A dead body. A mysterious murder. A serial killer on the loose.

A taxi driver is found murdered in a remote part of Exeter. He is a family man, no enemies to be found. There is no physical evidence, except for dozens of fingerprints inside the cab. How will DS Peter Gayle ever track down his killer?

Then another cab driver is murdered. Now this isn’t just a case of one murder but a serial killer on the loose, once again…

DS Peter Gayle is back! Don’t miss the thrilling next book in Jack Slater’s brilliant crime series, perfect for fans of Angela Marsons and Rachel Abbott.

No Way Home

Jack Slater

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Also by Jack Slater

Nowhere to Run

No Place to Hide

JACK SLATER

Raised in a farming family in Northamptonshire, England, the author had a varied career before settling in biomedical science. He has worked in farming, forestry, factories and shops as well as spending five years as a service engineer.

Widowed by cancer at 33, he recently remarried in the Channel Islands, where he worked for several months through the summer of 2012.

He has been writing since childhood, in both fiction and non-fiction. No Way Home is his third crime novel in the DS Peter Gayle mystery series.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Book List

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Endpages

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Thanks once again to former Thames Valley Police Officer Rick Ell and his wife Christine for their invaluable advice on technical matters and to my wife Pru for…too much to list here.

Also to Charlotte Mursell and everyone else at HQ Digital for their hard work and insight and to Kathy Gale, who suggested I step onto this road in the first place. Although it’s a detour from the direction I was going in, it has been a joy getting to know Pete Gayle and his team and sharing their adventures and adversities.

Which brings me to you – the readers who have come along for the ride. Without you, there would be no point to this journey, so thank you for the interest you have taken in my work and all the messages of support I’ve received. I really appreciate you all. This last year has been a hell of a ride - long may it continue.

Dedication

For Kathy Gale with thanks for leading me, finally, in the right direction.

CHAPTER ONE

Lights glowed through the Yorkshire boarding of the big barn in front of them, gleaming on the cars, pickups and four-by-fours lined up on the wide expanse of the concrete cattle yard.

Detective Sergeant Pete Gayle, crouching in the shadows at the inner end of the short driveway that led to the yard, held up an open hand then closed all but one finger and waved towards the left. He held up the open hand again, then waved two fingers to the right. Eyes roaming the parked vehicles, he waited for the two flanking teams to report.

‘Bravo two, in position,’ came quietly through his earpiece..

‘Bravo three in position.’

‘Bravo one, received,’ he muttered into his radio. ‘Alpha. Sit rep?’

‘Give us forty seconds,’ DS Jim Hancock said quietly from the far side of the big barn, where he and his crew were approaching up an open field that sloped down steeply into the valley beyond.

‘Roger. Beta teams, close in.’ He raised himself up so he could see into the surrounding vehicles and began to move cautiously forward between them, his two PCs, Ben Myers and Jill Evans, pacing him on the other sides of the vehicles he was moving between.

Behind him, the two police Range Rovers he and his team had arrived in were parked nose to tail across the closed metal gates. There had been two heavily built men in waxed jackets and beanie hats guarding the gates, but they had been taken by surprise by another team emerging from a house across the road and arrested before they had a chance to warn the people in the barn.

Pete’s eyes were constantly on the move as he advanced slowly between the parked cars. Anyone who had stayed behind in one of them, or anyone stepping out of the barn, could raise the alarm in an instant, ruining the element of surprise they were relying on to minimise the possible response of the people inside.

He could hear the murmur of a crowd grow in volume. Male and female voices were raised in excitement. The barking of dogs cut abruptly through the noise. It turned quickly to growling and snarling as the enraged animals saw each other. Pete didn’t need to see what was going on in there. He could easily imagine it. Metal sheep hurdles locked together in the middle of the big space, people crowding around, excited, anticipation reaching a peak as the two dogs were led on short leashes from their cages. Muzzles removed, they had seen each other and reacted exactly as they had been raised to since they were pups.

Cash would be changing hands as bets were hurriedly placed before it was too late.

The excited shouting got louder as the hurdles were locked together, the two dogs held at opposite sides of the ring prior to being released.

Pete paused between two expensive four-by-fours in the front row of parked vehicles. He poked his head forward and peered left and right. His carefully raised hand was answered by others at either end of the row. He keyed the radio again.

‘Jim?’

‘In position.’

‘Roger.’

Inside, the two dogs were released. Their snarls changed tone as they met in the middle of the ring. The shouts from the onlookers reached a crescendo.

‘Go, go, go,’ Pete said into his radio, then ran for the big steel doors.

They were closed with a simple bolt that was accessed from inside and out through a square hole in the right-hand door. Pete flipped the handle and pulled it back, cracking the door open just enough. Ben and Jill preceded him through as the other two teams, having checked for possible exit points along the sides of the barn, closed in. Pete entered, followed by two more uniformed officers who had been chosen for their size. Looking past the crowd, he saw the door at the far side of the barn being closed behind Jim Hancock and his team.

They still hadn’t been spotted in the excitement of the crowd.

He raised an air horn in his right hand and pressed the button. A blast of noise erupted, instantly quelling the crowd, though the dogs were still snarling and yelping in the ring.

‘Police,’ Pete shouted. ‘Stay where you are. You’re under arrest.’

‘Back door,’ someone yelled in the crowd.

‘No, you don’t,’ Jim shouted.

‘Swamp them,’ another voice bellowed as people began running everywhere. A large part of the crowd came at Pete and his team. He snapped out his extendable baton just as a woman in a short black dress squealed and fell towards him, clearly pushed from behind. His instinct told him to save her, but training and practice stopped him. He stepped aside. She screamed, grabbing for his coat as she stumbled, falling, and the man behind her, dressed in a waxed jacket that looked brand new, tried to dodge past Pete on his other side. Pete lifted his baton slightly and pushed it forward between the man’s legs. He yelled as his own momentum took him down. With no time for niceties, people going every which way, Pete stamped on the man’s crotch and turned, baton raised.

‘Hold the doors,’ he shouted as his baton impacted with an older woman’s arm and chest, almost snatching it from his hand.

‘Whoah.’

He allowed the baton to swing and grabbed the back of her coat. She planted her front foot and spun towards him, fist swinging. Pete met her forearm with his baton, hearing the snap of bone, and she screamed, rage switching to agony on her weathered face. He used his foot to sweep her legs out from under her and she fell across the already downed man.

The girl in the short dress was scrabbling to rise at his other side. He swung the baton hard at the tendon just above her right knee. She screamed and fell flat on her face again. He used the baton to deaden her left arm as someone barrelled into him from the side. He tripped over the downed young woman, twisting as he fell and raising the baton. A heavy-set man in a leather jacket and jeans, head shaved but a bushy beard on his lower face and neck, was standing over him, legs spread, fist drawn back and about to swing.

From this angle, there was only one target. Pete raised the baton as hard as he could. The man’s eyes widened and he froze for a moment, then puked violently over Pete’s jacket and trousers. Pete sat up, the baton held two-handed now as he raised it like a bar, meeting the man’s throat and using it to push him across to the side, where he collapsed in a foetal position.

Another man tried to leap over Pete, but he reached up, catching his foot and using his whole torso to yank it backwards. The man yelled and came down hard on his face across the young woman’s back, pinning her to the swept concrete floor as Pete gained his feet.

A woman dodged around him and he glanced that way. Saw Jill, tiny though she was, extend her arm, catching the woman across the top of her chest with a forearm block that took her down as if she’d run into a steel bar. He heard the crack of her head hitting the concrete and hoped she wasn’t going to be seriously injured by the impact. It was her own fault, but it could ruin Jill’s career, justified or not.

He turned his head just in time. Two men were running at him, heads down, arms interlocked in a joint rugby tackle. There was nowhere to go, no time to step aside. He did the only thing he could: dove forward, going up and over them, hoping there would be something other than concrete to land on.

There wasn’t.

He twisted in the air, taking the impact on his shoulder. Even though he rolled into it, pain seared through the joint, spreading across his chest and back. Combined with the stench of sick on his clothes, it made his stomach heave, but he held it back and gained his feet again. A punch that had been aimed for his head caught him in the side instead and, despite the stab vest, agony lanced through him. He went to raise his baton, but his shoulder flashed agony. He bellowed, swapped the baton to his left hand and used the handle end as a ram, driving it sideways into his attacker’s stomach. The man doubled over and Pete met his face with a raised knee, left hand driving him down harder on it, but the man shook off the impact as if it was nothing.

Whistles and air horns blasting around them, the man reared up and grabbed Pete in a bear hug. He was three inches taller than Pete’s six feet and almost twice as wide, and it felt like his whole bulk was muscle and bone. With his right arm trapped inside the bear hug, Pete’s shoulder screamed its agony again as his feet left the floor.

One hand trapped, the other holding the baton and his feet dangling useless, Pete brought his knees up around the guy and tried kicking at the backs of his legs, but it was useless. Instinct urged him to grab the back of the guy’s head and pull back, but he knew what the reaction to that would be. A headbutt. Instead, he brought the baton down between them, placed it under the man’s nose and pushed back hard. The man growled like a big dog as his head was forced back, but his arms didn’t give at all. Then he turned his head, but the steel baton lodged under his cheekbone. He turned further and it was across his ear. Pete saw a chance, took a breath that was limited by the pressure on his ribcage, and bellowed in the man’s ear as loudly as he could. ‘Let go. Now.’

It had the opposite effect.

He felt himself jerked tighter into the crushing embrace. Twisting in the man’s grip, he tried to get a knee between his legs, but the big man anticipated the move and blocked it.

Which left only one option.

Pete dropped the baton and clawed his left hand, going for the face. His first and third fingers found the man’s eyes while his thumb and little finger gripped the sides of his face. The man tried to twist away, wrenching his head around to the side, but Pete held on. He tried the other way and, despite the pain in his wrist, Pete still held the grip, pressing the two fingers into his eye-sockets. With his eyes squeezed shut, the man wrenched his head this way and that, tightening his grip on Pete’s torso even further, but there was no escape. Pete felt the eyeballs give a little under the pressure of his fingers. With a roar, the big man lifted him higher, then slammed him down onto the floor, letting go as he did so and twisting away, body bent as his hands went to his eyes.

Pete took the fall, neck bent to hold his head up off the concrete. Pain lanced through his shoulder again. A quick glance told him he couldn’t see his baton, so he rolled to the side, away from the man, in case he recovered more quickly than expected, then gained his feet. He saw the baton on the floor three feet to his left, reached for it, but was beaten by the older woman he’d taken down earlier. She snatched it back away from him, her face twisting into a hate-filled grin.

‘Now, Mr Piggy…’

Her broad local accent was somehow unexpected, but Pete didn’t allow it to affect his reaction. He lunged forward, ducking his head as he grabbed for the wider end of the baton. Felt the top of his head impact her face as his hand closed around the coated steel. The woman screamed, falling backwards as he snatched the baton backwards out of her hand. He opened his eyes to a horrific image. Her hate-filled eyes blazed over a lower face that was slick and red with blood, the mouth open in a snarl of bloody teeth. He caught her still-extended arm and snapped a handcuff onto the wrist, twisting it hard to turn her around and connecting her hands behind her with the cuffs, then shoving her forward so she fell with a scream onto her face.

Pete turned fast, baton raised and brought it down hard across the back of the big man’s neck, flooring him. Used a second pair of cuffs to bind his wrists around the top of his leg, then looked up and around.

The fight was over.

The one in the ring, too, he saw. A white bull terrier was snarling quietly as it mauled and shook the body of a brindle dog that was covered in blood.

And beyond, the back doors of the barn stood ajar.

‘Shit,’ he muttered. They’d hoped for a clean sweep, but it looked like someone, at least, had got away.

He searched the figures in the barn. Couldn’t see either Jim or Mick Douglas, one of the city PCs who had accompanied them on the raid. A quick count told him that two other members of the crew were missing too. With the gate blocked off, they must be in the fields and woods between here and the university. He lifted his radio. ‘DS Gayle for DS Hancock, over.’

*

‘Oh, come on. Nobody doesn’t like fairgrounds.’ PC Qadir Hussain waved his hand expansively. ‘Look around you. The lights, the smells, the sounds, the excitement: what’s not to like?’

His patrol partner, PC Karen Upton, kept resolutely walking. ‘The lights, the smells, the sounds,’ she said. ‘The crowds, the pickpockets, the cons. The whole thing makes me sick.’

Qadir laughed as one overloud pop song gave way to another, the smell of diesel fumes wafting between the brightly lit stalls to briefly overlay the sweetness of candyfloss, the salt of the ocean and the sourness of cooked onions. ‘Killjoy was here, eh? Down on Plymouth Hoe.’

‘I’ve got nothing against people having fun. I just don’t see it in these places. They’re nothing but a legalised excuse for petty crime.’

‘Who tipped your pram over tonight?’ He glanced across at her as they approached a particularly dense knot of people between a hot-dog stand and a confectionary trailer.

Karen shot him a sour look, her dark eyes fiery in the flickering light of the densely packed seafront fair. ‘Nobody. I just don’t happen to agree with you. It happens sometimes. Get over it.’

They eased through the densely packed throng and suddenly were in the open. He nodded to the dodgems stand to her left. ‘You can’t tell me you don’t enjoy them, at least.’

She turned. ‘OK. There’s an exception to every rule.’

‘Says the woman who’s here to enforce them.’

‘What – you’re a Muslim in a navy town and you don’t appreciate irony?’

Something in her voice as she ended the comment made him glance at her. She was frowning, staring at the expansive ride. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘The kid on the back of that yellow car over at the far side. There’s something…’

He saw the youth she was talking about. He might have been in his early teens. As he watched, the kid jumped off the back of the yellow car, ran a few steps and hopped onto the back of another, one hand to the upright pole that drew power from the overhead grid to drive the little vehicle. Two girls were in the seat, long hair flying as they laughed, one steering while the other glanced up at their new rider. The kid grinned down at her then dropped into a crouch.

Qadir shook his head. ‘He doesn’t look familiar.’

‘I’m sure I’ve… Got it. He’s on the mispers list. Comes from Exeter, I think.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘There was something about his background.’

‘He’s coming around.’

The young girl was steering the car around the sheet-rubber arena, going with the flow of the multicoloured mass of cars with their laughing and shrieking occupants. They rounded the last corner, heading towards the two uniformed patrol officers. Qadir raised a hand to wave.

‘Hey, kid.’

The youth spotted them. His expression changed. He reached through between the girls, grabbed the steering wheel and shoved it over to the side. The car suddenly angled across the centre of the arena, away from Qadir and Karen.

‘Shit,’ Karen shouted. ‘Go that way.’ She pointed to the right and set off to the left, jumping up onto the wide metal edge of the ride and running along it as Qadir headed the other way. A family group was standing right in his way. He swung around them, started to run, but the crowd was too tightly packed. He pushed through to the edge of the ride, jumped up and started around it in the opposite direction to his partner. Glancing across, he saw the kid jump free of the car an instant before it hit another one at an acute angle. The girls screamed as the kid jumped over the nose of an oncoming red dodgem car, stepped between two others as they passed and reached the far side. Qadir swung around a group of young guys who were standing in his way and ran on. He made the corner, glanced across again, but the kid had gone from sight.

‘Crap,’ he muttered. What chance did they stand now, in this crowd?

But the kid had seen them and run. There had to be a reason for that. He couldn’t give up now.

The crowd on this side of the ride was a lot thinner. A few long strides and he reached the far corner. He stopped, one hand to the brightly painted corner post as he stared out into the crowded and noisy night, searching for movement amid the milling sea of constantly shifting figures. Something caught his attention at the edge of his vision. His head snapped towards it. A small figure darted into sight and then was gone again, several yards away to his right. He waited. There, dodging through the crowd. He lifted a hand to his radio.

*

Emma Radcliffe stepped out into the warm April night to the gentle sound of the river at the far side of the pub car park. Minutes ago, that sound would have been torture, but now it was soothing. Restful.

She checked her watch.

Still only twelve minutes since she’d left her broken-down car on the side of the road. She’d wondered if she was going to make it back out of the big pub in time. When she’d got here, she had barely been able to walk without wetting herself. Then, when she sat down and let the flow commence, she’d wondered if it would ever stop. But it had, with three minutes to spare. She shook her sleeve back down over her watch and glanced down the road.

And here it was.

A good thing she was early, she thought, as she stepped forward to the kerb and raised her hand. She had called the cab company as she was stepping away from the bloody useless car, which had just lost power and died on her, out of the blue, and refused to start again. When she said she’d be here, at the Old Mill Carvery, the woman had said fifteen minutes.

The cab drew up beside her, light shining orange on its roof. The passenger window buzzed down as she leaned down to it.

‘Pennsylvania?’ she asked.

‘Hop in.’

Of course, she should have expected him to be Indian. Ninety-five per cent of the taxi drivers in the city were. She opened the back door of the cab and climbed in.

‘Buckle up, please.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ She’d forgotten the need for that in the back seat, these days. She drew the seatbelt across and clipped it in.

‘Right-o.’ He slipped the handbrake and eased the car into motion up the long hill out of the city. ‘Did you have a good evening?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I was working late, then my bloody car broke down.’

They passed the little Nissan on the side of the road where she’d left it, but she decided not to comment.

‘Sorry. I thought, seeing where I picked you up…’

She let the comment go without reply. Silence settled in the car until he flicked on the indicator and it began its rhythmic click. He turned off the main road, heading up the tree-lined lane she’d been dreading.

Emma saw his eyes on her in the driving mirror. In his mid-forties, she guessed, he was stocky and round-faced with lush, wavy hair and designer stubble. He was wearing a denim shirt, but she imagined him in a suit and tie as a bouncer on a night-club door. And his eyes… There was something in the way they shone that sent a shiver down her spine. Instinctively, her knees clamped together, her legs turning slightly away from him.

‘So, what do you do, to be working so late?’ She detected just a slight hint of Devon in his accent and felt somehow reassured by it.

‘I was finishing the preparations for a big court case that starts tomorrow.’

‘You look too young to be a lawyer.’

She caught his gaze in the mirror again, saw the twinkle in his dark eyes. ‘I’m not. I just work for one.’

‘Oh, I see.’

The car slowed as they approached a tight right-hand bend with the entrance to a picnic area on the left, the trees growing more densely than ever, branches twining together overhead to give the impression of a tunnel.

‘Nice along here, isn’t it,’ the driver said. ‘Quiet. You wouldn’t know you were anywhere near the city.’ There was something in his tone that didn’t sound right.

Oh, God. Had this been a mistake? Which way was he going to turn? Along the road or…?

The car eased around to the right.

‘Of course, in the dark like this, you don’t see it at its best. Looks like something out of a cheap horror film, eh?’ He chuckled.

She shivered. ‘Hmm.’

‘I love those old Hammer ones. Peter Cushing and Vincent Price when they were young. Do you like a horror movie? Bit of a scare?’

The tunnel of bare branches opened out around them, switching to high, dense field hedges. A little farther on, she knew, a gate led in on the right to a field with a wooden building in the far corner where three horses were kept.

‘I see enough scary things at work,’ she said, forcing herself to think of the grey horse that currently lived in the field. It’s big, gentle, liquid eyes, those long lashes. The warmth of its soft skin as she stroked its nose. The almost prehensile mobility of its lips when she offered it a sugar lump or a piece of apple. The image in her mind began to calm her.

‘You do criminal cases, then? Killers and rapists and that?’

‘Yes.’ Although most of the criminality in this city was to do with drugs rather than violence, she thought.

‘You must see some horrible stuff, then, eh? Bodies and that.’

‘Only in photographs, thankfully.’

The hedge on their left dropped abruptly to a level you could see over. She glanced across, knowing that a flock of sheep and new lambs were being kept in there now. She could see a number of pale blobs dotted about in the darkness.

She frowned. It seemed particularly dark all of a sudden. Glancing across to the right, she saw that the thin sliver of the moon had disappeared, the previously clear sky giving way to a heavy bank of cloud.

‘Don’t expect you watch much of that true-crime telly then, eh? Get enough of it at work,’ he said as they passed two police Range Rovers parked up in a gateway on their right.

‘Exactly.’

‘Me, I love it. Try and figure out who the criminal is before the detectives get there. I sometimes think I should have been a copper instead of doing this. Of course, it’s all down to the editing, I expect. They lead you in a particular direction without saying as much. Let you figure it out for yourself so you feel good about it.’

They were passing houses now. Back in civilisation, as she thought when she drove along here in daylight. Although civilisation was a generous description, considering how rough and poorly kept some of the houses along here were. Detached, edge of town, they should have been smart and expensive, but in truth, many of them looked shabby and dirty and unkempt, as if they were on a building site. Which was one reason she didn’t like driving along here. The car got so dirty.

‘I expect the idea is to let the public feel better about the crimes they describe,’ she said. ‘And those crimes are the worst, so, if people feel better about them, they feel better about crime levels in general.’

‘Yeah. Hadn’t thought of it like that. Same with Agatha Christie and CSI and the like, I suppose. People figure out these convoluted plots, they imagine the police must have it easy in the real world. Makes them feel safer.’

‘Exactly.’ She began to relax. He wasn’t as creepy as she’d thought. He actually had some interesting insights. And she was nearly home. Another three or four minutes…

‘Whereas, the truth is, these days, with the government cutbacks and everything, most criminals get away with it. We have the technology: just can’t pay for the staff to use it.’

‘Not in a timely manner, at least,’ she agreed, as they passed the last of the houses on the narrow lane and the verges opened out wide at either side. Once more, there were woods beyond, but only a small area. She could see the streetlights of Pennsylvania Road just a few hundred yards ahead.

The driver grunted. ‘Takes months to get samples processed, not minutes like on the telly, and, by then, chances are your perp or whatever you want to call them has moved away. Might even have a new identity. Especially these days, with everything being so easy to forge on the computer.’ He reached across to the glove box and opened it. She couldn’t see what he was reaching for. The headrest of the seat in front of her blocked her line of sight.

Emma glanced at the mirror.

He was staring at her again, instead of at what he was doing. She felt a cold tingle around the back of her neck. He glanced away then, looked down at the glove box and snapped it shut. ‘And despite all the technology, all you need is one of these and a bit of intelligence, and you can get away with anything.’

He held up a small, square, plastic packet. A condom.

Jesus! Who did this creep think he was?

‘This would be a perfect spot, wouldn’t it? Dark. Quiet. Easy getaway. Don’t know where the nearest CCTV camera is. There’s those houses back there, but that would just add to the thrill, wouldn’t it?’

‘I…’ Her throat clogged. She coughed to clear it. ‘I’d imagine so.’

He nodded towards the wide verge on his side of the car. ‘I mean, you pull over there, nobody would take a blind bit of notice, would they? They’d just assume you were having a bit of nookie. A lovers’ tryst.’ She felt the car slow as he took his foot off the accelerator.

‘I think I’d like you to concentrate on driving,’ she said, her voice sounding small and feeble. She cleared her throat again.

‘You never done it in a car? You haven’t lived, lovey. Can’t beat it.’

Panic rose up within her, her breath getting short. This had been a terrible mistake. She’d known it even as she was making the call. Why had she even…?

‘If you were in the front here, you could change gear for me, if you know what I mean.’

She heard the metallic buzz of a zip and a whimper escaped from her throat.

‘Actually, you could even reach through from behind there. Relieve the stress a bit.’

The car juddered and shook and she realised that he’d pulled off the road onto the wide area of grass to the right. My God! ‘What are you doing?’

The car slammed to a halt. She heard the rasp of the handbrake, then he was turning in his seat, safety belt off, rising up to climb through towards her.

‘No! Jesus, no!’ She scrabbled for her bag. ‘Please, don’t do this!’

His eyes were mesmerising as they came towards her. She shuddered, glanced down at what she was doing. Her hands were shaking in feverish panic. She could barely control them, but then her bag was open somehow. She reached in. Felt the cool round metal and snatched it out. He was halfway through the gap between the front seats, head and torso up against the roof of the car like some kind of human cobra rising up over her to strike. She leaned back, both hands rising defensively.

CHAPTER TWO

Kid was the fourth name he’d answered to in his fourteen years, but he’d accepted it readily. It was kind of cool. Sounded like an Old West hero. A new name for a new life. And he’d been happy with both over the past few weeks. The fair’s season started at Easter. He’d wandered in that weekend and somehow stayed. Been offered a bed for the night, in exchange for manning a stall while the owner went off to answer a call of nature that a stomach bug had made both urgent and protracted.

Since then, he’d moved from the stall to a ride, then on to the dodgems. Had thought he’d found his place in life. But now all that was ruined. Had they known he was here? Had they been looking for him? Or was it just chance? Just dumb bloody luck?

He didn’t know and now wasn’t the time to be thinking about it.

He darted around a couple with a kid of about four and almost ran into a looming, dark figure. Stopped himself just in time, rearing back.

‘Hey! Watch it, sonny.’

‘Sorry, mate.’ He jumped to the left and went around the big man, between two big diesel generators, leaping over the fat, black cables that snaked away from them across the tarmac. Now he was in the semi-darkness of the promenade, between the fair and the shoreline, where few people bothered to go in the dark. He could make some time here, get some distance. He ran headlong eastward, towards where the fair’s caravans were bunched in an out-of-the-way corner beyond the naval academy. If he could get there, grab his stuff – not that he had much – and get away, he could hide out for a couple of days or so. Tonight was the fair’s last night in Plymouth before they moved on. He could rejoin them in the next town.

‘Oi!’ The shout came from behind him. A male voice full of authority. ‘Stop. Police.’

The kid ignored him, running on at full speed, feet slapping on the paving, breath rasping in his throat. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep up this pace, had never been great on stamina, but he had to get away. He couldn’t let them catch him.

Heavier feet than his own were slapping the pavement, coming fast behind him. He didn’t look back. He knew better than that: just kept going, chest heaving, throat raw, arms and legs pumping. He was almost past the big, pale block of the naval building. HMS whatever-it-was. Bloody stupid thing to call a building. How pretentious and up themselves did they have to be, to do that?

Uniforms. They were all the same. The forces. The fuzz. The lot of them.

Beyond the high stone wall darkness loomed, welcoming and safe. Only a few yards further and he could hide and rest until the coast was clear, get his stuff and be gone before they searched properly for him. He made the far end. Kept going. A dark bulk loomed at him out of the darkness.

‘Shit,’ he cursed, dodging right. But he was too close to the iron railing along the edge of the prom. He hit it with his shoulder, bouncing off into a pair of arms that snaked around him and clamped tight. ‘Whoah. Hold up there, sonny. Not so fast, eh?’

He writhed and wriggled. With his arms trapped, he kicked out instead. The figure barely seemed to register the first couple of blows, but then hissed in pain. ‘Damn you, boy. Stop fighting or I’ll hurt you.’

‘Try it.’ He brought his knee up and kicked backwards, his heel connecting with the man’s shin.

‘Ow! That’s it.’

He was lifted bodily off the ground, turned on his side and slammed down to the pavement, a knee coming down over his legs, the shin trapping them so that all he could do was thrash his feet back and forth, but that scraped his right ankle on the paving.

‘Shit. Get off me, bastard. Police brutality! I’ll get you sacked for this. I’ll tell ‘em you felt me up.’

Another figure appeared behind him. ‘Damn, that little bugger can run!’

‘He can bloody kick, too,’ the one holding him replied. ‘Where’s Karen?’

‘She’ll be along in a minute. Do you want my cuffs?’

‘I’ve got his hands. You could wrap his legs up, though. Little shit.’

‘You can’t do that,’ the kid shouted. ‘That’s against my human rights. Child cruelty. I’ll report you. Both of you. I want your names and badge numbers.’

‘We can do that, if we decide it’s best for your own safety,’ said the one holding him. ‘To prevent you from coming to harm while in our care. Health and safety: trump card every time, sonny. Isn’t that right, Qadir?’

‘Yep.’

He felt the cold of metal around his wrist, heard the ratchet as the cuff was squeezed into place.

‘What are the charges?’ he demanded. ‘What are you arresting me for?’

‘Resisting arrest.’ That was the second one. Qadir. Though he didn’t sound like a Qadir. He sounded completely local.

The kid’s arm was pulled around behind him. Then the other one.

‘And assaulting a police officer,’ the guy on top of him added. The second cuff was snapped into place and cinched up.

‘But, what were you chasing me for in the first place? You never told me that.’ He felt the big guy get up off him. ‘For all I knew, you were planning to attack me. Just ‘cause you’re in uniform doesn’t mean you’re not some kind of pervert.’

He was lifted bodily by the shoulders of his coat.

‘Ankles,’ the first one said as he planted him squarely on the ground.

‘Hey! You can’t do that.’

He felt big hands clamp like iron bands around his ankles. He tried to kick out, to free himself, but was held firm. ‘We’ve already had that conversation. And you lost.’ A Velcro strap was wrapped round and round his lower legs and he was stuck.

‘What are you doing?’ A female voice came from the darkness behind him and relief sang through the kid.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Qadir countered, killing the kid’s relief in an instant. Karen, he thought. The missing colleague.

‘He was kicking the shit out of my shins,’ the first one told her.

‘Yeah, but we’re not meant to be…’

‘He ran,’ Qadir interrupted. ‘He must have a reason. So, he’s under arrest until we find out what it is.’

‘You chased me,’ the kid said loudly. ‘What was I supposed to do? I didn’t know what you were up to. Could have been anything. Civil liberties, mate. You’re bloody taking one.’

‘You’ve got the right to remain silent,’ said Qadir. ‘How about you use it?’

The kid felt himself pushed from behind, couldn’t step forward, so bent at the waist. Then the other one’s arm went under his middle and he was lifted bodily off the ground.

‘Hey! Put me down, you fucker!’

‘If he does, you won’t like it. Now, shut up and hold still.’

*

‘The hunt for missing ten-year-old Molly Bowers ended today, when her body was found by police with a cadaver dog in woodland outside Stoke-on-Trent,’ the reporter said solemnly into the camera. ‘She’d been buried in a shallow grave, her clothes seemingly tossed in after her like so much rubbish. Detective Chief Inspector Daniel Taft was interviewed at the scene.’

Pete caught his wife’s expression and switched channels quickly.

Louise looked at him, her eyes wide and tearful at the tragedy of the case: a young life snuffed out, the body discarded with no more respect than you’d have for an empty milk carton.

It was eleven months, all but two days, since their son had gone missing. At least they knew he was still alive – or had been a few weeks before Christmas, when he’d broken into the home they sat in now with the evening news bringing back memories neither of them needed reminding of. It wasn’t as if they ever stopped thinking about him. Pete had taken five months off until a big drugs case had pulled him back to the station and circumstances had conspired to keep him there. Louise had gone back to work as a nurse in the Devon and Exeter Hospital only two and a half weeks ago, having been unable to face it until then.

Pete could guess what she was thinking. Their eleven-year-old daughter was asleep in the room above them as they sat there.

‘Annie’s as safe as any young girl can be,’ he said.

‘I expect Molly Bowers’ family thought the same, though, didn’t they?’

He tilted his head. She had a point. ‘You’ve checked Facebook and so on?’

They had taken on the task of searching for their son after Pete’s colleagues had no success. Posters had been put up all around Exeter, in spite of the bylaw against them. Newspaper articles had been published. The local TV stations had done interviews. Missing persons charities had got involved. Social media pages had been set up. They’d done, and were doing, everything they could think of to track down their son.

‘I did all that when I came in,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand. I mean, where the hell can a fourteen-year-old boy be, all this time? It’s not as if he’s big for his age, could be mistaken for an adult, is it? So, how’s he still out there?’

They had long accepted that he was missing of his own free will. The evidence was irrefutable. But Louise refused to even acknowledge the possibility that any harm had come to him.

Pete sighed and reached for her hand. ‘It does make you wonder, doesn’t it?’

The phone chirped on the coffee table in front of him and he reached for it quickly, not wanting to let it wake Annie. ‘Gayle.’

With no open cases that demanded overnight action and the dog-fighting case all wrapped up – Jim had walked back into the barn moments after Pete noticed he was gone, leading three other coppers and two handcuffed detainees – Pete was on call for the night. Any case that arose requiring CID involvement would come to him.

‘Pete, it’s Bob.’ The duty sergeant at Heavitree Road police station. ‘I’ve just had a call from Plymouth. They’ve got Tommy.’

Pete felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. ‘What?’

‘Your lad. He’s at Crownhill. He was spotted working on the fair, down on the Hoe.’

‘Jesus Christ. Thanks, Bob. I’ll give them a call.’

He put the phone down in a daze.

‘What is it?’ Louise’s voice sounded like it was coming through a long tunnel. ‘What’s wrong? Pete!’

‘Huh?’ He blinked, staring at her dumbly. ‘They’ve…’ His eyes closed for a moment as his brain tried to process the information. Then he opened them, looked at his wife again. ‘They’ve found Tommy. He’s…’

He stopped as a wail erupted from her throat. He took her hands, stared into her tear-filled eyes. ‘He’s alive, Lou. He’s OK. They’ve got him in Crownhill station in Plymouth.’

‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. He’s OK? Where’s he been? What’s he doing in Plymouth, for God’s sake? He’s in…? What’s he doing there? Have they arrested him? What’s he done?’ She clung to him, pleading for answers that he couldn’t give.

‘I don’t know, Lou. Give me a chance, I’ll find out.’

‘Dad? Mum?’

Pete hadn’t heard Annie’s feet on the stairs, but now she stood in the doorway, dressed in her favourite Winnie-the-Pooh nightie. He glanced down and saw that her feet were bare.

‘What’s all the ruckus about? Have they…?’ She swallowed, unable to go on.

‘Yes, love. They have.’ Pete held a hand out to her. ‘They’ve found Tommy. Alive and OK.’

‘Oh, God, that’s brilliant!’ She ran to him, clasping him into a desperate hug. ‘Where is he? When’s he coming home?’

‘I haven’t got any details yet, Button. All I know is, he’s at the police station in Plymouth. He was working on a fairground.’

‘But…’ She stopped, too confused to even form a question.

‘I need to give them a call and find out what’s going on.’

She blinked owlishly. Pete took a step back, directing his wife and daughter into each other’s arms while he made the call. They clung to each other, both watching him intently.

Pete found that his hands were shaking as he tried to dial the number from memory. Then he couldn’t remember the correct order of the last three digits. ‘Shit. What’s the bloody number? Hang on.’ He went out to the hall, found their personal phone listing and flipped it open at the letter P.

Quickly, he finished dialling and held the phone to his ear. It rang once, twice, a third time, a fourth. ‘Come on,’ he muttered.

There was a click. ‘Devon and Cornwall Police, Plymouth. How can I help?’

‘Hello. This is DS Gayle, Exeter CID. I’m told you’ve got my son there: Thomas James Gayle.’

‘One moment, sir.’ More clicks, half a ring. A different voice.

‘Custody suite.’

Custody? They’ve got him in the cells? What the hell has he done? ‘He…’ His voice clogged up and he coughed to clear it. ‘Sorry. DS Gayle here, Exeter CID. I’ve been put through to you from your front desk. I understand my son’s there, in the station.’

‘Gayle? Thomas James?’

‘That’s right. What’s the deal?’

‘He was brought in a couple of hours ago. A patrol officer recognised him from the misper notice, but he didn’t come willingly. Hence he’s in the cells here. Assaulting a police officer; resisting arrest; possession of an illegal weapon, specifically a knife. We thought that would do for now.’

‘Jesus!’ Pete shook his head, bewildered. What the hell was going on? What had Tommy got tied up in? ‘I was told he was found at a fairground. What’s the story there?’

‘Seems like he’s been with them since Easter. Just mucked in when they needed it, helped out and became part of the setup by default. Saw the chance of a new life, I suppose. It never ceases to amaze me, the number of kids who run away to join the circus or the fair. I don’t know what it is about that kind of lifestyle that’s so attractive. Seems like a lot of hard work and rough living to me.’

‘And the charges. Is there anything we can do there? I’m not trying to get him off because I’m in the job. We need him as a witness in a child-sex case.’

‘I knew the name was familiar. You’re the one that cracked that big paedophile ring, right?’

‘Yeah, that’s me.’

In the course of his first case after returning to work, Pete and his team had uncovered a ring of paedophiles that extended from Cornwall north to the West Midlands and east to the Home Counties. Thirty-seven arrests had been made by seven different forces just the previous month, some of them of prominent men in local government and even the police itself.

‘Well done, mate. I know it reflects badly on the force, but we were glad to get rid of Markham. The bloke was a self-aggrandising arsehole. No more use as a copper than I’d be as a brain surgeon.’

Pete knew he was talking about Chief Superintendent Markham, who’d been in charge of the Plymouth station until his arrest last month in a coordinated series of operations that had closed down the whole ring in one morning’s work, organised by his own station chief, DCI Adam Silverstone.

‘Well, that’s what you get for letting politics into policing, eh?’

‘Yeah, along with empire-building, jobs-for-the-boys… Still, what can we do, eh?’

‘That’s right.’ Come on, Pete thought. Answer the bloody question.

‘Anyway. As far as the knife, facts are facts. He was carrying. But, the rest of it can go away if it needs to. If he’s a witness in a case like that... Happens all the time, doesn’t it?’

‘I don’t want him let off just because he’s my son,’ Pete said firmly. ‘If he’s got things to answer for, he’ll answer for them. But yes, we do need him as a witness.’

‘Firm but fair, eh? Only way to be, I reckon. Bit of discipline never hurt anyone. Well, it might have stung a bit at the time, but you know what I mean.’ He laughed.

‘Yes, so…’

‘Get your boss to send the paperwork through and we’ll transfer him to Exeter custody. Might be worth letting him stay put until morning. Just my opinion.’ Pete could almost see the custody sergeant shrug. ‘Teach him a bit of a lesson.’

‘Right. I’ll get onto my chief. Thanks, mate.’

‘No worries.’

Pete ended the call, looked up and saw both Annie and Louise standing in the doorway of the lounge, watching him, their expressions, one above the other, identical. He couldn’t help but smile.

‘So…?’ They said together.

Pete’s smile became a chuckle.

Although Annie’s temperament was much more like his than her mother’s, she got more like Louise every day, in all the good ways.

He shook his head. ‘God, I love the pair of you.’

‘But what about Tommy?’ Annie demanded.

‘Well, I love him too, of course.’

‘Answer the damn question, would you?’ Louise joined in. ‘What’s happening with Tommy?’

The smile stayed on Pete’s face. ‘He’s in Plymouth nick. I need to get hold of Colin, get him to arrange a transfer to Heavitree Road and we can go from there.’

‘So, he’ll be home soon?’ Annie demanded.

‘Well, it depends on your definition of soon, but potentially, yes.’

She squealed and ran to him, wrapping her slender arms around him and squeezing with all her might.

*

Louise was less easily pleased.

Looking over Annie’s head as she clung to him, Pete saw the doubt in her eyes.

‘Why do you need to arrange for a transfer? Has he been arrested or something?’

He tilted his head. ‘Yes. When he was spotted he did a runner, and when they caught him, he was carrying a knife.’

‘A knife?’

Annie picked up on this and stood back, staring up at him, big-eyed.

‘He was working on a fair. I expect he needed it. Tool of the trade, like a farmer or gardener. But when he fought them off, they cuffed him and found it.’

‘He fought them off? This gets worse by the second.’

‘He was in Plymouth, remember. We don’t know how long he’s been there. It could be he doesn’t know we’re not planning to charge him in the Rosie Whitlock case.’

‘Hmm.’ She seemed to relax at least a little. ‘So, you’ve got to get Colin to arrange things, to get him transferred?’

He shrugged. ‘I can’t do it, can I? I’m his dad. How would that look to anyone that didn’t know the history?’

‘OK. So, what are you waiting for?’ She nodded at the phone, which was still in his hand. ‘Get onto him.’

‘It’s nearly eleven. He’ll be in bed, I’d have thought.’

‘So? He’ll understand. He’s Tommy’s godfather, for Christ’s sake. Come on. Either ring him or give me the phone and I will.’

‘Give me a chance, woman.’ He lifted the phone, thumbed in the number from memory and held it to his ear.

It rang twice, then was picked up. ‘Hello?’ Colin sounded groggy. He had been asleep.

‘Colin, it’s Pete. Sorry to wake you, but I need a favour.’

*

Five minutes passed. Then ten. The phone was still silent. None of them was going to sleep until they heard.

‘Who wants a cup of tea?’ Pete suggested.

‘Yes, please,’ said a red-eyed Annie.

Louise nodded.

‘OK.’ Pete headed for the kitchen, put the kettle on and fetched out the mugs. He was pouring boiling water over the sugar and teabags when the phone finally rang. He put down the kettle and headed for the living room.

‘Colin?’ he heard Louise ask.

Silence. He stepped into the room and she held the phone out to him, her expression blank.

He took it from her. ‘Hello?’

‘Pete? Bob again. I’m afraid we need you, mate.’

Shit! Now, of all times?

‘A body’s been found, corner of Pennsylvania Road and Argyll Road.’

‘Eh?’ Pete frowned. ‘I was only up there an hour ago with Jim and the team. What happened?’

‘Dunno. Doesn’t look like it’s linked, though.’

Pete shook his head. He couldn’t believe it was merely coincidence. He stared at Louise. The expression on her face said more than a thousand words. How could he leave her here, now, with things as they were? OK, Annie would be with her, but… He felt as desperate as she was to hear back from Colin, to know what was happening with Tommy. She was fully aware that they wouldn’t be allowed to see him tonight, but they both – all, he thought, thinking of Annie – needed to know how he was faring, at least. And her emotional state was still delicate. It was barely any time at all since she’d got her head straight after Tommy’s disappearance. How would she cope on her own, now he’d been found?

‘Pete?’ Bob’s voice came over the phone. ‘You still there?’

Bob knew the score. If anyone else could have taken the call, he’d have gone to them first. And Pete was duty SIO tonight. He sighed. ‘Yes. OK, I’m on the way.’

CHAPTER THREE

Pete saw the flashing blue lights through the trees from a couple of hundred yards away. When he reached the junction, he could see the cluster of police cars, an ambulance and a couple of other vehicles, tape stretched across the end of the side road and a small cluster of onlookers standing around idly.

Hadn’t they got better places to be, at this time of night? He stopped the car and climbed out, making sure to lock it as he stepped forward, raising his warrant card to one of the uniformed officers guarding the tape.

The blue and white plastic ribbon was raised for him to step under. He headed for the lamps and the white protective windbreak across the grass to his left. He could see the shape of a car and more uniformed police. A generator rumbled close by. Pete passed the ambulance crew as they were leaving the scene. He nodded, drawing a response from one of them. Closer to the windbreak, which had been erected to mask the view from the public rather than for its nominal purpose, he could see a white-overalled figure working over a body which had been laid out on a tarp.

Having recognised the car back on Pennsylvania Road, he didn’t need to see the man’s face to know who it was.

‘Evening, Doc. How’s it going?’

Tony Chambers looked up from what he was doing. ‘Peter. You’ve drawn the short straw again?’

‘Apparently. What can you tell me so far?’

‘We have a quite vicious attack, clearly aimed at being fatal. The victim was killed with a short, sharp blade – possibly a scalpel or utility knife – and some considerable force. The carotid and the jugular were severed as well as the windpipe. There are traces of inflammation around the eyes and nose which suggest the use of pepper spray prior to the knife attack. You can still smell it when you get close enough. The victim’s ID is in the car.’

Pete grimaced. ‘Sounds messy.’ He looked up at the vehicle. No need to ask if the victim was the driver or the passenger. The blood sprayed across the inside of the glass made it obvious.

‘Any idea when?’

‘Rigor hasn’t set in yet, so less than four hours. Body temperature suggests closer to one or two.’

‘OK.’ He looked up and around. ‘Who found him?’

*

‘Where is he?’

It was past one in the morning. Pete had been out more than two hours. His eyes were sore, his head fuzzy. He was exhausted. How did Louise not look as knackered as he felt?

But she didn’t. She’d met him at the door, blocking his way with her body as if unwilling to let him in until he gave her the answers she wanted.

At least now they were in the hall, the front door closed behind him. Pete kept his voice low, not wanting to disturb Annie, who he hoped was asleep.

‘For now, he’s still in Plymouth. Colin’s arranging his transfer but they won’t do it until morning and, even then, he won’t be coming home for a while. He’ll have to go for assessment, be interviewed and so on. And the knife charge won’t just go away. He’d be bailed if he wasn’t a flight risk, but given his recent history…’ He shrugged, hands spreading.

Her gaze locked on his. ‘We’ll be able to visit him, though?’

He raised a hand, indicating she should go through to the sitting room. Following her in, he closed the door behind them.

Tommy would be transferred from the custody of Plymouth nick to that of Exeter, where someone other than Pete – probably Colin Underhill – would interview him. Then he would be transferred again, to a secure youth residential facility where he would be assessed before any further decisions were made about his future.

‘My guess is, the best we can hope is that he gets transferred to Archways from Heavitree Road. Once they’ve settled him in we’ll have visitation rights, the same as any other parents. Except, of course, I won’t. Not with the case outstanding.’

She rubbed at her forehead, eyes closing, then fixing intensely on Pete once more. ‘I need to see him, Pete. Talk to him. Know he’s going to be OK.’

‘I know. Me, too.’ But Pete knew how the system worked. Tommy was involved in a case that he’d worked – a case that was yet to go to trial, thought the date was fast approaching. He wouldn’t be allowed to see him, in case of a conflict of interest. ‘But at least you’ll be able to in a day or two. And he’ll be as safe there as he would be anywhere. Those places are designed for it.’

Archways was a secure children’s home which happened to be less than half a mile from where they were sitting, here in Exeter.

‘God! I feel so… mixed up. Happy he’s been found and desperate to see him but at the same time scared to death. I’ll tell you – if I’d be able to see him when I got there, I’d be halfway to Plymouth by now.’

‘No, you wouldn’t,’ Pete countered. ‘You’d be there. And so would I, because I’d have used the blues and twos to get us there and sod the consequences.’

*

Emma didn’t really sleep that night. Her mind kept playing back the attack, the moments leading up to it and those that followed. Over and over, she relived it. Could she have done anything different? Should she simply go down to the police station and report it?

Her instinct was to hide. The last thing she wanted was to have to go through it all again, even just verbally. But, was she thinking straight? She felt groggy, her eyes sore and gritty from lack of sleep. She didn’t know how many times she’d got up in the night to puke, though by three in the morning there was nothing left to bring up. Her stomach ached from trying. It heaved again now, but she knew there was no point rushing to the toilet. She rolled over, moaning, and grabbed a tissue, holding it over her mouth as she retched painfully.

If she went to the police now, her past, which she had tried so hard to leave behind, would all be brought out into the open. The press would get hold of it. Her colleagues would find out. The persona she’d built since she got here would come crashing down around her.

She couldn’t have that.

Emma wiped her mouth with the tissue and clambered out of bed. Took a sip from the bottle of water she’d left on the bedside cabinet last night, swishing it around her mouth before swallowing.

No, she thought: she couldn’t come forward.

But, having decided that, what was she going to do about it? What could she do? She checked the time. The red numbers on her digital alarm read 6.38 a.m. The buses didn’t start until eight and she really needed to be at work by then. She had to get back to her car, see if it would start and, if not, call the breakdown service. Get it going. Get it moved. Otherwise, it would only be a matter of time before someone spotted it and the police came knocking on her door.

But, how was she going to get there? She certainly didn’t fancy walking it.

There was only one way.

Could she?

After last night, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to climb into another taxi, but what other option was there?

None, she told herself.

She reached for the phone, about to dial a number she knew by heart.

No.

That, she couldn’t do.

She picked up the phone book instead.

CHAPTER FOUR

Her tension increased with each passing second. As the seconds became minutes, she barely knew how she managed to stop herself from screaming or running from the flat in a blind panic.

She alternated between watching through the sitting-room window and watching the clock.

Five minutes passed.

The dispatcher had said ten until the cab arrived. But surely, at this time of day, it wouldn’t take that long? Maybe she should go down and wait outside. It was a bright and crisp day. No doubt chilly out there, but there was no frost. Perhaps the fresh air would do her good? But she didn’t want to be seen pacing out there, and there was no way she’d be able to hold still.

She crossed to the window, looked out. Her stomach lurched, one hand going to her mouth as she turned quickly towards the bathroom.

A taxi was pulling into the parking area out there.

She moaned through the hand clamped over her mouth.

With nothing left to bring up, she swallowed and looked out again.

She could ignore it. Let it go on its way. Have the day off sick.

She sighed. She’d already been through all this. It wouldn’t work. She had to go in. Today, of all days, she didn’t have a choice.

Stomach roiling, legs like jelly, she picked up her bag, checked its contents with shaking hands and headed for the door.

*

‘Bob. Is Tommy here?’

The custody sergeant looked awkward. ‘Yes, but I’m under strict orders. You can’t talk to him. Fast-track was adamant. Called me himself. He’s got to be processed through as if you didn’t even know him.’

Pete’s jaw clamped, teeth pressing together hard. ‘If that were the case, I’d have him straight into an interview room. He’s a material witness in an ongoing case of mine.’

‘I know. But, like I said… my hands are tied, mate.’

The urge to ignore the station chief’s orders and head down the corridor to his son’s cell regardless was almost overpowering, but he knew he couldn’t. Apart from anything else, there was a powerful electromagnetic lock in the way, the release of which was out of his reach, on Bob’s side of the desk. He sighed. ‘He’s OK, though, is he?’

‘Of course. We’re checking on him every hour.’

Every hour? ‘How long’s he been here?’

‘Since three. Five hours, nearly.’

‘Well, dammit, how…’ Pete stopped himself, forcing his body to relax against all his instincts. He already knew the answer to the question he’d been about to ask: orders from Fast-track Phil, DCI Adam Silverstone, station chief until he took the next step in his rapid and illustrious rise towards the higher echelons, whether he deserved it or not.

Which, in the opinion of just about everyone who actually had to work with him, he definitely didn’t.

He tapped the high counter. ‘OK, Bob. Just take care of him, yeah?’

‘Goes without saying, mate.’

‘Thanks. Can you tell him I was asking after him, at least?’

‘Of course.’

Pete nodded to the big man and headed along the corridor towards the centre of the building.

*

Emma’s whole body was quaking by the time she got down the stairs into the foyer. The taxi was parked directly in front of her, just a few feet away from the toughened glass doors that were all that separated her from the outside world at this point.

She stepped reluctantly forward, didn’t even think to check her mailbox as she stared hard at the dark maroon car parked sideways on across the entrance. In the deep shadow of its interior, she could just make out the shape of the driver. She frowned. Something didn’t look as it should.

Then she realised.

It was a woman.

‘Oh, my God!’ She couldn’t help saying it out loud as relief flooded through her. She pushed through the doors and hurried to the waiting car. Climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Hi. Sorry it took me a minute to get down here,’ she burbled. ‘Had to check the front door three times. You know how it is. I’d lose my head if it wasn’t screwed on. At least, that’s what my boss tells me.’ She laughed.

The driver, curly blonde hair covering her ears, but not enough to hide her big hoop earrings, looked at her like she was crazy, but also a customer. ‘No worries. Where to, love?’

Emma had prepared her story. Don’t flunk it now, she told herself. ‘The Old Mill. Early start today. Big party coming in and we’ve a delivery scheduled this morning.’

The woman put the car into gear and set off towards Pennsylvania Road. ‘On a Wednesday? I usually see your deliveries on a Monday and Friday, don’t I?’

Oh, shit. Trust me to get a driver that knows more about my alibi than I do. ‘Uh… yes. That’s why we got the party booked for today. But the suppliers phoned last night. They’ve got some kind of vicious bug going around the depot. Lots of drivers off sick with it.’

Wow, she thought, proud of her quick thinking.

They turned left onto the main road, heading south.

‘So, how come you’re using a taxi this morning, then?’

Oh, crap. Why had she chosen a chatty persona for this journey?

*

Pete had made several calls when he got up that morning and, for once, he was the last of his team to arrive in the squad room. As he approached his desk, five pairs of eyes watched him, waiting to see what he was going to say. And about what, he guessed.

Draping his jacket over the back of his chair, he rolled up his sleeves and went straight to the whiteboard where, last night, he had put up the basic information on the new case.

‘Morning, all.’ He picked up a marker pen, not caring what colour it was. ‘Ranjeet Singh, 34, born and raised in Exeter, an independent taxi driver for the last four years, having previously worked for Cathedral Cabs since he got his licence in 2008. He was found, pepper-sprayed and with his throat cut, in the driving seat of his taxi near the junction of Argyll and Pennsylvania Roads at 10.27 last night. He’d been there at least half an hour at that point, though we’ve no other witnesses as yet. It doesn’t appear to have been a robbery, so we need to canvas the area, see if we can find any witnesses, speak to his colleagues and family to try and find a motive and establish a timeline. I informed his wife last night. She was too distressed to give an interview, though, so I said I’d go back this morning. Family liaison’s with her in the meantime.’

‘Pepper spray, boss?’ asked DC Jane Bennett. ‘Does that suggest the same thing to you as it does me?’

‘Probably. The fact that his flies were undone and the condom – still in its wrapper – found on the passenger seat beside him would tend to support it. But the fact that he’s married argues against. And he’s got no previous form.’

‘That only means he hasn’t been charged,’ DC Dave Miles pointed out. ‘It’ll be something to check with his previous employer, if nothing else.’

Pete nodded. ‘That’s your first job, then. Then you can follow the theme. Find out which ranks he used and talk to the other drivers on them. I’ll ask his wife about pre-bookings and let you know what she says. Jane, look for unsolved sex attacks in the city, see if any show signs of a taxi driver being involved. If not, we can eliminate the possibility. If so, you can follow them up. Dick, take Jill with you and interview family and friends. Ben, get a couple of PCs from Uniform and get yourself up Pennsylvania Road, canvas the area for witnesses and so on. The position of the car suggests it had come along Argyll, so concentrate along there initially.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Right, people. Let’s see if we can get this solved in record time, eh? There’s a killer out there. For the sake of public safety and the victim’s family, we need to get them off the streets sooner, rather than later.’

Turning to the whiteboard, he wrote up a quick series of notes of who was doing what, then put the marker pen down and headed for his desk.

Stopped in the middle of his first step.

His whole team were still sitting where they had been, staring at him expectantly.

‘What? I’ve given you all assignments, haven’t I? Or did I dream that?’

‘We’re waiting to see what else you’ve got to say, boss.’ Jane glanced at the rest of the team for support.

There were nods from around the grouped desks.

‘That’s right,’ said Dave. ‘There’s a bloody great elephant in the room here. You going to shoot it or hide from it?’

Pete sighed. It had been inevitable that they’d ask. A function of the team he’d built. Of any good team. They cared. That didn’t make him any more comfortable with the situation, though. This was his son they were talking about. His flesh and blood.

He crossed quickly to his desk and sat down, leaning forward on his elbows. ‘There’s not a lot to tell. You know Tommy’s downstairs, obviously. He was spotted working at the spring fair on Plymouth Hoe, stopped and found to be carrying a knife. So they arrested him. Colin got him transferred here because of the Rosie Whitlock case. I expect he’ll go to Archways in the short-term. Meantime, I don’t get to see him until after Colin’s interviewed him. If then. He’s…’ He stopped himself with a grimace. It was no use whining.

‘Why Colin?’ DC Dick Feeney, the old man of the team, asked.

Pete looked at him. It wasn’t yet nine in the morning and his cheeks were already grey with the suggestion of stubble that was just one of the reasons for his nickname of Grey Man. ‘Well, it’s not going to be me, is it? And what’s the alternative? Simon?’ He huffed dismissively. DS Simon Phillips had been looking for Tommy for months and come up with nothing. ‘Or Fast-track?’

‘God save us all from that,’ PC Jill Evans said, shaking her head.

‘No need,’ said Dave. ‘The only interviews he’ll ever do are the press type.’

‘And annual reviews,’ Jane added.

‘Yeah, and there’s a good reason not to rush into any promotional opportunities,’ Jill replied. ‘At least, not until he’s moved on up the ladder, out of the way.’

‘Well, sitting around here, yakking, isn’t going to bring that any closer, is it?’ Pete said briskly. ‘So, let’s get to it.’

He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, glad of the opportunity to get out of the station. With his son in a cell downstairs, if he couldn’t talk to him, he’d sooner be out and about, doing something, keeping himself occupied rather than just a few steps away, dwelling on the fact that he was so close, yet so inaccessible.

He went quickly down the stairs and along the bland concrete corridor towards the back door and the fresh air.

*

Ranjeet Singh had lived just a few streets from the station, in an area of Victorian terraces. Pete walked there, needing the fresh air and the few minutes downtime to clear his head. Even at this time of day, the street was filled along both sides with parked cars. The Singh household was just a few doors up from the end of the street. The front garden was almost non-existent, but it was clean and tidy. He knocked on the door and it was answered by a uniformed police officer.

‘Morning, Sarge.’ She stepped aside to allow him in.

‘Naz. How’s Mrs Singh?’

‘Emotional, as you’d expect, but calmer this morning. We’ve sent the boys off to school. Keep things as normal as possible for them.’

There were two sons, aged five and seven. Pete had met them the night before when both appeared shyly at the top of the stairs, long after they should have been asleep, peering down, big-eyed, at the unusual activity in the hallway, until their mother shooed them away to bed.

It was moments after that that he’d informed her of her husband’s death.

‘She’s in the lounge.’

PC Nazira Mistry was one of three family liaison specialists in the city and the only Indian officer they had. She showed Pete through the door on the left of the hallway. Mrs Singh was on the sofa. The TV was on, the last few minutes of the BBC breakfast programme playing, but she was ignoring it, head bowed as she wrung her hands together.

‘Mrs Singh.’ Pete extended a hand. Her grip was limp and lifeless, but it stopped her hands writhing together, if only for a short time. ‘Would it be all right if I asked you a few questions about your husband this morning?’

She looked up at him, her expression blank as if she didn’t understand who or what he was, never mind what he’d asked.

‘I need to know as much as I can about Ranjeet, to stand the best chance of finding out who did this to him.’

She nodded wordlessly.

‘Are you aware of anyone having made any accusations against Ranjeet of any kind?’

She shook her head slowly.

‘Nothing? No one’s said they wouldn’t ride with him again? He doesn’t owe anybody any money? There’s been no arguments with other drivers or with neighbours?’

‘No,’ she whispered.

‘You understand, I’m just trying to figure out what the motive behind this attack might have been? So that I can figure out who might have done it. This isn’t about Ranjeet’s character, it’s about his attacker’s.’

She nodded again.

‘So, there’s nothing you can think of that might have caused anyone to want to hurt him?’

‘No.’

‘OK. Do you have family locally? Anyone you can turn to for support?’

Once again, she shook her head. ‘Ranjeet’s family are here. Mine are in Manchester. His mother and I…’ She shuddered.

‘It’s often the way with mothers-in-law, isn’t it?’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘I’ll get Naz to give you the details of the local support network, to help you through.’

‘Thank you.’

Pete’s instinct was to reach out to her, take her hand, but he didn’t know how that would be seen in her culture, so kept his hands firmly on his knees. ‘I know it won’t bring him back, but we will do all we can to find out who did this and bring them to justice, Mrs Singh. That’s a promise.’

She stared at him, her eyes brimming.

‘I’ll leave you with Naz. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.’

*

Ben shook his head, his short, spiky hair glistening under the strip lights of the squad room. It was mid-afternoon and he had just got in, having returned from Pennsylvania Road. ‘There were some people not in, of course. We’ll have to go back for them. But so far, we’ve drawn a blank on the area canvas.’

‘There haven’t been any taxi-related complaints of sexual assault in the city in the past five years, either,’ said Jane. ‘But I did find one thing. There was a complaint made against him back in 2008, but it wasn’t followed up because the victim refused to come forward.’

‘What sort of complaint?’

‘A woman came in and told the desk sergeant he’d raped her friend. But the friend refused to talk to us and she was from out of the county.’

‘Have we got any details? Names, addresses?’

Jane shrugged. ‘Yes, but it was eight years ago. No telling where they’ve gone or what’s happened since.’

‘Follow it up anyway. See what you can find.’

‘Of course.’

Mrs Singh hadn’t mentioned anything about this. Did she know? How long had they been married? It could have happened before they were together, Indian culture being what it was – arranged marriages and so on – but it would be something to check on, he thought.

Dick looked from Jane to Pete. ‘Everyone we spoke to reckoned he was always polite, friendly and appropriate. No hint of anything like that.’

‘And yet I was told there were two complaints against him with Cathedral Cabs,’ Dave said. ‘The second one just before he left. Can’t say yet whether it was the reason he left, but...’ He shrugged. ‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? The owner’s on holiday abroad; a cruise in the Caribbean. Due back the week after next. But no charges were filed in either case. Both customers just made a complaint to the company and left it at that. I’ve spoken to the other drivers on the ranks at the bus station, St David’s, the Arches. Even went out to the airport. None of them seem to be aware of any issues, but I don’t suppose they’d admit it if they were, would they? Bad for business.’

Pete nodded. ‘His pre-bookings were done by mobile phone or email. I did an Internet search, but came up empty, and I’m waiting on his mobile phone provider to come through with a full set of records. They set aside their privacy considerations when I pointed out that he wasn’t going to give a damn, being deceased.’

Dave leaned back in his chair and stretched, his black waistcoat pulling tight across his stomach. ‘So, to summarise: he’s one hell of a lucky bugger, with three complaints against him for sexual assaults but none of them followed through. But other than that, as of now, we’ve got SFA.’

‘Except that his last recorded drop-off was at St Thomas railway station,’ Pete said. ‘And the distance on his meter, if you work back in that direction from where he was found, would put him somewhere near the Old Mill.’

‘Which would fit with the timeline,’ Dick pointed out. ‘Someone wanting a ride home from there.’

‘Yeah. The staff weren’t aware of anyone, though. Although it’s perfectly possible someone used a mobile, of course.’

‘And how many of those would have been in or around there at that time of night?’ Jane said sourly.

‘Loads of them, I bet,’ Dave said, looking up from his screen.

‘Worst comes to worst, we’ll have to find out and track them down,’ Pete said. ‘Although we can only do that for the ones on contracts, of course. Any pay-as-you-goers will be out of the picture unless they’re regulars in there. But that’s only if every other line of enquiry falls flat.’

‘Thank God for that,’ said Ben.

Dave laughed. ‘Worried about your workload, Spike?’

‘I don’t mind working. What I don’t want is RSI.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Pete told him. ‘Dave will help.’

Dick laughed at the expression on Dave’s face. ‘Serves you right for taking the piss.’

The phone rang on Pete’s desk. An internal call. He picked it up.

‘Gayle.’

‘Peter.’ He recognised DI Colin Underhill’s voice. ‘I need a word. In my office.’

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Close the door.’

Colin Underhill sat stiffly in his chair, big hands flat on his desk, his broad face expressionless.

Pete did as he was asked and Colin nodded to the spare chair in the corner. As Pete sat down, Colin leaned forward, putting his elbows on his desk.

‘I’ve been talking to Tommy.’

Pete felt a stab of urgency in his chest. ‘How is he? When can I see him?’

‘He’s fine. And you know the answer to that second question. He’s got charges outstanding. And he’s a material witness in the Malcolm Burton case.’

‘Yeah, but the charges are just trumped up to get him in, aren’t they? I mean, he would be carrying, wouldn’t he? A knife would be essential for what he was doing.’

Colin nodded. ‘But this was a flick-knife.’

‘A…? Where the hell did he get one of those?’

‘He told me he’d had it for years. His words. Bought it on the street when he was ten.’

‘Jesus! That’s the first I knew of it. Christ!’ It fitted with what Simon Phillips’s file on the boy suggested, but that had just been on paper. This was real. What the hell had he been getting up to while Pete was out of the way, at work? Had he really become the evil little toerag Simon’s file portrayed? And, if so, how? And why?

‘I asked him about Malcolm Burton and Rosie Whitlock.’

Pete looked up, Colin’s voice interrupting his thoughts. ‘And?’ Malcolm Burton, schoolteacher and paedophile, had abducted thirteen-year-old Rosie six months ago from outside her school on the day that Pete returned to work after an extended period of compassionate leave following Tommy’s disappearance. Pete’s investigation of the case had thrown up the fact that Tommy had been intimately involved in Rosie’s abduction and subsequent sexual abuse, as well as the death of at least one other victim, ten-year-old Lauren Carter.

‘He says Burton picked him up off the street. Took him home. Threatened him and his family if he didn’t do as he was told.’

‘Well, yeah. We guessed that much, despite what Burton said.’

Colin was nodding slowly. ‘Which makes it a classic case of one word against the other.’

Pete leaned forward. ‘So, f…’ He stopped. He was about to say that forensics would give them the truth, but that was equivocal, to say the least. In fact, some of it specifically suggested that Tommy was guilty, although Rosie Whitlock herself painted him as another victim rather than a willing participant. ‘Burton’s case is coming up in just a few weeks now. What can we do?’

Colin’s eyebrow rose. ‘We can’t do anything. You can’t be involved. Not with Tommy tied up in it. You know that. You need to pull everything together from the case and bring it to me. Sooner the better. I’ll review it and take it from there.’

Pete had expected as much. It was standard procedure in situations like this. ‘And in the meantime? What happens to Tommy?’

Colin shook his head. ‘He’s proved himself a flight risk. We need his testimony, plus there’s his own possible involvement. He can’t be bailed. He’ll have to go to Archways.’

‘So, he’ll be able to have visitors.’

‘Louise and Annie, yes.’

Pete sighed, eyes closing. It was what he’d expected. He would not be permitted to see his son again until after he’d testified, but at least his wife and daughter could. And, with Colin on the case, he had no doubt that the best outcome possible would result in the end. Except… He opened his eyes. ‘Did you ask him about Lauren Carter?’

Lauren had been held with Rosie Whitlock for a time, then killed. And forensic evidence on the body had suggested that Tommy had been directly involved in her death.

Colin drew a long breath and let it out through his nose. ‘I asked.’

‘And?’

He shrugged. ‘Again: one word against another. No way to prove either scenario now.’

‘So, we need a confession from Burton.’

Colin grunted. ‘Good luck with that.’

‘He’s a narcissist. He’ll do whatever he thinks will give him the best result. He’ll have to be told we’ve got Tommy now.’

‘Yes.’

‘And he’s in the city jail.’

‘He is.’ Colin’s tone was becoming more cautious.

‘So, any interviews will be done there. Where they’re not recorded. Solicitor-client privilege and all that bollocks. I’m sure he’ll have found out by now how his sort are treated in prison. And he’s looking at a long stretch, whether or not murder gets added to the charge sheet. If he survives, that is – doesn’t get shivved in the showers one fine day.’

Colin’s lips were pursed. ‘What I think you’re suggesting is unethical at best.’

‘Not politically correct, I’ll give you that. But unethical?’ Pete shook his head. ‘What would be unethical would be to let him get away with murder.’

‘Either way, you can’t interview him again. Not now we’ve got Tommy. That’ll be down to me.’

Pete nodded, holding his gaze. ‘I know.’

*

Pete stared at the big street map of the city on the squad room wall. ‘Where had you come from, Ranjeet? Whoever killed you had to be in the cab with you, so where did you pick them up?’

He concentrated on the point where the taxi had been found. Its position and the marks in the grass around it suggested it had come along Argyll Road. The meter, if it was correctly calibrated, suggested a distance of nine tenths of a mile or thereabouts from his last pickup, so… He reached up and traced a forefinger back along Argyll, through the woods and out onto the A377. Which way then, though? Into town or out? It looked like a good half-mile remained from there to wherever he’d made the pickup. Going back into town gave him the area around the carvery by the river, as they’d said earlier, the estate on the other side of the main road from there, or down the New North Road into the university or city centre. The other way led towards either Newton St Cyres or Stoke Canon. There were way too many choices. How the hell was he going to narrow them down? He stepped across to the wider map of the area that was pinned up to the left of the city plan.

Both Newton St Cyres and Stoke Canon were too far.

Into the city, then. But, where?

They knew Ranjeet had dropped his previous fare at St Thomas, but that didn’t really preclude either direction.

Then he looked closer at the map. Checked the distances.

‘Hmm.’

Regalvanised, Pete turned back towards his desk, sat down and flipped his notepad over to a new page.

‘You got something, boss?’ Jane asked.

‘Maybe. We said earlier that his meter might take us back to the Old Mill. But, taking the other fork, it could equally take us up to the clock tower.’

‘So…’

‘You might have been right. About the pepper spray. We might be looking for a prostitute. Or someone Ranjeet assumed was one. There’s several bars and hotels round there as well as the railway station just along the road. Maybe he made a mistake and paid for it the hard way.’

Jane nodded. ‘Possible, but it’ll be hard to prove. Not the most reliable set of possible witnesses round there, especially at that time of night.’

Dave glanced up from what he was doing. ‘No CCTV either, apart from Central Station. We did hear from forensics, though, while you were in with the Guv’nor. They found a print that might be significant. Just the one. They said it appeared to be female. And it was on the steering wheel, at what they described as a strange angle. But there were no matches in the system for it.’

‘So, no use until we catch whoever it is we’re looking for, if at all.’ Pete pursed his lips. ‘Looks like another late night, then. Thermals and thermos flasks.’

‘And here I was hoping to get lucky tonight,’ said Dick.

‘You’ll be in the right place, up by the clock tower,’ Dave said with a grin. ‘We won’t tell your missus, will we, guys?’

‘Keep practising, you might get to be a comedian one day.’

Jane laughed and gave Dave a shove. ‘I can just see you in your waistcoat and Chubby Brown flying hat.’

‘Now, that would have to go on YouTube,’ Ben said with a grin.

‘Ah.’ Dave leaned back, spreading his arms. ‘Fame at last.’

‘Remember us on your way up,’ said Jill. ‘You’ll want somebody to catch you on the way back down.’

‘Meantime, let’s concentrate on catching whoever killed Ranjeet Singh, shall we?’ Pete suggested. ‘We need a witness. And his car wasn’t exactly distinctive, so it won’t be easy to find one.’

*

‘Tommy.’

Colin Underhill sat down across the table from him. A big bear of a man in cord trousers and a tweed jacket, he looked like a farmer dressed up to go to town. All it needed was the flat cap and a suntan. Tommy held the smirk back off his face with difficulty.

‘Uncle Colin.’

They were not related, but it was what he’d always called his dad’s boss and his godfather.

‘We’ve got a problem, son. And getting out of it’s not going to be easy, even with me and your dad on your side.’

‘I told you – I never even thought of the knife as a weapon. It was a tool, that’s all. I used it pretty much every day round the fair. You can ask any of them.’

Colin pursed his lips, letting the air noisily out through his nose. ‘I’m talking about the other problem. Mr Burton. Lauren Carter. Rosie Whitlock.’

‘But, you said she supported what I told you.’

‘She does, but Burton won’t. And nor does Lauren.’

‘But, she’s…’ Tommy screwed his face up and dropped his head towards his chest. He swallowed, took a breath. ‘She’s dead.’

Colin grunted. ‘That’s part of the problem. She can’t speak, but her body tells its own story. And the doctor might be a friend of your dad, but he can only describe the facts as he finds them. And there’s a couple of those that put you firmly in the frame unless we can come up with something that throws the blame back onto Mr Burton.’

‘I told you.’ Tommy fixed Colin with a firm, almost angry stare. ‘He made me do those things. He made me.’

‘He made you strangle a ten-year-old girl?’

‘He grabbed my hands, put them around her neck and squeezed. He killed her, not me. He just had my hands between his and her neck, that’s all. And I wake up every night, dreaming about it because there was nothing I could do to save her. All I could do was let her know I was sorry.’ His face began to crumple with emotion.

‘All right, son. I understand. But, what about the rapes? Even at your age, you know a jury is going to believe you can’t do that unless you want to. Or, at least, unless your body wants to and your mind isn’t off in some other place entirely.’

‘Have you…?’ Tommy swallowed and dropped his gaze. His voice was little more than a whisper when he spoke again. ‘Have you seen the videos he made?’

‘Not all of them, but yes – some.’

‘Well, most of it was faked. Low light. Careful camera angles. Sharp editing. You’ve seen his darkroom and video suite?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s good at it. People pay a lot for what he does. He sends stuff all over.’

Colin frowned. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I helped post them. I saw the addresses.’

‘Is there a record of those addresses anywhere?’

Tommy shook his head. ‘No. And I don’t remember any specifics – just some of the towns and cities that I saw.’

Colin nodded. ‘OK. But, back to the matter at hand. As you say, a lot of it could be faked, but not all. In some of it, it’s clear you were a willing participant.’

Tommy’s hands slapped down on the table. ‘OK. So, a few times, I had to let myself get into the moment. If I didn’t, he’d beat the shit out of me. Have you seen those videos?’

Colin looked horrified. ‘No.’

‘Well, they exist. They’re around somewhere. He’d…’ Tommy’s eyes closed and he let his head drop forward as he clamped his jaw shut, hands balling into fists on the table. He took a couple of deep breaths. Looked up. ‘I couldn’t stop him.’

He saw Colin’s arm move as if he was going to reach across the table, but the big man held himself in check. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But Burton’s trial’s in just seven weeks. We need you willing and able to testify in case his defence team call you. You need to have everything straight in your mind and we need to know the facts in case we need to cross-examine you, to refute any of his accusations.’

Tommy nodded. ‘I understand.’

‘So, let’s move on. Once you got away from Burton, where did you go?’

Tommy shrugged. ‘Wherever I could find a place to doss, at first. I stayed around the city for a while.’

‘How did you eat?’

‘I got stuff wherever I could. It’s surprising what you can find, especially if you’re not picky.’

‘And you broke into your house while the family were out, at least once.’

Tommy nodded. ‘Just the once. To get some things.’

‘You waited till they were out. Did you know what they were out doing?’

Tommy shook his head. ‘I just knew they were going out, so I had a chance to get in and get what I needed.’

‘You must have found out at some point, though?’

‘What – about the posters? Yeah, I saw one or two a couple of days later.’

‘Your dad – a policeman – broke the law to put them up. Why didn’t you respond?’

‘Broke the law? What law?’

‘There’s a bylaw against posters in the city. Point is, your dad knew that. He put his career on the line to reach out to you.’

Tommy couldn’t stop his face twisting into a grimace. ‘Yeah, right. Good old dad. You can always trust him to do the right thing. Even if it’s bringing his own son in for rape and murder.’

Colin’s head was shaking slowly. ‘We wanted you in as a witness, that was all. There were no charges. Your mum and dad just wanted you home.’

‘What about what you said before? The forensics. My hands on that girl’s throat.’

‘Which you’ve explained.’

‘Yeah, but…’ Tommy slumped forward so his head rested on his folded arms. Moments passed. Finally, he looked up, rubbed his eyes. ‘So, you mean…? All this time… Hiding out in holiday cottages, moving on every few weeks, fishing and nicking to eat all winter. There was no need?’

Colin shook his head.

Tommy slumped back in his chair, head falling back as he stared at the ceiling. ‘Fuck.’ He looked down quickly. ‘Sorry. That slipped out.’

Colin smiled. Then he sat forward. ‘But now we are where we are. These charges aren’t going away. They’ve come from Plymouth, not Exeter. So, it’s not up to your dad or me. We’ve got to play the hand we’ve been dealt.’

‘But, can’t I make some sort of deal? Testifying against Mr Burton for a consideration on the other stuff?’

Colin shook his head. ‘’Fraid not, son. Testifying against Burton’s in your best interests anyway. You can’t have two bites at the same cherry.’

‘So, I’m stuck here, whatever?’

‘For now, yes. We’ll have to see what happens after.’

‘And you said Mr Burton’s case is coming up in seven weeks. What about mine?’

Colin shrugged. ‘It’s relatively minor…’

‘Yeah, but so am I. A minor, I mean. So, they shouldn’t keep me in any longer than necessary, surely? For my long-term wellbeing. Mental scarring and all that.’

Colin’s eyebrows rose. ‘Have you been reading law books in here or something?’

Tommy shook his head. ‘They explained it all when I came here.’

‘OK. Well, the juvenile court’s separate from the adult one, so there doesn’t need to be a delay in one because of what’s going on in the other. But, I don’t know how soon they’ll get to your case. What I do know is that you’ll be held on remand until they do.’

‘How’s that fair?’

Colin shook his head. ‘I’m just telling it like it is, son. It can’t be any other way in the circumstances.’

Tommy grimaced. ‘So, at the end of the day, you want my help but you’re not going to help me.’

Again, Colin looked like he was about to reach across the table, but held back. ‘I’m sorry, son. If I could, I would. You know that.’

*

When Colin had gone, Tommy went back to his room. He kicked the door shut behind him and flopped down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. That hadn’t gone too badly, he thought. He’d steered the conversation in the directions he wanted without making it obvious. Had said enough to promote his own case without incriminating himself. And he thought he’d managed to come across as a victim – a regretful and unwilling participant in Malcolm Burton’s crimes rather than a co-conspirator.

Now, he had just seven weeks to maintain that impression and make sure he could do the same in court with Burton’s solicitor badgering him. His story would have to be solid and flawless and he would have to know it backwards, forwards and sideways, to the extent that even he believed every word. He would have to be the little boy lost, the hapless victim, the innocent caught up in things he didn’t understand and couldn’t control.

Could he do it?

He smiled. The smile turned into a chuckle. He’d been doing it for years. There was nothing new here.

CHAPTER SIX

‘Talk to me here, now – it’ll take two minutes and you won’t lose anything by it. Or we can take it down the station. You’ll lose a couple of hours. Maybe a couple of punters.’ Pete shrugged. ‘I’m not out to spoil anyone’s business. I’m just trying to find out who killed a man here in the city last night.’

The girl couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, but she looked ten or fifteen years older with the harsh make-up and sneering attitude. Her dark hair was tied back in a high ponytail, her skirt couldn’t have been a half-inch shorter without drawing an arrest warrant for indecent exposure, and her naked shoulder-blades above the low-cut vest top were decorated with tattoos that he’d glimpsed when he first saw her a couple of minutes ago on the corner of Queen’s Square, one hand on her hip while the other held a cigarette that she was dragging on like it was going out of fashion.

As soon as she’d turned around and seen him, she’d pulled an attitude. She didn’t want to talk to him, but she knew he could haul her in if he wanted to.

‘All right,’ she said heavily. ‘What d’you wanna know?’

It was ten o’clock. Trade would be picking up for her any time now. She didn’t have time for Pete and his questions and he knew it. He hoped that the fact she was in a hurry would force her to tell him the truth. ‘First, were you here last night?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you know a taxi driver by the name of Ranjeet Singh? Drives a grey Mondeo.’

She shook her head with a grimace. ‘Nope.’

‘Have you seen a grey Mondeo taxi around here lately?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘Positive. Is that it?’ She threw down her cigarette stub and screwed it into the pavement with the sole of her high-heeled shoe.

‘No. Is anyone missing from here tonight that was here yesterday? Or anyone here both nights but acting different tonight? Agitated? Nervous?’

‘People get agitated when they’re coming down off the gear. Or when they’ve got things to do and some bloke’s holding them up.’

‘True. We’re not picking on you girls because of what you do for a living. We’re looking for witnesses, that’s all.’

‘What, so, if I was a waitress in that hotel over there, you wouldn’t be asking me all these questions?’

‘Yes, we would. In fact, we already have.’

‘And had any of them seen anything?’

Pete smiled. ‘The more witnesses we can gather, the clearer the picture we can build up and the more likely we are to get a killer off these streets you’re walking.’

‘Yeah, well – if they’re killing taxi drivers, I’m safe anyway, aren’t I? I don’t even drive, never mind taxis.’

‘So, you don’t give a shit.’

She shrugged. ‘Like I said, I didn’t know the bloke.’

Pete sighed. ‘All right. On you go.’

His last hour and a half had been spent in similar conversations with mostly similar girls. A few had been older, a few significantly younger, but all had about the same attitude. It wasn’t their problem and they didn’t want to get involved in it.

Yet, if something happened to one of them, they’d be up in arms, wanting protection and all sorts. There was no winning with some people. He lifted his radio and keyed the mike. ‘If we’re all done, let’s call it a night. We can scratch one possible pickup location off the list, at least.’

‘OK with me, boss,’ Dave replied from the far side of the hotel the hooker had mentioned.

‘I can’t see anyone I haven’t already spoken to,’ said Jane.

‘Nor me,’ Dick added.

‘Right. Nightcap’s on me.’

*

Forty-three minutes later, Pete turned into his drive for the second time that evening and stopped the car.

‘What the f…?’ He sat stock-still, staring at his white up-and-over garage door. Nearly three feet high, right in the middle of it, caught squarely in the beam of his headlights, was a drawing – a cartoon, really – in pink spray paint that, in places, had trickled into runs. A pig’s face stared out at him, underneath it the words ‘More bacon, Guv’nor?’

‘Who the bloody hell…?’

He switched off the headlights and the engine, got out of the car and went up to the garage door. He could still see the image clearly in the light of the streetlamp across the road. He reached out a finger, although, even before he touched it, he could smell that the paint was still wet. Sure enough, his fingertip came away smeared with colour.

‘Bastards,’ he muttered and marched towards the front door. Letting himself in, he dropped his briefcase in the hall and stepped into the sitting room where Louise was curled up on the sofa, watching TV.

An image flashed into his mind from a few short months ago, when all she seemed to want to do was just that. She’d barely been able to acknowledge either him or Annie. But now she looked up, a smile forming on her lips. ‘Hiya. Have you…?’ She stopped mid-sentence when she saw his expression. ‘What is it?’

He held up his finger. ‘Spray paint. All over the bloody garage. Someone’s figured out what I do for a living and decided to make an issue of it.’

Louise slumped. ‘Oh, God. Will it come off?’

‘I’ve got a can of brush cleaner in there. I’ll see if I can shift it before it dries. Little sods ought to be made to come back here and bloody lick it clean.’

Louise couldn’t help a grunt of laughter. ‘I don’t think that idea would go down too well with the bleeding heart brigade.’

‘Then maybe we ought to go and spray-paint their garage doors and see how they like it.’

‘You’re a grumpy bugger tonight. Didn’t anybody want to play with you or something?’

Pete shook his head. ‘I just don’t understand people’s attitudes sometimes. You’d think they’d want to help get a murderer off the streets. They’d feel safer for it.’

‘Yeah, but everybody’s too busy these days. Who’s got time to sit in a draughty corridor outside a courtroom for a couple of days or more, to help put someone away for not nearly long enough, who’s probably never going to be a risk to them anyway, eh? I mean, you can understand it really.’

‘You sound exactly like a lot of those girls I’ve been talking to tonight.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m just saying, there’s two sides to every argument.’

‘Yeah. Like there’s two sides to that garage door and a can of brush cleaner on one that needs to be on t’other. I’d best go and deal with it, I suppose.’

‘You want a hand?’ She nodded towards the TV. ‘This is rubbish anyway.’

Pete’s eyes widened as he recalled again the time when she’d sit there for hours, staring blankly at the TV, regardless of what was on it.

‘Or maybe it’s me,’ she continued, ignoring his expression. ‘I can’t concentrate on anything, knowing Tommy’s just a few hundred yards away now, and I can’t go to him.’

Pete sighed, nodding. ‘I know. But tomorrow’s not far off. Then you can ring them and set up a visit.’

‘It’s just so hard. It’s almost worse, having him so close, than it was not knowing where he was. The need to see him, hold him, talk to him, be a mother to him is…’ She shook her head, unable to put her feelings into words.

Pete reached for her hand. ‘Come on,’ he said, trying to pull her away from the brink. ‘We’ll do what we can out there, then a drink and bed.’

She blinked. ‘Bed? I don’t know as I want to share a bed with you after you’ve spent the evening consorting with prostitutes.’

‘Huh. None of them even wanted to talk to me, never mind consort.’

She stood up and took a step towards him. ‘Ah. Baby losing his touch?’ One hand cupping his jaw, she placed a quick kiss on his lips then squealed as he grabbed her around the waist.

*

Tommy went from breakfast, which he ate alone, to the common room, where he grabbed a bunch of felt-tip pens – pencils weren’t permitted as they were considered sharp objects – and a pad of drawing paper.

He was trying to put an image of Rosie Whitlock onto the paper when his chair was jarred abruptly from behind and a pair of hands clamped down on his shoulders, pressing him down into the seat.

‘Watcha, Titch. What you in here for then, eh? That your girlfriend, is it? Ahh. Pretty, ain’t she? I’ll do her for you when I get out of here, you being too small and all.’

Tommy went completely still. He almost felt relaxed. ‘Which order do you want me to answer all those questions in? Forwards or backwards?’

‘Smart arse, are you?’ The hands left his shoulders and a slap rocked his head. ‘Think you’re clever, do you?’

Tommy heard several sniggers. There was a bunch of them. Without even thinking about it, he turned the felt-tipped pen in his hand, gripping it tightly. A shiver ran through him as fingers ran through the hair up the back of his head. Then they gripped painfully and began to lift. He rose with them, but his chair got in the way. He pushed it back with his knees, felt it snag on the carpet and begin to tip. Rising further, the chair reaching a steeper angle, he gently, carefully raised one foot off the floor, bringing his knee up until it touched the underside of the table in front of him.

Waited an instant longer…

Then slammed his foot up and back so that it hit the underside of the chair, driving it back into his tormentor’s stomach. The boy grunted. His fingers disappeared from Tommy’s hair. Tommy spun around fast. Several boys were surrounding him, all of them bigger than he was. Their leader was just beginning to recover and straighten up, his pockmarked face twisting into a snarl of rage.

Tommy didn’t hesitate. He used the chair again, this time as a step-up, launching himself off its upturned front edge, his other knee driving at the older boy’s chest. The impact sent him staggering backwards, the group splitting to let him through. Tommy’s free hand grabbed his hair and held on tight, his momentum carrying him over the bigger lad, who stumbled and fell back. Tommy landed on top of him, his knee driving once more into his chest before slipping sideways to leave Tommy straddling him, one hand gripping his hair while he leaned down over him, the other hand holding the felt-tip pen just a couple of millimetres from his left eyeball.

The bigger lad was wheezing beneath him, trying to get his breath.

‘Don’t blink. You’ll have a yellow eyelash,’ Tommy said. ‘I’m in here for rape and murder. The girl in the picture was one of my victims, but she’s going to help get me out of here shortly. It’s up to you whether you see that or not. These pens might be soft, but they’ll still burst your eyeball if they’re pressed hard enough.’

The other boy swallowed. Tommy saw his throat working as he struggled not to cough.

‘Now, I’m not interested in joining your gang or any other. I don’t need them. See, the difference between you and me is that you’re a bully. You want status, attention or whatever. I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, so I don’t care what I do to anyone. I don’t have any boundaries. I could happily blind you. I could rape you. I could bite your ugly nose off. Or I could kill you.’ He shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference to me.’

He grinned suddenly. ‘Get it? Blind bit of difference?’ He chuckled. ‘I could do any of those things without even blinking. Without batting an eye.’ He laughed again. ‘I’ve got loads more where they came from. Good, eh?’

‘Yes,’ the other boy said hoarsely.

‘So, you stay out of my way and I won’t have to hurt you. Understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ Tommy sprang up off him and spun around to look down at him, upside-down. ‘And don’t try sneaking up on me. I don’t give second chances.’

The boy blinked and launched into a coughing fit. Tommy stared into the eyes of the lanky blond kid standing in front of him. The confident grin was gone from his lean face. He looked a lot less sure of the situation now. And, to be fair, it could go either of two ways from here, Tommy thought. He could be left alone, or the kid coughing his guts up on the floor could make a play to reassert his dominance. Which would no doubt bring trouble and pain to Tommy’s door, but he was used to both of them. They were almost old friends. ‘Out the way,’ he said. ‘Unless you want some of the same.’

*

Tommy looked up from the book he was reading as the door of his room was opened and one of the wardens leaned in and gave a jerk of his head. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Gayle. Come on.’

Tommy didn’t move. ‘Who is it?’

‘Your solicitor.’

Inwardly relaxing, Tommy closed his book and set it aside, swung his feet off the side of the bed and stood up.

He’d finished his drawing half an hour ago, but it hadn’t done Rosie justice, so he’d screwed it up in a tight ball and thrown it in the bin, stalking out of the common room and heading back here. Now he followed the warder, a large, heavily muscled coloured guy called Adam, back down the corridor, past the common room to one of the small rooms that were used for visiting.

He tried not to show his hesitation as Adam opened the door and stood aside. He hoped the warden had told him the truth about who it was. The last thing he wanted was some surprise, like his dad sitting there, waiting for him.

He stepped forward nonchalantly.

The chair on the far side of the central table was occupied by a man he’d never seen before. Somewhere between his dad and Uncle Colin in age, he was slim with greying dark hair and a three-piece suit.

‘Who are you?’ Tommy asked bluntly.

The man tilted his head. ‘I’m Clive Davis. I’m your solicitor.’

‘Why?’

Davis pursed his lips. ‘You’ve been charged with carrying an offensive weapon. A knife, I understand. We’re going to have to attend court. It’s a charge that can carry a term of confinement.’

‘Prison?’

Tommy heard the door close behind him.

Davis tilted his head again. ‘More like where we are here. You’re only – what – fourteen? You wouldn’t be sent to a conventional prison.’

I’ve lived worse, Tommy thought. This past winter. ‘How long for?’ he asked.

‘It depends on the circumstances. It can be up to four months. Or you could get an official caution or anything between the two.’

‘So, they might just tell me off and let me go?’

Davis pursed his lips. ‘That’s not the way to look at it, but in essence, from a practical point of view, yes. However, it goes on your record, so that if you’re charged again it’ll be taken into account and you will serve time.’

‘OK.’

‘So, tell me how you came to be here.’

Tommy shrugged, spreading his hands. ‘I was just minding my own business, doing my job, and all of a sudden, this guy’s coming after me, so I ran. They caught me and searched me and, next thing I know, they’re charging me for carrying a tool of the job.’

‘A flick-knife.’

‘Well, I’m not going to carry an open blade in my pocket, am I? And penknives can be dangerous. I saw a kid using one once and it folded up on him, got his finger between the blade and the handle. No, thanks. A flick-knife’s much safer.’

‘But illegal.’

‘As a weapon. Mine’s a tool. It’s essential for the job.’

Davis shook his head. ‘It makes no difference why you had it, Thomas. The simple fact is, you shouldn’t have.’

‘What am I supposed to do then? Bite stuff?’

Davis paused. ‘I’m not saying the law is perfect, Thomas, but it is the law and it’s there to be obeyed. Your father’s a police officer, isn’t he?’

‘So?’

Davis sighed. ‘So, a number of questions arise from that fact. We may discuss them at another time, but the point for now is that you ought to appreciate the necessity of rules.’

‘Yeah. They’re made for the rulers. To keep the little guys in line.’ He sat back, arms spread wide. ‘And what am I?’

Davis smiled. ‘A very clever and resourceful young man, evidently. But still one who needs to learn when to fight and when not to.’

Tommy’s lip curled into a sneer. ‘Try living my life. It’s one long fight. Always has been.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Pete wound up the stop-and-check at just after nine.

‘We’ll take it up again at lunchtime,’ he told the assembled crew when they returned to the cars, parked on a side street just down from Argyll Road, on the opposite side of Pennsylvania. ‘That’ll catch any late-shift workers. Meantime, I’ll get onto communications at Middlemoor and get a couple of signs made up that can be put either side of the junction to pick up anyone we haven’t managed to interview.’

‘So, what’s next other than that, boss?’ Ben asked.

‘We need to interview as many taxi drivers as possible, for one thing. Find out if there’ve been any threats, any attempted robberies or other attacks on them and get whatever details we can. I can’t imagine this came out of nowhere. There’s got to be a history there somewhere. Something significant’s behind it.’

‘Or it could be about the other way round,’ Jane said. ‘Taxi drivers attacking customers. Specifically, our victim and those cases we talked about before.’

He nodded. ‘That would go with the use of the pepper spray before the knife. Have you got any more on them?’

‘When? I haven’t had five seconds to spare yet.’

‘Right. That’s your first priority when we get back then. See what you can dig up. We also need to check the PND, the papers, the Internet. Any other sources anyone can think of. And we can’t do any of that from here, so let’s get going.’

‘Aye aye, Cap’n.’ Dave saluted smartly.

‘For that, you can go down to the Express and Echo and check their archives. Then do the same at the Daily News,’ Pete told him.

‘Oh, cheers.’

Pete gave him a grin. ‘It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.’

*

As the day drew to a close, Pete wasn’t grinning any more. After two days of hard work on the case, he and his team had got nowhere and frustration was setting in. He recognised it even as it took hold, pulling his mood down and breaking his concentration.

He finished his daily case notes and hit save. ‘Right, that’s it. Time to call it a night. We’ll pick it up fresh in the morning.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ Dave agreed. ‘Trouble is, where do we go from here?’

‘Well, we’ve got all night to sleep on it. I’m not going to spoonfeed you now.’ And besides, I’m as bloody stumped as you are, he thought, but kept it to himself. Where were they going to go from here?

He’d been to the Devon and Cornwall Police Headquarters at Middlemoor to get a couple of road signs made up, asking for witnesses to come forward. DCI Silverstone was dealing with the press office, as usual. Three sessions of stopping traffic at peak times and questioning the drivers had come up empty, as had visits to the two most likely places for him to have picked up the suspect. Investigation of the victim’s past had drawn a blank apart from unsubstantiated rumours from some years ago that couldn’t be corroborated because the owners of the company he’d been working for at the time were currently out of the country and no official complaints had been made. Jane had come up empty on the other complaint. The complainant had moved and left no forwarding address, though census records had last put her in Bristol, and the alleged victim had been from somewhere in Lancashire, and there was no trace of her either. Singh’s family offered no likely suspects. He seemed, of late, to have a decent reputation. There were no signs of enmity with rivals or colleagues. And as for forensics – there were loads of prints on and in the taxi, but none were identifiable and the same applied to other trace evidence in the vehicle. If they got a suspect, then comparisons could be made, but until then, the lab was no use to them. And there had been nothing in the local papers or on the database that helped either.

It looked like the case was going to come down to possible motives.

It hadn’t been a robbery, unless something less obvious than money was the target. No mention had been made of drug traces being found in the car. He would check on that with forensics, but he could probably discount the idea. Was there anything else he might have been carrying in the car? He picked up the phone.

‘I thought you were packing it in?’ asked Jane.

He looked up and saw that she was standing behind her chair, shrugging into her jacket. He hadn’t even been aware of her getting up. ‘Just thought of something. A quick call and I’ll be on my way. You go on.’

‘OK. Night.’ She picked up her bag and headed for the door, followed by the others as Pete flipped through his notebook and dialled the number he’d noted down.

It was picked up on the second ring. ‘Hello?’

That wasn’t the voice he’d expected. ‘Naz? Is that you?’

‘Yes. Who…’

‘It’s Pete Gayle. Could you ask Mrs Singh a question for me?’

‘Yes, Sarge. What is it?’

‘I need to know if he was carrying anything in the taxi that might have given his killer a motive. Something worth stealing, apart from money.’

‘Hold on, I’ll ask.’

‘How’s she doing now?’

‘Still not very good. Very emotional.’

‘Well, it’s still fresh for her, isn’t it? She must have loved him a lot.’

‘Yeah. And yet, I assumed it had been an arranged marriage.’

Pete laughed. ‘They do sometimes succeed, you know.’

‘Yeah, but… I don’t know. I suppose I’m closer to the idea than you. It’s part of the culture, you know. I’ve had pressure in that direction myself. It’s scary.’

‘I bet it is.’

‘Anyway, I’ll go and ask her.’

Pete heard the clunk of the receiver going down. He waited. After several seconds, the phone was picked up again.

‘Sarge?’

‘Naz.’

‘She says no, there was nothing he’d have been carrying that was worth stealing.’

‘OK, thanks.’

He ended the call, one more possible motive eliminated. Something was nagging at the far corner of his consciousness, but he couldn’t bring it into focus. Long experience had taught him that, in that situation, it was better to give up for a while than try to force it, but frustration fought with reason, pushing him on. His lips pressed together as he fought to grab hold of the idea and pull it out of the fog, but it was no good – it just wouldn’t come.

His hands slapped down on his desk as he stood up. He could do no more of any use here for now. It was time to go home and spend some time with his wife and daughter.

*

Emma had been sitting patiently in the queue created by the roadworks on Pennsylvania Road for a little over ten minutes. Finally, the lights changed ahead of her and she let the handbrake off and moved forward with the traffic flow. The road was coned down to half-width for about a hundred metres, a long trench dug up the middle of the other carriageway, a roll of bright-yellow plastic pipe waiting on the verge to be laid the next day. Accelerating gently up the hill, she was about two thirds of the way through the narrow section when the Nissan’s engine note changed abruptly, faltering and slowing. She pressed her foot to the accelerator, but it made no difference.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, not now!’ She slammed her fists on the steering wheel, dropped the clutch and raced the engine, but still nothing. ‘Buggeration, you horrible, horrible bloody car.’

Letting the clutch re-engage, she sat there at the mercy of fate as the car coasted steadily to a halt. A horn sounded from behind her, then another. Another.

‘Shut up, you idiots,’ she muttered. ‘I’m not stopping from bloody choice, am I?’

The engine cut out completely, an awful silence replacing its comforting hum. She sighed, pulled up the handbrake and unclipped her seatbelt. More horns sounded as she stepped out, turned to face the offending drivers and raised her hands in a gesture that said ‘There’s nothing I can do’.

She heard a handbrake being applied and the door of the car behind hers opened. A man stepped out, tall and good-looking in a dark suit. ‘What’s the problem? Have you run out of petrol or something?’

Anger flared. ‘It’s over half-full, thank you. The engine just cut out.’

‘Well, try giving it some revs.’

He might be good-looking, but the guy was an arse, she decided. ‘I did. It didn’t help.’

He sighed pointedly, as if it had to be her fault rather than the car’s, then turned and beckoned to the other drivers behind him, motioning with his hands in a pushing action.

A few doors opened. People stepped out of their cars.

‘What’s the bloody problem?’

‘Engine’s cut out.’ The guy gave an open-handed shrug as Emma’s hands were planted firmly on her hips.

It wasn’t her bloody fault. Just because she was female…

Four other men joined the first one, heading up the hill towards her.

‘What’s the problem?’ one of them asked as they drew closer. He was wearing leathers. She’d seen him pull off his helmet and climb off a big, black motorbike, running a hand quickly through his short, dark hair.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. It just lost power and then cut out.’

He nodded. ‘Could be a number of things. Best just push it out of the way for now and call the AA or whatever. You got a membership?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hop in, then, and steer. It ain’t going up that kerb so we’ll have to push it up just past the lights and leave it over there, out the way.’

‘Are you sure? It seems a long way.’

He smiled. ‘Only a small car, though, isn’t it? We’ll manage.’ He glanced at the others. ‘Come on, guys.’

She climbed back into the car, looked in the door mirror.

The biker was on the corner of the little car, right behind her. ‘Everybody ready?’ he asked. ‘Right. Handbrake off, love.’

She complied.

The sounds of straining came from behind her. She thought for a moment that she was going to roll backwards, that they wouldn’t be able to hold it, never mind move it forward, but then the little car began to inch slowly, hesitantly, up the hill. It was a weird feeling, slowly gaining momentum, the only sounds those of the tyres and the men’s feet on the tarmac as she held the steering wheel steady.

After a few steps, gravity seemed to somehow give up the fight and they were moving at almost walking pace. Then, before she knew it, they were approaching the end of the roadworks.

‘Steer it over to the side and you can let it roll back up to the traffic lights,’ the man behind her called. ‘It’ll be out of everyone’s way there.’

‘OK.’

She steered the car across with the angle of the red and white cones, letting the men continue to push her a few yards beyond the temporary lights on their bright-yellow stand.

‘There you go,’ the man in leathers called and stood away.

She pressed down on the brake pedal.

‘Right. Ease it back down to the lights. They’re tall enough to be seen over it.’

She checked that the men were all standing clear, then used the far door mirror to guide herself slowly down the line of the kerb until the man raised his hand, calling, ‘That’ll do.’

She stood on the brake, pulled up the handbrake and put the car into first gear as extra insurance, then stepped out. ‘Thank you so much, all of you.’

‘No problem.’

‘S’all right.’

The others simply nodded and headed back to their cars.

‘You sure you’re all right now?’ the guy who had taken charge asked.

‘Yes, thank you. I’ve got my mobile. I’ll just try to sound helpless.’

He laughed. ‘OK. Take care.’

‘Thank you,’ Emma called again as he raised a hand and turned away.

She reached into the car for her phone, brought up the menu and dialled.

By the time the connection was made, the traffic was moving again, the rhythmic hum of passing engines acting as a background to the call.

A female operator answered after just two rings.

‘Hello, yes. I’ve broken down. The engine just died on me. I’m at the top end of the roadworks in Pennsylvania Road, Exeter.’

‘Is the car in a safe position?’ the woman asked.

‘Yes. Some men helped me move it.’

‘Are you on your own there?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘OK. We’ll have someone there with you as soon as we can.’ She heard the tapping of a keyboard faintly over the line. ‘It’ll be about twenty minutes.’

‘Thank you.’

She slipped the phone back into her handbag and stood beside the car, on the far side from the passing traffic. She checked her watch. Six-seventeen. She watched the lights change. The downhill traffic started flowing through. The evening was warm, almost muggy, as if a storm could be brewing. She took off her jacket, folded it and put it on the passenger seat. After a few moments, she reached into the back of the car and moved her briefcase to the front passenger footwell so that everything she would want to take with her if he couldn’t get the car going again was in one place, ready.

*

Tommy was in the TV lounge with most of the other eighteen residents, watching the last few minutes of a documentary on the nature of New Zealand, when the single warder who was sitting with them got up and announced, ‘Back in a minute. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, any of you.’

He stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

‘Yeah, more like ten minutes,’ said one of the other kids. ‘Must be them steroids, I reckon. Mess him up something terrible. Bloody bog stinks like hell after he’s been in there.’

Several of the others laughed and Tommy joined in as he filed the information away for future reference.

‘Should be plenty.’ The bully who had attacked Tommy earlier, who he had since learned was called Sam Lockhart, turned in his seat and grinned at him.

Tommy frowned…

Had barely had time to form the expression when his seat was tilted suddenly back. His arms and legs darted out reflexively, but there was no stopping it. His grasp slipped from the shoulders of the two boys either side of him and he landed on his back. The lanky blond kid from this morning grinned down at him as some of the others laughed. Tommy slammed a fist up into the lean face, felt his second knuckle impact directly on the tip of the boy’s nose. He yelled, darting back out of reach, as Tommy rolled sideways off the upended chair.

In the confined space, he hadn’t reached his feet when he was grabbed from behind and yanked backwards. His feet tangled with the chair, almost spilling him again. Then his right foot landed on the front edge of the chair and he pushed hard against it, driving himself backwards into his new attacker, who stumbled, letting go of the back of Tommy’s standard-issue polo shirt as he swore.

Tommy turned the opposite way to the other boy, landing on his side and shoulder across the back of two chairs, the occupants of which had sat forward and begun to turn to see what was going on. The padded chair backs dug into his ribs, but not as badly as they would have if they had been wooden. He grabbed them with his upper hand, turning further as he got his feet under him. Someone shoved him from behind, but he righted himself and saw that, as he’d suspected, it was Lockhart who had attacked him.

The bully was pushing himself up off the backs of the two lads he’d fallen against, struggling upright in the tight space between the rows of chairs and the feet of their occupants. Tommy only needed one foot and he didn’t care where he put it. He slammed his right foot down, the leg still slightly bent when his heel drove into the top of someone’s foot, and he launched himself forward in a dive as the person behind him howled in pain.

Tommy’s grasping hands both caught hold of something: the right got Lockhart’s belt while the left gripped his right forearm. They went down in a tangle of chairs and legs. Tommy’s head bounced off the edge of a chair seat, but he paid it no attention, using his arms and his grip on Lockhart to power himself forward, landing on top of the larger boy, who slammed his head forward in a butt that was aimed to smash Tommy’s nose.

His aim was way off. Tommy’s move had brought him further and higher than Lockhart had anticipated so that his forehead struck Tommy in the chest.

It was like being hit with a hammer. It stunned his ribcage into inactivity, but survival was Tommy’s only motivation now and inactivity would not allow that. As Lockhart’s head fell back, Tommy relaxed his arms, falling flat on top of him, at the same time ducking his head so that his teeth hit Lockhart in the face.

Quickly, Tommy opened his mouth. Snapped his jaws closed.

Lockhart howled as his nose was caught between Tommy’s sharp front teeth. Tommy squeezed down on the warm skin and cartilage, stretching his lips wide open.

‘I thought we had an understanding,’ he said through his tightly clamped teeth. ‘What did I say this morning about biting your ugly nose off?’

‘Get off me or I’ll fucking kill you, you little bastard.’

‘Promises, promises.’ Tommy adjusted the grip of his teeth on the larger boy’s nose. ‘And, talking of…’

‘No!’ Lockhart shouted.

Tommy bit down hard. He could feel the grease of the other kid’s nose. The give of his nostril walls against his tongue and the roof of his mouth as Lockhart howled in pain and terror. Then something wet and warm in his mouth. He hoped it wasn’t… No, he tasted the iron tang of blood. Kept on bearing down with his teeth as he shifted his right hand from under him to grasp the back of Lockhart’s neck, pulling him in so he couldn’t escape.

Other hands were grasping and pulling at him, trying to pull him off the other boy. Lockhart’s left fist was pounding on his back, but he barely felt it. His whole awareness was focused on what was between his teeth.

‘Get off me! Get off me!’ Lockhart bellowed. Then he jerked upwards under Tommy, forcing him backwards. Tommy went with him. Used the opportunity to slide his arm around behind Lockhart’s neck and lock his hand over his own shoulder, clamping them tightly together as his other hand let go of his arm and came up around his head to grasp his ear.

Tommy gripped the ear, pulling back on it hard. He felt warm blood trickling down his chin.

‘Tommy Gayle! Release him at once.’

That wasn’t a kid’s voice, like all the others yelling around him. But Tommy was committed. He wasn’t going to back off now. He ground his teeth, making Lockhart howl even louder. Then a big hand gripped the back of his shirt and another got hold of his jaw, finger and thumb pressing in painfully from either side.

‘Let him go.’ The voice was as slow, firm and implacable as the fingers pushing into his cheeks, but Tommy was committed. There was no winning here. Not any more. But he couldn’t give in. Couldn’t show a trace of weakness or pity.

He pulled harder on Lockhart’s left ear, twisting at the same time. Lockhart wailed. The blood flowed even more freely from his nose, dripping steadily from Tommy’s chin. Agony coursed through his cheeks and jaw.

‘Gayle, let go. Now.’ The warder’s voice was harder, angrier, as he held on relentlessly. ‘Give it up or I’ll break your damned jaw and where’ll that get you, d’you think?’

Tommy saw the chance and took it. Tugging even harder on Lockhart’s ear, he opened his mouth and looked up at the warder, grinning, his chin red and dripping with blood. ‘Nowhere I haven’t been a hundred times before.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Pete pulled into his drive and switched off the headlights, glad to be home – and glad there was no new decoration on the garage door. He killed the engine as the front door opened, expecting Annie to come running out and greet him.

He was surprised when, instead, it was Louise who came out, closing the door behind her and standing on the doorstep, arms folded.

He stepped out of the car, took his briefcase from the back seat and locked the silver Ford.

‘Lou? What’s up?’

Her eyes closed, her face scrunching up with emotion as her arms dropped to her sides. Then she took a breath, opened her eyes and the tears ran down her face as he dropped his briefcase and gathered her into his arms. ‘What is it, love?’

A sob escaped from her throat, then she swallowed. ‘It’s Tommy,’ she whispered, clinging to him.

Pete felt icy fear grip his body, freezing him in place like a living statue. ‘What about him?’

He wanted desperately to see her face, but she clung even more tightly to him, her bead buried into his shoulder. ‘He’s… We can’t see him. I phoned a few minutes ago. He had to be there a day before they allowed visitors. Settling-in time, they said. So I phoned to arrange it for tomorrow, after school. For me and Annie. But…’ She began to cry again. Conflicting emotions battled within Pete. Love and protectiveness for Louise made him hold onto her, comfort her as best he could, while the need to know about his son raged, For God’s sake, spit it out, woman! What’s happened? But he held on, stroking her hair with one hand while she clung to him, sobbing into the shoulder of his jacket until she finally gulped, shook her head and loosed her grip around his body.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘But…’

‘What is it, love? What’s happened?’ he asked gently.

‘He’s… He nearly bit some boy’s nose off. On his first day! My God, what have we raised, Pete?’

Some of the contents of the file Simon Phillips had compiled on Tommy while searching for him last year flashed through Pete’s mind and he wondered the same thing – as he had done since reading the file, months ago. Yet, his fatherly instinct kicked in behind the doubt, pushing it down, feeding that tiny residue of pride that he would never lose. Surviving, probably, he thought. Knowing what kinds of kids end up in those places and the softly, softly approach they have to use with them, these days…

He almost asked again: what happened? But no one would have the answer other than Tommy and some of the other inmates, he guessed. The staff would just have come upon the end result. Kids weren’t stupid – especially, in some ways, the kinds of kids who ended up in places like Archways. It would be a huge mistake to underestimate them, and one he’d learned long ago not to make when dealing with criminals of any age.

‘So, they’ve put him in solitary,’ he guessed. It was the ultimate punishment in places like that. ‘How long for?’

‘A day.’ Head tipped forward, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Then she looked up at him, her eyes large and moist. ‘How did it come to this? Where did we go so wrong?’

‘We can’t have gone completely wrong. Look at Annie.’

The girl had been a minor miracle last year, after Tommy disappeared. As Louise had spiralled downhill into a deep clinical depression, so their daughter had stepped up, almost to the point of swapping roles with her mother, taking on responsibilities an eleven-year-old never should have needed to.

‘Yes, but…’ Louise shook her head. ‘It’s like he’s got the Devil inside him. He’s…’

‘He’s our son,’ he said firmly. ‘He’s got his problems, but he’s surviving the only way he can. He knows the score. He’s not daft. He wouldn’t have done something like that without needing to.’

‘Yes, but… to try to bite somebody’s nose off!’

‘He’s been a snotty little bugger for years.’

She stood back, staring up into his face. ‘Really? You can joke at a time like this? Jesus! No wonder we’ve raised a bloody psycho.’ She spun away, heading for the door.

Something stirred in Pete’s chest. Fear, anger, he didn’t know, but… ‘Don’t ever call him that. He might be troubled. He might be in trouble, but he’s no psycho. Rosie Whitlock will testify to that.’ He snatched up his briefcase and followed her as she opened the front door and stepped in.

‘Maybe, but that doesn’t make this a time for jokes.’

Pete took a breath, regaining control of his emotions as he fought to keep hers from pulling her back into the darkness. ‘It worked, didn’t it? You’ve got the fire back in your belly.’

‘I’ll give you fire in the belly, Pete Gayle…’

‘Good. You do that. We haven’t had a good curry in ages.’

She spun on him, fists raised. ‘I swear, you get bloody worse!’

He stepped in close, caught her round the waist with both arms and hugged her tightly. ‘Whatever gets us through, Lou.’

He felt her draw in a deep, slow breath and let it out. Then the living-room door opened and Annie burst out.

‘Daddy!’

*

Emma leaned both arms on the roof of the Nissan, drawing in deep, watching the seemingly endless flow of vehicles pass by. Finally, a bright-yellow van with a large logo on the side came through the roadworks. Orange lights began to flash on its roof and she breathed a sigh of relief.

At last.

She checked her watch. 6.38. The woman on the phone hadn’t been off by more than a few minutes. It just felt like an age had passed since she made the call. The van passed her then stopped. Reversing lights glowed and it swung half onto the verge before rolling gently back towards her, other vehicles sweeping past like impatient bats coming out for the night’s feeding.

The van stopped. The driver stepped out and headed towards her.

‘Evening, miss. What’s the problem?’

‘It just lost power and died on me. There was nothing I could do to keep it going.’ She used the remote to unlock the little car. ‘It’s not the first time it’s happened.’

‘OK. And what have you found, if anything, that gets it going again?’

‘Just time. Let it rest awhile and it’s fine. It starts up and off it goes as if nothing’s wrong. That’s the frustrating part.’

He nodded, opened the driver’s door and popped the bonnet catch.

Emma didn’t bother to watch what he was doing. She had no clue about what went on in an engine, other than that it required occasional top-ups of oil and water, and no interest either. Instead, she continued to watch the traffic pass by as the uniformed man worked under the bonnet.

The downhill flow stopped again and she glanced down towards the far end of the cones, waiting for the vehicles to start coming through from there. When a voice sounded from a few feet away, she jumped, her head snapping around, expecting it to be the repairman.

It wasn’t.

The second car back in the queue had its window rolled down and the driver was speaking to her.

‘Sorry?’

‘I said, broken down again?’

She frowned as a flutter of fear swept through her chest. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Wasn’t that the same car I saw down by the Old Mill the other night?’

Now her heart was hammering, her breathing rapid and shallow as the fear of discovery froze her brain. What should she say?

But then, she realised, she had no idea who this man was, he didn’t have a clue who she was, and she would probably never see him again. She forced a shrug. ‘It’s not the first time this has happened. I just hope it’ll be the last.’

‘I bet. Good luck with it.’ He wound the window up as the repairman moved from the engine compartment around to the passenger side of the vehicle, opened the door and ducked down to check something under the glove compartment.

Emma was torn between seeing what he was doing and trying to memorise the numberplate of the man she’d just been talking with. If she managed to remember it, she had no idea what she would do with it. What she would be able to do with it. But he was a potential witness. It felt important that she should try. That she should have some information on him.

‘There you go.’ The repairman stood up with a small object held triumphantly in his greasy hand. ‘There’s your culprit. I’ll test it, but I’d lay odds on it. A dry solder joint in this little bugger’ll stop you dead as soon as it gets warm.’

The traffic began to move in the other direction and Emma’s glance was torn away by the driver’s wave as he set off down the hill. She refocused with difficulty. ‘That tiny thing can stop an entire engine?’

‘Yep. Just like that.’ He stepped across to the back of his van, delved inside for something and fiddled with it for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘Yeah. I’ve seen it before a few times.’

‘Do you have a spare?’

He shook his head. ‘No, but like you said, give it time to cool down and it’ll get you home and back out to a garage, as long as you don’t sit in this queue for too long. The Nissan dealership should have them in stock. Take it there as soon as you get the chance. Five minutes and they’ll have it replaced and you’ll be good as new. I’ll just pop it back in for now.’

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