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  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE LAWYER GOT BACK to us towards the end of the afternoon. His name was Max Carter and his voice irritated the hell out of me, never mind what he had to say. He made Prince Charles sound common as muck. The upshot was, Jack Farrell was willing to meet us the next morning at the lawyer’s office.

  ‘I’d rather Mr Farrell came down to the police station,’ I said. ‘I’m going to be a bit pushed for time tomorrow morning and I want to take a formal statement.’

  ‘We’re all busy men,’ Carter said in a lofty way that made me long to slap him. ‘However, neither of us has lost a child in the last twenty-four hours. Mr Farrell deserves our compassion and our consideration. A police station is not equipped to provide either of those, Detective Chief Inspector. Shall we say ten thirty at my office?’

  I didn’t have much choice, so I agreed. As I put the phone down, I turned to Ben and told him about the meeting. ‘Carter’s office is in one of those Canary Wharf towers. I want a pair of officers on all the ground-level exits and two cars in the underground car park. See if we can chase up the building plans from the council, just to be on the safe side. Farrell doesn’t get out of there without a tail.’

  Ben nodded. ‘OK, boss. Do you want me to get a tap on the lawyer’s phone?’

  ‘He’ll assume we’ve already got one. Besides, there’s no point. Every move we make just shows us how canny Farrell is. Even now the arse has dropped out of his world, the firewalls are still holding firm. You might want to tap up some of the usual sources and see if we can track down Danny and Fancy, though.’ I shut up sharpish as a tall woman stopped by my desk. Her thick dark hair had a distinctive silver streak falling from the centre parting over one ear. I grinned at the sight of her.

  ‘You’re a bit off your patch, aren’t you?’ I said.

  ‘I could say the same to you,’ she replied. She pointed to Ben’s chair and he stood up with a twisted little smile. She swung round the desk and settled down, propping her feet on the bin with a sigh of pleasure.

  I’ve always admired a woman who can stand up for herself. Dr Stella Marino had enough bottle to stand up for her entire sex. For the last five years, she’d been cutting up bodies for me. Unlike the ones that Farrell carved up, the ones Stella worked on were already dead.

  ‘I’m not your personal pathologist, you know,’ she said now. ‘You’re not the only bunch of cops who need to call on the best.’

  ‘You’re here for Katie Farrell?’ I knew the answer, but you have to go through the motions, even when you work as closely together as Stella and I do.

  Stella nodded. ‘Though only because of your interest in her father, I suspect. There was nothing about the body to suggest anything other than what you all assumed at the time. She was in her bed. The smoke and fumes killed her. The body was badly burned, but that happened post mortem. I suppose that may offer some comfort to her parents.’ She tried not to sound bored but failed. Poor Stella gets bored very quickly when a body offers no surprises.

  ‘You’re saying the person who did this didn’t want her to suffer?’ Ben chipped in.

  Stella pushed her hair back from her face in a familiar gesture. ‘Motive’s your thing, Ben. I just read what’s written on the body.’ She yawned then got to her feet. ‘You’ll get the formal report in a day or two.’

  ‘Let me walk you out,’ I said, falling into step beside her. When we’d got beyond the reach of Ben’s flapping ears, I spoke. ‘It’s been a while, I know, but it looks like I might have some free time this evening. I could bring a takeaway round to yours?’

  Stella bit her lip. ‘It’s a nice thought, Andy. But here’s the thing. I’m off to the States at the end of the week and I’ve got a million things to do before I leave.’

  ‘The States?’ I tried not to slide straight into a huff, but it was a struggle. OK, we’re not exactly what you’d call an item, Stella and me. But getting together three or four times a month for dinner and a session between the sheets isn’t nothing either. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard about the States.’

  We were out in the hall by now, shoulder to shoulder in the narrow passage. Stella didn’t slow down, just kept heading for the lifts with her long stride. ‘I got the chance to spend a month at the Body Farm,’ she said. ‘You know, where they –’

  ‘I know what they do there,’ I cut in. ‘Hard to resist. A month watching bodies rot. A pathologist’s wet dream.’ I shook my head and let my mouth curl into a sneer. ‘Beats hanging out with me and a Chinese.’

  Stella stabbed the lift button and swung round to face me. ‘Listen to yourself. I’ve heard five-year-olds sounding more adult.’ Stella laughed and leaned forward to plant a soft kiss on my cheek. She smelled, as she always did at the end of a working day, of the lavender gel she scrubbed her face and hands with. ‘Silly boy,’ she said. She patted my arm as the lift doors opened. ‘I’ll see you when I get back. Try not to find any really interesting bodies between now and then.’

  I faked a glare. ‘I’ll see what I can come up with. Just to spite you.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE STAKE-OUT HAD BEEN in place for a full hour before the meeting at Max Carter’s office. Even though we do this sort of thing all the time, I think we were all a bit edgy that morning. The game had changed somehow and it felt like we didn’t quite know the new rules yet.

  We picked up Farrell as soon as he was dropped off outside the building by Fancy Riley just after ten. The apparent change in him was striking. He walked the short distance to the main door like an old man, his shoulders hunched and his walk hesitant. His head was bowed, his eyes fixed on the pavement. To be honest, I might have walked past him in the street without recognizing him if I hadn’t been keeping an eye out for him.

  ‘He looks like shit,’ Ben said.

  ‘No wonder.’

  ‘You think it’s for real?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re the one with kids,’ I said. ‘How would you be feeling if that was Owen or Bethan on the slab?’

  Ben took a moment to think. ‘Angry,’ he said at last, rubbing a hand over the blond stubble that covered his cannonball head. ‘Angry is what I’d be feeling. I’d be raging to get my hands on the person that killed my kid. I’d be storming in there with my fists at the ready. But Farrell just looks beaten. He looks like a man who’s thrown in the towel. Only goes to show, you can never tell the thing that will truly cut somebody off at the knees. Before this, I would not have believed Jack Farrell would take this lying down.’

  As often happened, Ben had put his finger right on the very thing that was bothering me. Jack Farrell was a man of action. We’d seen it time and time again. Someone would try to inflict some serious damage on part of his empire, and Farrell would swing into action. There would be a morning meeting as per usual. Then Danny Chu and Fancy Riley would spend the rest of the day running round like somebody had lit a bonfire under their arses. Within a matter of days, Farrell would be back on top, often stronger than before. And whoever had been dumb enough to try it on was never going to do that again.

  Of course, nobody had ever hit on the idea of doing something this personal before. And yet the very idea of Farrell taking this lying down was something we were both struggling with.

  But when we walked into Max Carter’s office, it looked like that was just what we were going to get. Farrell barely looked up when we were shown in. He was slumped in an armchair, hair greasy and lank, suit crumpled and his eyes dull as pebbles. It was hard to square this hollow shell with the man who ran one of the toughest criminal empires in the country.

  When we introduced ourselves, posing as members of the Hampshire force, Farrell made no sign of knowing me from the night of the fire. Carter kept up a steady flow of plummy nothings as he settled us all round a low coffee table, but he couldn’t put off our questions for ever.

  I took Farrell through the evening leading up to the fire. ‘I wasn’t home when Katie went to bed,’ he said, his voice slow and dull. ‘I
was late getting back from a meeting in London. But I looked in on her when I got in.’

  ‘What time was that?’ Ben asked.

  ‘About half past nine,’ Farrell said. ‘Then I went in to give her a kiss on my way to bed. Just like I always did.’

  And so on. The alarm had been set. At least, he was ninety-nine per cent sure he’d set it like he always did. He’d taped a football match earlier in the evening so he’d gone to bed around half past ten to watch it there. Martina had joined him some time during the second half, before the Arsenal goal. They’d turned out the light just after midnight and gone to sleep.

  The smell of smoke had woken Martina first. She had shaken him awake and he’d jumped out of bed. ‘No, I didn’t look at the clock,’ he said, his voice weary and sad. ‘I ran out of the bedroom and I could see smoke in the hall.’

  I stopped him there and Ben took out a floor plan of the house. It was laid out like three sides of a square. The middle section contained public rooms the size of hotel ballrooms. The right-hand side held Farrell’s office, Martina’s private sitting room, and their bedroom. On the left, there was Katie’s playroom, her bedroom and Manuela’s two rooms. ‘Show me where you saw the smoke,’ I said.

  He pointed to the hallway that led from his bedroom to the living area. He seemed almost listless and bored, as if his mind was somewhere far away. ‘I ran towards the smoke. By the time I got halfway across the main hall, the smoke was so thick I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see any flames, the smoke was too heavy. But I could feel the heat.’

  Farrell had struggled back to his bedroom, coughing and gagging. Martina had already called the fire brigade. Together, they’d left the building by the garden door at the far end of the hall. Farrell had run across to the other wing, where Katie slept. He’d been yards away when he realized he was too late. Her bedroom window was a wall of flame. He’d been on his knees facing it, tears running down his face, when the firemen had found him.

  The firemen had also found Manuela collapsed on the ground next to the chair she’d used to smash her own bedroom window. Like all the other rooms in that wing of the house, her room had been gutted by the fire. She was lucky to be alive, according to the chief fire officer.

  ‘Is that what you think?’ I said to Farrell.

  For the first time that morning, his eyes showed some of his old spark. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you think she’s lucky to be alive? Or do you think she’s alive because that’s how she planned it?’

  He flicked his wrist like a man batting at a fly. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘Manuela loved Katie. They were like sisters.’

  ‘But they weren’t sisters. And even sisters have their price,’ I said. ‘Something like this, is always easier if it’s an inside job. Could somebody have got to Manuela?’

  For a fleeting moment, I could see Farrell consider the odds. Then he shook his head. ‘No way,’ he said.

  I believed him. And I thought I understood the reason for his faith. Getting her out of the country so fast hadn’t just been to protect her. It had also been to protect him. He knew Manuela hadn’t killed his daughter because he also knew she was in love with him. Whether he loved her in return, I had no way of knowing. But I’d have staked my pension on the fact that he was making the most of Manuela’s feelings.

  And that Martina knew nothing about the affair.

  CHAPTER SIX

  OF COURSE, MAX CARTER kicked us out of the office ahead of Farrell. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d had a discreet tail on us to make sure we left the building. Ben and I crossed the street and bought a couple of overpriced coffees that had longer names than most of the people I knew. Ben checked that all the stake-out teams were in place. We put our earpieces in so we could hear the radio traffic, then we stared glumly at each other.

  ‘Why do I feel like we’re on the road to nowhere?’ I said.

  ‘Because that’s what Farrell wants you to feel?’

  I took a sip. My coffee tasted burnt. It made me wonder how those expensive coffee shops ever caught on in the first place. ‘Maybe. Or maybe not. I got the initial forensics report this morning. They’ve got nothing to go on. The petrol could have come from any one of three thousand odd petrol stations. They got in through the garden door at the far end of the hall, bypassed the alarm sensor on the door. Not exactly easy, but not rocket science either. They left no prints, and the wire they used to bypass the alarm could have been bought anywhere. Any other trace of evidence was destroyed by the fire.’

  ‘It’s a right bastard, fire,’ Ben said.

  Before I could agree, voices crackled in my ear. ‘He’s on the move,’ I said, listening hard.

  ‘He’s in lift number six,’ I heard. ‘Kirsty’s in with him. Going down.’

  A pause, then, ‘He hasn’t got out on the ground floor. I couldn’t see if he’s still in the lift.’

  DC Kirsty Blythe’s voice cut in next. ‘We’re on the lower car park level. Subject headed left.’ Static crackled in my ear. I was on my feet now, swigging back the coffee and heading for the door. We had two unmarked cars in the car park, one on each level. ‘Oh shit,’ I heard Kirsty say. ‘There’s three identical white vans parked side by side. Target’s walked in behind them. I can’t see which van he’s got into.’

  Now we were running, Ben and me. No clear plan of action, except that we couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. A black cab came towards us and I hailed him, dragging my warrant card out of my pocket and waving it at him as we piled in. ‘Swing round so we can see the exit of the car park for that building there,’ I shouted.

  Muttering something rude, he did as I asked. We had just got into position when the first of three white vans emerged at the top of the ramp. The first one went left, the second and third right. Our unmarked cars were hot on their tails, one swinging in either direction. I told the cabbie to tuck in on the right.

  Ben got on his mobile to the tail car we were behind and told him to stay with the lead van and to leave the second one to us. But I knew we were completely screwed. It’s not like on the telly where they make it look like a piece of piss to follow a car without being spotted. You can’t tail a vehicle without them realizing it unless you’ve got two or more cars on the job. It’s fine on main routes in the city or out on the motorway. But as soon as you start moving through side streets or country roads, it’s all over. Your target knows you’re there, so they either lead you in the wrong direction or they lose you.

  Our van led us north, sticking with main roads all the way. We ended up horsing it up the M11 towards Cambridge. After about an hour of stupidity, the van turned off and drove down country lanes, bringing us at last to the car park of a village pub. The van pulled in while we hung back, trying to pretend there was nothing unusual about a London taxi idling in some Essex hamlet.

  The van driver knew, of course. He got out and walked round to the back of the van. He opened the doors then turned and waved to us. ‘Smartarse,’ Ben growled.

  ‘Go and check, all the same,’ I said.

  Ben gave me a dirty look but did as he was told. He walked down the lane and into the car park, casting an idle glance at the open van as he strolled towards the pub. He walked inside. A moment later my phone rang. ‘Clean as a whistle,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll be back out as soon as I’ve finished my pint.’

  Neither of the other tail cars had done any better. The van that had turned left had headed into Central London then doubled back. They’d lost him when he shot through a set of traffic lights on the Farringdon Road just as they turned to red. He’d nearly been sideswiped by a bus, but he’d made it.

  Our boys hadn’t.

  The third van had ended up going through the Dartford Tunnel and heading round the M25. They’d lost him in the approach to some roadworks, when a lorry had cut in front of our car at the last minute as the lanes merged. By the time our guy could get clear, there was no chance of reconnecting with the right white van.


  At the end of the meeting in Max Carter’s office, I’d almost been convinced that Farrell’s grief was real. But the stunt with the vans was so like the old Jack Farrell that I didn’t know what to think.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  OVER THE NEXT FEW days, I got more and more wound up about Jack Farrell. It was as if he had gone up in a puff of smoke. We had sources inside his posse, but they swore that they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the top man. Riley and Chu had never been more visible nor more busy, but as far as Farrell was concerned, he might as well have been the invisible man.

  Martina had finally surfaced enough to tell us she didn’t know where her husband was. She didn’t seem to think there was anything strange about her husband going off the map in the wake of her only child’s murder. Which just goes to show how true it is that the very rich are very different from the rest of us. All she seemed to care about was when she could hold the funeral.

  Of course, we were also nosing around, trying to put a face to the mystery man who had had the balls to take such a terrible step against Farrell. But we were getting nowhere on that either. Nobody, it seemed, was prepared to admit they were bold or stupid enough to have taken Katie Farrell’s life. It was a genuine mystery.

  I missed Stella too. OK, sometimes I didn’t see her outside work from one week’s end to the next. But that was different from knowing she wasn’t around at all. Every night when I got home, pissed off and pent up, I poured myself a large brandy and wished she was there to share it. Then I fell into bed and slept like the dead. Given that, maybe it was just as well she was away.

  Five days after the murder of Katie Farrell, something shifted. One of my snouts called me. ‘I got something for you,’ he began. No names, no pack drill, that’s how these exchanges go. ‘We need a face to face.’