Growing up with parents who were devout Lutherans – more my mother, but my dad went along with it – had made me stay away from religion as much as possible. And I cringed watching my father comply; he was so bloody weak he would bend if a fly farted on him.

  Maybe my hosts, the Scientologists, had answers but I wasn’t in any mental state to study anything or to concentrate on anything. Most of my time I just sat, nervous whenever I heard footsteps come along the corridor. Scared it would somehow be Albazi.

  This morning, Hans-Jürgen brought me a copy of today’s Argus newspaper. I couldn’t believe it, but there was a photograph of Old Me on the front page. Beneath a bold headline: FEARS GROW FOR DETECTIVE’S MISSING WIFE.

  I read the story beneath. It really was about me, about Old Me, about someone who used to be called Sandy Grace. About when I was last seen, my last purchases of paracetamol, toothpaste and petrol. My car found abandoned in the short-term car park at Gatwick South.

  ‘Sandy had not boarded any flight,’ Roy was quoted as saying at a press conference. My plan had worked.

  He then went on to say, ‘When I last saw my wife, at 7.30 a.m. yesterday, she was in a happy mood and looking forward to going out to celebrate my birthday that evening. I’m not able to speculate what might have happened to her, but I have grave concerns she may have been abducted and is in great danger.’ He looked so visibly upset and that was hard for me to see.

  A text pinged in. It was from Nicos.

  U awake? Hope they’re looking after you. You should be safe now. The Biggin Hill diversion is in place. XXX

  Three XXXs again. That didn’t escape me.

  But I was confused by what he meant. What Biggin Hill diversion?

  41

  28 July 2007 – Roel Albazi

  At 6.30 a.m., Roel Albazi drove his ageing black Range Rover, which was on cloned plates, out of the small parking area beneath the apartment building. He drove carefully, although he had a false driving licence corresponding to the registered keeper of this car, well aware that he had been on the local police radar for some while. He had recently been interviewed under caution in connection with loan sharking, during which he had been asked about his association with Joe Karter and Skender Sharka. He had successfully – at least so he thought – convinced the police that he did not do business with either and had no idea of their whereabouts.

  Tall Joe sat behind him and Skender Sharka’s huge bulk filled the front passenger seat, his knees pressing against the glove locker. Inside the locker was Albazi’s Glock 17, its magazine filled with seventeen 9mm soft-nose bullets.

  He hoped he wasn’t going to have to use it, but he was so angry this morning that he was fully prepared to. Against Nicos, against Tall Joe’s pilot friend, and against that bitch Sandy Grace, if it came to it.

  All three of them in the car were in a bad mood, not helped by an Albanian folk song blasting at them in all directions from the massive speakers, a woman’s voice wailing a lament accompanied by hard twangs from guitar strings.

  As they drove up the ramp, Sharka leaned forward, reaching for the sound system’s volume control.

  ‘Don’t fucking touch it!’ Albazi said.

  ‘It’s hurting my ears, boss.’

  Waiting for the garage doors to rise, Albazi held two clenched fists in the air. ‘This is my music, OK? This gives me strength! This gives me what I need to think, understand?’

  ‘OK, boss, OK!’

  ‘I don’t think you two understand shit,’ Albazi said, accelerating up the ramp and out into the early morning light, turning right, following the arrow of the satnav, which had Biggin Hill Airport as its destination. ‘This is my music, OK? This is my soul!’

  He drove in silence for several minutes, all three of them in the vehicle nursing god-awful hangovers, which Tall Joe’s fried breakfast for the three of them, half an hour ago, accompanied by some very strong coffee, had done just a little to alleviate.

  ‘What I’m not understanding, boss,’ Sharka said, ‘is your plan.’

  ‘The plan is to get my client’s money back. Any part of that you don’t understand?’ Albazi fired.

  ‘Quite a lot.’

  ‘You’re not understanding my plan?’ Albazi challenged.

  ‘That’s right, boss.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because I don’t have a fucking plan, all right? I just know the bitch and the Greek are going to be at Biggin Hill for a 10 a.m. flight and we are going to be two miles from it, on the only road they can take there, by 8 a.m. At some point, Sandy Grace and I are going to be having a quiet little chat, during which I’m going to tell her that the Border Force officers here and in Valencia will be very interested in knowing that she travels under two different names, and the best way to stop that happening will be to pony up the money she owes Song Wu.’

  Opposite Shoreham Harbour, Albazi turned left into Boundary Road, which was residential for a quarter of a mile and then was lined on both sides with shops. Heading up a gradient, towards a level crossing, the light turned from green to amber.

  ‘Shit!’ He floored the accelerator and the Range Rover powered forwards, bumping over the rail tracks just at the light turned red. Albazi, feeling in a reckless mood, kept the accelerator floored, the speedometer crossing 70mph. It was a 30mph limit but at this hour he was sure there wouldn’t be any police around.

  They were approaching the junction with the Old Shoreham Road, the traffic lights there green also.

  80mph.

  He was a good two hundred yards from the lights, when they turned amber. He kept going.

  ‘Boss!’ yelled Sharka, alarmed.

  Ignoring him, Albazi crossed the line to enter the junction on red, and shot safely over to the other side.

  ‘We got plenty of time to make it to the airport, boss,’ Sharka said. ‘Our ETA right now is 7.25.’

  But Albazi barely heard him. He was focused on his rear-view mirror. On the blue flashing lights that had suddenly appeared in it.

  42

  28 July 2007 – Roel Albazi

  Another thirty minutes and Tom Miller would have ended his long night shift, with four rest days ahead to look forward to. He planned to spend as much of them as possible with his fiancée, Steph, watching Grand Designs episodes that they’d recorded on television and traipsing around DIY stores, getting ideas for their new home together – a bargain, if something of a doer-upper, close to the station in Worthing.

  Single-crewed, due to his regular partner calling in sick, the twenty-eight-year-old traffic officer had just finished booking a lorry for speeding along New Church Road, and was about to make a right turn up towards the Old Shoreham Road and the fast route back to base, when he saw the kind of driving he hated. An old model Range Rover with blacked-out windows barrelling past, way, way over the speed limit – recklessly over it – towards the junction with the Old Shoreham Road.

  He pulled out after it, and saw, to his horror, that it was approaching traffic lights that were on amber, and then red, far too fast to stop, and held his breath as it ran them, straight across four lanes of traffic that was mercifully light at this still early hour.

  Moron! he thought. He could have just let it go and headed back to base at Arundel, logged his car mileage, signed off and headed home to Steph. Just one more asshole and one more accident waiting to happen, but he wasn’t that kind of police officer. He couldn’t let anything go, ever, when it came to idiotic driving. He switched on his blues and twos, slowed as he approached the red lights, saw a clear gap in the traffic and floored the accelerator of the marked BMW estate, immediately switching off his siren as he entered the wide residential road on the far side, conscious that many people would still be sleeping.

  As he closed the gap to the Range Rover, he flashed his headlights once, then again. The vehicle in front seemed to hesitate for a moment and Miller felt himself hoping this would turn into a pursuit. Go on, punk, make my day!

  He gave the driver another flash of his headlights, then a clear whup whup of his siren. The vehicle showed no sign of stopping and the man in the rear kept looking back at him, then seemingly saying something to the two men in the front.

  The vehicle’s left indicator began blinking, then a brake light came on. Just one brake light. Great, Miller thought. Got you on that, too!

  The Range Rover stopped in front of a row of semi-detached houses on the wide road. He pulled up directly behind it and, leaving his blue lights flashing, climbed out, tugging on his white hat. The men in the vehicle seemed to be acting suspiciously but he couldn’t see exactly what they were doing.

  As he reached the driver’s door, the illegal, heavily tinted window slid down. He saw a man behind the wheel who looked Eastern European, stocky and squat, with a shaven head, a pencil-thin Fu Manchu moustache, and adorned in bling. The kind of thuggish look Tom had come to associate, unfairly he was sure, with old model Range Rovers. But particularly with ones that had lowered suspension and their windows blacked out heavily. The driver might as well have had VILLAIN tattooed across his forehead.

  ‘Good morning, officer!’ he said with a slight accent, all charm, flashing a smile full of expensive dentistry.

  ‘Are you in a hurry, sir?’ The police officer took a closer look at the enormous guy next to him and the Sumo wrestler clone on the back seat and none of this looked good to him. One of the things you learned in the Roads Policing Unit was profiling vehicles. Did the occupants match the vehicle they were in? And the faces of all three characters were ringing a faint bell. He was sure he had seen them in a recent briefing, when Persons of Interest were flagged.

  ‘The light was amber, officer,’ the driver said.

  ‘It was, sir, yes, at least fifteen seconds before you reached the junction and went over on red. Are you the owner of this vehicle?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Can you tell me the registration number?’

  Albazi reeled it off, a touch too smugly for Miller’s liking. As the man spoke, he clocked the alcohol on his breath, but for a moment said nothing. Instead he took a couple of paces back, radioed in the number and asked for a PNC check. Then he asked the driver, ‘Have you been drinking, sir?’

  ‘Oh sure, like it’s 6.45 in the morning. Doesn’t everyone wake up and have a stiff drink?’ Albazi grinned broadly.

  ‘I would hope not, sir,’ Tom replied. ‘Especially if they’re getting behind the wheel of a car.’

  ‘Yeah, well, me and the boys had a couple of beers last night. But that was all. May I ask why you’ve stopped us?’

  ‘You failed to stop at a red light and you also have a defective brake light, sir. In case you are not aware, some of the worst road traffic injuries occur when a vehicle is T-boned, which is the kind of accident running a traffic light causes.’

  As he spoke, he was looking at the satnav screen on the Range Rover’s dash. It showed Biggin Hill as the destination, which further increased his suspicion about these characters. Had he stumbled across drug smugglers? ‘In a hurry to leave the country, are you? Or are you just plane spotters?’

  Moments later, Tom received a radio call. He walked away from the vehicle until he was out of earshot.

  The control room operator said, ‘Tom, the index you’ve given me for this vehicle shows it was written off following an accident three months ago.’

  ‘What’s the name of the registered keeper?’ Miller asked, his suspicions now confirmed.

  ‘It’s registered to a Guy Rolliston, with an address in Sheffield.’ Thinking fast, the PC thanked her. He could see all three occupants of the car looking at him and it made him feel increasingly uncomfortable – and wary. Something was wrong. Instead of asking her to call for backup, and risk being lip-read, he put on a broad smile while secretly pressing the emergency button on his radio phone. Then, as he walked back to the driver’s door of the Range Rover, he discreetly requested backup.

  ‘Can you tell me your name, please, sir?’ Tom asked calmly, trying not to show any real concern.

  ‘Guy – Guy Rolliston.’

  ‘May I see your licence, Mr Rolliston?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Tom Miller struggled to think that anyone could have sounded – or looked – less like a Guy Rolliston than this shady-looking character behind the wheel. Guy Rolliston sounded like the name of an accountant. He took the slim, pink card, looked at the photograph and carefully examined it, studying the name and date of birth. He was playing for time and trying not to let it show. Backup could be anywhere from a couple of minutes to half an hour away, depending on where any vehicles were located. But, despite being nervous, he decided to press on with his gambit. An intermittent stream of vehicles passed. He thought it unlikely he would be assaulted here in broad daylight on a main road.

  ‘Mr Rolliston, I have reason to believe you may be driving under the influence of alcohol and I require you to take a breath test. Would you please step out of your vehicle.’

  Miller produced a breathalyser from the tailgate of his BMW, assembled a fresh tube in front of Albazi and stood next to him while he blew into it. Moments later the indicator turned red. He showed it to Albazi, then said, ‘I’m sorry to tell you, sir, you have failed the test. I’m arresting you on suspicion of driving while under the influence of alcohol and I will be taking you to the Brighton custody centre where you will be given the opportunity of a second test.’

  ‘What the fuck?’ Albazi shouted at him. ‘I’ve not drunk since last night!’

  There was a moment of stand-off while they eyeballed each other. The police officer braced himself to deal with a headbutt from the driver, which he sensed might be imminent. Then to his surprise the man’s body language turned less aggressive, almost compliant. Miller cuffed him and led him to the BMW. Just as he was pushing his head down, his prisoner shouted to the big guy in the front seat of the Range Rover, ‘You know what you have to do?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Miller turned to him. ‘I hope your pal isn’t thinking of driving your Range Rover, even if he is insured. This vehicle has a malfunctioning brake light and the front windows are darker than the legal limit. This vehicle cannot be driven until both defects are rectified.’

  ‘We have important business!’ Albazi shouted in frustration from the rear of the police car. ‘You need to understand!’

  ‘Need to understand what, exactly?’

  ‘I thought you were a police officer,’ Albazi said. ‘Not a comedian.’

  ‘So how exactly are we supposed to get home?’ the short, very fat guy in the back asked.

  ‘You are on a bus route, sir. If you choose to get in a vehicle with clearly illegal blackout windows – and with a driver who has been drinking – then I’m afraid that’s your problem. What’s your name?’

  ‘Freddie Mercury.’

  ‘And your mate is Brian May, right?’

  ‘Yeah!’ Tall Joe said. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘I’m psychic – I have the gift.’

  Miller returned to his vehicle and slammed the rear door shut on Albazi, trapping him as the child locks were always on, then turned to see both men standing by the Range Rover, one even taller than he had looked, the other short, a tiny head on top of a swollen body, like something out of one of those old Michelin Man adverts, he thought.

  They were both looking around in near panic, as the wail of sirens howled above the din of the passing traffic.

  ‘So Biggin Hill, eh?’ the traffic officer said. ‘Quite an historic airport – Second World War aviation is one of my passions. Four hundred and fifty-three pilots and ground crew died at Biggin Hill during the war – did you know that?’

  Skender Sharka and Tall Joe stared at him as if he was insane.

  ‘But between them all they shot down one thousand, four hundred German aircraft. Not bad, eh?’

  There were headlights and blue lights coming towards them, from two directions now.

  ‘Think about it,’ Tom Miller went on. ‘If it hadn’t been for those brave pilots at Biggin Hill, we might all be speaking German right now. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, eh? German is a nice language. Mein Fahrer wurde festgenommen. Sounds a lot nicer than my driver has just been arrested, don’t you think?’

  43

  30 July 2007

  Just when I’d been getting really excited about leaving this place and jetting off, Nicos had called. All bets were off, I needed to stay where I was. He would explain when he was back in the country later in the week.

  And this morning, the headlines of the online Argus shouted at me.

  ‘EVIL’ FINANCIAL EXTORTION GANG BUSTED

  Below was a reassuring quote from Detective Inspector Roy Grace. ‘I can confirm that, after months of intelligence work in partnership with the National Crime Agency, we have now arrested the suspected ringleaders, Roel Albazi, Skender Sharka and Joseph Karter, of what I can only call an evil gang of predatory lenders.’

  It was such a good feeling, after the weirdness of my confinement, where every sound of footsteps along the corridor outside my room filled me with dread that there would be a rap on the door from Roy, or Roel Albazi, to be feeling a little safer.

  When Nicos finally came to visit, later in the week, he explained the whole plan – for us to fly out from Biggin Hill – had been a bluff to flush out his regular private pilot, who he suspected – correctly it seemed – of being a complete slimeball, and taking a bung from Albazi.

  I showed the piece to Nicos and he just smiled like I told you so.

  He then made it clear that there wasn’t going to be any private jet trip to the sun anytime soon. Albazi was in police custody and likely to be charged, but unless he was considered a serious flight risk, he would almost certainly be released on bail, with his trial many months away. Many months in which he would be free to come after me.