IT NEVER RAINS

Murder and kidnap in the heart of England

TONY BASSETT

Published by

THE BOOK FOLKS

London, 2024

© Tony Bassett

Polite note to the reader

The right of Tony Bassett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

ISBN: 978-1-80462-245-2

This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers.

We hope you enjoy the book.

IT NEVER RAINS is the sixth standalone mystery in the Detectives Roy and Roscoe crime fiction series by Tony Bassett.

The full list of titles is as follows:

MURDER ON OXFORD LANE

THE CROSSBOW STALKER

MURDER OF A DOCTOR

OUT FOR REVENGE

HEIR TO MURDER

IT NEVER RAINS

Details about the other books can be found at the end of this one.

Chapter 1

Marilyn Willis was fretting about the meal planned for that evening. While she scurried round the manor house kitchen, collecting plates from the dishwasher and placing them in the wall cupboard, she was aware she still needed to make a good impression upon her new employer, the Frenchman Jean-Jacques Beauvais, and his family. Now in her early forties, the gardener’s wife had only been in charge of the catering for three weeks.

‘The French are so particular about their food,’ she muttered to herself.

When interviewed for the post two months earlier, she’d explained her skills stretched to international cuisine. But her boss had already taken her to task over one of the meals she cooked. Marilyn didn’t want another argument.

Tonight, she would be serving a mixed vegetable starter, French onion soup, salad and cheese, chicken casserole, yoghurt and fruit.

She glanced at her watch. It had turned four o’clock. Time to make a start.

But as she began preparing vegetables on the chopping board, the housekeeper happened to glance through the window. Her eyes widened in horror on catching sight of three men in masks standing on the patio.

They had propped a ladder up against the side of the building and were brazenly peering at her through the glass.

She knew at once they were intent on breaking in – and she was alone in the eight-bedroom house.

How she wished her husband, David, was with her. He would have set the dog on them, but he had taken their pet for a walk and would no doubt be gone for at least another hour. She was alone.

In a panic, she rushed into the vaulted hallway and hurried into the staff quarters.

‘Where’s my mobile?’ she wailed as she cast her eyes around. She eventually found it on the sofa, beside a newspaper.

But the moment she grabbed it, she heard footsteps on the wooden floor and felt a presence behind her. In an instant, a rough hand gripped her round the face and she felt a sharp object prodding her back.

‘No, you don’t!’ a male voice insisted.

Her heart was pounding and her breath came in short bursts. She was shaking.

‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she begged as the stranger snatched the phone from her hand and hurled her onto the sofa.

Who was this brute of a man who’d burst into their private space and attacked her so forcibly? she wondered. Was he going to hurt her? And how did he get in?

She knew he could not have entered through her kitchen door. She’d locked it after her husband left with the dog.

She tried to sit up but the stranger warned her, ‘Don’t move a muscle or I’ll kill you.’

Despite the overwhelming sense of fear coursing through her, Marilyn forced herself to glance round. She found a man in light-blue jeans and a white balaclava standing over her. He was holding a Beretta pistol in his right hand.

She could not take her eyes off the gun. Was this how her life would end?

After sliding her handset into the pocket of his jeans, the stranger plucked his own phone from his jacket and dialled a number, which was promptly answered.

‘All right, mate?’ he asked. ‘I’ve found the woman. What do you want me to do with her? Shall I kill her?’

Marilyn cowered on the sofa as she heard the reply. ‘Don’t kill her. Not for the moment. Just tie her and gag her. Any issues with the electrics?’

‘No, it’s all taken care of. I slashed the cables to four cameras and cut the landline, so that screwed the alarm. I’ve also blocked the motion sensors for the main house.’

The frightened housekeeper saw there was no point in struggling. She allowed herself to be tied to a chair and tape was wound round her mouth. The man was rather rough with her. The rope made her wrists sore and the gag round her mouth made it hard to breathe.

While he was doing this, she could hear voices from upstairs talking about Nikon and Canon cameras and fifty-pound notes.

‘Looks like we’ve uncovered Aladdin’s bleeding cave,’ she heard one of the gang shout before the man finished tying her and left.

Ten minutes later, she heard a car engine and wondered if the men were loading a vehicle with the family’s belongings.

‘One last trawl, boys, before we go,’ one of the gang yelled.

Then Marilyn was relieved to hear the hum of a car engine coming up the drive. She convinced herself it was the sound of a car she recognised – a silver Bentley Continental owned by the family.

She heard a man with a Birmingham accent yelling, ‘We’ve got company, lads.’

‘Oh, thank God,’ she said to herself. ‘Danny must be back. I just hope he realises one of them has got a gun.’

Chapter 2

Perched uneasily on his stepladder, Detective Chief Inspector Gavin Roscoe was attempting to drill holes into the wall above a bedroom window. As a tall, stout man, this required concentration. Then the doorbell rang.

He swore beneath his breath. He always hated being interrupted when tackling a demanding task, and putting up a new curtain rail in the spare bedroom was challenging his limited DIY skills. He reluctantly climbed down, put his electric drill on the floor and peered out of the window.

His son George was standing on the front lawn, waving up at him.

Roscoe hurried down the stairs, wiping his hands on his paint-stained overalls, and threw open the door.

‘George! This is an unexpected surprise,’ said Roscoe. ‘Come on in. How’s married life?’

‘Pretty good, Dad. Pretty good,’ said George with a broad smile. ‘I see you’ve been working. I’m not interrupting an important job, am I?’

‘No, only fixing a curtain rail. It can wait. Your mother has a plan to revamp your old room,’ Roscoe replied. ‘She’s been on at me since you moved out that we ought to turn it into a proper guest room.’

He led his twenty-six-year-old son into the living room.

‘Can I get you some tea or coffee?’ he asked George.

‘Tea would be great, Dad. Thanks.’

While the kettle was boiling in the kitchen, George explained he had left his new wife, Amanda, shopping in the nearby town of Queensbridge. Then he had called in at the family’s business, where his mother and sister worked.

‘I saw Mum and Mel at the tearooms, but they were rushed off their feet,’ he said.

‘They’ll both be back in a minute. They’ll be so pleased to see you,’ said Roscoe.

‘How’s life at headquarters, Dad?’

‘I’ve had a really tiring week. Two of our team are on holiday and we’ve had two suspicious deaths. We arrested a guy supplying drugs and had a harassment case to deal with.’

After his father had fetched two china mugs of steaming tea, George told his father about the new flat in Warwick that he and Amanda had moved into.

‘It’s great to have our own place, Dad,’ said George as he sipped his tea. His legs were jiggling as if he was nervous. ‘We’ve got great neighbours. I had a problem with a curtain rail myself but the guy from next door is a carpenter and he came round and screwed it in for me.’

‘Can you send him round to me?’ Roscoe asked as he strode across the room and glanced through the patio doors into the garden. ‘And how are you getting on with your grumpy old sergeant?’

‘Oh, he’s not so bad, Dad. He’s giving me some time off next week because I’ve put in a lot of extra hours.’

A faint smile crept across his face.

‘Listen, Dad, I’ve got some news. I was going to wait until Mum and Mel got here, but I just can’t hold on any longer. Amanda’s pregnant.’

‘That’s wonderful news, George!’ said Roscoe. He placed his mug down on a side table and stepped over to the brown leather settee, where his son was sitting. George stood up and the pair hugged.

‘When’s the happy event?’ asked Roscoe.

‘The baby’s due in April, Dad. Amanda will be here in a minute and she can tell you all about it.’

‘There won’t be much more for her to say at this stage,’ said his father with a grin, ‘although I expect your mother will find plenty of questions. I don’t suppose you know…’

‘The sex of the baby? No, not yet,’ said George, resuming his seat.

‘This is a good time for me to open my new bottle of whisky,’ said Roscoe, making his way to a cocktail cabinet in the corner.

‘I’ll have a small one with you, Dad,’ said George as his father selected two glasses. ‘That’s not my only news. I’m joining Stratford CID as a trainee detective.’

‘I suppose it had to happen one day,’ said Roscoe. ‘You used to talk about being a detective as a child. Neat or on the rocks?’

‘Just a little tap water with mine. Thanks, Dad. Yes, the way I’m thinking, maybe I could have a year there and then join your team.’

‘We’ll have to see about that, George,’ his father replied. ‘I mean, two Roscoes in the same CID department? Would that work?’

Roscoe stepped into the kitchen and added chilled water to both drinks before returning and handing one glass to his son.

‘By the way, is DS Roy leaving?’ asked George.

His father nearly spilled his drink on hearing the question.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘Well, it’s just that, as you know, we don’t live far from her flat. The other day we noticed a “For Sale” sign outside.’

‘I haven’t heard anything,’ his father admitted as he sat down at the dining table. ‘I’d be devastated to lose her from CID.’

‘I know you think a lot of her. That’s why I was surprised to see the sale board. But then I remembered that West Midlands Police have been advertising for detectives and I wondered if she’d been tempted to apply.’

‘I sincerely hope not,’ said Roscoe. ‘You’ve got me concerned now.’

‘Well, maybe she’s just climbing up the property ladder or moving closer to work,’ George suggested.

‘That’s possible. I’m just surprised she hasn’t mentioned anything to me. I see her in the office nearly every day.’

‘You told me before that your sergeant can be a very private person.’

Roscoe nodded. ‘She’s that all right, and she can be very stubborn and headstrong. But I’d have thought she’d have mentioned it if she was moving home.’

He got up and clinked his glass with George’s.

‘Here’s to the new baby,’ said Roscoe.

‘Yes, cheers,’ said George as he smiled and sipped his drink.

‘You haven’t annoyed your sergeant, have you, Dad?’ he asked.

‘Not that I can think of.’

‘Mum told me a few months ago you were against her taking a trip abroad, but the chief super overruled you and the trip helped solve one of your cases.’

‘I was only concerned about the budget,’ his father explained. ‘We have to watch our expenditure, you know, but you’re right with the facts. I was against the idea of her leaving the country. But she made the trip and went on to crack the case. I hope she didn’t hold that against me.’

Roscoe sat back on his chair. The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself there was some simple explanation as to why his sergeant had not mentioned she was selling her flat. It was pointless worrying about the matter. But, on the other hand, if she was leaving, her departure would prove a huge loss to CID.

‘Ah, that sounds like your mother now,’ he told George.

Roscoe gazed through the front window as a blue Fiesta came roaring down the lane outside and advanced onto the drive. As he stepped into the hall, his mobile phone rang.

‘Roscoe,’ he announced to the caller while opening the door to his wife.

He found himself speaking to the duty inspector at his force control room.

‘We’re getting early reports of a break-in at a country house in Norton Prior,’ said the caller.

Chapter 3

The driver of the brand-new Bentley knew as soon as he arrived at the country house that all was not well. The electric gates were wide open. So, as he travelled up the drive towards the back of the main building, bodyguard Danny Jukes was mentally preparing himself.

After passing the swimming pool complex and the garage block, he turned left and saw a tall, muscular man in a mask beside a car. Realising a crime was under way, he stopped the Bentley at the corner of the house and made a phone call.

‘Ken, I’ll make this quick,’ he said as his boss answered. ‘Just got back to Upper Norton Manor. There’s a guy in a balaclava robbing the place, loading gear into a Range Rover.’

Jukes, who was six feet four inches tall, shaven-headed and wearing a blue suit, peered over the top of his dark glasses and recited the vehicle’s registration before adding, ‘Can you call the cops and alert the family? I’m going in.’

He hung up and slipped the phone into his pocket. His employer’s teenage son was in the back seat, so Jukes ordered him to lie on the floor, then flung a blanket over him.

‘Stay there and don’t move,’ he said.

After hurling his glasses onto the passenger seat, he leaped from the silver car.

The masked man came towards him, brandishing a knife, but Jukes grabbed the burglar’s arm with his left hand and chopped his wrist with his right. He tried to grab the knife.

‘You bastard!’ cried the robber as Jukes managed to wrench the knife from his grasp, letting it fall to the block paving.

Jukes thrust him back against the side of the Range Rover and tried to grab him round the throat. But the robber managed to duck away and the pair then grappled together beside the car.

Jukes’s opponent seized him by the throat, but, in return, Jukes grasped the robber’s wrist with his left hand, jerking himself free of his grip, and struck him on the jaw with his right fist. He kneed him hard in the groin and punched him again in the face and stomach. The muscular man tumbled onto the paving badly winded, which allowed Jukes a chance to regain his breath.

While gasping for air, Jukes noticed his opponent stretching out his hand for the fallen blade. He stamped hard on the man’s outreached hand, causing him to cry out. Then he used his foot to crush his neck against the ground.

‘Wayne!’ screamed the robber, a blond, muscular man in his thirties called Kyle O’Shane. ‘Where the hell are you? This is the guy we were told about.’

Jukes was puzzled by the robber’s words and glanced around. A first-floor window opened above the front door and a man in a white balaclava leaned out. A gun appeared and two shots were fired.

Jukes cried out in agony before toppling onto the ground like a skittle struck by a bowling ball.

* * *

From the back of the Bentley, Marcel Dubois had listened in terror to the sound of shouting and the gunshots. Even with minimal English, the teenager knew enough to be terrified.

A few minutes passed. Then Marcel heard the car door open and a man leaped behind the steering wheel. As he peered out from beneath the blanket, the man removed his mask. This was a young man with spiky short hair and a beard.

Marcel heard his new driver engage reverse gear with a clunk. The car sprang backwards and stalled. The driver tried again. This time he was more successful and the car lurched slowly forward.

Marcel pulled the door handle and jumped out of the car while it was moving. He sprinted off towards the tennis courts at the far side of the house.

Within seconds, he realised the bearded man had stopped the Bentley and was pursuing him, along with a second, taller man who was masked.

‘Come on,’ he told himself. ‘You can get away from these older men.’

But he hadn’t noticed the pebbles and tripped over, grazing his leg.

‘Laissez-moi partir. Je n’ai rien fait,’ the boy screamed at the men as they caught up with him.

Then the bearded man spoke. ‘Who the hell is this?’ he demanded.

‘Search me,’ said the other man. ‘But we’ll have to take him with us.’

The pair grabbed the boy’s arms and hauled him to his feet before marching him back to the Bentley.

The sandy-haired lad, with two gold medallions round his neck and a small ring in his nose, wriggled in vain.

‘He’ll have to stay with us while we decide what to do,’ said O’Shane.

‘So we might have to kill him?’ asked the bearded man, Lewis Tigworth who was nicknamed Tiggs.

‘Maybe,’ came the reply. ‘But it ain’t down to us.’

The two men searched the teenager’s pockets and discovered a mobile phone in a black case, which they threw into some bushes.

‘He sounds French,’ said Tigworth.

‘Don’t worry about that now,’ said his companion. ‘We’ll tie his hands and stick the hood on him. Then we’ve really got to get the hell out of here.’

Marcel was thrust into the back of the Bentley. A grimy brown hood was forced over his head and tied round his neck. Then they set off down the drive.

Within fifteen minutes, the gang reached a place on the town’s outskirts, where the car came to a halt.

One of the men forced the teenager out of the car and led him inside, his head still covered.

‘Take him straight upstairs,’ said a voice. ‘We’ll lock him in the back bedroom while we decide what to do. Make sure the window’s locked.’

Marcel was frogmarched upstairs and the hood was removed.

He found himself in a small room containing only a single bed, a single wardrobe and a bedside table. There was a small multicoloured rug on the floor beside the bed. Faded green wallpaper was peeling from the walls and there were damp stains on the ceiling, suggesting rainwater was seeping in.

The man who had caught him, whom he had decided to call ‘L’Homme Barbu’ – the bearded man – pushed him onto the bed.

‘You’re the footballer’s stepson, aren’t you?’ he asked Marcel.

‘Quoi?’ replied the boy.

‘It’s all right. We know about you. We’ve been talking to our boss and we’ve decided to keep you here for a while. It won’t be too bad, mate. We’ll get you food and everything, and the bed’s all right.’

‘Laissez-moi partir!’ Marcel shouted.

Marcel leaped up and tried to force his way out through the door but the man barred his way and thrust him back onto the bed.

The boy stared at his abductor, wide-eyed and terrified.

‘Vous ne pouvez pas me traiter comme ça,’ he said while hearing footsteps outside.

A ginger-haired man peered round the door.

‘What’s he saying?’ asked the newcomer, their electronics expert Wayne Jordan.

‘I think he’s saying we can’t treat him like this,’ said Tigworth, ‘but the fact is we can’t let him go for the moment.’

‘That’s right,’ said his associate. ‘He’s far too valuable.’

Chapter 4

They seemed to Detective Sergeant Sunita Roy to be an oddly matched couple. He was an educated man in his late thirties who peered over his glasses like a university professor. She was much younger with dyed green hair and an impish smile.

‘The kitchen is far too small for us,’ the man concluded. ‘How on earth do you manage? And we’d have to rip those cupboards out and start again.’

‘I like the main room,’ said the woman, ‘although I’d have to make drastic changes to the colour scheme.’

Sunita, who was slim, with silky, black hair and dark eyes, stood in the centre of her living room, gritting her teeth and attempting to smile. After five happy years at her one-bed flat in Crompton Gardens, Warwick, she had decided to sell. It was the first property she had ever owned and, although compact, she held it in great affection.

‘Thank you for showing us round, Miss Roy,’ said the man, apparently unaware of how much their visit had irritated the sergeant.

Sunita returned upstairs after seeing the couple out. Her friend, Rupa Chakrabarty, whom she’d known since university, had been watching the entire homebuyers’ visit in quiet amusement while sitting on the beige settee and sensed her friend was annoyed.

‘What a cheek some people have got,’ said Sunita. ‘They had the gall to ask about a large price reduction before they drove off.’

‘I don’t know how you put up with it,’ said her friend. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to let the agent show people round? Isn’t that what you pay them for?’

‘They were too busy today and I didn’t want to lose the chance of a sale,’ replied Sunita.

‘I’m sure there must be a breed of people who just spend their spare time snooping around other people’s homes, collecting design ideas without any intention of buying.’

Rupa smiled. ‘Never mind. I’m sure you’ll sell the flat soon and move to pastures new. You’re very lucky, Sunita. I’m still renting with no chance of owning my own place for a while. Anyway, I’ll have to think about going soon.’

Sunita took a seat beside her.

‘It’s been so good to catch up,’ said Sunita. ‘Do you really have to go?’

‘Yes. I’ve got marking and ironing to do tomorrow,’ replied Rupa, a teacher at a Stoke-on-Trent school. ‘But I’ve really enjoyed it. I loved the market and seeing Anne Hathaway’s Cottage was the highlight of the day.’

The pair had spent three hours that morning exploring the charming, thatched farmhouse and gardens near Stratford-upon-Avon where William Shakespeare’s wife lived as a child and where the Bard had wooed her.

When Sunita’s phone rang, it took her by surprise. She glanced at the screen.

‘It’s my boss,’ she told Rupa before answering.

‘Everything all right, sir?’ she asked breezily.

‘So sorry to trouble you on a Saturday afternoon,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Do you know Upper Norton Manor?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Wasn’t that where the businessman Dominic Carlton used to live, on the outskirts of Norton Prior?’

‘That’s right. Carlton died three years ago. It’s currently being rented by the Aston Villa footballer Jean-Jacques Beauvais and his family. Well, during today’s game, Beauvais’s bodyguard and stepson turned up to find a gang of burglars had broken in. Now both are missing. How soon do you think you can get over there?’

‘Well, I’m with a friend right now, sir. But I can leave in a few minutes and should be there at around five thirty.’

‘Good,’ he replied. ‘I’ll see you there.’

After ending the call, Sunita turned to her friend and sighed.

‘I’m sorry, Rupa. Crime never takes a day off.’

Rupa stood up. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m used to you by now after all those years we shared that flat in Hall Green. I’ll get my coat.’

‘I can drop you at the station,’ said Sunita, rushing into her bedroom to change her clothes. ‘But after that I’ve got to head off.’

* * *

It had turned half past five by the time Sunita approached Norton Prior and it took her a few more minutes to reach Ploughman’s Lane, where the three-million-pound Upper Norton Manor was located.

After travelling for some distance along the lane, she had to pull over to allow an ambulance to pass.

Although it was now becoming dark, she quickly found the entrance to the mansion without difficulty. A constable in uniform had been posted to stand by the open, wrought-iron gates.

‘DS Roy,’ she announced as a police helicopter with a searchlight could be seen soaring across the sky in the fading light.

‘Just head straight up the drive. You’ll find your colleagues round the back,’ he told her.

She followed the illuminated driveway past ornamental shrubs until she reached the paved area behind the house, which had been taped off.

In the brightly lit garage area to her right, she noticed the chief inspector’s navy-blue BMW and a white Kia Sportage belonging to senior forensic scientist Dr Alice Ling.

As she parked her white Peugeot 208 next to the BMW and climbed out, an amiable uniformed constable approached.

‘All right, Sarge?’ asked PC Derek Underhill. ‘You’ve missed a bit of excitement.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘They’ve just taken the housekeeper away in an ambulance.’

‘I saw an ambulance travelling down the lane.’

‘That was her,’ he said. ‘They’re taking her to Queensbridge General.’

‘What happened?’

‘The poor woman was in the house on her own when she spotted three men in ski masks. One of them threatened her with a gun and tied her up.’

Sunita was concerned. ‘Is she all right?’

‘I think so. They just roughed her up a bit.’

Sunita shook her head. ‘Must have been a hell of an ordeal for her.’

‘Yes, poor soul,’ said Underhill. ’They’ve taken her away for a check-up. Her husband’s here, but he didn’t see anything. He was out at the time, walking the dog.’

Sunita found the chief inspector talking to Dr Ling beside the main doorway to the house. A police photographer was taking pictures of a pool of blood on the block-paved forecourt. Three forensic staff in white coats were examining the entrance area. A fourth was inspecting possible tyre marks left among leaves, still damp following that morning’s light rain. Rubber anti-contamination plates had been placed at certain points along the ground so that detectives and forensic staff could walk around without the risk of damaging potential evidence. The scene was bathed in the white glow of arc lights.

Sunita stepped across carefully to join her boss.

‘Ah, Sergeant,’ said Roscoe sternly, ‘I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know how much you know, but around four o’clock a gang of burglars appear to have disabled the alarm, cut the landline and disconnected the CCTV. Then they got in through the first-floor bathroom window on the other side of the house using a ladder and stole valuables and designer goods.’

‘Do we have any idea how many were in the gang?’ asked Sunita.

‘Not at the moment,’ he said. ‘The housekeeper, Mrs Willis, believes there were three, but there may have been more.’

‘What happened to Mrs Willis, sir?’

‘She was tied up and threatened with a gun.’

‘You’ve managed to speak to her, sir?’

‘Yes, I just grabbed a few words. She’s still in a state, of course. Underhill and another constable from Queensbridge were the first here and called an ambulance. She’s not badly hurt – just bruised wrists. It’s more the shock than anything else. Anyway, about ten minutes later, she heard a bit of conversation, a car engine and soon after that, two gunshots. Bear in mind she was strapped to a chair with her hands and feet tied and her mouth gagged.’

Sunita frowned. ‘Terrible, sir.’

‘After that, she heard what sounded like two cars driving away. Roughly twenty minutes later, our officers from Queensbridge arrived and untied her. The husband came back half an hour later.’

‘Where’s the husband now?’ she asked.

‘In their staff quarters just behind us. Police were alerted by a firm called Top Rank Protection in Wiltshire. One of their operatives, a guy called Danny Jukes, has been hired by the family as a bodyguard. He called the company’s boss, Ken Woodman, at around ten minutes past four. He’d been given charge of the footballer’s sixteen-year-old stepson, Marcel, for the afternoon. Jukes told his boss they’d arrived at the house to find a guy with a balaclava loading gear into a Range Rover.’

‘Have we got the registration?’ Sunita asked.

‘Yes, but you know what these people are like,’ said Roscoe. ‘Chances are they were false plates and may have been replaced by now in any case. Anyway, Danny Jukes’s last words to Ken were, “Can you call the cops and alert the family? I’m going in.” And since then, he and the boy have vanished off the face of the earth.’

Sunita shook her head and stared across at the bloodstains on the ground and at the hedge beyond.

‘We know two shots were fired by someone,’ her boss continued. ‘As you can see, there are traces of blood on the forecourt here, but we don’t know what the outcome of that was – although someone was obviously harmed.’

Sunita cast her eyes towards the hedge and trees on the far side of the forecourt.

‘What about the family, sir?’ she asked.

‘Jean-Jacques and his wife Camille are on their way back from watching the team play in Newcastle and should be here in a few hours,’ he said. ‘We obviously need to speak to them. In the meantime, I suggest you have a chat with the gardener, David Willis, and see if he can add anything to what we know.’

He handed her a scrap of paper with a phone number scribbled on it.

‘Maybe you could also have a word with Woodman. Here’s his number. Whatever you do, don’t go into the house right now. The forensic team are up to their eyes.’

‘Sir, do we have any idea at all what might have happened to Danny Jukes and Marcel?’ she said.

The chief inspector shook his head. ‘No. But it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that they’ve both fallen victim to foul play.’

Chapter 5

The man she wished to see was pacing around his living room, continually glancing at his watch when Sunita approached the open door of the staff quarters. His dog, who was sitting on a mat in front of a blazing gas fire, leaped up and began to bark.

‘It’s all right, Rocky. Be quiet,’ David Willis said before turning to the sergeant. ‘Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you.’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Roy,’ Sunita said, eyeing the dog warily. ‘I promise I won’t take up much of your time.’

‘I’ve already given PC Underhill my statement,’ said David, who appeared to be in his forties. ‘Have I got to go through it all again?’

‘Just a few more questions, sir,’ she assured him.

‘Good, because I need to get over to the hospital and see how my wife is getting on,’ he replied.

She took a seat on the sofa in the small, dark room. A spiral staircase in the corner led, she assumed, to the Willises’ bedroom. A door facing her gave access to the couple’s small kitchen.

‘I was shocked to hear what happened to your wife, Marilyn,’ Sunita began. ‘It’s dreadful to be confronted by a stranger in your own home and then tied up.’

‘Those men were brutes, Sergeant, who wanted money and valuables and weren’t prepared to let anything stand in their way. I’ve never seen my wife so traumatised in twenty years of marriage.’

He sat down on an armchair before leaning forward and stroking his pet.

‘Mr Willis, I’ve been told you’d gone for a walk with the dog while all this happened. Is that right?’

‘Yes. I left the house with Rocky here at about twenty to four. I always try and take him on a two-mile walk over to the village and back.’

‘And what time did you return?’ she asked, as she took out her notebook and pen.

‘Must have been about twenty past five. I got the shock of my life. There were loads of police here. I had to explain I lived here and they let me through the cordon to see Marilyn. I was only able to speak to her briefly before the ambulance crew whisked her away.’

‘And did she manage to tell you much, sir?’

‘She just said she was shocked to find a man in a ski mask in here. He threatened her with a gun. Then he struck her and was very rough with her.’

‘I don’t suppose she was able to give much of a description of what the man looked like?’

‘She said he’d got a white balaclava on. He was slightly overweight and spoke with a southern accent. He trussed her up with rope and fixed a cloth round her mouth. She was shaking while telling me all this.’

‘Did she say anything else before the paramedics took her?’

‘Only that she’d heard two gunshots near the kitchen. That really spooked her. I only had a couple of minutes with her before they put her in the ambulance. My God, I really wish we’d been here. Rocky would have seen them off, wouldn’t you, Rocky?’

Sunita shook her head. ‘I think perhaps it was just as well in a way that you and Rocky weren’t here, sir. They tied up your wife. They might not have been so easy-going towards you and the dog. Have you seen anyone in the lane outside acting suspiciously over the past few weeks or have there been any unusual incidents?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing I can recall. But this lane isn’t a quiet haven of peace and tranquillity all the time, despite appearances. Anglers are constantly driving up and down here on their way to the River Avon. We also get dog walkers and teenage couples around here from time to time.’

After she’d finished speaking to David Willis, Sunita returned to the main house and, for a while, stood near the front door, watching a scenes-of-crime officer at work. The woman, who was wearing white overalls, was examining tyre tracks among some damp leaves. Sunita assumed the chief inspector and other members of their team had switched their attention to the other side of the building or were examining places inside the house where the burglars had been.

She removed the piece of paper Roscoe had handed her earlier from the pocket of her brown quilted jacket and dialled the number for Top Rank Protection. Then, while waiting for the firm to reply, she stared across the forecourt towards the brown hornbeam hedge as she had done earlier. Was that something white on the ground that she could see among the dark twigs? Some litter carried there by the autumn wind? Some white fungus among the soil?

Ken Woodman answered almost immediately. ‘Top Rank. How can I help?’ he asked.

‘This is DS Roy from Heart of England CID,’ Sunita explained. ‘Is that Mr Woodman?’

‘Yes. Any news?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘I’ve just been assigned to the case and I’m at Upper Norton Manor right now. I gather Mr Jukes phoned you as soon as he arrived here this afternoon.’

‘That’s right. He said he could see a guy in a balaclava loading stolen gear into a Range Rover.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Exactly twelve minutes past four. Since then I’ve texted him and heard nothing.’

‘I’m afraid we’ve had a report of two gunshots being heard but there’s absolutely no sign of your employee,’ she said. ‘As far as you’re aware, Mr Jukes declared he was going to tackle the man in the balaclava?’

‘Yes. He was with the army in southern Helmand before he got into security work. He’s the type of guy who’s never been worried about having a go. Since then I haven’t had a word from him, so I’m obviously fearing the worst. Especially since I’ve now heard a gun was fired. I’m worried not only for Danny, who’s one of our best and most reliable operatives, but also for the lad he was caring for, Marcel Dubois.’

‘Where was he speaking from when he vowed to tackle the man?’

‘He was sitting in the driver’s seat of the Bentley belonging to the Beauvais family. He wasn’t far from the entrance to the house.’

‘Mr Woodman, would you do me a favour?’ Sunita asked. ‘As we speak, I’m near the main door myself. As I stand here, there’s a large forecourt with a set of garages to the right and tennis courts to the left. Directly in front – about ten metres away – is a clump of bushes and some trees. I want to make sure nothing’s been overlooked here. Would you mind calling Mr Jukes’s phone again?’

‘Not at all. I’ll remain on the office phone with you while I use my mobile to make the call.’

A few seconds passed. Then Sunita heard a phone ringing from the hedge that bordered the forecourt.

Chapter 6

After telling Danny Jukes’s boss that she would call him back, Sunita Roy walked round the forecourt and stepped through the clump of bushes that lay behind the hedge. She had only walked a short distance when she stopped in her tracks.

Lying on his back in a pool of blood beneath one of the bushes was the body of a burly man in a suit.

The sergeant was gradually becoming accustomed to such gruesome sights after serving eight years with the police – including the past six spent with CID – but she was nonetheless distressed to find the man she suspected to be Danny Jukes had been killed in an act of brutality.

She took a step back in shock at her discovery and sought a moment to compose herself. Then she retraced her steps to the building’s entrance and shouted for the chief inspector.

When he failed to respond, she guessed he was at the other side of the house and set off to find him. She hurried past the tennis courts and found Roscoe watching a team of forensic investigators hard at work inspecting the patio. The metal ladder used by the thieves was still resting against the first-floor balcony.

‘Sir, I’ve found a body,’ she said.

He took a step back in surprise before glancing at her.

‘Have you? Well done. Let’s go and take a look,’ he said.

Dr Ling, overhearing their conversation, followed a few paces behind as Sunita led them to the spot behind the hedge, explaining how she got Ken Woodman to call Jukes’s phone.

Dr Ling rushed forward and examined the corpse.

‘Well done, Sergeant. Using your initiative again,’ Roscoe remarked. Then, in a lower voice so that Dr Ling could not hear, he added, ‘What a shame some of our colleagues who got here earlier missed this.’

The detectives watched from a few metres away while Dr Ling used her phone to alert the police photographer and then carried on making her initial appraisal of the bloodstained body.

‘He’s been shot from behind,’ Ling remarked as she continued her examination.

Sunita outlined to her boss what Woodman had told her about the bodyguard.

‘Poor guy,’ Roscoe remarked. ‘He arrives and finds a masked man loading loot into a car. If the initial information from Mr Woodman is correct, he realises his employer’s home’s being robbed and, with little thought for his own safety, decides to tackle the thief.’

Sunita shook her head. ‘Maybe he should have realised there would be more than one robber involved. Maybe he should have held back and protected his charge.’

‘I hear what you’re saying, Sergeant, but, in my book, he’s to be commended for having the bravery to confront the guy. He wasn’t to know there was more than one person engaged in the robbery. If there were more men like him in the country, we might not be in the mess we’re in at the moment.’

‘These men were incredibly ruthless, sir. I mean, to shoot someone from behind in cold blood like that.’

At that moment, Dr Ling removed a mobile phone from the man’s jacket and held it up for the pair to see.

After acknowledging that they had seen it, Roscoe turned his attention back to Sunita.

‘I totally agree, Sergeant. We’re now on the hunt for a group of really callous individuals.’

* * *

An hour later, as reporters and photographers began to gather outside the gates of Upper Norton Manor, a green Land Rover Discovery roared up the dark country lane and turned into the drive.

Its occupant was the portly, middle-aged Home Office pathologist Dr Silas Reynolds, who parked next to the swimming pool complex. He changed beside the car into his white overalls and collected from the boot his brown leather ‘murder bag’ containing a thermometer, syringes, a handsaw, sterile swabs, a small torch and a camera.

‘You’re lucky I’ve made it today,’ he said as he bustled towards the detectives in his white overshoes. ‘The Scots are about to face the Aussies at Murrayfield. I’d been looking forward to it all week.’

‘Never mind, Silas,’ said Roscoe. ‘You’ll be able to watch the game on catch-up.’

‘It’s not the same, old fruit,’ Reynolds moaned. ‘Now what have we got?’

The chief inspector and his sergeant moved a short distance away to allow the pathologist space. Reynolds began by taking several photographs of the body on the damp grass behind the hedge. Then, assisted by scenes-of-crime officers, the operation began to move the body onto the block paving so it could be fully examined under the lights. This proved more difficult than they first expected because of the man’s size and weight but, within a few minutes, they managed to lift him onto some plastic sheeting on the ground.

As Reynolds stooped down and began his examination, Roscoe smiled towards his sergeant.

‘By the way,’ he said quietly, ‘George saw a “For Sale” board up outside your flat. Are you moving on somewhere?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ve been in Crompton Gardens for five years now,’ she said.

‘Is it as long as that?’

‘Yes. I feel it’s time I got out of my poky flat and looked for a house.’

‘Whereabouts are you looking?

‘I really like Warwick, but I don’t really mind what area.’

‘Oh, so you’re not moving on work-wise?’

‘Oh no. Of course not, sir. I want to stay at Heart of England.’

‘That’s good news.’

As they spoke, Reynolds carefully turned the corpse over and studied the back of the victim’s head. He glanced across at the two detectives.

‘Any idea who the poor fellow is?’ he asked.

‘He’s believed to be Danny Jukes,’ said Roscoe. ‘He’s a bodyguard hired by the family who live here.’

‘He’s got the right physique,’ Reynolds muttered as he studied a bullet hole in the victim’s back. ‘He’s been shot twice. I’ll get a scan done when we get him to the mortuary at Queensbridge, but it’s quite clear he’s suffered a catastrophic gunshot injury to the back of the head with no sign of an exit wound. He’d have lost consciousness immediately and death would have followed extremely quickly. A second shot penetrated the back of the right shoulder, again without an exit wound. There’s no sign of singeing, gunpowder residue or stippling at the site of either wound, indicating the gun wasn’t close by when it was fired.

‘This fellow also has abrasions to his face and scratches on his neck which indicate he’d been engaged in a fight with someone ante-mortem. Lastly, he has a facial injury consistent with him falling forward onto the ground after the shots were fired. It’s not usually possible to determine the sequence in which such injuries are inflicted. But in this case, it seems likely the shot in the head came first.’

‘What about the time of death, Silas?’ asked Roscoe.

‘Judging by the temperature of the body, I’d say it happened two or three hours ago,’ he replied.

‘That fits with what we know,’ Roscoe said with a nod.

‘Dr Reynolds,’ said Sunita, ‘I know it’s early days, but do we have any idea where the gunman would have been positioned and how close to the victim he’d have been?’

‘From the angle of the wounds, I’d hazard a guess that the shots may well have been fired from an upstairs window.’

‘Could the shots have been fired from that window above the front door?’ asked Roscoe.

‘Is it a bedroom?’

‘No. It’s halfway up the stairs.’

‘The shots could have come from there,’ said Reynolds.

‘Death from the bullet in the head would have been instantaneous – occurring within seconds rather than minutes,’ the pathologist continued. ‘That shot on its own would have caused extensive brain injuries and he’d have died quickly. It would have done massive damage to the cerebral cortex and was unsurvivable, in my opinion.’

Chapter 7

Clutching a partly eaten bacon sandwich, Lewis Tigworth strolled up the stairs of the dilapidated house and unlocked the door to the back bedroom.

Marcel Dubois had been lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Now he stirred in the dim light and turned his eyes towards his visitor, standing in the doorway.

‘Where’s Danny?’ he asked.

‘Back at the house,’ said the man with spiky hair, taking a bite out of his sandwich. ‘You don’t need to worry about him. I’m sure he’s OK.’

‘Sommes-nous dans le Warwickshire?’ the boy asked.

‘Eh?’ said the visitor. ‘Speak English.’

‘This is hard for me,’ said Marcel. ‘Are we in Warwickshire?’

The man laughed. ‘Yes, mate. We’re in Warwickshire. Before we go any further, write your name.’

‘You’re speaking too fast,’ said the boy. ‘More slowly.’

‘Write… your… name,’ said the man, repeating the phrase one word at a time.

He pulled an old bus ticket from his pocket and handed it to Marcel along with a pencil. The boy carefully wrote out his full name and passed the paper back.

‘Marcel Doo-boys,’ recited the visitor, who vaguely remembered from reading news reports online that the footballer Jean-Jacques Beauvais had married Marcel’s mother, an ex-model. The lad had to be the player’s stepson.

The visitor stepped slowly into the room. ‘We’ve got some clothes for you – two pairs of trousers, four shirts and some underwear. We’ll put them in the wardrobe for you later.’

‘Je suis fatigué,’ said the boy, sitting up in bed. ‘I am so tired. You drug me?’

‘Never mind about that. It was just something to make you sleep.’

‘I want more sleep.’

‘I’ll be back downstairs in a minute. You can sleep as long as you like then,’ said Tigworth.

‘What is happening at the house? I am hearing a gun.’

‘A gun was fired in warning,’ said Tigworth.

‘I’m not seeing what happened,’ Marcel continued. ‘I am in the car. Please, I can go home?’

‘Sorry, mate, we can’t do that for the moment,’ came the reply.

‘How long?’

‘We don’t know yet. Maybe a few days.’

‘I know there are other men here,’ said Marcel. ‘Please help me.’

Tigworth shrugged his shoulders and ate the rest of his sandwich.

‘It’s not down to me. I don’t take the decisions. Time will soon pass, you’ll see. Why didn’t you go to Newcastle with your folk?’

‘No Newcastle,’ Marcel explained. ‘I’m going to the cinema instead.’

‘Your dad hasn’t played a game for the Villa yet, has he?’ said Tigworth.

‘He is playing soon.’

‘I’ve heard he earns more than three hundred thousand a week in wages. Is that right?’

‘Sorry?’ asked Marcel.

‘It says so on Birmingham Live,’ the visitor continued, ‘which ain’t bad for a bloke who’s not scored a goal since March. So do you think your folks will cough up a nice sum of money to get you back?’

Marcel shook his head and gestured with his hands.

‘I do not understand,’ he replied.

‘All right, mate. Don’t worry about that. Look, I tell you what. Do you do a bit of gaming?

‘Quoi?’

‘Nintendo.’

‘Oh, Nintendo. Yes.’

‘I’ve got my games console here and you can have a go with it,’ said Tigworth.

For the first time, the boy’s face lit up.

‘That is the very nice idea,’ said Marcel.

‘My mate downstairs has got a small telly for you back at his gaff and we’ll bring that as well.’

The boy looked puzzled but said nothing.

‘Let’s have a look at what you brought with you.’

Tigworth stepped across to a chair in the corner of the room where the boy had placed his checked shirt, green pullover and black jeans. He searched the trouser pockets and found a five-pound note, some coins, a comb, chewing gum and a penknife.

‘I’ll be keeping this,’ said Tigworth, slipping the penknife into his own trouser pocket. He put the other items back in the jeans. ‘How are you for food and drink? You had half a pizza a few hours ago, and you’ve still got your bottle of Coke, yeah?’

Marcel nodded. ‘The Coke, it is fine,’ he said.

‘All right. I’m going to look for my Nintendo,’ said the man.

He left, turning the key in the lock behind him, and returned to the front room downstairs.

Although exhausted, Marcel crept to the door and pressed his ear against it. At first, he could hear nothing. Then voices became louder and he guessed Tigworth and another man were speaking near the stairs. Marcel only understood part of the heated conversation.

He began to tremble as he heard one of them saying, ‘Listen, if we’ve got to kill him, count me out. I don’t want any more killing.’

‘Don’t worry, mate,’ his companion insisted. ‘If there’s any of that involved, it’ll be like this time – down to me and Wayne.’

‘I’m really pissed off about us using the shooter,’ said Tigworth. ‘There was no need.’

‘There was every need, mate,’ came the reply. ‘That guy was getting the upper hand and nearly bloody strangled me, the bastard. Look, if that guy hadn’t been shot, it would have been me lying out cold on the bloody driveway. Anyway, it’s done now. That guy just shouldn’t have interfered. Listen. The boss wants you to be the person who deals with the boy.’

‘I bloody hope we don’t have to keep him for long,’ Tigworth continued. ‘That would be a real pain in the ass. When I agreed to help you today, I didn’t sign up for taking bleeding hostages. Anyway, how come the boss wants me to deal with him?’

‘You’ve got younger brothers and sisters, haven’t you? You’re used to dealing with kids. You can probably relate to the boy better than me and Wayne. Find out what you can from him.’

For a short time, the men’s conversation was out of earshot. Then Marcel heard footsteps on the stairs and the ginger-haired man burst through the door with a syringe followed by Tigworth.

‘I’ll just give him a shot of sleepy-juice to calm him down,’ said one of the men. Marcel was forced onto the bed and injected in the arm.

‘That was the boss just then,’ the ginger-haired man announced. ‘It’s on. We’re going to ask the family for two million quid for the boy’s safe return.’

Chapter 8

Ploughman’s Lane was in darkness when Detective Constable Omar Khalid arrived there at half past six, more than two hours after the break-in.

He’d come to the end of his daytime shift, so he’d been surprised when the chief inspector had phoned and asked him to carry out house-to-house inquiries regarding the burglary.

The conscientious detective parked on a grass verge beneath a clump of trees and ran a comb through his black, curly hair. It was warm for October. He left his coat in the car as he passed through the open gates and walked up the short drive that led to Old Larks’ Cottage. This quaint house with a thatched roof occupied the land next door to Upper Norton Manor.

He presented his warrant card to a woman in her early fifties who came to the door.

‘DC Khalid from Heart of England CID,’ he explained. ‘We’re just calling on neighbours in case you witnessed anything this afternoon.’

The blonde-haired woman drew a quick breath.

‘Oh, you mean the break-in?’ she replied. ‘No, I wasn’t aware of it until I saw it on the news a moment ago. I feel sorry for the people who’ve just moved in.’

‘You didn’t hear gunshots, then?’ he asked.

‘Well, yes, I did. But you get shooting in the country. I just thought someone had bagged a couple of pheasants.’

‘Were you here all afternoon, Mrs…’

‘Morris is the name – Angela Morris,’ she said. ‘I went shopping in Worcester between two and four, but I’m sorry, I didn’t see anything strange either beforehand or when I got back. You could ask Irene Meadows at The Lodge. She might know something.’

Khalid followed her suggestion and made Irene Meadows’ house his next port of call, but she was unable to assist him at all. In fact, none of the neighbours proved very helpful.

He was about to return to his car and head home when he remembered seeing four brick-and-flint terraced farm cottages a short distance away, lower down the lane. As he approached, he saw a sign above the terrace saying ‘Woodside Villas’.

The detective noticed a light on in the front room of the first cottage he came to, number four, and he strode up the red-brick path. Within minutes of him knocking, a man with short, grey hair and a moustache drew back the door.

‘Heart of England Police,’ explained Khalid, showing his warrant card. ‘I’m DC Khalid and I’m making inquiries about the break-in up the road.’

‘Oh, I know,’ said the man with a nod. ‘My mate was just telling me on the phone about it. The buggers waited till the French football fella was away at a match and then robbed his place. I don’t know if the guy is worth all the money paid for him. Twenty million, wasn’t it? But it must be awful for him and his folk. Someone was killed, weren’t they?’

Khalid nodded. ‘Yes. That’s right,’ he said. ‘Not much information about that at the moment. Did you see or hear anything this afternoon?’

‘I heard some shooting, but you get that round here all the time with the gamekeepers and the shooting parties,’ the man replied.

‘Anything else unusual happened round here?’ asked the detective.

‘I tell you what I’ve noticed and it’s a bit strange. You see, I’m out at the side of my house tinkering with my old car on Saturdays. Provided I’m not underneath it, I get to see who comes up and down this lane. Well, last Saturday and the Saturday before, I saw this black Range Rover travelling up and down, past my house.’

‘What sort of time would this have been?’ asked Khalid.

‘I’d say it was about a quarter to four in the afternoon. It was going in the Norton Prior direction and then it must have come back about two hours later.’

‘How can you be so sure about the times?’ said the detective.

‘Well, I tell you what – David Willis, the gardener up at the big house, always takes his dog out for a walk on Saturdays round about the same time. He comes past here with Rocky at about twenty to four, regular as clockwork, he does. He often stops for a quick chat.’

‘So Mr Willis stopped to talk to you both Saturday afternoons?’

‘Yes, at about the same time. And soon afterwards this black Range Rover would come down the lane really slowly as though they were looking for something.’

Khalid smiled. ‘They might have been lost or looking for somewhere to park,’ he suggested.

‘Maybe.’

‘I don’t suppose you took the registration?’

‘No.’

‘Pity. Anyway, that’s useful information.’

‘Hey, I hope David’s missus is OK. I heard they tied her up. Is that right?’

‘She discovered the thieves after they broke in. She’s been taken to Queensbridge General. It’s only for a check-up. Listen, can I take a note of your name?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said the householder. ‘It’s Dennis. Dennis Walker.’

The detective wrote his name in his notebook.

‘It sounds to me as if the man in the car might have been following Mr Willis to check on his movements,’ said Khalid.

Walker nodded. ‘Oh, I see what you mean. They swotted up on his times and wanted to make sure he’d gone out before they went in?’

‘It’s just one possible theory,’ said Khalid. ‘Tell me more about this car. It was black, you say?’

‘Yes, with darkened windows.’

‘So it stood out a bit and you remembered it?’

‘Look, all the toffs round here have got big luxury cars with blackened windows, so I didn’t remember it for that reason.’

‘So why did you remember it?’ asked Khalid.

‘It had a dented wing where it had probably been in a crash. I’m into motors. I remember things like that. You see, a fault like that stands out in these parts. They just send the chauffeur down to the nearest garage and get it fixed straight away, the folk who live round here. They don’t always wait for insurance companies.’

‘Did you by any chance get a look at the driver as the car flashed past?’

‘Yeah. Big, muscular bloke with short, blond hair,’ said Walker.

‘Did you see this same car today?’

‘No, I didn’t. I decided to jet-wash the patio round the back of the house at about half past three, so I wasn’t in my usual place.’

‘That’s a pity. If you’d been working on your car like the previous Saturdays, you’d almost certainly have seen the robbers arriving and departing from the manor.’

Chapter 9

The scenes-of-crime staff were still at work when, just before ten o’clock the same evening, a black Audi RS 7 Sportback swept past the crowd of journalists beside the gate and glided up the drive at Upper Norton Manor. By then, the chief inspector and his sergeant had been banished to the staff quarters – the only part of the site where forensic work had been completed.

Roscoe stepped outside the building and greeted the weary footballer behind the wheel as he parked his car next to the garages.

‘Monsieur Beauvais,’ he said as the footballer got out. ‘I’m DCI Roscoe from Heart of England Police.’

The tall, olive-skinned midfielder with short, dark hair shook the detective’s outstretched hand.

‘Pleased to meet you, Chief Inspector. I’m Jean-Jacques Beauvais. Any news of Marcel and Monsieur Jukes?’

Roscoe shook his head.

‘I’m very sorry to tell you that your son is missing,’ he replied.

Two women, both looking exhausted, stepped out of the car.

‘Monsieur Roscoe,’ said the footballer as a dusky-skinned blonde woman hurried towards them. ‘This is my wife, Camille.’

‘What is this you are saying about Marcel? He is still missing?’ said Camille.

‘We believe Mr Jukes arrived here in your Bentley with Marcel at ten minutes past four,’ Roscoe explained. ‘We believe Marcel was then abducted by the burglars and your Bentley stolen.’

‘Oh, mon Dieu,’ said Camille as her husband quickly put his arm round her. ‘Mon petit garçon. Please. You must find him quickly.’

She stared in shock at the chief inspector.

‘All forces in the Midlands have been alerted about the break-in and the disappearance of your son,’ Roscoe continued. ‘Traffic patrols have been notified to look out for your Bentley and a full-scale operation will launch in the morning.’

Camille burst into tears. Her husband led her a few steps away and did his best to console her. Camille’s more reserved companion, a slim woman with light-brown hair, joined them.

‘Chief Inspector, I’m Katrina Drake, PA to Monsieur Beauvais,’ the woman explained. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, although this is such a terrible time.’

She confidently shook the detective’s hand.

‘So why are you here exactly?’ Drake asked. ‘Shouldn’t you be out right now searching for Marcel?’

‘Exactement,’ said Camille as she and her husband rejoined them.

‘We’re still in the process of gathering information about what precisely happened,’ Roscoe replied.

‘But I do not understand. Where is Monsieur Jukes?’ asked Jean-Jacques.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Jukes is dead, sir,’ said Roscoe. ‘He acted very bravely in confronting the thieves. Mrs Jukes is on her way to the mortuary to identify the body. I also have to mention that Mrs Willis was slightly injured after being tied up. She is being checked in hospital.’

‘C’est terrible, monsieur,’ said Jean-Jacques. ‘I’m so sorry. This has been such a terrible day for us. Chief Inspector, what have the thieves taken? I only received a brief phone call about the burglary from your local police.’

‘We’re not sure what’s been taken,’ said Roscoe. ‘They broke in through the bathroom window on the first floor.’

‘Mon Dieu!’ shouted Camille.

She ran through the open doorway and raced up the stairs. A few moments later, she was back and reeling off in her mother tongue a long list of missing items which a forensic officer upstairs had allowed her to search for.

‘Monsieur le Chief Inspector,’ said Jean-Jacques, ‘I’m afraid these criminals have taken clothing, handbags and my wife’s precious jewellery and a pair of my watches.’

‘If it’s any consolation,’ Roscoe continued, ‘it doesn’t appear that your son was deliberately targeted. It seems likely the gang were unaware that your son was in the car at the time they decided to steal it.’

‘So where is Marcel? Why haven’t they let him go?’ Camille wailed.

‘We don’t know at this stage, I’m afraid,’ said Roscoe. ‘It’s too early to say. Perhaps he’s escaped their clutches as we speak and is in a place of safety. Or perhaps they’re considering using him to barter.’

‘To barter – what does this mean?’ Camille asked.

‘They may wish to do a deal,’ said Roscoe, ‘but it all depends on the situation. The gang members may not even be aware your boy, Marcel, is in the car. I mean, if he’s hidden himself away, when night comes, he might be in a position to escape. But this is all conjecture.’

The chief inspector glanced over his shoulder as Sunita emerged from the Willises’ quarters and approached them.

‘This is Detective Sergeant Roy. In a minute, I’m going to go down to the gate and have a word with the waiting press. While I’m doing that, DS Roy here can take statements from you all and, most importantly right now, we need a photograph and description of Marcel. Then we can move forward.’

‘Very good, Chief Inspector,’ said Jean-Jacques. ‘Our greatest concern is for our son, Marcel, isn’t it, Camille?’

He threw his arms round his wife, who was weeping.

‘The jewellery and watches can be replaced,’ he went on. ‘Marcel can never be replaced, so please focus your investigation on him, if you please.’

‘Yes, Chief Inspector, do your best to find Marcel,’ said Camille as tears trickled down her face.

Roscoe nodded before walking away.

The Beauvais couple followed Sunita into the Willises’ living room, where they sat down on the sofa. Katrina Drake murmured something about making tea and strolled off into the kitchen.

‘Let’s begin by sorting out a photograph,’ said Sunita.

‘I have several on my phone. Here,’ said Camille, leaning forward and showing the photo gallery on her handset.

‘Could you email me the third and fourth images?’ Sunita asked, writing down her email address for her on a scrap of paper.

‘I’ll do that now,’ said Camille.

The footballer explained that Marcel had sandy-coloured hair.

‘He’s aged sixteen,’ he said. ‘He will be seventeen on 15 January. He’s a hundred and seventy-five centimetres tall. His hair is not short and it’s not long. His hair has the parting in the middle.’

Sunita wrote that down in her small notebook.

‘What was he wearing?’

‘As far as I know,’ Jean-Jacques replied, ‘he had a green pullover and black jeans.’

‘Mademoiselle,’ Camille said, ‘he has les deux colliers – how do you say in English?’

‘Two medallions,’ explained Jean-Jacques.

‘Any other distinguishing marks? Any tattoos, moles on his skin or scars?’

‘No. That’s all,’ said the footballer.

‘I understand Marcel is your stepson, Monsieur Beauvais. Is that right?’ Sunita asked.

Camille answered for him. ‘Marcel is from my first marriage, to Monsieur Dubois,’ she explained.

‘Has he been informed of the abduction?’

‘I will see to it but–’

‘I’m afraid there is bad feeling between Monsieur Dubois and our family, Sergeant Roy,’ Jean-Jacques said.

‘Well, he will still have to be informed,’ Sunita insisted.

‘Look, we’re very tired,’ he continued. ‘Is there any chance we could bring this to an end? We haven’t eaten and we want to see what has been taken.’

‘I don’t expect the chief inspector had a chance to explain,’ said Sunita, ‘but unfortunately you won’t be able to access the main part of the house tonight.’

‘Why is that?’ asked Jean-Jacques.

‘I’m really sorry but we have to carefully collect evidence – even the slightest trace – left behind by the criminals. This can be vital both in terms of finding them and getting your son back as soon as possible.’

‘Mon Dieu,’ said Camille. ‘Quelle catastrophe absolue!’

Jean-Jacques patted her on the arm. ‘It’s all right, ma chérie. We will take a room at that hotel in Worcester where I stayed twice before. Sergeant Roy, do you know when the police work will be completed?’

‘I’d think by tomorrow or Monday at the latest,’ Sunita replied. ‘When you’ve got a moment, sir, it would be helpful if you could give us a list of everything that’s been stolen.’

The pair nodded.

‘You can understand that there has been a lot for us to think about,’ said the footballer. ‘But, as I told your boss, getting Marcel back is our priority.’

‘Mademoiselle,’ Camille added, ‘Marcel suffers from the epilepsy.’

‘He’s an epileptic?’ said Sunita.

‘Oui,’ she said. ‘He suffers with the convulsions.’

‘I see,’ replied Sunita, who knew very little about the medical condition.

‘So it’s even more vital that we find him quickly,’ Sunita said.

‘Oui,’ said Camille. ‘I don’t think Marcel has got his medicine and that’s very dangerous for him.’

Chapter 10

With a heavy heart, Sunita Roy set off the next morning to visit the newly bereaved wife of the murdered bodyguard. She knew Natalie Jukes deserved time to grieve, but, by the same token, all information about the murdered man – no matter how apparently trivial at first glance – needed to be collected and assessed. So, despite her misgivings, she knew she had to encourage the woman to talk to her.

The couple’s modern mid-terraced house lay on a private residential housing estate on the southern side of the picturesque riverside town of Evesham. A small grey Ford Fiesta was parked in the drive of 43 Primrose Way as the sergeant parked her car and hurried through a light shower of rain.

The widow opened the door promptly. She was around the same age as Sunita with medium-length, black-dyed hair and blue eyes. Dressed casually in a T-shirt and jeans, she appeared athletic and tanned, but her mascara was running as though she had been crying.

‘DS Roy, Heart of England Police,’ Sunita explained, producing her warrant card. ‘So sorry about your loss.’

‘You’d better come in,’ said Natalie, holding the door wide open. ‘I’ve got two of the neighbours here.’

She led the sergeant through a gloomy hallway and into a bright, modern living room at the back where a middle-aged couple were holding a quiet conversation.

‘Doug and Carol, the police are here,’ she said loudly in her Yorkshire accent before peering across at the detective.

‘We’re just leaving,’ said Doug, a stocky, balding man who immediately rose from his seat on the blue settee.

‘Don’t leave on my account,’ said Sunita.

‘We’re only next door and can easily come back later,’ his wife added as they headed for the hallway.

‘Any time you need us, just give us a knock,’ the woman told Natalie, giving her a hug.

‘Thanks so much, both of you,’ Natalie said as she showed them out.

Sunita glanced around the room. A photograph of Natalie and Danny on their wedding day took pride of place on the mantelpiece. Another photograph, on a bookshelf, showed Danny as a sapper in army fatigues. In pencil beneath, someone had written, ‘Daniel Jukes. 32 Engineer Regiment Group, Catterick, September 2013’.

‘That was taken when we were based in Yorkshire,’ said Natalie as she returned.

Sunita picked up a photograph and turned it over. There was an article from a local newspaper, the Halifax Courier, which was stuck to the reverse of the photograph. It stated, ‘Danny Jukes, aged twenty-four, has been mentioned in dispatches for his brave leadership while searching for homemade bombs in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. He also led a team of engineers in building an observation post in hazardous terrain. Although under constant sniper fire from the enemy at one point, he managed to rescue a wounded soldier from a rooftop.’

Sunita put the photograph back.

‘My boss wanted to thank you for visiting the mortuary last night and identifying Danny,’ she told Natalie while settling down on the settee.

‘This has been an absolute nightmare,’ said Natalie. ‘Yesterday morning, I kissed him goodbye. He was driving the smartest car I’ve ever seen – a Bentley Continental. He was going to pick up Marcel, the Beauvais couple’s boy, and take him to the cinema before going to the manor. Both he and the boy were really looking forward to their day out. My last words to him were, “Have a good time and I’ll see you later.” I kissed him on the cheek and he was gone.’

Sunita took her notebook out of her jacket pocket.

‘What film did they see?’ the detective asked.

‘See How They Run,’ Natalie replied. ‘It’s a light-hearted whodunnit. They went to the Odeon in Queensbridge. They were originally going to see All Quiet on the Western Front but the boy’s mother said it was too violent.’

‘Did they do anything else while in town?’ Sunita asked. ‘I mean, did they have lunch there?’

‘Yes. Mr Beauvais paid for the pair of them to have lunch in the town. Danny phoned me at about three o’clock to say that Marcel was having his hair cut.’

‘How long had you been married?’ Sunita asked.

‘Seven years,’ said Natalie. ‘Do you want a drink? Tea?’

Sunita shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’

‘We knew each other from school in Yorkshire. Then, when I was twenty-two, I ran into him while out shopping. We had a long chat and he asked me out. We were married a year later. When he came out of the army, he got this job with the security firm and we moved down here.’

She sat down in an armchair and bent forward with her head in her hands. When she looked up, Sunita could see she was crying.

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ she said, between sobs. ‘That man was my life.’

‘One of your officers broke the news to you yesterday, did they?’ Sunita asked.

‘That’s right – PC Underhill. He was very kind and had a quiet word with Doug and Carol. Asked them to keep an eye on me, but I’m all right. He later came back and took me over to Queensbridge General so I could identify the body.’

‘You’ve had an awful shock,’ said Sunita.

‘While he was out in Helmand, I got used to being on my own and there was always the thought that something might happen to him over there. Unlike many of his comrades, he came back in one piece – only to be shot and killed by some bastard thief.’

She broke down and sobbed.

‘Can I get you a tissue from somewhere?’ asked Sunita. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have one.’

Natalie glanced up. ‘They’re on the sideboard by my black handbag,’ she replied.

Sunita stepped across to the low-level sideboard where a black handbag was lying beside a gold clutch bag bearing the initials NJ. She found the box of tissues and handed it to Natalie, who wiped her eyes.

‘How long had Danny been working for Jean-Jacques?’ Sunita asked.

‘About three months. Since he signed with Aston Villa. Jean-Jacques chose Danny because he could speak French. Danny lived in France for a year when he was younger.’

‘Have you got a job, Natalie?’ Sunita asked.

‘Yes. I work for an accountancy firm in Evesham.’

‘You haven’t got any children?’

‘No. We were trying for children together, but hadn’t been lucky. Now it’ll never happen.’ She paused. ‘I really don’t know what I’m going to do now. My mother wants me to move back to Halifax. But it’s too early for a decision like that.’

‘Natalie, this could be important,’ said the detective with an earnest expression. ‘How long had the cinema trip been planned?’

‘It was a long-standing idea of Marcel’s,’ she replied. ‘He’d told his parents he didn’t fancy going all the way to St James’ Park to watch the game. Jean-Jacques has always tried to encourage Marcel to take an interest in football, but it never appealed to him and the prospect of a long car journey to Newcastle filled him with dread.’

Sunita nodded as she wrote this in her notebook. ‘What would Marcel have been doing yesterday if they hadn’t gone to the Odeon?’

Natalie shrugged. ‘The lad would have been at the house and probably under the care of the housekeeper.’

‘And Danny?’

‘He’d have been washing one of the cars or checking the grounds, if he hadn’t gone to the match.’

‘Did Danny ever stay over at the house?’

‘Sometimes. He said it was a terrific place. He loved using the swimming pool when the family weren’t around. A week ago, Jean-Jacques said he didn’t mind if Danny missed out on going to Newcastle and the cinema trip was arranged.’

Sunita stared across at Natalie.

‘Did anyone else know about this plan, Natalie?’ she asked.

‘Probably a lot of people. Jean-Jacques discussed a lot of things with his teammates, with the Willises, and with people at Top Rank.’

‘I just wondered,’ Sunita continued, ‘if someone got to hear that the housekeeper would be on her own. I was wondering if someone could have obtained advanced knowledge that the whole family and their bodyguard, together with the gardener, would be absent. It might be a factor behind the gang’s decision to break in yesterday.’

Natalie stared back at her.

‘Oh, God. I see what you mean,’ she said. ‘But I’m sorry. I don’t know the answer.’

After a pause, Natalie said, ‘Can you tell me something – exactly how did Danny die?’

‘We don’t know much at this stage,’ Sunita said, deciding to choose her words carefully. ‘We believe he interrupted the robbers. Without a thought for his personal safety, we understand he tackled at least one of the men. But another of them shot Danny twice from behind.’

Natalie scowled. ‘What bastards,’ she said in a low voice.

‘He wouldn’t have known much about it,’ Sunita added. ‘He’d have gone instantly. My boss, DCI Roscoe, says Danny should be commended for his bravery.’

Natalie shrugged. ‘It would be nice if something like that happened. Danny was praised a few years ago for his courage in Helmand. But, at the end of the day, no bravery award is going to bring my Danny back to me. But what about Marcel? Is he all right?’

‘Well, no,’ said Sunita. ‘Haven’t you heard? He’s missing.’

‘Oh, my God.’

‘We think he may have been abducted by the burglars.’

‘That’s awful. His poor mother must be in pieces. Danny told me the boy has fits.’

‘Yes,’ said Sunita. ‘We need to find him and get him back as quickly as possible.’

Chapter 11

Sunita Roy and DC Brett Dawson were pinning photographs of cars to a whiteboard when the chief inspector arrived in the CID office on Monday. They both greeted him with a cheerful ‘Good morning, sir’ before continuing with their task.

Roscoe unlocked his door and began reading through that day’s national newspapers. One of the tabloids had devoted two inside pages to the raid at Upper Norton Manor under the headline, ‘Bodyguard killed in gems heist’. One of the up-market rivals reported on the break-in under the headline, ‘Murder at football star’s mansion’.

A few minutes later, Sunita tapped on the door of his room, which was partitioned off from the rest of the CID department. She smiled at him as she stepped inside.

‘I suppose you’ve seen these papers, have you?’ he asked her.

‘Some of them, sir. No mention of the boy,’ said Sunita. ‘I feel so sorry for him. He must be terrified at being kept captive by strangers.’

‘Yes, we’ve asked for a news blackout for the moment,’ he said. ‘I had a chat with our media team over the weekend. The grounds are that the life of a sixteen-year-old boy may be at risk. The clampdown may not be for long, but, if it were lifted, we’d be inundated with the press from the UK, France and all over the world. Our lives would become extremely difficult, Sergeant. I had to get approval from the assistant chief constable.’

‘Omar’s told me we’re carrying out house-to-house on the Troutbeck Estate, sir.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, and officers from Queensbridge are checking all vehicles entering and leaving the estate. They’ve got leaflets showing the boy’s photograph. Anyway, I think it’s time we called everyone together, don’t you?’

Over the next few minutes, DC Khalid took a seat near Sunita’s desk. He was joined shortly afterwards by DC Wendy Hopkirk; PC Pam Listers, the family liaison officer; Dr Alice Ling from forensics; digital forensic analyst John Hepworth; and PC Underhill from Queensbridge police.

He clapped his hands to attract attention.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ he declared. ‘I wanted to bring you all up to date on the Norton Prior murder and abduction. We’re looking for at least three men. There’s the man that the bodyguard Danny Jukes went to tackle while loading the Range Rover. We’ll call him Suspect One.’

He glanced at the board where his sergeant had written ‘Suspect One’ beneath the silhouetted figure of a man. She stood up and began writing a description beneath the picture.

‘DC Khalid found a witness in Ploughman’s Lane who reported seeing a blond-haired, muscular man behaving suspiciously, driving up and down the lane,’ he continued. ‘We’ve reason to believe that was also Suspect One.’

He turned his attention to Dawson, who was patting his spiky blond hair while sitting close to the whiteboard.

‘Dawson, you spoke to Mrs Willis when she came out of hospital yesterday, didn’t you?’

The constable nodded.

‘As I understand it, she claims the man that attacked her and tied her up was of short to average height. Is that right?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the constable. ‘She reckoned he’d have been five feet four or five feet five inches tall.’

‘She also described him as having a southern accent,’ Roscoe went on.

‘Yes, sir. A southern or London accent. She said he was in his late twenties. In fact, she reckoned from the sound of the men’s voices they were all about the same age.’

‘So, we’ll call this fellow Suspect Two,’ said Roscoe, glancing at the second picture on the board. ‘Mrs Willis believes there was a third man present because she heard at least one other Midlands accent. So this last man becomes Suspect Three.’

He glanced again at the board, where his sergeant had added a third silhouette.

‘If I can turn now to what we found on the cameras. DC Dawson’s found footage of a black Range Rover turning into Windermere Drive on the Troutbeck housing estate in Queensbridge at 4.35 p.m. on Saturday.’

‘That’s right,’ said Dawson.

‘And a few minutes later it was followed by a silver Bentley, recognised as the one owned by the Beauvais family and which Danny Jukes had earlier been driving. A short while later, the Bentley was caught on camera leaving the Troutbeck Estate and heading along the main road towards Worcester.’

Derek Underhill interrupted. ‘Sir, as you know, it’s a huge housing estate with many exit roads. DC Dawson and I have had a thorough look round the entire area, but we’ve so far failed, unfortunately, to find any trace of a black Range Rover. We’re still looking.’

‘Thank you,’ said Roscoe. ‘That’s fine. Keep at it. Now the Bentley was also picked up by a camera on the outskirts of Worcester at about seven o’clock on Saturday night, but since then it’s gone off the radar.’

Dr Ling waved to catch the chief inspector’s attention.

‘I thought you might be interested to know, sir, that we found a shoeprint in some soil at the edge of the forecourt,’ she said. ‘It was right opposite the front door of the manor. So, if you make any arrests, it’ll be interesting to see if there’s any match to footwear. We also found a print from an index finger on the window where Dr Reynolds decided the gunman must have been standing.’

‘Really? That could prove extremely helpful,’ said Roscoe.

Sunita, who had been standing behind the chief inspector, interrupted him. ‘Sorry, sir, is this a suitable moment to mention the timing of the raid?’ she asked.

‘Of course. What did you want to say?’ said Roscoe.

‘Well, DC Khalid found that really helpful witness who saw the guy in the Rover apparently carrying out reconnaissance.’

Dawson laughed. ‘It’s what they used to call “casing the joint”,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Dawson,’ said the chief inspector, glaring at the young constable. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘the gang clearly gathered information in advance. We’re not dealing with amateurs. They knew what they were doing. They obviously kept watch on the house and its occupants. As DS Roy discovered, they may even have known that Danny Jukes and the boy, Marcel, were going to be away from the house for several hours. On the other hand, it might simply have been a matter of fate that brought Danny Jukes to the house shortly after four.’

‘Blimey,’ chipped in Dawson. ‘If I’d been left with a luxury car like that, I wouldn’t have been in any hurry to rush back.’

‘That’s enough, Dawson,’ said Roscoe. He turned back to the team. ‘So, we know we’re dealing with cunning individuals who’ve the nous to collect intelligence before they strike. They’re also ruthless individuals who are happy to use guns if someone gets in their way. Now, lastly, we come to the missing boy. Getting him safely returned to his family must take precedence. Pam Listers, our family liaison officer, spent most of yesterday with the family. Pam, how did it go?’

All eyes turned towards the woman sitting in the centre of the team of officers.

‘Mr and Mrs Beauvais are extremely upset, obviously, about their missing son,’ said PC Listers. ‘Mrs Beauvais spent most of the day in bed while her husband was watching television on his own. Luckily, I found he was happy enough to speak with me. I think he found it helped to talk to a total stranger about his stepson and I believe I’ve struck up a good working relationship with him.’

‘Good,’ said Roscoe.

‘As you suggested, sir, I asked him if there’d been any unusual incidents over the past month – you know, strange phone calls, strange visitors, anyone behaving suspiciously. He said no. He asked a lot about police procedure in the UK and what steps we were taking to find Marcel. I told him as much as I thought would be helpful and as much as I thought would be safe to tell him.’

‘Very good,’ said Roscoe as she broke into a smile. ‘Keep up the Listers charm offensive and let us know of anything significant coming from the family.’

‘I’m going to be visiting the family every day for the next week or so,’ she assured him.

He glanced at Underhill, who was sitting directly in front of him.

‘Incidentally, Derek, I gather one of your colleagues from Queensbridge found some bricks dislodged from a garden wall at the manor. Is that right?’

Underhill nodded. ‘We couldn’t tell if they’d been removed from the wall by something falling, such as a tree, if it had been done by vandals or if they’d been removed by the gang, sir. But we’ll be giving the owners of the house security advice.’

Underhill’s phone bleeped. He glanced at its screen.

‘Sir, a call’s just come into the control room,’ he said. ‘A black Range Rover has been sighted leaving the Troutbeck Estate.’

‘That’s great. Let’s see if one of the patrol cars can pick them up.’

Chapter 12

Marcel Dubois woke from his drug-induced slumber at the house in Juniper Lane and shivered. He must have slept for hours and hours inside his makeshift prison cell. Yet he still felt exhausted. That must be because of that drug the men gave me, he told himself.

He remained still in his bed and listened. He could hear an argument downstairs. Two voices were involved, but he couldn’t hear what the disagreement was about.

He climbed out from beneath the white duvet and stepped across the floor in his bare feet.

He examined the double-glazed window which consisted of one fixed pane and one opening window. He had a view of trees and open fields. Considering it was nearly November, it was a mild, sunny day, although he had no idea what time it was. Sometime in the morning, he assumed. He tried the handle on the window. It wouldn’t budge. It was probably locked.

What a contrast from his room at the manor house. There he had enjoyed a huge bedroom with fitted wardrobes stacked with designer clothes. He had a wide-screen television and a desk for his computer games. Vive la différence!

He studied the window. If he still had his knife, he might have been able to prise out the rubber and remove the glass. But he had no knife or any other tool that could dig out the moulding. Moreover, he could see by looking through the pane that the white plastic beading was on the outside and the glass was certain to remain fixed – even if he removed the internal rubber. Of course, he could use the bedside cabinet to try to smash the window, but the men would quickly come running.

He wondered if he could try to make a hole in the ceiling while standing on the wardrobe. Maybe he could climb out through the hole, get into the loft and try for access to the roof, but he had nothing to make a hole with. In any case, he had no head for heights and had no idea how he would get down to the ground if he succeeded in reaching the roof.

All this meant his only means of escape was through the door.

Marcel had no idea how many men had been involved with his abduction. He guessed three or possibly four. His solitary visitor was the skinny man with spiky hair and a beard which poked out from beneath his facemask. He had refused to give a name, but Marcel thought he was called Tiggs as he had heard the men downstairs calling him that. He brought Marcel meals and escorted him to the bathroom next door.

This visitor fascinated Marcel. He was confident and seemed to have his wits about him. Whenever he arrived, he peered at Marcel like an owl watching a vole. He ordered him to stay by the window whenever he brought his food and plastic cutlery and always made sure the door was securely locked when he left. He also watched him carefully whenever he escorted him to the bathroom. So Marcel knew that, if he were to escape, it would involve distracting this man in some way.

If he could elude him, Marcel thought, he would then flee downstairs and the rest would be easy. He could be gone from the house in a matter of moments. But tricking the man would prove a challenge. He would have to spend some time planning how to do it.

Marcel had been frightened when he and Monsieur Danny had first arrived at Upper Norton Manor two days earlier. He had heard gunshots but had remained still on the floor of the car. It was only after hearing the men’s voices that he had decided to peer out from under the blanket and see what was going on. He was then shocked to discover the new driver behind the wheel. This was his very first encounter with the bearded man, Tiggs, and he was suddenly struck by the full horror of his situation. He was being abducted.

How he wished events had taken a different course. How he wished he was back at the house with his mother and stepfather. He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined he was safe in his bedroom, listening to his favourite tracks on iTunes. Or maybe he was in the skateboard park in Paris, trying out some new techniques with his friend, Gabriel. Or walking through Le Jardin des Tuileries with his real father, Philippe.

For a moment, he was close to tears. Then he remembered something Philippe used to say, back in the good old days, before the quarrels started and his parents’ marriage ended. À vaillant cœur rien d’impossible – to a valiant heart, nothing is impossible.

Marcel’s father believed in that. Marcel believed in that too. He had to steel himself. Surely it would not be long before he was rescued. Maybe his parents would pay money to the men so that he could be freed. That’s what usually happened, wasn’t it? Or maybe the British police would come. Or maybe he would take charge of events himself and escape.

Meanwhile, he would have to make the best of it. So far, the men had treated him fairly well, apart from giving him the injection that made him sleep. Tiggs had been friendly when he’d come to see him. He would probably be arriving soon with his first meal of the day. The food had been all right. He’d loved the pizza.

Tiggs, mon nouvel ami. He could never be a proper friend, of course. He and the other men, who had brought him to this hellhole, had robbed his parents’ home. They must now be getting rid of the family’s possessions. They may have taken his PlayStation. But, if they had, he was sure Jean-Jacques would buy him another one when all this was over. He always seemed to have plenty of money.

Tiggs seemed to know about gaming and the pair had exchanged views on the subject. He agreed with Marcel that Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II was ‘the best game ever’ and they shared an appreciation of the new underwater gunplay.

He wondered if his father, Philippe, had been told about him being taken away. He thought his father might travel to Britain from Paris and join the search. He was sure his father would help. Oh, how he missed him.

The night before, Marcel had been handed a plate of beans on toast. He had asked questions about Monsieur Danny again and the reply came back that there was no information.

Marcel had become absorbed with thoughts about Jean-Jacques and his mother. He wondered what they were doing. Knowing his mother, she would be very worried about him. He expected the police would be out looking for him.

Any moment the police may burst through the door and find me, he told himself.

And where was Danny now? Why hadn’t he come to his rescue? Tiggs always became quiet whenever he asked about Danny.

‘I hope Monsieur Danny is OK,’ he said quietly to himself.

Unexpectedly, he heard a sound in the hallway below followed by the rush of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Someone began unlocking his door.

Tiggs came in carrying some rope and some black gaffer tape.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have to tie you up for a short time. We’re going into the movie business.’

Chapter 13

Sunita Roy was queuing in the canteen for tea and a sandwich on the morning of Tuesday, 1 November when a voice in a Black Country accent asked, ‘Didn’t you have time for breakfast this morning?’

She turned round to be greeted by her former boyfriend, DI Tom Vickers. Tall and smartly dressed, Vickers had short brown hair and a wide smile.

‘Tom, how great to see you,’ she said as she collected her steaming hot drink from the assistant behind the counter. ‘You’re right. I was a bit rushed this morning.’

‘I thought it was you when I came through the door just then,’ said her friend. ‘Got time for a chat?’

‘I don’t think the boss will miss me for a few minutes,’ she said as she paid the cashier. ‘I’ll go and grab a table.’

A few minutes later, the pair were happily sitting in a corner of the canteen at St James Street police headquarters, catching up with recent events in their lives.

‘Did you do anything for Halloween?’ she asked.

‘No, just stayed in,’ replied Vickers. ‘I don’t get invited to parties these days.’

He took a sip from his mug of coffee.

‘I’ve just been in to see Niggler,’ he explained, using the nickname officers used for their pernickety chief superintendent, Nicola Norris. ‘I might be heading back here.’

‘Have you had enough of being your own boss?’ she asked. For the past three years Vickers had been in charge of a CID team in North Warwickshire.

‘No, it’s just that she wants me to run a special unit to do with undercover work and it’ll mean some extra money,’ said Vickers, sipping from his cup of black coffee.

‘That sounds very much like the old job you had here,’ she said, sounding surprised.

‘Not exactly. It’s all hush-hush at the moment, so I’d better watch what I say. To be honest, Sunita, I never really settled in Summerstoke. What are you doing with yourself now?’

‘Did you know I’ve split up with Samir? I’m managing quite nicely on my own. I’ve decorated the flat and I’m currently house-hunting.’

‘Are you staying in Warwick?’

‘I haven’t really decided. I’ve looked at a four-bedroom detached house in Warwick and tonight I’m going to see a five-bedroom place in Shawley Green,’ she explained with a smile.

‘You are going up in the world,’ he said. ‘Actually, I’d already heard you were moving.’

Her smile faded. ‘Who told you that?’ she demanded.

‘I can’t remember now. I thought it was common knowledge.’

‘Well, you know my uncle Ramit died and left my sister and me some money.’

‘Of course. You were nearly drawn into a disastrous Ponzi scheme, weren’t you?’

‘Yes. I’m glad I was suspicious and took your advice. Well, in the end, I decided to follow the example of my uncle, who made his money by investing in bricks and mortar.’

‘Are you going to rent out your current flat, Sunita?’

‘I’m not planning to become a landlord like my uncle. I just see property as a safe haven for some of the money I was left in his will. I’m also going to buy a new car. I’ve nearly run my poor old Peugeot into the ground. The DCI found out at the weekend there was a “For Sale” board outside my flat. He buttonholed me over it.’

‘Oh, his son George only lives round the corner, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, George mentioned something about it to him and the DCI seemed to think I might be taking a job with West Midlands.’

‘You’re not, are you?’

‘Of course not. I’m happy here. Right now, I’m heavily involved in the Beauvais case.’

‘Oh, the missing boy? How’s that going?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Not as well as we’d like. A camera picked up a black Range Rover – like the one the gang had been using – leaving the Troutbeck Estate. Patrol cars were notified but we lost it. It’s a damn nuisance. I went to see the bodyguard’s widow on Sunday. She’s devastated, of course.’

‘Those guys have been behaving like animals. I hope they’re caught quickly.’

‘So do I.’

‘So, tell me more about the car,’ he said.

‘Well, they used a black Range Rover with a particular number plate when they entered the estate but the car leaving had a different number. We’re fairly certain it was the same car, so they’d obviously swapped plates.’

‘I expect it’ll turn up in a day or two.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Probably burnt out in some remote spot. Anyway, we’re going into overdrive today. We’re checking garages, empty buildings, bins, the lot for any evidence relating to the gang.’

‘I expect the boss is in his element,’ said Vickers.

‘Coming up with fresh ideas all the time and keeping us on our toes,’ she said with a smile.

Vickers sipped more of his coffee before leaning back in his chair.

‘Listen, Sunita, I was just wondering if you fancied going out for a meal sometime or maybe a drink.’

‘I– I– I’d like that,’ she stuttered. ‘A meal would be great.’

‘Any thoughts on where we might go?’

‘I’ve always loved The Wheatsheaf near Redditch with its dark oak beams and roaring log fire,’ she said.

‘Yes, we used to go there a lot, back in the day. It would be great to have a meal there. When are you free?’

‘That’s the big question. I suppose this Friday would be good.’

‘Shall I come and pick you up?’

‘Oh, Tom,’ she said, ‘my place is right out of your way. I tell you what, I’ll meet you there.’

‘I haven’t been to The Wheatsheaf since I took you three or four years ago,’ he said. ‘Listen, I’ll give them a call and, if they’re still operating as before, I’ll book a table.’

She was about to remark that they shouldn’t sit too close to the fire when her phone rang.

‘It’s the boss,’ she said as she answered the call.

‘Sergeant, where are you?’ asked the chief inspector. ‘Jean-Jacques has received a text message from a number he didn’t recognise. It looks as though it’s from the gang that abducted their son.’

Chapter 14

Clutching a wad of leaflets about the missing boy, PC Nina Kaur stood talking patiently to a householder outside their front door. Then she walked back down the garden path, shaking her head.

‘No,’ the constable told PC Derek Underhill, who was waiting for her on the pavement. ‘Another resident who doesn’t remember seeing a black Range Rover over the past few days. That must be the tenth blank face this morning.’

Her colleague shrugged. ‘Never mind, Nina. I’ll do the next one,’ he said.

They were one of several teams of uniformed officers who had been asked to visit householders on the Troutbeck Estate in Queensbridge on Tuesday morning. The area comprised more than thirty roads, crescents, avenues, lanes, drives and closes.

Underhill, who was carrying an umbrella since rain was forecast, opened the gate at 27 Grasmere Road. He followed a concrete path beside a lawn strewn with children’s toys and rang the bell. At once, a barking poodle appeared in the front window.

‘Hello, mate. Is your owner around?’ asked the constable, which only seemed to spur the pet into barking even more.

A tubby woman in her thirties in a blue top and jeans came to the door, yelling, ‘Stop that noise, Daisy.’

‘Police. We’re searching for a missing boy,’ he explained to the anxious householder, passing her a leaflet.

‘No one’s mentioned anything to me,’ she replied. ‘I’ll just have a word with my husband. I’ll have to shut the door because of the dog.’

A balding man in a T-shirt and jeans appeared and Underhill had to repeat the details.

The man said nothing for a few seconds. Perhaps he was contemplating whether he should assist the police, Underhill thought.

Then he took his visitor by surprise.

‘Yes. I’ve seen a black Range Rover,’ said the man.

‘Have you? When?’ asked the constable.

‘I was on my way to the shops in Windermere Drive yesterday morning to get cigarettes. I crossed the road and it came hurtling round the corner. Nearly knocked me over.’

Underhill took out a small, black notebook.

‘What time would this have been, sir?’

‘Let me think. It must have been about ten thirty. So how old is the kid that’s missing?’

‘He’s sixteen, sir. What sort of speed would he have been travelling at?’

‘Must have been doing well over forty. It’s a wonder I’m here.’

‘You didn’t take the car number?’

He shook his head. ‘I was too shocked. It took my breath away.’

Underhill paused as he wrote the details down. Then he asked, ‘How many people were in the car?’

‘No idea. I didn’t get a look at them.’

‘Did you see what direction it came from?’

‘Yeah. He came from the Coniston Road area.’

Underhill, who knew the area well, nodded. ‘So, he came from the southern side of the estate?’

‘Yes. I guess so,’ said the man.

‘You’ve been very helpful,’ said Underhill. ‘We’ll probably come and take a fuller statement from you later. Could I take your name, sir?’

‘Merton,’ said the man as he retreated inside his house. ‘Pat Merton. Hope you find the boy.’

PC Kaur was waiting impatiently for her colleague by the wooden garden gate. When Underhill returned, he quickly explained what he had just been told.

‘I suggest we give up here and start calling on houses on the southern part of the estate,’ he said. ‘I’ll send a message to our colleagues as well. This could save us all a lot of time.’

After lunch, Kaur and Underhill spent an hour calling without success at doors along leafy Rydal Avenue as well as checking garages and bin areas. They were close to the edge of the estate and there was only one more street left to try, tranquil Juniper Lane – a motley series of older detached and semi-detached red-brick houses, which had rear gardens overlooking open fields.

Many residents were out or were unable to help. The pair eventually reached number thirty-three and, after moving aside two plastic barriers at the entrance, they made their way up the driveway past a Mercedes.

The red-brick, semi-detached house was being renovated. A side extension to the left was half-built and covered in blue tarpaulin. A thriving blackthorn tree at the bottom of the drive and a thick hedge by the lawn partly screened the property from prying eyes.

‘Place looks empty, like next door,’ Underhill remarked as he rapped on the partly boarded-up front door.

‘They could do with getting the garden sorted out,’ Kaur remarked.

As they waited, the faded grey curtains twitched before the face of an overweight, ginger-haired man in his late twenties appeared at the window.

‘Hold on,’ he shouted.

The officers had to wait several minutes. Then the ginger-haired man, looking slightly flustered, returned to the window. He opened it and leaned out.

‘Is there a problem?’ he asked in a croaky voice.

‘Police. We’re looking for a missing boy,’ said Underhill, overlooking the man’s apparent reluctance to come to the door. He handed him a leaflet. ‘You haven’t seen someone with a black Range Rover, have you, by any chance?’

The man shook his head.

‘Haven’t been here long,’ he mumbled. ‘But haven’t seen a Range Rover round here. Tell you what. I’ll keep my eyes open. If one turns up, I’ll give you a call.’

‘That would be great, if you could,’ said PC Kaur. ‘The number’s on the leaflet.’

The two officers left and continued knocking on doors further up the lane.

Chapter 15

Chief Superintendent Nicola Norris peered over her reading glasses as the chief inspector arrived at the door to her spacious second-floor office.

‘Gavin, come in,’ she said. ‘Terrible business at this footballer’s place. The assistant chief constable’s been calling me non-stop about it. That text you sent to my phone a few minutes ago – is that the entire message received from the gang?’

‘Morning, ma’am!’ Roscoe remarked as he stepped across the beige carpet towards her large oak desk. He drew up a chair. ‘Yes, that’s the entire message.’

Roscoe’s eyes unconsciously dwelt on the photographs of police award ceremonies on the wall behind Norris.

‘If it’s genuine,’ Norris said, ‘and there’s no reason to suspect otherwise, the gang are confirming they have the French boy and will make further contact soon. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, ma’am. The message was received on Mr Beauvais’s phone early this morning. I gather the Kidnap Unit at the National Crime Agency are now becoming involved.’

‘Yes, one of their senior investigators is coming over from their Birmingham office. I trust you’ll afford him every courtesy?’

Roscoe nodded. ‘Of course, ma’am,’ he replied.

‘Kidnappings and ransom demands are extremely challenging for a force like ours and the extra resources they bring can be invaluable.’

Norris, who had neatly combed, mid-length grey hair, moved closer to her desk in her wheelchair, to which she had been confined since being seriously injured in a riding accident seven years earlier.

‘The investigator they’re sending is DI Joseph Parkes. I’ve already spoken to him, and he seems to be fairly up to speed with our operation. He should be arriving here in the next hour or so. Have there been any other developments in the case?’

Roscoe shook his head. ‘Not as yet, ma’am. We’re trying all avenues. There’s a good chance they’re hiding out in the Queensbridge area, but we’ve drawn a blank so far. We’ve been setting up roadblocks.’

‘Good. Well, keep up the good work.’

‘With one person gunned down and one person taken hostage, we know we’re dealing with a ruthless gang who may not have operated on our patch before. DS Roy’s been going through records, looking at potential suspects. She’s had no luck so far. We’re trying various approaches.’

‘All right, Gavin. Meet up with DI Parkes and see if you and the sergeant can form a good working relationship with him. And please keep me informed of your progress.’

* * *

‘Come straight in, Sergeant,’ the chief inspector shouted as soon as he returned from his visit to the second floor.

‘Have a look at this,’ he told Sunita. ‘It was sent to the footballer from a mobile phone. I expect they used a burner phone. Underhill called round to see him and obtained a copy for me.’

She carefully studied a text message which Roscoe had converted into a paper document.

Mr Beauvais, we’ve got your boy, Marcel. He is being cared for and he hasn’t been harmed. But you must do exactly what we tell you.

Stop dealing with DCI Roscoe and the National Crime Agency if you want to see Marcel alive again. We are watching you and will know at once if this demand is ignored. We will contact you again in the next few days with fresh instructions. We will later today be sending you some proof of Marcel’s safekeeping. Remember: We will be watching you. The Matchday Boys.

When Sunita had finished reading, she glanced across at Roscoe, who was leaning back in his executive chair.

‘Who are the Matchday Boys?’ she asked.

‘Possibly the name or code name for the gang?’ Roscoe suggested.

‘So what do you think they mean by sending proof of the boy’s safekeeping?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Roscoe. ‘Perhaps they’re going to be sending over a photograph or a video. That would be my guess. Obviously, the family are ignoring the demand not to involve police. We’re already heavily involved. It’s important we go over to the manor in a few minutes. They’re going to be increasingly worried about their son. We need to reassure them of our full support and that they can have faith in us.’

Sunita stroked her chin. ‘That warning that the gang are watching the family is almost certainly an empty threat,’ she said, ‘but we’ve got to bear it in mind. For all we know, they may have some way of keeping tabs on the family.’

She handed the text message back to him.

‘John Hepworth is in touch with the phone companies,’ Roscoe continued. ‘I expect they’ll do some cell site analysis in a bid to trace the location the message was sent from. You never know. They may even be able to get some results through geo-mapping.’

He stood up and stepped away from his desk.

‘Listen, Sergeant. We’re about to be joined by a fellow from the NCA’s Kidnap Unit, a DI Parkes.’ Roscoe peered through the window.

‘There’s a guy in a white Vauxhall Insignia taking a space in the car park right now and that’s probably him. Apparently, he’s an expert in the field of child abduction, so we’ll no doubt be seeing a lot of him over the next few days.’

Sunita nodded. ‘I’ll help him in any way I can, sir,’ she replied. ‘My father always used to warn that one and one can sometimes make eleven.’

‘Your father’s a wise man,’ said Roscoe as he opened his door and peered out across the open-plan office. ‘We’ll have to hope this new guy fits in well with us.’

Five minutes later, a tall, confident man with receding dark-grey hair came striding past the desks in CID. Over the top of his grey shirt and jeans, he was wearing a black cotton gilet with the letters ‘NCA’ on the back.

He smiled as he approached. ‘You must be DCI Roscoe,’ he said with a gravelly voice as he reached Roscoe’s open doorway. ‘DI Parkes.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said the chief inspector, shaking his hand.

Parkes stood and stared at Sunita for a few seconds until Roscoe belatedly introduced them.

‘Sorry. This is my sergeant, DS Roy, a valuable member of my team,’ he said as Parkes awkwardly shook her hand.

Sunita received the impression that Parkes had expected to speak to the chief inspector in private, but, grudgingly, he came inside the room and took a seat beside her.

‘I’ve got a copy of the text,’ said the senior investigator. ‘It all seems fairly straightforward. I take it Mr Beauvais hasn’t sent back any sort of reply yet?’

Roscoe shook his head.

‘Good,’ said Parkes. ‘I suggest we get over there as soon as possible and meet the family. I don’t think there’s any need for you to come with us, Sergeant. The DCI and I will manage just fine.’

‘No,’ insisted Roscoe. ‘DS Roy’s been playing a crucial role in this investigation. She must come with us.’

‘Very well, sir if that’s the way you feel. I’m not sure she is needed. Anyway, shall we make a move? Once we get there, we can arrange for Mr Beauvais to send a reply, confirming he’s seen the message and is prepared to cooperate with the sender. This is the first contact the gang have made and the couple will obviously be extremely upset about it. We need to help them compose their response. It’s all right, I can suggest the appropriate wording.’

The rather overbearing officer paused to gather his breath before adding, ‘On the way over there, perhaps you’d be kind enough to refresh my memory, Chief Inspector, on what actions and tactics you’ve employed so far.’

While they travelled in her boss’s car, Sunita sat quietly in the back and let the two men discuss the words Jean-Jacques Beauvais should use in his reply.

She had a puzzle of her own to resolve. How did the gang leader know so promptly that the National Crime Agency had become involved?

Chapter 16

Trying to put his stepson’s disappearance to the back of his mind, Jean-Jacques Beauvais was stretched out on one of three cream-coloured settees in his sumptuous living room. He was making an effort to watch recorded highlights of a football match. Camille was sitting in a nearby armchair, flicking through the pages of a fashion magazine.

‘I wish the police would hurry,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to reply to that message.’

‘Tout va bien,’ he said. ‘They will be here very soon.’

‘Are you sure we’ve done the right thing in telling the police?’ she continued. ‘Katrina says we need to follow any instructions to the letter.’

Jean-Jacques shook his head. ‘It’s too late. They’re on their way. In any case, the people holding Marcel can’t know if we are talking to the police or not talking to the police.’

‘I think we should consider calling in a private detective – maybe someone from France.’

Jean-Jacques shrugged his shoulders.

‘We have to trust the British police,’ he replied. ‘I like that chief inspector. He seems to know what he’s doing, and Sergeant Roy too. We should let them get on with the job.’

‘No,’ said Camille. ‘Katrina is right, mon chéri. We need to get Marcel back as quickly as possible, and I’m always hearing that the British police – they do not always do things the right way. We must hire someone today.’

‘I can’t agree. We must wait and see what progress the British police are making,’ he insisted.

‘Oh, you’re impossible sometimes,’ she yelled, storming out of the room.

He heard her footsteps clattering up the stairs. It was a sound he had become used to since Marcel went missing three days earlier.

The footballer’s mobile beeped. He slipped the slim handset from his pocket and glanced down. A video had arrived from the same phone number as before.

* * *

The chief inspector’s BMW drew up outside the ornamental gates to Upper Norton Manor and he pressed the intercom button. The gates opened and his car glided up the drive.

The family’s timid housekeeper, who was wearing a smart blue tunic, opened the door to the three visitors.

‘Ah, Mrs Willis,’ said Roscoe with a smile.

‘Yes, sir,’ she replied.

‘I hope you’re a lot better now than when I last spoke to you.’

‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ she said, returning his smile. ‘I received good care at the hospital. The family are expecting you. I’ll just take you through to the living room.’

They found Jean-Jacques Beauvais in a bright room which contained a modern gas flame fire and bi-folding patio doors offering spectacular views across the landscaped gardens.

‘Chief Inspector,’ said the footballer, giving a gentle smile as he rose from his seat. ‘Good of you to come.’

‘You know my sergeant, DS Roy, don’t you?’ said Roscoe. ‘And I’d like to introduce DI Parkes from the National Crime Agency, who has great experience of dealing with these situations.’

‘The DCI is very kind,’ said Parkes, shaking hands with Jean-Jacques. He was carrying a small laptop.

‘No Madame Beauvais?’ asked Roscoe.

‘I expect she’ll be down in a minute,’ the footballer replied. ‘She’s been resting.’

Roscoe and Roy took seats on one of the settees while their colleague placed his laptop on a dining table and sat beside it.

‘We’ve just received a video from the same phone number as before, Chief Inspector,’ explained Jean-Jacques. He seemed stoic and focused, trying to keep his emotions in check.

‘Oh, would you allow me?’ asked Parkes, holding out his hand towards the footballer. After being handed the phone, Parkes switched on his laptop, connected a USB cable and, while Jean-Jacques expressed his growing concerns about Marcel to Roscoe and his sergeant, Parkes downloaded the video.

‘We believe the men who took Marcel are only a few miles away,’ the chief inspector was saying. ‘We’ve drafted in extra officers and we’re optimistic that his release won’t take very long–’

Parkes interrupted him. ‘Chief Inspector, I’m ready to play the video.’

All four watched intently as the poorly made recording played.

The silent, one-minute clip showed a boy bound with rope, lying on a bed inside a modest bedroom. Two strips of black gaffer tape were wound round his mouth and the back of his head, but there was no mistaking the same distinctive sandy-coloured hair and the slightly tanned face that the detectives had seen in the photographs obtained from Camille. Two medallions could be seen round his neck and a nose ring in his right nostril. His brown eyes betrayed an anxious look.

The hand of an unseen figure appeared, ripping the tape from the boy’s mouth. Marcel faced the camera and mouthed the words ‘Aidez-moi’ before the screen went blank.

Jean-Jacques had watched the clip in stunned silence. Now the footballer put his hand to his face.

‘I must call my wife,’ he muttered, dashing from the room. He could then be heard calling, ‘Camille! Camille!’ from the hallway.

The detectives overheard a brief shouted conversation between the couple before the footballer returned, accompanied by his tearful wife. Camille shook hands with the visitors in turn, but Roscoe was uncertain how much attention she was paying to the introductions. The absence of her son was clearly taking its toll on her. Her face was etched with worry and, when she spoke, there was a tremor in her voice.

‘We’re very sorry this has happened and will do all we can to return your son to you quickly and safely,’ Roscoe assured her.

‘That’s right,’ said Parkes as he unclipped Jean-Jacques’s phone and handed the handset back to the footballer. ‘Mr Beauvais, you received the text message at 9.05 a.m. today and the video at 12.20 p.m. Is that correct?’

Jean-Jacques nodded. ‘That’s right,’ he said.

‘I take it you haven’t replied?’ said Sunita.

‘No. I was waiting to hear from you about what we should do,’ said the footballer.

‘I think you should reply simply by acknowledging you received their text and video,’ said Parkes.

‘What is this – acknowledging?’ asked Camille, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

‘Just confirming you received the message,’ Parkes quickly explained.

‘D’accord,’ said Camille, running her fingers absent-mindedly through her long, blonde hair. She strode across the room to the dining table.

‘Is this the video?’ she asked, pointing to the laptop. ‘May I?’

Parkes nodded. ‘Sure. Go ahead,’ he assured her, handing her the device.

She began watching it while sitting on the settee and could be heard sobbing at seeing her son’s plight.

Roscoe was meanwhile concerned about drafting a proper response to the text message.

‘Shall we sort out a reply now?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Jean-Jacques. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘Just keep it simple,’ said Parkes. ‘I suggest you say, “Thank you for your message and for keeping Marcel safe. We await further instructions.”’

‘All right,’ said the footballer. ‘I will send that now.’

Parkes stepped across the room and took the phone from the Frenchman.

‘Allow me,’ Parkes insisted as he typed out the words. He handed it to Roscoe for his assent.

The chief inspector nodded his approval and Parkes pressed the ‘Send’ key.

They did not have to wait long. Jean-Jacques received a text back saying, ‘Message not delivered’.

‘What does this mean, Chief Inspector?’ he asked.

‘Well, it could mean a number of things,’ Roscoe replied. ‘It could mean the phone’s been turned off, in which case the message will be received when it’s next switched on. Or it could mean they’ve ditched the phone.’

‘Ditched? What is this?’ asked Jean-Jacques.

‘Discarded,’ said Roscoe.

Parkes interrupted. ‘They may be using what’s called a burner phone,’ he explained. ‘Such a phone can be thrown away after use by criminals to evade detection by police.’

The footballer nodded.

‘Don’t worry about this,’ said Roscoe. ‘The people who have your son will almost certainly be contacting you again soon and next time, just as certainly, they’ll be demanding money. Have you got the funds available?’

‘Yes, of course,’ replied Jean-Jacques.

Sunita had been listening quietly throughout the conversation.

‘Mr and Mrs Beauvais,’ she said. ‘I was wondering how you both feel about the video?’

‘Very upsetting,’ Jean-Jacques admitted. ‘Excuse me. I need to speak to my wife in private for a moment.’

The French couple stepped out of the room and could be heard holding a heated conversation in the hallway.

‘Clearly the video was taken in a bedroom somewhere,’ Parkes told the chief inspector, glancing out of the window at the stone steps and the lawn beyond. ‘But there’s little in the way of clues. He’s dressed in a blue shirt. You can see part of a white sheet. These things don’t tell us very much.’

‘Yes. It could have been taken anywhere,’ Sunita agreed. ‘We know the room has a modern double-glazed window with the very latest kind of handle, and it has a blue, striped window blind like those sold at the Mondales department store in Queensbridge.’

‘Very well observed, Sergeant,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Anything else?’

‘Only the pizza box,’ she replied.

‘What pizza box?’ asked Parkes.

‘Just at the bottom of the video we can see a corner of a cardboard pizza box decorated with pink spots. The only shop in that corner of Warwickshire that serves pizzas in that kind of box is the Pink Palace Pizza Company, which is close to the Troutbeck Estate.’

Sunita glanced round at everyone in the room. The chief inspector was full of admiration for her keen perception, but Parkes was unimpressed.

‘Don’t know how important any of that is,’ he said dismissively. ‘People have to eat.’

As the couple resumed their seats, Parkes turned to Jean-Jacques. ‘I suggest you wait for an hour or two and then send your message again to the gang. Let us know later if you’re still having problems.’

‘Certainement. But I must mention something, if you please,’ said the footballer.

‘Of course,’ said Parkes.

‘We are so desperate in finding our son that we are looking to hire a private detective from France,’ he said.

‘I wouldn’t recommend that,’ said Parkes. ‘That could only make the investigation more complicated.’

‘Added to that,’ said Roscoe, ‘a French investigator who’s unfamiliar with the Midlands, together with our language, culture and legal procedures, would find it a struggle. Please leave it to us. We know the kind of men we’re dealing with. We know the territory where they’re operating. We’re confident that it won’t be long before your son is safely back with you again.’

Jean-Jacques leaned back on the settee.

‘You say this,’ he said, ‘but it is now three days since Marcel was taken. Apart from this phone message and video, nothing’s changed. You think Marcel may be in Queensbridge, but you don’t know that for certain. In France, we would have had a big meeting with the press. Our boy would have been seen on television and in the newspapers.’

Parkes nodded. ‘We hear what you’re saying, but a decision’s been taken at senior level to maintain a news blackout for now. This means details of Marcel’s abduction won’t be reported in the national newspapers or on TV until such time that we consider it appropriate. News reports can make the situation more complicated. The ransom demanded can be driven up. Victims’ families can face extra pressure. Certain comments in the media could cause the abductors to act irrationally.’

‘The inspector’s right,’ added Roscoe. ‘We’ve publicised Marcel’s disappearance only in the local area, where we firmly believe him to be. The police locally have issued leaflets bearing Marcel’s photograph and posters have been put up. Our incident room at headquarters is receiving calls all the time.’

While this conversation had been going on, Sunita had been watching Camille’s behaviour. She had been shaking her head and muttering some words in French repeatedly since viewing the video.

Sunita detected the words, ‘Ce n’est pas mon fils.’

The chief inspector tapped her on the arm. ‘What’s she saying?’ he asked his sergeant.

‘She’s saying the boy in the video isn’t her son,’ Sunita replied.

Chapter 17

Someone was unlocking the door and calling his name. Marcel Dubois opened his eyes and stared across the cold, comfortless room. For a brief moment, he wondered if the police had finally come to rescue him. Then he heard Tigworth’s voice, which brought him down to earth.

‘Get dressed,’ his visitor demanded. ‘We’re moving.’

The boy placed his arm on his forehead and tried to focus his eyes.

‘Quoi? Moving where?’ he asked.

‘Never you mind,’ came the reply. ‘Get dressed. We’re going in ten minutes.’

As Marcel put on a fresh check shirt and jeans the gang had found for him, he could hear the men bustling about downstairs. Every now and then, he would hear one of them shout, ‘Get a move on,’ or ‘Can you hurry up?’

After a few minutes, Tigworth returned.

‘Can I eat?’ asked Marcel.

‘You’ll have to wait. We’re in a hurry,’ the man explained. ‘I’ll get you something when we get to the new place.’

Marcel noticed his visitor had the brown hood in his hand that had been used to cover his head before, along with some rope.

‘Sorry, mate,’ said Tigworth. ‘Got to do this to you again.’

Shortly afterwards, with his left arm gripped tightly, Marcel felt himself being led to the top of the stairs and escorted down. After walking forward a few feet, he felt a cold breeze and, for the first time in days, he stepped out into the fresh air. He was then pushed through the open rear door of a car which he knew was a Mercedes. The string around his hood had loosened and he caught a glimpse of the car firm’s logo on the wheel.

Within minutes, they were off, at first bumping along an uneven track and then speeding up as the road surface improved. As they travelled, Marcel listened to the men. He knew now there were three – Tigworth, who spoke with a soft voice; a man always moaning who had a slightly croaky, raspy way of speaking; and a man who appeared to be in charge. This third person had a deeper voice, which suggested he might be a well-built man.

‘How did you find this place?’ he overheard Tigworth asking.

‘I didn’t. The boss found it,’ said the man in charge. ‘I don’t want to say more in case the kid’s listening.’

After three quarters of an hour and what seemed like a distance of more than thirty kilometres, Marcel felt the vehicle draw to a halt.

‘This is the place,’ he heard the man in charge announce.

‘It’ll be much safer here,’ said one of the others. ‘This is the bloody middle of nowhere.’

‘I know. It’s ideal, ain’t it?’ the man in charge admitted. ‘I’ll go and open the gates.’

Marcel heard someone get out of the car and return shortly afterwards.

‘Here we are, mate,’ Tigworth shouted. ‘This is your new gaff. You’ll like it here.’

‘Where are we?’ asked the boy.

‘Don’t you worry. Somewhere safe,’ came the reply.

‘Shut up,’ snapped the man in charge. ‘You’re getting too friendly with the boy. I’ve warned you about that.’

The car moved off again – this time at a slower rate. It rocked from side to side on uneven ground before stopping for a second time moments later. The driver cut the engine and the doors opened.

‘Here you are, mate,’ one of the men told Marcel. He felt two of them hauling him out of the vehicle by the arms and helping him gain his footing on the ground.

He could see his feet. He was standing on a muddy, brick-paved yard. A slight smell of manure told him it might be a farmyard. This was confirmed when he pulled the hood up a little and realised he was surrounded by agricultural buildings.

At once, he feared he was to be locked up in a cowshed or barn, but instead he was led over a stone step and through the door of what appeared to be a farmhouse kitchen. After being guided along a corridor and escorted upstairs, his escort pulled off the hood. Marcel had to blink while his eyes gradually became accustomed to the brightness of the winter’s day.

He found himself in a dingy, first-floor bedroom not dissimilar in size to the one in Juniper Lane. He stepped across the shabby green carpet and glanced around. It had magnolia-coloured walls which needed decorating and contained a bed, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. The wooden-framed window overlooked fields. The Nintendo and television were on the carpet, waiting to be set up.

‘All right, mate?’ said Tigworth from behind his facemask. ‘I’ll go and get you something to drink now.’

* * *

A few minutes passed and Tigworth returned with a fizzy drink for Marcel and unlocked the bedroom door. But he was shocked to find Marcel moving in a bizarre manner in the centre of the room. He appeared to be under hypnosis and spun round several times in a circle like a whirling dervish. The man was mystified and frightened. He had never witnessed anything like this before. Within seconds, Marcel had slumped onto the multi-coloured carpet and his whole body was shaking uncontrollably. Blood was seeping from his mouth.

Tigworth ran in panic from the bedroom.

‘Oh my God!’ he cried. ‘Come quick! Something’s happening to the boy.’

His tall, muscular companion sprinted along the corridor towards him.

‘What’s going on?’ O’Shane demanded after attaching a mask to his lower face.

‘I don’t know. Look at him.’

They both peered into the room.

‘Don’t worry. He’s having a seizure,’ said O’Shane. ‘The main thing is to make sure he’s comfortable and put part of a cloth or handkerchief between his teeth to stop him biting his tongue.’

‘I think it might be too late for that, mate,’ said Tigworth. ‘There’s already some blood.’

‘Leave him. He’ll be fine,’ the second man insisted.

Tigworth remained highly agitated. ‘But what is it the boy’s got?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘It’s an epileptic fit, mate,’ his companion explained. ‘Haven’t you seen one before?’

He shook his head.

‘He’ll come round in a minute and won’t remember a bloody thing.’

‘I don’t like this,’ Tigworth remarked as Marcel’s convulsions continued. ‘I wish I’d never been involved in this now. You told me we’d be robbing an empty house. But this job’s turning into a nightmare.’

‘Pull yourself together,’ said the second man. ‘The lad will be all right. He should have told us he was an epileptic. We’d have been better prepared for it. Don’t worry. My sister-in-law’s always having fits.’

‘It’s like the devil’s got in him,’ said Tigworth. ‘I wish I’d never got involved.’

‘Stop going on about it,’ his companion demanded as Marcel’s convulsions became less erratic. ‘Look. The boy’s coming round now.’

While they watched, the twitching came to a stop. Marcel glanced over to the doorway, where the pair were standing. Then, slowly, he tried to haul himself to his feet. The pair gently lifted him by the arms and sat him on the bed.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Tigworth, staring into the French boy’s eyes.

‘Yes. I think so,’ Marcel replied. ‘What happened?’

‘You had a fit, mate,’ O’Shane explained.

‘Yeah, you didn’t half get me worried,’ said Tigworth. ‘You were dancing round the floor like you was in a trance and then you fell down.’

‘Mon Dieu,’ said Marcel. ‘J’ai eu une crise d’épilepsie.’

The second man stood back and folded his arms.

‘You’re an epileptic, ain’t you, mate? Where’s your medicine for it?’ he asked.

Marcel nodded. ‘I stopped the medicine. I thought I was better.’

‘When did you last have a seizure?’

‘What is this word – seizure?’

‘A fit.’

‘Three years ago I had a fit,’ said Marcel.

‘All right, mate,’ the boy was told. ‘Take it easy for a while. Just lie on your bed.’

He turned to his accomplice. ‘Cheer up, Tiggs. He’s going to be all right now. Let’s go and get the boy some food. He must be starving.’

Chapter 18

Sunita Roy looked up as she heard DC Brett Dawson arrive in the CID office, breathless and flustered.

‘Morning, Sarge,’ he said, slipping off his coat and searching for a hanger. ‘I’ve been over to the pizza shop, as you asked, and collected the disks from the CCTV.’

She turned round in her chair. ‘Good. What dates are they for?’

‘Last three days of October.’

‘Great,’ she said. ‘That’s exactly what we want. You make a start and I’ll come and join you in a minute. Remember, we’re interested in men in their late twenties.’

Dawson sat down at a nearby desk where there was a large monitor and began scanning the footage.

‘By the way, Sarge,’ he said after a few minutes, ‘how did you know the pizza box in the video came from Pink Palace?’

‘Do you remember earlier this year we had to interview a suspect in Queensbridge called Logan Price? The pizza shop is close to where he lived. Afterwards I called in for a pizza and I’ve been back a few times since. One of their boxes with pink spots was in the video.’

‘I’d call that well-spotted, Sarge,’ he said.

‘Your jokes don’t get any better,’ she remarked.

‘Sarge, I heard a strange rumour yesterday that the kidnappers might have taken the wrong boy.’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘Someone was talking about it in the canteen.’

‘Do you remember who?’

‘I don’t want to get anyone into trouble, Sarge.’

Sunita stood up and stepped towards him. ‘All that happened was that the boy’s mother was shocked when she saw the video sent by the kidnappers. While Marcel was in town on Saturday with Danny Jukes, he had his hair cut really short. He had cat scratches shaved on each side of his head.’

‘Oh, that’s a bit of a craze among kids,’ said Dawson. ‘My nephew wants them done but my sister’s said no.’

‘Camille Beauvais said no as well. But that didn’t stop the lad,’ she said with a smile. ‘Marcel was on his first outing in England without his parents and obviously convinced Danny Jukes, the bodyguard, to let him go and have his hair cut before they went to the cinema. He also went to a shop and had his nose pierced and a ring inserted.’

‘So even his own mother didn’t recognise him?’ said Dawson with a laugh.

‘Exactly. You can imagine how the boss and I reacted when she started mumbling, “It’s not my son. It’s not my son.” She went onto say – in French – that their son must be dead and that the gang must have murdered him. She became hysterical and this upset her husband as well. It took a few minutes for me to calm them both down. Then we studied the video with them again and she realised it was her son after all.’

‘She must have been really distraught at seeing the boy on film,’ said Dawson. ‘People who are in an emotional turmoil tend not to think straight.’

Sunita nodded.

‘We’re now planning to use video stills so our publicity pictures are more accurate,’ she said.

‘Has this lad enrolled at a school round here?’ asked Dawson.

‘Yes. He’s just started at a private one, Biddington Hall School,’ said Sunita.

‘They may not take to him having a nose ring and a dodgy haircut,’ said Dawson. Then he drew a quick breath.

‘Hey, Sarge. How about this guy?’ he asked. ‘He’s leaving the shop around seven.’

Sunita leaned over his shoulder and peered at the black-and-white image of a stocky man in jeans strolling from the doorway clutching a pizza box. He weaved his way through a group of people before heading in the direction of the Troutbeck Estate.

‘He looks a likely candidate,’ she said. ‘Print off a few images which best show his face and we’ll see if we can identify him. Carry on searching. You might find others.’

But as the day went on, Dawson failed to find any other men in their late twenties that matched the sketchy details they had for the three suspects.

Sunita studied the series of blown-up photographs taken from the shop’s camera.

‘We’re lucky,’ she said. ‘These pictures are fairly clear. We’ll try a facial search on the database and see if we can pick this guy out.’

Half an hour later, she excitedly tapped on the door of the chief inspector’s room. ‘Sir, I’ve made some progress,’ she announced excitedly.

‘You’d better come in and tell me about it,’ he said.

She dropped four photographs of the pizza customer onto his desk.

Roscoe leaned forward in his executive chair and studied them closely.

‘Doesn’t look familiar,’ he muttered.

‘We found this guy on CCTV outside the pizza shop in Worcester Road,’ she explained. ‘He left the shop at around ten past seven on Saturday evening and he’s come up on the database as Wayne Francis Jordan. Date of birth: 10 May 1994. No fixed abode. He’s got a long list of antecedents stretching back to his juvenile years. His most recent offences have included burglary, aggravated burglary, possession of a firearm and a serious assault on an ex-girlfriend.’

‘Good work, Sergeant,’ Roscoe replied. ‘So there’s no address for him?’

‘No, sir, but I’ve found his mother’s details – Amy Barton, 45 Forester’s Close, Droitwich. I’ve sent Dawson round there.’

‘Good. We now need to go through the files, check co-defendants and any associates. I’ll have a word with Pat Clancy and see if he can make some inquiries among his underworld contacts.’

* * *

The chief inspector was feeling tired by the time he had made his twenty-five-mile journey through the south Birmingham suburbs and reached his home on the outskirts of Queensbridge.

It had been an arduous four days since Marcel Dubois was abducted. He knew the force faced even greater challenges in the coming days until the kidnapping was resolved, one way or the other.

He finally drove down the narrow, tree-lined lane that led to his home, The Willows, and parked in his garage. As he walked past the leaded-light windows, he noticed his wife, Helen, standing by the open front door.

‘Hello, darling,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek as the aroma of roasted chicken wafted from the kitchen.

‘You look absolutely whacked,’ she said as they stepped into the hallway.

‘I am,’ he admitted. He entered the dual-aspect living room and slumped down on their leather settee.

At that moment, he heard their landline phone ringing.

‘It’s all right. I’ll get it,’ said Helen, hurrying into the hall.

‘I’ll just get him,’ she said after a brief conversation.

‘Joseph Parkes,’ she announced from the doorway before making her way into the kitchen.

Roscoe picked up the handset from the hall table.

Parkes spoke in a calm, crisp voice. ‘Have you heard about the ransom demand, sir?’ he asked.

‘No, I haven’t,’ he replied.

‘The gang have asked the couple for two million pounds to be paid in cryptocurrency,’ he said. ‘The text message was signed as being from the Matchday Boys, as before. I’ve gone to the house to talk to them about it. I thought I’d inform you.’

‘Very good of you,’ said Roscoe. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very familiar with the world of cryptocurrency.’

‘That’s why I thought you’d want me to handle this, sir. I’m quite used to dealing with these sorts of demands. They want the payment made through Monero.’

‘What’s that exactly?’ Roscoe asked.

‘It’s a currency like Bitcoin, but some individuals prefer using it because it obscures the source and the destination of payments. Of course, Beauvais is willing to pay the money. The trouble is, even if the payment’s made, there’s no guarantee the boy will be released alive.’

Chapter 19

A burly man in a white Ford Transit van found a parking space close to Queensbridge police station in the town’s High Street late on Friday afternoon. He climbed the stone steps and pushed open the door of the red-brick building. He was already in a bad temper and was further irritated by having to wait while the constable at the counter dealt with a motorist accused of a minor traffic offence.

Finally, the motorist left and the young constable beckoned him forward.

‘How can I help you, sir?’ the constable asked.

‘I’ve come to report a break-in,’ the visitor explained.

‘Whereabouts?’ said the fair-haired constable.

‘At a place I’m doing up on the Troutbeck Estate,’ he replied. ‘Looks like I’ve had squatters in. It’s looking like a tip.’

The constable frowned. ‘I’ll just get someone to come and speak to you,’ he said, reaching for the phone on his desk. ‘What’s your name, sir?’

‘Ridley,’ said the man. ‘Jeff Ridley.’

A few minutes later, Derek Underhill emerged from a side door.

‘Mr Ridley? Would you come with me?’ asked the officer.

He led Ridley into a brightly lit interview room and invited him to take a seat while he shut the door.

‘I’m PC Underhill. How can I help?’ he asked, sitting down on the opposite side of a small table.

‘I bought a house at auction and I’ve been waiting for the funds to do it up,’ Ridley explained.

‘You’re a builder?’ asked Underhill.

‘That’s right,’ said Ridley. ‘I’ve been on a roofing job but I finished earlier than expected, so I thought I’d go and check on my house. But some bastard’s broken in and there are signs that a load of people have been staying there.’

‘Where is this place?’

‘In Queensbridge. They’ve been using electricity and water and, knowing my luck, the companies are going to be chasing me for payment.’

Underhill shrugged his shoulders. ‘Are the squatters still on the premises?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know where they are now?’

‘Haven’t got a clue. I’ve no idea who they are either.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t think there’s much I’m going to be able to do to help you,’ said the constable. ‘If they were still there now and trespassing, maybe we could go and arrest them. But if they’ve been and gone…’

‘So you can’t do anything to help me. Is that what you’re saying?’ said Ridley. ‘Typical of the police these days.’

Underhill was determined to maintain his composure.

‘We always do the best we can, sir,’ he insisted. ‘Our aim is to serve the public, but in this case, unfortunately, our hands are tied. If they come back, let us know and we’ll see if there’s anything we can do then.’

Underhill stood up with a faint smile and moved towards the door. ‘Out of interest, where exactly is your house?’ he asked.

‘It’s on the Troutbeck Estate,’ said Ridley.

Underhill’s smile quickly vanished.

‘Troutbeck?’ he said. ‘What street?’

‘Juniper Lane,’ replied Ridley. ‘My house is number thirty-three.’

Underhill resumed his seat and gestured for Ridley to do the same.

‘That puts a different complexion on it,’ said the constable.

‘How do you mean?’ asked the builder.

‘Well, because of our ongoing investigation involving the missing boy.’ He took a small notebook and pen from his trouser pocket.

Ridley stroked his chin. ‘I’ve heard something about a missing French boy. Is that what you mean? You lot were checking vehicles.’

‘Yes. That’s right,’ said Underhill. ‘One possibility we’ve been looking at is that he may have been held at a house or flat on the Troutbeck. So your report that some strangers have been staying in your house is of obvious interest. Number thirty-three Juniper Lane, you say?’

Ridley nodded as Underhill jotted down the address.

‘So you visited your house today,’ the constable continued. ‘Was that for the first time in a while?’

‘That’s right,’ said Ridley. ‘It’s been empty since August. I’ve just been getting some money together. See?’

‘Hold on a minute,’ said Underhill, gazing out of the window at traffic travelling along the High Street. ‘I know Juniper Lane fairly well. Does your house have plastic safety barriers blocking the entrance?’

‘Yes. You’ve got it.’

‘Grey curtains and an overgrown garden.’

‘Yeah, well, as I say…’

‘You’ve been waiting for the money,’ said Underhill.

‘How do you know my house?’

‘Officers, including myself, have been going door-to-door round the estate. I remember this house. There was a black Mercedes parked by the front door.’

Ridley shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing to do with me, if there was,’ he said.

‘What time did you go round there today?’

‘Just now,’ replied the builder. ‘About four thirty.’

‘You just walked in and looked around?’

‘No. I had to force the door. The cheeky bastards had changed the locks.’

‘It’s definitely your house?’

‘Yes. Of course. I can bring you the solicitor’s letters if you like. I know they broke in. There was a smashed window in the kitchen and the sods had left an electric fire on. Looks like they bypassed the meter. There were a couple of mattresses on the floor as well.’

‘You’ve put your own lock on now?’

‘Not yet, but I’ve made it secure.’

‘Well, Mr Ridley, I don’t quite know how to tell you this,’ Underhill said with a broad smile, ‘but please don’t go inside the place for the moment. There’s a chance your house may have been used as a hideout for the gang who kidnapped the boy. They may well have kept the boy prisoner there, so we wouldn’t want you to go inside. You might accidentally destroy evidence. I’m going to have to call headquarters and report what’s happened. I imagine they’ll send a SOCO team round there.’

‘A SOCO team?’

Underhill leaped up and nodded excitedly. ‘Yes. Scenes-of-crime officers. A search of your house could lead to the vital evidence we need to find the boy.’

* * *

DI Tom Vickers gave Sunita Roy a peck on the cheek after stepping out of his car and greeting her beside her vehicle outside the roadside pub near Redditch. She reached up and kissed him back before grasping his hand.

‘The place doesn’t seem to have changed at all since we were last here,’ she said with a smile as they entered The Wheatsheaf Inn.

The interior was just as Sunita had remembered it. There were flagstone floors, low ceilings with dark oak beams and wood panelling. At the heart of the gastropub stood a roaring log fire.

A barman in a white shirt and tie showed them to a quiet corner and fetched menus. He lit a candle in the middle of their table.

‘Shall we have a bottle of chardonnay like before?’ he asked when they had taken their seats.

‘Fancy you remembering that,’ she said with a shy smile. ‘Yes. Let’s.’

Once the wine had been served, she ordered grilled salmon while he opted for roast chicken. Vickers, who was six years older than her and wearing a smart suit, gazed at her affectionately.

‘How’s the house-hunting?’ he asked.

‘I looked over a five-bedroom place on Tuesday night. It had huge rooms and a massive garden but I wondered if it was just too big for me.’

‘Maybe. Any news on the missing teenager?’ he asked.

‘We’ve got a steer on one of the kidnappers, Wayne Jordan,’ she replied. ‘Dawson’s trying to see the mother, although she hasn’t been around for a day or two. I’ve also just had a call from the DCI to say we might have a lead on the gang’s hideout.’

‘That’s great,’ he said.

‘I feel we’re getting nearer to finding the boy now. I just feel so sorry for the whole Beauvais family. They’ve only been in the UK for a few weeks and this happens.’

‘The money these footballers earn is obviously the big attraction,’ Vickers remarked. ‘On top of that, they never get to lead quiet lives, keeping under the radar. The location of their homes is often featured on social media and everyone knows they’re away most Saturdays.’

After their meal, they ordered coffees.

‘I’m glad I asked you out,’ he confessed, reaching across the table and patting her hand. ‘I’ve missed you, you know.’

He gazed into her dark eyes and she smiled.

‘I’ve missed you too,’ she said. ‘And if you hadn’t remained so close to your ex-wife, our lives could have been so different.’

He frowned. ‘As I told you four years ago, we were going through a divorce. I merely let her stay at my house for a few days after her boyfriend threw her out. I was just doing the decent thing, giving her a roof over her head until she could move in with her sister.’

‘I lost my trust in you at that point, Tom,’ Sunita said. ‘You still seemed to be tied to her.’

Vickers sighed. ‘I wish you’d had more patience. I was completely over my wife and only wanted to be with you.’

She shook her head. ‘Tom, you have to try and see it from my position. You were seen by one of our colleagues helping your wife into a doctor’s surgery.’

He grimaced. ‘She’d sprained her ankle. She needed treatment and she couldn’t very well walk in unaided. We know all this. I don’t know why you’re bringing it up again. You’d think after four years you’d have let it go.’

Sunita took a sip of her coffee. ‘I was very upset at the time, Tom,’ she said. Her hurt pride showed in her eyes.

‘I know,’ he said in an exasperated tone. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about what happened. I was never going to get back with my wife. That part of my life was well and truly over. I wanted to make a fresh start and thought that maybe we could have made a go of things.’

‘I was so upset when I heard you’d been helping her into the surgery.’

Vickers, who had not touched his coffee, stood up. ‘I’ve had enough,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the bar to pay the bill and then I’m leaving.’

‘Why, Tom?’ she asked, looking startled.

‘Because it’s quite obvious you’re never going to give me a chance to show how much you mean to me. I’ve always loved you, Sunita, from the moment we first met and that will never change. That year we spent together was the greatest time of my life. I’d hoped we might be able to start again. But I can see that’s not going to be possible.’

He stormed off.

Chapter 20

While dark clouds drifted ominously overhead, Sunita drove onto the Troutbeck Estate just before nine o’clock on Saturday morning. Juniper Lane was too narrow for vehicles to be able to park in the street, so she found a place to leave her car in nearby Coniston Road. As a light rain began to fall, she retrieved her small umbrella from the back seat and locked the vehicle.

She had only taken a few steps towards the lane when the chief inspector arrived and parked directly behind her.

‘Bit of luck that builder coming forward, Sergeant,’ he said as he opened his own umbrella and accompanied her along the street.

‘Yes, sir,’ she replied. ‘Just a shame we couldn’t have caught them in time before they moved on. Underhill said it looks like they flew into a panic, judging by the state they left the house in. With any luck this morning, we’ll find the room where the video was filmed.’

‘You look tired this morning,’ he said as they entered Juniper Lane.

‘Didn’t get much sleep last night, sir,’ she admitted.

She was pleased when he didn’t probe her any further about the reason behind her lost sleep. She had been extremely upset at the way the conversation in the pub between her and Tom Vickers had culminated in an argument. But she was determined, for the moment, to try to forget about him and focus on the job.

By the time they reached the entrance to number thirty-three, the rain had stopped. They found the front door was open and a small team of police staff were scurrying around in white suits, overshoes, masks and gloves.

Roscoe asked one of them if Dr Ling was available. Seconds later, the senior forensic officer emerged in the doorway, peering at them over a pair of wire-framed glasses.

‘Good morning, sir,’ she said. ‘Morning, Sergeant. Unfortunately, it looks like one of the gang’s been around wiping finger-marks off doors, the TV screen, plates and dishes and all smooth surfaces. But we’ve had some luck. We’ve got a fingerprint off the mirror in one of the bedrooms. We’ve also found a discarded beer can, which may give us a trace of DNA.’

‘Excellent,’ said Roscoe. ‘My sergeant and I are eager to look at the bedrooms.’

‘Come right in,’ she said. ‘We’ve been here since late yesterday and we’re nearly finished.’

Roscoe stepped into the house cautiously, recognising some of the floorboards were rotten and some missing. There was a threadbare carpet in the front room but only bare floorboards in the hall. Curtains, where they existed, were worn and faded. Old clothes, litter, builders’ rubble, empty pizza boxes and items of mail were strewn across the floor.

The pair climbed the uncarpeted stairs and began inspecting the bedrooms. They soon found themselves in the back bedroom, where a forensic expert in white overalls was examining the single wardrobe and realised at once that the filming had been carried out there.

They recognised the window, the blue striped blind and the edge of the cream-coloured mattress. The pizza box that had led to them identifying Wayne Jordan was no longer there.

‘I’ve nearly finished,’ remarked the female technician while running a brush over the wardrobe’s internal mirror.

Sunita glanced across the room towards her.

‘I think you might have overlooked something,’ she said.

‘How do you mean?’ asked the woman.

Sunita had crouched down and was inspecting the rug beside the bed.

‘What’ve you found, Sergeant?’ asked Roscoe, who was standing in the doorway.

It was clear to her there was something under the mat causing an almost imperceptible bulge. She lifted the corner of the floor covering and exposed a folded sheet of paper. ‘I think it’s a letter,’ she said.

‘I don’t know how that was missed,’ the technician muttered. ‘A colleague was meant to be overseeing that part of the room.’

The sergeant unfolded the paper and then placed it on the window ledge, where she carefully studied it.

‘It looks like a torn scrap of fish-and-chip paper,’ Roscoe observed, joining her by the window as the technician left.

‘Yes. It’s a letter in French from Marcel. He’s written it in pencil to his mother. I’ll have a go at translating it.’

She spent a minute studying the words, trying to recall her classroom French, before translating it out loud.

My dearest, darling mother. I appreciate this is a worrying time for you and Papa Jean-Jacques. Don’t be anxious about me, if you please. I am in good health. The men are looking after me correctly. I have enough food and drink and I have a Nintendo and television.

I am in a house somewhere. I’m not sure where, but it took between twenty minutes and half an hour approximately for us to travel here from our house. So I’m guessing I’m not far away. They put something over my head, so I could not see where we were going.

My room is upstairs at the back of the house. I can see fields from my window. I sometimes see sheep. Some nights I’m watching fireworks.

I’m thinking there are three men altogether. Only one of them visits me, the man with the beard. He is called Tiggs. He is older than me but he is a gamer like me.

I can hear the voices of the men rising up from downstairs but I haven’t seen them. I heard the men downstairs saying they have obtained another car, a Mercedes.

I guess the men want money. So please say yes to whatever they ask. Your most devoted child is desperate to see you again. With much affection, Your adoring son, Marcel.

She turned to the chief inspector. ‘What do you think, sir?’

‘Clever boy,’ said Roscoe. ‘Thoughtful boy. He knows his parents will be worried. He wanted to reassure them he’s all right. So he’s written a letter and hidden it, hoping it’ll be found and passed on.’

‘You’re right, sir. He’s also very brave,’ she said. ‘Reading between the lines, he’s desperate to get away from his captors and get home, but he doesn’t want to let his mother see that. He wants to ease her fears. I think I should take a copy of this letter round to the Beauvais couple.’

‘Good idea,’ said Roscoe, ‘but unfortunately none of this really helps us to locate him.’

Sunita nodded. ‘We at least know the name of one of the men now, sir. It’s Tiggs.’

‘Sounds like a nickname,’ muttered Roscoe.

‘This could have been written at any time over the past few days,’ said Sunita. ‘He wrote it and concealed it here – knowing, if he’d left it in a prominent place, the men would have found it.’

Roscoe smiled. ‘He’s mentioned the gang have got a Mercedes. That’s of some help. Derek Underhill remembers a black Mercedes outside this house when they were doing the house-to-house. A car like that was caught on camera leaving the estate at just before ten o’clock on Wednesday morning. It was heading in the Worcester direction.’

‘They might have switched cars again since then,’ said Sunita.

‘The gang don’t seem to have any shortage of addresses they can go to,’ Roscoe remarked.

Chapter 21

Despite feeling unwell after attending a fireworks party with his girlfriend the night before, DC Brett Dawson managed to haul himself out of bed just after half past eight on Saturday morning. He showered and dressed and enjoyed a light breakfast before taking some painkillers for his nagging headache.

A few minutes after nine, he clambered into his red Ford Focus and set off from Birmingham for the Worcestershire spa town of Droitwich. Forester’s Close consisted of a row of three-storey townhouses that lay among a maze of streets on the northern side of the town. He had called round twice before and profoundly hoped Wayne Jordan’s mother would now be at home.

The detective locked his car outside the woman’s address and dashed through a haze of rain to the front door.

Number forty-five appeared to be the most neglected house in the quiet cul-de-sac. An old van was parked on the driveway beside a narrow, poorly tended lawn.

Shivering beneath a porch canopy, Dawson pressed the doorbell and waited. A dog began to bark before a woman drew back the door.

‘Mrs Barton?’ he asked, producing his warrant card. ‘Heart of England Police. DC Dawson.’

The plump woman in her mid-fifties had grey, untidy hair and eyed him suspiciously. ‘What’s this about?’

‘You’re the mother of Wayne Jordan, we believe.’

As soon as the words passed his lips, a man in a string vest and dark trousers appeared behind her in the hallway, coughing and spluttering.

‘He doesn’t live here no more,’ he shouted. ‘He’s nothing to do with us. Close the door, Amy.’

Amy looked uncertain. She glanced over her shoulder at the man behind her.

‘It’s police, Steve,’ she explained. Turning to Dawson, she whispered, ‘My husband.’

‘I won’t take up much of your time,’ Dawson assured them, leaning with his hand on the doorpost. ‘Just need to find out a little bit about Wayne’s current life.’

‘You won’t take up none of our time,’ Steve retorted. ‘We don’t know nothing about his current life, so I suggest you leave.’

‘He’s right. We don’t have no information,’ said Amy in a low voice.

‘What’s the little toerag done now anyway?’ asked Steve.

‘We believe he might have been involved in a crime that we’re currently investigating,’ Dawson said. ‘I’m sorry if this is a bad time or if it’s upsetting for you to talk,’ he added.

Amy glanced at her husband again.

‘Steve, if it’s only a few questions, I think we should invite him in.’

Dawson, sensing her attitude was softening, said, ‘It’s really only a few questions and it might help solve a crime that’s affecting a good number of people.’

‘All right. Let him in,’ snapped Steve. Then, staring into the visitor’s face, he added, ‘So long as you realise her wayward son ain’t nothing to do with us no more.’

Dawson noticed a smell of damp laundry as he followed the couple through their narrow hallway. He was invited to sit on a settee in the living room, where clothes were airing on racks.

A German shepherd barked as soon as it saw him. The dog climbed down from the settee and sniffed the visitor’s clothes.

‘Is your dog all right?’ asked Dawson, looking cautiously at the pet.

‘You’re not scared of dogs, are you?’ asked Steve, a tall, balding man with a stern expression. ‘Don’t worry about Teddy. He won’t hurt you.’

‘He doesn’t know me, you see,’ said Dawson.

The dog growled and watched as the newcomer sat down.

‘His bark’s worse than his bite,’ said Amy.

‘But not by much,’ said her husband before bursting into peals of laughter, followed by more coughing. The dog continued growling until finally Amy locked her pet in another room.

Dawson felt more comfortable as he took out his notebook and asked, ‘When did you last see Wayne, Mrs Barton?’

‘I can honestly say I haven’t seen him in three years,’ she said, settling down in a nearby armchair.

‘The blighter’s been nothing but trouble to his mother all her life,’ said her husband, clutching the end of a clothes rack.

‘That’s going a little far, Steve,’ Amy insisted. ‘He used to be a good lad before we moved from Basingstoke but, up here, he fell in with the wrong crowd.’

‘I suppose you know about all his previous, do you?’ asked Steve. ‘Burglary, aggravated burglary…’

‘You don’t need to go on, Steve,’ said his wife.

‘You know what the aggravated burglary involved, do you?’ he continued, ignoring his wife’s entreaties. ‘He and a couple of mates broke into an old man’s house while he was at home. They beat him up, tied him up and stabbed his cat to death in front of his eyes. Then they stole all his life savings and war medals.’

Dawson shook his head. ‘That’s absolutely terrible,’ he said, jotting a few words in his book.

‘So what’s this crime you’re investigating then?’ asked Amy leaning forward in her chair.

‘The burglary last weekend in Norton Prior in which a man was shot dead,’ Dawson replied.

‘Oh, my God. I hope Wayne wasn’t involved with that,’ she said.

‘Have you spoken to him recently?’ asked Dawson.

‘No. There’s been no contact whatsoever,’ she said.

‘I’ve barred him from the house,’ her husband explained. ‘We don’t want nothing more to do with him. He just brings trouble wherever he goes and we don’t want it brought here. So, if you’ve finished asking your questions, young man…’

Dawson glanced down at his notebook and then looked at Amy.

‘Just a few more questions. Do you know where he’s living now?’ he asked.

‘Not for certain, I’m afraid,’ she replied. ‘But I’ve picked up from gossip that he may be in Queensbridge or somewhere around there. Sometime last year he also spent some time staying with friends in Cheshire.’

‘And who are his associates?’ asked Dawson. ‘Any idea?’

‘That changes all the time,’ she said.

Her husband interrupted. ‘He’s spent some time staying over in Bromsgrove. He’s got a lot of pals round there. If it helps, I remember one guy he used to hang around with had a beard and was called Lewis. I got the impression they might be close mates.’

‘Any idea where…’ asked Dawson.

‘Where Lewis might be? No. Somewhere in Worcestershire, I’d guess.’

‘Did you ever meet him?’

‘No. You see, we don’t keep up with Wayne and his activities. We’re trying to get away from all that. His mother’s suffered a lot in the past with all the court cases and prison sentences. We’ve had enough of it, to be honest with you. We just want to forget about Wayne and all the problems he’s caused. We just want to get on with our lives.’

Chapter 22

His mind clouded with thoughts, Jean-Jacques Beauvais stepped into the living room at Upper Norton Manor.

‘Darling, have you seen Katrina this morning?’ he asked his wife, who was sitting on one of the settees, gazing out of the windows.

‘Yes,’ she replied with a stern expression. ‘She’s gone into Queensbridge to buy some printing ink and envelopes. She should be back in a minute. Oh, this waiting is getting me down, mon chéri.’

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘Monsieur Parkes and our insurance man arranged the transfer of money, but I called Parkes five minutes ago and he still has no confirmation the payment’s been received and there’s still no news about Marcel.’

He joined her on the settee and they remained sitting there together in silence.

The peace of the morning was broken by the sound of a car drawing up outside the main door.

‘Maybe that’s Katrina now,’ said Camille.

A few moments later, their personal assistant came bustling into the room, her arms laden with shopping. ‘Any news?’ she asked.

Jean-Jacques shook his head.

‘I heard in town police have uncovered the gang’s hideout,’ Drake continued.

‘What is this?’ Camille asked.

‘La cachette,’ Drake explained.

Camille nodded in response.

‘So where’s Marcel? Can they be holding him in another building somewhere?’ said Drake.

‘We mustn’t allow ourselves to become too disheartened,’ Jean-Jacques remarked. ‘Perhaps this is a sign the men are getting ready to liberate Marcel.’

‘Perhaps,’ Drake said, although she looked doubtful.

‘What happened about the private detectives you spoke to?’ he asked.

Drake shrugged. ‘No one was able to help us at short notice,’ she said. ‘If they were to become involved, they said they’d have to leave their current work immediately and come to Queensbridge. Then it would take a long time for them to get up to speed with the investigation and the boy would probably be found as soon as they became familiar with the case. They said we should leave it to Heart of England Police.’

Camille glanced down at the carpet. ‘We are trapped in a private hell and there is no passage out,’ she said.

The housekeeper, Marilyn Willis, poked her head round the door.

‘The lady from the police is here,’ she said. ‘Detective Sergeant Roy.’

‘Ask her to come in,’ said Jean-Jacques.

Sunita Roy smiled as she entered, shaking hands with Drake, who was standing in the middle of the room.

‘Sorry to call round uninvited,’ said the sergeant, plucking a photocopy of Marcel’s letter from her coat pocket, ‘but I thought you’d want to see this, Mrs Beauvais.’

She stepped across and handed over the crumpled paper.

‘Mon Dieu. What is this?’ asked Camille. As she began to read the letter, tears rolled down her cheeks.

‘Oh Marcel, mon chéri,’ she said repeatedly.

She held a brief conversation in French with her husband, explaining excitedly it was a letter from their son. He read it over her shoulder. When the footballer reached the end of the letter, he turned to the sergeant.

‘Thank you so much for bringing this to us,’ he said. ‘It means so much. Where did you find it?’

‘Marcel had hidden it close to the bed where he’d been sleeping,’ Sunita explained.

‘Marcel is talking about a house. Where was this house and what was it like?’ he asked.

‘It was on the western side of Queensbridge.’

‘So was it a good house?’ he said.

Sunita shrugged. She recognised that she had to choose her words carefully for fear of upsetting the couple further.

‘The conditions weren’t too bad,’ she said.

‘Can we go there?’

‘I’m sorry. That won’t be possible,’ she said. ‘Police are still examining the house. I think it would be good if the family could share this letter with your ex-husband, Madame Beauvais.’

She shook her head vigorously.

‘I’m sorry, DS Roy, but I’m not in regular contact with that man. How do you say in English? He is a waste of space.’

‘I see,’ said Sunita.

‘What about this man, Tiggs?’ asked Camille. ‘Do you know how to catch him?’

‘All our focus is on finding your son and bringing him back to you. Rest assured we’re doing everything we can,’ she said.

* * *

When Sunita returned to CID, the chief inspector had just launched into a briefing for all the staff.

‘Ah, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘You haven’t missed a lot. I was just telling everyone about the ransom.’

She made herself comfortable on top of one of the desks as Roscoe, who was holding a document in his hand, continued addressing the team from his position in front of the whiteboard.

‘So the ransom’s been received?’ she asked as other members of the team craned their necks to look her way.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Joseph Parkes confirmed it to me this morning. But so far no response from the gang about the boy. So the wait goes on.’

‘The parents are so grateful we showed them the letter from their son that we found in Juniper Lane,’ she said. ‘It’s proved very comforting for them.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ said Roscoe. ‘Now the chief superintendent called me this morning. Marcel’s biological father, Philippe Dubois, has arrived in the UK from Paris.’

He glanced at DC Khalid. ‘Omar, on top of your work trying to locate the gun, I’d like you to call him at his hotel in Worcester and get a statement from him. I doubt whether he’ll be able to add much to what we already know, but it’s worth making contact with him and seeing what he’s got to say.’

Khalid, who was sitting in a chair beside his boss, nodded.

‘No problem, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news regarding the Mercedes. We can’t identify any car number. Maybe they’ve used a Fresnel lens or some reflective cover on the plate.’

Roscoe nodded. ‘Quite possibly,’ he said. ‘Now, Dawson, you’ve just been to see Wayne Jordan’s mother. Can you update us?’

Dawson stood up and stepped towards the whiteboard. He pointed to a photograph captioned ‘Suspect Two.’

‘Wayne Jordan spent his early life in Hampshire,’ said the constable, ‘and he was a good lad, according to his mother. But when his parents’ marriage fell apart and the family moved to the Midlands, she says he began mixing with a bad bunch of people.’

‘Someone showed me his Facebook page,’ said Roscoe. ‘It mainly shows photographs of guns. He hasn’t been in contact with the parents. Is that right?’

Dawson nodded.

‘But you’ve at least come up with a possible first name for Suspect Three, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, sir. Wayne is meant to be best mates with a bearded guy called Lewis, who hails from Worcestershire. Unfortunately, the parents don’t know any more and the neighbours didn’t have anything to add.’

‘We know from the hostage’s letter to his mother that there’s a character with the nickname Tiggs who has a beard and is clearly not the guy giving orders,’ said Roscoe. ‘So it’s reasonable to assume that this guy might be Suspect Two and that his first name could be Lewis. We’ll have to check through records and see if anything comes up.’

As Dawson returned to his seat, Roscoe added, ‘Dawson, you’re into video games, aren’t you? See if you can find out about him through the gaming community.’

Sunita took a step towards him.

‘Sir, is there any news from the post-mortem?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Mr Jukes’s cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head. Not a great surprise there.’

‘Do we know what happened to the bullets that were fired?’ she asked.

The chief inspector referred to the piece of paper he was holding.

‘Silas managed to retrieve them both – one from the victim’s chest and one from his head,’ he said. ‘He discovered the gun used was a Beretta 9000S, firing .40 Smith & Wesson rounds. He carried out an experiment which, he says, firmly suggests the two bullets were fired into the victim’s body from the stairwell window – a distance of approximately fifteen feet.’

* * *

After the meeting broke up, Sunita joined the chief inspector in his room.

‘How come Joseph Parkes wasn’t at the briefing this morning?’ she asked, taking a seat near the door.

‘After arranging the payment, he had a meeting in Birmingham to attend with one of his superiors,’ Roscoe explained as his desk phone began to ring.

‘Ah, here he is now,’ he said with a glance at the phone’s screen.

‘Roscoe,’ he announced as he pressed the handset’s answer key.

‘DI Parkes here,’ said the caller. ‘And I’ve got a complaint to make about your sergeant.’

‘You want to complain about DS Roy?’ said the chief inspector, adopting a quizzical expression and shaking his head in exasperation. He switched the call to speakerphone so Sunita could overhear the conversation.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Parkes. ‘I’ve just been round to visit the Beauvais family and your sergeant has caused the family some unnecessary anguish.’

‘How did she do that, then?’ asked Roscoe.

‘She’s taken them a copy of a letter purported to have been written by Marcel Dubois which was allegedly found at the house in Queensbridge where the gang were staying. I’m meant to be in charge of this operation to support the family and bring their son home. First of all, your sergeant should have informed me about this letter and, secondly, I’m afraid it’s done nothing but cause upset.’

‘Listen,’ said Roscoe, ‘I was with DS Roy when she found the letter and I authorised her to take a copy to the family.’

‘Did you, sir?’ Parkes spluttered. ‘Did you really?’

‘Yes, I did, and very pleased they were at the time she showed it to them.’

‘Well, sir, with respect,’ said Parkes, ‘when I visited the couple just now, they were crying about their son. I’m not sure this has helped matters at all.’

‘I’m in overall charge of this case, Inspector,’ Roscoe insisted. ‘In my judgement, presenting them with the letter – instead of withholding it from them, as you seem to be suggesting – can only have helped cement the relationship between them and the police.’

After ending the call, Sunita glanced across the room.

‘I’m not sure I can continue working with him,’ she remarked.

Chapter 23

‘I remember you,’ said the man behind the desk as Sunita Roy stepped inside the estate agents. ‘It’s Miss Roy, isn’t it? We showed you round a house in Old School Lane last week.’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I’ve been thinking long and hard about it, Mr Hussain. I’ve decided I’d like to make an offer.’

‘Well, that’s splendid. Would you like to take a seat?’

The smartly dressed negotiator in his early thirties with receding dark hair, glasses and a small moustache began tapping on his computer keyboard.

‘Here we are. Number five, Old School Lane, currently priced at £695,000. And what offer would you like to put forward?’

Sunita thought for a moment. ‘I think I’d like to start at £680,000. There’s a fair bit of work I’d like to do to bring it up to standard.’

Hussain frowned. ‘That’s quite a bit under the asking price. Still, I’m happy to have a go,’ he said.

Sunita studied the details of other properties displayed on the walls while Hussain held a quiet conversation with the seller. After a few minutes, he replaced the receiver.

‘Well, I’ve spoken to the owner and, as I thought it would be, the offer you’ve made has been rejected. He says he and his wife wouldn’t be able to afford the house they’re moving to if they accepted that figure.’

Sunita shrugged her shoulders. ‘All right. I’ll leave the offer on the table for now while I’ve a think about whether I want to make a fresh offer. There are a few other places I’m interested in.’

‘Please let us know if we can show you round any other houses,’ said Hussain. ‘But I think you’ll find the house in Old School Lane offers an awful lot for the money. It’s in a very sought-after area and the landscaped gardens are stunning.’

Sunita resumed her seat by his desk while he tapped on his keyboard and stared at his screen.

‘I think we’ve got all your details, Miss Roy,’ he said without looking up. ‘You’ve worked for Heart of England Police for six years and, before that, you served for a while with West Midlands Police. Your current home is a one-bed flat in Warwick. Could I ask whether you need any help with a mortgage? We at Royal County Properties have our own exclusive mortgage advisor and we can sort out the best deal for you.’

‘Thank you but I won’t be needing any finance,’ said Sunita.

While they were talking, a slim, grey-haired man in a dark suit emerged from a back office.

Hussain turned on hearing footsteps. ‘Ah, Mr Biddle,’ he said. ‘Miss Roy here is interested in buying the property we have in Old School Lane. I was just explaining about the wonderful range of mortgages that are available.’

The newcomer, in his late forties, approached Hussain’s desk and leaned over his colleague’s shoulder to view the screen. Then he smiled across the desk at Sunita.

‘I’m James Biddle, one of the directors of Royal County,’ he explained.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said, rising and shaking his hand.

‘So, Tahir’s been talking to you about mortgages, has he?’

‘Yes, he has,’ said Sunita. ‘But I’ve got the funds in place already.’

‘You have a mortgage arranged?’ asked Hussain.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Look, it’s very good of you both to mention the deals you’ve got on offer, but I don’t need a mortgage. I’m a cash buyer.’

Mr Biddle looked as shocked as if he had been mown down by his own car.

‘Well, you’re in a very fortunate position, then,’ he said, striving to regain his composure. ‘There aren’t many people in this day and age who can turn down the offer of a mortgage because they have the funds already set up. Can I ask how this is possible? Do you have a wealthy benefactor?’

‘I’d rather not discuss it, but my solicitor can vouch for the funds being there.’

Sunita wondered if she should explain that she benefitted from an inheritance left by a wealthy, eccentric uncle, but decided not to expound on it. It wasn’t this stranger’s business how she could afford the purchase.

A heavy silence hung in the air before Hussain told his colleague, ‘Miss Roy’s with the police.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Biddle with a grin. ‘You’re not traffic police, are you? I’ll get the sidelight fixed tomorrow, I promise.’ He roared with laughter.

She ignored the remark. ‘No, I work in CID,’ she explained.

‘Wasn’t it terrible that murder in Norton Prior at the footballer’s house?’ he continued. ‘We were marketing that place over the summer.’

‘Were you?’ said Sunita. ‘So you dealt with the Beauvais family?’

He shook his head. ‘I never got to meet the footballer personally,’ he said. ‘We were one of three agents in the running and, in the end, the family rented it through rivals. Magnificent house, of course. But what a terrible thing to happen. I read an interview in the local press with the bodyguard’s widow. Her life’s been ruined.’

‘I can’t comment on the case, obviously,’ Sunita said.

‘Obviously,’ he agreed.

‘But you’re right. It’s devastating for her,’ said Sunita, as she stood up and headed for the door.

‘I’ll let you know if anything changes regarding the house because there are other parties interested,’ said Hussain. ‘But, Miss Roy, I can assure you you’d be very happy there. It’s a quiet street and, apart from the huge rooms, there’s a double garage and off-street parking for several cars.’

* * *

Sunita’s phone rang while she was walking back to the town’s main supermarket, where she had left her car. It was her friend, Rupa.

‘How did your date with Tom go the other night?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid we argued and he walked out,’ Sunita admitted.

‘Oh dear,’ said Rupa. ‘What caused the argument?’

‘It was probably my fault. I raised the issue of his ex-wife and he took exception to it.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t have done that,’ said Rupa.

‘The trouble is that, just before he stormed off, he poured his heart out to me,’ said Sunita. ‘He said he’d loved me since the first moment we met and will always love me. He’s never been so frank about his feelings before.’

‘Oh God,’ said Rupa. ‘So now you realise what a mistake you’ve made?’

‘Yes.’

‘I suppose some men need a moment of high emotion to express the way they feel.’

Sunita was close to tears. ‘Oh, Rupa,’ she said. ‘Since Friday night, I’ve been trying to talk to him. When he told me those things, they definitely came from the heart and it’s left me devastated. I know now that Tom and I should be together. But he’s been blocking all my calls. I just hope I can get to talk to him before it’s too late.’

Chapter 24

Lewis Tigworth knocked on the bedroom door early on Wednesday afternoon. ‘Marcel, I’ve got your lunch here,’ he announced.

A feeble voice from within called out, ‘I’m sick.’

The visitor unlocked the door and panicked. It looked as though the boy was still in bed, underneath his duvet. He rushed across the room.

‘Marcel, are you all right?’ he asked anxiously, hoping the boy had not succumbed to some illness – perhaps associated with his epilepsy.

When Tigworth lifted the duvet, he was shocked to see it had been stuffed with Marcel’s spare pillow and clothes.

He was unaware that Marcel had been hiding behind the door. Now he crept out of the room unnoticed and hurried down the stairs. He slipped behind the door in the kitchen and listened.

Tigworth quickly realised he had been duped and raised the alarm, calling to O’Shane, ‘The boy’s got out.’

O’Shane came running along the first-floor landing.

‘What do you mean? What’s happened?’ he demanded.

‘He’s tricked us,’ said Tigworth. ‘He slipped out of his room after pretending he was ill.’

‘Well, let’s get after him!’ hollered O’Shane.

‘Are you sure he’s not still in the house?’

‘No idea.’

‘You’re a useless prat,’ muttered O’Shane. ‘Get out onto the road and give me a shout if you see him. I’ll search the house. You’re a bloody idiot. You were meant to be looking after him, but the truth is I couldn’t trust you to peel a bloody grape.’

* * *

Desperate to flee the gang, Marcel had darted into the yard and crossed the road. He had nimbly clambered over a five-bar gate that led into the muddy field opposite. Then he had crouched down beside the hawthorn hedge and witnessed the two men quarrelling.

The main farmhouse was larger than Marcel had expected. In front of it was a yard surrounded by several outbuildings. A black Mercedes was parked by the open farm gate, which bore a sign saying, ‘Meadow Brook Farm’.

He gazed around at the wider location. He was dismayed to find he was in a remote area of rolling countryside. All he could see, for miles around, were fields speckled, here and there, by bushes or small clumps of trees. Apart from the angry voices of the men, the only sounds he could hear were birds singing in the trees and sheep bleating.

Marcel watched the two men. Within minutes, they ended their argument. The tall, muscular man slipped a mobile phone from his pocket and made a call – perhaps to alert his other companion – before leaping into the Mercedes and speeding off down the narrow lane to the right. His regular visitor, Tiggs, set off on foot in the opposite direction.

For a moment, the teenager remained concealed by the hedge, wondering what do to. He could try to stop a passing vehicle and beg a lift. At least that would whisk him right away from the gang’s orbit. But he had been there for around ten minutes already and there had been no passing traffic.

It would be dark in a few hours. The climate was too cold and the ground too damp for him to spend the night outside. Could he sneak into a deserted farm building to pass the night? Or could he walk to a village and find shelter? The problem was he didn’t know how far it was to the nearest village.

He decided he would go to the nearest house and plead for help there in contacting his mother or the police. But, instead of travelling along the lane in open view, he decided to trek through the field while following the line of the hedge. That would at least provide him with some cover.

After a few minutes of squelching his way through the mud, his spirits were enlivened by the roar of a vehicle travelling along the lane behind him. The clattering sound drew closer. He could see it was a tractor being driven by a middle-aged man with a peaked cap. Marcel hurried to another farm gate, a few metres ahead, vaulted over it and ran into the centre of the lane. He raised both his hands in a desperate effort to bring the tractor to a halt.

To his amazement, the driver hooted his horn and gestured with a wave for the teenager to move out of the road.

‘Stop!’ shouted Marcel. ‘Aidez-moi!’

But the driver ignored him and Marcel was forced to leap aside and let the tractor speed by.

Perhaps the man had taken a dislike to his sandy, uncombed hair and unshaven look? Or his olive skin? Or his crumpled green pullover?

He would never know the reason. But the gravity of his situation struck home with him even more. If his luck didn’t change soon, he might be forced to spend the night struggling to sleep beneath the stars. Or he might be recaptured by the men. Neither of these seemed an attractive proposition.

As he returned over the gate to the field, he heard the throb of a car engine in the distance. It was another vehicle heading towards him. He was concerned it might be a Mercedes. Sure enough, a black car was approaching at speed.

Marcel crouched down and remained motionless behind the hedge. He watched as the saloon car, with O’Shane behind the wheel, swept past.

With an uneasy heart, Marcel resumed his walk beside the hedge, hoping that, at any moment, he would see a house where he could seek help.

Twenty minutes later, darkness was beginning to fall and as he noticed a sign for the nearby hamlet of Monkswood, Marcel was overjoyed to find he was approaching a house.

On closer inspection, he realised the dark shape of the building, on the other side of the lane, was a traditional stone farmhouse surrounded by several barns, outbuildings and landscaped gardens. The main house was separated from an adjoining barn conversion with screen fencing and well-stocked borders with trees and shrubs providing privacy. A blue Porsche Panamera sports car was parked on the red-brick forecourt outside the front door.

Marcel opened one of two wrought-iron gates, beside a sign saying ‘Pinetree Farm’ and hurried along the short gravel drive to the front door. He rang the bell in the fading light. He wasn’t confident he would find anyone at home. All the lights were off.

He peered through a window into a sitting room with exposed beams, flagstone floor and an open-brick fireplace. Then he stepped back onto the forecourt and stared up at the first-floor windows.

As Marcel stood outside Pinetree Farm wondering what to do, a figure peered through the upstairs blinds, unseen by the frantic teenager.

They had heard the doorbell but had decided to ignore it. They were not really meant to be there. However, they recognised the boy from his appearance. It took them a few seconds to dial a number on their mobile phone.

When the call was answered, the figure in the window announced, ‘I think I’ve found the missing boy.’

Chapter 25

Marcel Dubois flew into a panic the moment he saw the Mercedes draw up outside Pinetree Farm. He could see two men inside.

How had they discovered he was there?

The teenager ran into the back garden and cast his eyes around. There was no time to think. He simply had to get away.

There was a wooden shed to the rear of the garden, an overgrown vegetable patch and a clump of bare trees at the far side. In the corner, by a wire fence, there was a wooden gate leading to a farmyard and a range of agricultural buildings.

He raced across the garden, through the gate, and sprinted along an uneven roadway, caked in mud and straw. He finally reached a barn and began desperately searching for a place to hide among the bales of hay.

* * *

Kyle O’Shane and Lewis Tigworth had spotted the teenager’s bid for freedom and raced after him across the garden. O’Shane was so annoyed that the boy had managed to escape that he was determined to catch him. He approached the open barn and paced around it like a wild animal stalking its prey.

‘You go the other way round, Lewis,’ he ordered his companion.

Then he raised his voice.

‘Come out, Marcel. We know you’re in there,’ he shouted.

The boy was hiding in an alley formed between piles of bales. He was keeping as quiet as he could, hoping and praying he could somehow evade them.

But O’Shane was on a personal mission now. He hurried round the outside of the barn, peering at the bales as he passed.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ O’Shane yelled. ‘It’s too cold to be outside. Give yourself up.’

Finally, he spotted Marcel and ran along the passageway towards him.

Marcel pulled out a loose bale in an effort to delay his pursuer, but O’Shane simply leaped over it. He then made a failed attempt to grab Marcel’s arm.

The boy ran from the barn and darted off across the fields with the two men in pursuit. But, unlike his stepfather, Marcel was no athlete and he was slightly overweight. Within seconds, O’Shane had caught up with him. He and Tigworth each grabbed an arm and the pair led him across to the Mercedes.

‘You’re very stupid,’ O’Shane told the snivelling boy. ‘How did you expect to get away? It’s like the back of beyond here.’

In the car, O’Shane clamped a set of handcuffs on Marcel. He placed the hood back on his head, tightened the string and fastened it round Marcel’s neck. The two men then drove him back to Meadow Brook Farm.

On arrival at the farmhouse, they frogmarched Marcel back to his room, where O’Shane pushed him inside.

‘You ain’t getting no more food for the rest of the day as a punishment,’ he told the teenager.

‘Can you free my hands?’ asked Marcel.

‘No,’ came the curt reply.

O’Shane closed the bedroom door and locked it.

‘You’ve got to be more bloody careful, mate,’ said O’Shane as he followed Tigworth along the corridor towards the stairs. ‘He’s only a kid but he bloody tricked you, didn’t he?’

Tigworth became annoyed. ‘He got me worried, saying he was sick,’ he shouted back.

‘Well, we’ve got to be bloody careful now. This can’t be allowed to happen again. If it weren’t for the boss, who was viewing a farm up the road and spotted him, the lad could be miles away by now.’

‘Look,’ said Tigworth as they reached the downstairs hallway, ‘you seem to be blaming me for the kid getting out. If you’d been the one bringing him his meals, it would have been you he tricked.’

He stood in front of his associate and prodded him in the chest. ‘Don’t keep putting the blame on me,’ he continued angrily. ‘If it had been down to me, we wouldn’t have taken the kid in the first place.’

‘Don’t you poke me,’ yelled O’Shane. ‘Your job was to get to know the kid, bring him his meals and let him out for washing and toilet breaks. You’ve fallen down on the job, mate, and you’ve got to make sure that don’t happen again. I’m going off now for a couple of hours. That should give you time to have a good hard think about what I just told you.’

O’Shane stormed out of the building, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

A fine rain fell from an overcast sky as Sunita Roy arrived in CID later that afternoon. She was in a rather despondent mood, in keeping with the weather. She had heard nothing more from the estate agents about the house in Old School Lane and suspected she had lost the property to another buyer.

‘Oh well,’ she told herself, ‘if it wasn’t to be, it wasn’t to be.’

She was also perturbed that she had been unable to reach Tom Vickers. His phone was continually going to voicemail. How she wished she hadn’t raised the thorny topic of his ex-wife. How she wished she could apologise for upsetting a man who had been so kind to her, so loyal.

When she reached her desk, she noticed Brett Dawson studying images of a black Mercedes on a monitor.

‘What’ve you got there, Brett?’’ she asked.

‘It’s CCTV from a shop along the Worcester Road in Norton Prior, Sarge,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, it’s too dark for the camera to pick up the number plate.’

Sunita stood up and stepped across to his desk.

‘Let me see,’ she insisted.

Dawson stood up and let his sergeant take his seat. He watched while she peered at the image showing the front of a black Mercedes and a tall, muscular man behind the driving seat.

‘You’ve done well here, Brett,’ she said after studying the clip carefully. ‘This seems to be a clear image of Suspect One. Tall, burly and with short, blond hair.’

She continued staring at the image.

‘There’s something else, Brett. There’s a sticker showing a company logo in the corner of the windscreen.’

He leaned over her shoulder and peered into the monitor.

‘I see what you mean, Sarge, but it’s too small to read.’

‘Hold on,’ she said. ‘Let’s see if we can zoom in on it with the region of interest filter.’

She pressed some buttons to enhance the image and the logo – three capital letters inside an oval-shape – filled the centre of the screen.

‘It looks like WAM,’ Dawson remarked.

She nodded. ‘That’s what I reckon. Do you remember Ricky Stanton, who featured in a murder case five years ago?’

‘Oh yes,’ he replied. ‘He worked for a car firm in Queensbridge, didn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘West Avon Motors. I’m wondering if that’s their logo.’

‘Makes sense,’ said Dawson. ‘Hang on. I’ll just have a look at their website.’

After locating the firm on his mobile phone, he confirmed it was a logo used by the Queensbridge car firm.

‘Good. I’m going to take a trip down there and see what they remember about this car. Perhaps you could see if we can use facial recognition to try and identify Suspect One?’

* * *

An hour later, Sunita drove into Marina Gardens, Queensbridge and parked outside West Avon Motors. Two dark-green Land Rovers, a silver Mercedes and a blue Toyota were parked on the forecourt. A young, smartly dressed salesman whose face was wreathed in smiles strolled over as she stepped from her car.

‘Looking for something in particular?’ he asked. ‘I could give you a good price for your Peugeot.’

Sunita laughed. ‘I may be looking for a new car in a few weeks,’ she said. ‘But I’m here today about a rather serious matter. I’m from Heart of England Police. Is your boss still Jett Lumley?’

Sunita, who was clutching a large brown envelope, showed the salesman her warrant card.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Mr Lumley’s retired. The boss is Mr Swinford. He’s with a client at the moment, but he won’t be too long. I’m Michael, by the way. Would you like a tea or coffee?’

She nodded. ‘A tea without milk would go down well,’ she said.

A few minutes later, she was sitting in a corner of the large showroom by the vending machine, sipping a hot tea. She watched while the new general manager, Matt Swinford, chatted to a young woman in a trouser suit.

By the time she had drunk her tea, the woman had left and Swinford, a tall, bearded man in a grey suit, strode across to speak to her.

‘Matt Swinford,’ he announced with a stern face, stretching out his hand.

Sunita rose to shake it. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said, showing him her warrant card. ‘DS Roy from Heart of England CID. I gather Mr Lumley’s retired.’

‘He left here a year ago,’ Swinford explained. ‘I’ve taken over the management.’

She took three black-and-white photographs out of the envelope she was carrying.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Well, you might just be able to help. This is a car we’re trying to trace and we’ve found your company logo fixed to the windscreen.’

‘So you’ve finally decided to do something about it, have you?’ he asked.

‘Sorry?’ she said.

‘You’ve come to investigate the theft from outside our showroom, have you?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Sunita. ‘This vehicle’s featured in a high-profile case and I needed to ask you questions about it. I wasn’t aware it had been stolen from you.’

‘Oh, that’s bloody typical of the police these days. I wait ten days for someone to come round and talk to me about the car being nicked and when someone does finally turn up, they don’t even know we’d reported it.’

‘I’m very sorry, Mr Swinford. I don’t know who you’ve been dealing with over your car, but it’s just cropped up in a kidnap case and, with your help, we might be able to track down not only your car but the kidnappers as well.’

He shrugged. ‘All right. At least you’ve bothered to show up. So what do you need to know?’

‘When was it taken?’

‘Sometime around the end of October. When Michael opened up the premises on the Monday morning, it was gone.’

‘Nothing on your cameras?’ she asked.

‘Bit embarrassing. There was no camera in the corner of the forecourt where the Mercedes had been parked.’

‘No alarm?’

‘They managed to bypass it somehow.’ He took another look at the photographs. ‘It definitely looks like our stolen Merc. There’s a slight dent in the offside wing but someone’s put different plates on it. And I don’t recognise the driver either, in case you were going to ask.’

‘Looks like we’ve hit a dead end,’ Sunita murmured to herself, shaking her head and glancing down at the varnished wooden floor.

‘God knows how they managed to nick it,’ said Swinford, ‘but some of these crooks are bloody clever people, as you probably know. So, this kidnapping case – is that the French boy from Norton Prior?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a terrible business,’ he said. ‘I know it says in the papers he’s sixteen and I suppose he’s nearly an adult. But still it’s very scary for the kid, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Very much,’ she said. ‘Mr Swinford, do you think the thief could have been watching these premises for a few days before taking the car? Were there any unusual incidents? Any customers behaving oddly?’

‘Nothing springs to mind. I think it was just a chance thing. Someone passing needed a nice big car and thought, I’ll have that. That’s what I think happened.’

Sunita frowned as she took the photographs back and returned them to their envelope. She took out a small notebook.

‘Could you give me the car’s actual registration?’

‘Of course. It skips my mind. I’ll get Michael to dig out all the details for you. I’ve got to go now. Good to have met you,’ he said before marching off to greet a customer he recognised.

Ten minutes later, Michael hurried across to her with a slip of paper in his hand.

‘Here’s the information – and good luck,’ he said.

While travelling back to St James Street, Sunita received a call from the chief inspector. After switching the call to hands-free, she began updating him on the information she had gathered about the Mercedes.

But he interrupted her.

‘Don’t worry about that now,’ said Roscoe. ‘The gang have been in touch with the family again and they’re refusing to let the boy go. They’re demanding more money.’

Chapter 26

Brett Dawson spun round at his desk as his sergeant stepped into the CID office the following morning.

‘I’ve had some luck, Sarge,’ he announced. ‘Our technology expert, John Hepworth, has come up trumps after analysing those images of the Mercedes driver. The guy’s called Kyle O’Shane.’

‘This is Suspect One?’

‘That’s right, Sarge. He’s thirty-two, comes from West Bromwich and he’s got a police record stretching all the way to the moon and back.’

The sergeant hung her jacket on the coat stand before taking her seat at her desk.

‘What sort of offences are we talking about, Brett?’ she asked.

‘Assault, burglary, criminal damage, theft of a motor vehicle – you name it. He’s also got an infamous uncle. Do you remember a guy running a huge drugs factory in Acocks Green three years ago?’

‘Was it in an abandoned church?’

‘Yes. That was him – Rory O’Shane his name is. He’s the brother of Kyle’s dad. He got twenty months in jail for that. He was also a suspect in the Handsworth torture case – you know, that incident four years ago in which a man was branded with a hot iron in an attempt to make him reveal his pin numbers. But police could never prove it was him.’

‘Nice family,’ she observed.

‘Yeah,’ said Dawson. ‘Rory’s only recently come out of jail.’

‘Do you know which one?’

‘Ashwood Vale.’

‘Do we know what the relationship’s like between Kyle O’Shane and his uncle? I mean, is it possible the uncle played a part in the kidnapping.’

‘The only problem is Kyle O’Shane’s down as having no fixed abode.’

‘Well, keep looking for an address,’ she said.

* * *

Two hours later, Sunita Roy hoisted her umbrella in the air and pushed open the exit door at St James Street police headquarters. She scurried across the rain-lashed car park until she reached the chief inspector’s vehicle.

‘I thought the forecast was just for a little light rain, sir,’ she said as she opened the front passenger door and leaped inside.

‘You can never trust these forecasts,’ Roscoe remarked. He started the car and they set off down the street.

‘So, we’re off to see Philippe Dubois?’ she said, placing her rolled-up umbrella in the footwell.

‘Yes. I don’t suppose he’ll have much information for us. It’s more of a goodwill mission, I suppose,’ he said. ‘He’s the boy’s natural father and he has the right to know how the investigation’s going. Perhaps we can set his mind at rest about certain aspects of the case.’

‘You never know, sir,’ said Sunita. ‘He might mention something about his son that no one else has brought up. When did Mr Dubois first arrive in the UK?’

‘My information is that he arrived a couple of days ago,’ said Roscoe. ‘Parkes has been over to see him and says Philippe is a very excitable guy. He was ranting and raving about his ex-wife and the footballer, blaming them for the kidnap.’

‘So, there’s no love lost there,’ she remarked.

‘That’s right,’ he said as they joined the M42 motorway.

‘Parkes isn’t going to be at the hotel with us this morning?’ she said.

‘No. He seems to have struck up a good relationship with the Beauvais couple, so I agreed with him last night that he could go round on his own to see them this morning. He’s going to give me a call and let me know about this new message the family are meant to have received from the gang. Ah, this might be him.’

The chief inspector’s phone was ringing. He switched to hands-free.

‘Morning, Parkes. What do you know?’ asked Roscoe.

‘Morning, sir,’ said Parkes. ‘I’ve just left the family. They’re absolutely devastated that Marcel hasn’t been released, despite them making the payment that was requested.’

‘What did the gang’s new message say exactly?’

‘I’ve got a copy of it here, sir,’ Parkes said. He read the note aloud.

Mr Beauvais, thank you for the payment you made, but we have been looking closely at your finances. You are a very wealthy man and we are sure your boy is worth a lot more to you.

We need to be fair to ourselves as well as to you. So we are going to ask you for a further payment.

Don’t worry about Marcel. He is being cared for very well and he hasn’t been harmed in any way. But, as before, you must do exactly what we tell you.

Despite our warnings, we have discovered to our intense disappointment that you spoke to the police on the morning of Tuesday, 1 November, the day we made our first demand. I must impress upon you that you must cease cooperating with them if you want to stand any chance of seeing Marcel alive again. You will receive new instructions shortly.

The Matchday Boys.

The chief inspector stroked his chin. ‘Was the message sent from the same mobile phone as before?’ he asked.

‘No. They used a different phone, sir.’

‘Parkes, can you send me over a copy of that note for my files?’

‘Certainly, sir. No problem,’ replied Parkes.

‘How do the couple feel about releasing more money?’

‘Well, we don’t know yet how much the new ransom demand will be for, sir, but they’re so desperate to get Marcel back that I don’t think there’s going to be any issue about sending more money.’

‘If the family do make a second payment, they need to send a clear message that this will be the final amount and they won’t be paying out any further sums,’ said Roscoe as his car joined the M5 motorway.

‘I’d already thought of that, sir. I’ve drafted a reply. This is what I’m proposing we say: Thank you for your message and for saying that Marcel is being cared for. We are disappointed that, despite our paying the fee you demanded, you have still not released our son. Contrary to reports in the British press and on social media, our family are not extremely wealthy and any further outlay would hit our family finances hard.

‘We await to hear from you about your fresh intentions. However, we must insist that, if we make any further payment, this would be the final sum and we would not be prepared to pay any more. We would also expect our son to be released immediately, once we have met this second request.’

‘That does the trick,’ said Roscoe.

‘I want to make sure the family are happy with this statement before we send it to the gang, sir.’

‘All right,’ said Roscoe. ‘But we don’t have to respond straight away, do we? I’ll see you in the office later, Parkes, and we can discuss it again. We’re off to Worcester right now to see Philippe Dubois.’

‘Oh, are you?’ said Parkes. ‘I wouldn’t have thought there was any need for you to do that. As you know, I’ve already spoken to him.’

Roscoe shrugged. ‘Well, as the senior officer, I feel out of respect that I should give the guy a few minutes of my time. He is the boy’s biological father, after all, and he deserves to be kept in the loop.’

‘Very well. If that’s how you feel, sir. I’ll see you later.’

After travelling for a total of forty-five minutes, the chief inspector and his sergeant arrived on the outskirts of the cathedral city, lapped by the waters of the Severn.

‘There’s one aspect of the whole case I’ve been meaning to raise with you, sir,’ said Sunita.

‘Go on,’ said Roscoe, as they made their way through the city’s eastern suburbs.

‘Well, assuming we find Marcel alive and arrest members of the gang for Jukes’s murder and the abduction, there will still be some unfinished business,’ she said.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, something tells me these guys haven’t acted on their own. They seem to have resources – including properties they can access at a moment’s notice. And someone has the wherewithal to negotiate and arrange cyber payments. I find it hard to believe that someone like Wayne from Droitwich and his pals would have the means to do that.’

‘That’s a fair point,’ said Roscoe, ‘and one that’s crossed my mind several times. You think there could be a Mr Big behind the whole operation?’

‘Yes, sir. It stands to reason. But how do we even make a start on tracking that person down?’

Chapter 27

The missing boy’s father scowled as he met the two detectives in the foyer of Worcester’s King’s Arms Hotel.

‘I thought you were coming an hour ago,’ said Philippe Dubois as he led them to a seated area.

‘I’m sorry. We got delayed at the office,’ said Roscoe.

The Frenchman resembled his son. He had the same distinctive sandy-coloured hair, although there were signs some of it was turning grey. He had similar facial features with brown eyes and tanned skin. He even had a gold medallion like Marcel.

Dubois, a property developer, settled himself down in a dark-brown leather armchair while his two visitors made themselves comfortable on a nearby settee.

‘How long have you been in the UK, sir?’ asked Roscoe.

‘I flew over on Monday,’ he replied. He spoke in a heavy French accent.

‘That’s several days after your son’s abduction,’ Roscoe pointed out.

‘Exactement. I wasn’t informed immediately that my son was kidnapped. That was probably because my selfish ex-wife and her new husband, the arrogant, two-faced footballer, felt guilty after their lack of care towards Marcel. Anyway, now I’m here, I’m looking forward to the police acting with speed and efficiency.’

‘All my officers are working hard to find Marcel,’ said Roscoe.

‘He is a member of the “Scoutisme Français” – the scouts,’ said Dubois. ‘He is in good physical shape, but he is only sixteen. He is in a strange country and he must be feeling nervous. So I am extremely anxious about how he is coping.’

‘We understand that, sir,’ Roscoe agreed. ‘Have you been to the UK before?’

‘Many years past. Monsieur le Chief Inspector, what I want to know is what you are doing to find my son. I mean, do you have any idea at all where he might be?’

Roscoe glanced at his sergeant.

‘I can assure you we’re doing our best to find Marcel,’ he replied. ‘We believe he’s still in the Midlands.’

‘We know it’s a worrying time for you,’ said Sunita.

‘You’ve really no idea,’ said Dubois. ‘That boy means the world to me. He’s all I’ve got since– since that obnoxious footballer used tricks to seduce my empty-headed wife and stole her away from me. So do you have an idea where he is and do you have any information about the men that have captured him?’

‘We’ve identified the main suspects, sir,’ Roscoe explained. ‘And we’re working hard to establish their current whereabouts.’

‘Eh bien. But you don’t have a clue where Marcel is, do you?’

‘We traced the gang to a house in the town of Queensbridge, which is about eighteen miles from here,’ said Roscoe, ‘but they disappeared before we got there. We know what car they’re using, so it’s only a matter of time now. I believe you received a visit yesterday from one of our colleagues, Inspector Parkes?’

‘Yes, and the man is – how do you say, Chief Inspector?’ he replied. ‘Très pompeux.’

‘Are you saying he’s pompous?’ asked Roscoe.

‘Oui. C’est ça. Pompous. All words and no substance. That’s why I was very grateful when I heard you planned to come over to Worcester to give me a personal visit.’

‘You didn’t find Inspector Parkes helpful?’ asked Sunita. Her interest had been piqued by the Frenchman’s disparaging remarks about their colleague.

‘No. He was saying how he’s been involved in countless cases of kidnap. He came up with this weird phrase. Can I bring it to mind? He said he’s “a master of the dynamics of forcible human abductions.” I thought, what a pompous fool. So thank you so much for coming and for trying to put my mind at rest.’

‘It’s the least we can do,’ said Roscoe.

‘I am worried in particular because my son has epilepsy,’ said Dubois. ‘All the stress caused by being abducted in this way can make the condition worse.’

‘Rest assured we’re doing our utmost to bring the boy back as quickly as possible,’ said Sunita.

‘That’s good. But I have to tell you that, once he is back, that will not be the end of the matter. The way my ex-wife, Camille, and her new husband have behaved is outrageous. It is a scandal. They should have taken Marcel to the football match where they could keep an eye on him – not let him go out on the town with a bodyguard they hardly knew.’

* * *

A gangly man with short, spiky, dark hair cycled along Queensbridge High Street just before 5 p.m. and stopped outside the police station. He glanced up and down in case he was being watched. When he was sure he was safe from prying eyes, he leaned the rusty old bicycle beside the wall, climbed the stone steps and pushed open the door. A young constable was sitting behind a screen at the wooden counter. He beckoned the visitor forward.

‘Too late for doubts now,’ the man told himself. ‘I’m crossing the line. There’s no going back.’

‘Can I help you?’ asked the constable.

‘I want to talk to somebody,’ said the visitor.

‘And what’s it about?’

‘Burglary and kidnap. I’ve come to give myself up.’

Chapter 28

The fair-haired constable was surprised at the visitor’s admissions about burglary and kidnap. But he maintained his composure.

‘Wait there just a moment,’ he said, picking up his desk phone. After a garbled conversation with another officer, he replaced the handset.

‘Can I take a note of your name, sir?’

‘Lewis,’ the visitor replied. ‘Lewis Tigworth.’

‘If you’d like to take a seat over in the corner, sir, someone will be down in a minute to talk to you.’

Within a few minutes, PC Derek Underhill hurried into the reception area through a side door.

‘Mr Tigworth?’ he said. ‘Would you like to come this way? My name’s Underhill. You’re lucky to find me here. I was due off at five.’

He led his visitor into the bright interview room.

‘I understand you’ve got some information about some crimes that have been committed. Is that right?’ asked the constable as the pair sat down opposite each other at the table.

‘Yeah,’ said Tigworth.

‘So, you’ve witnessed something, have you? The desk constable said it was to do with burglary and kidnap.’

‘Yes,’ said Tigworth. ‘You know the men who did the burglary at Norton Prior when the guy got shot? I was one of them. I can tell you everything.’

‘Good God,’ said Underhill. ‘Have you come straight from the place where the boy is?’

‘No. I’ve been round my parents’ place. They live in Queensbridge.’

‘All right,’ said the constable. ‘You’d better start from the beginning.’

Over the next five minutes, Tigworth gave the genial constable a brief outline of his involvement in the events that began with the burglary at Upper Norton Manor. Underhill took notes and then put his pen down.

‘Why have you come in to tell us all this?’ he asked the visitor. ‘Have you fallen out with your friends?’

‘You could say that,’ Tigworth concurred.

‘All right,’ said Underhill. ‘I know some people who are going to be very interested in talking to you. If you wait there, I’ll go and make a quick phone call.’

* * *

The nervous young man was chewing one of his fingernails an hour later as he waited in the interview room at St James Street. Derek Underhill had driven him to the headquarters building after alerting the CID. Lewis Tigworth had already held a brief discussion with solicitor Roger Sims, but since then, for more than twenty minutes, senior officers had kept him waiting in this cold, unwelcoming room.

He had become increasingly worried over the previous week about how the gang’s activities were proceeding. A simple burglary had turned into murder and kidnap. Their hostage had a frightening illness. Events had reached a turning point and he had taken the crucial decision to hand himself in. But the longer he waited in the room, the more he began having second thoughts.

Of all the gang members, he had spent the most time with the French boy. If the police had caught them with the teenager, he suspected this would have gone heavily against him. Marcel would have clearly identified him as one of the gang. Furthermore, he no longer trusted O’Shane and Jordan, and believed they would have grassed him up if they were caught.

The murder of the bodyguard had appalled him. He had played no role in it. But the fact he was part of the gang meant he would still be in the frame – and he feared the other two men might even accuse him of pulling the trigger. He came to realise earlier, while cycling into Queensbridge, that, if he gave himself up and helped police, he could perhaps get a lighter sentence.

However, after his conversation with the lawyer, doubts had crept into his mind. Perhaps he should have remained with O’Shane at Meadow Brook Farm and seen the whole job through. The pay had been good. He had been promised a bonus. There was a good chance they would have evaded the law. And now he would be branded a grass who couldn’t be trusted.

The door opened and two men in plain clothes came in.

‘Mr Tigworth?’ said the amiable, older man. ‘I’m DCI Roscoe. This is my colleague, DI Parkes. We obviously need to ask you a few questions.’

‘That’s fair enough,’ said Tigworth, glancing up.

Roscoe sat on the opposite side of the table while grim-faced Parkes, settled into a chair beside him.

After a few minutes, Tigworth’s bespectacled lawyer entered the room and took a seat beside his client.

‘As you’re aware from when we spoke briefly earlier, you’re under arrest on suspicion of aggravated burglary at Upper Norton Manor with other possible charges likely,’ said Roscoe.

Roscoe stared across the table at the prisoner while reciting the police caution.

‘Before we go any further, Mr Tigworth,’ he said, ‘can you give us the address of the place where Marcel Dubois is being held captive?’

‘If I cooperate with you on this, it’ll work in my favour, won’t it?’ said Tigworth.

‘We can’t make promises, but the judge in your trial may look on you more favourably,’ Roscoe agreed.

‘All right. It’s Meadow Brook Farm in a place called Monkswood.’

‘I know it,’ said Roscoe, tearing a piece of paper from the back of his notebook and jotting it down. ‘It’s a small hamlet, just outside Pershore. Hold on there, all of you, just one moment.’

The chief inspector stepped out of the room and the three men inside could hear a muffled conversation in which a custody officer was asked to take the address to DS Roy as a matter of urgency.

On his return, Roscoe was smiling and apologetic.

‘Now, Mr Tigworth,’ he said as he resumed his seat, ‘perhaps you could tell us about the break-in.’

The two detectives spent a few minutes listening to Tigworth’s account of the raid on Upper Norton Manor. He told them how the gang had earlier been holed up at the house in Juniper Lane and how they then moved to Meadow Brook Farm. He gave his accomplices’ first names and surnames.

‘So, what made you come into see us today?’ asked Parkes.

‘To be honest,’ said Tigworth, ‘I thought that the way they were running things was all wrong. I mean, to start with, they killed that bloke at the big house. Shooting that guy, as far as I knew, was never part of the original plan. I wasn’t involved in that at all.

‘Then I never agreed about taking the boy. He was ill. He had some kind of fit the other day, which shook me up. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s obviously wrong they took him. He should be at home with his mum and dad.’

‘We’re grateful to you for coming in,’ said Roscoe. ‘I know this can’t have been easy for you.’

‘No, it hasn’t,’ said Tigworth. ‘But I thought I’d make a clean breast of things. The two guys I was with aren’t very bright and, the longer they held onto the boy, the more chance I thought the cops would have of catching us. I know I’m in a lot of trouble and may get locked up for a while. But I thought, if I help you, then maybe, in return, I’ll have the chance of a lighter sentence.’

‘We don’t do deals,’ sneered Parkes. ‘You’ll take your chance like all the other villains–’

Roscoe interrupted. ‘What the inspector says has an element of truth,’ he told Tigworth. ‘But the way you’ve decided to give yourself up and assist us won’t go un-noted. I’m sure your lawyers will make a good deal of this in any forthcoming court case and the judge will be inclined to look rather more favourably upon you than upon your associates.’

‘The point is,’ Parkes continued sternly, ‘you and your mates turned up at the mansion with a loaded gun. The housekeeper was terrified when she was threatened with that nasty weapon and tied up. Then a security guard was viciously shot. It doesn’t matter who pulled the trigger. You went along with things.’

Tigworth nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But, as I say, that was never part of the plan – like it was never part of the plan to take the boy. Look, the bodyguard fellow turned up just before we were about to leave. He turned on our driver.’

‘That’s Kyle O’Shane?’ said Roscoe.

‘Yes,’ said Tigworth.

‘So what happened?’ asked Roscoe.

‘Our mate, Wayne–’

‘That’s Wayne Jordan?’ asked Roscoe.

‘That’s right. He saw what was happening through the window and shot the bloke.’

Roscoe frowned. ‘In cold blood,’ he said.

‘Well, yeah,’ said Tigworth.

‘Whose gun was it?’

‘Well, not mine. I don’t know. Wayne got it from somewhere.’

‘And where were you at the time of the shooting?’ asked Parkes.

‘I was in an upstairs bedroom,’ Tigworth admitted.

‘Nicking as many valuables as you could lay your filthy bloody hands on,’ Parkes shouted.

Sims frowned. ‘Chief Inspector, your colleague’s line of questioning is quite uncalled for,’ he said.

Roscoe nodded and glared at his colleague. ‘Yes, please calm down, Inspector,’ he said.

Tigworth was staring across the table at the two detectives.

‘I’ve already fessed up, haven’t I?’ he said. ‘I know I’ve done wrong. I’m here to help – not be shouted at.’

‘And what about the boy, Marcel?’ said the chief inspector. ‘What’s happened to him?’

Tigworth folded his arms. ‘I ain’t telling you no more. I don’t like being shouted at when all I’ve done is put my neck on the line by coming in to talk to you. I know what I’ve done is wrong and I’m prepared to go to jail for it. But you guys have got to play fair with me.’

Parkes was determined to continue trying to extract information from the young man.

‘How come you greedy bastards took two million pounds in crypto money and then decided it wasn’t enough? Have you any idea of the misery you’ve put the boy’s family through?’

‘No comment,’ said Tigworth stubbornly.

‘So who was the major player in all this?’ asked Parkes. ‘Who’s been pulling the strings?’

Roscoe leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.

‘You’ll get nothing more out of me,’ Tigworth insisted.

‘Come on,’ said Roscoe. ‘The lad’s had enough. I’m suspending this interview at twenty minutes past seven. You’ll be remaining in custody, Mr Tigworth, and we’ll speak to you again in the morning.’

Chapter 29

Gavin Roscoe was fuming after the interview with Lewis Tigworth ended and two constables had escorted their prisoner back to the custody suite. Inspector Parkes mumbled a comment about needing to go away and make a phone call, but the chief inspector insisted he should accompany him back to CID.

No words were spoken while Roscoe led the way through the busy department on the first floor. Once they were inside his room, the chief inspector slammed the door and installed himself behind his desk.

Parkes leaned against the partition wall.

‘Sit down, if you like,’ Roscoe suggested.

‘I’m all right, sir,’ Parkes replied. ‘I’ve been sitting down all afternoon.’

‘Why the hell did you adopt that tough questioning style with Tigworth?’ Roscoe demanded.

‘I’m sorry if you’re annoyed with me, sir,’ he replied.

‘Not much,’ said Roscoe. ‘It was my intention to keep the interview low key in order to find out as much information as we could about the gang’s location and activities. We’d a clear agreement before we began the interview that we’d adopt a softly-softly approach, and you suddenly went off at a tangent with all guns blazing.’

‘I’ve spent hours and hours with the Beauvais family,’ Parkes replied. ‘They’re so devastated at the abduction of their son and I’ve started to share their anguish. It’s been nearly two weeks and they’re no nearer being reconciled with him. This piece of scum, Tigworth, has come in here, pleading for leniency in return for us being fed a tissue of lies. He’s bleated that he never agreed to the bodyguard being shot and he never agreed to take the boy. I’m sure it’s all hogwash.’

Roscoe gazed up at the ceiling in exasperation.

‘I know all that,’ he said. ‘But this is about tactics in the interview room. Our gentler approach seemed to be working. He was sharing all kinds of information with us. Then you go and lose your temper, accusing him of wanting to nick as much as he could lay his filthy hands on and calling him greedy. Your bulldozing tactics caused him to completely shut down.’

‘With respect, sir, I felt the laid-back approach we adopted at the start simply wasn’t working. I felt we had to make the lad uneasy, hoping he’d blurt out some information that he’d been holding back on.’

Roscoe tutted. ‘Well, you saw what happened. He totally clammed up. I want you to assure me, Inspector, that you won’t adopt that line of questioning in interviews again on this case. If there’s a need for more of a heavy-handed approach, it’ll come from me. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,’ said Parkes. He opened the door and stepped out of the room.

* * *

It was dark by the time Sunita Roy, accompanied by DC Omar Khalid, a firearms team and scenes-of-crime officers, arrived in the hamlet of Monkswood. Meadow Brook Farm was located at a sharp bend on a narrow country lane.

‘This place is the land that time forgot,’ she moaned as she stopped her car several metres away from the main building.

She stepped into the rain-soaked lane and had words with the chief firearms officer, whose vehicle, decked in Heart of England blue and yellow livery, had drawn up behind her.

Moments later, four burly officers in full body armour, wielding Heckler and Koch rifles and ballistic shields, slipped out of a police carrier and began moving slowly towards the open gate that led to the farmyard. They disappeared round the corner, leaving Sunita, Khalid and the SOCO team waiting outside in anticipation.

Within minutes, the squad members were back, shaking their heads.

‘The birds have flown,’ the firearms chief informed Sunita. ‘Place is like the grave.’

‘Did they leave the place unlocked?’ she asked.

‘They left a window open,’ he explained.

Sunita paced up and down in the road, shaking her head.

‘How do they always manage to keep one step ahead of us?’ she demanded.

‘It’s only a matter of time, Sarge,’ replied Khalid. ‘If we keep plugging away, we’ll catch up with them eventually.’

‘Yes, but how much time have we got? The boy hasn’t got his medicine with him and there’s no knowing what could happen. He might fall and injure himself during a fit.’

After the firearms team had left, Sunita and Khalid stepped into the farmyard and watched as the scenes-of-crime team set to work, photographing and videoing the rooms in the main building.

The two detectives were barred from entering the first-floor bedroom where Marcel had been held, but they were allowed to walk along part of the corridor outside and peer into the room from the doorway. A female SOCO was examining a wardrobe.

‘Omar, tell me again. What’s the name of the farm’s registered owner?’ Sunita asked her colleague.

‘A guy called Brian Tyler, who died six months ago, aged eighty-six. No fresh name’s been added to the title deeds yet.’

‘OK. The whole place desperately needs decorating, particularly this bedroom. I suppose when you reach your eighties, you’re not such a dab hand with a paintbrush.’

She gazed down at the room’s patterned green carpet.

‘Looks like blood,’ she said, pointing to a red stain.

‘It’s all right,’ said the forensics officer. ‘We’re aware of that.’

As the pair stepped onto the landing, Sunita turned towards the tall, dark-haired crime scene manager, who was standing at the top of the stairs. ‘Any luck so far?’ she asked.

‘Nothing’s jumped out yet,’ the manager replied. ‘There may be a few dabs but looks like they’ve had a good clean-up. Oh, we did find a man’s grey sock in the next bedroom, so that might prove useful.’

Sunita phoned the chief inspector once they had returned to her car.

‘Sir, the whole place down here is deserted,’ she told him.

‘What a damn nuisance,’ said Roscoe. ‘I may as well mention I’ve had Dawson carrying out checks on the Mercedes and it’s been found dumped in woods near the town of Pershore.’

‘So they’ve switched cars again?’ said Sunita.

‘Looks like it,’ he replied. ‘We’re stymied at every turn.’

* * *

Sunita was leaving the headquarters building after finishing work for the day when she spotted Tom Vickers wiping the windscreen of his Audi in the car park. She walked towards him.

As soon as he saw her, he opened the driver’s door and was about to climb in.

‘Why haven’t you replied to my messages?’ she demanded.

‘You know why,’ he said.

‘Look, would it make any difference if I told you how sorry I am?’

‘What about?’

‘You know, about the silly argument we had the other evening. I was out of order. I’m sorry.’

Vickers stepped back from the car and put his hands on his hips. There was a pause. Sunita was crestfallen.

‘All right,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I accept your apology.’

‘I shouldn’t have brought up the question of your ex-wife,’ Sunita continued. ‘It’s water under the bridge really. Do you think we could put that behind us and try and move on?’

‘I’d be happy to do that,’ he said, breaking into a smile. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘Why don’t you come over to Crompton Gardens one evening and I’ll cook you a meal?’ she suggested.

‘I’d like that,’ he said. ‘The only thing is it won’t be for a few days. I’m tied up on an undercover job and it involves a lot of nights.’

‘When do you think you might be free?’

‘How about Friday of next week?’

‘Sounds good to me. It’ll probably be one of my stir-fries.’

‘My mouth’s watering already,’ he said with a grin.

Chapter 30

Marcel stirred from his drug-induced sleep and gazed at his surroundings. Fleetingly, he wondered if he was waking up in his bed at his father’s duplex apartment in Paris. Would their pet Belgian shepherd wander in at any moment? Would his father call him for coffee and a croissant? Or perhaps they were at their holiday home in the Dordogne?

Then the grisly truth crept into his head like a detested interloper. Instead of being safely home, he was still incarcerated in this dank dungeon of a cellar, where he had so far spent five nights, shackled like a dog. A manacle was clamped round his right wrist, which was attached to a two-metre long, rusty chain. This, in turn, was fixed to the bottom of the exposed brick wall, beside the narrow bed. Nearby stood a wooden table and chair where he had eaten his meals ever since his arrival there. The only other objects in the room were a lamp on the floor, three barrels in the corner and some metal shelves stacked with wine bottles. The room imparted a damp, musty smell together with a hint of varnished, antique wood. It was also extremely cold. When he’d moaned about it, the men had simply provided him with a small electric fire which emitted hardly any heat.

Marcel had no idea where he was. His captors had left the farm in a panic and, after a journey of around half an hour – during which the gang had changed cars – they had arrived at the old building where he was now being held.

By day, he could hear traffic noise and, occasionally, church bells, so he surmised that he was in a large village or town.

He had a vague recollection of being injected several times over the previous days with the same drug he’d been given for weeks.

‘Quel cauchemar!’ he said out loud, using the French word for nightmare. He so resented the men who were keeping him there and he so longed to see his mother and father again.

There were no computer games. No conversations. One of the men had called at a second-hand bookshop while out shopping and had bought two books in French for him. One was Les Voitures Françaises about French cars manufactured between 1970 and 1979. The second concerned the history of the town of Caen in Normandy. It was hard to imagine two more obscure books to be invited to read, he thought, but he had made a start on both of them.

The only light streamed in through two clerestory windows, more than two metres above his head. If he stood on the bed, he could make out the tyres of the cars and vans that constantly roared past the building. On the far side of the road, he could see a grey, low-level wall, the lower part of a red lifebuoy on a post, and an overcast sky. A light rain was falling.

His spirits were now at their lowest ebb since he had first been seized by the gang. He stroked his stubbly skin. Although he showered frequently – when the men let him – he desperately needed a shave. He felt he was becoming scruffy, and this added to his feelings of despair.

As the morning sun slowly passed over the building, he began to wonder if something had happened to Tiggs. He had not seen him for several days. The tall, well-built man with blond hair was now bringing him meals and escorting him up the stone steps which led to the bathroom on the floor above.

Marcel got up and sat on the bed with his head in his hands. Then he heard the black door opening at the top of the steps. The tall man was clambering down, holding a plate of hot bacon, eggs and buttered toast.

‘Here you are, mate,’ said the visitor, from behind a white facemask. ‘Get this down you.’ He placed it down on the table.

‘Where’s Tiggs?’ Marcel asked.

‘Don’t ask daft questions.’

‘Is he here?’

‘You heard what I said,’ O’Shane insisted, shaking his head. He pushed the boy hard, causing his head to strike the wall. ‘Stop asking questions. Come on, your food’s getting cold.’

Marcel winced in pain. ‘Where are we right now?’ he asked while rubbing the back of his head. ‘It must be a town.’

‘Never you mind about that. Just you focus on staying fit and healthy. I’ve got a feeling it ain’t going to be long before you’re back with your mum and dad.’

‘Quoi?’

‘I’ve just got a feeling that your folks are going to be helpful and cooperate so we can take you home. But no promises.’

Marcel pulled at the shackle on his wrist. ‘Please, can you take this?’

O’Shane shook his head.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Why not? It’s beginning to hurt my hand.’

‘We were kind to you before and look where it got us. Instead of trusting us, you ran away over the fields. So now we can’t take no chances. We’ve got to keep you fixed to the wall.’

Marcel rose from the bed and took a few paces across the stone floor to the table.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘You let us down, mate,’ O’Shane continued. ‘We can’t trust you no more. Our boss, who found us this little place, says you’ve got to be chained up. See it from our point of view. We’re in talks with your folks. If they do what they’re told, you could be handed over straight away. How does it make us look if you’re not here? They’d think we were prize dicks and wonder who they’re dealing with. We don’t want that, do we?’

Marcel shook his head and picked up a slice of bacon with his fingers. He bit off half of the rasher and chewed it thoughtfully.

‘Non,’ he replied, although he was unsure what point his captor was making.

‘Anyway, Marcel, you’ll find this place is much more secure than the last one. You’ll find it bloody hard to escape from here.’

* * *

After locking the cellar door behind him, Kyle O’Shane returned to the kitchen of the derelict pub and began reading messages on his phone. There was a knock on the side door.

He stepped along the corridor and asked who it was.

‘It’s only me,’ said Wayne Jordan.

O’Shane drew the door back and his associate strode in, laden with bags of shopping.

‘We’ve had some news about Tigworth,’ said O’Shane, helping to unpack the groceries on the kitchen table.

‘Yeah? He’s grassed us up, has he?’ asked Jordan.

‘Yeah. I didn’t think he’d be so stupid. I thought he’d just gone to see his parents. But the boss has just found out he’s gone to the Old Bill.’

‘What a bastard. Just as well we scarpered from the farm when we did. Just as we thought, he must have taken that old bicycle that was out in the yard.’

‘Yeah, he must have done,’ said O’Shane.

‘Maybe you shouldn’t have got him involved in the first place.’

‘Don’t have a go at me,’ shouted O’Shane. ‘He’s never let us down before.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t have let him get matey with the boy.’

‘Well, you didn’t step forward and say you wanted to deal with the kid,’ said O’Shane. ‘So you can shut up about that.’

‘What’s the betting he’s tried to lay all the blame on us for what’s happened?’ said Jordan while putting bread, butter and some beer on a worktop beside the old Belfast sink.

‘That scumbag will be a guest of His Majesty for a long time to come,’ O’Shane continued. ‘They probably won’t give him an easy ride just because he came in and told them all about it, like a good little boy. But anyway, don’t worry about Tigworth. The boss has got a plan.’

Chapter 31

The doorbell to her Warwick flat rang on Friday evening while Sunita Roy was cooking noodles in the kitchen. A whole week had passed since Lewis Tigworth handed himself into the police and she discovered the gang had fled from Meadow Brook Farm.

‘I hope that’s not Tom. I’m not ready,’ she said. She untied her apron and rushed down the stairs.

As she opened the door, she found Tom Vickers standing there in his smart grey suit with a broad smile and a bouquet of flowers.

‘Tom, how lovely to see you,’ she said, reaching out to kiss him on the cheek. ‘And what lovely flowers. Are they for me?’

‘Of course,’ he said, placing them in her hands.

‘Oh, Tom, you’re a bit early. I’ve only just got back from work and I’ve hardly had time to do anything.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, following her up the stairs. ‘We’ve got plenty of time. Any news on the house?’

‘I’ve just heard today. The place is mine,’ replied Sunita, who had only just found time to slip into a sari.

‘That’s bostin,’ he said. ‘This is the five-bedroom place in the centre of Shawley Green?’

Sunita began to stir the noodles. ‘That’s right,’ she said.

‘After we’ve eaten, why don’t you let me take you out on the town to celebrate?’

‘That would be wonderful, Tom.’

‘Great.’

‘You go and sit in the living room while I sort out this meal. We’re having a spicy mushroom and broccoli stir-fry, sprinkled with cashew nuts.’

‘Sounds terrific,’ he said. ‘That’s one of your signature dishes, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it is. I’m also grilling some chicken for you because I know you like meat.’

Twenty minutes later, after she had served him a lager from the fridge, they sat down to their meal.

‘This is delicious, Sunita,’ said Vickers. He twisted some noodles round his fork.

‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘Listen, I didn’t really expect to get the house in Old School Lane. There was another buyer after it and they offered more money. But they couldn’t get the funds together and were forced to pull out. I upped my offer and urged them to exchange contracts fatafat or I would pull out as well. Lo and behold, the place is mine.’

‘Fatafat?’ said Vickers, sipping some of his lager. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s a word my father often uses,’ she said with a laugh while pouring herself a glass of white wine. ‘It means “pronto” or “straight away.”’

‘There’s no messing round with you, Sunita,’ he said.

She nodded.

‘And because I got it for ten thousand pounds below the asking price, I’ll be able to knock down some walls and create a larger kitchen,’ she said, sipping from her glass.

Vickers held his drink in the air.

‘Well, let’s hope your move goes through fatafat!’ he said, clinking his glass against hers.

‘Fatafat!’ she responded with a smile.

‘How’s the sale of your flat going?’ Vickers asked.

‘I sold it within two weeks of it going on the market and got the full asking price.’

‘You certainly sound as though you’ve got the hang of this property game,’ he said.

‘Anyway, in the meantime, I’m very worried about the missing French boy,’ said Sunita.

‘What’s the latest on that?’

‘Well, you probably heard the Beauvais family paid two million pounds in cryptocurrency, didn’t you?’

He nodded.

‘The gang are asking for more money now. Meanwhile, the DCI’s lost his patience with Joseph Parkes.’

‘The inspector from the NCA?’

‘Yes. You know one of the gang gave himself up, don’t you? Parkes took a tough line with the guy during an interview. Now the boss is talking about adopting a fresh line on the kidnapping. He claims holding a news blackout – a strategy firmly supported by Parkes – has got us nowhere and he thinks we should hold a press conference and get national publicity.’

Vickers put the last morsel of food in his mouth, placed his cutlery down and leaned back.

‘Personally, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘Well, Parkes has a lot of experience of dealing with these situations. Silence buys time for everyone – time to pay ransoms or for the police to make a move. A high level of publicity can make hostage takers believe their commodity is really valuable. But the absence of press coverage can knock their confidence and make them question that assumption.’

Sunita collected the plates up.

‘Tom, the gang have already earned themselves two million, so they already have ample proof of how valuable the boy can be. In any case, I think the boss is right to try a different approach.’

‘Don’t tell him I said so, but it’s a gamble, in my opinion – a gamble he might come to regret making,’ said Vickers as Sunita disappeared into the kitchen with the plates.

When she returned, she brandished another can of lager for him.

‘Shall we make ourselves more comfortable?’ she asked.

After pouring herself a second glass of wine, the pair sat down on Sunita’s leather settee. Then she turned towards him.

‘Tom, let’s forget about the kidnapped boy for a moment. I want to talk about us. As I’ve already told you, I’m really sorry I ruined our evening out at The Wheatsheaf by going on about your ex-wife. What really struck home with me was the way you expressed your feelings when you got angry.’

‘How do you mean, Sunita?’

Her voice softened. ‘You said you’d always loved me – from the moment we first met – and that the year we spent together was the greatest time of your life.’

He nodded and gazed into her dark eyes. ‘That’s right.’

‘You’d never spoken so frankly before,’ she said, clasping his hand. ‘Your words moved me and I realised how much I’d missed you since we split up.’

He put his arm round her and kissed her on the lips.

‘I’ve never stopped thinking about you,’ he confessed. ‘All the time I was over in Summerstoke, I was wondering what you were doing. I always tried to avoid going to St James Street if I could or Warwick. I was concerned I might bump into you and upset myself.’

‘Oh Tom. Poor Tom,’ she said. She kissed him – slowly at first. Then the meeting of their lips developed into a long, passionate kiss.

He was the first to break away.

‘Do you think…?’ he began.

At exactly the same time, she said, ‘Tom, do you…?’

Then they laughed together.

‘You go first,’ he suggested.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Do you think we could begin to see each other again?’

‘Nothing would suit me better,’ he said.

They embraced again and she was about to make a move towards another kiss when she heard her phone ringing in the kitchen.

‘Leave it,’ he said.

‘It might be important. I’d better go and see who it is.’

She hurried into the kitchen and picked up her phone from the worktop.

‘It’s the DCI,’ she whispered. ‘I’d better take it.’

Pressing the answer key, she said, ‘DS Roy.’

‘Sorry to disturb you, Sergeant,’ said Roscoe. ‘But I’ve just heard some devastating news. Our key witness, Lewis Tigworth, has been found dead.’

Chapter 32

Early on Saturday morning, Sunita Roy made the thirty-minute journey from her Warwick home to the chief inspector’s house on the northern outskirts of Queensbridge. As her car drew into the narrow, tree-lined lane outside, she spotted her boss emerging from his front door. Moments later, they set off in his car to Ashwood Vale Prison, a maximum-security, men-only jail – unofficially known to everyone as ‘The Vale’.

‘Do we have any idea how Tigworth died?’ Sunita asked as they approached the town of Evesham.

‘Not yet,’ Roscoe replied. ‘But it looks as though he was strangled or suffocated while he was on the phone to his mother. I’ve sent DC Khalid over to the parents’ place in Queensbridge and I’ve got Dawson tracing the time of the call Tigworth made. Silas went over to the Vale last night, but I haven’t been able to reach him this morning to hear his findings.’

After leaving the A46 and following country lanes for seven miles, they saw a sign saying ‘HM Prison Ashwood Vale’ – and realised they’d reached their destination.

Sunita gazed across at the 1960s complex, its grey walls austere and forbidding. In the foreground was a packed visitors’ car park with a two-storey gatehouse behind. The main buildings were shielded by high walls and security fencing.

After he showed his warrant card and was waved through by a security guard at the entrance barrier, Roscoe chose a space in a car park for staff and designated visitors before they walked to the gatehouse, which always reminded him of a library. Once they had been signed in and searched at the reception desk, the pair were escorted upstairs into the office of solemn-faced prison governor Emlyn Griffiths-Jones.

He stood up and strode across the room to greet them, nearly knocking over a small Christmas tree perched on the corner of his oak desk.

‘I remember you both from three years ago,’ he said, breaking into a smile as he shook their hands warmly. ‘You were investigating how one of our inmates escaped while on his way to court.’

‘That’s right,’ said the chief inspector while Sunita gazed round at photographs on the walls of past governors and at a portrait of the King. ‘You were very helpful then. This time we’re here because a man we arrested just over a week ago has been found dead.’

Griffiths-Jones nodded as he took a seat behind his desk and offered his visitors chairs.

‘Yes, young Lewis Tigworth,’ he said.

‘What exactly happened, sir?’ asked Sunita.

‘Well, it was around 7.20 p.m. last night. Tigworth was on his association period and was using a pay phone in the corridor outside his cell in B Wing. He’d told his cellmate he wanted to call his mother.

‘One of our warders, a man named Roland Hargreaves, was some distance away, dealing with an argument between two inmates. He heard an altercation coming from the landing where the phones are and ran to see what was happening. As he approached, he noticed a man lying on the floor and a tall prisoner with blond hair running away from the scene.

‘Hargreaves examined the man on the floor, whom he recognised as Tigworth, and found him motionless. He called a colleague who was better qualified in first aid. He tried to resuscitate Tigworth with chest compressions, but it was no good. West Midlands Ambulance Service were alerted and came within twenty minutes. They carried out advanced life support procedures, but, sadly, he was confirmed dead at the scene shortly afterwards.’

‘Where did they take the body?’ asked Roscoe.

‘The body was left by the phones because the Home Office pathologist, Dr Reynolds, was coming and requested the scene should remain untouched. After that, he arranged for the body to be taken to the mortuary in Queensbridge. It’s been a nasty old business. I’ve had the young man’s mother on the phone three times this morning. She’s so upset, as you can imagine.’

‘Have you spoken to Mr Hargreaves, sir, since the tragedy?’ Sunita asked.

‘Yes. He’s devastated, obviously.’

‘Could you get someone to show us where the young man died?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I’ll ask Hargreaves to show you,’ said the governor, rising from his chair and stepping towards the office next door.

‘He’s just started his shift this morning. I realised you’d want to speak to him so I’ve asked him to come to the office and he should be waiting now in the lobby outside.’

Broad-shouldered prison officer Roland Hargreaves was a man of few words. He had been sitting on a chair directly outside the governor’s office and stood up respectfully when the two detectives emerged and closed the governor’s door behind them.

‘Morning,’ he said.

‘Mr Hargreaves,’ said Sunita, ‘the governor’s kindly explained you found the body last night. Must have been distressing for you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you tell us about events leading up to the discovery of the body?’ she said.

‘Yes. I was asked by the senior warder to monitor the first-floor landing on B Wing during association,’ he said.

‘That’s the association period – when prisoners are allowed out of their cells to go to the gym, make phone calls and generally associate with other prisoners and staff?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘What time did you begin your period of duty on B Wing?’

‘Association begins at 6 p.m. and lasts for an hour and a quarter. It must have been a few minutes to six when I took up my position on the landing.’

‘At what time did you find the body?’

‘It had just gone 7.20 p.m.’

‘How did you come to notice it?’

‘I couldn’t see the phone booth area from my position at the end of the landing but I heard some kind of argument – loud words being exchanged. I went to see what was going on and found Tigworth lying on the floor by the phones.’

Roscoe, who had been following every word, intervened.

‘Before you arrived, you spotted a man running away,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘Can you confirm that person’s name?’ asked Roscoe.

‘Dylan Roberts, who’s here for acts of violence.’

‘Why are you so sure it was him?’ asked Sunita.

‘He’s got weird hair.’

‘What’s weird about it?’

‘I think they call it a mohawk. I’d recognise him anywhere.’

Sunita stood back and folded her arms.

‘Mr Hargreaves, you immediately summoned help, presumably?’ she said.

‘Yes. I alerted the senior warder, Mr Warner, at 7.25 p.m. He tried CPR, but it was no good. You could see he was gone.’

‘Have you tackled Mr Roberts about what you saw?’ asked the chief inspector.

‘I went to see him as soon as the paramedics arrived,’ he said.

‘What did he have to say for himself?’ asked Roscoe.

‘He admitted being on the landing, but denied seeing Tigworth. He just claimed he was running because he was in a hurry.’

Chapter 33

Prison officer Roland Hargreaves showed little emotion when the two detectives asked him to show them the precise spot where he had found Lewis Tigworth’s body the previous evening. Sunita tried to detect whether he was enthusiastic about returning to the scene of the crime or reluctant to be going there. In the end, she couldn’t decide.

He led them up a flight of iron steps inside B Wing and along a landing until they reached a place where four phones were fixed to the wall in a recessed area. There were signs that scenes-of-crime officers from Heart of England Police had been present. A torn piece of police tape lay in a corner.

‘Here you are,’ he said.

‘Mr Hargreaves,’ said Sunita, ‘where exactly was Mr Tigworth lying when you found him? Would you mind demonstrating?’

Although hesitant, the middle-aged warder agreed to cooperate. He knelt down on the floor and then lay outstretched on his stomach.

‘So he was face down?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Mind if I get up now?’

The chief inspector helped him to his feet. ‘You recognised him immediately?’

‘I knew who he was,’ Hargreaves replied.

‘From among so many inmates?’ said Sunita.

At that moment, Roscoe’s mobile phone began ringing from an inside pocket of his dark-blue jacket.

‘Would you mind holding on there for just a moment? Someone’s calling me,’ he explained. He could be heard answering his phone as he stepped away.

Sunita gazed into Hargreaves’s eyes.

‘You’ve already told us you spotted Mr Roberts running from the phone area,’ she said. ‘And you’re certain it was him because of his hair?’

‘Yes.

‘What’s Roberts inside for?’

‘He beat up an old lady in Queensbridge,’ he replied. ‘Then he ran off with her pension money for the week. It happened only a week after he nearly blinded a young guy in a pub fight with a broken bottle.’

Two minutes later, Roscoe rejoined them.

‘Can you arrange for us to have a word with Mr Roberts?’ he asked Hargreaves.

‘Yes, sir. I’ll go and see what the situation is. Can you hold on here?’

Once Hargreaves had marched off along the landing, the chief inspector revealed his caller had been the pathologist, Dr Silas Reynolds.

‘Tigworth was strangled,’ he told Sunita. ‘There were grip marks and red spots around the victim’s neck, according to Silas. There were also tiny spots in the lining of the eyes, apparently. It seems Tigworth put up a struggle, trying to prise the attacker’s hands away from his neck.’

‘Without much success,’ said Sunita.

‘Exactly,’ said Roscoe. ‘Silas thinks it’s possible he may be able to recover the attacker’s skin cells from the victim’s neck. He’ll let us know in due course, but the cause of death was asphyxia due to manual strangulation.’

‘It would be brilliant if he could recover the attacker’s skin cells,’ she said. ‘Sir, I think Hargreaves is on his way back.’

The chief inspector turned to see the warder hurrying towards them, perspiring and short of breath.

‘Sorry to keep you,’ he told them. ‘I’ve managed to locate Roberts and he’s being led back to his cell now. Look, before we go down there, please don’t mention I saw him hurrying away from the murder scene. I think he’s aware that someone saw him, but I don’t want to be identified as that witness at this stage. You know, in the interests of warder–inmate relations?’

‘I understand,’ said Roscoe.

‘All right,’ said Hargreaves. ‘Shall we take a stroll down there?’

Roscoe nodded and the two detectives followed Hargreaves as he walked back past rows of cell doors.

Minutes later, they reached a door marked ‘74’, which Hargreaves unlocked.

Peering into the cell, they found a tall man with a blond mohawk hairstyle on his own, lying on an upper bunkbed, reading a book. He put the book down as soon as he noticed his visitors in the doorway.

‘Roberts, these are the two detectives you’ve been told about,’ said Hargreaves.

‘OK,’ said the prisoner, morosely.

‘Just got a few questions for you, Mr Roberts,’ said the chief inspector.

‘I’ll leave you now,’ the prison officer explained in a low voice as he began to walk off. ‘But if you need me, I won’t be far away.’

Roscoe and Sunita edged forward into the cell.

‘You’re aware that a prisoner was found dead a short distance from here at 7.20 p.m. last night, are you?’ the chief inspector asked, leaning against the bed.

‘Of course,’ said Roberts, as he hoisted himself up on his mattress. He stared down at his two visitors with a blank expression. ‘Everyone in the prison is talking about it.’

‘He was found lying on the ground by the payphones,’ said Sunita, who remained by the door, ‘and at the time you were seen near the body.’

‘Yeah, I know, but I didn’t have nothing to do with it,’ Roberts replied.

‘Where’d you been?’ asked Roscoe.

‘I’d been down to the sports hall.’

‘Anyone able to confirm that?’ asked Sunita.

‘Only about two dozen prisoners and a couple of the screws,’ he replied.

‘All right,’ said Roscoe. ‘Whereabouts is the sports hall?’

‘It’s on the ground floor, ten minutes’ walk away, near D Wing.’

‘So what time did you leave the sports hall?’

‘Must have been about ten minutes past seven.’

‘And what time did you reach the landing here?’

‘Around 7.20 p.m. or 7.25 p.m. I was carrying my gym gear.’

‘What happened when you reached the phones?’ asked Sunita. ‘Did you see Mr Tigworth making a call?’

‘I saw a guy there. I didn’t know who he was. I’d never seen him before,’ said Roberts. ‘Apparently, he was one of the remand prisoners.’

‘And what was this prisoner actually doing?’ asked Roscoe.

‘He was standing up, speaking on the phone.’

Sunita interrupted. ‘Can I just ask something?’ she said. ‘We’ve been told Mr Tigworth was the only prisoner using the phones at the time. Is that right? Bit unusual, isn’t it?’

‘A bell had gone, which signalled all prisoners had to return to their cells immediately,’ Roberts explained.

‘What – there was some kind of disturbance?’ asked Roscoe.

‘No. There are two bells marking the end of the association period,’ said the prisoner. ‘Maybe the guy, being new, didn’t know the rule that you’ve got to go to your cell immediately or maybe he chose to ignore the bells.’

Roscoe nodded. ‘So what happened when you reached the phone area? Did you speak to him and argue over something?’

Roberts shook his head. ‘I spoke to him but we didn’t argue. All I said was “Better get back to your cell, mate. The second bell’s gone.” He just waved his hand to acknowledge what I’d said and I carried on making my way to my cell.’

‘So, he was standing up and chatting on the phone when you encountered him?’ said Sunita.

‘Yeah. Why’d I hurt the fellow? I didn’t know him.’

‘We’ve been told you ran back to your cell from the phone area. Is that right?’ asked Sunita.

‘Yeah. Well, I didn’t want to get into any trouble with the screws, did I? I was late, so yeah – I ran the last part of the journey.’

Sunita was staring at a bandage on the man’s right thumb.

‘So, the man on the phone was alive and kicking at the time you saw him?’ she said.

‘Yeah, of course.’

‘How did you injure your thumb?’

Roberts glanced down at the white bandage.

‘Playing basketball yesterday,’ he replied. ‘I fell awkwardly on the court and managed to cut it. The doc put this on for me in the first aid room late last night.’

‘All right. Thanks for your time,’ said Roscoe. ‘We might need to talk to you again.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Roberts. ‘You know where to find me. I won’t be going nowhere.’

Afterwards, the pair found Hargreaves sitting on a wooden bench at the end of the landing.

‘Got what you wanted?’ the warder asked.

‘For the moment,’ said Roscoe.

‘Don’t be fooled by his calm appearance,’ said Hargreaves, rising from his seat. ‘Roberts is a nasty piece of work and, personally, I wouldn’t trust a word he says. Anyway, I’ll show you both out.’

* * *

‘That was too much of a coincidence – that thumb injury,’ said Roscoe, once the two detectives had returned to his car. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting he acquired it while strangling Tigworth – not while falling over during a game of basketball. He looks as guilty as hell but we need more evidence.’

‘I’m not totally convinced of the prisoner’s guilt,’ said Sunita.

‘Aren’t you?’

‘No, it all seems too simple and straightforward – not to mention the lack of motive. I’m wondering if there could be another explanation.’

‘Well, at least we know where to find Roberts,’ Roscoe said while starting the car. ‘As he said, he won’t be going anywhere. Listen, Sergeant, find out what you can about him – you know, family, friends, his workplace, that sort of thing.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ she said. ‘But we surely can’t rule out the possibility that Tigworth’s death might have some connection with the kidnap gang.’

‘I agree. That’s a line of inquiry we’ve got to follow. The gang must have realised Tigworth came to see us and they’d have good reason to want him silenced. We’re going to have to pull a few tricks out of the bag to catch this gang. And one of the tricks I’m going to use involves harnessing the power of the press. I’m going to arrange a press conference in a day or two.’

Roscoe’s mobile phone began to ring and he switched to hands free.

‘Roscoe,’ he announced as his car travelled along country lanes towards the A46 road.

‘Inspector Parkes here,’ said the caller. ‘Sir, I’ve been trying to reach you. The Beauvais family have received a new video from the kidnappers, along with full details of the new ransom demand.’

Chapter 34

Later that morning, after the chief inspector’s car had drawn up outside Upper Norton Manor, the housekeeper came to open the front door.

‘You’re looking extremely well now,’ Roscoe told Marilyn Willis as he stepped out of the car together with his sergeant.

‘Do you think so, sir?’ she replied. ‘That’s kind of you to say. I’ll take you through to the family.’

Roscoe and Sunita Roy hurriedly followed her past the imperial staircase in the hallway. At the open living-room door, she announced, ‘The police are here, Monsieur Beauvais,’ before she went back to the kitchen.

The detectives found Jean-Jacques and Camille Beauvais sitting together on one of the three settees. Engrossed in conversation together at the dining table nearby were Katrina Drake and DI Parkes.

‘Good morning, everybody,’ said Roscoe with a solemn expression.

‘Good morning, Chief Inspector,’ said Jean-Jacques.

‘Good. I’m glad you’ve made it, sir,’ said Parkes, rising from his chair. ‘Monsieur and Madame Beauvais have kindly agreed to let us watch the video on their widescreen television. Everyone here’s already seen it. Here we go.’

He pressed some buttons on a remote-control device and the TV in the corner of the room sprang into life. The two newcomers found themselves seats and the video began to play.

At first, an obscure shape was seen moving around in a dark room. Then light streamed in and Marcel could be seen, sitting alone at a table, eating a sandwich. The camera rotated round the room. Then the film-maker – evidently a man standing above the boy on some stone steps, appeared to stumble. After regaining his balance, he was heard saying in a Midlands accent, ‘Speak to the camera.’

Camille sobbed as Marcel stood up and approached the camera. He was unshaven and his hair was dishevelled. He still had two medallions round his neck and a nose ring. For the first time during his long ordeal, he appeared frightened.

The camera continued to pan round the room. Occasionally, the sound of nearby church bells could be discerned above the roar of passing traffic. It was clear the young hostage was being kept in a cellar. Two small horizontal windows could be seen at the top of the far wall. Wine barrels and bottles were stacked in a corner. Camille sobbed after a chain could be seen attached to Marcel’s wrist.

‘Maman! Papa!’ Marcel was heard saying. ‘Je suis sain et sauf. Please do as the men say. They will let me go if you pay the money they have asked for.’

Then the screen was filled with a message in capital letters – ‘TIME IS RUNNING OUT’ – before the view switched to a different location and focussed on a consignment of knives, guns and ammunition.

‘Would you mind, Inspector, if we viewed it again?’ asked Sunita.

‘No problem,’ said Parkes. ‘I’ll run it continuously for a while, shall I?’

The chief inspector nodded as the video was replayed.

‘Chief Inspector,’ said Jean-Jacques, ‘Inspector Parkes, he is suggesting we pay the demand for a second ransom of two million pounds. Do you have any views on this?’

‘I certainly think you should enter into negotiations with the gang,’ said Roscoe. ‘Whether you should actually pay the money, I’m not sure. The problem is you could pay it and then they could demand even more money.’

‘Chief Inspector,’ said Camille, ‘you have no idea how desperate we are to be reunited with our son. Our lives have been torn apart. It is like living with a knife in the heart. Every fresh message from the gang brings a twist of this knife. I don’t know if there is much more we can take.’

‘I completely understand,’ he said. ‘Look, I may as well confide in you about this now. I’m planning a press conference for Tuesday afternoon. As you know, we’ve been keeping a news blackout on your son’s disappearance and have been limiting publicity to the local area. But I think the time for pussyfooting around is now over.’

Parkes scowled and attempted to interrupt him, but Roscoe chose to ignore him.

‘That previous approach of operating in a publicity vacuum has clearly failed. So, my inclination now is to bring matters fully into the public arena. This will hopefully encourage members of the public to come forward with information and, as a result, we may quickly find your son.’

Sunita, who had been watching the video with intense interest, crossed the room and began a conversation with Parkes.

At the same time, Jean-Jacques, who had been exchanging words with his wife, stood up and stepped towards Roscoe.

‘Chief Inspector,’ he said, ‘if you believe this new technique has the good chance of success, Camille and I will support you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Roscoe. ‘That’s good because I’d like you both to appear at the news conference and speak to members of the press, TV and radio. Are you happy to do that?’

‘Yes. If that helps to bring back our beloved son, of course we will,’ he said.

‘We can see from the video how tired and upset your son’s become. Let’s see if we can bring him back quickly with help from observant members of the British public.’

A few minutes later, Roscoe and Sunita left the house and were walking back to their car when Parkes dashed out of the front door after them.

‘Chief Inspector, could I have a word, please?’ he asked. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but I do feel you’re adopting the wrong strategy. I think you’re making a terrible mistake.’

‘As it happens, I do mind you saying it,’ Roscoe retorted. ‘You say the previous approach in keeping everything hush-hush has brought dividends in the past, but the method has clearly failed in this case.’

Parkes placed his hands on his hips as he stood beside the BMW.

‘With respect, sir, this whole case has been an extremely sensitive one and lifting the news blackout could jeopardise everything. Once the floodgates to publicity are open, who knows what information is going to be printed about Marcel? News stories could place the boy in greater danger, depending on what’s written.’

‘I trust the press on this one, Inspector,’ Roscoe insisted. ‘News organisations have a duty not to endanger life or place the hostage in greater peril. In any event, we’ve tried proceeding without publicity and that hasn’t worked at all.’

Parkes stood his ground.

‘Sir, surely the value of a human life far outweighs the need for the press to freely report on absolutely everything they choose to report on.’

Roscoe frowned as he got into the car. ‘Other wealthy families and their relatives may be at risk of their loved ones being snatched by this ruthless gang,’ he continued. ‘But, because of the news blackout, they’re carrying on with their lives in blissful ignorance. We owe it to them to warn them that this has been going on and to take precautions. But our number one priority must surely be to get the lad back with his family and I sincerely believe that by changing direction in this way, we’ll succeed in doing that.’

After Roscoe and his sergeant had begun driving away, Sunita turned towards him from the passenger seat.

‘If it means anything to you, sir, I entirely back what you said just then.’

‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Of course, your views are important to me and thank you for your support. By the way, I noticed you speaking to Parkes while we were at the house. What was that about?’

‘I’ve arranged to have a copy of the video,’ she said. ‘I want to go through it carefully. I’ve got an idea that might help us find the gang’s new hideout and lead us to the boy.’

Chapter 35

Television vans blocked part of the rainswept pavement outside Queensbridge police station on Tuesday afternoon as journalists arrived for the press conference.

The chief inspector had managed to book the station’s large, ground-floor meeting room for two hours and he was making sure enough chairs were being set out.

He watched through the open door as a liveried BBC van drew up behind vehicles emblazoned with ITV and Sky News logos. Thick power cables were snaking across the pavement and weaving their way through the reception hall. Colourful posters had been fixed to the walls, showing Marcel Dubois in two different poses beneath the headline ‘Missing’. One photograph showed him with medium-length hair and glasses. The other portrayed him with short hair and his two familiar medallions dangling round his neck.

Marcel Dubois, aged sixteen, went missing from Norton Prior, Warwickshire on 29 October. Marcel is French, around five feet eight inches tall and often wears two gold medallions round his neck. He was wearing a green pullover and dark jeans when he disappeared. Marcel is lately understood to have been in the Pershore area. Anyone with information should contact the police incident room at St James Street or Crimestoppers.

The sound of a gravelly voice a few metres away alerted him that DI Parkes had arrived. Roscoe stepped towards his colleague and tapped him on the arm.

‘I wasn’t sure you were coming,’ he said.

‘You know how I feel about this briefing,’ said Parkes, ‘but I came because I think it’s important for me to maintain good relations with the family.’

‘You’re welcome to take a place on the podium alongside the Beauvais couple,’ said Roscoe.

‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. But, if it’s all right with you, I won’t be making any statement or answering questions.’ Parkes then went to speak to a police colleague.

Over the next few minutes, several sound engineers climbed onto the platform and installed microphones on tables. Some colleagues set up lighting equipment nearby.

As they worked, Roscoe was disturbed to see an unexpected face appear briefly in the doorway – the face of Philippe Dubois, the missing boy’s biological father.

‘What’s the matter, sir?’ asked DC Khalid. ‘You look as though you’ve just received some terrible news.’

‘It probably is terrible news. I’ve just seen Marcel’s other dad in the corridor outside,’ he replied. ‘I hope he isn’t going to cause any trouble. I’d better have a word with him.’

The chief inspector found Dubois outside the police station in the high street, smoking a strong cigarette while pacing up and down the pavement.

‘How are you, Mr Dubois?’ asked Roscoe as he approached him.

‘Oh, hello, Monsieur le Chief Inspector. I’m well, thank you, although I’m not sleeping.’

Roscoe frowned. ‘You know there won’t be any opportunity this afternoon for you to make any public statement, don’t you?’

He nodded. ‘I’m just here in case I’m needed,’ the Frenchman replied. ‘I’m glad you’ve invited the press to attend. We need to move things along quickly now and find Marcel. There’s no need for me to make speeches.’

‘All right, sir,’ said Roscoe, ‘provided that’s understood. We’ll find you somewhere to sit.’

Fifteen minutes later, Roscoe was ready to start. He took a seat on the podium and was joined by Inspector Parkes. At the same time, PC Underhill escorted Mr and Mrs Beauvais inside and they took seats beside the two detectives.

‘Good to see you all this afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Roscoe, rising confidently to his feet and speaking into a microphone. ‘I called this media briefing because, for three weeks, we’ve been investigating the disappearance of a teenage boy, Marcel Dubois. As I’m sure you’re aware, he’s the stepson of Aston Villa football player Jean-Jacques Beauvais, whom many of you’ll recognise sitting on the platform here today, along with his wife.’

He pointed the couple out before continuing.

‘I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the press and broadcasting organisations for abiding by the news blackout we requested while we maintained our initial efforts to trace Marcel and reunite him with his family.

‘Because of various factors, which I won’t go into now for operational reasons, we’ve not yet succeeded in tracing the missing boy, whom has been abducted by a gang of criminals who refer to themselves as the Matchday Boys. He’s been missing since the gang burgled Upper Norton Manor on the last Saturday of October. We’re going public today with details of the search in the hope that we can bring our investigation to a swift conclusion. I’m now going to ask Monsieur Beauvais to say a few words before inviting members of the press to ask questions. Monsieur Beauvais.’

Parkes whispered a remark to Roscoe while the footballer nervously tapped the microphone in front of him. As several photographers rushed forward to take close-up pictures, Jean-Jacques gazed out across the room.

‘These three weeks, they have been a nightmare for Camille and me,’ he began in a clear voice. ‘Marcel may be sixteen years of age, but he is not the most grown-up of boys and must be extremely frightened to be kept away from his home.’

He glanced down at a sheet of paper.

‘Marcel is five feet eight inches tall. His brown hair has been cut short with what the English hairdressers call the cat scratches. He also has the nose ring. We would beg anyone with information to contact the police. Please, we need everybody to help. Marcel has never been away from his family for so long before. Help us to bring him back. He is such a dear, sweet boy.’

Camille became tearful on hearing these words. She hugged Jean-Jacques as he sat down amid a light smattering of applause from the onlookers.

Roscoe glanced around the room. ‘We can now take questions,’ he said. ‘When you speak, please state your name and organisation.’

A tall, dark-haired man near the back raised his hand.

‘Chief Inspector, John Singleton, Midlands TV News,’ he said. ‘Do police have any idea at all where the missing boy might be?’

Roscoe looked uncomfortable. He leaned forward in his seat and reached for the microphone.

‘We’ve got firm intelligence that Marcel is still in the West Midlands,’ he replied.

‘But you don’t really know exactly where, do you?’ said Singleton.

‘I think I’ve answered that question,’ said Roscoe.

A slim, blonde journalist sitting near the front raised her hand.

‘Susan Ellis-Jones, Queensbridge Gazette,’ she said. ‘The boy’s disappearance obviously follows the burglary at Upper Norton Manor and the murder of Danny Jukes. So, if members of the public come forward with information, don’t police want to warn them that the gang are extremely dangerous?’

Roscoe nodded. ‘Thank you, Susan. That’s a highly valid point and one I was intending to bring up. You’re right. We’re dealing with a highly dangerous, violent gang and we’re concerned that members of the public shouldn’t try to be heroes if they come across them. They should report any suspicious activities to police, who’ll investigate.

‘At this point, I should state that we’re looking for two men in particular, Kyle O’Shane and Wayne Jordan.’ He described both men.

Sitting beside Susan Ellis-Jones was a fair-haired man with a moustache.

‘May I ask a question, Monsieur le Chief Inspector?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ said Roscoe.

‘Jerome Bernard, Agence France-Presse,’ said the man. ‘It’s been in the news that a man was found dead in a prison ten miles from here. I’m told this may be linked to the kidnap of Marcel.’

‘No comment on that,’ replied Roscoe. ‘Inquiries are ongoing.’

‘Monsieur, can I also ask whether police are linking this gang with break-ins in Cheshire that have taken place over the past ten years? And whether an organised crime gang are believed to be behind this abduction – such as a gang from London?’

‘Monsieur Bernard, it seems you’re trying to ask several questions at once,’ Roscoe replied. ‘We aren’t linking the burglary at Norton Prior with any other house raids at the moment and, at present, we’ve no reason to believe a major crime gang from London is involved. But we’re keeping an open mind.’

After the press conference ended and journalists began to leave, Khalid approached Roscoe.

‘Sir, I’ve just noticed the man you were speaking to earlier…’

‘Philippe Dubois?’ asked Roscoe.

‘Yes. He’s out on the pavement with an umbrella, being pestered by a group of reporters.’

Roscoe was dismayed to hear that Philippe Dubois had made himself known to the press and was making himself available to be interviewed.

‘Quick. Get out there and listen very carefully to him,’ said Roscoe. ‘He’s a bit of a loose cannon. We don’t want him saying anything awkward or out of place.’

As Khalid hurried away, Roscoe slumped forward on the podium table with his head in his hands. Ten minutes later, when Roscoe and Underhill were preparing to leave, Khalid returned.

‘You’re not going to like this, sir,’ he said. ‘I caught a little of what Dubois was saying. He was criticising the footballer and his wife. He was also laying into Parkes, claiming that, because of him, he’d been barred from receiving updates on the progress of the investigation. He also claimed Heart of England officers have been at loggerheads over the right strategy to pursue.’

Chapter 36

The chief inspector strolled into the CID office early on Wednesday morning. Omar Khalid was engrossed in writing a report on his computer about a burglary in the town of Redditch.

‘DC Khalid, have you seen DS Roy this morning?’ Roscoe asked.

‘No, sir. It’s nearly half past ten and she’s normally here by this time, isn’t she?’

‘She called me late last night to say that she was close to a breakthrough on the whereabouts of the missing boy,’ said Roscoe. ‘She just needed to double-check some details. I hope she hasn’t done anything rash to put herself at risk. You know how impetuous she can be at times.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Ah. Here she is now,’ said Roscoe as a figure in a fawn coat could be seen bustling towards them.

‘Morning, Sergeant,’ Roscoe said.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Sunita said as she reached her desk, perspiring and short of breath. ‘I was just checking something.’

‘No apology needed,’ he replied. ‘You’d better come into my office when you’re ready.’

He turned to Khalid. ‘DI Parkes is by the coffee machine. Could you ask him to come and see me as soon as he can?’

Moments later, Sunita was sitting in front of the chief inspector’s desk, studying some notes, while her boss was settling into his chair. DI Parkes hurried in, closed the door and took a seat beside her.

‘Now I gather you’ve made some progress, Sergeant,’ said Roscoe.

She nodded. ‘The boy’s in Worcester,’ she said.

‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Parkes.

‘Because of the bells that we can hear on the video.’

‘The bells? They’re just ordinary church bells, aren’t they? They’re the kind of bells that ring out in any town or village in the land,’ said Parkes.

‘No,’ said Sunita. ‘Those bells picked up on the video are ringing out from the belfry in Worcester Cathedral. I’ve visited the city a few times with a friend of mine – the most recent occasion being last Easter – and it was pointed out to us by someone in the cathedral that the sound is quite distinctive on key dates. Just to be sure, I’ve played a copy of the video to the bell ringing master at the cathedral. He’s confirmed, after listening to the audio, that they’re definitely the bells from his cathedral and he suspects the video was made within a few miles of his building.’

‘Really?’ said Roscoe. ‘That’s amazing.’

‘I won’t bore you with all the finer details,’ Sunita continued, ‘but there are sixteen bells altogether and this cathedral is the only church in the world to have a ring of ten bells in a harmonic minor key.’ She glanced down at her notes. ‘This special peal of bells are rung half-muffled on key dates in the Christian calendar and they’ve only been rung in this way once since the gang left Meadow Brook Farm, and that was on Remembrance Sunday – ten days ago.’

Parkes sneered. ‘This ringing master at the cathedral hasn’t by any chance given you the gang’s address and postcode, has he?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘Don’t be so ridiculous, man,’ said Roscoe.

‘The bells can be heard all over the city,’ she admitted. ‘But we’ve got a few other clues as to the whereabouts of the gang’s hideout. I must have played the video more than a dozen times and I’ve been stopping and starting it. Through one of the windows in the boy’s cellar you can see three distinctive blocks of flats, which are more than ten storeys high.’

‘Do we know where in Worcester these flats are?’

‘They’re in Tybridge Street, in a suburb called St John’s.’

‘Any other clues?’

‘The camera catches a fleeting glimpse of a lifebuoy,’ she said. ‘You know, a buoyancy aid, which seems to be installed by some railings. So, I’m wondering if Marcel is being kept in a building near the River Severn.’

She leaned back on her chair and glanced at Roscoe and Parkes in turn.

Parkes shook his head. ‘Sounds like you’re clutching at straws,’ he said dismissively.

The chief inspector had a more positive attitude.

‘You’ve done some excellent work there, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a word with our colleagues over in Worcester. We need to set up a huge team to begin searching buildings on both sides of the river. We’ll need dogs as well. You know the drill – calling door-to-door with photographs of Marcel, O’Shane and Jordan. We must give top priority to empty or derelict buildings. At the same time, our approach mustn’t be too high profile. Don’t want to cause the gang alarm and prompt them to flee again.’

‘You’re suggesting more of a softly-softly approach, sir?’ said Sunita.

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘And hopefully, if your deductions are correct, we ought to make finding that lifebuoy a priority. There’s a good chance Marcel won’t be too far away.’

‘Sir, there’s one thing I’d like to point out since the river’s been mentioned,’ said Parkes. ‘I was reading online there’s been a lot of rain in the areas north of Worcester over the past week – you know, Shrewsbury, Bridgnorth and Bewdley. River levels are high and there have been warnings that some roads and farmland around the city are likely to be flooded later this week.’

‘Which makes it all the more imperative we throw all our resources into finding him quickly,’ said Roscoe. ‘That cellar might be in a flood area and the lad could be at risk of drowning. So, if we need to supply our folk with boots and boats, so be it.’

* * *

Shortly after Roscoe began organising a team of officers to search buildings close to the river, the chief inspector received a call from his superior, Chief Superintendent Nicola Norris. She wished to see him straight away.

He made his way to her second-floor office and found her sitting in her usual place behind her desk, studying her computer screen.

‘Ah, Gavin,’ said Norris, peering over her reading glasses. ‘Is there something wrong with your phone? I’ve been trying to reach you for half an hour.’

‘No, not as far as I know, ma’am,’ he replied, finding himself a chair. ‘Oh, hang on. I took it off the hook while DS Roy was disclosing some crucial information.’

She immediately sat up straight.

‘What’s this crucial information?’ she asked, manoeuvring her wheelchair round the side of the desk.

‘There’s a strong chance the missing boy is being held in Worcester, ma’am. So we’re searching the waterfront.’

‘That’s admirable,’ she replied.

‘Listen, Gavin, the reason I wanted to speak to you is about this press coverage,’ she said. ‘Have you seen the national papers and the stuff they’re spewing out online?’

‘I saw a couple of the headlines when I got into work,’ he admitted.

‘Look at this,’ she said, snatching a tabloid newspaper from her desk. ‘This one says: “Cops clash over kidnap op”. There’s another here: “Police lock horns over missing teen ploy”. Have you seen the Queensbridge Gazette website? Their top story is: “Father of kidnapped boy shunned by cops”. What the hell’s been going on, Gavin?’

‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a close rapport with the Beauvais family. DI Parkes has built up a good relationship with them, but the boy’s biological father, Philippe Dubois, is in the UK now and he’s a bit of a maverick. I imagine these reports are based on what he told reporters after the press conference. He was outside on the street. We weren’t able to control that.’

‘Well, I suggest you have a frank word with him and try to keep him sweet. The assistant chief constable’s very annoyed by these reports.’

Chapter 37

A short distance from Worcester police station, in the centre of the city, two officers were sitting in their stationary BMW police car, watching passing traffic. Now and then, they would catch sight of a pedestrian scurrying from doorway to doorway along the grey, rain-lashed street.

‘They say the floods this week could be the worst in years,’ said PC Michael Jenkins.

‘Something will have to be done about it,’ said his colleague, PC Katie Smart. ‘Are you going to that Christmas party at the Bank House?’ he asked.

‘The Abba tribute?’ she replied while attempting to tuck some of her blonde hair beneath her police cap.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You said you were hoping to take your boyfriend.’

‘I was out of luck. By the time I phoned, all the tickets had gone,’ said Smart.

‘That’s a shame. So have you decided where you’re going on Friday?’

At that moment, a blue Nissan Qashqai swept past at thirty-five miles an hour. The speed limit for the city street was thirty.

‘Look at that idiot,’ said Jenkins.

He started his engine and began pursuing the car along the street. At the same time, he switched on his blue light and siren.

‘You’d think, with all this rain, they’d slow down, Mike,’ said Smart, as she adjusted her glasses. ‘But the driver’s put his foot down.’

She called the Heart of England control room on the car radio.

‘Vehicle making off at 10.14 a.m.,’ she announced. ‘Failing to stop for traffic officers in The Tything. Speed currently five zero miles per hour.’

She gave their location and the Nissan Qashqai’s registration, explained they were following the A38 road in a northerly direction and requested police back-up.

‘Driver seems to be heading towards Droitwich,’ she continued. ‘Any mobiles in the vicinity?’

‘Control room here,’ came the reply. ‘Inspector O’Grady. Message received. Police carrier nearby and will join shortly.’

‘He’s driving like a bloody maniac,’ Jenkins complained as Smart ended her call.

The traffic officers sped on for another two minutes with their siren wailing and blue lights reflecting off the rain-washed street. Eventually, they began to gain on the suspect vehicle, despite its driver touching speeds of up to sixty miles an hour. They were only twenty metres behind now, but the driver – who seemed to be accompanied by a second man – was ignoring their signal to pull over.

The roadside scenery was now changing. Instead of rows of endless detached and semi-detached houses, lines of mature trees and hedges were flashing past as they entered the outer suburbs. Then, unexpectedly, a huge white refrigerated lorry emerged from a turning on their right, close to a garden nursery. Its driver was clearly unaware he was interrupting a high-speed chase.

‘Look out. Look out. Look out. Look out,’ shouted Smart.

Jenkins braked sharply and their car shuddered to a halt by the side of the road.

They watched helplessly as the Nissan Qashqai ploughed directly into the side of the lorry.

* * *

A few miles away, Marcel Dubois was watching a trickle of water seeping through the brickwork in the cellar where he was being held. He had been unconcerned the night before when he first heard the sound of dripping water. But now he was awake and it was mid-morning. He was becoming alarmed. The water was several centimetres deep – and the level was rising. Soon he would be unable to see his feet while standing on the floor. There was also an unpleasant smell.

He tried for a moment to reassure himself. Perhaps it’s been raining, he told himself. The amount of water’s built up and started flowing down the street. I expect that will end when it stops raining.

He ventured as close to the nearest window as the chain would allow, but he could see the ingress of water was continuing at a steady pace in the dim light. It was leaking in through a host of apertures. Through cracks in the brickwork. Through tiny gaps around the window.

Where were the men? He hadn’t seen them since they brought him a meal of pie and chips the night before. Why hadn’t they brought him his breakfast and allowed him upstairs to use the bathroom?

He tried to be cool-headed.

Calme-toi! he urged himself. One of the men must come soon. He will see there’s been a leak. He will get the problem fixed and rescue me. I will soon be safe and in another place.

But a few hours later, the men still hadn’t called to see him and Marcel was becoming increasingly anxious. He had glanced through one of the windows and hadn’t liked the sight that greeted him. A huge expanse of water now seemed to stretch for as far as his eyes could see.

It was then that he suspected the flood was not limited to the one building he was in. He began to believe the whole area where he was being held captive might be affected by the water. Perhaps he was close to a river or lake.

Marcel remembered that the English equivalent of calling ‘Aidez-moi!’ was to cry ‘Help!’ So, for a long while, he shouted the word at the top of his voice. And he kept screaming until he was hoarse. Then he lost faith. Why waste energy on yelling? he thought. He had tried it before when he sensed the men were absent. Nobody was coming today. Nobody ever came.

For a while, he tried, as he had many times before, to squeeze his hand out of the metal clasp that had been locked around his right wrist. His efforts were in vain. He simply made his wrist sore. Next, he repeated his efforts to tug the chain away from the metal ring, which was screwed to the wall. After all, he thought, if the water level was to continue rising, he needed to raise himself to a higher position within the cellar – such as by reaching the upper steps. If he could free himself and set foot on those higher steps, he might be able to force open the door at the top. But after a few minutes, he came to realise these hopes of breaking himself free from the chain were doomed to failure. He had attempted before to prise the chain free and he simply didn’t have enough strength in his hands.

Would some leverage help? Perhaps, if he were to wrap the chain round the table and jerk the table away, the chain might break away or even snap. He tried this technique three times. Each attempt failed. Eventually, he collapsed on the bed, exhausted and close to tears.

As the minutes ticked by, he was gradually being forced to face the grim reality of his situation. He had been abandoned by his kidnappers and forces of nature were about to strike a cruel blow. The swollen river was advancing towards him and it looked as though he was condemned to spend the final moments of his life trapped in this water-logged prison. It seemed a real possibility he would never see his loved ones again.

Chapter 38

Although the front of the Nissan Qashqai had been badly damaged in the collision with the lorry, the two crash victims inside seemed unscathed. PC Smart watched as the two men both jumped out and, after a cursory glance at the stationary lorry which now blocked the entire road, raced off on foot in different directions.

The ginger-haired driver, Wayne Jordan, ran into the car park of the garden centre on the right-hand side. His passenger, Kyle O’Shane, dodged round the lorry and tore off up the road.

PC Smart pursued Jordan along with two male colleagues from a police carrier which had arrived on the scene. He was quickly overpowered and handcuffed.

Jordan scowled as Smart confronted him.

‘Haven’t I seen your face somewhere?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. Have you?’ he replied.

She turned to her colleagues. ‘Isn’t this one of the two guys that have been in the press?’ she asked.

‘You don’t mean the kidnapping of the French boy?’ one of her colleagues replied.

‘Yes,’ she said, staring at Jordan’s ashen face. ‘I know a guy in CID who’s going to be very pleased to meet you – DCI Roscoe. Meanwhile, you’re under arrest for suspected car theft.’

He sneered and spat on the ground as she read him the rest of the caution.

* * *

While she was overseeing his arrest, efforts led by PC Jenkins to secure the arrest of his passenger, O’Shane, were proving a far greater challenge.

The traffic constable and a third team member from the newly arrived carrier had set off on his tail, but, unlike his associate, O’Shane was far more agile.

As he sprinted along the pavement away from the city, he darted into the front garden of a 1950s-style, semi-detached house on the left-hand side.

‘He’s gone down an alley at the side,’ yelled a breathless PC Jenkins. ‘Can one of you stay here in case he charges out of the front?’

Jenkins ran down the alley, accompanied by PC Graham Brownlow, a tall constable in his early twenties. Brownlow’s colleague, PC Peter Conway, who was in his forties, remained in the drive.

‘Hey, what’s going on?’ asked an irate middle-aged woman who was holding a basket of wet laundry when the two constables appeared in her back garden.

‘Police,’ replied Jenkins. ‘We’ve been following a suspected car thief. He ran down this alley just a moment ago.’

‘I haven’t seen anyone,’ she said.

‘Do you mind if we take a look around?’ asked Jenkins.

Without waiting for her response, he darted across the lawn and tried to open her shed door, but it was secured with a padlock.

‘I keep it locked,’ she declared.

‘Where the hell did he go?’ asked Jenkins, gazing out across the fields which lay behind the houses. He turned back to the householder.

‘He definitely didn’t sneak into your house, did he?’ he said.

‘I’ve been in the kitchen and no one came past me,’ she insisted with a frown. ‘Are you sure you’re police?’

He handed her his Heart of England warrant card.

‘Thanks,’ she said, studying it and handing it back. ‘You can’t be too careful these days.’

Jenkins stood on a rockery that abutted the rear garden fence and happened to glance down.

‘Here he is!’ he shouted, staring down at O’Shane, who was crouched in the undergrowth behind the fence panel.

As the wanted man got up and careered off across the field, Jenkins and Brownlow clambered over the fence and gave chase while the lady with the washing watched proceedings with mounting concern.

When Jenkins finally caught up with the fleeing man and grabbed his shoulder, O’Shane spun round and punched him on the jaw. Jenkins punched him back and a scuffle began before the muscular man pulled away and ran back towards the woman.

Jenkins unclasped the taser from his belt and shouted a warning.

‘I’ll deploy this taser if you don’t stop running now,’ he yelled.

O’Shane ignored him. He scrambled back over the fence and onto the rockery.

‘Don’t come near me,’ screamed the woman, who was standing on the edge of the lawn.

The two officers were approaching. They watched as O’Shane strode towards the woman. They could hear him telling her, ‘It’s all right, dear. It’s all right.’

The woman looked down and saw he was holding a knife, but before she could turn and run back to the house, O’Shane grabbed her from behind and held the knife to her throat.

‘Don’t come any closer,’ he hollered as the officers scaled the fence.

‘Please don’t hurt me,’ the woman screamed.

‘Put the knife down,’ Jenkins demanded.

‘Keep away, copper, or the woman gets it,’ O’Shane insisted. While the officers stood motionless by the fence, he lowered his voice. ‘Where are the keys to your car?’ he asked the woman.

‘In the house,’ she cried.

‘Whereabouts in the house?’

‘In the hallway – by the front door,’ she said.

While his eyes remained fixed on O’Shane’s face, Jenkins continued to hold the electronic gun by his side. He had been considering how he could use it without placing the woman in jeopardy. Then a thought occurred to him.

‘I know you,’ he told the knifeman. ‘You’re wanted for a kidnap over in Norton Prior, aren’t you?’

‘That’s not me,’ said O’Shane. ‘Some other guy.’

Jenkins took a step towards O’Shane.

‘Keep away, copper, or the woman gets it. I’ll slit her throat unless you remain absolutely still.’

‘Don’t be a fool, man,’ said Jenkins. ‘There are police out the front of the house. You won’t get anywhere. Give yourself up and make it easy for yourself.’

‘That’s enough lip from you,’ said O’Shane. ‘Right, lady. Show me where the keys are – and no games.’

PC Conway, who had been stationed at the front, had overheard smatterings of the conversation in the rear garden. He had crept down the alley and across the lawn and bravely took O’Shane by surprise. He thrust his right arm round the man’s neck and the pair struggled together on the lawn for a few seconds.

Jenkins dashed forward and prised the blade out of O’Shane’s hand before he could react. The kidnapper was left sprawling on the grass with Conway on top of him.

Jenkins handcuffed O’Shane while declaring he was under arrest for the suspected theft of the car.

‘Are you all right?’ Jenkins asked the householder as O’Shane was marched out to the main road.

‘I’ll be all right, dear,’ she said, returning to the laundry basket which she had left on the timber decking outside her patio doors.

‘Did I hear you say that man was wanted for a kidnapping in Norton Prior?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Ooh, I say. That must be that French boy that’s been on the telly.’

He nodded.

‘They say nothing ever happens round here,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait till I get down the bowls club and tell them all about it.’

* * *

Marcel could hear the sound of water outside the building clearly now. It was lapping against the outside wall. Inside the cellar, it had been slopping over the tabletop for a while. He took a deep breath. There was a sour smell swirling around him. It was the stench of mould and decomposing matter.

Marcel was normally a calm, placid boy but he was beginning to panic. The cold, brown water was now more than one and a half metres high in the cellar and he had been forced to clamber onto the table, next to the wall.

He was cold, hungry and thirsty. His bed and duvet were saturated. The chair had drifted off towards the wine barrels. His spare clothes were floating around along with his bedsheet and table lamp.

He began to shout again through sheer desperation. ‘Help!’ he cried at the top of his voice. He repeated his call but no one came.

He thought of the men. He thought of the last time they had brought him food. The bastards. Why had they left him here? Did they want him to die? Was he no longer the valuable commodity they had once believed – the dearly beloved son of the football hero?

That was it, he thought. His parents had refused to pay the ransom and the men had grown tired of waiting for their money. He had been abandoned – abandoned to die, cold and alone, in this flooded chamber.

He watched while an object drifted past. He was unable to recognise it at first. Then he remembered. It was a red book with a yellow castle on the front. L’Histoire de Caen. The book that two evil strangers had bought for him on a whim, believing it would while away the hours for him while they held him hostage. How moronic those men must be to believe any book printed in the French language would serve to occupy the mind of an intelligent French teenager.

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted. A man was shouting from somewhere outside the window. Perhaps rescuers were finally on their way.

Marcel called out for help again at the top of his voice. He repeated his cries for several minutes. But, as before, no one came and, as before, he reverted to his anguished sense of abandonment.

Chapter 39

Sunita Roy was sitting in a rain-splattered coat in the draughty foyer of Worcester police station. Beside her, by the wall, were two sets of vulcanized rubber waders that an apologetic police sergeant had handed her and DC Dawson earlier on. Realising the pair intended for her were probably too large, Sunita had decided she might try to wear them anyway, if the need arose. Milling around her just after midday were dozens of search team members. They were all due to resume their search for Marcel Dubois in half an hour’s time.

Teams had already inspected many of the isolated buildings beside the river, close to the Pitchcroft racecourse and even some waterfront homes in the new developments that had sprung up in Diglis, a suburb where the Worcester and Birmingham Canal meets the River Severn. They were now preparing to set out again.

Sunita noticed two men from the force’s underwater search team carrying high-tech cameras.

Dawson had gone to the canteen to fetch some coffees and he had been gone for ten minutes.

‘Come on, Brett,’ she muttered to herself. ‘How long does it take to pour a couple of drinks?’

To fill the time, she glanced at news reports on her mobile phone.

More flooding of roads and farmland in Worcestershire is expected tomorrow morning. Areas likely to be affected include Worcester and Tewkesbury. Flooding from drains may also affect the racecourse and Worcester County Cricket Ground. Further rain is expected tomorrow and river levels are predicted to remain high for some days.

She looked up and smiled as Dawson finally emerged from round a corner and handed her one of two steaming cups of coffee he was carrying.

‘Here you are, Sarge,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better after drinking this.’

‘What kept you so long, Brett?’ she asked.

‘Oh, sorry. I got chatting to one of the sergeants,’ Dawson explained. ‘I asked about the possibility that Marcel is being held in a building close to the river. He said the city gets flooded every few years and some of the cellars by the river are notorious for getting badly flooded. He said that, if the boy was being kept in one of those places, he might not stand much of a chance.’

‘I can believe that,’ she said. ‘Listen, did I tell you about Dylan Roberts?’

‘That’s the prisoner at the Vale who’s a suspect in the Lewis Tigworth murder, isn’t it?’

‘Quite right, Brett,’ she said. ‘I’ve been talking to Roberts’ family. He claimed to us he didn’t know Tigworth, but one of his relatives let slip last night that the two men did time in youth custody together years ago and fell out for some reason.’

‘So Roberts may have had a grudge against Tigworth?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘Very interesting,’ said Dawson.

The face of a slim, blonde traffic officer in glasses emerged from a corridor. She gazed round the room before heading towards the two detectives.

‘You must be DS Roy,’ she said with a grin. ‘I’ve got some good news for you. We’ve caught two of your kidnappers.’

‘Brilliant news,’ said Dawson, who had taken a seat beside his sergeant.

‘And you are…?’ asked Sunita.

‘Oh, sorry,’ said the newcomer. ‘PC Katie Smart, Worcester Traffic.’

‘What exactly happened?’ asked the sergeant.

‘Just sheer luck,’ said Smart. She told them about the car chase and arrest of O’Shane and Jordan.

‘They’re just being booked in downstairs,’ she added.

‘Good work,’ said Sunita. ‘I’d really like to interview them as soon as possible. Our priority, clearly, is to trace the kidnapped boy, and we need to get them to tell us where they’ve been holding him.’

‘The sergeant says they’ll be handed over to your CID later today. But they’re both refusing to talk.’

‘Par for the course,’ said Sunita. ‘You’ve obviously got their vehicle?’

‘Yeah. It’s probably a write-off. It’s being taken to our depot so forensics can go over it. I had a quick look inside.’

‘Anything that might give us a clue on where they’ve been staying?’

‘No. Nothing. We’ve also got phones from both men.’

‘Good,’ said Sunita.

Several officers from the search team began stepping outside.

‘Sarge,’ said Dawson, ‘maybe it’s time for us to make a move.’

Sunita nodded.

‘Yes. It’s unlikely we’re going to get any intelligence from the kidnappers for now. We’d better make tracks.’ Turning to the traffic officer, she said, ‘Could you call my boss, DCI Roscoe at headquarters, and alert him about the arrests, if that hasn’t already been done?’

‘Certainly, Sarge,’ she said. ‘No problem.’

One of the team leaders approached Sunita and Dawson as they left the newly built police station, clutching their waterproof boots.

‘Have you any preference as regards your search area?’ he asked the sergeant.

‘I’ve an inkling that the boy could be in a building near the bridge,’ she said.

‘We’ve already done that area. Your choice is to come with me to Diglis or accompany Sergeant Banks to Barbourne.’

‘I spent more time last night studying the video received from the kidnappers,’ said Sunita. ‘I’m pretty certain he’s in the area called North Parade.’

‘Please yourselves, but, as I say, that area’s already been covered, as I understand it,’ the officer replied before marching away.

‘Looks like we’re on our own, Sarge,’ said Dawson.

‘Not for the first time,’ she remarked.

The pair walked past the city’s university, skirted the edge of the racecourse and passed beneath the arches of the city’s Victorian railway viaduct. At once the vast grey river – usually around eighty metres wide at this point – came into view. And it was clear it had burst its banks.

‘I’m sensing that we’re close to him now,’ she told Dawson. ‘Do you see those three blocks of flats over there?’

He gazed across to the far side of the swirling waters.

‘Yes, Sarge,’ he replied. ‘I’m guessing they’re ten storeys high.’

‘Twelve, to be exact,’ she said. ‘You can see them in the video.’

A hundred metres ahead, at the opposite end of the flooded riverside street, they could see a fire engine parked close to Worcester Bridge. A crew of fire fighters were pumping water out of a basement.

‘Time to take to the water, Sarge,’ Dawson announced.

He sat down on the pavement and began to pull off his work shoes and slip into his waders. A bemused flock of swans watched from nearby railings.

Sunita reluctantly pulled on her large waders and found, to her surprise, she could walk in them, after a fashion. They abandoned their normal footwear by the railings and began trudging into the submerged street.

As she felt the cold water slopping around her thighs, she gasped.

‘That must be the lifebuoy that featured in the video,’ she exclaimed. ‘It must have been filmed around here.’

The pair discovered they were outside the Bridgehouse Restaurant, which occupied the ground floor of a three-storey Georgian building. The Michelin-starred eatery had a sign on the door saying, ‘Closed due to flooding’.

While they were standing there, a stout, middle-aged man with grey hair opened a sash window above them and gazed out.

‘I like your enthusiasm but we’re closed,’ he announced.

‘Heart of England Police,’ said Sunita, staring up at the open window.

‘Oh, you’re not customers,’ he muttered.

‘We’re searching for that missing boy,’ she continued.

‘You still on that business, are you?’ said the man. ‘We had police round here yesterday. There’s no French boy here. They did a full search.’

‘I take it you’re the restaurant owner?’ said Sunita.

‘Manager, actually. The name’s Hobbs.’

‘Mr Hobbs,’ said Sunita, ‘do you know anything about the buildings on either side of you?’

‘Well, to your left, as you can see, is The Waterfront Tavern, which has been closed for three years. It was the constant floods that put pay to his business. There’s no one living there. On the other side is a block of flats. As far as I know, the cops have checked out both premises.’

‘There you are, Sarge,’ muttered Dawson. ‘We’re probably wasting our time.’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘You could be right,’ she admitted. She thanked the man and waded on her own towards the derelict pub next door, where the stinking river water was sloshing around its stone entrance steps.

Glancing down, she noticed two small windows which were a few inches above the level of the water. She bent down awkwardly and peeked inside the first window. Were her eyes deceiving her? Was that a human face she could see amid the gloom of the darkened cellar?

‘Come and have a look at this, Brett,’ she cried.

Her younger colleague followed her example and peered through the glass towards the back wall.

‘Good God, Sarge!’ he exclaimed. ‘We’ve found him.’

Chapter 40

The two detectives knocked on the cellar window of The Waterfront Tavern in an effort to attract attention, but there was no response from within the flooded chamber.

‘Quick, Brett,’ shouted Sunita. ‘Let’s see if there’s a back way into this place.’

At the side of the Victorian building was a narrow garden behind a six-foot-high brick wall. Halfway along, they discovered a short path leading to a solid wooden side door above two stone steps. Sunita climbed up awkwardly in her waders but the door, which was just clear of the flood water, was firmly locked.

‘Are you feeling fit, Brett?’ she asked.

Without waiting to be asked twice, Dawson threw the weight of his body against the door. It refused to yield.

‘Stand back, Sarge,’ he urged Sunita. Then he took a few steps away from the doorway and raced forward, shoulder-charging the latch with all his might. At last, the door flew open, amid the sound of splintering wood.

The detectives found themselves in a dingy hallway which led to a series of rooms. Stepping inside gingerly, Sunita found a door on the right marked ‘Cellar’ with a key inside the lock.

Briefly glancing at her colleague, she unlocked the door and turned the handle to find they were entering a dark basement storeroom half-filled with brown water. A chair and bedding were floating about beside other debris.

Sunita descended the first three steps of the stone stairway before her feet became immersed. Then she gasped as her eyes peered to the right and settled on the figure that they had seen moments earlier through the window.

‘Marcel!’ she shouted. ‘Marcel!’

The kidnapped boy was somehow managing to sit upright on a table, slumped back against a wall with his head just above the lapping water. He seemed to be unconscious or in a trance.

At first, he gave no sign of life as the sound of his name echoed round the cellar. Then slowly he turned his ghostly face towards them. He was mumbling, but gradually the whispered words became clearer. ‘Aidez-moi!’

‘Nous allons vous aider,’ she called back.

‘What’s that mean, Sarge?’ asked Dawson, clambering down the steps behind her.

‘I’ve told him help’s arrived,’ she said. ‘Quick, Brett, you know the fire crew we saw near the bridge? Go and get them, and tell them they’ll need to bring underwater gear. Oh, and Brett, it looks like there’s a chain on his wrist so we’ll need bolt cutters as well.’

As her colleague retreated back up the steps, she yelled, ‘And tell them to hurry. The water’s right up to his chin. If it carries on rising, he might drown.’

After Dawson had set off on his errand, Sunita tried to reassure Marcel that he would soon be liberated.

‘Some men are coming to cut the chain and lift you out of the water,’ she told him. ‘I’m Sergeant Roy from the police, so you’ll be safe now. How are you feeling?’

‘V-v-very cold,’ he stuttered. ‘My thoughts were to die. I’m not going to die now, am I?’

‘No, Marcel. You’re not going to die,’ she said as she noticed his lips were blue. ‘Very soon you’ll be out of here and back with your family.’

‘Merci bien, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘I was afraid. Where are the men? Have they gone?’

‘The men have been arrested by the police. You’re safe from them now.’

She continued talking to him in order to reassure him and help to keep his courage up.

Minutes passed. Water was swirling round his mouth.

‘Hold on, Marcel,’ said Sunita, climbing back up the steps.

‘Where are you going? Don’t leave me,’ he cried.

‘It’s all right. I’m just going to see if I can find some kind of hose or pipe to help with your breathing,’ she said.

She searched the ground floor of the premises for any kind of tube that might assist Marcel but without success. On her return to the cellar, the water level seemed to be stabilising but Marcel was spluttering and becoming even more distressed.

‘I’m sure I’m going to die,’ Marcel told her. ‘I don’t want to die.’

‘Try not to worry. The fire brigade will soon be here. You’ll soon be out of here.’

As these words passed her lips, she heard a rush of footsteps in the passageway and Dawson’s face appeared in the doorway.

‘The fire brigade have notified their water rescue team, Sarge,’ the breathless constable announced. ‘They’re the people with underwater gear. We should have the boy out of here in no time.’

‘Good,’ she replied. ‘We need to let the DCI know as well. We’ll have to search the whole building for evidence.’

It took nearly twenty minutes for the underwater team to arrive at The Waterfront Tavern. But, once they had unloaded their equipment from a van and one of the four-strong team had donned his diving suit, the rescue passed off quickly.

While the detectives watched from the doorway above, the brigade’s frogman plunged into the flood water and hacked through the chain that had secured Marcel to the brickwork. Then he carried the frail teenager to his colleagues on the steps. After they had cut away the manacle that had been fastened around the boy’s right wrist, the crew handed him over to two paramedics, who wrapped him in a blanket and rushed him to hospital.

‘Bloody hell, Sarge,’ Dawson said as the ambulance sped away with its blue lights flashing. ‘That was a close call.’

Sunita nodded.

‘I know,’ she said.

The detectives returned to the car park where they had left Sunita’s car. Then she drove to the Worcestershire Royal Hospital, where the paramedics had taken Marcel.

Chapter 41

The whole Heart of England CID team had been waiting anxiously to hear about their sergeant’s efforts to find and rescue the missing boy.

It was about two o’clock on Thursday afternoon when details of Marcel’s release from the cellar came through.

Sunita Roy phoned the chief inspector to say that Marcel had been found safe.

‘He’s in hospital, sir, with hypothermia,’ she revealed. ‘But he stands a good chance of recovery.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ said Roscoe.

After hearing a little more of her story, he congratulated her and DC Dawson. Then he rushed from his room and announced the news in a loud voice across the office.

There was a spontaneous round of applause.

‘I’ve also been informed that two of the gang holding him have been arrested by traffic police in Worcester and they’re being brought over here,’ he continued. ‘But none of that means our work stops. The forensic team are on their way to the gang’s premises and the operation to find the gang’s leader continues. But keep your chin up, folks, and I promise to put some money behind the bar at the Fleece tomorrow night to celebrate.’

As everyone returned to their desks, Roscoe beckoned DC Khalid over.’

‘He was just found in time, sir,’ he said. ‘The family were on the point of paying another two million.’

‘Yes. Very timely. Look, I’d like you to go over to the city and coordinate the search of the gang’s hideout by the river,’ said Roscoe. ‘It’s an abandoned pub, The Waterfront Tavern.’

‘I’ll leave right away, sir.’

After returning to his room, there was a knock on the door and DI Parkes stepped inside.

‘Ah, Parkes,’ said Roscoe. ‘You’ve no doubt heard our good news.’

‘Yes, sir. I missed your announcement just now but I’ve been speaking to a colleague over there. Apparently, they sent out search teams today and the boy was located in a riverside building.’

‘Two of our colleagues from here found him – DS Roy and DC Dawson,’ said Roscoe.

‘Really? I understood he was found in a disused pub as a result of a routine search.’

‘Not at all. He was found as a result of the hard work and initiative of DS Roy and DC Dawson, who took it upon themselves to scour an area that the search teams claimed to have previously visited. Because of a misunderstanding, the previous teams managed to overlook the pub. If he’d been discovered any later, they’d have been pulling out a dead body.’

Parkes shrugged his shoulders.

‘I wasn’t aware of that, sir,’ he said.

‘Never mind,’ said Roscoe. ‘As you’re so close to the Beauvais family, you need to liaise with them. I gather they’re on their way to the hospital. Meanwhile I’ll get the team working on the files we’ve got on Kyle O’Shane and Wayne Jordan. They’re in the process of being brought over here under armed escort. I’m looking forward to meeting this shameless pair who’ve kept this young lad captive for the past twenty-six days.’

* * *

Two hours later, the chief inspector sighed as he peered through the one-way glass into the ground-floor interview room where Kyle O’Shane was briefing his solicitor.

Roscoe had been hoping for the support of a close police colleague during his first encounter with the suspect. But the only person available to sit in with him was Wendy Hopkirk, a detective constable who seemed to spend most of her time combing her hair or surreptitiously trying to listen to music on her headphones.

She was once described by a colleague as a detective who approached each job with as much enthusiasm as a vegan offered a bacon sandwich.

There was a tap on the door and Hopkirk stepped in.

‘Good. We’re ready to go,’ he said, collecting a notebook from a desk and slipping it into a pocket.

Within minutes, the pair were sitting behind the table in Interview Room One, face to face with O’Shane. Beside the suspect, who was exhibiting a swaggering self-confidence, sat his solicitor, Dipak Sharma, a middle-aged man in glasses. On guard outside the room were two uniformed constables who had escorted O’Shane there from his basement cell.

‘Right, Mr O’Shane,’ Roscoe began, ‘I’m just going to remind you that you’ve been arrested on suspicion of aggravated burglary, conspiracy to murder and false imprisonment. The caution you received earlier is still in place. First of all, could you give me your address in West Bromwich?’

The suspect stared into the chief inspector’s face with an impish smile. He said nothing.

‘Very well,’ said Roscoe. ‘I want to ask you about the events of 29 October. You and at least two other men broke into Upper Norton Manor. One of your group threatened Mrs Willis, the housekeeper, with a gun. She was then tied up and the three of you burgled the house.’

O’Shane shrugged. ‘No comment,’ he said.

‘You’ll have to speak up for the purposes of the DIR,’ said Roscoe. ‘This is a house where the footballer Jean-Jacques Beauvais and his family are living. Mr Beauvais’s bodyguard turned up shortly afterwards in a Bentley and was shot dead by a member of your gang.’

The suspect stared insolently at the chief inspector, who was writing in his notebook. ‘I was never there. You got the wrong guy,’ he insisted.

Hopkirk interrupted to say, ‘We know you were there, Mr O’Shane. One of your fingerprints was discovered on a mirror in the main bedroom.’

Roscoe thought he detected a glimpse of surprise on the suspect’s face. If so, it passed in a matter of seconds.

‘No comment,’ he replied.

‘In the next phase of the crime,’ Roscoe continued, ‘you found the footballer’s stepson, Marcel Dubois, inside the Bentley. He was abducted and held at three different addresses while someone contacted the boy’s family and demanded ransom money.’

O’Shane sneered. ‘No comment.’

‘I want to ask about your colleagues,’ Roscoe said. ‘When you were arrested at lunchtime, you were in the company of a man named Wayne Jordan, who’s also under arrest. What’s his role in your gang?’

‘No comment.’

‘Then we turn to your friend Lewis Tigworth, who was found murdered in a prison cell at Ashwood Vale nearly a week ago.’

‘Nothing to do with me. I wasn’t there, was I?’

‘I accept you weren’t there in person,’ said Roscoe, ‘but I suggest his death is connected with the fact that he was an accomplice of yours who handed himself in. You decided he had to be silenced, didn’t you?’

‘Don’t know the guy. Who is he?’ O’Shane replied.

‘So that’s three deaths you’re in trouble over: the bodyguard, Lewis Tigworth and – it’s on the cards at the moment – the death of Marcel Dubois.’

O’Shane’s face turned pale.

‘He’s dead?’ asked O’Shane with a look of incredulity.

‘He’s seriously ill in hospital,’ Roscoe explained.

‘If he survives, it’ll be no thanks to you,’ Hopkirk remarked.

The chief inspector looked O’Shane directly in the eyes.

‘You left him to die in a riverside building as flood waters were rising,’ said Roscoe. ‘We only hauled him out of the cellar in time. He was suffering from hypothermia and close to drowning after hours spent immersed in the freezing water. He’s still not out of the woods. He’s fighting for his life in intensive care.’

‘I know the boy’s name. Weren’t he the lad who got kidnapped in Norton Prior by some tea leaves?’ said O’Shane, stroking his chin and looking puzzled. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to him. It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘On that point, we found green Rohypnol tablets on a kitchen table at The Waterfront Tavern – some of them partly crushed,’ Roscoe went on. ‘We also found traces of the same drug at Meadow Brook Farm. Toxicology tests will tell us whether the teenager has that drug in his system. But my instincts tell me you were using that drug to subdue the boy, weren’t you? Come on, Mr O’Shane. The evidence against you and Wayne Jordan is stacking up. And it doesn’t look good for you. As things stand, that could be three deaths you’re responsible for.’

The colour drained from O’Shane’s face. He was battling to keep his composure.

‘No comment,’ he said.

‘You’re perfectly within your rights to remain silent,’ said Roscoe, ‘but it won’t look good in a court of law. With all the evidence we’ve so far collected and new clues coming in from our team all the time, there’s a good chance you’ll be convicted. If that happens, you’ll be sent down for life. However, if you cooperate with us now, the judge may well look more favourably towards you at the time of sentencing.’

The ashen-faced suspect whispered a few words to his solicitor.

Sharma cleared his throat. ‘My client would like an adjournment, chief inspector,’ he said. ‘You’ve brought forward some new information and I need to discuss all this with him.’

* * *

It had just turned 5 p.m. and Sunita and Dawson remained sitting in a waiting area at the hospital.

‘I’ll go and ask one of the nurses if they’ve got any news, shall I?’ Dawson suggested.

‘Good idea, Brett,’ said Sunita. ‘And, maybe after that, if there’s still no update, we’ll go for a cup of tea.’

‘I’m so glad we found him, you know,’ said Dawson. ‘And it was just in the nick of time. If he’d been left there like that another couple of hours, we could have been dealing with a body.’

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘It’s amazing that he was in that dilapidated pub. It’s only a two-minute walk from the hotel where his father, Philippe, has been staying.’

‘Hell of a coincidence, that,’ said Dawson. ‘Anyway, finding that lad was all down to you. You’ve saved his life.’

‘We both played a role,’ she said modestly. ‘But I’m very glad we found him and that he’s being treated by some good doctors. He stands a reasonable chance of getting better now, although he’s still seriously ill.’

As Dawson stood up and began walking to the reception desk in the accident and emergency department, one of the nurses hurried towards them.

‘You’re with Marcel Dubois, aren’t you?’ asked the nurse.

Sunita nodded. ‘Yes, we’re from CID at headquarters,’ she said. ‘Is he going to be all right now?’

‘He’s not out of the woods yet,’ she said as Dawson resumed his seat beside his sergeant. ‘But we’re optimistic. He’s got severe hypothermia, but he’s young. He’s got a good chance.’

‘That’s good news,’ said Sunita.

‘This is the kidnapped boy, isn’t it?’ the nurse continued. ‘I’m afraid news of his presence here has leaked out. We’ve got a crowd of press people outside. The duty administrator’s been overwhelmed with calls.’

‘Naturally, we’ll want to speak to Marcel and get a statement from him as soon as possible,’ said Sunita.

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible tonight,’ the nurse explained. ‘Maybe tomorrow morning. I’m afraid the parents won’t be able to see him either. The consultant’s said he’s too weak to be disturbed.’

After she had walked away, Sunita turned to her colleague.

‘Brett, you’re going to have to remain on duty here overnight and speak to the parents when they come. I’ll take over from you at six o’clock tomorrow morning,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘No one should be allowed to speak to Marcel except his family and medical staff.’

‘Where are you going, Sarge?’

‘I’m going to link up with the DCI. He’s yet to interview Jordan and there are a few things I need to tell him.’

Chapter 42

The chief inspector glanced up from his computer screen as Sunita Roy tapped gently on his open door. It was nearly 9 p.m.

‘It’s been another long day, Sergeant,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve just heard that Marcel is going to be released early tomorrow.’

‘That’s wonderful.’

‘I was wondering when we were going to be interviewing Wayne Jordan?’ she asked.

‘Any minute now. I’m sorry it’s rather late. I’m just writing a report for the chief super,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘Between you and me, I’m annoyed we didn’t get any admissions from Kyle O’Shane after we restarted the interview. The evidence against him is all there, but he adamantly refuses to budge. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. Khalid’s just had a breakthrough regarding the Beretta used to kill the bodyguard.’

She sat down by the door.

‘I heard he’d been constantly on the phone this afternoon, working feverishly,’ she said.

‘Yes. It now looks as though Wayne Jordan obtained the gun used at the manor from an underworld firearms dealer. Khalid has a contact who works for West Midlands and he’s learnt that a team of their officers have had their eyes on this guy for some time over a separate case. They raided his armoury in Walsall this week and seized several Berettas. One of them, a Beretta 9000S, has been tested in forensics. It’s been matched to the bullets fired into Jukes’s body.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ she said.

‘So shall we go and see what Jordan’s got to say for himself?’ he suggested.

Sunita collected two envelopes and a shoebox from her desk drawer in CID. Then the pair walked downstairs to Interview Room Two. Passing two uniformed constables who were standing on guard in the corridor, they entered to find Wayne Jordan seated at a table, engrossed in conversation with his solicitor, Salman Siddiqui.

After switching on the digital recorder, Roscoe reminded Jordan he had been arrested for aggravated burglary, conspiracy to murder and false imprisonment.

‘I wanted to ask firstly about why you visited Upper Norton Manor on the afternoon of 29 October,’ he said after settling into a seat opposite the suspect.

‘I never went there,’ said Jordan.

Roscoe sighed. ‘Come on, Mr Jordan,’ he said. ‘Lewis Tigworth informed us you were there, before his untimely death, and we’ve obtained other evidence confirming this. Could you show us exhibits F and G, please, Sergeant?’

Sunita slid a colour photograph from one of the envelopes. It showed the impression of part of a shoeprint left in some earth. Then she placed the shoebox on the table, removed the lid and revealed a pair of men’s black trainers.

‘You’ll notice this heel-print, photographed by one of our forensic team close to the front door of the manor on 29 October, contains a dark blob at the edge,’ she said. ‘Then we turn to the pair of trainers you were wearing when you were arrested. You’ll see the right trainer has a small gouge in the rubber heel – matching up with the dark blob in the photograph.’

Siddiqui, a short, plump man of fifty-five in a navy-blue suit, interrupted. ‘So you’re saying that my client’s right trainer was responsible for leaving the impression in the earth at the manor house?’

‘That’s right,’ she said.

‘Surely it’s possible that someone in similar footwear with a gouge or cut at the edge of the heel could have left that impression,’ the solicitor suggested.

‘No,’ said Sunita. ‘The brand of trainer, the pattern on the sole and the signs of wear all point unequivocally to Mr Jordan’s trainer having left the impression in the soil.’

‘Loads of people have got them kind of trainers and loads have probably got holes in the heels,’ said Jordan.

Sunita removed a black and white photograph from a second envelope.

‘This is exhibit H,’ she said.

‘Yes. Mr Jordan needs to see that,’ said Roscoe.

‘What exactly is this, Chief Inspector?’ asked Siddiqui. ‘A fingerprint?’

‘Yes,’ said Roscoe. ‘We know, Mr Jordan, that it was you that fired the gun, killing Danny Jukes. You were positioned at a stairway window when the trigger was pulled. This is your fingerprint, which was found on the window by the stairs. Incidentally, we also found your DNA on a beer can retrieved from the house in Juniper Lane which you and your mates used as a hideaway for four days after the burglary.’

Jordan sneered. ‘This is all manufactured nonsense. You’re trying to frame me.’

‘You had a Beretta pistol with you on that day, didn’t you?’ said Roscoe.

‘No. I don’t own one and I never have. Don’t like them,’ he replied.

‘We now know, since West Midlands Police arrested a criminal armourer named Martins, that you rented a Beretta 9000S from him a few days before 29 October. The two bullets fired into Mr Jukes’s body have been recovered by the pathologist during the post-mortem. And telltale scratches and indentations on those bullets show that they were fired by the Beretta 9000S you hired.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ Jordan insisted. ‘All right. I’ll tell you the truth. It was Tigworth who pulled the trigger.’

Roscoe ignored Jordan’s bogus claim.

‘We’ve found CCTV footage of you visiting the gun dealer’s premises,’ said Roscoe. ‘Furthermore, we have a witness – Marcel, the French boy that you and your associates abducted. He didn’t see what happened since he was hiding beneath a blanket, as he’d been instructed. But nonetheless, he’s just told us in a statement that he heard a man shouting, “Wayne!” just seconds before the two gunshots rang out.’

‘The kid should keep his nose out of other people’s business,’ Jordan complained.

‘Wayne Jordan, you shot a man twice from behind in cold blood. He didn’t stand a chance,’ said Roscoe. ‘You shot him like a coward and then you and your grubby mates dumped his body behind a hedge as if he was a piece of trash. What you didn’t know was that he was a hero who’d been commended for his bravery while serving with the British Army in Afghanistan. Do you still refuse to accept your guilt?’

‘Yeah. I ain’t guilty of nothing.’

‘You and your associate, Mr O’Shane, will appear in court tomorrow morning. And I think you should know police will be opposing any applications for bail.’

Chapter 43

Sunita Roy clung to her seat as the chief inspector drove them along the narrow country lanes that led to Upper Norton Manor on Friday morning.

Now and then, in a cottage window, she would catch a glimpse of a tree adorned with baubles and festive lights, reminding her of the approach of Christmas.

‘I’m very pleased with the way the cases against O’Shane and Jordan are shaping up,’ Roscoe told her.

‘Disappointing that Jordan’s denied even being present at the manor,’ she said.

‘All fish wriggle when they’re caught on a hook,’ he continued. ‘What’s this now?’

They were confronted by a throng of press and broadcasting reporters, along with photographers and camera crews, as they travelled up Ploughman’s Lane. Lines of cars and television vans filled the solitary lay-by and every available grass verge.

Roscoe repeatedly hooted his horn to warn pedestrians on their approach to the gates. A police constable on duty saluted him before waving his BMW through.

After proceeding up the drive, the pair were pleased to find Camille and Marcel standing outside the front door in the mild winter air. They both smiled broadly.

‘Monsieur le Chief Inspector,’ said Camille as he climbed out. ‘How nice to see you.’ She hugged and kissed him like a long-lost friend.

‘We were finally allowed to collect Marcel from the hospital early this morning,’ she said.

The teenager had lost his pale complexion and now exuded a warm, pink glow. He muttered to his mother in French.

Camille turned to Sunita as she emerged from the car.

‘Marcel says it was you that saved him,’ she told the detective, greeting her with an equally effusive welcome. ‘Une amie pour la vie.’

Sunita smiled back, aware she was being hailed as ‘a friend for life’.

The detectives were led into the living room, where Jean-Jacques Beauvais, DI Parkes and Katrina Drake were chatting and drinking coffee. A new bodyguard, who resembled a rugby prop forward in a suit, watched the guests arrive from a chair beside the patio doors.

The footballer rose to greet the newcomers with a broad grin.

‘Chief Inspector and Sergeant Roy,’ he said, ‘thank you so much for helping to find our son. We will be eternally grateful.’

Parkes stood behind him, looking increasingly resentful at the praise being directed towards the two detectives.

While the family began a conversation with Parkes, Katrina Drake approached Roscoe with a puzzled expression on her face.

‘It said on TV last night that two men are in custody, helping police,’ she said, fondling a strand of her light-brown hair. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yes, they’ll be in court sometime this morning,’ he replied.

‘Do you have their names?’

‘Yes. O’Shane and Jordan. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, I was just curious,’ said Drake.

The living-room door creaked open. The anxious face of housekeeper Marilyn Willis appeared. The room fell silent.

‘Sorry to bother you, Monsieur Beauvais,’ she announced, ‘but there’s a lady from the Press Association at the door. She says the press would dearly like to take some pictures of Marcel with you and your wife, now he’s come home.’ She quickly added, ‘And Monsieur Dubois is here.’

‘Marvellous,’ said Jean-Jacques. ‘Yes, this is the time for celebration. It’s quite warm today. Let’s all go outside and let the gentlemen and ladies of the press take their pictures. And let us greet Monsieur Philippe as well. Everybody should be welcome on this day of our rejoicing.’

He opened the patio doors and the family trooped out onto the veranda. Philippe Dubois marched across the lawn from the gravel drive and, totally ignoring his ex-wife and her husband, ran to his son, hugging and kissing him.

As journalists, photographers and camera crews approached, Marilyn Willis and Katrina Drake passed around glasses of ice-cold French champagne.

Shouts of ‘Over here, Marcel’ and ‘Jean-Jacques, over here’ filled the air as photographers vied for the best shots of the footballer, his wife and their son. Reporters fired questions at all three and Roscoe became concerned that the event might descend into chaos.

During the interviews, the chief inspector remained close behind the footballer like a shadow, ensuring no details crucial to the inquiry were accidentally revealed. Sunita spent her time standing near to Marcel.

‘We heard you were locked in a flooded cellar, Marcel,’ said Jerome Bernard from Agence France-Presse. ‘You must have been terrified.’

‘I can answer for him,’ said Jean-Jacques. ‘Marcel has told us that he never gave up hope that the British police would rescue him and he was so grateful when DS Roy climbed halfway down the cellar steps and told him he was going to be all right.’

He answered further questions about how the fire brigade cut through the chain and how paramedics rushed their son to hospital, and he disclosed that the family were buying their son several gifts – including a new skateboard – as a reward for his bravery.

After nearly half an hour, Roscoe had a brief word with Jean-Jacques and then clapped his hands to attract attention.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, Marcel is obviously tired. The boy’s been through a traumatic time – as have his family. I think, to be fair to them, we’d better wind this up soon.’

Despite his efforts to bring the impromptu family interview to a close, the cameras continued to flash and questions persisted until, exasperated, Roscoe ended the proceedings instantly by clapping his hands and calling, ‘That’s your lot, folks.’

The journalists then began to drift away.

As soon as the last one had left, a furious row erupted between Philippe Dubois and Camille.

Roscoe was talking to Katrina Drake when he heard Dubois raising his voice. He failed to understand a word since the pair were speaking in French.

‘You’ve got a good command of the language,’ he told Drake. ‘What’s he saying?’

‘He’s blaming Jean-Jacques and Camille for the kidnapping,’ she revealed. ‘He thinks they should have taken Marcel with them to Newcastle or they should have left him in France with him.’

‘I feel sorry for the boy,’ Roscoe admitted. ‘He’s been through an experience that no one of any age should have to suffer. Now he’s back home and has to watch while his parents squabble like children. You’d think they could give up the quarrelling for just one day.’

Sunita had also heard the raised voices. When Dubois ended his tirade against his ex-wife and wandered away in a huff, she hurried across the lawn after him.

‘Monsieur Dubois,’ she called. ‘Won’t you hold on for a minute?’

The red-faced Frenchman spun round.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

‘I’m sorry,’ she replied. ‘I could see that you were angry with your ex-wife.’

‘Yes. All of this would not be happening if it were not for her and that big-headed footballer. My son’s life was put in jeopardy.’

‘I don’t think it’s fair to blame Mr and Mrs Beauvais, sir,’ she said. ‘They left Marcel with a security guard and no one could have predicted the events that followed. There’s been a spate of break-ins at footballers’ houses all over England and we’re unsure if they’re connected. But I can assure you we’re doing our utmost to catch the people behind the incident that happened here.’

Dubois seemed to be calming down.

‘All right, Sergeant Roy,’ he said. ‘I can see that you and the chief inspector have worked hard on this business. I really am grateful for what you have done in bringing Marcel back to us. Perhaps I should have done more to control my temper. It’s just that, being nearly five hundred miles apart from Marcel, I’m finding the situation very difficult.’

‘I’m sure,’ she said, consolingly.

‘I was amazed to discover my boy was being kept in the cellar of an auberge called The Waterfront Tavern near the city’s bridge, merely two minutes’ walk from the very hotel where I’ve been staying. You did very well to find him. So I owe you my thanks.’

Sunita was puzzled as she watched the property developer walk away across the lawn.

The chief inspector had insisted that details of the exact location of the cellar should be kept under wraps for a few days ‘for operational reasons’. They had only shared full details with the footballer in strictest confidence.

How did Dubois know it was The Waterfront Tavern near Worcester Bridge? she wondered.

Chapter 44

After the two detectives had returned to CID, the chief inspector emerged from his room and anxiously cast his eyes around.

DC Wendy Hopkirk passed by on her way to the ladies’ washroom.

‘Have you seen DS Roy?’ he asked.

‘She was in the canteen a few minutes ago,’ she replied. ‘I expect she’ll be back in a moment.’

Shortly afterwards, Sunita hurried into the CID office carrying a sandwich.

‘Sorry, sir. Did you want me?’ she asked. ‘There was a long queue in the canteen.’

‘Don’t worry about that now. I need to speak to you urgently,’ he said.

He led her into his room and shut the door.

‘How’s Hepworth getting on with analysing the phones of O’Shane and Jordan, sir?’ she asked as she took a chair.

‘Not very well. Some contacts had been wiped but he’s managed to find one really interesting number. It’s Kyle O’Shane’s uncle, Rory O’Shane. It’s clear they’ve been speaking on the phone from time to time.’

‘The guy who recently left the Vale?’ said Sunita.

‘Yes. He lives at Yew Tree Farm in Hartley Bishop.’

‘Do you think he could be in the frame for masterminding the raid and kidnap?’ she asked.

‘Maybe. He’s got a few buildings there and could easily be storing the Bentley that Marcel was travelling in when he was abducted so we’ve applied for a search warrant. Omar should be back from the magistrates with it any time now. But listen, that wasn’t the main reason I wanted to speak to you. Dawson’s come up with something really interesting.’

He sat down behind his desk.

‘I don’t know if you remember but, when we interviewed him at his hotel, Philippe Dubois said he flew over to England on 7 November. Dawson has a good contact at Birmingham Airport. He’s discovered that Dubois also flew into Britain in September and October. We’ve got CCTV of him arriving on one occasion, on 8 October.’

Sunita interrupted. ‘He told us at the hotel he hadn’t been to the UK in years, sir.’

‘Exactly,’ said Roscoe. ‘So why did he lie?’

‘It’s strange you should say that. I had a brief conversation with Dubois at the Beauvais family’s place. He knew Marcel had been held in a cellar at a pub near the Worcester Bridge. He even had the pub’s correct name.’

‘But that sort of detail wasn’t publicly released until after that photo shoot on the lawn, was it?’ said Roscoe.

She nodded. ‘That’s right, sir.’

‘He’s spoken to Marcel, obviously, but the lad didn’t have precise information about where he’d been held. So that’s a real mystery, isn’t it? You don’t suppose…’

‘What, sir?’

‘You don’t suppose he had anything to do with his own son’s kidnapping, do you? It seems daft to even think it.’

She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms.

‘I can’t see it, sir.’

‘I mean, we know he abhors the footballer and his ex-wife. So is it possible he arranged for the raid on Upper Norton Manor and for the child to be abducted in order to show his ex-wife and her husband in a bad light? He might consider this a way of showing them up as bad parents in order to get his son back?’

‘But to allow his own son to suffer at the hands of a bunch of criminals, sir?’ she said. ‘He’d have to be a fairly hard-hearted, ruthless man to do that.’

‘Perhaps it was his original intention to hurt Jean-Jacques and Camille with the burglary and then it all started to unravel and he lost control of the operation,’ said Roscoe. ‘Anyway, I want Dawson to carry on with inquiries into these leads. Perhaps he can liaise with police in France and see if Dubois has got any form. Meanwhile, I’d like you and Omar to head off to see this Rory O’Shane.’

* * *

A man was reversing a white Isuzu D-Max pickup truck out of the drive when Sunita and DC Khalid arrived at Yew Tree Farm an hour later.

‘Block him in, Sarge,’ yelled Khalid.

Sunita followed the suggestion and edged her Peugeot forward in order to obstruct the man’s exit.

The driver, who was balding and stocky, emerged from his car and began shouting at them.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded as the two detectives got out.

‘Mr O’Shane?’ Sunita asked.

‘Depends who’s asking,’ he replied.

‘Heart of England Police,’ she said, displaying her warrant card. ‘I’m DS Roy. This is my colleague, DC Khalid. We need to ask you a few questions.’

‘What about? I’ve got a meeting in Queensbridge. Can’t this wait?’

‘Afraid not, sir,’ said the sergeant.

‘You’d better come inside,’ he said, shaking his head before climbing the steps to his front door. He turned his key in the lock before inviting the pair into his living room.

‘What’s all this about then?’ he asked.

‘We need to know where you were on Saturday, 29 October at around 4 p.m.,’ she said.

‘That’s four weeks ago. Usually, I’m here with the missus on a Saturday. Hold on a minute. Wasn’t that the day people broke into the footballer’s place over in Norton Prior?’

She nodded.

‘Look, I had nothing to do with that.’

Khalid interrupted to say, ‘We’ve seen phone records which show two calls were made to your phone that afternoon. One was at ten minutes past five and the other at five minutes to six. They were from your nephew Kyle.’

‘Yeah, I’ve got family like everyone else,’ he said.

‘Don’t try and be funny,’ said Khalid. ‘I’m sure you remember these two calls.’

‘I can’t remember,’ the farmer claimed.

‘Mr O’Shane,’ said Sunita, ‘you must have heard we’ve arrested Kyle. Why did he phone you on those occasions?’

‘The O’Shanes are a close family. We’re often in touch. I expect he was calling to make sure I was OK.’

‘We’re going to lose our tempers with you in a minute,’ said Khalid.

Before Rory O’Shane could pass any further comment, a police car, an unmarked blue Ford Focus and a large white van drew up outside.

‘Hey, what’s going on?’ Rory demanded after glancing through his front window.

‘Colleagues of ours,’ Khalid told him.

‘Look, what am I meant to have done?’

‘Well, we’ve asked you for an explanation as to why your nephew called you on the day of the break-in and you’ve refused to give a logical answer. As a result, we suspect you of assisting your nephew in burgling the premises, murdering a security guard and abducting a teenager.’

‘I had nothing at all to do with any of that,’ Rory insisted.

‘We’re particularly interested in tracing a car belonging to the family, a Bentley,’ said Khalid.

‘Don’t know nothing about it. You’re welcome to search the whole place.’

‘That’s exactly what we intend to do,’ said Sunita. ‘And if we find the car here, we’re going to throw the book at you.’

‘You can’t search my premises without a search warrant.’

‘What do you think this is?’ said Khalid, waving his court document in the farmer’s face.

Chapter 45

The market town of West Bromwich, seven miles north-west of Birmingham, was masked in a veil of fog as Sunita Roy and DC Dawson arrived there at eleven o’clock on Monday morning. Dawson had visited Kyle O’Shane’s parents the previous day and Kyle’s father had let it slip that their son lived nearby, in Unwin Street.

After calling at the letting agents for a key, they made their way through a maze of streets on the southern side of the town until they reached the red-brick terraced house in Unwin Street where Kyle O’Shane had made his home.

‘Doesn’t look too impressive at first glance, does it, Sarge?’ said Dawson as Sunita brought her car to a halt outside. ‘But I’d give him ten out of ten for location. He’s got a mini-mart next door and he’s just a few steps away from a chip shop, a Chinese takeaway and a pub. Hey, how come it’s taken so long for us to get an address for him?’

‘The letting agent said the tenancy’s in the name of Rory O’Shane. Come on,’ she insisted. ‘We’ve got a job to do.’

The key turned easily in the lock and the pair found themselves in a dark, narrow hallway. They peered into the small front room, where there was a brown two-seater settee and matching armchair, before proceeding past a small bathroom into a large kitchen-diner.

‘It’s surprisingly neat and tidy compared with his parents’ place,’ Dawson remarked.

‘Yes. It’s a little strange to think that, despite his criminal background, he was a clean-living guy,’ she said.

‘Do you think he lived here alone?’ asked Dawson as he opened one of the white, shaker-style kitchen cupboards. It was empty.

‘Looks that way,’ she replied. ‘There don’t seem to be any signs of a woman’s touch. Let’s take a peek upstairs.’

The pair found the house had two bedrooms and a shower room on the first floor. Once again, the rooms were tidy and had been immaculately decorated with a white finish.

‘You make a start here, Brett,’ she told him. ‘I’ll have a crack at the downstairs.’

‘So what do you think we should be looking for exactly?’

‘I’m not really sure,’ she said. ‘Anything tying him to burglary, I suppose. Any documents relating to cars and properties. Any possible proceeds of crime or drugs. Any old phones. Any names and addresses for friends and relatives. You know the sort of thing.’

‘So the search for the Bentley at the uncle’s farm drew a blank?’ said Dawson.

‘That’s right, although we found a sales invoice showing the car had been sold abroad. So Rory’s clearly implicated to some degree.’

‘He’ll probably just be done for handling stolen goods.’

‘Probably. He certainly doesn’t seem to have played any part in arranging or carrying out the burglary and the other offences. Come on, let’s get to work.’

Half an hour later, Dawson joined his sergeant in the kitchen.

‘All I’ve found is this small bag which smells like cannabis,’ he told her, holding up a transparent plastic bag.

She took a sniff of the contents.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘You haven’t found anything else?’

He shook his head.

‘I’m wondering if he kept the place scrupulously clean just in case he got raided – you know, so there wouldn’t be anything to pin on him.’

‘You could be right. It looks swept clean,’ she admitted. ‘Hang on a minute.’

Sunita’s attention had been drawn to a fridge-freezer standing in a corner, by the double-glazed back door.

Her eyes had settled upon a handwritten note fixed to the side of the appliance with a magnet.

‘What is it, Sarge – his shopping list?’ asked Dawson.

She removed the strawberry magnet and studied the square piece of white paper beneath it.

‘It’s a list of names and numbers written on the back of an envelope,’ she said. ‘His mother; Wayne Jordan; his sister; a woman called Sadie Mills; and a man called Josh Lyttleton. Well, there we are, Brett. We’ve both got something to do this afternoon. We can go through these numbers and see if they take us anywhere.’

* * *

That same cold morning, the chief inspector had decided to travel to Worcester and confront Philippe Dubois about his suspicions. Accompanied by DC Khalid, he left the CID office at St James Street and took the stairs to the ground floor. He had only just arrived in the reception hall when DI Parkes pushed his way through the doors and approached him.

‘Good. I’ve been meaning to have a word with you,’ said Roscoe. He passed the remote for his car to Khalid.

‘Let yourself in, would you? I’ll only be a minute,’ he said.

As Khalid stepped into the car park, Roscoe and Parkes took seats in the corner under the watchful eye of the young, dark-haired constable sitting behind the reception desk.

‘What have you got planned for today?’ Roscoe asked the inspector.

‘Well, I was going to have a chat with John Hepworth about the phones. He doesn’t seem to be making much progress and I was going to suggest, sir, that perhaps one of our operatives in Birmingham should be invited to have a look at them instead.’

Roscoe shook his head.

‘John Hepworth is a brilliant operator and, if he can’t find any useful intelligence that could lead to us unmasking the ruthless individual that controls the Matchday Boys, no one can,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you going over to John and making mischief.’

Parkes glared. ‘I must protest at the use of that phrase, sir. I’m simply trying to overcome the challenges we’re facing with this final part of the investigation.’

‘DC Khalid and I are about to head off to see Dubois, who’s given us grounds for suspicion over the past few days that he might have been involved in coordinating the gang.’

Parkes frowned.

‘Well, good luck with that, sir. What are the chances of a father being involved with a gang who abducted his own son? Doesn’t sound plausible to me.’

‘Well, he’s said a couple of strange things that I need to clear up,’ said Roscoe.

‘Sir, with respect, I think we should be re-interviewing Kyle O’Shane and putting more pressure on him to reveal who he was working for.’

Roscoe scowled. He was beginning to lose his temper with the bumptious inspector.

‘Look, I’ve had enough of you questioning my strategy,’ Roscoe exclaimed. ‘You were sent here to help us, not hinder us – and, for most of the time, you’ve been a hindrance. My sergeant, through dogged detective work, managed to find the missing boy but, since she did, your bitterness and hostility towards her has only increased.’

Parkes grimaced. ‘Sir, that’s just not fair.’

‘I think it is fair,’ Roscoe insisted. ‘It’s high time you took your leave of us and allowed us to conclude this inquiry on our own terms. Do you understand me? As of now, you’re officially off this case, Inspector.’

On that note, he stood up and marched off to his car. Parkes, unexpectedly finding himself alone, remained on his seat with a look of bewilderment. Across the reception hall, the duty constable, who had overheard the last part of the conversation, was smiling to himself.

Chapter 46

It took the chief inspector a few minutes to calm down after his row with Inspector Parkes.

‘That man’s nothing less than a pain in the backside,’ he muttered as he started his car and drove away from police headquarters with Khalid beside him in the passenger seat.

‘Is he complaining again about something?’ asked Khalid. ‘I’ve noticed he does that a lot.’

‘He thinks we’re wasting our time visiting Dubois and suggests instead that we should lean on Kyle O’Shane a bit more and make him identify the boss.’

‘But you’ve tried that and it didn’t work, sir,’ said Khalid.

‘I know. But I suppose Parkes thinks we should use more subtle means of extracting the information from him – more psychological pressure, I suppose. But we haven’t got enough leverage to do that right now.’

‘I could see through the window that Parkes was backing away from you, sir,’ said Khalid.

‘Yes, he’s off the case. I’ve sent him packing. I know I’m probably going to get a rocket from the chief super, but I’d just about had enough of that cocky inspector.’

When the two detectives arrived at the reception desk at the King’s Arms Hotel, they were disconcerted to learn that Philippe Dubois was unavailable.

‘He hasn’t checked out, has he?’ asked Roscoe.

The blonde receptionist shook her head.

‘No, sir. He’s booked to stay until the end of the week.’

‘Perhaps he’s just gone out shopping,’ suggested Khalid.

They sat down beside an elegant, ten-foot-tall Christmas tree decorated with blue and white baubles and waited for several minutes. Then Khalid spotted the Frenchman strolling through the main door with a camera round his neck.

‘Monsieur le Chief Inspector, quelle surprise,’ he said. ‘And DC Khalid.’ He nodded amiably and shook their hands.

‘We need to have a word with you, sir,’ said Roscoe. ‘Is there somewhere quiet?’

‘You could come to my room, if you like,’ he suggested. ‘It’s private there.’

Dubois led them to the lift and they travelled to the third floor. Then he took them along a corridor until they reached his room, number three hundred and one.

The detectives found themselves in a bright, spacious room with a double bed and a sash window overlooking Foregate Street. Its ivory-coloured walls were embellished with black-and-white prints of historic county street scenes.

‘So what’s the matter, Chief Inspector?’ asked Dubois, shutting the door and sitting down on the bed.

‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ said Roscoe. ‘When we spoke to you two and a half weeks ago, you gave us the impression this was your first visit to the UK for some time. But we’ve found out you flew into Birmingham Airport in September and October.’

Dubois gave a Gallic shrug, raising his shoulders and gesturing with his arms open.

‘A simple misunderstanding, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘I have been fraught with the worry over my son.’

Roscoe frowned. ‘And why did you visit the UK on those two previous occasions?’ he asked.

‘Business,’ he said. ‘The UK is a good place to invest money. I’m looking for the property to buy.’

‘I see. So you’ve been meeting estate agents in Birmingham and Worcester?’

‘And property companies.’

‘Your visits here are unconnected with the obsession you have about your ex-wife and son?’

Dubois glared at him. ‘I don’t have the obsession. My visits before my son was taken were purely for business.’

‘In that case,’ said Roscoe, ‘you won’t mind giving my colleague, DC Khalid, full details about who you called on and when, will you?’ said Roscoe.

‘I can do that. It may take a little time, but I can provide that information.’

‘The other matter concerns something you told my sergeant while at Upper Norton Manor on Friday. You stated that Marcel had been kept captive in The Waterfront Tavern near Worcester Bridge. I believe you used the word “auberge”. How did you come by that information?’

Dubois adopted a solemn expression.

‘I have no recollection, Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I read it online or maybe someone told me. I don’t remember.’

‘Who could have told you?’ Roscoe asked. ‘That information wasn’t publicly available at that time.’

‘Maybe Mrs Willis, the housekeeper, told me about the Worcester Bridge when I first arrived at the house. I’m sorry. I just don’t know. Why is this so important?’

‘Because you seem to know a lot more about the abduction of your son than you’re letting on,’ said Roscoe. ‘Because it’s crossed our minds that, since you resent your ex-wife’s new marriage to Mr Beauvais, you might have arranged the break-in at the manor yourself.’

‘C’est ridicule!’ he replied. ‘Who is the father who can kidnap his own son and make financial demands for his return? I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. You are at risk of making yourself ridiculous. That is not a method I would use to take revenge upon my ex-wife. So please forget that idea.’

‘Very well,’ said Roscoe, edging towards the door. ‘We’ll leave those questions there for the moment. But I must insist that you now help DC Khalid here by giving him full details of the meetings you’ve held in September and October – complete with times, dates and addresses. We’re not finished with you yet, by any means.’

The chief inspector left his colleague to quiz the Frenchman about his activities in the UK. He took the lift down and found a seat beside a small table in the reception area while waiting for Khalid to finish his work. For several minutes, he remained there, deep in thought.

Philippe Dubois had a strong reason to dislike the footballer but, Roscoe wondered, would he have stooped so low as to hire a gang of British criminals to raid the family’s home and kidnap his own son?

Perhaps the initial abduction had been a spur of the moment act. Perhaps the boy had been snatched away by the gang for fear the lad might have witnessed some of the action. But if Dubois played a part in staging the events of that late October afternoon, surely he would have used his influence within the gang to make sure his own son was quickly released?

Roscoe remained highly suspicious of the French property developer. He could see how he would relish any chance to hurt and humiliate the footballer and Camille. But it was surely improbable that he would have allowed his own son’s life to be placed in peril. Wasn’t it?

Chapter 47

Taking one step at a time, Sunita Roy manoeuvred her way cautiously across the office carpet in CID, carrying two cups of coffee. She placed one of the steaming drinks on the desk beside DC Dawson’s computer screen.

‘There you are, Brett,’ she said, glancing down at the white envelope containing the phone numbers she’d found beside the fridge in Unwin Street.

After heading back to her own desk with the remaining drink, she told him, ‘I want you to call Kyle O’Shane’s mother and sister. Meanwhile, I’m going to tackle Sadie Mills and Josh Lyttleton.’

‘What particularly are we looking for, Sarge?’ Dawson asked.

‘We want detailed knowledge of Kyle’s personal life,’ she replied. ‘We need details of any close friends and associates. Did he have a job? How did he spend his private life? Any girlfriends? You know the sort of thing. But most important of all: Did he have any close links to fellow criminals?’

Sadie Mills’s phone number rang for nearly a minute before the call diverted to voicemail. Sunita decided not to leave a message but to try the number again later.

She had more success with her call to Josh Lyttleton. He answered almost at once, stating his name in a deep, husky voice.

‘Maybe you can help me,’ said Sunita. ‘I’m trying to get in touch with friends and relatives of a guy called Kyle O’Shane.’

‘How did you get my number?’ asked Lyttleton.

‘I found it on a list of numbers that Mr O’Shane’s been keeping.’

‘Who are you exactly?’

‘I’m a police officer. We’re just carrying out some background research. Your name’s on a list alongside his mother and sister,’ she said.

‘Exalted company,’ he remarked.

‘Yes. He obviously thought highly of you,’ she said.

‘Me and Kyle go back a long way. Look, I don’t mind talking to you.’

‘My name’s DS Roy, by the way,’ she said.

‘I’m Josh, as you’re obviously aware.’

‘Josh, you say you’ve known Kyle a while. When did you first get to know him?’

‘We grew up together in West Bromwich. We used to hang around together, although I was a couple of years older, and, I’m sorry to say, we got into trouble together. We both ended up doing a stretch in Winson Green for burglary. But those days are behind me now and I’ve started to turn my life around.’

Sunita leaned back in her office chair.

‘That’s good to hear,’ she said as, a few seats away, she could overhear Dawson speaking to O’Shane’s mother.

‘Yes. I’m training to be a church deacon,’ he said.

‘That’s quite a career change.’

‘Yes. I became friends with the prison chaplain and he helped me to find the Lord. I started reading the Bible and became a Christian and I’m now in the middle of my induction course.’

‘Remarkable story,’ said Sunita. ‘You and Kyle appeared in court together for burglary?’

‘A few times. We began with community orders and suspended sentences. In the end, we got sent down. I got three years. He got five.’

‘So you both spent time in Winson Green?’

‘Yes, but we never saw much of each other when we were inside. I tell you what, despite the years, he hasn’t changed. He’s still the same lad from West Brom trying to overcome the rough start he had in life.’

There was a pause in the conversation while Sunita wrote a few words in her notebook.

‘Josh, if you were whiling away the hours reading the Bible, how did Kyle spend his time in prison?’

‘He went on a mechanics course and he made a few friends. His biggest pal was his cellmate, Matt. He was a big guy, like Kyle, and serving a stretch for fraud. He’s had a huge influence on Kyle – and not a very positive one. The guy had a charismatic personality and, somehow or other, Kyle fell under his spell.’

‘So when were Kyle and this other man released?’

‘Kyle was let out four years ago. Matt got parole a few months afterwards.’

‘What happened to Matt?’ Sunita asked.

‘Last I heard he was running some business. Don’t ask me whereabouts, though.’

Sunita frowned and shook her head.

‘It must be very difficult to run a business when you’ve got a criminal record,’ she pointed out.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Any idea about Matt’s surname and where he lives?’

‘I’ve no idea where he lives,’ said Lyttleton. ‘I was never in his close circle of friends and I’ve lost touch with him, I’m afraid. His surname is something like Biddle or Beadle.’

Sunita was plunged into deep thought. She had come across the surname Biddle somewhere before. For the moment, she couldn’t recall the association.

‘Are you still there?’ asked Lyttleton.

‘Yes, sorry,’ said Sunita. ‘I was just thinking about something. Listen, you’ve been incredibly helpful, Josh. Do you mind if I give you a call sometime, if I need any further information?’

‘Of course. No problem,’ he said.

‘And I wish you good luck in your chosen profession,’ she added.

When she came off the phone, Dawson hurried across to her.

‘Just spoken to Kyle’s mother, Sarge,’ he said. ‘She wasn’t too helpful. Just had a string of complaints about the way he’s been treated since he was arrested.’

‘Don’t bother with that now, Brett. I’ve got details of a guy who befriended Kyle while they shared a prison cell. He might turn out to be a real person of interest.’

She phoned the governor’s office at the prison in Winson Green and, within minutes, had found details of a prisoner released on parole four years earlier. His name was Matthew Biddle.

She sent an email to the genealogist in Birmingham that Heart of England Police often used during difficult cases.

Once he had agreed to carry out some research for her into the man’s family, she moved onto the next stage of her inquiries, which involved a call to the parole service.

This revealed that Kyle O’Shane’s former cellmate was now running a car dealership in Queensbridge after having officially changed his name from Matthew Biddle to… Matthew Swinford.

Chapter 48

The county town of Warwick lay shrouded in fog when Sunita Roy rose from her bed just before seven o’clock on Tuesday morning. She glanced through her living-room window into the street outside. A white veil enveloped the racecourse in the distance like a ghostly shadow.

A growing sense of excitement had been coursing through her veins, leaving her unable to sleep. A sense that a ray of light was about to penetrate the web of darkness surrounding the break-in at the manor.

She returned to her bedroom and slipped on her white dressing gown. Then she strolled into her kitchen and made herself a lemon tea. Within minutes, she was feeling revived and ready for the active day she had planned. But so many thoughts were spinning through her head. Was Matt Swinford, the boss of West Avon Motors, who had behaved rather brusquely towards her in his showroom, the leader of the Matchday Boys? Had he arranged for the gang to be armed? Had he sanctioned the kidnapping?

A great deal of circumstantial evidence pointed towards him. He had served a prison sentence for a string of dishonesty offences. He seemed to have struck up a close bond with principal gang member Kyle O’Shane. If he was related to the estate agent James Biddle, from Royal County Properties, that might account for the ease with which the gang seemed to find empty properties in which to take refuge. She just needed a little more information now to confirm her suspicions.

But there was a question troubling her. How could a man with a prison sentence for fraud be allowed to set up in business in the market town of Queensbridge, buying and selling cars? Had he used some ruse to get round the law?

That was not all that concerned her. The gang seemed to know immediately when the Beauvais family had called in the police. It was as though someone had tipped them off about it.

After a light breakfast, she turned on her laptop and was pleased to see that the genealogist in Birmingham had already replied to her email.

The researcher, which the police regularly used to trace the family trees of suspects and witnesses in criminal cases, had provided detailed birth and marriage information about the Warwickshire family that interested her. He had also checked records at Companies House and the probate office.

Now most of her doubts had been dispelled. Now her vision was clearer.

Delighted to receive the information so promptly, she emailed the family researcher back, ‘Thank you for supplying details of those births. This has helped confirm what I strongly suspected.’

She then spent an hour on the phone making further inquiries into the case. Part of that time was spent speaking to Dr Ling in forensics.

Two hours later, she arrived at St James Street in a cheerful mood. With a confident air, she climbed the stairs to CID and, after placing her fawn coat on the back of her chair, tapped on the chief inspector’s door.

‘I think I might have cracked the case,’ she said while entering his room carrying a slip of paper.

She was embarrassed to find she was interrupting a discussion between her boss and DC Khalid.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she stammered while backing away.

‘No, it’s all right, Sergeant. We were just talking about Philippe Dubois. Please come in.’

She closed the door and sat down.

‘You might have cracked the case?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir.’ She placed her sheet of paper on his desk.

‘Before you go into your new theory, I should tell you that Dubois is no longer being regarded as a suspect,’ said Roscoe. ‘Khalid’s checked the company meetings he held in September and October and his explanations stack up. Mrs Willis has confirmed that, in a fit of excitement after hearing Marcel had been reunited with the Beauvais couple, she blurted out to Dubois that the boy had been found in The Waterfront Tavern near the city’s bridge – details she overheard the family discussing.’

Sunita smiled. ‘I’m not really surprised, sir,’ she said. ‘In any case, how could Dubois successfully run a gang in Britain while based in France? And what’s more, how could Dubois have found the gang empty properties to use as hideouts?’

‘Well, you say that, but Dubois is a property dealer,’ said Roscoe. ‘Anyway that’s irrelevant now. So you’ve got a new suspect?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Matthew Swinford.’

‘Isn’t that the guy who’s taken over West Avon Motors?’

‘The very same.’

He reached for the piece of paper she had placed on his desk and began studying it.

‘So what am I looking at here?’

‘It’s Swinford’s family tree,’ she said. ‘You’ll see that, in 1973, a twenty-four-year-old woman, Davina Swinford, married a guy called Martin Biddle in Evesham. They had two sons – James in 1973 and Matthew in 1975.’

‘I can see that,’ Roscoe admitted, ‘but what’s that got to do with our case?’

‘Well, Matthew Biddle and Matthew Swinford are one and the same person. After coming out of Winson Green four years ago, he decided to change his name and began using his mother’s maiden name, Swinford. Then, using inherited money, he took over West Avon Motors from Jett Lumley.’

‘I’d been wondering how a convicted fraudster could set up in business,’ she continued. ‘Apparently there was nothing to stop him. You can register as a company director as long as you’re not a disqualified director or an undischarged bankrupt. In any case, he’s made his mother managing director and he calls himself the general manager.’

‘That’s a shocking state of affairs,’ said Roscoe. ‘The law needs looking at.’

‘I agree, sir,’ said Khalid.

‘And once he’d set himself up in the motor trade, he took on a lucrative sideline,’ said Sunita, ‘organising burglaries of country houses with his former prison pal, Kyle O’Shane.’

‘What about the other brother, James?’ asked Roscoe, studying the family tree.

‘I’m glad you asked, sir,’ she said. ‘I’ve met the guy. He’s an estate agent in Queensbridge.’

‘Is he?’

‘Yes. As a matter of fact, I’ve just bought my new house through him. As we know, the gang used buildings in Queensbridge, Monkswood and Worcester. They’ve all been on the books of James Biddle’s firm, Royal County Properties, so I’ve been wondering…’

Roscoe interrupted.

‘If Biddle handed the keys to those properties over to his crooked brother?’ asked Roscoe. ‘Sounds possible, doesn’t it? But there’s one thing that worries me. The connection between the two prison friends is clear. But is there any more recent evidence to show Kyle O’Shane and Matt Swinford were associating together during the kidnapping?’

She nodded. ‘I’ve had some luck there as well. Dr Ling’s confirmed that a burner phone found at the Worcester pub bore O’Shane’s fingerprints. It’s clear O’Shane made numerous calls to a phone number in Marina Gardens, Queensbridge, where Swinford is based.’

Roscoe shrugged. ‘Far from conclusive, but it gives us enough to make an arrest. Maybe a search of Swinford’s home will turn up some hard evidence. We’ve obviously got to go and arrest this guy.’

He was still holding the sheet of paper.

‘Getting back to your family research,’ he said, ‘at the foot of the page, you refer to Matthew’s marriage to a lady called Anna Carson and the birth of a baby in 1994 called Katrina.’

‘That right, sir,’ she said. ‘I understand that Matt Swinford and Anna are now divorced. He’s now living with his elderly mother in a rambling old house in the village of Biddington. If you turn over, you’ll see what happened to the little girl.’

Roscoe peered at the details on the reverse of the sheet.

‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Katrina Drake.’

‘What’s this?’ asked Khalid.

Roscoe handed him the page so the constable could see for himself.

‘What you’re saying, Sarge, is that Katrina Drake is Matt Swinford’s daughter?’ said Khalid.

‘That’s right. She changed her name from Biddle when she married Geoffrey Drake in Birmingham four years ago.’

‘So all the time the Beauvais family were going through the emotional turmoil of their son’s abduction, there was a spy in the camp,’ said Roscoe, leaning back on his chair. ‘Sergeant, you’ve worked exceptionally hard on this case and it’s paid off. You should be immensely proud of yourself.’

She blushed. ‘Thank you, sir. I suspected all the time that a person close to the family might be in league with the gang. Do you remember the Matchday Boys sent the Beauvais family a message on 9 November, berating them for bringing in the police?’

‘Yes. I thought that was rather strange at the time,’ Roscoe muttered. ‘How did they know that police had become involved?’

‘The gang’s message was very specific too,’ she said. ‘Their message stated that police had been contacted on the morning of Tuesday, 1 November. They could only have known that so precisely if someone with inside knowledge had been keeping them informed.’

‘Well,’ said Roscoe, leaning forward in his seat. ‘We now know who that someone was. It was Katrina Drake.’

Chapter 49

PC Derek Underhill was pacing up and down Marina Gardens in Queensbridge with a pensive look when the chief inspector’s car drew up late in the afternoon. Roscoe and his sergeant got out and joined the constable on the pavement.

‘It’s been a while since I was last here,’ said Roscoe. ‘Derek, is that the showroom over there?’

‘Yes,’ said Underhill. ‘I glanced through the window, but I could only see one person around.’

‘That will probably be Michael, one of Swinford’s sales staff,’ said Sunita. ‘Swinford is probably in his back office.’

‘All right. Let’s not waste any more time. Let’s go and see what he’s got to say,’ said Roscoe.

‘I heard two people were going to be arrested today,’ said Underhill as they strolled together towards the nearby River Avon.

‘We’ve got Khalid and Hopkirk heading over to the manor to pick up Katrina Drake,’ Roscoe explained.

‘Blimey,’ said Underhill. ‘You don’t hang around. As soon as the cogs of the engine get turning, the old wheels spring into life.’

‘Derek, I hope you’re not trying to compare the CID department to the operation of an old bus,’ muttered Roscoe as he walked towards the showroom entrance.

Two dark-green Land Rovers, a silver Mercedes and a blue Toyota stood on the forecourt as the salesman, Michael, emerged and greeted them.

‘Police. DCI Roscoe,’ the chief inspector announced. ‘Is your guvnor in?’

‘Mr Swinford? I think he’s on the phone. Is there a problem?’

‘Tell him we need to speak to him,’ said Roscoe.

As Michael set off to find his boss, the chief inspector asked Underhill in a low voice, ‘Is there a back way?’

‘Yes, there is,’ the constable confirmed. ‘There’s gates and a small car park for staff behind here.’

‘Forgive my suspicious nature, but there’s a chance our Mr Swinford might try to evade us by slipping out the back. Could you go and keep an eye on the rear?’

Roscoe soon realised his fears were unjustified. In less than a minute, Swinford, looking immaculate in a light-grey suit, emerged from his office and approached them with a questioning look in his eyes.

‘DS Roy, good to see you again,’ he said, ‘and you’ve brought a colleague.’

‘This is DCI Roscoe,’ Sunita explained.

‘I’m afraid this isn’t a social visit,’ said the chief inspector. ‘We’ve come to arrest you.’

‘Arrest me? Whatever for?’

While Sunita phoned Underhill to summon him back, Roscoe recited the charges.

‘On suspicion of conspiring with others to commit burglary, aggravated burglary and theft at Upper Norton Manor on 29 October this year,’ he said. ‘On the same date, conspiracy to murder and, on various dates, to blackmail.’ He recited the police caution.

‘That’s quite a list,’ said Swinford with a scowl. ‘I can’t think why you’re accusing me.’

‘You’ve got a close friend called Kyle O’Shane,’ said Roscoe as Underhill joined them at the showroom entrance.

‘Funny. Don’t remember him,’ Swinford said, attempting to smile.

Sunita interrupted. ‘That’s strange because we’re fairly sure he remembers you,’ she said.

Swinford turned pale and the smile on his face faded.

‘You’ve got the wrong man,’ said Swinford. ‘Arresting me is a big mistake which you’ll both live to regret.’

‘The keys to your house in Biddington, please, Mr Swinford,’ said Roscoe, holding out his hand.

‘You can’t go there without a warrant,’ Swinford insisted. ‘In any case, my mother’s in poor health. She’s recovering from a heart attack.’

‘We’ve got a warrant to search your premises,’ said Roscoe.

‘And we’ll be careful not to alarm your mother,’ said Sunita.

‘Handcuff him, Derek,’ said Roscoe, ‘and can you arrange for him to be taken up to headquarters?’

* * *

Soon after Roscoe and Sunita set off on the six-mile journey to Swinford’s home, the chief inspector received a call from DC Khalid.

‘Sir, we’ve arrested Katrina Drake and we’re on our way to St James Street with her,’ the constable informed him. ‘She’s been charged with assisting an organised crime group.’

‘Good,’ Roscoe replied. ‘Did she give any trouble?’

‘She was absolutely stunned but didn’t make a fuss, simply claiming she was innocent and that she expected to be back at the manor soon. The Beauvais family were shocked beyond belief.’

‘I bet they were. Thanks for that, Khalid. We’re on our way to Swinford’s place and we hope to be back in an hour or so.’

The village of Biddington, three miles from Norton Prior, consisted of a church, a gastropub, a public school, three farms and around twenty residential properties.

Matt Swinford’s home – owned by his mother, Davina – was a picturesque, black-and-white, eighteenth-century cottage in a narrow lane. A brick pathway meandered down the long garden, which was mainly laid to lawn and bounded by high hedges.

Roscoe drew into a small parking area at the rear of the cottage. He and his sergeant got out and they were joined, moments later, by Dr Ling after she had arrived in her white Kia Sportage.

‘Have you tried the door?’ she asked as she began slipping on her white overalls.

‘Not yet,’ said Sunita, ‘but there’s a light on in the kitchen and Matt Swinford’s mother is expected to be here.’

As they were speaking, a frail, grey-haired woman in her mid-seventies could be seen gazing through the window. Seconds later, she opened the heavy, oak door with a struggle.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, leaning on a walking stick.

‘Heart of England CID,’ said Sunita, producing her warrant card. ‘I’m DS Roy. This is DCI Roscoe. Are you Mrs Swinford?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m afraid your son’s been taken to police headquarters and we have a warrant to search your house.’

‘Why? What’s he meant to have done?’ asked Davina Swinford with a worried expression.

Roscoe interrupted. ‘I’m afraid we can’t say too much,’ he said, ‘but he’s assisting us with our inquiries.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’

While she had been talking, four members of Dr Ling’s forensics staff had arrived. They trooped in before anyone else, followed by Dr Ling, Roscoe and Sunita.

‘I suppose I’d better look at your warrant,’ Davina told Sunita as she hobbled into the modern, shaker-style kitchen to fetch a pair of glasses.

Sunita and Roscoe glanced into the living-room of the Grade II-listed building. It had a marble fireplace, low ceilings with dark timber beams and traditional-styled doors.

While the chief inspector followed Dr Ling into the dual-aspect living room, Sunita remained in the sizable hallway, clutching the warrant. Once she had returned, the old lady spent a few seconds studying the document.

‘It says something about reasonable suspicion there may be the proceeds of a burglary here,’ she said without looking up.

‘I can’t comment without my boss’s approval,’ said Sunita. ‘Why don’t you go and make yourself a cup of tea? I don’t suppose we’ll be very long.’

‘How long?’

‘Maybe an hour or two?’

‘An hour or two? I’m meant to be going out to the village hall in an hour,’ she moaned before storming off into the kitchen and slamming the door.

Sunita stepped into the living room where the chief inspector was holding up a watch in a transparent evidence bag.

‘Just found this in a drawer of the antique writing bureau in the corner,’ he boasted.

‘It looks like a watch, sir,’ she remarked.

‘Not just any watch. It’s a Richard Mille watch like the one on the list of goods seized from Upper Norton Manor,’ he said. ‘Dr Ling’s just gone upstairs. But before she went, she found a burner phone in a household bin.’

‘So the evidence is starting to come together.’

‘It certainly is,’ he said. ‘I’m just going to give this to the crime scene manager, who’s in the room next door.’

After he went, Sunita cast her eyes round. The room contained two grey leather two-seater settees and a matching armchair. A rustic, solid wood coffee table stood in the centre of the room, beneath a crystal chandelier. A piano occupied the far corner. For some reason, her attention was drawn to an item lying on the mahogany piano stool.

She stepped across the room and peered down. It was a small gold clutch bag with the initials NJ.

Chapter 50

The chief inspector peered through the one-way glass into Interview Room One at St James Street.

Matt Swinford was sitting on his own, hunched over a table. He looked up as his smartly dressed solicitor, Magnus Huckabee, pushed open the door and gave the car dealer a pat on the back before taking a chair beside him.

Huckabee, a stout, balding man, was in his early forties – not much younger than his client.

Roscoe glanced across at his sergeant. ‘Swinford’s about to tell his brief that there’s no reason he should be there and that he’s the victim of police bungling.’ He came and sat down beside her, shaking his head. ‘This case has taken its toll on me, Sergeant,’ he told Sunita, who was sipping from a cup of lemon tea. ‘I think I need a holiday.’

‘Maybe you’ll be able to take one,’ she said, ‘once this is all over. But I agree, it’s been an exhausting few weeks.’

He smiled at her. ‘You clearly believe the murder of Danny Jukes was deliberately planned and that Swinford wasn’t on his own in arranging it?’

She nodded.

‘I think we’d make a mistake to assume he planned it alone,’ said Sunita. ‘Let me explain. When I visited Natalie Jukes the day after her husband was murdered, I noticed a gold clutch bag in her sitting room. Her initials, NJ, were embossed on it. The same bag was on a piano stool at the Swinfords’ cottage. I opened it and found a driving licence inside in Natalie’s name. I immediately went into the kitchen, where Davina Swinford was sitting quietly at the table, staring out of the window. I explained about the bag and asked if she knew Natalie. She revealed she was her son’s girlfriend. She said they met last Christmas and were planning to get married.’

‘But you told me Mrs Jukes gave every impression of an anguished widow when you visited her in Evesham,’ said Roscoe.

‘I know,’ said Sunita. ‘She’s a good actress and nearly had me fooled.’

‘So your theory is that she was having an affair with Swinford?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You don’t think it possible he acted without her compliance and arranged for the bodyguard to be shot?’

‘I’m thinking it must have been with her agreement and I’m sure we can find the evidence to support it,’ she said.

‘So the burglary was used as a diversion?’

‘No. Not really. Mrs Swinford also mentioned that her son and Nicola had been talking about moving abroad. It sounds like they needed money to help them do that.’

Roscoe stood up and shook his head again. ‘Is there no limit to the depths of depravity some of our fellow humans will stoop to?’ he said.

Sunita shrugged and shook her head.

‘Did you send someone down to the Jukeses’ house, sir?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Dawson’s down there, but he says there’s no reply at the front door and thinks she could still be at work. For the moment, I’ve asked him to sit tight.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I think I should join him after we’ve spoken to Swinford, sir.’

‘I’d come as well but there’s no sense in all three of us going,’ said Roscoe. ‘By the way, you’ve met Swinford before, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, when we were inquiring about the Mercedes,’ she said. ‘He’d reported it as stolen – even though it was being used by the gang.’

‘Cheek of old Nick,’ he asserted. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he made an insurance claim. Anyway, we’ve given them long enough. Let’s go and see how things stand.’

Carrying a small evidence bag, Sunita followed the chief inspector into the next room, where he switched on the digital recorder. The pair sat down facing Swinford and his lawyer.

‘You’re still under caution, Mr Swinford,’ said Roscoe. ‘Now, as you’re no doubt aware, we’ve been investigating a burglary at Norton Prior on Saturday, 29 October in which a man was shot dead and a boy kidnapped. Where were you on that afternoon at around four o’clock?’

‘At my business, West Avon Motors,’ he replied.

‘Who can vouch for that?’

‘Michael Robson, one of my sales staff.’

‘We’ll make inquiries to make sure you’re telling the truth,’ said Roscoe. ‘In any case, it’s not being suggested you were physically involved in the break-in, the shooting or the abduction. What’s being contended is that you were the brains behind what happened – that you planned and organised events, handled stolen goods and that you were responsible for the ransom demands that led to the kidnapped boy’s family paying out two million pounds.’

‘No comment.’

‘Our team will be going through your bank statements and examining a mobile phone we found under your bed. A man called Kyle O’Shane, who’s facing charges in connection with the burglary, is one of the contacts on that phone.’

Swinford glared back. ‘No comment,’ he said.

Sunita opened the evidence bag she’d brought with her and brought out the recovered Richard Mille watch.

‘This was found in your writing bureau. It’s on a list of items taken from Upper Norton Manor,’ she said.

‘How do you account for this being in your living room?’ asked Roscoe.

‘No comment,’ said Swinford with a scowl.

‘We’ve also found more than a dozen designer handbags in your bedroom which match up with bags on the same list,’ remarked Sunita.

‘No comment.’

‘When you left Winson Green, you changed your name, didn’t you?’ said Roscoe. ‘You dropped your original surname of Biddle and began using your mother’s maiden name, Swinford. One of my colleagues has been to see your brother, James Biddle. He’s an estate agent, as you’re aware, and he’s confirmed in a written statement that he lent you the keys to two properties – Meadow Brook Farm in Monkswood and The Waterfront Tavern in Worcester. This was done on the understanding that you were searching for suitable locations for photo shoots advertising prestige cars.’

‘No comment.’

‘Speaking of The Waterfront Tavern, we understand you conspired with Kyle O’Shane and Wayne Jordan to keep the kidnapped boy, Marcel Dubois, in the pub’s cellar. It was here that, following the recent floods, he nearly died, having been chained to the wall. He must have been terrified as the river water rose and nearly filled the entire cellar. It’s only thanks to the ingenuity of Sergeant Roy here that she discovered this location and organised the boy’s rescue. If it wasn’t for her, he’d almost certainly have died.’

Swinford stared across the table at Sunita, his gaze full of contempt for her. She ignored him and whispered a few words in Roscoe’s ear.

The chief inspector looked their suspect in the eyes.

‘Katrina Drake is your daughter, isn’t she?’ he said.

‘What if she is?’ he said.

‘You encouraged her to gain employment with the Beauvais family and wheedle her way into their confidence. Then the ever-dutiful daughter used her resources to become a conduit of information for you.’

Swinford sneered. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, copper. Your evidence is very flimsy.’

‘Then we come to your girlfriend,’ said Roscoe. ‘You were having an affair with Natalie Jukes, weren’t you?’

‘No,’ said Swinford.

Huckabee interrupted to ask, ‘I’m sorry. I’m falling behind here. Who’s the lady you’re talking about, Chief Inspector?’

‘Natalie Jukes is the widow of the bodyguard shot dead in cold blood during the burglary,’ Roscoe explained.

Turning his attention back to Swinford, he continued, ‘Your mother’s made a full and frank admission that you and Natalie Jukes have been in a relationship for eleven months.’

‘The stupid cow,’ said Swinford. ‘Why does she have to go and say something like that?’

‘Because, in the short time we’ve known her, we’ve formed the impression your mother is an honest, upright woman who always speaks the truth – unlike you.’

Chapter 51

When his phone rang at the end of his hectic day, the chief inspector was tempted to ignore it. He was eager to get home and put his feet up. But, in the end, he decided to answer it.

‘They’ll only call me on my mobile if I don’t pick up,’ he told himself.

‘Roscoe,’ he announced as he raised the receiver.

‘Gavin, I want you in my office in the next five minutes,’ said a voice he instantly recognised. ‘You’ve got some explaining to do.’

Roscoe climbed the stairs to the second floor with an inkling about why Chief Superintendent Norris was so eager to speak to him. He suspected she had just learnt of his row with DI Parkes and how he had dismissed the National Crime Agency inspector from his team.

‘Good evening, ma’am,’ he said after knocking and stepping into the room.

Norris was sitting behind her desk, peering at him over the top of her glasses.

‘Gavin, about a month ago, we were fortunate enough to have Joseph Parkes seconded to us to assist in the kidnapping case. I asked you to afford him every courtesy. Now I understand you’ve sent him packing with a flea in his ear.’

Roscoe shrugged his shoulders.

‘Slight exaggeration, ma’am,’ he said. ‘We had a difference of opinion over strategy. I asked him to leave so that we could bring the investigation to a conclusion on our own terms. I’m afraid that, throughout the four weeks he was with us, we had several disagreements. I also felt he’d begun to become rather obstructive and a hindrance to our investigation.’

‘Gavin, I’m not very impressed by your response,’ she said. ‘He came to us with extensive knowledge of dealing with kidnappings and ransom demands. Quite frankly, you and I don’t have that knowledge.’

Roscoe shook his head. ‘He wasn’t shy about coming forward with all his knowledge,’ he said. ‘In fact, other members of the team became discouraged and annoyed by his rather arrogant attitude towards his colleagues in CID. I grant you that he developed an extremely good relationship with the Beauvais family, but he wasn’t a good team player. He wanted everything done his way. Last weekend, we fell out over his continued insistence on having a blanket ban on reports in the press about the kidnap. However, as time passed and the plight of the boy became more critical, I decided, as you know, to ask for the cooperation of the press so that we could call on the public for help. After that, Parkes started challenging every plan I came up with and became a burden to the team.’

‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’ she asked.

‘Not quite, ma’am,’ he said, taking a seat in front of her desk. ‘I should add that, from the time he arrived, he seemed to take exception to DS Roy playing any major role in the investigation. Of course, it was only through her skill and professionalism that we located the missing boy and saved him from a watery grave. But Parkes found all this difficult to accept. Whenever he could, he downplayed her role and, in her presence, tried to make her feel uncomfortable.’

Norris leaned back in her wheelchair.

‘I’m glad you’ve explained that to me,’ she said. ‘Parkes’s senior officer has made a formal complaint against you. He said the inspector’s told him he was denied full cooperation from your CID team and that you personally chose to ignore most of the advice Parkes gave you – despite his extensive knowledge of abductions. He also says you treated Parkes with disdain and a lack of respect and that you were constantly argumentative. However, now I’ve heard your side, I think I can begin to understand how this relationship between the two of you broke down.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Roscoe.

‘It sounds as though he was trying to bully DS Roy and I don’t like that at all. I’ll mull over the words of the complaint and your remarks before I compose a suitable response.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. While we’re talking about DS Roy, are you aware of the party she’s holding on Saturday? She asked me to mention it to you.’

‘I bumped into Tom Vickers in the corridor yesterday,’ she said. ‘He mentioned something about it. House-warming, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. She’s just moved into her new place.’

‘I’d love to come but I’ve got a prior commitment – I’m going to a show jumping event in Derbyshire.’

‘Not to worry.’

‘Gavin, will you thank her for her kind invitation and explain my situation. Oh, before you go, I need to ask you about the Beauvais case. I gather you’ve made another arrest.’

‘Yes, ma’am. A car dealer named Matt Swinford, who appears to have been running the OCG that broke into the footballer’s house. We’ve just finished interviewing him.’

‘He’s made no admissions, I’m assuming?’

‘No, ma’am, despite overwhelming evidence against him – including stolen property from the manor being discovered in his home. I’m happy to say I’ve just come off the phone to the CPS. They say there’s enough evidence for a case against him. Swinford’s due to appear before magistrates in a few days, along with the two men I told you about last week, O’Shane and Jordan.’

‘Good. That’s excellent news. So how did you find out Swinford was the boss of the gang?’

‘DS Roy discovered Swinford and O’Shane were close friends while in prison together,’ said Roscoe. ‘Then she found out the gang’s hideouts were being chosen with help from Swinford’s estate agent brother and they were being fed inside information by the Beauvais couple’s personal assistant, Katrina Drake – who happens to be Swinford’s daughter. But DC Khalid’s also been a great help. He discovered that Wayne Jordan, who shot Jukes, obtained the Beretta he used from an underworld firearms dealer that Swinford got to know while in Winson Green.’

‘Excellent teamwork, Gavin,’ she said.

‘We’ve come up with one more suspect – the bodyguard’s widow, who seems to have been having an affair with the car dealer.’

‘Really? So the murder of Danny Jukes may have been planned?’

‘It looks as though the gunman served two goals at once. He took out the interfering guard but also got rid of a hated husband.’

Chapter 52

The countryside around the town of Evesham was swathed in the same veil of fog that had been blighting the rest of the West Midlands as Sunita Roy travelled there just before 7 p.m. that evening. It seemed as though wisps of vapour were almost tickling the tranquil waters of the River Avon. At times, cars or lorries would startle her by looming unexpectedly out of the silvery haze, and she was relieved when, at last, she reached the town’s southern suburbs.

As she entered Primrose Way, she found DC Dawson sitting in his red Ford Focus. He had parked a short distance back from Natalie Jukes’s house, number forty-three, in the hope the bodyguard’s widow would not notice him.

For a second, as Sunita approached on foot, she wondered if he had fallen asleep. Then she realised he had lowered the back of his car seat in order to relax and was listening to some music.

She surprised him when she tapped on the passenger window.

‘What’s happening, Brett?’ she asked, glancing towards the house. There was a light on in the kitchen and the grey Ford Fiesta she had seen on her previous visit was parked in the drive.

‘I was going to call you,’ he replied. ‘Mrs Jukes arrived back a quarter of an hour ago. I don’t think she’s seen me.’

‘All right,’ said the sergeant as she began to shiver in the cold early December air. ‘It’s time to confront her and see what’s she’s got to say for herself. By the way, Hepworth’s been through Swinford’s phone and found some interesting material. I’ll tell you about it later.’

They locked their cars and Dawson followed as Sunita strode up to the front door.

Natalie Jukes took more than a minute to respond. Then she drew back the door in a blue sweater and jeans, looking red-faced and flustered. Her dark hair was shorter than Sunita recalled from her previous visit over four weeks earlier.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, staring at Sunita. ‘What do you want? I’m in the middle of getting changed to go out.’

‘Just need to bring you up to date with the investigation,’ said the sergeant. ‘Is it all right if we come in? This is my colleague, DC Dawson.’

‘I suppose you’d better, but you can’t stay long,’ she said.

The detectives stepped into the hall, walked past the open kitchen door and entered the living room. There was an open suitcase on the floor and a pile of clothing on the carpet beside it.

‘Going somewhere in a hurry?’ asked Dawson.

‘I’ve been packing for my holiday,’ Natalie said while gesturing for the pair to sit down. ‘So what’s all this about?’

Sunita settled down on the settee beside her colleague. ‘Have you heard about Matt?’ she asked Natalie.

‘Matt?’ said Natalie, whose face was turning red. ‘I don’t think I know anyone called Matt.’

‘Yes, you do,’ the sergeant insisted. ‘You’ve been seeing him since last Christmas, according to Matt’s mother.’

Natalie shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Well, we were round at his house in Biddington earlier today and I found your clutch bag. I don’t know if you remember, but when I came here to see you on 30 October, there was a gold bag with your initials on your sideboard. That same bag was on the piano stool at Matt Swinford’s house a few hours ago. Your driving licence was inside.’

‘Oh God,’ said Natalie, slumping down into an armchair.

‘You do know him, don’t you?’ said the sergeant.

Natalie crouched forward with her head in her hands. When she removed them a few seconds later, her mascara was running. Her eyes were filled with tears.

‘What’s happened to Matt?’ she asked.

‘He’s been arrested,’ said Dawson.

‘Listen,’ said Sunita, ‘our investigation’s moved at lightning speed today and I’ve been making some inquiries about you.’

‘Oh my God! This is so ridiculous. I think I’d better tell you what I know. Then you’ll see that I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘If you want to talk, that’s fine,’ said Sunita, taking out her small, black notebook. ‘The law looks more favourably towards those that cooperate.’

Natalie took a box of tissues from a nearby table and tried to compose herself.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘I expect you’ll be talking to the neighbours, so I may as well tell you the truth. Danny and I hadn’t been getting on for a couple of years. I think he was cheating on me. There were a few times when I’m fairly certain he was with another woman, but, when I asked him, he always insisted he’d been doing security work. We were always arguing and I was very unhappy. What made matters worse was that I couldn’t seem to get pregnant, no matter how hard I tried.

‘Then Matt came into my life. I was looking for a new car for myself and called round at several dealers. Matt showed me the Fiesta you saw outside and it suited me down to the ground. He took me out for a run in it and we didn’t stop laughing together the whole time. He asked me out for a drink and I thought, why not? It was round about this time last year and, the day before, Danny and I’d had a massive row. I thought, what’s the harm? It’s only a drink.’

‘Where did he take you?’ asked Dawson, as Sunita continued to write furiously in her notebook.

‘He took me to the Old Pheasant pub in Queensbridge, and do you know he was every bit as charming as he’d been during the test run? Afterwards, we went for a curry before he took me back to my car at the pub and I drove home. From that moment, I was hooked. We began seeing each other regularly and I began thinking seriously about getting a divorce from Danny.

‘Then one night I came home very late from seeing Matt. Danny was here and I got the impression he’d had a lot to drink. He wanted to know where I’d been. I told a lie. I said I’d been out for a drink at a pub with my friend Sarah. But it was a stupid thing to say. He knew I kept Sarah’s phone number in an address book by the television.

‘He phoned her there and then – although it was after midnight – and asked her where we’d both been. Of course, she didn’t know what to say. It was obvious I’d been lying. He put the phone down and then launched into a ferocious attack on me.’

‘He attacked you physically?’ asked Sunita.

‘Yes. He left me with bruises all over my face, arms and legs and I couldn’t go to work the next day. I had to call in sick.’

‘That’s appalling,’ said Sunita. Dawson shook his head in agreement with her.

‘I knew then that my future lay with Matt and I went to see a solicitor with a view to getting a divorce.’

‘So then what happened?’ asked Sunita.

‘Life just carried on as before,’ said Natalie. ‘I somehow managed to tell Danny I was divorcing him without getting too much of a battering. The legal letters started and I moved into the spare room. I stopped going home until late. I wanted to avoid seeing Danny and I was planning to move out.’

‘To live with Matt?’ asked Sunita.

‘Well, yes. Either that or I could have moved in with my sister. Anyway, we reached the end of October and Danny spent that Saturday in Queensbridge with the boy Marcel. And, of course, you know the rest.’

Sunita leaned back on the settee. ‘That’s not the whole story, is it, Natalie?’ she said. ‘You played a part in your husband’s murder, didn’t you?’

‘What?’ said Natalie, putting her hands to her face. ‘You must be joking.’

‘We’ve found certain phone messages,’ said Sunita while standing up.

‘Messages?’

‘Natalie Jukes,’ the sergeant continued, ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to murder Danny Jukes.’ She recited the rest of the police caution.

‘I can’t believe you think I had anything to do with Danny’s death,’ said the startled woman.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us,’ said Sunita. ‘Can you fetch your coat?’

Sunita beckoned her colleague to one side of the living room while Natalie began sorting through a rail of coats and jackets in a hallway cupboard.

‘Before I came down here this evening, I received a call from one of our digital forensic specialists,’ she whispered to Dawson. ‘They’d been examining Matt Swinford’s phone. Among the stream of messages on his phone from Natalie, there was one text in particular that stood out which was received on the day of the murder. It had been deleted – presumably by Swinford – but the forensic guy managed to retrieve it.

‘It said, “He’s definitely driving the silver Bentley Continental. Make sure they are ready at 4 p.m. Nat.”’

Chapter 53

Tom Vickers stopped his white Audi A3 outside Sunita Roy’s new home at midday on Saturday. He got out and opened the two wrought-iron gates before driving onto the gravel forecourt and parking. The new owner of the five-bedroom house emerged through the wood-panelled front door in a bright-green sari as he clambered out and she rushed to greet him.

‘Thanks once again for all your help over the last two days, Tom,’ she said while embracing him.

‘I wish I could say it had all been a pleasure,’ he replied with a grin. Then, lapsing into his Black Country jargon, he added, ‘But after lugging all those boxes up your stairs, I was absolutely zonked last night.’

‘Never mind. Come in and I’ll make you a cup of tea. My friend Rupa’s here and my sister, Tulika. They’re helping me prepare the food. You met Tulika once, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, once,’ he said, ‘and I’ve met Rupa several times.’

The sergeant led Vickers through the hallway, which she had decked in holly, paper snowflakes and twinkling lights. She led him into the large, bright kitchen at the rear of the house. Rupa and Tulika were working on a long oak table beside an ancient Aga cooker.

The two women both said ‘Hi, Tom’ and waved as he was shown in. He glanced out of the picture window which afforded views over the landscaped rear gardens. Then, while the aroma of a rich Bengali curry wafted across from the Aga, he watched for a moment as the pair placed samosas and other Indian delicacies on plates.

‘Looks like you’re both doing a grand job,’ he said before turning to his hostess.

‘Sunita, I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve come up with a new name for your house,’ he said. ‘I saw the sign on the hall floor.’

‘Yes, it arrived this morning,’ she said. ‘I decided to call the place Ashiyana, which means beautiful home, and, before you say anything, I see that as a long-term goal rather than a reflection on what the place looks like at the moment.’

‘Fair enough,’ he said with a smile. ‘If you like, I can come round with my drill and screw it to your front wall for you.’

‘Tom, you are sweet,’ she said. ‘Thanks for the offer but I’m quite capable of fitting a sign onto a wall. But I tell you what you can help me with, Tom. I’m not very good with drinks. If we go next door, can you tell me if I’ve missed anything out?’

After she had put a kettle on to make some tea, she led him into the generously sized living room, which had a wood burner and a Christmas tree at the far end.

He followed her past the two brand-new cream leather settees that he’d seen delivered the previous day until they reached a dining table where, for the moment, Sunita was keeping a selection of wines, beers and spirits.

‘Do you think I’ve left anything out?’ she asked.

He smiled. ‘You’ve done magnificently, Sunita, as you always do. No, you’ve got gin, whisky, rum, lagers, real ales and cider, as well as red and white wine and soft drinks. That little lot should suit everyone. How many people have you got coming?’

‘About fifteen,’ she said. ‘I’ve invited the DCI and his wife; a handful of folk from CID; Derek Underhill and the Listers because they live nearby; and some of the neighbours.’

She glanced at her watch, which showed it was half past one.

‘The first people should be arriving around now,’ she said.

Right on cue, she heard footsteps outside and the doorbell rang. She went into the hall and drew back the front door in delight to find the chief inspector standing there, clutching a present. Helen Roscoe was beside him.

‘Here you are, Sergeant,’ he said, handing her the gift-wrapped box. ‘Something I hope you find very useful.’

‘Thank you so much, sir,’ she said. ‘I’ll unwrap it immediately. I don’t often get presents.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ he said. ‘By the way, this is a wonderful part of the village. The gardens here are beautiful.’

‘Come and look at this, Tom,’ Sunita called out, as the Roscoes followed her into the hallway.

The inspector appeared from the living room and greeted the newcomers as Sunita tore back the fancy paper to reveal a set of wine glasses.

‘I know you’re not much of a drinker, Sergeant,’ said Roscoe. ‘But I thought these might come in handy for all the parties I expect you’re going to be holding now.’

‘Very thoughtful,’ she said. ‘Thank you, although today’s event is just a one-off, I can assure you.’

‘You’ve done very well for yourself, Sunita,’ Helen remarked while gazing around. ‘But this is such a big house for one person, if you don’t mind me saying. Maybe you should find others to share it with.’

Helen smiled across knowingly at Tom Vickers while making her last comment.

‘I’m certainly not thinking of having lots of children, if that’s what you’re suggesting,’ Sunita said hurriedly. ‘I’m a career girl.’

‘We know that,’ said Roscoe.

‘Come on,’ said Sunita. ‘If you come into the main room, I’ll get you both a drink.’

While they all sipped from glasses of wine, the chief inspector took his sergeant aside.

‘While you were off work yesterday, we arrested Roland Hargreaves at the Vale,’ he said.

Sunita’s eyes lit up.

‘So my theory that the prisoner Dylan Roberts didn’t kill Lewis Tigworth was proved right,’ she said.

‘Yes. Your instincts have been vindicated, Sergeant. The prison governor held his own inquiry into Lewis Tigworth’s death and the details Hargreaves gave about the times he was on the landing didn’t match with what other warders were saying. So the governor became suspicious and ordered a search of Hargreaves’s locker.

‘A pair of gloves were found which were handed to Dr Ling and yesterday afternoon she rang me to say Tigworth’s DNA had been found on them. That comes after Dr Reynolds recovered Hargreaves’s DNA from under Tigworth’s fingernails. We’ve also found £25,000 in one of Hargreaves’s building society accounts and he hasn’t been able to give a rational explanation as to how the money got there. The payment came from a company which is no doubt linked to Swinford.’

‘So it looks likely Swinford paid Hargreaves to shut Tigworth up?’ Sunita asked.

‘Looks that way,’ he replied. ‘Apparently, Hargreaves was a warder at Winson Green while Swinford was an inmate.’

Helen stepped towards her husband and touched his arm.

‘Come on, darling,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a break from your work today. Sunita, why don’t you show us round your new place?’

Sunita smiled. ‘I’d love to take you round. But I think the food’s nearly ready. Can we do that afterwards?’

Roscoe put his arm round his wife’s shoulder.

‘I promise not to go on about work today,’ he said, ‘but I must just mention one more thing. I received a phone call last night from Jean-Jacques Beauvais. He said he’s so grateful for the way the sergeant and I handled the kidnapping that we’re both welcome to come and watch Aston Villa with free tickets from him.’

‘That’s a lovely gesture, sir,’ said Sunita, ‘but, as you know, I’m not really interested in a lot of sweaty men running round a field chasing a ball.’

Helen laughed. ‘Me neither,’ she said.

‘I know you’re not, Sergeant,’ said Roscoe. ‘I believe you once said you’d rather watch your uncle’s iron gate rusting in the rain than watch a football match.’

‘I think I did say something like that, sir. So will you be taking Monsieur Beauvais up on his offer yourself?’

He shook his head. ‘Unlikely,’ said Roscoe with a smile. ‘I’m a Blues fan, through and through.’

THE END

Also in this series

FREE with Kindle Unlimited and available in paperback

MURDER ON OXFORD LANE – Book 1

A budding chorister doesn’t return home from practice but his wife doesn’t appear concerned. DS Sunita Roy becomes convinced he has been murdered but she has her own problems in the form of an ex-boyfriend who won’t take no for an answer. Will she keep her eye on the ball when all expect her to fail?

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B09Q3L5YFT/

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09Q3L5YFT/

THE CROSSBOW STALKER – Book 2

When a serial killer armed with a crossbow terrorises the West Midlands, Chief Inspector Gavin Roscoe suspects a motive of jealousy and revenge. But as the number of victims increases, the connection initially established between them wears thin. DS Sunita Roy has a different theory and resolves to pursue her own instincts, come what may.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B09RX282VM/

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09RX282VM/

MURDER OF A DOCTOR – Book 3

Police search for the identities of people seen near the scene of a doctor’s murder. And it seems like an open and shut case when a father with a grievance against him can be placed nearby. But Detective Sergeant Sunita Roy wants to dig deeper, and with an internal affairs investigation ongoing, she’ll have to tread carefully.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0B1JC76MH/

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B1JC76MH/

OUT FOR REVENGE – Book 4

There’s a noticeable change of atmosphere in the city when a dangerous prisoner is released. He has plans to up his drugs business. But someone will quickly put an end to that, by putting an end to his life. Detective Sunita Roy has the unenviable task of hunting down the gangsters who were likely responsible. But when the cops close in, they’ll have an even bigger problem than they first imagined.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0BK9PJLHK/

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BK9PJLHK/

HEIR TO MURDER – Book 5

Miles Kenworth makes the lives of others in his apartment block a misery with his loud music. One day the woman next door hears a commotion and enters Miles’ flat to find him lying dead in a pool of blood. The man from upstairs is standing over him. It looks like a straightforward case until DS Sunita Roy opens a can of worms…

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CPFNJNQJ/

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CPFNJNQJ/

More fiction by Tony Bassett

FREE with Kindle Unlimited and available in paperback

SEAT 97

Journalist Nick Colton lands the scoop of his career when a concertgoer sitting next to him is shot dead in front of his eyes. But the gunman escapes amidst the chaos, and Colton’s investigation into the murder will see him treading a dangerous line through London’s unforgiving streets.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0C2PR8PCG/

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C2PR8PCG/

Other titles of interest

FREE with Kindle Unlimited and available in paperback

CATFISH by Sadie Norman

It is not without some malice that rookie detective Anna McArthur is called “crazy” by her colleagues. She certainly tends to act first and think later. But when Anna discovers the body of a murdered woman who has “catfish” carved into her chest, she feels a personal duty to do everything she can to up her game and find the killer.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0D9H6MT4J/

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D9H6MT4J/

CRIMES OF THE FALLEN by James Andrew

When DI John Belivat is called to the scene of a murdered woman, left naked on the seafront of a Scottish town, it brings back all his fears about the fate of his own missing daughter. He focuses on the victim, trying to establish her identity. But only after another body is found will the detective be able to piece together a motive and find a killer.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DDLDXZ45/

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DDLDXZ45/

Sign up to our newsletter

If you enjoy crime, mystery, thriller and suspense fiction, you simply must sign up to our newsletter. We love these genres as much as you. Join for regular promotions offering discount deals and free books, and information about new and forthcoming titles, plus author interviews, and more!

www.thebookfolks.com/newsletter/