The beam caught on something and he froze.

  There were two of them. The bodies lay stacked on top of one another in a corner. Black patches of blood on the tiled floor glistened in pools, spatters and trails, making it clear that after the savage attacks that had killed them, the middle-aged woman and the teenage girl had been moved, in an attempt to hide them from sight.

  Instinctively, Grace reached up and made the sign of the cross over her forehead and chest, whispering a few words of soft prayer as she did so.

  Harris’s response was baser, but no less heartfelt. ‘Bugger me.’

  ‘Single line,’ she reminded him, warning her colleague to follow exactly the same path into the kitchen as she did, as they had at the site of the car crash, in order to minimise any possible contamination of what was now a major crime scene.

  Harris pulled his Airwave and called in to the station while Grace stooped and checked the motionless bodies, in the vain hope that they might still be alive. But after a moment, she looked back up at her colleague and shook her head.

  The radio call raced invisibly away, awakening the first responses from the wider system. People would be alerted, messages would be sent. An ambulance, a scene-of-crime unit, and the Murder Investigation Team would all be on the way in short order. The whole mechanism activated, a wave of motion and intention radiating out from the site of this grisly discovery.

  ‘It’s the wife and the daughter.’ Grace’s tone became flat and emotionless. She stood up and backed off, careful not to touch anything.

  ‘You sure?’

  She pointed to a framed photo hanging beside a corkboard festooned with shopping lists, memos and other papers. The face of the dead man in the Porsche was there, smiling alongside those of the woman and the girl in happier times.

  Harris surveyed the room, holding his radio away as the voice of the dispatcher crackled. On the walls there were more bloody streaks, smears that looked like handprints and the debris of items that had been broken or knocked into disarray. ‘There’s been a struggle,’ he added, and then his gaze fell upon an object sitting on the draining board.

  An expensive chef’s knife, with an eight-inch blade. Whoever had used it in the act of brutality hadn’t bothered to clean it off, leaving the murder weapon discarded, the bright metal coated with a film of congealing blood.

  That detail alone suggested multiple possibilities – everything from a killer who had fled in shock at their crime, to one who had prepared well enough to leave no physical evidence behind them.

  ‘Out, out,’ said Grace, waving him away, and Harris obeyed, backing on to the garden patio. He caught sight of her face as she came after him. She covered it well, but the viciousness of the stabbing had caught her off guard.

  ‘You all right, Isla?’ When she didn’t respond, he sighed in sympathy. ‘Yeah, me neither. What have we walked into here?’

  Grace took a breath. ‘Murder-suicide?’

  ‘Price kills his family and then deliberately drives his car into the back of a tractor.’ Saying it out loud made it seem unreal, but they had both seen worse caused by less comprehensible reasons. A disturbingly large number of murders could be traced back to someone the victim knew personally, and when a woman was killed, the high likelihood of her partner being the culprit was a bleak, sobering statistic that Harris had seen play out again and again.

  In the moment of silence, he knew they were both considering the same question: why? What motive, what reasoning would there be to unpick behind this horrible event? If John Price had murdered two members of his own family and then left the scene, what had compelled him to do such violence in the first instance? And had he taken his own life out of remorse after the fact?

  ‘The passenger.’ Grace spoke quietly, and Harris almost missed what she said, until she repeated the words. ‘The passenger in his car. If Price really wasn’t on his own when it went off the road . . . if there was someone else there . . .’

  She trailed off and a chilly trickle travelled down the policeman’s spine. ‘There might have been someone else here.’

  EIGHT

  The Hawker was alive and ready to go, the low note of the jet’s twin Garrett turbofans resonating up into the cockpit as the engines idled.

  Kate lost herself in the rote motions of the pre-flight preparation, the actions coming to her as automatically as breathing, but the routine stalled when her fingers dithered over the keypad of the flight computer. The spook with the beard hadn’t given her any more detail than Teller had, so for the moment, the aircraft remained set on Destination Unknown.

  It was one more item on top of the pile of things she hated about this situation – that they wouldn’t even trust the pilot with her exact end point. Without it, she couldn’t make precise fuel calculations or flight duration estimates, she couldn’t prepare a route that took into account the locations of airports for diversion or emergencies. It was a load of cloak and dagger rubbish, and Kate hated every second of it.

  She looked out of the canopy, watching two of the people from the convoy of arrivals standing in close conversation. The taller of them was a late-twenties gangly sort with the pale monitor-screen tan Kate associated with techies and desk wonks. His slump-shouldered manner and his constant bobbing nods suggested to her that the man was used to being told what to do. A stocky woman with dark hair and constantly moving hands was grilling him, and Kate immediately identified her as an American. The distinctive cues in their body language set them apart from the less animated manners of Brits. That and the way the woman dressed – in a trouser suit two seasons behind the current European style – sealed the estimation for Kate. This person was the one in charge, moving through the space like she owned it, and the pilot felt a stab of resentment toward her.

  Are you the reason I’m here, she wondered? Are you the one who gave the order?

  The pale man looked up and caught Kate staring at them. He said something to the woman and she glanced in her direction. Kate reflexively broke line of sight, suddenly certain of the fact that they had been talking about her. She chewed her lip and glanced away, instead catching a glimpse of the man with the beard, the soft-spoken Englishman who had invaded the flight deck.

  From her vantage point, she found him in the shadows of the Hawker’s starboard wing, standing against the fuselage where the others wouldn’t be able to see him. The bright slab of a sat phone illuminated his face as he worked away with his thumbs, typing out a message she was too far away to read.

  Watching him send his text made Kate think of Alex, and she pulled out her own phone, flicking to a chat app that used images of bright cartoon animals as its user icons. Stabbing out letters with her index finger, she wrote a quick missive more for her peace of mind than for Alex’s. She wanted to make sure he knew he was in her thoughts, and she wanted to reconnect before it was time to depart. There was no way to know when she would have the chance again.

  HEADING OUT SOON, she wrote. DON’T WAIT UP. I’LL BE BACK TOMORROW MORNING. Kate punctuated the message with a heart emoji, then the little caricature sparrow that represented her trilled the words into the ether.

  Alex and George were what was best in Kate Hood’s life right now, and every moment she was denied the chance to be with them frustrated her.

  After a moment, the phone gave off a pulse of vibration and Alex’s cartoon bear grinned, emitting two more hearts and a thumb’s up. FLY SAFE, it said.

  ‘What is that?’ A prim voice spoke up from the vestibule and Kate turned in her seat to see a dark-skinned man with a rounded nose looking down at her through a pair of rimless glasses. He indicated the phone. ‘Finn should have told you – no personal electronics for the duration of the flight.’ He opened his hand. ‘Let me have it.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Kate looked the guy up and down, ignoring the demand.

  ‘You can call me Ray,’ he explained, still holding out his hand. ‘I’m the co-pilot. Can I have your phone, please?’

  ‘No, piss off,’ Kate said, without heat, and she slipped the device back into her jacket pocket. The little act of defiance made her feel slightly better.

  ‘We have procedures,’ began Ray.

  ‘So do I,’ she shot back, silencing him. ‘One of them is not getting dicked about by clients.’ Kate pointed at the empty seat next to her. ‘Why don’t you see if you can impress me by sitting down and coding in the flight plan? Because I don’t want to be doing this a single minute longer than I have to.’

  He hesitated, and she could see him thinking about pushing back. But no matter what his bearded mate had said, Kate was damned if she would let some right-seater boss her about on her own aircraft. Better to set out my stall first thing, she thought, than let these people try to walk all over me.

  Frowning at his wristwatch, Ray gave a sigh and took his position, flipping open the cover of a tablet computer that displayed the reference data required for the flight. He navigated around the Hawker’s cockpit with the assurance of someone familiar with the aircraft type, punching in the relevant codes on the flight computer with quick, jabbing motions.

  At least he seems competent, she thought, watching him work. That’s better than nothing.

  ‘You served?’ She sensed the lingering stamp of military training on the man and decided to see if her instincts were right. If he was ex-RAF like her, Ray might have been a year or two behind her in the forces.

  ‘Voyager flight crew.’ The admission came reluctantly, stiffly, as if he had to prise it out of himself with a needle. ‘101 Squadron.’

  Kate accepted that without comment. The Voyagers were the Royal Air Force’s tankers, derived from the same airframe as civilian A330 airliners. It was altogether possible she might have taken fuel from his aircraft when flying a Tornado, but she stopped herself before saying that out loud. This man wasn’t her comrade in arms, and he was not someone she was going to trade war stories with. It wouldn’t pay to get too chummy.

  Her attention returned to the screens in front of her. With Morocco as their destination, Kate expected to see the most likely landing site come up as Mohammed V International near Casablanca, or maybe Menara Airport outside of Marrakesh. But Ray’s input brought up a location that she didn’t immediately recognise, the airfield’s four-letter ICAO code unfamiliar to her.

  ‘What’s your experience dealing with rougher strips?’ He said. ‘The less well-maintained runways, I mean.’

  ‘If it’s flat, I can land on it.’ Kate answered the challenge with reflexive pilot’s bravado. She indicated the screen. ‘Where is that?’

  ‘Sidi Ifni.’ The name meant nothing, but she knew there were a dozen disused and mothballed airfields along the western coast of the North African country. ‘It’s not important,’ continued Ray. ‘We’ll barely be on the ground five minutes for the transfer, then we’ll transit north to Ben Slimane to tank up, then home.’

  ‘Transfer?’ She echoed the word, but Ray didn’t elaborate.

  Despite his assurances, Kate was not mollified, and in silence she studied the datum, elevation and runway length for their destination. A creeping, nagging disquiet crawled along her spine, pulling her back toward home as if there were invisible cords trying to tether her to the ground. Nothing about this flight sat well with Kate, and with each passing moment, she wanted more and more to tear away her headset and walk off the flight deck.

  To hell with Teller and his thinly veiled threats. So what if he bad-mouthed her to everyone who listened, what would that alter? Nothing. Kate would still be a pariah to those in the know.

  Except, if she walked out, she would be a pariah without a job and no real chance of ever having a career in aviation again. Wings well and truly clipped.

  ‘Hold your nose,’ she said, under her breath, recalling Teller’s earlier comment. ‘Just hold your nose, Kate, and fly the bloody plane.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Ray looked up from his tablet.

  She didn’t reply. Movement outside the Hawker caught her attention as the dark-haired American woman and the guy with the beard – the one Ray had called Finn – climbed the steps to board the jet. Ignoring a censorious look from her co-pilot, Kate shifted in her seat to watch them enter the cabin.

  ‘Oh, this is delightful,’ said the American, turning up her nose at the Hawker’s austere, stripped-down interior. ‘So I’m guessing no caviar and cognac service, huh?’ She found a seat and settled into it like she was planting a flag of conquest. ‘Well, I’ve flown TWA, so I have seen worse.’

  ‘Creature comforts aren’t really in the budget for this sort of thing,’ said Finn, noting Kate’s attention. ‘We’re more of an economy class operation these days.’ He stepped into the vestibule. ‘Good to go?’

  Finn addressed the question to Ray, but Kate took it from him, nodding at the cabin. ‘All set. Take your seat, please.’

  ‘There’s still one more passenger to come.’ Finn looked past her, and Kate followed his line of sight.

  A figure in baggy black overalls was led out from the transport truck by their bound-together hands, their head lost under a dark sackcloth cowl. Grim-faced and muscular, the hard eyes of the man dragging the captive darted left and right as they walked the short distance to the Hawker.

  He was the type that immediately set alarm bells ringing in Kate’s head. Not someone I want on my plane, she told herself. But she couldn’t stop herself from wondering who his charge might be. Ordinary criminals didn’t warrant this kind of thing. Only the highest level of dangerous individuals deserved the black-bag treatment.

  Kate had glimpsed the edges of activities like tonight’s operation when she had been on deployment, catching it out of the corner of her eye as unmarked aircraft came and went from airstrips in the sandbox.

  CIA, people would say. MI6 or PMC. Whatever convenient three-letter acronym covered it best, they ultimately sounded the same warnings.

  Don’t ask questions. Mind your own business. Or you’ll regret it.

  The thuggish man pushed the hooded prisoner up the stairs and into the cabin, and Kate could see the captive’s shoulders trembling with fright. Finn took control, guiding the prisoner to the seat opposite the American. He clipped the bound wrists to a metal bar on the inside of the cabin wall that Kate hadn’t noticed before. She heard a weak moan as the hooded figure slumped, shrinking like a plastic doll exposed to a high heat.

  The man with the hard eyes stood on the cabin threshold, watching Finn work with an expression of unfiltered dissatisfaction. When Finn was done, the other man leaned in and growled something in his ear. Kate didn’t catch all of what he said, just the last part of an accusatory question.

  ‘. . . handle this?’

  ‘Get off the fucking plane, Knox.’ The American snapped out the order at him before Finn could frame a reply. ‘You’re not coming with us. Not after last time.’ She made a ‘tut tut’ noise and waggled her finger. ‘Langley hasn’t forgotten how you kicked the hell out of the last guy cos he looked at you funny.’

  ‘Not what happened,’ said Knox, grinding out the words. ‘Still bullshit.’ He gave Finn a last, razor-edged glare and stepped off the Hawker before closing up the hatch behind him.

  ‘Jeez, I thought he would never leave,’ said the American woman, each word fast and sharp. ‘Can we please get this bird in the air if it is not too much trouble?’ The last she directed straight down the line of the cabin toward the flight deck.

  Kate took a long breath and let her hands settle on to the controls, scanning the panel and finding nothing but green lights and ready indicators. Adjusting her headset mike in front of her lips, she pressed the button that gave her control of the intercom speaker back in the cabin.

  ‘This is your pilot speaking,’ said Kate, as she eased the throttle forward and the Hawker began to roll. ‘Flight time to our destination will be . . .’ she scanned the numbers on the screen, ‘. . . approximately three hours and twenty seven minutes. So, if everyone will kindly belt up, we’ll be on our way.’

  The numbers rolled around her head as she guided the jet on to the runway and lined up for departure, half-listening to Ray communicating tersely with Ridley Hill’s control tower.

  Just keep your eyes front, hands on the yoke, brain engaged. That had been the mantra recited by her flying instructor at RAF College Cranwell, a lifetime ago when training evolutions had been the only thing she had to worry about. Fly the plane. That’s your first and last job.

  ‘Not my last, if I can help it,’ she muttered.

  Kate poured on the power and the Hawker accelerated away, its nose rising off the ground, its wings biting into the night air.

  ‘So, it’s kind of like time travel,’ said George, waving a hand at the ink-black sky overhead. He indicated the pole star high above them, the words spilling out of him. ‘The light we’re seeing isn’t from right now, it’s from hundreds of years ago, that’s how long it takes to get here. We’re looking into the past!’

  Alex showed a lopsided grin. ‘It amazes me how you remember all this. So how old is it, then?’

  ‘Three hundred and twenty three years.’ George answered without hesitation. ‘Because it’s three hundred and twenty three light years away. So that means, uh . . .’ The boy trailed off, the numbers escaping him.

  ‘That’s what it looked like at the end of the seventeenth century,’ offered his father. ‘Well. Who needs a time machine, eh? You can just look up.’

  ‘Yeah.’ George recovered his momentum and flipped to a page in the book that Kate had given him. ‘See, it says here that Polaris is actually three stars not one. It only looks like one from very far away. And because it’s the brightest, if you can see it, you can always find your way home.’

  Alex nodded along, not wanting to derail his son’s enthusiasm. George came across like a bright kid when you got him talking about what he was interested in, but unfortunately that interest didn’t extend to a lot of the subjects he studied in school. Listening to him expound, it was hard to believe this was the same boy whose teachers complained about his poor marks and inattention at every parent’s evening.