‘How’s that doing him a favour?’ Karl asked.

  ‘He’s wanted for aggravated assault,’ Boyd said. ‘Better we catch him before he adds any other offences to the list, don’t you think?’

  ‘Assault.’ Karl shook his head. ‘That’s not Jay. No way. He’s not a violent bloke.’

  ‘There were mitigating circumstances,’ Boyd said. ‘It was an old mate of his who was murdered. It hit him hard. If he gives himself up, a magistrate would probably look sympathetically at his case. But not if he gets into more trouble while he’s on the run.’ Boyd paused. ‘Mr Craig, do call me, please. I know Jay a little. He’s a good bloke. I’d hate to see him get into even bigger trouble.’

  ‘If he calls,’ Karl said with a nod, ‘I’ll let you know.’

  Boyd got up from the leather sofa. ‘Thanks for your help,’ he said.

  ‘Anything I can do.’ Karl led them back towards the stairs, stopping beside his kitchenette island. ‘I really don’t see him having a gun, though. Please… detective, if you do corner him and he decides to run like an idiot… don’t set SWAT after him, or whatever they’re called. Coppers seem to be quite trigger-happy these days.’

  Boyd smiled. ‘This isn’t America yet.’

  O’Neal pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his back pocket and began to fumble inside the box for one.

  ‘Uh, not in here, please, mate,’ said Karl.

  Boyd twisted around and scowled at O’Neal for his unprofessionalism.

  ‘It’s a bad habit, dude,’ said Karl, placing Boyd’s business card on a metal tray and tapping it. ‘I’ll give you a ring if I hear from him, okay?’

  Boyd’s eyes were glued to the tray, where a packet of Rizzlers sat. He shot a glance at Abbott and Shannon, wondering if they’d clocked them. Neither seemed to have noticed.

  ‘Thanks,’ Boyd said, and swiftly herded the other three detectives towards the metal stairs that led down to the brewery’s cluttered and dusty ground floor.

  39

  ‘I said get your ruddy feet DOWN!’

  Roland didn’t like the way the three men had made themselves at home in his penthouse apartment. He’d had them all remove their shoes and boots in the hallway (because the lounge had a thick cream carpet) to which they had grudgingly agreed, but all three seemed to be flaunting their irritation by putting their bare – grubby – feet up onto whatever piece of furniture was closest.

  ‘Ronaldo’ uncrossed his feet and swung them off the coffee table and back onto the floor. He grumbled something in Georgian. Gregor barked back at him like a kennels’ old-timer putting a new dog in its place.

  ‘What did he just say?’ asked Roland.

  Gregor wafted a hand. ‘Is nothing. Relax.’

  ‘Tony Soprano’ had his bare feet up on one of the white suede armchairs and he’d been absently picking at the dry skin between his toes as he thumbed through channels on the wall-mounted TV. He rolled his eyes, uncrossed his legs and lowered his feet to the carpet as well.

  Roland couldn’t imagine why his father had retained these uncouth apes, imported from his motherland, when he could have hired some properly trained, indeed house-trained, professionals. Men, ironically, like those two doormen at CuffLinks: polite, well-dressed, physically fit, English-speaking muscleheads. Ex-servicemen – that’s who Roland would hire.

  He wandered over to the French doors and out onto the balcony. The sky was beginning to darken’ the day had slipped by and so far he’d heard sweet FA from that slapped bitch of a Chief Super.

  Jesus. Nanny McPhee meets Morticia fucking Addams. She vaguely reminded him of his house matron at Dunstan College: prim and proper but shaggable in a have-her-scrubbed- and-sent-to-my-tent kind of way.

  Karovic had cautioned patience earlier today when Roland had called him for an update: ‘They will find him, Mr Hammond. Just give the police some time.’ Well, it was time he’d rather not spend with these Neanderthals cluttering his living space. And time was something he really couldn’t afford to waste. The longer Turner remained at large and alive, the greater the risk that he was going to share what he knew with someone who could piece it all together.

  ‘Screw you, Karovic,’ he muttered. He pulled out his phone, scrolled down and found the number for the wretched woman.

  Chief Superintendent Margaret Hatcher answered after the second ring. ‘Who is this?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s Roland Hammond,’ he replied impatiently.

  He heard her gasp. ‘Uh… now, this is not what was agreed. We speak only via your lawyer, Mr Karovic. I can’t afford to have a call directly from your family. Certainly not on this pho–’

  ‘Be quiet,’ Roland spat. ‘What’s happening? What’s the progress? I need an update.’

  ‘I… look, I really can’t have this conversation with you. Not now and not on this phone,’ Hatcher tried again.

  Roland ignored her. ‘Where’s Turner? Do you have any fucking idea yet?’

  ‘We’re doing our best.’ He could hear a slight tremor in her voice. Good. He rather liked that. Fear made folks up their game a little. ‘We think he may have gone to ground… in…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Brighton. Somewhere in Brighton.’

  Roland felt a spike of adrenaline lift his hopes slightly. ‘So how do you know he’s in Brighton?’

  ‘Through the vehicle he’s currently using,’ Hatcher replied.

  ‘What? Number-plate recognition?’ Roland asked.

  ‘Yes. His vehicle was logged by CCTV at a service station on a road heading into Brighton,’ she replied. ‘But look – that’s all that I have for you. And we should end this conversation now.’

  ‘Fuck it!’ Roland hissed. ‘I will tell you when we’re ruddy well done!’

  He heard her gasp again. She obviously wasn’t used to being spoken to like this, the silly cow.

  ‘Look, Mr Hammond… I have put all my available resources on this. I assure you we will pick him up again in the next few –’

  ‘What, hours? Days? This is not good enough.’ Roland liked how his voice was sounding down the phone right now: a little deeper, a hard edge, a touch of menace. ‘The arrangement has changed,’ he told her.

  ‘What? What do you mean the arrangement’s changed?’ she replied.

  ‘All you have to do now is simply locate him. We’ll do the rest.’

  ‘I… no, Mr Karovic told me that we’re to locate him, charge him and put him on remand. Then… after that…I’m done.’

  ‘Ah, well, you see… the old boy’s obviously given you the wrong impression. We just need you to find him and give us his location. That’s it. And then you’re done.’

  Hatcher paused. Roland could hear the ambient noises of the police station in the background. ‘I believe it would be more discreet and better for all of us if he’s simply arrested and –’

  ‘As soon as you identify where he is, my dear, you’re going to pick up your phone and call this number. By the time your plods turn up to arrest him –’ Roland smiled – ‘there’ll be no sign of him. Not a scrap. He’ll have vanished. Escaped the Sussex Police all over again. Do you see? Very tidy. Very discreet.’

  ‘That’s not… not possible. There’ll be operational logs, radio reports to and from the SIO. I can’t simply terminate an unresolved manhunt.’

  ‘That’s your problem to sort out, not mine, you stupid bitch!’

  He ended the call and grinned. How many times had he fantasized about saying that over and over to Matron as he took her roughly from behind. The momentary endorphin rush slowly evaporated and he realised that just maybe he’d ended the call prematurely.

  Oh, deary me. I think this woman needs a visit.

  40

  Boyd watched DI Abbott and DI Shannon walk across the petrol station forecourt and enter the shop. Shannon had just filled up the pool car. Abbott, of course, needed the bloody toilet. O’Neal had been surprisingly quiet on the drive back from Brighton.

  ‘You all right, O’Neal?’ Boyd asked, making eye contact with him via the wing mirror as O’Neal, behind him, looked up from his phone.

  ‘Uh. Yeah. No. Fine, sir’

  ‘I’ve not seen much of you recently…’ Boyd said, smiling. ‘Since you went over to the dark side.’

  O’Neal grinned back at him in the mirror. ‘There’s a bit more action going on in Flack’s team, sir.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘Hey, I heard Warren made the Knight arrest,’ O’Neal said. ‘Nice one.’

  ‘Yup. After nearly being bayonetted to death.’ Boyd winked. ‘See? There’s action on the main floor too, you know.’

  O’Neal nodded and turned his attention back to his phone. Boyd could sense the unease. This wasn’t just down to O’Neal being on another team.

  ‘What did you make of Karl Craig?’ he asked.

  He saw an anxious expression flit across the lad’s face.

  ‘O’Neal?’

  He looked up and met Boyd’s eyes in the wing mirror again. ‘He’s got a cool place, right?’

  I’ve got to know.

  ‘O’Neal, did you see it?’

  ‘See what, sir?’

  ‘Did you see it?’ Boyd repeated. ‘When he put my card down?’

  O’Neal hesitated before finally nodding. ‘Yes. He’s not a smoker, sir.’

  ‘Right,’ he replied. ‘So why did he have cigarette papers?’

  ‘My thought too, sir.’ O’Neal lowered his phone. ‘Why didn’t you ask Craig about them, sir? I was surprised you didn’t pick him up on that.’

  Boyd turned in his seat to look at him. ‘Her Madge has got you watching me, hasn’t she?’ he said.

  ‘What?! No! Of course not!’

  The DC was a crap liar. ‘Don’t be an arse,’ said Boyd. ‘She asked you to report in on me, right?’

  ‘Sir… I… she…’

  ‘O’Neal, I said don’t be an arse. Spit it out. She’s asked you to spy on me. Correct?’

  ‘She said she’s lost confidence in you,’ he blurted. ‘She said she was concerned you might be dragging your feet on this case.’

  ‘Did she say why?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Jay,’ O’Neal replied. He shrugged. ‘You’re friends with Jay and Okeke. So… obviously…’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘Jay’s been staying there, hasn’t he?’ said O’Neal finally. ‘You’re giving him a chance, aren’t you? You should have followed up on those Rizzlers, sir.’

  Boyd could have come up with some BS answer, but he knew O’Neal already had sussed him out. ‘You think I’m cutting Jay some slack?’ he said.

  O’Neal broke eye contact and looked out of the window. DI Shannon was on his way back across the forecourt towards the car.

  ‘O’Neal?’ Boyd said urgently.

  ‘Hatcher said I had to let her know the moment I spotted anything dodgy.’ He sounded genuinely remorseful. ‘She said… you might be compromised.’

  ‘Christ.’ Boyd closed his eyes and let out humourless huff. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘She said you might be involved with Jay… in blackmailing someone.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! And you believed that, did you?’

  Shannon paused just outside the car to stuff a can of Red Bull into the pocket of his anorak and to shove the petrol station’s till receipt into his wallet. Boyd saw DI Abbott emerging from the store, hoisting the belt of his sagging trousers up over his belly and clutching a sandwich.

  ‘Well, have you?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Snitched to Her Madge on me?’

  O’Neal nodded slowly, looking down. ‘I’m really sorry, sir.’

  41

  Hatcher pulled into her driveway and swung round so that her Nissan Juke was facing out, ready for work tomorrow.

  As she turned, her headlights picked out the reflection of a dark-grey SUV parked snugly up against her leylandii bushes, a thickset man in dark-blue joggers and a puffer jacket standing beside it.

  ‘Shit!’ she yelped, her foot stamping down on the brake pedal. The car lurched and stalled.

  The man stepped over to her driver-side door and, before she could think to engage the central locking, he’d pulled the door open.

  ‘No! Please…!’ she recoiled.

  He put a finger to his moustache and two pink lips emerged from beneath it. ‘Shhhhh…’

  He pointed towards her front door. She turned in her seat and noticed for the first time that her front door was wide open.

  ‘You… in,’ he said softly. ‘Talk. Inside.’

  Oh God. She recognised the Slavic accent and realised that her worst nightmare had finally turned up. She’d been dreading a moment like this, ever since they’d first made contact with her two years ago.

  Zophia Salikov had looked to be in her early twenties – about the same age or thereabouts as her son, Julian. But instead of being all blue hair and pink Doc Martens, she’d worn a corporate suit and her blonde hair had been scraped back into a tidy bun.

  The unexpected encounter with the young woman had been brief and to the point and had taken just a few minutes. Just long enough for Salikov to explain who she was, what was going to be happening on Hatcher’s turf and that her cooperation, namely a blind eye, would be required. That brief conversation had taken place one sunny Sunday morning in the parking area of quaint little farmers’ shop and nursery just outside Beckley. The brazenness of it – with customers only a few yards away putting plants and bags of potting compost into the boots of their cars – had shocked Hatcher. Zophia Salikov had informed her that her father only ever asked once, then she’d casually shown her a photo of somebody whom Mr Salikov had had to ask a second time.

  It was an image that would come back and visit her every night thereafter. If that poor somebody had survived – and Margaret Hatcher hadn’t been able to work out whether the victim had been male or female – it would have been a life without sight, sound, taste or smell.

  ‘In!’ said the man again, jerking his finger towards her porch. She got out of the car and headed slowly towards the front door. Another man was waiting there for her, younger, skinny, with long dark hair pulled back into a man bun. He smiled, showing gold fillings, and waved at her to proceed inside.

  Oh God. Is this it? Is this how it ends… in my own home?

  ‘I’m in here!’ a voice called out from her lounge. She stepped into the room and saw that Roland Hammond had made himself comfortable in one of her armchairs.

  Beside him, standing to attention with hands behind his back, was a wiry old man with a silver crew cut and pockmarked cheeks.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said Hammond. ‘Please.’

  She sat down on the sofa. ‘What’s going on?’ She took a deep breath to steady her voice. ‘Where’s Mr Karovic?’

  Hammond grinned. ‘We’re currently operating under different rules. Dad’s not so well these days,’ he said, wrinkling his nose, ‘so I’m minding the shop.’

  ‘Look. I told you on the phone –’

  ‘I know. That you’re doing your very best,’ he cut in. ‘But I’m afraid that’s not working for me.’

  She glanced at the man standing beside Hammond, both his hands remained resolutely, worryingly, tucked out of sight behind.

  ‘Now, I’ve been exceedingly patient. It’s been a few days and I really would have expected that one of the best resourced, best trained police forces in the world would have managed to track down an amateur like Mr Turner by now.’

  ‘I told you over the phone… we… we’ve made progress,’ she said.

  ‘He’s somewhere in Brighton,’ Hammond responded, mimicking her voice.

  ‘We… we’re pretty sure he has been staying in Brighton.’

  ‘Has been,’ Hammond echoed. He shook his head and tutted. ‘Has been. See? That’s what I’m talking about. You’re always a step behind. You need to be ahead of him. Anticipating him.’ Hammond lurched in the armchair, his voice suddenly rising. ‘For fuck’s sake, he’s not James Bond, – he’s just a stupid fucking bouncer!’

  ‘We can only work with the leads we have,’ she replied. The attack in her voice sounded good. It made her feel a little bolder. ‘He was in Brighton yesterday morning. He may have moved on. We’re working to find out where he is right now. We will find him.’

  She watched Hammond as he pushed a strand of wavy blond hair back off his forehead and ran a tongue across his top lip. He stared down at her flat shoes, then let his gaze wander to her ankles, up her tights to the hem of her dark skirt, then up to her shirt and tie. He chuckled. ‘You know, I really do like a mature woman in uniform.’

  His eyes met hers and she fought hard not to look away.

  It’s intimidation… That’s all this is. This little prick is giving you a scare. Stay calm.

  He picked up a brass letter-opener sitting on the side table and casually inspected it. ‘I know I don’t sound very Georgian,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s not an easy language to learn, to be honest. But that doesn’t stop me from being one.’

  Hatcher remained stony-faced.

  ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘don’t make the mistake of thinking that Salikov blood isn’t flowing through my veins.’ He waggled the tip of the blade in her direction. ‘In our family we have a tradition, all to do with eyes, ears and tongues. Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak no evil. Do you see?’

  She nodded. She knew all too well.

  ‘Now, I’m sorely tempted to help myself to one of your sharper kitchen knives and demonstrate that for you, but Father assures me that you’re a handy asset so…’ His gaze wondered to the framed photographs on her teak display cabinet. ‘Is that your son?’ he asked conversationally.

  She remained perfectly still.

  ‘Julian,’ said Hammond. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? He’s Julian Hatcher and he’s at Brighton University, I believe?’

  Her heart froze.

  Hammond lifted a ragged opened brown envelope with a cellophane window from the side table and pulled out a folded piece of paper. ‘And this is a rent renewal form for… What’s his address again? Ahhh… there it is.’