A Good Day to Die
by

Simon Kernick

www.booksattransworld.co.uk
Also by Simon Kernick

The Business of Dying

The Murder Exchange

The Crime Trade
A Good Day to Die

SIMON KERNICK

%

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Published 2005 by Bantam Press
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Copyright © Simon Kernick 2005

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sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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

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.'.:ujlMJ.'..
For my Mum and Dad
A Good Day to Die
before

Richard Blacklip wanted to kill someone.

He'd been told before he left England that the man now sitting
across the table from him could make the necessary arrangements.
Mr Kane was, apparently, a fixer of such things, and in
the sprawling, dirt-poor and life-cheap metropolis that was
Manila, where almost anything could be bought and sold
if the price was right, he had ready access to a constant
supply of victims. It was now simply a matter of finding that
price.

A call to Kane's mobile phone an hour earlier had set the
meeting up, but now that his guest had arrived in the hotel room,
Blacklip was beginning to have second thoughts about the whole
thing. Not because he didn't want to go through with the act
itself (after all, the truth was that it wasn't his first time), but
because he was alone in a strange city thousands of miles from
home, and was unsure of discussing his innermost thoughts and
secrets with someone he'd only just met. Kane was supposed to
be reliable, but what if he wasn't? What if he was a conman? Or
worse still, working for the police, here to entrap him? Blacklip
was aware that he was being paranoid, but that didn't mean his
fears might not be justified.

'Is everything OK?' Kane's voice was calm and controlled,
designed to reassure.

It worked, too. Blacklip smiled and used a handkerchief to
wipe sweat from his forehead. 'It's fine,' he answered, sounding
falsely jolly, even to himself. 'It's just this heat. I'm not used to
it.'

The room was stifling. He'd changed into lighter clothes and
turned the ceiling fan up to maximum, had even pulled down the
blinds to keep out the fiery sun, but nothing seemed to be doing
any good. He was conscious of the wetness under his armpits,
and wished now that he'd rented a room with air conditioning.
But then, of course, he was saving his money for bigger things.

Kane said something about Westerners getting used to the heat
after they'd spent some time in the Philippines, but Blacklip
wasn't really listening. He was too busy studying his guest while
trying to act like he wasn't, a task he believed he performed much
better than most people. He was used to discreet observation.

Kane was younger than he'd been expecting, probably no more
than forty, and dressed casually in jeans and a light sports jacket
over a cotton shirt. He was a lot taller than Blacklip and of
slimmer build, and his tan, coupled with his narrow, well-defined
features, suggested that he was a fit man who spent plenty
of time outdoors. His hair and neatly trimmed beard had
been bleached by the sun and contained only the faintest hint
of grey. Some people might have considered him good-looking,
although his eyes were narrow and a little bit too close
together.

A bead of sweat ran down from Kane's hairline, making
swiftly for an eyebrow. He flicked it away casually. If the humidity
in the room bothered him, he didn't show it. He stopped speaking

1 o
about the Filipino weather and focussed his eyes on Blacklip. He looked ready to do business.

It was now or never, the moment of truth.

Blacklip took a deep breath, aware that he was about to take a huge risk, but equally aware of the potential reward. The
pleasure he'd get from it. The hunt. The act. The kill.

'You know what I want,' he said at last. 'Can you get it?'

'You want a girl?'

'That's right.'

Kane nodded agreeably. 'Sure, I can get you a girl.'

Blacklip cleared his throat, felt a joyous tingling sensation
going up his spine. 'She has to be young,' he said, savouring that
last word.

'Whatever you're after, I can get it for you. For a price.'

The tingling in Blacklip's spine grew stronger, spreading to his
groin as he pictured what he was going to do. His mouth felt dry
and he licked his lips.

Kane waited, his face registering nothing more than mild
interest.

'Anything? You can get me anything?' Blacklip's voice had
dropped to a whisper, his mind now entirely focussed on the task
ahead. His whole world had become reduced to the few square
feet of this tiny, dimly lit room, its stifling heat temporarily
forgotten.

'Anything.'

The word was delivered calmly, yet decisively. Blacklip knew
the fixer did indeed mean anything. Even murder.

So, with a shy, almost childlike smile, he shared his bloody
fantasy. Occasionally he stole brief glances at the man opposite
him to check that what he was saying wasn't going too far, but
each time Kane smiled back, reassuring him that everything was
fine, that there was nothing wrong with what he wanted.

11
When he'd finished, Blacklip gave Kane the sort of look that
a dog gives his master. Asking to be understood. Begging for his
bone.

'I see,' said Kane, after a short pause.

'Can you do it?'

'It'll cost a lot. There's the logistics of it, for a start. And the risk.'

'I didn't think they'd be missed in a place like this. After all,
there's plenty of them.'

'True, but the authorities are cracking down. That's not to say
I can't do it, but it will cost.'

'How much?'

'Five thousand US.'

Blacklip felt a lurch of disappointment. 'That's an awful lot. I
don't think I've got that sort of money. I was hoping for nearer
two.'

Kane appeared to think about this for a moment, while
Blacklip watched him, praying he'd take the bait.

'I'll see what I can do,' Kane answered eventually. 'But I'm
going to need a deposit so that I can set things in motion.
Obviously this sort of thing requires a lot of effort. Can you give
me two hundred US now?'

'Please tell me you'll do it, Mr Kane,' Richard Blacklip said
quietly.

'All right,' Kane sighed, appearing to come to a decision. 'I'll
do it for two thousand.'

Blacklip got to his feet. 'Thank you very much,' he said
with genuine appreciation. 'Now let's find this money, shall
we?'

He stepped over to the bed, pulled open his suitcase and
rummaged inside.

Then he turned round.

1 2
And looked straight at the black pistol pointed directly at his chest.

Fear stretched Blacklip's pudgy features into a grotesque parody of an astonished circus clown. His legs went weak and the wallet he was holding fell uselessly to the floor. The banknotes he'd already removed fluttered down after it.

His first thought was 'Police.'

But no one else was coming into the room. There was no other noise. And jutting out from the pistol's barrel was a fat cigar
shaped silencer that couldn't have been police issue.

The man who'd introduced himself as Kane wasn't moving, or
telling him he was under arrest. He said nothing and his
expression remained impassive.

'No, please, please,' Blacklip begged, his voice high-pitched.
'Mr Kane, what are you doing? I've got money. Don't kill me.
For God's sake.'

The gunman pointed the revolver purposefully in the direction
of Blacklip's groin, his finger tensing on the trigger.

'Why are you doing this? There's been a misunderstanding.
Please.' He felt a wetness travelling down his trouser legs.
Ignored it. Desperation rose up in him like bile. He wanted
to do something - anything. Scream, run, charge down his
tormentor. But nothing moved. He was rooted firmly to the
spot.

Pissing himself in fear.

The gunman looked him in the eye. In that moment, Blacklip
knew there was no hope.

But he had to try. 'Whatever they're paying you,' he
whispered, 'I'll double it.'

'I'm choosy who I work for,' said the gunman, and pulled the
trigger.

Blacklip felt a sudden burning sensation like an electric shock.

1 3
He gasped and fell back on to the bed, his hands grabbing at the
wound.

He managed one last word, uttered with a final hiss of venom
as rage overcame fear for just one second.

'Bastards.'

Then the gunman stepped forward and put two more bullets
in Blacklip's head.

A splash of blood like aerosol hit the wall, and the gunman
turned and walked from the room.

14
Part One

MINDORO ISLAND,
PHILIPPINES

One Year Later
1

sitting in Tina's Sunset Restaurant, watching the outriggers luffle lazily through the clear waters of Sabang Bay, when Tomboy took a seat opposite me, ordered a San Miguel from
i's daughter, and told me that someone else had to die. It was iflve o'clock in the afternoon, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and
Up until that point I'd been in a good mood.

I told him that I didn't kill people any more, that it was a part of my past I didn't want to be reminded of, and he replied that he understood all that, but once again we needed the money. 'It's just the way the cookie crumbles,' he added, with the sort of bullihit
'I share your suffering' expression an undertaker might give to one of his customer's relatives. Tomboy Darke was my
business partner and a man with a cliche for every occasion,
including murder.

Tina's was empty, as was usually the case at that time of day.
It was right at the end of the collection of bars and guesthouses
that pass for the small tourist town of Sabang's main drag, and
tucked away enough that few of the tourists ever used it, so I'd
known as soon as Tomboy had asked to meet me here that

1 7
something was up. It was the sort of place you went to when you
wanted to talk without anyone else listening. So I talked. 'Who's
the target?'

He paused while the beer was put down in front of him, then
waited until Tina's daughter was out of earshot. 'The bloke's
name's Billy Warren,' he said quietly. 'He's on the Thursday flight out of Heathrow, arriving in Manila Friday morning.'

'Today's Wednesday, Tomboy.'

'I know that,' he answered, running his fingers through what
was left of his hair. 'But you know what they say. Time waits for
no man.'

'What's he done, this Warren?'

'No one's saying anything at the moment, it's all very hush
hush. But he's running away from something - something
serious. Just like you. Except this time, someone wants to kill
him for it. He ain't going to be whiter than white, put it like
that.'

'How much are they offering for the job?'

'Thirty thousand US. A lot of money.'

He was right, it was. Particularly here in the Philippines. The
business we ran - a small hotel with dive operation attached didn't
take much more than that in a year, and thanks to Al
Qaeda's continued efforts to mangle Western tourism in the Far
East, things weren't likely to improve much in the year ahead. By
the time we'd paid the staff, the local authorities and covered our
running costs, we cleared maybe a third of that in profit. Paradise
is nice, but it rarely makes you rich.

I took a sip from my beer. 'Someone must want him dead very
badly.'

He nodded and pulled a soft-top pack of Marlboro Lights
from his pocket, lighting one. 'They do. Not only that, they want
him to disappear. No trace.'

18
«¦ That's not going to be very easy in Manila.'
'It ain't going to be in Manila. As soon as he arrives, he's
getting a cab down to Batangas, and a boat across to Puerta
ilera.' Puerta Galera was the nearest main town to us and
idoro Island's main port. 'He's got a room booked at the
hotel California on East Brucal Street. It's already been paid for.
b's been told that you're going to meet him there to give him
Instructions and a briefcase full of money. What you need to do
is get him out of the room and take him for a drive. One that he don't come back from.'
'If I accept the job.'
'Yeah,' he said with some reluctance, 'if you accept the job. But you know how things are at the moment. We need this cash. Badly. I wouldn't ask you if we didn't, you know that.'
'We've been in this place how long? A year? And you want me to take someone out five kilometres down the road. Don't you
think that's just a little bit risky?'
'No one'll ever find the body. We're getting fifteen grand up
front. All we need to do is provide photos proving it's been done
and we'll get the balance of the cash. And that'll be the end of
it.'
That'll be the end of it. I'd heard that one before. 'Last
question. Who's the client?'
'Pope. Same as last time.'
'No doubt doing it on behalf of someone else?'
Tomboy nodded vaguely. 'No doubt.'
The mysterious Mr Pope. An old criminal contact of Tomboy's
from London, he'd first got in touch a year ago with a business
proposition, having tracked down Tomboy all the way to
Sabang, which must have taken some doing. The business
proposition had been the execution of Richard Blacklip, a British
paedophile on the run from the law in the UK who was heading

1 9
to Manila on a false passport. Someone Pope knew - apparently
one of his victims, who was now an adult - wanted Blacklip
dead, and Pope had asked Tomboy if he could organize someone
reliable to carry out the task.

It might have seemed like a strange request for most people,
but Tomboy Darke had been a career criminal all his life (albeit more of a ducker and diver than a man of violence) and had
spent many years moving in the sort of circles where such things
occasionally happened, and where people weren't so hesitant in
asking the question.

And, of course, Tomboy had known just the man.

I sighed loudly, not wanting to get involved in a repeat
performance.

He took a huge gulp from the neck of the beer, dragged on the
cigarette and looked me right in the eye. 'I know you don't want
to do it. I don't much want to do it, to be honest with you. But
this is big money, and I'm telling you, this bloke's no angel. He's
fleeing London for the back-end of nowhere, meeting someone to
get a caseload of cash off them so he can start a new life a long
way from prying eyes. Does that sound like someone with a clear
conscience to you?'

He had a point there, but if there's one thing I've learned in
life, it's never to take anything you're told at face value. I'd made
that mistake before, and it had almost cost me my life. In the
three years since I'd left England, I'd tried to put all that behind
me, to start afresh. Just like this guy Warren was trying to do.
But you can never escape the past for ever, as he was about to
find out.

I continued looking at Tomboy and he continued looking at
me. I was thinking that there might be a way round this. A
way of getting the money, doctoring a few photos, and hot
having to kill anyone. I suspected that he was just thinking

20
)ut the money. Even so, I told him what he wanted to hear, 'All right,' I said. 'I'll do it.'

Tomboy drank the rest of his beer and ordered another one from Tina's daughter. He then spent the next few minutes flirting with her while she leaned against the table opposite, a cloth in one hand and a smile on her face that was wide enough to be friendly but had little in the way of depth.

He said he bet that all the boys were chasing after her, and told her what a pretty young thing she was. She was a pretty young
thing too but I doubted if she was a day over sixteen - while
Tomboy was, if my memory served me correctly, the grand old
age of forty-two, which made the whole thing look a little tasteless.
He winked at me now and again, between jokes and
compliments, just to demonstrate that it was nothing more than
light-hearted banter, but I could see the hint of desperation in his
act. He might have thought he was messing about, but, like a lot
of men whose looks are fading as their waistlines expand, he
needed to believe he still had that elusive 'something' the girls
always go for. Unfortunately, he didn't. As well as being about
three stone heavier than he had been back in the old days in
London, the booze had reddened his nose and cheeks and scattered
them with clusters of broken veins, while his precious blond locks
- the pride and joy of his youth - had been reduced to a few
desperate strands on top and a scraggy ponytail at the back.

But that didn't stop him. He asked Tina's daughter what she

21
liked most in a man. 'Apart from the obvious,' he added,
chortling.

She giggled. 'I don't know,' she said. 'Don't ask me that.'

'You should make it multiple choice, Tomboy,' I told him.
'You know, A: beer gut; B: loud London accent. That sort of
thing. It'd give you more of a chance.'

'Sense of humour,' she said, looking pleased with herself.
'That's what I like.'

Tomboy turned my way with the makings of a glare. I think
he wanted to say something - a similarly barbed comment aimed
in my direction - but remembered that he'd just asked me to kill
someone, so decided to let it go.

'You have a good sense of humour, Tomboy,' said Tina's
daughter. She didn't say the same to me, but then I didn't know
her as well.

Tomboy smiled. 'Thanks, love.' But he'd lost interest in the
banter now. Like an unwelcome heckler, I'd messed up his routine.

He quaffed the rest of his second bottle of beer and announced
he had to go. He had things to do, he said. Phoning London, for
one. Letting the man called Pope know the job was on.

I finished my own drink in silence, still watching the outriggers
in the bay, but with nothing like the pleasure that I'd taken in
the view earlier. I liked Tomboy, and hadn't meant to piss him
off. He was a big man with a big personality, and he'd been good
to me since I'd arrived at his Philippine hotel three years ago, on
the run and without a friend left in the world. So I figured that
I owed him. But killing someone on our very own doorstep? That
felt like one payment too far.

Which was one reason why I still wasn't sure whether I was
actually going to go through with it or not. The other-reason
was that I'm no cold-blooded murderer. I've done jobs before.

22
Blacklip was one, and there were others before him in England.
Jobs where I've had to end the lives of people who deserved it.
Drug dealers; child molesters; the worst kind of criminals. They
weren't many in number, and they never interfered with the work
I did as a detective in London's Metropolitan Police, so I never
thought that I was doing much wrong. However, all that changed
three years ago, when I made a mistake and shot some men I was
told were bad guys, but who were actually anything but. That's
what I mean about not taking things at face value. People lie.
They also double-cross, even the ones you're meant to trust.
Anyway, the result of that particular mistake was that I ended
up on the run, with the police, Interpol and God knows who else
after my blood. None of them were successful, and after a long
and indirect journey, I made it here to the Philippines, going into
business with a man who used to be one of my best informants
back in the old days, when I was still on the side of the forces of
law and order and people had known me as Detective Sergeant
Dennis Milne.

Originally, Tomboy had owned a hotel and beach bar on
Siquijor, a tiny island way down in the south of the Philippine
archipelago, and I worked for him there. When I'd arrived it had
been doing quite well, but then the Islamic rebels of Abu Sayyaf
began to extend their kidnapping and bombing operations closer
and closer to where we were, and the visitor numbers had slowed
to a trickle. Tomboy and his Filipina wife Angela had sold up at
a significant loss just over a year earlier and we'd headed north
to start again in the Puerta Galera region of Mindoro, a large
island a few hours' boat and taxi ride from Manila. It was a lot
busier here, and a lot safer too. Unless your name was Billy
Warren, of course.

I paid my bill and left Tina's daughter a fifty-peso tip, then
headed out on to the narrow concrete walkway that was Sabang's

23
equivalent of a promenade, stepping over a couple of three-year- old kids playing on the ground with a mangy-looking puppy. I
made my way along the beach, past a group of local men who
were stood watching a cock-fight on the sand in front of the
boats, then cut into the narrow, dirty backstreets of the town.
The journey took me past the ramshackle stalls selling raw meat and fish, where the women gathered to barter in staccato tones; through gaggles of raucous schoolkids, heading home in their
immaculate uniforms; past cheap tourist shops and girlie bars;
across planks of wood that acted as bridges over the streams of
effluent-laced water trailing beneath; under washing lines; through
peoples' backyards; past noisy games of pool played under tin
roofs. And all the way I nodded to people I knew, greeted a few
of them by name, breathed in the hot, stinking air, and thought
how much I loved this place. The vibrancy, the heat. The freedom.

When I emerged at the other end of town and stepped back on
to the promenade, the sun was setting in a blaze of gold and pink
above the headland in front of me.

It was beautiful. It should have made me happy.

But I was too busy thinking about the fugitive coming from
across the sea, and wondering whether he was going to be the
man who ruined it all for me.

Two days after the meeting at Tina's Sunset Restaurant, I
drove the potholed road from Sabang to Puerta Galera, a
gun in my pocket and a lot on my mind.

24
East Brucal Street's a quiet and surprisingly leafy little road
about fifty yards long and dotted with mango trees, just off
Puerta Galera's raucous main drag. The Hotel California,
halfway down it, is a small, two-storey establishment with an
open-air restaurant on its second floor that fits in nicely with the
surroundings. It's owned by an ex-Vietnam war veteran who's
not the sort of man you'd want to get in an argument with, but
who was quite friendly with Tomboy and could be trusted not to
take too much notice of who was passing through his establishment.
At three hundred pesos a night for a double room with
bathroom, it's a good-value place to stay. Particularly so for Billy
Warren, as his one night there had already been paid for in cash
by Tomboy.

It was two-thirty on a hot, sunny Friday afternoon and the
street was quiet. A couple of cars were parked up but there didn't
seem to be anyone around. I pulled up ten yards past the front
of the hotel, outside a collection of rusty corrugated-iron sheets
that had somehow been fashioned into a shop selling house
plants, and dialled the mobile number I'd been given.

Warren answered after five rings. 'Hello?' The tone was neutral,
a little rough around the edges, and not betraying any nerves.

'My name's Mick Kane,' I told him without preamble. 'I've
been told to deliver something to you, and to give you certain
instructions. I'm outside, just up the street in a blue Land Rover.
Can you come down?'

'I've never seen a blue Land Rover before,' he informed me
helpfully.

'Well, now's your chance. You can even have a drive in it if
you want. There's a bar at the Ponderosa golf club. It's fifteen
minutes up the road. It'll be quiet up there this time of day, so
we can talk.'

'So, you want to take me for a drive, do you?' His tone was

25
suspicious, but there was something mocking in it too, as if he
was letting me know he knew my motives. 'Here I am all on my
lonesome in a fleapit of a country where, according to the BBC,
life is dirt fucking cheap, and I've just been invited to get in a car
with a man I've never met before, but who's apparently got a
load of money for me, and go for a country jaunt?'

'Listen, I don't mind how we do it,' I told him. 'My job's to
give you the case I'm carrying and provide you with a few
instructions to help you on your way. You can just come out and
grab it if you want. It makes no difference. I just fancied a drink,
that's all.'

'Has it got aircon, this place? I'm not going anywhere without
aircon. Not in this heat.'

'Of course it has,' I lied. 'And it's got nice views, too. You'll
like it.'

'We'll see,' he said enigmatically and hung up.

This guy fancied himself, no question; and he wanted me to
know he was no fool. I've met plenty of men like him before.
Men who are sure they know the score on everything; who are
streetwise enough that they can smell trouble a mile off. But
everyone's got a weakness. It's just a matter of knowing where to
look.

Five minutes passed, and I was just about to phone the cheeky
sod again to see what the hell he was playing at when he emerged
from the hotel entrance, dressed in a white, short-sleeved cotton
shirt and jeans. He made his way straight to the car without
looking around, which meant that he'd been watching it from his,
hotel room. Fair enough. I'd have done the same in his position.

He was medium height, early forties, with short dark hair and,
a thick moustache that followed the curves of his mouth
and didn't look right on him at all. He had a muscular build that
suggested he worked out regularly, and his face was fairly non

\

26
descript in so far as nothing actually stood out, except perhaps
that it belonged to a man who knew how to handle himself.

I couldn't help but smile as I watched him approach in the
rear-view mirror. So the man I'd once known as Billy West had
changed his name - or part of it, anyway. I hadn't seen him in
maybe ten years, but he didn't look much different than he had
done then. Except for the 'tache. This was a new edition, and
presumably part of his disguise. Because there was no way
Slippery Billy West wasn't on the run. The man had spent a lifetime
struggling to extricate himself from the jaws of justice,
and with more than a little success too, especially where his dealings
with me were concerned.

I'd first come across him back in London around 1991, when
my colleagues and I in CID had put him under surveillance on
suspicion of gun-running. He was an ex-soldier who'd served in
the Falklands conflict and Northern Ireland, and who'd ended up
being court-martialled when he and a fellow squaddie had held
up an army payroll truck at gunpoint and relieved it of its
contents. That was the only time, as far as I was aware, that he'd
ever spent any time behind bars. Our surveillance of him for the
gun-running lasted close to a month, and when we nicked him
and raided the lock-up he was using for his business, we
recovered three handguns and an AK-47 assault rifle. But in
court, Slippery claimed to know nothing about the weapons, and
used as his defence the fact that he wasn't the only keyholder to
the premises, which was true. Two of his cousins, both of whom
did work for him now and again, were indeed keyholders, and in
the end it came down to the fact that it couldn't be proved
beyond doubt that he was the one the guns belonged to,
particularly as there were no prints on any of them. So he'd been
acquitted.

I had the same trouble with him again a couple of years later

27
when, acting on intelligence, I'd led a raid on his flat in King's
Cross in the hunt for a significant quantity of cocaine.
Unfortunately, the bastard had reinforced not only the front
door but the bathroom door too, for a reason that quickly
became apparent. We'd managed to batter down the front door
after much effort, but by the time we'd got inside he'd already
made it to the bathroom, along with his stash. I'll always remember the frustration I felt as we tried to force open the
second reinforced door before he flushed the whole stash down
the toilet. What was worse, we could hear him doing it. And he
was whistling a jaunty tune at the same time, as if the sound of
us trying to break into his place was the most natural thing in
the world. After about five good heaves with the Enforcer, we'd
finally got the door open, only to find old Slippery sitting
comfortably on the throne with his trousers round his ankles, a
recent copy of the Sun in his hands. He even managed a loud fart
to add to the authenticity of his situation, before greeting me
with a cheery 'Morning, DS Milne, I wondered what that noise
was.' Which was him all over. As cocky as they come.

All that was left of the suspected half-kilo of cocaine he'd been
in possession of were five plastic bags each containing trace
amounts of the drug, which turned out to be enough to warrant
only a two-hundred-pound fine.

\

Three weeks later, the guy who'd supplied us with the
information that led to the raid, a former business associate of
Slippery's named Karl Nash, was found dead in his Islington
townhouse. At first his death was thought to have been due to a/
heroin overdose, but further investigation revealed that he'd been
asphyxiated. There was, of course, an obvious suspect. Nash and
Slippery had fallen out very publicly, but although Slippery was
arrested and questioned in connection with the murder, there
was insufficient evidence to proceed.

28
I think even he realized at this point that he was living on borrowed time, and shortly after that he'd quietly disappeared
from the scene, and I hadn't clapped eyes on him since. Until
now, that was. I wondered whether he'd recognize me or not.
After all, we'd spent plenty of less than quality time in each
other's company.

As he came by the side of the car I saw him glance casually
at the back seat, just to check there wasn't anyone sat waiting
there to garrotte him, before opening the door and getting
inside.

'Mick Kane,' I said, putting out a hand.

He shook it with a softer grip than I'd been expecting and
looked me in the eye. 'Billy Warren.'

For a couple of seconds there was nothing, and he even started
to turn away, but then he looked at me again.

'What is it?' I asked him.

A slow and deliberate grin spread across his face. 'Fuck me, it
can't be. Dennis Milne. Christ, you've changed a bit. Have you
been having a bit of a nip and tuck, you vain bugger?'

So much for my disguise. 'I could hardly have announced
my real name, could I?' I said, not bothering to deny his
claim.

'Too right. I'd never have come down here. I wouldn't know
whether you were going to nick me or shoot me.' He shook his
head, still grinning. 'Blimey, it's a small world, innit? And full of
surprises, too. Who'd have thought the copper who spent so
much time trying to put me behind bars because he said I was a
- what were your exact words, Dennis? - a lowlife bastard who's
going to get what's coming to him, I think it was . . . Who'd have
thought the copper who called me that would turn out to be a
mass murderer?' His expression was full of mockery, but then it
turned serious and his grey eyes hardened. 'You ain't gonna try

29
and shoot me now, are you, Dennis? You have actually come
with the money?'

'Unlike you, Slippery, I've got morals. I've only ever killed
people who deserved it, and when I've had good reason.'

'What about them customs officers?'

'They were a mistake, and not one I'm ever going to repeat.
I'm happy here. I don't need to complicate things by going back
to that old game.' I turned the key in the ignition, put the Land
Rover in gear, and pulled out into the road.

He was still watching me and I sensed a tension in him. He
obviously wasn't entirely convinced. 'I bet you've always thought
I deserved it,' he said.

'I did,' I told him. 'And I still do. But then again, when I came
here this afternoon I didn't expect to be running into you. It's
what you might call an interesting surprise.'

'Fair do's,' he said, and pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds from
his pocket. He flashed it in my direction. 'Want one?'

'No, I quit. A while back now.'

'So, where's the case?'

'In the boot. You don't drive round the Philippines with cases
full of money on your passenger seat. Not unless you want to
lose them.'

He nodded, accepting the explanation, and we pulled out^of
East Brucal and turned right into the chaos of Concepcion Street,
the noisy, fume-filled and dusty thoroughfare that was the heart
of Puerta Galera. The traffic was heavy as usual, and the potholed
road filled with all manner of exotic vehicles: hulking,
multicoloured buses known as jeepneys that had people hanging
precariously from every square inch of space; tiny mopeds with
covered sidecars that often contained three generations of one family; battered old American Buicks and Fords; brand-new 500
and l,000cc motorbikes ridden by bare-chested, helmetless and

30
most definitely uninsured Europeans with their Filipina girlfriends
on the back. The whole lot of them blasting on their
horns as if their masculinity depended on it, and none of them
going any faster than the choking pedestrians walking along the
sides of the road.

Slippery lit one of the Marlboros with a match and opened
the window, letting in a fiery waft of pollution. He chucked the
match out and immediately shut the window again. 'Christ,' he
said, taking a long drag. 'Is it always like this?'

'Always like what?'

He waved his arm expansively. 'Like this. You know, hot,
smelly and noisy.'

'You get used to it,' I told him, wondering at the same time if
he actually would, or whether I'd deny him the opportunity. He'd
been right when he'd suggested I thought he deserved to die. I
think he probably did. He was almost certainly a killer himself,
with few redeeming features and not even the first semblance of
a conscience. But if there was a way of avoiding a murder and
still getting our money, I was keen to take it. And no one, apart
from Slippery and me, would ever know the truth.

'So how long have you been out here for now, Dennis?' he
asked, puffing on the smoke again. 'The whole time since you
disappeared?'

'Pretty much.'

'You know, I couldn't believe it when I read about what you'd
done. I really couldn't. You always struck me as one of the good
guys. You were obviously a very decent liar.'

I knew the bastard was baiting me, but I ignored it. 'I couldn't
even begin to compete with you in the bullshitter stakes, Slippery.
I reckon the only time you ever told me the truth was when you
spoke to confirm your name, and you've even managed to
change that now. Or half of it, at least. What happened? Didn't

31
you think you'd be able to remember it if you changed the first
part as well?'

'I always keep it simple, Dennis. There's no point trying to
confuse things.' His voice was even, but there was an underlying
irritation in it. I'd obviously annoyed him a little, which suited
me fine. 'And what's this fucking Slippery business?'

'Don't you remember? It was the name we used to have for
you in CID. Slippery Billy West. On account of your ability to
wriggle out of every situation we put you in.'

He snorted loudly and derisively. 'What? And you ain't a
wriggler? How many people did you kill? Six? Seven? And here
you are with a nice suntan, living the life of Reilly. You've
wriggled just as well as I ever did, mate, and don't pretend
otherwise.'

The car fell silent as we crawled through the traffic past the
turn-off to the harbour, before finally speeding up as we came
out the other side of Puerta Galera. The road here was relatively
new, the best in the north of the island, and I'd soon passed all
the crawling jeepneys and built up a half-decent head of speed.
The sea appeared to our right through a coconut-palm grove - a
brilliant, cerulean blue - but almost immediately the view was
obscured by a ragged huddle of tin and wood squatters' shacks
that had sprung up by the side of the road. In the Philippines,
you're only ever one step away from abject poverty.

'So,' I said eventually. 'You know why I had to come here.
What about you? What are you running from this time?'

He opened the window and chucked out his cigarette butt. The
air outside was clearer and fresher now that the traffic had
thinned. He didn't answer for a while and I thought that maybe
I'd upset him, but then he sighed loudly. 'Something I should
never have got involved in,' he said at last and he sounded like
he meant it.

32
'Isn't that always the way?'

'I'm normally a good judge of these things,' he said, which is
something I would probably have agreed with, 'but I fucked up
this time.'

'What happened?'

He turned and looked at me carefully. I think he was trying to
work out whether it was something he wanted to tell the man
who, for a short time at least, had been his nemesis. I got the
feeling that his instincts were erring on the side of caution, but
that he also wanted to talk about it to someone he knew.
Criminals love to tell people about their crimes but in general it's
not very practical for them to do so, so when they're in the
presence of other criminals (and I suppose to Slippery I was one),
they tend to let rip.

'I did a job for a bloke. Your sort of job. A hit.'

'Oh yeah?'

'Yeah. I got approached by someone I knew to take out a
bloke in London. The pay being offered was ten grand and I
needed the money. It was a rush job, though. That's why I
should have turned it down. I didn't have time to put him under
surveillance, find out about him, or anything like that. I was told
I had twenty-four hours to put him in the ground. That was it.
So I told them I needed fifteen grand for a job like that, we did
a bit of negotiation and I settled for twelve.'

He sat back in his seat and drummed his middle and index
fingers against the side of his face in a rapid and irritatingly noisy
tattoo. I suddenly remembered it as a habit of his from the past.
He used to do it during interrogations, usually when he was
mulling something over.

'The problem was,' he continued, 'I didn't have a clue how I
was going to do it, and I didn't have time to come up with any
sort of proper plan. I reckoned I was going to have to knock on

33
his door, hope it was him who opened it, and let him have it
there and then. The client said he wouldn't be armed, so it should
have been no problem. Anyway, I drove down to the victim's
place the next night and I was waiting outside in my car, just
checking everything out and psyching myself up to make my
move, when I got a call on my mobile. It was the client again.
He told me that our man was at home, but was about to go out
to an all-night cafe in Clerkenwell to meet someone. If he got
there and met the other bloke, then I had to take out both of
them.'

He sighed. 'And that was my second mistake. Rather than just
say I was outside the target's house and ready to pop him there
and then, I sniffed the chance to make some more cash. The
client sounded really worried, like he was getting desperate, so I
told him it would cost more to do two. Twenty grand in all. He
was pissed off, but, like I explained to him, it meant a bigger risk
for me, and so he went for it. He hung up, and then a couple of
seconds later the target came walking out of his place, and I just
watched him go when I could have taken him out.'

I couldn't believe Slippery's stupidity, especially after telling
me the importance of keeping things simple. He was no master
criminal, but he'd always been pretty good at covering his tracks,
so to make a sloppy and extremely risky decision in order to
pocket a few more quid showed what I'd long suspected: that his
successes against the forces of law and order had finally made
him think he was untouchable.

'And it fucked up?'

'Well, that's the thing. Not at the time, no. I got the directions
to the cafe and went straight down there. Then I just walked in
with a crash helmet on, spotted the target chatting to the geezer
he was meeting, and went straight over. They were the only
customers in the place and they were so deep in conversation that

34
they didn't see me until it was too late. I pulled my shooter, and
that was that. Two bullets in each of them, then head shots just
to make sure. Only one witness, the bloke behind the counter,
and he did the right thing and kept his mouth shut and his hands
in the air. I reckon the whole thing took about ten seconds.'

'So what went wrong?'

He shrugged and started the old finger tattoo again. 'This is it,
I don't know. The whole thing happened a few weeks back, and
there was a bit of a hoo-hah in the papers because one of them
was a copper. I didn't know that, of course. I'd never have
touched him if I'd known he was Old Bill.'

'That's nice to know.'

'Not 'cause I respect them, but because it's too much hassle.
Anyway, I got paid the full amount and I didn't hear nothing
more about it until a couple of days ago, when I got a phone call
out of the blue from the client saying I had to get out of the
country, and fast. I asked him why, and he said he had information
that the coppers investigating the murders were on to
me. He didn't say how they'd got so close, but he was pretty convincing.
Course I wasn't keen on upping sticks, but when he told
me that he had a false passport and a ticket to the Philippines,
and that someone would meet me there with ten grand to get me
settled, I decided he had to be serious and that it was probably
an idea to take him up on his offer. And that's it. The rest you
know.'

'And who was your client?'

He gave me a look that bordered on the suspicious. 'Don't you
know?'

'I'm here on behalf of someone called Pope. He supplied us
with the money to give to you.'

'He's the one I did the job for. The client. Les Pope.'

Les Pope, I had to admit, was a man with access to supremely

35
good intelligence. A year ago, he'd been so many steps ahead of
Richard Blacklip that he'd been able to lead me right to his hotel
room. Now, he was far enough inside a major police investigation
to tip off the prime suspect and get him out of the
country.

It was then that I made my decision. 'I'm going to be honest
with you now, Slippery.'

'Call me Billy, please.'

'All right, Billy. The fact is, you're in a lot of trouble.'

'What do you mean?'

'Pope wants you dead, and he's hired me through a mutual
acquaintance to make sure you get that way.' He started to shift
in his seat and I had a feeling that he might try and go for me,
so I kept talking, still staring at the road ahead. 'Now listen, I've
got no intention of hurting you. Like I told you before, I'm out
of that game now, and if we play this right, you can walk away
in one piece and completely off the hook, and I can still get my
money.'

'How are you going to manage that?' he demanded, his eyes
boring into the side of my face.

'Because Pope doesn't just want you dead, he wants you to disappear
off the face of the earth as well, which means we've got
scope for faking your demise.'

'He's going to want evidence that you've done the job, though.'

'Of course he is. He's a criminal, so he's not going to trust me,
but there's an easy way round that. He wants photographic
evidence that you've been killed. If you look in the glove
compartment, you'll see a Coke bottle filled with fresh rooster
blood, which looks exactly like its human equivalent.'

'Lovely.'

'It pays to make the effort, Billy, as well you know. There's
also a small jar of black paint that we'll use to mark the entry

36
wounds of the bullets. All you have to do is lie on the ground,
act dead while I pour the contents of these two bottles over your
abdomen and do a bit of a paint job so it looks realistic, and then
I'll stand back and take a couple of snapshots. They'll get sent
back to Pope, he'll be happy with a job well done, I'll get paid,
and that'll be that. You head down south and live quietly and
anonymously, because with the British police and presumably
Interpol after your blood for two murders, it's in your interests
to lie as low as possible, and I'll never mention your name again.'

'How do I know you ain't gonna kill me anyway?'

I slowed down as a jeepney in front of me stopped to pick up
passengers by the side of the road. 'If you're a shooter then you
should know better than anybody that your best weapon is the
art of surprise. I've just told you exactly what I've been hired to
do. Now why would I bother saying anything if I still intended
to kill you?'

He thought about that one for a few seconds, then opened the
glove compartment. Seeing the blood-filled Coke bottle and the
paint, he shut it again and lit another cigarette. At the same time,
I overtook the stationary jeepney. 'That bastard,' he said, taking
a drag. 'I knew I should never have trusted him. And the ten
grand in the boot?'

'Behave. It doesn't exist. Be thankful that you've still got your
life. So, are you in agreement with my plan? It's a lot better
thought out than the one you used for your little job.'

'You want me to lie in the dirt and have chicken blood
splashed all over me while you do a David Bailey?'

'That's about the size of it.'

'It doesn't seem like I've got much choice, does it?'

'No,' I said. 'I don't think it does.'

He emitted a loud sound of consent that sounded like someone
impersonating a fart.

37
'I'll take that as a yes, shall I?'
'All right,' he grunted. 'Let's do it.'

A mile short of the resort of White Beach, there's a left turning that leads up to the Ponderosa, Mindoro's only golf course, a
truly terrible collection of nine holes built high up on the side off
a steep, forested mountain, where the wind whipping across the
greens makes hitting a decent shot next to impossible, but where
plenty of the ex-pats try on the basis that there's nowhere else for
them. I've never liked golf so I've not given it a go myself,
although they do have some spectacular views over Puerta Galera
and the islands beyond. Some say that on a clear day you can
even see Manila eighty miles to the north, although I never have
and wouldn't particularly want to either.

The road starts smoothly enough, which is useful as it's so
steep, but quickly degenerates into a dusty, potholed and winding
track, like so many of northern Mindoro's roads. The
money's been made available more than once to pay for resurfacing
them, but it always seems to disappear into someone's
pocket before a square foot of tarmac's been put down.

On the way up, while Slippery was complaining about the
road's state after banging his head on the roof for the second or
third time, I asked him how he knew Pope.

He responded by asking how I knew him, which I recalled as
another irritating habit of his from old. Answering a question
with a question.

38
'I don't,' I said. 'A friend of mine here does.'

'He's a solicitor - a bent one. I was up on some charges and
he represented me.'

'And got you off, no doubt.'

He nodded evenly. 'He did, yeah, and we kept in contact after
that.'

I thought about this for a moment. I hadn't figured Pope as a
solicitor. I had him down more as some sort of gangland Mr Big,
since he obviously had such influential friends. It surprised me
that they might include someone from within the team investigating
the two murders that Slippery had committed. Defence
lawyers and coppers rarely mix well, not when you consider that
the former are always trying to fuck things up for the latter, and
making far more money in the process.

'And when Pope, your brief, asked you to commit murder for
him, you weren't a bit shocked?' I asked.

'No,' he said simply, reaching into his shirt pocket for the
cigarettes. 'I wasn't.'

'Don't light up now,' I told him. 'We're almost there. You can
have a celebratory smoke afterwards. To usher in your new life.'

He grunted irritably, but put the pack back in his pocket.
'Don't try anything, Dennis. And I mean that. I'm no fucking
pushover.'

'I have no doubt about it, Billy. You were always the hardest,
and dare I say it, the slipperiest target I ever chased. I'm not
going to try anything.'

I slowed down as the road flattened out just before it came to
a blind bend, still a good mile from the golf club. There was a
slight grassy incline on the right where I could pull up without
blocking anyone else coming either way, not that there was much
chance of that. On the way up we hadn't run into anybody and the
Ponderosa's not the busiest of places, especially on a weekday.

39
I managed to get right up on to the verge and cut the engine.
'We'll do it down there,' I said, pointing to a path that led into
bushes.

'Why there?'

'Because it needs to be a place where no one's going to disturb
us, so they don't wonder what on earth we're doing. Believe it or
not, there's hardly any places on this island where you can go
without running into someone.'

'I'm watching you,' he said, all semblance of his earlier good
humour now gone.

'You're getting paranoid,' I told him and slowly took the snub
nosed .38 revolver from the waistband of my jeans, showing it to
him as I did so. I then placed it in the side pocket of the driver's
door so that it was out of sight. 'See? I'm now unarmed.' I gave
myself a quick pat down and leaned forward in my seat so he
could see I wasn't bullshitting.

His expression relaxed a little. 'AH right, all right. Let's get this
over with, then.'

'Bring the bottles with you, can you?'

He retrieved them from the glove compartment while I pulled
a small digital camera out of the storage space between the two
front seats, and then we both got out of the car. I clicked on the
central locking and waited for him to join me. There was a gentle
breeze in the air and it was cooler now that we were over a
thousand feet above sea level. The only sound was the incessant
chatter of the cicadas in the undergrowth.

We started walking down the path in single file, with me leading.
The route ahead opened up into grassland and a hundred
yards to our left a huge ravine appeared, beyond which another
forest-covered mountain rose up. In the distance, beyond the
mountain, I could see the sea and the red-and-white telephone
mast that stood on the hill overlooking White Beach - the only

40
sign of man visible in the whole spectacular vista. Take that away and we might as well have been standing there a thousand years ago.

The path forked and I took the left-hand route, which followed a gentle gradient through a grove of palm and mango trees in the
direction of the ravine.

'Where the fuck are we going?' I heard Slippery demand
behind me.

'I told you, somewhere quiet.'

'I don't like this.'

'Look,' I said, turning round so I was facing him, 'you can see
I'm unarmed. What am I going to do? Kung Fu you to death?
And if you're that worried, look behind you.' I pointed up to a
collection of neat two-storey wooden huts with pointed roofs that
stood on a hill behind the road we'd been driving up. 'See, we're
not that far from civilization.'

He looked in the direction I was pointing. 'Who lives there,
then?'

'People called Mangyan. They're farmers. They tend to keep
themselves to themselves, but I still don't want any of them seeing
us.'

I resumed walking and he followed, his complaints temporarily
silenced.

'I've just thought,' he said after a few seconds. 'Have you
brought another shirt with you? 'Cause my one's going to be
ruined.'

'Shockingly enough, no,' I answered. 'But you must have
packed a spare. When we're finished I'll drop you back at the
hotel, you can have a nice warm shower, and then you'll be as
right as rain.' I stopped by a palm tree and turned around. The
Mangyan huts were almost out of sight. 'Here'll do,' I said.

He stopped a yard or so behind me and I pointed to a clump

41
of long grass a few feet away. 'Lie down there on your back, legs
together, arms outstretched and head to one side, like dead
people do on the telly. And put the bottles down next to you.'

'Are you sure there are no snakes in there?' he asked, giving1"
the grass a useless kick.

At the same time, I leaned down and felt round the back of
the palm tree, locating the Browning with silencer that I'd taped
to the bark the previous day. I pulled it away and peeled off the
tape, pleased that I'd planned ahead enough to keep my options
open. Then released the safety.

'Hold on,' he said, turning round, 'we ain't brought anything
to put the paint on with...' The words died in his throat as he
saw the gun, the shock rapidly giving way to resignation as I
pointed it at his chest.

'I can't fucking believe I fell for that. I should have known a
bastard like you would have tried something. And you've got the
nerve to call me slippery.'

I had to admire his guts. He knew what was going to happen,
that this was the end of the line for him, but he didn't beg and
plead. I felt an unwelcome twinge of doubt that I had the
strength to pull the trigger. Then I remembered why I was going
to.

'You know that copper you killed?' I asked him.

'Don't tell me . ..'

'He was my friend.'

'Ah, fuck it, Dennis. It was just business. Like it always is.
Nothing personal.'

'Well, this is personal. Now tell me everything you know about
Les Pope and the people behind that shooting, and don't leave a
single thing out, or the first bullet'll be in your kneecap.'

He sighed loudly and nodded his assent. Then he turned away
slightly, dropped the bottles, and quick as a flash he was pulling

42
a throwing knife from beneath the ankle of his jeans. With
astonishing speed he swung round to take aim, and I cursed. It
had never occurred to me that he'd be armed, but then he wasn't
called Slippery Billy for nothing. This bastard didn't know the
meaning of the word defeat, and I felt a sudden heartfelt
admiration for him, coupled with the unwelcome knowledge that
in many ways there really wasn't that much difference between
us.

Then I started firing. The first bullet caught him in the
shoulder, knocking him sideways before he could release
the knife. The second missed, I think, while the third and fourth
struck him in the upper back as he continued to spin round. He
fell to his knees and tried to face me again, still holding on to the
knife, and once again I got that tiny twinge of doubt that I'd be
able to finish him off. But perhaps I was just deluding myself,
because a moment later I aimed the gun at his head and pulled
the trigger twice more.

His body bucked sharply as the bullets struck him just below
his left eye, but somehow he managed to retain his kneeling
position, holding it for what seemed like an awfully long time
before slowly, almost casually, he toppled on to his side.

I waited a few moments just to make sure that his luck had
finally run out, then looked behind me to check that no one
had heard anything (there was no one there, so I assumed
they hadn't), before finally approaching the body. Blood ran in
thin, uneven lines down the side of his face and on to his neck,
but his eyes were closed and he looked peaceful, as the newly
dead do. Standing there watching him, I reasoned that he had
killed at least twice for no other reason than money (one of his
victims being a police officer and my friend), and wouldn't have
lost a second's sleep if the boot was on the other foot and he'd
been the one shooting me. So I really had nothing to feel guilty

43
about. But I wasn't entirely convinced. It didn't make me feel any
better that I then used the camera to take half a dozen photos
of his corpse, as per our contract, before searching his clothes
until I found his mobile, the key to his room and the false passport
he was carrying, all of which I pocketed in my jeans. I
finally concluded matters by putting on a pair of surgical gloves,
wiping the Browning's handle and picking up all the loose
cartridges. I then grabbed Slippery by the shoulders and hauled
him deeper into the undergrowth. Thankfully, he was lighter than
I'd been expecting, because there was still some way for him to
go before we hit his final resting place.

I dragged his body fifty yards in all, the path quickly giving
way to a thick wall of bushes and trees, and I was hot and
panting when we finally came to the edge of the ravine. The drop
here was almost sheer and ran some five hundred feet into the
tree-carpeted valley below.

I'd chosen this spot because the valley was pretty much inaccessible
to people. There was always the chance that a
resourceful Mangyan tribesman had somehow found a way in
and was nurturing a vegetable plot there, but that was a risk anywhere
on the island. The chances were that the body would lie
undiscovered for months or even years, and if the remains were
one day found, it was unlikely the police would be able to identify
them as what was left of Billy West, and I don't suppose
they'd be too worried about it either, even with the bullet holes
in his skull. They'd probably conclude that it was a local who'd
fallen foul of the NPA, the Marxist rebels cum anti-drugs
vigilantes who operated in the mountains behind Puerta Galera,
and who still made the occasional foray down to the coast, using
their guns against those who didn't see eye to eye with them.

I didn't like the idea of depriving Slippery Billy of a burial. I
didn't know his family situation but I supposed, he had loved

44
ones somewhere, and that they'd be left wondering for the rest of
their lives what had happened to him. But I had no choice. He'd
made his bed and, uncomfortable as it was, he was going to have
to lie in it.

As I toppled him over the edge and turned away, wiping sweat
from my brow, I thought about the mysterious Les Pope, the
man who'd commissioned this and Blacklip's murder, as well as
at least two others. Would he be losing any sleep over his crimes?
I doubted it. Like Billy West, I expected he'd just see it as
business.

I pondered that particular matter as I returned to the Land
Rover and continued my journey up to the Ponderosa golf club
for a much-needed drink and a chance to think about the man
whose murder I'd just avenged.

Asif Malik. He'd been a colleague of mine in Islington CID for
more than a year during my last days in London. Originally I
was his boss, and then, just before my ignominious departure,
he'd got promoted to the same level as me, which hadn't been
much of a surprise. He'd always struck me as a man who was
going places. He was hard-working, bright and, most importantly
of all, decent. Most coppers are decent people underneath it all,
but some - myself included - get more cynical as the years go by
and the crime rate keeps rising. I'd once believed in what I was
doing, in my ability, as a police officer working within the strict
frameworks the law sets, to change things and deliver justice to

45
the people who needed it. But time, and the growing realization that what I was delivering was nothing more than a sticking
plaster for a gaping wound, had corrupted me to the point where
both my reputation and my conscience were now well beyond
repair.

It was possible that Malik had changed too. After all, I hadn't
seen him in three years. But somehow I doubted it. He'd always
been unflinching in his view that what he was doing was right,
and what the people he was trying to catch were doing was
wrong. To Malik, life had been relatively simple. There was good
and there was evil, and it was the duty of all right-thinking
people to try to promote the former and stamp out the latter.
That was why it had upset me more than I would have expected
when I'd read about his death on the Net three weeks earlier.
Because he was one of the good guys, and God knows there
aren't very many of them left these days.

Since leaving home, I'd followed his career on its upward trajectory,
in the ex-pat papers and on the Net, from Detective
Sergeant in Islington CID to Detective Inspector in Scotland
Yard's SO7 Organized Crime Unit, and then to his final, brief
role as a DCI in the National Crime Squad. It had pleased me
to see him doing well. First and foremost, because I'd always
liked him. I think he reminded me a little of what I'd been like
when I'd started out, before the rot had set in. But there was
more to it than that. For some reason, the evidence of his
progress helped to ease the guilt I felt periodically over the fate
of the only three innocent men I've ever killed - the two customs
officers and the accountant whose deaths had led to the disintegration
of my old life, and my subsequent exile. I guess I saw
Malik as an extension of me: my good side. The young copper
I'd mentored, and sent on to greater things. If I was capable of
helping him, then I couldn't have been that bad a man. That's

46
how I'd rationalized it on those occasions when the guilt had begun to get a grip. And it helped, because like a lot of things, there was a degree of truth in it. He had learned a lot from me,
and before the secret of my other life had come out, most of it
had been good.

Billy West hadn't even known who Malik was when he'd
snuffed out his life along with that of the man who'd been sitting
next to him in the Clerkenwell cafe that night. The job had just
been an easy way to make some decent money. Nothing more,
nothing less. And now there was a wife who was a widow, and
two young kids who were going to grow up without a dad. I
don't suppose Slippery had given them a second thought. He'd
now paid the price, but Les Pope? At the moment, Les Pope slept
soundly in his bed six thousand miles away, unaware and unworried
that he'd made a new enemy. Someone like him probably
had plenty anyway.

I had lunch in the open-fronted clubhouse at the Ponderosa,
overlooking the sea and the islands beyond, but didn't see anyone
I knew. Puerta Galera's a small place and the ex-pats tend
to stick together. When you're on the run for murder it's a lot
safer to keep yourself to yourself, but isolation was next to
impossible in a community this size. It wasn't a problem, though.
They knew me as Mick here and, as far as I was aware, they
accepted my cover story that I'd lived and worked in the
Philippines tourist trade for years. Most of them had been out
here a long time themselves and wouldn't have known who I was
anyway; and those who had come in the last three years wouldn't
have been able to pick me out unless they knew who they were
looking for or, like Slippery, were already acquainted with me.
My appearance had changed considerably since the days when
my photo had been plastered all over Britain's newspapers. I'd
had two very professional bouts of plastic surgery - one in

47
Davao City when I'd first arrived, one in Manila a year later that
had changed the shape of my nose and chin and removed
the dark lines beneath my eyes. My skin was a much darker hue
thanks to its prolonged contact with the sun, and my hair,
thinner now that I'd hit forty and tinged for the first time with
grey, had lightened for the same reason. I also wore a small,
neatly trimmed beard that fitted my long thin face comfortably,
and which had never been there during my time as a copper.
Despite all that, however, I was still a little disconcerted by the
speed with which a man I hadn't set eyes on in ten years had
known who I was. Maybe it was time to think about going under
the knife again.

I'd taken the day off and was in no mood to hurry back to our
place, so when I'd paid the bill and driven back into Puerta
Galera, I turned south instead of taking the road north to
Sabang, and drove along the winding and potholed cliff-top coast
road in the direction of Calapan.

And all the time I was thinking.

It was early evening and already dark by the time I returned to
the Big La Laguna Dive Lodge, the place I now called home. It
was only a small hotel, with sixteen whitewashed guest rooms
arranged round three sides of a tiny courtyard, containing an
even tinier pool. In front of the courtyard, facing directly on to
the beach, was our open-air bar and restaurant, and next door
to that was the dive shop we ran. We'd given the whole place a

48
complete re-fit and paint job when we'd bought it, and had even
gone so far as installing expensive rattan furniture in the rooms
and the drinking and eating areas, and although I say so myself,
the place looked good.

My room was right at the back of the hotel and faced straight
into a Filipino family's apartment, but since I didn't spend much
time in it, the view didn't really bother me. I went straight up to
it now, saying hello to a couple of our guests on the way, and
showered and changed, before going back out to locate Tomboy.

I found him in the back room of the dive shop, sitting at the
table with a load of paperwork spread out in front of him. He
had a half-full bottle of San Miguel and a crumpled pack of
Marlboros within easy reach. On seeing me come in, he smiled
expectantly. 'How's it going, mate? I was beginning to get
worried about you. It all went all right, didn't it?'

I stepped into the room and shut the door behind me, a signal
that we could talk. 'It's all done.'

He nodded appreciatively. 'Good. Now we can get back to
running this place. Did you get rid of everything?'

I told him I had and he asked me whether it had been in the
place we'd discussed.

I nodded.

'You did a good job, Mick,' he said, calling me by my nickname,
and sounding not unlike a man I used to do work for back
in London. 'And it's going to tide us over for a long time. We
won't have to do it again.'

I felt like taking him up on the 'we' bit, seeing as he hadn't
done a lot, but I didn't bother. I was too tired for an argument.
'When are we going to get the balance of the cash?'

'As soon as he's seen the photos. You took 'em all right, yeah?'

I nodded and he reached over and picked up the cigarettes,
watching me with an expression that might have been sympathy.

49
'It's all over now. You can forget about it.'

I shook my head. 'It's not over, Tomboy. Billy Warren wasn't
who he said he was. He was Billy West, a villain I had dealings
with back in the old days. You must have known him. You knew
every villain round our way.'

He scrunched up his face into an expression of acute concentration.
'The name rings a bell,' he said after a pause, 'but I can't
picture him. It must have been after my time.'

'It wasn't. I hadn't seen him in at least ten years before today.'

He shook his head. 'Nah. Like I said, the name rings a bell,
but that's it. I honestly don't remember him.'

I wondered why he was lying. Tomboy had known every
villain on our patch, most of whom he'd put behind bars with his
information, but if he had known Slippery Billy he wasn't saying,
and I decided to let it go for now. 'Anyway, Billy West was
also a shooter on the side. He'd moved into that line of business
recently, and the last job he did, the one that brought him over
here, was Asif Malik.'

'The two-man hit in the cafe?'

'That's the one.'

'Shit, how's that for a coincidence?' He shook his head, looking
suitably taken aback. I decided he couldn't have known
about Slippery's involvement in Malik's murder, otherwise he'd
never have let me near him. Tomboy had never known Malik,
but he knew he'd been my partner and was a man I'd liked and
respected. 'I'm sorry about that, Mick. Or maybe I'm not. At
least it gave you a reason to sort him out.'

'Who's Les Pope?'

Tomboy sighed and lit one of his Marlboros. 'I was afraid
you'd ask that. Why do you want to know?'

'I'm interested,' I told him. 'Apparently, he was also the man
who set up the Malik job.'

50
I thought he'd resist telling me too much, but I think he saw
in my expression that I wasn't going to be fobbed off. 'He's a
lawyer.'

I managed an empty laugh. 'Well, there's a surprise.' So at
least Slippery Billy hadn't been lying about that. 'Go on.'

'He does defence work as a solicitor, and he knows a few bad
types, but he's always kept his nose clean, so he's never really
received much attention from the Law. He's also well-spoken and
well-educated, which helps.'

'How do you know him?'

'The usual. He defended me on a couple of cases years ago,
before I knew you. We kept in touch, and I did a little bit of
work for him now and again.'

Just like Slippery had. 'What sort of work?'

'The illegal sort. Providing other clients of his with alibis, helping
them out of binds. Nothing too serious, but put it this way:
he's not the sort of geezer I'd like to mess with. He knows people
who could make life very difficult for you if they wanted.'

'The sort who'd pay to have people killed?'

'I suppose so, although I've got to admit it was a bit of a
surprise when he rang me out of the blue last year about our man
in Manila.'

'He'd never asked you to get involved with anything like that
before?'

'No, course not.'

I wasn't sure I believed him. The more I thought about it, the
more it seemed odd that Les Pope would have asked Tomboy to
help commit murder on two occasions in the space of a year,
unless he knew something about his former client that made him
confident he'd go along with it. I think I'd deluded myself that
Tomboy's involvement in crime while he'd been an informant of
mine back in London had always been on the periphery. I still

51
didn't want to believe that it had been anything more. After all,
I liked the guy. He'd helped me out when he could have earned
himself a lot of money by turning me in to the Philippine
authorities when I first arrived here, and we'd lived cheek by jowl
for the three years since. He was a friend. Even so, the doubts
that had prickled away all day remained.

'Why do you want to know all this, Mick?' he asked, picking
up his beer bottle. 'What good's it going to do? We're thousands
of miles away from Pope and London, and you know what they
say. Let sleeping dogs lie.'

'Because,' I said, choosing my words carefully, 'he was
responsible for killing someone I liked and respected. If it had
been you he'd killed, I'd be asking the same questions.'

'Keep it down, can you?' he hissed, dragging on his cigarette.

'It's all right, I locked the front door. We can talk.'

'Look, I appreciate why you're asking the questions, but
what's done is done. You know what I'm saying? It's spilt milk
and all that. I'm sorry about Malik - I am - but nothing's going
to bring him back, and the man who pulled the trigger ain't no
more, so let's just forget about it, eh?'

'That's easier said than done.'

He took a swig of beer, banged the bottle down on the table
and stood up, craning forward in my direction. When he spoke,
his voice was a forced whisper. 'What the fuck are you going to
do, Mick? Go back to London and pop Pope? Then get on a
plane like nothing's happened and fly back here?' He raised his
hands, palms outwards, in a gesture of 'What more can I say?'
'It don't work like that. You're a wanted man in London;
chances are you'll be picked up before you even locate him, let
alone pull the trigger. And if that happens you ain't ever going
to see the outside of a nick again, are you? Not with your record.
They'll throw away the key. Are you willing to risk all that just

52
to kill the bloke who had something to do with organizing the
hit on someone who you worked with once, but ain't seen in over
three years? Because I'm telling you, mate, if that's the case, it
ain't worth it. Honestly.'

He was right, I knew that. And for exactly those reasons. In
the end, it was far too risky. I'd built up my life here. I was
happy, and even on those days when I got tired of the heat and
the sight of palm trees, it was still a vastly preferable alternative
to the inside of a cold English prison. Plus, I told myself for
maybe the thousandth time in my life, injustices are perpetrated
every day by people who will never be brought to book for their
crimes. Take most politicians, for a start. I couldn't kill them all.
Why tear apart my whole life just to get at one person, when
there'd be a dozen more waiting to take his place?

Because Malik was my friend.

Because he was a good man.

Because I was not.

'Ah, forget it,' I sighed. I'm just talking.'

'I know it's pissed you off. I can't believe it myself, as it
happens. Small fucking world.' He stubbed out his cigarette and
got back down to business. 'You got the key to Warren's room?
I'm sending Joubert over later to clear it out.'

I fished it out of my pocket and handed it to him, disappointed
that his mind was already on other things. It struck me then that
I didn't really know Tomboy Darke at all, even after all these
years, and it was a thought that depressed me, because it exposed
my failings as much as his.

'Come on,' he said, taking the key and finishing his beer. 'Let's
go get you a drink.'

I followed him back through the dive shop and next door to
the bar, where, not for the first time in my life, the booze
beckoned invitingly. For the moment, at least, I'd try and forget

53
the ignominious fate of Slippery Billy West and those he'd
murdered back in the old country.

But sometimes it's not so easy to forget.

The days passed and life carried on as usual. It was late
November, the beginning of the drier, cooler season in IS^indoro,
and the Lodge was about three-quarters booked, softhere was
more than enough to keep me busy. We had staff wlio did the
cooking and cleaning, but now and again I helped run the bar,
and most days I'd take groups of divers out on our outrigger to
the many dive sites that littered the craggy Sabang peninsular,
and which most of our guests were here to see. Diving had
become something of a passion for me since coming to the
Philippines. I'd learned while we'd been in Siquijor and was
now a qualified instructor, unlike Tomboy, who couldn't even
swim and had to make do with running the shop and doing the
books.

In the week after Slippery's death, I took divers out every day,
enjoying the opportunity to immerse myself in the island's warm,
clear waters and forget the torments that were beginning to wear
me down. It's easy when you're underwater. It's quiet, for a start.
There's no one to hassle to you, and there are enough breathtaking
sights amongst the fish-covered reefs and canyons to take
your mind off even the largest of troubles. The only problem is
there's only so much time you can spend down there before your
air runs out and it's time to come back to reality. And reality for

54
me meant remembering Malik as a living, breathing, talking person, and remembering what had happened to him, and my own very indirect part in it.

I couldn't get it out of my head, no matter how hard I tried. One night in the week after Slippery's death, I had a dream. It
was an almost exact replica of an incident that had occurred not long after Malik and I had started working together, about four
years back. At the time, I hadn't been too sure about my new
recruit. A five-foot-eight, slightly built Asian university graduate,
who was already shooting up the ranks even though he was
barely in his mid twenties, I'd already come to the conclusion
that he was only there to make up the ethnic numbers. So when
we did our first op together, a raid on the home of a habitual
burglar named Titus Bower, I decided to test my new partner's
mettle and see if he was more than just a prime example of
affirmative action and Met Police political correctness.

Bower lived in a small, terraced house with a shoeboxsized
rear garden that backed on to an alley. I was leading the team
sent out to arrest him, which sounds a bit more glamorous than
it actually was, as there was only Malik, me, and two of the
station's uniforms. Since I knew that Bower might well make a
run for it, I decided to post an officer at the rear of the property
to intercept him. Ordinarily, I'd have used one of the bigger guys
for this, but instead I chose Malik, much to his surprise and the
surprise of the other two on the op. He didn't complain, though,
I remember that. Just did what I'd asked, and when the rest of
us had knocked on the front door and Bower had opened it a
few inches, realized who we were and made a dash out the back,
Malik had been there to greet him.

It had been a one-sided contest. Running through Bower's
cluttered hallway in hot pursuit, I watched as our suspect tore
open the rear door and charged straight into Malik, knocking

55
him down on to his back and literally running right over him like
something out of a cartoon, his Nike trainer trampling Malik's
face as the poor sod tried without success to tell him he was
under arrest. Bower was a big guy, and he'd run from us before,
so I knew I'd been unfair on my new partner, but the thing that
I remember about the incident was that Malik hadn't given up.
Although shocked and probably in a lot of pain, he'd grabbed
hold of Bower's ankle as he'd come past, and had refused to let
go. Bower had staggered along the garden, struggling to shake
Malik off, and had even tried to kick him in the head (an act that
had caused him to lose his balance and fall over, much to our
mirth). But Malik had grimly held on to that ankle right-op until
the moment we'd had Bower in cuffs, and I thoughrihat there
probably weren't that many coppers out there with that level of
determination. He'd had to go to hospital for treatment to the
injuries he'd suffered, which included a fractured cheekbone, and
though I never apologized for putting him in the firing line (and
he never held it against me, either), I always treated him with
respect after that.

In my dream that night, the whole event played out exactly like
it had happened that cold winter morning four years ago, except
for one thing. As I'd come out the back door and seen Malik
holding on to Bower's ankle, I'd produced a gun from my pocket
and had started shooting. I'd hit Bower four, five, six times (I
can't honestly remember the exact number), killing him instantly,
but somehow one of the bullets had gone astray and hit Malik in
the head, killing him too. He hadn't even screamed. Like Slippery
Billy West, he'd simply fallen on his side and lain still. Then everything
had stopped and I'd stared at what I'd done for an extremely
long moment while the two uniforms stood silently on either side
of me, one with his gloved hand on my upper arm as if effecting
an arrest, before finally and mercifully I'd woken up.

56
I don't know how an expert would have interpreted that

earn, but I knew exactly what it told me. That I was going to
tormented for God knows how long if I didn't do something [tbout what had happened to him. For all Tomboy's arguments
f- and there were many - I simply couldn't let it go.

It was still there at the back of my mind a week after that.
Every day I checked the Internet for news of a breakthrough in the case. Whenever I could, I checked the papers. But there was
nothing, and I had little doubt that by shooting Billy West I'd
severed the last thread of an investigation six thousand miles
away. Here I was, living it up in paradise, staring at the same
gorgeous scenery day in, day out while Malik rotted in the
ground, Les Pope counted his money, and whoever had wanted
my former colleague exterminated in the first place walked round scotfree.

I also wanted to know why he'd had to die. What did he know,
or had he done, that had put him on a collision course with
Pope's clients, the same people who'd wanted Slippery Billy out
of the way? Plainly, they were people with power and influence,
as well as access to intelligence; people who thought they could
do whatever they pleased.

I wanted to find them.

I wanted to find them, and I wanted to kill them.

I knew it would be dangerous to go back home - there was no
getting around that - but not impossible. Three years had passed.
A lot of water had flowed under the bridge; a lot more killers
had emerged into the public consciousness; September the
Eleventh had left the watchful amongst us looking in different
places for our villains. Three years was a lifetime in the multimedia
click-on-a-button world that I'd left behind, and Dennis
Milne, copper turned hitman, was part of a dim and distant past
that no one was keen to resurrect.

57
So I made my decision.

Late on a Wednesday evening twelve days after the death of
Billy West, and with the balance of the money for that contract
now paid, I found Tomboy sitting in near darkness at a table
facing the sea in the Lodge's empty open-air restaurant, the
remains of a San Miguel in front of him. He'd been working
the bar that night so I knew he wasn't drunk. Joubert, one of the
kitchen staff, was cleaning some glasses out of earshot. I could
have got a drink if I'd wanted one, but I didn't. Instead, I sat
down next to Tomboy and said I was going home. (

Tomboy shook his head wearily and gave me a look of deep
disappointment that seemed to accentuate every line'on his face.
It made him look five years older. The same conversation we'd
had on the day of the Billy West killing then began to play out,
but it didn't last anything like as long because this time he could
see that I'd made up my mind. He called me a fucking idiot.
'Look what you've got here,' he declared, waving his arms
expansively.

The night was calm and peaceful and the fronds of the coconut
palms above our heads flickered and drifted in the gentle breeze.
Stars swarmed and swept in a majestic canvas across the clear
black sky, with only the faintest hint of man-made light to the
north in Manila. The sea lapped gently against the shore; the
joints on the older outriggers in the bay creaked in time with it;
and from somewhere in the village behind came the bark of a dog
and the faint but enthusiastic shouts of locals involved in a pool
or card game. It was paradise, there was no question of that,
but at that moment it was nowhere near enough. It struck me
then that I was sick of nice weather. And healthy food. I wanted
the next fish I ate to be in batter and sitting next to a pile of
greasy chips.

'I know exactly what I've got here, Tomboy,' I told him, 'but

58
you know my situation and why I've got to do something about
it. I'm going to be taking my half of the cash from the contract.
When I've finished in London--'

'If you finish - that's what you've got to think about, mate.
You might never come back. I told you about Pope. He knows
some dodgy people. Don't mess with him. Honestly. No good'll
come of it.'

'When I've finished in London, I'll bring back what remains of
my share and pump it straight back into the business. But I don't
know how much I'm going to need.'

'You ain't listening to me.'

'I am, but I've already thought everything through. And you
know me. I'm stubborn.'

'Too fucking stubborn.'

'That's as maybe, but it's the way it is. I'm booked on the
Friday flight out of Manila. I'll be back as soon as I can. It may
be days, it could be weeks. I'll keep you posted.'

Tomboy sighed loudly, then shook his head again. 'Be very
careful. I know you like to think you're a tough guy, and in a lot of ways you are, but there are tougher ones out there, and I'd
hate you to run into them.'

I nodded. 'Thanks for the advice. It's appreciated.'

He started to say something else, but stopped himself.
Eventually, he just wished me good luck.

I told him I hoped I didn't need it.

But of course I knew that I would.

59
Part Two

INTO THE VIOLENT CITY
8

The wind hit me with an icy slap as I stepped out of the Terminal
Three building at Heathrow, hopelessly under-dressed in a light
jacket and shirt. It was seven o'clock on a bitter Friday night in
early December, and a few yards away, beyond the panels
sheltering the entrance from the worst of what nature had to
offer, a driving rain fell through the darkness amidst the crawling
traffic.

England in winter. What the hell had I been thinking of, coming
back here? On the plane over, I'd found it difficult to keep a
lid on my excitement at the prospect of returning home after such
a long time away, even though my business here was hardly
pleasure. Now, however, the enthusiasm was dropping as fast as
my body heat as I stood outside in temperatures hovering only
just above freezing, looking every inch the ill-prepared foreign
tourist. I needed to get into the warmth, and fast. An announcement
in the terminal had informed everyone that the Heathrow
Express to London was currently out of service due to an
incident at Hounslow, which probably meant some selfish
bastard had jumped under a train, so I joined the queue of

63
shivering, bedraggled travellers at the taxi rank, feeling vaguely
paranoid that I might run into someone who knew me from the
past, but confident that my disguise was working. No one had
questioned me at immigration. I'd given the guy my passport,
held in the name of Mr Marcus Kane; he'd taken one brief look I
at it and me, and that had been that. Not even a second glance. f
I was back.

It took ten minutes before my turn came, and I was fading fast
as I got into the back of the black cab and asked the driver to
take me to Paddington. He pulled away without saying anything
and headed for the M4, jostling for position on the overcrowded
Heathrow sliproad.

The traffic was as horrific as the weather. All three lanes heading
into London were moving at no more than ten miles per
hour, with plenty of stopping and starting, with the occasional
angry honk of frustration drifting through the wind and rain. It
was the same going the other way, maybe even worse, since the
bulk of the vehicles were escaping the city, not entering it. I'd
forgotten how overcrowded the south-east of England was. In the
Philippines, outside the maelstrom of Manila and southern
Luzon, the pace is slow, and what roads there are are generally
empty. Here, it's as if the whole population's on the move, fighting
each other for that most precious of commodities: space. We
hadn't gone two miles before I decided that, whatever happened
here, I'd be heading back to the Philippines afterwards. I'd
needed to come back, if only to see what I was missing; but
having seen it, I was quickly realizing that it wasn't a lot.

The cab driver was like a lot of cab drivers. Having broken the
ice by asking me where I'd come from and got an answer (I told
him Singapore, hoping it sounded boring enough that he
wouldn't want to ask anything more about it), he took my
answer as an invitation to talk, and quickly regaled me with his

64
views on immigration (too much), taxes (too high) and crime
(rampant). This last bit interested me a little, because I hadn't
heard much recently about crime levels in the UK. I got the big
stories, but not the overall picture. The driver told me it had gone
through the roof since Labour had been returned to power,
especially crimes of violence. 'I'll tell you, mate, you're twice as
likely to get mugged in London than New York these days.
Probably more. If you ain't been here for a while, you want to
watch yourself, I'm telling you.'

I told him I would, and allowed myself a little smile. It wasn't
that I didn't believe him, but where crime was concerned I
remember the cab drivers saying exactly the same thing in the
Seventies, the Eighties and the Nineties. They said it in Manila
too. Maybe crime was rampant, but who could honestly remember
a time when it wasn't?

Eventually our crawling, rain-splattered progress sapped even
the cabbie's strength, and he lapsed into a bored silence while I
stared out of the window and into the dark, wondering how
I was going to get my investigation started. It wasn't as if I was
a police officer any more, so I had no resources I could call upon
for help. But I did have several key advantages. I knew who I
was looking for, and I wasn't working within the constraints of
the law. One thing that had always bugged me when I'd been a
copper was knowing that the bad guys consistently had the upper
hand. We not only had to find them, but we also had to gather
huge amounts of evidence to bolster our case, even when we
knew damn well that they were guilty. As often as not - particularly
when a criminal knew what he was doing - those huge
amounts of evidence simply weren't available, and our suspect
walked free. Slippery Billy West was a case in point.

I had no doubt that Les Pope would also be a very difficult
individual to pin down, from a copper's point of view, because

65
as a lawyer he'd know how to work the system. With me, though, things would be different. I wasn't afraid to hurt him if he didn't help me. I might well hurt him, even if he did. But I had to be
careful. Locating him wouldn't be hard, but it was important I
played things just right. I wanted to find out who else was
involved in Malik's murder without alerting anyone to what I
was doing, and without getting Tomboy in trouble. It wouldn't
be easy. But then I'd known that when I decided to come back.

The journey to Paddington took the best part of an hour and
cost me almost sixty quid. Sixty quid would have got me from
Manila to Malaysia and back again with a Filipino cab driver. It
made me wonder what had happened to the low inflation they've
been banging on about for so long.

I got the driver to drop me at the station, just in case my face
ever appeared on TV and he remembered me, and paid him using
three twenties. I then stood by his window waiting for the one
pound twenty change, thinking there was no way I was going to
tip him for a service that had cost so much, even though the
bastard was giving me a look that said one pound twenty was
the least he expected for so kindly transporting me from A to B.
He continued to give me the look until I told him that I'd start
charging for my own wasted time unless he hurried up.
Reluctantly, he fished the coins out of his pocket and slapped
them into my open hand. 'Tight ass,' I heard the cheeky bastard
mutter.

I felt like saying something in return - after all, too many
people get away with too much in this life - but decided that not
drawing any attention to myself was probably the best option. I
turned away, heading in the direction of Lancaster Gate.

I'd had a girlfriend round here once, back in the late Eighties,
not long after I'd come out of uniform. Liz, her name had been,
and she'd been a part-time model; a real beauty who ordinarily

66
would have been way out of my league, but a sweet person with it. We'd met after she got mugged and sexually assaulted while going to visit a friend on my home patch of Islington, and I was
assigned the case. The relationship then hadn't exactly started in the best of circumstances, but something between us had
evidently clicked, and after I'd been to her flat on a couple of
occasions to update her on the case's progress, we'd begun an
affair. Or sort of affair, anyway, since one side-effect of the
assault was that she felt unable to have sex with a man. Instead,
she just wanted to be held and kissed, and for a while that suited
me fine. I could think of a lot worse ways of spending my time
than cuddling up to a beautiful woman in a nice apartment with
a good bottle of wine, but eventually - inevitably, I suppose - I
got frustrated. She was seeing a psychiatrist and told me that she
was on the mend - we even tried it one night, but at the crucial
moment she broke down in tears and pushed me away - and a
few days after that, I said that maybe it would be best if we went
our separate ways. She begged me to give it a little more time,
but I was young and I was selfish and in the end that's a fatal
combination. I met up with her once after that, to tell her that
we were winding down on the case in the absence of any leads.
She took the news stoically enough and told me that she was
leaving London. I never saw her again, and it was only now, for
the first time in years, that I thought about her. I wondered
briefly as I crossed Praed Street what had happened to her, and
whether she'd put the past behind her and got the kids she'd
always said she wanted, or whether her life was still crippled by
the after-effects of that one night. My heart hoped it was the
former, but my head was convinced otherwise. She'd been that
sort of girl, and I've always been that sort of pessimist.

I found accommodation in Norfolk Square, a quiet area of
fading Georgian townhouses, the majority of which had been

67
transformed into hotels of varying quality, situated a short walk from the station. I chose one of the cheaper-looking ones and
went inside.

The man behind the desk, who was either Turkish or Arabic
and who showed a comforting lack of interest in me, wanted
twenty-five pounds per night up front. I said I wanted a room
for a week and asked what discount that entitled me to.
Eventually, after carrying out some silent calculations on a slip
of paper in front of him, he grunted that it would cost me a
hundred and twenty if I paid him straight away. I didn't bother
going to take a look at the room first. I had no doubt that it
would be none too pretty, but then I wasn't planning to spend
much time in it, so I counted out the money and placed it in his
outstretched hand. He pulled a key from one of the hooks behind
him and handed it to me. And that was that. It made me think
that most people tend to talk too much, and that there was something
to be said for brusqueness.

I hauled my case up two flights of very steep, narrow stairs to
my room, and wasn't surprised to discover that it was small,
bare, and not very warm either. The paintwork, done in a long
ago off-white, was dirty, nicotine-stained, and full of bumps
where the roller had gone straight over the original wallpaper,
and there were ancient cobwebs fluttering in each corner of the
ceiling. From outside came the rhythmic clatter of a train entering
Paddington station; the wooden window-frame rattling in
unison. It might have worked out at less than twenty quid a
night, but I didn't feel like I was getting good value for money,
especially when I reminded myself of the fact that our place on
the beach in the Philippines worked out at nearer ten. And you
got breakfast and use of the pool there as well.

But by this point I was too tired and jetlagged to care. My
journey, which had begun that morning in Manila, had taken me

68
across eight time zones, and although it was now eight-thirty in
the evening in London, it was actually four-thirty the following
morning for me and I badly needed to sleep.

I chucked the case on the bed, switched on the radiator and
slowly unpacked while I waited for the room to heat up. As I did
so, I tried to shut out the distinct feeling of anti-climax that had
been slowly enveloping me ever since I'd been stuck in the taxi
on the M4. For years this city had been my home. I'd worked,
played and lived in it; had killed and made love here; seen much
of the good but more of the bad. But always I'd felt that I
belonged; that the city was a part of me. But tonight it was
different. Tonight I felt like a stranger visiting for the first time.
There was none of the familiarity I'd been expecting, no
explosion of memories as the taxi crossed the boundaries and the
familiar buildings sprang up like monoliths on either side of the
road. Only the odd, unsettling sensation that my time here was
something from another, barely remembered life.

I decided to have a shower and clean up a bit, then hit the sack
and start everything tomorrow when I was more refreshed and
less depressed. The city, I knew, would look a lot better in the
morning.

I was halfway out of my clothes and waiting for the dilapidated
shower unit to hit a temperature that neither burned strips
off my back or froze my balls off, when my mobile phone rang.

I strode into the bedroom, and pulled it out of the pocket of
my jacket. I'd bought it the previous day in Manila, and only one
person was aware of the number: Tomboy Darke. But as soon as
I looked at the screen and saw that there was no incoming
number showing, I knew it wasn't going to be him.

I pressed the Call Receive button and put the phone to my ear.

'Mr Kane, good evening.' The words were delivered slowly
and with authority in an accent that was unmistakably

69
middle-class London, and north of the river if memory served me
right.

'Sorry, I think you've got the wrong number. I don't know a
Mr Kane.'

'Really?' he said. 'Somehow I believe you do. My name's Pope.
I think we should meet up. I've got a feeling we've got a lot to
talk about. Don't you?'

'Let's make it tomorrow morning,' I said, pissed off that the
element of surprise was gone, and way too tired to see him now.
Tomboy must have talked, but why? Surely he'd have known he
was putting me in potential danger.

'I'd prefer tonight. I don't want you to have to hurry
tomorrow for the plane you've got to catch.'

'Which one's that?'

'The one taking you back to where you belong.'

I didn't bother rising to the bait. 'Well, tomorrow it's going to
have to be. Take it or leave it.'

'In that case, I'll take it. There's a cafe in Islington, off the
Pentonville Road. It's called The Lantern. Meet me there at ten
o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll be sitting at the corner table on
your left as you go in, next to the window.'

'What do you look like?'

'You'll know who I am,' he said, and rang off.

I stood there for a moment, still holding the phone while I
thought things through. It seemed that Tomboy hadn't given Pope my real name, but what if he'd described me? I couldn't
believe that the bastard - someone I'd known for years, someone
I had to admit that I trusted - had blown my cover. Maybe he
was frightened I'd hurt Pope and cut off what was obviously
turning into quite a lucrative little sideline. Or maybe I was being
cynical, and he was just looking out for me. By telling Pope what
I intended, he might just be trying to get things straightened out

70
before they went too far, and get me back on the plane to Manila
without anyone coming to any harm.

Either way, though, he'd betrayed me, and I couldn't forget that.
It's funny how people you think you know can react when the
going gets a little tough. I tried his number, but it was early in
the morning and he wasn't answering. I didn't leave a message, but
instead tried the Lodge in the hope that someone on night duty
might pick up. But no one did, and eventually I hung up, hoping
that the start I was having wasn't the shape of things to come.

First thing the next morning, I walked over to the Edgware
Road and bought myself a thick waterproof coat with too many
pockets. I then wandered round until I found a stationer's shop
that printed personalized business cards. I ordered a hundred (the
minimum number) in the name of Marcus Kane, private
detective, from the old guy behind the counter. He said that he'd
never met a private detective before and asked me what kind of
work I did.

I told him missing persons. 'I've just come back from a case in
the Bahamas,' I said, and when he asked for more details, spun
him a cock-and-bull story about a runaway wife and her young
lover fleecing the husband of all he owned before escaping to the
Caribbean. I explained that I'd got them both arrested by
the local authorities and they were now awaiting extradition. He
said that it served them right, and that the cards would be ready
by Monday.

71
By the time I walked out of the shop it was quarter past nine and I needed to get moving if I was to make the rendezvous. I'd
thought about not turning up at all, since it wasn't immediately
obvious what I was going to get out of it, but I guess curiosity
got the better of me. I wanted to see what Les Pope looked like
in the flesh and hear what he had to say.

I caught the Circle Line from Paddington station to King's
Cross, the journey being less crowded than I remembered, probably
because it was a Saturday, then walked the length of the
Pentonville Road from west to east, through my old stamping
ground, marvelling at how much things had changed in the past
three years. The porn shops at the start of Pentonville Road were
all boarded up now, and scaffolding covered the grime-stained
buildings. Huge cranes towered across the skyline above the
station and beyond. I'd heard somewhere that they were going to
make King's Cross station the main terminal for the Eurostar rail
service linking London to Continental Europe, and it looked like
the powers that be were doing their utmost to clean up the area,
so that those stepping off the trains from Paris and Brussels for
the first time would get a good initial impression of Britain's
capital. There was still a long way to go, and the place definitely
had a mid-construction feel about it, but on the surface at least
it looked better than it had done when I'd been a copper here.

All the way to my destination, I kept my eye out for anyone
suspicious, but the pavements were quiet, as they always were in
this part of town. Nothing much happens on the Pentonville
Road, the only activity tending to be the steady flow of traffic
heading between the West End and the City, and that's because
there's really nothing on it, bar a handful of shops, the odd pub
in need of refurbishment, and the occasional luxury apartment
complex. It had a real windswept feel - you half expected to see
a pile of tumbleweed dodging between the traffic. It suited me

72
fine, because if anyone was following me, I'd have known about
it.

The Lantern was a shabby little place in need of a serious paint
job on a quiet backstreet no more than a hundred yards from
the junction of Pentonville Road and Islington's Upper Street,
and also not far from where I used to live. I got there at just
before ten and walked past on the other side of the road, seeing
immediately that the corner table Pope had mentioned was
empty. I kept walking until I got to Chapel Market, fifty yards
further on.

The market was in full-flow and crowded, another familiar
sight that was vaguely comforting. It was a dry day and chilly,
with a blanket of unbroken white cloud overhead, and there was
also the first sniff of Christmas in the stall decorations and the
excited faces of the many young kids milling around with their
weary-looking parents. It was December 6th, and Asif Malik had
been dead, and his wife and kids grieving, for just over five
weeks.

I turned and headed back in the direction of the cafe, watching
the street like a hawk. Two Italian men in white tops were
unloading vegetables from a van and taking them into a
restaurant. Other than that, there was little to attract my
attention.

As I passed the cafe, however, I saw that the corner table was
now taken. I didn't get a good look at the occupant but continued
on casually until I came to the door, then stepped inside.
The interior was cramped, with no more than seven or eight
tables. Two workmen in white hard hats and fluorescent jackets
sat at one of the tables, piling into plates of sandwiches, while at
the corner table sat a good-looking guy in his early forties and
wearing it well, with a lean face, a full head of dyed blond hair
and a very nicely tailored Italian suit. He was smiling at me with

73
the sort of confidence that left neither of us in any doubt that he knew exactly who I was. It wasn't an unpleasant smile either.
Tomboy's description had been basic in the extreme, and I think
I'd been expecting some middle-aged, greasy individual with a lot
of jewellery and bad hair. The name Les never seems to conjure
up much in the way of sophistication. However, this guy was a
cross between a stockbroker and a good timeshare salesman. A
definite Tom or Greg.

He stood up as I walked over. 'Mr Kane, thanks for coming.
Take a seat, please.' The same authoritative voice I'd heard on
the phone the previous night.

We shook and his grip was tighter than it needed to be. He
kept his hand there for several seconds and I think he wanted me
to flinch, although he continued to give me that welcoming smile.
I didn't, and he let go.

I sat down opposite him, noticing that he had an orange juice
and a black coffee.

'I've ordered a sandwich,' he told me, sitting down as well. 'Do
you want something? It's on me. They do a good ham and salad
ciabatta, I'm told.'

'No thanks. If the waitress comes over, I'll have a coffee.
Otherwise, forget it.'

'Thanks for coming to see me. I'd just like to say, before we
start, that I'm very happy with the services I've received from you
and Mr Darke. It would be a pity to spoil it all now by getting
involved in things that, frankly, don't concern you.' The same
expression remained on his face as he spoke but the tone had
changed subtly. He was telling me, not asking me.

The waitress walked towards us. She was young and thin, with
a skimpy black halter-neck top that rode up past her cute, pierced belly button. With the temperature outside struggling to
stay above zero, it gave me the chills just looking at it. I ordered

74
a large filter coffee and a mineral water, since Pope was paying.

'Fine,' I said to him when she'd turned away. 'I understand
what you're saying. The only thing is, they do concern me.'

'Why?'

So Tomboy hadn't told him about my relationship with Malik,
which was good. I didn't want him to make any problematic
connections. 'That's my business, I'm afraid.'

Pope stroked his chin thoughtfully with his thumb and forefinger,
and eyed me with interest. 'I expected a stubborn man. I
suppose you've got to be pretty strong-willed in your line of business.
Now, I could sit here and threaten you, but I don't like that
way of operating. It's too basic. And with a stubborn man, I'm
not sure it works. So I'm going to appeal to your intelligence. By
the look of you, you've obviously been away a long time and I'm
sure the climate over there suits you, but things are very different
here. You're poking your nose into affairs that are none of your
business, and if you continue to do so certain people are going
to get very upset.'

'Like who?'

'Like people who you're never going to get to, who are so far
away from the coalface that even if they order your death, the
order'll pass through at least half a dozen people before it gets
to the triggerman. Do you understand what I'm saying, Mr
Kane? People who are untouchable. Who you're not even an
irritant too, even now. So by coming here asking questions,
you're not only risking your neck, you're also wasting your time.
Which is a pretty shitty combination, don't you think?'

I didn't say anything since at least part of what he said was
right. Possibly all of it.

'Now, I know you've come a long way,' he continued, his
manner polite and unhurried, 'and I appreciate that I'm asking a
lot to get you to go back to where you've come from less than a

75
day after you've arrived, so I'm going to make things easier for
you.' He reached inside his jacket and removed an airline ticket,
which he put down on the table between us. 'It's a business-class
ticket to Manila via Singapore on Singapore Airlines. You're
confirmed on the flight at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. As
soon as you've checked in, you'll receive a phone call and you'll
be met by someone at the departure gates. That someone will
have two thousancj dollars US in cash for you to compensate you
for your journey. I'm asking you to be on that flight when it
takes off, Mr Kane. Because if you're not, we'll know about it.'

Again, I didn't say anything. My coffee arrived and I thanked
the waitress with a smile that she didn't return. I'd forgotten
what an impolite city London could be. It concerned me that
since coming off the plane yesterday, the friendliest person I'd
run into was Les Pope. It wasn't something you'd want to put in
the guidebooks.

'I'd also like it if you returned to your hotel and stayed there
minding your own business for the next twenty-four hours. If you
behave yourself, I'll even arrange you a car to the airport.'

'There's no need to take the piss, Leslie.'

'Just be on that fucking plane, Mr Kane.' The friendly act was
faltering as Mr Pope began to show me his true colours which,
unlike his face, were none too pretty. This was an arrogant man
who thought he was holding all the cards. In a movie, I would
have told him to take his plane ticket and stick it where the sun
don't shine because I'd do whatever the hell I wanted, even if it
meant stepping on the toes of him and his friends. But this wasn't
a movie, and if there's one thing I've learned in life, it's never to
let an adversary know what you're thinking.

I picked up the ticket, turned it over in my hands, then put it
in my pocket. After a long pause, during which he stared at me
intently, I finally spoke. 'All right, Mr Pope, you win. I'll be on

76
that plane. But I don't want you to try anything in between
times. If one of your buddies has a pop at me before I get to the
airport, then I'll be back, and I'll be none too happy either.'

I think I caught him out there, because I'm sure he'd been
expecting me to start playing up. He gave me a hard stare that
revealed deep frown-marks on his forehead, before the expression
eased and he smiled again. 'I'm glad you're doing the right thing,
Mr Kane. And nothing will happen to you if you do me this
favour. Just make sure you don't get any second thoughts
between here and Heathrow. Otherwise, things for you might
suddenly take a turn for the worse.'

'I'm presuming the coffee's your treat,' I said as I stood up. At
the same time, I gave the table a bit of a nudge and half my cup's
contents slopped out, much of it missing the saucer and landing
on the table. A thin line of liquid made a rapid charge for Pope's
end of the table and started dripping over the edge and on to his
lap.

He jerked back in his seat, not quite avoiding the first drops,
and his eyes met mine again. They were very blue, and they
burned with a hatred that I'd seen only a handful of times before,
and which I knew spelt trouble.

'Sorry about that,' I said, turning towards the door while he
dabbed angrily at the offending stain with a tissue.

The waitress walked over looking pissed off. She had a cloth
in her hand. 'You can clean that up,' she snapped, thrusting it in
my direction.

I smiled and started to tell her that I was sure my colleague
could manage when she lunged at me and I saw that she had a
syringe in the other hand. She was aiming it at my upper leg, one
of the few places on my body that wasn't well covered by the new
coat, and I stepped instinctively to one side, grabbing her by the
shoulder.

77
I felt the sting of the needle hitting my thigh just as I shoved
her bodily into the table. More coffee spilled out of the cup, but
by this time Pope was already out of his chair.

The waitress went to jab me again but I caught the side of her
face with a hasty but accurate right hook and, not being the
biggest of girls, she went down on her behind, looking dazed. I
would have felt gufyty but there was no time for that. Pope was
going for something in the back of his suit trousers and I didn't

want to wait around to find out what it was.

As I went for the door, the nearest workman jumped to his feet
and charged me, swinging a piece of piping in his hand. I grabbed
the handle with one hand and used the other to pick up an empty
chair that I flung at him. He knocked it aside and kept coming.
I turned away and yanked at the door. It was halfway open
and I was wriggling through what gap there was when I was sent
reeling by a ferocious blow to the side of the head. My vision
blurred and I struggled to keep my balance, knowing that if I fell
down here, then I was finished. I had to get outside. In front of
witnesses. Across the street, I could see a young couple walking
past with a pram. I kept pushing myself through the gap in the
door, but the workman, or whoever the hell he was, wasn't going
to let me go that easily. A brawny hand slammed against the
door's glass, trapping me halfway through. At the same time, he
went to smack me again with the piping.

But he didn't get the chance. I gave an almighty push and the
next second I was stumbling out into the cold air, and freedom.

A silver car pulled up just outside the cafe, blocking my view
of the couple and their pram. Through the fuzz of my vision, I
saw a man jumping out, although there was no way I could have
described him.

I opened my mouth, started to say something.

And then I felt a second blow, this time to the back of my

78
head. My legs buckled, and I remember hoping as I hit the
ground that my brain was OK because it felt like it had been
uprooted and sent flying round my skull like a pinball. I was
vaguely aware of being lifted back to my feet, but before there
was any time to wonder how the hell this was going to end, I
blacked out.

10

I awoke in noisy blackness. When I opened my eyes, I couldn't
work out whether this was because I was still unable to see
properly, or because I was in a dark space. The cramped feeling
in my legs and back soon confirmed it was the latter. I was
hunched up in the boot of a car, travelling over very bumpy
ground. My head thumped ferociously from the blow I'd received
and there was a terrible pain behind my eyes.

I willed myself to remain calm and assess the situation - no
easy feat when you've been kidnapped, locked up, and suffer
from claustrophobia, but I figured I didn't have a lot of choice.
I could hear voices - very faint - in the front. I listened for a
moment, and concluded that there were probably two men. Next,
I moved my hands and feet. They weren't tied. This meant they
almost certainly hadn't managed to get me back into the cafe.
They must have simply picked me up and chucked me straight in
the boot. They probably hadn't searched me, either. And it was
that which gave me a chance.

My fingers touched the top of my head. There was a lot of
semi-coagulated blood, and the skin felt extremely tender. I

79
probed round and located a large, angry lump. The guy with the
piping had certainly given me a couple of decent whacks, but not
quite decent enough. I could move every part of my body, including
the extremities, and my eyes were now becoming accustomed
to the gloom. I was pretty sure I wasn't concussed, which was the
good news. The bad news was that I was going to have to
improve my survival skills substantially if I was going to get out
of this situation intact.

I moved my hand down to the inside pocket of my jacket. The
airline ticket was still there, but I wasn't interested in that.
InsteadJ' reached in further and located a small aerosol can. CS
gel. It's freely available in Manila as a legitimate defence against
the street robbers who plague the poorer districts, and the gel's
better than the gas because it's more accurate and only affects the
person being sprayed, not the sprayer or anyone else close by.
The cans can easily be smuggled in the cargo holds of planes,
where they show up on the X-ray machines as innocuous spray
action toiletries. That's why I'd brought three of them with me,
and why I was carrying two now.

The car went into a very large Puerta Galera-style pothole,
jarring my whole body and giving me an even bigger headache. But we were slowing down rapidly and I got the feeling that we
were nearing our destination. Wherever that was. I wondered
whether I was going to get a beating - a warning perhaps that
my adversaries and erstwhile employers weren't messing around
- or whether it was going to be more than this: a loose end being
tied up.

Pope's trap had been a sweet one, I had to give him that. He'd
lured me into the open, to a supposedly neutral venue, pretending
to make a reasoned approach, so that I would let my guard
down, before striking just as I was pondering over what he'd
said. Apart from her incompetence at the end, that waitress had

so
been an inspired choice of attacker. There was no way I'd have
ever suspected her. Even when plan A had gone wrong, Pope still
had a B and a C. I was clearly dealing with someone who was
well organized as well as ruthless.

I pulled the can of CS gel loose from my pocket, and placed
my thumb over the release button as the car hit another pothole
before slowing to a halt. A couple of seconds later the boot flew
open, and daylight came rushing in. A hand grabbed me roughly
by the collar and pulled me upwards. My headache intensified
and my vision blurred again as I moved properly for the first
time since the blow.

I made out a white hard hat, and vaguely recognized its wearer
as the man who'd attacked me with the piping. I could see
through the fuzz that he was grinning and that there was a
crooked, glassing scar round his lip. He pulled me closer and
started to say something. His breath smelt of eggs and bad
coffee, and I wrinkled my nose while simultaneously raising my
arm and pushing down on the can's release button, the action
automatically breaking the security seal. A line of white gel shot
out and got him right in the eyes.

The effect was immediate and incredibly satisfying. He
staggered backwards, screaming and slapping at his eyes, and
while he was otherwise occupied I hauled myself out of the boot,
looking round for any further assailants.

Unfortunately, I'd been wrong about the numbers. There were
three men altogether, and the other two were coming towards me
from either side of the car. The one to my left was the other
workman from the cafe, a stocky guy with a long head and a
small moustache. Those were the only details I got, because I was
too busy concentrating on the black baseball bat swinging
casually from one hand. From the other side of the car and out
of vision, I heard number three shout that I had gas.

81
Time's of the essence in these sort of situations. I sprayed the
gel again, aiming at Moustache, but he turned his head to one
side and I only managed an indirect hit. He rubbed at one eye
and cursed. I'd stopped him, but he wasn't going to be out of the
equation for long.

I swung round, the effort making my vision blur again, and
tried to aim at number three through the fuzz. I sprayed wildly
as he came towards me but I think I missed, and then I was
pressing the button and nothing was happening. The gel had run
out. I'd been told you didn't get much for your money. One or
two sprays and that was that.

I turned to run as assailant number three's baseball bat came
into view. He was holding it two-handed, and seemed to know
what he was doing. He lashed out, striking me hard on the back
of my legs before I could get out of range, the force of the blow
sending me stumbling to the ground. I fell forwards into mud,
fumbled momentarily in my pockets, then rolled round so I could
see what my chances were.

They weren't looking too good. I was in woodland. A wall of
pine trees rose up on either side of the muddy track that the car
- a silver four-wheel drive, the same one from outside the cafe had
come down. I could make out the sound of an aircraft flying
unseen through the unbroken white cloud, miles overhead,
but there was no hum of nearby traffic. Moustache continued to
rub his right eye, but still held on to the baseball bat. Assailant
number three, shorter and thinner than his friend, with more
hair, was smiling and swinging his bat jauntily. Number one,
Scarface, was on his knees a few feet to my right, head in his
hands. 'Fucking bastard,' I heard him hiss. I guessed he'd be out
of the equation for another five minutes or so, by which time I'd
have either escaped or been battered back into oblivion. At the
moment, it looked like the latter.

82
I shut my eyes, then opened them again, focussing on the two
men coming towards me. My vision began to clear at what some
might argue was exactly the wrong time.

'How's yer head?' asked number three in a thick Glaswegian
accent. 'Must be hurting.'

'It's going to be hurting a fuck of a lot more in a minute,' said
Moustache, gripping his bat as if he was getting ready to hit an
almighty home run. His accent was East London, and he was still
blinking aggressively against the effects of the gel.

They stopped on either side of me, looking down. 'You're
harder than we give ye credit for,' said number three. 'But nae
hard enough, ah'm afraid. Now shut yer eyes and we'll make it
quick.' He lifted his bat, as did his colleague. 'That'll do you nae
good, son,' he added, motioning to what he thought was the
empty CS gel canister in my hand as I raised it slowly.

From somewhere off to the left, I heard a noise in the trees.
Something running, getting closer. Then a man's voice, calling
out, 'Tex, get back here!' The voice was still some distance away
but the dog was a lot nearer. Perhaps he'd heard the commotion
and was coming to investigate. If he had, I was grateful. I'd
always liked dogs.

'Whattae fuck?' cursed the Scotsman, looking towards the
trees.

Still lying on my back, I squeezed the button on the second
canister and the gel shot upwards and straight into the face of
Moustache, who I'd identified as the most immediate threat. He
jumped back, but his muffled curses suggested I'd got him this
time. I swung my arm round, still depressing the button, and
more gel hit the Scotsman.

But he'd had that one second to react while I took out his
colleague, and he used it to jump back out of the way. As the
spray sputtered and died all too quickly, he came back fast,

83
striking out with the baseball bat. The blow caught me on the
arm as I tried to protect myself, then connected with the fleshy
area between my neck and my chin, some of the force at least
taken out of it. It hurt - it hurt a lot - but nothing was broken.

He stepped back, his face determined rather than angry,
making me think that he in fact was the most dangerous of the
three, and raised the weapon above his head for a better shot.
But at that moment Tex, who was a young Alsatian, came
bounding out of the trees, wagging his tail, and jumped up at my
attacker. I don't think he was performing a Rin-Tin-Tin-style
rescue; more that he thought what was happening was a game,
and wanted to join in.

The effect was the same, though. The Scotsman panicked,
kicked out at the dog, knocking him backwards, then went for
him with the baseball bat, managing a glancing blow to Tex's
side as the dog dodged out of the way. This only served to make
Tex angry, and he began barking wildly and trying to find an
opening in which he could extract a bit of canine payback. The
Scotsman tried to keep an eye on me and deal with the dog at
the same time, but by attempting to do both he was managing
neither. I grabbed Moustache's baseball bat, and although the
Scotsman saw me do it, he had to fend off Tex, who'd managed
to get his teeth round the end of his bat and was now involved
in a tug of war over it.

I'm a lot fitter than I used to be, but I'd taken something of a
beating that morning and my head was still banging away, so
when I came at my opponent and hit him across the
shoulderblades with the bat I'd liberated, I don't think I did anything
like the same damage I'd done to his friends with the CS
gel, even though I had a clean shot.

The Scotsman lost his footing, but righted himself quickly and
proceeded to kick the dog very hard in the throat. This time, the

84
connection was far better and Tex went over on his back.
Ignoring me, he made the most of his advantage and landed a
sickening blow with the bat on the animal's head and I knew that
this was the end of Tex's resistance.

'My dog! What the hell are you doing to my dog?'

Tex's owner stood by the track, ten yards away, his hair and
clothes wet from walking through the undergrowth, the shock on
his face as all-consuming as that of any crime victim I'd seen. He
was a big man, a couple of stone overweight, and on the wrong
side of middle age. He had the look of the long-term office
worker about him, and I knew he wasn't going to be able to offer
much in the way of assistance, bar calling for help, which was the
last thing I needed. He also looked like he was about to break
down and cry. His eyes were watery behind the thick-rimmed
glasses.

'Get ta fuck, old man!' snapped the Scotsman, already turning
back to me with the air of someone keen to complete unfinished
business.

Which was when I summoned the last of what strength I had,
leaned back with the bat as if ready to hit my own home run,
and smacked him round the side of the head.

It still wasn't the best of blows, but at least I managed to daze
him. He fell to one knee, clutching his head with one hand, but
still holding on to his weapon with the other.

I went to whack him again, but out of the corner of my eye I
saw the first guy I'd sprayed getting to his feet, his eyes now
uncovered. He was pretty stocky as well, with the scar giving him
the sort of face that you could imagine appearing on the cover
of a book about pub brawls. He didn't look very happy either.

He turned in my direction and took a step forward, starting to
say something less than complimentary, so I threw the bat
straight at him and scored a direct hit right between the eyes.

85
'You fucker!' he yelped, stumbling backwards into a pothole
on the track and losing his footing.

At that moment, Tex's owner howled an obscenity of his own
and charged down the Scotsman like an ageing buffalo, grabbing
him in an all-enveloping bear-hug that appeared highly effective.
'You're not getting away with this!' I heard him shout as he
wrestled with the other man, using his ample weight in an
attempt to smother him. He was crying too - loud, violent sobs
- and I suddenly felt very sorry for him.

But this wasn't the moment for expressing sympathy. It was
time for me to make a move, since this was a battle I was never
going to win. Shouting to the owner to get out of here himself
before the others recovered, and adding the immortal lines, 'It's
too late for the dog! Save yourself!', I ran over to the four-wheel
drive, slamming the boot shut. I hoped that the assault I'd
launched from it a few minutes earlier had surprised the driver
enough that he'd left the keys in the ignition.

He had.

I jumped inside and started the engine, slamming it into first
and accelerating away. In the rear-view mirror, I saw that Tex's
owner still had the upper hand, but that Scarface had now
recovered and was going over to assist his mate. He also had the
bat I'd chucked at him in his hand. Tex meanwhile lay motionless
in the middle of the track, in the same position he'd fallen
in.

I cursed. It wasn't my problem. The owner should have run
while he'd had the chance. Why take on men like that, however
upset you are? In the end, you've got to be pragmatic. Retreat
when the odds are against you. But the guy was still an innocent
who'd done nothing wrong, and if I left him there God knows
what would happen. I was a copper for a long time - getting
close to twenty years - and even if for a lot of that time I hadn't

86
been a particularly nice one, I still didn't like to see an obvious
injustice being committed when there was something I could do
about it. I felt sick and I felt exhausted, but it didn't stop me
from looking for a space to turn round.

I'd driven about a hundred yards when there was a break in
the trees to my left. I changed down to second, swung the wheel
and mounted the bank before reversing straight back into a tree
on the other side of the track. Turning the wheel as far as it
would go, I just managed to manoeuvre the vehicle round, and
then I was heading back in the direction of the fight. I'd been
gone no more than twenty seconds.

I was in third gear and coming fast when I rounded the corner
and saw Scarface standing in the middle of the track, bat above
his head, ready to strike. Beneath him, the Scotsman was now
sitting astride the dog-owner, pummelling him with his fists. The
dog-owner's arms were in front of his face as he tried to protect
himself, and his feet were only inches from the prone dog's head.

Scarface looked up when he heard the engine and he blinked
rapidly as his reddened eyes tried to focus. He shouldn't have
bothered. If he'd had any sense he'd have used the time to get
out of the way. Instead, for me it was third time lucky. First the
CS gel; then the bat; now the car, which put bluntly was more
like a tank.

I hit him head-on and he flew over the bonnet and banged
against the windscreen with a satisfying thud. He seemed to hold
that position for a second, and then I slammed on the brakes and
he rolled off the front, leaving a dirty stain of blood on the glass.
I didn't bother flicking on the wipers. Instead, I flung open the
driver's side door so that it was fully extended, and shoved the
car into reverse.

The Scotsman was just getting off his victim to make a break
for it. However, he'd also taken a bit of a beating so wasn't as

87
quick as he should have been, and was only three quarters
upright when the edge of the door struck him full in the face. The
momentum sent him crashing over backwards with a pained yelp
not unlike the one Tex had made when he'd been hit. I turned
the wheel slightly, only just managing to avoid hitting the dog
owner's feet, before coming to a halt again.

It was a pretty grim scene. Scarface lay slumped on his side,
about ten yards up the track from Tex. Moustache was still
writhing on the floor with his hands over his eyes. The Scotsman
was on his back, arms outstretched, a huge gash running
vertically down his face. He was conscious, but no danger to anyone.
And the dog-owner, his face bloodied too, was sitting
upright, his glasses broken, looking across in shock at his dog's
body.

Still, I thought, putting the car back into first, it could have
been worse. He might be traumatized now, but one day he'd
tell this story to his grandchildren. And embellish it too, no
doubt.

Without warning, my vision blurred again as I experienced a
sudden wave of nausea, and I had to swallow hard to stop myself
from vomiting. It took some seconds for the nausea to pass and
the blurring to clear. Then, keeping my head low so he wouldn't
get a decent description of me, I touched the accelerator and
moved away, trying not to hit Tex but not bothering to avoid
Scarface, who I drove straight over. His mug would fit even
better on the cover of a book about pub brawls now.

Harsh, perhaps, but when you make your living breaking the
heads of people you don't know, you shouldn't expect a rash of
Get Well Soon cards.

88
11

The place where they'd taken me was an isolated wood just off
the M25 near Hemel Hempstead, and the more I thought about
it, the more I was convinced that this was where they'd planned
to kill me and dump my corpse. My opinion was bolstered by the
discovery of a brand-new loaded .45 revolver in the 4x4's glove
compartment, which presumably was intended to finish me off,
once they'd beaten the shit out of me. I'd been lucky that Tex
and his owner had shown up, but the fact remained that Les
Pope evidently wanted me out of the way very badly indeed, and
was prepared to go to some extreme lengths to make sure he
succeeded.

It took me well over an hour to get back into central London,
and the whole way I was paranoid that someone would spot the
streaks of blood on the bonnet and call the cops. But maybe
bloodstained cars are more common in England these days,
because no one did. I parked up on a backstreet in Bays water,
put the gun in my pocket (there were no spare bullets), and used
a handkerchief to wipe the steering wheel, door handles and car
keys clean of prints. I left the keys in the ignition and made a

89
note of the number plate and the vehicle's make and model,
before walking slowly and wearily back to the hotel, my head still
thrumming away.

It was one-fifteen p.m. when I reached my room and locked
the door behind me. Knowing I was going to have to do it sooner
or later, I stumbled into the bathroom and stared at myself in the
grimy round mirror above the sink. I looked a mess. A yellowish
bruise had formed on my jawline where I'd been struck by the
Scotsman's baseball bat, and there was a second bruise like a
particularly enthusiastic lovebite on my neck, while several cuts
and unidentified marks dotted my face. My eyes had taken on
the dull, watery look you often get in the mugshots of the more
unhealthy and badly nourished criminals, and even my hair
looked dishevelled, sticking up in clumps on top and at the back
where the blood from the initial blows with the lead piping had
dried. I hadn't been expecting a pretty sight, and I wasn't
disappointed.

Having little difficulty pulling myself away from the mirror, I
took a long shower and felt the back of my head as I washed my
hair. The lump was big, not quite golf-ball sized but enough to
make me wonder whether I might have been optimistic concluding
I wasn't concussed. My eyesight was back to normal, but the
headache was showing little sign of abating.

When I'd finished in the shower, I knew I had to sleep. The
thought unnerved me. If I was concussed, then there was always
the possibility that I might not wake up again. There were also
a lot of questions that needed answering. So far, I hadn't even
got started on my investigation and already I'd come very close
to getting killed. It would be a lot easier simply to give up and
catch the plane back the following morning. To be honest, at that
point I was tempted. I'm no masochist - I don't enjoy having the
shit kicked out of me by people I've never met before - and I'm

90
not suicidal either. I'd got my payback on the men who'd
attacked me, and when they thought about me in the future, it
would be with trepidation. I owed Pope, true, but sometimes
you've simply got to let go. Tex's owner had made the mistake
of charging headlong into danger because he'd got emotional,
and if I hadn't been there, things would have ended up a lot
worse for him. Who'd be there to help me if things went
wrong?

But I'm stubborn. When I make up my mind to do something,
I do it. Sometimes I have doubts about things - I wouldn't be
human if I didn't - but I never let them stand in the way of a
course of action. I'm not sure if that's a good trait to have or
not, but it's irrelevant really. Like I'd told Tomboy, I've got it,
and that's that. And it was the reason why there was no way I
was taking the easy option now. Not until I'd brought down
Pope, and whoever it was who was hiding behind him. I was just
going to have to be a lot more careful, that was all.

The mobile rang. It was on the bedside table and I picked it
up, guessing it would be Tomboy finding out how I was getting
on. But the screen was once again showing no number.

Which meant it was Mr Pope.

'Hello, Mr Kane,' he said as I picked up. 'I'm sorry about
what happened earlier, but I wanted to make sure you got the
message fully. London's a very dangerous place. It's best you
leave it.' There was nothing threatening in his words. Rather, his
tone was sympathetic, that of a trusted friend dispensing advice.

'I am planning on leaving,' I said, my headache suddenly getting
worse. My stomach was grumbling too. All in all, I was a
very unhappy man.

'I wanted to make sure you knew how serious we were about
you getting on the plane.'

'Well, you certainly got your message across, but somehow I

91
don't think I was meant to be getting on it at all.' I didn't
mention that I had the gun.

'It was a warning, Kane. If we'd wanted you dead, you'd have
been taken out the moment you stepped inside the cafe. But next
time I'll use someone better than those idiots this morning. I
underestimated you there. And overestimated them. I won't
make either mistake again.'

'Glad to hear it. I won't be making any mistakes again, either.'

'I hope that means you're going to be on tomorrow's flight.
This time I guarantee that nothing'll happen to you en route.'

'That's very reassuring, but I'm beginning to get the sneaking
suspicion that you might not be a man of your word. I'll make my
own plans, Mr Pope, and the first you'll hear of them is when I tap
you on the shoulder one dark night. Then perhaps we'll talk again.'

The laughter down the other end of the phone was frighteningly
genuine.

'Pope?' he said, still laughing. 'Who the fuck is Pope?'

And he hung up, leaving me staring at the bedroom wall,
thinking that I had one hell of a lot of catching up to do.

12

I slept for three hours that afternoon and when I woke up I felt
like shit and my stomach's growling had reached dangerous
proportions. Rising thick-headed but still alive, I grabbed myself
a large drink of water from the tap, got dressed and headed out
to look for something to eat. Darkness had fallen and the streets
were cold.

92
There was a Burger King fifty yards down the road, and since
I hadn't had one in a good long while, I went in and ordered a
large Whopper meal with Diet Coke from a man who looked
remarkably like a Filipino, although I didn't bother asking him
if he was or not.

I ate in the upstairs area, the only person in there, and finished
the food in about two minutes flat. It wasn't that it was especially
good, just that I was very very hungry. While I sat at the table
slurping away at my Diet Coke, I pulled a crumpled newspaper
article from my pocket.

The article was written by someone called Emma Neilson, billed
as the Investigating Crime Reporter for the North London Echo. It
was dated 3rd November, just over a month earlier, and concerned
the fact that one week after the double murder of former Islington
police officer DCI Asif Malik, thirty-one, and Islington resident
and convicted street robber Jason Khan, twenty-two, in a
Clerkenwell cafe, the police seemed no nearer to solving the case.
The article went on to suggest that DCI Malik, one of the National
Crime Squad's newest and most talented ethnic-minority officers,
had been tipped for rapid promotion within the ranks, and could
possibly have become the Met's Chief Constable one day, which
might have been taking journalistic licence a little too far. Malik
had been an extremely good copper, there was no doubt about it,
but even so he'd been a long way from the top of the pile.

Still, journalists aren't interested in presenting the bare facts.
They're interested in stories, and it seemed from my trawling of
the Internet over the past few weeks that Ms Neilson had been
very interested in this particular one. She'd written a further three
articles for the paper concerning the murders. One was simply an
account of Malik's life and career, but the other two examined
possible motives for his killing. In the main, these centred round
Malik's work for the National Crime Squad, which had seen him

93
involved in investigations into a heroin-importation gang and an
organized paedophile ring, although he'd also made enemies in
the North London criminal underworld during the two years he'd
spent in Scotland Yard's SO7 unit, prior to joining the NCS.
Not surprisingly, then, there was no shortage of suspects, but in
the most recent article, published the previous week, Ms Neilson
had concentrated on one criminal gang in particular, who, she
said, had some questions to answer. She described the gang's
leader as a shadowy thug who'd been responsible for a number
of murders, but didn't name him. Instead, she implied in a nonetoosubtle
manner that he might be getting some inside help from
within the team investigating the murders. 'Just what were Malik
and Khan meeting about?' she'd demanded in the last paragraph.
'And why are more than a hundred full-time detectives still asking
that question? Perhaps there are those amongst them who
don't wish to find out.'

The ugly head of police corruption. I didn't suppose the feisty
Ms Neilson had endeared herself to the investigating officers with
articles like that, but then it wasn't her job to cosy up to them,
and in a time when police officers could be unmasked as hitmen,
it wasn't such an outlandish accusation either. And unlike anyone
else, bar the ones who'd organized it, I knew there was an
inside man. Someone who'd passed on the message that Slippery
Billy was under suspicion.

There'd been plenty of articles in the nationals about what had
happened to Malik and Khan (although none had contained
quite the same polemic as Ms Neilson's), but as time passed and
other news stories jostled for position, interest had begun to
fade, particularly in the absence of any significant new leads. The
articles had got shorter; the editorials praising the sacrifices of
individual police officers in the face of lawlessness had disappeared;
life had moved on.

94
The police wouldn't give up, of course, but five weeks with no
arrests is a long time. And now that the man they'd been on to
had disappeared into thin air before they could even question
him (there'd been no mention of Billy West anywhere in the
media), morale would be dropping fast and resources thinning
out as officers were moved to newer and easier cases.

But Emma Neilson was still interested and that was good
enough for me. It also helped that she didn't work for one of the
bigger papers. It meant she'd be easier to track down and
hopefully less suspicious of my motives. I might have had the
advantage of knowing who'd organized the murders as well as
whose finger had been on the trigger, but I needed to find out
some background on the story, and she was the ideal person to
start with.

Once upon a time, I could have phoned the North London Echo and spoken to my old mate Roy Shelley, but now he'd gone, and
as far as he was concerned, so had I. There was no way we'd ever
be renewing our acquaintance, which was a pity, and one of the
oft-forgotten disadvantages of running from the law and into
exile. All your relationships are killed instantly. Both my parents
were dead, but I still had a brother down in Wiltshire who I
hadn't spoken to in the whole time I'd been away, and would
probably never speak to again either. We'd never been that close,
but it still seemed a waste.

I phoned the Echo and asked to speak to Ms Neilson, saying
my name was DI Mick Kane of the NCS. The bloke on the
other end sounded suitably impressed but told me that she wasn't
there. Apparently she wasn't expected in until Monday.

'Lucky her,' I said. 'How come you drew the short straw,
having to man the phones on a Saturday afternoon?'

'The management seem to like her,' he answered, with
just a hint in his tone that he didn't share their admiration.

95
'And she's better looking than me.'

'I wouldn't worry about that,' I told him. 'They're all better
looking than me.'

We both had a bit of a laugh, and with small talk over and
trust established, I asked him if there was a mobile number I
could reach Emma on. 'It's important we get hold of her. It's to
do with the murder inquiry she's been covering in her articles.
I'm part of the investigating team.'

'Er, sure, I suppose so. Hold on a moment.'

I waited while he put me on hold, and a few seconds later he
was back on. He reeled out her number, then asked if she was in
any trouble. He sounded like he'd be quite pleased if she was,
and I wondered what he had against her, and whether it
genuinely did have something to do with her looks. If so, she'd
definitely be worth meeting. More likely, though, it was down to
the fact that she was better than him at her job.

I told him she wasn't in any trouble, thanked him for his help
and hung up, immediately dialling the number he'd given me.

Three rings later and a female voice answered. 'Emma,' she
announced chirpily against a background of street noise. Her
accent was upper middle class and educated, with a faint northeasterly
brogue. I guessed she hailed from one of the wealthier
areas of Yorkshire or Humberside.

'Hello, Emma. You don't know me but my name's Mick Kane.
I'm a private detective.'

'Sorry, I can't hear you. Can you speak up?'

I repeated myself loudly. At the same time, the street noise
faded somewhat.

'God, that's better. Sorry, I'm on Regent Street doing a bit of
shopping. What can I do for you, then?'

'I've been retained by DCI Asif Malik's uncle to look into the
circumstances surrounding his murder, and the murder of Jason

96
Khan. I know that the police are still investigating, but my
client's getting concerned about the lack of progress. I understand
you've taken an interest in the case yourself, so I was
hoping that we could meet up, perhaps on neutral ground, to discuss
your take on things.'

'How did you get my number, Mr Kane?' Her tone was firm
but not hostile.

'I'm a private detective; it's my job to find out these things.'

'Why don't you talk to the police?'

'You know what it's like talking to them. There's a lot of professional
rivalry. They won't tell me anything. Listen, I'm happy
to pay for your time.'

She paused for a moment and I could almost hear her thinking
down the other end of the phone. 'I'm meeting friends in the
West End tonight, but not until nine o'clock. I can meet you
round here at eight?'

'Sure. Whatever's convenient for you.'

'There's a pub on Wells Street called the Ben Crouch Tavern.
Just off Oxford Street, at the Tottenham Court Road end. I'll
meet you there.'

'Sounds good.'

'How will I recognize you?' she asked.

'I'm forty, I've got a suntan, and I look as if I've just been
beaten up.'

'Oh. And have you?'

'I have. I'll tell you about it later.'

'Now I'm intrigued. I've got long, curly hair, by the way. Light
red. And I'm thirty-one.'

'I'm sure we'll find each other. Thanks for your help, I'll see
you later.'

We said our goodbyes and rang off. I looked at my watch. Ten
to five. Plenty of time.

97
13

I walked down to the Marble Arch end of Oxford Street via
Edgware Road and went into the first decent-looking menswear
shop I saw. Inside, I bought myself a whole new winter wardrobe
to add to the coat I'd got earlier, including a leather jacket, a
couple of sweaters and a pair of black CAT boots, all from an
enthusiastic teenage assistant who took absolutely no notice of
my weather- and fist-beaten features and kept telling me that
every item I put on suited me perfectly. I wasn't complaining. It's
never a chore receiving compliments, even if they are commission
based, and it meant I was only in there about twenty minutes.
They also sold Swiss Army knives, and I took one of them too,
figuring it would probably come in useful at some point.

Having got rid of the best part of five hundred quid on gear
that I was unlikely to use again once I returned to the sun, I
made my way back in the direction of the hotel. The streets were
busy with late-night shoppers, and there was a festive mood in
the chill air which helped to improve my mood and made me
yearn a little for a return to life in the big city. Even the beating
I'd received earlier felt like a nostalgic throwback to a long-ago

98
past when I'd worn the uniform of the forces of law and order
and had spent my working days fending off abuse from the public
I was paid to protect. In the end, though, I knew it was all
bollocks. The reality was that London was a dark, overcrowded
and increasingly foreboding place - at least for those without the
wealth, the penthouses and the fashionable parties - a place of
street robbers, and drugs, and seething sink estates; of police
officers who no longer had the resources or the motivation to
police; of politicians who talked up the statistics but ignored the
fact that the problems were multiplying like bacteria; and where
those who did stand up and place themselves in the firing line men
like Malik - ended up getting shot down.

Tonight, though, it was possible to forget all this. Tonight,
families ruled the streets and Christmas carols blared out of open
shopfronts. Smiling dads carried their babies in those kangaroo
style pouches you sometimes see; mothers, some of them laden
down with shopping, shepherded their over-excited offspring and
tried to keep them off the road and out of the path of the seemingly
endless stream of red buses rumbling by in both directions.
It was what Christmas was all about: rampant consumerism, and
spending some quality time with the family. I began to feel a bit
jealous, remembering my Christmas Day the previous year, just
after we'd bought the Lodge. The cook, Teo, had been off sick
(with food poisoning, rather worryingly) and I'd had to sweat
away in the kitchen preparing the food for our guests, while
they'd got drunk out the front and Tomboy entertained them
with his wit and bonhomie. Until, that was, he'd been forced to
retire, incoherent, to his house up in the hills. It hadn't exactly
been memorable.

As I turned the corner on to Edgware Road, I saw three kids
of about sixteen across the street who'd surrounded a smaller kid.
They had him in the entrance to an alleyway between a

99
restaurant and a shop, and were making him empty his pockets.
I watched as he handed over a mobile phone and some money,
his face a picture of humiliation as he tried to catch the eye of
the many shoppers walking past. But the shoppers kept going,
either oblivious to the scene being played out only feet away from
them, or choosing to ignore it; hoping that by shutting their eyes
to what was going on, it would somehow stop it happening to
them. It wouldn't. Let a criminal commit a small crime
unchecked, and he'll commit a second, larger one the next day,
and be a lot bolder when he does it. These shoppers reminded me
of the peace-loving people in H. G. Wells's The Time Machine the
Eloi, I think they were called - who accepted that some of
their number would always be killed and eaten by the stronger,
more aggressive Morlocks, and simply let it happen. And like the
Eloi, these shoppers would one day find that steering clear of
trouble was no defence when trouble came calling.

I stopped and went to cross the road, but muggers tend to be
swift workers and, having got hold of his mobile and money,
they'd disappeared up the alley by the time there was a break in
the traffic. The kid gazed about him in some distress, probably
wondering why the adults who told him how to behave were such
hypocrites, and then disappeared up the road, running fast,
before I could catch his eye. Poor bastard.

I watched him go, wondering what I would have done if I'd
caught up with him. Comforted him? Given him forty quid for a
new phone? Told him to buy a knife? Probably all of those
things. He'd learn a lesson from this, anyway. When you head on
to the streets, you're on your own, so you've got to be prepared
and ready to protect yourself. I'd made a similar mistake that
morning, and it had almost cost me a lot more than humiliation
and lost innocence. I wouldn't make the same one again. I hoped
the kid wouldn't either.

100
I'd just turned into London Street and was only about a
hundred yards from the hotel when my mobile rang. I put down
my bags and checked the screen, immediately recognizing the
number on display.

It was Tomboy.

'Sorry I didn't phone you earlier,' he said with the same sort
of forced breathlessness that I used to put on when returning
calls later than I should have done. 'I've been up to my eyeballs,
working like a dog. Everything all right?' The placating tone in
his voice told me he knew it wasn't. I wondered whether he'd
spoken to anyone here since the incident that morning.

'How long have I known you, Tomboy?'

'You've heard from Pope, then?'

'That's a good question, I'm not sure. I met a bloke who was
roughly the same age, eye colour and build as the Les Pope you
described. But I'm beginning to get the impression they weren't
one and the same. Describe him again.'

'Fuck, mate, it's been a long time.'

'Is Pope good-looking?'

'Was this geezer?'

'That's not what I'm asking,' I snapped, stepping into an alleyway
away from the traffic noise, and thinking that I'd really been
slipshod not getting this sort of information earlier. It could have
saved me a lot of trouble.

'Well, I don't think anyone's ever called him good-looking, as
such. He used to dress well, mind. Savile Row suits and all that.'

'Did he have a thin face or a fat one?'

'Well, fattish really.' The face of the Pope I'd met had been
more on the slim side. 'He weren't a fat bloke, particularly, but
he weren't thin either.'

'Well, in that case I haven't heard from him,' I said, convinced
now that it hadn't been the same man. 'But I've heard from some

1 01
of his friends and they weren't too interested in talking. Why did
you let on that I was coming over? You must have known it
would land me in a lot of shit.'

I heard him sigh at the other end of the phone. The line was
remarkably clear. It didn't sound much like he was in the
Philippines. Or maybe I was just getting paranoid.

'I'm sorry, mate, I really am,' he said, ladling on the contriteness.
'What's happened, then?'

'Suffice to say that your friends wanted me out of the picture,
and they went about it in a very direct manner. If they'd had
their way, I wouldn't be talking to you now. In fact, it's unlikely
I'd have been talking ever again.'

'Listen, I had nothing to do with any of that. Believe me on
that one, please, for Christ's sake.'

'So, what did you do?'

He coughed, and I heard him take a lug of a cigarette. The line
was that clear. 'I phoned Pope. That's all I did. I phoned him
'cause I wanted him to have a word with you, tell you what he
could about everything, and, y'know ... smooth things over a
bit. Then persuade you to get back on the plane so we can all get
back to normal again. Which is what I want to happen.'

'It's a bit late for that now. Your talking to him almost got me
killed. You must have had some idea that would happen.'

'I didn't, I promise you. I thought he'd just have a word.'

'Where can I find Pope?'

'I don't know. He used to live up somewhere in Mill Hill, but
that was years ago. He's probably moved now.'

I exhaled loudly, concluding that he was telling the truth. 'Why
did you do it, Tomboy? Did you think I'd thank you for grassing
me up? I thought you'd retired from that game. Obviously I
was wrong.'

'Fuck you, Mick, I was just trying to protect both of us. Pope's

102
involved with some heavy-duty people; I told you that before you
decided to go off on this fucking adventure. If I'd let you go
straight after him, you'd definitely have got killed, and then they
probably would have started looking for me.'

'Ah, that's the real reason, isn't it? You're watching your own
back, never mind mine.'

'Listen here, I've built myself a decent business over here, and
when you came over, on the run from just about everyone, did I
turn you in? Did I? Did I fuck. But I could have done, you know,
and I'd have made a few quid doing it, too, but I didn't, and the
reason I didn't was because you was a mate of mine, and you
treated me all right back in the old days. So don't give me all
that about being a grass. I was trying to help you out again.'

'It didn't work.'

'And I'm sorry about that, but I did it for your own good. All
right? And I'm going to tell you this for your own good, too: Get
the fuck out of there. Get on a plane and get back here. While
you still can. Because otherwise you're gonna get into stuff you
really don't want to.'

'Like what?'

'Just do it, Mick. Not for me. For you.'

And he hung up before I had a chance to say anything else.

I shivered. The cold was beginning to bite. For some reason, I
felt guilty for being angry with him. He'd played the injured
innocent card like he played most situations in his life: with just
the right amount of acting skill to sound genuine. He was right,
too. I was getting myself into a dangerous situation. But there
was no way I was changing course now.

Not before I'd even started.

1 03
14

The Ben Crouch Tavern was a big pub with a black wooden
frontage about fifty yards east of Oxford Street. A chalkboard
sign outside the door said that they served Monster Burgers, and
a plaque pinned to the wall above it said 'Prepare to sample the
eerie atmosphere of Ben Crouch', whoever he was. Scary.

Inside, it was dimly lit, and all the furnishings, including the
wooden floor, the array of beams and pillars and the steps leading
up to the open-plan balcony above my head were painted the
same black as the frontage. A bar on the opposite wall ran
the whole length of the pub, and there were a few stone gargoyles
up amongst the bottles of spirits, but this was about as eerie as
the atmosphere got. The place was crowded, but rather than the
legions of the dead, the clientele consisted mainly of large groups
of very loud students, and only the occasional refugee from the
Rocky Horror Show. The area in front of the bar was packed,
which is always a bad sign for the ageing drinker, and the buzz
of conversation and clinking of glasses was so noisy that it
almost drowned out the music - a song from the Eighties which
was either The Mission or The Jesus and Mary Chain.

1 04
I stood near the entrance for a few moments, wondering how
the hell I'd find a red-haired girl of thirty-one I'd never seen
before, when I felt a tap on the shoulder.

I turned round and looked into the smiling face of a very
attractive young woman with soft, elfin features and a fine head
of curly reddish-blonde hair that fell down over her shoulders
with the casual finesse of a fashion ad. She was quite a lot shorter
than me, probably no more than five three, and dressed in an expensive-looking nubuck jacket and jeans, with a dinky red
handbag hanging jauntily from one shoulder. She had a cigarette
in one hand but no drink that I could see, and I would have put
her at twenty-two or twenty-three if it wasn't for the eyes, a striking
mixture of hazel and green, which betrayed a definite maturity. This
was a girl who probably wanted you to take her lightly but knew
you'd be making a mistake if you did so. Like a lot of journalists,
really, and more than one or two coppers.

'Mr Kane?' she inquired above the noise.

I put out a hand and she took it. 'How did you know? Do I
really look that out of place?'

She smiled broadly, showing deep dimples. 'You want me to
answer that?'

'Probably not.' I gave her one of my old rueful smiles that
years ago used to really get to the ladies.

'It's not that. It's just you do actually look like you've been
beaten up. But you didn't tell me you'd be wearing glasses,' she
added.

I hadn't known myself until an hour or so back, but had
decided to put them on just to add a little to my disguise. It pays
to be careful when you're in the vicinity of journalists.

'I've only started wearing them recently,' I answered, 'so I tend
to forget. Anyway, I'm pleased to meet you. I thought your
articles were very interesting.'

105
'Do you want to go somewhere else?' she asked, moving close
enough so that I could smell a subtle dab of perfume. 'There's no
way I can make myself heard in here.' Which wasn't strictly true.
Her voice, though not loud, was strong and clear, the northern
burr less obvious now than the fact that she'd obviously been
educated at a school considerably higher up the educational scale
than the one I'd spent my youth in.

To our left, a table full of drunken students were doing an
atrocious version of some rugby song, banging away on the wood
with open palms in an effort to find a rhythm. It was fair to say
they weren't succeeding.

I nodded. 'Sure, lead the way.'

We stepped outside into the relative quiet of the night and
walked across the road to a smaller, less crowded pub on the
corner. Emma found a space at the bar, and I asked her what she
wanted.

'A bottle of Beck's'll be fine, thanks.'

I got the barman's attention and ordered her Beck's plus a pint
of Pride for myself, not knowing quite what to expect. It had
been three years since I'd drunk English bitter and I wasn't sure
whether it was going to taste like nectar or warm piss.

'So, how come we met in that other pub?' I asked as we found
a spare table in the corner, a good few feet away from the nearest
customers. 'Were you checking me out to see if I was worth
talking to?'

'I didn't know you from Adam,' she said with a smile. 'What
did you expect?'

I took a sip from my drink. First impressions were
veering towards warm piss. 'You still don't know me from
Adam.'

'That's true, but I watched you when you walked in and you
seemed genuine enough. I can usually tell, I meet plenty of people

1 06
who aren't. If you'd looked too shifty, I'd have just slipped out
of there and you'd never have realized.'

'Fair enough,' I said, thinking if only she knew the truth.

'How did you manage to get beaten up?' she asked, changing
the subject as she slipped a notebook and pen out of her handbag.
'What did you find out?'

'Well, first off, let me say this. I want you to help me, and I
want to help you, but can you do me a favour and keep what we
find out of your articles until we've got somewhere?'

'Why?'

'I've got a feeling that the last article you wrote was right that
there's more to this case than meets the eye. I just want us
both to be careful, that's all.'

She nodded. 'OK, but if I turn up something that's a real
scoop, I might have to change my mind. I don't want to be at
the North London Echo all my life.'

'I understand, but please tell me if that's what you're going to
do, all right? At least so I know.'

'Sure.' She took a pack of Marlboro Lights and a cheap lighter
out of the handbag. 'Do you smoke?' she asked, pointing the
nearly full pack in my direction. One of the cigarettes had been
placed upside-down, with the tobacco end sticking out.

I told her that I didn't any more, but didn't mind if she did.
Then I asked if she'd put the cigarette upside-down in the pack
intentionally.

'Apparently it brings you luck,' she said, lighting up. 'I've
always done it.'

I nodded. 'My first girlfriend always used to do it too. She
wouldn't even accept a cigarette from someone whose pack didn't
have an upside-down fag in it. A lot of people used to do it in
those days.'

'And did it bring her luck, your girlfriend?'

1 O7
'She ended up falling in love with a representative from the
Seventh Day Adventist church who knocked on her door one day
when she was a student. She became a born-again Christian, and
ran off with him to America. My brother told me that she's had
five kids. I don't know if you'd class that as luck or not.'

'Not five kids. Not for me, anyway. But I suppose it depends
which way you look at it, doesn't it?'

'Exactly.'

She puffed lightly on her cigarette, taking care to blow the
smoke away from me, and I took the opportunity to look at her
more closely. She wasn't wearing any make-up, and didn't need
it. Her skin was soft and pale and there was a cute smattering of
freckles the same colour as her hair running across the top of her
nose. But it was the eyes that held my attention. They stood out,
not only because of their perfect round shape and unusual
colouring, but because they seemed so full of life. Emma Neilson
was the sort of girl who could turn heads. I don't think she was
classically beautiful - some of her features, like her nose and
cheekbones, weren't delicate enough for the rest of her face - but
she had a real spark about her, and I'd have bet money she could
wrap all but the hardiest of men round her little finger.

'You still haven't told me how you got beaten up,' she said,
taking a sip of her beer.

'I know, and I will, but before I go into details of what's
happened to me, and what I've managed to find out, I'd like to
get some background on the case from you.'

'How long exactly is it you've been working on it?'

'Not very long at all. Since yesterday.'

'And you've already managed to get yourself on somebody's
wrong side. That's quite impressive.'

It was obvious she was sceptical of my story. I'd have been,
in her position. It made me wonder whether I should have

1 08
thought things through a bit more before meeting her.

'I'll level with you, Miss Neilson . ..'

'Emma, please. No one calls me Miss Neilson.'

'OK, Emma. Well, I've got a lead, something that'll require
some help on your part to develop, but it's good, I can promise
that.'

'What sort of lead?'

'A name.' She raised her eyebrows, but didn't say anything.
'Someone involved, and not necessarily one you know. But first,
I want to hear what you've got. I want to know if there's anything
I've missed out.'

'Where do you want me to start?'

'The background. My understanding is that the police think
that Malik's death is connected to his work, either at the NCS
or at S07. That seems to be your take on it as well, if my reading
of your articles is right. You also appear to have a particular
individual in mind, one who has a motive but who might also
have friends protecting him. Would that be right?'

She stared at me for a moment, weighing me up with those
brown-green eyes, then appeared to make a decision.

'Asif Malik made some enemies in the past among organized
crime figures,' she said carefully, 'but the consensus of opinion is
that those figures are now finished. However, there was one
individual in North London that my sources tell me he was
involved in investigating when he was murdered.'

'The one you mentioned in the most recent article but didn't
name?'

'That's right. But I'm not going to name him now to someone
who I've only just met. I hope you understand.'

'I do, but what makes you suspect him so strongly?'

'Jason Khan, the man who died in the cafe with Malik, was a
member of this individual's organization.'

109
I raised my eyebrows. This was getting interesting. None of the
information I'd gathered on the Internet had mentioned this
connection. 'I heard Khan was a convicted street robber, but not
exactly a big player. Not someone with the inside gen to bring
down a major criminal enterprise.'

'I can't say for sure, but he knew something, and it must have
been important.' She paused for a moment. I could tell she had
some further information to bolster her case but wasn't sure she
should share it. I didn't hurry her, but watched as she put out
her cigarette and took a sip from her drink.

Finally, she took a quick look round, then leaned forward over
the table. Once again I could smell her perfume. 'The reason why
Khan must have known something important is that four days
after he and Malik were murdered, his girlfriend died in very
suspicious circumstances.'

'What sort of circumstances?'

'On the face of it, a heroin overdose.'

'Did she have a history of drug abuse?'

'She was a runaway who'd spent most of her teenage years in
care, and yes, she did have a history of drug abuse ...' She paused
again. 'I know what you're thinking, Mr Kane.'

'Mick, please.'

'I know it's possible that she could have overdosed when she
heard about Jason, but it doesn't fit. I never knew her, but
she was a very strong-willed girl, by all accounts. She'd been
through a lot in her life, but she'd recently undergone a course
of psychotherapy and, from what I can gather, she seemed to be
getting her life back together. According to her friends, she and
Jason were no longer using drugs, and Jason had never been
involved in heroin anyway.'

'Why didn't you print your concerns about the girlfriend's
death in the article?'

1 1 O
'It's coming out in the next edition. Tomorrow's.'

I raised my eyebrows for a second time. 'That ought to stir
things up.'

'If it gets the police moving, that's good enough for me. At the moment, they don't seem to be doing much about it.'

'You're going to need to be careful. I'm sure you know how
to look after yourself, but we're dealing with dangerous people
here.' I pulled out my own notebook. 'What was the girlfriend's
name, by the way?'

'Ann Taylor.'

I had to work hard to keep my expression impassive. Ann
Taylor. A young girl with a spindly child's body and a big
attitude. Once upon a time, I'd rescued her from an abduction
while she'd been working the King's Cross backstreets as a
teenage prostitute. It had been during my last days in London,
when I'd been investigating the murder of one of her friends and
fellow runaways, Miriam Fox. I'd hoped that maybe Ann had
turned out all right in the period since. She'd always struck me
as someone with a degree of intelligence as well as the street
smarts you associate with runaways, but neither of these
attributes were any substitute for luck, and in the end it was that which Ann had been lacking.

But in the short time I'd known her, my impression was that
she wasn't the sort to take her own life. As Emma suggested,
Ann had been a tough kid who was used to residing at the shitty
end of most people's quality-of-life index. People like that are
statistically far less likely to end their own lives than those from
wealthier backgrounds. But then again, there was nothing to
suggest that it hadn't been an accident either. Smack's an easy
drug to OD on without actually wanting to.

I decided to let it go for now, and asked Emma what Malik's
movements were on the night of the shootings.

111
'He and his wife, Kaz, were watching the television all evening.
The phone rang just after ten p.m. Malik took the call, spoke for
several minutes, and then announced that he had to go out. It's
been confirmed that the call came from Jason Khan's mobile.
Malik threw on some clothes, left the house, and the timings
suggest that he went directly to the cafe where he was killed. And
that was it. Kaz went to bed, and the next thing she knew she
was being woken up by the police knocking on the door, telling
her the bad news.'

'Did she say whether he'd told her what the meeting was
about? My client, Mr Malik senior, wasn't sure.'

She shook her head. 'Nothing, but apparently that wasn't
unusual for him. He does - did - a lot of very secretive work.
From what I remember, she did ask him whether it was really
necessary to go out at that time of night, and he said it was. She
also mentioned that he looked very agitated. He was generally
considered quite a calm man, but she made a point of saying he
wasn't himself after taking the phone call. Whatever made him
go to that meeting must have been important.'

We were both silent for a while. I wondered whether Jason
Khan had been used as bait to lure Malik to a meeting so that
Billy West could finish him off. If so, the man behind it had
evidently had Khan killed at the same time to make sure his
mouth stayed shut. Perhaps Khan had said something to
his girlfriend about the meeting and they'd found out about it,
effectively signing her death warrant.

At the moment, however, it was all conjecture.

'Now for the quid pro quo,' said Emma. 'Your turn to tell me
what you know. Who's this man you've been having trouble
with?'

'I want your word that it won't appear in any article until you've
cleared it with me. We need evidence against him, for a start.'

11 2
'I've already said I'll do everything in my power to abide by
your wishes.'

'Not good enough. I want your word.'

'It's nice to meet someone who still believes in that. OK,
done.'

I paused for a moment, then spoke. 'The guy I'm talking about
is called Les Pope.'

Her eyes widened and she sat back in her seat. 'You're joking!'

That caught me. 'What do you mean?'

'You don't know?'

'Obviously not.'

She shook her head, clearly concerned about my lack of
detective skills.

'Les Pope is - or more accurately, was - Jason Khan's solicitor.'

15

'Tell me about Pope,' Emma demanded, taking a sip from her
beer. 'How did you get on to him in the first place if you didn't
know he was Khan's brief?'

I wondered then if I'd overplayed my hand. It's always risky trying to deceive someone whose job it is to sniff out untruths.
It's even less of a good idea when you're still a wanted man in
the country you're sitting in, and with a tell-tale suntan as well.
Already she was looking at me over the rim of her beer glass with
a healthy and fully justified scepticism, although thankfully without
any worrying flicker of recognition. Her eyes reminded me of
those of a cat - there was something hypnotic about them - and

1 1 3
I got the idea that it would be difficult to hide your secrets from
her for too long.

'Let's just say that over the years I've built up contacts with a
lot of people who'd never voluntarily talk to the police, but who
might be tempted to open their mouths with the promise of
money. I heard about Mr Pope from one of those people.'

'How good was his information?'

'Good enough to get me a beating.' I gave her the cock-and
bull story I'd concocted in my room earlier, about how I'd been
asking around about Pope when two of his thugs had accosted
me outside my North London office and kicked me around,
warning me to stay out of their boss's business. It was
a bit cliched, I suppose, but not a million miles from the
truth.

Emma seemed to buy it as well. 'And there's you telling me to
be careful,' she said drily.

'I speak from bitter experience,' I told her. 'That means you
should listen doubly hard.'

She smiled, showing the dimples again, and pulled another
cigarette from the pack. I saw her glance at her watch at the same
time, and felt a vague twinge of disappointment. I think I'd been
overestimating the excitement of my company.

She asked me where we went from here and I told her I needed
an address for Pope.

'And when I get that, I'm going to pay him a visit.' My tone
suggested that when I got hold of him, I wasn't going to ask my
questions with a high degree of politeness and patience. It was in
keeping with the image I wanted to project to her: that of a man
who was essentially on the side of the good guys, but who wasn't
afraid of trying on the tough stuff. I thought she'd like that
because it would mean I was more likely to come up with some
answers, which would help with her story.

1 1 4
'And,' I continued, taking a gulp of my beer, 'I want you to
look into Mr Pope's background. Find out anything you can
about him. Clients he's had, associates he's got, any controversy
he's been involved in. Same with Khan.'

She looked at me in the way an old girlfriend of mine used to
do when she thought I was taking the piss. Put-out, but in a playful
sort of way. 'You don't want much, do you?'

'It'll help with your own investigation.' I pulled a piece of
paper from the pocket of my new jacket and put it on the table
in front of her. There were five phone numbers on it, taken from
the records section of Slippery Billy's mobile. I didn't know if
they'd elicit any information, but it was worth a try. 'Do you
know anyone who could trace these numbers, and find out whose
names they're registered in?'

She asked me whose phone I'd got them from and I told her
that it belonged to Les Pope. 'And they're calls that he recently
made and received.'

'How did you get hold of his phone?' she asked, taking the
piece of paper.

I flashed her my most businesslike expression. 'One of his
phones. I believe he's got several. Let's just say, by stealth.'

'Does he know it's gone?'

'It's back with him now.'

'I'll see what I can do. I can't promise anything.'

'If you use any of your police contacts, be very careful. Don't,
whatever you do, mention Pope, and don't use the same source
for all the numbers.'

She gave me a puzzled look, followed by a suspicious one.
'You've got a very unorthodox way of operating.'

'In a land of conformity, it's always best to be a little different.
It boosts business.'

'I bet it does.' She looked at her watch again. 'I'm sorry, I've

1 1 5
got to make a dash. But I'll see what I can do with this. I also
need a number for you.'

She keyed my number into her mobile, then put everything in
her handbag and stood up, stubbing out her cigarette. She put
out a hand, but she was no longer smiling. She was more wary
of me now. 'It was nice to meet you,' she said as we shook, 'and
thanks for the drink. Let me know how you get on with Pope.'

I told her I would, said it was nice to meet her too, and
watched as she walked out of the pub. It was, I thought, one of
the terrible injustices of life that as a man grows older he still
experiences the same sort of desire for attractive young women
that he's always had, and yet, at the same time, age makes him
become steadily less attractive to them. I'm not a bad-looking
bloke, but I look my age, and in ten years' time, if I'm still here,
I'm going to look fifty. Eventually, I'm going to get to the point
where no one wants me. Already I was too old for Miss Emma
Neilson. I could see it in the way she looked at her watch. She
was interested in me because I might have some information
relevant to her story, but that was all. When she'd heard what I
had to say, she'd wanted to get away to see her friends. Even her
boyfriend, maybe.

I thought about getting another drink, but decided that this
place wasn't for me. It was beginning to fill up now as the
evening's revellers arrived in force - mainly a twenties crowd,
with a few thirty-somethings sprinkled in - their faces rosy from
the cold outside, their laughter echoing through the bar. If I had
to drink alone, then at least I was going to do it somewhere
where I felt comfortable.

I drained my pint and left.

1 1 6
16

Out on Oxford Street, row upon row of Christmas lights were
strung across the road in a riot of festive colour. Shops were still
open and the pavements remained dense with the last of the
hardened shoppers and the now far more numerous gaggles of
boisterous and drunk youths, the girls among them looking
worryingly under-dressed for the weather conditions. No one
caught my eye as they passed, no one took the least bit of
notice of me. Given my situation, this should have been something
that pleased me, but tonight it didn't. It made me feel
even more like an outsider. Someone who'd long ago ceased to
belong.

I was at the wrong end of Oxford Street for my hotel, so I
started walking in the direction of Oxford Circus, and managed
to grab a cab with a driver who thankfully wasn't interested in
talking, and who took me back to Paddington without saying a
word.

I got him to drop me off in Praed Street, and wandered along
it for a few minutes, enjoying the relative quiet, until I found a
pub that looked about right. A song by Oasis - I couldn't

1 1 7
remember which one - drifted out of a gap in one of the
stained-glass windows, accompanied by the buzz of conversation
and clinking of glasses that I'll always associate with a proper
London boozer, and which up until that moment was a sound I'd
forgotten how much I missed.

I stopped at the door and stepped inside, immediately breathing
in a lungful of warm, smoky air.

It was a nice place, recently decorated, with the emphasis on
wood-panelling. The room itself was long and narrow with a bar
running three-quarters of its length. Several irregular rows of
round tables took up the rest of the available space, and tonight
they were filled with a loose collection of drinkers, exclusively
white and almost exclusively male, and varying in age from
twenties to seventies. Most of them seemed to be facing roughly
in the direction of a raised platform in the far corner of the room,
which I took to be some sort of stage. At the moment it stood
empty. About half the stools lining the bar were in use, but there
was a cluster of three spare at the end furthest from the stage,
and I took the middle one of these. A couple of punters looked
round as I passed, but their expressions registered no interest as
I ordered my second pint of Pride of the evening from a barman
with a sagging head and a prehensile lower jaw who bore more
than just a passing resemblance to a well-built barbary ape. Not
someone you'd want to pick trouble with.

No longer having to worry about impressing attractive
female company, I took a huge gulp from the pint this time and
sunk about a quarter of it down in one. Now, finally, it was
tasting like nectar, but as I drank again, I realized that a vital ingredient
was still missing, and I knew immediately what it
was.

Two seats down, an old geezer in a grey raincoat and cloth
cap, who must have been knocking on the door of his eightieth

1 1 8
year, puffed thoughtfully on a Lambert & Butler while staring at his reflection in the mirror on the other side of the bar. I watched him for a few moments, following the cigarette out of the corner
of my eye as he dipped the tip in his mouth and noisily sucked
in smoke, then slowly withdrew it and, with bony soft-veined
fingers, tapped the end against the side of the Heineken ashtray,
before repeating the process all over again.

It had been three years since I'd last had a cigarette, and for
most of that time I hadn't missed having one, but then for most
of that time I hadn't been in a smoky London pub drinking
Pride. It was, I had to admit, difficult to do one without the
other.

I drank some more of the beer, trying to supplant the urge by
wondering what Emma Neilson was up to now and whether her
efforts would turn up anything of use. But it was no good. The
seeds of doubt had been planted. Three years might have gone
by, but that was irrelevant. I needed a smoke, and, worse still,
I'd already subconsciously made the decision to have one. I could
see that, unlike a lot of pubs, the landlord here sold them behind
the bar. They were stacked in four separate rows on a shelf
beneath the spirit optics - Marlboro, Marlboro Light, Bensons
and Silk Cut - like whores beckoning a happily married man. I
couldn't take my eyes off them.

I finished my pint, motioned Apeman over and ordered another one, along with a pack of Bensons and a box of matches.
It felt like a momentous, life-changing decision, and I hesitated
before I removed the cellophane wrapping. People who start
smoking again usually justify their decision by saying they're only
going to have the one, or that they're only going to do it when
they're out socially, or whatever, but this was different. I knew
straight away that if I had this one then that was it, I was back
on thirty a day. Which represented supremely bad timing, since

1 1 9
they cost twenty-five times more per pack here than they did
back in the Philippines.

Still, the line had been crossed, and it was a testimony to
smoking's long-standing hold on me that as soon as I'd taken the
first sip of the new pint, I was ripping off the wrapping and
pulling one out. I lit it without further thought and took a short,
hesitant drag. There was no lightheadedness, no feeling of sickness
from the poison pouring down my throat and into my veins.
Instead, there was just an easy feeling of coming home. I took a
longer drag and finally found myself relaxing properly for the
first time since I'd got back.

A tuneless, half-hearted cheer went up from the tables and I
turned to see what it was in aid of. A tall young lady with very
long legs had entered the room from a door beyond the end of
the bar and was strutting towards the platform. She was wearing
about an inch of make-up and not much else - just a glittering
gold bra and thong, and high-heeled court shoes of the same
colour - and her overall demeanour suggested she thought she
was one hell of a lot better looking than she actually was. Not
that you could call her unattractive. It was difficult to tell
through all the foundation, but I suspected that she would always
look better in a pub at night than in bed the following morning.

A song I didn't recognize by a female singer I also didn't
recognize started playing loudly as the girl reached the stage,
stopping to smile and blow a seductive kiss at a group of half a
dozen young drunks at the nearest table, who whooped
appreciatively. I had to give her her dues: she was doing a good
job of acting like she was enjoying herself, which couldn't have
been easy in a place like this. It reminded me of the beautiful
young girls in the Philippines you often saw on the arms of older,
badly dressed Western men. Always smiling, regardless of how
ugly the guy they were with was - and they were usually pretty

1 20
damned ugly. All part of a woman's natural ability to pull the wool over a man's eyes, I suppose.

She got up on the stage and started doing a slow, supposedly sexy dance routine which involved a lot of swaying and wiggling and not even a negligible attempt to stay in time with the music. Not that the audience seemed to mind. As the bra came off to
reveal a pair of small but perky breasts, a louder cheer went up
from the audience, and someone at the drunks' table yelled at her
to get the rest of it off. I noticed Apeman screw up his face into
a scowl when he heard this, as if he sensed that that particular
table might give him trouble. Overall the atmosphere in the pub
was jovial, but I'd spent enough of my life in this town to know
that things could change in an instant, especially when drink was
involved.

And they did.

It was after the stripper had removed her thong and was gyrating
naked with her back to the audience that it happened. Slowly,
ever so slowly, she bent down to touch her toes, her naked arse rising higher and higher in the air as she did so, giving the whole
room an eyeful of her nether regions, which were so cleanly
shaved they could have featured them on an advert for Gillette.
As her fingers touched the floor in an impressive show of
physical flexibility and her arse reached its zenith, one of the
drunks with impeccable timing blew a loud, dry and very realistic
raspberry.

Which was the moment all hell broke loose.

Several older members of the audience jumped to their feet and
began remonstrating angrily with the drunks, who were all out of
their chairs in an instant. There was the usual pushing and shoving,
accompanied by loud threats, and one of the drunks threw a punch
that sent the recipient stumbling backwards. Scuffles erupted and a
table went over in a cacophony of breaking glass.

1 21
But the drunks had made a mistake. They'd turned their backs
on the stripper, who, not surprisingly, was none too happy with
the way her routine had been hijacked. With a deft movement,
she pulled off one of her shoes and turned it round in her hand
so that the heel was jutting out like a weapon. Then, snarling and
cursing (all pretence of sultry seductiveness now gone), she
launched a ferocious surprise attack that I'm not afraid to admit
had me wincing.

The nearest drunk got the heel right in the top of his head, the
blow landing with such force that I swear it actually penetrated
bone. In fact, she had to work hard to get it out again, but it
finally came free, and as he shrieked in pain, she let him have
it again, although this time her technique for retrieving her
weapon had improved, and it was out almost as soon as it went
in. The victim went down to his knees, clutching his head, and
one of the older regulars took advantage of his state to catch him
with a sly kick to the ribs.

'You fucking bastards!' the stripper yowled in a voice so high
that one more octave and only dogs would have heard it. The
rest of the drunks turned round in unison, and she let the nearest
one have it with a scything swipe of the heel that opened up a
vicious gash on his cheek. He was hurt but he ignored that fact
and lunged forward, trying to grab her by the legs. With a deft
movement, she hopped backwards on her bare foot like
a naked gymnast, and launched a karate kick with the other
foot, the one with the remaining shoe on, the heel catching
him right between the eyes. Which was him out for the
count.

'Christ, she's good,' I said to the old geezer who, like me, had
turned in his seat to watch events unfold. 'She should be in a
martial arts film.'

'Does judo,' he rasped, turning my way with an amused

1 22
expression. 'Don't ever want to mess with Judo Julie. Gotta wicked fucking temper on her.'

'Do you think she'll be all right?' I asked, taking a sip from
my drink and watching as a bottle of beer sailed through the air
in her direction. It narrowly missed her head before smashing
against the wall behind the stage. The whole group of drunks at
least those still standing - started to fight their way towards
her en masse.

'Don't you worry,' he cackled. 'Ernie'll sort it out.'

'Him?' I said, motioning towards Apeman, who was coming
round from behind the bar, huge fists bunched somewhere down
near his knees. He didn't look very happy.

The old geezer continued his cackling. 'Yeah, that's Ernie.'

The drunks caught sight of Ernie only after he announced himself
by bellowing incoherently - a sound that was not unlike a
cross between a bull and a donkey - and when they did, the fight
drained out of them with an impressive rapidity. Unfortunately
for them, it was too late. For a big man Ernie was surprisingly
swift of foot, and within a few bounds he was on them, the other
battling punters parting like the Red Sea to give him easier
access.

'All right, mate, leave it!' yelled one of the drunks desperately,
but his words were unceremoniously cut short when his chin
came into contact with Ernie's left fist, the force of the blow lifting
him bodily off his feet. He came crashing down on the floor
somewhere out of sight, leaving the rest of his mates in the firing
line. I'm sure I heard one of them let out a high-pitched scream.

Ernie charged into them with a couple of swinging roundhouse
rights that had those who were still on their feet scrambling
madly for the door, not even bothering to pick up what was left
of their mates. Ernie then allowed himself to be restrained by a
couple of the locals while Judo Julie the stripper, a stiletto in

1 23
each hand, stalked the pub floor naked, like something out of a
pornographic version of Lord of the Flies, swearing and cursing,
and occasionally administering punishment to any of the injured
drunks who weren't quick enough in following their mates out
the door.

Like all good pub brawls, the whole thing was over very
quickly. The initial offending fart noise to the final denouement
had taken less than a minute and the girl singer I didn't recognize
was still pining away on the CD. Something about her baby
cheating on her. It made me think that I wouldn't want to cheat
on Judo Julie.

But by this time even Julie's anger had dissipated and she
stepped back on to the stage to bring her act to a final, anatomically
educational conclusion while the area around her was cleared
up and a couple of the wounded locals bought themselves fresh
drinks from the bar to ease their pain. No one seemed to be too
bothered by what had happened, not even Ernie, who was having
to do most of the clearing up, and I guessed that most of those
present saw it as an event that was incidental to their evening.
Something for them to chat and have a laugh about in those
moments when their conversation hit an unwelcome pause.

Welcome to London. Home of Big Ben, the Houses of
Parliament and the traditional pub brawl.

I finished my pint and looked at my watch. The stage was
empty now and the place back to normal, with the buzz of conversation
drifting through the smoky air. I pulled two cigarettes
from the pack, and lit one while I pondered a third pint.

'Another drink?' asked Ernie, lumbering over and lifting my
glass, his expression the most friendly I'd seen it that evening.
There was even the hint of a smile there. Obviously, inflicting a
bit of pain lifted his spirits. I'd met a few people like him down
the years.

1 24
'Sure,' I answered, replacing the second cigarette in the pack
upside-down, figuring that in this town I was going to need all
the luck I could get. 'Why not?'

17

I woke up the next morning with a sore head. It was difficult to
tell whether it was courtesy of the whacks on it I'd received the
previous morning, or the six pints of Pride I'd consumed on what
was pretty much an empty stomach the previous night. Either
way, I knew I needed some sustenance. I lay where I was for a
while, my feet sticking out the end of the bed, mulling over
whether it was worth going back to sleep for a few minutes or
not, but the sound of kids running about and shouting in the
corridor and the banging of doors coming from the floor below
convinced me that it wasn't. I leaned over and picked up my
watch from the floor. Five to nine. Late, for me.

I rose from my pit and showered and dressed, before heading
into the big wide world. The weather outside was cold, grey and
wet, and not unexpected for the time of year, but I didn't fancy
spending very long in it, not now my blood had thinned from my
time in the tropics. I found a newsagent's, bought the Sunday
Times, Independent and News of the World, then ducked into an
Italian cafe a couple of doors down and ordered a chicken-salad
ciabatta with orange juice and coffee.

I ate in a booth next to the window while I read the papers.
There wasn't a lot of interest: more violence in the Middle East;
further warnings of the threat of Al Qaeda suicide bombers in

1 25
London; a big article in the Sunday Times about pensions, the
gist of which was that anyone retiring in twenty years wasn't
going to have one. Which might have been true, but who wants
to read about it over their Cornflakes on their day of rest?

Only in the News of the World did I find any mention of my
kidnapping and subsequent escape the previous day, and even
that was very indirect. Under the headline dog slain defending
master on page five, there was a short piece describing how
'brave Alsatian' Tex and his owner, Ralph Hatcher, fifty-four,
had stumbled across a suspected drug deal gone wrong while
walking in woodland in Hertfordshire. The two of them had then
been savagely attacked by several of the thugs involved, and Tex
had died defending his master. Mr Hatcher had received facial
injuries but had been discharged from hospital after treatment.
And that was it, really. There was a photograph of a dog who
may or may not have been Tex (it was hard to tell) staring at the
camera with his tongue lolling out, but no photo of Hatcher.
Obviously he wasn't interesting enough.

When I'd finished the ciabatta, I lit my first cigarette of the
morning and smoked it all the way down to the butt. Did it taste
good? Sure it did. Good enough for me not to feel guilty about
it, anyway. I thought about phoning Emma, but it was still pretty
early and I knew she wouldn't have anything for me yet. She'd
probably still be in bed, and good luck to her. If you couldn't
rest on a Sunday, when could you?

Instead, I ordered myself another coffee, lit cigarette number
two and thought about my position. Emma Neilson had an
inside link to the investigation of Malik's murder, and her information
about the unnamed gangster was probably accurate.
This guy clearly had a lot of resources at his disposal, including
at least one copper working on the case, as well as the ability and
ruthlessness to have a number of people killed. Obviously, I was

1 26
going to have to find out who he was, but what then? He was a big player, which meant he was going to have serious protection.
I remember once visiting the home of a major North London crime lord, Stefan Holtz, to question him in connection with the
shooting of a business rival, and having to go through two sets
of wrought-iron gates topped with barbed wire and a metal
detector at the front door, and past at least ten moody-looking
blokes in suits and half a dozen CCTV cameras before we finally
got face to face with him in his office at the back of the house.
Even then he sat ten feet away from us and four of his men
remained in the room. People like that had enemies, and they
weren't stupid. They took precautions. I was up against someone
similar, someone I didn't even know, and all I had was a .45
revolver and six bullets. It didn't have the makings of a fair fight.
But that, of course, was the challenge.

18

The phone call finally came at half two in the afternoon while I
was eating a lunch of fish soup with aioli mayonnaise in a small
French place down in the West End on Goodge Street. I hadn't
felt like heading back to the hotel after breakfast, and since there
was a pause in the rain I'd started walking in the direction of the
Thames, taking the opportunity to reacquaint myself with
the sights and sounds of the city I'd left behind.

I put down my wine glass and pulled the phone from my pocket, wondering whether it was going to be Blondie, the man
who'd claimed to be Les Pope, re-establishing contact. I hadn't

1 27
heard from him in close to twenty-four hours, so was expecting
to receive another of his threats at some point, now that it was
obvious I'd missed my plane.

But this time a number was scrolling across the screen, so given
his penchant for secrecy, I figured it wasn't him. I was right, too.
It was Emma, and I felt a twinge of excitement at the sound of
her voice. I think I was getting sad in my old age.

'How was last night?' I asked her.

She made a dismissive noise. 'It was all right. Nothing special.
I spent a lot of money and I've got a hangover. Like a lot of
Sunday mornings, really.'

'Well, take it easy for the rest of the day. That's what Sundays
are for.'

'Do you think I've just been lying in bed, then?'

'No, of course not.'

'Because I haven't. I've been doing work. Work that you
requested. You wanted Les Pope's home address.'

Suitably chastened, I asked if she'd got it.

She reeled off the address and phone number of a place in
Hampstead, while I scribbled them down.

'He's been there two years,' she added, 'and he lives alone. I
can't get hold of his mobile, though. I don't think there's one
registered in his name. But you must have his number if you had
his phone.'

'I've got it somewhere, don't worry about it. Did your article
come out this morning?'

'Front page.'

I could hear the pride in her voice, and resisted the urge to
remind her yet again to be careful. 'Well done. And thanks again
for your help.'

'I haven't had a chance to look into Pope's background yet, but
I will do. How are you planning to get him to talk, by the way?'

1 28
'I have my methods,' I answered cryptically, wondering about that myself.

'Don't do anything that's going to get you into trouble.'

'It's very nice of you to be concerned.'

She laughed. 'I don't want anything happening that's going to
mess up the story.'

'I'll pretend I didn't hear that,' I said, thinking that that was
the first time I'd actually heard her laugh. Maybe it was a good
sign.

We said our goodbyes and I hung up and went back to my fish
soup, which was tasty enough but curiously devoid of fish. I
finished it off, though, then ordered a coffee and a slice of apple
tart.

There was no point making my visit to the elusive Mr Pope on
an empty stomach.

19

Grantley Court was a pleasant T-shaped cul-de-sac made up of
large semi-detached mock-Georgian houses, built on a gentle
incline a little way west of North End Road. It was a new
development, five years old at most, and open plan in its design,
so there were no hedges or walls blocking the view of the buildings
or the uniformly turfed front gardens. No trees had been
planted on the pavements, either, giving the road something of
an exposed look, which didn't bode too well for any long-term
observation of Pope's place.

I hadn't hurried there, preferring to arrive in darkness, which

1 29
at that time of the year in southern England was usually with us
by four o'clock. I got there just after four, following a lengthy
journey by bus and foot. Pope's place, number 22, was in the
middle of the cul-de-sac, directly opposite the entrance and close
to where the two strokes of the T joined. A newish silver Lexus
was parked on the one-car driveway and a light was on on the
ground floor, but I couldn't tell whether or not he was at home.
A burglar alarm, complete with flashing blue light, was attached
to the second-floor exterior brickwork.

Tomboy had lived round here once when he'd been a snout of
mine, but in considerably less opulent circumstances. I didn't
have much recent experience of London house prices, but I
couldn't see that you'd get much change out of a million for one
of these houses, given the central yet quiet location. That meant
Pope was making some tidy money from somewhere, a lot more
than he'd be paid for defending small-time crims like Jason
Khan.

I slipped on to the driveway of a house with no lights on across
the road, and stood behind a parked people-carrier. From here I
couldn't be seen very easily from the road but still had a decent
view of number 22. I pulled out my the mobile and called Les
Pope's landline.

It rang for more than a minute, but no one picked up.

So he wasn't there.

No matter. Time for plan B. It seemed logical to me that one
of the last people Slippery Billy West would have spoken to
before his death was Les Pope, since, as far as Billy was aware,
Pope was the only man in the world aware of his plight. He was
bound to have called him, if for no other reason than to let him
know that he'd arrived at his destination. So I rang the last
number dialled from Slippery's mobile.

Once again, the phone at the other end rang for a good long

1 30
while before it was finally picked up. The voice that greeted me was male. An ordinary middle-class London accent, no obvious signs of stress. And also, definitely not the same man with the blond hair I'd met yesterday.

'Ah, the elusive Mr Pope,' I said, hoping it was him. 'You
sound different.' There was an audible intake of breath at the
other end and I knew that I had the right man. I continued
before he had the chance to speak. 'We need to meet again, and
this time I want to make sure that it is you. I've seen a photo
now so I know who to expect. Don't bother contacting your
friends. They didn't get rid of me last time, did they? If you want
to stay in one piece and get yourself out of this situation alive,
then you're going to need to give me some information, and
quickly. We're going to meet in one hour's time. Five fifteen. At
a pub called the Cambridge Arms on Charing Cross Road, just
down from the Palace Theatre. Come there alone.'

'I'm not in London,' he said hurriedly. 'I'm miles away.'

'Then you'd better find some very rapid means of transport
back. One hour's time, and it's non-negotiable.' He tried to
protest, but I ignored him. 'And don't try anything to get me off
your back either. If you're not there, I'll come looking for you,
and since I know that you live at 22 Grantley Court - it's a lovely
place, by the way - I don't think you'll prove that difficult to
find. This is your last chance. I'd take it, if I were you.
Understood?'

There was a long pause. 'How do I know you're not going to
try and kill me?'

'The Cambridge Arms is slap bang in the heart of the West End.
The whole area'U be swarming with people. I won't get the opportunity
to do you any harm, and no one'll be able to harm me either.
Which is the way I like it. So make sure you're there. Otherwise I'll
burn the house down, and that'll just be for starters.'

1 31
Having given as good a tough-guy act as I could, I ended the
call while he was still talking and continued to watch the house,
just in case he was actually in there, lying low.

I stayed where I was for the next fifteen minutes, staring at
Pope's front door twenty yards away, knowing that if he was
there he was going to have to make a move soon if he wanted to
get to the pub in time. But he didn't. Nothing happened. During
the whole fifteen minutes, only one car came past, driving slowly
by before dislodging its contents - a family with two young kids and a baby - at a house a few doors down. Otherwise, the street
was quiet. The wind had picked up and high, jagged clouds
streaked across the night sky. The temperature had dropped, too,
and I felt myself shivering. Then it began to rain.

I came out from behind the people-carrier and crossed the
road, moving quickly. An eight-foot-high wooden fence at the
side of the house joined Pope's place with his neighbours', blocking
access to the rear of both properties. Presumably a deterrent
to casual burglars, it was never going to stop the more determined
intruder, and it didn't stop me. I jumped up, grabbed the
top and hauled myself over with only the minimum of fuss.

Pope's back garden was small and square, with half of it
paved. A large, near-impenetrable leylandii hedge at the end
obscured whatever it was that the garden backed on to.

I crept round to the back of the house and found myself
staring through half-pulled blinds into a substantial and surprisingly
tidy kitchen-diner, with plenty of gleaming pots and pans
hanging from hooks above gleaming work surfaces. It looked like
something out of a cookery show. For a man under pressure,
Pope wasn't letting things go. A single ceiling light was on, but
the room was empty and the door at the far end was shut.

Now for the hard part: getting in. Once upon a time, people
were a little bit slack about their home security, making

1 32
breaking-and-entering an altogether simpler affair, but in the last
two decades burglary had become endemic in England, so now
everyone was a lot more careful. Doors and windows were far
more secure. Alarms were commonplace. People made sure they
double-locked everything. Life for your casual burglar, just like
your casual car thief, had become far more difficult, which was
why successive governments were always harping on about the
fact that under their careful stewardship, overall crime was on
the way down (they never mentioned the fact that violent crime
was on the way up, as frustrated thieves started targeting people
rather than their property). But you always got one idiot, someone
who didn't listen to the advice of the crime-prevention
officers, and it looked like I'd found him.

The back door of Pope's place was locked, but I could see a
key poking out of the lock itself. I took my notebook out of my
pocket and ripped out a blank page, then knelt down and pushed
it through the gap at the bottom of the door until only an inch
or so of it was showing. Getting back up, I dug out the Swiss
Army knife I'd bought the previous day in Oxford Street and
located the smallest screwdriver. It was then simply a matter of
fiddling in the lock with the screwdriver until the key was dislodged
on the other side, a process that took about ten seconds,
but only because I was a bit rusty. When the key hit the paper,
I bent down and pulled it back through. And that was it, I was
in.

I shut the door gently behind me and crossed the kitchen. The
house was silent and it was obvious that, unless he was hiding
under his bed hoping all his problems would go away, Les Pope
wasn't here.

I stopped at the kitchen door and listened again, but the silence
remained. At least, that is, until I opened the door. As I did this,
one of the alarm's motion sensors picked up the movement, and

1 33
the silence was shattered with a high-pitched, metallic shriek.
Ignoring the noise, I strode into the hallway, found the light
switch, then went through the ground floor opening doors, knowing
what I was looking for.

The telephone rang. This would be the firm managing the
alarm system responding to the message sent to their control
room that the alarm had been tripped. Their next call would be
the police, but I wasn't too concerned about this. Burglar alarms
going off are not a top priority for the Met, because they're
usually tripped by accident. Unless I was very unlucky, it would
be twenty minutes at least before someone arrived. More of a
concern were the neighbours. I checked my watch and decided to
give myself two minutes.

I found the study at the front of the house, and went straight
over and closed the curtains before switching on the lights. There
was a large and immaculately tidy antique desk facing one of the
walls, with well-stacked bookshelves directly above it. One of
the other walls was also lined with bookshelves, while the third
contained a number of photos hanging in frames.

I tried the desk drawers but they were all locked, then had a
quick shuffle through the thick piles of paperwork stacked in
boxes marked in-tray and out-tray. But in the few seconds I
had, I didn't see anything of interest. Turning round, I scanned
the photos on the opposite wall. One man appeared in most of
them, and it made me think that either Tomboy hadn't seen him
in a long time, or, more likely, he was trying to hide something
from me, because Les Pope - and I was sure it was him - was a
supremely ugly individual. A twelve-by-eight colour photo of him
standing next to an ex-footballer I recognized, but couldn't put a
name to, had pride of place on the wall. Pope was grinning from
ear to ear, while the footballer just looked vaguely embarrassed,
his eyes drifting towards one of Pope's pudgy hands which had

1 34
appeared round his shoulder. I could sympathize with the footballer's plight. Pope might have been in his early forties but he
looked nearer fifty. He was balding fast, even though wedges of
oily black-grey hair were combed across his pate in a desperate
bid to stave off the inevitable, and his features all seemed
misshapen and over-sized, as if they'd been very badly moulded.
His face sagged; his lips were like chipolatas; and his crooked,
snub nose was the largest of its kind I'd ever seen. Only the eyes
- big, blue and smiling - acted as redeeming features.

Either way, he was now going to be extremely easy to recognize.

I started to turn away, knowing that time was running short.
Then I stopped and did a double-take.

A photo higher up the wall had caught my eye. It was black
and white, in a dark-wood frame. Quite how I noticed it I still
don't know, since it hardly stood out. A group of men on a golf
course, posing in front of the clubhouse. Seven or eight of them
standing in a row, smiling as they faced the camera. I looked again,
closer this time, but there was no mistake. You don't forget the
faces of men you've killed, and you don't forget the face of a man
who's asked if you can supply him with a young girl to murder.
When Les Pope had been setting up the execution of Richard
Blacklip in a Manila hotel room a year ago, he'd claimed that he'd
been acting on behalf of someone the target had abused as a child.
That was what Tomboy had told me, anyway.

But here were Blacklip and Pope in a photo together, only one
person between them.

I pulled it down from the wall, roughly removed the frame and
folded the picture in half before shoving it into the back pocket
of my jeans.

There was movement outside the window. Torchlight. Then a
knock at the front door. It was time to go.

I retreated swiftly through the house and out the back door,

1 35
not bothering to shut it behind me, then made straight for the
leylandii at the back of the garden. I couldn't hear any movement
behind me and I didn't look back.

Three minutes later I was through the hedge, across someone
else's back garden and out on to a different street.

No one followed.

'I'm changing the time,' I told Les Pope when he picked up his
phone. 'It's now six-thirty. Same place.'

'Listen, I've got a better idea,' he said quickly.

'I bet you have. The problem is I'm not interested in hearing
it. It's six-thirty at the Cambridge Arms. And if you get a call
from the people who manage your home alarm, don't worry.
Nothing's been stolen and the place is as tidy as I found it. Your
desk's very neatly kept, by the way.'

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' he demanded, full
of righteous indignation.

'You know exactly what I'm doing.'

'I'm not going to be blackmailed,' he blustered.

'What you're going to do is provide me with the information
I want. Then I'm out of your hair. Six-thirty. And don't try anything,
or next time I visit your place I'll make sure you are in
residence and then there really will be a mess.'

He started to answer but I wasn't interested in a debate so I
flicked the phone off. It had been a productive call. Now I knew
he was in town. Otherwise he'd have tried to put me off again.

I looked at my watch. Quarter to five. I was back on the North
End Road and heading south. Plenty of time.

136
20

An hour and a half later, I was standing outside the entrance to
a Spanish restaurant in the bright-orange glow of the Charing
Cross Road, a black 'I love London' cap pulled low over my
face. It was raining steadily and the streets were quieter than
usual. Across the road, the Cambridge Arms was busy with
theatre-goers taking shelter from the inclement conditions. Pope
had yet to arrive.

I stepped back under the restaurant's canopy and lit a cigarette
to pass the time. It was my seventh of the day; I was counting.
A couple in evening dress, sharing an umbrella that was too small
for them both, hurried across the road and in the direction of
Soho, dodging between the traffic. A bus appeared, slowing
down and obscuring my view of them. When it sped up again,
they were gone.

All the way here, I'd been thinking about one thing. What did
Richard Blacklip, a small-time paedophile, have to do with
Malik's death? Maybe nothing of course, but something about it
didn't seem right. Blacklip had been arrested for abusing his
daughter - I'd seen that from a newspaper clipping that Pope had

137
sent Tomboy, as well as from trawling the Net. But he'd also
known Pope, and had presumably trusted him enough to reveal
that he was going to Manila. Whereas Pope, for whatever reason,
had wanted him dead.

I dragged slowly on the smoke, conscious that water was dripping
from the canopy above my head on to the cap and running
slowly down my neck. Shifting my position so that I was no
longer in the firing line, I looked back at the street and suddenly
saw Les Pope no more than five feet away, hurrying past with
another man. Neither of them noticed me. Instead, they turned
and crossed the road, and as they reached the door of the pub,
the man with Pope turned to say something to him and I saw the
long cut running like a tribal marking down the middle of his
face. It was the Scotsman from the previous morning's little
incident. I figured that I still owed him. And owed Pope too,
since he'd disobeyed all instructions by turning up accompanied.

I retreated into the shadows and watched as they disappeared
inside, ten minutes early.

There was no desperate hurry so I finished my cigarette, then
meandered across the road and took up position a few yards
down from the front door. I knew Pope's number by heart now, so I pulled the mobile from my pocket and called it.

He answered to the sound of pub noise. 'Yes?'

'Change of venue, Mr Pope.'

'Look, what is this? I'm--'

'There's a pub called the Three Greyhounds just up the road
from the Cambridge Arms, in Moor Street. It's safer there.'

'What do you mean, safer?'

'The Cambridge is under police surveillance. I assume you're
there. Go out, turn right, then right again. Walk for thirty yards and you'll see it. Meet me in five minutes.'

I rang off immediately, counted to twenty, and moved over to

1 38
the Cambridge's front door. Further down the street, I could see
a group of students approaching, but they were still some way off
and larking about in a manner that suggested they weren't likely
to notice anything untoward.

The door opened and the Scotsman appeared, looking across
the street to where I'd been standing until two minutes ago. He
was probably on the hunt for the non-existent surveillance. I
stepped forward and lifted the .45, smacking him on the bridge
of the nose with the handle. It was a perfect shot, his nose breaking
with an angry crunch. There was a second's delay and then
twin waterfalls of blood came pouring out of his nostrils. I
smacked him again on the top of the head before yanking him
out of the way. He fell awkwardly on the pavement, moaning in
pain and clutching what was left of his nose.

Pope appeared in the doorway. 'Oh dear,' he said with
admirable understatement, and turned back to go inside.

But he was neither the speediest nor the most dexterous of
individuals, and I'd grabbed him by the collar and pulled him
backwards before he'd even made it round ninety degrees. I
turned the gun in my hand and shoved the barrel into his ample
midriff.

'Make a fuss and I'll put a bullet in your gut right here, right
now. Understand?'

He mumbled something unintelligible and I could tell from his
tone and body language that he understood all right. With a face
like his, he definitely wasn't a lover but it didn't look like he was
much of a fighter either. A typical defence lawyer, really. Good
at making money. Good for nothing else.

I brought him away from the door and pulled him nice and
close. Then took a brief look down at Scotsman. He was sitting
up, but his hands and face were a bloody mess and his eyes didn't
appear to be focussing properly, courtesy of the blow to the

1 39
head. Now he'd have some idea what it felt like to get a whack
when you weren't expecting it.

'Hey, what's going on?'

The accent was American.

A young couple in their late teens were approaching, the
girl with far more confidence than the man. She looked a feisty
sort, not afraid to intervene in disputes that weren't her own,
which would have been an admirable trait on any other day but
this.

The expression I fixed her with was one of utter mortification.
'Oh Jesus, I can't believe this. I'm sorry but please can you get
out of the way? We're filming here.' I motioned towards an undefined
spot across the road and she stepped back instinctively,
out of the way of the imaginary camera. At the same time, I
pushed the gun harder against Pope's belly just in case he got any
ideas of escape.

'Man, that's realistic,' she said, gazing round in an effort to see
the hidden camera.

'That guy's good, too,' said her friend, looking down at
Scotsman.

'He's great,' I said, giving Pope a push and starting up the
street. I kept my head down as we passed the group of students,
who were all staring at the bloodied Scotsman sitting in the
middle of the pavement.

I heard the American girl asking her companion if he could see
the camera crew, before the Scotsman interrupted by shouting
out angrily that there were 'nae fucking cameras!'. Then I'd
turned the corner and that was the end of that.

'Where are we going?' demanded Pope, trying to put some
authority into his voice.

'Somewhere nice and quiet where we can talk. Just keep
walking. I'll tell you when to stop. I'm going to let go of

1 40
you now, but if you try and make a break for it, you'll be
telling me what I want to know with your dying breaths.'

I released my grip on his arm and put the gun back in my
pocket, as we walked side by side into the narrow streets of Soho,
the West End's sleazy heart. It was busier here, thanks to the
profusion of bars and restaurants, but we were heading further
in towards the peep shows and sex shops. Away from the bright
lights.

'I don't know what it is you're after,' he said, looking my way.

I had to step aside to avoid a group of wet but giggling
Japanese tourists, so I didn't answer him immediately. I half
thought he might make a dash for it, since for a couple of
seconds we were separated by two or three yards and several
people, but it seemed my threats had scared him enough because
he didn't try anything, even going so far as to slow down so I
could keep up.

'I think you might have made a mistake,' he continued. 'I'm
not really involved in all this.'

I smiled at him. 'I don't think I have. Now, who did you
organize Billy West's murder on behalf of?'

'I didn't have anything to do with it, I promise. All I did was
make some calls to Thomas Darke on behalf of another client of
mine.'

'Who?'

'You know I can't tell you that.'

'AH right, have it your own way.' I took him by the arm again
and steered him across the road.

He continued to protest his innocence and I told him to save
his breath.

Up ahead there was a narrow pedestrian walkway that led
through to Rupert Street. We turned into it and I felt Pope
stiffen. It was darker here and there were fewer people about. We

141
walked past the entrance to one of Soho's infamous clip joints,
where unsuspecting male punters were lured in on the pretext of
having some sort of relationship with a pretty, semi-naked girl,
only to find that this relationship was very much of the platonic
kind and the obligatory drink was going to cost him the best part
of a week's salary. The girl at the door of this one had the body
of an East German shotputter and a face to match, and would
have had difficulty enticing a sex-mad adolescent OD-ing on
viagra into her establishment, but she gamely tried anyway, and
even winked at Pope.

Just past the clip joint was a small porn cinema offering 'XXX'
films, a rarity in these parts now with the proliferation of DVDs
and the Internet. 'In here,' I told Pope, bringing him to a halt
and opening the door. 'After you.'

He stepped reluctantly into a shoebox-sized foyer that smelt of
damp. I squeezed in after him, managing to find enough space to
stand in. A small, weaselly-looking bloke in a threadbare
cardigan who'd probably been here since the place opened in the
Sixties sat behind a chipped wooden counter a couple of feet
away. He stared at us blankly from behind glasses that were far
too big for his face.

'Go on then, Leslie,' I said, 'pay the man.'

Pope sighed, then asked how much he wanted.

The bloke told him it was twenty-four quid for two and Pope
sighed again, more loudly this time. 'That seems an awful lot,' he
complained.

'It seems very reasonable to me,' I said. 'Give him the money.'

Reluctantly, he pulled a bulging black wallet from the pocket
of his Savile Row suit and removed two crisp, clean twenties
from the end of the half-inch-thick wad. He had to force himself
to give them over, and he kept his hand there while the change
was counted out and handed back with an equal lack of

142
enthusiasm. It was like watching a bad comedy sketch about two
ageing tightwads.

Pope was really beginning to annoy me now, and before he
could return the change to his wallet, I gave him a push and
manoeuvred him through the door that led into the cinema.

We were greeted by the sight of a naked woman on the screen
as she serviced three men at the same time amidst a lot of grunting,
groaning and muffled wails. The theatre itself was small,
with no more than a couple of hundred seats. There were only
three other people in there, all middle-aged men by the look of
the backs of their heads, and they were spaced well apart. No one
turned round as the door clunked shut behind us.

Ignoring the stale smell in the air and the tell-tale arm movements
of the men in front, I guided Pope along a row near the
back and shoved him all the way into the far corner, pushing him
down in the last seat. I took the seat next to him, returned the
.45 to its earlier position against his midriff, and used my other
hand to locate the Swiss Army knife. Flicking open the main
blade, I jabbed it gently against his crotch.

He looked down and took a sharp intake of breath. I jabbed
him again, a little harder this time.

'My God,' he hissed, his voice cracking. 'Be careful. Please.'

I leaned close to him, my mouth inches from his ear. He had
a musty, unwashed smell that was only partly disguised by the
expensive cologne he was wearing. When I spoke, it was in a
whisper. 'Now that I've got your undivided attention, I want you
to listen to me very carefully. I'm going to ask you a series of
questions and you're going to give me nothing but honest
answers, and without any hesitation. If you lie, or pause for more
than one second, I'm going to start cutting you with the knife.'

'Please, you're--'

'Do you understand?'

143
He tried to protest again but I pushed the knife hard against
his balls, not enough to break the skin, but not far off it either.
He let out a little squeak which was all but drowned out by the
ecstatic noises on the screen, and nodded frantically. 'Yes, yes, I
understand.'

'Who's the client? The one you hired Billy West for, and the
one who got you to organize the hit on him?'

'His name's Nicholas Tyndall. For God's sake, don't tell him
it was me who told you. He'd have me skinned.'

'Who is Nicholas Tyndall?'

'He's a gangster, a real thug. I've done work for him before. j '

'Why did he use you to set up the hit on Malik and Khan?'

'I don't know anything about that...'

I brought the knife up to his face with a rapid movement and
jabbed him in the cheek with it, creating a shallow wound half
an inch across. He flinched and this time cried out properly, but
once again the sound was all but drowned out. A thin line of
blood appeared, getting thicker as I watched. I didn't like having
to do this, but I couldn't afford to listen to bullshit. I also couldn't
afford to keep making threats without being seen to carry them
out. I returned the knife to his crotch while he wiped the blood
from his cheek and stared at it on his fingers. He looked pale.

'Why did he use you to set up the hit on Malik and Khan?' I
repeated, leaning close to his ear again.

'Because he didn't want it carried out by any of his own
people, and he wanted it kept as quiet as possible.'

'What's Nicholas Tyndall got to do with Richard Blacklip?'

He tried looking at me blankly, one hand still on his face
where I'd cut him, but it didn't work. 'Who?'

'Don't fuck me about,' I snarled, bringing the knife back up to
his cheek again and slicing it across three of his fingers.

1 44
He shrieked in pain and quickly shoved the fingers into his
mouth. I pulled the knife away and out of sight, just as one of
the other punters turned round and gave us both a dirty look.

I gave him one back and mine must have been dirtier because
he quickly turned away.

'Him,' I said, dropping the knife into my lap and producing
the photo of the men at the golf course. I stuck it right in front
of his eyes so that he had no choice but to look, using my index
finger to point out Blacklip somewhere in the middle.

What colour there was drained from his face.

'No hesitation, Pope.'

'He was different,' he answered between pursed lips. 'He owed
me money.'

'Then how did you know where to find him in Manila?'

Again he hesitated, and I was just about to give him another
warning when a strange thing happened.

His face broke into a sly, confident smile, a sight made all the
more odd by the blood dribbling down the side of his face. 'I
don't think I'm going to tell you that,' he said, still smiling, and
then there was a popping sound not unlike a champagne cork
being dislodged and Pope's head snapped back against the wall,
a black mark appearing in the centre of his forehead. Dark liquid
splashed against the paintwork. Two more popping sounds
followed in rapid succession and he slumped sidewards in his
seat, blood pouring down his face. His body immediately went
into wild spasms, the legs kicking out against the seat in front.

For a second I was too shocked to move as I watched him die
in front of my eyes, then instinct took over and I tumbled out of
my seat, rolling over so that I was crouching with my back to his
corpse.

I caught sight of the assassins immediately. There were two of
them, both dressed from head to toe in black, with flat caps on

145
their heads and scarves pulled over their faces. They were standing
purposefully in the aisle, no more than fifteen feet away, each
armed with a silencer-equipped pistol that was pointed in my
direction.

I scrambled backwards in the narrow space between the rows
of seats, trying to make myself as small and as difficult a target
as possible, but Pope's legs blocked my retreat. At the same time,
I desperately worked to manoeuvre my .45 up into a firing
position. One of the gunman fired, a flash of light shooting out
of the silencer, but the bullet ricocheted up off a seat and pinged
into the ceiling.

A second bullet hissed above my head and there was a dull
thwack as it hit Pope. Then the two gunmen were making for the
door.

Sitting up as fast as I could, I pulled the trigger on the .45
before realizing that I was only holding it one-handed. There was
a deafening explosion as the bullet roared out and the gun
bucked dramatically in my hand, the kick from the shot surging
right up to my shoulder with a pain that made my arm feel like
it was on fire. A huge white hole appeared in the far wall of the
theatre as the bullet struck it, way above the heads of the fleeing
assassins, sending bits of plaster flying off in all directions. One
of the punters cried out in panic.

Ignoring the pain in my arm, I pulled myself to my feet, which
was the moment I saw the shock of blond hair sticking out from
under the cap of the assassin nearest the door, just before he disappeared
from view.

The man who'd claimed to be Pope. Blondie. Like a bad
penny, he kept coming back.

But how the hell had he known we were here?

No time to think about that. I took aim, two-handed this time,
and pulled the trigger as the second gunman reached the doorway.

1 46
There was another deafening blast of noise and the gun kicked
wildly, but now I was better prepared and I held it steady. I
heard the second gunman yell and stumble, his hand going up to
his left shoulder. I'd hit him but not with a direct shot because
he kept on moving and was gone from sight before I could fire
again. But even a graze from a .45 calibre bullet would be enough
to slow him down.

On the screen, the action was building to a noisy finale, but
unfortunately it was being played out without the participation
of the audience, who'd all sensibly hit the decks, not wanting to
get involved.

Pulling the cap down over my face, I hurried along the seats
to the aisle and ran in the direction they'd taken.

You have to take snap decisions in a situation like this. There's
no time for thinking things through. The shooters might be waiting
to ambush me in the foyer, but if I went through slowly,
listening out for them, I'd risk giving them time to get away, and
I couldn't have that - not now my main lead was missing most
of his brains. So I yanked open the door and charged through.
To my right, the proprietor with the cardy and the big glasses
was sprawled back in his seat, spindly arms hanging limply by his
sides, a bullet hole slap bang in the middle of his head. Aside
from him, the foyer was empty.

I hit the street at a run, almost slipping on the pavement's slick
surface, and spotted them straight away, running out of the
passageway and into Rupert Street. They rounded the corner and
disappeared from view before I could fire and I ran after them,
knowing that if they got away then that was it, I was back to
square one.

As I came out the end of the passageway, I saw that the trailing
gunman - the one I'd hit - was clutching his shoulder,

1 47
although he still had hold of his weapon. He must have heard my
pursuit because he swung round, the scarf still covering his face,
and saw me stride out into the road, the .45 raised to fire.

He pulled the trigger first and I heard a loud female scream
from somewhere behind me, but he was running and he was
injured, and that put him at a serious disadvantage. He missed.
He fired again and missed with the second bullet too, though not
by so much this time.

It's strange to recount, but I had no time to feel fear as I
stopped, took aim and pulled the trigger for the third time in less
than a minute. In that sort of confrontation, when everything
begins and ends at such speed, you've got no time for anything
bar the physical actions needed to stay alive. And mine, it turned
out, were more effective than his.

He was maybe two yards from the junction with Brewer Street
when the bullet hit him somewhere in the upper chest, lifting him
off his feet and sending him spinning out of control.

Blondie, now right at the corner, swung round and fired off
four rounds in quick succession, moving his arm in a careful,
controlled arc.

A window shattered behind me; someone screamed again and
I threw myself to the pavement, managing to get off another shot
from my hip as I did so. It was inaccurate, hopelessly so, and I
could tell this because it hit a garish blue-and-pink neon sign saying
'joe's adult videos' at least ten feet above Blondie's head.
The sign exploded in a shower of sparks and the lights went out.
Blondie took this as a cue to make good his escape, disappearing
on to Brewer Street, where, as far as I could see, all the
pedestrians were huddled in the doorways of the various
establishments, taking shelter from the battle in their
midst.

From somewhere in the distance came the inevitable sound of

148
police sirens. Knowing that time was short, I got up and ran over
to where the first assassin lay motionless, rifling through the
pockets of his leather jacket with one hand while clutching
the .45 with the other, trying to ignore the sound of my heart
hammering in my chest.

Nothing. Not a thing. I stopped to look around me and saw
the woman from the clip joint had come out from her kiosk and
was now at the bottom of the passageway, staring over at me,
eyes wide. There was a big bloke in a suit with her who looked
like he might be going to do something, so keeping my face as
obscured as possible beneath my cap, I pointed the .45 straight
at him and the two of them jumped for cover into separate doorways.
The
assassin's scarf had come loose and hung limply round his
neck. His mouth was open and a thin trail of blood was leaking
out the side of it. He was young - no more than late twenties, at
a guess - and wearing a plain black sweater and trousers of the
same colour. I patted the trouser pockets hurriedly. Keys in
the left, nothing else.

Something in the right, though. It felt like a wallet. I pulled it
out. It was.

Thrusting it into my pocket along with the gun, I got to my
feet and began to run down Rupert Street as fast as I could, in
the opposite direction to Blondie, heading for Shaftesbury
Avenue and the crowded safety of Piccadilly Circus.

But if I thought that was the end of the evening's drama, I was
sorely mistaken.

1 49
21

Twenty-five minutes later, I called Emma Neilson from a back
street off the King's Road. I was exhausted. I'd run and walked
a long way across the West End and by my estimations I was well
over a mile from the scene of the gunfight. I wasn't taking any
chances. It wasn't so much that I was worried about being caught
in the net that the police would be throwing across the whole
area; I was far more concerned about the prospect of CCTV
cameras getting a decent shot of me and being able to pinpoint
my route of escape. London's teeming with CCTV cameras and
I knew the police would spend dozens of man-days going
through the available film in an ever-increasing circle in
order to find out where I'd gone and whether I'd used a getaway
car.

Only when I was confident that I'd covered enough ground to
make checking every camera a logistical impossibility for my
former colleagues in the Met did I finally stop and catch my
breath. It was raining hard and I was pretty sure that the street
I was on - a run-down residential area in the shadow of a Sixties
council block - wasn't going to be covered by Big Brother. There

1 50
wasn't a lot worth covering and there was so little street lighting
that they wouldn't have been able to pick up anything of use
anyway.

Emma answered on the fifth ring and I could hear the TV in
the background. It sounded like The Antiques Roadshow.

'Hello.'

'Emma, it's Mick. Mick Kane, the private detective from last
night.'

'Are you all right? You sound a bit stressed.'

'I'm fine, but I've had some trouble.'

'What kind of trouble?'

'The kind that involves our Mr Pope. I need to see you
urgently. Look, I wouldn't ordinarily ask, but can I come over
to your place? I've got information. Stuff I think you'll want to
hear.'

She was silent for what felt like a long time, although anything
feels like a long time when you're standing out on a cold night
street with the rain tumbling down on your head and half of
central London's cops after your blood.

'I don't know you at all,' she said eventually, her tone uncertain.
'You could be anyone. This could be a trap. You said
yourself that people weren't going to take kindly to the articles
I've been writing. What if you're one of them? Or you're working
on their behalf?'

I could see her point. I'd have had the same suspicions in her
position. Unfortunately, this wasn't much help to me now. 'I'm
not, I promise you.'

'But I don't know that.' '

'No, you don't, so all I'm going to say is this: Pope's dead, and
someone's just tried to kill me.'

'Oh, God.'

'I think the people who killed him work for the man you

1 51
suspect is involved in the murders of Malik and Khan. Is his
name Tyndall?'

'I'm sorry, but this is all getting too heavy for me. I may be a
journalist but I don't want to get involved in murder. I think
you're going to have to call the police.'

'I can't.'

'Why not?'

'Just take my word for it, I can't. I'm sorry to have bothered
you. I've got to go.'

'Wait a minute. Where are you?'

I told her the name of the street and the approximate location.

'That's only about five minutes from me.'

'By foot or by car?' I asked, hoping that didn't mean she lived
round Soho.

'Car. I'm in South Kensington, near Gloucester Road Tube.'
She sighed, and I knew that she was trying to come to a decision
as to what to do. It didn't take her long. 'Stay where you are and
I'll be there in a few minutes. I'll be driving a navy-blue
Volkswagen Golf.'

'Thanks,' I said, but she'd already rung off.

I stepped back into the doorway of a dilapidated-looking
stonemasons' offices, reached into my pocket and found the
wallet I'd taken from the dead gunman. I didn't much want to
open it, since I didn't think I'd find anything of any use. The two
men who'd come into that cinema to kill Pope were professionals
and weren't likely to be carrying anything that identified themselves,
which would leave me at something of a dead end, as well
as being wanted on suspicion of a new murder. But you've
always got to try to look at the positive side of things, so I
offered up a silent prayer and opened it up.

Whoever was paying him was paying him well, that was for
sure. There was at least five hundred in cash, probably more; but

1 52
as I suspected, not a lot else. A cheap-looking, dog-eared
business card was sticking out of one of the credit-card slots and
I tugged it free. Something else - another card - came out from
behind it. It was impossible to read either in the dim light, so I
put them in the back pocket of my jeans and kept on searching,
finding nothing else bar a used dry-cleaning ticket, which I
pocketed as well, along with the cash (the latter on the basis that
he was no longer going to need it, and I might).

A car - a Toyota, by the look of it - turned into the street and
I sank back into the shadows as it passed, the tyres slicking over
the wet surface of the road. When it was gone I stepped out again
and walked over to a three-quarters-full skip about twenty yards
down the street, parked outside a house that looked like it was
in the early stages of renovation. The skip was full of all kinds
of junk, from pieces of interior wall to a rusting pushchair, and
I buried the empty wallet and the black 'I love London' cap
under a pile of cement chippings. These days, if you're a criminal,
you really can't be too careful. I'd bought the cap earlier that day
near the Embankment, paying cash to an Eastern European stallholder
who didn't even bother to catch my eye, so I didn't think
it would provide any of the officers examining the CCTV
footage of the shooting with much in the way of clues. But I
didn't want it to still be in my possession if they released any
details into the public domain, particularly if I was going to be
spending any time round Emma.

Three minutes later, a blue Golf pulled into the street and
slowed down.

When it was no more than ten yards away I stepped out into
the road and waved at her. The Golf came to a halt and I strode
round to the passenger door and jumped inside. Something by
Coldplay was playing on the CD.

'Thanks,' I said with a weak smile, immediately pushing myself

1 53
right down in the seat so that my head was level with the top of
the dashboard.

'Oh, God,' repeated Emma Neilson, staring at me wide-eyed.
'I can't believe I'm doing this. What is it you've done? Oh shit,
forget that. Don't tell me.'

Even from my cramped position and after the drama that had
unfolded over the last couple of hours, I couldn't help noticing how nice she looked. She was wearing the same suede jacket
she'd had on the previous night, but underneath it was a pink or
lilac halter-neck top that showed just enough pale midriff to be
tasteful. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, accentuating her
girlish appearance, and the nervous expression on her face made
me want to put a reassuring arm around her and tell her not to
worry, everything would be all right. Not that it was looking too
promising at the moment.

'I'll explain everything when we get back to your place,' I told
her.

'I'm not sure I want you to. I think I'd rather not know.'

'It's not as bad as it looks,' I continued, which was one of the
bigger lies I've told in my adult life.

She fixed me with a suspicious expression, then turned away to
concentrate on the road ahead while I continued to push myself
even further down the seat and counted the seconds to our
destination.

1 54
22

Five minutes later, Emma pulled into a parking space. 'It's just
round the corner from here,' she explained, 'but I'm afraid you're
going to have to walk.'

I managed to squeeze myself out of the seat and onto the road,
putting on my glasses at the same time. Having also lost the cap,
I was now looking significantly different than I'd been during the
Shootout. It always amazes me what a couple of props can do.

We were on a typical Kensington street. Wide, grand and very
well lit, with immaculately kept, five-storey whitewashed
Georgian townhouses on either side. London for the millionaires
and the tourists.

'You don't live in one of these, do you?' I asked, following her
through the rain.

'Not quite,' she answered, without turning round.

I pulled out the business cards I'd retrieved from the wallet and
examined them in the light of the street lamps. I raised my eyebrows.
A clue. It wasn't a lot, but it might be something.

I put the cards back in my pocket.

After a minute or so, Emma turned into a narrow, cobbled

1 55
cul-de-sac of pretty, painted mews houses. She walked up to the
second one on the left (it was painted a deep red colour), and
unlocked the front door. Feeling sheepish and more than a little
unwelcome, I followed her in.

The front door opened straight into the living-room. It was a
striking place, like something out of an MTV video. The walls were
a soothing pale orange; the furniture (the sofa, two chairs and a
footrest) a brighter orange; and the carpet, along with the dining
table and chairs on the far side of the room, were a matt black.
It sounds awful, particularly when the fact that it was a mess was
taken into account (there were books, CDs and two fullish ashtrays
hanging about, none of which were orange or black), but somehow
it worked. I liked it, in spite of my better judgement. Maybe
it was because it demanded attention. A flight of well-polished
wooden stairs at the far end of the room led up to the top floor.

'Nice house,' I commented, but she ignored me as she pulled
off her jacket and picked up a half-glass of red wine that was on
the floor by one of the chairs.

'Do you want a drink?' she asked without looking at me.

'Please,' I said, realizing suddenly that I was very thirsty.

'There's beer in the fridge.' She nodded towards an open door
that led off from the right of the living-room. 'Or there's wine on
the top. The glasses are in the cupboard above the sink.'

I walked through without bothering to remove my coat or
gloves. Somehow I didn't think she'd be too pleased if I made
myself at home. I heard her phone ring in the living-room.

The kitchen was small and modern, with appliances that
looked brand new. Evidently they'd upped reporters' wages since
the last time I'd been round these parts. I poured myself a glass
of water and drank it in one, repeated the process, then finally
filled the glass from the bottle of red wine sitting on the worktop.
An Australian Shiraz from the Barossa Valley. I took a sip, felt

1 56
myself relax, then walked back into the living-room, where
Emma was still standing.

Only this time she was pointing a gun at me - the second one
in less than two hours. London, it seemed, was getting more
dangerous than Manila.

The gun was a small-calibre revolver, a .22 or a .32, and she
was holding it as if she knew what she was doing. Not the most
lethal weapon in the world, but more than enough to bring down
a fully grown man at close range, particularly one who'd been through what I had in the past couple of days.

'Who the hell are you?' she demanded, looking and sounding
significantly less girlish and vulnerable than she had done a few
minutes ago. Her soft elfin features were suddenly taut and
focussed, the big round eyes narrowed to slits.

I told her that I was exactly who I said I was. Mick Kane. The
expression I adopted was one of righteous indignation, but I was
pretty sure I wasn't convincing her.

'What's the name of Asif Malik's uncle?' she continued, without
relaxing her grip on the gun. 'The one who's supposed to
have employed you to find his killer?'

'Mohammed,' I said reflexively, 'and he's not his actual uncle.
He's his second cousin or something. They just call him uncle.'

She shook her head dismissively. 'You're lying. I just took a
call from one of my sources. There's no private investigator in
the whole of south-east England called Mick Kane. I think you'd
better try again.'

I suddenly had a huge and terrible desire to unburden myself,
to tell her exactly who I was and why I was here. And I almost
did it. Almost.

But not quite.

'My name's Mick Kane and your source is wrong.' I nodded
towards the gun. 'And aren't those things illegal round here?'

1 57
'Very much so. And it's illegal to shoot people, too, but if you
try a bloody thing on me, I'll be breaking two laws rather than
just the one. And I'm not bluffing, either.'

'I can see that.'

'And in case you're in any doubt, this is real. It's a Colt
Diamondback LR. A limited edition. It was a gift from my father
for my eighteenth birthday.'

'Shit, and I only got pair of jeans and a V-neck jumper.'

'Don't try to be funny. I know how to use this thing. I grew
up on a farm and I could fire a gun before I could count to
twenty. I shot competitively right up to the day they made it
illegal. I even go to France sometimes for a bit of target practice.
That means I won't miss. Understand?'

'I think we're getting off on the wrong foot here. I came to you
because I needed your help. I still need it. And I've got no intention
of hurting you.'

'Who are you working for?'

'I'm not working for anyone.'

'I don't believe you.' She was about to add something else, but
at that moment the lights went out. All of them.

Everything fell silent. The curtains were drawn and only the
faintest glow filtered in. We were only ten feet apart, but I could
barely see her in the gloom.

'Don't move,' she said, 'I'm still pointing this thing at you.'

'I know. I can see.' The gun hadn't moved but she'd subtly
changed position so her face was pointed towards the door. 'Do
you often get power cuts?' I asked.

'No,' she said, and for the first time since she'd pulled the gun,
there was uncertainty in her voice. 'I can't remember the last one,
and I've been here two years.'

'Then it seems like a very unfortunate coincidence, if you
believe in such things.'

1 58
She took a tentative step towards the door, turning her head
so that I was back in her field of vision. 'This had better be
nothing to do with you.'

'How could it be? I'm in here with you.'

'Why are you whispering?' she demanded.

'I'm listening.'

'Do you think ... ?'

The front window exploded, the sudden crackle of breaking
glass shattering the room's eerie quiet.

Instinctively, we both dropped to our haunches, and I reached
for my .45, dragging it free with an angry tug and pointing it at
the window.

The curtain hadn't moved. I waited for the second shot,
wondering why they hadn't tried to take us out earlier when we'd
been coming from the car.

Five seconds passed and still the second shot didn't come. I
could hear Emma's breathing. It had accelerated with the surge
of adrenalin but was still under control. I admired her for that.
She didn't speak, and I could see in the gloom that her gun was
also pointed at the window. You had to give her ten out of ten
for guts. Most people would have been curled up in the corner,
shaking with fear.

I let another five seconds pass, and asked her in a whisper
whether she was all right.

'I've been better,' was the answer, but the uncertainty remained
in her voice.

I moved towards the front door, keeping low, and only raised
myself to my full height when I got there.

'Where are you going?' she whispered.

'I don't think it was a bullet,' I answered. 'It didn't sound
right. I'm going to go and take a look.'

'They might still be out there.'

1 59
'They won't. Not now. The window made too much noise.
And if they wanted to kill us, they'd have done it when we were
on our way in.' But I wasn't as confident as I sounded. I listened
at the door, but couldn't hear anything. I told Emma to move
to one side so that I could open it up without exposing her to
danger, and she did as she was told.

Stepping to one side and keeping close to the wall, I turned the
handle and let the door swing slowly open. The only noise came
from the traffic out on the main road.

I peered round inch by inch, keeping the gun pressed against
my hip.

The narrow cobbled street was empty, with no sign of the
assailant, or anyone else reacting to the commotion. But what
caught my attention were the lights that were on in the windows
opposite. Coming out further, I saw that the houses to either side
also had power. I was trying to work out exactly what that told
me when I spotted the brick lying on the ground amongst shards
of glass a few feet away. A hole several inches across and
surrounded by spider's-web cracks had appeared in the window
where the brick had made contact, but the safety glass had been
strong enough to deflect it.

There was a note attached to the brick by two elastic bands. I
leaned down and removed it, then retreated inside and shut the
door behind me.

'Is everything all right?' Emma asked from somewhere in the darkness.

'It was a brick,' I answered, slipping the .45 back into my
waistband. 'Whoever chucked it's gone.'

'Not exactly sophisticated.'

'No,' I said, 'I suppose it's not.' As I spoke, I unfolded
the note and tucked it under my armpit, before producing the
box of matches I'd bought in the pub the previous night and

1 60
lighting one. I retrieved the note and read it in the match's small light. Two words, typed in bold, large font.

Look upstairs

The breath stopped somewhere in my throat and I could feel
my stomach constrict.

'What are you looking at?' she asked, coming up behind me.
'Don't tell me that was attached to the brick?'

I blew out the match and re-folded the note, pushing it into
my jacket pocket, then turned to face her. She was standing a few
feet away, the pale contours of her face just visible in the darkness.
I couldn't see the gun but assumed it was down by her side.

'Stay down here,' I told her. 'I need to go upstairs.'

She started to protest but I moved past her, fumbling my way
over to the staircase and banging into the sofa on the way. I
didn't want her to follow in case of what was up there, but it was
clear from the sound of her footsteps that she wasn't planning on
hanging back. As I reached the staircase and found the banister,
she asked me again about the contents of the note.

This time I told her.

She cursed under her breath, but stayed behind me as I reached
the staircase. 'I should go up first,' she whispered. 'I know where
I'm going.'

'No way,' I said, and made my way up the stairs, thankful that
they weren't creaking. As surreptitiously as possible, I brought
the .45 back out, hoping that Emma wouldn't see it.

And then when I was close to the top of the staircase, the
power came back on. I had to blink rapidly to reaccustom my
eyes to the light and immediately thrust the gun out in front of
me in case this was some sort of trap.

1 61
But it wasn't. No one suddenly appeared. No shots rang out.
The whole upper floor was quiet. It also looked remarkably
ordinary, in so far as anything in Emma's house looked ordinary.
It was a lot tidier than downstairs, and there was no obvious sign
of intrusion. The walls were painted the same orange as the
sitting room, and several abstract paintings - little more than
symmetrical patterns created in black and white - hung from the
available spaces, along with an expensive-looking metallic silver
clock shaped like a very thin oblong. Three doors, all painted
white, were positioned round the small square landing.

'Which one's your bedroom?' I asked her.

'The one to your right. Why?'

'Just an educated guess,' I said, and pushed the door open
rapidly. I flicked on the light switch and ran inside, keeping low,
and moved the gun round one hundred and eighty degrees in a
covering arc, taking in from left to right the desk with PC, the
neatly made queen-sized bed with stuffed animals reclining
impassively on the pillows, the huge wardrobe that took up most
of one wall.

At first, I missed it. But as I swept the gun back round from
right to left, my eyes stopped and focussed on something in the
middle of the bed.

It was a small African woodcarving of a narrow tapering
face, about six inches long, that blended in well with the midnight
blue of the duvet, but definitely didn't belong in the room.
Thick, straw-like hair sprouted up wildly from the face, through
which two large chicken feathers had been passed in opposing
directions. Each feather had what appeared to be dried blood
on the tip, and there were further flecks of blood in the hair as
well.

As I lowered the gun, Emma came into the room and saw what
I was looking at. I heard her take a sharp intake of breath and

1 62
out of the comer of my eye saw her put a hand to her mouth.
Despite the fact that her other hand was still attached to the Colt
Diamondback, she looked very vulnerable again. 'Oh God,
they've been in here. In my house.'

She took a step towards the bed but I put out an arm to stop
her. 'Don't touch anything. You might contaminate evidence.'

And then a thought struck me, something that I should have
cottoned on to as soon as I'd seen the lights showing in the other
houses in the street.

Unless whoever had cut the power had some supremely good
contacts within the local electricity company, the only way they
could have shut it off was if they'd done so manually.

From inside the house.

'Where's your fusebox?' I demanded.

'Downstairs. In the utility room. It's off the kitchen.'

I didn't hesitate. I went out of the room and hit the stairs at a
run, almost stumbling in my haste to cut off any escape, the gun
waving wildly in front of me, although, God knows, I really
didn't want to have to use it in here after what had happened in
the cinema.

But, of course, I was too late anyway.

The front door was wide open. The intruder had gone. He'd
even had the nerve to turn the power back on while we were
otherwise occupied, before calmly emerging from his hiding place
and walking straight out the front door.

I went over and closed it, not even bothering to attempt a
pursuit, then pulled the bolt across. Next I pulled back the
curtain and inspected the window in more detail. It was going to
be expensive to repair because the whole pane would have to be
replaced, but overall the damage was limited, and even another
couple of heaves of the brick wouldn't have shattered it. It
definitely wasn't an emergency job.

1 63
When I was satisfied that everything was in order, I found a
plastic bag in one of the kitchen drawers and went back upstairs.

Emma was sitting in the swivel chair by the desk and staring
into space. She was no longer holding the gun, and the
exhaustion in her face suddenly made her seem very much her
age. Even her hair seemed to have lost its lustre. The woodcarving
remained on the bed.

I stepped across and carefully picked it up, turning it round in
my hands. It was an ugly-looking thing, the pitted eyes staring
out malevolently from amidst the straw, but not much different
from any of the other traditional African face-carvings on sale in
hundreds of shops across London and the South East. I put it
in the bag, tied the handles and placed it on the floor by my
feet.

'The man you're investigating,' I said, turning round in her
direction, 'is his name Nicholas Tyndall?'

Which was when she said something that truly shocked me.

'I know who you are now.'

There was no fear in her words, simply a weary resignation.
Our eyes met, and I knew there was no point lying about it. She
knew. I said nothing.

'When I first saw you, I thought you looked familiar,' she went
on, breaking eye contact and looking at a point above my left
shoulder, 'but I couldn't place where it was I'd seen you before.
Then, when you lied to me about who you were, that started to
get me suspicious. But it was only when you pulled that bloody
great revolver that I remembered where I'd seen your photo.
Three years ago in the papers. Dennis Milne, police officer and
killer.' She emphasized that last word and I flinched involuntarily.
'They mentioned your name when they were writing
about Malik's murder. They said he used to work with you a
long time ago. Is that why you're here?'

1 64
I nodded slowly. 'He was a good friend of mine once. I don't
like to think of his killers running free.'

'But you're wanted for murder. You're risking everything by
getting involved.'

I shrugged. 'Sometimes we do things we don't understand.'

She ran a freckled hand slowly down her face, and I could see
the tension in her features. When she looked at me, I saw an
attractive, vivacious girl who'd suddenly found herself in terrible
trouble. I wanted to reach down and hold her. Press her head
against my chest and tell her that it was all right, it wasn't as bad
as it looked, and breathe some of the vibrancy that had been
there the previous evening back into her.

Then, in a soft voice, she asked a question that ripped me
apart. 'You've come here for my help, but what's to stop you
killing me when I'm no longer any use to you?'

For a moment I didn't say anything as I absorbed the blow. It
still hurt to know that this was how the world viewed me - as a
murderous pariah - because somewhere, somehow, they were
wrong to do so.

'I haven't got a heart of stone,' I told her. 'I've done things I'm
not proud of, things I've regretted, but I honestly never meant to
hurt anyone who didn't have it coming to him, and I'm not going
to do anything to you either. I promise you that.' She didn't say
anything so I continued. 'You can call the police if you want,
report you've seen me, but I'd ask that you don't. I'm here to
find out who was behind Malik's murder, which is something I
know you want too.'

'I don't know if I want it any more,' she said, rubbing her face
again. 'Not after this. I'm a small-time bloody journalist on a
small-time bloody newspaper. Why are they targeting me?'

'That's the problem: you're not small-time. You're doing too
well on this, because you're unearthing information that's

1 65
making life very difficult for Nicholas Tyndall and his people.
That's why they're doing this.'

She didn't try to deny that Tyndall was the man she'd refused
to name the previous night, which only confirmed what I already
knew. Instead, she looked round the room as if it was suddenly
unfamiliar. 'I can't believe it. Last night everything in my life was
going fine, now it's just... I don't know ... it doesn't seem real.
I can't believe I'm sitting in my bedroom with a man who's
wanted for mass murder.'

'I told you, Emma, you're safe with me.' But perhaps what I
should have been asking was: Was I safe with her, an investigative
journalist who'd send her profile skywards if she decided
to turn me in? No one would dare to call her small-time after
that. The problem was, at the moment, I didn't have much choice
but to throw in my lot with her.

'What happened tonight with Pope?' she asked.

I gave her a brief rundown of the events in the cinema and the
shooting in the street outside, but I left out any mention of
Richard Blacklip. There was no point in letting her know that I'd
been carrying out hits during my time abroad, or where I'd been
residing.

'You killed someone, before I picked you up?' Her tone was
understandably shocked. I

I looked away. 'It was self-defence. I had no choice.'

'But the police are going to be after you, aren't they? And
they're bound to have CCTV footage.'

'I was well disguised, and when I was outside I was keeping
my head down. I was also wearing gloves. I don't think they've
got a lot to go on.'

'A true professional,' she said with educated sarcasm.

'Maybe.'

She sighed. 'I can't believe all this. I need a cigarette.'

1 66
'Here, have one of mine.' I reached into my pocket and
produced a pack of Benson and Hedges.

'I thought you didn't smoke.'

'I didn't yesterday. Today I figured I'd live dangerously.'

She managed the beginnings of a smile, removing some of the
tension in the room. It made me feel sorry that I was causing her
all this anguish, although you could say - depending on how
uncharitable you wanted to be - that she'd brought at least some
of it on herself.

I stepped forward, proffered the pack in her direction and
waited while she took one.

'The upside-down cigarette,' she said, spotting the one I'd
switched round in the pub the night before. 'It doesn't seem to
have brought you much luck.'

'I don't know whether it has or not,' I answered, lighting us
both up. She gave me a puzzled look as I fished for the two business
cards I'd taken from the wallet of Blondie's dead colleague
earlier. One was for a restaurant somewhere in the City, but the
other was more interesting. It was this one I handed to
Emma.

She turned it over. 'What is this?'

'It's the card of a guy named Theo Morris, from a company
called Thadeus Holdings.'

'I can see that, but what's it got to do with anything?'

When I told her where it had come from, she looked at me as
if I was some sort of grave robber, which I suppose wasn't that
far from the truth.

'And the photo on here. It's not the man you . . . ?' Her words
trailed off.

I shook my head. 'No, it's not him. It was behind another card
that I took out of the wallet, so I guess it was left there by
accident. A shooter would never be carrying ID. There's a mobile

1 67
number written in pen on the back which is going to need to be
followed up.'

She started to say something, but I kept on talking. 'Now I
understand your position, and after what's happened here tonight
I'd advise you very strongly not to write any more articles about
Malik's murder, at least until it's safe to do so, but you can still
help me without putting yourself in any danger - providing me
with bits and pieces of information. Nicholas Tyndall doesn't
want to hurt you; I can promise you that. He just wants you to
leave him alone. And if you stop sending the spotlight his way
and instead leave me to do the legwork, then you'll be safe. The
police aren't getting very far in solving this murder, and the more
time passes, the less the likelihood is that they will. But I think
I'll be able to, and without blowing your cover. I'm a good
detective - it's not something you ever lose - and I've come a
long way to make sure I get justice, so I've got the motivation.
And I'm not easily scared, either. On the other hand, if you turn
me in, we might lose a real opportunity to bring some very bad
people to justice.'

I was using my best persuasive tone, and even though parts of
what I said might have been exaggeration, I believed the crux of
it to be the truth.

She continued to stare at the card in front of her. Finally, she
turned her gaze in my direction. 'What bits and pieces of information
do you want from me?'

'First off,' I said, pointing towards the mystery business card,
'I want to find out who the hell Theo Morris and Thadeus
Holdings are.'

1 68
23

Emma booted up the PC and connected to AOL while I fetched
a stool from near the door, brought it over and sat down beside
her. Directly above the desk was a large skylight, on which the
rain outside beat a steady, comforting tattoo.

When we were on-line she typed Thadeus Holdings into the
search engine. A list of the first twenty matches appeared, with
the company's own website at the top. Emma clicked on it and
a bland site map appeared with the company's logo, the letters
TH in bold Gothic lettering, in the top right-hand corner of the
screen. There was a drab yellow circle in the centre of the screen
connected to a number of smaller yellow circles by spoke-like
blue lines, and in it was a summary of what Thadeus was
supposedly all about: Helping clients develop a cost-effective and
holistic corporate security policy. With offices and associates in
twenty-nine countries worldwide. In other words, the usual
corporate bullshit. It made me wonder whether whoever penned
such inanities actually thought they were saying something useful,
or whether, more likely, they knew perfectly well it was a
load of crap.

1 69
The smaller circles represented Thadeus Holdings' various subsidiaries.
They included a data-processing company; a software
house specializing in the construction of anti-virus firewalls; and
a total of four outfits with the word 'Security' in the title: Thadeus Security Solutions; Winners Security; Timeline Security
(Europe) Ltd; and Thadeus Security Products Ltd.

Emma clicked on the subsidiary companies in turn and got a
brief rundown of what each one did. The work of those involved
in software and data processing was pretty much self
explanatory, but it was the security companies that caught my
attention. As well as providing bodyguards and general security
for companies operating in countries considered dangerous, much
of Thadeus Holdings' business revolved round manufacturing
and selling hi-tech electronic surveillance equipment to a wide
variety of businesses, governments and individuals around the
world, and the consultancy required for their effective
implementation.

'This is interesting,' I said, leaning over Emma's shoulder and
pointing at a picture of one of the company's products. It was a
microchip-sized personal tracking device, barely a centimetre
long, which allowed a third party to keep track of where the
wearer was. It was, the blurb said, an innovative device
specifically designed for parents wanting to keep tabs on the
whereabouts of young children.

'What's interesting about it?' she asked.

'I've been wondering how the two shooters who took out Pope
found us in the cinema. I was keeping a very close eye on everyone
and everything when we were walking through Soho, and if
they'd been following us, I'd have spotted them. But I didn't.'

'But if Pope had been wearing one, surely that means he must
have been expecting them.'

I nodded. 'He was.'

1 70
'How do you know?'

'I was asking him a question - we were inside the cinema and
I had my back to the door - when this big smile spread across
his face. He must have seen them coming in, because until then
he'd been as nervous as hell.'

'So he thought they were going to kill you?'

I nodded, noticing that much of the tension had left her and a
spark of excitement had appeared in her eyes. It reminded me of
how I used to feel when I was working on a particularly interesting
case. The thrill of the pursuit. It doesn't come along very
often, but when it does, you know about it.

'But what do these people have to do with Malik or Khan?'
she continued. 'Or Tyndall, for that matter?'

'God knows,' I said, re-examining the business card. 'Can you
look up the name Theo Morris? It doesn't give a job title here
and I want to see what he does for them.'

She tapped his name into the website's internal search engine and
came up with a match. As soon as she hit that, an unsmiling photograph
appeared of a middle-aged man with a mop of curly black
hair and a thick moustache. It was the same man as the one on the
card. Next to the photo his name appeared in black print, along
with the fact that he was Head of Operations for Thadeus
Holdings. A short biography beneath stated that he'd joined the
company in 1983, was married with two children, and was responsible
for the management of all Thadeus Holdings' UK offices.

We both looked at each other, wondering what this told us. It
didn't seem much. I thought about phoning the number on the
back of the card, but decided against it. It was almost certainly
Morris's mobile, and I didn't want to speak to him just yet.

'Let's have a look at the company history,' I suggested. 'See
what that throws up.'

Emma went back to the home page and pressed the Company

1 71
History icon on the far left of the screen. A couple of seconds
later a beaming photo of a jowly, fifty-something businessman
with a big smile and thinning, straw-coloured hair appeared.
This, according to the byline, was Eric Thadeus: the founder,
chairman and chief executive of Thadeus Holdings. A potted
history of the company followed.

It had been founded in 1978 by Thadeus, an electronics
engineer who'd started out developing commercial bug-sweeping
devices, and had grown rapidly, thanks to the sophistication of
the products and Thadeus's supposed management skills. It was
now a market leader in the provision of the whole package of
security services.

Emma worked her way through the rest of the site while I got up and stood watching and smoking my tenth cigarette of the
day, but there was nothing else of interest. According to the
company blurb, Thadeus Holdings was a highly reputable,
environmentally-aware, dynamic organization who treated their
employees with dignity and care, and who only used recycled
paper in their head office. Very nice, and very above board.
Except that their Head of Operations' business card and private
phone number were in the wallet of a man who'd tried to kill me
less than two hours previously.

Emma finally pulled out of the site, and clicked on some of the
other Thadeus hits that her search had initially brought up, but
there was nothing of any interest, and after another twenty
minutes she gave up and went offline. 'If Morris is involved, then
we're not going to find it out from here,' she said with a sigh, the
excitement in her eyes having faded as it became clear that, as
with most things in life, there were going to be no easy answers.

I knew how she felt. I was beginning to feel the same way
myself. The leads were drying up, just as they had done for everyone
else working this case.

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'Did you find anything else useful on Pope or Jason Khan?' I
asked hopefully.

She shook her head, lighting a cigarette. 'Nothing that I didn't
already know. I haven't managed to get anything on those numbers you gave me from Pope's phone yet, but I expect I'll
hear something in the next couple of days, although I'm not
going to chase them up. Not after this. I spoke to a couple of
contacts about Jason Khan, but they didn't have anything new.
It seems he was on the lower rungs of Tyndall's organization.'

'Yet he was able, with one phone call, to lure an experienced
police officer out of his house late at night and on his own, to a
place where he was unprotected and vulnerable.' I sat back down
on the stool, facing her. 'We're missing something here. We've
got to be.'

'He knew Malik from the past,' she said, retreating a little in
her seat, as if she was trying to put some distance between us.
'Malik arrested him a couple of times when he was with Islington
CID.'

'Really? The name Jason Khan doesn't ring any bells with me.'

'Perhaps that's because it wasn't his real one. He changed his
last name when he converted to Islam. My source said he made
the conversion to get out of a prison sentence for mugging an old
lady. Apparently the judge felt that his finding religion demonstrated
an urge to reform. Not that it seems to have worked.'

'It usually doesn't. What was his real name?'

'Jason Delly.'

I made a surprised noise that was halfway between a laugh and
a snort.

'You remember him, then?'

'Oh yeah, I remember him all right. The whole family were
thugs. His mum once whacked me with a frozen leg of lamb when
I tried to arrest her for shoplifting. It almost broke my arm.'

173
Emma smiled. 'Really?'

I nodded ruefully. 'Really. Jason Delly was a real piece of
work as well, probably the worst of them all. I nicked him when
he was about fifteen for attacking one of his schoolteachers. She
was six months pregnant at the time. He broke her jaw and two
of her fingers, and then kept kicking her while she was on
the ground. The little bastard grinned the whole way through the
interview. He still kept grinning when we told him she might lose
her baby. I can't imagine any decent person wanting to even be
in the same room as a piece of dirt like him. Whatever he said
on the phone that night to Malik must have been dynamite to
have got him down there.'

'God, what a bastard. Did she lose the baby?'

'No, but she never went back to teaching.'

'You know, the more I see of this case, the more I regret ever
getting involved in it.' She stood up and stretched, moving away
from the desk with her back to me. 'It's introduced me to a part
of life I wish I'd never seen, and to people I wish I'd never come
across.'

The sadness in her voice betrayed her privileged background.
This was a girl who'd obviously been shielded for much of her life
from the realities the rest of us have to face, and was finding those
realities difficult to take. It made me wonder what on earth she was
doing working as a reporter on what was effectively little more than
a provincial newspaper. And why on earth such an educated, wellbroughtup
girl felt the need to keep a handgun in the house.

'What are you going to do now?' she asked, noticing me
watching her.

It was a good question. 'I think I'm going to pay a visit to
Jamie Delly, Jason's youngest brother. I want to see if he can
throw any light on what Jason was up to in the last few weeks
of his life.'

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'Isn't that a bit dangerous?'

'Jamie won't recognize me. The last time I saw him was years
back and he was just a kid then. I know this is a bit of a liberty,
but do you think you might be able to get me an address for him?
I'll let you know anything I find out.'

She gave me an oddly intense look then, as if she was
examining some interesting new insect under a microscope. 'I
don't know how you can be so confident. You've shot someone,
you've seen two men die right in front of your eyes, and you've
almost been shot yourself. And yet you're already thinking about
the next step. And for some reason I still want to help you, even
though my inner voice tells me to run a mile.'

'That's because we both want the same thing - to solve a
double murder that looks like it's been covered up, and to get
back at the people who've been trying to bully and threaten us
both. I haven't done you any harm. They have.'

She flicked at a loose strand of hair. 'I'll see if I can help, and
I'll keep your secret. But remember, I'm not going to risk my
career or my life to help you. If someone comes asking, I'm not
going to lie. You understand that, don't you?'
I nodded.

She didn't say anything else, but remained standing where she
was, which I took to be a hint that it was time for me to go.

I stood up. Above me the rain continued to batter the skylight,
harder now. 'Thanks for all your help,' I said.

She surprised me then by offering me a lift to wherever it was
I was staying.

'Forget it,' I answered. 'You've done enough for me today.'

'You can't walk back in this. How far are you from here?'

'Not that far. Up near Paddington.'

'It's still too far to walk. Come on, I'll drive you there.' She
didn't sound thrilled at the prospect, but acted as if she was

1 75
performing some necessary duty. It must have been her breeding.

'You're not worried about them coming back?' I asked.

She shook her head. 'As you said, they wanted to scare me.
They've succeeded there, so I'm probably safe for a bit now.
Come on, let's go.'

There's no point looking a gift-horse in the mouth, as my
mother would have said, so I followed her out of the room,
thinking it was a pity she hadn't asked me to stay.

We talked a little more about the case on the short drive to the
hotel, and Emma seemed a lot calmer as she tried to put
the evening's events behind her. She might have been closeted
from some of the harsher things that life had to offer, but she
was a tough girl underneath. For some reason I couldn't explain,
I genuinely did trust her to keep her word and not reveal my true
identity. I'm a cynic - made, not born - and throughout my adult
life I've tended to see the worst in everyone. It's almost certainly
why I've never married or had kids, and it's probably why I
ended up circumventing the very law I was meant to have upheld
in the first place, and why I graduated to putting bullets into
villains in return for financial reward. But even taking all that
into account, I still felt safe knowing that Emma knew who I
was. In truth, I'd developed a real soft spot for her. Which was
why I should have thought of her rather than myself, and not put
her straight into the path of danger. But things always look
simple with hindsight, don't they?

I got her to drop me off opposite Hyde Park on the Bayswater
Road. She'd wanted to take me right to my door, but soft spot
or not, I didn't want to give too much away.

'I'll be fine here, honestly,' I said. I got out of the car, thanked
her, and said I'd speak to her the next day.

I watched as she pulled away from the kerb and drove off in

176
the direction of Marble Arch, then turned and walked back to
my hotel through the rain. And as I walked, something bugged
me. Something I'd missed. I racked my brains all the way back,
hardly noticing that I was getting soaked to the skin.

It was only when I was halfway up the stairs to my room that
I realized what it was.

When I'd been in the cinema questioning Pope with my back
to the door, and his face had broken into that irritating and
ultimately futile smile just before he'd been shot, both Blondie
and his friend had had ample opportunity to shoot me. It wasn't
as if they weren't good at finding their target. Not one of their
bullets had missed Pope. They could have taken me out if they'd
wanted to. And yet they hadn't. They'd let me live, and had only
tried to deal with me when I'd chased after them and they'd had
no choice.

In the aftermath, that fact had slipped my mind. Now it was
back there with a vengeance.

But what did it mean?

What did any of it mean?

I yawned, let myself into my room, and locked the door behind
me. Whatever it was it could wait until tomorrow.

24

Jason Khan's brother, Jamie Delly, had never known his dad. I
don't suppose his mum had, either. He was eight years old when
he'd first been nicked, after making a valiant effort to burn down
his primary school. Since the age of criminal responsibility in the

1 77
UK is ten, he'd been let off with a warning, which when you're
a kid like Delly is the same as a letter of encouragement, and
over the next six years he'd been arrested on numerous occasions
for offences which ranged from the minor, like shoplifting and
possession of dope, to the potentially far more serious, like knifepoint
muggings and aggravated burglary. He'd been fourteen when
I'd left the Force, and even then I hadn't seen him in close to a
year. He'd be seventeen now, and doubtless making a mess of his
life. Like his three brothers, he was a nasty little bastard, but I felt
that he'd also be the easiest to talk to. He was the youngest and the
smallest of the Delly boys, and he hadn't been the brightest of
sparks either, with nothing like the animal cunning of, say, Jason.
Or indeed Bryan or Kyle, the other two. If he knew something, I'd
get it out of him. I also thought he'd be the least likely to recognize
me. But I put my glasses back on, just in case.

On that Monday morning the rain had stopped and the sun
was shining. My head still ached, but a lot less than it had done
the previous day, and the lump from Saturday's blow in the cafe
had shrunk considerably. I rose at eight o'clock, dressed in fresh
clothes and got something to eat from the Italian place round the
corner. I took the paper with me and was surprised to see that
the shootings in Soho weren't the top story. In fact, they only got
a small initial mention in the bottom left-hand corner of the front
page, supplanted by another Palestinian suicide bombing in
Jerusalem, plus something about GM crops, and I had to turn to
page three to get the full report. There was a photo of the street
in which I'd gunned down the assassin. It had been sealed off
with scene-of-crime tape and a uniformed copper was standing in
the background. Aside from that there were a few sentences
describing how three men had been shot dead in a gunfight, part
of which had taken place in an adult cinema. None of them had
so far been formally identified by the police.

1 78
And that, pretty much, was it. Twenty years ago, an incident
like that would have been front-page news. Now it was just one
more shooting. For a country with some of the strictest gun
control laws in the world, Britain has a remarkably high
incidence of gun crime, and it always amazes me that by and
large the police remain unarmed.

I'd finished breakfast and was on my way to collect my new
business cards when Emma phoned. Our conversation was short
and formal, but at least not awkward. Clearly, she was still prepared
to work with me in the cold light of day. She gave me
Jamie's last known address in Islington, on an estate east of the
Essex Road, in the direction of Hoxton. I recognized it as a place
I'd visited before on police business, and I told Emma I'd let her
know how things went.

'Careful, Dennis,' she told me, and I felt mildly touched at the
way she used my first name. No one had called me that for a
long time.

'Don't worry about me,' I told her. 'I have a knack for
surviving. How about you? You haven't had any more unwanted
deliveries?'

'No, everything's fine. They're replacing the window this
afternoon.'

'Well, you be careful too. We'll talk later.'

I hung up and looked at my watch. Nine thirty-five a.m. I
didn't suppose a lazy no-hoper like Jamie would be out of bed
yet, which made it the perfect time to visit.

The estate he lived on consisted of a series of L-shaped grey-brick
buildings five storeys high, arranged in a loose square, with each
one connected to the other by a covered passageway built at the
level of the third storey, giving the whole thing the appearance of
a giant puzzle. As with most London council estates, there was a

1 79
map at the entrance to give the visitor some idea how to find his
way around. Jamie lived in Block D, which according to the map
was on the left-hand side.

A twenty-yard-long tunnel carved out of the block in front of
me led into the interior of the estate, and as I walked through it,
I wondered what the designers of these places were thinking
about when they made their plans. They were a criminal's
paradise. Built like fortresses, they could be defended with ease
by the local youths against the encroachments of the police
during street disturbances, and the profusion of passageways
offered all kinds of ambush sites and escape routes for even the
slowest and noisiest of muggers.

One night in October 1985, when I was still a probationer in
uniform, I'd been sent to a similar estate in Tottenham, along
with hundreds of other Metropolitan Police officers, to deal with
a bloody riot, during the course of which we were petrol-bombed,
shot at, and bombarded with paving slabs by a mob who were
able to defend their territory with terrifying effectiveness, thanks
to its design. The estate was Broadwater Farm, a byword for
infamy in the Met, and by the end of that night more than two
hundred of my colleagues were injured, and one, PC Keith
Blakelock, was dead, having suffered multiple stab wounds at the
hands of machete-wielding rioters. I swear that if the site had
been more open-plan we would have brought the riot under
control a lot quicker than we did, and with far fewer
casualties.

At this time in the morning, the place was quiet: a couple of
young mothers were pushing prams; a frail pensioner still in his
dressing-gown was standing about on one of the balconies that
ran round each block. Not much else.

I found Block D, and climbed the steps that led up the side of
it until I came to the fourth floor. Delly lived at number 42 and

1 8O
the balcony that ran its entire length was empty. When I got to
his door, I could hear the radio playing from inside and I
knocked hard. There was no answer. The curtains were pulled
and I couldn't hear anything above the radio. I knocked again,
harder this time.

I'd come a long way this morning and was loath to go back to
the hotel without seeing Jamie, so since there didn't appear to be
anyone else around, I decided to resort to more radical measures
than I would usually have considered. Taking a step backwards,
I kicked the door as hard as I could just below the handle. It
wobbled but held, so I kicked it again, and this time it flew
inwards with a loud crack.

I stepped inside and shut the door behind me. The place
smelled terrible. Fat; unwashed sweat; domestic rubbish; smoke.
The only way I could have spent a night in there was if I'd been
wearing a gas mask.

'Who the fuck are you?'

The voice belonged to a well-built, square-jawed white guy of
about thirty, dressed in a black leather jacket and holding a foot
long cosh in his right hand. He was standing in a doorway on
the other side of the room, and without waiting for an answer,
he raised the cosh menacingly and advanced across the mess
strewn living-room.

'I'm the man with the gun,' I answered, pulling the .45 out of
the waistband of my jeans and pointing it directly at his chest.
'Drop that fucking thing. Now.'

He stopped dead, held his ground for a couple of seconds while
he assessed the situation, then reluctantly dropped the cosh as I
walked towards him, cocked the gun and pushed it against his
chest.

'I don't think you know who you're dealing with here, mate,'
he snarled.

1 81
'Well, why don't you enlighten me? Because you sure as hell
aren't Jamie Delly, and that's who I'm here to see.'

He looked down at the gun, then at me, and could see that I
wasn't messing about. When he spoke again, it was with another
menacing growl. 'I'd advise you very strongly to turn round and
walk away. Because I am here on behalf of someone who has a
lot of clout round this neck of the woods, and who does not like
people doing things that fuck up the smooth running of his
business. You know what I mean?'

I took a step back, and raised the gun so it was a millimetre
from the bridge of his nose. 'Where's Delly?'
Through the doorway came another voice, above the music.
'What's going on, Jer? Who you talking to out there?'

'Don't answer him,' I said, keeping the gun where it was. 'Go
back in there.'

He started to tell me again that I was making a mistake, so I
let him know that I'd count to three and if he hadn't moved by
then, he wouldn't be moving anywhere again. He glared at me
through slit-thin eyes until I made it to two, then slowly did as
he'd been instructed.

I gave him a nudge and followed him through the door and
into the flat's small interior hallway. The voice called out again,
asking what Jer thought he was doing. It was coming from the
first room on our right. The door was half open and I shoved Jer
inside. At the same time, I used my foot to push it as far open
as it would go, and was immediately confronted with a sight that
I could have done without at that time in the morning.

A skinny, unkempt teenager who I recognized as Jamie Delly
was hanging by one arm from the shower hook above the bathtub.
He was wearing nothing but a pair of threadbare boxer
shorts that had probably been white once but were now a murky
grey, and he was staring at me, his eyes wide with fear and pain.

1 82
Blood ran in rivulets from his nostrils down to his chest, but it wasn't this that caught my eye. It was the fact that the top third
of his left ear was missing where it had been freshly sliced away.
The bottom two-thirds and the area of the neck beneath it were
just a red mess. In front of Jamie, and slightly to one side, stood
another white man with a shiny bald head, a dark goatee beard
and a smile like a gash. He was holding a pair of bloodied
secateurs, the blades of which were now pressed against the little
finger of Jamie's free hand, ready, by the looks of things, to lop
it off.

When the guy with the secateurs saw me, the smile disappeared,
to be replaced with a glare of annoyance much like the
one Jer had just given me.

'Hello,' I said, pointing the gun in his general direction. 'Am I
interrupting something?'

'Who the fuck are you?' he demanded.

'What is it with you two? Didn't anyone ever teach you
manners? I'm this boy's guardian angel and I'm here to tell
you both to get going while you're still in a position to
do so.'

'I think he means it, Tom,' said Jer, staring at the gun.

'The fuck he does,' snarled Tom. He turned to me. 'You ain't
gonna do nothing in here. Not with that fucking thing.'

I laughed. 'I think you could be in for a shock, but don't
worry, I'm not going to kill you. Just make a mess of your
kneecap.' I changed the angle of my gun arm to make my point.
'Now, I'm going to count to three. After that, if you're still
standing here they're going to be calling you Pegleg until the day
you die.'

'You don't know who you're messing with.'

'That's what Jer said. I wasn't interested then, I'm not
interested now. One . . .'

1 83
They exchanged glances, then Tom slowly eased the secateurs
away from Jamie's finger, cutting the skin as he did so. Jamie
gasped, but said nothing.

I stood out of the way as they exited the bathroom and turned
in the direction of the door, Tom leading.

'You'll regret this,' Tom told me as I followed them into the
living-room.

'Life's too short for regrets.'

'Yours is gonna be. You're a dead man, mate.'

'Can the threats and keep moving, baldie,' I said, realizing that
I was beginning to enjoy myself. Detective work was infinitely
more rewarding when you didn't have to play by any rules.

He glared at me, but opened the door and did as he was told.
Jer also managed a glare, but his lacked conviction. I watched
them as they walked along the balcony towards the steps, Tom
already talking on his mobile phone, doubtless calling up reinforcements
with guns.

I didn't have much time.

25

I shut the door again and put the chain across, then replaced the
gun, before returning to the bathroom, where Delly was trying
without much success to free his hand from the rope that bound
it to the shower hook. The blood from his ear was running down
on to his left shoulder. It was a messy injury.

He swivelled round as I came in, no sign of recognition in his
eyes. 'Can you get me down from here?' he whined in a

1 84
high-pitched voice that hadn't changed a great deal since he was
thirteen years old. 'Please.'

'I need to ask you some questions. You answer me quickly and
truthfully, I'll cut you down.'

'Come on, man, you can't--'

'What did those two want?'

He gave me a pleading look, but it didn't work. I stared him
down and repeated the question.

'I dunno,' he answered. He pronounced it Adanoo, using the
same harsh, ghetto-style pronunciations that seemed to be all
the rage amongst the kids round here these days. 'There was this
knock on the door. I opened it and one of them smacks me with
an 'ammer. Doosh! Just like that. Then the bastards dragged me in
here and strung me up like this. I tried asking them what the fuck
they wanted, but they didn't say nothing. Not a word. And then
the one with the goatee pulled out that chopper thing and sliced me
ear with it. You seen it anywhere? The bit he took off?' He began
scanning the filthy linoleum floor for his missing body part.

'We'll find it in a minute,' I snapped, keen not to waste time.
'And what did they do after that? Did they ask you anything, or
were they just cutting you up for the fun of it?'

'They wanted to know about me brother.'

At last, we were getting somewhere. 'Your brother Jason? The
one who was murdered.'

He nodded rapidly. 'That's right. They wanted to know why
he was meeting with that copper on the night he got killed.'

'And what did you say?'

'I didn't know,' he shouted, beginning to lose patience. 'I
hadn't seen me bro for weeks before he got wasted. That's what
I told 'em, but the bastards never believed me. They was gonna
start on my fingers. Then you turned up.'

I was confused. 'You don't know who these men were? They

1 85
told me when I came in here that they worked for someone big,
someone not to be fucked around with. Who do you think that
might be? Who do you think those two were working for?'

He rubbed his free hand - the one I'd saved - against the
wounded ear, watching me at the same time through screwed-up
features. It made him look like a rat. It struck me then that he'd
always looked like a rat. Cunning and vicious. I had no doubt
that he deserved to lose a few fingers.

'Look, man, just cut me down from here, OK?'

'No. Answer the question.'

'Why the fuck should I?' he demanded, not in the least bit
appreciative that my intervention had saved him from further
injury.

I pointed the gun at his groin. 'Because if you don't, I'll blow
your fucking balls off. That's why.'

He exhaled theatrically, and I think he knew that I had no
desire to shoot him. I noticed that a rivulet of blood from his ear
had now reached his ribcage. 'You heard of Nicholas Tyndall?'
he asked, swivelling round slightly on the hook.

I told him I kept hearing of Nicholas Tyndall.

The brother used to do some work for him, dealing gear. A
while back. I saw him with one of them geezers before, so I
reckon Tyndall's the one who sent them here.'

Which meant that Tyndall hadn't known what Malik's meeting
with Jason Khan had been about. So he couldn't have set it
up. Not for the first time in the last few days, I felt myself being
pushed towards a dead end.

I looked at my watch. I'd been in here about three minutes,
and didn't want to hang around much longer. It was no way to
conduct an interview. Jamie started trying to free himself again,
turning his back on me.

'Who do you think wanted your brother dead?'

1 86
'I don't know, man. Like I say, I never saw him much, y'know. He lived with his woman over near Caledonian Road.'

'And now she's dead too.'

'Cut me down, man. Please. Me ear's doing me in.'

'Give me a name.'

'Wassat?'

'A name. Someone who knew your brother and his girlfriend.
Someone I can talk to. Then I'll cut you down.'

'I told you, man. I didn't see him much. I dunno who his mates
was.'

'A name.'

He jerked his right arm back hard, trying either to break free
of his bonds or pull the shower rail from the wall, whichever
came first. Except neither did. He cursed with frustration while I
waited and watched, counting the seconds, knowing TyndalPs
men would be back soon. And knowing too that if he couldn't
provide me with at least something, I would have wasted my time
here.

'I used to sell a bit of weed to one of Annie's mates. Y'know,
Annie who was Jason's woman. The mate's name was Andrea or
something. Last name began with B.'

'I need to know how to find her.'

'How the fuck am I meant to know how to find her? I ain't
seen her in months.'

Four minutes, and I was losing patience. I came forward fast,
grabbed him by the hair and shoved his head back against the
mildew-stained wall, pushing the barrel of the gun into his
bloodied cheek. 'If I were you, I'd start racking your brains,' I
hissed. 'Real fucking quickly. Else a misshapen ear'll be the least
of your problems. Understand?'

He finally got the message. 'All right, all right, cool it, man,'
he begged, the words spilling out fast. 'I got an old address book

1 87
in a drawer in the lounge. Beneath the telly. It'll be in there.
That's where I keep all me contacts.'

I released the pressure on the gun and left him hanging there
while I strode back through to the lounge, conscious of the
ticking clock. I pulled open the drawer beneath the TV and
rummaged round until I found a crumpled pocket-sized address
book under a pile of DVDs and a huge bag of grass. I flicked
through the pages until I got to 'B' and was pleased to find that
Islington's schools had at least taught Delly something. There
was an Andrea Bloom in there, along with an address in
Hackney and a mobile phone number, scrawled in barely legible
childlike handwriting. Since she was the only Andrea in the 'B'
section, I felt it safe to assume it was her. I pocketed the address
book and went back into the bathroom.

Jamie had given up struggling. He hung there limply,
his head bowed, looking a terrible mess. I almost felt sorry for
him.

He looked up as I came back in, and I thought I saw a flicker
of recognition in the cunning rat eyes. It was time to go.

Trying to avoid his gaze, I used the Swiss Army knife to cut
through his bonds, wrinkling my nose at the sour smell coming
off him. While I was slicing away at the ropes they'd used, I
asked him how well his brother had known Asif Malik.

Not surprisingly, he hadn't known. 'But when Jason was
gonna become a Muslim an' that, I know he talked to Malik
about it,' he said. 'He wanted some advice.' The last strand of
the rope came free, and Jamie collapsed in a heap in the filthy
bathtub. He touched his ruined ear tenderly, then looked up at
me. 'Who the fuck are you, man?' he asked, and I knew then that
he still had no idea of my true identity.

'The person who made sure you stayed in possession of all
your fingers and toes,' I told him. 'Remember that.'

1 88
I switched on the shower, thinking he needed one, and walked
away, ignoring the yelp of shock he let out as the cold water
soaked him.

When I was back on the balcony, I looked at my watch. Six
minutes since I'd kicked out Tom and Jer, the irony of their
names only now sinking in. I didn't think it'd be long before they
were back with numbers, and I didn't want to be here when
they were.

I was confident they wouldn't do any more harm to Jamie. It
should have been obvious to them that he didn't know much
about his brother's death and was therefore going to be of no
great use. Most serious criminals only inflict injuries when they
need to and I suspected that Tyndall would be no different.
However, I was fairly sure that Jamie would tell them what he'd
told me and that they too might want to track down Andrea
Bloom. It was important that I got to her first. She might only
have represented a very slim lead, but there wasn't a lot else
vying for my attention right at that moment.

As I turned to go, I spotted a man and a woman, both smartly
dressed, emerging from the tunnel into the estate proper. Even
from this distance, I could tell that the woman was young and
pretty, late twenties tops, with brown hair cut into a neat bob;
while the guy was about my age and height but carrying more
than a few extra pounds, mainly round the belly. Straightaway I
knew they were cops and, as if I needed confirmation, they both
looked up towards Block D. It didn't take a genius to know they
were coming here.

I started along the balcony towards the far end of the block,
walking fast, then breaking into a run as I hit the stairwell. I
didn't look back.

I was still running when I came out of the back of the estate,

1 89
on to a litter-strewn pathway that ran alongside a particularly
unattractive stretch of Regent's Canal. Decrepit, long-deserted
warehouses with rows of broken windows loomed up on each
side of the coal-black water, reminders of a time when there was
still some real industry round here. I kept going until I found a
bench that hadn't been uprooted and chucked into the canal, and
sat down, giving myself two minutes to recover. When my
breathing was back to normal, I pulled out the address book and
found Andrea Bloom's entry. But when I called the mobile
number, it was out of order.

I recognized the road she lived on. It was about a mile from
where I was sitting. And once again time didn't feel like it was
on my side.

So I got to my feet and started walking!

26

According to the address book, Andrea Bloom lived just off the
Kingsland Road in Hackney. It might have only been a few
hundred yards as the crow flies from the bistros and restaurants
of south Islington, but the Kingsland Road was a world away
from them. It's the sort of place you end up in when you've taken
a wrong turn - a long, straight, desolate road lined with council
estates and heavily fortified shops selling cheap goods - where
gangs of kids in hooded tops hang round on their mountain bikes
waiting for something to happen, or someone to mug. It hadn't
changed much since I'd been away and still didn't feel that safe,
even at eleven o'clock in the morning, but I walked most of its

1 90
length south to north, unchallenged and unscathed, which either
meant I looked too hard to take on or, more likely, it was still
too early for the local street robbers.

Andrea's street was quieter and a bit more upmarket, being
made up mainly of three-storey townhouses, most of which could
have done with a decent exterior paint job. Hers was about thirty
yards down on the right-hand side, and was one of the more
ramshackle residences.

I had to ring the bell several times before an early-twenties
white guy with a dreadlocked mane of naturally blond curly hair
answered. He must have been getting on for six foot six, but was
as lean as a rake. He had a large ring through his nose, and a
smaller one through his right eyebrow. The expression on his face
was suspicious, but it didn't sit that easily there. I guessed he was
quite a friendly sort to the people he knew, but maybe a little
earnest. He was dressed in a light-green T-shirt with a photo of
Che Guevara on it, and combat trousers of the same colour,
while his feet were bare. I'd have put money on the fact that he
was a vegetarian, and that he was better educated and from a
family higher up the social ladder than either his garb or current
location would suggest.

'Yes?'

'I'm here to see Andrea Bloom.'

He looked me up and down carefully, like a man examining a
fake designer shirt on a cheap market stall. Even after all this
time, I must still have had the demeanour of a copper, and I
doubted that any members of the law-enforcement fraternity
were very popular round here.

'I don't know any Andrea Bloom.'

I could tell he was lying. It wasn't difficult to spot. 'Yes, you
do,' I told him. 'Is she in?'

'Who are you?'

1 91
I was beginning to get tired of this question. 'It's personal. Is
she in?'

'She's at work.'

'And where's her work?'

'I'm not telling you,' he snapped.

'Fair enough. I'll come in and wait for her, then.'

I pushed past him and stepped into the hallway. The carpet
was threadbare, but the general decor a considerable improvement
on Delly's place. I turned left and walked into a small
sitting room with a cheap-looking TV in the corner and a
profusion of different coloured bean-bags on the floor. I found
a chair and plonked myself down.

He came stomping in after me. 'I don't know who the fuck you
think you are, but you can't just come walking in like this.'

'Tell me where I can find Andrea and I'll walk right back out
again,' I said, making myself comfortable.

'I want to know why you want to see her. She's my girlfriend.'

He added this last with a hint of pride in his voice and I felt a
bit sorry for him. 'I want to talk to her about her relationship
with Jason Khan and Ann Taylor.'

Something happened then. His body tensed, and a perceptible
flicker of fear crossed his face like a storm front. He knew
something.

'Andrea hardly knew them,' he said, talking far too fast. 'I
don't think there's much she can tell you. Now if you give me
your card, I can--'

'I promise you I don't mean her any harm. I'm a private
detective. So, please, why don't you just make it easier by telling
me where I can find her?'

'Hold on a moment,' he said, then left the room.

I stood up to follow him, taking my time, keen not to spook
him any more than he was already. But very interested,

1 92
nevertheless, in his reaction to the mention of Jason Khan and
Ann Taylor.

I hadn't taken more than two steps when he suddenly reappeared.
Only this time he was carrying a gleaming kitchen
knife with an eight-inch blade. He waved it at me as menacingly
as he could manage, the tension in his features telling me that he
liked this situation even less than I did, which, given that I was
standing only three feet from the end of the blade, took some
doing:

'Put that thing down,' I said, taking a step back, reluctant to
go for the gun and ruin any chance of a meaningful discussion
with either him or his girlfriend. 'You use it and you'll be going
to prison for a long, long time.'

He stepped forward, gaining in confidence. 'I want you out of
here now. Andrea's got nothing to say and she doesn't want to
see you.'

'I think you should let her decide that.'

He took another step forward, waving the knife for effect. 'Out.'

I shrugged. 'All right, have it your way.' I went to go past
him and he moved to the side. As we came level, I lunged
forward and grabbed the wrist of his knife arm, twisting it away
from him. He didn't immediately let go so I balled my other hand
into a fist and slammed it down on the upturned forearm. He
cried out in pain and the knife clattered to the floor. I kicked it
out into the hallway, then forced the arm behind his back and
pushed him down to his knees.

He tried to struggle so I pulled the arm higher up his back, and
he quickly stopped. I put my mouth to his ear. 'I repeat: I am a
private detective. I mean your girlfriend no harm, but it's
important I speak to her. Two people have been murdered and
she may have information that could help one of the dead men's
families. Please. I need to know where to find her.'

193
'How do I know you're not going to hurt her?' he demanded.

'Why should I?' I asked, genuinely interested in his answer.

But he didn't tell me why. Instead, he asked me to let him go.

'Are you going to tell me where I can find her?'

'I'll come down with you. If you want to talk to her, you'll
have to do it with me present as well.'

'Fair enough.' I released my grip and let him stand up.

'I'll need to phone her,' he said, starting to walk into the hallway,
but I pulled him back by the neck of his Che Guevara
Tshirt.

'Use mine,' I told him, handing over my mobile and picking
up the knife. 'And please don't try and get her to disappear for
a bit. I'll just come back.'

He nodded, looking shaken, but didn't take my phone.
Instead, he produced his own and dialled the number. When she
answered, the two of them conducted a hushed conversation,
with him standing in the corner of the living-room next to the
TV, his back to me. I couldn't hear everything that was said, but
the gist of it was that he'd heeded my warning and was trying to
persuade her to meet me.

When he'd finished, he shoved the phone into the pocket of his
combat trousers and told me that she'd join us in a cafe they
both knew in twenty minutes. 'But you're wasting your time. She
doesn't know anything.'

'We'll see,' I said, ignoring his hostile stare.

Twenty years in the Met had left me immune to that sort of
look.

The cafe was called The Forest, and it was a ten-minute walk
further north in the direction of Stoke Newington, which we
made in near silence. I did introduce myself, however, giving him
one of my flashy new business cards, and also got his name,

1 94
which was Grant. He didn't really look much like a Grant. More
a Nigel or a Tim. Not that I told him that.

When we stepped inside the door, it was eleven thirty-five by
my watch, and there were about a dozen people in the place mostly
young, studenty types similar to Grant. A basic but
colourful mural of a woodland scene took up most of the available
wall-space, and sounds-of-the-rainforest type music was
being piped from the speakers at each corner of the ceiling. A
menu behind the fat woman at the counter offered 'Healthy
Vegetarian Fare,' but I got the feeling she preferred to eat at
Burger King.

'I'm not stopping in this place,' I told Grant. 'Let's wait for
Andrea outside.'

'What's wrong with it?' he asked, but I'd already walked out
the door.

'It's horrible. And too busy. Let's go to a pub.'

He mumbled something under his breath but didn't argue, and
we stood in the cold for a few minutes until I saw a look of
recognition cross his face as an attractive black girl of about
eighteen, with her hair in braids, approached. She was dressed in
a three-quarter-length purple leather coat and embroidered flared
jeans, and her manner was cautious, as if she expected to get
arrested at any moment.

Grant stepped between us and explained who I was and why
we were outside.

'I'd rather talk somewhere a little more intimate,' I told her,
putting out a hand. 'My name's Mick Kane, and I appreciate you
coming.'

'I don't know if Grant's told you,' she said, reluctantly shaking
my hand and watching me with very large and very beautiful
brown eyes, 'but I honestly don't see how I can be of help.'

'I did tell him,' put in Grant.

1 95
'Well, if I could buy you both a drink and just ask a few
questions, then at least I'll feel like I'm doing my job.'

'OK,' she agreed, with the same reluctance she'd put into the
handshake, 'but I haven't got a lot of time.'

I told her that this didn't matter and suggested we try the pub
opposite.

Nobody argued so I crossed the road, and after a couple of
seconds they followed.

27

Five minutes later, we were sitting at a corner table in the lounge
bar of the pub across the road, the only customers in the place.
I was on one side with a double orange juice. They were on the
other: Grant with a pint of Stella, Andrea with a mineral water.

'How did you find me?' she asked.

'A friend of Jason's said you knew his girlfriend Ann.'

She nodded, before asking in a voice that was more mature
than her years suggested what it was I wanted to know.

'Anything that could point to why Jason Khan was murdered.'

'I can't really help you. I knew Jason, but not that well. I knew
Ann better. But why are you involved? There are plenty of police
on the case, aren't there?'

'There are, but my client's concerned that things aren't progressing.'
'And
your client is ... ?'

I smiled. This one was no fool. I told her it was Asif Malik's
uncle, and she seemed to accept the answer. She then told me

1 96
that she couldn't think of any reason why Jason would have been
murdered. 'I can't see how he would have got himself involved
with anyone big enough or nasty enough to have bothered killing
him. He was just a small-time dope dealer and thief. He thought
he was one of the big boys, but from what I could see, he was
just a loser.' She shrugged, as if there wasn't anything else she
could add of any relevance.

I decided to change tack, and asked how she'd known Ann.

She relaxed visibly. Grant too.

'I first met her a couple of years back,' she said, fiddling with
her glass. 'I'd been in foster care for ages before that, but then
my foster mum got cancer and she couldn't look after me
and my brother any more. We got split up and I got put into a
care home in Camden while they tried to find another family for
me. Ann already lived there, and she showed me the ropes and
looked out for me. We just became mates. I liked her because she
didn't take shit off people, but she was nice underneath as well,
you know what I mean?'

I did. That had been my take on Ann as well, although I
couldn't admit that to Andrea. I motioned for her to continue,
keen to let her talk at her own pace.

'I was at Coleman House - the place in Camden - about six
months and when I left and went back into foster care, me and
Ann kept in touch. My foster family were living up in Barnet so
it wasn't that difficult to get down and see her. We used to go
out drinking, smoking a bit, having a giggle. But to be honest, I
got sort of tired of all that. I didn't want to piss my life away. I
wanted to do something a bit different. You know, get a job, get
a life, go back to college. I met Grant-' At this point, she put
her hand in his, and he pulled one of those yearning expressions
you sometimes see in crap romance films. Somehow it endeared
him to me. It's nice to see a bit of young love. The and Ann

197
drifted apart for a while,' she continued, 'but recently we'd
started seeing more of each other again. She was beginning to
grow up herself, and thinking of changing the way she lived her
life.' She sighed. 'But it was all too late, wasn't it? Always is, for
girls like Ann. You know, a lot of people wrote her off, and I
bet quite a few of them think she got what was coming to her,
because she did have a real temper. And she didn't like doing
what she was told, either. But I tell you this: she was a good sort,
she really was. She meant a lot to me.'

The mention of Coleman House brought back memories for
me too. Memories of my last days in London, and how they'd
ended in violence and murder. How a brief affair - a potential
relationship - had ended before it had even begun. The woman
had been Carla Graham and at one time she'd managed Coleman
House. I think I might have even been in love with her. The
image of her in my mind was unwelcome. It reminded me of
events I'd rather not have remembered, both for my own part in
them and for other people's.

I had my notebook out and made a point of writing down the
details of Andrea's testimony. When I'd finished, I looked her in
the eye and asked if Ann had committed suicide.

'That's what the police said, isn't it?' she answered, trying to
sound casual. Avoiding my gaze.

'Yeah,' added Grant. 'And they ought to know, right?'

'Perhaps,' I said. 'But what do you think?'

'I think she did,' said Grant, with far too much in the way
of conviction. 'She'd had things hard in recent months. And
then with Jason dying, I think it all just proved too much, you
know?'

Andrea sighed. 'I think Grant's probably right. It seems the
most likely way it happened.'

'Did you both make statements to the police?'

1 98
Neither of them said anything for a moment. Grant looked
furtive. Then Andrea spoke. They never asked, and because they
didn't seem that interested in what had happened, I never
approached them. My experiences of the police haven't been that
great over the years. I tend to avoid them when I can.'

'From what I've gathered during my investigations,' I continued,
'Ann Taylor was a tough girl who'd been in care for
many years. Statistically, people with that type of upbringing, or
lack of it, tend to be the least likely to commit suicide. It's
because they're tougher than most of us, more used to the hard
knocks that life has to offer, so they don't get brought down so
often. They're already there. Would you agree with that
assessment of Ann, Andrea?'

'She was tough, but she had a vulnerable side, too. She hurt
the same as anyone else, you know.'

And she had done, I remembered that. She'd cried in front of
me once, three years earlier, when she thought that a friend of
hers from Coleman House, who'd gone missing, was dead.

'When was the last time you saw Ann alive?' I asked.

Andrea hesitated, and I saw Grant glance at her, trying to
catch her eye.

'About a week before she died, I think. Something like that.'

'Before Jason was murdered?'

She nodded.

'You didn't go round to offer your condolences after his
death?'

She shook her head. 'No.'

I didn't believe her. She was lying. So was he. The question
was why. 'But she was your friend,' I said. 'Someone who'd
shown you the ropes when you first went into Coleman House.
Who'd helped you when you needed her help.'

This was the cue for Grant to butt in angrily. 'I don't like the

1 99
tone of your questioning,' he snapped. 'We're only here out of
the kindness of our hearts. We don't have to talk to you, and I
don't think we're going to any more. Come on, Andrea.' He
started to get to his feet, and she moved in her seat as if to
follow.

'If you leave, I'll go straight to the police and give them your
names. I'll also hand over the evidence as to why I don't think
Ann committed suicide. Then they'll come looking for you, only
next time you'll have to talk. And if there's anything you're
hiding, they'll find it.'

They both stopped moving.

'If you talk to me I'll do everything in my power to protect
you as sources. No one'll ever know I spoke to you and you
won't be bothered again.'

Grant sat back down. Andrea shuffled in her seat. For a few
seconds there was an awkward silence.

I was going to ask them again whether they thought Ann had
committed suicide, but then I remembered something from my
first meeting with Emma. 'I understand that Ann had recently
been receiving treatment for psychiatric problems. Can you tell
me about that?'

They looked at each other again. Nervously.

'How much do you know about it?' asked Grant, after a pause.

'Very little,' I said, 'but I can find out more, easily enough.
Why don't you make it easier and tell me?'

It was Andrea who spoke. 'She got referred to a psychiatrist
about a year ago, after she'd got arrested for GBH. It was part
of her bail conditions.'

'GBH? That's pretty serious. What did she do?'

'It was when she was working the streets. She used to do that
before she got nicked. She had a bedsit in Holloway she took the
punters back to. One night one of them gave her a load of

200
trouble. He tried to get her to do stuff she didn't want to do, so
she pulled a knife and let him have it across the face. Then she
chased him out of the bedsit and cut him a couple of times round
the back of the head. He needed about eighty stitches.' There was
an unmistakable pride in her voice as she recounted this story.
It was clear that, eighty stitches or not, the punter had got what
was coming to him. It surprised me hearing her talk in a manner
that so readily condoned violence. She was an attractive, well
dressed girl, and clearly intelligent. It was easy to forget that
she'd probably had a few hard knocks herself over the years.

'So what did this psychiatrist have to say?'

'She reckoned she was suffering from some sort of schizophrenia.
Ann told me he even wanted her sectioned, but that
didn't happen. What they did was put her on a psychotherapy
course.'

'And did that help?'

Again she paused. 'Yeah,' she said after a few seconds. 'It did.
The jury found her not guilty because of diminished
responsibility.'

'And that was that? She was released?'

'Yeah, that was that.' She looked down at the table.

'The schizophrenia Ann was suffering from. Did the
psychiatrist say what had caused it?' This time the pause was
longer. 'I can find out, you know, but I'd rather hear it from
you.'

Grant leaned forward suddenly. 'The doctor who diagnosed
her said that she thought it stemmed from her past. Apparently
she'd been abused by her father when she was very young, and
it was something to do with that.'

He took a generous swig from his beer, before pulling a metal
tobacco tin from his pocket. I watched his hands as he took out
a roll-up and lit it with a cheap plastic lighter. They were shaking

201
slightly. He took a drag and blew a mouthful of smoke towards
the empty chair beside me. I took out my own cigarettes, watching
Andrea now, and offered her one. She shook her head and
told me she'd quit.

'Why are you so interested in talking about Ann's psychiatric
problems?' she demanded.

I could have said that it was because she and Grant were so
interested in not talking about them, but I didn't. Instead I asked
another question. 'Ann's allegations about her father. Did anyone
ever follow them up? Presumably, if the judge believed the
psychiatrist about her schizophrenia and what had initially
caused it, then the police must have launched some sort of
investigation into her father's alleged abuse.'

'Yeah, they did,' said Grant. 'And they nicked him as well. But
they never got him to trial. He got released on bail and
absconded.'

I felt my skin crawl.

A stifling hotel room in Manila a year ago. A man who wanted
to kill a little girl.

'And now he's got what he deserved,' added Andrea, her voice
full of barely suppressed rage.

I turned to her and was surprised at the intensity of her expression.
She was staring right at me, the earlier furtiveness now
completely gone.

'What do you mean?' I asked her, even though I was suddenly
very sure of exactly what she meant.

'After he absconded, he left the country,' she said, 'and the
next thing anyone heard he'd turned up dead in a hotel room
somewhere in Asia. Someone had shot him, and good riddance
to the bastard too.'

'I read something about that,' I said. 'But I don't remember it
involving someone called Ann Taylor.'

202
'No,' said Andrea. 'That's because Ann changed her name
after she ran away from home. Her real name was Sonya
Blacklip.'

28

Andrea clammed up again after that, as if she sensed she'd said
too much. And I guess she had, because by now I was beginning
to get an angle on things. Grant clammed up as well, and
although I kept them there for another ten minutes, I didn't find
out anything else of interest.

Before they went, Andrea told me that they just wanted to be
left alone, and implored me to respect their wishes. I said I
would, feeling sorry for them as I watched them leave with their
heads down and shoulders hunched, fearful of the consequences
of my unwelcome entry into their lives. But I wasn't sure it was
a promise I could keep. They knew a lot more than they were
telling me, and I could only assume that Ann Taylor had told
Andrea something, which Andrea had then told Grant; something
that with Ann's death they'd sworn to keep quiet.

Ann's father, Richard Blacklip, had appeared in a photograph
with Les Pope. Pope had ordered the deaths of Malik and Jason
Khan. Khan was Blacklip's daughter's boyfriend. Connections.
Plenty of connections. But where, and to whom, did they all lead?

Fifteen minutes later I was walking down the Essex Road, not
really thinking where I was going as I talked on the phone to
Emma. She hadn't found out anything of great interest about

203
Thadeus, or any links they might have had with either Malik,
Pope or Nicholas Tyndall, and was still waiting for her contact
to come back with the phone numbers listed on Slippery Billy's
mobile. When I told her I needed details of Ann Taylor's illness,
and who had treated her, she was none too pleased.

'I've got a lot on, Dennis. We've got an editorial meeting at
three o'clock and I've got to be home at five-thirty for the
window guy. I've already spent hours on this.'

'Please. It's important.'

'Why? What's it got to do with the case?'

'Just trust me on this, OK? This once. Honestly, Emma, I
wouldn't ask if I didn't think it could lead to something.'

She sighed loudly, but said she'd do what she could and I said
I'd call her later.

I hung up and realized that I was standing outside the Half
Moon pub. I'd drunk in here a few times back in the old days
and it was less than half a mile from the police station where I'd
spent so much of my working life, and only a few hundred yards
from Islington Green and the bright lights of Upper Street. I
stopped and peered in the window. Two old guys were sat at the
bar laughing and smoking, while a barman I didn't recognize
polished a glass behind them. I'd known the landlord here once
upon a time. I'd pop in on the occasional afternoon after I'd
worked an early shift, and we'd have a few pints together and a
chinwag in the welcoming half-light of the lounge bar. I
wondered if he was still here and even thought about going in.
Thought about it seriously for a couple of seconds. It looked
warm and inviting.

It was also too close to the old stomping ground. Too risky.
Even letting it cross my mind was a stupid idea. I could never go
back in here. Not now. Not in a month. Not ever. It was the past
and the past for me was a closed book.

204
But the past never truly lets you go, even the parts you wish
to forget. In the three days since I'd returned to this city, the
yawning chasm that had been the days, the months, the years
away, had shrunk to nothing. Every step, every smell, every
familiar street had dragged me backwards through time, and
now, with Andrea's mention of Coleman House, the ghosts of my
last bitter days here were rising to haunt me again: the innocent
dead; the guilty dead; and, of course, the mysterious and beautiful
Carla Graham, the woman who for a few fleeting moments
I'd felt closer to than any other.

I stood there in the pale winter sunlight for longer than I
should have done, until the cold began to seep beneath my skin.
Finally, I turned and retraced my steps, pleased to be escaping
from reminders of the old days. But as I walked, the ghosts of
the dead shifted and swirled around me, reluctant, as always, to
release me from their grip.

29

'Sonya Blacklip,' said Emma, telling me something I already
knew.

She was sitting cross-legged on her orange sofa, dressed in a
plain, loose-fitting white T-shirt and blue jeans. Her freshly
washed hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and she was drinking
one of the four-pack of Fosters I'd brought with me when I'd
turned up at her place a few minutes earlier. She looked remarkably
fragrant and relaxed, given the twenty-four hours she'd had.
I was drinking from one of the other cans too and smoking a

205
cigarette while I sat on the chair opposite, listening to what she
had to say. It had just turned seven p.m., and I was feeling pretty
relaxed myself.

'- Was the real name of Ann Taylor,' I added.

'That's right.' She then gave me a thorough rundown of what
she had learnt about Ann, corroborating everything that Andrea
and Grant had told me earlier.

'The course of psychotherapy that Ann was put on began in
October of last year, and the doctor in charge of it was a woman
called...' She paused while she consulted her notebook. '...
Madeline Cheney, and from what I can gather she's an expert in
her field. She's spent years studying the retrieval and reconstruction of memory. And after a number of one-to-one
sessions with Ann, she managed to coax from her aspects of her
past that Ann hadn't talked about to anyone else. What Dr
Cheney found out made grim reading. I haven't been able to get
all the details - most of it's not in the public domain - but she
made a written submission to the court in which she testified
that, in her opinion, Ann had suffered extensive sexual abuse as
a child at the hands of her father, starting when she was as young
as four, shortly after her mother died, and continuing until the
age of eleven, at which point she finally ran away from home,
and ended up here in London.' Emma paused for a moment
and looked at me. 'The claims were pretty horrific. According to
the testimony, it wasn't just her father who abused her, but his
friends too, and there were other children who also suffered at
the hands of the same group. However, when the police
investigated, they never identified any of them, and the only
person who faced any charges relating to the abuse was
Ann's father, Richard. But he skipped bail, and ended up
murdered in a hotel in Manila before the case ever came to
trial.'

206
'I need to speak to Dr Cheney,' I. said. 'Where does she
practise? Do you know?'

'You don't ask for much, do you? I've got her number and
address here.' She waved her notebook in my direction. 'But I'd
like to know what this has got to do with the murders of Malik
and Khan.'

I sipped my beer, thinking once again that I had a real soft
spot for this girl. I told her about my question-and-answer
session with Jamie Delly, including the situation I'd found him
in, and the second session I'd had with Andrea and Grant.

Emma seemed more concerned about why Tyndall's men were
torturing Delly than the actual torture itself. 'That suggests that
Tyndall didn't actually have anything to do with the shooting of
Malik and Khan, doesn't it? Because if he had, surely he'd have
known what the two of them were meeting about?'

'I don't know,' I said.

'And if that's the case, then who sent me that doll with the
blood on?'

'I don't know that either.'

'But there's something you're not telling me,' she stated firmly.
'Because nothing you've said so far points to Ann Taylor's
mental state having anything to do with any of this. So what is
it?'

'I think Andrea and Grant know more than they were letting
on. They were very keen to avoid talking about Ann Taylor particularly
her psychotherapy.'

Emma shook her head. 'No, there's more to it than that. And
I want to know what it is.'

There was no way I could avoid the question now. We'd
reached a crux in our brief relationship. It's always been a habit
of mine to absorb as much information as possible from the
people I talk to, while giving out the absolute minimum. There's

2O7
nothing to be gained from telling people your innermost secrets;
doing that just makes you vulnerable. But this time I knew I was
going to have to come clean. If I gave her any more grounds for
suspicion, our partnership was finished.

'I got the names of the people whose numbers you gave me on
Saturday,' she continued. 'The ones that supposedly came from
Les Pope's mobile. One of the numbers on there also belongs
to Les Pope. So what was he doing phoning himself? Unless, of
course, you were bullshitting me and they didn't come from
Pope's phone at all, but from someone else's. Which seems a lot
more likely, don't you think?'

On the night I'd met her in the Ben Crouch Tavern, I'd
observed that something in Emma's girlish demeanour invited
people to underestimate her, and I'd made exactly that mistake.
I suspected that I wasn't the first.

'AH right. I'll tell you what I know and how I know it, but be
prepared not to like what you hear.'

She gave a hollow laugh. 'You're a self-confessed mass
murderer. Don't worry, I'm fully prepared on that front.'

So I told her. About Blacklip; about Slippery Billy West; about
everything. The only things I kept from her were the locations of
the killings, and where I'd been these past three years, but even
that would have been fairly obvious, given where Blacklip's
corpse had been found.

When I'd finished she didn't speak for a while. Instead she just
sat there watching me. She gave no indication of how she felt,
although it wasn't that hard to guess. I lit a cigarette and
wondered if it was worth my while trying to justify what I'd
done. In the end, I decided it wasn't. She knew that one of the
men I'd killed had been a violent and long-standing child abuser,
and that the other had been the hitman who'd slain Malik and
Jason Khan. That should have been justification enough.

208
'Why didn't you tell me all this before?' she asked eventually.

'You didn't need to know. And it wouldn't have made you feel
any better about me, would it?'

She started to say something, but I put up a hand to stop her.
I could hear movement outside - the shuffling of feet.

We both listened.

The only sound in the room was the faint tinny chattering of
the TV in the corner.

A loud knock on the door startled us both. We looked at each
other.

The knock came again. 'Emma, are you there?' The voice was
naturally loud - deep and authoritative. 'It's DCI Barron. I'm
here with DS Boyd. We'd like a quick word, if we could.'

Emma looked alarmed. She glanced over at me for guidance
and I motioned for her to let them in. I got up, picked up the
ashtray I was using and my drink, and headed for the staircase,
trying to keep as quiet as possible.

'Just coming,' I heard Emma call as I reached the third stair.

By the time she'd opened the door I was on the landing, leaning
over the edge of the staircase to listen to whatever DCI
Barron and his colleague had to say, and hoping that Emma
didn't take the opportunity to get her name in lights and a plum
job on one of the nationals by telling them about the
fugitive currently in her house. I might have trusted her
implicitly that morning but I wasn't so sure now, not with the
Law on the doorstep, and me having just admitted that there
were a further two murders to add to my rapidly growing list of
crimes.

'What can I do for you both?' I heard Emma ask as they came
into the house and she offered them seats.

'You were asking about a gentleman by the name of Jamie
Delly last night,' said Barron. 'You called one of my colleagues,

209
John Gallan, asking if he had Delly's address. Would that be
right?'

Emma must have said something in the affirmative, because
Barron asked why she'd wanted to know.

'I wanted to speak to him about his brother, Jason,' she
answered. 'As part of my own investigation.'

The female officer, Boyd, then spoke, but her voice was quieter
and I couldn't make out what she was saying. Something about
Emma's articles, it sounded like, and her tone was more abrupt.

Barron interjected to inform Emma that the police had been
called to Jamie's flat that morning. 'We've been keeping an eye
on him as part of our investigation into the Malik/Khan murders,
and we received a call this morning from one of his neighbours
saying there was a disturbance going on at his place, and the
sounds of a struggle. DS Boyd and I were the first to attend. We
saw a tall, slim, bearded man of about forty leaving the premises,
but he disappeared before we could apprehend him. When we
arrived at the flat we found Mr Delly semi-naked in his
bathtub having suffered a number of very nasty injuries
which suggested he'd been tortured. He's being treated in
hospital now.'

Boyd asked Emma whether she knew of anyone fitting that
description who might have had links with the case.

Emma said she didn't, and I offered her a silent thank-you.
But I wondered how long it would take them to link the
description to the man who'd been involved in the Soho shootings.
A while yet, I hoped. There was a lot of CCTV footage to
go through and I'd been wearing completely different clothes.
But it was a worry.

'What did you think Jamie Delly could tell you about Jason?'
asked Boyd, her voice louder and clearer now.

Emma said this was her business, but Boyd replied that given

21 0
what had happened that morning it was police business as well.

'I'm still interested in finding a motive for the murders,' Emma
explained. 'It's a high-profile case but it doesn't seem to be
moving very fast. I thought Jamie might be able to shed some
light on things. I was going to visit him tomorrow.'

'Well, he's not saying anything to us,' said Barron, 'so if you
get any information out of him, please let us know.'

Emma said she would.

The conversation continued with Barron and Boyd trying to
find out where Emma was with her own investigations. Barron
then suggested that, given the tone of her articles, she should be
extra-vigilant in case she herself became a target, which was when
she told them about the break-in the previous night and the
bloodied doll that had been left behind as a warning. After
admonishing her for not reporting the incident, and asking to see
the doll, he became even more forceful in his warnings. His tone
was genuine enough, though, and I was confident that the main
reason he was saying all this was because he was worried for her.
I wasn't sure I could say the same about Boyd. Her manner was
more hostile, which I suppose was understandable. As a woman
she wouldn't be so easily impressed by a pretty girl, and, like
most coppers, she didn't like journalists nosing into her
investigations, particularly when those journalists were being
critical.

'We can offer you police protection if you like,' said Barron,
promising to take the doll to the station for further examination,
but Emma declined.

Boyd then asked if she could use the bathroom. I heard her get
to her feet as Emma told her it was first left at the top of the
stairs.

As Boyd climbed the stairs, I retreated into Emma's bedroom
and went round to the far side of her bed, feeling like a kid again

21 1
as I sunk to my hands and knees and made myself as
inconspicuous as possible in the darkness.

I heard her reach the top of the stairs, but rather than go
straight on into the bathroom, she stopped. A second later, the
door to the bedroom made a scuffing noise as it was pushed
open, and I could sense her in here with me. She moved swiftly
across the carpet and I suddenly wondered what on earth I'd do
if she discovered me here: the man she'd seen that morning at
Delly's place, hunched on the floor in front of her. I began to
sweat.

A few more steps and she was almost on me. I gritted my teeth
and remained as still as possible, silencing even my breathing and
resisting the urge to go for my gun.

It was only when her legs were three feet away from my head
that she stopped, and I could see her looking around Emma's
desk. She opened the desk drawer and had a quick poke about
inside. It looked like she had plastic police-issue gloves on.

I stayed as still as a statue, knowing that she only had to turn
her head ever so slightly and drop her gaze downwards and the
lives of the four people in this house would be changed for ever.
One tiny movement; such huge ramifications.

But she didn't. Instead, she shut the drawer without removing
anything, turned on her heels, and left the room. A few seconds
later I heard the toilet flushing and Boyd heading back down the
stairs. It was at that point that I finally started breathing
properly again.

They didn't stay long after that. I couldn't hear what they were
saying because I remained in the bedroom, but I heard the front
door open and shut, and after what felt like a suitable interval, I
got to my feet and emerged from my hiding place.

When I returned to the lounge, Emma was smoking a cigarette
and looking stressed. 'I ought to bloody well kick you out,' she

21 2
told me bitterly. 'What if they talk to my neighbours and one of
them saw you coming in?'

'No one's seen me round here and I'll be very careful that they
don't in future,' I promised her, before changing the subject. 'Did
you know that when DS Boyd came upstairs she rifled through
your desk drawer?'

Emma frowned. 'Did she? What do you think she was looking
for?'

'I don't know. Sources, information, anything, I suppose.'

'Isn't that illegal?'

'It is, and anything she found would be inadmissable in court,
but it's the sort of thing that happens now and again. The police
are like anyone else: they want results, and sometimes they're
prepared to cut corners. But I was surprised she felt the need to
do that. I mean, most of the sources for your articles on this case
have been cops, haven't they?'

She nodded, still frowning.

'Is Barron one of your contacts?' I asked, assuming by the way
he'd been talking to her that he was.

'Yes, he's been helpful on this case.'

'I don't recognize the name. Is he based at Islington?'

She shook her head. 'No. He's retired, technically, but they
brought him back for this case because the Met's so short of
detectives. They're doing that a lot these days.'

'And who was the other guy? The one you phoned about
Delly's address?' Again, it had been a name I hadn't recognized.

'John Gallan. He's a DI at Islington. A nice guy, and helpful
too, but he'd still arrest me like a shot if he knew I was
harbouring you.'

It was then that I realized quite how much danger I was
putting her in by using her as my unofficial assistant, and I knew
it was going to have to stop. 'Look, I know I'm causing you

21 3
problems with my involvement in this, so I'm going to say goodbye
now. Thanks for all your help, and if I do end up finding out
the motive behind the Malik and Khan killings, I'll let you know.
All I'd ask in the meantime is that you don't tell anyone I'm back
here.'

'It's not safe for you either, Dennis. My advice would be to
return to the place you came from while you're still in a position
to.'

Blondie had said pretty much the same thing to me two days
ago and, like Emma, he'd had a point. But I was getting close
now, I could feel it, and I didn't want to let go. For the last three
years life had been easy, but it had also been unfulfilling. The
truth was, I liked hunting. For twenty years, prior to my
ignominious departure from England, I'd hunted criminals every
day, sometimes for insignificant crimes, sometimes for murder,
and I'd enjoyed it. I'd enjoyed the chase, the evidence-gathering,
the slow but steady peeling away of the layers of fat to reveal the
bare bones of the mystery beneath, the one mistake that would
ensnare my prey. The fact that the prey usually ended up getting
a far lower sentence than his crime deserved was a matter of
some disappointment, but never enough to stop me from trying
again. And now, free from the constraints of an undermanned
and over-regulated police force, the prey wouldn't escape so
lightly. And I was enjoying the puzzle, too. This was a real
mystery - not one of the grimy, pitiful tragedies that make up so
much of the world's murder statistics. A series of murders and
attempted murders had been committed, yet I still had no initial
motive. All I knew was that if I found the motive, all the layers
would peel away and I'd be left with my solution. When you're
a twenty-year copper, ex or current, you don't turn away from a
challenge like that. You revel in it. Even if the stakes were so
high.

214
I walked over to the chair and picked up my coat. 'If you
could give me the contact details of the psychotherapist who
treated Ann, I'd appreciate it.'

Emma sighed. 'Look, sit down.'

'I thought

'I know I ought to let you go, but I've invested a lot of effort
in this case; it's something that I've watched the police plod
through almost as if they don't want to solve it, and because of
that, I've been determined to. And now it seems there's even
more to it than I thought. Do you honestly think that Ann's
father had something to do with it?'

She returned to her original place on the sofa, so I sat down
too.

'Well, this is what we've got,' I said. 'Les Pope ordered and
arranged the murder of Richard Blacklip a year ago, very shortly
after Blacklip had been charged with offences relating to the
sexual abuse of his daughter, Ann, which had taken place some
years earlier. Ann was the girlfriend of Jason Khan. Jason Khan
was shot just over five weeks ago, along with Asif Malik, after
Khan telephoned Malik and called him to a meeting in a cafe. It
may well be that Jason had important information he wanted to
share with Malik, someone who, according to his brother, he
knew from the past. We still don't know what that information
concerned. It might have been something to do with Thadeus
Holdings, or Nicholas Tyndall and his operations, or Ann herself.
Whatever it was, it was something very serious, and Ann was
no doubt privy to it as well, because she was killed a few days
later. So it's possible it had something to do with the relevations
her psychotherapy revealed. But if that's the case, why did Ann
live for so long after her father's death without coming to any
harm? Why didn't they get rid of her at the time of his arrest if
her knowledge was that incendiary?'

21 5
'That's why I can't see how it can be anything to do with it.'

'It may not be, but the Blacklip connection's too coincidental
to pass up without looking at further. I need to visit the
psychotherapist and see what light she can throw on things.'

'Do you think that's a good idea?'

'I don't want you doing it. Barron's right: you are taking a risk
if you're seen to still be sniffing around. Leave it with me. I think
it'd be wise if you took a bit of a back seat for the moment.'

For once, Emma didn't argue. In fact, she surprised me. She
asked me if I was hungry. 'I'm going to cook some spaghetti in
tomato sauce. You can stay for some if you want.'

One thing I've learned through life is never to turn down an
invitation from an attractive lady. You've always got too much
time to regret it.

Which was a pity, really, because had I left there and then,
things might have turned out very differently.

30

While Emma prepared the dinner, I helped myself to another can
of Fosters and turned the volume up on the telly. Channel 4 news
was on and I watched a piece about the rise of obesity amongst the
country's schoolchildren, complete with grim footage of waddling
kids in gym shorts, before Britain's new Lord Chief Justice popped
up to be interviewed by the newsreader about comments he'd made
suggesting that prison should only be reserved for the most violent
offenders. Apparently, he'd claimed that putting burglars, thieves,
even first-time muggers behind bars only made them worse.

21 6
The new Lord Chief Justice was called Parnham- Jones, and for
the interview he was without the old wig and gown; instead he
wore a plain black suit with a sky-blue silk tie and matching
handkerchief, and was sitting in an armchair next to a roaring
fire in his country home. He was in his early sixties, I'd guess,
white-haired, with the bearing and aquiline features of a publicschooleducated
patrician not used to, or much comfortable with,
criticism. I would have bet all the money I'd got stashed in my
poky little hotel room that he'd never been on the receiving end
of a crime in his life. And commentators and politicians
wondered why the public had lost faith in Britain's criminal
justice system.

Parnham-Jones defended his comments in soothing, thoughtful
tones, but with an underlying steel that brooked no dissent,
always making a point of addressing the camera directly. Prison,
he explained, was the university of crime. Send first- and second
time offenders there and they were not only likely to re-offend
but to move on to more serious offences. Far better to ease the
terrible overcrowding in the prisons and give them meaningful
community-based sentences instead.

To be fair to the guy, he put his point across well, and with
the sort of succinctness that TV interviewers love, but you had to
wonder how much he really knew about what was going on out
there. In my experience, community-based sentences - painting
old ladies' houses, cleaning walls of graffiti, drug-treatment programmes
- tended to be a bit of a joke. They were badly administered, the criminals often only turned up when they
fancied it, and they never felt much like a punishment. I'm not
100 per cent sure that prison's a lot better in terms of turning
people away from crime (in the end, criminals commit their
crimes knowing full well they're wrong, but not really being too
bothered about that fact, so trying to rehabilitate them's a waste

21 7
of time), but at least when a guy's banged up he's not actually
out there thieving, mugging, or whatever. In that sense, whatever
the liberals amongst us might say, prison works.

Emma came back in with the spaghetti and a plate of garlic
bread and we ate at the table with the TV off.

You get that sense sometimes, or I do anyway, that things are
looking up for you, and that the worst is over. In my experience,
it's usually followed by a very heavy fall. But as I sat there
demolishing Emma's cooking (and it was very good), while
quaffing my second can of Fosters, I couldn't help forgetting
about my worries.

After we'd finished eating, we cleared away and she put on a
CD of Van Morrison's greatest hits. I asked her how she'd got
into journalism.

She smiled. 'I've always liked a good story, and I did English
at A level, so that was the foundation. Then when I was at sixth
form college, just before our exams, they had a careers fair where
representatives from different industries set up stalls in the
refectory so that we could go and talk to them. The journalist
who came from the local paper was only a couple of years older
than me and he was quite nice-looking, so I got chatting to him,
we ended up going for a drink, and he got me a job on the paper.
I was meant to go away to uni, but I ended up marrying him.
God knows why. I think it was because my dad was so against
it. He had all these ideas of what career path I should take. He
wanted me to become a lawyer, like him.'

'So where's the husband now?'

'We were young and it didn't last, but by then I'd got a taste
for the job. After the split, I moved up to town and I've been
working here ever since. The money's not fantastic but it gives
me independence.'

I wondered why she wasn't on a national newspaper - she

21 8
certainly seemed to have enough talent - but chose not to say
anything, in case I hit a raw nerve. 'And this place? Is it yours?'

She smiled proudly. 'It is. With a little bit of help from my
parents.'

Which was typical. You never saw a poor lawyer. 'You need
all the help you can get with the prices these days,' I said, or
something equally inane.

She asked me how I ended up being a policeman, and I gave
her the honest answer: because at one time I'd thought that it
was a useful, socially acceptable job, and I'd genuinely believed
I'd make a difference.

'How did you end up as a hitman?'

I cringed a little when she called it that. It wasn't how I saw
myself, somehow. 'Is this an interview?'

She shook her head, her expression one of genuine interest.
'No, it isn't, but I would like to know.'

I thought about the answer for a long time, and as I mulled it
over I lit a cigarette, as if that would somehow make answering
easier. At the same time, I also thought about Malik. I pictured
him up there in heaven, or whatever the Islamic equivalent was,
looking down at me with a mixture of interest and disapproval
as he too waited for my answer. I knew that whatever I said
would never have been enough to have earned his forgiveness.

'Because I wasn't strong enough, or sensible enough, to say
no,' I said eventually, and hoped that Malik would have at least
have half approved of that.

Emma was unconvinced. 'But why did you decide to kill
people for money?'

I sighed. 'I thought when I did what I did that I was doing the
world a favour. I thought I was killing people who deserved it.'

'But Dennis, you can't just be a judge, jury and executioner,'
she said, with a hint of educated self-righteousness. 'You haven't

21 9
got the right to decide who dies and who doesn't. No one has.
And you're still doing it. Only a few weeks ago, you shot the
suspect in the Malik and Khan murders.'

'Slippery Billy? He deserved it. If he hadn't been a murderer, I
wouldn't have killed him.'

She paused, unsure, I think, what else to say. I'm not the best
person to argue with about the ethics of murder, because I can
sympathize with other points of view. In the end, I do what I do;
and I've done it because at the time my instincts have told me to.
It's no justification, but at least it's a reason, and some people
don't even have one of those.

Emma sat forward in the seat and watched me intensely. It was
a little disconcerting, but somehow I didn't want her to stop. It
felt good to be the centre of attention for once.
'Do you really consider yourself one of the good guys,
Dennis?' she said softly. 'Don't you ever worry that you might
be just as bad as the people you put down?'

She looked beautiful then; the perfectly rounded features of her
pale face amidst the flowing auburn hair, and those big, smiling,
hypnotic eyes that seemed to drag you further and further in.
And I knew that whatever I replied was going to disappoint her.

In the end, I settled for what I thought was honesty.

'No,' I said simply.

We slept together that night.

It just happened. We drank some more, watched the TV,
moved off the more difficult subjects (although she tried
occasionally to come back to them), and as the evening progressed
I'd felt that there was something growing between us. I
liked her anyway, and had done since the moment we'd met, but
I was also detecting a growing warmth coming back the other
way, as if she'd finally accepted me for who I was and was

220
prepared to stop getting too uptight about it. Or maybe it was
just the booze.

I'm no Valentino, and like most men I've had less practice than
I would have liked over the years, but after the last of the beer
had gone and we were halfway through a bottle of red wine,
she'd stood up to go into the kitchen for something, and I'd followed
her in there. She'd turned round, sensing my presence, and
I'd taken her in my arms and kissed her. For a second she hadn't
reacted and I'd thought that maybe my confidence in my own
charm was misplaced, but then she'd kissed me back - hard and
with passion - and a few minutes later, still entwined in each
other's arms, we'd danced and stumbled our way up the stairs
and into the bedroom, clothes strewn behind us. I'd wondered
briefly what the hell I was doing; then, as we fell on the bed and
she giggled as I kissed her neck and tugged at her underwear, I'd
ceased caring.

Afterwards we lay naked on the bed and smoked, and I
experienced a peculiar feeling of detachment, as if somehow
I wasn't there and it hadn't really happened. I listened to the
sounds of the night - the cars humming faintly past on the main
road, the occasional drunken shout from somewhere in the
distance - and tried to relax and enjoy the moment. I let my
fingers drift down to her belly, pale and flat in the permaglow
of the city's lights, but all the time my instincts were talking to
me, trawling back through the many dark experiences of my life
and predicting the winding, uncertain path of my short-term
future.

And what they told me was as unnerving as it was accurate.

That a fall was definitely coming.

221
31

I was woken by the alarm at seven the next morning after a good
night's sleep, which would have benefited from being an hour or
two longer. But who was I to complain? Emma's bed was a lot
more comfortable than the one in my hotel room, and there was
the added bonus of having her in it. I lay where I was, eyes half
closed, while she had a shower, but when she came back I could
see that she wanted me gone.

'I've got to be in the office for nine,' she said, chucking me my
clothes, 'but I'll be on the mobile. I'm not trying to hurry you or
anything, but you understand . ..'

I told her I did, and heaved myself out of bed. 'I'll leave you
in peace, and I'll check in later when I've got something.
OK?'

She smiled but it looked forced. I felt like telling her not to
worry; that it wasn't her fault. I don't suppose it was easy for
someone like Emma - a nice, well-brought-up girl with a decent
job - to come to terms with the fact that she'd slept with a killer.
Especially one who was on the run, and currently in her house.
She gave me the number of Ann's psychotherapist, Dr Cheney,

222
and I wrote it down, trying not to stare as she pulled on her skirt.

At the front door, there was one of those pauses where neither
party's quite sure what to do or what to say. I leant forward and
kissed her gently on the cheek, and she turned her face and
planted one on mine. It felt good enough.

'See you later,' I said, and hurried out the door without looking
back, feeling like a kid who'd stayed out late without telling
his parents.

Dr Madeline Cheney was not the easiest woman to get hold of.
I called her just after nine o'clock from the Italian cafe near my
hotel and got her secretary. Dr Cheney was busy, I was told in
very professional, patient-friendly tones. If I wanted to make an
appointment, I could go through her, the secretary.

I decided to come clean (or as clean as I was going to get in
this investigation) and told her that I was a private detective, and
that my enquiry related to one of Dr Cheney's former patients,
Ann Taylor, now deceased. It was urgent, I explained, that I
speak with Dr Cheney as soon as possible. The secretary sounded
suitably excited and said she'd pass the message on. I thanked
her, left my mobile number and rang off.

As I'd hoped, the secretary had taken my request seriously,
and her boss returned the call half an hour later, while I was
back in the hotel room.

'Good morning, this is Dr Madeline Cheney,' she said
guardedly. Her accent was middle-class, well-educated, and at a
guess belonged to a woman in her early to mid forties. 'You
called me earlier. My secretary said it was urgent.'

I introduced myself as Mick Kane and confirmed that it was
urgent. 'It concerns Ann Taylor.'

There was a pause before she spoke again. 'Ann? It seems she's
far more popular in death than she ever was in life. I've already

223
had the coroner's office on to me this week. What's your
connection with the case, Mr Kane?'

I told her the same story I'd originally told Emma: that I was
representing Asif Malik's uncle, and that Ann's name had come
up during the course of my investigation. She didn't seem
surprised by the mention of Malik, so I assumed she already
knew about his part in the proceedings.

'I'm very busy today,' she said.

'Is there no way you can fit me in? I wouldn't ask if it wasn't
important.'

'Why is it so important? Has something happened?'

'I'm not sure,' I answered, hoping that by being enigmatic I
could secure her interest. 'I can't really talk about it over the
phone.'

She thought about it for a moment, then announced that she
could see me for half an hour that afternoon at three o'clock.
'But I'd like to be sure that you are who you say you are.'

I'd been half expecting suspicion, so I told her that I'd been
working with Emma Neilson, the journalist who'd alerted people
to the fact that Ann's death might not have been accidental.

'I tend to agree with her theory,' I added, and gave her
Emma's number. 'You could also phone Mohammed Mela, my
client, although he can be difficult to get hold of.' I gave her a
number off the top of my head, and hoped she'd try Emma
rather than him.

Dr Cheney fired off a rapid set of directions to her practice in
the village of Aldermaston, a ninety-minute drive away in
Berkshire, and told me she'd see me at three. We both hung up.

Now I needed transport. A quick look at the road map in a
nearby bookshop showed me that Aldermaston was a fair way
off the beaten track. I was going to have to hire a car.

When you live under a false identity, you have to be fully

224
equipped. You don't just need a passport in your new name, you
need a driving licence, a birth certificate and even genuine credit
cards. It's a hassle, but it pays to be thorough, and I was. Much
of my documentation had originated in the UK before I left (I
think I always knew that at some point my double life would
unravel), but the gaps had been filled using expert forgers in the
Philippines. So when I went into the Hertz rental office in Marble
Arch later that morning, I knew there'd be no problem.

And there wasn't. Fifteen minutes later, I was crawling
through traffic in a silver Ford Orion in the direction of the M25,
and hoping that this wasn't going to turn out to be a wild goose
chase.

32

Aldermaston was one of those quintessential English villages that
you see in all the guidebooks. Situated on the edge of the
Berkshire downs, and surrounded by green fields and pretty
copses of oak and beech trees, it was little more than a collection
of houses and converted barns, with the odd thatched roof
thrown in, nestling on either side of a road that somehow seemed
more suited to a horse and cart than the steady procession of
cars that passed up and down it. There was a top-secret
establishment that allegedly contained many of the country's nuclear weapons somewhere round here but I didn't see any
evidence of it on the way in, and even on a grey, sullen day like
this one, the village stood out like a tranquil oasis after the
intensity of London.

225
I drove down what passed for the high street: a narrow road
with terraced red-brick buildings on either side, some of which
clearly dated back hundreds of years, that contained a handful of
antiques shops and estate agents. There was an Elizabethan-style
pub on the corner, where the road forked at a near right-angle
as it came to a mini-roundabout. A notice board outside advertised
high-quality food. I was early so I stopped there for a pint
and a steak and kidney pie, which was indeed high-quality but
also high-priced. While I was there, I asked the barman - who
had a very pink face and a drinker's nose - for directions to the
Cheney practice. He obviously knew her business, because he
gave me them but conspicuously avoided me after that. I don't
think he liked the thought of having the mentally ill dining on
his high-quality food.

Dr Cheney's practice was in a large, modern house that I
assumed was a combination of home and office, situated a few
hundred yards down the right-hand fork in the road. It wasn't
quite an eyesore, but you could argue it came close, with a brand
new tarmac driveway out the front that would have amply
parked a dozen cars. Today, however, there were only two: a
Range Rover and a Fiat Punto. I pulled up alongside the Range
Rover and got out. It was ten to three.

There were two doors at the front of the house. A sign on the
main one asked all callers to the practice to use the other, so I
rang on the buzzer and was let in without preamble. I found
myself in a small wood-panelled foyer that bore more than a
passing resemblance to the inside of a Scandinavian sauna. An
attractive young receptionist sat at a desk in front of me, wearing
a white coat and a welcoming smile that showed a lot of teeth.

I introduced myself with a smile of my own, and announced
my business.

226
'Please take a seat, Mr Kane. I'll let Dr Cheney know you're
here.' She stood up and disappeared through a door behind the
desk, while I admired the certificates from various psychiatric
bodies testifying to Dr Cheney's high standards in the field. I
know any idiot could buy these sort of things over the Internet
and there was no guarantee that they meant anything, but I had
a feeling that in Dr Cheney's case, they did.

The secretary emerged a few seconds later to inform me that,
if I'd like to go through, the doctor would see me now. The
words immediately brought back terrible memories of visiting
the medical profession in my youth, and I was glad I had nothing
wrong with me. Or nothing Dr Cheney could cure, anyway. The
secretary asked if I'd like a coffee, and I thanked her and said
that I would. Milk, one sugar. It was all very civilized.

I stepped inside Dr Cheney's huge office, which was decorated
in the same style as the reception area but on a significantly
bigger scale, complete with a number of chairs and several desks,
but no sign of that old classic, the couch. A slim, tanned woman
with a well-worn face and wide brown eyes stepped seemingly out
of nowhere and shook my hand with a powerful grip. Her eyes
appraised me coolly from behind a pair of fashionable black
rimmed glasses, but the smile itself was warm.

We exchanged pleasantries and she invited me to take a seat in
front of her desk, which was at the far end of the room. It was
immaculately tidy.

'What is it I can do for you, Mr Kane?' she asked, sitting
down with her back ramrod straight and folding her hands
slowly and carefully across her lap. It was a disconcerting
gesture, and if it was meant to put her patients at ease it
didn't work, but then I assumed it was being done specially
for me.

I briefly explained the facts of the case, as they concerned her.

227
'Three people are dead: Mr Khan, Mr Malik and Miss Taylor,
all of whom are connected with each other. There is, as you're
no doubt aware, a major police investigation going on into the
murders, but Mr Malik's uncle wants a second opinion.'

'And one private detective's work is better than the combined
expertise of the Metropolitan Police?'

'At the moment, the combined expertise of the Metropolitan
Police isn't getting very far. The investigation's been going
for close to six weeks, and they've yet to make an arrest, let
alone bring a charge of murder against anyone. And until
Miss Neilson brought up the subject, Ann Taylor's death wasn't
even being treated as part of the inquiry. As far as I'm aware,
it still isn't. I'm certainly not suggesting that I can do any better
than the officers involved in the case, but I'm hoping I can
come at it from a different perspective, and get somewhere that way.'

She nodded slowly, as if accepting my answer, while continuing
to appraise me. 'You are aware that what is said between a
doctor and her patient is entirely confidential. Therefore, I can
only repeat to you what Ann wanted brought out into the open,
nothing else.'

She paused for a moment while her secretary came in with the
coffee, and I told her that I was fine with that.

'How much of the history do you know?' she asked.

'I know the basics. That she was referred to you by another
doctor, who felt she had a possible personality disorder that
might have been the cause of the violent attack she committed.
And that you got her to remember aspects of her past, which led
to her father being arrested and charged with offences of child
abuse. But I know very little about the details of the abuse, other
than that it was very serious.'

Dr Cheney gave me a thin smile. 'Let me explain something to

228
you, Mr Kane. I'm not a great believer in what in most circles
these days is called repressed memory syndrome.' I think I must
have looked a bit blank, because she continued. 'Repressed
memory is when a patient is considered to have undergone a
trauma or traumas so intense that the brain's only coping
mechanism is to wipe the memories clean. Effectively, the patient
forgets what has happened and carries on with life. It's believed
by some within the psychiatric field that these memories can be
returned to the conscious mind by certain types of treatment,
particularly hypnotherapy. Naturally, it's an area of huge
controversy, since it allows for accusations to be made where
there is no corroborating evidence, and therefore perfectly innocent
people can find themselves facing criminal charges for acts
they never committed. But this wasn't the situation with Ann.
You see, I wouldn't describe her memories as wholly repressed. I
think she knew perfectly well what had happened to her, but
created a veneer of toughness to try to cope with it. However,
when I uncovered what had happened in her past, the
accusations she made were not, I felt, taken seriously enough by
the police, because of the controversy surrounding this issue of
repressed memory. Although the jury at her trial believed her and
she was found innocent of the charge against her by reason of
diminished responsibility, the police took a more cynical view
of her claims, and their investigation into the allegations was
wholly inadequate.'

'But they arrested her father, Richard Blacklip.'

'Yes, they did that. They had little choice but to do that.
However, his abuse was what might euphemistically be called the
tip of the iceberg.'

'So what were they? The claims she made?'

'That she was introduced to sex at the age of four by her
father, shortly after her mother died. That at first the abuse

229
simply involved him touching Ann intimately, then steadily
became more serious as she grew older. Intercourse, both vaginal
and anal. Oral sex. For years, she slept in his bed every night and
believed that what was happening to her was normal, although
Blacklip constantly reminded her never to tell a soul, and during
the whole time she spent with him, she never did. Her schoolwork
was below average, but not significantly so, and she went
through the schooling system without any of her teachers becoming
unduly concerned, although as time went by, her attendance
levels began to drop off.

'Ann described to me how the relationship between her and her
father began to change when she was about nine years old. For
the first time, he began involving other people - men he described
as her uncles, although she'd never seen any of them before. He
would take her to different houses, to what he called "parties",
where his friends - these men he called her uncles - would
sexually assault her, usually in a group setting. She wasn't sure
of their exact number - she said somewhere between five and
eight, and the majority of them wore masks. Her descriptions of
the events that took place, and how things were organized,
had the very real ring of authenticity.'

'But, given her background, it's possible she could have made
them up?'

Her expression suggested very strongly that it wasn't. 'In my
professional opinion, and this is exactly what I told the investigating
officers more than a year ago, she was not making these
allegations up. She was telling the truth. And this was evidenced
by the fact that on further investigation, it transpired that her
father had child-abuse convictions dating back many years and
under several different names.'

'Christ,' I said. 'Poor girl.' Once again I was reminded of the
empty, directionless and ultimately short life of Ann Taylor.

230
Without a father like Blacklip, I wondered how different things
could have been. Could she have grown up into a well-adjusted
and happy young woman? Of course she could have done. As far
as I was concerned, Blacklip had killed her just the same as if it
had been his fingers round the syringe that had pumped her full
of drugs. If ever I'd needed justification for what I'd done to him
back in Manila, then this was it.

'Poor girl, indeed,' repeated Dr Cheney. 'Her life was an
absolute tragedy, made worse by the fact that no one else has
ever been charged in connection with any of the crimes against
her, and now that her father has also died in mysterious circumstances
... You heard about that, didn't you?'

'Yes, I did. I would have called it good riddance if it wasn't
for the fact that there are a lot of questions he could answer if
he was still alive. Like who else was involved.'

'It sounds to me as if you think that Ann's death and the
deaths of the other people you mentioned - the boyfriend and
the police officer - have something to do with these events in her
past?'

'I like to take things one step at a time,' I answered carefully.
'At the moment it's only one avenue of enquiry, but it's certainly
one that's worth pursuing. Was that the full extent of Ann's
allegations, or was there more?'

For a moment Dr Cheney was silent, her eyes boring into
mine.

'If there is,' I said, prompting her, 'it's important that I know.'

'Yes,' she said eventually. 'There was more.'

The room suddenly felt very quiet. I wanted a smoke, but I
also knew better than to ask in here. There was no way Dr
Cheney was a smoker. Sometimes you can just tell.

'I felt, you see, that Ann was holding something back,' she
continued. 'But I wasn't sure what it could be. What she'd told

231
me already had been horrifying enough, but somehow it didn't
quite fit with the girl I had sitting in front of me. When Ann
came to me she had deep-seated emotional problems, and a
propensity for extreme violence towards those whom she believed
had done her wrong, and during our sessions it became increasingly
clear that there was violence in her past, something she'd
experienced that wasn't explained by what she'd told me already.
That acted as the catalyst for her finally leaving her home and
father. After all, she'd been used to the treatment she was receiving;
she saw it as normal. I therefore became convinced that
something else had happened, something that she desperately
wanted to repress because it was simply too traumatic. We had
a number of sessions together, and slowly, and as gently as I
could, I finally extracted from her what it was.'

Again, silence filled the room. This time I made no prompt. I
waited. I knew she'd tell me.

She cleared her throat. 'Because Ann repeated these allegations
to the police, and because I believed what she said and would like
something done about it, if indeed after all this time it's still
possible, I will tell you. But only because of that. According to
what Ann told me, the reason she left was because she witnessed a murder.'

I tensed, my mouth feeling dry. 'Whose?'

'A young girl's.'

I exhaled more loudly than I'd expected, remembering Blacklip
back in that hotel room. Requesting a little girl to kill.

'What happened?'

'The "parties" that Ann was forced to attend by her father
became, she said, progressively nastier. The participants started
to be much rougher with her than they had been originally. A
new participant also became involved, a man who always wore a
black leather mask and whom the others tended to defer to. This

232
man was apparently the most violent of them all. Also, for the
first time, other young girls were present. She remembered two
being there who were slightly older - twelve or thirteen although
she didn't recognize them.'

Dr Cheney stopped for a moment and took a deep breath.
'Later, at another party at which Ann said there were five men
including her father present, there was also another girl there,
about the same age as Ann. Again, Ann didn't recognize her, but
she remembered that the girl was in great distress. She was
sobbing and begging her tormentors to stop, but, according to
Ann, this simply served to spur them on even more. The violence
got more and more out of hand. They started hitting her as they
had sex with her, and the abuser with the black mask produced
a knife and held it to her throat while she was forced to commit
certain acts with him.' Her voice, which up until that point had
been dispassionate, cracked a little. 'Ann remembers the girl
choking and the man in the black mask cutting her face with the
knife, and then someone - she couldn't remember who - ushered
her - Ann - out and locked her in an adjoining room. She was
made to sit there in darkness for an indeterminate period of time,
hearing the muffled and desperate screams of the other girl, until
finally they stopped altogether.

'Some time after that, her father came for her. By now he was
fully dressed, but Ann said that he looked tired and had several
blood spots on his neck. He told her to forget what she'd seen,
then led her out of the house, but as they were going past the
room where the assault had taken place, the door opened and she
saw inside for a few seconds. There were two men on the sofa,
both still naked, their masks now removed. They turned away as
soon as they saw her and she didn't get much of a look at them
because it was what was on the floor that caught her attention.
There was a large sack tied at one end, which, by the way it was

233
stretched, looked as if it contained a body. There were several
large bloodstains showing through and no sign of the other girl.
Whoever had opened the door then shut it very quickly, and Ann
said her father became agitated and hurried her out, telling her
once again to forget what she'd seen, because if she ever repeated
it, the man in the black mask would come back for her. She was
eleven years old at the time, Mr Kane. She believed him.'

'And you believed her? I'm not suggesting that she made it up,
but if she was truly keen to see her father suffer, is it not possible
that she could have told you this just to make sure?'

'I don't think so. She never wanted her father prosecuted; she
just wanted to be left alone so that she could forget the whole
thing. However, I advised her to tell the police, because I was
concerned about what Richard Blacklip might still be doing.
Also, I knew that it would help her case if she allowed me to tell
the court about what had come out in our sessions, particularly
if she was then seen to be cooperating with the police in building
a case against him.'

'But the police never followed it up? About the murder, I mean?'

'Not at the time, no. They said they'd looked into it, but without
a body, a location for the crime, any other corroborating
witnesses or even an exact date, there wasn't a great deal they
could do. Obviously they questioned Blacklip, but he denied all
knowledge of such a thing. In fact, he denied everything and
claimed he was a doting father, but a search of the house uncovered
pornographic material involving young children, and
further investigation revealed that he'd had these other convictions
in the past. And now, of course, he can't be questioned
any further.'

'Did Ann give you a description of this girl?'

Dr Cheney gave a little shake of her head. 'Only that she was
about her own age, and that she had shortish brown hair.'

234
I wrote this down in my notebook. 'Have you heard from the
police recently?'

She nodded, finishing her coffee. I hadn't touched mine. 'Yes.
I had a visit from a policeman a few weeks ago, not long after
the shootings you're investigating.'

I was surprised that Dr Cheney hadn't mentioned this earlier.
'Really? About Ann? What did he want to know?'

'He asked similar questions to you. He wanted to know the
specifics of Ann's claims. I explained to him that I'd told the
police everything at the time, but they'd chosen to do nothing.
He apologized and said he was from the murder investigation . ..'

'The one into the deaths of Asif Malik and Jason Khan?'

'That's right. He said he hadn't been a part of the original
inquiry into Ann's claims, and asked me to repeat everything. So
I did.'

'What was the detective's name?'

'DCI Simon Barron, if I remember rightly.'

'You do.'

'You've met him, then?'

In a manner of speaking. 'Yes,' I said, 'I have.'

'I'm surprised he didn't say anything to you about our
meeting.'

I was surprised he hadn't said very much to anyone about their
meeting. If he was so interested in what had happened to Ann,
why wasn't her death being treated as suspicious? Had he not
shared the information he'd received from Dr Cheney with his
colleagues? And if not, why not? Maybe Emma could find out.

But I was satisfied with what I'd heard because it meant I was
on to something. The scent was getting stronger. I still wasn't
100 per cent sure that Ann Taylor's word could be entirely
trusted (after all, she'd been an impressionable eleven-year-old
girl), but something had happened, something that someone

235
wanted suppressed very badly. And that someone had a lot of
clout.

One thing I've learned down the years is that you don't get
answers by asking a few big questions. You have to ask a lot of
small ones. It's the only way you'll ever finish the puzzle.

'How long ago, roughly, did the murder of this little girl
happen?'

'Ann had just turned seventeen when she came to me last year.
At that point she'd been in care for approximately six years, so
it would have been about seven years ago. But I can't give you
an exact date, because she didn't leave home immediately after
witnessing the incident. I think she was too shocked and, frankly,
too scared. She thought it might have been a few weeks, even
months, later that she finally plucked up the courage to run
away. She did say, however, that there had been no more parties.
They stopped altogether after that one.'

'But there can't have been many children go missing over that
period. Not children that age. Did you ever look into Ann's
claims yourself?'

Her expression tightened, the skin stretching with difficulty. I
guessed that, like me, she'd had plastic surgery, although I don't
think her surgeon was as good as mine.

'No,' she said. 'I assumed the police would do that. I did try
to think back seven years to see if I could remember a child
abduction case that made the headlines, but nothing came to
mind. DCI Barron said he'd look into it.'

I put my notebook away and drank my coffee down in one. It
was tepid. 'Thank you very much for your help and your time,
Dr Cheney. It's very much appreciated.'

'But is it helpful? Without real evidence, it's going to be hard
to prove anything, isn't it?'

I stood up. 'If what happened to Ann's true, then there'll be

236
evidence somewhere. If I find out anything, I'll make sure I let
you know.'

She stood up as well. 'That's what DCI Barron said, but I
never heard another word.'

'I expect he never got anywhere,' I told her as we shook hands.
'Or that he didn't have the time to pursue it.'

'But you will, won't you?'

I nodded firmly. 'If the answer to my case is there, I'll find it.'

And I would. I'd come a long way for this. I wasn't going to
let it go.

Not now.

33

Was this what it was all about? The murder of a child. Was this
what so many had died for? Somehow, it still didn't seem right.
Paedophiles are furtive creatures; capable of forming into well
organized groups, and certainly responsible for some shocking
crimes. But to be able to muster this sort of ruthlessness (and
against men too rather than vulnerable children); to hire killers
to snuff out their enemies, and then snuff out the killers themselves
... I just couldn't quite buy it.

But at least I now had something to go on. If a girl between
the ages of eight and thirteen had disappeared in southern
England in the six months before Ann was taken into custody, I
would find out about it. Dr Cheney had said she'd tried to think
back and had come up with nothing, but by her own admission
she hadn't been putting her life and soul into it. And the police,

237
had they? DCI Barron had come here to see Dr Cheney, but
seemed to have left without moving any further forward, since
there'd been no follow-up enquiries. Sometimes it's surprising
how often investigating officers can overlook facts that don't
immediately fit with their theories on a crime, and understandably.
On first glance, the murder of Asif Malik and Jason Khan
had nothing to do with the out-of-date witness account of an
alleged murder of an unidentified child seven years earlier. Only
when you had my perspective of events was it possible to see the
link.

But Dr Cheney was right. Without any real evidence, it was
going to be hard to prove anything against anyone. If I could
track each of the individuals down, I could impose my own
justice, but I was one man operating alone, and if my true
identity was discovered, it would take me out of the equation for
ever. What was needed was something tangible to point the
police in the right direction. And the only people who could
provide this were Andrea Bloom and her boyfriend, Grant, both
of whom, I was certain, had been told something by Ann,
possibly in the days before her death. Something that they were
now too scared to talk about.

Outside, a wet blanket of darkness had enveloped the
surrounding fields, and it was raining hard. I hurried back to
the car, jumped inside, and drove away.

And a single, worrying thought kept going through my head.

Did Tomboy Darke know more than he was letting on?

I got back into the West End at half past six, having endured a
nightmare journey up the M3, and dropped the car back at the
rental garage. As soon as I'd left there, I phoned Emma, wanting
to catch up and let her know what I'd found out.
But when she answered I knew something was wrong.

238
'Oh Dennis, thank God you've called.' She sounded distraught
and it was obvious she'd been crying. I was surprised at the
intensity of my concern for her.

'Emma, what is it? Tell me.'

'I got a visit today. From two of TyndalPs men.'

My throat went dry, and suddenly I could hear my heartbeat.
'Jesus, what happened?'

'It was when I was leaving work. I was just getting into my car
when they came out of nowhere: two big men in leather jackets.
They dragged me into a side road and...' She stopped for a
moment and sounded as if she might cry again, but after a couple
of seconds, she composed herself. 'One of them put a knife to my
throat.'

'Did he hurt you?'

'No.'

I silently thanked God.

'He pressed it against my neck but he didn't cut me. He was
grinning the whole time and he didn't even bother trying to hide
his face. The other one was twisting my arms behind my back.
Then the one with the knife told me that this was going to be my
last warning. Any more articles about the Malik/Khan shooting
and they were going to kill me.'

'Did they say they were representing Tyndall?'

'They didn't have to. I knew they were.'

I didn't argue. It was difficult to think who else would have
threatened her like that. 'Are you OK? Where are you now?'

'I'm back at home. I'm fine.'

'You can't stay there alone. I'll be over in twenty minutes.'

'No, don't. Please.'

'Why not?'

She sounded edgy. Not right. 'I phoned Simon ... DCI
Barron . . . after what had happened, and he's arranged police

239
protection for me. There's two officers in a patrol car directly
outside the door and they're staying there until I leave tomorrow
morning. I'm getting out of the city for a few days, Dennis.
Going back to my parents' farm until things die down a little.
You understand, don't you?'

I was gutted. Like the worst kind of lovesick fool, I'd had this
idea on the drive back that I'd be spending a nice evening with
Emma discussing the case over a bottle of wine before having a
repeat performance of the previous night's lovemaking. But I
didn't say any of this, because she was right. It was best she laid
low for a while. 'Of course I understand. I hope I'm here when
you get back.'

'Do you think you will be? What did you find out today?'

I gave her a brief rundown of the meeting with Dr Cheney and
what she'd told me. I also told her that DCI Barron had already
been to see her. 'He never mentioned anything to you about it?'

'No,' she said, sounding surprised. 'Not a word. I had no idea
he was pursuing that line of enquiry.'

'She never heard from him again, anyway.'

'So what's your plan now?' she asked.

I told her that I was going to see if I could back up Ann's story
by checking whether any girls had gone missing during the period
she'd described. 'I'm also going to go back and talk to Andrea
Bloom, Ann's friend. She knows something, Emma. I'm sure of
it.'

'But why are you so sure she hasn't told you everything?'

'I was a copper a long time. I can just feel it. She's hiding
something. So's her boyfriend. If what they've got is good, I'll try
and persuade them to go to the police and make a statement.
Then they might start to look more closely at Ann's past. At the
moment it's the best I can think of. But don't say anything to
DCI Barron about any of this, though. OK?'

240
She seemed surprised. 'Why not?'

'I'd rather it was kept quiet for now. If I get anywhere, you
can tell him then.'

'All right, but be careful, Dennis. You're sailing very close to
the wind. And if they do end up 'treating Ann's death as a
murder, what's going to happen with you?'

There were still a few loose ends to tie up, of course. Maybe a
visit to Theo Morris of Thadeus Holdings, and even to the
enigmatic Nicholas Tyndall. But soon, I hoped, my part in all
this would be over. 'I think I'll go home,' I told her.

'I hope we get a chance to see each other again.'

'So do I,' I said, and I meant it.

'But if we don't . .. Well, I don't think I could call it fun, but
I'm glad I met you. Take care of yourself, please.'

'And you, Emma. And don't be tempted to hang around. I
really wouldn't want anything to happen to you.' I felt like saying
something else, something along the lines of how much I
cared about her, but I held back.

'I've learned my lesson,' she told me. 'Goodbye, Dennis. And
good luck.'

'Goodbye, Emma.'

She rang off and I stood staring at the phone for a while,
thinking that fleeting romances were the story of my life. Two
years ago, when I'd been in Siquijor Island, I'd met an Australian
girl in her thirties who was passing through on her way home.
She'd been travelling the world for six years, and was on the last
leg of her journey when she shipped up at our place and got a
room for a few days. We didn't see a lot of Western women in
the Philippines. It wasn't really on the backpackers' trail and it
had the sort of moderately dodgy reputation that meant it was
usually avoided by women travelling on their own. So Christine
had been a breath of fresh air. We'd got talking in the bar on her

241
first night, and I'd taken her out diving the next day. She'd had
that relaxed attitude to sex that I've always admired in a woman,
and since we'd been the only two on the boat, we'd ended up
making love amongst the diving equipment. We'd spent the next
week very much together, with me giving her a tour of the island,
and her telling me about her travels and the places she'd seen. It
had been fun. More than fun, it had been one of those blossoming
romances that I'd experienced so little of in my life, and I'd
even been thinking about finding some way to follow her to
Australia.

But I was kidding myself. In the end, it had just been a fling
to her, and seven days after she'd arrived, she kissed me on the
lips, told me to take care of myself, and walked out of my life
for ever. Just one in a long line of goodbyes.

I knew this would be the last I saw of Emma, but in a way it
felt right. She was too young, too pretty, and if I'm honest, too
good for me; and since there was no chance of anything ever
coming of our relationship, it was best that we parted now,
before things got serious.

I walked back to the hotel room and had a shower. The water
was lukewarm so I was only in there two minutes and was cold
when I got out. I got dressed and lay on the bed, and thought
about my next move. I was tempted to go out and have a few
drinks, maybe back in Ernie's pub, but I wanted to be fresh the
following morning.

I looked at my watch. Seven-twenty. I picked up the mobile to
call Andrea Bloom, then realized I didn't have a number for her.
I asked myself whether it was really worth a trip over to Hackney
now to see her, but the alternative was lying in this shitty hotel
room staring at the cracks in the ceiling, and in the end that
wasn't much of an alternative, so I forced myself up off the bed.
I needed food. Then I'd be on my way.

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34

It had just gone nine o'clock when I turned into Andrea's street,
having walked all the way from Angel underground station, and
the night was cold. A biting wind rattled round the pavement,
scattering pieces of rubbish and keeping the area's citizenry
behind closed doors. I was wearing a grey beanie hat I'd bought
the previous day to replace my 'I love London' cap, and a scarf
pulled up over my face. Only my eyes were visible.

There was a light on in the living-room and several lights up
on the third floor, although none on the second or in the hallway.
According to Andrea, the house was a squat that she shared
with her boyfriend, as well as another couple and a single guy.
There didn't seem to be much activity for so many people.

I approached the door, hoping that my journey hadn't been
wasted, and saw straight away that it was very slightly ajar.

I stopped dead, and listened. The TV was on in the living
room. It sounded like a quiz show with plenty of audience
participation and the volume was quite loud. I couldn't hear anything
else so I pushed the door open slightly, wondering whether
or not to knock. Wondering too whether or not to go inside.

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People don't leave their doors ajar in an area like Hackney. They
don't do it anywhere in London, especially not on a freezing cold
night like this one.

I pushed it open further and stepped inside, shutting it quietly
behind me. I resisted the urge to call out.

From somewhere up the stairs there came a creak, and then
the clank of pipes heating up. I wasn't unduly alarmed. This was
an old house - 1920s, I'd have guessed. Things creaked in a 1920s
place. Again, I listened but there was no other sound.

I had my gun with me but didn't reach for it. It would have
been far too difficult to explain away.

Turning left, I pushed open the living-room door and the TV
suddenly grew louder. The quizmaster was Chris Tarrant, and he
was asking the contestant what the capital of Rwanda was. He
gave him four alternatives while I scanned the empty living-room,
noticing that there were a couple of open cans of beer next to one
of the seats. They hadn't been there the previous day, and since
the room was otherwise tidy, I concluded that they'd been
opened this evening. Not that this told me much.

I retreated from the room as the contestant won eight grand
for getting the answer right (it was B: Kigali), and started up the
staircase as quietly as possible. Two of the stairs creaked loudly
as I put pressure on them, but I kept going regardless.

At the top of the stairs a door was open. Although it was dark
inside, I could see that it was a toilet, and empty too. There was
still no sign of anyone.

Two more stairs to my left led up to the second floor. I went
up them into the darkness of the narrow landing. A door
immediately to my right was shut.

'Hello?' The voice came from up the next set of stairs at the
end of the landing. I recognized it immediately as Andrea's. 'Is
that you, Jeff?' she added.

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'No, it's Mick Baxter, Andrea,' I called back. 'Your front door
was wide open. I need to speak to you.'

'What's going on?' she demanded, still out of sight. 'Why's it
so quiet down there?'

'I don't know,' I answered truthfully. 'There's no one in the
living-room. I think you must be the only person in.'

'I'm not. Maz and Star are in. Or they were a few minutes ago.
I heard them.'

'Maybe they've gone out for some cigarettes or something. I
just had a couple of quick questions.'

'I don't want to talk to you any more, and I don't like the way
you've just walked in our house. You weren't invited, and it's
freaking me out.'

'I'm sorry, but I couldn't phone you because you never gave
me a number. I visited the psychiatrist who treated Ann today,
Dr Madeline Cheney. She filled me in on a lot of things. I think
you can, too. Please? It won't take more than a few minutes and
it's extremely important.'

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something moving,
down near my feet, only just visible in the gloom.

'I'm not talking to you. I'm going back to my room now, and
I'm locking myself in. If you don't leave, I'll call the police. I
mean it.'

I looked down. A dark line had appeared beneath the door on
my right. The line was getting longer, touching the threadbare
carpet and forming a small pool where there was a kink.

Blood.

My whole body tensed, and when I spoke next my voice was
loud and urgent. 'Andrea, listen to me. You've got to come
down, right now!'
I could hear her retreating up the next flight of stairs, back
to her room and what she thought was safety. 'I told you,'

245
she shouted. 'I'm going to call the police.'

'There's something wrong, Andrea. You've got to believe me!'
My voice was getting louder. There was someone else in this
house; someone who shouldn't have been here. I pushed the door
and felt it come up against an obstacle. I pushed harder and it
slowly opened, forcing the obstruction out of the way.

'Come down here, Andrea, please!'

I reached for the light switch inside and flicked it on.

And saw the corpse.

Registered the sight. Blinked. Registered it again.

It was a young man of about twenty, with spiky, dyed-black
hair and dead, blue eyes. He was lying in a foetal position, blood
still pouring from the huge twin gashes across his face and
throat.

Upstairs there was the sound of footfalls on the carpet as
Andrea ran back to her room, then the sound of a door shutting.

I pushed further into the room, saw the semi-naked body of a
slightly built woman, about the same age, on a low futon bed.
She was lying on her back, one arm draped across her breasts
and belly, glassy eyes staring at the ceiling. She'd had her throat
cut too and the blood was beginning to dye the sheets round her
a deep red.

This time I pulled out the .45 and stepped back out of the
room, pointing it into the darkness ahead.

Once again the house was silent except for the murmur of the
TV downstairs.

'Andrea, if you can hear me, I want you to come down the
stairs right now and leave with me. Or else call the police.'

There was no reply. Nothing. Not even a creak.

I could have gone. Turned round and walked. Dialled 999
from a safe distance away.

I could have done, and I wanted to. But I didn't. Instead, I

246
crept down the corridor, turned at the end, and started up the
flight of stairs that led to Andrea's room, finger tight on
the trigger of the gun.

A stair creaked. Above me was almost pitch-darkness. I kept
going.

When I reached the top, I stopped. I was on a small, windowless
landing. There were two doors to my left, both closed, and
one right in front of me, also closed.

'Andrea? Are you there?'

Silence. Not even a breath being drawn. All I could hear was
the thudding of my heart in my chest.

I fumbled round for a light switch but couldn't see one, then
stepped forward and flung open the door directly in front of me,
staring straight into darkness. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a tiled
floor with a bath to my right, partly obscured by a shower
curtain, and a toilet and washbasin further on. The faint glow of
street light eased through the window at the end.

I pulled back the shower curtain. Fast, in one movement.

The bath was empty.

So was the rest of the room.

As I stepped back on to the landing, I heard a faint sob.

I stopped. It was coming from one of the other rooms to my
left. I knew it could be a trap so I took another step back, then
turned until I was facing the two doors, unsure from which one
the noise had come.

I stayed where I was. Stock still. Waiting. Listening.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the door nearest to me opened. I held
the gun outstretched in front of me, two-handed, waited for what
seemed to be a very long time, my arms aching, beginning to
shake.

And then Andrea finally appeared, standing upright, staring at
me. Frightened, terrified .. .

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... And dying.

The blood was gushing out of the gaping wound in her neck,
each pulse of her heart spurting more. It was everywhere,
splattering in a series of arcs on to the carpet in front of me.

For a moment I was too stunned to move, then suddenly she
came flying bodily in my direction. I tried to dodge her but
she hit me head on, her mouth opening and shutting and making
this horrible gasping sound as we both fell back against the
top banister in a wet and bloody embrace. I pushed her out of the way, catching sight of the killer as he came towards me, an
iron bar raised above his head, dressed in a transparent waterproof
jacket and mask, looking like something out of a chemical
warfare film. Andrea staggered and fell, still trying to grab hold
of me with one hand while the other worked vainly at stemming
the tidal flow of blood.

The blow caught me on the side of the head as I raised the gun
to fire and I was momentarily stunned. My grip on the gun eased
and it dropped from my hand as I grabbed at the banister for
balance. He hit me again across the side of the face and this time
I went down hard, landing on top of Andrea before rolling off
her and trying to get myself into a protective ball. His next blow
was a kick that caught me in the guts and made me want to
vomit, the one after that connecting with my face. I could hear
him grunting with exertion, and the obscene crinkling of his suit
as he moved back and forth.

And then he did a strange thing. He stopped and dropped the
open cut-throat razor he'd been carrying in his other hand on to
the carpet near my head. Blood dripped from it.

As I tried to focus, he stepped back to kick me again. Two feet
away, Andrea Bloom lay sprawled and fading on the floor, the
blood continuing to flow out of her at a terrifying rate, the
carpet now awash with it, but still she watched me with

248
dark, beautiful eyes that pleaded for one last chance to live.

'What the hell's going on up there?'

I recognized the voice. It was Andrea's boyfriend, Grant, and
he was coming up the stairs.

The killer paused, then kicked again, but this time I was ready
for it. I got hold of his leg and pushed him away with my last
remaining strength. He fell back against the wall, then pulled free
and turned and ran past me, lashing out with the bar as he did
so and catching me across the arm. I fell back to the floor, my
vision becoming fuzzy and my head aching like mad for the
second time in a few days. I wanted to lie down, to go to sleep.
I could hear the killer running down the stairs, heard him confront
the boyfriend, heard Grant cry out as he came off worst,
and knew without a doubt that if I stayed where I was and gave
in to the temptation to close my eyes, then not only would I go
to prison for the murders I was wanted for from three years ago,
but I'd also go down for the ones in here. Because I was the one
left with the murder weapon and a houseful of corpses.

Using the banister for support, I got to my knees, and then my
feet. Andrea had stopped gasping now and her eyes had closed.
It was possible she was still alive, but if she was, it was purely
academic. Even in the gloom I could see the blood everywhere;
could smell the sour, inevitable approach of death. There was no
hope. She was gone.

But there was no time to ponder the injustice of her murder. I
had to get the hell out of there. I looked round for the .45 but
couldn't see it. I squinted, finally spotted it in the corner of the
landing, and staggered over to retrieve it. My head did some sort
of internal somersault as I bent down and picked it up and I had
to steady myself against the wall to stop myself from fainting. I
wanted to puke. Badly. But vomit leaves DNA, and I couldn't
have that.

249
I swallowed, made for the stairs, staggered down them, the
darkness ebbing and flowing in front of me. Made my way along
the hallway towards the second set of stairs, holding the gun
unsteadily in preparation for any last-ditch ambush by the
killer.

Grant's body was sprawled backwards on the staircase, his
right leg bent at an awkward angle, one foot propped against the
banister. His face was a mask of blood, his hair thick and matted
with it where he'd been bludgeoned with the iron bar. A slither
of white was showing where his skull had been exposed and
flecks of blood dotted the bare wall behind him.

That could have been me. But no, he'd wanted me alive.
Wanted me set up for these murders. Which meant...

The Lord alone knew what it meant. I swallowed, resisting
once again the urge to vomit, and tried to step over Grant's
body, stumbling as I did so and tripping over his leg.

I fell down four stairs, my head pounding like someone was
using a pneumatic drill on it, which they may as well have been,
forced myself back to my feet, and made for the door.

I banged against it harder than I'd been expecting, and
fumbled for the handle, finding it after a couple of seconds
and giving it a hard yank.

A welcome blast of icy London air smacked me right in the
face, and my vision seemed to clear a little as I made my way
down the steps and started off down the street, trying to stay
upright, trying to put as much distance between myself and the
murder scene as possible. Four people dead, just to keep one
mouth shut. I was getting close. I had to be.

When I got to the main road, I fell on to one knee, jarred it,
tried to get up, saw the whole world melt in front of me, and
vomited ferociously.

I vaguely recall a car pulling up and being lifted to my feet and

250
pushed into the back of it. I vaguely recall there being two men
in the front as it pulled away.
Then I lost consciousness.

35

I was in a darkened room, lying on my back on a single bed. The
bed smelled clean. My jacket and shoes had been removed and a
light duvet covered me. I tried to sit up, but the effort made me
dizzy and I lay back down again. I felt my head. It had been
expertly bandaged, but I didn't think I was in a hospital. There
were no monitors beside the bed, no wires or drips, nothing like
that. Just a plastic chair, which my jacket was neatly folded over,
and a second wooden chair near the door. I looked at my watch.
Ten past three in the morning. The curtains weren't pulled and
outside the night was dark. I wondered where I was, and whether
whoever had picked me up on the street earlier had seen the gun
I was carrying, or informed the police.

I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, trying to come
to terms with my predicament. Who'd known that I was going to
see Andrea Bloom? Emma had; so had Jamie Delly. I'd asked
Emma not to say anything to Barron, but it was possible she'd
let slip something. It was also possible that someone was bugging
her phone. Theo Morris of Thadeus Holdings? Nicholas Tyndall?
The list of suspects was still too long, but it was narrowing.
Unfortunately, so were my options.

There was movement on the other side of the door and it
opened. A slightly built black man in his sixties came in. He had

251
a kindly face and I knew straight away that he wasn't going to
give me trouble.

He smiled when he saw I was awake. 'I've got something for
you,' he said in a quiet voice. The accent was West African. I'd
worked with a Nigerian guy back in the late Eighties and he'd
sounded very similar.

As he approached the bed, I saw that he was holding a small,
horn-shaped flask made of some kind of wood. It had a metal lid
on it, and looked old. With surprising strength, he lifted me up
by the back of the head and propped me against the pillow.
'Drink this,' he whispered and placed the flask to my mouth,
removing the lid.

I was thirsty and my mouth was dry, so I did as he said. The
taste was unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Vaguely salty, like weak
Bovril, but with an underlying sweetness as well. I glugged the
whole lot down, and he removed the flask.

He stood there watching me for a few seconds. 'Do you start
to feel better?' he asked at last.

I sat up further in the bed. 'Do you know what? I think I do.'
And I did. The thickness in my head was dissipating fast and I
suddenly felt far more alert. 'What is that stuff?'

'Medicine,' he said.

'It's a lot more effective than paracetamol. You ought to
market it to the drugs companies.'

He continued to smile. 'Are you ready to get up? There is
someone who would like to see you. He is in one of the other
rooms.'

'Who is it?' I asked, slipping out of the bed and grabbing my
shoes, but he ignored the question and opened the door, waiting
while I pulled them on.

'Your jacket and gun will be safe in here,' he said, and
beckoned me to follow.

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Intrigued, and feeling better and better as the medicine or whatever the hell it was kicked in, I stood up and followed him
out of the room, the dizziness slipping effortlessly away.

We were in a long corridor with expensive parquet flooring
and doors to the left. To my right, a single long window offered
a panoramic view of the blue darkness and occasional lights of
the sleeping city at night. In the near distance were two tower
blocks, surrounded by a carpet of low-rise buildings. I guessed
that we were at least six floors above the ground ourselves. I tried
to get my bearings, but I didn't recognize the view. I was somewhere
in London, but that was about all I could tell you.

I walked along the corridor behind my new friend to another
door. He knocked slowly three times, as if it was some sort of
signal, and the door was opened by a tall, grim-faced black man
who wore sunglasses even though the room behind him was only
dimly lit. The man stood to one side, out of view, and my guide
turned and beckoned me to follow him inside. I knew then, of
course, who I was going to see and I wasn't sure whether I
should have been thankful or petrified. Probably the latter, but
I followed him into the room anyway, figuring that I didn't have
a lot of choice in the matter.

The room was huge, with windows on three sides, although
black drapes had been pulled down to shut out the city's light.
Candles on ornate holders of varying sizes had been lit all round
the room, bathing it in a flickering glow. Shadows ran and
jumped across the walls, from which strange, tribal masks
and the heads of exotic animals stared out menacingly at all
those who entered. Low futon-style sofas and large patterned
cushions were scattered about the room, and at the far end,
sitting on a low wicker chair with a high back like a throne, was
a well-built and handsome black man somewhere in his early
thirties, drinking what looked like a coffee and smoking a

253
cigarette. Sitting like grim guardians on either side of the chair
were two dolls, much larger than but very similar to the one that
had been left on Emma's bed, which told me something I already
knew.

The man in the chair smiled and motioned to one of the sofas
next to him. At the same time, my guide left the room, shutting
the door behind him, while the man in the sunglasses melted
effortlessly into the shadows somewhere to my right.

I walked over to the sofa and slowly sat down on it. The man
in the chair waited until I'd got myself comfortable before
speaking.

'I'm going to assume you know who I am,' he announced in a
pleasantly resonant North London accent.

'I think I can take a guess,' I answered, reaching into my shirt
pocket for my cigarettes. They weren't there.

'Please, have one of these,' said Nicholas Tyndall, removing a
pack of Marlboro Lights from the pocket of his own shirt - a
black silk number - and lighting one for me. 'You might want to
know why I had you brought here,' he suggested.

I said it wouldn't be a bad idea.

'You were in a bad way when my men picked you up. If we'd
left you there, you would have been picked up by God knows who, and that may not have been such a good thing.' He paused
for a moment while he took a drag on his cigarette, watching me
with a playful expression. This was a man who oozed natural
charisma. And menace, too. There was real menace emanating
from where he was sitting. You knew that if you crossed this
man, you were in a lot of trouble. Although maybe I was stating
the obvious since any man who sits in a cavernous candlelit room
surrounded by voodoo-like ornaments is going to be someone
you'll want to stay on the right side of.

'As I heard it,' he continued, 'you'd just left a house containing

254
a lot of dead bodies. People - innocent, I understand - who'd been murdered very recently. Their throats slit. Their heads
bashed in.'

Not for the first time that day, I could hear my heart
thumping. I cursed the fact that I'd left my gun in the other
room.

'If the police had seen you lying on the pavement, they would
have taken you in. Perhaps connected you to that house. Perhaps
even connected you to other things. Who knows?'

Our eyes met and I held his gaze. There was something very
unnerving in it. I felt that if you kept looking, you'd unearth grim
secrets that you'd far rather not see. Behind him, the flickering
shadows partly illuminated a tapestry of a man with a scythe in one
hand and what looked like a sack of bones in the other.

'What do you want with me?' I asked at last, not at all sure I
wanted to hear the answer.

'You've been observed asking questions,' he said, emphasizing
the word 'observed'. 'Questions about the shooting of Asif Malik
and Jason Khan. In fact, yesterday you threatened two of my
men with a gun when you went round to visit Khan's brother,
Jamie.'

'I didn't threaten them. I asked them to leave the premises.'

He smiled. 'No matter. They weren't being careful enough, and
they were caught out. They'll learn their lesson. The fact is, Mr
Kane. That is your name, isn't it?' There was a hint of laughter
in his eyes when he said this, as if he knew damn well it wasn't.
But I didn't rise to the bait.

'Well, the fact is, Mr Kane, the shooting of Messrs Malik and
Khan has caused me a great deal of trouble. A lot of people your
friend Miss Neilson of the North London Echo included
- seem to think that I had something to do with it. Since you've
been asking questions in an unofficial capacity, and working, so

255
far as I can see, a lot harder than the police, you must have your
own ideas about who's responsible. Do you think it's something
to do with me?'

'No,' I said, 'I don't.'

He took a deep breath that seemed to make him grow larger
in the room, and his expression suddenly became very serious.
'Good, and by saying that you've answered your own question.
The reason I had you brought here is because this whole thing is
nothing - I repeat, nothing - to do with me. Jason Khan did
some work for some people who know some other people who
do some work for me, but I never met him when he was alive
and consequently had no interest in seeing him dead. As for
Malik, he was no danger to me. He had been involved in investigating
my business affairs in the past, but as far as I'm aware
that all ceased when he joined the National Crime Squad some
months ago. And why would I want to kill a police officer,
especially one who was such a high-profile target as Malik was?
It would just put undue pressure on my business affairs, which is
something I obviously don't want. I'm not interested in making
enemies of the law, Mr Kane, but it seems that I have done, and
that's why the focus of this police investigation is aimed at my
associates and me, which is a state of affairs that I do not want
to continue. The trouble is, everyone thinks I did it, which suits
the true perpetrators of the crime just fine. However, if they
could be uncovered, then the pressure on me would ease, would
it not?'

'I guess it would,' I said, finishing my cigarette and stubbing it
out in a cast-iron ashtray shaped like a hand, which was resting
on the side of the sofa.

'And this is why I want to hire your services.'

For a moment, I was taken aback, but then it struck me that
it seemed a logical request.

256
'How close are you to identifying the perpetrators?' he
asked.

'I'm getting there.' I thought about the missing-girl lead I'd got
from Dr Cheney. 'I've got something I want to follow up
tomorrow, which may well get me a lot closer.'

'I see you carry a gun. A high-calibre one, too. But it only
contains two bullets. Have you got any more?'

I told him I didn't.

'There are some dangerous adversaries out there. I can supply
you with another gun, and some ammunition, plus a flak jacket. They may go some way to helping you survive.'

'I could do with some transport as well,' I said, thinking that
a car might come in useful in the days ahead.

Tyndall nodded. 'That can be arranged. I'll also pay you five
thousand cash. Another five if you unmask the people involved
in killing Malik and Khan and gather the evidence needed to get
the law off my back. Does that sound fair to you?'

I could have told him that I didn't work for anyone, that I was
my own man, but in this game you've got to be a realist. Like I
said, he was the sort of bloke it was best to stay on the right side
of, and it wasn't going to make a great deal of difference to my
investigation whether he was paying me or not. At least with him
as my employer, I had someone backing me up.

'Yeah, it sounds fair. I'll take the job, but I want you to call
the dogs off Emma Neilson. No more voodoo dolls through her
letterbox or threats in the street.'

'I don't like upsetting women,' said Tyndall, sounding like he
meant it, 'but that girl has caused me no end of problems. If you
can get her to stop writing libellous articles, I'll leave her be.'

'You've got my word,' I told him. 'She's heading out of town
tomorrow and she won't be back for a while. By the time she
returns, this'll all be over.'

257
'You think so?'

'I'm sure of it.'

Tyndall leaned back in his seat, making himself comfortable.
'I hear you've also had a lot of trouble from people who want
you out of the way.'

'You could say that.'

'I think I might have alleviated it somewhat.'

I raised my eyebrows. 'What do you mean?'

He smiled, and this time it was the smile of a predator. Then
he leaned down and picked something up from behind the chair.
It was the transparent mask worn by the killer of Andrea Bloom
and her housemates, complete with black, protruding mouthpiece
for breathing. It took me a couple of seconds to realize that it
was still attached to the killer's head - the exposed white neck
bone jutting out from underneath the plastic.

Tyndall held the head by the neckbone and with his other hand
removed the mask. Blondie - my nemesis since I'd arrived here
four days ago (Jesus, was it only four days?) - stared dully across
the room at me, his mouth slightly open, his face splattered with
blood where they'd severed the head. Tyndall relinquished his
grip on the bone and held the head up by its hair.

'When people fuck around with me,' he said, 'I fuck them
around one hell of a lot worse. Do you understand what I'm
saying?'

I looked at him, then at the head, then back at him. 'I think
I'm beginning to get the picture.'

'Good.' He returned the head to the floor, out of sight. 'Before
he died, this dog told us that he'd received his orders to go to the
house tonight from a man called Theo Morris, who was
apparently his employer. Does this man's name mean anything
to you?'

'It does. He works for a company called Thadeus Holdings.' I

258
motioned in the direction of where he'd put the head. 'Did he say why he didn't try to kill me tonight?'

Tyndall seemed surprised by that. 'I thought he did try to kill
you.'

I shook my head. 'He tried to beat me up a bit and knock me
out, then he deliberately dropped the murder weapon next to me.
I'm assuming he wanted me and it found by the police at the
scene so I could be set up for the killings.'

Tyndall shrugged. 'I don't know anything about that.'

'I'll find out,' I said. 'I'm going to be questioning Theo Morris
in the next couple of days. I'd appreciate a clear run at him.'
There was a heartbeat's pause while we looked at each other. 'In
other words, I don't need any help.'

'All right. However, I expect to hear from you every day
with progress on how you're doing. What's your phone
number?'

I told him. He nodded but made no effort to write it down.

'When you leave here tonight you'll be supplied with an
encrypted email address. Send your progress reports to that
address. If we need to get hold of you, we will. Now, how are
you feeling?'

'Good,' I said, touching my head. 'Surprisingly good. What
kind of medicine did your friend give me downstairs?'

Tyndall's smile was amused this time. 'Have you ever heard of
Muti, Mr Kane? It's a form of African medicine, and those who
follow it believe that if you remove the body parts of a person as
they die, those parts can be used to make some very potent
medicine. When taken, they can give the recipient untold
strength. Particularly when the body parts belong to a fallen
enemy.' The smile grew wider and I looked away, hoping he was
joking. 'Claude, can you show Mr Kane out? And make sure we
get a car brought round. One that can't be traced.'

259
Tyndall stood up. So did I, but with a little less conviction
than I'd displayed when I'd got out of bed a few minutes earlier.
'You'll have to excuse me,' he said. I'm a little tired tonight. It
was good to meet you.'

He put out a hand - the one that had been holding Blondie's
head by the neckbone - and because I was still wearing my
gloves, I reluctantly shook it.

'I wish I could say the same,' I answered, turning round and
following the guy with the sunglasses out of there.

I was led back along the corridor, past the room I'd been in and
round the corner to a lift. There, the man who'd given me the
medicine appeared, and with his customary smile placed a silk
blindfold over my eyes. I was taken down to the ground floor,
where I was kept standing in silence for a few minutes. Finally I
was ushered through a door and out on to the street. A car
pulled up and I was helped into the front passenger seat and
informed not to remove the blindfold until I was told. Then the
car pulled away.

Ten minutes later, permission was given. I took the blindfold off
and opened my eyes. I was being driven by a young white man I
didn't recognize along the Euston Road past St Pancras Station.

'Where do you want dropping off?' he asked.

I told him Paddington, and he continued driving in silence
through the bare night streets before pulling up outside the
station fifteen minutes later.

'It's all yours,' he said, getting out of the car and leaving the
engine running. 'There's a holdall in the boot with all
the stuff you've been promised.' He shut the door and walked
round the back, jumping into another vehicle that had stopped
behind us.

I clambered across into the driver's seat and watched as they

260
pulled away, turned left and disappeared from sight, leaving me
wondering whether the whole night had been some strange and
terrible dream.

261
Part Three

THE HUNTERS
36

I thought I would have woken up late the next morning after all
the activity of the night before, but at just after nine I opened my
eyes and realized that the last thing that had passed my lips had
almost certainly been a cupful of someone else's blood. I was sure
I could still taste it in my mouth. What was worse was that it
appeared to have done me a lot more good than harm. My head
was clear, and when I removed the bandage round it in front of
the bathroom mirror, the injuries looked to have partly healed.
For some reason, my next thought was of Blondie. I wondered
how much they'd tortured him before he died. I also wondered
whether they'd removed any of his organs, and whether they
would have been used for a specific ritual. Then I stopped
wondering, because I was beginning to feel sorry for the man
who the previous night had slaughtered four people and who'd
done his utmost to kill me.

The world is a hard, dark place. It's inhabited by some brutal
people. I'd met a disproportionate number of them in the past
few days, although I had a feeling that none was more brutal
than the man I was now effectively working for. But then I was

265
pretty sure he hadn't killed my friend. Someone else had, and I
knew I was getting steadily closer to finding out who.

But I was also riding my luck. When I'd come in the previous
night, the guy on the desk had seen the bandage I was wearing
and had given me a strange look. Someone might have seen me
at Andrea Bloom's house. The footage from the CCTV in Soho
would be released soon and might give a better picture of me
than I'd bargained for. Whichever way I looked at it, pretty soon
my second chances were going to run out. If I wanted to find out
who was behind the murder of my friend, then I was going to
have to hurry.

I went for breakfast at the Italian place. They knew me there
now and the woman behind the counter greeted me with a smile
and hello, which I thought was a nice touch. I plumped for more
traditional fare that day and ate a full English breakfast of
bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes and chips while I read the paper.
There was no mention of the events of the previous night. By the
time I'd finished, I felt heartily refreshed and the imaginary taste
of blood in my mouth was gone. I paid my bill, told the woman
to have a nice day, and went outside to phone Emma.

She answered on the third ring.

'How are you feeling?' I asked.

'Better than I did last night. I'm leaving as soon as I've
finished packing. How did it go with the girl?'

'Not good. They beat me to it.'

'Is she...?'

I sighed. 'Yeah, she is.' I didn't add that her housemates were
dead too. 'Did you say anything to Barron about her?'

'No, of course not. You asked me not to.'

'Because I'm wondering how the hell they knew about her.'

'Hold on. You're not accusing me of anything here, are you?
You don't think I'm anything to do with this?'

266
'Of course not, but I'm beginning to get worried about the
quality of information the people we're up against are getting
hold of, that's all. I'm thinking they may be bugging your phone.
They may even be listening now.'

'Shit, Dennis. This is getting far too heavy. I'm going to hang
up and leave right away. And I think you'd better get out, too.'

'Don't worry about me - worry about yourself. How are you
getting to your parents' place?'

'Driving. It's a lot easier than the train, and once I'm out of
London it'll be a lot quicker, too. I'll be honest, I'm really glad
to be going now. If I never hear another word about this case I'll
be happy. I wish I'd never written a word about it. And if you're
listening, whoever you are, I'm not going to write another word
about it, either.'

'Just lie low for a while and it'll blow over,' I told her. I
thought about adding that I'd probably got rid of her harassers,
but decided against it. It was better for her if she didn't know.
Maybe better for me, too, since I'd resigned myself now to the
fact that this was it between us, a feeling that was confirmed
when there was a pause down the other end of the phone, which
seemed to suggest that she wasn't sure what else to say to me. I
remembered Christine, the Australian girl, being similarly lost for
words when we'd parted at the port of Larena in Siquijor. What
do you say?

I said, 'Take care.'

She said, 'You too.'

Even now, months later, I wish that those were the last words
to each other we ever spoke.

267
37

Seven years ago, a young girl had allegedly lost her life during a
sado-masochistic orgy, during which she was brutally murdered
at the hands of a number of men. Five participants had been
there that night, according to Dr Cheney. One had been Richard
Blacklip. And perhaps one had been Pope, but I didn't even
know that for sure. What I did know, however, was that if it had
happened as Ann had said (and I believed it had), then the girl
in question would almost certainly have been reported missing by
someone. It was just a matter of finding out who.

Not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, I cast my
mind back seven years. I have a good memory for heinous
crimes. For instance, I can remember the time when three
children were murdered by strangers over the course of a weekend,
in two separate incidents. The summer of 1994, it had been.
I woke up to the news on Capital Radio on a sunny Monday
morning. Three kids dead. It made me think that the world really
was going mad, and all my efforts as a copper were for nothing
if there were still people out there capable of that sort of outrage.

But it's also rare, and seven years ago I could think of no

268
specific case, certainly nothing that was unsolved. It was possible, of course, that one of the paedophiles had sacrificed his own
daughter. For most people that's a thought too shocking to contemplate,
but, believe it or not, there are people out there who've
actually done such things. The thing is, though, they've usually
been caught. Kill a young family member and, even if you don't
report them missing, someone somewhere's usually going to
notice that they're no longer around. Which left me with the conclusion
that there was going to be a record of this girl's
disappearance somewhere. If I looked hard enough, I'd find it.

My first port of call was a cyber cafe on the Edgware Road. I
bought a coffee, went on-line and looked up the National
Missing Persons Helpline.

The National Missing Persons Helpline is a registered charity
that deals with the thousands of people who go missing every
year in the UK. They include a hundred thousand children under
the age of eighteen. That's a lot of kids out on the streets.
Thankfully, the vast majority just disappear for a day or two and
then come back home, but I remember a representative of the
charity telling me a few years back, when she'd come to the station
to give a talk, that even if 99.9 per cent of the cases were solved
and the kids found, that still left one hundred children completely
unaccounted for. It wasn't a thought I wanted to dwell on.

I found the number for general enquiries, logged off and
phoned it.

The woman who answered was busy (with a hundred thousand
people disappearing every year, it'd be difficult not to be), but
helpful, too. I explained that I was a private detective working
for the legal team representing a young man who was on remand
for murder. Part of his defence was that he'd been abused as a
boy by a paedophile ring, and that he claimed to have seen
a female child murdered during one incident. The woman at the

269
other end, who sounded in her sixties and was probably a
volunteer, gasped when I said this, and I immediately felt guilty.

'To be honest with you, madam,' I said by way of explanation,
'it's not likely that the story's true, but I wouldn't be doing my
job properly if I didn't follow it up.'

'No, of course not,' she replied uncertainly.

'Is there any way I can check on this man's claims?' I asked,
giving her the dates in question. 'I know you keep records of
missing children.'

'We do,' she said carefully. 'We have a comprehensive database
and we never remove names from it, even if the person
concerned is found, but it's not accessible to the public. And I
can't give out any information. However, we are capable of
carrying out comprehensive searches of our database, if we
receive a request from the police. Can't you go through them?
I'm sure they'd be interested.'

But that was the problem. I couldn't.

I knew better than to try to strong-arm the information out of
her, so I thanked her for her time and rang off, disappointed but
not entirely surprised. If detective work was that easy, there'd
never be such a thing as an unsolved case.

I finished my coffee, left the cafe and went to retrieve the car
that Tyndall had provided me with. It was a black Kia four
wheel drive that I'd left over near Hyde Park the previous night,
and when I got there and eventually located it, it had already
received a ticket. No one can accuse London's parking
authorities of inefficiency. Still, it didn't bother me. I wouldn't be
paying it. I peeled it off, chucked it on the passenger seat, and
drove out on to Park Lane, heading for my next port of call.

The British Library's newspaper arm - the place where they
keep microfiche archives containing two hundred years' worth of
back issues of selected newspapers - is situated in a drab suburb

270

of post-war residential housing in Colindale, North London. The building itself was uglier and smaller than I expected and looked more like a factory or a functional modern schoolbuilding than
a library. It faced on to a main road almost directly opposite
Colindale underground station.

I showed my false passport at the door as ID and was given a
one-day reading pass by the man at the desk. A notice said that
all coats and bags had to be left in the cloakroom for security
reasons, but luckily he didn't ask me to remove my jacket. If he
had done, he'd have probably seen the .45 revolver sticking out
of my jeans, and if he'd missed it, plenty of other people wouldn't
have. But he let me through with a smile, informing me that
archived copies of The Times were kept on the next floor up.

I was going to have to do this the hard way. According to the
records, Ann had been taken into Coleman House children's
home in Camden on 6 June 1998, and she had claimed to Dr
Cheney that the murder she'd witnessed had taken place some
weeks before that. I decided to concentrate my search on issues
of The Times, from 1 January, to see if there were any reports of
children who'd disappeared or had died in unusual circumstances.
I felt sure that something like this would be reasonably
big news, so I narrowed my search to the first five pages of each
issue. It was hardly a scientific methodology, but then I was a
one-man band with severely limited resources, and I didn't see
any other way.

The microfiche machines were bulky contraptions situated in a
darkened back room. I found a spare one and spent the next ten
minutes trying to load the film spools containing the editions of The Times from 1 to 10 January, without any success whatsoever,
until finally a pretty Spanish student took pity and showed me
how to do it.

The year had begun with the usual batch of bad news: Loyalist

271

gunmen on the rampage in Northern Ireland; bloody massacres
in Algeria; gangland killings; a string of domestic tragedies.
Things didn't improve much either, but then again, when do
they?

There was the trial of the teenage thug who'd buried a carving
knife up to the hilt in the head of a twenty-eight-year-old charity
worker as she sat alone on a suburban train with her back to
him, purely because, according to him, she was 'the only target
visible'. There was the trial of Victor Farrant, the rapist released early from his sentence who went on to murder his new girlfriend
and batter another woman half to death. His girlfriend was a
divorced mother of two, and as Farrant was returned to prison
(this time, presumably, to complete his sentence), her anguished
kids were quoted as asking why on earth he'd been let out in the
first place. One, I thought, that Britain's new Lord Chief Justice,
Parnham-Jones, might like to answer in one of his fireside chats.

What struck me as I read was the sheer number of brutal
crimes committed in the UK by people whose only motive
seemed to be the sadistic gratification their violence gave them.
In the Philippines, people killed. They killed a lot more than they
did in England, as even the most cursory glance at Manila's
murder statistics would demonstrate, but in general those killings
were the direct result of poverty or ideology. Few people there
murdered for pleasure. Here, where people had money and freedom,
they did. It was a depressing thought, because it suggested
that where the violence of humankind was concerned, things
would never get better.

But for the moment, such lofty issues didn't concern me.

I kept reading. Trawling. Searching.

It was time-consuming work. I estimated I was taking about
three minutes per issue, so each month was taking me more than
an hour and a half. By the time I got to March, it was almost

272

half past three and my eyes were hurting. I thought about
stopping for a while, taking a break and ringing Emma to see if
she'd arrived home, but I didn't want to lose my place at the
machine. One more hour, then I'd call it a day.

1 March - nothing. 2 March - nothing. 3 March, something
caught my eye. The bottom of the front page. I read it through;
then read it again.

MAN ARRESTED AFTER DAUGHTER GOES MISSING
A thirty-six-year-old man has been arrested by police after his
daughter was reported missing by neighbours. John Martin Robes of
Stanmore, North London, was taken into custody by police investigating
the disappearance of his twelve-year-old daughter, Heidi, who
had not been seen for several days previously. Heidi's mother is not
believed to live with the family and police were yesterday trying to
trace her. Neighbours claim that Robes and his daughter could often
be heard arguing loudly, and that Heidi had some behavioural
problems. A spokesman for her school said that everyone there
hoped and prayed that she would be found safe and well, but added
that she had run away before.

There was no photograph.

I took out my notebook and wrote down the details. Then
checked 4 March, this time the whole paper, but there was no
further mention of the arrest or the fate of the missing girl.
Sometimes when a kid from the wrong side of the tracks goes
missing - and this is especially true when they've got a bit of a
history - there's very little publicity surrounding the disappearance.
It can be a lottery. A pretty, middle-class girl under
the age of ten from the Home Counties is going to get a ton and
a half of newsprint dedicated to her. A tough young thing of
twelve, born and bred on a council estate and a teenager in all

273

but name, just hasn't got the same selling power, and in the end,
that's what it always comes down to.

But was she the girl I was looking for? I brought up the issue
of 5 March, found nothing, then checked the sixth. There, on the
right-hand column of page two was a short report sandwiched
between news of a strike by Heathrow baggage-handlers and
more Anglo-American bombing of Iraqi military installations. It
stated that John Martin Robes had been charged with the
murder of his daughter, Heidi, even though no body had been
found, and was due to appear before magistrates that morning.
Again there were no pictures of either accused or victim, but my
interest was aroused, the main reason being the lack of a corpse.
A corpse provides the police and the GPS with a lot of the
evidence they need in order to secure a conviction. Take that
away and nailing the killer becomes an uphill task. It made me
wonder what it was the police had on Robes. The problem was
it wasn't going to be that easy to find out. There was usually a
minimum of six months between an arrest and a trial - it can
sometimes take as long as a year - so it meant going through a
lot more back issues of The Times, or finding a quicker means to
locate the date. I decided to use the Web.

There were a number of PCs with Internet access tucked away
on the opposite side of the room from the microfiche machines
and I found one that was free. On the screen was a large icon
representing something called The Times software. I clicked on it
and a box appeared, prompting me to type in a keyword. I typed
in the name 'John Robes' and looked at my watch. Five to four.

Five seconds later, a list of hits appeared in chronological
order. At the top were the articles I'd already picked up in the
March editions. After that there was nothing until 26 October,
when a few brief lines outlined the first day of the trial of John
Robes for the murder of his daughter. There was another piece

274

on 28 October, detailing Robes's testimony on the witness stand,
in which he'd tearfully denied all knowledge of his daughter's
death, but had been unable to explain how a knife with her blood
on it had been found in his house, as well as a bloodstained piece
of her clothing. But the trial obviously hadn't caught the imagination
of the media or the public, because again the article was
short and there wasn't a further mention of the case until 3
November, when a headline announced that John Robes had
been found guilty of murder and sentenced to life imprisonment.

I began reading the article. There were photographs this time
- one of father, one of daughter. I only took the briefest look at
him. He was a youngish-looking thirty-six, with an angular face
and dark-blond hair in a side-parting, and in the photo he was
smiling broadly. As is so often the case, he didn't look like a
killer. And Heidi wasn't what I was expecting, either. She looked
younger than twelve, with straight, light-brown hair cut level with
her chin and a much rounder face than her dad's. She was
smiling too, in the same broad manner as the man who'd
allegedly killed her, and her cheeks showed cute dimples. She
didn't look like the sort of girl who had behavioural problems.

I stared at her image for a long time, knowing Dr Cheney's
description, though very basic, matched with that of the girl smiling
out at me. The years have been kind to me where tragedy is
concerned, and I've learned to detach myself from the suffering
of others, both those whose deaths I used to investigate and those
I've caused. But the past few days had stretched that detachment
to the limit. The murders of Ann Taylor and Andrea Bloom, two
kids fighting against all the odds to make a life for themselves,
coming after the death of my old friend Asif Malik, had hit me
harder than I'd been prepared for. And now, as I sat there in the
forced silence of that darkened windowless room on a cold
December afternoon staring at the picture of a girl who'd died,

275

helpless and alone, seven years earlier, for the first time in a long
while I felt like crying.

Turning away from the pictures, I scrolled down and continued
reading. John Robes, the article stated, had been found guilty of
murder after a trial lasting just over a week. Once again, the fact
that no body had been found was mentioned, but the forensic
evidence of the knife and the clothing, coupled with the further
discovery of a blood-stained gardening glove which two witnesses
claimed to have seen in Robes's possession in the weeks prior to
Heidi's disappearance, proved damning.

Robes had also admitted to having had a violent argument
with his daughter on the night he claimed she'd run away, during
which he'd struck her, but he continued to deny any part in her
death. The jury hadn't believed him, and after a fourteen-hour
deliberation had pronounced him guilty. Robes had broken down
in tears at this point, and had taken several minutes to compose
himself. The judge had then sentenced him to life imprisonment,
calling his act 'as incomprehensible as it was barbaric', and had
bemoaned the fact that Robes had provided no explanation as to
why he'd done it, nor given any indication as to where the body
was.

Something caught my eye and I froze. Down at the bottom of
the article.

'Jesus Christ,' I whispered audibly, ignoring the looks of the
other people on the PCs.

For a full ten seconds I didn't move, the shock rooting me to
the spot. I've faced guns before; been shot at; been certain I was
about to die. But nothing has ever incapacitated me as much as
what I was looking at right now.

Because now I knew what had happened.

Jumping to my feet, I turned and walked away as fast as I
could, knowing without a doubt that Ann Taylor's story was true

276

and was the reason she'd died, and that the twelve-year-old Heidi
Robes was the victim who had been murdered in the paedophile
orgy. And that it was essential that Emma had reached her
parents' home safely, because otherwise she was putting herself
in extreme danger.

You see, she knew one of the men who I was now sure had
been involved on that dark, terrifying night seven years ago; the
man who seemed to keep popping up wherever I turned, and
who'd been quoted at the bottom of the article as he talked to
the assembled press outside the post-verdict courtroom. It had
been a harrowing case for all those involved, he'd said, but at
least now justice had been seen to be done. Ironic words indeed,
but understandable from the man who'd led the police murder
investigation.

Detective Chief Inspector Simon Barron.

38

It all made sense. They'd had an inside link on the police investigation
from the beginning, and it had to have been someone
senior. Barron was a DCI, an officer privy to the most
confidential information on the inquiry, including the name of
the prime suspect: Billy West. He could have leaked the name
without drawing suspicion to himself. And it had been Barron
who'd been to see Dr Cheney asking questions about Ann; who'd
not said anything to anyone else about what he was doing. And
doubtless, it had been him too who'd been feeding Emma with
the stories linking Nicholas Tyndall to the Khan/Malik murders,

277

as he'd worked to deflect attention away from the true culprits.

Outside it was dark and the traffic on the main road had built
up. I fumbled in my coat pocket for my phone and switched it
on hurriedly. My hands were shaking and I silently cursed the
fact that Emma had ever become involved in this case, and that
I hadn't done more to stop her.

The phone rang to indicate that there was a message. I pressed
the callback button and waited while the number rang twice.

It was Emma. She sounded breathless and excited. Static
screeched in the background. 'Sorry about this, Dennis, but the
job's got the better of me. I'm on the hard shoulder of the M4,
somewhere near Swindon. I've just had a call from Simon
Barron. He thinks he's on to something, but he's worried. He's
saying that the people we're looking for have definitely got an
insider on the murder squad. He wants to meet me at some
offices over in Wembley. He says there's someone there he wants
to introduce me to.' She gave me an address, adding that it was
on an industrial estate near the new stadium. 'He must have
found out about your involvement as well. Not that he knows
who you really are, of course, but he knows that you're an
investigator working the case, and that you've been speaking to
Jamie Delly and Dr Cheney. And also that you've been helping
me. He said I should call and get you over there, too. So I'm
driving up there now. It's.. .' there was a pause while she
checked her watch, 'five to one, and I'm about an hour and a
half away. Hopefully, see you there. Call me. I really think we
could be on to something here. Talk soon. Bye.'

The world seemed to melt around me, and the cars passing by
became lost, watery silhouettes as I realized that I was too late,
and that I'd surely helped Emma Neilson into her grave. An hour
and a half away at five to one. It was now five past four. Even
if she'd hit heavy traffic and got lost, and her journey had taken

278

double the time, she'd still be there by now. And possibly dead.

The message ended, and I scrabbled at the phone with shaking
hands, pressing 5 for redial.

Her mobile rang. And rang. Then went to voicemail. I left a
message as I hurried down the road towards the car. 'Do not go
to that meeting with Simon Barron,' I shouted into the mouthpiece,
making no effort to hide the panic in my voice. 'He's the
insider on the murder squad, the one we want. If you go to that
meeting, he'll kill you. I'm serious. If you get this message, call
me back straight away.'

I rang off, then listened to her message again, writing down the
address of the meeting place in my notebook. The car was two
minutes' walk away - one minute if I ran - and I was on the right
side of town for Wembley, so, traffic permitting, I had a chance
of making it there in the next half-hour.

A cold wind whipped across the Colindale Road and I pulled
up the collar of my jacket and tried to do the distance in a
minute, running as fast as I could and dodging between faceless
passers-by, not knowing what I was going to find when I finally
stopped.

39

It had started to rain again as I turned off the roundabout and
into the huge Wembley Park industrial estate. The road that ran
through it in a shallow incline towards the immense building site
that was the new football stadium was already busy with the first
wave of commuter traffic. Huge, featureless business units and

279

warehouses, swathed in the dim half-light of neon signs and
glowing street lights, reared up on both sides, while every fifty
yards or so another road branched out, clustered with further
monotonous examples of the same bland architecture.

I was sweating, my hands sticky on the steering wheel, peering
through the rain for the turning I wanted. I couldn't seem to see
it. The site of the new stadium with its giant looping arch loomed
closer and closer. It meant the end of the estate. It meant I'd
missed the turning and wasted another precious few minutes. I
could hear my heart hammering in my chest. Imagined Emma at
Barron's mercy, and knew that my actions, my stupidity and my
selfishness had helped to get her there. One victim in a long fucking
line. I counted to ten in my head, urging myself to stay calm,
to detach myself from the situation. To push her image out of
my mind.

Another turning appeared on the right. I slowed down, looking
for the road sign. The car behind me honked impatiently. I
ignored him and slowed further. Then I spotted it, squinting
through the windscreen wipers, my nose inches from the
glass.

It was the one.

I pulled into the middle of the road without indicating and
waited for a gap in the oncoming traffic. The car behind me
couldn't get through and beeped again. I still ignored him. He
beeped a third time. I felt like jumping out of the car, pulling the
.45 and blowing out one of his headlights. Instead I closed my
mind to everything except the task ahead, my fingers drumming
loudly on the steering wheel, waiting.

There was ten yards between two of the cars coming towards
me. Hardly a gap at all, but it was going to have to be enough.
I took my chance and accelerated across, looking ahead for the
offices of a company called Tembra Software.

280

The road was about a hundred yards long and dotted with
storage units and warehouses. It came to a dead end in front of
a large 1960s-style concrete building four storeys high, that was
swathed in darkness apart from two illuminated windows on the
third floor. A concrete wall topped with long ornamental black
railings like spears bordered the plot, separating it from the
businesses on either side. There was a rectangular concrete sign
about two metres high at the entrance to the building's main car
park. The sign was unlit, but as I drove towards it I was able to
make out the darkened lettering: TEMBRA SOFTWARE. I
was in the right place. The gates to the car park were open, but
there were no cars inside and I could see from the tired state
of the building's exterior that Tembra must have gone out of
business some time ago.

I slowed down and pulled up at the side of the road twenty
yards short of the entrance. I needed to make my decisions carefully.
Barron was expecting me. He knew I'd come here in search
of Emma because the bastard had been one step ahead of me the
whole time, using Blondie to pick off all those potential witnesses
whose information could help to solve the Malik/Khan murders.
I was no longer in any doubt that Barron had been a participant
on that night seven years ago, that he'd been one of the five
people in the room when Heidi Robes had been murdered,
because I couldn't believe that he'd be protecting these people
unless he was one of them. And now he was finally tying up the
loose ends. He'd finish off Emma, then finish off me. I wondered
if he already knew my true identity, and, if so, whether that was
why he'd told Blondie not to kill me if I turned up at Andrea's
place the previous night, but to leave me there with the murder
weapon and the corpses. Dennis Milne, the killer, returns.

I got out of the car and closed the door quietly. Behind me,
the traffic rumbled endlessly past on the main road through the

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estate, but it was quiet at this end. The warehouses on both sides
of the Tembra building had their shutters down, and appeared
deserted. There was no sign of Emma's car anywhere.

I looked up at the two lights on the third floor. There was no
one in either of the windows, no flickering shadows, but I felt
sure that Barron was in there, and that if he was, so was Emma.
This was definitely the place where he'd want to finish this thing;
in the darkness, away from any witnesses. I figured he wouldn't
have anyone with him. He was trying to cut all links between
himself and the crimes of his past. It would be far better to
operate alone on this one and be safe in the knowledge that he
wouldn't have anyone else to deal with later. That meant he'd
either be by the front door waiting for me to come in that way
or, alternatively, up on the third floor (in my opinion the more
likely location). He'd know that when I turned up I'd come inside
to investigate, because I'd want to know whether or not Emma
was still here. He'd be able to watch for my arrival far more
easily from the higher vantage point. So that meant that the front
door was probably free.

But caution told me to avoid it, even though it was the most
direct route and time wasn't on my side. Instead, I headed
through the empty car park of the warehouse next door and
made my way along the narrow alleyway that separated it from
Tembra's boundary wall. When I was out of sight of the two illuminated
windows and level with the rear of the Tembra building,
I reached up, grabbed hold of the railings and scrabbled up the
wall until I managed to get a toehold in the tiny space between
two of them. Using the top of the railings to pull myself upright,
I very carefully lifted one leg over them. The metal spikes scraped
against my jeans, and I was conscious that one slip and I could
end up castrated. I repeated the process with the other leg, then
half jumped, half slid down the wall.

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Somehow I landed on my feet, painfully but unscathed, to find
myself in Tembra's empty rear car park.

Which was the moment my mobile started ringing.

I was wearing the black leather jacket I'd bought and the
phone seemed to take for ever to find, but eventually I located it
and pressed the answer button, putting it to my ear.

'Hello?'

'Dennis? Please .. .' The words were a terrified, forced whisper.

'Emma! Where the hell are you? Are you all right?'

'I'm at that place I was meant to meet Simon,' she hissed, her
voice shaking. 'I'm in trouble . ..'

I could hear background noise. Footsteps. Emma cried out in
fear.

'I'm coming to get you,' I told her frantically. 'Don't worry.'

But I was already talking to a dead phone. I held it to my ear
for a few more seconds, waiting until I was sure she wasn't going
to make another call, then switched it off.

So she was alive. And Barron was impatient. I had no doubt
that it was he who'd controlled that phone call, just to make sure
that I took the bait. But at least now I had a chance of success.
They wouldn't expect me to be here already. If he'd seen me, he
wouldn't have bothered getting Emma to call.

The rear of the building was shabbier than the front, and
someone had spray-painted rune-like patterns that may have
been gang signs on the brickwork between the ground-floor
windows, several of which had been smashed behind the metal
security bars. The smoked-glass double doors that led out into
the car park had probably been quite plush once, but were now
worn and scratched. They were also locked.

I walked round to the other side of the building, looking for
another way in, my footsteps sounding artificially loud on the
chipped tarmac. The first-floor windows weren't protected by

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bars, and one was broken, with a single piece of jagged glass
jutting up from its base. A drainpipe ran beside it and I contemplated
shinning up it and getting in that way, but it felt loose to
the touch.

I was going to have to go in the way he wanted me to. I looked
at my watch. Five to five. Rush hour. The rain continued to
pound down and I knew that this could be Emma's and my final
resting place - a bland and derelict building on a lonely industrial
estate in the midst of this cold, teeming city. The thought
frightened me.

But fear's good. Fear keeps you alive and hones the senses.
Fear is what can get you out of these situations.

I started walking again. Slowly and quietly, circumnavigating
the building. Time now suddenly back on my side.

When I reached the corner of the wall that faced the building's
main entrance, I slowly poked my head round. The double doors
were closed, but unlike the back ones, they didn't appear to be
locked. Beyond them was darkness, with no sign of anyone. I
moved back out of sight, leant down and picked up a loose
chunk of cement and chucked it round the corner at the lower
part of the doors. It struck with a light tap, and I waited to see
if this aroused anyone's curiosity.

Five seconds passed. Nothing happened.

It could have been a trap, but in the end I had no choice. I
stepped out of the shadows and, drawing the .45, tried the
handle. The door opened with a squeak that probably seemed a
lot louder than it actually was, and I stepped inside, half expecting
to hear the sound of a weapon being cocked, then the final,
deadly explosion of gunfire. But the corridor ahead of me was
empty. Half a dozen linoleum steps led up to the next floor. I
crept over to the bottom and listened.

Again, nothing. Not a sound.

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The steps climbed at rigid right-angles between the floors all
the way to the top of the building. A dim half-glow from the
street lamps outside provided the only light. In the distance, a
long way off, I heard the sound of a siren. Nothing moved. I
started up the steps, my finger tensing on the trigger of the .45.

The siren faded into the night and the silence grew louder.

I reached the first floor. Above me, shadows from the city ran
across the grainy, bare walls.

I kept going, straining to hear any sound from above, and
fighting to stop myself from breaking into a run and announcing
my presence prematurely.

All my life I've had a ruthless streak, an ability to shut myself
away from the suffering of others and not let it get to me. You
need that when you're policing the crime-worn streets of London,
or when you're living and running a business in the Philippines..
Or when you kill people for money. I relied on that ruthless
streak now to shut out Emma's suffering, while I concentrated on
preparing myself for Barron.

The siren began again in the distance, a long slow whine,
joined shortly afterwards by a second. Charging off towards the
scene of another bloody crime. It was a noise that reminded me
of home. Of life here in the big, violent city. Always some
emergency going on. A never-ending conflict between the haves
and the would-haves-if-they-could-get-their-hands-on-it, and the
people meant to keep them apart - the coppers. Men like Asif
Malik, who'd paid the ultimate price for his work in such a
thankless job. And once upon a time, men like me, who'd instead
been corrupted by it.

I reached the third floor and stepped on to a landing with a
large window at the end that looked out on to the industrial
estate. A solitary picture - a cheap-looking abstract that was
barely visible in the gloom - hung crookedly from the wall. There

285

were corridors to my left and right. The one to my right was
where I'd seen the lights earlier. It stretched for about fifty feet,
with doors facing each other on either side, all of them wide
open, before ending at a windowless wall with part of its brickwork
exposed. The second and third doors on the left led into
the rooms with the lights on.

Instinctively, I looked over my shoulder and found myself
staring back at a perfectly symmetrical corridor going down the
other way. Except on this one, all the doors were closed. Barron
was not making this very easy for me, but then I'd expected that.

I waited where I was for several seconds, aware that the sirens
were getting closer, then slowly walked towards the lights, holding
the .45 two-handed in front of me.

I passed the first couple of open doors and peered into empty
offices, long since stripped of fittings and furniture. I kept going,
conscious of the sound of my footfalls on the linoleum. He had
to know I was coming. Even tiptoeing as quietly as possible, my
approach must have been audible amidst the dead silence of the
corridor.

I came to the second set of doors. To my right, darkness. To
my left, light. I took a step forward and looked in.

Something immediately caught my attention. A leg, partly concealed
by the angle of the open door.

The sirens had been joined by a third, the whining getting
louder as they entered the estate.

A trap. It could be a trap.

With a sudden lunge, I kicked the door wide open and burst
into the brightly lit office, gun swinging in a wide arc.

And groaned.

Because I was too late. Had always been too late. And had
walked once again into a trap that had been expertly set for me.

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40

For a moment, I simply stared at the corpse, unable to move.
Full of regret that yet another innocent life had been taken.

Then I shook myself out of my torpor and walked over to him.

DCI Simon Barron was slumped against the wall at a slightly
crooked angle, his eyes closed, his white shirt and pale-blue tie
drenched in blood. I could see that he'd been stabbed a number
of times in the chest and abdomen in what must have been a
frenzied attack. The entry wounds were clearly visible, and the
blood that had flowed freely from them had now coagulated. A
pool had formed round the top of his legs and had dyed the
edges of his khaki raincoat crimson. His face was white and I
guessed he'd been dead a while. An hour or two, at least.

The noise of the sirens was now continuous and coming closer
and closer. Through the window I could see the blue and white
flashes of light dancing across the night sky above the estate's
buildings. The vehicles were on the main road but no more than
a couple of hundred yards away, and as I watched the first police
car turned into the cul-de-sac and approached the Tembra
Software building at speed.

287

At that moment, I knew they were coming for me.

I turned and ran like I've never run before, charging along the
corridor and across the landing, taking the steps three and even
four at a time. The third floor became the second floor, the
second the first, and outside I could hear the cars pulling up
and the shouts of the arriving police officers as they began to
secure the area. I knew they would go round the back and
surround the building to make sure their fugitive didn't get out.
I had to beat them to it.

I turned left on the first floor and raced down the corridor, trying
to remember where I'd seen the broken window. When I got
to the last door on the right, I opened it, ran inside, and saw that
I'd guessed correctly. Running forward, I kicked the glass jutting
up from the base of the window and knocked it flying. It
shattered loudly as it hit the ground. I clambered out, cutting my
leg in the process, and slid down the nearby guttering. There was
a tearing sound as it came away from the wall. I was still five or
six feet from the ground and had to jump the rest of the way. I
hit the concrete hard, a piece of the guttering landing on my
head, then turned to run round the back of the building.

I heard someone shouting 'Stop! Armed police!' from behind
me, but I kept running, across the empty car park and up to the
wall at the back, taking it in one go. Rather than trying to
manoeuvre myself over, I simply went head first and hoped for
the best, the best being in this case a painful landing on my
hands, followed by an involuntary two-second handstand and
then a forward roll into a puddle, during which the .45 fell out
of my waistband, though thankfully didn't discharge.
I jumped up again, retrieving and replacing the gun in the
process.

I was in a large builders' yard filled with various pieces of
plant, a handful of combi vans and a number of metal sea

288

containers. Plenty of places to hide, and no sign of anyone. I was
tired, but adrenalin, coupled with the knowledge that the police
were right behind me, kept me moving. I could hear one of the
coppers shouting that I'd gone over the wall, and he sounded
close, so I started running again.

I cleared the builders' yard in the space of thirty seconds and
found a hole in the fence at the other end which led on to one
of the estate's roads. I went straight through it, ran a further
hundred yards, turned into another road and ran down that.
When I got to the end, I turned right and slowed to a walk.
There weren't many pedestrians about, but there was enough
slow-moving traffic to delay any vehicle-bound pursuit.

I knew then that I should have called it a day. I could have
walked away and got on the plane back to the Philippines, confident
at least that the reason Malik had died was connected
somehow with what had happened seven years previously, and
that Pope, Blacklip, Slippery Billy and now Blondie had been
punished for it. There were unanswered questions, of course, such as exactly what it was that Jason Khan had found out
months after the end of Ann's sessions with Dr Cheney that had
prompted him to meet Malik and for the killing spree to start,
but no one could say that I hadn't done my bit for my old colleague
and friend, and that I had given him some measure of
justice, even if his family would never know the true story.

I should have called it a day, but of course I didn't. Somewhere
out there was a man who had worn a black leather mask and
tortured a young girl to death one night, and who, quite possibly,
still walked free. I wanted to find him, and those still helping
him.

And this time I knew where to look.

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41

I waited for him in the dim, reddish light of the underground car
park. I knew he'd come. His car, a Jaguar S-Type Sedan, perfect
for a man of his seniority, remained parked in his spot. He was
working late that night. It was half past seven and I'd been there
close to half an hour, standing in the corner shadows not far
from the pedestrian entrance. Men and women in business suits
came through every so often, the high-pitched ding of the lift or
the tattoo of footfalls in the stairwell announcing their arrival.
Their numbers were getting fewer now as the evening wore on,
and only a couple of dozen vehicles remained, dotted about the
cavernous room.

My leg hurt where I'd cut it on the glass. Before I'd come here,
I'd found a pharmacy and bought a basic first-aid kit. I'd then
returned to my room in Paddington, strapped it up crudely with
the bandage, and finally cleared the place of all the essentials,
before checking out. I was now beginning to get used to the dull throbbing of the wound. To be fair, I was now beginning
to get used to injuries in general, having received more in
the past five days than I'd had in the previous ten years. It

290

was the price I had to pay for operating alone.

I was doing some stretching exercises to encourage the
circulation and warm up a bit when the lift dinged again. A
couple of seconds later, a shortish man with thick black curly
hair and a moustache emerged, his footsteps echoing as he strode
purposefully towards the Jaguar, a briefcase in one hand. As I
watched from my vantage point ten yards away, he flicked
off the car alarm remotely, then opened the car boot and chucked
the briefcase in, before heading round to the driver's door.

As he got in, I drew the short-barrelled Browning pistol
Tyndall had supplied me with and came out of the shadows,
screwing on the silencer as I walked towards his car. The engine
started with a low rumble that hinted at a lot of power.

He didn't see me until I'd pulled open the front passenger door
and deposited myself in the seat next to him. A shocked
expression shot across his face and he started to protest, but I
wasn't having any of that. I smiled and shoved the silencer
against his cheek, using enough force to push his head
back against the window. He ended up in a position that looked
very uncomfortable.

'My wallet's in my jacket pocket,' he spluttered. 'Take it,
please.'

'No thanks, Theo,' I said. 'I've got a better idea. I'm going to
ask you a question and you're going to answer it truthfully.
Otherwise I'm going to shoot you in the face right now, then
drop you in the back seat and let you bleed to death while I drive
your nice flash car out of here.'

I waited for Theo Morris to protest, to tell me he didn't know
what the hell I was talking about, but he said nothing, just
whimpered slightly. His expression slackened, or maybe it was
just the way the silencer was pushed against him, but I knew that
he was aware that I was the man he'd either been trying to have

291

killed or framed these past few days, and I could tell that he
wasn't going to bother playing the innocent. I also had a feeling
that he wanted to unburden himself. It was something in his eyes.
Defeat? Guilt? Probably both. This guy was no ruthless pro. He
might have been good at handing out orders from the comfort of
his air-conditioned office, but he wasn't the sort to get his hands
dirty. Somehow that made him worse.

'What's the question?' he asked after a long pause.

'I think you know, but I'll ask it anyway. When you sent those
men to kill Les Pope on Sunday, and to kill Andrea Bloom at
her home in Hackney yesterday, on whose authority were you
acting?'

'Oh, God ...'

'He can't help you now, Theo. Only you can help you.'

'I swear I didn't know it would end like this. I didn't ask for
the bloodbath last night. I just wanted Crown to shut the girl up.
How was I to know he was such a bloody psychopath?'

'Crown? Was he the blond guy? The one who was sent to meet
me on Saturday with the ticket back to the Philippines?' Theo
tried to nod, but it was difficult in the position he was in. 'Well,
Crown's dead now. And so will you be unless you answer my
question.'

He paused again and I leaned forward and pushed harder on
the gun. His cheek began to go red and he grunted in pain.

'My boss,' he said. 'The company's CEO, Eric Thadeus. He
got me to organize it. I wouldn't have done it, but--'

'But he paid you well, no doubt.'

'I told you, I honestly didn't know that it would end up like it
did. I didn't want it to get messy.'

Theo Morris was only a little guy, and slightly built, too, apart
from round the belly area. But I guessed that when he was in the
boardroom he was full of confidence and swagger. This was

292

definitely a man who lived his life knowing he was one of the top
guys in his closeted little world, a big fish in the corporate pond.
Only now, as he sat here helpless with me, was he discovering
that true power came not from the influence you held amongst
your kind, but from the barrel of the gun, and unfortunately for
Theo, he was facing down the wrong end of it.

'Where's Eric Thadeus tonight?'

'I don't know.'

'Yes, you do. Don't lie. There's no point. Whatever he's
promised you that you haven't already got, you're not going to
get now, so don't waste your time protecting him. He's finished,
and you're staying with me until I find out where he is.'

'He's at his place in Bedfordshire. He's staying there until
tomorrow. After that he's flying out to another of his homes in
the Bahamas for a couple of weeks.'

I kept the gun where it was for a couple of seconds, then
decided he was telling the truth, and removed it from his face,
positioning it instead across my lap with the silencer still pointing
in his direction.

'All right, turn off the car phone.' He did as he was told. 'Now
start driving. We're going to Bedfordshire.'

Theo looked at me like I was mad. 'He's got security there.'

'I'm sure he has. Start driving.'

I think he knew there was no point in arguing or begging for
his life, so he put the car in reverse, pulled out of his space and
settled once again for telling me he'd never wanted it to end like
this.

I told him to shut up. I really wasn't interested.

The drive was long, silent and uneventful. Theo tried only once
to make conversation but barely managed a few words before I
cut him off and put the radio on, turning the volume up. I didn't

293

want to hear anything from him - not small talk, not excuses.
Nothing. As far as I was concerned, he was as guilty as all of
them.

I tried not to think, working hard to empty my mind of all its
fears and doubts. I'd been betrayed, and betrayed badly; I was
trapped in a country in which I'd been a fugitive from the law
for three years. If I was captured, I'd be lucky to see the outside
of a prison cell again. If I escaped, I wasn't at all sure I could go
back to where I'd come from and carry on as before in business
with a man I'd once trusted, but who now had questions of his
own to answer. Tomboy Darke had relationships with people
who'd been involved in some horrific acts, and things between us
could never be the same again. But now wasn't the time to dwell
on that.

The radio station we listened to as Theo drove was Magic FM,
which specializes in easy listening tunes. They played 'The Boys
Of Summer' by Don Henley, followed by a couple of old Elvis
Presley numbers. Neither of us sang along, although Theo
appeared to relax a little and his driving became less erratic. I
noticed that he was still sweating, which was understandable.

At eight o'clock, the news came on. As Magic was a London
based station, the top story was the massacre at Andrea Bloom's
place the previous evening. Theo sighed loudly and tutted as the
newsreader reported that two men and two women had been
stabbed and bludgeoned to death at a house in Hackney, in what
she called 'another terrifying tale from the violent city'. The
identities of the victims had not yet been released and the police
were keeping an open mind regarding the motive, which usually
meant they didn't have a clue. There was no mention of Barron's
death in Wembley, but no doubt this would follow soon enough.

I lit a cigarette, sat back and watched Theo as he drove us up
the Ml in the direction of Bedfordshire.

294

A little over an hour later, some ten minutes after we'd pulled off
the motorway, we passed through a pretty village which was little
more than a collection of houses and a church, and took a left
hand turn. The road started to climb up a tree-lined hill, and
large detached houses appeared on both sides, all set back from
the road, the majority behind imposing gates. It was a fitting spot
for the wealthy to live in, allowing them to look down on the rest
of the village from their superior position.

'How far?' I asked Theo.

'We're almost there.'

'Point it out to me as we pass, but keep driving.'

'There it is,' he said half a minute later as the road began to
flatten out. He was pointing to a whitewashed stone wall about
ten feet high coming up on our left. As we passed the wrought
iron gates, I caught a glimpse of the house itself, which stood at
the end of a long drive. It was a huge, Elizabethan-style double
fronted mansion, with latticed bay windows and tar-blackened
wooden beams running from roof to ground.

Several more houses followed on the left, before giving way to
woodland. About a hundred yards further on, I spotted a single
lane track veering off into the trees. 'Pull down there,' I ordered
Theo.

He did as he was told and his face took on a panicked look.
This was the end of the line for him, the point at which he'd find
out whether he was to live or die.

Twenty yards down the track I told him to pull over on to the
verge.

'I'm not going to say a word about this, you know,' he told
me as he brought the Jaguar to a halt. 'I don't want the police
involved any more than you do.'

'What sort of security does Thadeus have at this place?'

295

'I've only been up here a couple of times. On those occasions,
he had a night watchman, but that's it. He's also got cameras in
the grounds.'
I thought that he might well have more security tonight, just
to be on the safe side. Until he had confirmation that I was out
of his hair.

'All right, cut the engine.'

'I thought I might be able to go. I've told you--'

I pushed the gun into his ribcage and he turned off the
ignition. 'Out.' We both stepped out of the car. 'Open the boot.'

He went round and reluctantly flicked it open.

'Now get in.'

He started shaking. 'Don't kill me. Please.'

'You deserve it, Theo. You're the lowest form of scum, getting
other people to do your dirty work, but I'm not going to kill you.
Unless, that is, you're still standing there in five seconds.'

He stared at me imploringly, then must have decided that he
had nothing to lose by begging for his life. He told me that
he had a wife and kids, and could I spare him just for their sakes,
because he knew he didn't honestly deserve to live, and if he
could turn back the clock, then by God he'd do it like a shot. I
got the feeling he'd never begged for anything before, but it was
worth the effort. His wife and kids were probably as rotten as he
was, but I didn't like the idea of adding yet another small tragedy
to the many that had been played out during this whole bloody
saga, so when he finally raised his leg up to clamber in the boot,
I smacked him hard across the back of the head with the butt of
the gun and bundled him, unconscious, inside.

I shut the boot, took the keys from the ignition and locked the
car. Theo Morris was going to have an uncomfortable night, but,
as he himself had pointed out, it was no more than he deserved.

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42

I started walking back in the direction of the village. Above me
the sky was an angry morass of clouds skitting west to east,
obscuring the light of the three-quarter moon at regular intervals.
A hard wind whipped about my shoulders, colder than the one
I'd left behind in London, and I pulled up my collar in a futile
effort to curb the draught that threatened to whistle right
through me.

The house next door to Thadeus's place was a wide single
storey ranch-style building, complete with a huge wagon wheel
attached to an artificial rock in the driveway. There were four
cars parked up and plenty of lights on inside, but the owners
were obviously less security-conscious than Mr Thadeus, because
the main gate was open.

I stepped on to the drive and made my way over to a path at
the side of the house, keeping close to the wall that linked the
two properties. I could hear the clink of glasses and the
high-pitched laughter of middle-aged women who'd had too
much to drink. It sounded as though there was a party going
on in there, and I felt vaguely jealous that they probably

297

had nothing more to worry about than hangovers the next
day.

Halfway down the path, a newish-looking garden shed backed
on to the boundary wall. I climbed on top of it as quietly as
possible, and peered straight into the thick foliage on Thadeus's
side of the wall. Not hearing any movement on the other side, I
heaved myself up and over the wall, sliding down until I hit the
ground with little more than a rustle of leaves and a grunt.
Recovering, I pushed my way through the bushes and slowly
poked my head out the other side.

I was about twenty yards from the corner of Thadeus's house.
Between me and it was a neatly trimmed lawn that looked beautifully
green, even in this light. There was a small single-storey
gate-house behind one of the gate-posts, which was not visible
from the road outside. A light was on in the gate-house and I
could see the balding profile of a man sitting in there. There were
several screens in front of him, which were obviously the views
from security cameras, but he didn't appear to be watching them
very closely. From the angle of his head, I guessed he was reading
a book and trying to look as subtle about it as possible, just
in case the boss was watching. There was only one way of checking
whether or not Theo was right about him being the only
security, and that was to wait.

So that's what I did.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. I was on the verge of concluding
that Thadeus was confident there was no way I was coming
for him, so had not bothered beefing up his protection, when a
guard in full uniform and a peaked cap ambled round from the
back of the house, smoking a cigarette. He had an Alsatian dog
with him. I'd half expected this. The guards had to have something
to scare away intruders, since I suspected that neither of
them had any weapons of their own. It's one of the quirks

298

of British law that you can employ security guards to protect
your life and property, but their powers of arrest and use of force
are so limited that they're largely ineffective. Even if their dog
bites you, they could be found liable in a civil court - but observing
this hound, I didn't think he was going to present too much
of a problem. He was obviously well-fed and looked fairly close
to retirement. The guard with him, who looked pretty close to
retirement himself, was having to pull on the lead just to get him
to keep to the ambling pace. The dog stopped and I thought he
might have caught a whiff of my scent, but he cocked his leg and
took a quick leak, while the guard puffed loudly on his smoke,
pausing between drags to clear his throat.

I slipped back into the cover of the bushes, pushed my scarf
up so it was covering my face from the bridge of my nose down,
and waited as the dog finished his business and they continued
their walk. The keys on the guard's belt jangled loudly as he got
nearer. The art of surprise had clearly never been a major part
of his repertoire.

I watched as they drew level with me, about ten feet away. The
dog still didn't seem to smell anything, but as he came within
sight of the gate-house twenty yards away, he began to speed up.
Maybe it was dinner time.

I came out as silently as possible, took four quick strides and
placed a gloved hand over the guard's mouth, pulling him back
into a tight embrace. At the same time, I pushed the silencer into
his cheek. The dog turned and growled angrily. It looked like he
was going to attempt to earn his keep for once. I had to act fast.

'Call the dog off or it dies,' I told him in muffled tones, 'and
keep very quiet. Now.' I removed my hand, but kept the gun in
exactly the same position.

'It's all right, Prince,' the guard whispered nervously, leaning
down to pet the dog, who relaxed his posture slightly. 'Calm,

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boy,' he said, then looked at me. 'I don't want any trouble,
Mister. I'm not going to resist, all right?'

'You do what I say, no one'll get hurt. I've got no interest in
you.' I let go of him. 'Now keep walking and make for the gatehouse.
When you get there, go inside as you would do normally,
and I'll take over from there. And please don't try anything,
because I will kill you. I guarantee it.'

My voice was calm, which in my experience is usually the best
means of convincing someone that you're serious, particularly
when you're threatening to shoot them. Come over all panicky
and nervous and they'll think that maybe they haven't lost all
control of the situation, and try and do something about it.
Particularly old-timers like this guy. He might have been pretty
crap at his work, but I'd bet he still took pride in it, and wouldn't
want to be made to look a fool.

I gave him a push and he started walking. The dog continued
to growl, but followed when he gave it a pull on the lead. I
wasn't sure what I was going to do about old Prince. I couldn't
very well kill him (not after seeing what the death of Tex had
done to its owner), but I couldn't exactly leave him loose, either.

'How many in the house?' I asked him. 'And answer quietly.'

'I don't know. This is my first night here. We only got called
up on short notice.'

'But you were met by someone?'

'Yeah, the guy who owns the place. He's the only one I've seen.'

'OK, keep quiet now.'

As we reached the gate-house, he opened the door and stepped
inside, just like I'd told him to. Prince squeezed past him.

'AH right, Bill?' said the one sitting down with the book, still
obscured from my vision. 'Anything happening?'

I took that as my cue to come in and point my gun at him.

He turned round, saw me with my face hidden by the scarf,

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and adopted an expression of alarm that was so dramatic, it
looked comical. He raised his arms quickly, then froze like a kid
in a game of Mr Wolf. The book dropped loudly to the floor. It
was a hardback with a title I didn't recognize. He started to
speak, but I cut him off with a snapped 'Be quiet!' I turned the
gun on Bill and told him to secure the dog.

Bill was sensible. He didn't argue. Neither did he ask me what
I thought I was doing, or tell me I was making a big mistake. He
just connected Prince's lead to a hook on the wall. There was
still enough slack for the dog to move around, but not to get
at me.

'Now muzzle him.'

Bill found a muzzle on the worktop, beside a kettle and a
couple of mugs, and leant down to do the honours.

I turned back to Bill's colleague. 'Move away from the desk
and face the wall.'

He paused, staring at me like he knew it was the end, and I
had to tell him again, adding that if he cooperated nothing would
happen to him. I motioned with the gun towards the wall.
Finally, he did what he was told, but he still didn't look too sure
about it, even with my words of reassurance.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bill move his hand
towards the hook. He was going to try something. I couldn't
believe it. I swung round and his hand stopped six inches from
its target. He tried to put on an innocent expression, but it didn't
really work. I started to tell him that it wasn't worth dying a
hero, but before I could finish, his friend lunged forward and
rugby-tackled me round the waist with surprising speed, one
hand grabbing wildly for my gun arm, before clamping over my
wrist with a strength driven by adrenalin.

'Help me, Bill,' he shouted, panic in his breath.

Bill went for the hook again, and I fell back hard against the

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door frame under the weight of the assault, my gun arm forced
skywards.

Reflexively, I pulled the trigger. It might even have been completely
accidental, I'm not sure. Either way, the result was the
same. The silencer spat and the bullet caught Bill in the head. At
least, I thought it did. He cried out and fell backwards, tripping
over Prince before landing on his arse, both hands clutching at
the side of his head.

'I'm hit!' he wailed, as blood seeped through his fingers. Prince
jumped on him, whining balefully. 'I'm down, help me.'

As Bill's colleague turned round to see what was going on, he
relaxed his grip on my wrist and I took the opportunity to pull
my arm free and shove the silencer against his cheek.

'Oh God,' he said, at which point I kneed him very hard in the
bollocks and pushed him away. As he doubled over in pain, I
grabbed hold of him and pushed him back into the seat he'd been
occupying until a few seconds earlier.

I turned to Bill. He was wailing, and Prince was now licking
the blood running down his fingers with worrying enthusiasm.
'You've shot me,' he said, sounding like he was going to be with
us for a few seconds yet.

'In the ear,' I replied. 'I shot you in the ear, and it was an
accident. If you want to blame anyone, blame your friend,' I said.
'Now get up and muzzle that dog, like you were meant to do in
the first place.'

At first he didn't move, but when I threatened to shoot him in
the other ear he finally managed to take his hands away from the
wound and do as he was told. It was still bleeding but, unlike
Jamie Delly's, the ear remained largely intact.

I got Bill's colleague to open the drawers of the desk in front
of him, and located a pair of plastic handcuffs in the second one
down. I sat them both in the corner, next to Prince, and got Bill's

302

partner to cuff them both together at the wrist and throw me the
key. They assured me that they wouldn't do a thing if I left them
as they were, but they were hardly immobile, or likely to be true
to their word, so I hunted round until I found a ball of thick
green string and a pair of scissors in another drawer, and bound
them together back to back, before tying a double reef-knot at
the end. You wouldn't have to be Houdini to get out of it, but
it would take a while, and a while was all I wanted.

'I need an ambulance,' said Bill when I'd finished. 'I'm losing
a lot of blood. I feel faint.'

He wasn't losing a lot of blood. The bullet had somehow only managed to cause a minor flesh wound, but I was beginning to feel sorry for them both, so I found a clean rag, wet it in the sink
and wrapped it round his ear.

I removed a small bunch of keys from Bill's belt and asked him
which one opened the house.

'I don't know,' he answered. 'He never told us. This cloth's
really cold. It's dripping water everywhere.'

I got back to my feet. 'Remind me never to hire your security
outfit,' I said, and left them there, explaining that I'd call an
ambulance shortly so long as they were quiet. 'Make a noise and
you can stay like that all night.'

When I was outside, I found the key for the portakabin door
and locked it. Then I turned and, as quietly as possible,
began making my way towards the house, keeping close to the
foliage.

303

43

The rear of the property looked out on to a second lawn as large
as the first, with a swimming pool at the far end. There were
lights on inside the house, but the curtains were drawn so I
couldn't see anything. I moved quietly forward and listened at
one of the windows, picking up the sound of muffled voices. So
they were here. I looked at my watch. Nine twenty-five p.m.

A substantial conservatory jutted out from the house and I
walked across and tried the French windows that led into it.
They were locked. I fumbled in my pocket for the keys, and tried
them one by one. The fourth one opened the door and I crept
inside, gently closing it behind me and removing the Browning
and silencer from my pocket. The interior of the conservatory
was bathed in the dim quarter-light provided by the lamps in the
other rooms. Two long sofas ran down each side of it and a
mahogany coffee table in the middle contained a selection of
magazines. I noticed a Country Life and a Good Housekeeping, as
well as the latest statement of accounts for Thadeus Holdings.
Nothing controversial, then. But that was only to be expected. Like
so many paedophiles, Eric Thadeus was bound to be a good actor.

304

The door connecting the conservatory to the rest of the house
was open, and I went through into a panelled hallway with
impressive watercolours of country scenes on the walls. The door
to my left was ajar and I could hear voices drifting through from
further inside the house. I stepped across the polished floorboards
carefully, not wanting to make any noise as I made my
way over to the door.

It led into a large pine kitchen with black granite worktops. On
the far side of the room, another door was open, through which
I could hear the clink of glasses as well as the voices of the people
I'd come to kill, far clearer now.

'I'll open some more wine,' I heard the man say, and a second
later his chair legs scraped across the floor as he got up from the
table.

I made no move to hide as Eric Thadeus, a bigger man than
I'd been expecting, dressed casually in chinos and a cotton shirt,
came striding into the room carrying an empty wine bottle. I
noticed he had worn leather slippers on. Then, as he saw me and
opened his mouth to speak, I shot him in the left leg about six
inches above the knee. He gasped, dropping the wine bottle as
his leg went from under him. The bottle shattered on the floor's
terracotta tiles and he fell awkwardly amongst the glass, banging
his head on the door frame as he did so. I stepped over him and
into the house's lavish dining room, leaving Thadeus moaning in
agony and clutching at his shattered leg.

'Hello, Emma,' I said, raising the gun so it was pointed at her
head.

She was at the far end of the table, the remains of a glass of white wine still in her hand. Her red-gold hair was tied back in
a ponytail, and the elfin face beneath it a mask of shock. 'Dennis,
please, I can explain.' She put the glass down on the table and
burst into tears. 'He made me come here,' she sobbed.

305

'Sure he did. You look like you're under a lot of duress.' I
walked over to the table, keeping the gun pointed at her head.
'Do you have any idea what this man's done, or the suffering he's
caused?'

'You don't understand,' she replied, looking at me pleadingly
through the tears. She was a damned talented actress, I had to
give her that, and her expression was so genuine it made me
doubt her role in all this myself. Even though I knew she was as
guilty as sin. 'Thank God you're here,' she continued. 'He's got
my parents hostage. He's had them for days. Either I do what he
says or he's going to kill them.' She got to her feet and I saw that
she was wearing a sleeveless white dress that made her look years
younger.

'Stay where you are.'

She was sobbing uncontrollably now. Almost like a child. 'But
they're downstairs in the cellar, that's where he's been keeping
them. I've got to see them and check they're all right. Please,
Dennis, you've got to believe me. I can prove it.' She came
towards me, and I told her again to stay where she was. But she
kept coming, because she knew as well as I did that I couldn't
shoot her. The doubt must have been evident on my face. In the
kitchen, Thadeus continued to wail loudly and dramatically in an
effort to summon help.

'Emma, stop. I'm serious.'

She stopped. Five feet away, standing there with a vulnerability
that made my legs go weak. She was truly beautiful in her
misery, her big hazel eyes begging me to believe her. And I
wanted to. Christ, I wanted to. I was faltering, and we both knew
it.

There was a sudden sound behind me, and the next second I
was pitched forward as someone grabbed me round the middle
and knocked the gun out of my hand. It clattered to the floor,

306

landing at Emma's feet. I hit the dining-room wall head on,
knocking a painting off it.

Dazed, I didn't have time to think about resistance as I was
pushed down to my knees and my arm pulled up painfully behind
my back. I managed to look round and saw that I was being
manhandled by a powerfully built young man in the same
security guard's outfit as Bill and his friend. Unfortunately, this
was where the resemblance between him and them ended.
This guy, with his dark buzzcut and rugged outdoor features, was
definitely ex-military, and by the speed and effectiveness of his
assault, I'd have said marines or paras. Now I was in real trouble.

'You don't understand,' I told him through gritted teeth.
'These people are guilty of some horrendous crimes.'

'Shut the fuck up!' he demanded, then turned to Emma.
'Pardon my French, Miss. I don't like criminals. I think you'd
better call an ambulance for your father.'

Emma's face broke into a relieved smile. 'Oh, thank God
you've come,' she told him. 'This man was going to kill me.'

'Don't listen to her,' I hissed, but his response was to put more
pressure on my arm and I had to stop speaking as I gritted my
teeth in pain. It felt like the damn thing was breaking.

'You were saying something about people in the cellar, Miss?'
he asked. 'Is there anyone down there?'

She started to cry again, then picked up the gun by her feet.
'Yes, it's my parents,' she sobbed. 'They're being held
hostage. . .'

Her sobbing stopped abruptly as she turned the gun round so
it was pointed at him. She gave him a sweet smile through the
tears. 'But don't you worry your handsome little head about
that.'

I tried to say something, but she never gave me the chance.

307

With the coy little smile still very much in place, she pulled the
trigger.

The gun hissed and the grip on my arm relaxed as the security
guard tottered and fell to one side, a big red mark appearing
where his right eye had been. His body shivered violently, then
lay still. She was as good a shot as she'd claimed when she'd first
pulled a gun on me.

'My, my, Dennis, you are proving resilient,' she said, her smile
taking on a malevolence that until that moment I'd never seen.
'We keep putting these obstacles in your path, and you keep
overcoming them. You were meant to be in custody facing
murder charges by now. That's the whole reason you've been
kept alive this long. Mind you, I think we should have suspected
that you'd make it here.'

'Who are you?' I whispered, unsure what else to say.

'I'm Emma Neilson, of course; the woman you slept with. And
this. ..' she motioned with the gun towards the door, beyond
which Thadeus continued to moan loudly, 'this is my father.'

She took a sip of wine, enjoying my reaction, oblivious
to the security guard lying dead on the floor a few feet away. It
made me wonder how I could have been so blind to the
blackness within her, how my instincts could have failed me so
utterly.

'I suppose you thought he only went for kids, didn't you?' she
continued. 'Well, they've always been his favourite, I have to
admit, but he was married once. To my mother. Only she died in
a car crash. They called it an accident, but I don't think so. I
think he had a hand in it.' She walked past the body, still keeping
the gun trained on me, until she was a yard from the door
and looking through it. 'Isn't that right, Daddy? You had
Mummy killed so you could have me? Because you're a dirty
fucking pervert.' There was an undertone of bitterness in her

308

voice, but also a measure of triumphalism, as if she was only now finally asserting her power.

'Help me, love,' I heard him say. 'Get an ambulance, please.'

She ignored him, turning her gaze back to me. Her face no
longer looked pretty. It looked vicious. 'Do you know something?'
she demanded. 'He started fucking me when I was eight
years old. Eight. That's how old I was. And every time he did it,
he'd give me an expensive present. A piece of jewellery; an
antique doll. Once, when I'd been a particularly good little girl,
he even bought me a miniature Aston Martin to drive round the garden in. Can you believe that?'

I didn't say anything. I didn't honestly know what I could say.

'And then when I was sixteen, and I had more presents than
any girl could know what to do with, he stopped. Just like that.
I'd got too old for him. He continued to give me the gifts, of
course, and made very sure that his beloved daughter received
everything she could ever want, but the sex finished. I was
damaged goods. And he never gave me one fucking word of
explanation, either. He simply carried on like nothing had
happened. Bastard.' She spat the last word into the air, and I had
the feeling it could have been aimed at any man.

'Emma, please,' moaned Thadeus. 'Finish him and get me
some help.'

She ignored him. 'But what my father doesn't realize is that
these days he's the one who's damaged goods. He means nothing
to me.' Her words faltered slightly at this point, and I got the
feeling that perhaps in some terrible way he meant far more to
her than she was letting on. 'The only reason I even talk to him
is because he's got what I want. The company. And now you've
come along and things look like they might work out just right.
Dennis Milne - fugitive from the law, brutal murderer - breaks
in here, murders Eric Thadeus and his security guard before

309

Thadeus's daughter overpowers him and shoots him with his own
gun.'

'They'd never believe you,' I said, only too aware how
plausible her story sounded.

'Oh yes they will. Your DNA's going to be discovered at the
murder scene of Simon Barron, on his clothes, along with some
of your hairs that I managed to remove the other night when
you were asleep. It's also going to be found at the house
where four people died last night, if it hasn't been already. I'll tell
the police that both DCI Barron and I were some way to outing
you as the man behind the murders of Khan and
Malik. You killed Barron, and now you've come here to
kill me.'

I felt my throat constrict. She'd played me perfectly. 'Motive?'
I asked, aware that the word came out like a croak.

'Who knows what goes on in the diseased mind of the killer?'
she replied, without much in the way of irony.

I watched her carefully, and had no doubt at all that she'd
done what she claimed with my DNA. I'd always known she was
switched on, and I think somewhere in the back of my mind I'd
also known that certain things about her didn't add up - the
amount of money she had; the sketchy family background;
the fact that, in the end, she'd done everything to point my
search for the truth in the direction of Nicholas Tyndall - but I
simply hadn't wanted to suspect someone so pretty and
vivacious. Someone I'd slept with. For an instant my thoughts
flashed back to Coleman House and Carla Graham. I'd made
that mistake before.

'So, it was you who killed Barron?'

'He was getting too close,' she said simply, giving a bored
shrug. I could see she was about to end this conversation.

'But what I can't understand,' I said, playing for time, 'is if

310

you're some big-shot heiress, how come you were working as a
reporter for some provincial paper?'

'We needed someone on the inside, particularly given the size
of the investigation into the cafe shootings, and I've always been
good at writing. It was just a matter of greasing a few of the right
palms to get me a job on the Echo. Nothing's very difficult when
you've got money.'

I thought back to my initial call to the newspaper. 'No wonder
the guy who answered the phone at the Echo didn't like you.'

She snorted derisively. 'Do you think I care? I'm the one with
all the cards, Dennis. And I've played you all for fools. Even Tyndall, with his pathetic threats and silly little dolls, didn't scare me. In fact I found it quite exciting. And all I had to do was
flutter my eyelashes at these hardened coppers and every one of
them fell for my charms. Including you. The brutal hitman.'

I managed a half-smile, which I think annoyed her. 'Brutal? I
don't begin to compete with you.'

'No,' she said, stretching out her gun arm, ready to fire. 'You
don't.'

I willed myself to remain calm as I continued to look for my
moment. 'How did the whole thing begin? I know it was with the
therapy, but what did Jason Khan know? And why did he and
Ann die so long after she'd exposed Blacklip for who he was?'

She shook her head dismissively. 'Sorry, Dennis, but I can read
you like a book. You're just trying to delay things and I haven't
got a lot of time. Comfort yourself with this: for an old man, you
were very good in bed, and it was fun to sleep with another
killer.'

And then she fired: three carefully aimed rounds that slammed
into my chest like lead punches.

I gasped as my body jackknifed, and I felt myself rolling
sidewards.

31 1

'Now it's your turn, Daddy,' I heard her say, her voice soft
and gentle, and through the thin slits of my eyes I saw her turn
and face her father in the doorway, raising the gun to finish him
off too.

'Emma, no,' he pleaded. 'What are you doing? I love you.'

His voice had taken on a desperate urgency, and suddenly
something in her expression changed. A ripple of doubt crossed
her face, weakening the killing glare. There was something else
there, too. It might have been love; it might have been hate. It
was impossible to tell which, but when I think about it now, I'm
convinced that it was both.

The gun in her hand shook ever so slightly, and for a long
tense moment, she hesitated.

And consequently never noticed as I sat up, still reeling from
the force of the bullets, the worst of which had been absorbed by
the flak jacket Tyndall had given me, and pulled the .45 from
where it had been concealed in the front of my waistband
underneath my jacket, lifting it two-handed in her direction.

'Just one more obstacle, Emma,' I said as she turned my way,
her face stretched tight with alarm.

She mouthed the word NO, the syllable seeming to go on for
ever, and started to raise her gun.

Which was the moment I pulled the trigger, realizing that in
the end she deserved it as much as any of them.

The bullet struck her right in the middle of the chest, her white
dress erupting in red as the shot lifted her off her feet and
slammed her against the wall. Her own gun went off, the bullet
ricocheting off the floor and flying up into the ceiling, and then
I fired a second time, this time hitting her in the face and blowing
the back of her skull away. A huge chum-like mixture of
blood, brains and bone shot three feet up the wall as Emma slid
down it, her face disappearing under a falling red curtain.

31 2

I heard Thadeus cry out in pain, grief, maybe even relief, but
the cry was weak and there were still questions he had to answer.

Staggering to my feet, I took two deep breaths and walked
over to the door. He was leaning back on the doorframe where
I'd left him, still clutching his leg. Blood stained the tiles and ran
in a steady stream across the kitchen floor. His face was pale.

'You've killed her,' he whispered. 'My baby.'

'She was no one's baby, Thadeus. You made sure of that. She
was a monster, and one you created. I almost wish I'd let her kill
you.'

'She wouldn't have killed me,' he snarled through gritted teeth.
'Couldn't you see that? She loved me. She was my little girl. And
you've murdered her. You may as well do the same to me. It's
all over now.'

'Not quite, it isn't. I've got some questions for you. If you
answer them, I'll make it quick. If you don't, it'll be slow and it'll
be painful.'

'Fuck you, Milne,' he spat, sending flecks of thick white saliva
on to my jeans. 'I'm not going to make your life any easier. Our
secrets will die with us and there's nothing you or any other
bastard can do about it. Because you've got nothing left to
threaten me with. The only thing you can do is end my life, and
I'm ready for that now. Today's as good a day to die as any.' He
spread his arms out, welcoming my final shot. 'So go on, do your
worst.'

So I did.

I did things to him that I'm ashamed of, because those things
debased me and dragged me far too close to his dank, black level.
I ignored his cries for mercy, I ignored the blood that splattered
my clothes, I ignored the stomach-churning disgust that grew as
I applied the pressure. I ignored everything except the task of
making him talk, knowing full well that both the ghosts of my

31 3

past and the ghosts of his would never forgive me if he didn't.

And talk he did. In the end, he told me everything, and when
he'd finished, I bent down and used the pistol that Nicholas
Tyndall had provided me with to shoot him once in the head, an
act which put us both out of our misery. I think at that moment
he was pleased to go. Not because he really was in pain, although
doubtless there was an element of that, but for other less obvious
reasons. I genuinely believe that somewhere in his dark heart
there was a part that was weighed down heavily with guilt,
particularly where Emma was concerned. I believe that he loved
her, and I believe too that she loved him. It was a corrupt,
twisted love but it was there nevertheless, and by his actions
when she was a child, he'd betrayed that love, and knew it.

It didn't make me feel any more sorry for him. Eric Thadeus
had ended the life of Heidi Robes, and in doing so had sentenced
her father to a life behind bars for a crime of which he was not
only innocent, but also a victim. Only the cruellest of minds
would have countenanced that. Thadeus was scum. He deserved
everything he got. But Emma? I tried not to think about
her.

Instead, I turned away and left them there together.

44

Eric Thadeus told me that Jason Khan died - and Asif Malik
died with him - because of a television programme.

This, effectively, was what started everything off. Jason had
known for some time about the abuse his girlfriend, Ann Taylor,

314

had suffered at the hands of her father and his so-called friends
in the days when she still lived with him. Her trial for GBH had
taken place before Jason met her, and having come to terms with
the details of her past herself, she'd told him everything when
they'd become lovers, including the fact that she'd witnessed a
murder seven years before.

Thadeus confirmed that the murder victim had been Heidi
Robes, and that she'd been killed during a violent sex game that
had got out of control. Usually the parties they held never went
that far, or so he'd claimed. I wasn't so sure.

Thadeus called his group of paedophiles the Hunters, and there was a perverse hint of pride in his voice when he mentioned their name. One of the Hunters, and a participant on that night, was Les Pope. Pope had been charged with getting rid of Heidi's
body and framing her father, John, in order to keep suspicion as
far away as possible from the group. According to Thadeus,
Pope had used one of his lowlife clients to do the dirty work,
something that the client had obviously done very efficiently,
given how things had turned out.

Even when Ann's account of the murder became public some
years later, and the second participant from that night, Richard
Blacklip, was subsequently arrested, things still hadn't got out of
hand. Blacklip got bail, was supplied with a false passport and a
ticket to Manila, and then it was simply a matter of Pope
telephoning Tomboy to organize his murder, thereby avoiding
the possibility of a problematic trial, where the truth of the
Robes murder might have come out.

And up until two months earlier, the truth looked like it might
have remained buried for ever. I'm sure it would have done, too,
if it hadn't been for the television programme.

I don't suppose either Jason Khan or Ann Taylor made a habit
of watching Newsnight, BBC 2's late-evening current affairs

31 5

programme, but for some reason - call it fate, if you like - they
were both sat in front of it on the evening when the producers
chose to interview the newly installed Lord Chief Justice,
Tristram ParnhamJones.

I still wonder what Ann's reaction must have been. She'd never
seen the face of the man in the black leather mask - the most
violent of all her father's 'friends' - but she remembered his voice
clearly enough. Would always remember the smooth, controlling
tones of the person who'd molested her and then taken a knife
to a screaming and pleading Heidi Robes. And now this man who,
years later, must have continued to haunt her dreams - was
the one on the television talking. There was, she was adamant,
no mistake.

But what could she say? The police hadn't found any evidence
to back up the claims made at her trial regarding the murder
she'd witnessed, and no one had been charged in connection with
it. Who was going to believe her now, if she started accusing the
most senior judge in the land of being a child murderer on
account of his voice? I could see her point. They'd think she was
mad. She'd already been threatened with a spell in a psychiatric
institution once, and would be fully aware that claims like that,
from someone with her background, would probably get her
carted straight off to one.

But Jason was different. Jason was a street thug and a hustler,
whatever his rushed conversion to Islam might have suggested,
and he would have sensed an opportunity to make some serious
money. His problem, of course, was how to use the potentially
explosive information he was holding to best effect, so he turned
to his solicitor - a man he knew to be corrupt - for help
organizing some form of lucrative blackmail.

What Jason didn't know was that Pope was only representing
him in legal matters in order to remain close to Ann and keep

316

tabs on what she was or wasn't saying. The Hunters, it seemed,
were very careful and very thorough, and initially that
thoroughness paid off. Pope strung Jason along, while simultaneously
planning his murder. But Jason must have got wind of
what was going on, because he'd phoned Asif Malik, a senior
detective and fellow Muslim, requesting that they meet up
urgently. Presumably (although no one knows for sure), Jason
was going to spill the beans.

His phone, however, was being tapped on Thadeus's orders,
and the call was picked up by the Hunters, who were now keen to get him in the ground as soon as possible. Billy West watched Jason leave his home to go to the meeting, and instead of killing him there and then and saving Malik's life, he'd got greedy and shot them both.

There had been five men present on the night of the Heidi
Robes murder. Five hunters: Eric Thadeus; Les Pope; Richard
Blacklip; a man called Wise who, Thadeus told me, had died of
cancer three years previously; and Tristram ParnhamJones.

Only Parnham-Jones still survived.

45

I left the house the way I'd come in and headed back to the
Jaguar, dialling 999 as promised, to call an ambulance for Bill.

I couldn't hear anything from Theo in the boot when I reached
the car, so I got inside, turned on the engine and started driving.
I had no idea where I was going.

As I drove, I thought through the case, and in particular

31 7

Simon Barron's part in it. How had he got so close to Emma and
Thadeus, when everyone else on the investigation was convinced
that the man behind the slayings was Nicholas Tyndall? I'd never
know, of course, but as a former detective myself I could
surmise. My guess was that Barron had realized some years ago
that by convicting John Robes of the murder of his daughter,
he'd made a terrible mistake. I felt sure that somewhere further
down the line he'd come across the name Richard Blacklip and
discovered that he was part of a wide and well-connected
paedophile ring. Obviously there couldn't have been a great deal
of evidence against any of them for anything, but something
about them must have led him to believe that it was they, not her
father, who had murdered Heidi. This would have put him in a
terrible position, made worse by the fact that, according to what
Thadeus had told me, John Robes had committed suicide in
prison several years earlier. Unable to tell anyone else of their
possible involvement for fear of what it would do to his own
reputation, it may well have been this knowledge, coupled with
his unending sense of guilt, that had pushed Barron into
premature retirement.

However, like all coppers, he could never entirely let go. So
when the Met issued a rallying call for retired detectives to come
back and help in London's burgeoning murder investigations,
he'd volunteered. I don't suppose he'd known at the time how
much the Malik/Khan case impinged on the one that had caused
him so much pain, but it wouldn't have been that difficult for
him to make the connection once he'd found out Ann Taylor's
real identity. The problem, from Barron's perspective, was that
no one on the investigation seemed that interested in Ann's death
or the light her testimony of child abuse years earlier might throw
on the case, so he'd used the North London Echo'?, investigative
journalist, Emma Neilson, to publicize his suspicions. He'd fed

31 8

her information, ignorant of her own duplicitous role, hoping
that her articles would prompt a re-think of strategy within the
investigation. I don't suppose Emma had been too keen to draw
attention to the fact that Ann's death might not have been
suicide, but she would have had little choice but to adhere to
Barron's wishes and write the articles if she wanted him
to remain onside.

And then Barron had found out something that suddenly made
him a dangerous liability. It could well have been the name of
someone else involved. He'd probably even confided to Emma
who it was, and, in doing so, sealed his own fate. She'd lured him to an isolated meeting place, doubtless with the promise of information of her own, and had then silenced him for ever,
nearly succeeding in getting me arrested in the process. Very neat.
And very ruthless. She really had been a cunning operator.

But something nagged at me, something that I just couldn't get
out of my head. You see, it was the timing. Heidi Robes had
been abducted and murdered seven years ago. According to
Thadeus, one of Pope's lowlifes had got rid of her body and
planted the false evidence of her father's guilt. Tomboy Darke
had left London for the Philippines seven years earlier, having
made enough money (by his account, as an informant) to set up a business there. One of Tomboy's criminal trades when he'd
been back in England had been burglary. Coincidence? Let me
tell you something, speaking as a copper: there's no such thing.

It was eleven o'clock when I pulled off the Ml just short of Leeds
and drove until I found a deserted lay-by. I got out and switched
on the mobile, ignoring the banging coming from the boot. As I
walked across a piece of scrubland towards some trees, I dialled
our Dive Lodge in Mindoro. It would be a little after seven in
the morning there.

31 9

Lisa, our part-time receptionist, answered. It was nice to hear
her voice and it was a good line.

'Mr Mick,' she said. 'How are you?'

I told her I was good and she asked when I was coming back.
'Never,' was the answer, but I didn't tell her that. Instead I said
it would be soon, and she said she'd look forward to it. I asked
her if Tomboy was there.

'Yes, he is around here somewhere. I get him for you. See you
soon, Mr Mick.'

A minute later, he was on the line. 'How are things?' he asked.

'Take a walk,' I told him. 'So you're out of anyone's earshot.'

He asked me once again how things were. He sounded
nervous, but not unduly so.

'Cold,' I said. 'What's it like there?'

'Warm,' he answered. The conversation was awkward, but
then I'd expected that. 'I'm in the dive shop now,' he said
eventually, 'and there's no one about. You can talk.'

'Good.' I sighed, wishing that it hadn't come to this. We'd
been good mates once. Even a week ago. Now, though, the whole
world had changed. 'I know everything, Tomboy.'

'What do you mean?' There was no mistaking the nerves in his
voice now.

'You know what I mean. I know about the girl Pope and his
friends killed at their little get-together all those years back, and
I know that they used you to get rid of her body.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Her name was Heidi, by the way. Heidi Robes. And she was
twelve years old. And her old man, the one whose house you
broke into to plant the evidence, he's dead now. He was found
guilty of her murder, even though they never had a body, and he
finally topped himself two years back. He'd lost his wife first,
then his only child. I'm amazed he lasted as long as he did.'

320

The silence at the other end of the phone spoke volumes.
Tomboy didn't have to say anything; we both knew that what I
said was right.

'You'll never be able to bring either of them back, and you'll
never be completely able to shake off the guilt of what you've
done all in the name of greed, but you can do one thing to make
things a little better. There's one man amongst those paedophiles
who's so far escaped the fate that's coming to him, and he's now
the Lord Chief Justice in the UK, if you can believe that. He
raped that girl, and one way or another, even after all this time,
I'll bet he left some DNA evidence on her. They weren't so clued up about it seven years ago. So what I want you to do is tell me where you buried the body.'

Tomboy cleared his throat. 'I don't know what to say,' he
croaked, sounding like he'd just lost his life savings on a horse
that had fallen a yard short of the finishing line.

'You do. I've just told you what to say. I want to know the
location. It'll never get back to you, I promise.'

'Mick ... Dennis ... Look, I...' His voice trailed off. 'Pope
was blackmailing me, you know? I had to do it. I wouldn't have
done normally, you know that. He found out I'd grassed up Billy
West for a job he'd done, and he was threatening to tell him.
You've got to believe me.'

'The location, Tomboy.'

He told me that he'd taken her to woodland down in Dorset,
not far from the coastal town of Swanage. 'There's a lake in the
middle. She's in there, weighted down with chains. Or she was,
anyway. In a wooden box.'

I made him give me directions and he tried to remember as
much as possible while I wrote it all down in my notebook, the
phone pressed to my ear. By the time he'd finished he was crying.
'I wish I hadn't done it, Dennis, but he made me. He had stuff

321

on me. He could have had me killed. I did it because it was my
only chance of escape.'

Part of me wanted to tell Tomboy that I understood, but in
the end, how could I? 'You're very lucky that you're six thousand
miles away,' was all I could manage.

'Is that it, then?'

'For us, yes. Just hope I never decide to come looking for you.'

I rang off, and stood for a while staring at the spindly bare
trees in front of me as they rose up like gnarled, many-fingered
hands in the winter night; wondering if I'd done the right thing
by coming here and tearing up the past. It would have been so
much easier if I'd never heard about Malik's death; had never
shot Slippery Billy West, or found out about his part in the
whole bloody chain of events. If I'd simply carried on life in
paradise with my old mate Tomboy, ignorant of what he too had
done in his past. Diving, drinking, letting one day drift into the
next.

But the world never works like that. Life's hard, and it's
unfair. And if ignorance is bliss, then knowledge is essential.
There are some terrible people walking the earth, and even now
they might be coming for you or me. If you're not watching, not
acting, not neutralizing them, then one day they're going to have
their hands around your neck, and it'll be too late.

People say that one man can't justify being judge, jury and
executioner. Some have even said it to me. I suspected ParnhamJones
himself would say it. And in many ways I can agree. But
there are times when you need to take a shortcut to justice.
Because the alternative - letting the guilty get away with crimes
too sickening to contemplate - simply doesn't bear thinking
about.

As I turned to walk back to the car, the phone rang again. I
didn't recognize the number so I picked up and said nothing.

322

'I called to see how you're doing,' said Nicholas Tyndall.
Bizarrely enough, after all that had happened that day, his voice
came across like a breath of fresh air.

'It's over,' I told him wearily.

'And the people who've been trying to fuck up my business?'

'All dead. Including the reporter.'

'Miss Neilson? You know, I always had a feeling about her.'

'Well, she was a part of it. A lot more cunning and a lot more
vicious than either of us gave her credit for.'

'You're not upset she's gone?'

'I'm upset she was what she was.'

'We're all what we are, my friend.'

He was right, but I still couldn't help wondering what Emma
would have been like if she hadn't had Eric Thadeus as a father.
And that was the sad thing: we'd never know.

'Do I owe you any money?' he asked.

'No, we're quits. You might get a bit of heat for a while, but
it'll be over soon, I promise you.'

'That's what I like to hear. Thanks for your good work.
Maybe we'll do business together again some time. I could
always use men like you.'

'No thanks. This is the end of it. We won't be talking again.'

'Suit yourself,' he said.

I said I would and hung up. Then switched off the mobile and
chucked it towards the gnarled old trees. It was someone else's
problem now.

I drove north until eventually I came to the North Yorkshire
Moors. It was there, amidst cold bleak hills, with not a tree or
dwelling in sight, that I opened up the boot and told Theo
Morris that he could go.
'Where?' he asked.

323

'Wherever you like,' I said. 'But go now while I'm still feeling
charitable.'

That did the trick. He jumped out and without so much as a
backward glance took off in the direction of an undulating valley
below. He might have been cold, tired and lost, but I guessed that
he was also extremely relieved.

I got back in the car and continued to drive.

324

Epilogue

THREE WEEKS LATER

It was late afternoon on Christmas Eve and raining steadily as
the car pulled up at the end of the track and came to a halt. The
driver was only partly visible through the fogged-up windscreen
as he scanned the surrounding undergrowth for signs of activity.

I waited thirty seconds, then stepped out from behind a nearby
beech tree and made my way over to his window. I was wearing
a long grey raincoat, a grey beanie hat, and a black scarf that
obscured most of my face but left my eyes and mouth uncovered.
In my hand was a sealed waterproof bag containing the
document I'd been working on for the past three weeks, as well
as the co-ordinates for the final resting place of Heidi Robes.

The window came down as I approached and DI John Gallan
eyed me warily. He was an honest-looking guy a couple of years
younger than me, with a decent head of curly black hair that I
would have thought was beyond regulation length, and a face
that bore enough laughter lines to suggest he was good company.

'What I've got here is of the utmost importance,' I told him
when I reached the window, sounding like a character in Mission Impossible.

327

'So you said on the phone,' he replied, staring at the bag, then
back at me. 'What is it?'

'It's information that relates to an old murder investigation.
Someone was tried for the crime and convicted, but didn't do it.'

'Why come to me about it?' Gallan asked, making no move to
take the bag. 'Why not just drop it at a police station?'

'Because I've read about you and some of the cases you've
worked on, and I think you can be trusted. I also think you'll
give the contents your full attention. Especially when you see the
name of the person involved. It's important that it's in the hands
of an honest man.'

'How did you get hold of this information?'

I couldn't help but smile a little at that. It was a typical
copper's response - trying to find out as much as possible. I'd
have asked the same thing in his position.

'Let's just say circumstances led me to it.' I handed the bag to
him through the window, and he placed it on the seat beside him.

'And that's the best I'm going to get, is it?'

I nodded. 'That's it. And it's also the end of my involvement.'
I stepped away from the car. 'Anyway, thanks for coming. And
Merry Christmas.'

'I'd wish the same to you,' he said, watching me with a
thoughtful expression on his face, 'but I don't know who you are.
You might not deserve a Merry Christmas. Do you?'

I thought about it for a second. 'I don't know,' I said at last.
'I think that depends on your opinion.'

'Well, my opinion is that if you're a good man you deserve
one, and if you're a bad one you don't.'

'That reminds me of something an old friend of mine would
have said. Well, from what I've heard, you're a good one, so
enjoy it.' With that, I turned away and started walking.

'You still haven't answered my question,' he called out after

328

me, but I kept going, and soon afterwards I heard him reverse
down the track the way he'd come.

The problem was, I couldn't answer his question, because I
genuinely didn't know.

Twenty years ago, it had all been so different. All so black and
white. I'd been a young probationer then and on the way up,
dreaming of a future I could shape through my own efforts. I'm
not sure if I was ever an idealist, but I honestly did think I was
doing the right thing, and even though it's a long time since the
police have been looked at by their peers in a positive light, I was
proud of what I did. I thought it was a better job than being a
businessman or a computer programmer. Less money, but much
more to it. I think I dreamed that one day I'd get married and
have a couple of kids; that I'd rise through the ranks until I was
a DCI or even a DCS; that I'd stand up for my fellow coppers
against government interference; that I'd tell the Home Secretary
that he had to cut back on the paperwork and give us the freedom
we needed to bring the bad guys down. That people would
sleep safely in their beds, knowing that men like me were looking
after them.

Never once did I dream that I'd be a murderer.

But then you don't, do you?

When I got back to my car, it was beginning to get dark. I
started the engine and drove away without looking back.

329

Acknowledgements

A lot of people helped in the writing of this book. So, in no
particular order, thanks to Pete, Sam, Doc and all at El Galleon,
Mindoro Island, Philippines, for answering my many questions
and providing me with an introduction to ex-pat life there. I
particularly enjoyed the walks between Sabang and Puerta
Galera, Pete. To Matt for helping me find the best place to dump
the bodies. To Waggy in Manila who was the best (and, dare I
say it, the cheapest) guide I could have hoped for. Sorry so much
of what you showed me was cut from the final document! To
Selina Walker, my editor at Transworld; Amanda Preston, my
agent; and my wife, Sally; all of whom provided constructive
criticism of the various drafts, and whose comments made it a far
better book than it would otherwise have been. And to my
invaluable sources amongst law enforcement and its related arms,
none of whom (as usual) wish to be named.

I owe you all a drink. See how this sells and you might get one!