it and keen to get started.’

  ‘Did he mention who he was working for?’

  She shook her head. ‘He did say, but she couldn’t remember the name. It wasn’t a recognisable name like, I dunno… Lloyds, Barclays, Goldman Sachs.’

  ‘Did he not use their address for post?’ asked Boyd. ‘As he was just moving back? His new employer would have had to have somewhere to send his paperwork? His contract and all that?’

  She shook her head again. ‘Sorry, guv. It would probably have been emailed to him anyway.’

  Boyd shook his head, then looked at Minter. ‘Any luck tracking down the phone records?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve contacted all the big providers, boss: Vodafone, O2, EE, Three. They were all pretty cagey about handing over confidential customer data.’

  Boyd sighed. ‘Of course they were. Well, we’ll need to warrant the buggers. All of them.’

  ‘However, I got lucky straight off with NeomCom,’ Minter said. ‘They’re Saudi based. The chap there said they have a lapsed phone contract for Robin Whitehead, which they’d be happy to –’

  ‘Lapsed?’ Boyd cut in. ‘Does it match our timeline?’

  Minter nodded. ‘It didn’t get renewed. And the account was frozen. They’re happy for us to take a look as long as we use the Interpol Request Portal.’

  ‘Just a thought, ladies and gents…’ said Sully. ‘Did you show that scanned Alan Smithee driving licence picture to Whitehead’s parents?’

  ‘No,’ replied Okeke defensively. ‘Because the quality’s so shit it could literally be anyone.’

  ‘You mean you forgot to?’ said Sully smugly.

  She shot him daggers. ‘No, as I said…’

  ‘Easy mistake,’ he said, smiling patronisingly. ‘But it might be worth doing?’

  ‘It might be worth a punt, actually,’ agreed Boyd. ‘While we’re waiting on the phone data. You okay heading back over to Sevenoaks, Okeke?’

  She nodded, reluctantly. ‘Sure.’

  O’Neal laughed. ‘Doh, sorry, it’s me again,’ he yawped with a village idiot’s singsong voice. ‘Oi faw-got to show you this…’

  Magnusson, Sully and Warren chuckled.

  Okeke shook her head. ‘It’s fine. I can hack it.’

  35

  The oak front door opened. ‘Hello, Mrs Whitehead,’ said Okeke. ‘It’s me again. I’ve got a couple more follow-up questions for you if that’s all right?’

  Mrs Whitehead nodded and beckoned her to step inside.

  ‘I hope I’m not disturbing anything,’ Okeke asked politely.

  Mrs Whitehead shook her head. ‘Oh no. We’re just having elevenses with Pointless. Jeremy loves the old ones… you know, with Alexander Armitage and Richard Oswald.’

  Okeke smiled, the old woman had managed to get both surnames wrong. Mrs Whitehead led her slowly across the entrance hall and into their lounge. This time around, Okeke knew which floral armchair was specifically for visiting guests.

  ‘Hello again,’ she said to Mr Whitehead as she took a seat.

  He reached for the remote on the coffee table and paused the recorded show. ‘Again, Detective Obama? Is there some news?’

  ‘Okeke. I’m afraid there’s nothing new since yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ he said, visibly wilting.

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ asked Mrs Whitehead as she sat down on their faded chaise longue.

  ‘No, thank you. This won’t take long,’ Okeke replied. She reached into her bag and pulled out a blue cardboard folder. ‘I have a picture I want you to take a look at. The quality is awful, but, anyway, I’d like to know if it’s anyone you recognise.’ She pulled out the photocopied scan of the driving licence and handed it to them.

  They both squinted at the image for a while. ‘Sorry,’ said Mrs Whitehead eventually.

  ‘Who’s Alan Smithee?’ Mr Whitehead asked.

  ‘The name’s an alias,’ Okeke explained. ‘The man pictured, we believe, might have been a friend of your son.’

  ‘No, I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t recognise him.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Okeke took the photocopy back from him and tucked it away in the folder. ‘That was it, actually. I’m sorry to have bothered you both again.’ She got up.

  ‘Do you think my son’s dead, detective?’ Mr Whitehead asked as she was about to excuse herself.

  Okeke paused, wondering how best to answer that. ‘According to your daughter, Caroline, he’s more than able to take care of himself. There are any number of reasons why he could have gone missing. It doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s –’

  ‘Oh, crikey,’ said Mrs Whitehead, interrupting her. ‘You mentioning our Caroline has just reminded me. There was something I should have told you yesterday!’ She got up off the chaise longue.

  ‘What is it?’ Okeke asked.

  ‘A few weeks after Robin came back from Qatar, Caroline sent over a box of things he’d left behind.’

  ‘Do you still have them?’ Okeke held her breath.

  ‘Of course, I do! They’re up in his old bedroom. Do you want to…?’

  ‘Have a look?’ She nodded. ‘If that’s okay?’

  Okeke followed Mrs Whitehead back into the hallway, then up a creaking staircase, painfully slowly, the old woman’s knees clicking with every step. She led Okeke along a hallway and finally stopped beside a closed door.

  ‘This is Robin’s old room,’ she announced. ‘I always hoped he might stay with us for a while when he was back in the country, but he’s always had, what I like to call, the wander bug.’

  ‘So I heard,’ Okeke said. ‘Did he travel a lot?’

  She nodded. ‘He was always off backpacking and the like. He’s always had itchy feet.’ She opened the door. ‘The things Caroline sent are still on his bed. Some clothes, some souvenir knick-knacks. A shaver. I think it’s broken.’