About the Author

Richard Osman is an author, producer and television presenter. He has so far written five books in the record-breaking Thursday Murder Club series and two novels in the We Solve Murders series, which have been multi-million-copy bestsellers around the world. The Thursday Murder Club was adapted for film by Netflix and upon its release in 2025 hit number one in forty countries. He lives in London with his wife, Ingrid, and their cats, Liesl and Lottie.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE THURSDAY MURDER CLUB SERIES

The Thursday Murder Club

The Man Who Died Twice

The Bullet That Missed

The Last Devil To Die

The Impossible Fortune

WE SOLVE MURDERS SERIES

We Solve Murders

Richard Osman

WE CHASE SHADOWS

To Mika, Leo and Neni. I can’t wait to hear the stories you’ll tell.

Málaga, 2001

I heard dogs yesterday. If that ain’t the police then what is?

Seriously, you got another explanation for hearing dogs? I’m all ears.

They found me somehow, the Met Police. Someone’s told them I’m in Málaga. Must’ve.

Who’s grassed me up then you think? Someone at the pub? The gym? Someone from the British Businessmen in Málaga Association Dinner Dance? I never should have bid at that charity auction. Two grand, and I didn’t even want tickets to the Millennium Dome, I would’ve been arrested the second my plane landed at Heathrow.

‘Connor Brooks, you’re under arrest for this, that or the other.’ No, thanks. I’ve been to prison seven times, and seven’s my limit. Prison’s no fun when you’re a bit older. There’s always someone on all the machines in the prison gym. And you try getting up to go to the loo three times a night when you’re sharing a cell with the Northampton Arsonist.

Some of the lads here wander around without a care in the world. They got new names, new faces, new teeth, but I never worried about all that. I sell dodgy vitamins in the post, I’m not exactly public enemy number one, am I? No one ever died from too much riboflavin.

There’s lads round here, murderers some of them, riding round on mopeds, and where are the cops? Looking the other way.

The whole thing’s a racket. Start to finish, a racket.

I’m going to be honest now. I just sent off for some wigs. So I can blend in? So I can go out and get a coffee and a paper. Good luck catching ‘Baldy Brooks’ when he’s suddenly got hair like Rod Stewart!

Maybe it’d blow off on a moped though?

By the way, you might think I’m being paranoid, and I get it. I’m jumping at every little sound, I’ve stopped swimming in the pool and pruning the ornamental hedge. But it’s not paranoia.

See, I’ve been warned.

Had a little tip-off from a mate back home. Still got a few friends looking out for me. ‘The cops know where you are, they know where your money is, they’re coming for you.’

So that’s that. Plan B into action.

Noises again, outside. People on the street talking. About me? Impossible to tell, but what else are they gonna be talking about? The price of oranges? Do me a favour, they’re circling. They know it, I know it.

Eventually they’ll storm the house. Run in, screaming in Spanish, some bloke in a suit from the Met tagging along, nodding, going, ‘Yeah, that’s him, that’s Baldy, stick the cuffs on.’

But I won’t be here when they do.

I hate the nickname by the way, ‘Baldy Brooks’, but what else are they gonna call me? When I moved out here, I tried to get them to call me ‘The Guv’nor’ but no dice, there were three ‘The Guv’nors’ in Málaga already. One of them died when his yacht caught fire, but then another one showed up a month later. So ‘Baldy’ it is.

It’s been nice, Málaga, it really has. Lots of good lads down here, lots of pals from home. Couple of armed robbers from Bermondsey, a few drug dealers – real drugs that is, not the vitamins and woo-woo nonsense I sell. The local corner shop is run by a murderer from Cardiff, and he always makes sure to stock Marmite and cornflakes and PG Tips. It’s a real community like that, and I’ll miss it.

I have to disappear though, and this time I have to disappear completely. I can’t be looking over my shoulder forever.

I’m a bright enough lad, and I’ve got a little plan. If I’m quick, I think it’ll work. There’s a few people I still trust, and they’re helping.

I’ve written the note already: ‘I can’t take it … life of crime not for me … sins have caught up with me, blah blah blah.’ Lay it on nice and thick. Leave it where the housekeeper can find it.

I’ve got a backpack full of ready cash, new passport, new name, all that. Again, easy if you’ve got friends. Leave some clothes on the beach, whatever. Let them search for the body. How you gonna find it when it’s not there? They’ll give up looking eventually. No one cares where I am except the police.

Where will I go? Well, wouldn’t you like to know? But I’m going to stay in the business, you can work from anywhere these days.

I’ll make you two promises though.

One, I’m going to find somewhere where no one else already has the nickname ‘The Guv’nor’.

And two, I’m going to find out exactly who’s grassed on me. And then I’m going to kill him.

Part One

NEVER GO TO LONDON

1

It is lunchtime in The Brass Monkey, which is now Axley’s second most profitable pub, since the pub opposite, The Flagon, started selling vapes to teenagers.

‘I’m off to Rosie’s book launch this evening,’ says Steve.

A few nods at this from his regular lunch companions, but no one’s very excited. Steve decides to ramp the story up a notch.

‘It’s in London.’

That does the trick. There are rueful shakes of the head all round.

‘London,’ says Jyoti Das. ‘Rather you than me.’

‘You taking the train, Steve?’ asks Tony Taylor, blowing on a piece of microwaved scampi. ‘Or driving?’

More intakes of breath at the idea of driving to London.

‘Good luck driving,’ says John Todd, in one hand a forkful of shepherd’s pie, in the other a Sudoku, which appears to be eluding him. ‘Don’t know where you think you’re going to park in London.’

John puts down his Sudoku and takes a sip of his pint, like a man who has seen too much in this life.

‘Yeah, I’ll get the train,’ says Steve.

‘Last train back is 11.30,’ says Tony. ‘Don’t miss it. I read a guy missed the last train back and was murdered.’

Wise nods all round.

‘And that’s London for you,’ says John.

‘We’re staying over,’ says Steve.

‘Staying over?’ says Jyoti.

‘In London?’ says John. ‘Staying over in London? All right, Bill Gates.’

‘Rosie’s going on Graham Norton,’ says Steve. ‘The chat show. She invited me and Amy. They put you up in a hotel.’

‘For free?’ Tony asks. He drops his latest piece of scampi into his pint, then fishes it out and eats it.

‘Hope so,’ says Steve. ‘You’d think so.’

‘You’d better check,’ says John. ‘Five hundred quid sometimes in London. Six hundred, I heard once, and you have to tip. No, thank you. What happens at a book launch?’

Steve shrugs. ‘There’s booze, I know that.’

‘Okay,’ says Jyoti. ‘That’s something at least.’

The others nod and chew.

‘Free?’ asks John. ‘The booze?’

‘Think so,’ says Steve.

‘You’d better check that too,’ says Jyoti. ‘Don’t want to be carrying money around in London. I read on Facebook one woman –’

Steve holds up a hand. ‘You’re all aware I was a police officer in London for twenty-five years?’

‘It’s changed,’ says John. ‘It’s sped up.’

‘London never changes,’ says Steve. ‘It stays the same speed, it’s just that we’ve slowed down.’

‘There’s something in that, Steve,’ says Jyoti. ‘But the woman on Facebook was very sure, and she had a brother-in-law who used to work there.’

The subject of London has been exhausted it seems. And, given that they’ve already covered which celebrities the new woman at the village shop looks a bit like, and what their tactics would be were they to appear on The Traitors, they need a new topic of conversation.

‘Felicity working out for you?’ asks Tony.

Steve smiles. For the first time in living memory, Tony Taylor has a girlfriend: Felicity Woollaston, one-time theatrical agent, then, briefly, an unwitting money launderer, which is how she came on Steve’s radar, and now office manager at We Solve Murders.

‘Good as gold,’ says Steve. ‘She enjoying it?’

‘Loves it,’ says Tony. ‘You got a lot on? Felicity never likes to say. Confidentiality.’

‘Bits and bobs,’ says Steve. ‘Murders are a bit like selling Rolls-Royces. You don’t have to solve many of them to make a living.’

It’s a white lie, We Solve Murders has solved no murders. Which is like Kentucky Fried Chicken selling no chicken. Not even a nugget.

It’s not that they’ve investigated murders and failed to solve them. It’s just that no one has given them a murder to solve yet.

Steve misses his old company, Steve Investigates. Lost dogs, cheating husbands, tax frauds. His own boss. But here we are, We Solve Murders. A three-way split: Steve, his daughter-in-law, Amy, and Rosie D’Antonio, the world’s bestselling novelist, ‘if you don’t count Freida McFadden’, bankrolling the lot. Steve has, for a long time now – since Debbie died perhaps? – shied away from murders. So, in a way, it is lucky for him that in the six months We Solve Murders has been in business, he hasn’t had a single one to solve. Steve wonders how long Rosie can keep funding the thing though. Yesterday Steve saw a LOST CAT sign on a lamppost and had cracked the case within the hour. So he’s always got something to fall back on.

‘Have you ever fixed a Rolls-Royce, Tony?’ asks Jyoti.

Tony shakes his head. ‘I fixed a Range Rover the other day. You need a lift to the station, Steve? There’s the 2.44 from Brockenhurst, that’ll get you into Waterloo for 4.20? The 3.44 stops at Basingstoke, so that would be 5.27. I don’t know what time book launches start.’

Amy’s the one missing her old life the most. She had a nice job. Close-protection officer. Dangerous, but good money. Danger is Amy’s hobby, and if an unexplained corpse doesn’t turn up soon, Steve knows that Amy will head back into her old world. Then Steve, in turn, will have to go back to worrying about her every day when he wakes up, and every night when he goes to sleep.

More than that though, he’ll miss seeing her every day.

Steve is keenly aware that Amy has not even had to punch anyone for six months now, and you can see that she’s itching to.

‘Who else is on Graham Norton?’ John asks.

‘A singer and a chef,’ says Steve. ‘And Denzel Washington.’

More nods, then some determined eating.

‘A singer,’ says John. ‘That’ll be good.’

‘Give our love to Amy and Rosie,’ says Tony.

‘You’ll be back for the quiz?’ Jyoti asks.

‘Of course I’ll be back for the quiz,’ says Steve. ‘When do I ever miss the quiz?’

‘When you had all those murders on a while back,’ says John. ‘You missed a week.’

‘Yeah.’ Steve has to concede the point. ‘I won’t let that happen again.’

Steve is unsure why he let Rosie talk him into founding We Solve Murders. Actually, he is sure. Rosie can talk anyone into anything. But surely she’ll get bored soon?

Steve is aching to go back to the old days of lost dogs and errant husbands.

He just needs another month or so without any murders. Then things can get back to normal.

Normal. Is there any sweeter word in the English language?

2

Vern Blackwood is trying not to let the corpse spoil his morning. Trying to be Zen about the whole thing.

You have to avoid stress, any doctor will tell you that. Or any of the Instagram accounts Vern follows to keep up with the latest news in the murky world of ‘wellness’. No matter what new glitch a day might throw at you – and a body, freshly murdered, on your doorstep surely counts as a glitch – you must remember to breathe, and you must remember to keep things in their proper perspective.

Here’s a good tactic, for example. When a problem comes your way – Where is my Amazon delivery? Why is my Wi-Fi signal so patchy? Who has just murdered my bodyguard? – simply write it down in a journal and ask yourself if it’s still going to be a problem in, say, a year from now? If it isn’t, then let it go. And if it is still a problem a year from now, then change your broadband provider.

Make no mistake, stress will kill you. Just as sure as the bullet in the back of his head has killed Esteban.

The corpse isn’t the worst of it though, Vern knows that. The worst of it is the note he has found in Esteban’s pocket. The spelling leaves something to be desired, but the message is clear enough:

THIS IS A WANING.

I WILL BE BACK AND YOU WILL BE NEXT.

JAKOB ERIKSSON

Perspective is everything, isn’t it? Will he remember Esteban’s corpse in a year’s time? Vern couldn’t say. Would he remember the note? Yes, he’s sure of that. It just doesn’t make any sense.

He glances at the corpse again. Esteban’s blood is really going to stain the marble but, again, try not to sweat the small stuff. Vern wishes he hadn’t sacked his cleaner, Maria, but she’d been caught stealing, so what were you going to do?

Breathe, Vern, breathe. Cleaners, corpses. Just write it all down.

Vern shields his eyes to take in the view of the Tuscan hills. That will help to centre him. He feels the gentle warmth of the morning sun spread across the top of his hand. Fields of olive green, sage and mint tumble down distant hillsides.

The day is heating up already, it’s going to be a fine one. Good news if you’re the owner of a €15-million villa, bad news if you’re a corpse. Vern sips his cappuccino, then lifts his face up to the light like a sunflower.

They’ll need to put the body in the fridge freezer. Then Vern can take some proper time to think about both the corpse and the note. The coffee will help.

Vern hears the whirr of a blender from the cottage to the south of the villa. Which means that Korbin is awake and making a fearsomely efficient smoothie. Korbin will help too. That’s what Korbin does.

An ordinary man could go straight to the authorities if he had found a corpse on his marbled seventeenth-century doorstep. There’s a police station down the hill in Lucca, and no doubt they would be interested. The Italian cops love a murder. All cops do, whatever they say. They’re not in the job for the admin, are they?

But Vern can’t go to the police.

A swift flies overhead and surveys the land from the roof. The father of the brood perhaps? The swift’s eyes dart, but Vern knows he is not taking in the vines and the cypresses, nor the stream burbling through the rocks, down the valley and into the stone-and-red-tile village far below. Neither is he looking at the beautiful walled city of Lucca waking up in the far distance.

No, the swift is looking for something to eat. He is looking for something to kill. He has a family to feed, and there are plenty who would kill him too given half a chance.

Vern can relate. Being a swift must also be stressful.

And a swift has no way of keeping a gratitude journal.

The body can stay in the freezer for today, they can bury him tonight. Because, for the moment, Vern needs time to think about that note. The sheer improbability of it.

The swift dives and picks up a worm in its sharp beak. Then back to the stable.

If news got out that Jakob Eriksson was finally making a move on Vern’s territory, dumping corpses on his doorstep, hinting at further demands, people would not be surprised. Jakob Eriksson has killed many people already.

But Vern is surprised, and that happens very rarely. He hadn’t seen this coming, he really hadn’t. He needs explanations.

Vern has avoided threats for so long. Has been very smart. But now he is being threatened, and it will not stand.

Somebody is going to have to investigate this Jakob Eriksson business. And it can’t be the police.

So who?

3

Amy Wheeler is never really sure what people talk about.

She sees them right now, in this oppressively cute bookshop. Little groups of three or four people, tipping their wine glasses towards each other, and all nattering away about something. But what? Opinions? God save Amy from opinions. In Amy’s view, human beings should only be allowed, say, four opinions a year. Then they’d have to save them up for something really important.

If she were to sidle up to one of the groups, these laughing, nodding little units, what on earth would she say? They’re probably talking about books, aren’t they? What would Amy have to add? Very little. She once shot someone in the library of a Syrian dictator’s palace, but that’s about it for Amy and books.

Scanning the room, she sees that each group has its own Amy. The shy one hanging back, taking twice as many sips of their drink as the others. Smiling at what has just been said, but scared to add anything of their own. Each group could handle one of these silent partners, welcomed them probably, giving the principals the time to outline their opinions at more length, but no group could handle two of them. It would implode.

Amy has never been to a book launch before – I mean, who on earth has? – so she walks around for a bit, trying to look like she belongs here. Steve is late because someone tried to mug him in the Brockenhurst Station car park. As Brockenhurst Police Station is closed – ‘due to cuts, Amy, don’t get me started’ – Steve has instead marched his mugger round to the local snooker club, where they’ve promised to keep him locked in a store cupboard until an arresting officer can arrive from Lymington. Anyway, the short version of the whole thing is that Steve has missed his train and will be meeting them at The Graham Norton Show instead. The long version involved a detailed rundown of the Brockenhurst-to-London-Waterloo rail timetable, and a lengthy discursion about the ex-wife of the man who runs the snooker club, who is apparently now an unlicensed beauty therapist in Portsmouth. Ordinarily Amy would have hurried him along, but with a choice between wandering alone through a book launch and an anecdote from her father-in-law beginning ‘And here’s another thing people don’t realize about Portsmouth’, she had chosen Steve.

But all good anecdotes come to an end, and now Amy is back to pretending to belong in this room.

Fitting in is the sort of thing she’s normally very good at. Stick Amy in a fish market in Tbilisi or a petrochemical conference in Nairobi and she can blend right in. Worlds she knows and understands. But here? In this book-stuffed hell, full of gesticulating men and women with haircuts they haven’t done themselves in a mirror? Rosie had told her the dress code was ‘informal’, but Amy realized too late that she shouldn’t have worn trainers. Or a tracksuit. If this is what these people understand by ‘informal’, where would they have left to go if it was ‘formal’? Suits of armour?

Amy attempts to float across the room, looking as if she is heading somewhere. She has picked up two glasses of champagne from a side table. An old trick from her dating days. Walk through a room with a glass of champagne in your hand and men will speak to you. Walk through a room with two glasses and they hold back. You’ve got somewhere to be. Someone to meet.

Easier to do, of course, when the champagne is free. And now she really looks around her, there are only about five men in the whole room, and all of them are pushing seventy. Steve could have made out like an absolute bandit here if he had shown up. Even if he was dressed in an old Iron Maiden T-shirt, which he almost certainly is.

It would be nice to see Steve find a bit of romance again. That’s what Debbie would have wanted for her husband, surely? She should speak to Steve about it, but he won’t want to listen. Perhaps one day. Maybe she could tell Adam to talk to him about it? But Adam doesn’t really like to talk about Debbie either. Too much pain for them both, her death so sudden and brutal. Amy supposes Adam and Steve worry that talking about it might only multiply that pain.

Amy reaches the far end of the room and thus has no option other than to roll her eyes and shake her head as if she has forgotten something, then walk back across the room again. She needn’t have bothered with the charade, nobody seems to notice. No one here knows who Amy is, as Rosie neglected to introduce her. What would she even have said?

‘And this is Amy. She was my close-protection officer, but then she was accused of murder. All sorted though, and now we run a detective agency with her father-in-law, who I have a terrible crush on.’

As she weaves her way back through the groups, elbows high to protect her drinks, Amy listens in.

‘And I said, well, it’s Dan Brown meets Salman Rushdie, and it sold in the room.’

‘I’m telling you, books written by celebrities’ dogs. We’ve just signed …’

‘Well, I’m just passing it on, but she did say that Ian McEwan is surprisingly buff.’

Amy spies the largest of the groups joined in happy conversation and places herself at the very edge. That’ll do. She’s close enough to look part of the group, but not close enough that anyone is going to ask her opinion on whoever Ian McEwan might be. She can wait it out here until Rosie reappears.

Amy knows she isn’t stupid, but nobody wanted to hear what she had to say when she was growing up, and she hasn’t managed to pick the skill up since.

Then again Amy knows how to punch, and perhaps these people don’t? It takes a village.

‘And what are you reading?’

To Amy’s horror, she realizes the man is talking to her. She should have seen it coming. It was inevitable eventually. You stand on the edge of a group for long enough, nodding and smiling and sipping your drink, with a symmetrical-enough face and blonde-enough hair, and someone will eventually feel the need to include you. To ask you a question.

‘I’m not reading anything,’ says Amy. ‘I’m standing here talking to you.’

This gets a polite laugh. ‘Touché,’ says the man and resumes speaking to a woman who Amy will assume is a poet until she receives any information to the contrary.

Then Amy remembers that she actually is reading something at the moment. She’s reading Rosie’s new book, And the Devil Blinked First. The very reason they are all here.

‘I’m reading And the Devil Blinked First,’ says Amy.

The man looks over at the pile of books.

‘Any good? I’ve never read any of hers.’

Why is he even here, then? To drink champagne and hit on poets? Ughh.

‘Yes,’ says Amy. ‘It’s very good.’

It is very good. Rosie had shown her an early copy, and, while Amy had to correct a laughable mistake Rosie had made about the calibre of a former Russian service weapon, it had a sweeping love story, some very satisfactory murders and a note-perfect explanation of how to shoot down a helicopter with an assault rifle. Amy will give Rosie a hug when she finishes it and tell her she’s proud of her.

‘Each to their own,’ says the man, and smirks at the poet, who, Amy notes, does not smirk back.

Amy feels an intense rush of protectiveness towards Rosie.

She leans in to the poet and gestures towards the man. ‘Left trouser pocket, wedding ring, just to let you know.’

Amy turns heel and leaves the group. So she does know how to make conversation sometimes.

Where has Rosie got to though? Seriously? Not Amy’s professional responsibility any more, but she continues to take a keen amateur interest. This afternoon, for example, Rosie was adamant that she wanted to travel down to a housing estate in South London to buy weed, and Amy felt duty-bound to accompany her. But these days Amy does such things as a friend, rather than an employee. As it turned out, the local dealers could not have been more charmed by Rosie, and Amy had been able to keep her military-issue taser in her handbag throughout.

Amy spies a fire door left ajar. Beyond the fire door Amy sees there is an alley, and she knows Rosie well enough by now to know that if there is an alley nearby, Rosie will make a beeline for it.

Pressing down on the metal bar, Amy scrapes the door open a few more inches and squeezes through into the cooling air of a Soho evening. The thick fog of high-grade skunk tells her she has found her friend. Rosie is mid-conversation. But when is she not?

‘You must know someone who’s been murdered?’ says Rosie. ‘For goodness’ sake, Lionel. Hello, Amy.’

‘Rosie,’ Amy nods. ‘I’ve missed you.’

In the tight and damp little alley behind the bookshop, Rosie D’Antonio is smoking a fairly giant spliff through an elegant silver cigarette holder. Her elbow rests on a large purple recycling bin, as if it’s a grand piano in a country-house drawing room.

Rosie hands the spliff to the man named Lionel. He must be in his mid-sixties, nice suit. Just Rosie’s type. Amy recognizes him, but can’t remember from where. He takes a drag and stifles a cough.

‘Jesus,’ says Lionel. ‘This stuff is lethal.’

‘The best,’ agrees Rosie.

Lionel takes another drag, more prepared this time, then passes the spliff back to Rosie. ‘And why would I know anyone who’s been murdered?’

‘Because you’re the Foreign Secretary,’ says Rosie. ‘You hear about all sorts of things. Russian billionaires bumping people off.’

That’s where Amy recognizes him from. She tries to avoid the news when she can, but, even so, some of it gets through, doesn’t it? One minute you’re looking at a video of a dog playing the piano on TikTok, the next minute, Ukraine.

‘I mean, I have the entirety of the security forces at my disposal,’ says Lionel. ‘Protocol says I let them deal with murders.’

‘We only need the one,’ says Rosie. ‘Be a pal. Otherwise Amy will get bored and leave me.’

Rosie is quite right. It’s been fun, these last few months. Quietly escorting Rosie around the world to book launches, from Rio to Reykjavík, waiting for somebody to need them. But Amy is beginning to think that nobody needs them. Even Rosie doesn’t really need her. She suspects that the visit to South London was for her benefit. A bit of jeopardy to make Amy feel useful. But even on the South London estate, everybody loved Rosie.

At least it means she can see more of Adam. He’s been in the Middle East for the past few months, and she thinks she might head out and join him for a couple of days. Their wedding anniversary is coming up, and she’d like to surprise him. They don’t need to be in each other’s pockets, but it does get to the point when they miss each other. Or she misses him, at least. Does he miss her?

‘Don’t smoke too much of that,’ says Amy. ‘You’re on Graham Norton tonight.’

‘Okay, Mum,’ says Rosie, and rolls her eyes at Lionel. However, she does stub the spliff out. She motions for Amy and Lionel to follow her back inside.

Lionel indicates that she should go first and Amy nods her thanks, then stops.

‘Where are your close-protection officers?’ Amy asks.

‘Gave them the slip,’ says Lionel.

Amy doubts that very much. Sometimes you let your principal think they’ve given you the slip. Everyone needs privacy. But you’re always there somewhere.

She looks over to the large purple recycling bin and sees the lid rise by an inch. A pair of eyes meets hers. She nods, and the eyes blink in response. Amy has hidden in many recycling bins over the years. Recycling bins, storm drains, portable toilets, air vents. She once spent four hours dug into a mound of manure while a rock star she was protecting was having sex with a weather presenter in an abandoned barn. You had to admire their stamina, but really.

Amy walks back into the party with a smile. What she wouldn’t give to be in that recycling bin right now, instead of in this bookshop.

All she needs is for someone to get murdered. Otherwise she is in danger of having to live a normal life.

‘Normal.’ Is there any more depressing word in the English language?

4

Korbin and Lee, Vern’s two remaining bodyguards, start shovelling the earth over Esteban’s body. Vern will need to find a replacement for Esteban.

There is a summer-evening chill in the air now, and Vern decides he will go inside and let the two men finish their work in peace. They don’t need his help, they both know how to bury people.

Vern doesn’t suppose it’s much fun burying a colleague, but Esteban was fairly new, was constantly horny and was always sending memes to the WhatsApp group, and none of them will miss that.

He walks into the kitchen and switches on the coffee machine. A cappuccino will warm him up and keep him alert too.

He thinks about Jakob Eriksson’s threat. How to solve that little issue?

He will watch a bit of TV. Korbin has rigged up the telly so that Vern can get all the British channels. It’s easy to get homesick. The taxation system of the United Kingdom means he doesn’t get the chance to visit as often as he would like. Add in the fact that the Metropolitan Police would like a word with him, and the fact that Georgie thinks they have some unfinished business, and Vern feels he has little choice but to stay where he is for the time being.

Vern picks up his cappuccino and walks through to his living room. He switches on the TV. Denzel Washington is on The Graham Norton Show. That’ll do him just fine. Vern always thinks he’d be pretty good on The Graham Norton Show. He has good banter. They should have people on who aren’t famous sometimes.

Through the window he sees his two remaining bodyguards, darkening shadows in the Tuscan night, covering up all traces of their erstwhile colleague. If the police were to arrive at his doorstep later this evening, they wouldn’t see a single thing out of place.

And, to be fair, even if they stumbled across Esteban’s body, the Italian police would be much more likely to arrest Vern for drinking a cappuccino after lunchtime.

One of the many reasons you have to love Italy. Vern takes a sip and sits back to enjoy the show.

5

‘Now the latest one,’ says Graham Norton, holding up Rosie’s new book. ‘And the Devil Blinked First. Tell us a little about it.’

The camera cuts to Rosie. She has her hand on Denzel Washington’s thigh, and he is making no attempt to remove it.

‘I ask you this question,’ says Rosie, her accent hovering above the Atlantic Ocean, all things to all people. ‘Do you like murder, helicopters and sexual intercourse?’

‘I’m fairly nervous about all three, if I’m honest,’ replies Graham. ‘But the murders are not just in your books now? I heard a very interesting story about you, is this right, you’ve set up a detective agency?’

‘That is right,’ says Rosie. ‘I have my own detective agency. With my close-protection officer – her name is Amy – and her handsome father-in-law. His name is Stevie, a very attractive man.’

‘And single?’

‘He is available, yes,’ confirms Rosie. ‘Whether he is turnable, I couldn’t say.’

‘And it’s the real deal, this detective agency? This is not fiction?’

‘It’s the real deal. We solve murders.’

‘You’ve solved actual murders? You and the handsome single man and his daughter-in-law?’

‘We have,’ says Rosie. ‘We’re very busy, because we’re very good.’

‘So if there are any murderers watching?’

‘Watch out.’

‘And what are the three of you working on at the moment?’

‘Graham,’ says Rosie, leaning in, ‘I say to my clients exactly what I say to my lovers: I guarantee absolute discretion.’

She turns to Denzel and looks him squarely in the eyes. ‘And I also tell them, I am videotaping this purely for my own records.’

This gets a laugh from the audience.

‘So you solve murders,’ says Graham. ‘And what’s the agency called?’

‘We Solve Murders.’

‘Fairly on the nose, then?’ says Graham.

Rosie smiles. ‘Says the man hosting The Graham Norton Show.’

Graham laughs. He looks further down the line now, at the tough-guy British actor Max Highfield.

‘Now, Max, you and Denzel look like you’re having a ball in Rampage 8?’

Max Highfield gives a knowing smirk. ‘The thing about acting, Graham, in fact, the thing about life …’

6

The New Forest has never seen anything quite like the offices of We Solve Murders. Rosie D’Antonio has spared no expense. A suite of rooms horseshoes around an old stable yard at the far end of Brockenhurst Stables Business Park. Outside the windows, it’s forest and meadows and ponies and tractors; inside the office, everything gleams, sterile and bright.

Felicity wears a headset mic, like Madonna or a minicab controller, and, were she to be so minded, she could wheel her ergonomic office chair straight into their Operations Room, with wall-to-floor monitors such as you might see in a Netflix drama about a kidnapped president. Those monitors are currently showing an episode of Bargain Hunt in ultra-HD on sixteen screens at once. A couple from Reading have just made a £6 profit on a porcelain dog.

When she had started here, Felicity had imagined the office would become a bustling place, full of grizzled ex-cops and beautiful widows. Murders as far as the eye could see. But you’d be amazed at how few people actually need murders solving. Even those who do seem keener to pursue a more traditional murder-solving route. The police and so on. It is tremendously difficult to be an industry disruptor.

The phone rings, startling her a little. Even one of the ponies outside tilts his head at the alien sound. This will be because Rosie mentioned We Solve Murders on the chat show. The floodgates are sure to open now. Felicity sits up a little straighter.

‘Hello, We Solve Murders, Felicity speaking, how may I direct your call? Mmm hmm. Mmm hmm. I see.’

It’s a very nice woman from Virgin Broadband. They have an offer on, and Felicity is one of the lucky few to be selected to take advantage of it.

How long has Felicity been at We Solve Murders now? A few months? It had all seemed like a terrific idea. Her theatrical agency is taking up less and less of her time these days – although she has just booked Derek Williams an advert for a stairlift with an in-built kettle, so there’s life in the old dog yet. She and Tony had been getting closer and closer, and the idea of leaving Letchworth for the New Forest had appealed. Added to that, Rosie, who is bankrolling the whole operation, seems to have absolutely no idea what a normal salary might be. She had offered Felicity £80,000 on the spot, and when Felicity had looked shocked, had said, ‘Okay, okay, a hundred and twenty thousand.’

‘Our broadband needs are being met,’ says Felicity, who believes she might now be the richest office manager in Hampshire. ‘Do ring back if anybody gets murdered.’

In her heyday as an agent, Felicity had spent an awful lot of time negotiating with television companies, and she had thought that this new job would involve a similar combination of adrenaline and pure evil. But no such luck.

The phone rings again. What is it this time? Has Felicity thought of changing her electricity provider?

‘Hello, We Solve Murders, Felicity speaking, how may I direct your call?’

‘I’ve just buried a corpse,’ says a voice. Felicity sits up. ‘Well, I didn’t bury it myself, my bodyguards did, but that’s … you don’t need that level of detail, apologies. How soon can Rosie and the team get to Italy?’

Part Two

DEATH IN TUSCANY

7

Well, this is very much more like it. An Italian villa, a corpse and a threatening note. This, Rosie reflects, is why it’s such a good idea to go on chat shows.

She, Amy and Steve have been met at the door to Vern Blackwood’s villa by a muscular German bodyguard.

‘Thank you,’ she says to the German man. ‘I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Korbin,’ says Korbin.

‘Korbin with a K?’ asks Rosie.

‘Yes, but only at the beginning,’ says Korbin, leading them into the house.

‘Best place for it. I’m Rosie,’ says Rosie, holding out her hand to be kissed. Korbin shakes it instead.

‘I know,’ says Korbin. ‘I have noted all of your names.’

As he ushers them into a room and walks away, Rosie turns to Amy. ‘Remind me to add Korbin to my “to do” list.’

‘Never sleep with a German bodyguard,’ says Amy. ‘It’s like having sex with a BMW.’

‘In a good way?’ Rosie asks.

‘Very safe,’ says Amy. ‘Also very fast.’

Steve is thumbing through a rack of vinyl. ‘He’s got some good stuff here. Sabbath, Purple, Priest. I think Mr Blackwood and I are going to get along.’

Rosie had returned Vern Blackwood’s call personally. You could tell he was impressed. Of course I’d be interested in your corpse, Mr Blackwood, do tell me more? Vern it is, then, and you must call me Rosie. A bullet hole through the head? Yes, that certainly qualifies as a murder, doesn’t it? Your bodyguard? Goodness me, what use are bodyguards if they go around getting shot? Would you have any suspects, Vern? Any motives? Or happy to leave that sort of thing to my team?

They were on the private jet two hours later, Steve complaining because he was supposed to be going to a steam fair that afternoon. Rosie notes that Steve has very quickly got used to private jet travel and now brings along his own food. And so it was that, as she and Amy tucked into vegan sushi, Steve asked the steward to warm up a sausage roll he’d bought from the service station.

The room they are in is very beautiful. An elegant sitting room with windows on three sides, Tuscany wrapping around them. The walls are covered in Rosie’s absolute favourite sort of art – expensive paintings, bought by someone with very poor taste. There are no personal items at all, and no photos except for one of Vern Blackwood giving a thumbs-up into the camera with his arm around a snooker player. The snooker player is not looking at the camera, but looking, instead, for an escape route.

Double doors open and in steps Vern Blackwood. Rosie takes him in. Early fifties? You could never really tell with men these days, now they’ve all had their hair and teeth done in Turkey. He is wearing a short-sleeved shirt, which is normally an absolute red line for Rosie, but in Italy the rules seem to be different, so she will give him the benefit of the doubt for now.

‘Here they are, then,’ says Vern Blackwood. ‘We Catch Murderers.’

‘We Solve Murders,’ says Rosie.

‘Although we do catch murderers too,’ says Steve, extending his hand. ‘Some nice vinyl there, buddy.’

‘If anyone made a good record after 1989, I haven’t heard it,’ says Vern. ‘Am I right?’

‘Amen to that,’ says Steve. ‘Although I’ve got Metallica on the phone. They say they’d like a word!’

They both laugh. Rosie and Amy look at each other. It is so often a peek into an entirely alien world when Steve meets a man of his own age. Rosie offers a cheek to Vern Blackwood and he kisses it. She then offers her other cheek, but he steps back.

‘One cheek only,’ says Vern. ‘Just because we’re in Italy doesn’t mean we’re Italians.’

Amy gives Blackwood a firm handshake. ‘Mr Blackwood.’

‘Vern, you can all just call me Vern. Let’s sit soft.’

Vern takes a seat on his sofa, and the others sit too.

‘Tell us everything,’ says Steve. ‘Starting with you.’

‘I am …’ Vern begins, ‘let’s say … a criminal. A sort of criminal, but not really.’

A sort of criminal? thinks Rosie. Amy is writing things down. Amy always takes notes. Then she types them up and sends them to Steve and Rosie. Whether Steve reads them, Rosie couldn’t say. She hopes he does though. It would be nice if someone was reading them. For Amy’s sake.

‘I work in an industry populated by criminals,’ says Vern. ‘I find myself in their company often.’

‘But you yourself?’ Rosie asks.

Vern considers the question. ‘Well, I run a business that I would call shadowy rather than downright illegal.’

Rosie sees Amy underline the word ‘shadowy’. Amy likes things numbered and underlined. She doesn’t like chaos. Imagine not liking chaos?

‘What might your business be?’ Rosie asks. They had been doing their due diligence on the plane over and came up with very little. One small article about a legal dispute with his ex-wife over a trademarked name, but, other than that, nothing. Rosie has put a call in with an old contact who now works at Interpol. If there is further information, then he will have it.

‘Vitamins,’ says Vern. ‘Vitamins, health supplements, brain boosters, anything like that. I advertise and sell online. I ship from China, I pay tax in Italy and I holiday in the Caribbean. That’s the business.’

‘That doesn’t …’ Amy is now holding her pen in the air. ‘That doesn’t sound illegal at all. If you don’t mind me saying?’

‘Well, quite,’ says Vern. ‘The wrinkle of it is that they’re not real vitamins. The brain boosters won’t boost your brain, the anti-ageing capsules won’t make you younger. They’re just water and powder and nice packaging.’

‘Okay,’ says Amy. ‘Well, yes, that does sound illegal now.’

Vern holds up his hand. ‘Not quite. Not quite. You see, I only sell things that have no scientific proof they work anyway. Whatever active ingredients the legitimate supplement companies put into their pills, there’s no evidence at all that my fake pills are any worse than their real ones. Both pills will have zero effect, but mine are cheaper.’

‘It still feels a bit illegal, Vern,’ says Steve. ‘I don’t want to argue with a Sabbath fan, but –’

‘Oh, it’s a bit illegal,’ agrees Vern. ‘No arguments there. It’s a bit illegal for sure. Can we get to the murder, please? I’m quite busy.’

‘Do you solve murders, Vern?’ Rosie asks.

‘No,’ says Vern.

‘Well, we do,’ says Rosie. ‘So let us do our job.’

‘What were you in before?’ Amy asks.

‘Fake perfume and steroids,’ says Vern. ‘Whole different ball game.’

‘And there’s money to be made?’ says Steve. ‘Even though the products don’t work?’

‘A lot of the time they do work,’ says Vern. ‘A bit of positive thinking does wonders for the health. So I provide a service really. I sleep well at night. Just without help from my “Goodnight Sweetdreams” pills, which are a bestseller.’

‘And yet,’ says Rosie, because Vern is right, they do need to get to the crux of this thing, ‘someone has just murdered one of your bodyguards and dumped him on your doorstep.’

Vern raises his palms as if to say, I know, right? ‘By the way, I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to dig up the corpse or not? Absolutely no bother if you do. I don’t know how you work, but Korbin can have it done in a jiffy.’

Rosie gives a shake of the head and a wrinkle of the nose, telling Vern this won’t be necessary for the moment.

‘I’ll want a look at some point,’ says Amy. ‘Entry-wound angle and so on.’

Rosie must remember that Amy is not one-dimensional. She likes numbering and underlining things, sure, but she also likes looking at corpses.

‘I think the question we’re asking,’ says Steve, ‘is do you know who might have done it? Is there someone else, a rival perhaps, who might have reason to frighten you?’

Vern reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. ‘And there we get to it, Steve, there we get to it. A note from a fellow businessman named Jakob Eriksson, claiming responsibility.’

Vern hands the note to Rosie, who reads.

‘This is a waning –’

‘English not his first language, then,’ says Steve.

‘I will be back and you will be next,’ finishes Rosie.

‘So you want us to find this Jakob Eriksson?’ Amy asks. ‘Your business rival?’

‘No,’ says Vern. ‘This note is nonsense.’

‘Nonsense how?’ asks Steve. ‘Apart from the spelling?’

‘I’ll tell you now, for a fact,’ says Vern. ‘Jakob Eriksson didn’t do this.’

Amy takes a look at the note. ‘He seems to suggest that he did.’

‘We’re friends,’ says Vern. ‘We’re not rivals. And we have an agreement.’

‘What sort of agreement?’ asks Rosie.

‘Jakob Eriksson is very much on the more illegal side of the business,’ says Vern. ‘We have always coexisted happily. He kills people. A lot of people. But he would neither threaten to kill me, nor try to kill me.’

‘He kills people?’ asks Amy.

‘Correct,’ says Vern.

‘But he wouldn’t kill you?’ says Steve.

‘He would not,’ agrees Vern. ‘Someone is using his name and trying to frighten me. I need you to find out who.’

‘Can I ask –’ says Steve. ‘Sorry, just to start getting a picture. What is the more illegal side of the fake vitamin business?’

‘The fake medication business,’ says Vern. ‘That’s what Jakob Eriksson does. Heart pills, Viagra, statins. Anything that people need but can’t afford the regular way.’

Jakob Eriksson will surely be on the radar of Interpol, then. Rosie wants to know more.

‘And that would make him more enemies than the fake vitamins market?’

‘Of course,’ says Vern. ‘No one owns the idea of a multivitamin tablet or cod-liver oil or fish collagen.’

‘I use fish collagen,’ says Rosie. ‘I swear by it.’

‘Do you get it from a Belarusian website?’ Vern asks.

‘No,’ says Rosie.

‘Shame,’ says Vern. ‘Anyhow, no one comes after me. But you start selling Viagra or Ozempic or anything medical, then there’s a billion-dollar industry with the sole job of protecting their brand. And any time there’s a billion-dollar industry, there are bullets.’

‘So perhaps Jakob Eriksson wants an easier life?’ Steve suggests. ‘Wants to do what you do instead? Prepared to kill your bodyguard to scare you out of his way?’

‘We all met up,’ says Vern. ‘In Vegas, five or so years ago. Eriksson, my good self and four others. Divided the world up between us. Agreed to leave each other in peace. I was a mediator of sorts, because of the vanilla nature of my operation here.’

‘Lot of money in vanilla,’ says Steve.

‘We’ll need their names,’ says Amy.

‘Of course,’ says Vern. ‘There’s me, of course, and Jakob Eriksson.’

‘Your good pal,’ says Rosie.

Amy is scribbling the list.

Vern continues, ‘Then there’s the late Gennady Volkin.’

‘Late?’ says Steve.

‘Shot dead a year later,’ says Vern. ‘Then there’s Mika Voronen.’

Amy looks up. ‘Could you spell that?’

‘Of course,’ says Vern. ‘V-O-R-O-N-E-N.’ And then, ‘R-I-P.’

‘Dead too?’ says Rosie. ‘Goodness.’

‘Shot dead,’ says Vern. ‘Then Vaclav Svoboda.’

‘Is he …’ starts Steve. ‘Still with us?’

‘Very much not, I’m afraid,’ says Vern.

‘Shot dead?’ guesses Amy.

‘A number of times, yes,’ says Vern. ‘Riddled, they say.’

‘That’s five,’ says Steve. ‘Who’s the sixth?’

‘Tommy Griffin,’ says Vern. ‘An American.’

‘A dead American?’ asks Steve.

‘Well, no,’ says Vern. ‘An alive American.’

‘So, of the six,’ says Rosie, ‘three are dead. And the other three are you, Tommy Griffin and Jakob Eriksson?’

Vern nods. ‘Eriksson killed the first three.’

‘You know that for sure?’ says Amy.

‘Don’t take my word for it,’ says Vern. ‘Ask around. You’ll hear that’s true.’

Another one for Interpol, thinks Rosie.

‘Any other rivals in mind?’ Steve asks, back to work. ‘If you don’t believe this was Jakob Eriksson.’

‘Yes, two people to look at,’ says Vern. ‘Firstly, Tommy Griffin.’

‘The alive American,’ says Amy.

‘He’s been expanding into Europe, which he’s not allowed to do,’ says Vern. ‘Just been in Ireland, for example. Strictly forbidden. He’s making a move into my territory.’

‘And Eriksson’s?’ says Amy.

‘Where is he now?’ Steve asks. ‘Still in Ireland? I like Ireland.’

‘Palm Springs,’ says Vern.

Steve nods. ‘Is it hot there?’

‘Very,’ says Vern.

Steve sighs.

‘And the other name?’ Amy asks.

‘The other person I’d like you to speak to,’ says Vern, ‘is Georgie Glazier.’

‘And who is Georgie Glazier?’ Steve asks.

‘My ex-wife,’ says Vern.

‘So you’re single,’ says Rosie. It’s not a question, merely an observation. Rosie can’t help herself, by this point it’s a tic with her, she barely even notices she’s doing it. But there is something about Vern Blackwood she rather likes. Which, when she really thinks about it, is usually a red flag.

‘Very,’ says Vern.

Rosie looks over at Amy. ‘Make sure you write that down.’

‘I have a different file for your love life,’ says Amy. ‘A bigger file.’

‘We were a partnership,’ says Vern. ‘Amicably concluded, I thought. But she’s been in touch recently, asking for money, saying I owe her.’

‘And do you?’ Rosie asks.

‘Morally, yes,’ says Vern. ‘Financially, no. I told her she won’t be getting a penny from me. Perhaps she’s taken that badly. You know ex-wives, Steve!’

Vern gives Steve a laddish punch on the shoulder, and the only smile that Steve can muster is a sad one.

Three names for Interpol to look at: Tommy Griffin, Georgie Glazier, Jakob Eriksson. Rosie claps her hands. Plenty to be getting on with there.

‘I’m sure we can help you, Vern,’ says Rosie. ‘We’ll take a look at Georgie for you, and Tommy Griffin, and we really will need to find Jakob Eriksson. If only to rule him out. A murderer has threatened to murder you, so we wouldn’t be doing our due diligence if we didn’t.’

Vern shakes his head. ‘You won’t find him, and you don’t need to find him. It’s a smokescreen. I just need to know what the game is here. I need to know if Georgie or Tommy Griffin are trying to scare me. That’s your job. Who killed Esteban, and why. No one deserves what happened to that poor boy.’

Amy’s pen hovers over her notepad. ‘What was Esteban’s surname?’

Vern looks at her, quizzically. ‘No idea. He was only a bodyguard. I usually called him “number three”.’

Amy nods. ‘I’ll put “Sánchez”.’

8

Europe is crazy when you really start looking into it. It’s all different countries and all different languages. Tommy Griffin thinks the whole thing is completely unnecessary. Just pick a language, guys. Preferably English.

And the money? I mean, sure there’s plenty of it, but one day it’s euros, and then you go to Britain and they have, like, British money or something, and so then you’ll be in Dublin and you’d think it was British money there, right? But no, they don’t like that one bit and they point a gun at you and tell you to get out of their country if you think they’re anything to do with Britain. It’d be like trying to sell a million dollars of Viagra in Wisconsin and someone says, ‘Oh, it ain’t dollars here, bud, it’s blingblongs’, or something. That wouldn’t work, right? And yet that’s Europe for you. And it’s a whole continent, this place!

Listen up, Europe, you want some free advice from Tommy Griffin? Pick a language and pick a currency. Then we can really do business.

Tommy’s plane has just landed back at Palm Springs, but, for the moment, he can’t get up.

The trip has been successful, that’s for sure. Lot of deaths in the medication business in the last few years, and that’s good news for Tommy. Leaves a vacuum. Europeans might have screwy languages and currencies, but they sell cheap Viagra, and that’s all Tommy needs.

‘Sir,’ says the steward, ‘we’ve landed. I’d be happy to escort you to the terminal.’

Tommy waves him away. ‘I’m staying put.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ says the steward. ‘Absolutely understood.’

Going to Europe is a risk, of course. Strictly speaking, Tommy Griffin has agreed to stick to North America, but if Tommy finds a cheap, reliable source of Viagra in a corrugated cowshed in County Cork, then why wouldn’t he use it? It’s just economics.

Now the co-pilot approaches Tommy. ‘Is everything all right, Mr Griffin? Can I assist you with anything?’

‘You sure can,’ says Tommy, with a smile. ‘You can assist me with shutting the hell up and sitting back into your airplane driver’s seat until I’m ready to leave.’

‘Of course,’ says the co-pilot. He’s practically bowing, this guy. ‘We’ll be in the cockpit whenever you’re ready to disembark.’

‘Disembark.’ Can you believe that? Just say ‘when you’re ready to get off the plane’. These pilot guys think they’re something else. Like it’s hard to fly a plane? The wings are doing the work, not these idiots. He would actually like to get off the plane, but it’s impossible for now. He wonders how long he’s going to have to wait.

The real problem with Europe is, of course, Jakob Eriksson. But they got on okay in Vegas? Eriksson won’t mind if he buys a few blue pills from a new Irish supplier, will he? They can find a way through that.

One thing’s for sure. Eriksson will know that Griffin’s been in Europe. Eriksson knows everyone, and everything.

Oh great, now the captain’s come out to deal with him.

‘We trust you had an excellent flight, sir?’ says the captain guy. He’s got his little hat on and everything, like he’s the plane Pope, rather than just some jerk who went to pilot school.

‘Excellent?’ says Tommy. ‘How would it be excellent? You kept quiet and you didn’t crash the plane. You want a Nobel Peace Prize?’

‘I do need to disembark the crew,’ says the captain.

‘Disembark’ again. The brass balls on these guys.

Tommy speaks slowly now. Sometimes you have to speak slowly to other people.

‘I will get off the plane – not “disembark” – when I’m good and ready. I ain’t ready, and I tell you now, Captain Hat, I sure ain’t good neither.’

Tommy has already made his mind up, he’s going to do business with the Irish. He kinda has to now, surely? Given his current situation?

Eriksson will have to get used to it. There’s Vern Blackwood in Europe too, but Blackwood is a joke. He does all the baby stuff. He’s the little kid you bully. Won’t take much to keep him at arm’s length.

But, yeah, these Irish pills are going to sell.

Whenever Tommy Griffin gets a new batch of blue pills, he always takes one. It’s just quality control. Every now and again he’ll take one that has no effect, and Tommy will send a guy to Spokane with a gun and get a new batch for free.

The captain has lowered the steps at the front of the plane and is talking to a short blonde woman. She is looking over towards him and nodding. Tommy doesn’t care. He’s not going to stand up any time soon.

The blonde woman is walking towards him.

‘Sir, my name is Ruth Kirkland, I’m with US Customs and Border Protection. I have to ask you to get off the plane.’

Finally, someone who doesn’t say ‘disembark’. Was that really so difficult?

‘I just need a moment,’ says Tommy.

The Irish guy gave him a batch of their blue pills and Tommy swallowed one before they took off.

‘If I may be frank,’ says Ruth Kirkland, ‘I couldn’t care less what you need, and US Customs and Border Protection couldn’t care less what you need. Either I escort you from the plane right now, or I plant some heroin in your hand luggage. Let’s go, cowboy.’

Fair play to the Irish. Not only do their pills work, but they seem to have come up with the most powerful Viagra Tommy has ever consumed. It’s been nine hours since he took that pill and it’s still going strong.

‘I do need to explain something,’ says Tommy. ‘Before I stand up.’

Ruth Kirkland shakes her head. ‘If I don’t see you on your feet in three seconds, then you can do your explaining to a judge.’

‘As you wish,’ says Tommy.

He stands up. With some difficulty. All eyes are drawn to him, then all eyes move downwards. Tommy gives an apologetic shrug.

Ruth Kirkland assesses the situation. ‘Make this man a coffee, I’ll be back in half an hour.’

Tommy sits back down. These European pills are either going to make him a lot of money, or they’re going to get him killed.

That’s a gamble he’s taken many times before, and one he’s very happy to take again.

9

‘So this guy Jakob Eriksson has killed three of his rivals,’ says Amy. ‘But Vern Blackwood is refusing to believe that he might be next on the list. Doesn’t even want us to investigate the man? Sends us after Griffin and the ex-wife instead.’

Amy, Rosie and Steve have travelled down from the villa to the city of Lucca to discuss exactly where they stand.

‘I’m sure he has his reasons,’ says Rosie. ‘And I’m sure we’ll have some fun finding out what they are.’

Lucca is filled with tiny cafés, tiny Fiats and tiny piazzas, all dotted at perfect intervals, so you can stop every five minutes for a coffee or an Aperol Spritz. You wonder why the travellers of ancient times didn’t come back from towns like Lucca and say, ‘Rip this all up and just make it look like Italy.’

Whoever designed Amy’s hometown of Watford, for example, could usefully have taken notes.

‘You’re happy to stay?’ Rosie asks, as they turn yet another picturesque corner into another picturesque cobbled alleyway.

‘I can think of worse places,’ says Amy, reaching down to stroke a cat on a moped.

Amy likes Lucca. It would be impossible not to. This maze of narrow streets, circled by wide city walls, which must at some point have protected something from someone, but now carry cyclists, rollerbladers and young lovers.

‘Do you trust him?’ says Rosie. ‘Vern Blackwood? Something’s off about him, don’t you think?’

‘Of course something’s off about him,’ says Amy. ‘If something wasn’t off he’d just go to the police, wouldn’t he? We’re not going to get a lot of cases where something isn’t off about someone.’

‘Good,’ says Rosie. A police car heads towards them, down the narrow street. As it passes, the driver toots his horn, and the passenger gives the two ladies a loud whistle and a cry of appreciation. ‘Nice to know the police are here if we need them though.’

Amy and Rosie have been taking a walk around the top of the city wall, a wide avenue lined with trees. Someone would be able to tell you what the trees were, but not Amy. Trees are for hiding behind while someone shoots at you, not for getting sentimental about.

They have left Steve to his own devices because he wanted to find postcards to send to his friends at The Brass Monkey, even though he has literally just been talking to Tony Taylor in the car on the way down from Vern Blackwood’s villa.

Amy finally spots the man himself in the distance, sipping an espresso and, it seems, reading an Italian newspaper.

Steve had texted them a full hour ago to say he was at a bar ‘that does coffees’ and ‘has red tablecloths’ and ‘is near a big church, you can’t miss it’. It has taken until now to track him down.

As they reach him, Amy notices that there are four espresso cups on the table, each with a fresh residue of thick brown coffee ringing the top.

‘What took you so long?’ says Steve.

Rosie sits. ‘Are you reading an Italian newspaper, Stevie?’

Steve looks down at the paper, La Gazzetta dello Sport.

‘Browsing,’ says Steve.

‘You don’t speak Italian though,’ says Rosie.

‘It’s sport,’ says Steve. ‘You can get the gist of it.’

‘And have you had four espressos?’ Amy asks.

‘Had to,’ says Steve. ‘I asked for one, and it was so tiny I knocked it back, so I asked for a bigger one, and they said they don’t do bigger ones, so I asked for another one, and, same thing, tiny, so I said if you don’t do bigger ones then can I have two small ones, and they said, are you sure, and I said, am I sure I want two tiny coffees, yep, I’m pretty sure. In England I have a big coffee, which I do, you know that as well as anyone, Amy, I’ve got the big mug Trouble bought me for Christmas, “World’s Best Human”, bit of Nescafé, Bob’s your uncle, Roberto’s your uncle, I suppose, and that doesn’t seem to do me any harm, so, yep, mercy bien, I’ll have two more, grazie mille.’

‘They’re quite … strong,’ says Amy. ‘Quite a lot of caffeine?’

‘Caffeine,’ says Steve, laughing. ‘I think I can handle a bit of caffeine. Caffeine, she says, I was a police officer for twenty-five years, Ames, if I can handle murder and arson and corruption, and let me tell you, the corruption was the worst thing of all, you try to do your job, and what’s that TV show, the one I like? Anyway, it was like that, I was a bit more of an idealist in those days, fitter too, I could run ten k in under –’

Rosie gestures to a passing waiter. ‘Two Aperol Spritzes, please. And two more espressos for my friend.’

Amy clicks her fingers in front of Steve’s face, and he recoils. ‘What did you make of Vern Blackwood, Steve?’

‘Nice house,’ says Steve. ‘Made a lot of money doing something that doesn’t sound too awful, like he sells some vitamins to people who want vitamins and they’re not vitamins, but nobody knows they’re not vitamins and they come back for more vitamins, it’s a funny word, isn’t it, “vitamins”, if you say it often enough, but if you want to know what I think, I think why does someone who works in such a sleepy little business need three bodyguards and why would someone want to kill one of those bodyguards? It’s a long road from vitamins to murder. There’s that word again, “vitamins”. And “murder”. So if you want to know what I think, I think he’s not telling us the whole truth. A note from a guy, but the guy didn’t do it, sure, okay, sure, fine, okay, got it, sure …’

Amy settles back in her chair. Her wonderful father-in-law might be addled but he’s right. Right that there’s a missing piece somewhere. Right that you need a very, very good reason for putting a bullet in someone’s head. And right that if someone leaves you a note confessing all, then you need a good reason not to believe them. Steve and Rosie will go and work their magic, and Amy will stay here and work hers.

The waiter returns with two spritzes and presents them to Rosie and Amy, then turns to Steve.

‘Sir, I’m afraid our insurance won’t allow us to serve you another espresso. I hope you understand?’

‘Sure, sure,’ says Steve, distracted by La Gazzetta dello Sport, which he is now reading with fierce concentration. ‘Bloody Fiorentina, up to their old tricks again.’

The sun has not stopped shining since the moment they arrived in Lucca. In fact, the sun has been shining a lot ever since she was sent to look after Rosie D’Antonio. There has been a lot of rain in Amy Wheeler’s life, and she can’t blame Watford for all of it.

They have a murder, and they have a note confessing to the murder, signed by an actual murderer.

Can there really be any more to it than that?

10

The jet touches down.

Steve has a headache he can’t explain. Must be too much sunshine. He drains the last of his Coke Zero. The steward always jokes with him now, ‘Glass of bubbly, sir?’ Steve remembers a time, a time before Rosie D’Antonio, when he didn’t have any in-jokes with private jet crew members.

Amy is going to stay at Vern’s villa for a couple of days, make herself useful, dig up the corpse, ask a few questions, while he and Rosie look into Jakob Eriksson and Georgie Glazier, and Tommy Griffin too.

Amy should be safe, shouldn’t she? In a beautiful villa on an Italian hillside? I mean, sure, one of Vern’s bodyguards has just been assassinated by, at best current guess, either a ruthless business rival or an ex-wife. But Amy’s view is that whoever is threatening Vern has already got his message across in fairly forceful terms, so what good would killing another bodyguard do? You can’t pull off the same trick twice. You sort of have to trust Amy with that type of thing, she’s quite insightful where imminent and brutal danger is concerned.

So here Steve is, at another private airport in another European city. It occurs to him, as he adjusts himself from the flight, that he doesn’t actually know where they are. It’s not England, he knows that, because he can’t see a Costa Coffee.

‘Where are we?’ he asks Rosie, as they step down on to the tarmac.

‘Barcelona,’ says Rosie.

‘Barcelona, Spain?’ Steve asks.

Rosie turns and lowers her sunglasses. ‘No, Barcelona, Norway. It’s lucky you’re cute, Stevie.’

‘How long are we staying for? If it’s more than three days, I’ll need socks.’

‘You only brought three pairs of socks?’ Rosie asks.

‘No, I only brought one pair of socks,’ says Steve.

People change their socks far more often than they need to, that’s Steve’s view. Your socks are inside your shoes half the time, so they’re not even getting dirty? It really makes you think. Steve’s mystery headache starts throbbing away again.

‘We won’t be long,’ says Rosie. ‘My contact is driving here to meet us.’

Steve looks towards the terminal building. A row of cars is parked on the apron of the runway. The sun glints off the tinted windscreens of Range Rovers, Mercedes and Jags. Every colour of the rainbow, so long as that rainbow is entirely black.

‘Who’s your contact?’

‘Ernesto Manuelo Santiago de Sousa de Cuéllar,’ says Rosie. ‘Assistant Detective Inspector, Spanish Interpol.’

‘He has a long name,’ says Steve.

‘Probably the finest lover in Western Europe,’ says Rosie.

‘Okay,’ says Steve.

‘But also a brilliant scholar,’ says Rosie. ‘Did you really not bring sunglasses again?’

‘Screwing your eyes up is much cheaper,’ says Steve. ‘And less showy.’

‘Ernesto also played football for Barcelona in his teens.’

‘Oh, did he?’

‘Before a knee injury forced him to join the Special Forces,’ says Rosie. ‘Then he took three years out to study Criminal Psychology at Oxford. You’ll love him.’

‘I doubt that very much,’ says Steve.

‘You will,’ says Rosie.

‘I won’t,’ says Steve. You can just bet that Ernesto Manuelo Santiago de Sousa de Cuéllar will be wearing sunglasses. Expensive ones too. He will be exactly the sort of man that women love and men hate. There’s a farmer in Clay Hill, a few miles from Axley. Brett, he’s called, floppy blond hair, red trousers, GPS in his tractor, the full works. The women go silly over him. Tony Taylor once stood next to him at the urinal in The Brass Monkey and came back white as a sheet, couldn’t speak for the rest of the evening. When men like this come along, then, as another man, you just have to wait them out. They’ll have a fatal flaw somewhere. As it happened, Brett decided he’d have a crack at The Brass Monkey quiz night one Wednesday and word from his team was he didn’t even know the capital of Malawi.

Oh, Brett, with your Hugh Grant looks and your fifty-grand tractor, who goes to a half-decent pub quiz if they don’t even know the capital of Malawi? Absolutely laughable.

Steve is wondering which of the sleek limousines this no doubt tall, handsome prick will be stepping out of when the noise of a backfiring engine causes him and Rosie to start.

From around the side of the terminal building comes a two-tone blue-and-white SEAT Ibiza, front bumper grazing the tarmac and smoke billowing from the exhaust. It continues, as fast as its little engine will carry it, then skids to a halt in front of them.

A small man jumps from the driver’s seat. Bright eyes, huge smile, dishevelled moustache and off-white T-shirt bearing the legend MAMA O’ROURKE’S SEAFOOD PARTY HOUSE 1968. He doesn’t remind Steve a great deal of Brett from Clay Hill. In fact, if anything, he reminds Steve of Tony Taylor. One thing is for sure: this cannot be Ernesto, soldier, scholar, footballer and lover. Perhaps a driver?

Rosie’s eyes light up. ‘Ernesto!’

Okay, thinks Steve, this is Ernesto. Unless Ernesto has a driver also called Ernesto.

Rosie and Ernesto hug. And not the way you might hug a driver. Ernesto is a full three inches shorter than Rosie. ‘Beautiful Rosie. The Queen is here!’

Finally tearing himself away from Rosie, Ernesto looks at Steve, and his manic energy disappears into immediate stillness. He looks Steve up and down, very, very slowly, then spreads his arms and begins to shake his head.

‘Can it be?’ starts Ernesto. ‘Can this be Steve Wheeler? I heard about him, and now I see him?’

‘Umm,’ says Steve. ‘Yes. I’m Steve.’

Ernesto spreads his arms wider still and advances. He wraps Steve in an enormous bear hug. Or as enormous as Ernesto can manage.

‘I heard so much about this Steve,’ says Ernesto, loosening his grip, stepping back and really taking Steve in. ‘Handsome Steve. Brave Steve. Steve shot a guy in a Coldplay T-shirt. And here he is.’

‘In the flesh,’ agrees Rosie.

Steve is trying to think of something to say.

‘Did you really play for Barcelona?’

Ernesto waves this away. ‘Only a little.’

‘And you were Special Forces?’

‘I blew up some stuff,’ says Ernesto. ‘Nothing important.’

Steve stares into the man’s big blue eyes. Like oceans of joy swirled with pools of love.

‘You don’t wear sunglasses?’

‘I think it’s cheaper to just screw your eyes up.’ Ernesto then nods to Steve’s T-shirt. ‘You like Van Halen?’

‘Just a bit,’ says Steve. He sees that Rosie is leaning against the SEAT, one eyebrow raised, smug smirk on her face.

‘They played in Barcelona,’ says Ernesto. ‘I said Interpol needed to investigate something backstage. But we didn’t need to investigate anything. I just wanted to meet Van Halen.’

‘You met Van Halen?’

Ernesto nods, seriously. ‘I thought maybe I should arrest them for something and then I could spend the whole night in a cell with them, ask them everything, you know, but in the end I didn’t arrest them. I really try to be a good cop, but I was very tempted.’

‘Still, though,’ says Steve. Why does a part of Steve feel like he’s cheating on Tony Taylor?

Ernesto nods. ‘Still, though. So you guys solving a murder?’

Steve looks at Rosie. ‘Uh …’

‘What have you found out about our lovely suspects for us?’ Rosie asks.

Ernesto reaches through an open window and takes a laptop from his passenger seat. He places it on the bonnet of the car and opens it up.

‘Tommy Griffin,’ says Ernesto, showing them a photograph of a man with a cigar and a scowl. ‘Bad man. FBI have a lot on him, but never enough to make an arrest. He’s in Palm Springs, if you like to go see him.’

‘We’ll probably have to, knowing my luck,’ Steve says. ‘Why doesn’t anyone live in Iceland?’

Ernesto nods. ‘Criminals like hot places. Georgie Glazier, the ex-wife, we’ve got nothing official, she’s pretty clean. I sent you her address, right?’

‘You did, yes,’ says Rosie.

‘But Eriksson is the biggest player,’ says Ernesto. ‘He’s the one that worries me. And no one worries me. I’m Ernesto Manuelo Santiago de Sousa de Cuéllar.’

‘Vern Blackwood says he’s a killer,’ says Rosie. ‘Can you confirm that?’

‘A definite killer,’ says Ernesto. ‘He killed plenty of people, don’t you worry that he hasn’t killed no one.’

Ernesto expands a photograph of a bald man, perhaps in his early seventies, taken from an airport security camera. He looks, to Steve, like Death himself. ‘This is him in Bratislava a year ago. We have another one of him flying back out the next day. Between the two photos a Czech gentleman is murdered in a hotel in the centre of the city.’

‘And you’re sure it was Eriksson?’ Steve asks.

‘Only God can tell for sure,’ says Ernesto. ‘But he has a habit of being in town when these things happen. We have a murder in Helsinki two years ago, another in Minsk around four years ago. Every time a murder, every time there is Jakob Eriksson. The most dangerous man in Sweden, they call him. Though I guess there’s not much competition.’

‘And he’s not in jail?’ Rosie asks.

‘You want to find us some evidence,’ says Ernesto, ‘and we’ll put him in jail. I can’t arrest him for being in an airport. This isn’t Russia.’

‘Or America,’ adds Rosie.

‘All to do with drugs,’ says Ernesto. ‘But not, you know, not Van Halen drugs. Medicine drugs. Tablets, Viagra, you know, Ritalin, those sorts of drugs. That makes sense to you?’

‘It makes perfect sense,’ says Rosie. ‘And Tommy Griffin is in the same business?’

‘Correct,’ says Ernesto.

Rosie gives a slow nod. ‘We think Eriksson might have just killed someone else.’

‘You want to give me details?’ Ernesto asks.

‘In good time,’ says Rosie. ‘Vern doesn’t believe it’s him, so we’ll tread carefully for now. And Jakob Eriksson is his real name?’

Ernesto shrugs. ‘Maybe. Definitely we’ve known him as Jakob Eriksson for about twenty-five years. First mentioned in 2001, an anonymous tip-off about an illegal factory in Morocco. Twenty-five years would be a long time to have the same alias.’

‘Great year, 2001,’ says Steve. ‘I saw AC/DC at Wembley, and I also caught a guy who was murdering gang members and leaving their dismembered limbs in supermarket toilets.’

‘How were AC/DC?’ Ernesto asks.

‘Epic,’ says Steve. ‘2001 they were in their pomp.’

Ernesto nods enthusiastically. ‘Did they play –’

‘And back to Jakob Eriksson, boys,’ says Rosie.

‘You must have found something on Eriksson since 2001,’ says Steve. ‘You’re Interpol.’

‘I am Interpol, yes,’ says Ernesto. He adjusts the wing mirror on the SEAT and it falls off. He picks it up, looks at it accusingly, then throws it on to the passenger seat.

‘Can you send us everything you have?’ Rosie asks. ‘On all three of them?’

‘Legally, no, of course not,’ says Ernesto. ‘But yes, for you and Steve.’

‘And do you know anyone in Sweden who might be able to help us track Eriksson down?’ Rosie asks.

‘Spanish cops are better than Swedish cops,’ says Ernesto.

‘I see,’ says Rosie. ‘Do you think Swedish cops would agree with that?’

‘How could they not?’ says Ernesto. ‘It’s just facts. But I know a guy, Larssen. For a Swedish cop, he’s good. For a Spanish cop, he would be second-rate, perhaps third. He’s the guy they got tracking down Sara Lindstrat, so you know they rate him.’

‘Who’s Sara Lindstrat?’ Steve asks.

Ernesto shakes his head. ‘You really don’t know any of the “Europe’s One Hundred Most Dangerous Criminals” list?’

‘Sorry,’ says Steve. ‘We know Vern Blackwood. Is he on it?’

‘For sure, not,’ says Ernesto. ‘Sara Lindstrat is the most dangerous woman in Sweden. Killer, torturer, a bad woman, and not in a good way. Larssen is on her trail. He’ll know something about Eriksson.’

‘Thank you, darling,’ says Rosie. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Okay, Steve, back on the plane.’

‘Back on the plane?’ says Steve. ‘We’ve only just got here. Ernesto will –’

‘We need to talk to the ex-wife,’ says Rosie. ‘You’ll enjoy it, she’s in England. It’ll be cold.’

‘But …’ Steve looks at Ernesto, then back at Rosie.

‘You’ll see Ernesto again, Steve, I promise. If you’d like to. Would you like to?’

Steve shrugs. ‘I don’t mind.’

Ernesto hugs him. ‘I would like to. Don’t you dare get killed, Steve. After I just met you.’

‘Okay, I won’t,’ says Steve.

Ernesto hugs Rosie. ‘You stay for longer next time.’

‘Let’s solve the murder,’ says Rosie. ‘Then we’ll be back for cocktails.’

‘Cocktails it is!’ says Ernesto, beaming.

Steve leads the way up the steps, back on to the plane. At the top, he turns back. Ernesto is leaning against his battered SEAT.

‘Can I ask you a question, Ernesto?’

‘Sure,’ says Ernesto.

‘What’s the capital of Malawi?’

‘Lilongwe,’ says Ernesto.

And that, thinks Steve, nodding, is a real man.

11

‘We never used to have tiramisu, did we?’ says Tony Taylor, between mouthfuls of tiramisu. ‘When did tiramisu start?’

‘1989?’ guesses Felicity. ‘Something like that?’

‘Maybe,’ agrees Tony. ‘They probably had it in London before then.’

‘And even earlier in Italy,’ says Felicity. ‘If you think about it.’

‘Is it Italian?’ Tony asks.

‘Tiramisu? Yes,’ says Felicity. ‘That’s why they always have it at Italian restaurants.’

‘I always assumed it was a coincidence,’ says Tony. ‘Same with ravioli?’

‘Italian too,’ confirms Felicity.

‘Fair play to them,’ says Tony, shaking his head in wonder at the sheer range of the Italians.

They are celebrating. Finally a job for We Solve Murders. Something for Felicity to do. Although so far all she’s really had to do is make sure that Rosie’s drivers know where to meet Rosie’s plane. She did some digging into a woman called Georgie Glazier this afternoon as well. She knows that Tony is pleased for her, and he had suggested dinner. The Bella Italia in Lymington, to toast new beginnings.

Tony is something of a miracle. I mean, sure, he doesn’t know that tiramisu is Italian, or, in an example that cropped up last night, that Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character, but he can strip and reassemble the engine of a Kia Sportage in under twenty minutes – he showed her this on their third date – and he treats her happiness as his own, and her successes as his successes. When Felicity smiles, Tony smiles to see it. He will pay the bill tonight, as he does whenever they go out, despite Felicity’s outlandish salary.

‘You heard from them?’ Tony asks.

‘Steve and Rosie are flying back to talk to an ex-wife,’ says Felicity.

‘Of this Vern fella?’

Felicity nods. Vern Blackwood. She sent the man an invoice this afternoon. For ‘consultation services’. Looking at the amount made her feel a little better about her salary.

‘Imagine getting shot through the head,’ says Tony. ‘No thanks. No thank you one bit. The ex-wife involved, then?’

‘No idea, according to Steve,’ says Felicity. ‘But she’s in the same business, and she’s been asking for money, so Vern asked them to take a look at her.’

Tony nods. ‘And it’s vitamins? All that nonsense?’

Felicity takes vitamin C for immunity, vitamin D for bones, vitamin B12 for something she read about and now can’t remember, magnesium tablets for blood, or something of that nature, calcium also for blood, or for brain health, although if they’re for brain health then what is the omega-3 oil for? She takes ashwagandha for stress, St John’s wort for mental balance, creatine for if she’s been on a long walk that day, iron for, again, blood, and zinc because she likes the word ‘zinc’.

‘All that nonsense, yes,’ says Felicity.

Is it all nonsense though? She’s still here, isn’t she? Fighting fit, except for a bit of flu a couple of weeks ago. And she’s managed to find love and land a hundred-and-twenty-grand job, so she must be doing something right. Who’s to say it isn’t the chicory root prebiotic?

Tony is paying the bill. He is wearing the new shirt Felicity bought him at River Island. He had told her at the time that he would ‘save it for somewhere fancy’ and she had thought that he was just being polite. He looks gorgeous.

‘Will you pass on our thanks to the chef?’ he says to the young waiter.

‘I mean, he’s more of a food assembler than a chef,’ says the waiter, handing Tony the receipt. ‘But I will. And thank you for the tip. Most people don’t.’

Most people aren’t Tony Taylor. Tony stands and offers his arm to Felicity, and they weave their way through the tables and out on to the Lymington quayside.

The night is warm. Giddy teens drink from cans, legs dangling over the stone quay. Lights dance on the far bank.

‘Should be no traffic this time of night,’ says Tony.

Small boats bob like bath toys and squeak against their rubber fenders. There is salt on the breeze, as late gulls caw and jetty wood creaks.

‘Straight on the Southampton Road, no roadworks, we’ll be home in nineteen minutes, tops.’

Felicity rests her head against Tony’s shoulder as they turn off the quayside into a small, steep alley cut between low fishermen’s cottages.

‘Unless we get stuck at the level crossing, and even then, it won’t be more than twenty-one minutes. Plus we’ll get to see a train.’

A man enters the alleyway from the top. Head up, hood down. If Felicity were by herself, this is absolutely the type of man she would turn around to avoid. But she is with Tony.

‘If we’re not inside our front door by half past,’ says Tony, ‘I’ll give you a fiver.’

Tony steps aside to let the man through and Felicity tucks in behind him. But the man does not pass.

‘Please, my friend,’ says Tony. ‘After you.’

The punch is immediate, Tony’s head is forced into the flint wall behind. Felicity’s instinctive scream is muffled by the man’s other hand. Tony is on the floor, Felicity sees his arm move, hopelessly trying to protect himself. As the man kneels beside Tony, raining blows on to him, Felicity kicks out with all her force and connects with the side of the man’s head. He bats this away and laughs. Felicity finds herself being lifted into the air, legs kicking helplessly now. Tony is groaning, which means he is alive. The man wears no face covering, and she sees him clearly even in the dusk light of the alley. Bleached blond hair, the wing of an eagle tattoo reaching up to his neck.

At the top of the alley a laughing teen couple sees the scene. They stop laughing and turn heel.

‘I’ve got money,’ Felicity says. ‘Leave him, let me take him to a hospital.’

The man looks at her. ‘I’ve got money too. And he’s okay. If I wanted to kill him I would have killed him.’

Tony is getting quieter now. His new shirt is torn at the shoulder. She remembers buying it. Holding it up against the assistant to judge the colour. Just knowing how handsome he would look.

The man aims a final kick at Tony’s ribs. ‘You tell Vern Blackwood, you don’t come looking for Jakob Eriksson, you understand?’

Felicity spits in the man’s face. He wipes it away. Vern Blackwood is the client in Italy. Who is Jakob Eriksson? What have Steve, Amy and Rosie got involved in? What have they got her and Tony involved in?

‘No Jakob Eriksson,’ says the man. ‘Or the next time I see you, I will kill you both.’

‘If you ever see me again,’ says Felicity, hearing Tony breathe heavily, ‘I will kill you first.’

The man laughs with genuine amusement.

‘I am sorry to do this,’ he says. ‘But a message is a message.’

The man puts his hood back up and continues his stroll towards the bottom of the alley without a care in the world. Felicity drops to her knees and cradles Tony’s head. His eyes open and he mumbles something she can’t hear.

‘Don’t speak,’ says Felicity, weeping and shaking. His face is swelling already, and there is blood on his left temple where he struck the wall. It is the tear in the shirt that is making her weep though. ‘You rest, we’ll get you to hospital.’

From the top of the alley the teenaged couple reappears, the girl speaking into a mobile phone. Felicity hears an ambulance in the distance.

Tony is trying to speak again but no words come out.

The teens reach her. The boy takes off his jacket and wraps it around Tony as Tony’s eyes begin to close. As the girl takes off her jacket and wraps it around Felicity, Tony loses consciousness.

12

‘It’s quiet most of the time,’ says Lee, leaning on his shovel and kicking at the lawn with his trainers. ‘Peaceful. You know, until this. Korbin does most of the fun stuff. I just drive and hang around outside restaurants.’

‘That’s the job,’ says Amy, kneeling. The mound of earth is piled up beside her.

She turns Esteban’s body over with as much dignity as she can.

‘I have seniority,’ says Korbin. ‘That’s why I do the fun things.’

‘Sometimes he sends me to get coffee,’ says Lee. ‘I fought in Afghanistan and now I buy Frappuccinos.’

‘How long did you serve?’ Amy asks.

‘Too long,’ says Lee.

Amy examines Esteban. The bullet had gone in through the back of the skull. Downward trajectory. Not textbook, but effective enough.

‘I used to work for Britney Spears,’ says Korbin. ‘I don’t know if you have heard of her, she is a singer?’

‘Have I heard of Britney Spears?’ says Amy, examining the entry wound in more detail. ‘Yes.’

It doesn’t matter where you are in the world, bodyguard talk is the same. Kuwait, Buenos Aires, Osaka, Gaborone, it’s the same people bitching about the same things. Menial tasks, gun not good enough, less fun than working for Cher. Bodyguards are never happy unless they are backstage at Wembley or under direct fire.

For these two – three if you count the late Esteban – life on this Italian hillside must have been deathly dull, until someone shot Esteban. That has perked them up a bit. You can sense it. Judging by the entry wound, the gun was very close when it fired. Hard to get that close to a professional and then shoot them in the back of the head. But all sorts of scenarios in which it could have happened.

‘Have you ever worked for anyone famous?’ asks Lee, his Essex accent and perfect teeth pure Love Island.

‘Yes,’ says Amy. ‘Do you think this guy Jakob Eriksson really killed Esteban?’

Korbin shrugs.

‘Course he did,’ says Lee. ‘Gotta kill people every now and again. Keep your reputation up.’

‘Whoever killed him got up pretty close and personal,’ says Amy. ‘Any theories, Korbin?’

Korbin looks bored. ‘Maybe Jakob Eriksson, maybe someone else.’

‘He left a note, dumbass,’ says Lee.

‘Anyone can write a note,’ says Korbin. ‘A baby can write a note. Well, maybe not a baby.’

Amy is not sure she can learn anything more from the corpse. He was facing away from his killer, he was shot at close range, there are no defensive injuries, no signs of a struggle. In his jeans pocket there’s nothing but half a pack of chewing gum. We all die with something still in our pocket.

‘What do you know about Mr Blackwood’s business?’ Amy asks. The two men trust her, recognize her as one of their own. She intends to take full advantage.

‘I know it’s none of mine,’ says Lee.

He’s half right, you have to be discreet, and you have to keep a distance, but you also have to know the dangers your principal might face, the environment in which they work.

‘I know Eriksson is the top banana though,’ Lee adds. ‘Everyone knows that.’

Amy gets to her feet and brushes dirt from her tracksuit. ‘I think Esteban can go back in.’

Amy takes Esteban’s shoulders, and Korbin takes his legs. ‘Have there been many threats? Over the years?’

‘No threats,’ says Korbin, as they nod at each other to lift. ‘Because I do my job properly. We keep quiet, we keep clean, no fuss, no drama, no threats. We eat well, plenty of vegetables. I listen to opera.’

‘Okay,’ says Amy. ‘No excitement at all?’

They lower Esteban’s body back into his grave. Perhaps at some point they’ll find out who he really is, and his family can claim him. Until then, there are worse resting spots than this.

‘One of the cleaners tried to steal some money, caught red-handed,’ says Korbin. ‘And Esteban marched her out at gunpoint. That’s as exciting as it gets up here.’

Amy supposes Esteban didn’t have to march the cleaner out at gunpoint, but bodyguards do like an excuse to do something at gunpoint. Lee starts to shovel the earth back into the grave.

‘Good money?’ Amy asks. It must be good money. What else but good money would keep three professionals cooped up in a villa with nothing to do all day?

Korbin and Lee look in no mood to disagree with her.

‘We do all right,’ says Lee. Amy notes that if it is possible to shovel earth over a corpse respectfully, then that is what Lee is doing. Tells you something about the man at least.

‘Better than Britney,’ says Korbin. ‘The singer I mentioned.’

‘Jakob Eriksson?’ asks Amy. ‘Vern says they’re friends. Has he ever visited?’

‘Never been here,’ says Korbin. His shovel work is less respectful than Lee’s. Amy supposes that if you’ve had to bury the same man twice in two days, your patience might wear thin.

‘Never met the geezer,’ says Lee. ‘Never want to. Killer.’

‘I bet he pays even more than Mr Blackwood?’ says Amy.

Lee leans on his shovel for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any ketamine, Amy? Been a rough couple of days.’

‘Me?’ says Amy. ‘No. Rosie probably does.’

‘It’s so hard to get ketamine in Italy,’ says Lee, resuming his work. ‘The coffee’s good though. Rosie’s the old lady that was here?’

‘This is just a word to the wise, Lee,’ says Amy. ‘If you ever call Rosie an old lady to her face, you’ll end up in the same grave as Esteban.’

‘What is she? Drug baron?’

‘Novelist.’

‘Huh,’ says Lee. ‘Like, book writer?’

‘Like, book writer,’ confirms Amy.

‘She’s very good,’ says Korbin, starting to pat down the earth already in the grave. ‘Rosie D’Antonio. She’s very good.’

This makes Amy happy. ‘Have you read the new one? And the Devil Blinked First.’

‘I am reading now,’ says Korbin. ‘It is very exciting. In German it is called Und Schliesslich Blinzelte der Teufel Zuerst im Finsternisaugenblick.’

Amy nods. ‘Beautiful language.’

If there was a third shovel she would, of course, help.

Korbin takes a long, hard look at Amy. ‘I think you won’t find Jakob Eriksson. The three of you.’

Amy takes a good look at this handsome German, now covered in Tuscan dirt. You get a good sense of people in her business, and Korbin seems solid. If unemotional. ‘Why hasn’t Mr Blackwood sent you off to find him?’

‘He can’t leave himself unprotected,’ says Korbin.

Perhaps that’s an explanation, yes.

‘Talking of which, I’d better patrol,’ says Lee to Korbin.

Lee gives his shovel to Amy and picks up his semi-automatic.

Amy is glad she can help with the work now.

‘Who did the patrol on the night of Esteban’s murder?’ Amy asks, taking her first spadeful of earth.

‘Esteban,’ replies Lee.

‘By himself?’ says Amy. She looks down. All she can see of Esteban is a single shirt cuff. She throws her earth away from the cuff. Doesn’t want to be the one who makes him disappear forever. ‘No one else was keeping an eye on things?’

‘Yep,’ says Lee. ‘That’s how we do it.’

With these two highly trained bodyguards you’d hope that someone might have heard, or even sensed, something on the night of Esteban’s murder. Not that she’s accusing anyone of anything, but complacency can set in when you have an easy gig like this.

If you have a highly trained killer too, then call off all bets. But that gunshot wound didn’t look professional?

Korbin throws his earth over the cuff, and there goes Esteban.

Lee salutes Amy with his gun and heads off to the perimeter of Vern’s estate. Amy is left with Korbin. The brains of the outfit. She wants to ask him about complacency. He will understand what she means.

‘Do you –’

Korbin hushes her and cranes his neck to check if Lee is out of sight. ‘I need to speak to you. But first I need to trust you.’

‘That’s up to you,’ says Amy. If he wants to tell her something, he will. Be calm. ‘I’ve just helped you bury a body. What else do you want me to do?’

‘Something is wrong here,’ says Korbin. ‘There’s something I need to tell you to make some sense of it.’

And this is why Amy is here. With the bodyguards. People like Vern Blackwood, people like Jakob Eriksson and Tommy Griffin, they keep their secrets close. They’ll tell you what you need to know and nothing more. But at home, just sometimes, they can let their guard slip. Korbin and Lee will know things that nobody else does. And one of those things might just be a clue to the murder of Esteban.

‘You might not believe me,’ says Korbin. ‘But I can bring proof.’

‘Of what?’ Amy asks. ‘You know who killed Esteban?’

‘I know who didn’t,’ says Korbin. ‘You come to my room after lockdown tonight. Nine, okay?’

‘Okay,’ says Amy.

‘No phone, no recording,’ says Korbin. ‘Just me and you.’

‘Just me and you,’ says Amy.

Korbin looks down at the grave, now full and level.

‘Tomorrow we plant flowers,’ he says. ‘You think?’

Amy nods. ‘I think that would be nice.’

‘A flower bed confuses the sonar machines the cops use,’ says Korbin. ‘And a corpse is good nutrient.’

Well, thinks Amy, whatever the reason, the flowers are a nice idea.

Korbin nods at her. ‘Nine o’clock. I blow your mind.’

He takes her shovel, and takes his leave.

13

‘I’m bored,’ says Rosie. ‘Entertain me, Stevie. Do you tap dance?’

‘No such thing as bored,’ says Steve. ‘Only boring. Have a nap.’

‘A nap?’ says Rosie. ‘How old do you think I am?’

‘Genuinely no idea,’ says Steve. ‘Low hundreds?’

It’s good to get a sense of a criminal before you meet them and Steve has insisted on tailing Georgie Glazier all day. Rosie was all for confronting Vern’s ex-wife (‘My God, I’ve been confronted by a lot of ex-wives in my time. Be nice to turn the tables’), but Steve’s wisdom prevailed. What’s to be gained by riding straight in? If Georgie has just travelled to Italy, murdered a bodyguard, pinned it on Jakob Eriksson and flown home, then she’s hardly likely to come straight out and tell them. Questioning her would alert her to their suspicions, warn her off doing anything incriminating. Better to get a sense of the woman. Who is she? What is her routine? Who does she associate with? Does she seem like a criminal?

Steve once had his suspicions about a serving police officer, for example. Thought the man was taking money from a local drug gang in return for information. He could have confronted him, but instead spent three days following him. During those three days under surveillance, the officer visited a car dealership, a travel agent, a jeweller’s and an estate agent. As if that wasn’t enough, on day three Steve saw the man doing his weekly shopping at Waitrose and decided he finally had enough evidence that the man had come into some money.

Georgie Glazier has a very different vibe, however.

Steve and Rosie are currently waiting outside a pottery workshop in suburban Hertfordshire. They have just enough of an angle to see Georgie wearing an apron featuring a duck saying ‘I’m Quackers about Pots’, while the woman herself is painting a rainbow on to a newly fired plant pot.

‘You could drive your car through the front window?’ suggests Rosie. ‘That would perk me up.’

Georgie’s stop before this had been a volunteer shift at a food bank on a nearby housing estate, and before that she had returned her library books.

Up to this point Georgie has yet to steal a car, buy a bag of drugs, throw a business rival off a building or dispose of a used firearm in a canal. And it’s almost teatime.

That dodgy Met officer, all those years ago, had very quickly shown Steve his true colours. Confirmed every suspicion. So far Georgie hasn’t raised a single red flag. In fact, the only thing she has in common with that corrupt officer so far is that she too popped into Waitrose this morning.

‘If it’s an act, it’s a good one,’ says Rosie.

‘It has to be an act,’ says Steve.

‘She’s very pretty,’ says Rosie. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘I’m on a stakeout,’ says Steve. ‘Not at a nightclub.’

‘When was the last time you were at a nightclub?’ Rosie asks, as Georgie starts petting a dog in the pottery shop.

‘I raided one in the late nineties,’ says Steve. ‘And I had my Covid jab at the Southampton Pump Shed.’

It really does have to be an act though, surely? The little information you can find about Georgie Glazier online tells you the truth of Vern’s story. They were husband and wife, and Georgie was involved in the same business as her husband. Those were facts. Here she is, early fifties, doesn’t look it – not that Steve has an opinion either way about how old she looks, or indeed about how she looks in any respect. She’s a suspect, pure and simple. Looks don’t come into it. Typical of Rosie not to understand that.

‘Are you seeing “murderer”?’ he asks Rosie. Rosie has a pretty good eye for this sort of thing at least. Georgie has taken her plant pot up to the counter. ‘Plant pots and library books?’

‘Murderers paint plant pots,’ says Rosie. ‘Murderers go to the library.’

‘I don’t know,’ says Steve.

‘Murderers don’t just go around murdering people all day,’ says Rosie. ‘If a murderer has a toothache, they don’t murder someone, they go to the dentist.’

‘I never go to the dentist,’ says Steve, feeling a hole in a back tooth with his tongue.

‘That’s because you’re British,’ says Rosie.

‘You’re British too,’ says Steve.

‘You take that back,’ says Rosie. ‘I’m just saying, you can volunteer in a food bank and still shoot a bodyguard in the head.’

Steve nods. Why else would Vern send them on this chase? He must have reasons to be suspicious of Georgie. Unless it’s misdirection? But Vern would have no possible reason to ask them to investigate Esteban’s murder simply to lie to them. Would he? Best not to rule anything out. If twenty-five years in the police taught Steve anything, it’s that other people can be very weird. And also that petrol stations do the best food.

Perhaps Steve himself is weird? He doesn’t think he is. Sure, he speaks to his dead wife every day, but it would be weirder not to do that. Yes, she talks back, but why wouldn’t she? His heart is still her heart.

Georgie exits the pottery shop and walks back to her Škoda. She actually is very pretty, if women being pretty is your thing. They follow her at a safe distance (a ‘boring’ distance, according to Rosie), and it appears that she is heading home.

Steve is thinking. The Škoda, when you really start getting into it, is interesting. It’s not a cheap car exactly, but it’s not the sort of car you’d expect Vern’s ex-wife to drive. You’d think something bigger, surely? Something flashier? Is that why Georgie is looking for Vern’s money? Georgie pulls into her road and stops outside a very pleasant, if nondescript, semi-detached house. Same thing as the Škoda. Georgie clamps her key ring in her teeth as she carries her bags to the front step, puts them down, opens the door and goes in.

‘The house doesn’t fit,’ says Steve. ‘Blackwood in that villa, and Georgie in suburbia?’

‘Perhaps women don’t need to buy big houses,’ says Rosie. ‘Ever thought of that?’

‘Rosie, your house in Dorset has two moats,’ says Steve. ‘Your moat has a moat.’

‘You’re obsessed with my moats,’ says Rosie. She opens the passenger-side door. ‘Come on, then.’

‘Come on what?’

‘Let’s introduce ourselves,’ says Rosie. ‘I’m not going to sit out here while she crochets a blanket for the homeless. Let’s see if she’s a murderer.’

Rosie is out of the car, and Steve feels duty-bound to follow her. He has made her sit still all day, and he knows that’s torture for her. He follows her up the small path to Georgie’s front door.

‘What will you do if she recognizes you?’ Steve asks.

‘Darling,’ says Rosie, turning and clutching a hand to her chest. ‘What will I do if she doesn’t recognize me?’

14

Ernesto Manuelo Santiago de Sousa de Cuéllar is still working. He is smoking a cigar, laptop on his lap – its rightful place – and thinking about what he has just seen in the photographs.

Could it be a coincidence? Come on now.

He had a boss once, a Belgian man, but not Poirot, not this guy. Where Poirot was neat and methodical and always right, this man, Leopold, was an untidy firework and, more to the point, always wrong. It was, once they had got used to him, very useful that Leopold was always wrong, as it enabled them to narrow down many cases immediately, simply through suspecting the precise opposite of what Leopold suspected. It was, in its own way, as useful as working with Mr Sherlock Holmes himself.

Leopold didn’t believe in coincidences, he had probably read somewhere that a good cop shouldn’t. He would drill it into them: ‘No such thing, no such thing.’

But it seems to Ernesto that there are coincidences everywhere, if you really want to look for them. So many things happen in the world, all day, every day, that the chances of two unlikely ones bumping into each other every now and again are very high indeed.

When Ernesto was in the Special Forces he was once part of a team asked to raid a property belonging to an arms smuggler in northern Ecuador – don’t ask why, you don’t want to know. After arresting, or, if you really insist on calling a spade a spade, shooting, the inhabitants, he was doing a final sweep of the property when he poked his head up through a hatch into the attic and found himself under immediate fire. Swinging back underneath the attic ladder, Ernesto strafed the ceiling with bullets and, after hearing a thud, poked his head back up to find a dying man, eyes wide in fear, hand reaching out for help. He was too far gone though, and this is where he would die. But the point being that this man, heart beating for the final time, over five thousand miles from Spain, was Mr Herrera, who once lived three doors down from Ernesto’s grandmother in Bilbao. Tell me now, Leopold, that there are no coincidences.

Leopold himself died at an Interpol conference maybe two years ago, after driving the wrong way around a British roundabout. And then his coffin fell out of a helicopter above the North Sea.

Ernesto misses the guy.

How nice to see Rosie D’Antonio again. Wherever she is, fun follows, and Ernesto likes fun. You might ask who doesn’t like fun, but, in Ernesto’s experience, plenty of people don’t. Fun scares people a little, he thinks. Perhaps the lack of control? Having fun means being open to new ideas and new opportunities. Being open to letting your guard down.

Speaking of which, is that what Jakob Eriksson has done here? Most of Europe’s finest criminals, and there are some very fine ones, are exceedingly careful. Jakob Eriksson has been too up to now. But dumping a corpse on an Italian doorstep? That’s fairly showy.

Ernesto is in his office, which overlooks the harbour in Barcelona. He once went to a police station in Great Britain that overlooked the recycling bins of a supermarket. Ernesto likes British people very much indeed, but if he lived in Britain the first thing he would have to do is buy curtains, and the second thing he would have to do is close them.

Sipping a coffee and watching a jet-skier, Ernesto has opened every file with Jakob Eriksson’s name even vaguely attached. Tommy Griffin and the ex-wife don’t interest him, but Eriksson is what the British call a very large fish. The mentions start, just as he had told Steve and Rosie, in 2001. A report on the factory in Morocco, a blurry photo of Eriksson leaving through a loading bay, sent in by, presumably, a rival. There is nothing before then, so you have to wonder why he started when he did.

Ernesto has been around long enough to know that if Interpol can’t catch Jakob Eriksson, then maybe a woman in a diamond tiara and a man in a Van Halen T-shirt can. Sometimes the job is just about the angle at which you look at things. So he will help Rosie. And, of course, if she brings him Jakob Eriksson, then that will help him. What a coup it would be! Sometimes they don’t take Ernesto too seriously here. There is a lot of snobbery about a boy from Bilbao, whatever he might have achieved elsewhere.

Some money had gone missing once from a drugs bust. Quite a lot of money, €300,000 or so. And who did they suspect of stealing it? His commander, who went to the right school? No. They suspected Ernesto, who had gone to the wrong school. Eventually they concluded that Ernesto had done nothing of the sort, but he has never forgotten that their suspicion went straight to him. Snobbery, pure and simple.

The three photos he is looking at now might be a coincidence, never rule it out – poor Mr Herrera could tell you that. But all three? I mean two, maybe, but three? Come on now.

There he is, the same man. In two of the photos, the airports in Helsinki and Minsk, the man stands two places behind the egg-bald Jakob Eriksson. Not looking at Jakob Eriksson, not engaging, but there. In the third photo, Bratislava, he is directly in front of him, and if you stared for long enough, and you wanted to believe hard enough, you could swear that Jakob Eriksson has his hand on the man’s elbow.

Three airports, three cities, three murders. Jakob Eriksson present at each one. But this other man present at each one also. Is he Eriksson’s hitman perhaps? That would make a lot of sense. Would Eriksson really risk pulling those triggers himself? Did he pull the trigger at Vern Blackwood’s villa? Doubtful. But he’s there each time to oversee things. Keeps his eyes open, but his hands clean of blood.

Ernesto has run the images of this new mystery man through every piece of software they have and has drawn a blank. Whoever he is, he has never troubled their radar. But if Rosie and Steve, and the daughter-in-law, are really going after Jakob Eriksson, this man might prove very useful. If Jakob Eriksson is hard to catch, perhaps this second man will not be? And, once they have him, they might be a step closer to Eriksson? You circle and circle. You close in and close in.

Ernesto emails the three images to Rosie.

The same man on the same flight as Jakob Eriksson three times?

Ernesto thinks more about coincidences, and the fact – the fact – that sometimes they do happen.

You could argue, if you wished, that the killing of Mr Herrera was not a coincidence at all, of course. You could. Yes, Mr Herrera lived three doors from his grandmother, but everyone on his grandmother’s street was involved in crime in one way or another, it was that sort of neighbourhood. And, yes, Ecuador is an awfully long way from home, but don’t a lot of Spanish criminals end up there? When they’ve lost a yard of pace, or when the Spanish authorities take too close an interest? So the odds come down again. Ernesto understands all that.

But that it was Ernesto himself who poked his head through the ceiling like a golf ball on a tee, and that it was Ernesto’s bullets that tore through every one of Mr Herrera’s major organs, well, that does feel like a coincidence.

He thinks back to that neighbourhood in Bilbao. He lived two blocks away with his mother. His father disappeared soon after he was born, reappearing as if by magic when Ernesto signed terms with Barcelona and disappearing again when the knee injury forced him into less lucrative work.

His background has always worked against him.

If we’re telling the whole truth, Ernesto actually had stolen that €300,000 from the drugs bust. Bought a quiet little house with the money. But the point was his superiors had absolutely no evidence that he’d done it, but had suspected him regardless. And that’s just pure snobbery. That sort of thing drives Ernesto crazy.

They said there were only three ways to get out of his neighbourhood: football, the army and crime. Ernesto must be the only kid to have tried all three.

He takes a puff on his cigar, blows out a perfect smoke ring and smiles. There are not many who have achieved everything he has achieved. Even if his bosses still choose to look down on him, Ernesto knows he has much to be proud of.

15

‘You know, when I saw it was you, I thought, “Ooh, I must’ve won the Postcode Lottery,” I was looking for the cameras.’

Georgie Glazier had recognized her. Thank the Lord himself. Still got it, Rosie.

‘I’ve never had a celebrity in the house before. My neighbour, Jim, at number twelve, with the carport, he swears he saw Colin Firth in Hotel Chocolat in St Albans, but you’d have to ask yourself why, wouldn’t you? And there wasn’t a peep on Facebook about it. I said, “Jim, you’re full of bull-dot-dot-dot sometimes,” but he stuck to his guns, so who knows? He can’t walk his dog now, because of his hip – Jim, not Colin Firth – so we take it in turns to walk him – the dog, not Jim – but it can’t do him good being cooped up like that, can it? Do you have dogs?’

‘No,’ says Rosie.

‘I have a cat,’ says Steve. ‘If that counts?’

‘Far less bother,’ says Georgie. ‘Mind you, you’ve to watch your furniture, don’t you? Scratch, scratch, scratch. Do you have to watch your furniture?’

‘Trouble’s not too bad,’ says Steve. ‘You give him a look and he lays off.’

‘Show me the look!’ says Georgie.

Steve narrows his eyes and purses his lips. He wags a finger.

‘Ooh, I don’t think that would stop me,’ giggles Georgie. ‘It’d encourage me if anything.’

‘Then you’d get no tea,’ says Steve.

Wait, thinks Rosie. Is Steve flirting? Heavens above. First time for everything.

Georgie pouts at him, and Steve wags his finger again. Rosie thinks she might vomit.

She’s never seen Steve flirt before, and if this is what it looks like, she never wants to again. He is going to need lessons. It’s like watching a penguin roller-skate.

‘Sorry to break up the cat talk,’ says Rosie. ‘We wanted to ask you a couple of questions about your ex-husband?’

‘Is Vern in trouble?’ says Georgie. ‘He’s not dead?’

‘Would that surprise you?’ Rosie asks. Rosie thinks of rainbows on plant pots and corpses on doorsteps. Two different worlds?

‘Being in trouble, no,’ says Georgie. ‘Dead, yes. He’s always been very careful. Always was, right from the start. I’ve wanted to kill him myself a few times, but it’s illegal.’

‘He’s not dead,’ says Steve.

‘Not yet,’ says Rosie.

‘But he’s been threatened,’ says Steve. ‘And we’re trying to find out who by.’

Georgie looks at him. ‘Are you going to interrogate me? Will you be taking everything down?’

‘Only if you scratch the furniture,’ says Steve.

Is this how people flirt now? It isn’t how Harrison Ford flirts, but, Rosie supposes, not everyone is Harrison Ford. Although Steve, if she’s being honest, in certain lights …

‘His bodyguard was killed,’ says Rosie, trying to disrupt the mood. ‘Shot in the head.’

‘He’s got a bodyguard, has he?’ says Georgie. ‘He didn’t used to have a bodyguard. But then they even have security guards on the door at Waitrose now. Because of the shoplifting.’

‘He’s actually got three bodyguards,’ says Steve.

‘Two now,’ says Rosie, miming a gunshot to the head.

‘We’ve just been out in Italy with him,’ says Steve. ‘Nice house.’

‘I don’t suppose you know it at all?’ Rosie asks. ‘Haven’t been there recently?’

Georgie shakes her head. ‘Never been. I love a Cornetto though, to be fair to me. Another cuppa, anyone?’

‘Wouldn’t say no,’ says Steve. ‘They don’t do tea in Italy.’

‘They do if you ask,’ says Rosie.

Steve shakes his head at Rosie as Georgie pours his tea. ‘I tried, in Lucca, and whatever they brought me, it wasn’t tea. That’s why I started drinking those tiny coffees.’

‘Are you thinking I might know who threatened him?’ says Georgie, smiling. Then she turns to Rosie and turns the smile off at the mains. ‘Or perhaps you’ve come all this way because you think it might be me?’

Well, that’s a bit more like it. A bit of steel in the cotton wool.

‘Tell us about you and Vern,’ says Rosie. ‘Then perhaps we can make our minds up.’

‘We met at school,’ says Georgie. ‘Kensal Rise, if you know it?’

‘Let’s pretend I do,’ says Rosie.

‘Lot going on in Kensal Rise,’ says Steve. ‘When I was in the Met.’

‘You were a copper?’ Georgie asks.

Steve nods.

‘I can see you as a copper,’ says Georgie. ‘He was always a cut above, Vern, always grew towards the sun, you know? Had plans. And I thought I might tag along with him, go where he was going.’

‘Legal plans?’ Rosie asks.

‘Sometimes,’ says Georgie. ‘Sometimes not. Knock-off perfume, that sort of thing. Hard to get out of Kensal Rise without breaking a few windows, you know? Did you ever have to struggle, Rosie?’

Well, wasn’t that a question? Why not be honest. ‘I did, yes.’

‘I can see it in you,’ says Georgie. ‘It never leaves the eyes. Even eyes as beautiful as yours, Rosie.’

Okay, that’s not terrible flirting, to be fair. Perhaps Georgie’s just a woman who knows her audience, and she has pegged Steve as being a little more basic than he is.

Some people do take Steve as a bit simple, and he rarely tries to discourage them. He makes it work for him.

‘We got married at eighteen,’ says Georgie. ‘And we’d made a million by twenty.’

‘Doing what?’ Steve asks.

‘Vern set up a boxing gym in the City,’ says Georgie. ‘Before everyone set up boxing gyms in the City.’

‘So far, so legitimate,’ says Rosie.

‘Well, no, the real money was selling steroids,’ says Georgie.

‘Ah,’ says Rosie.

‘Ah,’ says Georgie. ‘Illegal, but not as illegal as cocaine, which everyone asked him for too.’

‘He didn’t fancy that?’ Steve asks.

‘He fancied the money,’ says Georgie. ‘He just didn’t fancy the world that went with it. As I say, he’s always been careful. No one really cares if you sell steroids to bankers, but as soon as you start selling coke, you’re never far from a copper or a bullet.’

‘Or from somebody shooting your bodyguard,’ says Rosie.

‘You know what,’ says Georgie, sitting back, ‘this is a lot of fun for me. Thank you for coming to see me. I worry my world has got a bit nice and a bit safe recently. I don’t really have anyone to talk to about cocaine and bullets. The neighbourhood WhatsApp is mainly about recycling.’

Rosie sees that Steve is now itching to ask her questions about the recycling.

Georgie nods. ‘Yeah, this is nice. I’ve missed it.’

‘Our pleasure,’ says Rosie. Georgie seems to be a different human being when she is talking about Vern. Or talking about her own past, Rosie supposes. She might drive a Škoda and paint rainbows on crockery, but you don’t have to scratch too deeply to find someone else entirely.

‘He always knew how to stay just the right side of the line,’ says Georgie. ‘To protect himself. I know he was selling steroids, but at least he felt guilty about it. He even went to church a couple of times, but then he started selling steroids to the vicar.’

‘And how do you come into the whole thing?’ Rosie asks. Her phone buzzes with a message from Ernesto. He is saved in her phone as ERNESTO 10/10.

‘It was the beginning of all the “wellness” stuff,’ says Georgie. ‘Yoga and chakras and essential oils. Of people wanting to spend money on all that anyway. Some of the wives, it was wives back then in the City, started asking Vern for all sorts and he didn’t have a clue, so asked if I’d like a little project, and I looked into it, did a bit of research, saw that people were happy to pay a lot of money for basically nothing, and it was legal, and we were off to the races.’

‘So the supplements, the tablets, the whole thing,’ says Steve. ‘That was your idea?’

Georgie smiles again. ‘I suppose so, but I wouldn’t have done it without Vern, would I? Takes two to tango, that’s what I say.’

‘That’s what a lot of people say,’ says Rosie. She is warming to Georgie, but she’s not going to lower her standards. ‘Vern takes the idea, runs with it, but the two of you split up?’

‘Got together at fourteen, didn’t we?’ says Georgie. ‘Split up at forty. No kids, no hard feelings, we went our separate ways and wished each other well. Still do.’

Steve pulls out an account of the court case. The dispute between the two of them. ‘This would suggest otherwise.’

Georgie waves it away. ‘Stage-managed. The cops found something from when we were together. We chatted, agreed that if we both blamed the other, threw a few accusations around, they’d be chasing their tails working out which one of us was guilty. And it worked a dream. We’re both free, eh?’

‘You stayed in the business though?’ Steve asks. ‘You’re still in the business now?’

Georgie nods. ‘More hardware now really. You know, LED face masks, all that? That’s a bit of me. You can have one if you like, Rosie?’

‘I have plenty of LED face masks,’ says Rosie. ‘Are you saying they don’t work?’

‘Oh, they work,’ says Georgie. ‘Mine don’t, but real ones do.’

‘But they still sell? How does that work?’ Vern had said this too, fake products but no complaints. ‘Don’t they just send them back when their skin doesn’t improve?’

‘If you’re buying an LED face mask for your skin,’ says Georgie, ‘then it’s not the only thing you’re doing, is it? If you’re making that investment, then you’re making sure you moisturize, you hydrate, you stay out of the sun, am I right?’

‘Well, I don’t do any of those things,’ says Rosie.

‘But a normal person does?’ says Georgie.

‘Oh, a normal person does, yes,’ concedes Rosie.

‘And so their skin gets better anyway. Who’s to know my mask is just a bleached Darth Vader mask and some lights from a Chinese toy factory? Everybody’s happy.’

‘It sounds,’ Steve says, ‘if you don’t mind me saying, like Vern isn’t happy. Cards on the table, he suggested we come and see you. Suggested you might have something to do with the murder of his bodyguard. Said you’d been asking him for money?’

Georgie laughs. ‘I don’t need Vern’s money.’

‘But you must resent him a tiny bit?’ says Rosie.

‘Not me,’ says Georgie. ‘I’m a simple woman, living a simple life, with simple needs.’

Georgie gives Steve a slow wink. Why be subtle, Rosie supposes. You have to shoot your shot sometimes.

‘I mean, doesn’t he have any better suspects?’ says Georgie.

Rosie looks at Steve. Speaking of which.

‘I want to show you a photograph,’ says Rosie. Might as well break the seal, now they’re all chatting.

She takes out the photo Ernesto had sent them yesterday after they’d met on the tarmac. The bald man. She hands it to Georgie. ‘I don’t suppose you know this man? He’s called Jakob Eriksson.’

Georgie leaves an almost imperceptible pause, then shakes her head. ‘Sort of face you’d remember, isn’t it?’

Almost imperceptible, but not quite. Rosie clocks it, and tucks it away.

‘And the name?’ Rosie asks.

‘I thought Jakob Eriksson was one of the dancers on Strictly,’ says Georgie.

She hands the photo back to Rosie with a tight smile. ‘They ever asked you to do Strictly?’

‘They have,’ says Rosie. ‘I told them I didn’t have the time to do all the training and have the affair.’

‘Who is he, then?’ Georgie asks. ‘This Eriksson?’

‘He’s in Vern’s business,’ says Rosie. ‘And yours. But if Vern’s a multimillionaire, this man must be a billionaire.’

Georgie looks at the photo again. For a little longer this time. ‘Billionaire? He doesn’t look like one, does he?’

‘You’re absolutely certain you don’t know him?’ asks Rosie.

‘I never forget a face,’ says Georgie.

That little pause though. Rosie wonders if Steve saw it too. Of course he did. When does Steve miss anything?

Rosie turns to Steve. ‘It seems Miss Glazier can’t help us.’

But Steve is looking out of the window. His face is showing the sort of concern Rosie sometimes notices when Steve is, for example, in a new place and isn’t immediately sure of where the toilet is.

‘Mmm?’ says Steve. So he hasn’t been listening. He will not have noticed the pause or seen the smile. He will have to take her word for it.

‘Are we boring you, Stevie?’ Rosie asks.

‘No, just thinking I wouldn’t mind being on the road before we lose the light,’ says Steve. ‘It’s a good hour and a half to Axley.’

‘It’s 4.15, Stevie,’ says Rosie.

‘Even so,’ says Steve, ‘you can’t be too careful.’

‘Google Maps will tell you to go through the village to get to the M25,’ says Georgie. ‘But if you go left at the end of the road you can take the B107, and that’ll take you to Junction 19, that’s ten minutes saved right there.’

‘Bloody Google Maps,’ says Steve. ‘It’s a liability.’

‘Man after my own heart,’ says Georgie.

Steve is jiggling the car keys in his pocket now, so Rosie knows she’ll get nothing more useful out of him. Georgie was quite the conundrum. Rosie is sure she has been telling the truth for large parts of the conversation. But not all of it. Why has Vern sent them here? And why won’t Georgie admit to knowing Jakob Eriksson?

‘It’s funny, Georgie,’ says Rosie. One last shot at getting a foothold. ‘Coming from Vern’s house, a beautiful villa, to your house, a suburban semi. And all his money from your idea. I rather think I would be getting in touch with him? Asking for a contribution?’

‘Rosie,’ says Georgie, ‘I’ve lived in mansions, I’ve lived in tower blocks. God help me, I’ve even lived in Tunbridge Wells. But this house, on this street, in this village, is my home. And all I’ve ever wanted is a home.’

‘And you’re certain about Jakob Eriksson?’ Rosie asks.

‘This billionaire of yours?’ says Georgie. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘Didn’t recognize his photo?’ says Rosie.

‘I’ll see it in my nightmares,’ says Georgie. ‘But no. You’ll let me know, won’t you? What on earth Vern’s up to? I’m already looking forward to you coming back and filling me in, Steve.’

Steve, oblivious, shakes her by the hand. Georgie then drags her nails down the arm of her sofa and gives herself a slap on the wrist.

Rosie nods her goodbye to Georgie. Would a woman who has just dumped a corpse on an ex-husband’s doorstep really be flirting like a giddy teenager?

Probably, yes, to be fair. Rosie would. Murderers flirt too.

One way or another, Rosie is sure they will be seeing Georgie Glazier again.

16

‘We don’t tell him,’ says Tony Taylor.

‘It’s been a whole day. He’ll be wondering where you’ve got to,’ says Felicity. Tony is being stubborn. ‘We have to.’

‘“Have to” is a very long word,’ says Tony.

‘Tony,’ says Felicity. ‘It’s two words and neither of them is long.’

Tony is propped up on his hospital bed, a large bandage wrapped around his head and a drip feeding his arm.

‘It’s ridiculous,’ he says. ‘I’m fine. He didn’t even hit me that hard.’

‘Concussion is very serious,’ says Felicity. ‘I once had a client with concussion and he vomited on BBC Breakfast.’

Felicity has been beside Tony’s bed for the last twenty-four hours. He was never in serious danger, but the thought of his fragility upsets her greatly. The thought that he might somehow not be permanent. And Felicity has done enough Facebook quizzes about love to know what this all signifies.

She has cried, but only while he was asleep. Tony is very sensitive to the moods of people around him.

‘He’ll worry though,’ says Tony. ‘You know Steve.’

‘He should worry,’ says Felicity. ‘That man could have killed you. He might kill Steve.’

‘But Steve would want to visit me,’ says Tony. ‘And I’m not allowed two visitors at once.’

‘I can stand in the corridor,’ says Felicity.

‘I don’t like the idea of that,’ says Tony. ‘Corridor? No.’

‘Then I can go and get a hot chocolate,’ says Felicity.

Tony shakes his head. ‘The Friends of Southampton General Hospital café closes at 4.30.’

Tony knows when everything opens and when everything closes. Everything.

‘I’ll get one from the machine, then,’ she says.

‘Someone’s made of money,’ says Tony.

Felicity isn’t going to lose this man just as she has found him. She won’t let the universe do that to her. If this Jakob Eriksson wants to shoot a bodyguard in the head, all well and good, these things happen, but if Jakob Eriksson wants to come after Tony Taylor, woe betide the man. She knows Steve will feel the same.

‘You have to warn Steve about this man Jakob Eriksson,’ says Felicity. ‘And Steve has to make sure we don’t get another visit. If you don’t do it, I will.’

‘I don’t know,’ says Tony. ‘I don’t know. I’d sooner just forget about it.’

‘What’s really worrying you?’ Felicity asks. Tony will eventually do the right thing, but it will take a while. He’s like a shy horse in that regard. ‘About Steve coming to the hospital?’

‘What’s really worrying me,’ says Tony, ‘is the hospital parking charges, £4.50 for an hour. And another £4.50 if you even go a minute over.’

Felicity nods. ‘That’s worrying you more than your life being in danger?’

‘Well, not more, exactly,’ says Tony. ‘But the same. It’d be nine quid for sixty-one minutes. Worst-case scenario.’

‘What if I tell Steve he can park in the Asda car park next door?’

‘After five?’ says Tony. ‘You know it’s not patrolled? You might as well stick a “Steal Me” sign on the windscreen.’

Felicity would like to put this entire conversation down to concussion, but she knows better. Somewhere Tony knows that he has to tell his best friend what has happened, but he will do anything not to. To not be a burden, to not bear bad news, to not have an adult conversation about a meaningful event. If Tony had seen a dog with three legs, or if someone from the village had bought an electric car, he would be straight on the phone to Steve. But a blond man half killing him as a warning? That’s not the sort of thing Tony and Steve like to talk about. Felicity supposes she can understand that. When you think of all the conversations that men have had with each other over the years, you can see why some of them choose to tread carefully.

Felicity picks up Tony’s phone. ‘What if I ring him?’

‘He’ll be busy,’ says Tony.

‘Yes, busy solving a murder,’ says Felicity. ‘The first murder this company has ever had. What just happened to us – to you – is important. I think that Steve would …’

Felicity hesitates. Time to bring out the big guns.

‘… I think Steve would be disappointed if you didn’t tell him.’

‘Disappointed?’ says Tony.

Felicity nods.

‘In me?’

Felicity nods again, then leans over and kisses him.

‘He’ll be wondering why he hasn’t heard from you anyway.’

Tony nods. ‘You have to tell me everything he says though.’

Felicity scrolls through to find Steve’s number but no luck.

‘I can’t find his name, my love?’

‘He’s under “King Steve the First”.’

Of course he is. ‘What are you in his phone?’

‘No idea,’ says Tony. ‘Probably Tony Taylor.’

Felicity dials ‘King Steve the First’ and prepares to tell him that his best friend is in hospital, that a man called Jakob Eriksson is attempting to stop them investigating, and, because she knows Steve will ask, that the hospital parking is £4.50 an hour and for any part-hour thereafter.

17

Lockdown is 9 p.m. The perimeters are secured, all doors and windows to the villa locked, steel grates sliding down behind sage-green wooden shutters. Amy is sharing a guest house with Lee. There is only one bedroom, but there is also a sofa as big as a bed in front of the television. It is where Esteban, as the junior bodyguard, slept, and where Amy spent last night, but Lee has offered to take it this evening. Amy waves this away.

‘I’m going to watch Rampage 8,’ says Lee. ‘Illegal stream. You in?’

‘I’m going to take a wander,’ says Amy.

‘Like, to investigate?’ says Lee. ‘We’ve already checked everything.’

‘Just want to know what you can see out there at night, what you can hear. Think about how I’d get through the perimeter without anyone hearing. There’re access codes, right?’

‘On all the gates,’ says Lee.

Amy points to the TV. ‘I don’t suppose you were watching anything the night Esteban died?’

‘Rampage 8,’ says Lee. ‘I’ve watched it a lot already. It’s a really good film.’

‘Explosions?’ says Amy. ‘Gunfire?’

‘Mainly explosions and gunfire, yeah,’ says Lee. ‘As I say, it’s a really good film.’

‘So you wouldn’t necessarily have heard anything that night?’

‘We take our foot off the gas a little after lockdown,’ says Lee. ‘Once an hour till about 1 a.m. one of us will go out on patrol, but other than that …’

‘And Esteban was killed when he was out on patrol?’

‘Well, he was alive when he left here,’ says Lee. ‘And then dead when we next saw him, so …?’

Amy will take the opportunity to look around, might as well while she’s out there. But she will then head to Korbin’s cottage. He has his own place on the other side of the villa, next to the stable/chemistry lab.

He doesn’t know who did it. But he knows who didn’t. That’s what Korbin had said.

He doesn’t believe it was Jakob Eriksson perhaps? But why? Had Korbin seen someone else that night? When Esteban was patrolling and Lee was eating popcorn on a sofa the size of an island? Something he didn’t want to tell Vern Blackwood about? Something he couldn’t tell Vern Blackwood about?

Amy knows that if she were the sort of person whose heart was capable of beating quickly, it would be beating quickly now. But Amy has a resting heart rate of thirty-two beats per minute and, even after strenuous exercise, it rarely goes above forty. She clearly has very good genes, even though she has no interest in finding out where those genes are from. If your parents didn’t want to know you, why would you want to know your parents? You had to hand it to one of them for that heart rate though.

A doctor once listened to her heartbeat and told her she would live forever. Ironically she was almost run over by an armoured vehicle that very evening, which tells you what doctors know.

What does Korbin have for her? What if she solves this case single-handedly while Steve and Rosie are flying around the world? What if solving this murder turns out to be easy? Steve would be proud and relieved, Rosie would be annoyed that the fun was over.

‘Toodle pip,’ she says to Lee, and leaves to meet Korbin.

Time to hear his big secret.

18

‘I swear to God I will kill the guy,’ says Steve, after Tony has told him his story. ‘I will put a bullet in his head.’

‘No, Steve, I’m going to kill him,’ says Felicity. ‘I’m going to tear him to pieces with my bare hands.’

‘You can both kill him,’ says Rosie. ‘Shoot him and tear him to pieces with your bare hands.’

‘I will rip out his throat for you, Tony,’ says Felicity.

‘While he’s still alive,’ says Steve.

‘Thanks, both,’ says Tony, propping himself up a bit more. ‘Where did you park, Steve? In the end?’

‘The senior registrar let me use his space,’ says Rosie. ‘Big fan.’

‘He thought you were Joan Collins,’ says Steve.

‘Still, £4.50 saved is £4.50 saved,’ says Tony. ‘You didn’t have to come. I said to Felicity, don’t make a fuss, they’re busy people. Well, Rosie is busy, I said that, and Steve has a cat.’

Steve nods. Although nothing would have kept him away from this man and this room, once he’d heard the news. That said, he is looking forward to seeing Trouble later and spoiling him. Who else has he got to spoil?

Steve and Rosie had been driving home when he got the call. Rosie had taken it because Steve was driving. And Steve was driving because Rosie is insufficiently respectful towards the Highway Code, believing it to be voluntary and very much ‘for other people’.

‘I’m so sorry, mate,’ says Steve. ‘I can’t believe you’ve been caught up in this.’

‘Honestly,’ says Tony, ‘it’s quite nice to be involved. Painful, but nice. Can something be painful and nice?’

‘A really big sneeze?’ suggests Steve.

‘That’s a good one,’ says Tony. ‘Or like when you’ve eaten ice cream too quickly and you have a terrible headache, but then you reach that bit where you know it’s about to stop.’

‘That’s another good one,’ agrees Steve. ‘Or –’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ says Felicity. ‘Just tell him you care about him, Steve.’

Steve looks at his friend Tony, lying on the bed pretending not to look scared. Like the two of them are just friends chatting in the pub one summer lunchtime.

‘Or pulling off an old plaster,’ says Steve, and Tony nods. Steve can’t make it any clearer to Felicity than that, surely?

‘How are you going to catch him?’ Felicity asks. ‘Eriksson?’

That’s better, thinks Steve, a question about the case rather than about caring for people. Cases are about thinking and analysing. Caring for people is about doing things. Easier to think in life than to do.

‘We’ve just been visiting a suspect,’ says Rosie. ‘Vern Blackwood’s ex-wife.’

‘And?’ says Felicity.

Rosie shrugs. ‘She said she didn’t know Jakob Eriksson, but I think she was lying.’

‘Where does she live, Steve?’ asks Tony.

‘Rickmansworth way,’ says Steve.

‘So what are you going to do about it?’ Felicity says to Rosie, with some force. ‘He’s out there, free as a bird. Maybe she knows where he is?’

Steve can see Rosie approves of this steelier side to Felicity. When Rosie hired Felicity, she had said that theatrical agents are not to be messed with. In fact, her exact words were, ‘They are the cyanide lacing the candyfloss of showbusiness.’

‘I promise you we’ll keep an eye on her, Felicity,’ says Rosie. ‘Which shouldn’t be hard. She took a shine to Stevie. Didn’t stop flirting.’

‘She did not,’ says Steve. ‘I would have noticed if she was flirting. Women touch their face, don’t they?’

‘Stevie,’ says Rosie, ‘at one point she literally looked at you and licked her lips.’

‘She’d been eating a digestive,’ says Steve. ‘They dry you out.’

‘They do dry you out,’ agrees Tony. ‘What time did you leave Rickmansworth?’

‘4.15,’ says Steve. ‘Something like that.’

‘Why do you think she was lying?’ Felicity asks.

‘Tiny pause when we showed her the photo,’ says Steve. ‘Smile a bit plastic too.’

Steve had noticed Georgie Glazier’s lying smile. And the pause. Even while distracted about the exact duration of the drive home. And they say men can’t multitask.

‘Why would she lie?’ asks Felicity. ‘If she wasn’t involved?’

‘All sorts of reasons for lying,’ says Steve. He and Rosie had been speaking about exactly this on the drive home. Before the phone call. It would be completely normal for Georgie to have heard of Jakob Eriksson. They moved in the same circles. Almost stranger if she hadn’t heard of him. So why pretend she hadn’t?

Tony has been thinking. ‘You left at 4.15? Something like that?’

‘About then,’ says Steve.

‘About then?’ asks Tony.

‘4.19 maybe,’ says Steve. ‘Give or take.’

‘You have to find Eriksson,’ says Felicity. ‘I need to meet this man. Preferably alone.’

‘Only you got here at 5.13,’ says Tony.

Steve sees where Tony is going with this. Steve has been distracted thinking about murder, and his friend looking so vulnerable. He’s fallen into a textbook Tony Taylor trap.

‘Which would give you,’ says Tony, cocking his head at Steve, ‘an average speed of eighty-three miles an hour? Hello, Her Majesty’s Constabulary, I’d like to report a crime.’

‘His Majesty’s Constabulary,’ corrects Felicity.

‘Too soon, Phil,’ says Tony.

‘I can explain the timings,’ says Steve.

‘Can you now?’ Tony says. ‘Because it sounds to me like someone’s been speeding.’

Speeding is one of Tony’s deadly sins. If you need to get somewhere quicker, you simply leave earlier. No excuses.

Of course Steve can explain the timings.

His phone had started ringing. Rosie had seen the name TONY PONY MACARONI on his screen. Steve had thought his old friend had been quiet for a while. He had sent Tony a meme of a hedgehog, for example, and hadn’t even got a cry-laugh back.

Rosie had asked if he was going to answer it, and Steve had said that of course he wasn’t going to answer it, he was driving, did Rosie want him to kill her on the M25?

Rosie had asked him if he didn’t have ‘hands free’, and Steve had had to explain to her that it’s not just your hands you need for advanced driving, it’s your brain. The concentration. The road awareness. He further explained that he and Tony can get into some pretty deep stuff on the phone, and before you knew it they’d be under an articulated lorry and there would be tailbacks for miles. Absolute chaos for everyone.

This prompted a quick sidebar, where Rosie had asked whether, were Steve to have a serious car accident, his first thought would really be about the traffic building up behind it, and Steve had said that of course it would be, as no one likes to be a nuisance. Particularly in rush hour.

So Rosie had grabbed hold of Steve’s phone – leaning across him, Steve might note, another absolute no-no in any form of driving, let alone motorway driving – and taken the call.

Tony Taylor. In a bed at Southampton General, beaten unconscious by a thug sent by Jakob Eriksson.

Not sent by Tommy Griffin, not sent by Georgie Glazier.

After the briefest, the very, very briefest question about parking charges, Steve had driven at close to a 100 mph all the way back to the New Forest, often on the wrong side of the road. He could have sworn at one point that even Rosie gripped on to her door handle. Careful what you wish for, Rosie.

That’s how, and why, Steve had made the drive from Rickmansworth to Southampton in fifty-four minutes.

‘Got mixed up,’ says Steve. ‘That’s all. We actually left Rickmansworth at 3.19.’

Tony looks at him. ‘Well, that would give you an average speed of 39 miles an hour. On a motorway?’

‘I suppose so,’ says Steve.

‘Driving too slowly on a motorway can be as dangerous as speeding,’ says Tony. ‘I’ve shown you studies.’

This is true, he has. The two of them have had lunch together virtually every day for five years, and you cover an awful lot of ground in that time.

‘We stopped,’ says Steve. ‘At the services. I wanted a pie.’

‘An afternoon pie?’ Tony asks. ‘I’ve never seen you eat a pie between 3 p.m. and 6 p.m.’

‘I missed lunch, because I was doing murder investigating,’ says Steve. He anticipates the next question. ‘We stopped for twenty-one minutes.’

He sees Tony doing some maths in his head. The only maths Steve has ever seen Tony do is ‘journey-time maths’ and ‘darts maths’.

Eventually Tony nods his satisfaction. ‘Forty-nine miles an hour. Factor in build-up around Rickmansworth and Southampton and I’m happy. Sorry I doubted you, Steve.’

‘It’s okay,’ says Steve. ‘You’ve had a bump on the head.’

Tony knows Steve drove like a maniac to get here, and Steve knows that Tony knows. But now they will never have to say that out loud.

There are, Steve thinks once again, lots of reasons for lying.

‘Are the two of you done?’ Felicity asks. She sounds stern, but she can see just as well as Steve how much more Tony looks like the old Tony now he’s been thinking about traffic build-up. ‘Any other leads?’

‘I’ve had a couple of messages from Ernesto,’ says Rosie. ‘He’s our Interpol contact.’

‘What did they say?’ asks Felicity.

‘Haven’t opened them yet,’ says Rosie. ‘In our rush to get here.’

‘But we weren’t rushing, because we stopped at the services,’ says Steve.

‘For a pie,’ agrees Tony, and the two men give each other a thumbs-up.

‘How’s Amy’s getting on?’ Tony asks.

Steve sees Rosie scrolling through her phone.

‘Making friends with bodyguards,’ says Steve. ‘Dug up a body too.’

‘Don’t you ever worry about Amy with men?’ says Felicity.

‘With men?’

‘She doesn’t spend a lot of time with her husband,’ says Rosie, opening Ernesto’s message. ‘She’s very attractive.’

‘Amy?’ says Steve.

‘I’d worry,’ says Felicity.

‘They’re not like that, Amy and Adam,’ says Steve. ‘They don’t have to live in each other’s pockets.’

‘Still,’ says Rosie. ‘You don’t worry she’s sneaking into Korbin’s cottage or something? He had very powerful thighs. As does she.’

‘Amy and Adam are like camels,’ says Steve. ‘They store their love up.’

Felicity and Rosie share a doubtful look.

‘Amy wouldn’t cheat on Adam,’ says Steve.

‘I don’t want to come over all Georgie Glazier, but a woman has needs, Stevie,’ says Rosie.

‘Amy doesn’t have needs.’

‘Okay.’

‘She doesn’t,’ says Steve.

Rosie looks back at her phone and goes quiet.

‘Do you know the world record for eating eggs?’ asks Tony.

‘What sort of time frame?’ Steve asks.

‘Minute,’ says Tony.

‘Shells on or shells already off?’ asks Steve.

‘Shells off,’ says Tony.

Steve has a think. ‘I could do twelve, so let’s say twenty-nine?’

‘Forty-eight,’ says Tony. ‘In case it ever comes up at the quiz.’

‘Stevie,’ says Rosie, looking at her phone. She stands, very slowly, very quietly. ‘We have to go.’

‘I just have a couple more questions about the eggs,’ says Steve.

Rosie yanks him up by the collar.

‘We have to leave. Right now.’

19

There is a light on in Korbin’s cottage. He is expecting her. Amy can hear classical music coming from behind his front door.

What if Korbin doesn’t have a secret at all? What if this is all just a clumsy attempt to seduce her? That would be a terrible disappointment.

What Amy doesn’t have is a gun. She could have borrowed one from Lee, she supposes, but she senses she won’t need one. Her radar is finely attuned to danger, and Korbin has not set that radar off.

Amy knocks. Quietly. No need for Vern, or Lee, to be alerted to the fact that she is visiting Korbin after lockdown.

Her knock is not loud enough, however. No reply from Korbin. She pushes at the door instead. It is unlocked and swings open. She finds herself in a small hallway. There are two photographs on the hallway table: one of an older woman dressed in white and one of a football team dressed in green. Between the two photographs is a gun.

The classical music is coming from an open doorway ahead of her to the right. Amy stops. Something here doesn’t seem right. Korbin is expecting her, he told her when to come. Korbin will have been listening out for her and yet he hasn’t appeared. Amy’s radar is now fully operational. She picks up the gun from the hallway table.

Amy slows her breathing. Is she walking into a trap?

20

Rosie and Steve are in a hospital corridor. The heavy smell of disinfectant can’t mask the generations of grief that lie around them like a fog. What tears this place has seen.

Ernesto has sent Rosie three photos. She shows them to Steve in turn.

The first photo is an airport shot of Jakob Eriksson that Steve has already seen.

‘Bratislava?’ asks Steve, and Rosie nods, quickly.

The second photo is another airport shot. Helsinki this time, but that shining skull is unmistakable.

The third photo appears. Eriksson again, this time in Minsk. But Ernesto has added a note underneath.

There’s another man in all three photos. Same guy each time. Must be connected to Eriksson, no? Thought it was interesting. Someone to keep an eye out for! I love you both!

Another man in the three photos. Steve scans the images. In two of them the same man is a couple of places behind Eriksson, and in the other he is directly in front. Clearly someone connected to Eriksson. Someone who works with him? Works for him?

Rosie expands the third picture, the clearest one, with her fingers.

Steve looks at the phone, then looks at Rosie.

He recognizes the man with Jakob Eriksson just as easily as she did.

It is, without a shadow of a doubt, Vern Blackwood’s bodyguard Korbin.

‘We have to tell Amy,’ says Rosie. ‘Now!’

21

The classical music continues to play. In different circumstances Amy might find it calming.

Adam listens to classical music. He has a playlist on Spotify and sometimes he’ll say ‘This is Beethoven’ or ‘This is so and so (an Italian name)’, and Amy doesn’t mind it. He also has a jazz playlist, but he knows not to play that when she is in the house. Amy’s favourite sort of music is no music at all, but classical music is probably the next best thing after that.

Her phones buzzes, and she curses her sloppiness. Holding her breath again, she waits for movement from behind the open doorway. Nothing. If Korbin is in there, he will definitely have heard her phone.

The awful thought occurs again. What if Korbin is lying, naked, under satin sheets? Having misread some sort of signal or other? If anyone in the world ever has sex listening to classical music, it would be a German.

All things being equal, if she walks into that room and Korbin has something in his hand, she hopes it’s a gun.

Amy slips off her shoes. She takes out her phone to switch it off and sees that the message is from Rosie. Not really the time, Rosie, I’m dealing with some sort of a situation here.

Rosie and Steve have been to see Georgie Glazier, Vern’s ex-wife. Rosie probably wants to show off about some piece of information or other she has uncovered. Not knowing that Amy might be on the verge of cracking the whole case. Or being shot. Or, thinking about those satin sheets again, something even worse than being shot.

She opens the message. It reads, very simply:

Korbin is working for Jakob Eriksson. Stay safe until we get there.

Now Amy knows exactly what the situation is. Korbin intends to kill her. Amy appreciates the clarity. Knows which bit of her brain to use.

Kill or be killed. That’s the thing she is good at.

As for ‘stay safe’, it’s a bit late for that. Amy’s shoes are off and she’s holding a gun.

If Korbin was a civilian, this would be easy. Amy would take a long coat from the hallway stand, launch it full length into the open doorway and wait for gunfire. Then at least she’d know where she was. But Korbin is a professional, and when you’re a professional you don’t shoot until you’ve seen someone’s eyes.

Korbin is also a professional holding all the cards. He invited her here. Home turf. She should back out, she knows that. Retreat, regroup. Apologize to Korbin tomorrow, tell him she fell asleep watching Rampage 8 and wait for the cavalry. Or she could tell Lee what she has found out? Return in numbers?

Yes, that is what she should do.

She has one advantage here though. Korbin doesn’t know Amy has found out about him and Jakob Eriksson. That Amy is coming ready for battle.

Amy weighs up these two thoughts. She still knows the right thing to do is back away slowly. But when was the last time she had a gun in her hand? When was the last time she felt the cold thrill of fear? It’s been a while, old friend. She feels her heart rate creep up into the high thirties.

Amy knows that what she should do and what she will do are two different things. She knows this is a sentiment that Rosie, at least, will understand.

She puts her phone away and edges closer to the door. She realizes something is wrong with the music. It is the same piece playing on repeat. Even though it’s classical, you can tell.

Amy drops to the floor. When you surprise people, they never aim low. She takes out two tiny mirrors, hinged in the middle, and uses them to see around the corner without being seen.

She can only see a sliver of the scene in the room. Korbin is sitting in a chair directly facing the door. She can see his left leg and arm. Is he waiting for her? There is a glint of steel at the edge of the image. A gun held straight ahead?

A gun? Amy realizes, later than she should, that she has picked up a gun from Korbin’s hallway table. Why would he have left it there if this whole thing is a trap? Is he giving her a fighting chance?

Here goes nothing, Amy thinks. The element of surprise, the low angle and the powerful gun might just give her the edge. She takes in a steadying breath, then has a thought.

Very slowly, and very quietly, she slides her phone from her pocket.

Opening Rosie’s message again, Amy replies:

I love you both.

Should she send the same to Adam? No, that’s overkill. Surely he already knows?

She slides her phone back into her pocket and takes a breath again.

Pushing herself off the ground with her left hand and holding the gun in her right, Amy rolls into the empty doorway, ready to shoot.

But as she gets Korbin in her sights she realizes that the glint of steel is not a gun, it is a knife.

And the knife is sticking out of his chest.

Korbin’s dead eyes stare in shock.

Part Three

SUMMER IN PALM SPRINGS (AND STOCKHOLM)

22

They say there are cities so hot, you can fry an egg on the sidewalk. Well, in Palm Springs you can’t fry an egg on the sidewalk, but only because the sidewalk has already melted.

A Palm Springs summer is where the sun comes to work out. Where it does its research and development, turning up the furnace to see exactly what it is capable of. Goes through the gears, tries out new moves. The low-slung bungalows, hidden behind cacti and palms and pastel walls, the diners, the golf courses, everything shimmers like a pan on the boil. You can almost hear it steaming and bubbling.

Tommy Griffin is barking into his phone. ‘Take a jump off a pier, Ken. An’ fill ya pockets with rocks on the way down.’

He sounds very angry. If you were to pass him on the street, you would assume that he was furious with someone. This ‘Ken’ guy he’s talking to, presumably. But, get to know Tommy Griffin a little better, and you’d know that this is just the way he talks. It’s the way he orders his coffee, the way he offers condolences at a funeral, and the way he reads his grandkids a bedtime story. ‘This goddamn cat is too damn proud of this goddamn hat, you ask me.’ His default speech is ‘barely controlled fury’, but he means nothing by it.

Case in point, Ken is his best friend and Tommy is enjoying their conversation very much.

‘You’re the dumbest idiot I ever met,’ says Tommy. ‘I swear to Christ if you were here I’d kick you in the head.’

In fact the only time you really have to worry about Tommy is when he sounds calm. That’s when you know he’s angry.

And you don’t want to make Tommy Griffin angry.

His friend, Ken, has clearly just said something about a dog.

‘If a dog’s got no balls then it’s not a dog, Ken,’ says Tommy. ‘It’s a bitch.’

Tommy now looks directly at his phone as if Ken has lost his tiny mind.

‘A bitch isn’t a dog, Ken,’ says Tommy. ‘It isn’t. A dog is the name for a boy dog. You’re kidding me? It says that in the dictionary? Jeez Louise, we’re believing the dictionary now? How did we get here? Dictionaries f’chrissake.’

Now, you shouldn’t build a city in the desert, you really shouldn’t, but what were human beings supposed to do when they actually stumbled upon Palm Springs? When they saw the mountains rising from the desert floor, turning from grey to pink with the sun, and then slate grey to onyx black at the end of the day? When they saw the stars on a clear night? It left them no choice but to find some sort of détente with the fiery ball in the sky and start laying bricks.

‘The guy who invented the dictionary,’ says Tommy, stepping around a medium-to-large-sized lizard sleeping on the burning asphalt. ‘Whaddaya think he made? Not much is how much. The dictionary is a joke, Ken. You disagreeing with me doesn’t make me wrong. If the words you got ain’t working, then you ain’t saying them loud enough. That’s my dictionary.’

Most people Tommy knows here are ‘snowbirds’. They’ve got white hair and every summer they fly away. Good customers a lot of them. Everybody in this town needs Viagra and plenty of people have the money to pay for it.

Tommy is the only man walking in the whole of Palm Springs today. You won’t see anybody engaging in the summer business of a regular city, taking an idle stroll, jogging the mountain trails or lazing in the park with a picnic and a podcast.

Tommy, however, is strolling along the sidewalk wearing a full suit. Tommy stays in Palm Springs all summer, simply because he refuses to be bullied by the sun. Or anything else. Heat, like so much – pain, sadness, sciatica, regret – is just a state of mind. It can be overcome with self-belief.

He won’t pretend that the trip to Ireland wasn’t a light relief, but now he’s back in Palm Springs he’s not about to admit defeat to a fiery ball in the sky.

‘If I wanted to keep buying from Spokane, do you know what I woulda said? You do know? What would I have said, Ken? Yeah, I’d have said I want to keep buying from Spokane. And what did I say? The Irish, you got it. You can hear. I thought you were deaf maybe. I said I thought you were de– Oh, real funny. Ken, I’m not shouting, you’re shouting. You are, brother, you’re shouting, I’m talking at a normal volume. Well, maybe your phone is screwy? There’s a volume control on it, my grandson showed me it.’

Tommy listens to Ken for a moment, clearly being asked a question. He looks up.

‘Uh, it’s sunny, I guess, how about with you?’

He listens some more.

‘Look, we buy in Europe, and no one’s going to kill anyone, trust me. Of course, if you want to, Ken, you’re your own man, I’m just saying no one’s going to kill us.’

Tommy turns from Sammy Davis Jr. Boulevard on to Tamarisk Way, the mountains rising in the distance.

‘Great, great, I’m just heading for a sauna. I’m telling you, they’ll save your life. Okay, brother, okay, I know you’ve got it. I know I’m never going to hear the word ‘Spokane’ again. And throw out your dictionary. You don’t need no new words.’

The street stretching ahead of Tommy is lined with expensive homes. These low houses crouch down from the sun and hum in the heat, pops of neon and long swathes of pastel among the desert plants. The road is arrow straight until it meets the mountain, where it becomes a snake, winding its way upwards.

Does Tommy Griffin notice all this? Hard to say.

He’s just had a call from Vern Blackwood. Vern wants a chat about Jakob Eriksson. They both know, of course, what Tommy is up to. But they have to understand that Tommy is American, and Americans don’t have to do what they’re told. They don’t have to, because they already live in the greatest country in the world.

A few yards behind Tommy, a black Lincoln Navigator, prowling low like a cougar, turns on to Tamarisk Way. It moves slowly, as if the driver is looking for something. The address of a friend perhaps? Who knows? It passes Tommy and halts about fifty yards further up the street. Engine and air-con still running.

Tommy Griffin buttons up his suit and pulls his tie a little tighter. He shows no sign of seeing the car parked across the street.

High up above the desert, a vulture finds a current of air and rises and swoops with ease. Looking down, the vulture sees a man wearing a suit, in a city that shouldn’t exist.

Someone to keep an eye on there.

23

‘I feel like we might have to,’ says Amy, looking at Korbin’s body.

Rosie rolls her eyes, but Steve nods.

‘I mean, if we didn’t have to,’ says Vern, ‘that would make my life easier. Rosie?’

Rosie takes some time to think. She has to be honest with herself, this is everything she could have dreamt of when she suggested they form We Solve Murders. One murder leads to another murder. Perhaps more to come, one can only hope. But it does all come with more admin than she’d anticipated. More responsibility. This is a case in point.

‘It feels like we might have to,’ says Rosie. ‘I don’t like it any more than you, Vern, but, instinctively, I’d say probably we should let the police know.’

They all stare into the deep freezer. Korbin’s body lies face up, the knife, frosty now, still sticking out of his chest.

Playing by the rules is a terrible bore, but so is ending up in an Italian prison for perverting the course of justice. What choice do they have?

‘I keep trying to pull his eyelids closed,’ says Vern. ‘But they pop back open.’

‘I’ve done everything I can,’ says Amy. ‘Got everything I need. Fingerprints, photos. Questioned everyone.’

‘You’ve done good,’ says Steve.

Amy has given them both a file, and Rosie has actually read it this time. The only people at the villa at the time of Korbin’s death were Vern, locked in, Lee, watching a film, and Amy. Lee had been on a patrol earlier in the evening and could have had the opportunity to kill him, Vern could have disabled the alarms on his villa, with some difficulty, and plunged a knife into his own bodyguard, or Amy herself might have lost her mind. Rosie feels like one day Amy could absolutely lose her cool and go on some sort of rampage. She doubts she would start murdering bodyguards, but who knows with that generation?

The only prints on the knife were Korbin’s, which told them the square root of precisely nothing, because any decent murderer would be wearing gloves.

What would Vern’s motive be? That’s something they can chat about on the plane home. And Lee, the only surviving bodyguard? Two bodyguards dead, does that mean a promotion? Amy has got to know Lee a little, and Rosie is sure she will have an opinion. Possibly even a crush? One can hope. That husband of hers, Adam, is always away. Rosie doesn’t like that for Amy.

Or has someone come into the compound from the outside? Has Jakob Eriksson struck again? Killing his own man? Tying up a loose end? The cameras show a figure running across the lawn towards Korbin’s cottage at around 9.30. Bleached blond hair, that’s about all that can be seen. It’s all in Amy’s report. Rosie sees that Amy now has her arm around her father-in-law.

‘How was Tony?’ Amy asks.

‘Shaken up,’ says Steve.

‘Who’s Tony?’ Vern asks.

‘My best mate,’ says Steve. ‘Jakob Eriksson sent one of his lads over to give him a hiding, try to warn us off. Someone with bleached blond hair by the way.’

Same as the figure on the security footage? You’d have to assume so, even though an awful lot of people dye their hair. Rosie has been everything in her time. She is currently Chocolate Strawberry.

‘God, I’m sorry, Steve,’ says Vern. ‘I warned you not to go after Eriksson. The last thing I want is innocent people dragged into this thing.’

‘I think I was more upset than Tony,’ says Steve, waving Vern’s apologies away. ‘He can be very “easy come, easy go” when he wants to be.’

‘Perhaps we should just leave the whole thing well alone?’ says Vern. ‘I mean, I’m telling you, it’s not Jakob, but even if it’s someone pretending to be Jakob, it’s the same result. Too dangerous. I might move for a bit. It feels like this place could be … slightly compromised.’

‘I think that sixty-six per cent of your bodyguards ending up dead in the freezer counts as slightly compromised, yes,’ agrees Rosie. ‘What if we fly you to England? You can stay at mine.’

‘She’s got two moats,’ says Steve.

‘That’s a good amount of moats,’ nods Vern. ‘But for tax purposes I can’t go to England. The second I set foot in Heathrow it costs me a couple of million.’

‘And that’s just Duty Free,’ says Steve. He and Vern laugh a great deal at this. Rosie and Amy wait them out. Rosie double-checks that they’ve finished.

‘This is what I suggest,’ Rosie says. ‘Vern, we fly you to England, on the jet, put you up at mine for a week or so.’

‘There are other places I can go,’ says Vern. ‘Switzerland. Honestly, I feel like this is too much for you.’

‘Nonsense,’ says Rosie. ‘We’ll have a blast. You’ll be protected, and it’ll buy us a bit of time, and perhaps it might lure whoever’s killing all of your bodyguards.’

‘And into an environment we have more control over,’ says Amy. ‘More secure.’

‘It’s still a no,’ says Vern. ‘I have a yacht I could use. That would be even more secure.’

‘A yacht makes you a sitting target,’ says Amy. ‘I have blown up a lot of yachts in my time.’

‘There’s a nice shop in Rosie’s village,’ says Steve. ‘But if there’s a woman called Maureen behind the till, she overcharges, and she knows I know.’

‘You can bring the bodyguard you still have left,’ says Rosie.

‘It’s a lovely offer,’ says Vern. ‘But it’s still a no. And right now I’m more worried about the idea of the police coming here. The whole point of hiring you was I wouldn’t have to deal with them. I don’t know if you want me to stop paying you?’

‘No other option,’ says Steve. ‘Sorry, Vern. I’ll head down into Lucca, explain it all and bring them up here. Maybe have a couple of coffees before I go in.’

‘Can you give me six to seven hours to clear a few things away before they get here?’ Vern asks, with a sigh.

The second the police arrive, this job will be out of their hands. Rosie knows this, but, fortunately, she has a plan.

‘Or –’ says Rosie.

‘We’re going to the police,’ says Steve.

‘Yes, or –’ says Rosie.

‘None of us likes the police, Rosie –’ says Amy.

‘None taken,’ says Steve.

‘– but Steve’s right. We don’t report this and we could be in serious trouble.’

‘Two things,’ says Rosie. ‘Firstly, serious trouble is my favourite kind of trouble. But, secondly, and that aside, I absolutely agree we should report it. It’s just a question of who we report it to.’

‘The police,’ says Amy. ‘You know, blue lights, uniforms, increasingly tainted brand?’

‘It’s a question of which police though,’ says Rosie. ‘It feels to me that if a German bodyguard has been murdered in the Italian villa of an English criminal –’

‘Semi-criminal,’ clarifies Vern.

‘Possibly at the behest of a Swedish mastermind … then that might be too big a job for the local bobbies?’

‘What are you thinking?’ Amy asks.

Rosie holds up her palms to show she is about to make a perfectly reasonable suggestion.

‘I just wonder if it might be a job for Interpol?’

‘We could tell Ernesto, you mean?’ says Steve.

Bingo, Steve. Our friendly police officer, keeping us nicely in the loop.

‘Who’s Ernesto?’ asks Vern.

‘Interpol detective, poet, mighty Spanish stallion,’ says Rosie. ‘Would you like that, Stevie? Get Ernesto involved? See his lovely big grinning face?’

‘I mean, it makes sense,’ says Steve. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘What a lot of friends you’re making,’ says Rosie. There’s something very wholesome about Steve’s relationships with his male friends. Boring, for sure, but wholesome.

‘I don’t know about Interpol,’ says Vern. ‘I don’t know they’d approve of me.’

‘Ernesto will leave you alone,’ says Rosie. ‘He’d only be interested in the murders. I’ll let him know the score.’

‘You promise?’ says Vern. ‘He doesn’t poke his nose into my affairs?’

Rosie senses an opportunity. She doesn’t want Vern in Switzerland, or on a yacht, she wants him where she can keep an eye on him. And, more to the point, she wants to keep investigating.

‘When I say it out loud, I don’t like it,’ says Rosie. ‘Perhaps Steve is right. The murder was in Lucca. That’s where we should report it.’

‘I do think, though, that Interpol –’ starts Vern.

Rosie waves this away. ‘It wouldn’t be ethical, and I founded We Solve Murders on ethical grounds.’

‘Well, this is news,’ says Amy.

‘You know my watchwords, Amy,’ says Rosie. ‘Ethics. Sustainability. Murder-solving.’

‘The big three,’ says Amy. ‘Sure.’

‘The police in Lucca will want to interview us all, of course,’ says Rosie. ‘And they’ll want Korbin’s body to themselves, and full access to the crime scene, but sometimes you have to play by the rules.’

‘Interpol though,’ says Vern. ‘Think of their resources?’

Rosie mulls this for a moment. ‘Maybe.’

‘Definitely maybe,’ says Vern.

‘Terrible album,’ says Steve, and Vern takes time out of the conversation to fist-bump him.

‘Well, how about a compromise?’ Rosie suggests. ‘If you agree to come to England, I suppose I can agree to keep this little difficulty –’

She motions to the permafrosted ex-German.

‘– between us and a very friendly police officer.’

Vern thinks this through, then nods. ‘I suppose I can crack open one of my emergency passports. Just a few days though.’

‘Let’s call Ernesto, then,’ says Rosie. ‘A body in a freezer is exactly his sort of thing.’

Amy looks deep into the freezer, then turns to Vern. ‘You know there’s still food in the bottom of this freezer? Underneath the corpse.’

Vern looks embarrassed. ‘I know. I cleared all the food out when we put Esteban in here, and then I put it all back in when we buried him, and when we put Korbin in here, I wasn’t sure if I should clear it all out again. Can you refreeze things twice? I thought it might be bad for you?’

Lee enters the barn.

‘Goodness me,’ says Rosie. ‘A living bodyguard, I’ve seen it all now.’

Lee is carrying several large bags of ice. Nodding to the assembled crowd, he proceeds to tip the ice into the freezer.

‘Why are you tipping ice into a freezer?’ Steve asks.

It’s a good question. One of many good questions at this exact moment. Who killed Esteban? Who killed Korbin? Who sent a thug to the New Forest to duff up Tony Taylor? And, when all evidence points to one man, Jakob Eriksson, why is their client so sure he’s not responsible?

It is high time they found Eriksson and spoke to him. If he is being set up, then let him tell them why. Rosie doesn’t see a way that they can continue much further with the investigation without asking him those questions directly. She has to take care of the day job tomorrow, sales figures for the new book are due out. But straight after that.

And as to the question of why pour ice into a freezer?

‘It’s because I can’t shut the lid,’ says Vern. ‘With the knife sticking out like that.’

Well, that’s one mystery solved at least.

‘I keep trying,’ says Vern, looking at the knife again ‘But it’s like having a baguette that’s too big for your bread bin.’

24

Life can’t all be murder, murder, murder. Would that it could.

Rosie’s manager, Elspeth, has asked her to come in for a meeting. Not even for lunch. For a meeting, if you can believe that? On the meeting-room table there are two types of water and no types of booze.

Publishing has changed. When Rosie had her first million-seller it was cigars, Martinis and cocaine all round. Now you’re lucky if there are even biscuits.

It’s inconvenient, she is in the middle of a murder investigation, but Elspeth had insisted, and now Rosie understands why.

The first-week sales of And the Devil Blinked First are in, and they are disappointing. It has entered the charts at number five, behind, among other things, a saga about a vampire strip club and a novel about two tennis players having sex with each other, and then both reaching the Wimbledon Men’s Singles Final. That one is called New Balls Please.

The news has taken Rosie by surprise. She has done the same things as always, but her sales are down. Way down.

‘I mean, it’s good news and bad news,’ says Elspeth.

‘I see,’ says Rosie. And the Devil Blinked First has sold almost exactly half the amount of her previous book. ‘Fill me in on the good news.’

‘Well, there will be fewer books to sign this time,’ says Elspeth. ‘You know how your wrist gets.’

Elspeth has not been Rosie’s manager for long. Rod Chisholm had been her manager for many years, but Elspeth has had to stand in for him from time to time. The first time she stood in was because Rod was ill, the second time was because Rod had been accused of using offensive language in the workplace (‘I called someone a twat, Rosie. I thought we were still allowed to. And, in my defence, he was a twat’), and this time she is standing in for Rod because Rod has died. Death, a cancellation that even Rod can’t get out of.

So, Elspeth is probably permanent now. That’s if there is another book.

Rosie tries to isolate the emotion she is feeling and it suddenly occurs to her that she is frightened. The last time she felt frightened was when she had a fall in South Carolina. It came out of nowhere and, lying on her bathroom floor, she had realized, just for a moment, that she couldn’t get up. She had managed, eventually, to shuffle herself to a chair and crawl into it. She felt frightened then, and has never told a soul. What if, next time, she can’t get up?

Rosie always gets up. Doesn’t she?

‘You could always take some time off?’ says Elspeth. ‘You could travel!’

Presumably there are other managers out there, but Rosie has never felt the need to seek them out. There has never been a problem before now. Perhaps this is Elspeth’s opportunity to prove herself? A crisis is just an opportunity pointing a gun at you.

‘So what do we do?’ Rosie asks. She has had dips in sales before and always come back fighting. ‘Big tour? Have an affair with someone from TV?’

‘There’s a YouTube series,’ says Elspeth, ‘where you go on and eat chicken wings, and the chicken wings get hotter and hotter the longer the interview goes on. It’s very funny. Very popular.’

‘You eat chicken wings, and they get hotter and hotter?’ checks Rosie.

‘Everyone in the office watches it,’ says Elspeth. ‘Beyoncé was on it.’

‘Is there anything less chickeny I could do?’ Rosie asks.

‘There’s a podcast,’ says Elspeth, ‘where they lock you in with the host for twenty-four hours, and if you go to sleep you get woken up by an electric shock. It’s getting a lot of traction.’

‘These are both very interesting ideas,’ says Rosie.

‘I’m not saying we could get you on either of them,’ says Elspeth. ‘But we could put your name forward. There’s also a very good new series about the joys of ageing.’

‘The what, sorry?’ says Rosie.

‘The joys of ageing,’ says Elspeth.

‘And you think that would suit me, why?’

To her credit, Elspeth doesn’t miss a beat. ‘No, not for you, just telling you about it. Giving you an idea of the media market as it stands.’

‘Good,’ says Rosie. After her fall it took nearly a month for the bruises to go away. She hid them from everyone, even herself. The pain of those bruises still remains. Something else she is careful to hide.

‘And Davina McCall does a very good podcast about the menopause,’ says Elspeth.

Rosie shakes her head.

‘Again,’ says Elspeth, ‘that’s just for information.’

‘I still think I should do something outrageous and get in the papers,’ says Rosie. ‘That’s always worked for me in the past.’

‘The trouble is we really need to get the eighteen-to-twenty-five-year-olds on board,’ says Elspeth. ‘And they’ve never heard of newspapers. Ideally we’d set you up a TikTok account and find some way to make you go viral.’

Rosie nods. ‘How would we do that?’

‘I wish I knew,’ says Elspeth. ‘It’s usually doing a make-up tutorial, or lip-synching to something, or I saw one where a woman from America was wearing two different hats, and when she had one hat on she could only tell the truth, and when she had the other hat on she could only tell a lie. It was very popular.’

‘So I should do that?’ asks Rosie. Hats and lying are both things she can carry off with aplomb.

‘Well, not that, because somebody already did it,’ says Elspeth. ‘But something like that. Maybe you do it with gloves instead of hats, but that’s just me thinking out loud.’

Rosie is very comfortable with the world changing. Welcomes it, in fact. If the world keeps changing, it means you can always be a moving target. And if, to sell books, one has to lie through one’s teeth, or stay awake for days on end, well that’s nothing she hasn’t done voluntarily for many years. But she can’t help thinking a grand gesture might be simpler, and quicker.

‘I’m currently solving a murder,’ she says. ‘Would that work on TikTok?’

‘Only if you solved it fifteen seconds at a time,’ says Elspeth.

‘I’ll look into that,’ says Rosie.

Elspeth places her palms flat on the table. ‘I’m certain we’ll get through. Well, not certain, I just thought that was a good thing to say.’

‘Don’t worry,’ says Rosie. ‘I’ve been through dips before.’

Yes, Rosie always gets up. But one day she won’t.

‘I know,’ says Elspeth. ‘But this is such a terrific book. I’m sorry I’m asking you to eat chicken and wear gloves to try and sell it. But if we don’t get the numbers up, I don’t know what happens next for you. Or me. Unless you want to write a book about having sex with dragons? I don’t suppose …?’

‘Elspeth,’ says Rosie. ‘I’ve seen it all, I’ve done it all, and I guarantee you this: I will think of something to make this book a bestseller.’

‘But it’s all changed, Rosie,’ says Elspeth. ‘I’m getting too old for it.’

‘How old are you?’ Rosie asks.

‘Oh God, almost twenty-seven,’ says Elspeth.

Twenty-seven. That’s about the age Rosie has felt most of her life. But now? The falls catch up with you, and the bruises catch up with you. How much fight has Rosie got left in her?

‘Nothing ever really changes,’ says Rosie. ‘People don’t change. I guarantee this book will be number one by the end of the month.’

She has some fight it seems.

‘That would really help me out,’ says Elspeth. ‘I’ve been thinking of opening a dog-grooming parlour instead.’

‘You have my word,’ says Rosie.

It makes Rosie happy to see the look on Elspeth’s face. People really like being told that everything is going to be okay.

Quite how she’s going to make it okay, Rosie doesn’t know, but she’ll do something.

‘I’ll make something happen,’ says Rosie.

Elspeth nods her thanks.

‘And if I don’t,’ says Rosie, ‘I promise I’ll die trying.’

25

Ernesto Manuelo Santiago de Sousa de Cuéllar is up an Italian mountain trying to find a Mexican dog.

It wouldn’t be his first choice of job, but often one doesn’t get one’s first choice. Certainly Ernesto has got used to this in his time at Interpol.

An enforcer for a Mexican cartel arrived in Madrid on Sunday evening with his dog. His dog is not, as you might suspect, a pitbull, or a Japanese fighting dog, it is a small poodle, and the Mexican enforcer refuses to travel anywhere without it.

Which is useful, as eighteen months ago, on a previous trip to Spain, the enforcer had taken the dog to a vet in Córdoba, and Interpol had persuaded the vet to implant a tracker in the dog’s diamanté collar. So, while he is in Europe, Ernesto is following his every move, and noting down everywhere he goes and everyone he meets.

It is work that someone a great deal more junior could be doing.

‘Always keep your ears open,’ says Ernesto to Clara, who sits in his passenger seat. He waggles one ear for emphasis.

‘And your eyes,’ says Clara. ‘Surely?’

Ernesto shrugs. ‘Eyes are okay, but the ears are the thing. The world is very noisy. It is always telling you something.’

He sees he has a text from Rosie. What fun to have her back in his life. Best not open it in the car though, knowing some of the texts Rosie is capable of sending.

He has a sidekick with him today. His boss had suggested it, and Ernesto had agreed it was a very good idea. Her name is Clara. She is a good investigator, and one day will be a very good investigator. It is Ernesto’s job, and his privilege, to be part of that journey. And, to be honest, it’s nice to have the company.

‘Sometimes even your nose tells you something,’ says Ernesto. ‘I once arrested a drug importer in Vigo because I recognized his aftershave on a bag of heroin.’

On the drive from Pisa Airport to this mountain village, Clara played him a full hour of K-pop songs and carefully explained the nuances of each group and each song. She was very knowledgeable, and Ernesto’s view is that if somebody knowledgeable wants to share their knowledge with you, then you should listen, even if you are finding it physically painful. He is good at remembering new things, and who knows if, one day, his new-found knowledge of the works of BTS and Blackpink might come in handy? BTS had all been in the army, for example, so, despite their music, at least they had that going for them.

‘J-Hope from BTS wears Musc 25,’ says Clara.

Ernesto gives a serious nod. ‘If I ever smell Musc 25 on a bag of heroin, I shall bring J-Hope in for questioning.’

They are parked at the bottom of a flight of long, steep stone steps that themselves lead to a maze of tiny streets and courtyards with plants on doorsteps, washing hanging high across narrow alleys and sounds of life and love spilling from every open window. Also a lot of cats. Another reason Ernesto loves Italy. There is one, even now, curled up on the cooling bonnet of his hire car, big, ginger and unlovable.

Why the enforcer is here, who knows? Who is he meeting? Not for Ernesto to worry about. He simply has to note down movements and take photographs and let somebody else take it over. The enforcer is staying at the best hotels, eating in the finest restaurants. A lesser man than Ernesto might start to think he was in the wrong job. That €300,000 hadn’t gone very far in the end.

The ginger cat stares at him through the windscreen. Ernesto puts his windscreen wipers on, because he thinks the cat will enjoy that. He is right. The cat cocks his head, regarding the wipers as a young prodigy might study a maths puzzle.

Ernesto has his own puzzle to play with.

Jakob Eriksson. The murder of the bodyguard. What a nice thing to have fallen into his lap.

It would be very helpful indeed to catch him and, thanks to Rosie, he has a case that his colleagues know nothing about. A case which his superiors would never have assigned to him. An opportunity, then.

And Eriksson is one of the great prizes.

Since 2001 Jakob Eriksson has been steadily climbing the Interpol league tables. Ernesto hadn’t been joking about that top hundred. It’s unofficial, but once a month it gets updated on the Interpol WhatsApp chat, and they all have a good gossip about it.

There are usually a few showy new entries – a former boxer has murdered a drug dealer, perhaps, or, just to switch things up, a drug dealer has murdered a former boxer – but those guys get caught pretty quickly, marched out of nondescript hotel rooms in cuffs and Calvin Klein briefs by cops in shades. The more interesting names on the top hundred list are the ones who stick around. The men who operate in the shadows. Sometimes they catch one of these men. And when they do, careers are made.

Ernesto, with Eriksson very much on his mind today, is talking Clara through the downfall of some of these criminals. The British call them ‘large dogs’.

Bolko Mladić, he tells Clara, there’s an example. He had been on the list for nearly thirty years, ever since he blew up a plane. Then he started funding and running a gang of jewel thieves, which was less spectacular but a lot more lucrative. If you ever had a very big diamond, then Bolko Mladić knew all about it, and had plans to take it from you. A deputy bureau chief in Tallinn eventually caught Mladić when, on pure instinct, Mladić had stolen a pair of sunglasses from an open gym locker. And now that deputy bureau chief is head of European Operations for the whole of Interpol.

Then there was Paul Butterworth, a financial fraudster who, it was rumoured, genuinely lived inside a volcano, but, it turned out, actually lived in a flat in Glasgow. A Scottish cop caught him trying to use a stolen credit card at a massage parlour, and that cop now heads up the Interpol Tactical Siege Unit. Ernesto could do that job for sure. Was there anything better than a siege?

The volcano thing was interesting though. Ernesto knows that these men often hide in rumours. Rumour can be the greatest camouflage of all. Benoît B, a French arms dealer, had faked his own death three times over, for example, until a young French cop, acting on a tip-off, finally arrested him when he attended the Grammys wearing a neon helmet.

The real goal for Interpol, for Ernesto, is to catch one of these guys. Not the preening musclemen, the Instagram gangsters who let you know where they are every hour of the night and day. They want to catch the guys who live in the dark. You’ll never see them steal the money, and you’ll never see them spend the money. You know these men have killed, but you’ll never see their hands blood red.

And if you catch one yourself, no one ever forgets you again.

There will always be a few who get away, however. Who arrange their criminality in such a way as to enjoy all of the spoils of sin, but pay none of the taxes. If you are clever and resourceful you can get away with almost anything.

But they are just men, they are not ghosts. And men can be caught.

They caught Mladić, and they caught Butterworth, and they caught Benoît B. Who’s to say Ernesto can’t catch Jakob Eriksson?

Eriksson’s name is the one Ernesto doesn’t mention to Clara. Ernesto will not raise the alarm with anybody at Interpol. Will not mention the dead bodyguard at Vern Blackwood’s villa. This one is all his.

‘It takes three things to catch these guys,’ says Ernesto to Clara. He counts them off on his fingers. ‘Patience. Intelligence. And luck.’

‘Thank you, sir, for counting three on your fingers,’ says Clara. ‘It helps me to learn.’

Ernesto likes Clara.

‘Of those three, I have infinite patience,’ says Ernesto. ‘I never get bored – even when you were talking to me on the way here, I found a way through it.’

‘And intelligence?’ Clara asks.

‘Not for me to say if I am intelligent,’ says Ernesto. ‘The mark of the very stupid man is thinking that he is clever. If you play football, you cannot lie about how good you are. If you are very good, you play for Barcelona, if you are very bad then you are picked last at school. Everybody can judge themselves on the evidence. But that doesn’t work for intelligence. A man can be dumb as a horse, but can simply mix with those even stupider than he is and count himself a genius. Or he might mix with people who choose to tell him he is clever in order to take his money. So I don’t know for sure, but I have to believe, given where I was raised and given what I have achieved, that I have a measure of intelligence. That’s the only evidence I have to go on. Does that sound arrogant to you?’

‘No, it’s interesting,’ says Clara. ‘What’s this terrible music?’

‘This is Led Zeppelin II,’ says Ernesto. ‘The greatest album of all time.’

‘Okay,’ says Clara. ‘And what’s an album?’

‘I am going to find a toilet,’ says Ernesto. ‘You can keep listening to Led Zeppelin II while I’m gone.’

‘We probably shouldn’t waste the battery,’ says Clara, turning the music off.

Ernesto nods and leaves the car. Zeppelin are not for everyone. In the same way that BTS are not for everyone. But God has chosen to create them both, and he must have had his reasons, no?

Ernesto wonders what Steve’s favourite Led Zeppelin album is? Maybe IV? He will ask when he sees him next.

Ernesto crosses himself and opens Rosie’s text.

A photograph of a body in a freezer, a knife sticking through its ribs.

Her message reads:

Another one for you, my dear, and guess who? The man from your photographs. The man who has been working with Jakob Eriksson. We need to tell the police and, well, you’re sort of the police, aren’t you? Fancy an adventure?

Another corpse, and another connection to Jakob Eriksson. Rock-solid connection this time too. The man himself is on manoeuvres, running in open country. Ernesto does indeed fancy an adventure.

Ernesto is patient, and Ernesto is intelligent.

Is it possible he has just got very lucky too?

26

They are all staying in Axley for a couple of days. What a relief. Steve knows where all the channels are on his TV.

They will move Vern to Rosie’s ridiculous castle once Amy has given it a proper security sweep, and that could take some while because, well, because it’s a castle. The house is not so much ‘in’ Dorset as a significant portion ‘of’ Dorset. Doing a full security evaluation of Steve’s two-bedroom cottage hadn’t taken Amy quite so long.

Steve has made cups of tea for Rosie and Vern. Amy is drinking a power shake made from ingredients she was able to find in Steve’s local shop. It contains bananas, some malt loaf, a lettuce, a tin of condensed milk and a scoop of Ready Brek. She seems to be enjoying it.

It is Amy and Adam’s anniversary in a few days, but she hasn’t mentioned it. Steve always writes it in every time he has a new diary. Has he ever had a happier day? He and Debbie both agreed it beat even their own wedding. To see his boy so happy. To put an arm around Amy. The toughest, most fragile girl he has ever met.

It is lovely to see Trouble again too, but, as cats like to punish you when you’ve been away, he is curled up in Amy’s lap. Steve is having to pretend he’s fine with that. Soon enough though, everyone will be gone, and his will be the only lap in the house. You won’t be so cocky then, will you, Trouble, my friend?

‘You had no idea?’ Amy asks. ‘About Korbin working with Jakob Eriksson?’

‘We still don’t know he was working with him,’ says Vern. ‘With all due respect.’

‘Working for him, perhaps,’ says Steve.

‘We definitely don’t know that,’ says Vern. ‘The whole thing is muddy.’

‘So it’s a coincidence that they’re at the same airports together?’ says Amy. ‘Time after time?’

‘And in the same cities where Jakob Eriksson’s rivals were murdered?’ adds Rosie.

‘Listen,’ says Vern. ‘When you showed me the pictures, I saw what it looked like. But I can’t believe it of Korbin, that’s all I’m saying. He’s German, and if you can’t trust a German, then, I’m sorry, but the world’s upside down.’

‘Where did you think he was, by the way?’ Steve asks. ‘When he was away on these trips?’

‘Just time off,’ says Vern. ‘You have to give them four weeks’ holiday. That’s our friend the EU for you.’

‘So let’s say,’ says Steve, ‘Jakob Eriksson is looking for a hitman. Why hire one of your bodyguards? What does he gain?’

‘Two birds with one stone?’ Amy suggests. ‘Gets his hitman, and also finds a way to get more information about Vern?’

‘Why not just kill Vern?’ says Rosie. ‘That’s what I’d do. No offence, Vern.’

‘None taken,’ says Vern. ‘I can’t keep saying this. Eriksson and I are friends.’

Trouble yawns and arches his back. Steve pats his lap to attract Trouble’s attention, but Trouble turns himself ninety degrees and settles back in Amy’s lap. How long are you going to keep this up for, Trouble?

‘The night he died, Korbin had something to tell me,’ says Amy. ‘Do you think he wanted to admit to working with Eriksson?’

‘Men in freezers tell no tales,’ says Rosie.

Rosie has been unusually quiet this evening. She had a meeting after they got back from Italy and hasn’t yet said why. In some ways it’s nice to have an evening off from her. She’ll be back on form soon enough.

‘Or perhaps he confessed it to you too, Vern?’ says Amy. ‘Then you killed him in a rage?’

‘Oh, please,’ says Vern. ‘I’m not Hannibal Lecter. I’m more Paddington.’

‘Paddington doesn’t run an illegal vitamins empire,’ says Rosie. ‘Or, if he does, he’s been very good at keeping it quiet.’

‘Maybe that will be the next film,’ says Amy.

Steve sees Rosie feeling her side.

‘Tell us about Jakob Eriksson,’ says Rosie. ‘I know you don’t want to. But we need to know everything you know.’

‘I know about as much as Interpol,’ says Vern. ‘I started to hear about him maybe twenty-odd years ago. I met him once, in Vegas, and never again. We got along well, and we came to an understanding. Which I’ve always understood to be the reason I am still alive.’

‘Perhaps he’s finally coming for your money?’ suggests Rosie.

Steve gives a little laugh. ‘He hasn’t got enough money already?’

‘Who in this world has got enough money?’ says Vern.

‘Me,’ says Steve. ‘I only need enough for cat food and a couple of pints at lunchtime.’

‘Me too,’ says Amy. ‘Although for protein shakes and lip balm.’

‘I don’t have enough money,’ says Rosie.

‘You want three moats?’ asks Steve.

Rosie shrugs. ‘I just think what’s the harm? No one ever died from having too much money, and millions die from not having enough.’

‘Have you ever thought,’ says Steve, ‘that the reason so many people die from not having enough money is that some people have too much?’

‘I mean, you could just live in Russia, Stevie?’ says Rosie.

The four settle into a few moments of quiet. Steve doesn’t like all this one bit. Way too many loose ends. He looks at the haunting figure of Jakob Eriksson in the Interpol photographs. Did he kill the bodyguards? Or is Vern right? Is somebody hiding behind his name? Georgie Glazier? Tommy Griffin?

There is a knock on the door. Amy pulls her gun.

‘It’s Tony,’ says Steve, getting up. ‘Don’t shoot. Unless he comes at you. Then you can shoot.’

Trouble nuzzles himself against the muzzle of Amy’s gun. Cats really have no boundaries.

Steve walks back in with Tony Taylor, his best friend. One side of Tony’s face is badly bruised.

‘Tony, this is Vern,’ says Steve.

Vern rises and shakes Tony’s hand. ‘Sorry you got caught up in all this.’

‘Not your fault,’ says Tony. ‘This is what happens when you’re in the murder business.’

‘You’re part of the gang too?’ Vern asks as he sits again.

‘No,’ says Rosie.

‘God, yes,’ says Tony. ‘For my sins. Logistics, that sort of thing.’

‘Human shield,’ says Rosie. ‘That sort of thing.’

‘Sort of Steve’s right-hand man,’ says Tony, perching on the edge of Steve’s armchair, even though there’s a chair free. ‘Sounding board, you know. Steve’s Spider-Man and I’m … Spider-Man’s sidekick. Does Spider-Man have a sidekick?’

‘Tony is very good with directions,’ says Steve. ‘And fixing cars.’

‘Too kind,’ says Tony. ‘So, have we caught this Eriksson yet? Give me five minutes with him if you do.’

‘What will you do?’ asks Rosie. ‘Explain the history of the Bournemouth ring road?’

They played a game of ‘unlikely crush’ on the jet the other day. Amy’s had been Voldemort. Steve hadn’t quite understood the concept of ‘unlikely crush’ and had gone for Jennifer Lopez to the derision of the others. Rosie had chosen Tony Taylor.

‘Joke’s on you, Rosie,’ says Tony, giving Steve a farewell pat on the leg and finally taking his own seat. ‘Bournemouth doesn’t have a ring road.’

‘He’s got you there,’ says Steve, shaking his head at Rosie’s naivety. ‘Absolutely bang to rights.’

‘It relies on a system of interconnected A-roads,’ continues Tony. ‘You’ve got your A35 and your A3049, which perform the job of a ring road, but are they a ring road? They are not.’

As Tony is speaking, Steve sees Rosie, almost imperceptibly, wet her lips. But Amy had explained the concept of ‘kink shaming’ to him the other day, so he chooses not to draw attention to it.

‘I have another question, Vern,’ says Steve. ‘I don’t suppose you quiz?’

‘Hmm?’ says Vern.

‘Do you quiz?’ Steve repeats. ‘It’s the quiz tonight, at The Brass Monkey. We need a fifth if you’re any good on sport or Charlie XCX? Those are our two weak spots.’

Amy looks up from stroking Trouble. ‘Why aren’t you asking me?’

‘You?’ says Steve. Now Amy and Trouble are both looking at him as if he has betrayed them.

‘Your daughter-in-law,’ says Amy. ‘Remember? You don’t think I can quiz?’

‘I know you know about guns,’ says Steve. ‘And what’s that show you like?’

‘Heated Rivalry,’ says Amy.

‘And Heated Rivalry,’ says Steve. ‘But last time I asked you to quiz with us you said you’d rather drown yourself.’

‘Well, I would rather drown myself,’ says Amy. ‘But it would be nice to be asked.’

‘Okay,’ says Steve. Trouble is turning his head between the two of them as if watching a tennis match. ‘Would you like to join our quiz team tonight?’

‘No, thank you,’ says Amy.

‘Okay,’ says Steve. Phew.

‘But thank you for asking,’ says Amy.

Steve nods towards Trouble. ‘You let me know if he gets too heavy for you. I can take him.’

‘Steve,’ says Amy, ‘I can leg press over 300 kilos, I’ll be okay.’

Steve nods. ‘He looks restless, that’s all.’

‘Well, I’d love to quiz,’ says Vern. ‘If you’ll have me?’

‘Capital of Malawi?’ asks Steve.

‘Malawi City?’ guesses Vern.

Steve gives a low grunt.

‘Where are you going next?’ Tony asks.

‘Palm Springs,’ says Steve.

Tony gives a low whistle. ‘Australia.’

‘America,’ says Steve.

‘Even so,’ says Tony. ‘Is it hot?’

‘Very hot,’ says Rosie. ‘But everyone’s got a pool. And Frank Sinatra used to live there. You boys like Frank Sinatra, don’t you?’

Steve and Tony both nod. Steve is still not exactly relishing the idea, but he does have to admit that he likes Frank Sinatra.

‘I’ll hold the fort back here,’ says Tony. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

‘After the quiz though,’ says Steve. ‘That’s in my contract.’

Steve sees Trouble stirring. Giving an apologetic look to Amy, he jumps down from her lap and walks over to Steve. Trouble knows Steve doesn’t want to go to Palm Springs. He jumps up and curls himself into Steve’s lap. Steve tries as hard as he can to make it look as if he hasn’t noticed.

‘Can I get anyone more tea?’ asks Amy. Everyone agrees that she can, so she collects up the mugs and walks into the kitchen. Trouble, who likes food even more than he likes laps, follows, so Steve does too. She might need a hand.

Steve watches from the doorway as she takes a mug from his kitchen cupboard. It says I SURVIVED ST LUCIA. A memento of their previous case. He wants to keep watching, because the scene reminds him so much of Debbie just pottering around the kitchen. But it’s creepy to lurk, so he walks over to the fridge and takes out the milk for her.

‘Hey, Pops,’ she says.

‘Hey, daughter-in-law,’ he says.

Steve hears chatter in the other room as Amy flicks the kettle on.

Tony is now holding court. ‘Of course, I say it’s not a ring road, but the Stony Lane project on the A35 really improved congestion around Christchurch.’

Rosie says something in reply, Steve doesn’t catch what, but everyone laughs.

Amy tears the teabags from each other and puts them in the mugs. Warm rays of summer sun play across the kitchen. More laughs from the other room. Steve sees Amy smile.

‘What’s the smile for?’ he asks.

‘I know it’s murder that’s brought us all together,’ says Amy, as more laughs drift through to the kitchen. ‘But I was just thinking this must be what family feels like.’

Steve puts his arm around her. This wonderful woman who has known such trouble and keeps it all locked up inside.

‘Ames, this isn’t what family feels like,’ he says. ‘This is family.’

27

Rosie is in the garden of The Brass Monkey with Amy. She can hear noises of the quiz coming from inside the pub.

Lee, the one bodyguard as yet untroubled by either knife or bullet, is fetching drinks.

Every table in the garden is taken, pints of cider in pink fists, tipsy locals catching the last rays of the evening’s sun. As drinkers walk by the table, Rosie gets the odd nod of recognition, but in the main she has been left to drink in peace.

Rosie is aware that her novelty at The Brass Monkey has long since worn off. The first time she had visited there was pandemonium. Selfies, autographs, questions about Warren Beatty, drinks on the house. The second time much the same, the third and fourth a noticeable cooling of excitement, culminating this evening with walking through the door of the pub to be greeted with ‘Hey, it’s Steve’s mate.’

Rosie doesn’t necessarily need to be garlanded wherever she goes, she has a fairly healthy self-image, but a bit of light mobbing might be nice.

As if on cue, a portly middle-aged man leans over her table and says, ‘You’re Rosie D’Antonio, aren’t you?’

‘Guilty as charged,’ says Rosie. ‘Selfie?’

The man looks nonplussed. ‘Selfie? No. But if you see Tony Taylor, could you tell him the brake pads have gone on Dave’s Mondeo?’

‘I shall,’ says Rosie. ‘And are you Dave?’

‘Am I Dave,’ repeats Dave, laughing, as he walks into the pub.

Axley, like all English villages, dances to the beat of its own drum.

As Dave opens the door to the back of the pub, he stands aside, and Steve walks into the garden and over to the table.

‘Is it finished?’ asks Amy. ‘Did you win?’

‘At half eight?’ says Steve. ‘What pub quiz finishes at half eight? Ten-minute drinking break, we’re two points off the lead. We’d be one point off the lead if Vern wasn’t convinced that Jude Law was married to Angelina Jolie. I knew he wasn’t, should have had the courage of my convictions.’

‘Sorry that happened to you, Stevie,’ says Rosie.

‘Thanks,’ says Steve. ‘The guy knows his Winter Olympics though, I’ll say that.’

Lee is back with a tray loaded with pints, and Steve budges up.

‘Nice pub,’ says Lee. ‘What’s the one across the road like? The Flagon?’

‘Too try-hard,’ says Steve. ‘It’s all goujons and no fish fingers.’

Rosie had popped into The Flagon once. It is, to all intents and purposes, identical to The Brass Monkey.

‘How do you like The Hunter’s Rest?’ Amy asks.

‘Yeah, nice,’ says Lee. ‘Lots of paintings of horses though, aren’t there? Why are there always paintings of horses in places where there are already horses? Just look out of the window if you want to see a horse. They should have paintings of horses where there aren’t any horses.’

‘That’s a very insightful observation, Lee,’ says Rosie, who makes it a point of honour to be able to hold a conversation with anyone.

‘It’s just … you can’t even picture them together, can you?’ says Steve.

‘Who, dear?’ asks Rosie.

‘Jude Law and Angelina Jolie,’ says Steve.

‘What’s your take, then?’ Amy asks Lee. ‘Who killed Korbin and why?’

Rosie sees Lee pick his pint up. If there’s talking to be done, it won’t be without a drink.

‘Someone knifed him,’ says Lee. ‘Buggered I know apart from that.’

‘I mean, that’s more the “how” than the “who” and “why”,’ notes Rosie.

‘And you had no idea he was working for Jakob Eriksson?’ says Amy. ‘Didn’t even suspect?’

Lee shakes his head. ‘None of it makes sense now. Maybe he was working for both of them?’

‘But you don’t do that,’ says Amy ‘You don’t work for two people. Like you don’t date two men.’

Rosie turns to Amy.

‘Do bodyguards have sex with each other a lot, Amy? I bet they do. Like actors.’

‘Jude Law and Angelia Jolie don’t,’ says Steve into his pint.

Amy looks straight at Lee. ‘And Eriksson never approached you himself? Korbin never approached you on Eriksson’s behalf?’

‘If they had, I’d have said no,’ says Lee. ‘I don’t want trouble.’

‘Bit more action though?’ asks Amy.

‘Yep,’ agrees Lee. ‘If you like action.’

‘Well, you’ve got plenty of action now,’ says Amy. ‘Esteban and Korbin both dead. Perhaps that’s more fun for you?’

‘No,’ concedes Lee. ‘None of this is fun.’

Amy really is trying her hardest to get something out of Lee, but Rosie sees that it is a little like playing tennis against a wall. Rosie tries to help.

‘How many people have you shot, Lee?’ asks Rosie.

‘What, ever?’ asks Lee.

‘Yes, ever,’ says Rosie.

Lee shrugs. ‘Thirty?’

‘That’s quite a lot,’ says Rosie.

‘The army,’ says Lee. ‘I haven’t shot anyone since.’

Rosie nods. ‘Do you miss it?’

‘Nah,’ says Lee. ‘It’s the worst feeling in the world. You ever shot someone?’

Rosie shakes her head. ‘I once broke a man’s arm in a Turkish brothel. How about you, Amy? How many?’

‘None of your business,’ says Amy.

‘You never answer a personal question,’ says Rosie.

Amy turns to her and sizes her up.

‘What year were you born, Rosie?’ Amy asks.

‘Touché,’ says Rosie.

Vern Blackwood hurries to the table.

‘Steve, we’re back on in two, and it’s anagrams of snooker players.’

‘You having fun, Vern?’ Rosie asks.

‘The most fun,’ says Vern. ‘Has he told you about the Jude Law thing?’

‘Hasn’t mentioned it,’ says Rosie.

Steve picks up his pint and salutes the table. ‘Don’t drink too much. Palm Springs bright and early in the morning.’

Rosie has been thinking about their next move.

‘Actually, Palm Springs via Stockholm,’ says Rosie.

‘Stockholm, Sweden?’ says Amy.

Rosie looks at them both. ‘Yes. What is it with this family and geography?’

‘Why Stockholm?’ Amy asks.

‘Ernesto mentioned someone who lives there,’ says Rosie.

‘The Swedish cop?’ says Steve. ‘Larssen?’

‘Oh, we’re not going to see him,’ says Rosie.

‘Then why are we going to Stockholm?’ asks Steve.

‘Who knows more about criminals than cops?’ Rosie asks.

‘Podcasters?’ guesses Steve.

‘Other criminals,’ says Rosie.

‘So we’re going to see Sara Lindstrat?’ says Steve.

‘Of course we are,’ says Rosie. ‘I figure that the most dangerous woman in Sweden might know something about the most dangerous man in Sweden. Silly not to stop off on our way to Palm Springs.’

Steve sighs and heads back into the pub.

‘You know that’s your seventh pint, Rosie,’ says Amy. ‘Perhaps you should go easy too?’

‘You and I know I could drink every man in this pub under the table,’ says Rosie. ‘I once outdrank Ollie Reed.’

‘Who?’ says Lee.

My God, how quickly we are forgotten in this world.

Rosie feels a tap on her shoulder and turns to the table behind. A woman in her forties is wearing a summer dress and a look of wonder.

‘I’m really sorry,’ says the woman. ‘I didn’t mean to listen, but did you really outdrink Ollie Reed?’

Rosie raises her pint. ‘I did.’ This is more like it.

The woman turns to her table. ‘This old lady once outdrank Ollie Reed from Ringwood Tractor and Tractor Parts.’

Rosie gets a cheer, then feels Amy’s hand on her knee.

‘You’re not an old lady,’ says Amy. ‘Steve’s an old lady. You’ll never be one.’

Rosie squeezes Amy’s hand. She feels old. But an eighth pint will sort that out. When she had her fall in South Carolina she hadn’t been drinking. That was what was so frightening about it.

‘Something’s not right with all this,’ says Lee. ‘I don’t know what, and I can’t work it out. It’s like something’s been stirred up from somewhere.’

Rosie feels the same. But they’ve met Georgie Glazier now, they’ll meet Tommy Griffin very soon, and hopefully Sara Lindstrat will let them know how they can find Eriksson. The picture will surely become clearer.

There is a cheer from inside the pub. Rosie wonders if there is anywhere in the world more idyllic than an English pub garden in the evening sun, but then remembers an evening in 1987 in Mötley Crüe’s jacuzzi. The English pub garden is a pretty close second though.

28

Kitchen islands, thinks Georgie Glazier, unwinding for the evening. That’s the real problem here.

Georgie knows she shouldn’t really have got involved with Vern again. Shouldn’t have asked him for money. For what she was due.

Did Rosie and Steve know she was lying about it? Probably, they’re no fools the two of them.

She loved Vern as a teenager, and she wishes him well still, up to a point, but her life is a lot simpler without him around.

And yet.

Georgie sips her mint tea and looks through Instagram images of kitchen islands. She knows she shouldn’t. She knows that kitchen islands are the top of a very slippery slope. But a couple of minutes won’t hurt, surely? She clicks on a video, a pop star who lives in New York and has a kitchen island with a TV that pops out. Georgie shakes her head, she doesn’t need a kitchen island with a TV in it. Nobody does. Georgie does what she always does in these situations. She gives herself a pep talk.

‘Georgie, you do not need a kitchen island. Repeat, you do not need a kitchen island. You have plenty of worktop space, you have a good draining board. Just because Lily Allen has a kitchen island, it doesn’t mean you have to have one. Put Instagram down.’

She clicks on another image. An influencer in America has two kitchen islands. The influencer is saying, ‘I call my islands Trinidad and Tobago. Food prep on Trinidad, Mommy meals and family feels on Tobago.’ Georgie is both disgusted and aroused. She feels an awful lot of dopamine exploding in her brain, but also a little bit of sick in her mouth.

‘Switch it off, Georgie. Do some work.’

Reluctantly, Georgie leaves Instagram and opens her order book. This is the perfect way to stop thinking about kitchen islands.

Business is still very healthy. She’s just listed 50,000 chemical peel masks she’d ordered from a factory outside Shanghai, and the tills are ringing. £1.20 per unit to her, and she’s charging £30 for three. So that’s about £325,000 profit after costs if she sells them all, which, looking at the numbers, she will.

She scrolls through some of the reviews for another recent bestseller, a bee serum under-eye cream. Reviews are absolutely key in her industry.

‘Saw results in three days,’ says Jane1792. ‘Cheaper than the shops but just as effective,’ says FurBabyFiona12. ‘Absolute life saver on my wedding day,’ says LuckiestLadyAlive43891. When her customers are happy, Georgie is happy.

That there is no bee serum in her bee serum under-eye cream is neither here nor there. Wedding days often involve a suspension of disbelief.

In truth, Georgie has been thinking about kitchen islands – oh no, here we go again – ever since Rosie D’Antonio told her about Vern’s recent problems. Georgie likes a quiet life, values her privacy and freedom. She wouldn’t want what Vern has, the bodyguards, the gates, the fences, the paranoia. None of which seem to have been effective anyway. Georgie likes to do her Tuesday and Thursday afternoons in the charity shop, have coffee with the Pilates girls, potter about, watch This Morning and know she has enough money coming in. More than enough.

But Rosie was right. Her house is a little small for someone who has been around such money. It’s fine, absolutely fine. Big comfortable sofa, nice TV, couple of spare bedrooms, a table large enough for six people to sit around. She doesn’t need anything else. She and Vern used to have a chef and a driver and a gardener. She remembers those days well.

Would it be nice to have a kitchen island? Well, yes, why not, all things being equal? Slip a couple of stools under the overhang, have coffee with pals.

But all things aren’t equal, are they? That’s the point.

First things first, if she had an island, she’d need a bigger kitchen, and that would mean a new house. She likes this house. Likes the neighbours, it’s near Waitrose, there are weekly bin collections. A lot of places these days have their bin collections fortnightly, and Georgie doesn’t think that would suit her at all. She uses a lot of cardboard.

And say you do buy a new house, what then? You have your kitchen island, your dreams have come true, but then there will always be someone, like the awful lady in America with the beautiful hair, with two kitchen islands. There are probably people with three. Kim Kardashian probably has a whole archipelago of kitchen islands. The more kitchen islands you have, the bigger the kitchen you need. The bigger the kitchen you have, the bigger the house you need. The bigger the house you have, the further you are from friends and shops and community and pottery cafés and ice-cream vans. Is a friendly neighbour really going to help you take your shopping indoors if your driveway is half a mile long?

So, while a kitchen island would be nice, just look at what it leads to. It leads to a villa in the Tuscan hills and twenty-four-hour security.

Yep, you get a kitchen island and, before you know it, you are Vern. And the big difference between Georgie and Vern is not money, not lifestyle and not kitchen cabinetry. The big difference between Georgie and Vern is that nobody is threatening to kill Georgie. And that’s worth a lot in this day and age.

Georgie makes her mind up once and for all. Leave Vern well alone. Her life is ticking along nicely. She doesn’t need a kitchen island.

And yet, and yet, really, what has Vern done to earn all that money? Off the back of an awful lot of hard work on her own part?

And there must be a few big houses in the area on streets with weekly bin collections? Perhaps Georgie could have the best of both worlds?

She looks at Rosie’s number. Should she get involved? See where it all leads?

Georgie punches Rosie’s number into her phone. It is answered quickly. It sounds like Rosie is in a pub garden.

‘Georgie,’ says Rosie. ‘I was hoping you’d –’

‘Did you go into Vern’s kitchen?’ says Georgie. ‘In Italy?’

‘His kitchen?’ says Rosie. In the background Georgie hears a tray of drinks being dropped and an entire pub garden cheering. ‘I’m sure I did.’

‘Did he have a kitchen island?’ Georgie asks.

‘He had two,’ says Rosie.

Georgie nods to herself. Of course he has. ‘And how many kitchen islands do you think a billionaire would have?’

‘Oh, limitless,’ says Rosie. ‘I’m glad you called, we’re about to head to –’

Georgie ends the call. So Vern has two kitchen islands and she has none. That doesn’t seem quite right somehow.

Georgie makes up her mind. She will stay involved. Has to. A quiet life is all well and good, but it’s important not to undersell yourself.

She has a plan forming.

And, if you want to separate the professional from the personal, perhaps she has two plans forming?

Because it won’t do her any harm to get more acquainted with Rosie’s sidekick, Steve, will it? You rarely saw a man that dependable who was also that handsome.

Handsomeness usually sucks the dependability out of men. The two things cannot survive in the same host body. She and her friend Sue from Pilates had tracked Steve down on Facebook. Only two posts in ten years. One entering a competition to win tickets for a Metallica concert, the other thanking people for all their messages after the death of his wife. While Georgie would wish widowerhood on no one, that’s a man she could see slipping his legs under her kitchen island in the near future.

The professional plan she really will have to keep to herself. And she will have to tread very, very carefully. When there are bullets flying around, you mustn’t walk down the middle of the street, you must keep to the shadows. Kitchen islands and handsome widowers are all well and good, but there’s something much bigger at stake here.

Does she know Jakob Eriksson, Rosie had asked her? Well, of course she does. She has known Jakob Eriksson a long time. Has sat around a table with Vern and Jakob Eriksson. Even knows his real name.

And now it seems he’s a billionaire.

Which means that she, of all people, surely has a great opportunity here?

How to play it with Steve and Rosie though? That’s the big question.

She can continue to pretend to be the ditzy housewife, but neither Rosie nor Steve seems the type to be fooled by that for long. She just needs to get close to them, to find out what they know and, more importantly, what they don’t know.

Most importantly of all, Georgie needs to find the man himself. The man they’re all calling Jakob Eriksson. Even Vern, it seems.

She knows it won’t be easy. But the two of them do really need a talk.

29

‘It says the minibar is free,’ says Amy, as she lies back on the huge bed in her room at The Hunter’s Rest, by some distance the New Forest’s most expensive hotel. ‘But it can’t be, can it?’

‘If it says it’s free, then it’s free,’ says Adam. ‘Some hotels do that. Very classy ones.’

‘This one feels classy,’ says Amy. ‘The slippers aren’t even wrapped in plastic.’

She’s glad she rang Adam, they haven’t spoken for a few days, and now she has stuff to tell him. Will he be interested? Amy isn’t sure. He always says he is, but all her life people have said all sorts of things and ended up breaking her heart regardless. Why should her husband, in the long run, be any different?

‘Rosie was on Graham Norton,’ says Amy. ‘We got to go backstage, and I met Denzel Washington.’

Adam gives a low whistle. ‘What was Graham Norton like?’

‘He was nice,’ says Amy. ‘He got a selfie with your dad.’

‘Do you mean my dad got a selfie with him?’ Adam asks.

‘I suppose so,’ says Amy. ‘He was very nice about it either way.’

‘What was Denzel Washington like?’

‘He went straight home,’ says Amy.

‘Probably had a long flight,’ says Adam.

‘Rosie mentioned We Solve Murders,’ says Amy. ‘That’s how we got this case.’

It is their anniversary on the 20th. Seven years. Amy was going to fly out and surprise him.

‘The murdered bodyguard, right?’ says Adam.

‘Two murdered bodyguards now,’ says Amy.

‘That’s a lot of murdered bodyguards,’ says Adam. ‘Are you safe?’

‘Safe enough,’ says Amy.

Will Adam end up breaking her heart? On a good day Amy is sure he won’t. On a normal day, like today, she could toss a coin.

Amy likes to avoid emotion when she can, but perhaps she needs to be more like Rosie? Smoking spliffs with foreign secretaries and physically manhandling Denzel Washington? Seeing your husband every now and again? The problem with emotions though is that the good ones are all jumbled up with the bad ones. You can’t just pick the ones you want. If you choose to feel things, you get the whole job lot.

‘I’m glad you rang,’ says Adam. ‘It’s boring here. Why don’t you solve the murders and come out?’

‘To Saudi Arabia?’

It’s the love that’s the problem. Amy had a foster placement when she was nine. Paula and Grant, two kids of their own already, their house not big, but big enough. Amy had her own room, but eventually chose to share with their younger daughter. They would stay up for hours, the two of them. Amy wishes she could remember what they’d talk about.

‘I miss you,’ says Adam. ‘There’s a nice gym at the hotel. And I think they even let you drive these days.’

She’d been with Paula and Grant for six months, and had started to let her guard down, started to feel part of the family. Started to feel loved. The sort of thing she and the other misshapes always dreamt about but never talked about.

‘How’s Rosie?’ Adam asks.

‘I left her in the pub with your dad,’ says Amy. ‘Last thing I saw, she was standing on the bar singing “American Pie”. I went to her book launch the other day.’

‘What was that like?’ Adam asks.

Amy remembers they were planning a holiday, the whole family. To Lanzarote. Paula showed her pictures of the hotel in a brochure. The sun was shining in every photo. It had three pools. Amy couldn’t stop thinking about it. Which pool they’d go to on which day, she had it all figured out.

‘Apparently Ian McEwan is surprisingly buff?’

‘Who’s Ian McEwan?’ says Adam. Good. This is why she married him.

‘I thought you might know,’ says Amy. ‘Everyone there seemed to know. How’s Saudi Arabia?’

‘Lucrative,’ says Adam. ‘Thank goodness.’

‘What time is it there?’

‘One in the morning,’ says Adam. ‘I’ve been waiting up for you to call, eating the world’s most expensive bag of cashew nuts and watching The Big Bang Theory in Arabic.’

Amy woke in Paula and Grant’s house one night, this was perhaps a month before they were due to go on holiday. She heard voices raised in anger. That was the static that accompanied every day of her early life. The thing she thought she had left behind. Now it was Paula’s and Grant’s voices.

‘It’s lovely to hear your voice,’ says Amy.

Some children like to block out the noise; Amy had always walked towards it, wanting information. She crept out of the bedroom and sat on the third step down from the landing. The carpet was a dirty beige with small blue flowers. She heard Grant shouting at Paula. Shouting about money. Paula quietened him down, and Amy shuffled down a few more steps.

‘Are you buying something or selling something?’ Amy asks.

‘We’re consulting on integrating AI capabilities into energy-generation technologies,’ says Adam. ‘So, you can imagine, there’s a real party atmosphere here.’

Grant was telling Paula she was getting too attached to Amy. Taking her on holiday for goodness’ sake? Lanzarote? What will the girl think? Paula said something that Amy couldn’t catch, and Grant barked a laugh and said if she thought they could afford three teenaged girls in the same house, then she had a screw loose.

‘Is AI going to kill us all by the way?’ Amy asks.

‘Probably not,’ says Adam. ‘But maybe. That seems to be the consensus.’

‘Is there anything I can do about it?’ asks Amy.

‘Not really,’ says Adam. ‘It’s like the tide now, it’ll go where it wants. Just stay away from the cliffs.’

Amy packed a small bag the next day and disappeared on her school lunch break. The police caught up with her soon enough, and it was decided – who knows who by – to return her to the children’s home. She didn’t go to Lanzarote, has never been, didn’t even go on a plane until she was eighteen. She never saw Paula and Grant again.

‘But maybe AI will cure cancer?’ says Amy.

‘Yep,’ says Adam. ‘It might do that.’

‘Swings and roundabouts, then,’ says Amy.

‘Swings and roundabouts,’ agrees Adam.

The other thing Amy decided to do was never to dream again. Why take that risk? Once you’re in the clouds, it’s a long way down.

‘They’ve got nice robes here,’ says Adam. ‘Supposed to be his and hers, but they’re the same size.’

Amy wishes, just for one day, that she could be normal.

And listen, sure, she’s read enough Instagram posts to know that no one is ‘normal’.

Except they are, aren’t they? Plenty of people are. Plenty of people find their way through life. They love, they’re loved, they face the world with eyes wide open. There are normal people. People riding bikes through parks and sitting in the sun with a pint and a paper.

But not Amy.

Amy will always be that nine-year-old girl sitting on the third step down, tracing tiny blue flowers with her finger while her world falls apart.

‘I miss you,’ says Adam. ‘I’m so pleased you rang.’

‘Thank you for putting up with me.’

They should be together for their anniversary. That would be the normal thing to do.

‘Nothing to put up with,’ says Adam. ‘Enjoy your slippers.’

They blow each other kisses until, as always, Adam lets Amy end the call.

30

Steve has never been to Sweden before. He’s heard of Sweden, who hasn’t, but there has never been any real need for him to actually get himself involved in the place. Debbie used to love ABBA, Steve himself has a lot of time for IKEA, and Yngwie Malmsteen is one of the great heavy metal guitarists, but none of these things have tempted him to visit.

All it took, in the end, for Steve to finally visit Sweden was a widely feared murderer and torturer with a Stockholm penthouse.

Sara Lindstrat is wearing sunglasses and a fur coat. ‘Rosie D’Antonio, I can’t believe it’s real. I am such a huge fan of yours.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ says Rosie. Rosie is also wearing sunglasses and a fur coat.

They are on the roof terrace of a grand townhouse in central Stockholm. Rosie had spoken to a famous Swedish crime writer, who had spoken to Sara Lindstrat, who had invited them straight round.

Steve is happy because their travels almost always take them somewhere hot, but up on this Stockholm rooftop it is cold and windy. It is nice, every now and again, to be able to investigate a murder without sweating. And it’s also nice to pay some sort of respect to Yngwie Malmsteen.

From everything Steve has read on Wikipedia, Palm Springs will be a lot less fun.

‘You know your book where the policeman tortures his victims in a dungeon?’ says Sara.

‘Yes,’ says Rosie. ‘The Slaughterhouse Massacre.’

‘That’s my favourite, I think,’ says Sara. ‘So funny.’

‘Funny?’ says Rosie.

‘So funny,’ says Sara. ‘And the one with the threshing machine?’

‘Death Farm?’

‘Death Farm, yes,’ says Sara. ‘I remember I would read it in bed, and I would keep waking up my husband with laughing so much.’

‘I mean, it’s not necessarily a comedy,’ says Rosie.

‘I would read him out lines,’ says Sara. ‘When you kill the one guy in the threshing machine, and the other guy is watching. I was hooting, and my husband was, Let me sleep, woman!’

‘Well, it’s nice to meet a fan,’ says Rosie.

‘Thank you for seeing us,’ says Steve. ‘We wanted to ask you about a man called Jakob Eriksson?’

‘Yes,’ says Sara. ‘You set a thief to catch a thief, I think.’

‘You know him?’ asks Amy.

‘I know everyone,’ says Sara.

‘So you know him?’ Amy says. ‘Could you –’

‘I have a quiz question for you,’ says Sara.

‘Go on,’ says Steve, leaning forward. He’s somewhere cold, Rosie has been unsettled by a psychopath, and now there’s a quiz. This might be the best interrogation they’ve ever done.

‘Which country has the best criminals in the world?’ Sara asks.

‘Umm, Russia?’ guesses Steve. Surely?

‘No, but you can have another guess,’ says Sara.

Steve is quietly furious with himself.

‘Albania?’ says Amy.

That’s a good shout, fair play to Amy there.

‘No,’ says Sara. ‘Albanians are very good, but they are not the best.’

Steve is a bit relieved. It’s okay to get something wrong, but if he’d got it wrong, and Amy had got it right, he’d be thinking about it all the way to Palm Springs.

‘Can I guess the Swedes?’ says Rosie.

‘Yes,’ says Sara. ‘You are correct. The Swedes are the best criminals in the world. We are fair-minded and thorough, it is well known. I’m surprised you didn’t know it already.’

If this was The Brass Monkey, Steve would be approaching the quizmaster and asking for verification. But the quizmaster at The Brass Monkey, Neil Hodges, is not the chief suspect in over a dozen unsolved murders, so Steve will let it go for now. On with the interview.

‘So, speaking of Swedish criminals, and I’m sure you’re right about that, though I would be fascinated to look at the actual source of the statistic,’ says Steve, ‘this Jakob Eriksson? You’ve heard the name.’

‘This is a common name,’ says Sara. ‘Jakob is a common name, and Eriksson is a common name. I don’t know what would be the same in England.’

Rosie points to Steve. ‘Every single English man in their late fifties is called Steve, Dave or Gary. No exceptions.’

Sara nods. ‘Yes, Gary Lineker.’

‘Exactly,’ says Steve.

‘I don’t know who that is,’ says Rosie. ‘When you say that Jakob Er–’

Well, this won’t stand.

‘Wait, sorry,’ says Steve. ‘You’ve never heard of Gary Lineker?’

‘No,’ says Rosie. ‘So, Sara –’

‘He’s very famous,’ says Steve.

‘A footballer,’ says Sara, nodding at Rosie with some concern. ‘Very famous.’

Steve and the Swedish psychopath share a look of slight disbelief at this turn of events.

‘I don’t know footballers,’ says Rosie. ‘I was briefly engaged to a polo player, but that’s very different.’

Sara Lindstrat has found a picture of Gary Lineker on her phone and shows it to Rosie.

Rosie shakes her head. ‘Sorry. I mean, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, but I’ve never seen him before in my life.’

‘If we can get back to you knowing Jakob Eriksson,’ says Amy.

‘I said I know everyone,’ says Sara. ‘All criminals anyway.’

‘He deals in illegal medication,’ says Steve. ‘You know, fake pills and all that business. Interpol have been after him for years.’

‘He is not someone I know,’ says Sara.

‘But you know everyone?’ says Steve.

‘Yes,’ says Sara. ‘But this man I have not heard of. You are certain he is Swedish?’

‘Interpol seem to think he’s Swedish,’ says Rosie.

‘Interpol are idiots,’ says Sara.

Ernesto is not an idiot, thinks Steve, but, again, he won’t be approaching Sara for verification.

Amy shows Sara Lindstrat a picture of Jakob Eriksson. ‘This man?’

Sara shakes her head. ‘Never seen him. And Swedes are the least bald nation in Europe. That is another fact. What else do you know about him?’

‘We know he’s been active since about 2001,’ says Amy.

Sara looks at the photograph again. ‘But this man must be seventy? So even in 2001 he would be in his forties?’

Steve had been thinking about this. Criminals tend to appear suddenly in their teens or early twenties. Not their forties. Not many people enjoy a twenty-year career in chartered accountancy and then decide to pivot into fraud and murder. Although, in the end, the guy dumping severed limbs in supermarket toilets had been a quantity surveyor from Carshalton.

‘Well, there it is,’ says Sara. ‘He is not Jakob Eriksson. He has just chosen the name from somewhere, a child’s gravestone perhaps? Or a morgue. What was your book, Rosie, that was set in a morgue?’

‘When the Dead Scream,’ says Rosie.

‘That’s it,’ says Sara, smiling and shaking her head. ‘I honestly don’t know where you get your jokes from.’

‘Well …’ says Rosie.

‘You’re saying you don’t think Jakob Eriksson is his real name?’ says Amy.

‘I’m saying I know every Swedish criminal,’ says Sara. ‘But I’ve never seen this man, and I’ve never heard of this man. You want to find him?’

Rosie nods. ‘We’re investigating a murder. He’s our chief suspect.’

‘What sort of murder?’ Sara asks.

‘A bodyguard shot in the back of the head,’ says Steve.

Sara thinks about this. ‘A bit slapstick for my tastes. Why do you think this man Eriksson committed this murder?’

‘He’s a rival of our client,’ says Rosie. ‘And he left a note.’

Sara shrugs. ‘Listen, maybe he is successful, maybe he is Swedish, maybe he killed a bodyguard. Maybe many things. But I know everyone, and I don’t know him. I doubt it very much that he is called Jakob Eriksson. He is not young, so he must have been someone else in 2001.’

This would make some sense of the man’s elusiveness.

‘You don’t need to find out who Jakob Eriksson is,’ says Sara. ‘You need to find out who he was.’

‘Where he suddenly came from?’ says Steve.

‘No one appears from nowhere,’ says Sara. ‘He must have been someone before he was Jakob Eriksson.’

Steve nods. What do they really know about Jakob Eriksson? What he looks like, sure, but what else? Even Vern has told them very little. But surely if he and Eriksson are friends, then he would have more information than he has given them thus far?

The closer they get to Jakob Eriksson, the further away he seems to drift.

Perhaps Palm Springs will bring better luck?

Sara Lindstrat starts laughing. Steve, Rosie and Amy look at each other. Her shoulders are now heaving, and she is dabbing at her eyes with a black handkerchief.

‘Are you okay?’ Amy asks.

‘I’m so sorry, Rosie,’ Sara manages to get out. ‘I’m just thinking of when you made that detective jump out of a third-storey window and he landed on a spike.’

Sara is composing herself now.

‘I don’t think that was one of mine,’ says Rosie.

Sara has a think about this, then raises a hand to her forehead. ‘You’re right, of course. That was one of mine. Will you stay for lunch?’

‘We probably need to get going,’ says Rosie, already getting to her feet. ‘Long flight.’

So that was Sweden.

31

Felicity Woollaston feels useless. And feels vulnerable. She doesn’t like either feeling.

The gang will fly to Stockholm tomorrow, then on to Palm Springs, so perhaps they’ll need her for something or other, but, for now, Felicity is wondering what the point of working for a detective agency is when all you do is answer the phone. And when it is so easy to get caught in the crossfire.

She squeezes Tony’s hand, and he squeezes hers. He was back at work today, bandages removed, scars red raw.

And Felicity knows there are plenty of scars she can’t see. Tony was the victim of a serious assault. Sudden and unprovoked. What must that do to a man?

After the attack, Felicity is fully invested in the case at least. She had asked Steve yesterday, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve found and killed Jakob Eriksson yet?’ and was disappointed when he said they hadn’t. She hopes she gets to meet him face-to-face one day. Then we’ll see whose head is bouncing off a brick wall.

Tony is not the type to talk about feelings. Which, honestly, is sort of a relief in this day and age. Felicity had tried the dating apps a few years ago, and men were far more comfortable talking about their feelings than they used to be. Good for them, Felicity supposes, but sometimes it’s nice for a man to be a man. Quiet and brooding. Felicity is quite certain that there is a crisis in modern masculinity, though she feels it’s not really up to her to solve it for them.

But this is different. She loves Tony – goodness, yes, ‘love’ feels very easy to say – and when he is ready to talk about what happened to him, Felicity will be there to listen.

She feels like perhaps tonight’s the night.

They are watching TV, a drama on ITV about a young couple who move in next door to Martin Clunes, but Tony is quieter than usual. For example, the wife of the young couple has just got into her car, and Tony has not said, ‘Ford Puma, looks like a one point five litre.’ So something is clearly troubling him. Felicity scooches a little closer and, without looking at him, says, ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing,’ Tony says.

‘You looked like you were thinking,’ she says.

‘I was,’ admits Tony.

Tony very rarely admits to thinking.

‘You want to share?’ Felicity asks.

‘You’ll think I’m silly,’ says Tony.

‘I won’t,’ says Felicity. ‘I promise. Nothing you could say would make me think that.’

Tony gives a non-committal shrug.

‘You can tell me anything,’ says Felicity. ‘I mean, wait for the adverts, but then, anything.’

Tony says nothing, but Felicity sees a battle going on behind his eyes. What demons await?

‘It’s just …’ Tony begins, then stops.

Felicity puts her head on his shoulder. On the screen Martin Clunes has opened a drawer with a gun in it.

‘I was thinking …’ starts Tony again. ‘You probably won’t be interested.’

There are groups you can go to, Felicity has googled them. Victim support. She can go with him. ‘We’ll see.’

‘It’s just,’ Tony begins again, ‘do you think if you were invisible, people could see your clothes?’

Felicity sits up a touch. ‘If you were invisible …?’

‘If people could see your clothes,’ says Tony. ‘Because if they could, then what would be the point of being invisible? People would see a coat and trousers moving around.’

‘This is what you’ve been thinking about?’

‘I don’t see how your clothes could be invisible,’ says Tony. ‘So if you wanted to use your invisibility power, then you’d have to wear no clothes?’

‘I’m not sure what …’

Tony looks away. ‘I told you you’d think it was stupid. You said you wouldn’t.’

He’s got her there. Felicity has absolutely brought this one on herself. She needs to own it. ‘I’d say you’re right, I don’t see how your clothes could be invisible.’

‘Thank you,’ says Tony.

‘Because how would that work exactly?’ says Felicity. ‘Anything touching you is invisible?’

‘This was what I was thinking,’ says Tony.

‘And that would mean that as soon as you touched a door, or picked up a pen, that would be invisible too,’ says Felicity.

‘And you’d give yourself away that way,’ says Tony.

Felicity’s eyes are drawn to the TV screen. Martin Clunes is staring at his neighbours through a pair of binoculars. It really is not looking good for those neighbours.

‘So, I was thinking,’ says Tony, ‘if that’s the case, then you’d have to be naked if you really wanted to be invisible.’

‘I suppose so,’ says Felicity. She begins to realize that one of the big advantages of being Tony Taylor is that your mind doesn’t work the same as everyone else’s.

‘But I don’t know if I’d be comfortable with that,’ says Tony. ‘Because what if it wore off?’

‘The invisibility?’ says Felicity. The key thing about being Tony is that you can suffer the sort of shock that would floor most people, and you can pack it away someplace where it does you no harm.

‘Exactly,’ says Tony. ‘You’re in the middle of a bank vault. Or you’ve got into the cinema for free.’

‘That’s how you’d use invisibility?’ Felicity asks. Perhaps it is healthier to be Tony. To not let these things trample over you.

‘I mean, you wouldn’t be able to have popcorn,’ says Tony. ‘But yeah. So you’re sitting there, the invisibility wears off and there you are. Naked. In Cineworld.’

‘How long have you been thinking about this?’ Felicity asks.

‘Just today,’ says Tony. ‘And a bit of yesterday.’

Felicity puts Tony’s head in her lap and starts stroking his hair. She should be more like Tony. Just let things go. Should she forget her anger at the man in the alley? Forget thoughts of revenge on Jakob Eriksson? Just feel lucky to be on a sofa with the man you love, worrying about invisibility and Martin Clunes. If Tony is over it, then it is not Felicity’s place to argue.

Then she feels Tony begin to shake.

‘Tony?’

He buries his head in her lap.

‘Look at me, Tony!’

Tony shakes his head. Felicity hears him begin to sob.

‘Tony!’

Tony turns his head and opens his eyes.

‘Every time I close my eyes I see him,’ says Tony.

‘The man?’ Felicity asks.

‘The man,’ says Tony. ‘What if he comes back?’

‘He won’t come back,’ says Felicity.

‘He might,’ says Tony.

Tony is right. He might.

But, if he does, Felicity, cradling her lover’s face, his tears on her fingers, swears she will be waiting for him.

‘Don’t tell Steve I cried,’ says Tony.

‘What would he say?’ says Felicity. ‘He’d understand.’

‘I know he’d understand,’ says Tony. ‘I just don’t want him to worry.’

Felicity holds Tony and lets him weep. ‘So this is what you were thinking about? Not invisibility?’

Tony sniffs. ‘Honestly, I’ve been thinking about both. Can I ask you a question?’

‘Of course,’ says Felicity. ‘Anything.’

‘While I was crying, did I see Martin Clunes with a gun?’

‘You did,’ says Felicity.

‘What’s he up to, then?’ asks Tony. ‘Something.’

‘Yes, something,’ agrees Felicity.

Felicity strokes his hair again and decides that answering phones is no longer enough. Nobody hurts Tony Taylor and gets away with it.

32

It is hot in Palm Springs.

It is so hot that Steve has just taken his denim jacket off.

He hasn’t gone so far as to join Rosie and Amy in the pool, despite Rosie’s pleas. Get a man in a pool and you’re ninety per cent of the way to getting him naked. Sure, you’re still missing some important information, but you get a good idea.

Rosie lies on a lounger submerged in the pool, under an umbrella fixed into the pool. Amy lies next to her looking disgustingly fit. Her face is hidden under a splayed copy of And the Devil Blinked First. Amy had been reading it on the plane, and Rosie had pretended not to be touched. Steve is drinking a Diet Sprite under an awning.

If Amy is enjoying the book, surely other young people might enjoy it? There will be more sales figures through next week. If they’re bad, then Rosie is in trouble. Maybe they’ll be good? Hard to imagine bad news in this house, under this sun.

The house belongs to Rosie’s friends, Craig and Craig. They are not here ‘because it’s August, darling, and August is Toronto’.

The sky above is brilliant blue, the mountains in the distance a dusty pink, the parasols and loungers are vibrant yellows and greens, and Steve’s T-shirt is a dark grey, with even darker grey patches under the arms.

‘What does he do?’ asks Steve. ‘Craig?’

‘Which Craig?’ Rosie asks. ‘It really is cool in the pool, you know?’

‘The main Craig,’ says Steve. ‘The richer Craig?’

‘He designs furniture,’ says Rosie.

‘How do you mean?’ asks Steve.

‘What do you mean, “How do I mean”?’ says Rosie.

‘How does someone design furniture?’ says Steve. ‘A table’s a table, isn’t it?’

‘You can have different types of table,’ says Amy, from under her book.

‘I know that,’ says Steve. ‘But once you’ve had a big table and a small table and a medium table, and a table made out of wood and a table made out of metal, what else is there to do?’

‘Do you ever worry you lack imagination, Stevie?’ asks Rosie.

‘What do you do?’ says Steve. ‘Say “Here’s a table with three legs and, I don’t know, a red top”, and suddenly you can afford this house?’

‘That must be it,’ says Rosie.

‘What a racket,’ says Steve. ‘What does the other Craig do?’

‘Doctor,’ says Rosie.

‘That’s more like it,’ says Steve. ‘But he gets paid less than a furniture designer?’

‘I do wish sometimes that you’d just stop talking and take your top off. Put on a bit of a show for once.’

‘Good luck with either of those,’ says Amy. ‘When are we meeting Tommy Griffin?’

‘We’re going to his country club at six,’ says Rosie.

‘What did he say when you spoke to him?’

‘He said he only took meetings if there was money in it, and then he asked if there was money in it, and I said there was no money in it, and he said, well, then there’s no meeting, and I said, did you know Jakob Eriksson has been killing Vern Blackwood’s bodyguards, and he said, you know Jakob Eriksson, huh, and I said, no, I don’t know Jakob Eriksson personally, and somebody just told us she doesn’t believe he even exists, and Mr Griffin said, well, I know for a fact he exists, and I said, then that’s what we’d like to talk to you about, and he said, so it’s not money, but it is murder, and I said, yes, that sums it up very nicely, and he said, I’ll see you at The Viceroy Club at six, and I said, we shall look forward to it, and he said, do you golf, and I said, most certainly not, and he said, thank God for that, everyone here golfs, do you drink, and I said, I certainly do, and he said, thank God for that, nobody here drinks, we shall have a fine evening of it.’

‘Okay,’ says Amy.

‘I wouldn’t mind trying golf,’ says Steve.

‘You’d look nice in the trousers,’ says Rosie.

‘When will it stop being so hot?’ Amy asks.

Rosie looks at her watch. ‘September the 25th.’

‘Do you think Craig does chairs too?’ says Steve from the terrace.

‘I should think so,’ says Rosie. ‘Why limit yourself?’

‘Same thing though,’ says Steve. ‘Four legs, a back. And you get more than a doctor for that?’

‘Stevie,’ says Rosie, ‘you’re currently being paid more than a doctor to solve two murders.’

Steve grunts. ‘That’s different.’

‘What’s the name of our company?’

‘We Solve Murders,’ says Steve.

‘We Solve Murders,’ repeats Rosie. ‘Not We Complain About Furniture Designers. So less moaning and more solving.’

‘It’s too hot to solve murders today,’ says Amy. ‘We’ll solve it this evening.’

Rosie sometimes has to remind herself that she, Amy and Steve are a crack unit of investigators. But perhaps Amy is right. Perhaps they will solve it this evening. Perhaps Tommy Griffin can finally lead them to this elusive Mr Eriksson.

Ernesto says that Jakob Eriksson is a ruthless killer.

Vern says that Jakob Eriksson is a friend.

Sara Lindstrat doesn’t believe there is anyone called Jakob Eriksson.

They can’t all be right, so perhaps Tommy Griffin will have the answers they’re looking for? No harm in relaxing in the pool and getting a tan in the meantime.

The last thing Rosie hears before she falls asleep is Steve saying, ‘Do you think he does wardrobes?’

The investigation is in safe hands.

33

A light has just been switched on in Vern Blackwood’s villa.

How can that be?

Vern is in England, under the advice of Rosie’s team. His bodyguard is with him, so no one is living here.

And yet someone has just switched a light on. Someone is inside Vern’s villa at this very moment.

Ernesto strokes his moustache. What to do?

Earlier today Ernesto had arranged for Korbin’s corpse to be removed. There is no record anywhere of his real identity (‘I didn’t get him through LinkedIn,’ Vern Blackwood had told him), and so no next of kin.

It is being held at the morgue in Lucca, where an Interpol coroner will do the usual checks. Ernesto has said he stumbled on the corpse in an abandoned warehouse while following the Mexican henchman. No word about Eriksson and no word about this villa. This is his case, no one else’s.

Cause of death, you’d have to imagine, would be the knife in the chest, but you never knew with these things. The police in Lucca were full of questions. They were excited, naturally, to be confronted with a rapidly thawing corpse with a big knife sticking out of its chest. Who wouldn’t be? As cops, you live for this sort of thing.

It is important that Ernesto keep details vague at this point, and so he had pretended to speak no Italian. In truth, he is fluent. He picks languages up fairly easily. It’s just learning different words for things.

He’d only come back to the villa on a hunch. Something strange is happening at this beautiful villa. Two men dead. The name of an extremely wanted man connected to both. One of the dead men carried his note, the other was working for him.

What if Eriksson had wanted the villa empty? What if he has further plans?

Ernesto now sees a figure moving about inside the villa. Jakob Eriksson? Vanishingly unlikely. Somebody sent by Jakob Eriksson? A great deal more likely.

Ernesto really might have hit the jackpot here.

A goon of some sort. Looking for money? Documents? Whatever Jakob Eriksson might be after.

Ernesto could tell him where to look. Before Korbin’s body was removed, Ernesto had been over the whole site. There were certain outbuildings that were heavily protected. Vern had agreed to Interpol taking Korbin’s body so long as Ernesto left everything else well alone.

They had what the English call ‘a gentlemen’s agreement’, which Ernesto, knowing English gentlemen very well, had immediately broken.

He found what he’d expected. Storerooms, safes, chemicals, big, scary-looking machines. The business tools of the online entrepreneur. He’d taken a few photos. No doubt Eriksson’s goon will be doing the same thing.

A light goes on in the upper floor of the villa now.

Should Ernesto go in?

He decides to ring Rosie, but gets no answer. He tries Amy, and she answers straight away.

‘Yes?’ says Amy.

‘It’s Ernesto,’ says Ernesto.

‘Ernesto?’ repeats Amy.

Ernesto hears Steve saying, ‘It’s Ernesto!’ in the background, and is gratified by the joy in his voice.

‘Oh, Ernesto Ernesto,’ says Amy.

‘Yes,’ says Ernesto. ‘Ernesto Ernesto. I’m at Vern’s villa.’

Ernesto hears Steve say, ‘Put him on speaker, put him on speaker.’

‘I have to be a bit quiet,’ says Ernesto. ‘Somebody is here at the villa, I think. Should there be somebody here?’

‘Ernesto, mate,’ says Steve. ‘It’s Steve.’

‘Hey, Steve,’ whispers Ernesto. ‘It is really good to hear your voice.’

‘There’s a new cleaner,’ says Amy. ‘But we paid her for a month, and told her not to visit.’

‘Local cops?’ asks Steve. ‘Perhaps they followed you after you dropped the corpse off? I would’ve.’

‘No one followed me,’ says Ernesto. ‘I’m good at not being followed.’

‘Same,’ says Steve. ‘Same. One of Jakob Eriksson’s men?’

‘You’d guess so,’ says Ernesto.

‘What are you going to do?’ asks Amy. ‘You going to go in?’

‘I think so,’ says Ernesto. ‘Do you think so?’

‘I think so,’ says Amy. ‘There’s a trellis at the back with soft vegetation, that’ll take you up to the roof, and I left a Velux window ajar.’

‘Ajar?’

‘Ajar,’ repeats Amy.

‘A bit open,’ says Steve.

‘Okay,’ says Ernesto. ‘And “trellis”?’

‘Big wooden frame,’ says Steve. ‘For plants.’

‘Okay,’ says Ernesto. ‘One final question –’

‘A Velux window is a sloping attic window,’ says Amy.

‘I am caught up,’ says Ernesto.

‘You have a gun?’ Amy asks.

‘No,’ says Ernesto.

‘No problem,’ says Amy. ‘I’m guessing you’ve broken into all the outbuildings by now?’

‘Of course,’ says Ernesto.

‘In the first accommodation cottage,’ says Amy, ‘I left a gun in the cistern.’

‘The bit full of water on top of the toilet,’ says Steve.

‘Where’s Rosie?’ asks Ernesto. ‘She would enjoy this.’

‘Sleeping,’ says Amy. ‘We’re in Palm Springs to see Tommy Griffin. The last man from the big Vegas meeting.’

‘Okay,’ says Ernesto. ‘Tell her I said hi. Especially if I’m shot and killed.’

‘Will do,’ says Amy.

‘You won’t be shot and killed,’ says Steve.

‘I might be,’ says Ernesto.

‘Okay, you might be,’ says Steve.

‘I’ll ring you in twenty minutes,’ says Ernesto. ‘If I don’t ring, then assume I’m dead.’

‘Copy that,’ says Amy. ‘Cistern, trellis, Velux ajar.’

Ernesto ends the call and slips out of his hire car. He takes a final sip from a carafe of red wine resting on the passenger seat. The upstairs light in the villa switches off. Ernesto crouch-walks to the accommodation cottage. Looking back at the villa, he sees the figure once again silhouetted, now in the ground-floor window.

Ernesto slides into the cottage and finds the bathroom. He lifts the cistern lid, briefly wondering how ‘cistern’ might be spelt. Could be anything, knowing the English language. If they had any sense it would be S-I-S-T-E-N, but since when have they had any sense?

Amy’s gun is resting above the waterline, as you would expect from a professional. He is looking forward to meeting Amy if he doesn’t die. Ernesto gives it a once-over and leaves the cottage.

The whole property is so beautiful. Again, the money these people have, it boggles Ernesto’s simple Spanish mind. The hours he works, and the risks he takes, for so little money and so little respect. If he catches Eriksson, then that may change.

Inching around the villa walls, Ernesto finds something that looks an awful lot like a ‘trellis’ and, tucking the gun into the back of his trousers, begins to climb.

He can now hear noises from inside the villa. Loud crashes. Somebody is looking for something and is not worried about anyone hearing.

Ernesto hauls himself on to the roof and lies flat. He inches up towards the small, sloping window, prises it open further and drops down into the attic.

Ernesto thinks about that attic in Ecuador. Shooting poor Mr Herrera. Good things very rarely happen in attics.

Vern Blackwood clearly uses this small, dusty space for storage. Around the steeply angled walls are the usual cardboard boxes you would find anywhere. Attics all over the world full of old photos or baby clothes or wooden tennis rackets.

Ernesto opens one of the boxes – a police officer’s prerogative – and finds it is full of bank notes. He opens more boxes. More bank notes. Perhaps not like everybody’s attic, then?

He will certainly be coming back.

Ernesto locates the hatch, gently opens it, and slowly, silently, swings himself down on to a carpeted floor. He can now see the light downstairs very clearly, and also hear the noises of whoever is down there, pulling out drawers and upending furniture.

Ernesto draws his gun. He sees two staircases. He makes for the smaller one and puts his foot on the first step. The staircase is old and wooden, and the step immediately makes a cracking noise in protest.

The noise downstairs stops. Ernesto stops. Including himself, there are two people in the villa, and, for the moment, neither is breathing.

The noise downstairs recommences, and Ernesto heads for the larger staircase. This one is marble. Ernesto nods and starts to work his way down. No squeaking.

Halfway down the stairs he catches sight of a figure, dressed in black, kneeling in front of a bureau, riffling through papers.

Ernesto draws Amy’s gun. If the figure were to turn now, surely they wouldn’t have the chance to pull out and fire their own gun before Ernesto could take a couple of shots? One in each elbow would be the way to go. Whoever this crouching figure is must be working for Jakob Eriksson, and Ernesto is already looking forward to questioning them. Questioning someone who has been shot in both elbows is easy. They are always keen to be taken to a hospital as soon as possible.

Ernesto raises his gun and is just thinking about which language he should call out a warning in, when, without turning, the figure speaks.

‘Who are you?’ English. And a woman.

‘Who am I? Jesus,’ says Ernesto. ‘Who are you?’

Ernesto takes a few more steps towards the figure, gun still raised.

‘I’m going to turn round slowly,’ says the English woman. ‘I’m unarmed.’

‘If I see a gun, I shoot you in the head,’ says Ernesto.

‘I’m turning round now,’ says the woman.

‘No guns,’ says Ernesto.

‘I know,’ says the woman. ‘Or you’ll shoot me in the head.’

The woman pushes herself up from her crouch and turns. Blonde, late forties perhaps, not unattractive if they were to meet under different circumstances.

Ernesto moves to position himself between the woman and the door. ‘Did Jakob Eriksson send you?’

‘No,’ says the woman. ‘I’m looking for him.’

‘We’re all looking for him,’ says Ernesto. ‘I’m Ernesto from Interpol. What’s your name?’

‘Georgie,’ says the woman. ‘Georgie Glazier. Vern’s ex-wife.’

Ernesto nods. Well, that’s interesting. ‘Does Vern know you’re here?’

Georgie nods towards a broken paving slab next to the tiny shards of a broken window. ‘I just scaled a fence and used a big rock to break in. Take a wild guess as to whether Vern knows I’m here.’

What’s the exact situation here? Is Georgie Glazier friend or foe? ‘What do you know about Jakob Eriksson?’

‘Plenty,’ says Georgie. ‘Put your gun down and I’ll tell you everything about him.’

‘How about I keep my gun up and you tell me everything about him?’ suggests Ernesto.

Georgie thinks about this. ‘Okay. If it makes you feel tough, then keep your gun up.’

‘It does,’ says Ernesto. ‘And I will. What are you looking for?’

‘Money,’ says Georgie. ‘Documents. Bank statements.’

Well, Ernesto knows where she can find money.

‘And who else knows you are here?’ Ernesto asks.

‘No one,’ says Georgie. ‘Are you going to arrest me?’

‘Depends what you tell me,’ says Ernesto.

Georgie looks him up and down. ‘Is it just me, or is there a spark here? Are you feeling this?’

‘I’m not going to put this gun down,’ says Ernesto. ‘But, yes, I feel maybe there’s some chemistry. I get that quite a lot.’

Georgie nods. ‘Me too. Let’s park that for now.’

‘Agreed,’ says Ernesto. ‘Let’s get to know each other.’

Ernesto sees the clock on the wall. It has been twenty minutes since he spoke to Amy and Steve. He should tell them the good news that he is still alive.

‘I need to make a call,’ says Ernesto, taking out his phone in his spare hand.

‘Wife?’ asks Georgie. ‘Girlfriend?’

‘It would be a weird time to ring my wife,’ says Ernesto.

‘So you do have a wife?’ asks Georgie.

‘No,’ says Ernesto. ‘I’m just saying that if I did have a wife, this isn’t when I would ring her. I’d ring her on the way home.’

‘Make your call, lover,’ says Georgie.

Ernesto presses Amy’s number once again. She picks up immediately.

‘That was twenty-one minutes,’ says Amy. ‘You’d better be bleeding to death in a stairwell.’

‘No,’ says Ernesto. ‘All is good.’

‘Who was in the house?’ asks Amy.

Ernesto looks at Georgie Glazier.

‘False alarm,’ he says to Amy. ‘His lights must be on a timer.’

‘So there’s no one there?’

Oh, there’s someone here all right. It’s Vern’s ex-wife, she knows Jakob Eriksson, and she’s looking for money.

‘No,’ says Ernesto. ‘There’s no one here. Speak later.’

‘Speak later, Ernesto,’ says Amy. ‘Steve says hi.’

‘Please say hi to Steve for me,’ says Ernesto and ends the call.

‘Is that Steve who I’ve met?’ asks Georgie.

‘Like if Harrison Ford was English and just wore Iron Maiden T-shirts?’ says Ernesto.

‘That’s him,’ says Georgie. ‘You’re not telling him you found me breaking into Vern’s house?’

‘No,’ says Ernesto.

‘Any reason?’

Any number of reasons. Ernesto finally lowers his gun.

‘Georgie Glazier, let’s talk.’

34

‘Big Jakey Eriksson? No,’ says Tommy Griffin. ‘Don’t especially know the guy. Keeps to himself. I would too. Are you eating that steak?’

‘This steak?’ says Amy, pointing at her plate. ‘The steak that just arrived?’

‘I know it just arrived,’ says Tommy. ‘I got eyes, huh? Two of them. But sometimes people don’t eat steak.’

‘I ordered it,’ says Amy. ‘So I might eat it.’

‘You’ll struggle with it,’ says Tommy. ‘Let me know when you do. How’d you like The Viceroy?’

They are eating dinner in an oak-panelled dining room that would pass for the grand hall of a baronial English mansion, unless you’d actually been in the hall of a baronial English mansion. Great steak though.

‘Nice place,’ says Steve.

‘You like it?’ says Tommy. ‘It’s English, right?’

‘Sort of,’ says Steve, trying to be encouraging.

‘Jakob Eriksson keeps himself to himself,’ says Rosie. ‘You were saying?’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ says Tommy. ‘You want him in a clown suit on a unicycle? Where’s your food?’

‘I pretty much gave up eating in the 1980s,’ says Rosie, sipping her French 75. ‘Why the need for secrecy?’

‘Plenty of people would want to kill him,’ says Tommy. ‘He makes a lot of money that we could be making instead.’

‘And he kills people,’ says Steve.

Tommy points a piece of steak on a fork in Steve’s direction. ‘He kills people is right. Addicted to it. You kill people, people wanna kill you, stands to reason, don’t even argue.’

‘I wasn’t going to argue,’ says Steve.

‘Damn right you weren’t,’ says Tommy. ‘Got more sense.’

‘Have you ever met him?’ Rosie asks.

‘Sure,’ says Tommy. ‘We met up in Vegas, the whole lot of us one time.’

‘Six of you, right?’ asks Amy.

‘The guys, yeah,’ says Tommy. ‘The big six. All in the same business. Thought we should come to an understanding. I take North America, Mika takes Scandinavia, Jakob Eriksson takes Western Europe and North Africa, you know the sort of thing.’

Rosie pushes an airport photo of Jakob Eriksson across the table.

‘This is him?’

‘That’s him,’ says Tommy. ‘Funny-looking dude, but who’s judging? Some people might say I look funny, you know. You think I look funny?’

‘I think you look very average,’ says Rosie.

‘Average is right,’ says Tommy. ‘Not too this, not too that. Everybody’s gotta stand out these days. Pink hair, clown pants. Knock it off.’

‘What was he like?’ Steve asks. ‘Jakob Eriksson?’

‘Quiet,’ says Tommy.

‘I bet a lot of people are quiet when you’re around,’ says Rosie.

‘Not you, it seems,’ says Tommy. ‘Didn’t say as much as fifteen, twenty words all day, lot of nodding. But I liked him.’

‘You liked him?’ asks Amy.

‘Sure,’ says Tommy. ‘Nice vibe to the guy. I take people as I find ’em.’

‘So you carved everything up between you?’ says Rosie. ‘The six of you?’

‘Agreed to stay out of each other’s way,’ says Tommy. ‘We were all making money, no need to rock the bus, eh?’

‘And how has that worked out?’ Amy asks.

‘How’s it worked out?’ laughs Tommy. ‘Oh, badly. Very badly. Of the six people in that room, only three are still alive.’

‘You?’ says Steve.

‘Last time I checked,’ agrees Tommy.

Rosie holds up her cocktail glass, and a waiter gets the message. ‘Jakob Eriksson?’

‘Unless you know different,’ says Tommy. ‘You make sure and tell me if you do, huh? You keep me in that loop, I hate to be out of a loop, it drives me crazy.’

‘And Vern Blackwood makes three,’ says Steve.

‘Your pal Blackwood, right,’ says Tommy. ‘He doesn’t do the exact same thing as the rest of us, doesn’t have the brass balls for it, but close enough that he has an interest. And he was a useful go-between. Everyone there hated someone, but no one hated Vern.’

‘That’s why he’s still alive?’ says Steve.

‘You’d guess,’ says Tommy.

Amy continues to work on her steak and thinks back to her conversation with Ernesto. It wasn’t quite right, she’s sure of that. Automatic lights? Nope, Amy had checked. But Ernesto would have no reason to lie. And anyway, Steve and Rosie are both in love with Ernesto, so she’ll keep it to herself for now.

Rosie accepts her next drink and waves it at Tommy. ‘So three dead and three still alive.’

‘Congratulations on adding up, maybe I can get you a medal,’ says Tommy. ‘One killed in Bratislava, I think, one in Helsinki. The other one I couldn’t say.’

‘Minsk,’ says Amy.

‘Could be,’ says Tommy. ‘Good a place as any to get killed.’

‘All three killed by Jakob Eriksson,’ says Steve.

‘You don’t say,’ says Tommy. ‘You like stating the obvious, huh? That’s your thing? Here’s a table, here’s a plate. We used to have a thing in this country called critical thinking. Now you got kids at college and what are they learning? They’re tearing down statues, these kids, couldn’t tell you the date of the Gettysburg Address half of them.’

‘Are you finished?’ Rosie asks. ‘Or do we need to listen to more of this?’

‘Ignore me,’ says Tommy. ‘I’m enjoying myself.’

‘What was the date of the Gettysburg Address?’ Amy asks.

Tommy pulls a face and waves this away. ‘You think I give two tin hoots about the Gettysburg Address? Come on, the world’s on fire and you’re asking me about the Gettysburg Address.’

‘Now, Mr Griffin, I hope you don’t mind,’ says Rosie. ‘I wonder if I might propose a little thought experiment?’

‘I don’t go a whole hog on thinking,’ says Tommy. ‘Or experiments. But sure, you’re my guests.’

‘There were six men in the room,’ says Rosie.

‘In the room. And also when we all went to see Celine Dion after,’ says Tommy.

‘Only three of you are still alive,’ says Rosie.

‘Do I love her music? No,’ says Tommy. ‘But she put on a hell of a show.’

‘There’s Jakob Eriksson,’ says Rosie. ‘There’s Vern, who has just been threatened by Jakob Eriksson, and then there’s you? The only one who seems to have been left alone?’

‘I guess I’m lucky,’ says Tommy. ‘Always have been.’

‘You’re not worried?’ says Steve. ‘We heard a suggestion you might be expanding your operations into Europe?’

‘No law against it,’ says Tommy.

‘I mean, there are lots of laws against it,’ says Steve. ‘But, more importantly, you don’t think Eriksson will have something to say about it?’

‘Stevie,’ says Tommy. ‘I’ve been alive for seventy years, right? And I ain’t died yet. That can’t be a coincidence?’

‘I think that’s just how life works,’ says Amy. ‘No one dies until they die.’

‘All I know is what I know,’ says Tommy. ‘Hundred per cent record of not dying. I buck the trend. You wanna argue with numbers, go ahead, see if the numbers give a monkey’s thumb about it.’

Amy tries again. ‘And when you were in Europe, you didn’t take a little trip over to Italy to threaten Vern Blackwood?’

‘Threatening Vern Blackwood would be like shouting at a mouse,’ says Tommy.

‘So you didn’t threaten Vern, and you’re not scared of Eriksson?’ Rosie asks. ‘That’s your story?’

‘Honestly,’ says Tommy. ‘I think I bonded with Jakey Boy.’

‘Where would we find him?’ Rosie asks. ‘Do you have any idea?’

‘Yeah, I got an idea.’ Tommy sits back in his chair and undoes his belt a couple of notches. ‘Any of you guys in the market for some Viagra?’

‘No, thanks,’ says Steve.

‘I’ll take forty,’ says Rosie.

Amy looks at the steak on Tommy’s plate. ‘Are you eating the rest of that?’

Tommy roars with laughter. ‘All yours. I love that.’

‘You’ve got an idea,’ says Steve. ‘About where we might find Jakob Eriksson?’

‘Yeah,’ says Tommy. ‘As I say, I liked the dude. Found him calming. But …’

‘But?’ asks Amy.

‘But he sure as shoeshine ain’t Swedish.’

‘You’re certain?’ Steve asks. Amy looks at Rosie. First Sara Lindstrat, and now this.

‘He’d didn’t say much,’ says Tommy. ‘And whatever he said he kinda mumbled. But I spoke to him more than the others did, and I’ll tell you this: that dude was English. I’d bet my left ball.’

‘English?’ says Steve.

‘English, I guarantee it. So, if you don’t mind me saying,’ finishes Tommy, ‘it sounds like you don’t have the first clue who Jakob Eriksson is.’

35

‘Dorothy, you’re on mute,’ says Steve.

Steve is relieved to be out of the heat, although now the air conditioning on the plane is a tad too chilly. Steve longs to be back home, where he can have his thermostat exactly where he likes it at all times. Or, rather, about three degrees hotter than he actually likes it, because Trouble miaows incessantly unless the temperature is a steady twenty-four degrees.

‘You’re on mute, Dorothy,’ says Rosie, as the elderly woman on the jet’s big screen continues to talk.

It hasn’t been a wasted trip though. Tommy Griffin was a great help, if not a terrific conversationalist.

‘You need to press the microphone button,’ says Amy.

Sara Lindstrat believes that ‘Jakob Eriksson’ must be an alias. Tommy Griffin is sure that Jakob Eriksson has an English accent. Well, looking for English criminals is Steve’s speciality, and his first port of call was Dorothy Gunn, currently silently talking ten to the dozen. Dorothy had been the Met’s Chief Research Officer when Steve was serving. Dorothy knows everyone and everything. Except, it seems, how a Zoom call works.

On the screen a child walks into the room behind Dorothy. She taps Dorothy on the shoulder and reaches over her. The audio kicks in and the girl says, ‘Sorry, that’s my nana,’ and leaves the room.

‘How much did you get of that?’ Dorothy asks.

‘None of it, Dotty,’ says Steve.

‘Blast,’ says Dorothy. ‘It’s nice to see you, Steven, where are you?’

‘On a private jet,’ says Steve. ‘This is my daughter-in-law, Amy, and this is Rosie.’

‘Ah, the novelist,’ says Dorothy. ‘A novelist who, in Tick-Tock, Death O’Clock, thinks you can dig up a body after forty years and still determine an exact time of death. That novelist?’

‘That’s me,’ says Rosie. ‘How nice to talk to you, Dorothy.’

‘The novelist who,’ continues Dorothy, ‘in The Romulus and Remus Murders, thought that identical twins shared identical DNA. That novelist?’

‘Dorothy,’ says Rosie, ‘could you ask your granddaughter to put you back on mute?’

‘Great-granddaughter,’ says Dorothy. ‘And you say you’re a sleuth?’

‘I like her,’ says Amy.

‘What do you need, Steven?’ Dorothy asks.

‘I know you’re busy, Dotty,’ says Steve.

‘Busy?’ says Dorothy. ‘No, not at all. Why would you think I was busy? Most days I just sit here looking at cows out of the window. Does that sound busy?’

‘I just …’ starts Steve. ‘Sorry, it was just a figure of speech. We’re looking for someone.’

‘Name?’ Dorothy asks.

‘Well, that’s the thing,’ says Steve. ‘The alias is Jakob Eriksson, but we don’t know his real name. That’s sort of what we’re after.’

‘But a man?’ says Dorothy.

‘A man,’ agrees Steve.

‘Then we have already ruled out an enormous number of names, haven’t we?’ says Dorothy. ‘We’ve ruled out “Helen” or “Wendy” for example. Although these days, who knows?’

Rosie mutes their microphone for a second.

‘You’re certain she’s a genius, Steve?’

‘Watch and see,’ says Steve and unmutes.

‘He’s in the illegal medication business,’ says Steve. ‘Vitamins, statins, pills in the post.’

Dorothy nods. ‘And so we narrow it down further. Go on.’

‘Our man, Jakob Eriksson, appears on the scene in 2001,’ says Steve. ‘In Morocco. He’d have been in his forties at the time, so we figure he had some sort of career before that.’

‘Nobody becomes a criminal in their forties,’ says Dorothy. ‘We narrow it down further. We have a gender, a profession and an age.’

‘And he’s English,’ says Amy.

‘Does the lady novelist have anything to add?’ asks Dorothy.

‘Umm …’ says Rosie. ‘No.’

Dorothy nods again. ‘Surprise, surprise. Let me put all of that into the old computer.’

Dorothy gazes up at the ceiling and closes her eyes.

After around half a minute of silence, Rosie and Amy look at Steve. He puts his finger to his lips.

Dorothy opens her eyes and looks down again.

‘Bald at all?’ she asks. ‘Your man?’

‘Very,’ says Amy.

‘And you’re sure about 2001?’ Dorothy asks.

‘Near as dammit,’ says Steve.

‘Language, please, Steven,’ says Dorothy.

‘Sorry, Dotty,’ says Steve. ‘What did you find in your computer?’

‘2001,’ says Dorothy. ‘We were after a man called Connor Brooks. He was in that world, medication and all the rest of it. Shoo! Shooooo! Sorry, cow at the window. They’ll be indoors next.’

‘I don’t remember the name Connor Brooks,’ says Steve.

‘That’s what I’m here for,’ says Dorothy. ‘Nobody ever remembers anything. Mr Brooks was living in Málaga. Now, bear in mind that in 2001 everyone in Málaga was a British criminal, but he has always stuck in my mind.’

‘Why so?’ asks Amy.

‘We were a few days away from arresting him,’ says Dorothy. ‘Had it all ready to go, warrant issued, cooperation from the Spanish, which was no easy thing. They are recalcitrant as a people.’

‘Dotty,’ says Steve, ‘this is why you were sacked, don’t forget.’

Dorothy accepts this with grace and continues. ‘One of our lads was booked on the easyJet to go and get Brooks. You know how much detectives love going to Spain, so I remember there was some excitement.’

‘But?’ says Steve.

‘The Spanish received a call,’ says Dorothy. ‘From a housekeeper? I couldn’t swear to that. Connor Brooks had disappeared. He had left his passport, he had left his clothes, and – here is the important bit for us – he had left a suicide note.’

‘And the body?’ asks Steve.

‘Never found,’ says Dorothy. ‘As far as I remember. Which, as you know, Steven, is very far.’

‘Any trace of him still alive?’ Rosie asks. ‘Ever used his credit cards?’

‘Finally, the great novelist asks a question,’ says Dorothy. ‘Completely disappeared. Swept out to sea, we were expected to believe. But no body at the time or, as far as I’m aware, since.’

‘So,’ says Steve, ‘Connor Brooks disappears without trace, at the same time a man called Jakob Eriksson appears from a puff of smoke? One man disappears, one man appears, and business carries on as usual.’

‘So Connor Brooks is now Jakob Eriksson?’ says Rosie. ‘That’s our theory?’

‘Brooks knows he’s about to be arrested,’ says Steve. ‘Abandons ship, clears the slate and comes back with a shiny new identity?’

Amy holds up a picture of Jakob Eriksson. ‘I don’t suppose you recognize this man?’

Dorothy leans into the screen and takes off her glasses.

‘I couldn’t say for certain,’ says Dorothy. ‘I’m sure in one of Rosie’s books I’d be able to recognize a man I hadn’t seen for twenty-five years, but that’s because she cuts corners. And not just her, they’re all at it. If I ever write a crime novel, it will be called Here Is Everything that Happened in Order and with No Nonsense.’

‘Dotty,’ says Steve. ‘Come on now.’

Dorothy waves this away. ‘So, no, I couldn’t say for certain, but they are not unalike. And surely he would have had some work done?’

‘I have a surgeon who could make Steve look like Scarlett Johansson,’ says Rosie. ‘And vice versa.’

‘Is there anything else you need?’ Dorothy asks. ‘I have to go and complain about some bell ringers.’

‘You’ve been enormously helpful, Dotty,’ says Steve. ‘And it’s been lovely to see you.’

‘It’s nice to be asked, Steven,’ says Dorothy. ‘And sorry, Rosie, I really do enjoy your books, I don’t know why I took you to task.’

‘Don’t worry about it for a moment,’ says Rosie. ‘I’ll send you a signed copy of my new one.’

‘No, thank you,’ says Dorothy. ‘Take care, Steven.’

And with that, Dorothy Gunn is gone. Steve, Amy and Rosie sink back into their chairs.

‘So,’ says Steve. ‘Connor Brooks, ex-pat, living in Málaga, cops closing in, fakes his own death, disappears, then reappears as a taciturn Swede? Hell of a way to lose a tail.’

Amy is shaking her head. ‘Surely Vern would know if Jakob Eriksson was an English man called Connor Brooks?’

‘Perhaps he does know?’ says Steve. ‘Perhaps they’re a lot closer than he’s told us? And that’s why he’s so sure Eriksson’s not behind the whole thing?’

‘And Korbin would have known too?’ says Amy. ‘Is that what he was going to tell me?’

‘Either way,’ says Rosie, ‘I feel like we are closing in.’

Rosie is right, Steve can sense it. Although he has something else on his mind.

‘Did you give my number to Georgie Glazier?’ Steve asks.

‘I might have,’ says Rosie. ‘I’m in love with romance. Mine or anyone else’s, I’m not fussy.’

‘I’m not looking for love,’ says Steve. ‘I have my friends, I have my job and I have my cat.’

Rosie takes the olive from her Martini and eats it. ‘Did she text you?’

‘She wants to come to Axley,’ says Steve.

‘To see you?’

‘She said she’s going to be in the area,’ says Steve. ‘She says she has business in Portsmouth.’

‘Who has business in Portsmouth?’ asks Amy. ‘No one.’

‘I don’t like it,’ says Steve. ‘You don’t have to meddle in everything I do. You’ve already got me solving murders and going abroad. I don’t need this on my plate too.’

‘It’ll be nice, Steve,’ says Amy.

‘Would you like Rosie to meddle in your love life?’ Steve asks.

‘Not really,’ says Amy. ‘I’m married to your son.’

‘Barely,’ says Rosie.

‘I might not take your advice on marriage, Rosie,’ says Amy.

‘You should do,’ says Steve, ‘She’s done it often enough.’

Steve and Amy high-five.

‘Anyway,’ says Steve, ‘she’s still a suspect. It’s unprofessional.’

Amy is right though. Georgie probably doesn’t have business down in Portsmouth, although it does have a thriving maritime logistics industry. Aerospace too. A date though? Steve can’t even begin to imagine it. There hasn’t been anyone since Debbie, and he hopes there never will be. How long has he got left on the planet? Twenty-five years? Steve can see that out easily without sharing his heart again. It’s bad enough that he’s on a private plane, away from home, after spending two days sweating through every piece of clothing he owns in a house paid for by designing coffee tables. Love too? No, thanks.

Brad, the air steward, pops his head out from the galley. ‘I have sea bass ceviche on a bed of samphire if anyone’s hungry?’

‘Yes, please,’ say Rosie and Amy.

Brad looks at Steve. ‘And some salt-and-vinegar Pringles for sir?’

‘Thanks, Brad,’ says Steve.

Brad disappears again.

‘Whether Jakob Eriksson is Connor Brooks or not,’ says Rosie, ‘we’re still no nearer to finding out whether he killed Esteban and Korbin. We need to think about our other suspects.’

Brad comes out with the ceviche and Pringles and three glasses. ‘I’ve paired the sea bass with a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc, and I’ve paired the Pringles with a can of Theakston Best Bitter.’

They thank Brad and he leaves.

‘The other bodyguard?’ suggests Steve.

‘Lee,’ says Rosie. ‘The handsome one.’

‘Pfft,’ says Amy.

‘Pfft he didn’t do it?’ asks Rosie. ‘Or pfft he’s not handsome?’

‘Both,’ says Amy.

‘But maybe there was a falling-out?’ says Steve. ‘If there are three bodyguards and two of them die, and one of them doesn’t, it does raise a question.’

‘Very well,’ says Rosie. ‘While we wait for Connor Brooks to break cover, Steve, we really do need to look into Georgie Glazier a little more, and you’ve just been given the perfect opportunity. Amy, you can look into the handsome bodyguard.’

‘And we do have to find out why Tommy Griffin is still alive,’ says Amy. ‘And what his plans in Europe are. Can we get anyone to take a closer look at him? Do you know anyone in the States who isn’t a furniture designer?’

‘How about Carlos?’ says Steve.

Carlos Moss. US Customs and Border Protection officer and Van Halen fan. He had helped them on their last jaunt around the world.

‘That’s not a bad idea,’ says Rosie. ‘I’ll see if he can spend a few days in Palm Springs, see if we’ve rattled Tommy Griffin into doing anything suspicious.’

Steve shivers in the chill cabin air. ‘We should all get some sleep. How long till we land at Farnborough?’

‘Oh, we’re not landing at Farnborough,’ says Rosie.

‘Where are we landing?’ Steve asks. ‘I don’t want a long drive.’

‘Málaga,’ says Rosie. ‘Come on, Steve, keep up.’

‘My God, it never ends,’ says Steve.

‘Shut up and eat your Pringles,’ says Amy.

36

How do people survive in a marriage? It is baffling to Amy. Strolling arm in arm through Parisian streets, as if that’s just a normal thing to do. Looking at art in Prague. Really staring at paintings, and then talking about them afterwards. Taking it in turns to cook, watching true-crime documentaries on Netflix. Going to the gym together. Yikes.

Not her and Adam though.

‘I was going to fly out,’ says Amy, tucked up in her private cabin. She speaks up. Amy is always surprised by how noisy the engine is on the jet. ‘Surprise you in Saudi Arabia.’

‘I’m in Kuwait now,’ says Adam. ‘So we’d both have got a surprise. I wish you’d been able to come. That would’ve been nice.’

‘Murders, you know,’ says Amy.

She misses him, she won’t deny that. But she’d rather he was in Kuwait at the end of a phone than in a café in Prague talking to her about a sculpture. Couples should be two separate people, not a composite. A friend of Adam’s called Chris is married to a woman called Hazel, and they call themselves ‘Crazel’. Amy once refused to go to a party because of it. Amy and Adam call themselves ‘Amy and Adam’. Adam had briefly toyed with ‘Adam and Amy’, but it had never stuck.

‘Straight after we’re done though,’ says Amy, ‘I’m going to come and see you.’

Adam has given no indication that he knows their anniversary is imminent. That’s okay, love is not about calendars. Some of the worst people in the world probably remember their anniversaries, don’t they? Still, Amy always remembers.

‘I’m straight back over to Saudi after this,’ says Adam. ‘Solve those murders quickly for me.’

‘I’m working on it,’ says Amy. ‘If you see a bald guy with a gun, let me know.’

It’s their seventh anniversary in three days. Their gifts are supposed to be copper, which she is struggling with. If they don’t see each other, if Adam doesn’t remember, then the plus side is she won’t have to think of a gift.

‘I’ll keep an eye out,’ says Adam. ‘How is the case?’

How do people stand each other, day in, day out? Why don’t ‘Crazel’ kill each other out of pure embarrassment alone?

‘Six guys ran the fake pharmaceuticals business around the world,’ says Amy. ‘Three of them are dead, one of them is our client, one’s on a murder spree and the other one just took us out for steak. And now we’re going to Málaga because the rudest woman in the world told us to.’

‘Who’s the one who’s killing the others?’

‘That’s our bald guy with the gun,’ says Amy. ‘A guy called Jakob Eriksson, but we now think he might be called Connor Brooks.’

‘Still bald though?’ says Adam.

‘Seems that way,’ says Amy.

Amy only really thinks about the little girl sitting on the stairs when she’s talking to Adam. Thinks about Paula and Grant not wanting her. Sometimes she thinks about Adam leaving. He has had enough. Or she is not enough. And she’ll sit on another stair as the door slams. Other people will break your heart, but what is the use of a heart without other people?

‘Good steak?’

‘Hmm?’ Amy is tracing little blue flowers in her mind.

‘The steak,’ says Adam. ‘Good?’

‘Bit small,’ says Amy. ‘But I made Steve stop for a burger on the way home.’

‘I should probably head off,’ says Adam. ‘I have to sell a chatbot to a sheikh.’

People get married to chatbots, Amy saw a thing about it on her phone. People are lonely, she supposes. That probably explains ‘Crazel’. Doesn’t excuse it, but explains it. Amy has been many things in her life – frightened, quiet, ashamed, broken – but she doesn’t think she’s ever been lonely. Or maybe she’s always been lonely? Perhaps the feeling is so normal to her, she doesn’t have a name for it?

‘He’s good, by the way,’ says Amy.

‘Sorry?’

‘Your dad,’ says Amy. ‘He’s good. Should I give him your love?’

Adam takes a while to think about this.

‘Did he give me his?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he actually?’

‘It was in his eyes,’ says Amy.

‘You can give him my love,’ says Adam. ‘But don’t lay it on too thick.’

‘I’ll tell him his son slightly sends his love,’ says Amy.

‘Perfect,’ says Adam. ‘And we’re okay? I know it’s been a while this time.’

‘Could be worse,’ says Amy. ‘We could be in Prague.’

‘Pretending to enjoy an art gallery,’ says Adam. They have had this discussion before.

‘Exactly,’ says Amy.

It’s difficult sometimes, she and Adam being away so much. It’s silly to argue otherwise. But Amy has always been happy with difficult. And one of the many reasons she loves Adam is that he’s never suggested they go on a weekend mini-break.

‘We’re okay,’ says Amy. ‘I love you.’

They are. And she does. If Adam doesn’t remember their anniversary, that signifies nothing. There’s always next year. And what the hell can you buy that’s copper?

‘I love you too,’ says Adam. ‘And an awful lot more than slightly. Go catch a scary bald guy for me.’

37

First they tried the Irish Pub, but the crowd was way too young. Amy had asked around, ‘Would anybody in the bar have been here in 2001?’, and one customer, with a full beard, told her that he hadn’t actually been born until 2012. Amy had said something about underage drinking and the plucky young lad had pulled out a knife. Amy had then pulled out a gun, and the two of them had agreed to say nothing more on the matter.

The English Pub next door skewed a little older, mainly because it was owned by a long-retired England rugby player. But still no one had been here in 2001. The rugby player, who could not have been nicer, had explained that Málaga had a fairly transient population, and it was unlikely that anyone would know this Connor Brooks they were looking for. And anyone who did know him wouldn’t be telling them anything.

‘There’s two types of business in Málaga,’ the rugby player had said. ‘My business and none of your business.’

They decide to leave the main strip of pubs and clubs, and head somewhere a little more sedate.

As they leave the pub, an older man starts walking a few steps behind them. Amy puts her hand on her gun, and the man speaks.

‘You won’t need your gun,’ the man says. ‘But don’t turn around, eh?’

‘You knew Connor Brooks?’ Rosie asks, looking straight ahead and continuing to walk.

‘Nope,’ says the man. ‘But you’re looking for a few old-timers who might have been here back in 2001?’

‘I wish everyone would stop talking about 2001 like it’s the fifteenth century,’ says Steve. ‘I’ve still got pants from 2001.’

‘But yes,’ says Amy.

‘Take this left,’ says the man.

They turn onto a smaller side street. The man does the same, still a few steps behind.

‘You know someone?’ Rosie asks.

‘Wait, are you Rosie D’Antonio?’ the man asks.

‘Call me Rosie,’ says Rosie.

‘Thanks,’ says the man. ‘You writing one of your books about Málaga, then?’

‘Taking a little rest from writing at the moment,’ says Rosie. ‘But maybe one day.’

‘I didn’t know you were taking a rest,’ says Steve.

‘You could name a character after me,’ says the man. ‘In your next book?’

‘I certainly could do,’ says Rosie. They are now crossing a small square, Málaga becoming more Spanish with every step. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Graham,’ says, presumably, Graham. ‘Graham Arbuthnott.’

‘I mean, if you’re unbelievably helpful, then maybe,’ says Rosie.

‘Thanks,’ says Graham Arbuthnott. ‘Down this alley.’

They are now in a small residential alley. If this is a trap, they can’t say they didn’t walk straight into it.

‘Where are we going, Graham?’ Amy asks.

‘If you’d come a year ago, there’d have been no one here from 2001,’ says Graham. ‘As the man said, people move on, or get shot, you know.’

Amy thinks this sounds hopeful.

‘But now?’ says Steve.

‘The ones that didn’t get arrested or shot back then all went to Dubai,’ says Graham. ‘You know, for the safety.’

‘Ah,’ says Rosie.

‘Yeah,’ says Graham. ‘And then, you know, a few of them decided to move back when it got a bit less safe.’

‘And you’re taking us to meet some of them?’ Rosie asks.

‘Taking you? No,’ says Graham. ‘I’m behind you. How could I be taking you anywhere?’

‘Of course,’ says Steve.

‘This left,’ says Graham.

They turn left. A dead-end alley. Ahead to their right a set of steps leads down to a basement. Amy’s hand goes to her gun again. This time Graham has not followed them. He has stayed at the head of the alley.

‘No guns down there,’ says Graham. ‘If you know what’s good for you.’

‘We’re going down these steps?’ Amy asks.

‘You’ll find a couple of old hands down there who’ll help you,’ says Graham. ‘They’re here every day.’

‘How will we know them?’ says Steve.

‘Only Brits in the place,’ says Graham. ‘You take care now.’

They hear him walk away. Steve, Amy and Rosie look down the flight of steps and then at each other.

‘Sha–’

They hear Graham trot back.

‘And, Rosie,’ says Graham, ‘it’s spelt A-R-B-U-T-H-N-O-T-T. Maybe I could be a pilot, or a stuntman. Your choice.’

He leaves again. Steve looks at Rosie. ‘Something to think about there.’

‘Shall we?’ says Amy, starting down the steps. She pulls out her gun.

‘Graham Arbuthnott said no guns,’ says Steve.

‘I don’t work for Graham Arbuthnott,’ says Amy. ‘I work for you … with you.’

Steve and Rosie follow Amy down the steep steps. At the bottom is a red-and-yellow door, and from behind the door they hear conversation.

On the door is a small plaque. Amy reads.

‘What does it say?’ asks Rosie.

‘El Club de Bridge y Whist de Málaga,’ says Amy.

‘The Málaga Bridge and Whist Club,’ says Steve.

‘Thank you, Duolingo,’ says Amy.

‘I think you can probably put your gun away,’ says Rosie.

38

Vern is in Rosie’s castle. He likes his villa, but he wouldn’t mind a castle as well. He will look up how much castles cost.

He and Lee took a walk into the village this morning. Lee had advised against it, but bodyguards advise against everything. Vern had told Lee that he should chill a little, and Lee reminded him that the rest of his bodyguards were dead, and Vern had conceded the point.

Everyone is worried that Vern is going to be killed. Except Vern. He still can’t explain the note on Esteban’s body, still wants that solved, but nobody is actually going to come after him. Someone is just trying to scare him. But who?

He wishes that Rosie, Steve and Amy would stop chasing Jakob Eriksson around the world. But how often can he say that without them asking questions? Without them finding out who Jakob Eriksson really is? He shouldn’t have told them about Tommy Griffin, that was a mistake, in retrospect. Griffin has met Eriksson, however briefly. What if he knows something? Picked up on something?

Yes, that was a mistake. But he’d wanted to make a good first impression. Perhaps he’d got a little carried away? And what if Tommy Griffin actually is behind the note? Finding that out would put his mind at rest.

The We Solve Murders team need to talk more to Georgie, Vern is sure of it. Georgie set him on this path, Vern has to admit it. He’d still be selling steroids to meatheads without her. He should have shared more of the spoils of his success with her. That would have been the smart thing to do. People underestimate her, and perhaps Vern has too. Should he talk to her? Offer her something?

There is a castle for sale on Rightmove. It’s in Wales. £4.5 million. Thirty-six bedrooms, needs a bit of work. I mean, in the scheme of things, he’d only be buying it for the sake of buying it, something to spend his money on. Perhaps he should just give Georgie that money? Say thank you?

It’s tricky, because he should give Georgie some money, but it would be cool to own a castle.

Steve was quite right by the way. Maureen in the village shop had tried to overcharge him. He’d bought two punnets of blueberries, twelve eggs and a Lucozade Sport for Lee and she’d told him £12.50. Vern had pointed out that it should be £11.50 and Maureen had told him he was mistaken and Vern had said that he didn’t think he was and Maureen had told him that if he didn’t like the prices then he could leave her shop. Vern had said, ‘You must be Maureen,’ and she had said, ‘Must I?’

Vern had thought back to that day in Vegas, the six men around the table, no one wanting to give an inch. Maureen would have fitted right in.

Maureen’s life has taken her to Rosie’s village shop, rather than into an illegal billion-dollar business, but that’s just kismet. If Vern were running this village shop instead, he would also have charged £12.50 for an £11.50 bill.

Funny where we end up.

In the end Vern had paid the £12.50 and stolen two Creme Eggs to make up the difference.

There’s another castle on Rightmove. Devon this time. £12 million. Seventeen bedrooms, helipad, swimming pool on the roof. That seems a bit more like it.

Rosie and the team were supposed to be back this morning, and he has had no word of where they’ve gone. That worries him a little, but, really, what could they know?

It would be some incredible detective work to have found out about Connor Brooks, and these guys are good, but surely they’re not that good? He’d booked them off a chat show for goodness’ sake.

They’d been good as gold about the Italian police. The Interpol guy, Ernesto, has been true to his word too, hasn’t been poking into Vern’s business. Vern has enough contacts in Interpol to know that no flags have been raised.

Vern sends the estate agent a message about the castle in Devon. When you really thought it through, Georgie hadn’t done all that much for him. He’d have stumbled across the world of wellness in good time. A castle with a helipad is a better way to spend your money than assuaging an ex-wife. It’s his money!

Everything is good apart from this Esteban business. It’s all very well Rosie and her crew flying around the world on his dollar, but he really would like it sorted. Maybe he needs another word with them?

Vern stretches out in his chair, the sun through the window catching one half of his face.

Where are they? Vern supposes it doesn’t matter all that much. He has to let them feel like they’re in charge.

Really, thinking back, he shouldn’t have hired them. He’d got a little star-struck.

But so long as they don’t find out about Connor Brooks, what harm can they really do?

Vern relaxes. It’s all okay.

So long as they’re not in Málaga!

39

The same sun that currently shines on Vern’s face shines also on a Málaga rooftop.

Mike and Sue – ‘not our real names, no offence, my loves’ – are only too happy to help. They remember Connor Brooks very well.

‘Baldy, we called him,’ says Sue. ‘You shouldn’t, I know, but he was ever so bald, wasn’t he, Phil?’

‘Mike,’ Mike reminds her.

‘Wasn’t he, Mike?’ says Sue without missing a beat. She is rolling a joint with a dexterity that seems to impress even Rosie.

‘Like someone shaved an egg,’ says Mike.

They are on the roof terrace of Mike and Sue’s townhouse, a five-minute walk from the Bridge and Whist Club. There is sangria on the table and Fleetwood Mac on the stereo. The Mediterranean Sea sparkles in the distance. Steve still doesn’t love being abroad, but he can sort of see the appeal.

‘They say he killed himself?’ says Rosie.

Mike and Sue laugh.

‘Course he did,’ says Mike. ‘Course the bugger did.’

‘Unless someone’s killed him since,’ says Sue, ‘he’s as alive as you and me.’

‘He left his passport though,’ says Amy. ‘He never touched his bank accounts again?’

‘He had plenty of passports, old Baldy,’ says Sue. ‘And plenty of money.’

‘Sold vitamins,’ says Mike. ‘Lots of money in vitamins.’

It’s what they suspected, but nice to hear it with such certainty.

‘What was your line of work?’ Rosie asks the happy couple.

‘Shipping,’ says Mike. ‘Mainly to Morocco and back.’

‘And you, Sue?’ asks Steve.

‘Arson,’ says Sue.

‘Nice that you were in different fields,’ says Rosie.

Mike nods. ‘Always something to talk about. Why the interest in Baldy Brooks? Old news, no?’

‘We’re looking for a man called Jakob Eriksson,’ says Steve. ‘He’s in the same line of work as Connor Brooks.’

‘Uh huh,’ says Mike.

‘And he appeared when Brooks disappeared,’ says Amy.

‘We gotcha,’ says Sue.

‘And he’s as bald as a shaved egg,’ says Rosie.

Mike and Sue laugh again. What a joyful team they make, these two. On their roof under the Málaga sun, that pitcher of sangria a rich, ruby red on the table. Steve feels that familiar prick of jealousy at their happiness. That they’d made it through together, the drug runner and the arsonist. Holding hands, listening to Fleetwood Mac, talking to strangers about the good old days and their bad old ways. What Steve wouldn’t give.

But they knew Connor Brooks, and they were happy to talk.

Sue lights her spliff. ‘So you’re saying Baldy Brooks and Eriksson are the same man?’

‘Is that possible?’ Steve asks. ‘Would you reckon?’

‘I’d say so,’ says Mike. ‘If he’s supposed to have drowned himself, the body would’ve washed up, I guarantee you that. I once had to ditch eighty kilos of something over the side of my boat, doesn’t matter what or why, but the whole lot was ashore by noon the next day.’

‘Washed up by an old nunnery about fifteen miles up the coast,’ says Sue. ‘Private property. Mike couldn’t get to it. Police couldn’t get to it.’

‘Never saw it again,’ says Mike. ‘But next time I saw the Mother Superior she was driving a Lexus.’

‘I offered to burn the place down,’ says Sue. ‘But the Spanish are a very religious people.’

‘I said to her,’ says Mike, ‘Trudy, we don’t burn down nunneries.’

‘Sue,’ says Sue.

‘I said to her, Sue, we don’t burn down nunneries,’ says Mike.

‘So Brooks just disappeared,’ says Rosie, taking the offered spliff from Sue. ‘New passport, new identity, different country?’

‘That’s what we all reckoned,’ says Sue. ‘Best thing to do if you think they’re coming after you. Clean start. Eventually they give up looking unless you’ve killed someone.’

‘But he’d have needed help?’ says Amy.

Steve has been thinking this too.

‘Course,’ says Sue. ‘Got to get out of the country, got to have all your business accounts set up, find a new place.’

‘Bit of plastic surgery?’ says Rosie.

‘Wouldn’t do any harm,’ says Mike. ‘Bust your nose and fix your teeth.’

‘Though Baldy’d just need a wig,’ laughs Sue.

Steve thinks that’s actually not a bad point. If Connor Brooks was becoming a new person, hiding all traces of his old identity, why is he still bald? There will be an explanation for that somewhere. Change enough about yourself to fool the authorities, but keep enough the same that your rivals know you’re still in business?

‘Do you know who would have helped him?’ asks Amy. ‘Back in 2001?’

Mike shrugs. ‘When you’ve got a lot of money, you’ve got a lot of friends, eh?’

‘Anyone in particular though?’ asks Steve. ‘Anyone who might still be around?’

Unlikely. But worth asking. You never knew when a useful connection might crop up.

‘In Málaga, no,’ says Sue. ‘Cashpoint Trev used to knock about with him, but he’s dead.’

‘Tunisian Derek went to Dubai,’ says Mike. ‘And then died.’

‘Friends from home?’ Steve asks. ‘He must have still had contacts in London?’

‘Not my world,’ says Mike. ‘Sorry, old son, we’ve been out of Britain too long.’

‘What was the name of the one who came here that time?’ says Sue.

‘Narrow it down, woman,’ says Mike.

‘Baldy was helping him sell steroids at the gyms?’ says Sue. ‘Nice fella. Lovely, velvety voice.’

‘Yeah, he’d have helped,’ says Mike. ‘Well put together he was.’

‘You don’t remember his name?’ asks Amy.

‘Now you’re asking,’ says Mike. ‘What was he? Vic?’

‘It wasn’t Vic,’ says Sue. ‘It’s not far off though. Viv?’

‘Vern!’ says Mike.

‘That’s it,’ says Sue, grabbing Mike’s cheek. ‘Still got all his marbles, this one.’

‘Vern Blackwood,’ says Mike. ‘That was the fella’s name. Now, can I get anyone a top-up?’

40

It is midday in Palm Springs. Even the cacti are begging for mercy.

Tommy Griffin is thinking about Jakob Eriksson. He’d had an interesting dinner last night with some Brits. Well, two Brits, and a woman who could have been pretty much any nationality. Or age, come to that. It was very interesting. It seems that Jakob Eriksson is on manoeuvres again.

Eriksson is crazy, that’s for sure. He was so quiet in Vegas, just sat watching. The only times he perked up were when he saw a particularly big cactus and when Celine Dion encored with ‘My Heart Will Go On’.

They had warned him, the Brits, and perhaps he should listen? Three people are dead. Vern Blackwood is being squeezed. The business is changing, getting more ruthless, and Tommy isn’t getting any younger. He’s trying to get younger, he regularly has his blood replaced and now sleeps in an oxygenated cryo-chamber, but nothing seems to be working. June becomes July, July becomes August. The clock on the wall keeps ticking.

Perhaps he should quit while he’s ahead? Give up the whole Irish thing? Talk to Jakob Eriksson, tell him, ‘It’s all yours, brother’? He could buy art and play golf? He’s pretty bad at both, but maybe that’s because he hasn’t had enough time to really concentrate on them.

That meeting, the six of them in Vegas. Tommy really thought they’d achieved something. Really thought they’d come to an understanding. But it only takes one maniac to ruin all that. And, looking round the table, your money would have been on Jakob Eriksson. He was the richest, and the quietest. And ever since, he’s got even richer, and even quieter.

Tommy turns on to Frank Sinatra Way and stops. You know what, people aren’t kidding, it really is pretty hot here. He’s never really noticed it before. Tommy loosens his tie. Hates to do it, but does it anyway.

Perhaps his time in the business is up? Would that really be so bad? He could reconnect with his kids. They’d be hesitant at first, but no one can resist Tommy for long. The way in is through the grandkids, make them fall in love with you and the kids will follow. Maybe read the bedtime stories a little less aggressively.

There are worse dads in the world, Tommy is sure of that. In some ways not being around was actually good parenting on his behalf. After all, you want your children to stay out of danger, don’t you? And what is Tommy if not dangerous? He was doing them a favour.

Business is fun though. Ireland is fun. Risky, sure, but that’s why it’s fun.

There is a glint of light from the mountain. The sun catching the binoculars of a birdwatcher. Perhaps he could take up birdwatching? That’s a thought. Take the grandkids, tell them what all the birds are? Tommy would have to find out what all the birds were first. Eagles, he knew them. And vultures, of course, always vultures up above you in the desert.

He will think about it. No need to make a rash decision. Talk to Jakob Eriksson, man to man. He’s sure he’s right about the English thing, by the way. You could tell that Eriksson was doing something weird with his voice, but behind it all he’s sure the guy was English. Not Tommy’s business, we all wear masks.

That’s what he’ll do. He’ll find Eriksson, he’ll tell him, ‘Listen, what’s mine is yours.’ The really smart criminals get out before it’s too late. Gotta time your exit just right.

He nods to himself and tightens his tie again. Even if he’s thinking of retiring, there’s no need to let standards slip, you never knew who was watching.

Did Tommy have time to hear the sound of the bullet?

Even from that distance, probably not. When they found his body, the vultures swooping and grizzling overhead, he still had a smile on his face.

41

‘It’s just not something I can hand over to a member of the public,’ says the desk sergeant at Lymington Police Station. To his credit, he says it very patiently and very politely.

‘I would only need about ten minutes of it,’ says Felicity. She is nothing if not a born negotiator. ‘If it helps, I used to have a client who was on The Bill.’

‘Did you report the attack, madam?’ asks the desk sergeant. ‘When it happened?’

‘I didn’t,’ says Felicity. Tony had been adamant. No one was to know. Steve would sort it. ‘Male ego, you must see it a fair bit?’

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ says the sergeant. ‘Would you like to report it now?’

‘No,’ says Felicity. ‘I work for a detective agency. I think they would find it emasculating.’

‘Then, I fear,’ says the desk sergeant, ‘that we are at an impasse.’

It is absolutely fair enough. Her request for any CCTV around Lymington Harbour on the night she and Tony had bumped into Jakob Eriksson’s thug had been a long shot. The police like to keep things to themselves unless they’re absolutely forced not to.

‘I understand,’ says Felicity. ‘Worth a try.’

‘Who was your client on The Bill?’ the desk sergeant asks. ‘My favourite was WPC Martella.’

‘Oh, that’s amazing,’ says Felicity. ‘My client was one of the armed robbers who murdered her!’

‘Small world,’ says the desk sergeant. ‘I shouldn’t really tell you this, but ninety per cent of everything we solve these days is through video doorbells. That or people admitting to things on Facebook.’

‘Thank you,’ says Felicity. ‘I shall check both.’

‘Good luck with your search,’ says the desk sergeant. ‘Don’t forget we’re always here if you want to actually report a crime. Although we are closed Wednesdays and Fridays.’

Felicity leaves the station and heads down towards the harbour. She reaches the top end of the alley where Tony was attacked. She hasn’t been back since that night. Looking down the steep passage, Felicity feels her fear rise again, and then she feels her anger rise, which overcomes the fear very nicely. To think that Tony might have been taken away from her. The damage that violent men can inflict on the world. Perhaps it might be fun to be a violent woman?

At first Felicity had told Tony he had to report the attack. Steve is all well and good, but you must let the police find the man with the blond hair. There was no persuading him, however, and Felicity is now glad of that.

Felicity is glad because, now she really thinks about it, she doesn’t want the police to catch the man with the blond hair. She doesn’t even want Steve to catch the man with the blond hair. Felicity wants to catch the man herself.

What she might do if she does catch him she couldn’t yet say. But she knows it will be worse than whatever the police would do. By the time Felicity is finished with him, the man will be praying for a nice, cosy prison cell.

She finds, however, that thought only makes her happy for a few seconds at a time.

A young mother pushing a pram walks by. Felicity looks into the pram, ready to smile, ready to let a rare ray of innocence brighten her day a little. The pram is full of cigarettes, still with their security tags on. Shoplifting is becoming a real problem in Lymington.

Felicity knows that the response to violence shouldn’t be more violence. That’s the type of thinking that tips the whole world into the abyss. But she will never forget the image of Tony slumped against the wall of this alley, blood dripping on to his torn shirt.

Opposite the entrance of the alley there is a small cottage, and Felicity notes that this small cottage has a video doorbell. Anyone who entered at the top of the alleyway that night would have to have walked past this door. The man with the blond hair would have been captured on that very camera.

As for Jakob Eriksson, the man behind it all, Felicity will have to rely on Steve, Amy and Rosie to catch him. That’s going to take more than a Ring doorbell on a Lymington cottage. But Felicity hopes she will get the chance to meet him too, and to see what her response is. She has decided it is probably best to keep that information from Steve, Amy and Rosie for now. She’s paid to be an office manager, not a vigilante.

Felicity rings the doorbell.

42

Job done.

He would like to have stayed longer in Palm Springs, but that’s the way it goes. That’s the job.

There are two queues through security, both short. ‘Jakob Eriksson’ and his deep-burgundy Swedish passport join the ‘Trusted Traveller’ queue. It’s a scheme that speeds you through airports all over the world. ‘Trusted Traveller’ always makes him laugh. If only they knew, eh?

The US Customs and Border Protection officer asks Jakob to look into the camera, and the camera is happy with what it sees. ‘Thank you, Mr Eriksson.’

Trundling his little bag once again, he heads to the First Class lounge. This case has been around the world with him. He looks at the travel stickers plastered over it: Helsinki, Bratislava, Minsk. The things he’s seen. What memories.

It was weird without Korbin. Not that they ever spoke, but it was nice knowing he was there. A layer of protection.

What next? That’s the big question. Hopefully he can spend a bit of time at home now, get on with a few projects.

Entering the lounge, he looks around. There are seven or eight people already seated. A woman on a laptop, two men in baseball caps looking at their phones. An older couple trying to figure out the coffee machine.

He wonders what everyone here does. To afford to be in here. What sort of business do you have to be in to be rich and yet still wear a baseball cap, for example? Tech or entertainment, he supposes. Or actual baseball, of course. He would like to ask, but knows he won’t. There are times he needs to draw attention to himself and times he mustn’t.

What must they think he does? This Jakob Eriksson? This tall, bald man in beige slacks and a tan jacket? What must he look like to them? The lady in the older couple smiles at him as he walks past her, and Jakob Eriksson bows his head to her.

He finds a seat. On the far wall of the lounge a large man is having a conversation on speakerphone. Perhaps the man is hard of hearing and doesn’t realize the whole lounge can hear his asinine conversation about whether Terry had included Dan on the email chain, or whether Susan was lying about the whole thing? Hearing what other people think is important at any given time is a very good lesson in perspective.

The older couple take the table next to him. They’re American, he can hear that. Even quiet Americans have a way of making themselves known. They are talking about their daughter. They don’t see her enough, that’s the husband’s view. But she has a life of her own, and she has to be allowed to live it, that’s the wife talking.

‘Where ya travelling?’

It would be nice to share his travels with someone else every now and again. And not Korbin, that didn’t count.

‘Buddy, where ya travelling?’

He realizes that the man at the next table is talking to him.

‘Oh, LA,’ he says. His voice seems very high, and he realizes that he hasn’t had a single proper conversation in three days. What has there been to talk about? Who has there been to talk to? ‘LA and then back home.’

‘I’m Cliff,’ says the man.

‘Jakob,’ he replies. ‘Jakob Eriksson.’

‘Hell of an accent you got there,’ says Cliff. ‘What are you? Australian?’

‘Swedish,’ says Jakob Eriksson.

‘Funny kind of Swedish,’ says Cliff. ‘But your business.’

‘We’re flying to Canada,’ says the wife. ‘Calgary, our son lives there.’

‘It’s cold,’ says Cliff. ‘Always cold. What line of work are you in, Jakob?’

This is one of the reasons that he loves Americans. He can sit there and wonder and wonder as to what people do for a living, an American just asks.

For that reason, and others, he is tempted to tell this man, Cliff, the truth. What harm could it do? A stranger in an airport lounge thousands of miles from home. It can be lonely never having anyone to tell the truth to.

‘I’m a gardener,’ he says. Cliff is right, he has never quite nailed the accent, he can hear it himself.

The man looks around the First Class lounge. ‘Pretty rich gardener, if you don’t mind me saying.’

He just shrugs. What else is there to say?

‘I’ll bet you do something pretty interesting,’ says the man. ‘I’ll bet you’re a man with side projects.’

‘Stop being nosy, Cliff,’ says the wife.

The man tips his head towards the large man talking on his phone.

‘You believe that?’ Cliff asks. ‘Why do people do that?’

He shrugs again and tries to be a bit more Swedish. ‘Perhapsh he ish hard of hearing?’

‘Bullcrap,’ says Cliff. ‘Pardon my Italian. He’s a selfish jerk. I think if you’re on speakerphone, you should get a bullet through the noggin. That’d put a stop to it.’

‘Cliff,’ says his wife, ‘not everyone needs to hear your opinions.’

Cliff nods towards him. ‘Our friend Jakob doesn’t mind, do you, bud?’

‘Not at all,’ says Jakob.

‘Don’t suppose that’s one of your side projects, is it, Mr Eriksson?’ Cliff asks. ‘You the sort of man who could pull the trigger? You sure look the type. The face you see when you die.’

‘Jesus, Cliff,’ says the wife. ‘I’m sorry about my husband.’

‘Well, he does,’ says Cliff. ‘Look at the guy. Thought Swedes were supposed to be blond, Jakey Boy, not bald.’

Jakey Boy smiles. It is nice to have a conversation, but, stranger or no stranger, he knows he can’t tell the whole truth.

‘I’m just a gardener.’

‘Sure you are,’ says Cliff, looking Jakob Eriksson up and down one more time. ‘And I’m the King of China.’

43

Carlos Moss had really wanted to be helpful. Was prepared to snoop around, ask the right questions of the right people, find everything there was to know about Tommy Griffin.

But Tommy Griffin has just been shot dead. A sniper up in the mountains. At least he was able to break this news to Rosie. She said, ‘I bet he wishes he’d finished that steak now.’

Carlos Moss was supposed to head out here to ask a few questions about the man. Act like a private eye. But now he can’t.

No one is in the mood to let a Customs and Border Protection officer see his body, no matter how cool Carlos’s shades are. Carlos doesn’t want a wasted trip.

Rosie will be expecting results, and he doesn’t like to let Rosie down.

When she rang, he’d hopped on the first flight from South Carolina to Palm Springs. It was his day off, and he was supposed to be painting his porch, but when Rosie D’Antonio calls asking for a favour, you put the paintbrush down. They’ve got a detective agency now, Rosie, Steve and Amy, and Carlos wonders if they’d ever look to hire someone new.

Someone, how to put this, American?

It’s not that Carlos wants to leave his job, he loves his job and is good at it. But this opportunity has come at a fairly unique time for him.

Around a month ago he started watching Bridgerton and is now hooked. Carlos has never been to England, but now thinks maybe he’d fit right in. He’s aware that Bridgerton is from a whole other century, but places like England don’t change so much, do they? You look at Bridgerton and then you look at Hugh Grant and it’s the same thing.

So, yes, Carlos thinks he could handle working for a private investigator in England. He’s keen to do a good job in Palm Springs, regardless, but the idea of sitting on the lawn of a stately home while somebody brings him a cup of tea is giving him extra impetus.

His original plan was to walk the streets for a while, but the place was a blast furnace. And then he couldn’t get into any of Tommy’s many country clubs to ask questions. So, again, no luck.

He has a final ace up his sleeve, however: the airport. Now this is a club that Carlos belongs to.

He’s emailed ahead already and keeps his eye out for a woman named Ruth Kirkland. She’s the head of security at Palm Springs International.

Carlos is in full uniform, and not just because he’s doing a job of work today. Even when he goes on holiday he wears his Customs and Border Protection uniform. It gets you on the plane first and through customs first.

A small blonde woman approaches him and offers a hand.

‘You gotta be Carlos Moss,’ says Ruth Kirkland. ‘I’m Ruth.’

Carlos shakes her hand. ‘Really appreciate you helping me out here.’

‘We like to catch bad guys,’ says Ruth, signalling for Carlos to follow her. ‘You like to catch bad guys?’

‘I love to catch bad guys,’ says Carlos. ‘And this guy is very bad indeed.’

‘Even better, then,’ says Ruth and swipes a security lanyard against a white panel. She pushes open a door and leads Carlos into the innards of the airport. Carlos looks around. Nice set-up they’ve got here. Bigger than he’s used to in South Carolina.

‘You said from the 15th?’ says Ruth.

‘He was killed today,’ says Carlos. ‘So I figured our guy might fly in a couple of days before.’

‘Gotta buy a gun from somewhere,’ says Ruth. ‘And acclimatize to the heat.’

‘Do you ever acclimatize to the heat?’ Carlos asks.

Ruth shrugs. ‘I mean, buying a gun is definitely the easier bit. I’ve pulled all the footage from the 15th through to this morning. You okay looking through all that? You know what you’re looking for?’

‘I know exactly what I’m looking for,’ says Carlos. ‘I’m much obliged to you.’

Carlos has an image of Jakob Eriksson on his laptop. He’s pretty distinctive, which should help speed things up.

‘You know where he flew in from?’ Ruth asks, leading Carlos down a long corridor, offices on each side.

‘Nope,’ says Carlos. ‘We don’t even know if he did fly in, it’s just a hunch.’

‘I figure it’s a pretty good hunch,’ says Ruth. ‘We had someone else asking for the same footage.’

‘Who’s that?’ says Carlos. All of the offices have tinted windows so you can’t see in. Carlos knows the drill though. Interview suites, search suites, break room, all airports are the same.

‘Interpol,’ says Ruth. ‘They’re, like, the European police.’

‘You send it to them?’ Carlos asks. Rosie will want to know.

‘We had to,’ says Ruth. ‘Even though they’re Europeans, they’re still cops, huh?’

‘I guess,’ says Carlos. ‘Probably got uniforms.’

Ruth opens up an office door and shows Carlos inside. She has set him up with a desk and a computer.

‘If you need coffee, there’s a machine two doors down,’ says Ruth. ‘And if you need me, I’m first left, second right, up the stairs and directly behind you. I’ll come and check you’re okay in an hour.’

‘Can’t thank you enough for your help,’ says Carlos, taking his seat. If Interpol is already looking through the footage, this part of the trip might be a waste of time. But he wants to send Rosie something.

Ruth leaves him in peace and Carlos starts his search. If Jakob Eriksson has been in and out of this airport, he’ll find out soon enough. A bit of him would like to find the information before Interpol too.

If Jakob Eriksson has flown in from Europe, Carlos figures he’ll have had to fly via LA, Vegas, Phoenix or Denver. Those are the nearest hubs.

Start with LA flights? Europeans like LA, though Carlos can’t think of any good reason why.

Let’s find ourselves a tall, bald killer. How hard can that be?

Carlos has set aside six hours for the task and settles in. He knows how these things go. The first LA flight comes and goes, he scans the faces. A couple of bald guys, a couple of guys in caps, but none is Jakob Eriksson. Patience is the key here. The second flight now, again, a sea of faces, moving at double speed, a couple of bald guys, a couple of guys in –

Carlos stops the tape. There he is. Jakob Eriksson. Flying into Palm Springs on the day before the murder. Rosie’s going to love him, and the whole thing took under ten minutes.

Good news, Carlos is now one step nearer to waltzing in tight breeches at a Regency ball. Bad news, he has five hours and forty-five minutes to wait for his plane.

Carlos takes his iPad out of his backpack. He’s finished Bridgerton, but he figures this is a perfect time to start Downton Abbey.

Part Four

PORTSMOUTH HAS A THRIVING TECH QUARTER

44

It is so nice to be home.

Steve is enjoying a late lunch at The Brass Monkey with Tony, John and Dr Jyoti. He needs a bit of normality to take the edge off all the murders, and to think about the latest Vern Blackwood bombshell. The four friends are finishing off their pudding, rhubarb crumble with custard. You have to leave it a while for the microwaved rhubarb to cool down, and by that time the custard is cold, but it’s pretty good apart from that.

It seems that Vern and Eriksson have known each other for a very long time. Were good friends. Vern also knows, presumably, that Eriksson is really Connor Brooks. And yet they have had to find all of this out themselves. Vern has not volunteered a word of it.

It also seems that Connor Brooks would have owed Vern one hell of a favour. Which explains why Vern is still alive. But also explains why he had been so disturbed by the note.

In further developments, Tommy Griffin is dead. Carlos Moss had found this out and broken the news to Rosie. Steve is telling the lunchtime gang all about it. While he tells them, the TV show Countdown is showing on the big screen behind the bar, and they are competing to find the longest words as they talk.

‘With a high-calibre rifle,’ says Steve. ‘“Artful”, for six letters.’

‘Just like that,’ says Tony, shaking his head. ‘One minute you’re there, the next minute you’re not. Well, you are there, but you’re dead. “Fart”, for four.’

Of the Vegas Six only two now remain. A man they have to assume now is Connor Brooks, whereabouts unknown, and Vern Blackwood, currently enjoying an infrared sauna in the spa wing of Rosie’s castle.

‘Could happen to any of us,’ says John. ‘At any time. “Fault”, for five, but I knew “artful” before Steve said it, so I’m going to say “artful”.’

‘It couldn’t happen to any of us,’ says Jyoti. ‘You think someone is going to shoot you with a high-calibre rifle? “Filatures” for nine letters.’

‘Very good, Doctor,’ says Steve. ‘Really good Countdown.’

He’s unsure as to whether Tommy Griffin’s death complicates things or simplifies things.

If Connor Brooks has been in Palm Springs, then it definitely simplifies things.

‘You never know,’ says John. ‘That’s all I’m saying. I made a few enemies in the journalism game.’

‘You’ve spent the last five years collating the local bowls results for the Lymington Herald,’ says Jyoti. ‘Who’s going to pay to have you killed?’

‘I had to do the court cases round-up one week when the regular guy had gout,’ says John. ‘I’m going to stay away from any windows.’

‘You’re sitting directly in front of a window,’ says Steve.

John turns his bar stool about twenty degrees away from the window.

‘That should foil them,’ says Jyoti.

Their attention wanders from Countdown, because it’s a numbers round, and none of them are very good at the numbers.

‘Professional job?’ Tony asks Steve.

‘Unless an amateur can shoot you from four hundred yards away,’ says Steve.

Tony starts drinking his leftover custard from the bowl. ‘My friend Jakob Eriksson again?’

‘Who’s Jakob Eriksson?’ Jyoti asks.

‘No one,’ says Tony.

Tony hasn’t told the others about Jakob Eriksson. He explained his recent injuries by telling them the engine casing of a Fiat Punto had fallen on him.

‘An elusive no one,’ says Steve. And certainly not called Jakob Eriksson. The TV is now showing an advert for a walk-in bath. The woman in the advert looks absolutely thrilled to be using it, like she’s been waiting her whole life for this.

‘But you reckon?’ Tony asks, turning away from the others.

‘I don’t want you to worry about that. How’s your head?’

‘Absolutely fine,’ says Tony. ‘If anything, Felicity says it’s better than it was.’

Steve smiles. Tony hasn’t complained for a single second about what happened to him, even though it’s Steve’s responsibility. Felicity either. They’ve both been as good as gold.

‘Anyone ever fancied a walk-in bath?’ John asks. ‘It feels like they’d take a while to fill up. I think when the time comes I just won’t wash any more. We could make a pact, the four of us?’

‘I’m going to keep washing,’ says Jyoti.

‘They say you don’t notice after a couple of days,’ says John. ‘Your body starts to clean itself.’

‘Who says that?’ Steve asks. ‘Out of interest?’

‘It was on YouTube,’ says John. ‘A bloke in America.’

‘Do you ever think you spend too much time on YouTube?’ Steve asks.

‘Why would he say it if it wasn’t true?’ reasons John. ‘Did you see the corpse?’

‘No, we were back on the plane by then,’ says Steve.

With Griffin dead, Vern Blackwood is the last man standing. And the note on Esteban’s body had scared Vern enough to call them in, so perhaps he and Connor Brooks are no longer friends. Does that mean Brooks will be heading their way next? They have been trying to find him, but perhaps he will now come to them?

‘Bad luck,’ says Jyoti.

‘I was okay with not seeing it,’ says Steve. ‘We’d been eating steak with the guy the night before.’

‘How was it?’ John asks.

‘I didn’t see it, John,’ says Steve. ‘Keep up.’

‘The steak,’ says John. ‘How was it?’

There is now an advert with a woman who looks like she’s won the lottery, but in reality has just come back from a friend’s funeral and been pleasantly surprised by the cost. It takes quite a personality to ask about the cost of a funeral while actually at the funeral, but it really does seem to have made her happy.

‘It was good,’ says Steve. ‘Very tender.’

‘What animal is steak from?’ Tony asks.

Jyoti looks at him. ‘What animal is steak from?’

Tony nods. ‘They never say, do they? They just say steak.’

‘It’s from cows, Tony,’ says Steve.

‘Like beef,’ nods Tony.

‘Yep,’ says Jyoti. ‘Like beef.’

‘Learn something new every day,’ says Tony.

‘It feels like that’s something you should already know,’ says John. ‘And I don’t mean any offence by that, we all have blind spots. I didn’t know the CIA put a chip in your head if you go to sleep in prison till I saw it on YouTube.’

‘Chicken is chicken,’ says Tony. ‘That’s an easy one. Lamb is lamb. Pork is pig, I know that because of Porky Pig. Bacon, that’s another one I don’t know.’

‘If you had to guess?’ Steve asks.

‘Deer?’ guesses Tony.

‘Correct first time,’ says Steve.

This is exactly what Steve needs. Amy needs to run to wind down. She needs sweat and adrenaline, burning muscles and busting lungs. Steve just needs rhubarb crumble and three fellow idiots.

Steve is inclined to disagree that Tony has got smarter since Connor Brooks’s goon attacked him in Lymington though.

That’s an avenue they haven’t looked into. How did Connor Brooks know who Tony was? And know where he was? Easy enough to find out if you spend any time in Axley, but how did Connor Brooks know about Axley?

‘I’ve got to go to Rosie’s,’ says Steve.

Tony raises a questioning eyebrow.

‘B3056,’ says Steve. ‘Through Lyndhurst, A337, M27, A31, come off at Sturminster Marshall.’

Tony nods his approval. ‘A31’s got traffic calming round Blandford Forum, but shouldn’t cause you any problems.’

Steve bids his friends farewell and walks out into the village. He will leave soon, but Rosie can wait her turn, he has somebody else to talk to first.

Steve walks down past the pond, around a pony who, quite rightly, refuses to move, and sits on his bench. He rubs the plaque in memory of Debbie.

‘Tony didn’t know where steak comes from,’ he tells her. ‘And now he thinks that bacon comes from deer. I’m going to head down to see Rosie in a mo. B30– actually, you don’t need to know that. She’s got Vern Blackwood staying. He’s the only one still alive of the gang from Vegas, but he’ll be safe there, she’s got two moats …’

An old man in a Liverpool FC tracksuit wheels a bicycle past Steve. He nods at the plaque and smiles at Steve.

‘Say hi to Debbie for me,’ says the man and continues his slow, happy way along the path.

‘Larry says hi,’ says Steve. ‘He’s out of prison on licence. Any more graffiti and he’ll be straight back in though. Trouble was furious when I came back from Málaga. I keep telling him, you solve the murders, then, mate, but nothing doing. What’s new with you?’

Steve listens for a while and is aware he’s crying while he does.

What he’d like to do most of all is go home, have a glass of whisky, curl up on the bed with Trouble and never wake up. That’s the dream.

He could never tell anyone that of course. No one would understand, and no one would forgive him. Debbie understands it, but she would also never forgive it. And that’s why Steve wakes up day after day. Living is impossible, dying is frowned upon, and those are his only two options.

Steve looks at his watch. Better head over to see Rosie, she needs him there by four. He’ll ring Amy on the way. He needs to talk to Felicity Woollaston too. He tried her earlier and she’s not in the office. He can’t blame her, what is there to go in for on most days? Strange though, she’s always there. Where might she be? There’s something else he wants to say to Debbie, but he can’t think of the words.

‘There’s …’ Steve begins. ‘You might not know it, but Portsmouth has a burgeoning tech sector. Lots of business going on there.’

That should do for now, shouldn’t it? No need to spell it out.

‘Until tomorrow, Debs,’ says Steve and walks back towards the High Street.

Is it just for Debbie that he wakes up every day? It’s for Amy too, he guesses. She’d be furious if he died. Adam would be too, no one wants to be an orphan, but Amy would be worse. Actually, as would Rosie. If there was ever anyone who held life dear, it’s Rosie. Perhaps he’s staying alive for her too? They couldn’t really run We Solve Murders without him, could they? If any one of them died, the thing would fall apart.

People need him for now, and perhaps that’s enough? Life itself isn’t enough to hold you captive, but love is.

Steve’s phone pings with a message. Georgie Glazier.

Where are you taking me to dinner?

Now’s really not the time, Georgie.

Though, if you want Steve’s honest opinion, there will never be a right time.

Steve thinks about Rosie in her castle with Vern and Lee. Is she quite safe? They really are betting the house on Vern Blackwood being the victim in all of this.

Perhaps they have got a little too friendly with him? That will have to stop. From now on it might be better for them all to keep Vern Blackwood at arm’s length.

45

‘Everyone’s dead except you and Eriksson,’ says Rosie. ‘And that makes me suspicious of you.’

Vern is lying beside her in bed. He wasn’t bad at all. An absolutely solid seven out of ten. Would order again. Sure, he’s been lying to them about Connor Brooks. But men lie about things, you have to bake that into the cake.

‘That’s fair,’ says Vern, pulling the covers up to his chest. ‘Can I say a word in my defence?’

‘By all means,’ says Rosie, lighting a cigarette. ‘You’ve earnt it.’

‘If there was going to be a last man standing,’ says Vern, ‘then it would always be me. I was only really there as peacemaker. I was the smallest dog in the fight, the least threat. Every list you could put me on, I’d be at the bottom.’

‘If I was Jakob Eriksson I would have killed all of you,’ says Rosie. ‘Seems strange not to complete the set?’

‘Give the man time,’ says Vern. ‘He might not be done.’

Rosie has no intention of telling Vern what she now knows. He is a very bright man. However, she certainly wants to push him and pull him and see if he breaks. Steve will be here soon, and the ‘Connor Brooks’ discussion will be had when he arrives.

‘He’s playing a different game with you,’ says Rosie. ‘Killing your bodyguards and not telling you why? That’s why I don’t trust you. You stand out. I just have to work out the reason. Anything you want to tell me about Jakob Eriksson?’

‘I don’t believe you’re suspicious of me,’ says Vern. ‘You wouldn’t be alone in the house with me if you thought I was dangerous. You certainly wouldn’t have just taken me to bed.’

‘Au contraire,’ says Rosie. ‘I know what I like.’

Rosie has to be honest. His blatant lying has given him an extra appeal.

‘Well, I’m very happy to take advantage of your suspicion,’ says Vern. ‘The actual truth will be a disappointment to you.’

The actual truth? That Jakob Eriksson is Vern’s old friend Connor Brooks.

Was his friend at least.

Rosie’s phone pings and she reads her message. Steve. She turns to Vern.

‘Put some clothes on, Steve’s due in twelve minutes and twenty-eight seconds.’

Now Rosie’s phone rings. Her manager, Elspeth.

‘Elspeth, tell me the news,’ says Rosie.

Last week And the Devil Blinked First had been number five. Rosie knows that isn’t good enough. But Elspeth had arranged a lot of interviews for her this week. She has done a podcast called My Perfect Morning where she pretended that her perfect morning involved a long walk with a rescue dog in a misty valley, rather than falling asleep on Dustin Hoffman’s sun lounger after a night in an illegal Vietnamese casino. She has done an interview with the Mail called ‘Me and My Cat’ where Steve had put Trouble on Rosie’s shoulder to pose for photographs, much to both Rosie’s and Trouble’s distress, and a YouTube show where Americans tried British chocolate bars. That one was called Give Us a Twirl.

Surely one of them has done the trick and And the Devil Blinked First will have moved up to number one? Then Rosie can relax a little. Not that she’s unrelaxed. Certainly not right at this moment.

‘Are we number one?’ asks Rosie.

‘We’re number fourteen,’ says Elspeth.

‘Impossible,’ says Rosie. This is very bad news. She feels the ache in her ribs. ‘I didn’t even know there was a number fourteen.’

‘No need to panic,’ says Elspeth. ‘Sometimes books just don’t connect immediately.’

‘Tell them I’ll do the chicken wings thing,’ says Rosie. Has it come to this? Eating spicy chicken wings just to sell a few books?

‘We asked already,’ says Elspeth. ‘They said it’s a no for now.’

‘A no?’ says Rosie. ‘They said no?’

‘Only for now,’ says Elspeth. ‘They said they might have a slot next spring. If we can develop your profile a little in the meantime.’

‘I’m not famous enough to eat chicken wings?’ Rosie says. She looks away from the phone and towards Vern. ‘I’m not famous enough to eat chicken wings. Are you hearing this?’

‘Oh,’ says Vern, and fair enough, what else is he supposed to say? He just wants a post-coital snooze, and who can blame him? He’s not a young man. And his day is about to get a lot worse when Steve arrives.

‘But people loved the “Me and My Cat” piece,’ says Elspeth. ‘Cat Monthly wondered if they could do a follow-up photo shoot?’

‘I’m not going to do a photo shoot for Cat Monthly,’ says Rosie.

‘I think they just meant with the cat,’ says Elspeth. ‘If you could pass on the message?’

Rosie is prepared to admit that this now officially counts as a crisis. She has sweated bullets for many years to make her life look effortlessly manicured and gilded. But you don’t achieve Rosie’s level of success through champagne and the right shoes alone. Time to go to work.

Time to get off the floor and hide the pain.

‘What do you need me to do?’ asks Rosie.

‘Well, the main thing is that it’s a great book,’ says Elspeth.

‘That is not the main thing,’ says Rosie. ‘There are loads of great books. The main thing is that it’s a great book and people buy it. My job is to write the great book, and your job is to sell it.’

‘I think we’re out of ideas here,’ says Elspeth. ‘So unless you have thoughts?’

‘What if I got married?’ says Rosie. She steals a quick glance at Vern, who shakes his head.

‘I think if you married Timothée Chalamet, then yes,’ says Elspeth. ‘Otherwise I don’t think it’s going to move the dial. I don’t suppose that’s a possibility?’

‘Me and Timothée Chalamet?’ says Rosie. ‘No, I don’t think that’s a possibility.’

‘I didn’t think it would be,’ says Elspeth. ‘But you never know with you, so I thought I’d check.’

‘What’s number one this week?’ Rosie asks. ‘Just out of interest? The dragon thing again?’

‘A woman who declutters your house, then solves murders,’ says Elspeth. ‘It’s very good.’

‘You’ve read it?’ Rosie asks.

‘No,’ says Elspeth. ‘I don’t really read, you know my attention span. It just sounds good, doesn’t it? My house is a tip.’

‘Elspeth, I’m going to love you and leave you,’ says Rosie. ‘You let me know if you have any more bright ideas.’

‘I almost certainly won’t,’ says Elspeth. ‘Don’t forget to forward me the cat’s details.’

Rosie ends the call.

‘Bad news?’ asks Vern.

‘I’m not sure I understand the world any more,’ says Rosie.

‘You and me both,’ says Vern. ‘Can I help?’

‘Could you pop out to Waterstones and buy 17,000 copies of my book?’

‘I actually could,’ says Vern. ‘But I’m not supposed to go out.’

As Rosie leaves the bedroom, she passes Lee sitting guard outside.

Rosie nods at him. ‘Sorry you had to hear all that. Some men are screamers.’

Lee pulls earbuds out of his ears. ‘Podcast.’

‘Lucky for you,’ says Rosie.

Lee nods at the earbuds. ‘I honestly didn’t know you had a rescue dog. It was really lovely. I needed that today.’

Rosie leans in. ‘Lee, you’re young. If someone listens to me on a podcast, why wouldn’t they immediately go out and read my book?’

Lee thinks about this. ‘Well, I don’t think they’d have enough time. You know, because of all the other podcasts they have to listen to next. I went straight on to one about plane crashes.’

That’s useful consumer insight.

Rosie needs to focus on the murders for now and not book sales. In fact, if they solve the murders, then who’s to say that won’t actually help sales? A nice photo of Connor Brooks in cuffs, Rosie with a gun? Would that work?

A few years ago it would have been a surefire winner. But it seems the rules of publicity have changed while Rosie was busy elsewhere.

She will think of something though. Will have to think of something. It’s what she does.

A horn toots three times outside. Steve and Amy. Lee heads down to the door. Rosie heads back into the bedroom.

‘Fix up, look sharp,’ she says to Vern. ‘We need a quick word.’

‘A word?’ says Vern, pulling on his trousers.

‘Just a word,’ says Rosie. ‘Everything’s fine, unless you’re hiding anything from us.’

Vern buttons up his shirt. It is short-sleeved. Acceptable in Italy, but not here.

‘Not that shirt,’ says Rosie. ‘Sleeves, please.’

Rosie heads down the stairs. Lee is letting Steve and Amy in.

‘Welcome to my humble home,’ says Rosie.

‘Where’s Vern?’ Amy asks.

‘He’ll be down in a minute,’ says Rosie.

‘What’s he doing upstairs?’ asks Steve.

‘None of my business,’ says Rosie. ‘Taking a nap?’

Amy looks at Lee. ‘What’s Vern doing upstairs?’

Lee shrugs and holds up his earbuds. ‘No idea, podcast.’

Vern appears on the stairs. ‘And they’re all here! Rosie, forgive me, I was taking a nap.’

My God, thinks Rosie, this man is an incredible liar.

46

Amy sits opposite Vern Blackwood. They are in Rosie’s drawing room. Quite what a drawing room is, Amy wouldn’t like to say, but it has three armchairs all facing a sofa, so it makes for a perfect interrogation suite. Wherever Vern chooses to look, there will be a pair of eyes on him.

Difficult to lie to three people at once. Although, as Amy notes that Vern’s shirt buttons are incorrectly buttoned, he may well have lied to them already.

‘We don’t even get a cup of tea?’ Vern says. ‘Must be serious. What have you found out?’

Steve sighs. A little overdramatic, but everyone has their methods.

‘We’ve just been to Málaga,’ says Amy.

‘Mmm hmm,’ says Vern. ‘I see.’

‘Ever been?’ Steve asks.

‘Málaga?’ says Vern. ‘Must have, back in the day. Surely?’

‘Were you there in 2001 perhaps?’ asks Rosie.

‘I mean, who’s any good with dates?’ says Vern. ‘It’s possible. Beautiful part of the world. 2001? I mean, why not? Couldn’t swear I wasn’t.’

‘Vern,’ says Steve, ‘is there anything you want to tell us?’

‘About Málaga?’

Steve nods. ‘About Málaga.’

‘Huh,’ says Vern. ‘And in 2001?’

‘In 2001,’ says Amy.

‘Málaga, 2001,’ says Rosie.

Amy sees Vern making some calculations in his head. She also notices a pair of boxer shorts just beginning to poke out from one of his trouser legs.

‘Okay,’ says Vern. ‘Okay.’

‘A man called Connor Brooks left a suicide note,’ says Steve.

‘Correct,’ says Vern.

‘You helped him fake his own death,’ says Amy.

‘Correct,’ says Vern. ‘You’re very good. I didn’t think you’d be this good.’

‘And Connor Brooks became Jakob Eriksson?’ says Rosie. ‘With your help?’

‘Yes,’ says Vern. ‘I will just say this doesn’t change anything. Perhaps I should have told you, but why confuse things?’

‘Would it be fair to say,’ says Rosie, ‘that you and Connor Brooks are friends?’

‘I don’t know about friends exactly,’ says Vern.

Rosie raises an eyebrow at Vern.

‘Okay,’ says Vern. ‘Yes, we were friends.’

‘You helped him escape Spain,’ says Steve. ‘You no doubt helped him in other ways. You helped legitimize his new identity as Jakob Eriksson?’

‘Well, a long time ago,’ says Vern. ‘But, yes. All of the above.’

‘So would it be fair to say that Connor Brooks owes you one?’ Steve asks.

‘I mean, sure,’ says Vern.

‘Is that why he’s never come after you?’ Amy asks. ‘Until now?’

‘I couldn’t say,’ says Vern.

‘That’s why killing Esteban was such a shock?’ says Steve. ‘That’s why you couldn’t believe it?’

Vern is calculating again. ‘I felt … yes, I felt we had a deal. I still feel we do. Jakob Eriksson, Connor Brooks, what’s the difference? It doesn’t explain why Esteban died with that note in his pocket.’

‘You must have a way of contacting him?’ says Rosie. ‘Convincing him to tell you the truth?’

‘I don’t,’ says Vern. ‘We haven’t spoken in a long time.’

‘So we start again from here,’ says Steve. ‘We are looking for Connor Brooks. And Connor Brooks is your friend. Or was your friend.’

‘Look,’ says Vern, ‘I shouldn’t have lied. In fact, I shouldn’t have dragged you into this at all. I just wanted help.’

‘Well, we’re well and truly dragged in now,’ says Amy. ‘Tell us everything we need to know about Connor Brooks.’

‘I can’t,’ says Vern. ‘If he knows that I’ve told anyone, he’ll kill me. And that’s the truth.’

‘It sort of looks like he might kill you anyway,’ says Amy.

‘I can’t ask you to do any more,’ says Vern. ‘I can’t. I’ll fly home and face the music.’

‘No one is flying anywhere,’ says Rosie.

‘Is that a promise?’ says Steve.

‘Not now, Steve,’ says Amy.

‘This is our case,’ says Rosie. ‘And we’re going to solve it with you or without you.’

‘No,’ says Vern. ‘It’s too dangerous for you. You know too much about a very dangerous man. I can’t let you carry on.’

‘I’m afraid we’re at the stage,’ says Rosie, ‘where you can’t stop us.’

Vern covers his face.

‘You have to promise us one thing though,’ says Steve. ‘However much you like to be in control of a situation, no more lies.’

Vern takes his hands from his face and looks at the three of them. He nods. ‘No more lies.’

‘No more lies,’ repeats Rosie.

Vern leans back, and the boxer shorts finally escape from his trouser leg and fall in a heap on the floor.

Vern, Rosie, Steve and Amy are all looking at them. There is a brief moment of silence.

‘They must have got tangled up in your washing,’ says Rosie, and everybody in the room nods in agreement.

Málaga, 2001

Tonight’s the night, I’m absolutely buzzing. Nervous, sure, come on, but buzzing.

No plan is foolproof, stuff goes wrong all the time, but it’s all looking good.

Note’s all written, looks legit. Like, neat, because it’s the last thing I’ll ever write, but not too neat, cos, you know, my state of mind.

The tide’s perfect at about two in the morning, so a guy I know from London, Vern, he’s picking me up at midnight and we’re going to drive over to the cove. No speeding, legit hire car. Cops won’t have a reason to stop it.

He’s parking it round the back of the villa and I’m going to hop over the wall. Just in case they’re watching the front. Midnight though, who’s paying attention?

I’ve got a lot to thank Vern for. A lot. So far he’s asked for nothing in return. But he has to know I’ll owe him? When I’m back up and running? Has to know I’ll take care of him.

Look after your friends. That’s the first rule. Kill your enemies, that’s the second rule.

I can be a mean bastard at times, I know that, but I’m a loyal mate and Vern Blackwood will find that out.

I’ll be in Algeria by daybreak, then Egypt, then God knows where. I’ve always liked to travel.

In the end I got a Swedish passport. Best passport you can get, apparently. There’s not a country in the world that doesn’t let the Swedes in. And nowhere that wants to kidnap them either. Vern sorted that for me too. Good as gold about it.

I’m not naive about the guy, don’t you worry about that.

At some point I know he’s going to call this favour in. He’s going to come to me looking for a piece of what I’ve got and, you know what, I’ll let him have it. Smart geezers don’t need to ask, and Vern Blackwood is a smart geezer. Knows an opportunity when he sees one.

Jakob Eriksson, that’s my name apparently. Might as well be English, eh? Easy to pronounce. Eriksson like the new England manager, Swedish fella, going to win us the World Cup, I guarantee you that.

I’ve been practising the accent. Not bad at it.

Yep, buzzing.

If this works right, and I won’t say it definitely will, but it should, then no one’s ever going to hear the name Connor Brooks again.

47

‘Connor Brooks?’ says Felicity Woollaston, as Steve pours her a cup of tea, and Trouble settles on her lap.

‘Connor Brooks,’ says Steve. ‘I thought you’d like to know. He’s about as Swedish as the Pope, this fella.’

Felicity smiles.

‘Hold on,’ says Steve. ‘The Pope’s not Swedish, is he?’

‘American,’ says Felicity.

‘American Pope,’ says Steve. ‘That’s right. He was in a picture round at the quiz. What can I do for you?’

Felicity takes a deep breath. ‘First of all, thank you for seeing me, I know we’re up to our eyes at the moment.’

‘For seeing you?’ says Steve. ‘We’re mates, aren’t we? We don’t have to make appointments.’

Felicity can’t help but smile again. She works for Steve, certainly, and she’s dating Steve’s best friend, but the idea that the two of them might be ‘mates’ hadn’t occurred to her until now. What a lovely thought.

‘I just … I might need your help,’ says Felicity.

‘Okay,’ says Steve.

He is always unruffled. That’s the word that comes to mind. Solid, calm, kind. It would be nice if Steve could find someone, the way that Felicity has found Tony.

‘It’s … it’s just between you and me though,’ says Felicity. ‘If we understand each other?’

‘No Tony you mean?’ Steve asks.

‘No Tony,’ confirms Felicity.

‘If you’re planning to propose to him, I know he likes diamonds,’ says Steve.

‘Can I show you a picture?’ Felicity asks.

Steve nods. Here goes.

‘Only,’ she begins, ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about the man who attacked Tony.’

‘Me neither,’ says Steve.

‘And what I’d do if I ever saw him again,’ says Felicity.

‘I’ve had those thoughts,’ says Steve.

‘So I thought I would do a bit of digging,’ says Felicity. ‘See if I could get anything on him. And I found this on someone’s doorbell, at the top of the alley where Tony was attacked.’

She hands the picture of the man over to Steve. The woman in the cottage had been very sympathetic. She’d heard a commotion that evening, but had thought nothing more of it. As Felicity had told her the story she had sympathized, and hugged her, and told her everything was going to be okay, and that if she was a betting woman she’d have good money on the attacker being an immigrant, and when Felicity had told her the man had a London accent, she had said that that didn’t really tell you anything these days, and London was a foreign country anyway if you really thought about it, and, anyway, let’s see what we can see on my doorbell app.

What they saw was the man Steve is looking at right now. He is around five feet ten, bleached blond hair, bit of a tattoo showing on his neck and, as even the woman who owned the cottage had had to admit, white.

Steve is looking at the image very intently. ‘So this is the man who attacked Tony?’

‘That’s him,’ Felicity says. ‘That’s the man. I know it’s not much, but I wanted you to see the person I saw that night. I thought you could do something.’

‘So this man works, it turns out, for Connor Brooks,’ says Steve.

Steve goes quiet.

‘What is it?’ Felicity asks.

Steve is shaking his head now. ‘I’ve seen him before.’

‘Seen him?’ says Felicity. ‘Where?’

Steve wrinkles his nose in concentration. ‘It’ll come to me. Somewhere.’

‘I’d like to find him,’ says Felicity.

‘And then what?’ Steve asks.

‘I don’t know,’ says Felicity. ‘Something.’

‘If it’s any consolation,’ says Steve, ‘guys like this usually end up in a ditch. Where have I seen this lad?’

‘I hope he does end up in a ditch,’ says Felicity. ‘And I hope I’m there when it happens.’

‘Revenge is more fun in the mind than in reality,’ says Steve. ‘Thinking of ways of killing someone is like looking at houses on those websites. Actually killing someone is like buying a house. Money, lawyers, stress.’

‘I just want to find him,’ says Felicity. ‘I just want to feel like I’ve done something for Tony.’

‘You do plenty for Tony,’ says Steve. ‘You don’t need to go to jail for him.’

‘I know,’ says Felicity. ‘I do know. But indulge me for now. Let me pretend to be a vigilante at least.’

Steve acknowledges this. He holds up the picture. ‘Can I keep this?’

‘Of course,’ says Felicity.

‘It’ll come to me,’ says Steve. ‘Where I know him from. It always comes to me.’

‘And Tony mustn’t know,’ says Felicity.

‘Of course,’ says Steve. ‘Goes without saying.’

He is staring more intently now. ‘I could swear he was …’

‘He was what?’ Felicity asks.

Steve thinks better of whatever he was about to say. ‘Nothing.’

But Felicity sees that there is something, and that gives her hope that Steve might find the man. She won’t push it for now.

‘I’m happy we’re friends, Steve,’ says Felicity. ‘That makes me feel very safe.’

‘Make sure you stay safe,’ says Steve. ‘I understand you want to find the guy who did this, but I won’t let you do anything stupid if we do.’

‘I hardly think I could do him much damage,’ says Felicity. ‘Much as I’d like to.’

Steve nods. ‘But no buying a gun or anything.’

‘Christ almighty, Steve, I’m an office manager,’ says Felicity. ‘And I don’t think you can buy guns in Hampshire.’

‘You can buy guns everywhere,’ says Steve. ‘We used to nick people at Sammy’s Boxing in Portsmouth all the time.’

‘Oh, Portsmouth, sure,’ says Felicity. ‘I meant Hampshire Hampshire. The posh bit.’

‘I’m serious though, Felicity,’ says Steve. ‘Revenge will eat you up. Leave it to me.’

‘I will,’ says Felicity. ‘I promise.’

Trouble stirs, opens one eye and looks up at her. He is, of course, just a cat, and handsome and wise as he is, Felicity knows she is being ridiculous to read anything into his look.

But she can’t deny it, Trouble’s look says to her: ‘Felicity Woollaston, don’t make promises you have no intention of keeping.’

48

Steve finishes his story. He has enjoyed telling it very much. The road to Connor Brooks, via Sara Lindstrat, Tommy Griffin, old Dotty Gunn, and Mike and Sue from the Málaga Bridge and Whist Club.

‘Of course he’s English!’ says Ernesto. ‘That makes much more sense, when do the Swedes ever give us any trouble?’

Ernesto raises a tumbler of whisky to the room.

Steve sees that his new friend, Ernesto Manuelo Santiago de Sousa de Cuéllar, straight off the easyJet from Southampton Airport, looks very at home in a castle. Even in jeans and trainers and a ME ENCANTA MALLORCA T-shirt.

‘In return for this information, I have a photograph for you,’ says Ernesto. ‘This is my gift. Day before Tommy Griffin is assassinated. Palm Springs Airport, the early flight from Los Angeles.’

Ernesto shows them the photograph. ‘We recognize any friends, huh?’

Steve takes a good look. Maybe twenty people in the queue, but one you simply can’t miss. The unmistakable figure of Jakob Eriksson. Or, rather, as they now know, the unmistakable figure of Connor Brooks.

But Steve already knew what he was going to see. Carlos Moss had sent them the exact same photograph. Steve wants to give Ernesto his moment of glory though. As do the others. They all say ‘ooh’ or ‘goodness me’ or words to that effect.

Vern Blackwood puffs out his cheeks. ‘Okay, then.’

‘He has killed them all now, Vern,’ says Ernesto. ‘All but you.’

‘We have to keep you locked up,’ says Amy. ‘No one in, no one out.’

‘Three days,’ says Vern. ‘Then I take my chances.’

Vern is still very much the coolest head in the room. He is banking an awful lot on his friendship with Brooks. Though when you do someone that sort of favour, perhaps that’s reasonable.

‘We can keep an eye on the airports,’ says Ernesto. ‘If Brooks lands in Britain, we’ll know.’

‘And if he does land in Britain,’ says Amy, ‘we’ll have a pretty good idea of where he’s headed.’

Steve nods. ‘We sit and wait. Let him come to us.’

‘So I’m bait?’ says Vern. ‘Fun.’

‘If it goes wrong, then he will kill you,’ says Ernesto. ‘But it won’t go wrong. We are a match for him, you don’t think? We will keep you alive.’

‘I think so,’ says Rosie. ‘I believe in us. We’re in a castle with two policemen and two bodyguards. And me, of course.’

‘I like our odds,’ agrees Steve. ‘Although I do have to pop out tomorrow lunchtime, if I can be spared?’

He is having lunch with Georgie Glazier. What harm can that do? It’s just lunch, not a sauna. And he does want to talk to her about Connor Brooks.

‘Going somewhere important?’ Rosie asks.

‘Dentist,’ says Steve.

‘I thought you didn’t go to the dentist,’ says Rosie. ‘You’re not lying to me, are you, Stevie?’

‘I don’t go to the dentist,’ says Steve. ‘When I said that to you the other day, I thought, you know what, Steve, you should go to the dentist, Rosie’s on the money there, so, you know, I booked an appointment. Check-up.’

Rosie nods. ‘Oh, well, I’m so glad you’re not lying to me. I actually have to nip out tomorrow too, but I don’t suppose anyone will miss me.’

‘And where are you going?’ Steve asks.

‘Dentist too,’ says Rosie.

So they’re both lying about where they’re going tomorrow. Interesting.

‘I’m sure we’ll muddle through without you,’ says Amy. ‘We keep our eyes open and wait for Connor Brooks, or someone hired by Connor Brooks, to cross Rosie’s moats.’

‘How do we advertise Vern is here?’ Steve asks the room.

‘Do you have an Instagram account, Vern?’ Rosie asks.

‘An account? Not really,’ says Vern. ‘I follow a few wellness influencers and the Dalai Lama. But I wouldn’t post because, you know.’

‘Because you’re a criminal,’ says Amy.

‘Because I’m a semi-criminal, yes,’ says Vern. ‘Ooh, I also follow a lot of snooker-based accounts.’

‘Do you do Twitter?’ asks Steve.

‘God, no,’ says Vern.

‘Are you on the AZ6781 EncroChat subgroup?’ Amy asks.

‘Of course I am,’ says Vern. ‘I’m never off it.’

‘What’s the AZ–’ Steve begins.

‘It’s like Snapchat for criminals,’ says Amy. ‘It’s how they organize their deals.’

‘There are also memes,’ says Vern. ‘And essays about money-laundering. Honestly, once you start scrolling you can lose a whole afternoon.’

‘Just post on the subgroup,’ says Amy. ‘Nothing too obvious. And even if Connor Brooks doesn’t see it, someone he knows will. He already knows about Axley.’

‘What should I put?’ says Vern.

‘Write this,’ says Amy. ‘LOL, staying in a castle. Anyone know where to get a decent cappuccino in Dorset? Brooks will put two and two together.’

Vern nods. ‘I should say something illegal though, to make it more convincing.’

‘Anyone know where to steal a decent cappuccino in Dorset?’ suggests Steve.

Vern is thinking. ‘I could say I need five kilos of potassium chlorate. That should do it. And I do actually need some, so that’s two birds.’

He starts typing.

There is now quiet around the table. Everyone is nervous, and that’s understandable. They are playing games with a killer. Waiting for him to strike. Luring Connor Brooks and hoping they catch him before he kills Vern. It is high risk, but it is very high reward.

Steve looks around and wonders what everyone else is thinking.

Amy looks concerned, but she understands the assignment. She will make sure this plan is as safe as can be.

Rosie is drinking a Martini, without a care in the world. She will play whatever card you want to deal her. And, for some reason, she is lying about a dentist appointment. But who isn’t.

Ernesto looks ready for action. Steve realizes that, for all Ernesto’s ease and charm, this is a big case for him too. He’s primed.

Vern looks the least nervous. As he has looked throughout. But it is their job to protect him, and the best way to protect him is to catch Connor Brooks.

The last of the gang, Lee, is the hardest to read. But then he’s recently had to put two colleagues in a freezer and bury one of them twice. After years in Afghanistan, it’s understandable that he might be wary of more killings. Understandable if he is beginning to lose heart. Everyone else around this table has something personal to gain by finding Connor Brooks. Lee is just doing a job of work. Perhaps he’s seen enough death for one lifetime? Certainly there is something unknowable behind his dark eyes.

Lee claps his hand on the table. ‘Okay. Who wants to watch Rampage 8?’

49

By rights, Felicity Woollaston should be frightened. Should be terrified. But she knows what she wants, and she knows why she wants it.

‘Why you want a gun though?’ says the young man in the alley behind Sammy’s Boxing.

There are always negotiations. Felicity once had a client booked to do a pantomime at the Hexagon Theatre in Reading. The client, Barry Westover, a BBC weatherman, as you’ll probably remember, was to play Widow Twankey in Aladdin. Six weeks’ work across the Christmas holidays and joint star billing with a man who had won a bobsleigh silver medal at the Sarajevo Winter Olympics.

‘What business is that of yours?’ says Felicity to the young man. ‘I have the money, you have the gun.’

Now, at the time of this panto Barry was at the height of his powers. He had failed to predict the worst hurricane in history, and, such is the nature of British people, had become an enormously popular figure because of it. Felicity knew her client’s worth down to the last penny, that was her job. He had just been on Blankety Blank, for example, and they didn’t let just anyone on. If they wanted his Twankey, they were going to have to pay for it.

‘It comes back on you, it comes back on me, see?’ says the young man.

‘Well, that’s the risk you take in your industry,’ says Felicity. ‘That’s what the money is for. There are other alleys where I can buy other guns, you know.’

In those panto negotiations – thirty-five years ago, goodness me – Felicity had known she was in a strong position. She asked for £8,000 a week, accommodation of at least four-star standard and dispensation allowing Barry Westover to present national weather bulletins three lunchtimes a week.

The producer of the panto, a woman called Daphne, who was married to one of the Bay City Rollers, had laughed at Felicity’s demands. The bobsleigher was only getting £3,000, and he had a silver medal. Did Barry Westover have a silver medal, she wondered?

‘I don’t like selling to someone I don’t know,’ says the boy in the alley.

‘Go and sell it to someone you know, then,’ says Felicity. ‘Do you think Coca-Cola only sell to people they know?’

The key is this: never look like you need it. Always look as if you already have a foot out the door. Daphne said she could stretch to £4,000, a three-star hotel and no weather bulletins, as they would get in the way of rehearsals and local press requests.

The young man in the alley gives a small nod. Felicity can read him just like she read Daphne all those years ago. Doesn’t matter if it’s a handgun in a Portsmouth alley, or Aladdin at the Hexagon, Reading, the dance will always be the same. This young man has a gun to sell and there aren’t too many customers in Portsmouth. Someone else will need a gun at some point, but he has this woman in front of him right now, and she doesn’t look like a cop.

‘What’s it for? You want to kill your husband?’

‘Not married,’ says Felicity. ‘Not yet at least.’

Daphne had threatened to book another Widow Twankey, said she’d already had a conversation with Jack Jensen, the ventriloquist, and he was available.

The boy has made his mind up. ‘Okay. S’yours. Eight hundred though.’

‘We agreed five hundred,’ says Felicity.

Daphne should really have known that theatrical agents speak to each other all the time. Felicity knew for a fact that Jack Jensen – and his puppet, Rudolfo – had already signed up for Puss in Boots in Llandudno. Felicity called her bluff and said, ‘Very well, we shall try our luck elsewhere.’

‘Very well,’ says Felicity to the young lad in the alley. ‘I shall try my luck elsewhere.’

‘Seven hundred,’ says the young man.

Daphne had caved almost immediately, and the deal was struck on Felicity’s original terms. She wasn’t being greedy, she just knew the market rate. Just as the look in this young man’s eyes lets her know precisely the market rate for a second-hand gun on the streets of Portsmouth.

‘Five hundred is my best, I’m afraid,’ says Felicity. ‘But I will understand if that’s unacceptable to you.’

Felicity looks at him. What is he, seventeen? It breaks her heart a little to see a young boy having to try on such grown-up clothes. She could be his mother.

‘Okay, five hundred,’ says the young man. ‘But only because you remind me of my nan.’

Or grandmother, of course. Sometimes one forgets one’s age. In Felicity’s head she’s the same age she was when she was arguing with Daphne about what floor of the Reading Ramada Barry Westover should be on.

The young man hands her a small object wrapped in a tea towel. In return she hands him £500 in a buff envelope.

That was the easy bit done. Now, gun in hand, for the difficult bit.

You never know where life is going to take you. Meeting Tony was something she never could have foreseen. But she could have lost him just as easily.

The most important thing is to know your own worth. Never sell yourself short.

The young man disappears through a side door into Sammy’s Boxing gym and Felicity is suddenly alone, in an alley, with a gun, thinking about a man with bleached blond hair and a tattoo of an eagle.

Barry Westover was later disgraced, like so many of his generation, though his downfall was less usual than the others, having taken a bribe from a Saudi businessman to fake a weather forecast. Quite why the Saudi businessman had needed the world to believe that East Anglia was due fog over the bank holiday weekend was never divulged, but he had been prepared to pay Barry Westover £5,000 for his troubles. Money that Barry ended up having to pay to the Lowestoft Tourist Board in order to stave off court proceedings.

Felicity places the gun in her handbag and begins the walk back to Portsmouth & Southsea Station, a small piece of her willing someone to try and mug her.

Steve thinks somebody will try and get to Vern, which means that the man who attacked Tony – or this man Connor Brooks himself – might be paying a visit to the area. Felicity knows what they both look like now. She is looking forward to meeting either of them. She’s not fussy which.

Both of them? Well, wouldn’t that be a bonus?

It’s very real now. The anger she felt, that roaring furnace of revenge, now reduced down to one small piece of steel. She wouldn’t go through with it, surely?

Felicity thinks back to her pantomime days.

Oh yes, she would.

Then she looks at the gun again and feels disgusted with herself.

Oh no, she wouldn’t.

What on earth is she doing? She thought the gun would make her feel strong, but it makes her feel sick.

Perhaps she should dump it immediately? Would she ever really fire the thing?

50

Not a lot of people know this, but Portsmouth has a thriving tech quarter.

Georgie Glazier has just finished a very satisfactory meeting, in a small laboratory near the university, all about the properties of infrared light. She is now at the Greggs in Portsmouth & Southsea Station, enjoying a steak bake.

All in all, she has a very interesting couple of days ahead of her.

Infrared is a technology she has had a particular interest in for well over a week now.

Her interest began when they opened an infrared sauna at the David Lloyd Health Club in Bushey. She read an article about the benefits, so had decided to try it out. Her first attempt was thwarted by a queue of women wrapped in towels.

As any good businessperson will tell you, where there’s a queue, there’s money.

Her next attempt was again thwarted, this time by a queue of women and men wrapped in towels.

The queue was twice as long. Which means twice as much money.

She then decided to book a slot in the infrared sauna, online, only to discover a prohibitive waiting list. If there is even a queue online, then you’re going to need a wheelbarrow to put all your money in.

Georgie has recognized a perfect market for her. Everyone wants the benefits of an infrared sauna, but not everyone can fit in the car park of the David Lloyd Health Centre in Bushey. So handheld infrared therapy is the answer.

Why queue for a sauna when you can plug in a device at home that will give you the exact same benefits as the sauna? Quite what those benefits might be is not something that worries Georgie too much, just that there is a strong belief that those benefits exist.

The handsets she can source from China. In fact, she can use pretty much the same ones she uses for her hand-held sonic massage guns (£399.99 or £750 for two). She was hoping she could then just screw in some red light bulbs from B&Q, but apparently the whole point of infrared bulbs is that they are hot rather than light. And that makes them expensive.

Georgie hears her train being called. She is excited to see the New Forest. Steve Wheeler is taking her to lunch tomorrow. She has rather bullied him into it, to be honest, but sometimes you have to.

Georgie takes her seat. She will have to change trains in Southampton, then a quick fifteen-minute hop to Brockenhurst.

According to rumours she’d heard, Vern is also in the New Forest now, and Georgie wonders if they will bump into each other. You’d imagine so, wouldn’t you?

And if Vern is there, then might their old pal ‘Jakob Eriksson’ be somewhere nearby? It would certainly be handy to have everyone in the same place.

She discovered in the meeting that if you weren’t worried about wellness per se, but more focused only on a bulb simply being hot, then agricultural livestock suppliers will sell you cheap, incandescent heat-lamp bulbs for around £1.50. So £6.50 for the handset manufacture and shipping, £1.50 for the bulbs. Georgie’s ‘Hot Mama – Mobile Infrared Therapy Gun’ is going to sell for £199.99 and cost her just £8.

What a boon it would be to have lunch with Steve, find Vern and Jakob Eriksson, and visit an electrical farm supply retailer all on the same trip.

She’s staying in a nice hotel, The Hunter’s Rest. Treating herself.

Georgie wonders, once again, how this has all come to be. In some ways it doesn’t really matter how it has come to be. The fact that it has happened means she really would be a fool not to take advantage of it.

51

No passport this time, that makes a nice change. He’s still Jakob Eriksson, that’s a given, but this is the first time he’s had to do a job in England. In all these years. Ironic when you stop to think about it!

He’ll still do the Swedish accent, but, and he has to be honest with himself, he’s never really picked it up, has he? Just don’t say anything, that’s the key.

He doesn’t know the New Forest at all, but he is excited to see it. His train has just pulled out of Waterloo. It’s ninety minutes to a station called Brockenhurst. He’ll make sure the security cameras pick him up there. Maybe ask a question at the ticket office. In broken English, of course.

Although a lot of the ticket offices have closed down these days, haven’t they? He’ll think of something. He always does.

After the station he’ll get a taxi to a hotel called The Hunter’s Rest. It looks very nice online.

He takes out his copy of Gardeners’ World and settles in for the journey.

52

‘What’s that noise?’ asks Amy, phone cradled between her ear and the pillow.

She’s speaking quietly, because she is on a camp bed in the hallway outside Vern Blackwood’s room. If anybody tries to get in, they’ll have to get through her. So far only Rosie has tried.

‘A hydroelectric generator,’ says Adam.

This case is not going to be solved in time for their anniversary tomorrow. So no surprise trip to Saudi for her. Just another long-distance phone call.

‘Are you selling one or buying one?’

‘Buying one, then immediately selling it,’ says Adam.

In some ways Amy realizes that she is relieved. Perhaps it would have been a ridiculous gesture to fly halfway around the world to see Adam? She’d even bought herself a dress. When was the last time she’d worn a dress? What if Adam saw she had made an effort and that effort hadn’t worked?

‘Will you sell it for a profit?’ says Amy.

‘That’s a good idea,’ says Adam. ‘I’ll suggest that to the gang.’

Amy sticks her tongue out down the phone.

What if she’d turned up and he’d looked disappointed? Or he was too busy? They don’t really make romantic gestures as a couple. That’s not their currency.

‘Baldy still on the run, then?’ Adam asks.

‘Connor Brooks he’s called,’ says Amy. ‘We’re trying to lure him in.’

‘That sounds safe,’ says Adam. ‘Are you armed?’

‘Good idea,’ says Amy. ‘I’ll suggest that to the gang.’

Adam blows a raspberry.

He definitely doesn’t know it’s their anniversary tomorrow. The whole thing would have been super-awkward. Best forgotten.

‘Have you spoken to your dad lately?’ Amy asks.

‘Dad? No,’ says Adam.

‘I think he’s having a hard time,’ says Amy. ‘He’s been thinking about your mum.’

‘He’ll be all right,’ says Adam.

One day Adam and his dad will talk about Debbie. But not today. Getting men to talk is like introducing two new cats to each other.

Their ‘copper’ anniversary had been hard to buy for, as she’d predicted. In the end Amy has bought Adam six copper bullet casings from the First World War. She’s picking them up in Basingstoke tomorrow morning. A British soldier carved tiny animals on to each one in the trenches. Adam will like them for the animals. She likes them for the bullet casings.

‘You know what tomorrow is?’ asks Amy. Might as well see.

‘Uh, the 20th,’ says Adam. ‘Sorry, had to think for a second because of the time difference.’

‘Yeah,’ says Amy.

So it would have been ridiculous, turning up unannounced with a box of copper bullet casings. And, now she thinks about it, how would she have got them through customs? How do the Saudi authorities deal with women in short dresses bringing bullets through airports?

‘That hydroelectric generator is very noisy,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t buy it.’

‘What if I told you it was yours for just seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars?’

‘Seven hundred and forty thousand dollars,’ counters Amy.

‘Seven hundred and forty-five,’ says Adam.

‘Sold,’ says Amy. ‘I don’t suppose it’s copper?’

‘Copper?’ says Adam. ‘Probably got some copper wiring in it. Why?’

‘Nothing,’ says Amy. ‘I should get some sleep.’

‘Me too,’ says Adam.

‘Could we chat tomorrow too, do you think?’

‘I’m in and out of things all day,’ says Adam. ‘But I’ll try. Sweet dreams, Princess.’

‘Sweet dreams, my prince,’ says Amy.

If she’s not going to see him, she hopes at least she’ll speak to him.

Amy closes her eyes. She opens them immediately when she wonders why on earth she can hear a hydroelectric generator when Adam is supposed to be going to bed?

She looks at her watch. Midnight. Happy anniversary, Amy.

Part Five

THE HUNTER’S REST

53

Right now Mark Drury is feeling pretty pleased with himself. He has made it across both moats, and nobody is any the wiser. That’s one more moat than he has ever had to navigate before. He scratches his neck, just above the eagle tattoo.

He is as surprised as anyone to find himself back in the hitman game.

Mark had been going straight. Had given up his vices – the main vice being murdering people for a living, but he had also cut down on his vaping – and was settling into life in the City. He was good at it. Not as good as he was at being a hitman, he’s very good at that, but good enough. The key was to show no fear, and, as befits a man who has recently knifed a bodyguard to death in an Italian villa, then shot someone in broad daylight in Palm Springs, Mark has always had a very healthy relationship with fear.

It’s a new client, and a new opportunity to impress. Eriksson is the guy’s name. Jakob Eriksson. Swedish? Doesn’t really matter, he pays well.

He sees a car leaving the house. It’s the ex-cop, Steve. The ex-cop does not see him. And that’s what you get when you hire a professional.

Mark remembers those first few weeks at the brokerage, everything around him moving at speed, everyone running circles around him. But he’d picked it up, just like he’d picked this game up years ago. Knew his business after a couple of months, and a couple of years later was making good money. He really thought he was set for life. He’d even taken Laura to Greece for a week, and thought his days of killing for a living were behind him.

How long had he gone without killing anyone? Must have been three years?

Then came AI.

At first it was fun, making pictures and little videos. For a month or so it was making his job easier too. Taking care of some of the boring stuff, some of the grunt work. Numbers, invoices, the sort of thing Mark wasn’t all that good at. Mark was good at the instinct stuff. At spotting something before his competitor.

But fast-forward another two months or so and it became clear that AI was better than Mark at the instinct stuff too. The AI could spot something before its competitor, and, he realized later than he should, its competitor was Mark himself.

So AI took his job, and now he’s in a ditch working out the best way to kill Vern Blackwood. Them’s the breaks. All Mark Drury knows for sure is that this is a job artificial intelligence can never take.

Shooting people for money and plumbing, they’re both future-proof.

Another vehicle makes its way down the long drive. Only a delivery though, a local off-licence. Third delivery this morning.

He’d heard about the first job, just over a week ago now, at his old gym in the City. This Eriksson was looking for someone to travel to a little town called Brockenhurst, track down a woman and give her a warning. Easy.

Did Mark know anyone? Yes, said Mark, feeling an old familiar feeling. I can do it. Have you ever done this sort of work before? Mark simply tapped the side of his nose. Leave it with me.

In the end he had improvised and given the woman’s husband a beating instead. Warning delivered. Worked a treat.

Yep, he’s got the skills to fall back on, and the money’s great. More than he was on in the City, to be honest, and the hours are a lot better. You never had to dig yourself into a grassy hollow and cover yourself with leaves when you worked in the City, but to all other intents and purposes this was the better job.

That’s if you are happy with killing somebody, and Mark is. Some people aren’t comfortable with killing strangers, and this wouldn’t be the gig for them. Honestly, people have asked him before, and that’s the advice Mark has given them.

He starts to clean his gun. It’s a Beretta 92FS, and he has always sworn by them. It’s easy to get swayed by the branding when you’re buying a new gun, some guys he knows will use Heckler & Koch, but Mark Drury thinks you’re paying extra just for the name. Some of the younger guys, the hipsters, will use a Glock or a Walther P22. That’s up to them, of course. You have to go with whichever one speaks to you.

Is Mark himself future-proof, he wonders? He will find out soon enough. He knows above all that his value to this Mr Eriksson is that he’s completely expendable. Completely replaceable.

But Mark Drury has been replaced once, by a computer brain that could play the markets, and he’s not about to be replaced again, so he’s not going to disappoint Mr Eriksson. A steady job is more important than ever in this economy.

There have been cars coming in and out all morning. He has names for most of the people currently inside. There’re two bodyguards, Amy and Lee, there’s the woman from TV, Rosie thingy, there’s the ex-cop, Steve, who just left, and, of course, at the heart of it all, Vern Blackwood. Mr Eriksson wants him dead asap.

You can tell Eriksson is a pro, this new job came from a new phone, the money from a new account. Mark had asked a couple of gentle questions about the first three jobs, just to make sure he was talking to the same man. All checked out, Eriksson just making himself hard to trace, so here he is.

As if on cue, Rosie now drives away from the house. Open-top E-type Jag, very nice. If Vern was in the passenger seat, Mark could take an easy shot from here. But they’re keeping him all wrapped up, just as they should.

Mark now starts cleaning the suppressor, what the kids call a silencer, and this is where Mark has to admit he has succumbed a little to the marketing. In the old days if he needed a suppressor, and you do have to keep things quiet sometimes, he had always gone with the Gemtech Lunar 9. I mean, why wouldn’t you? It just works. But tooling up for this job – where he definitely will need a silencer, there’s a house full of people here – he’s gone for a newer model, the Dead Air Ghost 9mm. I mean, how could he resist?

The house full of people is concerning Mark a little. If it wasn’t concerning him, he wouldn’t be doing his job properly.

It would have been a lot easier to kill Vern Blackwood in Italy the other day. No moats there. But who is Mark Drury to question Jakob Eriksson’s planning? He’ll have his reasons. Better to do what you’re told and take the money. Leave logical thinking to AI.

They say the New Forest is beautiful, but he’d seen so little of it when he was beating up that guy. That was just a day trip. This time though, there’s a hotel. He spent the night there last night and drove over here this morning. The Hunter’s Rest, it’s called. Laura would have liked it if she was still around, but at roughly the same time his brokerage replaced him with an algorithm, Laura had replaced him with a padel coach called Franco.

He’s made himself fairly comfy for now. He’ll be here all day and all evening, unless an opportunity presents itself to nip in, take a shot, then nip out again. The warm weather is helping. He’ll stay dug in till about midnight then head back to The Hunter’s Rest. He wonders if the bar will still be open.

To his left, Mark Drury hears a sound. He saw two foxes earlier. You’d think they’d be tucked up asleep by now, but they must have come back.

54

Rosie is not at the dentist, but she wishes she were.

People only come to see you in person if they have very good news, or if they have very bad news.

Her manager, Elspeth, is beaming from ear to ear, but Rosie is fairly sure that she doesn’t have good news. Elspeth smiles because Elspeth always smiles.

‘I got the train down,’ says Elspeth. ‘Can you believe it?’

‘Can I believe you got the train down?’ Rosie asks. ‘Yes.’

‘Normally I drive,’ says Elspeth. ‘But they took my licence away.’

‘Okay,’ says Rosie. ‘Okay. What did they take your licence away for?’

‘Literally nothing,’ beams Elspeth. ‘I hit someone.’

‘You hit someone?’

‘Well, I didn’t hit someone,’ laughs Elspeth. ‘My car did!’

‘I see,’ says Rosie.

‘Ergo, that’s why I took the train,’ says Elspeth. ‘All a bit of woke nonsense. This restaurant is soooo cute. Mega rural.’

The Hunter’s Rest is not only the best hotel in the area, it also has the best restaurant.

‘Before we order,’ says Rosie, ‘do you have news for me? About the book?’

‘Let’s order first,’ says Elspeth. ‘I’m ravishing.’

‘I suspect you’re either ravenous or famished,’ says Rosie. ‘Let’s talk first though.’

‘But what if you storm out?’ says Elspeth.

‘So you have bad news?’ Rosie asks. She knew it.

‘God, depends what you define as bad,’ says Elspeth. ‘Depends if you want to be binary about it.’

‘For the sake of argument,’ says Rosie, ‘let’s say I do want to be binary about it.’

‘Oh, goodness, then it’s bad news,’ says Elspeth, still smiling. ‘Yes, then it is bad news. Do you like oysters? We could share some oysters?’

Why does she smile all the time? Either something deeply traumatic has happened to Elspeth at some point, or nothing traumatic at all has ever happened to her. It’ll be one or the other.

Rosie will not be staying for lunch. Ernesto called just before she walked in to say he’d heard gunshots outside the castle. Six of them. He and Lee are out in the grounds, investigating. Lots of gunshots in the countryside, of course, but unsettling news nonetheless.

‘Are we doing wine?’ Elspeth asks.

‘Just tell me,’ says Rosie.

‘It’s only your ridiculous publisher,’ says Elspeth. ‘They called me this morning on the old blower. They’ve decided not to renew. Which goes to show what they know. Namely, nothing!’

‘They’re not renewing my contract?’ says Rosie. ‘I’ve been with them for twenty-five years!’

‘Exactly,’ says Elspeth. ‘Long enough. New challenges. Or just retire even. See the world, play bingo.’

Rosie has never been ‘let go’ by a publisher before. She has changed publishers a number of times, sometimes for creative reasons, sometimes because a managing director has fired a crossbow in an editorial meeting. But no one has ever left her before.

‘I’m … disappointed,’ says Rosie. Something has collapsed inside her.

‘Nonsense,’ says Elspeth, reading the menu again. ‘Your publisher is leaning into fem-gore horror for the next few years.’

‘What is fem-gore horror?’ Rosie asks.

‘No idea,’ says Elspeth. ‘But another client is doing a book at the moment that has a robot wolf on the cover, so that’s a lot of fun. It’s like, how can a robot be a wolf, you know? Does not compute.’

She says this last bit like a robot and makes herself laugh.

Is this the end, Rosie wonders? After all, she is now [redacted at manuscript stage] years old. Will anybody else take a chance on her? Perhaps And the Devil Blinked First is no good? Perhaps she has become a rotten writer? Although Amy liked it, didn’t she?

What if there are no more books? No more evenings at the keyboard killing bad guys and making sworn enemies have sex with each other? What then, Rosie?

What if she can’t get up?

‘I’m going to leave now,’ says Rosie.

‘Oh no, why?’ says Elspeth. ‘Not on my account?’

‘I’m going to go home,’ says Rosie. ‘I’m going to have a Martini, and then I’m going to solve a murder.’

Rosie is good at dramatic exits.

What she is really going to do is go home, lock herself away, then curl into a ball and cry. Unless those gunshots lead to something. There will be Martinis later, but for now Rosie feels like she has been hit by Elspeth’s car. Everything ends, she knows that. But she doesn’t want this to be that end.

She stands.

‘I might still have wine?’ says Elspeth.

Rosie makes a ‘be my guest’ gesture.

She has enough money to see her through, but money is not why Rosie writes. Rosie writes because it’s the only thing no one will ever be able to take from her.

Diamonds can come and go. Cars and houses can be repossessed. But you’ll always be able to get your hands on a pen and a bit of paper.

Don’t get her wrong, she loves spending money. But Rosie has no interest in spending money if she isn’t earning money.

Earn your money fairly, don’t cheat on your tax, and spend what’s left on whatever you choose. Those are Rosie’s only politics.

Who is she without her stories? A caricature. A failure. My God, a joke?

As she is leaving, she sees a couple sitting at a quiet table. It is Steve and Georgie Glazier.

She thought he’d got a dentist appointment suspiciously easily.

Rosie allows herself a smile. Seeing Steve being so brave gives her a little hope. It’s easy to think there’s no future. Easy to give up.

Bonne chance, Stevie, you fine man. None of us is long for this world. Find some happiness where you may.

Rosie is on the floor again. What happens next is up to her.

55

It is not a date. Yes, Steve is wearing a jacket he has borrowed from Tony, but it is not a date. Sometimes a guy likes to wear a jacket. If you’d like to show Steve where in the laws of Great Britain and Northern Ireland it says that wearing a jacket is suddenly a crime, then feel free to lock him up.

‘You look very smart,’ says Georgie Glazier. ‘What’s the T-shirt?’

‘Saxon, British Tour ’88,’ says Steve. ‘You look …’

Now, his next choice of word is going to be very important. Something complimentary, but not flirtatious. Something that says he admires the way she looks, without being aroused by it. He can’t say she looks ‘beautiful’, obviously, although she does. She’s wearing a sort of blue top, and sort of cream trousers, and a necklace, and the blue top has some white piping on it. Her blonde hair looks like that woman from the film Debbie once made him see. ‘Beautiful’ is out, for sure, ‘pretty’ also, that’s too sexual. ‘Handsome’ doesn’t sound right at all. ‘Lovely’? Is that sexual? Or is it twee? ‘Wonderful’? Come on, brain, I need you right now, she’s beginning to stare.

‘You look,’ says Steve, ‘resplendent.’

‘Goodness,’ says Georgie.

Resplendent, thinks Steve. Thanks for nothing, brain.

‘Train okay?’ he asks. Back on safe ground.

‘I refuse to talk about trains,’ says Georgie. ‘You are far more interesting than that, Steve Wheeler.’

Steve recognizes that it’s not the time or place, but the rail infrastructure in the New Forest is actually very interesting. For instance, the reason you can’t get a direct train from Portsmouth to Brockenhurst is because, if you can believe this, a nineteenth-century by-law –

‘Sir?’ says a voice.

Steve realizes that a waiter has appeared and asked him a question.

‘Still or sparkling?’

‘Umm, still, please,’ says Steve. He wanted sparkling really, but was that too racy? Did it send out the wrong signals?

‘Sparkling for me,’ says Georgie. ‘To match this gentleman’s eyes.’

Through the window of the restaurant Steve could swear he sees Rosie. He thought she’d got a dentist appointment suspiciously easily.

‘What shall we talk about, Steve?’ Georgie asks.

‘Let’s talk about murder,’ says Steve, and sees a waiter with a basket of bread overhear him and make a last-minute diversion away from their table.

‘That’s more like it,’ says Georgie. ‘That beats trains, doesn’t it?’

Again, not the time, but Steve is interested in both. If this isn’t a date, and it isn’t, then it should be an interview. Talking to a suspect. Now, Georgie mustn’t think it’s some sort of criminal interrogation, but, equally, she mustn’t think it’s a date. What a tightrope. It is still entirely possible he is sitting opposite the woman who had Esteban and Korbin killed, and pinned it on Eriksson.

‘I think you recognized the name Jakob Eriksson,’ says Steve. ‘When we came to see you?’

‘First I’m resplendent, and now I’m a liar,’ says Georgie. ‘What mixed messages.’

‘Did you recognize the name?’ says Steve.

‘No,’ says Georgie.

‘Okay,’ says Steve. He knows she’s lying.

‘But I did recognize the man in the picture,’ says Georgie.

There we go. ‘You recognized the man calling himself Jakob Eriksson?’

‘They never do this on the dates on Love Island, Steve,’ says Georgie. ‘So he’s not called Jakob Eriksson?’

Steve shakes his head. ‘He’s not even Swedish.’

Georgie shrugs. ‘I mean, not all that many people are Swedish. What is he?’

‘English,’ says Steve.

‘I see,’ says Georgie. ‘And do you know his name?’

A new bread basket is finally making its way over to the table. Steve had been too nervous to eat this morning.

‘Have you heard of a man called Connor Brooks?’ Steve asks.

Georgie looks up to the left. ‘Possibly. Jog my memory.’

‘He committed suicide,’ says Steve, and sees the waiter with the bread basket swerve around them again. ‘In Málaga in 2001.’

‘So he’s not the man in the photograph?’

‘He is,’ says Steve. ‘We think Vern helped him to fake his own death.’

Steve catches the waiter’s eye now. ‘Could you just bring us some bread, whatever we’re talking about?’

‘Certainly, sir, right away,’ says the waiter. He is super-polite, but Steve notes that he does back away from him very slowly.

‘So Connor Brooks becomes Jakob Eriksson?’ says Georgie. ‘That’s the working hypothesis?’

‘It’s the confirmed hypothesis,’ says Steve. ‘You disagree?’

Georgie looks around her.

‘I can tell you anything, Steve?’

‘You can,’ Steve confirms.

‘It is Brooks,’ says Georgie. ‘I recognized him as soon as you showed me the photo. Remember him from years back, had no idea about the fake death, anything like that. He’s had some work done, but it’s him. You think Brooks is the one threatening Vern?’

‘Best guess,’ says Steve. ‘All we know for sure is that three men have been murdered in the last ten days. One shot in the head –’

‘Your bread, sir,’ says the waiter.

‘One knifed in the chest –’ says Steve.

‘There’s wholemeal,’ says the waiter. ‘There’s a sourdough.’

‘And the last one assassinated in broad daylight.’

‘And a rosemary focaccia,’ says the waiter. ‘I will bring you butter.’

‘Thank you,’ says Steve, then turns back to Georgie. ‘And I don’t want Vern to be the fourth corpse.’

‘I don’t either,’ says Georgie. ‘In case you were in any doubt.’

‘I’m always in doubt,’ says Steve. ‘That’s my job. If you had to guess what was going on here, what would that guess be?’

‘Hostile takeover,’ says Georgie. ‘Brooks is picking off his rivals one by one. And he’s leaving Vern till last?’

‘Which all makes sense,’ says Steve. ‘But what about the note? The warning?’

‘Go on,’ says Georgie. She looks genuinely interested. If this was a date, then that would be a good sign. But it is not a date, so it is moot.

‘Connor Brooks, back from the dead, is killing his rivals,’ says Steve. ‘But doesn’t kill Vern. He just warns Vern. Which makes no sense … unless –’

‘Unless the two of them are working together in some way,’ says Georgie. ‘Vern writes the note himself, to make it look as if he and Brooks are enemies?’

‘Whereas if they really were enemies,’ says Steve, ‘then Vern’s brains would be spattered over his bathroom wall.’

The waiter puts the butter on the table. ‘We salt it in-house, sir. Enjoy.’

Steve nods his thanks.

‘So they’re not enemies,’ says Georgie. ‘They’re in this together?’

‘But if they’re not enemies,’ says Steve, ‘then why hire We Solve Murders? And why kill Esteban in the first place?’

Georgie tries some bread. ‘This rosemary focaccia is terrific.’

‘I can see a route through everything except the first murder,’ says Steve. ‘Why kill Esteban? And why leave a note in his pocket? It doesn’t make any sense to me.’

‘Well, that I genuinely don’t know,’ says Georgie.

There’s something unusual about her phrasing there. As if there were other things Georgie genuinely does know. Meg Ryan! That’s the name of the actress in the film. Her name is an anagram of ‘Germany’. Steve remembers that coming in handy at the quiz once.

‘We should order,’ says Georgie. ‘Then we can really get on with our date.’

‘It’s not …’ says Steve. ‘Not … really … a date.’

Georgie leans across the table and whispers in his ear.

‘Oh, it’s a date.’

Steve’s phone rings, and he glances down. Amy.

‘I should …’ he says. ‘I’m sorry, I should get this.’

‘Of course,’ says Georgie.

‘And, listen,’ says Steve, ‘I’m going to talk as if I’ve just been to the dentist.’

Georgie shrugs this off as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

‘A-a-m-my,’ says Steve, thickly.

‘They’ve found a body at the castle,’ says Amy. ‘Hitman, I think. Young guy. It’s a mess. Brains everywhere. Get over here.’

Steve looks at Georgie. ‘I’m so sorry to do this to you. But they’ve just found a body.’

Georgie looks panicked. ‘Not Vern?’

‘Not Vern,’ says Steve, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘Some kid with his head blown off.’

‘And if I could just take you through our specials today,’ says the waiter.

56

Whoever the man was, he had made it past both moats, so you had to give him credit for that at least. He had found himself a vantage point behind a copse of trees and dug in. His little hiding place couldn’t be seen from the house, but had a perfect view of the entrance. It’s exactly where Amy would have dug in if she was planning to kill someone.

She looks down at the man, bleached blond hair, eagle tattoo, back of his skull blown off. That wouldn’t have happened to her, she’s pretty sure of it, but not everyone is her.

‘When did you hear the shots?’ Amy asks. She had stepped out of her car and straight into the middle of a crime scene.

‘About 12.30,’ says Lee. Amy would have made a note of the exact time if she had been there.

‘12.33,’ says Ernesto. ‘I was in the garden, and I ran straight in to get my weapon.’

‘That’s when you rang me,’ says Rosie.

‘I was with Vern in the … uh … the big room with the sofas,’ says Lee.

‘Drawing room,’ says Rosie.

‘We looked at each other,’ says Lee, ‘Ernesto and me, and we both said “gunshots”.’

Ernesto nods. ‘And Vern says, “Of course gunshots, any idiot knows those are gunshots.”’

‘But you hear gunshots all the time in the country,’ says Lee. ‘We meant real gunshots. We both thought they sounded wrong. Like a revolver, and too close.’

‘It wasn’t a farmer shooting a duck,’ says Ernesto. ‘Or a cow.’

A small revolver would make sense of the head wound. Small gun, up close. Amy sees Rosie’s gates opening for a car. It’s Steve. She needs him to help her figure out what’s happened here.

‘Where’s Vern?’ she asks.

‘We took him to the safe room,’ says Lee.

‘I don’t have a safe room,’ says Rosie.

‘Where you keep your booze,’ says Ernesto.

‘My wine cellar,’ says Rosie. ‘Oh, he’s safe.’

‘And we came straight out,’ says Lee. ‘Both armed. But no one in sight.’

‘We must have searched for a half-hour,’ says Ernesto. ‘Then Lee spotted something.’

‘Just a flash of yellow,’ says Lee. ‘I guess this guy’s hair.’

‘We both start firing,’ says Ernesto. ‘But this guy doesn’t fire back. We look at each other like “Did we hit him?” So we’re calling out, and nothing.’

‘And we crawl over,’ says Lee. ‘And then I see the blood.’

‘So, Lee, he motions to me,’ says Ernesto. ‘And we both stand up, and we see straight away the guy’s dead. I think you say “brown bread” in this country.’

‘No,’ says Rosie. ‘We also say “dead”.’

Steve is out of his car and hurrying over.

‘My God, I love it when Steve runs,’ says Rosie. ‘I feel like I’m on safari.’

‘Anything on him?’ Amy asks.

‘No ID,’ says Ernesto. ‘Key card to a hotel.’

He shows Amy a white plastic card, now blood-stained. It has an elaborate THR symbol on it.

‘The Hunter’s Rest,’ says Amy. ‘Whoever he is, that’s where he’s staying.’

‘Okay,’ says Ernesto. ‘We go to The Hunter’s Rest.’

Amy nods. ‘We need to find out his name.’

Steve reaches them and puts his hands on his knees as he looks at the corpse. He holds up one of the hands to let Amy know he needs a second.

‘He’s the guy,’ says Steve. ‘Who beat up Tony. Same guy.’

‘What?’ says Amy.

‘How do you know?’ asks Rosie. ‘Just because of the hair?’

Steve is still catching his breath. ‘Felicity got his photo.’

‘Felicity?’ says Amy.

‘I don’t think we’ve been keeping her busy enough,’ says Steve. ‘Where’s Vern?’

‘In my wine fridge,’ says Rosie.

‘Good, he’s safe,’ says Steve.

‘Who killed him?’ says Rosie. ‘I don’t quite understand.’

Ernesto looks out to the treeline. ‘We were outside in two minutes. Someone could have made it to the trees.’

‘Someone quick,’ says Lee.

‘We should really go and let Vern out,’ says Rosie.

‘He’s okay in there for now,’ says Amy.

‘I’m not worried about him,’ says Rosie. ‘I’m worried about my wine.’

‘Let’s get this guy covered up,’ says Amy.

‘I’ll do it,’ says Lee. Lee looks very jumpy to Amy.

‘And we can go and tell Vern the good news,’ says Steve. ‘Connor Brooks’s hitman is dead.’

‘You’ve got to tell him the bad news too,’ says Amy, as they reach the house. ‘That there’s someone with a gun loose in the countryside. In fact, someone with two guns.’

Rosie takes a set of keys down from a wooden board.

‘Why two guns?’ says Steve.

‘Because there was no gun with the body,’ says Amy. ‘Ernesto?’

‘Nope,’ says Ernesto. ‘What you see is what we saw.’

‘And the one thing we know about gunmen,’ says Amy, ‘is that they always carry a gun.’

‘It’s where the name comes from,’ says Ernesto.

Rosie leads them down a narrow stone corridor that ends with a heavy metal door.

Before she opens it, she turns to Steve. ‘How was the dentist, by the way?’

Steve lodges his tongue into his cheek. ‘Need a couple of fillings, but nothing major.’

‘That’s nice for you,’ says Rosie.

‘And how was your dentist?’ Steve asks.

‘Honestly?’ says Rosie. ‘Bloody awful.’

She turns the key in the lock and opens the door. ‘Vernon, the cavalry are here!’

‘With good news!’ says Steve.

‘And bad news,’ says Amy.

‘I hope you’ve got a bottle open for us?’ says Ernesto. ‘Something Spanish.’

Rosie stops dead in her tracks. Amy bumps into her and cranes around to see what she is seeing.

Vern Blackwood is slumped on the floor in a pool of blood.

Amy rips off his shirt to find a bullet hole straight through the heart.

‘Dead,’ she says.

‘No,’ says Steve. ‘How?’

‘It’s impossible,’ says Ernesto. ‘He was in a locked room. Lee locked it himself.’

‘What now?’ says Rosie. ‘Even for me this is a bit much.’

Ernesto and Amy are opening every door in the wine cellar, looking in every possible hiding place. Steve and Rosie are trying to prop Vern’s body up.

‘It can’t be possible, Amy,’ says Ernesto. ‘You tell me how.’

When Amy is sure that the gunman is not hiding in the cellar with them, she leans in closely to Ernesto.

‘I need to talk to Lee,’ she whispers.

Ernesto looks her in the eyes. He gives a slow nod. ‘I understand. You need me to help?’

‘You go to The Hunter’s Rest,’ says Amy. ‘It’s in Axley. Find the hitman’s room. If he’s stupid enough to get shot, he might be stupid enough to have left something there.’

Amy and Ernesto rejoin the others.

‘Okay,’ says Amy. ‘Rosie, I need you to wait here for the police.’

‘The actual police?’ asks Rosie.

‘Afraid so,’ says Amy. ‘Needs must. Steve, I need you to go to The Hunter’s Rest with Ernesto.’

Steve shakes his head.

‘No?’ says Amy.

‘There’s someone I need to talk to first,’ says Steve.

‘You going to tell us who?’ says Amy.

‘No,’ says Steve. ‘Sorry, it’s almost certainly nothing.’

Amy looks at Vern’s bloodied corpse for the final time, then hugs her father-in-law.

‘Make sure you stay safe. I’ve got a feeling there are more bullets to come.’

57

It really is almost certainly nothing.

Felicity is behind her familiar desk when Steve arrives. Surely she wouldn’t have killed the man with blond hair and calmly returned to work?

The whole idea is ridiculous, but Steve has to check. Somebody killed the hitman, and it’s not immediately apparent who. It’s not crazy to speak to someone who had both a photo of the man and a grudge. He’ll join Ernesto straight afterwards.

‘Hello, Steve,’ she says, as he sits opposite her.

‘I need to ask you something,’ says Steve. ‘And I need you to be honest with me.’

‘How intriguing,’ says Felicity.

‘Listen,’ says Steve. ‘Depending on what you say, perhaps it doesn’t even have to leave this room.’

It’s okay, Felicity is a grown-up. She’ll understand that he has to check.

‘It’s just –’ Steve hears a noise from the kitchen. ‘Who’s here?’

The question answers itself as Tony walks into the room with two cups of tea.

‘Hello, stranger,’ says Tony. ‘Kettle’s just boiled if you want one?’

‘I’m okay, Tone,’ says Steve. ‘Flying visit. Just need a chat with Felicity.’

‘Right you are,’ says Tony, and puts Felicity’s tea down on her desk. He walks over to an armchair and sits.

‘Might need some privacy,’ says Steve.

‘I’m not here,’ says Tony.

‘You are here,’ says Steve.

‘Pretend I’m not,’ says Tony. ‘I’ll just zone out.’

‘It’s We Solve Murders business,’ says Steve.

‘It’s his favourite armchair though,’ says Felicity. ‘And if you want to talk about Connor Brooks, then we both want to hear it.’

‘There’s nothing you wouldn’t want Tony to hear?’ Steve asks.

‘Nothing,’ says Felicity. ‘I have no secrets from Tony.’

‘You bought a packet of chocolate Hobnobs and didn’t tell me,’ says Tony.

‘Because you would have eaten them,’ says Felicity.

‘That’s what you’re supposed to do with them,’ says Tony. ‘Back me up, Steve.’

Steve mustn’t get drawn into this. Does Felicity have a gun?

‘I’m not here to talk about chocolate Hobnobs,’ says Steve. ‘Although Tony is right.’

‘They were for guests,’ says Felicity. ‘And he would have eaten the whole packet.’

‘You should always have a guest packet and an eating packet,’ says Steve.

‘That’s what I said,’ says Tony. ‘Anyway, I’m not here.’

‘Felicity,’ says Steve. ‘I have to ask you –’

The phone rings. Felicity holds up a finger to stop Steve and answers it. ‘Hello, We Solve Murders, how may I direct your call? … No, we’re not a bookshop … No. I promise you … It would be a good name, yes … I’d suggest Waterstones or TG Jones … TG Jones … it used to be WH Smith … I don’t know … yes, it’s still WH Smith at the sta–’

Steve takes the receiver and puts it down. ‘Felicity, do you have a gun?’

‘A gun?’ says Felicity. ‘Do I have a gun?’

‘Yes,’ says Steve. ‘I need you to tell me the truth.’

‘Why would I have a gun?’ says Felicity. ‘Are you hearing this, Tony?’

‘Gun?’ says Tony. ‘Of course she doesn’t have a gun.’

Steve believes Tony. He is not a good liar.

‘I wouldn’t be nicking Hobnobs if she had a gun,’ Tony adds.

‘Why are you asking, Steve?’ says Felicity.

‘The man in the alley,’ says Steve. ‘The blond man?’

The phone rings again, but he has Felicity’s full attention now. She cuts the call off.

‘That’s who beat me up?’ asks Tony.

‘Yep,’ says Steve. ‘He was shot a couple of hours ago. Outside Rosie’s place.’

Felicity nods. ‘That’s why you were asking if I had a gun?’

Felicity stands and walks over to Tony’s chair. She kisses his forehead.

‘Shot dead?’ asks Felicity.

‘Very,’ says Steve. ‘Six bullets.’

‘Good,’ says Felicity. ‘It wasn’t me, I promise you that. But good.’

‘Bit much, six bullets,’ says Tony. ‘He was only a young lad.’

‘I have to ask what you were doing this morning,’ says Steve. ‘About half eleven. That’s when they heard the shots.’

‘I was with Tony,’ says Felicity.

Couples, in Steve’s experience, often give each other alibis. ‘He was with me.’ ‘She was in all evening.’ You can usually tell the liars. Either the alibi is too vague, or the alibi is too complicated.

Steve turns to his best friend. ‘And what were you doing together, Tony? You weren’t at work?’

Tony looks at Felicity. Steve looks at Tony.

‘Neither of you were at work?’ says Steve. ‘When the hitman was shot?’

This question hangs in the air for a long moment.

‘There’s a horse,’ says Tony.

‘A horse?’ says Steve.

‘I saw him the other day, out near Beaulieu,’ says Tony. ‘And I came back and I said to Felicity, it’s the damnedest thing, Phil, but I’ve just seen this horse, and he looks exactly like Harry Kane.’

‘The England footballer,’ says Felicity.

‘I know who Harry Kane is,’ says Steve. If Tony is lying to save Felicity, then he’s definitely chosen ‘too complicated’ over ‘too vague’.

‘And I was kicking myself,’ says Tony, ‘because I hadn’t got a photo of him, and I thought the local paper might like it, so I woke up this morning, and I was getting ready for work, I really was, I’ve got a VW Polo in at the moment, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the horse, so I said, I’m just going to head off, and Felicity says, you’re going to find that horse, aren’t you? And I said, no, you know, I’ve got this VW Polo that won’t behave, and she said, don’t lie to me, Tony Taylor, and I said, okay, I’m going to look for that horse, I can’t stop thinking about him, and she said, I’ll come with you, and I said, but you’ve got work, and, full disclosure, Steve, she says, I can take the morning off, and we jumped in the car and drove to Beaulieu to look for Harry Kane.’

Tony has gone straight through ‘too complicated’ and out the other side. If Steve heard this in an interview room he’d know it was a lie, but this is Tony Taylor.

‘Anybody see you?’ Steve asks.

‘Shouldn’t have thought so,’ says Tony. ‘We were mainly in fields.’

Steve doesn’t know what to think.

‘You want to see a picture of him?’ Tony asks.

‘You found him?’ asks Steve.

‘Of course we found him,’ says Tony. ‘Where do you think he’d have gone? Southampton?’

Tony scrolls through his phone then hands it to Steve.

‘Jesus Christ,’ says Steve. ‘He really looks like Harry Kane.’

‘That’s why I had to go back,’ says Tony.

‘I get it now,’ agrees Steve.

‘The Southampton Mercury are going to put it on their Facebook page,’ says Felicity.

The next photo is a selfie with Felicity, Tony and Harry Kane the horse in the middle. One final check. Steve opens the data attached to the selfie photo. It was taken this morning at 11.55 a.m. There was absolutely no way Felicity could have shot the man in the ditch. The question of who did, then, is still open.

Steve gives a slight bow to Felicity. ‘You understand why I had to ask?’

‘Of course,’ says Felicity. ‘We’re a detective agency. Go and catch whoever did it. And thank them from me.’

Steve gives her a hug, then gives Tony a punch on his good shoulder. ‘If you need me, I’ll be at The Hunter’s Rest, catching a bad guy.’

Steve walks out into the fresh air. He’d had to check, he’d had to. But of course it wasn’t Felicity. Steve knew that all along. But he’s still a copper at heart, and you have to keep your options open. Of course she didn’t shoot Tony’s attacker. Of course she doesn’t have a gun.

Although, as he gets into his car, Steve realizes that, despite him asking her a number of times, Felicity didn’t actually deny having a gun.

58

Lee is Vern’s surviving bodyguard. In fact, of the four men at Vern’s villa on the night this all began, he is now the last man standing.

He was there the night that Esteban was shot from the back. He was there the night that Korbin was knifed in the front.

And here he is again, sitting by the body of a hitman, while Vern’s blood is adding to Rosie’s claret collection indoors.

That’s a hell of a run of bad luck for one man. Or a hell of a run of incompetence for a bodyguard. Or?

Amy sits next to him. He looks upset.

‘You okay?’ Amy asks.

‘This is –’ Lee sweeps his hand over towards the body and back towards the house. ‘It’s not for me. I’ve seen it all before.’

‘Death?’ Amy asks.

Lee nods. ‘Too much of it. I signed up at eighteen to see the world, have a bit of fun. And … well, I’m sure you know.’

Lee wants to tell her something. But he also wants to tell her nothing. She just needs to steer very gently through the middle.

‘And did you?’ Amy asks. ‘See the world? Have a bit of fun?’

‘I suppose,’ says Lee. ‘At first.’

‘Rosie asked how many people you’d killed,’ says Amy.

‘Too many,’ says Lee. ‘Can I show you something?’

‘Can I ask you to put your gun down first?’ Amy asks.

‘My gun?’ says Lee. ‘Why?’

‘Just make us both feel a bit more comfortable,’ says Amy.

Lee shrugs and tosses his gun out of reach. ‘I’ll be happy if I never see another gun.’

‘What did you want to show me?’ Amy asks.

Lee rolls up the sleeve on his T-shirt. He has a tattoo that reads CFC.

‘Chelsea,’ he says.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ says Amy. ‘No wonder you’ve killed so many people.’

‘Had that done in Helmand Province,’ says Lee. ‘Do you want to know about the last person I killed?’

Amy can’t help but glance at the body in the hollow and think about Vern Blackwood. Had Lee fired a bullet at Vern before he shut the door of the wine cellar? He’d have needed a suppressor, but the hitman’s gun must be somewhere and that would have a suppressor.

‘I can’t tell you the unit I fought in,’ says Lee. ‘It didn’t have a name. But sometimes we’d be told to get ourselves in a bit of trouble. Go where we shouldn’t.’

Rosie leaves the house in a hurry. Amy calls over to her. ‘Rosie, you have to stay here for the police.’

‘I’ve decided you and Lee can deal with the police,’ says Rosie. ‘I’m going to The Hunter’s Rest. I can’t just sit and look at a corpse, it’s like being married again.’

Rosie, not waiting for a reply, jumps into her car and speeds off down the drive.

‘So,’ says Amy to Lee, ‘you were doing something you shouldn’t have?’

Lee’s gun is out of range, but what if he does have the hitman’s gun too? Amy still has her gun, and she realizes that Lee hasn’t asked her to dispose of it. Lee seems to have other things on his mind.

‘We were in a compound,’ says Lee. ‘They were holding someone, a journalist, our job was to get him out without a fuss.’

Amy has done a few jobs like that. Darkness, unfamiliar buildings, guards. It’s what you train for, but you still need a bit of luck.

‘He’s being held in a shower block, this guy,’ says Lee, ‘and we’ve got one man throwing a smoke grenade through the door, and two men going in through the roof. I’m on a perimeter wall, I can see the whole scene, you know, night vision, all the kit, and I see one of theirs starting a little patrol. Big gun, but T-shirt and sandals, so not expecting anything. He’s walking between two buildings, and I don’t have a clean shot, so I jump down off the wall and follow the way he’s just gone. I see him in the distance, and he looks left and right. I know if he turns right he’ll be on the shower block in a second. Our boys would have him, but he’d have time to let off some shots and scream the place down.’

‘So you have to take a shot?’ says Amy.

‘Or all hell breaks loose,’ says Lee. ‘I’ve got a Heckler and I know that’ll be silent, so I aim, and I take the shot, and down he goes. Job done. I jog up to check, make sure he’s dead, but I’ve done it often enough to know he is.’

Amy nods. You always know. Perhaps because it takes a piece of you too. So you feel it.

‘And I get to him,’ says Lee. ‘And he’s lying on his back, my age, and, you know, he’s a soldier, I know that. He’s got a gun, I’ve got a gun, we both knew the game.’

Lee goes quiet.

‘But?’ says Amy.

‘On his arm,’ says Lee. ‘I can just see it poking out under his T-shirt.’

Amy nods, and Lee rolls up his sleeve again.

‘Chelsea tattoo?’ says Amy.

‘We were playing that evening too,’ says Lee. ‘Champions League. I was excited, he’d have been excited too, eh?’

‘Yeah,’ says Amy.

‘We got the journalist,’ says Lee. ‘He wrote a book about us in the end, called it The Killing Crew. And that’s what we were. That’s what we did. We killed people.’

It is not the time, but Amy makes a note of the title, it sounds right up her street.

‘We get the chopper back,’ says Lee. ‘The lads had a few beers and watched the Chelsea match.’

‘And you?’ Amy asks.

‘Never watched a match again,’ says Lee. ‘To this day. And never shot a gun again.’

‘You’ve never shot a gun again?’ says Amy.

‘Left the army,’ says Lee. ‘Told them I had the heebie-jeebies, and they were good about it. They knew the work we were doing.’

‘But you became a bodyguard?’ says Amy. ‘An armed bodyguard?’

‘What else was I going to do?’ says Lee. ‘I did a week on the sites, hauling bricks, and I did two days as an estate agent, but you know a geezer with my employment history can do very nicely in this game.’

‘But you do have to shoot a gun every now and again,’ says Amy.

‘Not with Vern, I didn’t,’ says Lee. ‘Perfect job for me. Carried a gun, cleaned my gun, pointed my gun once or twice, but never shot it.’

‘You didn’t kill the hitman?’ Amy asks.

Lee smiles. ‘That’s what you thought?’

Amy considers this. ‘I didn’t not think it.’

‘I honestly thought I had the perfect job,’ says Lee. ‘Then everybody starts getting murdered. Bloody Esteban messed it all up for me.’

‘Esteban messed it up?’ says Amy. ‘I think Connor Brooks messed it up for you.’

‘Connor Brooks?’ says Lee. ‘No.’

‘No?’ repeats Amy.

‘No,’ says Lee. ‘Connor Brooks was all my fault.’

59

Rosie does feel a bit guilty, leaving Amy and Lee to deal with the police, but who better than those two, when you really think about it. They all speak the same language. Bodyguards, police, lifeboatmen, all that lot.

She left them looking very cosy together. If you can look cosy together sitting next to a dead hitman. If anyone can, Amy can.

Steve’s whereabouts are unknown, but he won’t be wasting time, Rosie knows that. Her nose tells her, however, that The Hunter’s Rest is the place to be. That’s where Ernesto is headed, and Rosie is sure she will catch him up.

She won’t catch him up simply because she drives like a maniac. She will catch him up, and she has to be brutally honest with herself here, because Tony Taylor once showed her a B-road that ‘I swear to you now, Rosie, will knock seven minutes off your drive to Axley, maybe even eight’. Rosie has to admit that while We Solve Murders is, strictly speaking, just her, Amy and Steve, they do have a very useful group of friends.

Tony has proved his worth here, thinks Rosie, as she touches 90 mph on this empty road. And Felicity never puts a foot wrong, although Rosie worries she doesn’t pay her enough and makes a mental note to give her a proper raise. Even Carlos Moss had reported for duty again, and although all he’d produced was the same photograph that Ernesto had, you couldn’t fault him for trying.

Rosie joins the main road again just outside Axley, and is delighted to see Ernesto in her rear-view mirror. She sees the sign for The Hunter’s Rest up ahead and throws her car into an absolutely unnecessary skid to access the car park. Behind her, Ernesto does the exact same thing, but with less skill, and his left rear wheel demolishes an AXLEY WELCOMES CAREFUL DRIVERS sign.

They park, very badly, next to each other. Ernesto gives her a smile.

‘How you get here first?’ he says. ‘I didn’t even see you overtake me?’

‘I’m just a better driver than you,’ says Rosie.

‘No one is a better driver than me,’ says Ernesto.

‘And yet here we are,’ says Rosie, taking his arm. ‘Come on. What’s the plan?’

‘We find the hitman’s room,’ says Ernesto. ‘Then you let me search it.’

‘It’s my case,’ says Rosie. ‘If anyone’s searching the room, it’s me.’

‘Is not your case any more,’ says Ernesto. ‘Is my case.’

‘Well, we may have to agree to disagree,’ says Rosie, as they make their way into the reception of The Hunter’s Rest. Lee was right, a lot of paintings of horses.

‘If it is your case,’ says Ernesto, with a small bow, ‘get your client on the phone for me, please. I will speak to him.’

Ah, Ernesto has a point there. Makes Rosie hope, with Vern dead, that Felicity has already had their invoice paid. Not that they’ve actually solved any murders yet. They will though, Rosie is sure, that’s probably what Steve and Amy are doing right now.

60

‘How can Connor Brooks be your fault?’ Amy asks.

‘The note,’ says Lee. ‘I wrote it.’

‘The note from Eriksson?’ says Amy. ‘You were working for him?’

Lee shakes his head. ‘Course not. That wouldn’t be the easy life.’

The first murder. The first link in the chain that has since spiralled out of control. They haven’t been able to make sense of it this whole time.

‘Then why write the note?’ says Amy.

‘The cleaner,’ says Lee.

‘The cleaner?’

‘The girl Vern fired,’ says Lee. ‘Maria.’

‘The one Esteban marched out at gunpoint?’ says Amy. ‘The one who’d been stealing?’

‘That’s her,’ says Lee. ‘Well, she was marched out at gunpoint, anyway. She hadn’t stolen anything.’

‘She hadn’t stolen anything?’ says Amy. ‘She was caught red-handed?’

‘She was caught red-handed,’ says Lee. ‘By Esteban.’

‘Oh,’ says Amy.

‘She was swearing blind she’d done nothing,’ says Lee. ‘I mean, in Italian, but you got the idea. Vern believed Esteban and told him to get her out of the house.’

‘Why would Esteban lie?’ Amy asks.

‘They’d just broken up,’ says Lee. ‘Esteban and Maria. Couldn’t both stay. She’d been working there a lot longer than him, but Esteban liked his job, and this was his solution. Thought it was foolproof. Vern had only hired Maria because her brother’s the local coke dealer, so he could trust her to keep quiet about anything she saw. But it meant he believed she was a thief.’

‘And she came back?’ says Amy.

‘She came back,’ says Lee.

‘I would have come back,’ says Amy.

‘Me too,’ says Lee.

Amy nods. ‘But she came back with a gun?’

‘Her brother’s gun is my guess,’ says Lee. ‘Esteban was on patrol. But I was watching the security monitors.’

‘I thought you were watching Rampage 8?’ says Amy.

‘Nah, I was working,’ says Lee. ‘I was always working.’

‘And you saw something?’

‘I saw Maria,’ says Lee. ‘She was coming through the gate.’

‘Without setting off any alarms?’

‘She knew every code in the place,’ says Lee. ‘She was the cleaner.’

‘It’s a good job for a murderer,’ says Amy.

‘As I get out, she has a gun raised, Esteban kneeling in front of her,’ says Lee. ‘And so I raise my gun, and I tell her we can sort the whole thing out. Esteban is telling me to shoot her. And she laughed.’

‘She laughed?’

‘She said Esteban had told her all about me,’ says Lee. ‘The bodyguard who can’t fire a gun. And then she pulled the trigger. Esteban slumped to the floor, and she walked away, her gun pointed at me until she disappeared back through the gates.’

‘And then?’

‘I couldn’t think what to do,’ says Lee. ‘A bodyguard shot, and I was there, and I didn’t stop it.’

‘But why the note?’

‘I could have stopped it with a single bullet,’ says Lee. ‘But I didn’t. She was right, I couldn’t. So I went back inside, and I thought about what would happen in the morning, when Esteban was found. Everyone would be asking what happened, and it wouldn’t be long until the rumour mill came up with an answer.’

Amy nods, getting it.

‘They would have worked out it was Maria,’ says Lee. ‘The police would have picked her up, and eventually she’d have told them everything that happened that night.’

‘And that would have been the end of your job?’ says Amy.

‘Exactly,’ says Lee.

‘So you gave them a different explanation?’

‘I thought it was perfect,’ says Lee. ‘I’d heard so much about Eriksson this, Eriksson that, the big bad wolf, why wouldn’t he come after Mr Blackwood?’

‘So you wrote the note, and you put it in Esteban’s pocket?’

‘Yeah,’ says Lee. ‘I thought that would be the end of it. Eriksson wasn’t really after Mr Blackwood, so surely nothing else would happen?’

‘And yet here’s a hitman with a bullet in his head,’ says Amy. ‘And Vern’s dead in the castle.’

‘I honestly can’t explain anything else that happened afterwards,’ says Lee. ‘I just made something up, and then it all came true.’

Well, that’s one murder solved, thinks Amy, but where does it leave everyone else? And how to make sense of the blond man, dead in this ditch, and Vern Blackwood, dead in the wine cellar?

Steve has headed somewhere, Amy doesn’t know where. Rosie and Ernesto are both going to The Hunter’s Rest. Connor Brooks is still somewhere out there.

Amy hears sirens in the distance. The police are finally here. They’ll have a few tales to tell tonight.

‘Give me your gun,’ says Amy to Lee. ‘There can’t be any guns here when the police pull up.’

Lee leans across and hands his gun to Amy.

‘You’re okay to deal with them if I go?’ she asks.

‘Yeah,’ says Lee. ‘Yeah. I didn’t mean for all this to happen. You know that. I just couldn’t fire my gun.’

Amy looks at Lee’s tattoo and puts her arm around him. ‘I know.’

Lee starts to cry.

‘No need for that though,’ says Amy, and Lee’s sobs turn into a laugh. ‘Why do you still have the tattoo? If you’ve never watched another match?’

‘Just to remember him,’ says Lee. ‘Mohammed Al-Abbas. His name was in the book.’

Amy can see the first police car in the distance now.

‘I’ve got to go, Lee,’ she says. ‘No crying, understand?’

‘Yep,’ says Lee. ‘I’ve done enough.’

‘And, Lee,’ says Amy, ‘there can’t be any guns here when the police arrive. Are you absolutely sure you don’t have another one?’

‘Absolutely sure,’ says Lee.

Amy takes a last look at the body. So where is his gun?

She makes a dash for the treeline.

61

Rosie and Ernesto, arm in arm, approach the reception desk at The Hunter’s Rest.

The young receptionist, her name tag suggesting she is called Tiggy, looks up at Rosie. ‘Oh, it’s you!’

‘It’s me,’ agrees Rosie. Does this Tiggy recognize her as Rosie D’Antonio, or as ‘Steve’s friend’, or even, the Lord forbid, ‘the lady who works with Tony Taylor’s girlfriend’?

‘You’re the lady who had lunch here today?’ says Tiggy. ‘I recognize your shoes.’

‘Yes,’ says Rosie. Elspeth is right. No one young has the first clue who she is. Perhaps she has finally run out of road?

‘I’m afraid your friend left without paying,’ says Tiggy. ‘And she drank a lot of wine.’

‘Of course she did,’ says Rosie. ‘And she’s not my “friend”, she’s my manager.’

Elspeth won’t be Rosie’s manager for much longer. Though will anyone else want to take her on without a book deal? When the only thing extraordinary about her is her shoes?

‘My manager’s the same,’ says Tiggy. ‘He always puts me on extra shifts when he’s sleeping off a hangover in one of the guest suites. How can I help you?’

‘A friend of ours is staying here,’ says Rosie. ‘We wanted to leave a surprise in his room.’

‘I remember my manager leaving a surprise in the room on one of those hangover days,’ says Tiggy. ‘We had to pay the cleaners double. What’s your friend’s name?’

‘Hard to say,’ says Rosie. ‘He won’t be travelling under his own name. He’s … a film star.’

‘Blond hair,’ says Ernesto. ‘Eagle tattoo on his neck.’

‘Ooh, you’re Spanish,’ says Tiggy.

‘It is my pleasure to confirm,’ says Ernesto. ‘Have you seen him perhaps?’

Tiggy gives a little shrug. ‘I’d have remembered an eagle tattoo. I spot things. We had a woman with very big earrings, but that doesn’t help you, does it?’

‘Perhaps we could scan through a few names?’ says Rosie. ‘See if one of them jumps out?’

‘Can’t do that,’ says Tiggy. ‘Data protection. You understand?’

‘I do understand, I do,’ says Rosie. ‘I wonder if I might have a counterproposal for you?’

Rosie dips into her handbag and pulls out a thick money clip, stuffed with twenties. Looking over her shoulder, she slides the money clip to Tiggy.

‘Might this help?’

Tiggy looks at the money, then at Rosie.

‘There’s five hundred there,’ says Rosie.

Tiggy nods and takes the money. ‘That’ll do nicely.’

‘So if we could just …’ says Ernesto, nodding towards the computer.

‘Data protection,’ says Tiggy. ‘Sorry, I just went through this with the lady with the shoes. I don’t know the Spanish for “Data Protection”.’

‘But you took the money,’ says Ernesto.

‘To cover your friend’s lunch,’ says Tiggy. ‘Sorry, is there anything else? I’ll keep an eye out for the man with the eagle tattoo.’

Ernesto looks at her. ‘Is a bribe. The money.’

‘A bribe?’ says Tiggy.

An older man emerges from the office behind reception. His name tag says GAWAIN – MANAGER.

‘I’m sorry, is there anything I can help with here?’

Tiggy looks at her manager. ‘This couple just offered me a bribe to take a look at the names of all our guests.’

‘A bribe?’ says Gawain. ‘Tiggy, go on your break, let me deal with this.’

‘Do you want me to call the police?’

‘In time,’ says Gawain. ‘In time.’

Tiggy disappears into the back office. Gawain puts the money clip into his jacket pocket and ushers Rosie and Ernesto around to the reception computer. God bless the bribable.

‘We just want to leave a surprise in someone’s room,’ says Rosie. ‘Nothing more than that.’

Gawain shrugs and pats his pocket. He opens a window on the computer and Rosie scans the list of guests.

‘What should we look for?’ she asks Ernesto.

‘Often aliases are showy,’ says Ernesto. ‘Makes them easier to remember.’

Rosie scrolls down the list, but nothing stands out. There’s an Ezekiel. Is that showy? There’s an Adam. The first man?

Ernesto jabs his finger at the screen. ‘Stop!’

Rosie stops scrolling, but can’t see what she’s missed.

‘It’s not the hitman,’ says Ernesto. ‘But see?’

He points to a name.

ERIC JACOBS

‘Eric Jacobs?’ says Rosie. ‘You’re thinking?’

‘Jakob Eriksson,’ says Ernesto. ‘Keeping an eye on things as always.’

‘Jakob Eriksson’s even got an alias for his alias,’ says Rosie. ‘Room 413.’

Ernesto shakes Gawain’s hand. ‘Thank you. You are a terrible manager, but you really helped us out.’

‘You might want a key?’ says Gawain.

‘I’ve got no more money,’ says Rosie.

‘No need,’ says Gawain, handing her a key card. ‘I’m a big fan. Read all your books.’

Rosie takes the card. ‘Well, that’s lovely to hear, Gawain. How do you like the new one?’

‘New one?’ says Gawain. ‘You’re still writing?’

Ernesto leads Rosie away before she can reply. They head up the oak-panelled staircase.

‘You really think it’s him?’ Rosie asks. ‘You really think it’s Connor Brooks?’

‘Every time someone is killed, he’s there,’ says Ernesto. ‘Looking over their shoulder. He sent the dead blond gentleman to kill Vern Blackwood, so he’s here. Finger never on the trigger, but always nearby.’

A sign reads ROOMS 408–415 and Ernesto puts his finger to his lips as they make their way along a hideously carpeted hallway, towards the room supposedly occupied by an ‘Eric Jacobs’.

There are even more paintings of horses. Rosie is relieved when she finally sees a painting of a bowl of fruit.

They reach room 413. Ernesto takes out his gun and raps on the door.

‘Housekeeping.’

No answer. Ernesto raps again.

‘Housekeeping.’

No answer.

Ernesto stands back from the door, pistol raised, and nods to Rosie to open it. There is a noise to their right. An elderly couple, back from a stroll. Ernesto puts the pistol behind his back, and Rosie leans against the wall. The elderly couple walk very, very slowly, and Ernesto holds a big smile for them the whole way.

As they pass, the man says, ‘Standing in the corridor, is it?’

‘Yes,’ says Ernesto, quietly. ‘I’m Spanish.’

The man and the woman both nod, as if a mystery has been solved. They reach their room, two doors down, and, after some fumbling with their key card, go inside.

The instant their door shuts, Ernesto raises his pistol again.

Rosie holds the key card to the sensor. The lights blink green and she swings the door inwards. Ernesto rushes in, gun raised, and she follows.

The room is empty. A curtain billows from an open window, and Rosie rushes over to see a bald man navigating the fire escape as quick as his old legs will carry him. Connor Brooks in the flesh at last.

‘He’s on the fire escape,’ she shouts to Ernesto. ‘You’ve got a clear shot!’

Ernesto runs over and sees Brooks too. He points his gun, but shakes his head. Brooks disappears from view into a portico running along the back of the hotel.

‘Come!’ he says to Rosie, as he starts to climb out of the window. Rosie follows. Why not take a shot? It would have been noisy, but Ernesto is a police officer, and Connor Brooks is a wanted man?

Ernesto is running down the fire escape now, and Rosie can’t keep up. Heels and fire escapes. She sees Ernesto disappear under the portico.

Connor Brooks didn’t look too steady on his feet. Rosie knows that feeling well. Ernesto will have factored that in. Will have been sure he could catch the man without need for gunfire.

Rosie reaches the bottom of the fire escape and ducks under the portico. She sees Ernesto looking around him. He’s lost Brooks.

Rosie catches up to him. From the bottom of the fire escape, Brooks could have headed right into the trees, or left into a maze.

In one of her books he would have headed straight for the maze, and a good two or three chapters of cat-and-mouse could be written. But Connor Brooks is a real human being.

‘The trees,’ says Rosie, and they start to run.

‘Wrong again,’ says a voice to their left.

Rosie turns, and sees the beautiful sight of Steve leading Connor Brooks out of the maze.

‘We got him,’ says Steve. ‘We finally got him.’

62

Steve is sitting on his bench by the duck pond talking things through with Debbie. It’s only a couple of minutes’ walk from The Hunter’s Rest.

‘He came quietly,’ says Steve to his wife. ‘I’ll give him that.’

A quiet suspect usually worries Steve.

If Connor Brooks was heading straight into police custody, it would worry him still more. But Ernesto is taking him to the We Solve Murders offices to get whatever they can out of him before he ends up in a room full of lawyers and tape recordings. It might be their only chance to get the whole truth. It’s highly illegal, of course.

He should be with them, but he wants to talk to Debbie. He was on his way here when he saw Rosie’s and Ernesto’s cars parked haphazardly in The Hunter’s Rest car park. Parking up, without crashing into anything and, he might add, neatly within a designated bay, he had seen Connor Brooks disappear into the maze.

‘They’ve taken him up to the offices. Should really have taken him to Southampton nick, but Ernesto’s a bit like us. Wants to do things his way. Wants a couple of hours with Brooks without those lawyers. That’s my bet anyway.’

There’s a reason Steve wants to talk to Debbie. Ever since that day in Lucca, Steve has known there was something at the heart of this case that didn’t make sense. Something that needed unlocking.

Steve still has an itch to scratch. Something he can’t help thinking might solve this whole thing.

‘Do you remember that time we were watching Deal or No Deal? And I kept pausing it every time it went to box fifteen, and I was like, I know that guy, I swear I know him, and you said he’d probably been on some other TV show, and I said, I’m sure it’s not that. You remember?’

Steve waits for Debbie to answer. She does remember. Of course she remembers, he didn’t stop banging on about it for days, did he?

‘And it bugged me all that evening, the bloke with box fifteen, where did I know him from? So we watched it again the next day, and this time he was on box seven, or nine or something, and I said, there he is, and you said, not all this again, I’m trying to watch, he probably went to your school, but it wouldn’t go away. It wasn’t just that I knew him, I knew it was important that I knew him …’

He knows he should talk to Debbie about Georgie Glazier too. But it was all innocent. On his part at least. I mean, sure, he’d had a shave and had sniffed his T-shirt before he left the house, but that’s basic manners. Stop thinking about it, Steve, there must be a reason you’re telling this Deal or No Deal story. Get to the end of it, and you’ll work it out.

‘So the next day, and this is the first time I’d ever watched Deal or No Deal three days in a row. First and last, it’s just opening boxes at the end of the day, isn’t it? How is that entertainment? I tell you a good show, The Ch–’

Two schoolchildren pass by in a tentative wide arc, and Steve realizes, from their nervous side-eyes, that he said the last bit quite loudly, and that if these kids didn’t realize he was having a conversation with his dead wife, it might look weird to them. He quietens down a little.

‘Anyway, that day it was our familiar friend’s turn in the magic chair, the chair of dreams, so I got a good long look at him. Seventy-five grand he won, the Banker was fuming. You could see Noel was cock-a-hoop. He was dancing up and down, this geezer, hugging everyone and his auntie, and I got it. Sydenham Post Office, 2004. Wages snatch. We only got the bottom half of his face on the CCTV, that’s why it took me so long. I went straight back to the station, pulled out the file and there he was. Twelve years he got for that, and they took his seventy-five grand away from him. Remember?’

Steve knows exactly why he doesn’t want to talk to Debbie about Georgie. But he also knows why he’s thinking about the Sydenham Post Office robber turned daytime TV jackpot winner. He’s thinking about the Sydenham robber because Steve never forgets a face. He’d recognized the blond hitman the second he saw his photo. And he’d recognized him for a reason.

You see, Steve was sure he’d seen him in one of the airport photos, just idling in the queue. Was sure of it.

But he’s looked at those photos again and again and again, and they seem to be a blind alley. But it’s what his brain keeps going back to. His brain keeps saying, ‘Trust me, Steve’. He’s missing something in those photos, he’s sure of it. He needs to head home and have another look.

‘I’ll love you and leave you, Princess,’ says Steve. ‘I need to check out those photos though, you know me.’

Steve strokes the brass plaque on the wooden bench in the green field by the calm pond. He stands and stretches.

He can’t talk to Debbie about Georgie, he knows he can’t. Because it hasn’t been a long time. It’s been no time at all. He’ll tell Georgie, next time he sees her. He’ll explain. I’m already married. I’m in love with another woman, and I always will be.

Steve knows that Debbie would tell him to move on, but he made up his mind a long time ago that he will never move on. He’s going to stay precisely where he is.

He looks back at the bench and pulls a cap low over his eyes to hide his tears.

Life really is impossible, but it’s all we’ve got.

63

Amy made it to the treeline and rang Steve. Steve had called her a taxi, and she is now heading to The Hunter’s Rest. The driver is playing nineties rave tunes.

She has solved the first murder. The note from Eriksson was a fake, written by a man defeated by the world. But how di–

There has been a noise behind the taxi for a few minutes now. A motorbike. Amy doesn’t want to look back, so she takes out her phone and pretends to fix her make-up. On the camera screen she sees that there is indeed a motorbike behind them. It would be easy enough to overtake the taxi, but this bike shows no desire to do so.

It edges a little closer, that buzzsaw engine a little louder. Amy doesn’t like what she sees.

It looks like a police motorbike. And when Amy says it ‘looks’ like one, that’s exactly what she means. It looks like one, but it isn’t one.

A little experiment. Amy leans forward and says to the driver, ‘Can we take this next left?’

‘Quicker straight on,’ says the driver.

‘I know,’ says Amy. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pay.’

The taxi turns left. The bike, this police motorbike she is not buying for one second, stops for a moment at the turning. It looks like the driver is not sure what to do. But then he too takes the left and speeds back towards the taxi.

Amy shouldn’t call the rider ‘he’ just yet. Whoever they are, their face is obscured by a helmet. They’re wearing, Amy also notes, a high-vis jacket with blue patches, which, again at first glance, might make you believe the bike is being ridden by a police officer.

But Amy is not fooled. The bike pulls closer.

Amy had sensed there were more bullets to come. Is she about to meet Vern’s killer? Is someone trying to tie up all the loose ends? If she doesn’t deal with this here and now, will they go after Steve and Rosie?

Amy is, at least, in the helpful position of having two guns. Hers and Lee’s. There’s not much you can do with two guns that you can’t do with one, but at least if this ends in some sort of shoot-out, she’ll have twice as many bullets.

The bike begins to accelerate, and Amy hears a siren. The siren is ‘almost’ right, but not quite. The driver reacts badly to hearing the siren. He wrenches open his glove box, takes out a small, clear, plastic bag and throws it out of his window.

Amy thinks they have more problems than a bag of weed here.

The bike pulls alongside the taxi now. Amy sees clearly that it is not a real police bike and not a real police officer. But somebody has gone to the effort of pretending.

Perhaps this is even Connor Brooks himself? Is that what the helmet is hiding?

The fake police officer signals for the taxi to pull over. Amy could tell the driver to disobey, but if she can get out of the car quickly enough, then the rider might leave her taxi driver alone. No need for him to die in the crossfire.

The taxi slows and mounts a verge on the right-hand side of this country lane. Amy grabs her first gun as she sees the bike stop and the rider dismount.

She is not going to wait. She opens her door, crouches behind it and aims her gun at the rider. Nineties rave music continues to play, but her taxi driver dives into his footwell and stares back at her.

The motorbike rider immediately places their hands in the air.

‘Helmet off,’ says Amy. ‘And slowly. Any quick movement and I shoot.’

The figures prises the helmet off. It is a man. He is not bald.

The man is her husband. The man is Adam.

‘Jesus, Amy,’ says Adam. ‘Surprise! Don’t shoot!’

Amy stands, in shock. Her husband, on an imitation police bike, in an imitation police uniform. And, most shocking of all, in England.

Amy motions towards the police motorbike. ‘Adam. Why?’

‘Why?’ he says. ‘It’s the 20th. Happy anniversary, Amy.’

Amy nods, taking this in. ‘But … why are you dressed as a policeman?’

‘Seven years,’ says Adam. ‘That’s copper.’

She runs up to her husband and holds him tight. ‘You came halfway round the world to surprise me?’

Adam nods. ‘I was on Rosie’s private jet last night when we were talking. That noise wasn’t a hydroelectric generator.’

‘Rosie knew about this?’ Amy asks.

Adam nods.

‘But how did you manage to follow the taxi?’ Amy asks. ‘Rosie didn’t know about that?’

‘Me and my dad arranged it.’

‘You and your dad arranged it?’

‘Yep.’

‘You and Steve?’ says Amy. ‘Together?’

‘Me and Dad, together,’ says Adam. ‘And he booked us a room at The Hunter’s Rest. Been planning it all week. We called it “Operation Lilongwe”. It’s the capital of Malawi.’

‘Happy anniversary,’ says Amy, and shares a long overdue kiss with her husband.

‘I’m sorry,’ says the taxi driver, now out of his footwell and staring forlornly back down the road. ‘But did I just throw a sixty-quid bag of grass out the window for nothing?’

64

There was a lot less to Connor Brooks when you saw him hunched and cuffed. He didn’t look like the monster Rosie knew him to be. The bogeyman who had stalked the globe killing for profit and fun.

They are assuming that he is Connor Brooks who faked his own death all those years ago in Málaga. They’re about to find out for sure.

Whoever he is, and whatever he might have been, he now looks like a lost old man, Ernesto pushing him through the entrance doors at We Solve Murders. Felicity had been there to let them in, which was handy because, although it has been made clear to Rosie that she has been given a set of keys and access codes, she is beggared just for the moment as to where and what they are.

Rosie was hoping that Felicity might make them a cup of tea, but Felicity had taken one look at Connor and told Rosie she didn’t want to be in the same place as the man who tried to have her boyfriend killed. Rosie can understand that, people get very sensitive around loved ones and attempted murder. In one of her early books a schoolteacher murders a Mafia boss for exactly this. So she understands Felicity’s sensitivities, but she would still really, really like a cup of tea, and, as with keys and access codes, knows that she cannot be trusted with a kettle.

‘Ernesto,’ says Rosie, ‘you couldn’t be a doll and make me a cup of tea, could you?’

Ernesto gives her a shy bow. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure. However, I am escorting one of the world’s most dangerous men, and so I fear I must focus.’

Rosie nods, understanding. She looks through to the kitchen and sees the kettle standing there. There’s always someone to make you a cup of tea. Or a delivery service to order one from. When was the last time she made one by herself? Thirty years ago? How hard can it be?

Ernesto guides the prisoner into the conference room. From the stooped, bald man, there is not a squeak of protest.

‘Chatty thing, isn’t he?’ says Rosie.

‘I’ll make him talk,’ says Ernesto. Rosie doesn’t doubt it.

Rosie looks into the kitchen again. The kettle bit is easy, she’s not an imbecile. But the teabag and the milk and the order, and how long should it take? Come on, Rosie, this is ridiculous. You can also make tea in a microwave, she has seen that done. But the difficulties remain. The process of the thing. She will have to give it up as an impossible dream. She curses, and not for the first time, that they don’t seem to have Deliveroo in the New Forest.

Rosie follows Ernesto and the prisoner into the conference room, but Ernesto holds up his hand to block her.

‘Sorry,’ says Ernesto.

‘If you’re talking to him, then I’m talking to him,’ says Rosie.

Ernesto gives a tiny smile. ‘Rosie, please, not this time. Señor Brooks is under arrest. He must be interviewed by police officers alone, and not by crime novelists, however beautiful they may be.’

Rosie tries to find an argument. Ernesto puts the blocking hand on her shoulder now.

‘You understand, Rosie? Maybe you make a nice cup of tea and wait?’

Would that I could, thinks Rosie. She steps back and the conference-room door shuts.

The whole thing is beginning to feel like an anticlimax. Doesn’t seem quite fair to Rosie. Where are the gunfights? Where are the breakneck chases? Where is ‘You’ll never take me alive’? If this was the end of one of her books, her publisher would send it straight back and tell her to write a proper ending.

But life doesn’t always have proper endings. And, thanks to the sales figures for And the Devil Blinked First, Rosie no longer has a publisher.

She never did come up with a grand plan to get back to number one. She is losing her touch, she supposes. How do you stay famous in this new world? What on earth do you have to do?

Whatever you have to have, Rosie no longer has it.

Ernesto is going to snatch the whole thing from them. The glory. Take Connor Brooks back to Barcelona. Try him in a Spanish court, get all the medals. He has no other choice, Rosie knows that. Ernesto is not trying to snatch the glory, he’s just doing the job of a police officer. All the same, Rosie would like some closure. To sit across the table from this man and ask him everything from start to finish. Have him swear and spit and struggle against his cuffs. Watch him scream spittle-flecked swear words at her, while she sits calmly and sips a nice cup of tea. That’s how the thing should end.

There are questions Rosie still wants answers to. She can well understand why Brooks might have killed Vern. Why he killed Tommy Griffin and the other men who sat around that table in Las Vegas. That all makes fine sense. But the two bodyguards? Where did they fit in? Why kill them? And now the blond man too. Why kill your own hitman?

Somewhere, somehow, they are missing a piece of information, and Rosie hates missing out on anything.

She heads into the kitchen and finds a glass.

If she can’t be in the interrogation, the least she can do is eavesdrop. Rosie takes the glass from the kitchen, places it against the door of the conference room and holds it to her ear. It’s a trick that has worked in her favour many times, through contract negotiations and divorce proceedings alike.

This time though, nothing. She twists and turns the glass, as if trying to tune a faulty radio, but to no avail. There is a light murmuring, but nothing else.

Removing the glass, Rosie remembers that she had insisted on Ecuadorian walnut for all the internal doors at the We Solve Murders office. She had read an article about it in Architectural Digest. It was around thirty to forty times more expensive than oak and, when it was actually installed, it didn’t look particularly great, but at least when she showed people around the offices she could say ‘and the doors are all Ecuadorian walnut’. She should have picked something much thinner. Cheaper too, she supposes. If her publishing money dries up, might she have to start making economies? Rosie shudders at the thought. Would people still like her as much if she didn’t have a private jet?

Rosie smiles at this. Amy and Steve would still like her as much if she didn’t have a private jet. Steve might even like her a little more.

Where are they, by the way?

Rosie takes the glass back into the kitchen, none the wiser as to what Ernesto was getting from the taciturn Brooks. She hears a car approaching down the long driveway towards the office. Perhaps that’s where Steve and Amy are?

If it is Steve and Amy, then perhaps the three of them together can persuade Ernesto to let them get involved. Steve and Ernesto get along, don’t they? Amy could punch Ernesto if needs be? That’s what makes them a great team. Rosie will sleep with you, Amy will hit you, Steve will tell you a fact about public transport. They’ve got all angles covered.

The office door opens, so whoever is in the car has a key, which means it can only be Steve and Amy. Thank goodness for that.

Rosie fills up the kettle, so when they come in they will at least think that she was about to make a cup of tea, and one of them will offer to make it for her.

The internal door to the We Solve Murders reception opens. Rosie turns and is disappointed to see that it’s not Steve and Amy after all. Felicity has returned to the office. It’s always nice to see Felicity, but Rosie is unsure of what use she can be in the current situation. Of course! Tea! Every cloud.

‘Couldn’t stay away in the end?’ says Rosie.

‘Where’s Brooks?’ Felicity asks.

Rosie gestures with her head towards the door. ‘He’s in there with Ernesto. Confessing everything.’

‘I might pop in,’ says Felicity. ‘See if they need anything. That’s why I came back, felt like I was being a bad host.’

‘Door’s locked,’ says Rosie.

‘I have keys,’ says Felicity.

‘I think leave them,’ says Rosie. ‘Just for now.’

‘I won’t be a second,’ says Felicity.

‘Whatever Ernesto and Brooks are talking about,’ says Rosie, ‘I suspect they don’t need you popping in with a plate of biscuits.’

‘I’m going in,’ says Felicity, looking for the keys in her bag.

‘I think,’ says Rosie, ‘that’s unwise.’

Felicity has finished searching in her bag. She pulls out a small revolver. Nothing much has surprised Rosie since around 1975, but this does the trick.

‘I’m sure it is unwise,’ says Felicity. ‘But I’m going in anyway.’

65

Why is Steve looking at the airport photos again? He’s looked at them dozens of times now, if not hundreds. The blond hitman is nowhere to be seen. Not in Bratislava, not in Helsinki, not in Palm Springs. Nowhere.

And even if he was in one of these photos, what would that tell him? That the hitman, the man who attacked Tony Taylor, works for Connor Brooks? He knows that already.

Trouble has noticed that Steve is working and has decided that it will not stand. He jumps up on to Steve’s desk, pads across the photos for a while and then curls himself up on top of them.

‘That’s helpful, is it?’ asks Steve. ‘You’re helping me catch a murderer?’

Trouble shuts his eyes, just letting Steve know that he is settling in for a while, and that, despite the abundant cat cushions, cat beds and even, a post-pub purchase this one, a luxury cat tree that are there for his exclusive use, a pile of scratchy papers on a hard wooden desk is exactly the level of comfort he was looking for.

Steve leans back and laces his hands behind his head. What has he missed? Not that it much matters now. Ernesto is talking to Brooks, and Interpol are on their way over to see him. All cases closed. Rosie, Amy and Steve had been paid, before Vern’s death, and fairly handsomely, so job done. But Steve senses it is not done. He looks down at the photos again, but doesn’t like to disturb Trouble when he knows exactly what he will see. He has Carlos’s version of the Palm Springs CCTV in an email so clicks that open instead. It’s grainier than Ernesto’s version, but it’s the same photo. Time on the wall still the same, the same familiar faces in the queue in front of and behind Connor Brooks.

But there is a difference between the photos. Steve checks and rechecks. This can’t possibly be true. Steve doesn’t want it to be true.

Because if it is …

Steve jumps to his feet and pulls out his phone.

‘Amy, where are you? Oh, he did, oh I’m so happy, no, don’t put him on … no, I don’t need to t– I’m coming to pick you up. Have you got a gun? Uh huh, uh huh. I don’t suppose you have two guns? You have Lee’s? Okay, hold tight, I’ll tell you when I get there. Love to Adam.’

Steve rushes to the door, then turns back and places a kiss on Trouble’s head.

‘Good lad,’ says Steve. ‘You’ve just solved a murder.’

66

Felicity is pointing her gun straight at Rosie.

‘Felicity, this is insane,’ says Rosie. ‘And I know insane.’

‘I know,’ says Felicity. ‘I do know. But you know what that man did. I’m going in.’

‘I can’t let you do that,’ says Rosie, moving to block the conference-room door. ‘You’ll have to get through me.’

‘So be it,’ says Felicity, advancing, gun still raised.

Rosie shows Felicity her palm, like a ‘stop’ sign. Rosie can just about believe that Felicity might shoot Connor Brooks, but she knows that Felicity won’t shoot her. This will end in moments. If she shouts, then Ernesto will surely hear, and if Ernesto comes out to Felicity brandishing a gun, then that will be very bad news for Felicity. Whatever this moment of madness might be, Rosie would rather not lose an office manager, especially such a cheap one.

‘Rosie,’ says Felicity. ‘I’m not going to shoot you, we both know that.’

‘Good,’ says Rosie. ‘That’s good. Let Ernesto deal with Brooks. That’s the best way.’

‘You really think that?’ asks Felicity. ‘With everything you know about the world? You really think Connor Brooks will find the right sort of justice?’

‘It doesn’t matter what I think,’ says Rosie. ‘It matters that I’m not going to let you in, and you’re not going to shoot me. So put the gun away.’

Felicity lowers the gun, and Rosie nods. This is actually all rather exciting. Facing a gun when you know it’s not going to be fired is something of a thrill. And you must never underestimate a thrill. She will probably have to tell Steve and Amy, won’t she? That the office manager pulled a gun on her, actually in the office. They don’t have a head of HR at We Solve Murders, but Rosie feels like if they did, then this would be something she should report. Amy won’t mind one bit, of course, she’d probably approve of the whole thing. But Steve can be a bit more conservative. Just so long as Ernesto doesn’t find out, that’s the main –

‘I’m not going to shoot you, Rosie,’ says Felicity. ‘But I am going to fight you. I’m sorry.’

‘You’re going to –’

Felicity rushes at Rosie, head down, knocks her off her feet and lands in a heap on top of her. Okay, even Amy might have a view on this. Rosie, winded, feels Felicity trying to scramble to her feet, and scythes her leg into the back of Felicity’s knee, bringing her crashing to the floor again. Rosie climbs on top of her office manager now and tries to pin down her shoulders.

‘Felicity, no more –’

Felicity brings her head forward straight on to the bridge of Rosie’s nose, and Rosie falls backwards. Rosie assumes that she should be in a great deal of pain, but, thanks to a lifetime of narcotic abuse, she long ago lost any feeling in her nose. Also it has been broken more than once by very expensive plastic surgeons, so what’s the worst that can happen here?

Felicity is now on her feet and reaching for her keys in her bag, gun still in hand. Rosie dives for her ankles and drags her to the floor again. Felicity drops her bag, and both women crawl across the floor to reach it. Rosie grabs the bag and pulls it towards her, but Felicity takes hold of the strap and pulls back. A tug-of-war for the keys inside the bag begins.

‘Stop this,’ hisses Rosie, and for a second the struggle pauses. ‘One of us will break a hip.’

‘Mine are both titanium,’ says Felicity.

‘Mine too,’ says Rosie, and the struggle continues once again.

Rosie can feel she is winning. Mainly because she has both hands on the bag, while Felicity has only one hand on the strap, the other hand still protecting her gun. When did Felicity get a gun? Rosie senses that one final heave will win the war, but Felicity then brings her gun hand around to try and grab the strap too.

There is a deafening noise as Felicity’s gun fires. Rosie sees shock on Felicity’s face as they both abandon the bag. As Rosie is wondering where the bullet has gone, the conference door flies open and Ernesto rushes out. He immediately kneels beside Rosie, a panicked look in his eyes.

‘No, Rosie,’ says Ernesto, out of control for a reason Rosie can’t decipher for now. With his trailing foot, Ernesto scoots Felicity’s gun towards him.

‘I’m so sorry,’ says Felicity. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Rosie wants to reassure her. It was an accident. It’s okay. No harm, no foul, no one got hurt. We’ll sort this out, nice to see a bit of passion. But no words come out.

‘It was an accident,’ cries Felicity.

‘Call an ambulance,’ says Ernesto. ‘She’s losing a lot of blood.’

Who’s losing a lot of blood? Rosie decides to sit up and rearrange herself. But she can’t sit up.

Ernesto takes off his belt. Something Rosie’s seen before. He loops it around the top of her arm and pulls it tight. ‘You stay with us, Rosie.’

Where else would I be going? Rosie thinks.

‘I was only here for Brooks,’ says Felicity before her call is connected.

‘Jesus, Brooks,’ says Ernesto and rushes back into the conference room.

‘Ambulance,’ says Felicity. ‘Ambulance, Brockenhurst Stables Business Park. Gunshot wound.’

Ernesto rushes back out of the conference room. He points at Felicity. ‘You make sure she doesn’t die.’

Felicity looks towards the conference room. It is empty. The far door of the room is also open.

Ernesto kneels down beside Rosie again. ‘He has run, I have to follow. Rosie, no dying.’

He kisses her on the forehead and sprints away.

Felicity takes Rosie’s head in her hands and holds her close. ‘Rosie, I’m so sorry. I only wanted to go in there and scare him.’

Rosie looks at her office manager and wonders why she is covered in blood. She looks down and realizes it is hers. So that’s where the bullet went.

No one has ever shot Rosie before, despite many people wanting to.

She begins to feel the pain now. It is in her right shoulder. She tries to speak again, but can’t. She tries to move again, but can’t.

Hopefully that is just shock. And if it isn’t, then her fun has finally come to an end. Not in a Malibu beach house, not in a New York penthouse, but on the floor of a reception lobby in a small business park in the New Forest.

This is not the ending Rosie would have chosen.

The pain grows worse. Rosie knows that is a good sign. She will try to speak again.

‘Mmmm, nnnn,’ she manages. This is good. This is very good.

‘Darling, I can’t hear you,’ says Felicity. ‘The ambulance is coming, it’s all going to be okay.’

Rosie nods. Nodding is another good sign. ‘Can … can …’

‘What do you need?’ Felicity asks. ‘What do you need? Anything.’

‘Can I have a cup of tea?’ Rosie mumbles, before the intensity of the pain makes her lose consciousness.

67

In times of crisis it is important to keep things in order. To prioritize action over worry, and to understand the things you can affect above those you can’t.

Sure, Amy has solved the murder of Esteban, but three other things have just happened at speed. Four, if you count the unexpected romantic arrival of her husband, but there’s only one that Amy can do anything about for now.

Steve says that Trouble has solved a murder. That was briefly her priority. Which murder? Who did it?

This was superseded almost immediately by the news that Felicity Woollaston has shot Rosie. Amy’s only priority then was to reach Rosie. To make sure she didn’t die.

But then the news that Connor Brooks had escaped in the chaos, and Ernesto has gone straight after him.

If Trouble has solved a murder, then Amy will hear about it in good time. If Rosie is in hospital, she is in the hands of doctors, and nothing that Amy can do will change whether she is to live or die.

She won’t die. Please. She can’t die.

But, running through the New Forest, Steve puffing behind her, she can help to catch Connor Brooks. So that, for now, is what she will do. Ernesto is armed, and Brooks is handcuffed, but he is a very dangerous man. The sooner they catch up to the chase, the better the odds.

Tracking people is a difficult skill. But tracking two grown men, both in a hurry, is very easy.

Amy barely pauses as she follows their trail, light boot prints and broken branches guiding her way. If Brooks has any sense he will have found somewhere to hide. Hiding in handcuffs is a great deal easier than running in handcuffs.

Amy has serious doubts about Ernesto’s tracking skills. Ordinarily he would be leaving gouge marks in the towering trees with his gun to aid anyone who might be coming to help, but Amy has seen none. If he doesn’t have even this basic skill, then it is very possible that Connor Brooks might evade him.

But he won’t evade Amy. There is a lot Amy doesn’t yet know about this case. How did a killer manage to infiltrate Rosie’s castle, why has Felicity just shot Rosie? Has Steve’s cat really solved a murder? But she knows one thing above all, and that is that Connor Brooks is at the heart of this whole web. There will be plenty of time to lay the whole story out in neat ranks and strict order, but, for now, Amy just needs to focus.

She keeps pushing Rosie out of her mind.

Amy reaches a stream and stops. No one has gone left, no one has gone right, and no one has made it to the far bank.

Jumping into a river is a good trick to shake off dogs, but a poor trick to shake off humans. Amy can see that both men have jumped in and headed upstream.

Steve has managed to catch up with her and doubles over, trying to catch his breath.

‘You okay?’ Amy asks.

‘You worry about yourself,’ says Steve between huge gulps of air.

Amy takes him at his word and sets off again. Within thirty yards or so, both men have clearly left the stream by the far bank. Amy jumps in, wades across and climbs out. She hears Steve splashing behind her. He is doing an amazing job.

Amy sees Ernesto up ahead. He is crouching behind a tree, his gun trained on a wooden shelter, some sort of bird hide, in the treeline up ahead. He turns and sees her, and beckons her over.

‘He’s in there,’ says Ernesto, waving his gun at the bird hide. ‘Cover me while I go in.’

‘I’ll go in,’ says Amy. ‘I’ve done this sort of thing a million times.’

‘I have too,’ says Ernesto. ‘And I let him escape, so it’s my job to capture him.’

Amy understands Ernesto’s thinking. She would be the same in his position. She looks back and sees Steve, still running.

Ernesto crawls his way over to the bird hide, and, when he reaches it, stands and edges around to a small door. Amy sees him draw his weapon. It shouldn’t be needed, there is no way Brooks can be armed, but it is better safe than sorry.

Ernesto kicks open the door to the bird hide. Amy can make out the gaunt, bald man inside, his skull-like face looking frightened, arms above his head. Funny how even the toughest criminals can look so pathetic once they’re cornered. Whatever danger this man has posed to his many enemies over the years, he is meek as a lamb now.

Amy stands, job done. And then she hears the gunshot.

At first Amy thinks Ernesto has shot at Connor Brooks. But it is Ernesto who falls to the ground, not Brooks.

Her brain recalculates. Brooks has shot at Ernesto? But his hands remain above his head?

Which is when Amy realizes that only one option remains.

Steve, her father-in-law, has shot Ernesto.

68

Ernesto, blood streaming from a leg wound, is refusing to scream in pain.

Amy is leading a bewildered-looking Connor Brooks from the bird shelter. Steve had expected him to resist a little more than he is. Perhaps he has good lawyers? Though, if so, why does he look so frightened?

‘Oh, Steve,’ says Ernesto from the forest floor. ‘We could have been such friends. But now? Friends don’t shoot friends.’

‘We’re not friends,’ says Steve. ‘I’ll get you an ambulance though.’

Ernesto nods. ‘Yes, probably best.’

Amy roughly pushes Connor Brooks to the floor, and there they all are. Steve working out how to ring for an ambulance with one hand on his gun. His beautiful daughter-in-law, gun aimed at the temple of one of the world’s most dangerous men. That dangerous man, shrivelling and shivering, and Ernesto, bleeding heavily, but maintaining an air of easy urbanity.

‘You shot Ernesto?’ says Amy. This is absolutely a fair observation in the circumstances. Amy doesn’t yet know what Steve knows. About the photograph.

‘I did,’ agrees Steve.

‘On purpose?’ Amy asks.

‘Of course on purpose,’ says Steve.

‘Well, I never know with you and guns,’ says Amy.

Steve takes umbrage at this. ‘You honestly think I can’t –’

‘Ambulance?’ says Ernesto.

Steve nods, and one-handedly calls 999. ‘Ambulance, please, Brockenhurst, gunshot wound. No, this is a different one. We’re by the RSPB shelter on the edge of Hollands Wood. Yes, he’s still breathing.’

‘Barely,’ says Ernesto.

Steve ends his call. With his gun still pointed at Ernesto, he tilts his head to Brooks. ‘You got anything to say, Mr Brooks?’

Connor Brooks looks at him, and up at Amy. He shakes his head. Not defiant. Scared.

‘There has been some mistake, I think, Steve,’ says Ernesto.

‘I was saying,’ says Amy. ‘Steve, you appear to have shot Ernesto?’

‘Agreed,’ says Steve.

‘I’m assuming you have a reason,’ says Amy.

‘Our hitman,’ says Steve.

‘The guy in the ditch?’ says Amy. ‘Blondie?’

‘One of the many guys in ditches in this little escapade,’ says Steve. ‘When Felicity showed me his picture, I knew I’d seen him before.’

Amy nods, ‘Uh huh. And so you shot Ernesto?’

‘I’m getting to that,’ says Steve. ‘I’ve always been pretty good at remembering faces. I was once watching Deal or No Deal with Debbie –’

‘Steve,’ says Amy. ‘I will shoot you if you don’t hurry up.’

Steve nods. ‘Remind me to tell you that story though. Felicity showed me the picture of the guy who attacked Tony, and I was sure I’d seen him in one of the airport photos. With our friend Connor Brooks.’

Amy digs her gun further into Brooks’s temple.

‘But I kept looking through them all, and he wasn’t there. I mean, it wasn’t super-important, we knew he worked for Brooks, but for my professional pride, you know. I knew I’d seen him. I was taking another look just before I rang you.’

‘This is when Trouble solved a murder?’ asks Amy.

‘He’s a very intuitive cat,’ says Steve. ‘Trouble was sitting on all my airport photos, the ones Ernesto had given us, all printed out. And I didn’t like to move him, even to solve a murder. He’s a cat, you know?’

Steve is surprised to see Connor Brooks give a little nod at that. The first glimpse of any humanity he’d seen in the man’s face.

‘So, I opened the photo Carlos sent us,’ says Steve. ‘In my email.’

‘Carlos?’ says Ernesto.

‘Carlos,’ says Steve. ‘A friend of ours from Border Protection in the States. We sent him to Palm Springs, and he sent us an airport security photo too.’

‘Oh,’ says Ernesto.

‘Yes, oh,’ agrees Steve. ‘The photo was identical to Ernesto’s, except for one key detail. The photo Carlos sent us shows a blond man, standing five or six places behind Brooks in the queue. On Ernesto’s photo there is a column in that exact place.’

‘Ernesto doctored the photo?’ says Amy.

‘Ernesto recognized him too,’ says Steve. ‘Was he on your system somewhere, Ernesto?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Steve,’ says Ernesto. ‘It must have been a software glitch.’

‘So Ernesto recognizes Brooks’s hitman,’ says Amy. ‘And then what?’

‘That’s what we need Ernesto to tell us,’ says Steve. ‘I know that Ernesto recognized the hitman and hid his photograph from us. I know that same hitman was killed shortly afterwards, and I know that someone in Rosie’s house murdered Vern Blackwood. I suspect that a single bullet with a silencer as Ernesto was closing the cellar door would have done the trick.’

‘They’re called suppressors,’ says Amy. ‘But that would work.’

‘Oh, come on, Steve,’ says Ernesto. ‘First you shoot me, now you insult me. A proud Spaniard can only take so much.’

‘Now Ernesto might have had good reason to shoot the hitman in the ditch,’ says Steve.

‘Exactly,’ says Ernesto. ‘Not that I did it, but exactly.’

‘But when we got here, and I saw him aiming a gun at an unarmed man, however terrifying that unarmed man might be,’ says Steve, ‘I had to stop him.’

‘I wasn’t going to shoot him, Steve,’ says Ernesto. ‘Jesus, you’ve got the whole thing wrong.’

Steve’s gun drops just a touch. What if he has got this wrong? What if he’s missed something obvious here? A simpler explanation?

‘I don’t know who killed Vern Blackwood,’ says Ernesto. ‘Lee? And maybe this man killed the hitman?’

‘I want to believe you,’ says Steve.

‘Then do,’ says Ernesto. ‘I did things the wrong way, Steve, I kept things to myself. I didn’t trust the right things would get done the right way. It was important for me to catch this man myself. For my career. I should have trusted you.’

Steve turns to the man who can only be Connor Brooks. ‘You really have nothing to say?’

The man looks at the three of them in turn, and then says, in a perfect English accent, ‘I’m supposed … Mr Blackwood always told me I mustn’t speak.’

‘Connor Brooks, I presume?’ says Steve.

The man looks confused. ‘Connor …?’

‘Come on, Connor,’ says Steve. ‘You disappeared in 2001. This “Jakob Eriksson” appeared straight afterwards.’

‘I’m Eric Jacobs,’ says Eric Jacobs.

‘Eric Jacobs?’ says Steve.

He nods quickly. ‘Yes. Formerly of EJ Gardening Services.’

‘You’re not Connor Brooks?’ says Amy.

‘I used to work for Mr Blackwood,’ says Eric. ‘General garden maintenance at first, then replanting, then –’

‘Jakob Eriksson is Eric Jacobs?’ says Amy.

‘Well, I suppose,’ says Eric Jacobs. ‘I have a passport in that name. Travel around whenever I’m told.’

‘Murdering Vern’s rivals?’ says Steve.

‘Murdering?’ says Eric Jacobs. ‘No, just pottering around. Botanical gardens, that sort of thing.’

‘Everywhere you went, someone died,’ says Amy.

‘I really am just a gardener,’ says Eric. ‘Mr Blackwood hired me to pretend to be this Eriksson chap every now and again. I didn’t like to ask why, because I thought perhaps it was a tax thing. I’ve just got used to it over the years.’

‘Who else knew?’ asks Amy. ‘That Eric Jacobs was Jakob Eriksson?’

‘Well, no one, I thought,’ says Eric. ‘Until that man turned up. He knew the whole thing.’

Eric Jacobs points his cuffed hands at Ernesto.

‘He knew?’ asks Steve.

Eric Jacobs nods. ‘I told him, “I’m afraid I’ve rather got in over my head,” and he said, “Well, I can fix that for you.” He offered me money.’

Steve looks at Ernesto, then back at Eric Jacobs. When he doesn’t see him as an international master criminal, Steve realizes he doesn’t look like Death at all. He just looks like an old man. Funny what the brain will do if you tell it a story. The gaps it fills in by itself.

Amy turns to Ernesto. ‘You knew?’

‘A bit,’ says Ernesto. ‘Sure, I knew a bit.’

‘You knew Jakob Eriksson wasn’t real?’ says Steve. ‘And you knew he wasn’t Connor Brooks either?’

‘Recently,’ says Ernesto. ‘I read Vern’s files at the villa. The whole story. Only recently.’

‘What happened to Connor Brooks?’ says Amy. ‘We were told Vern helped him to disappear?’

‘To be fair to Vern, he did make him disappear,’ says Ernesto. ‘It’s all in his files. He killed him, all those years ago. Killed him and took over his business. Created a scary monster called Jakob Eriksson to do all the dirty work.’

Amy can’t quite believe it. ‘So Vern has been running the whole thing for twenty-five years?’

‘Vern was running the more legit side of the business, keeping out of trouble, while Jakob Eriksson was running the dangerous stuff, and killing his rivals …’ says Steve.

‘And all along, Vern and Jakob Eriksson were the same person,’ says Amy.

‘He was his own arch-rival,’ says Steve. ‘He owned the whole lot.’

‘I could add something here,’ says Eric Jacobs. ‘If it would be helpful?’

‘Fire away, Mr Jacobs,’ says Steve.

‘A lot of people think that Howson’s Garden Centres and Trudgmills Garden Centres are bitter rivals,’ says Eric, clearly happy to contribute something. ‘But they’re both owned by the same company. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? It seems to me?’

Steve gives him a ‘thank you’ nod.

‘No wonder he called us in when he found the note from Jakob Eriksson on Esteban’s body,’ says Amy. ‘He was Jakob Eriksson.’

‘Must have wondered if someone had found him out?’ says Steve.

‘Or if Korbin was trying to intimidate him,’ says Amy.

‘Really in a lot of pain,’ says Ernesto.

‘You deserve it,’ says Amy.

‘Yes,’ agrees Ernesto. ‘Is true. Is Rosie okay? Please say she’s okay.’

Steve ignores him. ‘Will you tell us everything, Eric? While our friend goes to hospital?’

Eric seems like he’s looking for someone he can finally trust. ‘You won’t try to kill me?’

‘Kill you?’ says Steve. ‘Of course not. I actually need some help with my marigolds.’

On a service road deep in the forest, they hear the siren of an approaching ambulance.

69

They are keeping Rosie heavily sedated for now.

Steve and Amy haven’t left her bedside. They have been taking it in turns to sleep on a mattress on the floor.

‘She’s not normally this quiet,’ says Steve to Adam.

His son has his arm around his daughter-in-law. That’s nice to see. They fit together, the two of them.

Will he fit together with someone again? He hasn’t been able to clear Georgie Glazier from his mind in the long hours he has been by Rosie’s bed. She is not the one, but perhaps there will be somebody else someday.

‘What are we going to do about Felicity?’ asks Amy.

‘She’s the one who shot Rosie?’ says Adam.

‘That’s her,’ says Steve. ‘Our office manager.’

‘Takes her job seriously,’ says Adam. ‘Was it a problem with the photocopier?’

‘It’s up to Rosie,’ says Steve. ‘When she wakes up, we’ll ask her what she wants us to do.’

The machines attached to Rosie continue to hum and beep.

‘What’s Tony’s view?’ asks Amy.

‘He said, “Absolutely fair play, she shouldn’t have shot her”,’ says Steve.

‘Sums it up nicely,’ says Adam. ‘What’s going to happen to this Ernesto?’

‘They’re going to take him back to Spain,’ says Amy. ‘Keep him locked up until his trial starts.’

‘What was he thinking?’ Adam asks.

A nurse appears.

‘Are you Steve and Amy?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ say Steve and Amy.

‘I have a message from a Mr De Sousa de Cuéllar, in room 14B. He wondered if you might be able to pay him a visit?’

Amy gives Steve a nod.

‘We can’t both go,’ says Steve. ‘What if Rosie … what if she wakes up?’

Amy looks at Adam. ‘If she wakes up, don’t believe a single word she says about either of us.’

Amy kisses Adam goodbye. When was the last time a lover kissed Steve goodbye? No, of course, Steve knows the answer to that. Debbie. The morning of the day she died.

Amy takes Steve’s arm, and they follow the nurse out.

‘You okay?’ Amy asks.

‘Thinking about Debbie,’ says Steve. Why lie?

‘Rosie’s not going to die,’ says Amy.

‘People do,’ says Steve. ‘It’s not up to you.’

Amy takes Steve’s hand as they are guided through a series of corridors, down a flight of stairs where a smoking woman is being coaxed back to her ward, and finally through the door into 14B.

Ernesto is in bed, his leg in a cast, but otherwise looking unscathed. On a plastic chair in the corner of his room is a young woman.

‘This is Clara,’ says Ernesto. ‘She has come to take me back to Spain. Terrible taste in music, but a very good officer.’

Steve and Amy shake Clara’s hand. Amy takes a seat in a small armchair. Steve perches on the end of the bed.

‘You got questions, I think,’ says Ernesto. ‘It’s fair enough.’

Steve shakes his head. ‘Only got one question, mate. Why?’

Ernesto gives a small laugh. ‘Yes, there is only one question. One question, many answers. Is Rosie okay?’

‘None of your business,’ says Amy.

‘She’s alive,’ says Steve.

Ernesto nods. ‘Too many deaths.’

‘I mean, two of them were yours,’ says Amy. ‘Vern Blackwood and Mark Drury.’

Mark Drury was the name of the blond hitman.

‘I won’t make excuses,’ says Ernesto.

‘There are no excuses,’ says Steve.

‘I just make an observation though,’ says Ernesto. ‘Both guys I killed were killers.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ says Steve.

‘It matters where I come from,’ says Ernesto. ‘Where I come from, you can lie to a liar, you can steal from a thief, and you can kill a killer. I’m just saying, is justice.’

‘I come from a tougher background than you,’ says Amy. ‘I guarantee you that. And you didn’t kill those two men for justice, did you?’

‘No,’ agrees Ernesto.

‘You did it for greed,’ says Steve.

‘Yes,’ says Ernesto. ‘I seen a lot of dumb, rich people and then this fell in my lap.’

‘Who did you meet?’ asks Amy.

‘Meet what?’ says Ernesto. ‘When?’

‘At Vern’s villa,’ says Amy. ‘While we were in Palm Springs.’

‘Ah,’ says Ernesto. ‘The trellis and the cistern and the Velux window.’

‘Who did you meet?’ Amy repeats. ‘You told us it was a false alarm. That there was no one there. Somebody must have told you everything? Vern and Connor Brooks and Eric Jacobs?’

Steve suddenly realizes he knows the answer. It must have been Georgie. If Eric Jacobs worked for Vern all those years ago, then he must have worked for Georgie too. She must have taken one look at the photograph of ‘Jakob Eriksson’ and put the pieces together immediately. How else would Ernesto have known the full story?

‘Just tell us, Ernesto,’ says Steve. ‘Do one decent thing.’

Ernesto looks at them both. ‘God is my witness, there was no one there.’

‘No one told you about Eric Jacobs?’

‘I was there all alone,’ says Ernesto. ‘I had the whole place to myself, I went through everything, files, old computers, I put the whole thing together.’

‘You’re saying,’ Steve takes a deep breath, ‘that Georgie Glazier told you none of this?’

‘The ex-wife?’ says Ernesto.

‘The ex-wife,’ says Steve.

‘I never even met her,’ says Ernesto.

‘The whole thing was you?’ Steve asks.

‘All me,’ agrees Ernesto. ‘All Ernesto. Thought I was a genius, thought I’d got the whole thing licked. Vern was tidying up his own mess after the note arrived. Korbin was the only one who knew the truth about Eric Jacobs, so Vern hired Mark Drury to kill Korbin.’

Steve sees it all now. ‘And then tried everything to make it look like Eriksson was still operating. So he could be blamed for everything.’

‘That’s the trick of it,’ says Ernesto.

‘And if you killed Vern and Mark Drury,’ says Amy, ‘you could take over the business with a completely clean slate?’

‘When I realized there was no Eriksson to catch,’ says Ernesto, ‘just Vern, I thought either I arrest Vern and get my promotion –’

‘Or kill Vern,’ says Steve, ‘and get your millions?’

‘I kill a killer,’ says Ernesto. ‘I take over the easy bit of the business, the vitamins and potions. And I’m a rich man.’

‘And then I recognized Mark Drury,’ says Steve.

‘I should have known,’ says Ernesto. ‘Why is Rosie in business with Steve if Steve isn’t the best?’

‘I’m not the best,’ says Steve. ‘I’m far from the best. But all I needed was to be better than you.’

‘Yes,’ says Ernesto.

‘You killed Vern with Mark Drury’s gun?’ Amy asks. ‘That’s why we never found it?’

‘I did,’ says Ernesto. ‘Then I threw it in the moat. The deeper one.’

‘And you would have killed Eric Jacobs?’ asks Amy.

‘No, I had money for him,’ says Ernesto. ‘From Vern’s villa. A million or so. I just wanted to buy his silence.’

Steve takes a final look at the man cuffed to his hospital bed. A man who had achieved so much, but needed so much more. If that’s who you are, then that’s who you are, Steve supposes. Nothing is ever enough. Ernesto was right, he had only killed killers, but his heart pumped with greed. What must that be like?

Amy stands. ‘Come on, Steve. Let’s leave Ernesto to Clara.’

Steve stands too. Perhaps Ernesto couldn’t help it? Perhaps it made sense to him in some way?

‘I have one final question for you, Steve,’ says Ernesto.

Steve nods. Go ahead.

Ernesto tries his winning smile. ‘What is your favourite Led Zeppelin album?’

Steve looks at that now-familiar smile. Was Ernesto not still the same charming, shambolic goof he’d met on the runway at Barcelona? The man who had dragged himself up by sheer force of will? Overturned the odds of his upbringing to live an extraordinary life? The man who, despite his achievements, felt thwarted at every turn by those in power? Steve thinks for a moment.

‘None of your business, Ernesto.’

This time it is Steve who takes Amy’s arm, and they leave the room without a backwards glance.

Málaga, 2001

I’d done a bit of business with the Mother Superior before, made her a lot of money, so she was happy to let me use her land. She knew I wanted to bury something, and she asked me if it was something valuable, and I said, no, quite the opposite.

I had to feel for Connor in the end, when he saw my gun. He was all ‘Come on, Vern’ and I was all ‘It’s just business, Baldy’.

You’re always going to have a rival in business. Pepsi’s got Coke, Oasis have got Blur, AOL’s got BT Internet. That’s capitalism, that’s what keeps everyone honest. You put up prices to gouge your customers, your competitor cuts their prices to steal them. Competition is what makes business what it is.

And in my business, let’s say the less legal side of things, competition had an added complication. You start doing too well, start building your empire, there’s people out there with guns who want to kill you.

So why not be your own rival? Solves a lot of problems, doesn’t it?

So I’m going to be rivals with Connor Brooks. The man I’ve just shot and buried. Good luck competing with me from six feet under!

He’s actually about five foot under, because the sun was coming up and, however forgiving the Mother Superior might be, she probably has lines she won’t cross.

No one will believe Connor’s note. They’ll all know he’s done a runner. He’ll have to change his name, of course, also change his appearance a little, but that’s okay, I’ve already arranged all that for him.

I honestly think it’s going to work, I can’t go into the ins and outs of the whole thing, but I think I’m going to have a long and lucrative competition with Connor Brooks or, as the world will know him, Jakob Eriksson.

I’m not going to sell anything too controversial, I’ll leave that to Mr Eriksson. If I ever need anyone killed, well maybe Mr Eriksson can do that for me? I can be Mr Nice Guy, he can be the Bogeyman.

I’ve even found a lookalike to make the whole thing more believable. I’d tell you who, but you wouldn’t believe me. Honestly, you’d laugh. And he’s not the type to start asking questions.

I’ve created a shadow, and the great thing about shadows is that no one can ever catch them.

Imagine a rival who will never compete with you, will never undercut you, will never try to kill you. To be fair to me, it’s genius.

Sorry, Baldy, it’s nothing personal.

And welcome, Jakob Eriksson, I look forward to working with you.

My shadow.

The one man I know will never turn against me.

70

‘They’re in a sorry state,’ says Eric Jacobs, bending over the bed of marigolds in Steve’s back garden.

‘Can we save them?’ Steve asks.

Eric considers this. He runs his hand across his head. ‘It’s going to take a lot of patience and a lot of mulch. But I’ve got both.’

‘So it’s something you might be able to help me with?’ says Steve. ‘I don’t know if you have to be off home?’

Eric shakes his head. ‘I can stay today.’

‘Thanks, Eric,’ says Steve. Funny to see this man bent over his marigolds. This familiar face, this familiar head he’s known as a master criminal for the last two weeks.

‘No problem,’ says Eric. ‘But can I ask you a question in return?’

‘Course,’ says Steve. ‘I love questions.’

‘Why did Mr Blackwood do that to me?’

Steve puffs out his cheeks. ‘He wanted a bogeyman. Someone to blame for everything he did.’

‘But why me?’ says Eric.

‘When did it all start?’ Steve asks. ‘I’m guessing about 2001?’

Eric nods. ‘I was mowing the lawn, they had a ride-on, when Mr Blackwood stops me and asks if I like to travel.’

Steve nods. ‘And you said yes?’

‘I did,’ says Eric. ‘I do like to travel. He said, I just need you to make a few trips abroad every now and again. First trip was Morocco. He gave me the Jakob Eriksson passport, I knew it wasn’t legit. But there didn’t seem much harm in it. He just wanted me to be in certain places at certain times. Make sure I was caught on camera somewhere. How did you know it was 2001?’

‘He killed Connor Brooks in 2001,’ says Steve. ‘And the two of you … well … you shared characteristics.’

Eric points to his head. Steve nods. Eric smiles.

‘Blackwood wanted to cover up his murder of Brooks,’ says Steve. ‘And he wanted the criminal world to believe Eriksson was real. He made them believe that Connor Brooks was still alive and kicking, that he’d faked his own death and come back as a bald Swedish guy.’

‘That’s why he told me not to wear hats in airports,’ says Eric.

‘Make sure the camera got a good look at that beautiful dome of yours,’ says Steve. ‘Make sure the police knew Jakob Eriksson was always around when there was trouble. Make sure everyone knew he was real, and it wasn’t Vern doing all of these things.’

‘What if they’d arrested me?’ says Eric.

‘For what?’ says Steve. ‘That was the smart part. You never actually did anything. He’d always have Korbin on the flight with you. Korbin would do the killing, and you’d draw all the attention. He took the police for idiots, and he took all his business rivals for idiots.’

‘But I must have been in danger when he took me to Las Vegas?’

‘I wanted to ask you about that,’ says Steve. ‘How was Vegas?’

‘That’s when I knew the whole thing wasn’t right. But I kept quiet like I was told, and I got to see Celine Dion. She’s the one who did Titanic. I think Mr Blackwood took me for an idiot too though.’

‘Well, look where that got him,’ says Steve. ‘He’s dead, and I’m about to make you a cup of tea. Who’s the idiot in that equation?’

Eric is probing the marigold roots. Trouble has made his way out into the garden and is now rubbing himself against Eric Jacobs.

‘What’s next for you, Eric?’ says Steve.

Eric shrugs. ‘Not much of anything. I’m retired, to be honest.’

Steve understands that feeling. He has been brave with Georgie Glazier, and that was good, but he knows the question he has to ask.

‘Did you work for Mrs Blackwood too? Was she around?’

‘Georgie?’ Eric says with a big smile. ‘Oh yes, she was a lot of fun. She’s not in trouble too?’

No, thinks Steve, not in trouble. So Georgie had known all along who the photo was. Known it was Eric Jacobs. Must have pieced the whole thing together in that heartbeat. She’d lied, and of course she had, he would have done too. But even on their date she hadn’t come clean. You do have to open your heart, Steve has learnt that at least, but you still have to protect it too. He’s proud that at least he tried.

Trouble rolls on to his back, demanding attention. Eric Jacobs rubs Trouble’s belly, and Trouble starts to purr.

‘What do you think’s gone wrong with the marigolds?’ asks Steve. Better to focus on something he has control over.

Eric looks at him, as if considering something.

‘What?’ says Steve.

‘You’ve been very honest with me,’ says Eric. ‘Can I be honest with you?’

‘About my marigolds?’ says Steve. ‘I think so.’

‘Cat urine,’ says Eric. ‘It’s destroying the roots.’

Trouble now has his head rested on Eric’s arm.

‘You wouldn’t have any idea, would you,’ asks Eric, ‘where the cat urine was coming from?’

Eric looks at Steve. Steve looks at Trouble. Trouble starts digging a small hole in the flower bed.

‘There’s a ginger cat sometimes comes by,’ says Steve. ‘Big lad, chunky, mean face.’

Eric nods. ‘Sounds like the source of the problem.’

‘Yep, I’ll have to keep my eye out for him,’ agrees Steve.

Trouble starts eating one of the flowers.

‘I’ll get you that cup of tea, Eric,’ says Steve. ‘I think we can forget about the marigolds for now.’

71

Rosie is lying on a huge bed, surrounded by flowers and stuffed toys. On one side of the bed are an interviewer and film crew. On the other side of the bed are Steve and Amy.

‘Well, it’s a dangerous business,’ says Rosie. ‘But that’s why I do what I do. That’s why I chase bad guys.’

The interviewer nods. Rosie turns to Steve.

‘Steve, be an absolute dear and plump up my pillows, I’m sliding down, and I don’t want to look chinny on camera.’

Steve reaches behind Rosie and plumps her pillows. ‘M’lady.’

‘They say you lost nearly six pints of blood?’ says the interviewer.

‘I know,’ says Rosie. ‘I’m furious about it. It’s taken me years to get to the stage where my blood was ninety per cent brandy, and now I have to start all over again.’

‘Although you are very grateful to the blood donors,’ says Amy without looking up. She’s endured four days of these interviews now. News crews from all over the world. The famous novelist gunned down in her pursuit of a murderer. It’s irresistible. The current interviewer is Estonian.

‘Although I am so grateful to the blood donors who saved my life,’ says Rosie. ‘I promise I will take care of your blood. In fact, I intend to show it a good time.’

‘You write about murder, of course …’

‘I do,’ says Rosie. ‘My new novel And the Devil Blinked First is a very good example of that.’

‘But to have come this close to being murdered,’ continues the interviewer. ‘It must bring you new perspective?’

Rosie had very nearly died, even Amy has to admit that. She doesn’t want to believe it, but she saw Rosie at her very worst. Days later, they can now joke about it. Rosie had been sedated, and the joke was that her many visitors had stayed by her bedside for hours because they could finally get a word in.

But they weren’t joking at the time. Watching Rosie disappear in front of their eyes.

After she had regained consciousness, the first consultant had said to Rosie, ‘To suffer this amount of trauma and blood loss should really have been fatal at your age.’

That was the last time Amy had seen that particular consultant, and the next consultant, while being very professional, had never mentioned Rosie’s age. At one point, while Rosie was still out of it, Amy had sneaked a peek at her medical records, only to find that under ‘Date of Birth’ it read ‘To Be Confirmed’.

You shouldn’t really take advantage of your friends when they are unconscious, but Amy hadn’t wanted to waste a golden opportunity. Rosie keeps her passport, for example, under lock and key.

‘I stared down the barrel of that gun,’ says Rosie, ‘and I said, “If the 1970s didn’t kill me, nothing will.’”

This story has become embellished over the last few days. The truth of the thing, the struggle with Felicity, the accidental gunshot, the unmasking of Ernesto, and the strange case of Jakob Eriksson, formerly Eric Jacobs of EJ Gardening Services (Haywards Heath) Ltd, is being kept between them for now.

As far as official sources went, a man was in custody for the murders of Vern Blackwood and Mark Drury, and three further murders remained under investigation. Vern’s older crimes will surely rise to the surface at some point too. Interpol had no real stomach for announcing that the arrest was one of their own officers, and that suited Rosie just fine. By the time the real story was made public, her version of the story – gunned down in cold blood by a ruthless murder suspect – will have made itself the truth.

‘Were you frightened?’ asks the interviewer. ‘Did you see Death?’

‘Oh yes,’ says Rosie. ‘I saw Death.’

‘Was he a figure as if from folklore?’ asks the interviewer. ‘A simulacrum of man’s fear, if you will. Or was he all too human? Or a little of each?’

Amy has noticed that European journalists are a great deal more comfortable with deep questions than their British counterparts. For example, BBC Breakfast had interviewed Rosie live from the hospital room this morning and had not mentioned folkloric representations of death once.

‘I’m sure I’ll write about that in my next book,’ says Rosie. ‘But, yes, I saw him. And, more importantly, he saw me. And guess who blinked first?’

That’s a new line. Always selling. You had to sit back and admire it. The book has rocketed up to number one on the back of the news. Rosie on the front cover of every newspaper on the planet. Almost single-handedly reminding people that the front pages of newspapers still exist. She’s number one in the UK, she’s number one in America, she’s number one, as Rosie has just discovered on a call with her manager, ‘in forty-seven territories’. Netflix have bought the rights to the book and are negotiating the rights to the real-life documentary that one enterprising production company has titled Murder She Wrote – When Murder Writes Back.

Amy suspects the real-life documentary may never see the light of day. Too many things they can’t speak about. Ernesto, Lee, Georgie Glazier.

‘Finally,’ says the interviewer, ‘can you think of any Estonian angle this story might have?’

Without missing a beat, Rosie picks up a small bunch of flowers. ‘These flowers were from a young Estonian girl. Isn’t that adorable? She’s only twelve years old, but she read And the Devil Blinked First, which is available in hardback and trade paperback in Estonia, and she wishes me good health and a speedy recovery.’

‘Does she write that in English or Estonian?’ asks the interviewer.

‘In English,’ says Rosie. ‘Which is a testament to the Estonian education system, and to the little girl herself.’

‘And her name?’ the interviewer asks.

‘Maria,’ says Rosie.

The little girl ‘Maria’ has been, variously over the last few days, Estonian, Lithuanian, Brazilian, Egyptian, Spanish, German and Chinese. Everything but Italian.

‘And the question everyone wants to know,’ says the interviewer. ‘Even after all of this, will the three of you keep solving murders?’

Rosie looks at Amy and Steve, then back at the interviewer.

‘It’s what we do,’ says Rosie. ‘We solve murders.’

Amy squeezes her friend’s hand, and the crew begins to pack up.

‘Congratulations on the number one,’ says Steve. ‘Never in doubt, eh?’

‘Number one with a bullet,’ says Rosie. ‘I knew something would come along. Something always does. I hear Adam is in town?’

‘He is,’ says Amy. ‘He’s taking me to Lanzarote.’

‘Lanzarote?’ says Rosie. ‘Why Lanzarote?’

‘No reason,’ says Amy, tracing that little blue flower again in her mind. ‘Just always wanted to go.’

The Estonian crew bid their farewells.

‘Your manager must be very happy,’ says Amy. ‘Elspeth?’

‘Oh, I’ve fired her,’ says Rosie. ‘I’ve got a new manager.’

‘That was quick work,’ says Amy. ‘Who’s your new manager?’

‘Felicity,’ says Rosie.

‘Felicity’s your new manager?’ says Steve.

‘I’ve had to up her pay a bit,’ says Rosie. ‘But yes.’

‘Do you remember …’ says Amy, then pauses. ‘Do you remember that time Felicity shot you?’

‘Oh, she didn’t mean it,’ says Rosie.

‘She bought a gun,’ says Steve.

‘You know, I’d forgotten the first rule of showbusiness,’ says Rosie. ‘Always make sure your manager has a gun. She’s already got me a new three-book deal.’

A nurse pokes her head around the door. ‘Your four o’clock is here.’

Rosie thanks her, then nods at Amy’s notebook. ‘So how many murders did we solve? I’ve lost count.’

Amy opens the book. ‘Esteban, killed by a young Italian woman. The police in Lucca were very grateful for the tip. Raided the house and arrested her brother too.’

‘A spurned lover,’ says Rosie. ‘What a way to start. And that was terrific work from you, Amy. You’re quite a protégée.’

‘I’m not your protégée,’ says Amy.

‘Korbin killed by Mark Drury,’ says Steve. ‘That was Vern’s idea of a little trial run. Getting rid of someone who knew the truth and testing out his replacement.’

‘Killing your predecessor is a hell of a job interview,’ says Rosie.

‘Drury then kills Tommy Griffin in Palm Springs,’ says Amy. ‘Because Tommy had been encroaching on Vern’s territory.’

‘Also in case Tommy had been behind the note,’ says Steve. ‘Rather than poor old Lee.’

‘That’s three,’ says Rosie.

‘Then Ernesto comes on the scene,’ says Steve. ‘Aims to take over the whole racket, so kills Vern and Mark Drury.’

‘Five murders solved,’ says Rosie. ‘Imagine how much we could invoice Vern for if he was still alive.’

‘And we solved the murder of Connor Brooks too,’ says Amy. ‘From way back in 2001, when I was seven years old and, Rosie, you were …?’

Rosie dismisses her. ‘Stevie, how was your lunch with his delightful ex-wife, Georgie? I didn’t get the chance to ask you before my manager shot me.’

‘It was nice,’ says Steve. ‘I was surprised.’

‘Will you see her again?’ Rosie asks.

‘No,’ says Steve. ‘Not Georgie. But … you know.’

Rosie reaches out her hand and puts it on his. No smart remarks, no innuendo. It seems she does know.

The door opens again and Felicity Woollaston comes in.

‘Don’t shoot,’ says Rosie, throwing her arms in front of her face.

‘At some point we’ll have to stop doing that joke,’ says Felicity.

‘It might take a little while,’ says Amy.

‘The chicken wings people are here, Rosie,’ says Felicity. ‘They’re very excited to meet you. They say they’ve never filmed an episode in a hospital room before.’

Epilogue

TWO WEEKS LATER

‘I didn’t know people were dying,’ says Eric Jacobs. ‘I just enjoyed the travel.’

‘If you had known?’ says Georgie.

‘Would have really taken the edge off,’ says Eric, ‘I don’t mind telling you.’

Georgie had asked Eric Jacobs if they could meet. She had something to give him, and, besides, it would be lovely to meet up again after all these years. He’d asked if she was happy to come down to Sussex, as he’d been doing a lot of travelling recently, and she’d said she would be delighted. He wondered if she knew the Notcutts Garden Centre just outside East Grinstead, and she had replied that, while she didn’t know it, she was sure it would be easy enough to find.

So here they are. In the café. Georgie has a spinach flan and Eric has a vegan sausage roll. Thinking back all those years, Eric might have been the first vegan Georgie had ever met. They didn’t have any in Kensal Rise.

‘I’m sure of that, Eric,’ says Georgie. ‘Vern would just send you on little trips?’

Eric nods. ‘Never told me why. But I didn’t see there was anything to be gained in saying no. You and Mr Blackwood had always been very good to me. And, as I say, no word of murder.’

When Vern had first made a bit of money, they’d bought a place down in Sussex. Eric had looked after the garden for the previous owner – a pop singer who had been sent to prison for attempting to murder a jockey, but that’s a story for another day – and had wondered if Mr and Mrs Blackwood might be at all keen on keeping him on?

They had been. Eric was a very good gardener.

‘I’ve been all over,’ says Eric. ‘Finland, America, Czechoslovakia.’

It must have been nearly thirty years ago now. Eric would have been in his mid-forties, but already looked like Death himself. Bald, thin and gaunt. Georgie had once bumped into him at the side of the house carrying a scythe and had nearly had a heart attack. Eric had taken to wearing baseball caps after that incident.

‘Do you have money?’ Georgie asks. ‘Did Vern pay you well?’

Eric shakes his head. ‘£15 an hour. Same as before.’

Georgie had to laugh. That was Vern all over. Ask your old gardener to pose as the most dangerous man in the world so you could run an absurdly lucrative criminal empire, and pay him minimum wage. It wasn’t, as it turns out, the worst of Vern’s crimes, but it certainly added a layer to the man.

‘He let me keep my air miles though,’ says Eric. ‘If you know where you can spend air miles? I’ve never worked it out.’

Georgie wants to put things right for the old man. That’s why she’s here. To atone for Vern’s sins.

‘What would you do if you had a bit of money?’ Georgie asks.

Eric shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. Move out of my flat, I suppose. I’ve only got a window box. Can’t grow marrows in a window box.’

‘Find somewhere with a garden, then?’

Eric nods. ‘There’s a place I fancy. It’s got allotments, and you get to keep the gardens nice. That would suit me.’

‘Here in Sussex?’ Georgie asks.

‘Just across the border, in Kent,’ says Eric. ‘A retirement village. They say it’s good fun.’

‘The thing is,’ says Georgie, ‘I’ve got a bit of money, Eric. And I’d like you to have it.’

‘I couldn’t take your money,’ says Eric.

‘It’s Vern’s money,’ says Georgie. ‘And he owes you.’

Georgie hasn’t counted all of it, but she’s guessing it’s the best part of a million. Ernesto had taken the other half. That had been the deal when he’d caught her at Vern’s villa. Seemed fair enough at the time. She hadn’t known what was going to happen next.

Ernesto had taken her up into the loft and, once it was apparent he wasn’t going to kill her or kiss her, he had shown her the money, and they’d agreed to split it down the middle. In return, she had told him everything. The most important thing she had told him was that Jakob Eriksson was a seventy-two-year-old gardener called Eric Jacobs. She had seen the pound signs in Ernesto’s eyes immediately. Or, more correctly, euro signs.

Had she known that Ernesto would spot an even greater opportunity? Perhaps she had. That he would kill Vern? That he would kill Mark Drury too, all to hide the secret of Eric Jacobs? She was certainly not responsible for everything that had happened, but neither can she pretend to be entirely innocent. She has blood on her hands.

Georgie slips her jacket on. She will buy Eric Jacobs somewhere to live. A retirement village sounds altogether too quiet for her, but if that’s what his heart desires, then so be it. She doesn’t need Jakob Eriksson, because there will be no more murders.

Of the six men who met in Vegas, the men who had carved up the market between them, five of them were now dead, and the other is a retired gardener from Haywards Heath who wants to grow marrows in peace. And the only other man who knows the whole story, Ernesto Manuelo Santiago de Sousa de Cuéllar, will never tell her part in it.

There will be no more murders, because there is nobody left to kill.

And, as there are no rivals left, Georgie has decided she will quietly get on with Vern’s business.

Which seems fair, after everything she’s done over the years.

The only thing that seems unfair is that it wasn’t something she could drag Steve into. He was too good a man. ‘Too good’ in that she didn’t want him tainted by her business, but also ‘too good’ in that he wouldn’t have hesitated to arrest her if he’d found out.

So much has been faked in this whole story. But when they met up last week, and they said they couldn’t see each other again, they were both telling the truth.

Eric has finished his vegan sausage roll and is now reading a seed catalogue. She smiles and puts her hand on his.

‘Come on, then, Eric. Let’s go and look at this retirement community.’

Acknowledgements

Thank you so much once again, my lovely reader – or readers, let’s be optimistic about it – for taking the time to read We Chase Shadows. How wonderful to be back in the world of We Solve Murders. To meet up with Steve and Rosie and Amy, and to send poor Steve around the world again, dressed incorrectly again.

I always like to set these books in places that I’ve actually visited, and what a trip around the world we’ve had this time. From Lucca and Barcelona (Spain), to Stockholm (Sweden) and Palm Springs. From Málaga to Axley and to wherever Rosie lives (please don’t follow the detailed road instructions, you won’t find a castle with two moats). Just so you know, I have now pretty much run out of places around the world that I’ve actually been to, so if the next book in the We Solve Murders series is set entirely in the Chiswick branch of Nando’s, you’ll know why.

By the way, I extend my apologies to the people of Sweden – I’m aware there’s a great deal more to your wonderful country than ruthless murderers and Yngwie Malmsteen. My apologies also to the people of Watford, Kensal Rise, Portsmouth, or anywhere else I might have offended during the writing of this book.

Talking of offending people, I got into a great deal of trouble after the first Thursday Murder Club book when I said there was a Waitrose in Tunbridge Wells. There isn’t, and the people of Tunbridge Wells were not happy about the fact. It is in this spirit, then, that I must warn you there is no branch of Bella Italia in Lymington. I just thought Tony Taylor would like there to be one.

As always, I have lots of people – and a couple of cats – to thank.

To my incredible agent, Juliet Mushens, my undying thanks for your calmness, candour, wisdom and wit. And thank you too to the Mushens Entertainment crew, Emma Dawson, Melody Travers and Catriona Fida. Four thumbs up for you all.

Also, Melody Travers is a great character name if anyone is thinking of writing a YA novel.

Thank you to my amazing editor, Harriet Bourton, and her wonderful team, so many of whom have been around since book one. Rosey Battle, Olivia Mead, Joe Cooper, Rose Poole. Thank you to the sales gang: Sam Fanaken, Justin Ward-Turner, Meredith Benson and Olivia Pither. To Richard Bravery and Alisha Kruse, thank you for making this book look so beautiful, and to Natalie Wall, Annie Underwood and Karen Whitlock, thank you for making me look so competent.

Incidentally, Karen is the one who broke the news to me that there is no Bella Italia in Lymington.

Thank you to the whole amazing American crew. They are ‘Team America – Word Police’, and what a team. To Pamela Dorman, Jeramie Orton, Natalie Grant, Brian Tart, Andrea Schulz and Patrick Nolan. To Jason Ramirez and Colin Webber. To Claire Vaccaro, Tricia Conley, Tess Espinoza, Diandra Abernathy and Mike Brown. To Kate Stark, Mary Stone, Anna Brill, Rebecca Marsh, Kristina Fazzalaro and Magdalena Deniz, and to Andy Dudley and Rachel Obenschain.

Worth noting that no one on the American team picked up on the lack of a Lymington Bella Italia. Thank you to them all, as always, for putting up with my relentless Britishness.

Thank you also to my amazing foreign publishers and translators.

My great thanks to Jamie Kabler, Debbie and Doug Miller, Deborah Dejah, David Zippel, and the whole gang at the Rancho Mirage Writers’ Festival. Going to Rancho Mirage gave me the idea of murdering someone in Palm Springs right next door – I look forward very much to discussing this with the wonderful readers of the festival next year.

Thank you to the amazing staff on Ward 10 at the Royal Sussex Hospital in Brighton, you are the very best of the very best. Thank you to Maggie Heüchert for asking exactly the right questions about Amy, and thank you to Jorge Bosch for inspiring many of the good things and none of the bad things about Ernesto.

And my special thanks to booksellers and libraries everywhere. Do keep supporting both.

On a personal note, thank you to my wonderful family for their love and support, and especially to my mum, Brenda, who had a tough year but kept smiling through. We all love you so much.

It would be remiss of me not to thank Liesl and Lottie too, for your assured elegance (Liesl) and your manic insanity (Lottie). Long may you both stop me from writing with your purring (Liesl) and keyboard-walking (Lottie).

Thank you to my kids – I am aware you are no longer kids, but I choose not to acknowledge that fact. It is a pleasure seeing the adults you are becoming.

Thank you most of all to my beautiful wife, Ingrid, for the joy you bring me every single day. I don’t know how I got so lucky.

And thank you, once again, for reading. These books simply don’t exist without you. The We Solve Murders team will be back soon, but, first, a new Thursday Murder Club novel next year. I hope you will keep your eye out for a familiar new resident somewhere in the background, perhaps tending to an allotment. I will start writing it as soon as I have finished writing these acknowledgements. Full disclosure, I might have a cup of tea in between.

Until next time!

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When Elizabeth meets a wedding guest who fears for their life, the thrill of the chase is ignited once again. A villain wants access to an uncrackable code and will stop at nothing to get it. Can the gang solve the puzzle in time?

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At sunrise, high in the Italian hills, a body is found on the steps of a beautiful private villa.

On the body is a threatening note, signed by a mystery man … Between Italy and Palm Springs, via Barcelona and Steve’s village pub, can the team catch an elusive killer who knows EXACTLY where to hide?

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First published by Viking in 2026

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