‘The bat suits you,’ said Boyd, pulling on his coat over the vest.

  Jay grinned. ‘Hey, thanks, boss.’

  Emma joined them. She had Boyd’s phone in her hand. ‘You forgot this, Dad.’

  His mind was full of the different ways the next hour could go. Despite laying it on thick that this was no biggie – just some intelligence-gathering theatre – he was having to hide his jangling nerves from his daughter. Yet another reason why he wished Emma hadn’t come along tonight.

  ‘Okeke, I need to talk shop with you for a moment.’ He looked at Emma and Jay. ‘Alone.’

  Jay nodded. ‘Righto, I’ll uh… I’ll go and stand over here.’

  ‘You too, Emma,’ said Boyd. ‘Go and keep Jay company.’

  They walked a little further along the layby.

  Okeke waited until they were several metres away and turned to Boyd. ‘How are you feeling, guv? Nervous?’ she asked.

  ‘A bit. A lot happier you brought your boyfriend along, to be fair.’

  ‘He does look the part,’ she said. ‘But he’s as soft as a puppy really. Be gentle with him.’

  ‘What’s the word at work? Has anyone mentioned anything I need to know about?’

  ‘It looks definite that Flack’s going to keep the case when you get back on Monday. He’s been going over the action log with Minter so he can brief the press next week,’ she said.

  ‘And what about Her Madge? Sutherland?’ he asked.

  ‘I haven’t seen Her Madge come down from her penthouse in the last few days. I suppose she’s content with the way things are going now. Sutherland’s stuck his head in a few times, but that’s about it.’

  ‘So, no one’s missing me?’ said Boyd, actually managing to sound a little hurt.

  ‘You’re still just the new boy,’ she said, then smiled. ‘Sully asked after you. I think he likes you.’

  ‘Good. Well, at least someone has good taste.’ He checked his watch. It was twenty to seven. The pin on Google Maps indicated that the meeting point was about five minutes’ drive away.

  ‘Right,’ said Boyd. ‘So Jay’s with me in my car. Emma’s in the van with you. You clear on where you’re parking?’

  ‘Yes. Relax, guv,’ she said. ‘You look nervous.’

  ‘A little, yeah. I’d be an idiot not to be,’ he admitted.

  Okeke nodded and glanced over at Emma and Jay. They were chatting and laughing about something. ‘Boyd, who do you really think’s waiting for you?’

  He huffed a breath and blew it out slowly. ‘Hopefully just someone wanting to rat on Rigby. But…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘It could be a warning.’

  ‘A Russian one?’

  He shrugged. ‘My worst-case scenario? A couple of utterly charming ex-KGB knuckle-draggers with a few words of wisdom about me sodding off and leaving well alone.’

  ‘And what are you going to say?’

  Boyd pulled a contrite face. ‘Yes. Absolutely, sir. No problem. Have a good evening and Salisbury Cathedral is that way.’

  She laughed.

  ‘No, I’m serious. If that’s what this is… the force doesn’t pay me enough to be Eliot Ness.’

  She frowned. ‘Eliot Ness?’

  ‘You really don’t do movies, do you?’

  ‘Not the old ones, guv, no.’

  ‘Or history,’ he muttered. He sucked in another deep breath and tried to steady his nerves.

  ‘If it is that,’ said Okeke. ‘If it is Russians… or Russians, or whoever, where does that leave us?’

  ‘It leaves us minding our business, Okeke.’ He paused for a moment, then added, ‘We’re not going to change the world, are we? We’re just coppers, here to deal with the small stuff.’ He glanced again at his daughter. ‘And I don’t intend to end up as fish bait like Nix.’

  Okeke bit her bottom lip. ‘It’s a shitty feeling, Boyd. It’s really shitty.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The thought – the suspicion – that Her Madge is somehow involved.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s involved directly,’ he said. ‘Not for a moment. I’d say she’s back-peddling this case under instructions from someone further up.’

  ‘From who?’

  He shrugged. ‘There’s not much more in the way of uniformed ranks above her. Someone in the Home Office, perhaps?’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Could be,’ he quipped.

  She laughed.

  He watched Jay stub out his cigarette, wishing, even though he hadn’t sparked up in nearly five years, that he could have one right now.

  ‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘I guess we’d better saddle up.’

  Boyd drove along the single-lane, tarmac track that was the Ridge. To their right, the ground dropped away into darkness and a salt marsh below. To their left was a row of very expensive-looking homes that, during the day, had an unobstructed view of the marsh, the beach and the sea beyond.

  ‘So you do this kind of undercover operation much then?’ asked Jay.

  ‘Not really. CID work is mostly office work. Maybe a quick outing to a crime scene every now and then, but it’s actually mostly paper shuffling. Crime-based Sudoku.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jay sounded disappointed. ‘It’s just… you see shows like Line of Duty and stuff, and it’s all action, action, action. Silent Witness is another one.’

  ‘They’re forensic pathologists.’

  ‘Yeah, well, sort of crime doctors, right?

  Boyd smiled. Crime doctors – that was a good name for them.

  ‘Well, even they get to chase down and tackle bad guys,’ said Jay.

  Boyd grunted. ‘Forensics folks see even less daylight than we do.’

  ‘So, what you’re saying is the TV stuff is mostly bollocks, then?’

  ‘If only detective work was so exciting and glamorous,’ said Boyd. ‘I suspect a night-club bouncer sees more action.’

  Jay laughed and rocked in his chair, his knees banging on the bottom of the glove compartment. ‘It’s just tough-guy acting, really. If you get a difficult idiot, you just gotta give ’em some Bouncer Face.’

  Boyd nodded. ‘It’s all about fronting it out?’

  ‘Yeah, exactly. It’s all front.’

  They passed the last house, leaving open muddy, marshy ground to their left. Boyd checked the satnav and saw they were pretty much there. Just a hundred yards to go, then a left-hand turn.

  ‘Best shuffle down now,’ said Boyd.

  Jay fidgeted in his seat. ‘There’s no room. How do I push the seat back?’

  Boyd reached under Jay’s seat and jerked the bar. Jay’s chair slid back. ‘Ah, right.’

  ‘Get as low as you can,’ said Boyd.

  His headlights picked out a tatty-looking sign.

  Sea Breeze Campsite

  A newer sign had been erected right beside it.

  CLOSED – For property details contact H. Macy & Sons.

  ‘Here we go, then.’

  He turned left onto the dirt track and immediately his Captur began complaining about the ruts. The rocking, bobbing headlight beams picked out the smooth surface of the lake through the trees to his right, and a fleeting dappled reflection glinted back.

  If they had to drive away from this meeting, fast, there might not be time to turn the car round. He’d realised he’d be frantically reversing up this muddy rutted lane.

  My Captur’s going to hate me.

  Suddenly out of the darkness the entrance to the campsite emerged. He slowed down and stopped just before it.

  Jay, hunched down in his seat and unable to see a thing, whispered, ‘What is it? We there?’

  ‘There’s a metal gate. Just got to open it.’

  Boyd climbed out, aware that he and his car were probably already being watched. He pushed the gate all the way inwards so that it didn’t swing back and close. Then he climbed back into the car.

  He pulled out his phone out and dialled Okeke. ‘I’m at the camp’s entrance now.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m going to leave this call open so you can listen in to what’s going on.’

  ‘Good idea, guv.’

  He pocketed his phone, then drove slowly forward, with the lake to his right and a muddy field to his left. His headlights picked out a second gate. This one was already open. Further ahead, grubby trailer windows dimly reflected his beams.

  ‘All right,’ he said, parking beside the open gate. ‘This is it. I’m parking you here.’

  ‘Good luck, mate,’ whispered Jay.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Boyd turned the engine off, followed by the headlights. He picked up a torch from the side pocket of his door and flicked it on, then stepped out into the cold night.

  He panned his torch left to right, picking out a hut just past the gate, which presumably was once a reception for visitors, and another small hut beside it that looked as though it could have been a general shop. In front of that there were a few weather-beaten picnic tables with wooden benches, and beyond those were the waiting trailers.

  He made his way forward, through the open gate and past the abandoned buildings.

  Should I announce myself or stay quiet? he wondered briefly, before deciding to go for it.

  ‘DCI BOYD!’ he called out. ‘YOU WANTED TO TALK TO ME?’

  His voice bounced faintly back off the side of a nearby trailer. It was quiet except for the clatter of restless loose rubbish stirred by the gentle sea breeze.

  ‘SO? COME ON, THEN! I’M HERE!’

  There was no reply. He checked his watch. It was four minutes to seven. Early, but, for Christ’s sake, only just early. Seriously? You’re actually going to make me wait until bang on seven?

  ‘Okay, then,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I guess I’ll wait.’

  He carried on walking slowly until he was standing in the middle of the open area – on the three metre by three metre patch of weed-tufted ground identified by those three random words: detective.goodnight.chosen.

  He blew a cloud of breath out into the beam of his torch. It’s fucking freezing out here. Hurry up.

  Boyd switched his torch off. He’d made himself known. He wasn’t going to be a surprise to anybody lingering in one of those trailers.

  It was pitch-black. Not even a sliver of moonlight to add to the haunting creepiness of this forlorn-looking meeting spot.

  He waited patiently, knowing full well that Okeke and Emma were undoubtedly listening in, hearing his laboured breath and the occasional muttered For fuck’s sake.

  Then, a few moments later, he spotted the faintest flicker of amber light. It disappeared. He kept his eyes on the same point, trying not to lose his place. Just as suddenly the faint flickering illumination returned in the form of the soft and steady glow of a candle, sitting on the windowsill inside one of the trailers.

  Here we go. Showtime.

  He heard a door swing open and clatter against something. By the faint light of the candle, he could make out the silhouette of a slight figure slowly, cautiously, approaching him.

  It looked familiar. The hoodie. The same short, narrow frame. Boyd had thought it was a he, but now he wasn’t so certain. Surely it wasn’t actually Jo…?

  ‘It’s the same guy that left the note,’ Boyd muttered in the direction of his phone, then, more loudly: ‘I’m going to turn my torch on! All right?’

  A voice came out of the darkness. ‘No… please don’t.’

  No accent. Not Russian, then. Thank fuck.

  And definitely male.

  Closer now, the figure came to a halt.

  ‘I need help,’ he said. The voice sounded weak, fragile, trembling. ‘My name is Gerald Nix.’

  42

  ‘Shit!’ Okeke gasped.

  Emma looked at her. She was about to say something, but Okeke quickly raised a finger to her lips.

  Whispering softly, Okeke gestured at the phone on the dashboard. ‘He’s meant to be dead!’ Emma seemed confused, so Okeke continued, ‘His blood was found on the boat. I mean lots of it. Shit-shit-shit!’

  Emma looked at her.

  ‘Well, I can’t see how we can keep this off the books now. Shit.’ Then Okeke raised her finger and pointed to the phone again.

  ‘It’s cold out here.’ Boyd’s voice.

  ‘I… I’ve been living over in that… trailer –’ Nix’s voice – ‘for months…’

  ‘You want to go talk in there?’ Boyd again.

  No answer. Perhaps Nix had nodded.

  ‘All right,’ said Boyd. ‘Come on…’

  Nix stepped into the trailer first, then turned and waited for Boyd to join him. ‘It’s all right… I’m not going to attack you,’ he said quickly. ‘I… I just need your help.’

  Boyd nodded. ‘Okay. But kill me and I may decide not to,’ he quipped, in an attempt to ease the tension.

  Nix ignored this and gestured for Boyd to enter. ‘Please… just come in. Come in.’

  Inside, Boyd noted the layout of the trailer was pretty standard– a lounge-cum-galley to his left, a flimsy door ahead into what he guessed was a tiny wet room and toilet, and another door to the right into the bedroom. What he wasn’t expecting though was the smell. The stench reminded him of a last-day festival toilet – not that he’d been to one in over twenty years, but the memory of that particular odour lingered long after the names of the bands he’d gone to see.

  Nix could see the face he was pulling by the faint light of the flickering candle. ‘The flush doesn’t work. There’s no running water or power to these things. So… you have to make do.’ He shrugged miserably.

  Boyd could see empty tin cans piled up in the galley sink and the side was stacked with take-away wrappers and fast-food cartons, plastic bottles of drinking water and pop.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been camping out here since November.’

  ‘Not in this trailer. But in the camp, yes.’ Nix nodded. ‘I changed trailer several times. The smell eventually gets overwhelming.’

  Eventually? It was pretty overwhelming already.

  ‘Please… sit.’ Nix pointed at the bench sofa to the left. A sleeping bag was strewn across it, socks and pants spilling out and cascading onto the floor.

  Boyd shoved the mess aside and sat down. He looked once more around the cramped and squalid interior. ‘So, my first question is: Gerald Nix… what the hell are you doing alive?’

  Nix let out a single snort, halfway between a laugh and a sob. ‘Hiding.’

  ‘Hiding from who?’ Boyd asked.

  Nix was silent.

  ‘Okay. So why don’t we start with this. How are you alive? Your blood was all over your yacht.’

  Nix slumped down on the sofa and looked up at Boyd. ‘Some of it was.’

  He carefully rolled the left sleeve of his hoodie up to the elbow to reveal yellowing bandages wrapped round his forearm. Either side of the bandages was discoloured, darkened skin. Even by the light of one solitary, guttering candle, Boyd could see it was a wound that had gone septic beneath the dressing.

  ‘I got cut, quite badly…’ Nix took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, shakily. ‘Most of the blood on the boat was theirs’.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Zophia,’ he replied.

  ‘Your AskForSasha girlfriend?’

  Nix looked surprised.

  ‘It’s what we do at the CID, Nix. We detect stuff. Who was the other one?’

  ‘She said the man was her uncle.’

  ‘Russian too?’

  A look of relief washed over Nix’s face. ‘Yes. So you know about Zophia?’

  Boyd nodded, then asked, ‘She is dead then?’

  Nix hesitated.

  ‘Come on, Nix – just tell me what happened.’ Boyd could see the man was balanced on a knife edge – all darting eyes and facial tics. He decided to try more softly-softly. ‘Gerald, tell me why I’m here. You invited me after all.’

  ‘I’m f-fucking frightened.’ Nix’s voice was fluttering on the edge of tears.

  ‘You want protection?’ Boyd asked.

  Nix nodded.

  ‘From who?’

  Unheard words formed on Nix’s lips. He couldn’t say it. He was too scared.

  ‘The Salikovs?’ Boyd prompted.

  Nix nodded, then began to cry – a long hissing, wet sound as his lips curled and his unshaven cheeks quivered. He looked a lot less like Bill Gates now than he had in that photo, proudly holding his certificate. He was, Boyd thought, more like Shaggy from Scooby Doo.

  ‘They’re going to find me,’ he mewled, snot and tears mingling on his chin. ‘They won’t give up. Ever. They’ve sent people over here to find me.’

  ‘You know that for a fact? Boyd asked, unconsciously touching his left ear.

  ‘Of course they have! His daughter’s dead. And it’s all my fault!’

  More tears. Boyd needed to speed this up. He needed to get them both out of here and take Nix to the station to be interviewed properly.

  ‘Rovshan Salikov?’

  Nix nodded again. ‘Yeah, her father. The big man. I-I met him once. Just once.’

  ‘When you went over to Russia?’

  ‘Yeah. He – ’ Nix’s voice rose hysterically – ‘He’s Saddam Hussain-crazy. Batshit crazy. She told me… after she came back to England. After she moved in, she told me what he… what he does…’

  Boyd nodded. ‘I’ve read some of the Russian articles on him.’

  ‘H-he wanted to move h-here. He wanted my h-help.’

  ‘Right. So that’s what they had you doing? Laundering their money?’

  ‘Yeah. Just a little bit at first. Then… then… more and –’

  ‘Gerald, I think we should get you into police custody. You’ll be safer there, mate.’

  ‘I won’t!’ he snapped. ‘Not if he knows where I am!’

  Boyd leant forward and tried to look friendly and reassuring. ‘The nick of a police division HQ, Gerald, is just about the safest place you can be –’

  ‘You don’t understand! I brought their fucking money in!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Boyd asked, momentarily confused.