Another Place to Die (Tom Morton Book 2)
Author: Hayden, Mark
Date: 2016-07-04
Keywords: Crime
Description: Tom Morton Book 5
Publisher: Paw Press

Another Place to Die

Table of Contents

1. Prologue
2. 1
3. 2
4. 3
5. 4
6. 5
7. 6
8. 7
9. 8
10. 9
11. 10
12. 11
13. 12
14. 13
15. 14
16. 15
17. 16
18. 17
19. 18
20. 19
21. 20
22. 21
23. 22
24. 23
25. 24
26. 25
27. 26
28. 27
29. 28
30. 29
31. 30
32. 31
33. 32
34. 33
35. 34
36. 35
37. 36
38. 37
39. 38
40. 39
41. Author’s Note
42. Thanks

1. Table of Contents

Another Place To Die

by Mark Hayden

A Tom Morton Book — No 2

For Chris,

Without whom there would be no Tyler Street…

Copyright © Paw Press 2016

Cover design © Rachel Lawston
www.lawstondesign.com

Cover photography: Shutterstock

Prologue

Last December

When Kingsley saw the man with the gun, he slammed on the brakes. His mountain bike skidded on the farmyard cobbles.

The man with the gun looked round. ‘You all right, lad?’ he said with a dense Scouse accent.

‘What are you doing here with that,’ said Kingsley, pointing to the gun. It was a shotgun, broken and resting in the crook of the man’s left arm. ‘And what are you doing on my land?’

The man raised his eyebrows and looked around the farmyard at the ancient cottage, at the even more ancient barn and at the concrete pads where modern buildings had once stood.

Kingsley studied him. He was dressed like a gentleman farmer, with an old Barbour jacket and Hunter wellies. Underneath the outfit, the man was tall, broad and altogether bigger than Kingsley, though he must have been a couple of decades older, probably in his fifties.

He was smiling when he turned back to face Kingsley. ‘Congratulations, Mr Laidlaw,’ he said. ‘A great victory on Thursday. Good luck in your new job. I’m sure you won’t miss teaching.’

So the man knew who he was, but that didn’t explain the gun, or what he was doing in the farmyard.

‘Are you moving to London?’ said the man.

‘You still haven’t said what you’re doing here,’ responded Kingsley. His heart rate hadn’t slowed after the ride, and was getting faster if anything. His legs started to shiver.

‘Just checking the place out,’ said the man. ‘I am your landlord, after all.’

‘No you’re not. Andrew Mallinson owns this land, and you’re not Andrew Mallinson.’

‘Andy Mallinson is my agent. I’m Matt Cross. You’ve met my wife, Layla.’

The shivers shot up from Kingsley’s legs into his back. ‘I thought she was a widow,’ he blurted out, then cringed back.

Instead of being offended, Cross burst out laughing. ‘That’s a good one, that. I’ll tell her that when I get home. Makes me wonder who she’s been spinning that yarn to. I didn’t think the Sustainable Lancashire Party was full of swingers, but you never know.’

‘She just never mentioned you, that’s all,’ said Kingsley. He couldn’t get on his high horse about trespass, because Cross was on a public footpath, but that didn’t explain the firearm. He pointed to the gun and said, ‘What do you need that for?’

‘I’ve been to Another Place,’ he said, jerking his head behind him, towards the open fields.

What? Crosby is in the other direction, thought Kingsley. ‘You’ve taken that gun on to the beach? Are you mad?’

Cross laughed again. ‘Don’t be soft. It’s a private joke. I’ve been looking for rabbits in Northridge Copse, but it’s too cold for most of them to be about. Bugs Bunny lives to breed another day. You still haven’t told me if you’re moving to London with our new MP.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Kingsley. ‘Penny hasn’t decided whether I’d be more useful to the party down in London or up here getting ready for the local elections in May.’

‘Fair enough. Doesn’t really matter in the short term. It’ll be a couple of years before the development starts.’

Talk of development made Kingsley look towards the neighbouring property, Northridge Farm.

He couldn’t see the UGAS drilling tower from here, but he thought about it night and day. UGAS wanted to frack the rocks deep underground to release shale gas. It was opposition to this project which had propelled Penny Markland to victory in the parliamentary by-election.

‘What development?’ asked Kingsley.

‘If we can send UGAS packing, then I can develop Quaker’s Fold. I would have done it two years ago if they hadn’t discovered that gas. You can’t build new houses next to a gas plant.’

Kingsley swayed on his feet. It was impossible. This couldn’t happen. No way would Cross be allowed to build on greenfield land at the edge of a village: it stood against all planning principles. ‘You’ll never get permission.’

The shotgun was slung casually over Cross’s arm, as if it weighed nothing. Kingsley had never been so close to a firearm before, and he kept sneaking glances at the weapon. He could see that there were no cartridges in the breach, and Cross had been careful to keep the barrels pointed away at all times. As soon as Kingsley blurted out the words you’ll never get permission, Cross took his hands out of his pockets and snapped the gun closed.

Kingsley’s eyes were riveted on the motion of Cross’s hands as the gun swung round. The heavy wedding band on his left hand was matched by an embossed signet ring on the right. Both rings glinted in the afternoon sun, and contrasted with the dark burr of the stock and the bright red rubber cushion on the end. For a fraction of a second, Kingsley looked into the deep black pits of the barrels, and he couldn’t help but flinch.

Cross put the gun down, very carefully, and said, ‘We’ll see ’bout dat,’ turning up his Scouse accent by a couple of notches. He gave Kingsley a cheerful smile. ‘I thought you’d be grateful, anyway, what with me winning the election for youse.’

‘Penny won it, with help from me. And Layla, I suppose.’

Cross stepped forward, and if his feet hadn’t been around the bike, Kingsley would have stepped back. As Cross moved into his personal space, Kingsley could smell gunpowder and death around him.

Cross patted Kingsley on the shoulder. ‘Who got that tape recording, eh? And who got it printed and shoved through every letterbox in Southport, eh? Enjoy the moment, Kingsley. Layla tells me you worked hard on this campaign, but that was only one battle. You need to focus on the local elections if we’re going to win the war. See you later.’

Cross picked up his gun, then walked through the yard and up the path. Kingsley watched him carefully, trying to hold on to the feeling of triumph that had swept through him in the early hours of Friday morning in the leisure centre. Slowly, the pile of ballots for Penny had grown larger than the stack of votes for her Liberal opponent until he had conceded defeat.

On the Monday before the election, a tape had emerged of the Liberal candidate giving his real views on fracking. He had said that he was against it in public, but on the tape he said that his party would never vote against anything that lowered gas prices for consumers, and that if he wanted to be a shadow minister, he wouldn’t be voting against his party. And then the candidate had called the electorate nimbies.

Somehow, the Sustainable Lancashire Party had come up with boxes of leaflets, and volunteers from Liverpool had come up to deliver them. Cross had said he was behind it, and Kingsley wasn’t going to argue. He vowed to start a new campaign: The Quaker’s Fold Action Group. QUAG. He quite liked the sound of that. He also made a promise to get Matt Cross personally. Two could play dirty in politics.

1

The Last Weekend in January

Connor Holden liked life’s little bonuses. Whenever fate — or the stars and planets — delivered a little bonus, he was always grateful, and he’d had a lot of them in life lately, especially his relationship with Natalie. Things had been going so well that he was starting to look over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming to collect.

Tonight’s bonus was the parking restrictions on the Promenade in Southport, the well-heeled seaside town on the coast of Lancashire between the cities of Liverpool and Preston. On Southport Prom, you could park for free after six o’clock. He locked his car and shivered as the wind blowing straight off the Irish Sea cut through his thin coat. He legged it round the corner to Tyler Street, past the entrance to his office and came to a stop in front of Layla’s Late Night Piano Bar. There was a new doorman on duty tonight. They were all big strong lads (and lasses), and this one was bigger and stronger than most, almost as big as Grant Benson, Matt Cross’s enforcer. From the way he was blowing on his hands, he hadn’t realised just what a cold spot he was going to be patrolling.

‘Is Grant here?’ asked Connor. He didn’t need to talk to Grant just yet, but the sooner Grant arrived, the sooner Natalie would get what she needed.

‘Who wants to know?’ said the bouncer. His accent proclaimed that he was a Scouser, like Connor, and like most of the doormen who worked for Grant. This man’s accent also said “North Liverpool” rather than the softer lilt that identified Connor as coming from the south of the city. Connor knew what his accent sounded like because he’d had to listen to recordings of his own voice many times over the years.

‘Connor Holden wants to know. I’m the General Manger for Laycross Entertainments.’

‘I thought Ross was the manager here.’

‘He is. I’m his boss.’

The doorman gave him a sceptical look. Connor unzipped the top of his jacket and tugged out a lanyard with Staff running round the tape, then he flashed his ID badge.

‘Grant’s round the back, I think, sir,’ said the doorman.

‘Cheers. I’ll tell him you did a good job. He might even send you some gloves.’

The bouncer smiled and pulled open the door. Thankfully, it was warm inside, and Connor stripped off his jacket. He didn’t have to wear the ID badge, but the alternative was much, much worse — people might think he was trying to blend in with the kids, and that would be mortifying. He had no illusions about his age. He knew that trying to fit in with a crowd of students would only make him look really sad, so he didn’t try. There was nothing he could do about Natalie, though. Technically she wasn’t young enough to be his daughter, but it was close. He was forty-five and looked his age; she was thirty-one and didn’t look a day over thirty.

It was quiet in the bar, even with Happy Hour on the go. Nat had told him that the kids didn’t relate to the regular early-evening pianist, so on Saturday nights it was quiet until the band came on. Despite the whining from Ross Carlton, Connor had stuck to the rule: no recorded music in Layla’s Bar. It was a rule he had enforced at the original Piano Bar back in Liverpool, and he still believed in it. Natalie was moving around the tables, checking the cocktail menus and distributing drip mats. He went over and gave her a kiss.

‘You alright, love?’

‘Mmm. Yeah.’ She pointed her head towards another corner of the bar. ‘The Next Big Thing is here.’

Connor looked over: Matt Cross and his older daughter, Sabrina, were sitting together, doing stuff on their phones and exchanging the occasional word. On the surface, it looked like the sort of relationship he would like to have with his own daughters in a few years.

A full glass of wine stood in front of Matt while Sabrina sipped a Diet Coke. She would be eighteen in a few weeks, and Matt had warned every publican in Southport that they would get their legs broken if they served alcohol to his daughter before then, and Sabrina knew that he had warned them. That was not what Connor wanted his daughters to think of him when they were eighteen.

Matt hadn’t seen him, so Connor ducked behind the bar. He would catch up later; first he had to make sure that Ross Carlton was doing his job. Connor scanned the fridges behind the bar: no, the manager wasn’t doing his job. Connor found Ross out the back, smoking with Grant Benson, who nodded a greeting.

‘What are you doing here?’ said Ross.

‘I’m doing me job,’ responded Connor. ’Scuse me, Grant, I need a word with Ross. Have you seen that Matt’s inside? With Sabrina.’

Grant rolled his eyes. Neither of them liked it when Matt showed up, and knowing that Sabrina was in tow made it worse.

‘That new doorman’s OK,’ said Connor. ‘He wouldn’t say a word about where you were until he’d seen my ID. Mind you, he’s gonna freeze to death soon.’

Grant flicked away his cigarette and went off down the alley, probably to get some thermal gloves from the office round the corner.

‘What do you want?’ said Ross when Grant was out of earshot.

‘I’ve told you, Ross, on Saturday nights you have to put more mineral water in the fridges. There’s too much wine in there. No wonder no one’s buying it.’

‘Why don’t you get your girlfriend to do it? Let her get a bad back for a change.’

‘That’s up to you, Ross. You’re the manager, not me. Mind you, it would be a poor excuse of a man who made a girl do all that heavy lifting.’

Ross pulled a face and ground out his cigarette. He went inside and headed for the stockroom, returning with a sack barrow loaded with bottles of water. Connor had put his jacket back on when he went outside, and he took out his nicotine vaporiser to get a hit. It wasn’t the same as a real fag, but it helped.

He went back to the bar. Natalie was serving a double vodka to a happy hour customer. When Nat moved out of the way, Connor realised the punter was Bridget Gorrigan, Natalie’s flatmate. Bridget was still in her uniform and enjoying an after-work drink. She would not be staying for the band; Layla’s bar did not do Goth. He walked round the bar and said hello.

‘Aren’t you normally looking for talent on Saturdays?’ said Bridget. She made it clear that her definition of talent was different to his: Bridget made it sound like he was touring the clubs in Manchester looking for a one-night stand. In reality, he was looking for new acts for Layla’s bar. Of course, his reputation hadn’t come from nowhere. Connor had spent a lot of years doing both things at the same time — if the band was no good, he looked at the audience instead.

‘You’ve been working late,’ he responded. ‘I thought you closed early in the winter.’

Bridget sniffed. ‘We still haven’t got a proper manager. I have to do everything on Saturday night if I want to have Sundays off.’

She finished her drink and put the glass down.

‘Can I get you another?’ asked Connor.

There was a glimmer of a smile, but only a glimmer. ‘No thanks. I’m knackered. It’s a bath and a box set for me tonight, while I’ve got the place to myself. Don’t wake me up when you come home.’

On her way out, Bridget passed Grant, who was now decked out in his doorman’s tuxedo. He came over to Connor and deftly passed him a package which Connor secreted in his jacket just as Matt came over to join them.

‘Hi Boss,’ said Connor. ‘Are you staying for the band?’

Matt pulled a face. ‘Not my cup of tea. Besides, I don’t want to cramp Sabrina’s style.’

Sabrina knew (from experience) that anything she got up to in Layla’s Bar was liable to be reported to her father. Not only that, if Connor saw something and failed to report it, the consequences for him would be very severe. ‘Don’t worry, Boss, I’ll keep an eye on her, and Grant will make sure she doesn’t wander off, won’t you, Grant?’

Grant gave a faint nod of his head.

‘I wanted to try this,’ said Matt, pointing to his wine. ‘It’s the new Layla in Red.’ He gave the glass a sniff and took a healthy gulp. He leaned over the bar and spat into the sink, then sniffed the glass again. ‘That’s good,’ he said to Connor. ‘I might want a few cases at Flaxall Manor next week.’

Connor had all the Cross family’s birthdays and anniversaries in his calendar, in readiness for sudden requests for catering (as well as a reminder to get them a card). As far as he knew, there was nothing on the horizon except Sabrina’s eighteenth, and that was weeks away.

‘I might need Natalie, too,’ added Matt.

Connor rarely asked questions of the Boss, but when it came to Nat, things were different. He had responsibilities.

‘Anything special?’ he asked.

‘Politics. We want to get the tree-huggers back onside, and it’s time for Layla to show her face again. We’re going to have a function for the Sustainable Lancashire Party at the Manor. I’d like Natalie to serve and report back to me.’

‘No problem. Just let me know what you want.’

‘That’s not all. There’s going to be renewed interest from the bizzies.’

‘Why’s that?’ said Grant, breaking his silence.

‘You know that dickhead who tried to nail me for electoral fraud? DC Neville God-rot-his-balls Hammond?’

Connor and Grant nodded.

‘I put in a complaint about him. That’ll teach him. I’ve had a message from the chief pen-pusher at South Lancs Constabulary: because Hammond is in their professional standards unit, they can’t investigate him themselves. He gave me a choice of the IPCC or some outfit from London called CIPPS.’

Connor spoke for both members of Matt’s audience. ‘You lost me with the first load of initials. Who are they?’

‘The IPCC do all the big complaints. You know, when the bizzies shoot some innocent bastard carrying a table leg and swear it’s a gun — all that stuff — but they take months. This guy from Warrington said that the other lot, CIPPS, they can do the job much quicker. With all the crap I’m getting about Quaker’s Fold, I don’t want this to drag on.’

Matt took another sniff of his wine, and said to Connor, ‘Definitely good quality. Shame none of the crowd tonight will be drinking it. Can you give me and Grant a minute, Connor?’

Connor left them to it, and logged on to the till. He put a bottle of water on his staff account and went in search of Natalie. He found her in the dishwashing area, holding glasses up to the light to check for damage. Connor looked around to make sure that Ross was nowhere to be seen. He wasn’t. What he did see was that Matt and Grant were now deep in conversation, and that Matt was jabbing his finger at Grant. There but for the grace of God… thought Connor.

‘Hiya,’ he said to Natalie.

She gave him a proper kiss, one that lasted, and he passed her the bottle of water. He took out the package from Grant and extracted one methadone tablet.

Nat drank an inch of water and dropped in the tablet. It fizzed, just like an Alka Seltzer.

‘I’d better not leave this lying around,’ she said. ‘We don’t want Sabrina to get a taste for grown-up medicine.’

‘That’s not funny, Nat. It’s gonna be bad enough trying to make sure she stays sober, never mind worrying about drugs.’

Natalie pulled her hair out of its ponytail and gave it a good shake, then took a deep breath before tying it back in again. Connor knew it was relief that she was expressing, not a drug high. There’s no physical rush from methadone, unlike heroin. Some addicts can’t do without that moment of ecstasy when the needle goes in, and methadone doesn’t work for them. For Nat, it was just the knowledge that she didn’t have to worry about withdrawal today, nor for another twenty-eight days now that Connor had taken delivery of the package from Grant.

‘How long have we got before Project Sabrina begins?’ she asked.

‘Ten weeks, including tonight.’ Connor pointed to the packet of methadone. ‘Grant’s delivery wasn’t the only reason I came in tonight. I need to see for myself what’s going on. I’m not looking forward to seeing the trading statements for January.’

Natalie grimaced. ‘I don’t know about the money. It’s the bums on seats that matter. You’ll see for yourself later that we’re getting a good crowd in.’

Connor left her to it and went back into the bar. Matt and Grant had disappeared, leaving Sabrina and half a dozen happy hour punters in peace. None of Sabrina’s friends had turned up yet, so Connor went over to say hello. Once her mates arrived, she would treat him like the enemy. Connor didn’t take it personally: his older daughter was just the same.

‘Have you seen this band before?’ he asked, pointing to the poster advertising tonight’s headline act.

‘Only on Youtube. I’ve been Tweeting about them all week, and they’ve promised to talk to me afterwards. They’re really nice and said they’d give me all sorts of tips about getting started in the business.’

‘Great. I hope it’s a good night.’

Connor waved goodbye and went in search of the band. They should be here soon, and he needed to spell out to them exactly why they needed to be very, very careful when talking to Matt Cross’s daughter. So careful, in fact, that he was going to order Natalie to be in the room when they did so, even if it did mean him covering the bar while she played nursemaid. Rolling up his sleeves for an hour was infinitely preferable to the consequences of a picture of Sabrina and the lead singer coming to Matt’s attention.

On the other side of the Pennines, in the city of York, Detective Chief Inspector Tom Morton was getting ready for the working week by doing his ironing. His divorce last year, and a period of convalescence, had driven him back to his parents’ house. In the morning, he would catch the early train to the West Midlands. Right now, he was ironing a week’s supply of shirts as fast as he could. The speed was partly because he had a bus to catch, and partly because it was a good way of keeping warm. None of the upstairs rooms in the house had the radiators on. He hung the last shirt over the wardrobe door and turned off the iron.

‘Do you want a cup of tea before you go?’ asked his mother when he jogged downstairs.

He headed into the drawing room where his parents were huddled around the coal fire. Not huddled, exactly. His father, Thomas Senior, was the ranking judge on the York circuit. He didn’t huddle anywhere. His mother, Valerie, worked for the Diocese of York. She was not much given to huddling, either.

‘Tea would be great, thanks,’ he said, joining his mother on the small settee. He declined the cake as politely as he could, because it was home made. Anything that came out of Valerie’s oven was worth avoiding, if possible.

His mother poured. ‘Where is it you’re off to tomorrow? I lose track.’

‘Earlsbury for a few days, then London. I might be going to Southport in a couple of weeks.’

Valerie passed his tea. ‘Oh? Not a social visit, I presume. I can’t remember the last time you dropped in on Fiona. Apart from when she took you out of hospital last year. That doesn’t count.’ His mother made it sound as if he should be dropping round to see his older sister every week.

‘I’ve got a new case,’ he said.

‘Already?’ said his father. ‘You’ve only just made an arrest in the last one. Isn’t there a lot of paperwork to do?’

‘That wasn’t strictly my case,’ said Tom. ‘And this new one doesn’t start for a while yet.’

‘What’s that Leonie woman got you into this time?’ said Valerie. She was giving her son the over-the-glasses stare, the one that had been known to intimidate the Archbishop of York.

‘That Detective Constable I told you about — Elaine Fraser — is going to handle the paperwork on the Gianni Berardi murder. The Southport thing is about the parliamentary by-election.’

‘You mean that hatchet-faced harridan from the Loony party?’ said Valerie.

His mother was not known for her support of environmental causes, especially if they stood in the way of lower energy prices. This winter’s economy drive had resulted directly from the autumn gas bill — Tom had seen it. Valerie was now willing to campaign for any cause which promised cheaper energy, even if it meant drilling rigs next to the Cloister (as their house was known).

‘Erm, no,’ he said. ‘As far as I know, I will not be seeing Mrs Markland, or other members of the Sustainable Lancashire Party. This has something to do with a botched police investigation, not the election itself. I’ll find out a week on Thursday. I’d go sooner, but the subject of our enquiry is on sick leave. We’re going to give him some time to decide whether he wants to face the music or slip away in the dark.’

His father changed the subject slightly. ‘That’s two cases on the trot in Lancashire. Do you think this might be the sign of a more permanent posting?’

‘Sorry, Dad, I doubt it.’

‘You’re welcome here. You know you are, but the longer you’re off the property ladder, the more expensive it gets.’

Tom held up his hands. ‘I know, I know, and I agree with you. I love being back at the Cloister, but I want my own place again. If nothing’s changed by Easter, I’ll have a proper talk to Leonie and see what her plans are.’

Valerie frowned at further mention of Leonie. ‘Make sure you do that.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Will you stay with Fiona when you go to Southport?’

‘Unless she flat-out refuses, yes. Just for one night. After that I’ll book into a hotel if necessary.’

‘Where are you off to tonight?’ asked his mother.

‘Haxby.’

‘To that rugby club? Whatever for?’

‘The Veterans captain asked if I fancied a drink. I’ve paid my subscription, so I might as well use it.’

She shook her head dolefully. Tom had been badly injured before Christmas, and she didn’t like the sound of her boy playing rugby. Tom gave her a kiss and a smile, then left to catch his bus.

It was so cold on the way to the rugby club that Tom lost all feeling in his ears and in his fingers. From the other side of the club lounge, Craig Capstick saw him and waved, pointing to his half empty glass. Tom bought two pints of Bass and headed over to what he was already calling Capstick’s Corner. It was the only seat in the room that commanded views of the door, the pitch outside and the projection screen of the giant TV. Craig was Club President and captain of the Veterans XV. No one was going to argue with him.

‘You look absolutely frozen,’ said Craig. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘I didn’t realise the bus stopped so far from the clubhouse.’

‘The bus? Blimey, Tom, why were you getting the bus?’

‘I can’t afford a taxi both ways from York, and even if I am living with my parents, I’m a bit too old for mummy to be driving me around. Besides, they’ve gone out. Unlike me, they have a social life.’

‘I invited you for a drink, didn’t I?’

‘Why aren’t you busy on a Sunday night?’

‘It’s the kids’ weekend with their mother.’

Tom gave him a smile. ‘So you thought you’d see how many other sad divorced blokes you could muster to keep you company.’ He raised his glass. ‘Thanks for the invite. Cheers.’

Capstick seemed immune to irony. ‘Cheers, Tom!’ He took a large swallow of his beer and continued, ‘Thanks for coming out. I hope you don’t mind — I looked you up after we met.’ He put his drink down. ‘I had no idea you were Sir Thomas and Lady Morton’s lad.’

Tom winced, inside and out. ‘He hasn’t been knighted yet. Not till the end of the month. Anyway, what’s the fuss? There are lots bigger movers and shakers in York than Mum and Dad.’

‘Yes, but none of them are senior judges like your dad.’

Tom turned his pint around so that the logo faced him, then he turned it back again. ‘You do know that I work for police professional standards, don’t you?’

Capstick burst out laughing. ‘Just testing. I wouldn’t know where to start with bribing a judge. Not that I’ve any need to; I’m sure your father is a model member of the bench, Tom. It wasn’t his job that piqued my curiosity, it was his house.’

‘The Cloister?’

‘The what?’

‘The Cloister. That’s what we call it, because of Mum’s role in the Church.’

‘Well, well. You should register that. No, it’s just that a house like that must be getting too big for them, now that you three are all grown up.’

This was weird. Capstick was talking as if he knew the family, but Tom had only met the man once before.

‘When they’re ready to downsize,’ said Craig, ‘be sure to give me a call. I can get a tremendous deal for them because I know the right people.’ Capstick was an estate agent. ‘In fact, it might speed things up if I sold you a nice place in Haxby — handy for the rugby club.’

Tom nearly choked on his pint. ‘Do you have any friends, Craig, or are we all business opportunities? I wouldn’t mind, but you haven’t even offered me a place in the Veterans team.’

‘That was the real reason I asked you. Once I knew who you were, I spoke to your old rugby coach from St Peter’s.’

‘That was twenty years ago.’

‘Sixteen. He’s only just retired, and he remembered you all right. Said you’d be an asset if you were still fit. Are you?’

‘We’ll see. I thought you had a fly half.’

Craig pulled a face. ‘He’s done his back in. We’re having a floodlit training session a week today, followed by watching the England game in the bar. Are you up for it?’

‘I’ll do my best, family and work permitting.’

‘Fine. Now, about that girl who works for you — Elaine Fraser.’

‘Not a girl, Craig, she’s a woman. She’d knock you down without blinking.’

‘Sounds like my kind of girl,’ he continued, unabashed, ‘do you reckon she could get tickets for Murrayfield?’

‘No.’ There was a pause. ‘Well, she might be able to. But only if you promise to wear a kilt.’

Capstick shuddered at the thought, then offered to refill their glasses. Tom accepted, and called Fiona while Craig was at the bar.

‘Hurry up, Tom, Poldark is about to start,’ said his sister.

‘I’m fine, thanks for asking.’

‘I know you’re fine; mother told me this afternoon.’

‘I’ll keep it brief, then. I’m staying with you on Thursday the twelfth. I’ve got a case in your neck of the woods.’

‘But I don’t know if…’

Capstick had returned with the beers and was hovering discreetly. ‘I’ll see you the week after next,’ said Tom, and disconnected. ‘My sister,’ he said, pointing to the phone.

‘Fiona or Diana?’ Tom glared at him, but he pressed on. ‘If it was Fiona, then give her my regards.’

Tom continued glaring. Craig grinned back, ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘Not long enough,’ said Tom.

For the past four weeks, Detective Constable Elaine Fraser had been working a case in Cheshire with Tom while her husband was away in Scotland. Rob Fraser was a professional rugby player, and a very good one too. He was away with the Scotland International team for the Six Nations tournament. When Tom released Elaine for this long weekend, Rob had booked the bridal suite at a country house hotel for Sunday night.

‘Are you sure this boss of yours does’nae fancy you?’ asked Rob.

‘No. What makes you say that?’ said Elaine.

‘He’s awfy keen to let you away for long weekends. I didn’t think the polis were so generous.’

Elaine hit her husband with a pillow. There were plenty to hand in the bridal suite. ‘It’s gratitude for my enormous ability as a detective,’ she said.

‘Nah. He fancies you.’

She hit him again.

Rob had come on as a replacement against Wales yesterday, but couldn’t prevent a Scottish defeat, and now they were lying on the bed, waiting for room service. ‘He’s just a nice bloke, that’s all,’ she said. ‘I’d rather work with him than go back to Operation Rewind.’

‘Operation what?’

Elaine shuddered. ‘Operation Rewind. There’s a whole building in Manchester dedicated to investigating historical sex abuse allegations.’

Rob sat up. ‘You didnae tell me that. No wonder you were looking preoccupied in Rome last weekend.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s not every day your husband scores his debut try for his country, even if it is only Scotland versus Italy.’

It was Rob’s turn to hit her with the pillow, and he rolled her over and tickled her, grabbing her waist. ‘Hey! You’ve put on weight,’ he said.

She couldn’t deny it, because it was true. The fact that Rob was in peak physical condition only made her feel worse. ‘Now that is Morton’s fault,’ she said. ‘He never eats all his chips, so I have to finish them off.’

A shadow passed over Rob’s face, but he shook it away. Elaine could read him like a book: her husband would not be happy that his wife was eating another man’s chips. She would either have to be more careful about what she said, or she would have to introduce them. Rob couldn’t possibly be jealous of her boss once he’d seen Tom for himself.

‘I’m not his type,’ she added.

‘What do you mean, “not his type”?’

She had to say something, because it was eating her up. She’d get it off her chest to Rob, because he was a long way away from the police. Then she’d forget about it.

‘It’s a running joke he has with his boss, Leonie. When they’re talking about a woman, Leonie will try to wind him up by saying “Is she your type?” Leonie’s gay, so Tom says, “No she’s not my type, but is she yours?” I get the impression that he told her that I’m not his type.’

Rob grunted with incomprehension. He wasn’t stupid man, by any means, but Elaine sometimes felt he’d led a sheltered life. First his school, then his college and now his profession had been exclusively male in their hierarchies — women occupied a few places on the fringe; none played or coached or managed.

After a pause, Rob said, ‘I didnae think you could get away wi’ saying things like that these days.’

Elaine twisted in the bed to get her husband in focus. ‘Leonie likes to needle people, to keep them off balance. Tom needles her back. It’s his way of keeping a healthy distance. Except that he didn’t manage to keep his distance during the last case. He had a bit of a crush on one of the witnesses.’

Rob was basically a nice bloke. Like Elaine, he was always inclined to see the glass as half-full, if not three quarters. It was one of the many things she loved about him.

‘It must happen all the time,’ he said. ‘After all, how’s the poor man going to meet women who aren’t on the job?’

‘True, but she was the victim’s half-sister, and Tom arrested her father - their father. He confessed, so Tom is pining after a potential witness in a murder trial. Not good.’

Rob made a conscious effort to adjust to her professional world and its complications. His entire code of ethics could be summed up in two statements: Don’t Take Bribes and Don’t Take Drugs.

‘D’you think he’s overstepped the mark? D’you think he’s harassed her or anything?’

‘That’s the biggest problem. It’s not harassment because the attraction is mutual — the first time I saw them together, I wanted to tell them to get a room. The problem would be if she turns on him. Then it could be very dangerous.’

Before Rob could make any further comment, there was a knock at the door. Elaine leapt up to answer, tying her dressing gown tightly on the way. She admitted the porter with the room service trolley, dug out a tip and told the lad that she would open the champagne herself. Tom had allowed her to report for work on Monday afternoon, so she was going to make the most of every minute with Rob and forget about work until she got in the car tomorrow morning.

2

Monday and Tuesday

There were rumours of snow in the forecast on Monday morning, and it was definitely cold. Lucy White wrapped her scarf tightly round her neck and shoved her feet in her boots before heading out the back door of her flat. She was only going along the alley to the Village Café, and she didn’t want to have to come back to get changed. She bustled along the alley, glancing around for reporters, but her family was old news now. The pack had moved on to hunt elsewhere.

The Café owner let her in through the kitchen, and she started to unwrap her outer layers. Grace was already seated at the table in the back corner.

‘Did you see him at the weekend?’ said Grace.

‘He won’t give me a Visiting Order. I can’t just knock on his door — he is in prison.’

Grace sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Luce.’

Lucy shrugged and sat down. Her father had been arrested for the murder of his adopted son, Lucy’s half-brother. He had refused all contact with her ever since. ‘I think Paul got to see him,’ she said.

‘Talk of the devil,’ said Grace as the front door opened.

Paul Warren came in. He was Lucy’s godfather, and her father’s business partner. Paul, Grace and Lucy were gathered to perform the last rites on White-Berardi Sports Management Ltd over coffee and pastries. After this meeting, all the footballers, cricketers, golfers and pundits who had been Gary White’s clients would become the business of Isaac Redmond, and Lucy would walk away with a six figure cheque. Paul sat down heavily in the chair.

‘How was he?’ asked Lucy. Everyone knew what she meant.

‘Intact,’ said Paul. ‘I asked him to see you, Lucy, but he says he needs to pay for what he did, and that you should forget him.’ Paul opened his hands in a gesture of defeat.

Before Lucy could ask any more questions, the door opened to admit Isaac Redmond and his daughter, Sara. At least there were only two of them: the impossibly glamorous PR woman had disappeared back to London. Paul stood and welcomed the visitors.

‘I can see why they call it the frozen North,’ said Sara. She was wrapped in even more layers than Lucy. ‘I don’t know how you stand it up here.’

Grace poured the coffee, and Isaac said, ‘Thanks for agreeing to do this now, we’ve got to act on three transfers today, and we can’t proceed until the paperwork is signed.’

The thirty-first of January — the last day of the football transfer window — had fallen on Saturday. Because of that, the FA had extended the transfer deadline until tonight. Isaac was going to be busy.

‘Did you get my amendments to the contract?’ asked Paul.

‘No problem,’ said Isaac.

‘I’ve printed new copies,’ said Sara. The Redmonds had already taken over the White-Berardi building, and so had access to its resources. Lucy hadn’t been inside since her father’s arrest. Sara passed copies of the contract to Paul and Lucy, with a third copy for Lucy’s father. Paul had power of attorney to sign for Gary, and no one mentioned that Gary’s copy would afterwards be posted to HMP Manchester. Grace, who wasn’t a shareholder, passed round the pastries.

‘Just one signature covers everything,’ said Isaac. ‘Back page.’

Lucy found the spot, and signed away the company that her father had spent thirty years creating. Sara took the contract from her and gave her an envelope in return. With immediate effect, Paul had retired, Grace had been promoted to Office Manager (North), and Lucy was homeless.

‘I’ll move out of the flat and clear the shop by Friday,’ she said.

‘No need,’ said Isaac. ‘It could be months before I get round to deciding what to do about the House of Lucia.’

‘It’s closed,’ said Lucy.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Grace. Their friendship had been under strain since Gianni’s murder, and it looked like this could be the end.

‘Find a job. Buy a flat. In that order,’ said Lucy.

Isaac rubbed his chin. He could have driven the company into liquidation, and cherry picked the assets, but he hadn’t: Isaac Redmond had given them a fair price, according to Paul. ‘Are you serious?’ he asked, ‘About looking for a job.’

‘Why? Do you know of any openings in retail?’ said Lucy.

‘Yes. You must have met Owain Marshall.’

Everyone nodded. Owain was the long-serving left back at Merseyside United, and one of Isaac’s clients. Lucy found him affable enough, if a little vacant.

‘His business manager called me last week,’ continued Isaac. ‘It seems there’s a problem with one of his investments.’

‘Oh?’

‘For some reason, Owain bought the freehold on a coffee shop that’s in a bad way. Needs a manager. There’s a flat too.’ He paused. ‘The flat’s been refurbished,’ he said delicately. As part of the sale of White-Berardi, Isaac had had to inspect the shop and flat where Lucy lived and worked; technically they were an asset of the company. He had taken one look at the Dickensian squalor in Lucy’s flat and beaten a hasty retreat.

Her first instinct was to brush off Isaac’s offer, but why should she? This could be the quick way to a clean break and fresh start. If it didn’t work out, she had enough money to last her a while. ‘Where is it?’ she asked.

‘Southport. There will have to be an interview with Owain’s business manager, of course.’

‘What’s it called? I might know it.’

‘I think it’s Giuseppe’s Gelateria. They do ice cream in the summer, or something like that.’

Southport. It was close enough to stay in touch with Sevenbridge, but far enough away for a fresh start. ‘How desperate are they? If Dad’s not going to see me, I need to go to Italy and see Mama. At least a week.’

‘They’ve got someone keeping it ticking over,’ said Isaac. ‘They’re going to advertise again at the end of February — so any time before then.’

‘Give me his details,’ said Lucy. ‘I’ll get in touch.’

Isaac nodded to Sara, who picked through her phone looking for the information. While she did so, Isaac turned to Paul. ‘The serious money will be coming through next week when shares in the 7Bridge Estate are transferred to the Princess.’

Gary had been a founding investor in the gated community of 7Bridge, home to many of Cheshire’s sporting millionaires. When he was arrested, there had been a bidding war between Isaac and the majority shareholders — the Ghar’aanian royal family. Isaac had lost, and Lucy was due an even bigger cheque than the one in her pocket.

‘I’ve told you what to do with the money from 7Bridge,’ she said to Paul.

‘Are you sure?’

She turned slightly in her seat, embarrassed that this had come up in front of Grace. ‘Yes. I want it invested in a trust for my children’s education.’

Grace had terminated Gianni’s baby when she was a teenager, and she had come to work for the business partly to be near him. There was an awkward silence, which Sara filled by telling everyone in a loud voice that she’d emailed the contact details to Lucy.

Isaac picked up the thread. ‘Talking of new beginnings, now that it’s all sealed, I’ve got some news. Saul Blackstone is resigning as Estate Manager in 7Bridge. He’s going to be joining us as contract manager.’

Grace brightened up. Saul was a good man to have as your boss, and she wouldn’t be on her own in the Cheshire office. Lucy and Paul moved their chairs back slightly as the other three talked about their future, a future that didn’t include Lucy or Paul. In less than two minutes, yesterday’s man and his god-daughter had drained their coffees and slipped out the back way.

He gave her a hug. ‘Good luck, Lucy. I’ll keep on at your dad to give you a Visiting Order.’

She gave his waist a good squeeze. ‘Thanks. What about you? You’re too young to give it all up completely.’

‘I’m going to write a book,’ said Paul. ‘And tomorrow, I’m going to shave off my moustache.’

‘Errmm… Right.’

‘I thought that would shock you.’

It had shocked her. At this rate, there would soon be nothing left of her old life except the clothes she stood up in.

Kingsley looked around the entrance hall of Flaxall Manor, the definitely-not-ancestral home of Matt and Layla Cross. English country houses weren’t his thing. He despised the National Trust for being in bed with the gentry, and he couldn’t have told the difference between baroque and neo-classical if his life depended on it. As far as he was concerned, Flaxall Manor was the Big House and the squire lived there. Matt Cross might have started with less than Kingsley, but that didn’t make him any less the lord of the manor.

‘Why are we having the meeting here?’ asked Kingsley.

‘Layla offered. Would you rather we spent Party money on hiring a room?’ said Penny Markland, Member of Parliament for Lancashire Coastal.

‘There are at least three community spaces in Southport who would have let us rent for next to nothing,’ he said.

They were approached by a waitress carrying a tray of sparkling wine. ‘Did any of them offer free prosecco?’ asked Penny. She helped herself to a glass, and Kingsley asked if there were a non-alcoholic alternative. The waitress inclined her head towards a girl with a tray of orange juice.

Kingsley tried to avoid reductive labels — the other waitress was not a girl because she was doing menial work: she was a girl because she looked about sixteen. Penny followed his gaze. ‘That’s Layla’s other daughter,’ she said. ‘You’ve met Sabrina, haven’t you?’ Kingsley nodded. ‘That’s Tasmin. She’s got a twin brother, but I can’t see him.’

‘He’s not called Tristram, is he?’ said Kingsley.

‘No, he’s not,’ said the prosecco waitress.

Kingsley nearly jumped. He hadn’t noticed that she was still there, or that she was listening. He looked at her again. She was much older than Tasmin — at least thirty. She was also attractive, in a scrawny kind of way.

‘Sorry,’ blurted Kingsley. ‘I didn’t know you were part of the family.’

‘I’m not. I just work for them. Excuse me, this tray’s very heavy. I need to put it down until the others get here.’

‘Tasmin’s twin is called Lucas,’ said Penny when they were alone.

Kingsley changed the subject. ‘I’ve been busy while you were getting your feet under the Dispatch Box, or whatever it is you do in the House of Commons.’

‘There was a lot to do in London, to start with,’ said Penny, ‘but I’m here now. The Council elections are the priority. I found out last week that there’s going to be a Committee of the whole house on that bloody Enhanced Devolution Bill. If I hear one more swivel-eyed Tory moaning on about the West Lothian Question, I may have to kill him. It’s more important that I stay in Lancashire, and that we sort out the candidate selection for May. UGAS have retreated behind a wall of silence.’

‘You don’t need to tell me, Penny. I work for you, remember.’

She smiled, and forced herself to relax. ‘Sorry. I’m on edge. It’s one thing to lead a meeting in the village hall; it’s another trying to launch a full-scale campaign across half the county. UGAS are hatching all sorts of plans, and they’ve got the money. If we don’t show them people power, we’re sunk. Protests won’t stop them. We’ve seen that already. We need a political presence that will convince the big parties that the electorate don’t want fracking. That’s why we’re here tonight - get all the potential candidates together and see how they operate, see if they’re ready for grown-up politics.’ She paused. ‘And to talk about Quaker’s Fold, obviously. How did you get on with the University?’

Kingsley grinned at her and opened the satchel slung over his shoulder. ‘Your contact came up trumps,’ he said, taking out a box stamped with the University logo. He opened it surreptitiously to show a small book wrapped in acid free cotton. ‘It’s all true. Hannah Pearne’s diary confirms it: the Quakers met in the old barn at Quaker’s Fold before they moved their meetings to the Manor. That makes the farmhouse and barn a shoo-in for listed building status and historical designation.’ He allowed himself a smile.

‘Congratulations,’ said Penny. ‘You’ve done a great job on that. When are you going to announce it?’

‘I’m calling an open meeting of the Quaker’s Fold Action Group next Monday. I’m going to hold it in the Barn.’

She patted his arm. ‘Well done, Kingsley. I’ve got some good news for you as well.’

He put the box safely back in his satchel. ‘A proper contract, I hope. I can manage another week or so on my savings, but I can’t work full time for nothing. I would do if I could, but I can’t.’

‘I know you can’t. It’s on the steering committee agenda for Thursday: you get a one year, full time contract equivalent to a full time teacher’s salary. Backdated to the first of January.’

Wow. That was much better than Kingsley had hoped for. He was only part-time at Flaxall School, so he’d be in line for a pay rise. The moment of joy was short lived when he thought through to the next stage: he had seen the Party’s books. They couldn’t afford it.

Penny was one step ahead of him. ‘I’m also going to be announcing a series of substantial donations. Our success in the by-election has brought the money flooding in.’

‘Really? Are you sure they aren’t all from Matt Cross, laundered to make them acceptable.’

Penny’s face set in concrete. ‘That would be against the law, Kingsley. You can audit them — you should audit them — but don’t suggest to anyone else that there’s something wrong. That would not be useful to anyone, especially you.’

The message was clear: don’t rock the boat again. Kingsley had contacted the police (anonymously) about Matt’s contribution to the by-election, but the investigation had stalled.

Penny hadn’t spoken to him for a week when she heard about it, despite his strong denials. Matt needed the Sustainable Lancashire Party to campaign against UGAS, the Party needed Matt’s money, Penny needed Kingsley and Kingsley needed a job. For the moment, they were all in it together.

‘I won’t give up on Quaker’s Fold, you know,’ said Kingsley. ‘And I expect a full discussion at the Party plenary next week.’

‘Of course. Change the subject — Matt and Layla are here.’

The lord and lady of the manor came through from a side door, looking around the hall. Layla fussed over her daughter’s uniform, telling her to undo the top button of her blouse. Layla herself was dressed down tonight, in jeans and a sweater that matched Matt’s country squire look. Matt’s lips twitched at his daughter’s discomfort, then he came over.

‘Hello Penny,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘I hope you have a successful evening.’ To Kingsley, he gave the barest of nods.

‘Are you not staying?’ said Kingsley. ‘You could stop hiding behind your wife, then, and join us properly.’

Matt gave him a smile that stopped Kingsley’s heart from beating: he felt like he was being sized up for dinner by a tiger. Kingsley’s back stiffened, and he couldn’t help taking a firm grip on his satchel.

‘Penny and Layla do it so much better than me,’ said Cross. ‘And you, of course, Mr Laidlaw.’ Matt stepped closer, backing Kingsley against the wall. ‘You’ve met both my daughters now, haven’t you? That’s why I’m in this — to leave a better world for them.’

Kingsley looked at Penny. She was ignoring Cross’s intimidation, and focusing on the entrance, where a group of men had just arrived.

Cross took a step back and looked over as well. ‘And that’s my son,’ he said, pointing to a stocky teenager who was leading three men across the hall towards the side door from which Matt and Layla had appeared.

Kingsley recognised the first visitor — Andrew Mallinson, the man whom Kingsley had thought was his landlord and whom he now knew to be Matt Cross’s lawyer, a post he had held for many, many years. Behind Mallinson was a giant of a man whose eyes flicked around the hall and stopped for a fraction of a second on every person in the room, noting and weighing them up. The eyes didn't linger on Kingsley, something he was very glad of.

The last of the three was a smart, cheerful guy in his forties. He, too, looked around the room, but he only had eyes for the prosecco waitress. Kingsley saw him give her a wink, and she responded by blushing, pulling back her hair and giving him a mock-evil stare. They clearly knew each other very well.

Cross left them, following the others out of the hall. Layla came over with two orange juices, handing one to Kingsley. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about tonight,’ she said.

There was something about Layla that you couldn’t say no to. Her husband might be a multiple murderer, racketeer and speculator, but Layla could be sunshine itself. When Kingsley had seen the list of people volunteering to stand in the Council elections, he’d been surprised at some of the high-profile names. If that was down to Layla’s influence, then perhaps some good might come from taking the Cross money.

‘Here we go,’ said Penny.

A middle-aged couple came through the front door. Penny and Layla went over to welcome them, joined by the waitresses. Kingsley drained his orange juice, then took out his little black book. He made the first entry of what was going to be a long and busy night.

They didn’t often hold meetings at the Manor, and Connor didn’t know whether it was worse to be on Matt’s home turf or to have him come into the Laycross Entertainments office. At least he would get to see one friendly face — Natalie was standing next to a tray of drinks on a side table. Her right foot was crossed in front of her left, balanced but full of energy like a coiled spring. He really was a very lucky man. He gave her a wink as they followed Lucas through the hall, and she gave him her special don’t-you-say-a-word look.

She didn’t enjoy putting on a waitress’s uniform, but orders are orders and money is money. Matt had his own views on the right approach to “candidate selection”, and they didn’t have much to do with policies or credentials. Natalie would get a cash bonus from tonight when she reported back to him on which of these loonies had wandering hands, which ones couldn’t hold their drink and which ones slagged off their hostess behind her back.

When they got to Matt’s study, Lucas said, ‘What do you all want to drink?’

The men looked at each other; as usual it was left to Connor.

‘Is the malt on show?’ he asked.

Lucas looked at the drinks tray. ‘There’s a fifteen year old Islay here,’ he said, ‘so yes, it must be up for grabs.’

‘That’ll do for me,’ said Connor. Grant and Andy nodded their agreement.

‘And me,’ said Matt from the doorway.

Lucas made four drinks for the men, and took a Diet Coke from the fridge for himself.

The study was like a cross between a gentleman’s library and a boardroom, with bookshelves, a desk and a table. The table was covered in a heavy cloth (because it was antique). The heavy armchair next to the desk was Matt’s place, and he sat in it, waving the others to join him. Lucas looked on from a small leather settee by the window.

Connor had watched all three of Matt and Layla’s children grow into very different people. None had fallen far from the tree, but they had landed in places you couldn’t predict. Layla had poured a lot of time, energy and money into making Sabrina a singer, as well as recruiting talented performers to go in the band, and Sabrina had genuine stage presence, though the real musician in the next generation was Lucas. As well as his mother’s music, Lucas had inherited his dad’s ruthless streak and eye for an opportunity. What hadn’t been passed on to his son was Matt’s instinct for people and politics.

Tasmin was more of an enigma, and Layla seemed in awe of her daughter’s academic achievements. On the other hand, the girl was very shy around adults, and always seemed the quietest of her siblings. That hadn’t stopped her being the only one to get a job. Tasmin seemed to know what she wanted from life and she seemed to enjoy keeping it to herself.

Connor turned to face the group and said to Andy, ‘Shouldn’t you be out there with the great and the good from the Sustainable Lancashire Party? I reckon that “Councillor Mallinson” has a nice ring to it.’

Before Andy could say anything unpleasant, Matt interrupted, ‘Claudia might be standing as a candidate, but she’s not doing the beauty parade tonight.’

‘And she can’t be at this meeting either,’ added Andy, without any further explanation.

‘So,’ said Matt, ‘Project Sabrina. How did it go last Saturday?’

‘Good,’ said Connor. ‘I haven’t been into Layla’s Bar on a Saturday for a few weeks, and it’s coming on nicely. We had exactly the sort of audience that Sabrina — and Lucas — are gonna need when they make their debut.’

‘Lucas won’t be there,’ said Matt.

Connor glanced at the boy. Lucas was still working on growing a thick skin: he looked devastated.

‘Sorry, son,’ said Matt. ‘I was gonna tell you later, but Connor needs to know. Your mother says there isn’t room for a live drummer. You can put your track on to the computer, along with the bass part. It’s going to be Sabrina at the front, Jen on keyboard and Jess on guitar: three girls.’

What a waste, thought Connor, Lucas and that bass player have got the makings of a great rhythm section. And Lucas knows it’s rubbish. We have a full-sized drum kit on stage most nights. Still, Layla had a point: it would make sure the attention was more focused on Sabrina’s vocals. This is Project Sabrina, after all.

Lucas swallowed hard and made an effort to pull himself together. ‘What about my song?’ he asked. ‘Can you at least let them play the best song we’ve written?’

‘It’s not up to me,’ said his father. ‘That’s Layla’s decision. And Sabrina’s. If your song is any good, I’m sure they’ll include it in the set.’

Another life lesson for the lad, thought Connor. How will he react to that?

‘This is all very positive for Project Sabrina,’ said Andy, ‘but it’s not the reason we’re here, is it Matt?’

Here comes the bad news, thought Connor. Here comes the real reason we’ve been summoned. And I’m fairly sure it’s…

‘You’ve all had copies of the trading statements,’ said Andy.

… the accounts. Deep breath. Deep breath.

‘How bad is it, Andrew?’ asked Matt. He had been given the trading statements, same as everyone else, but he employed Andrew Mallinson to say bad things on his behalf, so Connor and Grant were forced to listen to something everyone knew.

‘Both pubs met their targets for January,’ said Andy. ‘Turnover in the Bistro is up five per cent, and profit margins are up ten per cent. That’s down to Connor’s new wine supplier.’

‘A fine achievement,’ said Matt, ‘and a tribute to Connor’s genius. Now tell me about the Piano Bar.’

‘Twenty per cent down on budget for January. Tuesday to Friday are four percent up. Saturdays and Sundays are a disaster.’

Connor could hear Matt exhaling slowly through his nose. He tapped his fingers on the desk and looked at Connor. ‘Is this down to Project Sabrina?’ he asked.

Connor nodded.

Matt muttered a string of profanities, muffling them because his son was still in the room. He looked up at Mallinson and said, ‘Is there any good news?’

‘Sorry, Matt, not from where I’m sitting.’

Matt turned to face Connor. ‘We’ve got ten weeks to get this sorted,’ he said.

Connor was relieved to hear “we” and not “you”. For the moment.

‘Is there no way we can put off the concert until May or June?’ he asked.

Matt shook his head. ‘Sabrina is going on stage on Easter Saturday, and that’s that. We need to make sure that there’s an appreciative audience who are spending money.’

Connor took a sip of the malt whisky. It was gorgeous, smooth and smoky, but it wasn’t real smoke. It didn’t take the place of a cigarette, which was what he wanted more than anything. He ran his tongue over his lips. The alcohol acted like an anaesthetic, numbing the cracked tissue where he had bitten it last night.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Connor.

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Matt.

‘What did Sabrina say when she got back? How did she think the gig went on Saturday night?’

‘She was happy about the gig,’ said Matt, ‘but she doesn’t look in the till, does she? That’s your job.’

It should be Ross’s job, thought Connor. Or you should allow Grant’s doormen to sell the hard stuff like they used to. Those students would lap it up. Shame that option’s not on the table…

‘Well, how about this?’ he suggested. ‘Do we really need to have band nights on Saturday and Sunday? Now we’ve got the kids used to coming, why don’t we go back to the old format on Sundays? Natalie tells me she gets loads of people on Facebook asking when the karaoke’s coming back.’

Grant spoke for the first time: ‘I think Connor’s right.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Andy. ‘The new arrangements have at least improved our reputation in the community, even if they haven’t done much for the bottom line.’

‘Lay off,’ said Connor. ‘You can’t eat your cake and have it after. Either we go back to what was bringing in the big spending punters, or we settle for a lower return. You can’t have it both ways.’

The look on Mallinson’s face said that this was exactly what he wanted, preferably with a new General Manager. What he said was, ‘What would Layla think?’

Matt ran his finger round the top of his tumbler. ‘I think she misses the karaoke too.’ He looked up at Connor. ‘Give it a whirl for a month.’ He turned to his right. ‘Lucas, go and get your mother, will you? See how Tasmin’s doing as well. Give her a break if she needs it.’

Lucas was half way to the door when Layla came in. ‘Lucas, love, can you…’

‘I’m on it, Mum. Give Tasmin a break. Message received.’

Layla grabbed the vodka bottle and poured a stiff measure. While she composed herself, Matt said, ‘I’ve found out something else about that bizzie who’s coming up next week.’ Grant sat up two inches in his seat. Connor had difficulty remembering why the police were coming. Apart from the obvious reasons.

Matt continued. ‘He’s coming to look into that electoral fraud business. Get this: he’s a chief inspector from London — Thomas Morton by name — and he’s been up here doing that 7Bridge case.’

Connor knew about that. It had been all over the papers and TV for a fortnight, but that wasn’t Matt’s main concern.

‘He started in fraud,’ said Matt, with a meaningful look at Connor, ‘and the case he was on last year has been sealed by MI5. My contact nearly got her fingers burned looking into it.’

Matt paused for effect, and Connor finished his Scotch. Could Matt have dug a hole for himself by complaining about Hammond? This could be very dicey.

‘So watch your step, eh?’ concluded Matt. He turned to Layla and asked her about bringing back the Sunday Karaoke.

‘Brilliant idea. Go for it, Connor.’ She gave him the full Rodney Street smile, veneers glistening in the low light, then she turned to Matt. ‘I’ve just been tipped off by Penny. She said that Kingsley Laidlaw has got some diary that’s gonna get listed building status for Quaker’s Fold.’

Matt and Andy looked at each other, Andy’s eyes widening in something approaching shock, if he could actually be shocked, that is. Connor wasn’t sure that he was capable of extreme reaction to anything.

‘We’ll sort it,’ said Matt.

Normally, when Matt made that sort of pronouncement, it was everyone else’s cue to shut up. Whatever was going on, it must have rattled Andy’s cage violently.

‘I think it could be more complicated than that,’ said Andy. ‘These council elections could go in a number of different directions. You can’t rely on Penny Markland to solve all your problems.’

Matt frowned. ‘I wasn’t going to rely on Penny to sort this problem. We do have other options.’

Layla chipped in. ‘Penny told me that Laidlaw is going to organise some sort of public meeting.’

Andy’s back had gone rigid, as had his face. ‘I think we need to have a number of contingencies in place,’ he said. ‘Quaker’s Fold is too important to ad lib. It’s not a concert.’

‘No,’ said Connor. ‘It’s not a concert, but Quaker’s Fold is a great name for a band. Has a sort of contemporary-folk ring to it.’ He gave Andy a smile because he loved winding the bloke up when he got all po-faced like that.

‘Knock it off, Connor,’ said Matt. ‘Layla, can you cope without Natalie?’

‘Yeah. I’ll get Lucas to do half an hour.’

‘You’ll have to pay him,’ said Connor, then he shrank back in his chair when Matt stared at him. He’d overstepped the mark. Again.

Matt gave him the death-stare for at least three seconds, then re-set his face to human. ‘You and Grant can go home with Natalie. We’re finished with Laycross Entertainments business for now.’

‘Thanks, Matt. Great. Brilliant,’ said Connor, as he scrambled to his feet.

On their way out of the study, Grant said, ‘You’ll go too far one of these days.’

Connor closed the door behind him and took a deep breath. ‘I’ve lasted more than twenty years, haven’t I? Anyway, what’s all this about Quaker’s Fold?’

‘Best not to ask,’ said Grant. ‘You might not like the answer.’

Good advice, thought Connor. ‘Thanks for your support in there, Grant. Made a big difference.’

Grant snorted. ‘The sooner this farce with Sabrina is done and finished, the sooner we can go back to normal. You grab Natalie, and I’ll see you round the front.’

3

The Next Weekend

When Matt Cross had moved in to Flaxall Manor, fourteen years ago, he had taken his shotgun down to Northridge Copse and blasted away at the rooks who nested there. The birds made a terrible racket: tuneless, raucous and intimidating. And they were just too good a target.

When he got home, Dougie had told him that rooks were intelligent, ruthless, efficient and very protective of their young. His son had looked it up in the old encyclopaedia while listening to the gunshots.

The next day, Dougie had insisted on taking his father down to the copse at the crack of dawn. When Matt stopped to watch the way that the birds glided gently on the breeze, working hard to rip the branches off the trees, then carrying them back to make a nest, he had put down his gun and listened again.

He had closed his eyes and remembered the docks where he had started work as a teenager. There were so many noises there in those days: the rumble of forklift trucks, the swoosh of wires on the cranes and the throb of ships’ engines that you felt through your feet rather than heard in your ears. He missed all that, of course, but it was the top note he missed most: the men, hundreds of men, crying out as they called to each other round the docks.

There was no diesel to feed ships’ engines in Northridge Copse, no electricity to raise cranes’ arms and no gas to move the forklifts: just the wind and the birds. After that day, Matt had let the rooks do their thing in peace. For such a large bird, they were very shy. They would glide down to the fields to dig out the insects with those wicked beaks, and hop clumsily around inside the fence. They never landed in the woods, because their wings were too big for them to take off again afterwards.

He had been wrong about the gas, though. There was plenty of gas around here, but it was all underground. Matt was determined that it stay there until long after he was gone. He could see the UGAS terminal as he left the Manor’s walled garden, and every visit to the copse reinforced his determination to stop it. There were too many distractions at the moment, too many issues that shouldn’t be issues. It was time he did something to bring people into line.

The copse was cold and damp this afternoon, and so dark you would think it was December, not February. Judging from the clouds piling in from the Irish Sea, someone was going to get very wet later. He paused at the edge of the path in the middle of the copse, and opened his ears. The rooks were gearing up to mate, staking out their territory and letting the other birds know who was boss. It was deafening. He slipped in his ear defenders.

The wind was in his face: perfect for stalking rabbits. They liked the grass in the margin between the trees and the fence. He lifted his gun and stepped into Another Place. Two bucks were moving slowly across his field of view.

He took the further, more difficult shot first. He got it, and guessed the other buck would run left. It did, straight into the path of his shot.

Matt put down his gun as the sky above him darkened with fleeing rooks. He went to check that both the rabbits were dead. Satisfied that he didn’t need to put them out of their misery, he slung the corpses away to where the carrion crows could get at them. The rooks had returned to their roosts by the time he got back to Another Place and removed his ear defenders.

He turned back and looked over the fence, over the ploughed fields and over the roof of Quaker’s Barn. He looked up until his eye focused on the spire of Flaxall Church, which marked the spot where his first-born son was buried.

‘Hello, Dougie,’ he said.

He paused, listening for an answer in the wind, but his son had nothing to say.

‘It’s time to sort things out,’ he continued. ‘I don’t like it when people don’t do what they’re told.’

Like me, you mean? It wasn’t Dougie’s voice, of course, it was just Matt’s memory playing tricks on him.

‘I never told you what to do, son. You made your own choices, just like I did. Doesn’t mean I don’t still love you.’

Dougie said nothing, all Matt could hear was the wind and the rooks. From further up the ridge, a robin announced its presence. They were vicious, those little red devils. He’d seen one robin dive straight at another, wounding it and driving it away. Around the edge of the copse, snowdrops were doing their little fluttery dance. Spring was on its way, if slowly.

Matt turned round and discovered that his visitor was already here. As the visitor came into focus, a gun snapped up towards the firing position.

Matt started to drop into a crouch, bending his knees and leaning left, ready to dive.

The shot hit him in the chest at the same time as the noise hit him in the ears.

Playing rugby is only like riding a bike up to a point. Tom discovered that he could still catch, pass and kick to touch, but running was more of a challenge. At the end of the Haxby Veterans training session he was bent double and wheezing. Craig Capstick came over and clapped him on the back.

‘Are you still up for a game?’ he said.

‘I … might need to get … fitter, first.’

Capstick gave him an evil grin.

‘It’s all right for you,’ said Tom. ‘Scrummaging is easy when they’re not contested.’

Craig pointed to a cut on his thigh. ‘We still contest the rucks, though. Come on, Tom, we’ll be late for the England game.’

Tom trudged into the changing rooms and enjoyed a hot shower. There was a pint of Bass waiting for him in Capstick’s corner, which had the best view of the big screen TV. Somehow, Craig had also got control of the remote.

‘Did you text Elaine yesterday?’ asked Craig. Scotland had been fairly comprehensively beaten by Ireland.

‘No chance. I don’t think you appreciate just how scary she can be.’

Craig looked sideways at him, trying to work out if Tom were serious, then his eyes flicked to the big screen. ‘Hello, what’s this?’ he said.

Tom turned on his chair to look at the TV. Instead of the English and Welsh teams warming up in Cardiff, the screen was showing blue flashing lights and fire engines. ‘Put the sound up,’ said Tom.

Craig pressed a button just as the camera panned to the reporter.

‘The scene of devastation here in Manchester is one we’ve become all to familiar with in recent times. The bomb went off at three o’clock this afternoon in a shopping centre…’

It’s human nature. Tom’s first thought was of people he knew who had a connection to the North West. Elaine was in Scotland, Fiona and the kids were at home in Southport. Only then did he think of everyone else.

The screen cut back to the studio, and the news anchor summarised the situation: security guards had seen a man acting suspiciously with a rucksack. They shouted loudly and everyone ran, including the security guards. It took the bomber twenty seconds to get the device to work, so the only fatality had been the bomber himself. If Tom had been there, would he have run towards the bomber, or away, like the security guards had done? One bombing is enough for most people, and Tom had survived his close encounter with explosives. He didn’t really want to roll the dice again, but if other lives were at risk…

‘You OK, Tom?’ said Craig.

‘Yeah. Sorry. What did you say?’

‘Do you reckon we can win in Cardiff?’

‘Always,’ said Tom.

By any definition, it was the middle of winter, but that didn’t stop the couple on the stage from trying to take the audience back to the long summer days of high school, or rather…

‘… Those Su-u-mmer Nighhhhhts…’

The crowd roared along, enjoining the couple to Tell me More, then the first half of Single Swingers’ Karaoke was over, to a standing ovation.

Layla’s Late Night Piano Bar hadn’t been as full for weeks, and Connor had been forced to roll up his sleeves and act as supplementary skivvy: filling the glass washer and stocking the shelves. Sweat was dripping off the ends of Natalie’s fringe. It was certainly hot enough in here to be a Summer Night.

‘Two pints of Stella!’ … ‘Double Vodka, girl,’ … ‘That was brilliant, straight up!’

Within seconds, it was two deep the length of the bar. Connor, Natalie and the regular barman danced past each other, pulling the tops off bottles and swapping glasses under the ever-flowing streams of lager. Natalie paused for two seconds when she saw someone.

‘Bridget! Get your arse behind here now,’ she laughed.

‘I’m enjoying meself too much,’ said her flatmate.

Natalie became serious for a moment, and wiped the hair off her face. ‘I need your help, Bridge. Please.’

Connor paused too, intrigued by what would happen next. Bridget shuffled, as much as she could in the crowd, then blurted out, ‘Only if you let me have a go later.’

Natalie looked at him — they were desperate. Connor nodded to Natalie, and she turned to Bridget.

‘Go on,’ said Nat, ‘You can do the Time Warp. Now get yourself round here.’ Bridget struggled round and joined them behind the bar.

When most of the crowd had been served, and customers were drifting back from cigarette breaks (much to Connor’s envy, though they were welcome to the torrential rain that had swept in), Layla took to the mike. ‘Congrats to Dave and Laura on their wedding anniversary,’ she said, pointing to the couple who had performed the duet at the end of the first half. ‘Strictly speaking, you’re not single any more, but we’ll forgive them, won’t we?’ She paused for the crowd to agree (which they did, noisily), then she continued, ‘So far our judges — that’s me, by the way — have put Scott as the leading man and Rachael as the leading lady. If you think you can do better, get your names down for the second half.’ She consulted a list. ‘We’ve still got three slots for the ladies and one for the guys.’

Connor waved from behind the bar. Layla peered at him, and he pointed to Bridget, currently trying to wipe tomato juice off her long skirt. He mimed a jump to the left, and Layla rolled her eyes.

‘It seems we have another crowd pleaser to come,’ she announced. ‘We’ll be back in ten minutes with a special rendition of Time Warp, so get your drinks in and I’ll see you soon.’

There was another rush to the bar. Connor had nearly cleared his section when Layla’s phone rang. It was sitting behind the bar (there was nowhere to put it in that dress). He glanced at the screen: Sabrina. He answered the phone while waiting for two pints of Guinness to settle.

‘Hey, Connor,’ said Sabrina. ‘Can I talk to Dad?’

‘He’s not here.’

‘Oh. His mobile’s switched off. I guess Mum’s on stage.’

‘Not for a bit yet. I’ll get her to ring you straight away.’

‘Thanks. Are you sure you haven’t seen Dad? He said he had a meeting, and I thought it was at the Piano Bar.’

‘Sorry love, I haven’t. I’ll get your mum to call.’

Connor touched Natalie on the sleeve. He pointed to the two pints of Guinness, then headed over to Layla.

He made sure that the stage microphone was switched off and leaned in to whisper. ‘Can you call Sabrina?’

‘What now?’

‘She’s looking for Matt. Says she can’t get hold of him and expected him to be here. Sorry.’ He held out the phone.

A cloud passed over Layla’s sunny features, darkening the rays of her smile. ‘What does she want her dad for?’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll call her.’

Connor left her to it. Natalie and the barman had taken a break, leaving Bridget in charge. She gave him a pint of heavily iced tap water. He downed half in one go and smacked his lips.

‘Are you gonna get changed for the Time Warp?’ he asked.

She flicked back her extravagantly long and chemically black hair. ‘No time to go home for the Magenta outfit. Nat offered to swap skirts, but I’ve got no chance of fitting into hers.’

‘Thanks for helping out. I owe you.’

‘I know. I won’t let you forget it, either.’

‘I’m surprised you didn’t fancy having the flat to yourself again.’

‘Once a weekend is enough.’ She leaned forward on the bar. ‘Owain Marshall’s business manager is coming tomorrow. He’s interviewing for a new manager at Giuseppe’s. From a shortlist of one.’

This was the most normal conversation that Connor had ever had with Bridget. When Nat wasn’t there to referee, they barely spoke to each other, mostly to avoid an argument. He took another sip of water. ‘Why didn’t you apply for it? I’m sure you could do a good job.’

She swept back her hair. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t want to be tied down to the responsibility. Not yet. I want to leave after next summer, so it would be wrong to accept the job.’

Connor wasn’t sure about that. In his view, the extra money would be all the sweeter for knowing it wasn’t a life sentence. He went round the bar, swapping places with Bridget. He poured a double vodka and put it through the till as hospitality. With the refund of excise duty and VAT, it would only cost the bar about 40p.

He dropped in some ice and passed it to Bridget. ‘Here you go, girl. Warm up your vocal cords with that.’

The hardest part of any interview is deciding what to wear, if you’re a woman. For Lucy White the problem was magnified by the pitiful state of her wardrobe and the sudden absence of resources to draw on. The last few weeks had made her feel very lonely.

Her father was in prison, she’d just left her Mama back in Milan and her confidante on the 7Bridge Estate was in Japan. That left Grace, and Lucy wasn’t sure whether their friendship had a future. Besides, Grace was too tall to be of much use when it came to borrowing clothes.

She had been racking her brains since flying back on Friday, trying to remember how retail managers were supposed to look. She had run her own boutique for four years, and what impressed her well-heeled clients in Cheshire was not going to cut it in Southport. In despair, she settled on a white blouse and black skirt. No one could object to that. After all, she was the only candidate, so she didn’t have to outshine anyone.

There was just enough sunshine by the coast to make her feel like spring was finally on its way, but the wind blowing down Tyler Street soon disabused her of that notion. No one spotted her when she slipped inside the coffee shop, and she had a few moments to take her coat off and compose herself before announcing her presence.

Owain Marshall’s business manager wasn’t quite what she had expected. Instead of the corporate suit, he sported a lumberjack shirt and a genuine hipster beard, a rare sight in the north west. He introduced himself as Jack Tidy. Oh no, please God, don’t let me laugh.

‘It could have been worse,’ said Jack. ‘My parents could have called me “Bang”.’

Lucy coughed and sneezed as she tried to hold herself back, and had to scrabble in her bag for a tissue. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Jack. ‘It’s cool.’ He picked up his iPad and unlocked the screen. ‘I have only one question for you, Lucy. What does Giuseppe’s Gelateria need, and what would you do for it?’

‘That’s two questions.’

Jack Tidy frowned. A little.

Lucy rushed on, ‘Can I ask you one crucial question, first?’

Jack nodded. ‘Just the one.’

‘What’s your grand vision? Do you see the future in coffee or ice cream?’

‘I don’t have a view on that. Why do you think it’s the crucial question?’

Lucy looked over her shoulder. There was only one employee on duty at the moment. If the woman behind the counter was the assistant manager, Bridget Gorrigan, Lucy would have to tread very carefully, because she was clearly listening to their conversation.

‘You’ve got a corner site,’ said Lucy, ‘with a window on the Promenade. You’ve got to make that work harder.’

‘Go on.’

‘If you appoint me as manager, I would split the café at that pillar, there,’ she said, pointing to a spot about ten feet from the Promenade window. ‘On the other side, I’d have a proper gelateria and continue to build on the reputation for excellence.’

Lucy could feel the waitress’s eyes boring into the back of her head. It was definitely Bridget: assistant manager and ice cream maker.

‘But in here,’ said Lucy, circling her arm around the other end of the room, ‘I would re-brand the business as Caffè di Milano, and go all out for quality in coffee.’

Jack had been nodding along at first, then he stopped to write some notes on his tablet, then check something in the browser. Lucy craned her neck to try and see.

‘There are six coffee shops within 400 yards of here,’ he said. ‘Four of them are national chains. What makes you think you can compete?’

It was the question she had been hoping for. Lucy reached into her bag and pulled out a package. ‘Decent coffee would be a start,’ she said. ‘I blended this myself and ground the beans this morning.’ Before Jack could react, she skipped round the table and squeezed in behind the counter. Bridget gave way, trying not to look too interested.

Lucy had spent nearly all day yesterday stalking Giuseppe’s Gelateria, and she had discovered that the coffee was thin, bitter and almost totally lacking in aroma. She addressed the coffee machine and began to prepare a genuine Italian cappuccino, as taught to her by the barista in the Café Duomo in Milan, where she had worked while she was a student. For a year. Then she had gone crying back to Dad in Cheshire. She tried to erase that memory and focus on the drink.

She warmed the cup, rinsed the portafilter and wiped the group head. Her hands were starting to shake as she poured in the coffee and pressed it in place. While the espresso dripped into the cup, she steamed the milk, taking much longer than the waitress had on Sunday. Before she poured it on to the espresso, she banged the jug as hard as she could on the bench. Several times.

She carried the drink over to Jack’s table and reached into her bag. This time she pulled out a small shaker, and sprinkled cinnamon on top instead of the usual chocolate. Finally, she placed a paper bag containing a croissant on the table.

Lucy’s Mama was 100% Italian, but Lucy favoured her Dad. She couldn’t claim to be bilingual, but she could certainly speak the language. While Jack stared at his late breakfast, Lucy announced, in Italian, that this was the best coffee he would drink all week.

Jack broke off the corner of the croissant and dipped it in the cappuccino, then took a sip. ‘When can you start?’

‘I haven’t seen the flat,’ she responded.

He took some keys out of his pocket. ‘You’ll like it,’ he said, sliding the keys across the table. ‘I’ve heard about your current living arrangements.’

That was below the belt. True, but definitely below the belt.

‘I’ll move in on Wednesday and start on Thursday,’ said Lucy, collecting the keys.

She explored the flat (nice, one bed plus large through room), and agreed terms with Jack. Then she was introduced properly to Bridget Gorrigan.

‘The classic looks fresh,’ said Lucy, pointing to the ice cream freezer.

‘It is,’ said Bridget.

‘Can I try one, then?’

Bridget made up a cone in silence and passed it over. As she did so, Lucy saw black nail polish under the latex glove that Bridget had donned to serve the ice cream. And was that a tattoo peeking out from under her blouse? She checked Bridget’s hair: jet black with no roots showing, and an awful lot of it piled under her hat. Lucy made appreciative noises whilst eating the last thing she would have ordered in February. She wiped her hands on a napkin and said, ‘You’re the expert, Bridget. How would you improve the ice cream if we improved the coffee?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes.’

Bridget stared at the freezer. There were four different varieties on display. Only two of them had been made on the premises.

‘I’d stop selling bought-in product,’ said Bridget, ‘and I’d launch a special range for the summer with real vanilla seeds and more cream.’

‘I look forward to trying it,’ said Lucy. Whether the shop could afford it was a question she’d have to answer later.

There are very few listed barns in Lancashire. Kingsley Laidlaw was hoping to get Quaker’s Fold added to the list after his revelations tonight. On Friday afternoon he had screwed his eyes closed and made a call to an event planning company. It hurt his principles and his pocket, but they had delivered four space heaters, two lighting rigs and a van load of chairs this afternoon. They even ran cables from the cottage as part of the service. Heating a structure with holes in the roof and no insulation was going to be very expensive — and not very green — but an audience who froze to death wouldn’t be very sympathetic to his arguments. Besides, the unexpected pay rise that the steering committee had voted to give him last week would help. It was quite nice to think of Matt Cross’s money going to support a campaign to stop his development.

By seven o’clock all the chairs had been taken, and Kingsley ran around putting sacks on some old bales of straw. The turnout was well beyond his expectations, bolstered by a full house from the Coastal History Society and several representatives of Quaker societies (or Friends, as he’d learnt to call them). At ten past seven, Penny walked in, closely followed by Andrew Mallinson, who was deep in conversation with a woman wrapped in a long coat. It was time to begin.

‘What’s in a name?’ said Kingsley, after he’d done the formal introductions. ‘There’s no guarantee that a farm called Quaker’s Fold would have any connection to the Society of Friends, but local knowledge, passed down through generations, is usually rooted in fact.’ He had learnt his introduction by heart; now he needed to look down at his notes. So far, the audience were with him.

‘I’ve found a copy of English Heritage’s decision on Listed Building Status from 1991, and I’d like to read you their conclusion. There is no evidence that Quaker’s Fold has any historical connection to the Society of Friends, and because it was built in 1702, and because of its current state of repair, we do not think Listed Status is appropriate. How wrong can you be?’

A voice from the crowd interrupted him. ‘They were right about the date.’

‘That’s all they did get right,’ said Kingsley, forcing a smile. ‘Three years older, and it would have been listed automatically, but there you go. Everything else, they got wrong. We all know that the Cheney family of Flaxall Manor converted to…’ That wasn’t the right expression, was it? ‘That is, they became Friends, in 1724, and that a significant congregation met in Flaxall Manor until they emigrated to America in 1735. But what happened before 1724?’

He paused for effect, and his mouth was open to speak when someone coughed. Two others joined in. ‘Can we have that heater off?’ came a voice from the back. ‘I can’t hear you with that blowing.’

‘No chance,’ said a woman near the speaker. ‘We’ll all catch our deaths if that goes off. Speak up, Mr Laidlaw.’

‘Certainly, and I’ll be very brief because I’m going to hand over in a second. Most of you know Barry Ibbotson, Chairman of Flaxall Parish Council and Chairman of the Coastal History Society.’ He paused and pointed to the man on his left. ‘I am about to hand over a document which will change everyone’s views about Quaker’s Fold, which will guarantee this barn’s future as a listed building and which will stop the housing development in its tracks.’

He had placed the diary, safely in its archive box, on the table in front of him. He picked it up and held it out to show the audience the University logo, then returned it reverently to the table. ‘This box contains a diary. You would think that every old document has been looked at by now, but that’s not the case. There are still piles of uncatalogued material in the basements of libraries all over Britain, and I am very grateful to the University for releasing this diary to us.

‘You may have heard of Hannah Pearne: she was one of the emigrants with the Flaxall Friends, a widow who left England to find a new life with her children and grandchildren. Well, she began a diary on the day she pledged herself, aged sixteen, and her diary clearly shows that this barn was built specifically for the Flaxall Friends to meet in, and that they met here regularly until 1724.’

Yes. Oh, yes. That’s put the cat among the pigeons, he thought. A dozen conversations had broken out all over the barn. Heads were raised as eager eyes sought out clues in the fabric of the building. Questions were asked loudly: Why isn’t the diary in America? How do we know it’s genuine? Could she be talking about another barn?

At the right moment, Barry Ibbotson stood up and raised his voice. ‘All excellent questions,’ he said. ‘And no, I don’t have the answers tonight. That’s going to take time, and I’m afraid it’s going to take money.’

A series of groans echoed round the room.

‘English heritage aren’t going to take the word of Barry from the Parish Council,’ said Ibbotson. ‘Very few people do.’

‘You’re not wrong, Barry,’ came a voice from the crowd, and then the woman who’d entered with Andrew Mallinson stood up.

‘Perhaps I could make an offer here,’ she said.

‘And you are?’

‘I’m Claudia Mallinson, of Lancashire Coastal Developments.’

Oh. This could be good. Kingsley hadn’t expected Andrew to speak at all tonight, still less that he would bring his wife to throw in the towel on his behalf. Kingsley nodded to Mrs Mallinson and sat down, yielding the floor.

Instead of speaking from the back of the barn, Mrs Mallinson made her way slowly round the outside of the seating, all eyes following her. Kingsley had never seen her before, and she was quite a contrast to her husband. She was definitely younger than him — around forty — and she had slipped off the coat before speaking. Underneath, she was wearing a blue and white striped shirt over a long blue suede skirt and boots. She negotiated the trip hazards, placing her heels carefully on the compacted dirt of the floor.

Since Kingsley’s encounter with Matt Cross in December, there had only been one, brief, public statement from Lancashire Coastal Developments: they intended to submit Quaker’s Fold to the Council for inclusion in the draft development plan. Since then, nothing, and now the developer’s wife was going to address them.

Claudia Mallinson folded her hands in front of her and waited for silence. ‘You might find this hard to believe, but no one is more thrilled to hear this news than Coastal Developments.’ She paused, and a few of the audience laughed. ‘It’s helped us solve a problem: what to do with the barn.’ She gestured at the ancient timbers above them. ‘On its own, it’s not much. As part of a community resource, Quaker’s Barn has a great future.’ She paused again, and a ripple of comment passed over the crowd. Kingsley shifted uneasily in his seat.

‘Coastal Developments want to see the question of Hannah’s diary resolved as quickly as possible. To that end, we would like to pay for an urgent professional assessment of the document.’ More murmurs. ‘After that, proper analysis should be down to our local experts in the History Society.’

Kingsley felt disoriented, with the ground being pulled away from him. Mrs Mallinson’s offer would keep the diary local, ensure its credibility and probably guarantee Listed Building Status for the Barn. So why was he shaking?

While he hesitated, Barry Ibbotson half-stood and said, ‘A very generous offer, Mrs Mallinson, but I’m sure I’m not the only one to wonder if there’s a catch.’

The audience laughed, and Claudia Mallinson smiled. ‘No catch, Barry, and this is only the first part of our offer. I’m sure most of you know what a Section 106 agreement is: money from a development to benefit the area. If Quaker’s Barn is listed, we would pledge sufficient funds from the development of the land for a full refurbishment of the barn and we would gift it to the community to be the centre for local history. I’m sure the University might even allow the diary to come here on permanent loan.’

Kingsley put his head in his hands. His strategy for stopping the development had been based on national support to save the Barn, and now the developers had swung the history vote behind them.

While Kingsley was despairing, and Barry Ibbotson was calculating the odds, Claudia spoke again. ‘These two offers aren’t linked or conditional. Just because you accept a grant for assessment of the diary, it doesn’t mean you support the development. I’d just like to know whether the meeting would like us to help you in phase one?’

‘On that basis, I move that we accept,’ said Barry before Kingsley could get a word in.

The meeting murmured its assent, except for one voice who said, ‘The fight for our village doesn’t stop here.’

Kingsley rallied himself and stood up. ‘In that case, I think we are adjourned. The next meeting of QUAG will have a different agenda. Thank you all for coming.’

The crowd started to disperse. Barry picked up the box containing the diary. ‘That was a turn up, and no mistake.’

‘That guy was right,’ said Kingsley. ‘The fight for the village doesn’t stop here.’

Barry hefted the box in his hands. ‘No, lad, it doesn’t, but it’s going to be an uphill struggle. You’ve done a good job, Kingsley. Don’t lose sight of that. I’ll put this in the car, then I’ll help you stack the chairs.’

Kingsley didn’t have the energy to stand up. He sighed and shuffled his papers around on the table. A shadow in front of him made him look up: it was Penny.

‘That changes things a bit,’ she said. ‘Now that the future of the Barn is guaranteed, the Party is going to have to take a different attitude to the development.’

Kingsley surged out of his seat. ‘What! How can we? This is against everything the SLP stands for.’

Penny was shaking her head. ‘We’re the Sustainable Lancashire Party, not the Stop the Clock Lancashire Party. New development can be sustainable: fracking for shale gas cannot. It’s time to remember our mission.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘Because it’s true. Look, Kingsley, you still have an important role to play here in making sure that the voice of the village is heard, but your real job is making sure we get as many councillors elected in May as possible.’

So that was it: she was pulling rank. Just because he now relied on her for his salary, she thought she could order him around. Listen to yourself. That’s what having a boss means: of course she can order you around. He smiled to himself at this rare moment of insight. Penny smiled back as if she could hear his thoughts, and left him to finish stacking the chairs with Barry.

4

Tuesday

The hire company’s van was nearly loaded, despite the early start. The infrastructure of Kingsley’s embarrassment was leaving just as the sun rose on the morning after his betrayal. The chairs and lights were packed, and Kingsley helped the two men lift the heavy heaters on to the tailgate. As they tied down the last one, he poured himself another mug of tea from the pot, then watched them go.

This was the first time he’d really missed teaching. He stood in the yard, looking across the furrows of Quaker’s Fold towards Northridge Copse. From this distance, the bare branches could almost be music, with the rooks’ nests as notes in some serialist nightmare. He put the connections together in his head: copse — from coppice, the craft of continually harvesting trees. He would have loved to create a lesson for Year 5, leading them into the woods to look at the trees to see how their ancestors had taken the small branches but left the trees intact. Pure sustainability. Exactly what the SLP should be promoting.

He drank some more tea before the icy air sucked the life out of it, and his subconscious offered another possibility: if Quaker’s Fold became a listed building, what about the copse? Most of the land around Flaxall had been reclaimed from the Ribble estuary. Quaker’s Fold stood on a small rise, as did Flaxall Manor and Northridge Copse (the clue was in the name). He had known little of this when Matt Cross wandered into his yard before Christmas. Since then, he had learnt an awful lot.

Flaxall village, its church and its Manor house had all been perched precariously on the edge of a mere until serious drainage work began in the seventeenth century and the waters receded. The Cheney family had built, modified and finally sold the Manor when they emigrated to Philadelphia with their Quaker brethren. Northridge copse was older, much older than Northridge farm, so there was a real chance of finding historical interest. The main road ran on the other side of the woods, and Northridge Copse would have to be cut through for construction traffic. If he could get it designated as a Site of Special Scientific Interest…

A quick march across the fields might help clear the disappointment of last night, even if there were nothing in the woods to help his cause. He quickly got changed and put on some boots that might offer protection from the mud. He lived ludicrously close to the UGAS terminal, and the one time he had tried to walk there, he had given up and gone back for his bike. Despite the huge detour by road, it was much quicker to cycle than walk.

The problem came from the agricultural regime at Northridge: arable and some vegetable cropping did nothing for ease of access. If they reverted to pasture, it would be a lot easier, although Kingsley wasn’t sure he could stomach living next to a field full of animals destined for slaughter, or put up with the sound of cows being separated from their calves to support the milk industry.

The overnight weather helped. Sunday night’s downpour of near-freezing rain had been followed by clear skies and temperatures barely above zero on Monday. Last night’s frost had leached any remaining heat from the ground and left the ploughed fields with a solid top. He stumbled a few times, but that was much better than sinking up to his knees in a bog.

Half way across the second field, he had to stop for breath. The cold was scorching his lungs, and the effort of raising his feet was exercising muscles that didn’t get a workout on the bike. He could see the top of the UGAS drill-head from here. Maybe Penny had a point: stopping UGAS had to be the Party’s top priority. And the best way to do that was to take control of the Council. Even so, that wouldn’t stop him fighting tooth and nail to protect his home.

The fence that separated the last cultivated field from the wilderness of Northridge Copse was much higher than the others and had more to do with security than farm management. This must be the border of Matt Cross’s land. Looking away to the left, the chimneys of Flaxall Manor were visible, one of them shooting smoke into the still air. The fence was topped with barbed wire and was too tall for easy access. Having come all this way over the mud, Kingsley wasn’t going to be stopped now.

He looked to the right, away from the Manor. The drill-head was even starker here, an alien intrusion. A hundred yards down the slope, the top of the fence was interrupted. A gate? He moved closer: yes, a gate. He went up to it, and kicked it in frustration. It opened.

He examined the latch. There was no padlock. This was too good an opportunity to miss, so he dodged through the gate. He crossed the short margin between the fence and the trees — taking care not to tread on the snowdrops — and found a path into the copse.

If this path had been there for a long time, perhaps there was a right-of-way on old maps? That would change things as well. I wouldn’t put it past Matt Cross to have had the right-of-way expunged from the record, he thought, just to keep ordinary people out of his wood. Not only that, the path might point to historical interest. He pressed on into the trees.

The bare trunks kept out the small breeze, and any other sounds of life were overwhelmed by the raucous call of the rooks above him, fighting for nesting sites and getting ready to mate. The early spring flowers were poking through the rotting mass of autumn’s leaves, releasing a smell of mould as they promised new life.

Away from the exposed margin there was no ice on the puddles and no grass to indicate a safe place to stand, so he proceeded by hopping, which made him think of what Matt Cross had said about the copse being overrun by rabbits. Hop … Hop…

The main path headed straight ahead, with a smaller track off to the left. He ducked into the trees until a fallen trunk blocked his way — another waste. All this timber should have been harvested. It could have been seasoned and used to repair the Quaker’s Barn roof in years to come. He mounted the fallen tree and took two steps towards the root ball, to give himself a vantage point.

He looked around the wood and reeled back in shock. He slipped on the moss, caught his leg on the trunk and banged his head as he crashed to earth. He was shaking so hard that he couldn’t stand up, so he crawled forward to see if he was dreaming. He wasn’t.

There was a small clearing in front of him which opened to the left and ran all the way to the edge of the wood. Stumps of trees showed where a swathe had been cut through the old planting. At the right hand end of the clearing was the statue of a man staring west. The white man-made stone was out of place here, as alien as the UGAS rig, but there was something worse, something so wrong that it had made him slip off the fallen tree.

Lying on its back was the body of a man with no face and no chest. Kingsley felt the ground move, so he dropped flat to stop it swaying, but it was him not the earth that was out of control. He hugged the ground, inhaling the dampness.

If this was a dead man, why couldn’t he smell the rotting corpse? The corpse in the copse? He giggled inside, and some part of his brain reminded him that it was winter, and that microbial decomposition would be retarded by the frost. Hence the lack of smell.

He took a deep breath of leaf mould and rolled into a sitting position. He had to look again, to ground himself. On his second look at the body, he saw the gun. The barrels were in water, with the red cushion on the stock facing him. It looked sickeningly familiar, so he checked the man’s clothes. Wellingtons, Barbour jacket, cord trousers. The body was on its back, and Kingsley could just see the man’s hand. He swallowed hard, and moved the arm to rotate the wrist.

When he saw the deep yellow gold ring, he knew whose body it was. Matthew Cross would not be developing Quaker’s Fold, or anything else ever again.

‘Poor Layla. Poor kids,’ he said out loud.

Then he crawled backwards until he bumped into the trunk of the tree. Kingsley never went anywhere without his phone. He dialled 999.

Ecce enim veritatem dilexisti: incerta et occulta sapientiae tuae manifestasti mihi.

I’ll have to look up what that means, thought Tom as the sounds of Allegri’s Misereri floated around his head. He pounded along the running track of the Archbishop’s Park in Lambeth, on the south bank of the Thames, quickly discovering that Allegri’s music may be uplifting but also that it’s soon drowned out by the sound of your own breathing, especially when you’re this unfit.

He slowed to a walk and pressed the Shuffle button on his phone. Allegri was replaced by Mozart, and Tom was overtaken by a young woman whose pace round the path was twice what his had been. Spurred into action, he started to run again. He rounded the bend to head south west, towards the Palace. Mum’s been there a few times, he thought. This is about as close as I’m likely to get. Unless the Archbishop of Canterbury calls us in…

He hadn’t realised that he’d slowed down again until another woman overtook him. She was shorter and younger than the first one, and something about the way her legs pumped vigorously brought an image of Lucy into his head. He hadn’t thought about her for days, and the reminder was a bittersweet intrusion.

He passed a bench where two lunchtime smokers were polluting the air and resolved to do one more circuit before heading back to the office for a shower, lunch and another session in the Black Hole of Lambeth, a windowless secure room where he was reading the final draft of a damning report into the goings-on at Westcountry Constabulary. Oh joy, oh bliss.

The Mozart in his ears was replaced by Mahler. Why did I put that on here? He shuffled the music, completed his circuit and headed under the enormous viaduct that snaked out from Waterloo. Two minutes in the cold air froze the sweat on his back, and he was forced to jog again to get warm, despite the diesel fumes that assaulted him on the other side of the railway.

He walked up the three flights of stairs. Slowly. Instead of returning his wave, the receptionist called him over.

‘Chief Inspector, you’re wanted in Director Ogden’s office. I told him you’d gone running, but he says straight away.’

‘Great. Just what I need. Don’t tell him I’m back for two minutes, will you?’

‘Sure. Here you go.’

She returned his security card, and he was about to swipe himself into the offices when he noticed that the wall had changed since he’d left for his run. The discreet plaque which announced the identity of his employer had disappeared; in its place, perspex letters arranged vertically spelt out CIPPS. Along the bottom the full title was displayed: The Central Inspectorate of Professional Policing Standards.

‘Is this Leonie’s idea?’

‘Who else would do that?’

He shook his head and went inside. He used his two minute grace period to wash his face. At least the central heating would stop him getting cramp.

Talk of the Devil… Leonie was sitting next to the Director, Paul Ogden, and both looked up when he knocked at the open door. Leonie looked almost excited. Her overweight fringe was clipped firmly on top of her head, showing that she meant business, whilst Ogden looked slightly bemused (a common reaction after an encounter with Leonie).

‘Sit down, lad,’ said Ogden. ‘The Deputy Director has a job for you. Before she gets carried away, I want you to know that you don’t have to take it.’

In any other professional relationship, this would count as deeply insulting, but Ogden coped with Leonie by treating her like his wayward daughter, and she let him. It worked well enough most of the time.

‘Will it get me out of that locked room?’ asked Tom, pointing towards the Black Hole of Lambeth.

‘Yes,’ said Leonie. ‘And back up North.’ She turned to Ogden. ‘Does Lancashire count as Northern? I can never remember what you Yorkshiremen think.’

‘Northern enough,’ said Tom. ‘Come on, Boss, spit it out.’

She frowned. Leonie had never been a serving police officer. Tom and Paul Ogden both were, so Tom liked to slip in the occasional “Boss” or “Ma’am” when he could. Leonie preferred first names.

She drew a deep breath and began. ‘That little matter you were supposed to be doing next week in Southport, Tom, has blown up big-time. The complainant has been murdered.’

‘Oh.’

‘That’s only the start. Assistant Chief Constable Schofield has got a big problem with this case, thanks to that bombing in Manchester.’ She leaned forward, locking her gaze on Tom. ‘Apparently, the murder victim has bought and sold so many detectives over the years that they’d have to bring in someone from Manchester to be Senior Investigating Officer if they want the job done impartially. But with the cuts, and with this massive counter-terrorism operation…’ She spread her hands. ‘Schofield liked the work you did on the Berardi murder, and he wants you to be SIO.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Precisely,’ said Ogden. ‘It’s almost unheard of these days for one force to ask for help from another in a murder case.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Tom. ‘We all know that I’ve never been SIO on a murder. I like a challenge, but if I make a complete hash of the investigation, it could rebound very badly on CIPPS. And me.’

‘You won’t do that,’ said Ogden. ‘I’ve insisted that we get indemnity. So long as you do a decent job, there’s no comeback on anyone, least of all on you. If you fancy the job, take it.’

Leonie chose that moment to unclip her fringe, and smooth it back in place. The message was clear: if you don’t cover yourself in glory, the Director might forgive you, but I won’t.

‘This could take weeks,’ said Tom.

‘They’re going to hire you for three weeks,’ said Leonie, ‘with an option for three more. Full expenses paid, obviously. If you make an arrest, any further time preparing the case will be charged per diem. It’s a win-win for you, me and CIPPS.’

Tom didn’t see it quite like that. He had only become a chief inspector by accident, and a lot of other coppers saw him as over-promoted for his age and experience. On the other hand…

‘I have only one stipulation…’

‘…let me guess,’ said Leonie. ‘You want DC Elaine Fraser on your team.’

‘Well, she is an SLC detective, and she certainly has no connections to Liverpool.’

‘Where’s your car?’

‘York. I came down on the train yesterday.’

‘That can be her first job — tell her to get a taxi to your parents’ place and pick it up. She can meet you in Southport this evening.’

Ogden wanted to be certain. ‘So you’ll take it then, lad.’

‘I will, sir.’

‘Good.’

Leonie looked up at the Director. Satisfied that he’d finished, she patted her knees and said, ‘I’ve got a uniformed officer waiting outside your hotel. While you get showered, he’s going to pack your bags and take them to Euston Station. You haven’t left anything incriminating lying around your room, have you?’

‘No, Boss. I brought my stash with me this morning.’

Leonie closed one eye and looked at him. Tom tried to keep an even face. Ogden snorted with suppressed laughter.

‘Good. You can be on the train from Euston in forty-five minutes. SLC will have someone collect you from Liverpool Lime Street.’

Tom stood up, then an obvious question struck him. ‘What time was Matthew Cross’s body discovered?’

Leonie checked a piece of paper on Ogden’s desk. ‘The first police responder attended shortly after half-past nine.’

Tom wouldn’t be in Liverpool until five o’clock. ‘I take it they didn’t arrest anyone at the scene.’

‘No,’ said Leonie. ‘With Mr Cross, you may find that shortage of suspects is the least of your worries.’

Ogden stood up and offered his hand, ‘Good luck, lad. I’m not saying you’ll need it, but it never comes amiss.’

‘What about that one?’ said Natalie, pointing to a card in the estate agent’s window on Tuesday afternoon.

Connor considered the location (good), and the rent (bad). He looked closer. This property seemed to be owned by the estate agent himself. That meant…

‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked.

Natalie peered up at him from behind the scarf that hid most of her face. She pulled it down and said, ‘Yeah, I am. If we don’t make a move soon, we’ll get in a rut.’

‘I know, and I want to be with you in a place of our own, but I can’t help worrying about Bridget…’

‘She’s a big girl. She’ll soon find a kindred spirit.’

Connor still wasn’t sure what was going on with Bridget. After months of hostility or grudging acceptance when it came to his relationship with Nat, she had suddenly become nice. Bridget’s triumphant rendition of Time Warp on Sunday had led to an impromptu party, and then Natalie had suggested that they get their own place.

Connor looked at the estate agent’s details again. If they moved out, he certainly wouldn’t miss Bridget’s taste in music, or her OCD approach to tidiness. Perhaps that was Bridget’s intention: be nice to Connor so that Natalie would move out and she could arrange her cupboards how she wanted.

Natalie had Mondays off, and they hadn’t actually seen Bridget since Sunday night — she had gone to work before they got up on Monday, and they spent last night at his place. That was another argument for getting a place together: his place was very cheap and truly awful.

‘Let’s go and see,’ he said, pushing open the door.

The agent’s assistant printed off the full details and gave them the spiel. Connor was only half listening as he tried to peer through the back. He caught sight of the owner, and slipped away before the assistant could stop him.

‘Can I help you?’ said the owner, frowning.

‘That flat on Grosvenor Crescent,’ said Connor. ‘We like the look of it, but I’m not sure about the rent.’

The owner looked over at his assistant. ‘Jane seems to have everything in hand, Mr …’

Connor held out his hand. ‘Connor Holden. I work for Matt Cross.’

He could feel the owner flinch when he mentioned Matt’s name.

‘I’m sure Jane can arrange a viewing for you. I’ll have a discreet word with the owner.’

Connor didn’t press the point, he just handed over his business card. ‘Text me your best offer,’ he said.

They arranged a viewing for the afternoon, then Connor suggested that they grab a coffee in Giuseppe’s and see Bridget before he went into the office.

Natalie’s flatmate was cleaning tables when they arrived, spraying them with something toxic and rubbing vigorously. When they came in, she peeled off the latex gloves and walked behind the counter. ‘Usual?’

Connor nodded and peered at the cakes. No matter how often he checked, they never got any better. Natalie was getting a skinny latte; Connor had tea, because the coffee was foul. Bridget pushed the pot over the counter towards him.

‘All change this week,’ she said. ‘New manager starts on Thursday.’

‘Oh? What’s he like?’

‘She. Some posh bird from Cheshire. Got big plans, she has.’

‘Do they include you?’

‘At the moment.’ Bridget turned round to start foaming the milk for Natalie’s latte. ‘The first thing she’s gonna do is change the name.’

Bridget turned her attention back to the jug for a second, just as Connor’s phone rang. He took the call because it was Grant, and you don’t send Grant to voicemail.

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in Giuseppe’s.’

‘Good. Get over here now. Something’s happened.’

Natalie was just emerging from the toilet, smiling and clearly getting ready to share their news with Bridget. Connor waved apologetically at his phone.

‘I’ve been summoned over the road. By Grant. It doesn’t sound good.’

Natalie frowned. A summons by Andrew or Claudia could be postponed. If Grant said something had happened, it wouldn’t be nothing. She leaned up to kiss him (in front of Bridget — another sign that things had changed), and said she’d pay for the drinks and come over later.

Connor smiled at Bridget, ducked out of the café and dodged across Tyler Street to Laycross Entertainments — the door to the offices was to the left of the Piano Bar. Connor punched in the security codes, let himself into the building, then took the stairs two at a time.

‘Hello? Anyone at home?’ he shouted into the maze of rooms above the Piano Bar.

‘In my office.’ It was a woman’s voice, and not the affected tones of Claudia Mallinson.

The only full-time occupant of Laycross Ents was Melissa, office manager and everyone’s assistant. Her lair was towards the back, in the largest single space. Four desks were arranged in a square to accommodate Melissa and her part-time help. Mel was standing by the window, blowing steam off her cup of tea and looking very upset. Grant was sitting in the visitor’s chair, looking worried. If Grant was worried, Connor prepared himself to be very, very afraid.

‘I’ve made you some tea,’ said Melissa, pointing to the mug on the corner of her desk. Connor slipped off his leather jacket and picked up the mug.

‘I had a call from one of our tame coppers an hour ago,’ said Grant. ‘He said they’d found a body in the woods near Matt’s house. Murdered.’

‘Shit. Is Matt a suspect?’

Grant gave him a level stare. ‘Worse. It’s him. Someone’s shot him.’

Connor put his tea down. ‘Are they sure?’

‘Yes. I got another call to confirm it: no question, it’s Matt. Shot with his own gun.’

This was madness. Complete madness. How could anyone…?

‘Sit down, love,’ said Melissa, pushing over a chair. ‘It’s a shock for all of us.’

He sat down carefully, and took out his nicotine vapouriser. Neither of the others complained. He took a few hits, then said, ‘Do they know when it happened? I had a call from Sabrina on Sunday, saying that he was AWOL.’

‘No one’s been able to get hold of him since Sunday morning,’ said Grant, ‘but that’s not our problem. A whole world of shit is gonna rain down on us, and I don’t just mean the bizzies. We’ve got about half an hour to get our heads round this before Mallinson gets back from town.’

Love him or hate him (or both), Matt Cross had been in Connor’s life longer than Connor’s ex-wife or his children. Matt Cross had determined almost everything about his life and it had been a bargain that Connor had been happy to make, but now…

‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Melissa. ‘Who could have done it?’

Connor couldn’t believe it either. Grant seemed to have a stronger grip on the situation and said, ‘Obviously, we tell the police nothing except our movements.’ He paused. ‘We say nothing about the business because, in the end, it’s not Matt’s business.’

Melissa nodded. Connor hadn’t got a clue what Grant was on about. ‘Of course it’s Matt’s business,’ he said. ‘Sorry. It was his business.’

Grant was shaking his head. ‘No it isn’t. Layla is the owner and chairman of Laycross Entertainments and Laycross Property. Matt had nothing to do with the business. Got that?’

It was technically true, of course, but…

‘What about Lancashire Coastal Properties?’ said Melissa. ‘We…’

‘…nothing to do with us,’ interrupted Grant. ‘We know nothing about it.’

‘But the name’s on the door,’ said Melissa, ‘and I…’

Grant leaned forward in his chair. ‘We. Know. Nothing. Got that?’

‘Yes, Grant’ said Mel, bowing her head. She sniffed, and tears started. The bare patches on her face said that this wasn’t the first flood of grief.

Connor drew a deep breath and lifted himself to his feet. ‘Natalie’s over the road. I need to go and tell her.’

‘Poor chick,’ said Melissa. ‘This is gonna hit her hard.’

‘It’ll hit all of us,’ said Connor. ‘Nothing will ever be the same again.’

Grant stood up. Connor and Melissa took a step back. ‘There’s no need for anything to change,’ said Grant. ‘We run the business, not Layla, and definitely not Andy or Claudia Mallinson. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Grant,’ said Melissa.

Connor nodded to show that he understood, grabbed his jacket and left. Instead of turning right towards the main entrance, he slipped down the back stairs and into the service area of Layla’s. It didn’t open until the evening in winter, so he was undisturbed when he slipped into Ross’s office and took something from the manager’s cupboard. He let himself out of the fire doors, and scooted round to Giuseppe’s via the back alley. Connor wasn’t entirely in agreement with Grant. Some things have to change, he thought, or we’d still be listening to the Beatles all day and buying our clothes on the ration. Did they have rationing when the Beatles were around? Whatever.

The other part of Grant’s statement: We run the business, was also a half-truth. A more accurate description might be: We ran the business for Matt. Connor knew his place (and he quite liked it). He couldn’t replace Matt, nor did he want to. Grant clearly had different ideas, and probably thought he could step into Matt’s shoes. It’s not gonna be that easy, he thought. Layla, Andy and Claudia are all gonna have something to say about that. He paused on the pavement, about to cross the road, and another thought struck him: Lucas. Where does Lucas fit into all this? The lad might only be sixteen, but Matt had been grooming him to take over the business for years.

A car blew its horn, disturbing his reverie. The driver waved for him to cross the road or move away from the kerb. Connor dashed over and saw Natalie looking at him from inside the caff, her attention drawn by the noise. He opened the door, and she was standing up to meet him.

‘What’s up?’ she said.

He took her hands in his. ‘It’s Matt, love. There’s been an accident. I’m sorry, but he’s dead.’

She dug her nails into his wrists. ‘No. He can’t be. It’s not true.’

‘I’m sorry…’

‘Noooooooooooo…’ Her voice rose and turned into a scream. A cup crashed to the floor behind them, and Bridget appeared at Natalie’s side. Connor kept his grip on her hands, to stop her beating herself, and Bridget eased her into a chair.

‘What?’ said Bridget.

‘It’s Matt. He’s dead.’

Bridget looked at him over Natalie’s head, incomprehension all over her face.

Connor felt Natalie’s shoulders slump, and he gently released her hands. He leaned forward and whispered to Bridget, ‘Matt had a thing with her mother. Natalie always thought he was her father.’

Bridget’s mouth dropped open and her black eyebrows arched in surprise.

Connor dropped his voice even lower. ‘All in her head.’

The bell pinged on the door and three old ladies bustled into the café, praising the warmth after the bitter wind outside. Bridget slowly let go of Natalie’s shoulders and headed towards the serving counter. On the way past, she patted Connor’s arm.

5

‘I still can’t believe it,’ said the taxi driver. ‘Why couldn’t they get a squad car to bring you over here? Hiring a taxi from Manchester to York can’t be a good use of taxpayers’ money, can it?’

‘It can, because the traffic division would charge the major incident team for their driver’s time and use of the squad car,’ responded Elaine. ‘I hate to say this, but their drivers get a lot more per hour than you do, and police cars are more expensive per mile than taxis.’

‘Why am I not surprised,’ said the taxi driver with a sigh. ‘Is this it?’

The car drew up outside a driveway with two entrances, not far from York city centre. The Cloister had been painted along the top of the coping stones. Elaine gave the driver a tip, signed the invoice and gathered her things together. She paused to get a proper look at her boss’s house, then realised that someone had planted evergreens to hide the property from pavement gawkers, so she crunched up the gravel drive until it came into view.

‘Bloody hell. And he always said his family wasn’t rich.’

Their last case had seen them pick up the rocks in the gardens of the mega-wealthy to see what crawled out. Tom had quickly pointed out that Elaine (by virtue of her marriage to Rob) was closer in wealth to the professional footballers who lived in 7Bridge than she was to him, her boss. It was true, in strictly relative terms, but Rob and Elaine lived in a flat, not in a house like the Cloister.

Elaine had grown up in a semi-detached house in Bacup. She was familiar with the Victorian terraces of the surrounding mill towns, and she’d visited a wide variety of houses through the job, but never one like this. It looked very old, for a start. Apart from bare stone blocks on the corners, the house was covered in render that could do with painting. The windows each had six panes of glass, their woodwork also in need of TLC. Did that make it Georgian? Edwardian? Perhaps she’d buy a copy of Period Homes and look for comparisons.

The only really grand feature was the front door. It was gloss black, solid and surrounded by column thingies that were grey stone and stuck out from the otherwise flat front of the house. A semi-circular window over the top must give light to the hall. Either side of the door were huge carriage lamps, of the sort her mother would call ostentatious. On the Cloister, they just looked practical.

Before going any closer, she looked around. Yes, there it was: Tom’s BMW, tucked away in the corner of the drive, half way round the back of the house. Elaine didn’t do servants’ entrances, so she marched up to the front door (at the top of four steps), and faced a choice: broken-looking bell-push or large brass knocker. Try the bell first, just in case the knocker comes off.

The bell-push lit up when she pressed it, presumably to confirm that it worked. She started counting to twenty, her benchmark for a reasonable response time. Mrs Morton opened the door on twelve.

‘You must be Elaine. Come in out of the cold.’

Elaine offered her warrant card, and Mrs Morton waved it away. ‘I recognised you from Tom’s description. No need to take your boots off, we’re not that sort of house.’ Mrs Morton led the way into a beautifully proportioned hall, complete with wooden panelling and chessboard tiled floor. There wasn’t a carpet in sight.

What’s he said about me that his mother could recognise me without checking? I’ll kill him if he’s said anything… Tom hadn’t described his mother’s appearance at all. Why would he? So Elaine took a good look as she followed Mrs Morton into a small lounge. No. Tom would call it a small sitting room. Her hostess had carefully sculpted grey hair which showed off fair skin. She wore a turquoise dress that picked up the green in her eyes (Tom’s were much more blue), but weirdly, she wore red shoes. With a heel.

‘Just dump your coat over there. I’ve put the kettle on.’

The sitting room was warm, so warm that Elaine realised that the rest of the house was unheated. Two floral settees stood either side of a coffee table made of rich red-brown wood. Walnut? Rosewood? The walls were a shade of yellow that Elaine wouldn’t have chosen for a room with a normal ceiling height but which looked gorgeous in here. The blue curtains looked like silk.

She dumped her coat, as instructed, and sneaked a look at Mrs Morton’s battered old desk. In fact, it was more of a kitchen table than a desk, despite attempts to make it look French with distressed white paint. There was a laptop (lid down) and loads of letters and internal memos with heraldic headings that featured crosses. A battered leather book stamped Holy Bible sat on the far corner.

There were four oil paintings on the wall, and only two photographs. A small one, tucked away, showed a beaming Mrs Morton next to a man in purple — presumably the Archbishop — who appeared to have cracked a joke. Mounted next to the window, in perfect alignment to the desk, was a family portrait. It had been taken outside the front of the Cloister, with everyone on the steps and the black door as background. Mr & Mrs Morton were front and centre, with a much older couple standing to their right. Tom had mentioned his grandparents often, and quoted his Grandma’s sayings as if they had the authority of the family Bible. Grandma had her arm on Granddad in a way that both sought and gave comfort. I wonder if Rob and I will ever look like that? she thought with a surge of emotion.

To Mrs Morton’s left, and down a step, was a much younger version, except that her daughter had blonde hair and an angular nose. This would be Fiona, she presumed. At Fiona’s feet were two very small boys (their father was either excluded from the picture or had been behind the camera), and that left Mrs Morton’s two other children: Tom and Diana.

Tom was the spit of his father, no question. Diana was bigger boned than her siblings, and her hair was dyed a vivid vermilion, so it was hard to see which parent she favoured. She and Tom stood closer to each other than the rest, and it seemed that Diana was the one trying to hide behind her brother.  Everyone was in evening dress, but only Diana looked uncomfortable.

Three of the oils were different views of York Minster which Elaine ignored. That left one frame to inspect: an oil painting of a farmhouse, with trees behind and a bleak looking moor taking up most of the frame. This must be Rooksnest Farm, which Tom talked about far more than the Cloister, even though it was his father’s childhood home, not his own. The grey stone of the farmhouse seemed to shimmer, as if the quartz in the rock had been ground into the paint. She looked more closely: there was no signature, just initials in the corner. DM. Tom had said Diana was an artist. If this was her work, she was very good.

‘I think that’s her best piece,’ said Mrs Morton.

Jesus! How do they do that?. Her boss could appear behind her without warning, but how could Mrs Morton come from the kitchen, wearing heels, on a tiled floor, and not make a noise?

‘It’s lovely,’ stammered Elaine, her heart rate still recovering.

The tea tray was deposited on the table. It also included a sandwich, the precise guillotine cut of the bread showing that it had been bought, not made. The cakes looked familiar too — Marks & Spencer’s finest. Everything Tom had said about his mother’s hospitality was true. She did make a good cup of tea, though.

Mrs Morton made small talk while Elaine scoffed her sandwich, forcing herself to slow down at one point. One of her hostess’s comments was, ‘Call me Valerie.’ Elaine was not inclined to try this out loud just yet.

The difficult questions came when she’d wiped her hands on the starched linen serviette. Or was it a napkin?

‘This case isn’t going to be dangerous for you, is it?’ asked Valerie.

‘I doubt it, and especially not for Thomas.’

‘Why would it be dangerous for Thomas? … Oh. In this house, Thomas is my husband. Tom is my son.’

Then why didn’t you give him a different name?

‘Why won’t it be dangerous for him? For Tom?’ continued Valerie

‘He’s the senior investigating officer. He’ll probably spend most of his time behind a desk while we’re out in the field.’ She hesitated, then pressed on. ‘Most detective work isn’t very dangerous at all, and Tom’s been a detective for a long time.’

Mrs Morton’s eyebrows shot up, then descended to form a fierce stare. Elaine had been nervous before. Now she felt scared.

Valerie gave a small snort, like a steam engine about to move off. ‘He hasn’t told you about the Operation Jigsaw cases, has he?’

No, he hadn’t. ‘Well…’

‘If you knew what had happened to him before Christmas, you wouldn’t say that.’

Elaine couldn’t think of what to say. Mrs Morton stirred her tea (unnecessarily), and took a sip.

‘If my son chooses to keep it quiet, I’ll have to respect that. Besides, I’m not sure which details are classified. Would you like some more cake, dear?’

‘I’d better be going, ma’am. The M62 is a nightmare at the best of times.’

‘It is. There’s a cloakroom down to the left.’

While Elaine was using the facilities, Mrs Morton had wheeled a suitcase to the front door. ‘Extras for Tom,’ she said. ‘Just in case. Have a safe journey. I hope to see you again some time.’

‘That would be nice, thank you.’

As Elaine hefted the suitcase down the steps, she could sense Valerie shivering behind her. Was this woman channelling some former mistress of the house, or did being the perfect hostess come naturally to her? Tom might have told his mother all about Operation Jigsaw — whatever that was — but Elaine was certain that he hadn’t mentioned Lucy White to her.

All in all, Tom had turned out quite normal, considering where he’d come from.

The uniformed police officer was standing at ease by the ticket barrier. A fair number of soldiers have joined the police over the years, and unless Tom was mistaken, his escort at Lime Street had done time in the infantry.

Tom presented himself and showed his warrant card. The officer came to attention, resisting the urge to salute.

‘This way, sir. Let me take your suitcase. You’ve got a lot of bags there.’

Tom gladly relinquished the case. Because some London plod had done his packing, he had ended up with far too much loose stuff. It would all have to be rationalised later.

Instead of a squad car, the officer led him towards a Mercedes, parked illegally. The rear windows were blacked out, so Tom didn’t see the other passenger until the constable opened the offside rear door.

‘Welcome to Liverpool, DCI Morton. I’m ACC Schofield.’

‘Thank you sir. I’m honoured you came to meet me, and more honoured that you requested my services.’

‘Don’t talk rot, Tom.’

Well that cleared things up. Schofield was a man on the rise, and very much the corporate policeman. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, for one thing. Tom made a mental adjustment.

Schofield gestured towards the empty driver’s seat. ‘There’s no privacy screen in this car,’ he said, ‘nor do I have a regular driver. Be careful what you say.’

‘I always am.’

‘Good. You’re going to need that, in this case.’

Having stowed Tom’s belongings in the boot, the driver slid into his seat, and they set off through the traffic.

‘Sorry to keep you in the dark while you were on the train,’ said Schofield, ‘but I couldn’t allow any of the preliminary reports to be sent over an insecure link. Here.’ Schofield reached down and picked up a new looking nylon rucksack. ‘This is one of our prototype secure tablets. It has access to HOLMES2 and your police email as well as a couple of other apps on it for report writing and so on. I’ve also got you a printed copy of the SLC Major Incident Protocol. There’s nothing quite like a hard copy.’

Great. Another bag to carry. ‘Why isn’t the organised crime task force handling the case?’ he asked.

Schofield gave a grim smile. ‘Because, in their words, Matthew Cross is no longer a serious organised criminal, and they haven’t got the budget. We haven’t got the budget for the likes of Matthew Cross, either, but we’ve got no choice.’

All the excitement that Tom had felt coming up on the train drained away like water into the desert. He had been on graveyard cases before: enquiries that only existed because someone had decreed that they exist, not because an arrest was likely, or even possible.

However, this was not the time to have that conversation, and it certainly wasn’t the place. ‘Can you give me the headlines, sir?’

‘A member of the public was walking — trespassing — through some woods near Cross’s house. He found the body at eight forty-five this morning. He gave a potential ID of the victim to the control room, and luckily a flag came up on the system. The operator sent an officer to the scene, then called me.’

Tom slipped out his notebook and jotted down the facts. He also added a note: How did the member of the public ID the victim? To Schofield, he said, ‘Why did you say it was lucky that you heard about it?’

‘As soon as the patrol confirmed a homicide, I dragged the best forensic team I could out of Manchester to attend the crime scene. I couldn’t dare risk the evidence being compromised.’

Tom added another note: Check the first responding officer for links to victim or associates.

‘I also grabbed a detective sergeant. He’s going to be your right hand man, and he’s already started the ball rolling. DS Philip Dunn. Experienced officer. He notified the victim’s wife. Apparently no one had heard or seen Mr Cross since Sunday lunchtime.’

‘Was he reported missing?’

‘No. People like Matt Cross are not reported missing.’

‘Have you heard from the forensic team at all?’

Schofield sighed. ‘You’d think, wouldn’t you, that if someone was shot in the woods there’d be lots of nice forensic evidence, but no. We had a torrential downpour on Sunday evening. Wiped away any footprints, made an accurate determination of time of death impossible. We might know more after the post-mortem examination.’

Tom didn’t hold out any hope for that. Unless there were fingerprints on the gun, or trace evidence turned up on someone’s shoes, this crime wasn’t going to be solved in the lab.

It didn’t look like Schofield had anything significant to add to his summary of the crime itself, so Tom turned to the investigation. ‘How many officers are you allocating to this case, sir?’

‘DS Dunn. DC Fraser, when she gets back with your car. Two other detectives for the duration, and half a dozen uniformed constables on secondment for the rest of this week. I’ve pulled Isabelle Innes off Operation Rewind to be your co-ordinator. She’ll be with you tomorrow.’

The traffic out of Liverpool was slow, the light was going, and it didn’t seem as if Schofield had anything else to say. They were silent for a moment, then Schofield took out his phone, pretending that he had a message. Then he started to catch up on his emails.

Tom looked in the rucksack. Most of the space was taken up with a large lever-arch file: bedtime reading. He took out the secure tablet and turned it on. There was a Post-It note with the relevant passwords, and he quickly checked the secure messages. There was only one, from Human Resources. SLC have an account at the Duke of Edinburgh Hotel, they informed him. A room had been reserved. He logged in to HOLMES2 and started reading reports.

Preliminary crime scene photos had been added. He looked at the first one, establishing the scene, and his eyebrows shot up. Behind the mutilated body was the statue of a man, naked it seemed, and made of some white stone.

He risked dragging Schofield away from his phone. ‘Can you shed any light on this, sir?’

‘What?’

‘This statue at the crime scene.’

Schofield looked at the screen. He too registered surprise. ‘That’s odd. No one said anything to me. I wonder what on earth that’s doing in the wood.’

Nice of the top brass to state the blindingly obvious, thought Tom.

‘Maybe there’s something in the other reports to shed some light,’ added Schofield, equally helpfully.

Tom dived into the reports. There was nothing to explain the statue.

‘Here we are, sir,’ said the driver.

Tom looked around, and could only see an abandoned building. ‘Where are we?’

‘Aah,’ said Schofield. ‘I should have said. We pulled out of the main Southport police station a while ago, as part of the Community Engagement Programme, but it’s still ours for now. There isn’t room at the new place for a major enquiry, so this is your HQ.’

The driver got out to start unloading the cases, and Tom peered at the building. There was a For Sale sign over the main entrance, and huddled underneath it was the familiar sight of Elaine’s bright red Helly Hansen waterproof. He immediately felt better.

‘Looks like someone forgot to get the key,’ said Tom.

‘I’m sure Isabelle will sort it out in the morning,’ said Schofield.

Instead of protesting, Tom said, ‘I’d better have your mobile number, sir.’

Schofield dug in his pocket and took out a business card. ‘That’s the direct line to my PA. She can get me any time.’

‘Thank you sir. You’d better give me her home number as well, in case I need to get hold of you in the evening. Or at the weekend.’

Schofield hesitated, then scribbled a number on the back of the card. Was he blushing? Embarrassment or anger, either way it wasn’t good news, but Tom had made his point.

‘Thanks again for the personal briefing,’ said Tom as he climbed out. Schofield grunted a reply.

Elaine came over to meet him, and Tom had to force himself not to embrace her, so glad was he to see a friendly face.

‘About bloody time,’ she said. ‘I’m freezing my …’ She saw the look on his face. ‘Sorry. Whatever we do next, sir, I’m not doing it without a cup of tea.’

‘You and me both, Elaine, you and me both.’

She gestured at the neat pile of bags on the pavement. ‘Shall we deal with this lot? Your car’s over there, and there’s a suitcase already in the boot.’

‘Mother?’

‘Yes. You should be alright for a while, what with two suitcases, three bags and…’

‘Yes, Constable, I get the message. This is what happens when you don’t do your own packing.’

He looked down the road towards the town centre. The golden arches of McDonald’s gleamed on the corner. ‘It’s not what I’d choose, but let’s get sorted and grab a coffee in there.’

They stowed his gear in the car and walked down the road. It was after the post-work rush, and before the evening crowd arrived. Finding a quiet corner was no problem, and there weren’t even any teenagers lurking outside. While Elaine was getting the coffees in, Tom looked up Philip Dunn’s mobile in the contacts list of the secure tablet. He copied it laboriously into his phone (if there was a way of synching the databases, it wasn’t obvious to him).

‘Not bad, this coffee,’ said Elaine.

‘It’s OK. I thought you might get chips.’

Elaine laughed at some private joke, then said, ‘Your mother’s hospitality was quite adequate, thank you.’

‘Ham salad sandwich, on brown, and a chocolate cake?’

She nodded.

‘You got off lightly then. Don’t forget, she does have a job, even if she’s not a high court judge like Dad.’

‘Thomas, you mean. What’s with the same names? If you don’t mind me asking.’

He laughed. ‘The last five generations of Mortons have alternated Thomas Alexander and Alexander Thomas for the oldest son, except that my Great Uncle Thomas called his son Isaac. Granddad called my father Thomas, and then there was a mix-up at the registrar, and Mother was too superstitious to change it.’

‘What does your mother do?’

‘I’m not exactly sure. She works for the diocese of York, looking after the parishes in some way. You know, she had to petition the Church when they brought in the minimum wage: she wasn’t on it. She is now.’

Elaine mused on this while Tom accessed the preliminary reports on the tablet. He turned it round to face her and said, ‘This is going to be a radical departure for me. I’ve never led a team this big before, and certainly not a murder enquiry. I’ve been allocated a detective sergeant to be my right hand man.’

She gave him a wry grin. ‘Does that mean I’m demoted to left hand woman?’

He resisted the very strong urge to make another joke, and looked at her. ‘I trust you, Elaine. You’re a good copper and a good detective. I insisted you be on the team — but it has to be a team effort. We can’t sniff around the edges and plough our own furrow like we did last time.’

She held his gaze, and with an equally straight face said, ‘I’ve warned you about mixing your metaphors, sir. Your mother wouldn’t like it.’

He snorted. ‘You’re not going to let me forget your visit to the Cloister, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Read those reports. I’m going to ring DS Philip Dunn and find out what the hell’s going on.’

His new right hand man answered on the third ring. The sound of the TV could be heard in the background.

‘DS Dunn? This is DCI Morton.’

‘Evening, sir. Have you arrived safely?’

‘Yes, thanks. And everything’s in darkness. Where are you?’

‘At home.’

At home? What on earth’s going on? ‘Are you ill?’

‘No.’

‘Then what are you doing at home?’

‘What do you think, sir? There was no one to authorise overtime, so I started the Major Incident Protocol, and left when my shift was over.’

Tom took a deep breath. ‘Have you got a minute to run through what’s happened? There’s not a lot in HOLMES2 yet.’

‘No problem, sir. Forensics established that Cross was killed where he was found, so there was no secondary crime scene to explore. I sent the rest of the team to do house-to-house enquiries on all properties where someone might have seen something on Sunday. It was late, so they won’t have had time to write up their reports.’

Overtime again. I wonder how much Schofield has put in the budget?

‘I spoke to Mrs Layla Cross and established a timeline for Cross’s movements on Sunday. I thought you’d want to see that, so I wrote it up.’

‘What about the crime scene?’

‘The SOCOs finished at dusk. There’s an area car on guard overnight, and forensics will resume at eight o’clock tomorrow.’

‘Good. I was wondering about this statue.’

‘So was everyone at the scene. I tried to ask Mrs Cross — and she knew the place I was talking about — but she broke down at that point.’

I can’t question anything he’s done. It’s all by the book, and all useful, but how much have we missed because I was on the train and Dunn was watching the clock?

‘Thanks, Philip. Just one more thing: I don’t have access to the building where we’re supposed to be based.’

Dunn laughed. ‘The old cop shop? They’ve got keys at the new place. They should hand them over happily enough.’

‘Good. Meet me at the crime scene at, say 0830?’

‘No problem. See you tomorrow, sir. Oh, and it’s “Phil”, not “Philip”.’

Tom disconnected the call, then did a quick check on his phone: the new community police facility wasn’t too far away. ‘Here’s the plan,’ he said to Elaine. ‘I’m going to check in to the Duke of Edinburgh. You’re going to collect the keys to our new home, and a guide, from the new police station.’ He showed her the address. ‘Call me when you’ve got access. After we’ve sussed the place out, I’m going to drive you home.’

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘I do. It’s a long train journey home to Manchester. You’re tired and you’ll need your car tomorrow. Let’s go.’

6

There was no question of closing the Piano Bar out of respect, mostly because Layla had decreed it. Tuesday night was Ross’s night off, so Natalie had to go in on her own. While she was getting dressed, Connor watched the local news: Matt’s death was well down the running order, mostly because he hadn’t officially been identified. According to Grant, the police hadn’t done much so far except pitch a tent in the woods.

Bridget floated in, full black skirts sweeping before her. ‘How is she?’

‘She’s calmed down a bit,’ said Connor. ‘She’s going to work, anyway.’

‘Will you be there?’ said Bridget, with the clear expectation that he would.

‘Later. I’ve got to pay my respects to Layla and the family.’

Bridget nodded. ‘I’ll go in with her and keep an eye on things until you get there.’

There would be two doormen who were more than capable of keeping an eye on things, but Connor was very grateful. He fished out two twenty pound notes. Bridget tucked them into some mysterious fold of her dress with a nod of thanks.

‘Sorry,’ said Connor, ‘but it doesn’t look like we’ll be moving out soon. I cancelled this afternoon’s flat viewing. I’ve no idea whether Nat’s going to feel up to it in the near future.’

Bridget craned her neck towards the closed door of Natalie’s bedroom, then lowered her voice. ‘I had no idea about Matt being her dad.’

‘He’s not her father. Seriously, he’s not. I knew her father, and he was a good for nothing piece of shit. Her mother kicked him out when Nat was a baby. He died of an overdose when she was twelve.’

‘Do you think it’s hereditary?’

Connor tried to keep a straight face. ‘What?’

‘She’s told me, you know, about the heroin.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I’m not big on sharing physical space. I wouldn’t normally barge in to the bathroom, but I did, a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t know she was there. I saw the scars. She told me about the methadone, so she didn’t have to hide it any more.’

This explained a lot. Natalie emerged from her room, buttoning the cuffs on her shirt. She never wore a jumper to work because she might be tempted to slide up the sleeves. Then everyone would see the scars.

Connor dropped her at Layla’s Bar, then drove through the country lanes to the north east of Southport and through Flaxall village. The Manor lay beyond it, round a bend and on the right. There was no police car on the gate, and no reporters. Probably too cold. Connor had a remote control for the gates and let himself in. There was no police car in front of the Manor either.

He parked behind the trees in the gravel space that visitors were expected to use. Only Matt and the most honoured guests were allowed to park in front of the house, which was where he found Grant’s Audi Q5 and Andy’s BMW.

The front door was in the old part of the building, a heavy iron-studded monstrosity that relied on some sort of counter-weight to be opened by anyone other than a weightlifter. Or Grant. He would have no problem. The canopy over the door cast a big shadow when the outdoor lights were switched off, so Connor didn’t see the man until he stepped out into the moonlight.

‘Jesus, mate, you nearly gave me a heart attack,’ said Connor.

‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Holden.’

When he heard the voice, he recognised the man. It was Grant’s newest doorman, Kyle, the one who had been doing a lot of work at Layla’s.

‘How’s it going, lad? Is everyone inside? No bizzies?’

‘The cops left ages ago. Grant’s inside with Mr Mallinson and the family. Let me get the door for you.’

Kyle didn’t pull back the latch, he rang the bell and waited. Who does he think he is? A footman on Downton Abbey?

The bouncer’s impersonation of a servant continued when the door was opened by the housekeeper. Normally she stopped work in the afternoons, but under the circumstances…

‘Mr Holden’s here,’ said Kyle.

‘I can see that, soft lad,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Come in, Connor. They’re in the drawing room.’

She pushed the door closed after him, and Connor asked where the children were.

‘Sabrina and Tasmin are upstairs in the playroom, with some friends.’ She hesitated. ‘Lucas is in the drawing room.’

Connor straightened his tie and walked into the drawing room, after knocking. The housekeeper didn’t introduce him. Kyle would be disappointed to know that standards were slipping indoors.

The drawing room was also in the old part of the house, which meant low beams rather than grand ceilings (for those, see dining room). The log fire was blazing and someone was sitting on all three of the settees that made a square with the fireplace.

Next to the warmth was Layla, in black, feet curled underneath her, nursing a crystal glass of vodka. Sharing her couch was Lucas, who got up without a word and headed for the drinks cupboard. He was still wearing his school shirt and trousers.

Opposite Layla was Grant, leaning forward as if he’d been making a point to her. Andy Mallinson was on the third couch, facing the fire.

Lucas intercepted him before he could get round the furniture, and handed him a glass of scotch that glittered in the firelight. It meant that he had to offer his condolences to the son ahead of the widow.

‘Lucas, mate, I’m so sorry…’

‘Yeah. Thanks,’ said the boy, returning to his corner of the couch. Connor squeezed round and faced Layla.

‘Hiya, Connor. I won’t get up because I can’t. Not yet,’ she said.

He got down on one knee — it was the only way to be on her level without looming over her. He took her free hand and held it. Either she was in shock or she’d been clutching ice-laden glasses for some time. Her eyes flicked up for a second, then down again.

‘I’m sorry, Layla. So sorry.’ He sighed. ‘You know what, I didn’t realise how much I was gonna miss the auld bastard until tonight. He was one in a million, was Matt.’

She sat up straighter as he spoke. From behind him, Grant said, ‘Bit of respect for the dead, eh Connor?’

Layla ignored Grant, and gripped Connor’s hand. ‘You really are gonna miss him, aren’t you? You really are.’

‘Course I am, girl. I might even cry if you’re not careful.’

‘Why me?’ said Layla. Was that the ghost of a smile flickering over her face? ‘Why do I have to be careful, Connor?’

‘Because you might talk about his colour scheme for the first Layla’s bar, then I’d cry.’

Their eyes locked in shared remembrance of mustard yellow walls and sunflower yellow cushions. Then they laughed, and Layla took her hand away to dab it underneath her eyes. Connor took the opportunity to stand up, before his knees gave out, and take a seat. But which one? He chose the space next to Grant, who nodded in acknowledgement. That put him corner-to-corner with Andy, who moved away in a huff.

‘Is Claudia coming?’ he asked.

‘She’s not well,’ said Andy abruptly.

Mallinson was five years older than Layla, but looked ten or more. You had to know what to look for if you wanted to see the family resemblance. No one ever guessed that they were brother and sister.

Layla put her glass down and climbed off the settee. She smoothed her dress, then sat back down with both feet on the floor. The four men looked at her expectantly.

‘I want you to tell Connor what you told me,’ said Layla to Grant. ‘About the police effort. Or lack of it.’

Grant turned to face him. ‘As far as I can tell, they’ve done nothing except look at the crime scene, talk to Layla — once — and ring the neighbours’ door bells. They haven’t even been in touch with Andy.’

‘That’s a bit slack, innit?’ said Connor. ‘Have you any idea what’s going on behind the scenes?’

Grant looked at Lucas, then chewed his lip. Did the boy know that Matt kept policemen like fine wines? He bought them, laid them down, then he opened them up when they were mature: it was a well established system.

‘Go on,’ said Layla. ‘What do you know?’

Grant shifted his focus back to her. ‘All I know is that someone up above, probably Schofield, is doing their best to keep every bizzie from Liverpool away from this case. The forensic team are from Manchester, and the guy in charge is being brought up from London. I think that’s why nothing much has happened today: they were expecting him in tonight.’ He turned to Andy. ‘It’s the same copper that was going to investigate the electoral fraud business.’

‘The one who did that murder with the football agent?’ said Connor. Grant nodded. ‘Didn’t Matt say he was MI5 or something?’

Lucas said, ‘What do you mean, “or something”?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Grant. ‘It wasn’t a high priority before.’

‘It is now,’ said Andy. ‘We need to know what sort of man we’re dealing with.’

‘Dealing with?’ said Layla hotly. ‘We’re not dealing with the police, we’re relying on them to find out who did it. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.’ She looked from Grant, to Connor, to her brother, then her son. ‘Have any of you, any of you heard anything about Matt? Have any of you any idea who killed him?’

The men looked at each other. ‘I don’t,’ said Connor. ‘And if I did, I’d announce it here first.’

‘That’s right,’ said Grant. ‘This is no one’s business but ours.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Andy. ‘The police have no place here.’

Connor had been looking at Layla. Anger was building inside her, drowning out the grief. Before she could explode, he said, ‘I think Layla might have a point. Unless someone comes knocking on the door saying, “I did for Matt,” how are we gonna know?’

‘There’s always someone who thinks they’re harder than you are,’ said Grant. ‘They may not come knocking on the door, but they’ll crawl out of the woodwork soon enough. I’ll be waiting for them when they do.’

‘I don’t think that attitude is going to help,’ said Andy. ‘We must do all we can to avoid drawing attention to ourselves.’

‘Business as usual,’ said Grant.

What does Bridget call them? thought Connor. Mantras. That was it: Business as usual was Grant’s mantra. If he said it often enough, he might reach enlightenment.

‘What about Project Sabrina?’ asked Lucas.

Everyone turned to look at Layla. ‘It goes ahead,’ she said. ‘Sabrina’s in bits right now. I want to give her something positive to focus on, not negative, and I know it’s what Matt would have wanted. We all miss him, but life has to go on.’

Connor wasn’t at all sure that this is what Matt would have wanted.

‘Have any of you eaten?’ said Layla.

‘No, I’m all right,’ said Connor.

‘Me too,’ said Grant.

‘I thought so,’ said Layla. ‘That’s why I’ve asked Mary to stay on. Well, she offered anyway. There’s a buffet in the dining room, then we all need to get together, with the girls.’

‘What are you doing?’ said Andy, an even deeper frown screwing up his face.

‘After we’ve had something to soak up the booze, we’re gonna sit down together. Lucas? Can you tell Mary we’re ready, then get the girls downstairs?’ As her son got up to leave, Layla pointed to a steel cashbox on a side table. ‘See that box? It’s got Matt’s will in it. Everyone should know what’s going on.’

‘I really think…’

‘Shut up, big brother. I’m the widow here,’ said Layla. She rose and led them through to the dining room.

Mary’s spreads were always generous, and tonight she’d excelled herself. As soon as the first sausage roll went down, Connor realised how hungry he was and made several trips to the table. He waited until Layla was deep in conversation with Sabrina, then he slipped out. The packet of cigarettes had been burning a hole in his pocket since he’d liberated them from the illegal stash of duty-frees in Ross Carlton’s office.

Outside the front door, Kyle gave him a light, and asked how things were. Connor gave him a few platitudes, then excused himself to wander up the drive. He didn’t call Natalie, he called Bridget.

‘How is she?’ he asked.

‘Where are you? I thought you’d be back by now.’

From the sound of her voice, Bridget had burned through most of the forty quid he’d given her already.

‘I can’t leave,’ he said.

‘Natalie needs you.’

‘I know, but she needs the job more. If I don’t see this thing through tonight, there might not be a Piano Bar in the morning. Or a supply of pills. She needs those more than she needs me or the job.’

That shut her up.

‘I’ll be on my way back in an hour. Max.’

Grant had very personal, and very fixed ideas about what constituted doing the right thing. The end of Matt Cross was the end of an era in Connor’s life. The new era began tonight, and he needed to be at the centre if he was going to make sure that his interests — and Natalie’s — were protected.

He risked another cigarette until it made him light-headed on top of the whisky. He put the butts in a flower pot and got back inside just in time — Layla was leading everyone back to the drawing room.

The family took most of the space on the settees. Grant fetched two chairs and Connor plonked himself down behind Andy. This gave him an unpleasant view of the man’s bald patch and irritable scalp, so he moved a bit to the right.

‘To Matt,’ said Layla, raising her glass. Everyone took a sip and joined in with a mutter. She had the cash-box on her lap, and put her glass down to open it. She took out a heavyweight cream envelope and said to Andy, ‘This will was made last year. It’s the most up to date, isn’t it?’

‘It is. Are you sure you want to…’

‘…Yes.’ She looked around them all. ‘This will is very short. Perhaps you can explain why, Andrew?’

Connor could see the side of Mallinson’s face and he could tell that Mallinson really, really didn’t want to explain things at all, but like Connor, he had to do the right thing, which meant doing what the widow asked.

Andy drew a breath. ‘Matt had very few assets in his own name, mostly for tax reasons.’ And the rest. ‘The only substantial point of the will concerns Flaxall Manor and its gardens.’ He waved his arm around theatrically, encompassing the room, the house and what lay beyond it. ‘The whole of the property is placed in a reversionary trust.’

‘Keep it simple, Andrew,’ said Layla. ‘Words of one syllable, please.’

‘I don’t think property and trust law have words of one syllable.’

Layla held up her fingers and ticked them off. ‘Land … trust … law … will … tax … Shall I go on?’

Andy flushed, the dry skin on his scalp standing out white against the red blood underneath. ‘I’ll do my best. The house goes to the children. Or kids, if you prefer a monosyllable.’

I’ll bet he thinks we don’t know what a monosyllable is, thought Connor. That man has no rhythm in his soul. It must have passed him by and all gone to Layla.

‘However,’ continued Andy, ‘Layla has a right to live here as long as she wants. So do you, of course,’ he said, turning to Sabrina, Lucas, and Tasmin. ‘When — for whatever reason — Layla moves out, or is simply absent for three months continuously, the trust reverts to you three and is dissolved. I hope that was clear enough.’

Lucas nodded, as if he already knew, and Tasmin had grasped it too. Sabrina looked a little stumped.

Layla took the will out of its envelope and waved it around. ‘Most of this is legal stuff which does what Andrew just said. The fun bits are at the end. I don’t think you knew just how…’ She sniffed, unable to focus on the paper, and thrust it over to her brother. He accepted it reluctantly, turned to the penultimate page and got out his glasses.

‘“In recognition of the part they have played in my life, I also make the following bequests. To my wife, Layla, I bequeath the original grand piano from the first Piano Bar in Liverpool, together with all musical memorabilia not listed as assets of Laycross Entertainments.’”

Layla started crying, silently. Andy ploughed on.

‘“To my lawyer and brother-in-law Andrew Mallinson, I bequeath all the books, pamphlets, broadsheets and other historical printed material that forms part of my personal collection.’”

What’s that all about? Was Matt having a laugh?

Andy lifted his glasses to look at Connor and Grant. ‘You may not realise that Matt had some rare first editions.’ He resumed reading the will. ‘“To Connor Holden, I bequeath the contents of my secure wine cellar, and the right to store it at Flaxall Manor for up to one year.”’

Bloody hell. That must be worth a fortune.

While Andy was reading the last bequest, Layla had been fishing in the cash-box. She pulled out a key on its own keyring, with a blue plastic tab. ‘Catch,’ she said. ‘It’s all yours. The other key is… It was in Matt’s pocket.’

The vodka had done its work. The key flew up into the air, heading for a glass vase. Connor had to jump up to grab it, and spilt whisky on his trousers. Damn. That’s gonna take some explaining. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said to Layla.

‘Don’t say anything,’ she responded. ‘Just raise a glass to him every now and then.’

Andy folded his glasses away. ‘I’m not going to read the final bequest tonight. It’s for Grant.’ He folded the will into a small strip and passed it to Grant via Connor. The type was quite big, and Connor had no difficulty reading the short bequest: To Grant Benson, all my shotguns and firearms, wherever located.

Ouch. No wonder Andy had drawn the line at reading out Grant’s legacy. Layla put another key, with a red keyring, on the table. Grant read the will, and his nostrils dilated in anger. He passed the document back, then leaned over to pick up the key, shoving it in his pocket without a word.

Layla’s tears were turning into sobs. Connor caught Grant’s eye and jerked his head towards the door. Grant gave a short nod of acknowledgement.

‘We’ll leave you in peace,’ said Connor, rising from his chair.

Lucas was the only one to follow them. When they were in the hall, he said, ‘Thanks for coming,’ then paused with his hand on the front door. ‘Dad told me a lot about what goes on, you know. Mum’s going to need you two to keep Laycross Entertainments afloat until she’s well enough to take over properly, or I’m old enough to help her.’

‘Leave it to us,’ said Connor. ‘We know what your dad would have wanted.’

Lucas hesitated again, as if there were something else, but he nodded his head and pulled the door open.

Outside, Connor cadged a final light off Kyle and left him talking to Grant about who was on night duty. He smoked his cigarette leaning on his car, shivering now that the log fire wasn’t toasting him. He took out the key to the wine cellar, and it glinted in the light. If half the stuff that Matt talked about was really in there, he might be able to buy a flat, never mind rent one. He shoved the key in his pocket and ground out the cigarette in the gravel. He daren’t smoke in the car, not unless he wanted a massive fight with Nat. He wasn’t going to forget their bargain, even if he didn’t always keep his side of it: I’ll give up the smack if you give up the fags…

The new Southport police station was tucked between two shops, one selling discount greetings cards and the other selling thermal underwear.

So this is what a community focused police access point looks like. What do they do when they make an arrest? Drive the suspect to Liverpool? There was certainly no room for a custody suite here.

The facility might be open, but the door was locked. She rang the bell and someone pressed a button to release the sliding doors. A civilian worker — an older man — smiled at her from behind the security screen. Elaine showed her warrant card.

‘I’m on the major incident team for the Matthew Cross enquiry,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

The blank look was a poser. Elaine tried again. ‘The murder out at Flaxall.’

‘Oh! Right. How can I help?’

‘The SIO has sent me to get the keys for the old police station. And a guide.’

‘I’ll have to talk to the police sergeant. Won’t be long.’

The civilian disappeared into the back of the premises, leaving Elaine to admire the posters and leaflets. She couldn’t remember what policing in the twentieth century looked like, and she had no clear view of what it should look like in the twenty-first. That wasn’t her job, nor was it ever likely to be.

Five minutes later, a bulky sergeant, made bulkier by the full outdoor rig, emerged from the back room. He was black, in his thirties, with short curly hair going grey. There weren’t many black officers in SLC: Elaine wondered if a posting to Southport was considered a good move or not. From what she remembered, Southport wasn’t exactly an ethnically diverse community.

‘Where are you parked?’ asked the sergeant.

‘I walked. The SIO is meeting me back at the old station.’

‘You mean the Tombs. It’s a godforsaken place, alright. Fair enough, the exercise will do me good and it never hurts to get a view from the ground.’

They set off back down Chapel Street. The wind was picking up, blowing down the alleys from the direction of the sea.

‘I thought someone was picking up the keys in the morning,’ said the sergeant.

‘My boss wanted to get a good look. He likes to be ahead of the game, when he can. Good of you to come yourself.’

‘No choice. I’m the only one here who’s ever worked at the Tombs.’

‘Cheerful name.’

‘Cheerful place.’

‘Haven’t you been fending off the press? Your guy on the desk didn’t even know who the victim was.’

The sergeant didn’t reply until they were nearly on Lord Street. Elaine had come to the community police station via some back alleys, and she had forgotten just how much Lord Street looked like a film set. The Portland stone of the war memorial was brightly lit, and all the way down Lord Street she could imagine characters from Agatha Christie weaving through the colonnades in front of the shops. Very twee.

‘Do you see that restaurant, over there?’ said the sergeant suddenly, pointing down the road to their left. Elaine nodded. ‘That’s Matt Cross’s place. He also owns a pub down there, and through there is his crowning glory, Layla’s Late Night Piano Bar.’

‘Wow. Bit of a mouthful.’

The sergeant grinned. ‘Most people call it Layla’s. After Matt’s wife. Widow, I should say. And this is just the start.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘None of those places has Matt’s name on the door, on the deeds or anywhere. I only know because I’ve been here for a while.’ He started walking again, setting a brisk pace that Elaine appreciated after sitting down all day.

As they approached the roundabout, the sergeant’s phone rang, so Elaine took the opportunity to call Tom. He said he’d be there in two minutes.

The sergeant stopped on the corner to look around him, then said, ‘I only came on duty at four o’clock. By then, it was clear that we weren’t going to get a look-in on this enquiry. The powers that be have kept all the local officers well away so far. Even the uniforms drafted in for door-to-door came up from the city in a minibus.’

‘Not happy?’

‘I don’t want the paperwork, believe me. If you want some local knowledge, you know where I am.’

‘Who should I ask for? We’ve nearly got to the Tombs, and you haven’t told me your name.’

‘I was checking you out. That was a call from an old friend. He says you’re straight up, and so’s your boss.’

Elaine tried to keep her face straight. ‘Glad to hear it.’

He stuck out a hand. ‘I’m Paul. Paul White,’ he said. ‘I’m black, but me name’s White. One of my ancestors must have had a sense of humour. Or his owner did.’ That pulled her up short. ‘Best get it out in the open,’ he said. ’ They crossed the road. ‘What’s your boss like?’

‘You’ll see for yourself in a minute. He’s white, but his name’s Morton.’

‘I like your style.’ They passed the fire station. Tom’s BMW was pulling in to the car park in front of the grand Art Deco entrance to the old Magistrates’ Court, where Elaine had waited for him earlier. She made the introductions. ‘We’ll have to use the back, I’m afraid,’ said White. ‘Those doors haven’t been opened in years.’

He led them round to the side. A more modest entrance, with canopy, was deep in shadow. Elaine liked the way that although it was a much smaller door, it still had the same shiny brick surround as the big entrance to the Magistrate’s Court. After her critical examination of the Cloister this morning, perhaps she was becoming an architecture nerd.

The actual doors were protected by metal shutters. White held up the keys to the light. ‘This little one opens the shutters. I hope.’

He turned the key in a box. The shutters rose up with a grating shriek as White fumbled for the key to the glass doors behind them.

Elaine gasped when they entered the building. ‘You’re right,’ she said to White. ‘It’s like a morgue in here.’ She turned to Tom. ‘They call this building The Tombs, sir.’

‘Great,’ said Tom. ‘Saves me having to come up with my own nickname.’

‘Wait here,’ said White, taking out his standard issue torch. ‘All the lights are controlled from behind the desk.’ He disappeared through some security doors (propped open), and soon the reception area was flooded with bilious, green-tinged striplight.

‘Very homely,’ said Tom.

‘This way,’ came White’s voice from beyond the doors.

They followed the sergeant down a long corridor. About half the lights were either broken or had been removed. It had been cold outside. In here Elaine could feel the heat leaching out of her body by the second.

‘This is the best space,’ said White, pointing to double doors then searching for the key.

If he opens those doors and shows us a row of empty coffins, each filled with earth from Transylvania, I will not be surprised. What would be more miraculous would be an office.

White swung back the doors, and stepped into the black hole to find the lights. Elaine tensed herself in case he was attacked by a vampire.

‘Wow,’ said Tom. ‘Are those desks I see before me?’

They were the only things in the room: around a dozen assorted metal, chipboard and laminate desks, stacked against the far wall. No chairs, no filing cabinets, no telephones and definitely no computers.

‘Is there nowhere better upstairs?’ asked Elaine.

‘They removed all the radiators upstairs,’ said White.

Elaine stood in the doorway with White, reluctant to commit herself. Tom wandered around the room, almost sniffing the space. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Ethernet ports. And see? Over there, a large whiteboard.’ He took out his phone and looked at the screen. ‘Sergeant, can you take DC Fraser round the rest of this floor? Show her the toilets, that sort of thing, while I send a quick message.’

White looked theatrically at his watch. Tom was oblivious. ‘Two minutes, then I need to get back,’ said White.

It took slightly less time than that. Most of the tour consisted of White saying, ‘Office — locked. Storeroom — locked. Office — locked.’ The only rooms Elaine insisted on seeing were the toilets (she checked to see if the water was switched on. It was), the kitchen (units still intact) and two interview rooms. Bizarrely, the Home Office approved tape recorders were still bolted to the tables. ‘CID probably don’t know they’re here,’ said White.

The only two areas he refused to unlock were the custody suite and the basement. The first had been completely stripped. ‘They even took the cell doors,’ he explained. The basement was just too dangerous. ‘They tested the heating after Christmas, and it worked then. Estates are coming at eight o’clock tomorrow, I know that much. They’ll put the heating on and check the place over. The IT boys will be here at nine. Hopefully. They aren’t famous for punctuality.’

‘No IT girls?’ said Elaine. It never hurt to point these things out.

White snorted. ‘Not that I’ve seen. Might improve their interpersonal skills if they did.’

Or it might make them worse. Because she wanted White as an ally, she bit her tongue and held out her hand for the keys. White reminded her which three keys opened the shutters, front door and office, then left her to it. She watched his fluorescent jacket recede down the corridor, then dragged her feet back to Tom. It had been a long day.

Her boss was where she’d left him, still tapping on his phone. She waited patiently until he finished with a flourish, then told him what she’d discovered and what White had said.

‘Good. Let’s go,’ said Tom. As she sealed up The Tombs, he told her what he’d been doing. ‘I’ve emailed our co-ordinator, Isabelle Innes. She’ll be here at nine. Is there any chance you could be here before then, to make sure the Estates mob don’t run off early. Isabelle has a list of things to sort out, so let her get on with it. I want to have the first briefing at ten, so can you find something useful for the other detectives to do, if any of them turn up.’

Elaine was willing to do most things, but she wasn’t keen on telling experienced officers what to do, especially when they’d probably worked in major incident teams many times before. She waited until the shutters were creaking back into position and explained her concerns to Tom.

‘Absolutely. I know just what you mean. There’s a trick to dealing that problem. I’ll show you in the car.’

Elaine strapped herself in while Tom fetched something from the boot. When he joined her, he tossed over a pad of Post-it notes. ‘I was once in exactly the same position,’ he said. ‘My old guv’nor, DI Fulton, told me to write the instructions down on a sticky note, then hand them over with the words, “The SIO wants you to…”. Works every time.’

He asked her to put her address into the Satnav, then they drove off. ‘How was your hotel?’ she said.

‘Bearable. Just. I wanted to check the register to see if the last guy in my room was Edward VII, because I doubt it’s been decorated since. It’s warm, the towels are clean and I’ve got enough space. Apparently, I have to check out on Saturday morning because my room is needed for romantic Valentine’s getaway weekends. I shudder to think who would find that place in the least romantic. I think I’ll play gooseberry at my sister’s house if I have to stay over the weekend.’

Elaine was too tired for banter, so she let the smooth ride lull her to sleep.

‘This is nice,’ said Tom.

‘What? Where? What’s nice,’ she said, struggling to wake up.

‘Your block of flats.’

‘Are we here? Of course we are. Sorry, Tom.’

‘Don’t apologise. Thanks for getting my car. I’ve got one last job for you, or rather I’ve got an additional job for you in the morning.

‘Do I need to write it down?’

‘I hope not. Call in to a 24 Hour superstore on the way to Southport tomorrow. Get a kettle, two dozen mugs, tea, coffee, milk and sugar. You can claim for the hardware on expenses. I’ll pay for the other stuff. Start a brew fund to keep it topped up.’

‘Fridge?’

‘That’s Isabelle Innes’s department. I doubt we’ll need one straight away.’

The sound of hormonal teenage door-banging echoed through the house like a gunshot.

Kingsley woke up and clawed in panic for the bedside light. Who was shooting? What was going on?

He banged his fist into the wall and fell back on to the bed, heart pounding. Then he realised that he wasn’t at home: he was in Penny’s guest room. He rolled over and turned the light on, and everything made sense again. Except that it didn’t. In no universe was it sensible to find half a person in the woods.

Talking of senses, now that he was awake, his sense of smell kicked in again. The aroma of burning meat came up the stairs, and Kingsley had to run to the bathroom and vomit. The brutal assault of charred meat on his nose made him thank the day that he had seen the light. If he hadn’t been a vegetarian before, he would be now. The body in the woods had been his first encounter with dead flesh since then.

The smell made him remember what he’d seen on the rest of the body: ribs poking out of the chest. He tried not to think about the face, but he couldn’t help himself. He threw up again.

‘Are you OK?’ came a voice from outside the bathroom. Penny’s daughter.

‘Yeah, fine. It was the smell that set me off.’

‘That’s Dad. He’s burnt the burgers. Again. Do you want anything?’

‘I’ll come downstairs in a minute. When you’ve finished eating.’

‘Mum’s just phoned. She’ll be here shortly.’

The girl went downstairs, the ageing boards making more noise than her light feet. Kingsley sat back on the floor and let the world stop spinning. He tried not to close his eyes, because that just brought it back again. He focused on the array of beauty products lined up at the side of the bath. All of them were eco-friendly, except two bottles of Clarins, probably a gift. It was one of those little decisions that made life as an activist a complex matter: someone you love buys you an expensive present. The damage to the environment has already been done at the production stage. Do you throw it away, and reject the giver, or do you use it? It was the same when he was teaching, every day a hundred decisions about how to do the right thing. Only someone with the emotional intelligence of a pitbull would tell a ten-year-old child that he wasn’t going to accept their Christmas present because it was made of non-biodegradable plastic. On the other hand, what’s the point of principles if you don’t act on them?

He started to shiver. Penny’s house, a Victorian semi in Ormskirk, was not a good advert for sustainability. The bathroom windows didn’t fit, and there was little or no insulation in the roof. When the cold was more painful than the memories, he got up, washed his hands and face in hot water, and went back to the guest room.

He sniffed the air on the landing. The smell of meat had been dispersed, probably by opening windows and letting out what little heat there was in the house. Kingsley put on all his clothes except his waterproof, and went slowly down the stairs.

Penny’s daughter appeared at the bottom, carefully holding a giant mug of tea. ‘I thought you’d feel better with this,’ she beamed up at him, pleased with her thoughtfulness. Then she saw him properly. ‘You look like shit. Only to be expected, I suppose. I’ll put this on the bottom step,’ she said, then placed the mug down before pirouetting and running back to the kitchen, probably to escape the cold from the tiles.

You can rely on kids to tell it like it is, he thought. I wonder what sort of teenager Leroy will be… He missed his son, at that moment, more than he had ever missed anything in his life. He desperately wanted to have Leroy next to him, to smell the soap on his hair after a bath, to read him a story. He missed Leroy’s mother, too. Would he look back on his failed relationship with Jackie as the worst mistake of his life?

He picked up the mug of tea and took a long swallow. The sugar hit his tongue and exploded in his mouth. He hadn’t had sugar in his tea since … ever. Except by accident. He was about to reject the drink, until he swallowed. Now he knew why people gave sweet tea to shock victims in old films. It was like medicine in a mug.

‘Fire’s on in Penny’s study,’ said Greg, her husband. His voice came from behind the closed door to the kitchen.

Kingsley went into Penny’s den. A desk lamp and the gas fire lit the room, and he was in no hurry to put the main light on. He went to sit down and noticed that the textbooks and specimens from Penny’s academic career were slowly being displaced on the shelves by ring binders with the Portcullis logo of Westminster. Would the university have her back if she lost her seat in the general election?

He sat by the fire, thawing inside and out, thinking of Jackie and whether she had finished with that loser she’d been dating. Maybe…

The front door banged. ‘I’m home!’ said Penny. She had gone down to London for a couple of days, but come straight back when she heard about Matt Cross. Kingsley heard her open the kitchen door, then she came in to the study, put her arms out and embraced him, squeezing his back and telling him how awful it must have been to discover the body.

‘It was pretty grim,’ he said. ‘And pretty surreal, too, what with the statue.’

‘Wait here. I know what you need.’

She returned a few minutes later with two trays and two plates of beans on toast. The bread was home-made by Greg, thick cut and toasted on the Aga, then slathered with butter, piled high with beans and heavily seasoned with black pepper. After that, Kingsley felt almost human again.

Penny took the plates and returned with a bottle of Scotch and an ice bucket. She made the drinks and curled up in her reading chair by the fire. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,’ she said.

‘Thanks. And thanks for taking me in, even if only by proxy.’

‘When you rang me, I could tell you were in a state. With it being a school day, and most of your friends being teachers, I just thought “who’s at home who could look after you?” Greg was the obvious answer.’

‘Thanks anyway.’ He took a deep breath, and told her everything, because that’s what they’d taught him on the course: turning bad things into a story can sometimes make them less real. He hoped the psychologist was right, and that it worked for adults as well as for children.

Penny didn’t ask many questions. She didn’t want to dwell on what had happened to Matt, though she was as bemused as Kingsley about the clearing and the statue.

‘I tried to focus on it while I waited for the police,’ he said. ‘The more I thought about it, the more I thought it might be Matt himself, looking out over his land. I presume that’s why the trees had been cleared: to give the statue a view.’

He shivered again, and Penny changed the subject. ‘Greg said you’ve been asleep.’

‘I nearly collapsed when the police dropped me off. He helped me upstairs and shoved me in the spare room.’

‘I kept checking the internet while I was on the train: no news, no arrests, no official confirmation of Matt’s identity, not even much speculation.’

The psychologist had been right. Telling the story had helped him put some distance between the reality of the woods and the idea of murder. For the first time today, he began to wonder who had done it.

‘It was probably another drug dealer,’ he said.

Penny put her scotch down by the fire. ‘Matt wasn’t a drug dealer. I wouldn’t have accepted Layla into the Sustainable Lancashire Party if he was.’

‘He was. He was also a mass murderer, but you didn’t want to hear that.’

‘Allegedly a murderer. Twenty-five years ago. And if he ever dealt drugs, that was twenty-five years ago too. As soon as I knew who Layla’s husband was, I checked with a friend in the police.’

It hung between them. Kingsley had reported Matt to the police for electoral malpractice. Although he denied it, Penny knew what he had done. If he ever admitted it, or if it ever came into the open, she would have no choice but to expel him from the Party. Technically, what he’d done was whistleblowing, but the Party wouldn’t see it that way: they’d see him as the man who’d shopped their biggest donor to the police out of nimbyism.

Penny left the thought hanging for a second, then she continued. ‘My friend said that Matt isn’t suspected of anything. Wasn’t.’ She picked up her Scotch. ‘If he wasn’t a drug dealer, then who killed him? Do you have any real ideas?’

Kingsley sat up straight, then leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and cradling the glass in his hands. ‘It wasn’t robbery. I don’t think it was a random thing, not with his own gun, not in the middle of the woods.’ He looked up. ‘It was someone he knew. Someone he’d trust enough to put his gun down and let them pick it up. More than that, it had to have been someone he met there, or took into the woods himself.’

Penny sipped her drink. ‘What do you think about UGAS and those security people they hired? I looked into them before the last protest. They’re part of a big conglomerate called Consolidated International Security, which includes CIS Groundforce Intervention, a military contracting business. A private army, in other words.’

‘It’s a massive leap from heavy-handed security to murder. If it ever came out in the open, UGAS would be finished.’

‘CIS Groundforce Intervention claim to have ex-special forces working for them. If someone with SAS training has done this, the truth will never come out.’

Kingsley smiled and sat back. The Scotch was relaxing him, releasing tension and putting things in perspective. ‘Do you remember at the beginning, when UGAS first got the exploration licence? We used that video of tap water burning in Dakota. It went viral, until everyone pointed out that it had nothing to do with fracking.’

‘It got us going, though, didn’t it?’ said Penny. ‘A lot of people joined Sustainable Lancashire after seeing that video.’

‘But we dropped it because you said we must focus on science, not speculation. You’re a scientist, after all. If we try and suggest UGAS are behind Matt Cross’s murder, everyone will call us a bunch of mad conspiracy theorists.’

Penny nodded. ‘We’re serious or we’re nothing. I said that too, and I was right. But I’ve never been more serious about anything. We don’t have to spread the rumour about UGAS, but if one started anyway…’

‘Unlikely.’

She reached over and topped up his whisky, leaving the ice bucket handy for him to help himself.

‘That rumour about Matt and the electoral malpractice must have started somewhere,’ she said, staring at him.

Kingsley blushed, and hoped the firelight would hide it. Penny was blackmailing him, pure and simple, except that she’d call it leverage. On the other hand, she had a point. If he hadn’t reported Matt to the police, she wouldn’t have this hold over him. It was his fault he was in this bind. He’d treat it as a learning experience in grown-up politics.

‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘If the police don’t arrest someone soon, rumours are bound to fly around, especially once it becomes a big story.’

‘Absolutely. Are the police going to be wanting you again?’

‘Yes. I have to make a formal statement tomorrow. The guy who spoke to me this morning said that he had no idea who was going to be in charge.’

Penny frowned. ‘I’m surprised. I thought they would have taken this more seriously. Perhaps they know something we don’t.’

‘I didn’t get that impression,’ said Kingsley. ‘I take it you don’t mind me staying here tonight.’

‘And tomorrow, and as long as it’s right for you. I need my campaign manager firing on all cylinders as soon as possible.’

7

Wednesday

Tom was driving slowly down a country lane when he saw Northridge Farm and the police vehicles inside it. He turned in and parked just beyond the farmyard, next to three Scene of Crime vans, two squad cars and assorted private vehicles. The farm was more industrial than rural. There were no animals, just machines and sheds for getting in the arable crops. Not even a farmhouse.

It was difficult to believe that Northridge was in the same business as Rooksnest. His Granddad’s farm nestled under the North York Moors, not far from Byland Abbey. It was mostly sheep. He made another mental adjustment: it wasn’t Granddad’s farm any more, it was Uncle Peter’s. Tom would always be welcome there, but it would never be the same now that Grandma wouldn’t be bustling around the kitchen table.

No one would ever look on Northridge Farm with fond remembrance, especially if they harvested the current “crop”. Beyond the farm buildings was a construction compound secured by metal fencing and razor wire. It had no vehicles in it, and therefore no security guards. At various points around the fence, big signs proclaimed UGAS — Securing Britain’s Energy Future. Smaller signs, too far away to read, identified the various contractors involved. The victim, Matthew Cross, was somehow connected to the Sustainable Lancashire Party. The SLP and UGAS both owed their existence to the possibility of fracking in Flaxall. Would it feature in the case?

He changed into his wellingtons and started up the track towards the copse. Being on the farm, and looking up to the copse made him think of Kate and the Army Cadets. The long line of trees on the ridge was exactly the sort of ‘objective’ that she used to attack or defend on exercises, and later she did for real. She had been in the Army for nearly twenty years, joining at eighteen and being sponsored through university. She had done several tours in Afghanistan, Iraq, Bosnia and two places she couldn’t tell him about…

And then she left the Army, joined forces with him and got herself shot less than a year later. He had stopped in the middle of the track without realising it, lost in memories. What if someone saw me? I must look like a right idiot. He pressed on up the track.

Two hundred yards further on, he could see what all the fuss was about. Away to his left was a square enclosure in the middle of a field. The ground inside had been metalled with hardcore, and in the centre was a tall structure — six metres? — shrouded in white panels. The panels stepped in slightly, half way up, presumably because the drill head sloped. Between the gaps in the panels, metal gleamed in the early morning sunshine. The structure looked like someone had copied the roof of the Catholic cathedral in Liverpool and replaced the copper with UPVC.

Northridge wasn’t much of a ridge, just a gentle rise away from the fields on either side. The track was interrupted by a gate, currently propped open. It was high, and formed part of a barbed wire topped fence that circled the wood. There was a standard hawthorn hedge bordering the road, and this extra fence was set behind it. If this was Matthew Cross’s land, he had gone to a lot of trouble to protect it.

The track continued past the copse, and his destination was pretty clear: there was a uniformed constable standing by a path into the trees, holding a clipboard. Tom dug out his warrant card.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said the constable, neutrally. He examined the warrant card. ‘Chief Inspector. You’re up and about early.’

‘How many of you are on duty here?’

‘Just me on the outside. There’s another officer at the perimeter of the crime scene.’

‘Has there been much press interest?’

‘We closed the farm gate yesterday, so they had to make do with the road. They all took a few background shots, filmed the copse from a distance then buggered off. I doubt they’ll be back today, though we might start to get flower-layers. I’ll see how we go.’

‘Good. Are you based in Southport?’

‘Me? No, Skelmersdale. It makes a change being out here, especially with a bit of sunshine. Glad I put my thermals on, though.’

‘Thanks,’ said Tom. ‘Has DS Dunn arrived yet?’

The constable peered over Tom’s shoulder, towards the farmyard. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, that’s him parking his car now.’

Tom checked his watch: it was exactly eight thirty, so Dunn could say he’d arrived at the scene on time, even if it took him ten minutes to get up to the woods. Tom had a choice. He could press on into the trees, or wait for Dunn to give him the full tour. The former would be slightly insulting, implying that Dunn was surplus and late. Tom stayed where he was.

The constable jotted down his details on the clipboard and returned the warrant card. ‘We don’t see many Scotland Yard officers up here.’

‘I’m not Scotland Yard, I’m CIPPS, and I’m on attachment. For the next three weeks, I’m effectively one of you lot.’

‘Oh.’

Tom explained his situation while he waited for Dunn to walk up the track. It was partly to pass the time, and partly to get his story into circulation. He was well aware that professional standards officers were less welcome than genital warts. He always made it a deliberate policy to look human. It didn’t always work, but if he were any judge of a person, this constable wouldn’t be spreading scare stories in the Skelmersdale canteen.

As Dunn came closer, Tom got a good look at him. He was in his late forties, white, and didn’t look as if he went to the gym after work. He was slightly out of breath when they shook hands.

‘Nice coat,’ said Dunn to Tom while he waited for the constable to copy down his details.

Tom looked down at his Crombie overcoat. ‘It’s highly fire retardant,’ he said, ‘unlike man-made waterproofs.’

Dunn was nonplussed. ‘If you say so, sir.’

Tom gave him an enigmatic smile, and said, ‘Over to you, Phil. Talk me through the location, the crime scene, everything.’

Dunn pointed down the track. ‘That’s Northridge Farm, as you know. The land curves round the bottom of this wood, and once you came past that gate, there, you crossed on to land belonging to Flaxall Manor. I’ll show you more when we’ve finished inside.’ He pointed up the track, where Tom had not yet been. ‘If you carry on up there, another couple of hundred yards, you get to the Manor itself, the victim’s home. I asked Mrs Cross what her husband was doing in here, and she said that he liked to shoot in Northridge Copse. It’s too small for game birds. I think it was just rabbits and the occasional wild pheasant.’

‘Shotgun licence?’

‘It’s one of the actions for today: a full check on Mr Cross’s gun cabinet and paperwork. I did ask Mrs Cross, and she said he had a licence. She was in shock, you know? She was half way out of her seat to look for the certificate when I told her it didn’t matter.’

Tom had read the report of Dunn’s interview with Layla Cross, but that was only half the story. ‘You said she had no idea if Cross were meeting anyone.’

Dunn nodded.

‘Did you get a sense that she was lying, or holding anything back?’ To Tom, this was the key question. Did Dunn have a real copper’s instinct, and if so, would he share it with the SIO from outside?

Dunn pulled his lip. ‘I honestly don’t know, sir. She went blank, as if the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. I don’t know. She might have spent the last twenty years forcing herself not to think about what her husband was up to. I’m pretty sure he didn’t tell her where he was going on Sunday. She definitely wasn’t hiding that. Whether she has any suspicions, or whether she might have later…’ He finished his account with a shrug.

It was a start. Dunn had been dealt a difficult hand yesterday: being told to drop everything and hold the fort in a major incident would have been beyond a lot of detectives. So far, Tom had no real grounds for complaint. ‘Has the Family Liaison Officer reported anything?’

Dunn pulled a face, disappointment visible for the first time. ‘She didn’t turn up. I got a message that she couldn’t attend until today.’

‘Couldn’t you allocate anyone else? This is a pretty crucial role.’

Dunn didn’t comment, but his gaze said it all: This is your first major incident. It’s not mine. After a pause, he said, ‘None of the other attached detectives have passed the FLO course, sir.’

‘Give me a moment.’

He sent a quick text to Elaine then shoved his phone in his outside pocket. ‘Shall we see inside the woods?’

The sergeant — his sergeant now, for better or worse — led the way along the path, little more than a thin trail. Half way along, a woman in overalls carrying tray full of evidence bags crossed their path. The men stood aside and she gave them a quick smile.

‘There’ll be a lot of that,’ said Dunn. ‘You’ll see in a minute that Cross was found in something close to a mudbath. The downpour on Sunday washed away any footprints and gave the whole crime scene a good rinse. Here.’

They arrived at the second uniformed constable, this time guarding a barrier of blue and white tape. He took their names and said, ‘Access is round the corner. Put the covers on your boots and stick to the metal plates.’

Immediately behind the constable, on the other side of the tape, were several clear footprints staked out with string. Dunn pointed to them and said, ‘They belong to the guy who discovered the body and the first officer to respond. See that fallen tree? Cross didn’t go over it, he went round it.’

Dunn went to the right, and stopped at a gap in the blue tape to pass over some giant elasticated boot covers from a box on the floor. A series of metal plates set into the ground led into the trees. There was a tarpaulin at the end, which one of the technicians told them was safe to stand on.

Now he had finally got here, Tom wondered why he had bothered. The reports and photographs in HOLMES2 told him everything he needed to know about access, logistics and disposition, but he took a good look round anyway. If nothing else, he wanted to get a good look at the statue.

The spot where Matthew Cross had fallen was marked with a polystyrene head, probably a wig stand. A piece of tape showed where the gun had been discovered. The rest of the scene looked like an archaeological dig, complete with archaeologists. Tom counted six figures in boiler suits working on the area, searching desperately for some piece of forensic evidence that might make Tom’s job easier, and the conviction of the murderer safer in court. Something about the slope of their shoulders suggested that their search was futile.

Dunn was about to say something, but Tom held up his hand for quiet. From above him, the cry of rooks flooded the woods. There really was a rookery at Rooksnest Farm, and Tom knew exactly what was going on: the males were fighting with each other for the best nesting sites, then sitting next to their lovingly constructed nurseries, calling out to the females. It made a hell of a noise.

‘That wasn’t in your report,’ said Tom.

‘What wasn’t?’

‘The rooks would have been making that noise on Sunday, just as loudly as they are today. With damp ground, Cross wouldn’t have been able to hear anyone approaching until they were right on top of him.’

‘Would that matter?’ said Dunn, a slight frown creasing his forehead. ‘It looks like he was shot with his own gun, so the killer must have been talking to him, at least.’

Tom had read the report from the firearms officer who made the weapon safe (you don’t just pick up a gun at a crime scene). The shotgun had two discharged cartridges inside it, but that proved nothing. If one man could walk into the woods with a gun, why not two men? Separately?

Tom shouted to the Crime Scene Manager and asked if anything new had come up today. The man shook his head. Finally, Tom turned his attention to the statue. The tarpaulin where he stood had been laid just to the right of the silent figure. It was life sized, and much more massive in reality than in the photographs. The skin was smooth. Skin? It’s stone, not skin. Just shows how effective it is. The surface of the statue was smooth, with none of the wrinkles or sagging that you get in a real person. It did curve, however, showing a paunch on the stomach and marked definition in the shoulders. The model must have been a strong man, if not a fit one. The head was bald, with deep set eye-sockets and a firm mouth. The more he looked at it, the more he thought that it might be Matthew Cross.

‘Does this look familiar to you?’ he asked Dunn.

‘It looks like the Antony Gormley statues, the ones on Crosby beach.’

‘Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? What are they called?’

‘Another Place.’

Tom hadn’t seen them for himself. His few visits to see Fiona since they were installed hadn’t coincided with good enough weather to justify a walk on the beach. He made a mental note to seek them out. One thing he could remember was that the real thing was made of iron.

‘Do you think Antony Gormley made copies?’ he suggested.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Dunn. ‘I think we’ll have to wait for the FLO to ask Mrs Cross.’

Pardon me for speculating. He had a look at the statue’s groin. It was smooth. He seemed to remember that the authentic Another Place statues came complete with manhood. Another puzzle.

He led them back to the edge of the taped-off area and stripped off his overboots. A plastic sack for their disposal had been tied to a tree. It was almost full already.

‘Tell me more about the man who discovered the body. Kingsley Laidlaw, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. Come this way a sec.’

They signed out of the crime scene log and turned left, through to the other side of the copse. The ground was slightly higher here, the drop to the fields more pronounced and the view was more pastoral than the industrial prospect on the eastern side.

‘This land is all Quaker’s Fold,’ said Dunn. ‘Right up to the farmhouse over there, where Mr Laidlaw lives. He rents it. I don’t know whether it’s important, but he insisted on telling me that the farmer from Northridge is contracted to farm Quaker’s Fold as well.’ He shrugged, and Tom filed the information away. Dunn continued, ‘Behind Quaker’s Fold is the village of Flaxall, and over on the right, behind those trees, is Flaxall Manor. You can just see the chimneys from here.’

Tom was a little taller than Dunn, and he could make out half a dozen old chimneys poking up from a substantial building that was just visible behind bare trees. In Flaxall village, the steeple of the church stood proud above a scattering of old and new houses, again, mostly hidden by trees. Directly in front of them, the security fence cut off the copse from the ploughed fields of Quaker’s Fold. He made another mental note: if you stand by the statue, you can’t see the fence. He nodded to Dunn to show that he’d got his bearings.

‘Yesterday morning, Mr Laidlaw decided to go for a walk. He’s a fanatical mountain biker, doesn’t own a car. He never comes this way normally because there’s no ridable trails through the wood, and no footpath over the fields.’ Dunn paused to let the implication sink in: why, of all the days, did Kingsley Laidlaw decide to go for a walk to the woods when there was a body inside? ‘He says that he wanted to have a proper look at the woods because he believed they might be connected to the Quakers.’

Tom frowned, Dunn shrugged. ‘It was a difficult decision, sir. I decided to stop asking questions at that point. Don’t forget, he was sitting next to a corpse, in damp woods, on a freezing morning being watched by a spooky statue for half an hour before the first officer showed up. The guy was going into shock, and I wanted to see Mrs Cross as soon as possible. I’ve prepared a list of actions for when he makes his statement.’

It had been seven years since Tom joined the police, after five years as a solicitor. He had been a detective for five of those years on the force; last night was the first time he had been forced to consult a Major Incident Protocol.

The huge lever-arch file handed over by ACC Schofield was his guide and rulebook for this enquiry, and the Protocol was held up by three pillars: Priorities, Actions and T.I.E. It was Tom’s job as Senior Investigating Officer to set the Priorities, Dunn’s job to identify and allocate the actions, and it would be Elaine’s job as one of the DCs to T.I.E. — Trace, Interview and Eliminate.

The Protocol dictated very few things that the SIO should do themselves. One of them was to attend the post mortem, and Tom was going to have get a move on if he wanted to brief his team and get to the hospital in Liverpool.

‘One thing before we head back,’ said Tom. ‘We are sure that the deceased is Matthew Cross? I looked at the photographs, and no one’s going to be making a visual identification.’

‘That was my thought as well, sir. Laidlaw said he recognised Cross’s signet ring. I had to make a quick decision when the doctor was at the scene to pronounce life extinct.’ Tom nodded encouragingly, to show that he supported quick decisions. ‘I asked him to move the ring on Cross’s finger. There was a band of white skin underneath that matched the size of the ring. I took a picture on my phone and showed it to Mrs Cross. She showed me a big photograph on the wall, very detailed. Cross was standing with his hands folded. You could tell it was the same ring. I’ve got an action to request DNA samples from relatives for medical confirmation.’

‘Good. Let’s get back to the Tombs.’

‘The what?’

‘Southport Police Station. You’ll appreciate the nickname when you see it. Oh, and when we’re on our own, it’s “Tom”, OK?’

‘I prefer “Boss”, unless you prefer “Guv’nor”, being as how you’re from the Met.’

‘I’m from York, not London. Boss it is.’

Dunn gave him half a smile. ‘A Yorkshireman? Well, well.’

‘You haven’t heard the half of it yet.’

Elaine had made herself popular by distributing mugs of tea when the other police officers drifted into the Tombs that morning. By and large, they seemed to know what they were doing, and didn’t need any Post-It notes from her to get them into action. As soon as the computers arrived, the room went quiet as officers started entering their work from yesterday into HOLMES2.

Once Isabelle Innes turned up, there was even less for Elaine to do. The Co-ordinator was a fierce woman who seemed to have very fixed ideas about how things should be set up. The head of IT actually told Elaine that they were on time mostly because they’d seen Innes’s name on the worksheet. After watching two arguments between Isabelle and Estates, Elaine had slunk away to avoid the fallout.

When she got to her desk, a text arrived on her phone. Not Tom, Rob: Sorry we missed each other last night. Hope the new case goes well. XXX. And more XXX. P.S. Any chance of getting it wrapped up by the weekend ??? X.

When she had got home last night, Rob had left a message to say he had to go to bed because there was early training. They had been married four years, and this was the first time they’d gone twenty-four hours without speaking. The Six Nations was having a break this coming weekend, with the squad released on Friday. Rob was thinking of Valentine’s Day on the Saturday, and no doubt plotting something. She text back, trying to put how much she missed him into the characters, and trying to be positive about their chances of a weekend together. With what he was going to earn from being in the Scotland squad, they could fly anywhere on holiday this year. If he got a regular place, she might be able to afford to take unpaid leave and go to the World Cup in Australia…

She was busy reading the reports when a woman’s voice interrupted her.

‘How come you get the desk by the desk by the window?’

‘Because I was here at eight o’clock when they delivered the chairs and turned on the heating. First come, first served…’

‘Get you!’

Elaine laughed, the woman in front of her laughed too, and stuck out a hand. ‘I’m DC Cotton. Hazel. I was off yesterday, and Mrs Innes said you know what’s going on.’

Good. The Family Liaison Officer is finally here, thought Elaine. Tom had sent her a text with instructions to get the woman up to speed.

Elaine shook hands then looked at her empty mug. ‘I wouldn’t say that I know what’s going on, but I do know where the kitchen is. Come on.’

Hazel Cotton was one of the scruffiest detectives Elaine had seen, including the ones working undercover. Her trousers were creased, but nowhere nearly as creased as her blouse. She wore a cardigan that actually had holes down the side. Her hair, with lots of roots showing, was piled on top of her head as if it were dirty laundry that needed getting out of the way. If she owned any makeup, there wasn’t a trace of it on her face.

As the kettle boiled, Elaine said, ‘I thought there weren’t any detectives from Liverpool on this case. That is a Liverpool accent, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t hold it against me. My family moved to Wigan when I was sixteen. I joined the police in Manchester and I’ve never worked in Liverpool. Where are you from?’

‘Long story. I’m from Bacup originally, and I joined the police in Leicester. I only transferred to South Lancs last month. I was with Rod Stamp’s team until yesterday lunchtime.’

‘I was on Operation Rewind.’

‘So was I. For a week.’ Elaine produced a blank Post-it note and pretended to consult it. ‘I see you’re the FLO. The Boss has left a note asking you to make contact with the family before the briefing and see them as soon as possible afterwards.’

Hazel cradled her mug. ‘Nice tea. Are they anyone’s biscuits, do you know?’

‘Help yourself.’

Hazel took two digestives, dunked one and chewed for a second. ‘You’re obviously up to speed. What’s the story?’

Elaine counted to five inwardly, then smiled. ‘Bring a chair over to my desk. The nice one, by the window, and I’ll go through it with you.’

The House of Lucia, once the most stylish independent boutique in North Cheshire, was full of boxes. Some were packed, most were empty. Lucy moved slowly around, selecting items that were worth taking to Southport to sell on eBay. Some of her stock was on sale-or-return and had already been dispatched back to the suppliers. An awful lot was going to the charity shop, four doors down the street in Sevenbridge Village. The situation in her flat was even worse. Every time she tried to think about it, she shuddered.

Her phone rang with an unknown number. Hoping it wasn’t the press, she took the call.

‘Lucy? Is that you?’ said a distant voice.

‘Holly! Wow! Are you OK?’

Holly Nugent, wife of the England football captain, was in Japan with her husband. The official story was that John needed treatment. Only a handful of people knew the truth: Holly had suffered a breakdown, and John wanted to get out of Trafford Rangers to support her.

‘How’s things?’ asked Holly. She had softened her voice to indicate that she was talking about Dad. Lucy’s father had been arrested in Holly’s house on the 7Bridge Estate, and he had been John Nugent’s agent since John had started at the Leeds United Academy, twenty years ago.

‘He won’t see me,’ said Lucy.

‘He will, in time,’ said Holly. ‘Look, Lucy, this is really awkward. I want to ask you something.’

Lucy moved a box from one of the sofas in her boutique and sat down. ‘What time is it over there?’

‘Don’t worry, I’m still adjusting.’ Holly sighed. ‘I started therapy on Monday last week. Two sessions of an hour every day. John’s been great with the kids. Ellie loves it.’

Typical Holly: she would walk up to the problem, then walk around it. Lucy was very fond of Ellie Nugent, and was dying to know how she was adjusting to life in Japan, but Ellie wasn’t in therapy (yet).

‘How’s the therapy going?’ said Lucy. ‘If you can tell me, that is.’

‘It’s going well. That’s why I’ve rung. You know, Lucy, you’re one of the few people who know the truth, and the only one apart from John who knows me as a person. I’m going to text you my new mobile number afterwards. The therapist made me throw my old phone away and the new one doesn’t have access to the Internet. Part of the treatment.’

Lucy’s mind baulked at the thought: no Internet? No. That wasn’t humanly possible.

Holly continued. ‘I told the therapist about what happened to your brother, and how guilty I felt that he was murdered.’

Lucy leapt in immediately, ‘You mustn’t feel…’

‘… And the therapist agreed. He said I probably did play a part in Gianni’s death.’

‘Oh.’ Lucy liked the sound of this therapist already. He had been recommended by a Japanese acquaintance, and seemed to know his stuff. Holly hadn’t talked about herself like this in all the time that Lucy had known her.

‘He also said that I wasn’t responsible directly, so working out a healthy approach is going to take time.’

‘Yes.’

Holly sighed. ‘I wanted to know you were OK, that’s why I rang.’

‘I’m good. I’ve got a new job and I’m moving to Southport today. I’m just packing up the shop now.’

‘What about the flat.’

‘Don’t go there.’

‘But you’ve got to face it. I don’t want to sound holier than thou, but can I make a suggestion?’

‘Go on. There aren’t many other people around to give me advice any more.’

‘You’ve got to make a clean break. Take one suitcase of clothes from the bedroom — and I mean one. Take one box from the kitchen and one box of memories from all over. That’s it.’

‘Says the woman who had the biggest wardrobe I’ve ever seen in my life.’

‘It’s all going,’ said Holly. Her voice was a mixture of gritty determination to move forward and horror at the thought of downsizing her wardrobe. ‘I told Isaac Redmond to arrange a charity auction or just give it away.’

‘Wow. I…’

The phone went dead, victim of some satellite malfunction. A few seconds later Lucy received a text: Take Care. Here’s my new number. Holly x.

Lucy put her phone in one of the empty cubbyholes where she had displayed Mama’s handbags, and looked round again. If Holly can make a clean break…

8

Smokers’ Corner, Tombs style, appeared to be up and running by the time Tom got back to base. The small car park on Albert Road was full, so he parked at the back. In front of the boarded-up entrance to the custody suite three men were sharing smoke and stories. Standing slightly apart, a woman smoker watched him closely as he drove in and walked towards the building. He had no intention of going anywhere near the atmospheric pollution, but the woman ground out her cigarette and moved towards him as fast as her pencil skirt and heels would allow.

‘DCI Morton?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

She held out a hand. ‘Isabelle Innes, MIT Co-ordinator.’

‘Pleased to meet you. How’s it going in there?’

‘I’ll show you,’ she said, and clicked off towards the corner, leaving Tom to catch up.

‘I know it’s not your fault,’ she continued, half over her shoulder, ‘but this has to be the worst incident room I’ve ever been assigned to.’

‘Is the network connected?’ said Tom, nearly clattering her with his bag as he tried to catch up.

‘Yes. Just about. It’s going to be hell looking at any photographs over that connection, never mind video.’

‘Chairs? Computers? Telephones? Heating?’

‘After a fashion.’

They rounded the side. ‘You’re not going to believe this: we have to hire a security guard while we’re in the building.’ Isabelle pressed the button, and the doors buzzed open. ‘I’ll get some keys cut for those who are going to be working late.’

A heavy-set black man in a private security uniform was behind the counter where once a friendly police sergeant had taken details of lost cats.

Innes signed them in, telling the guard, ‘This is the boss.’

‘I’ll remember, sir,’ he said, with a salute to Tom.

‘Do you want to see the incident room first, or your office?’ asked Isabelle.

‘I was planning to have my desk in the incident room.’

She shook her head vigorously. ‘No space. No privacy. I’ve sorted you something not too far away.’

Because of the guard, the internal doors could be left open. Some of the light bulbs had been replaced since last night. So far, so good. At least it looks more like a police station and less like the set of a zombie film. Half way down the corridor, he stopped and said, ‘I thought the heating was on?’

The strip lighting did Isabelle no favours, the ploughed-field wrinkles on her face drooping over a downturned mouth. ‘I said the heating was on After a fashion. It’s more bearable in the incident room, but I’d leave your coat on until I can get a fan heater for your office.’ Her face brightened half a notch. ‘There is one good thing, though. No one will be lingering in the ladies. Two minutes in there is enough to put anything in perspective.’

They passed the incident room, now helpfully identified by an A4 sign. Isabelle didn’t slow down, just pointed and said, ‘Proper signs tomorrow. Well, laminated ones, anyway. I’ll get one for the front door too. Here we are.’

‘Since when did we become Operation Meteor?’ said Tom, looking back down the corridor.

‘Since the National Crime Agency designated a Level 1 interest. We have to have a code name.’

Tom sighed and opened the door labelled SIO - DCI Morton. Bureaucracy: can’t live with it, can’t live without it. His office was an improvement on the Black Hole of Lambeth because it had a window. Unfortunately, the window was eight feet up in the air, and made of frosted glass. Part of the wall had been re-plastered in a very suggestive way.

‘Did this used to be a toilet?’ he asked, aghast.

Isabelle grinned, displaying disconcertingly white teeth. ‘Chief Superintendent’s cloakroom and office, all knocked together. I’ve left some papers on your desk. The only thing that works really well in here are the phones. I’m extension 437. Let me know if you need anything.’

Tom unbuttoned his coat. His breath wasn’t quite forming a cloud in here, but it must be close. He put his bag down and looked around again. Desk, chair, computer, phone and flipchart were all at this end, where the natural light was, and where the sanitary fixtures used to be. The former Chief Super’s windows had been bricked up, so Innes had chosen to put a conference table in that area. Probably wise.

He was about to sit at his desk when Elaine knocked at the open door. She was carrying two mugs of tea.

‘You don’t know how pleased I am to see that,’ he said, pointing to the mug, ‘but you’d better not make a habit of it. People will talk.’

It took her half a second to work out what he meant: there seemed to be some other agenda going on behind her eyes, then she grinned. ‘Too late for that. It took them an hour to figure out we’d worked together before, but they’re not holding it against me. So far. How did it go at the crime scene?’

‘Come in for a minute.’

‘I won’t, sir, if you don’t mind. The second mug is for DS Dunn … who I think is coming down the corridor as I speak.’

It was probably for the best. If he were going to make a go of this case, it would have to be as leader of the whole team, not just one member of it. ‘Put them on the desk, thanks.’

When Dunn and Elaine passed each other in the doorway, she smiled but he didn’t.

‘You didn’t tell me that Incendiary Innes was on the team, sir,’ said Dunn, unzipping his jacket.

‘I wouldn’t take that off, if I were you. You’ll need it in here. You’ve worked with Isabelle before, have you?’

‘I’ve been in the same building. That’s close enough.’

‘I’ll need you two to work together, starting with the interview rooms. We’ve got to have video available PDQ.’

‘PDQ? Is that a new system?’

Was he joking? Dunn’s face gave nothing away. ‘PDQ — Pretty Damn Quick. I don’t want to arrest someone and have to go to Liverpool to interview them on camera.’ He pointed to the mugs of tea. ‘One of those is yours.’

‘Thanks. I bet Mrs Innes didn’t bring them.’

‘It was DC Fraser, as it happens.’ Tom took a long drink and felt slightly warmer.

Dunn sipped his tea, pulled a face and put it down. ‘No sugar.’

Tom looked at his watch: half an hour to briefing. He took out his notebook and read off the actions that Dunn had already mentioned at the crime scene, adding his forthcoming visit to the post mortem.

‘Will it be your first?’ asked Dunn, with a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.

‘Yes. Have you been to one?’

‘No. I’m in no rush to go, either. It’s bad enough having to view the body in situ, never mind see it cut open afterwards.’

‘Goes with the territory. What else have you set up for actions?’

Dunn ran through his list. Most of it was focused on continuing and completing the house-to-house enquiries in the area, with one detective allocated to background.

‘Do you live in the country?’ asked Tom.

‘No, Boss. City boy, born and bred.’

‘No one will have seen or heard anything out there. Focus on the CCTV.’

‘What CCTV?’

‘Didn’t you see the UGAS drill-head this morning?’

‘I saw it, yes.’

‘And didn’t you think that it was unguarded, and maybe it might be worth something? Either to thieves, or as a target for protesters? I had a look when I was driving out. It’s covered with motion detectors and CCTV cameras.’

Dunn blinked. ‘Sorry, sir, I missed that.’

‘Get on to them asap, but all it will do is confirm that no one came there on Sunday. Dial down the house-to-house. It’s far more important to find out the victim’s financial, property and other assets. Someone needs to be on that, and someone needs to be on phone records.’

‘The victim’s phone was soaked, like everything else. It’s with forensics, but…’

Tom looked in the pile of papers which Isabelle had left for him. One of them was a list of Items Recovered. He scanned down the list. Good.

‘According to this report, Matthew Cross used a Samsung feature phone, not a smart phone, so the IMEI number will be inside the battery case. Get someone to find out the number and get cracking.’

‘Yes, Boss.’ Dunn made a note, then tapped his pen on his notebook. ‘Anything specific you’d like me to allocate?’

Tom rubbed his chin. If he interfered now, it might come back to bite him later. On the other hand, there was only one officer out there he knew he could trust completely: Elaine. He shook his head. ‘I’ll leave it in your capable hands, Phil.’

Dunn left him alone, taking the untouched mug of tea with him.

The rest of the papers from Isabelle were mostly lists, and one had the draft budget on it. Tom scanned down the headings, looking for overtime. He drew in a sharp breath: the figure Schofield had allowed him would barely cover a tea party, never mind a seriously long investigation. He put a ring round the figure and set it aside for later. If he didn’t manage the budget, the investigation would come off the rails. All the officers outside were there at ACC Schofield’s pleasure, as was the building and equipment. Any or all of it could be taken away at a moment’s notice.

At two minutes to ten, he left his coat on the chair and went into the incident room.

The hush spread out from the door like a wave. Before he had got to the whiteboard, every officer in the room was focused on him. Sweat started trickling down the back of his neck. A large scale map of Flaxall was the only thing on the left hand side of the board. On the right, Dunn had listed the actions. Tom cleared his throat and turned to face his team. Away to the right, underneath the window, Elaine gave him a very discreet thumbs-up.

‘Good morning, and welcome to the Tombs.’ He was too nervous to pause for a laugh, so he ploughed on. ‘I’m DCI Morton, on attachment to South Lancashire Constabulary, but you’ve already worked that out.’ This time he did pause, and looked around the room, trying to fix each face in his mind, even if he didn’t know their names yet. ‘There’s two ways of looking at this team. At us. Either we’re a bunch of odds and ends, put together because no one else was available, or we’re a crack unit, especially assembled to get justice for Matthew Cross.’

Several faces lit up, engaged with what he said. A couple of people frowned. That was fine. He would win them round or not, as time would tell, so long as the problem was himself. If they had a problem with Matthew Cross, then things could get difficult.

‘The Golden Hour for this case has been and gone, and that’s our challenge. We’ve got a lot to discover today, a lot to share, and a lot of ground to pick over. I’m not going to have a round-up tonight because I want you out there, covering that ground and getting us on the same page as the murderer. The sooner we start breathing down his — or her — neck, the better. My office is along the corridor. There’s something you need to know before coming to see me, though.’ He paused. ‘I don’t take sugar and I don’t like biscuits.’ He got a slight ripple of laughter. ‘Over to you, Phil.’

As he swapped places with Dunn, he said, ‘Could you bring DC Cotton to see me when you’ve briefed her.’

Dunn nodded, and went through the actions quickly and efficiently. He had allocated Elaine to ring the local A&E departments to check if anyone had come in on Sunday afternoon with any injuries. There were no obvious defensive wounds on the victim’s hands, but it had to be checked. He tried not to look at her as Dunn read out the list: she would be disappointed.

Tom went back to his office and started to unpack his bag properly. Two minutes later, Dunn brought in the FLO. Tom recognised her as one of the ones who had smiled at him. Always a good start. She was in her late thirties, probably, and looked as if she’d got dressed in the dark. She brushed something off her cardigan. On closer inspection, Tom decided that she’d eaten her breakfast in the dark as well.

‘Are the family expecting you?’ asked Tom, taking them over to the conference table.

‘Mmm. I spoke to someone called Mary. Member of staff, I think. She said they’ll all be there this morning.’

‘Good. This family are very clever at keeping themselves off the grid. It’s crucial that you fill in as much of the background as you can, as well as getting elimination statements.’ He turned to Dunn. ‘Phil, you’ve met Mrs Cross. Do you think she’s a viable suspect? Could she have done that to her husband?’

His sergeant crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. ‘I get the impression that she’s a bit of a drama queen at the best of times, so it was hard to tell. The only thing is, I thought she looked shocked but not surprised at what had happened. If you see what I mean.’

Hazel Cotton’s hair was starting to unfold from the arrangement she’d given it. She put bits back up and said, ‘For a wife to take direct action like that, there usually has to be a long history of abuse by the husband. I think it’s too soon to push that button, so I’ll take it easy at first.’

Tom looked at Phil, who nodded. ‘Good. Let DS Dunn know if you need support to take statements. The search team will be there this afternoon. Tell Mrs Cross that their focus will be firearms, in the first instance.’

Hazel stood up. ‘Will do, sir. Where’s my car?’

‘Where did you leave it?’ said Tom.

‘I haven’t got a private vehicle.’

She stood there, blinking at him. Dunn shrugged. Tom dialled 437.

‘Isabelle, have we got any pool cars?’

‘No.’

‘Get one for DC Cotton.’

‘That’ll cost us, but I’ll sort it. Won’t be until tonight at the earliest.’

‘Thanks, Isabelle.’ He replaced the receiver and decided that it was time to interfere. He turned to Hazel.‘Take DC Fraser with you. And hold on to your seatbelt.’

Hazel left in search of Elaine.

Dunn stood up. ‘You know that Fraser doesn’t have PIP 2 accreditation, don’t you, sir?’

Tom’s hand froze on the way to picking up his empty mug. He hadn’t thought of that. The Professional Investigation Process was the training platform for detectives. Within that, the Investigative Interviewing Course was crucial. It was okay to send Elaine to talk to someone, or take a statement, but to carry out a formal interview on tape… No wonder she had been told to ring the hospitals. Tom knew she was a good detective: he had seen her at first hand. That wasn’t good enough, not here, not in a major enquiry.

‘Fair point. DC Fraser is ready for this, but don’t take my word for it. Check with DC Cotton when they got back. She can give you a second opinion on Elaine’s performance.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Dunn. ‘Anything else?’

‘Just a quick one. I see you’re taking Kingsley Laidlaw’s statement yourself. Good idea.’

Dunn opened his notebook again. ‘While I was walking back to the car this morning, I thought more about Laidlaw knowing Cross well enough to recognise a signet ring.’

‘I agree. I’m also not keen on the coincidence of it all: he happens to wander into the wood when there’s a fresh body to be discovered. Dog walkers, yes, they get everywhere, but not budding scientists. Right, I’ve got to get a move on if I don’t want to be late for the post mortem.’

He grabbed his coat, his notebook and the appropriate forms (printed out for him by Isabelle). On the way down the corridor, he bumped into Elaine. She looked over her shoulder — Hazel Cotton was catching up.

Elaine whispered, ‘Good start, sir. Only one mixed metaphor. I don’t think they noticed.’

‘Everyone’s a critic,’ said Tom, and hurried out to the car park.

Elaine had been gently probed about her relationship with Tom ever since Hazel Cotton had strapped on her seatbelt.

‘He’s a bit posh, isn’t he, with that three piece suit?’ had been her opening remark. ‘Very young, too, for an SIO.’

‘I don’t know him that well,’ said Elaine. ‘We just worked a case together, that’s all.’ Part of that statement was true. Because they had worked as a team, she had a pretty good idea of his temperament and his methods — and his values — but there was a lot that he played close to his chest. He certainly hadn’t told her about last year, about what his mother had called Operation Jigsaw.

Something clicked in Hazel’s brain. ‘You said before that you worked with Rod Stamp. You don’t mean that case in 7Bridge, do you?’

Elaine sighed to herself. ‘Sort-of.’

Hazel turned in her seat, eyes wide with shock. ‘What are they like? I’ve seen some of the houses in Hello magazine, but… Wow. Did you really get to see Holly Nugent’s place? It’s like a stately home, there’s so much gold and marble in there.’

‘You should have seen the Boss in action. He arrested Gary White in the Nugents’ dining room.’

‘No! What was it like?’

‘DCI Morton had worked out that only Gary White could have…’

‘No, sod that. What was the dining room like? Does she really have gold candlesticks?’

‘Ooh, look. We’re here. And so are the press.’

Flaxall Manor was surrounded by a high wall, made of modern brick. Presumably Matthew Cross’s idea. There was one TV van in attendance along with half a dozen reporters. As Elaine slowed her car, they lifted their handicams and phones, ready to ambush her.

‘Shit. The gates are closed.’

‘Leave it to me,’ said Hazel.

She leapt out and went up to the intercom. The reporters cut her off like wolves round a lamb. Elaine lowered her window and heard her colleague announce that she was from the funeral director. Most of the reporters immediately took a step back, but a couple persisted. From her bag, Hazel took some business cards and offered them around. When she got through on the intercom, she adopted a serious tone and announced herself by name only. The gates swung open.

‘What was on that card you gave them?’ asked Elaine when Hazel was back in the car.

‘My cousin really is a funeral director.’

Elaine put the car in neutral. ‘You don’t…’

Hazel smiled. ‘Don’t be daft. If the bereaved ask if I know of a funeral director who’s used to dealing with the coroner’s court, then yes, I do mention his name. But I never suggest it.’

Tom would take a very dim view of this. Very dim indeed, but that was Hazel’s problem. Elaine drove slowly through the gates and found a big man blocking the drive. He pointed to a track between the wall and a stand of quick-growing conifers which had been made into a visitors’ car park. By the time they had walked back to the gates, he had disappeared. Damn. Elaine would have to wait to get his details.

The drive twisted around a bed of rhododendrons before it revealed the house.

‘Oh, my, God,’ said Hazel. ‘Your boss knows how to pick his cases, doesn’t he? No tower blocks or terraces for him. Just look at that place!’

It was impressive. Very impressive, if you liked that sort of thing, which Hazel clearly did. It looked like two houses had been joined together or that the original building had been extended. Facing them was a corner, and to the right the house was made of stone. In front of the stone facing was a patio (did they call them patios? A terrace, maybe). Most of the wall was punctuated by french windows. Elaine glanced at the sun: that terrace faced south, and would be perfect in the summer, drifting in and out of the house and drinking lemonade. Nice work, if you can get it.

The drive curved to the left, and widened before the brick-faced part of the Manor. Three cars, all very expensive, were neatly parked in front. They walked down the gravel, heading for a heavy oak door under a wooden canopy. The top of the canopy had lions at the front corners, also in wood. A middle aged woman swung open the iron-studded door and introduced herself as Mary.

‘I look after the house during the day. My husband does the gardens,’ she said.

‘He does an excellent job,’ said Hazel. ‘I know it’s February, but it looks really nice out there.’

It didn’t. It looked dead and desolate. Mary seemed happy to accept the compliment on her husband’s behalf. She stood back and they entered a grand hall.

‘Wow. This is beautiful,’ said Hazel. ‘It looks much bigger on the inside. Do you have to keep all this clean?’

‘We have a couple of girls who help.’

Elaine put her new found enthusiasm for domestic architecture to the test. It looked like this hall had been made by taking out the original upper rooms. Instead of brick or wooden panelling, here was smooth plaster with decorative pillars. Hazel walked over to a large landscape in oils. It didn’t look like Lancashire, because it wasn’t raining.

‘Do the girls who help live in the village?’ asked Hazel.

‘No, town. They work for the business.’

Elaine realised that Hazel was actually very good at this. She had already made a friend and discovered who most of the staff were.

‘Mrs Cross and Mr Mallinson are in the drawing room,’ said Mary, pointing to a door on their left. ‘I’ll bring tea and coffee.’

Hazel knocked on the door, and entered when a man’s voice summoned them. Elaine had started to get out her notebook, but Hazel gently put her hand on Elaine’s arm to stop her.

The drawing room was much more in keeping with the older style of this part of the house. The ceiling was low, thick black beams running along it. Opposite the door were small windows. Original leaded panes and a northern aspect meant that little natural light penetrated; the lamps around the room were probably switched on all day. Two of the lamps were made from giant Chinese vases, dragons chasing each other around the surface. They stood on opposite ends of a dark wooden buffet, complete with crystal decanters. Huge as they were, the fireplace opposite dwarfed them.

It was so large that the burning logs were contained by a metal brazier, not placed on the hearth. In front were three squashy settees in a floral fabric that suggested comfort, luxury and power at rest. A man was standing up to greet them, and Elaine could see the top of a woman’s head sticking above the settee with its back to the door.

Hazel showed her warrant card, Elaine did the same.

‘Andrew Mallinson,’ said the man. He was wearing a decent suit and well polished shoes. Beyond the clothes he didn’t look good. His cheekbones were pronounced, as if he’d been on a crash diet, and a bald patch was spreading wide over his crown. When Elaine shook hands, it was like rubbing your fingers on sandpaper.

He took his place on the cross-bench, and offered them the settee opposite Mrs Cross. From the small side-table next to their hostess, this seemed to be her normal spot.

‘I’m here in two capacities,’ said Mallinson. ‘Mrs Cross is my sister, and I’m also the family’s attorney.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Hazel. ‘This must be very difficult for you, Layla. You don’t mind if I call you Layla, do you?’

Mallinson stirred in his seat, as if this were exactly the sort of familiarity here was here to prevent when his sister forestalled him. ‘Fine,’ said Layla, with the ghost of a Liverpool accent.

Mrs Cross — Layla — was forty-three. She looked like someone who looked after herself, and was trying desperately to preserve that image under impossible circumstances. She was healthy, neither overweight nor too thin, and every hair and nail was groomed or polished. She was wearing a black tunic dress over thick tights, and her feet were curled underneath her. The left side of her straightened hair looked ruffled, as if she’d been leaning her elbow on the arm of the chair and resting her head on her hand. In front of the couch, a pair of black patent heels were lying on their sides. There was absolutely nothing in this woman to suggest that she had stood in front of her husband and let him have it with both barrels.

‘I’m the Family Liaison Officer,’ said Hazel. ‘You can call me the FLO if you want, or just Hazel. I’m going to be here a lot during the investigation, and I want to say now that you can ask me anything. Anything at all. You can shout at me too, if it helps, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t.’

The first tentative beginnings of a smile flitted across Layla’s face. ‘I’ll try not to.’

‘There’s another side to my job as well.’ Hazel sat up straight for a moment, leaning slightly towards Layla.

‘If we’re going find the person who did this, we need your help, and we need the family’s help, too.’

Elaine looked at Mallinson. He hadn’t moved since he’d sat down, and he clearly had no time for Hazel. They wouldn’t get much help from him.

‘How are the children?’ continued Hazel. ‘It seems very quiet.’

‘They’re in the stables,’ said Layla. ‘We’ve never been into horses, so we turned them into a studio. You can’t hear a thing when you’re inside the house.’

‘Sabrina’s a singer, isn’t she? And Lucas plays the drums.’

Elaine couldn’t stop her eyebrows shooting up. How had Hazel found that out? Layla asked the same question, out loud.

‘Kids,’ said Hazel. ‘You can find out anything on Facebook or Twitter. That’s how I know my lot have done their homework. Is Tasmin musical?’

Mallinson interrupted. ‘I think my sister has been through enough, don’t you? Shall we stick to business. What have you discovered?’

‘She’s just doing her job,’ said Layla wearily. The weariness seemed to be aimed at her brother rather than Hazel. ‘I don’t care whether the nice police lady really is nice or whether she’s just been on an empathy course.’

‘Both,’ said Hazel.

‘Excuse my brother, said Layla. ‘Empathy is not a requirement for lawyers.’ She massaged her forehead, keeping her hand away from her eye makeup. ‘For the record, Tasmin is the brainy one. She even wants to study law, God help her. Not that the other two aren’t bright, they’re just different.’

There was a knock at the door, then Mary came in and put a tray on the coffee table that lay between the three couches. The table wasn’t antique, probably because the edge near the fire was starting to split with dryness. Elaine offered to serve, taking a coffee for herself instead of tea. That way she could resist the temptation of home-made flapjack. Hazel didn’t, taking two slices.

‘I assume you’re no further forward,’ said Mallinson, ‘otherwise you would have said so at the start.’

‘No, we’re not,’ said Hazel, almost cheerfully. ‘I’m supposed to tell you that we’re pursuing many lines of enquiry, but that’s rubbish. We’re still trying to figure out exactly what happened, then we’ll pursue the lines of enquiry. What do you think, DC Fraser?’

Elaine almost choked on her coffee. How am I supposed to answer that? You could have warned me, Hazel. She put down her coffee cup to give herself thinking time. What would Tom do? Does that matter? She latched on to procedure, and tried to make it sound spontaneous. ‘The SIO — that’s our boss, DCI Morton — is going to the post mortem. The forensic teams are working hard. We should know a lot more tomorrow.’

‘See?’ said Hazel. ‘She knows what’s going on.’

Elaine had never been referred to so unprofessionally by a fellow officer, but she didn’t care. What disconcerted her most was Mallinson’s reaction: he visibly stiffened when he heard Tom’s name. How come?

Layla scratched the arm of the chair, where it was already worn. Much more abuse from those nails and it would need re-upholstering. ‘That guy yesterday, Dunn, he said that I wouldn’t have to see Matt. Is that true?’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Hazel quickly. ‘We’ll let the lab handle that.’ She turned to Mallinson. ‘Could you ask Mary if she has any sweeteners?’

‘The kitchen is through the door behind the staircase. Your colleague can go.’ He turned to his sister. ‘She wants to ask you a personal question with me out of the way. My guess is that she wants to know if the children are all Matt’s, so they can take DNA samples for identification purposes.’

Layla looked around the room, her eyes settling on the picture opposite the fireplace. Elaine followed her gaze. In Elaine’s opinion, if there were any doubt about parentage, it was on the mother’s side. All three children favoured their father in most respects. Only Sabrina seemed to have anything of her mother about her.

‘We’re going to take statements today, if you’re all up to it,’ said Hazel. ‘Just the basics, you know, like when did you last hear from Matt, was there anything bothering him, that sort of thing.’ She turned to Mallinson. ‘For example, Mr Mallinson, do you know if he had any business difficulties?’

‘Matthew was retired. He had no business interests.’

Hazel’s gaze flicked from brother to sister, unsure where to go next. She’s good, but even Hazel Cotton has her limits.

Layla broke the silence with a bitter laugh. ‘Andrew’s telling the truth. I’m the successful entrepreneur in this house. Matt lived off my earnings. In theory.’

Mallinson glared at his sister. The last two words had given it away. In theory told Elaine that someone was going to be having some fun with bank accounts and spreadsheets. She offered a silent prayer that Phil Dunn didn’t think she was the best person to handle the job.

‘I really do want sweeteners,’ said Hazel. ‘Would you mind if Elaine collected some and brought the children in for a minute. Saves me having to repeat myself.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Layla. She turned to Elaine and flicked back her hair with her left hand. ‘Are you going to snoop around while you’re at it? Go ahead, so long as you don’t break anything.’

Mallinson glared at his sister again. He clearly didn’t want the police anywhere that he couldn’t personally keep an eye on them. Elaine excused herself and headed back into the hall.

9

Before he got in his car, Tom had sent a text to his sister Fiona, asking her to call. He hadn’t expected a busy GP to have time during the day (that’s what she always told their mother), but Fi called him back within ten minutes.

‘I believe you’re on my patch,’ she said.

‘Heading out of it. I’m on my way to my first post mortem. In Liverpool.’

‘That’ll be a learning experience for you. Couldn’t do it myself.’

‘I’m sure your patients are glad to hear that you’re focused on the living.’

‘Are congratulations in order? Is this case a step up for you?’

‘Maybe. Hang on.’ He navigated a complex roundabout and headed into Aintree, somewhere he’d never been before. It wasn’t what he expected.

‘If I can run this investigation successfully, I’ll get a gold star on my record. Metaphorically.’

‘It’s Matthew Cross, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Ever come across him?’

‘No.’

‘Good. It might be awkward if you had. Can I make you an offer?’

‘The last time you said that, you were trying to get rid of those hideous curtains.’

In an instant, an abstract pattern of greens and blues was overlaid on the road ahead. His ex-wife had suggested them. ‘To make the house less … rural,’ she had said. Tom thought they were awful in the shop, and they clashed in the house. Caroline had blamed him for it. It was one of their first real rows. They were divorced a year later.

‘Tom? Are you still there?’

‘Sorry. I was trying not to think about curtains. No, it’s an offer of free child-minding on Saturday night.’

‘You what? Why would you offer that?’

‘Because it’s Valentine’s Day. I thought Duncan might be planning something romantic.’

‘Hah! Which Duncan are you talking about? Not my husband, surely. What are you really after?’

‘A bed for the night. My hotel is kicking me out for the weekend.’

‘No problem. I’ve got to go. Let me know if you’re coming.’

He disconnected and finished the journey to Broadgreen Hospital, where an obliging ticket machine gave him a receipt for expenses. The mortuary and pathology section were in an anonymous brick building on the other side of the road from the hospital itself. The receptionist locked the outside door, then led him through the offices into an air conditioned section. She knocked on a door, and left him to it.

Tom looked at the name outside: Dr Michael Jepson — Home Office Pathologist. He pushed open the door, and found a pale but otherwise unremarkable man in a white coat looking at a computer.

‘Any relation to DS Julia Jepson?’ asked Tom as they shook hands.

‘She’s my big sister. Don’t tell her I said it, though. She likes to make out she’s younger than me. Do you know her well?’

‘We were both on the Gianni Berardi case. I only met her a few times.’

‘And now you’re here. I understand this is not just your first time at a PM, but your first time as SIO.’

‘Yes. I’ll try not to embarrass myself in the, erm…’

‘We call it the Big Laboratory. You’ll be sitting at a desk behind a glass screen, looking at a monitor for most of the time. Unless there’s something I really, really need you to see. If you can stand the sight of blood — and I’ve never met a policeman who couldn’t — then you’ll be OK.’

‘I once had to move a dead ewe on Granddad’s farm. It had died in the snow, and we didn’t find it until the thaw.’

‘Eurgh.’ Jepson hesitated. ‘Did you spend much time on the farm?’

‘A fair bit. Why?’

‘Use a shotgun?’ Tom nodded. ‘Then you might be interested in this.’

Jepson turned his computer around to show side-by-side X-ray pictures of the late Matthew Cross, one of his head, the other of his chest. The images were peppered with little white dots where the shotgun pellets had blocked the radiation. ‘Any thoughts, Inspector?’

‘Call me Tom.’ He stared at the screen, looking for something, then realised that a human head is a lot smaller than a human chest. ‘Can I see these to the same scale?’

Jepson gave him a smile, the sort his maths teacher used to give when he’d cracked a particularly difficult sideways problem. ‘Hang on.’

The image of the skull shrank to scale with the chest. Tom’s instinct was right. ‘If the same barrel, or two barrels of equal length with the same choke and ammunition were used, then I think that the killer shot him in the head from much closer than he shot him in the chest.’

‘Very good, with all the right qualifying statements. Did you study science, by any chance?’

‘No, law. We’re quite big on qualifying statements in law.’

The door opened, and another white-coated figure announced that everything was ready. Jepson introduced his assistant and said that he’d meet Tom in the Big Lab. The assistant showed Tom the changing area. Suitably equipped with short rubber boots, gown and mask, Tom was taken into the Big Lab. It was tiny.

‘We call it the Big Lab because the important stuff happens here. There’s another laboratory for the boring things. Are you ready to take a look?’

The remains of Matthew Cross were still hidden by the body bag in which he’d been removed from the woods yesterday. The reason? Paperwork. Serial numbers were transferred from bag to form, pictures were taken, and then, finally, the zip was opened.

The smell was putrid, but bearable. The image of violent death, on the other hand… Only it wasn’t an image. The brutal presence of death pushed out from the plastic bag and swayed him on his feet.

And then it was gone, like a soul escaping from the body in a mediaeval painting. Tom blinked, unsure what had happened. Before he could reflect, Jepson and his assistant slid away the bag and began their work.

As soon as the body was released, the assistant picked up a camera. ‘We’re on video, too,’ said Jepson, pointing to a lens mounted on the side of the high intensity lights. ‘And sound. Don’t say anything you don’t want the defence to hear as well.’

Matthew Cross’s clothes were removed, tagged and bagged. There was nothing in the pockets that hadn’t already been discovered at the scene. Even without looking at what was left of his face, the naked form of Matthew Cross was gross, discoloured and just shouted wrong. Tom’s stomach quivered, then subsided.

‘Before I start, just the standard speech for first-timers,’ said Jepson. ‘Everyone who lies on this table is dead because their heart stopped beating. My job is to find out why it stopped beating. In reality, the obvious cause is usually the actual cause. The most difficult cases are old ladies and young children.’ He sighed. ‘But even today, I presume nothing. I observe, gather evidence, and only then do I draw conclusions.’

Now that Jepson was pointing to the wounds, Tom couldn’t help himself. He stared for a few seconds, then looked away. It was the lack of eyes that got to him. No wonder Kingsley Laidlaw had told the emergency operator that the victim had no face.

The pathologist asked Tom to step back as he did a tour of the body, noting, pointing, commenting and describing. The lack of space meant that Tom was forced to lean on the wall. After No visible tattoos it became a blur.

‘You can sit down now,’ said Jepson, pointing to a plastic screen with a bench and two stools behind it. ‘The screen is in case of splatter. Doesn’t often happen, so don’t worry.’

One hour later, Tom had four pages of notes that he would never use because he only wrote them to stave off boredom. He perked up when Jepson told his assistant to finish off the job. ‘Come on, Tom. I’ll see you back in my office. Five minutes.’

Jepson returned with tea. Tom would have refused if offered, but he tried a sip and there were no ill effects. The pathologist unlocked his workstation and said, ‘I need to check a couple of scene of crime reports to confirm things. Biscuit?’

That was a step too far. Tom declined.

‘Aah, here you go, Tom. Jot this down.’ He read out the reference number of a forensic report, then said, ‘The report confirms that pellets were discovered in the soil around the victim’s head, as I thought they would be. That’s what we scientists call a theory: an explanation that can be confirmed or falsified by evidence.’

‘We ex-lawyers call them opinions. They only become theories when the judge says they’re theories. Anyway, what theory?’

Jepson shook his head sadly. ‘I thought you might have drifted off in there. Never mind, I won’t take it personally. Very simply, the wounds to the chest were from a distance of at least ten feet, based on lack of scorching, depth of penetration and only tiny particles of wadding being discovered in the wounds.’ Tom jotted it down. ‘It wasn’t fatal, either.’

‘How could he survive that?’

‘Not immediately fatal. There was enough damage to the arteries to kill him within a minute, but Cross would have been groaning and twitching for up to thirty seconds, given his overall physical condition. The killer walked up to him and shot him in the head. Instantly fatal. That’s why there were pellets in the soil around him.’

Tom took a few seconds to digest this. If nothing else, Jepson had ruled out the remote possibility of a hunting accident. Not that there had been any real doubt.

‘I can give you one more thing for now,’ said the pathologist. ‘I’ve sent the shot and the wadding fragments for testing. Tell your firearms specialists to look for green shells.’

‘How on earth can you tell the colour of the shell from that?’

Jepson shook his head. ‘Not the colour, the philosophy. The shot was steel, not lead, and the wadding was biodegradable fibres, not plastic. This was an environmentally friendly murder.’

Tom snorted, then felt guilty.

Jepson gave him a smile. ‘You do right to laugh, Tom. Only the dead don’t laugh.’

‘You haven’t seen how people react to my jokes,’ said Tom. ‘Thanks for making this bearable, doctor.’

‘Mike, please, now we’re off camera. I’ll see you at the inquest.’

They shook hands, and Tom headed back to the real world. Then again, what did Terry Pratchett say in that book? Nothing is more real than death. Something like that.

Elaine didn’t much like cooking, and she didn’t really want to see the kitchens at Flaxall Manor. Instead of going to the servants’ quarters, she crossed the hall and went through the double doors into the dining room.

Except that it wasn’t like any normal definition of dining room in any normal home. Banqueting room came closer, although that implied a hotel and this definitely domestic. It ran the length of the house, with three sets of French doors opening on to the terrace. What it lacked was a table to scale. There was a big table in the middle, but this room wasn’t big, it was huge. Perhaps the Crosses just didn’t know that many people. She could see why the room was still there: this must be a listed building.

It looked nice too. She was conscious that “nice” wasn’t going to cut the mustard, especially if Hazel asked for a description, but Elaine was more interested in what she could see on the terrace, or rather who she could see on the terrace. It was the big guy on car parking duty.

She backed into the hall and nipped out the front door. Moving quickly, she caught the man finishing a cigarette. This time he couldn’t slip away.

‘DC Fraser, South Lancs Police. And you are?’

He looked guilty. Guilty for smoking and guilty for being caught by the police. ‘I’m Kyle,’ he said. ‘I’m just here to make sure the press stay outside.’

‘Did they hire you specially, or is this a favour?’

‘Neither, really. I work for Grant — this is just an extra shift. Besides, they need a bit of peace at a time like this.’

She opened her notebook. ‘Who’s Grant?’

Kyle gave her a strange look. Clearly Grant was someone she was expected to know, and her ignorance of him had lowered her in Kyle’s estimation.

‘Grant Benson,’ he said. ‘He’s the security manager for Mr Cross.’

Kyle was a big lad who obviously worked out a lot. ‘What’s your normal job?’

‘Doorman.’

It figured. Sergeant White had told her last night that Matt Cross owned two pubs as well as the Piano Bar. He’d need a team of doormen for that. Elaine took his full name and asked if he’d seen Matt on Sunday.

‘No. I watched a bit of the footie, went for a run, then went to work at Layla’s. I saw Mrs Cross, obviously.’

Elaine was intrigued. Avenues of enquiry were opening up left, right and centre.

‘Thanks for your time, Kyle. I won’t mention that I caught you smoking on the job if you tell me where the stables are.’

‘I’ll show you. This way.’

He led her round the far end of the Manor and through a small gate in a wall. Beyond the gate, a cobbled yard was surrounded by buildings on two sides and a kitchen garden on the third, presumably Dermot’s domain. The back face of the Manor completed the square. Kyle pointed to the squat structure opposite them. She could hear the music from across the yard.

Music wasn’t the only thing wafting out of the stables: the smell of marijuana was pretty strong too. Did Layla do this deliberately? Did she set up her kids, or me? Or is she just in shock. It put Elaine in a difficult position, one that could seriously jeopardise their relationship with the family. She was shifting from one foot to the other when she heard an echo of Tom’s voice. Don’t pick a fight unless it’s worth winning.

The music faded. Before the next track could start, Elaine shouted at the doors. ‘Police! Can I have a word? Outside will do.’

The beat started, then abruptly stopped. Seconds later a teenage boy slipped out of the building, closing the door behind him before any more smoke could escape.

Elaine recognised him from the picture in the drawing room: Lucas Cross. A couple of years older than the picture, and looking much older than sixteen. He stood in front of the door, his feet planted firmly. ‘My sisters are just combing their hair,’ he said.

‘I’ve never heard it called that before. I’m sorry about your dad, Lucas.’

He nodded, acknowledging the statement. Anyone else would have said something — “thank you” and “you’re not really sorry” being the most common.

Then his lip trembled at the corner, giving him away. He rubbed his mouth, breaking eye contact. Lucas was still a boy, after all.

The stable door opened and two girls came out. Sabrina was tall, taller than Lucas, and she shook her hair as she emerged into the light. Tasmin trailed behind.

‘Are you supposed to speak to us without an adult?’ asked Lucas when they were all together.

‘I’ve been sent to collect you, not interview you.’ She smiled. ‘Your mother said I could bring you up to the drawing room so that the Family Liaison Officer can meet you and explain what’s going on. You’ve a right to know.’

Sabrina looked at her siblings, to see if they understood. Neither of them looked back at her. Lucas was already starting to walk towards the house. Elaine took another look at Tasmin, who hung back, keeping out of the way. There was something semi-detached about her, as if she didn’t like being with the others. She stuck her head into the kitchen and picked up the sweeteners on the way.

In the drawing room, only Layla was still seated. Hazel, Andrew Mallinson and the children were standing. Mallinson didn’t look happy. Did he ever?

Hazel came over to Elaine, brushing flapjack crumbs off her cardigan. ‘I was just saying to Layla that it might be better if the family had lunch before we start taking statements. Layla’s not hungry, so I’m going to take her statement now.’ She turned round. ‘Perhaps Mr Mallinson would like to show Elaine round properly while I talk to his sister.’

‘Layla’s just lost her husband,’ said Mallinson. ‘I’m here to support her.’

‘I could wander round on my own, then,’ said Elaine. ‘I’m sure Mary and her husband have keys to everywhere.’

‘Go with her,’ said Layla. ‘You weren’t here when they broke the news yesterday, and that was as bad as it’s going to get. I’m sure the nice police lady will let you read my statement before I sign it.’

Hazel smiled at Mallinson, then said to Layla. ‘I hate to be a pain, but is there somewhere with a desk or table? I do have to write this down.’

Layla heaved herself off the couch and slipped her feet into the shoes. ‘This way.’

Everyone dispersed except Elaine and Mallinson. ‘What do you want to see?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think there’s time to see everything. Why don’t you show me Mr Cross’s likely movements on Sunday. How did he get from the drawing room to the woods?’

Mallinson looked at his shoes. They were not suitable for outdoor work, unlike Elaine’s Doc Martens. ‘Give me a minute to change.’

Elaine waited in the hall. She took a closer look at the picture which had attracted Hazel’s interest. It looked old. Very old, as in very valuable. The frame was big and gold with elaborate curls around it. Set into the wood at the bottom was a little gilded label. View of Siena with St Francis, School of Claude Lorrain, 17th Century. On loan from Mersey Art Gallery. How did Matthew Cross get a big picture like this on loan? She looked more closely at the image itself: it just looked like an old painting to her.

She heard footsteps approaching and Mallinson appeared, carrying a pair of wellingtons. ‘This way.’

There was a corridor behind the dining room, and Matthew Cross’s study was at the end of it. Mallinson stood blocking the doorway. ‘The gun cupboard is in here. I understand your firearms people are coming later. Matthew would have picked up his gun as the last thing he did before leaving the house.’ Mallinson closed the door and retraced his steps, turning off before the hall and into the kitchen corridor. ‘He would have gone out this way. One moment.’

He swapped leather shoes for wellies, then led Elaine through the kitchen garden to the outer wall of the Manor buildings. ‘This gate is locked at night,’ he said.

If Matt Cross had any soul at all, Elaine didn’t blame him for coming out here. The land sloped away from the Manor with enough height to show the plains beyond, all the way to the TV transmitter on Rivington Pike. It was only a partial prospect because a small wood grew to her right. A few hundred yards dead ahead was another, wilder and bigger wood. It had to be Northridge Copse.

She looked at the domesticated trees near the wall. The rhododendrons made an evergreen thicket below, enough to discourage anyone from strolling through. She was able to catch up with Mallinson as they walked down the edge of a paddock.

‘For a man who’d retired, Mr Cross seems to have a lot of employees,’ she said.

‘I don’t think Mary and Dermot count as “a lot”.’

‘I was thinking of Grant Benson, Kyle and all the other doormen. Kyle was very clear that they all worked for Matt.’

Mallinson came to an abrupt halt. ‘He’s wrong. Kyle is self-employed. He occasionally contracts for Laycross Entertainments, and Mr Benson is their personnel manager, so yes, in that sense he does work for Grant. The chairman and majority shareholder of Laycross Ents is my sister. Occasionally, she asked her husband to take an overview of security. That’s all.’

Elaine moved a tuft of grass aside with her boot and leaned her head to one side. ‘I’ll bet you’re a shareholder and director, too.’

Mallinson’s face didn’t move. That must take a lot of practice, she thought. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Mallinson, my boss will sort it out. DCI Morton was a star in economic crimes before this. I’ve seen him in action, and he’s very good. By the time he’s finished, he’ll have found the five pence pieces down the back of your sofas.’ She smiled.

This time Mallinson’s mouth twitched, as she hoped it would. Not when she mentioned economic crime, but when she uttered Tom’s name again. She filed it away for future reference. ‘This way?’ she said, heading further down the paddock.

They got to a fence with a gate. The copse was closer now, and to its right, Elaine could see a monstrous blot on the landscape, like a plastic wigwam in the middle of a car park: the UGAS drilling head. ‘Blimey, I can see why they aren’t keen on fracking,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t want that near me if I lived out here.’

Mallinson said nothing.

‘But I don’t live out here,’ continued Elaine, more to herself than the man standing next to her, ‘and where I live, I’d quite like a cut in my gas bill. So would my parents, and my brothers, and my Nan.’ Even so, it was a horrible thing to look at. It was all very well seeing it on North West Tonight (which she did, frequently), but the reality was gross, intrusive and ugly. And they weren’t drilling at the moment. When they did, the noise…

‘Which way did Mr Cross normally go from here?’ she asked.

‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not a countryman, by birth or inclination. Does it matter?’

‘I don’t know. Let’s head back.’

On the way up the slope, Elaine asked if Mrs Mallinson were coming over later, just so they could take her statement.

Mallinson didn’t break stride. ‘Claudia’s in hospital for a procedure. She went in yesterday morning, and she won’t be discharged until tomorrow morning. For what it’s worth, she was in bed on Sunday afternoon. She only got up when I left the house to visit my mother. Layla had been in the afternoon. I prefer to go in the evenings.’ He stopped for a second, partly because he seemed to be out of breath. Was he ill too? Like his wife? ‘My mother has vascular dementia. She’s in a nursing home.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Elaine. ‘I hope everything goes well for your wife.’

He nodded, then moved on. ‘If you’re going to take statements from the children, I’m going to the hospital to see my wife. Here, take my card. It’s got my personal mobile if you need it for any reason.’

Back at the Manor, Hazel had finished taking Layla’s statement. Mary served them smoked salmon sandwiches in the dining room, which made Hazel’s day. ‘Posh grub in a stately home,’ she said. ‘Does the boss get the posh cases because he understands their mentality, or was it just a coincidence he got dragged up from London when there’s plenty of experienced detectives in SLC?’ She smiled, and popped another triangle of salmon and cream cheese in her mouth.

Elaine treated the question as rhetorical until Hazel raised her eyebrows and tapped her nails on the table. ‘He lives with his parents in York,’ said Elaine. ‘He got divorced last year and CIPPS keep sending him all over the country. Don’t ask me why he’s on this case, because he hasn’t told me.’ Her colleague was still chewing, so Elaine pressed on. ‘How did you do it, Hazel? When you arrived at nine o’clock this morning, you knew nothing about the case, yet by the time we got here you were an expert on the kids and their music talents.’

Hazel shrugged. ‘You’re organised, you were in early. I take it you don’t have children?’ Elaine was forced to concede the point. ‘I asked you about the case because you’d already worked out the important bits. No point in me doing it again. After that, I just did my job: trawled social media, used a few shortcuts, rang a contact in social services. It’s what being an FLO is all about.’

‘How many have you got? Children, that is.’

‘Two girls. Fourteen and twelve. They’ve been at a difficult age since they were born.’

Elaine had already noticed that Hazel wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and she didn’t volunteer any information about her daughters’ father. Or fathers. ‘Anything new from Mrs Cross?’

Hazel shook her head and wiped her hands on a linen napkin (which she also commented on). ‘Nothing that wasn’t in Phil Dunn’s report from yesterday, which you’ve read.’ She stood up. ‘Shall we make a start with young Mr Cross?’

Something about the way the children had interacted earlier made Elaine hesitate. ‘It’s up to you, Hazel, but I’ve got a hunch. Do you mind if we start with Tasmin?’

Hazel gave her an appraising look. ‘I’ll go for that. She certainly won’t be expecting it.’

10

Lucy dropped the suitcase on the shop floor with a suitably satisfying thump. It bulged a little, true, but it was singular. In a few hours, a friend of a friend was coming round with his van to move her to Southport. Thanks to Holly, the flat was now sorted. Time to get cracking with the shop. After a coffee, of course.

She was sitting on the settee, staring at the display of scarves when someone started hammering on the shutters, making her jump. She opened the inner door and shouted, ‘Who is it?’ at the shutters.

‘It’s me. Robyn.’

The wicked stepmother. ‘Hang on,’ said Lucy. She opened the shutters and let her father’s second wife into the shop. They had never liked each other, partly because Robyn was only twelve years older than her.

Lucy went to clear the other settee. Robyn made no move to sit down. ‘Where’s the money?’ she demanded.

‘What money?’

‘I know the company was sold last Monday, and I know that Gary’s stake in the 7Bridge Estate was sold yesterday, but the bank says there’s only a few thousand in the account. The 7Bridge Estate shares must be worth millions.’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’

‘He’s in jail. How am I supposed to look after his children?’

Lucy saw red. ‘You could start by taking them to see their father, you callous bitch.’

Robyn took a step towards her. Lucy stood her ground.

‘I’m not taking my babies into a prison!’ snapped Robyn. ‘Where is it? Where’s the money? I bet he’s given it all to you to look after.’

Lucy snapped back. ‘What is Phoenix going to say when you get home? I’ll bet you any money it’s, “Where’s Daddy?” Don’t you realise what he did for you?’

‘He’s done nothing for me except get arrested.’

‘Precisely, you stupid cow. I stood there and watched him tell the police that he would only confess if they promised not to arrest you.’ The tears were coming freely now. Lucy made a futile gesture to wipe them away. ‘He won’t see me, you know. All he said when Paul went to visit him was, “Where’s Robyn.” You don’t know how lucky you are. Now get out of my shop.’

Robyn was taller than Lucy, but she started backing towards the door, then turned and marched out. Lucy collapsed on the sofa, breathing heavily.

It took her five minutes to get going again. When she got up, she selected two more boxes and started shoving things into them. Half an hour later, she walked down the road to the charity shop.

The manager was in the back office. Last week they had both been retailers in Sevenbridge Village. Now Lucy was a customer.

‘Hello love,’ said the manager. ‘How’s it going?’

‘How much do you charge for a flat clearance?’

‘Depends.’

Lucy put the keys on the manager’s desk. ‘It’s all yours. Take everything in the flat and everything in the shop on Friday afternoon, then give the keys to Grace Revell. Send the bill to me c/o Giuseppe’s Gelateria in Southport.’

The manager stared at her, then stared at the keys. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’ She nodded her head vigorously, to reinforce the point, then caught herself. She closed her eyes and breathed slowly in, then out. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

Twenty feet up the road, she called Grace.

‘Where are you?’ asked her friend. ‘I’ve been worried about you, but I wasn’t sure you wanted to talk.’

‘I’ll forgive you if you come downstairs now.’

‘Why? Where are you?’

‘Standing outside the door of Redmond Representation.’

‘Come up.’

‘No. This is goodbye, Grace, but I’d rather do it in the pub over lunch than in the shop over the phone.’

Lucy craned her neck up. Grace had come to the window to look down, and waggled her fingers in greeting.

‘I’ll get my coat,’ said Grace. ‘You’re paying for my taxi home. Last time we did lunch, you got plastered.’

‘And I embarrassed myself in front of Inspector Morton. Neither is going to happen today. Promise.’

They took the children’s statements in a room upstairs. It was only when they had crossed the threshold of the upstairs sitting room that Elaine noticed something: this was the first time she’d put her feet on carpet since the rug by the fireplace.

‘Everyone in the family calls it “Mum’s room”,’ said Layla. ‘We only call it the upstairs sitting room when it’s being decorated.’ She gestured towards a door at the back. ‘That’s our room. Mine and Matt’s.’ She sniffed, and dabbed the back of her hand under her eyes. ‘I slept in Sabrina’s spare bed last night. God knows how I’m gonna sleep in our bed ever again.’

Layla’s accent was slipping by the second, getting a stronger Liverpool twang. ‘It’s easy being strong for the kids, you know. The hard part is when you’re on your own. Give us a minute.’

She sniffed, waved her hands in front of her eyes, then stood with her feet together, her heels wobbling slightly. She breathed in and out, then sat on the small settee. Hazel took an armchair, leaving Elaine to sit at the desk and take notes.

As she straightened her sheets of paper, Elaine could hear Phil Dunn’s voice in the back of her head, You don’t need to stay there all day. DC Cotton isn’t entitled to a secretary. Sod it. Elaine thought of a justification: DC Cotton is such a good FLO that she would get more out of the family by concentrating on the questions, not writing the answers.

Tasmin slipped into the room and pulled the hair from her eyes. She took in everyone’s positions with a glance, then slid on to the couch next to her mother. When Elaine had seen the two sisters earlier, she couldn’t help but contrast their approach to tragedy. Sabrina had carefully chosen something comfortable but stylish, a bit like her mother, but Tasmin had simply pulled on black leggings and a grey Harvard Law School sweatshirt. Was that an aspirational gift? Holiday souvenir? A calculated insult to Andrew Mallinson?

Hazel told Tasmin (again) what was going to happen, and that all they really wanted to know was the answer to two questions: where were you on Sunday? And when did you last see or hear from your dad?

Tasmin began her story. In a clear voice, with little if any trace of a local accent, she answered Hazel’s questions, and Elaine’s instinct about starting with Tasmin proved to be a good one. The girl gave them a list of who was in the house, and where, and roughly what time things happened. At one point she had come downstairs for a snack when the band, all five of them, were on a break.

When Hazel asked if Tasmin had wondered where her dad was, the girl’s eyes flicked away completely. The tears followed a few seconds later.

Layla put an arm around her daughter. ‘Don’t you think she’s going to be saying that to herself for the rest of her life?’

Tasmin had folded in on herself, sobbing, until she sprang up and dashed from the room. Layla followed, kicking off her shoes so that she could run.

‘Soap opera tears,’ said Hazel.

‘Is that a technical term?’

‘Yes it is.’

What? I’d love to have been on that course

‘That’s what we call them when someone bursts into tears at the exact moment they would do in Eastenders. In real life, it’s never the obvious things that make us cry.’

‘What does it mean? I thought it was genuine.’

‘I reckon Tasmin Cross misses her father a lot. I also reckon she’s compartmentalised some of her feelings for him.’

‘Abuse?’

‘I doubt it. Let’s see the others first.’ A look of mischief came into Hazel’s eyes. ‘Watch the corridor, will you.’

‘Eh?’

‘Quick!’

Hazel crossed the floor like a sprinter and opened the door into Layla and Matt’s bedroom. Elaine had no choice. She pulled open the other door and looked down the passage. Luckily, they were at the end, so she’d have some warning. Hazel had disappeared.

But what if there’s a concealed door? Elaine felt her heart beating faster than when she had been attacked on patrol. This could have far worse consequences. No sign of Layla, but no sign of Hazel either. And Layla had taken off her shoes. She could appear without warning.

A thump-thump-thump came from the bedroom as Hazel ran back in. Anyone downstairs would have heard that. Hazel’s hair was escaping and her eyes were like saucers.

‘What is it?’ said Elaine. ‘You haven’t found bloodstains, have you?’

‘You should see the size of her dressing room!’

Oh My God. How did this woman ever become a police officer? Elaine went back to her chair at the desk. ‘You should have seen Holly Nugent’s.’

‘I’ve seen Holly’s in a magazine. This one’s bigger than that.’

‘Aah. What you don’t know is that Holly has two dressing rooms. One she shows to the magazines and the real one. The real one is four times the size. She doesn’t want to be thought of as extravagant.’

‘How many bags has she really got? Is it true she’s got two di Sanuto Exclusives?’

‘Dunno. What do they look like?’

In reality, Holly did only have one dressing room for clothes (the bags were in a separate cupboard). She was also on the other side of the world having a full-scale nervous breakdown, according to Tom. Elaine hoped desperately that:

A) Hazel didn’t put it about on social media that Elaine had seen the mythical second dressing room.

And

B) Hazel did not ask about the SeenIn7Bridge blog.

Layla returned, followed by Sabrina. The girl entered nervously, pausing at the door before committing herself. She sat closer to Layla than her younger sister had done.

‘Tell us about your band,’ said Hazel. ‘Do you have a name?’

The girl looked at her mother. ‘Sore point. Mum wanted to call it Sabrina, but I’ve always said it wasn’t fair on the others. We have to come up with something soon so they can do the posters. We’re doing our first gig at the Piano Bar in April.’

‘It is your band,’ said Layla. ‘They joined it, so you should call the band after you.’

‘Later, Mum, OK?’ Sabrina was fighting the tears. ‘I can’t think about the band now. We can’t play after this, not after Dad…’

Not soap opera tears: these look like they’d pass muster.

‘Who’s in the band?’ asked Hazel, mostly to forestall an interruption from Layla.

‘I’m the singer, Jess and Jen are on guitar and keyboards. They went to the same rock school as me, and we auditioned them.’

So that meant mummy chose them. She hadn’t said a word during any of the interviews so far, so when her question slipped out, everyone looked at her, amazed. ‘How did Luke get involved?’

‘Him and his mate — Dylan — they were in a metal band. That’s his real name, too. Dylan. We needed a rhythm section for the auditions, and we couldn’t find anyone better.’

Hazel hadn’t taken any notes all day, nor used them. It wasn’t Elaine’s style at all, but her colleague seemed to have a gift for winging it. Elaine would have had to refer to her notes to ask Hazel’s next question:

‘So the Sunday rehearsal was you, Jen, Jess, Luke and Dylan. Anyone else?’

Sabrina shook her head.

‘Have you any idea what time that was? Beginning and end?’

‘We started about one o’clock, and finished about four. Jess has a car and did taxi duty. She doesn’t like driving in the dark on the lanes.’

‘Did anyone else pop in during rehearsals?’

Sabrina was crying almost constantly now, blowing her nose and wiping away the tears. The box of tissues that Hazel had placed in front of Elaine on the desk was getting some serious action.

‘I spoke to Dad,’ she sniffed. ‘That was the last time I saw him.’

Elaine shot a look at Hazel. Sabrina was leaning into her mother, and her mother was looking alarmed. It was three days ago that this had happened. Long enough for mother and daughter to have gone over the ground, but this seemed like news to Layla.

‘I know it’s hard, Sabrina,’ said Hazel, ‘but can you tell me what he said.’

‘When we went up to the house for a break, I was first. He came out of the back door. He…’ She started to breathe more raggedly, edging towards a complete meltdown.

‘What was he wearing?’ said Hazel, pressing gently and trying to keep the girl from collapsing.

‘His coat, his cords, his wellies, his hat.’

It all tallied with the scene of crime reports. Apart from the hat. Is that an issue?

‘Did he have his gun with him?’

She nodded.

‘What did he say?’

‘He asked how it was going without Mum there.’ She glanced at her mother. ‘I said it was all cool, that we were trying out some new stuff. He told me to turn the volume down. He’s always doing that. He says we’re too young to lose our hearing. Then he said he was going for a walk and he had a meeting later at the Piano Bar.’

Layla was frowning now, and Elaine was panicking that she might interrupt and break the spell. She could almost see the struggle playing out on Layla’s face — which was more important: finding out what Matt was up to, or keeping it in the family?

Layla opened her mouth, but Hazel got in first. ‘You’re doing really well, love. Your dad would be proud of you.’

Sabrina nodded her head.

Hazel continued. ‘Can you think about him on that day. Close your eyes if it helps. Can you remember exactly what he said? He told you to turn the noise down, then…’

Sabrina did close her eyes. Her head tilted as she quoted her father’s last words to her: ‘I fancy seeing the karaoke tonight. If I go, can you keep an eye on the twins? I’m going to get some fresh air, but I have to see someone at another place. A bit of karaoke does you good after that.’

As she spoke, realisation dawned on the girl’s face, just as it was dawning on her mother’s. Elaine had no idea why.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ cried Layla. ‘Why didn’t you tell me on Sunday that he was meeting someone at the statue?’

Sabrina was crying again, sobs on top of tears. ‘I was tired, I didn’t think.’

‘What makes you think about the statue?’ said Hazel, clearly as puzzled as Elaine.

Layla turned to face the FLO. ‘That sculpture, in the woods, Matt and I called it Another Place.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum, I’m so sorry.’

‘Would it be better if Sabrina had a time out,’ suggested Hazel. ‘I wanted to ask you about the statue. Perhaps you could fill me in while she has a break.’

‘Go on, love,’ said Layla.

Sabrina sniffed, looked at Hazel, then left the room. Layla stared after her, then shifted in her seat. Her posture became more assertive, her defences up. She was thinking about the man she had been married to, not about his death. It brought out some of the steel inside her.

‘You never knew Matt,’ she said. ‘None of you. You all thought he was a psychopath, but he wasn’t. He was just a businessman, that’s all. Getting married to Matt was the best thing that ever happened to me, because he gave me everything, and he loved me. Without him, I wouldn’t have the kids, the house, the Piano Bar, none of it. He understood people. He knew how to give them what they want, even if they didn’t know they wanted it.’

There was a whole raft of questions being begged for later. Elaine tried to look as sympathetic as Hazel.

‘Matt bought the copse when he bought the Manor. It gave us extra privacy, and he wanted somewhere to walk that he couldn’t be seen. There’s a great view of the village, too. He liked that, he had a good eye, did Matt. He was a great host. He could throw a great party. The good times we’ve had here…’ She gathered her thoughts. ‘Until Sabrina joined the rock school, I used to be a patron of the Mersey Art Gallery. Matt put on a fundraiser in the Piano Bar, just before his fiftieth birthday. Four years ago. Everyone round here was talking about the Antony Gormley sculptures being reinstated in Crosby. D’you know the ones I mean?’

Elaine didn’t. Hazel also shook her head.

‘Those iron statues of Gormley, stuck in the sand. You must have heard of them.’ The detectives shrugged. Elaine’s defence was that Lancashire news wasn’t covered in Leicester. Before that, she was a student. Presumably Hazel just wasn’t interested.

Layla shook her head impatiently. ‘There are loads of life-size castings of Antony Gormley’s body, stuck in the sand on the beach. He said that they were images of men looking at the horizon, looking beyond where they were planted. That’s why he called it Another Place.’ Satisfied that the police had grasped the basics, she continued. ‘At this fundraiser, there was an auction. Some local artists had pledged to do portraits, custom pictures, that sort of things. One sculptor said he’d make a cast of your body and make a statue out of that Corian stuff, you know, like marble. I thought, how good would that be for his fiftieth? Matt can have his own sculpture. I’d had a few drinks, Matt had gone to the gents. I bid on it. I won.’

It was bizarre, but Elaine could see how it might happen.

‘He wasn’t happy at first, and it was the kids who made him go through with it. They thought it would be a laugh. When they made the cast, he insisted on wearing swimming trunks. He didn’t think it would be good for teenagers to see their dad’s bits moulded on a statue.’ She smiled. ‘Not that they wouldn’t have looked very good. No shortage there. When we went to see the finished product, it was just silly. He’d done a good job and all that, but we looked at each other and said, “That’s not going up in the house.” I felt sorry for the sculptor. He’d put a lot of time into it for no publicity.’

Layla was retreating from them again. Hazel brought her back. ‘How did it end up in the woods?’

‘We got home, and Matt suggested we make a special place for it. He said there was one spot in the woods where you could see the spire of Flaxall Church, and on a good day you could see the sea as well. He didn’t want it on display, so he cut down some trees and set it back. Made it special.’

‘Did you go there often?’

‘Me? Only once since it was put in. I don’t like them woods. Such a noise with all the birds, big black scary things. And it’s so muddy, most of the time. The kids and I just forgot about it. Occasionally, Matt would say to me that he was going to another place.’ She dropped her eyes. ‘There was another reason he didn’t talk to the kids about it.’

Hazel waited.

‘Dougie is buried there. In Flaxall churchyard. He didn’t like to talk about Dougie, especially to the kids. He could stand at the statue and look at the spire.’

Who on earth is Dougie? That wasn’t in the files. For some reason, Hazel ignored the question, either because she knew who Dougie was or because her instinct told her to pick up on something else.

‘Why did you get upset when Sabrina realised what Matt had said?’

Layla beat the arm of the settee. ‘Because if she’d told me, I’d have got someone to have a look in the woods. I thought he’d gone off to a meeting somewhere.’ She leaned forwards. ‘When I got back from the nursing home, Sabrina had left me a note: Dad’s gone out. I arranged for Tasmin’s friend to come over, then went to work.’

Hazel finally got round to asking the question Elaine had wanted to ask since she first arrived. ‘Didn’t you wonder where Matt had gone? And why he didn’t come back that night, or on Monday?’

‘I wasn’t his keeper. I would have asked Andrew on Tuesday, but with Claudia going into hospital, I didn’t want to trouble him. It’s all academic now. Look, Sabrina was in her room, doing her homework on Sunday evening. Do you really need to speak to her again?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Hazel. ‘Just Luke to go, now, then we’ll be out of your hair for today. Let’s take a break first, shall we?’

The drive back from Liverpool was long enough for Tom to forget the smell of the Big Lab and start to feel hungry. Despite his aversion to such things, he picked up a sandwich from the petrol station and hurried back to the Tombs.

Does it make me insensitive, just because I wasn’t traumatised by the post mortem? he wondered.

Sometimes, it’s hard to know what you should feel. He stared at the penultimate set of traffic lights, trying to empty his head. What he felt more than anything was a determination to find out who had put Matt Cross in that body bag. He’d felt it before, the night he saw Tanya Sheriden lying in the hospital after a severe beating. That determination had nearly got him killed, and had contributed to Kate’s death, but it was as much a part of him as his right arm. He would find Cross’s killer or resign.

He drove down Albert Road and heard his inner lawyer making a qualification: you don’t have to get a conviction, just find the killer. He was smiling to himself as he parked behind the Tombs. Isabelle Innes, puffing away, gave him a strange look, then put her cigarette end in a bin and came over. That bin, was it there this morning? Had she spent his budget on smokers’ perquisites?

‘Are you OK, sir?’ she asked, then she noticed his bag of sandwiches. ‘You can’t be too badly if you’ve brought lunch.’

‘It was grim, but I left the building alive. Unlike Matthew Cross. Are you on your lunch break?’

By way of response, she showed him a cordless phone. ‘I’m on switchboard while the others have lunch. Phil said he was going into town to make enquiries and take refs while he was there.’

Not many detectives called their break refs any more, because most detectives don’t take one. They eat at their desks or in their cars, and if they need some personal time, they just fit it around what they’re doing.

‘You’ll get used to him, sir. Do you know what they called him at Manchester Divisional?’

‘He told me what they called you, so it seems only fair to know what they called him.’

Flint sparks glittered behind Isabelle’s glasses: that must be why they called her Incendiary Innes. ‘I know what they think about me, but no one gets the job done better, and I’m pretty good at putting a rocket up their backsides. People like Day Job Dunn need that sort of thing occasionally. They used to pay him out of the police budget to be the Federation rep. It broke his heart when he had to come back and do an honest day’s work.’

That explained a lot — no wonder Dunn wasn’t willing to do unpaid overtime — but it didn’t change the fact that Phil was his DS and Isabelle was his co-ordinator.

She pressed on, seemingly oblivious that she was talking to the SIO and not one of her smokers’ corner buddies. ‘Have they let you see the personnel files on this lot?’

‘Why would they, unless there’s an issue?’

‘Because of what you said this morning about them being a bunch of odds and ends. I thought it was you being polite. Never mind odds and ends, this lot are a bunch of misfits and rejects — the detectives that no one wanted on their team. Like the ones who got picked last for a game of football at school. Everyone else is on that counter-terrorism enquiry.’

‘Which category do you fit into: misfit or reject?’

She burst out laughing. ‘Neither. I’m the one-woman awkward squad, that’s me.’

And a terrible gossip. I wonder whether any piece of information is safe with you?

‘How are you getting on with video equipment for the interview rooms?’ he said, trying to drag the conversation back to the job in hand.

The sparks glittered again. ‘Those useless gits in Estates won’t lift a finger. The earliest they can do it is the end of next week.’

‘Next week!’

‘I’ve been on to some of the suppliers direct. They can install a system at twenty-four hours’ notice.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I showed it to DS Dunn, and he added some more equipment. One is expensive, the other will blow most of our budget. I’ve left them both on your desk.’

‘Thanks. Can you…’

The cordless phone in Isabelle’s hand rang out. She answered it, listened for a second, then said, ‘He’s just got back. I’ll tell him.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘Day Job Dunn is back.’ She saw the look on his face and sniffed. She’d got the message.

Walking back to the foyer, Tom discovered they had something in common. Isabelle’s husband was a sheep farmer, on the western slopes of the Pennines. He told her about Rooksnest, then asked if her income kept the place afloat.

‘Yes. I don’t know why we carry on, because neither of the kids want anything to do with it. We’d be better off if we sold up and moved to Buxton.’

Tom stuck his head into the incident room and told Phil he’d be along in a minute. He made himself some tea and started entering his notes from the post mortem into the computer, typing with one hand and holding his sandwich in the other, until some mayonnaise nearly dropped on to the keyboard. He moved the computer out of harm’s way: the last thing he needed was Isabelle anointing him with a food-based nickname. Thinking of Isabelle drew him to the quotations for video equipment. He studied them, then called her into his office.

‘See this specification that Phil gave you?’ he said, pointing to one of the papers. ‘This is a murder enquiry. If — when — we interview a suspect, I want to watch from a monitoring room. I can only do that if we get a secure network feed.’

‘I can see that.’ She mulled it over for a second. ‘If you go for the dear one, you’ll have no overtime budget.’

‘There might be another way. Leave it with me for now.’

He took his secure tablet and found his sergeant in the incident room, wiping out completed actions from the list on the whiteboard, and adding new ones for tomorrow.

‘How did it go?’ asked Dunn.

‘I think we’d all worked that out that it was murder. The only thing of interest was that the shot to the head was made when the victim was flat on his back and still alive. I’m not sure what conclusions to draw from that. We’ll know more after the firearms report. How about you?’

Phil gave him a condensed report of the statement from Kingsley Laidlaw. ‘I pushed him on why he went to the woods, and how come he recognised the victim. His answers were convincing, up to a point. Laidlaw ran into Cross recently when Cross was carrying his gun. Laidlaw recognised it, and recognised the signet ring. He was in the woods on his mission to stop the development.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t think he’s told us everything, but I don’t think it’s worth an action to follow him up.’ He paused.

Tom thought it probably was worth an action, then he realised that Dunn was unsure about something else. ‘What is it? Tell me and let me decide.’

‘At the end of the interview, Laidlaw suggested that UGAS might be behind the murder, using hired killers from their security company.’

Tom let his face do the talking.

‘I know, I know,’ said Phil. ‘That’s what I thought, too. I followed it up, and it’s all over the Internet already. The security firm which UGAS use — CIS — they’re connected to some dodgy operations.’

Tom recoiled from the name. A CIS employee had shot Kate. He had been a rogue employee, but he was one of theirs nonetheless. Then his brain moved on, past Kate’s death to what happened later. He breathed out.

‘It’s not them,’ he said. ‘Check out what happened to their chairman, Sir Stephen Jennings. CIS are under a lot of scrutiny at the moment, and they won’t be blotting their copy book with something like this. The other reason they’re not involved is because that would be stupid of them. Killing tribal elders in Waziristan is one thing. Killing the lord of the manor is quite another.’

Dunn nodded, and moved on, much to Tom’s annoyance. Why didn’t he stick up for his theory? Tom would have, and he would have put the time into checking out CIS for himself. But that was Dunn all over — he’d passed on the problem, and so forgot about it.

‘Can you get some coloured pins or stickers from Isabelle,’ said Tom. ‘I want us to work something out.’

Dunn disappeared, and Tom opened his tablet. He started working through the house-to-house reports from yesterday, and the new ones being added today. Dunn returned with pins and a strip of blue-tak, because you can’t get pins in a whiteboard.

‘On TV there would be software to do this, and a proper data projector,’ said Dunn, handing over the pins.

And on TV, you’d be better looking and more energetic. He passed the tablet to Dunn (who was mildly impressed), and said, ‘You go through the statements. Give me the name of the property, and tell me what they had to say.’

Dunn worked through the statements. Most of the scattered residents were watching the football or had gone out for the afternoon during the time window when the murder had occurred. Only one resident had heard shots, and had no idea where they came from or how many there were in total. No one had seen a man with a gun.

‘Is the CCTV back from the UGAS compound yet?’

‘We’re still on with it. The officer reviewing it reckons that there’s nothing.’

Tom tapped the map. ‘After seeing the crime scene again this morning, what do you reckon?’

Dunn came up to the map and gave it serious thought. ‘The killer got lucky, I suppose.’

Tom took a pen and drew a little square on Northridge Farm, then put a squiggle inside to represent the top of the Catholic cathedral — the UGAS drill head, in other words.

He pointed to a house on the map. ‘That guy from there has a view of the lane, near the copse. He didn’t see any parked cars, and he looked out often enough for their not to have been a gap when the killer could have parked up and walked all the way round to the copse. I believe the killer avoided Northridge Farm because he knew that there were cameras attached to the compound. That leaves two possibilities.’

Dunn didn’t appreciate being tested in the incident room like this, even though no one was close enough to hear. He pulled his lip. ‘Either the killer left Flaxall Manor with the victim, or he crossed over from Quaker’s Fold and went in through the gate, the one with no padlock.’

‘Precisely. Are you sure Kingsley Laidlaw is out of the picture?’

Dunn nodded.

‘Then it’s got to be one of the family or someone who came through the village and walked across the fields. We’ll see what Hazel and Elaine have to say about the family later. For now, I want the house-to-house done again, with the focus on Flaxall village this time.’

‘Yes, Boss. I’ll start a plan right away.’

‘Thanks, Phil. Have you heard anything from the Manor?’

‘Yes, it came in just before we started with the map. I didn’t expect DC Fraser to stay up there, but it looks like she’s made herself useful. She’s got some information about Matt Cross’s business to follow up. I’ve heard nothing from DC Cotton, which is not unusual for an FLO at the beginning of a case.’

‘Fine.’ Tom was about to add something when Isabelle waved to him from her corner of the incident room, holding the phone in her hand.

‘What is it?’ called Tom.

‘Caller says his name is DC Hammond. Will only speak to you.’

DC Neville Hammond, the subject of Matt Cross’s complaint. What did he want? He was supposed to be on the sick. ‘Put it through to my office.’

Tom’s phone was ringing when he got to his desk. Hammond came straight to the point.

‘I’ve heard about Matt Cross. I’ve also heard that you’re the SIO on his murder.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What are you going to do about his complaint?’

‘It’s not at the top of my priority list,’ said Tom. He thought for a moment, then continued, repeating his thoughts out loud for the benefit of Hammond. ‘Mr Cross made a statement, so there are grounds to proceed, but you can’t challenge his evidence at a tribunal because he’s dead, which wouldn’t be fair on you. I’m not going to commit myself over the phone, but there aren’t many places I can go with this.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

While Hammond was on the line, Tom had been rooting through the files. The complaint was at the bottom, buried under witness statements and preliminary forensic reports. He flipped it open and found his original notes, including a big question mark. Perhaps there was somewhere to go after all.

‘Are you incapacitated, Mr Hammond?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I know you’re on sick leave, but you can get about?’

‘If I need to.’

‘You know what would really help me make up my mind about your future?’

‘No.’

‘A chat in the Duke of Edinburgh Hotel, tonight, about nine o’clock.’

The line went quiet.

‘When did he die?’ said Hammond.

‘Sunday afternoon.’

There was a snort of mirthless laughter. ‘I’ve got an alibi for Sunday, so it’s safe to come out. I’ll see you tonight.’

11

The door opened and Lucas Cross came in, his mother two steps behind.

‘Do you prefer Lucas or Luke?’ asked Hazel. ‘Tasmin called you Luke, but she’s your twin, so she must have special privileges.’

‘Luke.’

Layla looked awkwardly at her son, clearly not expecting his answer. What did that mean? Probably nothing. Close up, Lucas was still getting over teenage acne, though he seemed to be past the worst. His hair was short, and already thin. He must have picked up an extra baldness gene. How long would it be before he shaved it completely, like his dad? Possibly tomorrow. It was the sort of thing boys did when there was no one to stop them any more.

Hazel kept the questions simple, and there was a lot of shuffling of feet before Luke decided to answer. A couple of times the boy’s eyes flicked towards the door. Elaine got the feeling that Sabrina had said more than she was supposed to, and that Luke was having to adjust his testimony accordingly.

‘Were you alone with your father?’ asked Hazel.

‘I saw him, yeah,’ said Luke.

Hazel had a wonderful way of looking innocent when she wanted to. ‘I’m sure you did, Luke. What did you talk about.’

Luke repeated his shuffle, as if he were about to deny it again. ‘We talked about the band,’ he finally said.

‘On your own? Outside?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What did you say?’

‘He asked how it was going. I told him.’

‘Did you talk about your role in the band?’

Elaine kept still. Hazel’s last question was leading the witness, something that Layla could easily pick up on, and perhaps she would have done if she hadn’t been as interested as them in hearing the answer.

‘Yes,’ said Luke reluctantly. ‘I asked him if he’d had a chance to think about letting me back in.’

‘And what did he say?’

Luke looked at his shoes. In the split second before he answered, Hazel glanced at Elaine, and they both glanced at Layla. All three adults knew that there was a lie coming.

‘He said he’d think about it. I told him that Jess would take over if I wasn’t on stage. He said that was a good point.’

He turned to look at his mother. Layla pursed her lips, but she didn’t want to contradict her son. That was fine, because why should she? That was the job of the police. Elaine was more interested in why Layla kept silent. Was she joined in a bond of grief, or was she afraid?

Hazel shifted in her seat and re-crossed her legs to signal a change of direction. ‘This question is going to be difficult, Luke. I asked your mum before whether any of you had been shooting. She said that you had. We’re not bothered about the ins-and-outs of the law here, just tell me whether you’ve used your dad’s gun.’

Luke flinched, and licked his lips. ‘Not that one. Not the one that…’ He pulled himself together. ‘Not the Beretta. He showed me how to use one when I was fourteen. We went rabbit shooting a few times, then he told me I could have my own gun or my own drum kit for my sixteenth birthday. I chose the drum kit. We stopped going out after that.’

‘Was your dad disappointed?’

Layla interrupted, ‘I was relieved, I’ll tell you that much.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ said Hazel. She looked at the boy. ‘Luke?’

‘Dad was all about choices,’ he said. ‘Knowing your strengths.’ He wiped his nose on his sleeve, then flicked a guilty look at his mother.

‘I think that’s it for today,’ said Hazel.

‘Good, because I’m shattered.’ Layla stood up.

‘I’ll be back tomorrow morning.’

‘Why?’ Layla was blunt, her eyes giving Hazel a brick wall, more hostile than she’d been all day.

‘I can update you on progress, and those statements will need to be signed. You can tell me how Mrs Mallinson is getting along, because we will need to speak to Andrew. I’ll only stay as long as I’m being useful.’

Layla slipped her shoes on and held open the door for them to leave. Elaine stuffed her notes into her bag and followed Hazel down the passage and down the stairs.

‘At least we know where the picture came from,’ said Elaine as they passed through the hall.

‘What picture?’

‘That one, over there. The landscape. It’s on loan from the Mersey Art Gallery. I presume there must be some scheme for former patrons.’

Hazel seemed totally uninterested, and barely broke stride on her way out of the door. She checked her watch as they crunched up the drive. ‘It’s half past two. No point in going back to the Tombs, now. Good name, that.’

No point in going back?? After all we’ve learned? Elaine shook her head. Was it really only the middle of the afternoon? Interviewing grieving family members was certainly exhausting. Perhaps Hazel survived by taking it in small doses. ‘What about the reports?’ asked Elaine.

‘You’re going to write up the statements, aren’t you?’ replied Hazel, as if it were obvious that Elaine should do her job for her. ‘I’ll do a summary report after I’ve done the girls’ teas tonight. The Boss can read it in bed. He looks the sort to take a good report to bed with him. Any chance of a lift to the station? There’s a train at three o’clock that takes me straight to Wigan. Saves nearly an hour.’

‘Fine.’

The press had gone from the lane. Kyle opened the gates for them, and Elaine drove through the village. ‘Who’s Dougie?’ she asked.

‘Dunno. Somebody who was important to Matt, but not to Layla. That’s why I didn’t pursue it today. Ask around when you get back. If no one else has come across him, give it to Phil as a possible action for tomorrow.’

‘Or I could look him up myself.’

‘You could do that. I’ve had the word that there’s no overtime to be had on this case, so I wouldn’t bother, if I were you.’

Elaine was a young woman with no children and no money worries. She didn’t need the overtime payments, and didn’t mind putting in the hours. Would the rest of the incident room ostracise her for being too keen? They were people she might have to work closely with in the future. It was a problem she’d never felt so acutely before.

‘I think Sabrina was out of it on Sunday,’ she said, to change the subject.

‘What do you mean?’

She told Hazel about the smell of dope coming from the stables this morning. ‘I reckon that when Tasmin went down to “chill out” with the band, she was going for a smoke. I think Sabrina might have been out of it before her mother came home, that’s why she got confused about her dad’s message.’

Hazel considered this. ‘I wonder whether Matt and Layla knew what was going on?’

‘You’ve got teenage daughters. What do you think.’

‘Sometimes, I try not to.’

They were heading towards the station. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Elaine. ‘The way that Lucas — or Luke — came out of the stables this morning, I don’t think he’d been smoking.’

‘Mmm,’ said Hazel, getting her bag together.

Elaine stopped as close as she could to the station. Do any of this lot have a sense of curiosity? she wondered.

Hazel put her hand on the door, and said, ‘When you were in 7Bridge, did you find out who the Mother Superior was? I used to read the SeenIn7Bridge blog all the time, but it stopped.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘Did you find out who it was?’

So that’s where her sense of curiosity is, thought Elaine.

‘You’ll miss your train,’ she said, ‘and I’m on a double yellow line.’

The secure tablet was flexible, but it wasn’t Tom’s preferred way of working. Almost first thing this morning, Isabelle had asked, ‘Paper?’, to which he had responded. ‘Always.’

He sifted through the afternoon’s reports as they slowly accumulated, and started to experience a new emotion. After the third time he swore, he realised that something was wrong, especially when he pulled himself up for nearly using a very bad word out loud. He stopped and considered what was happening to him. He could see what was wrong with the reports, but not what was wrong in his response to them. For the first time in his professional career, Tom was getting seriously tetchy. And he didn’t like it.

He pushed back his chair and looked at the papers strewn over his desk. Stress was to be expected — welcomed even — when you’re playing catch-up on a murder, but this wasn’t good enough. If he tried to take all this inside himself, it would be bad for his health, and probably terminal for the enquiry. He gathered up a sheaf of papers and went to the incident room.

There were eleven police officers on his team at the moment. Himself, Elaine, Phil Dunn, Hazel Cotton, a detective from Rochdale called Lloyd, and six uniformed officers on attachment from east Manchester. It was the one from Rochdale who was making him ill. The culprit was hunched over a computer, and Tom was about to summon him when he realised that doing so would upset the natural order of things. Or at least the natural order as represented in the Major Incident Protocol. He summoned Phil Dunn and went back to his office.

‘Sir?’ said Dunn.

‘Sit down. Have you caught up on the background reports?’

Dunn lowered himself into the chair. ‘Of course.’

‘What’s Lloyd been doing? DC Fraser found out more about Matthew Cross’s business in five minutes than he found out in a whole day.’

Dunn shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Looking at the reports, it seems that Mr Cross was very good at hiding his affairs. Don’t forget, Lloyd has no background in economic crime.’

‘Bullshit. A competent journalist could find out more than this, and they don’t have our access to national data sources. 90% of crime is economic in one way or another. Finding out which pies have got Matt Cross’s fingerprints on them should be meat and drink to a detective.’

‘Pies, sir?’

Tom closed his eyes. Another mixed metaphor. Was it mixed? Either way, good job Elaine wasn’t here.

He leaned forward. ‘This isn’t good enough. If Lloyd needs specialist help, send him to me. However, I don’t think he needs to know the EU Sixth Directive on VAT, or its implications for carousel fraud. Not yet. I think he needs to get his finger out and act like a detective. For one thing, he’s done hardly any cross-referencing of names and addresses. This could hold up the entire investigation.’

‘With no clear motive, the investigation could go off in a number of directions.’

‘Sorry, Phil, I thought I’d made myself clear. You need to get in there and give him a rocket. This needs to be finished in time for morning briefing, and he’s barely started.’

Dunn looked very uncomfortable. Tom felt uncomfortable, too, but he also felt a lot better. When he was a DS in the City of London, he rarely had to pull up his team; he liked to think that when it did happen, it was his decision, not because Pete Fulton had ordered him to.

There was a shadow in the corridor, and a knock on the door casing. ‘Sir? You wanted to see me?’ said Elaine.

‘Get yourself a cup of tea, grab Hazel and come back in five minutes,’ Tom said to her. ‘Phil’s got a job to do and he needs to be here when you report back.’

Dunn rose stiffly from his chair and took a step towards the door.

Elaine cleared her throat. ‘I dropped Hazel at the station, sir. She’s going to finish her report later.’

What now? Am I going to have to come up with another nickname? Childcare Cotton, maybe? ‘In that case, get three teas, one with sugar, and come back in ten minutes.’

While he waited, he read the first firearms report. Cross’s gun — or the gun found with Cross’s body, to be exact — was a Beretta side-by-side shotgun. This much he knew from the original photographs; he was more interested in the cartridges. The Beretta had a mechanism which ejected spent shells when the gun was opened. The idea was that you could reload quickly without having to handle hot cartridge casings. The gun had not been opened after it was last fired: the breach contained two spent Gameworld Eco 20 shells.

Cross’s pockets also contained the same brand of shell — unfired (not recommended, but usually safe enough). There were twelve loaded cartridges in the right hand pocket, and nothing in the left except a lot of residue and staining. It made sense. Cross would leave the house with ammunition in one pocket, then put the spent casings in the other. There were no empty casings at the scene, other than the ones in the gun. The full report from Flaxall Manor wasn’t in yet, so Tom jotted down a list of questions for tomorrow, to see if the report would answer them.

There was one question that the Manor team couldn’t answer and that had been niggling away in the back of his head since he’d seen Mike Jepson’s X-Rays. It was going to need the combined efforts of forensics, firearms and Dr Jepson to find out how far away the killer had stood when the first shot was fired. He had nearly finished putting it together when Elaine returned with the tea.

‘Is Phil on his way?’ asked Tom.

‘He’s in the incident room, standing behind Lloyd and pointing at his monitor. I don’t know what you said, but neither of them looked very happy.’

‘Don’t ask.’

She gave him an evil grin over the top of her mug, and he came to a decision. ‘Have you got anything on tonight?’

She shook her head.

‘I need your help. If I can get Dunn to agree, are you up for some overtime? I’ll throw in a bed at the Duke of Edinburgh. In your own room, of course.’

‘I am pretty shattered. I could do without a drive back to Manchester in the rush hour.’

‘Good.’

Dunn returned, picked up his mug of tea and sat down without offering any comment.

‘I need a timeline,’ said Tom. ‘I know there’s one on HOLMES2, and it’s great for consolidating evidence, but it’s no good for thinking. Phil, could you make a draft in note form and get Isabelle to put it up on the wall by tomorrow morning? Tell her to draw on the plaster. I don’t think Estates will notice or care.’ He waited. Phil nodded. ‘Good. Elaine, could you give us the highlights from your visit to the Manor? Especially the ones Phil will need for the timeline.’

She opened her notebook and ran through the day’s events; Tom and Phil jotted things down. Actions emerged for someone to interview Jess, Jen and Dylan (‘Dylan? A guitarist called Dylan. Really?’, ‘Yes, really,’). Priority was given for Hazel to track down the Mallinsons. Tom said that he needed more information before going after Grant Benson. Phil was concerned that no one had picked up an action for Mary and Dermot.

‘Before you go, Phil, I need to update you on something that has to stay in this office.’

‘Sir?’

‘I got this case for several reasons, in a chain. First, Elaine and I were already assigned to deal with a professional standards matter connected with Matt Cross. Second, the Assistant Chief wanted someone from outside Liverpool. Third, the cuts — and Operation Rewind — have reduced the number of senior officers. Even then, it would have gone to someone else if that bomber hadn’t struck on Sunday.’

‘I see.’

Tom could see his sergeant mulling things over. In a chain of causation, the weakest link is usually the first. He wondered if Dunn would come to the same conclusion.

‘There’s been a development on the professional standards matter,’ said Tom.

‘Is that still live?’ asked Dunn. ‘Surely it must lapse. The subject of this complaint will never get justice if it’s pursued.’

Tom stopped himself making a joke about the Police Federation. He settled back in his chair and said, ‘If a mugging victim gets struck by lightning two months after the mugging, should we drop the case against the mugger just because the victim is now dead?’

Dunn treated the question as rhetorical.

Tom didn’t. ‘Should we?’ he insisted.

‘No, sir. We’d pursue it as far as the evidence allowed.’

Elaine was doing her best to keep the puzzlement off her face as she flicked her eyes from one man to the other.

‘There’s a separate budget for the CIPPS enquiry,’ Tom continued. ‘I’m going to use it to give DC Fraser some overtime tonight. I actually want the case closed and off the books as quickly as possible. So does the officer concerned.’

Dunn considered the coded message. Disciplinary action is never rapid. Therefore, there was probably no case to answer if Tom wanted it off the books. ‘Fair enough,’ said Dunn. ‘Anything else, or shall I start on this timeline?’

‘Please. Thanks, Phil.’

Dunn left them, and when Elaine started to rise, Tom motioned her to sit down again.

‘I’ve had DC Hammond on the phone. We’re meeting him in the Duke of Edinburgh Hotel at nine o’clock tonight.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

‘Me neither, but it’s too good a chance to miss. I wondered if you fancied doing another job afterwards, on your own.’

‘After a nine o’clock meeting? Why not before?’

‘Because they don’t call it Layla’s Late Night Piano Bar for nothing. I want you to go and check the place out. If that doorman, Kyle, has been at Flaxall since this morning, he probably won’t be on the door tonight, and no one else you’ve met will be there. Just go and have a drink. See what it’s like before our faces get plastered all over Twitter.’

‘Sounds good.’ She stood up and stretched her back, wincing as she leaned over to the left.

‘You look like I feel. I actually went for a run yesterday.’

‘Blimey, Tom, what’s got into you?’

‘I’m getting in shape for my midlife crisis. Another six years and I’ll be ready for it. I was thinking of going for a run tonight, get the smell of the Tombs and the path lab out of my nostrils.’

‘Do you want a challenge? I’ll run with you.’

He wasn’t expecting that. He already knew that she was younger, fitter and possibly stronger than him. Should he risk the humiliation of having it proved definitively?

‘Have you got any kit with you?’

‘I keep trainers in the boot, with wellies. I need some soap and a toothbrush if I’m staying over, so I’ll walk into town. I saw a branch of T K Maxx in there — I’ll treat myself to some new running gear. Oh, and something to wear to Layla’s Bar.’

‘Good. Go gently on me, will you?’

‘No. You don’t deserve it.’

‘Is this all you’ve got?’ said the friend-of-a-friend-with-a-van.

‘Yes,’ responded Lucy. ‘Pitiful, isn’t it?’

He shrugged. ‘Less for me to carry.’

The one suitcase and eight boxes barely made a layer in the bottom of the van, and the driver had to wedge them in. There was one item that Lucy carried in her arms, and put down on the middle seat in the cab: her coffee machine.

‘Priorities,’ she told him.

He laughed. ‘Aren’t you going to run a café?’

‘Yes, but you haven’t tasted the coffee they serve there. That’s my first job tomorrow: a visit to the wholesale blender.’

‘Anything else to go in?’

She shook her head, and they set off. It was only when the van crossed the bridge and passed the Seven Bridges Inn that it hit her. She was leaving home.

Or did home leave me? Her mother had walked out when she was sixteen, returning to Italy. Then her brother had been murdered, and her father arrested for the murder. The family business which underwrote her boutique had been sold, and now even the wicked stepmother had been evicted from the 7Bridge Estate. I have absolutely no idea what I want to do or where I want to live, but running a coffee shop in Southport is as good a place to start as any.

Over lunch, Grace had said that with all the money now sitting in Lucy’s bank account, she would have gone travelling. Lucy had changed the subject, knowing in her heart that if she did that, if she started to live like a nomad, she would disappear, fade away into the background of the world, like one signal in a burst of white noise.

‘Where do I park?’ asked the driver.

Lucy jerked to attention. ‘What time is it?’

‘Eh?’

‘The parking restrictions stop at six o’clock in the winter.’

‘It’s half past five — I’ll risk it. Is this the place?’

The lights were on inside Giuseppe’s, but outside it was dark. Lucy jumped down from the van and stuck her head in the café. Bridget was about to put on her overall, prior to cleaning. Making the acting manager double as cleaner was both expensive and not good for morale. It was one of Lucy’s bullet points for tomorrow: find a proper cleaner.

The uniform did nothing for Bridget. She had opted for the embroidered polo shirt and trousers today, neither of which suited her shape, nor did the colour sit happily on her underlying Goth style. With the short sleeved shirt, Bridget’s tattoo was out in the open. No, thought Lucy, tattoos. Plural. They must have been painful. Bridget’s left forearm showed a swirling Celtic design centred on a cross. A skull with roses growing out of it adorned the right. Both ran close to the wrist.

‘Hiya,’ said Lucy, aiming for friendly.

For the first time, she got a smile back. ‘You made it. Everything OK?’

‘Yeah. I didn’t know if we’d get here before you locked up.’

Bridget tossed the overall aside. ‘I was gonna wait for you anyway. You’ll have to give me your number.’

‘Sure. Great.’

‘Do you want a cup of tea before you start? I’m guessing you don’t want my coffee, not after the last time.’ Bridget said it with a smile, but there was pain underneath.

Lucy hadn’t intended her critique of the coffee to be personal, but she had been basically telling Jack Tidy that the coffee here was shit. It’s hard not to take that personally, even if Bridget had no control over the choice of supplier.

‘The driver wants tea, and I’m dead thirsty. I went for a farewell lunchtime drink, and it’s catching up with me.’

‘Have you got much stuff?’

‘Come and have a look.’

Bridget hesitated, then curiosity overcame what Lucy now recognised as shyness. They stood at the back of the van as the driver opened the doors.

‘Where’s the rest of it?’ said Bridget, peering inside. ‘Have you put it all in storage?’

‘I’m downsizing,’ said Lucy. ‘Most of those boxes are stock from the shop that I’ve brought to sell on eBay.’

Bridget pulled back the flap on the nearest box. ‘Wow! Where did you get these?’ She lifted out one of the few bags that Lucy had left from her display.

‘Mama designed them.’

Bridget swung on her heel, and looked from Lucy to the bag, then back again. ‘Huh?’

Lucy took the bag from her. Gently. Then put it back in the box.

‘Who said something about a cup of tea?’ asked the driver.

‘I’ll tell you story behind the handbag later,’ said Lucy to Bridget.

It took the driver longer to drink his tea than it did to unload the van, then he left Lucy in peace to unpack, and to realise that Holly’s one suitcase suggestion was actually a terrible idea. She headed back down to the café.

Bridget had finished the cleaning, and said, ‘I need a shower.’

Lucy felt a little stab of fear. She had been clinging to the idea of a chat with Bridget, as a way of avoiding being on her own, of postponing the inevitable. Now it was being taken away.

Bridget pulled the hair away from her neck to let the air in. ‘Is there anyone coming over to see you later?’

Kick me when I’m down, why don’t you? Then spit on me. Go ahead. But was it deliberate? ‘What did Jack Tidy tell you about me?’

‘Nothing. Literally, nothing except that you had retail experience and you were from Cheshire.’

Oh. So she’s actually being nice, not sticking the knife in. ‘No one’s coming tonight. It’s a long story.’

The Goth gave her a rueful smile. ‘It won’t take you long to unpack. Do you fancy a drink later? You can tell me all about it.’

Lucy’s heart soared. Her parents had moved from Italy to 7Bridge when she was nine years old, and on her first day at primary school, one of the other girls had offered to be her friend. She hoped that Bridget would turn out to be more interesting than the girl at school. ‘Yeah. Love to.’

The hair was given another good shake. ‘I don’t live that far away. My flatmate works over the road at Layla’s Piano Bar. What sort of music do you like?’

‘Probably not the same as you,’ said Lucy, unwilling to commit herself at this stage.

‘Don’t judge a book by its cover.’

‘You don’t look like you’re into Groove Armada or the Chemical Brothers.’

Bridget dropped her hair down. ‘You’ve got me there. So long as you’re not completely prejudiced, Layla’s is bearable. At least it’s always live.’

‘Sounds good. I’ll see you later.’

‘About nine? The saddos and losers have usually gone by then.’

Lucy wasn’t entirely sure that she wanted to drink in a bar where there were any losers or saddos, but if that was Bridget’s choice, she wouldn’t argue. This time.

She left Bridget to lock up and headed outside. The door to her flat was at the end of the building, and almost directly opposite Layla’s. She had registered the place on her first visit, then dismissed it. Her instincts for retail had made her check out the surrounding area for competition and sources of potential customers. In the daytime, Layla’s looked like neither.

Now, at quarter to seven, it was getting ready to open. Lights shone dimly behind stained glass panes set high above blacked-out windows. The blackout was to preserve the atmosphere in summer: evening sunshine is a soporific, not a stimulant. The owners would want their customers to think it was midnight.

She shivered. The promenade would be great in summer — that’s why she had suggested boosting the gelateria — but in February it brought only chill winds, and probably rain. She’d need to buy more coats, too. The wind drowned out the sound of footsteps coming towards her from Lord Street as two runners approached. She turned and went to step aside, then froze on the spot.

‘Oh, my God! What are you doing here?’ It came out more like a squeak than a shout. She put her hand to her mouth, and stared, just like the two runners were staring back at her.

It was him. Tom Morton. The man who had arrested her father. The man she quite fancied, and who definitely fancied her in return.

It was also her — his big scary sidekick, who looked even more fearsome in her running gear than she did in her Doc Martens.

Elaine was married (Lucy had checked, to make sure there was no competition). Elaine lived in Manchester.

Tom was divorced. He lived in York.

Why, oh why were they running together? And why were they running past her new flat?

‘Do you three know each other? This looks a bit awkward,’ said Bridget cheerfully.

‘I’ll explain later,’ said Lucy, leaving it open as to who would be getting the explanation. She waved vaguely towards the café, ‘New job. New flat.’

She edged towards the doorway trying to sort her keys under the streetlight so she could beat a hasty retreat. Scarywoman was practising her facial expressions: Lucy had seen anger, amusement and sheer mystification pass across her features already. That was amusing, but it was Tom who worried her. He was still showing shock, still rooted to the spot (and he didn’t look as impressive in shorts as he did in a three piece suit). Then suddenly he took a step forward.

‘Excuse me. It’s rather cold standing here. I hope everything’s OK, Miss White.’ He spoke loudly at first, so that all three women could hear him, then he dropped his voice to a murmur that almost disappeared into the wind, and he spoke to Lucy alone. ‘I’ll see you when I see you.’ Then he was gone, taking Scarywoman with him.

I’ll see you when I see you. They had been Lucy’s farewell words two weeks ago: part tease, part promise. She fumbled her key into the lock and opened the door before Bridget could ask difficult questions. She needed a shower and she needed time to think about what to say to her new BFF.

I also need something to eat and something to wear, she thought. Her new flat contained neither.

12

No matter how often he ran it through his head while he was taking a shower, Tom had no idea what Lucy White was doing in Southport, other than the obvious: she really did have a new job here. The answer was no clearer by the time he made his way to the bar. He ordered two single malt whiskies and a large bottle of mineral water, then took them to an empty table.

Elaine appeared: she had changed her top but was still wearing the jeans and boots. Would she get into Layla’s Bar dressed like that? He didn’t really care about the Piano Bar’s dress code; what really worried him was the look on her face. On the last case, when he had flirted (mildly) with Lucy, Elaine had been a bit amused and a lot worried. The amusement he could live with, the worry was a problem.

The community of 7Bridge was small and intimately connected. Even though Lucy lived — had lived — in the Village, not on the Estate, she was very much part of the investigation: the victim was her half-brother. Elaine had been worried that Tom might jeopardise the case. She looked like she was still worried.

He stood up when she approached the table, and handed her a whisky. ‘I can’t believe how much we’ve done today,’ he said. ‘This is for Matthew Cross. May he rest in peace.’

She raised her glass and took a sip. ‘Matthew Cross.’

He sat down, and got his retaliation in first. ‘Before you say anything, I am willing to swear, on oath, that I had no idea that Lucy White had left Sevenbridge until we ran into her. I promise.’

‘I’ll buy it.’

He sat back. ‘You now have permission to make sarcastic remarks.’

She snorted into the whisky tumbler. ‘I’ll treasure that look on your face for a long time, sir. When you realised it was her, you looked like you’d seen a ghost. At least we’ve gained something tonight.’

‘Go on, tell me. I’m not sure I want to know, but tell me anyway.’

She grinned. ‘If we need to conduct surveillance on the Piano Bar, we’ve got a perfect vantage point. And what’s more, because you’re an inspector, you don’t get overtime. You can spend as long in her flat as you like without it blowing the budget.’

‘Not funny, constable.’

‘Yes it is.’

‘Moving on…’

They talked about the case, ate a meal they barely noticed, and then talked about their families.

‘The Cloister really is a beautiful house,’ she said.

‘It was luck. Dad got a lucky break when I was a baby: he picked up a big brief for a public enquiry and took a risk on the house. It was in a hell of a state when they bought it.’

‘So my Dad’s taxes paid for your Dad’s mansion.’

Ouch! That was below the belt. She had said it with half a smile, but only half. Tom fought back, ‘And my Dad’s rail fares subsidised the inefficiencies of your Dad’s working practices. Did he ever tell you about flexible rostering?’

‘I don’t mind. After all, your TV licence goes a long way to paying Rob’s wages.’

They had stuck to water after the toast to Matt Cross; both wanted a clear head when Hammond came in. She leaned back in her chair and said, ‘On the last case, you talked much more about Rooksnest Farm than you did about the Cloister. Did you really spend a lot of time on the farm?’

‘A lot of the holidays, yes. I used to help out, go for walks, keep my cousin amused.’ He realised he was straying into difficult territory. He didn’t want to talk about Kate. Not tonight. ‘If you think the Cloister is grand, imagine what would have happened if the first Baron Throckton hadn’t been such a feminist.’

She looked totally nonplussed. ‘Who? What?’

‘I keep forgetting which bits of the family story I’ve told you. That’s what happens when you move around the country.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The original Thomas Alexander Morton married an heiress and they lived in a Victorian gothic castle in the next valley. She died of the Spanish Flu in 1919, and they’d only had one child, a daughter. He re-married, but he was determined to leave the castle to his first-born. Even though she was only a woman.’

‘You say that like you almost mean it.’

‘You’ve met my mother.’

‘I have. Go on.’

‘That’s it. The original Thomas Alexander had two sons with his second wife. The oldest went to America after the war to be a nuclear scientist of some description; the second son was my Granddad. He got Rooksnest Farm. Let’s change the subject. How’s Rob?’

‘Good. No injuries. I was going to ask you something, actually.’

‘Go on?’

‘Do you think we’ll need to work on Saturday, only it’s February the fourteenth, and I think Rob wants to surprise me.’ She shrugged. ‘I didn’t realise how much I’d miss him.’

‘Unless there’s an arrest on Friday afternoon, I can’t afford to bring you in on Saturday. Simple as that.’

She nodded gratefully, then pointed to the door. ‘I think that’s him.’

Lucy peered through her bedroom curtains. Her three options for tonight were laid out on the bed, and she wanted to see what the other punters in Layla’s were wearing before she committed herself. By peeking round the blinds, she could watch the women going in, and choose something that wouldn’t make her feel too out of place. If that were possible. Most of the clientele were at least ten years older than her, and the dress code seemed to be the shorter the better.

It was freezing by the window, even more so because it had taken her an hour to work out the boiler. Just on nine o’clock, she saw Bridget swishing up Tyler Street, long skirts sweeping the floor and a long coat wrapped close, looking much better out of uniform.

She grabbed her favourite purple dress and zipped on her smart boots. She didn’t bother with a coat. The bouncer on duty gave her a smile (after checking out her chest), and held the door open.

The inside of Layla’s Late Night Piano Bar was pretty much as she expected. Lots of booths concealed a variety of couples and a few singletons. Bigger groups, a couple of birthday parties possibly, had pushed together the tables by the small stage on which a black woman sang classic Motown, accompanied by another black woman on keyboards and a white guy playing guitar.

Bridget was at the bar, collecting a bottle of wine and two glasses. Lucy gave her a moment, then followed her to a side table with a Reserved notice. ‘You didn’t need to book,’ she said.

‘I told Natalie we were coming. I think she wanted to make sure I impressed the boss.’

‘Very good, Miss Gorrigan,’ said Lucy, in an effort to laugh it off. She hadn’t had staff to manage for years. This drink tonight might come back to bite her in the bum one day, if Bridget didn’t come up to scratch, but sod it. Right now she needed a good laugh more than she needed a good reference from Jack Tidy. ‘Now let’s see what I think of your choice of wine.’

She picked up the bottle, and was greeted by the picture of a smiling woman in a red ballgown. The wine was called Layla in Red. ‘Is there a real person called Layla?’

‘Oh yeah. She won’t be in tonight, though.’

Lucy examined the bottle more closely. ‘This should be nice — sangiovese di Toscana. A cut above your usual house red.’ She passed it back to Bridget, who poured.

‘What is it with you and Italy? How long did you practise that speech you gave to Jack Tidy at your interview?’

‘Five minutes. I am half Italian. I was born in Milan, didn’t come to England until I was nine. My full name is Lucia Maria Berardi White.’ She shrugged. ‘Cheers.’ The wine was very good. ‘I hope you realise that I can’t let you pay for this. Do you want half the money now, or shall I buy another bottle later?’

‘Second bottle. Definitely. It’s going to take you ages to tell me about that couple who nearly ran into you.’

Lucy looked into her glass. ‘I was having an affair with the man you saw. He was my bank manager, and I needed a loan to keep the business afloat. One thing led to another, until his wife found out. She caught us in the shop. It was horrible, and I didn’t even get the loan.’

‘Nice story, Boss. Now tell me the truth.’

‘How do you know it isn’t?’

Bridget locked eyes and said, ‘He wasn’t wearing a ring, he didn’t look guilty, and she didn’t slap you. Or him.’

Lucy tried to make a joke of it. ‘Our relationship was doomed from the start. It got worse when he arrested my dad for murder.’

Bridget snorted into her wine. ‘Now that sounds like a story worth hearing.’

So Lucy told it. All of it. Except for Holly Nugent’s breakdown, of course. And the reason for Holly’s breakdown. It was time for the second bottle.

When Lucy got back with the wine, Bridget said, ‘So let me get this straight. That man, who’s going to be Lord Throckmorton some day…’

‘Baron Throckton, not Throckmorton.’

‘Whatever. That man who you fancy, he arrested your father for murdering your brother, and he arrested him in the England captain’s house. And now your forty-seven year old mother is pregnant and your business has folded. Tell me, Lucy, when are you going on Jeremy Kyle?’

When they’d finished laughing, Lucy said, ‘I still don’t know what he and Scarywoman are doing in Southport.’

For the first time, Bridget looked uncomfortable. ‘What is it?’ asked Lucy.

‘He really is a detective chief inspector? Yeah?’

‘Yes, he is.’

Bridget looked over at the bar. Lucy turned round to follow her gaze, and saw her looking at the barmaid, who was now talking to a guy on a stool. They looked close. The woman must be Natalie, the flatmate. She was wearing the house uniform of white shirt, black skirt and a hessian apron which emphasised her enviable figure. Well, Lucy envied it. The guy on the bar stool was wearing a leather jacket and sipping water. From this angle, she couldn’t tell much more about him.

‘I think I know what Tom’s doing in Southport,’ said Bridget.

Lucy turned her attention back to the table. ‘Oh?’

‘Layla’s husband was murdered on Monday. Or Sunday. That’s why you won’t see her in here tonight.’

Lucy drank some wine. This could be very, very awkward, for all sorts of reasons.

Bridget seemed to be thinking along the same lines, and said, ‘Look, Tom’s your problem, not mine, and I don’t want it to become Natalie’s problem. Or Connor’s. I won’t say anything if you won’t.’

‘Believe me, this is not a story I want in circulation.’

‘Cool.’

Bridget waved at the guy on the bar stool. When she had his attention, she beckoned him over.

The guy shook Lucy’s hand and said, ‘You must be Bridget’s new boss.’

Bridget said, ‘Connor, this is Lucy White, manager of Giuseppe’s Gelateria, which she is shortly going to rename Caffè di Milano. Lucy, this is Connor Holden, general manager of … what is it you’re general manager of, exactly?’

Connor (who was very sober), had been struggling to follow Bridget’s rather formal introduction.

‘General Manager of Laycross Entertainments. For now. You girls seem to be bonding nicely.’

‘Sod off, Connor,’ said Bridget. ‘Have you decided yet what’s happening this weekend.’

‘I was just telling Natalie,’ he replied. ‘It’s going ahead as planned, with new hosts for both nights, obviously.’

Bridget turned to Lucy. ‘They’ve been doing your sort of music on Saturdays. Well, perhaps aimed at a younger crowd.’

Charming! How old does she think I am?

‘But this Saturday is Valentine’s night,’ continued Bridget, ‘so they’re having Duet Karaoke. It’s a Piano Bar tradition.’

‘Goes right back to the first Layla’s Bar,’ said Connor wistfully. ‘That was in Liverpool,’ he added for Lucy’s benefit.

‘That means I get the flat to myself on Saturday,’ said Bridget. ‘And on Sunday, you are invited to join me for Single Swingers’ Karaoke. I might dress up this week.’

‘You are not doing the Time Warp again,’ said Connor.

Bridget pouted. ‘It was the highlight of last week. Go on, you know you love it.’

‘We’ll see. No promises, alright? Excuse me. Nice to meet you, Lucy.’

Bridget watched him go, then frowned. Lucy peered into the gloom. Connor was talking to a gorilla of a man in a tuxedo, then Connor patted the pocket of his leather jacket. Lucy knew that pat — the smoker checking that he was armed before going outside, which the two men did.

‘Were you serious about Sunday?’ she said to Bridget.

‘Deadly. It’s a good night.’

‘I am so going to have to get some clothes,’ said Lucy. ‘At least I can go to my godfather’s on Saturday and avoid the embarrassment of being alone on Valentine’s Day.’

Bridget got up to head to the Ladies. Lucy looked at the door, where Connor had disappeared with the big gorilla. She whipped out her phone and sent a text. By the time Bridget came back, she felt a lot better.

‘I also need a car,’ said Lucy.

‘Don’t bother,’ said Bridget. ‘You really don’t need one in Southport.’

‘But I’ve got to go to the coffee roasting place tomorrow. It’s in Warrington.’

‘Get the train. Put it on expenses, and a taxi if you need to. You’re not running your own business any more.’

Not having a car would mean that she couldn’t get back to Cheshire without numerous changes of train and a long taxi ride at the end. On the whole, that was a good thing. She emptied the last of the wine into their glasses. Not having a car also meant not being worried about being over the limit in the morning.

‘I don’t think I’m up for another bottle,’ she said.

‘Me neither,’ said Bridget. ‘I don’t want the boss to get the wrong idea.’

‘Too late for that.’

Detective Constable Neville Hammond had walked into the Duke of Edinburgh bar at two minutes to nine. Elaine had watched her boss straighten in his chair and put on his professional face. She hoped it was worth the effort.

‘Two of you,’ said Hammond when he came over. ‘Fair enough, I’d have done the same, but no notes or tape recordings, OK?’

‘I haven’t got the budget for noise cancelling microphones,’ said Tom. ‘Drink?’

‘I’ll get my own.’

Hammond returned with a pint of Guinness and put it carefully on a drip mat. ‘Where shall I start?’

‘With the electoral fraud,’ said Tom. ‘I’ve read your file. You’re not stupid. You wouldn’t have gone after Matthew Cross if you didn’t think he’d broken the law.’

‘Thanks. I think. You’re right, though. I spent two days looking into the paperwork, and yes, Cross had broken the law. Technically. If this case had come to another detective, they’d have paid Mr Cross a visit, pointed out the law and told him not to do it again.’

‘But you didn’t. You went after him. Why?’

Hammond drank his Guinness. ‘Because he’s the most evil guy I know who never went to prison, that’s why, and this accusation gave me the excuse to start digging. I found clear evidence that he had used his contacts to bring up a busload of women from Liverpool to push those leaflets through doors. I got statements from two of them to say that Grant Benson had paid them to do it. I was on the trail of that tape recording when Cross put in a complaint.’

Grant Benson. That name again. Tonight had been worth it already, and Hammond had only drunk an inch of his pint.

‘We’ll come back to the present in a moment,’ said Tom. ‘You’ve started, Neville, so why not go on? This clearly goes way back into the past.’

Hammond looked at Elaine. ‘This is your first murder, isn’t it?’

‘Second,’ she said. ‘I didn’t do much on the last one, though.’

‘Cross was responsible for my first murder as a detective,’ continued Hammond. ‘Only it wasn’t one murder, it was four.’ He changed pace. ‘Have you been to that fancy house of his?’

‘I have,’ said Elaine. ‘The Boss hasn’t.’

‘It’s a long way from where he started, I’ll tell you. Matthew Cross started on the docks at fourteen years old. Bunked off school. By the time he was eighteen, he was a shop steward. I think that was the last office he held.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Cross was a perfect capitalist. He saw that it’s much easier to get someone else to do the job for him. Councillors, surveyors, planners, the whole Corporation of Merseyside was in his pocket.’

Tom frowned. ‘How did he get from a Bolshie docker to Mr Big in such a short time?’

‘Loyalty. Intimidation. Bribery. In roughly that order. Matt Cross never broke a promise, and always carried out a threat. Always. He ran that dock like a personal piggy bank, and when it closed, he had a lot of cash floating about already.’

‘So he put it into drugs.’

‘Not at first, no.’ Hammond was emphatic. ‘He used his trade union connections to buy up councillors. They’re cheaper than coppers. He scared the owners of run-down factories into selling the land to him, then he got the Corporation to buy it for housing. This was in the days before whistle-blowers and Freedom of Information, remember, but he still made enemies. When the Corporation changed hands, the new councillors had their own pet projects, and Matthew Cross was left with land that no one wanted, debts up to the ceiling and no cash. That’s when he got into drug dealing.’

‘How long ago was this?’ asked Elaine, just to try and put things into context.

‘About twenty-six years ago. He’d grown up in a very rough neighbourhood in north Liverpool, but that doesn’t mean anything. So did I.’

‘And the biggest villain I’ve come across was a baronet,’ said Tom. ‘We understand.’

Hammond looked a little put out. ‘Real drug dealers are made in prison,’ he continued, ‘not on the streets. Guys with muscle go into jail and come out with contacts. Cross had to start from scratch, and it wasn’t long before he pissed people off. One night, he slipped out of his house the back way, to avoid the neighbours. Across the street, four scallies were waiting in a car. They thought he was at home. When the lights went out, they poured petrol through the letter box, the windows, the back door. On a count of three, they lit rags and retired.’

Elaine shivered. That haunted look had come back into Tom’s eyes. For the first time on this case, he rubbed the top of his left arm, something he’d done a lot in Cheshire.

‘Was anyone in the house?’ asked Tom.

‘The first Mrs Cross and their son. He was five years old.’

Elaine felt it, so did Tom: My God…

‘They both survived, but the wife never came out of hospital. She was terribly burnt, and she had a breakdown. Complete catatonia for two years. I’ve heard they tried a new drug on her, and it helped her re-engage with the world. Enough to kill herself.’

Poor kid. To lose your mother twice, first to illness, then to suicide. She shivered.

Hammond was only just starting, however. ‘The four lads who laid the fire were clever enough not to leave any fingerprints, and no one tells tales in their neighbourhood. Cross lived in a better part of town, so they were taking a risk, and they got lucky. Well, not that lucky, because Matt Cross found out their names.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. He’d just hired a new guy to distribute his merchandise. Grant Benson.’

Yes! Now they had their connection. Tom nodded to her, to show he was on it as well; Hammond was too far into his story to notice the effect of what he’d said.

‘Benson tracked them down, and Cross killed them. He beat them all to death with an iron bar from the ruin of his house. Forensics even found soot in the wounds of the first one.’

‘How did he get away with it?’

‘He hired Andrew Mallinson as his lawyer.’

‘Aah.’ It was Tom who said it. Elaine was busy having a moment of pure funk: she had sat across the settee from that man, and thought him a devious little git. She raised her estimation of the threat level by several notches.

Hammond raced on with his story now. ‘I was on the team that arrested Cross. Mallinson bribed three of them that I know of to lose key evidence and hand over lists of witnesses. His brief made mincemeat of the prosecution. Matthew Cross left the court a free man, and hasn’t seen the inside of a police station since.’

‘How do you know he bribed your colleagues?’ asked Tom.

Hammond moved his empty glass on the drip mat, and didn’t look up when he answered, ‘Because they tried to recruit me. Suborn me. That’s the posh word, isn’t it?’ Tom nodded. ‘I said no, but I was too scared to report them. I’ve regretted that every day of my life since.’

‘And that’s why you joined professional standards?’

‘Yes. It also got me out of Cross’s way. He came out of the court with a huge reputation, and he used it to start again. This time in the entertainments business. He built a captive audience for Benson’s doormen to peddle drugs, and he married Mallinson’s sister. She was a singer. Still is.’

‘Why Southport?’

‘He never sold the land in Liverpool, no matter how tough things got. Wise man. He used the money from the entertainment venues to pay the interest, and eventually the plots of land became worth a fortune. He sold up. I told you that Cross always keeps a promise? I think he promised Layla that they’d get out of town, and that he’d give their kids a better life than Dougie had enjoyed.’

Elaine had to ask. She blurted out the question. ‘What happened to Dougie?’

‘He was taken into care during the trial. When Cross married Layla, he was sent back to live with his dad. It was what they did in those days: biological parent trumps everything. He committed suicide when he was eighteen.’

Tom looked at her, shaking his head slightly. That was not a topic to be pursued further with Hammond. ‘And what’s Cross been up to recently?’ asked Tom.

‘I was out of the loop for too long. Other than the new piano bar and a couple of pubs, I don’t know what he’s up to. I’m already too old for this job. I just thought I had one last chance to show him we hadn’t forgotten.’ Hammond shrugged. His story was over.

‘Just one question,’ said Tom. ‘Give me a straight answer, and you can retire in peace.’

Hammond nodded.

‘Who tipped you off about the electoral fraud?’

‘I had to promise anonymity. No way was I going to let his name come out when Mallinson was going to see the complaint. He’d be dead by now.’

Elaine was watching Tom, not Hammond. Her Boss’s eyes did a funny thing when he was on the hunt; they sort of had little red flashes in them. They were flashing right now. No doubt a trick of the light, or a reflection of blood vessels. Whatever, Hammond needed to watch his step.

‘Did you register this man as an informer?’

‘You must be joking.’

‘I can get you on that, and on the harassment. We can’t pick and choose, you know.’

‘Pick and choose what?’

‘Who gets justice. You wanted it for Cross’s victims: I want it for Cross himself. I do promise you that your informant’s name will stay out of the documents. That’s something that Matthew and I have in common.’

‘I understand. You always keep a promise. What about a threat?’

Tom said nothing. Hammond moved his empty glass off the drip mat and took out a pen. He wrote something on the cardboard and stood up. He dropped the mat face down on the table, and said, ‘That man’s name will never cross my lips.’ Then he left.

Tom and Elaine stared at the drip mat. ‘Bets?’ she said.

‘Someone we’ve never heard of,’ said Tom.

‘My money’s on the defeated Liberal candidate, though technically I’ve never heard of him either.’

Elaine picked up the mat and looked at the name. ‘I’m closest,’ she said.

‘How can you be close? You’re either right or wrong.’

‘It wasn’t the Liberal, but it was someone we’ve heard of. I’m closest and you have to pay for a taxi. I’m not walking to the piano bar in my new shoes.’

‘Yes, now get on with it.’

‘Kingsley Laidlaw. What do you make of that?’

He chewed his lip, lost in thought. ‘I don’t know. I’ll tell you in the morning. You better get off and have a good time. Don’t talk to any strange men.’

‘I won’t. I get enough of them at work.’

He didn’t bite, so she left him to his thoughts and went to get ready for Layla’s.

The new leather trousers looked good, and would fit in nicely with the clientele of Layla’s if social media was right. She had a good idea of what she would find when she walked through the door, right down to the band (Soul Creations — Number One for Motown Moods). What she couldn’t decide on was heels or trainers. Ideally, she’d have liked boots with heels, but there hadn’t been time to shop for them, what with needing to raid the makeup counter in Broadbents. It would have to be heels. Doormen don’t like trainers.

She jumped when Tom knocked on the door. At least she was decent.

He stood back from the door, to show he wasn’t crowding her. ‘Operation Meteor has just been pulled out of its orbit,’ he said.

She leaned her head on the door frame. ‘Please don’t start using that as a metaphor. You’ll lose them in the incident room.’

‘Noted. I don’t think you should go to Layla’s tonight, even though you do scrub up nicely.’

‘Careful. I might be keeping notes.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘You don’t think it’s dangerous, do you, after what Hammond said?’

‘What? No. Not dangerous in that sense. I’ve had a text. In the interests of full disclosure, have a look.’

He passed over his phone. It was open on to a message thread from Lucy. Elaine was tempted to see if there were any earlier messages, but stuck to the ones on screen. Lucy had started it:

Are U on Mr Cross murder case???

Yes. Why?

I’m in Lyle’s Piano Bar. We need to talk.

Do you mean Layla’s Bar? What’s the matter?

Whatever. Yes. Can U come to cafe tomoz pm?

Yes. Don’t know what time. Rather busy.

Good. Thanks. CU.

‘Sir! You didn’t have to pick up her spelling. That’s mean.’

‘Not spelling. Predictive text. It’s the enemy of civilisation. If Lucy’s in the Piano Bar, she must have seen or heard something. I don’t think it would do either of you any good for there to be a surprise encounter.’

He looked at his watch, and so did Elaine. ‘I’m shattered,’ he said. ‘I’m going to read Hazel’s report, then go to sleep. See you in the morning.’

Elaine turned back into her room, and the trousers chafed in a sensitive spot. They would have fitted her a month ago. Definitely time to lose weight, but not before she’d had a drink. She slipped on her trainers and went back down to the bar with her phone. Hearing about what had happened to Matt Cross made her want to get in touch with her family. She bought a large drink, found a quiet corner and rang her mum.

13

Thursday

The timeline for Matthew Cross’s murder stretched the full length of the incident room. Elaine’s jaw dropped when she thought of how much work Isabelle had put in to get it finished.

She’d missed Tom at breakfast, getting a text which said he had things to sort out at the Tombs. That was the price you paid for being SIO.

Because she’d read all the reports (like a good girl), there was nothing new on the timeline for her, but the rest of the team were pointing and discussing. Except for Lloyd. He was staring at his computer. Even Hazel was checking the times against her notebook.

The actions for today were already on the whiteboard. Her name was next to the cryptic instruction Intel PSPW->EF. At least, she presumed that she was EF. She heard Tom’s voice in the corridor and returned to her desk. He came in with Phil Dunn and got straight to business.

‘We’ve had some important new information since yesterday. We’re putting the focus of house-to-house on the approach to Quaker’s Fold. The strong probability is that the killer approached Northridge Copse from that direction, and we know that the tenant of Quaker’s Fold was out. Four of you will work houses on the approach roads, and I want two others to map all possible CCTV road cameras within a five mile radius. That information may become crucial.’

He paused to let this sink in. ‘I have had information that Matthew Cross was active in distribution of drugs. That could very easily explain why he was killed. It’s vital that we know the scope and scale of his activity. Elaine will be talking to Sergeant White from Southport to gather intelligence.’

Aah. PSPW = Police Sergeant Paul White. It’s easy when you know what you’re doing.

Tom nodded in her direction, then said, ‘Lloyd will be looking for any property holdings, another area of the victim’s activities, and then conducting elimination interviews with friends of the victim’s children. I’ve asked Hazel to focus on the Mallinsons today. It’s crucial we interview and eliminate Mr and Mrs Mallinson as quickly as possible. There’s one more thing: a name. I don’t want this name bandied about until we know more, OK? Keep your ears open for Grant Benson. Any questions?’

There were none.

Elaine was about to go over to Tom, but forced herself to speak to Phil instead, as protocol demanded.

‘Do we know if Paul White is on shift?’

‘He is. He’ll be in the community station until eleven o’clock. Did you have a successful night?’

‘I think so.’

Tom came over and spoke to both of them. ‘I’ve just heard from Isabelle. She’s tracked down Kingsley Laidlaw to the MP’s house. I’m going to pull him in for a recorded interview. I don’t want to scare him too much, so I’ll do it alone.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Dunn, clearly unhappy about something. Dunn was very good at being unhappy about things, mostly his job.

When Tom had gone, and they were more or less alone, Dunn said, ‘You first met the Boss on that case in Sevenbridge, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. It was my first day in SLC.’

Dunn nodded to himself. ‘Do you know what he was up to before that?’

‘He was in the economic crime division.’

Dunn snorted. ‘That’s a funny name for it. I asked around a few of my mates on the regional Federation committee last night. One of them had a very interesting story to tell.’

‘And are you going to share it?’

‘My mate’s based in Cairndale Division, and he told me that one day before Christmas a helicopter drops out of the sky and lands on the golf course. At the same time, a boat runs aground on Morecambe Bay. The helicopter pilot jumps out, runs on to the sands and shoots someone dead, then he steals a Land Rover and disappears. When the dust settles, DCI Morton is left to cover everything up.’

What on earth? No way is Tom a spook, she thought. He just… well. He did have a funny reaction when I mentioned Cairndale.

‘If you find that hard to swallow, there’s more. A month before the helicopter thing, there’s a bomb explosion in Blackpool that kills two people who were sat in a car. Just before the bomb went off, a policeman jumps out. My mate never found out his name, but he had a posh voice, floppy hair and he wore a three piece suit. Remind you of anyone?’

Dunn didn’t wait for an answer; he headed out of the incident room, giving her a look that said Careful who you sup with. Long spoon advised.

Tom was not a killer. He just wasn’t. On the other hand, some of the stuff he had done on the last case now made sense. At one point, he had been on first name terms with a high-ranking security liaison officer, and he had links to journalists which went way beyond the norm. But she was sure of one thing: he definitely worked economic crimes. That man had spreadsheets encoded in his DNA, for heaven’s sake. So how did he end up in a helicopter on Cairndale golf course?

She shrugged, and wrapped up for the walk into town. There was no frost this morning, and the black clouds were restoring Lancashire to its normal state of weather. It would soon be raining.

Paul White didn’t have an office, so he suggested that they walk round the town. Was he rubbing it in, telling her that this was his patch, and that he’d been unfairly excluded from the investigation? His first comment made that pretty clear.

‘I wondered when you’d come back,’ he said.

‘Blame the ACC, not me. Or the Boss. He had orders to pursue the enquiry with the team he was given. Last night we had positive intelligence that drugs were being dealt through the victim’s businesses. You’re the best person to ask. If you don’t know what’s happening on the ground in Southport, no one does.’

‘Flattery, eh?’

‘I’ll lay it on with a trowel, if you like.’

White had pressed the button on a pedestrian crossing, and turned to face her. ‘Do you know who said that? “Lay it on with a trowel”?’

‘My Dad.’

‘Only if your dad is Benjamin Disraeli. He was talking about Queen Victoria. She used to be here,’ he said, pointing to the war memorial. ‘But they moved her down there, by the promenade.’

‘Go on, tell me: how do you know that?’

‘I walk past it all the time.’

‘Ha ha. How do you know what Disraeli said about royalty. How do you know who Disraeli is, come to that?’

‘Don’t they do history in schools any more?’

Elaine felt uncomfortable. Should she know this? It was like being with Tom, sometimes. She knew a lot about rocks, and a fair bit about chemistry. And People. She knew a lot about people. Let’s move on from Disraeli, whoever he is.

‘Which way is Queen Victoria facing?’

‘How the heck should I know?’

‘I thought you walked past her all the time. Let’s have a look, then we can go to Layla’s the back way.’

‘Good idea. I want to show you something down Neville Street anyway.’

The cars had stopped, the signal sounded, and they crossed the road. Half way to the Prom, he pointed down a dark side-street. ‘See that red shop, down there? It used to be an old-fashioned head shop. The guy scraped a living selling new age hippy tat and a bit of dope to his mates. Then the lease came up and he sold the business to a young woman who moved into legal highs.’

The so-called “legal highs” were, of course, no longer legal. The police service nationally had watched in alarm as unscrupulous back-street laboratories, mostly in China, had begun synthesising the active ingredients in illegal drugs. For a short period, you could walk into a shop and buy a packet of stuff that would have the same impact as cocaine, ecstasy or cannabis. Or it might be toxic and fry your brain. Or both.

‘Did they get out before the ban came in?’

‘Yes. Before it was even on the cards they folded their tents and moved away.’ They stood looking down the alley. ‘Where do you think that woman got her money?’ asked White.

‘I’m guessing Matthew Cross.’

‘Guess all you like, but you won’t prove it. There was some very bad publicity when some customers ended up in hospital. Someone convinced Matt Cross that the publicity could be very damaging…’

‘But there’s no record of that, I presume.’

Paul White snorted. ‘Do I look stupid? The shop closed, and the manager moved on. End of story. Nor was it her who invented the stuff: she just helped increase the market. It’s like anything — if you open a library, people will read more books. If you sell duty-free fags, people will smoke more…’

This sounded like a conversation that Tom would enjoy. She tried a few out in her head. If you open a doctor’s surgery, do people get sicker? In Grandma’s case, absolutely. She had more illnesses after moving into the nursing home because she liked the visiting doctor. If you opened a sex shop? No, don’t go there. She opted for something a little more final.

‘If you open a funeral parlour, do people die more?’

He laughed. ‘No, but they get buried more.’

A few yards further on, a pedestrian zone appeared on the right. Queen Victoria stared at them.

‘She’s facing the town,’ said White.

‘Unlike Antony Gormley. His statues are facing the sea. Maybe she lacks imagination.’

‘I don’t think she’d be amused if you said that.’

‘Did you have to? I was trying to avoid that joke.’

Thin drops of rain started to sting her face. White turned professional again. ‘Let’s head round the corner, shall we? Before we get blown away.’

They hurried round the corner, on to the Prom and past a good number of B&Bs, then turned left into Tyler Street. Before they got to Layla’s, Elaine stopped him, and pointed to the café on the other side of the road.

‘What about that place?’

‘Giuseppe’s? If you want a break, I wouldn’t go in there. The coffee’s rubbish.’

Elaine shivered, partly because of the wind, and partly because she didn’t want Lucy White to see her. She tried to position her body so that the massive fluorescent presence of Sergeant White obscured her, but he was too polite. He kept moving out of the way. She saw a deep doorway ahead, and ducked inside it.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to go in there either. One of the staff came up in another enquiry; I wondered if there was any drugs connection.’

‘Not that I know of. Do you want me to ask around.’

‘No. Definitely not.’

She reached for her gloves and saw a brass plaque by the door:

Registered Offices

Laycross Entertainments Ltd

Laycross Property Ltd

Lancashire Coastal Developments LLP

Of course. Layla’s Bar was part of the same building. This door must lead up to the offices.

‘Now we’re out of the wind, can you tell me the rest? What do you actually know?’

He folded his arms. Whatever he said next, it was clearly a sore point with him.

‘There’s a lot of bars and clubs in Southport. The night-time economy is vibrant, as they say in the papers.’

‘I know what you mean. I’ve done my share of late night shifts. The women are always the worst.’

‘Tell me about it. How often did you find something in their pockets?’

‘About one in ten,’ said Elaine.

‘Same here. They never tell you where they got the stuff, or they lie, but if you ask them where they’ve been all night, you get a picture. Most go from bar to bar, but a good number of those caught with drugs had been drinking in one of Matt Cross’s bars, and only Matt Cross’s bars. That tells me all I need to know.’

She nodded. That was what intelligence led policing was all about. The key question was what happened next.

‘How do you think he’s getting away with it? Or got away with it.’

White’s arms were still folded. The expression on his face matched them in levels of belligerence. ‘Your Boss works for professional standards, doesn’t he?’

Elaine nodded.

‘When I’ve got something to report, I’ll report it. Otherwise, I’m not saying anything about the men and women on my relief.’

It was a challenge: Do I push him? Get him to deny that any of them are on Cross’s payroll? She opted for a change of direction, literally and metaphorically.

‘I could do with a cuppa now.’

On the way down Tyler Street, she asked, ‘What do you know about Grant Benson?’

There was a sliver of hesitation, a slight turning of the eyes. This was a question that White had been forced to think about.

‘Keeps a low profile. Very strict with his doormen. Pays good wages too. I’ve also had to go to A&E three times, to interview victims of his beatings. One of them was a woman.’

‘Does that make a difference,’ said Elaine, a little belligerence of her own creeping into her voice.

‘It shouldn’t, no, but it does. Female bouncers should be treated the same as men. In theory. Seeing one with stitches running down half her face shouldn’t make me feel worse just because she’s a woman, but it does. Sorry. If that means you think I need equality and diversity training, then fine. Put it in your report.’

‘There’s no formal report from this morning, just notes. What did the victims say?’

‘Nothing. Before the beatings, they all worked for Grant. After the beatings, they all left town. When his own lads were injured, he always made a point of visiting them in hospital. I know that because I’ve seen him at their bedsides.’

‘Let me guess, shortly later someone else gets the treatment. In revenge.’

‘Got it in one.’

He took her into a small restaurant, and gave her his thoughts on the other players in Southport’s drugs scene. In terms of quantity, it was clear that Matthew Cross was not a big player, but the mark-up he could make by selling in clubs and bars would give him a healthy profit margin.

Then White relaxed, and said, ‘I grew up in Bootle, and our history teacher did a project on Gladstone.’

Elaine had heard of Gladstone. She couldn’t remember why, but she had.

‘He took us to Seaforth, where Gladstone’s family lived. It sparked my interest, and I do like a good biography. From Gladstone, I moved on to his great rival, Disraeli. Excuse me a minute. Little boys’ room.’

Elaine caught up with her notes. That left her with one final question.

‘What happened to the woman who ran the head shop?’

‘Natalie Alderson. She works in Layla’s now. She hasn’t come up in any reports since she sold the lease. I think she was just a name on the documents and someone to work the till. But I could be wrong. As you say, I shouldn’t assume she’s not a serious drug dealer just because she’s a woman. Cake?’

‘Diet.’

South Lancashire Constabulary had been able to hold off the media by the simple expedient of saying that they had nothing to say. The nature of the case made a difference, too. Matt Cross was not famous, nor a young woman, nor a child, and no one who knew him wanted to talk about him. This meant that the journalists had nothing to go on. At first.

As the press started putting things together, the pressure grew. They discovered that he lived in a big house (rich people are inherently more interesting), then they discovered that his widow was heavily involved in the Sustainable Lancashire Party. Several journalists added the facts together and, in the absence of an alternative explanation, they suggested a political scandal.

By Thursday lunchtime, the pressure on Tom was starting to grow. Journalists were interviewing neighbours, scouring social media for references to his children and beating down the door of the SLC media office.

Phil Dunn stuck his head round the door. ‘Boss, I’ve had Media Relations on again. They’re getting very agitated about the Consolidated International Security business. I gave them your story about the chairman committing suicide and they’ve gone away to check it.’

‘Good. That should keep them off our backs for an hour.’

Dunn was half way out of the door, when he said, ‘How did you know about that, sir?’

‘About Jennings committing suicide?’

‘Yes.’

‘He blew his brains out because I was on my way to arrest him. I have that effect on people sometimes.’

Dunn looked a little alarmed, which was the effect Tom intended. He put Dunn out of his mind, and rang Leonie. It was always useful to keep her up to date, and for once he actually wanted her advice. He gave her a brief summary of the case so far.

‘Oh dear, Tom,’ she said. ‘Looks like you’re heading very quickly into a dead end. Can you see any way out?’

‘I’d say the most likely outcome is a defined pool of mutually exclusive suspects but no evidence to charge any of them.’

‘No one wants that.’

‘Including me. I do have one line of enquiry, but it’s a bit sensitive and the press aren’t very far behind me.’

‘What is it?’

‘I want to push the guy who discovered the body. He works for the MP.’

‘Can you keep it quiet?’

‘Probably. The Sustainable Lancashire Party certainly doesn’t want the publicity.’

She sighed. ‘Are you worried about a leak from your team?’

‘If you put enough pressure on a system, you always get leaks.’

‘Try and keep the security services out of it this time. Do me that favour, at least. I don’t like John Lake.’

For a spook, Tom thought that John Lake was quite human, but some men seemed to rub Leonie up the wrong way. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said.

Elaine returned from her meeting with Sergeant White, and Tom asked her to feed back to him as well as to Dunn. When she got to the part about the offices above the Piano Bar, a warning light flashed in the back of his head.

‘What were the names of those companies again?’ he asked.

She told him, and his heart sank. He was going to have to do something drastic about this.

‘Boss?’ said Dunn, interrupting his thoughts.

‘What?’

‘I said, “Have you got any further actions for Elaine?”’

‘Sorry. I was thinking of something.’ He tried to look at both officers simultaneously, because he didn’t want to offend either of them. He couldn’t manage it, so he looked at his desk. ‘Give DC Fraser something that can be done on the phone. I might need her this afternoon. I’ll let you know shortly, Phil.’

‘Sir.’

They got ready to leave, and Tom lifted his gaze to Dunn. ‘Was Isabelle at her desk when you came in?’

‘It’s started raining, and she hasn’t got a brolly. She’s only taking short visits outside now.’

‘Ask her to come in.’

When his co-ordinator appeared, he asked her to close the door. It was the first time he’d done that since moving into the Tombs.

‘I’ve got a problem,’ he said.

‘Only the one? Count yourself lucky.’

‘This one’s serious, I’m afraid.’

She looked guiltily down at her fingers, then up to the ceiling.

‘If this is about not being at my desk, I’m not always outside having a fag. I work very hard.’

‘It’s not you,’ he said. ‘It’s Lloyd.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. He’s either incompetent or lazy. Or both. I need you to do something, but if it’s negative I need it to stay quiet. At least until the end of the enquiry. I don’t care what happens after that.’

‘I’ll try my best,’ she said, then she looked at him properly. ‘Of course, Boss. No problem.’

‘Lloyd is using his own iPad as well as the SLC computer, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. It’s allowed.’

‘I know. It’s also allowed for us to snoop on him, if I’ve got reasonable cause. He’s failed to detect an entire company called Lancashire Coastal Developments. It’s not good enough. Either he can’t read or he’s spending his time on something else. I need you to print out which websites he’s visited, and which parts of the SLC intranet he’s accessed.’

‘If Phil Dunn finds out, there’ll be hell to pay.’

‘Which is why I’ve asked you, because you won’t tell him. Have a look at the list. If it seems kosher, bin it. If not, bring it here. I’ll deal with Phil.’

‘Right.’

She was back in less than five minutes, clutching a sheaf of printouts. ‘He’s doing his Sergeant’s Exams,’ she said. ‘He’s spent over three hours accessing the online learning package, and he’s been looking at active cases back in his division.’

Why me? thought Tom. What have I done to deserve this?

‘Thanks, Isabelle. You know what I’m going to say next, don’t you.’

‘You want to see Lloyd.’

‘Oh no, I want to see Phil.’

Running underneath all the chaos this morning had been something that made him even more afraid, and very excited at the same time. It was Lucy, of course. He had to see her, because she’d mentioned the case. Every time he tried to let his mind wander, to think about who had killed Matthew Cross, his thoughts kept returning to the café on Tyler Street. Should he take Elaine when he went? Yes. He’d have to, because he wasn’t going to let anything jeopardise the case against Lucy’s father.

Besides, even if Elaine were there, he’d still be able to enjoy Lucy’s company, to laugh at her explosive approach to life, and enjoy looking at her. She was very nice to look at.

‘Yes, Boss?’ said Dunn from the doorway.

‘Come in, sit down and close the door. Then have a look at these.’

He handed over the printouts and waited patiently. Dunn was not stupid. It took him about thirty seconds to work out the implications of what he was reading. He was also thinking two steps ahead.

‘This isn’t good,’ said Dunn. ‘Do you want me to have a severe word with him?’

Spoken like a true union rep. By offering to do the job, Dunn had implied it wasn’t that serious a matter. Tom was having none of it.

‘No, Phil. It’s gone way beyond that. Because I’m not an SLC officer, I can’t suspend him. I want you to escort him out of the Tombs and send him back to Manchester Division. Then I want you to prepare a report for his inspector. It’s up to him or her what happens after that.’

Dunn went white. He shifted in his chair, and put the papers back on Tom’s desk as if they were contagious. ‘Perhaps you should give him an informal warning and record it in the Enquiry Log.’

‘If this was a permanent team, that’s exactly what I’d do, but it isn’t. He’s lost us nearly a day from the investigation because he can’t be bothered to do his homework at home, like you and I did. I presume you studied at evenings and weekends for your sergeant’s exam.’

Dunn’s face went from white to red. ‘That’s irrelevant, sir.’

‘No it isn’t. Either you’re as bad as him, or he’s wasting your time and my time and giving every other detective extra work. I think you’re better than him.’

‘Lloyd is a good detective.’

‘Not this week he isn’t. Get him out of here.’

Dunn had one last card to play. ‘What if ACC Schofield won’t replace him.’

‘Then he’ll have to give me more money for overtime, because we’re saving Lloyd’s salary. I’d rather have four hours of you or Elaine than eight hours of Lloyd.’

Dunn admitted defeat by picking up the papers.

Before he left, Tom realised that a gesture here could be crucial. ‘I’ve decided you’re right,’ he said.

‘About what?’ said Dunn, clutching his files.

‘Interviewing Kingsley Laidlaw. It should be a formal part of this enquiry, and I want you in there with me.’

‘I’ll get a fan heater as well. There’s still no heating in there.’

Rather than hang around and run the risk of seeing Lloyd’s departure from the Tombs, Tom picked up his coat and grabbed the postcode for Penny Markland’s home in Ormskirk and headed off to prise Kingsley Laidlaw from the sanctuary of the MP’s house.

Laidlaw was not happy when Tom was shown into the snug at the back of the MP’s house. He studied Tom’s warrant card and said, ‘What’s a detective from the Met doing here? What’s your agenda?’

Tom took out the beer mat that Neville Hammond had left behind, the one with Laidlaw’s name on it; he had written the detective’s name on the other side. Laidlaw studied it in silence, then went bright red and told his boss that it would be quicker if he got it over with now. Clearly, Kingsley did not want it made official that he was the one who had brought the law down on Matt Cross’s bending of the election rules. To keep the pressure going, Tom kept silent on the journey back to the Tombs.

When they had installed Kingsley in the interview room (now possessed of its own laminated signs), Phil Dunn brought mugs of tea and Tom explained that although Kingsley wasn’t under arrest, anything he said could be used as evidence.

Tom began with a question. ‘Mr Laidlaw, could you explain why you reported Mr Cross’s alleged electoral fraud to DC Hammond?’

Kingsley had obviously thought about this, and opted for irony. ‘I thought the police would be grateful to have any crime reported to them.’

‘We are, but we’re paid to think as well as ask questions. Two things bother me, Mr Laidlaw. Why did you report the matter specifically to DC Hammond, when it’s not his job? And why did you betray your fellow members of the SLP and undermine your employer?’

Kingsley clearly didn’t want to discuss this, and looked very hot all of a sudden. He pushed for clarification. ‘If this is just about me and Matt Cross, then it goes no further, yeah?’

Tom smiled across the table. ‘I follow lines of enquiry, Kingsley, wherever they go. What I don’t do is gossip. Mrs Markland won’t hear about this from me unless it helps me solve Matt Cross’s murder.’

Kingsley shifted in his seat, hesitating. The heater cut out and the sound of the cassettes rolling in the recorder was the only noise.

Finally Kingsley leaned forward. ‘It was about the development application for Quaker’s Fold. I wanted to stop him. Putting houses on all that land would destroy the character of the village. It’s not sustainable, dumping people out in the country like that, with no jobs or shops.’

‘Can we skip the development control debate? I take your point, but I’m more interested in how Mr Cross was going to go about it, and more importantly, how you knew.’

‘He told me.’

‘When was that?’

Kingsley leaned back and flapped his jacket. ‘On reflection, I may have made an error in my statement yesterday.’

‘An error?’ said Phil.

‘I said that Matt had been to see me recently. I should have said he came to Quaker’s Fold before Christmas. Thinking about the gun confused me. It was very traumatic.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Tom. ‘What did Mr Cross say? Did he actually threaten you?’

‘He didn’t need to. He just walked up to me.’ Kingsley paused. ‘He smelled of guns and death, like some people smell of garlic. He didn’t need to threaten me, he just said, “This is my land, and I’m going to develop it.” Not quite those words, but that’s what he meant.’

Tom looked up from his notes. ‘I’m sorry, I do need to clarify this. As closely as you can remember, what did he say about the land?’

‘I said What are you doing here? He said I’m your landlord, and I’ve come to inspect my property.’

‘You don’t think he meant something else?’

‘No. I told him that Mr Mallinson was my landlord, and he said that Andrew Mallinson was his agent. That was before I knew they were related, of course.’

Tom and Phil glanced at each other. This was completely news to them: thanks to Lloyd’s incompetence, they had no idea that Matt Cross owned Quaker’s Fold. Sensing that they were off balance, Kingsley allowed himself to look a little superior.

‘What else did he say?’ continued Tom.

‘I only ever met Matthew Cross twice before he died. Once in the yard, and once last week. The only significant thing he said was that he owned the farm and that he was going to develop it. Everything else was a threat or rubbish about wanting a better world.’

‘You don’t think he was genuine in his opposition to fracking.’

‘Rubbish. If he hadn’t bought Quaker’s Fold, he wouldn’t have given a damn.’

‘Going back to DC Hammond…’

‘After I knew what Matt Cross was up to, I started QUAG: the Quaker’s Fold Action Group. I also did some research into Matthew Cross. I don’t oppose every new development, Inspector, I like to find the truth. That means I’m good at digging. I found out about the trial, and I found that the only detective on the enquiry team who was still in a job was Nev Hammond.’

‘I see.’

‘I arranged to meet him, and tried to sound him out. As soon as I mentioned Matt Cross, he woke up. He was gagging for information about Cross. I supplied it.’ Kingsley snorted. ‘He promised me he’d keep my name out of it. He told me he’d make sure that Matthew Cross never found out who’d reported him.’

‘He kept his word,’ said Tom. ‘Cross died without hearing your name. What did you hope to achieve?’

‘I wanted Cross to be forced out of the shadows, or better still, to feel threatened. Then he’d just sell Quaker’s Fold as agricultural land, or carry on farming it. End of story. I thought everything was going well until Hammond rang me to say that Cross had put in a complaint. Can Nev still get done for this? Who’s handling the complaint?’

‘That would be me,’ said Tom. ‘And that’s why I’m handling the murder. Apart from contacting DC Hammond, what other actions did you take to stop the development?’

‘The usual. Petitions, lobbying, fund-raising for a press campaign. Plus I thought I had an edge.’

‘Oh?’

‘It gets a bit confusing, sometimes, because Quaker’s Fold is the name of the overall farm, both the land and the buildings. I rent the buildings from … well, I don’t know. The lease is a bit vague on that. I was looking into it when Matt died. I definitely pay the rent to Andrew Mallinson, though.’

‘Interesting,’ said Tom, his pen working overtime to keep up with the new information. ‘Go on,’ he continued. ‘You were about to say something.’

‘Yes. We had a snow day in January. No way was I going out on the bike, so I did as much research as I could on the village and the land. The Flaxall Local History Society has done some good work. I got to wondering how old Quaker’s Barn might be, and where the name came from. Penny was a great help. She still has rights at the University Library and told me I should speak to the archivist. To cut a long story short, I found Hannah Pearne’s diary. I thought we’d won. I thought we’d get listed building status. Hah. Cross must have set it up before he was killed.’

Tom stopped writing, because he had no idea what Kingsley was on about. ‘Set what up?’ he asked.

‘The intervention at my meeting.’

‘What meeting?’

‘Can I show you on the iPad? You’ll get to see what a smooth operator Cross is, even though he wasn’t there. For obvious reasons.’

‘This isn’t an iPad,’ said Tom, pointing to his SLC tablet computer. ‘But it does the same job. Be careful, all websites are recorded.’

Dunn snorted at this. Kingsley, on a roll, didn’t notice the atmosphere between the detectives. ‘Go to Youtube and search for “Quaker’s Fold” and “Meeting”. You’ll only get one hit. I didn’t know it was being recorded. Not that I mind in principle, it’s just rather embarrassing.’

Tom tapped at the screen. ‘Why’s that?’

‘Who likes being shafted in public?’

Tom got the hit on Youtube and showed Kingsley the thumbnail image. Kingsley nodded.

‘For the benefit of the recording,’ said Tom, ‘we are now about to view a web-based video which will be entered in evidence as…’

Phil looked at his notebook, and quoted a reference number. Tom pressed Play and the three of them watched the meeting unfold. Kingsley looked rather different on his home ground. He was confident, held the audience and looked to be on a winner. When an unknown woman marched to the front, Tom pressed Pause. ‘Who’s she?’

‘Keep going, and you’ll see.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Phil. ‘Didn’t you just say that Cross must have planned this before he died?’

‘Yes.’

‘When was the meeting?’

‘Monday night. I thought you knew.’

Tom was itching to talk to Phil about what this meant for their timeline, but he scratched his chin instead and decided to go on with video. When the woman identified herself as Claudia Mallinson, he paused it again. ‘Was Mr Mallinson there?’

‘Yes. I didn’t speak to him, and the Mallinsons left at the end of the meeting.’

They watched the video through to the end. Tom remembered his days as a solicitor, and odd bits he’d read in the papers since then, about the government’s new approach to planning for housing. ‘Am I right in thinking that Lancashire Coastal Council is drawing up its development plan?’ he asked.

Kingsley nodded.

Tom asked him to speak out loud for the tape, then continued, ‘So the owners or developers would have to get the Council to include this land in the development plan before they applied for specific planning permission.’

‘That’s right.’

Tom allowed himself a moment to relax. ‘What’s the position of the Sustainable Lancashire Party on housing developments?’ he said with a grin.

Kingsley gave him a mutinous stare that wouldn’t come out on the tape. ‘It should be sustainable,’ he said.

‘That begs the question, rather, but we’ll leave it there, Mr Laidlaw. You don’t need to sign another statement. The one you made yesterday will be sufficient.’ Tom formally terminated the interview and asked if Kingsley wanted a lift.

‘I’ll nip into town, now I’m here.’

On the way back to the foyer, Tom said to Kingsley, ‘You don’t have to answer this question, but I was wondering what you’re going to do if they persist with the development. Will you carry on fighting?’

‘The shop, the pub and the church all want new housing in the village. More customers. Now that the History Society have been bought off, the Parish Council will follow. Never fight a lost cause if there’s a winnable one. I’m going to focus on fighting UGAS. In time, I’ll make sure any plans really are sustainable and in the interests of the whole village.’

Kingsley headed out into the drizzle and the biting wind. Tom had been on a fishing trip, and Kingsley had known that. What Kingsley didn’t know was that the property question put all sorts of things back in play. Even Phil seemed to have forgotten about Lloyd’s mishandling of the issue.

14

The prices in the estate agent’s window hadn’t gone up, but Connor was fairly sure that he would find it hard to get a discount now that Matt was dead. Still, you never know. A Geordie had once told him that shy bairns get nowt.

Natalie shivered in the cold next to him, her fingers against the glass, her nose pressed close to the window. ‘Do you think it’s still available?’ she asked.

‘It says To Let,’ responded Connor. ‘Let’s get out of the cold.’ He ushered her through the door and peered towards the rear. The owner was in.

‘You make an appointment, love,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and see if I can do anything about the rent.’

The agent didn’t beat about the bush. ‘Please give my condolences to Mrs Cross, when you see her.’

‘Will do.’

‘Are you still interested in that flat?’

‘That’s what I’m here for.’

‘I?’

‘We.’

‘Mmm,’ said the Agent. ‘There’s been a lot of interest in that property. I don’t think we’ll be able to do a discount on the rent.’

A lot of interest. Yeah, right. The guy had heard about Matt, and suddenly Connor’s golden ticket wasn’t valid any more. But this wasn’t the time to be shy.

‘Are you sure ’bout dat?’ he asked.

The agent weighed him up. Connor was wearing a tie again today, because Nat was insisting on a trip to Flaxall Manor. Perhaps it gave him more of that gravitas stuff that Andy was always on about.

The agent leaned forwards. ‘Of course, a lot depends on the overall movements in the property sector.’

That statement could mean anything or nothing. Connor suspected that it meant nothing and that it was just a prelude to something more tangible.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he said. ‘What sort of movements are likely to affect prices in Grosvenor Crescent?’

‘I’ve always enjoyed a very… fruitful, mutually beneficial relationship with Laycross Property. It would be useful to know how the land lies. And even more useful to know what’s happening with Lancashire Coastal Developments.’

Connor hadn’t a clue. Matt, Andy and Claudia always kept him out of any of the negotiations about the ownership and leasing agreements for the bars and restaurants which came under Laycross Property. All he knew about Coastal Developments was that it had something to do with Quaker’s Fold. It was time for a bluff.

‘Business as usual,’ he said confidently. ‘Mrs Cross is keen for the entertainment businesses to keep growing, and I know that there are plans afoot elsewhere.’ It was his turn to lean forward. ‘It all boils down to this, pal: do you want a friend inside the camp, or an enemy?’

The estate agent sat back, considering Connor’s words. ‘That’s very interesting, Mr Holden. How closely do you work with Claudia Mallinson?’

No one worked closely with Claudia except her husband. ‘We share an office,’ said Connor. ‘How close do you want me to be? I don’t think Natalie would be keen on me getting any closer.’ He pointed to the outer office, where Natalie was shaking hands with the woman on the desk.

The agent opened his desk diary. ‘I can do you a twenty per cent discount on a six month lease or ten per cent on a year. After that, we’d have to re-evaluate market conditions.’

Connor knew a good deal when he heard one. ‘I’ll take six months. If we like it when we see inside.’

The agent made a note. In six months’ time, Connor and Natalie might be history. Or they might be getting engaged, and he might be selling his legacy from Matt to put down a deposit on a house. He went back to the front office.

‘I’ve got the keys,’ said Natalie. ‘We can pop in after we’ve been to Flaxall.’

‘Great. Let’s get off to the Manor.’

Connor had been doing his best to keep Natalie busy since she’d heard about Matt, and it was working. So far. But Natalie had always danced to a different drum, and Connor could never be entirely sure what was going on under the surface.

When they approached the gates of Flaxall Manor, Connor could see that the press were being persistent.

‘The police are here,’ were Mary’s first words when she opened the door to the house. ‘Hello, love,’ she added, addressing Natalie.

‘Who? Where?’ said Connor.

‘The nosey woman — Family Liaison Officer they call her — she’s come back to spy on us. She’s in Matt’s study, God help us, with Mr and Mrs Mallinson.’

‘Have they been in there long?’

‘Long enough. Mrs Cross is in the drawing room. I’ll bring some tea.’

As Connor headed towards the drawing room, a light sweat broke out down his back. He was taking a terrible risk by bringing Natalie here, but he didn’t have an option. Matthew Cross had been a father figure to her, and there was no doubt that she missed him terribly. Whether Layla would see things like that was another matter.

Not once in twenty years had Connor seen or heard a suggestion that Matt had been unfaithful to Layla, or vice versa. Matt probably had been in a relationship with Natalie’s mother (he was a widower at the time), and he had certainly looked after both of them, but could Connor trust Layla to see it like that? And could he trust Natalie not to put her foot in it by talking about Matt as her real father?

Natalie hesitated before the door to the drawing room, so Connor went in first, taking her hand on the way and gently leading her over the threshold. Layla was sitting by the fire (unlit today), studying some papers. Before she noticed them, he thought how much she had aged since Tuesday. She hadn’t looked quite so unpolished since he’d visited her in the maternity hospital after the twins were born, and that was sixteen years ago.

She looked up from the papers. ‘Hi, Connor. What do you think of StarCross’d as a name for Sabrina’s band? … Oh. Hi, Natalie. I didn’t see you there. I’m gonna have to get my eyes lasered.’

She didn’t see Nat because she hid behind me. He chose to keep quiet for a second, and steered Natalie in front of him. She dropped her head a fraction, and her hair fell over her face.

‘I’m so sorry about Matt,’ she said. ‘He was brilliant.’

Layla’s response took Connor by surprise: she stood up and opened her arms to Natalie. ‘C’mere,’ she said.

The two women met in the middle of the room, and in seconds they were both crying, holding on to each other and swaying.

After a few seconds, Layla disentangled herself. ‘Sit down, girl. And don’t cry too much: it’ll cost you a fortune in makeup.’ She laughed, sniffing and wiping under her eyes. ‘I cry every time someone new comes in the room, you know.’ She led Natalie to a place opposite her and lowered her to the seat. ‘That’s lovely, what you said about Matt. He was brilliant. Strong and bright, like a diamond. We’re all gonna miss him so much.’

Connor admired the way she handled Natalie. Layla had allowed the younger woman to grieve, but asserted her place as chief mourner. Natalie flashed a smile at Layla, and Connor stepped forward. He sat next to Nat, and put his arm around her.

‘What was that name again? Stark Ross? I wouldn’t like to see Ross Carlton starkers, that’s for sure.’

‘Give over, Connor, you heard me. StarCross’d, one word with an apostrophe thingy instead of an “e” in cross’d. And a capital “C”, too.’

Natalie spoke up, her quiet voice quivering a little. ‘I like that. It’s got “Cross” in it and “Star” It’s nice to have Matt’s … I mean, the family’s name in the band.’

‘Tasmin suggested it,’ said Layla. ‘Sabrina didn’t want her name to be used, so this is a sort of compromise.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Lucas wasn’t keen. He’s doing Romeo & Juliet for GCSE.’

Aah. That’s where it came from. He had seen the film once or twice, and from what he remembered, it wasn’t a very lucky choice of name. Not to worry. ‘It isn’t up to him, is it?,’ he said. ‘Lucas won’t be performing.’

Layla shifted on the couch, and looked uncertain. At that moment, Mary brought the tea in. Natalie excused herself.

When they were alone, Layla said, ‘About Luke.’

‘Luke? You mean Lucas?’

‘Yeah. He’s trying out his new name for size. He’s been pestering me to change my mind about him and Dylan performing in Project Sabrina. The thing is, it was more Matt’s decision than mine. He didn’t want Luke to get a taste for performing too early. He didn’t want it to go to his head.’

There was silence for a moment as they remembered Matt. The problem was that they were also remembering Dougie. Was Matt overcompensating with Luke? Trying too hard to protect his other boy?

‘What does Sabrina think?’ asked Connor.

‘Jess is dead against Luke being on stage,’ said Layla, not quite answering his question.

‘Talk of the devil,’ said Connor. The door had opened and Lucas — no, Luke — had come in with Natalie.

With typical teenage abruptness, Luke said, ‘I saw Natalie and guessed Connor would be here. Have you asked him about whether I should be on stage?’

Layla ignored her son and started to pour the tea. Natalie sat down, and Luke came over. Only when he had joined them on the couches did his mother acknowledge him. Luke seemed put out: the lines between his eyebrows furrowed more than they usually did — certainly more than they had done when his father had told him that he wouldn’t be performing on Sabrina’s debut.

‘Dad always trusted your judgement,’ said Luke to Connor. ‘He trusted Mum more, but she’s got enough on her plate.’

This is awkward. Which one should I upset? Connor remembered the way that Luke had told him and Grant to keep things ticking over, and he also remembered that Layla owned most of the shares in Laycross Entertainments and that this was Project Sabrina not Project Luke. On the other hand, if Sabrina actually made it…

‘I need to hear them,’ he said. ‘With and without the rhythm section; sooner rather than later.’

‘Jess is at work today,’ said Luke, with a little distaste. Connor couldn’t decide if it was distaste for Jess or distaste at the idea of working. ‘She’s coming over tonight,’ added Luke. ‘Can you make it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Connor. ‘If Natalie can manage in the Piano Bar without me.’

‘Keep busy: that’s what I’m doing,’ said Layla to Natalie.

Natalie nodded to Connor. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Thanks,’ said Luke, getting up and heading for the door.

‘Right,’ said Connor. ‘I’ll see you later.’ When Luke had left, he said, ‘We’d better be going, love. We’ve got a flat to look at.’ He turned to Layla, ‘D’you mind if I nip downstairs to the cellar?’

Layla looked at Natalie. Their hostess had been sympathetic so far, but Connor sensed that she wasn’t keen to be left alone with the other woman. Before Layla could say anything, Connor spoke up. ‘Nat, why don’t you go down to the stables and see Sabrina? Luke’s right: Layla’s got a lot on her plate. Maybe you could start to help out with some of the arrangements for the Piano Bar, you know, how she wants it looking when the band makes its debut.’

Natalie stood up, and so did Layla.

‘It’s Sabrina’s debut, not the band’s,’ said Layla. A warning note had crept into her voice.

‘Of course it is,’ said Connor. ‘When I watch them rehearse tonight, I’ll only be thinking of which option is best for her.’

‘Good,’ said Layla. She gave Natalie a hug. ‘Take care.’

Connor left Natalie to head for the stables and went down the passage that led to the cellar door and Matt’s study. As he approached the end of the corridor, Andy and Claudia emerged from the study.

Andy was radiating waves of annoyance, and put his arm protectively round Claudia, something that Connor had never seen him do before. Claudia looked ill: her face was both pinched and flushed, and she was clutching her stomach. Connor pressed himself against the wall to make room. Andy looked daggers at him as they passed.

The cellars under the ‘new’ part of Flaxall Manor were a rabbit warren of passages. There used to be a separate entrance so that the coal man, the ice man and other tradesmen could get in without disturbing the servants or bringing fifty sacks of coal through the house. Matt had bricked it up because it was a security risk.

There were two wine cellars down there. One was open to anyone (though Mary kept a close eye on the stock). The other was safely behind steel bars and secured with a heavy duty padlock. This was Connor’s inheritance.

He checked the key that Layla had given him: it fitted the padlock. He wasn’t going to look inside just yet — partly through superstition (don’t count your chickens) and partly because he didn’t want to upset Andy Mallinson unnecessarily. What he did do was take out his phone. He set the flash to Auto and took as many pictures as he could of the bottles and cases, leaning his arms through the bars to get round the corner. He flicked through the camera roll to check the focus (good), and finally took a plastic tag from his pocket.

As general manager, one of his occasional jobs was to perform a stock take in the pubs and restaurants. If there was a problem, he would put a numbered plastic seal on the door and call in the professionals.

Around the seal on the wine cellar, he slipped a luggage tag with his name and phone number.

‘You’ve got no right to do that,’ said Andy Mallinson from behind him.

‘Jesus, Andy! Where did you spring from?’

Mallinson looked both angry and exhausted. When he made no further comment, Connor remembered the look on his wife’s face.

‘How’s Claudia? She didn’t look so clever.’

Andy ignored the question. ‘As executor, I have to inventory and value the contents,’ he said, pointing to the wine cellar.

‘I know,’ said Connor, ‘and I trust you. It’s the bizzies I don’t trust. They’ve got the other key. Besides, I don’t want Lucas getting clever with any bolt cutters.’

Andy changed the subject again. ‘Have you been talking to Grant?’

‘Of course I have. I talk to him all the time. I talk to you as well, when you’re around.’

Mallinson wiped his hand across his face. In the quiet of the cellar, Connor could hear the rasp of skin on skin. Either Andy badly needed a shave or he really needed to see a dermatologist. Mallinson pulled himself together, and stood a little straighter.

‘We’re going to have to make some strategic decisions,’ he said, then paused.

Here we go. The future of Laycross Entertainments is now in play.

Andy summoned up some more energy. ‘It’s going to be difficult to work the planning committee in the way we used to. Matt had a knack of convincing them to allow applications for Change of Use. It’s a lot easier to make money on commercial property if you can switch from licensed premises to retail, and retail to residential in a hurry. One can take advantage of market movements, then.’

Connor tried to laugh. ‘Is that what you call it? Like when we closed the Duke of Westminster last year and turned it into flats?’

‘Yes. That part of town had simply gone out of fashion. We weren’t getting the crowds in any more.’

‘It was still making a profit. I told you that.’

‘A profit, yes, but a poor return on investment. We used the surplus capital from the sale of the flats to refurbish Layla’s Bar and the restaurant, as well as upgrading the Cheney Arms.’

The Cheney Arms — the village pub in Flaxall — wasn’t directly part of Connor’s responsibilities. It had been a sore point with Connor ever since Matt had bought it.

‘What are you saying, Andy? Give us a clue: I’m only the general manager.’

‘It’s going to be difficult to sell or buy any properties in the near future. That’s what I’m saying.’

‘Fair enough. Business as usual, eh?’

Andy leaned against the cellar wall, oblivious of the grime. ‘Not quite. That’s why I asked if you’d been talking to Grant. We have to think about which way we go from here. I don’t think business as usual is an option.’

Don’t tell that to Grant. That’s exactly what he thinks we’re going to do — carry on as before. Connor waited half a second to see if Andy would follow up his statement with some concrete plans, but the effort of focusing on the business had exhausted him. Time to move the conversation on to safer ground.

‘What did the bizzies say?’ he asked.

Andy shrugged and heaved himself off the wall. ‘Did Matt have any enemies? Where were you on Sunday? That sort of thing. I’d better get Claudia home.’ Andy walked up the cellar steps, dragging himself up with the handrail.

Well, that’s as clear as mud. Andy had brought up the subject but not said anything to which Connor could agree or disagree. Layla must have instructed her brother not to sell the separate parts of the business: as majority shareholder, that was her right. The battleground would now be the style of the operation.

Matt had held everything together because no one argued with him and because he was always proved right. The Laycross empire had been Matt’s show: a solo performance with backing vocals. Now there were many voices and no conductor. Andy and Claudia made up one voice; Grant was another; Layla and Lucas were the third. The chances of harmony with that choir were slim, and Connor was no Gareth Malone.

He would face a choice, soon. If he backed the wrong voice, he would be replaced. If he tried to play them off against each other, the winner would replace him anyway. Andy and Claudia were a powerful team and had an advantage because Layla was all over the place with grief and worry about her family. The Mallinsons could easily come out on top, and they had the least direct experience of the entertainments business and would want to keep Connor on board if he backed their ideas.

On the other hand, Layla owned the shares. She trusted Connor and would let him have a free hand — so long as Sabrina prospered.

‘Connor? Are you still down there?’ Natalie’s voice echoed down the steps. ‘I’m not coming down. It’s scary.’

‘Sorry, love. I got waylaid by Andy. I’m on my way.’

Finally, there was Grant. There were two reasons to support Grant. First — he was a very hard man to say no to. Second — where would Natalie get her methadone without him?

Connor bounced up the steps and gave Nat a kiss. ‘Let’s go flat-hunting,’ he said.

15

Grosvenor Crescent is not the best address in Southport, but it was a big step up from Bridget’s flat, and a giant leap from the dingy box where Connor had lived since his ex-wife had kicked him out. Number Fourteen was one half a Victorian semi-detached mansion. Well, it looked like a mansion from the outside. From the inside, the top floor flat looked light, airy and modern. Apart from the kitchen units, it was also a blank canvas.

‘We could really put our own stamp on this,’ said Connor, putting his arm around Natalie and drawing her towards the window.

‘Can we really?’ she asked.

‘Of course. So long as we don’t damage the fabric, we can do what we like. It’ll make a change from Bridget’s place, won’t it?’

Natalie snorted. ‘Not half it won’t.’

He pressed the point. ‘I love her to bits, you know, but I can’t imagine how you’ve survived living in an OCD cathedral. You wouldn’t think that Gothic could be quite so antiseptic, would you?’

She smiled, acknowledging the truth of what he said but unwilling to criticise her flatmate. She turned into him and put both arms around his waist, lifting up his jacket to warm her hands. Connor could feel the chill on his back and the warmth of her chest against him.

She spoke into his shoulder. ‘I’m not gonna change if we move in together. I’m not gonna become a domestic goddess just because I’m with you.’

‘You’re already a goddess to me, love.’

She snorted again and leaned back, looking up. ‘Cheeseball. I’m surprised you got such a reputation if that’s your idea of flattery.’

He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Have I even looked at another woman since we got together?’

‘Yes. Frequently. You were at it last night with Bridget’s new boss. If that’s what she was.’

‘Of course it’s her new boss. Why else would Bridget be seen drinking with someone so … conventional?’

‘Whatever.’ She leaned into him again. ‘I’m a shit cook, a crap housewife and I hate socialising, especially when you’re on duty. Why do you want to live with me?’

‘Because you’re gorgeous, you’re funny and we were made for each other. That’s why.’

Connor had another list of reasons in his head, and that’s exactly where they were going to stay. He had no intention of telling her that he wanted to look after her, that she was easy in bed and that she made him feel twenty years younger.

She eased him gently backwards so that they could look at each other properly. ‘Six months? That’s a long time. I don’t think I’ve ever had a six month lease on anything.’

‘You’ve been with Bridget for three years now. If it makes you feel better, you can pay her a month’s rent when we leave to keep your room open. Just in case I drive you mad.’

‘Sod that! Think of what we could buy with the money: if we do this, we do it together.’

That was Natalie all over. One second it was a step too far, then it wasn’t far enough. Connor leaned in and kissed her. ‘Deal,’ he said.

She kissed him back. ‘Deal.’

They turned back to look at the room again, and Connor saw something from the corner of his eye, something moving in the street. He leaned over and looked down. Shit.

‘We’ve got our first visitor,’ he said. ‘Grant’s on his way to the front door.’

‘How the hell did he know we were here?’

‘I said we were flat hunting. I didn’t say where. I’ll go down and see what he wants. You take some pictures and start thinking about furniture.’

‘Ooh, Connor. You say the sexiest things.’

‘Give over, girl. Just remember to leave room for the flat screen TV.’

He dodged out of the flat before Natalie could retaliate and bounced down the stairs. He was going to have to get fit if he was going to live here. He opened the door and let Grant into the building.

‘How did you track me down?’ he asked.

‘I’ve got a good memory. You told me about this place the other day — I just looked for your car.’

Grant seemed happy to talk in the hall, not even glancing at the staircase. ‘I hear you’ve been out at the Manor,’ he said.

‘Yeah. Nat wanted to pay her respects to Layla.’

Grant nodded. ‘Good. How’s things?’

‘All right, I suppose.’

Grant nodded again. Connor said nothing, for once. This was Grant’s visit: he could lay his cards down first.

The other man reached into his pocket and palmed a packet of methadone tablets to Connor. Natalie would have a supply well into next month.

‘Thanks,’ said Connor. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

‘Make the most of it,’ said Grant. ‘Unless we change things, my suppliers are going to cut me off without so much as a bag of skunk to show for it. You know how it works.’

Here we go. First Andy Mallinson, now Grant. I wonder how long it will be before he says “Business as usual”?

‘Actually, Grant, I don’t know how it works. My criminal record is squeaky clean because I’m in the hospitality industry, not the drugs trade. There’s cross-over, yeah, but I can make money with or without resident dealers.’

Grant nodded, as if giving the idea some serious thought, then he rolled his shoulders, like a boxer before the bell goes for the first round. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘You might make some money, but not much. How many of those punters come in because they know that stuff is available? How much do they spend at the bar because they’ve come to score?’ He shook his head, like the teachers at school used to do when they were disappointed with you. In Connor’s case, that was most of the time. ‘I don’t know my arse from a spreadsheet,’ Grant continued, ‘but I understand the bottom line. When Mallinson read out the figures at that meeting, the one in Matt’s study, everyone knew why the profits were down on paper: fewer punters. And we’re not getting the cash bonuses any more from the dealers. I’m surprised you can afford to rent in a place like this with what you get paid officially.’

It was the longest speech he had heard Grant make in years. Connor wondered if he’d rehearsed it, and if he appreciated the joke about his arse and the bottom line. Probably not.

‘I hear what you’re saying, Grant, and I’m not arguing with you.’

‘Cut the crap, Connor. The last person who said that to me ended up in hospital. You should know me better than that.’

Was the building heated throughout, or was Connor having a hot flush? Grant looked as icy as the weather outside, like he always did. Connor glanced at the staircase, thinking of the life he was trying to build for him and Nat. The quickest way to end it would be to upset Grant.

‘Sorry, Grant,’ he said. ‘That came out wrong.’ He took a deep breath. ‘When I was at the Manor, Andy backed me into a corner to give me his version of life after Matt.’

Grant frowned. ‘Which is what, exactly?’

Connor spread his hands. ‘He wants to change the business completely, to target a market that doesn’t want to go where drugs are sold. Layla wants the place full of anyone who might be an audience for StarCross’d, and you want to go back to business as usual. Can you see I might be a bit conflicted here?’

‘What in God’s name is Starcross?’

‘The new name for Sabrina’s band. StarCross’d. It’s…’

Grant waved the explanation away. He’d clearly been thinking ahead. As Connor had outlined his dilemma, Grant had been nodding as if he’d thought of all these points. ‘Who’s the weak link, eh Connor? I know that Andy’s a patient man; we’ve all seen that. He could probably kill off Sabrina’s band if he put his mind to it. What happens then? Layla will lose interest in the business without Sabrina’s future at stake and without Matt involved. If Andrew Mallinson gets hold of Laycross Entertainments, he won’t need you to create more wine bars, will he? Once he and that bitch are in charge, you’ll be history.’

‘You could be right, but Layla’s as much against drugs as Matt is. Was, I mean.’

Grant gave him the disappointed-teacher look again. ‘You’ve got it wrong, Connor. Matt was against drugs because of Dougie, remember? He didn’t care what other people’s kids got up to. Matt only cared about keeping the stuff away from his own. Don’t forget, he was paying Natalie to run that shop selling all sorts of legal shit.’

‘And you think Layla isn’t bothered?’

‘She’s not, and I’ll tell you why — if the Devil himself came up to Layla and said that he’d give Sabrina a record deal in exchange for a crack cocaine habit, Layla would ask him if he could lend her a knife so she could sign the contract in blood.’

‘Where did you get that idea from. It’s a bit … flowery, innit?’

Grant was a bull. A big, menacing snorting bull. To see him look sheepish was very disconcerting, but sheepish he looked.

‘I told you I’ve got a good memory,’ said Grant, staring at the Victorian tiles. ‘It’s what Matt said to me at the start of Project Sabrina. He said it again … recently. Now he’s not here, we need to decide how best to give Layla what she wants. Layla wants a career for Sabrina, and she needs you and the Piano Bar. I think your best shot is to get the buzz going again. You know what I mean.’

The sweat forming down Connor’s back was sticking to his jacket, and it suddenly went very cold. When had Matt repeated that phrase? A horrible image came into Connor’s head, an image of Matt laying down the law in the woods, and of Grant not liking what he heard. That scene was rapidly followed by an image of Grant picking up Matt’s shotgun…

‘I know what you mean,’ said Connor. ‘But if we go down that road, how are we gonna keep Andy and Claudia off our backs?’

Grant gave a more positive nod. The pupil was starting to get the hang of today’s lesson. ‘Quaker’s Fold. We need to make sure that he gets his way with that development. It’ll keep him busy for years. We’ll have to help him out in any way we can.’

‘Yeah. Good plan. I’ll start tonight.’

Grant raised his eyebrows in question, and Connor explained about the sing-off with and without the StarCross’d rhythm section.

‘Keep the boys off the stage.’ Was Grant’s considered opinion. ‘All the others will be eighteen by the time of the performance. I’ll see you later.’

Grant left him in peace, and Connor climbed the stairs much more slowly than he had come down them. He found Natalie in the bathroom, staring at the shower enclosure. There was water in the shower tray.

‘Look at this,’ she said, and reached in to turn the valve. A torrent of water flooded out, soaking her arm. She turned it off and rolled up the wet sleeve on her blouse. ‘How could I refuse a man who offered me a power shower?’

‘You’ll be wanting a dressing room next.’

‘We won’t need the spare bedroom. Besides, it’s tiny. I can keep all my mess in there.’

She beamed at him, and Connor took her into his arms. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s drop off the keys, sign the lease and go and break the good news to Bridget.’

It was quiet in the Tombs. Quiet as the grave, thought Tom for umpteenth time. The only noise to be heard was water coursing through the cast iron radiators. In the distance, Isabelle Innes gave a smoker’s cough.

In forty-eight hours, he had got precisely nowhere with this case. Nothing had come up to supply a suspect, or even a promising line of enquiry. What’s more, he had the press office on his back with these conspiracy eco-nutters, and he’d just sacked one of his detectives. If nothing turned up this afternoon, he was going to be left holding a very unpleasant parcel when the music stopped. He smiled to himself. Write out a hundred times: I must not mix my metaphors. He was the SIO, and he had a special job to do. He had to trust his team (or what was left of it) to play their parts and bring home the bacon. Playing parts? Bacon?

His phone rang: Phil Dunn.

‘Cotton and Fraser are back, Boss.’

‘Good. My office in ten minutes, all of you. And Isabelle.’

There was a flurry of noise in the corridor as tea was made, then the team arrived and settled down around the conference table. Tom asked Phil Dunn to begin with a summary of house-to-house interviews in Flaxall village, with attention on the approaches to Quaker’s Fold.

‘Nothing, I’m afraid. There isn’t much traffic down that lane, but there’s enough that vehicles aren’t noteworthy. No one was looking out, no one saw anything unusual.’

‘Shame. How did you get on with the phone records?’

‘It’s looking more and more as if Matt Cross had a second phone somewhere, because he barely used the one we found with him. Over 90% of the calls were to his family or to the Laycross Office landline. No calls were made to any known associates.’

Tom turned to Hazel Cotton. ‘Did the family have anything to say about that?’

‘Sorry, Boss. They all said he was old-school, didn’t like mobiles, preferred to do business face-to-face.’

Tom wondered aloud: ‘Then how did he arrange his meetings? Perhaps we can follow that up later. Hazel, what have you learnt today?’

The Family Liaison Officer dumped her voluminous bag on the table and dug out her notebook. Everyone else already had theirs in front of them. Hazel scattered several tissues and many crumbs of food before she located the notebook and some papers. When she moved her bag, she didn’t notice the mess and carried on regardless. While she was looking through her notes, Isabelle tutted and swept the detritus away.

‘Aah,’ said Hazel. ‘Here we are. Mary the housekeeper and her husband were out all day on Sunday visiting their children and grandchildren. Between twelve and three o’clock they were in a Harvester pub. She even showed me a group selfie to prove it. She had nothing to add about the business, or any enemies that the victim might have had. I think she saw Matt Cross as a saint, for some reason.’ Hazel shrugged. ‘What I did get from her is that she thought he’d been making a lot more visits to the woods over the last few months. She had no idea why.’

‘Interesting,’ said Tom. ‘Go on.’

‘I finally got to talk to Mr & Mrs Mallinson — Andrew and Claudia. We all know that Andrew is heavily involved in the business, but he refused to say anything. According to him, Matt was semi-retired and very hands-off.’

Elaine snorted.

‘I agree,’ said Hazel, ‘but we’re going to have a hard time proving it. Claudia runs Laycross Properties and looks after the buildings and property developments.’

‘What about Quaker’s Fold?’ asked Tom.

‘What about it?’ responded Hazel.

‘We heard from Kingsley Laidlaw that Matt Cross claimed to own it. I sent you a text to follow it up.’

She shrugged. ‘Sorry, Boss, I didn’t understand what you meant. And I’d finished with the Mallinsons by then anyway.’

Tom looked at Phil, who nodded and made a note in his list of actions for tomorrow.

Hazel continued. ‘Andrew Mallinson and Layla Cross are brother and sister, remember? Well, their poor mum is in a nursing home. Not too well. On Sunday, Layla visited in the afternoon and Andrew visited in the evening. I nipped out to check: it’s about twenty minutes’ drive from the Manor. They both signed in and out; Layla was definitely there all afternoon, Andrew all evening.’

‘What about their alibis for the afternoon?’

‘Claudia’s not so well either — she looked really peaky today. She and Andrew were at home all Sunday afternoon. Claudia was resting in bed; she said that he ran round after her. I can’t see it myself, but there you go.’

‘Anyone who can confirm that? Any children or visitors?’

‘No kids, no visitors. Oh, I remembered to ask about the will. He referred me to Layla, said his copy was in the office. Layla ran this off for me.’ She moved some papers into the middle of the table with no additional explanation.

Tom sighed. They all knew by now that he had once been a lawyer; he shouldn’t be surprised that they left it to him. He grabbed the copy of the will and scanned through it. The rest of his team waited patiently for a minute, then started shuffling, moving papers and checking their phones.

‘Matthew Cross was definitely old-school when it came to marital assets,’ said Tom, putting down the will and pointing to a huge paragraph of closely typed provisions. ‘His wife had no legal interest in the Manor, and still doesn’t: it goes into trust for the children, with her having a lifetime interest.’

Elaine was the first to pick up on this — Tom was glad to see that she wasn’t afraid to show the others that she had a quick brain. ‘But she could live, I don’t know, forty years, easily. The kids won’t see a penny until then. If everyone knew that...’

‘She only keeps possession if she can keep it maintained. That’ll take a substantial income. The trust also complicates the issue of IHT.’

Three of the team (not Isabelle), looked askance at him. ‘Inheritance Tax. There could still be a huge bill due on the Manor. Phil, could you put me down for an action to look into this tomorrow.’ His sergeant nodded. Tom continued. ‘There are several other bequests. A cash sum goes to the housekeeper and gardener; not a massive amount. He’s left his library to Andrew Mallinson. Hazel, did you see it?’

‘Yeah. A load of books in glass cases.’

Tom tried not to bang his head on the table. ‘Were they locked?’

She smiled. ‘Yeah. I think they were.’

‘Then they’re probably valuable. Phil, get the SOCOs back to the Manor tomorrow and get them to have a look and take pictures. There’s more, too. Matt Cross left his wine cellar to someone called Connor Holden. Who’s he?’

Elaine answered. ‘Some sort of entertainments manager. One of the band members implied that he was very close to Layla.’

‘Phil — we need to interview him, but we need to know more about him first, including what’s in his inheritance. Add the wine cellar to the Scene of Crime Manager’s actions.’

He looked around the group before reading the next item. ‘To Grant Benson, I leave my shotguns.’ There was a collective intake of breath. ‘I want him interviewed here, tomorrow afternoon, by you, Phil. Elaine can assist.’

‘Sir.’

‘Finally, we have a bequest to Flaxall parish church for the maintenance of the churchyard.’ He turned to Hazel. ‘Did you find out who Dougie was?’ Tom knew, of course; he just wanted to check that she’d completed all of her actions.

‘Mmm. I got it out of Mary after a bit of effort.’ She looked at her notes. ‘Matt was married a long time ago and had a son. Mary doesn’t know exactly what happened to his wife, but she died.’

‘Arson,’ said Tom, ‘amounting to murder. I’ll put the files on to HOLMES2. Go on.’

‘The boy Dougie lived with his dad and then Layla too. According to Mary, he was a troubled boy who got into drugs. He died of an overdose when he was eighteen.’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘How long ago?’ asked Isabelle, her first contribution.

‘Ten years.’

Tom exhaled noisily. ‘I don’t know. We’ll park that one for future reference. He could have been visiting the woods to look over to the churchyard, or he could have been visiting the woods to shoot rabbits. Anything else?’ Hazel shook her head. ‘Elaine?’

He had noticed her becoming more animated as the meeting had gone on, and she was clearly ready to say something, that’s why he’d left her until last.

‘I think we’ve left Lucas — Luke — Cross alone too much. We know that he argued with his father. We also know that Luke has handled shotguns, and that his dad fired him from Project Sabrina.’

‘Project What?’ said Phil.

‘It’s their codename for the plan to launch Sabrina’s singing career. Layla has put together a backing band to support her. Luke was in it, now he’s not. He really wants to be a drummer, and his dad just announced that he wasn’t going to perform. It’s a powerful motive.’

Tom rubbed his chin and turned to Hazel. ‘You’ve seen more of him than anyone. He’s only sixteen: do you see him picking up a shotgun and blasting his father with it? Twice?’

She gave it some serious thought. ‘He’s old for his years, in some ways. He flat out lied about his father re-thinking his place in the band. Has a core of steel, like both his parents, I think.’ She nodded. ‘He could be Oedipus, yeah.’

Dunn frowned. ‘Didn’t Oedipus … sleep with his mother?’

‘Only after he killed his father,’ said Tom. ‘I don’t know. I can see a lot of sixteen year olds getting very upset if they lose their chance of the big dream. But it’s a long way from lying about your last conversation with your father to murdering him. How did his mother respond to the lie?’

Hazel hesitated, and it was Elaine who answered. ‘She didn’t believe him, but she accepted it. Luke might get exactly what he wanted.’

Hazel looked over at Elaine. ‘She might have a point, sir. I found out today that Luke has managed to convince his mother to re-think the issue. She’s organised for an audition with Connor Holden in his role as the Simon Cowell of Southport.’

‘Then you better get statements from the rest of the band while they’re all together.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Yes. The overtime budget will stretch to that.’

‘But I’ve got commitments. I need to be in Wigan in an hour.’

‘You’re on the Major Incident Rosta, aren’t you?’

She was silent. Tom repeated his question.

‘Of course I am,’ she snapped. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

He turned to Phil. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but…’

Phil went puce. He turned to Hazel and said, ‘Availability for overtime is a requirement of consideration for MIT duty. If it’s a reasonable request.’

A silence descended while everyone wondered if Tom’s request were reasonable. She hadn’t told him about her commitments, so Tom was certain that it was entirely reasonable. However, he’d already lost one detective today…

‘Can you get back to the Manor later?’ he asked. ‘You do have a pool car, after all.’

Tom, Elaine and Isabelle all stared at Hazel. Phil looked at his notes. Hazel flicked her gaze around the room, settling on the ceiling. She breathed in and out. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Fine,’ said Tom, before she could add any qualifications. ‘Anything else from anyone?’

They all shook their heads.

‘Good. That’s been solid progress today. We’ll have a good list of actions for tomorrow, too. Thanks everyone. I’m going to take DC Fraser to interview a witness from a previous case who’s turned up in Southport and says she might have something to add — her name’s Lucy White for the record, Phil. I’ll see the rest of you in the morning.’

As they packed up, Tom saw Hazel glare at Elaine, and heard her muttering under her breath: I don’t see why she can’t go to the Manor. It’s not as if…

Tom tuned her out and started to pack up.

‘Why are we going to see Lucy?’ asked Elaine. ‘And why am I going to play gooseberry?’

‘We’re going because she said she had information about the Matt Cross investigation. Whatever you think of her, she wouldn’t be making that up. You’re going because I want a witness.’

When they got outside, they took one look at the traffic and decided to walk to Giuseppe’s Gelateria. They dumped their bags in their cars and fell into step. ‘I wonder what Lucy said to her colleague after we ran into her last night?’ said Elaine.

‘Don’t remind me. I haven’t been so embarrassed since… you don’t need to know that.’

She tried a smile. ‘Are you sure, sir? Might help put you in context.’

He stopped on the pavement. ‘You’ve met my mother. You’ve seen the family home. How much context do you want?’

It came out as more of a rebuke than he’d intended. Before he could soften the edge, Elaine spoke up. ‘Phil Dunn’s been looking into you. He said something about Cairndale Golf Club and a helicopter; then he rubbed his nose in an irritating way, as if to say that he knows something I don’t. Which he obviously does.’

‘I’m sorry, Elaine. It was all a bit raw when we first met. I didn’t want you to think I’m some sort of James Bond character.’

She laughed. ‘No chance of that, sir.’ She raised her hand to her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean…’

‘You’ve seen me attempting to run. I know my limitations. It’s too cold and it’s too late for what is a very long story, but I will tell you. Soon. One thing I guarantee is that Phil Dunn doesn’t know the half of it: most of the details are either sub judice or covered by the Official Secrets Act.’

‘Fair enough. When I’ve got more energy, I’ll be itching with curiosity. Let’s see if PS White was telling the truth about the coffee in Giuseppe’s.’

They finished the journey in silence. The windows of the café were misted, figures moving slowly behind the steamy glass. Tom went inside first.

The strikingly Goth waitress they had seen last night was at the right hand end, serving coffees to a group of pensioners. Lucy was seated alone on the left, her table covered with papers and small bags of what looked like coffee beans. As he approached, she looked up and smiled wearily at him. His heart lurched to one side, then lurched back when the smile fixed rigidly in place. Lucy had realised that he’d brought Elaine.

He took the seat opposite to her, leaving Elaine to sit at the end. Instead of a greeting, Lucy waved towards the counter. ‘I’m still working on the coffee, but the tea is drinkable. Ask Bridget to make you a strong pot for two.’

‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Elaine, quickly standing up again. ‘I’ve got to drive to Manchester. Sir?’

‘Please.’

She scuttled off to the counter, leaving Tom and Lucy alone for a second. Presumably deliberately.

‘How are you?’ said Tom.

Lucy waved at the papers. ‘Overwhelmed. Running a business is much more complicated when you’re not the sole owner and employee.’

‘You’ll crack it. Have you seen your dad yet?’

This time, the smile was broader, echoed in her eyes, even if it was tinged with sadness. ‘Thanks for asking, but no. He’s still refusing to give me a Visiting Order. Not that we’re allowed to say much to each other, not with me being a witness. Sergeant Jepson was very clear about that. She’s almost as scary as her.’ Lucy pointed to Elaine. ‘We’ve got about ten seconds before she walks slowly back to the table.’

What could he say in ten seconds that wouldn’t sound like an outtake from a cheesy RomCom? He opted to say nothing, and just looked at her tired eyes instead. She held his gaze and they smiled together. A loud cough from six feet behind him broke the spell.

‘I succumbed,’ said Elaine. ‘I’m having a cake, too.’

Lucy sat up straight behind the table. ‘I’m sorry to drag you both here after work. I just thought, last night, that I should say something.’ She paused while the waitress, black of hair, black of nail polish and black of earrings came over. ‘Tom, Elaine — this is Bridget Gorrigan, my right hand woman. Bridge, this is DCI Tom Morton and DC Elaine Fraser.’

Bridget appraised them with the secret smile of one who knows more about you than you know about them. She rubbed it in by saying, ‘Nice to meet you both. Lucy’s told me so much about you.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Lucy. ‘Go away, Bridget.’

‘After today, it’s nice to be somewhere almost normal,’ said Elaine. She really was doing her best not to antagonise anyone. On past performance, someone would get it in the neck sooner or later.

Lucy and Elaine didn’t have a high opinion of each other, but Lucy responded to the other woman’s olive branch with a tentative smile, then took a deep breath. ‘You’re on the Matt Cross murder enquiry, yes?’

‘He’s gone up in the world,’ said Elaine. ‘He’s running the show this time.’

Lucy’s eyes widened a little, then she pressed on. ‘Last night I was in Layla’s Bar with Bridget. To cut a long story short, I spoke to a guy called Connor Holden. He’s the general manager, or something.’

Tom looked at Elaine; Elaine looked at Tom. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘This is definitely worth knowing.’

‘Obviously we didn’t speak about the case. I did find out that Connor’s girlfriend — Natalie — is Bridget’s flatmate. They’re quite close, I think.’

While Tom was digesting this, Elaine’s face sharpened as she leaned forward. ‘Would that be Natalie Alderson?’

‘Yes. Has…’ Instead of asking Has her name come up? Lucy nodded, shaking the curls in her hair. Tom had no idea who Natalie Alderson was, but he knew that Elaine would tell him, so he let it slide, and went to pour the tea.

Lucy looked down at the tray. ‘Oh, Elaine,’ she said. ‘Don’t have that. It’s really dry. Ask Bridget to get you a slice of the lemon drizzle.’

Elaine broke her chocolate cake with the fork. She pushed it to one side and got up again.

Lucy’s eyes followed her across the room, and she was about to say something when the door opened. Instead of ignoring the interruption, she gasped in surprise.

16

They had only just made it to the estate agent before he locked up. Connor had signed on the dotted line, and the agent’s assistant would meet them at the property on Monday morning to read the meters and hand over the keys.

They strolled down Tyler Street, hand in hand, turning to smile at each other and saying things like Dressing Room (Natalie) and Home Office (Connor).

Natalie was pointing out, as they crossed the road, that Connor had an enormous office in the Laycross building. They reached the other side and he let her have the last word. Besides, she was right.

Through the windows of Giuseppe’s he could see the new manager, Lucy, seated at a table with papers in front of her. Connor pushed open the door and led Nat inside. While they were hanging up their coats, he saw that Bridget was discussing cakes with a tall, rather fierce looking woman.

‘I’ll introduce you to Bridget’s new boss,’ he said to Natalie.

Lucy White was sharing her table with a man in a suit, probably the area manager or something. Connor put his arm around Natalie and they walked through the tables. Was that a hint of panic in Lucy’s eyes? It was too late to back pedal now.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said. ‘It was nice to meet you last night, and I thought it would be nice to introduce you properly to Natalie, Bridget’s flatmate.’

Lucy shook her curly hair. Her eyes were saying “terrifying” but the set of her mouth was saying “hilarious”.

The guy in the suit turned to face them and fished something out of his pocket. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Morton,’ he said, holding up a police warrant card. He pointed behind them. ‘This is Detective Constable Fraser. With an “s”.’

The fierce woman was behind them, holding up her own warrant card. Bridget was standing behind her, holding a plate of lemon cake and enjoying every minute of it. Connor decided that if ever there was a moment to be silent, it was now.

Morton put his card away and looked him in the eye. ‘I believe you worked closely with Mr Cross for a long time,’ he said.

Connor nodded.

‘In that case, I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr Holden. You too, Miss Alderson.’ As he spoke, the detective rubbed the top of his left arm, as if it ached.

Natalie had already hung her head, letting her hair drop in front of her face. Connor called it her hedgehog look — curl up and hide. Unfortunately, in Natalie’s life, rather too many cars had come along over the years.

Connor cleared his throat. ‘Thanks. Are you…?’

‘I’m the SIO. My team will want to interview you in due course, Mr Holden, but I won’t spoil your afternoon completely.’ He pointed to Lucy White. ‘I was here on a matter completely unconnected with Mr Cross. We’ll leave you in peace.’

He stood up and squeezed past them. No one spoke until the police officers had left the café. Down the other end, three old ladies carried on their conversation oblivious of the drama.

‘Cake?’ said Bridget, holding out the slice of lemon drizzle.

‘Give over,’ said Connor.

Bridget gave him an evil grin and picked up the slice of cake. She took a huge bite from it and said, ‘Shame to let it go to waste.’

Connor studied Lucy White again. She looked mortified, hurt and disappointed all at once. There was no trace of guilt. Maybe it really was an unfortunate coincidence. His philosophy was always to give the benefit of the doubt. Once.

He shook his head to pull himself together. ‘We won’t stop either. Just came to let you know we’ve taken the flat. It’ll take us a while to get some furniture together, but Nat and I will be gone soon.’

‘Good,’ said Bridget around the mouthful of cake. She swallowed. ‘Good for you two, and good for me. I’ll start saving for a moving-in present. How does a bundle of microfibre cloths sound?’

Natalie pulled the hair away from her face. ‘Can you get them in black? They’ll remind me of you, Bridget.’

Bridget licked her fingers. ‘Seriously, Connor, the bizzies weren’t here for you; at least not today. Those two have come up to Southport from Cheshire. Lucy was a witness in a case down there.’ She picked up the last morsel of cake. ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’

Connor had a bad feeling about this.

‘It’s a farewell party on Sunday night — single swingers’ karaoke. All four of us. And you can’t stop me doing the Time Warp.’ She popped the cake into her mouth and turned on her heel.

Lucy White spoke up. ‘Nice to meet you, Natalie. Bridget’s going to miss you, really.’

Now there’s a well brought-up middle-class girl. He said goodbye and they left the café.

On the pavement, he turned to Natalie. ‘I’ll double check next time before I talk to strangers, eh?’

Natalie shrugged and smiled. ‘He had nice eyes, that policeman. Meeting him hasn’t spoiled today. Nothing’s going to do that.’ She reached up to kiss him. ‘It’s late. I’ve got a spare uniform in my locker at Layla’s. I’ll go and open up now. You better get off to Flaxall.’

‘Take care, love,’ he said, and they kissed again. Natalie hopped over the road and reached in her bag for the keys to Layla’s Bar.

Connor walked towards his car. Meeting the police hadn’t bothered him. It never did, because he’d never done anything seriously wrong. Tonight was going to be a different matter: judging the audition for StarCross’d could turn out to be a very dangerous decision.

Tom was lost in thought as they wandered back down Lord Street towards the Tombs. Sitting opposite Lucy was the best he’d felt in days, even with Elaine in the background. Did Lucy reciprocate? Did she feel the same way?

They got to the roundabout; the Tombs was just over the other side, past the new fire station and the old courthouse. He got the impression that Elaine was giving him some thinking time. Either that or she was as knackered as he was. Probably both.

When they’d crossed the road, he turned to her. ‘You’ve got until we get to the cars to tell me everything I need to know about Natalie Alderson.’

‘Most of it was written on her arms,’ said Elaine. ‘But you were too busy looking at the other damaged one to notice.’

He stopped abruptly and frowned at her: she was very close to crossing the line. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘The scars on her arms. She had track marks from needles and scars from self-harming. None of them fresh, but not that old either. That woman has some serious dependency issues.’

‘Oh.’ They both knew that a full-blown heroin habit was very, very hard to kick.

‘That’s not all,’ continued Elaine. ‘The local sergeant told me that she used to run a shop selling legal highs. Matt Cross and/or Grant Benson were behind it, and it caused a real spike in substance abuse. She now works as assistant manager at Layla’s Bar. I’ve never heard Bridget Gorrigan’s name mentioned before, if that’s any consolation.’

‘Does Natalie Alderson have a record.’

‘A long one. Multiple counts of possession; several of soliciting in a public place. She’s young enough that most of what she did was seen as the actions of a victim, so she was rarely charged or cautioned. She only did two spells in prison, both for possession with intent to supply. Nothing for three years, though.’

‘Hmm. We’ll see. Thanks.’ They finished the journey to their cars and turned to stand by them. ‘Anything on Holden?’

‘I haven’t had a chance to look up the oldest swinger in town. He only came up for the first time this afternoon. Clearly a man with a low profile.’

‘He didn’t look that old to me.’

‘A lot older than her. It’s an even bigger gap than there is between…’ She paused, and Tom cringed, waiting for her to say between you and Lucy White. ‘… between Matt and Layla Cross. Sir.’

‘Goodnight, Constable. Safe journey.’

‘You know what, Tom, I think you should go running again.’

Her tone had changed. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. You need to get all this out of your head. A bottle of wine later, maybe, but a run first. You rubbed your left arm almost constantly while we were in the café, and I bet you didn’t even notice.’

He raised his hand in farewell and unlocked his car. His back twinged as he got in. Going out for a run, followed by a hot bath, sounded like the best advice he’d heard all week.

It didn’t strike Connor until he reached in his pocket for his car keys that he’d just been talking to two police officers with a box of methadone in his possession. If he had tried to pay for the coffees and pulled the pills out by mistake…

He shivered, then shivered again. The day’s events were beginning to catch up with him: the decision to rent the flat, the encounter with Grant, the encounter with the police (and the fact that they knew Natalie’s last name already). It all added up to the desperate need for a cigarette. He turned round and leaned on the car, reluctant to smoke inside it. Connor didn’t like choices, because choosing nearly always made life more difficult than he thought it should be. Mulling over the day, he realised that he’d actually made one irrevocable choice without thinking about it, one that had to be dealt with sooner rather than later.

He chucked away the cigarette and drove in the opposite direction to Flaxall. He had plenty of time to get to the Manor later. Committing himself to Natalie had reminded him of other commitments that hadn’t gone away. In five minutes he parked well away from his old house and completed the journey on foot, taking the opportunity to smoke another cigarette. Even though he had a key, he rang the bell and waited patiently.

‘Hi Dad,’ said his older daughter. She was going to turn away and let him past, then turned back to stand on tiptoe and give him a kiss. ‘Run out of shirts, have you?’

‘Give over, girl. You look happy.’

‘You know me, Dad. Always look on the bright side. Come in, it’s freezing.’

‘Then get out of me way, you little ray of sunshine.’

She bounced down the hall and Connor asked if everyone was at home. By saying “everyone” he could avoid choosing between using his ex-wife’s name or saying “your mother”.

‘It’s nearly teatime,’ said his daughter. ‘We’re in the kitchen.’

His ex-wife worked as a learning support assistant in the same school that both girls went to. All three were already changed out of their daily uniforms, and rich Italian aromas wafted over from the bubbling pan on the stove. Something nearly broke inside him as he took in the picture of Alexis measuring pasta and Pippa and Zara doing their homework at the kitchen table. He knew that he’d thrown all this away, and he accepted that. What hurt him was not his own loss, but Matt’s. There would never again be a happy moment in Flaxall Manor when Daddy came home.

Alexis never rubbed it in. She never reminded him of what he’d done, because she understood him better than anyone ever had, and she proved that by putting down the pasta jar and coming over to give him a hug.

‘I’m so sorry about Matt,’ she said. ‘You’re really going to miss him.’

Because she understood him, Connor didn’t try to make a joke about it. He just gave Alexis a squeeze and said, ‘Thanks, love. I can’t believe it.’

She pulled back and said, ‘Me neither. I didn’t bother you because you’ll have been mad busy. What happened?’

He looked over at the girls. They were listening, agog.

‘I honestly don’t know any more than you do. He was shot with his own gun in the woods next to the Manor. The police haven’t got a clue either.’

‘It said on the radio that it was on Sunday,’ said Zara.

‘Yeah. In the afternoon.’

Zara looked at her sister, and they both breathed out. ‘You’ve got an alibi, then,’ said Zara. ‘We were ice skating.’

Pippa gave him an innocent smile. ‘Of course, if you don’t want us to tell the police that you disappeared for two hours, I’ll want a new iPhone for my birthday.’

‘What!’ It was Alexis who exploded, looking from Connor to their daughter in disbelief.

Zara calmly picked up the pen she’d been using. It had a pink feather attached to the end, and was probably in one of the small presents he’d given her for Christmas. Zara leaned over and stabbed her older sister in the arm, hard.

‘Ow!’ said Pippa. ‘What was that for?’

‘It’s not funny,’ said Zara. ‘Dad was with us all afternoon. End of.’ As if nothing had happened, she turned to her mother and said, ‘Can Dad stay for tea? It’s nearly ready.’

‘Of course he can. If he’s not busy.’

Was there a hint of irony in the second statement? Probably.

‘I’d love to, actually. I’ll just get changed, first; I really do need some clean shirts.’

He jogged upstairs and into the old master bedroom; Alexis had replaced the marital bed a couple of years ago. The disgusting bedsit he lived in was so short of space that he’d talked her into letting him keep some clothes here. She even washed (but not ironed) the occasional shirt. His dark suit was there, too, hanging in its bag from the dry cleaner’s. He’d need that for the funeral, whenever that was. He took out the methadone and slipped it into the jacket pocket. The police wouldn’t be looking here. He did a quick change and returned to the kitchen. A plate of bolognese sauce and al dente spaghetti was waiting for him.

He let the girls ask a few more questions about the murder (their classmates would expect them to have inside knowledge), and talked to Alexis about the impact on Layla and the rest of the family, then he brought the conversation round to Natalie.

‘There’s no easy way to say this, but we’re moving in.’

‘Oh,’ said Alexis.

‘Have you got a spare room?’ said Pippa.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Just a single, though. You’ll have to take it in turns to fall out with your mother.’

‘Not funny,’ said Alexis. She put down her fork and frowned. ‘This does change things, Connor.’

‘I know it does,’ he said. ‘In some ways. In other ways it doesn’t. I won’t see any less of you two.’ He tried to look reassuringly at the girls. ‘Natalie knows that.’

‘Is she pregnant?’ asked Zara.

‘Zara! You can’t say that,’ said Pippa. Then she turned to him. ‘Well, is she?’

The day that he told Alexis that he was dating Natalie, she had insisted that his new girlfriend was not allowed to meet the girls until they’d been together for six months. When Alexis found out about Natalie’s past, she had very nearly gone to her lawyer to get an injunction. It took a visit from Layla to smooth things over — she had told Alexis that everyone deserved a second chance, and that Layla herself would keep a very close eye on Natalie.

They all looked at him expectantly, especially Alexis. Again, this required a straight answer, not a joke. ‘Nat’s not pregnant,’ he said. To Alexis, he continued, ‘You come and see the place first. No visits to Grosvenor Crescent until then. Ok?’

She nodded her acceptance. This would mean that Alexis could put off giving her seal of approval until she was damned well ready for it. Or until the girls pushed her into it.

He changed the subject, telling them about the audition tonight, and hinting that it was a difficult decision.

Alexis started to clear the plates. ‘Sounds like the wisdom of Solomon,’ she said. ‘It came up in an RE lesson I was supporting.’

‘No,’ said Zara. ‘We did it in drama, before Christmas. It’s the Judgement of Paris. He had to decide between three goddesses, and say which was most beautiful.’

‘That sounds a bit heavy for Year 8,’ said Connor.

Zara waved her hand. ‘It was about stereotypes. The teacher turned it round and we had to improvise women doing the same thing to men and so on.’

‘I’m really looking forward to the next parents’ evening,’ he said. ‘Anyway, what happened when this French bloke chose.’

‘He wasn’t French,’ said Zara. ‘His name was Paris. He was from Troy, and that’s how the Trojan War started. I think.’

Connor’s eyes widened in disbelief. He had no idea that this sort of thing got covered in their school. It was a very smart school, and well over-subscribed, but it was still a state school.

Alexis put the Parmesan cheese back in the fridge. ‘We’d better hope that tonight’s decision isn’t quite so fraught, won’t we?’

Connor kissed them all in turn, and left the house muttering Trojan War, my arse, under his breath. He’d have to get Melissa to look it up at work tomorrow.

The Duke of Edinburgh was the sort of hotel that still had physical keys to its rooms, not key cards. Because a lot of their clientele arrived in coach parties, they had adopted large, plastic tags stamped with the hotel’s address in the hope that fewer guests would walk off with them. Tom had nowhere in his running gear to accommodate such a monstrosity, so he had handed in his key on the way out.

He took a route which avoided Tyler Street (he didn’t want another encounter with Lucy, Bridget or Connor Holden), setting off to go south towards his sister’s house. After ten minutes he realised that Fiona lived a lot further away on foot than she did by car, so he cut back to the coastal path and remembered the Antony Gormley statues. It was pitch black at sea, of course, and Crosby was even further than Birkdale, but images of Matt Cross’s private sculpture kept coming into his head. What was he doing when he went there? Why was he going there more often?

The return trip nearly wiped him out, and when he hauled himself up the disabled ramp at the front of the hotel he realised that Elaine was right. It had helped him forget the case, his team and everything else. He straightened up, wiped his forehead and went into reception.

There was a well-muffled woman checking in as he approached the desk, and she turned round when she heard his laboured breathing. It was Juliet Porterhouse, a senior reporter on the Sunday Examiner, a conservative broadsheet newspaper. Tom had first met her when she turned up at the Cloister when he was convalescing from the bomb. He liked her on a personal level, and she had never broken her word to him. Yet.

‘You!’ she said. ‘What are the chances?’

Tom wiped his face again. ‘About one in four. There aren’t that many general hotels in Southport which open through the winter.’

‘There speaks the former accountant.’

‘Former lawyer. It’s always nice to see you, Miss Porterhouse, but I’d be grateful if you didn’t join me for breakfast. People will talk, and not in a good way.’

‘I see you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’

‘Not yet, though I may lose the use of my fingers. It’s not warm out there.’

‘I’ll let you go,’ she said, then changed her mind. She reached into her bag and handed him a tatty manuscript. ‘Can I have it back in the morning?’

He looked at the front page, which had been mended frequently with sticky tape. The Last Vigilante — How Matthew Cross got away with Murder. He didn’t recognise the name of the author.

He hefted the manuscript, and it seemed rather thin. ‘Was this a draft?’

‘Incomplete,’ she said. ‘My boss wrote it. Go on, Tom, take it. No strings, no expectations.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. Just leave it at reception for me when you’re done.’

He picked up his key and headed up the stairs for a well-earned bath.

Connor was followed all the way from Flaxall village to the Manor by a driver who stuck far too close. He slowed right down before pressing his remote to open the gates, and the driver got ready to follow him. He slammed on the brakes — no journalist, or worse, was going to use him to get inside the Manor. In a fit of annoyance which overrode his caution, he went up to the driver’s window to be presented with a police warrant card. The driver introduced herself as Hazel Cotton, Family Liaison Officer. She said that she was on her way to take statements from the band.

Connor told her to follow him to the visitors’ car park. He got out first and lit a cigarette. Cotton was locking her vehicle.

‘Nice bit of overtime for you,’ he said, trying to keep his voice light.

‘I’d rather be at home. I don’t think we’ve met.’

They shook hands, and Connor introduced himself. She tilted her head to one side, appraising him differently now that she knew his name. ‘Call me Hazel while I’m at the Manor,’ she said.

He started to walk slowly towards the house. Hazel stumbled on the gravel, and he steadied her arm. ‘I met your boss earlier,’ he said.

‘Which one?’

‘DCI Morton. And a woman called “Fraser with an S”.’

‘Oh? Where was that?’

‘A coffee bar. I interrupted him talking to someone from a past case.’

They reached the illuminated part of the path, and Connor released her arm. She stood back a step, and said, ‘Would that be Lucia White, from Cheshire?’

‘Lucy, not Lucia, but yeah, that was her.’

She started walking, looking straight ahead. ‘I’ve never met her. What’s she like?’

That’s an odd question to be asking. It was no skin off his nose, so he answered it. ‘Nice. Polite. Makes a knockout cup of coffee, according to my sources.’

Hazel mulled this over, then gave him an innocent smile. ‘Can you help me out a bit? Make sure we get this over as quickly as possible.’

‘No one wants this to drag on,’ said Connor. ‘Leave it with me.’

He didn’t want Cotton nosing around, so he left her with Mary, told Layla what was going on and went to see the band. He could hear angry voices from across the yard. He stepped faster and entered the studio. Luke was pointing his finger at Jess.

‘…we can easily get a new guitarist. And a new keyboard player,’ he added, when Jen came into view.

Sabrina was already in tears, and Jess took a step towards Luke, ready to retaliate. Connor looked around and realised that he was the only grown-up in the room. Damn. That meant he would have to act like one.

That didn’t mean he had to be foolhardy. If he crossed Luke, would he end up facing a shotgun? The kids looked lost, angry and adrift. Pretty much what you’d expect in the circumstances. He took a deep breath.

‘Calm down, folks. Let’s take it one step at a time, shall we?’ They turned to face him, ready to take out some of their anger on the adult who’d dared to wander into this pit of teenage hostility.

Jess, always the gobbiest one, got the ball rolling. ‘I don’t even see what you’re doing here, Mr Holden. It’s none of your business.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. Every act that takes the stage in Layla’s Bar is exactly my business.’

Luke looked down his nose at him (or tried to — Connor was still the tallest in the room. It was a race between the two boys and Jess as to which would outgrow him first). ‘You’ll just do what Layla tells you to do’ said Luke. ‘You always have.’

‘Dead right. And what she’s told me to do is to give my professional opinion as to which is the best option for Sabrina.’

Luke was about to object. Connor held up his hand. ‘Your chance will come in a minute, Luke.’

Luke piped down, so Jess took his place. ‘What about me? And Jen? The best option for Sabrina doesn’t leave much for us, does it?’

Connor took a step to the side and pointed to the open door. ‘It’s too late to mess about, Jess. If you’re not up for it, get out. And you, Jen. You can walk out now and be a loser, or you can knuckle down and get what you can. You’re performing as one band, not as Sabrina Cross. If you’re any good, you’ll go forward together. Especially when it comes to your own material. Go on, Jess, put up or shut up and sit down.’

This little speech wasn’t entirely off the cuff. Connor had repeated versions of it many times. He had discovered very early that creative types will make almost any sacrifice to get on the stage with an audience. The tricky part was managing the “sacrifices”.

Jess was true to type: she didn’t walk out. She was about to say something else until Connor pointed to the chairs next to Sabrina, who had been watching in fear and confusion. Jess sat down, as did Jen. He let the boys stand up. There was no point in overdoing it.

‘Right, you lot. This is your first rehearsal as StarCross’d. Good name, that. Don’t let your name down. Where’s the gaffer tape?’

Dylan pointed to one of the amps. Connor knew the exact dimensions of the stage in Layla’s bar. Using a mike stand as a measuring stick, he put gaffer tape on the floor to replicate the performing area. The band watched him in silence.

‘This is your stage,’ he said. ‘I want you to lay this out properly. Drum kit, monitors, keyboard. I don’t want to be here all night, so we’re only going to do two songs: April and We found Love. Is that OK? We’ll do it with the boys first, then without. Get cracking.’

His decision — his judgement of Paris — was made a lot easier by the gaffer tape. A five piece band could easily fit on to the stage at the Piano Bar, but only if the keyboard player hid in the corner and the drummer used minimal equipment. Luke had set up his full kit and Jen had established herself with her keyboard facing the audience. She was principal backing vocalist and wasn’t going to get pushed aside by Dylan. When it comes to the spotlight, even the mousy ones can bite.

Connor got them to play the first few bars of the opening number to check the sound levels, then cut them off.

‘Let’s do April,’ he said, and took up a position by the door. He had chosen this number because it was a Luke/Jess/Dylan song. It would make them work together. It was also the best example of their own material, and being a ballad, it was a complete contrast to the other number.

Jess and Dylan withdrew, leaving Sabrina alone at the front. Layla had scripted all the ad-libs for them, and Sabrina had dutifully memorised each one. ‘This song is about every girl you meet in the spring-time,’ she said, then waited a beat (for the lights to change), and began:

I first knew you in April, didn’t know it was your name…

The song was not bad at all, for teenagers, and it got an extra zing from having one girl singing about her love for another girl. Just before the first chorus, Jess stepped into the spotlight, half a pace behind Sabrina, with her back to the stage, as if she were the heartless April who had ruined the singer’s life.

The stage arrangement just about worked. When they re-set for the Rihanna number, things got complicated. Even without the thirty dancers that the audience would expect to see, Sabrina needed room to strut. This was a song that demanded strutting. After the second time she banged into Jess (who was matching her strut for strut), Connor waved them to a halt.

‘Sabrina?’ he said. ‘What do you think.’

He’d timed it to perfection. The girl was so pumped up with adrenalin and so desperate for an audience that she turned to her brother and said, ‘Luke, I’m sorry bro, but…’

Luke put his drumsticks carefully back in the holder. Another echo of his father — Matt never smashed things when he was upset.

‘You lot re-set the stage. Properly,’ said Connor. ‘And you’re all going to have a chat with the bizzies. You first, Dylan. I’m going to have to be your appropriate adult.’

He heard Jess muttering something about First time for everything. Cheeky mare.

On the way back to the main house, Grant called.

‘Do you remember that eco-warrior, Kingsley Laidlaw?’ said Grant.

‘Lives at Quaker’s Fold. Yeah, course I do.’

‘Meet me at his house. Ten o’clock tomorrow. I’ll explain when we get there.’

Grant had disconnected the call before Connor could process the information. What was that all about? He shoved his phone in his pocket and took Dylan to meet the police.

Elaine got home and raided the freezer, ignoring her advice to Tom about healthy living. After a quick trip to the microwave, she Skyped Rob. He looked cheerful, and said that he was looking forward to seeing her soon.

‘I’ve got something special planned for Valentine’s,’ he said.

‘You better have had. I’m missing you.’

Talk turned to the case, and Rob asked about her boss. Elaine deliberately left out the encounter with Lucy last night, because she didn’t want Rob to start getting jealous again. She emphasised this by changing the subject to say, ‘I’m on a diet now, so I’m not eating his chips any more.’

‘Glad to hear it. You saw the picture then?’

‘What picture?’

‘On Twitter, #BigMacsGirls.’

‘You know I never bother with Twitter. If you wrote your own Tweets instead of letting the PR company do it, I might be interested.’

‘Look at what happened in 7Bridge. No thank you.’

After they said goodnight, Elaine looked up the picture. Rob was in one of the fast food restaurants owned by a fiercely proud Scotsman who supported the rugby team with various activities (though he wasn’t an official sponsor). He had fought several battles with McDonald’s about the use of “Big Mac”, and always retreated before the case came to court. The press and media loved it, and everyone in Scotland knew what you meant when you talked about One of Big Mac’s.

Part of his support for Scottish rugby had included sponsorship of a cheerleading squad which was often seen adorning the team members’ photo opportunities — all approved and above board according to the Gaelic Sports Cheer Council. Elaine would never, ever consider cheerleading to be a sport. There were a couple of sad enthusiasts for cheerleading at Uni who had offered the same opinion of climbing. Deluded fools.

In the picture, Rob was seated in one of Big Mac’s restaurants, sharing a plate of fries with one of the cheerleaders. He was leaning back, well away from the girl. She was leaning towards him, putting a chip into her mouth. The half-turn she made away from the camera emphasised just how tightly her blue and white uniform stretched over her ample chest. Even worse, she had long blonde hair tied into plaits. Her shape and colouring was exactly what Elaine didn’t have. That too was unlikely to be an accident, and formed part of the message of the photograph. The picture had been posted from Big Mac’s Twitter account and the accompanying Tweet read: Kirsty Saltire and Rob Fraser refuel before their training sessions.

Elaine fumed and stared at her phone. She got the message all right: if you eat someone else’s chips, don’t be surprised if I do the same. She got up and went to the clothes pegs in the hall where she had hung her belt. Most detectives had a few cable ties on their person, just in case, but Elaine liked the solidity of carbon steel. She took her handcuffs off the belt and laid them on the table, then she took a picture and sent it to Rob. She didn’t add any words.

He text back a few minutes later: If you insist…

After that, she found herself torn between catch-up TV and starting to work on the Investigative Interviewing Coursebook. To get this wonderful document, she’d needed the combined help of Isabelle and Phil. Only a bureaucracy like the police could have come up with this statement: The PIP II Coursebook can be downloaded from the SLC CPD VPN Portal.

She had poured some wine and started to read. If Tom was going to trust her to be second chair in tomorrow’s interviews, she had better be up to speed on the basics at least.

17

Friday

When Tom surfaced from a deep and dreamless sleep, he realised just how much this week had taken out of him. Going for a run (and drinking half a bottle of wine) had lowered his stress levels, but he could feel his body paying the price this morning. A long shower made him feel better, except for a twinge in his left calf. There would be a time soon when this level of activity became unsustainable — criss-crossing the country, living out of suitcases, struggling to eat healthily and to exercise. Overall, not a recipe for a long and productive life.

He took his stuff for the day down to the dining room and handed in his key. He tried to make the breakfast as healthy as possible, then lingered over his coffee for a couple of minutes, hoping that he would see someone. As he picked up his briefcase, she appeared. Juliet Porterhouse saw him, smiled at him, and then took a table as far away as possible.

Last night, he had started to skim the manuscript she’d lent him, then stopped and sat up to read it properly. The author (he now knew) had been a cub reporter in Liverpool at the time of the arson attack on Matt Cross’s first family. The author was now Juliet’s boss, and Tom could see why he’d prospered — he’d got the full inside story on the arson, the murders and the corruption. Tom could also see why the book had been abandoned. If the libel laws hadn’t stopped the guy in his tracks, Grant Benson would have broken his legs and done the same job.

Tom went up to her. ‘Thanks for avoiding me,’ he said.

She inclined her head. ‘You’re welcome. I’m not a morning person anyway.’

Juliet Porterhouse had a very idiosyncratic style. Today it had manifested itself in what he could only call bag-lady chic. The lines round her eyes were much more obvious in the mornings, too.

He passed over the partial manuscript of The Last Vigilante. ‘Thanks for that. It’s very good. Does it have a future?’

She smiled, a personal smile, not her professional one. ‘My boss said I can take it and run with it, if I want. If we can agree whose name goes first on the cover, it might even get off the ground.’

‘Good luck. You didn’t hear this from me, but…’

He waited for her to bite. ‘Agreed,’ she said.

‘… the reason that DC Neville Hammond refused to talk to your colleague is not that he was bent, it’s because he was straight. He was one of the few who didn’t take bribes, and he felt very guilty. He still feels that way.’

‘Mmm…’ said Juliet appreciatively. ‘Thanks. Anything else to tell me while we’re off the record?’

Tom said, ‘Not today,’ then inclined his head towards the manuscript. She flicked through the pages and quickly found the place where he’d used a highlighter pen on the names Grant Benson and Andrew Mallinson. When she looked up and nodded her thanks, he continued, ‘Oh, by the way, did the hotel let you have a room for tomorrow? They’re kicking me out.’

‘You must be on the corporate rate. I’m good until Tuesday morning. Will you be going back to York for the weekend or staying with your sister?’

Juliet Porterhouse knew where he lived — where his parents lived — in fact, she knew rather too much about him altogether.

‘I’m not sure,’ he lied. ‘Enjoy your breakfast.’

Tom left the hotel and drove to the Tombs, beating the Southport rush hour and arriving at the same time as the early shift security guard. Tom made them both tea and chatted for a while. He discovered that the guard, like all the ones on this job, were from Wigan. His company had got the contract because (apparently), they had no links to anyone in Southport. It was reassuring to know, because Tom was convinced that sooner or later there would be a leak from the Tombs, and he wanted to plug as many potential holes as possible.

There had been something else he learnt from Juliet’s manuscript, something he had been underestimating since he had been given the case. When Phil Dunn arrived, he took him straight to the incident room.

‘I’ve been doing some research,’ he told him. ‘I think we’ve been too easy on Andrew Mallinson. I think he is deeper in this than he would like us to believe.’ Phil nodded in agreement. Tom pointed to the whiteboard. ‘Put DC Fraser and me down for a visit to Mallinson’s law firm after the interview this morning.’ While Dunn was adding his request to the list of actions, Tom asked one last question before the room filled up. ‘This is our last day with the uniformed officers. Has any of them shown any promise, do you think?’

‘The best is PC Higham — Vicki. Not surprising, really. She’s got a transfer to Lancashire & Westmorland pending. She’ll be going into their CID pool.’

‘I’m not having a whole team briefing, just the five from last night, plus her. In my office at nine o’clock.’

‘Sir.’

Tom did paperwork until Phil led the troops into his office as the clock on the old courthouse was striking nine. They assembled around the conference table and Tom took his seat. Elaine put a mug of tea in front of him.

‘Let’s start with last night,’ said Tom. ‘Hazel: thanks for going to Flaxall Manor. What did you discover?’

As he turned to look at the FLO, he realised that she seemed a lot smarter than normal. Her hair was tightly put up instead of leaking, her clothes were both cleaner and better co-ordinated. Not that he was an expert.

‘Luke has already admitted that he saw his father, and he said that they talked. OK? Last night I spoke to the others. Jess Brook said that Luke and Matt Crosshad a furious row. Later, Luke said he was in his room with Dylan Clough. I’d put good money on him being somewhere else for a while. Dylan is too loyal to his friend — and too scared of the Cross family — to tell the truth.

Tom grunted. It was to be expected. Even so, it was still real progress — they now had Luke arguing with his father on the day of the murder. He turned to Vicki. ‘I’ve got a special job for you.’ She sat up straighter in her seat, and picked up her pen. ‘Have you worked with the Land Registry before?’

He saw the confusion in Vicki’s eyes, and he also saw Elaine stifling a snicker.

‘Despite what DC Fraser might think,’ he said, glaring at Elaine, ‘this really is a special job. There are three things that have come up frequently so far: this band of Sabrina Cross’s; drugs; and Quaker’s Fold. We’ll keep the band on hold for now, and we’re going to explore the drugs angle through Grant Benson this afternoon, but we’ve done nothing to explore Quaker’s Fold and the development.’

‘We don’t even know if Matthew Cross had an interest in the land,’ said Phil.

‘Precisely,’ said Tom. ‘You were with me when we interviewed Kingsley. Do you think he was lying?’

‘No, Boss.’

‘Neither do I. Matt Cross said he owned it, and I want to know if he was lying. Vicki, that’s your job. Find out who owns Quaker’s Fold, and under what terms.’

Isabelle was sitting next to Vicki Higham. She leaned across and patted her arm. ‘Don’t worry, love. Just shout if you want my help.’

Tom remembered that Vicki was one of Isabelle’s posse from smokers’ corner. Well, if nicotine solidarity helped the enquiry…

‘Finally,’ said Tom, ‘I’m hoping we get a breakthrough today, because I always hope that. Hope doesn’t mean success, sadly, so I think we’ll be going into a second week. I’ll be here over the weekend, and unless there’s a very good reason, I won’t be able to offer overtime to any of you. Hazel, you’ll be on call to the family, of course, but you can all make plans with a fair certainty that I won’t spoil them.’

As he stood up, he saw Hazel pulling a sour face.

There was ice on the windows of the farmhouse at Quaker’s Fold. Disturbingly for Kingsley Laidlaw, the ice was on the inside of the windows. Penny had taken him to the supermarket to stock up, then dropped him off at his home. It was lovely being at her house, but he knew he’d outstayed his welcome when he was given cheese on toast for dinner last night. He shivered and set about getting the oil-fired heating to work.

As the boiler roared and groaned, he stood in the middle of the house to listen for burst pipes, keeping his fingers crossed and offering a small prayer to the gods of nature. He looked at the inadequate windows and wondered whether he should press Andrew Mallinson to install double glazing before the farmhouse was given listed building status.

The composting bin next to the fridge was getting alarmingly full as he disposed of the rotting and out of date food. Just as the last of the new groceries were stowed away, there was a loud knock on the door. Kingsley opened it and found most of the doorway filled by a huge man. He stepped back in alarm. When the giant made no move to attack him or enter the property, he looked behind and saw another figure, then he recognised them: they had been with Matt Cross at the Candidate Selection Evening. What on earth did they want with him?

‘Mr Laidlaw?’ said the big man. Kingsley nodded, still in shock. ‘I’m Grant Benson, and this is Connor Holden. Can we have a word?’

‘Yeah. Come in, but it’s a bit cold. Shall I put the kettle on?’

Benson stepped into the room. ‘Don’t bother on our account. We won’t be long.’

Kingsley offered them seats at the kitchen table. Benson sat straight down while Holden looked around the room inquisitively.

‘We just wanted to let you know something,’ said Benson. ‘Matt was committed to your little party, and so were we. That hasn’t changed.’

‘Little party?’ said Kingsley, wondering what they could mean.

‘The Sustainable Lancashire Party,’ said Benson patiently.

Oh. This does not sound good. The aura of possession was unmistakable. Grant Benson was acting like a man who had inherited something in Matt’s will — and that something was the SLP.

‘You may have heard about the role we played in the by-election,’ continued Benson. ‘It was me who recruited all the volunteers who delivered those leaflets. What did Matt call it? That’s right, “The Knockout Blow.” I also paid the volunteers, because they weren’t really volunteers, were they? I paid them cash to keep their contribution off your books.’

Benson had just told him, in no uncertain terms, that Matthew Cross had broken most of the electoral laws in achieving the SLP victory. That was bad enough; even worse was that Penny must have known all about it.

‘There’s no need to thank us,’ said Benson. ‘We’re glad to help, and we want to keep on helping.’

Kingsley wanted nothing to do with this, and would have said so if his brain hadn’t already supplied Penny’s response to the news: Take their help or quit, Kingsley. This is real politics, not gesture politics. Kingsley was beginning to find reality rather uncomfortable.

‘We need to know something,’ said Benson. He turned to the other man. ‘Connor?’

Holden leaned over the table to shake hands, smiling. Kingsley couldn’t help himself: he smiled back. Holden’s handshake was firm and non-threatening. He remembered the way that Holden had smiled at the waitress. What was her name? Natasha? She had lurked around the Selection Evening all night, hovering behind the prospective candidates. Kingsley had tried to talk to her, and got nowhere. Whoever this man was, he clearly had a very different role to Benson’s.

‘It’s like this,’ said Holden. ‘What you want more than anything is to stop UGAS fracking in Southport, right?’

The more reasonable tone encouraged Kingsley to respond. ‘It’s one of our objectives, yes.’

‘I’d say it was a bit more than that,’ said Holden expansively. ‘Layla said that it’s the party’s Number One objective.’

‘Mrs Cross doesn’t decide policy. Neither does Penny. Nor me.’

‘Dead right. That’s the beauty of democracy. The steering committee decides policy in your party, and next week you’re voting on it. Stopping UGAS will be Number One. Trust me.’

‘Definitely,’ added Benson.

‘So,’ said Holden, ‘the best way of achieving that is to put them back to square one. UGAS have only got one test well in the region, and it’s over there. Wouldn’t you say that the SLP are more likely to get that well closed down if the Council approves development of Quaker’s Fold before there’s an application submitted for drilling on Northridge Farm?’

So that’s their game. Push through the Quaker’s Fold application, ruin the area and then lose interest in fracking when they’ve pocketed the money. Well, they can… Kingsley stood up. ‘I don’t think you really appreciate what environmental politics is about, gentlemen. I don’t think that’s how it’s going to work.’

‘Sit down,’ said Benson. Kingsley stood his ground. ‘The thing is,’ continued Benson, ‘we trust you, Kingsley. We trust you because we know you’ve got an alibi for last Sunday. We know you were taking that half-breed kid you’ve got to Sefton Park. Therefore, we know you couldn’t have been with Matt. We trust that you’ll do the right thing.’

Kingsley sat down with a thump. His head was rushing with a strange noise and he couldn’t move his hands. His body might have shut down, but his brain had gone into overdrive. Racist bastards, was his first thought, followed by They’re not joking. They are my worst nightmare and they’re sitting at my kitchen table.

He snapped back to reality when he heard a scraping noise. Benson had moved his chair and was leaning towards him. ‘It’s a lot to take in, Kingsley,’ he said. ‘Have a think. What would hold up UGAS’s planning application? What would make them delay things?’

‘You’ve seen that Infernal structure on Northridge Farm, yeah?’

‘Infernal?’

‘Like something from Hell. Inferno. Fire, brimstone, damnation, all that stuff.’

‘Yeah, whatever. I’ve seen the thing. Not close up, mind.’

‘That’s what’s left of their test rig. They used it to prove that drilling was possible, and to take samples. The next thing they need is to do test fracking. They need planning permission for that, and there are still a lot of hurdles to jump over. Environmental impact reports, traffic flow surveys, computer simulations. That sort of thing. We think they’ll be ready to submit an application in about two months.’

‘Where are they based? There’s nothing going on at the farm.’

‘UGAS are like a virtual company. They’ve got a small office in London and most of their work is done by the big energy firms who own the shares. They have a huge number of consultants, too. If they go ahead, nearly all the work will be done by subcontractors. That’s another reason to object: there’s almost no accountability. UGAS is just a money pipeline.’

Benson nodded, his forehead creased as he thought through the new information. ‘There’s no actual gas under the drilling rig, is there? Not like an oil well that can explode.’

‘That’s right. The gas-bearing rocks are all thousands of metres below ground. In that sense, no, it’s not dangerous. Where are you going with this?’

‘Best you don’t know. Safer that way.’

The moral fog cleared for a moment, and Kingsley could see the line he shouldn’t cross. If Holden, Benson and their gang were planning some sort of violent sabotage, did that make him complicit? An accessory? No, it didn’t, because he was a believer in direct action, provided no one got hurt.

Benson stood up. ‘Connor here will be in touch about UGAS, but there’s something else you need to do.’

‘What?’

‘There’s going to be karaoke at Layla’s bar on Sunday. It’s on Tyler Street, if you don’t know it.’

Kingsley couldn’t keep up. What were they on about now? First it was threats of violence, then UGAS, now karaoke. Was this a normal conversation for people like them? ‘I’m sorry. I don’t follow,’ he said.

‘Now we’re friends,’ Benson continued, ‘you’re going to be our guest. It’ll be good fun for you. Just make sure you dress like a real person, not like a crusty. My doormen are picky who they let in.’

And now they’re looking down their noses at me… Kingsley’s whole world was upside down, and he was hanging off the ceiling. Instead of being in the right, as he always thought, he was suddenly in the wrong. Why? Because they got to decide right from wrong in their world. In his world, rightness consisted of commitment to the future, to sustainable living and to equality. In their world, rightness consisted of corruption, violence and karaoke. He hoped he could hold on to the ceiling long enough for the world to turn the right way up again.

‘Is your phone in there?’ asked Holden, pointing to Kingsley’s satchel, lying in the middle of the table. Without waiting for an answer, Holden rummaged in it and took out the phone. He swiped the screen. ‘I see you’ve got a fingerprint lock. Very sensible.’

Oh my god, they’re going to cut my finger off… Kingsley had watched way too many crime dramas, and the nightmare was starting to blur with reality. No. The nightmare was reality.

Instead of pulling out a knife (or worse), Holden slid the phone across the polished surface. ‘Put this number in.’ He waited while Kingsley first stared at the phone, then slowly unlocked it. Holden dictated a mobile number. ‘Don’t put our names next to it,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re not that stupid. I’ll be in touch.’

The two men left his house. Benson didn’t use his strength to slam the door, so it didn’t close properly: another thing Kingsley would have been on to the landlord about, if the landlord’s associates hadn’t just threatened him. The door swung open and he could hear them talk on the way to the car.

‘What was that all about?’ asked Holden. ‘What’s with the fracking, and why do you want him at Layla’s Bar?’

Benson didn’t say anything, he just unlocked the doors. Kingsley felt a moment of solidarity with Holden — neither of them was at the top of the food chain.

Kingsley closed the door carefully, leaving him to reflect on how his life had just gone down the toilet. If he said anything to Penny, he’d lose his job, his home and probably end up doing supply teaching in some terrible school in Skelmersdale. These men obviously had contacts with the police — how else did they know about him taking Leroy to the park? If he spoke out to the authorities, he could be condemning Leroy and Jackie to something horrible. He couldn’t do that.

He completed the entry in the contacts book of his phone. When it asked for a name, he thought for a moment and then entered Mephastophilis. He had to go to the bookcase and look up his old copy of Dr Faustus so that he could check the spelling, and even then it looked wrong.

Elaine was glad that she had stuck at the Interviewing Coursebook last night. Her experience of Major Incident Rooms was limited, and she’d never seen one quite like the Tombs. The only thing animating the place was Phil Dunn’s simmering dislike of Isabelle Innes. They kept it in check when they were in Tom’s office, but out in the main room, they had taken to passing messages via third parties — Elaine in Isabelle’s case, with Hazel acting as go-between for Phil. Elaine wasn’t sure that she wanted to be taking sides here, and if she did, she’d still rather choose Tom’s over any of them.

Other than that, the place was way too quiet. Tom could work with nothing but a spreadsheet for company; Elaine needed people around her, people who were busy making phone calls, running in and out and asking her how to spell accommodate. It was, quite simply, too quiet to think.

She took the band’s witness statements, including the new material from Luke, and altered the timeline to reflect the new information. The more she looked at it, the more she could see the drama of Matt Cross’s murder being played out as a domestic dispute within the family. The way that Neville Hammond had described Matthew Cross, hot for revenge, could easily have been passed to his son. She was still staring at the wall when Tom arrived to collect her.

She grabbed her coat and bag. As soon as they were outside, Tom said, ‘On the last case, you told me that Dean Rooksby was innocent. I believed you. This time it’s different.’

‘Why’s that, sir?’

‘Because innocence is very different to guilt. You saw Rooksby very shortly after the murder, with a dislocated shoulder. You could tell he had no guilt in him. I’m not saying that Luke didn’t do it. Not yet. What I am saying is that we have absolutely nothing to say he did, except that he wasn’t in his room. I agree with you there.’ He pointed down the road towards Lord Street and began walking. ‘What would you do to try and prove it, one way or the other?’

That was a poser. Elaine turned it over in her head until they’d passed the fire station. ‘I definitely think that Dylan Clough can be worked on, and if Luke took his phone down to the clearing, there might be GPS data.’

‘Leave Dylan for now. He can wait. On the other hand, I think I might be able to prove his innocence — or at least show that his guilt is extremely unlikely.’

‘Go on, you’re dying to tell me.’

‘No, Elaine, you’ll have to wait until Monday.’ He paused, half way along Lord Street. They were opposite the entrance to Tyler Street. ‘We’ve got five minutes before we’re due at Mallinson & Co. Do you want the abbreviated version of Operation Jigsaw?’

She nodded, trying not to show her eagerness to hear and her annoyance at being the last to know.

‘It started with a dodgy transaction at a bank,’ he said.

‘Are there lots of spreadsheets in this story, sir?’

‘Only two or three. Hundred. Do you want to know how I got blown up or not?’

‘Sorry.’

Four and a half minutes later, her head was swimming with colours — Blue Sky, Green Light, Red Flag… and there was a lot of red in this story, red blood spilt on two continents, especially when it came to his cousin.

‘I’m so sorry, Tom. I had no idea.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s one of the reasons I don’t broadcast it — stiff upper lip and all that — but I still should have told you earlier. Come on, let’s go.’

His story had stopped her feeling the cold, which now bit back. She zipped up her jacket a few more inches. As they walked along, something triggered in her memory. ‘One thing, sir. Didn’t that reporter, Juliet Porterhouse once say that she wanted an interview with this Conrad Clarke.’

He laughed. ‘Your memory’s good. She did indeed. She still does, and what’s more, she’s in town. Staying at my hotel. She arrived last night with some interesting background material. I’ll tell you when we’re done here.’

They had arrived at their destination, a concrete building adding nothing to the architectural grandeur of Lord Street. The offices of Mallinson & Co were on the third floor, which gave them a spectacular view of the Prom, the funfair and the Irish Sea beyond it.

Although the law firm had a prime location, the interior of the building was far from opulent. There was an open plan office, with walls covered in bizarre pine cladding. The space echoed to a weird chattering noise. My God, is that an electric typewriter? It is. This place is like something from … the 1970s. Will we find people smoking in here?

Instead of tobacco, the room seemed to be filled with itching powder. Elaine shrugged off her coat to scratch her arms, then coughed, then sneezed. Did they have defective air-conditioning?

‘Mr Mallinson will see you in the conference room,’ said a frosty receptionist.

The glass walled box in the middle of the offices had no view of anything except filing cabinets and the backs of women’s heads. Tom placed his coat carefully on the table and folded his hands. Elaine still felt itchy.

Mallinson appeared two minutes later, just long enough to show who was boss. Tom stood to shake his hand, and when Elaine did the same, his skin felt even rougher than last time. He hadn’t shaved today, either. Probably because there was something like psoriasis creeping up his neck.

‘Thank you for making time to see me,’ said Tom, ‘and for your witness statement yesterday.’

Mallinson said nothing.

‘I wanted to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind. Normally I’d say that I didn’t want to bother the victim’s family, but you’re part of the family, and there are some questions that need answering. Please let me know if you have a colleague or partner who could answer them instead.’

Tom smiled. Mallinson didn’t, but he did speak. ‘There’s no one else. So long as it’s relevant to your enquiry, I’m happy to answer any questions.’

‘Good. I’m here to clarify some matters about the family business, or businesses. What exactly was Mr Cross’s role in the day-to-day running of the businesses?’

‘As I told your colleague here,’ said Mallinson, pointing to Elaine, ‘The majority shareholder in the Laycross businesses is Mrs Layla Cross.’

‘Your sister, yes. The thing is, Mr Mallinson, although I’ve not had the pleasure yet, my team have talked to your sister quite a bit. Between running the house, her activism with the Sustainable Lancashire Party, being a mother and preparing for her daughter’s stage debut … Layla Cross didn’t have time to run a large business. A business that her husband created.’ Tom paused to see if Mallinson had anything to say yet. He didn’t.

Tom continued. ‘According to all the witnesses we’ve spoken to, your brother-in-law didn’t have any time-consuming hobbies like golf, he didn’t do good works, and he was out of the house a lot. I think he was running the businesses.’

‘You can think what you like, Inspector.’

How does he do it? The witness in front of them was blunt to the point of rudeness. Elaine would have wanted to lean over and slap Andrew Mallinson, and the only thing stopping her would have been the fear of catching some skin disease. Tom just turned to a different page in his notebook and then pulled out some documents, placing them on the table.

Tom smiled. ‘As I keep pointing out, Mr Mallinson, your sister has just lost her husband. You worked with Matt Cross for many, many years. Your nieces and nephew have lost their father. Unless you’re telling me to look within the family for his murderer, the killer’s motive must be business related. If you said it was a random stranger, you’d be insulting both our intelligences.’

‘I’m not saying anything. You’ve got all the forensic evidence, all the CCTV and mobile phone records. You tell me what’s going on. I was not Matt Cross’s keeper. No one was. He did his own thing.’

‘Let’s go back to the Laycross businesses. Layla didn’t run them, you have a busy law practice and you’ve just stated that Matt wasn’t very involved. So who does run them?’

‘Each of our operations has a full time manager. The general manager is Connor Holden. My wife looks after Laycross Property and there’s an office manager. There doesn’t need to be anyone else outside board meetings, which you’ll see that Mrs Cross always chaired.’

‘What about Lancashire Coastal Developments?’

‘That’s a shell company. It exists only on paper and has no assets.’

‘I’ve seen the video of the QUAG meeting.’

Elaine hadn’t seen it (although there was a link to it on HOLMES2, she’d not bothered. Oops), and the effect on Mallinson was dramatic. He licked his lips, like a lizard in the desert. ‘What video?’

‘The one where your wife stands up and speaks on behalf of the developers of Quaker’s Fold. She says, “I’m Claudia Mallinson of Lancashire Coastal Developments.” And she offers to pay for professional validation of the diary. Don’t lie to me, Mr Mallinson. We both know that this company is going to develop the farm at Quaker’s Fold.’

‘It’s at a very early stage.’

‘Granted, but who owns the land?’

Mallinson didn’t cough, or shift in his seat, or look out of the window, but he did take off his glasses, close his eyes and rub them with the back of his hand. Ouch, that must hurt.

‘Flaxall Properties, Douglas Ltd,’ said Mallinson after he’d replaced his glasses.

‘Isle of Man?’

‘Yes.’

‘And who owns Flaxall Properties?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

‘One more question. I’ve read the will, and I can guess how much the Manor is worth. I’m getting reports compiled on the value of the other legacies, so I’ll have a ballpark figure for probate. So, who’s going to pay the IHT?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘How is the estate going to settle the Inheritance Tax? There are nowhere near enough liquid assets to cover a bill that’s going to be in seven figures.’

‘We’ll sort something out. As a family. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Inspector…’

‘That’ll do for now. And by the way, it’s Chief Inspector, Mr Mallinson. Thank you for your time.’

They left the offices of Mallinson & Co. Elaine breathed deeply, enjoying the tang of ozone on the sea air. ‘God, it feels good to be out of there,’ she said.

‘I agree. What did you think of him?’

‘Hard to tell. Do you think he’s ill?’

‘Definitely. It’s the worst case of Tulkinghorn’s Syndrome I’ve seen in years.’

Elaine had never heard of the disease, and the way her skin itched inside there made her think of some exotic parasite. She scratched her leg. ‘Oh. It’s not infectious, is it?’

‘Only if you’re a lawyer.’ He laughed. ‘Mr Tulkinghorn was the family solicitor in Dickens’ Bleak House. He would do anything to protect the Dedlock family, and it rotted his soul from the inside. That’s what’s happened to Andrew Mallinson — whatever his doctor says about his skin complaint, it’s caused by Tulkinghorn’s syndrome.’

‘I don’t think your sister would accept that diagnosis, sir.’

‘Perhaps not. I might ask her tomorrow night, before she goes out for her romantic meal. That should put her in the mood.’

They walked along Lord Street in silence for a hundred yards. Elaine spoke first. ‘I must admit I was a bit lost in there, sir.’

‘It wasn’t intentional. That’s the trouble with a big enquiry — it’s hard to keep track of things. It was just you and me in Sevenbridge, which made it easy to see the whole picture. It’s why I haven’t been out of my office much: if I don’t review everything, then no one else will. I said that there were three recurring topics: Sabrina’s band, the drugs angle and Quaker’s Fold. You favour the band, I know that Phil thinks that drugs are more likely, so that leaves me to sift through the property records and, yes, the spreadsheets.’

‘Can I make a suggestion?’

‘You know you can.’

‘I think it might be worth asking Sergeant White from the local station along to the interview this afternoon. What little we know about drugs in Southport is down to him.’

‘Do you think we can trust him?’

‘I don’t know. Even if we can’t trust him, it’s not as though Benson is going to give much away. It would be useful to hear Paul White’s perspective, especially if we think that there are things he isn’t telling us.’

‘Good idea. I’ll leave you to sort it, unless you’d rather make notes on our discussion with Mr Mallinson.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Good. See you later.’

They parted on the threshold of the Tombs. Tom went into his office, and Elaine returned to her desk. Over a cup of tea, she watched the video of the QUAG meeting. She paused it for a second and zoomed in to look at Claudia Mallinson. The woman was as well groomed as the other females in this case, but she’d overdone the foundation and blusher. Every woman who planned to stand in front of a meeting would have made an extra effort, but Mrs Mallinson had gone OTT. Was she trying to hide something? Was she ill as well? Elaine added the question to her notebook, on the doodle page, and then thought about lunch.

18

This morning it was time for Lucy to roll up her sleeves and muck in. She had spent two days getting the beans ordered, working on rotas and getting to grips with the cashflow. Now it was time to get real. Her salary was an immediate extra cost to the business, one that should have meant reduced hours for the other staff. Lucy had opted to keep the same rota for a week so that she could train them to her own standards. She could argue the toss with Bang Tidy later.

The triple-head coffee machine was in good condition, though it needed a lot of adjustment. Lucy had already come to appreciate Bridget’s fanatical levels of cleanliness, and also seen its price: her assistant manager spent too long cleaning and not enough time ensuring quality service. Lucy had opened up for the first time this morning, got herself togged up in GG branded workwear and adjusted the temperature and pressure of the coffee maker to her exacting, Italian standards.

‘Are you ready, Boss?’ Bridget had said, hand poised over the Open/Closed sign.

‘Let ’em in, Bridget.’

The sign was turned, the door unlocked and the first of the pre-work crowd shivered their way into the café to get cappuccinos, pastries and the occasional microwaved bacon butty. It had gone very well for an hour, nearly all orders were “to go”, and Lucy felt on top of things.

‘There’s a lull for half an hour now,’ said Bridget.

‘Oh?’

‘The pensioners can’t use their bus passes until nine thirty, so they don’t get here until ten. Show me again what you do with the milk for the cappuccinos.’

The early customers had barely noticed that there was a new member of staff, so intent were they on getting their caffeine fix before they were due at work. A couple of the men had noticed that Lucy’s black shirt was a bit tight, but she was used to that. When they finally arrived, she discovered that the pensioners were different. Every one of them wanted to know who she was and where she’d come from. They were mostly lovely. Well, they were all lovely, except that within five minutes a customer returned her coffee.

‘I didn’t want one of those,’ she said.

‘Sorry,’ said Lucy, ‘I thought you ordered a latte.’

‘I did. This is too strong for me. And too hot.’

‘I’ll make you a single-shot,’ said Lucy brightly, tipping the unwanted drink down the sink. She re-made the latte, hesitating before she added the milk. A second old lady from a different table was heading her way, bringing another full glass back to the counter. Lucy felt a moment’s panic: she couldn’t afford to alienate her core business, not yet anyway.

The jug of boiling milk hovered over the glass. Lucy took a deep breath and tried to remember what her business studies tutor would have said. She heard the second glass being deposited on the counter behind he. The first lady said, ‘Too strong for you, too?’

‘And too hot.’

Lucy made a decision. She poured three-quarters of the normal amount of milk into the glass and placed it on a saucer before her customer. She grabbed a bottle of cold milk from the side and topped up the drink. ‘Try that.’

The old lady looked uncertainly at Lucy, reluctant to perform in public until compelled by her inner sense of duty. Lucy crossed her fingers.

‘Mmm. Much better,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you do that the first time?’

‘… Erm. It’s new! I’m trying new recipes. We’re going to call that one the Southport Special.’

‘Are you gonna put the price up?’ asked the second customer.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Not yet, anyway. Would you like one too?’

Bridget had been watching. ‘Not very authentically Italian,’ she commented, when the customers were out of earshot.

‘In business,’ replied Lucy, ‘you have to know when to lead the market and when to follow. I don’t think these customers will ever be ready to embrace the bitter taste of Milan. Are you any good at signage?’

Bridget gestured around the café. There wasn’t a single hand-written notice or picture. Even the prices were done with sticky numbers.

‘That’s my Friday night sorted,’ said Lucy. ‘I’ll nip out and get a blackboard this afternoon.’

The lunchtime rush itself was also a lesson for Lucy, because there wasn’t one. Or not one to speak of. ‘Shouldn’t we be busier?’

‘I dunno,’ said Bridget. ‘Should we?’

‘Yes. A lot busier.’

Bridget opened her mouth, and Lucy guessed that she was going to make some comment about Enjoying it while you can. Then Bridget remembered that Lucy was the boss, and changed her mind. Most of the food sales were pre-packaged sandwiches, delivered that morning. Lucy waited until one o’clock and picked the slowest selling option, to try out the quality.

She could have eaten it in her flat, or in the 2m square staff room, but Lucy wanted to get a full picture of the day’s service, so she grabbed her bag from the back room and settled into a corner. She took out her phone and opened her sandwich.

‘Excuse me,’ said a voice.

Lucy looked up. A woman had come over from the other corner, carrying her coffee and hovering next to Lucy’s table. ‘Is that a Berardi cross-body tote?’ asked the woman, pointing to Lucy’s bag.

‘It is,’ said Lucy. ‘You must be a connoisseur. Not many people recognise them.’

‘It’s the yellow braid. Always a giveaway. I love Paola’s designs. Did you get it in Italy?’

The woman was still hovering. Lucy had put herself out on show, and if she had wanted privacy, she should have gone to the back room. She indicated the three empty seats at her table. The woman sat down, and Lucy couldn’t stop herself checking out her bag: it was nice, and new, but not a Berardi. Not even close. The woman herself was in her late thirties, dressed for the office and had that interested look in her eyes, the sort of look that made people want to confide in you. Lucy wasn’t ready to confide in any strangers yet. She was still frightened that the press would turn up.

She pointed to her own bag. It had been designed by her mother and until recently it had been on sale in her own shop. ‘I bought it online,’ she lied. ‘From a registered distributor. There are so many fakes, you can’t be too careful.’

‘I know,’ said the woman. ‘You’re new aren’t you?’

‘Just started this week. What do you think of the coffee? I chose the blend.’

The woman took a sip. ‘Mm. This is good. Much better than the old stuff.’

‘Thanks. If you’ve got the time, put a review on TripAdvisor. We’re currently ranked #230 of 241 outlets in Southport. Every little helps.’

‘Sounds like you’ve got an uphill struggle. Have you managed a café before? I’m Heather, by the way.’

The woman stuck out her hand; Lucy shook it. ‘Lucy White. This is my first stab at running a coffee shop. What about you?’

‘Family support.’

Lucy guessed that she was a social worker. They didn’t often want to say so outright.

Heather pointed to Lucy’s sandwich. ‘If you’re going to be making changes, you might want to think about your sandwich supplier. Not very fresh, I’m afraid.’

‘I think you might be right.’ Suddenly, Lucy wasn’t hungry and pushed her food away.

‘I’m not based here,’ said Heather, ‘but Giuseppe’s is handy for the local office. I hate to say this, but I don’t have much time for lunch, and it’s never that busy. Good for me, not so good for you.’

‘I was afraid you’d say that. I’m here for the long haul, though. They — we — make a lot of money off ice cream in the summer. Apparently.’

‘Haven’t you tried it in season?’

‘No.’

Heather smiled. ‘You can’t be local then.’

‘No. I’m a Cheshire girl.’

‘I won’t hold it against you. I’d better be going; I might pop back and get one for the road later.’

Lucy watched Heather leave the café, and noticed that Natalie Alderson had popped in. She was doing that thing with her hair, where she brushed it over her face. Bridget had been looking at Lucy, and frowning.

Lucy took her cup to the counter. ‘What?’ she said. ‘What now?’

‘Her,’ said Bridget, pointing to the door.

‘Do you mean that social worker I was talking to? What about her?’

Natalie smoothed her hair behind her ears. Lucy wasn’t sure about Natalie yet. She did the little-girl-lost look to perfection, and she could see why Bridget was so protective, but wasn’t Natalie a bit too old for that now?

Then Natalie gave a nervous smile. ‘Is that what she said?’

Lucy felt suddenly uneasy. ‘Do you know her?’

‘No. But I’ve seen her at the Manor.’

‘?’

‘Flaxall Manor. Where Matt Cross lived. She’s the Family Liaison Officer from the police. I knew you were … friends with the Chief Inspector. I didn’t know you knew all of them.’

Lucy ignored the dig about her relationship with Tom. That was her own business. She folded her arms. ‘I’ve never met the woman before. Look, if she comes in again, don’t say anything to her about it, all right? If I’m not in the café, let me know she’s here.’

Bridget gave her an elaborate wink and touched the side of her nose.

Natalie put her hand on Lucy’s arm. Instead of feeling patronising, or intrusive, the gesture was more like one of solidarity. ‘Bridget’s told me, yeah? About your brother and your dad. I’m sorry, Lucy. It stinks. No one deserves to go through what you did.’

Natalie’s eyes said what her mouth hadn’t: Been there, done that, got the tee shirt. That made it even harder to bear. Lucy didn’t know what trauma had blighted Nat’s life, but it was probably a lot worse than hers. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

Natalie picked up two coffees to go, ‘One of these is for Connor. He’s quite particular — if he likes it, I’ll make sure he tells everyone. I’ll see you on Sunday, if not before.’

When Natalie was through the door, Lucy turned to Bridget. ‘Sunday?’

‘Karaoke.’

‘Oh. If I bring a bottle of Grandpa Berardi’s Grappa, can I come round to your place first?’

‘I thought you’d never offer. I might have something in your size.’

‘Mmm,’ said Lucy. There was nothing else that wouldn’t draw attention to the fact that Bridget was much taller and broader than her.

Bridget’s eyes twinkled. ‘From an old flatmate. She left it behind.’

‘How did you get on?’ asked Tom when Vicki Higham knocked on his door. He had no intention of telling her that he already knew who owned Quaker’s Fold. That would not be good leadership. He waved her in and pointed to a chair.

She sat down with a straight back and opened her notebook. ‘The property is owned by Flaxall Properties, Douglas Ltd, and there’s a flag on the system.’

It was Tom’s turn to sit up straight. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes. There’s a note to say that there is a pending conveyance. The property is in the process of being transferred or sold to another company but the paperwork either hasn’t been received, or it’s still in the backlog. There’s always a backlog, apparently.’

‘Have they any idea…’

‘Sorry, no.’

‘When was the flag put on the system?’

‘Last Friday.’

So, it predated Matt Cross’s Murder. There is a well-established principle in English law: post hoc does not mean propter hoc; just because one event follows immediately after another, it doesn’t mean that the two are connected. There is an equally well-established principle in English detective practice: there is no such thing as coincidence. That’s why we have juries — someone to decide between the conflicting principles on a case by case basis.

‘Did you try and track down the beneficial owners of the Isle of Man company?’

‘Yes. I’d got as far as Jersey via Dublin when the trail went cold.’

‘Well done, Vicki. Have you considered a career in the Economic Crime Unit.’

She smiled. ‘Once a month is enough, sir. Thanks all the same.’

Isabelle knocked on the door frame. ‘PS White’s outside, sir.’

‘Bring him along, Isabelle, and the others. And thanks, Vicki. That was good work.’

She beamed at him and left. Isabelle returned with Paul White, who was already shedding his outer clothing as he came down the corridor.

Tom shook hands and thanked him for coming.

‘Bit of a surprise, sir. I wasn’t expecting to cross the threshold again after I opened up for you the other night.’

Tom couldn’t miss the heavy irony in White’s words. On another day, he might have started a discussion about police corruption being like carbon monoxide — the silent killer. Today was not that day.

‘Glad of your input, Sergeant White. Whether or not my team identifies Matt Cross’s killer, you still have to police Southport. I’ll be gone sooner or later; you’ll still be here.’

‘It’s Paul, unless we’re on an official basis.’

Elaine came in, followed by Phil Dunn. When they were all gathered round, Tom said, ‘We’ve got a strategy for Grant Benson’s witness interview, and it clearly has to focus on Matt Cross.’ He turned to look at Sgt White. ‘What should we know — off the record — about Grant Benson and Layla’s Bar?’

White shuffled in his seat. ‘You all know how it works for drugs in bars, yeah?’

Dunn and Elaine nodded. Tom said, ‘I know in theory.’ He smiled at his colleagues. ‘It’s well known that my strengths are in other areas. Tell me how it works in practice. In Southport.’

‘OK,’ said White. ‘There are a few serious dealers around here, ones who bring large quantities in to the town for further distribution. We’ve never heard that Cross or Benson was directly involved in that sort of activity. When it comes to bars and clubs, the management has three choices. No matter how exclusive or expensive your clientele, your customers, some of them, will want to take drugs.’

Tom knew this. There were two sad conclusions to be drawn, depending on your point of view. Either society is irredeemably in the grip of a narcotic epidemic, or society is wilfully turning a blind eye to reality. Tom had seen how much money was generated at the wholesale end of the drugs trade, and he was inclined to believe the second version. Long-term legalisation was the only option in his view, a view that he kept mostly to himself.

White paused to make sure his audience were up to speed. ‘Those three choices are this: try and ban all dealing on your premises; turn a blind eye to low-level stuff; or try to take a cut yourself. If you’re going to make it part of your business, you need balls and you need muscle. Matt Cross and Grant Benson had both of those in spades.

‘Now that all doormen — bouncers — are registered, you can’t get a doorman’s licence if you’re a convicted drug dealer. So, the bouncer’s job is to make sure that only their chosen dealers work the venue, and that the owner takes his cut. That’s how all Matt Cross’s bars and clubs worked, except the gourmet restaurant and the Cheney Arms.’

The Major Incident Team looked at each other in puzzlement. ‘Isn’t that the village pub in Flaxall?’ asked Elaine.

‘That’s right. It came on the market about four years ago. The pubco wanted to sell it for accommodation. Strangely, they couldn’t get planning permission.’

‘Cross’s influence on the Council, I presume,’ said Tom.

‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said White. ‘The pubco had to sell it as a licensed premises; Matt Cross bought it, upgraded it and runs it hands-off. So I believe. It’s a nice pub.’

‘I’m surprised you haven’t been yet, sir,’ said Elaine. Tom gave her a dark look.

‘That’s it,’ said White. ‘We all know what goes on, and Benson knows that we know. However, unless one of his dealers sells a batch of stuff that puts people in hospital, we’ve got no traction. No one will ever go on record to confirm what happens, so they just quietly go their way.’

None of the group was happy about this. If Tom had been in Sergeant White’s shoes (or his inspector’s), would he have done any differently? Probably not. He sighed. ‘Thanks, Paul. I’m sure you’d have told us, but I’ll ask anyway: have you heard any serious suggestions this week as to who might have killed Matt Cross? Has anyone popped up to crow about it?’

‘Nothing’s changed that I can tell. Whether they’ll start selling again is another question.’

‘Sorry? What do you mean, start selling again. Have they stopped?’

White looked uncomfortable. This was probably something he should have said earlier. ‘Ever since Christmas, Layla’s Bar has been clean at weekends. They’ve had different bands on, more students.’

‘Sabrina!’ said Elaine. ‘I bet Matt Cross wanted to clean up the place before his daughter’s debut.’

‘Could be,’ shrugged White.

‘Well, if you do hear anything, let me know,’ said Tom. ‘Let’s get Mr Benson into the interview room and get going.’

Tom turned his monitor round so that he and White could watch it in comfort, then he launched the application which showed the live feed from the interview room. It was empty and silent, apart from the sound of the fan heater. Footsteps down the corridor passed his office, then the door of the interview room opened and Elaine went in first. She turned off the heater and looked up at the camera. She took her place next to the wall and two more figures entered the room.

The first was new to Tom, and provoked the instant reaction, I wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night. Grant Benson was massive in every dimension you could see, and probably some that extended beyond this world. Some of his size was fat; most of it was muscle. He barely shrank when he took his coat off, and when he sat down, the chair disappeared.

‘Thanks for coming,’ said Phil. ‘You have agreed to make a witness statement. You are not under arrest, and nothing you say here can be used as evidence unless it’s written down and signed by you. You may leave at any time. Is that clear?’

‘Yes.’ Benson’s voice was as deep as his chest was wide. There was no sign of the high-pitched voice you get from steroid abuse.

‘However, we are using a video camera in this interview to monitor what happens. The tape is not admissible in court and will be destroyed after any trial. We may use it to help us write your statement, but you may alter any part of your statement before you sign it.’ Dunn paused, Benson nodded his understanding. ‘Could you start by telling us how long you knew Matt Cross, what your relationship was, and what work you did for him?’

‘I’ve known Matt nearly all me life. We both worked the docks. In Liverpool. We used to have a jar now and then, but we weren’t that close. He’s never been into football. Strange, that.’

‘For a Scouser, very strange,’ said Dunn.

‘Anyway, I got made redundant and got into a bit of trouble. As I’m sure you know. Matt offered me a job on the door of his first bar in Liverpool. I’ve been his head doorman and security adviser ever since.’

‘What does that mean? On a day-to-day basis.’

‘I hire the doormen, I make sure they know what they’re doing, I train them, I do the rotas, I pay them.’

‘Did you see much of Matt outside work?’

‘Matt’s life was his work and his family. I’m Luke’s godfather, for what it’s worth.’

Dunn opened his mouth to ask some supplementary question about Luke, then he saw the look on Benson’s face and went back to the script. ‘What was Mr Cross’s policy towards drugs on his premises?’

Benson turned to look at the camera and smiled. He even waggled his fingers. ‘Say hello to Sergeant White for me,’ he said to Dunn.

Paul White, sitting next to Tom in his office, was not amused. ‘The evil bastard,’ he said. ‘He must have seen me come in. Sir, I want you to know…’

Tom raised his hand. ‘I’m ignoring it, Paul.’

Back in the interview room, Dunn coughed. ‘Mr Benson…?’

‘Matthew Cross hated drugs and never allowed them anywhere near his family. We were under strict instructions to report any dealers to the police. If you ask Sergeant White, you’ll find a number of anonymous tip-offs from me.’

‘How would he know, if they’re anonymous?’ asked Elaine.

‘Southport’s a small town,’ said Benson.

‘Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt Matt?’ asked Dunn.

‘No. Believe me, if I thought I knew who’d done it…’ Benson looked up to the camera again. ‘...I’d tell the police, of course.’

‘It’s a good act,’ said Tom to Paul. The sergeant grunted in response.

‘Could you tell me where you were on Sunday afternoon?’ asked Dunn.

‘At home, watching the football on telly. Liverpool were playing away.’

‘Was anyone with you?’

‘The wife had gone to see her mother, so no.’

‘Do you have any children?’

‘Yes, but none at home. They live with their mothers. Claire and I don’t have kids.’

Each of them had added a question to Dunn’s original strategy document. Tom’s was first.

‘What do you know about the Quaker’s Fold development?’

‘Nothing. That’s Andy and Claudia Mallinson’s department. Matt worked on a need-to-know basis.’

The next additional question was Elaine’s: ‘And how well do you know Connor Holden?’

‘He’s worked for Matt almost as long as I have. He’s always been squeaky clean, has Connor. He has to be clean to get all those licences for liquor and entertainment. He’s still a good bloke, though.’

Elaine added another question. ‘I met Mrs Cross the other day. She has a lot on her plate right now. How will the business manage without Matt?’

Benson nodded, as if this was the first time he’d had to think carefully about his answer. ‘We’ll all rally round, of course, and the long-term future is in Layla’s hands. Until she’s ready to cope, it’s business as usual.’

Finally, it was Dunn’s bonus question.

‘I believe that you are named in Mr Cross’s will. He left you his shotgun collection. Why was that?’

For the first time, Benson’s face showed something other than knowing humour. His mouth twisted down, and it was clear for all to see that he was not amused by what Matt had done. He snorted, out and in, then folded his arms.

‘It was Matt’s idea of a joke. I think. I had no idea he’d done it. Matt didn’t keep many “assets” in his own name. Layla tells me you’ve got your CSI guys back at the Manor taking things apart. There’s a lot of valuable books in that study, and a lot of expensive wine in the cellar. Andy is a lawyer, hence the books. Connor fancies himself as a wine expert.’

‘And you? Are you a shotgun expert?’

‘Yes and no. I couldn’t get a licence until I moved out of Merseyside. For some reason, people put up barriers. I can’t imagine why.’

‘You don’t think the conviction for GBH was a barrier?’ asked Elaine.

Benson laughed, and turned his attention back to Phil Dunn. ‘I do have a shotgun licence,’ he said, ‘but I don’t actually own a gun. I don’t have a legitimate opportunity to use one. I’m too busy. This was just Matt’s way of leaving me something in his will that was guaranteed.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dunn. ‘I don’t follow.’

Benson laughed again. ‘I have no idea what the law on murder weapons is. I imagine you’ll be hanging on to the Beretta for a while.’

‘You mean the gun that was found with Mr Cross?’

‘That’s the one.’ He looked at Elaine. ‘It’s worth more than your car, Constable, but the prize asset is the Purdey side-by-side self-opening sidelock. I got Andy Mallinson to photocopy the receipt when you took it away on Wednesday. I’m getting that back if I have to go to court for it.’

‘Wow,’ said Tom.

‘You what?’ said Paul White.

Although they couldn’t hear him in the interview room, Dunn and Elaine had a similar reaction. Neither of them were shotgun experts.

‘Think £60,000 as a starting point,’ said Tom.

On the screen, Dunn looked at Elaine, who shook her head. He turned back. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Benson. If you could wait here while DC Fraser writes up your statement, I’ll get you a cup of tea and give you some privacy.’

‘Two sugars, please.’

Dunn leaned over to the control box on the wall and flicked a switch. The monitor in Tom’s office went blank.

‘Thoughts, Paul?’ asked Tom.

The sergeant rested his hands on his knees and rubbed his trousers. ‘You’ll get nothing out of him unless you’ve got him bang to rights and you’re making a deal. He’s only been so chatty today because he knows you’ve got nothing.’

‘Hmmph. I think you’re right. Thanks for coming, Paul, and let me know if you hear anything.’

Tom headed through to the incident room and told Isabelle that he had an appointment at the forensic laboratory in Liverpool. ‘Final meeting of the week at four thirty,’ he said, and left his team to keep digging.

Lucy insisted that Bridget take her turn as barista after lunch. She tried not to hover over her assistant manager, but there was a lot riding on this. If Bridget couldn’t make the full range of coffee options to Lucy’s standards, there was going to be trouble. She still knew almost nothing about the other woman, other than what she could see — and Bridget’s motto might as well be What you see is NOT what you get. Lucy’s first thought had been Art School, but the lack of creative signage suggested otherwise. Was the answer in the ice cream? Had she been on a catering course in an earlier life?

Four cappuccinos were served with the espresso making a dark ridge round the edge of the foam, and Bridget had even suggested that one customer might like cinnamon instead of chocolate.

‘Good work,’ said Lucy. ‘I think you’ve cracked it.’

Bridget turned away, reluctant to accept the compliment. ‘Yeah, well, it’s difficult to get it right when you’ve not been taught properly before.’

Lucy changed the subject. ‘I wonder if our catering supplier has any blackboards or a chalk pen?’

Bridget turned back to face her, a lingering blush on her cheeks from the praise. ‘Ring Melissa, over at Laycross Entertainments. She’ll tell you.’

‘I’m not sure…’

Bridget looked around the café: no one needed serving. She grabbed the landline and dialled a number off the handwritten list pinned to the noticeboard. ‘Hi, Mel. It’s Bridget from Giuseppe’s … Yeah. The new manager, Lucy, wants some blackboards … right …’ She smiled at Lucy while she waited. ‘OK. Thanks, Mel.’ She replaced the receiver. ‘Connor says for you to pop over. He’ll sort you out. It’s the big door to the left of Layla’s. Just push the button.’

‘Thanks, Bridget.’

Lucy glanced outside, and decided she didn’t need a coat to cross the road. The door to the Laycross offices was obvious, if you were looking for it, and she pushed the intercom button. A serious looking CCTV eye was positioned in the roof of the alcove. The door buzzed and she went through, a heavy spring closing it quickly behind her.

‘Come up,’ said Connor from the top of the stairs.

Lucy climbed the steps, and Connor led her through a maze of corridors to a storeroom. She explained what she wanted them for, and said that Giuseppe’s would pay for them.

‘Of course,’ said Connor. ‘You’re making your mark in more ways than one. Nice cup of coffee, that, the one that Nat brought over.’

‘Thanks. I thought Bridget might have artistic tendencies. Seemingly not.’

Connor laughed. ‘I don’t know what Bridget’s tendencies are these days. I don’t think she knows herself, and that’s half the problem. She should have some idea of what she wants to do at her age. She’s a bright girl.’

‘Woman,’ said Lucy.

Connor held up his hands. ‘Hey — sorry. I’ll try to be more politically correct in future.’

‘I’ll forgive you. This time.’ The moment to ask whether Connor knew what Bridget’s tendencies had once been was past, so they rooted through the cupboards until Lucy had three suitable boards and a selection of chalk pens. While they were looking at some old optic fixtures (in case Giuseppe’s introduced syrups), footsteps came down the corridor. Lucy turned to see a familiar looking woman being trailed by a teenage boy. Where had she seen her before? Yes, that was it: on a bottle of wine. This was Layla Cross. She touched Connor’s sleeve, and was about to leave them to it when Layla spotted Connor and continued down the corridor.

He did the introductions, making no public reference to Lucy’s police connection.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Lucy.

‘Thanks,’ said Layla, flicking a smile. ‘I’m on the way home,’ she said to Connor. I just wanted to tell you that you’re right. I can’t face the Piano Bar, yet. Can you run all the weekend’s entertainments?’

‘Of course,’ said Connor.

Lucy took the opportunity to grab her boards and disappear.

As she crossed the road back to the café, the wind nearly ripped them from her hands, and she almost knocked out the glass door. Standing at the counter was the woman from this morning, the one who’d called herself “Heather”.

‘I’ll just put these in the back,’ said Lucy to Bridget. ‘Make me a decaf, would you? I’m still wired from all the samples you made, and I haven’t tried the non-alcoholic version yet.’ She gave a big smile to the woman. ‘I’ll join you in a minute, if you’re not in a rush.’

‘Not today. I’ve got to go back to the office, so I’m taking an afternoon break.’

Lucy dumped the boards in the back room and grabbed her phone. Bringing up Tom’s contact details, she sent him a message: I think there’s something going on that you should know about. At least, I hope you don’t know about it already. Please come to the cafe asap if you can. Lucy X.

She’d sent the text before realising that she’d added a kiss without thinking. Ah well. She muted the alerts on her phone and thumbed through to the voice recorder app.

Back in the café, Bridget handed her a double decaf espresso and a glass of iced water, and Lucy took them over to the woman in the corner.

‘Hello again,’ said Lucy. ‘It’s Heather, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. What’s the decaf like?’

Lucy took a sip and pulled a face. Something else that needed work. She added two sugars, and while she was stirring, she said, ‘You’re not a journalist, are you?’

‘God, no,’ said Heather. ‘I work professionally with families in difficult circumstances. I came over to talk this morning because I just like handbags.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘I had two seconds to look for that Berardi website, and the only thing that came up was the House of Lucia.’ She paused. ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’

Lucy had given the woman a chance to confess, and she hadn’t taken it. Whatever was going on, Lucy was going to give her some rope.

She let out a sigh, and said, ‘Yes it is. Paola Berardi is my Mama, as we say in Italy.’

‘But not in Cheshire. I read about what happened, Lucy, I’m so sorry.’

‘Thanks. It’s funny, I only miss Gianni when I feel good. He was a good-time brother.’ She shrugged. ‘You must see a lot of grief, in your job.’

‘Yes. Everyone’s different, but they all hurt the same. Have you come here for a fresh start?’

‘Do you blame me?’

‘It depends. In your case, things must be very complicated with your extended family and your friends being involved in the case, and being separated from you.’

‘My friends?’ said Lucy, with what she hoped was an innocent expression.

‘It said on one of the websites that you were friends with Holly Nugent.’

Dear God. It’s a good job you’re not the first fame vampire I’ve met. She had to admit, though, that this Heather woman could give most journalists a run for their money. She stirred her coffee again, trying to think of how she could keep the other woman talking without giving too much away. The obvious answer was to think about what was in the public domain already — and just repeat it. She remembered one of the few times that her name had appeared in print. Holly had mentioned her in a Hello! article as being the perfect baby-sitter. Lucy closed her eyes and summoned up the page from the magazine.

‘I’ve known John and Holly for years,’ she said. ‘Obviously, with my Dad being John’s agent, and with them being neighbours, we saw a lot of each other. Holly never had a live-in nanny, so from an early age I used to baby sit their eldest, Ellie. I even remember being really disappointed that I couldn’t be godmother to one of Holly’s youngest. Of course, being Italian, I was brought up a Catholic…’

19

Tom was on the outskirts of Southport when he got Lucy’s text. He had invested in an add-on to his car’s media centre which read out text messages, and he was thankful that Lucy avoided abbreviations. Until the end, when the automatic voice said Please come to the cafe asap if you can. Lucy. Kiss. That was rather alarming.

Should he go? Of course he should, but not alone. His phone rang, and the automatic voice said The Tombs. He accepted the call.

‘Hi Boss, it’s Isabelle. I’ve had ACC Schofield’s office on the phone. He’ll be here about five o’clock. I’ve told him you’ll be back well before then.’

‘Great. Just what I need. What are the others up to right now?’

‘Erm, Hazel’s not back yet, Elaine’s helping Vicki with that property search, and Phil’s writing stuff on the whiteboard.’

Tom caught himself rubbing his left arm when he needed to change gear. If he didn’t shake that habit soon, he’d have to think about a therapist. According to Elaine, there was gossip about him and his past cases amongst the rest of the team. The worst nightmare would be if they started to talk about Lucy. Not for his sake, but hers. Southport was indeed a small town.

‘Tell Phil to get down to Giuseppe’s Gelateria as quickly as he can, by foot or car, whatever. Tell him to go straight away and wait for me on the opposite pavement. Try and tell him nicely, but make sure he’s out of the door in less than a minute.’

Isabelle gave a throaty chuckle. ‘It’ll be a pleasure, Boss.’

What could Lucy want now? She was right to call him in yesterday — he needed to know that she was moving in the same circles as Matt Cross — and Elaine’s insight into Natalie Alderson had definitely made the trip worthwhile. Then again, he didn’t want her getting too close to people like Grant Benson. The man was so intimidating, he probably had trouble getting served in the paper shop. Whatever the cause, Lucy would have a good reason for wanting to see him.

He was less sanguine about Schofield’s impending visit even though it was only to be expected. At least it was Friday afternoon, so, no matter how badly things went, the meeting would be over quickly.

Tom dumped his car on a yellow line on the Prom, and jogged round the corner. Phil Dunn was walking briskly up the street towards him; they came together opposite the café.

‘Thanks for coming, Phil. Did you read my Note of Meeting with Lucy White?’

Phil looked slightly offended, and with some justification. As far as Tom could tell, his sergeant had read every single note on HOLMES2. ‘Of course,’ said Dunn. ‘She’s an associate of an associate of Natalie Alderson.’

That was one way of putting it, and from Phil’s perspective it was the right way. Tom would never think of Lucy as anything other than herself. Unless, one day, after her father’s trial…

He jerked himself back to the cold pavement. ‘She’s been in touch. Asked me to attend personally.’

Tom was about to cross the road, when Dunn touched his arm. ‘Why me, sir? Why not DC Fraser?’

‘Isabelle told me she was helping out PC Higham. Elaine hates economic crime, and it’s time she learnt to love Companies House if she’s going to progress as a detective.’ There was a grain of truth in that. ‘Besides, it’s always good to have another perspective.’

Dunn accepted the answer, reluctantly, and started to look for a gap in the traffic. They dashed over and Tom led the way. The Gothic waitress saw him come in, her face alive with mischief. She pointed to her right and held her finger to her lips. This did not look good.

Tom walked down the aisle between the tables, saw Lucy recognise him, and realised what was going on. The woman talking to Lucy was horribly, unmistakably familiar.

‘Hi Tom,’ said Lucy. ‘This is Heather. She works with vulnerable families.’

From behind, Phil Dunn summed up the situation perfectly. ‘Shit.’

DC Hazel Cotton finally turned round to see who had arrived. She flinched. ‘Hi, Boss,’ she said. ‘I was just having afternoon refs. I think Lucy misheard my name.’

‘Oh no, I didn’t,’ said Lucy. ‘I heard everything perfectly.’

Hazel turned round again. Lucy was waving her phone in the air, a red light blinking on the screen. ‘What were you going to do?’ said Lucy. ‘Sell my story to the papers? It’s a good job I didn’t tell you anything that wasn’t in Hello! Magazine. Except for Holly’s collection of stuffed bats. I lied about them.’

Hazel looked from Tom to Lucy, conscious that she was still being recorded. ‘I don’t like to tell people I’m the police,’ she said. ‘I know Miss White’s suffered a bereavement. I was just being sympathetic.’

Tom pointed to the phone and made a cut gesture with his fingers. Lucy stopped the recording and put the phone back in her apron.

‘You can drive Sergeant Dunn back to the Tombs, Constable, while I apologise to Miss White,’ he said. ‘Perhaps Phil will advise you on your next move while you drive. Feel free to take the long route, so long as you’re back by four thirty.’

Hazel scrambled her things together, and Tom stepped aside to let her pass. Dunn waited until she was outside, then leaned in to Tom. ‘Did you know about this? Is that the real reason you wanted me to come along? If it was, then I’m not happy.’

Tom took out his own phone, and showed Dunn the message from Lucy. ‘Look at the time stamp. That’s the first I heard of this — no mention of anything specific in the text. I was going to ask Isabelle to send Hazel along, actually, but we now know why she wasn’t available. I wouldn’t do this to you deliberately, Phil.’

Dunn shook his head in resignation, then he pointed to the phone. ‘She signed it with kiss. Is there something I should know?’

‘Yes. She’s lived all her life with celebrities. One kiss is almost rudely abrupt to those people. If there was anything going on between Miss White and me, she would have put smiley-face, wink, X X X, wink, smiley-face.’

Phil gave a rare laugh, and shook his head again, leaving without further comment.

The waitress came along with a pot of tea and one cup. ‘Cake, Tom? It’s the least you deserve.’

‘No thank you. It’s Miss Gorrigan, isn’t it?’

‘Call me Bridget,’ she said, and put the tea down. Then she left them alone.

‘Aren’t you going to take your coat off?’ said Lucy, her eyes dancing with humour.

Tom had already moved towards the chair. He stopped, reversed, took off his coat and slumped in front of her. She was leaning forward now, elbows on the table, clearly enjoying herself. Tom sat back, to give himself a bit of distance. He hadn’t seen her like this before, in work mode. Her hair was pulled right back, away from her face. He didn’t think it suited her because it emphasised the slight heaviness in her features, something she’d picked up from her father, rather than the sculpted Italian looks of her mother. Instead of something designer, she was wearing a heavy black cotton shirt that was generous across the shoulders and tight on the chest, emphasising the Gelateria’s logo — and other things. It was probably a man’s shirt, bunched heavily above the elbows where she had rolled up her sleeves. Exposed like that, her arms were soft and small in contrast to the heavy cotton material.

‘I’m sorry you had to go through that,’ he said. ‘God, what was she thinking? Stupid, stupid woman.’

Lucy reached out her hands towards him, stopping halfway across the table and laying her palms flat. ‘What do you want to do?’ she asked.

‘It’s not what I want. You’ve been … I don’t know what you’ve been. Harassed? Subject to unwarranted intrusion? You’re the victim of a crime. A police officer, an experienced family liaison officer, no less, tries to pump you for celebrity gossip.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to say, other than to apologise on behalf of South Lancs Constabulary.’

The pot of tea was sitting on the table, untouched. Lucy reached out and poured some for him, adding just the right amount of milk. She pushed the cup towards him, and when he put his hand down to drink, she took his fingers. Tom felt a glow rise up through his hands to his face. He desperately wanted to feel that warmth, but couldn’t allow anyone else to see her touching him like that. Torn between comfort and propriety, he left his fingers on the table.

‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘It’s you I’m worried about. She deserves all she gets. Bitch. I don’t want to start a vendetta if it’s going to upset your case or get you into trouble.’

‘You can’t think about me. It’s got to be what’s right for you.’

She shook her head. ‘I told you, I gave nothing away. The satisfaction of seeing the look on her face was compensation enough. If I make a complaint, there’ll be lots of paperwork, won’t there?’

He laughed. ‘You couldn’t imagine.’ He moved his fingers, responding to her touch.

Lucy looked up, and saw something behind him. She moved her hand away, and sighed. ‘I presume you’re going to give her a rocket up the backside? In that case, let’s leave it. What I don’t want is her coming round here to apologise. I never want to see her again.’

‘What about a letter of apology? I’d have it in writing that she transgressed.’

‘Stop being a lawyer, Tom. “Transgressed”, indeed.’ She smiled, baring her teeth. ‘A letter would be good, though. And I’m keeping the recording.’

‘Of course. She may deny everything, but I think Phil — he’s my sergeant — I think he might convince her that grovelling is the only option. I’ve already sacked one detective this week.’

She looked as if she were about to ask why, then put her hands back down on the table. ‘You’ve been a real gentleman, Tom, and that’s nice, but does it have to be like this? Like something out of Brief Encounter? Why don’t I ask you out for a drink. Without Scarywoman or Phil or Bridget.’

He had been dreading this moment, hoping that his feelings could stay private. That wasn’t an option any longer. ‘Do you remember that time we walked up to the top of the hill on the 7Bridge Estate?’

She nodded. ‘I remember.’

‘You said I could be pompous. You’re not wrong. I haven’t been a gentleman, Lucy, though it’s nice of you to say so. I’ve tried to be professional, because I owe it to the other police officers and above all, I owe it to your brother. He deserves justice. Until your dad pleads guilty, I can’t — I won’t — risk the case against him. There’s a good reason for rules like that: they protect the defendant and they protect the vulnerable, in this case, you.’

‘I know, I know. It’s ironic though.’

‘Why?’

‘Gianni wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t want justice if it meant someone else losing out on the chance to take a risk.’

‘Maybe. Probably. You knew him best. I’d better go. The Assistant Chief Constable is coming for a progress report at five o’clock. I’ll let you know what happens with DC Cotton.’

‘Thanks. Have a nice weekend, if you’re not working.’

‘I’ll be working. Some of the time. Are you on duty?’

‘Believe it or not, this is only my first weekend here, so yes, I’m on duty tomorrow, then I’m going to see Uncle Paul — Paul Warren.’ She smiled, and shivered at the same time. ‘On Sunday night, I’m being dragged to Layla’s Bar for karaoke.’

‘Oh. Sounds more exciting than babysitting my big sister’s kids.’ He stood up, and wondered if he should mention the drugs. That would be patronising. Given her father’s business, she’d probably seen more drugs at parties than Tom had seen in the police evidence room. ‘Don’t get carried away. You never know what might go on the Internet these days.’

‘As if. Take care, Tom.’

He put his coat on, then turned to face her again.

‘I’ll see you when I see you,’ they said together.

They laughed, and he left the café, harvesting another wink from Bridget on the way out.

Elaine looked at her watch: twenty past four. Tom was due back any minute, as was Phil (wherever he’d gone), and the afternoon briefing was supposed to start straight away. Elaine could see that Isabelle was frantically inputting data, and Elaine’s mission to help Vicki Higham was over, so she got up, stretched out the kinks in her back and told Isabelle that she would brew the tea.

‘Thanks, love,’ said Isabelle without taking her eyes off the screen.

Elaine went into the corridor and strolled towards the kitchen. Behind her, she heard footsteps on the tiles, getting faster: Hazel Cotton, with Phil Dunn in the distance.

‘Elaine. In the kitchen, now!’ said Hazel.

Elaine stepped into the galley space and turned to face her colleague. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘How well does the Boss know that Lucy White woman?’

Woah! Where’s this come from? She hated the way that Tom mooned over little Lucy White, and she hated it for all sorts of reasons (unprofessional, undignified, too old for her, she’s a spoilt little rich brat… among others). She also had to admit that he’d never done anything that he might be ashamed to admit in court. You can’t be arrested for feelings, after all.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I think there’s something going on.’ Hazel looked over her shoulder. ‘I went to talk to Lucy, and ten minutes later, there’s the Boss and Phil Dunn coming up behind me.’

Why would Hazel be talking to Lucy? Unless … hold on. Elaine folded her arms. ‘You were after gossip, weren’t you?’

The angry red glow on Hazel’s neck said that she was, even as she prepared to deny it.

‘Of course she was,’ said Phil from the doorway. ‘Don’t try and shift the blame, Hazel. You went in there and pretended to be a social worker, God knows why.’

Elaine felt very tired all of a sudden. ‘I know why,’ she said.

‘Well tell us, then,’ said Isabelle, joining the party and bouncing on her heels behind Phil to try and look into the kitchen.

‘Lucy White is a friend of Holly Nugent, wife of the England football captain, full time WAG and mother,’ said Elaine. ‘Lucy is also the victim of a major crime.’ Whatever sins Lucy might be guilty of, she didn’t deserve this. Elaine took a step towards Hazel, backing her into Phil Dunn. ‘Were you going to sell the information to the tabloids? Were you?’

‘No. I’m just interested, that’s all,’ pleaded Hazel.

Elaine looked at Phil. ‘The Boss saw this?’

He nodded, ‘And Miss White recorded the conversation on her phone.’

‘Shit,’ said Elaine.

‘Precisely,’ said Phil. ‘Was Hazel here trying to get you to implicate the Boss?’

Elaine nodded. ‘But there’s nothing doing, I’m afraid. The Boss has never spoken to Lucy without a witness present. Usually me.’ She kept her fingers crossed behind her back at this point. She was fairly sure that Tom had spoken to Lucy at least once with no one else present, but not for a couple of weeks.

Phil jabbed his finger at Hazel, who appeared to be on the point of collapse. ‘I told you in the car not to be stupid. You’re bang to rights, and the Boss works for professional standards. You’re going to be lucky to escape criminal charges.’

‘Phil’s right,’ said Elaine. ‘You’ve got one chance: grovel. If I know Lucy White, she won’t want the hassle of an official complaint unless you push her. Grovel to the boss — it’s your only option.’

Vicki Higham’s urgent voice interrupted them. ‘Sarge! Isabelle!’ All four of them turned towards the corridor. ‘ACC Schofield’s in the foyer.’

Elaine closed her eyes. This sort of nightmare was way above her pay grade. She opened her eyes to see Isabelle put a hand on Phil’s arm. ‘I’ll stall him,’ she said, clattering off to do battle.

Phil hissed into Hazel’s face. ‘Not a word, OK? Keep schtum until the Boss asks to see you. And you’re on your own when he does. I hope you were listening to Elaine. Now go and clean yourself up.’

In the hiatus, Hazel had started crying, floods of tears destroying her makeup. Phil stood aside, and Hazel ran towards the Ladies.

‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’ said Elaine.

Tom lugged his briefcase wearily back into the Tombs. He’d felt good this morning, full of optimism about where the investigation was going. Now he was on the verge of losing another detective and the case was running into the sand. The cheerful security guard from the early shift had finished for the week, and his replacement was peering down the corridor towards the incident room.

‘Oh, hi sir,’ said the guard. ‘You’ve missed all the fun.’

‘Fun? In the Tombs? I doubt it.’

‘There was a real slanging match in the kitchen about five minutes ago.’

‘Please don’t tell me you had to intervene.’

‘Oh, no, sir. I was just enjoying those two women having a go at each other. Then I turned around and saw this bloke in a posh suit. Said his name was ACC Schofield.’

‘Did he…’

‘Don’t worry, sir. He didn’t see what was happening. Mrs Innes came and took him to your office once everyone had dispersed.’

Tom shook his head. Sometimes, it’s best not to worry. Sometimes it’s best just to charge in and see what happens. He waved his thanks to the security guard and headed down the corridor. Isabelle and Schofield were sitting in the visitors’ chairs in front of his desk. For once, Schofield wasn’t on the front foot; Isabelle was bending his ear about something to do with budgets, and the Assistant Chief Constable looked pleased to see Tom.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Isabelle. ‘Are we still having the briefing at four thirty?’

Tom raised an eyebrow to Schofield.

‘Yes please,’ said the ACC. ‘I’ll sit in for a while. It will save DCI Morton repeating himself, though I do want a word with him first. Give us five minutes.’

Tom took his coat off and thought about sitting behind his desk. Isabelle had won him some good will; it would be a shame to waste it, so he parked himself next to Schofield.

‘I’ve read all your emails, Tom. Carefully. I take it you’re not about to make an arrest today.’

‘No, sir. There are…’

Schofield held up his hand. ‘I’ll find out soon enough. I’ve been getting a lot of grief at a very high level today.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. You know the government’s position on fracking, I presume.’

‘Yes. They’re in favour of it. So long as it doesn’t happen in the south of England.’

Schofield grunted, but didn’t deny the point. ‘They are desperate for the first production wells to get going. Anything that holds up the process is a major concern to the minister. They want gas coming out of those pipes before the next election. UGAS are willing to take a lot of flak in public, because they know they’ve got the government’s support in private. UGAS are happy to lose the planning battle, because they know they’ll win on appeal.’

‘That sounds about right. You know I’ve done my best to keep this investigation focused in other directions. All that rubbish about hit men.’

‘I understand that, Tom, and the worst possible scenario would be an open case. Anything which leaves the issue clouded in the public’s mind is liable to rebound on UGAS, and that’s not what we want.’

‘I would have hoped, sir, that you wanted me to build a good case against someone.’

Schofield leaned forwards. ‘And I believe you will. I know that asking you to do half a job is not going to work, so I’m just letting you know that your successor will need something — anything — that he or she can use. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure there’s a gap between you handing over the case and an arrest being made.’

This was too much to digest all at once. The implications of Schofield’s message would need serious thought. At least he had another week or so to try and do the job properly.

There was a knock on the door, and Phil led the team in for the briefing. They all studiously avoided looking at either Tom or the ACC. With a sigh, Tom got out his notes and went to the table where his favourite mug was steaming, and someone had added a small stack of biscuits, like chips in a casino. Tom looked around the group. Hazel had taken a seat to his side, so that they wouldn’t have to make eye contact. He asked Schofield to begin, then dunked a digestive.

The ACC told them how pleased he was with the professionalism they had shown so far. Elaine coughed, pretending some tea had gone the wrong way.

When Schofield had finished his pep-talk, Tom took over.

‘To keep things simple, we’ll look at how our three lines of enquiry are going. First is the question of Sabrina Cross and her band.’

Hazel cleared her throat. ‘The band’s got a name now: StarCross’d.’

Tom had no energy for a joke. ‘Thanks. The focus here is Luke Cross. Phil, do you have any further thoughts?’

‘No, Boss. I still think it’s inconclusive. We can’t rule him out, but we’ve got no evidence that will point towards him, nor do we have any real grounds for an extended search warrant.’

‘I agree. The only thing that will stand up in court against Luke Cross is bloodstained clothing or a confession. Do you think anything needs pursuing over the weekend?’ Dunn shook his head. Tom saw Elaine tapping her pen, but she made no move to intervene. She clearly didn’t think that her belief in Luke’s guilt was something worthy of sharing in front of the ACC.

Tom moved on. ‘Drugs. I hope you’ve all logged on to watch Grant Benson’s witness interview?’ He looked round the group. Even Schofield nodded in agreement. Good. ‘Then the route here is obvious. We need much more local intelligence, and more than that, we need evidence that the distribution of drugs has re-started. Benson liked things as they were. He’s been logged visiting the family since the murder. Let’s face it, his only motive for murder would be that Matthew Cross had stopped his little sideline in its tracks. A lot of people, Benson included, must be out of pocket if what Sergeant White says is true, and that distribution of drugs is on hold.’

‘Sergeant White?’ said Schofield. ‘What was he doing here?’

Tom turned to face the ACC. ‘I had no choice, sir. Paul White knows the Southport drugs scene better than anyone. If I can’t start using local knowledge, we might as well relocate the incident room to the Algarve. It would be much warmer.’

Elaine snorted, trying to suppress her laughter. Schofield looked at Phil Dunn, clearly making the calculation that any unfounded allegations made against a fellow officer would not go down well with the Federation. ‘Have you logged White’s visit?’ he asked Tom.

‘Sergeant White’s name is on the visitor log. His intelligence was summarised on HOLMES2 without being attributed.’

‘Put his name on it,’ said Schofield.

Tom wasn’t sure why. Did Schofield know something? That was a question for another day. He nodded his acceptance. ‘Well, in that case, sir, we might need to gather our own local knowledge — pull in some minor dealers, talk to habitual users. We might need some of the uniformed officers back for that.’

Schofield pulled a face, but his threat to Tom before the briefing came with consequences. If Schofield wanted a pile of evidence, he would have to pay for it. The ACC turned to Vicki Higham. ‘I’m sorry, Constable. There’s no news of your transfer to Lancashire & Westmorland yet. You can stay on the team as long as you’re needed.’ He turned back to Tom. ‘You can have two other officers for a week.’

Tom looked at Phil and Isabelle. ‘Make arrangements, please. Our first interview will be with Natalie Alderson, but we’ll plan that on Monday. Moving on … we come to property.’

‘Property?’ said Schofield. ‘There’s nothing in HOLMES2 about that.’

‘It came up this morning, sir. I’m very interested in what Matthew Cross was planning for Quaker’s Fold. Clearly, he can’t develop it if UGAS go ahead with their fracking application, so I want to know what’s going on. The trouble is, I don’t even know who owns it. Vicki?’

The young Detective-designate was clearly a little intimidated by the company. She had been flicking nervous glances at Schofield throughout the briefing, and seemed very reluctant to take centre stage. Elaine, sitting next to her, whispered something in her ear, and Vicki cleared her throat.

‘I still don’t know who owns Quaker’s Fold. I’m sorry.’

Elaine pointed to something in Vicki’s notebook, jabbing her finger on the page. Reluctantly, Vicki spoke again. ‘I think the last stop but one in the trail might be in Russia, sir. Sirs.’

‘That’s good work, Vicki,’ said Tom. ‘Thank you. Why do you think it might go there?’

‘The Russian laws on partnerships are even vaguer than our own, so it’s a good place to hide things. On the other hand, no one in Russia wants to admit to owning anything, in case the government takes it off them. It must lead from there back to here.’

‘I thought you wanted PC Higham to lead drugs intelligence,’ said Schofield with a frown, ‘not to chase shell companies. That’s a job for the specialists.’

‘I know, sir,’ said Tom, ‘which is why I’m taking over on Monday. This is too important to ignore, in my opinion. If the whole of Quaker’s Fold were developed for housing, it would be worth upwards of one and a half million pounds per hectare. Around forty hectares of land on Quaker’s Fold is suitable for development.’

The whole team looked taken aback. No one else had realised just how much might be at stake. The unspoken thought around the table was: I’d happily shoot someone for sixty million quid.

‘You’re right,’ said Schofield. ‘This can’t be ignored as a factor. There is at least some link to Cross?’

‘Andrew Mallinson and his wife are leading the development.’

Schofield looked at his watch. ‘I’d better be going. Thanks for your hard work this week, everyone. You had to play catch-up because the body was discovered so long after the murder, and I think you’ve done a great job. Have a good weekend.’

The team murmured their thanks, and Schofield shut the door behind him.

Tom turned back to the group. ‘Anything else?

They all shook their heads.

‘Then, as the ACC said, have a good weekend.’

The meeting broke up. Hazel rose only slowly from her chair, and the others glanced in her direction, then speeded up their packing. Soon, there was only Tom and Hazel left. Elaine, the last one out, shut the door firmly behind her.

‘Come over here,’ said Tom, pointing to the chair in front of his desk. He sat in his own chair, and Hazel lowered herself carefully into the hot seat, folding her hands in her lap, then unfolding them and placing them beneath her thighs.

She licked her lips, then said. ‘I want to apologise unreservedly for my actions this afternoon. They were totally out of order. I’m sorry.’

Tom leaned forward. ‘Do you want to stay on the team?’

She looked like he’d asked a trick question. She hesitated, then nodded her head, unwilling to commit herself verbally.

‘What did you do wrong?’ said Tom. ‘You’ve apologised, but you haven’t spelt out what you did wrong. If you want to stay on the team, the first thing you need to do is acknowledge what you did wrong.’

Anger flashed on her face. ‘I’m not twelve years old, sir. We both know what I did wrong. You’re not a headmaster, and you should stop acting like one. Either sack me, report me to professional standards or let me move on.’

I’ve always wondered what passive-aggressive really meant. Now I know. Everyone’s guilty on Planet Hazel except her. However, coming to this conclusion didn’t help him decide what to do next. Well, it wasn’t his decision, was it?

‘It’s not up to me,’ said Tom. ‘You acted towards Miss White in a totally unprofessional way. Totally. It’s up to her.’

He left the statement hanging in the air. Hazel removed her hands from underneath her legs and shuffled in her seat. Finally, she said, ‘Have you spoken to Miss White?’

‘I have. She lost her brother a few weeks ago. I saw his body while it was still warm, lying in the snow. Shortly afterwards, I arrested her father. She’s lost her home, too. She doesn’t need you trying to leech gossip off her.’

‘No, sir. I’m sorry. I can apologise to Lucy if it helps.’

‘Miss White doesn’t want to see you again. Ever. Luckily for you, that also means she doesn’t want to see you across the table at a disciplinary hearing.’

Tom waited until Hazel had finished uttering a sigh of relief. ‘What she does want is a written apology. I expect to find a draft of that letter on my desk, first thing on Monday morning. Is that clear?’

Hazel pursed her lips, clearly unhappy. ‘I’m much better at interpersonal communication, sir. Lucy might find that a personal apology gave her more closure.’

Tom leaned forward. ‘Miss White hasn’t played me that recording. If she did, I might have to refer you to professional standards myself. No letter, no job, no pension. Clear?’

‘Sir.’

‘Because you’re on call, you can keep the pool car over the weekend, and be thankful to Miss White that you’ve still got a job to come back to on Monday.’

She left, almost stumbling in her hurry to escape. Tom went back to the pile of reports on his desk. A few minutes later, Isabelle stuck her head through the door.

‘I’m the last one, Tom. Do you need anything before I go?’

‘Thanks, Isabelle, not tonight. I might need a data projector on Monday. Do you think you could organise one? Nothing special, just to show a few images.’

‘Not a problem. Bye, sir.’

She left him to his reports. He waited until the sound of her heels clicking down the corridor had died away, then he stopped and decided that his brain was going into overload. He was going to the Duke of Edinburgh, and he was going for a long run. This time he’d make it as far as Fiona’s house, even if it killed him.

20

Saturday

14th February

Valentine’s Day

‘Wow,’ said Elaine. ‘I know you said you’d push the boat out, but…’

She was standing on the freezing shore of Loch Katrine, looking at a houseboat. Rob’s warm arms were wrapped around her, his warm face pressed down on top of her head. She was frightened that if she ever let go of him, the cold would enter and freeze her to the spot. In the deserted layby, the only noise was the ticking and pinging from their car.

‘How did you find out about this?’ she asked, waving at the boat.

‘I had to call in a few favours,’ he said, whispering into her hair.

Elaine lowered her voice to match. ‘I was expecting a double suite with dinner served in the room…’

‘That’s no romantic,’ said Rob. ‘Anyone with money can do that. This wee beauty’s got more romance on board than any hotel. Besides, I’m sick of hotels. It’s only for one night, it’s fully stocked, it’s got a shower.’

She was still reluctant. It was a lovely gesture, but a typical bloke-gesture. It might have a shower, but it didn’t have a double bath with scented candles, did it? As ever, Rob read her mind.

‘I’ve no given up my room at the hotel. We can drive back there tomorrow, you can have your bath, straighten your hair, get a massage and drive back to Manchester in the evening.’

She waved a gloved hand at the boat. ‘Can you sail that thing? Or drive, or whatever.’

He kissed her head. ‘All we have to do is navigate to the middle of the loch, drop anchor and enjoy ourselves. Come on, love. I’m freezing.’

He took her hand and led her down the shore to the jetty. They walked along and Rob handed her onto the boat. He took out some keys and unlocked the door to the living accommodation. Pulling back the hatch, he urged her inside.

The outside of the boat was white; the inside was gold. Gold fittings, red and gold wallpaper, soft golden light… The living space was all open plan, except for the galley and toilets. Couches surrounded the bed. Elaine noticed that there was a big mirror on the low ceiling.

‘Whose boat is this?’

‘You don’t want tae know,’ said Rob. ‘I thought your imagination might add an extra dimension, you know, wondering who’s been here before.’

‘So long as it’s not you.’

‘Who, me? Come on, let’s get the case from the car. I’m told there’s champagne in the fridge. I ordered a hamper of French goodies — after all, it is Valentine’s Day, and I am going to Paris next week.’

As they walked back to the shore, Elaine looked over her shoulder. The name on the back of the boat was Lady in Red. She shook her head and caught up with Rob. She was going to make him pay for this, one way or another.

What a way to spend Valentine’s Day, thought Tom, as he tossed another file on to the stack. At least the outbound pile was now slightly taller than the inbound one. And what a way to spend a Saturday, regardless of the date. He was alone in the Tombs, locked in and surviving precariously on the warmth of his fan heater. If he strayed more than a few seconds from his office, the cold became unbearable.

The fan heater decided that it was warm enough for now, and turned itself off. The deathly hush spread over the room and settled on his desk. Another hour should do it, then he was going to get the shopping, some treats for his nephews, and spend the afternoon in the launderette.

His phone rang, and he checked the screen; it was a mobile number he didn’t recognise.

‘Hello. DCI Morton speaking.’

‘Hello, Tom, it’s Conrad Clarke here.’

What on earth? Why is he calling me? Tom had last spoken to the former RAF Officer on Boxing Day. He hadn’t expected to see or hear from him again.

‘Hello, Conrad,’ he said cautiously. ‘What are you up to?’

‘Nothing illegal. Well, not very illegal. In fact I’ve got another job working for Her Majesty.’

Clarke had been the one who had avenged Kate, something for which Tom was privately very grateful, even if he wasn’t entirely sure of the man’s motives. Clarke was ruthless and merciless — Tom wasn’t surprised that some clandestine government agency was trying to recruit him.

‘Why am I not surprised. You’ll never guess who was asking after you on Thursday.’

‘Juliet Porterhouse. She’s been pestering all sorts of people to track me down. I may give in soon, just to stop her hassling my sister.’

Tom laughed. ‘If you ever decide to give in, let me know. If I could pretend it was my idea, she’d owe me a big favour.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind. Sorry to bother you on Valentine’s Day, but there was no one else to reminisce with. Apart from Mina, and she’s got her own candles to light.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ said Tom. A year ago today, Tom had attempted to arrest several gangsters. He had arrived too late. A man called Miles Finch had been fatally stabbed, and his killer had then been shot by Miles’s wife, Mina. Tom had been there, as had Kate, now also dead. Clarke had been there, too, but he wasn’t admitting it officially.

Since that day in Essex, Tom understood that Clarke had developed … feelings? An understanding? Something with Mina Finch, anyway. As much as you can have a relationship with a woman in prison, that is. Mina was due for release in the spring, and presumably Clarke was leaving her to grieve undisturbed. If they ever did get together, Valentine’s Day was not going to be big on their calendar.

‘Of course, officially there’s nothing to reminisce about,’ said Tom. He didn’t like Clarke to think that he held all the cards.

‘True. I was still on crutches a year ago, and not mobile enough to take part in the shoot-out at Four Ashes Farm, still less to get away scott free only seconds before you and Kate turned up…’

Clarke paused to let him bite back. Tom wasn’t going to go down that road.

‘I hear you’re in Southport,’ continued Clarke, unfazed and unflappable.

‘Why does everyone know my business?’ sighed Tom.

‘You’re a high profile detective who does high profile cases.’

‘Hah! You should see my high profile office. It’s known locally as The Tombs.’

Clarke drew in his breath, as if Tom had touched a nerve. ‘Really? Charming. I won’t keep you, except to say that I’ve finally settled on this mobile number, in case you ever need any help.’

‘Why would I…? Oh, never mind. I’ll add you to my contacts.’

His phone beeped to show a Call Waiting from Fiona. ‘Sorry, Conrad, I’ve got to go. Remember what I said about Juliet Porterhouse. If she owes me a favour, I’ll owe one to you…’

‘Noted, Tom. Bye.’

Tom switched to the other call. ‘Tom, it’s Fiona. There’s been a bad accident on the M57.’

If anyone else had said that, he would immediately have panicked, but this was Fiona. He could tell what was coming next. ‘Duncan was on call, so my romantic dinner is off. You’re more than welcome to come and keep me company.’

Fiona’s husband, Duncan, was a hospital registrar, something to do with trauma surgery. He was on track to be a consultant, and he put in a lot of hours.

‘I still need a bed for the night, so I’ll be over. I’ll still cook the boys’ supper, too, only I’ll get a bottle for you and me as well.’

‘That’ll be nice. See you later.’

Was it his imagination, or did Fiona actually sound enthusiastic? That really would be nice.

It was too much to handle. Tom couldn’t manage his case, the shopping, and the flowers. He opted for the flowers first, because Fiona would have to take them off him and deal with them. He was half way up the drive when his brother-in-law appeared.

‘Hi Tom, do you want a hand with that?’

‘Yes please. Can you take the case? Oh, and is my car alright where it is?’

‘Sure. There’s plenty of room for me to get out later.’

Tom handed over his suitcase. The tall frame of Dr Duncan Gilchrist disappeared into the Victorian villa he shared with Tom’s sister, Dr Fiona Morton, and their boys, Fergus and James Gilchrist. Apparently Duncan had put his foot down when Fergus was born, and insisted that he was registered as a Gilchrist. Fiona was too exhausted to argue, a fairly rare event in Tom’s experience. He collected the rest of the shopping and followed Duncan inside. He could hear the sound of footsteps going upstairs.

He headed through the back, and found his sister presiding over homework around the kitchen table.

Without taking her eyes off the boys, she gave him a kiss and said, ‘Are you serious about cooking. It’s bed-time for James in an hour.’

‘When’s Duncan off to work?’

‘He would have gone earlier, but they’ve had difficulty tracking down anaesthetists. The category one patients will be in surgery for ages. He’s going to eat first, I can get something from the freezer if you want.’

‘Supper for five in less than half an hour. Promise.’

He cheated with the rice (when you’re going to fry it, microwave rice is quite acceptable). Everything else was chopped, tossed in the wok and served hot in twenty-five minutes.

‘Are you going to keep that apron on?’ asked James. ‘It looks very silly.’

Tom looked down at the image of Superman. James had a point: underpants on the outside is never a good look, even on an apron. Unless the boys started a food-fight (it had been known), his clothes were probably safe for now, so he hung Superman up on the back of the door.

Duncan reappeared when the smells penetrated the home office upstairs. ‘Amazing thing, superfast broadband.’

‘Oh?’ said Tom. It was a question he was clearly expected to ask.

Fergus knew what was coming, and stole his father’s thunder. ‘Dad’s been looking at X-Rays,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘So he knows what to expect when he gets to work.’

‘And pictures,’ said Fergus’s father. ‘Lots of pictures. They’re letting me loose on a pelvis tonight. I haven’t done one on my own before.’

‘About time, too,’ said Fiona.

Tom thought of the poor woman in pre-op. Does she realise that her future happiness depends on a surgeon who’s flying solo in the pelvis region for the first time? Oops. Not the most sensitive metaphor I’ve ever come up with.

What about Matthew Cross? He too was relying on a neophyte — Tom had never been SIO before, just as Duncan had never been lead surgeon for such a major operation. Part of Tom’s brain objected to the analogy on the grounds that Matthew Cross was dead, so Tom couldn’t make things worse. Before his conscience could point out that Matt’s family was still alive, Duncan rose from his seat, thanked the chef, kissed his boys goodbye, then his wife, then he left them to it.

‘Bath and bed,’ announced Fiona. She surveyed the wreckage surrounding her six ring range cooker and announced. ‘I’ll read you a story while Uncle Thomas washes up.’

‘I could have bought something for the microwave,’ Tom objected. ‘Less mess but less healthy.’

‘Can Uncle Thomas read us a Thomas the Tank story?’ pleaded James. ‘He makes Gordon the engine dead funny.’

Fergus looked pityingly at his younger brother. At their age, two years difference seems like a lifetime, as Tom knew only too well. Fiona used to look at him like that when they were children. Unfortunately, she still did. Sometimes. Fergus expanded on his lofty disdain: ‘You mean that he makes Gordon sound like Dad.’

‘What?’ said Fiona, flicking her eyes between James and Tom.

Tom put his finger to his lips and winked at James. Tom’s attribution of an Edinburgh accent to Gordon the Engine should remain their secret. James grinned back.

‘Bath. Bed,’ said Fiona with finality.

‘Sink. Dishwasher,’ said Tom, collecting the plates.

‘Rubber duck. Pyjamas,’ added James, before shooting away from the table and up the stairs.

Fergus and Fiona followed at a more leisurely pace. From the kitchen doorway, she gave Tom a parting shot. ‘Wine. Corkscrew.’

It turned out that Bath and Bed took much longer than Sink and Dishwasher, even without a Thomas the Tank Engine story. Tom went through to the sitting room and turned up the gas on the ceramic coal fire. It was very realistic, and just as warm as the real fire at the Cloister. A lot less trouble, too. He put the bottle of wine and two glasses on the coffee table and went in search of something to read, scanning their bookshelves for something non-medical.

In the peace and quiet of the house, something in the hiss of the gas fire reminded him of listening to Allegri’s Miserere in the Archbishop’s park. Fiona was a regular churchgoer, and Tom found her cache of religious texts hidden away to the side, out of sight to casual visitors. He could have Googled it, but this quest seemed to deserve some old fashioned research.

Fiona’s footsteps were just heading downstairs when he found what he wanted in a very old Psalter. The line from the Miserere that had affected him so much translated to this:

For behold thou hast loved truth: the uncertain and hidden things of thy wisdom thou hast made manifest to me.

Tom didn’t believe in Signs and Portents. Well, not much. He put the book, still open, by his chair and offered a glass of wine to his sister as she cruised through the door. She took it from him with the skill of a relay runner collecting the baton, and managed to kick off her shoes and take her first sip as she sat down. Now that was multi-tasking.

‘I’m surprised that Mother didn’t send you down with another box full of junk from the farm,’ she said.

‘It’s not junk. It’s family heirlooms.’

She snorted. ‘I do not consider a rosette for Best in Show, Two Swaledale Ewes, 1978 to be an heirloom.’

They caught up on family news for a while, including the matter of their father’s investiture as Sir Thomas. ‘We’ve got to have some sort of party,’ said Fiona.

‘I agree, and it has to take Grandma and Granddad into account. He’s still getting over that chest infection. Travelling to London is going to take it out of him as it is. I’m not sure trying to arrange some feast in the capital is going to put them at their ease.’

She sighed. ‘You’re right.’ Taking a sip of wine, her eyes brightened. ‘Have it waiting for them! Wouldn’t that be great if they all came back to York and we had a party waiting for them at the Cloister?’

Tom couldn’t argue with this, because it was true. That didn’t make it any less traumatic. The idea of getting sundry relatives and friends together and of Fiona being in charge, was such a family minefield that he was already longing for a complex fraud in Wales. Or Belfast. Belfast would be good.

‘You’re doing it again,’ said Fiona.

‘What?’

‘Rubbing your arm where the skin graft was. Don’t ever take up poker, Tom.’

Was he doomed to do that for the rest of his life? How could he stop doing it when he didn’t even know he was doing it? ‘You’re not the only one to notice.’ He was about to mention Lucy, when he remembered who he was talking to. Lucy’s was not a name to be dropped in front of Fiona. Not yet. ‘Elaine said that the team had noticed, too. They don’t know why, of course.’

‘Mm,’ said Fiona. ‘Mother told me about DC Fraser. She said she was very polite.’ They grinned at each other. It was what their mother always said when she had successfully intimidated someone. ‘She also said that she wouldn’t want to cross her either — she reckoned your partner could be a right terrier if she wanted to.’

‘She’s not wrong,’ said Tom, reaching over to top up Fiona’s glass. ‘Well, not about the terrier bit. Unfortunately, she’s not my partner on this case. She’s one of the team, and I can’t afford to have favourites. Not with so much at stake.’

‘How’s it going?’

Whatever their rivalry as siblings, Fiona accepted Tom’s status as a professional, and he recognised hers. Whatever was said in the sitting room would stay there.

‘The post-mortem wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be,’ he said.

She shuddered. ‘Rather you than me.’

‘I thought you had to do dissection at medical school, never mind deal with everything else that turns up in the surgery.’

‘Med school is different,’ said Fiona, waving her arm. This was a sign: a sign that she’d had a drink. Tom took a healthy swallow in an attempt to catch up. ‘The subject in anatomy class is a volunteer,’ continued his sister. ‘The body is pickled and anonymous, not blown away and left to rot. How are the family taking it?’

‘That’s the worst part of being in charge: I don’t really know. Not for myself. I’m relying on my team to look them in the eye.’ He shrugged, and made sure his wine glass was in his right hand. That way he couldn’t rub his scar. ‘I wouldn’t say they’re an odd bunch, but they’ve had a strange life. All of them have lived with Matthew Cross knowing that he’s both a family man and a violent criminal.’

Fiona waved her hand again. ‘Don’t be seduced by the myth of the perfect family. We were shaped by Dad being a lawyer; Fergus and James have doctors for parents — every family is just … different.’

‘That says nothing,’ shot back Tom. ‘I’ve seen plenty of toxic families in my time. I’m sure you have, too.’

‘You can’t blame the family for its evil members,’ announced Fiona.

Tom shifted in his seat. This was getting dangerously philosophical. ‘If that’s the case, then you can’t credit it for the good ones, either.’

She frowned at him.

‘Families are like compost,’ he said. ‘Whatever seed lands in them grows there.’

Fiona frowned again, then burst out laughing. ‘I’ll tell the vicar about that one,’ she said, wiping away a tear. ‘It’s a completely new take on the Parable of the Sower, I’ll give you that.’

Tom felt very peeved, for a second, then he realised it wasn’t his finest metaphorical moment. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘have some more wine.’

‘Thanks. Family aside, how is the case really going?’

He summarised his belief that either the band, or the drugs connection or the issue with the land was behind Matthew Cross’s murder. ‘The team don’t know it yet, but I reckon I’ll rule out Luke as the killer on Monday. Forensics.’

‘Let me guess, Tom, you fancy the land as motive over the drugs angle.’

‘Of course. Except that it leaves me with no obvious suspect apart from the guy who found the body, who happens to have the best alibi. Of the two people most closely involved in the property business, Andrew’s not talking and Claudia Mallinson is ill.’

Fiona’s glass hesitated in mid-air, half way to her lips, before resuming it journey. Duncan wouldn’t have noticed, but Tom did. He shifted in his chair, and the open psalter next to him caught his eye: the uncertain and hidden things of thy wisdom thou hast made manifest to me. Afterwards, he wasn’t sure if it was the words of the psalm or the glass of wine which made him push it.

‘You know them, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Are the Mallinsons your patients?’

Fiona didn’t bother to deny it. ‘I know Andy, but he’s with another partner. Claudia is my patient.’

It hung between them. Fiona looked down at her jeans and picked at the seam with her short nails. It was Tom’s call.

He looked at her wine glass, and took a chance. ‘I only want to know what’s the matter with her,’ he said. ‘Nothing else. It’ll save me having to put the family through more pain by asking them.’ He left it for a second, then continued, ‘It will help my family liaison officer to make proper allowances, and treat them with the respect they deserve. Apparently she was having in-patient treatment somewhere only the other day.’

Fiona looked up at him. ‘I know you. There won’t just be one question, there’ll be more. That’s why your such a good detective.’ Something was troubling her. He had no idea whether it was her professional conscience, concern for her patient or something else. ‘I’ll give you a one sentence answer to your question if you promise to answer one of my questions afterwards.’

Over the family Christmas, Tom had told her everything about Operation Jigsaw (or at least, he had answered all her questions truthfully), which left one topic he was keen to avoid: Lucy White. But how could Fiona have heard about Lucy? Certainly not from Elaine… ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Deal.’

‘IVF,’ said Fiona abruptly. ‘Over a prolonged period. She goes to a private clinic in Cheshire. They emailed me on Thursday, actually, to say that the latest treatment was successful. Claudia Mallinson is finally pregnant. At the moment.’

‘Oh.’ Was all Tom could manage at first. He took a deep breath. ‘Is telling me this going to get you in trouble?’

Fiona shook her head. ‘Get one of your team to ask which hospital she was at on Tuesday. Think of a reason. Once they tell you that, the rest is obvious.’

‘Thanks, Fi. I’ve no idea what it means, but thanks.’

She managed a smile. ‘My turn.’ She emptied her glass, then emptied the rest of the bottle between them. When she sat back down, the wine sloshed alarmingly around. Not noticing that her sofa had had a lucky escape, she fixed him with her best stare, the one she’d inherited from their mother.

As Fiona was her mother’s daughter, Tom was his father’s son. He was immune to the stare.

‘What are your intentions regarding the Cloister?’ she asked him.

‘What on earth do you mean?’ he spluttered. It wasn’t an act: he had absolutely no idea what she was on about.

‘Are you going to move out, or stay there and get your feet under the table ready for when Mum and Dad downsize?’

Where had this come from? What in Heaven’s name was going on in his sister’s head? The word downsize gave him an opening to get out of the conversation. It was the second time he’d heard it recently.

‘Does Duncan know you’re still in touch with Craig Capstick?’

It was a low blow, but an effective one. Fiona blushed scarlet. ‘What? No! How could you … How did you know about that?’

‘About what? All I know is that he’s the captain of Haxby Vets rugby team, and that he asked me to give you his regards.’

‘The bastard. It was a mistake. On both our parts. And it was a long time ago.’

‘You must have left a lasting impression, Sis.’

‘Don’t you dare! Anyway, what’s he got to do with the Cloister?’

‘Coincidence, I think. He asked for a recommendation to act as agent if Mum and Dad decide to sell. What makes you ask?’

‘I wondered if you were going to do a Diana and ask for an advance on your inheritance. Or offer to help them out by buying the place.’

So that was it: Fear of Missing Out. Four years ago, their younger sister, Diana, had openly asked for “An advance on my inheritance,” because she wanted to live in London and follow her dream of being an artist. Fiona had been furious, and taken it out on their mother, not speaking to her for months. Tom’s belief that the issue was water under the bridge clearly needed revision.

‘I think you should talk to Dad,’ he said. ‘He’s been pushing me to get out and get back on the property ladder, and he’s right. When I do so, it will be on my own two feet. If that’s not a mixed metaphor.’

‘What?’

‘The property ladder and the two feet.’

‘You do talk drivel sometimes, Tom.’

‘Possibly. I also tell the truth. You should know something: Mother would rather convert to Rome than do you or me out of our share of the Cloister.’

‘If it’s still there. You must have seen how much work needs doing — and they haven’t got the money to do it, because they gave it to Diana.’

Tom sighed. This conversation needed to be wrapped up quickly, before Fiona suggested opening another bottle of wine. He couldn’t cope with an hour on Diana’s shortcomings, especially as he would have to defend her. He tried to make eye contact. ‘It’s got nothing to do with Diana, it’s because of me. They’re waiting for me to move out before they get the builders in.’

Fiona frowned. ‘You’re not there that much. They could easily work round you.’

‘I know, Fi, but that’s not the point. I’m a good excuse. Mum and Dad are both very busy, and neither wants the trouble of having to organise things.’

‘Oh? What are they up to? Mum never tells me anything important. You’re on the ground; you must see what’s going on.’

There was a kernel of truth in what she said. He got to see his parents’ worries as they formed, before Mother turned to Fiona for help, because Mother always asked for Fiona’s advice when there was a real problem. Not that Fiona would accept that…

‘Dad’s been hearing whispers,’ he said. ‘He’s not sure if the knighthood is a pat on the back or whether the Ministry of Justice has given him a leg-up because they want him to do something in London.’

‘London? Haven’t they got enough judges down there?’

‘Plenty, but they occasionally have use for experienced judges with no axe to grind.’

‘What about Mum?’

Tom shrugged. Their mother was actually the most discreet of all the Morton clan when it came to confidences. ‘I think there’s trouble brewing in one of the parish clusters in the Vale of York. She keeps starting to tell me about it then changing the subject.’

‘That’s where you get it from.’

‘Me? Get what?’

‘Yes, you. She rang this afternoon. With a message.’

Tom was finding it hard to follow the thread. He closed the psalter and stood up carefully so that he could put it back in the bookcase. ‘What message? And why didn’t she ring me?’

‘It’s about Kate. Or her father.’

Tom’s hand was poised over the gap in the books. It wandered a little before he slammed the text back in its place. ‘What about her? Him, I mean.’

‘He wants to come up to York, and he wants you to be there when he visits. According to Mum, he made a big thing about saying it was nothing to do with what happened to her in France. Wanted you to know he doesn’t hold you responsible.’

‘I know he doesn’t. He told me.’

‘What about you, Tom? Do you blame yourself?’

‘I don’t know. I do know that I think about her almost every day. On the other hand, I feel guilty about losing my marriage, but I barely think about Caroline.’ He shrugged, and Fiona held out her hand. Tom hefted her off the sofa and took their empty glasses.

‘Duncan is excused church tomorrow,’ she said. ‘You aren’t.’

She pecked him on the cheek and headed upstairs.

21

Sunday

‘Are you sure you can manage in your new life without a car?’ asked Paul, as they drove into Liverpool on Sunday morning. Lucy hadn’t been able to find a connection that would get her to Southport before ten o’clock, so Paul had left his wife, Emma, doing lesson plans and offered Lucy a lift.

Paul and Emma been together for five years, and married for three, and Lucy barely knew her, even after last night’s dinner, although it said a lot about Emma’s down to earth nature that she’d been happy to share Valentine’s day with her husband’s god-daughter. Paul’s first marriage had ended a long time ago, and he had met Emma online. According to Paul, their first date had been a disaster. Emma despised celebrity culture (or claimed to), and when she discovered who Paul’s clients were, she almost walked out. Lucy felt the same way about celebrity, even though she’d grown up with them for neighbours. Another thing that she had in common with Emma was their determination to keep their independence. Lucy had refused to work in the family business, and Emma had kept her job as a primary school teacher. Would she give up now that Paul was unemployed? Last night she’d been full of how Paul was going to write a book, a real insider’s look at life in the goldfish bowl. We’ll see, thought Lucy. Paul was a good man, and a good lawyer, but whether he could write a book…

‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said. ‘You didn’t have to…’

‘Yes I did. I’d come up and sample the wares, only I know you’d be mortified.’

‘Yeah, well. Soon. Once I’ve sourced a decent home-made cake supplier. There must be lots of bored housewives in Southport who watch the Great British Bake-Off and think they could do better.’

Paul stared at her.

‘It came to me last night, when Emma was showing me her school’s Facebook page. I need to get out there … get back on social media.’

He shook his head. ‘That’s what we employed the PR people for. Never saw the point of it myself.’

‘And that’s why I love you. One of the reasons, anyway.’ She kissed his cheek, trying to avoid the wound on his lip. The moustache he’d sported all her life had gone. Underneath it had been a huge mole. Paul had used some of his payoff to visit a cosmetic surgeon. Another big change in her life, only it wasn’t her life, was it? If Paul wanted to get rid of his most distinctive feature, that was his business. It’s not all about you, she thought to herself.

Lucy looked at her watch. She had another minute. ‘I’m glad that Robyn’s been to see Dad,’ she said. ‘Will you keep on at him? I really do want to see him.’

‘I know, love. Perhaps now he’s seen his second family, he’ll remember the first. Here,’ he said, reaching behind him. ‘I’ve drawn up the trust papers, but included two modifications.’

She sighed. She had expected this, and was ready for a fight. ‘No way am I going to spend that money on myself,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ said Paul, equally prepared for battle. ‘And I’ve tied up the terms of the trust so tightly that no matter how urgently you feel the need for a spending spree, the money is beyond your grasp. However … what if something happens to you, before you have children? There has to be a clause covering that, unless you want the money to go to the tax-man.’

She shook her head. ‘Charity. Definitely.’ She thought of where the money had come from: shares in the 7Bridge Estate. And she thought of Holly, and Holly’s contribution to the success of the Estate. ‘I want it to go to charities supporting vulnerable women. Let them have some of the chances I did.’

Paul nodded. ‘I can put that in the second draft. The other clause is not negotiable, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I’ve inserted a closure option which allows you to go to the High Court and wind up the trust if something happens which means you can’t have children.’ Before she could interrupt, he held up his hand. ‘It’s not nice to talk about, I know, but it’s my job to think of these things. Just forget it’s there.’

An image sprang into Lucy’s head: Alone, surrounded by cats, the spinster rings her lawyer and asks… No. She shook her head. ‘Fine. Whatever. I’d better go. Thanks again. And thank Emma. I don’t know which of you’s the luckier one.’

Before he could respond, she dived out of the car and up the steps to Lime Street Station. She breathed a sigh of relief that the train was actually a train, and not a replacement bus. It was even on time.

Lucy dashed through the streets of Southport, suddenly hot in the unexpected sunshine. She arrived at Giuseppe’s at the same time as two young women: her Sunday shift.

‘Are you Lucy White?’ asked one of them.

She nodded and smiled while she got out the keys. She had spent an hour in the café yesterday morning, training the Saturday shift, before leaving Bridget in charge. These were the last two members of staff that she hadn’t met before.

The girl who’d spoken first addressed her colleague. ‘I told you she was. Just because she’s deleted her Twitter account, it doesn’t mean she’s dead.’

Lucy’s hand stopped on the door handle. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re Lucy White, who used to baby-sit for John and Holly Nugent, and whose…’

‘Sorry,’ said Lucy. ‘That was someone else. I’m a completely different person.’

The girl stared at her for a second, then took out her phone. She held it up, showing a picture of Lucy and Ellie Nugent taken last Christmas. ‘No you’re not,’ said the waitress.

Lucy opened the door. ‘Young people today. No sense of irony,’ she announced to the world at large. The girls blinked.

Lucy folded her arms. ‘Listen, you two. We’ve not even said hello and I’m giving you a warning: this is a café, not a wine bar in Knutsford. I’m your boss, not a celebrity, OK?’

The girl with the phone took a step back, then took a picture. Before Lucy could say anything, she shoved the phone in her pocket and said, ‘I was thinking about leaving anyway.’ Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked off.

The other girl, who looked barely sixteen, was staring after her colleague, eyes wide and mouth open.

‘What about you?’ said Lucy.

‘I … need the money,’ she stammered, colour rising up her pale face. ‘And I never liked her anyway. Can I have her job? As supervisor?’

‘If you earn it,’ said Lucy. ‘First, you’ve got to learn how to make proper coffee.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

An hour later, Lucy stood at the coffee machine, arms aching. ‘It’s no good,’ said Lucy, ‘we’re going to have to get a platform or a new counter. Who designed this, anyway? Must have been a man. Typical.’

‘Why don’t you get Bridget’s stool?’ said the waitress, flying through to the kitchen with another tray of dirty cups.

‘Wha…?’ said Lucy to the disappearing back. She followed the girl through to the washing up zone to ask what she meant, only to find that she’d disappeared again, into the cleaning cupboard. Girl? Her only member of staff today had turned out to be eighteen, not fifteen, and doing her A levels at college. She wasn’t that good with the customers (yet), but she moved very quickly and was a dab-hand with the industrial dishwasher.

‘Here,’ said the waitress, brandishing a plastic stool about 30cm high. ‘Bridget uses it to get to the top of the windows when she’s cleaning. I don’t think she’ll mind you borrowing it.’

Lucy snorted. ‘Did she buy it herself?’

The waitress treated this as a serious question. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Hand over the stool, or I’m putting you in charge.’

‘No! I can’t…’

‘Calm down, calm down. I’m joking. Does no one do irony round here?’

‘Was that irony?’

Lucy shook her head and took the stool from the girl’s unresisting grasp. ‘I’m not going to make a fool of myself out there. No more than absolutely necessary. You go and keep an eye out; I’ll practise in here.’

The waitress gave her a strange look and went out front. Lucy put the stool next to the dishwasher and practised mounting and dismounting, then loaded the machine, to see if she could work without falling off. Satisfied, she climbed down. This might make all the difference.

She hefted the stool and turned to go, just as the waitress stuck her head in. ‘Customer. Wants ice cream.’

The warmer weather had brought a lot of orders for ice cream, given that it was still February. Lucy was English, really, but there was enough Italian in her to recognise that ice cream in winter was a thoroughly Northern eccentricity. She smiled, headed through the door and over towards a father with two scruffy boys. Damn — the floor would need a thorough mop now. She didn’t need the stool for the ice cream cabinet, so she dropped it by the coffee machine and picked up a disposable glove.

‘What would you like?’ she asked the boys, then looked up at their father. Only it wasn’t their father — it was Tom Morton.

Her first response was to blush. ‘Is there something you’ve not told me?’ she asked, pointing to the boys.

‘Only that I have a sister who lives in Birkdale, and who put me up last night. I’m on Uncle Tom duty while Fi cooks the dinner.’

He was giving her that smile again, the one with the twinkle in his eye. Their relationship (or should that be “relationship”?) was like a tennis match. First he would catch her off guard, make her flustered and laugh at her with his eyes, then she would press him, push him to open up and he would turn into a lawyer. Well, he was a lawyer, wasn’t he?

‘Is your sister a bored housewife?’ asked Lucy. ‘It’s just that I’m looking to source some home-made cakes.’

Tom almost hooted with laughter. ‘What do your Mum and Dad do at work, boys?’ he said to the children.

‘Mum’s a doctor and Dad cuts people open,’ said the older boy.

‘Erm, okay,’ said Lucy.

‘He stitches them up again afterwards,’ added the younger boy reassuringly. Then he twitched his nose. ‘Where’s the Ice Cream Lady? She always tells us what’s best.’

Does she, now? And I’ll bet she only sold the fresh stuff and let the other go to waste. Hmm. She filed the thought for later, and lifted the lid on the Home Made Vanilla. ‘How about this? It’s great with Hundreds and Thousands.’

‘Can I have a double scoop with a flake?’ asked the larger boy.

‘No,’ said Tom quickly. ‘You heard what Mum said: Single Scoop. You can share a flake between you.’

‘We’re not allowed to break flakes in half,’ said Lucy. ‘Health and safety.’

Tom looked at her for a second, until he realised she was joking. ‘In that case, we’d better have one each,’ he said. ‘Remember what Lucy said,’ he told the boys, ‘it’s not my fault. Now go and sit in the corner. I’ll bring them over.’ He turned back to her. ‘I’ll have the same, no sprinkles.’

Lucy started to serve. Very slowly. ‘You’re on Uncle duty, not Police duty, then.’

‘No overtime, no team. Nothing doing today. Except for this.’ He waved a copy of the Sunday Examiner. ‘Do you remember Juliet Porterhouse, the journalist?’ Lucy nodded. ‘She’s written a big piece about the case, putting it in the context of some ancient history. I had to send my Family Liaison Officer to pour a little oil.’

Lucy paused. ‘I’d ask you out again, but I’ve got a date with Bridget tonight.’

‘Oh? Is there something you’re not telling me?’

She stuck out her tongue. ‘We’re going to the Single Swingers’ Karaoke at Layla’s. It would serve you right if I got swept off my feet.’

She had hoped to provoke him. Just a little bit. A tiny hint of jealousy, that’s all she wanted. If he said something like: You’re a grown woman… then she’d have to shove the ice cream in his face.

Instead, he frowned. ‘Are you going with Natalie Alderson?’ he asked, in a rather too professional voice.

Lucy put down the scoop. She knew him well enough to know the signs. He was trying to drop a hint about something.

‘Sort-of. She’ll be at work, mostly. Technically, it’s a celebration: she’s moving out of Bridget’s spare room and into a flat with Connor.’

The air of relief around Tom was palpable, and audible: he let out a huge sigh. Lucy resumed making the ice creams. ‘What happened to that Hazel Cotton woman?’ she asked, not looking up.

‘I hope to have a letter of apology on my desk tomorrow,’ he replied. ‘I really am very sorry about that.’

‘Not your fault,’ she said, placing the cones in the rack. ‘That’ll be £5-40, please. The sprinkles are on the house.’

He handed over a £10 note. ‘I’m not sure about you going out with Bridget,’ he said. ‘You’re too attractive. You might get unwelcome attention.’

Result! It might have been a joke (barely), but it was definitely a sign of jealousy. ‘Thanks for the tip,’ she said, pocketing the £10 note.

He opened his mouth to protest, then shook his head and picked up the cones.

‘Two Special Coffees when you’re ready, love,’ said a shaky voice from the coffee counter.

Lucy gave the old man an extra big smile and climbed on to Bridget’s stool. ‘Coming right up.’

Damn you, Holly Nugent, thought Lucy as she surveyed the wreckage of her wardrobe. If you hadn’t made me give it all away, I might have something to wear tonight. By that weird synchronicity of the universe, Holly’s number came up on Lucy’s phone. She was tempted not to answer it.

‘Is it Monday morning in Japan?’ she said when the call was connected.

‘Yes. Eight o’clock. A new week, more trials, more tests.’

Holly sounded bright, but there must be a reason she was calling Lucy instead of getting the kids ready for school.

Before Lucy could frame a suitably sympathetic question, Holly continued. ‘What are you up to, Luce? Settling in to your new life?’

‘Yes. Sort of. I’m supposed to be going out, and I’ve got nothing to wear. Literally nothing, thanks to you.’

‘Letting go is good for the soul. Apparently. There’s someone here who wants a word.’

The other end of the call rustled, and the tentative voice of Holly’s daughter Ellie came on the line.

‘Hello Auntie Lucy.’

‘Hello, Kitten. What’s it like in the Land of the Rising Sun?’

‘Good. I’m three inches taller already.’

Lucy stared at the phone. Three inches????

‘Japanese girls are about three inches shorter than English ones. It makes me stand out in a good way.’

‘Right. What’s your new school like?’

‘Great. I’ve been taking extra Japanese lessons so that I can audition for the Academy of Dance next year.’

Lucy winced. Ellie had always wanted to be a ballerina. Lots of girls want to be ballerinas, or show-jumpers, or models; few of them have parents with unlimited resources. In Lucy’s opinion this was a dangerous path for both mother and daughter, though now was not the time for that conversation. She rubbed her head, casting round for a safe topic of conversation.

‘Hey, Ellie, I’m going out tonight. What should I wear?’

Am I really having this conversation with a twelve year old girl? That’s very sad.

‘Purple,’ said Ellie. ‘You always look good in purple. Sorry, I’ve got to go.’

‘Thanks. I …’

The phone was dead. Lucy grabbed her purple dress, the same one she’d worn on her last trip to Layla’s Bar.

She didn’t wear the boots, though, a decision she was grateful for when Bridget opened the door to her flat and pointed to a pile of shoes inside. ‘No outdoor footwear. Indoor footwear by appointment,’ she announced.

Lucy scanned the pile of shoes — it was easy to tell Bridget’s from Natalie’s, because Bridget’s were lined up in a rack and Natalie’s were in a heap; Bridget’s were also two sizes larger. The short hallway had three doors. One was labelled as the bathroom, one was through to the living area, and the third sported a thick steel hasp with a heavy duty padlock, currently not fastened. Weird.

The living space was “generous”, in estate-agent speak, and even had room for a four seater dining table as well as a three piece suite. The kitchen was tiny. The reason that Lucy’s brain had brought up “estate agent” was that the room was pristine. Not tidy, not clean, but pristine. Surfaces gleamed, cushions were straight and every item on every surface was aligned parallel to the edges. Except for the dirty mugs by the sink. They stood out a mile, and Lucy could read the writing on them. One was labelled “Nat” and the other “Connor”.

‘She’s only allowed to have mess in three places,’ said Bridget, following Lucy’s gaze. ‘In her room, on the draining board, and on that chair.’

Lucy looked at the armchair. It was exactly the same as the other one.

‘She cleaned it up before you came,’ said Bridget.

Lucy was lost for words. She’d read about places like this…

‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’ said Bridget.

Lucy was about to make a flippant remark about the padlock being to lock Bridget in. Then she realised just how defensive the woman was looking: hands twisting in front of her skirts, hips swaying.

Lucy smiled. ‘That’s why I was appointed. You have to be mad to work at Giuseppe’s.’ She held out a carrier bag. ‘As promised: Grandpa Berardi’s Grappa.’

Bridget darted forward, almost snatching the bag. ‘Oh, goody!’ She looked inside, pulling out a plain glass bottle filled with a colourless liquid. She frowned. ‘Please tell me you didn’t buy a bottle of vodka from Aldi and soak off the label.’

‘Oi,’ said Lucy. ‘That’s traditional Italian artisanal brandy, not rubbish vodka. There’s no label because then the Guardia di Finanza can’t prosecute you.’

‘The who?’

‘Guardia di Finanza: Italian tax collectors. With guns.’

Bridget glided over to the kitchen, her thighs pushing against her skirts as if she were in the shallow end of a swimming pool. She took two glasses from the cupboard and poured two healthy measures. She sniffed. ‘Wow. You’re not wrong. That smells … unique.’

‘Cheers,’ said Lucy, still standing with her coat on. She took a tiny sip, knowing that the spirit was well over 40% proof.

Bridget coughed. ‘Bloody hell, Lucy. This is lethal. Nice, but lethal. What do you say in Italian? Surely not “Cheers”?’

‘Salut,’ said Lucy. ‘Where should I sit?’

Bridget looked stumped. Her eyes wandered quickly from the couch to Natalie’s chair, then the other armchair, then all the way over to the dining table. She’s not going to suggest I sit on a kitchen chair, is she?

Reluctantly, Bridget pointed to the neutral armchair. ‘Connor usually sits there. He had to rush off to the Manor this morning. Layla was in a flap about something. Don’t worry, I cleaned the chair after he left this morn…’ She pulled herself up.

OCD? It must be bordering on that. She shrugged off her coat and folded it carefully on the back of the chair. Bridget put a stainless steel drinks coaster next to Lucy, then finally sat down on the couch.

‘I’ve had an idea,’ said Lucy, keen to move the conversation away from Bridget’s … quirks. ‘What do you think about home-made cake?’

‘As a consumer or producer? I don’t bake, despite appearances to the contrary.’

‘You make great ice cream,’ said Lucy. ‘No, I meant as a retailer. No offence, but our cakes and pastries are pretty poor.’

‘That’s down to the owner. He insisted — through Jack Tidy — that we support local businesses. There was only one bakery willing to deal with such small volumes.’

Lucy took another sip. ‘Do you watch the Great British Bake-off?’

‘Give over, I’m less middle aged than I look. And less Bourgeois.’

Lucy wasn’t sure about the latter assertion: despite the Gothic overlay, Bridget seemed pretty middle-class underneath. Whatever. ‘Of course. I just wondered. There’s loads of women — and some men — who bake these days. What if we started an appeal on social media? Tracked down Southport’s best bakers? I’m sure we could source much better cakes in no time. Pastries might be more of a problem, but we can always drop in to the 24 hour supermarket. They don’t care if we re-sell their produce.’

‘Food Handling,’ said Bridget. ‘The Environmental Health might not have guns like your Italian tax collectors, but they won’t be happy if we sell produce from bakers without the right paperwork. I like your idea about the pastries, though. And we need to think about social media.’

Lucy pulled a face. Bridget had a point. She’d have to think about that one. While she was mulling it over, a door opened. It was hidden behind a screen, and Lucy hadn’t even spotted it.

‘Hiya,’ said Natalie. She moved into the room like a ghost, slipping round the walls and sliding into her Designated Armchair.

Lucy pointed to her glass. ‘Hi. Do you want some of Grandpa’s Grappa?’

Natalie shook her head. ‘No thanks. Not when I’m working. I’ve got to go and get set up soon.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Bridget. ‘You’re staying at Connor’s tonight, aren’t you? So this is your last chance.’ She got up, fetched another glass and poured a drink. Natalie accepted it reluctantly.

‘To Natalie and Connor,’ said Bridget, raising her glass. ‘Love’s young and not-so-young dream.’

Lucy wasn’t sure whether to join in, until Natalie pulled the hair away from her face and laughed. ‘To power-showers and superfast broadband,’ she countered.

Lucy asked about the flat; Natalie told her. It sounded nice.

Then Bridget mentioned the cakes, and Food Hygiene.

‘I’ll speak to Connor,’ said Natalie. ‘He might be able to help.’

Lucy had no idea how Connor could help with that problem, but thanked her anyway.

‘I’ve got to go,’ said Natalie. She held her empty glass over the coaster, then grinned, and plonked it down in the middle of the table. Bridget flinched, and reached towards the glass, then withdrew her hand.

‘I haven’t seen your costumes,’ said Natalie, standing up.

‘What costumes?’ said Lucy.

‘Don’t you remember?’ said Bridget. ‘I promised to get you something to wear.’

Lucy had done her best to forget this, and wasn’t keen to be reminded. She shrank back in the armchair.

Bridget jumped up and headed into the hallway, after swiping Natalie’s glass from the middle of the table and depositing it with a thump on to the draining board. She was only gone for a second, then returned with two clothes hangers.

Lucy could only see a dark red French maid’s outfit, presumably a Magenta special, and definitely not in her size.

‘We had a hen do last year,’ said Bridget. ‘This was left over…’

She swapped the hangers and revealed a short blue costume. With an apron. That could only mean…

‘There’s something of Alice about you,’ said Bridget, with an evil grin.

‘I…’

‘No escape,’ said Natalie. ‘Layla called it a rite of passage, yeah?’

‘Passage into what?’ spluttered Lucy. ‘I can’t…’

‘Yes you can,’ said Bridget. ‘And I’ll tell you why.’ She draped the hangers over the back of the couch and deposited a holdall next to them. ‘You don’t do social media much, any more, do you?’ Lucy shook her head. ‘When that bitch from the police came in on Friday, I got seriously worried.’

Lucy waved her hand, ‘Tom came in today. He said it was sorted.’

Bridget and Natalie exchanged glances and grins when she mentioned Tom’s name.

Bridget continued. ‘I set up a couple of alerts on Friday night. Just in case she started spreading shit.’

Lucy bit her lip. She hadn’t thought of that. Nor had she thought that Bridget would have her back. It almost made her want to cry. The bright blue nylon of the Alice costume kept the tears at bay. No way…

‘Look at this,’ said Bridget, disconnecting an iPad from its charger and swiping it.

She passed it over. There was a picture of Lucy, hot and bothered, standing outside the café. It must have been taken this morning, by the waitress who walked off.

‘Look at the hashtag,’ said Natalie. ‘There’s not much yet, but if we don’t take steps…’

‘Oh my God,’ said Lucy, appalled at what she saw. Her picture had been tagged #PoorLittleRichGirl. There was a link to an article on her brother’s murder.

‘Leave it with me,’ said Natalie. ‘See you soon, guys.’

Lucy barely noticed the door closing. She stared at the picture of Gianni until Bridget gently took the tablet off her.

‘Do you want to hide in a bunker?’ asked Bridget.

Lucy squared her shoulders and shook her head, determined to be determined.

‘Good,’ said Bridget. ‘Until we can sort this, you need a disguise.’ She rummaged in the holdall and pulled out a blonde wig, Alice band and pair of shoes. ‘No one will be looking at you, only what you’re wearing, especially with blue contact lenses.’

Lucy looked up. No one will be looking at you; only what you’re wearing. That sounded like Bridget talking about herself. Sod it. ‘You’re on,’ she said. ‘But I’ll need another grappa first.’

‘At least one,’ said Bridget. She threw over a packet of white tights (unopened), and pointed to the shoes. ‘These are Natalie’s. They should fit. Are you ready to do the Time Warp?’

‘Give me another grappa and I’ll be ready for anything.’

“Re-purposing.” That was it. Connor had re-purposed the Valentine’s Night decorations for the Single Swingers. He’d heard the word when Alexis had told him that the badly-painted cupboard in Zara’s bedroom had been re-purposed. He liked the word because it covered a multitude of sins and allowed him to be lazy: the obvious Valentine’s branding had been removed, but the theme of love-hearts and red would remain. In theory the crowd tonight would be different to last night.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he fired up the computer and started to go through the list of karaoke songs, making a few notes in readiness. He knew that his skills as MC weren’t in Layla’s league, and he couldn’t wing it like she did. Then again, she always had him to help her…

He put on a track to test the levels, then killed it when Grant appeared, crossing the room like an articulated lorry cruising down an empty motorway.

‘I tried calling before,’ he said, ‘but you were up at the Manor. What were you doing there?’

‘Layla called me because Andy wasn’t around to help,’ said Connor, eager not to sound as if he were trying to get his feet under the table at Flaxall Manor.

‘I know,’ said Grant. ‘Andy was with me.’

‘Eh? What’s that all about?’

‘You first.’

Connor knew that Grant was not a great reader, and he doubted that Claire would allow the Sunday Examiner in to the house anyway. Claire was very Old Labour.

‘There was a big feature in one of the national papers,’ said Connor. ‘Layla was … Oh, hiya love,’ Natalie had appeared, and he waved her over. Grant frowned. Connor spoke to his girlfriend first. No, she wasn’t his girlfriend — from tomorrow, she would be his partner. He liked the sound of that.

‘I was just telling Grant,’ he continued, ‘Layla was really mithered about a story in the paper. It went through all of the stuff about the murder trial in Liverpool, raked everything up.’ Grant’s frown deepened even further. They all knew that Grant had been heavily involved, though never charged. ‘She even got that bizzie woman to come over from Wigan, the one who turned up at Bridget’s café.’

‘What’s this?’ said Grant. ‘What are the police doing at the café?’

‘You tell him,’ said Connor to Nat.

Natalie explained about Lucy, her past and her links to the top cop looking into Matt’s death.

‘This isn’t good news,’ said Grant. ‘This is getting far too close to home. If this Lucy White is on first name terms with a DCI, we need to keep her at a distance.’

Connor was watching Natalie’s face: mostly because she was better looking than Grant. He caught a glimpse of something in her eyes, a twitch of the mouth. If she was going to be his partner…

‘Go on, love,’ he said to her. ‘What’s on your mind?’

She took a quarter-step nearer Connor, and turned slightly away from Grant. ‘Maybe we should keep her closer than that.’

Grant jerked up his chin. The signal meant Tell me more.

‘It’s Bridget,’ she said. ‘I’m worried about what’ll happen after we leave. Lucy’s so … like straight. Dead normal. She’ll be good for Bridget.’

‘So what?’ said Grant.

‘Lucy’s got issues; the sort of issues we could help her with. If we get her onside, she’s bound to tell anything she hears about the investigation to Bridget.’

Grant was dubious, and about to slap Natalie down. Connor stepped up. ‘She’s got a point, Grant. Hear me out: that Hazel Cotton spent a long time telling Layla that she’d heard no references to the past in the incident room. Nothing about the murder trial. Whatever they’re looking into, it’s all about today.’

Grant nodded slowly. ‘I’ve never liked it,’ he said. ‘I’ve never liked not having a copper on the inside. Matt would have bought half the team by now. You’re right, Natalie, and there’s something else you need to know. I was summoned to see Andrew today.’

‘Did you go to his house?’ asked Connor.

Grant pointed his head at the ceiling. They had met in the Laycross offices. ‘He wanted to talk strategy. I think he’s beginning to see things our way.’

Natalie smiled, happy to be included.

Connor wasn’t sure. Not only did he not trust Andy, he wasn’t sure that he had fully committed himself to Grant. Yet.

Grant took out his notebook and gave them a broad grin. ‘I had to write this down. According to Andrew, we need to Focus on cash-generating income streams in the short term while we consolidate our strategic position. I got him to repeat it twice.’

Connor laughed. Natalie shook her hair completely out of her face and thrust her hip out; alarm bells started ringing in Connor’s head. She looked gorgeous, completely gorgeous, standing like that, giving the audience her full attention. It was how she had been standing the first time Connor had seen her, years ago. She had been touting for business outside the club in Liverpool.

He had been about to send the doorman to chase her away (hookers were not good for their image), when she had mentioned Matt’s name in connection with her mother’s. Connor had hustled her into the back of the club to find out what was going on. Matt took her off his hands, and slowly, slowly she had turned her life around.

Grant was oblivious to what Natalie was doing. He was a simple man when it came to women, and just turned his head to take in the view.

Natalie said, ‘That’s what Andy said when I opened the shop. He meant I had to shift as much merchandise as possible.’

‘You’re right,’ said Grant. ‘He wants us to let the dealers back in to Layla’s bar straight away. About bloody time too. Mind out, though. We can’t let them try selling anything to Lucy White.’ He tried a smile.

Natalie smiled back. ‘I’ll talk to you later about Lucy.’ She turned to Connor. ‘And you, love.’

‘There’s more,’ said Grant, fixing Connor with his Offer you can’t refuse look. ‘The Cheney Arms is in play. Andy thinks it should be brought under the Laycross Management umbrella.

Well, if I was uncertain before, I’m convinced now. Andy’s got an agenda here, and I haven’t got an Effing Clue what it is. Connor tried to keep his face straight while his brain was working overtime. This was too big an offer to be accepted on a nod-and-a-wink.

‘Grant, what do you think Andy’s game is, eh? You don’t get something for nothing from him.’

‘First of all, he’s going to get the cash bonuses again. Second, he was dead keen to hear about our new friend, the tree hugger.’

Natalie looked at Connor and raised an eyebrow.

‘Kingsley Laidlaw,’ he said to Natalie. To Grant, he said, ‘You never did tell me what was going on the other day. Why did we have to go round to Kingsley’s house and put the fear of God into him. What’s all this business with UGAS?’

‘Matt used to do that a lot,’ said Grant, ‘when we were dealing with straight up guys.’ Grant meant ordinary members of the public. ‘I’d intimidate them, then Matt wouldn’t seem so threatening. Made them easier to persuade.’

‘Why Kingsley Laidlaw?’ said Connor. If this business with UGAS was going to be a big thing, he needed to get up to speed.

‘I was cultivating him. Andy’s long game is all about Quaker’s Fold. He’s very interested in anything that will stop UGAS.’

Connor thought back to the questions which Grant had asked Laidlaw. They were pointing towards something a lot more serious than political campaigning. ‘Is that why you’re dragging him here tonight?’

‘Something else,’ said Grant. ‘I need another word with him.’

Connor knew when so shut up, so he changed the tack. ‘Are Bridget and Lucy both coming tonight?’

Natalie grinned. ‘They certainly are. Listen, Grant, can you sort out a problem for her.’

‘I’ll see,’ said Grant. ‘Send her down the back when they arrive. Right, we’d better get this show on the road.’ He headed off to brief his doormen.

There was something about the way that Natalie looked at Grant when Laidlaw’s name was mentioned. Connor looked at her. ‘Do you know what Kingsley’s coming for tonight?’

She looked him in the eye. This wasn’t normal when they were talking about political stuff.

‘Grant told me he was bringing him in,’ she said. ‘He wants to know exactly what Kingsley saw when he discovered Matt’s body, and I want to know, too.’

That was a rather disturbing thought.

‘I asked you to find out how Matt died,’ she hissed. ‘But you didn’t.’

Because I don’t want to know, he thought. He didn’t think Nat needed to know, either. That’s why he’d treated her request as being a bit hysterical. Clearly she knew better.

Having made her point, Natalie shifted her weight on to the other foot and smiled. ‘You’re in for a treat, with Bridget and Lucy,’ she said, winding her hair into a ponytail. ‘Just wait till you see their outfits. If we want to keep Lucy sweet, we need to make sure she stays interested in that policeman of hers. If she puts her name down for a duet, put her with Lee.’

‘Lee? He’s gross.’

‘I know. Even I’d prefer a policeman to Lee.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘But I’ve got you. Babe.’

The Sonny & Cher song started up in his head, as Nat had known it would. It got Connor thinking. He couldn’t saddle Lucy White and her posh vowels with Lee. She’d gag. But if she was supposed to be good for Bridget, perhaps he might make an exception to one of his rules later. Right now, it was show time.

22

It had been an explosive weekend, all right, and not just the fireworks they’d found on the boat. Elaine lay back in the double tub and flicked the hot water tap to top up the bubbles. Life didn’t get much better than this.

The hotel phone rang. There was an extension by the bath, but she left Rob to pick it up because it would be his agent, announcing his arrival in the bar. Rob spoke into the phone for a second then came in to the bathroom.

‘He’s here,’ announced Rob.

‘Mmm. Don’t drink too much.’

‘No chance. Back to work tomorrow. For both of us.’

He kissed her head and left her in peace. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift, wondering what mad idea Rob’s agent would suggest this time. When her imaginings started to worry her, she sat up in the bath and opened her eyes. It’s time to get out of the bath, she thought. Anyway, I’ll be going wrinkly soon.

She pulled the plug and stepped out, grabbing the heated towel and wrapping it round her. Twice. It was a very big towel. She grinned. How lucky am I? She could hear the echo of Rob’s voice answering her: Very. And so am I.

There are only so many treatments you can have in a spa. Especially on a Sunday. Elaine had been pummelled, polished and pampered to the nth degree, and now it was time to think about work. She rummaged through her toilet bag and make-up bag, slinging a few bits in the bin. Her packet of contraceptive pills was empty, and that followed the other rubbish. Then she remembered what Rob had said last night, about families. She wasn’t ready for one, and neither was he, in her opinion. Still, she didn’t want to rub his face in it by leaving the pills on top of the rubbish.

She moved the trash aside to slide the empty packet to the bottom. A flash of blue and pink stood out: Can that be…?

She fished out some torn-up fragments of a greetings card; it didn’t take a forensic genius to piece them together.

The card had been designed online from a custom picture. The front showed a smiling Kirsty Saltire in her cheerleader outfit, thrusting her chest at the camera and waving her pom-poms. Inside the card, the message read: 100% Scottish. 100% Beef. If you know what’s good for you, sink your teeth into a Big Mac. From Your Caledonian Valentine XXX.

She dropped the card fragments back in to the bin. She didn’t know whether to be relieved that Rob had torn up the card without mentioning it, or worried that Kirsty “Saltire” had gone to the trouble of sending it in the first place.

She replaced the rest of the rubbish and wondered whether to get dressed. Should she go downstairs and make sure that Rob’s agent had come alone? No. That way lies madness. She was going back to Southport tomorrow. She was not Rob’s keeper. She was his wife. His English wife with her own career, a flat chest and no urge to have babies.

Pull yourself together, girl. She could hear her mother’s voice. You’ve got more to offer than any of those cheap tarts who hang around. The context had been her wedding, and her nerves that she was marrying a man who would get bored and look for someone younger and more pliable in years to come. Well, it was time to prove it, wasn’t it?

Kingsley had never been into Layla’s Late Night Piano Bar before, and he wasn’t looking forward to going in now. He’d never heard of the place until Matt Cross had walked into his yard, and nothing that he had discovered during his research into Matt after their first meeting had made him want to visit. It wasn’t his sort of place at all. He was even more uneasy because Jackie had confronted him this afternoon when he’d taken Leroy out for his access visit. She had pointed out that it was half-term next week, and that he had better make an effort. The deeper he got into this mess with the Cross family, the more he wanted to cling to the few good things in his life. He had even volunteered to do some decorating.

Clearly he’d been summoned to the Piano Bar for a reason, but he had no idea why. He walked up and down the road a couple of times. All that happened was that he got very cold watching groups of men and women waltz through the doors. They looked warm, and they were all having fun. Why not go inside? What was the worst that could happen?

He waited until there was no queue, then announced to the doorman that he was there to see Grant Benson.

The doorman’s eyes shot up in surprise. ‘Do you know Connor and Natalie?’ he asked.

‘I know Connor Holden. Is Natalie his girlfriend?’

The bouncer nodded. ‘Speak to one of them.’ He took a step back and allowed Kingsley through. At least it was warm inside.

The lobby seemed well kept — this was no dive. He nodded to a second, female, bouncer and walked through another door, following the sounds of the music. When he saw who was singing, he came to a dead stop. Oh my God, is that really… Up on stage, giving the Kenny Rodgers / Dolly Parton classic Islands in the Stream 110% effort, was a thick set, shaven headed man with tattoos all down his arm that rippled as he moved the muscles underneath. So far, so Southport, but he was duetting with the headmistress of Flaxall Primary School. Kingsley’s old boss.

In the belted red dress, Kingsley now knew how effective her diet had been since Christmas (about half a stone, he guessed). She must be fifteen years older than that guy. At least. Which one’s playing out of their league? Kingsley shook his head and made for the bar.

Natalie saw him coming and reached under the counter, pulling up a bottle of wine. ‘On the house,’ she said. ‘There’s a table in the corner with a glass and a Reserved sign.’

Kingsley was conscious of eyes on his back. He didn’t want to linger here any longer than he had to. For one thing, his ex-boss would be finished soon. ‘Is Connor around?’ he asked, a little reluctant to ask Natalie directly.

She shook her head. ‘He’s had to compère tonight — you know, with Layla still in mourning.’

In mourning? That was a rather formal term. He had made a lame pass at Natalie the other week because she was acceptably good looking and seemed worth talking to. Now that he knew she was part of Team Cross, he’d been forced to reassess her. Was she just Holden’s woman or did she have her own niche in this enterprise?

She leaned forward. ‘Grant’s handling some business in back. He won’t be long.’

Kingsley picked up the bottle headed to the corner, making sure he had his back to the wall and out of sight of the stage. He poured the wine and took a sip. It was surprisingly good. He took a look at the bottle. Layla in Red. A stylised picture of the Lady of the Manor, Mrs Layla Cross, smiled at him. She was wearing a red evening gown and appeared to be singing. This was a side he’d never seen before, a side that Matt Cross must have been happy to celebrate, or he wouldn’t have put it on the label. He took another sip. After all, this wine bar was named after her.

He bowed his head as the singers were given an ovation and stepped down, hand in hand. Connor took the floor, heaping praise on Janine and her partner. Janine? Kingsley spluttered into his wine. That’s not her name!

Before his mind could boggle any further, he saw the door behind the bar open and Grant Benson emerge, then speak to Natalie. Two women came out behind him in fancy dress. One was generously built, wearing a French Maid’s outfit and sporting the total Goth look. She walked unsteadily from behind the bar, and the other woman took her arm. The second woman reminded Kingsley of when he’d taken Leroy to Eurodisney — Alice in Wonderland, but with a much shorter skirt.

Up on stage, Connor held out his arm to welcome them. ‘I know you’re all looking forward to the Time Warp later…’ he paused while the audience hooted. ‘Yes, participation is compulsory,’ he said to a woman round the corner.

Natalie appeared, picked up the bottle of wine and said, ‘Follow me.’

They weaved through the tables as Connor continued his spiel. ‘To get us in the mood, our very own Magenta is being joined by Alice to give us a rare treat.’

Their path to the bar was blocked by the two women, who now gave a big wave to the crowd. Kingsley had to wait while several phones snapped, then Connor beckoned the women on to the stage.

‘Enough is enough, everyone,’ cried Connor. ‘Magenta and Alice!’

Natalie opened the hatch in the bar and gestured at the door to the rear area, then returned the bottle of Layla in Red. Kingsley stepped through as the intro started playing behind him. Grant Benson was standing, half way down a service corridor, talking to a dead-eyed man in a black leather jacket whom he quickly dismissed.

Grant pointed into an office and waited until Kingsley had entered and taken a seat at the small table. There was an already open bottle of wine and glasses, two of which had lipstick stains. Clearly the fancy dress twins had been entertained in here before him. Natalie surprised him by slipping in behind them.

He drank some wine, his hand shaking as the adrenaline continued pumping around his system.

‘Thanks for coming,’ said Grant.

Two days ago, Kingsley would have said, I didn’t have a choice. It was a measure of how deep he had gone that he said, ‘Of course.’ He had always wondered what went on in the back rooms of places like this; now that he knew, he wasn’t sure the knowledge would enhance his life.

‘You found Matt,’ said Grant, without preamble. Kingsley jerked back.

Natalie sat down and leaned forward on the table.

‘Yes,’ said Kingsley, unnerved by Natalie’s silence.

‘Your alibi for last Sunday must be good, or the bizzies would have you under lock and key by now.’

‘I was in Liverpool. With my son and several hundred witnesses, as you know.’

Grant nodded, casting a glance at Natalie. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this, Nat?’

She nodded.

‘Then tell us everything you saw, everything you heard, everything the police have said to you.’

‘Okay,’ said Kingsley. ‘No problem. But why?’

Grant weighed up what to say, shifting in his seat. Finally, he took out a small film-wrapped package and slid it across the table. It looked very much like high quality cannabis resin. Grant pointed to it. ‘Yours if you want it. For your trouble. We can all do each other favours, Kingsley. Sometimes that just means sharing what we know. Go on, take it. I know you like a toke.’

Kingsley had more-or-less given up weed, but this was too good to miss. He was going to tell them anyway, so why not get a small reward? He palmed the package.

Natalie gave him an encouraging smile.

‘You hated Matt Cross,’ said Grant.

Kingsley squirmed.

‘Don’t deny it,’ continued Grant. ‘You hated him, but I respected that man. And Natalie loved him. The police won’t tell us shit, so we need to hear it from you.’

Kingsley emptied the wine bottle into his glass and started talking.

The cold air of Tyler Street hit Lucy’s lungs like an ice bucket; her exposed arms prickled and the hairs shot up. The effect on Bridget was even worse — she swayed alarmingly, and Lucy hustled her over the road and propped her against the door while she fumbled for the keys. As soon as the café was open, Bridget made a dash for the staff toilet. Things had been going brilliantly, until Natalie had pointed out that if Bridget carried on drinking, she’d be in no fit state to sing again.

Lucy locked the door behind her. She did not want to be disturbed and found looking like this. Having said that, the costume was a lot more comfortable than she had expected (partly thanks to Natalie’s flat shoes), and the disguise was liberating — at least three coffee shop regulars had failed to recognise her. She eased off the wig, to give her head a good scratch, then turned on the espresso machine. Instead of coffee, she made Bridget a strong cup of tea. Judging by the noises emerging from the back, Bridget would need something to calm her stomach.

When the toilet flushed, Lucy went to check on her: no stains on the costume. Good. They settled down in the back room, Lucy keeping an eye on the clock. She knew she was drunk, but nowhere nearly as bad as her … friend? Colleague?

‘What are we doing here?’ asked Bridget, nursing her mug of tea. The colour of her skin probably matched the dead-white make-up (which would need some repairs if they went back to Layla’s).

‘It was Natalie’s idea. She’s looking out for you.’

‘As ever. I’m gonna miss her. Really badly. I hope Connor looks after her.’

Lucy sipped her coffee. ‘You know I saw Tom today?’

Bridget leered at her. ‘What aren’t you telling me, miss Blue Eyes?’

Lucy waved her hand. ‘Not about me, about Natalie. I mentioned her name, and he gave me a funny look. Sort-of like You shouldn’t be associating with the likes of her… What’s that all about?’

Bridget looked furious. ‘The bastard. I’ll tell him when I see him. Natalie’s had so much shit in her life, she needs a break.’

‘Yeah? She seemed to understand when I told her about Gianni.’

‘Too right.’ Bridget breathed out and stared towards the door, towards the Piano Bar. ‘She never knew her dad. Not really. Her mother died of an overdose when she was a teenager. She got hooked on smack, went on the game. She owed a lot of money to some bad people, you know, and it could have ended like it usually does. But it didn’t, because of Matt.’

Lucy forced herself to stay quiet.

‘She’d had this idea that Matt was her real father, and when she had no other options, she went to see him.’ Bridget turned back to Lucy. ‘Matt paid off her dealers and got her into re-hab. It didn’t work first time, so he started giving her methadone. Via Grant.’

Lucy couldn’t help but sit back, as if Bridget had slapped her. So that’s why… She had been shocked to meet Grant Benson, and not just because of his size. To Lucy most men were huge, but Grant took size to a new level. Before she could bring her meeting with Grant back into focus, Bridget continued her story.

‘Methadone wasn’t all that Matt got her. He also got her a job in a shop round the corner. I think your policeman must know about it, because they were selling cool shit.’

‘He’s not my policeman,’ said Lucy without thinking. ‘What do you mean: cool shit?’

‘Legal Highs. From China. Matt closed it down when the heat got too strong, and gave her the job in Layla’s Bar. That’s how she got together with Connor.’

There was more food for thought here, but the clock was pressing. ‘Come on, Magenta,’ said Lucy. ‘We need to fix our faces and get back over the road. It’s showtime.’

Bridget belched. ‘If I ever meet your Grandpa, I’ll have to have words about that grappa.’

Lucy hauled Bridget off the bench. It didn’t seem fair to mention the six double vodkas.

Warpaint repaired, wig restored, they headed back to Layla’s Bar. Outside the door, the guy in the leather jacket was smoking and talking to the doorman. After what Bridget had just told her, she was fairly sure that she had identified the resident drug dealer.

23

Monday

Tom breezed in to the Tombs on Monday morning as if he enjoyed coming to work; it helped convince his team that they were part of a crack unit if the boss looked like they were getting somewhere. The fact that he was glad to be out of the hotel was something they didn’t need to know.

He stuck his head in his office. There was a hand-written envelope addressed to Ms Lucy White sitting on his desk. Good. Isabelle emerged from the kitchen with a mug of tea, which she handed to him.

‘Morning, Boss. Good weekend?’

‘Yes, thanks. Any news?’

Isabelle humphed. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? I’ve had a voice-mail from DC Fraser. She’s going to be a bit late. Apart from that, everyone else is here and busy discussing the weekend’s football or DIY. According to taste.’

He blew on the tea and took a sip. ‘That’s what I like to hear. The elite murder squad are relaxed and warmed up, ready to give it their all.’

She shook her head. ‘You’ll drive yourself mad if you keep saying that. Why not be cynical and morose? It’s much easier.’

‘Because I’ve got you to be cynical and morose. You do it so well.’

She stared at him. Then she laughed.

‘Before I head off to forensics,’ said Tom, ‘I need a few quick words. Send Hazel first, then Phil. Then Elaine, if she’s arrived. Tell Phil to make a general announcement that there will be an in-depth briefing at eleven o’clock sharp. Did you get that data projector?’

‘Sorted, Boss.’

‘Right, let’s go.’

He put down the tea and picked up the envelope. It was unsealed and contained Hazel Cotton’s letter of apology to Lucy. Tom read it with dismay and admiration in equal measure. Hazel went to great lengths to show that she knew how much Lucy had suffered, how much she admired her strength in adversity, and how well she was doing as a small businesswoman. Only in the last paragraph did she actually admit any guilt or accept responsibility for what she had done. He shook his head and looked up. Hazel had been standing in the doorway.

‘Come in and close the door,’ he said. When she was seated, he waved the letter at her. ‘Miss White will feel she’s had an apology, so technically, you’ve done what I asked. I’ll arrange for this to be delivered.’ He put the letter down. ‘Steer well clear of Giuseppe’s Gelateria. Is that understood?’

Hazel nodded.

‘Moving on, I’ve got a very special job for you.’

‘Sir?’

‘I read in your report that Mrs Claudia Mallinson seemed ill, and we know she’s had in-patient treatment. What do you think?’

‘Hard to say, sir. She’s certainly not faking anything, but neither she nor her husband were giving anything away. Mind you, he’s not the picture of health, either.’

‘I’ve met him, and I agree with you. However, I’m more interested in his wife at the moment. I’ve had information about Claudia Mallinson which I need to be confirmed. Confidential source.’

‘Mmm,’ said Hazel.

‘I need you to find out everything you can about Mrs Mallinson’s condition and treatment. But you have to do it discreetly. I don’t want any warrants requested, nor do I want the Mallinsons to know what you’re up to. Report to me verbally before writing it up.’

‘Of course,’ she nodded and started to get up.

‘You’ll need to be here for the briefing later,’ said Tom. ‘And if I were you, I’d start with the name of the hospital.’

Hazel left, with far more of a spring in her step than she deserved; she passed Phil Dunn on her way out.

Dunn didn’t ask how Tom’s weekend had been, nor did he offer any stories of his own. He just sat down and waited.

Tom lifted the letter to show Phil the address, then sealed it. ‘This needs to be handed over in person, with the apologies of South Lancashire Constabulary. Are you up for it?’

Phil leaned across and accepted the letter, sliding it into his jacket pocket without a word.

‘Good,’ said Tom. ‘Your action for today is to track down Connor Holden and his partner, Natalie Alderson. I’ve information that they’re moving into a new flat. Together.’

Dunn raised an eyebrow.

Tom continued. ‘Make sure you see them face-to-face. Invite them both to make their witness statements under caution. And work out your strategy. Tomorrow will do for the interviews.’

‘Yes, Boss. Anything else I should know?’

‘Holden is up to something with the Cross family. I don’t know what, but he is. He’s definitely plugged in to this business with Sabrina and Luke’s band, but ignore that.’

‘Sir. I’ll see you at eleven o’clock.’

Finally, it was Elaine’s turn. She came in still wearing her bright red jacket. Tom spoke to her while he put his own coat back on.

‘How was Valentine’s Day? If I might ask.’

‘Good. Yeah. Tom, would it be okay for me to stay at the Duke of Edinburgh tonight? I’ll pay myself.’

‘Of course. None of my business. Unless you want to share.’

She managed a smile. ‘I hate the roadworks on the M60. I also need a running partner who’s not faster than me.’

Tom stopped buttoning his coat. He’d never seen her quite so out of sorts before. ‘That’s a challenge I can’t pass up. You’re on. Sorry, but I’ve got to dash or I’ll be late for my appointment at the forensic lab. While I’m gone, I want you to ring DI Pete Fulton in the ECU at City of London. Mention my name, and tell him that I need to find out who owns Quaker’s Fold. Urgently. He’ll probably ask you to email PC Higham’s work so far.’

He headed for the door, then stopped. He felt the sudden urge to pat her on the shoulder. No, definitely not, he thought. That would not do either of us any good. ‘Thanks, Elaine. I’ll look forward to beating you to Birkdale later.’

She managed a smile as he left the room.

When he got back from the lab, the only person Tom spoke to before his big announcement was Phil Dunn. He’d decided that the way to get the best out of his sergeant was to pretend that Dunn was a privileged member of the team. At the end of a quick summary, Tom asked how Lucy had taken the letter and the apology.

If Elaine, Isabelle or Hazel were sitting opposite him, Tom would have expected an evil grin to accompany the response, but Phil Dunn gave his answer deadpan, eyes fixed on the corner of the ceiling. Perhaps it was a female/male thing. No. Craig Capstick, Pete Fulton, even Director Ogden would have made a joke. It was just Phil being Phil.

‘I don’t know about the letter,’ said his sergeant. ‘She shoved it in her apron for later. She was very busy and didn’t seem 100%, to be honest. She was very polite. She thanked you, and me, and DC Fraser for sorting it out so quickly and without fuss.’ Dunn hesitated. ‘I don’t know what DC Fraser had to do with it, though,’ he concluded.

Tom was about to move on, but Phil had a post-script. ‘She said something else, sir. She said it twice, too. In case I missed it.’

Tom waited. And waited.

‘She said, “Tell DCI Morton that I’ll see him when I see him.”’

Finally! A human response. He leaned forward, and was pleased to see Dunn’s upper body move a millimetre in the same direction. ‘Thanks, Phil. If anything were to happen to Elaine, you’d be my first choice as go-between.’

Dunn gave a prim purse of the lips. Tom took his USB drive off the desk and picked up the large evidence bag he’d brought back from the lab and went through to the incident room. The team were waiting for him, most of them having run out of things to do. Tom handed the drive to Isabelle who fired up the data projector and killed the lights.

‘How many of you have regularly used a shotgun?’ he began. All of his team, bar one, had grown up in cities and towns, where all firearms are deadly weapons. Only in the countryside is a shotgun a tool, just like any other. Isabelle Innes raised her hand discreetly.

‘I’ll give you the long version, then. When I attended the autopsy last week, the pathologist showed me two X-rays. Here.’ He pressed the remote, and the twin images of Matt Cross’s head and chest appeared. ‘During the autopsy, Dr Jepson removed wadding and residue from clothes and skin. Those give a maximum distance between the gun and the victim. A distance that would fit with the killer standing by that statue, and Matt Cross standing where we found him. Even with the rain and mud, it was clear his body hadn’t been moved post mortem.’

He rested the evidence bag on the nearest desk. ‘As soon as I’d seen those X-rays, something didn’t ring true.’ He left a dramatic pause, because he was normal and human. His whole team thought he was a genius with financial crime, which is the police version of being damned with faint praise. He wanted to show them he had at least one more trick up his sleeve. ‘I asked forensics to check the choke on the Beretta that was found with Matt’s body. This Beretta.’

He opened the package and drew out the shotgun. Everyone in the room recoiled from the sight. Except Isabelle and Elaine, who both leaned forwards. Tom had drawn the stock out first, making sure the barrels were pointed at the wall. He cracked the breach to make sure there were no shells loaded (there weren’t), and then plugged a webcam into the computer linked to the data projector. He flipped the input so the webcam image was projected on to the screen, then shone it down the barrels.

‘You can barely see down here,’ said Tom. ‘Because something’s in the way. Both barrels of this gun have been fitted with a choke, sort of like a funnel, that concentrates the shot. The result is to slow it down but keep it closer together. Makes it deadlier, more like a rifle and less like a scattergun. These chokes have been in place since before the murder.’ He flipped back to his Powerpoint. ‘Look at the where the pellets ended up in Matt Cross’s chest.’ He raised the shotgun. ‘Where would pellets from this gun, fired at that range, end up? I’ll show you.’ He moved to the next slide. It showed a drawing of a man’s chest, black dots for the pellets making a tight knot around the heart. As the implications spread around the team, one or two murmured to each other. Isabelle and Elaine sat back.

‘In other words,’ concluded Tom, ‘this Beretta is not the murder weapon. We know that Matt left the house with this and only this gun, so the murderer brought their own weapon. He — or she — also brought exactly the same shells as Matt Cross used. Isabelle, could you put the lights back on?’

The first person to speak was Phil. ‘What about the other weapons registered to the victim?’

‘Good point. None of them had been fired recently.’

‘So Lucas didn’t do it,’ said Hazel quietly.

‘Why not?’ said Elaine with more sharpness than Tom thought was appropriate.

‘You’ve met him,’ retorted Hazel. ‘Can you see him getting a gun? Can you see him practising in secret? Can you see him pre-meditating this? Because I can’t.’

‘Exactly, Hazel,’ said Tom. ‘But I can see Grant Benson doing it, except for one thing: the killer wanted us to think that this was the murder weapon.’

‘What difference does that make?’ chipped in Isabelle. Phil, and two of the male constables, looked at her with annoyance.

‘That’s what I’m going to find out,’ said Tom, ‘and that’s why I’ve got the gun here. There’s a secure cupboard upstairs, apparently, so I’m going to leave it up there tonight. Phil, I want you to invite Mr Benson to come for an interview under caution tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Yes, Boss. Before or after Natalie Alderson?’

‘After.’

Tom waited until Phil had made a note, then turned off the data projector. ‘This changes the nature of our enquiry. Layla Cross and her children are now off the radar, and so are their motives. That leaves drugs and property. Elaine, did you get through to Pete Fulton?’

‘Yes. He said he’ll get back to you tomorrow.’ She smiled at Tom. ‘He also said that you’ll owe him a big favour for this.’

‘Who’s Pete Fulton?’ whispered Isabelle to Elaine. Very loudly.

‘The Boss’s old boss in Economic Crimes,’ replied Elaine in an equally loud whisper. ‘The Fellowship of the Ledger, I think he called it.’

Tom pressed on before he lost any more momentum. ‘That will tell us who owns Quaker’s Fold. It could send us off in a completely new direction. Until then, DC Cotton is doing background on the Mallinsons, DC Fraser is looking into vehicle ownership and movements, and DS Dunn is going to outline what the rest of you are up to.’

Tom stood aside for Phil, who seemed to be standing just a fraction taller this morning.

Dunn said, ‘I’ve been given a list of known minor dealers and users in Southport. We’ve got the resources to give this a good go. Don’t pussy-foot around. Harass these guys and don’t hesitate to search and arrest.’ He paused again. ‘I’ve even arranged for a support van to be on stand-by, to take them to Wigan for booking. Anything that will give us some leverage. This isn’t our patch. Don’t worry about upsetting the applecart, and don’t worry about the local scumbags knowing we’re after Matt Cross’s gang.’

Tom would never have spoken like that, but the message was clear, and all the stronger for coming from his sergeant. He took Dunn’s place at the front to finish off.

‘Thanks, Phil. There’s been no news in this case for four days. Today we’re going to change that. I’m off to Warrington to explain all this to ACC Schofield. Anyone wishing to swap with me is more than welcome.’

The briefing broke up with a smile, and everyone got down to work. Operation Meteor was back in orbit.

With no Bridget to clear the tables (and spray them with anti-bac), Lucy had opted to do it herself. She could hear her dad’s voice: You’re the manager. You have staff to clean tables. But she didn’t, did she? There was just her and one other girl on today, and her helper was having a well-earned break, so Lucy was doing the dirty work.

It was hard to tell, but the place seemed busier. One of the tourist visitors on Sunday had left a four star review online and commented on the “superb service”. Lucy was fairly sure that the reviewer was a woman, so it couldn’t have been her chest that was being reviewed. At least, she hoped it wasn’t. She looked out of the window towards the Prom, the source of Southport’s weather. Yes, rain was on the way, and so was Uncle Paul.

Lucy checked her uniform: all clean-ish. Her jeans weren’t stained either, but this was her best pair. She’d definitely have to figure out the washing machine tonight. She dumped the tray full of empties in the back room and was waiting when he arrived at the counter.

‘I know it’s not the done thing in Italy to drink them in the afternoon,’ he said, ‘but I’d love one of your cappuccinos.’ He ran his critical eye over Giuseppe’s while she foamed the milk. ‘I see what you mean about the cakes.’

‘Maybe next time,’ said Lucy. The other waitress emerged from her break. Lucy pointed to her guest and said, ‘I need a word. Five minutes?’

‘Yeah. No problem, Boss.’

‘Boss?’ said Paul as they sat down. ‘Bit formal, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not sure if it’s a joke or not, and if so, who it’s aimed at. Least of my worries.’

‘You look good, here,’ said Paul. ‘And with coffee like this, you’ve got a good future.’

‘Thanks. There’s a “But” coming, isn’t there?’

Paul sighed. ‘I’m afraid so. It’s a very good “But”, if you can have such a thing.’

The wound on his face was no better, and he was clearly in pain when he smiled. ‘Is Emma at work?’ said Lucy, then kicked herself. Emma is a teacher: of course she’s at work. ‘When’s half term?’ she added hastily.

‘Next week, for us. Apparently Cheshire is a week later than everyone else. I’ve talked her into taking a luxury spa break while we think things over.’

‘Oh?’ This didn’t sound good. Why was Paul making such a sad face over a luxury spa?

‘The final agreement on the sale of the 7Bridge Estate shares was sealed this morning.’ His eyes twinkled and he took a long time drinking his coffee before continuing. ‘Your portion comes to over half a million.’

‘What!’ squeaked Lucy. The whole coffee shop turned to stare. She leaned forwards, and so did Paul. He beat her to the punch.

‘I’m sorry, Lucy, but even if you had quadruplets and sent them all to Eton and Harvard, you couldn’t spend that on their education.’

Lucy baulked at the thought of quadruplets. Two would be plenty; three if she had a nanny.

‘You don’t have to decide now,’ said Paul quietly. ‘But it would give me great pleasure if you put half into the trust and used the rest to start your own business. Never mind what your dad did, or whether his money is tainted, I want to see you fulfil your potential.’

She shifted in her seat. ‘What have you and Emma got to think over?’

‘My share was even bigger than yours. I put it to her…’ he paused, trying to get out of lawyer mode. ‘No I didn’t. I said to her: would you be able to find the same level of enthusiasm for teaching when we’ve got that much money?’ He shrugged. ‘She honestly doesn’t know. The first thing she said was, “Not for twenty years, that’s for certain.”’

A group of students wandered in, and Lucy had to get back to work. ‘You’re right,’ she said, kissing the top of Paul’s head. ‘I will think it over.’

The Operation Meteor incident room was buzzing when Tom got back from Warrington. There was more activity today than there had been since the beginning, even though there were fewer officers. Hazel Cotton waved her notebook at him; he hooked his thumb towards his office.

‘You must have a very good source,’ said Hazel when they’d sat down.

‘I was just lucky. Right place, right time. What have you found out?’

‘Mrs Claudia Mallinson has been receiving extensive fertility treatment at a private clinic in Cheshire. The treatment has been ongoing for four years. This is the fourth cycle to have worked. So far. None of the others went to term.’

‘Bloody hell, Hazel. How did you find that out?’

‘You’ve got your sources, Boss, I’ve got mine. As you asked, all of this is off the record, but I know exactly which doctor to subpoena if we need it confirmed.’

Tom caught his hand on its way to his left shoulder and diverted it to his chin. He gave his stubble a good rake instead.

‘Where does this take us?’ she asked, putting her notebook away.

‘I honestly don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Not yet. How much are we talking about?’

‘How much what?’

‘Money. Of course.’

She gave him a withering look. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think that was important.’

‘Money’s always important. You can spend tomorrow morning coming up with a minimum and maximum figure. I’ll lend you my calculator if it helps.’

She stood up. ‘I find that sitting in a coffee shop helps me think these things through.’

She had to push it, didn’t she? ‘Don’t push it, Cotton.’

‘Push what, Boss?’

‘Your self-destruct button. Now go and get Sergeant Dunn.’

Phil came in with a bunch of printouts in one hand, a pen in the other and a frown on his face. He waved the forms in the air, much has Hazel had waved her notebook. ‘Don’t be surprised if you get a phone call from the Divisional Superintendent,’ he said. ‘Our team have dug out a few hornets’ nests today.’

‘Good,’ said Tom. His enthusiasm was more for Dunn’s use of “our” than anything else.

‘We’ve arrested five people today for possession of controlled substances and confiscated a lot of gear. One of the suspects tried to bribe PC Higham. DC Fraser got it on video. We’re sending him to court tomorrow; the others have been released on police bail.’

‘No one got aggressive did they?’

Dunn gave him a sideways smile. ‘The guy in the cells at Wigan tried to assault Elaine when she showed him her phone. She’s not pressing charges, and he’s got a sore arm. Very sore, from what Vicki told me.’

That sounded like Elaine.

‘What have we learnt?’ asked Tom.

‘I’m still collating. Processing the arrests had to be done first; I’ll sift through the intelligence tomorrow morning.’

Tom would have preferred it tonight, but Dunn had run the team with something approaching enthusiasm today. He was going to bank that.

‘Good. Anything else come up?’

‘DC Fraser’s left a list of vehicles registered to all members of the Cross family and their known associates on the system. It didn’t take her long, that’s why she pitched in with us.’

‘Good. Thanks, Phil. Just one more thing. Elaine’s having difficulty commuting, especially with her husband in Scotland. She’s going to be staying at the Duke of Edinburgh for a couple of nights. At her own expense. Just so you know.’

Dunn gave him a searching look, then nodded and left.

Tom sent Elaine a text: See you in Reception at 18:00, ready to run. Then he started going through the reports. He’d learnt nothing after half an hour, so he packed up and told the security guard to go home early.

When they went for their run, it started raining. That didn’t stop Tom pushing himself to get all the way to Fiona’s house.

‘Well?’ he said, panting. ‘What do you think?’

‘About what?’

He gestured towards the house. ‘Fiona and Duncan live here. How does it compare to the Cloister?’

Elaine planted her feet apart and stared at the house. He was glad to note that she was now panting too. After a few seconds, she nodded to herself, then turned round and headed back to the Duke of Edinburgh without another word.

When they arrived at the hotel and stopped under the portico to stretch, Tom asked, ‘Where are you eating tonight?’

‘I’m not. Well, not in a restaurant. I’m going to eat the salad I bought at the supermarket in my room and work on my Investigative Interviewing Coursebook. A drink later would be good.’

Salad? What was the woman doing eating salad in February? He wasn’t going to criticise her for studying, though. ‘Great. Text me when you’re ready.’

Tom enjoyed a curry round the corner and took a call from his old boss in economic crimes. He summarised it for Elaine when they met up later. At first she seemed rather wired (too much coffee and not enough food, he reckoned). She settled down when he told her the news from London: the house and land at Quaker’s Fold was owned by a trust in the Virgin Islands, with two shares, jointly owned by Mr & Mrs Cross, and Mr & Mrs Mallinson.

Elaine gave a grin of triumph. They had finally pinned something down that linked everyone together. ‘Was there anything about a pending conveyance?’ she asked.

‘Yes and no. There was something, but it’s been withdrawn. Not going to happen.’

He raised his glass and they drank a silent toast to the Economic Crime Unit. Tom added another detail. ‘With this offshore trust, half is owned by each couple, but they own it jointly. The long and short of it is that Matt’s share goes 100% to Layla, without death duties. If anything happens to Andrew or Claudia Mallinson, the same rule applies. And there’s another wrinkle. All three surviving parties need to agree before the trust can be dissolved and the land sold on.’

‘It’s about knowing your limits,’ said Elaine, out of nowhere.

Tom was flummoxed. What on earth was she on about now? From the grin on her face, he wasn’t supposed to understand, either. ‘In what way?’

‘I reckon I could aspire to owning your sister’s house, Tom, but not the Cloister. You’ve got to have roots going back a long way to live somewhere like that and be comfortable. It’s not always about money.’

‘You sound just like my mother,’ he said. The look of horror on her face was worth it.

‘You look a bit more human,’ said Connor to Bridget as he opened the door. ‘Welcome to Grosvenor Crescent.’

It depended on your point of view, of course. Bridget looked a lot less hungover than this morning, but now she’d got her Goth slap on, she looked less human. Each to their own, he supposed.

She stood inside the door. For the first time since Alexis had thrown him out, he was living in somewhere with a hall and he remembered that he was supposed to take her coat.

‘How’s Nat?’ she whispered. ‘She texted me about the interview tomorrow.’

‘She’s fine,’ said Connor. ‘Come and see for yourself.’

He had pushed Natalie into asking Bridget over, partly because he had to go out and partly because he didn’t want Bridget to feel excluded. Connor liked people dropping around, and he’d missed it when he was living on his own.

Bridget swished ahead into the lounge and burst out laughing. ‘You’re as bad as each other,’ she said. ‘Neither of you thought about curtains, did you?’

‘I’ve never bought any before,’ said Natalie. She was standing in the middle of the room holding an ornament in one hand and a lamp in the other and looking lost. Connor felt a surge of emotion. He was going to make this work. Somehow. Anyhow.

Bridget was peering around, already pointing out something else they’d missed. He left them to it, with a quick kiss from Nat to speed him on his way.

Kyle was on duty at the Manor, and Mary showed him in to the sitting room.

‘Hiya, love,’ said Layla. She made an effort to come and greet him, throwing her arms round him and fighting back the tears. He hugged her close, then eased her away. It was a shock.

The Show must go on look was gone. Layla had aged again since Friday; her face was bloating and her eyes were raw. Her mouth was still the same, though, and it twitched at the corner.

‘It’s at times like this you find out who your real friends are,’ she said. ‘It’s still me underneath, you know … I just … I dunno, Connor, I’m …’ She took a deep breath and a step back. ‘I’m only half a person. Everything I see, everyone I talk to, every time I have to do something, it makes me wanna cry, and I don’t want to cry any more. I’ve got three kids with no father, I’ve got a mother with dementia, I’ve got a business to run, and now I’ve got this…’

‘Hey, hey, I’m here. You’re right about your friends, you know. That’s what we’re here for. Me and Grant have got the business covered. You focus on the kids. For everything else, Andy will be there for you. And Claudia when she’s feeling better.’

She stepped forward again and embraced him, this time with her back straight.

‘That’s my girl,’ said Connor.

‘I’m not your effing girl, and I’m not sure I’d class Grant Benson as one of my friends.’

‘Hey, I’d rather have him as a friend than an enemy.’

‘Don’t I know it. It’s all right for you and Matt, you’re lads. You must have seen the way he ignores women.’

She said this over her shoulder, as she made her way back to the couch and the fire, waving Connor forward and not noticing the look on his face. He’d known Layla for … decades, and in all that time, she’d never talked to him about other members of their circle. Outsiders, yes, but he’d never heard her pass judgement on Grant like that before. This must have been how she talked to Matt in the privacy of their marriage. Connor didn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned.

He went round the couches and grabbed himself a small malt whisky on the way. Layla had a glass of orange squash in front of her; this was a good sign — provided that there was no vodka in it.

She continued her train of thought on the subject of Grant. ‘It’s not that he’s sexist or nothing. He doesn’t make sexist jokes, and he’s got enough women working for him. If you can call some of them women — that Cheyanne’s got bigger shoulders than Matt does. Did.’ She wobbled, and Connor bit his lip. She pressed on. ‘It’s just that Grant simply doesn’t notice women; it’s like we’re not there unless he looks for us.’

She was right. She usually was when it came to other people, even if Connor wasn’t going to agree with her out loud. Too dangerous.

‘…And I’m not sure about Andy being there for me, either,’ she said. ‘That’s why I asked you round.’

Andy was her brother: a very good reason for giving that relationship a wide berth. The risk of collateral damage was far too high.

‘He’s got a lot on his plate,’ said Connor. ‘And Claudia really didn’t look well when I saw her.’

‘Hmmph. Claudia.’ She sat up straight and slid a piece of paper over the table. ‘Claudia’s responsible for this, in my opinion.’

‘What is it?’ asked Connor, reluctant to pick up something he shouldn’t see. He’d survived many police interviews by not picking up pieces of paper, and with another one tomorrow, he wasn’t sure he needed to know this.

Layla wasn’t going to be put off. ‘Have a look. It’s a preliminary valuation for probate.’

Connor didn’t move. ‘That’s a bit personal. I’d feel like Matt was looking over me shoulder if I saw that.’

She frowned, and Connor took that as a good sign. You need a bit of energy to get annoyed with people. ‘Don’t be daft,’ she said. ‘Your wine cellar’s on there. Don’t you want to know how much it’s worth?’

He picked up the paper: the wine cellar was worth less than the books or the shotguns. Even so, if he sold it for that amount… Then he saw the valuation of the Manor. Flaxall Manor, grounds and parkland: £5.4m. Wow.

‘That’s all very well,’ said Layla when she saw his face. ‘But he’s left it all to the kids, not to me. Andy reckons he can lose some assets in the paperwork, but we’ve got to find over two million quid for the tax-man. Two million!’

Connor replaced the paper, sliding it well out of the way. His first reaction was to step away, to say something like You know me, girl, can’t do sums with more than six figures in them, but that wouldn’t do. Not tonight. Layla needed him to man up.

‘What about the shares in Laycross?’ he asked. Getting Layla to talk would give him more thinking time.

‘They’re mine. Nothing to do with the estate. They’re not worth two million quid, though, and who would buy them if they were? And if I sold them, what would I live off?’

That was what he’d thought. He tried another delaying tactic. ‘Who is actually responsible for paying this?’

‘The estate is.’

That wasn’t the answer Connor was hoping for. He preferred real people and real property to airy-fairy things like The Estate. ‘Who’s that?’

The look of annoyance flashed across Layla’s face again; perhaps she was regretting her decision to take him into her confidence. Connor was not a lawyer, and if what she needed was a lawyer she would have to look elsewhere — except that her brother was most definitely a lawyer. Why wasn’t she trusting Andy to sort it out? He tried again. ‘It’s a lot of money, sure, but it’s only, like, two fifths of what the house is worth. Couldn’t you borrow it?’

‘That’s what I asked Andy. He said that the kids have to make that decision, except they’re kids, so they can’t borrow anything. If we did mortgage the estate on their behalf, the interest rates would be sky-high, and if no one paid the interest … poof. Gone.’

It was a mess, all right. Connor rubbed his chin and fidgeted.

‘Does Natalie know you’ve started smoking again?’ asked Layla.

‘You know me too well. No, she doesn’t.’

‘Go outside and have one. The fresh air might help you think straight.’

He slipped out the main door and walked along the terrace. Neither the nicotine nor the night air helped. He heard a crunch on the gravel and saw Layla approaching. She’d picked up Matt’s old Barbour, wrapping it nearly twice around her, and shoved her feet in some wellies.

‘I suddenly realised I hadn’t been out of the house all day,’ she said. ‘Give us a fag.’

Layla hadn’t smoked since she’d been pregnant with Sabrina. Connor offered her the packet, then a light. She coughed heavily, then stood, shivering and smoking. She looked up at the clouds, then rotated to her left and stopped when she was facing the direction of Northridge Copse.

‘Some of the time it feels like he’s been gone forever,’ she said, ‘and sometimes I think he’s still alive.’

Connor left it a second, not wishing to change the subject too brutally. He was standing on her left, facing Quaker’s Fold rather than the Copse, and he wondered why Layla hadn’t mentioned the farmland. ‘Is there nothing you can do with this,’ he said, waving at where the fields would be if there weren’t a wall and trees in the way, and if it weren’t dark.

‘What?’

‘Quaker’s Fold. If Andy gets his way, that’ll be worth way more than two million.’

She blew out smoke. ‘You’d think. He says we can’t do anything because it’s tied up in some offshore thingy.’

‘Did he have any useful suggestions? Not much of an adviser if he didn’t.’

‘He said we only had one option: sell the Manor.’

‘No! It’s your home. It’s Sab’s and Luke’s and Tasmin’s home, too. He can’t do that.’

‘He can, actually. As the executor and trustee, he can do just that. I told him he could sell it over my dead body. Literally.’

Her hand shook as a violent chill scattered glowing embers.

‘Let’s go inside,’ said Connor. ‘You’ll catch your death out here. Unless that’s what you want.’

‘Give over,’ said Layla. She clumped towards the back door. ‘I’m the drama queen round here. You’re supposed to be the sensible one.’

‘Nah. That used to be Alexis’s job. I’m trying to get Natalie to take over. Or Bridget. Anyone but me.’

Inside the long kitchen passage, she hung up Matt’s coat, stroking the waxed cotton. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be moving today?’

‘We did. Natalie’s unpacking, with Bridget’s help, only Bridget’s probably started cleaning.’

‘Come with me.’

Layla levered off her wellingtons and padded through to Matt’s study. There was evidence of police activity all over it. She picked up a small table with an oof, and placed it on the rug. ‘Take it. House-warming present.’

‘I can’t do that. It looks antique.’

‘It is. Eighteenth century vernacular side table. Apparently. Worth a grand, if you’re lucky. Take it.’

Connor hefted the table. It was certainly solid.

‘I’m going to bed,’ announced Layla suddenly. ‘After I’ve rounded up the kids and taken their iPads off them.’

‘We’ll find a way,’ said Connor.

Layla drew herself upright, summoning the last of her energies. ‘We’ll have to. Simple as. Full scale rehearsal on Thursday for StarCross’d. Starting at four o’clock.’

‘Right. I’ll be there.’

‘Ask Mary to hold open the doors for you. Thanks, Connor.’

She leaned up and kissed his cheek, then she was gone.

Connor looked at the table. He decided that he’d sell it to Natalie as a special gift from Matt. Otherwise, she might turn her nose up at it.

24

Tuesday

Elaine had avoided the cooked breakfast at the Duke of Edinburgh by going to the hotel gym and grabbing a yogurt from the corner shop on her way to the Tombs. How did Tom eat a Full English every day and still not put on weight?

She felt a lot better this morning. Partly from endorphins after her workout, and partly from having a good night’s sleep. The whisky had helped, and so had talking to Tom last night, despite having a wobble when she had nearly told him that her husband thought they were having an affair. In that moment, when self-pity and caffeine had joined forces to make her vulnerable, she had also thought about confessing that it was the bathroom scales in Manchester which were scaring her. That would have sounded even more pathetic. And if she had opened up to him, she’d have missed his story about Diana, the dead cat and the curate of St Anthony’s.

He’d shown Elaine an up-to-date picture of Di on his phone, and she’d had a vision of one day meeting his sister. If Elaine did ever meet Diana Morton, she knew that the first thing she would do is blurt out something about the curate. Or the cat.

She headed into the Tombs and gave the security guard a bigger than normal smile. Isabelle was standing outside the kitchen, away from the roar of the kettle. ‘Morning Elaine. Boss’s office in five minutes.’

In the incident room, the uniformed officers were bright and cheery, too. Yesterday had been fun — a chance to run riot with low-level offenders that doesn’t come very often, because there’s usually more important business to attend to. For them, there would be more of it again today. Elaine had no idea what the Boss was planning for her because they’d both avoided talking about it last night.

‘How was the Duke of Edinburgh?’ asked Hazel.

‘How did you know I was there?’ asked Elaine, more amazed than annoyed.

‘I’m a detective, remember.’

It was Hazel’s stock response whenever she came up with some piece of gossip that she had no right to know. How could she have found out about Elaine being at the DofE? I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of asking. ‘Fine,’ said Elaine. ‘It’s dirt cheap at this time of year, if you go room-only.’

‘Did you see the Boss?’

Aha! You don’t know we had a drink, then. ‘Yes. We went running and he told me a story about his sister.’ Not that it’s any of your business.

‘The doctor in Birkdale, you mean,’ said Hazel.

‘No, actually, the artist in Hackney. Let’s go and find out what he’s got in store for us.’

As she collected her mug of tea from the tray, she realised that Hazel now knew about Tom’s other sister, because she’d given it away. It could be worse: she could have let slip about Holly Nugent and the Seen in 7Bridge blog. That would really have got her into trouble.

Tom was back in his blue three-piece suit, sitting up straight at the conference table. Hazel and Elaine were the last to join the party. Phil Dunn, Vicki Higham and Isabelle were already dunking their first biscuits; Elaine resisted the temptation and pushed the plate to Hazel, who took two.

‘We’re a bit stretched, this morning,’ said Tom, ‘because you all did such good work yesterday that we’ve got a lot to follow up. Here are the actions: interviews with Connor Holden, Natalie Alderson and Grant Benson; tracing the vehicles and their movements on the day of Matt Cross’s murder; finding out if Matt Cross went shooting with anyone other than Grant Benson; and one that’s just come in: the prisoner in Wigan who took a swing at Elaine has been in touch. Claims he has further information and wants to do a deal. We ruled out Luke Cross yesterday. Let’s see if we can eliminate someone else today.’

For once, all the team had written everything down. Even Hazel.

Tom concluded. ‘I’m interviewing Benson myself. Phil, who’s doing what for the rest?’

Why does he defer to Day Job Dunn like that? There’s only six of us in here. Tom had shown plenty of disregard for the rules in the past, but now for some reason he was sticking rigidly to the Major Incident Protocol. Whatever.

Phil didn’t rush in. He seemed to be giving the allocation of tasks some careful thought. This was a first. Finally, he scrawled something on his piece of paper and spoke up. ‘I’m leading on the other two interviews. We need to start with the family on the question of vehicles and shooting partners, so that’s a double mission for DC Cotton. The guy in Wigan is clearly afraid of DC Fraser.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ said Hazel in a stage whisper. The Boss and his sergeant both glared at her until she looked down.

‘As I was saying,’ continued Phil, ‘DC Fraser will visit the Pie Eaters and see the prisoner, which leaves PC Higham to support me in the interviews. Elaine, come and see me for further actions when you’re back.’

‘That’s Wiganist,’ said Hazel. ‘I live there, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Phil. ‘Off you trot, everyone.’

On the way to the door, Hazel said to Elaine: ‘Four women in here and the two bosses are both men. When do you think that’s going to change?’

‘When more of us take our sergeant’s exams,’ said Elaine. ‘And when more of us are willing to work unpaid overtime as Inspectors.’

Hazel didn’t respond to that.

Elaine picked up her paperwork and headed out into the rain.

Bridget was back at work, and Lucy was letting her get on with it while she tried to bring the accounts up to date. According to Bridget, Natalie was going to be OK in her new flat, provided that Layla Cross stopped sending over hand-me-down furniture and stirring up the past.

Lucy had nodded sagely at that point because she had no idea what Bridget was on about. Still, a happy Bridget meant a happy coffee shop. Lucy buried her nose in her laptop for half an hour, then a man came up to her. He was carrying a take-out coffee, so clearly didn’t want to complain.

‘Hi,’ he said, sticking out his hand. ‘I’m a mate of Connor Holden’s.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Lucy.

The man passed her two business cards, one with the Lancashire Coastal Council logo on it, naming him as an officer in the Trading Standards department. The other had a woman’s name and was branded River-to-River Training.

She looked up with a smile, having no idea what was going on. The man smiled back. ‘That’s my wife’s card. If you want anyone to get accredited for Food Safety, just get in touch.’

‘Oh. Does she offer training?’ said Lucy.

The man smiled again. ‘For friends of Connor, we offer a special online course. If you know what I mean.’

Then it dawned on her: this man would sell fake accreditation if she wanted to offer home-made cakes in the café.

She put the cards very carefully into her apron. ‘That’s good to know. Very good.’

‘Pleasure,’ said the man. ‘This coffee’s much nicer, by the way. I’ll be back here again.’

Lucy was so stunned she barely managed to thank him before he left. She was still thinking about his visit as she made her way back to the counter. She looked through the steamy window and saw a taxi pull to a stop on the double yellow line outside.

The driver climbed out and stood by his cab, getting soaked, until the passenger door opened and a young woman dashed round with her coat over her head. The driver followed her inside.

When she lowered her coat, Lucy recognised the waitress who had walked off on Sunday and posted that picture. She tensed herself for a fight, but the driver came forward first, water dripping down his face.

‘Miss White, I’m really, really sorry about what’s happened.’

Lucy didn’t know what to say.

‘My daughter’s come to apologise.’

What on earth? Lucy had been dragged to infant school by Mama to apologise to one of the other girls, but she’d never seen a grown-up humiliated like this. The girl stepped forward. Her father glowered at her.

‘Sorry.’ She looked down at her feet. ‘I’ve deleted the picture, removed the hashtag and told everyone else to leave you alone. Not that many saw it anyway.’

‘Apologise properly,’ said her father, folding his arms.

‘I’m sorry. I was angry with me mum for making me go to work on a Sunday morning, and I took it out on you.’

Lucy didn’t get a chance to accept the apology because the father ordered his daughter back to the car.

‘Thanks,’ said Lucy. ‘What she did wasn’t very nice, but I’d’ve got over it.’

‘That’s not the point,’ said the father. ‘All I can say in her defence is that she didn’t know who you were.’

‘I thought she knew exactly who I was.’

He shook his head. ‘Not the celebrity stuff. I don’t care about that. I had a visit from Grant Benson last night. My daughter had no idea you were connected to him. Believe me, it won’t happen again, and I’ll make sure she looks out to stop anyone else doing it.’

Lucy’s heart hammered against her chest. Her legs started to shake and she had to lean on the counter to hold herself up. She tried to smile because she couldn’t speak.

‘Anyway, like she said, no one really saw it,’ said the father. ‘She’s not as popular as she likes to think she is. With an attitude like that, I’m not surprised. Is that okay?’

‘Thanks. Yes.’ Lucy forced herself to stand up straight. ‘I hate to say this, but I won’t be advertising her old job if she was thinking of applying. I’ve got to make some cutbacks.’

He looked at her shrewdly. ‘I wouldn’t let her apply for it anyway. She needs some discipline, that girl. Mind you, she could do with a decent reference.’

‘Of course. No problem.’

‘Good. I’d better go.’

When the door had closed behind him, Bridget emerged from the back room. ‘See? I told you we could sort it.’

‘Thanks, Bridget. I owe you one for that,’ said Lucy. Inside her head, she could hear a voice. It sounded a lot like Uncle Paul: Oh dear, Lucy. What on earth have you got yourself into here?

‘You don’t owe me,’ said Bridget. ‘It’s Natalie. She sorted this out for you.’

‘Right. Of course. I’m going to nip out to Sainsbury’s and get some more paninis and salami. Is there an umbrella somewhere?’

‘Large, medium or small? There’s a dozen in the lost property cupboard.’

25

For some reason, Phil Dunn had decided to come down hard on Natalie Alderson. Tom had no idea why, and he was becoming increasingly sorry for the woman he could see being browbeaten over the CCTV link from the interview room.

When Phil had interviewed Connor Holden that morning, he hadn’t pushed very hard — after all, the man was here voluntarily. It was just a question of getting his answers on paper, with a signature. If they later discovered that he had been lying, it would give them some leverage. The most productive moment had come when Phil asked about the will and the estate: it was the only time Holden had been forced to think on his feet. At the debriefing, Tom had put it down as an action for Hazel to follow up with the family in due course.

And now there was Natalie Alderson. Phil seemed to be channelling Fiona, echoing her attitude towards legal highs and their dangers, then hammering on about distribution of drugs at Layla’s Bar. After twenty minutes, she had retreated into monosyllables, folding her arms and letting her hair drop loose over her face. Her alibi for the afternoon of Matt Cross’s murder was one of those difficult non-alibis which would take days to check. He didn’t see it as a priority.

His attention was drawn back to the screen by Vicki’s voice. A junior officer, not even a detective, she really had no role. This wasn’t an interview under caution, therefore she shouldn’t be saying anything.

‘We’re just trying to find out what happened to Matt,’ said Vicki. ‘I can tell that he meant a lot to you.’ She smiled. ‘Even if the job he got for you isn’t one I’d do myself.’

It was too late. Any attempt to build a rapport with Natalie had been doomed to failure by Phil’s heavy-handed questions. Anyway, Natalie wasn’t the killer. As soon as Tom had seen her again, he knew that she hadn’t killed Matt, and Phil should have known, too. Matt Cross’s murderer had carried a shotgun and shells all the way to Northridge Copse, caught Matt off his guard and blasted him twice. Tom wasn’t saying that a woman was incapable of the exertion; he would never do that. But Natalie Alderson would need a very, very strong motive to flip from victim to violent killer.

The message seemed to have got through to Phil, because he started wrapping things up. Tom left his office and went upstairs to the deserted (and probably haunted) first floor where the gun cabinet was located. He retrieved the Beretta, examined the breach (empty) and was about to go back downstairs when his phone rang. He placed the gun carefully on the floor and checked the screen: Lucy.

‘Hi. How’s things?’

He could hear water, rain landing on something, and wind noise. She was outside, somewhere, with an umbrella.

‘Not good, Tom,’ she said. ‘I need to talk to you. Tonight.’

He looked wildly around the empty office, trying to make some human contact and anchor himself. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’

‘I think I might be in some deep water. I’m safe, no one’s after me, but that’s the problem … sorry, I’m not making sense. Can you and your chaperone come to the flat tonight? The one over the coffee shop. You know where it is.’

‘Of course. What time?’

‘Any time after six.’

‘We’ll be there at five past. Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘Yeah. I’m fine, for now. I’m just on my way to Sainsbury’s.’

‘You mean you needed to make this call where no one could hear you. Are you sure there’s no risk at the coffee shop?’

She managed a laugh. ‘Only to my soul. That’s the sort of thing you’d say, isn’t it? I’ll see you later.’ And with that, she rang off.

He didn’t know what to think. Literally. He didn’t know whether to worry about Lucy, worry about what Elaine might have to say or worry about his interview with Grant Benson. He took a deep breath and told himself that Lucy was an adult who knew what she was doing. He would worry about her later; ditto Elaine. That left Grant Benson.

He picked up the shotgun and carried it downstairs, feeling much better as he left the echoes of vanished coppers behind him and returned to his own domain. Without thinking, he broke the shotgun, checked the breach (empty), and slung the gun over his forearm. He thus arrived in the foyer to collect Benson like a US Treasury agent in search of Al Capone.

‘Jesus! Sir!’ cried the security guard.

‘Oh my God!’ squeaked a young woman.

Only Grant Benson didn’t panic. ‘I hope you’re looking after that gun,’ he said. ‘It’s gonna be mine one day.’

Tom felt more exposed than he had in that dream, the one where he turned up in court with no trousers and his father was the judge. Only this was worse. He only had one option: act like it was deliberate.

‘Thanks for coming in, Mr Benson. Is this your legal representative?’

Benson gave a half-smile. Tom couldn’t work out if he was amused at Tom’s embarrassment or his lawyer’s discomfiture. It was only then that Tom appreciated just how enormous Benson was in the flesh, and why so many of the addicts and petty dealers they’d arrested yesterday were petrified of him. The shotgun seemed even more pathetic now.

The man-mountain pointed at the overweight young woman. ‘Nicola Owens. My brief. You must be Morton.’

‘DCI Morton, yes. Follow me.’

He turned and headed down the corridor. At the other end, Vicki Higham and Natalie Alderson appeared. Oh shit. Can this get any worse? Yes, it could. Natalie took one look at the gun and ran into the ladies’ toilets. Vicki raised both eyebrows and stared at the weapon, then followed Natalie through the door.

‘That’s you crossed off Connor’s Christmas card list,’ said Benson.

Tom pointed to the interview room and asked them to make themselves comfortable. He stuck his head into the incident room and shouted to Isabelle, ‘I need three teas and a favour.’

‘Coming, Boss.’ She click-clacked down the corridor after him.

‘I need to show this gun to the witness,’ said Tom. ‘Then I need you to take it away and lock it up.’

‘Then make the tea. No problem.’

He placed the gun carefully in the far corner of the room and sat down. When he made the official statement, the only reaction from Benson was to look up when he said Isabelle’s name and rank.

‘Incident Room Manager? Have you run out of bizzies?’

Tom was past caring. ‘Just making good use of taxpayers’ money. That’s why I’m on my own.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Nicola doesn’t bite you.’

Ms Owens gave her client a filthy look.

Finally, Tom was able to make a start. He stood up and placed the shotgun on the table, breach exposed (it was empty), placing it as far away from Benson as the table would allow. ‘I am showing Mr Benson and Ms Owens a double barrelled Beretta shotgun registered to the late Mr Matthew Cross. Have you seen this weapon before?’

‘Yes.’

‘When was that?’

‘Matt showed it to me when he bought it a couple of years ago. He took me down to the Copse to let me get a feel for it. He’s also lent it to me for a charity clay pigeon shoot. I have not only seen this weapon, I’ve handled it and fired it. Several times. The last time was in the summer.’

Tom had Benson exactly where he wanted him, and the comedy routine in the foyer had been an unexpected bonus. Benson now considered himself invulnerable because he didn’t think that Tom could surprise him.

Tom slid in his next question while Benson was whispering to his lawyer. ‘Before Mrs Innes takes it away, could you have a look at the weapon. Has it been damaged or altered in any way?’

Benson’s ego was the size of his body — large, but in proportion. Being asked to examine a deadly weapon in a police station was only to be expected for him. He stood up and leaned forward. His lawyer had to get out of the way. Placing his hands on the table, well away from the gun, he scrutinised it carefully.

‘Can you turn it over and twist it?’ he asked Tom.

When the gun had been moved, Benson finished his examination and nodded to Tom before sitting back down. Isabelle took the weapon away, closing the door behind her.

‘Well?’ asked Tom.

‘It’s filthy, of course. It’ll need a thorough clean, but at least it’s dry, so there shouldn’t be any long-term damage. Apart from that, and a couple of scratches, it’s as I last saw it. Apart from the choke.’

‘The what?’ said Tom.

‘It’s that thing in the end of the barrel,’ said Benson, a little patronisingly, which is just what Tom wanted. ‘It’s a tube that stops the shot spreading out so much. Matt was a much better shot than me, and he mostly shot rabbits. They’re harder to kill than clay pigeons, so you need more shot to hit the target. When I used it, he put a more open choke in for me. He obviously swapped them back afterwards.’

‘Thank you for explaining that, Mr Benson. Why do you think Mr Cross didn’t use the Beretta Optima adjustable choke? If I could afford a Beretta, I’d use one.’

Benson folded his arms. He realised that he’d been tricked into saying something compromising, but he had no idea what.

Tom was enjoying himself. He had the thrill of being (almost) certain that Benson was innocent, and the added pleasure of putting the big man on the defensive. He’d deal with the implications of losing a suspect later. For now, he pressed his advantage.

‘My colleagues are out asking who Mr Cross went shooting with. I’d like to ask you the same.’

Benson shifted in his seat and glanced at his lawyer. She was writing something in her leather bound notebook — probably filling in her timesheet. There was nothing constructive for her to say here.

‘Mr Benson?’

‘I can’t remember. None of my doormen have shotgun licences. You can check. Matt was very careful to only shoot with people who were authorised. That meant he usually went with … other people. Councillors. Investors. The odd music industry person. Not the sort of meeting he’d want me to go to.’

‘Even though you’re Luke’s godfather?’

‘Matt was very good at putting people in boxes.’ Benson said it with a stare, strongly implying that boxes was a euphemism for coffins. He was trying to re-establish his authority.

‘Compartmentalising, you mean.’

‘If you say so.’

‘So who would know? Mrs Cross has made a statement saying that she has never fired a gun in her life.’

Benson could see he’d been backed in to a corner. He was being recorded. The only way out was to give the answer that Tom knew he would have to give.

‘Andy. Andy Mallinson. He usually went along.’

‘Mr Mallinson doesn’t have a shotgun registered to him. What did he shoot with?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve just said I wasn’t there most of the time.’

‘Would Mr Cross have let his brother-in-law use his Beretta, perhaps, while he used the Purdey?’

‘No way,’ said Benson. He glanced again at his still-doodling lawyer. ‘All I know is this: Matt once told me that he would only lend Andy the Lincoln. He didn’t trust him with the others.’

‘But he trusted you with the Beretta.’

‘That’s why he left his books to Andy and his guns to me.’

‘How long had Mr Cross been using the Gameworld Eco shells?’

Benson nodded while he thought. ‘A couple of years. Maybe three. He was worried about the birds in Northridge Copse. And any deer that might come along. He only used them at home, mind.’

This was a bonus, though it did explain why several boxes of Hull cartridges had been found at the Manor. ‘So he used regular shot at clay pigeon events or on the moors, if he went?’

‘When he wasn’t on his own land, he only ever used Hull cartridges.’

Ms Owens looked up from her pad. ‘Are you going anywhere specific with this, Chief Inspector? My client has told you twice that he wasn’t there most of the time.’

There was a knock at the door. ‘Hang on,’ said Tom. ‘This interview is terminated.’ He pressed the Stop buttons, then asked Isabelle to come in. He turned to Benson. ‘That’s all. I’ll just put what you said into an additional statement while we drink our tea.’

The rain had eased off a little although the thick clouds meant that the streetlights were already coming on. Connor was watching Tyler Street from his office, not sure whether he wanted Grant to arrive before Natalie or afterwards. She had come away from her interview in a terrible state — interview? More like an interrogation from the way she described it. He had told her beforehand not to worry, that it was all routine, and then they’d gone at her for the drugs, not just the stuff at Layla’s but going back into ancient history. And then there was that business of seeing Grant and the shotgun…

He’d sent her to go and look at curtains. ‘Curtains? What do you think I am, Connor? Your little housewife?’ had been her response, fury boiling over.

He’d smiled at her and played his ace. ‘If you don’t go and choose some, I’ll have to do it. And can you think of anything better to take your mind off things than staring at yards of fabric?’

She had snatched the paper with the measurements out of his hand and stormed off to Dunelm Mill. Natalie was a harder worker than him, in many ways, and when she had something to concentrate on, it took her full attention. That’s why he kept her hours up at Layla’s Bar: less time to brood. She was also very good for the place. A win-win, really.

A big shadow cruised up the street, leaving pedestrians in its wake: Grant was going to be here first. Connor poured a whisky in preparation.

‘I think we’ve made a mistake,’ was Grant’s first comment after settling on the settee in the corner. Connor stayed at his desk; it was scant protection, but he wasn’t going to risk getting closer just yet. Grant was seething quietly, as annoyed in his own way as Nat had been.

‘Why’s that?’ asked Connor.

‘Morton.’

‘What about him? Seemed like a nice boy when I met him. I can’t see him being too much of a threat. Bridget thinks he’s in over his head, from the way his team are misbehaving.’

Grant shook his head. ‘He interviewed me on his own. That’s never happened before, and not from a Chief Inspector. Not only that, he brought Matt’s Beretta with him. Into the interview room.’

‘What’s a Beretta?’

Grant stared at him. ‘His shotgun. The one that he had with him.’

Connor flinched back. ‘Morton took that into the room with him? That’s…’

Grant was shaking his head again. ‘That’s the point: I don’t think it was the murder weapon. It wasn’t sealed in an evidence bag, and then he got me to blether on about the choke.’

Connor had no idea what a choke was or why it was important, but he wasn’t going to interrupt. Grant was thinking out loud, now, rather than having a conversation.

‘Morton must know something that we don’t: every one of Matt’s guns is accounted for. Your friend Kingsley said that the Beretta was next to the body.’ Grant looked straight at Connor. ‘The killer took his own gun.’

Connor said nothing, expecting Grant to continue. When nothing further came from the big man, he was forced to admit that he was lost. ‘Help me out, Grant. So what if the killer took their own gun?’

‘Never mind,’ said Grant dismissively.

Connor changed tack slightly. ‘What did you mean about making a mistake with Morton?’

‘Most coppers are stupid. He’s not. And because he’s not local, he’s only after one thing: Matt’s killer.’

‘Isn’t that a good thing?’

The office door opened quietly, and Natalie slipped in to the room. Connor had to leave the protective oak of his desk and go over to her. He wasn’t going to leave her stranded.

He put his arms around her nuzzled her hair and whispered, ‘There’s an explanation for the gun. Don’t worry, love, Grant’s not the killer.’

She gave him a squeeze to show she’d understood, then slipped into the opposite corner where she sat down on a hard chair. Connor took the armchair in the middle.

‘Go on,’ he said to Grant. ‘What did you mean — he’s only after one thing?’

‘I’ve been pestered all day, and most of yesterday. Morton’s sent his dogs out sniffing, turning over stones, trying to find out if we’re dealing at Layla’s Bar.’

Connor and Natalie glanced at each other. This was rather too close to home.

‘So far, he hasn’t got close,’ said Grant, ‘but we’re going to need a Plan B if he gets any closer.’ He stood up to leave. ‘I’ll give it some thought.’

‘I got some curtains,’ said Natalie when Grant had closed the door behind him.

‘Great. Let’s go and put them up. I’ve had it in here.’

It was only when he unlocked the car that he remembered: the conversation had never gone back to who might actually be the killer. Assuming it wasn’t Grant.

Elaine was cutting it fine for the afternoon de-briefing. She strode through the foyer of the Tombs with only time for a quick wave to the guard. Tom’s door was still open and there were no voices coming from inside, so she had a minute. She slowed down and went back to the incident room to dump her coat and get her notes together. Hazel was loitering by her desk.

‘Have you heard?’ said Hazel. ‘We’ve finally got a nickname for the Boss.’

Elaine was too tired for guessing games, especially as Tom was half way to being a friend and not just the Boss. ‘Go on,’ she said wearily. ‘Surprise me.’

‘The Sheriff.’

‘You what? Where’s that come from?’

‘Carrying a shotgun round the station. He scared Natalie Alderson half to death and sent Vicki into a flat spin.’

Elaine paused, her coat in mid-air. That sounds like the Boss. In another life he’d make a great absent-minded professor. She dropped the coat on to the back of her chair. Phil Dunn called them to the meeting. ‘Come on, Deputy Cotton, let’s mozey down to the saloon.’

Hazel fell into step. ‘Mozey? Is that a word?’

‘Your dad not a fan of westerns, then?’

‘Fishing. He can watch a float on the water for hours.’

They took their places and Dunn pointed to Elaine first. ‘The prisoner in Wigan.’

Elaine opened her notebook. ‘By the time I arrived it was touch and go whether he’d need treatment. He’s got a bit of a habit. I rang the CPS and they nearly wet themselves when they heard that I had him offering a bribe on video. When they think they can get a conviction with evidence like that, it’s hard to talk them down.’

The more experienced detectives all pulled faces; they’d had their fair share of battles with the CPS. ‘But you managed it,’ said Tom.

‘I did. With the help of the Custody Sergeant. The prisoner agreed to tell me everything about Grant Benson in exchange for no charge on the bribery or the assault.’

Dunn frowned. ‘What about the possession with intent?’

Elaine laughed. ‘He was adamant that that charge proceeded. He needs to be convicted of something, just to prove he didn’t grass anyone. He’s not bothered about six months inside.’

Dunn shook his head. ‘What did you get?’

‘Some good news, some bad news. He confirmed that the resident dealer was back on duty at Layla’s Bar over the weekend. If the doormen know your face, you can get almost anything there. The bad news is that the dealer is unknown to us. Probably Eastern European. The Prisoner of Wigan was quite desperate at this point, and he tossed a few other names into the pot. I got the desk to release him on police bail, and I’ve sent his file to the CPS.’

She consulted her notebook before continuing. ‘After that, I paid a few visits. A couple of the names would talk off the record and gave independent confirmation. Grant Benson’s tame dealer is a Czech national known as “Peter”. Average height, wears a leather jacket. Confirming all that took me the rest of the shift.’

Dunn whispered to Tom and made a note of something. ‘Thanks, Elaine. One more question: how were the pies?’

‘Good,’ said Elaine. ‘I ate them all.’

The group managed a smile. It wasn’t worth more than that. Hazel managed a frown. Dunn turned to her next.

She pulled a printout from her bag. It had been folded into a tiny square and been exposed to brown sauce at some point. She flattened it on the table and said, ‘Cars. Vehicles. They’re not big on company cars, this lot. All the vehicles associated with the Laycross companies are privately owned, except an Audi. That belongs to Claudia Mallinson.’ She looked around.

‘Tax,’ said Tom abruptly. ‘And money laundering through distressed purchase. I’d need to see their books to be sure, but some of the kick-back from drugs goes into buying their cars. Probably not important. Go on.’

‘Cross-checking with the family and a couple of number plate recognition cameras, I’m fairly certain that there wasn’t much movement. I’ve got Layla and Andy visiting their mother in the nursing home, her in the afternoon and him in the evening. I’m fairly sure that Matt’s car hasn’t left the drive since the day before he was killed. Connor Holden was tagged going to Liverpool. If Grant Benson left his house by car that afternoon, he wasn’t driving his own vehicle.’

‘What about Andrew Mallinson?’ asked Tom. Elaine, who knew him best, could see an extra keenness in his eyes; the others seemed not to register it.

‘What about him?’ asked Hazel, frowning.

‘Could he have driven to Flaxall village in the afternoon?’

Hazel looked down at her printout. ‘He could have. He’s not a suspect, is he?’

‘We haven’t eliminated him yet. His only alibi is his wife.’ He pointed to Phil’s notebook. ‘Action tomorrow: canvass Mallinson’s neighbours. Did anyone see him leave the house on Sunday afternoon?’

‘Sir,’ said Phil, doing as he was asked. He then flipped back a page. ‘This morning and this afternoon, PC Higham and I interviewed Connor Holden and his partner, Natalie Alderson.’ He paused. Elaine had been waiting for this. She hadn’t had the chance to watch the videos in HOLMES2, and she was expecting big things. Dunn considered his words carefully. ‘We have absolutely no new evidence from those interviews. Holden and Alderson are almost certainly paying for that new flat of theirs with the proceeds of drug sales at Layla’s Bar, but that just makes them leeches, not murderers.’

Hang on, thought Elaine, that’s a bit judgemental. I didn’t know Phil had it in him. She couldn’t help herself. ‘I thought they both had jobs with Matt Cross.’

Dunn pulled a sour face. ‘On paper, yes. In reality, they make sure the punters are lined up for your unknown Eastern European friend to sell them drugs.’

‘He’s not my Eastern European friend,’ said Elaine, stung by Dunn’s aggression.

Tom stepped in. ‘Which brings us back to the question I asked on Day One: who benefits from eliminating Matt Cross? He was the proverbial golden egg-laying goose round here. Why is he dead?’

Dunn’s anger, dialled down a notch, turned on the Boss. ‘I thought that’s why you brought Benson back in. He’s behind all this; he was the one who re-started the drug supply.’

It made perfect sense to Elaine. Benson had no real alibi. Matt Cross trusted him. He was well known to be capable of extreme violence. Cross had even left him the shotguns in his will.

Tom didn’t flinch; nor did he look away. ‘I’ve already explained this, Phil. We’ll get nowhere with Benson if we come at him head-on. None of these people are going anywhere: we need to narrow things down. That’s what I was doing today.’

His response did nothing to change Dunn’s sour face, and Elaine had no real idea what he was on about. This time she held her peace.

Tom turned to the whole group. ‘We’re still not getting to grips with the fracking issue.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘That’s my fault. I’m not sure where to go with it.’ He finished drumming with a double slap. ‘And that’s a sure sign that we all need to think about it. You’ve done excellent work today, all of you. We’re getting closer, I know it. Does anyone have anything else?’

‘Don’t forget to bring a pound for the brew fund,’ said Isabelle. ‘I spent the last of it today buying more milk.’

‘Then we’re done,’ concluded Tom, snapping shut his file and standing. ‘Elaine? Quick word.’

The others left them to it. Now that they were alone, a shadow had come across his face. He checked his phone. ‘We won’t get a chance to go running tonight. I’ve had a distress call from Lucy.’

‘Right. What’s up?’

‘I don’t know. I hope it’s not Hazel again. We’ll find out soon enough.’

Elaine went back to her desk. The others were packing up.

‘I hope you’re not going to be working tonight,’ said Dunn.

‘I nipped home at lunchtime for some clean clothes,’ she responded. ‘Took an extra half hour. I’m going to make it up now, if that’s okay.’

‘You didn’t tell me you’d taken extra refs,’ he responded in a monotone. ‘But I’m too tired to argue. Don’t let it happen again.’

‘Sorry, Sarge.’

Dunn closed the door behind him on the way out. She started catching up on her data entry until Tom came to collect her.

They dropped their cars at the hotel and walked the short distance back to Tyler Street. A hundred metres from the turning, Tom dodged across the Prom, telling her to wait. He went up to a point opposite the junction and scanned down, left and right, then jogged back, waving her forward.

‘Just checking that the café and the Laycross offices are closed. We’re going to Lucy’s flat.’

She must have been waiting for them, taking only seconds to come downstairs and let them in, not even bothering with the stair lights. It was only when they got in to the flat that Elaine could take stock. Tom was doing the same. They both looked round then looked at each other.

If you took away the pile of washing in front of the machine under the kitchen worktop, and removed the laptop from the coffee table, you would have removed all trace of Lucy White from the building. Oh, there was a pile of dishes in the sink, too. The woman herself had disappeared for a second, presumably into the bedroom.

‘Nice,’ said Tom, trying to convince himself.

Lucy returned, waving an unmarked bottle of clear liquid. ‘Drink?’ she asked.

Whatever Lucy had done to keep her hair in check during the working day had been removed, allowing her curls and waves to run riot. She was wearing a black, heavy cotton shirt with an embroidered logo and rather badly stained skinny jeans. There were mascara smudges under her eyes. Even so, she buzzed, she gave off the sort of vibrations that made people look at her, as she had done the first time they’d met. No wonder Tom had fallen for her. Elaine was very jealous. She only felt alive like that when she was climbing or she was with Rob. How come Lucy White had been dealt all the aces?

Tom pointed to the bottle in Lucy’s hand. ‘If that’s what I think it is, no thanks. Would it be too much to ask for a coffee? You must be sick of the stuff.’

‘Not tea? I remember how to make it.’

She looked pathetically eager to please. Had someone upset her? Had she called Tom just to get his personal knight-in-armour services?

‘Coffee would be great,’ said Tom.

Lucy put the bottle down and went into the kitchen portion of the living space, then turned back. ‘Sorry. Please, sit down. There’s a coat rack at the top of the stairs.’

Tom took her coat, and Elaine went further into the room in search of somewhere to sit. The coffee table was in front of a small two-seater settee. Unsuitable. There was a square pine dining table and, if she wasn’t mistaken, four cast-off chairs from the café downstairs. Elaine took one and sat down. From here, she could see the end of the worktop, which bore another small sign of Lucy’s personality — two framed photographs. One was of her parents and her dead brother. It had been pushed back against the wall.

The one in front looked like Paul Warren’s wedding, judging by the bunch of flowers the woman was holding. Paul had one arm round his new bride, the other round Lucy. She was a few years younger, a few pounds heavier and had made a serious mistake by straightening her hair; the Duchess of Cambridge look did not suit her.

Tom took another of the ‘dining’ chairs and they waited while Lucy fiddled expertly with an espresso machine. Two small cups were deposited on the table to join a bowl of sugar. All three were branded Giuseppe’s Gelateria.

Tom took a sip. ‘Mmm. This is good. Try it,’ he said to Elaine. She did as she was bid. The coffee hit her nose before it hit her lips, pungent with chocolate smells and berries. The kick to her system was immediate. She smiled at Lucy.

‘Thanks for coming,’ said their hostess, spreading her hands on the table, then clenching them into little fists; her nails were short and unvarnished. ‘I should have listened to you, Tom.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s like Italy round here.’

‘In what way?’ said Tom. ‘It’s certainly not warm or mountainous.’

Lucy flashed a smile. ‘When you warned me about Nat. I mean Natalie. Alderson.’

‘Start at the beginning,’ said Tom.

Lucy jumped up and went into the bedroom. She returned with a bizarre blue mini-dress made of nylon. She showed it to them then slung it on to the pile of washing. There was already one load rotating slowly in the drum. She picked up her iPad and put it on the table. Tom and Elaine leaned forward. What on earth…

Bridget Gorrigan, the Goth waitress, was front and centre in the picture, wearing a red French maid’s outfit. Linking arms with her, and almost unrecognisable, was Lucy dressed as Alice in Wonderland. ‘There’s more,’ said Lucy. Tom flicked slowly through half a dozen images as the odd couple took centre stage in Layla’s Bar and were clearly singing something. And who was that lurking at the back in one of the photos? ‘Thank God there’s no video,’ said Lucy, closing the picture.

Tom pointed to the iPad. ‘Natalie’s moving out do, I take it. What happened?’

Lucy seemed to have calmed down a little, shame overtaking her nerves. ‘I needed some Dutch courage to get into that outfit. I was at Bridget’s place. She’s got real issues, you know. Borderline OCD, in my opinion.’

‘Just because she’s the other end of the spectrum to you,’ said Tom.

Lucy looked at the dirty washing and the dirty dishes. ‘Whatever. Anyway, we had a few more at the bar, then Natalie took us round the back, to the manager’s office. I met this guy called Grant Benson.’

Tom and Elaine both sat up straight. Lucy blushed. ‘You know him, I take it. I’d had this problem, some girl had slagged me off on social media, and I’d told Natalie about wanting to sell home-made cakes.’

‘I wouldn’t have pegged Benson as a Great British Baker,’ said Tom. He was trying too hard, in Elaine’s opinion; Lucy’s too — she waved her hand at his comment.

‘The next day, two people came in to the café. One tried to sell me forged food hygiene certificates, the other was the father of this girl. He said that Grant had paid him a visit and warned him off. I’m scared, Tom. If I get in any deeper, they’re going to ask for favours back. I’ve bent the law, you know that, but I’ve never broken it. Not properly. And these are scary people. There was a drug dealer at Layla’s bar. Openly. And Natalie…’

She stopped, not willing to get too close to home.

‘Let me guess,’ said Tom. ‘Natalie is dependent on methadone, and both she and Connor Holden knew all about the drug dealing.’

Lucy nodded rather than admit it out loud. Elaine’s conscience struggled to process what she’d heard. She didn’t know whether to be impressed at Lucy’s courage in telling all this to the police, or to be cynical because Lucy was trying to cover her backside.

‘You’ve got to get out,’ said Tom suddenly.

‘What?’

‘You’re too close. You’ve got no authority and no protection. These people are infected and you’re in the blast radius.’

It was one of his worst ever mixed metaphors, and the colour in his cheeks was redder than Lucy’s. Elaine leaned as far away from the table as she could.

Lucy stood up to stop Tom looming over her. ‘No. I’m not going anywhere — I’ve only just started this job, and I’m not walking away again. I’ll just keep my distance, even if Bridget gets upset.’

‘It’s too late for that. These people are criminals, Lucy. They don’t play by the rules. They could do anything.’

‘I’m not a kid. I haven’t lived all my life in a bubble.’

Tom stood up, regaining the height advantage. Elaine slid the iPad towards her; she had a funny feeling this was going to end in tears, and she wanted to have another look at one of those pictures before she had to leave. The way they were going, it wouldn’t be long before one of them said something they’d regret for a long time.

‘It’s not just about you,’ said Tom. ‘It’s about Matt Cross. Someone over the road, someone in the Laycross building had a problem with Matt, and sorted out their problem with a shotgun.’

Lucy took a step back and bumped into the worktop. ‘No one’s going to take a shotgun to me.’

‘It’s not all about you.’ His voice had risen by several decibels. ‘It’s about the case. If I arrest someone and your name comes up, the defence will have a field day. They’re only trying to suck you in because of our … relationship.’

Elaine thought he had a point, but it hadn’t been the wisest thing to say.

Lucy stepped forward again, jabbing her finger. ‘That’s all you fucking care about, Tom, you and your fucking case. Are you a man or an android? Sometimes I can’t tell the difference.’

He went white. ‘I nicked your father and I’ll nick you too, if I have to. If I discover so much as an undeclared tip, I’ll arrest you for tax evasion. If Bridget Gorrigan smokes a joint in the staffroom, I’ll nick you for possession with intent.’

He was getting closer to Lucy. Too close. Elaine slid back her chair and started to get up, but it was too late.

‘And if…’ continued Tom. Lucy didn’t let him finish. She gave him a good old-fashioned bitch-slap across the face and squared up to him, ready for more.

Tom stood rigid for half a second. ‘DC Fraser will text you the private number for Detective Sergeant Jepson. If you have any further questions about your brother’s murder, please address them to her. Thank you for the coffee.’

Tom was half way out of the room before Lucy could react. Fury, righteous indignation and fear all swept across her face, but Tom was already pounding down the stairs. Tears started to form in Lucy’s eyes as the door slammed.

Should I say something? Sod it. She’ll get over it. Or not. Serves her right. She followed Tom out of the room, grabbed her coat and jumped down the stairs two at a time. He was waiting for her at the corner, staring over the Prom towards the sea.

‘I’m going for a run,’ he said. ‘With this much adrenaline in my system, I need to get it out. Coming?’

‘Not tonight. I need to get another module done.’

This was a white lie. Elaine was actually going to Facetime her husband, but she didn’t think that would be the most diplomatic thing to say at the moment.

26

The bottle of Grandpa Berardi’s grappa lay unopened on the table because there were no clean glasses. Lucy attacked the bowl of dirty dishes furiously, and saw the flat through Elaine Fraser’s eyes. She had seen the way that Scarywoman’s gaze had roamed around, noting and judging the mess and the sheer … emptiness of the flat. And by extension, the emptiness of Lucy’s life. My life’s not empty! she told herself. Yeah, right.

And why had she noticed what Scarywoman was looking at? Because she had been trying to avoid looking at Tom. Until it was too late. Until he had forced him to look at her. Bastard.

The feeling she’s had on the day she moved to Southport came back on her in a wave: I didn’t leave home. Home left me.

She put the grappa on the worktop, out of temptation’s way, and picked up the two photos, carrying them back to the little table. Gianni — dead; Dad — in jail; Mama — pregnant and in Milan; Uncle Paul… Stop it! She put the photos back and found herself pacing up and down the room. It’s a good job my legs aren’t longer. I’d be there and back in two strides. She stopped in the middle, in the gap between the couch and where a normal person would have installed a TV or a music system. Hers was still in a box in the broom cupboard. Her music system, that is. She’d never owned a TV.

At that point, when there was nowhere to turn, and no one to turn to, she was forced to accept it. He’s right, the self-righteous, pompous, stuffed shirt bastard is right: I’ve got to get out of here, but how? Where to?

She breathed out slowly and let her subconscious re-balance the argument. Two minutes ago, she’d run through a list of all the people who had deserted her. One way or another. Now she thought about some of the good things that people had said or done. They came together in a plan.

First, Paul was right — she had too much money coming to her to stick it all into a trust.

Second, Grace was right — she needed to get away. Lucy had jumped into Southport thinking that she could find a new home. She needed to make a home, not borrow someone else’s like a hermit crab taking a cast-off shell.

Third, Holly Nugent had been sending out distress beacons. Holly would be even more alone on the other side of the world than Lucy was in Southport.

She flopped on to the couch and fired up her laptop. While it was booting, she made a resolution: I’m going, but on my own terms. My mission in Southport has changed. I’m going to see it through, and then leave. Satisfied that she had a new code to live by, she opened the Internet and started Googling flights to Japan.

After the confrontation in Lucy’s flat, Tom had marched off down the Prom, and Elaine had let him. She’d dropped into the hotel for a minute, then returned to the Tombs because there was something she wanted to look up, and the Internet connections in the hotel were simply too slow. Alone in the Tombs, Elaine felt very vulnerable. This place was very very spooky. Tom had spent enough time in here on his own, so either he wasn’t afraid of the dark, or the ghosts who haunted the place were interviewing him for a job. She suspected the latter.

Half an hour later, she had drawn a blank. The image she was looking for was nowhere to be found on social media. She suspected there was a reason for that, which meant she had no alternative: she would have to go back to Lucy’s flat.

She heaved a sigh of relief when the roller shutters crashed into place and the ghosts were locked away for another night. The damp, dreary air of Southport seemed almost as crisp as Loch Katrine in comparison. Was it only on Saturday that she’d enjoyed a romantic night on the boat? Rob had been in good form when they’d Facetimed earlier. He’d been promised a starting place in the next Scotland game and he was back to being the Rob she’d fallen in love with. His suggestions for where they should go on holiday this year — and what they should do when they got there — made her feel very wanted. Totally unlike Lucy White.

She looked up at the flat windows as she approached the café building. The lights were still on, so she rang the intercom buzzer and waited.

‘What?’ said the tinny voice.

‘Lucy? It’s DC Fraser. I need a word about the case. Something’s come up.’

There was a silence.

Finally, ‘He hasn’t sent you, has he?’

‘DCI Morton doesn’t know I’m here. This has got nothing to do with anything except Matt Cross’s murder. It’s important.’

Another silence.

‘Have you got a warrant?’

‘Of course I haven’t got a warrant. Why would I need a warrant?’

‘I don’t know. It sounded like something sensible to say. Oh, go on. I’ll drop the keys out of the window.’

The intercom clicked off. Elaine looked up and a hand appeared at the open window; a set of keys dropped out. Elaine caught them and let herself in.

Lucy was back on the couch by the time she got upstairs. She was lying full length and had been looking at her laptop whilst smoking a joint. Perhaps that was what she’d been on about with the warrant business. She obviously didn’t care what Elaine thought. On the whole, that was a good sign. The couch was small, and so was Lucy. She looked rather comfortable, and waved towards the café chairs.

‘I’m not making you a coffee. Can’t be arsed.’

Elaine ignored her tone. ‘I don’t want to bother you, but can I look at some of the pictures on your iPad? There might be evidence.’

Lucy frowned. With some effort, she levered herself upright. ‘Pass it here. You’ll have to sit next to me. I’m not giving you carte blanche.’

Elaine sighed and picked up the tablet. ‘Budge up.’ She sat down and handed over the device.

‘What did you want to see?’

‘Those pictures of you and Bridget at Layla’s bar.’

‘I didn’t think Tom was that kinky. I suppose he is a man, though. What is it with men and dressing up?’

‘Pack it in, Lucy. This isn’t about you. Or my senior officer.’

Lucy stiffened and passed the iPad back to Elaine. ‘Help yourself.’

Elaine quickly found the images she wanted. ‘Obviously you didn’t take these pictures. How did you get them, and why aren’t they on Facebook?’

‘You know I told you about Grant Benson intervening with that girl who was harassing me? Well, he arranged for these to be taken down, too. Natalie messaged them to Bridget, who shared them with me.’

It made sense. Elaine pointed to the first picture. It was taken from further back than the others. To the left of the fancy dress twins, stood a man at the bar. ‘What can you tell me about him?’

Lucy peered at the screen, then swiped it to enlarge the image. ‘Nothing. Never seen him before. He isn’t the drug dealer, I can tell you that much.’ Her tone had changed. She was still a little spaced, but the aggression and self-pity had gone.

‘Have a look at the next image. You can see him going through the door at the back of the bar.’ She waited until Lucy had found the picture and nodded her understanding. ‘You’ve got your back to him. Can you tell me, in as much detail as you can remember, exactly what happened in the five minutes before that picture was taken?’

Lucy put the iPad on the table and sat back. A cold wind blew in through the open window, making her shiver. She heaved herself off the couch and went over to the window, taking in several lungfuls of fresh air before pulling it almost closed. Then she wandered around the room a bit, and seemed to be thinking about offering Elaine an espresso. Finally, she sat at the dining table. She closed her eyes and began her story.

‘You have to remember, I wasn’t sober when I arrived, but I hadn’t been knocking it back like Bridget had. Connor came over. He said that he wanted us to do a duet. There’s a video of that, too, but I wouldn’t bother.’

Elaine had surreptitiously taken out her notebook. She tried to shrink back into the couch.

‘He said that before the duet, he’d like us to meet someone who could help me out.’ She opened her eyes and stared at Elaine. ‘I did think about it. That’s what made it worse. When he asked the question, I did think about what Tom said: don’t get too close to Natalie Alderson.’

Elaine nodded her head encouragingly.

‘Nat came and collected us during the next song. She escorted us behind the bar and down this service corridor. There was no one else about. She took us into this back office. There was a bloke there. Have you met Grant Benson?’

‘I helped interview him. Let me guess: you felt very small next to him.’

Lucy narrowed her eyes. ‘Careful. I’m the only one allowed to make short jokes around here. Keep your opinions to yourself, Beanpole.’

Ouch. No one’s called me that since I left Bacup Grammar School. She went with the flow. ‘Well, I felt scared, and I was in a police station when I met him.’

‘I was drunk and in disguise. It’s amazing what a blonde wig and blue contact lenses can do for your self-belief.’ Lucy smiled to herself and took a drink of water.

‘Go on,’ said Elaine.

‘Maybe I was a bit scared. He was friendly, though, and Bridget wasn’t too bothered. He gave us a glass of wine and said, “I hear you’ve got a little problem.”’ Lucy went a little red. ‘If you must know, the next thing I said was, “Singing a duet with Bridget is not a little problem.”’

‘We can cut to the chase, if you like,’ said Elaine.

‘Good. Bridget told him about that bitch at the coffee shop, showed him the picture and told him her name. He said he’d sort it out.’ She gave an involuntary shudder. ‘Now I know what he meant.’

And what did you think he meant? You were either being very naive or very entitled. A moment later, she mentally kicked herself. The Lucy White who had summoned Tom here earlier had done the right thing. Let’s focus on that.

‘After Grant had made his promise, he made a joke about our costumes. He offered Bridget a job, but only if she worked as Magenta. I told him to stop trying to poach my staff, then we left.’

‘Great,’ said Elaine. ‘Think back carefully. Did you see anyone else?’

She thought, then shook her head. ‘All I can remember is leaving the back office, going through the door to the bar and some guy having to make way for us. That guy in the picture presumably.’

Elaine was thrilled. The information Lucy had given her would make a big difference. A small part of her was a little worried — for Lucy to be on such familiar terms with these people could still be a danger, not so much for what she might be tempted to do, but what they might do if she tried to extract herself.

‘Is there any chance you could message these images to me? You’ve got my number.’

‘If it’ll help. Of course.’ Lucy picked up the iPad, and in seconds Elaine’s phone was pinging with incoming data.

‘Thanks.’

Lucy sat back on the couch, reached under the cushion and pulled out an old tobacco tin. ‘Do you want one?’

‘Not tonight, thanks,’ said Elaine. On another night she might have indulged, but she couldn’t run the risk of Lucy starting to talk about Tom. Anything but that. ‘I’d better show these images to the SIO.’

‘You mean Tom. You can say his name without me hitting you.’

Elaine stood up and shouldered her bag. ‘If you meant to hurt him, you succeeded. You should also know that he’d do anything to avoid hurting you.’

‘I know. I figured that out about half a second after I’d hit him.’ She sighed and stood up, collecting the keys from the table and following Elaine downstairs. ‘I just wish he’d lighten up a bit.’

‘He’s too old for that, Lucy.’

‘That’s what worries me. Look, can you tell him I’m sorry?’

‘I’ll tell him you’d like to apologise. If you really mean it, tell him yourself.’

‘You’re no help.’

‘That’s what my husband keeps saying. Take care, and ignore what he said about calling Jill Jepson. If anything comes up around here, you call me straight away, yeah? Or him.’

Elaine returned to the muggy dampness and heard the deadbolt click behind her. There was even a mist coming off the sea as she hurried along the Prom. It’s almost as spooky out here as it is in the Tombs.

The Duke of Edinburgh was as brightly lit as ever. She glanced in the bar — none of the others were there, so she sent Tom a text: Need to talk. Now. Drink?

He responded: Coming. Mine’s a Guinness.

I know.

She got the drinks in, and found a quiet corner. She had plenty of choice.

‘Cheers,’ said Tom. ‘Where’ve you been?’

She’d thought about lying, about saying that she’d got the images off the Internet; that way she could avoid the risk of Tom talking about Lucy. Then again, he rarely talked about himself unless prodded. The truth was simpler.

‘Do you remember Lucy showing us those pictures on her iPad?’

Tom frowned and nodded.

‘While you were admiring Alice in Wonderland, I noticed someone in the background: Kingsley Laidlaw.’

Tom ignored the dig about Lucy’s fancy dress outfit. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. A bit of a bombshell, I thought.’

‘I’m not sure “bombshell” is an appropriate image, but go on.’

‘This from the man who said, These people are infected, and you’re in the blast radius.’

‘Did I really say that?’

‘Yes. Anyway, I had to know more. I went back to Lucy’s and asked if I could have a look.’

‘I’m surprised she let you in.’

‘Give her credit, Tom. She knows right from wrong.’

He held up his hands. ‘OK, okay. I’ll stick to the case.’

‘Here,’ said Elaine, passing her phone. ‘A picture speaks a thousand words and all that.’

He studied the first image carefully, then the second and third.

‘It’s him all right.’

‘So. What do we do?’

He locked her phone and put it on the table, patting the screen. ‘That was excellent work, Elaine. Excellent. You’ve got a real detective’s nose; that’s why I wanted you on the team. That and the fact that I’m after free tickets for Murrayfield.’

‘Thanks. I think. While you’re being nice, can I ask you something?’

He took a long swallow of Guinness and raised his eyebrows.

‘We both know that Phil Dunn is waiting for someone to ring Crimestoppers with the name of the killer.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s just going through the motions. He’s not going to take any risks to find out who did it. I wondered — professionally — why you let him dictate so much of what we do.’

Tom looked as if he were about to issue an automatic rebuke based on relative rank, but he stopped himself and gave her question serious consideration. ‘He doesn’t actually dictate what we do. I do that. He allocates resources, and does it very well in my opinion. More than anything, he’s predictable. I don’t have to worry about him. He gives me space to think, to do thought experiments. It’s a good basis for running an investigation.’

Elaine nodded. It made sense: you need different strengths to make a team; a rugby XV composed entirely of heroic centres like Rob wouldn’t do very well. She made a mental note of Tom’s answer for the future; she was sure it would come up in a promotion interview one day.

‘I need to sleep on this,’ said Tom. ‘Seriously. It’s too much to take in right now. It’s been a rather stressful evening.’

He said the last part with a smile. A tired smile, but a smile nonetheless. They both sat back in their chairs.

‘One more thing,’ said Elaine. ‘Lucy asked me to apologise to you. I told her to do it herself, if she meant it.’

He finished his Guinness and centred the glass precisely on the drip mat. ‘We’ll see,’ he said. ‘And I’ll see you in the morning. Thanks again, Elaine.’

27

Wednesday

Tom threw back the curtains expecting the weather to match his sunnier mood. Clearly God hadn’t received the memo — there was more gloom, more cloud, more drizzle. He turned his back on the grey sky and sent Elaine a text: Join me for breakfast. Need a word.

Not on B&B. Room Only. Too dear.

Then join me for coffee. My treat.

‘Is your bed comfortable?’ was her first question after mutual greetings.

‘I’ve slept in worse,’ he replied.

She swivelled her shoulders and rolled her neck slowly. Tom had finished his breakfast, leaving a couple of slices of toast. He slid them over the table. A flicker of hunger flashed in her eyes, then she slid the plate back to him.

‘Why are you on a diet, for goodness sake? As my grandmother would say, there’s not a pick on you to start with.’

‘It’s not easy being married to a world class athlete,’ she responded. ‘And I’m not on a diet — I’m just getting back in shape. Too much pre-packed living.’

Was that a dig at him? If so, he deserved it. He moved the toast an inch back towards her. ‘You might need this when I tell you what I’ve got planned.’

The waiter arrived with a fresh pot of coffee. With a sigh, Elaine started buttering the toast. ‘Go on. Shock me.’

‘The uniformed officers have to go back to their home units this morning. We’ve run out of things for them to do, anyway. That leaves six of us to prove that Andrew Mallinson killed his brother-in-law.’

She dropped her knife. ‘What? Where did that come from?’

‘I thought you were keeping up. Who else could it be?’

‘Grant Benson, for one.’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll explain everything at briefing. I just wanted to warn you that I’ve got a delicate mission for you today.’

She popped some toast in her mouth and chewed. ‘I don’t normally do delicate, but I can give it a try.’

‘You must have handled Lucy fairly delicately for her to let you in to the flat and hand over the evidence. This is even more of a challenge: I want you to keep Hazel on a tight leash.’

She coughed as some toast went the wrong way. ‘You what?’

‘We need to find out everything we can about Kingsley Laidlaw and at the same time protect Lucy as the source of our information.’

‘You’ll be lucky,’ said Elaine, wiping her lips. ‘Hazel let me know, very discreetly, that she’s pegged Fiona as your source for the insight into Claudia Mallinson.’

‘Oh. She probably thinks that gives her an edge. She’s wrong, but let her think it. Your job is to keep Hazel’s nose to the grindstone and her eyes on the ground.’

She looked at him for a moment. ‘You’ve been working on that one. It was bad, but not as heroically bad as the spontaneous mixed metaphors.’

‘Let’s go.’

The uniformed PCs were all in uniform when they arrived at the Tombs. Some were chatting, some were typing; all of them looked ready to go. Tom called them to order and stood at the front, still wearing his coat.

‘I know it’s frustrating. It’s frustrating for me, too. That’s not your fault. You’ve all done a good job, and you’ll all be getting a positive note on your files. Sometimes it’s like that in a complex investigation. Who knows, we may even need you back again before we’re done. Finish your reports on the last two days and hand them to Sergeant Dunn, and your expenses claims to Mrs Innes, then I’m afraid it’s time to go back to Bolton, Bury, Swinton and Shaw. That’s it.’

He went round to each one, shaking their hand and giving thanks. None of them had put a foot wrong, and several of them had shown initiative in their pursuit of the drug dealers. One of them even managed a joke about spreadsheets.

Ten minutes later, the six survivors gathered in his office. ‘It was a big day, yesterday, for all sorts of reasons,’ said Tom. ‘The main reason is that we now have a prime suspect: Andrew Mallinson.’

None of them exchanged glances. They all just stared at him.

‘You’ve said it yourselves, often enough, the murderer had to be someone who knew the victim. The murderer had to be able to get close enough to Matt Cross to be sure of hitting him with that shotgun blast. It’s not Luke Cross, it’s not Layla Cross, it’s not Connor Holden or anyone except Andrew Mallinson.’

By now they were ready to object.

‘Before you say “Grant Benson”, I’m not ruling him out as an accessory after the fact, but he didn’t pull the trigger, or plan the murder. We established that yesterday.’

‘How?’ It was Dunn who spoke first.

‘The killer brought their own gun. The killer wanted us to think that Matt Cross’s Beretta was the murder weapon, and to that end they fired it twice and wiped off all of Matt’s fingerprints. However, the killer did not know enough about shotguns to realise that the choke setting was completely wrong. Grant Benson knew. He walked in to yesterday’s interview fully believing that the Beretta was the murder weapon, which he couldn’t have done if he were the killer.’

‘What about Mallinson’s alibi?’ asked Elaine.

‘And some sort of motive, please,’ said Hazel with a frown.

It was Dunn who spoke next. ‘Motive is an illusion.’ Everyone looked at him. Even Isabelle looked up from her notes with her mouth open. It was the first abstract comment that Tom had heard his sergeant utter.

‘Go on,’ said Tom.

Dunn coughed, flushed slightly and could be heard shuffling his feet. ‘I didn’t think of it. My old boss did. She said that motive is an illusion we create to explain things. We should focus on actions and consequences. Sorry to interrupt, sir. I just didn’t want us to get side-tracked into psychology. That’s all.’

‘That’s … interesting,’ said Tom. ‘We could all benefit from a discussion of that over a pint some time. Right now, the answer is rather more straightforward: money. I’ll come back to the alibi in a minute. Hazel, but it was you who came up with the evidence for motive — or explanation, or whatever term Phil would prefer.’

Dunn looked down, unwilling to be drawn back into the conversation. Hazel just looked blank. ‘How come?’ she said, mystified.

Tom had printed off several pages from HOLMES2 in preparation. He lifted one and read out the itemised bill for Claudia Mallinson’s IVF treatments, expenses and what looked like dodgy payments to egg donors. The final sum was well over £100,000.

Hazel was having none of it. ‘That’s not much to them. It’s a huge sum to me, maybe even to you, sir, but not to this lot. They’re all minted.’

Tom ignored the personal jibe. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. He tapped the printout. ‘This is good work, Hazel. No one else on the team could have done it quite so … stealthily. It’s thorough, too. But you stopped. You didn’t ask the next question: how much did it mean to them? What percentage of their liquid and long term assets does this represent? How does it stand in relation to their disposable income?’

It was Hazel’s turn to blush. ‘I’m not a mortgage adviser, sir, I’m a family liaison officer.’

This was too far. ‘You’re paid as a detective, and I expect you to act like one.’

Hazel snapped back in her seat, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes. Isabelle and Phil had very small smiles on their lips. Elaine and Vicki hurriedly consulted their notebooks to avoid eye contact with anyone else.

Tom let his rebuke hang in the air for a second, then pressed on. ‘That means following things through. I’m not saying you have to do the financial work on your own, but you owe it to yourself to ask the question: what does this evidence mean?’

Hazel did not take criticism easily; Tom thought it was one of her worst faults. ‘I did follow it through, sir: I spoke to Layla Cross. I asked her why Grant Benson and not her brother was Luke’s godfather. I asked what sort of uncle Andy was to Matt’s children, including Dougie. She told me that Andy was a bachelor when Luke was born, hence Grant being the godparent. She said the whole family thought for years that he was in the closet, until he suddenly married Claudia.’ She folded her arms, defences in place, already semi-detached from the meeting.

Tom left another silence. He was ready to try and pick up the pieces when a small miracle occurred. Hazel unfolded her arms and spoke again. ‘Mind you, Layla did say something else. She said that at first she thought Claudia was a bit too high maintenance for her brother. I thought she meant emotionally, then she said they’ve been good for each other. Now I think Layla meant that Claudia was high maintenance financially. Claudia’s the most expensively dressed person I’ve seen in Flaxall Manor, that’s for certain.’

Dunn curled his lip, and made no comment. A wise move. Tom accepted the information gratefully and picked up another piece of paper. ‘You’re right, Hazel, she does have expensive tastes. I don’t have access to their full financial records, but if I said that Barbados, Thailand, the Maldives and the Bahamas were just some of their recent holiday destinations … I think you’d get the picture.’

Hazel leaned forward. ‘Have you checked the dates of those trips against the IVF cycles? I’ll bet the expensive holidays followed shortly after the unsuccessful treatments.’

‘Good point, one you can follow up later. For now, the key thing is the bottom line. Don’t all groan at once.’ All six of them smiled, though Isabelle and Elaine accompanied his remark with a roll of their eyes. ‘Andrew Mallinson’s law office barely makes money. As far as I can tell, it exists to service the needs of the Laycross companies, and that’s it. He doesn’t even represent Grant Benson’s doormen when they end up in court, which they frequently do. So, the Mallinsons are reliant on profits and salaries from Laycross. Those are generous, but they don’t add up to their outgoings.’

‘Drugs,’ said Phil. ‘It comes back to drugs again. Mallinson must have been relying on a cut from Grant Benson. They all do. It’s what keeps them afloat. No wonder the distribution has started up again.’

Tom see-sawed his hand in equivocation. ‘Yes and no. Clearly Mallinson was laundering money somehow. Even so, he’s in trouble. Last year he re-mortgaged his house. That’s the sign of a desperate man. I don’t think drugs alone would account for what he did in that clearing.’

No one challenged Tom’s assertion: Mallinson had been accepted as the killer. For the moment.

‘If not drugs, then what?’ asked Elaine.

‘The only thing that killer and victim had in common, the only thing they shared with no one else was Quaker’s Fold. The answer is there. I don’t know exactly why, and I don’t know what role Benson and the others have played since the murder, but Andrew Mallinson shot his brother-in-law because he needed ready money from Quaker’s fold, and because Matt Cross couldn’t or wouldn’t give it to him.’

Dunn blew out his cheeks. ‘Then where do we go next?’

Hazel had, for once, been making the odd note. She looked up. ‘Starting with his alibi. You said you’d get back to that.’

There was a knock at the door. All of them jumped because it had never happened before. Tom shouted for the mysterious stranger to come in.

It wasn’t a mysterious stranger, it was the most senior of the uniformed officers. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir. Three of us are ready to hand in our reports. We don’t mind waiting, but…’

‘Sorry,’ said Tom to the officer. He turned back to his team. ‘Back round the table in half an hour.’

The munchies didn’t kick in until well after breakfast. Lucy had never been much of a morning person (this new job was not playing to all her strengths), and a slice of toast had been all she wanted at eight o’clock. By elevenses, she was ready to eat the horribly dry and pointlessly sweet coffee and walnut cake. Bad sign.

She turned her back resolutely on the embarrassing selection of cakes and started to put her new plan into action by going down to the ice cream section. There was another door there, to a separate cold-room and freezer, one that she’d avoided because it was Bridget’s domain. Time for a change. Her assistant manager was working lunchtime/evening today, and wasn’t due in for an hour, so Lucy dug out her bunch of master keys and let herself in to the chamber of secrets.

She still knew next to nothing about Bridget Gorrigan. There were no personnel files as such in the coffee shop; presumably Jack Tidy held those somewhere. All that Lucy knew about Bridget was what she could see, and hear. Bridget was local to Merseyside, though her accent wasn’t very strong. She had an Irish surname, though she had made no comment when Lucy had talked about being brought up a Catholic herself.

Bridget had never mentioned past or current boyfriends. She clearly cared very much for Natalie, but didn’t look at her friend in a sexual way. When they had discussed the staff rotas, she had firmly rejected working on Wednesday mornings (why?), though she had offered to work on Mothering Sunday in March if Lucy wanted to go to Milan. Very thoughtful — Mama would like that, but what about Bridget’s mother? Did she still exist? Had she ever existed?

Part of the reason for looking in the ice cream room was to see if unlocking the door would help unlock Bridget’s past and her personality. She turned the key, opened the door and flicked on the light.

The room was so clean it made her teeth ache. Tiles glowed, stainless steel gleamed and red enamel machines shimmered in the antiseptic glare of the light clusters. If there were a medical emergency in the café, Lucy would have no hesitation in using this room as an operating theatre. It was so clean, she was reluctant to step over the threshold. She did, because that’s the kind of girl she was: always happy to cause a mess in other people’s lives.

It took her ninety seconds to learn that there was nothing to learn in here. Nothing hidden, no mummified corpses in the freezer, everything meticulously logged in the ring-binders. There was a locker with a skull-shaped padlock. No prizes for guessing who that belongs to. The padlock was loose, unsecured. Lucy was not going to go down that road. When she turned off the lights and locked the door, she found Bridget staring at her from the counter.

‘You might want to mop the floor in there,’ said Lucy. ‘I think I might have left a couple of muddy footprints.’

‘What did you think I was doing in there?’ asked Bridget. ‘You could have waited until I came in. Not that you haven’t got the right, of course, it’s just that I could have shown you properly.’

‘You weren’t due in for a half an hour,’ she said. ‘I had an idea. You know me, I can’t help acting on impulse. I just wanted to see how big it was.’

Bridget looked doubtful. ‘Does this mean you’ve changed your mind about expanding the ice cream operation?’

‘No. Definitely not. We’d go broke in July if I did that. Where did you learn to make ice cream?’

Bridget was still wearing her coat. She looked at the clock and said, ‘Make me one of your cappuccinos and I’ll tell you.’

Lucy made two. She stirred plenty of sugar into her own drink to help stave off the munchies. ‘How’s Natalie?’ she asked. ‘You said she was being interviewed yesterday.’

Bridget gave her a long look. ‘Don’t you know? I thought you had privileged access to the enquiry.’

Lucy didn’t blink. Tom was right. Infuriating, but right. Bridget wasn’t evil, or murderous, but she was devoted to Natalie, who was devoted to the memory of Matt Cross and Connor Holden in equal measure. They were using Bridget to get at Lucy, and using Lucy to get at Tom. Why, she didn’t know. This was not going to be easy.

‘You don’t know Tom. Or Scarywoman.’

Bridget laughed. ‘The tall one? With the hatchet face?’

‘That’s her. Detective Constable Elaine Fraser. The only privileged access I’ve got is to their phone numbers. Neither of them are going to volunteer any information, and I’m not going to ask.’ The message was clear: if you want to snoop, look elsewhere. It might kill her and Bridget’s relationship stone dead, but that would be a price worth paying.

Bridget sipped her coffee. ‘Nat’s all right. I think the other copper, that bloke who came in here, he gave Natalie a hard time. About the drugs.’ Bridget glared, daring Lucy to ask any further. She sipped her coffee and waited. ‘Anyway,’ said Bridget, ‘ice cream. Old man Giuseppe taught me.’

Lucy spluttered. ‘What? There really was a Giuseppe? I thought it was just mock-Italian branding. I’m used to that, being mock-Italian myself.’

‘You’re more Italian than you know,’ said Bridget. ‘Giuseppe ran the place for donkey’s years, and he coached one of the youth football teams. He took Owain Marshall under his wing when Owain’s dad walked out. Giuseppe’s own kids weren’t interested in the business, and he kept it going himself for too long. He had a heart attack, poor bloke. By then, it was losing too much money to be a going concern. Owain stepped in and bought it.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Eleven years, on and off. I started selling ice cream as a summer job. Owain came for a visit three years ago and tried the new ice cream. He asked me to work full time because I was at a loose end, and because Giuseppe once taught me his “secret recipe”.’

‘And you were clearly a very good pupil. That cone I had the other day would count as “artisan” in Jack Tidy’s world.’

‘What do you want? You’re a great boss, Lucy, but naked flattery like that must have a purpose.’

‘Must it?’

‘Yes.’

‘If you learnt how to make ice cream, you could learn how to make cakes. Or someone else could.’

Bridget was shaking her head vigorously. ‘Oh, no. Oh no, Lucy. We’re not going down that road.’

The other waitress zoomed past, noisily banging dirty cups on to a tray. Lucy could take a hint, and rose to resume helping. ‘We’ll see,’ she said to Bridget. ‘You haven’t heard my master plan yet.’

‘Go away,’ said Bridget. ‘I’ve got five minutes yet. Master plans later.’

While she was waiting for the briefing to resume, Elaine had a bright idea which she immediately messaged to Tom. He thanked her, and shortly afterwards they were summoned back to his office.

‘Alibi,’ he said to the team. ‘When your spouse is your only alibi, it can easily be brought into question. Especially in this case. Thanks to Hazel’s work, we now know that Claudia Mallinson was forty-eight hours away from in-patient treatment at an IVF clinic in Manchester. She had been taking drugs to prepare her system. She’s been having these treatments for some time. She could easily have slept through the whole afternoon.’

Dunn nodded, liking what he heard; Hazel was shaking her head.

‘I don’t buy it,’ she said. ‘I interviewed them together. Claudia was quite clear: she’d gone to bed but watched quite a bit of TV. If Andy had asked her to lie, she would immediately think he was hiding something, and the obvious thing would be Matt’s murder. I didn’t get any sense of that.’

‘They’re used to lying to the police,’ said Dunn. ‘Second nature to that family. Even more so with Claudia — she’s an estate agent. Born liars, the lot of them.’

Hazel pointed her pen at Dunn. ‘I’m not gonna argue with that, Phil, but this woman was two days pregnant when I spoke to her. She had nothing left to lie with, no emotional resources. That woman wasn’t lying to me.’

The others were watching the sparring match with interest. This was the first time that Elaine could remember the team arguing as if they all cared about the case.

Before Dunn could ruin the moment, Tom stepped in. ‘Hazel, you interviewed them at the Manor, yes? I know you wouldn’t have dragged a sick woman out for no reason, so I’m guessing you offered to visit them.’

‘That’s right, I did. It was Andy who insisted on bringing his wife over. I would happily have taken their statements anywhere.’

Tom rubbed his jaw. ‘So, Andy wants to keep us away from his house. Interesting. I take your point about Claudia, Hazel, and it’s a compelling one. It still doesn’t completely eliminate him, though. Not yet. Nor can we go charging in with search warrants. We need to take a day to build some more background, and there was another development last night.’

‘Oh?’ said Dunn, clearly upset at not being the first to hear of this.

‘Sorry, Phil, it’s not on HOLMES2, nor is it going to be. I was contacted by an officer from Merseyside.’ Tom paused and put on his Very Serious face. ‘You may remember that DC Fraser and I were originally supposed to investigate whether Matt Cross was a victim of police harassment. That investigation is closed, no case to answer, no names no pack drill. However … new information has come to light that Kingsley Laidlaw is far more connected to the Laycross operation than we were led to believe.’

He paused to let this sink in. Elaine allowed herself an inward smile — it had been her idea to suggest that Neville Hammond was their source for the Laidlaw angle. Even Hazel couldn’t track that down and prove them wrong.

‘Again, apologies for this, Phil, but I’m allocating resources this morning. I want Hazel and Elaine to get out there and dig up as much as they can on Kingsley Laidlaw. Talk to anyone you like except the MP, Penny Markland. We don’t want to upset a member of parliament without good reason.’

Hazel stuck her pen in the air like a student wanting to ask a question. Tom nodded to her. ‘Is it okay to go back to the Cross family on this one?’ she asked.

He rubbed his chin. ‘Anyone except Grant Benson. We need to leave him alone for a couple of days after I interviewed him under caution yesterday.’ He turned to his left. ‘Phil, what do you think would be the best way to start chipping away at Mallinson’s invulnerability?’

Elaine realised that she was looking at the two men in a different way to the others. Isabelle, Vicki and Hazel were waiting to see what ideas Phil came up with. After their talk last night, Elaine knew that Tom was bigging up Phil in front of the team. She also knew that he was exploring the sergeant’s limits: could he come up with an original idea?

‘Mmm,’ said Dunn, to give himself some thinking time. ‘We’ll never prove anything without a shotgun.’

Tom nodded encouragingly. It was a solid line of enquiry.

Dunn expanded on his thought. ‘If we can’t actually find the weapon, we need to find someone who can stand up in court and swear that they provided it. I don’t know about you, sir, but I don’t think the CPS will stick a charge on Mallinson without it.’

‘You’re right. Again, watch out for Benson: he’s got a lot of spies out there. Do you need Vicki, or have you got other ideas for her?’

Dunn turned to the youngest member of the team and asked if she were up to date.

‘I am,’ she said. ‘Sir — sirs — can I suggest something?’

Both men nodded.

‘Well, it’s just that I was the one who went to the nursing home last week, where Andrew and Layla’s mother is being cared for. All I did was check the visitors’ log and tell them not to delete the CCTV for the day of the murder.’ She turned specifically to Phil Dunn. ‘And then I thought about what you said.’

‘Go on,’ said Dunn.

‘If Mallinson did it, he would have had to dispose of the gun and his blood-stained clothing. I doubt he kept them at home. After all, Matt could have been discovered at any time on the Sunday. He wasn’t to know that the body would lie there for two days.’

The whole team was interested. Elaine liked the questions that Vicki was raising.

The detective-designate turned to Isabelle. ‘Do you remember when we worked on the timeline? Yeah? We’ll never know the exact time of death. All we know is the exact time when Matt left the Manor, and the time when the rain started. He could have been killed at any point between the two. What if Andy Mallinson was at home most of the afternoon, but Claudia was drowsy. If he left an hour earlier than he usually did, he could have met the victim when it was nearly dark, killed him, got changed and driven straight to the nursing home. He might even have hidden the gun in the grounds. It’s a big place.’

They all looked at Tom. ‘Very good idea. Work it up, first — check travel times, CCTV number plate cameras, everything. Then see Phil. If he thinks it’s a viable line of enquiry, go back to the nursing home and see if you can get full access without a warrant.’

‘Sir. Thank you.’

Hazel broke protocol by addressing Vicki directly. ‘If you do go, make sure you get too much information — don’t let them think it’s just one person you’re after.’

‘Right,’ said Vicki.

Phil Dunn glared at Hazel (who ignored him). Tom had one last word for Phil. ‘Shells. We know that Matt was shot with that eco-friendly stainless shot from the same shells which he had in his own gun. The murderer went armed with those shells as part of his plan. Even if you can’t tie a shotgun to Mallinson, you might do better with the shells. Thanks everyone, let’s go to it.’

Elaine swung out of the room and waited for Hazel. ‘Where should we start?’

‘What’s the weather forecast?’ asked Hazel, staring down the corridor towards the foyer. From here, you couldn’t even see the front door, never mind the sky.

‘Eh?’

‘You seem very outdoorsy. I thought you might have an insight into the weather.’

Elaine shook her head. No one had every called her that before. She had looked at the forecast in case Tom offered to go running later: it was going to get colder, but stay dry. ‘It’s not going to rain, if you’re worried about your hair. I can’t see why you would.’

Hazel looked at the back of Elaine’s head. ‘Having it in a ponytail doesn’t make you look any younger, you know. And Doc Martens are so … undergraduate.’

‘Thanks for telling me, Hazel. When I want advice on style — or professionalism — don’t worry, you’ll be last in the queue.’

They were now alone in the corridor, the rest of the team having given them a wide berth. Hazel put her head on one side. ‘Did the Boss send you to keep an eye on me?’

‘He thinks I might learn something from you. Strange, I know, but he really does value your work. Most of the time.’

Hazel didn’t know where to look. She fussed with the zip on her bag, stuffing her notebook away, then looked up as if the previous conversation hadn’t happened. Perhaps that’s part of her technique. She’s not outfaced by anything.

‘Do you think the boss will let us have lunch at the Cheney Arms? We’ll start there. After we’ve done a bit of digging on social media. I suggest we start with Kingsley’s school, the one where he used to work. It’s hard to keep secrets in a primary school.’

Hazel went in to the incident room and wheeled her chair over to Elaine’s desk. ‘I’ll work the Internet,’ she said. ‘You take notes. You’re good at that.’

‘Nice to know I’m valued for something,’ said Elaine under her breath. She made herself comfortable and grabbed some A4 paper.

28

She should be used to it by now. Every time Lucy thought the café was getting on to an even keel, up blew some wind to knock her off course. If it wasn’t Tom or the detectives, it was one of the mob from over the road.

Lucy had told Bridget not to clear the empties and focus on supervising the other waitress at the coffee machine. To make sure Bridget focused on the job she’d given her, Lucy had sworn a solemn oath to disinfect every table. Properly. By the time she’d worked her way up the window tables (always the busiest), her hands were starting to throb and turn an unpleasant shade of purple. Something wasn’t right.

She took a tray of cups through to the dishwasher and rinsed her hands in cold water, then grabbed some rubber gloves. When she emerged from the back, Natalie had appeared and was talking to Bridget. They both looked at Lucy. It’s not paranoia. They really are talking about me. She headed for the last table with dirty cups and sensed rather than heard that Nat was following her.

‘Hi,’ said Natalie in that little girl voice of hers. Lucy wondered if the other woman had cultivated it to work on men. It did nothing for her.

‘Hi, Natalie. How’s things?’ she responded, aiming for “breezily”.

Natalie blinked. She was a good four inches taller than Lucy, and for the first time since they’d met Lucy felt ever so slightly impressed. Natalie edged a fraction into Lucy’s personal space and said, ‘Bridget likes working here, you know. I’m not gonna spoil that, OK?’

‘Good. I hope none of your friends tries to spoil it either. You’re all welcome in Giuseppe’s, don’t get me wrong, but this place has to be … I dunno, a safe haven, I suppose. Neutral ground. That works for me.’

Natalie nodded and took a step back. When Lucy re-focused her eyes, she found herself staring at someone else she hadn’t expected to see again: that woman journalist from London who seemed to have special access to Tom. What was her name?

The journalist was staring back at Lucy, equally surprised.

Natalie sensed something was wrong. ‘What’s going on?’

Lucy’s memory clicked into place. She stepped around Natalie and spoke to the other woman. ‘It’s Juliet, isn’t it?’

The reporter nodded.

Bridget handed two take-out cups to Natalie, her antennae having already picked up that something interesting was happening.

Lucy gathered the three women together. She turned to Juliet first. ‘Switzerland. Is that still counted as a neutral country?’

The reporter stiffened. ‘Why are you asking me? How old do you think I am?’

Whoah! Where did that come from? I’ve touched a nerve there.

‘I just thought you were more … in touch with the wider world,’ said Lucy. ‘That’s all.’

‘Oh. Fine. Yes, I suppose it is still pretty neutral.’

‘Good,’ said Lucy. ‘Welcome to Switzerland, Juliet. I’ll make you a coffee in a minute, on the house, but first I’m going to explain the new rules here.’

‘You what?’ said Bridget.

‘Precisely,’ said Lucy. ‘Either everyone feels safe and welcome here or no one does. I don’t want to go bust, so that’s everyone. Juliet here is a reporter. A reputable one, apparently.’

Bridget’s eyes narrowed and she bared her teeth. Juliet looked unnerved, as well she might. Lucy took a deep breath and said, ‘Rule one — no recording devices allowed. Rule two — nothing I hear will be repeated. Rule three — people have the right to eat or drink in peace. No pestering. Bridget, are you happy with that?’

‘I’d rather you banned her,’ said Bridget, ‘but if she plays by the rules, then that’s OK by me, Boss.’

Juliet looked completely lost.

‘Did you come in here to spy on Layla’s Bar?’ asked Lucy. The flush on Juliet’s face gave her the answer. ‘Have a seat and I’ll make your coffee. Then I’ll explain why that plan isn’t going to happen in quite the way you thought.’

When Tom and Elaine met to go for a run, they did so at the side entrance, to avoid being seen. While they warmed up, Tom asked if Elaine had received a message from Lucy.

‘No. Have you?’

‘Yes.’ He dug out his phone and propped his right leg on a window ledge. ‘Listen to this: Hi. Giuseppe’s Café renamed Switzerland. All parties now welcome provided they treat it as neutral ground. No bugs, no recordings.’ He swapped legs. ‘This includes media. Even Hazel Cotton is welcome, provided she is accompanied by a responsible adult. What do you make of that?’

‘Do you think she’s told Grant Benson? That would take some balls. I like the bit about Hazel; that would really piss her off if we told her.’

‘I think she probably told Natalie rather than Grant. I’m not saying anything to Hazel unless I have to.’ He put his phone away and checked that Elaine was ready. They set off running along the Prom at a slow pace. ‘Talking of Hazel, how does she do it?’ he asked.

‘Which bit? The ferreting out of information or the skiving off early? She’s very good at both.’

Tom had been disappointed but not surprised when Elaine returned to the Tombs on her own, having dropped Hazel at the station. Elaine had been able to give the debriefing a comprehensive account of Kingsley’s past life, his career, his friends and even that he was currently in Liverpool decorating his son’s bedroom. Tom shook his head. Damn the woman! Just when I thought she was coming onside, she does this. Elaine picked up the pace a little, just to show that her aerobic capacity was greater than his.

‘The skiving off part is easy to explain,’ said Elaine when he’d caught up with her. ‘As for the rest, it’s a combination of making connections, having contacts at all the local authorities and sheer brass neck.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She looked up the headteacher at Flaxall Primary School. She dug around on Facebook and Instagram. She found that the woman had been to that karaoke night.’

‘That’s good old fashioned police work, surely?’

‘I don’t know, Tom. She has a nose. I wouldn’t have looked where she did.’

‘So. This teacher went to the same karaoke as Laidlaw. And Lucy. Did Hazel spot Lucy on any pictures? Did she recognise her? God help us if she did.’

‘No, thank goodness. Hazel twigged that the teacher had another identity. When she’s on the pull, she calls herself Janine.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘She’s divorced, in her forties and lives in a small village. She likes to have a good time. Do you blame her?’

‘Good luck to her. I take it Hazel used this information to her advantage.’

‘It was a masterclass. We paid a visit, and she went OTT on how we respect people’s privacy, how we don’t judge people’s private lives if they’re consenting adults. All of that. Then she let slip that we had Layla’s Bar under surveillance for being a centre of drug dealing.’

Elaine had to stop speaking, having outrun her breath. They jogged in silence for a few hundred yards.

‘That was neat,’ said Tom.

‘It was more than neat. After that, the woman fell over herself to tell us everything she knew about Kingsley Laidlaw. We just followed the leads she gave us. Where do we go next?’

‘You and I are going to Liverpool to inspect Kingsley’s DIY skills. Phil and Vicki are working the phones to see who sells green shotgun shells, online and over the counter. Hazel’s going back to the Manor.’

‘Good. Now let’s pick up the pace.’

It was starting to work. Since last week, his fitness levels had definitely improved. Things were looking up.

There was no doubt about it. Natalie had nowhere near the same eye for interior design that Alexis did. Connor tweaked the folds at the bottom of the new curtains then stood back to assess them. They fitted, they looked full and they didn’t clash; they just didn’t add anything to the room. At least he could now walk naked round the flat if he wanted to. Not that he did want to. Natalie didn’t deserve to see his naked body any more than was strictly necessary. If, on the other hand…

‘Did I do all right?’ she asked. She had just come in from the kitchen, bringing the worker a cup of tea. Crushing his momentary fantasy, she was also fully dressed.

‘Yeah, love, sound. What made you choose this colour?’

She passed him his tea. ‘I didn’t. Not really. I sent a couple of pictures to Bridget, and she said to go for the abstract pattern, not the floral.’

That explained a lot. ‘Talking of Bridget, and her new boss, what’s all this about “Switzerland”, eh? Now I’ve heard it all. Since when do coffee shops declare themselves neutral ground?’

‘It makes sense,’ said Nat.

‘How do you figure that out?’

‘Lucy may have a silver spoon in her gob, but she’s not stupid, love. She saw right through Grant. And you. She knows when she’s being made an offer. It looks like she’s refused. She’s also made it clear that she’s said no to the police and the press as well. Everyone gets equal treatment and no one can use her coffee shop as a headquarters.’

‘Give over. You don’t seriously expect Grant and me to start buying lattes for the police force or journalists, do you?’

She turned to face him. ‘You and Grant can do what you want. All I’m saying is that, if I go to see Bridget and the police are there, I won’t walk out. All right?’

‘Yeah. Of course. Now Lucy’s there, the coffee’s too good to boycott the place.’

He was about to drink his tea when the doorbell rang.

‘Who’s that?’ said Natalie.

‘Only one way to find out. I’ll go.’ He was about to put his mug on the table when he remembered that it was an antique. ‘Can you get us a drip mat? If it’s Layla at the door, I don’t want her to see us ruining her present.’

He carried his mug out to the hall. Should he look through the spy-hole? Nah. He wasn’t living that sort of life any more. He put on his best smile in case it really was Layla, or Bridget. He needn’t have bothered. It was Grant, doing something that Connor had never seen him do before — he was holding up a plant.

‘Come in. D’you want a drink?’

He held open the door and saw that Natalie was peeking out from the kitchen, as puzzled as he was.

‘No thanks.’ He saw Connor’s mug. ‘If there’s any tea in the pot, I’ll have a brew.’

Natalie disappeared. Grant offered the plant, but Connor couldn’t hold it and the mug at the same time. It was some sort of exotic fern. It would go quite nicely. ‘Bring it through to the lounge. Put it by the TV for now.’

Grant deposited his gift and stood back. ‘That was Claire. She brought it home from work.’ Grant’s wife worked in a garden centre, so it wasn’t an unreasonable thing to do.

‘Very nice. Tell her she’s got to come round some time. We’ll have a proper do when … you know, when things have settled down a bit.’

Grant turned slowly on his heel to inspect the flat. He nodded to himself, satisfied. Connor suspected that Grant was taking a mental picture for when he got home. Claire would want to know whether or not to be jealous, something she was very good at. ‘You’d better sit in the arm chair.’

Natalie brought more tea, and drip mats. No, they weren’t drip mats, they were coasters. Natalie curled up at the opposite corner of the settee to Connor, something that had never happened when she lived at Bridget’s place. He wanted to stretch out his hand and tickle her foot, just because he could.

Grant put his mug carefully on the coaster. ‘How were things things at the Manor?’

‘Difficult. Layla’s doing her best, but… She’s in limbo, really. Yes, she’s a widow, but she can’t have the funeral.’

‘Did you see Luke?’ Grant took his responsibilities as Luke’s godfather very seriously, even if the bloke didn’t have much idea how to carry them out.

‘He’s fine. He’s still a bit sore about being cut out of the StarrCross’d gig, and he blames me for that. I can take it.’

‘Good.’

Connor wanted to talk about things. He was going to tell Natalie what he’d seen and heard, and now that Grant was here, it was even better. He decided to start with the car.

‘When we arrived at the Manor, Layla couldn’t get the door unlocked on the Range Rover — the battery had gone flat for some reason. She was having a bad day, so I drove her to the nursing home. We had to go up there because the direct debit that Andy organised had bounced.’

Grant said nothing. He rarely did in these situations. Connor pressed on. ‘When I was parking the car, at the home, I saw one of the police coming out of the bushes. DC Higham. And when we went through the village, I saw two more of them coming out of the Cheney Arms.’

He had Grant’s full attention now. ‘Did Layla see the one at the nursing home?’

‘No. She was round the other side, indoors. What do you think they’re up to? There’s only a few of them on this case, and they’re sniffing around very close to home. Where’s this going, Grant?’

‘Where do you think?’

He looked from Grant to Natalie, who was nursing her mug of tea. It hid most of her face, but her eyes were riveted on him. ‘How should I know?’ he said. It came out almost pathetic, which he sometimes knew that he was. Both Grant and Nat, in their own ways, were much stronger than him.

Grant leaned forward, almost bursting from the armchair. ‘No, Connor, I mean it. Where do you think the bizzies are going? Tell me.’

‘Mmm,’ said Natalie. He couldn’t decide whether she was echoing Grant or trying to warn him to stay quiet. Or some weird mixture of the two.

‘I’m not Hercule bloody Poirrot. I don’t know what the police are thinking.’

Natalie lowered the mug. ‘You’re not Captain Hastings, either.’ The TV in Connor’s bedsit hadn’t had Sky, only Freeview. He had loved Monday afternoons, curled up in bed with Nat. Agatha Christie was a guilty pleasure, satisfied by ITV3. She leaned over and lightly punched his shoulder. ‘You’re brighter than all of us, Connor.’

‘No, I’m not,’ he said automatically.

‘Look at it this way,’ said Grant. ‘Who didn’t kill Matt?’

Connor suddenly felt very vulnerable, something he hadn’t expected in his new home. Grant rarely threatened people directly — his reputation did that for him. He asked, and if he wasn’t given, there were consequences. Grant had asked, Connor had to answer. What did Bridget say when she played that horrible Goth music? I love the terrible sense of impending doom. That just about summed it up.

‘Well, since you ask, it wasn’t me. I was skating with the girls, and Nat was spending her bonus in Liverpool 1. It wasn’t Layla, it wasn’t Luke…’

‘…How do you know?’ interrupted Grant.

Connor wasn’t about to admit that he had suspected both Luke and Grant. Not openly. ‘He couldn’t kill his dad, besides, you told me yesterday. The killer took his own gun. No way has Luke gotten hold of a shotgun. Same for you — you said the bizzies let you go because you didn’t have a gun.’

‘Go on.’

‘It wasn’t Kingsley Laidlaw. You said he was in Liverpool with his kid. It wasn’t none of the other tree-huggers neither. Matt was their sugar daddy.’ Connor pulled himself up short. His grammar was slipping, not that his audience would care, but they might notice how stressed he was. ‘I don’t believe this crap on the Internet about SAS guns for hire, so … it must be someone from the past, or someone who wants to break up the firm, starting at the top.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Grant. ‘Except that within forty-eight hours of Matt’s body being found, all three of our local rivals were on the phone to me. They all swear blind it wasn’t them.’

‘Of course they were. If they’d killed either you or Matt, they’d be scared of reprisals. They’re just pleading innocence and waiting for the right moment.’

Grant laughed. ‘Is that what you think? That I should get myself a bodyguard because I’m next?’

‘I would if I were in your shoes, mate.’

‘Precisely. You’re not in my shoes, which is why I went straight round and asked a few pertinent questions. It’s not them.’

Connor had been asked pertinent questions by Grant on several occasions. Once, just once, he’d been thumped in the stomach by the brass knuckles when he gave the wrong answer. That hadn’t happened for a long, long time.

While his back distracted him with a memorial spasm, Natalie spoke up. ‘Then who does that leave?’

She looked from Connor to Grant, who looked at each other. ‘Andy,’ they said in unison.

‘You got there before me,’ said Connor. ‘You knew last night, didn’t you?’

‘But why?’ exclaimed Natalie.

Grant waved her away. ‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is whether the police know it, and what we’re gonna do about it.’

‘Of course they know about it,’ said Connor. ‘That’s why they were searching the nursing home. They must have been looking for the gun. Come to think of it, do you know where he got it? Matt was always complaining that he had to lend him one.’ Only when he’d finished speaking did it strike him that he’d accepted it immediately: Andrew Mallinson had killed Matt. He wasn’t listening properly when Grant started to speak. ‘Sorry. What was that?’

‘I said, we’re not the cops. We don’t have to prove nothing. The question is, what are we gonna do about it?’

‘I dunno. Avoid meeting him in dark alleys or remote woodland?’

Natalie sat up so quickly that she slopped tea on her skirt. ‘It’s not funny, Connor. He killed Matt. Don’t you get it?’

He paused. Just for a second. If he hesitated any longer at this moment, he might lose everything. ‘I wasn’t being funny. I was thinking of you. And me.’ He turned to Grant. ‘Do you think he’s gone mad? Is he likely to come after us?’

Grant was saying nothing. Come on, you great pillock, can’t you see we need a little guidance here? But Grant only picked up his mug.

Connor pinched the bridge of his nose. He started slowly, trying to think what would stop Natalie flying off the handle and keep Grant on board. ‘Andy’s going to pieces. He must have been very desperate to do what he did. I still can’t believe it, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. The very worst thing we can do is provoke him into being desperate with us.’

‘I agree,’ said Grant.

Thank God for that. ‘The biggest problem is going to be the cops,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ said Grant with a frown. ‘You’re not suggesting we co-operate, are you?’

Connor frowned back. ‘You know me better than that, Grant. Have I ever spoken out of turn to the bizzies? Ever?’

Grant sat back and raised his hand. It was the closest Connor was going to get to an apology, so he banked it and continued, ‘It’s Layla. The police won’t hesitate to arrest him if they’ve got even a shred of evidence. You know better than me that they’ll happily release him on bail for six months and spend the time going through everything with a fine toothed comb. What do you think that will do to Layla?’

Grant considered this for a moment, and came to exactly the conclusion Connor had hoped he would. ‘We can’t have Layla and Andy at each other’s throats. What are we gonna do to keep things afloat.’

Business as usual, eh Grant? Is that all you’ve got to offer? He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. ‘There’s only one thing we can do. We have to prepare an alternative.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We have to hope that the bizzies don’t find enough evidence to make an arrest, but we have to be ready when they do. We have to give Layla a scapegoat. And everyone else. Layla has to believe that Andy’s innocent. Even if they put him in jail, the people that matter, mainly Layla and Luke, have to believe that he didn’t do it.’

Grant was nodding his head. ‘That’s why they employed you, Connor. You were always the creative one.’ He rose to his feet.

‘Hang on, shouldn’t we think about who to blame?’

‘Leave that to me,’ said Grant. He took his empty mug into the kitchen.

‘But he’s not innocent,’ said Natalie. ‘Is he?’

‘Probably not, love,’ said Connor quietly. ‘And I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again, but we’ll have to deal with him. I will, at any rate. I’ll just see Grant out.’

He showed Grant to the door, and asked him to thank Claire for the plant. When he returned to the lounge, Nat had disappeared. She was in the bedroom, looking through the suitcases which still held most of her clothes.

She selected a particularly short number from the case. Then she slipped off the one she was wearing and dropped it in the corner where the laundry basket would be if they had one. She pulled up the clean skirt and smoothed it over her hips. She knew exactly what she was doing, and Connor had an even worse feeling about what she was going to say next. ‘He can’t get away with it.’

Connor had a bad feeling about this. ‘We may not have a choice about that, love.’

‘We always have choices,’ said Natalie. ‘You told me that. You even sounded like you believed it.’

There was no answer to that, so he gave none.

‘Well, there’s two choices. Either the police make that bastard pay for what he did to Matt, and make him pay properly, or we do.’

‘We?’

‘You and me. We. Or I can do it on my own. And I mean on my own.’

She put her hands on her hips and stared at him. Connor was taken back to school, back to the 80s. In the corner of the classroom was a huge monster, one of the first VHS recorders he’d seen. Playing on the screen was the set text for his GCSE English: Macbeth. He hadn’t stuck around for very long after that, nor did he understand much of what they were saying, but he remembered Lady Macbeth having a go at her husband. Connor Holden was no Macbeth. He wasn’t as good looking, he wasn’t at all violent and he liked to think he was a bit smarter. Except when it came to women.

Natalie would make a very good Lady Macbeth. She even looked like that actress, as far as he could remember, and when it came to Natalie, Connor couldn’t say no.

She took pity on him. ‘You don’t have to come up with an answer now. You’re not thinking straight, anyway. Go and have a fag in the spare room, so long as you lean out the window.’

‘How did you know…’

‘We’re both addicts. Now go and calm down while I fix me face.’

He didn’t need to be told again. He slipped on his leather jacket because it was cold leaning out of the window. Before he lit up, he did a quick look on his phone. Francesca Annis was Lady Macbeth, and yes, Nat did look a bit like her.

He blew smoke out into the night. It hadn’t ended well for the Macbeths. Connor wasn’t sure if he was being brave or stupid to think that he could keep Natalie and his freedom, but he didn’t have a choice. Not really.

29

Thursday

The World Clock on Lucy’s iPhone informed her that it was 19:30 in Tokyo, nine hours ahead of Southport. She’d called in a favour from Grace and she now had John Nugent’s personal number. If the Nugents had repeated their pattern of behaviour from 7Bridge, Holly would be getting the little ones ready for bed, and John would be watching something on TV. Even though she’d known the Nugents since she was a teenager, it still felt odd to be calling the England captain personally. A message, perhaps… No. She entered the number and waited.

‘Who’s that,’ said the familiar voice.

‘Lucy. Lucy White.’

John didn’t ask where she’d got his number. Pro footballers didn’t ask questions like that: they had wives and agents to ask that sort of question for them.

‘Are you after Holly? She’s upstairs. Well, not upstairs, there is no upstairs here. She’s with the kids, anyway.’

‘No, John, it was you I wanted. I just wondered how things really were. It’s a long way from home.’

John Nugent was devoted to Holly. He had done everything he could for his wife, but the one thing he couldn’t do directly was help her to get better.

‘It’s hard to tell, to be honest. I think the therapy is helping. You know what she’s like.’

He sounded sad, and that wasn’t an emotion many people associated with the god-like figure of John Nugent, heroic captain of Trafford Rangers and England.

Lucy dived straight in. ‘My little job here’s nearly over. I was wondering if it might help for Holly to have someone to talk to. Someone who knows the whole story.’

‘What, you mean that you’d come over here?’

‘If it would help. It would help me, too. There’s a lot of shit going on here.’

‘Cool. That would be great. If you don’t mind mucking in, I’m sure she’d love for you to come. Let me work on her tonight. One of us will get back to you.’

‘Thanks. If you don’t think it’s the right thing to do, just say.’

John disconnected and Lucy stuffed her phone back in her apron. Then took it out and put it on the shelf. No personal phones in the café.

She left the back room and went up to Bridget. ‘Do you fancy a drink tonight? I’ve washed that Alice costume and I could bring it back when it’s dry. I’ll bring a bottle.’

‘Not Grandpa Berardi’s grappa. Not again.’

‘Me neither. Not for a while.’

‘Hey, have you seen? We got another four star review today.’

‘Better and better,’ said Lucy. ‘I’ll check it out later.’

It was the visit to Kingsley Laidlaw’s ex-family that made Tom realise just how isolated he’d become as SIO. He shouldn’t even have been making the visit according to the Major Incident Protocol, he should have let Elaine come on her own, but ever since he’d seen the image of Kingsley walking past Lucy in the Piano Bar, he wanted to find out what was really going on.

The first shock had come at the location: Jackie and Leroy lived in a two-bed starter home in North Liverpool. It was miles away, literally and culturally, from Southport and Quaker’s Fold. The second shock had been Jackie: she was black. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, thought Tom, but it was. Shame on me.

Laidlaw did a lot of flannelling at first, denying ever having been to the Piano Bar. Then he admitted to knowing Connor and Natalie — but only slightly. Tom had pushed him, and it seemed to be almost true. What disturbed him slightly was the discovery that Grant Benson was behind the visit, and that Benson wanted to know exactly what Kingsley had seen on the day he found Matt Cross’s body. What was Benson’s game, here?

The actual purpose of their visit to Kingsley had been to find out if he’d told anyone that he would be out on that Sunday afternoon. Kingsley said that it was common knowledge, and that Penny Markland had copied all sorts of people into an email which said exactly that.

When they finally left Jackie’s house, Tom glanced at his phone — there was a message from Phil Dunn asking him to call. He chucked the keys to Elaine and got into the passenger seat.

‘Hi, Phil. What’s up?’

‘I think I might need your help with an interview, sir.’

Tom allowed himself a grin. This was in breach of the Major Incident Protocol and almost unheard of, especially from Dunn. It was also a sign that Dunn was putting the investigation ahead of procedure.

‘I doubt you’re after my intimidating physical presence, Phil, so what is it?’

‘The law, sir. Especially the 1968 Firearms Act. I think we might have a handle on a dealer in Up Holland.’

‘Good. Are you bringing him in?’

‘Not at this stage. If there’s any chance that you and DC Fraser could go there and have a word it might save us some time overall.’

‘Hang on.’ Tom told Elaine to head for the M58, then returned to his call. ‘What makes you interested in him?’

‘Only two online dealers sell Gameworld shells. Neither has made a delivery in the North West during the last year. So we started on the shops. This guy in Up Holland is the only registered firearms dealer in Lancashire who stocks the Gameworld Eco 20 shells. Apparently. The problem is that he claims that he sells them on to local country clubs…’

‘Which is within the law. Just. We’re on our way. Text me the full address.’

‘What was that?’ asked Elaine.

Tom recapped the conversation whilst putting the postcode of the gun dealer into the Satnav. It announced that they would be there in twenty minutes.

‘How can he do that?’ asked Elaine. ‘Surely it’s not legal to sell ammunition around the place.’

‘The countryside wouldn’t function without it. Country folk get through a lot of ammunition, but not enough to support registered firearms dealers in every village. So, there’s an exemption in the Act. If you only sell shotgun shells, you don’t have to be a registered dealer.’

‘You’re kidding, sir.’

‘I’m not. Granddad Morton used to buy his shells from the same place he bought his baler twine. Of course, anyone who does sell them has to keep a written record. Plus, you’ve forgotten how closely linked these communities are. They won’t sell to people they don’t know.’

She gave him a horrified look. ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’

‘I’m not. It’s a good job that shotguns are so large. That’s why they’re not the weapon of choice for drug dealers.’

She shook her head and concentrated on driving until they’d reached the motorway.

After overtaking a couple of lorries, she glanced at him and said, ‘Supposing we can prove that Mallinson knew that Quaker’s Fold would be unoccupied, and even supposing that we can prove he bought the Gameworld shells, that doesn’t get us very far, does it?’

‘Harold Wilson once said that politics is the art of the possible. You could say the same about police work.’

She sighed. It was her usual response when he tried to put things in context.

‘Okay, look at it this way. As far as we know, Andrew Mallinson only ever went shooting to meet people. He’s not a natural sportsman. So, if he goes out and buys Eco 20 shells, there can only be one explanation. He’s planning to shoot his brother-in-law. .’ She opened her mouth and he held up his hand to forestall her. ‘Yes, I know that it won’t wash in court. That’s what reasonable doubt is for. On the other hand, it gives focus and purpose to our enquiry. It should also be enough to get a search warrant. Anyway, we haven’t proved anything yet.’

‘That was my next point. You say that Mallinson planned this carefully. Surely he won’t have left himself wide open to being discovered like that.’

‘You were the one who first said that Mallinson was ill. He’s contemplating a serious crime, even by his standards. It’s almost like regicide — he wants to kill the King of Flaxall Manor. Very serious. He can plan all he likes, but all it takes is one other person to let him down. I’m hoping that one person is in the supply chain for the shotgun cartridges.’

‘I still don’t see how we can prove murder in court.’

She was right, and he had to agree with her. ‘We may never prove it in court. I don’t know how I’ll cope with that if it happens. In time, it may be that we have to settle for doing our job. On the plus side, we’ve fulfilled Schofield’s brief. We may not walk away with our reputations enhanced, but they won’t be damaged.’

‘Sir! That’s… I don’t know. Wrong, somehow.’

‘You mean it’s selfish.’

‘Well…’

‘Be honest, Elaine, please. Yes, it is selfish in some ways. I’m not a crusading superhero, just a copper. Besides, I tried crusading once, and look where it got me.’

She blushed. He didn’t spell it out any further. I’ve been blown up, you haven’t. It was unspoken but not unfair. Sometimes, a near death experience does give you perspective.

‘I’m nine years older than you,’ he said a short while later. ‘I think I deserve a handicap tonight. If you’re up for another run.’

‘You’re also a man. That gives you an advantage.’

‘Hah! Special pleading. Hang on, we’re nearly there.’

Elaine parked, got out and locked the door. She offered him the keys and he told her to keep them for now. Tom quite liked being driven around. He thought that Elaine quite enjoyed driving. Another difference between them.

Elaine got out her notebook before going inside. ‘Do you think Phil just couldn’t be bothered to drive out here himself?’

Tom tried to keep his irritation in check. He was no happier about Dunn than Elaine was, but Phil Dunn was his sergeant for better or worse, a resource he couldn’t function without. She probably thought she could do the job better than Dunn could. She was wrong.

‘It’s a marginal call,’ he said. ‘We were on the road, he wasn’t. You lead.’

He allowed Elaine to find the manager, identify them and state their business. The front of the shop was full of shooting accessories, clothing, fishing equipment and other paraphernalia. A small opening at the back revealed a well-lit room filled with guns.

‘Do you mind if I look?’ he said, pointing.

The manager looked like he had founded the shop himself, such was his age and the stoop in his shoulders from years of being a small businessman. He also knew that co-operating with the police was the quickest way to get rid of them and waved Tom through to the rear.

On the way into the gun room, he saw that it was secured by means of a thick metal door on rollers. Good. The selection of weapons was extensive within the category of “Shotgun”. When the shop first opened, there would have been rifles, probably hand-guns too. Not any more. He looked for the pricier models. There was a good range of Berettas, but no Purdeys. He rejoined Elaine, who was waiting out front.

‘Technology, sir,’ she said. ‘When it works, it’s brilliant. He’s getting me a printout of all the customers who’ve bought Gameworld shells in the last three years, including quantities.’

‘Good. I’ve got one question for him.’

The man returned with his sheets of A4, handed them to Elaine then waited behind his counter.

Tom flashed his warrant card. ‘Where did Matt Cross buy his Purdey?’

There was no attempt to hide his knowledge of the victim, just a sour lip when he thought of the lost business. ‘Mayfair,’ was the short answer.

Elaine had been flicking through the printouts. She showed one entry to Tom. He shook his head. She pointed to another. He took the paper from her and said to the owner. ‘This sale here, three months ago. What can you tell me about Bentley Sports?’

‘Mostly fishing. It’s a little place near Bispham, just north of Ormskirk. I can also tell you that the owner didn’t pick them up himself.’

Tom and Elaine looked at each other with the sort of look that says I’m keeping my fingers crossed…

‘Go on,’ said Tom.

‘The owner called me to place the order, and said someone else would pick them up. This guy I’ve never seen before turned up and paid cash.’

‘Would you recognise him?’

‘Yes. Aged about fifty, thin, pinched face, thinning hair. He had a bad case of psoriasis, or something.’

Result! They looked at each other again.

‘Thanks for your time, sir. Another officer will be along to take a formal statement.’

When they got outside, Elaine punched the air. Tom was afraid for a second that she was going to go for a high-five.

‘Back to the Tombs?’ she said.

‘Only if we get lunch on the way. I need to think this over first.’

They got in the car. ‘Why the question about Matt Cross?’ she asked. ‘Wasn’t that giving the game away?’

‘Phil Dunn did that the minute he asked the dealer about Gameworld Eco 20 shells. That man in there would have made the connection straight away. I was just confirming it.’

‘Do you think he’ll tell anyone?’

‘I don’t know. That brings us to our biggest problem.’

‘Even bigger than finding evidence that will stand up in court?’

‘Yes. I’ll tell you over lunch.’

They got their lunch in a canal-side pub. Elaine ordered at the bar and they both stuck to mineral water. Tom had been contemplating a pint until he saw that there was no real ale on offer.

‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘If finding enough evidence for a conviction in court isn’t our biggest problem — even though it’s what we’re paid for — then what is?’

‘But it’s not what we’re paid for. Not directly.’

She sighed. Again. This was becoming too much of a habit — though whether he was at fault or her was open to question.

‘We’re paid to protect the public,’ he said, trying not to sound patronising. He knew he’d probably failed. ‘Yes, I grant you that a lot of that comes from putting the bad guys in front of the courts, but protecting the public always comes ahead of enforcing the law. Or it should do. The public I’m concerned about at the moment is composed of Layla Cross, her children and her brother.’

‘You think that our prime suspect is at risk? I could care more, sir.’

‘Then you should. Grant Benson was loyal to Matt Cross for decades. That sort of loyalty doesn’t end with the death of the senior partner. Would you like to be in Andrew Mallinson’s shoes if Benson takes it into his head to avenge his capo? Why do you think Benson was asking Laidlaw about the crime-scene?’

She put her glass down and gave it some serious thought. ‘I think you might be overestimating Benson’s actual loyalty. Yes, he’s intimidating, but that didn’t get him where he is today on its own. He’s quite old for a bruiser and unusually, he’s still alive. He’s watched Matt Cross become the Lord of the Manor, a multi-millionaire, and what has he got? A nice house in Southport, and that’s about it. If he does figure out that Mallinson is the killer, he might just transfer his allegiance.’

He hadn’t thought of it in those terms, and he should have done. He considered the implications. ‘You could be right. That’s an excellent point. It’s not the whole picture, though.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve met Layla Cross. A few times. Gut instinct: did she love her husband? Really love him?’

‘Yes. A thousand times yes.’ She didn’t need prompting for the next question. ‘As far as her brother is concerned, I got a strong sense of duty rather than love. I don’t think she’ll jump to conclusions, unlike Benson, but if we arrest Andrew … I don’t know what will happen. There’s Luke, too. He worshipped the ground his father walked on.’

‘What about the others in their circle?’

‘Holden? His girlfriend? They’re servants, not members of the inner circle.’

Tom wasn’t sure about Connor Holden. A man like Matt Cross doesn’t leave his wine cellar to a servant, but Elaine was right, Holden was palpably not a violent man. Unless pushed, of course.

Elaine brought him back to the present. ‘So what do we do?’

The food arrived. When the waitress had left, he said to Elaine, ‘Nothing. Until we decide to arrest Mallinson, there’s nothing we can do. But if we do arrest him, I want a full risk-assessment in place to cope with the fallout. Do you want some of my chips?’

She laughed, for some reason unknown to him, then apologised and changed the subject. Chips? What’s so funny about chips? Never mind.

Despite his lack of GCSEs, Connor liked to organise his thoughts on paper. When it came to planning, he liked to have things written down. He liked to draw arrows and make connections. Unfortunately, he’d seen too many episodes of CSI not to know that anything in writing can be recovered and used in evidence unless it was subject to nuclear incineration. Frustrated, he marched along the corridor of the Laycross offices and down the stairs to the staff smoking corner at the back. Natalie hadn’t given him carte blanche to smoke again, but he didn’t feel quite as guilty any more. Kyle the doorman was having a last smoke before his shift started. He was also nursing several cuts and a black eye.

‘I hope the other bloke’s worse,’ said Connor.

‘Oh, yeah, he is,’ said Kyle innocently. ‘I put him well in hospital. Connaughty won’t be getting his leg over for a long time.’

Connor winced in sympathy. With the victim. Then he remembered who Connaughty was. He looked at Kyle with renewed respect. ‘How did you take him down? I’ve seen him face up to Grant before now and nearly get away with it.’

Kyle shrugged. ‘I was just lucky. I don’t think he’d done much training.’

Connor moved the conversation on to less violent territory. He was also intrigued, because Kyle had rapidly become a fixture on Grant’s retained list. That didn’t happen very often. ‘How did you start working for Grant? I don’t remember seeing you around before.’

The doorman looked embarrassed. ‘A mate of mine recommended him. I was having a few problems with debts.’

‘Been there, mate. You have to be careful who you borrow from.’

‘It wasn’t a loan shark, it was the bank. The trouble with the Paras is that they don’t teach you nothing about interest rates.’

Connor revised his opinion again. Kyle was old enough to have done a stint in the Parachute Regiment, but somehow didn’t look homicidal enough to wear the red beret. Maybe he was a fantasist.

Kyle continued, ‘I was gonna get me house repossessed. All that tax they keep taking. I heard that Mr Benson paid better, and in cash. I’ve nearly caught up with me repayments now, and Mr Benson said he might have a special job for me.’

Anyone who referred to Grant as Mr Benson clearly had a deeply ingrained belief in authority. ‘Oh yes? I won’t ask what it is.’

‘I don’t know. He asked to see me medals. Said he had a job for an ex-squaddie. No, not a job, a role.’ Kyle shrugged.

Connor suddenly knew exactly what role Grant was lining up for Kyle. He decided to take a big risk. ‘Do you remember that first Karaoke night, a few weeks ago?’

‘Yeah, I do. It sounded like great fun from outside. I almost wish I was single again.’

‘It’s overrated, believe me. I was going through the books for that night. I just wondered if you’d done a full shift, because you’re only down for the evening. I’d hate for us to underpay you.’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Holden. That’s sorted. Mr Benson asked me the same thing this morning. I told him I’d felt really out of condition and I’d gone for a long run that day.’

‘Sorry to bother you, Kyle. I’ll see you later.’

Alarm bells were ringing in Connor’s head all the way up the staircase. Grant had asked Kyle whether he would have an alibi for Matt’s death. He didn’t, so Grant had picked his patsy, the man he was going to offer to Layla as the killer of her husband. Grant had found a naive fall guy with no alibi and extensive experience with weapons — the perfect stand-in killer. Poor bastard. He’s got no idea what’s coming. Kyle was the perfect sacrificial lamb, and he was going to be slaughtered on the altar of Business as Usual.

Connor stopped in the corridor, to think things through. He didn’t blame Grant. Mr Benson was just doing what he always did; it was Andy who was getting up his nose. Connor would lose no sleep if the scaly bastard disappeared for ever. He didn’t care. What was doing Connor’s head in was Andy Mallinson’s effect on Natalie. She would have no peace while he was walking around, and if she had no peace, neither would Connor.

Problem: Andy. Solution…

‘Connor? Is that you out there?’ Mel’s voice rang out from her office.

‘Yeah. Sorry.’

‘Can I put this call through to your desk phone? It’s a man who wants Grant, and I don’t think he trusts me to pass on a message. Men. So predictable.’

‘I’m on my way.’

He jogged through the warren of doors and picked up his landline. The caller display showed an out-of-area number. While he said hello, he slipped his mobile out of his jacket pocket.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Connor Holden. General manager. Who’s calling?’

‘You work with Grant, yeah?’

‘I do.’

When the caller refused to give his name, Connor started putting the number from the display into the Search function on his phone.

‘Can you give him a message?’

‘Of course. I might not see him for a few hours. Is this message for word of mouth only?’

There was a hollow chuckle. ‘That’s up to you.’

In the pause, Connor finished entering the number. It came up as the enquiry number for a gun dealer in Up Holland. He had heard Matt mention it once or twice.

The caller finally gave his message. ‘Tell Grant that the police have been round, and I don’t mean the local bobby. This was a DCI with a London warrant card. He mentioned Matt Cross by name.’

‘Right. Gotcha, mate. No problem.’

The gun dealer disconnected without saying goodbye. Connor slumped into his chair. The net’s closing in. The bizzies will have enough evidence to arrest Andy soon, and then the shit will really hit the fan. What could he do? Unable to cope, he grabbed a single sheet of A4 from his printer, took off his leather jacket and rested the paper on the inside, on the lining. There would be no transfer of evidence. He picked up a pen, put it down and rummaged in his drawer for a pencil. Pencil lead was really graphite. It would burn.

The pencil ripped through the paper in several places because it was resting on quilted lining. He persevered and came up with a list.

*Worst Case scenario: Andy is arrested but not charged. Kyle is murdered by Grant to cover up for Andy.

*Best Case scenario: Andy is arrested and charged. Police have evidence. Kyle has a lucky escape.

*Next Best Case: Something happens to Andy. Nothing happens to Kyle.

If he did nothing, the Worst Case scenario would almost certainly come to pass. He would then have to deal with Natalie. No matter how he racked his brains, he couldn’t think of a way to influence the Best Case or make it happen. That left him in charge of making the third alternative come about.

He dug out an old glass ashtray from one of the breweries and burned the note. Then he burned it again and took the ashes into the toilet and flushed them away. Twice. Let CSI sort that out.

He went downstairs to Layla’s Bar. Kyle was sheltering in the lobby.

‘Get your coat,’ said Connor. He stuck his head through the door and waved the barman towards him. ‘Tell Ross I’ve borrowed Kyle, then you cover for him. Twenty minutes, max.’

Without waiting for a response, he walked out. Kyle followed, struggling to get his coat on. ‘Where are we going, Mr Holden?’

Connor considered telling him to leave off with the “Mr”. What the hell. I’ve earned a bit of respect.

‘We’re going to Switzerland.’

‘Switzerland? You what?’

‘Over here.’ Connor crossed the road and pushed open the door to Giuseppe’s Gelateria.

Lucy was behind the counter. She took one look at Kyle’s cuts and bruises and raised her eyebrows. True to her promise, she made no comment except to ask for their order.

When Connor and Kyle were ensconced in the corner, he lowered his voice and said, ‘I really don’t want to know what job you’re doing for Mr Benson, but has he said when it’s going to be? I’m only asking because I might have a job for you myself. Something that should be right up your street.’

‘He said it would be soon, but not for couple of days.’

That was Grant all over. No real sense of urgency when it mattered. On Planet Benson, there was always time to sort things out, and revenge was always served cold. Lucy White’s friend in CID wasn’t going to wait that long. Connor needed to get his retaliation in first.

30

The curtains in Grosvenor Crescent had come in handy. After a mad few days, Connor and Natalie had found time to christen the power shower and enjoy the warmth of the gas fire. He was just bringing some coffee in from the kitchen when he heard the Spice Girls singing from underneath the pile of clothes. It was his ringtone for Alexis, and Natalie knew that calls from Alexis had to be answered.

Connor put the mugs down while he watched his naked partner throw aside trousers and tops in search of Mel C and Co. She found the phone and passed it to him just before it went to voicemail. They both had to struggle against a fit of the giggles.

‘Hiya, love. Everything OK?’

‘Hi. No, it’s not. Well, not really.’

‘Calm down, Alex.’

Natalie sensed the tension and moved closer, in sympathy. That was all very well, but he was finding it very difficult to be a supportive to his ex-wife while the woman who displaced her was standing full frontal next to him. He dealt with the issue by folding Natalie into his left arm and kissing the top of her head.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘Mum’s had a fall.’

Connor immediately thought of old people breaking their hips when he heard the words had a fall… then he remembered that Alexis’ mother was a very active woman who said that sixty was the new forty.

‘Whereabouts? Is she all right?’

‘That’s the problem. She was with the walking club. In Ambleside.’

‘Ambleside? That’s…’

‘…In the Lakes. Yeah, I know. They’ve taken her to Carlisle of all places. She didn’t want to bother me until they’d done the X-Rays. She’s got a broken ankle.’

‘Jeez, love. What can I do?’

‘They’re keeping her in overnight, until the swelling goes down. They’ll put her in a cast tomorrow. She’s only got her walking clothes and a rucksack with two Mars bars. I wanna go and see her, then bring her back tomorrow.’

‘Right.’

‘If you’re working, I’ll take the girls with me to Carlisle, but…’

‘I’m going to Flaxall Manor. For a rehearsal. They can come with me, then we’ll do McDonald’s and I’ll stay over. It’s half-term, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. When can you come round?’

‘As soon as…’ he stopped. He was going to say As soon as we’ve got dressed, but that wasn’t exactly appropriate. Natalie, as ever, guessed what he was going to say and wriggled against him. ‘As soon as I can,’ he offered.

He disconnected. ‘Did you hear all that?’

‘Yeah. Poor woman. Imagine being stuck in Carlisle. Do they actually have X-Rays up there or did they use tracing paper?’

‘Give over. And get dressed. I’ll drop you at Layla’s Bar on the way to pick up the girls.’

He had to tell Grant about the call from the gun dealer in Up Holland, and he needed to start putting his plan into action. He sent Grant a message, asking him to meet at the Manor. The response came back straight away: Was going to text you. Layla has summoned me as well. Don’t know why. See you there.

As they left the flat, he glanced over his shoulder. It looked like a bomb site. Ah well, Nat had said she was no domestic goddess. He’d have to roll his sleeves up tomorrow, and find a cleaner next week.

Alexis almost threw the girls out of the house in her desperation to get going. She told him that she’d booked a Travelodge near the hospital and would be in touch.

‘Why are we going to Layla’s house?’ asked Zara when they were in his car.

‘Do you remember me telling you about Sabrina’s band, yeah?’

‘She’s got a great voice,’ said Pippa wistfully. His older daughter was at the right age to dream of stardom and be jealous. There might be some mileage in this.

‘Well,’ said Connor, ‘they’ve got a name now: StarCross’d. I’ll spell it for you later. Tonight they’re having another rehearsal. Layla’s very upset, you know, about Uncle Matt. She’s asked me to help them rehearse. You’re going to be in the audience. If you don’t like the music, I’m sure Tasmin will let you watch her TV.’

‘Wow, thanks Dad,’ said Pippa. ‘Can we go to their concert?’

‘Erm, no. It’s at the Piano Bar. Strictly over eighteens. I promise you, though, if they play at a non-licensed venue, I’ll get you an Access All Areas pass.’

Zara interrupted Pippa’s dream by saying, ‘Isn’t Sabrina sad because she’s lost her dad?’

That was a very good point. If his younger daughter carried on like this, she’d grow up to be a therapist. Or a journalist. He tried to frame an answer. ‘Of course she’s sad. Very sad. What she’s trying to do is complicated. Her dad wanted her to be a success. He did a lot of work to create the band. She wants to do well so his life won’t be a waste.’

‘Good for her,’ said Pippa.

‘If someone murdered you, I wouldn’t want to sing in a band,’ said Zara. Were they both his daughters? Could two such different children have come from the same place? Clearly they could.

When they arrived at the Manor, he didn’t even bother trying to entice Zara down to the stables. He told Layla what had happened; she ordered Mary to make hot chocolate and told Tasmin to provide an age-appropriate film. Connor took a very star-struck Philippa down to the stables and prepared to kick ass.

Having an audience, even an audience of one teenager, seemed to make a difference. Sabrina’s voice was maturing, slowly, and might end up being better than her mother’s. That wouldn’t make her the next Amy Winehouse, but it might get her a career of sorts.

Pippa only had eyes for Jess, however. The guitarist was much closer to being a natural performer, and was able to enter some inner zone where she was playing Wembley Arena in her head, not a stable block in reality. Connor had a sneaking suspicion that when Alexis got back from Carlisle, she’d find that ripped jeans were very much in fashion all of a sudden.

‘Right, that’s it for tonight. Formal rehearsal over. You’re doing fine, and you’ll do even better if you spend half an hour working on harmony. Yes, I’m looking at you, Jen. I think Jess should consider joining in, too. I’m going to do the good news/bad news thing with Sabrina’s mum.’

‘What’s the bad news?’ asked Jess.

‘If we’re going on to the next stage, she needs to hire some lights. Makes a big difference if you’re not used to them. Do you want to stay or come with me, Pippa?’

‘Stay. For a bit. If they’ll have me. I might do a video interview.’

‘You what?’

Pippa stopped short. He’d caught her out. He and Alexis had agreed that Facebook was banned for both girls until they were older. That didn’t mean that there weren’t other outlets.

‘For school,’ said Pippa. ‘I can put it with the pics.’

‘Fine, but only if the band are happy.’

The older girls shrugged, and Connor left them to it. He was having a smoke on the terrace when Grant appeared. It was time to start putting his mad plan into action. If Grant was lining up Kyle to take the fall for Matt, he needed to arrange for Andy Mallinson to fall farther and quicker.

‘I’ve got a message for you,’ Connor said to Grant. ‘That guy from the gun shop in Up Holland was on the phone. Said the police have been in touch.’ He paused to give Grant a chance to follow it up. The other man just nodded.

‘I’ve been thinking about Andy,’ continued Connor. ‘He needs action with UGAS, yeah?’

Grant nodded, then said, ‘Better you don’t know. You don’t have to lie then.’

Connor had been ready for this line of argument. He mimicked Grant’s nodding dog impression then said, ‘Absolutely. What I don’t know, I can’t tell. The trouble is, I can’t help, either. I’m getting worried about you, Grant.’

That provoked a smile. ‘There’s a first time for everything. I can’t remember you being worried about anyone who wasn’t young and female. Except yourself, of course.’

‘You’re right. There is a first time for everything, and this is the first time that we’ve had to run things without Matt on board. We can’t trust Andy, we certainly can’t tell Layla, so that leaves you and me. We stand or fall together.’

‘If the bizzies take you in tomorrow, can you really keep your mouth shut? If they arrest Natalie and find methadone on her, can you stop yourself doing a deal to keep her out of jail?’

Grant knew people’s weak spots, all right, and not just the physical ones. Bringing Natalie in was a low blow.

‘What do you think I am? Her mother? Actually, you’re right, I would do almost anything for Nat, but I won’t give up all we’ve got here, because that’s her safety net. Nat’s gonna be a lot better off if we can keep Laycross afloat. If everything goes tits-up, even if I walk away with a clean record, I’ll never get another job like this one. You can’t do it all on your own. If you want things to carry on as before, we need to spread the load. You need to bring me in, Grant.’

Grant twisted on one foot to stare down the side of the terrace. ‘You’re right,’ he finally said. ‘That thing down there, the gas drill, it’s going nowhere. If we try to blow it up, things could go very bad.’

‘You what? Blow it up?’

‘Yeah. That’s why we recruited Kingsley Laidlaw, so we could have access to his crusty friends. Andy wants UGAS off his land and he’s willing to do anything, and pay anything to achieve it.’

‘A bomb? Really?’

Grant nodded, still staring at the blackness of the trees. Connor shivered all the way from his chest to his shoes. He had thought that Kingsley was being cultivated for something, but a bomb? ‘This is Southport, not Baghdad, Grant. Where are you gonna get a bomb from?’

‘The ingredients are all down there, in the farm buildings. You just need a load of fertiliser and a detonator. Boom. Don’t say anything else, because I thought exactly the same meself. A lot’s changed since Sunday. The bizzies are far too close. Have a word with Kingsley, sort out the price for a detonator. Let’s go in.’

Grant walked off towards the front door. Connor desperately wanted another cigarette and some thinking time. Both would have to wait. He quick-stepped along the terrace to catch up with Grant. A bomb. He wants to set off a bomb. Great.

Every street in Southport seemed to have its own micro-climate. On some corners it was freezing, on others it was blowing a gale. Lucy nearly lost the Alice costume to the wind twice before she arrived at Bridget’s flat.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to Layla’s?’ asked Bridget, blocking the doorway. When she saw the look on Lucy’s face, she hastily added, ‘Or somewhere else? There’s lots of nice bars.’

Lucy had had enough. ‘Bridget, if you don’t want me in your flat, then fine, we’ll go somewhere else and you can talk about it.’

Bridget stepped aside. Lucy hoped she hadn’t over-stepped the mark. One day, before she went to Japan, she would have to have a talk with Bridget. A proper talk.

Her hostess relieved her of the costume and the bottle of Barolo. ‘Italian,’ said Bridget. ‘What a surprise.’

‘As a good Milanese, I should bring some sparkling wine, but this is England, it’s February. Besides, Piemonte is next door to Milan.’

The lounge was as spotless as before. Bridget pointed to the same armchair. If Connor had visited Natalie often, he must have been very uncomfortable. Lucy was small and she only just fitted in the chair.

‘You look different,’ said Bridget, placing the glasses carefully on coasters.

Lucy touched her hair and looked at her top. She looked the same as she had this morning.

‘Not on the outside,’ said Bridget, ‘though it is nice to see you’ve got the hang of your washing machine. On the inside. Something’s happened this week, hasn’t it? All that business with Switzerland. It’s going viral, you know.’

How had that happened? ‘You’re joking me.’

‘Yes, I am. Of course it hasn’t gone viral. We’re a social media black hole, thanks to Grant.’

Lucy took a long drink and was tempted to follow Natalie’s example and plonk her glass in the middle of the table. Not tonight. She centred it on the coaster.

‘That’s what’s happened. I came to realise that we’ll never crack Giuseppe’s while I’m more famous than the coffee.’

‘I think you’re being a bit of a diva there, Lucia. Do they actually say “diva” in Italy?’

‘Yes, but it’s not an insult. It just means “film star”. There isn’t really an Italian word for “drama queen”. All women are like that, unless otherwise specified. I blame my mother.’

‘How is she?’

‘Fine. I wasn’t joking about my reputation, though. The press have been quite good about not featuring me because I’m not famous and because if there’s a trial, I’ll have to give evidence. Once that’s finished, it’ll be open season on all my family. A lot of stuff will make very lurid headlines.’

Bridget looked uncomfortable, and slightly guilty.

‘It’s not fair on you, it’s not fair on me, and it’s not fair on the rest of the team,’ said Lucy.

‘Are you quitting? Already?’ Bridget looked like a small child who’d been slapped. Tears were already forming. This was not going to be easy.

‘Yes. And no. Mostly yes.’

Bridget grabbed a tissue from the box on the table and started dabbing her eyes. ‘You’re either quitting or you’re staying, Lucy. Which is it?’

‘Neither. I’m not staying, but I’m not quitting either. I’m going to Japan in the near future, for an extended stay. That’s happening. Before then, I’m going to push your reluctant fanny into the manager’s job and leave you with a grand plan. Then I’m going to come back and make sure you’ve put it into action.’

‘Fuck off. You can’t tell me what to do.’

There was anxiety, fear and shock in Bridget’s voice, but no aggression. At least, Lucy hoped that there was no aggression. She got up and carefully skirted the glasses. She squatted down next to Bridget.

‘I do not believe that the woman who made the whole of Layla’s Bar do the Time Warp is frightened of running a little coffee shop.’

That was the wrong thing to say. ‘Don’t patronise me, Lucy. Of course I’m not frightened. I just don’t want to.’

‘Prove it.’

‘I don’t have to prove it. I just don’t want the responsibility or the hassle. Why should I?’

‘Prove you’re not frightened. Do the job properly while I’m in Japan to prove you’re capable, then if you still want to hide in the shadows when I get back, fine.’

‘Why should I?’

Lucy was about to say for yourself. That wouldn’t work. Some of the half-baked ideas she’d had in the little flat were all she had left. She tossed them down. ‘Do it because I need you. I need you to make my formula a success, so when I come back I can open another Caffè di Milano somewhere else. I’m going to pitch it to Owain Marshall as the start of a franchising business. Giuseppe’s could be the first branch of the next Starbucks.’

Bridget was open-mouthed. ‘You’re mad. Where’s this come from? And why are you sodding off to Japan if this is such a good idea?’

Lucy returned to her seat. ‘Holly Nugent is why I’m going to Japan. I can’t tell you why, so don’t press me. As for the coffee shop business, have you got another bottle? I think we might need it.’

‘You’re making this up as you go along, aren’t you?’

‘So? That’s what Bill Gates did with Microsoft, and look where he ended up. We did a case-study at Uni.’

‘That’s the secret to his success? He made it up as he went along? Why isn’t everyone a billionaire in that case?’

‘That’s what we said. We also said, “If these tutors are so good at business, why are they lecturing?”

‘And?’

‘And my own conclusion is that the secret to becoming a success in business is to have a good idea.’

Bridget snorted. ‘Very helpful.’

‘No. I mean it. I had a good idea for House of Lucia, and I went for it. It might have worked if my father hadn’t turned homicidal and my mother hadn’t got pregnant. Now I’ve got a new idea, and what’s more, I’ve learned from the first one: you can’t do it on your own. I need you, Bridge. Or someone like you.’

There was just enough of a hint of rejection in the last sentence for it to resonate with Bridget. She sat up on the couch and poured two more bumper measures of Barolo. ‘I’ve got more wine. Let’s dream. If I like the dream, and if I don’t want to wake up, then I’m in.’

Layla was waiting by the fire. She looked a bit brighter this evening. Perhaps having the family at home for half-term had helped them pull together. Connor took a moment by the flames to warm through while they talked about tonight’s StarCross’d rehearsal and Grant poured the drinks. Layla was on tonic water only. Another good sign.

‘I won’t keep you guys long. I’ve got an announcement.’

The men looked at each other. This could mean anything.

‘I’m pissed off with Andy, and it’s time I came back to work. From Monday.’

Grant, as usual with Layla, left Connor to do the talking. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Money. Or lack of it.’ She focused on Grant for a second. ‘Did Connor tell you about the estate duties and the nursing home?’

Grant shook his head. Connor gave him a look that said See? I can be discreet.

Layla outlined the problems she’d been having and finished by saying, ‘This can’t be right. Matt never hid anything. When we were poor, he told me we were poor. If there was nothing in the pot, he’d have told me. It’s time I came back to Laycross and started taking an interest. I need you guys on my side.’

‘You know we’re always on your side,’ said Connor, to give himself thinking time. ‘Don’t rush into anything, Layla. Take it steady. Think about the kids.’

‘That’s what I am doing. There’s school fees to pay, and now you tell me I need to hire a lighting rig. According to Andy, we need to downsize. Something’s not right.’

Something was very wrong. Connor did not need Layla sticking her nose in while Grant was planning a campaign of mass destruction on the farm next door. He tried again. ‘Let’s take this one step at a time. You’ve got the direct debit for the nursing home sorted, so your mum’s OK.’

Layla dismissed his contribution. ‘For a month. If there are problems with cash-flow, I’m going to tell him to put the bungalow on the market.’

‘What bungalow?’

‘Mum’s. In Crosby. We let it out when she went into the home, but there hasn’t been a tenant for ages. Something to do with the gas supply, Andy said. Besides, we didn’t have Power of Attorney then. We do now. That would pay her fees for years and years.’

‘Great. That’s something positive. Mind you, I’m surprised that Claudia let the tenancy lapse. She could let a dog kennel, she could.’

‘Well, she’s had a lot on her plate. It’s hard to focus on property when you’re full of drugs and trying to conceive. Even more when you’re finally pregnant.’

Even Grant responded to that bombshell. He leaned forward and took a large drink. Connor realised that his mouth was half open and shut it quickly. His brain was going to burst if there were any more revelations. He dragged his thoughts over the conversation so far, looking for other threads to pull on.

‘Have you heard from the coroner at all?’ he asked. Grant gave him a strange look.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Have you?’

Layla stiffened, a fraction. ‘Yes. You know Hazel Cotton, the policewoman?’

‘I do. I still haven’t told you the story about her. Go on.’

‘She said, full of sympathy, that the coroner would be reluctant to release Matt while there was a full scale enquiry under way.’ She gave a humourless smile. ‘So while the bizzies are still in the Tombs, Matt has to stay in the chiller.’

‘I’m really sorry about that. On the other hand, if what she says is true, then Andy can’t settle the estate, can he? If he can’t settle the estate, the Taxman can’t ask for his money. That gives us time to sort something out. Grant and I have got your back, Layla. You don’t need to come in to the office until you’re ready.’

‘I’m ready. I’ll see you for coffee on Monday morning.’

‘In the office or in Switzerland?’

He had fun explaining what was going on over the road at Giuseppe’s, then it was time to take the girls to McDonald’s.

Connor didn’t like what he saw in there. There were far too many boys who said hello, especially to Pippa. He ordered the burgers to go, not eat in.

Alexis called to say goodnight, and to report that her mother was as well as could be expected. She went through the girls’ activities for tomorrow, all of which Connor could service without messing up his own plans.

Finally, he kissed his daughters goodnight and settled down on the back step with a large whisky and a cigarette. He had a lot to think about.

31

Friday

Tom was on his way for a difficult conversation with ACC Schofield. The breakthrough yesterday with the gun dealer had led them off in all sorts of directions as they put together a plan for tackling Andy Mallinson. Schofield, quite rightly, wanted a full update.

He arrived at the South Lancs Constabulary HQ and made his way to the meeting room. Schofield was in the chair, and they were joined by the Head of Media Relations and a DCI from Manchester. The chief started by pointing to the other detective.

‘Neil’s finished arresting extremists. If Operation Meteor moves to another phase, he’ll be taking over.’

In other words, thought Tom, if I don’t feel someone’s collar soon, I’m out.

Schofield continued, ‘Apart from that, Neil’s here purely to observe.’ The DCI followed his instructions to the letter and didn’t speak again throughout the meeting (other than to decline sugar in his coffee).

‘We have a prime suspect,’ said Tom. ‘The victim’s brother-in-law.’ He let that sink in for a second, then outlined his case.

Schofield asked a couple of questions, then sat back in his chair. ‘To get this past the CPS, you’ll need physical evidence.’ It was what Tom had said, in almost the same words, two minutes earlier. ‘What do you think the chances are?’

‘Low, but it’s the only option.’

‘I agree. You’ll need a big search team and immediate forensic support. So not today, then.’

‘Well…’

‘Because that would take you over the weekend. I don’t think there’s enough in the overtime budget for that. Monday will do very well.’

Tom wasn’t happy. He was about to object when he remembered his father’s golden rule of politics (and life): If you’re going to pick a fight, make sure it’s worth winning. This fight was not worth winning, so he thanked the ACC for his support and left.

Back at the Tombs, the team surprised him by being disappointed. Hazel summed up the mood very well by saying, ‘We’ve put a lot of effort into this. I’m not saying I haven’t got lots to do tomorrow, but things are starting to move. At last.’

‘Thanks,’ said Tom. ‘That was what I didn’t say to the ACC. It wouldn’t have done any good. Besides, we could all do with having our batteries recharged. Elaine, are you flying to Paris or taking the Eurostar?’

‘Plane. It’s cheaper.’

‘And less time to brood when France walk all over you.’

‘Hah. You just wait until England come to Murrayfield in a fortnight.’

‘For the rest of the day, such as it is, I want you all to work with Phil to look at every action that’s been given since Day One. Were any actions not completed? Has what we learnt since then changed our view? Just because HOLMES 2 says it’s done, it ain’t necessarily so. Final briefing at two o’clock. I’ll bring cakes.’

‘What’s a raspberry pie got to do with it?’ asked Connor.

Zara rolled her eyes. She wasn’t quite a teenager yet, but she’d always been precocious when it came to patronising her Dad. ‘It’s a Raspberry Pi. As in the number, Pi. Three point one four one five…’

‘Stop there. And start again.’

‘A Raspberry Pi is a small computer. It’s what we’ve been doing all week. Here, look.’ She held up a green circuit board with some connectors on the side.

‘Where’s the rest of it?’

‘That’s it, Dad. You plug everything in. It’s just as powerful as a laptop, in a way. And brilliant for learning to code.’

He shook his head and pulled up by the station. His younger daughter was on Day Five of Coding and Making for Girls at some college in Liverpool. ‘You can tell me about it when you get back,’ he said.

‘I’ll do better than that,’ said Zara, with what he could only describe as an evil grin. ‘But I might need someone’s help. Someone other than you.’ With that, she was gone.

‘She needs to be careful,’ said Pippa, once her sister was out of the way.

Connor headed out of town. ‘Why? She’s going with a friend. It’s perfectly safe. Your mother wouldn’t let her do it otherwise.’

‘That’s not what I meant, Dad. It’s all right doing this sort of thing in the holidays, but if she’s not careful, she’ll turn into a geek. I am not having a geek for a sister. No one will talk to me.’

What’s happened to my girls? They were fine last week. Since yesterday afternoon, he had begun to realise how much his little girls weren’t so little any more. He’d thought that he was up to speed, but clearly he wasn’t. Then again, he’d had a lot on his plate, and the portions were getting bigger.

‘You know my course doesn’t start until eleven, don’t you? It’s because the Grannies need to wait until their bus passes let them travel.’

Pippa liked to give out that she was a lot less enthusiastic about her half-term activity. She was one part of a Cross Generational Sewing and Fashion workshop, a project where Age Concern had brought together the young and old to make retro clothes — she’d made several comments about the “Grannies”. Then, last night, she had been determined to show him the parts of a blouse that she was going to sew together today. The parts were in ivory silk, and had been cut out of some old lady’s wedding dress.

Pippa’s phone rang. ‘It’s Mum,’ she said, then took the call. She told her mother that everything was fine and that Dad was driving, then she put it on speaker.

Alexis’ voice came over very clearly. ‘Can you hear me, love?’

Father and daughter both said, ‘Yes.’

Alexis sounded both exasperated and exhausted. ‘I’m at the hospital. Mum’s ankle hasn’t gone down. The swelling. They’re also worried about the possibility of thrombosis, so they’re keeping her in overnight. Is there any chance you could cope until tomorrow?’

Connor said, ‘Is that me coping with the girls, or them coping with me?’

‘Connor, this is no time for jokes.’

He did a sharp left and found a space on the Prom. ‘Hang on love.’ He put out his hand and Pippa gave him the phone. He knocked it off speaker and got out of the car, turning his back against the wind.

‘Of course I’ll look after the girls. You don’t need to ask. But it is a Friday night, Layla’s still off work and I can’t do it on me own.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll need Natalie to give me a hand.’

‘Connor…’

‘Hang on. I don’t mean for her to sleep at your place, or the girls to sleep at ours, but to cope with the logistics…’

‘Fine. Whatever.’

‘You focus on your mum. I’d ask you to give her my love only she might have a relapse.’

Alexis managed a laugh. ‘Put Pippa back on.’

He opened the door and passed back the phone. While Alexis gave instructions, he smoked a quick cigarette. When he saw Pippa disconnect, he jerked his thumb for her to get out of the car.

‘Let’s grab a coffee. Or a chocolate. There’s a couple of people I want you to meet, and I need your help.’

‘You need my help. That sounds really lame, Dad.’

He lifted the collar on his jacket. ‘Why?’

‘It sounds like you’re trying to bond with the daughter you abandoned when you ran off with a younger model.’

‘Ouch. For your information, I didn’t run off with Natalie, all right? It’s not her fault.’

Pippa looked down at her trainers. ‘Yeah. I know. I thought you and Mum might get back together until you said you were moving in with her.’

There was nothing he could say to that, so he just walked on. Pippa caught up with him. She had pasted on a smile, or bounced back. One or the other. It was hard to tell with teenagers. ‘Who do you want me to meet? Are they in a band?’

He turned in to Tyler Street. ‘No. Do you remember when we went skiing, to Switzerland?’

Pippa nodded.

‘The resort was in the Italian zone. Well, the girl who runs this café is the daughter of the Swiss Consul. Lucia White.’

‘White? That’s not a very Italian name.’

‘Gotcha. It’s her mother who’s the consul, not her dad. Don’t be so sexist.’

‘God, Dad, have you been waiting all my life to say that?’

Connor just grinned and went in to the coffee shop. Lucy and Bridget were busy at the counter, and he waited his turn. Both of them stared when he got to the front of the queue.

‘Lucy, Bridget, this is my daughter, Philippa.’

‘Older daughter,’ said Pippa.

‘Yeah. Pippa, this is the lady I was telling you about, the one with the famous mother, and this is Bridget. She’s Natalie’s BFF.’

Bridget and Philippa weighed each other up; it was Lucy who spoke first. ‘Connor, you’re too old to say things like BFF. Nice to meet you, Philippa. Whatever your dad’s told you about me is probably a lie.’

Connor put his hand on his heart. ‘You’ve cut me to the quick there, girl. Are you denying that your mother is famous in her field? Are you denying that your name is Lucia White? Are you denying that you make the finest Italian hot chocolate in Southport, and that this café is officially part of Switzerland?’

Lucy blushed a little, as did Pippa. Bridget knew him too well: she just shook her head and picked up a bottle of anti-bac spray. Some things don’t change.

He ordered a cappuccino and hot chocolate and paid a quick visit to the gents. This would give Lucy time to ask Pippa what he’d really said. It was always a good idea, in Connor’s experience, to allow women to gang up against you. It led them to believe they were in charge.

He took the drinks and a vicious dig in the ribs from Pippa to a quiet table. His daughter attacked the marshmallows then sipped the chocolate.

‘Wow. This is different. It’s like sweet and bitter at the same time.’

‘Mm. Tell me more. How sweet is it?’

She took him at his word and sipped again. ‘It’s not really sweet, not like full fat cola. It’s just enough to go with, like, the bitterness. And the cream.’

‘That’s brilliant. Well done. You’ve inherited my taste buds, if nothing else.’

‘Can I try some wine, then?’

He was about to say no, then changed his mind. ‘Yes. On your birthday, I’ll do you a blind tasting. Provided your mother agrees, and provided you spit it out. Most of it. Once you’ve tried a decent Merlot, you won’t touch cheap cider again.’

‘How did you…? Oh. You were fishing. You’re worse than Mum.’

‘And I caught you out. It’s not the cider you need to worry about, it’s the boys who give it to you.’

‘Dad!’

‘I should know, Pippa. I was the one with the cider, once.’ He held up his hands in a surrender gesture. ‘I know, I know. I’ll stop there. I do want your help, though.’

‘Go on.’

‘I know you’re not officially on Facebook, or Instagram, or Twitter. But I also know you’re an expert. I’m good on wine, and music, but all this stuff’s beyond me.’

‘I know. Yours was the lamest Twitter feed ever until Natalie took over. Why do you need my help? Why not ask her?’

‘She’s good, but she’s not as good as you. Here.’ He unlocked his phone and passed it over. ‘I want you to tell me everything you can find out about someone.’

Pippa’s thumbs moved in a blur; it was a good job the café now had WiFi. She looked up. ‘Give us a clue, then.’

‘His name’s Kingsley Laidlaw. He works for the Sustainable Lancashire Party — SLP. He used to be a teacher at the Flaxall School. He’s got a little boy who lives in Liverpool.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything.’

‘Is he in trouble? You’re not going to send Grant after him, are you?’

That wasn’t funny. His daughter should not be joking about a man like Grant Benson. There were not many levels on which Grant was funny.

‘Just the opposite. I’m hoping to keep him out of trouble.’

‘Get me some cake.’

He went to the counter. Before he could say anything Lucy gave him her best smile. ‘It’s so good of you to raise Pippa as your own.’

He was gobsmacked. What had she said?

Lucy continued. ‘She’s intelligent, attractive and sweet. She can’t possibly be your daughter.’

His heart swelled. ‘You’re right. She does take after her mother. Mostly. She’s got my sense of taste, though. Have you got any edible cake?’

‘Touché. Try the scones. They’re from Sainsbury’s.’

‘Nice. I’ll have two.’

She made up the plates but hesitated before handing them over. ‘I might need your advice. On a business matter. A legal, above-board, fully licensed and registered matter.’

‘Oh?’

She handed him the scones. ‘Yes. One morning next week. I’ll get some proper cake in specially.’

‘Sure.’ He went back to Pippa and handed over the goods.

‘Leroy’s a lucky boy,’ she said. ‘It looks like his parents take their role very seriously, even though they’re separated.’ She paused to give him a meaningful look. ‘On the other hand, his mother makes him go to ballet lessons. Is that allowed? Isn’t it against his human rights? Whatever. Kingsley used to be really into these protest groups, but not so much since he joined the SLP. Today, he is, “Busy choosing candidates for the local elections,” whatever that means. He’s from London. His partner was called Jackie. She still is called Jackie.’

Connor tugged his forelock to his daughter. ‘That’s amazing. I couldn’t have done half of that.’

‘You couldn’t have done any of that. How much more do you want?’

‘Where’s he gonna be tomorrow morning?’

‘Collecting Leroy from Ballet and going to a party in the afternoon. A kids’ party.’

He was impressed. Very impressed.

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Pippa. ‘You’ve just had a message. From Layla. OMG, Dad. Do all adults swear so much when they text?’

‘Give it here.’

He glanced at the message, embarrassed to see that Layla had used three obscenities in two lines of type. She also said that someone had put a tracker in Matt’s car, and did he or Grant know anything about it? That explains why the Range Rover got a flat battery.

‘Dad? It’s time to go. I’ll be late.’

‘Sorry, love.’

He took his daughter to the community centre on autopilot.

‘What’s happening tonight?’ she asked when they arrived.

‘I don’t know. Yet. I’ll have to improvise. One thing’s certain: I can’t wait to see you model that blouse.’

She left with a smile on her face. Connor sat in the car, staring at the wall, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. For one fantasy moment, he considered rushing over to the Manor and grabbing the tracker so that Zara could analyse it. She was the only person he knew with any real computer skills. She was also a twelve year old girl whose mother would kill him if he even attempted such a thing.

Grant, on the other hand, would definitely know people. Grant also had access to Matt’s car. As did Andy Mallinson. As did some of their more devious rivals. At least the tracker would have stopped working when the battery went flat.

This was all getting too much for him. It was like that dream he had sometimes, the one where he was trying to climb up a muddy hill on his hands and knees, but the hill kept getting steeper, and the top kept getting further away. He checked his watch. There would be a gap of an hour this afternoon. He needed desperately to see Natalie. Alone. In their flat.

They were sitting by the fire again, but not naked this time. Rather the opposite.

‘This is great,’ said Natalie. ‘Bridget would never let me have the flat warm enough.’

Connor thought that he might regret his generosity when the gas bill came in. That was in the future. Right now, he was looking at his last year’s Christmas jumper, Nat’s small hands peeking out of the lime green sleeves. The bottom of the jumper finished just above the hem of her skirt. He tore his eyes away from her legs and tried to make himself comfortable. He was getting too old to be lounging around like this.

‘Nat, love, has Grant told you what he wants to cook up with Kingsley Laidlaw and his pals?’

It was the bluntness of his voice as much as the change in topic that dragged her away from looking at the fire.

‘No. It’s something to do with UGAS, obviously, but I don’t know the specifics.’

‘It’s a bomb. Or the threat of a bomb, anyway.’

She didn’t find it any more believable than he had at first. ‘You what? That’s a good one.’

‘He’s serious.’

‘No! That would be madness, Connor. What’s going on?’

‘A good question.’ He shifted on the floor. ‘Someone’s being set up, love. I just can’t figure out who or why.’

She turned round and crossed her legs. ‘C’mon, babe,’ she said. ‘You know you’re good at this. Take it one step at a time.’

It was his turn to look into the fire. ‘It sounds believable. It sounds like it could be true. If Grant really does organise to bomb the UGAS drill-head, it would be the end of fracking on Northridge Farm. Andy would get his planning permission sooner or later. It could make him a mint. It would help Layla with the inheritance tax, too.’

‘You’re right. It could be true,’ she said, a little dubiously.

‘But it isn’t, is it? Because who plants a bomb in a field in Lancashire? The trouble is, I don’t know whose idea it was — Andy’s or Grant’s.’

‘Why does that make a difference?’ asked Nat.

‘Then I’d know the target. Someone is supposed to go to jail over this. Grant, me, Andy, Kingsley, those crusties. I don’t know. Someone is supposed to be holding the parcel when the music stops.’

‘That phone. You’ve got that phone that you’ve been talking to Kingsley with.’

‘I know. That’s what worries me. It looks very much like Andy and Grant are setting me up. The throwaway phone was Grant’s idea, you know.’

‘How far down the line do you think they’ll go?’

‘It’s got as far as me talking money with Kingsley.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve got to see him tomorrow to sound them out.’

Natalie laughed at him. ‘There’s one fool and his money.’

‘Eh?’

‘If you lot hand over cash to Kingsley’s friends you’ll never see them or the money again.’

She was right. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Perhaps it was her past, her life on the game and on smack that had taught her the hard lesson: when it’s illegal, don’t part with your money until you see the goods. He rubbed his face, thinking aloud, ‘If those crusties walk off with the money, Grant would be after Kingsley for payback. Bye bye Mr Laidlaw. Who would want Kingsley out of the way?’

He had intended the question to be rhetorical, but Natalie answered him. ‘Someone who wants Kingsley in hospital and Grant in prison, maybe? Grant would have to settle the score himself, wouldn’t he, and that would leave him wide open to being arrested by Lucy’s friends, and they’d arrest you for being in possession of that phone.’

It made sense, and it all pointed back to Andy Mallinson as the puppet master. As a sign that he’d had enough of everything, he stood up. His left knee creaked badly.

He reached down and lifted Natalie to her feet. This time he looked right into her blue eyes. ‘Did you mean what you said, about wanting Andy to pay for what he did to Matt?’

She leaned up and grabbed his head, bringing it down on to hers for a kiss. Just to really drive it home, she slipped her leg between his and slid it up towards his crotch. He took full advantage of the moment until she released him. ‘Does that answer your question?’ said Nat.

Connor sighed. ‘From what Grant said last night, I think he’s cooling on the idea of the bombing, which also points to Andy being behind it. That’s going to make Andy even more upset and dangerous, especially with Claudia the way she is.’

‘Why? What’s up with her?’

He winced inside. He hadn’t wanted to tell Natalie about Claudia’s attempts to get pregnant because it might provoke her to have the same discussion. That was a conversation he wanted to have on their terms, not someone else’s. However, now he’d started…

‘Claudia’s been having IVF. Layla tells me it’s finally worked. So far.’

Natalie was taken aback. So much for female intuition. She shook her head to try and lodge the news in her brain.

Connor took the opportunity to change the subject. ‘I might have an idea. A very dangerous idea. It’s all I can think of.’

‘Good. The more dangerous the better. I hope you’ve got a job for me.’

‘Too right. I can’t do this without you. First of all I need your powers of persuasion, then I need your body, then I need your contacts.’

She leaned forward to nuzzle his neck. ‘You only want my body second? Not first or last?’ Before he could say anything, she stepped back, put her feet in her shoes and went through to the kitchen; he heard the kettle start to boil. She reappeared and leaned against the door jamb.

‘Right. I’m listening,’ she said. ‘Powers of persuasion first.’

‘Can you persuade Bridget to babysit the girls tonight? There’s loads of others who could do it, but I want someone who’ll be … flexible. If we need it. Tomorrow, I need your body behind the wheel. We need to go to Liverpool. You can drop me off then take the girls shopping. While you’re there, you can use your contacts.’

‘What are you going to be doing, and what do you need my contacts for. I don’t know anyone you’d want within a mile of your daughters.’

‘Precisely. I’m going to be tracking down four thousand pounds in cash. You’re going to take it to Liverpool and come back with a quarter kilo of cocaine.’

The team gathered in Tom’s office for the final briefing of the week. True to his word, the Boss had provided cakes. Elaine didn’t hesitate: after all the exercise this week, and all the self-denial, she deserved one. As you would expect, his choice was excellent.

‘You didn’t get this from Lucy’s café, did you?’ she ventured, testing the water in a private aside.

He took it well. ‘No. That’s definitely the last place I’d ever buy cake in Southport.’

They drifted to their seats and Tom set a brisk pace in getting through the business. It looked like he was as anxious to get away as everyone else. The only sticking point came when Phil went through the completed actions.

‘Property,’ said the sergeant.

‘What about it?’ asked Tom.

‘Lloyd was looking into it before he left the team.’

Tom’s face darkened but he didn’t say anything.

Phil continued, ‘I know Vicki took over, but we all got a bit side-tracked by the business with ownership of Quaker’s Fold. I just wondered whether it was worth getting a fresh pair of eyes, to see if everything was covered properly.’

‘Yes. Definitely. Put that down for Monday morning. I’m not sure what time the support teams will be available for arrest and search, so it’s something we can all look into. Anything else?’

‘I think that’s it.’

Tom thanked them, and the others all beat a hasty retreat towards their families and the weekend. Elaine wasn’t in a rush to catch her flight. She wasn’t even going home — she was going to spend half an hour in Southport buying a new clutch first. She said as much to Tom.

‘Very extravagant. Is there a special reason?’

‘There’s a big reception after the game tomorrow night, a celebration of the Auld Alliance.’

‘Are you sure they’ll let you in, being a Sassenach?’

‘Just let them try and stop me.’ She couldn’t help adding, ‘I need to look the part. A proper rugby wife.’

He smiled his sad smile, the one she was sure that Lucy White had fallen for. He did that smile a lot when Lucy was around.

‘What about you, Tom? Gathering of the Morton clans?’

‘Sort-of. Fiona’s going to be there on Sunday to start planning a party for Mum and Dad. I shall be playing Vets rugby, as it happens. And doing my laundry. Lots of that. The Cloister is well equipped for laundry. Have a great time in Paris. I’m sure Rob will be very proud of you at the reception. He should be.’

Rob will be very proud of you. It was the sort of vote of confidence that her dad would have given her. What did she expect him to say? Rob won’t be able to keep his hands off you. That would have done their working relationship no good at all. She was tempted to give him a peck on the cheek, but that would be equally weird. She settled for a cheery farewell.

‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘And I’ll see you on Monday morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed.’

It was just like old times. Connor had collected the girls from their half-term activities and raided the freezer. In the old days, the married days, Alexis had worked at a call centre and would come home in time to eat with them before Connor headed out on his rounds. Tonight, instead of Alexis’ key in the door, there was a ring on the bell. Connor whistled his way down the hall and let Bridget into the house.

‘There had better be a good reason for this,’ she said. ‘I’m not a natural babysitter. And don’t you even think of making me stay over.’

‘Don’t panic. The taxi’s ordered for midnight and paid in advance. Come in.’

She swept past him and started to take off her shoes. He was about to close the door when a familiar car pulled in to the kerb. What’s Grant doing here?

He shouted upstairs for Pippa and grabbed his coat. ‘Can you keep an eye on the tea?’ he said to Bridget. He shut the door behind him before she could object to the sudden extension of her role as babysitter.

He was not going to have Grant in his house again if he could avoid it; things had gone too far for that. Grant saw him coming down the drive and waited in the car.

‘How did you know I was here?’ asked Connor when he’d climbed into the passenger seat.

‘Mel told me. She said you were having family trouble. Is that why I’m not welcome in the house?’

‘Of course you’re welcome, it’s just that with Bridget here instead of Alexis, it’s much easier to talk in the car. Why didn’t you come to Layla’s Bar tonight if you wanted a chat?’

‘I’ve got business elsewhere.’

‘Right. I got Layla’s message about the tracker on Matt’s car. I was gonna ask you what we should do about it.’

‘It’s sorted. I took it and looked at it. I think Matt must have been worried about theft. Or something. He fitted the tracker himself.’

Connor was used to Grant keeping him in the dark. It was how things worked. There was a great deal that he didn’t need to know, and didn’t want to know either. This was different. The last time that Grant had outright lied to him was four years ago, when Connor had seen him out with a woman. Grant had denied it, and denied it so badly that Connor knew the big guy must be in love again. He’d been right — six months later, Grant and Claire had walked down the aisle. And now Grant was lying about the tracker. Things were bad, and he had a feeling that they were going to get worse.

‘That’s good,’ said Connor.

‘But there’s bad news, I’m afraid. I spoke to Andy this afternoon: he wants the operation against UGAS to proceed as quickly as possible.’

Connor was about to swear, then he realised that this might be the opportunity he was looking for. He forced himself to look like a beaten dog and said, ‘What does Andy want? And how do you feel about it?’

‘I think he’s mad,’ said Grant. ‘And I told him so. I also told him that I don’t trust our potential partners in this enterprise.’

It had taken Grant twenty-four hours to catch up with Natalie: the crusties were not to be trusted. Things were moving very quickly, and Connor wasn’t sure his own plan could keep pace.

Grant shifted in the driver’s seat, turning to face Connor head on. ‘Tell Laidlaw we’ll pay two grand for the detonator and trigger, strictly cash on exchange. And we need it sooner rather than later.’

‘Have you got the money ready?’

Grant nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Right,’ said Connor. ‘I’ll start the ball rolling. Be ready to act on a moment’s notice.’

Grant nodded again and started the engine.

Connor took out his handkerchief and pretended to blow his nose. Earlier that afternoon he had dismantled the other phone, the one with Kingsley’s number on it. He had wiped every surface carefully to remove prints and DNA. It was now switched off. He stuffed his hankie in his coat pocket and grabbed the phone with it. As he got out of the car, he twisted around and slipped the phone under the passenger seat.

He stood in front of the garage, hunched into his coat. He lit a cigarette to calm down before returning to domesticity. This was not good, not by any stretch. He was now winging it, and things could go wrong at any second. Only last night he had been watching StarCross’d rehearse — a bunch of kids, drilled and directed to produce the desired result. What Connor was trying to pull off now was in a completely different league. He had to get a variety of different artists on to the same stage at the same time for a performance that none of them were expecting. If he could pull this off, he’d deserve all the applause himself.

Back in the house, Bridget was hovering in the hallway, as much as someone her size could hover. She looked more animated than normal, certainly more animated than she usually was without a drink in her hand.

‘He’s back!’ she shouted up the stairs, then she folded her arms. ‘Right, Mr Absent Father, which of your daughters’ projects do you want to see first?’

‘Knock it off, Bridget. Just because you’ve helped me out, it doesn’t give you the right to pass judgement.’

She flinched back. He’d gone too far, way too far. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Flattery wasn’t going to cut it with SuperGoth, he’d have to try sincerity. ‘I’m really sorry, Bridge. That was out of order. It was my choice to leave, and I deserve everything I get. Natalie’s going to kick me very hard for saying that to you.’

She sniffed. ‘Yeah, well, don’t do it again. We’ve all had bad days, most of us much worse than you.’

He hung his head and counted to five. Bridget blinked first.

‘Come on, Connor, which is it going to be?’

He looked up and tilted his head to one side. ‘Let me guess: both of them wanted to go second.’

‘How did you…’ Connor knew his girls much better than the babysitter, and he was well aware that going last meant having more stage time. She flicked her chin to show that his status as Parent had been restored.

‘We’ll go in alphabetical order,’ he announced. ‘I’m ready, Pip.’

He stood by the door so that he could fully appreciate Pippa’s descent of the staircase, a trick that she had borrowed from her mother, along with the full-length black skirt, giving the full Downton Abbey effect to the blouse.

Connor felt a lump in his throat. The ivory silk was both delicate and opaque. The pattern had been designed for a more physically mature woman, so it was a little generous around the bust, and a little long. Pippa had put a big belt on, and he had a sudden vision of her going to a graduation ceremony.

‘Wow,’ was all he could say at first. ‘You look stunning, love. I really mean that. Shame we’ve only got shepherd’s pie, not dinner at l’Enclume.’

Pippa beamed, and gave him a twirl at the foot of the stairs. He went up to her and touched the collar of the blouse. ‘Did you do all this? It’s immaculate.’

His daughter blushed. ‘Daisy showed me what to do, but her arthritis is bad. She couldn’t do much of the physical work. I wasted two panels of her wedding dress before I got the hang of it.’

‘It was worth it, love. Let me take a picture.’

He took several snaps on his phone, full length and close-up.

‘That’s handy,’ said Bridget. There was a smudge of mascara under her eye where she’d wiped away a tear. Connor hoped that it was sentiment not his insult which had provoked it.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Because you need to send a Tweet before you see what Zara’s been up to.’

‘You what?’

‘Twitter, Dad,’ said Pippa. ‘Or has Natalie blocked you from the account?’

‘Hey, less of the cheek. Of course not. I shall do it now.’

In the dim light of the hall, he had to admit defeat. From the depths of his jacket, he pulled out a pair of reading glasses. He heard Bridget draw a breath: she didn’t know he used them. He attached the picture of Pippa and typed Lady Holden arrives at the ball. It was all he could think of. He sent the Tweet and looked up.

‘In the sitting room,’ said Bridget.

He walked ahead of the women and saw his younger daughter standing proudly before a collection of technology spread over the coffee table. The family printer was there, connected to the broadband router-thingy, as well as Alexis’ laptop, the Raspberry Pi that he’d seen this morning, two boxes of unknown origin and, at the centre, a plastic cuckoo clock with all the intricate moulding of wood and none of its charm. What on earth was going on?

Before he could ask, the clock burped. A small plastic cuckoo stuck its head out of the clock and made a tinny electric version of the bird call. Then the printer started. Zara almost bounced in the air, she was so excited. She snatched the A4 printout from the tray, glanced at it, then thrust it into his hand. He looked down and saw the picture of Pippa he’d just taken, along with the text.

‘How…’

‘It’s a Twitter Cuckoo Clock,’ said Zara proudly. ‘We printed the parts for the clock on a 3D printer, put in a servo motor and speaker, then assembled it and programmed the Raspberry Pi to follow a Twitter feed. Every time there’s a Tweet, it makes the clock go “cuckoo”, and prints the Tweet. You can get bits to do all of that which fit inside the clock, but that’s advanced. I’m only a beginner.’

‘If that’s what beginners can do, girl, then I’m in awe of you.’ He turned to Pippa, waiting in the doorway. ‘Both of you.’

‘Shit,’ said Bridget. ‘I can smell burning.’

Zara’s hand flew to her mouth when she heard the obscenity — strictly forbidden in this house. Connor gave both his girls a big kiss and made his way to the kitchen where he was going to thank Bridget very humbly and give her a short course on acceptable language.

32

Saturday

The next morning, while the girls put the finishing touches to their weekend wardrobe, Connor waited at the bottom of the drive with a cigarette and a cup of tea. He saw Natalie driving down the road and dropped the fag in his tea, then chucked it all into the bushes and placed the empty mug behind the low wall.

He gave her a long kiss to show her just how much he’d missed her last night, then drew away to get a good look at what he’d been missing.

‘You look dog rough,’ she told him.

‘And you look gorgeous. So long as one of us is all right, we’ll not do badly.’

‘Seriously, what were you up to last night?’

‘I had to buy a lot of drinks to convince people to pay up. I’ve got the money, though.’

She nodded, happy that his plan was moving on. She was not so keen to reacquaint herself with her old haunts and habits. He squeezed her shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine, love. Don’t forget, these people know who you work for. They won’t risk Grant coming down on them.’

‘But that’s the point. We’re doing this behind his back. Are you sure there’s no other way?’

‘Not that’s gonna work this weekend. Layla’s back in the office on Monday, and I’m sure the police are ready to move, too.’

She nodded again, and put her arms around him. She was facing the house and saw the girls come out first. She pulled away from their father and straightened her skirt.

‘Let’s have a look,’ said Connor. He peered at his daughters’ faces: only Pippa was allowed out with visible makeup. Zara might be a whizz with electronics, but she didn’t know one end of a blusher brush from the other. Yet.

‘Hey,’ he said to the older girl. ‘Go and sort your sister out.’

‘Dad!’ protested Zara. ‘Pippa’s got loads of makeup on.’

‘No dice, love.’

‘Arrgh. You’re sooo mean.’

‘If you go and clean it all off now, I can show Natalie your Twitter Cuckoo clock, and she’ll be so impressed that she’ll take you to the cosmetics counter in Boots and show you what to spend this on.’ He waved a twenty pound note in the air. ‘You get one, too,’ he said to Pippa. Zara rushed back inside.

Natalie thought the clock was bonkers, but was too polite too say so. She did give the rest of the house a long, lingering look. It was the first time she’d been over the threshold.

Natalie had a defensive mask for every occasion, to stop other people knowing what she really felt. All Connor could tell from her look was that she was feeling something strongly. He had no idea whether it was hatred of Alexis, jealousy for the family life or contempt for him at throwing it all away. He doubted that she was taking notes about the soft furnishings, though he wished she would. He took the opportunity to slip her the package with four grand in it.

With the girls finally ready, they headed off. ‘Can you stop on the Prom,’ he said. ‘I want to have a word with the Swiss Consul.’

‘Dad,’ said Pippa. ‘That was lame yesterday, and it’s even lamer today. Please.’

He hopped out of the car and into the coffee shop. Lucy was busy foaming milk. When it was his turn, he ordered two cappuccinos and two chocolates to go.

‘I hear you’re thinking big,’ he said. ‘According to Bridget.’

‘I hear you’ve got two very clever daughters. Also according to Bridget.’

Connor knew a fellow operator when he met one. ‘And I’d be very proud if one of them grew up to be as enterprising as you are.’

She put down the first of the cardboard cups. ‘What do you really want, Connor?’

He made sure his face was straight. ‘You’ve got Inspector Morton’s number. I might want a word with him this weekend.’

She turned her back for a moment, then returned with the other drinks. She moved them deliberately toward him over the counter. ‘Yes, I have got his number, but no, I won’t give it to you or pass on a message.’ She let go of the cups and smiled. ‘Besides, you’re out of luck. He sent me a text yesterday to say that he was going home for the weekend. He gave me the number of the local community police station if I had any problems.’

Damn and blast. Every time I think I’ve got something sorted… He tried to stop his thoughts before his face gave too much away. Instead of getting Morton along to arrest Andy, he was going to have to work a flanker.

‘Six pounds twenty,’ said Lucy.

He fished out the money. ‘I wasn’t joking about the entrepreneur part. Anything I can do to help, just let me know.’

‘Thanks.’

She gave him a cardboard carrier and he returned to the car. When he’d handed out the drinks, he took Nat’s phone out of her bag and passed it to Zara. ‘Hey, clever clogs, can you use that to find an address in Maghull, then give us directions.’

Zara started tapping the phone.

Pippa looked aghast. ‘Why are we going to Maghull?’ she asked.

‘Just business,’ he replied, happy that neither girl would get the reference. Not yet.

He settled back to drink his coffee while Zara discovered that knowledge of apps also requires knowledge of the road to be a successful navigator. Natalie was not a patient driver, but she was on her best behaviour with the girls and between them they got the car to the end of the road that Connor wanted.

‘Drop us here,’ he announced. Nat started to ask why they were there. He shook his head. He didn’t want to explain in front of the girls. ‘Have a great time in town, you lot, and remember: your mother’s coming home soon. Don’t buy anything she wouldn’t approve of.’

‘Isn’t Natalie technically in loco parentis?’ asked Pippa innocently.

Where in God’s name had she picked that up? ‘Don’t tell me you’re doing Latin in school.’ He said.

‘No. Just citizenship and global rights.’

He shook his head. ‘Behave, all right? Good. Kiss.’

He leaned behind and was given two pecks on the cheek. He did the same to Nat.

He lit a cigarette to go with the last of his coffee and called Alexis. She told him that her mother was over the worst although they weren’t going to do the plaster until Monday. She planned to come home tonight, going back to Carlisle in the morning. Would he be okay to look after the girls tomorrow?

I certainly would, he thought. This is the first time something’s gone to plan for days. He told her what time he’d be over in the morning. Alexis was too relieved to make a fuss about Natalie being in charge of the shopping trip. He said farewell and called Layla’s number.

Layla asked him about Alexis’s mother and the girls. He laid it on thick and implied that being a full time father wasn’t really compatible with his duties at Layla’s Bar and elsewhere. It had the desired effect.

‘What can I do to help, Connor?’ she asked. There was guilt and a hint of panic in her voice. ‘I’m not sure I’m up to MCing the karaoke tonight.’

‘What would really help is tomorrow. Is there any chance of three extra for the famous Cross family brunch?’

‘Yeah. Of course. I’ll tell Mary to nip to the shops for extra rations.’

‘And there’s another thing. Are you going to see your mum tomorrow afternoon? If I could leave the girls with you for an hour…’

Layla didn’t think to ask why, she just said, ‘Andy’s doing the afternoon. He’s taking Claudia for lunch then heading over to the nursing home. I can cope with Pippa and Zara. Much easier to keep an eye on than my lot.’

‘Smashing. I’ll see you about eleven o’clock tomorrow.’

As he’d talked, he’d walked along to a bus stop, with litter bin. He dumped his cup then retraced his steps to go down the road he wanted, hoping that number 17 was close to his end. It was.

The house was a bog standard semi-detached, in decent nick. The car in the drive gleamed. Far more care had been lavished on the motor than the property. He knocked on the door, shivering against the wind blowing down the street.

A thin faced woman with thin hair in a ponytail answered the door. The sound of children’s cartoons echoed from the front room.

‘Hello, love,’ said Connor. ‘Is Kyle ready?’

She folded her arms, blocking the doorway. ‘Who wants to know, and what did you make him dress up for?’

Heavy footsteps marched down the hall as Kyle approached. As requested, he’d put on his army boots and a green camouflage uniform. ‘This is Mr Holden,’ said Kyle. ‘He’s the general manager at work. Not just Layla’s Bar, but all of Matt’s businesses.’ He lowered his voice to whisper in his wife’s ear. Connor heard something about permanent position, and the woman stepped reluctantly aside to allow her husband out.

‘Right, Boss. Where to?’ said Kyle.

Connor waited until the door was closed. ‘You’re a lucky man, Kyle. Lovely house, lovely wife, and I really love the car. Head for Aintree and take the back roads if you want.’

‘Pleasure, sir.’

He clicked the remote and the hazards flashed. Connor got into the passenger seat carefully. He didn’t want to scratch the door on one of the overgrown bushes which lined the drive.

Connor loved his girls. Seeing them so closely over the last few days had been a wrench, a torture which might come back to haunt his relationship with Natalie if he weren’t careful. Amongst other things, the thought kept coming back: would it have been different if we’d had a boy?

It was impossible to know, impossible to tell what his life would have been like with a son to think about. Had being a father to Dougie and Luke made Matt a different guy? Then again, Connor was not Matt, and Alexis was not Layla. He gave up trying to work it out with one last thought. If I’d had a boy, there’s no way he would have gone to ballet classes. No way.

He turned his attention to his driver. If Connor was not Matt, Kyle was not Grant either. For one thing, he liked to talk when he wasn’t showing off his driving skills. ‘You’ve got a little lad, haven’t you?’ said Connor.

‘Two. One of them’s six, the other’s two and there’s a girl between them. The lads are both chips off the old block.’

‘If your lass wanted one of them to go to ballet classes, what would you say?’

Kyle risked a glance over at Connor. He looked down his swollen nose with utter contempt. ‘She wouldn’t even think about it. She knows better than that.’

‘That’s what I thought. The place we want is down here on the left. I won’t insult your intelligence by repeating the instructions.’

‘Easiest hundred quid I’ve ever made,’ said Kyle.

‘Tomorrow might be more of a challenge. Here we are.’

Kyle stopped on the road, ignoring the small car park outside the community centre. Connor checked his watch again. They had about five minutes, according to what Pippa had said yesterday. Time for a smoke.

He found a sheltered corner with a good view of the doors and waited impatiently. Soon enough, the first parents appeared with their little girls in tow, all wrapped up against the winter air. Leroy wasn’t the first boy to come out — Connor reckoned the ratio was about ten to one in favour of ballerinas rather than … what do you call blokes who dance? When Kingsley and his son emerged, Connor levered himself off the wall and shouted.

Laidlaw’s head jerked in his direction and his pupils dilated with fear. Connor smiled at the other man and beckoned him forward. Laidlaw looked down at his son. He said something to the boy and pushed him back towards the doors. Only when Leroy was out of sight did his father come over.

‘Alright, Kingsley. How was the class?’

Connor had seen Kingsley looking worried before, and afraid, but nothing on the levels of terror that were lurking in his eyes this morning. ‘What do you want?’ He spat out the words with bluster that wasn’t even fooling himself.

Connor put his arm over Kingsley’s shoulder and gripped hard when the other man flinched. He turned him to face the road. Right on cue, Kyle emerged from the car and came round to lean on the door, keeping his face neutral.

‘See that guy over there,’ said Connor.

Kingsley pulled away from him before responding. ‘You mean the gorilla in uniform? Who’s he?’

‘That’s Kyle. You should recognise him from the door at Layla’s Bar. He knows who you are, and now he’s had a good look at your lad, so he knows him too.’

Laidlaw grabbed the front of Connor’s leather jacket and shoved him against the wall. ‘I’ve had enough of this. If you don’t promise to leave Leroy alone, I’m going straight to the police. Do you hear?’

‘Which branch? Counter terrorism? Grant needs a favour — he wants you to contact one of your friends, and he wants them to supply a detonator. For a fertiliser bomb.’

Laidlaw was close to panic. Connor nodded to Kyle and watched the ex-para get back in the car, out of view. ‘Calm down, lad,’ he said to Kingsley. ‘Nothing’s gonna happen to Leroy if I can help it. That’s not what we want. More to the point, it’s not what I want?’

‘You mean you don’t want it?’

‘Do I look soft in the head? Of course I don’t want a detonator. As soon as I heard about it, I thought, now there’s one idea whose time is never gonna come. I’m here to get you out of this mess.’

‘Me? Don’t give me that, Holden. You’ve never done anything for my benefit. I don’t know what you’re up to, but count me out. The police know about my visits to Layla’s Bar now.’

‘How…? What’s happened? Tell me everything.’

‘Morton and his sidekick came to see me. At Jackie’s house. Someone had spotted me at the karaoke.’

‘Who spotted you?’

‘You’d know her as “Janine”. She used to be my boss at Flaxall School.’

It made sense. ‘What did you tell them?’

‘The truth. Or some of it. I said that Natalie and Grant wanted to know exactly what I’d seen when I … you know … found Matt’s body.’

‘Even better,’ said Connor. ‘We can finish this. Your friends in the eco-movement can get back to protesting, you can get out from our clutches and I can get justice for Matt.’

‘Yeah, right. You’re not going to let go of me now.’

Typical. All he thinks about is himself. Never mind his friends or what happened to Matt. Still, he’d said what he’d said to give Laidlaw options, to pick whichever mattered most: his friends, his conscience or himself. Selfishness was the easiest to work with, after all.

Connor smiled at the other man. ‘I need you to do a small job for me, Kingsley. Just a courier job that will sort everything out. We can stop this nonsense about bombing people and get justice. Even better, you’ll have a hold over me, then. Everyone wins.’

‘Grant Benson would snap you like a twig if you betrayed him.’

‘Why do you think I’m here with Kyle?’ Connor paused to let the implications sink in, then he pitched for the sale. ‘All I need from you is one more meeting, then you’re off the hook. Completely.’

‘I’ll never be off the hook.’

‘After this, it won’t matter. You can call the cops yourself. I just need you to do something for me tomorrow.’

‘I look after Leroy on Sundays.’

Done! He’s sold. Whenever people talked practicalities, not principles, the deal was as good as done.

‘I’ll look after him.’

‘You?’

‘Yes, me. I’m a bit out of practice with toddlers, but they can’t be worse than teenage girls. For two hours, I’ll do exactly what you want, wherever you want me to do it. Just be at Quaker’s Fold at two o’clock and I’ll come to you.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I’ll explain tomorrow. You’ll be glad when it’s over, mate. Trust me.’

‘I’ll do it, but I won’t trust you, Holden.’

‘No skin off my nose. I’ll see you tomorrow. Enjoy the time with your boy.’

He left Laidlaw to it and returned to the car.

‘Everything all right, sir? I didn’t like the way he roughed you up,’ said Kyle. There was an implied criticism in his voice which suggested that on Planet Kyle no one took no nonsense from anyone.

‘It’s a sign,’ said Connor. ‘A sign that he can’t cope. He’ll do what he’s told, and if pushing me against a wall makes him feel better, I don’t care. If you get to know me better, Kyle, you’ll realise that I get where I’m going by giving people what they want. If Kingsley Laidlaw needs to feel that he can physically intimidate me, then fine. Let’s get back to Southport.’

It was an article of faith for Elaine that the wives and girlfriends of rugby players were a cut above those of professional footballers. More of them had degrees, for example. More of them had their own careers. Very few had been in reality TV shows. It was a belief that had helped her browbeat many mockers during her time in Leicestershire Constabulary, and it had been reinforced when she met some of the residents on the 7Bridge Estate. However, there’s always one who lets the side down.

Katrina, self-appointed Head WAG, had chosen who got in which limousine according to some scheme which probably made sense to her. Elaine couldn’t decide whether she was being punished by being lumbered with the airheads or whether she’d been sent to keep an eye on them. One of the other five women didn’t speak much English and spent the journey scouring Instagram and Twitter for pictures of herself. Three of them were having an animated discussion about which agent had the most clout with MTV. That left Elaine talking to Phoenix.

‘I still don’t understand,’ said Phoenix. ‘Why did Scotland play on Saturday?’

‘First of all, it’s “we”, not “Scotland”. You’re supposed to identify with the team.’

‘But I’m not Scottish.’

‘Neither am I. In fact, I don’t really like Scotland, and I’d support the English football team over Scotland any day, but I married Rob and because I love him, I love Scottish rugby, too.’

‘Oh. Why are we playing on Saturday?’

If Elaine hadn’t been sitting in the middle, she would have beaten her head on the window. ‘It’s all about TV scheduling. We’re playing in France, and French football matches are played on Sundays. England are playing Italy, which no one really cares about, so they’re playing tomorrow. The big game this week is the one tonight — Ireland v Wales. The winner will probably get the Grand Slam. We were on in the afternoon because, well, most TV executives thought we’d lose, and lose heavily. Turns out they were right.’

Before Phoenix could ask what a “Grand Slam” was, the limousine came to a halt. Elaine was half way to the door before the Croatian girl put her hand on Elaine’s arm and said, ‘Wait for driver.’

Elaine waited. When it came to the red carpet, she moved along as quickly as she could. There were very few punters, and most of them were interested in the French wives. The freelance photographers shouted at her to pose, and asked who’d made her dress. She would rather crawl on her hands and knees than admit that she’d allowed the girl in Galeries Lafayette to choose it, and had only bought it because it looked warm. The weather tonight was freezing, and Elaine didn’t want to turn blue waiting for Katrina to work the line.

When she got to the end of the red carpet, she froze. What are those tarts doing here? Making a V shape outside the venue, Big Mac’s cheerleaders had formed a guard of honour. They weren’t wearing their uniforms, thank God, but they did have matching blue gowns. In the middle of the left hand side was the unmistakable face and chest of Kirsty Saltire.

Hovering behind the cheerleaders was a suit with a Big Mac tie and ID badge. Elaine pushed past the first of the girls and grabbed his arm. The man almost fainted before trying to push her back in front. Elaine stood her ground, aware that she was being photographed but not giving a flying haggis what they said or printed.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.

‘Me? I’m just here to keep an eye on things.’

‘Not you, idiot, them.’

His mouth dropped. He couldn’t understand the question — to him it was quite obvious what a bunch of pneumatic bimbos was doing outside an official sporting reception.

She tried again, in language that might be understood. ‘Your company is not an official sponsor. Why are you here?’

‘We’ve a contract with the venue. We’ve sponsored the red carpet. The squad are here to greet you.’

It was her turn not to understand. ‘How in God’s name can you sponsor a carpet?’

‘You just pay. It’s…’

‘Never mind.’

The gap behind Kirsty and her colleagues was dark. A momentary rush of self-preservation made Elaine kick off her heels (she was seriously out of practice) and walk behind them. In front of the doors, two photographers were starting to line up Elaine’s fellow wives and girlfriends. She picked out the photographer with the SRFU badge.

‘You,’ she said, jabbing her finger in his chest. ‘Official photographs will be taken inside. Is that clear?’

‘You what, hen?’

‘Big Mac is not an official sponsor. If you include any of his employees in the official shot, I’ll report you to the Standards Board.’

As far as she knew, there was no Standards Board, but the man’s gesture of capitulation said that he knew he wasn’t on firm ground. He went to pick up his case.

‘What are you doing?’ hissed Katrina from behind her.

‘National Security,’ said Elaine. She loved saying that because there was no answer to it. Katrina wisely left her alone.

She pushed through the doors and found the two squads getting ready to go outside. The men were as impressive as you’d expect fifty rugged athletes in immaculate tuxedos to look. It could have been a mass audition for the next James Bond movie. Elaine took a moment to think nice, very nice, before she came over grumpy again. All they had to do was wear a suit, and they were getting paid for this. No agonising over legs v cleavage for the men, no worries about appearing in the Sidebar of Shame for them. Several of the players were staring at her, and one of the Scottish lads nudged Rob in the back. He turned round and came over.

‘Hiya, love. Are you OK?’

‘Not now I’ve seen those tarts outside. You are not being photographed near them again. Ever.’

‘What are you talking about? You came with the other wives.’

‘Not them, the tarts. The “cheerleaders”. They’ve got no place here.’

He stared at the doors, confused. One of them opened to admit the official photographer, and Rob caught a glimpse of Kirsty Saltire and her friends. He did not look amused.

Rob took Elaine’s arm and drew her gently to the side, out of earshot. ‘I’ve spoke to Kirsty once, for about ten minutes. I was paid enough money to cover the cost of your new dress.’

That was the wrong thing to say. ‘I paid for my own dress, out of my own money which I earned myself. You can give your fee to charity.’

Rob rocked back on his heels. Shit. I’ve gone too far. Again. Rob would be within his rights to point out that his wages paid for the flat, the cars and the holidays, which was why she could afford the dress on a DC’s salary.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I’ve missed you so much that I don’t like it when we can’t spend time together, and I got so frustrated this afternoon. You did nothing wrong in the first half — you didn’t deserve to get replaced. It was the pack’s fault that France scored three tries. They were rubbish.’

Turning talk to the game always diverted Rob’s attention. In half a second he’d forgotten about everything except what happened on the pitch. ‘Aye, well, I picked up a bit of a knock. The boss said it wasn’t worth the risk. He told me that I’ll start at Murrayfield if I’m recovered.’

‘Great,’ said Elaine, leaning up to give him a kiss.

The other players were heading out for the photographs. Rob wrapped his arms around her and said, ‘When’s your flight tomorrow?’

He had to go back to the hotel with the squad tonight, but he’d be free tomorrow afternoon.

‘Not until seven,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve booked my hotel for an extra night.’

Rob nuzzled her ear, then gave her a proper kiss. Elaine ignored the flashes of light as various people took pictures of them. They were images she’d be happy to see receiving maximum exposure.

It had been a hard night at Layla’s Bar. The last of the teenage bands had been playing, and the crowd went mental once word got round that drugs were available. By the time he and Natalie got back to the flat, he was ready for a cup of cocoa. Is this what middle age felt like?

‘At least we got a decent bonus,’ said Nat. She was standing on the hearthrug, holding a bundle of twenty pound notes. Outlined against the fire, her hair down, she looked more gorgeous than ever.

‘We need to find a new place to stash this,’ she said.

‘Put it in a Swiss bank.’

‘You mean the coffee shop?’

‘Yes. You told me that Bridget’s got a couple of hiding places in the cold store.’

Natalie nodded in agreement. Then she nodded again as if the thought had led on to something else. Whatever it was, she didn’t share it. She stuffed all the cash in her bag and poured him a single malt. Better than cocoa.

She curled up next to him and said, ‘Are you sure everything’s ready for tomorrow?’

‘As ready as it’s going to be.’

She pulled the hair right back from her face. ‘I still don’t see how you’re going to get Mallinson to the coffee shop.’

She was right. That was definitely the weak point in his plan. Everything else was in place, but it wouldn’t mean a thing if Andy Mallinson was not in possession of the cocaine when the police called. ‘I’m open to suggestions,’ he said.

‘Let me do it. I’ll drop you and the girls at Flaxall Manor, then I’ll take the car to Andy’s house. I’ll follow him to whichever restaurant he’s using and I’ll sort it out.’

He sat up straight. His plan had required Natalie to be present in Lucy’s coffee shop because she was the only one who knew all the details and she had a crucial role to play at the end. If she were seen at the restaurant, or spotted elsewhere, it might make it very difficult to explain. On the other hand, no one was more determined to make this work than she was.

‘Are you sure, love?’

She nodded her head slowly. ‘Yeah. I can do this.’

‘Then we’d better get some sleep.’

She leaned over and put her arms round him, burying her head in his lap. ‘Finish your drink, first. I just want to hold you for a bit.’

Connor sipped his whisky. That was fine by him.

33

Sunday

When the lunchtime rush was over, Lucy took out the packet again. She’d been carrying it round with her ever since a courier had arrived at the coffee shop; not what she’d been expecting on a Sunday morning.

The slim packet had contained a cardboard wallet, and the wallet had contained a first class open return ticket from Manchester to Tokyo, via Dubai, bought and paid for by Holly Nugent. When Lucy had sent a you-shouldn’t-have message, Holly had replied straight back: It’s more for me and Ellie than you. Come whenever you’re ready. I’ll air the spare futon. And John says he’ll square things with Owain when you’re leaving. Pack up your troubles and fly away.

She stared at the ticket. If only it were that easy. Lucy had discovered the hard way that troubles follow you round. She was sure that Holly had found the same thing. She put the ticket carefully back in her apron and readied herself for the next customer. It was Natalie.

‘Hiya, Lucy love. Can you get me a large hot chocolate, and can I get something out of the cold room for Bridget?’ She slid a fiver towards Lucy.

‘Of course. I thought Bridge was trying not to eat ice cream at home.’

‘She is,’ said Natalie with one of her enigmatic smiles. Lucy knew her well enough to know that there was plenty going on in Nat’s head that never showed on the outside; that woman could have modelled for the Mona Lisa.

While Lucy was preparing the drink, she saw Natalie emerge from the cold room, cross to one of the tables by the Prom window and stash something under the seat. Lucy had moved on to the next customer when Nat came across to collect her drink and change.

‘Hello again,’ said the man at the counter.

He was a big bloke, with a big chest and big thighs. He also had a black eye and cuts on his face. Aah. Now I remember. ‘You’re a doorman over the road, aren’t you? You came in a couple of days ago, with Connor.’ She held out her hand. ‘It’s Lucy.’

‘I’m Kyle,’ he said, shaking her hand reluctantly.

Well he’s not going to be anonymous with those shoulders and those cuts on his face. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Pot of tea. And a …’ He turned to another man who was lurking half way between the counter and a table. ‘What do you want, Kingsley?’

‘Sparkling water. If they’ve got one.’

The other man was also familiar. He was the guy that Beanpole Fraser had been interested in, the one in the photos from Layla’s bar. He was carrying a small rucksack under his arm as if it contained the crown jewels. Lucy was tempted to take a picture of them to show to Tom, but she’d made a declaration: her café was neutral ground. She grabbed a bottle of water and made the tea. While Kyle was paying, she glanced at Natalie. Presumably Natalie knew Kyle, but she was glued to her phone, her face almost invisible.

Kyle took his tea but didn’t sit next to the other man, the one he’d called Kingsley. He went into the far corner, behind Natalie, leaving Kingsley sitting near the door. Lucy was getting worried, now. This had the look of a set-up. She called over the Sunday girl to mind the counter and went into the back to get her phone.

When she got back, another couple had come in. She glanced at them — then looked away, embarrassed. The man had some sort of chronic skin complaint. It would have been rude to stare. He had his arm protectively around the woman’s shoulders; she didn’t look so good either.

Suddenly, Lucy realised that Natalie, Kyle and Kingsley were all staring at the new couple. Lucy headed left. She was going to tackle Natalie and find out what was going on.

Before she could say anything, the door tinkled again and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Whoever had just walked in had changed the atmosphere completely. She turned round and saw a sea of red: it was Grant Benson in a replica football shirt.

The new couple had gone towards Kingsley, who took his rucksack out from under his seat.

The man with the skin complaint made a move for the rucksack, but Benson grabbed his shoulder.

‘Andy, something’s wrong,’ said Benson.

A wailing noise began outside.

‘What’s in there?’ he shouted to Kingsley.

‘I … I don’t know.’

‘Give it here.’

Benson snatched the rucksack and ripped open the top. The sirens were getting louder.

‘It’s drugs,’ said Benson. ‘Someone’s set you up.’

Lucy sensed rather than saw that Natalie had stood up and moved behind her. When Benson’s eyes scoured the café, he only saw Lucy, not Natalie or Kyle. He didn’t say another word, he just wrenched the door so hard that it jammed open, then ran down the street.

Lucy felt a thump in her back and she pitched on to the nearest table. She looked up to see Natalie marching towards the others with a long sports bag in one hand.

Natalie raked the hair away from her face and confronted the man. ‘You bastard, Andy,’ she yelled. ‘You killed Matt.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Andy. Then Lucy twigged — it must be Andrew Mallinson. She’d read about him when she was looking at the case. He looked a lot older than in the photographs, as did Claudia.

Lucy took a step forwards. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Not in here.’

Andy pushed at Natalie, but she dodged aside. She grabbed something inside the sports bag and let the cover fall to the floor. It was a hockey stick.

‘Nat, no!’ cried Lucy.

Mallinson raised his arms to defend himself. He was too slow, and he was not the target. Natalie dodged to one side and swung the hockey stick at Mallinson’s wife, aiming for the stomach. She connected with a smack, and the woman staggered backwards and fell over a chair before curling into a foetal position and trying to suck air.

Lucy dived forward to grab Natalie’s arm as she swung again. Kingsley beat her to it, putting himself in the way and taking a heavy blow to the head and shoulder. Mallinson fell on top of his wife to protect her and let out an inhuman scream. Lucy finally grabbed Natalie’s arm. Where’s Kyle? And why isn’t he helping?

Natalie stopped struggling and shouted over Lucy’s shoulder. ‘Kyle, get after Grant. He’s gonna kill Connor.’

Kyle nodded and ran through the open door, just as the police were arriving. He pushed one officer aside and jumped on to, and then over, the bonnet of their car. Then he was gone.

‘The baby!’ shouted Mallinson to the first policeman. ‘She’s losing the baby. Get an ambulance.’

Lucy pushed Natalie into the arms of a constable and grabbed the phone from her apron. The officer tried to disarm Natalie while his colleague got on the radio. Lucy dialled Tom and crossed her fingers. He answered on the first ring.

‘Hi. I’m just about to take my clothes off,’ he said, full of life. ‘Rugby match.’

‘Tom, listen. You need to ring the control room in Liverpool. Quickly. There’s been a …’

She didn’t get to finish. The policeman had handcuffed Natalie and then he saw Lucy on the phone.

‘Put that away, now,’ he ordered.

‘I’m talking to DCI Morton,’ she said.

‘Now, or you’ll be in cuffs as well.’

Lucy dropped the phone in her pocket and let her hands fall to her side.

The officer thumbed his radio. ‘This is Quebec 49. Urgent medical assistance and backup needed to Tyler Street in Southport, over.’

Claudia Mallinson was crying, then screaming with pain. Her husband gripped her hand and the policeman just stared at them. There was nothing he could do.

There was only one person in the room that Lucy could help, so she went over to Kingsley and said, ‘How’s your head?’

He looked up. There was blood streaming down from a scalp wound. ‘I don’t think it’s broken,’ he said, speaking in a daze.

Lucy moved off quickly.

‘Where are you going?’ said the policeman.

‘To get the first aid kit. It’s in the back.’

The policeman looked at Kingsley. ‘Go on,’ he said to Lucy.

As she passed through the doorway, she heard the officer talking to himself. ‘God, what a mess.’

That just about summed it up, really. Lucy grabbed the green box and pulled a handful of rubber gloves from the wall dispenser.

Elaine was enjoying her bath. She was enjoying the smell of the aromatherapy candles, the taste of champagne and the sense of anticipation. Rob would be back from the extra training session in an hour. Plenty of time. She kicked her feet, and the bubbles bobbed in the rippling water.

She was half hoping that the coach had given them a good workout, because she didn’t fancy Rob being too energetic. Between courses at last night’s dinner, he had drifted out of the banqueting hall and discreetly waved for her to follow. He had shown her just how much he missed her by demonstrating it in the VIP cloakroom. It was a long time since they’d done it standing up, and Elaine was rather sore this afternoon. She blew some of the bubbles away and grinned to herself. Doing it with the Prime Minister of France and the First Minister of Scotland in the room next door was an experience she’d probably never repeat.

She was reaching for a flannel when her phone burst into the main theme of The Magnificent Seven.

Bugger. What’s Sheriff Morton doing calling me now? On the plane over, she’d wiled away half an hour updating her ringtones, giving Tom something suitable for his new nickname.

She leaned over, dried her hand and took the call.

‘Pack your bags and get a plane. Or a train. Or hovercraft. Whatever gets you back to Southport quickest.’

‘Sir? What’s up?’ His voice sounded like he was on the hands-free in his car.

‘We left it too long. I left it too long. Someone in the Matt Cross empire has made a power play. Claudia Mallinson has been seriously assaulted. Kingsley Laidlaw is injured. Natalie Alderson is under arrest. South Lancs Constabulary are looking for Grant Benson and Connor Holden.’

She twisted the lever to start draining the bath and carefully stood up.

‘Are you still in York, sir?’

‘I’m on my way back to the Cloister to pick up my bag. Then I’m off to Southport where I will probably be thrown off the case. Damn it, Elaine, why didn’t I insist on arresting Mallinson on Friday?’

She stepped out of the bath and grabbed a towel. ‘It’s not your fault, sir. You were given a direct order from ACC Schofield.’

‘You haven’t heard the worst, yet.’

If there had been a murder, he would have said. What could be worse than what he’d described?

‘It all happened in Lucy’s café.’

‘What? Is she OK?’

‘She’s fine. She’ll be on her way to Division in a squad car to answer questions, I imagine. What a mess. Seriously, can you get over, or do you have something better to do? I can’t order you back.’

‘Yes, you can. You don’t need to apologise to me, Tom. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

‘I’ll let you go, then. Text me when you’re on your way.’

Elaine disconnected and put her phone down, then got in the shower to rinse the soap out of her hair.

Connor had taken cover behind some straw bales in Quaker’s Barn. He was only armed with a water pistol — Leroy had the cannon.

‘Bang, bang. You’re dead!’ shouted Leroy.

‘You can’t just say that,’ said Connor. ‘You’ve actually got to hit me. That’s what it’s all about.’

‘You’re too far away.’

‘Then come closer. If you can.’

There was a loud roar from the other side. As loud as small boy can get, anyway. Connor leaned around the bale and squirted at the little lad. He made sure that he missed.

‘Aaargh,’ said Leroy, squeezing his eyes shut.

From down the track, Connor heard the throaty growl of a car exhaust coming towards him. This did not sound good. He stood up to see what was going on and got soaked in the face.

‘Game’s over, pal,’ he said, leaning down and taking the water cannon from the little boy. Leroy started to protest, then he too heard the car.

Through the open doors of the barn, they saw a jet black hot hatch screech to a halt in the yard.

‘Wow!’ said Leroy.

Connor dropped the water guns and grabbed the boy. He ran outside as Kyle was getting out of the car.

‘It’s Grant,’ shouted Kyle. ‘He’s on the way, and he’s pissed as hell.’

Connor put on a spurt of speed and pushed open the farmhouse door. He put Leroy on the floor and grabbed the key from the inside of the lock. ‘Stay here, Leroy. It’s dangerous outside, OK?’ Hide under the table until me or daddy come for you. Understand?’

He pushed the boy towards the table and shut the door, locking the lad inside. Thank God that Kyle was a faster driver than Grant.

‘What’s gone wrong?’ he said.

‘I dunno,’ said Kyle. ‘It was all happening like you said it would, until Grant walked in. He grabbed the bag with the package inside and ran off. Then Natalie went mental. She smacked Mrs Mallinson with a hockey stick.’

‘You what?’

‘She shouted something to Andy about him killing Mr Cross, then she whacked his wife in the guts. Then the bizzies arrived, like you said they would. Natalie told me to warn you, and I came straight here.’

Connor didn’t have time to think before they heard Grant’s vehicle approaching. ‘Leave this to me,’ he said.

‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ said Kyle.

‘No. I’ve got one chance to sort this out. Leave it to me, Kyle. That’s an order.’

The look on Kyle’s face said that Connor Holden was about as far from being an officer in the Paras as it was possible to be. Even so, he walked backwards until he was concealed by the barn door.

Grant’s 4x4 bounced and roared into the yard, stopping in a cloud of grit. Grant flung open the door and stomped towards Connor. He flung the rucksack with the cocaine to the ground.

‘What the fuck are you playing at? This is gonna finish us off.’

‘I was doing what you wanted me to do,’ said Connor.

‘Eh?’ Grant took two steps more. There was only six feet between them now. Grant had gone redder in the face than ever. Sweat was forming all over his forehead. ‘How do you work that out?’

‘You wanted more control. You wanted vengeance for Matt. I did it. I had Andy Mallinson’s hands on a bag full of coke, and you wrecked it. You should be at the match, Grant, not taking the rap for Andy. We need to figure a way out of this.’

The red in Grant’s face turned to white-heat. He launched himself forward and Connor could only turn away. It was like trying to dodge a bomb blast.

Grant slammed into him and Connor went flying, sprawling into the dirt. He covered his head with his hands and brought his knees up to protect his groin. He knew what was coming next, and it did. Grant’s foot slammed into the small of his back. And again.

Connor gritted his teeth. His best chance of survival was to hope that Grant wanted to take his time. Kingsley Laidlaw would be screaming blue murder to the cops about his son. They would be here soon enough.

Grant’s ham hands closed on the collar of his jacket and he hauled Connor to his feet. On the way up, Connor twisted and jabbed at Grant’s eyes with his fingers. Grant had thought he was dealing with dead meat and instinctively let him go to swipe away the blow. Connor took the opportunity to stagger back.

Grant was breathing hard, hunching forwards and getting ready to charge again. From the barn came a sound Connor did not want to hear. Evidently Kyle didn’t know Laidlaw well enough, and hadn’t twigged that the bizzies were on their way.

‘Hey, Grant,’ said Kyle. ‘You’ll kill him if you’re not careful. Who’s gonna take the blame then?’

Grant wiped sweat off his face. ‘I am gonna kill him. I’m gonna smash his head to bits. And then I’m coming for you.’

‘You’d better start with me,’ said Kyle.

Connor’s kidneys were telling him that he needed a trip to A&E, pronto, but he didn’t want Kyle and Grant facing off just yet. ‘You’ve made your point, Grant. Things didn’t work out. We’ve got to move quickly if we’re going to stay out of jail.’

Grant stepped forward and jabbed at Connor’s guts. He moved to block the blow and got a smack in his head from Grant’s other fist. He dropped to his knees, and dropped his guard. Instead of finishing him off, Grant wheeled around and went for Kyle.

Kyle dodged. He swept at Grant with his foot and jabbed with his fist. He connected with Grant’s head, but all it did was bruise his knuckles. Grant grabbed Kyle’s jacket and started to bear him down. Then he stopped.

‘Jesus,’ said Grant. He let go of Kyle and clutched his chest. ‘Oh God, Jesus.’ He moaned and staggered and collapsed in a heap.

Kyle took up a position by Grant’s head. Connor climbed to his feet. His vision was blurred. He staggered over to Grant. The huge man had gone completely white. He had also stopped moving.

Kyle bent down and felt his neck. ‘He’s stopped breathing. I’m gonna do CPR.’

Connor put his hand on Kyle’s shoulder. ‘Leave him, Kyle.’

‘What? I can’t do that.’

‘Yes you can. What’s gonna happen if you succeed? Either he’ll be a cripple, or he’ll recover and kill us both later. You did the right thing before. It’s not your fault his heart gave out. Let him rest in peace.’

‘What should we do now, then?’

Connor had to sit down. Somehow, he couldn’t stand up any longer. He made sure that he wasn’t facing Grant. ‘Grab that rucksack, will you?’

Kyle did as he was told.

‘The cops are on their way. Kingsley will have told them I’m here. If you don’t get rid of that coke, we’ll go down for dealing.’

Kyle loosened the strings and pulled out the package. ‘There must be a few grands’ worth here.’

‘Four. Now get rid of it.’

‘Where?’

Connor pointed to the fields that butted up to the yard. ‘Chuck it out there, then burn the wrapper.’

Kyle lifted his trouser leg. Strapped to his calf was a combat knife. Connor made a mental note to develop a proper strategy for dealing with the new top dog in Laycross Security. Kyle ran to the start of the furrows and made a slit in the packaging. It was so windy out here that you didn’t notice it most of the time. When he held up the packet, the fine white powder was carried far away. Far too far for the forensic guys to find any.

Kyle ran back to his car, took a can of petrol from the boot and sloshed some on the plastic wrapper. In seconds, there was a furious blaze that consumed the final piece of evidence, then consumed itself. Nothing remained.

There was one more job to do, one more gap to plug. Connor hoped desperately that he wouldn’t have to make a really difficult decision. He took the farmhouse key from his pocket and offered it to Kyle.

‘Here. Go up to the window and see if Leroy has spotted anything.’

Kyle circled round to the window and peered inside. ‘Nah. I can see him under the table. Shall I let him out?’

‘God, no.’ Connor heard the sirens in the village. ‘Hey, Kyle. You better start trying CPR now.’

‘What for?’

‘If we can’t show that we’ve made an effort, they can stick us with a manslaughter charge.’

‘What if it works?’

‘Don’t try too hard.’

Everyone has their own idea of Purgatory. For some it’s the departure lounge of an airport, for others it’s the waiting room in A&E. For Tom Morton, it was roadworks. It’s Sunday tea-time, he thought. There should NOT be this much traffic on the road.

The M62 from Yorkshire through to Lancashire had been subject to major “improvements” for so long that Tom couldn’t remember what it used to be like. He’d moved half a mile in twenty minutes and had run out of things he could actually do some time ago.

He had collected his things from the Cloister in a mad dash, and Division Control in north Liverpool had rung him to say that they were now investigating a “suspicious death”. He had been told, gently but firmly, that the Divisional Commander would be in touch.

The turn-off for Bradford was almost upon him when his phone rang. ‘Yes?’

‘DCI Morton?’

‘Speaking.’

‘I have the Divisional Chief Superintendent for you. Please hold.’

Tom was now moving at twelve miles an hour. Progress, of sorts.

‘Morton? Where are you now?’

‘Stuck in roadworks near Halifax.’ (it was only a small lie). ‘I should be in Southport in ninety minutes or so.’

‘Don’t break the speed limit. There’s no rush.’

For a second, Tom thought he was about to be summarily removed from the case over the phone. Penned in by the seatbelt, the car and the traffic jam, his heart pounded with adrenaline.

‘It’s all gone quiet,’ said the Chief Super. ‘Our job’s over, now. CID can pick up the ball in the morning.’ The senior officer left it open as to whether it would be Morton who took over, and left a long enough pause so that Tom got the message. In normal circumstances, this man’s division would have investigated Matt Cross’s murder. It was a tribute to his professionalism that he was talking to Tom at all. ‘Would you like to be brought up to speed.’

‘If you could, I’d be very grateful.’

The Chief Super sighed. ‘It’s all gone quiet because, at the moment, only one crime has been committed — the assault on Mrs Claudia Mallinson. I’ll come back to that in a minute. According to witnesses, Grant Benson ran out of the coffee shop with a rucksack after saying that it was full of drugs. I understand you’re familiar with these premises. And their owner.’

Tom wasn’t going to let him get away with that. ‘If you mean the manager, then yes, Lucy White is a witness in another case. A very good witness.’

‘That’s what the police sergeant in charge thought. If Miss Alderson claims self-defence or provocation, the CPS will be heavily reliant on Miss White’s testimony to get a conviction. Mr Kingsley Laidlaw was also assaulted. He brought the rucksack to the café. He said that his son was in grave danger because Grant Benson was going after Mr Connor Holden, who was babysitting.’

‘Sorry, sir. Did you say that Holden was babysitting?’

‘Apparently. He was looking after Laidlaw’s son at Quaker’s Fold. It took a couple of minutes to confirm Laidlaw’s identity and get an area car on its way. By the time they arrived at Quaker’s Fold, they found Mr Matthews performing CPR on the body of Grant Benson.’

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir. Who’s Matthews?’

‘Kyle Matthews.’ Aah. Kyle the doorman. ‘This is where it gets very complicated. You’ll get it all in the reports, of course, but I must admit I don’t believe large chunks of what they’re saying, not until we’ve more evidence.’

Although his speed had picked up a little, Tom was still stuck in a jam. He had enough concentration to spare. ‘Go on, sir.’

‘First, both Matthews and Holden claim there was a scuffle. During the scuffle, Benson dropped dead of a heart attack. The attending physician found no evidence of anything but slight bruising on Benson, and plenty of signs of heart failure. Holden is in the hospital getting checked over. He came off much worse than Matthews or Benson. Except that he’s still alive, of course.’

A touch of humour. Maybe the Chief Super’s glad to be rid of this case after all.

The senior officer continued. ‘The rucksack contained two stones from the yard, and no drugs. Scene of Crime officers didn’t get there until it was nearly dark. It had already started to rain by then.’

‘No drugs at all?’

‘None. The only witness who claims to have seen them is Benson.’

And he’s dead, added Tom to himself.

‘I’ll give you the facts, first,’ said the voice on the phone. ‘Natalie Alderson visited a restaurant where the Mallinsons were having lunch. She gave the maître d' a large tip and asked him to pass on a message. The Message was, “Go straight to the coffee shop on Tyler Street. You have to collect a package. Grant and Connor can’t get there.” Miss Alderson then went to the coffee shop and, when the Mallinsons arrived, she dialled 999 and said that there was going to be a massive handover of drugs. The divisional patrol attended just after Grant Benson ran off. Miss Alderson then attacked the Mallinsons.’ He paused. Tom could hear paper being shuffled. ‘As I said, those are the facts. We now have five different versions of what was going on.’

‘I didn’t get an update before, sir. Could you tell me whether it’s true about Claudia Mallinson?’

The Chief Super coughed and cleared his throat. ‘Yes it is, I’m afraid. She miscarried and required emergency surgery. Andrew Mallinson is still at the hospital. He’s refused to come in voluntarily, and we can’t arrest him. Not that I’d want to, in the circumstances. His version is that he has no idea what’s going on. He called Benson on the way to the coffee shop — Benson’s phone shows a call received — and that’s all he knows. He knew Mr Laidlaw from some public meeting, apparently, and went to say hello. At that point Benson burst in, said there were drugs and ran off. Then Miss Alderson assaulted them. That’s it.’

‘Oh.’

‘Precisely. We had two minutes with him, and that’s all. The officer at the hospital couldn’t ask any further questions. Now we come to Miss Alderson. Before she started swinging the hockey stick, she accused Andrew Mallinson of murdering Matthew Cross. Is that news to you, Chief Inspector?’

‘That Natalie suspected? Yes, it is.’

‘But you’re saying nothing about Andrew Mallinson.’

Tom did indeed say nothing. That was one of his aces, and he wasn’t playing it yet.

‘Moving on,’ said the Chief Super, ‘Miss Alderson was interviewed by the duty CID officer. She got her solicitor to say that she had acted because the police had been bribed by Mr Mallinson, and that the police were failing to investigate Mr Cross’s murder properly. During the interview she said No Comment to all questions. We kept it short and told her there would be a further interview tomorrow morning, so she’s in custody.’

‘Right.’

‘As for the other three, Mr Kyle Matthews says he knows nothing. He was asked to do some driving by Connor Holden and never looked in the bag until after Benson arrived. I’m inclined to believe him.’

‘So am I.’

‘Kingsley Laidlaw says that Holden asked him to take a package to the coffee shop, but the package was placed in his rucksack without him seeing it. My sergeant says that Laidlaw is definitely scared of something or somebody.’

‘That was my impression, too, sir.’

‘Finally, Connor Holden says that Laidlaw asked him to look after the child and arrange the meeting, because Laidlaw wanted to deliver a package to Mallinson. He’s got the most to lose and the most to hide. Unfortunately, the nurse at the Divisional Station said that Holden needed medical attention, so we released him. He hasn’t been arrested yet. After all, Morton, we’ve got nothing to arrest him for.’

‘Child neglect?’

‘Hah! Holden told the boy to hide under the table, then locked him in the house. Perfectly reasonable actions. The little lad saw nothing. Probably for the best.’

Something was working at the back of Tom’s mind. He might just have an angle here, thanks to Holden. ‘I’m very grateful for your time, sir. That’s been a big help.’

‘All of this is sitting in ACC Schofield’s inbox. It’s up to him, now. Safe journey, Morton.’

The Chief Superintendent disconnected just as Tom passed the last cone. He dodged in to the fast lane and accelerated. His onboard computer spoke up in its robot voice.

‘A message has been received. From Elaine. Message begins. Got flight. Land Manchester eighteen hundred. See you later. Elaine. Message ends.’

Tom checked his mirrors and put his foot down.

It had been a long time since Connor had been in this much trouble. This was worse than when Alexis had thrown him out, worse than when she’d first caught him cheating, worse than when he’d been arrested for possession with intent to supply. If he wasn’t careful (and lucky), he could lose everything: one of his kidneys, his job, Natalie, his money, all his friends and his flat. When he pulled up to the gates of Flaxall Manor, he realised that what he feared most was never seeing Pippa and Zara again.

The press hadn’t caught up with the story, yet, and the road outside the Manor was clear. He tried the remote control on his keyring, but the gates remained firmly closed. If Layla was at home, she must have activated the override. He crossed his fingers before he pressed the buzzer. He also closed his eyes, because he wanted to concentrate on the speaker’s voice.

‘Who’s that?’ It was Layla who answered.

‘It’s me. Connor.’

‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in jail?’

‘I should be in hospital. They wanted to keep me in for observation and a scan tomorrow.’

It was the moment of truth. Was Layla more concerned about what had happened to him, or what had happened to Claudia?

‘What for?’

He uncrossed his fingers and breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps it was the presence of his daughters that had done the trick. ‘I don’t want to broadcast it. Let me in and I’ll tell you.’

‘I’m not letting you in until I’ve heard from Grant. I’ve been trying to get hold of him all afternoon. God knows what you and Natalie have been up to.’

‘Have you really not heard?’

‘About what?’

‘Let me in, Layla. I’ll stand in the flower bed and tell you through the window if you think I’m a threat. Don’t forget, you’ve got my children in there.’

The intercom clicked off and the gates clicked open. They swung slowly back, and Connor eased himself into his car. No way was he walking down to the house tonight, so he drove right up to the front door. Layla was waiting for him.

He didn’t give her the chance to speak first. As soon as he’d got out, he said, ‘What have you told the girls?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing. As soon as Andy called me, I told Tasmin to keep them off the Internet. It seems to have worked so far. What’s going on? Has Grant been arrested? I can’t get hold of Grant, Andy’s switched his phone off and Ross Carlton knows nothing either. What’s going on, Connor, for God’s sake? I’m losing my mind.’

He realised that he couldn’t do this outside and stand up at the same time. His back wouldn’t let him. He limped round the corner to where he knew there was a bench and collapsed on to it. He took out his cigarettes and lit one. Layla followed him reluctantly.

‘You really do look rough. I hope it hurts.’

‘More than childbirth, according to the doc. She should know, she’s had two. Sit down, girl. This is gonna take a while.’

‘I haven’t got time, Connor. Spit it out.’

‘Grant did this to me. Down at Quaker’s Fold. He’d just got started when he had a heart attack.’

Layla’s hand flew to her mouth with an intake of breath. ‘Is he all right?’

He shook his head. ‘No. It was instant. Kyle was trying to keep him off me — to save my life, basically. Grant just dropped dead.’

She stood there like one of the statues in the garden — beautiful and tragic all at the same time. He took a moment to admire how good she still looked in the right lighting, then crushed out his cigarette. ‘I’ve got to go where it’s warm. Please.’

He held out a hand, partly for sympathy and partly because he needed it to get up. She helped him stand then went ahead. He followed her into the sitting room. There was no sound from upstairs.

Layla had already taken her seat by the fire. ‘Drink?’ she asked.

‘For once, I really can’t. The less I eat and drink, the better.’

He took a seat opposite her, the one he’d had on the night Matt was found. She wasn’t in shock, not quite. He gave her a second to focus, then leaned forward.

‘Did Andy say why Nat attacked him?’ he asked.

‘She attacked Claudia.’

‘Only because Andy dodged out of the way. We were in on this together, Nat and me. Not to hit anyone, but to catch them out. You might not believe me, not yet, but it’s true. Your brother killed Matt. He was in it with Grant.’

Layla surged forward and stood up. ‘You bastard! How dare you come here and accuse my brother of murder after what your tart did to Claudia?’

Connor sat where he was. He leaned back just enough to make eye contact. ‘Ask him, Layla. Ask him why he’s been avoiding you since Matt was killed. Ask him about the land at Quaker’s Fold. Ask him what he and Grant were planning to do to that UGAS terminal. Ask him to his face. Why do you think Grant was trying to kill me? It wasn’t to avenge Claudia.’

He had to put his hand on the coffee table to stand up. ‘I’m gonna take the girls home, now.’ He limped around the settees and got a glimpse of the torture on Layla’s face.

Half way to the door, he heard her speak. ‘Grant wouldn’t hurt Matt.’

He paused for a second, not turning round. ‘If it’s any comfort, I don’t think he did. He just decided that Andy was the future, not you and me.’

He stood in the great hall and shouted until someone appeared at the gallery. He was in too much pain to take the stairs.

Lucy was standing in the middle of a mess of fingerprint powder, broken crockery and shattered dreams. There were spatters of blood from Kingsley Laidlaw’s head, but nothing to mark the spot where Claudia Mallinson had collapsed. Lucy would never forget the look in that poor woman’s eyes. It was like staring into the pit of Hell and watching Claudia’s soul falling to the bottom.

The painful silence was broken by someone banging on the door. Lucy flinched, expecting another reporter. There had been several, shouting through the glass and trying to take pictures through the shutters. She sneaked a peek and relaxed, then stiffened: it was Bridget. Would she blame Lucy for what had happened to Natalie?

Bridget slipped in and threw her arms around Lucy. ‘Ohmygoditsallmyfault,’ she sobbed.

Lucy almost buckled under the force (and weight) of Bridget’s onslaught. She struggled to hook out a chair and eased her deputy manager down gently. This is what a naked Gorrigan looks like, she thought. For the first time, Bridget’s face was clean of all cosmetics. It was like talking to a different person. She was even wearing jeans.

‘It’s my fault,’ repeated Bridget. Lucy didn’t know what to say, and there was no alcohol in the shop, so she sat down and put her arm round Bridget’s shoulder.

‘I told her,’ said Bridget. ‘I told her about the hockey stick.’

‘It was yours? What were you doing with that in the cold store?’ It was the one detail Lucy had fudged in her statement. She was fairly sure that Natalie had picked up the weapon from the cold store, but she hadn’t wanted her premises turned over by forensics.

‘I never told you, did I?’

‘About the hockey stick? No, you didn’t.’

‘No. About how I met Natalie. I’ve known her a long time, on and off.’ Bridget opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind. Instead of answering her own question, she said, ‘When I was acting manager, I had to do some shifts on my own. Especially in the summer, we opened late for ice-cream. I kept the hockey stick for protection. I put it right away when you started.’

The door opened, and Lucy cursed herself for not locking it after admitting Bridget. Then again, she hadn’t had a chance. She looked up and bit her lip. It was Tom, followed by Elaine. Both looked like they’d travelled a long way.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Tom.

‘I’m fine,’ said Lucy. ‘How’s Claudia Mallinson? No one would tell me at the police station.’

Bridget had looked up and was following the conversation. Tom registered her presence and shook his head, a set, grim expression on his face. ‘Not good,’ he said. ‘She lost the baby and she’s had to have major surgery to stop the bleeding.’

Lucy bit her knuckle to stop the pain. She saw Claudia’s eyes again and shook her head.

‘What about Natalie?’ said Bridget.

‘Miss Alderson is in custody,’ said Tom.

‘Will … will she get her methadone?’ said Bridget, blood rushing to her white cheeks.

‘I’ve checked the custody notes,’ said Tom. ‘She hasn’t declared any medical issues.’

Bridget looked stunned. ‘You knew?’

‘Your friend is an addict, Miss Gorrigan. Addicts will do anything to get what they want.’

Tom moved to allow Elaine further into the room. When he spoke again, the light caught his eyes differently. There was a little gleam of red in them. Probably a reflection from the coffee machine.

‘She is under arrest for one of the most serious assaults I’ve come across, and definitely the most serious by a woman.’

Bridget stood up and shook herself, then she took a step towards Tom. In the half light, Lucy imagined the Angel of Death getting ready for work.

‘Natalie’s a victim,’ said Bridget. ‘She’s a victim of far worse crimes than she’s ever committed. She’s got no one right now except me. I’m not going to abandon her.’

‘She’s got Mr Holden,’ said Tom. ‘He hasn’t abandoned her either. I’ll make sure she gets a chance to put her side of the story.’

‘And I’ll be watching your every move,’ said Bridget. It didn’t mean anything, but it came from the heart. Tom let it go by with a nod.

‘Are you planning to open tomorrow?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Lucy. ‘I’ve got no choice if I want the business to continue.’

He nodded. ‘Will you be here, Miss Gorrigan?’

‘Yes. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Good. I’ll arrange for PC Vicki Higham to be here for a few hours. Say, from eight until twelve? I can’t afford any more than that, but it should give you enough breathing space to deal with the initial onslaught.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ said Lucy. ‘It can’t be any worse than when you arrested my father, can it?’

Elaine had kept her poker face on until that point, then cracked a smile. Did Lucy see a gentle nudge from her in Tom’s back? He said a very formal goodbye and they left.

Lucy locked the door behind them. ‘Right, Bridget. We need to take our mind off all this. Are you up to a spot of cleaning? I don’t want to deal with this in the morning.’

‘Keep going,’ said Bridget. ‘That’s what they told me.’ She got up and walked over to the cleaning cupboard.

Who’s “They”? And why did they need to tell you to keep going? She shrugged and started to pile the dirty cups on to a tray.

34

Monday

The scales in the mini-gym at the Duke of Edinburgh had a sticker on them declaring that they’d been calibrated last month. This gave Elaine some confidence that she really had lost four pounds since she’d started to get in shape. She was still going to have a healthy breakfast, though.

She took her bowl of granola back to the table and found Tom, suited and booted, ordering the Full English.

‘Sir. I thought you were supposed to be in Warrington at eight o’clock.’

‘I got a call from Schofield at ten past seven. I’m still in charge.’

‘Well done.’ She put down her measly bowl. ‘Did he say why, other than the fact that you have a very talented DC working for you.’

‘Hah. Don’t push it. Schofield’s got what he wanted — by the end of this week, either we’ll have enough evidence to charge Mallinson, or he can send us packing and blame it all on Grant Benson. He also wants me in charge to act as a lightning rod. When we arrest Mallinson, he’s going to complain to everyone that we allowed Natalie to assault his wife and that we’re persecuting him.’ He shrugged, as if all that grief were part of the job.

On the flight from France last night, Elaine had been turning things over in her head. ‘There could be another reason,’ she suggested. ‘Schofield told you to back off from Mallinson, and he did it in front of witnesses.’

A very large breakfast was delivered to Tom. Elaine’s stomach rumbled in protest.

‘A good point,’ he said with a smile. ‘Is office politics part of your coursework? If it is, you’ve passed.’

She munched some granola. It did nothing to combat the smells wafting over from Tom’s full English.

Tom was thinking out loud. ‘If Schofield had tried to take me off the case…’

‘…us,’ said Elaine. ‘On this one, we’re a team, sir. Don’t shut me out.’

‘That’s very nice of you, Elaine, but I have a duty of care towards your career.’

She was going to bite her lip, then changed her mind. ‘It’s a bit late for that. The best thing you can do for my “career” right now is to stick in there and have me at your side when you charge Andrew Mallinson. Have you spoken to Leonie?’

‘I’ve left a message. I’ve also sent a message to Juliet Porterhouse. She’s on her way back this morning. Juliet might be a valuable ally if I need some good publicity to prove to Leonie that CIPPS has actually won. Even if we lose.’

Elaine couldn’t take it any more. She flagged down a passing waiter and ordered a bacon sandwich. Tom smirked. Just a little.

‘Are you going to take the briefing?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘No. I talked it through with Phil last night, and he’s the best person to lead the search and seizure operation. Vicki’s tied up at the coffee shop. I need Hazel out at Flaxall Manor to look Layla in the eye. They don’t need me to say that.’

Elaine had noticed that his summary hadn’t included her, nor had it said what he was actually going to do. She wondered if this were a good thing or not. ‘Go on, Tom. What have you dreamed up for me?’

‘I said I had a duty of care for your career. You’re going to prepare an interview strategy for Natalie Alderson. She’s being brought over this morning. You might be glad of the bacon sandwich by the time you’ve finished writing it all up in duplicate. For your coursework.’

If there had been any spare space, it would have been a good idea to move the Operation Meteor incident room to Ormskirk hospital. Somewhere in the sprawling buildings, Connor Holden was getting a CT scan, Kingsley Laidlaw was getting his head wound dressed and Claudia Mallinson was recovering from surgery, attended by her husband.

Tom had two jobs to do before getting back to the Tombs, one of them at Ormskirk and the other down in Liverpool. His first job was to deal with Andrew Mallinson.

The Divisional Commander had left a uniformed officer on duty at the hospital overnight. Tom found him in the car park, about to go home, and asked where Mallinson was.

‘He spent the night in the chair next to his wife’s bed. Poor bloke. Poor woman.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘To me? Nothing. No insults, nothing. I kept my distance.’

‘At least you’re a familiar face. Can you do one last job for me? Take me to the ward and get him out of the room.’

The officer looked distinctly unhappy about this. Tom gave him a moment to reflect on the fact that a Chief Inspector was asking him politely. The officer made up his mind and trudged back towards the main entrance. On the way to the lift, Tom asked if anyone were coming to replace him.

‘It’s not a priority for us.’

That was clear enough: you’re on your own, Morton, and you can provide the manpower. ‘How do you get on with the hospital security?’

‘Well enough. The senior supervisor is ex-job. In a good way.’

They arrived at the ward during staff handover. If Tom wanted to commit a crime in a hospital, that’s exactly when he would do it. No one even noticed their presence. He found a quiet corner and waited. Two minutes later, the ghost of Andrew Mallinson shivered down the corridor. The solicitor had looked ill before; now he looked absolutely dreadful. Tom forced himself not to look away from the outburst of lesions on Mallinson’s head and the bright red rim around his eyes. He didn’t try to shake hands.

‘What?’ said Mallinson. ‘I told you, I’m not making a statement until Claudia has been discharged.’

Tom held out an envelope. ‘These are search warrants for your house, offices and other properties listed. The warrants have been granted in connection with the murder of Matthew Cross.’

Mallinson’s white face compressed itself into a mask of hatred as blood rushed to the surface. He snatched the envelope and tore it open. Something in his eyes, just a flicker, told Tom that Phil Dunn would find no evidence at any of those addresses.

Mallinson didn’t look up. He stuffed the papers in his pocket and walked away. Tom knew that he had one chance to unlock the puzzle. If he didn’t find the right key today, it might all be over. He deliberately gave his skin graft a rub, for luck, then headed for the exit. He stopped at the security office to have a word with the supervisor, and caught his first lucky break — genuine, random luck, that is, and not the sort of luck you have to work for. The supervisor was a long-time supporter of Salton Town FC and had rejoiced when Tom’s actions had cleared their star defender of murder. He shook Tom’s hand enthusiastically and readily agreed to Tom’s request.

‘Of course I’ll keep an eye on Mr Mallinson. I’ll make sure patrols go through that ward every quarter of an hour.’

‘Have you got the manpower? If you need an extra body, send the bill to me.’

‘Even better. I can put someone in scrubs.’

‘Scrubs?’

‘A plain-clothes guard would still stick out in a hospital. We’re authorised to dress up as one of the staff if we have reasonable grounds. I’d say this was reasonable. Mallinson won’t know he’s under observation. Here, take this card with my number on it.’

Tom returned to his car. Before he could try his strategy for unlocking the case, there was another job to do. He set his Satnav for the pathology suite in Liverpool and checked in with Isabelle. His carefully laid plans had already started to unravel, it seemed.

‘Vicki had to break up a fight at the coffee shop,’ said Isabelle. ‘Miss White was busily saying nothing to everyone and doing a roaring trade, apparently. Then some journalist asked Miss Gorrigan if Natalie Alderson were still working as a prostitute, and was the coffee shop a brothel.’

‘What?’

‘I know. Before Lucy could say, “You’re barred,” Miss Gorrigan laid into the journalist with a mop. It’s already on Youtube. Vicki says that the journalist agreed not to press charges for assault after she threatened him with a charge for public order offences. The other hacks cleared off after that.’

‘Good. Any more?’

‘Yes. Hazel couldn’t get in to Flaxall Manor. Layla Cross said that she was taking her kids to school then going to work, because there was no one else left. She’s got a point.’

It was true. Everyone from the Laycross empire was dead, in hospital or grieving.

‘What do you want Hazel to do?’ asked Isabelle.

‘Tell her to mark Elaine’s homework then get ready to relieve Vicki at the coffee shop.’

‘Is that wise, sir?’

‘Ring Lucy White and tell her it’s Hazel or nobody. Thanks, Isabelle.’ He disconnected the call and put the Miserere on his car stereo.

For behold thou hast loved truth: the uncertain and hidden things of thy wisdom thou hast made manifest to me.

Tom had spent several hours on the files last night, and although there was much that was uncertain, at least one hidden truth had been made manifest: Connor Holden, the lying, conniving, slippery little Scouse Git had a weakness. Well, clearly he had a weakness for anything willing in a skirt, preferably younger than him, but that wasn’t how Tom planned to nail the bastard.

Dr Jepson was already at work on Grant Benson when Tom arrived for the post-mortem.

‘Don’t bother to suit up,’ he said. ‘I know you’re busy, but this isn’t murder.’

‘Are you sure?’

Jepson lowered his bloody hands. ‘This is science. I can give you facts for free, but you want interpretation. No one’s ever sure of interpretations. Go and stand over there for two minutes.’

Tom stood behind the splatter-screen and tried not to listen to the sucking sounds emanating from Benson’s chest.

‘Thought so,’ said Jepson. ‘Take a look.’

Tom fastened his suit jacket and put his hands behind his back as he approached the table. Even in death, Benson was huge.

‘He’d stopped looking after himself properly,’ said the pathologist. ‘See here, and here. A lot of muscle, yes, but increasing amounts of fat. The exertion triggered a massive heart attack. See?’

Tom nodded. The cooked breakfast made its presence felt, and he didn’t want an anatomy lesson: the sooner he got out, the better.

Jepson replaced some tissue in the chest cavity. ‘If emergency paramedics had got to him quickly, he might have recovered. I am now going to spend the rest of the day proving the bleeding obvious.’

‘Thanks, doctor.’

‘It’s Mike.’

As Tom left the room, Mike gave a parting shot. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Tom.’

The drive back to the Tombs gave him time to recover, and to discover that Phil Dunn was getting nowhere.

At least Elaine had been busy. ‘Was Hazel any use with the interview strategy?’ he asked her.

‘She was, especially on questions of intent. Will it count towards my coursework if Natalie says nothing?’

‘Thankfully we don’t need her co-operation for you to be an accredited interviewer. It’s the questions that are important, not her answers. I’m going to stay behind you and say nothing at all. After you.’

Natalie had been in the interview room with a prisoner escort for over an hour before they were ready. Elaine led the way to the interview room and breezed in, dismissing the prisoner escort. Natalie was biting her nails and her right leg was jigging up and down. Sweat had already started to form on her face; her dirty-blonde hair just looked dirty. Withdrawal from opiates can be a terrible thing.

Elaine gave him a sideways look with a raised eyebrow. Tom nodded towards Natalie and Elaine began the interview by repeating Natalie’s rights and asking about legal representation.

‘Don’t need it,’ said Natalie. ‘I heard on the way over. You’ve started tossing Mallinson’s property. Just make sure you nail the bastard.’

Elaine was taken aback, but rallied. ‘For the record, you are declining legal representation.’

Natalie’s foot tapped faster. She tried to stop it with her hand. ‘I am.’

‘Do you have any medical needs?’

Natalie shook her head. Elaine asked her to say it out loud. ‘No. And that’s my last word.’

It was. Elaine began the interview. Natalie began to pick at a scar on her arm. She didn’t even say “No Comment” today, she just sat there. Twice, Elaine looked at Tom for guidance. Twice, he pointed to her notebook. Elaine cleared her throat and pressed on. Finally, it was over, and Elaine stopped the tapes.

‘Turf it to Division,’ said Tom.

‘Sir?’ Elaine pointed to Natalie. She wasn’t happy having this conversation in front of their prisoner.

Natalie had retreated into a world of her own, rubbing herself, looking for a window, beating a tattoo on the table.

‘Send the papers to the CPS, then ring the duty sergeant at Division. They answered the call, they can put the charges to the prisoner when the escort gets her back to HQ.’

Tom picked up his file and left the room, desperate to get the stench of addiction out of his nostrils. He passed the file to Isabelle in the corridor and headed outside for a breath of air. A squad car pulled into the car park and the uniformed driver lowered the window.

‘DCI Morton?’

Tom showed his warrant card.

‘I’ve brought Mr Laidlaw from the hospital to make a statement. Can I leave him with you, sir?’

‘Of course. Thanks.’

Tom opened the door and stood back. Laidlaw’s head had several scalp stitches in a line. ‘I hope that feels better than it looks,’ said Tom.

‘At least I’m still alive,’ said Laidlaw. He looked more troubled than ever.

When the squad car had left the car park, Tom made no move towards the Tombs. ‘What happened?’ he said. ‘Completely off the record, Mr Laidlaw. You’re not really part of that gang. Not yet. I’m not going to charge you with anything, but I’ve still got a hell of a mess to sort out.’

‘You wouldn’t believe me,’ said Laidlaw.

‘Try me.’

Laidlaw shivered and raised his hand to his scalp, feeling the wound gingerly. Tom wondered if Laidlaw would forever be touching it, just like Tom kept touching his arm.

‘Connor Holden threatened me,’ said Laidlaw. ‘He threatened my boy, too, only he was very careful about it.’

‘No witnesses, you mean.’

Laidlaw shook his head. ‘Not just that, he had an incentive for me as well. He said that Grant Benson wanted to blow up the UGAS terminal. He said that Benson wanted to buy a detonator. Believe it or not, that’s what happened.’

Tom thought of Andrew Mallinson’s desperation for money, of the fact that Benson seemed to have allied himself with Mallinson, probably leaving Connor out in the cold. Connor had made friends with Kyle Matthews and staged — or tried to stage — a coup d’état.

‘I believe you,’ he said, ‘but don’t put it in your statement. That’s a very useful piece of information, Kingsley. I won’t forget what you’ve done. Go in and get warm.’

‘In there? Only if you’ve bought some more heaters.’

Tom held his arm out to usher Kingsley towards the door. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea myself.’

Word was getting around: Giuseppe’s Gelateria was no longer a tranquil haven. Already this morning, the average age of the customers had dropped twenty years. Lucy was getting very worried that she might alienate her core customer base without finding a permanent new one. And now she had to face Hazel Bloody Cotton. Bugger.

The detective didn’t slink through the door, she breezed up to the counter with a, ‘Hiya, Lucy, y’all right?’

Lucy wanted to hit her. The last time she’d shown her face, she had looked almost respectable. Today she looked like she was dressed for a scrum in the January sales. Lucy was going to tell her that the Naughty Corner was over by the window, then she realised that nothing she said to this woman would make a blind bit of difference: it would all be water off a duck’s back.

Lucy took a deep breath. ‘What would you like?’

Hazel nodded. ‘That’s the spirit, girl. Life’s too short, eh? I’ll have a large cappuccino, please.’ Then Hazel turned her back to the counter and raised her voice. ‘Right, you lot. I’m a police officer. Any questions, I’ll be in the corner. Now leave this poor girl alone to make a living. I’m not talking to anyone until they’ve spent at least ten pounds, OK? And tell your friends to come along. The more the merrier.’ She turned back to Lucy. ‘I’m paying for my drink, but I’ll need a receipt. You know what Tom’s like about paperwork.’

Lucy shook her head. How does she do it?

By three o’clock it was clear that Phil Dunn and the search teams had drawn a blank. There was no physical evidence to link Andrew Mallinson to the murder of Matthew Cross. Tom summoned Elaine to his office and rang the landline at Lucy’s café. Hazel answered the phone.

Why am I surprised? I shouldn’t be surprised by anything that woman does any more.

‘Will Miss White be okay without you?’ he asked.

‘Lucy will be fine. She went out for a bit and managed to coax Bridget back to work. Said she found her up to her arms in bleach, whatever that means. I think they’re over the worst, Boss.’

‘Good. Phone home and make some arrangements, Hazel. I need your special expertise.’

‘Why do I not like the sound of that?’

‘Holden’s ex-wife is out of town. I need to pull him in at the school gate, and I need an appropriate adult to look after his girls. You’re an expert on teenage girls, or so you keep telling me.’

‘Hang on, Boss, I think I might know someone else who can help.’

Before Tom could tell her that he didn’t want anyone else, the phone clunked down on the counter and he heard Hazel talking to someone. She picked it up and said, ‘Sorted, Boss. I’ll see you at Coastal Academy in twenty minutes.’

‘What was that all about?’ asked Elaine.

‘I have no idea. That woman is an enigma wrapped inside a sicknote.’

‘That’s your worst mixed metaphor today. You must be feeling better. Sir.’

He grabbed his coat. ‘Have you ever thought of Special Branch, Constable.’

‘You what, sir?’

He marched down the corridor. ‘You’ll see.’

They could barely get near the school for parents and buses waiting for their children. Tom drove up to Reception and squeezed his BMW in to the No Waiting zone next to Hazel’s car. When he opened the doors, he realised what Hazel had been doing in the café — standing next to her was Bridget Gorrigan. How…?

‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said Hazel. ‘Miss Gorrigan knows the girls and has looked after them before. I’ll take them all home, then head off myself. I believe that Mr Holden is already outside the gates.’

Neat. Very neat. Tom couldn’t argue with a thing. Elaine shook her head in wonder.

‘Fine,’ said Tom. ‘Just remember, you’re responsible until they’re safely at home.’

Bridget interrupted. ‘I’m not doing this for you, Inspector. I’m doing so that Connor has one less thing to worry about. Then we can concentrate on getting Natalie out. Understand?’

‘Understood. But thank you, anyway.’ He walked out of reception and waited until he and Elaine were alone. ‘Are you ready?’

‘For what?’

‘When I bang on Holden’s car window, I want you to look like you’re armed.’

‘Are you losing the plot, sir?’

‘Probably. Is that his car over there?’

‘I think so.’

Tom led the way.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ asked Alexis, over the phone.

Connor had closed his eyes the better to picture her. He knew the tone well: a mixture of genuine concern for his wellbeing, fury that he’d got himself in another mess and disappointment that it had happened again.

‘I am at the moment, yeah, because I’m sitting in the car. I’m not half glad we got them heated seats.’

She laughed. The car’s audio system made it sound like she was next to him. ‘That’s your car, Connor, not ours. Not that there is an “our car” any more. Unless you meant “Me and Natalie” when you said “We”.’

‘Ouch, Alex, and that wasn’t me back hurting. I’m very worried about Nat.’

‘But not so worried that you’d desert the girls and chase off to get her out of prison. I wonder if Natalie got the best deal? At least I don’t have to worry about you screwing around any more.’

Double ouch! Alexis knew how to kick a man when he was down. Mind you, she’d had plenty of practice, and plenty of reason to practise. The sharp dig had made him open his eyes. The clock said that the school would be kicking out soon.

‘Are you sure your mum’s fit to travel?’

‘Yes. We’re only waiting on the medication now, though God knows, that could take another hour. She’s going mental about everything, Connor. She just wants to get home. I’m going to have to do a lot of looking after her, and the girls, and go back to work. You make sure you stay out of jail, d’you hear? Bruised kidneys or no bruised kidneys, you’ve got to do your bit.’

Connor was sitting up, adrenaline rushing through his system. During Alex’s speech, he had spotted DCI Morton and his sidekick striding towards him, and they’d come from the school reception.

‘You can rely on me. Oh, here they come,’ he lied. ‘Keep me posted.’ He disconnected the call and tried to calm down.

Morton and Fraser turned out of the gate. The waiting parents scattered like cubs when the alpha male is on the prowl, turning to watch the show after they’d passed. Morton came up to his window and Fraser stood in front of the bonnet, feet planted in the brace position. Connor lowered his window.

‘Good afternoon, Inspector,’ he said quickly.

Morton leaned towards the opening. Something red flashed in his eyes. Perhaps it was a reflection from the paintwork.

‘Get out of the car, Holden. You’re coming with us.’

‘Hang on there, pal. I’m here to collect my daughters. And I only came out of hospital this morning…’

Morton was ignoring him. He shoved his warrant card through the window. ‘See? It says Metropolitan police, doesn’t it? I’m sure your friends have looked me up. They’ll have told you about Operation Jigsaw.’ He paused.

Connor found that his mouth had gone very dry. He nodded. He did not like the way this was going. At all.

‘Then you know that I’ve dealt with harder men than you, though maybe not slipperier ones.’ Morton gave him a humourless smile. ‘Have you read the Terrorism Act 2006? No? It allows me to take you away for twenty-eight days and lock you in a dark hole without a solicitor.’

His back spasmed and his bowels churned. Connor clung on to the hope that this was a big bluff. Then he thought of Kingsley Laidlaw, bashed around the head and out of his depth. He would have blabbed, no question. Laidlaw would have wasted no time telling Morton about the “bomb”.

‘Give me the keys and get out of the car. Slowly,’ said Morton. ‘Don’t make any sudden moves or DC Fraser will take action.’

Morton pointed to the hard-faced red-jacketed detective who hadn’t moved a muscle since she took up position in front of the car. She unzipped the jacket and slipped her right hand inside, resting it on something. My God, she’s got a gun, he thought. Headlines flashed out from his memory: Police shoot unarmed man in car … again.

The hand came back through his window, palm up. Connor slowly took out the key and gave it to Morton, who stepped back, clicked the locks and pulled the door open. ‘Get out. Slowly.’

He’d been sitting down too long. He couldn’t move. He saw Fraser’s hand go further inside her jacket. He jerked his legs out of the car and seized the top of the door and the pillar. With a Herculean effort, he dragged himself upright, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. Hands grabbed him and he was swung round. He staggered, and they thrust him against the car. Handcuffs snapped on to his wrists.

‘Oh, shit, me back,’ he stammered, waves of pain radiating from his kidneys. ‘I can’t walk like this.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Fraser. ‘We’ll give you a hand.’

She tucked her arm into his, and Morton did the same. They supported him and pushed him forwards, towards the school.

‘What you doin’, eh? Where are we goin’?’

The detectives said nothing. As they approached the school, he could see Bridget standing in reception with that Family Liaison copper, one on either side of Pippa and Zara. He tried to smile at his girls but it came out as a death’s head grin. He could see that Zara was already in tears.

They stopped at a black BMW and Morton released his arm to unlock it. He opened the back door and Fraser shoved him inside. If you’ve ever seen TV coppers trying to protect a prisoner’s head, don’t believe it. Real bizzies are more concerned that you don’t mess up their upholstery. Fraser slammed the door and they got in the front.

‘Aren’t you gonna fasten me seat belt?’ he said.

Morton started the engine. Fraser turned round and said, ‘I’m sure DCI Morton will try not to crash.’ She looked at him, still lying on his side across the back seat. As Morton reversed the car, she leaned back and hauled him upright. ‘There you go. Don’t say we don’t have your welfare at heart.’

Will the real Inspector Morton please stand up? Had little Lucy White fallen for the sweet-talking posh boy or the thug underneath? Both, probably. As for Fraser, who could possibly fancy a piece of that?

He tried to find something to cheer himself up. By the time Morton had driven slowly through the hordes of kids, he realised that there was nothing in his present situation which looked remotely positive. Strangely, it was Morton who gave him the first glimmer of hope.

The senior detective stopped in the middle of the road, stuck on his hazard flashers and got out of the vehicle. He’d come to a halt next to Connor’s car, and he took the trouble to raise the window and lock it. If they’re bothered about a car, they’re not taking me away for a beating. When Morton got back in, he tossed the keys over his shoulder. They landed in Connor’s lap, then slid to the floor.

He kept his mouth shut and tried to focus on staying upright as the car swung through bends and over roundabouts. Instead of heading for the nick, they turned right and took the coast road. In minutes they were at the edge of town, then down towards the holiday camp. Morton took the road to nowhere — nowhere except the beach. He barely slowed down as he passed the barrier and warning signs, then they were on the sand.

There is a small car park marked out on the beach, quickly full on anything like a sunny day. Today, with the light going, it was empty. Morton finally stopped the car right at the edge. All that Connor could see was the level sands stretching away to a distant sea and a grey sky. He’d have preferred to be in the Tombs: at least someone would hear him scream there.

As one, the coppers got out. Morton opened the back door and Fraser grabbed his jacket, heaving him out of the warm car and into the bitter sea wind. She span him round again and unfastened the handcuffs. She stood back and folded her arms. Connor had no physical reserves left. He had to lean back against the car or fall over. When the pain had subsided enough for him to speak, he said, ‘Why have you brought me here? It’s bloody freezing.’

‘The wind,’ said Morton. ‘It’s too loud for us to record you. Nothing you say here can be proved.’

‘You don’t need a recording. If two of you swear it, they jury will believe anything.’

Morton brushed aside his comment with a sweep of his (gloved) hand. They were much better wrapped up than he was.

‘It’s for your benefit, not ours,’ said Morton. ‘Nothing you say will be on paper, so no defence brief can say where we got our information.’

‘You want me to be a grass, is that it? Why should I do that?’

‘Because we both want the same thing: Andrew Mallinson in jail for murdering Matt Cross. I know Natalie wants it, and you must want it, too. For different reasons, I suspect.’

That’s a turn-up, and no mistake. Connor’s mind whirled at the change of direction. Without knowing how, his packet of cigarettes appeared in his hand. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked.

Fraser snorted; Morton just jerked his head. Connor used the time it took to get a flame going to think about what to say. He decided to clear the ground first. ‘How do I know you won’t just stick me in a dark hole with a load of ISIS bombers?’

Morton nodded, as if he’d asked the right question. ‘Two reasons. First, Laidlaw said you were against the bomb plot. Second, with Benson dead, I might not get Mallinson. Believe me, Holden, I will put you away if I have to, but I’d rather see Mallinson on trial for murder. Your choice.’

So the play-acting was over, and it was down to business.

Connor nodded to himself. ‘There’s a problem here. You’ve got nothing on him, have you?’ He paused to let the others reply. Both of them kept a poker face, which was as good as admitting it. ‘The trouble is, neither have I. You’re right about one thing, Morton: I want him banged up as much as you do, and yes, part of that is because Matt was a good friend. The only thing I know about that you don’t is the tracker.’

‘What? I can’t hear you.’

‘The tracker. Andy planted a tracker in Matt’s car. Or he got someone to plant it. I found it a few days ago.’

‘What did you do with it?’

One of the unwritten rules of talking to the police is that you are allowed to grass up a corpse. Connor had no worries about letting the bizzies know what Grant had been up to.

‘I gave it to Grant. When he said that he’d “dealt with it”, I knew that he’d stopped worrying about who’d killed Matt and teamed himself up with Andy.’ Connor shook his head in disgust at the betrayal. He and Grant could have been a good team. With Layla in the background, of course.

‘What about Claudia?’ said Morton. ‘How big a role do you think she’s played in all this?’

‘Very little. Probably.’ A little terrier of guilt nipped at his conscience. Not even Claudia deserved what Natalie had done to her. Andy, yes, but not Claudia. ‘She’s an estate agent, don’t forget. They never do anything themselves, do they?’

Morton broke eye contact for a second. Did he have an estate agent for a brother, or something? He came back to the present and looked at his sidekick.

‘The gun,’ said Fraser. ‘Do you know if Mallinson had a gun before?’

‘If he did, I’ve never seen or heard of it. He always borrowed one of Matt’s, is what I’ve heard.’

‘Do you know who might have sold it to him? Don’t worry, we’ll keep your name well out of it.’

Connor had been thinking about this on and off since they’d realised that Andy was the murderer. ‘That’s the thing,’ he said. ‘I don’t know of anyone. He won’t have gone through Grant, that’s for certain. Nor Grant’s friends. Too risky. If I had to guess, I’d say he either reached out to someone from the old days in Liverpool, or he knows one of the local farmers. A lot of them are in trouble, financially. They might easily sell a gun for cash, fake a burglary… I don’t know.’

Morton nodded, as if he’d figured out as much himself. He took out his phone, pulled a glove off with his teeth and started checking his messages as if they were waiting for a bus or something. Fraser stood as straight as a guardsman. Watching.

Connor took the chance to light another cigarette. He was shivering like crazy and getting worried. It looked like the coppers had nothing on Andy. Nothing at all that would make a murder charge stand up in court.

Morton put his phone away. ‘Property. We’ve just searched every property belonging to the Mallinsons. Half of South Lancs Constabulary have been drafted in and they’ve turned up nothing. We must be missing something. Run through all the property owned or controlled by Andrew or Claudia Mallinson.’

Connor took a long drag on his cigarette and started to think. He ran through the list, starting with the Laycross properties. Every time he mentioned one, Morton nodded. He closed his eyes and tried to picture where they were located. His mind jumped around and an image of the nursing home popped up. He remembered the conversation with Layla: their mother’s house.

‘No more?’ said Morton. ‘That’s all we’ve got, too.’

Yes! Gotcha. Connor had a card to play — evidently the police didn’t know about old Mrs Mallinson’s bungalow.

‘There might be somewhere,’ said Connor. ‘I was wondering how Natalie’s getting along? Whether we might do something to help her?’

Morton didn’t look interested: he looked disappointed.

‘I know you care for Miss Alderson,’ said Morton. ‘But it’s not my case. Division are handling the investigation, and the CPS have decided on a charge of GBH with Intent. If you want to help her, the best thing you can do is co-operate. That way you can stay in circulation and make sure her defence team does its job.’

It was Connor’s turn to nod. Morton had a point — he couldn’t help Nat if he was in jail. If he were out, he could work on Bridget, and she could work on Lucy White. Maybe Lucy might alter her statement a little; perhaps she might emphasise the self-defence angle a bit more.

‘All right,’ he said to Morton. ‘What about his mother’s place?’

‘We searched the nursing home,’ said Fraser.

‘No. Don’t be daft. The bungalow. In Crosby. Layla and Andy bought it for her ages ago. When she went into the nursing home, Claudia used to rent it out. According to Layla, they haven’t had any tenants for a while.’

Morton and Fraser didn’t bother hiding their interest. ‘Where?’ he asked.

‘Just off Devon Close. Right by the sea.’

‘Good,’ said Morton. ‘I hope for your sake that we find something there. Why did he do it, do you think?’

‘Money,’ said Connor without hesitation. ‘He needs ready cash, and from what I’ve heard, Matt was playing the long game with Quaker’s Fold.’

Morton nodded as if this confirmed his own thinking. He took out his car keys, then hesitated. ‘One more thing, Holden. I know Matt Cross had people working for him in the police. Who are they.’

‘No chance, Inspector. For one thing, I wouldn’t dare, for another, I have no idea. If you think Matt would have told me that sort of thing, you’ve no idea how he worked.’

‘I know how you work. I know that you’ll be doing everything to find out, if you haven’t already. You can think about it on the way back.’

Connor breathed a sigh of relief. Morton unlocked his door and got in. Connor waited for him to release the passenger doors, but he leaned over and opened the other front door by hand. Fraser climbed inside, giving him a smirk on the way.

‘Hey! You can’t leave me here!’

They could, and they did. Morton drove on to the beach, swerved round and set off towards the road, leaving Connor in the gathering gloom. Then the car stopped suddenly. Wind up merchant. He wasn’t going to run after them. They could wait while he caught up.

The passenger window opened and Fraser waggled something in her fingers: his car keys. She dropped them on to the sand and the BMW accelerated away. Bastards. All coppers really are bastards.

Connor kept his eyes locked on to the little black dot of his keys. If he lost sight of them now, he would be in even deeper shit. When they were safely in his pocket, he rang for a taxi.

35

It was a fine calculation. If you took the free WiFi, free coffee and free sandwich into account, the net cost of upgrading to first class on the train could be as little as a tenner. Juliet Porterhouse had won that particular battle with Accounts last year, and thus she reclined in her extensive seat, tracking the events in Southport on her laptop. She’d missed the assault on Claudia Mallinson, the first real piece of action since the murder. Given the time she’d spent up there already, it was very frustrating.

The one thing that kept her smiling was the video of Bridget Gorrigan beating that little shit about the head with a mop. The object of Bridget’s anger had been a placement trainee at the Examiner two years ago, and she had hated him on sight.

The BBC local website was reporting a large number of police searches in the Southport area. They hadn’t joined the dots yet: the common denominator was not Matt Cross, as they suggested, but Andrew Mallinson. If Juliet were lucky, she might get a scoop on that one.

Tom had summoned her back north on the promise of an exclusive, and had been just as vague as he usually was during a case. Charming, but vague. He hadn’t delivered by the time she arrived in Lime Street Station, and he still hadn’t been in touch when she caught the local train to Southport. Finally, when she was standing bemused on the open platform, he gave her a call.

‘Why am I here?’ she said. ‘I’m not your Boswell, you know. So far I’ve spent days up here and got very little out of it.’

‘What about the book? Have you found a publisher yet?’

Damn. He never forgot an angle. ‘You’ve not given me anything new, so I haven’t looked. Yet.’

‘I might have a story for you. I don’t know whether it’s one for the Sunday Examiner. You might have to hawk it around a bit. It will definitely sell, though.’

‘Go on. I may regret this, but go on.’

‘Go to Lucy White’s café. She knows I trust you up to a point, so this should work. I’m willing to bet that Bridget is desperate to tell Natalie Alderson’s story to someone sympathetic. I’m sure you can fake sympathetic if you try.’

‘Cheap shot, Tom. Unworthy of you.’

He took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. You needed to be up here anyway, because it’s all going to happen tomorrow.’

‘Shit or bust, is it?’

‘Your words not mine, Juliet. I’ll be in touch.’

She took a taxi to the Duke of Edinburgh, dumped her luggage and walked down the Prom to Lucy White’s coffee shop. The wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped again. Juliet had brought her warmest and least flattering hat, and was glad of the protection. By the time she opened the door into the steamy fug of Gisueppi’s Gelateria, she needed the warmth.

Lucy White looked exhausted, as well she might. Even Lucy’s enthusiasm and youthful energy would have been taxed by what she’d been through over the last two days, to say nothing of the underlying trauma of losing her brother and her father. Even so, she still managed a smile when Juliet approached the counter.

The smile morphed into a wry grin when she recognised Juliet. ‘I wondered when you’d turn up. What can I get you?’

‘Hot chocolate, please.’ Juliet looked around. The Goth waitress was conspicuous by her absence. ‘No Bridget? Don’t tell me she’s been busy with the mop while I was in the taxi.’

Lucy grabbed a filter-thingy and started to make the chocolate. ‘You don’t miss much, do you? It’s your job, I suppose, and it’s all over the Internet. No chance of me re-activating my Twitter account in the near future.’

Juliet was not a digital native, unlike her daughter. Even so, she knew how much their generation usually relied on the Internet. Lucy must be extremely isolated at the moment: no family nearby, no friends in the area, and limited online support. No wonder she’d developed a bond with her assistant manager so quickly. This was both a threat and an opportunity.

‘How is Bridget? She doesn’t have your inner strength, I don’t think.’

Lucy put the chocolate on the counter and weighed up the remark. She saw through the flattery; that didn’t make it less effective.

‘She’s struggling,’ said Lucy, ‘and I know how she feels: when someone you care for has been arrested, even if they’re guilty, you feel powerless. You also keep thinking, “Is it my fault?” When of course it isn’t.’

Juliet decided to play the Morton card. She put a five pound note on the counter. ‘I spoke to Tom. He suggested that Bridget was the only one who could put Natalie’s side of the story.’

Lucy paused. She shifted her weight on to her other foot and lifted her hair away from her neck, giving it a good shake. It was almost flirtatious — and it was the thought of Tom Morton rather than Juliet’s presence in front of her that had provoked it. Juliet felt an acute spasm of jealousy. She liked Tom very much, even if he were twenty years younger than her. She made a silent prayer that these two would get a room before one or the other lost interest.

‘That doesn’t sound like him,’ said Lucy. ‘He came down hard on Bridget yesterday. He more or less said that Natalie deserved everything she got.’

‘And he probably still thinks that. We both know he doesn’t have a soft side when it comes to criminals, don’t we?’

‘Mmm,’ said Lucy.

‘Tom doesn’t care about Natalie, does he? He summoned me here because he cares about you, and you care about Bridget. Even if nothing gets into print, if Bridget talks to me, she’s had an audience, a chance to believe that the world wants to hear about the good in Natalie, because there must be some.’

‘There is,’ said Lucy. Another customer came in. ‘Listen, drink your chocolate and I’ll see if she’s up for it.’

Juliet leaned forward and said, ‘What do you think about what Natalie did? You saw it — was it really that bad?’

Lucy’s eyes went to a very dark place for a moment. She leaned in, too, and whispered. ‘Off the record?’ Juliet nodded. ‘The look in Claudia Mallinson’s eyes when she haemorraged was like a glimpse into Hell.’ She drew back and asked the next customer what he wanted.

Juliet carried her chocolate to an empty table and stirred it slowly. She wondered if Lucy had said that deliberately so that she would pass it on to Tom. Off the record, of course.

Lucy approached her five minutes later and pulled an order pad out of her apron. She tore off the top sheet, folded it and passed it over. ‘Bridget’s address and my private number. Don’t abuse it or I’ll set Scarywoman on you.’

‘Who?’

‘Elaine Fraser.’

That was not a threat, to be taken lightly. ‘Promise,’ said Juliet.

‘Bridget’s out at the moment. She’ll be back home in half an hour.’ Lucy looked her up and down, from her warm coat to her warm boots with warm trousers over the top of them. ‘Have your socks got holes in them?’

Juliet felt herself blush. ‘What?’

‘If they have, you might want to change them before you go round to Bridget’s, that’s all. Good luck. Oh, and she says to take a bottle of wine.’

‘What does she like?’

‘Barolo. Can’t go wrong with Italian.’

The Operation Meteor incident room looked like it had burnt up on re-entry: there was debris everywhere. When Elaine and Tom got back from their encounter on the sands, she couldn’t believe how much stuff had been bagged, tagged and brought back by the search teams allocated to Andrew Mallinson’s properties. The only problem was that everyone knew that none of it would amount to anything.

‘At least we’ll screw up his business for a while,’ said Tom.

That’s harsh. When Tom had arrested Lucy’s father, he had been determined, but not as vindictive as he’d been towards Connor Holden this afternoon. What had motivated it? What had made this case personal? Every time she thought she knew what was going on under the hand-made three piece suit, he did something to surprise her. Perhaps it was time she surprised him.

‘I’m going to call Schofield,’ he said.

Phil Dunn and Isabelle Innes were in the eye of the storm, working together for once as they directed Hazel and Vicki in creating, if not order, then at least organised chaos.

‘Can I take five, sir?’ said Elaine. ‘Before I help out in here?’

Instead of answering her, he raised his voice to the room at large. ‘There’s been a development,’ he said. ‘Briefing in my office, ten minutes. DC Fraser’s on brew duty.’

She stuck out her tongue toward his pin-striped back and went to the kitchen. She filled the kettle and ducked into the interview room to avoid the noise, then she called Rob.

‘Are you back in camp?’

‘Aye. How’s it going? I’ve caught up on all your messages. That poor wee lass. Is she OK?’

For a second, Elaine didn’t know which poor wee lass Rob meant. Lucy? Bridget? Natalie? Layla? Then she twigged — Claudia. ‘She’s stable and recovering in hospital. We might have a breakthrough tomorrow. We deserve a bit of luck on this case.’

‘You do that, right enough. You’ve put in an awfy lot of hours on this one.’ Rob’s accent always got stronger when he was with the national team.

‘Listen, love,’ she said. ‘I think it’s about time you met my boss, and he deserves a break. Can you get me a pair of tickets for Murrayfield this Saturday?’

‘Aye, no bother. He might not thank me when England get thrashed.’

‘I want tickets to the rugby, not the curling. I can’t see Scotland winning at anything else.’

‘You just wait, Mrs Fraser. We’ll see who’s laughing on Saturday night. Is the other ticket for you?’

‘No, I’ll be sitting with the wives, of course. Tom might bring a friend. I’ll call later; we’ve got a briefing in five.’

Elaine washed the cups, made the tea and took it through to Tom’s office. He was tapping away at his laptop and didn’t join the team until the printer had churned out six pieces of paper which he passed round. The only writing on the paper was an address: The Haven, Plymouth Walk, Crosby. A helpful picture from Google Earth underneath showed a small road with sand dunes and beach to its west, and three bungalows to the east. The Haven was the middle property.

‘We’ve had a tip-off,’ said Tom, completely by-passing the source and how they’d obtained the information. He went on to explain the context of the property and why it was their last, best chance of finding physical evidence. The rest of the table nodded, desperate for hope.

‘Schofield will send a search team first thing tomorrow, with a warrant,’ he concluded. ‘Phil, can you take charge?’ The sergeant nodded. ‘Great. But there’s a problem.’

‘Sir?’ said Dunn.

‘I saw Mallinson’s eyes when he read the warrant for today’s searches. He knew we wouldn’t find anything, but there was fear at first, and I think he might move to forestall us. Schofield can’t spare any more officers, I’m afraid, and I don’t want him to slip through our fingers. I’ve made arrangements with the hospital for someone to let me know if Mallinson leaves, which he’s bound to do at some point. When that happens, I can get the control room to give me live updates from the automatic number plate cameras. That’s not enough. We need to keep watch on that bungalow as well. I’ll do a turn on surveillance. Can anyone else help out?’

Hazel immediately looked at her phone, already shaking her head. ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Dunn. ‘Not at this notice. I can be there at six tomorrow, if that helps.’

‘It does help,’ said Tom. ‘Thank you.’

Vicki flashed a piece of paper. ‘I’ve got tickets for The Bodyguard in Manchester and I can’t miss it. I’m driving, so I’ll be sober. I can do, say two til six?’

‘Good. Excellent.’

Hazel kept her eyes down, shaking her head.

‘When do you want me, sir?’ said Elaine. ‘I’ll fit in wherever.’

‘Can you cover from now until the end of visiting at the hospital? That’s eight o’clock, and that’s when I think he’s most likely to make a move. I’ll do eight while two.’

Eight while two? Where had that come from?

Tom scooped up his papers. ‘I said while two to prove that I really am from Yorkshire. Elaine, can I have a word? The rest of you, finish up and go home. It’s been a long day.’

When they were alone, Elaine said, ‘I think we’re totally doing the right thing, sir, but why are you so sure about Mallinson, and about this property?’ The rest of the team had taken his word for it. Elaine knew him better than that. What she hoped, more than anything, was that he had a good reason for what he was doing, and that it wasn’t just blind faith.

He gave her question some thought as he straightened his desk and flicked through his in-tray. ‘The trouble with keeping things at arm’s length is that they’re harder to grab hold of.’

This was right up there with Tom’s most … opaque utterances. She gave an inward sigh and waited for further illumination.

‘Mallinson has always wanted to keep his hands clean. He’s always got Benson to do his dirty work. When Mallinson had to get his own hands dirty, he had no contacts, no dodgy friends to turn to. I’ll bet Benson had a dozen mates who would look after a shotgun for him, no questions asked, and never say a word to anyone. Mallinson can’t do that. Plus, he’s a lawyer: he’s attached to property. He thinks his properties are more secure than they really are.’

Elaine classed this as a hunch; maybe it was a step up from blind faith, maybe it wasn’t. It would have to do. ‘What did you want, sir?’

‘Clear off. Take an hour to get yourself sorted then set up surveillance. Have a good look round first to find the best spot. Give me a call when you’re in position. Oh, and you don’t need me to warn you…’

‘Don’t worry. I won’t do anything dangerous.’

His eyebrows lifted. ‘You can do anything dangerous you want. I was going to warn you not to jeopardise the case.’

Was that a joke? An ex boyfriend had once told Elaine, in no uncertain terms, that she was addicted to risk, that going climbing and joining the police were not safe occupations. Tom’s approach to danger seemed altogether … fanatical. If CIPPS ever started a suicide squad, he’d probably volunteer.

‘See you later, sir.’

She left him to his paperwork and headed back to the Duke of Edinburgh, a plan already forming in her head.

The taxi pulled away from the house, waved off enthusiastically by Zara, who seemed to have formed a bond with Bridget already. Connor didn’t wave, not because he was glad to see her go but because his back hurt so much that he couldn’t lift his arm properly. He returned gratefully to the warmth of the house.

Pippa had been to change out of her uniform and was half way downstairs when they got inside.

‘Homework,’ said Zara to her older sister. Pippa stopped and gave her the evil eye.

‘You’re keen,’ said Connor.

‘That’s what Bridget told us,’ said Zara. ‘She always did her homework on Friday nights when she was our age, while it was fresh in her mind. If it was important, she could look it over on Sunday afternoon. She said the TV on Fridays was rubbish anyway, and that you can enjoy the weekend better if you’ve got it out of the way.’

‘She sounds like a good influence,’ said Connor.

Pippa looked disdainfully at the other two. ‘If you want to end up as a fat Goth, I suppose,’ she muttered.

‘Hey, cut that out,’ said Connor. ‘Not only is it rude, you should be thankful. If Bridget hadn’t been at school today, you’d have been carried off by the bizzies and put in a foster home until your mother gets back.’

‘Sorry, Dad. She’s OK, I suppose.’

Zara shot up the staircase, pushing past her sister and declaring that she was going to do her homework this minute.

When Connor was alone with Pippa, he said, ‘You can do your homework or make the tea. If you do your homework, I’ll order pizza later. Have you got any maths?’

‘We’ve always got maths, Dad.’

‘Then I’ll check it afterwards.’

‘Gee, thanks. I’m so grateful.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll definitely go for the pizza option, though.’

‘Right. Crack on, girl.’

Connor slowly climbed the staircase. The pain was so bad that he hadn’t bothered with the painkillers from the hospital; this was a special case. He went into Alexis’s room and retrieved the stash of methadone from his suit. He’d tried it before — if he didn’t take the tablets for more than two days, his body wouldn’t get too addicted. He took out one pill and replaced the strip in his suit. Next to the hanger was a bright red Christmas jumper. He’d been allowed round on Christmas day to give the girls their presents, and Alexis had bought him the jumper to try and make him look festive. He would wear that for a couple of hours until the methadone kicked in, just to keep warm. It also reminded him of Natalie wearing the green version on their last night together. He heard Zara emerge from her room and bounce down the stairs.

He put the jumper on and his phone rang. It was Natalie’s solicitor.

‘I’m in Sefton Magistrates court,’ she said. ‘I tried for bail, but it was no-go. Natalie has been remanded for two weeks.’

‘Didn’t you try the medical angle?’

‘I told her to let me; she refused to instruct. I had no option.’

This was worrying: Nat would be going into serious withdrawal soon, and they were about to pack her off to prison. If she didn’t get help…

‘How was she?’

‘Hard to say. She wasn’t bothered about the remand. She’s holding it together at the moment.’

‘Thanks for letting me know. Keep me posted.’

Connor sat on the bed. He doubted that the solicitor had ever watched someone go through opiate withdrawal. No matter how much willpower you have, the pain is always terrible. Truly terrible. He hoped that Natalie was worse by the time she got to the remand prison: the admission staff would have to act if she was going into full-blown cold-turkey.

Pippa gave him a very strange look when he returned to the sitting room with a glass of water. She was at one end of the couch with an exercise book, Zara was at the other end on her laptop. The TV was showing a quiz.

‘I’m turning that off,’ said Connor. ‘Multi-tasking is a myth. I’m also going to lie down on the floor after I’ve taken this medicine.’

‘Dad, you’re weird,’ said Pippa.

‘He’s also got bruised kidneys,’ said Zara.

Connor dissolved the tablet, drank the mixture, then grabbed a cushion and lay on the rug. He relaxed his back muscles, then his arms, then his legs. Zara started humming a tune he vaguely recognised. He fell asleep trying to identify it.

The doorbell woke him with a rude shock.

‘I’ll get it,’ said Pippa, dropping her book on the floor.

Connor eased himself on to his side, then all fours. The pain had definitely subsided a little. He made the effort to stand up.

‘A man for you,’ said Pippa.

‘Who?’

‘Dunno. He’s wearing a hat and it’s dark out there. I didn’t ask him in.’

Connor had slipped off his shoes before he lay down. He put them back on and went to the door. When he opened it, Andy Mallinson lowered the scarf around his mouth and picked up the shotgun he’d left by the door. He pointed it at Connor’s chest.

‘We need a chat,’ said Mallinson. ‘You’re coming with me, Holden.’

Connor’s heart woke up and went from nought to ninety. He struggled to moisten his lips. ‘I don’t think so, Andy.’

‘Come with me or I’ll do to you what Natalie did to us: take your children away. It’s you or the girls.’

‘Calm down, Andy. I’ll go with you. I’m sure we can work something out. Let me get my coat.’

‘Shut up and turn round. Hands on the door.’

Connor did as he was told. Mallinson frisked him and took his phone out. He shoved the phone through the letterbox and grabbed his arm. ‘Come on, let’s move.’

Connor staggered down the drive. Had he seen a curtain twitch in the living room while Andy was frisking him?

‘Where are we going?’

‘You’ll find out when we get there.’

Connor didn’t ask what was going to happen when they arrived. He didn’t really want to know the answer.

The door to Bridget’s flat looked boring enough, though Juliet noted the extra lock. She smoothed her hair again and double checked her pullover and trousers for stains. Lucy’s cryptic warning had unnerved her, though not enough to send her back to the hotel. As far as she knew, there were no holes in her socks. Why was that an issue? Time to find out.

She rang the bell and stood back. The locks rattled and the door opened a crack, restrained by two heavy duty security chains. Juliet held up the bottle of Barolo and smiled. The door closed, then re-opened.

Bridget was in full warpaint, her eyes blue points in kohl black holes; a studded dog collar circled her neck above a very low-cut short sleeved top. Fingerless lace gloves stretched up her arms and a huge skirt completed the look: every stitch of clothing was black. Juliet had a nightmare vision of a Dracula themed boudoir beyond the door inside, with coffins for chairs.

‘Come in. Shoes off on the mat.’

Bridget retreated far enough for Juliet to stand on the doormat. She had to lean on the jamb to unzip her boots. Bridget pointed to a door within and locked up behind them.

The flat’s living room was a shock. As far as she could see, there was not a single death-themed item on view. She could be standing on the threshold of an IKEA display, so neutral was the decor. It was also incredibly neat and tidy. And clean. Spotlessly, gleamingly, antiseptically shining-brightly clean.

She stood back to allow her hostess inside. She chose not to mention the disjunction between the appearance of the flat and its owner. Instead, she said, ‘It’s lovely and warm in here. Shall I put my coat in the hall while you get some glasses and a corkscrew?’ To emphasise the point, she held out the bottle.

Bridget ignored the offering. ‘Lucy says I can trust you, but she trusts you because Tom trusts you. I’m not sure I trust him. Not after what he said about Natalie.’

Juliet lowered her arm. ‘He knows Lucy cares about you. He suggested me because he wouldn’t do anything to upset Lucy.’

‘He arrested her father.’

‘True. She’s still got the hots for him, though.’

That finally brought a smile. Bridget pointed to an armchair. There was a coffee table between the armchair and a settee which allowed both seats to get warmth from a gas fire and have a view of the TV.

‘Sit there,’ said Bridget. ‘No recording devices. Just a notepad. And only your glass is allowed on the table. I’ll take the Barolo; you can put your stuff in the hall.’

When Bridget took the bottle of wine, Juliet noticed darker stains under her gloves. Tattoos? Juliet had lost count of the number of truly weird people she’d met over the years. Bridget was not in the top division but she could easily get promoted if she carried on like this.

Sitting down proved to be a problem. The armchair was too heavy to move, and Juliet was scared to try. She would have to sit with her legs directly facing Bridget, either crossed or tucked under. Now she knew what Lucy was on about: holy hosiery would be a constant niggle if you were sitting here.

Bridget placed two large glasses on large coasters. There was a lot of wine in that glass. ‘This isn’t about me,’ said Bridget. ‘It’s about Natalie. You can use anything I say about her in whatever way you want, all right? But anything I say about myself is strictly private. You tell no one, not even Lucy.’

‘If that’s what you want.’

‘I do.’

Juliet took a long draw on her wine to set herself up. If she was going to have to use shorthand, she wanted to be prepared. She flipped open her notebook and smiled.

‘I used to live in London,’ said Bridget, then I had to come back. I met Natalie in a women’s refuge in Liverpool.’ She paused and pushed down one of the gloves to scratch her arm.

Juliet could see the pain etched on Bridget’s face as clearly as she could now see the tattoo etched on her arm, bright red roses growing from a grinning skull.

‘Were you married?’ asked Juliet.

‘No. I was raped. And so was Natalie. They never caught the bastard who attacked me — they think he may be at large in Europe somewhere, and I don’t want to say any more about it. They got the ones who raped Natalie. Two of them. But they didn’t prosecute on the wholly reasonable grounds that they couldn’t be sure of a conviction because she was a junkie sex worker.’ Bridget drew the glove back up her arm and took a drink.

Juliet gave Bridget a moment to come to terms with what she’d said before continuing. ‘When was this?’

‘Four years ago.’

As a young reporter, Juliet had come across plenty of cases like this. In those days, sex workers rarely reported rape because there was no point. She thought things had changed. ‘What happened?’

‘I can’t give you the details,’ said Bridget. ‘That has to be Natalie’s choice. If I said it was her dealer, you can guess the rest.’

She could. Juliet had only seen Natalie in the coffee shop, and only briefly. What had struck her most was that Natalie seemed so together. ‘You must have worked a miracle, Bridget. I’m surprised Natalie recovered from that.’

Bridget shook her head. ‘You’ve got it wrong. It wasn’t me who helped her, it was the other way round. If there’s anyone to thank, it’s Matt Cross. Natalie got kicked out of the refuge because she was still using and still turning tricks to pay for her habit. She went to Matt, and he helped her. I was disappearing down a plughole of my own making; I was no use to anyone. Natalie came back to the refuge and dragged me up here to Southport. In a way, I’ve been paying her back ever since.’

Juliet lifted her head to straighten her spine and pulled her hair back. She looked around the flat again. Bridget was clearly a very good friend to Natalie. Too good? Juliet wasn’t sure whether she could cope with a friend like Bridget.

Then again, compared to Natalie, Juliet was a very lucky woman. She didn’t need a friend like Bridget. She picked up her pencil again. ‘Tell me about Matt Cross.’

Bridget broke eye contact and shoved her hand into a concealed pocket in her skirt. She pulled out a phone and checked the display. ‘Hang on.’ She took the call. ‘Hiya Pippa. Have you finished your homework? … You what? … Are you sure? … I’ll come over now, and I’ll phone someone on the way. Don’t worry.’

Bridget clearly was worried about something. Very worried. ‘What’s the problem?’ said Juliet.

‘Can you give me a lift? It’s urgent.’

‘I haven’t got a car.’

Bridget stood up. ‘I need your help. Connor Holden’s in trouble.’ She went into the hall and started to put her coat on.

Juliet followed, shaking her leg to get the pins and needles out.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Get dressed. I’ll tell you outside.’

They did a quick-step around the coat rack and pile of shoes until they were wrapped up. Bridget unlocked the door and almost shoved Juliet outside. When they got to the street, Bridget said, ‘You’ve got Tom Morton’s number?’

‘Yes.’

‘Give me your phone.’

‘What for? Tell me what’s going on.’

Bridget held out her own phone in one hand and offered the other to receive Juliet’s. ‘You ring Lucy. Tell her to order a taxi and not to open the door to anyone except us. I need to speak to Tom Morton.’

Juliet took out her phone, but held on to it. ‘I need to hear what you’re saying. I’m a journalist, Bridget. Give me a break.’

Bridget started walking and texting. Juliet hurried after her. When Bridget had pressed Send, she held out her hand again. ‘Now, Juliet.’

Juliet had to stop walking to unlock her phone and find the contact. Bridget snatched the phone and called. Just as Morton answered, the pavement narrowed, the wind picked up and Juliet caught her heel on an uneven paving slab. By the time she’d caught up, Bridget had disconnected.

‘You did that deliberately,’ she said accusingly. ‘What’s going on? Please, Bridget.’

Bridget didn’t slow down — they weren’t far from the coffee shop now — but she did speak up. ‘Andy Mallinson has just called on Connor. According to Connor’s older daughter, her dad left without his coat and his phone, and without saying goodbye. She’s very worried about him.’

Juliet was worried, too. Worried that she might miss some live action. ‘Are we going to look for them in the taxi? Where do you think they might be?’ Bridget stopped abruptly; Juliet skidded into her.

Bridget glared at her and held out Juliet’s phone. ‘You can do what you like,’ said Bridget. ‘But I’m taking Lucy in that taxi and we’re going to look after Connor’s kids.’

Juliet took her phone back and weighed up her options. She quickly decided that sticking with Bridget and Lucy offered the best chance of a story. Given the recent events in Southport, it was probably safer, too.

Elaine had studied the roads around Crosby and decided that there were too many double yellow lines and too many private houses for a straightforward surveillance operation. If she just parked near Plymouth Walk, one of the residents would be on the phone to the police in no time; she couldn’t risk the local plod tapping on her window. Anything which drew attention to their operation could be very dangerous.

So she’d decided to tog up in her running gear (with extra layers) and jog around the location, leaving her car at Crosby Leisure Centre. She walked down the access road to the coastal path and did some stretches. Beyond the buildings, the wind cut through her bobble hat and froze her ears. Sand came off the dunes and stung her eyes. She pulled up the hood on her waterproof and tightened the drawstring. She started running, setting a slow pace.

She was running along a coastal footpath which was separated from the residential streets by a fence. Within a few hundred yards, she had lost her bearings completely: in the dark, one sea-front bungalow looks much the same as another. She got out her phone and checked her location on the map. She’d gone past it. Bugger.

She turned round and took the next cut-through back to the street. She jogged past the houses and a parked car, slowing well in advance of Number 2, Plymouth walk. She nearly came to a full stop when she saw that the lights were on. That shouldn’t have happened. She got to the end of the road and paused to stretch and think. She didn’t like power-walking (mostly because it made her look stupid), but it allowed much more time to observe.

She power-walked back the way she’d come. The curtains in Number 2 were open, revealing a bare, slightly shabby room. She could see no one. Just past the house, she stopped next to a parked car, which pinged as it cooled. Hang on. That car is on a double-yellow. And the engine’s warm.

She took off her glove to feel the bonnet (warm), and took out her phone to take a note of the index number. It pinged with a text from Tom. Her eyes were watering so much that she couldn’t focus, so she put her phone down to wipe them clear. She never got to read the text.

‘Leave the phone and put your hands up. Turn around slowly.’

It was Mallinson. Elaine still had her glove in her hand, and was standing with her back to the voice. She shoved her glove under the windscreen wiper and raised her hands. She turned around and found Mallinson holding a shotgun which was aimed at her head. Oh shit. This does not look good.

36

The pile of papers requiring Tom’s consideration and signature was still higher than the pile he’d finished. Unless he picked up speed, he’d have to come back later and finish them. He needed something to eat, and he couldn’t very well read them when he was on surveillance.

He decided on one more report before he went in search of food. When Juliet called, he jumped at the distraction.

Only it wasn’t Juliet herself, it was Bridget, borrowing her phone and telling him that, according to Philippa Holden, Andrew Mallinson had just taken Connor Holden away.

‘Is the girl sure?’ asked Tom.

‘She says so. She says she didn’t recognise him at first, but Zara — that’s her sister — peeked through the curtains and said he’d taken the scarf off his face. Pippa joined her at the window and she says it was definitely Andrew Mallinson. He shoved Connor down the drive.’

‘Leave it with me. What are you going to do, Bridget?’

‘Grab Lucy and go straight to Connor’s house. Someone needs to look after the girls.’

‘Thanks. I’ll get straight on to it.’

Tom stared at his phone. How has this happened? He believed Bridget. She had definitely taken that call from the girls. Were they telling the truth? Had the devious Holden put his daughters up to some lie? Was it someone other than Mallinson? That’s priority Number One, he thought. Establish whether Mallinson has left the hospital, and why no one’s told me.

He called the security supervisor. ‘Are you still at work?’

‘Yeah. The overtime’s worth it. Not that you’d know, being an Inspector. Is everything OK?’

‘Is Mallinson still with his wife?’

‘He was five minutes ago. I’ll get on the radio and call you straight back.’

Tom couldn’t sit still. He got up and put his things together, then put on his coat. He carried his phone through to the incident room and picked up an Airwave radio. Neither he nor Elaine had used them on this job, mostly for security, partly because they were heavy. His phone rang as he was shoving it in his coat.

‘Any news?’

‘Someone’s getting sacked in the morning,’ said the supervisor. ‘Mallinson pulled the curtains round his wife’s bed half an hour ago, and told the nurse he needed a long private chat. I gave my officer specific instructions to get eyeballs on him, not rely on other people. Stupid bitch. That’s not all — I found where his car was parked and I’ve been staring at that camera myself. His car’s still there.’

‘Thanks,’ said Tom, thumbing the End Call button.

He weighed the phone in his hand, thinking what to do next. That was no good, so he marched down the corridor. He needed to move, not think.

The security guard was packing up for the night, so Tom made his first decision. ‘We have a situation,’ he told the guard. ‘You need to stay here, or get a relief. I don’t want the desk unmanned. Don’t admit anyone except my team or someone with my explicit authority.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He left the Tombs and jogged round to his car. Car — that was the question: what car was Mallinson using? Until Tom knew that, he couldn’t put out an alert. He started driving towards Crosby. Until he knew better, it was the most likely option. Where would Mallinson turn for help? If Tom fell out with the police, he’d call his sister. Presumably, Mallinson would do the same.

Tom dialled Layla. When he identified himself, she let out a whoosh of relief.

‘I was just wondering who to call,’ she said. ‘Connor’s not answering his phone. I know that Hazel Cotton doesn’t like being disturbed, but I haven’t got the number of anyone else on your team.’

It was interesting that she would call Holden first, and Tom parked the news about Hazel for later. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

‘It’s Andy. He came here half an hour ago, knocking on the door.’

Tom could hear the conflict in her voice. Twenty years of being told to say nothing to the bizzies is a lot of conditioning. ‘What did he want?’

‘I don’t know. I answered the door myself. I’ve been winding myself up to talk to him all day.’ She paused, adrift.

‘What did you want to ask him?’ said Tom, as quietly as he could.

‘Connor told me. He said, “Look Andy in the eye and ask him about Matt.” So I did.’ She breathed out. Tom gritted his teeth. ‘I looked him in the eye and said, “Is it true?” He sort of stared right through me, as if I wasn’t there. He said, “I need your help.” It’s true, isn’t it? He killed Matt?’

Tom avoided that question by saying, ‘What did you do next?’

‘What do you think? I slammed the door in his face and burst into tears. I’ve only just stopped crying.’

It was time to move on. ‘You say he knocked at the door. How did he get through the gates?’

‘He’s got a remote key.’

‘Did he have a car?’

‘I saw a taxi disappearing up the drive. The gates open automatically from the inside.’

Tom knew that Mallinson had visited Holden — kidnapped him, by the sound of it — after he’d been to Flaxall Manor. Had he managed to stop the taxi before it left the grounds?

‘Oh my God,’ said Layla. ‘It’s Matt’s car! It’s gone!’

‘Which one?’

‘The Range Rover. I’m in the dining room and I can see the front. Matt’s car hasn’t moved since … but it’s gone.’

The Range Rover. The one with the tracker in it. Tom suddenly realised that Mallinson hadn’t hidden the shotgun in Crosby. It had never left Flaxall Manor.

‘I don’t want to worry you, Mrs Cross, but I suggest you lock your door until a police officer arrives. I need to call some people.’

‘I’ll try Connor again,’ she said. Tom chose not to tell her why Holden would not be answering and disconnected.

He pulled in to the kerb; this was too serious to attempt while on the move. He sent a text to Elaine: Target on the loose and armed. Wait for the cavalry. Then he got on the Airwave to Control.

It took him five precious minutes to tell them what was going on, and to discover that there were very few officers around at seven o’clock on a Monday night. The armed response vehicle, the ARV, was a quarter of an hour away in Liverpool. Why am I not surprised? Talk about déjà vu. This is Fleetwood all over again. The last time Tom had found himself in need of armed support, the suspect had fled on a trawler, forcing Tom to accept help from Conrad Clarke. He still had nightmares about that helicopter flight.

Officers were on their way to Holden’s house and to Flaxall Manor. Elaine had not responded, which was very out of character and even more worrying. He put the car in gear and set the SatNav for Plymouth Walk.

The wind had blown away the cloud by the time he arrived in Crosby, and the moon was reflecting brightly off the sea. He hunkered down in his seat, almost peering through the steering wheel as he approached the target property. There was no sign of Elaine, her car or Mallinson as he passed Number 2, but he did notice the lights. He turned around at the end of the road, and his headlights picked out the index number on a Range Rover: A6 MLC.

Tom was out of sight of the target bungalow, so he risked it. He killed his engine and reported the news. He was told that the ARV was now five minutes away. Full of nerves, he pocketed the Airwave and pulled on his gloves.

He approached the Range Rover cautiously. With less wind noise, he could hear a TV blaring from a flat in a nearby block. There was no other sound. He circled the car on the pavement side until he saw something under the wiper. His heart lurched and he ran round the huge bonnet to investigate, taking out his torch as he moved.

The object was a black thermal glove, size small. He’s seen it often enough recently — it was Elaine’s. He took a step back and something crunched under his foot. He shone his torch down and saw the remnants of a mobile phone.

He flipped it over with his foot and saw the custom engraving of the thistle embracing the rose on the back of the phone. Oh no. Not again. Never again. He wheeled round, scanning every house and garden. Nothing. He saw a path leading towards the dunes and ran up it. When he got to the top of the small rise, he scanned the footpath, then the beach.

Is that… no. He had seen a figure, just one, half way along the sand. It was one of Gormley’s statues, black against the silver sand. This was the home of the original Another Place.

When he had read the translation of the French PM report into Kate’s murder, the pathologist had concluded that she had tried to attack her killer, and that he’d only got off the shot when she was inches from him. Tom had told Elaine the other day that their job was to protect the public. Would she throw herself at Andrew Mallinson to save Connor Holden? Yes. Without hesitation.

He scanned the beach again. This time he saw the light of a torch. He jumped over the railing, located the light again and started to run.

The atmosphere in Connor Holden’s large, well-appointed semi got worse after the police officer arrived. Lucy was so disorientated that she felt like she’d just woken up.

The situation brought the best out of Bridget. She had ordered pizzas, forced the girls to tidy up and generally made Lucy and Juliet feel like unwanted guests. Juliet had been the first to pick up on Bridget’s strategy, dragging Lucy upstairs.

‘She’s literally forcing them to keep busy,’ said the reporter. ‘I did it myself when my husband went off the radar during the first Gulf War. The problem is, it doesn’t last. When you run out of jobs, everything comes crashing down.’

Lucy felt suddenly very alarmed; she had only ordered the taxi to humour Bridget. ‘Was he all right? Your husband?’

Juliet sat on the double bed. ‘Yes, more’s the pity. He was a useless drunk. He got run over soon after. Francesca missed him — our daughter. I don’t know why.’

There was a knock on the front door. ‘Stay there!’ shouted Bridget to the girls.

Juliet lurched towards the bedroom door, Lucy in her wake. They saw Bridget peer through the glass, then admit a black police officer in full Hi-Viz gear. He introduced himself as Sergeant White.

Lucy and Juliet descended the stairs as Bridget closed the door.

‘Any news?’ asked Bridget, with the sort of familiarity that suggested they had met before.

‘You tell me,’ said White. ‘I’ve been ordered to come here, take a statement from two minors and keep an eye out for Andrew Mallinson. Right. Let’s start by finding out who’s who.’ He focused on Bridget first. ‘You’re from that café, right? The one where it all kicked off yesterday?’

‘Yes. Bridget Gorrigan. I’m a friend of Connor Holden. This is my boss, Lucy White, and that’s Juliet Porterhouse. She’s a journalist. Connor’s Children, Philippa and Zara, are in the kitchen.’

White nodded to Lucy, raised an eyebrow to Juliet, and said, ‘Where’s Alexis?’

‘On her way from Carlisle, with her mother. I haven’t told her anything yet because I don’t want her to crash.’

‘Sound plan. Shall we all sit down?’

They percolated into the lounge and looked for seats. As White was unzipping his jacket, his radio burbled into life.

‘All units. Target Andrew Mallinson is now believed armed. Repeat, target Mallinson is now armed. Potential hostage situation with Detective Constable Fraser and Connor Holden. Observe and report. Do not engage.’

‘Where’s Tom?’ said Lucy before anyone else could speak. ‘Where’s Inspector Morton? Is he OK?’

The younger girl was crying. Bridget put her arms round the children.

‘Where’s Tom?’ repeated Lucy, more loudly.

‘He’s out there, somewhere,’ said White. ‘And he’s in charge. That’s all I know. Now, let’s start again, shall we? Who’s going to go first?’

Juliet sat down on one settee, pulling Lucy down with her. Lucy kept hold of Juliet’s hand and squeezed very hard, for luck. Juliet squeezed back.

When Mallinson had appeared behind her with the gun, Elaine had felt her legs wobble and a shiver worked its way down her whole body. She had breathed in, then out, and she hadn’t fainted. He had told her to lie face down in a star shape. Elaine had complied. It wasn’t just her training (If you find yourself looking down the barrel of a gun, do exactly what you’re told), it was her natural instinct. She felt no urge to jump him. At least not yet.

Mallinson took a step back and bent down to pick up a piece of rope. What on earth? He pulled on it and a cry came from over the road. Elaine twisted her head and saw Connor Holden stagger out of the dunes.

‘Stand by the car,’ said Mallinson. Holden staggered forward and leaned on the metal.

Mallinson stepped around Elaine. She turned her head again, then felt his hands run down her body. He found her bum bag and pulled out the torch. ‘Handy,’ he said. Then he picked up her phone, dropped it on the road and smashed it with the butt of the gun. Ah well. I was due an upgrade. I just hope I live to collect it.

‘Get up. Both of you,’ said Mallinson. He dropped the end of the rope and threw the torch to Holden. He caught it clumsily, because his hands were tied by the other end of the rope. ‘This is too public, and we may get interrupted. Holden, you go first. Police bitch, you take the rope and walk behind him. Head over there, down that path and on to the beach. Walk towards the water until I tell you to stop.’

Holden started walking. Elaine waited until the rope was at full stretch then reluctantly followed. She looked behind her: Mallinson was at exactly the right distance to shoot her before she could do anything to him. They crossed the path, and Holden struggled to raise his leg over the rail. He looked physically worse than this afternoon, even though his face wasn’t showing the pain.

‘Put the torch on,’ said Mallinson. ‘I don’t want you to have an accident.’

Elaine followed the wavering beam. She moved to the side a little, so Mallinson wouldn’t have both of them in an easy target. She had noticed that the shotgun was only a single barrel, so one of them might have a chance. Unfortunately, she suspected that Mallinson would shoot her first. She had no urge to encourage this.

They soon hit compressed sand, and the wet sand meant that the tide was going out. The sea already seemed a long way away. They trudged on. For a second, Elaine thought they had company when the torch lit up the figure of a man. Only this man was covered in barnacles. One of the statues. In the dark, it looked just like the one at Flaxall Manor, the one of Matt Cross.

The moon got brighter; she could now see more statues ahead, spaced at intervals. Holden seemed drawn by them, too. He changed course and headed towards the next statue rather than directly towards the water. Just ahead of it, he came to a stop.

‘Fraser, go and stand next to Connor.’ She complied, keeping as big a gap as she could between them. ‘Holden, throw the torch down.’

Connor threw the torch towards the statue. Elaine tried to read his face. All she could see was determination. ‘Are you all right?’ she whispered.

‘So far,’ he replied.

Mallinson came round and picked up the torch. He shone it first in their faces, then put it on the ground so he could keep both hands on the shotgun.

‘This has worked out very well,’ said Mallinson. ‘I was going to tape his confession, but now we’ve got an officer of the law as a witness.’

He was talking. That was good. Elaine felt now was the time to start a proper conversation. ‘Confess to what?’

‘He’s going to confess to orchestrating Matt’s murder with Grant Benson as an accomplice.’

What? Have we got it all wrong? Surely Holden can’t have planned all this? She breathed in. Deeply. ‘It’s not much of a confession with a gun on him, is it Andrew?’

‘Good point,’ said Mallinson. He moved the barrel slowly and deliberately, so that Elaine could almost see straight down it. ‘Come on, Holden. Tell her the truth.’

‘Whatever,’ said Holden. ‘Just let us go and I’ll sign a confession. I’m freezin’ me nuts off out here.’

Elaine’s mouth dropped open. Either Holden was bluffing with more cool than she could ever muster, or he really was guilty. Every fibre of his being broadcast that he was bored and cold and would happily go to prison if it meant getting off the beach.

‘I want to hear it here,’ said Mallinson. ‘Read him his rights, Constable.’

Elaine couldn’t swallow or speak.

‘Hurry up,’ said Holden. ‘Don’t keep the little creep waiting.’

Mallinson didn’t rise to the bait. He kept the gun steady on Elaine.

She coughed and cleared her throat, then she stammered out the caution. It only took her two efforts to get it right.

Holden took a deep breath. ‘Matt Cross was refusing to sell drugs in Layla’s Bar. Grant said that Matt had gone soft and that we would all go broke if we didn’t go back to business as usual. Grant asked me to use my influence on Layla to get Matt to agree to a summit meeting in the woods. I did this knowing that Grant Benson intended to murder Matthew Cross. I assisted him before and after the murder. Is that good enough?’

‘No,’ said Tom’s voice from behind Mallinson.

Mallinson whipped around and Tom shone a torch in Mallinson’s eyes. He fired at point blank range.

Oh my God, Tom! As she thought this, Elaine realised that Mallinson would need to reload. She surged forwards and watched in horror as Mallinson pulled back on the gun. It was a pump action, not a single barrel. He fired again, into the dark, a metallic boom with a double echo.

Elaine dived on to the sand as Mallinson started to turn round towards her, working the action of the gun. ‘Run!’ she shouted to Holden.

Mallinson stopped. Something had happened to the gun. He started backing away, towards the sand, struggling with the barrel. Elaine heard another noise, faintly at first. It was the two-tone siren of a police car.

Mallinson turned and ran towards the sea. Elaine struggled on to her knees and grabbed the torch, swinging it round to where Tom’s voice had come. On the way round she noticed that Holden was still standing where he’d been put, quietly working on the rope around his hands.

When the beam of the torch came through 180 degrees, she saw an iron man. What? Then a shape detached itself: Tom. He ran off to her left, towards Mallinson and the sea.

Elaine stood up and ran after them. Her torch picked out first Tom’s Crombie overcoat, then Mallinson’s back. With a burst of speed, Tom closed the gap and executed a perfect rugby tackle. As soon as Mallinson was down, Tom threw all his weight on the man’s back and pressed down on the shotgun. Elaine arrived just as Tom got his breath back.

‘Andrew Mallinson, I am arresting you for attempted murder. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Elaine, do you have any handcuffs?’

She laughed. ‘No, sir, but I’ve got some rope over there.’

‘Very thoughtful, Constable. Go and fetch it. Mr Mallinson, I’m afraid you’ll have to find Another Place to die. I’m not leaving any more bodies on the beach.’

Elaine groaned at the pun, then jogged back to Holden, who was patting his pockets. In the light from the torch, she realised that his coat was not a coat but a thick red Christmas jumper. Seeing its warm knit, she suddenly realised that she wasn’t dressed for this. He watched her as she bent down to pick up the rope, and she realised that he was checking her out. Did that man have no sense of proportion? Had she just heard him go Mmm?

She stood up quickly and ran back to Tom, who was still prostrate on top of Mallinson. Slowly, he eased himself back until she could secure Mallinson’s hands. Then they rolled the prisoner over and Tom kicked the gun away.

‘You didn’t know, did you?’ said Tom.

Elaine started to blush. She guessed what was coming. ‘Know what, sir?’

‘That it was a pump action shotgun. You were going to jump him after his first shot. That’s why I spoke up when I did, to stop you doing something I’d regret.’

‘Something that you’d regret?’

‘At that range, you’d have no more regrets, Elaine.’

She felt an overwhelming urge to throw her arms around him; only a violent shiver stopped her. Before she could think again, he pulled out a radio and gave a quick summary of what their situation was. Elaine scanned the horizon — the blue lights had stopped near Plymouth Walk.

Tom finished his report. ‘Where’s Holden?’ he asked.

‘Over there. No he isn’t. Damn. Shall I chase after him.’

‘No. You can have the pleasure of prisoner escort. I’ll carry the gun. I’d leave it here, only we might not find it again before the tide turns.’

As they walked, relief gave way to questions. ‘If you knew he had a pump action gun, what were you doing? I know you had a statue to hide behind, but he could just walk round and shoot you. Or turn round and shoot me.’

‘It was a difficult decision. I had to go on the balance of probabilities. Mallinson is no sportsman; we knew that. His gun hadn’t been cleaned since the day he shot Matt — it’s been hidden in that Range Rover.’

She stopped, jerking Mallinson back. ‘How do you know that?’

Tom pointed to the prisoner and shook his head, then started walking again. ‘Holden saw me coming,’ he said. ‘That’s why he stopped by the statue, and threw the torch towards it, so that I’d have cover. I also knew the ARV was only minutes away. I was fairly confident the gun would jam. They’re notorious for it if not looked after properly. Especially if you don’t have a strong left arm to pull the foregrip back.’

They trudged towards the lights, and found Holden talking to the ARV officers; other units were arriving by the second. In less than five minutes, Holden had managed to talk the armed sergeant into giving him a cigarette and calling his daughters to let them know that Daddy was safe.

Elaine shoved Mallinson into the arms of another officer and said, ‘Search him, especially for keys to that Range Rover, and that house there, Number 2. Don’t be too gentle — he’s just tried to shoot a DCI.’ There was already blood on Mallinson’s face; there was more before the constable extracted two sets of keys and four shotgun shells. ‘Put him in the van for now.’

Elaine took the keys to Tom, who was negotiating the handover of the gun to the ARV team. She paused to talk to Holden. ‘Why did you confess? And more to the point, why didn’t you run?’

‘He was going to hurt the girls,’ said Holden. ‘There was no point running, my back’s too bad.’

‘If DCI Morton hadn’t interrupted, would you have signed the confession?’

Holden nodded vigorously. ‘Too right, girl. So long as Andy was alive, I knew he’d carry out the threat.’

‘But he wouldn’t live long, is that what you’re saying?’

‘He’s a sick man. Very sick. And before you get any ideas, no, I didn’t kill Matt. He did. And that was the gun. The boots he was wearing when he did the deed are in that house. I’ve seen them.’

Holden was pointing to Number 2. Tom joined them and she told him what the other man had said.

‘The Scene of Crime team won’t be here for half an hour,’ said Tom. ‘Do you want to get changed first?’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Holden. Elaine and Tom turned to him, both ready to slap him down. ‘Why doesn’t Officer Fraser get changed while Inspector Morton takes me home. I can see my girls and get my coat; the Inspector can see Lucy White and give some reporter an interview.’

Tom and Elaine burst out laughing, all the tension released. Holden joined in, then coughed.

‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘That really hurts.’

‘Do you want some more good news, sir?’ she said to Tom.

‘Are you sure you shouldn’t ration it? I don’t want to use up my week’s supply in one day.’

‘Rob was in touch earlier. He’s got you two tickets for Murrayfield on Saturday. You — and a friend — can be my guests for once. The tickets include a meal at the official reception afterwards.’

‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me, thank Rob. When you finally meet him.’

37

Monday Night & Tuesday Morning

When Sergeant White announced that it was all over, and that everyone was safe, Lucy’s first thought was I’m not going through that again. Her second thought was I can’t wait to see him.

The pizza boxes had lain untouched on the coffee table next to a neat stack of plates, forks and napkins, assembled by the girls under Bridget’s direction. First Zara then Pippa started casting glances at the food. Zara whispered something to Bridget, who said, ‘Of course,’ and reached over to open one of the boxes. Zara took two plates, and put two large slices on one of them.

‘That’s for Dad,’ she announced, placing the plate next to her, out of her sister’s reach. Then she tucked in hungrily.

‘Tea,’ said Lucy. ‘I am the resident expert, after all.’ She didn’t like English pizza much.

Juliet wandered into the kitchen, absentmindedly chewing a slice of pepperoni. ‘Southport will seem very quiet once the dust has settled,’ she said. ‘Are you going to stay here, or are you going to look for a coffee shop where Tom’s next case takes him?’

‘He followed me,’ Lucy shot back. Juliet smirked, and that was what made Lucy lower her guard. ‘I’m taking a break. I’m going to Jap…’ She stopped.

‘Going to see Holly Nugent, by any chance? How is she?’

Lucy pressed her lips together and let out a humph. ‘I don’t know what Tom sees in you, Juliet. Maybe he likes to keep his friends close and his enemies closer.’

Juliet was stung. She flushed red and put down the half-eaten pizza. ‘He’s a nice man, Lucy. And very professional. You of all people should know that.’

Bugger. Why do I have to start crying now? Lucy wiped at her face, and was saved by the sound of a key in the door.

The whole party rushed into the hall and stopped abruptly when a rather frazzled woman walked in.

‘Who the hell are you lot? What’s that policeman doing here?’

‘Mum!’ shouted Zara, squeezing through the throng and throwing her arms around the new arrival.

Lucy and Juliet gave each other a look: Why did Connor mess this up? Alexis Holden was in her late thirties. Yes, she was a few years older, shorter and heavier than Natalie, but even though she was exhausted from the last few days, she radiated a glow that Connor’s new partner only showed in fits and starts.

Another figure loomed in the doorway, bright red. ‘Hiya, love,’ said Connor. At times like this, Lucy really regretted that she was so short: even on tip-toe she couldn’t see if Tom was behind him.

With ten people in the house (including Alexis’s mother on crutches), it took a while to get sorted. Tom stuck close to Connor until he’d hugged everyone, eaten his pizza and picked up his coat. Tom gave Connor’s phone to Sergeant White and told him to take Connor to the Tombs, then return to duty. Lucy had a little thrill when White straightened up and enunciated a very respectful, ‘Yes, sir.’

Juliet grabbed a word with everyone except Connor, then took a taxi to write her copy for tomorrow’s paper.

Lucy took some plates into the kitchen. She nearly dropped them when Tom materialised behind her. She plonked them on the table and threw her arms round him, squeezing as tightly as she could manage through his thick coat.

She got the shock of her life when he pushed her back and planted his lips on her.

It was the best kiss she’d ever had. His mouth was rough and he needed a shave, but nothing had ever moved her so deeply. She grabbed handfuls of his coat and pulled him down harder. She felt his hands go up her back and his fingers run through her hair. Just as her heart was going to burst, he pulled gently back.

Lucy spoke first. She hit him on the chest and said, ‘If you say that we have to wait until Mallinson’s case comes to trial, I’ll never speak to you again, do you hear?’

He smiled, blue eyes twinkling under the kitchen lights. ‘Sod Mallinson,’ he said. ‘Your father’s case, yes, but that’s only a few weeks. I think.’

She sighed. ‘You had to spoil it, didn’t you? I was just planning a discreet liaison in the flat and you had to remind me of Gianni. Bugger you, Tom Morton.’

‘It wouldn’t be that discreet, would it? You’d have to have Bridget round to help you clean up. Talk of the devil…’

He stepped aside to let Bridget through with more plates. How much had she seen? Judging by the look on her face, she’d seen enough.

‘I’d better go,’ said Tom.

‘Any chance of a lift?’ said Bridget. ‘Alexis’s mother is going to stay here tonight, so our work is done.’

‘Be quick,’ he replied.

The women went to get their coats. ‘Your place or mine?’ said Lucy. ‘I need a drink.’

‘Mine,’ said Bridget. ‘There’s a bottle of Barolo to finish.’

It was nearly ten o’clock before they released him. On another night, Connor would have considered this to be very early, but when you’ve been nearly killed twice…

More than anything, he wanted to hold Natalie in his arms and tell her that it was all right, that Andrew Mallinson was gone and that Matt could sleep soundly in his grave knowing he’d been avenged. Nat would like that. She had a way of winding her arms and legs round him that made him feel both secure and noble at the same time. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option.

His second choice would have been with Alexis and the girls: that was ruled out because her mother was in the spare room and he wanted to give them space to get over the trauma.

That left one option. Even with another methadone tablet, the pain was too bad to drive, so he sent a text and caught a taxi to Flaxall Manor.

When he arrived, Layla stood under the canopy, all three children around her. He eased himself out of the cab and leaned on the roof for a second before he felt confident enough to stand alone. He took a deep breath and walked towards the house.

‘Is it true?’ said Layla.

He leaned on one of the pillars. ‘Let’s go in, shall we?’

‘Is it true?’ she repeated. Behind her, Sabrina blinked at the tears in her eyes and Tasmin clutched her twin’s arm. Layla and Luke stood immobile.

‘The bizzies must have told you Andy’s been arrested.’

Layla shook her head to bat away his comment. ‘Is it true? Did Andy really kill Matt?’

Aah … good girl. It’s wise not to believe the police without corroboration. ‘Yes,’ he said simply. If she didn’t accept his word, no amount of detail would convince her.

He heard her turn to the kids and say, ‘Go upstairs. I’ll talk to Uncle Connor and call you down in a bit.’

So I’m Uncle Connor now, am I? He followed Layla into the living room. ‘Large Irish,’ he said on the way to the couch. Without being invited, he kicked off his shoes and lay on his side, grabbing a cushion to support his head. That was much, much better. ‘Put another log on the fire, will you?’

‘You’re not the conquering hero, Connor,’ said Layla, but she gave him his drink and built up the fire. ‘Before you ask, you still can’t smoke in here.’

Ah, well. You can’t have everything.

‘Why, Connor? Why did he do it?’

That was a very good question. If she’d asked him yesterday morning, he’d have said that Andy did it for the money. Now he thought differently. ‘He did it for the same reason that Matt built up the Laycross empire and I spent hours listening to shit bands in grotty clubs.’

‘You went to those clubs to get off with the girls. That wasn’t Matt’s motive, and I doubt it was Andy’s.’

He struggled on to his elbow. ‘You’re wrong, Layla. Yeah, I did enjoy the company, just like Matt enjoyed the power, but I did it for my girls, Pippa and Zara. I was even doing it for Alexis, in a way, so that she could have a nice house to live in. I did it for the future. Matt did all this for you, yeah, but he did it for Sabrina and the twins.’

She tilted her head to one side. ‘I don’t understand.’

He lay back down. ‘Andy did it for the kids he couldn’t have, and for Claudia. When he ran out of money, he would do anything to keep her and keep the IVF treatment going. He was never as rich as you, or as clever as Matt.’

She threw her head back into the settee and stared at the oak beams. ‘My God.’

He let it sink in for a minute, taking a drink and closing his eyes. When she stirred and sat up, he said, ‘If you want all the details, you’ll have to let me go outside first.’

She got up and rummaged in a cupboard. There was a clink of glass and she put an ashtray in front of him. ‘Tonight only,’ she said. ‘And don’t tell the kids I’ve had one.’

Connor shifted around and took out his packet of fags, lighting one and throwing the packet to Layla. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

‘Tell me everything. You’re not going home, are you?’

‘I’m not sure I’ve got one any more.’

Three tables had been placed in front of the whiteboard of the Operation Meteor incident room, like the altar in a basilica. The offerings laid upon them had been placed there during the night by grateful supplicants. I must be tired to have come up with an image like that.

From left to right, he took another look at the objects, all bagged, all tagged, all waiting for a secure courier to remove them. First was a locked case containing the pump-action shotgun, a smaller case next to it held a quantity of ammunition recovered from the bungalow. Then came a laptop, a pair of walking boots and two mobile phones. At the other end of the evidential altar three small bags held keys to the bungalow, the Range Rover and another set, presumed to be for Mallinson’s everyday locks. In the middle, a bag of shot had been laid: forensic officers had dashed on to the sand to recover it from the statue which had saved Tom’s life. Tom looked at the haul and saw that it was good.

Behind him, the extra officers from Division were starting to drift away as dawn broke and his own team arrived. Tom had chosen not to drag them in last night because he wanted them fresh for today. He and Elaine would run on adrenaline and the short nap they’d managed at two o’clock this morning.

Hazel breezed into the room, last to arrive. Tom checked his watch: he doubted he’d ever see her again at half past six. ‘Morning, Boss. Or should that be “Good Morning, Hero of the Hour”? Wow. I can’t believe what you did last night.’

Tom felt two inches taller, because he knew she meant it. He also knew she could adjust her emotions like knobs on a dial. He still felt good, though.

‘Morning, Hazel. I want you to get cracking on an interview strategy for Mallinson once you’ve got up to speed with the reports. For obvious reasons, DC Fraser can’t be involved in this one. Vicki can give you a hand.’

‘I’m on it, Boss.’

Tea was drunk, bacon sandwiches were procured and the team buzzed. The CPS appeared in the shape of an Asian woman with a very bright scarf, then ACC Schofield graced them with his presence. Tom took the two new arrivals into his office for a strategy meeting. He had got as far as describing the incidents of last night when there was a knock at the door.

A very worried Hazel Cotton stuck her head inside. ‘I’m really, really sorry, sir, but I think you should know this.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘I’ve got the Prison Service director on the phone. Natalie Alderson was found dead in her cell this morning. They think it’s an accidental overdose. She’d put Connor Holden down as her only next of kin.’

‘Oh shit,’ said Tom. The woman from the CPS seemed to think this was inappropriate, so he added two other four letter words to let her know how he really felt.

‘Where is he?’ asked Tom.

‘At the Manor, sir.’

‘Tell the Prison service that we’ll handle the notification and get your coat.’

‘You’re going to do it yourself, aren’t you?’ said Schofield, adding a subtle nod of approval.

The woman from the CPS looked even more outraged when Tom stood up. ‘Priorities,’ he told her. ‘Mallinson can wait, and I’ve got a good team out there. You can talk to DS Dunn and DC Fraser while I’m gone.’

‘I’ll head back to Warrington,’ said Schofield. ‘I only came to say “Well Done” and I’ve done that. Oh, and that you’ve got to do the interview with BBC North West Tonight. They’re sending their chief reporter at two o’clock. Media Relations will handle the rest.’

Tom and Schofield put on their coats. The CPS woman took a copy of the Daily Examiner out of her bag and placed it on his desk, tapping her finger on the headline: Shootout on the Sands — Brother-in-Law Arrested in Merseyside Mafia Case. ‘Aren’t we going to discuss this?’ she demanded.

Schofield held up his hand to forestall Tom. ‘I was just going to say that embedding a journalist was an excellent idea, Tom. Well done.’ With that, he patted Tom on the shoulder and left. Tom smiled at the woman and headed off to collect Hazel.

As they approached the crowded lane outside Flaxall Manor, Hazel pulled something out of her bag. ‘Watch this, sir,’ she said, pointing to the gates. To Tom’s amazement, they swung open. ‘I read your statement, sir. You said Mallinson had a remote control, so I borrowed it from Evidence. Thought it might come in handy.’

Tom was past any comment to Hazel, so he just drove up to the front door.

Layla Cross looked pale but stronger than he’d expected. When she saw Hazel, she assumed they’d come for her statement about last night. When she saw Tom, Layla narrowed her eyes, radiating suspicion.

‘Is Connor about?’ said Hazel.

‘He’s still asleep. I packed the kids off to school this morning, partly to give him some space. They weren’t happy. Well, maybe Tasmin was.’ All this was addressed to Hazel. She turned to Tom and said, ‘You haven’t come to arrest him, have you?’

‘Could you get Mr Holden up, please,’ said Tom. ‘We’re not going to arrest him, but I’m afraid there’s some bad news. Perhaps you could be with us when we talk to him.’

Layla pointed to a room on their left and Tom followed Hazel. Behind the scented candles and woodsmoke from the fire, he thought he could detect stale tobacco. Tom asked Hazel to excuse him for a minute while he sent various urgent messages to the team. Hazel impressed him by continuing her study of the overnight reports.

The housekeeper came first, with a tray of coffee, then Layla, and finally Holden. He was bleary eyed, unshaven and unsteady on his feet. He was also wearing what had to be one of Matt’s dressing gowns: it was black, luxurious and too long. He took his time crossing the room and sitting down before speaking. From the look of him, he was still functioning, but only capable of one thing at a time. ‘What’s up?’ he finally said.

Tom had opted to do the hard bit. He felt that he owed it to Holden, though he doubted the man would appreciate it. Holden’s face crumpled when Tom had finished breaking the news.

‘How did it happen?’ he asked, tears running down his face. He didn’t seem to notice them. Layla grabbed a tissue from the box and pressed it into his hand.

‘It’s too early to tell, I’m afraid,’ said Tom. ‘I think — and this may never be official — I think that she bribed one of the prisoner escort service to allow her to take methadone yesterday afternoon. The admissions unit at the prison saw no sign of withdrawal. When she was released into the general population this morning, she must have procured heroin. My guess is that she expected it to be much weaker than it actually was, and she still had methadone in her system. I do not believe she intended to take her own life.’

Holden nodded, crumpling the tissue in one hand and wiping his face with the sleeve of his dressing gown. Layla put her arm round him. ‘You poor love,’ she said. ‘That’s not fair. That’s just shitty.’

There was no more to be said, and plenty more work to be done back at the Tombs. Tom rose and beckoned Hazel. She left another copy of her business card on the table and whispered, ‘I’ll come over later,’ to Layla.

They left Connor and Layla clinging to each other like survivors of a disaster. Which is what they were, after all.

38

Thursday

Lucy got the letter on Thursday morning. She had no idea what to do, because she had never visited someone in prison before. She looked round the café for inspiration, and was about to ask Bridget when a more likely candidate walked in. Would be appropriate to ask Connor when he looked like that?

Bridget rushed over and gave him a hug. He had gone to Bridget’s flat on Tuesday morning to break the news, and as far as Lucy knew, this was the first time they’d seen each other since. Lucy had been with Bridget both of the last two nights, and both nights had involved wine and box sets. Lucy was still not much the wiser about her new friend or where she came from. From her comments about Patrick Dempsey, Lucy at least knew that Bridget wasn’t gay, but that was all.

She left them to talk for a few minutes before offering coffee.

‘I’ll get it,’ said Bridget. ‘You keep an eye on him. We were just making arrangements for the weekend.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Lucy, swapping places with Bridget. She was rather disturbed by this idea. Surely…

‘I want to take the girls out on Sunday,’ said Connor. ‘I don’t think I’m physically capable, and Bridget offered to help. Alexis wants to move her mother back at the weekend so that I can stay instead.’

‘Are you in the flat?’

‘I can’t. For all sorts of reasons. Layla’s putting me up for now.’

It was sad. Very sad. Lucy didn’t do sad very well; it had never been her thing. She pulled out the letter and showed it to Connor. ‘What do I do about this?’

He pulled out a pair of glasses and studied the text. Then he looked at the envelope. ‘This has gone round the houses to get here. No wonder it’s urgent.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You have a visit booked at Strangeways this afternoon.’

‘Strangeways? You’re joking. Today?’

‘That’s what it says. Look, Lucy, this is gonna be your first time, yeah?’

She blushed, and nodded to confirm it.

‘I’ll take you.’

‘You can’t. Not after what you’ve been through.’

‘You haven’t got a car. You need Bridget in here to cover. Tom Morton’s not going to take you, is he? Besides, it’ll get me out of Southport for a couple of hours.’

It actually made sense. Lucy agreed and changed places again with Bridget.

On the way to Manchester, Connor tried his best to be funny but only managed sad. To avoid further sadness, Lucy started rattling on about her plans for a chain of coffee shops, her impending visit to Japan and anything else she could think of in the future. Anything but think about the past, about what she was doing going to a prison and why her father was locked up there.

Connor was a good listener. He said little until they saw the signs to HMP Manchester, then he told her slowly and carefully what to expect, what not to do and how to deal with the hard faced women who would knock her out of the way to get the best lockers.

They pulled up in the car park, and he put his hand on her arm. ‘He’s still your Dad, no matter what he says or what you think. If anything like this happened to me, I hope to God that Pippa and Zara would still come to see me.’

She looked into his hollow eyes. ‘If you’d had a son, Connor, no matter what he did, I doubt you’d have murdered him.’ With that, she bailed out of the car. It would serve her right if he drove off and left her.

His advice was good, and in less than half an hour she was sitting opposite her dad. The last time she had seen him, Tom was marching him out of John Nugent’s dining room. My God, Dad, I had no idea you’d been dying your hair so much.

The first ninety seconds passed like ninety years, so awkward were they. The next ninety minutes flew by. She promised to see him again before she decamped to Japan, though she was now beginning to question the idea of running away once she considered how many people she’d come to know and care for since she’d left Sevenbridge.

Connor was waiting for her, dozing at the wheel. Before he could ask about her dad, she said, ‘Do you think Bridget will be all right if I go abroad?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on her.’

Lucy didn’t like the sound of that, and it must have shown in her face.

‘Give over, girl. She’s way out of my league. Much too clever.’

Lucy didn’t know what to say. Connor swiped his phone and looked for something. ‘There’s an awful lot you don’t know about our Bridget. Natalie texted me this one night. I’ll send it to you and you can ask her about it.’

He sent a message, then started the engine. Lucy belted up and waited for the message to arrive. When her phone pinged, she had to read it twice before she realised it was written in English rather than Latin. She ran the words round in her head before daring to speak.

‘Okay, Connor, what on earth is Polysaccharides and their Impact on Lactose Crystal Formation?’

‘I have no more idea than you do, love, but it once meant something to Bridget. Now, tell me about your dad.’

‘In a sec. I want to clear up another loose end first.’

Lucy’s loose end was waiting in the bar of the Duke of Edinburgh with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She had suggested that it would be good to talk in public, so long as Beanpole Fraser was not there (only she said “Elaine” instead of “Beanpole”).

It was the first time they’d met since he’d kissed her in the kitchen. He stood up and kissed her cheek. Both cheeks. She sat down and looked around. Other guests were few and far between.

‘Don’t worry, Juliet went back to London today,’ said Tom.

‘How’s the enquiry going?’

‘Well enough. Andrew Mallinson said No Comment to every question at interview. It doesn’t matter, though. There’s enough forensic evidence to convict him twice over.’

‘I saw your performance on North West Tonight. I almost didn’t recognise you.’

He looked aggrieved. ‘Yes, well, the less said about that the better. Dave Guest is a lovely bloke and a very good journalist, but the same cannot be said of our Media Relations Team. They made me take my waistcoat off and read from a prepared statement. I had to apologise to him off camera. Anyway, how are you?’

‘Fine. You know me, Tom, rubber band girl. That’s what Dad used to call me.’

He noticed the reference to her father. He put his glass down and said, ‘Go on.’

She placed her hands on the table and examined her rather badly scarred nails. ‘I went to see him today. He’s better than I thought he would be. Perhaps that’s because Robyn’s been to see him with the kids.’ She looked up. ‘He told me his solicitor was in touch yesterday. They’ve set a date for his trial. Six weeks.’

Tom sipped his wine. ‘Sort of makes it real, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes. And I’ve come to a decision.’

The look of panic on his face made her first excited, then ashamed. He was clearly worried that their relationship was over before it had started. Started properly, that is.

‘I know how I feel about you,’ she said, ‘and I think you feel the same about me. I think we both found that out the other night.’ She gave him a grin, to show exactly what she meant. He returned the gesture with a smile.

‘In that case,’ she continued, ‘I can go to Japan with a good reason to come back. Holly needs me, I think, and I’m worried about Ellie. There’s a seat on the Monday night flight. I can see Dad again in the afternoon then go straight to the airport.’

‘How’s Bridget coping?’ he asked. There was something about the way he phrased the question which made it more than a casual enquiry.

‘She’s okay, I think. I’m still hoping to recruit her to my new business, which I will tell you all about when I get back. It’s still at the idea stage. Connor told me something about Bridget today. Here, does this mean anything to you?’

She showed him the mysterious text from Connor.

Tom considered the words. ‘I was a lawyer, Lucy, not a biochemist.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Is that what it is? I never paid attention in science. There’s clearly a lot more to Bridget that I need to discover.’

Tom cleared his throat in that way he did when he knew something he couldn’t tell her. It was annoying, and might be very annoying in the long term. For now, she accepted it and didn’t press the point.

Tom looked sad, for a moment, then cheered up. ‘Your favourite Detective Constable has invited me to Scotland, to watch the rugby and meet her husband.’

Lucy peered into her wine. ‘That’ll be interesting.’

‘I hope so. She got me two tickets, hoping I’d drag you along. I wouldn’t do that to you. Not yet.’

She was half-disappointed and half-relieved. She liked football, when she could be bothered, but rugby did nothing for her. ‘Who are you taking instead. Should I be jealous already?’

‘I hope not. I’m taking a guy called Craig Capstick from York. He was very good to me a few weeks ago, and he’ll be a good laugh.’

‘I won’t linger,’ said Lucy. ‘This could get very awkward very quickly. We’ve both had enough awkwardness this week.’

He looked suitably disappointed that she was going and he raised his glass. She raised her own, and they clinked them together.

‘I’ll see you when I see you,’ they announced in unison.

Lucy drained her wine and reached over to kiss him goodbye, aiming for the lips and scoring a direct hit.

There is no Party Headquarters of the Sustainable Lancashire Party. Since the by-election, the de-facto HQ had become Penny’s house, much to Greg’s annoyance, and he had put a limit on visitors: no more than two at a time.

Kingsley was on his own, and the clearly visible damage to his head earned him sympathy when he rang the bell.

‘Come in, come in. I wasn’t expecting to see you back yet,’ said Greg. ‘You’ve certainly been in the wars.’

‘I’m getting there,’ said Kingsley, wiping his feet on the mat. ‘Penny insisted there was something I had to know. She said that she needed to see me today. I’m up for that, so long as she’s not going to fire me.’

Greg appraised him carefully as they went through to the kitchen. ‘She’s not going to fire you,’ he said, ‘because she hasn’t told me what the news is, yet, and if she wants you to know first, she must value your input.’

Kingsley felt sorry for Greg. It wasn’t easy being married to an MP, unless you’re a woman. For a man to be kept in the dark like that must take a special sort of guy.

Greg returned to cooking something, leaving Penny to make a pot of tea. She embraced Kingsley carefully, avoiding his wounds. ‘How are you? How are you really?’

‘I’m really fine. I’m staying at Jackie’s for a few days.’

Penny put the knitted cosy on the teapot and carried it through to her study. ‘Are you two an item again?’ she asked when Kingsley had closed the door behind him.

‘No. I’m sleeping on the couch for now. She’s doing it for old times’ sake. And for Leroy.’

Penny smiled. ‘At least she’s there for you.’ When she’d poured the tea, she adopted a very serious look, the sort of serious look that had Kingsley worried again. She stirred her tea. ‘I was down in London yesterday. I didn’t say anything because the Energy Secretary asked me not to.’

‘Oh? What did she want?’

‘It was a strictly off-the-record meeting between her, me, the leader of Lancashire Coastal Council and the Chief Exec of UGAS.’ Penny looked at him and folded her hands. ‘They’re not going to do a full test well. They’ve decided that the oil price is too low.’

He considered what his boss had said. ‘That’s brilliant news. In some ways. In other ways, it’s awful. They could come back at any time.’

‘Not within three years. The Energy Secretary made that very clear. You really do understand that you can’t tell anyone about this until Monday morning. We could both be prosecuted if you did.’

‘You can trust me, Penny. What are we going to do?’

‘You might not like this, but the best way of stopping UGAS is to go hell-for-leather to get planning permission granted on Quaker’s Fold. We can make it the main plank of our campaign in the local elections. With all that housing, they’ll never get permission.’

Kingsley took a sip of his tea. It was weak and floral, nothing like the tea at Jackie’s house. He put the cup down. ‘No thanks,’ he said.

Penny looked at the tea, then looked at him, confusion all over her face.

‘Count me out,’ he said. ‘I’ll work my notice and look for a teaching job. I’m not going to be part of that.’

‘If that’s the way you feel,’ she said stiffly.

‘It is. Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word to anyone, and I’ll do my best over the next month. I won’t leave you in the lurch. I’m very grateful, Penny. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, even if I did nearly end up in prison.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. On all counts. I’ll let you get on.’

He slipped out quietly so as not to distract Greg. When he pulled the door closed, he could smell something, something he hadn’t enjoyed for years. Freedom. Freedom, blowing in on the wind. It wouldn’t last, of course, but while it did, he took great lungfuls of it.

39

Friday & Saturday

Connor slipped on the jacket of his dark suit and checked himself in the mirror. He flicked some dust off the lapels and straightened his tie. He was in no rush — they weren’t going to the inquest for another hour yet. He just wanted to make sure that he could get dressed on his own, especially tying his own laces.

He shouldn’t have driven Lucy to Strangeways yesterday; it had taken too much out of him. Last night he’d been in so much pain that he’d reached for the methadone again. When he’d picked up the packet, the wind whistled round the eaves of the Manor and he heard the echo of Natalie’s voice: Don’t. You don’t need them, Babe. He’d flushed the remaining tablets down the toilet and collapsed into bed. Layla was driving him to Wigan for the inquest.

He walked slowly down the main staircase (the back stairs were way too steep). Layla emerged from the sitting room and turned towards him. She’d just come back from the hairdressers, no makeup yet, and still in jeans, but looking a lot more together than she had for a long time.

‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I was just coming to see how you were getting on. The police are coming.’

He nodded, concentrating on making it down the last few steps. ‘For me?’

‘Yes. Have you had any breakfast?’

‘Yeah. I needed to build my strength up before I got dressed.’

‘Good. I’ll get Mary to bring refreshments down to the study.’

She went through to the kitchen, almost with a spring in her step. Connor tried not to shuffle like an old man along the corridor to the study. Matt’s study.

Connor had been allowed to set up a sort of base-camp in there, because Layla couldn’t face going into that room, and because he needed somewhere inside the house to smoke. He managed to make it to the desk without any spasms of pain, then slumped into the office chair. It was the most comfortable seat, lumbar support making the pain in his back bearable. He lit a cigarette and checked his emails.

‘Stupid tosser,’ he muttered to himself when he saw a message from the estate agent: no, he couldn’t surrender the lease on the flat he’d rented with Natalie. He rang Kyle.

‘Alright, Boss? I thought you were busy today.’

‘I am. Can you sort something out for me?’

‘What do you want?’

‘Go and see that numpty estate agent on Lord Street. Explain to him that Mr & Mrs Mallinson are no longer handling the Laycross property, and that it’s not a good idea to piss me off.’

‘Leave it with me, Boss.’

Kyle rang off. Connor shook his head. Numpty. What a word — it was one of Kyle’s favourites. Connor had found himself using it already, because it made communication a lot easier.

There was a knock at the door, then Mary came in bearing a tray and leading the police. Just one of them this time: DCI Morton. Mary put the tray down. Morton coughed and waved his hand at the smoky atmosphere.

‘Open a window,’ said Connor. ‘I’d do it myself but you’re a lot more mobile.’

While Morton fiddled with the window locks, Connor heaved himself out of the chair and took a seat at the table. Matt’s seat, only Morton wouldn’t know that. He poured the coffee.

‘On your own today, Sheriff? No loyal deputy to put the fear of God into me?’ said Connor.

Morton glared at him. ‘DC Fraser is on her way to Edinburgh. She deserved an early finish after what she went through on your behalf.’

Connor couldn’t get comfortable in the chair. He twisted and turned but it was no good. Whether that was because of his back or the ghost of Matt Cross, he couldn’t tell. ‘It’s always a pleasure, Chief Inspector, but I thought I’d see you at Nat’s inquest.’

‘I’m not involved. Miss Alderson was on remand; it’s the prison service who’ll have to answer for her death.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘Nice.’ He put the cup down and looked at Connor. ‘I don’t blame you for what you did, Holden. In your shoes I’d probably have done the same. That wouldn’t stop me bringing a charge, though. If I had enough evidence.’

Connor was in too much pain for games. ‘What are you on about?’

‘I will be going to the other inquest. Grant Benson’s. I know what you did, Holden. You and Mr Matthews left him to die. According to the pathologist, there was no post-mortem bruising to the chest. I’ve seen Kyle Matthews’ forearms. If he’d tried CPR properly, there would have been extensive injuries, and Grant Benson might have recovered.’

That’s a tricky one. What do I say to that? Morton took another sip of coffee, then sat back, comfortable and clearly not going anywhere.

Connor made another effort to get comfortable himself. Morton wanted an answer, so he’d better give him one. ‘I did it for Natalie,’ he said. ‘If Grant had gone to the footie, like he was supposed to, you’d have arrested Andy for possession, bust his houses and found the shotgun. In that case, Grant would still be alive, Claudia would still be pregnant and I wouldn’t be going to Natalie’s inquest. I’d also be able to stand up straight and pee properly.’

Morton nodded. ‘An eye for an eye. That’s one version of the truth, I suppose. If I didn’t know you cared so much for Natalie, I wouldn’t believe you. I am sorry for your loss, Mr Holden, I want you to know that.’ The policeman finished his coffee and stood up to go.

‘Thanks,’ said Connor. ‘Are you going to be sticking to me like a rash, Chief Inspector? Can I expect to see your lot camped outside Layla’s Bar every night?’

Morton smiled. ‘My lot? My lot are in London. What the local police do is up to them. I’m finished here. DS Dunn is in charge of wrapping things up. I’ll only be coming back if there’s a problem.’ He paused. ‘One other thing, Mr Holden.’

‘Yes?’

‘Thanks for taking Lucy to Strangeways yesterday. It made a big difference.’

‘Sure. No problem.’

Morton moved away from the table, but instead of heading for the door, he came round to loom over Connor. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his Crombie overcoat and leaned down. ‘When she gets back from Japan, you’re going to draw a line in the sand. Do you understand me?’

‘Yeah. I get the message.’

Morton patted his shoulder. Hard. It sent rivers of pain down Connor’s back.

‘Don’t get up,’ said Morton. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

Connor took deep breaths until he felt strong enough to stand, then went in search of Layla. She was in the sitting room, fixing an earring in the mirror over the sideboard. She had got changed into a black dress with long sleeves and a flared skirt. Layla was definitely back to being Layla.

‘We’ve got a few minutes, yet,’ she said. ‘Sorry it’s not the Range Rover. I don’t suppose the police came to tell you when it’ll be released.’

Connor sat in an upright chair before answering. ‘No chance. It was just Inspector Morton saying goodbye and wishing us all the best.’

‘Really?’

‘Don’t be daft. He came to warn me off. Told me he’ll be keeping tabs on me from a distance.’ This was a travesty of what Morton wanted, of course, but it didn’t do to let Layla think anything good of the police. That would not be helpful.

‘Well, he’s gone,’ she said, dismissing Morton like she would a waiter, with a wave of her hand. Connor saw that she’d had her nails done, as well as her hair. ‘Do you think this dress is too formal?’

‘I think it strikes exactly the right note,’ said Connor. The press would be there, of course, which explained the efforts. There would be more, different, black dresses for the other inquests, and the funerals, that were coming up.

Layla remained standing in front of him. ‘Are you sure you want to go to Alexis’s house on Sunday? There’s plenty of room here, you know. It’ll make life easier for everyone, especially while you’re not fit to go back to the office.’

This chair was no more comfortable than Matt’s chair in the study. He shifted around and came face-to-face with Matt’s portrait. It wasn’t Matt’s face he looked at, but Luke’s. The boy had sat and stared at him this morning while he ate his toast, and asked very pointedly when Connor was leaving. Layla would need a lot of help in the coming months, and Connor wanted to be there for her, as an old friend and business partner. He didn’t need Luke’s opinion to know that Layla was off limits romantically.

‘It’s nice of you to offer,’ he said, ‘but Alexis is going to have a lot on her plate, with her mother being on crutches. Someone’s got to keep an eye on the girls. Shall we go? I can have a fag when we get there.’

Layla stepped forward in her heels, high stepping to give him a hand out of the chair. Walking to the car was good. He felt better for getting a stretch. Perhaps he’d take a walk round the grounds, later, if the sun kept shining. While Layla fiddled with the car keys, and swapped her heels for flat shoes so that she could drive, Connor’s phone pinged with text from Alexis.

Flowers just delivered to school. Card only said Sorry. Was that you?

He got into the car and text back: Yes. I’ve got a lot to be sorry for.

She replied: You have. Thanks for the flowers. They’re lovely.

It was a start. It was a small step, but like the walk to the car it would get easier with practice. It would get even easier after Kyle had visited the estate agent. There was a really nice house for sale in Birkdale, one that came with a granny flat. He was sure that Alexis would love it, and the girls would go mad for that amount of space. The estate agent would be more than happy to accept an offer.

‘Who was that?’ said Layla as they left the Manor.

‘Bridget,’ said Connor. He had always been quick on his feet when it came to lying to women. It was only half a lie. Bridget had been in touch earlier. ‘She wanted to know exactly where the inquest was going to be held.’

‘Oh,’ said Layla

‘Don’t worry,’ said Connor. ‘She’s coming as herself, not as a Goth. She knows when to fade into the background.’

‘Good,’ said Layla.

Connor bent down and twiddled with the knobs until he got the seat heater to work, then he settled back and closed his eyes.

‘Why me, Tom? I still can’t believe this,’ said Craig as they worked their way towards the banqueting suite after the game.

‘Why not?’ said Tom. ‘I had the ticket and I thought, “Who would appreciate this most?” I also thought, “Who do I need to apologise to?” After running away from the game last weekend, this was the least I could do.’

Craig stopped to let some Scotland supporters go past, their faces as long as their kilts. ‘Best excuse I’ve ever heard: dead body in Southport. If I pick you for the next game, will you even be in York?’

‘I should be. They’re leaving me alone to catch up for a bit. I’ve got a lot of paperwork to do.’

Craig checked the tickets. ‘According to this, we’re on table 47. Over there, I think.’

It was only when they arrived at their table that Tom realised the flaw in his plan. Because they were there as guests Rob Fraser, all the men round their table were fanatical members of the Tartan Army.

Although Scotland had started well, and even scored the first penalty, the England pack had ground them down, and the Scottish replacements were nowhere near their English counterparts. The team in white had left the field with a twenty point victory. It didn’t make for easy conversation. Even Craig found being nice an uphill struggle.

After the starter, Craig leaned in to Tom. ‘The service here is terrible. We could be all night. Do you fancy getting away for a curry instead?’

‘You’re on, but I can’t leave without seeing Elaine. Let’s get a drink at the bar.’

They made their apologies to the table. When they got to the bar, Craig said, ‘You must be used to that, being a copper.’

‘What?’

‘People being glad to see the back of you.’

‘A lot of people feel the same way about estate agents.’

‘I cry all the way to the bank. Every time. Cheers, Tom, here’s to the Calcutta Cup.’

Tom raised his glass. Craig had a lot in common with Hazel Cotton, he thought. Not on the surface, but underneath. They both had an unswerving belief in what they were doing, they were both good company and they were both divorced. Perhaps he should introduce them.

If Scotland had held on for a win, the team might have been borne into the room on the crowd’s shoulders. As it was, they entered in dribs and drabs from the official SRFU reception next door. Elaine and Rob were amongst the first.

When Tom shook hands with his colleague’s husband, he was lost for words. Rob Fraser was enormous across the shoulders, glowed with health and looked utterly at sea in the reception. Elaine clung on to his arm, slender as a reed but acting like her man’s anchor.

‘It’s a great pleasure to meet you,’ said Tom. ‘You played well.’

‘Aye, you mean that I played well considering the result. It’s a team game, Tom.’

Craig leaned forward at just the right moment to break the tension. ‘Thank you so much for the tickets, Mr Fraser. You must get pestered all the time. It’s a real honour.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said Rob, ‘and don’t thank me, thank Elaine. I hope they’ve looked after ye.’

‘They have,’ said Craig. ‘Though I must admit that the cheerleaders we saw before the game were more friendly. I had hoped that they were going to be at the meal.’

Craig didn’t notice the effect of his remark — Elaine looked like she’d bitten a lemon, and Rob looked like he’d dropped the ball in front of the try line. It was Tom’s turn to rescue the situation.

‘Are you going back to Manchester now the Six Nations is over?’ he said. Elaine flicked a smile in Tom’s direction.

‘Aye,’ said Rob. ‘Back to the day job with Irwell Mancunia. Back home, I suppose.’

Home. A difficult concept, apparently. Rob had a Scottish home and a marital home. Tom hoped that there wouldn’t be any long-term tension between the two, for Elaine’s sake.

A suit from the SRFU approached and held his arm out for Rob. ‘Can I steal our centre for a moment? A bit of meet and greet.’

Rob followed the suit towards a sponsor’s stand. Craig said, ‘I’ll get our coats, shall I, Tom?’

‘Great. Thanks.’

He left Tom and Elaine alone for a second. ‘Can I get you a drink before I go?’ asked Tom.

‘No thanks, sir. I mean, no thanks, Tom.’

‘At least you didn’t introduce me as Sheriff Morton. Is everything OK?’

She frowned, then smiled. ‘It is, actually. It really is. I’m looking forward to next week. Don’t worry, Sheriff, I’ll keep an eye on Deputy Dunn until you come back.’

He thought she’d finished, then she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. ‘Thanks, sir.’ Then she followed her husband, catching his arm and nestling in.

‘You were right, Tom, she is scary,’ said Craig. ‘Let’s go before the bagpipes start.’

Outside, Craig started searching for a taxi. Tom buttoned his coat. On the whole, he agreed with Elaine: things were going to be all right. What’s more, he was looking forward to next week, too. But not as much as he was looking forward to five weeks next Thursday, when Gary White was going to plead guilty. Tom was looking forward to that day a lot.

THE END

Tom, Lucy and Elaine will be disappearing into the background for a while. They may reappear in the Eighth Book of the King’s Watch, or it may take longer.

Author’s Note

Thank you for reading this book; I hope you enjoyed it.

I'm well aware that most of the readers for this book will have come on a long journey that began with the Conrad Clarke series and then went back to Operation Jigsaw before finally coming to Tom Morton’s Solo cases.

But that is not how they were written. I originally intended The King’s Watch and Tom Morton books to run alongside each other. I couldn't have predicted that Conrad's adventures in magick would be quite so popular, and so Tom has been neglected and that’s why the story ends here. For now. I have a lot more stories to tell, and I never say never. Thanks for your patience.

If you did enjoy the book, please leave a review on Amazon. It doesn't have to be long. Reviews make a huge difference to Indie authors, and an honest review from a genuine customer is worth a great deal.

This is the first time I’ve featured a real place so prominently in one of my books. First and foremost, it must be said that none of the characters in this book are based on any real person, living or dead. As you might expect, the feature locations – Tyler Street, Flaxall – and all the properties mentioned are my own creations. There is one exception – the Tombs. At the time of writing, Merseyside Police still occupy the building  I have described in this story, though the PCC has stated that it will be closed during the current round of cuts. I have just accelerated things a little.

I thoroughly recommend a day out in Southport. It’s a lovely place and has something to offer all generations. If I were thirty years’ younger, I’d probably enjoy a night out there, too. As for Mr Gormley’s installation, Another Place, this is a truly visionary piece of public sculpture. I didn’t choose to include it by accident.

Thanks…

This book would not have been written without love, support, encouragement and sacrifices from my wife, Anne. She agreed to carry on full time work and let me step down so I could write. I also do the cooking and ironing, so it’s not a one-way deal. Since the first edition came out, she has retired, but somehow I'm still doing the ironing.

You can find out about all my books, and keep up to date with what’s happening with Tom, Elaine and Conrad by visiting the Paw Press website at Paw Press (www.pawpress.co.uk).

Although Chris Tyler didn't get to see the draft this time, his friendship is a big part of my continued desire to write, and thanks also due to the fellow members of Kendal Writers’ Café. Their critique of my opening chapters is always both merciless and justified.

Finally, if you've made it this far, please, please, pretty please go on to the next page where Amazon will invite you to Rate this Book. I would be enormously and eternally grateful if you could leave a review. Thanks.