‘What? Nix?’

  ‘Or someone else who knows the account password.’

  It took Boyd a moment to realise who she was talking about. ‘Jo Bambridge?’

  She sipped her drink. ‘If Nix was out at sea, with his mafia-daughter girlfriend and a plus-one, and presumably busy being murdered… then who else could it be? She’s got a motive.’

  ‘Yeah, but I still don’t see her arranging a hit.’

  Okeke pressed on. ‘The third person on the boat could have been some local scrote-for-hire? What about Rigby? Does she know him? They both hated Nix more than enough to join forces.’

  Boyd shook his head. ‘I don’t know. A Jo Bambridge commissioned “hit”? No, I don’t buy that. Given the facts, the simpler, fucking scarier answer is that Nix got suckered into helping a mafia family launder their money. The obvious explanation, to me, is that he was either no longer useful to them, or, possibly, he was after a larger commission.’

  ‘Or he wanted to get out?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘I reckon that’s what did it for him. Zophia calls in one of Daddy’s heavies to help and they take him out to sea to kill him.’

  ‘What about the man at the house?’ prompted Okeke.

  ‘The same bloke, or another one. Maybe he came back to do some cleaning up?’

  ‘Three months later?’

  ‘No. I’m talking much earlier. Two days later. He comes back to clean up any evidence of Zophia having visited. Deletes that CCTV footage. Presumably any earlier footage that might have shown her coming in and leaving with Nix.’ He looked at Okeke. ‘Presumably this CCTV log must have a load more earlier entries with missing video?’

  She shook her head. ‘The server refreshes every three months. We’re actually right at the end of that window with Nix’s account. I believe they were almost due to do a wipe and refresh. The log would have been ditched for good.’

  ‘I’m presuming you’ve got that halted?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good, well, that’s something.’ He finished his drink and realised he could do with another. ‘Same again?’

  ‘I’m driving. So no thanks. Anyway, who do you think jumped you?’

  He shrugged. ‘Could well be the same man – the mysterious third person – who also deleted the CCTV footage. Maybe they asked him to come back when the boat was found. To double-check there was nothing incriminating left behind?’

  ‘They left Nix’s computer,’ she pointed out. ‘But then we did interrupt him. Jesus,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not ready for this.’ She looked at Boyd. ‘If the Chief Su–’

  He raised a finger to stop her. ‘Let’s think it, by all means, but let’s not say her name.’

  ‘Like Voldemort?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘The point is, there may come a day in the future where you’ll have to swear under oath and relay some of the contents of this conversation. So, let’s be careful, all right?’

  He could see her hand trembling ever so slightly.

  ‘Relax, Sam… it’s just theory at this stage. Okay? Just a theory. One with many unanswered questions. And one we’re probably best off keeping to ourselves for now. Right?’

  Okeke nodded and finished her drink. ‘I think so. Though if this looks like it’s going somewhere we’ll have to let someone know. Sutherland?’

  ‘Agreed,’ he said.

  They looked at each other.

  ‘I should probably get home,’ she said, standing up. ‘I can give you a lift back up the hill if you –’

  Boyd shook his head. ‘No, I think I’m going to walk back. Blow off some cobwebs. Get some air.’

  ‘Okay.’ She turned to go, then hesitated. ‘Can’t we at least share some of this with Minter? It’d be good to have him on our side.’

  Boyd made a face and shook his head again. ‘Not yet.’ It wasn’t that he distrusted the man, not at all. Detective Sergeant Minter seemed like a steady, trustworthy officer. ‘We’ve already put our own careers on the line,’ he continued, ‘and I’m not ready to put anyone else in that position. Not unless we absolutely have to. So, let’s keep it between us for now, okay?’

  Okeke looked as though she was going to argue, but finally nodded. ‘All right.’

  ‘Go on, then – bugger off,’ he said, waving her away. ‘I’m off to the gents.’

  By the time he came back out, she was gone. He ordered another drink to settle his spiked adrenalin. He was glad he hadn’t gone into the more grisly details of the Salikov family with Okeke. There were things he’d read that he wished he could unread. He picked up his drink and downed it in one.

  It was nine when Emma finally cracked and phoned to see if he was okay.

  ‘Yup. I’m coming back now,’ replied Boyd, slurring a little more than he would have liked.

  ‘You want me to come get you?’ she asked, sounding worried.

  ‘Nah, I’ll walk off the booze. It’ll do me good.’

  He hung up. It was getting busier in the pub and, anyway, he’d done enough wistful staring at the fireplace for one night.

  He pulled his coat on and stepped out into the cold night.

  The crisp air was a sharp contrast to the fuggy warmth of Ye Olde Pump House and sobered him up a little almost immediately. He turned left at the end of George Street onto the old town’s narrow High Street and Old London Road, which wound inland (and up that bloody hill) towards Ashburnham Road.

  He was getting to know the place-marker buildings in the old town now. The Blue Dolphin Fish Bar, the Jenny Lind Inn, the various antique and knick-knack shops, the up-and-down pavement on the left, and that little gingerbread house at the end of the High Street.

  He was nearing the junction for Torfield Close when he noticed, belatedly, that a figure in a grey hoodie appeared to be watching him. The figure was standing on the front green of All Saints Church, on the other side of the main roads, and was definitely staring in Boyd’s direction. Something was tugging at his memory, but in his semi-drunken state he couldn’t place it.

  Boyd changed course, walked past a rockery and a sculpture of a lifeboat towards the church’s front green. ‘Hey?’ he called out.

  The figure in the grey hoodie slowly, and very obviously, patted the gravestone it was standing beside, then turned away and disappeared into the church’s wild-looking graveyard.

  Boyd stopped in his tracks, beneath a street lamp. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing in the world to do – to follow some dodgy-looking hoodie into an overgrown graveyard. He hadn’t, he recalled, had the best of luck with dodgy strangers recently. And he wasn’t exactly match-fit after several double G&Ts.

  He stood there for a moment to see if the figure would emerge again. If it did, he decided, and if it tried anything, he was going to call it in. He’d have a patrol car swing by and check there were no scrotes, local or otherwise, up to no good back there in the trees and bushes.

  The figure didn’t emerge and Boyd was on the point of convincing himself it might not have been there in the first place. Not that being somewhat pissed made a person hallucinate, but it did make you interpret things differently.

  He shook his head and was about to carry on his way up the hill, when he spotted something on top of the gravestone the figure had touched. Something pale. He hadn’t been patting it – Boyd was going with ‘he’ for now – he’d been placing something on it. Something he obviously wanted Boyd to see.

  Boyd’s internal debate between caution and curiosity was short-lived.

  He walked up to the front gate, up the steps and onto the grass, keeping a wary eye on the overgrown rear of the church, just in case Mr Hoodie decided to make a reappearance.

  As he approached the grave, the pale object became clearer.

  It was piece of paper, held down by a large stone.

  He picked it up carefully, by one corner – imagining Sully staring over his shoulders. Mind the fingerprints, you clumsy muppet.

  Gently he unfolded the paper and stared at what had been written on it in an untidy, impatient scrawl.

  39

  Boyd woke up to Ozzie licking his face. Which would have been a charming demonstration of canine adoration were it not for the fact that his breath had the most horrendous, fishy odour.

  ‘Get off!’ he grumbled, pushing him away.

  He opened his eyes and saw it was gone eight thirty. Emma was usually up before eight, and her regular routine began with feeding Ozzie his breakfast and letting him out for a morning poo. Arse about tit really, Boyd thought. You’d think he’d be desperate to go out and do his business after a long night, but that’s the way the routine seemed to have been decided by Ozzie. Food first. Always.

  ‘Emma?’ he called out.

  There was no answer. It was silent.

  Normally by now the radio would have been on in the kitchen. Emma normally tuned into LBC so she’d have something to grumble and tut at.

  Feeling the first niggle of concern, he sat up, swung both legs over the side of the bed and slid his feet into his slippers. ‘Emma?’ he called again.

  He crossed the large and largely empty bedroom and pulled the door open. Across the landing he could see Emma’s bedroom door was wide open and she wasn’t there.

  That odd encounter last night in the graveyard and the message left on headstone, presumably for him, had given him an uneasy hungover sleep and he’d woken up feeling not entirely sure if it had all been real.

  Ozzie padded past him.

  ‘Ozzie… stop!’ he snapped.

  The dog blithely ignored him, scrambled clumsily down the bare stairs and clicked-clacked down the hallway into the dining room.

  Boyd followed him halfway down the stairs. ‘Emma?’

  There was still no reply from her. He tried to brush away the sense of unease creeping over him. He remembered now: the cryptic note had been real, that figure in the hoodie too… and Zophia Salikova.

  Someone had been watching him last night.

  Waiting for him. Making sure he got that note. And why? He was pretty sure it wasn’t from the Russians. From what he’d been reading yesterday, the Russian mafia, particularly the Salikov family weren’t big on serving coded notes as warnings. Their advisories, at least according to the Russian press, usually came in the form of a severed appendage or a missing person.

  ‘Emma?’ he called out softly. He heard the first tremor of panic reach his voice and it scared him.

  Relax. The Russian mafia isn’t interested in a lowly cop’s daughter, you muppet.

  He heard movement coming from the kitchen.

  Slight rustling movements. Like the ones he’d heard back in Nix’s house.

  He ran the rest of the way down the stairs as his daughter appeared in the dining-room doorway, headphones hissing in her ears, a bowl of muesli in one hand and the cryptic note from last night in the other.

  She caught sight of him and jumped a little. She pulled her headphones off. ‘Oh, you’re up finally.’

  He allowed himself a barely concealed sigh of relief. ‘Yeah. Ozzie woke me.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Sore head?’

  Now that the growing sense of dread had suddenly evaporated, the full joy of a morning- after headache was crashing in. ‘Uh-huh,’ he muttered sheepishly.

  Emma waved the note at him. ‘I’ve been trying to make sense of this note you were given down at the pub.’

  His memory of last night was gradually reassembling into a coherent order. Yes, he’d come back last night and had told her about the note. And, no, he hadn’t mentioned the creepier elements of the story – the watchful hoodie or the fact that he’d been a little drunk and stupid enough to be lured into a graveyard by some suspicious-looking stranger who could easily have been after grabbing his wallet – or worse.

  He vaguely recalled he’d made it sound as though some bloke with a pint in one hand had waggled it at him on his way out of the door. More vaguely he remembered coming back and attacking the second half of an opened bottle of Malbec, which had been begging to be finished. And, yes… he had shown the scribbled note to Emma and asked whether it made any sense to her.

  ‘It reads like your nickname is Detective Goodnight, and the note says you’re ‘chosen alone’. Or… it could be signed by someone called Chosen Alone?’ She looked up at him and pulled a face. ‘Errr… this is not at all weird and stalker-ish, Dad.’

  He followed her as she went into the lounge, placed her cereal bowl on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa.

  ‘And that number at the bottom can’t be a phone number. There aren’t enough digits.’ She looked up at him. ‘Is this something we need to worry about, Dad?’

  He slumped down heavily beside her. The short and sensible answer was: maybe. Rule Number One in the Detective’s Handbook was to build, and keep, a firewall between your job and your personal life. Which was why, social media was devoid of images of police officers hanging out at the pub after work.

  He became aware that she was still looking at him, waiting for an answer. The longer he waited before saying no, the more her bullshit-meter was going to start pinging. And if this wasn’t some random snarky hoodie ‘just ’avin’ a larf’, then it could be a warning.

  He sighed, realising he’d reached a decision.

  ‘Emma, I’m going to do something that would be a sackable offence if it reached work. I’m going to tell you what I know about the case I’m working on. Can I trust you to keep this completely to yourself?’

  She nodded calmly, though he could sense a hint of eagerness in her face. ‘Sure. If it means you keeping your job.’

  ‘I mean it, Emma. This is serious,’ he cautioned her.

  ‘Who am I going to tell, Dad?’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know anyone.’

  She made a good point. So he told her. Most of it. The important bits, certainly not the incredibly scary shit he’d read. Emma really didn’t need to know what the Russian criminal world did to people it didn’t like. He gave her the early evening news ‘Not-very-nice Russian crime family moves dodgy money to the UK’ version.

  Emma, all the same, had paled. ‘Oh, shit, Dad. This is heavy stuff.’

  ‘Well, quite,’ he replied. ‘There is some degree of heavy shit involved.’

  ‘You need to tell your bosses!’

  ‘Ah, about that…’ He got up. His head was pounding. Why hadn’t he gone home when Okeke left? ‘I really need a strong coffee, Ems – gimme a minute.’

  He returned to the lounge with a coffee for them both and tried to explain why he’d effectively gone against all orders and ended up somewhat off-piste with the inquiry. ‘Which, by the way, is also a very sackable offence.’ What a bloody mess.

  ‘Shit, Dad. Have you at least talked to Sam about this?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘She knows I’ve been doing my own sniffing around.’

  ‘But does she know about the mafia?”

  ‘Yes. That’s what we were discussing last night.’

  ‘Jesus, Dad.’ Emma put her head in her hands.

  ‘The note, on the other hand, she doesn’t know about. Yet.’

  ‘This is not good,’ she said, looking up. ‘This is not good. Dad? Are we in danger?’

  ‘Emma, no, I’m sure we’re fine. The note’s either a joke –’

  She interrupted, ‘Or it’s not!’

  ‘Or,’ he continued, ‘more likely it’s an informer who wants to talk confidentially.’ He looked at her. ‘Love, this stuff happens all the time in CID. It’s routine, honestly. I just think it wouldn’t hurt us all to take a bit more care when we’re out and about. Just until we know what we’re dealing with.’

  She didn’t look convinced.

  He looked at his watch. It was gone nine. Okeke would be in the office now. If Boyd called her and asked her to meet him, she’d have to log in with Minter and give a reason for the trip. Boyd pulled out his phone and dialled Minter’s desk number.

  He heard a click, followed by Minter’s unmistakeable Welsh lilt. ‘DS Minter.’

  ‘It’s Boyd.’

  ‘Ah… hey, how’re you doing, boss? Feeling better, I hope.’

  ‘Not bad. Not bad. How’s the investigation going?’ he asked.

  ‘Flack’s been drafted in and he’s getting up to speed on the action log. Truth be told, he’s getting on my tits already, sir. When’re you coming back?’

  ‘Monday, but I suspect he’ll get to keep the case when I return. Look, is DC Okeke there?’

  ‘Yup. You want to speak?’

  ‘Yeah please.’

  He heard Minter call her over and a moment later Okeke’s voice: ‘Guv?’

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said quietly. ‘Can you find a reason to come over to mine?’

  She pulled up outside his house half an hour later.

  ‘What did you tell him?’ Boyd asked as he let her in.

  ‘I said I dropped around last night to check on you and left my warrant card.’

  ‘He didn’t bollock you?’

  She shrugged. ‘He’s misplaced his before. So, what’s happened?’

  Boyd handed her the note. ‘Walking back home last night, there was a man watching me. He left this note for me to find.’

  Emma frowned. ‘I thought you said it was in the pub?’

  Okeke looked from Boyd to Emma, then glanced at the note. ‘What is this? Some sort of warning?’

  ‘Maybe. I was thinking it sounds more like an informant.’

  She looked at it again. ‘Detective. Goodnight. Chosen. Alone. Or is that Chose? As in a misspelling of choose?’

  He peered at it. ‘Or the word Close?’

  Okeke nodded. ‘Yes, it could be that.’

  ‘Close? Close to what?’ asked Emma. ‘And who’s “alone”. You?’

  ‘I’m more worried by “Detective Goodnight”,’ said Boyd only half-jokingly.

  ‘And what’s that number?’ Okeke counted the digits. ‘It’s not enough figures to make a phone number.’

  Emma shrugged. ‘Unless whoever wrote it made a mistake. Left one out, maybe?’

  ‘Wait.’ Boyd frowned as he studied the numbers again.