With a throb of acceleration, the speedboat raced toward the dock, cutting its outboard to coast in silently at the last moment. Knox and a couple of the PMCs were ready for it as the boat bumped up against the quay, and with quick motions they grabbed the duffel-bag shape. It moved suddenly, the shadow growing arms and legs.

  The bag was a person, dressed in dark clothes, their head lost under a sagging cloth sack. Incongruously, the person had no shoes or socks, and their bare feet slapped on the cold concrete of the dock.

  Breeze saw that and made a tutting sound, pointing a finger. ‘What’s this shit?’

  ‘He kicked off,’ said one of the men on the boat, barely hiding a smirk. ‘Struggled. Lost his gear in the drink.’

  ‘So fucking professional.’ Breeze scowled, then signalled Knox to walk the captive to them. She glanced at Finn. ‘You wanna meet the star of the show?’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s not protocol.’

  ‘Oh, did I not make it clear that this is my gig, my rules? I’m pretty sure I implied all of that.’ She gestured at the black hood. ‘Off, off. Let’s get a look at him.’

  ‘Right.’ Knox pulled the bag from the captive’s head and the man beneath it flinched in fear.

  Under the hood he was gagged, with a set of sound-deadening headphones over his ears and blacked-out goggles across his eyes, rendering the man blind and deaf to everything going on around him. Knox peeled them off without being gentle about it, finally revealing an Arab face with a broad brow, deep-set eyes and a trembling mouth. Finn had been told he was in his mid-forties, but he had an undernourished cast that aged him another ten years. The captive was, quite clearly, utterly terrified.

  ‘Yusuf ibn Saleh ibn Kalb al-Amal.’ Breeze reeled off the man’s full name like a mantra. ‘Hello there. As-salamu alaikum.’

  Offering the traditional Arabic greeting of ‘peace be upon you’ seemed to Finn like a cruel joke, given Yusuf’s obvious circumstances and his clear physical distress, and yet the man automatically attempted to respond in kind, stuttering through the words.

  ‘Don’t speak.’ Breeze silenced him before he could get too far. ‘There’s gonna be time for that later.’ She leaned in and looked him over, giving Yusuf the same piece-of-meat appraisal she’d shown Finn minutes earlier, putting him in mind of a farmer considering a pig to send to slaughter.

  ‘Please.’ Yusuf brought up his hands, the wrists held together with clear plastic cable ties. ‘Who is in charge here? I-I keep telling people there has been a terrible mistake . . .’ His eyes were wide and wet.

  ‘We don’t make mistakes.’ Finn felt compelled to speak to justify his presence and opted for something threatening and vague. Yusuf’s head jerked up in a birdlike motion and he looked him right in the eyes.

  ‘I don’t know who you think I am or what you think I have done . . .’ The words fell out of the prisoner’s mouth in a rush, his Saudi accent muddying them. ‘I am not a criminal!’

  ‘I told you not to speak.’ Breeze nodded at Knox, who pulled Yusuf back by the scruff of his neck, the gag going into his mouth once again. He struggled half-heartedly, but in a moment the headphones, goggles and hood were back in place. The man’s body language became the picture of defeat.

  ‘In the truck?’ asked Knox, nodding toward the white van.

  ‘Yeah, time to go.’ Breeze blew out a breath. ‘Like they say in the movies, we’re Oscar Mike.’

  Finn took his cue and turned back to the Ford, catching sight of Miles. He made a winding-up motion and the driver nodded back, starting the car. ‘We’ll take the lead,’ he said. ‘Just stick to us like glue and we’ll be at the change-over soon enough.’

  ‘How long’s it gonna take?’ Breeze checked her watch.

  ‘Weeknight, traffic’s thin,’ he replied. ‘Forty minutes, an hour tops.’ Finn saw Knox directing two of the PMCs, the pair of them indelicately shoving Yusuf aboard the transport van.

  ‘Oh, fun. Plenty of time for us to get to know one another better.’ Breeze called out toward Chester, who stood in the SUV’s half-open door, anticipating their departure. ‘Marty! Clear up your gear, the hipster’s riding with us in the MOU.’

  ‘I am? The what?’ Breeze said the name like ‘moo’, and Finn guessed it was another of the abbreviations the clandestine services were so fond of.

  ‘Mobile. Operations. Unit.’ Breeze spelt it out as if talking to a dim toddler. ‘You wanted to take a look inside, right? And I’m guessing it’ll be a better ride than that piece-of-shit pool car you came in.’

  Finn couldn’t argue with that. Compared to the close confines of the Ford Focus, the big Yukon was like a mobile home. And his curiosity was getting the better of him. ‘Okay, fine.’ He glanced around, finding the rest of the PMC operators as they stood their posts. ‘Are you bringing the goon squad?’

  ‘Gee, should I?’ Breeze saw the serious look that answer drew, and gave a snort of laughter. ‘Lighten up. This is an escort operation, it’s not like we’re invading.’

  ‘Oh?’ Finn eyed her, his tone cooling. ‘Because with the firepower you brought to cover one sickly-looking bloke with bare feet, I wasn’t really sure.’

  She laughed again. ‘I like you, hipster. I like that British sarcasm. You keep doing what I tell you and we’re gonna get on fine.’

  In the next minute, the convoy hit the road – the Ford, the van and the SUV in a loose line following the course of the River Ravensbourne toward the suburbs of south London, and the Kent countryside beyond.

  FOUR

  ‘I think we’re here,’ said Grace, bringing the police car up through the narrow lane, craning her neck to look out over the steering wheel. ‘This is the spot,’ she added, with more certainty, slowing the Volvo to a stop well short of the incident area. Another unit was already there, the blue flicker of the other car’s light bar blinking in the gloom.

  Small-framed, enough that her stab vest swamped her, Constable Isla Grace was dark-skinned with wide observant eyes and a fuzz of hair cut tighter than an army squaddie’s. Her stature made a lot of people underestimate her; civilians, offenders and other coppers alike, but generally they learned their mistake when their assumptions came back to bite them in the arse.

  Her colleague in the Volvo’s other seat, Constable Jacob Harris, had seen it happen on more than one occasion. When the need came, when Grace went off like a bomb, swinging her baton like a ninja, men twice her size would go down fast, crying for their mums. Harris tried never to piss her off, even if he often did, as he was doing now while cramming the last chunks of a double cheeseburger into his mouth, along with the last few fries cooling at the bottom of a McDonald’s take-out bag.

  ‘Jake.’ Grace raised an eyebrow at his dining habits. ‘Can you not do that?’

  ‘Not wasting it,’ Harris replied thickly, around a mouthful. Compared to his colleague, he was a long stick of a man, wiry like a basketball player, pale like a mortician. ‘I imagine the victim of this particular RTC would like me to be fully nourished in order to apply my complete policing skills to the situation.’ RTC meant road traffic collision, a terse and bloodless abbreviation that covered a multitude of unpleasantness, all part of the process so that officers like Grace and Harris could keep a professional distance from the daily traumas that formed their work.

  Case in point; on the road lay the crumpled remnants of what had once been the sleek frame of a Porsche sports car, now caved in and ruined. Harris swallowed the last of his fast-food meal and took a breath, getting his ‘work face’ on while Grace climbed out.

  Harry Peake, a sergeant from their shift, approached the car with a bright Lumos flashlight in hand. ‘All right, Isla?’ Peake usually had an affable way about him and, as one of the most experienced officers at the station, he was considered the old man of the team despite the fact he was barely five years older than the next youngest copper. His good-natured manner was muted tonight, replaced by a frown.

  ‘You need some back-up, Sarge? Is it a bad one?’ Grace looked off at the ruined Porsche. In the course of their duties, they had all seen the horrors that a cruel twist of fate could inflict on a person, by accident or by criminal intention, but still she felt compelled to ask the question.

  ‘One fatality,’ Peake confirmed. ‘Killed instantly. Probably didn’t feel a thing, for what it’s worth.’

  Harris walked up, using his own torch to scan around the area. ‘Skid marks there, but close to the point of impact, see?’ He aimed at a section of the road. ‘Doesn’t look like the driver tried to slow down, at least not until the last second.’

  ‘No,’ Peake said gravely, putting some light on the rear of the damaged tractor parked near the mouth of a side road. A mess of glass, metal and plastic fragments glittered in the spill of the beam. ‘He must have missed this thing as he was coming up the road, and by the time he realised he was going to hit it, it was too late. Distracted, probably. On his phone, or mucking about with the radio . . .’ He trailed off.

  Peake walked them toward the wreck, the three officers taking care to follow the exact same line of approach to the spot so that no evidence would be disturbed.

  Grace sniffed the air, smelling oil, stale petrol and fire retardant. ‘Any witnesses?’ She nodded in the direction of the house off the driveway.

  Peake shook his head, explaining that the residents had only heard the moment of the car crash, not seen it. ‘The homeowner was first on scene,’ he added. ‘Young bloke, nice lad. Didn’t handle it well.’

  ‘Puked up, did he?’ Harris nodded sagely. ‘That happens.’

  ‘Do we have an ID on the driver?’ Grace indicated the car.

  Peake flipped open his notebook, his thick fingers leafing to the relevant page. ‘DVLA says the motor’s registered to a Mr John Price. Lives in Wethill, down near the cricket club. Same name as we found on the body, in his wallet.’

  ‘I know that place,’ offered Harris. ‘Leafy little village. Well off. Very Daily Telegraph.’

  ‘Oh right?’ Grace’s reply was dour. ‘That fits with a Porsche in the garage then.’

  Harris gave a sigh. ‘Tragic to see a nice ride like that in such a state.’

  ‘I’m sure Mr Price isn’t too happy about it either.’ Peake’s frown deepened. ‘Poor sod’s still in there. We’ll need an angle-grinder to cut him out.’

  Grace and Harris exchanged looks, and she made the inevitable offer. ‘Sarge, do you want another set of eyes on it, just for safety?’

  ‘I might have missed something,’ he allowed. ‘Yeah, go ahead. Tread lightly, though. CIU will have my nuts if you touch anything.’

  Harris looked around again. ‘Where are they, anyway?’

  ‘Running behind,’ said Peake. ‘Tanker lorry turned over up on the bypass; they were busy with that.’

  The Collison Investigation Unit was a mobile scene-of-crime team deployed to incidents like this one, equipped to deal with roadside scenarios where it wasn’t possible to close off an area for days, as one might if this was a private property or some other building. Once deployed, the CIU would sweep the area quickly and effectively, but there was always the chance something might get overlooked. Having Grace and Harris take a peek lessened the chances of that.

  The policewoman shot her colleague a look as they closed in on the wreck. ‘How’s that cheeseburger sitting now?’

  ‘Fine.’ Harris coughed, getting a greasy back-taste on his tongue. ‘I’ll manage.’

  Grace produced her own flashlight to probe the Porsche’s crumpled, debris-choked interior. Pinned to his seat, the late Mr Price was a grisly sight, the dead man’s eyes wide open and staring right through her. She avoided looking directly at him, instead concentrating on the material that had been hurled out of the car by the force of the collision.

  She spotted a bulky shoulder bag lying on its side, the contents burst out from within. Papers, maps and what resembled a log book of some sort fluttered in the breeze, the pages soaking in the rain puddles on the road. The closer she looked, the more Grace thought she saw marks on the paper. ‘Jake. See that?’

  Harris was closer to the bag, on the far side of the wreck, and he approached surefooted and careful, dropping into a crouch. ‘Maps,’ he confirmed, then looked closer. ‘Good spot, Gracey. There might be a partial here.’

  He was talking about a shoe mark, the imprint of someone who had walked over the papers without realising it.

  ‘Harry!’ Grace shouted back down the lane. ‘The bloke from the farmhouse – did he come up the driver’s side or the passenger side?’

  ‘Driver’s side,’ Peake called back. ‘Because he upchucked into the bushes right there.’ The older officer pointed past her to the undergrowth at the base of a nearby tree.

  ‘This looks like a boot print,’ said Harris. ‘Come see.’

  Grace was glad to remove herself from close proximity of Price’s corpse, circling round to join her colleague. Illuminated by both torches, it was clear that Harris was correct. The chunky, tell-tale tread of a military boot was visible in the middle of a crumpled map sheet, pressed in place against the road.

  ‘The victim’s wearing brogues,’ she noted.

  ‘Not likely to have got out of the car, what with him being speared by an oak tree,’ said Harris, with calm sarcasm. He pointed at the Porsche’s passenger seat, where the seatbelt hung loosely. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Price might have had company,’ said Grace. Immediately, the two officers rose as one and began directing their torch beams into the shadows and scrub along the side of the road. If there had been a passenger, if that person had stumbled away after the crash, they might be injured, possibly lying unconscious in a ditch somewhere.

  But there was no trail of blood and no immediate signs that anyone in distress had gone wandering off into the gloom. In fact, aside from the boot print, there was nothing close at hand to suggest that John Price had been anything but alone. The only way to know for certain would be to let the forensics team scour every inch of the wreck, and it might be days before they would have a definitive answer.

  Peake walked over, gesturing with his Airwave radio. ‘CIU’s close by; be here any minute,’ he explained, then halted as he caught the urgency in the air. ‘What now?’

  ‘He may not have been the only one in the car,’ said Grace, jerking a thumb at the wreck.

  Peake’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, great. If we have a lost lamb, that complicates it. As if we don’t have enough to be dealing with already.’

  Harris nodded, looking up at the black, moonless sky. ‘It’s fields and woods for miles around here, dark as anything.’

  ‘Better ring for the dog section,’ said Grace, then she caught up with what Peake had said. ‘What, is something else going on?’

  ‘Added complication, could be nothing . . .’ Peake replied, the latter half of his sentence unconvincing. More blue lights flashed off the trees around them as the CIU van came into view, a bulky silver Transit with a checkerboard livery of blue and neon yellow. ‘Support officer back at base called in,’ he went on. ‘She tried the numbers listed for the Price household. No joy. No one’s picking up there – phone rings and rings.’

  Grace took that on board. The first creeping sense that something might be amiss began clawing at the back of her neck. ‘He had family?’

  ‘Wife and a daughter,’ added Peake. ‘We’ll need to send someone over to check on them.’

  Harris gave Grace a look. Having been teamed up together for some time, the two officers had grown into a working relationship where a lot could be communicated with just a glance. Like hers, the other copper’s instinct for trouble pulled at him. The circumstances of the crash were ringing a wrong note for both of them.

  Nearby, the CIU team was already decamping in swift order, sliding open the side of the van to remove their gear for going over the site. Grace watched them, then shot a look at her colleague. ‘Wethill, where Price lived. You said you know it?’

  ‘A bit,’ Harris hedged. ‘I can find it.’

  Grace looked back at Peake. ‘Sarge, me and Jake can go to the house, do the check.’

  At length, the older policeman gave a nod. ‘All right, then. On the hurry-up. Quicker we get this done, quicker we get the road clear and knock off for a cuppa.’

  ‘Don’t hit anyone,’ said Breeze, aiming the comment at the SUV’s driver, as they accelerated along the A-road. ‘Remember that these limeys drive on the wrong side of the highway.’

  Behind the wheel, Knox didn’t appear to register the comment, maintaining the same blank, laser-eyed focus he exhibited whenever he did anything. Breeze searched her memory, trying to recall if she’d ever seen the dour asshole even crack a smile over dozens of different operations. Nothing came to mind, and she dismissed the thought with a sniff.

  In the back of the Yukon’s commodious interior, Marty showed the guy from Six the inner workings of the satellite communications module bolted to the roof of the SUV, getting animated by technical details that to her ears were dull as anything. Marty acted like a first-time dad going on about their newborn, and Breeze raised an eyebrow.

  Is it something about the male psyche, she wondered, that pre-disposes men towards being nerds? All men were geeks in some way or another, she decided, even tough, humourless dicks like Knox. When they were little boys, they learned batting averages and species of dinosaur off by heart, and when they were grown men, it was bullet weights and hardware specifications.

  Breeze had a keen memory for dry facts too, but in her case each one had a connection to something messy, something emotional. She had an encyclopaedic knowledge of human weak points, of how much and which kind of pressure one needed to exert to get a desired result. It was a talent she applied so effortlessly, so often, that these days it came to her as easy as breathing.

  She decided to turn it on Finn, as a warm-up exercise. ‘Marty, how do you make this stuff sound more boring than it already is?’ She eyed the other man across her seat-back. ‘I’m over my jet lag. Don’t put me to sleep again.’