‘Guv,’ Okeke prompted. ‘We do need to think about our next move.’

  He shook his head. ‘I need to speak to him, Okeke! I need to talk him down!’

  ‘Well, he’ll want to speak to you too,’ she said calmly. ‘So let him get his shit together first. Let him find a pit-stop and call.’She grabbed his hand. ‘He has Emma for a reason. She’s his bargaining chip. Let’s focus on how we work with that. On what we say when he does call. Okay?’

  She was right. He looked up and nodded at her. ‘Yes. Okay.’

  Okeke let out a deep sigh. ‘Fuck me, I need a cigarette.’ She fumbled inside her jacket for a lighter.

  ‘Out on the fire escape,’ wheezed Karl. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Just one thing?’ cut in Jay. ‘What do we do with those three bodies?’

  ‘Two,’ said Warren.

  They all looked his way.

  ‘Two bodies,’ he said. ‘Downstairs. One with a sword stuck in him, one with arrows.’

  ‘Shit!’ rasped Jay. ‘I thought my guy was, you know… dead.’

  ‘Didn’t you check?’ asked Okeke.

  He looked at her. ‘No. Did you check yours?’

  She clasped her eyes shut for a moment. ‘Baby, I really didn’t need to.’

  ‘It’s okay, though. I’ve got his gun,’ said Jay, eager to make amends. ‘I’ll go and check downstairs is clear.’

  Boyd shook his head. ‘No, we stay together. He’s no doubt fled. Like Hammond.’

  ‘What if he’s gone to call in reinforcements?’ asked Warren. ‘Shouldn’t we get away from here?’

  Warren was right. If Hammond could rustle up three heavies, he could probably rustle up three more. ‘We should be somewhere else. Anywhere else.’ Boyd looked at them. ‘All right, let’s get Karl downstairs. Warren, get the car.’

  56

  What. The. Actual. Fuck?

  Roland banged the steering wheel with his fist several times. Those stupid, half-shaved imbeciles had blundered into an ambush. He’d assumed – naively, it seemed – that if there was one thing they could do right, it was to take care of themselves in a scrap.

  All right. Well, fuck ’em. They’re down. What now?

  He glanced in the rear-view mirror at the girl in the back. Her wide eyes locked on his, waiting to know her fate. ‘Your dad just messed everything up,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I really was going to let you go, Emma. But that can’t happen now, can it?’

  He heard her mumble something from behind the tape.

  ‘I’m going to have to make sure he gets a little piece of you, Emma, so that he realises he can’t mess around with me again.’

  She whimpered.

  ‘It’s really not my fault. You can’t blame me.’ He turned in his seat to look back at her. ‘I’m in a bit of a jam here. I’m not a meanie, but… he’s got to know I’m serious. You understand.’

  And he says he knows how much of a fix I’m in.

  That ape Turner only had half the picture, though – he was pretty certain he was incapable of putting two and two together.

  But has Boyd worked it out? Roland could imagine it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for him to piece together what was going on. A change of management. Out with the old, in with the new.

  He could call his FSB contact. He had a number if not a name. They were on the same page as him; they wanted the same outcome – Rovshan dead. They’d get back what was theirs, and Roland, as promised, would get a share of it.

  He pulled his phone out and dialled the number. It took a while for someone to answer.

  ‘Who is this?’

  He recognised the thick accent. The man sounded half asleep.

  ‘Roland Hammond.’

  ‘Why are you calling at this time?’ He sounded angry. A pause. ‘Is it done?’

  ‘Not yet. There’s been a… well, look, there’s been a bit of a hiccup.’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘He may get to find out what’s been going on,’ Roland blurted.

  ‘How?’ The man sounded awake now.

  ‘I… I was, shit, it wasn’t even my fault,’ Roland bleated.

  ‘If he knows… then it is your problem.’

  ‘If he knows, I’m fucking dead!’ Roland said.

  ‘Your problem,’ the man repeated calmly.

  ‘And you don’t get your fucking money back? So if you don’t help me, it’s your problem too!’

  ‘There are always other ways. Do not call me again.’ The call ended.

  Roland stared at his phone. ‘Shit.’ He redialled the number. This time there was no answer, and after a dozen rings he realised no voicemail either.

  ‘SHIIIIIIT!!!’ he howled, tossing the phone into his lap. He gazed out of the windscreen at darkness. He was parked in a layby off a coastal road. Beyond the thin line of saplings in plastic chutes and the nettles lay nothing but shingle and waves. He had no bloody idea where he was. Sussex. Somewhere. He’d just driven until he’d found somewhere remote enough to stop and get his shit together.

  Think. Roland. Calm the fuck down and think.

  He took several deep breaths. ‘Okay… okay…’

  So, even though this was their ruddy idea in the first place, the Russians were leaving him to it.

  Think. THINK! Options. Options. He let out another long breath. All right… The copper said he was open to a deal. He had definitely said that. Maybe that was the way forward. He needed to find out how much Boyd knew, because clearly he knows something, and make a deal. Maybe he could have his daughter returned in one piece if he agreed to back off and shut up.

  Or he could call Mother and tell her to finish the old man off right now, if she could put her glass of gin down for long enough. He was weak, probably sedated, but certainly asleep. He could tell the silly cow to reach over and put a pillow over his fucking wrinkled face. Two minutes, maybe three, and she’d be done. Crisis over. And in the morning she could call Mr Karovic… and cry her crocodile tears for his benefit. He was so exhausted… so frail… so…

  ‘All right,’ he mumbled. ‘Okay.’

  57

  Boyd’s phone rang just as Warren was about to drive them out of the mews.

  ‘Hold it!’ He looked down at his phone. ‘He’s calling. I’m going to put it on speakerphone.’ He nodded, then lifted a finger to his lips for them all to keep silent and answered: ‘Boyd.’

  ‘That was bloody stupid, Boyd!’ Hammond began. ‘We had a deal! Your daughter could be with you right now if you hadn’t fucked it all up!’

  Keep this calm. Talk him down.

  ‘Do you really want me to send your daughter back in pieces?’ Hammond screeched. ‘Because you’re going the right way about it!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Boyd said. ‘I’ll take more care this time round. Can I speak to her?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Hammond, I need to know she’s okay, otherwise… there’s no way we can arrange anything. Let me hear that she’s all right, then we can have a second go at fixing this.’

  Boyd waited and finally he heard the phone rustling and the sound of tape being pulled off skin.

  ‘Dad?!’ she called.

  Ozzie barked at the sound of her voice. Boyd reached out and grabbed his muzzle.

  ‘Hey ho – you found your dog, then? Good,’ Hammond said.

  ‘Put Emma back on!’ Boyd demanded.

  ‘No. She’s alive. You heard her. That’ll do for now. Let’s talk.’

  Boyd sighed. ‘All right.’

  ‘Trust me, Boyd… I don’t want any more shit tonight. No more tricks.’

  ‘No tricks,’ Boyd agreed.

  Several seconds passed, then…

  ‘Right, cards on the table, Boyd. You said you knew what this is all about. Before we sort anything out, I want to hear it. I want to hear what you fucking well know.’

  Boyd looked at the others, a finger to his lips again to remind them not to make a noise.

  Okeke nodded. Tell him.

  He nodded assent. The more they knew, the greater their leverage. Hammond needed to hear this, even if some of it was based on guesswork.

  ‘The Russian secret service wants your father dead,’ said Boyd. ‘And that’s what Turner and Collins overheard you planning – his murder.’

  Hammond was silent.

  ‘I don’t know whether this is about revenge, money or what. And frankly I don’t give a shit. But I know that if this feeds back to your father, you’re dead. Right?’

  ‘That’s… an interesting theory,’ Hammond replied finally.

  ‘And accurate,’ Boyd said.

  He heard Hammond laugh – an edgy flutter of breath that sounded almost frantic. ‘He’s double-crossed some dangerous people. If you’re thinking you can play games with them… Boyd, you have no idea who you’re messing around with.’

  ‘The FSB,’ Boyd said.

  There was another long pause.

  ‘Right… and so… you fuck with me and you’re fucking with them too. But luckily for you I’m still prepared to make a deal with you.’

  Boyd shook his head. ‘I’m not an idiot, Hammond. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life watching what I eat, or wondering whether my front-door handle is smothered with Novichok.’

  Hammond chuckled. ‘Right, Boyd. Exactly right. Because those sons of bitches don’t ever forget.’

  ‘And I really don’t give a shit what happens to your father,’ Boyd continued. ‘I just want this over. I want Emma. So… Does that put us on the same page? Is there an arrangement we can come to?’

  ‘That’s all well and good, Boyd. But Turner knows about this too.’

  ‘Turner’s dead,’ Boyd replied.

  Jay opened his mouth, and Boyd flung his finger out to shut him up. ‘Your men got to him first. They didn’t manage to saw his ear off or firebomb the building, but they got him.’

  ‘And I suppose you got them?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well… then that’s better,’ said Hammond. ‘So it’s just us… who know about –’

  ‘Yes,’ Boyd replied.

  Hammond laughed. ‘Well, we seem to have each other over a bit of a barrel, don’t we?’

  ‘My side of the deal’s easy,’ said Boyd. ‘Turner’s body will be found. Your minders too. I’ll wrap the case up and not tell your father what I know, and you’ll…’

  ‘I’ll take Emma back to your house.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yes, of course, tonight,’ said Hammond. ‘So what’s your next step?’

  ‘I’ll come back to Hastings. Check she’s there and that she’s okay. Tomorrow I’ll follow up on my investigation in Brighton and I’ll happen to find Turner’s body. And the others.’

  ‘And I’m supposed to trust that you won’t grass me up to my father?’

  Boyd let out a sigh, with what he hoped sounded like genuine disinterest. ‘Like I said… one less Russian mobster in London? I really couldn’t give a toss.’

  He heard Hammond sigh, with what sounded like relief. ‘All right, then.’

  ‘All right,’ Boyd mirrored. ‘Then we’re done.’

  The call ended abruptly.

  ‘Well?’ he asked the others.

  ‘He’s bullshitting,’ said Jay. ‘He’s going to hang on to her until he’s confirmed what you told him. She’s his only chip.’

  Boyd nodded; he suspected the same.

  ‘He’s playing for time,’ said Warren. ‘He’ll be back with more men. What are you going to do, sir? Should we tell Sutherland and Hatcher now? They’ll know what to do.’

  ‘No.’ Boyd looked down at his phone. He had what he wanted. ‘Change of plan.’

  58

  By the creeping grey light of dawn, Roland parked the battered SUV outside Rovshan’s grand town house. Battered was too dramatic a term for the vehicle – it had a dented rear bumper and the red plastic around one of the brake lights was broken. The other car had probably fared worse.

  He turned round in his seat and looked at Emma, bound, gagged and lying prone across the back seat. ‘I’m going to walk you inside, and you’re going to keep perfectly quiet, do you understand?’

  She nodded.

  He opened the driver-side door and stepped out into a peculiarly still and peaceful morning. Eaton Square’s trees were alive with the chirping of birds, and coming from another street nearby he heard a beep as someone unlocked their car.

  It was 5 a.m. Unlike New York, it seemed that London did manage to find an hour or two on the clock to grab forty winks. The workmen who were currently in the process of stripping out the basement and ground floors of the house presumably wouldn’t turn up until at least eight or nine. So, apart from the security chap who kept an eye on the building overnight, he would have the place to himself for a few hours.

  Good. Time to compose himself. Time to grab a coffee and change his clothes. And to think how best to explain to his father about the mess that was last night. You hire cretins, Father. Village idiots! We really should think about employing better security personnel.

  Then he’d take the short walk across to the hotel to see the old man.

  Can I take a couple more men back down to Hastings to fix the mess that the cretins left? It’ll be straightforward with decent men. No mess. No fuss. We’ll deal with that copper first. A small house fire and it’ll all be sorted.

  Rovshan had been a pushover last time. He’d been so tired and lethargic from the blue-T Mummy had been slipping him that he’d seemed almost keen for Roland to just get on with the job. It wouldn’t be long now.

  Roland opened the rear door, quickly looked around to make sure there were no early delivery men in the square, and hauled Emma out of the vehicle and onto her bare feet.

  ‘Not a fucking sound!’ he hissed in her ear.

  He gently closed the door and led her up the stairs to the front portico. The main door had a keypad and Mummy had convinced the old man that, security issues withstanding, it made sense for her son at least to have the code if he was going to use it as a London base for the time being.

  Roland tapped the six-digit number into the keypad and the front door gently snicked. He pushed it open and dragged Emma inside.

  The hallway was a mess: paint-flecked sheets covered the marble tiles; the walls that had once been rich dark mahogany were now stripped back to bare bricks. Stepladders remained where they’d been erected, and large plastic tubs of paint and lining plaster littered the floor.

  It’s a fucking travesty. If Rovshan didn’t die in the next fortnight, the entirety of this beautiful Regency-period home was going to end up being blinged to death.

  Roland led Emma across the floor, past the grand stairs, towards the door at the back that led to the utility rooms, the laundry room and the old staff kitchen.

  ‘I could do with a coffee,’ he said as pushed the door open and led her in. ‘You can make yourself useful.’ He pulled a knife out of a drawer and cut the tape around her wrists. Then peeled the tape from her mouth. ‘Kettle’s there; cups are there,’ he said, pointing them out.

  ‘I… I’m not making you a bloody coffee!’ were the first words out of her dry mouth.

  He waggled the knife in front of her face. ‘You’ll do as you’re told, you silly bitch.’

  ‘Why am I here?’ she replied, refusing to move. ‘What’re you going to do with me?’

  ‘You’re going to be my guest for a little while.’

  Roland heard muted footsteps behind him, turned and was met with the sight of Miko Karovic crossing the sheet-covered hallway floor.

  ‘Roland,’ he called out softly. ‘There you are.’

  ‘What the…? What’re you doing here?’ Roland glanced at his Rolex. ‘At this time?’

  A second man emerged from behind Miko. Roland recognised him – he was Father’s personal chauffeur from back home in Georgia. Another pock-marked and scarred face, another village idiot who presumably went way back with his father.

  ‘Davit,’ said Karovic, ‘stay with the girl.’

  ‘Miko? What’s going on?’ Roland asked.

  The old lawyer glared at him for the briefest moment, before turning on a courtroom smile. ‘Let’s go up to the music room to speak with your father,’ he said.

  ‘He’s here?! Now? What’s he doing up at this time?’

  That cool, cadaverous smile again. ‘He has some early business to attend to before the workmen arrive.’

  Roland stood aside as Davit stepped into the kitchen and approached Emma.

  ‘Come along,’ said Karovic. ‘Better not to keep your father waiting.’

  Karovic pulled the doors open and gestured at Roland to step into the room. In the bay window facing the French doors was his mother, sitting in the exact same seat as she’d been the last time he’d visited. Only she wasn’t holding a gin and tonic, nor was she her normal groomed and made-up self.

  Beside her in a wing-backed leather chair, turned away from the doors and facing the tall bay window, was Rovshan. Roland recognised his old hands resting on the arms, lumpy with prominent varicose veins and protruding knuckle bones.

  Roland took a couple of slow steps, conscious of Karovic pulling the doors shut as he retreated.

  ‘Aren’t you coming in too?’ Roland asked.

  Karovic shook his head. ‘Not this time.’

  As the doors closed, Roland thought he caught sight of a genuine smile sliding across the bastard’s snaky face.

  Something’s happened. He felt his insides turn to liquid. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘Why are you up so early, Father?’

  ‘I’m up late,’ Rovshan replied softly. He leant slowly forward the creak of the seat reverberating loudly in the empty room. His pale, lined face appeared round the edge of the chair’s winged back. ‘How did your business in Hastings go, son?’

  Roland felt a small sliver of relief.

  He’s going to read me the riot act for the balls-up. Fine. He could handle that. He had it straight in his head now. It had been Gregor’s fault. It had been Gregor’s idea to go blundering in without checking the place out first.