‘Bluebell’s temperature has risen to 38.9?’ Dr Grogan asked.

  ‘Yes, up from 38.8 in the past hour. And she’s very distressed. Could you come over?’ Katy asked.

  ‘Is she awake?’

  ‘She is, yes.’

  ‘How is she, generally?’

  ‘She’s delirious and very confused. I tried taking her pulse – I did a First Aid course some years ago and I’m trying to remember everything. Her heart’s beating fast. She’s very hot and sweaty.’

  ‘I think she should be in hospital, I’m afraid. That would be the best place for her with those symptoms, I don’t like the sound of that temperature. Jump in the car with her now and get her to the hospital immediately.’

  Thanking her, Katy ended the call shakily and looked at Chris. He nodded.

  57

  Sunday 28 March

  Earlier that day Velvet Wilde drove while an unusually subdued Norman Potting sat beside her, frowning studiously at his phone and texting in a plodding way with one finger.

  ‘You all right, Norman?’ she asked.

  ‘Sort of.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘Why?’

  ‘You seem a bit quiet.’

  He glanced at the satnav. ‘Coming up on the left in a few hundred yards,’ he said. Then he added, ‘Tell you on the way back – I’ve a new lady in my life but she’s going through some tough treatment for cancer at the moment.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Do you want to—’

  ‘Left here!’ he called out sharply, interrupting her, as the farm entrance appeared. It was partially obscured by brambles on either side, with a small, faded wooden sign proclaiming spring farm. Next to it was a larger but equally aged sign, with a skull and crossbones at the top and, in large red capital letters, the words KEEP OUT. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

  As they lurched onto a potholed and rutted cart track, Wilde said, ‘Nothing like a nice welcome to make you feel all warm and fuzzy.’

  Potting raised his eyebrows. ‘Did you see the Public Footpath sign almost buried in the brambles?’

  ‘No.’

  He jerked a finger. ‘Just back there. He’s probably breaking the law with that sign.’

  ‘You going to tell him?’

  He looked at her dubiously. ‘Toss you for the privilege.’

  The hedgerow lining the drive on both sides was as unkempt as the entrance. Sheep grazed in one large field and cows in another. At least the animals looked healthy, Potting – who had been brought up on a farm – thought. One point in John Roke’s favour. He suspected there wouldn’t be many more.

  There might have been a spring after which Spring Farm was named, but it wasn’t in evidence as they passed an open-sided barn containing rusted agricultural equipment that looked like it hadn’t been used in years, an old US Army Jeep on blocks, minus its wheels, and a small mountain of vehicle parts that looked modern – Potting recognized a door and tailgate that would have been on a Ford Transit van. Wilde stared at the parts.

  ‘Buys his vehicles from IKEA, does he?’ Wilde asked with a smile.

  ‘More likely has someone nick them, dismantle them here and flog the bits as spares around the local pubs. But that’s not our problem at the moment.’ He nodded ahead as they entered a muddy farmyard, with a ramshackle flint farmhouse, the ivy cladding seemingly the only thing holding it together. All the windows looked rotten, with only flecks of their original white paint visible, and the front door was the same.

  Two large black and tan dogs, with pointy ears and mouths that were all teeth, snarled and barked at them. They were tethered by chains restraining them a few feet from a green kennel that was in a lot better shape than the owner’s house. Several white geese ran, honking and clucking aggressively, towards their car, and a white and silver cockerel shrieked piercingly nearby. There was a rank cocktail of the smell of animals, stagnant water, straw, rust and timber.

  To their right, in a black indent that might once have been a duck pond fed by the eponymous but now absent spring, were a rusted-out 1950s Chevrolet pickup truck, resting on its wheel rims, the skeletal remains of an old motorbike, and a lopsided caravan. There was a row of caravans beyond, all looking in varying states of disrepair, and several barns beyond these from which came a distant cacophony of barking.

  ‘Bit of a restoration project that bike, do you think?’ Wilde asked.

  ‘More like a resurrection needed, if you ask me,’ he replied. Then he said, ‘Oh, hello, we’re in luck, looks like Squire Roke is in residence!’

  Both of them saw a heavily bearded man with angry hair appear in the front doorway, looking as happy as his dogs, and brandishing an over-and-under shotgun. Tall and very overweight, dressed in a checked shirt, a grimy puffer torn in several places, brown corduroy trousers and heavy mud-caked boots, he pretty much filled the door frame.

  ‘You call that luck?’ Wilde murmured dubiously.

  ‘We’re on the side of the angels, remember.’ Potting threw her a grin, opened his door and climbed out. Immediately a goose ran up and pecked him on the leg. ‘Boo!’ he retorted and heard his colleague giggle as she got out of the car too.

  ‘Come one foot closer and I’ll shoot!’ the man shouted out in a voice with a strong Sussex accent. ‘Just one foot, I’m telling you!’

  Potting held up his warrant card and Wilde did the same. ‘We’re police officers,’ he shouted back. ‘Detective Sergeant Norman Potting and Detective Constable Velvet Wilde from Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. We’re looking for John Roke.’ All the time he was speaking he carried on walking towards the man.

  ‘You’ve found him,’ the man replied, lowering his gun, but only a little. ‘What do you bastards want to nick me for this time?’ Roke had a string of past convictions, and his last prison sentence had been for stealing copper from church roofs.

  ‘We’re not here to nick you for anything, Mr Roke,’ Potting said. Then could not help himself from adding, ‘Well not yet, anyway.’

  The farmer studied both of them, fleetingly, with sharp, ice-coloured eyes. Then he nodded at his gun. ‘I keep this for the likes of vermin like you.’

  ‘And I’m sure your gun licence is up to date,’ Potting said.

  ‘Want me to get it and show you?’

  ‘We’re not here to talk about your gun licence, Mr Roke.’

  ‘So you’re not here to nick me for anything and you’re not here to talk about my gun licence, so this is just a social visit, is it – in which case you can both fuck off.’

  ‘Actually, Mr Roke, we’re here because we’d like to take a look around, if you’re willing to let us.’

  The man’s expression suddenly became dangerous, momentarily unnerving both detectives. ‘You’re having a laugh, right? A look around? What do you think this place is, a stately home that’s open to the public? Clear off, the pair of you.’ He raised the gun menacingly.

  ‘You’re committing a criminal offence pointing a gun at a police officer,’ Velvet Wilde said sharply. ‘If you continue I will radio for an Armed Response Unit and you will never be allowed to hold a gun permit again. Do you understand me?’

  Roke hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly lowered the gun.

  ‘Break the barrels,’ Wilde commanded.

  Again, Roke hesitated, then complied. As he broke them open, both cartridges ejected and fell to the ground.

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ Potting said, kneeling and picking them up. ‘I’ll give these back to you before we leave.’

  ‘You’re leaving right now.’

  Potting shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid we’ve only just arrived. We’re looking for some missing dogs and you’re down as a licensed breeder. So what we’d like to do is have a good look around your premises.’

  ‘You’ve got a warrant?’

  The DS looked at the farmer, who stood several inches taller than himself. ‘Listen to me, sunshine. We don’t have a search warrant, but what I do have are these.’ He dug his hand into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and produced a wad of papers. ‘Six warrants for your arrest for unpaid fines.’ He raised a finger, seeing Roke on the verge of exploding.

  Roke glared at him.

  ‘Now I’m going to give you two choices. Either you let DC Wilde and myself take a good look around your premises, without any interference, or we’ll go and get a warrant. If we have to do that, we’ll be back with the biggest army of coppers you’ve ever seen in your life, and we’ll tie you up for the next six months as we go through the provenance of every vehicle and animal you have on this site.’ Then he held up the arrest warrants. ‘And if you’re a good boy I’ll stick these back in my pocket and forget about them – for now anyway.’

  Roke looked nonplussed. ‘Go ahead, do what you have to do, fill your boots, you won’t find anything. I don’t know why you’re bothering with me, it’s Terry Jim you should be taking a look at, him and his little shit of a son, Dallas.’

  ‘We’re visiting all the farms in this area,’ Potting replied.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be doing something useful with your time?’ Roke asked sarcastically. ‘Like nicking motorists for speeding?’

  58

  Sunday 28 March

  Less than twenty minutes after Cleo had put out the posts on social media, offering a reward of one hundred pounds and giving her mobile phone number as the contact, her phone rang.

  ‘I have your dog,’ a female voice said.

  For an instant, Cleo was elated. ‘Oh my God! You’ve found Humphrey? Thank you for calling, thank God! Where was he?’

  ‘In Stanmer Park. I was walking my own dog and this beautiful black Labrador type came over to us and then just stood there – he barked a couple of times and then whined. He followed us back to my car. I waited there for some while, thinking his owner would turn up, but no one came, and it was starting to get dark. I tried to shoo him away but he wouldn’t go – and he was friendly to my own dog.’

  ‘He’s friendly to all dogs!’ Cleo said. ‘Oh God, I’m so relieved. Thank you so much!’

  ‘This reward you are offering, of one hundred pounds. Might you consider making it a little higher?’

  The caller had an odd accent, she thought, after her initial moment of elation – it sounded part Brummy – and an odd delivery, as if she was reading from a script. For whatever reason, it made Cleo a tad suspicious. ‘How much do you think would be reasonable?’ she tested.

  ‘One thousand pounds?’

  ‘One thousand pounds?’ Cleo repeated.

  ‘I know I would pay that and more if my little Tilly went missing,’ she said.

  ‘OK,’ Cleo said, very wary now but not wanting to show it, and thinking fast. ‘Can you describe the dog you have, so I can be sure it’s him?’

  ‘Of course – hang on, boy!’ There was silence for a moment, then the woman said, ‘Sorry, the darling wanted a biscuit. He’s quite greedy, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘So, describing him, he’s a little smaller than most Labs, black hair with a lot of grey in it. I’m not sure how much more description you want?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Cleo said. ‘So, how would I pay you the money?’

  ‘Cash, dear. I’d need it up front – not that I don’t trust you.’

  ‘Of course,’ Cleo said.

  ‘You know about What3Words?’

  ‘I do, I have the app.’

  ‘Good. I’ll give you a location, you leave the money there and then you give me a What3Words address and I’ll bring Humphrey to you.’

  ‘That sounds fine,’ Cleo said. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Hazel.’

  ‘Hazel who?’

  There was a faint hesitation before she replied. ‘Hazel Trussler.’

  ‘OK, Hazel, I’m hugely grateful. We can do this now?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’ll have to give me time to get the money from a cash machine.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  ‘One quick question – just a final check – what colour collar is Humphrey wearing?’

  ‘It’s green.’

  ‘Green? You are sure?’

  ‘Emerald green.’

  Cleo hung up on the woman angrily.

  The collar Humphrey had been wearing when she’d taken that photograph last week was bright green. But the next day, when Roy had taken him for a long run, somehow the collar had come off and was lost. She’d bought him a new one three days ago, along with a new tag. The new collar was bright red.

  59

  Sunday 28 March

  Roy Grace drove through the entrance to Stanmer Park that Cleo had directed him to, and followed the tree-lined road around the perimeter. After nearly a mile the Alfa’s headlights lit up a sign to the cafe, and a short distance on, he saw a silver MX-5 in a parking area at the side of the road. Cleo’s sister flashed her headlights twice in recognition.

  But just as he pulled up alongside her car, his phone rang. It was Branson. ‘Can you talk, boss?’

  ‘Sure if it’s quick. I’ve got a bit of a personal problem.’

  ‘Not your deodorant again?’

  ‘I’m not in the mood for humour. Humphrey’s gone missing.’

  ‘Humphrey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You mean missing as in lost, or stolen?’

  ‘I don’t know. Cleo was walking him in Stanmer Park and he ran off and disappeared. I’ve just arrived at the park to see if I can find him.’

  ‘Shit. Tell me where you are and I’ll come straight over.’

  ‘No, it’s OK, her sister’s here to help me, but thank you.’

  ‘If one of those bastards has stolen him, that’s too much of a coincidence, right?’

  ‘Exactly. He’s probably just run off and got lost – he did it once before. Anyhow, what were you calling about?’

  ‘We may have an interesting development in Operation Brush. Polly Sweeney just took a call from a woman she said sounded very frightened – wouldn’t give her name. This person said she worked in the kennels of a dog breeder – mucking them out and exercising the dogs and that. She’d seen on the news about the farmer who’d been murdered and his French bulldogs stolen. She thinks some of these dogs might be at her kennels.’

  Cleo’s sister, Charlie, was out of her car and walking towards him. Grace put down his window and signalled to her he would be a moment. ‘What made her think that?’

  ‘Five puppies and two adults – a match to the ones from the Ruddles’ farm – and the photograph of them that had been in the Argus and on television.’

  ‘What else did Polly get from her?’

  ‘That she’s scared for her life – like – terrified. She told Polly she’s certain there’s an illegal operation going on. A co-worker wasn’t happy about the condition the dogs were being kept in and said she was going to talk to her boss about it. She’s not seen her again and she’s really worried what’s happened to her.’

  ‘Maybe she just quit?’ Grace suggested.

  ‘No, it doesn’t sound like it, boss. She’d become friends with this co-worker, and they were going to meet for a drink in a pub, lunchtime today. The woman never turned up. She’s called her mobile several times since, and there’s no answer.’

  ‘Did she give this co-worker’s name?’

  ‘She did, she said it was Rosalind Esche – Romeo Oscar Sierra Alpha Lima India November Delta, Echo Sierra Charlie Hotel Echo. We’re going to run some checks on the name.’

  ‘Did Polly get this caller’s number?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Nope, she said she was too scared to give that either. She withheld the number.’

  ‘Do we know where she was calling from?’ Grace said.

  ‘She would only say somewhere in Hailsham.’

  ‘East Sussex,’ Grace said. ‘In the zone of our suspects.’

  ‘Right in the zone,’ Branson confirmed.

  ‘So what happens next with this lady?’

  ‘She’s agreed to meet Polly tomorrow evening, after work.’

  ‘She has? Where?’

  ‘She’s that angry about the way the puppies are being treated. She’s told Polly she’ll call her after work and say where to meet.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Grace said. ‘I’ll be in for the morning briefing, but this sounds as if it could be significant.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want me to come over and help look for Humphrey?’

  ‘Thanks, but if he’s here, we’ll find him. I want you to start developing intelligence on this information. Ring me later with what you find, we need to get on to this straight away.’

  Ending the call, Grace climbed out of the car holding his powerful torch and went over to Charlie. He thanked her for coming out.

  ‘Let’s go find that rascal, starting with where he was last seen,’ she said.

  He shone the beam up into the darkness, playing it over several oak and chestnut trees. ‘Humphrey!’ he called. ‘HUMPHREY!’

  60

  Sunday 28 March

  Anish Shah was exhausted and relieved he was just twenty minutes from ending his double shift – covering for a colleague who was unwell – at the hospital. The twenty-seven-year-old paediatric registrar had been on his feet for eighteen hours straight, in the children’s department.

  Sunday evenings were normally a relatively quiet time, but in the past two hours he’d had to deal with a nine-year-old who’d had his finger severed in a car door, a seven-year-old girl with suspected meningitis, and he’d just sent a four-year-old boy, who’d fallen out of a loft and had a suspected skull fracture, up for an X-ray. He sat down at the nursing station and, feeling low on sugar, began peeling a banana.

  Two years ago, he had just qualified as a doctor in his native city of Peshawar, when he’d seen an advertisement for the field of medicine in which he really wanted to specialize – paediatrics – in Brighton, England. It offered much better pay, as well as financial help with accommodation – and the attraction of a beautiful seaside city. He’d applied and been accepted. The advert had not warned about the long hours – and it was no one’s fault that sickness had added substantially to these.