‘We can get a warrant,’ said Hatcher. ‘Very easily and very quickly. Trust me.’

  Okeke sat back in her seat and glanced up at the dead camera in the corner of the room. ‘I see that’s been switched off. So I think we should cut all the bullshit… don’t you, ma’am?’

  ‘Oh? And what bullshit is that?’ Hatcher asked.

  Okeke laughed dryly. ‘That these Russians have got their fingers wrapped tightly round your neck.’

  Hatcher blanched.

  Okeke glanced at Boyd. ‘And yours too, guv.’

  Her Madge scoffed. ‘Really? And that’s what you think is it?’

  ‘I know Boyd got a warning package, ma’am. From the Salikovs. And I’m guessing you got one too.’

  Hatcher looked shaken. ‘What? That’s utterly ridiculous!’ She turned to Boyd and skewered him with a look of outrage.

  ‘Okeke knows,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I told her. She knows everything I know.’

  ‘This is…’ Hatcher glared at him, then back at Okeke. ‘This is…’

  ‘Maybe she’s right, ma’am,’ Boyd said. ‘Maybe we need to start talking plainly.’ He pulled out his work Samsung and his personal iPhone. ‘On the table and turned off. All of us,’ he said. ‘Because, like it or not, we’re all three in this bloody mess now.’

  Karl set his beer down on the table and dropped a couple of packets of smoky-bacon-flavoured crisps between them. ‘I spent most of this morning assigning tasks to my development teams so I can take a few days off,’ he said. ‘But I’ve also been consolidating last night’s research.’

  ‘Sounds ominous,’ muttered Jay.

  ‘Well, it is actually, bro.’ Karl pursed his lips.

  Jay grinned nervously. ‘C’mon, bro – don’t leave me hanging.’

  Karl sighed. ‘Sorry, man… Look, Rovshan Salikov was best friends with the KGB, back in the day.’

  ‘What day?’ Jay asked.

  ‘Cold War times. You know, before we were born… back in the eighties.’

  ‘I was born by then. You weren’t, little bro.’ Jay leant forward and opened one of the crisp packets.

  ‘Right, well, small detail. Anyway, this guy was besties with the KGB, based in Georgia and he was a middleman for their dirty-ops slush fund. So then along comes the nineties, Gorbachev with his glasnost, Yeltsin… the fall of the Berlin Wall. The fall of the Soviet Union. All that good stuff. So, amid all the chaos, this guy Salikov was given the job of hiding some of that KGB money and also a shit ton of money from the Communist Party’s coffers.’

  ‘Hiding it where?’ Jay tossed some crisps into his mouth.

  Karl shrugged. ‘Who knows? Switzerland? Panama? Shell companies? Under his floorboards? The point is, he knows where it’s all stashed and that’s kind of how he became rich. The rest of his money has come from whatever dirty businesses he’s sunk his fingers into over the last few decades.’

  ‘So he’s a rich bastard,’ said Jay. ‘Which I knew already.’

  ‘No, see, it’s more complicated than that,’ Karl explained. ‘Yes, he’s the boss of a criminal organisation, but he was also the trusted bagman for a lot of money that wasn’t his.’

  ‘It was the KGB’s – you told me that already. See, I’m listening,’ Jay said, giving his brother a pensive nod and a smile.

  Karl didn’t return the smile. He looked deeply concerned. ‘Well, they’re called the FSB now… and it would seem that they want all their money back. Like, yesterday.’

  Jay licked the bacon flavouring off his fingers. ‘So… what does that mean? Has he fallen out with them? Are they enemies now?’

  ‘Well, if he’s not prepared to give it back, then probably. The point is, bro… the shit pile you put one of your big clodhopping boots in may be bigger than you realised. Salikov’s getting on. His eldest son died recently… and I’m just saying FSB connections… Salikov’s primary heir is dead, so then you go and threaten the spare?’ Karl looked at Jay, who’d frozen with a finger still in his mouth. ‘The FSB are the same gnarly bastards who did the whole Novichok thing in Salisbury.’ He nudged Jay. ‘So, uh… maybe you don’t want to be licking your fingers, eh?’

  Jay slowly lowered his hand and looked at it.

  ‘I’m kidding!’ Karl laughed.

  ‘Ah, right,’ replied Jay, unamused. ‘Hilarious.’

  ‘All right,’ said Boyd. ‘The phones are off. Again. What’s said in here stays in here, all right, ma’am?’

  Hatcher nodded.

  ‘So? Who’s talking first?’ he asked.

  ‘I will,’ said Hatcher. ‘Salikov’s lawyer has been in contact with me. They’re expecting me to put every resource I have into locating Mr Turner. I say “expecting”… I mean demanding.’ She turned to Okeke. ‘They’re not going to accept I’m doing my best from me, do you understand?’

  ‘And if the police find him?’ Okeke asked.

  Hatcher shook her head. ‘We bring him in, charge him and put him on remand.’

  ‘Effectively handing him to the Salikovs, then,’ Okeke said. ‘If he’s shoved into a prison on remand, they’ll find a way to get to him.’

  ‘Boyd?’ said Hatcher, giving him a pointed look.

  ‘We’ll make sure he’s kept safe, inside,’ said Boyd. ‘Just tell us where he is, Sam.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I thought we were all speaking plainly and honestly,’ said Hatcher.

  ‘Well, in that case I wouldn’t tell you if I did know,’ Okeke replied curtly. ‘Sorry, but if we’re being honest here… I wouldn’t tell either of you anything at this point – and I don’t know how you could possibly expect me to.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Boyd. ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘I could have you arrested,’ said Hatcher. ‘For aiding a criminal fugitive.’

  Okeke raised her brows and looked at the phones on the table. ‘And I would still tell you I know nothing. I’m not handing over my innocent boyfriend to them. Is that clear?’

  ‘You do understand, Okeke…’ Hatcher said. ‘If they don’t get a result from pressuring me, or Boyd, they’ll come for you.’

  Okeke sighed. ‘I actually don’t know where he is, ma’am. He took off. He has no phone. In fact, Sully’s lot have it now, right?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘And they’ve hacked it.’

  ‘Right. So at this point in time you probably know more about his activities over the last few days than I do.’

  ‘I don’t get why Hammond had to kill Louie, though. I mean, neither of us really heard enough to get him into trouble,’ Jay said.

  ‘Well, it’s not down to what you know, is it?’ Karl said. ‘It’s what Hammond thinks you know that’s the problem.’

  Jay shrugged. ‘All I heard was some shit about “getting the job done” and “staying calm” and “if you stop, he’ll get better”. Something about “a cup of blue tea”.’

  ‘To Hammond that would sound enough to make you a problem, bro,’ said Karl. ‘People have been taken out for knowing much less. Thing is, Jay, you told me that while Hammond was tied up that you told him you “knew everything”, right?’

  Jay nodded. ‘I was just trying to put the shit up him.’

  ‘Well, there you go – that is what’s dumped you in the shit, bro. You drew a fucking cross-hair on your forehead, by saying that.’

  ‘Jesus, Karl…’ Jay said. ‘You’re meant to be making me feel better, not scaring the crap out of –’

  ‘I’m just keeping it real.’

  Jay looked at the open bag of crisps and suddenly had no more appetite for them. Nor the beer in his hand. ‘So basically what you’re saying is that I’m screwed?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t be thinking of going back to Hastings if I were you. Seriously, bro… I’m not even sure if it’s a good idea to stay in the country.’

  Jay suspected that if the police were after him too, then asking Okeke to send over his passport so that he could book an EasyJet flight to Costa del Wherever was a non-starter.

  ‘I could nick a boat perhaps? Sail across the Channel and ditch it somewhere off Calais?’ Jay improvised.

  Karl laughed. ‘Then what?’

  Jay scowled. ‘I’d work something out.’

  ‘Understand this,’ said Hatcher. ‘If I don’t give them what they want, they won’t hesitate to make their displeasure known.’

  ‘And what they want is Jay,’ Okeke said.

  ‘Perhaps there’s a deal to be struck?’ suggested Boyd.

  Hatcher shook her head. ‘I call them back and say I have a counterproposal…?’ She shook her head again. ‘No. I’m sorry, but I’m not going there.’

  ‘You have a strong bargaining position,’ said Okeke. ‘You’re the Chief Super! They need you onside if they have any further plans in Hastings.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Hatcher snapped. ‘Do you honestly think I’m in their camp for backhanders?! Some filthy bloody money? Do you?!’ Her hands were balled into tight, bulging, white fists.

  Jesus, thought Boyd, speaking plainly appeared to be getting them nowhere. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘maybe trying for a deal is pushing our luck.’

  They lapsed into silence. There was little more to be said.

  ‘I just can’t help you, Okeke,’ said Hatcher eventually. ‘I’m really sorry.’ She glanced at Boyd, clearly expecting him to say the same.

  And I have to.

  ‘Sam,’ he began, ‘I’ve got no choice here. I’m going to have to find him with or without your help. I’ve got to bring him in.’

  ‘He saved your life when we met Nix,’ Okeke said coolly. ‘You owe him.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re done here.’ Hatcher raised a hand. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

  ‘I know,’ Boyd answered Okeke. ‘But, Sam, this is –’

  ‘I said we’re done!’ barked Hatcher. She reached for her smartphone and stood up. ‘I don’t want to hear another word about Nix, all right?’

  Okeke shot a glance at her. ‘Ah, so you do know what happened then?’

  Hatcher glared at her. ‘Once this is over, there’s no way I can have either of you under my command. You do understand that? When this has been settled, you should both think about putting in for a transfer. And do not think about crossing me. You have nothing on me, whereas I have a very long list where the two of you are concerned.’

  She went to the door and rested her hand on the handle. ‘I want as little to do with this bloody nightmare as possible. I’m not bent, Okeke. I’ve never taken any kind of backhander in my entire career… but I’m also not stupid. This isn’t a hill I’m prepared to die on.’

  Boyd watched Okeke from the CID’s main-floor window as she headed across the tarmac towards her Datsun, a plume of cigarette smoke lingering in her wake.

  She looked defeated as she pulled the key fob out of her shoulder bag and blipped her car. He hoped she’d look up and see him watching her. And then what? A smile? A wave? A thumbs-up?

  Nothing he could gesture through the plate glass was going to make up for the fact that – in front of Her Madge – he’d told her there was nothing he could do for Jay. There hadn’t been a private moment to whisper anything else to her; Hatcher had gestured for her to leave the station… and she had, without glancing his way even once.

  She was obviously leaving the station with the very clear impression that this time round they were on different sides. That his job was to locate Jay and, in all but name, hand him over to be executed by the Salikovs. And that he was prepared to do it.

  It was that or him.

  Or Emma.

  Boyd watched her car pull out onto Bohemia Road and turn left then downhill towards the seafront. He headed back to his desk feeling like the world’s biggest piece of shit.

  34

  DC Warren and DI Shannon were waiting for Boyd beside his desk, both with printouts in their hands, waggling them to get his attention like eager kids in a classroom.

  ‘All right,’ he said, sighing as he sat down. ‘Who’s first?’

  ‘Me,’ said Warren. He placed his sheet down on the table, a grainy printout from a CCTV camera that showed a white van at a petrol station.

  ‘We heard back from O’Neal. He’s just been interviewing Greg Howler. He did a vehicle swap with Jason Turner yesterday morning,’ he said quickly. ‘This is Howler’s van.’

  Boyd had asked Warren to do an ANPR check on Jay’s big van, but, for once, the lad had shown initiative and skipped straight to Howler’s van. On any other case that would have been great.

  ‘And here’s a picture of him paying in the station.’ Boyd looked at the grainy image of Jay. He was wearing a baseball cap and towered over the counter like a wrongly scaled miniature in a diorama.

  ‘Where is this?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s the petrol station on the A27, just beyond Lewes,’ Warren told him.

  ‘Good job, Warren,’ he said mildly. ‘And Turner’s van?’

  ‘On the way to the station. CSI will go through it for anything that might help.’

  ‘Right.’ Boyd gave Warren a nod and waved him off before looking up at DI Shannon. ‘And what have you got for me?’

  ‘His half-brother’s new name. He changed it by deed poll from Craymore to Craig.’

  ‘Karl Craig?’

  The DI nodded, then grinned. ‘Sounds like a shitty blues singer, eh?’

  Boyd really wasn’t in the mood. ‘So what do we have on Mr Craig?’

  ‘He’s been a bit of a slippery customer, to be honest… Hasn’t got any socials that we can find. It’s a legal name, obviously, but he’s been sure to use it very sparingly. Under the name Craymore, he’s had form in the past, boss. He took part in some G8 protests, Extinction Rebellion. Anti-vaxxer stuff. He’s even been rumoured in the past to have links with that Anonymous hackers bunch, but –’

  ‘That’s all very interesting, Shannon, but may I cut to the chase?’ Boyd interrupted.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Do you have an address for him?’

  ‘Unit Seventeen, Hamble House, Eastern Terrace Mews, Brighton,’ Shannon said.

  Boyd nodded. Brighton it was, then.

  ‘Well, there we go, sir. Turner’s probably gone over to hide at his brother’s place.’

  Crap. Jay, the stupid idiot, was going to get himself caught in record time. Boyd gave DI Shannon an appreciative nod. ‘Good work.’

  This feels like shit. Utter shit. He was damned if he was going to hand over the address to Hatcher yet, though.

  ‘Okay, then…’ He sighed. ‘I suppose we’d better go and pay Mr Craig a visit.’

  ‘Right.’ Shannon hesitated. ‘Are you coming along, guv?’ The DI was clearly used to his regular guv – Flack – remaining station-based.

  ‘Yup.’ Boyd nodded. ‘I need to get some fresh air.’

  Maybe there was some way he could hamper, delay or even sabotage the visit; perhaps give Jay a chance to make another run for it. The Keystone Cops came to mind – a careless blunder or two might just give Jay a head start. He looked around for the perfect candidate and saw him across the floor at his desk tucking into a Greggs pastry. Hastings CID’s very own super cop.

  ‘Let’s bring DI Abbott along too.’

  ‘Right.’ Shannon looked uncertain.

  ‘Have a pool car ready to go in ten minutes, all right?’

  Boyd watched Shannon weave his way through the desks, like a ball bearing through a marble run, and tap Abbott on the shoulder.

  Then Boyd got up and reached for his jacket, which was draped over the back of his seat.

  On the floor at the rear of the chair was a folded piece of paper. It must have fallen out of one of his pockets. He bent down and scooped it up. It was a torn corner from a Post-it note.

  He unfolded it and found a nine-digit number. A phone number.

  He recognised the rounded handwriting. It was Okeke’s.

  35

  ‘Are you safe here?’ Karl shrugged. ‘Shit, I dunno. I guess maybe for a couple of days. That is unless you told anyone else you were coming to stay with me.’

  ‘Just Sam,’ Jay replied.

  ‘Okay. But no one else knows?’

  Jay shook his head.

  Karl walked across the open floor to the kitchen in the corner. He opened a cupboard. ‘I mean, this place isn’t rented under my name anyway. So that’ll buy us a little more time.

  You want something for lunch? I got some pad thai pots.’

  Jay shook his head. He wasn’t hungry.

  ‘The company owns the old brewery. They let me rent it for a few hundred quid.’ Karl poured out a bowl of granola for himself.

  ‘Oh. I thought this was your place,’ Jay said.

  Karl grinned. ‘It is. I own the company. And the company owns this. It’s a handy way to sidestep the usual taxes, bro.’ He grinned. ‘I probably pay less tax than you do.’

  Jay frowned. ‘But you’re bloody minted!’

  ‘It’s unfair, I know. But the loopholes are there. You’d have to be a dumbass not to exploit them. What’s good for Zuckerberg is good for me.’

  Jay nodded. ‘Right. Clever.’

  ‘My snail mail, not that I have much of that, if any, goes straight to work. I prefer it that way.’ He poured in some soya milk, then glanced at Jay. ‘The bigger your footprint, the more vulnerable you are. It pays to have small feet, bruv’.’

  Karl joined Jay in the lounge area and sat cross-legged on the beanbag, breakfast bowl in hand.

  ‘Who are you vulnerable to?’ Jay asked.

  ‘The System,’ Karl said. ‘The police state, MI5, the squinty little government gremlins who monitor the troublemakers and build their little dossiers. The more data points they’ve got on you, the more leverage they have. That’s why I don’t do Facebook or TikTok… or whatever.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jay nodded knowingly. ‘Well, I mean, I just use it for, you know, the dumb stuff. The games…’

  ‘The pop quizzes? The “Name Your Fave Movie”, ‘Which Star Wars Character Are You?” stuff, those things, uh?’ said Karl.