EIGHTEEN

  Anna had no way of knowing whether her room was indeed the best the hotel had to offer, but she could easily believe it. It was freshly painted in lavender, apricot and white, and it had a cast-iron fireplace, a pair of crystal chandeliers, and a four-poster bed with a firm, springy mattress. Its en suite was plush and sparkling clean, its TV large and wall-mounted, and its fridge and kettle tray were both generously stocked. Its double windows offered fine views too, over the gardens down to the seawall and the Wash beyond. And by pressing her cheek against the glass, she could even see the tiled roof of Uncle Dun’s barn.

  The room also had a good-sized oak writing desk and a comfortable black leather swivel chair. She linked her phone and laptop to the hotel’s Wi-Fi then caught up with her email before carrying on the dispiriting task of calling the people in her uncle’s address book to let them know about his death. She was still at it when Oliver came knocking. ‘The hunger beat me,’ he confessed, holding up a large brown paper bag. ‘And they aren’t doing food downstairs, so I had to pop out. You have a choice. Cheese and pickle or egg mayonnaise. I like them both equally myself, so it’s entirely up to you.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That’s brilliant. Then the egg mayo please.’

  ‘Outstanding,’ he said, delving into his bag for her sandwich and a napkin. ‘I was lying through my teeth. Nothing against egg mayonnaise, mind, but there’s only one true king.’ He checked his watch. ‘I was planning to take a stroll after. I don’t suppose I could coax you into joining me, could I? Cajole you, even? I could go as high as a wheedle, if you really push me. I’m not proud.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Anna, gesturing vaguely at the desk. ‘But honestly…’

  ‘Another time, then. Another time.’ But he made no move to leave. ‘A confession before I go, though. Your egg mayonnaise wasn’t an entirely selfless act. I have a favour to ask. A quid for my quo, so to speak. A tit for my tat. I’ll quite understand if you say no, but please don’t get offended. Because if I’m to ask it at all, I really need to ask it now.’

  ‘This sounds awfully mysterious.’

  ‘Not really, no. It’s just, I’ve cancelled my crew for tomorrow, as you know. But I’m going to spend the night here anyway. The room’s already paid for, so why not? And frankly I’ve got a problem I need to fix, and doing so will likely be easier here than in Lincoln. A gap has opened up in my programme, you see, where your uncle used to be. I mean he wasn’t the whole thing, of course. But he had an important and distinctive voice, so obviously he’ll need replacing.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anna, puzzled. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘You’re okay with that, then? I wouldn’t want you thinking me callous, approaching other people so quickly.’

  ‘Of course not. The show must go on.’

  ‘Good. Good. Glad to hear it.’ He paused a moment and dropped his eyes, making it clear that all this so far had been mere throat-clearing. ‘Such a shame about your uncle, though. A shame as well as a tragedy, I mean. He had a real quality. Authenticity, I guess you’d call it. Or authority, maybe. But the kind you get from living a subject rather than just studying it, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘I know exactly,’ she said. ‘And yes, you’re absolutely right.’

  ‘I knew he’d be TV gold the moment I met him. Between you and me, it’s the one talent I truly do have. Spotting people the camera will love.’

  ‘Must be useful.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, it is.’

  It took her a moment to realise what he was getting at. Then she burst out laughing. ‘You can’t be serious,’ she said.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I’m no replacement for Uncle Dun, believe me. He knew infinitely more about King John and the Fens than I ever will.’

  ‘That’s not what he thought.’ He screwed up his face into an unexpectedly accurate imitation of Uncle Dun, and adopted his fenland growl too. ‘You’d best ask young Anna that. She’s the ’storian o the family.’ His impersonation was both absurdly over the top yet so evocative that tears sprang to her eyes. Oliver winced when he noticed, he touched her arm. ‘I’m such an idiot,’ he said. ‘It’s just, he was so proud of you, he truly was.’

  ‘Even so,’ she said. ‘I’d be no good.’

  ‘That’s not what the camera will say. Trust me on this. When I approached you that day at Bolingbroke Castle, sure I fancied you. Why wouldn’t I have done? But, honestly, making good TV means too much to me to let that cloud my judgement. I simply have a good instinct for who the camera will like and who it won’t. It’s not just looks. It’s personality, excitement, passion. That old biddy and Mr Twitch knew their stuff, sure, but they had all the voltage of roadkill hedgehogs. Whereas you’re going to light up the screen.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Anna firmly. ‘Because I’m not doing it.’

  ‘Come on. At least think about it. Academia’s such a bear pit, surely a BBC credit would do wonders for your career.’

  That stopped her. He was absolutely right. More than that, she sensed suddenly that it might be just the lifeline she needed to pull her out of her slump. Yet instantly the usual reaction arrived. She was a failure, a fraud, a disappointment, an imposter. She had nothing new to contribute. To do such a programme would be a lie. She’d be found out and denounced, and it would be no more than she deserved. ‘I don’t know,’ she said feebly.

  ‘Of course not. You’ll need this afternoon to think about it before saying yes. So how about dinner tonight? An egg mayonnaise sandwich only goes so far, after all, and there’s this fantastic trattoria I know in Holbeach. But I can’t go there alone, can I? People will start calling me Olly No Mates. It’d be death to my career. So how about I book us a table for eight o’clock, say? On me, of course. Let me take another crack at talking you onto my programme, I can even put it on expenses.’

  ‘That sounds great,’ said Anna. ‘But right now…’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  NINETEEN

  Elias’s search of the farmhouse took him the rest of the afternoon, yet all he found of interest was a sack of muddy potatoes that made him realise just how hungry he was. He wouldn’t be leaving for a while yet, and Anna Warne had said they could help themselves, so he scrubbed clean the largest one he could find then stabbed it with a skewer and popped it in the oven to bake while he wrote up his day’s report.

  When he judged there was no longer the slightest chance that Scene of Crime would return tonight, he called Frank Mason to let him know about the vault beneath the barn floor, though not yet about the butyric acid beneath the fields. He claimed he’d just discovered it and downplayed it as far as he could, making clear that it was empty and without obvious sign of recent use; and anyway he had to go home now, so he’d secured it again, but would be back first thing in the morning to show him and his team then.

  Mason had some news for Elias too. Back on Monday, after Dunstan Warne had been found, he’d had his van taken up to Nettleham on a flatbed truck for a full forensic examination. That was now complete. Like the farmhouse, it had been locked up and with its keys in Dunstan Warne’s pocket, so they’d not expected much; but they had found a camera drone in the back with a couple of hundred photos on its drive. Would he like to see them? He would. The photos arrived in three separate lots a minute or so later. Elias unzipped them and scrolled through them. They were undated, which was irritating, and most were of Warne Farm. But the most recent set were of harvested fields, some trees and a stretch of cobbled lane that he didn’t recognise at all.

  He completed his report, again without mentioning the butyric acid, and posted it to the case file. Then he braced himself to make a more testing call. Murder investigations were run by his own Major Crimes Unit, but the smuggling angle meant he’d been instructed to keep the Serious and Organised Crime Unit informed too, despite their having kept him in the dark about their recent raids. Worse, he had Jay Patterson as his liaison, a man passed over for promotion so many times that he’d come to treasure his bitterness.

  Patterson laughed when Elias told him about the vault. ‘How the hell did you miss that?’ he scoffed.

  ‘You never told us to look,’ said Elias, rubbing the nape of his neck.

  ‘Why would we? Are we psychic?’

  ‘You knew it was smugglers. You knew it was a farm on the coast. Didn’t you even think about that Norfolk silo business?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Patterson, taken aback. ‘You think it’s the same crew?’

  ‘Maybe. But more likely they stole the idea. Because I’m thinking it was your Lincoln friends.’

  ‘What?’ He was on alert suddenly. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s only a hunch so far. Thing is, though, I have a kind of eye-witness.’

  ‘An eye-witness?’

  ‘A kind of eye-witness.’

  ‘Okay. Stay there.’ He put Elias on hold. A minute passed before he came back on. ‘You were telling me you have an eye-witness,’ he said, the echo on the line suggesting they were on speaker.

  ‘A kind of eye-witness,’ sighed Elias. ‘They were in the house last night when they heard a noise and went to investigate. They found two men in the barn. They were wearing balaclavas, so mugshots won’t help. But they were right up close at one point, and they had very distinctive physiques. So I was thinking maybe your surveillance footage…’

  A new voice now. Raymond Hollis, Patterson’s ambitious new boss. ‘These guys don’t know what we’ve got on them. I mean to keep it that way.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have to give them any names. It could be the break you need.’

  Silence fell. He was put on hold again as they discussed it between themselves. ‘They’d have to come here,’ said Hollis, after a minute or so. ‘I’m not letting any footage out, not after last month.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll ask. Just wanted to make sure it was feasible first.’

  ‘It’s feasible,’ said Hollis. ‘Call us when you know.’

  TWENTY

  On a sunny September afternoon some thirty-odd years ago, León de Bruin’s grandfather Ronnie had gone for a ride on his old boneshaker, only to be clipped by a delivery van. The fall had shattered his right hip, leaving him in a wheelchair for months, unable to manage the five apartments he’d owned and rented out around Skegness, and which had provided him with his income.

  By a happy coincidence, de Bruin had just left school and had been in search of work. It had suited them both, therefore, for him to take over the day-to-day running of the business. Ronnie had been a cheerful and kind-hearted man. He’d valued the good opinion of his tenants and so had been understanding of arrears, swift to undertake repairs and generous in returning deposits. Not de Bruin. His years of being bullied at school had drained him of compassion. He’d welcomed his power to squeeze those tenants dry. What was more, his grandfather had soon discovered that he liked the extra income, now that he didn’t have to face his tenants personally.

  The hip had duly healed, but the partnership had continued, with Ronnie giving de Bruin ten percent of the business on his twenty-first birthday, in recognition of his efforts, along with an option to buy the rest in the event of his death. Tragically, that had happened less than a month afterwards, with Ronnie breaking his neck when falling down his stairs. The timing had been such that de Bruin might have had awkward questions to answer had he not been on a rare holiday in Corfu at the time.

  Ronnie had left everything to be shared equally between his two daughters, de Bruin’s mum Alice and his aunt Diane. Neither of them were worldly, so they’d gladly accepted de Bruin’s offer to handle everything. A friendly solicitor had helped him undervalue the apartments, allowing him to get them on the cheap. He’d mortgaged them to the hilt in order to buy three more, then had ploughed his rental income back into the market. Within twelve years, he’d acquired a portfolio of nearly a hundred properties this way, making himself a paper millionaire many times over.

  He’d thought himself set for life.

  The global financial crisis had put an end to that. House values had crashed, plunging him underwater just as mass redundancies had meant his tenants couldn’t make their rent. Eviction had been no use. There’d been no one to take their places, and no buyers for his properties. He’d duly fallen behind on his payments. His banks had lost patience and had started to foreclose. Just like that, he’d been facing ruin.

  In the good times, he’d used a local biker gang to scare out deadbeat tenants. But their main business had always been drugs. Two of them had approached him one evening with a proposition. Their previous supplier had done a bunk with all their money, leaving them with neither funds nor product. They’d found a potential replacement, but they were demanding cash upfront, and they didn’t have any left. Would he be interested in staking them for half the profit? They’d been a hapless lot, in dire need of the kind of organisation de Bruin could bring, but too lazy and ill-disciplined to be trusted. It had been a chance to save his empire, however. He’d somehow scraped together enough cash for that first buy, only for the new supplier – perhaps inevitably – to turn out to be an undercover detective with the East Midlands Special Operations Unit. The gods had been smiling on him for once, however, for the detective had proved almost comically corrupt. For a large yet acceptable cut, they’d not only put him in touch with an authentic Dutch supplier, they’d advised him on the best ways to bring the product in. They’d also been alerting him to investigations and raids ever since, and had even helped take down rival gangs on his behalf, allowing him and his biker friends to expand across the county.

  The cash had started flooding in, astonishing great waves of it that had put his more honest endeavours to shame. He’d kept it going, therefore, even after the property market had recovered and he’d become rich again in his own right. It had seemed safe enough, after all, what with the pipeline now running itself, and his source still in place, feeding him information in virtual real time via a secure Dark Web address that he normally checked maybe once a day, but which he’d been visiting compulsively since learning of Dunstan Warne’s murder.

  It was the first thing he did on returning home that evening. Several new documents had been posted, including a witness statement by Anna Warne. He saved that as a treat for later, and started instead with Elias’s latest case report. It was a jolt to read that Oliver Merchant had been at the farm. There were few people in this world who de Bruin disliked more. But it seemed to be a genuine coincidence, so he put it from his mind. More worrying, by far, was that Elias had discovered the vault beneath the barn.

  He sat there brooding. He and Andrei had cleared the place out and scrubbed it with bleach. They’d double checked it last night too, so he was confident there was nothing there to put Elias on his trail. It was unfortunate, certainly, but he was used to dealing with the police, thanks to his grandfather’s untimely death and the woes his more troublesome tenants kept suffering. They’d not pinned anything on him yet, and they wouldn’t this time either.

  He pushed himself to his feet, went over to his drinks cabinet. He chunked a couple of cubes from his ice maker into a crystal tumbler, less for their chill than for the pleasant crackle they made when he glugged his favourite Laphroaig over them. He took a small sip then set the tumbler down on a coaster before settling back into his armchair. Then he opened Anna Warne’s witness statement, trying not to let himself get too excited by the possibility of photographs.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Holbeach trattoria proved the perfect tonic for Anna’s spirits, colourful, warm and packed with boisterous young families and cheerful couples out for fun rather than romance. Oliver was clearly a favourite guest. Their hostess Mirabella shrieked with delight when she saw him arrive, then rushed to the kitchen to fetch her husband Paolo so that the pair of them could envelop him in a hug. They cooed approvingly over Anna too, mistaking her for Oliver’s new girlfriend, scolding him affectionately for not having settled down earlier with a charming young woman like this.

  Mirabella had reserved them a corner table in an effort to minimise the gawking. Not that it worked. The turned heads and excited whispering made it clear to Anna that Oliver was far more of a celebrity around here than she’d realised. A heavily tattooed woman with mauve lipstick prodded her shy young daughter over to their table for a picture that Anna took for her on her phone. Then Mirabella brought them a complimentary bottle of chianti and talked them through the specials, waving some off as unworthy of their attention, while warmly recommending others. And everything on the house, of course. ‘What the hell?’ murmured Anna, once they were alone again. ‘Are you their long lost son?’

  Oliver laughed. ‘I did a piece on them a couple of years back. They were going bust at the time. Then suddenly they were it.’

  ‘Such power!’

  ‘Meh. I only bought a crew. The rest was them. All that warmth and friendliness and love of food. The camera gobbled them up, just as I’d known it would.’

  ‘Ah. Your gift.’

  ‘Mock me all you like. I was right.’ His eyes slid sideways. His expression grew solemn. His train of thought was obvious even before he raised his glass. ‘To your uncle,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. To Dun.’ She took a sip. The chianti was dark and coarse and delicious. ‘But how did you talk him into it? In a million years, I’d never have imagined him agreeing to do TV. Anyway, since when have documentaries been your line?’

  ‘They aren’t, really,’ admitted Oliver. ‘They’re kind of an accident. Like my whole career, if I’m honest. I seem to stumble dazed from one rake to the next.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The whole TV business, for a start. I was painfully shy as a kid. I’d never have got into it if my mum hadn’t pushed me. She’s an actor, you see. My dad too. They actually met playing Beatrice and Benedick in Much Ado.’