by Alex Scarrow
Downstairs, Lane steered right, away from reception and towards a fire door at the end of the corridor.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Jacobs.
‘We’re taking the discreet exit,’ said Lane. He turned to look at Jacobs. ‘You’re lying low for a good reason, right?’
Jacobs nodded.
‘Well, the fire door, it is.’
‘Won’t it be alarmed?’
‘Possibly, but hopefully it’s not on camera. Come on.’
They reached the end of the corridor and Lane shook his head and smiled.
‘What?’ asked Boyd.
He pointed to a small white box beside the door and an LED light that was dark. ‘The battery’s flat. I wonder when that was last checked. Health and safety, eh?’
He pushed the locking bar, the door swung open and they stepped out into the sunshine. Lane scanned the busy car park.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Jacobs.
‘Spooky-looking men sitting in a spooky-looking van,’ he said. He continued a quick sweep then nodded. ‘I think we’re good.’
They hurried across the car park to the quiet corner where Boyd had parked. ‘Back seat, please, Jacobs,’ said Lane. ‘And until we’re on the motorway you’d better lie down. Avoid the ANPR cams.’
Jacobs bundled himself in and lay down as Boyd started up the car. ‘It feels like we’ve been a touch overdramatic here,’ he muttered.
‘Well, you brought me along, Boyd,’ replied Lane, smiling. ‘This is how I do it.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Boyd as he headed for the exit.
‘Go back to the beginning,’ said Minter.
Warren rewound the clip and set it playing again.
‘Fuck me,’ said O’Neal. ‘That’s him!’
Minter leant in. ‘That’s our man, all right. Does he use a card?’
Warren shook his head. ‘It’s cash.’
‘Bloody cash,’ Minter grumbled. Okeke had joined them, and they huddled together, crowding around Warren’s desk.
‘He’s got a baseball cap on,’ she said. ‘Please tell me he takes it off now he’s inside?’
Warren shook his head again.
They observed the man approaching the counter, then talking to the shopkeeper. ‘He looks up a bit, though,’ said Warren.
They watched in silence as he pointed at the display case behind the counter. The old man turned to look –
‘Wait!’ Okeke reached out and grabbed the mouse.
‘Hey!’ Warren protested. ‘What are you doing? There’s nothing there.’
She paused the video, then rewound it a couple of seconds.
The man in the baseball cap rolled his head around, as if his neck was stiff, and she stabbed the pause button. They stared at the man’s fully revealed face. The image was blurred, the resolution somewhat pixelated.
While everyone else’s eyes were on the man’s face, Warren’s were on the pack of cigarettes frozen in place as the old man slid them across the counter. He knew that logo – that red circle, the figure smoking a peace pipe. He’d seen that before. Very recently.
‘I know that,’ he said. ‘Those ciggies…’ He looked up at the others around him. ‘American Spirit. Lane smokes those.’
‘Shit,’ said Okeke.
The blurry face had seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. Now the pixels coalesced into a very familiar face.
65
Boyd was heartily wishing he’d brought Okeke along to do the driving. He was knackered. But Her Madge was probably right: this kind of thing was Lane’s area of expertise.
‘So what’s the plan, Boyd?’ asked Jacobs, breaking the silence.
‘We’ll get you to the station first and then get a recorded statement of everything you told me yesterday,’ Boyd said.
‘Then witness protection?’ Jacobs leant forward between the seats. ‘You know there’s a killer out there, right? A fucking hitman?’
‘I know. Which is why we will get you into witness protection as soon as we’ve finished with our interviews.’
‘That had better not mean custody,’ Jacobs said. ‘I’m not doing that again.’
‘No, it doesn’t mean custody,’ Boyd assured him. ‘We’re going to keep you safe until you can return home.’
‘And when will that be?’ Jacobs asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Boyd replied. ‘It won’t be until we’ve interviewed and charged all the names on that list at the very least.’
Jacobs laughed. ‘You’ll be fucking lucky. Half of them are in government, the other half run the bloody media.’
He had a point. And, while they couldn’t possibly ‘do away with’ the number of people who would know their little secret, there was no knowing how far these people were prepared to go to protect their own. Blanket denial? Superinjunctions? They could probably have the case re-assigned to another, more compliant force if they wanted to.
And then what waited down the line for Darren Jacobs? Slipping in his shower and sustaining a fatal head injury few weeks later? Or perhaps he’d be run over by some unidentified hit-and-run driver just like poor Chris Lewis.
‘I honestly don’t know how long, Jacobs. It could be a few weeks or several months,’ Boyd said wearily.
‘Shit,’ Jacobs said. ‘It’s all fucking shit.’
Lane twisted in his seat to look at him. ‘So what’s this list?’ he asked.
‘It’s a list of members of the Lambda Club,’ Jacobs replied. ‘Sutton gave it to me.’
‘Let’s save this for the interview room, eh?’ said Boyd.
Lane turned back to face the front. ‘He’s right, Jacobs. Try to relax. We’ll get you there in one piece.’
‘Have either of you got any fags?’ Jacobs asked hopefully.
‘I don’t smoke,’ said Boyd. ‘Plus, you’re not stinking up my car.’
‘And I’m out,’ said Lane. ‘Sorry, mate.’
‘Shit,’ Jacobs grumbled. ‘I really need one. And I need a piss, by the way.’
‘It’s an hour and a half back. Think you can hold out?’ asked Boyd.
‘On neither front,’ Jacobs said. ‘Sorry… but you didn’t give me much chance to go at the hotel.’
‘There’s a garage after the turn-off for the A21,’ said Lane. ‘I spotted it on the way up. We could let him take a leak there?’
Boyd shook his head. He really didn’t want to stop at all.
‘I’ll take him,’ said Lane apologetically. ‘I could do with one too, actually.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Boyd said, exasperated. ‘If there’s a Maccy D’s there, do you kids want a Happy Meal each too?’
Lane chuckled while Jacobs just scratched at his itchy feet. Boyd realised he’d have to hoover the floor in the back once he’d delivered Jacobs to safety. The thought of an early snowfall of dried flaky skin made his stomach turn.
‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘Pee break in about fifteen minutes. Do you both think you can hang on that long?’
Lane nodded, trying to supress a grin. Jacobs continued to scratch away at his foot with one hand and his beard with the other.
For fuck’s sake – what did I do to deserve this?
Minter leant forward, his nose practically touching the monitor. ‘Bloody hell, I think you’re right. It is Lane.’ He looked up at Okeke. ‘He’s gone out with the boss. I’ve got no idea where…’
‘Shit. Boyd’s taken Lane up with him to collect our informant,’ Okeke said.
‘What informant?’ asked O’Neal.
They all stared at her. Minter looked really pissed off. ‘Informant?’ he said. ‘And how come you know about this and I don’t?’
She explained about getting the lead yesterday afternoon and Boyd insisting that it stayed between the two of them until they knew what they were dealing with.
‘Thanks for not trusting us,’ grumbled O’Neal.
Minter glared at her. ‘Call him,’ he said. ‘Now!’
6
6
Boyd swung the car into one of the parking spaces beside the garage. His tank was half full and on any other day he’d have taken the opportunity to fill her up.
‘Right, quick as you can,’ he said, resigned.
Jacobs climbed out of the back as Lane unbuckled himself. ‘Do you want anything?’
‘Just for you to be quick,’ Boyd replied tersely.
Boyd watched them hurry across the forecourt, Lane walking briskly looking in all directions at once as though he was escorting the prime minister himself, Jacobs hobbling beside him in his sandals and flapping floral shirt. From behind they could have been a budget version of Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man.
Lane led Jacobs to the toilet. ‘I’ll go and buy us some smokes. You got a favourite?’
‘B&H… if you’re paying,’ Jacobs replied with a cheeky grin.
Lane eye-rolled and left him queuing behind a mum and a wriggling baby. He stepped into the petrol station’s shop and pulled his phone out. He checked to make sure he wasn’t in Boyd’s line of sight, then hit the last number he’d dialled.
A voice answered after the first ring. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m in possession of your little weasel. What do you want me to do with him?’
‘Get rid of him, of course. But, for the love of God, he mustn’t be found. I’ve had a devil of the time trying to get Sutton’s investigation hobbled.’
‘Sir, no names.’
‘Right… yes, of course.’ A pause. ‘That was clumsy.’
‘Just be careful.’
‘Chief you-know-what down south… has apparently been a difficult bitch and is pushing back against her superior. So I’m not even sure we can close this down. Let’s just make sure they’ve got no more evidence.’
‘There’s a complication,’ said Lane.
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m with the senior investigating officer on the team.’
‘What?’
‘We had to collect the weasel together. He’s to be formally interviewed later today.’
The man on the other end of the line let out a volley of expletives. In the background Lane could hear the muffled sound of men laughing and the clink of glasses. It wasn’t rocket science to work out that the speaker was in the members’ club privacy room: a small windowless, wood-panelled room with one desk, a few leather armchairs and an absolute cast-iron guarantee it was bug and camera-free. Not even the corridors of Westminster could offer that comforting assurance.
‘Well, then you’ll have to deal with him too.’
Lane didn’t answer.
‘Is that a problem?’
Was it a problem? In so far as he’d actually grown to like Boyd, yes, actually, it was a bit of a problem.
‘I’m not sure adding yet another scalp to the pile is going to help, sir,’ he said.
‘The weasel must not be interviewed! Do you have any idea how much is at stake here? This is not up for discussion. Understood?’
Lane turned and noticed the lady with her toddler emerging from the corner of the shop. Jacobs would be out soon. He needed to get off the phone.
‘Do it. And do it now,’ the man said. And hung up.
Boyd pulled out his iPhone. He’d felt it vibrate and suspected, no, hoped, it was Charlotte. They hadn’t spoken since Monday morning. He wondered how she was feeling.
There was no message.
He fumbled in his trouser pocket for his work phone. He was certain one of them had vibrated while he was driving. He lifted his bum off the seat, pulled his phone out and tapped the screen.
He saw Okeke’s name beneath the green speech bubble. He’d not thought to text her to say he was going up to collect Jacobs, which must have stung when she realised he’d gone. He was about to swipe the screen to unlock his phone when the rear door was wrenched opened.
Jacobs clambered into the back, mid conversation with Lane. ‘… the bloody rush? I told you! I’m gasping for a puff, mate.’
The passenger door opened and Lane got in. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
‘Did you get his fags?’ asked Boyd.
‘The queue at the till was too long.’
‘What?’ Jacobs blurted from behind. ‘There was no bloody queue. And, anyway, why did you wander off? Aren’t you meant to be protecting me?’
Lane twisted in his seat. ‘You’ll get your fucking cigarettes when we get to Hastings!’ He turned back to Boyd. ‘We should get a move on.’
Lane’s manner had completely changed. ‘You okay?’ asked Boyd. ‘Did something happen?’
‘I’m fine,’ came the reply. ‘Sorry. I just want to get this job done.’
‘Okay.’ Boyd nodded. ‘Okay. Me too.’ He dropped his work phone into his lap, turned on the ignition and pulled out of the car park onto the sliproad that led back to the A21. He recalled from Dave Mullen, the child-porn-peddling van driver, that from here to Hastings there were no other pit-stops or petrol stations. They should have a clear run back.
He eased onto the A21. The traffic was still relatively light. ‘All right. It’s forty-five minutes to Hastings, Darren, then we’ll get you a coffee from the canteen and you can have a fag before we go into interview. Sound good?’
‘Fine,’ Jacobs muttered grumpily.
Lane took his phone out of his pocket and swiped at the screen. Boyd caught a glimpse of a young boy on the lock screen before it vanished.
‘Is that your lad?’ he asked.
Lane nodded, busy thumbing his phone, looking for something.
The first creeping sense of doubt began to percolate into Boyd’s bloodstream. The boy he’d glimpsed looked a lot older than four. Nine or ten, even.
‘You said your son was four?’ he said.
‘No. He’s older, mate.’ Lane’s face flickered with a smile. ‘You must have misheard me.’
Shit. No, he definitely said ‘four’. Why’s that suddenly changed?
His phone vibrated again on his lap, ringing this time. The screen was facing down – thank God. He was certain it would be Okeke again.
‘We’ll need to come off the A21,’ said Lane, studying his own screen.
‘Why’s that?’ Boyd asked.
‘There’s been an accident,’ Lane replied. ‘Both lanes blocked on the A21 and backing up.’
Okay, Bill… you might be in trouble here, Julia’s voice cautioned.
‘It’s okay,’ said Boyd. ‘It’ll clear.’
‘No,’ said Lane more forcefully. ‘The turn-off ahead is quicker; it’s a much more efficient route.’
Boyd looked at him. ‘It isn’t, though… is it? That’s bullshit.’
Lane, realising the ruse was over with, reached under his jacket discreetly – for Boyd’s eyes only – and wrapped his hand around the grip of his gun.
‘Just take the next left, Boyd.’
67
Minter dialled the phone number for Police Control in Lewes. It was answered almost immediately. ‘Contact officer Ellie Bryant speaking.’
‘This is DS Minter down at Hastings,’ he said. ‘I need an urgent track request for one of our officers.’
‘Are they in trouble?’ Ellie asked.
‘They’re in danger. It’s quite urgent.’
‘All right. What’s his force-issue phone number?’
Minter read it out from his contacts page.
‘One moment, sergeant…’
Minter turned round to face the others. Okeke was busy texting Boyd again. Warren and O’Neal were already on the ANPR module of LEDS, trying to pick up a match on the number plate of Boyd’s Renault Captur.
‘DS Minter?’ Ellie was back on the line.
‘I’m here.’
‘Yes. We’ve got a real-time signal on his phone. It’s actually in motion. Let me see… It’s just south of Sevenoaks, heading along the A21 towards Tonbridge. Do you want me to put out a broad alert?’
Minter’s brain was whirling. He really wasn’t sure what to do. Would an all-ch
annels scramble to Boyd’s location put the boss in further danger? Would it be better to discreetly monitor and track his progress? Probably for the first time since he’d joined the team, Minter really wished that clumsy twit Sutherland was here.
‘Sergeant?’ Ellie prompted.
Minter took a deep breath. ‘Yes, a broad alert,’ he replied. ‘We’ve got a senior officer in an extremely hazardous situation.’
‘What’s going on?’ asked Jacobs. ‘Why the detour?’
Boyd answered. ‘Are you going to explain, Lane?’
Lane twisted in his seat and produced his gun for Jacobs to see. ‘You’re both going to do as I say from this point onwards,’ he said firmly.
‘Shit!’ Jacobs recoiled at the sight of his gun and struck the back seat with his fist. ‘Fuck!’
‘Just stay calm!’ Boyd said, doing his best to sound calm too.
‘Like he said,’ added Lane. ‘Calm will get us all through this without incident.’ Lane glanced at the winding country lane ahead. ‘Stop up there,’ he said, pointing at a widening of the country lane. It looked like a tractor entrance into a gated field.
Boyd did as he said.
‘Right.’ Lane unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the door and reversed out of the car. He pointed the gun at Jacobs. ‘You… in the front seat. Now!’
‘Lane,’ said Boyd, ‘we’re keeping this calm, right? Keeping this –’
‘Shut up, Boyd!’ Lane swung the gun towards him. ‘I want silence. Come on, Jacobs. Front seat. Now!’
Jacobs climbed out of the rear door on Boyd’s side.
‘Don’t even think about running or I’ll put a bullet in your spine. Then I’ll walk right over and put another in that stupid little head of yours.’
Jacobs held his hands up high as he rounded the rear of the car. ‘You… you’re with them?’
‘Shut up!’
