Relentless

by

Simon Kernick

Also by Simon Kernick

The Business of Dying
The Murder Exchange
The Crime Trade
A Good Day to Die

For more information on Simon Kernick and his books,
see his website at www.simonkernick.com
SIMON KERNICK

¥

LONDON TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND JOHANNESBURG
TRANSWORLO PUBLISHERS
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Published 2006 by Bantam Press
a division of Transworld Publishers

Copyright © Simon Kerniek 2006

The right of Simon Kemick to be identified as the author of this work has
been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78
of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters hi this book are fictitious,
and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Acatalogu

rd for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9780593054710 (cased) (from Jan 07)
ISBN 0593054717 (cased)
ISBN 9780593054703 (tpb) (from Jan 07)
ISBN 0593054709 (tpb)

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For my daughters, Amy and Rachel
Part One

SATURDAY
1

I only heard the phone because the back door was open. I was
outside breaking up a fight between my two kids over which one
of them should have the bubble-blowing machine, and it was
threatening to turn ugly. To my dying day, I will always wonder
what would have happened if the door had been shut, or the
noise of the kids had been so loud that I hadn't heard it.
It had just turned three o'clock on a cloudy Saturday afternoon
in late May, and my whole world was about to collapse.
I ran back inside the house, into the living room, where
the football was just kicking off on the TV, and picked up on
about the fourth ring, wondering whether it was that permatanned
bastard of a boss of mine, Wesley 'Call me Wes' O'Shea,
phoning to discuss a minor detail on a client proposal. He liked
to do that at weekends, usually when there was a football match
on. It gave him a perverse sense of power.
I looked at my watch. One minute past three.
'Hello?' 1 'Tom, it's me, Jack.' The voice was breathless.
fcwas momentarily confused. 'Jack who?'
'Jack ... Jack Calley.'
This was a voice from the past. My best friend when we were
at school. The best man at my wedding nine years earlier. But
also someone I hadn't spoken to in close to four years. There
was something wrong, too. He sounded in pain, struggling to get
the words out.
'Long time no speak, Jack. How are you?'
'You've got to help me.'
It sounded like he was running, or walking very quickly. There
was background noise, but I couldn't tell what it was. He was
definitely outside.
'What do you mean?'
'Help me. You've got to ...' He gasped suddenly. 'Oh Jesus,
no. They're coming.'
'Who's coming?'
'Oh Christ!'
He shouted these last words, and I had to hold the phone
away from my ear momentarily. On the TV, the crowd roared as
one of the players bore down on goal.
'Jack. What the hell's happening? Where are you?'
He was panting rapidly now, his breaths coming in tortured,
wailing gasps. I could hear the sound of him running.
'What's going on? Tell me!'
Jack cried out in abject terror, and I thought I heard the
sound of some sort of scuffle. 'Please! No!' he yelled, his voice
cracking. The scuffle continued for several seconds, and seemed
to move away from the phone. Then he was speaking again, but
no longer to me. To someone else. His voice was faint but I
could make it out easily enough.
He said six words. Six simple words that made my heart lurch
and my whole world totter.

They were the first two lines of my address.
Then Jack let out a short, desperate scream, and it sounded like he was being pulled away from the phone. There followed a
succession of gasping coughs, and instinctively even I, who'd
lived my life a long way from the indignities of death, could tell
that my old friend was dying.
And then everything fell eerily silent.
The silence might have lasted ten seconds, but was probably
nearer two, and as I stood frozen to the spot in my front room,
mouth open, too shocked to know what to say or do, I heard the
line suddenly go dead at the other end.
The first two lines of my address. The place where I lived an
ordinary suburban life with my two kids and my wife of nine
years. The place where I felt safe.
For a moment, just one moment, I thought it must have been
some sort of practical joke, a cruel ruse to get a reaction. But the
thing was, I hadn't spoken to Jack Calley in four long years, and
the last time had been a chance meeting in the street, a snatched
five-minute conversation while the kids - much younger then,
Max just a baby - shouted and fidgeted in their twin pushchair. I
hadn't had a proper chat with him - you know, the kind friends
have - in, what, five, six, maybe even seven years. We'd gone our
separate ways a long time ago.
No, this was serious. You don't put fear like that into your
voice deliberately. It's a natural thing, something that's got to Dome from within. And this mos\ definitely had. Jack had been
terrified, and with good reason. If I wasn't mistaken, and I
would swear to God that I wasn't, I'd just heard him breathe his
dying breaths. And his last words were the first two lines of my
address.
Who wanted to know where I lived? And why?

Let me tell you this: I am an ordinary man with an ordinary
desk job in a big open-plan office, leading a team of four IT
software salesmen. It's not a huge amount of fun and, as I've
already suggested, my boss, Wesley, is something of an arsehole,
but it pays the bills and allows me to own a half-reasonable
detached four-bed house in the suburbs, and at thirty-five I've
never once been in trouble with the boys in blue. My wife and I
have had our ups and downs, and the kids can play up now and
again, but in general, we're happy. Kathy works as a lecturer in
environmental politics over at the university, a job she's held for
close to ten years. She's well liked, good at what she does and,
although she probably wouldn't like me saying so, very pretty.
We're the same age, we've been together eleven years, and we
have no secrets. We've done nothing wrong; we pay our taxes
and we keep out of trouble. In short, we're just like everyone
else.
Just like you.
So why did some stranger want to know our address? Some
stranger who wanted it so badly he was prepared to kill for it?
Fear kicked in, that intense terror that starts somewhere in the groin and tears through you like an express train until it's
infected every part and is ready to develop into outright panic.
The instinctive flight mechanism. The sick feeling you get when
you're walking empty streets alone at night and you hear footsteps
coming from behind. Or when a man smashes a beer glass
on the corner of a bar and demands to know what the fuck you
think you're looking at. Real fear. I had it then.
I replaced the phone in its cradle and stood where I was for a
long moment, trying to think of a rational explanation for what
I'd just heard. Nothing presented itself, and yet at the same time
even the most paranoid explanation didn't make sense either. If

someone wanted to speak to me, then they presumably knew
who I was. In which case they could easily have found out where
I lived without asking a man who barely knew me any more.
They could have looked in the phonebook for a start. But they
hadn't.
'Daddy, Max just hit me for no reason.' It was Chloe coming
back into the house, grass stains on the knees of her jeans, her
dark-blonde hair a tousled mess. At five, she was little more
than a year older than her brother Max, yet vastly more sensible.
The problem was, he'd already overtaken her in bulk, and in the
anarchic world of young kids bulk tends to win through in
arguments. 'Can you go and tell him off?' she added, looking put
out, as innocent of danger as all children are.
Someone was coming here. Someone who'd just killed my
oldest friend.
The last I remembered, Jack Calley had been living five or six
miles away, just outside Ruislip, where London finally gives way
to the Green Belt. If he'd called me from near his home then the person he'd given my address to would be about a fifteen
minute drive away at this time of day. Maybe less if the traffic Was quiet and they were in a hurry.
: 'Daddy, what are you doing?'
'Hold on a sec, darling,' I said with a smile so false it would
'have embarrassed a politician. 'I'm just thinking.'
It was two minutes since I'd put down the phone and I could
my heart beating a rapid Attoo in my chest. Bang bang, bang bang, bang bang. If I stayed here, I was putting my family
risk. If I left, then how was I ever going to find out who was
it me, and why?
'Hey, sweetie,' I said, keenly aware of the strain in my voice, Vetoe got to go out now, round to Grandma's.'

'Why?'
I squatted down and picked her up. 'Because she wants to see
you.'
'Why?'
Sometimes it's best not to get into a dialogue with a fiveyear-old.
'Come on, darling, we've got to go,' I said, and strode
outside, carrying her in my arms.
I saw that Max had abandoned the bubble-making machine in
the middle of the lawn and was now at the bottom of the garden,
his head poking out of a makeshift, canvas-sided camp at the top
of the climbing frame. I shouted at him to come out because we
had to go. His head immediately retreated into the camp. Like a
lot of four-year-old boys, he didn't like to do what he was told.
Usually this wasn't much of a problem. I tended to ignore it and
let him do his own thing. Today it was a disaster.
Jack's words played over and over in my mind. 'Oh Jesus,
no. They're coming.' The urgency in them. The fear. They're
coming.
They're coming here.
I looked at my watch. 3.05. Four minutes since I'd picked up
the phone. Time seemed to be moving faster than it usually
does.
'Come on, Max, we've got to get moving. Now.'
I ran over to the climbing frame, still holding onto Chloe,
ignoring her complaints. She tried to struggle out of my arms,
but I didn't let go.
'But I'm playing,' he called out from within the camp.
'I don't care. We've got to go now.'

I heard a car pulling into the road out front. This was unusual.
The housing estate we live on leads nowhere and is simply a
horseshoe-shaped road with culs-de-sac sprouting off it. Drive

along it and eventually you end up right back close to where you
started. Our house was on the corner of one of the culs-de-sac,
and a car came down it once every twenty minutes at most.
The car slowed down. Stopped.
I heard a car door shut, further down in the cul-de-sac. I was
being unduly paranoid. But my heart continued to thud.
'Come on, Max. I'm serious.'
He giggled, blissfully unaware of my fear. 'Come and get me.'
I put Chloe down and reached inside the camp. Max retreated
as far as he could go, still giggling, but his expression changed
when he saw the look on my face.
'What is it, Dad? What's wrong?'
'It's all right, nothing's wrong, but we've got to go round to
Grandma's quickly.'
He nodded, looking worried, and scrambled out.
I took them both by the hand and, trying to stay as calm as
possible, led them through the house and out to the car. They
were both asking questions, but I wasn't really listening. I was
willing them to go faster. In the distance, I could hear the cars
Sliut on the main road. Above me came the steady roar of a
iffcassenger plane circling beyond the unbroken ceiling of white
Cloud. The neighbour's new dog was barking and someone was
fjfeowing their lawn. The comforting sounds of normality, but today they weren't comforting at all. It was as if I was in some §lort of terrifying parallel universe where danger loomed on all
ss, yet no-one else could see of understand it.
I strapped the kids into their car seats, then realized, as I was
it to get into the driver's seat, that I'd better take some
light gear for them, just in case they were out of the house
any length of time. I tried to think what I was going to say 10R I turned up at my mother-in-law's with them. The best

is
man at my wedding just phoned me for the first time in years;
then, as we were speaking, he got murdered, and now his killer's
after me. It sounded so outlandish that even I would have
questioned my own sanity, if I hadn't been so damn sure of its
authenticity. And Irene had never liked me much either. Had
always thought her daughter, with her strong academic background
and her Cambridge degree, was too damn good for a
glorified computer salesman.
3.08. Seven minutes since I'd picked up the phone.
I was going to have to tell Irene that something had come up
at work. That maybe it was best if the kids spent the night with
her. And then what? What happened tomorrow?
I told myself to stop trying to analyse everything and to just
get moving.
'Stay in the car, OK? I'm just going to get some overnight
stuff.'
They both started to protest, but I shut the door and ran
inside and up to each of their bedrooms, hastily chucking
together pyjamas, toys, toothbrushes, everything else they were
going to need, and shoving them in a holdall, knowing with
every step that I was racing against time.
3.11. As I came running out of the house, I recalled the
gurgling, coughing noise Jack had made as he was being attacked.
The sound of death - it had to be. But who wanted to kill a
middle-of-the-road solicitor like Jack Calley, a man who was
doing well but hardly setting the world on fire? And, more
importantly - far more importantly - who wanted to find out from
him where I, lowly salesman Tom Meron, and my family lived?
As I reached the car, I cursed. Both kids had undipped their
seatbelts and were fooling around. Chloe had clambered
through the gap in the front seats and was now playing with the

steering wheel, while all I could see of Max were his legs sticking
up in the air as he hunted for something in the back. They were
both laughing, as if there was nothing whatsoever wrong with their world - which there wasn't. It was just mine that was going
mad.
I opened the door and flung the overnight bag past Chloe
onto the passenger seat. 'Come on, kids, we've got to go,' I said,
picking her up and pushing her back through the gap in the
seats. 'It's very important.'
'Ow! That hurt.'
'Get back in your seat, Chloe. Now.'
I was sweating as I ran round to the back passenger door,
pulled it open, yanked Max up and shoved him bodily into his
seat. With shaking hands, I strapped him back in, then reached
over and did the same to his sister.
'What's happening, Daddy?' asked Chloe. She looked frightened,
not used to seeing her father acting so strangely.
I'm not a panicker by nature. There's not much in my life that
would instigate panic, if I'm honest, which was why I was now
finding it hard to stay calm. This all felt like a bad dream,
something that should have been happening to someone else.
; An elaborate hoax that would end in laughter all round.
But it wasn't. I knew it wasn't.
I scrabbled around in my jeans pocket for the car keys, found
Hem and started the ignition. The dashboard clock read 3.16,
It I remembered that it was four minutes fast. Eleven minutes
the call. Christ, was it that long? I reversed the car out of
drive and drove up to the junction, indicating left in the
tion of the main road. The relief I experienced as I pulled
ray and accelerated was tangible. I felt like I'd escaped from
sthing terrible.

I was being stupid. There had to be some sort of rational
explanation for what I'd just heard. There just had to be. 'Calm
down,' I muttered to myself. 'Calm down.'
I took a deep breath, feeling better already. I'd take the kids
to Irene's, drop them off, phone Kathy, then just drive back
home. And there'd be no-one there. I'd look up Jack Calley's
number, call and see if everything was all right. From the safe
cocoon of my moving car, I began to convince myself that Jack
hadn't actually been hurt. That the ghastly choking hadn't been
him dying a lonely death. That everything was fine.
A one-hundred-yard-long, relatively straight stretch of road
led from the entrance of our cul-de-sac to the T-junction that
met up with the main road into London. As we reached it, I
slowed up and indicated right. A black Toyota Land Cruiser
built like a tank was moving towards us down the main road at
some speed. I could see two figures in caps and sunglasses
in the front seats. When it was ten yards away, the driver
slowed dramatically and swung the car into the estate, without
indicating. I was about to curse him for his lack of courtesy, when
I noticed that the side windows of the vehicle were tinted, and I
felt a sense of dread. An unfamiliar car driving onto the estate
only eleven minutes after Jack had called me. At a push, Jack
lived eleven minutes away. The timing was too coincidental. I watched its progress in the rearview mirror, a dry, sour taste
in my mouth, fear causing my heart to rise in my chest. Our
cul-de-sac was the third one down on the right, just before the
road bent round sharply. The Land Cruiser passed the first
cul-de-sac, then the second.
Fifteen yards short of ours, the brake lights came on.
Oh no, no. Please, no.
'Daddy, why aren't we moving?'

'Come on, Daddy. Come on, Daddy.'
The Land Cruiser turned into our cul-de-sac, then disappeared
from view. I knew then as much as I knew anything that
its occupants were coming for me.
I pulled onto the main road and accelerated away, the voices
of my two children and Jack Calley - desperate, dying Jack
Calley - reverberating around my head like distant, blurred
echoes.

'You know, I'd prefer it if you called in advance, Tom,'
admonished Irene Tyler, my formidable mother-in-law.
.; It was 3.35 p.m. and I was seven miles away from home and
flie occupants of the black Land Cruiser, and hopefully safe. At
least for now.
'I'm sorry, Irene. Something's come up. An emergency.'
I led the kids into the hallway of her grand Victorian semi
I detached home that sat on a quiet, free-lined street of equally
id homes, all of which boasted intricately painted, Swiss-style
ades. It was the house where'Kathy had grown up, and the
of place to which she'd always aspired to return. I'm What kind of emergency?' she demanded, raising a sceptical
sbrow.
Irene Tyler was an unnerving woman. A former secondary
taol headmistress, she had a dominating presence that was

assisted by her powerful build and broad shoulders. I always felt
that she would have made an excellent prison warder, or a
trainer of gladiators had she been around in Ancient Rome. She
wasn't unattractive to look at for a woman of seventy, but you
get the picture. She wasn't someone you'd last long against toe
to toe.
But the kids liked her, and they ran up and hugged her
now, chuckling delightedly as they clutched her ample form
while I tried to think of a suitable excuse for being there. As a
salesman of some twelve years' standing, I was quite a proficient
bullshitter, but a combination of my mother-in-law's brooding
presence and the fear that was coursing through me in waves
made thinking up a plausible story next to impossible.
'It's just something with work,' I said. 'I've got to go in. One
of our major clients is playing up. You know how it goes.'
Although, of course, she didn't, being a retired civil servant.
However, this wasn't an entirely unusual scenario for me. In
the past few months Wesley O'Shea had experienced several
entirely imagined client emergencies which had resulted in him
calling his team leaders into work on a Saturday to help 'brainstorm'
the problem. I was sure he only did it to make himself
feel important.
Irene didn't look convinced. But then she'd never really
trusted me. Like a lot of people, she thought there was something
a bit dodgy about anyone who sold things for a living. Plus,
the concept of people outside the retail trade and the emergency
services working on a Saturday didn't sit too easily with her.
This time, however, she let it go, and asked where her daughter
was.
'She's at work as well,' I explained, putting down the overnight
bag next to the ornate grandfather clock that dominated

the entrance to the Tyler household. 'Down at the university.
She's researching for a paper she's writing.'
I had to phone Kathy. Make sure she didn't go home. I
couldn't remember what time she said she'd be finished, but
thought it probably wouldn't be yet.
'So, when are you going to pick the children up?'
'Can we stay for tea, Grandma?' asked Chloe, pulling at her
grandmother's dress.
'Course you can, darling,' she said, smiling at last as she
stroked Chloe's long hair.
'I don't know what time either of us is going to get back. I've
packed some things for them.'
'So, you want them to stay the night?'
'Yes. Please. I'll pick them up first thing tomorrow.'
'Why are you going to work on a Saturday afternoon, Daddy?'
asked Max.
'I think you ought to tell your boss that you have commitments
outside work too,' said Irene in a tone that brooked no
dissent.
'It's a one-off,' I answered quickly, experiencing a sudden, Unstoppable urge to get away from this interrogation and find
out what the hell was going on with my life. I made a play of iooking at my watch. 'Listen, Irene, I've really got to make a
ilinove.' There's a Land Cruiser with blacked-out windows at my
»use. It contains men who want something from me, something
ey're prepared to kill for, even though I have no idea what it
'I've got a long night ahead, and I don't want to be late.'
She nodded, the glint of suspicion flickering in her dark eyes,
sn leaned down so she was level with Chloe and Max. 'So,
it shall we do, children? Do you want to go down to the river
id»feed the ducks before tea?'

'Yes, yes, yes!' they both cried.
I could feel sweat running down my brow and I knew
that Irene would have spotted it and drawn her own conclusions
as to why it was there. I kissed the kids goodbye but they
were already thinking about going to the river to feed the
ducks and their reciprocation was perfunctory. I nodded to
Irene and thanked her, conscious that I was avoiding her eye.
Then I was out of her front door and down the pathway to the
car.
I jumped inside, drove to the end of Irene's road so that I was
out of sight, and speed-dialled Kathy's number. The phone rang
five times before going to message. I wasn't entirely surprised
she wasn't answering. If she was working in the library she'd
have the phone off, and I knew she didn't like to be disturbed
unless it was urgent. I didn't leave a message but instead tried
her office extension. I listened as it rang and rang before finally
the voicemail came on.
For a few seconds I wasn't sure what to do. Then I put the car
into gear and drove back in the direction of my house. I was sure
now I wasn't being paranoid, but I still wanted to check which
house the Land Cruiser was parked outside, and whether it was,
as I expected, my own.
As I drove, I thought of Jack Calley. We'd known each other
since almost the very beginning. He'd moved into our road in
the late seventies when we were both eight years old, and had
made his presence felt immediately. He was big for his age with
a thick, ridiculously long mop of naturally blond curly hair that
made him look a bit like Robert Plant in his Led Zeppelin days.
His dad had died a few months earlier and they were moving
down from East Anglia so that his mum could be nearer her own
parents. My mum and dad took an instant dislike to him - I

think it was probably the hair. And because they didn't want me
spending time with him, I inevitably did.
We hit it off immediately. For a kid who'd just lost his father,
he was remarkably full of life, maybe because he felt he always
had something to prove. Jack was an adventurer, the kind who
always wants to climb the highest tree, to perform the greatest
dare. He was the first boy in the school to ride his bike down
Sketty's Gorge, a near vertical slope in our local woods at the
bottom of which was a thick wall of stinging nettles. I only tried
it once and got stung to pieces, but it remained Jack's party
piece; he was always doing it. It demonstrated his devil-may-care
attitude. It made him exciting company. And never once did he
fell off.
We spent our whole childhood as friends and, although we
drifted apart when he went off to university to study law and I
got my first full-time job as a photocopier salesman, we renewed
the friendship in our twenties, which was a good time to be
hanging round with a man like Jack. He'd turned into a tall, handsome guy with plenty of charm, and a fair bit of money
.t&o. He tended to draw women to him, and because we were
jjrfiut together so much in the bars and clubs of central London
the City, they got drawn in my direction too. Sometimes,
sasionally, I felt I was getting his cast-offs, but, like most men,
inever let my dignity get in the way of sex. In those days I was
awe of Jack Calley a little, and appreciated the fact that I
? his friend.
sMarriage, specifically mine to Kathy, had been the catalyst for
friendship to become more distant. Gradually, we saw less
less of each other. Jack found himself in a relationship with
ugh-flying female lawyer, and Kathy fell pregnant with Chloe. was a time of upheaval, and our meetings were reduced to

once or twice a year, until eventually they fizzled out altogether.
I always felt that this was more Jack's doing than mine. I'd left a
couple of phone messages for him that hadn't been returned,
and emails I'd sent, although answered enthusiastically with talk
of getting together some time soon, never seemed to come to
anything. As far as I could recall, we hadn't even sent each other
Christmas cards for the last couple of years.
Half a mile short of home, I decided to break the law by calling
Kathy's mobile while driving. Again, there was no answer, something
that was now beginning to worry me. I wanted desperately
to talk to someone about what was going on, and she was the
one person I could rely on to come up with either a rational
explanation or at least a viable plan as to what to do next.
Because if someone was after me, they were still going to be
after me tomorrow, and the next day. And the day after that.
Which meant I had to find out what the hell it was they wanted.
It was just short of five to four when I turned into the estate.
Usually when I make this turning it fills me with a deep sense of
satisfaction because it means I'm almost home, at the end of a
hard working day. The pleasant, well-kept 1960s houses with
their neatly trimmed front lawns always seem so welcoming, an
oasis of quiet amid the noise and traffic of suburban London.
Today, though, I felt nothing but deep trepidation over what I
might find here.
But when I drove past my cul-de-sac without slowing and
glanced across at it, I saw that the Land Cruiser with the
blacked-out windows was no longer there. I continued round
the bend at the bottom of the hill and went another couple of
hundred yards before turning round. As I came back the other
way, I looked over again. The Land Cruiser was definitely
nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they'd found out I wasn't there and

had simply left. The Henderson boys opposite, two raucous
tykes of seven and nine, were out on their driveway washing
their father's car. Martin Henderson once told me that he got
them to do it by making the whole thing a game. One cleaned
one side, one cleaned the other; whoever did the best job won
the game. The beauty of it was that there was no prize for
winning, so Martin got a spotlessly clean car for free. The
normality of the scene was painful.
I slowed down and stopped a few yards past the cul-de-sac
entrance, parallel to the wall that ran alongside my back garden.
I got out of the car, leaving its engine running, and walked over
to a spot where I could see through the ivy-covered trellising at
the top of the wall. From this position I had a view across my
back garden and into the dining room at the back of the house. The dining-room door was open, and I could see the hallway and
the front door beyond it.
I stared for about thirty seconds. There was no movement. My
: house looked empty. I thought about going back inside and
j trying to find Jack's number, but there didn't seem much point. I
lew he wouldn't be answering his phone.
A man in a cap and glasses crossed the hallway, moving
sefully, and disappeared into my study. He was dressed in
c, and I thought he was wearing gloves too. He was only in
field of vision for a couple of seconds. I could almost have
gined it, but I knew I hadn't.
ilThere was a man in black in my house.
fel waited, watching. Nothing moved. In the background I could 1 my car's engine ticking over. I felt like some sort of peeping
even though I was looking into my own house. I also felt
first flash of anger. Some bastard had broken into my home vas strolling about as if he owned the place.

As I silently cursed him he appeared again, stopping in the
hallway. I pushed the ivy out of my field of vision but still
couldn't get a good look at him. He was medium height and
medium build, and was holding some of my files that he must
have pulled out of the filing cabinet. There was nothing exciting
in there, just bills and old tax returns, stuff like that. What the
hell was this guy looking for?
As I watched, he opened up one of the files, leafed through
the contents and, apparently satisfied that there was nothing in
there of any use, casually dropped it to the floor, spilling papers
across the carpet, before starting on another one.
'You bastard,' I hissed, then made a decision.
Jumping back in the car, I dialled 141 on the mobile so my
number couldn't be traced, then 999. When the operator came
on I told him I wanted the police, and was put through to the
police control room.
'I'd like to report a burglary in progress,' I told the woman at
the other end, giving her the address. 'The suspect's armed with
a knife and I think he may have attacked the occupant.' I was
trying to sound as alarmed as possible, something that was no
great feat in the circumstances. 'A woman lives there alone with
young kids. I think they might be in there with him.'
She seemed suitably concerned, which was the idea. I wanted the police there in five minutes, not two hours after the guy had
left, which would probably have been the case if I hadn't been
bullshitting. When the woman asked for my name, I told her to
hurry as I'd just heard a scream. Then I hung up and put the car
into gear.
It was time to find Kathy.

It was usually a twenty-five-minute drive to the university
campus where my wife delivered her lectures on environmental
politics (a subject in which I have to admit I have no interest
whatsoever), but today I managed it in twenty. Traffic was
quieter on the roads than normal, and I was hurrying. Halfway
through the journey, I tried Kathy's mobile for a third \ time. Still no answer. The same with the office extension. She'd
i fcow been non-contactable for forty minutes. Not unusual, but I worrying given everything else that was happening. This time I
Nteft messages on both phones, telling her to call me as soon as
l ossible. I made no attempt to tone down the urgency in my
Mce. I wanted to make sure she didn't go home. I didn't like to
what might happen if she ran into our uninvited guest, but
Miad a strong feeling he wouldn'f be very welcoming.
The university campus was a set of bland 1960s redbrick
ldings with oversized black roofs that looked like they didn't
: properly, and which were dotted to one side of a much larger
lding that stretched from one end of the site to the other. On
iietother side of this main building was a large car parking area

which, because today was Saturday, was only about a quarter
full. I parked as close to the main entrance as I could and
hurried inside.
There was one woman manning the main reception desk but
she was busy dealing with an enquiry by two Chinese students,
and she completely ignored me. A bored-looking security guard
of pensionable age sat on a chair beside the desk on duty in the
reception foyer, supposedly to vet people who came into the
building - a post created after the rape of one of the female
students several years earlier. His vetting skills must have been
on the blink, though, because he barely gave me a second look
as I turned right and made my way along the corridor, past the
lecture halls on my left and a cafe and Internet area on my right.
It was in this building that most of the university's lectures and
tutorials took place, but it was relatively quiet today, with only a
few students dotted about.
I looked out of place, being at least a dozen years older than
everyone else, but no-one challenged me as I made my way in
the direction of the library and the politics department. I was
just another irrelevant old guy. And yet I could have been
anyone. I could have been the rapist from a couple of years ago, but no-one seemed to care. There's a degree of truth in the
maxim that people only notice what they want to notice; a lot of the time they simply ignore what's going on around them, so absorbed are they in their own lives. I was beginning to wonder
if I'd been like that too recently, and had therefore missed
something important. Something that could have told me what
was going on.
As I cleared the cafe and Internet area, the number of people
dwindled, and when I turned left and mounted a staircase to the
first floor I found that I was on my own, my steady footfalls

echoing on the linoleum. The corridor was completely silent, and
it struck me that it would have been easy for a rapist to strike in
a place like this, somewhere that initially felt safe because it was
often alive with people, but which could just as easily turn into a
place of darkened hallways with lines of doors beyond which
anyone could lurk.
I felt nervous. Not for myself - no-one knew I was here - but
for Kathy, having to come and work here alone. She'd told me
they'd installed CCTV cameras throughout the building and that
they were constantly monitored by a security company, so there
was no need to worry. But I knew that not even cameras stop the
more foolish criminals, or the ones who can't control their urges.
If this were the case, Britain, which has more CCTV cameras
tiian any other country in the world, would be a relatively safe
and peaceful society. And it isn't.
At the end of the corridor was a set of double glass doors
which marked the entrance to the university's Department of
s Political Studies. They were shut, and beyond them I could
' aeither see nor hear any signs of activity. The silence here was
'Complete.
'. I stopped and looked at my watch. It was 4.25 p.m. Beyond
ie glass was another corridor that led down to an arch-shaped
Hfctternal window at the back of the building. There were four
jrs on the left side of the corridor, only one on the right.
pjKathy's was the second on the left, and I noticed it was closed, as
re all but one of the other doors.
VI pushed the double doors and they opened. As I stepped
High, they closed behind me with a loud bang that cracked
the silence like a gunshot. I flinched, resisting the urge to
iout hello, and went over and tried Kathy's door. tt was locked, which was strange. I knew I hadn't made a

mistake. Her name was engraved across it on an expensive
looking stainless-steel nameplate: dr katherine c. meron ph.d.
The C stood for Cynthia, a name she hated. It made me wonder
why she'd had it included. I tried the door again, just to make
sure. It remained locked.
My mouth felt dry. Something wasn't right. The silence felt
heavy and unnatural. I couldn't even hear the sound of traffic
outside. Then I remembered. The walls here were very well
insulated so that the academics could get on with their work in
peace, unsullied by the constant racket of urban life the rest of
us have to put up with.
Turning round, I went over to the door that led into the
department's library. The lights were off and it looked empty. I
turned the handle and stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind me.
It was a big room, probably fifty feet square, with a walkway
running down the middle from the door to a bank of windows at
the far end. About a third of the space was taken up by large rectangular worktables, some with PCs on them, all of them
empty. There were no bags or coats to suggest that anyone was
around, no books out and opened, and the screens on the
computers were all blank. The tables gave way to lines of
floor-to-ceiling shelves full of books that ran left to right and
were bisected by the walkway, and which blocked out much of
the natural light, giving the room that gloomy feel you often get
in libraries. There was a line of further tables at the very end of
the room by the windows. They too were empty.
This time I did call out. 'Hello, is anyone here?'
No answer.
I pulled the phone from my ppcket and speed-dialled Kathy's
mobile yet again. At the same time I walked over towards the

lines of bookshelves filled with political tomes that took up
much of the space ahead of me. I was unsurprised but increasingly
unnerved when it went to message again. If she wasn't
here, where on earth was she?
I had to keep calm, I knew that. Maybe she'd left for the day
and forgotten to switch the phone on. But of course that meant
she might already have got home and run into whoever it was
who was rifling through our belongings. Whichever way I viewed
it, things were not looking good.
As I pocketed the mobile, something on the floor caught my
eye. Just in front of one of the shelves. Difficult to see against
the deep green of the carpet.
A stain, no more than a couple of inches across.
I swallowed hard, bent down, dipped a finger in it and flinched
at its wetness. I inspected the upturned fingertip. There was no
doubt about it. No doubt at all.
Blood.
And it was fresh.
' Slowly my gaze moved along the carpet. There was a second
fftain, smaller than the first, then another. Thick droplets of
blood. A trail.
My body stiffened. Please no. Please not Kathy. Not my wife,
§§ woman who's never hurt anyone. Anything but that. 'Keep
palm,' I said, aloud this time. 'Don't panic'
I looked up and saw a door facing me at the end of the
Dkshelf, fifteen feet away. It was about a foot or so ajar, and
I could see beyond it was darkness. I looked again at the
2t. The blood trail ran right along it towards the door. I
red at it, trying to detect movement.
My mobile started ringing. No, it wasn't mine. It was someone
?'s. A different ringtone. Mine was pretty normal; this was

more jaunty. Annoyingly so. And it was coming from beyond the
door.
Then it stopped.
The silence was so heavy that I could almost feel it weighing
down on me. My instincts told me to run, to get the hell out of
there. But what if it was Kathy who was bleeding in there? It
wasn't her mobile, I knew that. But that didn't mean it wasn't
her behind the door.
I took a step forward. Halted. I was unarmed. What on earth
was I going to do if I was confronted by someone? I needed to
get help. Now.
The door flew open and a tall figure dressed in a sky-blue,
paint-flecked boiler suit, black balaclava and gloves stood in
front of me. He held a knife in front of him. It had a yellow
handle and a long curved blade, similar to that of a filleting
knife. The end of it was stained dark with blood.
For a split second neither of us moved, each studying the
other. Only five yards apart. I didn't have time for fear. Instead,
I experienced a single, nightmarish jolt of shock that froze me to
the spot. And then suddenly he exploded out of the door,
coming at me with huge purposeful strides, the knife raised high
in a killing arc.
Instinctively I grabbed a book from the nearest shelf and flung
it at him, then turned and ran, but in my panic I went the wrong
way and found myself facing the windows at the far end of the
room rather than the door. There was no time to double back,
he was right behind me, so I took off up the walkway in the
direction of the windows, the sound of his breathing and
the rhythmic patter of his boots clattering on the laminated
plastic of the walkway spurring me on.
There was a wooden trolley full of books next to one of the

shelves and I grabbed the end of it as I passed and yanked it out
into the walkway behind me. I heard him clatter into it, and
the sound of books falling to the floor, then him knocking it to
one side, the delay to his progress giving me perhaps an extra
second and a half. I didn't dare look round; I was too busy
concentrating on getting to the windows. I could see that they
had handles and guessed - prayed - that they opened outwards.
The library was high up, twenty feet above the ground at least,
maybe more. It didn't matter. I had to get out.
I ran between two round reading tables in front of the
windows and pulled desperately at the first latch I came to. It
didn't move. The damn thing was locked. I could hear my
pursuer's footfalls gaining. I swung round and he was there, right
in front of me, five feet away and still running, the bloodied
knife thrusting forward at waist height. Ready to fillet me.

I heard myself cry out in fear, but at the same time I had
enough instinct for survival to grab the nearest chair and charge
into him, forcing its legs into his face and upper body as I tried
to get him off balance. He stumbled backwards, Lifting his arms
defensively, and this gave me time to move into a more open
space. Out of the corner of my eye I saw an open door marked
. toilets. A potential escape route, but there was no time to give
it much thought as I pressed my advantage, advancing fast and
thrusting the chair at him once again. But this time he was ready.
He jumped nimbly to one side and grabbed one of the legs,

twisting it away from me.
£ We wrestled with the chair for several more seconds, but I was
»w more exposed and he suddenly lashed out with the knife,
: catching the exposed flesh of my arm below the elbow. I felt
i sharp burning sensation but no pain. My adrenalin was pumpigtjoo
hard for that. I gritted my teeth, saw the thin gash he'd

made through the material of my shirt bubble up with blood,
and then I was having to dodge him as the knife skimmed
through the air again. It caught me in the middle of my cheek as
I twisted my face away. Another burning sensation, and I could
feel a drop of blood running down onto my neck.
The reality of what was happening now hit me. I was fighting
for my life. This man was trying to kill me, and all the time the
room was deathly silent.
He tried to get his leg round the back of mine so he could trip
me up, then yanked at the chair again and drove the knife at my
midriff. This time as I twisted away, banging hard against the
nearest bookshelf, I let the chair go, giving it as much of a shove
as I could manage under the circumstances. I don't think he was
expecting that because he stumbled backwards and almost lost
his footing.
That was my chance. I turned and ran like I've never run
before, aiming straight at the door marked toilets, knowing that
if I fucked this up, I was dead. I have a morbid fear of being
stabbed to death. Of being opened up by a hot blade and
watching my blood and my life ebb away, unable to do anything
about it. It's been with me ever since a guy we went to school
with was fatally knifed in a local nightclub a decade ago. Two
thrusts, both straight to the heart. The doormen threw him out,
not realizing what had happened, and he died on the pavement
outside. This was the fate that awaited me. A lonely, terrifying,
messy death.
As I moved through the open door, I slammed it shut behind
me. My mind registered two more doors: one to the left, one
opposite. I took the one opposite. The men's. Behind me, the
main door flew open again. He was still on my tail.
I charged into the men's, saw a row of stalls directly in front of

me, swung right, slipping on the tiled floor but somehow keeping
my balance, and kept going round the corner where there were a
number of individual urinals arranged against the wall in a rough
semicircle. Directly above one was a narrow window, maybe
eighteen inches high and three feet across. There was an ancient
latch at the bottom of it, the paint almost entirely peeled off. I
ran forward and jumped up onto the urinal, flicking the latch off
its guard in one movement, and using both palms to knock open
the window. Then I was scrambling through, head-first, my legs
flailing. As my upper body lurched out into the open air, I could
see a flat roof six or seven feet below me where the building had
been given a single-storey extension. Safety. I was halfway out,
arms outstretched, already prepared for impact, when I heard
the scuff of his boots from inside and felt him grab my leg and
pull up the material of my jeans in an effort to expose my calf.
As the blade touched my flesh but before he could make an
incision, I lashed out with the other leg and could tell by the
impact that I'd caught him in the face. For the first time I heard
; him cry out, and I kicked again, like a donkey, then put the flats
I of both hands against the outside wall and launched myself
jjbrward into thin air, as if making a championship dive.
The roof shot up to meet me and I hit it in an unsteady
Handstand, pain shooting up my wrists. My legs hovered preriously
in the air then made a rapid descent, and I ended up
lersaulting over, the roof's material digging into my scalp,
didn't even strike me to look back, to check whether my
lant was coming or not. I half-crawled, half-ran, over to the
of the building and, using my hands as a pivot, swung
slf over and slid down the wall, jumping the last couple of
et to the ground. ¦ I %ras in a small paved area enclosed by a brick wall some ten

feet high. In front of the wall were two lines of car-sized green
wheelie bins, the majority of them overflowing with rubbish.
There was a strong smell of refuse. Beyond the wall, I could hear the sound of a car coming past. Freedom.
I stood where I was for several seconds, panting heavily, then
heard movement on the roof above me. It was like being trapped
in a nightmare. The bastard was still coming.
Summoning up my remaining strength, I ran between the lines
of wheelie bins and tried to haul myself up on one that had been
positioned adjacent to the wall. I failed with my first attempt.
I'm no longer as fit as I used to be. My gym membership lapsed
three years ago, and now the occasional game of tennis in the
summer is my only real exercise. Bizarrely, as I went to try it a
second time, I made a vow to renew the gym membership if ever
my life returned to normal.
This time, with a grunt of exertion, I managed it, flopping
onto the bin's plastic top on my belly before struggling to my
feet, pulling myself up the last couple of feet to the top of
the wall and scrambling over, unable to see my pursuer in the
half-second timeframe I had before the view behind me disappeared.
I
hit the pavement feet-first and saw that I was in an unfamiliar
residential street of terraced housing. A car came past
but the driver didn't seem to notice me. I'd lost my bearings,
having never exited the university this way before. All I knew
was that I was a long way from my car.
Panting loudly, I ran across the road and headed back in the
direction of where I thought the car park was situated. I must
have looked a sight. I could feel the blood from the wound on
my face now running down onto the collar of my shirt, staining
it. The arm wound, meanwhile, was bleeding even more heavily.

It burned, as if someone was inserting white hot needles into the
skin, and I looked at it for a moment as I half-staggered, half-ran
down the street, my mouth open, sucking in air. For the first
time, I felt sick. What was happening to me? What had I done to
deserve this?
An attractive woman of about thirty in a long gypsy skirt and
halter top stepped out of her house, took one look at me and
immediately rushed back in again, shutting the door behind her.
This was London. The place where it's always best to mind your
own business and step away from trouble. A friend of Kathy's
had been mugged once, about five years ago, outside Oval
tube station at four o'clock hi the afternoon. She'd tried to
hold onto her handbag and her two attackers had kicked her
to the ground and spent several long minutes wrestling it from

her while raining down resistance-sapping blows. During
that time she estimated that some fifty people walked past.
Most had hurried away. A couple slowed down to get a better
look. No-one had intervened. Kathy had sworn that had she been one of those passing she would have done something. 'I
wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I hadn't,' she'd
told me. 'If you turn your back, it's the same as admitting that
Pyou've been defeated, and I could never do that.' This was
Itopical of Kathy. She was a woman with principles, a woman
;mho cared. But where was she now? And, more importantly, had
fit been her blood on the carpet back in the library with that
madman?
I had to locate her. Get to her soon.
i: Still running, I rummaged in my pocket for the phone. Please
ver this time. Please.
Another car came past. This time the driver slowed, and as ou%eyes met, his widened dramatically. I kept going, ignoring

the pain in my lungs. Behind me I heard the car stopping, and
him getting out.
'Mate!' he shouted. 'Mate! Are you all right?'
I didn't want to speak to him. I didn't want to speak to anyone
other than my wife. I had to get to her. I tugged out the phone,
but heard the man's footsteps coming behind me.
No, not again. Was he one of them? The bastards seemed to
be everywhere. In my home - my fucking home. At my wife's
work.
I accelerated, and as I came to a crossroads I stumbled into
the road, the phone in my hand, ignoring the shouts of the man
behind me. I heard the roar of a car to my right. A blast of a
horn, and then an angry screech of tyres. Out of the corner of
my eye I saw a huge white shape bearing down on me and I
knew I was going to get run over. I could just make out the blue lights on its roof and then it hit me with a bang that was all but
drowned out by the sound of the skid. I tumbled over the
bonnet, bounced off it once, then seemed to slide off the other
side, falling onto the road in a fetal roll a few feet from the front
passenger door.
The door opened and I came face to face with a pair of
well-polished black police-issue boots. 'Hello hello hello,' I said,
and then, for some wholly inexplicable reason, I started laughing,
the movement making my body sear with a dozen different
pains.
For the moment, I could stop running, and I felt a surge of
relief that lasted as long as it took for the police officer to bend
down, pull my arms painfully round behind my back, and tell me
I was under arrest on suspicion of murder.

DI Mike Bolt's team of National Crime Squad detectives
operated out of the middle third of a nondescript 1970s two
storey greybrick building with a corrugated-iron roof that made
a terrible racket whenever it rained heavily. It was situated on a
bland, sprawling industrial estate just off the A4 in Hayes, and
a couple of miles east of Heathrow airport. The sign in the
window said whitehouse design consultancy, and neither of
the companies on either side of them - a printer's and a recruitment
agency - had any idea that the men and women coming out
of the front door were plainclothes police officers. They kept I themselves to themselves and retained a low profile, which was
, tiie way to operate when you were involved in the murky world
[«f organized crime.
Today, however, the only occupant of Whitehouse Design
sultancy was Bolt himself, and the crime he was working on
nothing to do with the organized variety, at least on the
ace of it. It also might not have been an actual crime. At that
lent in time, it was difficult to tell.
'JJhe case was the apparent suicide of a senior member of the

judiciary. Because of the victim's high profile, and the fact that
his suicide note had been typed and unsigned, a decision had
been taken at the highest level to launch a thorough investigation
into the circumstances surrounding his death. And because
Bolt's team had just come off a very successful case in which
they'd broken up a major money-laundering ring, they'd been
chosen to carry it out.
So, rather than enjoying the fishing trip with a couple of
old Flying Squad buddies that had been planned for months,
Bolt was instead spending his Saturday afternoon sitting in his
drab open-plan office, with a view that took in a power tool
wholesaler's and a vegetable oil importer's warehouse, poring
over the initial autopsy report which had been faxed through an
hour earlier. There was a lot of crap about body temperatures,
chemicals and stomach contents, but the gist of the report was
that the victim had died between 8 p.m. and 4 a.m. two nights
earlier, the cause of death an overdose of dilantin, a type of
sleeping pill. Further tests were needed to confirm how the drug
had been administered, but mild bruising on the underside of the
victim's left arm suggested that he had probably injected it.
Bolt sighed and sat back in his chair. None of this told
him much. His first instinct when the team had been assigned
the case the previous morning, after the victim's maid had
discovered the body, was that it had indeed been a suicide. The
reasons for this were as follows. One, there were no signs of
forced entry into the Mayfair townhouse where the body had
been found, and it was a secure building, with strong locks
on the front door, no rear access unless you traipsed through
someone else's house first, and a sophisticated alarm system
with panic buttons in every room. Two, there were no signs of a
struggle. The victim was lying on his side in bed with the covers

off, clad in fashionable silk pyjamas and a towelling robe, his
features peaceful. It was a perfectly natural position to die in. As
well as this, everything in the room looked untouched. There
were no overturned lamps or drawers pulled out, nothing that
would invite suspicion.
What was bugging the people on high, though, was the suicide
note. The fact that it was typed rather than handwritten was
one bone of contention. Apparently, the victim was particularly
proud of what one fellow judge had described as, quote, 'the
curved, flourishing style of his handwriting'. Another of the
victim's former colleagues had suggested that the letter, at only
two lines long, was too short. The dead man was a methodical
thinker, which probably had something to do with his legal
background. He liked to seek out and provide explanations for
events, and would, they argued, have wanted to give the public
something a bit more substantial than the fact that he couldn't
take the pain of living. Finally, the letter was unsigned, which
had led to some questioning its veracity.

None of this swayed Mike Bolt. A lot of suicide notes were
priiort. Some were only one line long. Sometimes they weren't
I signed either. The thing was, people didn't tend to be thinking
jptraight when they chose to put an end to their own lives.
But a job was a job, and to this end Bolt had set the team to
pieork interviewing friends, family and colleagues of the victim,
build up a picture of his private life. The victim had been
Bvorced for more than twenty years, was childless, and his wife ' lived in the Cayman Islands. At some point someone would
ive to talk to her. Not surprisingly, there was no shortage of
iteers among the nine people he had working under him to
ce on that particular job, but, should it be needed, he'd be the
i%jetting off over there for a couple of days. He might even try

to fit in some game fishing; he'd heard the marlin were good
round that neck of the woods. There was no point being the boss
unless you got some perks.
At the moment, though, they were concentrating on the many
people who knew him in south-east England. Bolt had already
interviewed a judge and a senior politician today, one in central
London, the other at his family seat in Hampshire. Now he was
waiting for his colleague, DS Mo Khan, to pick him up for their
5.30 interview. When that was done, he was finished for the day.
He'd already planned the night ahead. Back to his apartment in
Clerkenwell, a good hot shower and a takeaway sea bass in
tamarind sauce from the Thai place round the corner, followed
by the latest of the Miss Marple remakes on ITV. Tonight
it was 'The Body in the Library' and, thankfully, he couldn't
remember whodunnit even though he'd read the book twice.
People laughed at him for watching Miss Marple, and Poirot, and even bloody Wycliffe. But what they didn't understand was
that he liked to escape from the bleak, cold world of violent
crime he inhabited every working day, where murders were
cruel events, often committed for the most mundane of reasons.
And where escapism was concerned, nothing beat the sofa, a
couple of drinks and the late, great Agatha Christie.
He checked his watch. Five to five. Mo should be here soon.
He was currently doing a second interview with the victim's
maid, who lived in Feltham. She'd been in a bit of a state the
previous day, so there were a few things they had to go over in
more detail, particularly relating to the company the victim kept
in his own time. Mo had a theory that he was gay, but Bolt had
told him to go easy on this line of questioning with the maid. She
was Filipina and a devout Catholic, so might take offence at any
aspersions being cast on the honour of her employer.

He pushed the autopsy report to one side and sat back in his
chair, drinking from the mug of coffee he'd made earlier and
looking out of the window at the aircraft-hangar-sized warehouse
opposite, which was used to store nothing but tens
of thousands of gallons of vegetable oil. Bolt often wondered
what would happen if that place caught fire. Occasionally, he
fantasized about it: this whole bleak estate disappearing in a
great ball of foul-smelling flame. It would mean his team being
freed to look for some decent premises, preferably closer to the
centre of town.
The open-plan office where Bolt was sitting now was ugly, and
cluttered, with too many desks for the available floorspace,
and very drably decorated. However, it did have one thing going
for it: a frankly magnificent thirty-six-inch plasma TV mounted
on one of the faded chipboard walls that had the sharpest
picture Bolt had ever seen. At that moment it was being graced by the England football team who were playing an excruciatagly
dull friendly on very low volume against a country Bolt
pttdn't even heard of. They were halfway through the second
: and the score remained anchored at 0-0.
There was an interesting story about that TV, far more
iteresting than the one currently being played out on it. It had
ice belonged to a charming old gentleman by the name of
Pugh who'd chopped up his wife, Rita, into six managelle
pieces one winter's night several years earlier before
siting her arms and legs in Highgate cemetery near the spot
! ere Karl Marx resides, her torso in the Regent's Canal near
s junctions of Upper Street and City Road, and, with what you
it call a measure of thoughtlessness, her head in a children's
iyground in Stoke Newington. When Pugh was arrested, he
liately pleaded guilty and left instructions with his solicitor

for all his worldly possessions to be passed to his sister. She
then held a macabre bring-and-buy sale that included a set of
Japanese kitchen knives with one missing (the murder weapon)
and Pugh's state-of-the-art plasma screen, which he'd bought
shortly before the murder and whose purchase had, allegedly,
led to the argument that ended in his wife's death. One of the
team, DC Matt Turner, who always had an eye for a bargain,
had snapped it up for 200, pounds a snip when you think the knives
went for over five hundred, after a bidding war between rival
collectors of gruesome memorabilia.
Bolt's mobile rang, the first time for almost an hour. He
picked up. It was Mo.
'Where are you?' Bolt asked.
'About ten minutes away.'
'Have you seen the time? Our meeting's at five-thirty, and I
don't want to give him a chance not to be there. It's been hard
enough getting him pinned down in the first place.' The victim's
lawyer had been a pain from the start, twice moving interviews
due to work commitments, and only fitting them in today when
Bolt had threatened to arrest him for obstruction.
'Well, to be honest, boss, there's not quite the level of urgency
there was,' said Mo.
'What do you mean?'
'I mean, Jack CaHey won't be going anywhere. He's dead.
And whoever's got him that way tried to make it look like
suicide.'
Bolt cursed. This really changed things. So much for his
theories.
'Look at it like this, boss,' said Mo. 'At least he'll be there
when we turn up.'

I was taken in the back of the police car to Colindale hospital.
The two arresting officers, a young white man and an even
younger black man, gave me no further details about who I was
meant to have murdered. Nor would they remove the handcuffs,
even though I was bleeding, or let me use the mobile to call
Kathy. They emptied out my pockets and put the contents in
a clear plastic evidence bag that was deposited in the glove
compartment.
'I'm trying to find my wife,' I told them desperately, amazed
by their indifference. 'Her name's Kathy, Katherine, Meron.
rThat's why I was at the university. Can you just confirm that
i she's all right? Please?'
'We can't confirm anything at the moment, sir,' said the white man, who was driving.
'Except that you're under arrest,' added his colleague helpilly.

? I tried to reason with them but they told me, politely, to leave
until the interview. The black officer then radioed the station
land told the operator he had a suspect in custody for the

university killing. He described me as an IC1 male identified by
the documents I was carrying as Thomas David Meron, age
thirty-five, brown hair, blue eyes, five ten.
'But I haven't killed anyone,' I told the driver as his colleague
kept talking. 'I was attacked by a man with a knife in the
university library. That's where these cuts are from. I think he
may have attacked my wife. Can you at least tell me if the
victim's a woman or not?'
'We can't say anything at the moment,' answered the driver.
'The killer's still loose,' I pleaded. 'You should be looking for
him.'
'We'll be checking every avenue, sir, don't worry.'
I replied that of course I was worried. My wife was missing,
and I wanted to make sure she wasn't the victim.
This time he ignored me.
I was in the hospital for about twenty minutes. Unlike everyone
else in the casualty department, I was whisked straight
through to a small, windowless room that smelled of antiseptic
where a doctor who was even younger than the two coppers
stitched me up. By now, the wounds were really hurting. The
one on my jawline throbbed hotly, and I was afraid to see what
my face looked like. Like a lot of men, I'm pretty vain. I don't
think I'm God's gift to women exactly, but I've been told I'm
pretty good-looking, and I've not done badly with the opposite
sex over the years. The idea of being scarred for life scared me one
of quite a few scaring me at that moment.

The doctor put dressings on the wounds and gave me some
painkillers. When he looked at me it was with a mixture of
distaste and trepidation. He saw a patient in need, but also a
suspected murderer.
'I didn't do anything wrong,' I told him. 'I'm innocent.'

It was hardly an original line, and I guess, like the cops with
me, he'd heard it plenty of times before. He didn't reply. Instead
he turned to the white police officer and told him that I was now
fit to be questioned.
The black police officer reattached the handcuffs, then took
me by the arm, his hand scraping against the wound on my
forearm. I flinched, and he gave a perfunctory apology. I could
tell he didn't mean it.
'Have you got a mirror?' I asked the doctor. 'I need to see
what my face looks like.'
As soon as I said it, I regretted doing so. It looked like I was
more interested in my own injuries than what had happened to
Kathy, which wasn't true. I just needed to know. The doctor
nodded curtly and found a small round mirror on his desk which
he held up in front of my face.
I flinched again, more noticeably this time. It was bad, very bad. My hair looked like it had been styled by Edward Scissorpiands,
my face like it had been used to clean a slaughterhouse
jr. Smudged and uneven flecks of blood, sweat and dirt
jvered it. Further dark rivulets of blood, resembling thick
aiders' legs, had solidified on my neck where they'd run
awn from beneath the gleaming white dressing that covered
jawline. My eyes had become grey and haunted, the pupils
tie more than retreating pinpricks. I looked exactly like I
It.
As I was led away, I saw from the clock on the whitewashed
that it was five o'clock in the afternoon. In the space of two
surs, my life - so ordinary, so mundane, so desperately missed iiad been torn irreparably apart. Two hours earlier, I'd been a
lal working man living a pleasant, easy life. Now, my wife
; missing, and very possibly dead; there were people after me

for a reason I had no knowledge of; and I was about to be
charged with murder.
What I didn't know was that this was only the beginning.
Things, if you can believe it, were about to get one hell of a lot
worse.

'Do we know what happened to Calley?' Bolt asked Mo as they
drove up the M25 in traffic that was surprisingly light for the
time of day.
Mo shook his head. 'There are very few details at the moment.
I called his house just to make sure that he was going to be
there when we turned up, and another cop answered it. That
was just before five, and then I called you. I explained who
I was and why I was phoning, and he told me they'd found
Calley's body in some woods a couple of hundred yards
behind his house, hanging from a tree by his belt and looking
like he'd had some help getting up there. When I asked what
made them think that, he said there were definite signs of a
struggle.'
'Less than forty-eight hours after his biggest client dies in
mysterious circumstances. Do you think it's a coincidence?' Bolt
was interested in Mo's opinion. They'd worked together two
years now, and after Bolt himself, Mo was the most experienced
officer in his young team.

'There's no doubt it looks suspicious,' he answered. 'Have you
found out what work Calley did for our victim yet?'
'That's one of the things I was hoping to find out today,' said
Bolt. 'When I asked him on the phone yesterday, he gave me the
usual client confidentiality bullshit, but Calley specialized in
investments, stuff like that. He was a financial lawyer, so I'm
guessing he helped our man hide his money from the Inland
Revenue.'
Mo chuckled. 'A financial lawyer. Now there's a job that
sounds lucrative.'
'Too right. But it sounds like one that could make you some
enemies as well. We're going to have to dig a little deeper into
his business dealings.' Bolt sighed. 'You know, I had plans for
tonight.'
'It's Miss Marple, isn't it?'
'That's right. "Body in the Library".'
'It's a wild life you lead, boss.'
'You only live once. How about you? Anything happening
that's now going to have to wait?'
'The usual. Breaking-up arguments, nappy changing, midnight
feeds.'
'Shit, I bet you're glad Calley's dead, aren't you? Gives you an texcuse to stay out.'
Mo chuckled again. 'I wouldn't go that far, boss, but let's say
pit's a very dark cloud with a small silver lining.'
They came off the M25 at junction 17, Maple Cross, and
roceeded through a maze of back roads in the general direction
Ruislip before turning off onto a narrow, tree-lined lane that
aund its way through a mixture of woodland and fields dotted
ith the odd detached cottage and executive home, until finally
lqpse group of four houses, spaced well apart, appeared on

the right-hand side as the road straightened and widened. The
houses backed on to a wooded hill and faced a wide, green,
undulating field in which a herd of sheep grazed peacefully. It
was a lovely rustic English scene, rare this close to London, and
one that was only spoiled by the row of police cars and vans
parked outside the third house along, and the line of yellow
scene-of-crime tape running across the road. An older couple,
presumably the neighbours, were standing outside the second
house, talking to two note-taking detectives, while several whiteoveralled
scene-of-crime officers milled about beside one of the
vans.
Mo drove past the neighbours and parked up behind one of
the police cars. 'Nice house,' he said admiringly, looking up at
the two-storey whitewashed cottage with the thatched roof and
latticed windows that had belonged to Jack Calley. A very
swish-ldoking black BMW 7-Series was parked in a spacious
gravel driveway that would have amply accommodated another
three of them.
'That's what you get from being a financial lawyer,' said Bolt,
getting out of the car.
A uniformed officer who looked about twelve approached
them, cap under his arm. Bolt noticed he was already going bald
on top, and felt sorry for the poor sod.
'We're here to talk to the SIO,' he explained as he and Mo
produced their warrant cards and introduced themselves.
'National Crime Squad, eh? Do you reckon it's gangland?'
The young officer looked excited and Bolt didn't have the
heart to put a pin in his balloon, so he said that it could be.
'Where's the body?' he asked.
The young uniform pointed behind him, up into the woods.
'Follow the path and you'll get to him. The SIO's up there too.'

so
They went to the back of one of the vans, where a SOCO
officer gave them the kit of overalls, hoods, gloves and booties,
and once they'd put everything on they headed up the path that
ran round the side of Calley's house and into the shadows of the
beech trees.
The two of them made an odd pair. Bolt was a tall, rangy man
in his late thirties with the broad shoulders of a rower, closely
cropped ash-blond hair that was just beginning to fleck with
grey, and a face you wouldn't choose to argue with. It was long
and lean in shape, the features hard and naturally well defined,
and clearly belonged to someone who knew how to handle
himself. There was a vivid S-shaped scar running almost the
length of his chin, and two more scars, like shapeless runes, on
his left cheek - relics of a life-changing night three years earlier.
Yet the overall result remained somewhere close to handsome.
His eyes were his chief selling point. His former wife had called
them the most striking she'd ever seen, and although she could
probably have been accused of bias, they did draw people, being
perfectly oval and a lively cerulean blue, and when he smiled,
E which was often enough these days, they became surrounded by
peep laughter lines.
Mo, by contrast, was a small, stocky guy with a head that
J sometimes appeared too big for his body. It was topped by a
ifrizzy mop of curly hair that couldn't seem to decide whether
pt was black or silver, and had ended up being an unkempt
ibination of the two. He was a couple of years younger than lt, but could probably have passed for forty. His face was
wind and jolly and he had big bloodhound eyes under which
heavy bags, that had become more pronounced in recent
due to the trials and tribulations of his young family,
bad three sons under the age of five and a daughter of ten

who thought she was a teenager, and it showed in the air of
permanent exhaustion that surrounded him. Without cigarettes
and copious quantities of coffee, it was doubtful he'd be able to
function, and people often asked him why he'd punished himself
by waiting so long after his first child before suddenly producing
three more. His reply was that he hadn't planned any of them;
they'd just come when they were ready, and rather than being a
punishment, to him they were a blessing. Mo loved his kids
deeply, and part of the reason he made such a good cop was
because, underneath the somewhat cynical exterior, he believed
in what he was doing and wanted to create a better society for
them to grow up in. Of everyone in the team, he was probably
the hardest working, and had never once shied away from overtime,
paid for or not, which was the reason Bolt enjoyed working
with him.
The path, which was little more than a dirt track, led up
a moderate, fairly straight incline and was muddy in patches
from the recent rain, revealing a number of partial and complete
footprints, several of which had already been enclosed by
phosphorescent-scene-of-crime tape. A line of it stretched up
the edge of the path, and they had to keep to its right to avoid
contaminating any possible evidence. As they made their way
along it, they could see that the prints belonged to at least three
sets of shoes. Occasionally, they were scuffed where someone
had obviously slipped. It didn't take much to figure out that
Calley had been chased by two people, probably men by the size
and style of their shoe markings.
They rounded a corner and the path became a wider, flatter
gully, and it was here that they came face to face with the body
of the man himself. He was hanging from one of the lower
branches of a gnarled beech tree on the left side of the path

about ten yards away, his feet dangling a few inches from the
ground, a leather belt around his neck. He was dressed in jeans,
trainers and a white England rugby shirt, the front of which was
flecked with spots of blood. It looked as if he'd received a facial
injury but it was difficult to tell from the position of his head,
which was leaning forward so that he was facing the ground. A
thick fringe of dark blond hair hung forlornly down over it like a
curtain.
Five or six men and women, all in identical white suits, milled
around the body, taking photographs and samples in the undignified,
if necessary, manner that characterizes all major crime
scenes. As Bolt and Mo approached, one of the men standing on
the edge of the scene turned and came down towards them, an
inquisitive expression on his face. He was a tall man in his fifties,
with a well-kept moustache, a seriously receding hairline and a
vaguely regal manner that suggested the possibility he was ex
military.
'Can I help you?' he asked, stopping in front of them. The
question wasn't delivered in an unfriendly manner, but he wasn't
smiling either.
'I'm DI Mike Bolt, NCS. This is my colleague, DS Mo Khan.'
Mo nodded. 'We were coming here to interview Jack Calley.'
Bolt looked over at the body. 'I'm guessing we're a little too fete.'
" 'You are. I'm DCI Keith Lambden, Ruislip CID, the SIO on !4his case.' He put out a hand and»they shook. 'Can I ask exactly imhsA you were going to speak to Mr Calley about?'
Bolt gave him a brief rundown of their own case and Calley's
elationship with their supposed suicide victim. Lambden's eye
rows rose when they mentioned the Lord Chief Justice's name,
[butjje didn't speak.

'Is there anything you've found so far that could link the two cases, Keith?' asked Bolt, looking over again at the body.
'Far too early to say,' replied Lambden. 'He was only discovered
an hour ago by a woman walking her dog, which was
lucky as this isn't really a well-used path. We got here at half
past four, and we've only just finished sealing everything off.
The doctor's given a preliminary time of death of between two
thirty and three thirty, so he's not been this way long.'
'It looks from the prints like two people were chasing him,' said
Mo. 'Those trainers slipped twice in the mud on the way up here.'
'Three times actually, and you're right, it does seem like it was
two people. We've checked out the downstairs of Mr Calley's
house and the side door was wide open. There's also a fresh
partial footprint at the end of his garden by a gate that leads
directly on to this path. The gate was also open. It looks like the
suspects confronted him in his house and he managed to escape
out of the side door through the conservatory, which goes out
into the back garden. They chased him up this path and caught
him here. There was some sort of struggle. He ended up with a
bleeding nose and facial bruising, and you can see where his
shirt's been ripped.' He pointed over at the body and they both
saw that there was a large tear running underneath the arm of
the rugby shirt where he'd obviously been grabbed. 'My guess is that one of them held him while the other put the belt round his
neck and either strangled him then and there and hung him up
afterwards, or put him up there while he was still alive and let
him die like that.'
They all fell silent. Whichever way any of them cared to look
at it, it was a particularly nasty way to go.
'They were certainly determined to make sure they killed
him,' said Bolt. 'But no-one saw anything?'

'We'll be making the usual appeals for witnesses but no-one
called us until the dogwalker who found him.'
'Poor bastard,' said Mo, getting back to his feet. 'I guess we
can rule out robbery. They wouldn't have bothered chasing him
up this path if they just wanted to burgle his house.'
'And nothing appears to be missing from it either,' said
Lambden. 'My guess is that he knew his killers. There's no sign
of forced entry at the front of the house.'
'A professional hit, then, boss?' suggested Mo.
'Well, it doesn't appear as though there was anything random
about it. What do you think, Keith?'
'Again, too early,' answered Lambden, with a hint of reproach
as if they were enthusiastic young rookies running ahead of
themselves. 'AH we can be certain of is that the people who did
this were physically strong, and very nasty indeed. Not the sort
you'd want to meet on a dark night.'
Bolt moved closer to the body. He waited while the police
photographer took some close-up photos of Calley's corpse,
then inspected it from a couple of feet away, ignoring the
pungent odour that clung to it.
Calley looked young, maybe early thirties. He was good
looking too, with clean-cut, middle-class features and a big build. A man who should have been, and probably had been, a success
Istory. Not the sort you'd associate with being a victim of crime. fFhe dead man's features were slack, the mouth turned down a
le at each corner in a mildly doleful expression, the eyes
Hazing blankly in Bolt's general direction.
; Death, like the onset of age, terrified Bolt. He wasn't a
ristian, having become convinced that the world's secrets
Id be better explained by science than spiritualism while still
his pre-teenage years. He believed then, as he did now, that

when a person died, that was it for them. The end of their
journey, the big sleep. It was this lack of faith in something
beyond which made him fear it so much. Sometimes he truly
wished he could embrace religion, as many do when age takes
them closer to the end, but he knew that it wouldn't work. His
own beliefs were too deeply ingrained. Standing here, viewing
sudden, unexpected death at first hand, brought the fear right
back to the forefront of his mind. A few hours ago, Jack Calley
had been a wealthy young man with everything to live for. Now
he was simply a sack of deteriorating meat without soul or
function.
Something caught Bolt's eye, and he leaned down, squinting.
'What is it?' asked Mo from a few feet away.
'Do you mind if I move the body, Keith?' he asked DCI
Lambden.
Lambden asked the photographer if he was finished, and the
other man replied that he was. 'OK,' he said, 'but be careful. I
don't want anything contaminated.'
Bolt ignored Lambden's irritable manner. He was used to the
territorial instinct of provincial detectives whenever they dealt
with him and his colleagues, as if they thought the arrival of the
National Crime Squad at a crime scene was some sort of official
slight on their reputation. Slowly, he used both gloved hands to
prise apart the upper portion of Calley's thighs. The other two
men had come closer, and they noticed it immediately.
'What on earth's that?' exclaimed Lambden in a voice that
was an octave higher than it needed to be. Mo just exhaled. He'd
worked organized crime for several years now and was well used
to seeing signs of torture on both the living and the dead.
The crotch of Calley's jeans was badly blackened and charred
where a number of separate burns, each approximately the size

SB
of a two-pence piece, had been made. Someone, it seemed, had
slowly and deliberately held a naked flame to his groin, and not
just once either. Four, possibly five times, the marks merging
together.
For a while no-one said anything. The other SOCO officers
and the photographer came over and looked at this discovery,
and the photographer took a couple of pictures. Bolt picked up
one of Calley's arms and inspected the wrist. There was a faint
but noticeable line of reddish skin about half an inch thick running round the wrist like a bracelet. He checked the other
wrist. There was the same colouring. Ligature marks.
'He must have had some real enemies,' said one of the
SOCOs.
'Either that,' said Bolt with a sigh, 'or he had something
someone wanted very badly.'

When I was seventeen, Jack 'n' me and two other friends got
arrested on suspicion of stealing a car. We hadn't stolen it. It was
ja crappy old white Ford Escort van and it belonged to Jack.
lHaving been the first to pass his driving test, he'd bought it
llourth or fifth hand for about a hundred quid, and on most of
[the summer nights of that year he'd come and pick up the rest of

vtts in it. Whoever he picked up first - almost always me, even
though he'd moved more than a mile away by that point - got

the front seat, while the other two had to make do with sitting
on a mangy old rug in the back among the rusty tools, bits of car
and all the other crap that had accumulated there over the
months. We called ourselves 'The Van Gang', and our nights
consisted of driving round looking for something to do, which
could involve a visit to one of the few country pubs that would
serve us, or a girl's house, or just a detour off somewhere
isolated so we could do our bit for teenage rebellion by puffing
away on a couple of joints and while away the time giggling
inanely. They were good days, all in all, more innocent than they
sounded, and though my involvement with drugs was pretty
brief, I don't recall it ever giving me any ill effects.
Anyway, the indicators on Jack's van didn't work, and one
night near the end of summer when we were driving around
aimlessly, he made a right turn, naturally without signalling, in
front of a police car parked in a layby. The cops came after us
and pulled Jack over. They were an officious-looking pair and
the lead guy looked more like an accountant than a defender of
law and order. But I remember being scared, even though I had
no dope or anything else illicit on me. It was just the thought of
being on the receiving end of the attention of the police, as
if they could somehow find out about all my other youthful
indiscretions and bring me to account for them.
The first question the accountant copper asked was whether
the vehicle belonged to Jack.
'Yes,' he'd replied.
'Can you give me the keys, please?'
'Well, the thing is, officer, I lost them a while back and I've
been using this.' He removed a pocket-sized screwdriver from
the ignition and showed it to the officer.
Incredibly, this version of events was absolutely true (Jack's

van really was a heap of shit), but no police officer in his right
mind was going to let us go having seen that, and because the
police computers were a lot slower in those days and it took a lot
longer to access the registration database, we were promptly
arrested, even though Jack made a manful and genuine attempt
to explain his innocence. I could tell at the time that the police
were quite pleased with their collar. Four arrests in one go
would look good on their record, and the paperwork meant that
they could go back to the station for a while. I could also tell
that they were inclined to believe Jack's story, mainly because of
his pleas and the fact that, when it came down to it, we looked
and sounded like students rather than car thieves.
We were held for a total of four hours, which was the time it
took to process the paperwork, followed by a forty-five-minute
wait while the necessary checks were made. During that time, as
it became obvious that they were only really interested in us as a
statistic rather than for any crime we'd committed, I found
myself relaxing. They didn't bother putting us in the cells but let
us sit together in one of the interview rooms, where we passed
the time playing a cramped game of charades until it was time
to go. With the vehicle impounded, however, for being unroadworthy,
there was no way home, and after drawing lots we
were forced to call my dad for a lift at 4.30 that morning. He
collected us but he was none too pleased about it, and he hadn't
; spoken to Jack for months after that.
I thought back to that time flow as I sat in the interview [ room of a different police station, alone this time, and with the
f Charge of murder hanging over my head. It was, as you can
; imagine, a very lonely place to be. The police officers who'd
j brought me here were most definitely not inclined to believe my
[story, and nor was the custody sergeant who'd booked me in.

They'd done everything professionally, but with the cool, distant
air of men who were never going to be convinced by the
pained, unimaginative pleas of their suspects. I'd demanded my
one phone call and had been taken to a phone in one of the
corridors, where the black officer waited while once again I tried
Kathy's mobile, and once again it went to message. I'd left
another, explaining my predicament and begging her to get in
touch as soon as possible.
I'd also demanded a lawyer. Politely but firmly. I was
beginning to get angry now. I was still scared, of course, both
for myself and Kathy. But I was also extremely pissed off that
I was being held against my will for something I hadn't done,
and with no-one showing the slightest sign of listening to my
story, or of letting me know anything concerning the fate of
my wife.
'Do you have one, or would you like us to call someone?' the
custody sergeant had asked wearily.
Had he asked me that question at any time in the last twelve
years up to three hours earlier, I would have said Jack Calley,
and I would have been sure that he'd sort things out for me. Jack
was like that. He inspired confidence. For the first time in a long
time I needed him, and I was too late.
'I haven't got anyone. I need you to call a lawyer.'
The custody sergeant had nodded and said he'd make the
necessary arrangements.
In the meantime I was taken by my two arresting officers
down to one of the interview rooms, and here I was now - half
an hour, an hour later, it was impossible to tell for sure - waiting
and wondering whether my wife, the mother of my children,
was still alive, or whether I was to be accused of her murder.
Wondering too why Jack Calley had phoned me, and why

eo
he'd been attacked and probably murdered before the call was
completed. And why a man in a balaclava had attacked me with
a bloodstained knife in the politics department of the university
where my wife worked.
The door to the interview room opened and a pleasant
looking fat man of about fifty with shoulder-length grey hair that
was so thick it could have contained buried treasure came into
the room. He was wearing horn-rimmed glasses, a navy-blue
pinstripe suit, complete with a waistcoat that stretched and
strained over his ample belly, and a smile that was the first I'd
seen in a while. His features were soft, his face curiously
owl-like, and in one dainty hand that had clearly never been
sullied by manual work, he carried a battered leather briefcase
which looked as if a pack of dogs had been at it. He banged it
down on the table and thrust out a hand.

'Mr Meron,' he said in a lilting Scottish baritone that could
have used a bigger audience, peering at me over his glasses. 'I'm
Douglas McFee, the duty solicitor. I understand you requested
my help.'
I stood up and took the proffered hand, surprised that the
palm was lined with sweat. 'Thank you for coming. I think I'm
going to need it.'
Douglas McFee smiled again and sat down opposite me. He
put the briefcase on the floor and placed his elbows on the table
and his hands together, as if in prayer, the tips of his fingers
stroking his bottom lip. His expression was surprisingly intense,
; et at the same time it remained amiable.
; 'Now,' he continued, 'why don't you tell me how you came to
be arrested running down the street very close to a murder
scene, distressed and bleeding from several cuts?'
'Before I tell you anything, can you tell me if my wife's OK? If

she's the person I'm meant to have murdered . . .' I trailed off,
not sure what else to say.
He gave me a sympathetic smile. The sight of it made me want
to weep. Did someone at last believe me? 'I think I can put your
mind at rest there,' he said.
I felt a rush of relief. 'Really? It's not her?'
He shook his head. 'No, the woman the police suspect you
murdered is not your wife. Her name is, or more accurately was,
Vanessa Blake.'
Relief was now mixed with shock. 'Vanessa?'
'You know her?'
'Yes, I do. She's a politics lecturer at the university. Like
Kathy, my wife. She's been there for years.'
I'd never liked Vanessa. She was a couple of years younger
than Kathy, attractive in a very severe way, and unequivocally
gay. She didn't like men and made no secret of the fact, and I'd
often thought she'd tried to turn my wife against me. In fact, I
think she'd had a thing for Kathy. And now she was dead. But
I didn't really have time to think about her passing. I was too
relieved for that.
McFee inclined his head solemnly as he delivered the bad
news, recounting it like a particularly enjoyable ghost story. 'Her
body was discovered by a student in an adjoining room to the
library where you encountered the masked man who attacked
you with the knife. She'd been stabbed repeatedly. The student
was naturally very shocked, but she was able to call the police.
This must have been only minutes after you left the building
because it was officers responding to that initial emergency call
who arrested you.'
I put my head in my hands and took several deep breaths
before re-emerging. The wound on my jawline suddenly started

throbbing. 'Thank God Kathy's all right. It's terrible about
Vanessa, she was a good person, but I'm glad it was her and not
Kathy. I know that sounds terrible, but you know what I mean?
Are you married, Mr McFee?'
'I have a long-term partner so, yes, I understand what you're
saying.'
'Jesus, I've been so scared.'
'That's the good news,' said McFee, who had a habit of
speaking very slowly, 'if good news it can be called.'
I stiffened. 'There's bad news?'
'Unfortunately, there is. The murder weapon, a filleting knife
with a six-inch blade, was recovered at the scene.'
I was finding it difficult to breathe. 'And?'
'And I've just been informed that your wife's fingerprints
were recovered from the handle.'

8

Bolt knew that neither he nor Mo was welcome at the Jack Calley crime scene. DCI Lambden made an effort to be polite after
all, there were some tenuofls links between the NCS case
;and his own, so he had to at least accept the presence of two

men from that investigation - but it was obvious to all concerned
that it was, indeed, an effort. Lambden didn't see where the
"torture angle fitted in either and was initially dismissive of it as a
iact«r in the murder of Jack Calley. 'We don't know that it's got

T

anything to do with anything,' he said carefully. 'It might be that
he burned himself by mistake. It's too early to jump to any
conclusions.'
In Bolt's mind, there were two reasons for Lambden's
reticence. One, the DCI was a bit of a plodder and had been
caught out by the violence of this case. The second was professional
rivalry. Bolt, this NCS big boy, had waltzed in, been on
the scene for five minutes, and had made a potentially major
discovery. And like most people, Lambden didn't like it.
Fair enough. Bolt could see his point. He wouldn't have much
liked it either.
'My guess,' he told Lambden and the other assembled officers,
'is that we'll find evidence in the house that he was tortured. The
marks on his wrists suggest he was tied up recently. The suspects
overpowered him inside the house and then subjected him to
some sort of torture, presumably to get information. He escaped,
they chased him up here, and, because they were unable to
continue the interrogation out in the open, they finished him
off.'
'And if he was tortured, what do you think it has to do with
your case?'
This was a good question, and one that Bolt had been thinking
about ever since he'd got up here. 'Maybe nothing, but we have
to remember he was the solicitor of the Lord Chief Justice, who
committed suicide in unusual circumstances less than forty-eight
hours ago. Now, suddenly, he's been killed by at least two men
and it looks like a professional job. This wasn't a robbery, we
can be sure of that, and it's very unlikely to be a case of
mistaken identity. The killers spent time with this man; they
knew who he was. Which means he was targeted specifically. It
may well be he's got lots of enemies, I don't know. Like you, I

know nothing about him, but I don't like the timing, coming so
close after our man's topped himself.'
Lambden didn't say anything for a moment, then nodded
slowly. 'We're going to be checking Calley's background and
movements very thoroughly, and obviously we'll let you know
our findings if there's any relevance to your own investigation.'
He turned to one of the other overalled officers. 'Do you want
to empty his pockets, Bill? Put everything in an evidence bag.'
Bill, an older detective with a bushy moustache, did as instructed
while Lambden turned back to Bolt. 'Is there anything else you
need to see?' he asked.
'We'd like to take a look in the house if we can.'
The DCI didn't look too pleased at this, but knew better than
to make a fuss. 'Of course, but please don't get in the way of my
men down there.'
Bolt didn't rise to the bait. 'We'll be on our best behaviour,'
he said.
As he turned to head back to the house, he saw Mo watching
Bill intently as he emptied the front pockets of Jack Calley's
jeans. Bill removed a credit card wallet, a set of keys, a crumpled
ten-pound note and some loose change.
'Did you find a mobile near the body, sir?' Mo asked
Lambden.
The DCI shook his head. 'There wasn't one here. If it's not in
his pockets, I'm sure it'll be back at the house.'
'It'll be very useful to find out who he's been calling these past
few days,' said Mo, with as much as diplomacy as he could
muster, 'and who's been calling him.'
'We'll be dealing with that in due course.' I Once the two NCS men were on the way back to the house,
Mo gave a concise description of DCI Keith Lambden. 'The guy

has no vision,' he said. And then, as an afterthought, 'He's also a
stuck-up arsehole.'
Bolt sighed in agreement. 'There's never any shortage of
them. I reckon we need to take matters into our hands and get
on to Jean.'
DC Jean Riley was the youngest of Bolt's team at only twenty
four, and his most recent recruit. She had excellent contacts with
the liaison people at the UK's various phone companies and
network providers, and was therefore always given the task of
chasing up the phone records of suspects. She'd been supplied
with the dead judge's landline and mobile numbers earlier
that morning and told to get details of the calls logged to and
from them. However, because their team was small, she'd also
had to travel to Suffolk to interview the politician's sister, so it
wasn't a surprise that she hadn't come back to him yet. The
events here, however, meant that she was now going to have to
redouble her efforts. Phone records can be difficult to get hold
of. They take time and, thanks to Britain's Data Protection Act,
they usually involve paperwork and high-level authorization.
But in reality, if you're willing to push hard enough, you can
usually get results.
Bolt pulled out his mobile and called Jean's number.
She answered on the second ring. 'How's everything going,
sir?'
'We've had a few developments,' he said, telling her what had
happened to Calley. 'Where are you now?'
'Back at HQ. I didn't get much out of our victim's sister in
Lowestoft. She was quite a friendly old girl, married with four
grown-up kids, but she only saw him once a year at Christmas,
and it doesn't sound like she was very close to him. She said he
was a bit pompous.'

'That doesn't surprise me. He always seemed it on the telly.
Any joy on the phone records?'
'I've got them here in front of me,' she said. 'Landline and
mobile. He seemed to mainly use the landline. I've been going
through them for the last twenty minutes and there doesn't seem
to be anything untoward.'
'How about calls to or from Jack Calley?'
'Hold on a minute, let me have a look.' Bolt waited a few
moments while she checked. She hummed a tune - it sounded
vaguely like 'Diamonds are Forever' - while she worked. 'There
are three calls to the Renfrew, Calley and Partners office
number made from the landline in the last six weeks. Two were
about ten minutes long, the last one four minutes nine seconds.
Made on Monday afternoon.'
'Nothing untoward there. What about the mobile?'
'I'm checking again, but...' She paused. 'No, nothing.'
So, there was no hurried series of calls between the Lord
Chief Justice and his solicitor, no lengthy conversations. Bolt should have been pleased as it supported his theory that the
politician had committed suicide. If this was so, he could go
home, get his takeaway, crack open a nice bottle of Shiraz and
settle down to watch the great Miss Marple at work. See how it
was really done. Yet he was oddly disappointed. Two killers had
i brutally murdered a young man in the prime of his life. The
lyoung man in question might have been a lawyer (a profession
IJor the most part made up of conmen and charlatans, in Bolt's ©pinion), but that wasn't the point. The type of person who can
Jfetorture a man and then string him up to die deserves to be put
liway for life, and Bolt wasn't entirely sure that DCI Keith
I Lambden was the best person to make this state of affairs come [about.

'Can you do me a favour, Jean?' he asked.
'Of course, sir. What is it?'
'Can you get the records for Calley's office and home numbers,
and his mobile?'
'Have you got his mobile number?'
'Not yet, but you can get hold of it, can't you?'
'If it's registered in his name, yes, but it'll take a while.'
For the first time, he thought he detected disappointment in
her voice. He knew she had a boyfriend, a guy her own age
in the civil service, and wondered if they had plans tonight.
Probably, and he doubted if they involved watching Miss
Marple. He thought about letting it go. Jean was a good,
enthusiastic worker and he didn't want to take advantage, but he
also wanted answers and it was still only twenty to six. If she
worked fast, she could still get a good night out.
'If you can see what you can do, that'd be great.'
'Do you think there's a link between our case and this, then?'
'If there is, I want to make sure we find it,' he said, and hung
up.
By now, they were back at the front of the house. More
police vehicles had arrived, including a dog unit which would
be used to ascertain what route the killers had used in making
their escape - something Bolt hadn't asked about. The tracks on
the path had all been going up so it seemed likely that they'd
fled into the woodland after finishing off Calley. The front
door of the dead lawyer's house was guarded by a uniformed copper, and SOCO officers moved in and out of it, carrying their
paraphernalia.
They showed their warrant cards to the uniform and stepped
inside.
The interior of Jack Calley's place was less spacious than

it looked from the outside but still impressively done in a
minimalist style that was all the rage these days but made it
appear virtually unlived in. The floors were varnished wood; the
walls cream; the occasional rugs alternated between black and
white; the hall and dining-room furniture expensive combinations
of mahogany and cast iron. The whole thing seemed to
Bolt to belong to a man with a phobia about dirt. A plasma TV
that was bigger and flashier than the one in the team's HQ hung
on the living-room wall like a futuristic ornament, facing a
pair of linen sofas that had been symmetrically positioned in
a perfect yet rather pointless V-shape.
Bolt and Mo spent the next half an hour inspecting the house
while trying not to get in the way of the dozen or so SOCO
officers who swarmed over it looking for tiny clues - traces of
DNA, strands of clothing, anything, in fact, that would help
to identify the two killers. A search of a house like this would
take anything up to three days, and if there were leads here,
they would be found. The technology available to the police
was getting more advanced every year and it was getting to the
point where only the most intelligent of criminals could operate
successfully. This was, of course, a good thing. It was nice to
see the bad guys getting caught, and with such incriminating
evidence implicating them that any denial was rendered pointless,
but something of the job of detective had been lost too. The
crime was no longer such a puzzle, the detective no longer such an important part of the process. Often, their job was done
for them, by the CCTV operators and the guys from SOCO. . Sometimes, Bolt had to admit, it wasn't so much fun as it used to
be.
In the master bedroom, where Calley's kingsize futon took up
mucti of the floorspace,,they found what they were looking for.

A pair of neckties had been knotted through the wooden frame
on each side of the bed's head. These had obviously been used
to restrain him, and the several small black marks on the
brilliant white sheets in the middle of the bed confirmed their
suspicions that it was here that a naked flame had been applied
to Jack Calley's groin. Two SOCO guys were on their hands and
knees examining the floor around the bed, and it was clear there
wasn't much else the NCS men could do.
'So, what do you think happened, boss?' asked Mo as they
stood well back looking down at the futon, the SOCO guys
studiously ignoring their presence.
'My guess is that when Calley let his killers in, they dragged
him up here. Used his own ties to secure him and then went to
work with the lighter, or whatever they were using to extract
their information.'
'But somehow he manages to escape, get down the stairs
and out the back door, even though there are two of them and
they've tied him to the bed?' Mo sounded sceptical.
'You think he had some help?'
He shrugged. 'They were torturing him here and he ended up
dying two hundred yards away. So something's not right.'
Bolt looked down at the futon again. He imagined Jack Calley
helpless and screaming on it while his killers went to work, and
was inclined to agree.

As they moved out of Calley's front door back into the open air,
Bolt's mobile rang again. It was Jean, and she wasn't hanging
about.
'I've got hold of the liaison officer at O2, dragged him away
from a corporate do at the football,' she said. 'O2 are Calley's
network provider, and he was making calls on his phone
today. Nine in all, to seven different numbers. The last one was
recorded only three hours ago, at one minute past three. It
lasted thirty-three seconds.'
'What about incoming?'
'The last incoming call was a lot earlier. One sixteen, and it
was from a Michael Calley, so I'm assuming a family member.'
'OK, that's fair enough. Can you tell me who the recipient of
Calley's last call was?'
'Yes, it was to a residential landline in the name of a Tom and
Katherine Meron.'
Bolt pulled a notebook from his pocket and wrote this information
down, taking Meron's number and address from Jean.
He told her she'd done a good job, and rang off.

Mo lit a cigarette while Bolt filled him in on what Jean had
told him.
'Do we know anything about this guy Meron?' he asked when
Bolt had finished.
'Nothing at the moment.'

'Do you think we should see what we can find out?'
Bolt looked at his watch. It was quarter past six, and there was
a chill in the air. The sky was overcast with dark clouds on the
horizon, and it looked like rain. At that moment, his apartment
in the heart of the city seemed like a very inviting place to be.
'Sure,' he said, letting curiosity get the better of him. 'Why
not?'

10

The door to the interview room opened and two men in dark
suits stepped inside, moving slowly like they were actors trying
to maximize the effect of their entrance. The older one, who was
mid-forties or thereabouts, with hair that was a mixture of red
and grey and a moustache that was just red, introduced himself
as DCI Rory Caplin. His colleague, DC Ben Sullivan, was a
taller, well-built man of about thirty with a neat head of short
black hair and a deliberately imposing manner. He looked at me
with barely concealed contempt, an expression that seemed to
come naturally to the cold, tight features of his meticulously
barbered face. There was, of course, no shaking of hands.

By now, my lawyer, Douglas McFee, was sitting next to me,
and he gave the detectives the sort of friendly, paternal smile
that he'd been using on me all evening. I didn't feel this was a
very good sign. Whenever I see defence lawyers in interviews on
the TV they're invariably ruthlessly confrontational in their
dealings with the forces of law and order, not grinning at them.
Given my luck so far today, I suppose I should have been
thankful they didn't all jump up and high-five each other. DCI
Caplin gave McFee little more than a curt nod before pointing a
remote control at a tape machine built into the wall. A red light
came on and it immediately clicked into life.
'Interview of Thomas David Meron on suspicion of murder of
Vanessa Charlotte Blake,' said DCI Caplin in a surprisingly
soft Northern Irish accent, 'commencing six twenty-one p.m. on
Saturday May twenty-first.' He mentioned the names of the
other people present, then fixed me with a gaze that was in
equal parts sympathetic and untrusting. It was an impressive
combination. 'What were you doing at the university today?' he
asked me.
I didn't answer for a moment. I was still thinking about what
McFee had told me only a matter of minutes ago: that my wife's
fingerprints had been found on a knife used to murder one of
her colleagues. I didn't even know she'd ever been fingerprinted.
It was one more worrying thing to take in on a day that had been
full of them.
McFee nodded, to let me know I could answer the question,
and I told the truth: I'd been looking for my wife.
'Do you often go and see your wife at work?' It was DC
Sullivan speaking now. He leaned forward as he spoke, his
expression now mixing puzzlement with the contempt.
'No,' I answered.

'When was the last time you visited her there?'
I looked at McFee, and he nodded again, allowing me to
answer. 'I can't remember,' I said. 'Months ago.'
'This year?'
'I don't know. Probably not.' I was conscious that I sounded
nervous, which was because I was. And I wasn't stupid. I could
tell where they were going with these questions. 'There's a good
reason why I went today.'
'Is there a good reason why you sustained two knife cuts to
your face and body, Tom?' asked DCI Caplin.
'Yes,' I said, willing myself to remain calm. 'There is.' And I
told them how I came to be attacked, noting the sceptical look
on Caplin's ruddy face and the frankly incredulous one on
Sullivan's, as if I was telling them that I'd been attacked by a
marauding band of goblins led by Harry Potter. Mind you, the
more times I told it, the stranger a story it became, even to my
ears, and I remembered that McFee hadn't looked entirely convinced either when I'd told him earlier.
Caplin nodded slowly. 'So, this masked man who assaulted
you, he was the only person you saw. You didn't see the victim,
Miss Blake, or your wife when you were at the university?'
I shook my head. 'No.'
'Where do you think your wife'U be now?'

The $64,000 question. 'I really don't know. I've tried to call
her on her mobile phone but she's not answering.' I knew that
this didn't sound good for Kathy, but it wouldn't take long for
the police to find out about my attempts to contact her. 'But one
thing I do know is that she's innocent. I was attacked by a man
with a filleting knife with a yellow handle, and he must have
been the person who killed Vanessa.'
They didn't argue with this version of events. Instead, they

started questioning me about Vanessa. My relationship with her.
My wife's relationship with her. I was vague. I said I didn't really
know her that well, which was true. I said my wife got on fine
with her as far as I knew. Their technique followed a pattern.
Caplin would try to draw information out of me slowly and with
comparative gentleness, while now and again Sullivan would
chip in with a series of aggressive questions. It was the classic
good cop/bad cop technique, and it surprised me because, unlike
the ruthless lawyer business, I only thought they did that sort of
thing in the movies and on TV shows. It wasn't very effective
either, mainly because I was telling the truth.
Occasionally they tried to trip me up by asking the same
question twice but in different ways. However, because I wasn't
attempting any bullshit, I parried them without too much trouble,
and with only limited help from McFee, whose enthusiasm for my
case seemed to be plummeting faster than frozen airplane turd.
'You ought to be out there trying to find the man who
attacked me and killed Vanessa,' I said when there was a pause
in proceedings. 'And helping me find my wife.'
'We are trying to find your wife,' said Sullivan accusingly.
'She didn't do anything. I promise you.'
'Why are her prints on the murder weapon, then?'
They had me there. Whichever way I looked at it, and I was
looking at it in every way possible, I couldn't explain that cold

fact away. 'I don't know,' I said eventually, trying too hard to
keep the defeat out of my voice. As I spoke, I looked at McFee,
but he seemed to be inspecting something on the ceiling with
rapt interest. For a long moment I felt completely and utterly
alone in the world.
'Why don't you tell us the truth?' demanded Sullivan, leaning
forward again, his narrow eyes boring into mine.

I met his gaze. I had no choice. 'I am. I promise you. I am
telling the truth.'
'You've got to see things from our point of view, Tom,' said
Caplin quietly, folding his arms and rocking back in the chair
in a way that was peculiarly avuncular. 'No-one else saw this
man you're talking about, yet we have several witnesses at the
university today who saw a man fitting your description running
away from the scene.'
'My client's not denying, he was there, or that he ran away,
DCI Caplin,' put in McFee.
'No, I'm not. I was there.'
Caplin casually lifted an arm to halt any dissent. 'The point is,
we know you were there, and we know the victim was there. We
also know, because you've told us, that the injuries you received
are from the murder weapon, but the only witness to the alleged
masked man you talk about is you.'
'We're putting it to you, Mr Meron,' said Sullivan, 'that the
masked man didn't exist,'
'Well, I'm putting it to you that he did. How the hell do you
think I got these injuries?'
Sullivan allowed himself a little smirk. 'As far as we can
see, there's only one way you could have got them, Mr Meron.
They were inflicted by your wife during a violent struggle.
Either because you interrupted her attacking Vanessa Blake, or
because, more likely, she interrupted you.'
'This is ludicrous, gentlemen,' put in McFee, going to town on
the word 'ludicrous' with his lilting Scottish burr. 'My client's
already told you what happened.'
'But the problem is, Dougie,' said Caplin, pronouncing the
name 'Doogie', 'we don't believe him. It's an extremely farfetched
story.'

'No more far-fetched than the one you're peddling,' I said. 'I
hardly knew Vanessa Blake. I've met her maybe five times in the
past five years, and that's probably an exaggeration. And if I was
disturbed by my wife and attacked her, then why didn't you find
her?'
I was pleased with the incisiveness of this latter question.
It made a mockery of their theory, but to my dismay, neither
man made any attempt to accept this. Instead, they simply
ignored it.
'But this masked man business,' continued Caplin, making a
dismissive gesture with the hand he'd lifted a few moments
earlier. 'You're going to have to come up with something better
than that. It makes us think you're hiding something. It'd be
best for everyone concerned if you just told us what really
happened.'
Sullivan turned his beady eyes on McFee. 'You'll be doing
your client a favour if you get him to talk, Doogie.'
'My client's already told you what happened, Mr Sullivan,'
McFee repeated, though his enthusiasm seemed to have finally
hit the depths and I got the feeling that he'd be happy just to get
home to his long-term partner.
It was clear that none of the men in the room believed my
story, and not for the first time that day I began to get really
angry. When Sullivan asked me for the second or third time in
that accusing tone of his where I thought my wife was, adding
that I'd be helping both of us if \ told them, I finally snapped.
'Fuck this,' I said decisively. 'I've had enough. I've told you
everything I know, and it's blindingly obvious that you haven't
got any real, tangible evidence linking me to this crime. Also, my
wife didn't kill anyone. Full stop. I've known her more than ten
years, and I've never seen her violent once. She's a good-hearted

person from a good family who can't stand the sight of blood,
had absolutely nothing against Vanessa Blake, and has never
been in trouble with the police. Now, you're holding me on
suspicion of Vanessa's murder, right?'
It was Caplin who answered. 'We're questioning you in relation
to that, yes.'
'Well, on what evidence are you holding me? If I killed
Vanessa Blake, then why aren't my fingerprints on that
knife?'
'Because you wore gloves,' answered Sullivan in a way that
suggested this was an entirely stupid question.
'I'm assuming you've got CCTV footage of me from the
university. Am I wearing gloves in it?'
'They could have been in your pocket. You could have put
them on when you reached the scene.'
'But I didn't. I wasn't wearing gloves at all today. I haven't
worn a pair for months.' I was on a roll now, no longer intimidated
by the questions being flung at me, the anger at
the injustice of my situation still seething inside. 'So, if I wasn't
wearing gloves, and my fingerprints aren't on the murder
weapon, can you tell me on what evidence you're holding me?' I
turned towards McFee. 'Tell these men that I'm not saying
anything else until I know exactly why I'm being held. If the
reasons aren't good enough, I want to be released now.'
When I turned back in the direction of the two detectives, I
saw that Caplin was holding up a small resealable plastic bag.
'Do you recognize these?' he asked me. 'They were found near
the scene.'
I could see through the clear material that it was a pair
of black leather gloves. I looked more closely, but I didn't really
need to. I might not have worn them for the last couple of

years but I recognized the diagonal stitching on the fingers
immediately, and as I did so my heart jumped high in my chest.
The bloody things were mine.

11

Bolt and Mo were just coming off the M4 near Heathrow,
heading back to HQ, when Bolt got another call on his mobile.
He pulled the phone from his pocket and checked the number
on the screen. He didn't recognize it, and said a curt hello, not
wishing to give out his name over the airwaves to someone he
didn't know.
'Is that Mike Bolt?' asked an unfamiliar female voice.
'Who's speaking, please?'
'My name's Tina Boyd. I'm a former police officer.'
Bolt knew the name straight away. Tina Boyd had been
relatively famous in the small, incestuous world of the Metropolitan
Police. She'd even made the cover of Police Review in happier times, being just the kind of young, attractive, go-getting
female cop the Brass love. Before it had all gone wrong. Now
people called her 'The Black Widow'.
'I'm guessing that you're the Tina Boyd,' Bolt said, exchanging
glances with Mo. 'From the cover of the Police Review.'
'That's me, yes.'
'I was sorry to hear about what happened.' Bolt knew he was
going to have to bring up her past at some point, and decided he

might as well get it out of the way now. 'My understanding was
that you were a very good copper.'
'I did my best,' she said, clearly not interested in exchanging
pleasantries. 'I'm calling because I understand you're dealing
with the suicide of the Lord Chief Justice.'
'That's right,' answered Bolt carefully, surprised that she'd
found out about his involvement. It wasn't that it was a top-secret
investigation, but there was no publicity surrounding it either.
'I have some information.'
Bolt felt his copper's antennae perk up. 'What kind of information?'
'Not
the sort I want to talk about on the phone, but it's
something you're definitely going to want to hear about. I would
have called you earlier but it took some string-pulling to get
hold of your number, and I also wanted to check you out to
see if you were trustworthy enough to be given this information.'
'I'm
assuming I passed that test.'
'You did,' she said, without a trace of humour. 'And that's
why I'm on the phone.'
'And I'm very keen to hear what you have to say. Forgive me
for asking, but how did you come by this information?'
'I'll tell you everything when I see you, but I promise I'm not wasting your time.'
'I'm intrigued. When can we meet up?'
'Are you in London tonight?'
'I can be easily enough.'
As he said this, Mo pulled the car up outside their building.
There were no cars in the spaces and it looked empty inside.
Jean had obviously gone home.
'I live in Highgate,' she told him. 'There's a pub called the

Griffin, just off the high street. How about meeting me there?
Can you make eight?'
Bolt looked at his watch. It was just short of seven o'clock,
and already his mind was whirring. 'Let's make it nine. I've got a
few things to do first.'
'OK, nine it is. And something else. I don't want what I
tell you to be on the record. This is just a lead for you. No
mentioning my name or anything like that, at least not for the
moment. And I need your word on that. Otherwise everything's
off and you can forget I called.'
Bolt was surprised. This didn't sound much like a police
officer talking, even a former one, as she now was. 'All right, it's
a deal,' he said, knowing that if it came to it, he might have to
reconsider the terms of his agreement. 'But I may bring one
of my officers with me, a man who's also completely trustworthy.'
He winked at Mo when he said this, and Mo smiled a
little and pulled a face that was full of mock flattery. 'Is that all
right?'
There was a pause while she thought this through. 'OK,' she
said reluctantly. 'I'll see you at nine, then.'
'One question,' he said, before she hung up. 'We've just come
from the scene of a very violent murder, which happened only
hours ago. Off the record - and this is one hundred per cent off
the record - the victim was the Lord Chief Justice's personal
lawyer. Could this possibly have something to do with the information
you have for us?'
There was an audible intake of breath at the other end of the
phone, and then another silence. Finally she spoke. 'Possibly,'
was all she said before hanging up.
'Well?' said Mo as Bolt pocketed the phone. 'What did the Tina Boyd want?'

'She wants to meet up. She has a lead. It sounds like it might
be a big one.'
'All happening today, eh? Now even the Black Widow wants
to get in on the act.'
'You don't have to come with me if you don't want to. You've
put in enough hours on this case already today.'
'What? And let you get all the glory? No, boss, I won't let you
slave away on your own, and if it's a decent lead, I want a part of
it. Are we meeting Boyd in a pub?'
'We are.'
'And it's an unofficial chat, right? So I can have a drink?'
'I guess so.'
'Then I'm in. Let me check in with the other boss. Let her
know what's happening.'
Bolt watched as Mo climbed out of the driver's seat and
phoned home. He had only met Mo's wife once, when he'd
gone round there to pick him up for a job. He remembered
her as a short, well-built girl with a very attractive moon-shaped
face which lit up when she smiled, and who seemed to be
permanently surrounded by young kids. She was very friendly,
with a calm, easy-going manner, and Bolt had thought at the
time that she seemed to be perfect for the trials and tribulations
of motherhood. Mo clearly adored her, kissing her on the head
and ruffling her hair in a surprisingly affectionate manner as
he'd said goodbye, before kissing and making a fuss of each of
his kids in turn. Bolt had seen in the look she'd given him that
she felt the same way.
And now he was keeping them apart. Bolt knew that one
of the reasons Mo had agreed to work with him tonight was
because he felt sorry for him. Everyone who knew about the
life-changing event that had happened three years ago, and

which had left Bolt with physical and mental scars that would
probably never heal, felt sorry for him, and it inevitably
made them treat him differently. Of all the people he worked
with, only Mo Khan was able to seem perfectly natural in his
presence, and this was one of the reasons he liked him so much.
But even Mo couldn't help letting the knowledge affect his
behaviour on some occasions, such as this one. The irony was,
Bolt would have been happy to carry on alone tonight. He
enjoyed his own company, always had. It was why he was coping
now, and why he'd continue to do so.
He got out of the car and unlocked the office door. He wanted
to check whether the police national computer system, the PNC,
held anything on either Tom or Kathy Meron. At the same time
Mo, who'd been pacing up and down in front of the building,
came off the phone.
'Is Saira all right?' Bolt asked him.
Mo nodded. 'She's fine. Happy not to have me getting in her
way. I told her not to wait up.'
Bolt could tell he didn't mean it. There was a look of disappointment
on his face that he was trying hard to hide, but he
couldn't quite manage it. It was obvious that Saira had given him
a bit of a hard time, and he couldn't blame her.
As he moved through the office doorway, he only hoped their
lead was worth it.

12

Fifteen minutes later they were driving through the back streets
of west London, heading north in the direction of the Meron
residence, which was about fifteen minutes east by car from
where Jack Calley had been murdered. The PNC had given Bolt
the information that Thomas David Meron had never been in
trouble with the police, but his wife, Katherine Cynthia, did
possess an ancient conviction for obstruction, earned at the age
of eighteen during a student demonstration in Cambridge city
centre. A whopping £25 fine had been the result. Hardly the
work of a major criminal.
But the timing of the call from Calley was bothering him.
The police surgeon at the scene had stated that he'd died no
later than 3.30 p.m. that afternoon. Calley had therefore been
confronted by the men who'd killed him at some time before
3.30. They'd come into his house, forced him up the stairs, tied
him to the bed and tortured him. The whole process must have
taken at least ten minutes, probably longer, because somehow
Calley had managed to get free, which presumably meant he'd
been left on his own for a time. There'd then been a chase that

must have lasted a further five minutes before he was finally
butchered on the forest path. The absolute latest they could
have come for their victim was, by Bolt's reckoning, 3.10, nine
minutes after he'd made that last call. But that was if he'd died
at exactly 3.30, which seemed very unlikely, given that the
surgeon's time range spanned an hour. So it was possible the call
had been made after he'd been confronted. If so, the Merons
had to be involved somehow.
It was ten to eight when they pulled up outside Tom and
Katherine Meron's house. A high conifer hedge bordered the
front of the property, obscuring the view of the house. Next
to the hedge was an empty two-car driveway in need of retarmacking
that led up to a double garage. It wasn't immediately
obvious where the entrance was.
The sounds of lawnmowers and kids playing in unseen back
gardens drifted across the cool breeze as the two detectives
stepped out of Mo's car. The earlier wall of cloud had thinned
and broken in places, revealing slithers of pinkish blue sky that
glimmered in the last of the setting sun's rays.
They found a wooden security gate with intercom system in
the top corner of the drive that had been hidden by the angle of
the hedge. It wasn't usual to see a gate like this on a suburban
estate property. Usually only the rich and paranoid bothered
with them. Bolt wondered if it might signify something. He
pressed on the buzzer. There was no answer. He pressed a
second time.
'Do you think it's worth vaulting over and having a look,
boss?' asked Mo.
But Bolt never got a chance to answer him. There was a sound
of footsteps behind them and a confident female voice asked,
'Caa I help you, gentlemen?'

The two men turned round and were immediately confronted
by a pretty uniformed policewoman in her mid-twenties. She was
about five feet three and of commensurate build, and looked as
if she'd have had some difficulty handling things if they'd been a
pair of villains who'd decided to turn nasty. Then a second
uniformed officer, a male, slightly older, approached from a
house across the road from where they'd obviously been watching
the Merons' address.
Bolt gave her his best smile and produced his warrant card.
Mo did the same. They introduced themselves and Bolt asked
her name.
'I'm PC Nicki Leverett,' she said, inspecting the cards carefully,
and making doubly sure that the photos that appeared on
them corresponded to the faces in front of her. Bolt thought that
the country's crime rate would probably be slashed by 20 per
cent if everyone was as careful as she was. 'And this,' she added
as the other uniform approached, 'is my colleague, PC Phil
Coombs. Phil, these guys are from the National Crime Squad.
They're looking for the Merons.'
Coombs nodded curtly, and grunted a greeting. He looked
like a man with an inferiority complex, as well as a bit of an
unrequited crush on his colleague.
'We need to speak to them in connection with a murder
inquiry,' explained Bolt.
PC Leverett nodded. 'You're talking about the girl at the
university. I didn't know the NCS were involved in that.'
Bolt shook his head, caught out by this sudden revelation.
'No,' he said, 'I don't know anything about that.'
'A woman was murdered over at the university today,'
Leverett explained. 'Mr Meron was arrested in connection
with it, and they're looking for his wife. Apparently, she worked

with the dead woman. We were told to come over and keep an
eye on the place, in case she returned.'
'Have you got the university victim's name?'
She told him, but he didn't recognize it.
'How long have you been here, Nicki?' asked Mo.
'Since five thirty, but you're the first people to show up.'
'This is actually our second time here,' said PC Coombs. 'We
got called out to a burglary here earlier on this afternoon. It was
an anonymous tip-off on a nine-nine-nine. The caller said the
burglar was still inside. When we got here, we clambered over
that gate and took a look, but it was a false alarm. We were here
within fifteen minutes and there were no signs of forced entry,
and all the doors and windows were shut and locked.'
'And no witnesses saw anything suspicious?'
He shook his head. 'We did a door-to-door on the neighbouring
properties and no-one saw anything.'
Bolt and Mo exchanged glances. What all these events meant,
and what they had to do with the suicide of the Lord Chief
Justice, was anyone's guess. But there was a single, loose link
connecting them, and that link was the Merons. The wife might
be missing, but the husband was in custody. They needed to
speak to him.
Nicki Leverett gave them the number of the station where he
was being held and Mo stepped away to call the CID there to
make sure they held on to him.
Less than a minute later, as Coombs was telling Bolt about his
desire to join Special Branch and hunt down terrorists, Mo came
striding back, his phone still glued to his ear. The expression on
his face was grim.
'Bad news, boss,' he said. 'They've only gone and released
him

13

When it was obvious I wasn't going to tell my interrogators any
more, they reluctantly brought the interview to a halt. They gave
me ten minutes alone with Douglas McFee, who said he'd do
his utmost to get me released because of the obvious lack of
evidence linking me to Vanessa's murder. He looked like he
actually meant it too - not least, I was sure, because then
he could go home. After that, the two detectives came back and
led me down to the cellblock, where I was given an empty cell at
the end.
'You're going to have a bit of time to think now,' said Caplin,
holding open the metal door. His expression remained wearily
sympathetic. 'I want you to use it to decide whether there's
anything more you want to tell us about this case, because if
you're holding anything back, it'll be a lot better for you if we
hear it from your lips rather than having to find it out for
ourselves. Do you know what I'm saying?'
'I've told you everything I know,' I said, and turned away as
the cell door was shut behind me and the key turned in the lock.
It was a small room, ten by ten feet, with a single barred
window high up on the dull grey wall, and a strip light overhead.
A cast-iron cot screwed into the floor was the only furniture.
A yellow plastic sheet covered the mattress, and it made an
unpleasant crinkling sound when I went over and lay on it. I
stared up at the ceiling and tried to make sense of what was
happening to me. I knew that Kathy couldn't have had anything
to do with the murder, not least because I'd run into the man
who must have been the killer, and he was a lot bigger and
stronger than my wife. Not that I would have thought her
capable of it anyway. She was too good a person for that. I
mean, she gave money every month to Great Ormond Street
Children's hospital; she bought the Big Issue from homeless
people; she wept when she saw footage of famine victims on
television; and, being a political person, she railed against the
government corruption and Western double standards that
brought such situations about. She was, I would swear on my
own life, not a killer. But that still didn't explain what her
fingerprints were doing on the murder weapon. Nor did it
explain where she was now and why she hadn't been answering
her mobile for the last four hours.
It struck me then that I could easily find out whether Jack was
dead. It would only take a quick word with Caplin and Sullivan;
they'd be able to make the necessary enquiries. But if he was
dead and the call he'd made to me came to light, then I might
find myself in more trouble. It seemed a lot better simply to
keep my mouth shut and my head down, and hope they let me
go. Then I might be able to find out what the hell was happening
out there, and also how a pair of my gloves that I hadn't worn
for at least two winters had ended up at the scene, which was
something else I couldn't for the life of me explain.
I'd lied about the gloves, telling the police I'd never seen them

before, and as I lay on that bed I wondered how on earth they'd
got there. I also wondered whether I really knew Kathy. I'd
always thought so, but now, after the events of this afternoon, I
was feeling a lot less sure. Maybe she had some sort of secret
life. Maybe Vanessa had actually converted her to lesbianism,
and the two of them had been having a relationship. Kathy
certainly worked long hours and was away from the house
almost as much as I was, so there would have been an opportunity.
But once again, that didn't explain what a man in a
balaclava had been doing waiting for me at the library, and it
didn't throw any light on why Jack had called me for the first
time in years, and why somebody had murdered him as we
spoke.
When I thought of it like that, it all seemed so bizarre as to be
almost laughable, but the throbbing of the cuts to my face and
arm brought back to me the seriousness of what was happening.
A man had tried to kill me today. On top of this, two people I
knew had died violent deaths in separate incidents, and it looked
like me, Kathy, or both of us were being set up for at least one of
them.
I realized that up until now I'd never really appreciated life
because it had always been nicely set out for me. I had two
beautiful, healthy children, a pretty, good-hearted wife, a nice
house and a well-paid job that wasn't exactly back-breaking. Yet
I couldn't remember the last time I'd woken up in the morning
and thought of myself as truly happy. Life could always be better
- that had been my underlying feeling. I could earn more money;
I could have more free time; I could be thinner, better looking,
more desirable to women. Never once had it crossed my mind
that, as well as being better, life could also be a lot worse. And
now, lying here with my wife missing, my house burgled and a

murder charge for a crime I didn't commit hanging over my
head, I'd learned to appreciate it all only after it was too late.
The key turned in the lock and I sat up on the bed in a sudden
movement that made my vision turn fuzzy. It cleared as the door
opened and Douglas McFee came into the room, battered briefcase
in hand, a big smile on his round face.
'I've good news, Tom,' he announced chirpily, the word 'news'
seeming to last for ever.
'You've located Kathy?' I'd asked McFee to try her mobile for
me again and, although reluctant, he'd promised to do so.
The smile disappeared as he approached the bed, stopping a
few feet away. 'I'm afraid not. But it's something you'll be
pleased with anyway. The police have decided to see sense and
release you on bail. They may want to question you again so
have asked you to remain at your current address for the time
being. And you're to tell them if your wife makes contact. I
know that sounds hard, but it'll be for the best. If she is innocent
of any crime - and, of course, I'm sure she is - then it's best that
she comes forward to clear her name.'
'What's the time?' I asked him, not bothering to reiterate
Kathy's innocence. I could tell he hadn't bothered to phone her
either, the cheap bastard.
He looked at his watch. 'Five to eight.'
So, where did I go now? Kathy was nowhere to be found, my
children were with my mother-in-law, and my house felt pretty
much out of bounds. It didn't leave a lot of places. I felt like I
needed a drink. Maybe a couple. There are few things that beat
the consumption of alcohol in a crisis.
I got to my feet and followed McFee out of the cell and
through the corridors into the station's main reception area. It
was a small, drab space dotted with posters warning potential

criminals of the supposedly dire consequences of their wrongdoing.
Along the length of one wall were bulletproof Perspex
screens behind which the police dealt with their customers. The
latest, two rat-faced teenagers in the delinquent's uniform of big
trainers, baggy jeans and hoodies, were being booked in by the
same custody sergeant who'd dealt with me nearly three hours
earlier. Their expressions were boredly defiant. Unlike me when
I'd been brought in, there was no fear on their faces either.
A younger copper appeared on the other side of the screen
and took me to one of the other windows, where I was booked
out. In the background, the phone was ringing. No-one made
any move to answer it.
'Thanks for your co-operation, sir,' said the young copper as
he got me to sign for the bag containing my possessions. He
sounded so chirpy I thought he was going to add a 'Don't go
being a stranger now', but somehow he managed to resist it.
I grunted something in reply, and asked if there was any
chance of a lift over to the university to pick up my car.
'I'm afraid we're rather short-staffed tonight, sir. We can call
you a taxi if you like.'
The old saying that there was never a copper around when
you needed one rang truer than ever. 'Forget it,' I said. 'I could
probably do with the walk.'
I gathered my stuff together, turned on my mobile and walked
out of the double doors with Douglas McFee in tow. When we
were on the steps, he handed me one of his business cards and
told me to call him if the police needed to question me again.
'I'd offer you a lift, but...' he added.
'But what?'
'Unfortunately, I'm expected home. Graham's cooked a
special meal. Sea bream baked in rock salt, which won't keep,

and the university's in the wrong direction. Take care, Mr
Meron.' With that, he gave me a comradely pat on the arm and
hurried off down the steps, making me feel more like a leper
than ever.
I followed him down, and walked through the car park to the
gate, imagining him and Graham munching away on a huge wet
fish in their cosy parlour. For some reason I couldn't quite
fathom, I pictured McFee wearing a pair of clogs and a well
worn smoking jacket.
I was also thinking that as well as a drink I was going to buy a
pack of cigarettes and have my first smoke in almost ten years.
My mood was beginning to change from terrified and confused
to why-the-hell-not mode. But as I reached the gate, I heard
someone shouting my name. I turned round and saw McFee
standing by his car with his keys in his hand, waving over in my
direction. It was him doing the shouting. Then I saw why. He
wanted me to stop. Not, I suspect, because he'd had a change of
heart and wanted to give me a lift, or offer me a fish supper. More likely it was because two uniformed officers were hurrying down the steps in my direction, looking very much like they wanted to speak to me.
My first thought was that they'd finally located Kathy, and I
was already preparing to walk back to them, when a second
thought crossed my mind. What if whoever was trying to set me,
or her, up had planted further evidence, giving them a fresh opportunity to do what they'd wanted to do these last three
hours, and charge me with a killing I'd had nothing to do with?

I had twenty yards on them, and I made a snap decision.
Run.
I turned and charged through the open gates and out onto
the»high street, where evening revellers were just beginning to

gather. Dusk was turning to darkness, and I welcomed it. I didn't
look round, but I knew they were coming after me. One group of
blokes in their twenties clustered outside a pub gave a cheer as I
came hurtling past, and people stepped out of my path. Without
warning, I did a jackknife turn and sprinted across the road,
causing at least one car to brake suddenly. This time it didn't hit
me, thank God, and I kept going, darting up a side street, then
up another, now finding myself in a plush-looking residential
area of whitewashed Georgian townhouses. My lungs hurt; my
cuts hurt; pretty much every part of me hurt. This really was
turning into a bad day.
I must have run two or three hundred yards when finally I
slowed, and looked back. The street behind me was empty.
Panting with exhaustion, I stopped and leaned against a low
garden wall. Inside the house beyond I could see two middle
aged couples in the front room eating dinner. One of the men
was filling glasses with a bottle of red wine. He was laughing at
something, and I saw that the others were laughing too. Without
a care in the world. I was only five yards from them yet they
didn't even look my way.
And because I was taking the time to feel sorry for myself, I
only vaguely heard the car as it came down the street and pulled
up beside me. I thought about taking off again, but knew that
there was no way I was going to outrun them, even if I had any
strength left. I'd done too much running for one day, and it was
clear that they were suddenly very keen to re-interview me.
So I turned round, ready to tell them that I wasn't going to say
a word until they provided a better lawyer than Douglas McFee.
But, of course, I never got the chance. A blurred figure in a cap
was coming straight at me, taking up my whole field of vision, and
before I could react or even get a glimpse of his face, he punched

me once, very hard, in the stomach. As I doubled over, he
grabbed the back of my shirt and shoved me onto the back seat
of a car, squeezing in behind and slamming the door shut behind
him. There was a second man in the driver's seat. He was also
wearing a cap, and without a word he pulled away from the kerb.
I tried to look at the man next to me, but now I could see that
he had a black pistol with a short barrel in one gloved hand. He
pushed it against my temple, forcing my head against the window,
and for an awful, bowel-loosening second I thought he was
going to pull the trigger. Then he spoke.
'When I pull the gun away, you're going to lean over and put
your head between your legs and keep it there,' he said evenly.
'If you try to look at either me or my colleague, then before the
end of the night you're going to die. Do you understand?'
I told him I did.
'Good.' He removed the gun and I did exactly as I was told,
instinctively closing my eyes. A second later, I felt a blanket being flung over my head and upper body. 'As long as you tell us
everything we want to hear, you'll be free in a couple of hours.'
His words were meant to be encouraging, but since I still
didn't have a clue what it was they wanted, they weren't.

14

Bolt cursed when he heard they'd released Meron. 'I thought he
waS being held on a murder charge.'

Mo shrugged. 'They said there wasn't enough evidence to hold
him.'

'How long ago did they let him go? Do you know?'

Mo asked the question into the phone. 'Literally just now,' he
told Bolt. 'A couple of minutes, that's all.'

'Tell them to see if they can see him anywhere. And if they can,
get them to arrest him again. It's essential we talk to this guy.'

Calmly, Mo relayed the information into the phone, and waited
while the officer he was speaking to reacted to it. A few seconds
passed, then it was Mo's turn to curse. 'Are you sure? In that case,
can you get some people out there looking for him? Sure, I know
you've got resource problems. We've all got them.' He pulled a
face at Bolt and made the universal hand gesture to illustrate his
opinion of the person at the other end of the line. 'Well, if you
can do something ... Sure, sure ... Thanks.' He flicked the end
call button on the phone and put it back in his jeans pocket.

'He's gone?'

Mo sighed. 'Yeah, he's gone. They went out after him but he
ran, and now they're saying they haven't got enough people on
duty to try to locate him.'

They were still standing on the Merons' driveway with PCs
Coombs and Leverett, and Bolt turned to them now. 'If Mr
Meron turns up here, can you call us on this number?' He
handed out business cards with his mobile number on them to
the two officers. 'Have you got a photo of him anywhere?'

'The people over the road have,' said PC Leverett.

'Well, maybe they can let us have one.'

The people over the road were a vaguely harassed couple
called the Hendersons whose two young boys were charging
about like wild animals, refusing to go to bed. Both Martin and
Suzette Henderson described the Merons as a perfectly
ordinary, friendly couple who they couldn't imagine getting
involved in crime of any sort. Martin managed to find them a
photo of the two of them taken at a barbecue the previous
summer held in honour of their youngest son's birthday.
The photo seemed to reflect the Hendersons' description. The
Merons were indeed an ordinary-looking, if quite photogenic,
pair in their mid-thirties, both smiling at the camera in front of a
bright yellow and orange bouncy castle. He had his arm round
her, and was holding a can of Fosters in his spare hand, while
she had hold of a glass of red wine. They didn't look like the sort
of people who got mixed up with murder, but that didn't mean
that they hadn't. As a young PC, Bolt remembered arresting
a sweet-looking white-haired old lady of seventy-two who
attended church every Sunday without fail, and was known as
Nan by the neighbourhood children, to whom she would often
distribute sweets. She'd even offered him a cup of tea after he
and his colleagues had turned up to take her away for burying a
meat cleaver in the back of her husband's head, almost killing
him. It turned out that she had an unusually high sex drive, and
the husband had been refusing to service her needs. Things had
got out of hand, and she'd lost her rag, something which under
questioning she'd put down to a build-up of nervous tension
caused by a lack of orgasms. It takes all sorts, Bolt reflected.
As the two NCS men were leaving, Martin Henderson came
out after them.
'I don't want to make a big islue of this,' he said quietly, as
they stopped to hear what he had to say, 'because it may not
mean anything, and I don't want to get anyone in trouble.'
'Go on,' said Bolt.
Henderson sighed. 'It's just that things have been a bit strange
witlk Tom and Kathy lately. I've seen him driving out late at

night, then coming back in the early hours, and she's been around
a lot less than usual.' He paused. 'There's also been fights. Big
screaming matches, and they've never had them before. One
time, Tom was even walking round with a black eye.'
'How long's this been going on?'
'A while. A few months now.' Henderson was about to
say something else, but then he heard his wife, who'd finally
managed to round up the kids, coming down the stairs. 'Like I
say, I don't want to get anyone into trouble, but. ..' He let the
sentence trail off, said his goodbyes and went back inside.
As they reached the car, Bolt looked at his watch. Twenty past
eight. A thick bank of black clouds was now forming to the west,
and from somewhere in the far distance there came a faint
rumble of thunder.

15

We drove through a variety of back roads. I only know this
because the driver kept the speed at no more than thirty and
made a lot of turnings. During the whole time I remained in the
same uncomfortable position, not daring to move. When I tried
to speak, wanting to ask these men where they were taking me
and where my wife was, I was told by the one sitting next to
me to keep my mouth shut. 'We'll talk later,' came the ominous
promise.
My mouth and throat felt bone dry. The only thing I'd drunk

since three o'clock that afternoon was a glass of water during the
police interview. During the last five hours I'd been attacked
with a knife, knocked over by a police car, accused of murder, chased by the law, and now kidnapped. It was safe to say that I'd
worked up a thirst.
After about half an hour, the car slowed up and stopped.
Remarkably, I wasn't actually that scared. At least these men
weren't actively trying to kill me, which meant they wanted to
talk. It gave me an opportunity to put my side of the case and
hopefully convince them that I had nothing to do with any of
this. As long as I didn't get a good look at their faces I ought to
be all right. That was the theory, anyway.
The driver cut the engine, and the car was suddenly silent. I
could hear the two men shuffling about, and then the blanket was
pulled from my head and I was told that I could now look. As I
sat back up, my eyes already accustomed to the gloom, I saw that
they were both wearing black balaclavas. The one sitting next to
me was still holding the gun, and it was pointing at my midriff.
Outside, darkness had fallen and it had begun to rain.
They got out, and the gunman leaned back in and beckoned
for me to follow. I clambered across the seats, pushing the
blanket to one side, and stepped out into the open air. The rain
felt refreshing on my face. We were in a small, walled parking
area with room for about three cars at the back of a dirt-stained
and windowless two-storey industrial building. A single flight of
metal steps led up to a battered steel door that was the only sign
of an entrance. There was a faint smell of old fried food coming
from somewhere, and I noticed a line of overflowing dustbins
against the wall.
The driver started up the steps and the gunman prodded
me with the barrel, indicating that I should follow. I didn't argue.

The driver used a key to open the door and went inside, switching
the lights on. Sandwiched between the two men, I was led down
a narrow corridor. The smell of fried food was stronger here, and
a black binliner, packed high with empty food containers and
paper, was propped up outside a door on the right. A second door
on the right had a gents toilet sign on it and several holes gouged
out near the bottom where it looked like someone had tried to
kick it in. There was no noise coming from anywhere, and apart
from the smell, the place had a deserted, stale feel to it.
We stopped at a door at the end of the corridor and the driver
searched for the right key. I finally risked speaking as he placed
it in the lock. 'I don't know anything,' I said. 'I have no idea why
people are chasing me, I promise you.'
The driver opened the door, and a breath of warm, fetid air
belched out. He then turned round and, in one rapid movement
that was almost a blur, grabbed my shirt at the shoulder with
one hand and punched me twice in the face with the other,
two savage little jabs that felt more painful than anything I'd
suffered that day, mainly because they were so unexpected. I
lurched, and my legs wobbled precariously, but he steadied me
with a firm hand and kept me upright before swinging me round
and flinging me bodily into the airless darkness of the room.
I landed hard on one shoulder blade and rolled several times
along the cool concrete floor until I came to a halt, facing the
ceiling. The striplights above me came on and I saw I was in a
large, windowless room about twenty feet square with old floorto-ceiling
storage shelves stretching round the walls. Most of the
shelves were empty but one contained a cluster of five-litre tubs
of vegetable oil and a couple of sacks of rice. One of the sacks
had split and spilled much of its load on the filth-stained floor.
They came into the room, the driver with a purposeful gait,

the gunman following more slowly behind. As I tried to get to
my feet, the driver kicked me in the face, knocking me onto my
back. I felt blood pour out of my nose and my vision turned
fuzzy for a couple of seconds. But I didn't hang about, immediately
rolling myself up into a protective ball as he kicked me
again, his shoe striking my forearms as he tried to get me in the
face again. The worrying thing was that the beating was being
carried out in complete silence, with neither man feeling the
need to speak. They were softening me up, breaking down my
resistance, and I knew there was no point begging for mercy. I
pulled my body into an even tighter ball, eyes clenched shut, as
the kicks kept coming.
Then, without warning, I was hauled to my feet and dragged
across the room. In front of me was a sturdy wooden chair that
had been bolted to the floor. It had a high, straight back and
there were looping iron shackles attached to the arms and legs. I
started struggling, but a leaden punch to the kidneys, delivered
with a studied ease that was almost nonchalant, took the fight
completely out of me, and I was unable to resist as the driver
forced me into the chair and slammed my head back against the
wood, gripping my face painfully in his gloved hand. Without
speaking, he used the other hand to secure my wrists with the
manacles. I heard them click as they locked.
The driver released his grip, took a step back and backhanded
me across the face, catching me perfectly on the fresh stitches,
and reopening the wound. Drop's of blood splattered onto the
floor.
'Where the fuck is it?' he demanded.
'Where's what?' I gasped.
'Don't fucking play the innocent. You know what I'm talking
about.'

'I don't. Honestly. I have no idea what the hell it is you want
to know.'
He turned to the gunman who was standing a few feet back,
watching events impassively. 'Blow his fucking kneecap off,' he
said, and moved out of the way.
The gunman strode forward, bringing the gun up from his side
and pointing it at my kneecap. I wriggled wildly in the seat,
utterly helpless, the fear coursing through me in hot, crippling
waves. The gun's barrel got closer and closer until it was only a
foot away. I could hear the gunman's breathing. His eyes were
grey and blank. There was no sympathy in them at all. I turned
my head away so I no longer had to look into them.
'Last chance to tell us where it is,' said the driver. 'Otherwise
my friend here pulls the trigger.'
'He's right, I will,' said the gunman calmly, 'and I won't lose a
second's sleep over it either. You know that, don't you?'
'Please. You're making a mistake.'
'I'm going to count to five,' said the driver. 'One. Two.'
What do you say in that sort of situation? Men are threatening
to maim you for life. They will probably kill you after that, and
dump your body. You will never see your wife and children
again. You are thirsty, you are hungry. You are in pain, and
most of all you are confused. Because these men want you to tell
them the whereabouts of something, and you have absolutely no
idea what it could possibly be.
'Three. Four.'
I twisted, wriggled, fought against the shackles, craned my
neck as far away from the gun as I possibly could, teeth clenched
ready for the impact of the bullet that was going to bring
hideous pain and a limp for the rest of my days, if indeed I had
any days left.

'Five.'
'No, please!' I screamed, my words echoing around the empty
room. 'Don't fucking do it!'
'Are you going to talk?' asked the driver evenly.
I turned in his direction imploringly, feeling the blood running
down my face. When I spoke, the words came out in a series of
pants. 'If you just tell me what it is you think I know the
whereabouts of, then I can help you. I'm sure.'
The driver shook his head. 'You're fucking us about.' Then to
the gunman: 'Do it.'
The gunman's finger tensed on the trigger and this time I
met his eye. I was shaking my head, silently begging him. He
stared back. Was there doubt there? Did I see a flicker of
doubt?
A mobile rang. The tune was different to the phone I'd heard
earlier at the university. The one that belonged to the knifeman.
This one played 'Suspicious Minds' by Elvis Presley. It seemed
very apt.
The driver reached into the pocket of his black bomber jacket
and answered it, at the same time indicating for the gunman to
hold his fire. He turned away with the mobile clutched to his ear.
Although I couldn't hear what he was saying, his tone was
respectful, and it was obvious that whoever was on the other end
of the line was his superior.
The gunman took a couple of steps back and lowered the
weapon to his side, looking aw£y from my gaze. I could hear
my heart thumping in my chest. My thirst was horrendous, so
desperate it made it difficult to speak. It's hard to explain,
but somehow it was even stronger than the fear. I would have
given anything - anything - for a glass of water at that moment.
The driver came off the phone and replaced it in his pocket.

'That was Lench,' he told his colleague, and there was something
close to nervous awe in his voice when he mentioned that name.
'He's five minutes away. He told us to leave this one until he
gets here.'
He walked up to me, and I flinched as he brought back his
hand to strike me. Then, as the hand came forward, he stopped
it suddenly a few inches away, enjoying my reaction, and patted
me lightly on the cheek, bringing his face so close that I could
smell his sour, hot breath. He smiled, and I could see that his
teeth were stained and uneven. 'You're going to talk now, mate.
When Lench gets here you're going to talk, you're going to
scream, and you're going to fucking beg like a dog. Because he
can get information out of anyone. You'd rather sell your kids to
paedophiles than hold out on him.'
'I can't tell you anything,' I said wearily, 'if I don't know
anything.'
But even as I spoke, I knew the words made no difference.
They would torture me until either they got what they wanted or
there was nothing left of me to torture. And the problem was, I
knew it was going to be the latter.

16

No-one knew him as anything other than Lench, a state of affairs
he liked well enough. No-one knew his background either, nor
did they enquire. People feared him, and he fed on that fear,

enjoying the sense of power it gave him, aware that he was a
natural predator in a world overcrowded with prey.
It wasn't simply his immense bulk that created that reaction,
although it was a factor. At six feet four, and with a body made
outsized and bulbous through the obsessive lifting of weights, he
towered over most men, his rounded shoulders and huge, vein
popping arms giving him a vaguely primitive, ape-like appearance.
Yet this was offset by the cruel, probing intelligence in his
eyes. When he fixed a person with one of his unyielding stares, it
made the recipient feel as if he was looking right into their soul,
uncovering and devouring each and every secret. 'Snake's eyes'
someone had called them once, when Lench was well out of
earshot, and there was some truth in the description. They were
very thin and very dark, and the skin of his eyelids hung down
over them like cobras' hoods.
Lench licked his lips with a long fleshy tongue, the tip brushing
along the bottom of his nose and leaving a cold trail of saliva.
He didn't see the people in the other cars as he drove through
the dark night streets towards his destination, nor those crowding
the pavements. They didn't exist to him. If he looked their
way, he saw only blurs through the rain, lit up by the watery
glow of the street lights. Only those he hunted took any real
shape, became flesh and blood. And tonight, he was hunting.
Lench had killed many times in the thirty-eight years
he'd walked the earth. To him, torture and murder were little
more than a pastime, a means of gaining pleasure. He knew that
in this he was very different to other people, but he rarely
thought about the reasons behind his strange, bleak desires,
since he could see no point. He was what he was, and nothing
was going to change that. Instead, he felt uniquely lucky in that
he»was paid for his crimes, and was therefore doing a job he

loved. The main reason he was trusted by his employer - the
only man in the world to whom he felt he owed a debt - was that
he was reliable. He was imaginative in his methods, and more
importantly, he didn't make mistakes. If someone had to die,
Lench was the person the employer turned to. The necessary
instructions would be given, and that would be the end of the
employer's involvement. Lench would make all the arrangements
and ensure that the job was carried out, either working
alone or with help from his own people. Although on a personal
level he always liked to prolong the suffering of his victims, since
much of his enjoyment derived from watching them die, he
knew that sometimes this wasn't possible. The key, he felt, to
successful killing was making the most of your opportunities.

An old Ford Escort pulled out from the kerb in front of him
without indicating, forcing him to brake. The deep, throbbing
bass of some crappy hip-hop effort blasted out of the open
windows, and he could see figures in the back, heads covered
in hoodies, passing a joint between themselves. Arseholes, he
thought, imagining for a moment cutting the driver's throat and
hanging him up to bleed, but ultimately not worth bothering
with. Lench never took pointless risks. Like many psychopaths,
he was a pragmatist at heart, and having been incarcerated once
in his life he had no desire to go back.
Tonight, too, there were bigger fish to fry. The employer had
a serious problem, one that had to be dealt with decisively.
Already things were beginning to get complicated. They'd had to
kill Calley prematurely, and out in the open too, and now the new
target, the man called Meron, had come dangerously close to
slipping out of their grasp, something which couldn't be allowed
to happen. At least not before they'd got their information.
He finished the call to Mantani, one of the two men currently

guarding Meron, having told him to do no further harm to their
prisoner, and clicked off the phone. Mantani was a reliable
operative but, like Lench, he enjoyed inflicting pain and could
sometimes get carried away. It was absolutely essential that
Meron remained alive, conscious and lucid, so that if he was
hiding anything it could be extracted from him. The boot of the
Lexus Lench was driving contained a variety of implements
designed to do just that. These included a remote-controlled
electro-shock stun belt which delivered an eight-second 50,000volt
shock to the person wearing it; a stun baton which could be
forcibly inserted into the anus, where a smaller shock could
then be applied; a dentist's drill for use on teeth; and a set of
six lethally sharp scalpels, perhaps his most favoured tools,
which could be used to jab and pierce the ultra-sensitive nerves
beneath the eyes and behind the ears.
Lench was an expert torturer with a great deal of practical
experience. No-one had ever held out on him for longer than a
matter of minutes. It was a record to be proud of. None had died
on him accidentally either, although on several occasions they'd
been finished off afterwards, as Meron would be tonight, when
there was no further use for him.
He turned off the main road and into the street where the
prisoner was being kept. He looked at his watch. It was 8.40 p.m.
and raining hard. He was three minutes away. Hopefully, within
the hour they'd have everything wrapped up.

17

'If you're holding out on us, I'd say so now,' the gunman told
me, his tone that of a man trying to be reasonable.
My head ached, and it was an effort to speak, but for what felt
like the hundredth time I told him I wasn't.
He nodded slowly. 'OK,' he said, 'I believe you.'
'If he is holding out, he'll get what's coming to him,' said the
driver. 'Lench'll have him begging like a dog.' He sounded
pleased at this prospect, and I wondered what the bastard had
against me.
As I sat there chained to the seat, I was reminded of an
old phrase my mother used to mutter whenever an event
happened on the news where evil appeared to triumph over
good. There are none so unhappy as those who care nothing for
their fellow man. And there was some truth in that. You could
almost feel sorry for a scumbag like him, so shallow was his life
that his greatest joy appeared to come from beating up and
doing his utmost to scare the shit out of someone he'd never
met before. Almost, but not quite. I wanted to say something
defiant that would demonstrate to him that I wasn't scared.

Unfortunately, the only problem was that I was scared.
Terrified.
'Listen, Mantani, I need a word.' It was the gunman speaking.
Behind the balaclava, the driver's features contorted with an
anger that never seemed to be far from the surface. 'What are
you doing using my fucking name?'
'It doesn't matter. He's finished anyway. He obviously doesn't
know anything, but he's seen and heard too much, so Lench isn't
going to let him go.' He motioned towards the door. 'Come on,
it's important.'
Mantani shook his head, muttered something, but started
walking anyway. 'This better be fucking good.'
'It is,' said the gunman, reversing the gun in his hand and
smashing the butt across the back of his colleague's head. The
impact was loud in the silence of the room and Mantani fell
unsteadily to his knees. With a fluid, dancer's grace, the gunman
karate-kicked him in the kidneys. His victim yelped in pain
before toppling over on his side and lying in a similar fetal
position to the one I'd been in only a few minutes earlier. The
gunman watched him thoughtfully for a couple of seconds,
then kicked him in the back of the head with such force that his
whole body was shunted across the grimy floor. Finally, Mantani
stopped moving and the gunman put the pistol in the back of his
jeans and bent down beside him, rifling through his pockets until
he found a bunch of keys. Then he jumped back up and made his
way over to me.
I tried to sit as far back in the seat as possible as he
approached. This was a dangerous man. Even to someone as
unused to violence as me, the speed and professionalism of the
assault on his erstwhile colleague had been impressive. A man
capable of that was capable of a lot of things, none of them nice.

But it soon became clear he had no interest in hurting me. At
least not yet.
'Hold still, I'm going to let you go.' He found the key he was
looking for and unlocked the shackle attached to my right wrist.
'We haven't got a lot of time before Lench gets here.'
'Have you got any water? Please, I need some water.'
Til give you some in the car. Now, stop moving.'
'Who is Lench?' I managed to ask.
'Someone you really don't want to meet,' he answered, freeing
my left wrist, then concentrating on the shackles pinning my
ankles to the chair. Finally, he pulled me up.
I was shaky on my feet, feeling very faint, but he didn't give
me any time to get my bearings. Instead, he pushed me impatiently
towards the door. 'If Lench finds us here like this,
we're both dead,' he explained hastily, and I was surprised at the
fearful urgency that cut through his own voice.
Mantani was moaning loudly on the floor. If I'd had more
strength I would have kicked the bastard as I passed, but it was
all I could do simply to keep upright and moving. And anyway,
my rescuer had already done enough.
We moved fast down the corridor and out the door we'd come
in, the gunman ushering me along by the arm. It was raining hard,
and I licked at the drops as they landed on my face. But the metal
steps were slippery, and as we made our descent I fell on my
behind and went bumping down about three of them, just like
Max liked to do on the stairs at home, before the gunman lifted
me up by the collar and shoved me the rest of the way down.
He clicked off the alarm of the black Nissan 4x4 we'd
travelled in and stopped and listened. We could both hear it. A
car coming along the road in our direction - the only one on it
by the sound of things. And it wasn't far away.

no
Lench.
'Get in, fast,' he demanded, running over to the driver's side.
I didn't need asking twice and hurried round to the front
passenger door, praying he hadn't been lying about the water.
As I pulled the door open and pushed a leg in, he slammed the
gearbox into reverse and the car shot backwards out of the car
park. I got a hand on the dashboard and pulled myself inside,
shutting the door behind me just before it smacked into the
boundary wall. The next second we were doing a three-point
turn in the middle of the street - a long and dimly lit place of
warehouses, vehicle repair shops and empty silhouetted concrete
buildings which squatted malevolently behind fences topped
with razor wire and keep out signs.

Fifty yards behind us, a single pair of headlights was approaching
quickly. My rescuer cursed. He shoved the car into
first and took off down the street in a dramatic shriek of tyres.

He took the first turning left, swinging the wheel so sharply I
didn't think we'd make it. The back of the 4x4 slid on the wet tarmac and the rear wheel on the driver's side smashed against
the kerb, jarring me in my seat. Immediately, he changed down into second, brought the car under control, and slammed his foot
to the floor. At that moment the other vehicle loomed up behind
us without warning, its headlights temporarily blinding me. Ten
yards separated us.
The 4x4 shot forward, gathering speed, its engine beginning to
squeal as the rev counter hit four thousand and kept on going,
before easing a little as we hit third. The pursuing car came with
us, accelerating even faster, the glare of its headlights subsiding
as it came within inches of our rear bumper.
'He's going to ram us!' I screamed.
There was a major left-hand bend in the road ahead. Thirty

yards, twenty yards . . . The engine continued to protest in a
banshee-like howl as the rev counter shot back up again, but the
gunman kept his foot on the floor. If we weren't rammed, then
we were going to smash straight into the concrete wall rising up
like a wave in front of us. I clenched my teeth and put my head
in my hands, praying that the car had airbags.
Suddenly, I was thrown forward in the seat, the belt not
stopping me from striking the dashboard at chest height. The
gunman had slammed his foot on the brakes and we were doing
an emergency stop. The tyres shrieked as we went into a wild
skid, and he was forced to turn the wheel sharp left to prevent it
from developing into a complete pirouette. Just as I pushed
myself back into the seat, trying to ignore the searing pain
shooting through my sternum, the pursuing car smashed into our
rear in a cacophony of shattering glass and twisting metal. I was
thrown forward for a second time, this time headbutting the
windscreen like an angry drunk. As I fell back, opening my eyes
again, all I could see ahead was the concrete wall. Five yards,
four, three, two . . . The 4x4 was swinging round with the
momentum of the skid, and we were about to hit it side on. I
tensed against the coming impact, wondering when this nightmare
was going to end.
And then suddenly we'd stopped, only a foot or so away from
the wall. The whole street became deathly silent. The pursuing
car was also stationary ten yards away; it too had been knocked
sideways. As I watched, the driver's door opened and an
immense black-clad figure appeared in the gap. I couldn't see
him very well in the darkness, nor did I make much effort to. I
was too busy looking at the gun in his hand, which, as he stood
up, was now pointing straight at me.
I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could get a word

out we'd shot forward again and were accelerating round the
bend and out of range, like something out of a computer game.
The driver ratcheted through the gears until he got to fourth, the
speedometer rapidly passing fifty. As the road straightened, I
looked round in my seat, saw that there was no-one following
and was just about to sigh with relief when he did another
ferocious emergency stop, took a right turning that seemed to
have appeared out of nowhere, roared down to where it became
a T-junction, and went right again. Still no-one was following,
but he kept driving fast, and we'd got close to sixty when he
finally jumped a set of red lights at another T-junction before
slowing down as we joined a welcome convoy of evening traffic
on a main road I vaguely recognized.
'Thanks for that, Schumacher,' I gasped. 'Now where's that
fucking water?'
¦ 'There's some in the glove compartment. And aren't you
going to thank me for saving your neck back there?'
I pulled out a three-quarter-full bottle of Evian and didn't
speak until I'd downed the whole lot. 'Thanks,' I said eventually.
It was only then that I asked him a question that was now really
beginning to bother me.
'Who the hell are you?'
He turned in my direction as we slowed down for more lights,
observing me coolly from behind the balaclava.
'I'm a police officer,' he answered.

18

Lench stood in the rain for several long seconds staring in
the direction the 4x4 had taken, knowing that something had
gone badly wrong. Finally, he lowered the gun and got back
into the Lexus. When he switched on the ignition, the engine
made an injured whine, and he could hear something rattling.
This annoyed him. He liked the Lexus. It was a nice, smooth,
comfortable ride and fitted his bulk perfectly. Now he was going
to have to get it repaired. It might even be a write-off. Someone
would pay dearly for this. But first he had to find out exactly
what was going on and why the vehicle his men had been using
had been fleeing the place where they were meant to be holding
Tom Meron until he arrived.
He drove back to the warehouse, becoming progressively
more annoyed. The car sounded like shit, and he couldn't get
round the fact that somehow he'd fucked up.
He pulled into the parking area and stepped out of the car.
Seeing that the door to the back of the building was open, he
drew his gun, an easily concealable short-barrelled Heckler &
Koch USP Compact loaded with powerful .45 ammunition that

he used only in emergencies. His preferred weapon was a spring
loaded jet knife with a six-inch steel blade; attached to the inside
of his forearm, it could be activated by a simple flick of the wrist.
He'd only used it once, during a struggle with a target on a boat
in the middle of the Irish Sea. They'd been trying to attach
weights to their victim so he'd sink like a stone when they
heaved him overboard into the black waters, but the bastard
had made a last-ditch attempt at survival by grabbing Lench
round the throat in a surprisingly powerful grip. The target had
been a loud-mouthed environmental activist with useful legal
and political connections, and the sort of good looks that
attracted unwanted attention. He'd been determined to stop one
of Lench's employer's companies from building a hotel and
marina on virgin coastline south of Dublin, so he had to be made
to disappear. He was young and fit, a semi-professional rugby
player as well, but Lench had still been caught out by the
ferocity of the assault from a man who must have known it was
futile, given that he was one man against four and his legs were
already partly bound. But perhaps, like a Hollywood hero, he
wanted to make sure he took one of the baddies with him.
Either way, he was doomed to failure. As his grip tightened,
cutting off breath, Lench had simply smiled at him, raised his left
hand so that it was caressing the young man's ear beneath the
vibrant locks of golden hair, and flicked his wrist with a sudden
jolt. The blade drove through the soft flesh just behind the lobe
and penetrated the brain instantaneously. The victim's eyes had
snapped open in shock, his grip had loosened, and he'd slid
down onto the greasy deck, his head disengaging from the blade
with a strange sucking sound. It was a pity they couldn't have
kept him alive for the actual ceremony of sending him helpless
into the icy depths. The employer had wanted him to be given a

gloating message so that he knew exactly why he was going to
die, but unfortunately this was no longer possible. However,
Lench was thankful that he had had such an ingenious weapon
of surprise, and he'd kept it ever since, wearing it as often as was
practical.
He crept up the steps and, hearing nothing, stepped inside.
The door to the store room was half-open and the lights were on
beyond it. He walked forward, making no attempt to disguise his
footfalls. He had been trained in ambush techniques and building
clearance and knew exactly what to look for. There were few
places to hide in here, and he guessed that no ambush would be
forthcoming.
He stopped at the door and saw through the gap one of his
men lying on the floor, still clad in his balaclava. He was moving
and making the odd quiet moan, and by the squat build Lench
guessed it was Mantani.
For the first time in a long while he felt something akin to
fear. It wasn't that emotion exactly, more a combination of
disappointment and anxiety. He'd let down the only man he
feared letting down.
Then the rage came. It was a cold yet intense anger, one that
tightened the features of his face and made his eyes narrow, but
which remained perfectly controllable. He knew how and where
to channel the energy it gave him.
He kicked open the door so hard it slammed against the wall,
then strode inside, eyes darting left and right to confirm his
suspicion that no-one was waiting for him, and made directly for
Mantani. The injured man's moans were louder now and he was
attempting to sit up. Lench suspected this was entirely for his
own benefit, a feeble attempt to show how badly hurt he'd been,
so that he might be spared punishment. He must have known it

wouldn't work, but most people will try anything when they're
terrified.
Leaning down, Lench slipped a hand under Mantani's chin
and wrenched him to his feet. He turned him round and held
him steady at arm's length by the throat, using the arm with the
jet knife attached. Behind the mask, Mantani's brown eyes were
wide and fearful, as well they should have been. His boss was not
a man to displease.
'What happened?' asked Lench in a curiously high-pitched
voice that belied his bulk and physical strength.
'Daniels,' he gasped. 'The bastard hit me over the head with
his gun when I wasn't looking . . . Left with the prisoner ... It
was just after I spoke to you. I'm sorry ...'
If Lench had been a man who let his immediate instincts get
the better of him, he would have used the jet knife on Mantani
there and then. He could tell Mantani was afraid he still might.
After all, he had been one of the people on the boat that day the
knife had last been put to use. But Lench knew better than to
act on instinct. Mantani had made a mistake, but then he had
made one too. He should never have hired Daniels. The man
was too intelligent to use as a hired thug and had clearly not
been trustworthy. But Lench didn't have many men working
for him who could be trusted to kill on his behalf. It takes a
special type of person to murder another without compunction
or remorse, while at the same time being capable of understanding
and obeying orders. They were a rare breed, and
Mantani was one of them. To get rid of him now would be
counter-productive.
'You fucked up,' Lench said quietly. As he spoke, he increased
the grip on his employee's windpipe until Mantani's
breaching came out in thin, pained rasps.

'Please, sir ... can't breathe ...'
'I pay you well, Mantani. Better than an ex-con with no
hope or prospects deserves. For that I expect some reliability.
Tonight, you haven't given me that. Make the mistake again and
I'll work on you until your eyes bleed. Do you understand?'
Mantani managed to nod, and Lench let go and allowed him
to fall heavily to the floor. He lay where he'd been dropped,
propped up on one arm, rubbing his throat, while Lench turned
away.
'Go down to my car and wait for me inside,' he ordered. 'I
have a private call to make.'
When Mantani had left the room and Lench could hear him
going down the steps, he took out his mobile and made a call he
wasn't looking forward to.
After ringing for close to a minute, the phone was picked up
at the other end. There was the distinct buzz of chatter in the
background, punctuated by loud female laughter. That would be
the employer's wife. She'd clearly been drinking again. Over the
top of the noise, the employer spoke four words: 'Have you
found it?'
'There's been a problem.'
'Wait a minute, let me go outside.' There was a pause of
perhaps thirty seconds, the sound of doors being opened and
shut. Finally, the background noise faded to nothing. 'How bad's
this problem?' the employer asked at last.
'Manageable. We've lost target one.' In keeping with operating
procedure, Lench made no mention of names over the
phone.
'And you're sure that's manageable?'
'He took one of our cars,' Lench answered, not adding that
one of his own men had sprung him, 'but we can follow him.'

'How?'
'It's got a tracking device on it. If we're lucky, he'll lead us all
the way to target two.'
'I don't want to rely on luck,' the employer said, and for
the first time there was the hint of reproach in his voice. He
almost always treated Lench with an unquestioning courtesy
that bordered on affection, as if he was the son the employer had
never had, and it was for this reason more than any other that
Lench showed him such loyalty. It was also why the rebuke
made him flinch.
'Don't worry. We'll get him. I swear it.'
'And when you do, make sure he talks. We have to conclude
matters as soon as possible.'
'Oh, he'll talk all right,' said Lench, staring down at one of his
immense gloved hands, imagining it breaking fingers one by one.
'First he'll scream. Then he'll talk.'

19

'By the way,' I told my rescuer as we drove down a quiet street
of terraced housing with monolitMc council blocks in the background,
'you've still got the balaclava on.'
'Oh yeah.' He pulled it from his head in one swift movement
and chucked it down between the seats, revealing a dark-haired
man of about thirty with the lean, wiry features of an athlete and
the l jok of someone who'd been in the forces.

'So,' I said, looking at him, 'if you're a police officer, how
come you were going to shoot me?'
'I wasn't. I was bluffing. There was no way I would have
pulled the trigger. I'm here to protect you.' He checked the
rearview mirror again, still concerned that our pursuer might be
following, before making another turning.
I asked him what his name was.
'Daniels,' he answered. 'I've been working undercover for the
man who was coming for you. Lench. I don't know his other
name, but what I do know is he's a stone-cold killer. That's why
I got you out.'
'You hit me in the gut out on that street,' I said indignantly,
remembering the way he'd got me into the car in the first place.
'That's because I was undercover. I was playing a part. I'm
meant to be a former armed robber who once kneecapped a
fellow gang member. I can hardly go all faint when things turn
nasty.'
'It hurt.'
'Sorry about that,' he said, not looking sorry at all. In fact,
he appeared completely unruffled by events, as if a night
out kidnapping and torturing was par for the course, which I
suppose in his undercover role it was.
I was still very unsure of him. He could have been a copper,
but then again he could just as easily be a crook. I'd run into
enough of those today to know that there were plenty of bad
guys about.
'You know, this whole thing took months to set up,' he said,
staring at the road ahead, 'and now it's been blown. My bosses
are not going to be pleased.' His tone suggested this was my fault.
'Forgive me if I don't sympathize,' I said. 'Six hours ago I was
living a normal life. Now, for some reason I still can't fathom,

people I've never met are trying to kill me, and my wife's
missing.'
'Welcome to the big bad world, Mr Meron.'
'How do you know my name?'
He gave a hollow chuckle. 'You really have got a lot to catch
up on.'
There was certainly plenty of truth in that statement, but I
wondered if he was going to be the one to update me. He made
another turning, and a patch of wasteland opened up to our left.
I began to get an uneasy feeling.
'Where are we going?' I asked him.
'Well,' he said, reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket
and pulling out a pack of Marlboro Lights, 'I'm figuring that
you're telling the truth about not knowing anything about what
it is we're after.' He put one of the cigarettes in his mouth and
depressed the car lighter.
'I am telling the truth. And can I have one of those cigarettes?'
He proffered the pack and I took one and put it in my mouth.
'So, would you be so kind as to tell me what the it we're looking
for is exactly?'
The car lighter clicked and he used it to spark up his cigarette
before passing it across to me. I lit my first smoke for ten years
and took a long drag. I felt light-headed, but then I felt lightheaded
anyway. I repeated the question.
'Well, that's the problem. I don't know what it is either.
Neither does Mantani. We were\ nly meant to get you over to the warehouse so that Lench could question you. I'm assuming
he knows what it is.'
I shook my head, feeling utterly confused, and took another
drag on the cigarette. It tasted strange. 'Then what the hell do
we do now?'

'What we do now,' he replied evenly, 'is find your wife.
Because I'm telling you now, if you don't know what or where it is, she does.'

20

Bolt and Mo arrived at the pub at five to nine. It was a small,
old-fashioned place on the corner of one of the residential roads
running off Highgate's main drag, the sort that's slowly being
shut down to make way for the bigger, louder chains with their
bars like aircraft hangars, which are steadily swallowing everything
else up. The interior was threadbare, with a worn-out
burgundy carpet peppered with cigarette burns, and walls and a
ceiling that had long since been transformed from cream to a
nicotine-stained pastiche of brown and yellow. The tables were
arranged in a U-shape around a small central bar lined with a
variety of draught beer pumps, behind which stood an ancient,
stick-thin barman with a waxed moustache and skin the same
colour as the walls. Even at this time on a Saturday night, it
was quiet. A handful of older guys all of whom obviously knew
each other sat on barstools chatting away to the barman, while
perhaps a third of the tables were occupied by couples and
groups of the same age.
Just around the corner, not quite out of sight, and occupying a
large booth, was the woman they were here to see. She saw them
and nodded a greeting, then waited while they bought their

drinks: an orange juice and lemonade for Bolt, who would have
preferred something else but felt that two officers on alcohol
wouldn't look so good, and a Becks for Mo, who was officially
off duty.
Tina Boyd was an attractive woman in her late twenties, but
the events of the past few months had taken their toll. Her dark
hair, fashioned into a jaunty bob in the Police Review photo,
hung lifelessly, and the skin beneath her eyes was puffy and
tired. Even her posture as she stood up to shake hands, slumped
as if she'd just finished shrugging her shoulders, suggested she'd
taken one hit too many recently. She was dressed demurely in a
plain white blouse, navy-blue cardigan and jeans, and wore no
jewellery or make-up. Her smile wasn't exactly forced, but nor,
thought Bolt, was it on her face entirely of its own free will.
Bolt and Mo made their introductions and joined her at the
table. Mo got out his cigarettes and, seeing the open pack on
the table in front of Tina, offered her one.
When her cigarette had been lit, Bolt leaned forward in his
seat and got straight down to business. 'So, what have you got
for us?'
Tina picked up a half-full glass of wine and took a good-sized
sip. Bolt noticed that her fingernails were chipped and bitten,
revealing thin slithers of red-raw skin at the edges. He remembered
how perfectly manicured they'd been in the photo on the
cover of Police Review.
'How far have you got with your case?' she asked, just as
directly. 'Does it look like suicide?'
'At the moment that's the official line but, as I said earlier, we
were at the scene of a murder of someone close to him tonight,
and that makes us suspicious.'
'You should be,' she said.

'Did you know our victim?' asked Mo. 'The Lord Chief
Justice?'
She shook her head. 'No, I didn't, but I know something about
him, something that no-one else knows.' She took a drag on her
cigarette. 'Let me start from the beginning. You know about my
ex-boyfriend, John Gallan?'
They both nodded, and Mo said that he was sorry about what
had happened.
'Just after Christmas last year, John started acting a little
strangely and it was obvious that he had something on his mind.
Our relationship was getting quite serious, so I asked him about
it, but he just told me there was nothing wrong. He could be
close-lipped when he wanted to be, but it still worried me. We
didn't tend to have secrets, or at least I thought we didn't, but as
the weeks went by I began to get more and more concerned. He
was still acting strangely, and I couldn't work out why this was.
I'd even gone to the lengths of letting myself into his flat when
he was out, and looking through his stuff.' She gave them a sheepish look. 'I'm not usually so paranoid, but to be honest, I
thought he was having an affair.'
She sighed.
'Anyway, one evening towards the end of January, we were
out for dinner and he got a call on his mobile in the middle of
the meal. He excused himself and went outside to take it, and
when he came back in he was really agitated. That was it, I'd had
enough. I was sure it was a woman so I confronted him about it.
I was surprised by his reaction. Very quietly, very seriously, he
told me that a few weeks earlier he'd received some confidential
information from an anonymous source about a criminal matter.
He hadn't been able to talk about it until he got the necessary
security clearance; he was in discussions with liaison officers

from the highest echelons of Scotland Yard while they looked
into it. It was one of the liaison officers who'd called, and the
reason John was agitated was because the man on the other end
of the phone had told him that as a result of their enquiries they
weren't going to be pursuing the matter any further. They'd also
told him not to talk about it with anyone, as by doing so he
could be in breach of the Official Secrets Act. Naturally he was
upset, and he apologized for not having told me anything earlier,
which was typical of him. Even though I'd accused him unjustly
of having an affair, he ended up being the one saying sorry.'
She took a drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke in the
direction of a picture on the wall that showed a group of dogs
playing pool. There was a deep sense of regret in her expression
as she raked over the coals of her recent past, and Bolt felt for
her. For a moment, he thought she might break down, but then
her expression became neutral again. She drank some more wine
before continuing.
'He didn't want to tell me about it, even then. Not because he
was scared that he might get prosecuted - that sort of threat
wouldn't have worried him - but because he was so bloody
honest. He'd been told not to say anything, so he wasn't going
to. He obviously wasn't in a good mood, but when we got back
to his place we broke open a bottle of wine, and by the time
we'd polished it off he was ready to talk.'
She took a last drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out in the
ashtray. ?
'What he had to say ... frankly, I found it difficult to believe
at the time.' For the first time, she made the effort to look
them both in the eye. Hers were dark and bleak, the pain
they were reflecting almost tangible. 'I almost wish he'd never
told me.'

There was silence at the table for a few seconds. From the
bar came the sound of gravelly laughter. Although only a few
yards away, it felt distant. Bolt knew instinctively that what was
coming was both relevant to their inquiry, and bad. Neither he
nor Mo prompted Tina. They simply waited.
'He told me that a man - someone I have a feeling he must
have known, but who he never identified - had given him a
dossier he'd compiled on a paedophile ring that had been active
in south-east England in the late 1990s, and which involved
several men who were high up in the establishment. This group
of men had apparently murdered a young girl in 1998 and
dumped her body in a lake in Dorset soon afterwards. People
attached to them were also thought to be responsible for a
number of murders in London late last year when they were
trying to cover up the death of this girl, including the stabbing of
my partner at the time, DCI Simon Barron.'
It was for this reason that Tina Boyd had got her nickname,
the Black Widow. People around her had a habit of dying.
'You were working a case with DCI Barron at the time of
his murder, though. Didn't you find out anything about this
paedophile ring?' Bolt asked her.
'No. DCI Barron's death was, and is, officially unsolved, and
there was never any evidence of a group of people matching this
description. But the dossier John had named names, several of
whom died in mysterious circumstances last year. They included
your suicide victim, Tristram Parnham-Jones.'
Bolt was shocked. He looked at Mo, who was clearly feeling
the same way. 'You're talking about the Parnham-Jones, the
Lord Chief Justice?' Bolt knew she was, but felt he had to ask. It
was that sort of revelation.
'Yes,' she said frostily, as if she felt her intelligence was being

questioned. 'Your suicide victim. He was apparently involved in
the murder of the girl in 1998.'
'Was there any hard evidence implicating Parnham-Jones?'
asked Mo.
'The dossier contained the exact resting place of the young
girl's body, and her identity. The name matched that of a girl
who'd gone missing at about the right time, but the liaison
officer told John that a search of the lake in question hadn't
revealed any remains.'
Bolt leaned forward in his seat. 'So, it's possible - and believe
me, I'm not saying it is - but it's possible that this dossier could
have been some sort of elaborate hoax?'
'At the time I thought that was possible, of course I did. It was
a pretty outlandish accusation. It was also obvious from what
John told me that Scotland Yard had looked at it, and had
probably even acted on parts of it, like searching the lake,
but weren't going to devote any more resources to proving or
disproving the contents. So I suppose they thought it was a hoax
too. But John was convinced of its truth, and he was no fool, I
can promise you that.'
'I know a little bit about his background,' said Bolt, 'so I'm
aware that he knew what he was doing.'
She forced a smile, but her face remained as bleak as ever. 'He
did.'
'Did you ever see the dossier?' asked Mo.
She shook her head. 'I asked t o see it, but he didn't want me
to. He said there was nothing that could be done so there was no
point. I think it hurt him that Scotland Yard had decided against
continuing to look into it. I think he also believed that they were
covering things up because Parnham-Jones was such a high
profile figure.'

Bolt exhaled. 'He was certainly that. Did John make any
further enquiries of his own, do you know?'
'I'm not sure. He certainly brooded over it, and he couldn't
seem to let it go, but I don't know what else he did, or could
have done, for that matter. I know one thing, though: it damaged
our relationship, and we saw each other a lot less in February than we had done previously. I didn't like to think that events
involving the top judge in our country could have ended up
being connected to the murder of a young child, or of one of my
colleagues, and I didn't want my boyfriend obsessing about it
either. I'm a realist. I know my limitations. I don't like to see
bad people get away with crimes they've committed. But at the
same time I don't like to damn them when the evidence is flimsy.
And in this case it was near enough non-existent.' She paused.
'But now, looking back on it, I should have done something.'
'But what could you have done?' asked Bolt, feeling the need
to reassure her, the pain in her expression affecting him more
than he would have liked.
'I don't know, but I know this: a month after he took that call
in the restaurant, John was dead.'
'He committed suicide, didn't he?'
'That was the verdict, yes.'
'But you don't believe it?'
'John wasn't suicidal, Mike. He had a teenage daughter he
doted on. He would never have left her behind. He had too
much of a sense of responsibility for that. He wasn't the type
either. And before you say that the people left behind always
say that, I was a copper long enough to know the type. I would
have seen the signs.'
'You said he was brooding, though,' put in Mo. 'Could it be
possible that you...' He thought about what he was going to say

for a moment. Mo was always a diplomat when it mattered.
'That you saw the signs but didn't realize the seriousness of
them?'
'He wasn't acting suicidal. He was acting as if he was obsessed
with this particular case, and was frustrated by the fact that his
hands were tied. But he would never have killed himself over it.
I'm absolutely sure of that.'
She took another mouthful of wine, and Bolt noticed that her
hand was shaking. A thought struck him.
'What was the actual cause of death?'
'An overdose of sleeping pills,' she answered. 'And that's
another thing: he never took sleeping pills.'
Mo and Bolt exchanged glances. Tina picked up on this and
immediately asked how Parnham-Jones had died.
Bolt sighed. 'Off the record, and it's very much off the record'
- Tina nodded to show she understood - 'it was sleeping pills.
Dilantin, to be precise.'
She took a deep breath. 'Snap.'
'You're saying John overdosed on dilantin?'
'Yes,' she said. 'That's exactly what I'm saying.'
Another thought struck Bolt. 'Did he leave a note?'
For the first time, he saw doubt cross her face.
'He did. A short two-liner.'
'Typed or handwritten?'
'Typed.'
'Signed?'
She nodded. Parnham-Jones's letter hadn't been, and Bolt felt
his initial excitement fading a little.
'Was the signature a forgery?'
'No,' she said reluctantly, 'I saw it. It looked like his handwriting.
But there was something wrong with the letter. It was

the words. They just weren't. . .' She worked hard to come up
with the right phrase. 'They just weren't him. He would never
have said something like "I'm sorry but I just can't take the pain
of living". And he would have written a lot more. He would have
explained his actions, and he would definitely have made some
reference to Rachel, his daughter, or he would have left her a
note of her own.' She stopped speaking suddenly and looked at
them both intensely. 'What is it?' she asked. 'Why are you
looking at me like that?'
The excitement had returned and was racing through Bolt
with a vengeance. 'Can you remember the exact words of the
suicide note?' he asked, his tone as even as he could manage.
Tina lit another cigarette and looked down at the table, clearly
trying to compose herself. 'I read it plenty of times,' she said
eventually, 'so, yes, I remember the contents. As I told you, it
wasn't very long. It went: "This letter is to all of those I care and
have cared about. I'm sorry but I just can't take the pain of
living. The world's problems can sometimes be too much to
bear. Love" - and then he signed it with his formal signature,
which again wasn't like him. He always signed his notes "John".'
Bolt heard Mo exhale. He exhaled himself. The wording was
identical to that which Parnham-Jones had typed on the headed
paper he'd left on the bedside table beside him as he died.

21

I stared intensely at Daniels, trying without any great success to
fathom him out. We were stopped at traffic lights and it was
raining hard.
'Why the hell should I help you find my wife?' I demanded.
'Because,' he said, turning in his seat and fixing me with a
pretty intense stare of his own, 'at the moment I'm the only
person who actually does believe you know nothing about
what's going on. The whole world is after you. You need all the
help you can get, and at the moment I'm it.'
I sighed and took a long drag on my cigarette as the lights
went green and we pulled away. It was beginning to taste better
than it had done at the beginning, but still not good enough to
justify why I'd bothered getting through twenty-five of them a
day during my formative years. Outside the window, the wet
night streets of an unfamiliar stretch of London swept past us,
the whole journey seeming nightmarishly surreal.
'Who is Lench?' I asked. 'And why would he think a man
like me, a fucking software salesman, for Christ's sake, could
possibly have something he wanted?'

'Lench is a hitman, a killer. We've got him down for about four
murders and two disappearances, and that's just the stuff we're
sure about. He could be involved in as many as twenty deaths.'

'Jesus. How come he hasn't been arrested?'
Daniels' lips formed into a thin smile. 'You've got a touching
faith in the powers of the police, haven't you?'
'What? And you haven't? Great.' Today, it seemed, was definitely
a day for bursting the bubbles of my preconceptions.
'We know all this,' he continued, ignoring my sarcasm, 'but
the problem is Lench is careful. He doesn't leave loose ends,
often there aren't even any corpses, and the only people he uses
are those he trusts absolutely, and who are involved so much
themselves that there's no way they'll ever testify against him in
a court of law. In fact, even now we still don't know his true
identity. So, you have to get someone in on the inside and gather
the evidence against him that way.'
'You say he's a hitman. Who does he do his hits for?'
'He works for a very rich businessman who's involved in all
kinds of projects, mainly legitimate these days. I can't tell you
his name because he's someone you may have heard of, but he
started out in cocaine and heroin smuggling, and rather than
pissing up his profits against the wall like a lot of these guys do,
he invested his money in property and built up a major portfolio.
Then it was a matter of expanding into construction - so that he
was building the properties rather than just buying them up and
other related businesses. He's been enormously successful,
and one of the main reasons for that is the fact that he's kept to
the same methods he used in his drug-smuggling days. Whenever
he hits any opposition to his plans, he either bribes them or, if
that fails, he gets Lench and his people to make the problem go away. We've been after this individual for years but he keeps so

far away from the action we reckoned the only way we were
going to get him was to secure the evidence needed to bring
down Lench, and then use him to testify that our main target
was the man pulling the strings. And now, suddenly, it's all
fucked up.'
This information didn't make my situation any clearer. 'So,
what were you told about me? How come I suddenly became a
target?'
'I've been on the periphery of Lench's outfit for about six
months now, doing fairly minor things. A few threats to debtors,
or people who haven't been playing ball, but not really on the
inside. There's only a handful of people - three or four - who
are on the inside. Mantani's one of them, and I've been working
mainly for him. Lately, they've been letting me in further - I've
met Lench a couple of times, and he seems to approve of me but
I'm still considered a bit of an outsider. At least I was until
this morning. Then Mantani and me get called in to see Lench
and it's obvious something's up. He says we've got an emergency
on, and that we're to stand by and wait by the phone for orders.
On no account are either of us to be non-contactable, even to
take a piss. He keeps Mantani back to tell him a few other things
he doesn't want to tell me, but later on Mantani lets slip that the
orders are coming from Lench's boss and that it's him who's in
trouble. He needs to find something. I have no idea what it is,
and neither does Mantani, but we both know that it's been
hidden by someone, and that it absolutely has to be found,
whatever the cost.'
'And that's what they're after me for? They think I've got it?'
'We got our orders at six o'clock. We had to track you down
and get you over to a secure place where Lench could find out
what jjpu knew. So, yeah, to answer your question, Lench and

his boss seem to think you've got it. I guess Mantani wanted to
get the information out of you before Lench turned up. That
way he'd earn himself some plaudits.'
I thought about the way Mantani had questioned me, never
once identifying what it was he was looking for, and decided that
Daniels' story was plausible. But this left me with a very grim
conclusion. I didn't know where it was, but could it possibly be
that Kathy did?
'Our instructions were very specific,' Daniels continued. 'You
were named as the man we wanted. Tom Meron. You live at
number two St Mary's Close, don't you?'
I nodded slowly. "That's my address.' I thought about the man
I'd seen inside my house and the 3.01 phone call I'd received
from my old friend Jack Calley. I asked him what he knew about
Jack's death.
'Nothing,' he answered, with a shrug of his shoulders. 'I've
never heard of the guy.'
I sighed wearily. 'So, Lench is going to keep coming after me
until he finds me?'
'You and your wife.'
'You don't think he's got her, do you?'
'I doubt it; we'd have heard. But I'm telling you this, Tom.
He's looking now, so it's essential we find her.'
'Then what?'
'Then we put you under police protection.'
'The police still want to talk to me about a murder at the
university this afternoon. A woman called Vanessa Blake was
stabbed to death. She worked with my wife. You don't know
anything about that, do you?'
'I know what I've told you. Nothing else. You had nothing to
do with it, did you?'

'Of course not. I told you, I'm a fucking software salesman.'
'Then you've got nothing to worry about.'
'The police let me go, but I think they must have made a
mistake, because as I left the station they chased after me. That
was a few minutes before I ran into you.'
'Where's your wife, Tom?'
I felt a cold chill going up my spine. Something was wrong. 'If
you weren't aware that the police had arrested me, how did you
know where I was going to be this evening?'
He didn't miss a beat with his reply. 'Mantani took a call
about half seven. They'd tracked you down to the police station.
We were told to wait nearby. Then he got another call saying
you were going to be released.'
'Oh Jesus, so they've got someone inside?'
'North London is our main target's stomping ground. His roots
are here, and he's been doing business on these streets for close
to twenty-five years. In that time he's built up a network of very
good contacts, including elements within the police. Put bluntly,
you're not safe in this part of town. We need to get you and Kathy
to a secure venue, then my people can look after you properly.'
'And who exactly are your people?'
'The NCS,' he answered. 'National Crime Squad. Specifically,
a specialist undercover team called the Guardians. You won't
find us listed anywhere on the website. Our work's a complete
secret.'
'Very James Bond. And is that meant to make me trust you?
The fact that you work for a team that no-one even knows
exists?'
He fixed me with the kind of leaden glare that demanded
attention. 'You want me to let you go, Tom? Pull up here and
say ny goodbyes? Is that what you want? Fine, I'll do it, but let

me reiterate, since you're obviously not a very good listener: a
man like you isn't going to last five minutes against the people
coming after your blood.' As
he spoke, he pulled up at the side of the road. It was
still raining, if anything harder now, and we were on another
residential road, this time dominated by modern low-rise blocks
of flats that had all the aesthetic beauty of Lego houses and
looked like they'd been constructed from the same material. The
street was deserted.
'What I want,' I said firmly, 'is to have some proof that you
are who you say you are.'
He surprised me then by smiling. 'I thought you might insist
on that,' he said, switching off the engine and stepping out of the
car. 'I'm going to be a couple of minutes,' he added, 'then I'll be
back. You want to get out and run, now's your chance. The
nearest tube's left at the end of the road and first right after the
lights. But remember, you'll be on your own.'
He disappeared through the entrance of the nearest block,
using a key to let himself in, and leaving me on my own in
the darkness, listening to the rhythmic patter of the rain and
knowing full well that he was right. Alone, I didn't have a
chance. The people I was up against had, it seemed, killed
many times before without suffering a single conviction, or even
receiving the attention of the media. It was hard to believe,
but then so had a lot of things been today, and that hadn't
made them any less true. The people hunting me operated with
impunity and had resources at their disposal that included hired
killers and police insiders. As Daniels had pointed out, I was
also severely short of friends, which was the main reason I made
no attempt to open the car door and walk away. The other
reason was that in the end I had nowhere to walk to, which was

in some ways a more disconcerting feeling than the fact that I
was being hunted.
It suddenly struck me that since being released from police
custody close to an hour ago I'd made no attempt to call Kathy.
I doubted if it would do any good, but I tried her again anyway.
The call went straight to message, and I ended it with a frustrated
stab of the thumb. I thought about phoning my mother-in-law
and checking on the kids, but decided against it. There was no
point alarming her, and I was fairly sure that they'd be safe in her
care. No-one knew they were there, and it would be difficult to
find them given that Irene didn't share the same last name as me.
When I looked up, I saw Daniels walking purposefully towards
the car, speaking into a mobile. He was looking straight at
me as he approached, something triumphant in his wiry features,
and I wondered whether I was making the right decision, pinning
my colours to his mast.
He got back in the car, flicked on the interior light and
dangled a warrant card in front of my face. The photo was him
all right, staring almost cockily into the camera, head tilted a
little to one side, and the identification indeed stated that he was
National Crime Squad. His forefinger covered the name underneath
and I guessed this was deliberate. I didn't ask him to move
it but inspected the card carefully, concluding eventually that it
was either genuine or a stunningly good forgery.
'Satisfied?' he said, putting it in the inside pocket of his
leather jacket and reaching over to the cigarettes.
'It looks real enough.'
'That's because it is.'
'Who were you talking to just now?'
'My boss. I was leaving him a message. Now, tell me, where do
you think your wife could be?1

137
A
The moment of truth. For thirty-five years the path of my life
had run comparatively smoothly before its sudden and violent
derailment today. Its future direction would be dictated by what
I did now.
'There's only one place where she might be,' I said, at last. 'If
she knows she's in trouble, and I think she does, she'll be there.'

22

Bolt and Mo spent another twenty minutes with Tina. They
didn't tell her about the identical nature of the suicide notes,
though it was clear she'd guessed the significance. In fact they
didn't tell her a lot, citing confidentiality reasons when she
asked. Instead they listened as she went over everything she'd
told them. There was nothing new. She hadn't found anything
that backed up Gallan's claims when she'd gone through all his
possessions.
The only thing was,' she told them, 'I couldn't find his personal
laptop anywhere. I checked with Karen, his ex-wife, and
Rachel, but they hadn't taken it.'
Bolt asked her if she thought it could have been stolen, and her
answer was that it would have been typical of John to have stored
all the information on the laptop and destroyed the hard copy,
so yes, if someone had killed him, then it had definitely been
stolen. 'Which means whoever did it took all the evidence away.'
But there were still problems with Tina's story. Whatever

John Gallan might have thought, it still seemed that he hadn't
been in possession of any meaningful evidence against Lord
Parnham-Jones, so why kill him and risk opening up a real can
of worms? Unless he'd had something else, something that
actually was incriminating.
'Didn't the police get interested in what John was investigating
after his supposed suicide?' Bolt asked Tina.
'I was interviewed by the officers investigating his death, the
local CID, and I told them everything I knew, but to be honest I
think they thought I was mad, coming up with all these conspiracy
theories. It was the way they looked at me. Like I really
was the black widow everyone was calling me behind my back. I
also tried to get hold of the people at Scotland Yard John was
dealing with, but I didn't know their names and everyone
I spoke to claimed ignorance. Then my calls stopped being
returned. I was becoming an embarrassment.'
She lit a third cigarette, her expression betraying her sense of
isolation.
'It was all a long way from the cover of the Police Review. Anyway, I became disillusioned with everything, and that's why
I left the force. Last month, when the inquest came in as suicide,
that was just the icing on the cake. They didn't even call me to
give evidence. Just an open-and-shut case. A tragedy for all
concerned.'
These last words were delivered in a tone of mocking sarcasm,
and Bolt realized how badly beaten down Tina Boyd had been
by the events that had befallen her these past few months. He
felt genuinely sorry for her because he too knew what it felt like
to have the world you'd built up suddenly collapse. It was
like having every ounce of will and enthusiasm sucked out of
you in one fell swoop. Your whole desire to live, to get up in the

morning and follow your daily routine, disappeared, and you
had to fight like you'd never fought before to bring things back
on track, because the alternative ... Well, the alternative didn't
bear thinking about.
Mo, perhaps sensing that Bolt wanted to speak personally to
Tina, excused himself to go to the toilet. When he'd gone, Bolt
leaned forward.
'I appreciate you telling us what you've been through,' he
said, putting his hand on hers in a more intimate gesture than
he'd planned. 'I know what it's like to lose someone.'
Tina looked down at their hands, and then back at him. He
suddenly felt self-conscious and a little foolish, and pulled away.
'I remember reading about what happened to you,' she said.
'You've done well to get everything back together.' She picked
up her wine and drained the rest of the glass.
'I know you must be pissed off with the way the police treated
you, and I can understand that.'
'It wasn't just that. It was everything. Simon Barron dying;
being held hostage at gunpoint last year ... It got to the point
where it was no longer worth it.'
'What are you doing now?'
She smiled without humour. 'Not a lot. Spending what money
I've got left and deciding what I want to do with the rest of my
life.'
'When it all happened to me, I thought long and hard about
leaving. Almost did it too. I was going to go travelling round the
world, see if all those palm-fringed beaches and gorgeous sights
could help me forget things, but in the end I stayed put. Because
I always knew that some day I was going to have to come back,
and then I'd still have to face the past all over again.' He saw Mo
returning from the toilet. 'I heard you were a very good cop,

Tina,' he said, turning back to her. 'Whatever you may think
now, the force needs people like you.'
'I think they said the same thing to Simon Barron to coax him
back from retirement. It didn't do him a lot of good.'
Bolt wasn't offended by the cold directness of her words. He'd
expected it. But he did genuinely believe what he was saying.
He stood up as Mo arrived back at the table, and put out a
hand. 'We're going to need to make a move, Tina. Thanks for
providing us with this information. I think it's going to prove
very useful.'
She stood up and shook, her grip dry and firm. She was a
woman who might be down, but he could see now that she was
definitely not out.
'You know neither of them committed suicide, don't you?' she
said.
'I believe it's very doubtful,' Bolt replied carefully.
She looked him right in the eye then, her expression surprisingly
strong. 'Then find out who killed John. Please. He deserves
that.'
'We'll do everything we can,' he told her, and turned away.

23

When they were outside and passing the window, they saw Tina
going back to the bar to order another drink, the middle-aged
men, on the barstools moving slightly to let her in, giving her

appraising glances through the fug of smoke that she either
chose to ignore or simply didn't see. Bolt found himself wishing
she'd go home and try to rethink her life without the benefit of
alcohol. She didn't belong in a place like that.
'That was some pretty explosive stuff she came up with in
there, boss,' said Mo as they made their way back to the car
through the quiet, wet streets. 'Do you think all this is connected
to that dossier?'
'I think that unless Parnham-Jones had amazing psychic
powers, then he was murdered. And if he was murdered, then so
was John Gallan. There's no other explanation for the fact that
those suicide notes were exactly the same.'
'Well, they weren't exactly the same, were they? Our man
never signed his.'
'It's still too much of a coincidence.'
Mo shook his head wearily. 'You can't believe that someone
like the Lord Chief Justice would be involved in that sort of shit.
It kind of wrecks your faith in the system.' He tried to light
a cigarette but the rain was coming down too hard, and he
replaced the pack in his pocket. 'And what about the lawyer,
Jack Calley? Or our man, Meron? What part do they play in all
this?'
'You know, Mo, I honestly have no idea,' said Bolt, hunching
his shoulders against the rain. He thought of Tina and her grief.
'But one way or another, I'm going to find out.'
By now they were back at the car. They got inside quickly and,
as Mo turned on the engine, Bolt switched his mobile back on,
having turned it off for the meeting with Tina. He called DC
Matt Turner, the member of his team who'd taken ParnhamJones's
home computer away for analysis. Turner wasn't answering
so Bolt left him a message to check all the files on the

Parnham-Jones PC, see if there were any encrypted or otherwise
interesting files, and to call back as soon as possible.
'Where to now, boss?'
Home seemed tempting. It would have been useful to take
some time out to mull over everything that had happened today
and to look for connections and further avenues of inquiry. The
case was definitely one for mulling over, preferably with a cold
beer and a Thai takeaway in the dry comfort of home, but he
wasn't quite finished today yet.
He told Mo they had one more call to make.

24

The cottage in the New Forest was one of those purchases you
make on a whim, without thinking through the consequences.
I'm normally quite good with money, but like Kathy I got caught
up in the dream, and it really did seem like a good idea at the
time.
We'd been having dinner with a couple we knew from the
estate, and there'd been a second couple there, people we hadn't
previously met. Warren and Midget Stupid names when you
think about it, but nice people. After a lot of wine, and plenty
of talk about that most boring and suburban of topics, work,
Midge, who had copious amounts of curly auburn hair, lots of
hippy-style jewellery and an unavoidably huge bust, and who
didn't lgok at all like the City accountant she was meant to be,

announced that she and Warren were buying a share in a holiday
home. Not just any holiday home either, but a delightful 150year-old
crofter's cottage set in acres of protected forest that
was barely a two-hour drive from London, and fewer than ten
miles from the unspoiled Dorset coast. 'It's a piece of paradise,'
Warren had exclaimed, as if quoting from an estate agent's blurb
(which he probably was), 'a bolthole from all the hassles of the
modern world. Our kids are going to love it.'
Something in Warren and Midge's enthusiasm had been
infectious. At the time our own children were three and one, so
foreign travel had lost a lot of its allure, and the idea of holidaying
only two hours from home had a real ring of convenience.
Plus, of course, we'd drunk a lot of wine. And lo and behold, they still needed another family to buy the last quarter share.
Only 55,000, pounds and this at the height of the property boom. For
that, we'd get sole rights to the cottage for a quarter of the year,
a week every month, and Christmas or New Year every other
year. Warren even had the property details with him, and the
cottage did indeed look idyllic. The plot was close to half an acre
and included woodland, the nearest property over two hundred
yards away. The price seemed a bargain - not that we had that
kind of money. But within a month we'd got it, having released
some of the equity in our own property, and had become the
proud owners of 25 per cent of Sandfield Cottage, along with
Warren and Midge, Warren's brother and his family, and one of
Midge's fellow accountants at their City investment bank and
her partner.
That was two and a half years ago, and I suppose, in hindsight,
it had been a waste of money. It was nice when we got the
chance to go there, but we used it far less than we'd anticipated.
In the last year, I reckon we'd spent no more than a week there.

As with so many things, there never seemed to be enough time,
which was probably why I hadn't thought of it before as a
possible location for Kathy. But now it seemed like one, mainly
because I couldn't think of anywhere else she might have fled
to - on the assumption, of course, that she had fled somewhere
and wasn't being held against her will. She'd always appreciated
the fact that the cottage did indeed represent a retreat from the
rat race, and the one time I'd suggested selling our share to raise
some capital, she'd been against the idea. 'I need the solitude it
offers now and again,' she'd told me, and I suspected that
now, assuming she knew she was in trouble, she would need the
solitude it offered more than ever. It was also our allotted
weekend, making her presence there even more likely. I considered
phoning her on the cottage landline, but I had a lot of
questions I wanted to ask, and I was beginning to think that if I
told her I was coming she might not hang around to answer
them. Plus, the possibility that she was in the cottage gave me
hope, and I didn't want that snuffed out.
At first as we drove, I asked Daniels a lot of questions about
the undercover operation, trying to get as much information as I
could about the man called Lench, but he was vague with his
answers and didn't seem in the mood for talking. The traffic was
light as we left London, heading from the M4 to the M25, and
then south-west on the M3. Daniels drove fast, the speedometer
regularly touching a hundred, even though it was wet outside
and the rain continued to plunge «out of the black night sky. I
asked him on the M4 for another of his cigarettes and he told me
to help myself. As the journey progressed I continued to help
myself, and he had to stop at some services on the M3 to buy
another pack, plus some water and chocolate. I offered him a
coup pounds of quid in payment, thinking that he wouldn't accept it,

but he told me a fiver would be nearer the mark and took it
without even a thanks, which I thought was a bit much. 'You
don't get far in life unless you contribute,' he said, seeing my
reaction.
Daniels, I had to admit, was a strange character. On the one
hand he was calm and collected, his words, when he did speak,
delivered in the slow, even manner of a man who always felt in
control of a situation. He liked to let slip languid pieces of
philosophy too, like the 'not getting far in life unless you contribute'
bit, and I think he fancied himself as some sort of
eastern mystic warrior, dispensing justice, righteous violence and
snippets of useful advice. But there was also an air of stiff
tension about him, as if there were secrets in his soul he was
fighting a silent yet terrible battle to keep from view. When I
looked at him driving, his jaw tight and his teeth clenched, his
pale eyes concentrating hard on the road ahead, I could tell
there was plenty going on in his mind.
I didn't trust him. He was too complicated, and in my experience,
complicated people always have some sort of hidden
agenda.
After we'd left the service station and were back on the road,
I asked him why he'd allowed me to get beaten up by his
colleague, Mantani, and why he'd carried out the charade of
threatening me with the gun. 'You must have had some idea how
scared you were making me,' I told him, between mouthfuls of
Mars bar.
'I was thinking,' answered Daniels.
'That's nice to know,' I said. 'About anything in particular?'
'You know something, Meron, your problem is you mistake
sarcasm for humour. Don't bother with it; I'm not in the mood. I
didn't react instantaneously to your misfortune because I was

thinking about what the hell I should do, and how I was going to
do it. I'd spent six months weaving my way into this organization,
and I still had nowhere near enough evidence to convict
any of them of anything. I knew that if I pulled you out, six
months' work would go up in smoke. But because you were in
trouble, I made the move. Now, be thankful for it, all right?
Because if Lench had got hold of you, you'd be in pieces by
now.' He delivered this broadside without taking his eyes off the
road once.
'OK, OK, I understand.'
'No,' he said, shaking his head, 'I don't think you do. I don't
think you've got any idea what it's like to act a part every day of
your life, knowing that if you make one mistake and the people
you're working out find out who you really are, then that's
it, you're dead. The problem with you civilians,' he continued,
this time deigning to look at me, 'is that you live a nice easy
suburban life and you don't see any of the shit that goes on out
there in the big wide world day after day - the violence, the
killing, the kids on crack who'll do anything for their next fix because
we protect you from all that. We do the hard work, we
sweep away the problems that are right in front of your noses, if
only you could be bothered to look for them, and we make sure
they go under the carpet so you don't have to worry about any
of them. And consequently, you end up having no fucking idea
how lucky you are.'
I was surprised at how animated Daniels had suddenly become.
It was like a pressure being released, and he seemed
visibly to relax once he'd spoken.
'Congratulations, Meron,' he added. 'Today, you've seen that
other world, and now you'll be a wiser man for it.'
I did/i't say anything. He was probably right, but it wasn't a

statement I saw much point in commenting on. I took a cigarette
from the new pack. Ten years free of it, and I was already
redeveloping my old bad habit. When all this was over - and for
some reason, maybe the presence in the car of a hard bastard
who wasn't actually trying to kill me, I was now more optimistic
that it would be - I'd kiss Kathy, hug my kids, crack open a 10 pounds
bottle of wine and make a vow never to touch a smoke again.
In the meantime, though, I wasn't going to let a little thing
like my long-term physical health worry me. I had to get through
the short term first.

25

Forty minutes later, we turned off the A31 west of Southampton
and drove into the New Forest national park. Sandfield Cottage
was set back from the road behind a thick screen of pine trees in
a quiet stretch of woodland not far from the village of Bolder
wood. It was reached via a potholed drive about thirty yards
long that was almost impossible to spot unless you were looking
for it. On my instruction, Daniels slowed up and made the
turning, and as we approached along the drive I saw a light from
the house appear through the trees.
There was someone there.
As the driveway opened out into the parking area and lawn in
front of the cottage, Kathy's new Hyundai Coupe - her pride
and joy - came into view, parked over near the fence that

separated the front and rear of the property. It was the only car
there, and I let out an audible sigh of relief.
'That your wife's car, is it?' asked Daniels, parking up behind
it.
I nodded.
'Then I guess she's safe.' He turned off the engine.
I looked over to the cottage. The only light was coming from
the upstairs bedroom. The downstairs area was in darkness, and
the curtains were open. There was no sign that Kathy had heard
us, and I experienced a small twinge of nerves.
'Can you let me go in first? I don't want to scare her.'
He nodded. 'Sure.'
I got out, fumbling in my pocket for my keys. I found the right
one and hurried over to the front door, my shoes crunching on
the gravel. It was still raining hard and I had no desire to be out
in the open any longer than I needed to be.
As I passed the big bay window at the front, I looked directly
into the sitting room. It was empty, but the cushions on the sofa
were out of place and there was a coffee cup and an empty glass
on the coffee table. Someone had definitely been here very
recently.
At the front door, I bent down and opened the letterbox,
peering inside. It was deadly silent in there, the only sound
the relentless pounding of the rain. I wanted to call out, but
something stopped me. Instead, I eased the key into the lock and
gently turned it. There was a click?, and the door opened with a
soft whine. When it was part-way open, I slipped through the
gap and stepped into the porch area. Pairs of hiking boots were
lined up neatly on the floor to my left. Kathy's shoes weren't
among them. I looked up at the coat rack but couldn't see her
coat there either.

But her car was here so she would be too. Somewhere.
I went further inside, the sitting room opening up to my right.
Beyond it, straight ahead, was the door that led through to the
new kitchen/dining area that had been added to the back of the
cottage as a single-storey extension by the previous owners. To
the left of the door was the staircase that led up to the two
bedrooms on the first floor. I walked slowly towards it, listening
for any sound of human presence.
'Kathy?'
My whisper sounded artificially loud in the dead gloom of
this old house with its low timbered ceilings and floorboards
that creaked and sighed in time with the wind and my heavy
footfalls.
The scream exploded to my left, a shocking, high-pitched
screech, and a figure shot up from behind the staircase's solid
wood banister, one hand clutching a knife that gleamed viciously
in the darkness.
As I threw up my hands in a desperate protective gesture, the
figure vaulted the last two steps and leaped on me, the weight
knocking me backwards into one of the chairs. My weight in
turn knocked the chair out of the way and I landed hard on my
back, one hand grabbing the knife wrist, the other encircling
my attacker's throat. I squeezed hard, and would have squeezed
a lot harder but for the fact that I realized I was staring into my
wife's contorted, rage-filled face.
'Kathy, it's me! For Christ's sake, what are you doing?'
She was struggling like a fish on a hook, breathing in short,
angry gasps, and slapping at me with a free hand, the knife
still held in a stabbing position above my head, her grip on it so
tight that her knuckles were white. And then, suddenly, her
expression softened, her arm went limp and she dropped the

knife, which clattered onto the pine flooring, narrowly missing
my shoulder. For the first time, there was recognition in her
face. I let go of her, but instead of falling into some kind of
reunion hug she clambered off me and sat nearby on the floor,
head in her hands. She was dressed in the same clothes she'd left
the house in that morning: jeans, a suede jacket and ankle boots
with jagged heels.
'Oh God,' she said at last. 'I can't take this any more.'
'It's all right,' I told her, getting up and putting a reassuring
arm across her shoulders. I held her against me, adding soothingly
that everything was going to be fine, and at that moment I
meant it. We were reunited, we hadn't done anything wrong. We
could dig ourselves out of this hole.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Daniels had stepped
over the threshold and was waiting awkwardly next to the coats.
Kathy took a couple of deep breaths and composed herself,
looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite fathom. She
was upset, but her eyes were dry, and there was a hardness in
them I only ever recalled seeing when she was angry with me. Of
relief, or any other similar emotion, there was no sign.
'I'm OK,' she said distantly. 'Are you?'
'I'm fine,' I lied. 'I've been trying to reach you for hours on
the mobile.'
'It doesn't work down here, does it? There's no reception, and
I've been here since this afternoon. Are the kids all right?'
'They're fine. They're at your mam's.'

I wondered then how much she knew. She couldn't have been
aware of Jack's phone call, or his murder, but I assumed she
must have known about Vanessa's death, as they'd both been at
the university together today. But there were a lot of questions
she ngeded to answer.

Before I could think where to start, she motioned towards the
doorway. 'Who's your friend?'
'This is Daniels. He's been helping me. Daniels, this is my
wife, Kathy.'
As Kathy nodded an acknowledgement, he walked into the
room, switching on the light. The room suddenly seemed very
bright as he came forward and put out a hand, which she took.
'Pleased to meet you,' he said, with a tight, humourless smile.
Which was the moment when Kathy snatched back her hand
and the expression on her face changed completely. A new
emotion now dominated it.
Fear.

26

It was ten past ten when Bolt and Mo pulled up at Jack Calley's
house. Several police vehicles were still parked at the side of the
road, and the glow of floodlights came through the trees up on
the hill where the SOCO officers continued to work in the area
where the body had been found. They were atrocious conditions
to be operating in, but nothing could stop the hunt for forensic
clues. Rather them than me, thought Bolt as he and Mo got out
of the car. No-one seemed to be around, which was convenient
as he didn't fancy having to explain himself to Lambden, who he
knew would be pissed off, and might try to cause trouble.
They walked swiftly through the rain up to the neighbouring

house, where the older couple had been standing outside earlier.
It was a bigger place than Calley's, a whitewashed two-storey
building constructed in the style of a Mediterranean villa, with
shutters on the windows and fingers of ivy running up towards
the gently sloping roof. A covered porch, dotted with plant pots,
ran the length of the ground floor, and two hanging lamps
like orbs guided visitors to the front door. Bolt would have
loved to live in a place like this, although he would probably
have transplanted it to Italy or Greece, or somewhere where
there was a better class of criminal.
They darted under the porch roof, dodging the streams of
water running down onto the patio, and got their warrant cards
ready as Bolt rang the doorbell. After a long pause, they heard
footsteps coming from inside and then the door was slowly
opened on a chain. The same man they'd seen earlier, silver
haired and in his late sixties, appeared in the gap, wearing a
cautious expression that wasn't surprising given that they were
both in civilian clothes.
'Can I help you?' he asked.
Bolt did the introductions and said that they were working on
a case related to the murder. 'We know it's very late, and I
apologize, but is it possible that we can come inside for a
minute?'
The man nodded slowly. Behind him they heard his wife ask
who was at the door. 'The police,' he answered, releasing the
chain and stepping aside to allow them in.
They followed him through the hallway and into a large and
comfortable sitting room whose walls were lined with numerous
tourist-shop ornaments and other bric-a-brac. There were china
plates with maps of Greek islands on them; wine bottles in
baskets; paintings of Mediterranean beach scenes; even a couple

of model donkeys. It should all have looked very garish, but
somehow it managed to avoid it.
Their host introduced himself as Bernard Crabbe. His wife, a
small, very round woman of about the same age who milled about
them like an indecisive mother hen, was introduced as Debbie.
'We'd like to ask you some questions about Jack Calley,' Bolt
told them both.
'Please, would you like to sit down?' asked Mr Crabbe.
'No, it's OK. We don't need to stay long. I'm sure you'd like
to go to bed.'
'It's a bit difficult with all this excitement going on.'
'Jack was a very good neighbour,' added Mrs Crabbe. 'He
always fed Monty and Horace, our cats, when we went away. It's
such a tragedy to have his life taken away from him so young.'
Bolt and Mo made sympathetic noises.
'Did you know that Jack was Lord Chief Justice ParnhamJones's
solicitor?' asked Mrs Crabbe, sounding very excited by
this fact.
'Yes, we did,' said Mo, who was gazing with interest at a lace
doily with a pair of flamenco dancers in the middle that had
pride of place above the television.
'We saw him come to the house,' added Mr Crabbe. 'Not that
long ago either. Perhaps two or three weeks. I asked Jack about
it and he told me that he did personal legal work for his
lordship.'
'It's a tragedy about him too,' said Mrs Crabbe, who was still
clucking about. 'I felt he was a very humane Lord Chief Justice
who didn't pander to the demands of populism. It's about time
someone stood up to the tabloids.'
Bolt wondered if she'd still say the same thing if she heard the
allegations about him that had been made tonight.

'The main reason we're here,' he said, 'is to find out if you've
ever seen this man with Jack at all.' He held out the photo of
Tom and Kathy Meron.
'Let me get my glasses,' said Mrs Crabbe, looking around her
with a sudden urgency. 'Have you seen my glasses, Bernard?'
Mr Crabbe said he hadn't. His own were hanging around his
neck. He put them on and took the photo from Bolt, inspecting it carefully.
'Does he look at all familiar?' Bolt asked him.
'He doesn't,' answered Mr Crabbe, 'but she does. We've seen
her at Jack's place several times, although we don't know who
she is. I do know that the police who were speaking to us earlier
want to find her, though.'
'Is it her?' demanded Mrs Crabbe, who was leaning across her
husband, still without her glasses.
'Yes, it is.' Mr Crabbe tapped the image of Kathy Meron with
a stubby forefinger. 'This woman was at Jack's today.'
Bolt and Mo exchanged glances, but it was Bolt who spoke.
'What time was this?'
'Well, this is why the other police were so interested. It was
just before all this happened. I was out in the front garden and I
saw her driving past. It was just after lunch, at about half past
one this afternoon.'
So, Kathy Meron must have been one of the last people to see
Jack Calley alive, Bolt thought. Which meant she might well
have seen his killers.
Or, worse, been involved with them.

27

Kathy got to her feet and started to back away from Daniels.
Daniels looked surprised, but made no effort to follow her.
'What's going on, Kathy?' I asked as I watched her retreat.
Her eyes darted down towards the knife, still lying on the
floor where she'd dropped it, then she lunged and picked it up in
one movement. She pointed the blade in Daniels' direction. Her
hand was shaking slightly, but there was a grim determination in
her eyes that I didn't like the look of at all.
'You were there, weren't you?' she hissed, addressing Daniels.
'Where?' he asked, bemused.
'At Jack's house. This afternoon. You were one of the men
who came for him, weren't you?'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Yes, you do.'
'I'm sorry, I think you're mistaking me for someone else.'
'Don't patronize me. I don't make mistakes like that.'
'What is this, Kathy? How do you know he was at Jack
Calley's today?'
'You know how I know?' she said. The question was directed

at Daniels rather than me. She had the knife raised so that the
blade was pointed directly at his throat. Three feet separated
skin from steel. 'I didn't see you, because if I'd seen you I'd be
dead now too, wouldn't I? I heard you. I heard you all, and I
recognize your voice.'
A thin smile crossed her face as she spoke, but at the same
time her expression hardened. In those moments, she didn't look
like my wife at all. Even then, however, I still didn't quite make
the connection, my excuse being the number of shocks I'd had
that day.
'What were you doing at Jack's, Kathy? We haven't seen him
in four years.'
'All right, all right,' said Daniels, stepping back and raising his
hands in supplication. 'I think we may be starting off on the
wrong foot here.' As quick as a flash, his hand went inside his
leather jacket and the next second he was pointing the gun at
Kathy.
'Daniels, for Christ's sake, don't shoot. She's my wife.'
He ignored me and released the safety catch. 'Right, let's start
again. Put the knife down, Mrs Meron.'
Kathy made no move to obey. 'You killed Jack, you bastard,
I'm going to make you pay for that.'
This was the moment when I finally realized the inevitable.
Some might say a little belatedly. I might not have seen Jack for
some years, but it was becoming clear that Kathy had been
pursuing the friendship on behalf «f both of us. I think deep down
I'd known for a while she was having an affair. Her working hours
had got longer, there were weekends away at conferences, there'd
been changes in her behaviour. She'd started wearing perfume
again, buying expensive underwear. But when the signs are there
you don't want to admit it to yourself. You make excuses,

rationalize things. That was why hearing the admission from her
mouth now was like a hammer blow to the gut.
Jack. I felt dizzy. The fucking bastard.
'This isn't what you think, Mrs Meron. Now, please put the
knife down, and let's talk.'
'What do you mean, it isn't what I'm thinking? I heard you
torturing him on the bed.'
'I didn't touch him. I was there, but I promise you, I didn't
touch him.'
'You lied to me,' I said.
The statement was aimed at Daniels, but it was Kathy who
answered, although as she spoke, she kept her eyes firmly on him.
'I'm sorry, Tom. I didn't mean you to find out this way.'
'Why?' I asked, and this time it was to her, although there
were probably plenty of answers to that question.
'I can't talk about it now.'
'Put the knife down, Mrs Meron.'
Kathy gave a barely perceptible shake of the head, her expression
hardening. 'No.'
Daniels came forward fast, grabbing her wrist and twisting it
violently. He smacked the gun barrel down on her exposed
forearm and she let out a yelp and dropped the weapon. Shoving
her backwards, he picked it up from the floor and flung it into
the corner of the room, a long way from any of us. All this
before I even had a chance to react.
For a second, Kathy looked like she was going to burst into
tears, but she quickly controlled herself. I went over and hugged
her, still feeling the pain in my stomach from the knowledge that
she no longer loved me in the way I loved her. She buried her
head in my chest, the warmth of her body comforting against my
skin.

I glared at Daniels. 'So, you were at Jack's house?'
He nodded. 'Yeah, I was. I couldn't tell you before because
you'd never have trusted me.'
I looked at the gun, which was still pointed in our direction.
'So, you're not a cop?'
'I am a cop. I didn't lie about that.'
Kathy broke away from me. 'You can't be. The police don't
do that sort of thing.'
'I'm undercover,' he told her.
He briefly explained what he'd told me, and Kathy listened
without interrupting. As he spoke he lowered the gun. 'We got a
call this afternoon from Lench. Me and Mantani were to go with
him over to a guy named Jack Calley's house, and we were to
dress in suits and make sure we wore gloves. While we were
driving, Lench told us that Calley had some information that we
had to get from him. He wouldn't say what it was. When we
arrived, Mantani asked him what we were going to do with
Calley once we got the information, and Lench said we were
going to kill him and make it look like suicide. Apparently,
that's one of Lench's specialities.
'Anyway, Mantani and I knocked on the door while Lench
waited round the corner. Because we were dressed in suits, we
looked pretty normal, so I guess Calley wasn't suspicious. When
he answered, Mantani gave him a shot of pepper spray and the
three of us forced our way inside. We dragged Calley upstairs
and tied him to the bed. He was coughing and choking and
telling us that we could take whatever we wanted but to please
leave him alone. He was really scared. Lench stuffed a golfball in
his mouth, then sat on his legs and put a lighter to his balls.
'Then he took out the golfball and said, "Where is it? We
know,you've got it." Calley was screaming and saying he didn't

know what the hell it was Lench was talking about, so Lench
started burning him again, for longer this time. Then he asked
Calley who he'd been blabbing to. He didn't say what about, but
I got the feeling Calley knew what he was talking about.
'But he wasn't talking, so Lench put the golfball back in his
mouth and told him he had five minutes to think things over,
and then we were really going to get started on him. He went
downstairs, and I went with him. We left Mantani on guard duty.
When we were down in the kitchen, Lench put the kettle on and
then came right up and looked me in the eye. He told me that to
prove myself to him I was going to have to take the kettle up
to the bedroom and pour the contents over Calley's face and
body, before we even tried to get him to talk again. That way
he'd know we were serious. Lench said he was going to film me
on his phone doing it, so that I'd be completely implicated.
'I knew I was going to have to get the hell out of there, but
before I had a chance to create a distraction I heard shouting
coming from upstairs. That idiot Mantani had gone to take a
piss, leaving Calley on his own, and he'd managed to get free.
The next thing we know, Calley comes flying down the stairs and
charges out the side door, with Mantani hot on his tail. Lench
yelled at me to go and start the car so we could be ready for a
quick getaway, and then he disappeared out the door after
them.'
'I didn't hear him shout that,' said Kathy.
'So you were there?' I asked quietly, and with resignation.
She turned to me and nodded gently. She looked beautiful,
her olive skin unblemished by the tears, her eyes radiating a
warmth and intelligence that made her betrayal so much harder
to accept. She was a good person, a fantastic mother. I couldn't
understand how she could have done what she'd done.

'Look, Tom. I...'
Her words trailed off. I knew she felt sorry for me, but there
seemed to be no regret, no desire to put things right. Her pain
was for someone else.
'How long's it been going on?'
She sighed. 'We'll talk about it later, Tom, OK? For now, I
want to know who this man is, because I still don't believe his
story.'
'I'm telling you the truth,' said Daniels evenly. 'Lench and
Mantani went after Calley. I had to go back to the car because
we'd parked it away from Calley's house so it wouldn't get
clocked by passers-by. They came back five minutes later and said
that Calley was dead, but he'd told them that he no longer had
the thing they were after. He said he'd given it to Tom Meron.'
I shook my head. 'But I haven't seen him for four years.'
Daniels shrugged. 'Well, that's what they told me. They also
said that while he was trying to escape, Calley made a call to
your house. While we were driving, Lench made a call of his
own. He's got some excellent contacts because it only took him
minutes to find out who your wife was and where you both
worked. He got a car sent round to your house to make sure you
were there when he turned up, then got us to drop him off. We
were told to get rid of the car we'd been using, then to stay
together and wait for further orders. The rest you know.'
'This is ridiculous,' I said, utterly confused. 'Jack Calley never
gave me anything.'
'It's convenient you had nothing to do with Jack's actual
murder, isn't it?' said Kathy to Daniels, an undercurrent of
venom in her voice. 'Did you see what they did to him? I did. I
went up into the woods to try to find him. They'd strung him up
from«a tree like some sort of dog. Nobody deserves that.'

Daniels ignored her. 'So, where were you all this time? I'm
guessing you must have been in the bedroom. In one of the
cupboards?'
She sighed. 'Jack and I were upstairs when you came to the
door. When the doorbell went, Jack went to get it, and that's
when I heard all the commotion and shouting coming from
downstairs. I panicked and hid in the nearest place I could find his
clothes cupboard. I pushed myself right to the back, behind
all his suits, and kept as quiet as I could. And then I heard you
and your friends coming into the room, Jack being knocked
about and tied to the bed, and then . . . And then I heard you
torturing him.' Her voice cracked as she recounted the events.
'He was in agony. And no-one, none of you, seemed to care.'
Daniels didn't say anything, so she continued.
'When you went downstairs and the other man left the room
too, I knew this was the only chance I was going to get to help
Jack. I came out of the wardrobe and saw him lying there on the
bed with the crotch of his jeans all blackened where he'd been
burned. His face was screwed up in agony but he was still
conscious. He motioned for me to get back inside the cupboard
- he didn't want me to get caught, because he knew they'd kill
me - but I couldn't leave him like that. Not helpless. I could hear
the other man moving about in the toilet and it was obvious I
only had a few seconds. I managed to free one of his hands, and
he untied the other. We heard the toilet door opening, and Jack
pushed me away and made a run for it. I heard the scuffle on
the stairs and then him charging down them. And that was the
extent of our goodbye.' I watched as Kathy took some deep
breaths, then fixed Daniels with a hard stare. 'And I never heard
anyone shout anything about going and starting the car.'
Daniels shrugged. 'That's the way it happened.'

She shook her head. 'You took part in his killing, I know you
did.'
'Daniels rescued me earlier, Kathy,' I said. 'I think he's who
he says he is: an undercover cop.'
'You weren't there, Tom. I was. He was a part of it, undercover
cop or not.'
'Jack phoned me, when they were chasing him,' I told her. 'He
said he needed my help. The last words he said - and he said
them to the people chasing him - were the first two lines of our
address. Why?'
Daniels looked at Kathy. 'Maybe Calley gave the thing
Lench was after to you but he didn't say anything under torture
because he was trying to protect you.'
She shook her head. 'Jack never gave me anything.'
'Are you sure about that?'
She glared at him. 'I don't have to answer to you, whoever you
are. Even if you have got a gun in your hand.' She turned in my
direction. 'I think we need to call the police, Tom. Get this
sorted out.'
'I'd advise you against that, Mrs Meron.' Daniels had raised
the gun again, and I saw his finger tightening on the trigger.

'Vanessa's dead as well,' I told her desperately. 'She was
murdered over at the university this afternoon.'

Kathy's eyes widened, and she looked genuinely shocked. 'Oh
God, no.'
- 'Look, I've got to ask. Did you inow anything about it?'
She shook her head. 'Of course not. Christ, what happened?'
Her voice was high-pitched, distraught.
"The police didn't tell me, but I think she was stabbed.'
'Do you know anything about this?' she demanded, addressing
Daniels.

Now it was his turn to shake his head. 'I've no idea why she
would have been targeted. Can you think of a reason?'
'No, I can't. She's a bloody university lecturer, for Christ's
sake.' She wiped her hand across her face. 'Oh God, poor
Vanessa.'
'There's something else you should know,' I said.
She looked at me quickly. 'What?'
'The knife used to kill her had your fingerprints on it.'
'No,' she said firmly. 'No way. There must be some mistake.'
I watched her reaction carefully. It's a very disconcerting
feeling not being able to trust anything your wife says.
'And I'm still wondering why Jack phoned our house, and why
he wanted me to help him,' I added.
'I don't know anything about that either.' But when she
turned my way I could see doubt in her eyes. She was lying. I
could tell.
Daniels obviously felt the same way. 'You know something,
Mrs Meron, and it's in everyone's best interests that you tell us
what it is.'
'What? To you? To someone who was involved in the killing
of a man I cared about, who I've never met before in my life,
and who's now pointing a gun at me? No, I'm calling the police.
I'll talk to them.'
There was a phone in the far corner of the room, on a table
next to one of the chairs, and Kathy now strode over to it.
'Don't do it, Mrs Meron,' snapped Daniels, the tension in his
voice obvious. The gun was now pointed at Kathy's head.
I stepped in front of him. 'Come on, Daniels. For Christ's
sake, don't point that thing at my wife.'
He shoved me aside with a hissed 'shut the fuck up', then
addressed her again. "There are police officers involved in this,

Mrs Meron. You talk to the wrong one, you could end up dead.
Don't do it.'
'Or what? What'U you do? Shoot me?'
Daniels' features were taut and ragged. 'If I have to, yes.'
'I'm going to phone nine-nine-nine and get the police to come
here. If you are a police officer, then you have to accept that,
don't you?'
They stared at each other, Kathy's hand resting on the receiver.
Her expression was one of grim determination. So was
Daniels', but he looked to be under the most pressure, even
though he was the one with the gun. I knew he didn't want to
hurt her, but I wasn't sure that he wouldn't. His grip on the gun
was firm. The barrel didn't move.
'Don't make me do this, Mrs Meron. If you tell me where it is,
then we can sort all this out.'
Something struck me then. Something so obvious that I should
have known about it right from the first minute I'd met him.
'You know what it is, don't you?' I said to Daniels. 'You know
what Lench and his boss are looking for. And you want it for
yourself.'
But his attention was focused entirely on Kathy.
My mind was racing. Should I rush him? Try to get the gun
from his grasp? Did my wife deserve my help? I felt my legs
shaking, the tension building. The room was thick with silence,
no longer resembling the place where we'd spent so many relaxing
evenings. My next thought, lomewhat inappropriately, was
that we were going to have sell our share in the cottage. I
couldn't come here again, not after this.
'Please, Mrs Meron. Come over here, and let's talk.'
I leaped forward, grabbing Daniel's gun arm at the wrist and
shoving it away from Kathy. With my free hand I tried to get a

grip on his throat, but he danced backwards and out of reach,
sending me tumbling into the banister. Then a hand slammed
into the back of my skull, sending my head flying forwards into
the wood with a painful thud, and Daniels' arm seemed to slip
effortlessly out of my grip.
'Fuck you, Meron,' he hissed as I went down in a heap.
My head throbbed, but I ignored it, swinging round on my
behind so that I could see what was happening. From my less
than advantageous position, I saw that Daniels was staring hard
at Kathy, the gun pointing once again in her direction. The
receiver dangled limply from her hand, and her face was as pale,
I think, as I'd ever seen it.
'What the fuck did I tell you?' shouted Daniels.
'Don't shoot, for Christ's sake,' I told him.
'There's no need,' said Kathy. 'The phone's dead.'
There was a long silence then. The sound of the rain crackling
on the concrete outside the window was the only background
noise.
Finally, Daniels spoke, and his words had a grim inevitability
about them.
'They're here.'

28

Keeping low, Daniels moved to the switch on the wall by the
porch and killed the lights. 'Everyone get down,' he whispered,

creeping through the semi-darkness and squatting down below
the bay window that looked out on to the front driveway.
Slowly, he lifted his head and peered over the edge.
We obeyed his instructions. I crouched down behind the sofa,
and Kathy slid down the wall and rested on her haunches. Our
eyes met briefly in the gloom, and I could see the fear there. But
there was nothing else, no regret, and she turned away quickly.
'Can you see anything out there?' I asked Daniels, my voice a
loud whisper.
'Nothing yet, but they're there somewhere.'
'How did they find us?'
'Don't think about that now. What we need to focus on is how
the hell we get out of here. Where does it lead to out the back?'
'The garden backs on to forest,' I said, 'but there are gorse
bushes planted all round the border to keep people out. They're pretty much impenetrable.'
'So there's no back access at all?'
'You can get into the forest through the studio,' said Kathy.
'It's a separate building at the end of the garden. If you climb
out of its rear window, you're directly into the woods.'
As she spoke, Daniels scanned the area outside, his head
moving slowly. Suddenly it stopped. He was looking left in the
direction of Kathy's car.
'Have you seen something?' she asked, a tremor in her voice.
Outside, the rain tumbled down relentlessly.
'I'm not sure,' he whispered'still watching the same spot. 'I
think so.'
I needed to arm myself, to have something to hand that I could
use as a last resort. There was a set of Japanese chef's knives in
the kitchen - Midge's work colleague was an enthusiastic cook and
I decided that they would have to do. It was difficult to

imagine actually stabbing someone with one of them. It was
difficult to imagine stabbing someone full stop, but I was getting
sick of being defenceless. Staying in a crouch, I retreated into the
kitchen.
The knives - six in all, each sheathed to the hilt in a triangular
slab of wood - were on the tiled work surface, directly next to
the cooker. I reached out and slid a large kitchen knife with a
wide blade eight inches long from the slab. The blade itself was
thin but razor sharp. I'd chopped meat and vegetables with it in
the past and could testify to its effectiveness. I imagined how
easily it would go through the flesh of that sadistic bastard
Mantani, and found myself enjoying the thought. I'm not a cruel
man, and I genuinely believe I've got a strong sense of justice,
but I also harbour vengeful thoughts to those who've wronged
me, and there was no doubt that Mantani was one of that
number. Him and my old friend Jack Calley, but Jack was well
beyond my reach now.
I gripped the knife in my left hand and stood up, staring at my
faded reflection in the kitchen window. Rivulets of rain ran
down the glass, following uneven patterns. I still looked like shit,
yet Kathy hadn't once asked me about my injuries. She didn't
care. She obviously hadn't cared for a long time, but like the fool
I was, I hadn't noticed.
The face shot up like a ghost behind the glass, its identity
obscured by a black balaclava. Then a gloved hand appeared
holding a long-barrelled pistol. Before I had a chance to react
there was a loud explosion and a cracking sound behind me. The
windowpane became a huge spider'sweb crack with a hole like
an eye in the middle. The bastard was shooting at me! Fire shot
out of the barrel and a second explosion filled the room. This
time the whole window seemed to collapse, and razor-sharp

shards of glass rained down over the floor like lethal snowdrops.

That was when I finally moved. I hit the deck fast, realizing
with relief that I hadn't been hit, even though my attacker
had been only feet away from me. Then I realized why. As I
scrambled across the floor towards the doorway, ignoring the
pain as my body slid over pieces of broken glass, I heard
something being thrown into the kitchen. There was a loud
whump, and the room was filled with light and heat. Craning my
neck, I saw that a large portion of the cupboards and work
surfaces were on fire, the flames licking angrily towards the
ceiling. He didn't want me dead; he was trying to force us out
into the open.
Thick, acrid smoke billowed towards me, and I used it as
cover, jumping to my feet and running through the door back
into the sitting room. At exactly the same moment the cottage's
front window blew inwards in another lethal shower of glass, I
saw that Daniels was already on his feet and well away from the
flying shrapnel. He had the gun in his hand and was swinging it
round in a tight arc, searching for a target. Kathy was also
upright and standing rooted to the spot like a deer caught in
: headlights.
'They've got petrol bombs!' I yelled. 'The kitchen's on fire!'
A split second later, before either of them had had a chance to
.respond, the blast of a shotgun rang out and a huge hole appeared
[in the front door, just below the handle. Daniels dropped into a
i'' 9
shooting crouch and fired three shots into the door, their noise reverberating around the room with a deafening intensity.
The shotgun erupted into life again, and the hole grew bigger.
iFellets flew into the room too fast to see and Daniels yelped in
Ijpain, clutching an arm. He screamed at us to get upstairs, and I
Igrabbed Kathy's arm and pulled her towards the staircase as

he recovered himself and switched the gun to his other hand. I
could see a tear in his jacket where he'd been hit, but he seemed
to be holding up.
Suddenly the front door flew open, slamming against the
shoe rack in the porch. The hearth was empty, the only view
the rain pouring down out of the darkness onto the driveway.
Behind us, the smoke poured into the room, black and choking.
Daniels waited, gun outstretched in front of him, still keeping
the crouching pose.
A hand came round the door containing a fuel-filled milk
bottle with a burning rag pushed into it, and as Daniels pulled
the trigger for the fourth time, the bottle skidded and bounced
along the floor towards him. He leaped to his feet, fired a fifth
shot wildly in the direction of the door, and charged towards the
staircase.
'Get up the fucking stairs!' he roared, bumping into my back.
I pushed Kathy forward, and she scrambled up the staircase
on her hands and knees, Daniels and I bringing up the rear.
There was a second's pause, and as I turned my head away the
fuel ignited and the petrol bomb exploded, a sheet of flame
shooting across the wood floorboards and engulfing the sofa.
'Is there an upstairs window we can get out of?' yelled Daniels
above the noise of the fire.
'The master bedroom,' I shouted in return, falling over in my
haste to get away from the thick, cloying smoke. 'It faces on to
the back garden. You can get out onto the extension from there.'
'Head for there, then.'
As we reached the top of the stairs, Kathy turned right onto
the landing. The light was on up here and it felt unusually bright,
causing me to squint momentarily. She ran over to the door of
the master bedroom and flung it open. I was right behind her, so

when she ran inside and suddenly cried out, I was there in
seconds. Not that it did me any good.
In the darkness of the room, a masked man in black - possibly
the same one who'd thrown in the first petrol bomb - had Kathy
in a chokehold. In his free hand he held a sawn-off shotgun
which was shoved roughly against her cheek. Both of them were
facing me, and Kathy's expression was one of absolute terror.
As I came into the room, the gunman retreated slowly, barely
visible in the gloom, still keeping a firm grip on Kathy, who was
forced to retreat with him, her upper body bent back at an
uncomfortable angle. Behind the two of them I could see that
the bedroom window was open, and as I watched, a second man,
identically dressed, appeared on the roof of the single-storey
extension that stretched out from the old part of the house, just
below the bedroom, and from which the gunman had obviously
made his entry. This other man didn't appear to be armed, and
as he negotiated a path along the roof, he slipped on the wet
tiles and landed on his behind.
Daniels appeared behind me, and instinctively I moved aside.
I heard him curse, and he raised his gun.
'Don't do a fucking thing, Daniels,' said the gunman, and I
immediately recognized his voice. It was that bastard Mantani.
'Now, drop it or she dies.'
'Let her go, Mantani,' said Daniels calmly. But then he could
; afford to be calm. It wasn't his wife in this position. 'Let her go \tor I'll kill you. And you know I'd do it too.'
'Do as he says, Daniels, please. Don't let him hurt my wife.'
Mantani was still retreating with Kathy. He was only five feet from the window now. Behind him, the second masked man had Ifound his feet after his initial fall and was approaching the window slowly.

'If you don't interfere, we'll let you go,' Mantani told Daniels.
'Even though I owe you for what you did to me earlier. We just
want Meron and his missus. That's all.'
Daniels took a step forward, then another. Black, choking
smoke was beginning to billow into the room now, and the
crackle of flames downstairs was growing louder.
'Move another fucking inch and she dies.' Mantani pushed the
barrel harder against Kathy's cheek, his face contorting into a
snarl behind the mask. 'I'll kill her. I fucking will, you know.
Another fucking step and she dies.'
Daniels took another step.
'What the fuck are you doing, Daniels?' I screamed in a voice
far higher than I'd ever managed before. 'He'll kill her!'
'No, he won't. You won't, will you, Mantani? Because if you
do, I'll kill you, and I can tell you don't want to die.'
I took a step forward myself, the kitchen knife still in my
hand, wondering what the hell I was going to do next.
'Don't fucking risk it, Daniels. Please. She's my wife.'
'I'll fucking do her, Daniels. You know I will. She don't mean
shit to me.'
Outside, the second man had reached the window. He saw
Daniels' gun for the first time and immediately ducked out of
sight. Mantani stopped and leaned back against the windowsill.
Kathy remained silent. Her jaw was quivering, her eyes
racing round in fear. I'd never seen her scared before. Nervous,
worried, but never terrified like this. I felt helpless. This bastard
was going to murder my wife in front of my eyes. I was sure of it.
And Daniels was pushing him into it. The smoke in the room
was getting thicker, and I could hear footsteps coming up the
stairs. We were trapped. My legs felt weak. I thought of my kids.
I thought of the day Chloe, my first child, was born. The joy on

Kathy's face; the joy I knew was in mine. Holding her, together,
after the first weigh-in. A new family. And now it was all going
to end in a burning, smoke-filled cottage, with my wife's betrayal
still acrid on my breath, and all for a reason I would probably
never know.
'Last chance, Mantani. Put the gun down. Now.'
Daniels took another step forward. He was now only six feet
away from his former colleague. His voice was even, yet it
bristled with tension. Mantani leaned back, as if trying to put as
much distance between him and his adversary as possible. It was
a sign of weakness, but his grip on the shotgun remained firm.
'Fuck you, Daniels. Put yours down. You're fucking
surrounded.'
The shot deafened me, and I jumped up in the air reflexively.
Mantani's head snapped back, striking the window, and a fine
spray of blood covered the glass. The shotgun waved about wildly
and then discharged into the ceiling with an even louder bang. His
t ody went limp and he toppled to one side as Kathy pulled away
from his grip and ran into Daniels' arms. The man outside the
window jumped up. He had a gun in his hand, but instead of firing
it, he ran away along the roof, slipped again, and disappeared
;.from view. Daniels pushed Kathy away and fired a parting shot
at him. I assume it missed because I thought I heard him ripping
isflje drainpipe from the wall as he jumped from the roof. 'Get out of here now!' shouted Daniels, turning in my
direction.
p. I ran towards the window, needing no second invitation.
Neither did Kathy, who was already halfway through it.
v 'There's someone coming up the stairs,' I told Daniels as I assed him, choking on the smoke that was now filling the room.

Ad that moment, another black-clad figure loomed in the

doorway, a pump-action shotgun in his hands. But this man was
different to the others. He was bigger. Much, much bigger, and
even surrounded by the thick black smoke he oozed a dark, easy
calm, oblivious to the drama going on around him and the death
of one of his men. I knew instantly that this was the man they called Lench, and that if he got hold of us we truly had no chance.
Daniels knocked me to one side and pulled the trigger,
grabbing Mantani's corpse. Lench returned fire once, the force of
the shotgun blast blowing out yet another of the windows, then
disappeared back behind the door. Daniels stumbled but hadn't
been hit. He hauled up the corpse and crouched down, using it
and the double bed as a shield, yelling at me again to move.
I scrambled past him and leaped bodily through the window,
knife still clutched tightly, as Lench reappeared, firing. I hit
the roof stomach first and began sliding down the tiles to the
right in the direction of the guttering, using my free hand to gain
some purchase and stop my descent. Directly below me was the
kitchen, and I could feel the heat coming from the fire within it.
This roof would collapse soon and whoever was on it would fall
straight into the flames.
Kathy was a few feet above me, straddling the roofs ridgeline
at the gable end, leaning forward and gripping the brickwork
with her hands. She was looking down to the right where the
second gunman was getting to his feet on the grass, the broken remains of the drainpipe beside him. Yet another man, the
fourth, was coming round the same side of the house in our
direction. He too had a gun. He pointed it up at us. From inside
came more shots - the shotgun and Daniels' pistol.
'This way!' Kathy shouted, and before I could say anything
she was sliding down the other side of the roof on her bottom. I
followed her, throwing the knife down into the garden and

swinging round so that I was hanging onto the guttering before
making the final jump to the ground, not daring to look back.
We both landed at the same time, a few feet apart. Fifteen yards
away at the end of the lawn was the single-storey wooden studio
that Midge liked to paint in. Through there lay safety.

'Run,' I hissed, fumbling in my pocket for my keys. I kept the
ones to the cottage on my main ring, but couldn't remember if
the studio key was still on there. I'd removed it months ago to
get a new one cut, and wasn't sure whether I'd put it back or not.
I prayed I had. With my other hand I grabbed the knife, and we
ran like hell towards the studio door, knowing that our pursuers
were right behind us.
In the darkness I couldn't see which key was which and I
began to panic as we reached the wooden door. It was a smaller
one than the others, I remembered that. Thin, with a round
handle. I felt each one as fast as I could, praying that the
damned thing was on there. Please let it be. Please. The shooting
in the bedroom had stopped now and all I could hear was the
driving rain and the roar of the fire as the cottage that was
meant to be a peaceful retreat from the stresses of the modern
world went up in a mass of unforgiving flames.
Kathy turned round. 'Hurry up, they're coming,' she
screamed. 'They're coming.'
I felt a round handle between thumb and forefinger. It was the
one. I shoved the key in the lock, trying to force it. I could hear
their footfalls approaching fast. Someone shouted for us to put iHir hands up, the voice sounding muffled but close.
The key finally slipped into the lock. I turned it once and the
door opened. I shoved Kathy inside and followed her into the
darkness, not even bothering to remove it. I slammed the door
shufcand felt for the bolt that would lock it from the inside. The

studio's interior smelled vaguely of varnish and incense sticks. I
knew Midge smoked dope in here when she was working, not
only because her abstract paintings were so bad they could only
have been the product of a drug-addled brain, but also because
I'd found roaches hidden away in corners of the room when I'd
come in here in the past.
The door was hit bodily from the outside with a huge shunt
that knocked the knife out of my hand. A gap six inches wide
appeared and a gloved hand shot through it, grabbing hold of
the door, and forcing it further open.
'Do something!' yelled Kathy, her voice shrill.
I pushed my full weight against the door, trying to narrow the

gap-
'I've dropped the fucking knife!'
The light came on as she flicked the switch on the wall. I felt
my feet sliding backwards on the bare floorboards and knew
that in a couple of seconds they'd be in here. I saw the knife. It
was a yard and a half away from my foot, well out of reach.
Kathy came forward fast, swept it up from the floor, and a
second later she had grabbed the gloved hand by the wrist and
sliced the blade deep into the bare flesh of the lower forearm. A
line of blood appeared, and a shower of heavy droplets splattered
onto the parquet flooring. The man to whom the hand belonged
howled in pain and withdrew it with a curse. Kathy slammed the
door shut, and I leaned over and shoved the bolt across.
A shot rang out, and the door splintered as the bullet passed
through between us at head height. I felt a stinging pain in my
face and turned away instinctively.
'Jesus!' cursed Kathy, dancing about on her feet.
I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her through the room.
Abstract paintings lined the available wallspace, great mish mashes of shapeless colour that seemed to represent nothing at
all. An easel and artist's chair were in the centre of the floor, and
a half-finished effort in blue and green that looked like it had
been put together by a boss-eyed chimp was mounted upon it.
A second shot rang out, the bullet passing straight through the
painting before pinging off the far wall. We kept on going, silent
now, until we reached the back window that opened directly out
on to the forest. I got there first and pulled the handle. It was
locked. The bastard thing was locked, and I knew for sure I
didn't have a key for it. Behind me, no more than fifteen feet
away, I could hear them kicking the door. It sounded like they
were trying to knock it off its hinges, and with some success. We
were trapped, and I had seconds to make a decision.
'For fuck's sake, break it!' Kathy shouted, looking around for
something to use. She pulled a china pot from one of the shelves
and heaved it against the glass. Nothing happened. The window
was new, so it probably had toughened glass.
A third shot rang out, and I heard one of the hinges of the
door go. I swung round, picked up the artist's chair and charged
it into the window with all the force I could muster. The glass
cracked, a thin line in the middle. I retreated and came forward
again, hitting harder this time, and the crack widened. I was
panting with the exertion. As I came back to do it a third time, I
saw that the door was now hanging inwards on its frame, one
hinge gone, the other just about to go. Both men were partly
visible in the gaps, and one was p oking a gun through.
Summoning everything I had, I smashed the chair into the
window a third time, and this time the glass broke into two
pieces and fell outwards with a clatter. A large shard was still
poking upwards so I hammered it side-on with the chair and
mo#t of it flew off.

Behind us there was a crash as the door flew open completely.
They were in, and in the light of the room we were sitting ducks.
But this time there was no way we were stopping.
Dropping the chair, I grabbed Kathy, lifted her up (thank
God she was slim) and heaved her bodily through the window
before she had a chance to protest. I took three steps back and,
ignoring the footfalls coming across the floor, and the strangely
muffled shouts to put my hands up coming from my pursuers,
ran forward and did a flying dive through the gap, experiencing
a sharp, hot pain like a burn as what was left of the lower shard
tore through my clothing and the skin of my stomach.
I landed hands first, beyond the panes of glass lying on the
grass, and somersaulted over, my legs hitting Kathy as she got to
her feet. I was up in an instant, grabbing her by the hand and
running through the soaked undergrowth, the cool air filling
me with an exultant relief. She stumbled; I pulled her up. We
went through a bramble bush, jumped over a fallen log, kept
accelerating. Knowing that we were free. That we'd beaten the
bastards. We'd actually beaten them. In those moments, nothing
else mattered.
Behind us, the shouts of our pursuers faded into the rain.

29

Lench jumped back onto the landing, using the bedroom door as
cover, Daniels' bullet narrowly missing him. He knew that the

trap he'd set had failed. Knowing that Daniels was armed, and
that a full-frontal attack would cost him men, Lench had decided
to send Mantani round the back of the house to climb up
onto the single-storey roof and get inside that way. Then, by
simultaneously firebombing both ends of the house, they would
drive the three either out into the open or more likely up the
stairs, where Mantani had been ordered to ambush them and
despatch Daniels so that the Merons would have no choice but
to surrender.
Lench had assumed that Daniels would take the lead and be
the first of the three upstairs, making him a comparatively easy
target, but that hadn't happened, and now Mantani was dead,
and Lench himself was having to pick up the pieces. Far better,
he thought as he stood outside the bedroom door, to have
simply firebombed the place and waited for them to exit the
building, choking and vulnerable. In the battlefields of Croatia
and Bosnia all those years ago, they'd taught him always
to keep plans simple. Elaboration wasted time. Human beings,
particularly civilians, were essentially cowardly creatures given
to panic. Surprise and overwhelming force were all that was
needed to subdue them. He'd ignored that advice tonight by
trying to be clever, and now it had cost him. But the situation
was redeemable. If he moved fast.
He dived low into the bedroom, all the time facing the badly
damaged and blood-stained bedroom window. Meron was
scrambling out of one end and onto the roof while Daniels
crouched a few feet away in front of the shattered middle pane.
He had a gun in one hand and was using the other to pull up
Mantani's balaclava-clad corpse under the arms, trying to use
him as a shield.
Lench pulled the trigger while he was still in mid-air. So

did Daniels, three times, the bullets cracking like whiplashes
through the room. Each man's shots missed the other. Lench
landed on his side and the shotgun discharged again, this time
accidentally, blasting a tight circle of penny-shaped holes in the
ceiling above the bed. Dust and plaster sprinkled down. Daniels
fired two more shots in return, both of which hit the lower part
of the wall near Lench. Then there was silence. Neither man
could see the other. Lench could hear Daniels shuffling along
the line of the window, presumably making for the part that was
open so he could make his own escape. He'd fired thirteen shots.
The weapon was a Glock that Lench had supplied, which carried
a fifteen-round magazine, with one in the breech. That left
Daniels with three more bullets. Enough still to be dangerous.
Lench only had two shells left himself, and he wasn't carrying
spares. Another lesson from the Yugoslavian war zone he'd
failed to heed: always prepare for the worst-case scenario.
But whatever faults Lench possessed, the fear of death was
not one of them. In one surprisingly athletic movement for a man
so large, he leaped to his feet, calculating accurately Daniels'
position, and opened fire without hesitation.
Daniels stumbled backwards with the force of the shot, but he
was crouched low behind Mantani and it was the.dead man who
took the force of the blast, his masked face disappearing in a
cloud of blood and bone, much of which sprayed over the
undercover cop. Daniels let go of Mantani's body and pulled
the trigger of the Glock wildly, cracking off two shots, neither of
which went anywhere near their target, before Lench discharged
the shotgun for the last time.
The shot caught Daniels in the centre of the chest, driving him
hard against the broken glass of the middle pane, the gun flying
uselessly out of his hand. Mantani's ruined corpse slipped out of

view and hit the floor with a dull clump. At the same time,
Daniels let out a pained gasp that filled Lench with the kind of
warm, easy glow that ending a life always gave him. Daniels was
unsteady on his feet, stumbling badly, but Lench wanted him
conscious for these last few moments so that he could hold
him close as his life ebbed away. He dropped the shotgun and
with an animal howl sprang across the bed.
But for a dying man, Daniels still had something left, and he
moved to one side and avoided the full force of the attack.
Lench managed to grab him with one arm, though, and pull him into the beginnings of a bearhug. Daniels fought back, a punch
coming out of nowhere and catching Lench across the cheek.
The two men struggled as Lench manoeuvred the arm to
which his jet knife was attached so that it was against Daniels'
belly, close to the appendix. But as he pushed against his foe's
torso, he realized that it felt solid. The bastard was wearing a
bulletproof vest. No wonder he was still fighting. Lench shifted
the knife so that it was wedged in underneath Daniels' armpit,
but the other man suddenly bucked wildly, pushed himself away
from the open window and grabbed the knife arm by the wrist,
yanking it away from his body.
Lench punched him hard in the face with his free hand, twice
in quick succession, and flicked the wrist of the knife arm so that
the six-inch blade shot out, ripping a huge gash in Daniels'
thumb and narrowly missing his neck. Dazed, Daniels stumbled
backwards, still clinging to Lench's wrist. Lench knew that there
was no point in continuing to toy with his victim. He had to
make the kill. And quickly. Smoke was filling the room, and he
could hear the sounds of shouting outside as the other two men
gave chase to Meron and his wife. He needed to bring the
situation under control, and now.

Daniels had also grabbed his free hand by the wrist so that
Lench couldn't punch him again, so instead he shoved Daniels
hard, bending him backwards over the windowsill. Using all his
weight, and his advantageous position looking down on the
other man, Lench tried to force the knife downwards into his
throat. Daniels bent his body back through the open window in
a desperate bid to avoid the blade as it inched closer and closer.
His face was bloodied where he'd been hit, and his eyes were
wide with nervous tension. The arm holding the knife away from
him was the one that had been hit by shotgun pellets, and it was
shaking wildly. Any moment now it was going to give, and then
death would be inevitable. The tip of the blade was just three
inches away from Daniels' Adam's apple, and Lench smiled
down at him.
'Time to die, my friend,' he whispered gently. 'Time to spill
some blood.' His voice was thick with gloating.

Then, suddenly, he gasped in shock as Daniels drove a
knee up into his groin. Lench felt his whole body go slack, and
before he could right himself Daniels had slammed his knife arm
against the window frame, risen up from his supine position and
headbutted him on his upturned chin. Lench lost his footing and
Daniels shoved him away, managing to put a couple of feet of
space between them, then turned and slid out of the window
onto the single-storey roof. Lench grabbed wildly for one of his
legs, ignoring the pain in his groin, but Daniels kicked the hand
away and began crawling along the ridgeline, making for the
edge.
Thin lines of smoke seeped through the gaps in the roof's tiles,
and Lench realized that it was going to collapse at any moment.
But he couldn't let his quarry get away. Clambering up onto the
window ledge, he leaped through the air, landing on Daniels'

back, knees first. There was a loud crack beneath them as
the badly weakened roof buckled under the strain, but Lench
ignored it and pulled Daniels' head back by the hair, the knife
raised ready to slash his throat. Something else cracked.
But Daniels was a formidable opponent who didn't seem to
know when he was beaten, and he shifted violently onto his side,
bucking like a donkey and knocking Lench off balance. The two
men rolled down to the guttering, and suddenly they were falling
through the air.
They landed hard, Daniels on top. Lench exhaled violently,
winded by the fall, but still had the presence of mind to lash out
with the knife, the blade narrowly missing his opponent's cheek.
But Daniels was already struggling free, and he ducked away
from the second slash of the knife and jumped unsteadily to his
feet.
He started running towards the bushes, but then abruptly
changed direction as two of Lench's men emerged from the
timber-framed summerhouse ahead of him, and instead made
for the wooden fence that separated the back garden from the
driveway. He jumped up, grabbed the top with both hands, and
used his arms to lift himself up and over.
Lench watched him negotiate the fence, realizing not only
that it was possible the Merons were escaping, but so was this
bastard, Daniels. A man who was his own responsibility. This
couldn't be. Failure was not possible. Not tonight.
One of the two men coming out of the summerhouse made a
gesture at Lench to let him know that their quarry had escaped.
Lench cursed, slid the blade of his knife back into the handle,
then ran over and grabbed the pistol of the nearest man.
'Where the hell have they gone?' he demanded.

'Iato the woods,' answered the one whose pistol he'd taken,

managing to keep his voice free of nerves. He was afraid of
Lench, as all who knew him were, but was also aware that he
needed both of them right now, so he wouldn't do anything rash.
'There's no way we're going to get them out there. They've got
fifty yards on us, probably more.'
Lench told them to wait where they were, then ran over and
vaulted onto the fence. He sat astride it and spotted Daniels
through the rain running unsteadily across the driveway, ten
yards short of the 4x4, the keys to it in his hand. He took aim
carefully, squinting as he sighted his eye down the barrel. The
distance was fifteen yards. Handguns are notoriously inaccurate
over distance, but Lench was an excellent shot. He'd learned to
shoot pistols in Croatia in 1991, and had practised regularly ever
since, often travelling to a shooting range in Normandy where he
made use of his wide collection of licensed firearms. The Glock
17 he was holding now was one of them, brought back into the
UK illegally amid a shipment of computer chips some months
earlier. He picked out the back of Daniels' head and held the
position. His quarry seemed unaware that he was being targeted.
Lench's arm was perfectly steady. The distance between Daniels
and the Lexus decreased to eight yards, then seven. Lench
pulled the trigger. A second later, Daniels pitched forward and
fell flat on his face on the gravel, arms spreadeagled.
Lench allowed himself a small triumphant smile. Another
to add to the list of his kills. He remembered all his victims
individually, could bring up a picture in his mind of every one
of them, as well as the circumstances of how they'd died.
Sometimes, when it was possible, he took a trophy. He still kept
a lock of thick, raven-black hair spun through a small gold
wedding band in a drawer beside his bed, a constant reminder
of his single most enjoyable encounter to date - a stunningly

attractive, newly-wed Muslim girl of barely eighteen with the
bluest eyes he'd ever seen. He'd invaded her home in a village
near the Bosnian border town of Banic in the winter of 1992,
and had snuffed out her existence in a bloody bout of sexual
ecstasy that had probably lasted only a couple of hours but
which had felt like a whole joyous lifetime.
Daniels didn't move. He was dead, of that there was little
doubt. Now he could do no further damage. But the problem
was, the people who could do real damage - Tom and Kathy
Meron - had somehow got away again.
Lench looked up towards the leaden sky. It was as if he was
sniffing the wet night air. In the distance he could hear the sound
of sirens, and he knew they were coming here. The house was
now completely ablaze, flames licking the brickwork, their heat
spreading in thick, comforting waves. The fire, coupled with the
gunshots, would have been more than enough to attract the
attention of anyone living within a half-mile radius.
He slid down the fence and jogged over to the other two men.
The Merons, he knew, were lost to them for the moment.
It was time to up the ante. It was time to call Dorriel Graham.

3a

Mike Bolt had a theory about detective work, and it was this: the
detective could never explain everything. He might have a good
overall idea about a criminal's motivations, but rarely, if ever,

did he have the full picture. It was the same with the circumstances
of a crime. Sometimes things happened that defied logic.
Like a woman in a university library murdered with a knife that
held the prints of a work colleague who several hours earlier had
been ten miles away at the home of a man who was murdered in
entirely different circumstances, almost certainly by different
people, in a case that may or may not have been connected. The
way forward in something like this was not to rack your brains
trying to come up with theories, but to get hold of live witnesses
who could fill in the gaps for you. And this meant finding the
Merons.
They stopped at the HQ and picked up Bolt's car, saying their
goodbyes at just before eleven o'clock.
'I'm sorry I messed up your night,' Bolt told Mo as he got out
of the car.
Mo smiled. 'You didn't. It's everyone else. If they weren't
dying in mysterious circumstances and leaving behind secret
pasts, I'd be tucked up at home with a beer in front of Match of
the Day.'
'Well, go home now, get some rest. I'll call you in the morning.'
'Sure. Are you going to put out a bulletin on the Merons?'
'I'll put a call in on the way home.'
Bolt shut the car door and watched as Mo drove away. The
rain had stopped, and the clouds were breaking up in the
orange-tinted night sky. He was exhausted. This was a case like
no other he'd investigated, with wildly disparate pieces appearing
all the time, and events moving at breakneck speed. Bolt was
more used to cases lasting months, involving a long, patient
build-up of evidence against elusive and very careful targets, not
a sudden and explosive series of crimes that might be linked to
individuals right at the very heart of the establishment, and

where suspects and victims alike appeared, on the face of it, to be
ordinary, hard-working people.
Bolt wondered if the key to this set of events was the man
whose apparent suicide they were currently investigating. One
thing was certain: if Parnham-Jones had indeed been part of a
ruthless paedophile gang there would be some record of his
hobby somewhere. Most likely on his computer.
As he walked over to the Ford Orion he was driving these
days and opened the door, he put in another call to Matt Turner.
For the second time, it went straight to message. Once again he
left a voicemail asking him to call back, whatever time it was.
He flicked off the phone and started the car. His stomach
growled but he no longer felt hungry. He'd gone beyond that
stage. Now he just felt empty. Empty and tired.
He put the car in gear and pulled away.

31

The forest ran uninterrupted for more than a mile behind ;©ur cottage before giving way to agricultural land. We ran
pbrough the rain and undergrowtfi for what seemed like hours,
Ifeattered, exhausted and shocked by the events of this bloody day, ignoring the tight coils of brambles that ripped at our
piothes and exposed skin, knowing that in order to survive we
jffcad to keep going. Because for the first time in our lives, there
were«people out there who wanted to kill us.

Finally we reached the edge of the forest and sank to our
knees in the darkness, just inside the treeline. Beyond it was a
quiet country road, little more than a track, and then a huge
wheat field that ran in a dip along a quarter-mile stretch to
where the trees started again. We'd walked here a few times
before with the kids in happier times, and I knew that there were
storage sheds hidden away from the road on the other side of
the field. The sound of our heavy breathing seemed to fill the air
along with the constant pattering of the rain and the faint noise
of sirens somewhere in the distance behind us.
After a few seconds, Kathy stood up and looked my way. Her
expression looked worryingly like pity. 'Oh Christ, Tom, I'm
sorry I got you involved in all this.' She was fitter than me so I
was still on my knees, panting. I didn't say anything, but I guess
my own expression must have said it all. 'I didn't know they'd
be after Jack,' she continued. 'I was just there because, you
know ...' She let the words trail off.
I pictured her and Jack on his big double bed - I knew it
would be big - him on top. Fucking her. My wife. Our love life
had become sporadic of late. In fact, it had been sporadic for a
long time now. This was why. The betrayal felt like a physical
weight bearing down on me.
'How long's it been going on?' I asked, still on my knees. It
felt like an apt position to be in, fitting my humiliation perfectly.
'A while,' she answered. 'Almost two years.'
It came as a bit of a shock when she said this - and yes,
even now I was still capable of receiving one. Of course I'd
had my suspicions, but two whole years? This made it even
worse.
The rain dripped down my forehead and onto my face, and I
wiped it angrily away.

'With my best friend,' I said.
'I didn't plan it like that. It just happened.'
'How?'
'I met him at O'Neills in Harrow. I was out with people from
work.'
'Classy.'
'Don't start getting like that, Tom. This is one time when we
really don't need your sarcastic humour. And you're not exactly
holier than thou, are you?'
She had me there. Five years ago, I had a brief affair with a
girl at work. Her name was Bev, and she was seven years
younger than me. It had started almost by accident, after a
few drinks too many at one of those pointless team-building
weekends that companies like you to go on these days, where
you learn skills such as orienteering and rock climbing that you
know you're never going to use again. A few fumbles after work
in the office and a night away in a hotel room in Brighton had
followed, but I don't think either of us was ever that interested,
and I was finding the guilt hard to handle, so when she finished
it - somewhat undiplomatically, citing boredom as the main
reason, and adding nothing about wanting to remain friends - I
was actually quite relieved. At least, that is, until it became clear
that someone - God knows who, I'd never found that out - had
told Kathy what had been happening. We'd split over it for
a couple of weeks, but she'd finally managed to forgive me,
riafchough thinking back now, I wbnder if it may have been the
leatalyst for everything else. Either way, I was never going to get
l way from it entirely.
'OK, OK,' I said, 'point taken. So, did you start a relationship ¦ Iwith him straight away?'
She gave me a look that cut me dead, her dark eyes full of

contempt. 'Is your opinion of me really that low? Of course I
didn't. We had a chat for a little while, he bought me a drink,
then we said our goodbyes, and I didn't see him again for a long
time after that. Months, probably. But then we ran into each
other in the street one Saturday when I was without the kids,
and we went for a coffee. We got on well, and arranged to go out
to lunch a couple of weeks down the line. We went out a couple
of times like that.'
'Behind my back.'
'That's right, Tom. Behind your back. We weren't getting on
well at the time. We haven't been getting on well for a long time
now. Or hadn't you realized that?'
I didn't say anything. I suppose things hadn't been as good
between us as they had been before the children were born, but
I'd assumed that was natural. Part and parcel of the whole kids
thing. I guess I'd been wrong. It looked like I'd been wrong
about a lot of things. Delusional, even.
'Jack made me feel good, Tom. That's all I can say. We had a
platonic relationship for a long time, but eventually it turned
into something else.'
Typical Jack Calley. He'd always been persistent. That was
why he'd been so successful. Not just in romance, but in everything
in his life. I could just imagine what he'd been thinking as
he pursued my wife. Easy does it. Be patient and she'll relent.
They always do. Pay her compliments. Tell her how pretty she is.
How taken for granted she is in her marriage. He'd bedded
dozens of girls that way down the years. I'd even admired him
for it, once upon a time. Now I knew he was simply being a
selfish bastard. It was sad to only find this out now, after he was
dead. It would have been nice to have had the opportunity to tell
him what an arsehole he was. I couldn't believe the extent of his

betrayal. Choosing Kathy over me and sacrificing a lifelong
friendship as if it was nothing.
'I'm sorry,' she said, 'I really am.' And she was, I could tell.
I sighed. 'Were you ever going to tell me?'
'We talked about it, but there never seemed to be the right
time. And I didn't want to do anything that would affect the
kids. It was just... I don't know ... a separate relationship to
the one I had with you and the family. It existed in parallel.'
'It existed for a long time.'
'Yes,' she said, 'it did.'
At that moment we heard the sound of a car coming down
the road, its tyres hissing in the wet. It was coming slowly, the
headlamps lighting up the trees. Instinctively, we both crouched
down and stayed absolutely still as it came past. I didn't get a
good look at it - there was a thick holly bush in the way - nor
did I want to try too hard, in case I got spotted by whoever was
inside. They might have been perfectly innocent, but I'd had
enough scrapes today to know that it was better to be safe than
sorry.
'What do we do now?' Kathy whispered, standing back up as
its lights faded into the distance.
'We need to get out of this rain. Then we need to call the
police. You've got a lot of explaining to do.' I stood up as well
and pulled out my phone, but there was still no reception.
'Something else, too.'
; 'What?'
: 'They found a pair of my gloves at the scene of Vanessa's
murder. They had bloodstains on them. I think someone's trying
to set me up.'
She looked shocked. 'Do you have any idea how they got there?'

'None at all. Luckily, the police don't know they're mine, but
there's probably tests they can do to find out, and I really don't
want to end up spending the next twenty years of my life in
prison for something I didn't do.' I paused. 'So, you know, if--'
'I didn't have anything to do with Vanessa's murder, Tom. I
promise you that. And I don't know how the hell my fingerprints
got on the knife either. You trust me, don't you?' She sounded
like she needed that trust.
'Why did Jack phone me, Kathy? When they were after him?
And how much do you really know about all this?' I'd raised my
voice and was aware that we were sailing very close to an
argument, which, under the circumstances, really would have
been foolish.
'I had nothing to do with any of it,' she said firmly, 'and I don't
want the police to frame me with Vanessa's murder either.'
'We're both going to have to talk to them eventually. And, to
be honest, who else is going to protect us?' Calming down, I
walked over and put an arm around her shoulders, burying my
face in the crook of her neck. It was wet and I couldn't pick up
her usual fragrant smell. I kissed her gently. 'It's going to be all
right, don't worry,' I said, somewhat optimistically. 'Now, let's
get out of this rain. Then we can decide what to do.'
We fought our way through the bushes at the edge of the
treeline, crossed the road and climbed over the fence into
the wheat field. It had been ploughed recently and was muddy
underfoot, slowing our progress. I could see the two large
wooden storage sheds in the distance. A tractor was parked on a
concrete forecourt in front of the first, but there was no sign of
activity. As we ran across the field, I turned and looked back. In
the distance, beyond the pine trees, the sky glowed and flickered
at the spot where they'd set the cottage ablaze. I thought of

Warren and Midge, and wondered what their faces would look
like when they found out what had happened. I'd gone off them
since we'd bought that quarter share, because I felt they'd taken
us and our money for granted, but I still felt bad for them. They
loved that place.
I was panting again by the time we got to the first storage
shed. I ran across to the huge double doors and was pleased to
find they weren't locked. With a heave, I pulled one of the doors
open, and the two of us stepped inside out of the rain. The place
smelled of dry hay and motor oil, but felt hugely inviting after
the other places I'd been in tonight. I found a light switch on the
wall and flicked it on. The room was cavernous, with huge empty
shelving units on either side going up to the roof and a space on
the ground easily wide enough for driving a tractor in and out. A
solitary Land Rover was parked opposite us in front of the far
wall, and I walked towards it with Kathy following, pulling off
my wet coat at the same time.
I looked at my phone again. There was still no reception. It
pissed me off. This area must have been about the last in
the country where it was impossible to get a mobile phone
signal. On those few weekends when we'd actually made it down
here to stay, this had seemed something of a boon. We'd never
given out the number of the cottage so it was impossible for
either of our employers to reach us, which meant we could take
time out and relax. Now, trapped in the middle of nowhere with
hostile forces searching for us, it was proving to be a real problem.
It was too much to expect that the Land Rover would have the keys in it, but at least the door was open, and there was a thick Sweater draped over the front passenger seat. I climbed inside
and "offered the sweater to Kathy. She peeled off her suede

jacket and blouse, both of which were soaked through, and took
it with a whispered 'thanks'.
'Can you get a reception on your phone?' I asked her.
She shook her head, and undid her bra to reveal pert breasts
with cherry-red nipples. She had a slim, toned body with skin
like pale gold, and I gazed at it for a moment, full of regret,
before she pulled the sweater down over her upper body and
clambered in the other side.
'God, I'm tired,' she said, closing her eyes.
'We can't really stay here,' I told her, but it was clear she
wasn't moving anywhere.
'I need to think,' she added, her voice heavy with weariness.
I needed to think too, but I didn't want to, because there were
holes in Kathy's story and I knew there were things she wasn't
telling me. I found a tartan dog blanket in the back of the car
and silently thanked the owner for his level of preparedness. By
the time I'd removed my clothes and settled back in my seat
with the blanket covering me up to my chin, Kathy had fallen
asleep and was breathing softly through her mouth. I moved
closer to her and tried to cuddle up, but evidently she wasn't
completely gone because she moved away.
A few moments later I heard her weeping, and my heart sank.
My marriage was over, and for the last however many years my
wife, the woman I genuinely loved, had been living a complete
lie.
The question was, would I ever know the extent of that lie?

Part Two

SUNDAY
32

Sinking his shapeless, slug-like bulk into the specially reinforced
chair in front of his state-of-the-art computer system, twentynine-year-old
computer hacker Dorriel Graham began the hunt
through cyberspace that would find the information his client
was looking for. His client was Lench, but neither man knew the
other's real identity, nor had they ever met. Graham was simply a mobile telephone number that could be called at any time,
while Lench was Lima 2, a customer who used his services
periodically, and who could be trusted to pay for them.
The virtual world of the Internet was Graham's life. He was a
techno-mercenary, his speciality. being the ability to use his
hacking skills to track down anyone. The average UK citizen
over the age of eighteen has his or her personal details held on
scores, sometimes hundreds, of electronic databases. Even those
who never take part in telephone questionnaires, who actively
avoid giving out information to anyone, and who try to register
as little as possible in their own name, leave their virtual footprints
everywhere. If you use a credit card or debit card, there'll
be « record held in someone's database of where and when it

was used, and what you bought. If you use your mobile phone
and the person looking for you has the number, there will be a
record. Only the most serious and organized criminals, who
know all the tricks, pay with cash for everything and have
literally nothing registered in their own name, represent a more
taxing proposition. But even they can be traced. It's just a matter
of using their family and friends who aren't as careful.
The point is, you can find anyone if you know where to look,
and Dorriel Graham always knew where to look. Tonight he'd
been given two names, Thomas and Katherine Meron. He'd
been told to find out where their close relatives lived, starting
with the nearest first. It was, Lima 2 had added, a rush job; he'd
been given a time limit of two hours. Usually, he would have
told the client to forget it - after all, there was plenty of demand
for his services, and he didn't have to put himself out unless he
wanted to - but he'd been promised a hugely inflated fee of
three grand for this work, and he knew Lima 2 would pay it.
Taking a huge bite of the kingsize Snickers bar he was holding
in his left hand, Dorriel started with Thomas Meron. A quick
Google search revealed that he worked for Ezyrite Software
Services based in Harrow, and had been there for eight years.
The next step was to break into Ezyrite's employee database.
Dorriel assumed that, being an IT company, this would be a
harder proposition than might otherwise have been the case,
but his assumption was wrong. Their main firewall was full of
holes and it took only eleven minutes before Meron's details
were up on his screen. These gave Dorriel the names of Meron's
parents and younger brother. He then perfectly legally accessed
the electoral roll and discovered that the parents now lived in
Sidmouth, Devon, while his brother resided in east Kent.
Katherine Meron turned out to be a tougher proposition. He

located her place of work quickly enough, but the university
employee database proved surprisingly hard to crack, and it
took him twenty-seven minutes before he finally got inside. She
had one older sister who didn't turn up on the electoral roll or in
a Google search, and Dorriel was forced to use more basic
tactics by accessing Friends Reunited. Like millions of other
people wanting to catch up with old friends from school, she
used the site and had helpfully posted the information that
she now lived in Sydney, Australia, with a wonderful husband,
John, and 'her babies', two Dalmatian dogs called Harry and
Spike.
With that, Dorriel had found out everything he needed, and it
was only an hour and twenty-two minutes after receiving his
instructions from Lima 2 that he called him back with the
information requested. Not once did he consider what the information
could be used for. Dorriel was not a people person and,
frankly, he didn't care. It was one of the reasons he was considered
so reliable.
'Have you got what I need?' asked the voice at the other end.
'Yes,' said Dorriel, shifting his bulk in the chair while logging
on to a favoured porn site. 'I've been through all the relatives,
and the nearest one is Katherine Meron's mother, Irene Tyler.
Do you have a pen? I'll give you the address.'

33

DI Mike Bolt lived in the heart of London. Nestled in the quiet
area of streets that sprouted from either side of the Clerkenwell
Road between the points where the West End finished and the
financial district of the City of London began, Clerkenwell was
about as central as a man could get. At one time it had been
home to the printing and brewing industries, but in recent years it had undergone a prolonged period of gentrification as the
fashionable young rich moved in, creating residential lofts and
apartments among the old warehouse buildings.
Home for Bolt was an attractive studio apartment on the third
floor of a converted warehouse near the jewellery district of
Hatton Garden, not far from Farringdon station. He'd lived
there for a little under two years, and rented it from a Ukrainian
businessman called Ivan Stanevic. It was a stunning place,
done out to the highest specifications. Long and spacious, with
polished wood floors and an open-plan mezzanine containing the bedroom. The windows that ran its entire length faced east
on to the bright lights of London, the towers of the Barbican
reaching up like stubby fingers from behind the buildings

opposite. Stanevic, a property developer, could have got 500 pounds a
week for the place easily, probably more, but instead he charged 150 pounds a month. The reason: Bolt had once done him a big favour.
An extremely big favour.
Two and a half years earlier, not long after Bolt had been
seconded to the NCS, Stanevic's twelve-year-old daughter had
been snatched from the street outside her Chelsea school by business rivals, who'd then threatened to strangle her unless her
father signed over the deeds to his share in a hotel complex in
the south of France. After the intervention of his wife, Stanevic
reluctantly brought in the police, and the case had been handed
to an NCS team led by Bolt.
A meeting was set up between Stanevic and the kidnappers at
a cafe in Tottenham, during which the deeds were duly signed
over. Unfortunately, just to make sure that nothing got in the
way of their plans, the kidnappers decided to take Stanevic
prisoner too, while the transaction was being processed, so that
they could then sell their new share of the business on to
another party. But the meeting was being monitored by Bolt and
his team. Rather than intervene, he'd ordered that they allow
Stanevic to be taken and follow the kidnappers at a safe distance
to find out where they went.
It was the most difficult piece of surveillance Bolt had ever
overseen. The targets had been trained in anti-surveillance techniques,
and during the forty-five-minute journey through the
centre of the city they'd double -backed, performed illegal Uturns,
had at times hit speeds of seventy miles per hour down
Islington backstreets (a near physical impossibility, and something
Bolt had never seen since), and had even gone the wrong
way up a one-way street. All to make sure they avoided being
followed. They were almost successful too, but somehow, using a

combination of CCTV cameras and a lot of shouting down
various different phones, Bolt kept them covered all the way to
their destination - a basement flat in Fulham.
Bolt scrambled all available officers to the flat, and at the
same time called up SO 19 specialist firearms units to assist in
any possible rescue.
It was his call. Should he adopt a wait-and-see approach, or
should he go in hard, assuming that the girl was in the flat as
well? He was well aware that the kidnappers could kill the girl
and her father even as he waited. The Russian mafia were
ruthless operators.
In the end, Bolt decided on a third way. He got British
Telecom to supply him with the number of the flat's landline,
and, with the firearms team in place, he phoned the kidnappers
from his control room at Scotland Yard, assuming that curiosity
would lead to one of them picking up. He guessed right. The
kidnappers' leader did the honours, and in a marked departure
from the rulebook Bolt told him that he was never going to get
the deeds to the hotel, he was never going to sell them on, he
was never going to escape from the situation he'd put himself
in, because no-one in Britain ever negotiated with kidnappers,
and if he killed either of his prisoners he'd never see the outside
of a prison again. However, if he released them both
unharmed, there was a possibility that a judge would treat the
case leniently. He said all this before the man on the other end
had a chance to reply, and it was a massive gamble because the
girl might already have been dead: having alerted the kidnappers
to the fact that the police had them in their sights, they might
have decided they had nothing to lose by going for a shoot-out.
Bolt wouldn't have called himself a gambler by nature, but he
was decisive, and not afraid to take responsibility for his actions.

And, on that particular occasion, it worked. The kidnappers
were badly spooked, and after further telephone negotiations,
during which Bolt repeated the fact that they were surrounded
and didn't have a leg to stand on, they surrendered, releasing
both prisoners unharmed.
Stanevic had never forgotten what Bolt had done, and credited
him with saving both his and his daughter's life. They'd
remained in occasional contact after that, and when Stanevic
heard that Bolt was looking for a place to live, he'd offered to
help out by letting him stay in one of his properties rent-free for
as long as he liked. Bolt should have said no since it was against
all the rules, and was a sackable offence if anyone ever found
out. But at the time, pissed off with life, not too bothered with
what the rulebook said and, most importantly, flat broke, he'd
accepted, although with one proviso: he wanted to pay something
at least. Stanevic didn't want to accept a penny, but Bolt
didn't want to feel like he was in hock to anyone, and they'd
finally agreed on the 150 pounds figure, with Bolt moving in soon
afterwards.
It had just turned midnight when, having trudged up the stairs
to the third floor with a bag full of Thai food, he finally closed
the front door of his apartment behind him. Coming back to the
dark emptiness of his home occasionally gave him a deflated
feeling, particularly after he'd had a busy day, and tonight was
one of those nights. As he turned on the hall light, he thought of
Tina Boyd, of the loneliness he'd seen in her dark eyes, and
wondered if the same emotion had been reflected in his.
He put the bag on one of the metallic kitchen tops and cracked
open a Stella from the fridge, taking a much-needed gulp straight
from the can. He moved into the middle of the room, away from
the kitchen area, and stood in the semi-darkness, looking through

the window at the orange glow of the city at night, savouring the
faint sounds of people and traffic from the street below as they
rose up to drive away his gloom. Bolt had lived in London for almost twenty years, and he still felt a frisson of excitement
whenever he stood here, knowing that he was in the centre of one
of the oldest, most vibrant cities in the world. Plenty of people
criticized London, and he'd be the first to admit that there were
things wrong with it - the horrendous crime rate, for one - but he
still couldn't imagine living anywhere else. It gave him a sense of
security and belonging that he couldn't quite explain, but which,
to him, were as tangible and obvious as the wooden floor he was
standing on. The city was his crutch.
He was used to being on his own now. Although it had been
thrust upon him suddenly and in a way that no-one would ask
for, he found that it quite suited him. He didn't have to justify
his comings and goings, could cook what he wanted when he
wanted, and could make as much noise as he liked. The location,
with so much on his doorstep, also assuaged the worst of the loneliness and melancholy that afflicted him whenever he
thought too much about that night three years ago. And for the
moment, at least, he had no desire to change his situation.
Or so he liked to convince himself.
He was just serving up the food - sea bass in tamarind sauce
with coconut fried rice - and taking another long pull on the can
of Stella when his mobile rang.
It was Turner. He told Bolt he'd been out to the cinema
and had only got back a little while earlier. He'd been to see the
new Tom Cruise movie. 'It was bloody terrible as well. And
the girl I took said she was really tired and wanted to go home
straight afterwards. I think the film put her off relationships
for life.'

Bolt leaned back against the kitchen top and drank again from
the can. 'Ah, my friend, there's no justice in this world.'
'Too right, and life's too short to waste evenings like that. I
ought to sue.'
'Who? The girl or the film company?'
'Both.'
Bolt laughed. He liked Turner. The guy was an acquired taste,
there was no doubting that, and clearly his date tonight hadn't
acquired it. Prematurely balding, with a long, hangdog face, he
rarely bothered with a smile, preferring to rely on a bone-dry,
cynical wit that was always delivered in the same deadpan
manner. Why he'd chosen to be a copper was anyone's guess. He
certainly didn't attempt to connect with the general public, who
he viewed with a general disdain bordering on dislike. But he
was bright, could pick up bullshit a mile off, and was an expert
with computers. Plus, he was dedicated enough to phone his
boss back after midnight on a weekend.
'You obviously got my message, then. Have you had a chance
to look at Parnham-Jones's laptop yet?'
'There wasn't one.'
'Do we know whether or not he used a laptop?'
'Not at the moment, no. I just assumed he didn't. We can
easily find out, one way or another.'
'I'll call his cleaner tomorrow.'
'There was a PC, though. I had a quick look at it this afternoon,
but when I got your messa'ge tonight I had a much closer
inspection.'
'Anything on it of interest?'
'Yes,' Turner said after a pause. 'There is.'
Bolt tensed. 'Go on.'
'There's an email. It was saved in a folder in his personal filing

cabinet, the only thing in there. What caught my attention was
that it was password-protected. I broke through the security easy
enough - it wasn't designed to deter anyone who knew what
they were doing - and I've just finished reading it now. It's a
blackmail note.'
'Have you got it in front of you? I'd like to hear what it
says.'
'It's short and to the point. "Dear Lord Chief Justice. We
know everything. All the details. 1998. The girl. Her father's
dead too, isn't he? Hanged himself in jail. If you want to avoid
spending the rest of your days rotting behind bars as well then
we will need to make some arrangements. Otherwise we're
going public. You will be hearing from us soon.'" Turner paused
again, but Bolt didn't say anything. 'And that's it,' he added.
'I've no idea what he's meant to have done. There's no other
mention of anything untoward anywhere else on the PC that I
can find, and no other emails from the blackmailer.'
'Have you checked Parnham-Jones's Internet history?'
'I've had a cursory look. He doesn't seem to surf the net too
much, and none of the sites are out of the ordinary. Amazon, the
BBC, stuff like that. And he likes to read articles about himself.
Were you expecting to find something else, then?'
'No,' Bolt lied. 'Just checking.' He was still thinking about the
absence of a laptop. Could Parnham-Jones have had one which
he used for his more nefarious pursuits? Perhaps one that had
been stolen by his murderer, as appeared to be the case with
John Gallan?
'I've just forwarded the mail to you,' Turner told him.
'No idea who it's from, I suppose?'
'The address is a hotmail account. It's already been closed
down, and if the blackmailer knows what he's doing he'll have

sent it from an Internet cafe, which means it's going to be very
difficult to track down.'
'But you can tell when it was sent, can't you?'
'Yes, it's dated the eleventh of May. Ten days ago.'
Recent, then, and almost certainly connected to ParnhamJones's
death.
'I suppose this puts a different slant on things, doesn't it?'
said Turner rhetorically.
'It certainly does.'
'No idea what that bit about the dead girl and her father is all
about?'
'Not yet,' answered Bolt, lying for a second time. He asked
Turner to continue his search of the PC's hard drive to see if
there was anything on there that could be connected to the
ransom note, thanked him and hung up.
He looked down at his food with only vague interest. It
smelled good, but he was too busy thinking about this latest
information. He was convinced now that the Lord Chief Justice
had been murdered. He was also nearly certain that John
Gallan had been murdered by the same person or persons
several months earlier. The connections between the two were
too great for it to be otherwise. Gallan's murder had surely
been carried out to put an end to his investigation into the
allegations of paedophilia and murder that had been levelled
against Parnham-Jones, but this begged the question why
Parnham-Jones had also been murdered. It could have been
to silence him and therefore prevent his potentially explosive
secrets being made public. In which case the killer was likely to
be one of his fellow paedophiles, or possibly even someone
from within the establishment trying to snuff out a potential
government-toppling scandal.

But this theory begged another question. The person with the
most obvious motive for killing Parnham-Jones (i.e. to hush up
the scandal) would not have been blackmailing him. Quite the
reverse. He would have been going out of his way not to panic
him into foolish action.
So who the hell had sent the email?

34

It was just after 3 a.m. and the street was silent.
A black cat crept out of the bushes near Irene Tyler's front
door, took one disdainful look at the masked man in black
who'd loomed up in the darkness, and scuttled across his path
before disappearing. Lench couldn't remember whether such a
thing was a sign of good or bad luck, nor did he care. He wasn't
superstitious, and always marvelled at the rank naivety of those
who were. Individuals made their own destiny by their actions
alone. Luck was random. There was no afterlife, no spiritual
world. If there had been, Lench would have been haunted by the
ghosts of each and every one of the forty-three people he'd
murdered in his lifetime, and yet he slept soundly each night and
felt at home in the darkness.
He removed the skeleton keys from his pocket and started on
the five-bar lock on the front door. It took just under a minute
to undo. Then it was the turn of the Yale lock, which took a
matter of seconds. Slowly, he pushed the door open. It was on

a chain. He slid the bolt cutters from his pocket and cut it in the
middle. Irene Tyler was obviously more security-conscious than
most, but it made no difference. Any house could be broken into
if the intruder knew what he or she was doing, and Lench had
had plenty of lessons. He'd seen that the property had a burglar
alarm as he approached it, so now he pocketed the bolt cutters
and took out a laser pen. These days, a lot of homeowners
turned on their burglar alarms at night, activating the ground
floor sensors only, and given the fact that she'd double-locked
the door and put the chain across he had to assume that Irene
Tyler had probably done the same. Inching his way through the
door and into the hallway, Lench spotted the flashing motion
detector on the wall to his right. After a couple of seconds'
careful maneuvering, the laser pen's beam found the centre of
the detector's red light, effectively blinding it.
Shutting the front door with his foot, Lench kept the beam in
exactly the same position and moved sideways across the floor,
one easy step at a time, until he reached the bottom of the
staircase. He mounted the first three steps until the angle of the
laser became too narrow to keep still, but he knew that by this
time he was safe. He switched it off, replaced the pen in his
pocket and carried on climbing.
He found Irene Tyler's room on his first try. It was spacious
and warm, and he could see her in the eerie blue-white light of
the streetlamp outside. She was lying on her left side, tucked up
beneath the covers of her double bed, her long silver hair loose,
snoring lightly. He shut the door behind him and crept wraithlike
over to the bed, his heavy boots making barely a sound. He
could smell her vaguely perfumed scent. She was perhaps sixty
five, her skin lined and sagging a little at the jaw, but she was not
unpleasant to look at.

He leaned down until he was only inches from her face, so
close now that he could suck in her deep, slumbering breaths.
His eel-like tongue slipped out from his mouth, its tip creeping
along the line of her aquiline nose, almost, but not quite, touching
it. He so desperately wanted to lick her, to taste the warmth
of her skin, as he'd done sometimes with his female victims back
in the anarchy of Bosnia, an intimate gesture that he believed
drew him closer to them, and thereby increased his power when
he finally snuffed out their lives.
But he had to be careful tonight, knowing that he couldn't
afford to leave any trace of DNA. Instead, he pushed back
her silver hair and touched a gloved finger to her fleshy
earlobe. Irene flinched but didn't wake up, so he rammed
the finger into her ear and that did the trick. Her eyes shot
open and she tried to sit up but he shoved her back down
and put a hand over her mouth. With the other hand he produced
a long stiletto knife which he gently ran across her
throat.
'Is the burglar alarm on?' he hissed. 'Nod your head for yes,
shake it for no.'
She made some muffled noises and nodded her head.
'When I remove my hand, you're going to give me the code. If
you delay or give me the wrong one, I'm going to cut one of your
eyes out.'
He spoke calmly, almost with reassurance, in a slightly high
pitched Home Counties accent which utterly belied his huge,
looming bulk and somehow made the words he spoke even more
terrifying. The knife slid across the skin until the tip was pressed
against the loose fold of skin just beneath her right eye. There
was no doubt whatever that his threat was serious, and she
nodded again, this time to show she understood. Lench's hand

slipped away from her face, although the knife remained where
it was, causing her to squint.
'Five-two-eight-one.'
'Good.' He took the knife away. 'Turn over.'
'Take what you want, but please don't hurt the children.'
So they were here. That was useful. 'I'm not interested in
them,' he lied, keen to secure her co-operation. 'Now, do what I
say.'
She rolled over onto her front and he produced two pairs of
plastic restraints, one of which he used to bind her wrists, the
other her ankles. She didn't resist, but repeated that he could
take anything he wanted as long as he didn't hurt her grandchildren.
'Open your mouth wide,' he told her, and when she did
so he slipped in a golfball, which he secured in place with a piece
of masking tape.
When he was satisfied that she was helpless, he left the room
and went back down the stairs. He allowed the motion detector
to pick up his movement this time, and the alarm went off in
the house. He made his way over to the keypad and fed in the
numbers, automatically turning it off.
Now he was ready to move. Pulling a mobile from his pocket,
Lench made a quick call. 'Bring the van round the front in one
minute and keep the engine running,' he told the person at the
other end, before starting up the stairs again. The people he was
using tonight were reliable, and proven killers, but he also knew
they had grave doubts about involving children. Lench considered
this a weakness. In his world, there was no such thing as
a boundary that could not be crossed. It was one of the lessons
he'd learned during his four years in the killing fields of the
former Yugoslavia, fighting for whichever side paid him the most money. Everyone, young and old, was potential prey. All

just bags of blood. But not everyone understood that, and in
order to stave off any potential mutiny from his men he'd had to
double their money for the night's work.
The boy and girl were fast asleep in a bunk bed in the back
bedroom, which had been decorated with Disney characters on
the walls and was full of toys and fluffy animals. It was obvious,
even to someone like Lench, that Irene Tyler doted on them. He
crept through the gloom and lifted the boy from the top bunk.
He stirred but didn't wake, and Lench carried him silently
through the house. He could hear Irene Tyler writhing around
on her bed through the door, but knew she was in no position to
do anything.
As he approached the front door, he heard the Bedford
van pull up outside. He pushed open Irene Tyler's front door
with his foot and hurried down the path, the child asleep in his
arms. There were two men in the van, and the passenger got out and opened the double doors. He was no longer wearing a
balaclava but had a baseball cap pulled down low over his
forehead to avoid detection. In the back of the van were two
bare mattresses. Lench placed the boy on one, then headed back
inside, checking for lights in any of the neighbouring houses.
There were none.
The girl turned over and fidgeted in her sleep as Lench
approached the bottom bunk. It looked like she might wake up.
If he had to, he would tape her mouth shut and fit her with one
of the restraints, but he wanted to avoid this since it might create
a problem with his accomplices. But she remained asleep as he
lifted her up and took her down with him.
'I don't like this,' hissed the man in the baseball cap as
he closed the double doors of the van, the children safely inside.

'They'll be fine,' Lench told him, 'but don't fuck up. You've
got one hell of a lot to lose.' Lench had things on both men that
would put them in prison for life, and they knew it.
The man in the cap grunted something and climbed back
in the van. A second later it pulled away, accelerating slowly
down the street and out of sight. The houses were all still
dark. No twitching curtains could be seen. Lench slipped out of
the light of the streetlamp, then walked slowly back to the
house, experiencing a familiar frisson of excitement like soft,
cold fingers dancing upon his groin.
He didn't have to kill Irene Tyler. After all, she hadn't seen
his face and would be able to describe nothing about him with
the possible exception of his voice, which would be of no great
use. He could simply have left her there, trussed up like a pig,
unable to raise the alarm.
But that would have been a terrible waste. His opportunities
to indulge were so rare these days. And, as his commander had
told him years earlier in a burnt-out Muslim village in western
Bosnia while casually surveying a pile of corpses, the last stiffening
remains of a family of ten:
'The dead can't point the finger.'

35

I slept a grey, dreamless sleep. I vaguely remember half-waking
up at some point with a sore shoulder, but not really paying

much attention to it or my many troubles. I was too tired for
that, and I'd slipped under again within moments.
When I woke up properly, it was my face that was sore where
it had been cut with the filleting knife in the university library
the day before. The knife that held my wife's fingerprints. Kathy
was curled up in the passenger seat with her head propped
against the window. She'd taken most of the blanket - a habit of
hers throughout our years of marriage - and even looked quite
comfortable. I wondered whether or not it was the sleep of the
innocent.
I yawned, feeling cold and a little sick, and looked at my
watch. It was twenty to seven. Outside, it was light. I was thirsty,
and hungry too. I'd hardly eaten a thing since yesterday lunchtime,
a period which felt like a whole lifetime ago. Before I'd
gone to sleep the previous night, I'd taken off my shirt and jeans
and put them in the back of the Land Rover to dry out, but
when I put them back on now they were still wet and clammy.
I opened the door and stepped out onto the stone floor of
the barn, stretching my legs. Why didn't Kathy want to go to the
police? That thought worried me more than any other. Was
she really involved in Vanessa's murder? I couldn't see how she
could have been, but I still kept coming back to the big,
immovable question: what the hell were her prints doing on the
knife? It was a question the police would be asking and one she
didn't seem to want to answer. But we were both going to have
to face the music at some point, and it might as well be now. I
was going to turn myself in, even if Kathy was against the idea.
That way at least I could get some protection, both for myself
and the kids.
The kids. In all the drama of the previous day, they'd slipped
my mind. Now I realized I missed them. It was time to end all this.

The passenger door opened and Kathy stepped out of the
Land Rover, looking bleary-eyed. 'Morning,' she said, taking
slow, faltering steps in my direction.
'Hi.'
'Look--'
'We need to go to the police,' I said.
She seemed to think about this for a moment.
'I'm going to go, even if you're not.'
She nodded slowly. 'I'll come with you.'
Even after everything she'd been through, and a night of crap
sleep in a car, she still looked good, and I felt an aching for her
that made my throat go dry. I think if I'd been capable of it I
would have cried, but for some reason domestic woes have never
been able to bring tears to my eyes. I rarely cry, and when I do
it's usually about something I can do nothing about, like my
grandma's death fifteen years ago, or a bad result in a hugely
important football match, and it only happens when I've had too
much to drink, which I guess says something about me. As we
stood there facing each other, I wondered at which point in our
marriage it had all gone wrong. When she'd ceased to see me as
her lover. If I was honest, it was probably a long time before
she'd met Jack Calley.
'How are we going to get to the police station?' she asked.
'Have you still got the keys to your Hyundai?'
'They're in my coat. Are you saying we should sneak back to
the house and drive it away? The'police'll be there, won't they?
There were a lot of gunshots last night, not to mention the fire.'
'Well, if they are, that'll solve our problem, won't it?'
She nodded, but didn't look entirely convinced.
It took us fifteen minutes to retrace our steps back to what
was left of the cottage and when we saw it we were both

shocked. The whole top floor was gone. All that remained were
four exterior walls, now uneven and charcoal-stained, barely a
few feet high in places. Smoke still rose in thin plumes from the
gutted interior. Yellow police crime-scene tape surrounded the
whole thing.
We moved through the undergrowth until we were level with
the front of the property. A police car was parked in the front
drive, but it was unoccupied, and whoever had turned up in it
was nowhere to be seen. Kathy's Hyundai Coupe was also still
there, the maroon paintwork grimy and dull from the smoke but
otherwise looking largely undamaged.
'Give me the keys,' I said, putting out a hand.
'No way,' she snapped. 'I'm driving. Come on, let's go.'
Before I could protest, she took off across the driveway,
running in her typically gangly fashion, her heels crunching on
the gravel. I had no choice but to run after her. When I caught
up I was surprised to see that she had a grin on her face.
There was a shout to our left and a uniformed copper
appeared from round the side of what was left of the cottage,
about ten yards away. He was about two stone overweight with a
round, pink face and didn't give you much faith in the future of
crimefighting in the south of England. It looked like we'd just
disturbed him taking a leak.
Kathy had the keys in her hand, and she flicked off the central
locking and ran round to the driver's-side door.
'Oy, stop right there!' the copper called out as he lumbered
towards us.
I stopped, but Kathy didn't. She jumped in the car and
switched on the engine.
'Kathy, for Christ's sake, what are you doing? He's the
police.'

'AH right, sir, stay there,' panted the copper as he ran up
towards Kathy's door.
The Hyundai slammed into reverse and roared backwards up
the driveway in a shower of loose chippings, the copper following
in its wake.
I made a snap decision. Whatever was happening, I still didn't
know the half of it, but I had a strong feeling Kathy did, and
unless I went with her it was possible, even likely, that I wasn't
going to find out the truth. So I ran after the car.
Spotting that I wasn't hanging around either, the copper
turned in my direction and spread out his arms like a basketball
player defending the basket. He made, I have to say, a pretty
ludicrous sight, and I had to resist the urge to laugh. Instead, I
sidestepped him easily, and though he got a hand on my jacket
I brushed it off and kept running, breaking into the kind of
sprint that, with the exception of the previous night outside the
police station, I hadn't managed since my school days.
Kathy kept reversing up the drive, at the same time motioning
for me to keep coming, and after another ten yards she slowed
down and flung open the passenger door. I could hear the
copper behind me but I knew I was outpacing him. The Hyundai
slowed to walking pace and, as I grabbed the open door and
scrambled inside, Kathy suddenly accelerated again, reversing
out onto the road in a screech of tyres. The last I saw of the
copper, he was standing uselessly in the middle of the drive,
frantically talking into his radio. Then Kathy shoved the gear
stick into first and with a maniacal laugh took off up the empty
road.
You know the feeling you get sometimes when you wake up in
the darkness of an early morning, and in those first few moments
you'«e not quite sure if you're still in a dream or not? I had that

feeling now. My wife, thirty-five-year-old college lecturer and
mother of two, was behaving like some sort of lunatic. I could
offer no explanation, other than, like her, I had to be going mad.
'What the hell is going on, Kathy? We're meant to be handing
ourselves in, not doing some sort of fucking Thelma and Louise.'
She grinned at me. 'Don't you like taking a bit of a risk now
and then, Tom? You don't, do you? You were never much of a
risk taker.'
'I don't go running away from the police, no. Not when we
need to speak to them. You might have forgotten, but your work
colleague and your lover are dead.'
The smile left her face in an instant, but the expression it left
behind was hard and determined, and totally unlike the Kathy I
knew. Or didn't, as the case might be. 'When we give ourselves
up to the police, I want to do it on my terms,' she said. 'I want to
walk into a police station in front of plenty of witnesses so
nothing can happen to me. I'm not just walking up to the first
overweight plod I see. Do you understand?'
'No,' I said, 'I don't think I do.'
Before either of us could say anything else, my phone rang.
Ten seconds later, so did Kathy's. We were obviously hitting a
reception area. I pulled mine out, flicked it open, and saw that I
had a message from my voicemail service, as well as a video
message. The sender had withheld his number. A prompt on the
screen asked me if I wanted to play it. I wondered if it was some
sort of spam thing. There was only one way to find out.
I pressed play.
A second later my two young children appeared on the screen,
their expressions confused and scared. Chloe looked like she'd
been crying. They were in a room I didn't recognize, sitting on a
double bed. The wall behind it was painted orange, and there

were no pictures or ornaments visible. The video concentrated
on the children for about five seconds. During that time they
remained still and said nothing. Then the camera moved left and
a man dressed from head to foot in black, the now standard
balaclava hiding his identity, stood against one of the other
blank orange walls. It could have been one of the men from last
night; it was difficult to tell. It didn't matter either. The message
was clear: my children were now in the hands of some very
ruthless people.
The video ended, and I felt my whole body sag. A black mix
of gloom, helplessness and terror filled my insides, its weight
crushing me from the inside out. Not my kids. Please, anything
else, but not my kids. Not the most precious, innocent people in
my life. For a parent there is no worse feeling than knowing your
child is in grave danger and being unable to do anything about
it. Your utter impotence tears you apart. All your resistance
evaporates. You are a pliant, begging wreck, which I guess is
exactly what they must have been banking on.
Beside me, Kathy pulled up to the side of the road, and I
heard her groan as she looked at the video on her own phone.
I couldn't even turn my head in her direction. All my energy
seemed to have gone, and this time I really did weep. I prayed
too. Prayed that they wouldn't be hurt, offered a God in whom
until this moment I hadn't believed in for close to thirty years
anything he wanted if he'd just let them go. I would go to
church, give all my money to cnarity, work with the poor in
Africa ... anything. But don't hurt them.
'Oh God,' I heard Kathy say. 'Oh God. Not my babies.'
I wiped my eyes and tried to calm myself down. So far, Max
and Chloe were unharmed. We had to make sure the people
holding them got what they wanted, and this time there could be

no bullshit. I assumed they'd left some sort of message to go
with the video, so I dialled 121, and sure enough a man's voice I
didn't recognize came on the line. 'You know what we have,' he
said in the tone of someone describing the stock in his shop. His
voice was perfectly ordinary, if a little high-pitched. 'Call this
number now if you're interested in having them back whole.' He
reeled out a mobile number, and hung up. As I hunted in the
glove compartment for a pen and paper, the time of the message
was given as 5.53 a.m. - a little over an hour ago. I found a pen
but no paper, so when I listened to the message again I wrote
down the number on the back of the Hyundai's logbook.
'They want us to phone them,' I told Kathy, staring out of the
windscreen into the empty tree-lined road ahead.
'You do it,' she said, weeping quietly.
'Whatever they want. Whatever you know, give it to them.
OK?' I still didn't look at her as I spoke.
'Sure.'
'Don't sure me. Yes. I want you to say yes.'
'Yes, yes, yes. Just phone them ... please.'
I wanted to tell her that this was her fault, but I didn't. I took
a deep breath and dialled the number. It rang five times before it
was picked up.
'I'm glad you called,' said the man on the other end, the same
one who'd left the message on the voicemail. 'We need to get
this matter concluded as soon as possible.'
'Are our kids OK?'
'They're fine.' His voice sounded confident, but it was impossible
to know whether to believe him or not. 'Now, tell me.
Where are you?'
'About a mile from the cottage, the one near Bolderwood. In
a car.'

'Whose car?'
'My wife's. We went back there to get it.'
'And you weren't seen?'
'I don't think so, no.'
'Good. I have a set of instructions for you. If you follow them
to the letter, your children will be released safe and well. As
soon as this phone call ends, you are to delete the video message
that was sent to you and switch off your mobile phone immediately.
Your wife is to do exactly the same with hers. Then you
are to throw them away, somewhere where they're not likely to
be found. And don't try any tricks, like keeping the phone with
you and switched on. The same person who gave us the identity
and address of your mother-in-law will be calling the numbers
periodically over the next hour. He has access to technology
that will tell him whether or not your phone is transmitting a signal. If he finds that you have disobeyed my instructions, one
of your children will lose an ear. You'll be able to choose which
one.'
'Don't harm Max and Chloe, please,' I said, using their names
in a desperate effort to personalize them in their captor's eyes,
even though I was sure it would do no good. 'No-one is going to
mess you about this time, I promise. Whatever you want from
us, you'll have.' Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kathy
nodding in numb agreement, tears streaming down her face.
'Nothing will happen to them if you do what I say. Have you
got a pen and paper?'
'Hold on.' With my free hand I picked up the pen and the
Hyundai logbook again. My hands were shaking but my voice
remained artificially calm as I told him I was ready.
'Listen carefully. Once you've got rid of the phones, you're to
driv» up the M3 to Basingstoke, then take the A33 towards

Reading. Go through Reading and take the road to Henley-on
Thames. At Henley take the road to Marlow. Three miles along
that road there's a left turning to a village called Hambleden.
Have you got all that?'
I was writing furiously. 'Yes. Yes, I have.'
'Park in the village square. There's a phone box there. In just
over an hour, at eight fifteen, it will ring. I'd advise you to hurry,
because if it's not picked up by you I will have to make sure that
one of your children pays the price for your delay.'
'We'll be there, OK? Please, don't do anything to them. We'll
be there.'
'You'll then receive further instructions,' he continued, completely
ignoring my pleas. 'At this time on a Sunday morning
you should have no trouble making it by eight fifteen, and if
everything goes to plan you'll be reunited with your children
before midday. But remember this, and remember it well:
deviate even slightly from what you've been told, get caught by
the police before you arrive here, or try to enlist the help of
anyone, and your children will die alone and screaming.'
The words were like punches, each one sapping my strength
and driving me further and further into a darkness from which I could see no escape. 'I understand,' I said, my words little more
than a croak.
'Is my mum all right?' asked Kathy, her words seeming to
come from some distance away. 'Ask him if my mum's all right.'

'Don't even bother asking that question,' said the man on the
end of the phone, who'd obviously heard her.
I knew then that Irene was dead, but didn't really take it in.
There was too much else to think about at that moment.

'Get rid of the phones and get to Hambleden now. I'm looking
forward to seeing you again.' With that, he rang off.

Kathy grabbed me by the arm, bringing her face close to mine.
I'd never seen such pain in her dark eyes, a pain I was sure was
right there in mine too.
'What did he say?' she demanded.
'The kids are fine. I don't know about your mum.'
'Oh God. They've killed her, haven't they? Haven't they?'
'I don't know. Now, give me your phone. He wants us to turn
them off and throw them away so that the police can't use them
to follow us. Then we've got to drive up to a place called
Hambleden, near Henley.'
Kathy pulled the phone from her pocket and handed it over.
'They're going to kill us, you know. When we arrive. They'll
never let us go, not after this.'
'We're out of choices, Kathy,' I said, meeting her gaze.
'They've got us over a barrel this time.'
I got out of the car and walked into the trees at the side of the
road. I switched off my phone and threw it into a fern bush.
Then I switched off hers. But I didn't throw it away, because I
knew Kathy was right. When we turned up to wherever it was
our tormentor - and I could only guess it was the man Daniels
called Lench - wanted us, and he'd got the information he
wanted, we'd be surplus to requirements, loose ends to be dealt
with. But it wasn't that which bothered me; it was the fact that
they might also get rid of Max and Chloe. Our whole family
wiped out, like we'd never existed. I didn't know who could
help, but I did know without i. doubt that if I threw away
Kathy's phone, that would be the end of our last lifeline.
I placed it in my pocket and headed back to the car.
'Head for the motorway,' I told her, and without another word
she pulled away, driving north.
It4iad just turned ten past seven.

36

Bolt was woken up by the shrill blasts of his mobile as it vibrated
away like an enthusiastic sex toy on his bedside table. After a
long yawn, he reached over and picked it up. He still hadn't even
opened his eyes when he heard the angry tones of a voice he
didn't immediately recognize.
'I think you owe me a very fucking big apology, DI Bolt.
What is it with you? Do you think because we're based in
the suburbs we're so utterly incapable that we're not worth
bothering with? That you can run roughshod over our investigation
and not bother to keep us informed of what you're
finding out?'
Bolt inched open an eye, saw that, according to the alarm
clock, it was 7.17 a.m. and realized that he was talking to the
man in charge of investigating Jack Calley's murder.
'Ah, DCI Lambden. You're up early, sir.'
'Don't piss me about, Bolt. I've just been talking to Calley's
neighbour, Bernard Crabbe. He tells me you and your colleague
came to see him last night, with a photograph of Tom and Kathy
Meron.'

Bolt sat up in the bed, fully awake now. 'How did you know
about them?'
'Not through you, that's for sure. I suspect we found out the
same way you did. We checked Mr Calley's phone records and
saw that his last call was made to the Meron address. Bet you
didn't think we could manage that, did you?'
'Listen, I'm not trying to hide anything--'
'We also found out that Mrs Meron appears to be wanted in
connection with the murder yesterday of a Vanessa Blake,'
continued Lambden, still sounding extremely irate. 'So, we're
not as pig-ignorant as you might think.'
Bolt rubbed his eyes. 'I never said you were.'
'Actions speak a lot louder than words.'
'If you give me a second, I'll tell you everything I know.'
'Good. Fire away.'
'First of all, I'm sorry. Everything was moving so fast yesterday,
I got ahead of myself. I was going to call and update you
this morning.'
'OK, apology accepted,' he said, without missing a beat. 'Now,
what can you tell me that'll make my job of finding whoever
strung up Calley easier?'
Bolt knew he was going to have to give Lambden something
decent if he was to get him to remain onside. So, as he got out of
bed and walked into the bathroom, he told him that ParnhamJones's
suicide was looking like murder, and that at the time of
his death he was being blackmaile'd. He didn't mention the child
abuse allegations since there was still absolutely nothing tangible
to back them up. 'I don't know what connection the ParnhamJones
death has with Jack Calley or the Merons, but the timing's
extremely coincidental,' he concluded.
'Someone's looking for the Merons,' said Lambden. 'I found

out this morning that a cottage they part-owned in the New
Forest got burned down last night, and there were reports of
gunfire coming from the area. The local police have got SOCO
teams going over there this morning to sift through what's left of
the wreckage and see if there are any bodies in there.'
'If they're dead, we're in trouble. I can't think of anyone else
who's in a position to explain why Jack Calley and Vanessa
Blake were murdered. Have you put out traces on their
mobiles?'
'That's another of the reasons I was calling you,' said the DCI.
'You know how hard it is to get authorization for a trace. We need one on Kathy Meron's phone, and you, being NCS, have
got a better chance of getting it than me. If you can do something
on that score, it'd be a big help.'
Bolt poured himself a glass of water. 'Leave it with me. I'll
keep you posted of how I get on this time as well, OK?'
'Thanks.'
'No hard feelings, eh?'
'None at all.' It sounded as though Lambden meant it as well,
which made Bolt feel a little guilty. Perhaps he'd judged him too
harshly yesterday. Lambden gave him Kathy Meron's mobile
number and hung up.
If either Tom or Kathy had their mobile phones with them,
and they were switched on, it would be possible for the network
provider to pinpoint their exact location simply by tracking
the phones' signals - something that Jean Riley could probably
sort out in no time, with her contacts. But in the UK Police
Service there are always hurdles to jump, and Bolt would have
to go right up the chain of command to the head of the NCS,
Detective Chief Superintendent Steve Evans, in order to gain
approval for such a course of action. He called Evans now.

The DCS was a renowned early riser, a habit he'd picked up in
his previous life in the military, and he answered on the second
ring, as if he'd been waiting for exactly this call. Bolt was swift
and to the point. He wanted a trace on both the Merons' mobile
phones, and explained his reasons.
Evans listened patiently, and when Bolt had finished the DCS
was also swift and to the point. 'I'm going to give you verbal
authorization for a trace on Kathy Meron's phone, not Tom's,'
he said. 'There's not enough probable cause on him.'
Bolt didn't argue. There was no point. Evans was sticking his
neck out as it was. He thanked his boss for his help.
'Keep me informed of your progress,' Evans told him, 'and
we'll sort out all the paperwork later.'
Next, Bolt called Jean Riley, waking her up. She sounded
awful, hardly able to string a sentence together. 'It's twenty past
seven, guv. What are you doing? I've only been in bed three
hours.' At twenty-four, Jean Riley was something of a party
animal who liked to let her hair down when she wasn't working.
She was the complete opposite of Matt Turner, which was
probably the reason they got on so well.
'Emergency, Jean,' Bolt said unsympathetically, filling her in
on what he needed and ignoring her hangover-induced groans
and occasional bouts of rasping coughs.
'Blimey, this case is taking on a life of its own, isn't it?'
she said, waking up at last. 'Any ideas what the hell's going
on?'
'Plenty, but whether they're the right ones is anyone's guess.
Call me back as soon as you've got a trace on Kathy Meron's
phone.'
Then, having flung on a dressing gown and made some strong
coffee, he called Mo and updated him on the new developments,

from the blackmail email Turner had discovered on ParnhamJones's
PC to the burning down of the holiday cottage in the
New Forest. It was breakfast time in the Khan household, and
he could hear the sound of Mo's kids charging about and Saira
trying, with only limited success, to keep order. The raucous
noise made a stark contrast to the silence in Bolt's kitchen.
'So someone else knew about P-J's little sideline?'
'It looks that way. Turner's trying to track down the source of
the email and he'll be getting back to me later. The reason I
called was just to keep you in the loop. I don't need you to do
anything today. Spend some time with the family.'
'Thanks for that,' said Mo, and told him to hang on a moment.
Bolt heard a door shutting and the background noise fading out.
'Listen, boss,' Mo whispered, 'I don't want to miss out on
anything, not on a case this big. If you need me, let me know, all
right? We're just planning a quiet morning here, so you won't be
disturbing anything.'
'No problem. If anything serious comes up, I'll be on the
phone. But you go and enjoy yourself, OK?'
'Do you think the Merons are dead?' he asked.
'They could be,' Bolt admitted, 'because whatever they know
is obviously worth killing them for. And if they are dead, their
secret's going to die with them, and I've got a horrible feeling
that'll put us straight back to where we started.'
They fell silent for a moment.
'Anyway,' said Mo eventually, 'you know where I am.'

37

'I think you owe me an explanation,' I said at last when we were
on the M27, heading east towards Southampton and the M3. In the twenty minutes up until that point we'd driven entirely
in brooding, fearful silence.
Kathy sighed, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, avoiding my
gaze. I had a feeling she'd avoid my gaze now for the rest of her
life - however long that was going to be.
'When I was at Jack's yesterday, he gave me a key. It's for a
safety deposit box in King's Cross.'
'What's in it?'
'He didn't tell me. He said that if anything happened to him I
was to go down there, take out the contents, and make them
public. He said he couldn't do it himself because it would be
unethical.'
'Since when did he ever worry about being unethical? It's
unethical to sleep with your friend's wife. That didn't seem to
bother him.'
'I'm telling you what he said, all right?'

"Hiis is what they're after, isn't it? Whatever's in that box?'

'I don't know. I suppose so.'
'And you never asked him what was in it?'
'I did, but he just said it was something that belonged to a
client. And before you ask, I don't know who the client was.'
I shook my head in disbelief. 'And you took it? The key? Why
did you have to get involved? What the hell did any of it have to
do with you?'
'Listen, Tom, I know I made a mistake, OK?'
'Is that what you call all this? A fucking mistake? It's a little
bit more than that, love. At least three people I can think of are
dead, and now some sadistic bastard's got our kids. All because
you had to have an affair with that cheating, lying bastard.'
'I know, Tom, I fucking know. You don't have to keep reminding
me.'
I took a deep breath, willing myself to calm down. 'And you
really have no idea what's in that deposit box?'
Kathy seemed to calm down as well, and when she replied her
voice was softer. 'I don't, and I've got no desire to find out
either. Whatever it is, they're welcome to it.'
'Why didn't you say something earlier, then?'
'When did I get the chance? After Jack got killed, I didn't
know what to do. I panicked and just drove down to the cottage.
I was trying to work out what to do. Then when you came down
with that man who claimed to be a policeman--'
'Daniels.' In all the excitement, I'd forgotten about him. He'd
saved our lives the previous night, and I wondered if he too had
made it out.
'Yes, him. When I recognized his voice from Jack's place, it
threw me completely. I was sure he was after whatever was in
the box, and I thought that once he found out about it, and we
were no longer any use to him, he'd get rid of us.'

It sounded like a plausible story, though God alone knew
what the box contained. Something explosive, I had no doubt
about that. But why had Jack given the key to Kathy? His
excuse about ethics was just that, an excuse. He'd given it to her
for a reason, and again I felt sure she wasn't telling me the whole
truth.
I asked her once again how her prints got on the filleting knife.
She said she honestly didn't know. 'You do believe I didn't
have anything to do with Vanessa's death, don't you?' she said.
'Because the man who killed her attacked you. But you still
don't believe me?'
'I don't know what to believe any more,' I answered, and it
was true. I didn't.
Once again we fell into a tense silence as both our minds
focused on the most important thing: the welfare of our kids.

38

Bolt drank two coffees, ate the leftovers of his Thai takeaway
and a banana, showered, and was in the process of getting
dressed when his mobile rang again.
'Bad news and good news.' It was Jean Riley, and she was
sounding a lot more sprightly than earlier.
'Give me the bad.'
'They can't get a trace on Kathy Meron's number. It's switched
off

'And the good?'
'It's unlikely they're dead. Or at least Tom Meron isn't. I
managed to get a check done on his records and a call was
made from his mobile at 7.08 this morning, lasting ninety-eight
seconds. The location was just outside Bolderwood in the New
Forest. The number being called was a pay-as-you-go mobile,
not registered to any individual.'
Bolt looked at his watch. 8.05. Less than an hour ago. 'Can
you get a trace on that one?'
'You'll need to speak to the big boss to get that.'
Bolt knew it was doubtful that DCS Evans would approve a
trace on a number called from Tom Meron's mobile when he
wouldn't approve a trace on Meron's own phone. And if the
number belonged to the people who were after the Merons, it
was likely that it would already be switched off. But the fact that
a call had been made at least gave him room for some optimism.
'Do me a favour, Jean.'
'Another one?'
'The last, I promise. You've got to make sure that you know
the minute Kathy Meron's phone emits a signal, and tell me
straight away. And if you can do some begging and pleading,
and see if you can get your contact to let you know if Tom's gets
switched on, even better.'
'That's two favours.'
'Well, they're the last two. I know it's not strictly above board,
but see what you can do. I'll stand you drinks all night the next
time we all go out.'
'You know,' she said, 'I'd settle for knowing exactly what it is
the Merons have got to do with the Lord Chief Justice's suicide.'
Wouldn't we all, thought Bolt as he hung up.

39

The village of Hambleden, perched at the edge of the Chilterns,
is quintessentially English and has been used as a backdrop for
numerous films and TV programmes. I know this because I've
seen some of them. It's got a small, attractive square with a
fourteenth-century church, a village shop, a family butcher's and
a pub on the corner called the Stag and Huntsman. The houses
are quaint, old and very attractive. A couple of them even have
thatched roofs.
It was 8.13 when Kathy pulled up at the side of the road,
directly outside the phone box. I got out of the car without
looking at her, and stepped inside. The interior of the phone box
smelled a little stale, but was remarkably free of the usual stench
of urine you get in the ones in London. Perhaps they preferred
using toilets out here.
I stood there, cold and still, watching the second hand ticking
on my watch. It made it to the top and kept going. 8.14. One
more minute. Thank Christ Kathy had driven like a maniac. But
I couldn't help thinking that it might be too late. My children,
my4 recious children, might already be dead. A five-year old and

a four-year old - everything to me, yet just an inconvenience and
a bargaining tool to the men who'd taken them. And put in this
position all because of the treachery first of my former friend,
then of my wife. I didn't care what was in that fucking safety
deposit box at King's Cross station. It meant nothing to me. All I
wanted was to get back to where things were before, when my
marriage was good and the world was fine, and my children were
laughing and happy. But as the second hand ticked relentlessly
on, passing the six, I knew that whatever happened the past was
gone for ever. And that the future for all of us might well be
very short and very dark.
The phone rang, shrill and loud, startling me. I stole a glance
at Kathy. She was staring through the windscreen, her features
rigid and haunted, having aged ten years in the past hour. I
picked up. My throat felt dry, and when I spoke my voice was a
croak.
'Tom Meron.'
'You've made good time,' said the man I'd spoken to earlier.
'I trust you've followed your instructions.'
'Yes, I have.'
'You switched off the phones and got rid of them?'
'I did. I'm not going to do anything that risks my children's
lives.'
'Very wise. I have further instructions for you. You are to
walk north through the village square in the direction of the Stag
and Huntsman pub. It will be on your right as you pass it.
Continue on the road as it goes up the hill, and you'll be met
by someone on the way. That person will have his identity
concealed, and you will go with him. If there's anyone tracking
you, we'll know about it, and one of your children will be
sacrificed as forfeit.'

I shivered visibly, knowing that he meant what he said, and
feeling physically sick with fear. 'We're not going to try anything,
I promise.' But I was already speaking into a dead phone.
I stepped out of the phone box and motioned for Kathy to
park up properly. She found a spot next to the wall that lined the
village's graveyard, and got out. Her movements were unsteady
as if she might collapse at any time, and her face was ashen, but I
had no sympathy. She'd got us into this.
'This way,' I told her, pointing up the hill past the pub and the
family butcher's. 'We've got to hurry.'
She fell into step beside me and we strode up the road in
silence. A white-haired man in his seventies appeared in the
front door of one of the cottages. He was dressed in a tweed
jacket and tie, and he smiled and gave us a small wave. Instinctively,
I waved back and managed a weak smile in return, feeling
hugely jealous of anyone who had anything to smile about on
this particular day.
The road became steeper and was lined with overhanging
trees as we passed the pub, and soon the terraced cottages
gave way to a wooded hill of oaks and beeches, with just an
occasional house appearing through the greenery on either side.
The only sounds were the squawks of pheasants and the faint
but ever-present roar of planes passing above the ceiling
of unbroken white cloud above us. Then, suddenly, from the
garden of one of the houses, came the laughing shouts of young
children. I felt my insides constrict so tightly it was difficult to
breathe. My legs felt weak, but I forced myself to keep walking,
wanting to get as far away as possible from the sound and what it
reminded me of. Kathy kept pace, her features contorted into a
frozen expression of deep animal pain. I knew that this was
tearing her apart as much as it was me.

As we walked, and the road got so steep that it began to
resemble a climb, I slipped a hand into the pocket of my still
damp jacket and felt Kathy's phone. The woods around us were
silent now, the houses gone, the road gradually becoming little
more than a potholed track. I looked around, trying to spot
anyone monitoring our progress, but if anyone was there, they were well hidden. Kathy's mobile was a fliptop like mine, so I
flicked it open inside the pocket and, finding what I hoped was
the on switch, pressed my thumb on it until it made a tiny
muffled bleep.
We reached the brow of the hill, maybe four minutes after
leaving the car, and the road flattened out ahead of us. There
were still trees on either side but they were more spaced out
now, making concealment that much more difficult. Beyond
them, fields were visible as well as several farm buildings. I could
still see no-one.
I felt with my finger for the number two button on the phone.
Kathy had never been good at remembering numbers and her
code to unlock the SIM card was a simple 2222. Four pushes on
that button and the phone would start broadcasting a signal. I'd
read somewhere that this was enough for a phone company to
track its location, often down to within a few feet. I was taking a
terrible risk, and a voice in my head told me that by switching
the phone on I was sentencing my children to death. Deeper
down, instinct told me that unless I made some effort at providing
a clue to our whereabouts, then we - the whole family were
finished. But if I was searched, and they found the phone,
then there really would be no way out. I needed to ditch it
somewhere, but it was going to have to be somewhere close to
our destination. The problem was that with every step I took,
the prospect of my discovery became that much more real.

Even now someone could be watching me through binoculars,
following my every move.
I pressed the numbers and flicked the phone shut, clutching it
in my palm. Then I slipped my hand from my pocket and, as I
drew level with a thick puddle of mud formed in a divot at the
side of the track, let it slip from my grasp. At the same time I
moved closer to Kathy, putting an arm on her shoulder, and said,
louder than was necessary, that everything was going to be OK.
'Of course it's not going to fucking be OK,' she answered,
without bothering to turn in my direction. But at least she didn't
hear the phone hit the ground.
I immediately regretted my action, but it was too late to worry
about that now. The die had been cast. You make split-second
decisions, and sometimes they can have life-changing results;
the point is, you still have to make them. I kept walking,
not breaking my stride, not giving anyone watching even the
slightest hint that I might be up to something. I said nothing
further to Kathy and she said nothing to me.
The woods ended and became fields, the track continuing to
run through them in a straight line before disappearing as the
land dipped downwards. A house stood alone, just back from
the track, about a hundred yards' distant.
'OK, stop where you are,' said an unfamiliar voice a few feet
to my right.
I did as I was told and saw a thin man in a Homer Simpson
face mask appear from behind a thick holly bush that partly
obscured a timber-clad, single-storey building a few yards
behind him. The man held a pistol with a long, cigar-shaped
silencer that dwarfed his skinny, hairless wrist. He was dressed
in jeans and a black, pulled-up hoodie with the word surf
written on the chest in jaunty script. I couldn't see his face, but I

could tell he was young - probably early twenties. There was
something in his overall demeanour - a little gawky and skittish
- that suggested he wasn't a hundred per cent confident in what
he was doing.
He waved us over with the gun, and when we reached him he
pushed us behind the bush so that we were out of sight of the
road.
'Empty your pockets,' he demanded, waving the gun around
as he spoke.
We did so. There wasn't much. I had a pen, some loose
change, and my credit card wallet. Kathy didn't have anything.
She tended to keep her personal belongings in a handbag, which
I guess had been left at the cottage and had subsequently been
turned into charcoal.
'Chuck it all on the floor.'
I let the stuff drop from my hands and lifted my arms away
from my sides as he patted me down in an amateur fashion,
before turning his attention to Kathy. She glared at him, and
pushed her legs tightly together as he subjected her to a slightly
more detailed search.
When he'd finished, he told me to pick my stuff back up. 'All
right, get inside,' he said, pushing first Kathy and then me in the
direction of the single-storey building. He made a point of
pressing the gun hard into my back, and I assumed he was
enjoying his little bit of power. It depressed me that the world
seemed so full of individuals who gained enjoyment and satisfaction
from inflicting pain.
The building was obviously a fairly recent and expensive
barn conversion which made it look similar to a high-spec log
cabin. The front windows were large and double-glazed but the
curtains were drawn, making it impossible to tell who was inside.

We followed a cobbled path down to the front door, and when
we were two steps away it opened with a flourish. The huge
balaclava-clad man who'd come into our cottage's master bedroom
the previous night holding a pump-action shotgun loomed
over us, this time unarmed. The man Daniels had called Lench.
He was still dressed in the same black clothes, flecked now with
pale mud, and his immense bearing and long, ape-like arms,
bulging with muscles like cannonballs, gave him the appearance
of an executioner from a medieval history book. Behind the
mask, he radiated a cold confidence that had the entirely natural
effect of making other men feel weaker. I'd met the occasional
man like him in the business world, although never one his size.
They were invariably highly successful, and, just as invariably,
psychopaths.
'Come inside,' he said in an ordinary, slightly feminine voice
that did nothing to detract from the air of menace that surrounded
him.
I was first in, and he pointed me in the direction of a large and
very modern kitchen, all done out in pine, with an oak dining
table in the middle that seated eight. There were pots and pans
lining the walls, all in order of size and make, and everything
was spotlessly clean and tidy. I went over to the far window and
looked out across the field. Kathy followed me over, while
Lench took a seat at the head of the table facing us. The younger
man who'd searched us stood near the door, the gun held by his
side, the Homer Simpson mask gfving us a dozy smile.

'You know what I want,' said Lench, without preamble. 'And
one of you knows where it is. Our mutual friend, Jack, said that
it was you, Tom, but I have a feeling he might have been
protecting someone.'
He smiled behind the balaclava and looked at Kathy. She held

his gaze, the fear that had been so prominent on her face earlier
now giving way to a quiet rage that sat behind her eyes. Her
body was tense, and I thought for a moment that she might do
something stupid, like charge him. But she stayed where she was
and remained silent.
'I've been thinking about it ever since yesterday afternoon.
When Jack knew we were about to kill him, he tried to think of a
way to protect the woman he was fucking, so he told us that
it was her husband who had what we were looking for. That's
how you came to be involved in everything, Tom. All very
unfortunate, really.' He leaned forward in the seat, resting his
elbows on the table, and regarded us both in turn. 'And now the
moment of truth. Does a child die, or do you tell me where it is?'
I looked at Kathy, but she continued to stare at Lench.
'You murdered Vanessa, didn't you?' she said.
'Are you talking about the woman at the university? That was
a case of mistaken identity, I'm afraid, and it wasn't me. One of
my colleagues was dealing with that. He ran into her while
looking for you. It didn't take us long to find out who you are
and where you worked. But I'm not interested in discussing this.
You know what I want. Now, are you going to tell me where it
is?'
Hatred flared in Kathy's face, and once again I got the feeling
she might try to do something stupid. I moved in closer and put
a hand on her shoulder.
'Remember, Mrs Meron, your children are depending on you.'
She glared at him defiantly for several seconds before finally
reaching down and pulling up the leg of her jeans a couple of
inches. She unzipped one of her ankle boots and pulled a small
gold-coloured key from inside her sock. She put it down on the
table and slid it across in Lench's direction. 'Jack gave me this

yesterday, before you killed him. It opens a safety deposit box at
King's Cross station. I don't know what it is you want, but I'm
guessing it's there.'
'Number three-two-eight,' said Lench quietly as he examined
the key. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out
a mobile. As we watched he called a number. When the person
at the other end picked up, he reeled out a set of instructions,
keeping his voice low and turning away so we couldn't hear what
he was saying. A few seconds later, he replaced the phone in his
pocket. 'Our man will be at that deposit box in about forty
minutes. As soon as he's verified the contents we'll let you and
your children go. But if you haven't been entirely honest with us,
on every matter' - he seemed to look right through me as he said
this - 'then you all die.'
I thought of the phone sitting in the mud fifty yards away, and
wondered whether it would save or condemn us.

40

Twenty minutes after Jean Riley had called Mike Bolt, she
phoned him again. By this time he was pacing up and down in
the sitting area in front of his kitchen, half-watching Sky News,
desperate to be doing something. The reporters were dissecting
the previous day's big football match. As was often the case,
England had lost to supposedly weaker opposition, the final
score being 2-0. Bolt had missed the last goal - a goalmouth

scramble after a terrible keeping error - which Sky helpfully
showed for him. Schoolboy defending, said the reporter, using a
well-worn phrase that Bolt had to admit was an apt description.

So far, there'd been no mention of the Jack Calley murder, or
that of Kathy Meron's colleague at the university. Clearly no
one in the media had made the connection yet between Jack and
Lord Parnham-Jones, and as for the other killing, a mundane
stabbing all too common in London, it would be lucky to make
the local news.
Bolt picked up the mobile on the first ring.
'They've got a signal on Kathy Meron's phone,' Jean told him.
'A place called Hambleden, seven or eight miles off the M40 in
Buckinghamshire.'
'I know it.' Bolt had been there once before with his ex-wife
on one of the occasional day trips they used to make to places
outside the city. He remembered it as a very pretty village with
good walks in the surrounding countryside. 'How close can you
pinpoint it?'
'We've got it down to the top of Ranger's Hill, which runs up
from the north end of the village. You'll need to look at a map
to get an exact spot. Are you going to drive over there?'
There was, of course, no way Bolt could have said no. 'Yeah, I
think I'm going to take a look. I'll let the big boss know where
I'm going, and if I get a location on Kathy Meron, I'll call for
back-up. Keep me posted of any changes.'
He knew that there was no point trying to get additional
resources to help him, not with knowing only the location of
Kathy Meron's mobile. He also didn't want to flood the-area
with local police, just in case the couple were in danger and their
safety was compromised.
When he'd hung up, he called DCS Evans, but his line was

busy so he left a detailed message before ringing Keith Lambden
to let him know about this new development.
'She .drives a maroon Hyundai Coupe apparently,' Lambden
told him. 'A witness called the incident room an hour ago to say
she'd seen it parked behind some trees about twenty yards down
from Calley's house, and only just visible from the road. This
was at about half past one yesterday.'
'So, just after the neighbours saw her drive past? That's
strange. The neighbours, the Crabbes, said they'd seen the
woman they identified from the photograph as Kathy Meron
with Jack Calley several times before, so I'd assumed they were
having an affair.'
'I think it's a fair assumption to make.'
'But if that was the case, why didn't she park on his driveway?
There's room for at least three cars on it, and Calley's only
got one. Why park your car twenty yards away, and out of
sight?'
'Maybe someone else was there.'
'Or maybe,' Bolt said, 'she didn't want to be seen.'

41

The wait seemed interminable, the minutes dragging by in slow
motion. Kathy and I avoided looking at each other. For the most
part we stood where we were, utterly helpless, but occasionally
one»of us would pace round our end of the table a little, or sit

down in one of the chairs, always avoiding Lench's mocking
gaze.
Lench himself never spoke. He sat where he was, hardly
moving. Waiting with the confident patience of a cat stalking
prey. There was no point begging him for mercy. Both of us,
I think, knew that. Here was a man utterly at ease with his
cruelty. We were nothing to him, not even cardboard cut-outs.
Neither were our children. He would kill every one of us without
a second's thought. We weren't even worth speaking to,
except to provide him with the information he was after. I
doubt if there were many people with as cold a heart as his
walking this world, and I cursed my bad luck that our paths had
crossed.
After a while he left the room, his chair scraping loudly on the
tiled floor, and only the gunman in the Homer Simpson mask
remained. He was silent too.
I went over to the window and looked out again. The view was
green and pretty. Normally, I'd have appreciated it. Today, I
wished I was looking at something ugly, something more in tune
with my feelings. A scrapyard or a slag heap. A landfill site. I
wondered if anyone was responding to my SOS, moving in on us
right now. 'Get real,' I told myself. 'No-one's coming. You're on
your own. You've always been on your own.'
I looked at my watch yet again. Ten past nine. The forty
minutes were up. The person Lench had sent would be at King's
Cross by now, and the moment of truth with us soon. Which
probably meant death. Yet it wasn't that that occupied my
thoughts. Because something was bugging me. Something Kathy
had said that didn't ring true. I played back my conversation
with her in the car earlier. She'd admitted to me that Jack had
given her the key to the deposit box, and that it contained

something important belonging to one of his clients. She'd told
Lench this too, and where the box could be found.
No, it was something else ...
I looked down at her. She was sitting with her head slightly
bowed, eyes downcast. Both her hands were flat on the table,
palms down. One thumb moved left and right in a steady
windscreen-wiper-like movement, the only visible sign of the
tension I knew was coursing through her. She wasn't a fidgeter
like me; she tended to simmer silently and without moving. It
had always been an aspect of her character that unnerved me.
Her fingerprints had been on the knife that killed Vanessa.
But she wasn't the killer. I'd seen the killer, and Lench had not
denied that one of his people had done it. Therefore it wasn't
Kathy. But her prints were on the knife.
Then it hit me. Last night she hadn't asked me about the
injuries I'd received from the filleting knife or how I'd sustained them. Daniels hadn't said anything about them either. So she
couldn't have known that I'd been attacked by Vanessa's killer.
Yet when we were speaking this morning she mentioned the
attack, had even talked about my attacker being a 'he'.
How the hell had she known?
I racked my brains to think of when I could have let slip
something, but there'd been very little time for me to have done
so, and I was almost certain I hadn't. Which meant only one
thing.
She'd been at the library yesterday afternoon.

42

From Clerkenwell, Bolt drove up to Angel Gate and turned
left onto the Pentonville Road, heading west. The Pentonville
Road became the Euston Road, then the Marylebone Road, and
finally the A40. Usually this route was heavily congested, but before nine on a Sunday morning it was quiet, and Bolt was on
the M40 within twenty minutes.
Fifteen minutes later, having driven consistently at speeds
over a hundred miles per hour, he came off at junction 5, High
Wycombe, and took the A404 to Marlow. The phone didn't ring
during the entire journey, which he found vaguely reassuring. It
meant there were no new developments. Either Jean had gone
back to bed or Kathy Meron's mobile was still on and not
moving from its current location.
He continued to drive fast, breaking the speed limit, and it
was ten past nine, just about forty minutes after he'd set off,
when he finally turned onto the country road that ran for a little
over a mile down to Hambleden village.
It had been the summer before her death that he and Mikaela
had driven down here for the day. The weather had been mild

and sunny, and there'd been a cricket match in progress on the
green at the edge of the village. They'd eaten at the pub, sitting
outside in the beer garden, basking in the sunshine and feeling at
peace with the world. It had been such a contrast to the noise
and fury of the big city that for a moment he'd dreamed about
living out here, away from it all. Mikaela had obviously been
thinking the same thing. 'If we ever have kids, this is where I'd
like them to grow up,' she'd said, sipping from her wine and
looking out across the rolling green fields, her long blonde hair
almost white in the glare of the sun. 'We could have a bit of land
and keep chickens.'
He'd known for months by then that she'd wanted kids. It had
come up more and more in their conversations. Personally he'd
been far less sure. He loved her, there was never any doubt
about that, but children . . . They were a huge tie, and with the
job he did, he just hadn't been sure he, or they, were ready for it.
'Let's leave it a while. Give it a year or two. There's no hurry,'
he'd said, delaying things, knowing all the time that one day he
was going to have to choose between starting a family and losing
her.
He drove over the old stone bridge that led into the village
square and almost immediately spotted the maroon Hyundai.
He made a note of the plate. It was Kathy Meron's car. He
carried on driving, up past the family butcher's and the pub
on the right-hand side, to the point where the road began to
climb as it left the village. He could see from the map on the
car's satellite navigation system that this was the beginning of
Ranger's Hill, but instead of driving up it, he turned right
into the village car park, where a loose group of middle-aged
ramblers in shorts and hiking boots stood next to their cars,
chatting loudly among themselves. Bolt decided to make the rest

of the journey on foot. His approach would be less conspicuous
that way.
He stepped out of the car, put his mobile on to vibrate, and
started walking, wondering what it was he was going to find.

43

I could hear my heart beating loudly in my chest, a rapid rat-tat
rat-tat that would have had any self-respecting doctor writing
out a prescription for beta blockers. Each minute now was a
lifetime. A lifetime filled with fear, confusion and betrayal. My
children were in terrible danger. My wife had been living a lie
that seemed to grow larger and blacker with each new layer of
treachery I uncovered. How could I not have seen it? Kathy was
- or rather, she had been - a good person. A loving mother, a
friend to the people she met, someone everyone seemed to like.
More than they ever did me. But underneath it all, something had been terribly wrong. She had been at the library yesterday, I
was convinced of that now. Her prints were on the filleting knife,
and it would explain the presence of my gloves. Once again, I
looked over at her, but she didn't seem to notice my gaze and
continued to stare at her hands.
I looked at my watch. 9.20. It would all be over very soon, one
way or another. If they let my kids go, then that would be
enough for me. I know it sounds a weird thing to say, but at that
moment in time it would almost have been a relief to have the

gun put against my head and the whole thing ended. Before I
found out any more grim facts about the way my life had been
knocked totally and utterly off course. As long as I knew that my
kids were OK.
The door opened and Lench came back into the room. It was
difficult to read his expression behind the mask, but something
told me he was not pleased about something. He stopped on the
other side of the table and looked across at Kathy.
'You told me you never knew what was inside the deposit
box,' he said darkly.
'That's because I don't,' she answered, looking up. Her tone
was one of righteous indignation.
It didn't work. 'Our man's recovered the contents of the box,'
Lench said, making no effort to hide his irritation. 'It's what we
were after, but we think there may be more. And we think you
know where they might be.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'I think you're lying to me, Mrs Meron.' There was something
chilling in his voice. An undercurrent of excitement, as if he was
pleased with her defiance because it gave him an excuse to hurt
her. He moved slowly around the table in her direction.
She seemed to sense this, and when she spoke again, her
defiance was faltering. 'I'm not lying, I promise you. I was just
looking after the key for Jack Calley.'
'Listen, Kathy, if you're hiding anything, just tell him, please.'
I suddenly felt hugely protective towards her, though God knows
why. Not after everything that had happened.
Lench stopped several feet from her. 'I want to know if there
are any copies.'
'Copies of what? I don't know what you're talking about, I
promise.'

'Tell him, for God's sake. He'll get it out of you one way or
another.' I put an arm on her shoulder, gripping her tightly.
'Please.'
Lench turned my way, then looked back over his shoulder at
Homer Simpson. 'Take him outside,' he said, motioning dismissively
towards me.
Homer Simpson moved away from his position against the
wall and walked over to me. I looked imploringly at Kathy, but
once again she didn't meet my gaze. Homer grabbed me roughly
by the arm and pushed the silencer against my back, pulling me
in the direction of the door.
'Kathy, for Christ's sake, he's got our children! Just tell him
what he wants he know. What the fuck is wrong with you?'
Something was burning deep inside me. Rage. Rage aimed at
Lench, Kathy, the man in the crappy Homer Simpson mask
pushing me around. The whole fucking world. As Homer pulled
me again, I shoved him away, ignoring the fact that he had a gun
in my back.
'Don't try anything, Meron,' snapped Lench. 'Like you say,
we've got your little brats, and we'll cut them to pieces if we
have to.' Then to Homer: 'Get him out of here. If he fucks you
about, kill him. We don't need him any more, so if he wants to
commit suicide, that's up to him.'
The rage continued to simmer, and as Homer half-led, half
hauled me out of the room I aimed one more comment at Lench.
'If anything happens to my kids, they'll hunt you down to the
ends of the earth. You know that, don't you? They don't like
child killers in this country.'
But Lench simply turned his back on me as if I no longer
mattered and reached towards Kathy with an immense gloved
hand. Her dark eyes flashed with fear.

The kitchen door was opened and I was pushed out into the
hallway. 'You want to be associated with child killers, do you?' I
said over my shoulder at Homer as he manhandled me into a
sitting room which, like the kitchen, had windows facing out
over both sides of the property. Like the kitchen, too, it was
immaculately neat and tidy, with expensive leather furniture and
a plasma TV on the wall, but utterly devoid of character.
'I couldn't give a fuck,' Homer answered casually, kicking the
door shut behind him, and I could tell immediately that he
genuinely didn't. My kids were nothing to him. Nor was my pain,
or Kathy's.
It was obvious I'd always viewed the world and its people in
too much of an optimistic light. I had always believed that
people were, by and large, good at heart. But it was becoming
clearer to me by the second that there were evil bastards out
there who were devoid of any positive attributes at all, who lived
by no rules and cared nothing for their fellow human beings.
And this ignorant piece of dirt was one of them.
The rage exploded within me then and my actions became
utterly instinctive, no longer the slaves to conscious thought and
the attendant fear that always comes with thinking. As Homer
pushed me towards a low-slung black leather sofa that would
have probably cost me a month's wages, I swung round without
warning, knocked his gun to one side with a contemptuous slap
and, before he had a chance to react, smashed my forehead into
the bridge of his nose. There was a crack as it broke. It sounded
like a gunshot when you were as close as I was to it, and blood
squirted out of his nostrils. He stumbled backwards like a drunk,
eyes wide and unfocused, and banged his head against the
skirting. But he still had hold of the gun, so I grabbed his wrist
and yanked it upwards so that the silencer faced the ceiling, then

ripped the mask from his face and butted him again, three times
in rapid succession, every blow landing in roughly the spot
where I'd done the initial damage. His head was already back
against the skirting so he was unable to move, and thus took the
full force of my attack. At the same time I punched him in
the gut, then the balls. He groaned and his wrist went limp,
giving me the chance to yank the gun from his grip by the
silencer. I pointed the gun back in his direction, viewing
the unmasked features for the first time. His face was pallid and
pockmarked, belonging to an unattractive and now only semiconscious
young man in his early twenties. It was stained and
splattered with blood, and I kicked it hard as his body slipped
down the wall to the thickly carpeted floor, cracking another
bone.
The whole attack had been carried out in near silence, but I
wondered whether I'd been quiet enough. We were only a
matter of a few yards and a couple of walls from where Lench
had my wife.
I looked down at the gun in my hand. It shook just a little. I
looked down at Homer Simpson. He was out for the count.
I asked myself a simple question: what the hell do I do now?
And then I heard a shot ring out, the sound of glass smashing,
and suddenly the question was answered for me.

When Bolt reached the top of the hill at the point where it
flattened out, he stopped and listened but could hear nothing
other than the natural sounds of the woods: leaves rustling, the
singing of birds, the odd squawk of a pheasant. He knew he was
in the right place. This was the top of Ranger's Hill and Kathy
Meron's phone would be round here somewhere. There was,
however, no sign of Kathy herself. Through the treeline he could
see the outline of buildings thirty yards or so away, and he made
his way towards them, moving away from the road and quietly
from tree to tree in his approach.
When he reached the edge of the trees, he found himself faced
with a freshly mowed back garden belonging to a Norwegian
style wooden lodge. There didn't seem to be anyone about. Nor
were there any other buildings visible. Bolt looked at his watch.
9.20. The phone was still emitting a signal from somewhere very
close to here. It didn't necessarily mean that Kathy was also
here. The phone might have been abandoned, but even so, he
felt it must have been abandoned for a reason. To leave some
sort «f clue. Which meant he needed to check the house out.

Coming out of the trees and keeping low, he crept slowly
towards the nearest window, using a pampas bush and then a
loveseat as cover. He knew he was going to look like a right idiot
if he was spotted by the owner sneaking through his back
garden, but the worry lasted as long as it took to cover four of
the five yards to the window. When there was only that one yard
remaining, Bolt froze. He could see a man dressed in a black
balaclava standing inside. The man had a gun in his hand and it
was obvious he was talking to someone out of sight. The gun
arm was straight, the barrel pointed at a slightly downwards
angle, the man's demeanour perfectly calm.
Bolt felt a rush of elation. His hunch had been right. He was
already crouching back down again and reaching into his pocket
for his mobile to summon help, when in one of those perverse
twists of fate the man for some reason looked his way. Their
eyes met, and even from behind the double-glazed glass of the
windowpane Bolt recognized instantly that they belonged to a
killer. Knowing that he was hopelessly exposed, he dived to one
side as a shot rang out and glass cracked. The bullet whistled
past his head and disappeared off into the trees. Bolt's flight
mechanism kicked in and he rolled over in the grass, jumped to
his feet and ran for the safety of the trees. A second shot rang
out, and this time it passed so close to his shoulder that he felt its
draught. He jumped to one side and smashed bodily into the
loveseat, careering over the top of it and landing on his belly half
a yard from where the treeline began.
He waited an interminably long second for a third shot to ring
out, but when it did it was muffled and seemed to be fired from
inside the house. He scrabbled round onto his back, flicked open
the mobile and dialled 999.

Occasionally in life you're faced with choices you know you
should never have to make, and this was one of them. If I
charged into the kitchen, gun in hand, I risked dying. I also
risked putting Kathy's life in further danger. If I was successful
and killed Lench, I risked sentencing my children to death. If I
stayed where I was, I risked all three. It was, of course, no
choice. All these thoughts shot across my mind and were computed
in the space of a second, and, before they'd had too much
of a chance to slow me down, I ran out of the lounge, across the
hallway and straight through the kitchen door, not knowing
what the hell it was I was going to see in there.
I yelled out some incoherent battle cry as I charged inside,
waving the gun wildly, just as a second shot rang out. I saw
immediately that Lench had his b&ck to me and was firing out of
the window. Kathy, meanwhile, was still in her seat but leaning
away from him, her face a frozen mask of fear and confusion. As
she saw me with the gun in my hand, she screamed, 'Don't do it!
We need him!'
I hesitated, not knowing what to do, and as I stood there,

2SS
Lench swung round with surprising speed, one hand lashing out
like a tentacle to grab Kathy by the shoulder. He pulled her
towards him in a grip that looked unbreakable, and arced the
gun round in my direction.
The world became slow motion for me as I watched the
barrel line up against my chest. My whole body felt weak
and exhausted, a stark and terrible contrast to Lench's casual,
cat-like grace. If I fired, my children might die; so might my
wife. If I didn't, I knew I certainly would. I don't know if it
was reflexive or not - I like to think that it was - but I pulled
the trigger anyway. Three times, one after the other, aiming
above Kathy at Lench's head and shoulders, surprised at how
mild the kick on the gun was. The bullets made an aggressive
hiss, like air escaping from a balloon, as they flew out of the gun,
while the whole room seemed to reverberate with Lench's third
shot.
Somehow, incredibly, it had been me who'd fired first, and by
some wondrous quirk of fate at least one of my rounds had
found its target. Lench swivelled on his feet, his boots squeaking
on the tiled floor, and seemed to lose his footing, while his own
bullet went wide, shattering one of the plates on the wall. He let
go of Kathy, who was still screaming, then she ducked as I fired
a fourth shot, which struck the window and immediately made a
spider's-web crack. Lench slipped over and landed on his side,
still pointing the gun in my direction, and I was forced to dive
into the kitchen units as he fired again.
We were operating on instinct now. I had no idea how
many bullets were still in my gun but I knew that in an enclosed
space like this I had to keep shooting. I didn't think about the
fact that I was killing a fellow human being. I'd gone way
beyond that now, and anyway, I didn't want to kill him. I just

wanted to make him helpless so that he'd have no option but to
tell me where my children were.
From my position on the floor I could see him under the
kitchen table rolling onto his back to face me, the gun flashing
silver in his gloved hand. I didn't have time to look for Kathy. I
vaguely remember seeing something moving very slowly along
the floor out of the corner of my eye, then I took as good an aim
as I could and fired.
I hit him in the sole of his boot, making a penny-shaped hole
that immediately started smoking. He shrieked out in pain, and
pulled the trigger himself. There was a deafening explosion just
above my head and the sound of wood splintering. My ears were
ringing and I scrunched myself into a ball, trying to make myself
as small a target as possible, at the same time unloading two
more shots. But he was already moving, rolling away once again,
then jumping unsteadily to his feet and hobbling towards the
door. I fired at his legs, my bullets striking kitchen cupboards,
the washing-machine window, the fridge door. Everything but
him. Then, as he came round the edge of the table, we were
suddenly only six feet apart. He leaned round to fire, his gun
hand still remarkably steady, the barrel pointing directly into my
eye, and in that moment I knew I was finished. For the first time
in the last few minutes, I felt abject fear.
Kathy screamed, her sound not as high-pitched as the noise
Lench had made when I'd put a hole in his shoe, and I swung my
own weapon round, taking aim with a terrified desperation.
'Armed police! Drop your weapons!'
The shout came from somewhere outside the kitchen door,
and Lench hesitated for a split second, his head inclining slightly
in the direction of the shout. Because of this, his shot missed me,
and he lost his balance, falling to one knee. I lost my nerve then,

the realization that I, a lowly software salesman, was involved in
a gunfight with a man far stronger and ruthless than me suddenly
proving too much. I scrambled under the table in Kathy's
direction, knocking the heavy wooden chairs out of the way,
waiting for the inevitable agony when Lench's next bullet caught
me between the shoulderblades.
'Come out with your hands up now! You are surrounded!'
The bullet never came. I grabbed hold of Kathy and pulled
her under me in a protective gesture, holding her in a desperate, exhausted embrace.
And then the kitchen window exploded.

46

As soon as he heard the shout 'Armed police!', Lench experienced
a flash of panic for the first time in years. Even the
sudden burst of resistance from Tom Meron which had left him
in the embarrassed position of being wounded for the first time in
his life had only temporarily fazed him. The injuries - a flesh
wound in his knife arm, and the bullet in the foot - could be
treated and would heal. He'd always known that Meron, although
a spirited fighter, was an amateur with a shot that was lucky
rather than proficient, and so the final outcome of their Shootout
had never been in doubt. Lench would have finished him, then
killed the wife. She'd already told him what he needed to know,
so his use for both of them had run out. The wife had known that

as soon as she gave out her final piece of information she'd be
dead, which was why she'd held back. Lench admired her for
that. She had guts. But it made no difference. The plan had been
to kill them, then kill Grellier, the man in the Homer Simpson
mask he'd brought with him today, hoping that he would then be
saddled with the blame for the Merons' deaths. Grellier was new
to the organization, a petty criminal with no ambition but the
right kind of evil streak, and was therefore considered totally
expendable. Unfortunately, this morning he'd proved exactly
why he was totally expendable, allowing himself to be overpowered
and disarmed by a frightened office worker.
But everything had still been under control until the moment
Lench heard the shouts of the police. His one great fear, that of
incarceration without limit, rose up and stared him right in the
face. He'd planned for this day, knowing that it was inevitable,
so he immediately reverted to the set of procedures he'd drilled
into himself for just this kind of eventuality. First, he let the gun
clatter to the floor. It was no use to him now. Then he undipped
the wristband to which the jet knife was attached and let this too
fall to the floor. It was cleaned and sterilized regularly, the last
time only hours ago, so would no longer contain traces of the
blood or body matter of any of his victims, thus making it useless
to the police. The gloves went next. They would carry traces of
gunshot residue, but he would deny they were his. Now he
no longer carried any incriminating evidence. It was his word
against the Merons. They had nothing on him. And within hours,
his employer's team of lawyers would be arriving at the police
station to demand to know on what charges he was being held,
and to badger the arresting officers into releasing him.
But as Lench got to his feet, wincing with pain, he realized
that there were still problems. Grellier was probably still alive

and might talk. The phone on which he'd received Tom Meron's
call was still in the house. The balance of probability was still
against him. It was potentially enough for charges. Even if his
employer's people could reach the jury, as they'd done before, it
might not be enough. Better to leave the evidence here and
attempt to escape. That way he would have done all he could.
'Come out with your hands up now! You are surrounded!'
He staggered towards the window, grabbing a chair as he went
and sending it smashing into the window at the rear of the
kitchen with such force it went straight through. Which was
the moment when Lench realized that the police almost
certainly didn't have the back of the house covered - either that
or they weren't armed - because no-one had reacted to the
chair's exit. Without looking back, he hoisted himself onto the
worktop, looked out into the empty garden, then went head-first
through the hole he'd made.
Getting up again immediately, he half-hopped, half-ran, towards
the field beyond. No-one tried to stop him. No further
shouts of 'armed police' came from either his left or right. He
kept going, ignoring the pain.
He sensed freedom.

47

The moment Bolt heard the sound of further gunshots coming
from inside, he got to his feet and ran round the side of the

house, the phone to his ear. As the operator came on he gave his
name and rank and told him hurriedly that he needed armed
police and an ambulance to a house at the top of Ranger's Hill
in Hambleden. 'I don't have the address but I can confirm shots
have been fired and it's a possible kidnap situation. Repeat:
shots have been fired. You need to get ARVs here fast.' He put
the phone back in his pocket, not wanting to stay on the line and
have to concentrate on two things at once. Unarmed and alone,
he was undoubtedly risking his life, but he also felt that he had
to do something. There were almost certainly people dying in
there.
He reached the front door. It was shut. Pulling open the
letterbox, he decided bluffing was his only chance. In such
situations you rarely have time to think things through. If you
did, you'd never go up without a gun against half the villains the
job threw up.
Another loud shot came from inside, mixed in with quieter
ones that Bolt knew were being muffled by a silencer. He could
hear the pings the bullets made as they struck wood and metal.
'Armed police! Drop your weapons!' He shouted the words
with as much authority as he could muster, and hoped for the
best.
The gunfire stopped. Straight away. Bolt waited for two
seconds, just to make sure that they weren't suddenly going to
change their minds and aim their guns at him, then looked left
and right. No-one was sneaking up on him. 'Come out with your
hands up now!' he called out. 'You are surrounded!' He didn't
know what on earth he was going to do when they did actually
come out with their hands up. He didn't even know who the
villains were. But of one thing he was sure: if he sounded
confident enough and they did indeed step outside with their

hands pointing skyward and their guns nowhere to be seen, he
could probably handle them until the cavalry got here.
He moved away from the door, ready to give the first man out
a helpful slap if he saw the extent of Bolt's lack of resources and
proved troublesome, but a second later he heard the sound of a
window being smashed. After a further, longer pause, a male
voice called out to say that he was unarmed and that the man
they wanted was getting away. It might have been a trick, but the
voice sounded genuine, so Bolt opened the door and ran inside,
turning in the direction from where the shots had been coming.
There were two bodies lying on the kitchen floor, partly
obscured by the kitchen table, arms entwined in a position that
looked both unnatural and uncomfortable. They were staring up
at him, and though their faces were grimy and drawn, like
startled scarecrows, he recognized them immediately as Tom
and Kathy Meron. They appeared unhurt, and there was a pistol
- a Browning or similar - with a four-inch silencer attached,
lying a few feet from Tom Meron's hand. On the floor in front of
Bolt was a silver Walther PPK that was still producing a thin line
of smoke, and next to it a pair of discarded gloves and a knife.
'He's getting away,' yelled Meron, extricating himself from his
wife's embrace, his eyes wide and desperate. 'He's got our kids.
You've got to do something.'
Bolt looked at the window from where the man in the balaclava
had fired at him only a minute or two earlier. There was a huge
hole in it, easily enough for a man to get through. He ran over and
saw his attacker limping towards the end of the garden where a
waist-high fence led to a fallow field and woodland beyond. He
was obviously hurt but moving fast, and with reinforcements
still realistically at least five, more likely ten, minutes away, there
was every chance that he would indeed get away.

'Where are the rest of you?' demanded Tom Meron, coming
up beside Bolt and following his gaze out of the window.
'It was a bluff,' Bolt told him. 'I'm on my own.'
'You've got to stop him!' shouted Kathy Meron, getting to
her feet. 'If he escapes, our children die. That's how he got us
here.'
'I'm going after the bastard,' said Meron, and he turned away.
Bolt pulled him back. 'Stay here, I'll go,' he said. 'I'll be able
to stop him.'
He hurriedly pulled on a pair of scene-of-crime gloves and
grabbed hold of the Walther and the Browning, pushing them
both into the pockets of his suede jacket, not wanting them to
stay in the hands of the Merons in case they did something
stupid. Then he ran out of the front door, round the back of the
house, and started after the man in black.
By now, Bolt's target was negotiating the fence and was trying
to drag his bad leg over it. He was having some difficulty.
Twenty-five yards separated them. Bolt had given up smoking
five years earlier, visited the gym two, sometimes three, times a
week, and at school had been a champion sprinter. He knew he
was going to catch his quarry, but behind him he could hear the
sound of footfalls and heavy breathing. Tom Meron was coming.
Maybe Kathy too. If he wasn't careful, they could fuck this
arrest up royally.
The man in black got his leg up and eased himself down the
other side of the fence before stumbling away. He had seen his
pursuer but was still trying to get away, even though he must
have known he didn't have a chance.
Bolt accelerated, reached the fence, took it in an athletic
one-handed bound that impressed even him, and charged down
his target, now only feet away. The target was a big man. So was

Bolt, but this guy had a couple of stone on him, and most of it
looked to be muscle. The man in black started to turn, but his
bad leg went from under him and he fell onto his good knee.
Bolt had spent more than ten years in the Flying Squad chasing
down armed robbers and was well used to dramatic and violent
arrests, so he kept coming, jumping up and using his momentum
to kick the man full in his balaclava-clad face. He shot over
backwards and Bolt rolled him over, drove a knee into his
kidneys and twisted a muscular arm up behind his back, encountering
little resistance.
He leaned forward so his mouth was next to the target's ear.
'You're nicked, son,' he hissed.
'Sure,' came the reply. The word was delivered with deliberate
casualness, even though it was obvious the man was in pain. 'No
problem.'
'I'm arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder and
kidnap,' he continued, reeling out the standard police caution.
Bolt then heard Tom Meron coming over the fence and
running up to them. 'Keep back!' he shouted at him. A few yards
further on he could see Kathy approaching too, her progress
slower. She looked like she might collapse with exhaustion at
any minute.
Meron ignored him. 'Where are my kids?' he screamed,
kneeling down beside the man in black's head and trying to
wrestle off his balaclava. 'Where are my fucking kids? Tell me or
I'll kill you!'
'Please get him off me,' said the other man calmly.
'Leave him, Mr Meron. Let me handle this.'
Their faces were only inches apart and Bolt could see the
anguish carved deep into Meron's every pore. He seemed to
radiate pure animal fear, like electricity. Even his hair was

standing upright. Bolt knew that he was beyond reasoning, and
who could blame him?
'His name's Lench and he's got my kids. We've got to find
them. Please!' As he spoke, Meron finally tore free the balaclava
and scratched ferociously at the other man's face. 'Tell me
where my fucking kids are! Tell me!'
Lench tried to pull free but was unable to. For a moment, Bolt
made no effort to stop Meron as he gouged chunks out of the
pale, pockmarked face beneath him.
'I don't know what the hell he's talking about,' said Lench,
trying to look at Bolt.
His eyes were dead onyx, utterly emotionless. Bolt had seen
similar before, in various cells and interview rooms. Killer's
eyes.
'He's assaulting me while I'm in your custody. Stop him or I'll
be on to the IPCC
Bolt was in no mood to help this arrogant bastard, who clearly
knew the law and its limitations inside out, but as Kathy Meron
arrived and aimed a kick into Lench's ribs, shrieking that she'd
kill him unless he talked, he knew things were getting out of
hand.
He made a decision.
'Tom, get Kathy away now,' he ordered. Their eyes met and a
message passed between them. The message said that, one way
or another, Bolt would get them the information they needed so
badly. 'Back to the house. Right away.'
'I don't know anything about their kids,' said Lench.
'Help me, please,' pleaded Tom Meron.
Bolt nodded, and watched as Meron got to his feet and threw
his arms around Kathy before she could land another kick.
'What the hell are you doing?' she called out as he dragged

her away. 'He's the only one who knows! We can't let him
go!' Meron whispered something in her ear, and her resistance
seemed to disappear. Bolt watched as they climbed over the
fence together.
Bolt's mobile rang. He let it go to message. He couldn't hear
any sirens yet. Only three or so minutes had passed since
he'd made that initial call but the cavalry would be here soon.
Especially as he was no longer answering his mobile phone.
'Tell me where the kids are, Lench,' he said evenly, using both
hands to push the other man's arm high up his back.
Lench grunted in pain, and tried without success to resist.
'This is a case of mistaken identity,' he repeated. 'I don't know
what they're talking about. Now, let me go. You're assaulting a
prisoner.'
'If anything happens to them, you'll never see the outside of a
prison again. Do you understand that? Every day for the rest of
your life you'll be looking at the world through a set of bars,
knowing that the view is never going to change.' Bolt continued
to apply the pressure on the arm, positioning it at an ever more
precarious angle. Much more force and it would break.
'I'm definitely going to have you for assault now,' hissed
Lench, through gritted teeth. 'My lawyers are fucking Rottweilers.
They'll have your arse in a sling for this. You know
you've got nothing on me.'
In the distance, Bolt heard the first sounds of sirens across the
valley. They'd be here soon. Two or three minutes at most.
'Where are the kids?' he asked once again. 'Tell me or I'll bust
it.'
'Bust it and you can kiss goodbye to your pension. You'll
never be able to explain away a broken arm.' Even though he
was in obvious pain, Lench somehow managed a small laugh. He

knew damn well that Bolt's threat was impotent, and that every
second he didn't talk brought him closer to his lawyers.
The DI had met plenty of men like him before. Hardened
career criminals. Men with a degree of intelligence and street
cunning who knew the weaknesses of the system back to
front. Who knew that the greatest mistake they could make was
to admit to anything. Who knew that even the best evidence
could be torn apart in court by clever, well-educated defence
barristers. Who knew that plenty of trials collapsed on legal
technicalities because judges, in their wigs and gowns, followed
the law to the letter, even if it clashed with common sense. Who
knew that juries could be bribed and intimidated if the person
doing the bribing and intimidating was determined enough. Who
knew, ultimately, that the law was weighted in their favour.
What, then, was the point in admitting to anything?
Bolt released the pressure and stood up. Lench rolled over so
that he was facing the man arresting him. His face was small and
round, the features cruel and unhealthy. His pale, dead-looking
skin was lined and cratered with acne scars and stretched tight
over uneven and prominent cheekbones that served to obscure
the cold, slit-thin eyes. As they faced each other, and Lench
rubbed his arm, his bloodless lips spread in a knowing sneer.
'You'll pay for doing that,' he said, more confident now.
'Maybe when all this is over, I'll come and do something to your
kids.'
'I haven't got any.'
'Pity. One day, eh?' Lench sat up, still rubbing his arm, and
looked down at his injured foot. 'Get me an ambulance. I need
this foot looked at.'
Bolt had learned to be patient in the face of the abuse of
those he'd nicked. Every copper had to be. To react, especially

in an age when there were cameras everywhere, was potentially
disastrous. Most of the time the abuse was just bluster, and he
was able to brush it off, knowing that the guy was likely to be
going down; but with this man, Lench, it was different. The
bastard knew the odds were stacked in his favour. He also knew
that any mention of the kids and their whereabouts would
incriminate him hugely. Bolt thought about what might happen
to the Meron children. The people who held them were ruthless.
It would probably be easier to get rid of the children rather than
let them go. Murder them and make their bodies disappear.
Bolt thought of Mikaela, pictured her as she was. Wondered
what she'd advise him to do.
'One of these sirens better be an ambulance. This foot needs
looking at.'
Bolt turned around. He could no longer see Kathy and Tom
Meron. He guessed that they were back at the house, waiting for
him to get the information out of Lench, trusting that he could
deliver. The emergency services sounded like they were coming
into the village now. Time was running out.
His mobile started ringing again.
The kids could die. They might already be dead. Or they
might already have been released. He just didn't know, and the
man in front of him, sitting there with the cocky look on his face,
was the only one with the information.
Bolt pulled the pistol with the silencer out of his pocket, and
released the safety. He pointed it at Lench's lower abdomen.
A flicker of doubt crossed Lench's face but disappeared so
fast it could almost have been something Bolt imagined.
'Tell me the location of the kids now or I put a bullet in you.'
Bolt's arm was steady and his face impassive, but inside he
was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and desires, knowing

that what he was about to do would put his whole career and
even his freedom at risk. He was threatening to shoot a prisoner.
He'd never done anything remotely like this before. He'd killed
a man once during his Flying Squad days, but that had been an
ambush and his victim had been armed, resisting arrest, and
pointing a sawn-off Remington automatic at Bolt's head. In
other words, what he'd done was justified. But this .. . this was
different. But still he kept his arm steady.
Lench sighed in the manner of a primary school teacher
showing exasperation at a particularly irritating pupil. 'So now
I've got you on threats to kill as well as assault. You're in a lot of
trouble.'
Bolt pulled the trigger and shot him in the gut. Lench's upper
body was knocked backwards by the momentum of the bullet
but he remained upright. He gasped frantically and his eyes flew
wide open, then he clutched at the wound, trying to do something
to ease the pain. Finally, he rolled over onto his side,
moaning loudly.
Bolt leaned down and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck,
pulling him round so they were facing each other. 'Tell me
where they are or the next shot's into your bollocks.'
'Fuck you,' Lench spat, blood dribbling out of the corner of
his mouth.
Bolt shoved the silencer against his crotch. 'Last chance not to
talk like a two-year-old girl for the rest of your life.' He pushed
down on the gun. 'I'm already flicked. Nothing's going to stop
me fucking you too.'
Their eyes met. It was easy to tell that Bolt wasn't lying.
'Twenty-four Limestone Street in Hendon. The ground-floor
flat. That's where they are.' More blood leaked out of Lench's
mouth, running down his chin. He started coughing, and said

something about an ambulance, but Bolt couldn't make it out
amid the choking sounds.
Bolt stood back up. The emergency services were coming
up the hill now, only a matter of yards away. As many as
four different sirens shrieking. Enough to have the ramblers
dispersing for miles.
'Armed police!' he shouted without warning. 'Drop your
weapon, now! Now!'
Lench rolled over so he was lying on his back, staring up at
Bolt, his expression suddenly calm. He knew what was happening.
That this was the end of the road. If anything, it was a relief.

'Armed police!' Bolt screamed again, and shot Lench in his
left eye. Blood sprayed the grass behind his head, and he went
into convulsions.
At the same time, the DI threw the Walther PPK on the
ground next to the dying man's uninjured arm and reached into
his pocket for his mobile. He speed-dialled Mo Khan's number,
willing his partner to pick up the phone.
He did, after three rings. Once again the noise of kids filled
the background.
'Hello, boss, any news?'
Bolt spoke rapidly. 'Call nine-nine-nine anonymously and
tell the police that you've just seen two young children being
manhandled into a flat at twenty-four Limestone Street in
Hendon, and you're absolutely sure that they're being held
against their will. Have you got that?'
'No problem. Do you want me to go over there?'
'Yes, go and check the place out, but don't get involved unless
there's no choice.' He could hear cars pulling into the driveway
at the front of the house now. 'And one other thing: we never
had this conversation. Understand?'

'Sure, boss, whatever you say.' He hung up without another
word.
Bolt exhaled loudly. Mo would do what he'd been requested
to do, he was sure of that. But their relationship had, in those
few moments, changed for ever.
He put the mobile back in his pocket and turned away, feeling
unsteady on his feet. He couldn't believe what he'd just done. It
made him want to throw up, but he held himself together,
knowing that only by keeping his wits about him was he going to
get out of this situation in one piece.
He clambered over the fence and began to walk slowly up the
garden towards the two black-clad armed police officers moving
carefully towards him, rifles outstretched.

48

I was at the front of the house, holding Kathy tightly, telling her
that the plainclothes cop who'd rescued us would find out where
Chloe and Max were being held while praying I was right, when
two police cars pulled into the driveway, sirens blaring, followed
by an ambulance. All three vehicles screeched to a halt and
three guys with rifles who looked like something out of Robocop jumped out of the first.
'We've had an emergency call,' shouted one of them, a bullet
headed guy in his thirties. 'Can you please put your hands on
you heads and step apart.'

'It's not us,' shouted Kathy in return, her face dirty and
tear-stained. 'They're at the bottom of the garden.'
'Please do as we say, madam,' demanded the cop, remaining
about twenty feet away. Although his weapon wasn't trained on
us, it wasn't exactly pointed away either. Behind him two more
officers, unarmed this time, stepped out of the other car. The
ambulance crew remained in their vehicle. More sirens blared in
the near distance.
We followed their instructions and kept our hands firmly on
our heads. It struck me that this was the fourth time in less than
twenty-four hours that someone had pulled a firearm on me.
'Now, can both of you get down on your knees, please?'
Kathy cursed audibly. She'd always had a rebellious attitude
to the police, her being a college lecturer and all. But these guys
didn't look like they were in the mood to be argued with, and I
was long past arguing anyway. I went down to my knees, and a
second later she followed.
'Is anyone hurt?' asked the cop.
'We're OK,' I answered, 'but the detective who rescued us ran
round the back after the man holding us.'
'He's got our kids,' added Kathy. 'The man who was holding
us has got our kids. Please make sure you don't kill him.'
'Is he armed?'
'Yes,' we both said. 'And there's another man in the cottage
as well,' I added, 'but he's unarmed. And hurt.'
'Has he been shot?'
'No.'
'We had reports of a gun battle. Who else was involved?'
I briefly told him what had happened, and he gave me a
puzzled look, as if he couldn't imagine a man like me with a gun.
I could see his point.

'OK, we're going to secure the area,' he told us. He then
spoke hurriedly to his two armed colleagues, who disappeared
round the back of the house.
Meanwhile a police Range Rover had pulled up on the side of
the road outside and disgorged a further three armed officers.
They came onto the drive and, after speaking to the bullet
headed cop, two of them peeled off and came over to me. I was
told to get to my feet again and was quickly and silently frisked
for weapons. 'He's clear,' called out one of the officers, and I was told I could go, although quite where I wasn't sure.
I walked forward and waited while an unarmed female
officer who'd appeared out of nowhere quickly frisked Kathy.
She gave her the all-clear and the two of us were led over to
the ambulance, where the two-man crew asked if we were all
right.
'We just want our kids,' I said, looking back over my shoulder.
'I'm sure they'll be fine,' said the older of the two.
'How the hell do you know?' demanded Kathy.
His colleague, a stocky guy in his twenties with a South
African accent, told her that the police were doing all they
could. His voice was soft and soothing, and as he spoke he sat
Kathy down on the driver's doorstep and crouched down to
check her out. I hoped he was right. When the detective who
rescued us had told me to get Kathy back to the house, there'd
been something in his lean, scarred features and sky-blue eyes I
don't think I've seen too many times before. It was moral
strength. This guy had signalled to me that he could handle
things. That he would somehow make the cold-hearted thug
talk. I'd known better than to doubt him.
But had he succeeded?
The older ambulanceman had an arm on my shoulder and was

offering me a bottle of water. I took it with a nod of thanks and
drank deeply, still looking back towards the house.
And then the detective came round the corner, several inches
taller than the two armed officers flanking him. One of them was
holding the pistol with the silencer in one hand. The detective's
eyes met mine and he looked grim-faced.
'Did he tell you where my kids are?' I asked, breaking free
from the ambulanceman.
The armed cop who wasn't holding the pistol put out an arm to
move me aside, but I brushed it away and stopped in front of him.
The detective stopped too. We were only three feet apart.
'He was armed. I had no choice but to shoot him.'
'Is he dead?' I asked incredulously.
He nodded. 'I think so. I'm sorry.'
I charged forward before either of the two cops could stop me,
grabbing the detective by the collar and shoving my face towards
his. 'Bastard!' I shouted, but I made sure my ear was by his
mouth so he could speak.
He said three words that filled me with elation: 'I've sorted it.'
Then something that sounded like 'I've got a guy going over
there.'
I was pulled off him and shoved away violently by one of the
armed cops. Kathy came running up to me.
'What's happened? What the hell happened?'

I yanked her as far away from any witnesses as possible. 'Act
upset,' I hissed at her, and she seemed to understand. 'He says
it's sorted, that Lench told him where the kids are. He's got
someone going over there.' I pulled her close and whispered that
Lench was dead.
'Good,' she said, and then, with an acting skill that I have to
say surprised me, she fell to her knees, crying.

Seconds later, the South African ambulanceman was down
comforting her and he and the woman police officer who'd
searched her a couple of minutes earlier helped her to her feet.
I turned away and saw our detective being put into one of the
police cars and the pistol with the silencer being bagged by an
officious-looking man in a raincoat who'd also appeared from
nowhere. The bottle of water was still in my hand and I took
another long drink, hoping he'd be all right.
But had I been a betting man I wouldn't have put money on it.

49

Mo Khan pulled into Limestone Road just before ten, a little
over twenty-five minutes after Bolt had called him. It was a quiet
residential road of post-war semi-detached housing that had
probably seen better days, and straight away he saw a small
cluster of police cars and ambulances double-parked on the
right-hand side about halfway up. They were blocking the road
and it was obvious there was no way past, but Mo drove up
anyway.
A young uniformed officer broke off from a small knot of
police gathered round the back of one of the ambulances and
walked into the middle of the road, holding up his hand. His
expression was irritated. Mo came to a halt a few feet in front of
him and let down his window. The officer came up to the
driver's side and Mo gave him a disarming smile.

'Excuse me, officer, I live down here. Is there a problem?'
The officer lost his irritated look. It was, thought Mo, always
amazing what politeness could do to win people over.
'I'm sorry, sir, there's no access. We've got an operation
ongoing.'
Mo feigned surprise. 'Nothing serious, I hope? This has always
been a quiet street, and I've got kids. I wouldn't like to think
there's anything going on that could affect them.'
'It's nothing for you to worry about, sir. I can promise you
that.'
'It's not drugs, is it? Tell me it's not drugs.'
The officer leaned down closer and gave him a conspiratorial
look. One man to another. 'To be honest, it looks like a home
alone case. A couple of children were left in the house down
there. Young ones.'
'God, how awful,' said Mo. 'Who the hell would do something
like that?'
'Well, we got an anonymous call from someone who said he
saw them being dragged into the house. That's why we've turned
up in force.'
'They're OK, though, are they? The kids?'
'They're fine. A bit upset, as you'd expect, but no physical
injuries. They're in the back of the ambulance at the moment,
but there was no-one in the house with them. I think it must
have been a concerned neighbour who called, and he said that
it was a kidnap just to make sure we turned up.' He shrugged
his shoulders to signify that this explanation would satisfy
him.
'As long as they're all right, that's the main thing,' said Mo.
'Thanks for letting me know.'
He said his goodbyes and reversed up the road. He'd done

what his boss had asked him to do, but he now wondered what
on earth had happened to lead the DI to the two kidnapped
children. He guessed that they were the Merons' kids, but the
way this investigation had twisted and turned he wouldn't have
been surprised if they'd turned out to be Lord Chief Justice
Parnham-Jones's illegitimate children from an affair with the
Prime Minister's wife.
Mo had known Mike Bolt for over two years. He trusted him
completely and had always been loyal to him. Even so, he was
worried. The boss had insisted he make the call to the police
anonymously, rather than go through the established channels.
There would only have been one reason for this: Bolt didn't
want anyone to know that it was he who'd got this information.
Which meant that he had to have got it illegally.
Mo wasn't naive enough to think that corners never got cut in
the pursuit of results. They did. He'd cut them himself on
occasion. So had the boss, who because of his background
in the Flying Squad had come up against some pretty vicious
villains. But something in his tone of voice when he'd called Mo,
the quiet desperation underlying the curtly delivered orders,
made him feel that this time it was different. That this time
the corners had been cut drastically. He'd reserve judgement
until he found out more, but he didn't like the feeling he was
getting.
As he drove, he called the boss's mobile on hands-free for an
update on the situation, but it was switched off. He didn't leave
a message.
Someone had once said to him that a man's first loyalty was to
his family, his second to his friends. The authorities, the state,
the law, all of these came a long way down the list. But this
wasn't what concerned Mo Khan. Mike Bolt was his friend, but

if he had to lie to protect him and by doing so perjure himself,
would he not be risking his career, and therefore the wellbeing
of his family?
It was a choice he hoped he didn't have to make.

50

The next hour passed in a blur. Kathy and I were both given a
cursory examination at the scene by a white-haired doctor who
kept muttering to himself. He pronounced us both fit and well,
which suggested a lack of observational skills on his part, before
disappearing round the back of the house to take a look at
Lench.
Kathy was then arrested by the officious-looking detective in
the raincoat on suspicion of the murder of Vanessa Blake. She
tried to protest, but did so without looking at me, and she didn't
resist as she was led away. She was driven off in a marked police
Escort with me following in a separate car. I was informed that
we were both being taken for separate questioning at Reading
police station. Officers from Reading CID wanted to interview
me about what had happened at the house; Southampton CID
were also interested in having a chat about events at our cottage
the previous night. Apparently, the body of a man had been
pulled from the wreckage and they wanted, quite reasonably I
suppose, to find out how he'd got there. I asked about Daniels
but neither of the officers driving me knew anything about

that. I assumed that meant he'd escaped. I hoped so. There'd
definitely been something not quite right about him, but he'd
saved my life at least once, possibly twice, and you've got to give
a person credit for that.
Five minutes from the station, as I sat in the back of the car,
still trying to come to terms with the fact that I'd beaten a
hardened criminal senseless and traded gunfire with a proven
killer, the police radio crackled into life, the voice on the other
end asking the driver if I was in the car. The driver said I was,
and the voice then informed us that Max and Chloe had been
found safe and well at an address in Hendon and had been taken
to the Royal Free Hospital as a precautionary measure. As soon
as I heard that, I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried for the
second time that day, so huge was my relief.
'It's OK,' said the officer in the front passenger seat, putting a
hand on my shoulder. 'Let it all out.'
So I did.

51

At the station, I was given a cup of strong black coffee and told
that the body of Irene Tyler, my formidable mother-in-law, had
been discovered in the bedroom of the house where Kathy
had grown up. We'd never got on, as I've already said, but the
news still hit me hard. Harder, I think, than I would have
expected. It was one more tragedy in a twenty-four hours that

had been full of them. They wouldn't tell me how she'd died,
just that they were treating it as suspicious.
After I'd finished the coffee I was taken to one of the interview
rooms, where a male and a female detective wanted to
hear everything that had happened to me since my release from
custody the previous evening. They said that as soon as I'd
finished I'd be taken back to London and reunited with my
children. 'What about my wife?' I asked, but they wouldn't
answer that one, so I let it go, and just told them the whole story.
Occasionally they stopped me to request certain details or to get
clarification of one of my points, but for the most part they just
let me talk, expressing no obvious scepticism at my version of
events, even when I told them how I'd shot at Lench in self
defence, wounding him in the foot. I thought they'd ask me
more about the detective and how he'd come to kill Lench, but"
they skirted around that particular topic, so I volunteered the
information that the detective had chased him and that Lench
had been armed, adding that neither Kathy nor I had seen
what happened after that. I hoped that this way I was helping
him.
As for Kathy's role in the whole thing, I told the truth, mainly
because I didn't see any alternative. I said she'd been having an
affair with Jack Calley and that he had given her the key to a
safety deposit box which apparently contained something from
one of his clients. Other people had clearly been very interested
in getting hold of it, and had tortured then murdered Jack in an
effort to find the box's location. They'd then come after Kathy
and me, and had finally caught us.
'And you have no idea what the safety deposit box contained?'
asked the female detective, a DI in her forties with a
severe haircut that didn't match her personality.

'It's something you can make copies of,' I said, remembering
Lench's earlier interrogation of Kathy.
'And do you think your wife knows?' pressed the female
detective.
'No,' I answered, but in reality I wasn't so sure.
'What about the client? Have you any idea who he, or she,
might be?'
I shook my head. 'The only names I was given were Daniels,
the undercover cop; Mantani, who was one of the people who
kidnapped me; and Lench. He was the one who got killed this
morning.'
'How do you know he was killed?' asked the male detective, a
much younger guy with a very high hairline and the air of
someone who felt sure he was going places a lot more important
than a provincial copshop. He reminded me a little of my boss,
Wesley 'Call me Wes' O'Shea. A smug, self-righteous go-getter
who, if he'd been in the military, would undoubtedly have been
shot by his own men.
'The detective who rescued us told me at the scene.'
The two of them turned to each other, then back to me. I
looked at my watch. It was ten past eleven. I'd been in this room
for three quarters of an hour and I was suddenly exhausted.
'I've told you everything I know,' I said wearily. 'I just want to
see my kids.'
The female detective nodded. 'OK. Interview suspended at
11.11 a.m.'
'By the way,' I said, 'before you turn the tape off I just want to
say that my wife did not have anything to do with Vanessa
Blake's death. The man who attacked me in the library, and who
was armed with the murder weapon, killed her.'
'We'll let the investigating officers on the case know your

comments,' she told me sympathetically. 'Thanks very much for
your co-operation.'
I nodded and shook her outstretched hand. The male
detective didn't bother putting out his. It was clear he didn't
believe everything I'd told him. Well, fuck you, laughing boy,
believe what you want. When you'd been through what I'd been
through in the past day, it took more than some fast-track
graduate with a sharp suit and a cocky attitude to scare you.
When I was outside in the main reception area, I sat down on
one of a row of empty seats to wait for the lift back to town
the female detective had promised me. The place was quiet,
courtesy, I suppose, of it being a Sunday morning - not a peak
time for criminal activity. No-one was being booked in and there
was only the odd hooded delinquent hanging around, waiting
to be seen by his bail officer. I remembered that I'd started
smoking again, and experienced an unwelcome urge for a
cigarette, although even if I'd had any it wouldn't have made any
difference. This part of the station was non-smoking, which
seemed a little unfair to me. The least you could offer a person
you were incarcerating, potentially for some time, was a smoke
to ease them through the situation.
'Mr Meron, how are you doing?' said a voice nearby, interrupting
my thoughts.
I looked up to see DCI Rory Caplin, one of the two men
who'd interviewed me about Vanessa Blake's murder, seventeen
hours and a lifetime ago. His red-grey hair was looking even
more dishevelled than usual and he was dressed casually in
jeans and a black leather jacket that was too short to be fashionable.
'I'm
here to give you a lift over to the hospital to see your
kids,' he said with the kind of sympathetic smile I'd been getting

from people all morning. On him, though, it could just about
pass for genuine.
I yawned. 'I'm surprised they're using a man of your seniority
for that.'
'My colleagues are interviewing your wife, and doing a fine
job of it. I've got to get back to the station, and it's on the way.'
He had his keys in his hand. 'Come on. I've got a lot on today.'
'Have you found the guy who attacked me in the library yet?'
I asked as we walked out together through the main doors.
'Not yet, no. We haven't had any witness sightings of him
either, and we've already taken a number of statements.' He
made little attempt to hide the scepticism in his voice.
'I'm not making it up, Mr Caplin. I was attacked by a man who
was holding the murder weapon. The filleting knife you showed
me yesterday in the interview.'
'The one with your wife's prints on it. Yes, I know. But the
answer remains that we haven't found him yet.'
We walked towards Caplin's car. It was a green-gold Toyota
saloon with plenty of mud stains up the sides. He unlocked it,
and we both got inside. It smelled of air freshener and smoke.
'Have you found any other clues that might lead you to the
killer?' I asked.
'Yes, we have,' he said, starting the engine and pulling away.
There was a silence.
'Care to elaborate?' I said eventually.
'Vanessa Blake was having an affair. We discovered correspondence
at her house that suggested very strongly that she and
her married lover were going to be moving in together in the
very near future.'
'And have you questioned him yet?' I asked as we pulled out
onto the road.

'We're questioning her now,' he answered, and this time the
expression on his face really did convey genuine sympathy. 'I
hate to have to say this, Mr Meron, but the lover in question was
your wife.'

52

Mike Bolt had interviewed dozens, scores, hundreds of criminals
down the years and he knew every interrogation technique
backwards. Just like, he suspected, the man he'd killed an hour
earlier. The secret was to believe the story you were telling. And
if you go over it in your head enough, you will do, even if it's a
lie. And what Bolt was saying was definitely a lie.
When they brought him to Reading police station for questioning
- he wasn't actually arrested, but realistically he'd had
little choice in the matter - his interrogators, men from Reading
CID, had questioned him repeatedly about his version of events,
trying to sound like they were his friends, but also trying, like
any good coppers, to find holes in his story. But he'd stuck to it
like glue. The man he'd shot - armed, and dressed in a balaclava
- had jumped through the kitchen window and fled through the
garden of the property and into the field beyond. Knowing that
the suspect had a gun and was prepared to use it, he, Bolt, had
picked up the Browning with the silencer that Tom Meron
had allegedly fired in an exchange of shots with the suspect, and
given chase. Because the suspect was already wounded, his

progress was slow and Bolt had quickly got to within a few yards of him. At this point they were in the field and he had already
shouted to him twice to drop his weapon. The suspect had then
swung round, gun in hand, looking as if he was going to shoot.
Bolt, still moving, had fired off a round that had caught him in
the belly. However, the suspect was still upright and pointing his
own weapon in Bolt's direction, so he'd come to a halt, taken
aim and fired again, this time hitting him in the head. The
suspect had fallen and, hearing the arrival of police reinforcements,
Bolt had walked briskly back in the direction of the
house to call for first aid.
It was a plausible enough sequence of events, and with Bolt
making no mistakes in his recounting of it, the interrogating
officers had no grounds for further action. It was an extremely
unorthodox situation however, and no-one in the British police
service likes those. He was informed that the matter had been
referred automatically to the IPCC, the Independent Police
Complaints Authority, and that he would have to make himself
available to them whenever they wished to speak with him. He
told them that he understood all that, and was advised to remain
in the interview room because his boss from the NCS, DCS
Steve Evans, had just arrived at the station and would shortly be
on his way over to speak to him. He took the cup of coffee on
offer, his third, and waited.
He didn't feel bad lying, but he did feel depressed that he'd
been put in a position where he'd had to kill a man, essentially
in cold blood. He felt a sense of shock at what he'd done
because ending someone's life, however much they might
deserve it, is always a terrible act that hits any man with a
conscience very hard. You have destroyed someone, taken away
every dream, emotion and memory that person ever had. It was

an awe-inspiring thought, and for Bolt perhaps even more so, as
it went against all his training as an enforcer of the law. But
it had been done, and he hoped that as a result two innocent
lives had been saved.
They hadn't told him whether or not the Merons' children had
been freed safely, and he hadn't asked, because in his version of
events he hadn't spoken to the gunman, but his gut feeling was
that they were OK. No criminal wants to murder two young
children unless he absolutely has to. The fall-out is simply too
great. But Bolt hadn't wanted to take the risk. He told himself
once again that he'd done the right thing. He kept repeating it.
Staring at the coffee and repeating it over and over in his mind.
You did the right thing. He deserved it. You did the right thing.
There was a knock on the door and DCS Evans came into the
room. He was a short, compact man in his late forties with a
well-groomed military-style moustache. Even today, on his day
off, he was sporting a neatly pressed suit, shirt and tie. If either
his first or last names had begun with a D he would forever have
been lumped with the prefix 'dapper', but Dapper Steve didn't
have much of a ring to it, so he remained plain old DCS Evans.
Bolt had met him on several occasions and was confident that,
unlike a lot of the senior figures in the police service, he had the
best interests of his men at heart, and was prepared to stand up
for them. Which, under the circumstances, was no bad thing.
Bolt stood up as he entered and they shook hands. The DCS's
grip was only one rung down from painful, his palm dry.
'Hello, Mike,' he said, looking Bolt squarely in the eye. 'Bearing
up?'
'Just about. It's not a lot of fun being on the wrong end of the
questions for once.'
Evans moved past him and took a seat at the other end of the

table. Bolt took a sip from his coffee. It was tepid and weak, but
he took another sip anyway.
'It's always a tough call having to make the decision to pull
the trigger,' said the DCS. 'Very few of us ever get put in that
position. Even fewer get put in it twice.'
Bolt didn't say anything. There wasn't a lot he felt he could
say. He knew that as a young man Evans had served in the
Falklands, and was a veteran of the battle of Goose Green,
where he'd undoubtedly had to make the decision to pull the
trigger, so at least he wasn't spouting the usual 'I feel your pain'
bullshit you got from some of the Brass.
'Because this is the second fatal shooting incident in your
career,' Evans continued, 'and because you were using an unauthorized
weapon when you opened fire, there's going to be
even closer scrutiny of your actions than would otherwise be the
case. The PCC are going to be going over your story again and
again. You've got to be prepared for that.'
'I'm prepared, sir,' said Bolt. 'I didn't do anything wrong.'
'I'm not saying you did, Mike. In fact, I'm sure you didn't.
You've had an unblemished career spanning seventeen years,
and you're a hugely valuable member of our team. But not
everyone thinks like we do, and at the moment, given the
circumstances, I've got no choice but to suspend you from duty
on full pay.'
Bolt shook his head angrily. 'Don't do this to me, sir. You
know how long the investigation'll'take. Those bastards don't do
anything quickly. I could be off duty for months. Years even.'
'Once the air's cleared, we'll petition to put you back on the
job, but we've got to be seen to be acting decisively.'
'The guy was armed. He was pointing a gun at me. What the
hell was I meant to do? Stand there and let him use me for target

practice, so that everyone could turn round afterwards and say
what a hero I was for acting with such restraint? He can be
proud of himself except, oh shit, he's dead.'
'Listen,' said Evans, sitting forward and raising his voice, 'my
sympathies are with you, Mike. They are. I've got no doubt the
bastard deserved it. There you are, I've said it. But that's my
personal opinion, not official policy, and my job, unfortunate
though it may be, is to follow official policy. I'm sorry, but that's
the way it is.' He sat back again and sighed. 'I'll do everything I
can to get the suspension lifted over the next few weeks, so bear
with me, OK? In the meantime, have a rest, and make sure you
have a federation representative present whenever you talk to
the PCC. Co-operate, but don't make it easy for them.'
Bolt was surprised by his words. Not because the DCS's
opinions were particularly controversial, but because he was
prepared to speak his mind, and you didn't get that very
often from senior officers. Most of them believed one thing and
spouted another. He was also relieved that Evans was coming
out so obviously on his side.
'OK,' he said, 'I'll have a rest, but I don't want to be resting
for too long. We've got a lot of work to do.'
Evans nodded. 'One other thing I think you ought to know,'
he said. 'Because of the tangled nature of this case, the NCS
are taking overall control of it. We're now in charge of the
investigations into the murders of Jack Calley and Vanessa
Blake, and all the other investigations linked to it, including the
suicide of the Lord Chief Justice.'
'And I'm not going to be a part of it?'
'As soon as I get you back from suspension, you'll be involved.'
'I know as much as anyone, probably more than anyone,
about what's been going on. You need me.'

'I know that, but there's nothing I can do about it. I've
explained the situation.'
Bolt knew there was no point arguing. 'If that's how you want
it,' he said, picking up the coffee.
Evans's mobile rang. 'Excuse me,' he said, looking vaguely
embarrassed.
He was on the phone for maybe a minute, no more. During
that time his expression became progressively more concerned,
and the lines on his face deepened. 'Are you sure?' he asked
once. Then he sighed, cursed, and ended the call.
'What's happening?' asked Bolt, intrigued.

Evans got to his feet. He looked worried and just a little
unsure of himself.
'We've got a situation,' he said. 'A potentially serious one.'

53

DCI Rory Caplin's revelation about Kathy, the latest in a long
line, was the final straw for me. What next? I thought. The news
that she'd been bankrolling al-Qaeda for the past ten years?
That she was hiding Nazi war criminals? For one of the few
times in my life I was shocked into absolute silence.
'I'm sorry,' declared Caplin as we drove through Reading's
deserted town centre in the direction of the M4. 'I suppose you
would have found out sooner or later, but it might have been
easier once you'd recovered from everything else.'

I stared out of the passenger window as we passed the drab,
redbrick Huntley and Palmers biscuit building. The sight of it
seemed to suit my mood.
'You said you discovered correspondence at Vanessa Blake's
house.'
'That's right.'
'What kind of correspondence?'
'Among other things a joint mortgage application in both their
names, which they'd both signed. We checked the signatures.
They were genuine. There were other bits and pieces as well.
Photographs of them together. One or two of them, er . . .' He
cleared his throat for maximum effect. 'Intimate.'
'All right, all right, I get the picture.'
But I didn't. I didn't get the picture at all. I thought that Kathy
had been in love with Jack Calley. That's what she'd admitted to
me the previous night. Their relationship had been so intimate
that he'd entrusted her with that fateful key. She'd even wept
over his passing. But had she? Maybe she'd been weeping not
for Jack but for Vanessa. Maybe she hadn't even been seeing
Jack. The only confirmation I had that she had been was what
she'd told me, but it could just as easily have been a lie. In the
end, it was impossible to know what to believe.
All I knew for certain was that I needed to see my kids, kiss
them both, and then go to sleep for twelve hours. And maybe,
just maybe, I'd feel a lot better about everything when I woke
up.
An unwelcome image of Kathy and Vanessa in bed together
crossed my mind, slowed down and stayed where it was. Vanessa
had never been my cup of tea. Knowing that she couldn't stand
me and wouldn't touch a man if her life depended on it had seen
to that; but in fairness she wasn't unattractive, and unwelcome

or not, for a few moments I couldn't get the sight of the two of
them naked out of my mind.
Shaking my head at the baseness of my instincts, I turned to
Caplin. I wondered if he and his colleagues had had a laugh
about my wife's extra-curricular activities. I suspected that they
had, and felt vaguely embarrassed that I was going to be stuck in
the car with him all the way back to London.
'Have you got a cigarette?' I asked.
'I didn't think you smoked,' he answered, reaching into the
waist pocket of his leather jacket and pulling out a crumpled
pack of Rothmans and a lighter. He pushed them in my direction,
asking me to light one for both of us.
I did, and handed his back to him. He put it to his mouth and
took a long, tight drag that seemed to hollow his cheeks. At the
same time, his jacket sleeve rode up, revealing a thick white
bandage, yellowing in places and still flecked with vivid droplets
of blood, wound around his wrist.
That bandage hadn't been there yesterday afternoon in the
interrogation room.
Caplin moved the cigarette away from his lips. He winced
slightly as if he'd been stung, then, as casually as possible, rested
his hand on his thigh. The sleeve rode back down. I stared at it
for several seconds before looking away. My chest felt tight as
the adrenalin began to kick in.
We came to a set of red lights. There were two cars queueing
in front of us. Caplin dragged again on the cigarette and put his
hand on the wheel. The sleeve rode up for a second time.

The bandage had darkened on one edge.
Drip.
A perfectly rounded droplet of blood fell down from it and landed on his jeans. He looked down at it. So did I. Then we

both looked up and our eyes met. And I knew without a doubt
that he'd been the man Kathy had cut with the kitchen knife at
the holiday cottage last night.
And that was the moment the whole thing came together.
Suddenly I knew who'd killed Vanessa Blake, who'd attacked
me in the library, and very possibly who'd been involved in the
kidnapping of my children.
But it was too late, because the fact that he also knew that I
knew all this was now written all over his face.
Drip. A second drop of blood fell onto his jeans. Once again
we both watched its descent through the stale, smoky air of the
Toyota. Ahead of us, the lights turned green and the first car
pulled away.
I went for the door. Fast, the cigarette falling from my hand.
But not fast enough. He clicked on the central locking and I found myself pulling uselessly at the handle. The car in front of
us moved forward. I turned back towards him and saw that he'd
shoved the cigarette into his mouth and was going for something
in his inside pocket. I'd been through enough to know what it
was going to be. I'd also been through enough to know that I
had to react. So, as he pulled the pistol free, I punched him in
the side of the face with one hand and grabbed his injured wrist
- the one holding the gun - with the other, squeezing with as much force as I could muster.
He let out a squawk of pain and the gun went off with a
deafening blast, putting a hole in the middle of the windscreen.
He reached round with his other arm to land a punch on me
but I didn't give him a chance, hitting him again with an uppercut,
this time in the jaw. His head was knocked to one side,
and he cursed loudly. I punched him a third time, pressing my
advantage, feeling a terrible elation, wanting to knock the living

shit out of the bastard who'd sat interrogating me less than
twenty-four hours ago, even playing the role of good cop, while
all the time knowing that I was completely innocent. I imagined
him taking my kids from Irene's house, and that really got me. I
grabbed at his hair and gave it a vicious tug, then tried to slam
his head into the window, but this time I over-reached myself,
and I wasn't prepared for the way he lurched forward in the seat
and drove his gun arm round in a sudden movement that caught
me off guard.
The gun went off again, and this time I felt the rush of air as
the bullet tore past my face, breaking the window behind me.
The noise was deafening, the smell of cordite intense. My cheek
stung where it had been burned by gunpowder residue. I was
thrown off balance. This time Caplin punched me and the blow
sent my head flying back into the broken passenger window.
Instinctively I relaxed my grip on his gun arm and he jerked his
hand away, freeing it.
The driver in the car behind us, clearly a brave man, tooted his
horn, leaning on it for a good five seconds. At the same time I
blinked against the pain of the blow and saw that Caplin's gun
was now pointed at my midriff. Strangely, I didn't feel any fear,
just a sense of resigned weariness. I no longer had any energy
left to fight. If it was time to die, then so be it.
'You fucking idiot,' he said contemptuously. 'You never know
when to stop, do you?'
'Were you lying about Kathy?' I asked. 'Her affair?'

The guy behind us, who was either very shortsighted or
suicidal, blasted away on the horn again.
Caplin looked at me as though I was mad to ask this question
at such a fateful point in my life. 'No,' he answered. 'I wasn't.'
Then he did a strange thing. He apologized. 'I never wanted to

get your kids involved. You've got to know that. I don't hurt
kids.'
I wasn't sure what to say. Instead, I looked at the gun, which
was still pointed at my midriff. In the end I settled for a heartfelt
plea: 'Don't shoot me.'
'I'm not going to,' he said. Almost to himself, he added,
'Christ, why the fuck did I offer you a lift?'
Then, turning the gun round, he put it in his mouth and pulled
the trigger.

54

'So, where am I taking you to?' he asked.

I had to think about it for a moment. 'Home,' I said, but I
wasn't really sure that it was any more. I asked him if he knew
how to get there.
Bolt nodded, and opened the driver's-side door. 'I was there
last night.'
'Is the place OK? Someone, one of Lench's people, broke in
yesterday afternoon. I saw him inside.'
'It's secure,' he answered, getting in. 'They've had a police
guard on it.'
I got in the other side and he switched on the engine. The
clock on the dashboard said 14.35. As I fastened my seatbelt,
Bolt drove out of the car park and through Hambleden village.
There were more people around than earlier - talking in small

groups, some on doorsteps - and two uniformed police officers
were speaking to someone outside the pub. There'd been a lot of
drama here this morning. You don't expect a gun battle in a
picturesque village, but then things seemed to be changing a lot
these days.
I asked if he minded if I smoked. I'd been given a pack of
Benson and Hedges earlier by a sympathetic detective when I'd
been taken back to the station after the incident with Caplin, and I now found that I was desperate to have another. A bad sign.
Bolt gave me a mildly disapproving sideways look, and sighed.
'I guess after all you've been through it'd be a little bit cruel not
to let you. Can you open the window, though?'
I did as he asked and lit up, taking a long draw. It tasted good,
but I noticed that my hands were still shaking a little. It had
been a long twenty-four hours. They'd released Kathy on unconditional
bail, and without charge, an hour earlier and she'd
driven her car back to London to get the children, telling me
that I could come back to the house later. She'd looked pale and
drawn, the shock of the deaths of her mother and two lovers
carved deep into her face, but remained remarkably lucid and
calm. She hadn't explained herself, just given me a small nod to acknowledge my hurt before turning away with her solicitor in
tow.
I'd had to stay behind to answer questions relating to the
death of DCI Caplin, and had given a lengthy statement. There
was a sense of shock among the officers questioning me that one
of their own could have been involved in the bloody events that
had started a day earlier. This shock had become pronounced
when I'd suggested that I thought Caplin's colleague, DC Ben
Sullivan, might also be involved. It struck me in the midst of my
confrontation with the DCI that Sullivan matched the height and

build of the man who'd attacked me in the library, and who'd
appeared at the holiday cottage the previous night with Lench,
Mantani and Caplin. I didn't know whether anyone had been
sent to interview or arrest him, so I asked Bolt.
'I wouldn't know,' he told me. 'I've been suspended.'
'I'm sorry about that,' I said, and I genuinely was. I owed Bolt
a huge favour, and in the end, suspended or not, he was the only
man I actually trusted to drive me back to London on the second
attempt. The Reading police hadn't been too happy about this,
but I'd insisted, and they'd given us both a lift back to his car in
Hambleden.
I took another draw on the cigarette. I felt like talking. 'You
know, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do now that me
and Kathy are in the situation we're in.'
'Do you think it's redeemable?' he asked. 'You and her?'
'I don't think so. Not after all this. I don't think I even know
her any more.' I sighed, trying to articulate my current emotions.
'It's a strange feeling, you know. Empty. Like my life - everything
I knew, everything I loved, everything - it's like it's all just
ended.'
'It's a shock, Tom. But you'll get over it.'
'Easy for you to say, Mr Bolt.'
'You're not my prisoner. You can call me Mike.'
'Well, Mike, put bluntly, I'm fucked, and I don't think anyone
knows exactly how that feels. Even you.'
Bolt didn't say anything for a few moments as he pulled out
onto the main road, heading north towards High Wycombe and
the M40. The road was busier, filling up with Sunday drivers
enjoying the greenery of this pleasant pocket of England now that
the sun had managed to break through the worst of the clouds.
When the detective next spoke, his words were thoughtful and

tinged with a melancholy I wouldn't have associated with a man
like him. 'The thing about life is that it can run in a smooth line
for years on end, so smooth sometimes that you take the whole thing for granted. Tragedies happen in far-off places, involving
people you don't know. Then, bang, out of the blue you hit a
bend in the road and suddenly your whole life's been turned on
its head. That's what's happened to you, and three years ago
that's exactly what happened to me. So, yeah, take my word for
it, Tom. I know what you're going through.'
We slipped into an uneasy silence. Eventually, my interest
pricked, I asked him what had happened to him.
'My wife was killed in a car crash,' he answered, without
looking at me.
'I'm sorry. I didn't know.'
'The reason I'm telling you this is that life does come back to
you. It takes time, it's a hard, lonely road, but eventually you
learn to get back some normality.'
'I'm sorry,' I said again.

'So am 1.1 was driving.'
I was shocked. 'Jesus, that must have been hard.'
'It was. Even now, three years on, I have no recollection of the
crash itself, or what led up to it. We'd been for dinner at a
friend's place. I remember arriving there, and I remember the
first half an hour or so of the evening, but then the whole thing's
a blank until I woke up in hospital twelve hours later. I had
severe abdominal injuries and inte'rnal bleeding, but my wife was
worse, a lot worse. Her parents agreed to turn off her life
support system three days later. I was too ill to make the
decision. I was too ill even to leave my bed and see her. We'd
been married four years and she was two months pregnant.'
'Christ, Mike, I don't know what to say.'

He sighed, and I saw his expression harden. 'You've been
through one hell of a lot in the past day. More than most people
will ever go through in their lives. You're lucky to be alive. So
was I. When they pulled me from the wreckage of my car, it was
touch and go. I didn't think I was so lucky at the time, though.
As soon as I heard what had happened to Mikaela, I wished I
was dead. No question. The six weeks I spent in that hospital,
lying there helpless while my injuries slowly healed, were the
worst of my life. The next six months, sat at home on sick leave
with all the reminders of our time together, weren't much better
either. But eventually I got back to work, I moved house ... I
moved on, I suppose. I still think about Mikaela every day. I still
wonder what would have happened if we'd stayed in that night,
how life would have turned out. Family, children, a house in the
suburbs. But I try not to dwell on it. Life goes on. You've got no
choice but to get on with it.'
'Is that how you got those scars? In the car accident?'
He nodded, touching a finger to the S-shaped pink slash that
ran above his jawline. 'A constant reminder,' he said. 'In case I
ever get too complacent.'
I took a last drag on my cigarette and chucked it out of the
open window. 'I think I'm going to change jobs,' I announced. 'I
hate being a fucking software sales manager.'
I thought of Wesley's oily smile and horseshit motivational
speeches, and remembered that today I'd shot a man, and that
somehow this meant that Wesley could never intimidate me
again. I imagined standing up during the next weekly sales
meeting and, instead of going through a list of frankly imaginary
current business prospects in the hope that they'd be enough
to appease him, simply announcing that I had none whatsoever,
and what's more I was quite happy with this state of affairs,

before sitting back down with a big grin on my face. I could
imagine the look of shock on his face as he realized that his
supreme authority as Vice-President Sales of Ezyrite Software
Services was being challenged, and that when it came down to it
he wasn't as charismatic, popular and invincible as he'd always
thought.
'Do you enjoy being a copper?' I asked Bolt.
He appeared to think about this for a few moments. 'I do
when I get a result, because then you can see that you're making
some sort of difference. But I don't like it when I can't get a
complete line on what's going on. When there are loose ends
that need tying up. Like this case. Why don't you fill me in on
what you know?'
'But if you're suspended, surely it won't make any difference.
I've already said everything I know in the interview.'
'Humour me,' he said. 'We've got a forty-five-minute drive
ahead of us.'
I was reluctant to go through the story again. I didn't much
like being reminded of all the details. But Bolt struck me as
the sort of man who didn't very easily take no for an answer,
and who would probably take my reluctance as a sign of guilt.
So I went through everything in chronological order, with him
regularly interrupting with perceptive questions.
When I'd finished he asked me why I thought Jack Calley
had called me even though we hadn't spoken in four years,
particularly as he was having an affair with my wife.
'He said he wanted me to help him.'
'What possible help could you provide? I don't mean that in a
derogatory way, but I don't see how you, a man ten miles away
from where he was being chased, could assist him in any way. If I
wasfeim, I would have dialled nine-nine-nine.'

I shrugged. 'So would I, but who knows what goes on in the
mind of someone in that situation?'
'Well, you must know,' he said. 'You've been in that position
several times over the past twenty-four hours and you've told me
that when you were being interrogated and threatened with
torture, if you'd known what the hell your interrogators wanted
you'd have told them everything straight away. But it sounds
like Jack didn't.'
'He got freed by Kathy. Then he made a break for it.'
'But he was tortured prior to that, and then, what did you say
was the last thing you heard him say on the other end of the
phone? Your address, wasn't it? He gave them your address.'
I nodded slowly. 'That's right.'
'Why? If what you say is true--'
'It is true.'
'If Calley had handed the key these men were looking for to
your wife, why not just tell them that your wife was in the house
with him? Why give them your address?'
I'd been thinking about this for a while today. 'My guess is he
was trying to protect her. Throwing them off her scent by
sending them to our house. Perhaps he thought that if he could
let me know what was going on, that they were after Kathy, I
could get her away from there.'
'Perhaps,' he mused, although something in his tone suggested
he wasn't entirely convinced.
I played Jack's final phone call over in my mind, and
wondered whether he'd been trying to warn me when he'd
shouted out my address to his pursuers. To let me know they
were coming so I could get out. The last act of a man who'd once
been my best friend. I liked to think so, but, as with everything
else, I couldn't be sure.

I decided it was time to ask Bolt a question since he clearly
had doubts about the reasons behind the call. 'You're the detective,'
I said. 'What do you think?'
'I think,' he answered, looking at me out of the corner of his
eye, 'that your wife's hiding something.'
I gave a humourless laugh. 'I think she's been hiding a lot of
things.'

55

Bolt cooked himself pasta sauce that evening - a slow dish of
tomatoes, Spanish ham from the local deli, fresh garlic and
spring onions, chilli and parmesan. He served it on a bed of
penne with a glass of dry Aussie Chardonnay on the side. He
tried to forget that he'd killed a man that morning. It wasn't
easy, but at least the food tasted good and the wine went
down well. He wondered what he was going to do now that
he was suspended. He'd missed his Dorset fishing trip; a few
days' salmon fishing in the west of Ireland to make up for it
sounded an attractive proposition. He knew he needed the
break, and thanks to his single status and the ultra-cheap rent on
his apartment he wasn't short of cash. He would have to make
himself available to the PCC, but that didn't mean that he had to
sit on his arse at home waiting for them to call. The speed they
usually worked, it would probably be August by the time
theyturned up with their reams of questions and stern, officious

stares. He might as well do something productive in the meantime.
But,
as he'd said to Tom Meron, he didn't like loose ends, and
elements of this case still bugged him. It also bugged him that he
was no longer privy to the information being garnered by the
various investigation teams. He was out in the cold. It made
trying to find the solution to what had happened - what the
safety deposit box actually contained, who the hell wanted its
contents so badly, and why - near enough impossible.
He finished the Chardonnay, and his thoughts turned to
Mikaela. He was surprised he'd told Meron as much as he had. It
wasn't like him to talk about what had happened that night.
He'd always preferred to take the exact opposite of the route the
bereavement counsellors recommended, and brood alone. But
he'd felt sorry for Meron, sitting in the passenger seat, his face
hollow with the shock of the seismic changes in his life, and the
loss that was a part of it. He hadn't told him everything, though.
There were secrets he kept that no-one would ever know. That
he hadn't wanted the child Mikaela was carrying, had still felt he
wasn't ready; how unsupportive he'd been as a husband in those
final weeks, even though he'd agreed to go through with starting
a family; how at the time he was in the habit of drinking at, or
occasionally above, the drink-drive limit when he was out for the
evening; and how he still wasn't sure whether or not he'd had
alcohol on that fateful night. How the couple whose house
they'd been at - Mikaela's friends Chris and Sharon - had
avoided him ever since the accident, and how he was never sure
whether or not they blamed him for what had happened. He
never told anybody about these things, or about the occasional
crippling attacks of guilt he experienced when he went over
them in his mind. Nor would he ever do so.

He felt an attack coming now, a leaden cloak of melancholy
that left unchecked would drag him down into a slow depression.
In an effort to stave it off, he walked over to the window and
looked down at the bright lights of the street below. It was
quieter than usual, being a Sunday evening, but people still
wandered up and down. A bus snaked past and stopped outside
the Feathers, the pub he drank in sometimes. Two young
couples disembarked, their laughter drifting up towards him,
and walked to the Thai place, thirty yards further down the road.
One of the girls leaned into her boyfriend and whispered something
in his ear. They kissed, and Bolt looked away, feeling like
an interloper.
He refilled his glass and took a long sip, wondering whether it
might be worth popping down to the Feathers for a couple of
pints. He knew the landlord pretty well and he was usually good
for a chat when the bar was quiet. He could do with the
company and it would help to take his mind off things.
His mobile rang. He went over to the table in the lounge area and picked it up.
It was Mo. 'Hello, boss, everything OK?' His voice seemed
flatter than usual, the tone cautious.
'Mo, how's it going?'
'I'm OK. I've been busy. What about you? I heard about the shooting this morning.'
'He had a gun,' Bolt said, maybe a little too quickly. 'I gave
him a chance to surrender.'
'DCS Evans says he's hoping you'll be back on duty soon.'
'Him and me both. I'm not the kind of person who likes sitting
around twiddling his thumbs. You made the call to the police
then, about the kids?'
'J»st like you said.'

Bolt knew his friend wanted to ask him how he'd come by the
information he'd called in, so he told him. 'The guy I shot told
me where the kids were. I shot him once in the belly when he
aimed his gun at me, and when he went down I asked him where
they were being held. He told me, but then he went for the gun
again. That's when I shot him a second time.'
'Why didn't you make the call yourself? And why did you
want it done anonymously?'
'I didn't have time to make it myself, and I didn't want people
asking me how I got the information. You're not meant to
interrogate a wounded man.'
There was a painful silence down the other end of the phone.
Bolt could tell Mo was having difficulty believing him. Finally,
he said: "The man you killed: fingerprint records confirm that
his name was David Harrison. He was an ex-soldier who got
involved in the Yugoslav conflict, and who was meant to have
been killed in Bosnia more than ten years ago, but obviously
wasn't. He had an old record for sexual assault, and was named
as a war crimes suspect by the UN in 1995. Apparently, he'd
been involved in several massacres of civilians. Meron said that
he was referred to by the men working for him as Lench, but we
can't find any record of anyone using that name or alias.'
'Do we know who he was working for?'
'From what we're hearing, his boss was a London-based
businessman called Paul Wise.'
'I've heard the name, but I don't know where from.'
'Probably from the Sunday Times Rich List. He's a seriously
wealthy guy, with some very aggressive ways of doing business.
Also, the body of another man was found in the burnt-out
wreckage of the house, and he's been ID'd through his DNA as
a Peter Mantani, an ex-con with a whole raft of convictions for

violence. Mantani's name appears on the payroll of a company
linked indirectly to Paul Wise. It's not a lot to go on, and it
wouldn't do a scrap of good in court, but it's something.'
It made sense to Bolt. The reason Lench had been so confident
when he'd thought he was going to be arrested was
because the person he worked for had a lot of power. Bolt now
remembered reading an article on Wise in one of the Sunday
papers several years earlier. It had detailed his steady rise to
becoming one of the UK's top self-made businessmen. The
reporter doing the story had dropped the odd vague hint that
there was a dark side to Wise's wealth, but Bolt had thought
little of it. There's no shortage of people out there whose money
comes from nefarious business dealings.
'Meron said something about being rescued by an undercover
guy from the NCS with the codename Daniels,' Bolt said. 'The
last he saw of Daniels was at their place in the New Forest. He
was taking on Lench and his cohorts. Do we know anything
about that?'
'There's been no undercover NCS operation against Paul
Wise,' said Mo. 'Whoever Daniels was, he definitely wasn't
NCS.'
'Strange.'
'Also, you ought to know that Kathy Meron gave a full and
detailed statement.'
Bolt felt an icy chill go up his spine. What did that mean
exactly? 'Are you able to tell me the details?'
'She confirmed that the man you shot had kidnapped their
two children and was armed and threatening to kill both of
them, as well as her and her husband, unless she revealed the
whereabouts of a key to a safety deposit box.' Bolt resisted
sighing with relief. So, Kathy hadn't put him in the shit either.

'She also told us that the deposit box contained a tape and a
laptop, both of which belonged to Calley.'
'Really? So she did know what was in it?'
'That's right, but she kept quiet because if the people after her
thought either she or her husband knew anything, she knew
they'd kill them.'
Bolt was intrigued. 'So, are you going to tell me? What was on
the laptop and tape that was so important?'
'According to Kathy, the tape contained a partial confession
from Tristram Parnham-Jones about his involvement in a child
abuse ring. The same one Gallan had been investigating. It also
named names, the majority of whom are dead, but including one
man who isn't.'
'And what's his name?'
'Paul Wise.'
'Jesus, so he's one of them as well. No wonder he wanted to
get his hands on that tape.'
'That's what it looks like,' answered Mo. 'But Kathy's admitted
she's never actually heard the tape. She just knew about what it
contained because Calley had told her. Apparently, all the details
of the allegations were held on the laptop. They'd been compiled
by Calley over a period of some months.'
'But Calley was Parnham-Jones's solicitor. What was he doing
putting together a case against his biggest client?'
Mo sighed. 'It seems that Jack Calley was one of that rare
breed: a lawyer with a conscience. When John Gallan first went
to his superiors in January, they did start a formal investigation
into Parnham-Jones, and obviously the Lord Chief Justice
involved his solicitor. Although the investigation was dropped a
few weeks later due to lack of evidence, Kathy Meron says that
Calley became convinced of his client's guilt and that the fact

that he was helping to keep a dangerous paedophile out of
jail worried him immensely. He even resorted to taping several
of his private meetings with Parnham-Jones, and in one of
them the Lord Chief Justice actually let slip comments that confirmed
his role in some of the alleged crimes. Because of client
confidentiality, the information Calley had couldn't be used in
an open court, but he was so concerned he told Kathy, who was
having an affair with him at the time. She thought he should air
the allegations somehow, but in the end he decided against it,
and a few weeks later the affair fizzled out.
'It was about this time that Kathy started another affair, this
time with her work colleague Vanessa Blake. And it was now
that things started to go wrong. Kathy told Vanessa what she'd
heard about Parnham-Jones, and Vanessa, who was something
of a political activist, was very keen that this information got out
into the public domain. Apparently, she told a reporter she
knew about the existence of this confessional tape, and although
she didn't name names herself, the reporter started digging
around for details. Kathy says she stopped Vanessa from going
any further but she thinks that word got out about the tape, and
that possibly several of the people involved came to hear of its
existence, including Wise.'
'Do you think Wise had anything to do with Parnham-Jones's
death?' Bolt asked him.
'It looks likely, doesn't it? It's safe to assume that Wise's
people got rid of John Gallan, so maybe they decided it was too
much of a risk keeping the Lord Chief Justice alive. What we do know is that Jack Calley phoned Kathy on hearing of ParnhamJones's
death. This was yesterday morning. She said he was
sounding very worried. He was sure that it wasn't suicide, but
murder, and he was worried that, as the owner of the tape, he

might be a target. He was also concerned that Kathy might be
too. She said she thought he was being overly paranoid, but she
did agree with him that it was now a good time to make the
contents of the tape and the allegations public. But, as ParnhamJones's
lawyer, Jack obviously couldn't do that. He wanted
Kathy to do it. He'd placed the tape and laptop in a deposit box
and he asked her to come over to his house so he could give her
the key, telling her not to park outside. That was apparently how
paranoid he was, but it was this paranoia that saved her life.
While she was there collecting the key, this guy Lench and his
friends turned up. Kathy hid, but as we know, they got Calley up
in the woods, and it seems that he gave them Tom's name, as
well as the Merons' address, before he died.'

'I still don't know why he gave them Tom's name. The poor
bastard had nothing to do with any of this.'

Mo thought about that for a moment before replying. 'Maybe
Calley felt that if he was going to survive, he had to give
them something. He didn't want to name Kathy but he'd have
been under so much pressure he wouldn't have been able to
think of anyone else fast enough, so maybe he just let slip
Tom's name. Now that he's dead, I suppose we'll never know for
sure.'
'What about Vanessa Blake? Did Wise's men find out about
her as well?'
. 'Kathy says Lench told her that Vanessa's murder was a case
of mistaken identity. It looks like the killer turned up at the
university looking for her and stumbled on Vanessa instead.
Apparently, the filleting knife she was killed with was actually
Vanessa's own. Like Calley, she was also very paranoid after
Parnham-Jones's death, especially as she was the source of the
leak, so she'd taken to carrying the knife around with her as

protection. That's why Kathy's prints were on it. She'd used it
for cooking in Vanessa's kitchen during their time together.'
Now it was Bolt's turn to sigh. 'AH those dead people. Someone's
going to have to pay for it. Has Wise been brought in for
questioning yet?'
'On what grounds? There's no sign of the tape or the laptop
anywhere. The deposit box has been checked and it's empty.'
'Fuck. So, he gets off?'

'There's no evidence against him. Just some bits and pieces of
hearsay. Not enough to do anything with.'
Bolt fell silent. He believed Kathy Meron's story. It made
sense. Not that it made any difference to him. He was still
suspended. He wondered whether the man he'd killed - David
Harrison, Lench, or whatever his name was - could have provided
any of the answers that would have built up a case against
Wise. It was doubtful. He didn't seem like a man who would have crumbled under interrogation and tried to save his own skin. And anyway, there was no point thinking about it now. He was dead. It was irrelevant.
'Can I ask you a question, boss?'
Bolt knew what it was going to be. 'Sure, go ahead.'
There was no other way, was there?'
'What do you mean?'
'You had to shoot him, right? This man Lench. He would have
killed you otherwise. That's how it happened, isn't it?'
Bolt knew how hard it was for his friend to ask this. They
trusted each other. But what had happened this morning had
changed things.
'I wouldn't ask, you know, but...' He paused. 'I feel I've got
to know.'
'There was no other way, Mo. I promise you.' The lie came

easier than Bolt had expected. 'He went for the gun, and I pulled
the trigger. I guess he didn't want to go to prison.'
He heard Mo sigh with relief down the other end of the
phone.
'I didn't doubt you, boss, but the circumstances were .. .' He
searched for the right words. 'They were strange, weren't they?
And it's all a bit of a shock.'
'This whole weekend's been a bit of a shock. Get back to your
family, Mo. Take it easy.'
'And you, boss.'
'Don't worry about me, I'll be OK.'
And he would be too, he knew that. He, Mike Bolt, was a
survivor. He'd fought back from the brink before, from the
physical and mental wreckage of the car crash that had killed his
wife, and had emerged stronger. But the parameters that guided
his life had changed again. He'd killed a man in cold blood justifiably,
to his own mind, but justification didn't alter the
trajectory of a bullet. His victim was still dead. And he'd still
been unarmed. Like most people's, Bolt's hands had never been
entirely clean. Until now, however, they'd not been too dirty
either. It would take some getting used to.
He put the phone down on the coffee table, picked up the
wine and switched on the TV. He'd done enough thinking for
one day.

56

Being reunited with Max and Chloe was, without doubt, one of
the best moments of my life. As soon as I came in the door, they
ran, laughing, into my arms, and the three of us held each other
in an unbreakable clutch. For a while, nothing else mattered.
The bloody events of the past twenty-four hours faded away; my
broken, battered marriage suddenly didn't matter. I was home.
When Chloe finally pulled away from the embrace, she gently
touched the bandage on my face and asked me how I'd hurt
myself. I told her I'd fallen over and scraped my face on a nail.
'Ah,' she said, 'poor Daddy,' and kissed me gently on the
cheek. 'Do you know what happened to us?' she asked, wide
eyed.
'No,' I answered, feigning ignorance. 'What happened to
you?'
'A man in black came and kidnapped us from Grandma's,' she
explained, excitedly.
I flinched. I knew they hadn't been told about their grandma
yet. I was hoping not to have to do it now. 'Yes, I heard all
aboufcit.'

'I cried. But only a little.'
'I didn't cry,' piped up Max. 'I told him off.'
'Well, you don't have to worry now,' I said. 'The naughty
man's in prison.' But, as I said the words, I wondered if all four
men at the cottage last night were now accounted for. Lench,
Mantani and Caplin certainly. I still wondered if the fourth was
DC Sullivan and, if so, what had happened to him.
But, for the moment, it was time to forget all that.
It was the opinion of the child psychologist at the hospital
that Max and Chloe had been only very mildly traumatized
by the ordeal they'd undergone, their age, the fact that they'd
been together, and the relative shortness of their incarceration
preventing the effects from being much worse. And certainly, as
we played together back at the house that afternoon and they
charged, shrieking, around the garden with me giving chase,
they seemed just the same as they'd ever been. We'd been told
to let them talk about it, but neither of them seemed that
interested in doing so, so I didn't mention anything, preferring hoping,
I suppose - that we could consign it to history.
Kathy held back from the games, and I could see that she was
finding it hard not to crack. Three people very close to her had
been murdered in obscenely rapid succession. All she had left
was her family, although I had to wonder if this still included me.
After we'd put the two of them to bed, and I'd read them
stories, I came back downstairs and joined Kathy in the kitchen.
She'd opened a bottle of red wine and I saw that she'd poured a
glass for me. Her eyes were dry, but the strain in them was
obvious. I couldn't help thinking how beautiful she looked, even
after all this.
'I think I owe you the truth,' she said, handing me the wine.
I took a big gulp, figuring that I deserved it. 'Tell me when

you're ready,' I said, looking at her over the top of the glass,
trying to work out whether our relationship was retrievable. The
expression in the smooth, olive contours of her face didn't tell
me one way or another.
'I'm ready now. Are you hungry?'
I shook my head. 'I ought to be, but my appetite seems to
have gone absent without leave.'
'I'm the same. All I feel is empty. Come on.'
She took my hand, her touch giving me a small crackle of
excitement, and led me through to the lounge. We sat next to
each other and, with her hand still in mine, she told me everything.
How she'd been unhappy in the marriage for a long time,
and had started affairs first with Jack, then with Vanessa. How,
during her relationship with Jack, she'd found out about the
allegations against one of his major clients, the Lord Chief
Justice, Tristram Parnham-Jones no less (I'd never liked the
look of that guy), and the existence of his taped confession; and
how, finally, we'd all become targets as Lench, Mantani and
whoever they were working for raced to find the tape before it
could be made public.
'I'm so sorry for involving you in all this,' she said when she'd
finished recounting the story.
'In the car this morning, Caplin told me that the police found
a joint mortgage application in your name and Vanessa's during
the search of her house.' I couldn't bring myself to mention what
he'd described as the 'intimate' ptfotos.
Kathy let slip a small, melancholic smile. 'No, it wasn't a
mortgage application. It was a mortgage enquiry.' I couldn't
quite see the difference, but she explained it for me. 'Vanessa
was pushing to make the relationship more serious, move it to a
higher level. I was infatuated with her, but I think she might

actually have been in love with me, and, being single, she had a
lot less to lose.'
I began to experience some less than charitable thoughts
about Vanessa, but remembered that she was dead, so had
ended up with a pretty raw deal herself.
'I knew I should have been trying to calm things down,'
continued Kathy, 'but with everything else going on it was
difficult, so I went along with things.' She looked at me, her doe
eyes suddenly very doe indeed. 'I really wish you hadn't had
to find out about her, Tom. I tried to keep our affair a secret
right up to the very end, especially after you'd found out about
Jack.' She gave my hand a squeeze. It felt good. Maybe I'm a bit
naive where women are concerned, but at that moment I really
thought there might still be something there.
When Kathy finished speaking, I shook my head with what
can only be described as weary sorrow. It was Jack I was
thinking about now. Jack, my old friend. Jack the traitor.
'Did he ever say anything about me?' I asked.
'He said that sometimes he felt guilty about what he was doing.'
Somehow I doubted that. There was no room for guilt in
someone like Jack Calley. He followed his instincts in everything
he did, often without any real thought for the consequences for
himself or those around him. Jack's instincts told him he was
all-powerful. That was why he could ride the near vertical slope
at Sketty's Gorge. It was why when the two of us were nine years
old and three older kids had accosted us in the local park and
demanded that we give them our money, Jack had charged
them, fists flailing, rather than pay up. And so many times,
his instincts had been right too. The three kids had given us a
bit of a beating (Jack especially, since he'd offered the most
resistance), but they hadn't got our money.

Yet, when he'd needed it the most, his luck had finally run
out. I thought back to that day in the park. How we'd returned
home bruised and battered, arms round each other's shoulders,
united and triumphant, with me thinking how glad I was that he
was my friend. Even now, after everything he'd done to me, I
couldn't help but mourn his passing just a little. Underneath it
all, he'd been a good man. When he could have kept his mouth
shut about the terrible crimes his biggest client had committed
and carried on taking his money, he'd done the right thing, and
the right thing had cost him his life. And in a way this made his
betrayal even harder to take. The fact that, in my case, he'd
allowed his honour to slip, as if I wasn't an important enough
person to justify it. That was what hurt the most.
'Have I really been that hard to live with these past few
years?' I asked.
She sighed and flicked a lock of dark hair out of her eyes. 'It's
not just been you. It's been both of us. We've grown apart. We
don't talk, and when we do, it's usually shouting.'
I hadn't remembered it being as bad as this, although I think
my ignorance owed more to a desire not to confront the truth of
the situation rather than a better reading of it. We had had some
pretty big fights of late.
'I suppose,' she continued, 'it was inevitable that something
would happen, but I never intended it to be as bad as this. I can't
tell you how sorry I am, Tom. If I could turn back the clock, I
would.'
'Is there any way we can get back to how we were?'
The $64,000 question. Suddenly, nothing else mattered. More
than anything, I wanted to go back in time to the point when we
still loved each other. I needed her. I needed my whole family.
Without them, I was nothing.

'I don't know,' she answered, which wasn't quite what I was
hoping for.
'Well, I want to try,' I said, leaning forward like a kid on a
first date. I went for the full-on lips kiss, and saw with a heavy
heart that she was inclining her head slightly and I was being
presented with the old platonic cheek.
As I gave it a peck and she squeezed my hand once again, the
phone rang a few feet away. It was the first time I'd heard it
ring since Jack's fateful call the previous afternoon. That call
seemed like a lifetime ago now. Slowly, I got to my feet, feeling
inexplicably nervous. I knew it was all over, but if nothing else,
my experience had taught me that life is never predictable. It
can throw up plenty of surprises, many of them extremely unwelcome.
'Hello?'
I could hear the nerves in my voice.
'Tom, how are you?' came a loud, confident voice with
artificial American inflections that made it sound like the person
it belonged to was stuck somewhere out in the mid-Atlantic.
Wesley O'Shea had always wanted to be American, and it was a
source, I suspect, of everlasting shame to him that his place of
birth was actually Leamington Spa. 'Are you OK, bro? I've just
heard all about what's happened to you. The cops just called me,
and frankly I'm speechless.' Wesley then showed me exactly how
speechless by launching into a long series of questions about
my ordeal, and when my answers were deemed too brief and
evasive, he responded by telling me about a supposedly similar
incident that had happened to a cousin of his in New Jersey back
in the early 1990s.
'Wesley, thanks a million for your call,' I said, interrupting
him as he got to the bit where the SWAT teams were just about
to go in, 'but I'm extremely tired, as you can imagine. Do you

mind if we talk about this later?' I turned to Kathy and made the
universal jerk-off gesture, and she smiled.
'Sure, Tom. I understand. Listen, take the day off tomorrow.
Maybe even Tuesday as well. Ezyrite Software wants you back
on the job fit and well.'
'That's very kind of you, Wesley.'
'Please, Tom, we're friends. Call me Wes.'
'Well, that's very kind of you, Wes. I appreciate it.'
'Er, also, Tom . . .' His voice suddenly sounded uncharacteristically
shaky.
'Yes, Wes?'
'Er, is it true what I'm hearing? That, you know, you actually
shot someone?'
'Twice,' I said, and hung up.
When I put the phone down, I looked at Kathy, knew that one
way or another we'd make it, and for the first time in as long as I
can remember, actually laughed out loud.

57

When DC Ben Sullivan got out of the car, he looked nervously
both ways down the deserted night street before running up the steps that led to safety. He opened the front door to the
flats and stepped inside, waiting for the click of the automatic
lock as the door shut behind him. He was in trouble, big trouble.
He Mjas sure that after Caplin's death they would be looking

for him; they might also have him down as Vanessa Blake's
killer. He knew the evidence against him was flimsy, but he
wanted some time to think before he answered any of their
questions, and that meant getting out of the country for a
while.
A part of him knew this was a foolish move, an obvious
declaration of guilt, but he wasn't in the right frame of mind
for an interrogation. Yesterday afternoon he had killed for the
very first time, stabbing to death a woman for money. They'd
promised him 20,000 pounds in cash for the job, and he'd received ten
grand already. It was a lot of money. But there was no way he
was going to be getting the other ten, because Vanessa Blake,
his actual victim, was the wrong person. He'd been sent to the
university to intercept a woman he'd never met before called
Kathy Meron, having been told that she was possibly in possession
of a key to a safety deposit box. If she was there, he was to
get the key off her, get the box's location, and then kill her; if
she didn't have it, he was to find out who did, then despatch her.
He was told that he'd be supplied with a pair of her husband's
gloves which had been taken from the family home, and which
could then be used to frame him.
But everything had gone wrong when he'd been disturbed by
Vanessa Blake and, in the ensuing struggle, had killed her with
her own kitchen knife.
And now the guilt was kicking in. He wished he'd never got
involved. He blamed his former colleague and mentor, Rory
Caplin, for tempting him with talk of earning large amounts of
money on the side, and he also blamed his girlfriend, Janet, for
her expensive tastes. If she hadn't wanted all those clothes and
furniture and exotic foreign holidays, he would have been able
to get by. In fact, Ben Sullivan blamed everyone other than

himself. It was a long-standing trait of his that did little to
endear him to people.
He flicked on the hall light and walked down the corridor past
the staircase to the door to Flat One, Janet's pad. They didn't
live together - Sullivan preferred his independence - but he paid
the rent on the place, and had done ever since she'd lost her job
in the hotel months earlier. Stupid cow, he thought irritably.
How the hell do you lose a job as a receptionist in a hotel? It was
hardly a challenging role. All you had to do was answer the
fucking phone. And this place wasn't cheap either. Seven fifty a
month, even though it was only one bedroom, and in one of the
cheaper areas of Hendon. The cost of living in London was
extortionate. No wonder he'd had to do other, more lucrative,
work.
Janet was out tonight, meeting friends in the West End, a
situation that suited him fine. The ten grand was in a holdall in
the top of her bedroom wardrobe, underneath a pile of blankets,
along with a further four thousand in cash he'd made for other
tasks he'd performed on behalf of his unofficial employers.
More than enough to get him out of the country and somewhere
warm, where he could plan his next move. She'd be getting a
shock, though, when rent day came round. From now on, he
wasn't paying it. Fuck her. Let her get off her arse and find
another job giving out room keys. Consider this goodbye, love,
he thought.
But as soon as he'd shut the do'or to Flat One and flicked on
the lights, he knew something was badly wrong. The living-room
carpet had been covered by a thick sheet of black tarpaulin that
crinkled underfoot. More tarpaulin had been taped to the back
of the door and the adjacent wall. It even covered the sofa in the
middle of the room. A man was standing behind the sofa, facing

him. As their eyes met, the man let slip a thin, humourless smile
and raised a gun with silencer attached, pointing it at Sullivan.
Eight feet separated the end of the barrel from its target.
'You,' said Sullivan, recognizing his killer straight away, even
though his hair was now a different colour and he'd taken to
wearing thick-rimmed glasses.
'It's always me,' said the killer, and shot Sullivan once in the
leg, just above the kneecap, the bullet making barely a sound.
Sullivan fell backwards against the door, grabbing at his
injured leg as it went from under him. He ended up in a sitting
position, his teeth clenched against the pain.
'You've got something I want,' said the killer calmly. 'Two
things, actually. A tape and a laptop. Where are they?'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' hissed Sullivan.
'Yes, you do.' The killer shot him in the other leg, and
Sullivan gasped painfully.
'They're in my car. I was going to bring them back.'
'Sure you were,' said the killer, and pulled the trigger for a
third time, sending a bullet into Sullivan's forehead. The dead
police officer slumped forward with his head bowed, the blood
splash from the bullet's exit wound caught by the tarpaulin on
the door.
The man Tom Meron had known only as Daniels unscrewed
the silencer and placed it and the gun in the pocket of his jacket.
He knew the value of the tape and laptop that Sullivan had
liberated from the deposit box at King's Cross station, and
knew too that they implicated his employer, multi-millionaire
businessman Paul Wise. It was why from the start he'd wanted them for himself. It was why he'd risked his life to get hold of
them. Because he knew they represented the biggest potential
pay day of his career.

Things had very nearly gone disastrously wrong at the
Merons' cottage, when they'd been ambushed by Lench and his
men, and he had to admit that Lench had proved a worthy and
resilient foe who'd almost hit him with the shot he'd fired in
the cottage driveway. But now he, Mantani and the rest of the
employer's people were dead, and Paul Wise no longer had any
protection.
Which made him rich pickings.
When Daniels had finished wrapping Sullivan's corpse in the
tarpaulin, he tied it up at both ends and with some effort carried
it out to Sullivan's own car, depositing it in the boot. He had a
contact in Essex who disposed of bodies with no questions
asked, and who would also get rid of the car. Daniels had called
ahead and told him to expect a delivery.
The laptop and tape were under the front passenger seat. He
started the engine and placed the tape in the car's player. Five
minutes later, and two miles away, he was convinced he had all
he needed. He parked up at the side of the road and dialled a
number on his mobile.
If Paul Wise thought his problems were over, he was in for a
major shock.
They were just beginning.

Epilogue

THREE WEEKS LATER
Bolt had done a lot of thinking since his suspension. It was
difficult to avoid it when you had so much time on your hands.
You get the full understanding of what it's like to be lonely
when you're at home all day, and most evenings too. He'd made
it across to Cork for some fishing, which had taken his mind off
things a little, and he'd spent more time in the Feathers than he
was used to, putting on close to half a stone in the meantime,
even though he'd doubled his visits to the gym. And all the
time he'd been thinking. Thinking about the man he'd killed,
thinking about the case he'd been involved in, thinking about
the individual alleged to be behind it all: Paul Wise. The man
who'd got away.
More details had emerged about Wise's operations over the
past three weeks. There had actually been an NCS investigation
into his business dealings some months earlier which had
inexplicably been wound up, even though Mo had said that he
was suspected of involvement in as many as five murders - and
this before the events of three weeks ago - as well as extortion,
fraud, even non-payment of tax. It was amazing that someone so

crooked could not only rise so high within the establishment,
but also remain there unmolested. Not quite a pillar of the
community, but not far off it either. But then, Wise had some
powerful friends, people who did him some big favours. Bolt
wondered how many more there were like Parnham-Jones,
people right at the top of the pile who shared his perverted
tastes. It was a thought that pissed him off, because he suspected
there were a few.
There was something personal about all this too. It was Paul
Wise who'd given Bolt sleepless nights by putting him in a
position where he'd had to shoot dead an unarmed man, and
where he'd had to break the very law he'd spent so much of his
adult life upholding. He wanted to make the bastard pay for
that. But it looked like he was going to have to wait. Wise was
clever, and he kept his hands scrupulously clean. What evidence
there was against him was still so patchy as to be unusable. For
the moment, at least, he was safe, although, as Mo had said,
now that he was suspected of a whole new raft of killings it
meant that the investigation into his affairs was going to be
reopened, and with significantly more resources. One day, like most criminals, he would pay a price for his crimes. It was just
that it might not be any time soon.
Three weeks into his suspension, on a warm summer's afternoon
in June, Bolt walked into a cafe on Camden High Street.
The interior was quiet, and once again she had arrived before
him, and was sitting at a corner table at the back. Bolt gave her a
nod, ordered a regular filter coffee from a young eastern European
girl behind the counter, and made his way over.
'You're looking well,' he said as they shook hands.
And she was too. Her skin was tanned and healthy-looking,
her black hair a little longer and a lot more lustrous, and the eye

shadow she was wearing seemed to accentuate the brightness in
her eyes. She was dressed in a white lace top with short sleeves
that showed off the tan, a simple silver chain with one of the
smaller Tiffany hearts around her neck.
'Thanks,' said Tina Boyd, and sat back down. 'You're not
looking so bad yourself.'
'So, where have you been?'
'Holiday. Two weeks in Mexico. I felt like I needed the
break.'
'I think you did. It seems to have done you a lot of good.'
'I heard what happened to you. I'm sorry.'
'The suspension is a formality. I've done my interviews with the
PCC, and it doesn't look like they've found anything untoward,
so I'm starting back on the job next week.'
'Same rank?'
'Exact same rank.'
She smiled. 'Good. The Brass spend too much time hanging
good officers out to dry. It's a wonder they've got any left.'
'You thought any more about coming back?'
She considered that one for a moment. 'Part of me has. But
I'm still not sure.' There was a pause. 'So tell me,' she said,
changing the subject, 'Parnham-Jones. Was it suicide or was it
murder? I've fallen behind on everything.'
'No-one knows for sure,' answered Bolt truthfully as the
coffee arrived.
He then told her what he Ihiew of the story, but didn't
mention Paul Wise by name. As he spoke, she listened raptly,
occasionally shaking her head at some of the grimmer details.
'So John was right. There was a paedophile ring involving
Parnham-Jones and others.'
'It certainly looks that way.'

'And one of them's still out there evading justice. And you
know who he is.'
Bolt nodded. 'We've got a suspect who could have been
behind John's murder,' he said carefully, 'but we've got no
proof.'
'And you also think he had Parnham-Jones killed. Is that
right?'
Once again, Bolt nodded. 'I think the Lord Chief Justice was
the weak link. He had to go. Let's assume he had been involved
in the murder of that child years before. He thought he'd got
away with it, then a few months ago it becomes clear that the
secret's out, and that there's a detective sniffing around, asking
questions. He calls on one of his associates, someone who was
also involved in the murder - let's call him Mr W - and asks him
to sort it out. A few weeks later, the detective ends up dead.
Now the judge can breathe a sigh of relief, but not for long.
Because word gets out that there's a tape recording of him
confessing to the crime, or at least to being involved with child
abuse, and then, to top it all, he gets an anonymous email from
someone telling him they know the details of his crime. We
found it on his desktop PC. So, more sleepless nights. My guess
is he was beginning to panic as his murky past finally caught up
with him, and his associate finally decided that it was simply too
dangerous to keep him alive. They use the same people who
killed John, and rather than vary their modus operandi, the
perpetrators stick with a formula that's worked before and kill
Parnham-Jones in exactly the same way, trying to make it look
like suicide.'
'And someone's got away with it,' said Tina, taking a pack of
Silk Cut from her pocket. 'Your Mr W.'
'The people who actually carried out John's murder are

almost certainly dead. As for Mr W himself, his card's marked.
He won't get away with it for ever.'
'Well,' she said, lighting a cigarette, 'our Lord Chief Justice
certainly deserved what he got, the bastard. He ruined a lot of
lives, but at least John can rest in peace now.'
Bolt nodded. He agreed with her. 'There's only one mystery
left,' he said, taking another sip from the coffee.
'What's that?' she asked.
'Who sent the email to Parnham-Jones a week or so before he
died? The one saying they had all the details on his crimes?'
They looked at each other for a long moment. Tina held
his gaze, giving nothing away, the expression behind her eyes
impossible to read. Then she let slip a small smile that managed
to be both confident and vulnerable at the same time.
'You know I sent it, don't you?'
'I've thought about it a lot,' Bolt said, giving her a small smile
of his own to show that he understood what she'd been through
and why she'd done it, 'and I couldn't work out who else it could
have been.'
She sighed and dragged on the cigarette. 'The problem was, I
thought he'd got away with everything. And I suppose at the
time, he had. I just wanted to make him suffer some of what I
was suffering. I only ever sent him that one mail, and I realized
afterwards how stupid I'd been, and what a risk I was taking. Is
it likely to be traced back to me?'
'Where did you send it from?'
'An internet cafe from a hotmail account I'd set up.'
'I talked to the guy who was looking into it a couple of days
ago,' said Bolt, recalling a conversation he'd had with Matt
Turner, 'and he hadn't turned up anything. So I think it's very
unlikely.'

'Good. Not that I regret sending it. He deserved it. I just wish
I'd thought of something more effective.'
'You didn't have to in the end, did you?'
'I suppose not.' She stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray
and eyed him carefully. This'U be our secret, though, yes?'
'Scout's honour.' Bolt made the sign. 'But that's not the only
reason I came here.'
She looked wary. 'So, what else is there? Anything I should be
worried about?'
'Maybe,' he said, but once again he was smiling. 'I've come to
offer you a job.'
'You're joking, aren't you? I'm not even on the force any
more.'
'No, I'm not joking. I'm very short on numbers for my team,
and I know that you'd be welcomed back at any time. Your
record's excellent, and you're the sort of person I need. A
fighter.'
'You're serious, aren't you?'
'Absolutely.'
She brushed a hand through her hair. 'It's an interesting offer.
But aren't the NCS going to be disbanded next year?'
'That's next year. Come on, you know you belong with us.'
'I'll give it some thought, OK? But I don't want to make an
on-the-spot decision. You understand that, don't you?'
'Sure,' he said, feeling vaguely disappointed.
The reason he wanted her on the team wasn't just because she
was a good copper. When he'd first met her three weeks ago,
she'd seemed vulnerable and in need of comfort. He'd responded
to her pain, perhaps seeing something of himself in her. But he
realized afterwards that he was also attracted to her. Seeing
her now, tanned and pretty, only accentuated those feelings.

He stood up, trying to brush off the disappointment, although
with only limited success. 'You've got my number, haven't you?
Let me know when you can.'
She nodded. 'I appreciate the offer. I'll tell you by the end of
the week.'
They shook hands and said their goodbyes. Bolt left a couple
of pound coins on the table for his coffee and walked out into
the street. The sky was a faded blue, and the sun shone amid the
long, crooked fingers of cloud.
The disappointment faded. It was time to move on.

Ml
Author's Note

Some astute readers will notice that I've taken a few liberties
with the village of Hambleden in order to further the plot. For
instance, there's no phone box in the village square anymore,
and no such place as Rangers Hill. However, the pub's real
enough, and it serves good beer, too.