Anna had no memory of her abduction by Harry Kidd. He’d coshed her hard enough that everything between leaving work and waking up in his boot was a blank. And Kidd himself had never spoken of it either, hanging himself in his stairwell before even being charged, and making no mention of it in the note he’d left behind, so self-pitying that it had burned itself into Anna’s memory. Forgive me, he’d written. I saw you in the library and you were so beautiful. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. But they’d found his cosh beneath his floorboards with her blood and hair still on it, and hundreds of photographs of her on his phone and computer from his months of stalking, including dozens between work and home, suggesting he’d been plotting her kidnap for weeks.

  Little wonder, then, that she’d become so exquisitely sensitive to cars, particularly in deserted places and at night. The ones outside the school had been fine. Their engines and their lights had been on, advertising themselves to their kids. But the black SUV wasn’t like that, all dark and silent despite the cold and gloom, yet with the silhouettes of two people just visible inside. Her heart began to race. She looked back up the road at the school. The last of the waiting cars had just picked up their child and now was heading off the other way, depriving her of both their headlights and their witness, leaving the road empty all the way down to a late night grocers at its foot.

  The black SUV’s engine and lights suddenly sprang on. It accelerated towards her down the hill. And at once Anna found herself back in the forest of her nightmares, being chased by a man who meant her ill. Panic instantly consumed her. She turned and simply fled.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Elias waited until he was out of the churchyard before turning his phone back on. It rang almost instantly. Maria Quinn. ‘There you are,’ she said, in the kind of breathy whisper that suggested there were others nearby who she didn’t want listening in. ‘I was getting worried.’

  ‘No need,’ he told her. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘That wretched man. I can’t believe what he’s doing. Stealing credit for your arrest of Gregory Scott like that!’

  ‘Our arrest. And what are you talking about?’

  ‘Wharton. Claiming he had to come down from Grimsby to salvage the investigation.’

  Elias laughed. ‘He really said salvage?’

  ‘He’s saying it now, at his bloody press conference. Aren’t you listening?’

  ‘I’d rather hammer nails into my kneecaps.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re taking it so calmly.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ he said. ‘There are worse things in this world.’ An awkward silence followed. She clearly knew his story. ‘Was that it?’ he asked. ‘Or was there anything else?’

  ‘I’ve been taken off the case too,’ she said. ‘I’m back at the station. But it’s been quiet enough here that I gave those traffic cams another shot. I know it doesn’t much matter any more, but I do hate a loose end.’

  ‘Me too. And?’

  ‘I checked them last Sunday afternoon, like you suggested. I found Mr Warne heading up towards Sleaford in his van at a few minutes after three. It’s definitely him, you can see him and his plates. But his front bumper’s fine, there’s no scratch down his side, and there’s a ladder on his roof rack too.’

  ‘A ladder? Are you sure?’

  ‘Am I sure there’s a ladder on his roof rack?’ she retorted. ‘Just how bad at this do you think I am?’

  Elias laughed. ‘Fair enough. Go on.’

  ‘I’ve traced him as far as Sleaford, but then he vanishes. Until the early hours, at least, when I’ve got him coming back. But there are loads of other traffic cams around there, thanks to all those nice straight roads that our boy racers do so love to speed on. I’ve drawn a kind of net from the cameras he didn’t pass. You’ll see what I mean. I’ve already sent it over.’ He found it in his email and opened the attachment, a screenshot of a roadmap with the traffic cameras marked by an X, drawing a jagged triangle around Warne’s possible destinations, from Sleaford up to Lincoln and across to Newark. ‘Nice work,’ he said. ‘Have you given this to Wharton and his team?’

  ‘Why would they care? They’ve got their man.’

  ‘Do it anyway. If they get irritated, tell them I told you to. Otherwise, just take the credit.’ He stared at the map. ‘Any chance you’d be up for another job? It’d have to be off the books, though, what with both of us being off the case. Would that be a problem?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. Great. Thank you. Warne had a drone in the back of his van with a bunch of photographs on it. Most are old, and of his farm, but the latest set are from somewhere else, and were taken recently, to judge from the state of the fields.’

  ‘You think that’s where he was that day? And you want me to see if I can’t locate it?’

  ‘You did say you hated loose ends.’

  ‘I did, yes. Send them over.’

  ‘You’re a star. Oh, and obviously start with the area inside your map.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Quinn. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Oi,’ he said.

  ‘Oi yourself.’

  He grinned as he finished the call, feeling unexpectedly cheerful, all things considered. He sent Quinn the photos and received acknowledgement, along with a screenshot from a traffic camera showing Warne’s van heading north, exactly as Quinn had described, undamaged and with an extensible aluminium ladder on its roof. He checked through his other emails and found a message from a man called Royston Flynn, setting out in commendable detail a visit Dunstan Warne had paid him some twelve days before and explaining that Anna Warne had suggested he let him know. He thanked him by return then rang Anna to thank her too, and also to make sure she’d heard the news about Gregory Scott. Her phone was busy, however, so he left it for later and set off for Lincoln, searching through the local stations on his radio for one carrying Wharton’s press conference live.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Anna made it inside the grocers a moment before the black SUV with tinted windows caught up with her. She watched through the glass door as it drove on by, stopping at the bottom of the hill to turn left and then vanish out of view. Probably nothing, then, but it still left her with her heart pounding and her nerve shaken enough to give up on taxis and call Oliver for a lift instead.

  She ate a bar of milk chocolate while she waited. He pulled up outside just ten minutes later in a spray of rainwater and with a loud double toot. She thanked the woman behind the till for letting her stay inside then hurried out into the rain, apologising to Oliver both for her wetness and for calling him out at all.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he said. ‘It’s a naughty night to swim in, as my dad always puts it. How did everything go?’

  ‘I’ve had better afternoons.’

  ‘Is that all I’m getting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what about tonight? You can’t seriously still be thinking of York.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find a hotel.’

  ‘A hotel!’ he protested. ‘Come on. I hoovered the spare bedroom for you, and I changed the damned sheets. All on the off chance, too. Me! Changing sheets! On the off chance! You wouldn’t let that crazy hard work go to waste, would you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to impose.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be imposing. You’d be giving me a treat. Especially as you’ll be buying me dinner in exchange.’

  ‘Okay, that’s fair. Though I’ll need a shower and a change of clothes first.’

  ‘Damn right. I’m not having you sneezing all over my lobster. Lincoln’s top restaurant does have its standards, you know.’

  ‘In your dreams,’ she told him. ‘You’re scoring a kebab.’

  Oliver lived in a converted coach-house in a cul-de-sac by the cathedral. It had an archway entrance leading into a cobbled courtyard with five parking bays, one for each of the four apartments, and the fifth for guests and deliveries. She grabbed her bags and hurried inside then up to his first floor flat, compact yet beautifully finished, with deep pile maroon carpeting and elegant modern furniture. ‘So I guess TV pays okay,’ she said.

  ‘I wish,’ he said. ‘The salaries are a joke. But the world is full of people who’ll pay even complete nonentities like me to speak at their dinners and cut their ribbons. Bizarre, but there it is. Anyway, you should see my mortgage.’ He showed her the bathroom and the spare bed. It had a lock on its door, just as promised, and a fine view of the cathedral’s spires. ‘I’ve got to pop out for a bit,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘And you’ll be wanting that shower. How about we meet back here at eight?’

  The shower was hot and delicious, spraying her from every angle. She stayed in until her fingers pruned. For the first time in forever, she felt like making the most of herself. She used Oliver’s dryer on her hair then tamed it with a clip. As ever, these days, she’d packed for practicality rather than glamour, but she did what she could with what she had, ironing a blouse then tightening her belt a notch to give herself a waist. She found an old makeup kit rattling around the bottom of her bag, and was glossing her lips in the bathroom mirror when Elias called from his car, at least to judge by the background noises. ‘So how did your afternoon go?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ she told him. ‘Except that the pound closed before I got there.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ he said. ‘I could have had you met.’

  ‘Never occurred to me. Anyway, it’s fine. Oliver picked me up. I’ll collect the van in the morning.’

  ‘You’re staying with him tonight, then?’

  Anna hesitated, taken aback by the unexpected slight catch in Elias’s voice. ‘He’s got a lovely little guest bedroom,’ she told him, though she wasn’t entirely sure why. ‘It has an amazing view of the cathedral.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘I’m staring up at it now. Oh, and I’m glad you called. We met this guy called Royston Flynn earlier.’

  Yes,’ said Elias. ‘He emailed. That’s actually why I called, to say thanks.’

  ‘No worries. Though your friends in Serious and Organised Crime tell me you’re off the case? Is that true?’

  ‘It was those bodies you helped us find. They’ve turned the story national. National stories need major figures, not humble DIs like me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It happens. And at least we got your uncle’s killer first.’

  ‘You did?’ she said, amazed. ‘Who?’

  ‘Shit. Sorry. I assumed you’d have heard by now. It’s been all over the news. Let’s just say your tip about the hotel paid off.’

  ‘One of their guests?’

  ‘Not exactly. But close.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ she said. ‘Of course! Gregory Scott.’

  ‘Why of course?’

  ‘We bumped into his wife yesterday, when we were checking in. You should have seen how relieved she was when I told her about the intruders. I should have known then that she feared he’d done it. At least… It was him, right?’

  ‘Your uncle caught him digging in that field, just like we thought. He’s going to be claiming self-defence, apparently, but I think he’ll find it hard.’

  ‘He’s confessed? Already?’

  ‘To his wife, who told us. Plus I found his spade out on the salt marsh.’

  ‘On the salt marsh? What an idiot.’

  ‘Panic. It messes with your mind.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. Her earlier visit to the coroner came rushing back, the sight of her uncle laid out upon the brushed steel table, his lopsided face and the rubber cap over his scalp. ‘I can’t tell you how much that means.’

  ‘Forget it. It’s my job. Speaking of which: Any joy IDing your two intruders?’

  ‘Oh. Your colleagues told me not to say.’

  ‘My god,’ he said. ‘You got them, didn’t you? Who?’

  Anna hesitated. But it had been clear to her that Hollis and Patterson hadn’t fully trusted one another. Why then should she? Yet she did now trust Elias, she realised to her surprise, and not because he’d found her uncle’s killer so much as because he’d chosen to spend last night sitting in his car across from Warne Farm’s drive. ‘They didn’t say. And I never saw their faces, remember? So I can’t be certain.’

  ‘And yet you are, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What can you tell me?’

  She took a deep breath, came to her decision. ‘For a start, they said I might recognise one of them. I didn’t, but they obviously have some kind of public profile. They showed me two photos. The first was of the weightlifter. He looked Slavic, with a shaved head and lots of scars. He was outside an office building, escorting a man I didn’t recognise out to a gold Mercedes. The poor guy looked terrified. The second shot was of those same two men inside an aircraft hangar talking to the tall thin posh one who was standing with his back to a silver Rolls Royce.’

  ‘An aircraft hangar?’ asked Elias.

  ‘Not a proper airport one. It was too rundown. A private airfield, I’d guess.’

  ‘Jesus,’ muttered Elias.

  ‘Why? Does that mean something?’

  ‘Maybe. Can I come see you?’

  ‘I thought you were off the case?’

  ‘Even so. Please. I’m almost in Lincoln now. I can be with you in ten minutes.’

  ‘Okay. Do you know where…?’ Then she stopped herself, belatedly remembering Oliver’s affair with his wife.

  ‘Yes,’ he said dryly. ‘I know where… Ten minutes. I’ll call you when I arrive.’

  FORTY-NINE

  Elias was as good as his word, calling from downstairs before Anna had even finished getting ready. The rain had stopped, she was glad to see. Better yet, the downpour had cleared the air, turning it into a pleasant autumn evening. Elias was already out of his car, holding an open laptop in his left hand. ‘Before I forget,’ he said, ‘we found another forty-one of those silver pennies. All from Lynn, as best the guys can tell, except for two from London and one from Canterbury.’

  The way he phrased it turned it almost into a question, but Anna only shook her head. ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘I thought you’d be interested, mostly,’ he told her. ‘But does it change your thinking at all? About it being a private cache rather than part of the baggage train?’

  ‘Not really. People did move around.’ Despite the heavy taxes and constant wars, England had largely prospered under the Plantagenets. Better roads, stone bridges and iron-sheathed cartwheels had led to a boom in trade, with new fairs and markets springing up everywhere, and town charters creating a sturdy middle class. ‘You’d expect a private hoard to include some pennies from elsewhere. It’s the proportion that matters.’

  ‘Okay, good. That’s what I thought.’ He set his laptop on his bonnet and tapped a key. ‘Now, then. Your two intruders.’ He turned his screen to show her a photograph of a man and a woman standing beside a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, its rear door being held open for them by a formidably-built man in a chauffeur’s uniform. The woman was a classically beautiful thirty-something brunette in a gorgeous white and gold dress and a playful, wide-brimmed hat. Her hand was resting lightly on the arm of a tall, thin man in his late forties, wearing a cravat and a pearl grey swallowtail coat, and holding a top hat in his left hand, the pair of them clearly off to some fun yet prestigious event – Royal Ascot, say, or a royal garden party, or an awards ceremony. The man was leaning slightly towards the woman, as if to whisper in her ear, revealing just a hint of baldness in his glistening black hair. As for the chauffeur, he was a powerfully built Slavic man with a badly scarred face. ‘It’s the same two men your colleagues showed me,’ she told him. ‘How did you know? Who are they?’

  ‘The driver’s Andrei Lubov. Ex-Russian army, I believe, and now a high-priced bodyguard. The tall one is the slumlord I told you about yesterday, the one who got your friend Merchant fired. He goes by León Alessandro de Bruin these days, though he used to be plain Len Brown as a lad. Only there were so many stories about what a bastard he was to his tenants that it got to be bad for business. So he took a leaf out of that Brighton guy’s book and upscaled his name. Len Brown might scam you, but surely not León Alessandro de Bruin. Then he set his Rottweiler lawyers on anyone who badmouthed him in the media or online. My colleagues were right. You need to keep this to yourself. He’s a genuinely evil bastard. If he found out you could finger him…’

  ‘Oh, that’s just great,’ said Anna. ‘But I don’t understand. Why would a man that rich get his hands so dirty?’

  ‘We’ve known for ages that he had some kind of relationship with this gang. They’ve beaten up too many of his tenants for it to be coincidence. But obviously the ties go deeper than we thought. In fact…’

  ‘In fact?’

  ‘This gang, they used to be small time. A bit of dealing, a bit of violence, the odd robbery. Then about ten or twelve years ago, they suddenly got their act together. Now they pretty much run drugs across the whole county.’

  ‘You think that was him?’

  ‘It would explain a lot. The rest of the gang was in custody, in hiding or under surveillance, and someone had to go let those poor bastards out. Maybe he and Lubov were the only ones left. They killed them, then returned the next week to bury them. Except they lost something while they were at it, and had to go back for it themselves the other night. Because they could hardly tell anyone else where to look, could they? Not without revealing where they’d put the bodies.’

  ‘So what now?’ asked Anna.

  ‘That’s not up to me. I’m off it, as you know. But I will say that with people like this, your case better be watertight or they’ll wriggle. So be patient. It might take time.’

  ‘Got it. Was that everything?’

  ‘Except for your uncle’s van. How about I give you a lift up to the pound in the morning? That way, I can deal with any problems that might come up.’

  ‘That would be great, thanks.’ She hesitated, then added: ‘It’s quite spooky up there at night. There was a car that gave me the creeps.’