Archie stared back in terror. ‘There must be a mistake. Your boss? What does he think I’ve stolen?’

  ‘A painting.’

  ‘A painting? You mean your boss is Mr Kilgore?’

  ‘Mr Kilgore is not our boss. Mr Kilgore works for our boss.’

  There was a brief, tense silence.

  ‘I-I don’t understand.’

  The one on the left flipped back the lid of the can and held the spout under Archie’s nose. He smelled the strong, unmistakable stench of petrol.

  ‘N-n-n-no, please, n-n-n-no,’ Archie stammered.

  The one on the right, with the red ring, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shook one out and offered the thin white stick with the filter tip to Archie. ‘Smoke? Like a snout?’

  Goff shook his head wildly.

  ‘Not good for your health, are they, Mr Goff.’ Replacing the pack in his pocket, he then pulled out a plastic lighter and clicked. A large flame burned. He clamped the cigarette between his own lips, lit it and drew in a deep lungful, smoke spurting from his mouth as he spoke. ‘But I don’t think it is the snouts that are going to kill you right now.’ He smiled and took another drag. ‘We don’t have the luxury of time to wait for that to kill you; it could be years, couldn’t it?’ Then the smile fell off a cliff and he looked deadly serious.

  ‘Our boss don’t like being made a fool of, Mr Goff. He would like the painting you removed from the wall of the Kiplings’ house, not the copy that the artist Mr Hegarty had made. If you’d like to see your lady, Isabella Reyzebal, again, it is very simple. All you have to do is direct us to where the original painting is.’

  Archie stared back at him, totally confused through his terror. ‘I-I’m sorry – I – the painting I handed Mr Kilgore last night is the one I took off the Kiplings’ wall.’

  The man slammed his fist into the side of Archie’s head, momentarily dazing him. Archie felt agonizing stinging pain as the ring gouged out a chunk of flesh. Then blood running down his cheek.

  ‘My boss does not think so. Maybe we should jog your memory, Mr Goff.’

  His twin circled Archie, pouring petrol in a steady stream all around him. Then, holding the can, he stepped back a few paces. ‘Is this helping you to think any more clearly?’

  ‘I swear!’ Archie screamed. ‘I swear the painting I gave Mr Kilgore is the one I took off the wall. I don’t know anything about art. Why the hell would I try to screw the man who’d bailed me out of prison? You have to believe me. You HAVE to. Please!’

  ‘Are you familiar with the television show Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, Mr Goff?’ the one with the ring asked.

  ‘I-I’ve seen it, yes,’ he croaked, the reek of petrol all around him, and watching the glow of the cigarette in utter terror.

  ‘So is that your final answer?’

  ‘NO!’ he screamed, realizing where this was going. ‘NO, this is NOT my final answer.’

  ‘So, just tell us where the original painting is.’

  ‘I just did what I was told,’ Archie yammered. ‘I photographed the painting, front and back, as instructed and gave the photos to Mr Kilgore. Then, as instructed, I switched the painting he gave me with the one on the wall.’

  ‘So why do we think you are lying, Mr Goff? And why does our boss think you are lying?’

  ‘I’m not lying. Please, you have to believe me.’

  Both of his tormentors shook their heads. ‘We are paid to believe our boss,’ the one on the left said. ‘Not a piece of used toilet paper like you.’

  ‘We’ll give you one more chance to think clearly,’ his twin with the ring said. Then he began to empty the contents of the petrol can over Goff, dousing him from head to foot. ‘Where is the original?’

  Archie was sobbing, the petrol fumes stinging his eyes, almost overpowering him. ‘Please,’ he choked. ‘Please believe me, I gave you what I took from the wall of the Kiplings’ house. Please believe me.’

  ‘Final answer?’ the twin on the right said.

  ‘Please believe me!’

  The twin took a hard drag on the cigarette, now burned down almost to the tip. It glowed bright red. He tossed it onto Archie Goff’s petrol-soaked lap.

  56

  Saturday, 2 November

  Shaking uncontrollably, heart pumping, Archie closed his eyes, waiting for the explosion, the whuuuuumpppp, the flames, the searing pain.

  Nothing happened. Time stood still. Time was frozen.

  Finally, he looked down through blurred eyes and saw to his astonishment the cigarette was extinguished.

  ‘You like movies, Mr Goff?’

  Barely able to speak through his fear, the stench of petrol fumes making him dizzy, Archie looked up at the two men and croaked, ‘Some.’

  Both twins nodded approvingly. ‘We like movies, too. But we like the ones best that have their research correct,’ the one with the ring said. ‘There are so many movies where petrol is ignited by a cigarette, but you see, as you may perhaps know yourself, Mr Goff, as an intelligent man, the ignition temperature for gasoline is way higher than the heat a cigarette can generate. Which means that the movie makers have simply not done their research. Pretty crap, eh?’

  Archie nodded dubiously. He was thinking about his daughter. About that ring in the box inside his jacket. About Isabella and the trip ahead with her. What did he need to do to convince these psychopaths to believe him?

  Please don’t let it end here.

  Please.

  There had to be a way out of this.

  Fear coiled and unspooled and coiled again in every cell of his body.

  Money? he thought. The universal motivation. ‘Look, please, how much do you want? I-I can give you back the money. I’ve – I’ve got most of it. I’ve—’

  He screamed as a cigarette burned into his skin, then he screamed again as he felt something clamp to his scrotum, then another cigarette burn. He felt clamps on his nipples. Drenched in perspiration, he cried out again just as his body convulsed with electric shocks.

  ‘Please,’ he yelled. ‘Please—’ He was stopped in mid-sentence by an agonizing pain in his left arm, as if someone had stuck a sharp knife all the way up inside the skin and muscles. He cried out again, but the sound jammed somewhere inside his constricted gullet.

  Neither of the men had done this. They were both still standing in front of him, looking at him. Frowning now.

  The pain shot up his left arm again, even more excruciating, but this time only a tiny gasp jetting from his mouth. The men blurred as a volcanic pain erupted inside him. It felt like his entire chest was being clamped in a vice that was tightening, crushing his insides.

  Images of Isabella’s face floated in front of him.

  Heard one of the twins say, ‘He’s ill.’

  ‘Isabella!’ he whispered.

  The last sound he ever heard was the voice of the twin with the big red ring saying, loudly, ‘Shit.’

  57

  Sunday, 3 November

  Daniel Hegarty’s house, which had a commanding view to the south – facing out onto the English Channel – and to the north of the open fields of the South Downs, was sunk down below the street level.

  Hegarty and his wife had bought the house largely because of the inspirational views for his painting. He always woke early, loving the pre-dawn light. His routine, seven days a week, was to dress, down a quick espresso, then take Rocky and Rambo – tough names but wusses of dogs – for a long walk across the open countryside before returning home for breakfast, a scan of the papers and then settling into his studio to paint – sometimes commissions, and sometimes more works for his next exhibition at the Brighton gallery which had endless demands for his pictures.

  It was a dry, fine, if chilly, autumn morning, and still half an hour to sunrise. Wrapped up well in a fleece and beanie, the artist climbed the steps to the street in the half-light, the dogs tugging on their leads, almost pulling him up, and opened the gate latch, letting the over-excited animals run out onto the pavement, yanking his arm.

  ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Hey, calm down, boys!’

  But Rocky and Rambo seemed even more excited than usual this morning. And instead of turning right, as usual, to drag their master as fast as they could towards the Downs and where they would be let off their leashes, they ran straight ahead, stopped and began barking loudly.

  ‘Ssssshhhhh, Rocky, Rambo!’ Hegarty hissed. ‘You’ll wake the neighbours!’

  Then, to his surprise, the leads slackened as they stopped pulling and just stood barking.

  Barking at the dark shape lying on the pavement.

  A human body, he realized. A tall thin man, with congealed blood down the right side of his face.

  Hegarty’s first thought was that it was a drunk. Shouting at the dogs to calm down, he kneeled down and touched the man’s face. It was stone cold. The flesh stiff and unyielding.

  He recoiled in shock. Then stood up, shaking, and dialled 999.

  ‘Emergency, which service please?’ the calm female voice answered after several rings.

  ‘There’s a body – a man – lying on the pavement outside my house, I think he might be dead,’ Hegarty said.

  ‘I’ll put you through to the Ambulance Service, sir.’

  Moments later, Hegarty repeated the same thing to the Ambulance Service controller who answered. He was asked for his name and address, which he gave, and the controller asked if he could stay at the scene and an ambulance would attend as quickly as possible.

  Hegarty said he would, then walked the dogs a short way up the street, stopping to let first Rocky and then Rambo relieve themselves, scooping up their poop with plastic bags. Less than ten minutes later, he heard the faint doppler wail of a siren.

  Then his phone pinged with an incoming text.

  He looked at the display. And froze at the words he saw.

  I hope you haven’t double-crossed my boss, Mr Hegarty, by keeping the original – you know what I’m talking about. If you have, the next body on the pavement outside your house will be yours.

  Hegarty replied, with shaking fingers, struggling to get the words right and having to correct his text several times before it was ready to send. All the time, the siren getting louder and nearer. As he finally sent it, the siren had stopped and he saw light approaching, streaking across the pavement on both sides.

  Why would I double-cross your boss or anyone? I make a good living doing what I do best. Assuring you and your boss of my best services at all times, DH.

  58

  Sunday, 3 November

  There had been plenty of weeks in his life that Roy Grace would like to forget. Among them had been the week between his beloved father’s death and his funeral, and another when his mother, whom he adored, had died. The weeks following his former wife Sandy’s disappearance had until now been perhaps the worst of all. Not to mention the months and then years of torment, during which he’d begun to give up all hope of ever living anything approaching a normal life again.

  But now, finally, in these past few years, Cleo had changed all that. This gorgeous, smart, amazing woman lying in bed beside him, with her swollen, heavily pregnant belly, had given him a whole new life, a new home, a new passion for living. He loved her with all his heart and he would do anything for her. He would take a bullet for her without a moment’s hesitation. She had given him the gift of something he thought would elude him for the rest of his life.

  The gift of happiness.

  That had been torn away in the weeks that followed Bruno’s death and his funeral, which Cleo had helped him so much to get through.

  The sadness would never leave him but he knew he had to try to live his life and be there for his family. And at work there were still some unresolved issues with his former boss, Cassian Pewe, that he was yet to get to the bottom of. But for now it was Sunday, his favourite day of the week. In a few moments he would prise himself away from his luxuriously soft pillows, slip out of bed quietly, then change into his running kit and take Humphrey for a good long run along the Downs. 10k at least, maybe more. Then when he came back he was eager to try out a new recipe he’d read, an omelette, but with the eggs mixed with rolled oats and a little English mustard, wrapped around grilled mushrooms, with tomatoes and steamed spinach on the side.

  He loved experimenting, and the picture of the finished dish he’d seen in a magazine looked amazing.

  Later they were going to meet Cleo’s sister and her boyfriend at one of his favourite pubs, the child-friendly Griffin at Fletching, for Sunday lunch. Grace had mixed views about this. He liked Cleo’s sister, Charlie, a lot, although he was less keen on her boyfriend, Lance, a pompous know-all who enjoyed belittling Roy by telling him how much money he made in financial services and wondering why Roy persisted at his relatively low-paid job with the police.

  The last time they’d spent a day together, at Christmas last year, when, after their boozy lunch Lance had again told Roy he was wasting his talents in the police, and that he would never become rich as a copper, Roy had retorted, ‘Maybe not, but I have something you will never have.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ Lance had asked, through a blue cloud of cigar smoke.

  ‘The knowledge that I have enough,’ Grace had said.

  They hadn’t spoken again for the rest of that day. And Roy wasn’t much looking forward to seeing him now. But, big bonus, despite Cleo in her advanced state of pregnancy not drinking, he’d be able to have a couple of glasses of red wine. It might help him cope with the boyfriend.

  Then his job phone rang.

  He grabbed it quickly, slipped out of bed and answered, whispering, ‘One moment!’

  He hurried through into the en-suite bathroom. As he did so, he remembered he had completely forgotten that he was doing a favour to the previous week’s duty Senior Investigating Officer, Mike Ashcroft – who had helped him out by covering his shift last week – taking over from him today instead of the customary 6 a.m. Monday morning.

  A slightly nervous female voice he didn’t recognize said, ‘Detective Superintendent Grace?’

  ‘Uh huh,’ he said, closing the door behind him.

  ‘It’s DI Sapna Patel at Brighton.’

  ‘You’re new?’

  ‘I am, my first shift, sir.’

  ‘Tell me?’

  ‘We’ve a possible suspicious death, sir. The victim has been identified as someone well known to Sussex Police – Archie Goff.’

  ‘Very well known,’ Grace confirmed. ‘A proper recidivist.’

  ‘He was found two hours ago on a pavement in Saltdean, by a gentleman walking his dogs. DS Walker attended and there are a number of things that make her concerned that this is not a natural death. The first is that the dead man reeks of what apparently smells like an accelerant, possibly petrol, as if he has been doused with it. He also has a wound behind an ear, and the fingers of both hands look to have been crushed.’

  ‘Sounds like he might have upset someone,’ Grace said. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, sir, but I felt you should be informed.’

  ‘Where is the body now?’

  ‘Still in situ, sir.’

  ‘Has a coroner been notified?’

  ‘No, sir, not yet. DS Walker felt that should be a decision by Major Crime.’

  ‘Let me have the address.’ She gave it to him and Grace did a quick calculation. ‘OK, I’ll be there in half an hour. Is the body taped off?’

  ‘It is, sir, and we’ve a scene guard present.’

  ‘Good work, Sapna. What I’d like you to do is arrange a CSI team to attend the scene as quickly as possible, and I’ll meet them there.’

  ‘I will do, sir.’

  Grace had a quick shower, dressed hastily, knotting his tie, then explained the situation, apologetically, to a drowsy Cleo.

  ‘So you won’t be making lunch,’ she murmured.

  ‘I’ll do my best to be back in time.’

  ‘It wasn’t a question,’ she said, sounding more awake now. ‘It was a statement.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I’ll get those words engraved on your tombstone,’ she said.

  He looked down at her. ‘Baby.’

  Then she pursed her lips. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t very sensitive. I understand what you have to do.’ She raised a hand from under the duvet and waved it. ‘Let me know how it’s going, and when you know you’ll be back.’

  He lingered for some moments, temporarily lost for words, leaned over and kissed her, then headed downstairs.

  A heart laden with guilt. And worry. And grief.

  There was a dead body lying on a pavement in a suburb of Brighton. And quite likely a loving partner wondering why he hadn’t come home last night.

  Could a police officer responsible for finding the answers as to why he hadn’t come home and to who had killed him, sit comfortably in his skin on a chair in a Sussex pub, enjoying a prawn cocktail, perfectly roast beef and a few glasses of a decent red wine? If so, that person was in the wrong job.

  You had to make choices in life and live with the consequences, not only those of your actions, but of your inactions.

  Roy Grace went downstairs, ate a piece of toast spread with Marmite, peanut butter and slices of cucumber, downed it with a Nespresso, then hurried out to his car.

  Before he drove off, he texted Cleo:

  Love you so much, babes. XXXX

  59

  Sunday, 3 November

  Thirty minutes later, following the satnav on his phone, in its cradle on the Alfa’s dash, Roy Grace passed the Lido then turned off the coast road, winding up through the network of Saltdean’s pleasant residential streets.

  There had been no reply yet from Cleo.

  Cresting the brow of a steep hill, a glorious, sunny view of the English Channel came into sight. Then a short distance ahead he saw a cluster of vehicles – two marked police cars, a white CSI van as well as an unmarked saloon. There was a small knot of members of the public standing well back down the road behind crime scene tape and he kicked, almost on autopilot, into full work mode.