He sighed. As usual, Okeke had cut straight to the point. There was little chance of fudging an answer and brushing her off.

  ‘I had hoped they were just passing through,’ he replied. ‘Well, at least their money was. But I guess if Rovshan Salikov’s son is setting up camp here… they’ve decided Hastings might be a good place to invest.’

  ‘Invest?’ She made a pffft sound. ‘With all their black money? Drugs? Extortion? Refugee smuggling? And who knows what else?’

  He tried to lighten the mood. ‘At least it shows Hastings is moving up in the world, eh?’

  She shook her head, in no mood for levity. ‘Right. Awash with dirty Russian money. No thank you.’

  ‘I’d like to think I’m one of the good coppers,’ he said after a while. ‘One of the reliable, steady ones. God knows, after the Met’s recent years, there’s a need for a few of those.’

  ‘And you are,’ she replied. ‘I can see that.’

  ‘A good cop, Okeke… as in not on the take. But…’

  ‘But?’ she repeated.

  He looked at her. ‘I’m also not a bloody idiot. The Salikovs have resources, deep pockets, and they’ve also made how they operate very clear.’ He wondered whether he should share Hatcher’s revelation with her. Why not? She knew most of it.

  ‘Her Madge received the same message as I did. A blood-stained bribe and a threat.’

  Okeke’s jaw hung. ‘You’re shitting me!’

  ‘She told me yesterday. She got the same delivery a year ago. And she’s clearly terrified about us bringing in Hammond for questioning. And, I’ll be honest with you, I’m a little wary too.’ He sipped his takeaway coffee. ‘Have you spoken with Jay yet?’

  ‘No. I left a message on his phone to stay calm. To not do anything stupid. That we’ve got this. I told him we’d get something sooner or later on Hammond and bring him in again.’

  Boyd let out a deep breath. ‘Well, that’s another thing you’ll need to deal with, then. Managing Jay’s expectations.’

  ‘He isn’t going to go rogue, guv. I’ve talked to him. I’ve explained the best way to seek justice for Louie is to let us do our job.’

  He looked at her. ‘But, you know, we can’t do that this time?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re really just letting this go?’

  ‘We got very lucky last year, Sam. We brushed up against an OCG that makes our local county-lines scrotes look like a bunch of clueless prats. We got a polite warning to back off.’

  ‘Polite?’

  ‘Trust me.’ He gazed out at the seagulls a dozen yards out, dipping and rising on the stiff breeze yet otherwise motionless.

  ‘So we’re stalling on Hammond, then?’

  ‘Afraid so,’ he replied. ‘You have to pick the right fights, mate. The ones you have at least a chance of winning.’

  Boyd left Okeke outside to have her post-lunch fag; it was too nippy to linger.

  He dropped his coat on to the back of the chair and was about to go for a pee, when he saw Sutherland bowling out of his goldfish-bowl office towards him.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Hatcher,’ Sutherland replied. Everything Boyd needed to know packaged up in one word.

  ‘Is it urgent?’ he asked. ‘I just need a quick –’

  ‘Now!’ clarified Sutherland.

  Boyd knocked on the door and opened it. He tried not to react as his eyes settled on

  Miko Karovic and a man it took him a few seconds to recognise: Roland Hammond. Hammond had a medical dressing on his cheek, and the skin around one eye looked red and swollen.

  ‘Boyd,’ started Hatcher. ‘Mr Hammond has just –’

  ‘My client,’ cut in Karovic, ‘wishes to report that he was violently assaulted this morning at gunpoint.’

  ‘Okay…’ Boyd said.

  Hatcher continued. ‘Mr Hammond was at home when a man broke into his apartment, threatened to kill him and then assaulted him.’ She looked as pale as ghost. ‘Mr Hammond managed to – very bravely – fight back and the armed man fled the scene.’

  ‘With his gun,’ added Hammond.

  ‘Right.’ Shit. You’d better respond how they want you to respond, Bill. ‘Right,’ he repeated. ‘Do we have a description to work with?’

  ‘No need,’ said Karovic. ‘My client recognised him as one of the doormen at the nightclub called CuffLinks.’ He looked down at his yellow legal notepad. ‘The assailant’s name is Jason Turner.’

  ‘Jason Turner?’ Boyd felt his heart sink. ‘Are you sure?’

  Karovic nodded. ‘He accused Mr Hammond of murdering his colleague. And this act of vigilantism is a direct consequence of you bringing my client in to be questioned. You made him look like a suspect.’

  Boyd looked at Hammond. ‘You say he did this at gunpoint?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ Hammond replied. ‘I would have put up more of a fight otherwise.’

  ‘What kind of gun?’ Boyd asked.

  Hammond hunched his shoulders. ‘I’m not a ruddy expert, Boyd… a handgun! Turner somehow got hold of my address. He would have killed me if I hadn’t fought back!’

  Killed him? None of this sounded like Jay. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘It’s true, dammit! Look at me!’ he continued. ‘Turner forced his way in, caught me off guard. Fuck’s sake… I wasn’t even dressed!’

  ‘My client was able to fight back, forcing Mr Turner to abandon his ill-judged attempt at vigilantism.’

  ‘Boyd…’ Hatcher seemed eager to appear proactive in front of the other two. ‘I’ve just issued a warrant and authorised an ARU to go to his address and arrest him.’

  ‘An armed unit?! But…’

  ‘Yes, of course an armed unit,’ she replied quickly. ‘They have a Mark One shoot order if they see him holding a gun. You’re to be SIO on this, Boyd. If they bring him in, he’s yours alone to interview, do you understand?’

  ‘Uh, that’s not –’

  ‘On my orders, Boyd. You alone will interview him and make a record of it. He’ll be charged and immediately placed on remand.’ She leant forward, knuckles on her desk. ‘We want a police officer who’s a friendly on this… is that perfectly clear?’

  She was doing him a favour. Do. This. Right. And. They’ll. Leave. You. Alone.

  He nodded. ‘Of course, ma’am.’

  ‘Off you go, then. Bring him in.’

  Hammond snorted dryly. ‘Go fetch the ball, Boyd… There’s a good dog.’

  21

  Boyd closed Hatcher’s office door behind him. ‘Fuck,’ he whispered softly.

  Jay’s a dead man. Those words popped into his head with absolute certainty behind them. If he tried to bolt with anything in his hand that looked even remotely like a gun, he was going to get shot.

  Mark One. Lethal force already authorised.

  And if they brought Jay in alive and he was put on remand, the moment he entered the general prison population he would be a dead man walking. He’d be dead long before there was any kind of trial.

  Boyd strode down the hallway with Hatcher’s voice still in his ear. ‘… authorised an ARU to go to his address and arrest him …’

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  He picked up the pace as he hurried down the steps to the CID floor, then pushed through the double doors to scan the open-plan office for Okeke. There was no sign of her.

  For a brief moment he considered texting her, but then that would be actionable evidence sitting right there on his phone, no matter how carefully he nuanced the warning.

  Maybe she was still outside having her fag…

  He hurried down the stairs, pushed through the security door, then the lobby door and stepped outside.

  He was right. Okeke was there, on her phone and finishing her smoke. So was Warren; it looked like he’d just lit his.

  ‘Warren,’ said Boyd. ‘Put it out.’

  ‘But, sir, I just…’

  ‘Out! And get back to work!’

  The young DC looked like a scolded schoolboy caught smoking behind the bike shed.

  ‘NOW!’ snapped Boyd. Warren dropped his cig, toed it out and backed away, crimson-faced. He disappeared back inside the station.

  Okeke was staring wide-eyed at him. ‘What the fuck was that for?’

  ‘Who’re you on the phone to?’ Boyd snapped.

  ‘Jay,’ she replied. ‘Guv…’

  ‘Where is he?’ Boyd cut across her.

  ‘He’s in bed. What’s –’

  ‘Tell him to get out of the house!’ He snatched the phone out of her hand. ‘Jay? This is Boyd…’

  ‘Hey there, boss!’ Jay sounded dozy yet pleased to hear from him. ‘How’re you do–’

  ‘Jay, just shut up and listen. You need to get out of your house right now! There’s an armed response unit on their way over to arrest you for threatening Hammond with a gun. You need to move now!’

  ‘What? Hey… I didn’t –’ Jay protested.

  ‘There is no time for this, mate – get dressed and get out!’

  ‘Guv?’ cut in Okeke. ‘What’s going on?’

  He ignored her. ‘Jay, listen to me… Hammond is one of those “Russians”. Remember them?’

  There was a pause. He could hear Jay’s breathing. Then: ‘You mean those mafia dudes?’

  ‘Yes! And you just assaulted the big boss’s son!’

  ‘Oh… shit.’ Jay said as the penny finally dropped.

  Jay dropped his phone on the bed and untangled himself from the duvet. He slid his feet into his flip-flops and staggered over to the door to pull Sam’s fluffy pink dressing gown off its hook. God, it’s cold, he thought as he tugged the too-small dressing gown around his torso, cinching the belt tight. Their gurgling radiator needed bleeding, a job he kept booting down the road.

  Russians? That made absolutely no sense. Roland Hammond wasn’t a bloody Russian. He didn’t look like one or even sound like one. He was just a posh boy, a preppie DFL, a chinless fuckwit who…

  Who we caught out discussing a murder…

  That thought woke him up a little. That and the fact that the guv didn’t seem like the kind of bloke who screamed ‘get out’ for no reason.

  Shit, Jay thought, finally shaking himself awake. Come to think of it, the guv had sounded panicked. He’d better listen to him; he had to get dressed and get out.

  His clothes were still in the bathroom. He’d had a long soak after scaring that brat to the point of wetting himself. After that, Jay’d gone back to bed to catch up on the sleep he’d missed out on last night.

  Before he could reach the bathroom, tendrils of steam still escaping the slightly open door, he heard a loud knock on the front door. He glanced down the stairs and saw several dark rippling silhouettes through the frosted glass. ‘ARMED POLICE!’

  He froze. The guv had said run… but… running meant going downstairs right past the front door. They’d see him. He looked at the bathroom ahead of him and glanced at the little sash window that looked out onto their small backyard.

  There was another heavy hammering from below. ‘JASON TURNER, ARMED POLICE. OPEN THE DOOR. DO NOT HAVE ANYTHING IN YOUR HANDS!’

  He hurried into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. He gathered up the clothes he’d scattered nonchalantly on the tiled floor earlier and he’d just loosened the dressing gown’s belt when he heard the loud crash of the front door being rammed open, followed by thundering footsteps into his house and half a dozen voices barking ‘POLICE’ like kennel dogs.

  He yanked the sash window open, hopped up onto the toilet seat and swung a leg over the sill and outside into the cold air. ‘Oh, this is bloody nuts,’ he muttered. The drop was about twelve feet onto uneven paving slabs and an obstacle course of wooden frames from old furniture and pallets he’d been in the process of breaking down. A stupid jump at the best of times, but in flip-flops?

  A fist hammered against the bathroom door. ‘TURNER! YOU IN THERE?’

  He ducked his head under the window frame and lifted his other leg up, over the sill, to dangle outside.

  ‘Get the BRK up here now! He’s in the bathroom!’

  He leant forward, bum shuffling towards the edge of the sill as he tried to calculate what precisely he was going to land on.

  The voice on the other side of the door ordered him to unlock and open the door or stand the fuck back. Then a moment later it too crashed open. Jay lurched forward off the sill and plummeted downwards.

  ‘He did WHAT?!’

  ‘Beat up Hammond,’ Boyd replied. ‘Apparently he also threatened him with a gun.’

  ‘A gun?! Well, that’s bollocks! He doesn’t have one. Nor does he know anyone who would!’

  Boyd looked at her. ‘Please tell me you didn’t give him Hammond’s name and details?’

  Okeke shook her head. ‘Of course I didn’t!’ Then her fist came up to her mouth as she added the pieces of the situation together. ‘Oh, fuck… Oh, God! He’s in danger, right?’

  Boyd nodded. ‘Big time. If he gets arrested, there’ll be no bail – it’ll be straight to pre-trial detention and straight into general prison circulation.’

  The very thing that Gerald Nix had been terrified of. The price on his head in prison would have been a fraction of the price out on the street.

  Okeke reached out and grabbed her phone out of Boyd’s hand. ‘I’ve got to call him!’

  ‘No. Okeke. Stop! Any calls you make to him are going to make you look complicit.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit.’ She thumbed his name and waited for a few moments.

  ‘Okeke, you can’t even leave a message. If you do, you’ll –’

  ‘Babes, it’s me,’ she said. ‘Go to the chair… I’ll come get you!’

  Boyd’s head dropped, as she hung up.

  ‘What?’ She shook her head with exasperation. ‘My career or Jay’s life? No fucking question!’

  She turned away from him and hurried across the forecourt towards her car.

  ‘For God’s sake! Okeke! Stop!’

  She turned to look at him. ‘He’s not good on his own. He needs me.’

  ‘Okeke… you’ll end up being a target too. Do you understand?’

  ‘If this was Emma, what would you be doing?’ she said, challenging him. ‘Well?’

  There really was no answer to that. He watched her go.

  Jay landed on his feet – mercifully – on a paving slab, narrowly avoiding the jagged wooden slats of a pallet sitting next to it. His legs buckled under his weight and he rolled to the side. Above him he saw a policeman’s head poking out of the bathroom’s sash window.

  ‘He’s down! Backyard!’

  Jay gathered the dressing gown around him and made for the garden fence, just in time to see a copper wrestling with the stiff bolt on the back door. It had a warped frame – another job that had been sitting on his backburner to-do list for far too long. He scrambled up the fence and was astride it at the very moment the back door was wrenched open and the armed officer spilled out of it, deftly dodging the bric-a-brac cluttering the ground. He managed to get his hands wrapped around Jay’s left ankle before Jay could lift his other leg over.

  Jay flailed his foot frantically to shake him off, the rough top of the fence slats digging into his bare arse and ball sack. ‘Ahhh!’ he bellowed. ‘My bollocks!’

  The copper grinned. ‘Ooh, that’s gotta hurt, eh, mate?’

  Jay leant over and walloped the side of his head. The copper let go and staggered backwards into the mess of wood carcasses he’d managed to avoid in the first place. Jay swung his leg up and over, his left flip-flop flying off into the yard somewhere, and dropped down into next door’s garden, navigating around a child’s netted-in trampoline, several discarded tricycles and a rusting oil-barrel barbecue.

  At the next fence he repeated the ungainly manoeuvre, one leg over, bollocks and bum scraping painfully as he pivoted and swung the other leg over, dropping down into Mrs Patton’s backyard. He could see the old lady in her kitchen, popping the kettle on. He opened the back door. She jumped at the sudden noise.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs P,’ he said, pulling the gown tightly around himself for decency.

  She did a double take at the state of him. ‘Are you all right there, poppet?’

  ‘I errr… I locked myself out in the yard,’ he explained.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, you’re a wally, Jason. Do you want a cuppa? I’ve just put the kettle on.’

  ‘No, that’s… no thanks, Mrs P. Can I just come through and go out your side?’

  She had a second back door off her utility room that opened onto a rat-run alleyway that divided the long row of terraced houses.

  ‘Do you need to wait for Sam to come home? You can watch some telly in the front room if you –’

  ‘No… I think I’ll just… err… just go to my workshop,’ he replied. ‘I’ve got some overalls there.’

  ‘Oooh!’ Mrs Patton smiled. ‘How’s my armchair coming along?’

  Jay turned to answer her as he stepped into her utility room. ‘Good. Really good. I’ll have it done by the weekend.’ He pulled the door open. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Jason?’ she called out.

  He stopped again. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You’re missing a flip-flop, my dear.’

  22

  Chief Superintendent Hatcher looked only marginally less stressed out now that Hammond and the Salikov’s family solicitor had departed the station.

  Sutherland simply looked as though somebody had turned over two pages at once. ‘Why the big priority on this assault?’ His puzzled, rumpled forehead looked like a stack of poorly folded laundry. ‘Surely the Collins stabbing is top of the list?’

  ‘Sutherland,’ Hatched said sternly, looking at him, ‘are you aware who Roland Hammond is?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘He’s the son of a billionaire. A Russian one. A well-connected Russian one.’