‘Roger that.’

  He ended the call and turned to Okeke. ‘So how far away is Rye?’

  ‘It’s about half an hour or so, guv,’ she answered.

  ‘What’s it like? Big place? Small place?’

  ‘It’s an exclusive and expensive place,’ she replied. ‘It’s where the posh folk have out-of-London homes.’ Okeke finished setting up the route on her phone. ‘I think Johnny Depp is supposed to have a place near there.’

  ‘Lucky old ladies of Rye.’

  Okeke started up the patrol car and managed to wiggle it out from its tight parking space.

  ‘So what did you make of the ex-Mrs Nix?’ Boyd asked once they had pulled away.

  ‘Understandably pissed off,’ said Okeke. ‘If I’d been married to someone for twenty years, built something up, bought a house – there’s no way I’d just walk out with nothing. I’d make him leave.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Boyd the asked the obvious question. ‘So… motive, then?’

  ‘What? Her? To kill Nix?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She gave that some thought. ‘I could imagine her wishing him dead. I think I would too, but…’

  ‘But?’ Boyd had his doubts too.

  ‘She seemed too openly angry with him. I mean, if she had anything to do with his disappearance, she would have been a bit more guarded with us, surely, guv? Less of the obvious vitriol?’

  ‘She also referred to him in the present tense,’ said Boyd. ‘I know that sounds a bit Detective Columbo, but it tends to be an accurate tell.’

  ‘Who’s Columbo?’

  He looked at her. ‘Christ alive. What are you… a bloody millennial?’

  She tutted. ‘No. I just don’t watch TV crime. I find the inaccuracies irritating. I presume that’s what he is… was?’

  ‘Correct. A US show.’

  ‘Well, that’s even worse, then.’

  Boyd checked the journey time on her phone. Thirty-three minutes. Was it worth sending someone from the team instead? Probably not. They were already partway there and this would hopefully be nothing more than a ‘knock on the door and peek through the window’ situation.

  ‘You’ve got to feel sorry for her, though, Jo Bambridge,’ said Okeke. ‘A few years ago she had a nice place in Rye, a yacht, her own business… and now she’s in a two-up, two-down in a Bexhill backstreet and working in Tesco.’ She glanced at him. ‘I mean, that’s all she’s left with after twenty-plus years with Nix? Not even any kids to show for it?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s pretty shitty, to be fair.’ He couldn’t ever have imagined a similar scenario with Julia. They’d had just over twenty-five years together, and those years had shot past in the blink of an eye. Happy days. Yes, there’d been one or two bad ones, but overwhelmingly they’d been good. If either of them could conceivably have grown tired of their relationship, it wouldn’t have been him. It wasn’t that he was blinded with rose-tinted nostalgia, it had simply been a wonderful relationship. One of those lucky and sublime carpentry joins where two pieces fit together perfectly.

  ‘So the woman in the CCTV, she’s the “Z-someone” on that form and therefore this “Zophie”,’ Okeke continued.

  Boyd nodded. ‘Okay, let’s say that she is. One of those sets of feet outside was presumably Gerald Nix. So, it’s the other pair I’m interested in.’

  ‘You think it could be this Rigby guy, guv?’

  ‘Well, according to Jo, he has previous when it comes to Nix. And Nix has apparently double-crossed him, so there’s a possible motive right there. At the moment that puts Rigby in pole position.’

  His phone buzzed on the dashboard and fell into the footwell. Boyd heaved against the seatbelt and rummaged around, cursing until he finally retrieved it. It was Minter. He answered and activated the speakerphone.

  ‘Hello again, boss. I’ve got an address for Aiden Rigby. And, yes, he is on the PNC. With some form.’

  ‘Form for what?’

  ‘Fraud. He was done a few years ago for running a telephone scam on old people. A right nasty piece of work by the look of it.’

  ‘Any history of violence?’

  ‘Nothing on the PNC. But just a general shit piece of work.’

  ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘31a Denham Way, Camber.’

  ‘That’s just beyond Rye,’ said Okeke.

  ‘We can go to see Rigby, then see the Nix place on the way back?’

  She nodded. ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘Okay, Minter… change of plan. Me and Okeke are going to knock on Rigby’s door first, then drop by the Nix place on the way back.’

  ‘What do you want me to put down for this Rigby visit?’ Minter asked.

  ‘He had a violent altercation with Nix a few years back. Put him down as a possible suspect. We’re just going to ask him a few questions.’

  ‘Okay, it’s logged in, boss.’

  Boyd hung up. ‘You want me to tap that address into your phone?’

  ‘No need, I know Camber. I know Denham Way.’

  ‘Good. Well, that makes me happy – three visits, one journey, all very efficient.’ He flung his hand forward. ‘Proceed.’

  Ten minutes later they pulled up outside a small council house at the end of a scruffy-looking cul-de-sac. It had all the usual garden decor: the abandoned sofa, the inevitable discarded shopping trolley, a gravel driveway packed with cars either partly dismantled or partly repaired – it was hard to tell which.

  Boyd and Okeke got out and headed to number 31a. It had the look of a rotten tooth, about ready to fall out. A concrete path, overgrown with weeds, led the way to a paint-chipped front door, flanked by grubby, bare windows.

  ‘He lives alone,’ said Boyd.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Blokes don’t bother with curtains.’

  ‘That’s a sweeping statement, isn’t it?’ She glanced sideways at him.

  ‘Want a wager? Five pounds?’

  ‘No, you’re all right, guv. I can’t go taking money from you…’

  They walked up the path and Boyd knocked heavily on the door. He waited an indecently short amount of time and then knocked again, harder.

  A neighbouring door opened and an old woman poked her head out. ‘What’s up, love?’

  He raised his voice. ‘Do you know if Mr Rigby’s in?’

  ‘Ade? Oh probably not, love. Not at this time of day.’

  ‘Well, do you know where I might find him?’ he called.

  She glared. ‘I’m old, not deaf, love! He’s probably at his work. Got a unit somewhere over at Duke’s Park.’

  Boyd looked at Okeke. She nodded. ‘I know it. It’s a small industrial park.’

  ‘Do you know what his business is called?’ he asked hopefully.

  She frowned in concentration. ‘Something … Medicines, I think.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure.’ Then she pulled her head back in and shut the door.

  Boyd turned to Okeke. ‘Well, I guess that’s that, then. Is it far?’

  ‘No. Two minutes. It’s just round the corner. There’s a Greggs on the way,’ she added tentatively.

  ‘Right.’ He took a step back quickly and squinted up at the bedroom windows just in case. But it appeared that, genuinely, no one was home. ‘Come on, then. Another stop. But no Greggs – I’m supposed to be on a bloody diet, remember?’

  18

  Okeke drove them into an industrial estate that looked as though it was little more than a warren of lock-up units with white transit vans parked outside, each with their own business logo cheaply stencilled on the side.

  ‘Pond’s Plumbing. Carly’s Hair Supplies. Angie’s Big Baps.’ Boyd looked at her. ‘Artisan baker, perhaps?’

  She smiled. ‘Good to see that those bras weren’t burnt in vain, guv.’

  ‘Ah, what’s that?’ He pointed at the unit at the end of the row. It backed onto what appeared to be a junkyard that was overspilling onto the land beyond.

  There was a sign above the door: best medicines direct.

  ‘I think we’ve got ourselves a winner,’ he said.

  Okeke parked up and they got out. In the distance he could hear a circular saw whining its way through lumber, and of course gulls. Always the bloody gulls.

  ‘All right, then… Let’s see if the mysterious Mr Rigby is here.’

  Boyd wrapped his knuckles impatiently on the door. This time there was a response. They could hear movement inside. Then finally a voice from behind the door.

  ‘Who is it?’

  Boyd cleared his throat and tried to sound less grouchy detective and more in-a-hurry delivery driver. ‘DPD. Got a sign-for, mate.’

  Something snicked behind the door and it creaked open. A large, pale face appeared, thick-rimmed glasses above a thick brush-like moustache.

  ‘I’m not expecting anyth–’ Rigby saw Boyd and Okeke and despite the lack of uniforms recognised them instantly as police. He pulled his head back in and tried to slam the door shut…

  … on Boyd’s extended foot.

  ‘Ow!’ he shouted more in resentment than pain.

  Rigby stamped hard on his foot, and this time it did hurt. A lot.

  ‘Ow!’

  Okeke ducked back into the car and radioed for backup while Boyd held the door ajar and played a weird version of Stamping Wars with Rigby. ‘Police! You idiot! Open!’

  Rigby swung a kick at his shin and Boyd withdrew his foot before Rigby could have a second go and break the bloody bone. Instead Boyd pushed his arm and shoulder into the gap, angling his head as far back as he could, in case Rigby tried to swing a punch at his face.

  ‘Rigby, it’s the police!’ he gasped.

  A baseball bat poked out through the gap, nearly catching Boyd in the eye as Rigby tried to swing it down on him.

  ‘For fuck’s sake! I’m the fucking police, you stupid arsehole!’ He pulled back, giving up on the door and jumping back, out of the bat’s range.

  The door slammed shut. ‘Shit. Did I just hear you call for backup?’ he called to Okeke.

  ‘Yes, guv. They’re on their way.’

  ‘You stay here,’ he ordered, and ran round the side of the unit towards the junkyard at the rear, just in time to see the back door swing open. Rigby appeared.

  ‘Police!’ Boyd shouted yet again.

  Rigby glanced over his shoulder and bolted towards the junkyard. Boyd chased after him. Rigby was a big man, just as tall but carrying significantly more weight than Boyd. In a straight hundred-metre dash, he fancied his chances, but over what appeared to be an assault course of abandoned car chassis, mattresses and large drums of chemicals, that were presumably too expensive to dispense with in a legal manner, he suspected it was going to be a more evenly matched pursuit.

  Rigby slid over the rust-flecked bonnet of an old Ford Gran Torino.

  Christ, what is this… Starsky and Hutch?

  Boyd followed suit and realised on the far side, as his feet landed on a bed of springs, that he was now inside the junkyard: a labyrinth of fly-tipped shite that presented the perfect opportunity for Rigby to jump out and take him.

  ‘Rigby!’ he shouted as he stepped cautiously forward. ‘We’ve called in backup from just outside the entrance. You’re not going to get away, mate. And you’d have to be really bloody stupid to assault a police officer!’

  Again.

  ‘So stop fucking around and come out where I can see you!’

  There was, predictably, no response.

  He sighed. ‘Right, shithead,’ he muttered. ‘I’m coming to get you.’

  He had a horrible flashback to playing hide-and-seek with Noah in a soft-play area. ‘I’m coming to get you’ – followed by Noah’s give-away cackle of excitement from beneath a jiggling pool of plastic balls.

  Boyd reached down and picked up a length of tubular metal. Chances were that it would bend like a McDonalds paper straw on impact, but it felt reassuring to have something baton-like to hold.

  He could see to the far side of the junkyard and what appeared to be a high chain-link fence. He’d hear it rattle if Rigby tried to scale it.

  And, so far, he hadn’t. Which, somehow, he didn’t find entirely reassuring.

  ‘Rigby! This is stupid. We just want to have a chat with you…and we will, like it or not!’ he added under his breath.

  Silence. The circular saw in the distance whined to a halt. A flock of gulls circled high above the yard, curious to see how this little stand-off was going to play out. He’d hoped to hear the reassuring sound of approaching sirens by now, but then this wasn’t London with several handy units nearby, waiting to be summoned.

  The only sounds were his own heaving breath and the creak and clatter of debris stirred by the breeze.

  This is ridiculous. He’d put himself in a dangerous position when, to be honest, he should just have shouted through the unit door that he’d be back later with a warrant.

  ‘Mate. This isn’t an arrest. I just want to ask –’

  He heard a grunt to his left and turned to see Rigby charging straight at him, armed with a wooden stake.

  Boyd had a nano second to duck as the jagged end of the wooden pole slid uselessly over his shoulder. Then Rigby slammed into him like a ten-ton truck.

  They both went down onto a crash mat of break discs, rusting bolts and shards of MDF, all partly disguised by tall grass and weeds that had promised, and failed to deliver, a soft landing. Boyd hit the ground with Rigby on top of him. Rigby’s hands, very large fleshy ones, were around his neck.

  What the actual fuck?

  He could feel Rigby making a very real and deliberate attempt to squeeze the life out of him. Boyd, however, wasn’t some eight-stone, terrified weakling. He didn’t waste time trying to peel Rigby’s hands off. He cut straight to the chase and fumbled in the dirt for something big enough to brain the arsehole with.

  The gods were smiling – kind of. He found something mushy and wet, grabbed a fistful and flung it straight into Rigby’s face.

  It took them both a second to realise what it was. Rigby recoiled in horror, gagging and loosening his grip with one hand to wipe the sloppy shit out of his eyes. Boyd seized the opportunity, shoved him hard and rolled over on top of him.

  He used his shit-covered hand to grab Rigby’s hair, lifted his head and smacked it back down, stunning him on whatever hard, unforgiving piece of junkyard tat was buried in the grass behind.

  ‘Guv!’

  It was Okeke.

  ‘Over here!’ She slid over the Gran Torino far more gracefully than either he or Rigby had and joined him armed with a baton and a pair of cuffs.

  She threw her weight across Rigby’s legs and handed Boyd the baton.

  ‘Thanks.’ He grunted and adjusted his grip, then held the baton across Rigby’s throat in case he tried to sit up. But there was no real danger of that; the bang to his head had knocked the fight out of him.

  ‘God, what the hell is that smell?’ she asked, covering her nose with her free hand.

  ‘Dog crap, I think,’ said Boyd.

  She shrank back, content to keep her weight down on Rigby’s legs, well away from his stinky head and her superior officer.

  The sirens and boots arrived a few minutes later, allowing Boyd the merciful opportunity to wipe his hand clean.

  ‘My hand’s going to stink for the rest of the day,’ he muttered.

  ‘Not just your hand, guv.’ She pointed at a smear of crap on the elbow of his jacket.

  ‘Oh, for…’ He took his jacket off and lay it on the roof of their car.

  Three patrol cars had arrived at the same time, like London buses. There were three uniformed officers dealing with Rigby and two hanging around like spare parts.

  He pointed at them. ‘You and you, come with me.’ He led the way towards the rear door of the unit. ‘Let’s see what he’s so twitchy about. Obviously don’t touch anything, unless it’s another twat about to jump me.’

  The interior of the unit was small, about the size of a double garage. It was crammed with collapsed cardboard boxes and plastic sacks filled with thousands and thousands of capsule-shaped pills.

  On a work bench there was a neatly stacked pile of flattened cardboard packaging. Boyd violated his own standing order and picked one of them up.

  Placto-flourequine – 40mg x 80 capsules.

  Coronavirus resistant. Take one daily. Store in a cool dry place.

  Manufactured by Proctor and Geffin Pharma Ltd

  Boyd shook his head. ‘Well, there’s a shocker. Fake meds. No wonder he ran.’

  19

  ‘You okay, sir?’

  Okeke had caught Boyd sniffing his hand again. He’d washed it thoroughly in the industrial unit’s small sink. Rigby had very thoughtfully installed a fragranced-soap dispenser in there, peach and mango. But, despite scrubbing until his skin felt raw, he was sure he could still smell the shit on his hand.

  ‘Ugh.’ He grimaced.

  ‘The lads are going to run Rigby over to division HQ to process him. Do you want to go along and –’

  Boyd interrupted. ‘Nope, we’ll carry on. We can have a chat with him later this afternoon when we get back.’

  ‘You want to press on and check out Nix’s house? Today?’

  ‘Of course!’ He studied his fingernails closely. ‘We’re up this neck of the woods, might as well continue with our plan.’

  ‘I just thought…’

  ‘What? I had a little wrestle with a scrote… and now I’ll be needing counselling?’

  ‘No.’ She nodded towards the unit. ‘The lock-up will need examining and –’

  ‘Sutherland can pull someone from the main pool to be OIC for this. I suspect it’s tangential at best and I don’t want to get side-tracked into babysitting something else.’

  ‘It might be important to the Nix case.’

  ‘I’ll send Minter along to keep an eye on things. It’s all the more reason to check out Nix’s house, then, isn’t it? To see if there’s anything we can find to throw at Rigby in the interview room.’ Boyd paused for a moment. ‘Oh, and thanks, by the way. For – you know – having my back.’