‘I don’t know.’ Boyd shrugged. ‘But remember – Jay said something about them overhearing him on a phone call, didn’t he? And then Collins advising him to keep his business private? Maybe Collins heard something he shouldn’t have?’

  Okeke clacked her tongue. ‘A drug deal? A hit?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Boyd said. ‘It looks as though it could have been something important enough to want to get rid of him.’ He kicked the chair’s stand, jostling Okeke. ‘Right. Budge. My chair. My desk.’

  She got up.

  Boyd stared at the record on the screen, at the disappointing rap sheet and at the young man with the face of a choir boy. ‘Let’s get his whereabouts and give him a call to come in. At the very least so we can rule him out.’

  13

  Okeke found Jay exactly where she knew he’d be. In his workshop. She quietly opened the garage door to find him huddled over, his back to her as he worked on a chair, sanding down the wooden arms ready to stain and wax. He had his old boom box on and was listening to something by Westlife.

  She went in, closed the door as quietly as before and sat down on a stool to watch him work. She noticed the way he gently stroked the wood – sanding to preserve, not obliterate the grooves and curls carved by someone a hundred or more years ago. In that moment, she realised all the reasons why she loved him. His gentleness, his care, his patience and devotion. The chair was her, and everyone and everything he cared about.

  ‘How’re you doing, hun’?’ she asked.

  He jumped and turned round. ‘Oh, hey, babycakes. Didn’t hear you come in.’

  He was doing his brave-man thing: a fake smile, fake cheery voice. But he was playing his Boy Band Ballads playlist – his go-to playlist whenever he was down.

  ‘How was work?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve ID’d the guy in the nightclub,’ Okeke replied, pulling out her packet of fags. ‘We’re interviewing him tomorrow morning.’

  He nodded. Relieved. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘It’s just an interview, Jay. He’s not being arrested.’

  He stopped sanding. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Evidence. As in, we don’t have enough for us to start the clock ticking.’ She held a cigarette out for him and he took it. ‘It’s what we call an elimination interview. We’re checking him out to see whether we’re going down a blind alley or not.’

  She lit their cigarettes and Jay sat down cross-legged on the floor. ‘You’ve got him on video stabbing Louie to death,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve got someone on video,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’

  He clamped his teeth together, making his jaw muscle flex – one of the many things he did unconsciously that made him look so damned good.

  ‘We’ve submitted a request for his phone records,’ Okeke said. ‘Hopefully the mobile-phone pings will put him in the right place for the attack and at the right time. Then, maybe, we can start to think about charging him.’

  Jay nodded and took a pull on his cigarette. ‘What’s his name?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, love, you know I can’t tell you that,’ she replied.

  ‘Just a first name,’ he asked. ‘Just so I’ve got a name I can hate on.’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry, Jay. I can’t.’

  Robbie Williams was singing ‘Angels’ now and the melancholic chords and melody weren’t helping Jay in his battle to remain composed. ‘I can’t believe Louie’s gone,’ he croaked pitifully.

  Okeke slid off the stool and knelt in front of him. ‘Come here, you big bug.’

  He leant forward and she wrapped her arms around him. He buried his face in her shoulder and let go.

  ‘Shhh…’ she said, stroking his shaved head. ‘We’re going to find and bang up whoever did this. I promise you. You have to trust me, Jay.’

  She held him for a while until he gently pulled back, sniffing coarsely and letting out a sigh.

  ‘I’ve been doing some… remembering,’ he muttered, wiping his eyes.

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ she said.

  ‘About what happened,’ he said.

  ‘Outside the club?’

  Jay nodded.

  Okeke got up and sat back on her stool. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Well, I mean, I wasn’t really paying attention. Louie took in more of it than I did…’

  ‘You guys were having a spliff down the side of the club?’ she said.

  He nodded guiltily. ‘Just the one.’

  ‘Fine. So what did you hear, Jay?’

  ‘Just…’ He shook his head. ‘Something about someone being dead soon. Like, killed, rather than… you know, naturally.’

  ‘So you think you overheard this guy planning a murder?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘Anything else? Anything specific? A place? A name?’

  Jay frowned as he tried to play back the memory of them standing in the dark of the alley. He’d just taken a pull and was feeling light-headed. The memory was foggy and jumbled.

  ‘I think I heard “blue tea” or something’,’ he said. ‘And… “do it slowly, do it carefully”.’ He looked up at her. ‘I mean, I was off with the fairies, Sam… Louie heard more.’

  ‘Do what carefully?’

  ‘Kill someone… I think.’

  Okeke took in a deep breath. ‘And you’re sure about that, Jay?’

  ‘Louie was pretty sure,’ he replied. ‘He didn’t say that he heard the exact word “kill” – only that that’s what the conversation sounded like to him.’

  ‘Could he hear both sides of the conversation?’ Okeke asked.

  ‘No. Just the bloke on the phone.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Okay. Because you didn’t mention this on Friday.’

  ‘I’ve been doing my best to remember,’ Jay replied. ‘Trying to join little bits up. I didn’t think about it at all after he went in, you know. It was just one of those snippets of conversation you catch when you’re standing on the door, right?’

  ‘And did this guy see you?’ Okeke asked.

  ‘No. I saw him as he walked past… but he only saw Louie.’

  She stubbed her cigarette out and dropped it into an empty can of Red Bull. ‘Will you be happy to come in again and tell this to the guv?’

  He nodded eagerly. ‘Shit, yeah. No problem. Anything I can do to help, Sam. I mean it… anything.’

  14

  Boyd saw Chief Superintendent Hatcher in the hallway on his way to the interview room. She had a steaming paper cup from the canteen upstairs in one hand and a greasy paper bag in the other. He thought he spied a cheese-topped croissant showing a bit of leg out of the top of the bag.

  ‘Morning, Boyd,’ she said, far too bright and cheerful for a Monday morning.

  ‘Morning, ma’am.’ They passed each other, then he stopped. ‘Oh, ma’am?’

  She turned to look back at him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘An FYI… we’ve ID’d the person of interest from the nightclub.’

  She frowned for a moment as she tried to recall the job. ‘Ah yes, the wheelie-bin body, right?’

  ‘Yup. I’m actually just about to start interviewing our suspect now.’

  With a crinkle of the paper bag, Hatcher gave him a thumbs-up. ‘That was quick work, Boyd. Well done.’ She winked. ‘Nail the bastard if you can.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll do my very best.’

  Boyd let himself into interview room four and switched on the lights and the heater in the corner. Then he set his coffee and notes down on the table. Okeke entered a moment later.

  ‘Guv, Roland Hammond’s arrived. He’s on his way up, and he’s brought a solicitor with him.’

  Boyd let his head droop slightly. ‘Great. So a one-sided conversation it is, then,’ he said.

  ‘Also…’ She closed the door. ‘A quick word?’

  He looked at his watch to indicate that it had better be.

  ‘I spoke with Jay last night. He’s remembered a bit more of what was overheard outside the club.’

  ‘And?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘He said that what he overheard sounded like a murder being planned.’ She raised her brows. ‘You were right: Louie must have heard too much of something.’ She sat down next to him. ‘Do you think we should mention any of this to…’ She indicated the empty seat opposite.

  Boyd pulled a face. ‘It’s all a bit vague, isn’t it? Plus, if he’s bringing a solicitor, I doubt we’ll get anything useful out of him at this point.’

  ‘But we might get a reaction?’ she pointed out.

  ‘Or we might just put him on his guard.’ Boyd stroked his beard. ‘No. Let’s make this feel like a box-ticking exercise. Just a few questions to rule him out so we can stop wasting both our time.’

  There was knock on the door and a silver-haired, uniformed sergeant poked his head in. ‘Mr Hammond plus solicitor for you, sir,’ he said, stepping back to allow them into the small room.

  Roland Hammond entered first – boldly, even chirpily. He offered Boyd his hand. ‘Ah, you must be the plod I spoke to yesterday?’

  Boyd ignored the outstretched hand. ‘I’m DCI Boyd. And this is DC Samantha Okeke.’

  Hammond shrugged and dropped his arm. ‘And this is my very expensive legal rottweiler, Mr Karovic. Relax,’ he said with a grin. ‘He’s not a biter.’

  Mr Karovic stepped in behind Hammond. He looked like a highly polished concierge. Two rows of breast buttons rode up an expensive grey pinstriped suit, and he presented an impassive, creased and lean face, topped with a buzz cut of Yeltsin-white hair.

  ‘Take a seat, gents,’ said Boyd to both of them, then pulled up his own chair and sat down. ‘This is just an informal interview, Mr Hammond. We want to clear a few things up so that we’re not wasting our time going down an investigative dead end.’

  ‘Well, that sounds perfectly sensible,’ Hammond replied with a broad, congenial smile as he settled in on the far side of the table beside Mr Karovic. ‘Hopefully this won’t take too long. I’m a very busy man.’

  ‘What do you do?’ asked Okeke politely.

  ‘Business,’ replied Hammond. ‘Property acquisition mainly. Big deals with lots of zeroes involved,’ he added. ‘And my time is money wasted that you can’t even imagine.’

  ‘My client,’ cut in Karovic, ‘has attended this meeting voluntarily. This is to be noted and acknowledged please.’ His accent was harsh, with vowels clipped short. His ‘please’ sounded like ‘pliss’.

  Roland Hammond was wearing jeans, a blazer with a boating club emblem on it, and a pale blue shirt with a burgundy tie. The dress equivalent, Boyd thought with a smile, of a mullet: business on top, party down below. He nodded. ‘Yes, well, thanks for volunteering to come in. Much appreciated, Roland.’

  The young man stiffened. ‘Mr Hammond will do, thanks.’

  ‘Do you have any objections to our recording this interview?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Since my client has not been charged, and since this is a goodwill appearance,’ cut in Karovic, ‘there will be no recording.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Boyd pulled his biro and flipped open his notepad. ‘Old-school ink and paper it is then.’

  ‘Don’t we get a coffee too?’ said Hammond, eyeing the cups on the table. ‘And perhaps a pastry or something?’ He turned to Karovic. ‘Miko? Do you want anything?’

  Karovic shook his head, slightly irritably, Boyd thought.

  Hammond glanced Okeke’s way. ‘I’ll have coffee, white… sugar,’ he oozed. ‘And no vending-machine shit please. I’d like the good stuff.’

  Boyd could feel fury boiling off Okeke in thermal waves. But, God bless her, she smiled and played along. ‘One white coffee with sugar coming up.’ She got up and left the room.

  ‘I’ll start by asking whether you’re aware, Mr Hammond, that a doorman to CuffLinks nightclub was murdered in the early hours of Friday morning. A club that you attended that night?’

  ‘Did I?’ he replied casually. Karovic leant in to mutter some legal advice. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ snapped Hammond. ‘Yes, yes… all right!’ He turned back to Boyd and sighed. ‘I’m advised to say “no comment” to every single question you ask, so…’ He sighed theatrically. ‘So… no comment.’

  ‘For your information, this is an informal interview – you’re not being cautioned.’ Boyd spread his hands and smiled disarmingly. ‘It’s just a chat. We’re going through the club members we managed to identify in order to rule them out.’

  ‘I’m not a member, just a passing guest,’ Hammond replied. He smirked. ‘It looked interesting so I thought I’d pop inside for a drink.’

  Karovic tapped his finger irritably on the table.

  Hammond laughed. ‘Sorry…’ He sighed again. ‘Noooo comment.’

  ‘How was my client identified?’ asked Karovic.

  ‘CCTV in the club’s entrance,’ replied Boyd. ‘Not a particularly brilliant image, but enough for our facial-recognition software to bring your name up as a probable.’

  Hammond pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Big Brother, eh?’

  Karovic tapped his finger again. ‘You said probable ID, detective. So this does not confirm Mr Hammond was in this club.’

  Boyd shrugged. ‘No… but…’ He looked at Hammond. ‘Since Mr Hammond has very kindly clarified that he “popped in”, can we take it that he was there?’

  Karovic glared at Hammond.

  ‘Hey, relax, Miko.’ Hammond turned back to Boyd. ‘Yes, I was. I popped in for a quick drink. It looked like a fun place. And I was at a loose end.’

  ‘So, obviously, we ran your ID through our system, Mr Hammond. You’ve been a bit of naughty boy in the past, haven’t you? Drink-driving, possession of cannabis…’

  The younger man’s face suddenly turned a blotchy pink. ‘That was five bloody years ago. I was still at uni!’

  Karovic tutted.

  ‘I’ve grown up since then,’ Hammond huffed irritably. ‘No bloody comment.’

  There was a knock on the door and Boyd turned, surprised that Okeke was back so soon. Except it was Chief Superintendent Hatcher that he could see through the gap in the door. She beckoned him to step outside.

  ‘Ma’am? What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Now!’ she hissed.

  Boyd turned back to Hammond and his attack dog: Karovic remained stony-faced, but Hammond was grinning as he said, ‘Off you trot, little man.’

  Boyd got up, stepped outside and closed the door to the interview room. ‘What’s up, ma’am?’

  Hatcher’s face was stony. Boyd noticed she had her coat draped over one arm.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re going outside to get some fresh air,’ she said briskly. ‘Come…’

  15

  Her Madge led Boyd down the stairwell, through the foyer and out through the double doors of the station.

  ‘Okay,’ said Boyd. ‘Now we have some fresh air, what’s going on?’

  ‘Not yet,’ she said, crossing the car park and beckoning him to keep up. She turned out of the station’s entrance onto Bohemia Road and began to head downhill towards the seafront.

  ‘Ma’am, with all due respect… I’m in the middle of an interview. What the hell’s going on?’

  She kept going in silence for another minute before eventually stopping beside a low brick wall. She looked around – an almost comical am-dram performance – before speaking. ‘Let’s see your phone, Boyd.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get it out!’ she snapped.

  Boyd fished out his work phone.

  ‘And your personal phone please.’

  He held them both out and she took them, placed them on the brick wall and placed hers beside them. She then strode another few yards along the wall, stopped and turned to face him.

  ‘The young man you have in that interview room is…’ She paused for a moment. ‘God, I need a cigarette,’ she muttered. ‘You don’t have one on you, do you?’

  Boyd shook his head impatiently. ‘Who’ve I got in there?’ he asked.

  She looked around nervously. ‘Rovshan Salikov’s son.’

  It took Boyd a couple of seconds to parse the words she’d just whispered.

  ‘Salikov?’ he repeated. ‘The Georgian maf–’

  ‘Georgian mafia. The big man! Yes!’

  Boyd needed a moment to switch mental gears. The Salikov connection with Hastings was something he’d begun to hope had been a passing thing. It had been his very first case down in East Sussex. Gerald Nix, a dim-witted financial expert had got in way too deep with them and their murky dealings, which had resulted in him murdering Salikov’s daughter and, consequently, invoking the old man’s brutal revenge.

  Boyd had been assuming – hoping – that Rovshan Salikov had moved on to bigger, better and shinier things in London, since that’s where all the dirty Russian money tended to gravitate.

  ‘What the fuck?’ is all he could think to say, despite the fact that he had a perfectly legitimate queue of questions building up in his head.

  ‘Roland Hammond… is Rovshan Salikov’s son with Letitia Hammond-Bowles,’ Hatcher explained.

  That meant absolutely nothing to Boyd, as his bewildered expression clearly showed.

  ‘She’s the daughter of Lord Bowles. A socialite – a royal hanger-on. She’s a regular face in the gossip mags. A Russian billionaire’s upper-crust, well-connected WAG.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Exactly!’ she muttered. ‘I just had a call from a Mr Karovic…’

  ‘He’s the legal ankle-biter Hammond just brought in with him,’ Boyd said. ‘I didn’t see him make a –’

  ‘He must have called me on the way up the stairs.’ She waved that away. ‘It doesn’t matter when he called. You need to release Roland Hammond right now. And you need to apologise for wasting his time. Smooth things over.’

  ‘Are you serious? And why would I do that?’ Boyd snapped. This was fucking ridiculous.

  Hatcher took a step closer to him. ‘Because he called me ten minutes ago and said so. That’s why!’