SECRETS OF THE MISSING

CJ CARVER

Copyright © 2026 CJ Carver

The right of CJ Carver to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 2026 by Bloodhound Books.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

www.bloodhoundbooks.com

Print ISBN: 978-1-918834-10-9

CONTENTS

Praise for CJ Carver

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Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Also by CJ Carver

You will also enjoy:

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Acknowledgements

A note from the publisher

PRAISE FOR CJ CARVER

SECRETS OF THE MISSING

“An extraordinarily tense, clever thriller”

Frost Magazine

“A charismatic heroine and a marvellous ability to use landscape to create mood… special”

Booklist

“Rich in nuance… centred on themes with valid relevance… startlingly assured and dazzlingly well-realised… one of the better crime novels published this year”

St. Petersburg Times

“Powerful writing, a gripping plot… outstanding”

The Mystery and Thriller Club

“Stunning”

Library Journal (starred review)

“I hardly stopped to take a breath as I raced through it”

Mystery News

“Well-researched, shocking, moving, exciting”

Times Literary Supplement

‘Fast moving, exciting, and hard-to-put-down…”

Deadly Pleasures

“Takes off at a whirl, capturing the reader’s imagination… You won’t put this down until the whole truth is uncovered”

Romantic Times

“White-knuckle suspense and with a terrific twist in the tail… sheer entertainment all the way”

Lancashire Evening Post

“One of the fastest-moving, most entertaining thrillers I have read for a long time”

Book Oxygen

“Utterly gripping… Carver is the master of complex plots”

Promoting Crime

“A top-notch thriller writer”

Simon Kernick

“A gripping thriller, perfect for fans of Lee Child and Mason Cross”

Guardian

“Draws you in and keeps you on tenterhooks all the way to the end”

Waterstones Bookseller

“The best book I have read this year. Atmospheric, gripping, thrilling, compelling”

Mystery People

“A fast-paced tale… keeps you turning those pages”

Observer

“Probably the most consistently exciting thriller I’ve read this year – and by “consistently” I mean start-to-finish, chapter-by-chapter, don’t-let-up thrills and excitement… I loved every minute”

Crime Time

“The pace is terrific… A definite page turner”

Sydney Morning Herald

“Action-packed, intelligent thriller”

Bookseller

For my great niece Emilia Victoria Margaret Osborne. Welcome to the world, little one!

PROLOGUE

20 JUNE 2009

Constable Dani Page had brought the pistol along because it was expected of her, but she didn’t think she’d actually have to use it.

She’d done several of these deals over the past year. She’d collect the goods from the airfield, remote as hell on the west coast of Wales, deliver it to the clients, count the money, give the goods to the clients. Simple. Nobody had pulled a gun on her yet and today wasn’t likely to be any different.

Dani pulled the five-tonne truck into the pub car park and doused the lights. Saturday morning before sun-up meant the place was deserted. No traffic, no punters, no nothing. Perfect for a clandestine assignation and just how she liked it. Climbing out of the cab she stretched, appearing relaxed and unhurried, an art form she’d perfected over the past year to cover the fact her nerves were bundled tight and sharp as barbed wire.

The first person she saw was Andy Chou, bang on time as usual. Then the Indian, a fat guy called Howard Patel, shambled over. She didn’t know if they used their real names or not, but one day she’d find out. Preferably when they were face down with their wrists handcuffed behind their backs and after Dani had read them their rights.

She gestured at the two men to join her at the back of the truck. Opened the rear door to give Andy Chou first dibs. Same deal as usual. Same routine. Until she heard a footstep on gravel that shouldn’t have been there.

Dani scanned the car park but couldn’t see anyone. Just two cars, a Saab and a VW Golf, both beaded with dew; but her spine was crawling.

‘Make it quick,’ she snapped, and at the same time she heard the unmistakable sound of someone racking the slide of their gun.

Her body went cold. She was immobile, frozen in place. She should have dived to the ground straight away. She should have spun round and lunged for whoever was behind her, but fear drenched her in an icy wave, locking her muscles.

Her mind was an uproar. Have they found me out? Discovered that I’m not who I said I was?

Howard and Andy Chou were looking past her shoulder, eyes wide with alarm. Heart pounding, she forced herself to turn her head. Saw a man slide into view from the other side of the truck. He held a pistol. It was pointed directly between Dani’s eyes.

Her knees weakened.

‘Give me the keys.’ The man was clicking his fingers impatiently at Dani and, for a second, she didn’t know what the man meant, and then relief flooded her so fast she nearly stumbled.

‘Easy,’ the man warned. ‘I don’t want to have to shoot you, okay? We do this nice and slow, we all go home tonight.’

As Dani passed the man the keys to the truck, she started to shake inside. She thought of her husband at work, their baby girl in kindergarten, and sent a silent oath to God that if she got out of this alive, she would never go undercover again.

‘Now, the money.’

Dani was looking at Howard and Andy Chou, willing them to hand over their cash and not to do anything stupid, when to her horror, Chou went for his gun.

Adrenalin made everything slow to half speed.

Andy Chou spinning aside, his hand already in the small of his back. The man swinging his pistol, holding it in both hands as Howard fumbled at his jacket for his weapon.

Crack!

The side of Howard’s head vanished in a spray of blood and white chips of bone. His body crumpled to the tarmac.

Dani forced herself to leap sideways, surging out of the way. Andy Chou was rolling to the ground, bringing up his gun. His teeth were bared.

Crack!

Blood erupted from Chou’s cheek. He fell back, the pistol tumbling from his hand. He was clutching his face and screaming.

Dani had her Glock in her hand. She could feel the cool metal of the trigger cupped against her finger. She was swinging the weapon round when something punched her very hard in the throat. It felt like somebody’s fist. It didn’t hurt, but for some reason her knees buckled, and the next second she had folded to the ground.

She tried to scramble up, but her limbs wouldn’t move.

She tried to shout, but her breath came out in a long useless sigh.

Cheek pressed against grit, she watched the shooter step to Andy Chou and put his gun against the man’s head and pull the trigger. Then the shooter turned and began to walk towards Dani.

Leather shoes on tarmac.

Scrunch, scrunch.

It only took four seconds for the shooter to walk over and push his pistol against Dani’s head and pull the trigger.

Those four seconds took for ever.

CHAPTER ONE

PRESENT DAY

Trinity Road Police Station had to be the ugliest cop shop in Britain. At first glance it appeared not to have any windows, and its massive walls were accentuated by its uncompromisingly unimaginative bold red brickwork, currently shining with rain. It wasn’t friendly in any way. No grass or flowers or signs telling you to watch your step. It was aloof and imposing and looked as impenetrable as a modern-day fortress.

Kira felt an inordinate fondness for the place despite the constant roar of the A420 and the rubbish littering the streets. Sex shops rubbed shoulders with grubby takeaway restaurants, their windows filmed with grime. There was a guitar shop and an aquatic sports store, but the one that always lifted Kira’s spirits each time she passed was the New Age shop that sold crystals and dream catchers, and books on divination and how to get a life full of creative possibilities.

The small stretch of businesses encapsulated Bristol perfectly for her; one side being ugly, dirty and seedy as hell, the other young and sporty, and laden with artists and alternative thinkers.

When she’d moved here as a kid, she’d hated the place, but now she couldn’t think of living anywhere else.

She breathed in the smell of the city overlaid with a salty brine. Stepped up her pace to keep up with Constable Jenny Green who had six inches on her and a longer stride. It didn’t take them long to cross the city and when they arrived, there was just a single patrol car standing outside the converted warehouse, blue lights penetrating the gloom. She could see two traffic cops, who were also AFOs – authorised firearms officers – storing their carbines in the boot, but nobody else was about. It was still and quiet, and a thick grey mist was rolling in from the Atlantic and across the Bristol Channel, settling over the old city docklands like a weary blanket.

Kira gave a shiver. November was her least favourite month. Cold and wet and gloomy. Her uniform felt damp. So did her bones, and she knew the chill would remain in her marrow until she’d soaked it away in a hot bath.

‘Like a bite?’

Jenny offered her a chocolate brownie the size of a brick. Kira shook her head even though she was tempted. If she ate a brownie every time Jenny offered, she’d be as round as a bowling ball within the month and unable to run as fast as she liked. Not that she was a runner per se, but she did chase after the odd criminal, and there was nothing Kira liked more than catching them up, and nicking them.

‘No wonder you feel the cold.’ Jenny demolished the brownie with a speed that always astounded Kira. ‘Not enough fat on you.’

Not like Jenny, who was, by her own account, well padded. She’d grown up on a council estate and a diet of chocolate, sausages, and chips. The only thing that had changed since she’d turned eighteen was that she no longer lived on the estate. She believed vegetables were for rabbits and that vegetarians were to be viewed with immense suspicion. And don’t get her started on vegans. She thought they were the work of the devil.

Kira was amazed that despite her appalling diet, Jenny had clear skin and thick shoulder-length blonde hair that today, had turned to frizz in the damp.

Footsteps muffled by fog, they approached the two traffic cops.

‘Hey,’ Jenny greeted them.

One of the cops looked up and blinked. ‘Hey,’ he said.

He wasn’t looking at Jenny. He was looking at Kira. He had three stripes and a shoulder number. Sergeant 439. He was tall and dark-haired, a good-looking guy with a boyish grin that would invariably have dozens of women drooling all over his uniform. Kira knew the type; she worked with enough of them.

‘The vics okay?’ Jenny asked, wiping chocolate from the corner of her mouth.

‘Ready and waiting.’

He was still looking at Kira. He did a man-scan, sweeping his eyes from her sturdy black boots up her uniform to her breasts, then her mop of dark wavy hair forced into submission beneath her cap. As usual, she didn’t blink an eye. Working in a predominantly male environment she’d quickly learned the power of ignoring any behaviour regarding her gender, or her diminutive size. Men found it confusing if you didn’t react.

‘Talk us through it?’ Kira prompted coolly.

‘Kid called a nine-nine-nine after witnessing two guys busting the door of her apartment down. She thought one of them might have had a holster under his jacket.’ He took another peek at her and began to smirk. She knew he was going to make a crack about pint-sized coppers and she immediately cooled her demeanour to give him her icy dead-cop stare. Immediately he sobered, and his gaze slid away.

‘The kid’s Lucy Stroud?’ Kira checked her notes.

‘Yup.’

‘And the burglars?’

‘Gone by the time we got here.’

‘Her parents?’

‘Mother’s up there with the kid. Not sure where the father is.’

Kira glanced at the expensively converted Victorian warehouse, its designer oak and glass entrance door, the flash audio-video intercom system. A brushed gold pull handle and matching name plates completed the look. It reeked class, of no-expense-spared, but it was as still as a morgue.

‘How’d the men get inside the building?’

‘A neighbour let them in. The usual, “I’ve got a delivery for you” trick. Idiots,’ he added as his colleague joined them at a clip. Like Kira, he was a constable with just his number on his epaulettes. No stripes, no pips.

‘Sorry we’ve got to go,’ he said, looking regretfully between Jenny and Kira, ‘got a code blue on the M5.’

While the two traffic cops jogged to their patrol car to head to their motorway crash, Kira went and pressed the Strouds’ intercom. A woman answered. Kira announced herself and Jenny, got buzzed in.

‘You’ve got that look in your eye again,’ Jenny remarked as they stepped into the lift. ‘The one you get just before the lightbulb gets switched on.’

‘Believe me, it’s already on. When did you last hear of a man wearing a holster in Redcliff Backs?’

‘Never.’

‘My point exactly.’

‘Kid could have been mistaken. The over-excitement of witnessing the burglary and all that.’

‘We’ll soon find out.’

They stepped into a pearl-grey carpeted corridor with muted down-lights and a line of glossy indoor plants. Jenny paused by a window and peered through the mist at the Floating Harbour. Opposite were barges and cobbled streets, pine and chrome-designed cafés and fish restaurants. The water was the colour of iron.

The door of the penthouse apartment was a mess. The panel around the lock was splintered and torn. It looked like an axe had been used. The burglars hadn’t seemed to care about the noise they made. Which meant they knew they were going to be in and out before the police got there. Which led Kira to wonder if they were professionals.

Cautiously, Kira rapped her knuckles on an unbroken piece of door. Standing to one side she called out, ‘Hello?’

Silence.

Then came the sound of glass smashing.

Kira’s nerves tightened. She looked at Jenny, who gave a nod.

Stepping to the shattered door, cupping her mouth with both hands, Jenny took a breath and yelled. ‘POLICE!’

CHAPTER TWO

‘For God’s sake.’ A woman appeared, looking shocked. ‘Do you normally shout like that?’

Jenny looked at her stonily. ‘We do when we’re attending a burglary and hear smashing glass.’

‘Oh.’ The woman gave a shaky smile. ‘That was me. I dropped a tumbler in the kitchen. Butterfingers after…’ She gestured at the shattered door. ‘I’m all fingers and thumbs.’ She took a breath, putting a hand on her heart. ‘You gave me one hell of a fright.’

‘Sorry,’ said Kira kindly. ‘We were just taking precautions.’ She shot Jenny a pointed look.

‘Yeah, sorry.’ Jenny shuffled her feet.

Kira watched the woman settle herself down. She had red-raw eyes and was clutching a tissue. She wore tracksuit pants and a stretchy vest that accentuated her muscles, and a pair of silver-hooped earrings. Her hair was a tangled mass of copper corkscrews. Late thirties or so, she would have been strikingly attractive if she didn’t have purple bruises around her eyes and skin the colour of a corpse.

‘Mrs Stroud?’

‘Call me Sherry, please. I can’t bear formal terms. Too stuffy.’

Kira eyed her warily. She’d attended dozens of burglaries in her four years on the force and witnessed a variety of responses – guilt, frustration, fear, and anger – but it was the first time she’d seen anyone looking as though someone had died. Maybe the place had been stripped, and Sherry had forgotten to renew the insurance.

‘I’m not normally such a mess,’ Sherry said apologetically. ‘I’m usually quite big on self-control but today… well, we could put it down to PMT, but I doubt you’d believe me.’ She gave a twisted, self-deprecating smile that was meant to put everyone at ease. Immediately, Kira liked her for it.

Kira showed Sherry her warrant card and introduced herself and Jenny. Everyone shook hands. Sherry had a strong grip, but her hand was chilled to ice. ‘Come in, won’t you? I’ll get Lucy.’

Pulling the broken door open wide, she walked ahead of them down an arctic-white corridor lined with silver ornaments and oversized silver framed photographs showing the warehouse before its conversion – a crumbling, lichen-covered building weeping damp – while the remainder appeared to be a record of the work undertaken. The Strouds were obviously proud of their home’s heritage.

‘Lucy!’ Sherry called. ‘The police are here. In the kitchen, please!’ Swiftly, she swept up the broken glass, dumping it in the bin before she began opening and closing cupboards. ‘Tea?’ she asked. ‘Or coffee? I’ve got some Arabic coffee if you prefer, you know, flavoured with cloves and cardamom…’

Although Kira wanted to tell her she didn’t have to play hostess, she also knew the importance of making someone feel useful. ‘Two teas, thanks.’

The kitchen was as Kira had imagined it would be. Brilliant white and fresh, lots of chrome and integrated ovens and induction cooker hobs. The central island was enormous, with fresh flowers, a wine-chiller rack and seating for six.

Sherry paused briefly to glance over her shoulder. ‘Lucy? What about you?’

‘I’ll get myself an apple juice.’

Kira turned to see a gangling adolescent of about twelve, sidle to the fridge. Like her mother she was slim-hipped and athletic, but instead of the copper curls she had sheets of dark blond hair caught in a ponytail. Deep brown eyes and a dusting of freckles across her cheekbones gave her a serious, but slightly vulnerable air. Heaven help the boys when she grows up, thought Kira.

‘Honey, this is…’ Sherry frowned. ‘You mind if we use Christian names, or do we have to call you both constable?’

Kira smiled. ‘Christian names are fine.’

‘Kasmira, wasn’t it?’

Kira was surprised. Not many people actually read the warrant card; they just checked the photo. Even though Sherry was upset, Kira thought the woman was unusually sharp.

‘Everyone calls me Kira.’

‘Kira and Jenny it is, then.’ Sherry paused to gesture to her daughter. ‘Meet Lucy.’

Lucy half-filled a glass with ice from the ice maker, topped it with apple juice. Her gaze was shy, but not scared. ‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Hi, Lucy,’ said Kira, pulling out her ePNB, electronic pocket notebook. ‘Would you mind if we asked you about the guys who broke into your apartment?’

The girl shook her head, watching as Jenny also brought out her PNB, her “hard copy” notebook, and settled herself at the table. Jenny’s handheld mobile device had failed earlier in the week, so while Kira made notes electronically, Jenny was forced to use good old-fashioned paper. After Lucy was seated, Kira joined them.

‘Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?’ Jenny said, uncapping her gel pen. In thick, bold writing she headed the page STROUD, Burglary, Thursday 15 November, adding the time, then Lucy’s ePNB reference followed by the address.

‘Okay. So, Lucy, what time did you finish school this afternoon?’

‘Three o’clock.’

‘How did you get home?’

‘Tessa’s mum picked me up.’

‘Tessa being?’

‘My best friend. Her mum dropped me off. I’ve got my own keys, and I was coming out of the lift when I heard this banging sound and there were two men trying to break down our door so I got back in the lift and pressed ground and when I was outside I dialled nine-nine-nine…’

As Lucy took a huge breath Kira said, ‘You did exactly the right thing by not disturbing them. Well done. And knowing to call us immediately too… you’re very cool under pressure, aren’t you? You must have been scared.’

Lucy nodded but she looked pleased at the praise.

‘Ever thought of joining the police?’ Kira added, letting a sparkle into her eye. ‘We need people like you.’

Lucy gave a startled giggle, then flushed.

‘Could you describe the men for us?’ Jenny prompted. ‘Dark hair or blond? Tall or short…’

All of them paused when Sherry came and put tea on the table. It was just how Kira liked it, fresh and strong and brewed in a pot with a plate of chocolate Hobnobs on the side. Sitting next to her daughter, Sherry poured the tea into mugs and passed the biscuits around, her composure firmly back in place.

‘One of them was tall.’ Lucy munched on a biscuit as she spoke. ‘He had a hooked nose. Like a pirate. And eyebrows that met in the middle. He was really creepy.’

Sherry’s skin turned even more pasty, but Kira kept her attention on the girl. Like her mother, the girl was observant. ‘What else about him?’

‘He was Asian looking.’

‘Did he have a beard or a moustache?’ interjected Jenny, scribbling away.

‘No.’

‘Any jewellery, like earrings or bracelets or anything?’

Lucy shook her head.

While Jenny continued questioning Lucy, Kira ran her eyes around the kitchen, the marble worktops, the little pile of mail next to a stack of magazines: Architectural Weekly, Mind Body & Spirit and Private Pilot.

It wasn’t the usual mix of family reading, and she wanted to ask who the pilot was but didn’t want to interrupt Jenny.

‘Can you remember what he wore?’

Lucy scrunched up her face. ‘Dark trousers, white shirt. He had a jacket on. I’m not sure what colour it was, but it wasn’t like red or yellow or anything. Black or blue. Or dark grey.’

‘Was it a suit?’

The girl shook her head and then Jenny asked about the holster she’d spotted.

Lucy looked at her mother, then at the table. ‘I thought I saw something.’ Her tone was defensive. ‘I thought it might be a gun.’

Jenny shared an ironic glance with Kira that said, if we had a penny for every time we heard that one, and then asked Lucy what the man’s accomplice looked like. Short, fat and Indian wasn’t the best description in the world thanks to Bristol’s burgeoning Asian population, but it could have been worse. Lucy could have been seen by the men while they bashed their way into the apartment, and they might have hurt her.

Kira began filling out a crime report while Jenny prepared the statement papers. ‘We’ll need a list of what’s been taken,’ Kira said. ‘Especially anything that we can easily identify.’

Sherry looked around the kitchen. She was biting her lip. ‘But that’s the thing. Nothing appears to be missing.’

‘Nothing?’ Kira repeated, keeping her senses on Lucy, who’d tensed like a drawn crossbow and was watching her mother anxiously. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Mum,’ Lucy said. ‘What about–’

‘You’re not missing anything, are you, Lucy?’ Sherry overrode her daughter, and Lucy immediately sank back, but not before Kira saw the flash of anger in the girl’s eyes, quickly followed by distress. ‘But shouldn’t we–’

‘Not now.’ Her mother was firm.

Lucy’s eyes filled.

Kira raised an eyebrow at Jenny, who gave a nod.

Kira rose. ‘Would you mind if I use your loo? Lucy can show me.’

Sherry opened her mouth to protest but obviously thought better of it as Lucy slid off her stool. ‘Sure.’

As soon as they were in the arctic corridor, kitchen door closed behind them, Kira turned and faced the girl. She said, ‘Lucy, what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

The denial belied the girl’s distress.

‘Something was stolen, wasn’t it?’

Lucy scuffed her feet on the white carpet and wouldn’t meet her eye.

‘Look, if we know what it is, then we can find it. And if we find it, we can arrest the guys who broke in. You want that, don’t you? To see those two guys arrested?’

Lucy nodded, but still wouldn’t make eye contact.

‘What did they take, Lucy?’

Lucy shrugged.

‘Was it just the one item?’

A shrug.

‘Was it something of yours? Or your mother’s?’

Another shrug.

‘Your father’s?’

Long silence during which Lucy remained quite still.

‘Where is your father? Is he on his way home?’

Lucy raised her head to look straight at Kira. The anguish in her eyes made the hairs at back of Kira’s neck rise.

‘We don’t know where Dad is.’

Kira stared. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He left for work on Monday and hasn’t come home since.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘You filled in a missing persons report yesterday and didn’t think to mention it to us earlier?’ Jenny was breathing hard, head down, her cheeks flushed, obviously annoyed.

‘Yes. I mean no.’ Sherry buried her head in her hands. ‘Shit. I don’t know. I called Missing People earlier. I’ve been ringing everyone, but nobody’s seen him.’

Kira saw Jenny underline the words missing husband on her notepad, almost tearing the paper she was pressing so hard with her pen, and as Jenny opened her mouth to start questioning Sherry – not particularly sympathetically given the way her nostrils were flared – Kira caught her fellow constable’s eye and lifted her chin towards Lucy.

Two minutes, she mouthed.

With an exaggerated sigh Jenny hauled her frustration under control. Gave Kira a nod. ‘Lucy, let’s give your Mum and Kira a couple of minutes.’

Lucy didn’t protest, and nor did Sherry, who now had tears seeping past her fingers and down her cheeks. Now they were alone, Kira took a seat next to Sherry and rested her forearms on the table. Keeping her body language open and unthreatening, she said, ‘You must be feeling awful. I’m so sorry.’

Sherry didn’t respond immediately. Kira didn’t expect her to. Sherry knew she’d stuffed up by not being straight from the start and after Jenny’s irate response, it would take a little time to gain her confidence.

‘It’s one of the worst things,’ Kira went on gently, ‘when someone you love goes missing. Not knowing where they are. Why they haven’t called. But you’ve done all the right things. You’ve filed a report with the police. You’ve let Missing People know. Like you, I bet Lucy’s desperately worried about her dad.’

As she spoke, Kira’s heart was squeezed in her chest. The pain wasn’t as bad as it used to be, but it was still there, lying dormant like a sleeping animal until a memory came along to awaken it. Her father had gone missing twelve years ago but sometimes, like now, it felt as though it was yesterday. She could be fourteen years old again, watching Dad grab his aviator shades and flight books from the hall, a tall strong man with bright blue eyes and a big wide grin striding to kiss her goodbye. It had been a normal day like any other – nothing to warn them that they’d never see him again. Mum had driven Kira and her brother to school while Dad had driven to Cotswold Airport where he ran QuickAir, an aeroplane taxi service. He’d been booked to fly a cabinet minister from Glasgow to Canary Wharf, but he never arrived.

Back then, the police didn’t look particularly hard for Mispers except in cases of crime, or if you were elderly or very young, or suffering from a mental illness. William Connal – Bill to his friends – had been a fit guy in his mid-forties and the police hadn’t taken much interest in the case.

Because the aeroplane had never been found, Kira had spent her teenage years imagining him crashing into the side of a remote mountain or into the sea. It was only a long time later that she learned everyone assumed her father had died by suicide because of financial difficulties, but as a kid, she was furious with the police for not making more of an effort.

She’d done her own investigation after she’d joined the force but found nothing new. Bill Connal had climbed into his Piper Warrior PA-28 at 8am on 2 July 2013, taken off in a south-westerly direction and was never seen again.

As Kira watched Sherry’s tears dripping steadily onto the kitchen table, she felt the dull ache of abandonment turn into professional resolve. Just because she’d lost her father didn’t mean this family had to lose theirs.

‘Although you’re here to look after Lucy,’ Kira continued, tone steady, ‘you need someone to look after you too. Is there someone I can call? Your parents maybe?’

‘They’re dead.’ The words were muffled.

Kira flinched inside. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Me too.’ From the pain in her tone, it was still fresh, still raw.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kira said again.

Sherry got up and went to a cupboard, pulled out a roll of paper towel decorated with dancing bears. She mopped her face and blew her nose, then waved a hand at the kitchen door, still firmly shut. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

Kira nodded. She knew what Sherry meant. Thanks for giving her time to collect her emotions. Thanks for being understanding.

‘I don’t know why I didn’t tell you Oliver was missing.’ She balled up the square of paper towel in her fist. ‘Too scared of admitting it probably… for a moment I thought the burglary had something to do with his disappearance–’ she gave a slightly hysterical laugh ‘–but that’s ridiculous. Christ knows, I haven’t been able to think straight since he left.’

‘Why would you think the burglary is connected?’

‘God, I don’t know. Paranoia?’

Kira wasn’t so sure. Things weren’t adding up. Why hadn’t the burglars taken any of the silver ornaments, which were easily stuffed into a bin bag? Most burglaries were smash and grab affairs and took less than two minutes from entry to exit, but this was different.

Taking out a good old-fashioned business card, Kira wrote her mobile number on the back and gave it to Sherry. She’d learned the value of building trust within a community and had found giving out her mobile number formed the first part of a mutual respect. ‘Ring me whenever you want, okay? Even if it’s just to chat.’

Sherry turned the card over several times before sliding it onto the countertop. She held Kira’s eyes. ‘You’re not your normal sort of policewoman, are you?’

Kira gave a wry smile. ‘We’re not all like Line of Duty, you know.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Sherry watched the two constables leave. Dread sat beneath her breastbone, almost suffocating her. Her mouth was dry. She felt sick and her hands were trembling.

‘Mum?’

She felt her legs move stiffly, as if her joints were frozen, back down the corridor. Lucy looked taller, her hair fairer, more like Oliver. She swallowed. Oliver, Oliver. Where are you?

‘They’ll find Dad, won’t they?’

Somehow, Sherry found the strength to speak. ‘Of course they will, darling.’

‘I don’t understand why he’s gone away.’

‘Neither do I. But he’ll be back soon and the second he is, we’ll forget he ever left.’

‘You didn’t have a row, did you?’ Lucy’s voice was accusing. ‘Tessa’s parents row all the time. She says they might even get a divorce.’

Sherry forced herself into the kitchen and began tidying the mugs, teapot and biscuit plate away. ‘No, we didn’t row. Your father and I never row.’

‘But he’s never gone anywhere without telling us before.’

‘I know.’

She opened the dishwasher and stacked the mugs on the top shelf. Every movement was an effort, as though her limbs were weighted with lead.

‘Can I have some crisps?’

Normally she’d say no, not until after you’ve had supper, but she didn’t have the energy. ‘Help yourself.’

She heard the rustle of cellophane, and then the sound of the TV being turned on in the sitting room. TV was usually only allowed after Lucy had eaten, but things weren’t normal anymore. Everything was upside down and inside out and she didn’t know what to do. What had that cop said?

Although you’re here to look after Lucy, you need someone to look after you too.

Kira had asked if she wanted to ring anyone, but she couldn’t think who. Sure, she had her grandparents who lived not far away, but she’d never leaned on them like she might her own parents, or a sibling. She hadn’t had the guts to tell them that Oliver was missing but she knew she’d have to. The thought of their fussing made her groan inside. They weren’t particularly old, in their early seventies, but they seemed to think a cup of tea and piece of home-made cake every ten minutes would fix anything.

Suddenly, she saw herself, Lucy and Oliver perched on a desert island, endless ocean all around. She hadn’t seen them like that before, but the fact she didn’t have anybody she wanted to come over made her realise how isolated they were. It wasn’t a conscious thing; they just preferred their own company. Their own routine. Their own way of doing things. They didn’t do social media much either. Oliver hated it and only had his accounts for work, nothing social.

I don’t see why I should share my life with people I don’t know, he’d said. And when she responded saying people, like the other mums at Lucy’s school, enjoyed seeing what they were up to, and vice versa, he’d given her such a repressive look, she hadn’t dared post much. Occasionally he’d have a look at her Instagram and roll his eyes in despair. It’s all so trivial.

Now, she double-checked his social media apps to see nothing had been posted for over a month. Every photograph was of buildings or images of house designs, reflecting his profession as an architect. Not a single picture of him.

Rinsing out the teapot, she tried to think of anything she’d done to upset Oliver lately. It hadn’t been the best of weeks, she supposed, with Lucy in a bad mood because they’d refused to let her go to skiing in Chamonix with a school friend over the Christmas holidays. Skiing for God’s sakes. The closest she’d got to a holiday when she was a kid was a trip to Weston-super-Mare.

Sherry looked around the kitchen, at the gleaming appliances, the state-of-the-art lighting, and tears began to rise. She loved Oliver so much. She loved him for his dependability. Loved him for his kindness and gentle humour. Loved him for marrying her and giving her a beautiful home and for making her a wife and mother.

It wasn’t the kind of heated, passionate love she’d known in the past, but it didn’t mean she was indifferent to him. He only had to brush the base of her spine with his fingers for her to turn into his embrace and reach for his mouth. The chemistry was strong, but it didn’t engulf her, make her feel vulnerable or defenceless. It made her feel safe.

When they first started seeing each other, she used to affectionately tell Oliver he reminded her of a Viking, all fire and ice. Fire in the bedroom and for a good game of rugby, or when something moved him – like seeing earthquake victims struggling to survive – and ice for work and everyday emotions. He told her he loved her the day they got married, and that he didn’t see the need to have to tell her again. If his feelings changed at any point in the future, then he’d tell her, but if he said nothing it meant he still loved her every minute of every day of every hour.

It had been the strangest, but most romantic speech she’d ever heard.

Moving to the window she saw a swan lifting off the river, big black feet paddling, its wings slapping against the water, clack-clack-clack. She rested her cheek against the cool of the windowpane, her breath steaming the glass.

The police officer, Kira, knew there was something wrong about the burglary. She’d seen the constable, sharp-eyed, taking in every detail, making notes on her little electronic pad. Strange that she’d trusted the policewoman. She couldn’t say why, but she felt as though she knew what she was going through. There was something in her dark brown eyes, a kind of perception that made her feel as though she wasn’t alone.

She’d wanted to tell Kira about Sunday night – the night before Oliver disappeared – but hadn’t been able to bring herself to. She couldn’t bear for Lucy to think she might have something to do with her father vanishing.

She’d woken in the small hours, in the pitch dark, to find Oliver wasn’t beside her. Wanting a pee, she’d risen and padded to the bathroom. When she’d finished, she’d glanced along the corridor to see the flickering light of the TV. Going into the sitting room she found Oliver on the sofa, sitting upright in his dressing gown, his gaze fixed blankly on the screen.

‘Ollie?’ she said. ‘Are you okay?’

He didn’t turn his head or look at her. He just said, ‘Go back to sleep.’

There was something odd in the way he held himself, as though his bones felt brittle, but she didn’t really take it in. It was only later, when she reran the memory that she saw how tense he was, his feet flat on the floor, his hands on his thighs, balled into fists. But at the time she was yawning, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes, and she’d said, ‘Okay, night,’ and crawled back into bed without another thought.

If only she’d gone to him, taken his hands in hers and asked him what was wrong, he might have told her, and then they could have faced whatever it was together. Although he was an intensely private man and wouldn’t necessarily have shared what was on his mind, at least she would have tried.

As it was, Sherry felt as though she’d failed him. And Lucy. And herself.

CHAPTER FIVE

Brushing rain from her uniform, Kira headed for the sector office at the back of the building. Nobody had a desk to themselves, everyone hot-desked and today Kira chose to sit near the chalkboard. Her sarge, Rolo, was at his desk just ahead and talking on the phone. He waved at her, gesturing that he wanted a word. She nodded.

Rolo’s features were unremarkable. He was curly-haired and rosy-cheeked. Dimples when he smiled. He looked like everyone’s nice young man from next door. Kira always teased him he’d make a great serial killer. Old ladies loved him, and criminals never knew whether to take him seriously or not.

Finally, he hung up. Fixed her with his baby-blue eyes that looked as innocent as a child’s – though Kira had learned he was anything but.

‘Why did you go to Redcliff Backs?’

She gave him a startled look. ‘Because I was told to.’

‘Redcliff Backs is not in St Paul’s, in case you hadn’t realised.’

‘The call came through for me.’ She shrugged. ‘I was doubled-up with Jenny. So we went.’

‘Comms told you to go?’

‘Yup.’ Kira looked around for the LIO – local intelligence officer – but he’d already gone. She began to write him a note, asking him to check Oliver’s telephone records, but something made her double-check Rolo. He was chewing the end of his pen and scowling.

Rolo had been given his nickname, not because he was particularly partial to the bite-sized chocolate coated caramel cups, but because he’d once rolled a burglar out of the way of an Esso oil tanker. He’d been chasing the burglar flat out across the A4 and if Rolo hadn’t acted when he had, the guy would have been flattened into a pancake. Every year Rolo received a Christmas card from the burglar, thanking him.

‘Sarge? Something wrong?’

‘I don’t understand why you guys were sent.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘I don’t suppose so.’ He sighed. ‘Write it up for the next shift, would you?’

Kira flicked through the paperwork again, thinking fast. Her biggest bugbear about being in uniform was not being able to see a case to its fruition, because as soon as you finished your shift, you handed it on to the next. And if you then had your allotted three days off, you’d invariably come back to find the case had evaporated without a trace.

‘Can I keep it?’ she asked. ‘It looks more interesting than the usual stuff.’

‘I’m sorry, Kira.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not my decision. It’s the DI’s.’

‘You can persuade him,’ she wheedled. ‘If you really want to.’

‘We’ve a new DI, don’t forget.’

‘Ah, shit.’ She’d forgotten about that. She just had to hope the new guy was as amenable as the old, but she doubted it. Rumour had it he was from the Met and would, no doubt, be full of himself, as though London criminals were any worse than the Bristol ones. Criminals were criminals wherever you went, and since Bristol was up there with Birmingham as one of the UK’s most violent cities, their new DI might find he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Not that he’d have much to do with her, an inferior foot-soldier at the bottom of the pile, but it would be nice to keep the cocky bugger off her sarge’s back.

‘I’ll do my best,’ Rolo said. ‘Okay?’

‘Thanks, sarge. You mind if I ring Missing People? See what they’ve got on him?’

‘Go ahead. Just make sure you pass on the paperwork.’

Kira rang Nicky, her buddy in Missing People, to find they didn’t have much on Oliver either.

‘What publicity are you doing?’

‘The usual. Radio and TV, mostly local. Social media. We’ll tee up The Big Issue tomorrow…’

Nicky was still talking but Kira was overtaken by a vision of Lucy looking at a grainy photograph of her father in The Big Issue and reading the print below.

There is great concern for Oliver’s welfare and his wife and daughter are very worried about him and miss him very much…

She swallowed hard. ‘Nick, could you do me a favour?’

‘Fire away.’

‘If you get any word on this, any news at all, could you ring me? Any time of day, I won’t mind.’

‘This one’s struck a chord, huh?’

‘No more than any other.’ Which was a complete lie that she amended to, ‘Well, maybe a little.’

‘If you need to talk, you know where I am.’

‘Thanks.’

After they’d hung up, Kira logged on to the Missing Persons Unit website to check the page listing unidentified bodies and remains. Can you help us identify someone? She hadn’t logged on for a month or so, but her heart still quickened a little when she saw there was a new addition. But it was a female, 30-35, found last week in Greater London.

As usual, there was no news of her father.

Kira made it to Clifton in just over ten minutes. It would have taken her less if the lights on Park Row had been in her favour, but despite swinging the Honda tightly around each roundabout, she hadn’t shaved any time off her personal best. It was a bit pathetic really with a 20mph speed limit across most of the city, but the commuting challenge never failed to amuse her.

She found it hard to believe she hadn’t had the bike all her life, she was so attuned to it. The first time she’d ridden the CBR 600, it had been a struggle to adjust after her little Suzuki, but not for long. From the CBR’s beautifully sensitive brakes to its weight distribution, the machine was pretty much perfect but what she really loved was its phenomenal power.

Bouncing the Honda over the pavement, she throttled briefly to shift the bike up the front drive before switching off the ignition. With the bike on its side-stand, she took off her helmet and shook out her hair. Lansdown Road was shrouded in mist, and if she didn’t know she was a stone’s throw from the city, she’d think she was in the country it was so quiet.

Clifton meant “top of the cliff”, where the wealthy could get away from the smell and crowds of the city and in two hundred years nothing had changed. Affluent and leafy, filled with upscale boutiques and quirky indie shops, the area boasted buzzing bars and restaurants packed with well-heeled locals. The rent was astronomical, but Benedict wouldn’t live anywhere else.

Hanging up her leathers in the hallway, she pushed her helmet beneath the hall table and peered up the stairs, wondering if he was working. The lights were blazing, but there was no sound. No Bach or Brahms belting out, no heavy rock.

She checked the living room to find every surface was covered with junk. Scrunched up cigarette packets, overflowing ashtrays, half-eaten plates of food and dirty wine glasses; the usual evidence Ben had been entertaining his cronies. Marching into the kitchen, she opened the fridge to find it pretty much empty, the wine rack holding nothing but the same half-full bottle of vodka that had been there since they got married. From time to time Ben would hold it up triumphantly.

‘If I was an alcoholic, I’d drink anything, right? So why don’t I drink the vodka too?’

‘Because you hate vodka,’ she always replied, ‘and because you can usually afford to buy something you prefer.’

Unwashed dishes were stacked to one side of the sink. The Breville sandwich toaster lay open, gluey with cold baked beans and the remnants of melted cheese. She glared at the mess. Just one day, she’d like to come home to a tidy house, but a life of clean wedded bliss could have been as far away as the moon. There was nothing to eat, nothing to drink, the house reeked of cigarette smoke and skunk, and she’d had enough. Anger rose inside her, and by the time she’d walked upstairs it was crackling and spitting like a chip-pan left on high.

Benedict was sprawled on the tatty chaise longue in his studio, a converted bedroom at the rear of the house that looked over the garden. His T-shirt and jeans were spattered with paint, and he had a paint brush cupped in his palm. He was barefoot, and even though it was winter, his feet were brown. How he retained his tan defeated her, especially since he looked so Nordic. His expression was serene, and he was snoring.

The anger leached out of her like rinsed ink.

Sighing, she stepped around his latest painting, an immense oil in blacks and reds depicting what could have been a crocodile’s open jaws looming from the depths of a bloody river, or the inside of a volcano. It depended on your view, or your mood, according to Ben’s agent, but to Kira it simply showed the state of the artist’s soul.

Who the hell would buy it, she didn’t know, but good luck to them. She wouldn’t want it on her wall but thank God the Serpentine Gallery in Bath did. By some miracle, Ben’s agent had managed to get him an exhibition there in time for Christmas, but whether he’d finish all ten paintings required remained to be seen. He’d only done three so far and was struggling with his theme, which had something to do with alchemy and the nine dimensions and was completely beyond Kira’s understanding.

Perhaps his mother would buy it, she mused. She paid for everything else, including Ben’s alcohol habit, and some days Kira wondered what would happen if the apron strings were cut. Tough love, someone had said, could work wonders.

Ignoring the reek of alcohol, she ducked down and pressed a kiss against his mouth. Sometimes she forgot why she’d married him. Forgot how her stomach used to flip when she heard his voice. How her body would ache for him, how she’d smile – beaming all over – when they were together. Benedict was the first man who had made her feel like that; wonderfully and insanely infatuated.

She’d found it hard to trust men after her father abandoned them, and kept men at arm’s length, but Benedict wasn’t the sort to be put off by an aloof smile and a smart put-down. He’d teased and wrangled a date out of her, then another, and before she knew it, she had a ring on her finger and was booked for a walk up the aisle. Nobody else would have managed it but Benedict.

Everything was perfect until the month before they got married, when Kira saw him falling-down drunk. She’d never seen him steaming drunk before, and immediately assumed his drink had been spiked. He’d come home from some party barely able to stand and threw up in the hallway. His skin was waxy, his pupils the size of pin-dots.

When she suggested a doctor, he laughed.

‘Nothing they can do for me, babe. Too late for that.’ He didn’t seem to notice the dark patch leaking down his jeans as he lost control of his bladder. Two minutes later, his legs collapsed where he stood as he passed out. Hands shaking, she called Larry, a friend of his who’d been at the same party, to see if he might know what Benedict had ingested, and she could still feel the shock of that phone conversation beneath her breastbone, as though she’d been shot in the heart.

‘It’s the first time it’s happened?’ Larry sounded amazed. ‘Bloody hell. I knew he was hiding it from you, but I never knew how well.’

Kira found five stashes of Scotch around the house. She marked each bottle, and over the next week watched the levels go down until the bottles were replaced. When she confronted Ben, he denied everything. She pushed further, and he walked out. He didn’t come home for three days, and she couldn’t sleep until he returned. Unshaven, stinking of stale whisky, sweat and urine, his eyes were bloodshot, his bare feet filthy. He was trying not to cry as he spoke.

‘If you want to cancel the wedding,’ he choked, ‘I understand. I love you more than I can say… but I’m such a mess.’

She’d stared at the cigarette ash smeared on his shirt, the beer stains on his jeans, while her mind careened around her skull. He was right. She didn’t want to marry this pathetic wreck of a man. She wanted to marry the beautiful, charming artist who could make her laugh no matter what her mood, and who kissed the hollow of her spine until she groaned.

How shallow are you? her mind ricocheted. How self-centred? Marriage is for better or for worse. It’s not all roses. It’s teamwork, pulling in harness together, like horses pulling a carriage. One day you’ll be taken ill, and Benedict will look after you. Won’t he?

Luckily Ben never knew how her heart was being ripped down the middle, how she was assailed with doubts right up until their wedding day. What a state she’d been in. She rarely dwelled on that period of her life, or all those same doubts came padding back, slinking around the corners of her soul like hungry wolves.

She was about to head back downstairs when his eyes opened and slowly focused.

‘Hello, my little Blarney Stone,’ he said.

He’d always loved teasing her about her Irish heritage – her grandfather had been from Dublin – and she’d never minded. It invariably made her smile inside.

‘Hi.’

‘Arrest many bad guys today?’

‘Not a single one.’

‘The taxpayer will be disappointed.’

Unsteadily, he got to his feet. Ran a hand over his hair. ‘You fancy some supper?’

‘What I really fancy is a glass of red wine…’ She tried to stop herself, but the words kept coming. ‘But since there isn’t any, I guess I’ll have to settle for some water.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you having a go at me, constable?’

‘No. Of course not.’ She rubbed her forehead. Shit. She really ought to bite her tongue sometimes.

‘Look, how about if I go and buy you a bottle.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It won’t take long.’

Kira said tiredly, ‘Don’t worry, Ben. I don’t really need it.’

‘No, no. I insist. Otherwise, you’ll bring it up ad infinitum in the future.’ He shoved his brush into a jar of turps.

‘Ben, I’m sorry. It’s just that for once I’d like to come home and not have to tidy up your mess. It’s been a long day, that’s all.’

‘And mine wasn’t? Jesus Christ, anyone would think you’re the only person around here who does any work.’

She knew it was a mistake, but she couldn’t help biting back. ‘You call sitting around with your cronies eating and drinking until you pass out, “work”?’

‘We’re brainstorming. Living in the reality of the moment. You wouldn’t understand. You’re not an artist.’

‘And you think you are?’ Disbelievingly she gestured at the painting. ‘Give me a break. It looks like one of my prisoners threw up all over it.’

Immediately, she wanted to take her words back.

‘Shit. Ben, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…’

But he was already pounding down the stairs. The whole house shuddered when the front door slammed behind him.

CHAPTER SIX

The next morning, Kira didn’t wake until after ten, and even then, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to. A westerly was blowing in hard from the Atlantic and battering the rear of the house. The rain sounded like pellets being fired from a shotgun against the windowpanes. She groaned. Biking in this weather was not her idea of fun. It would be a major triumph just remaining upright.

Wriggling back down beneath the duvet, she closed her eyes. She could smell cooking bacon and hear next door’s vacuum cleaner. What bliss not having to get up. She didn’t have to be at work until 3pm; she was on lates and lie-ins like this were essential to prevent her turning into a zombie.

Benedict had come into the bedroom as a cool blue light washed through the cracks in the curtains, but she hadn’t let him know he’d wakened her. She’d felt him hover over her, then he pressed a kiss – soft as a butterfly wing – against her forehead. She remembered thinking that although he could be a royal pain in the backside sometimes, at least he never held a grudge.

A little later she had looked over to see him sitting across from her with a sketch pad on his knees. She couldn’t think what he was drawing in the pre-dawn gloom and hadn’t really cared. She’d fallen straight back to sleep.

Now she was yawning and stretching, and she was thinking about heading for the shower when she heard a light tapping on the bedroom door. Someone politely asking if they could come in. Instantly, she was bolt upright in bed, wide awake, senses bristling.

Benedict never tapped. He knocked like a policeman, bang-bang-bang, with the full force of his knuckles, or just strode inside.

Soundlessly, Kira slipped across the room and pulled on Ben’s dressing gown, a huge white towelling robe he’d nicked from a hotel in Amsterdam and which was now splotched with paint. Padding over to the door, she grabbed the handle and yanked it open.

‘Eee!’ Her mother leaped backwards, mug in hand and slopping tea all over her wrist.

‘Fucksake, Mum. What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Ben let me in.’ She was patting her heart, looking flustered. ‘Goodness, you gave me a fright!’

Neither Kira nor her brother had inherited any of their mother’s delicate, pale looks, and Kira sometimes wondered if her mother resented the fact they looked like a pair of Irish peasants with their black hair and blue eyes.

‘I’ve brought you some tea,’ Mum offered. ‘I thought you could drink it in bed.’ Behind her stood a vacuum cleaner and a bucket filled with cleaning fluids and bright yellow dusters.

‘God give me strength.’ Kira raised her eyes to the ceiling, empathising with her father’s frustration. Dad used to hate seeing his wife acting like a hotel maid, but despite employing an army of cleaners and cooks, Mum was, she insisted over and over again, a homemaker by nature. Which was fine as far as Kira was concerned, so long as she stuck to her own home.

Kira drew Ben’s robe tightly around her. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’

Her mother was a florist, which was how she’d met Dad. He’d been buying his mother flowers for her birthday, and the rest, as they say, is history.

‘Darling, you know I’m only part time now. And I thought you could do with a hand.’ She gestured vaguely at a huge stack of ironing at the end of the corridor. She’d laid one of Kira’s crumpled white shirts on the ironing board and the iron was already hissing steam. ‘I know how busy you are.’

‘It’s just a bunch of ironing, for heaven’s sakes.’

‘But what about your exams? If you’re working full time, surely you must be exhausted when you get home…’

‘Mum, I’ve quite enough energy to study and push a Hoover around.’

‘They work you so hard. I wish you’d get another job.’

Kira stiffened. ‘If I get into CID, it will be another job.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that. You know how I felt about you joining the police–’

‘Don’t start, Mum.’

‘But what about Benedict? He gets ever so–’

‘Leave Ben out of this.’ Kira could feel herself tightening up inside. Her mother thought the sun shone out of Benedict’s backside and despite Ben falling-down dead drunk last Christmas – taking the entire Christmas tree with him – her mother refused to believe he had a problem with alcohol. She thought he was kind, generous, and immensely talented, which he was on a good day, and clever old Benedict kept up the myth by sending his mother-in-law flowers every Mother’s Day and ringing her spontaneously whenever he had good news.

‘Ah, I get it.’ Kira looked pointedly at her mother’s pinafore. ‘Ben rang you, didn’t he?’

Her mother looked away, but her cheeks turned pink.

‘Mum, I’m not sixteen anymore. I’m twenty-six, remember? I can look after myself, and my husband. I know the house is a bit of a mess, but it doesn’t mean our lives are falling apart. Please, will you go now? I’ve some things I want to do before I get ready for work.’

‘Shall I change the sheets for you first?’ her mother said hopefully. ‘Ben said they needed doing.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Kira turned and went back into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. Some days she could throttle both of them. Benedict for using her mother like his own personal cook and cleaning lady whenever it suited him, and her mother for fulfilling the role.

* * *

They were one plus five at the briefing – one sergeant and five PCs – two of their team having been struck down with flu that was doing the rounds. Kira prayed she wouldn’t catch it, or Ben would move her mother in for good.

While Rolo ran them through the remaining prisoners – a gang of kids who’d been caught creating mayhem down Broadmead, throwing bottles and shouting at passersby – Kira considered her mother’s remarks. Perhaps she should get a cleaner. Perhaps pigs might fly. She may earn a respectable wage, but just about every penny went towards the rent. And what about her CID application? She’d enjoyed her time in uniform but after four years, the grunt work was getting to her, especially at the end of the day when her hips were as sore as buggery from bearing the weight of her tac vest and all the kit attached.

Tons of constables applied to join CID, but few were selected. To help things along, she’d requested a temporary attachment to New Bridewell – Bristol’s CID headquarters – hoping that if she proved herself, she’d be put forward for consideration by an interview board, but she hadn’t heard a squeak back. She nibbled the end of her pen, wishing CID would let her know their decision soon. The waiting was killing her.

Rolo was running them through the list on the whiteboard, bringing everyone up to date with the previous shift’s work, when a fight came in over the radio.

Kira was already on her feet, but Rolo pointed at Pat and Louis. ‘You two, go,’ he said. They tore out of the door.

Ten minutes went by before the radio blared again.

‘Any units free to attend the rear of a warehouse on Kingsland Trading Estate? Two suspicious-looking men have been reported.’

Rolo jerked his thumb at a new bloke and Jenny. As the pair galloped outside – Jenny moving surprising fast for her bulk – Kira tried not to look disconsolate. Shit, she hated being left behind.

‘Cheer up,’ Rolo told her with a grin. ‘You get to run through the remainder of this lot with me.’ He indicated the whiteboard.

She ran her eyes down the list until it snagged on the word Stroud.

‘Can I follow up the Misper, sarge?’

Rolo checked the whiteboard, then a file on his desk. Kira went and looked over his shoulder to see the local intelligence officer had accessed Oliver Stroud’s telephone records – business, mobile and home – for the past month. Kira reached over and flipped through them, scanning for patterns.

‘Sarge, look at this.’ She pointed at a local number that showed up regularly on Oliver’s mobile phone. It was also the last number Oliver had called. ‘I wonder who it belongs to?’ she mused.

Rolo gave her a wry look. ‘You tell me. You’re the one who wants to be a detective.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

The number Oliver had rung so frequently was a private line belonging to a business acquaintance of his, a man called Robert Digan. He sounded genuinely shocked to hear about Oliver’s disappearance, and was keen to help in any way he could.

‘Come any time you like,’ he responded. ‘I’m on site all day.’

Kira walked across town, the rain-soaked wind as sharp as razor blades. Her eyes stung with cold, and her nose began to run. Despite the foul weather she spotted a small-scale drug dealer near the Market Gate footbridge. Another black guy, hoodie raised, was hanging around, possibly thinking of buying; but the instant he saw her, he bolted. The dealer stared at her. She stared back. Reluctantly, he began to move away but she knew he’d return the second she was out of sight. Some days she felt like that Dutch kid with his thumb in the dyke.

She found Digan overseeing part of a £100 million harbourside development at Porto Quay. Opposite lay the historic SS Great Britain, looking so immaculate it was hard to believe she’d sailed over one million miles since her launch a hundred years ago. Behind the ship’s elegant lines were yet more cranes and diggers. The area’s regeneration had been completed years ago, yet there always seemed to be some building going on, spreading outwards like a virus. She wondered when it would stop. Probably never.

She paused outside the temporary wire fencing.

Robert Digan. Construction. No admittance. Authorised personnel only.

Lots of earth, lots of mud and puddles. Two Portaloos. Two white vans. Excavators, loaders, a compressor. A small man in a high-vis vest came over. ‘You the officer the boss said might be coming?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll let him know.’ He walked off, brown boots squelching, phone clutched to his ear. She didn’t have to wait long before Digan arrived, windswept and ruddy-cheeked. He wore a yellow hard hat and a harried expression.

‘Sorry, I forgot to say. I’ve a meeting with the contractors…’ He paused, suddenly looking sheepish. ‘But Oliver’s welfare is far more important. Please…’ He gestured at a Portakabin. ‘It’s much warmer in there.’

He splashed his way across a muddy wasteland and pushed the Portakabin’s door open. Inside, it was stuffy and smelled of old socks and cigarettes. A radio was playing Jimi Hendrix. Digan switched it off and waved her to a chair. Belatedly, he pulled off his hard hat and put it on top of a stack of papers. His hair was thick and curly with strands of grey threads.

They covered the preliminaries. Running a hand distractedly over the curls, Digan explained his association with Oliver, how they were both well-established architects with their own practices, and as she questioned him further, she gleaned they had both recently been pitching for an extremely lucrative contract to convert a dozen or so listed warehouses into luxury apartments, just off Gas Ferry Road.

Her antenna perked up. Water views, central to the city, it was another highly desirable area ripe for regeneration. ‘You’re saying Oliver’s company, Oliver Stroud Architects, is the only other contender?’

‘Well, yes. I mean, no… You see, Oliver actually won the contract…’ Digan came to a halt, unable to decide how to continue.

‘Mr Digan, why did Oliver ring you – his competitor – so often over the past week?’

He began to fidget. ‘We had a lot of business to discuss.’

‘In person?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘When did you last see Oliver?’

There was a long pause. Then he gave an audible swallow. ‘Four days ago, in my solicitor’s office. Monday.’

‘The day he went missing?’

Another gulp. ‘I guess so… We met at nine in the morning.’

Kira uncrossed her knees and crossed them again the other way, managing to smear mud on the insides of her trousers. ‘What was the meeting about?’

Another long pause. Kira waited while Digan watched an earth mover rumbling past.

‘He sold his company to me.’

You could have knocked her over with her police baton. ‘You own Oliver Stroud Architects?’

‘Well, yes. Or rather, my company does.’ Digan briefly rubbed the space between his eyebrows. ‘He called me the week before and asked if I was interested. He said he’d had enough and wanted out, and that he’d give me a good deal if we settled it all within a week. I was utterly gobsmacked. He lived for that company. Like me, he set his practice up himself, started it from scratch… I thought maybe he’d hit the rocks financially, but he assured me he hadn’t. Which his company records showed.’

She made some notes in her ePNB while she sorted out what to ask next. Fleetingly she thought of Sherry. She didn’t relish the prospect of telling her that Oliver had cashed in his business.

When she raised her head, Digan was staring at her fixedly. She hadn’t seen anyone look so guilty in a long time, and she had to concentrate hard to keep from grinning. What sort of copper was she, enjoying someone’s intense discomfort? It wasn’t as if she thought he’d murdered Oliver for the Gas Ferry contract, but he obviously thought she might think that, the poor sod.

‘You’ve paid Oliver?’ Her tone was businesslike. ‘His associates?’

‘He was the majority shareholder. The money was transferred to his account the same afternoon we signed the documents. On Monday.’

‘When did you last speak to him?’

‘He called me that afternoon. To confirm he had the money.’

‘Have you heard from him since?’

‘No.’ Digan pushed a file over, bulging with paperwork. ‘Everything regarding the transaction is in here.’

She pulled it towards her, raising both eyebrows at him.

‘I got my secretary to bring it over. I assumed you might want to check it out while you were here.’

Kira liked the way Digan worked. Predetermining what she might want earned him loads of brownie points. ‘I appreciate it.’

She had a quick look, and paused when she saw Oliver’s name had the words bare trustee beneath it. ‘Who owned the other shares in Oliver’s company?’ She continued flicking through the paperwork.

‘Er… I can’t remember exactly. Just that they were offshore. The Isle of Man, I think.’

She flicked some more. Digan waited patiently.

‘Ah, here it is… someone called Robin Hudson.’ Kira made a note of his details. She thought a bit, then asked, ‘How much did you pay for the company?’

Digan mentioned an amount that made her eyes water. Oliver and his bare trustee Robin Hudson could live in luxury on a Caribbean island for the next decade if they chose.

‘What about the company employees?’

‘By law he’s supposed to give them notice, but if he hasn’t…’ He swallowed, looking faintly sick. ‘Well, I guess it’s up to me.’

‘I wish you luck,’ she said, and although she strived for a neutral tone, it came out quietly dry.

‘That’s kind of you,’ he responded, just as dry, and although she tried not to, she couldn’t stop the quirk of amusement that escaped.

Ducking her head against the wind, Kira headed for Colston Street and Oliver’s office, making phone calls as she walked. First, she rang Oliver’s bank and ascertained he had cleared his account, cashing every last penny from Robert Digan & Associates three days ago, stacking the wedges of fifty-and-twenty-pound notes carefully into a maroon suitcase in the bank manager’s office. And not only had he cleared every account and cashed what investments he could, but he’d also taken the maximum cash advances available on each of his credit cards. None – as far as she could establish – had been used since Monday.

Nerves fizzing, she turned her attention to tracking down Robin Hudson. It took longer than she hoped, but she finally got through to the man’s mobile as she crossed Denmark Avenue. She had to press her phone hard against her ear as a lorry roared past in order to hear.

‘Mr Hudson?’

‘Speaking.’

‘My name’s Constable Connal and I wanted to talk to you about the sale of Oliver Stroud Architects, of which you are a shareholder. You are aware the company was sold on Monday this week? To Robert Digan & Associates?’

‘What?’

The fizz of excitement swelled into elation as she talked to Oliver’s irate offshore shareholder. Oliver had been trusted with a large amount of Robin Hudson’s money and had – plainly and simply – pocketed the lot. Robin Hudson had no idea where Oliver was, but he certainly sounded as though he wished he did.

‘It’s theft,’ he said furiously. ‘The bastard. I trusted him… You’ll find him, won’t you? I want my money back. I’ll take him to court, I’ll get him chucked into jail, I’ll bloody well kill him…’

Kira eventually managed to calm Hudson down enough to make a quick call to Rolo to fill him in.

‘It’s not a Misper anymore, sarge. Hudson says he’s flying over today to start criminal proceedings against Oliver. You want me to keep going, or hand it over to CID?’

‘Hang on a sec…’

She heard Rolo talking to someone but not what he was saying. A good three minutes passed, and he was still talking.

‘Sarge?’

‘The DI says the case is yours.’

‘He does?’

‘He says he’s a firm believer that owning a case gets a better job done.’

‘Wow.’ She began to smile. ‘Do I like this new DI or what?’

‘Besides which–’ Rolo lowered his voice ‘–I reckon CID would be keen to see how you run with this before they accept your temporary application.’

Her stomach gave a swoop. ‘What, like a test?’

‘I guess you could call it that.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Kira had a spring in her step as she strode down the street. This could well be her much-needed break into CID. She’d better not blow it. She’d better, in fact, do an exemplary job, and prove she had a good memory as well as buckets of patience and an ability to pay attention to every detail.

Oliver’s studio was on the ground floor of an old merchant’s house behind Colston Street. Kira squinted against the wind, looking the handsome eighteenth century house up and down and briefly wondering how many thousands of slaves its past owner had shipped from West Africa. Bristol had an uneasy relationship with its past as a slave-trading hub and the role of Edward Colston who, a major beneficiary of the trade, had caused a huge anti-racism protest a few years ago.

She’d only been with the police a couple of months when she’d been faced with a crowd of over ten thousand people. She’d been pretty terrified, prepared for a violent confrontation, but at the end of the day there were no injuries, no arrests, and just one report of damage. A decent result considering the potential for violence, but still, the controversy continued.

Walking up the wide, shallow steps, she saw a slate-grey sign with silver lettering: Oliver Stroud Architects. Very discreet, very chic. Kira announced herself on the intercom and pushed the door open when it buzzed. Inside, a receptionist greeted her like most civilians did when faced with her uniform, with a slightly flustered air.

She announced Kira to Andrew Burton, director, and told her to take a seat, but Kira walked around the airy space, checking out the diplomas and photographs of buildings in various stages of development, feeling the receptionist’s eyes on her all the time, staring but trying not to stare. She remembered her first few months on the force, and how she’d been disquieted at the attention.

‘It’s only because they’re fascinated by all your bells and whistles,’ Benedict had told her. ‘I mean, look at all this stuff. Handcuffs, PAVA spray, baton, radio, Maglite, official notebook and all your pens lined up in a neat little row… it’s one hell of a turn-on.’ He grinned at her as he snaked an arm around her waist, the accompanying glint in his eye making her knees go weak. ‘How do you fancy taking my statement in bed, my little glass of Guinness?’

Andrew Burton, Oliver’s second-in-command, confirmed Oliver hadn’t turned up at work on Monday.

‘He told me he was taking an impromptu break,’ he bleated. ‘Not that he’d disappear.’

Small and neat in jeans and designer sweater, Burton was wringing his hands. ‘We have thirty-one projects ongoing. Twenty of those are schools, up and down the country, another is a hospital. There’s a ferry terminal, several private houses. He can’t have vanished.’ He looked ready to faint.

‘Where did he say he was going?’

‘He didn’t.’ Burton put his head in his hands. ‘He just said that he needed some time out to sort some personal issues.’

‘Any idea where he might have gone?’

He gazed at Kira in despair. ‘Wouldn’t Sherry know?’

‘Does he have any favourite places? Bars or hotels he likes to visit? Places Sherry might not know about?’

The despair turned astonishment. ‘You’re not suggesting he’s run off with another woman?’

Kira waited.

‘Absolutely not.’ Burton shook his head. ‘Oliver adored Sherry. I mean, really adored her. He’d never leave her, let alone Lucy. He’s a family man. They’re his raison d’être. The purpose for his existence.’

Burton’s expression cleared as he thought further. ‘Something must have happened to him. An accident? Perhaps he’s in hospital with concussion, can’t remember who he is…’

‘We’ve checked with all the hospitals in the country. Nobody answering his description has turned up.’

‘Perhaps his car ran off the road and down a gully.’

‘His car is still in the garage.’

‘What if someone hit him and hid his body, or he interrupted some criminals on the street who did something awful…’ Burton trailed off.

Kira thought of the men who’d bashed their way into Oliver’s apartment. A burglary where nothing had been taken. Thinking of the men Lucy had described, she asked if Oliver had any Asian clients.

He frowned. ‘There’s Reynash and Associates. We’re designing an office block in Birmingham for them.’

Kira made a note. ‘Anyone else?’

‘Not sure. I’ll check, if you like.’

She brought out her card and passed it across. ‘That would be great.’

She looked at the glossy photograph proudly framed on the wall behind him. An enormous, sweeping building on three levels, lots of steel and glass and curves that stretched into a lush tropical garden and around a sea-green swimming pool.

When he saw her looking, Burton said, ‘We won an award for that one.’ His voice was proud.

‘Where did Oliver qualify?’

‘The LSA. London School of Architecture. Level seven.’

At her blank look, he said, ‘It’s the equivalent to a master’s degree.’

After Kira had taken her leave from Burton, she spoke to each employee but none of them had seen Oliver since Friday evening. She was shown some recent newspaper articles detailing Oliver’s success in getting the lucrative Gas Ferry contract. Apparently, he’d also been on local TV.

Finally, she was on her last interviewee, a pretty young girl with strawberry blond hair and half a dozen earrings hooped through both ears. She worked part time on reception, Tuesdays and Thursdays.

‘He wasn’t distracted in any way?’ Kira asked the girl. ‘I’m after anything that stuck out, like any strange phone calls or meetings. Anything, no matter how small.’

‘I don’t know if it’s any help, but there was a delivery…’ She looked embarrassed.

‘What about it?’ Kira encouraged her.

‘It looked like a gift. But when he opened it, well… He went all white looking. I thought he was going to be sick, that maybe he’d eaten something bad at lunchtime…’

‘What was the gift?’

‘A ratty old tiger skin. Like a rug.’

Kira blinked. ‘Was it real?’

The girl looked taken aback. ‘Well, it had claws on it, so it might have been… but I assumed it was fake.’

Kira frowned as she made a note. Weird, she thought. Not just having a tiger skin – fake or not – delivered to your work address, but the violence of Oliver’s response. If it had been her father – who was passionate about tigers from his charity work in India – then it might have been understandable, but for an architect in the middle of Bristol? Somehow the whole scenario seemed more than a little odd.

‘Where’s the skin now?’

‘He threw it out.’

Before Kira could ask the next question, the girl added, ‘The rubbish gets collected on Friday. Sorry.’

‘Do you know who it was from?’

‘Mahipal Singh’s Emporium, on Park Street. I bought a zebra-skin handbag there for my mum’s birthday.’ A look of horror suddenly crossed the girl’s face. ‘You don’t think it’s real, do you? Mum would have a fit!’

Kira returned to Trinity Road to find Bristol’s one and only Wildlife Crime Officer was unavailable. Apparently, he’d got a report about a bunch of kids kicking a hedgehog along the pavement near Clifton Downs and had gone to investigate. She’d have to check out the emporium herself when she got time. Meantime she had a shedload of stuff to get through, and the sooner she got started, the sooner she might find Oliver.

Having dealt with the more urgent items of her in-tray, she returned to the Stroud case. She checked Oliver’s passport details with the passport office, then his National Insurance. She checked the LSA in London. His driving licence. Whether he was getting any benefits or tax credits. If he was paying money into a pension scheme. After she’d talked to the tax office, she had the evidence she needed, but she didn’t want to make a mistake, so she kept checking his social media accounts and calling old friends of Oliver’s and business colleagues, even a handful of his daughter’s teachers.

Finally, she hung up the phone.

‘Holy shit,’ she said aloud.

Jenny looked across, eyebrows raised. ‘What is it?’

Kira stared at the photograph Sherry had given her. Oliver was smiling at the camera, eyes creased and happy. He was on the beach, sun blazing down, and holding an ice cream. Lucy was behind him, laughing. He was tanned and lean and his floppy brown hair was bleached at the ends and long enough for the sea breeze to lift it above his ears. He wore a blue enamel and silver St Christopher at his throat and looked as though butter wouldn’t melt.

‘You’re never going to believe this.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. ‘But Oliver Stroud has no records before 2015. Not one. It’s as if he didn’t exist before then.’

CHAPTER NINE

Kira pushed Oliver’s photograph back inside the folder, wondering what Sherry knew about her husband before 2015. Where had he been? Why did his life only start then? Was he British? Or from overseas? Who the hell was he? Was his real name even Oliver Stroud? Questions rattled around her brain like Smarties in a jar. The next thing to do, she decided, was to go and see Sherry and ask the question face to face.

‘Kira.’

She jumped a mile; she hadn’t realised her sarge had crept up on her.

‘DI Webb wants to see you. His office, okay? I’ll join you in a mo.’

Dutifully, Kira trotted down the corridor. The new DI was in the old DI’s office, a glass partitioned affair at the far end of the open-plan office. She could see he was on the phone, standing with his back to the door. Kira nodded at a couple of detectives as she passed, who nodded back. DI Webb’s door was open, and she tapped her knuckles lightly on it, letting him know she was there.

He pocketed his phone at the same time as he called, ‘Come in!’

Kira stepped inside. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘Rolo… I mean Sergeant Gunn said you wanted to…’

Her words were swallowed in her throat as DI Webb turned around. For a second, she wondered if she was hallucinating. She forced herself to blink several times, but he didn’t go away. Yup, he was here all right, in full Technicolor, standing right in front of her. Her was broader than she remembered and had a light tan. God, he looked good. Sergeant Marc Webb, six two, fit as a leopard, and her one-night stand the week before her wedding.

Belatedly she took in the two pips on his epaulettes. He wasn’t a sergeant any longer. Fucksake. He was her new DI.

‘Everything all right?’ he asked, eyebrows raised. But his eyes were twinkling.

‘Fine,’ she managed, trying to keep her tone as smooth as she could with her heart galloping away. ‘You?’

‘Always good, thank you.’ He put out a hand. She had no choice but to shake it with half the office watching them. Marc’s grip was as warm and dry and strong as she remembered. ‘Long time no see.’

‘Long time.’ Kira’s tone was stiff.

A rap at the door made them both turn. Rolo stepped inside. ‘You’ve met, then?’

Marc’s eyes flicked to Kira’s wedding ring, then back. The twinkle remained. ‘It seems so.’

Kira desperately wanted to pretend they hadn’t known one another before, but she couldn’t risk it backfiring on her later. ‘Not for the first time.’ Kira kept her gaze on Rolo to stop herself blushing. ‘We met in Wales. The Pen Anglas Trial.’

‘Not that challenge survival thing we sponsored you for?’ Rolo looked surprised.

‘The one and the same.’

‘She raised over eight hundred quid for the police fund,’ Rolo told Marc. ‘Bloody miracle considering the tightwads around here.’

‘And I lost seven pounds and two toenails,’ Marc said cheerfully. His gaze hadn’t wavered from Kira. It felt as though it was scorching a hole through her forehead.

‘Small world, eh?’ Rolo was oblivious to the undercurrents.

‘Very,’ agreed Marc. The twinkle vanished. He became businesslike, his expression alert. ‘Constable. I gather you got a break with your Misper this afternoon?’

Kira locked her gaze downwards, trying desperately to get her brain into gear. If that wasn’t a prompt to bring her DI up to date, she didn’t know what was, but her thoughts were all over the place. She must run through everything chronologically. She mustn’t look at him.

‘It looks as though he’s done a disappearing act before, sir.’ As she ran through what she’d found, she stared rigidly at Rolo’s shoes, pretending she was talking to her sarge and not the man who’d cradled her in his arms until dawn.

‘Missing People haven’t had any luck,’ she finished. ‘I’m wondering if he’s changed his name.’

Marc appeared lost in thought for a moment, and then his face cleared. ‘I’d like to make the case officially yours. That’s on the strict condition that everything you find, no matter how small, is reported to me.’ He turned to Rolo. ‘That okay with you, sergeant? To give her free rein?’

Rolo was nodding.

‘Excellent.’ Marc turned back to Kira. ‘If you find Oliver Stroud, it’ll look good for your career.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ She turned on her heel.

‘It was nice to see you again,’ Marc said to her back. ‘I hadn’t thought of the race up Mount Snowdon in a while. Unforgettable, really.’

She didn’t respond. She walked outside on wobbly legs and through the office. The instant she was out of his sight, she went limp. Perspiration dampened her neck and forehead. Holy crap. Mount Snowdon. Unforgettable was an understatement.

England had been in the grip of a fierce heat wave, and while the sea kayaking and coasteering challenges had been perfect for the scorching weather, the same couldn’t be said for the final test: a race up Wales’s highest mountain, in thirty-five-degree heat. Marc had carried her the last quarter of a mile. She’d been disqualified, but at the time she hadn’t cared. She was dehydrated, her feet blistered, her lips and face raw with sunburn and sweat. Her body was failing but she hadn’t wanted to stop. She was planning on crawling over the finishing line when Marc had scooped her up. She’d been too weak to argue.

She hadn’t slept with Marc during the Trial. Nor after they’d crossed the finishing line. When everyone shook hands at the prize-giving ceremony, clapping backs and hugging each other, he’d asked if he could take her out for a drink; he was staying in Bristol for the next few days.

She hadn’t said yes, but she hadn’t said no either. She’d panicked. Extricating herself with an excuse to use the ladies, she had slipped away without saying goodbye.

Kira got home to find Benedict sprawled on the sofa reading the Big Book, as it was fondly known by AA members. He’d cooked dinner and uncorked a bottle of wine for her. There were flowers in the kitchen and the bathroom, and clean sheets on the bed. Everything was perfect until she went to put her rucksack away in the hall cupboard and found the half-empty bottle of whisky hidden in the corner. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t check on him, but she couldn’t help herself. She was getting married next week.

She found two more stashes, and she didn’t doubt there were more. Without saying a word, she picked up her handbag and left the house, her senses numb.

Kira did a few aimless laps around Clifton village before ending up on the suspension bridge and staring into the chasm of the Avon Gorge. Down below she saw the tide was out, exposing the remains of some old docks. Rotting wooden stumps poked through the mud flats, a faint reminder of the ships and freighters that used to moor all along the river and into the heart of the city. Kira was gazing at the crumbling remains and wondering what on earth to do next when Marc rang. She was crying.

It barely took him ten minutes to get to her. He didn’t ask any questions, so she couldn’t tell any lies. She walked into his arms not trusting herself to talk, not wanting to talk, and he seemed to realise this because he didn’t say a word either. He drove her to his hotel and made love to her with a silent concentration that took her breath away. She still couldn’t pass the Hotel du Vin without her body flushing.

Kira spent the remainder of her shift thinking about Oliver in an attempt to stop herself thinking about Marc. She tried to picture whether Oliver was in a hotel or staying with a friend, if he was missing his wife and daughter. After speaking to his friends, she’d built up a picture of a pretty normal, middle-class guy, who appeared to be a decent bloke who hated to let people down. He was even-tempered and calm. He liked listening to Radio 2 and reading biographies. He bought his clothes from Boden and Next.

Where had Oliver been before 2015? Had he been someone else entirely, or was he just a man who wanted a break from a messy past? He could have been traumatised, maybe. Or lost someone he loved. But then again, he could just be a plain old criminal hiding a plain old criminal past. She’d put his name into HOLMES, the police computer, but nothing had come up. Not that she’d been surprised. If Oliver was a crook on the run, he wouldn’t be using the same name. Not unless he was stupid. And she didn’t think he was.

She rang Sherry, hoping to arrange to see her the next day and glean some more details, but to her surprise the woman’s messaging service kicked in. She would have thought Sherry would have been grabbing her phone to see if it was Oliver. Her mother had just about crushed her phone each time it had rung after Dad vanished.

Leaving a message, she tucked Oliver’s photograph back in the file. The remainder of her shift wasn’t the most exciting she’d experienced, but it had its merits. At least she hadn’t been sworn at, spat on, or vomited over.

When she got home not far past eleven, Benedict was out. Sighing, she let herself into the chill air of an unheated house. There was no note, no message saying where he was. She began stripping off her leathers. She’d learned to control her alarm whenever he disappeared – sometimes for days on end – because he always turned up eventually, like a cat that had been on the razzle. She hated that it still nagged at her no matter how much she tried. She’d lie in bed and imagine him falling into the path of an oncoming lorry, or simply drinking too much and dying of alcohol poisoning in some filthy back street, cold and alone.

Pushing her helmet beneath the hall table, she registered an unfamiliar scent drifting from somewhere that reminded her of blue skies and sunny days. Puzzled, she tracked it down to the enormous, beautifully arranged bouquet of fresh flowers standing on the kitchen table. Her mother’s work. Kira stroked the vivid gerberas and admired the alstroemeria, the roses and Diwali lanterns. Her mother was amazingly creative, as was Benedict. It was little wonder they got on so well.

She headed upstairs, pausing halfway to look at the array of family photos she’d put up the week after they’d moved in. There was Dad and his Piper Warrior, Dad and bewhiskered Grandpa Walter, Dad as a kid with his mum, Granny Ada.

Granny had been a beautiful woman. Wide and alluring eyes, radiant smile, and a flawless complexion. Beautiful, confident and charismatic. She would have been one of those women who stopped conversation when she walked into a room.

Grandpa Walter wasn’t any oil painting, but in every photograph, he looked as pleased as punch, as though he’d won the lottery. All except for one, which showed her grandparents standing with a dead tiger that Grandpa Walter had shot. He’d done it for sport, as one did in those days, but it broke his heart.

I’m still ashamed, he’d told Kira when they’d visited him in India before he’d died. Kira had been eight. The tiger is a fabulous creature, hypnotic and powerful… it equalises and harmonises the forest as well as all the animals within its kingdom. I can’t bear that I took its life.

Grandpa Walter went on to set up the TCF, the Tiger Conservation Fund, and Kira counted herself blessed beyond belief that before Dad vanished, she and her brother Angus headed to Khandar every August in the holidays, where Grandpa lived in India. She may be as British as fish and chips, but the kid in her had the soul of India running through her little schoolgirl veins.

She was changing into jeans and a woollen sweater when her mobile rang.

‘Kira? I’ve only just got your message. I’m sorry it’s so late, but you did say to call any time…’

‘Sherry,’ she said. ‘We haven’t found him yet. You?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I’m sorry.’

There was a brief pause, then Sherry said in a rush, ‘I don’t suppose you’d be up for a coffee, or a drink, would you? Lucy’s got the shits with me and is staying downstairs with Tessa and the apartment’s so goddamn quiet… I feel like I’m going crazy.’

‘How about Roop’s?’ Kira said immediately, picking up her helmet. She’d much rather meet Sherry than sit at home worrying about Benedict for half the night. ‘It’s just off Old Market Street, near where I work. It’s not flash, but it’s open all hours.’

CHAPTER TEN

Roop’s was lit with neon and lined with booths of pine-scrubbed tables and high-backed benches covered with red plastic. It smelled of warmed spices, garlic and fried rice, and Kira sniffed the air appreciatively as she slid into the pew opposite Sherry.

‘It’s been ages since I’ve been somewhere like this,’ Sherry said. She looked exhausted, as though she hadn’t slept for days, and there were new lines on her face. Anxiety and worry etching their mark. ‘I’d almost forgotten what curry smells like.’

‘Not Oliver’s sort of place, then?’

‘Oh, he likes curry okay. It’s just that he prefers to make it himself.’

Sherry flinched as a meaty hand appeared and thumped a jug of red wine on the table along with two tumblers.

‘Namaste, Kira.’ Roop gave her an appraising look from beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows that were as thick and black as his moustache. ‘Kyaa haal hai?’

‘Theek hai, dhanya-vaad,’ she replied politely. Fine, thanks.

Knowing that was the extent of her Hindi, Roop switched to English.

‘How’s your crazy husband?’

‘None of your business,’ Kira replied.

‘Accha. So what do you want?’ He ran his eyes over Sherry’s slim frame and assessing her weight in seconds.

‘My usual,’ Kira said.

‘Just a glass of wine for me, thanks,’ Sherry said, earning herself a scowl. Meekly she added, ‘I’m not really hungry,’ but Roop didn’t look particularly appeased as he stamped his bulk away.

Kira poured the wine. Sherry took a gulp from her tumbler and leaned back, surveying Kira. ‘You speak Hindi?’

‘Absolutely not. I spoke a little when I was a kid, but it’s all gone now.’

‘You used to live in India?’

‘We spent our summer holidays there. Dad helped my grandpa run a tiger sanctuary in the north.’

‘Wow! How amazing!’ Sherry looked like most people did when they first heard this; thrilled and fascinated. ‘Was your Dad Indian?’

‘No, but my grandfather was crazy about saving the tiger,’ said Kira, trotting out her usual response, and Sherry was saying something about how lucky to have such an exotic family, but Kira wasn’t concentrating. She was thinking about Oliver’s part-time receptionist and the ratty old tiger skin delivered to Oliver’s office.

‘Sherry, did Oliver mention receiving a tiger skin last week? Like a rug?’

‘A what?’

When Kira explained about the emporium’s delivery Sherry looked so blank, she could only assume she knew nothing about it. Making a mental reminder to check out the emporium, Kira rested her wrists on the table and turned her expression sombre. Her sincere and honest cop look, Benedict called it.

‘Look, Sherry. You should know I’ve officially been given Oliver’s case, as of today. And I won’t stop looking for him until I know where he is or have some news that he’s all right.’

Sherry’s face softened. ‘Kira, thanks.’ She reached out and touched Kira’s arm. ‘That means a lot to me, you know.’

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t have any good news for you right now.’ She drank some wine. Robust, smooth merlot. Perfect for a winter’s evening.

‘You have news, though?’ Sherry perked up.

‘I don’t think it’s necessarily good news,’ Kira warned.

‘Oh, God.’ Sherry slugged the rest of her wine back in four quick swallows and pushed out her glass for more. Kira topped it up. ‘Don’t tell me he’s got another wife or something?’

Kira sent her a sharp look. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Christ.’ Sherry stared. ‘He hasn’t, has he?’

‘Not that I know of.’ Kira leaned forward, frowning. ‘But why would you think he might be a bigamist?’

Sherry turned her tumbler around between her hands. ‘Because… well, there’s always been something immensely… private about Oliver. There’s a part of him he keeps separate from me and Lucy. It sounds odd, but it’s like there’s another person living inside him. Someone we don’t know.’

‘Sherry.’ Kira took a breath. ‘I have to tell you something.’

Sherry’s face tightened. ‘What is it?’

‘You should know that I can’t find any record of Oliver before 2015. It’s as though he didn’t exist before then.’

There was a long silence between them. Then Sherry raised her head and met Kira’s eye. Her expression was sad. ‘Ah, shit,’ she said. ‘I always knew it would come back to bloody haunt me.’

Sherry gazed past Kira’s shoulder as she related what had happened all those years ago. Lucy had been six months old, asleep in her cot, and she’d been setting some fresh salmon to marinate while Oliver scrubbed some new potatoes. The kitchen table was laid. There were daffodils on the windowsill and a bottle of white wine already uncorked. It was a cosy, domestic scene, and Sherry was wishing Oliver’s parents were alive so they could see them. They would have been so proud.

She had bitten her lip as she considered her husband. It hadn’t bothered her that Oliver didn’t have any relatives before, they’d been so happy together, but now Lucy was here things were different.

‘Ollie,’ she said. ‘I know you said you haven’t got any uncles or aunts, but are you sure? Like isn’t there even a little tiny cousin for Lucy hiding somewhere? I can’t believe you don’t have a single one.’

She hadn’t been looking at him while she spoke, but she couldn’t mistake the immediate chill in the atmosphere.

‘I thought we’d discussed this.’ His voice was flat, warning her off the subject, but she ignored it.

‘Lucy’s got a right to know about her genes.’ She poured some olive oil over the fish. ‘Not just for a history of health, but how she sees herself in the world.’

‘Drop it, Sherry.’

Her anger immediately flared. She slammed down the oil bottle. ‘No, I will not. It’s obvious you’ve got relatives. It’s written all over you. Guilt, fear, worry… For God’s sake, Ollie, do you really think I care if they’re all drug addicts or axe murderers? They can be millionaires or paupers for all I care. I just want Lucy to know her family!’

‘She already has her family. Us.’ With that, Oliver walked out of the room.

Sherry followed him, seething. ‘You’re hiding something, aren’t you? What is it? What’s wrong with your family?’

He walked into the sitting room and picked up a magazine. He wouldn’t look at her. She yanked the magazine out of his hand, planting herself in front of him so that he was forced to stare at the top of her head. Her fists were clenched.

‘If you don’t produce a relative of some sort for your baby daughter, then I will.’ Her voice was low, and deadly serious. ‘I’ll hire a genealogist, a private detective–’

‘You do that, and I leave.’

‘What?’

He looked directly at her. His eyes, normally soft and smiling, were glassy, as though he was dead. He was cold and hard and for the first time Sherry felt a shiver of fear.

‘If you don’t trust me,’ he said in the same flat tone, ‘then it’s over. I’ll walk out right now and never come back. You’ll never see me again. Nor will Lucy.’

Fear and anger collided with an almighty crash inside her.

‘Fucking well leave then!’ she yelled. ‘See if I care!’

Oliver stared at her for a handful of seconds, then he left the room and walked down the corridor. He opened the front door. Then he turned and faced her.

‘You are the only woman I have ever loved,’ he said, and then he calmly put his keys on the hall table and walked out.

For a second, she thought he was joking, and when she realised he wasn’t, she ran after him. He’d already taken the lift and she was choking and gasping with horror while she caught the next one down. She bolted outside into the rain, but he was nowhere to be seen.

‘Oliver!’ she yelled. ‘I’m sorry! Come back, I promise I won’t ask again, I promise!’

And then he appeared from the side of the building, and he was walking towards her, his arms open, and she rushed into his embrace. He held her and kissed her and said he was sorry, but that he couldn’t risk losing her or Lucy because of it. Then he took her back inside, and into their bed. Their lovemaking had been silent and urgent, and afterwards she’d wept. She was so grateful he hadn’t left. She never dared mention it again.

Roop deposited an oversized lamb and plum curry on the table along with a double portion of basmati rice, two plates and some chutney, crispy poppadoms, naan, and a bowl of raita. Without saying anything, he dished the curry onto both plates. Absently, Sherry picked up a fork and pulled a plate towards her. Took a bite. Kira did the same. God, it was good. Lots of onions, plums and ginger, cardamom and green chillies, with a touch of cinnamon that warmed her to the tips of her toes. Speaking around her curry, Kira said, ‘So you never found out what he was hiding?’

‘No.’ Sherry swallowed another mouthful. ‘I wish I could see him one more time. Find out what’s going on.’

‘What we need to do is find something to lead us to him,’ Kira suggested. ‘A clue from his past. His history.’ She ate while she thought, then said, ‘Where did you meet Oliver?’

Sherry put down her fork. ‘In Cape Town. Ollie was crewing the boat my family hired to go deep sea fishing.’ Her smile turned wistful. ‘Dad loved fishing.’

‘When was this?’

‘March, 2010. One of the worst, and one of the best years of my life. I met Oliver, and not long after, my parents died. My father had a massive heart attack, and my mother died a few months later, also of a heart attack. Broken heart syndrome, they said. Oliver flew here the second he heard what had happened. He never went back.’

Did that explain why Oliver had been off the radar before then? Kira wondered.

‘Oliver’s not South African, is he?’

‘No.’ Sherry shook her head. ‘He’s English, one hundred per cent.’

‘What was he doing crewing out there?’

‘Having a bit of fun. He’d qualified as an architect, and just completed two years of practical work experience. He wanted a break before getting another full-time job.’

‘Why South Africa?’

‘He loved boats, being on the water. Sunshine. Fishing. Great food and wine. Her face turned wistful. ‘Plus, Cape Town has one of the most spectacular backdrops in the world.’

‘Did you meet any of his friends out there?’

Sherry mulled. ‘Not really. I met his boss, the captain of the boat, but honestly? It was just me and him.’ Her eyes were dreamy. ‘He picked mussels off the rocks one day and cooked them on the beach. Best meal of my life.’

Sherry detailed their blossoming romance, making love beneath the stars, cocktails at the Royal Cape Yacht Club, fresh seafood on the Waterfront, endless beach walks, wine tours. While she spoke, Kira polished off the poppadums along with her curry. Wiped her plate clean with the last of the naan. She may as well enjoy her food before she detonated the convivial atmosphere.

‘How long had he been there?’

‘I don’t know precisely, but it was months, not weeks. He was as brown as a nut.’

Moving her plate aside, Kira looked Sherry in the eye. ‘I’ve more to tell you, I’m afraid.’

Sherry took a deep breath and gripped the edge of the table as though waiting for a hurricane. ‘Okay. Go ahead.’

‘I saw Robert Digan earlier today.’

‘Oliver’s competitor?’ Sherry looked puzzled.

‘Also, I spoke to Oliver’s bank.’

Real alarm began to rise in Sherry’s eyes but there was no way to sweeten what came next. Kira took a breath. ‘Oliver has cashed everything from his bank accounts and liquidated all stocks and shares and investments. That includes his company, which he sold to Robert Digan last week.’

Sherry’s face paled. ‘No. He wouldn’t do that. He loved his work…’ She trailed off as Kira’s words sank in. ‘He’s emptied his bank accounts?’

‘I’m sorry.’

Sherry gulped. ‘Is there anything left?’

Kira shook her head.

Sherry pushed her plate away. Her face was sheet-white, and she looked sick. ‘What about the school fees? What the hell are we going to live on? I’ve barely five hundred quid…’ She put her head in her hands. ‘This isn’t like Oliver. It’s like someone else. Not him.’

Despite her sympathy, Kira pressed on. ‘Oliver was a bare trustee for a guy called Robin Hudson. Do you know him?’

Sherry raised her head. ‘Robin was a friend of Dad’s.’ Her voice was hoarse. ‘He’s my godfather. He put up the money to help Oliver get started.’

When Kira explained that Oliver had run off with Robin Hudson’s money and that Robin was going to start criminal proceedings against Oliver, Sherry began shaking her head.

‘He’ll pay Robin back. Oliver may not talk about his past, but he’s an honourable man.’

Kira nibbled her lip. That wasn’t the story she thought was unfolding.

‘You may not believe it, but it’s true.’ Sherry leaned forward. Colour began to return to her face. ‘There’s a reason he’s done this, you know. Why he’s taken the money. He’s playing it safe. He won’t leave Lucy and me for long.’ Her expression became more animated as she spoke. ‘He’ll contact us soon… He’s only done a bunk because he’s worried about Lucy and me. He thinks we’re in danger, don’t you see? He’s done it for us. To keep whatever’s dangerous away.’

‘You think he knew the men who broke into your apartment?’

‘Oh my God.’ Sherry turned wild-eyed. ‘They’re after him, aren’t they? What if they want to hurt him? I mean, what if before we met…’

‘There’s no point in speculating,’ Kira cut in. The last thing Sherry needed was to get stuck into the ‘what if’ scenarios. She could remember her mother’s as though it were yesterday.

What if your father’s been murdered? What if someone’s kidnapped him?

What if his aeroplane’s crashed into a mountain, a river, the sea?

A sudden vision of a handful of magazines on Sherry’s granite kitchen worktop popped into Kira’s head.

‘Sherry, does Oliver have a PPL? A private pilot’s licence?’

Sherry looked startled. ‘What?’

‘It’s just that I saw you had some Private Pilot magazines at home. I wondered if flying was a hobby of his.’

‘Well, yes. It was. But he had an accident. So he stopped. But he still likes reading about it. He’s a bit of an armchair enthusiast, I suppose.’

‘What happened?’

‘Why do you want to know?’ She looked baffled.

‘Let’s say I’d rather not leave any stone unturned.’

Sherry hooked a handful of copper curls behind her ear. ‘As far as I remember, he’d had lunch in Le Touquet and was returning to the UK.’

Le Touquet. Kira was assaulted with memories. The smell of the sea, the sound of waves on the shore. Deep yellow beaches, boutique art galleries, designer shops and great restaurants. She must have flown there half a dozen times with her father. On the last trip, he’d let her fly most of the way home. You have control. She’d been thrilled.

‘The long and the short of it,’ Sherry went on, ‘was that he didn’t make the time to refuel. He thought he had enough to make it, but strong head winds meant he ran out. He ditched into the English Channel.’ She looked past Kira and into the distance. ‘He was amazingly lucky. He got out before the plane sank. He’d sent a Mayday, and the Coastguard picked him up.’

‘When was this?’

‘Before we met.’

‘Was it summer or winter?’

‘Christ knows.’

‘What did he fly, can you remember?’

Sherry shook her head.

‘Where was he headed from Le Touquet?’

‘You ought to ask Lucy. She knows the story back to front…’ Her face spasmed. ‘It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t turned a blind eye… If I hadn’t been so weak, then this wouldn’t be happening. Lucy will never forgive me when she finds out I didn’t do enough. Already she’s not talking to me. She thinks it’s my fault her father’s gone. And I’m not sure if she isn’t right.’

Kira didn’t know what to say. She remembered blaming her own mother for her father’s disappearance quite clearly, because if Mum had been more understanding and kinder to her father, she was sure he’d have stayed. The week before he’d vanished, she’d heard them rowing in the garden. He’d just finished mowing the lawn around the swimming pool and sweat streaked his big body, darkening his T-shirt between his shoulder blades and across his chest.

Mum was shouting. ‘If you don’t give up the reserve, you’ll send us broke!’

‘I can’t pull the plug on Chambal for Chrissakes, he depends on me. Without my backing the whole place will go under and there’ll be no tigers left!’

‘I don’t care about your rotten tigers! You’re living on the edge, Bill. I don’t know how long I can cope… what if we lose this house? And don’t say we won’t because it’s not true. I’ve seen your company accounts. You’re stretched to the limit. All those aircraft on hire purchase… and you want to buy another one?’

‘Darling, please.’ Her father’s voice turned appeasing. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks. You should know that by now. I’ve a government contract about to be signed–’

‘And that’ll fix everything, won’t it?’ Mum gave a hysterical laugh. ‘A single contract and everything’s all right? Well, it’s not and it’s time you woke up to the fact that we’re balanced on the edge of disaster. I’ve had the bank manager on the phone every day this week about our overdraft, and what about the mortgage payments? How are we going to pay for the children’s school fees? We haven’t any money!’

‘Not right now, but we soon will. Have faith in me? All we have to do is sit tight, just for another few weeks.’

‘Bill, if you don’t get rid of that damned tiger reserve, then God help me, I will leave you. I swear it. I will take the children and leave you.’

Kira had crouched in the shade of the wall, the smell of honeysuckle sickly sweet in her throat. Her heart was crushed in her chest, her breathing short. At that moment, she’d hated her mother with every fibre of her being.

As she watched Sherry’s eyes fill with tears, Kira didn’t doubt that Lucy was walking the same road she had all those years ago. The road of blame that was littered with hostility and impotent rage.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was nearly 1am when Kira got home. The house was dark, and beneath the single streetlamp the garden shrubs loomed like misshapen trolls and goblins from a comic book.

She worried that Benedict still wasn’t back but shrugged it aside, angry with herself. Just because it was nighttime didn’t mean he was in any danger. He was bound to be with a drinking buddy, nicely plastered and cosy in a club somewhere.

Kira trotted up the steps and unlocked the front door. Brahms floated along the corridor, and she closed her eyes briefly in relief. He was home. Thank you, God. Hanging up her leathers, she went into the kitchen, intending to pour herself a glass of wine. Immediately, she stopped dead.

Gone were the dirty dishes from the sink and the magazines and newspapers piled on the counters. Gone was the mail stacked in the fruit bowl. She couldn’t see her notebooks, her diaries or the notepad bulging with messages. Ben’s sketchbooks and sticks of charcoal had also vanished. The entire room gleamed and sparkled and smelled overpoweringly of bleach.

Kira marched up the stairs to find the studio had had the same treatment. It looked as though a horde of dust-eating, paper vaporising locusts had swept through the house.

‘Ben.’ Her voice was curt.

He didn’t turn around from his painting. He was working the top right-hand corner, his concentration absolute. All he wore was a pair of faded jeans, but she refused to let the length of his smooth, tanned back distract her.

‘If you ask my mother to clean this house again, I will kill you.’

Ben put down his paintbrush and turned around. He had a smear of red paint on his cheekbone and was grinning. ‘Don’t move,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something for you.’

‘No, Ben–’ she put out a hand, her anger rising ‘–this is not the time to…’

But he was already halfway along the corridor by the time she’d finished her sentence. Kira listened for the sound of the front door opening or closing. Ben hated confrontation and she wouldn’t put it past him to make a run for it, but then she heard his bare feet pounding back along the corridor.

‘Close your eyes!’ he yelled.

‘No, I bloody won’t!’ she yelled back. She wasn’t in the mood to be placated. She wanted to thump him.

‘Oh, come on, Kira, don’t be such a misery guts. Close them, will you? It’s a surprise.’

He was hiding outside the door so she couldn’t see him, playing games like a ten-year-old. She clenched her fists at her sides.

‘I don’t want your surprise. I want you to stop using my mother as your own personal slave. She shouldn’t be here at all hours mopping up your mess, and she’s cleared away all my diaries and stuff, and you know I won’t be able to find anything for weeks…’

She trailed off as Benedict walked inside. He was beaming. He was holding an iguana in his arms. It had a red ribbon around its neck.

‘Fuck,’ she said.

Benedict made to give the creature to her.

‘No.’ She backed off.

‘But you love them! You had one as a kid, remember?’

‘It wasn’t a lizard, for fucksake, it was a carpet snake!’

‘You love lizards too.’ Benedict wasn’t deterred. ‘What about that gecko in our hotel room in Spain? You’d have brought it home if you could have.’

Then she took in the size of the creature. ‘Are you serious? It’s not even an adult! You want to share this house with a five-foot lizard?’

‘That big, huh?’ Instead of looking appalled, Benedict appeared to be enchanted with the idea.

Kira took in the foul-coloured mucus caking the animal’s eyes, the muck around its rear end, and the way its skin wasn’t taut, but loose all over its body. ‘Where did you get it?’ Her voice was cold.

‘A bloke I know. His mate imports them from Rio. This guy’s only just arrived, apparently.’

‘Not a reputable pet shop, then.’

Benedict’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you have a problem with my gift, constable?’

‘You bet I have.’

‘Fucking hell, Kira, what does a guy have to do to say he’s sorry? Your mum told me you went ballistic earlier… I’m sorry, do you get it? Or do you want a bunch of pathetic flowers instead?’ He was drawing himself up indignantly, and sadly the iguana didn’t seem to care. It was, she realised, sicker than she’d initially thought. ‘I find you the perfect present and all you do is–’

‘Did you get a vivarium for it?’ Kira felt her temper ignite. ‘Heating? A pool? Proper food? No, I thought not. And I guess you didn’t ask if it was bred in captivity or not, am I right?’

His silence only fuelled her anger.

‘Ben, don’t you listen to anything I say? We only busted that pet shop for selling smuggled reptiles last month!’

‘I didn’t buy it from a pet shop!’ He looked affronted. ‘I bought it from–’

‘A mate. Which is even worse! How do you know it wasn’t snatched from its sunny perch in the Brazilian jungle and shut inside someone’s suitcase all the way to Heathrow? Or tossed in a crate without food and water along with another couple of hundred iguanas for the sea crossing?’

His jaw tightened. ‘I bought you a present to say sorry, and now I’m one of your criminals?’ He plopped the iguana on the floor. It didn’t move.

‘Who’s your mate?’

‘No way.’ Ben took a step forward. ‘You are not, I repeat not, going to interrogate one of my friends over this.’

‘Ben, you don’t have friends. You have drinking buddies.’

‘You bitch.’ He was shocked, but she didn’t care. Ignorance was in her top ten of worst crimes, and it was Ben’s ignorance that had brought this poor, abused creature into her home.

‘I’m going to ring the vet,’ she told him, ‘and then you are going to give me your friend’s address and telephone number or I will take every one of your paintings outside and burn them.’

Ben left without another word. She was wondering how the hell she was going to house the sorry creature when she heard the front door slam.

Crap, not again. Would Benedict ever have the guts to stay and resolve a conflict face to face? Or would he be interminably storming outside? One day, she wished he’d just bloody grow up.

The vet on call admitted he wasn’t a reptile expert and that she should try the RSPCA the next morning. Kira gently deposited the iguana inside a large cardboard box in the kitchen. Wanting to keep its stress levels to the minimum she decided on the simplest furnishings, newspaper on the floor, and a single dish, containing water.

She looked at the sick, browny colour of the iguana’s front legs, the foul grey discharge from its nostrils, and her heart weighed more heavily. If it had come from Rio de Janeiro, as Ben suggested, it had had a long journey, and probably in appalling conditions. As usual when she thought of the illegal wildlife trade, she thought of her father. His loathing of the poachers, the puckered scar on his back – purple and wrinkled as an old palm date – where they’d shot him. Trudging up to bed, she promised the sick iguana she’d find it a decent home as soon as she could. She was too tired to think about Oliver or her father right now. Thank God she was on nights from tomorrow, not on duty until 10pm. It meant she could sleep all day if she wanted.

She crawled beneath the duvet and slept as though felled.

The next morning, she found a note from Benedict on the hall side table. He’d pressed the pencil so hard against the paper that it had torn several times.

You lay a finger on a single one of my paintings and I will eviscerate you. I hate you. You are bitch cop and should be shipped to the Antipodes in handcuffs with nothing but bread and fucking water for the six-month fucking journey.

He’d scrawled the name Fatty and Hat & Feathers at the bottom.

Fatty, she assumed, was the guy who’d sold him the iguana, the Hat & Feathers a pub. She gave a little smile. It was a mean trick threatening to destroy Benedict’s paintings, but since it was the only one that worked – she had actually destroyed a painting after he’d broken his promise to remain sober at the office Christmas party – he knew she wasn’t messing around.

After downing a bowl of cereal, she made a call to the RSPCA, who advised her to take the iguana to Bristol Zoo Project. Amazingly, the iguana was still alive when the taxi dropped them off. The on-site veterinary nurse popped the reptile straight into quarantine, with its own enclosure in a separate room and separate air space and put it down for parasite extermination and deworming. The animal wasn’t given a particularly positive recovery prognosis, so Kira wasn’t holding her breath, but she hoped it would pull through. It deserved to, having survived this long.

She was itching to confront Fatty, but she had more important things to do first. Like prove to CID she had what it took to join their illustrious ranks. With Sherry’s story about Oliver ditching his aircraft in the English Channel in mind, Kira booted up Ben’s computer in his studio and logged on to the website of the CAA – Civilian Aviation Authority. There had been thirty plane ditchings recorded around the world in the past twenty years, five of those in the Channel. Only one of those aeroplanes had been flying from Le Touquet to the UK. A Piper Cherokee. 16th August 2008.

When she looked up the aeroplane’s destination, she stared and stared.

Cotswold Airport.

The same airfield where QuickAir had been based.

The same airfield her father used to fly from.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The last time Kira had been to Cotswold Airport had been as a rookie constable, asking around about her father to no avail. Rereading the notes she’d made back then, she couldn’t remember anything standout about that visit. The time before, however, twelve years ago, a fortnight before her father vanished, was imprinted clearly upon her memory. She’d been with her father, a midsummer morning, the sky clear blue to the horizon, not a breath of wind. Perfect for flying. Not like today with the sky filled with whipping, angry grey clouds. A light aircraft would be tossed around like an empty crisp packet up there. She was glad to have her feet firmly on the ground on a day like today.

She’d forgotten how wealthy the Cotswolds were, with its picturesque villages tucked into lush green pastoral landscapes and dotted with honey-coloured manor houses. There were swimming pools and stables, rose gardens and fiercely manicured lawns. Range Rovers, Porsches and horse boxes were parked in immaculately raked gravel driveways. A different world to the one she now inhabited, she thought, with tennis and Pimm’s in the summer, and skiing the Alps in winter. She used to live in this rarefied world before her father died, but now she was on the outside, looking in.

She wondered if Mum ever missed their pampered lifestyle, the acres of space, the country quiet. Although she said she loved the enormous, converted barn Dad had bought near Cirencester, actions spoke louder than words; virtually the second Dad had gone, Mum had whisked Kira and Angus straight to Bristol to live with the most horrible person in the universe – their grandmother. Granny Edith.

Granny Edith wore shapeless woollen skirts and smelled of Yardley’s Lavender. She had her hair blow dried every week into tight ringlets. She was small with a chin like a blade and a pair of sharp eyes that missed nothing. Granny Edith could be in the next room but if Kira dropped a tomato on the floor and, using the five-second rule, picked it up to pop it in the salad, Granny Edith would yell, ‘Wash it first, please, Kira!’

‘But it hardly touched the floor!’ she’d protest. ‘It won’t have collected hardly any bacteria!’

‘Don’t argue!’ Granny Edith would snap. Final word before the shit would hit the fan and Kira would have her phone confiscated as well as being banned from watching TV. She’d have to read a book. One chosen by Granny Edith.

Arguing was a big sin. So was answering back and when Kira’s brother Angus called her a dragon bitch one day, they had to go to church every Sunday for a month. Kira thought about running away, but she couldn’t bear to leave Angus, or her mother. They’d die if she went missing too.

Kira’s shock at moving had been immense. Fourteen years old, torn away from her pony riding, snow-skiing friends, she’d taken one look at the little box of a house jostling hip-to-shoulder with its neighbours and burst into tears. She’d never felt as miserable as the day she’d been forced to live in suburbia. She had felt like an alien dropped into a different world. Her mother, she remembered, had ignored her tears, telling her briskly to get on with it. We have a roof over our heads, food on the table. Be grateful we’re not in a homeless shelter.

As a posh kid with a posh accent, she’d been an immediate target at school, but it was only now she could see it hadn’t been such a bad thing. The endless bullying made her self-reliant and independent, and taught her how to fight. Bristol had firmly put her in her place, knocking off her posh edges, but she’d still felt disconnected from her peers.

It had been one of the police officers looking into her father’s disappearance who’d suggested she join the VPC, Volunteer Police Cadets. Kira had only joined in the hope she might find a clue to what happened to Dad, but the VPC became the making of her. She changed from being a directionless, unhappy and lonely teenager into a young adult with a purpose. She learned to make her own decisions and to put her trust in her mates. She learned how to be an individual and part of a group with a shared principle.

If she could, she’d make every kid, especially those in trouble, do the same, because being a teenager and serving the community had taught her a lot. She grew up, and in a pretty decent way.

Parking her Honda at the end of a rain-soaked car park, she took off her helmet and padlocked it to the bike. Looked around. The AV8 café was still there, with a cracking view of the runways, one grass, one asphalt. She could see a Hawker Hunter parked outside air traffic control, and the usual row of commercial aircraft waiting to be scrapped and recycled. Cotswold Airport was where aeroplanes come to die, which she’d always found rather sad.

A loud whine followed by an engine’s throaty buzz made her turn to see a helicopter starting up outside one of the hangars. More engine sounds filled the air, one from a light aeroplane taxiing to the runway, another doing a touch-and-go. High above, another light aircraft buzzed overhead, possibly doing circuits. She felt a wave of nostalgia edged with grief. Tears filled her eyes. She loved airfields. Loved aeroplanes. How she wished Dad was here and that they were going flying.

She blew him a kiss in her mind. Headed for the row of hangars behind her. McKenzie’s Air School was the third hangar from the left. Its doors were open, and inside were two Citabrias, both bright yellow, and in the rear stood a Piper Warrior which had its cowl open. A woman in overalls appeared to be checking the oil.

‘Help you?’ she asked.

‘I’m here to see Graham McKenzie.’

She nodded at the door set to one side, which was ajar. ‘In there.’

“In there” was a wide room decorated in discreet grey boasting a couple of desks, computers, aeronautical charts on walls, and shelves holding a variety of headsets. McKenzie’s credentials hung to one side, displayed in shiny chrome frames. Like her father, McKenzie piloted helicopters and twin-engine, commercial fixed-wing aircraft.

‘Constable Connal?’ A man was rising from behind a desk and striding towards her. Slim build, an intelligent, narrow face, and watchful eyes. He looked to be in his early forties and, like most flyers, appeared in reasonable shape. No spare tyres hanging over his waistband or flabby thighs that she could see.

The man was holding out his hand. He had a strong grip, bony and hard. ‘Graham,’ he said. ‘Would you like a coffee? Tea?’

‘Coffee would be great.’

He went to the coffee machine in the corner and made them both coffee in mugs sporting the McKenzie Air School logo. He took the chair behind one desk while she took the one opposite.

‘So.’ He took a big sip of coffee, gulped it down. ‘You’re here about a Piper that ditched in the channel, en route to this airfield on the sixteenth of August, 2008. You want to know who the pilot was.’

‘Correct.’ She liked his efficiency. No need to repeat herself.

‘Jonathan Stevenson. Jon. He was incredibly lucky. But also incredibly stupid. It’s one of the most basic rules of flying over water, to make sure you have ample fuel not just to get you to your destination, but in case you have to go back. He told me later he’d been in a hurry to get home, another absolute no-no. The weather was coming in, and he’d wanted to beat it. If he’d stopped to refuel, he would have missed the weather window and been forced to stay the night, and fly home the next morning.’ Graham McKenzie pulled a face. ‘Better an inconvenient night away, than be dead, eh? Hence the saying, time to spare–’

‘–go by air,’ she finished.

At his surprised look, she said, ‘My dad was a pilot.’

She remembered her father facing the exact same dilemma that Jonathan Stevenson had when he’d flown the family to La Rochelle one weekend. The weather had been fantastic until Sunday, when with little warning the forecast changed. As their father checked the home TAF – terminal aerodrome forecast – for Cotswold Airport as well as what was predicted over the Channel, Angus and Kira had begged and pleaded to stay in France, citing safety, which made Dad chuckle.

‘The front’s not coming through until after ten tonight. We’ll be back well before then. Plenty of time.’

‘Are you sure?’ Mum looked anxious. She wasn’t the best flyer, but she’d never said no to any trips either.

Dad slipped his arm around Mum’s waist, bringing her close. ‘Absolutely sure, sweetheart.’ He pressed a kiss against her hair, making her smile. ‘And although I’d love to spend another night here, the children have to go where, tomorrow?’ He raised his eyebrows at Angus and Kira, who scuffed the ground with the tips of their shoes.

‘School,’ they muttered.

My God, she thought now. How incredibly privileged we were. But as a kid, she’d taken it all for granted. As had Angus. He’d hated Granny Edith as much as she had. Little wonder he’d scarpered to live in Australia as soon as he could. The furthest he could get from her and her continual needling.

‘Would I know your father?’ McKenzie asked Kira, head on one side.

‘Bill Connal.’

His eyes widened. ‘Good God. Bill? Of course, your name. Connal. I can’t believe I didn’t put the two together. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s okay,’ she assured him.

He looked away, then back. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard…’ He cleared his throat delicately.

‘Nothing. Not since he vanished.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He appeared genuinely regretful. ‘He was a good man and a good pilot. He was sorely missed.’

‘Thank you.’

She appreciated the little silence that fell. Respectful in her father’s memory. Glancing through the window she saw an RV-3 beetling past. Her breath caught. Single seater, white fuselage, red trim with a red chequerboard tail. Very smart, very fast. Fully aerobatic. Her pulse lifted. What fun it would be! One day, she ought to see if she could get her pilot’s licence. But not today. Too expensive. Too self-indulgent. Plus, she had other things to think about.

Pulling out Oliver’s photograph she passed it across. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

McKenzie didn’t hesitate. He took one look at it and said, ‘It’s Jon.’

Kira was momentarily dumbstruck.

McKenzie pulled the photograph towards him. ‘Jonathan Stevenson. The pilot who ditched the Piper in the Channel.’ He studied the picture closely. ‘I’d bet my life on it. He’s barely changed. A few more wrinkles, but then, who hasn’t?’

She could barely believe it. She’d found the man Oliver had been before he’d met Sherry in South Africa. She couldn’t wait to tell Rolo. Or Marc, for that matter.

‘Who is he?’

‘A casual flyer. You know the sort, rents an aircraft for a jolly weekend away, or a hop across to France for lunch.’ McKenzie was still staring at the picture. ‘I can’t believe you’ve found him. After all these years.’

‘What do you mean, found him?’

‘You don’t know?’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘Don’t know what?’

‘He disappeared.’

Her stomach tightened. ‘Disappeared?’

‘Yes. We had the police here day after day, trying to find him, but they never did. Or not that I heard of, anyway.’

‘When was this?’

‘Fourteen, fifteen years ago. I can check if you like?’

‘Yes, please.’

He didn’t seem to notice Kira’s unease. Two fathers missing, both pilots, both family men. They couldn’t be connected, could they? It didn’t appear so at first glance. Oliver was an architect, Dad an air-taxi pilot. But they’d both owned their own businesses. And flown from the same airfield. Had they known one another? Her heart was thumping, her skin prickling.

McKenzie had already pulled a keyboard towards him and was tapping away.

‘The last time we saw Jon was on Sunday 20th June, 2009. He’d rented a Piper Cherokee for the afternoon, but never came back.’

‘The aeroplane vanished too?’

‘He said he was going for a jolly.’ He was looking at his computer screen. ‘He didn’t file a flight plan. The notes here say he wasn’t going overseas or meeting anyone that anyone knew about. The aeroplane had been refuelled the day before. He took off, and basically, was never seen again.’

Just like Dad.

Fingertips trembling, Kira made a note in her notebook. ‘Can you remember any reasons given as to why he’d vanished?’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry.’

‘What about the police? Did they say anything, like it was in connection with a criminal activity? Or was it a straight missing persons enquiry?’

He frowned. ‘As far as my memory goes, they didn’t say.’

‘Did they think it involved foul play?’

‘I think I’d remember if it did.’ He frowned. ‘But it’s a long time ago, sorry.’

She’d have to check the police records. Heart thumping, she looked outside, listening to the familiar buzz of light aircraft heading for the runway, taking off and landing.

Had Dad done a vanishing act like Oliver?

If so, why?

As she rode home, it started to drizzle, blurring her vision through the visor. She wasn’t crying, the weather was doing it for her. And what about Sherry? How was she going to tell her that Oliver wasn’t Oliver at all, but a man called Jonathan Stevenson, a man who may not be the person she thought she’d married?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Kira rang Marc outside McKenzie’s office and told him what she’d found.

‘Good work, Kira.’ He sounded pleased. ‘I’ll get Stevenson punched into the system this end, see what we can find.’

When she got home, she wanted to visit Sherry and Lucy to bring them up to date but she was too knackered to see straight. Her eyes were scratchy, and she had the beginnings of a headache, and if she saw the Strouds now, she’d only cock something up. Shift work played hell with your body clock, and since she started work at ten tonight, she’d better get some sleep, or she’d be useless.

For the first time, she realised how working in CID might make things easier. She wouldn’t have to work nights, not unless there was a major inquiry. She’d have all day to interview suspects and victims, and she wouldn’t be heading for bed at 4pm, like she was now.

On the upstairs landing, she paused to look at the framed photograph of her father. She hadn’t looked at it in ages. She hadn’t felt the need but visiting the airport earlier had brought him alive again. She could almost smell the odour of his Havana cigars, hear his booming laugh.

The photo showed him in full uniform, at the helm of his Bell Jet Ranger. He was big and handsome and full of life, as though he could walk into the house any second. Familiar details swam across her eyes: his Breitling pilot’s watch; his belt buckle, fashioned in the shape of a leaping tiger. His smile was Kira’s smile, broad and bright.

The years drained away. She was ten years old, at Cotswold Airport, and she could hear the steady thump-thump-thump of the helicopter as it landed, and feel the dry warmth of Dave Winter’s hand as he walked her to the landing pad. Dave was Daddy’s chief mechanic, and he was chuckling as she pulled and tugged to make him walk faster. The down draft from the blades flattened her clothes against her body as they approached. She saw a bulky man in a tight suit with lots of chins clamber out of the helicopter, and as he walked away, she was skipping and dancing, but Dave wouldn’t let her go. Daddy was scribbling on his clipboard, checking his watch and scribbling again, his expression serious, concentrated, and then he glanced across and saw Kira.

His face lit up.

He pushed aside the clipboard and waved them over. Dave let Kira pull him into a run. He was mock groaning at the effort, and she was gasping with excitement.

Thud-thud-thud. The blades were still whirring, ready to go. Dave had told her that since Daddy was late from Canary Wharf, he was now late for his pick-up at Bristol Airport, where some urgent medical equipment had to be couriered across the country. Dave had added that Daddy wouldn’t have time to stop, but he had. He’d stopped for her.

Kira fought free of Dave’s hands and scrambled on board. She gave him a salute. ‘Co-pilot Connal reporting for duty, sir!’

‘Buckle up, kiddo,’ he told her. ‘We’re late.’

She didn’t need to be asked twice. As soon as he’d helped her secure her harness, he wound the machine up and was lifting off. Dave’s face was a picture of dismay. He was the one who’d have to ring Mum to tell her about the change in plans.

Now, Kira was looking her father straight in the eyes. Daddy, where are you now? Why didn’t you take me with you?

She touched his face with a finger before heading to the bedroom. Funny thing, emotions. She didn’t feel angry at him anymore. She just felt ineffably sad.

Crawling into bed, she pulled the covers over her. When she closed her eyes, another image of her father materialised, one of him lying in a ditch with his head blown away. She didn’t know where it came from but it was etched deeply with her other memories as though she’d actually seen it, clear as any photograph stuck in the family album.

She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. She still didn’t believe her father had died by suicide, no matter what everyone said about the pressure of keeping QuickAir afloat with its mounting debts. He was too bullish, too full of life and optimism to end everything that way. She’d met people who’d attempted suicide during her career and talked to them at length, trying to see what it was that made them turn to such desperate measures, but nothing they said persuaded her that her father had joined their ranks.

Perhaps he was in South Africa, flying big game hunters into safari camps, flying tourists to their wine tastings.

Kira fell asleep with the sound of a helicopter’s turbine whining in her mind.

* * *

When Kira awoke four hours later, she felt refreshed and alert. She showered and dressed, pulling on her favourite sweater, a deep indigo polo neck that made her eyes sultry, her lips full. Amazing what wearing the right colours did for you. If only her uniform had the same effect. On second thoughts, that was probably not such a great idea. She could only imagine the sexual aggro she’d get from some of her suspects.

Checking her watch, she did some quick calculations. Yup, she had plenty of time before her shift started. It was time for a drink.

The Hat & Feathers was just off Stokes Croft with a giant TV above the bar and a row of fruit machines against the far wall. A bunch of guys were supping Newcastle Browns and pints of Bass, elbows on the counter, while two guys played pool. Drug dealers, pimps and small-scale criminals hung out here, and Benedict would say he’d come here to rub shoulders with the salt-of-the-earth types and get some inspiration, but Kira knew it was because he could get falling-down drunk if he wanted without anyone he knew witnessing the process.

Fatty wasn’t there, but Fateh was. The barman pointed him out. ‘Comes in most days,’ he told her.

Short, dark and swarthy, Fateh had a moustache and a pot belly that bulged above his waistband, taut and round as a football. He wore jeans, a black fleece, trainers, and bright red socks. His hair was slick and greasy and could have done with a wash. He was drinking a pint of lager with a pal in the corner.

Kira started to make her way over when Fateh glanced up. She may have been in civvies but as far as Fateh was concerned, she could have been in full uniform with a flashing blue light revolving on top of her head. He took one look at her and shot to his feet, bolting for the gents. At a more sedate pace, Kira followed.

Standing in a draughty hallway, the smell of stale urine and cleaning fluid in her lungs, she knocked on the door. A full knuckled rap that would confirm she was a cop. BANG-BANG-BANG.

‘I want a word with you, Fateh.’

Silence.

BANG-BANG-BANG.

More silence.

Kira pushed open the door to see each stall was open and that nobody was at the urinals. An open window told her where her quarry had gone. And surprise, surprise, when she returned to the bar, his pal had done a bunk in her absence. She’d have to come back another time to catch the little sod.

Back on her bike, she was weaving her way through the traffic when her phone rang. Pulling over, she tugged off one glove with her teeth and checked the readout before answering.

‘You want the bad news, or the good news first?’ Jenny said.

‘Good, please.’

‘Rolo wants us on shift early. 9pm. Something about a town-gown fight brewing. Bloody townies,’ Jenny grumbled. ‘Bloody students. Why can’t they leave each other alone?’

Kira didn’t bother replying. Just said, ‘And the bad?’

‘Our scrummy new DI didn’t even give me a second look.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Fortunately, by the time Kira got to work, the town-gown punch up had been averted and it turned into a relatively quiet night – for Bristol, that was – and when she got home at seven thirty the next morning, she slept like the dead until lunchtime. Yawning over tea and toast, she rang Marc to find he’d been called to investigate a double murder in Bedminster.

‘I’ve got something on Oliver for you,’ he said, ‘or rather Jon, but I’m afraid I’m busy right now…’

Kira made a growling sound of frustration that, to her chagrin, he heard.

‘Patience never was a strong point of yours,’ he said, amused. ‘Glad to see nothing’s changed.’

She didn’t bother responding.

‘Look,’ he went on, ‘can it wait until tomorrow? I know you’re on nights, but if there’s a chance we could meet up tomorrow, that would be good.’

‘Okay.’ She sighed, as if she had a choice. If her DI said tomorrow, then tomorrow it was.

Meantime, she had to get through another nightshift. She hoped she’d be awake enough to make some sort of sense when they eventually met.

Come midnight, Kira was on mobile patrol with Jenny. Rolo was having a purge on drugs and wanted them to be a high-visibility deterrent to out-of-towners. Bristol had a reputation for drugs that were the best quality and the cheapest around, attracting just what Jo Public, Law-Abiding Bristolians didn’t want in their backyard.

Kira was downshifting for the approaching corner, and Jenny was munching on a large bag of hot, salted chips she’d bought en route.

‘I gather you’re working with our lovely new DI on the Stroud case,’ said Jenny. ‘How is he?’

‘No different to when I last saw him,’ Kira evaded.

‘He’s single, you know,’ Jenny went on. ‘I’ve dropped a couple of hints that I’m available, but he hasn’t made a move.’ She frowned. ‘You don’t think he’s gay, do you?’

Kira couldn’t resist it. ‘I suppose he could be.’

Jenny’s head snapped round. ‘You’ve heard something?’

‘Just the usual rumours.’ She made sure her tone was careless.

‘Ah, shit.’ Jenny sighed. ‘The best-looking bloke to come along in years and he’s a sodding shirt-lifter.’

Kira chuckled to herself as she swung left into Flex Road. That should keep the gossip mongers busy for a while. She was still thinking of Marc, and wondering if he had a girlfriend or not, when her radio beeped three times.

All thoughts of her DI were immediately banished.

‘All officers stand by.’ The operator’s voice was filled with tension. ‘Alpha One, give your location.’

Kira pulled over, heart thumping, waiting to hear which way to go, and whether she needed to do a U-turn.

‘All units, two code zeros at the Taj Mahal Curry Shop, Stokes Croft. I repeat, two code zeros. Officers need assistance. All units expedite.’

Jenny hit the blue lights and gave their call sign as Kira spun the car around. Shit. Two panic alarms. She hoped they’d get there in time to help. The Taj Mahal Curry Shop was at least five minutes away, and five minutes in an emergency was a long time.

Kira barely slowed as a stop sign came into view, then they were squealing left, siren wailing, the rear tyres slipping on the wet tarmac, and Jenny was yelling at her to slow down goddammit! but she kept her foot steady on the accelerator until she’d straightened the car and then they were flying, howling down the dual carriageway, breaking every speed limit in sight.

God, she loved her job.

When they arrived, there were three police cars slung across the road, blue lights flashing. Three cops were wrestling with a bunch of guys at the back of a divisional van and another two officers were trying to break up a fight that involved a kitchen knife and two restaurant chairs.

Several heaving, punching forms grunted their way across the pavement. It looked as though it was whites against Asians, customers against kitchen staff. Bloody typical. Why couldn’t the pissheads eat their curries and leave the waiters alone?

Kira quickly assessed the situation. Aside from the odd bloody nose, none of them appeared to be doing much damage, probably because they were all too drunk. Releasing her baton, she flicked out the extension before approaching a pensioner who was trying to beat a small, swarthy Indian man to death with his walking stick. The Indian guy was yelping, ‘Get off me, get off me! Ow!’

The pensioner whacked Kira across the shoulders before saying, ‘Oops, sorry, officer. Didn’t realise you were a woman.’

While he apologised, she got him handcuffed and whisked him to the rear of the patrol car.

‘Sit,’ she told him. ‘Stay.’

Sirens were howling as further backup approached from all over town. More blue lights blazed. Kira arrested two more men before people woke up to the fact that they were seriously overpowered. The fighting slowed to a stop. People drifted away, dusting themselves down, wiping blood from their faces and knuckles.

The swarthy Indian guy was swaying unsteadily with his hands to his face, and moaning.

‘Sir? Are you all right?’ She trotted over.

He dropped his hands, opening his mouth to reply. Their eyes locked. And then he bolted.

‘Fateh!’ she yelled. ‘Stop!’

Despite the fact he hadn’t done anything wrong, she put down her head and charged after him. In her experience people only ran from the cops when they had something to hide.

Fateh reached the end of the street and dived left. For a fat guy he certainly put on a turn of speed. Kira pushed herself harder, her stab vest rubbing the soft skin under her armpits. Carrying six kilos of kit wasn’t helping but she picked it up a gear when she saw he was headed for a block of council flats. She’d never find him in there. It was like a bloody rabbit warren.

She ran off the pavement and pelted across the road – thank God there was no traffic – angling left and hoping to head him off. She could hear his footsteps pounding ahead of her, her breath rasping in her throat, and she fixed her eyes on the back of his neck and put all her concentration into increasing her speed.

She would not let him get away.

Fateh hit a crossroads and swung right. He was closing in on the block of flats and Kira pulled her energy up from her boots and put every effort into sprinting after him. She was belting right at the crossroads, almost close enough to touch him, when, to her horror, her boots slipped on a layer of wet leaves. She flailed her arms and legs, sure she’d fall, and she was cursing and swearing but then her feet were under her once more and she gulped a lungful of air and raced after her quarry.

He’d gained maybe five yards, and it took her almost half a minute to claw back the distance she’d lost, and then – at last – she closed in once more. Fear may have given Fateh wings earlier, but now his beer gut was slowing him down.

He was halfway across an overgrown wasteland that called itself a park when he glanced over his shoulder. His mistake. He didn’t see the tyre hidden beneath a tangle of bindweed and crashed to the ground.

Kira was on top of him in a flash, digging her weight into the small of his back, grabbing his right hand and crimping her last pair of handcuffs on his wrist. ‘Other hand, please.’

‘Ow!’ he gasped. ‘You’re hurting me!’

‘Tough fucking titty. Give me your other hand.’

Aside from the heaving of his chest as his lungs bellowed in and out, he didn’t move. Kira pressured his right arm above his shoulder blade, and he hurriedly complied. Snapping on the other cuff she double locked them – she didn’t want them getting tighter and tighter and causing gangrene – then hauled him to his feet and read him his rights.

‘Let me go! I haven’t done anything!’

She made a show of smelling his breath. Reeking with beer, no problem. ‘Drunk and disorderly,’ she told him. ‘Resisting arrest. Selling illegally smuggled wildlife to the unsuspecting public.’

‘Selling what?’ He sounded startled.

‘Iguanas.’

‘Oh.’

He obviously wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the box, since as far as she was concerned, an ‘oh’ was tantamount to a full confession. Criminals, you had to love them.

She began marching him back across the wasteland. ‘How do you get your reptiles into the UK?’

‘What reptiles?’

His brain had obviously caught up with the rest of him.

‘Like the iguana you sold at the Hat & Feathers yesterday.’

‘I never sold any iguana to nobody.’

They came to the end of the street. Blue lights were still flashing. The total number of police cars was now nine. A crowd had materialised to watch the final arrests being made.

‘The buyer was my husband.’

He closed his eyes, and she knew he was cursing his luck.

‘I want to know where you got it from. The iguana.’

‘A mate.’

He hadn’t even tried to persuade her the iguana needed a new home. Nor had he tried the ‘bred in captivity inside the UK’ routine. He was a real liability to his dodgy pals, and she was glad he wasn’t on her team.

Fateh was staring at the police milling around. His lower lip was trembling. ‘I’ve never been arrested before. My mum’s going to go mad.’

‘She’ll come and visit you, I’m sure.’ Kira’s tone wasn’t the least bit sympathetic.

‘What if…’ Fateh gave a wriggle and dragged his nervous gaze to hers. ‘I told you about how my mate got the lizard. Would you let me go?’

She pretended to give his suggestion serious consideration. ‘I might.’

‘Oh, oh, that would be great.’ He was gasping with relief. ‘These are really uncomfortable, you know. Could you, er…’ He jiggled his handcuffed wrists at her.

‘You give me something first, then I give you something. That’s how it usually works.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ He cleared his throat. ‘They get Fedexed over.’

‘What?’

‘You know, put in a box, and mailed.’

No wonder the iguana looked so ill.

‘Just iguanas?’

When he pursed his lips, she said conversationally, ‘You’ll be in the cell all night, you know. And you’ll be sharing, in case you hadn’t thought of that before.’

Fateh gulped. ‘We get all sorts,’ he admitted. ‘Frogs, snakes. My mate sold a Chinese alligator last week for eight grand.’

‘That’s a heck of a lot of money,’ she said, looking impressed. ‘Good business to be in.’

He gave a nod before he remembered who he was talking to.

‘What’s your mate’s name?’

Fateh clamped his mouth shut.

‘The cells don’t have a door on the toilet. You have to go in full sight of your cellmates. And the police officer on duty. I hope you’re not shy.’

He was shaking his head, but his lower lip had started quivering again. ‘Okay, okay. His name’s Digby. But don’t tell him I told you. Promise?’

‘Does he have a last name?’

‘Panjabi.’

‘How do I find him?’

‘He works at Mahipal Singh’s Emporium on Park Street.’

She stared at him for a moment, her skin starting to prickle. It was the same store that had delivered that ratty old tiger skin to Oliver’s office.

‘What’s wrong?’ Fateh was staring back.

No way was she going to let this bastard go. Not when he might be connected to Oliver, no matter how tenuously.

Kira gestured at the patrol car. ‘Hop in.’

‘No, no!’ Fateh shouted at Kira, beery fumes blasting her. ‘You said you’d let me go!’

‘I said I might.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Kira left Fateh to stew in his cell for a few hours before releasing him into one of the interview rooms. One table, four chairs, all bolted down. A tape recorder sat to one side of the table. Jenny fetched them drinks, tea for her and Kira, coffee for Fateh, and when they’d all stirred and started to sip, Kira looked at Fateh who immediately started laying into her, saying she had no right to keep him here, how dare she lock him up, blah blah.

She let him bang on for a bit until he began to peter out, finishing by saying furiously, ‘This place is a shithole.’ He leaned back, crossing his arms over his belly and sticking his lower lip out.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Kira gave him one of her sweetest smiles. ‘Next time I’ll get you booked into the Marriott, shall I?’

The lower lip protruded further, sulky and as petulant as a wronged toddler. ‘I thought you were going to help me before, but you didn’t.’

Kira let her regret show. She wasn’t acting either, she was genuinely sorry she’d blown her apparent trustworthiness with Fateh. Somehow, she had to regain it, or she’d get nowhere. ‘I’m sorry about that. Just doing my job.’

He gave a snort.

Kira turned to the recorder. Told Fateh their conversation would be recorded. She pressed play. Stated the time and day, and who was in the room.

‘Do I need a solicitor?’ Fateh’s previous bolshiness turned into worry.

Kira folded her arms. ‘Why? Do you think you need one?’ Her tone implied the subtext: If you’re innocent, what’s the problem?

He bit his lip. Shook his head. ‘No.’ His voice was meek.

‘Right then.’ Kira folded her hands on the table. ‘Tell me, is Mahipal Singh’s Emporium family run?’

He hesitated.

Kira raised her eyebrows at him. ‘You really want to go back to the cell?’

Fateh gave a long sigh. ‘Yes. It’s family run.’

‘Are you related?’

He squinted as he thought. ‘Through marriage. My sister works there. I do odd jobs for them. You know how it is.’

Kira nodded. Her job had shown her how Asian family culture moulded its members from childhood, shaping everything from their rules and routines to the roles they played, the jobs they held. ‘Who’s the manager there? The main man, so to speak.’

‘Why do you want to know?’ Fateh was frowning.

‘I’m investigating your possible wildlife crime, remember?’

He sighed again. ‘My cousin runs it.’

‘His name?’

He chewed his moustache for a while, then shrugged. ‘Mazak Panjabi.’

She made a note and took a sip of tea to find it was already cold. Grimacing, she pushed it aside. ‘What other types of animals does he import aside from iguanas?’

Fateh fixed his gaze on the table. ‘I’d rather not answer that.’

‘Will Mazak make life difficult for you if you do?’

He glanced at Jenny, then away. He gave a shrug.

‘Where do the animals come from, mainly? South America? India?’

Fateh shook his head.

‘We’ll go easy on you if you help us.’

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at the table.

After a minute or so, she leaned back and steepled her fingers together. ‘What about your mother? Shall I call her? Tell her where you are?

‘No, no!’ He was half out of his seat, brown eyes wide. ‘She’ll kill me!’

‘Well, then, Fateh. What other animals does Mazak import?’

He shook his head, more vehemently this time.

‘Come on, I know you’re a fence.’ She hardened her tone. ‘You sold an iguana to my husband only the day before yesterday.’

He shook his head again.

Kira kept plugging away, but Fateh didn’t say another word. The clock gradually ticked to 6am and all three of them were yawning when Kira finally brought out a photograph of Oliver and put it on the table. ‘Do you know this man?’

He flinched as though he’d been struck by a cobra.

‘Fateh?’

He was staring at the photograph as though unable to believe what he was seeing. His skin had turned the colour of curdled cheese.

‘Fateh.’ She tried to keep the excitement from her voice. ‘Who is he?’

He looked desperately at Kira, then at the door. He didn’t look at the photograph again.

‘You know him, Fateh. Don’t deny it.’

He shook his head violently.

‘Either you tell me, or I’ll have to report you for obstructing police business.’

‘I’ve never met him.’ His voice trembled.

‘But you know him.’

‘No, I don’t.’ Pleading, panicky. ‘Please let me go. I want to go now!’

‘I’m sorry, not until you tell me how you know this man.’

‘I don’t know him!’ He was almost sobbing. ‘Please, I promise. I swear I don’t know him.’

There was a long pause while Kira took in the way he swallowed convulsively, as though to stop himself from vomiting. There was a sickly sheen to his skin and his eyes were full of fear.

‘Why are you so scared of him?’

‘I’m not! It’s…’ He buried his head in his hands, and whispered, ‘Shit. Oh, shit.’

Kira watched him cautiously. He was obviously terrified. Of Oliver? Or something else?

‘What if I tell you who he is?’ she suggested quietly.

‘Shit,’ he moaned. He started to rock in his chair. ‘Shit, shit.’

Kira pushed the photo across until it was a centimetre from his elbows. Fateh recoiled as though it might strike him.

‘This man is called Jonathan Stevenson. He’s also known as Oliver Stroud.’

‘I don’t know anything about him. I swear I don’t.’

‘He disappeared on Monday. We’re trying to find him.’

Fateh was shaking his head. His mouth was trembling, and he was close to tears, but he said quite clearly, ‘I want a lawyer. I’m not saying another word until I get a lawyer.’

Kira felt more than saw Jenny’s eyes fix on her in alarm, but she ignored it. ‘Oliver’s receptionist told me Oliver received a delivery from the Emporium last Tuesday. A tiger skin. Do you know anything about it?’

His skin was wax pale. ‘I want a lawyer.’

To Kira’s frustration, he repeated the same mantra every time she asked another question, forcing her to give up. She didn’t have anything – aside from drunk and disorderly – to charge him with. She needed the Wildlife Crime Officer to charge Fateh with selling the iguana. The last she saw of Fateh was as he trudged back into his cell. She didn’t think she’d seen such a miserable prisoner.

* * *

When Kira got home, she slept for six hours straight but still felt wrecked when she woke up. She showered and forced down some toast and peanut butter. Thank God she had her allotted four days off from tomorrow. The thought of doing another eight-hour shift made her want to jump back into bed and stay there a week.

She checked her watch to see she had three hours until her meeting with Marc. She could accomplish a lot in three hours, if she wanted to. Marc would have her shift report about Fateh, but he wouldn’t know anything about the Emporium unless she went there and checked it out.

Pulling on her leathers, Kira wondered about the ratty old tiger skin Oliver had received. From what the receptionist had said, it appeared he hadn’t been expecting it and that it had, in fact, come as a shock.

He went all white looking. I thought he was going to be sick.

Much like Fateh’s reaction when she’d shown him Oliver’s photograph.

Was the tiger skin a warning? Had Oliver threatened to expose the store for selling illegal wildlife products? Or was he involved in some way? It seemed a strange connection for an architect to have.

As she rode down Park Street, the CBR felt heavy at the low speed forced upon it by the rubbish truck in front. Her eyes flicked between her rear-view mirrors, the speedometer, and the road ahead, constantly forward planning, constantly looking for some idiot about to pull out in front of her without any warning.

Eventually Kira pulled over and stopped, setting her side-stand and taking off her helmet. She raked her hair with her fingertips as she checked over Mahipal Singh’s Emporium. One of the larger stores in the street, it had a glass frontage spreading across two houses. Shiny, clean windows showed off a riot of colour inside; ethnic rugs, brass tables, coasters, hookah pipes, lamps and jewellery boxes, all laden with shiny Christmas baubles and ribbon.

Shit. She’d forgotten Christmas was around the corner.

With her arm hooked through her helmet, Kira walked inside. The shop was enormous, stretching to the back of the building. A woman was trying on scarves in front of a mirror while her friend looked on. To the left was a staircase with an arrow saying: more upstairs.

‘Can I help you?’ A young Asian guy was watching her from the middle of the room. He had a goatee beard and wore a silk shirt tucked into too-tight black jeans. He was unpacking a carton and spilling wood shavings all over the counter.

‘Just browsing, thank you.’

He didn’t bother acknowledging her. Kira moved further inside the shop. She ran her fingers over a table inlaid with blue and white enamel, picked up a brass goblet, put it down. The place was stuffed with furniture and knickknacks. There were brass beds, garden chairs, plant holders, salad bowls, candles, incense sticks, picnic baskets. There appeared to be something for everyone. There was even a rocking horse.

Kira was making her way slowly to the staircase when the young guy said something. He’d pushed the carton aside and was talking to the women, who were discussing where the vicuna scarf had come from exactly – Peru or Chile – but Kira wasn’t looking at them. Her gaze was riveted to the item poking out of the carton. The size of her hand, it was artfully crouched on a twisted piece of bark. Its tail was wrapped to rest on its back paw and its ears were flat against its skull, its muzzle wrinkled, as though the taxidermist had tried to make it look fierce.

A stuffed tiger cub.

The Asian guy was absorbed in wrapping the scarf now the woman had decided to buy it, and Kira approached as inconspicuously as she could until she was right behind him. She smiled at the women, who gave a brief smile back.

Kira bent over and picked up the cub. You poor little thing, she thought. It had been killed before its eyes had opened.

‘Madam?’

The Asian guy was looming over her, looking anxious.

‘Isn’t it sweet?’ she gushed. She stroked the tiny cub between its ears, the fur goose-down soft. ‘He’d look lovely on my mantelpiece. But is it okay to own one of these? I thought I read something about it being politically incorrect or something.’

‘Oh, no, madam, you are fine with this one. It is an antique, you see.’ He took the cub from her and tapped its wooden base. ‘Very old indeed. Quite all right, believe me.’

Okay, my arse, she thought furiously. Not only was the cub in immaculate condition – no signs of everyday wear and tear that you’d see on an antique ornament – but the base was covered in plastic resin. He must think her extremely stupid, which was good news because she was going to get the Wildlife Crime Officer, Constable Patrick Ridley, to organise a search warrant and snatch the cub. When the glass forced into its eye sockets was dated – you could date any stuffed animal by the taxidermy process – she and Patrick would happily watch this piece of shit get slung into jail.

Like a lot of police, their chief didn’t care for animal-related crimes, but at least he allowed Patrick to wear a Wildlife Crime Officer hat when something cropped up. It was a voluntary position, taken on by people like Patrick who were passionate about animals and keen to protect against everything from hare coursing to egg theft as well as trade in protected species covered by CITES, the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species. Of which, the tiger was in the top ten.

He quickly buried the cub back inside the sawdust shavings. ‘If you will excuse me…’

‘He really is rather special,’ she said wistfully. ‘How much is he?’

‘I am sorry, madam. It is not for sale.’

She pouted her disappointment. ‘Oh. What a shame.’

He appeared to ignore her as he swung around to finalise the sale of the scarf, but she could see his eyes sliding her way every few seconds or so, keeping a check on her.

When the women had left, he turned back to her, and she said cheerily, ‘I’m Kira Reilly.’ Which was true, she was married to Benedict Reilly, but she had kept Connal – her maiden name – for work.

Kira stuck out her hand. He had no option but to take it.

‘And you are?’ she prompted.

After a hesitation he said reluctantly, ‘Digby.’

Carefully, she kept her face neutral, but inside she felt the familiar thrill when things began to fall into place. Digby was Fateh’s iguana smuggling friend.

‘Digby,’ she repeated as she looked around the store. ‘You don’t have any antique animal skins by any chance? It’s my husband’s birthday coming up and I know he’d love a tiger or lion skin in his office.’

He considered her at length, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘Just one moment, please.’ Digby picked up the phone and pressed a couple of buttons. When he spoke, it was in rapid Hindi. She checked out the carton while his back was turned. Quickly ducking down, she snuck a look to see it still had its shipping docket in a plastic envelope on the side. Fedex. Thank you, Fateh.

‘If you go upstairs,’ he told her after he’d hung up, ‘my manager will meet you. Usually we only sell to order, but we have been lucky lately, and have found some more antiques.’

Upstairs was more of the same; brass bells, oil jars, urns, a couple of huge ornate doors that looked as though they’d been ripped from a palace. A tall, neatly dressed man was talking on his mobile phone at the far end of the room. He had a hooked, beaky nose and thick black eyebrows that met in the middle, like a paintbrush stroke across his forehead.

Lucy Stroud’s face shimmered in her mind, the girl’s expression anxious. He had a hooked nose, like a pirate. And eyebrows that met in the middle.

For a split second, Kira froze. Then she turned and, as quietly as she could, began hurrying for the stairs. She didn’t want him to see her, not until she had some backup. Lucy had reported the man having a holster when he’d broken into the Strouds’ apartment, and if he reacted like Fateh – recognising in an instant that she was a cop – she could be in trouble if he was armed.

Nerves buzzing, she glanced over her shoulder. Her mouth turned dry as she saw the man turning around – he’d heard her coming up the stairs – and she reacted fast. She mustn’t let him see her.

Kira launched herself down the staircase, uncaring of the noise her boots made on the wooden boards. Past giant brass pots and plant holders, she shot back onto the ground floor.

Digby swung round, startled.

‘He’s busy on the phone,’ she called across as she raced for the doors. All her senses were on the stairs behind her, waiting for clattering footsteps, maybe a shout. She didn’t want to blow this. She had to leave without alerting them or she could lose the entire case. ‘I’ve just realised I’m late for an appointment. Can l come back tomorrow?’

He gave a shrug. ‘Sure.’

‘What’s your colleague’s name? For when I come back?’

‘Ask for Mazak,’ he said.

‘Great,’ she said, giving him a wave. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

Kira pushed open the glass doors, the skin between her shoulder blades tight, but nothing happened, nobody came for her. Mazak hadn’t seen her, or if he had, hadn’t realised she was a police officer. Thank you, God.

She pulled on her helmet and hopped onto her bike, started it up with a shuddering roar. Opening the throttle, she only slowed when she came to George Street. Diving right, she immediately took the narrow alley next on her right and backtracked before parking outside an Italian pizza house and restaurant. With the bike on its side-stand, she climbed off and removed her helmet and gloves. Cautiously, she walked back to Park Street. The Emporium was almost opposite. She could see Digby was busy behind his counter, unpacking more boxes. No sign of Mazak. Still upstairs, she hoped.

Pulling out her mobile, Kira called Patrick. To her relief, he answered on the second ring. He sounded distracted.

‘Pat, it’s Kira. Can you talk?’

‘For you, I’ll ignore the two copperheads that have escaped fuck knows where into this flat.’

‘Crap,’ she said. ‘I hope they’re not venomous.’

‘Only a little bit.’

She heard a crashing noise in the background.

‘Whoops,’ he said cheerfully. ‘There goes one. Heading straight for its owner.’

Kira waited until Patrick came back on.

‘The things I do,’ he sighed.

‘But you love it.’

‘I don’t get paid enough,’ he grumbled, but Kira knew he didn’t mean it. He loved his job as much as she did.

‘You’ll forget all about your wages when you hear what I’ve got for you.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kira was still loitering at the end of George Street an hour and a half later, getting more and more frustrated. Surely it couldn’t take this long for the duty inspector to arrange a search warrant. What the hell was going on? She was seriously considering ringing Patrick for the third time when, finally, he arrived in a patrol car. As the officers climbed out, putting on their caps, readying themselves, she recognised the two AFOs she’d met outside Sherry’s apartment last week.

She’d warned Patrick that Mazak might have had a handgun when he’d broken into Sherry and Lucy’s apartment and was glad he’d got some backup. While he and another officer went through the Emporium’s front door, the others stood by their car, looking alert, listening to their radios. She had to assume they’d covered the back of the store.

Kira shifted from foot to foot, her heartbeat picking up. She cursed the fact she wasn’t on duty. She’d kill to have her radio with her, but since it was in her locker at Trinity Road along with her tac vest and uniform, it was about as much as use as an egg whisk to her right now.

It didn’t take long before Patrick came outside with Digby in tow. She watched him stuff the young Asian in the back of the patrol car. Where the hell was Mazak? Patrick went back inside. Kira’s finger hovered over her mobile, waiting for Patrick to ring her, but it remained silent.

Kira counted the seconds, which turned into minutes until finally, her mobile chirped.

‘Want to join us?’ Patrick said.

‘What about Mazak?’

‘Gone before we got here. See you in a tick.’

Cursing, Kira jogged across the street. Mazak either had a sixth sense to have vaporised before the cops arrived, or he’d got the wind up him when he’d heard her charge down the stairs. He was obviously one of those criminals who were able to intuit danger before it happened, but fortunately for the police they were few and far between.

As Kira approached the Emporium, the AFO sergeant ran his eyes up and down her motorcycle leathers. He gave her an appreciative grin.

‘Hello again,’ he said.

‘Hi.’

She glanced at Digby as she passed. He was slumped on the back seat, shoulders dejected, but when he spotted her, he jack-knifed upright, expression shocked.

‘Gotcha,’ she said happily, then she forgot all about Digby as she trotted inside the Emporium. She found Patrick upstairs, in a rear storeroom. He and his fellow officer were rummaging amongst boxes and crates and stacks of carpets, cushions and throws.

‘No tiger cub,’ said Patrick. ‘Sorry.’

‘Shit. Mazak must have taken it with him. You find anything else?’

‘Not yet.’

Elbow to elbow, they worked their way through the storeroom, and soon the floor was covered with half-wrapped tankards and ashtrays, lamp bases and jewellery boxes. Eventually Patrick gave a groan, stretching his back. ‘What if there’s nothing here?’ he ventured.

‘There is,’ Kira said firmly. ‘We’ve just got to find it so keep looking.’

Another hour passed, but they still hadn’t found anything. They’d moved to the basement, which now looked like the top floor storeroom – as though someone had detonated a bomb in it.

‘There’s nothing here,’ he said. ‘They’re not stupid, these guys. They’ll have stored it somewhere else. A lock-up, maybe a warehouse.’

Kira ignored him. She was thinking about how criminals routinely hid illegal products amongst legal shipments. Patrick’s colleague seemed to be thinking the same thing because he’d hardly paused until now.

‘Okay, let’s take a break.’ Patrick pulled out his wallet, had a quick look. ‘I’m going to go and get some coffee. Kira, you want anything?’

‘Just a second…’ She was checking a pile of heavy woollen rugs and had found some that felt like leather at the bottom. ‘Hey, give me a hand to shift this lot, would you?’

Both officers put their backs into it and Kira heaved one of the pieces of leather free.

‘Holy crap,’ said Patrick.

Kira held up a tiger skin. It was a big male with a broad head that still had its sharp long canines and rasping tongue. His belly was creamy white, his whiskers as long as her forearm and as stiff as porcupine quills. One leg was shorter than the other, the foreleg crudely sawn from the knee and showing he had been trapped. It still had dried blood clinging to the hairs.

They searched further to find two leopard skins and an Asian lion skin taken from an animal in its prime, whose ears were torn from fighting. It looked as though it had been blinded in one eye from a bullet. Patrick held up the skin of a tigress with a stretched belly, nipples extended; she’d been shot behind her elbow while still suckling her cubs. Kira ran her fingers over the soft fur of a female cub, just months old. The cub and her siblings were quite unmarked, which Kira took to mean they’d been poisoned, or clubbed to death.

They were obviously en route to a taxidermist to clean them up for private sale. Kira wondered who they would have been sold to, and who would want an endangered animal on their wall or floor. It was beyond her comprehension.

* * *

Come 3pm, Kira was outside her DI’s office and trying to put her thoughts in order. All of which went out of the window the second she saw him.

‘You’ve been busy,’ he said, opening the door wide and gesturing her to the chair in front of his desk. His office was like all the others, blue painted walls, grey synthetic carpet, fluorescent strip lighting. No personal photographs or pictures on the walls. Like the sector office, it was utilitarian and functional. A space for work, not for day dreaming.

‘Three arrests under the Wildlife Act and you’re not even on duty.’

‘Three?’ she repeated.

‘Fateh Shripati was officially charged this morning.’

Excellent, she thought. She couldn’t stop the grin forming.

Marc grinned back. ‘Glad to see you get a kick out of arresting the bad guys. You look good on it.’

So did he. He was positively gleaming with good health from his straight white teeth to the tips of his shiny dark hair.

‘Thank you.’

She sat down and, to her dismay, he perched himself on the edge of his desk, so their knees were nearly brushing. He didn’t seem to notice their proximity.

‘Right.’ He brought a buff-coloured file onto his lap and opened it. ‘Oliver Stroud. Aka Jon Stevenson.’

Kira sat up a bit straighter.

‘Fifteen years ago, on Sunday 20th June, 2009, there was a shooting at a pub called the Crossed Guns, just outside Ashton Keys, in Gloucestershire. Near where Jon used to live.’

Kira felt a frisson. It was the same day Oliver had rented a Piper Cherokee and taken off, never to be seen again.

And what about Dad? He’d climbed into his Piper Warrior PA-28 on the 2nd July, 2013, never to be seen again.

The disappearances were four years apart, but were they connected? The practical level-headed, don’t-believe-in-coincidences police officer inside her couldn’t deny the fact they’d both vanished from the same airport.

Marc picked up an iPad, swiped and tapped. ‘A drug deal went wrong and three people died. One was – unfortunately – one of ours. Dani Page. She was undercover. She left behind her husband and baby girl.’ He sighed. ‘The baby girl, Amelia, is now fifteen years old.’

They both fell silent for a moment, respecting the death of a colleague. Respecting the fact Amelia had to grow up without knowing her mother.

Marc cleared his throat. ‘Nobody knew who the shooter was, but he couldn’t have been stupid. Not only did he get the shipment, but the money as well.’

‘And Jon?’

‘He was the witness.’

Her jaw softened. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘It was Sunday morning.’ Marc put down the iPad. ‘He’d had a few too many the night before and – sensible boy – got a lift home. Next morning, he walked to pick up his car. He was in the car park at the wrong time. He saw everything. Smart guy didn’t hang around. He jumped in his car and tore off. The cops found his car dumped at Cotswold Airport. And since the aircraft he rented was missing – a Piper Cherokee – they put two and two together and came up with a perfect four. Nobody’s seen Jon since. Nor the aircraft.’

He scrubbed a hand over his head, making a tuft of hair stick up. Tempting to mention it, but it was way too personal.

‘The police put out an appeal through the Civil Aviation Authority,’ he went on, ‘the Light Aircraft Association, Flyer Magazine, the Light Aviation Magazine. They spoke to pilots, air traffic controllers, engineers, refuelling staff–’

‘Not every airfield has staff. A lot of places you have to refuel yourself.’

Marc arched an eyebrow at her.

‘My dad was a pilot.’

He stared. She could almost see the cogs turning, but quite what cogs, she wasn’t sure.

‘I see,’ he said.

She opened her mouth to tell him her father had gone missing too but decided not to derail the conversation just yet.

‘But there will be a record,’ he said, ‘if Jon did refuel.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve got the team working on it, but so far, nothing on our boy.’

Kira tried to think where Jon would go. ‘Do you think he flew overseas? He had enough fuel to get to France.’

‘No idea.’

‘The aircraft’s registration?’

He checked the file. ‘G-BRAQ.’

Kira stared past the rain beginning to trickle down the window, at a woman fighting to fit her child’s buggy into the back of her car. She tried to picture what had happened. Jon haring out of the car park with his foot flat on the accelerator, petrified the shooter might fire at him. He had to have had a relatively cool head on his shoulders to plan where he was going. Interesting that he’d run to the safest place he knew and where he couldn’t be followed: the sky. He must have been scared witless.

‘Who was the undercover cop?’

‘PC Dani Page. Her partner, Sergeant Rossdale, is with the Met. Rossdale says he spoke to Jon the next day. Jon rang the police, apparently, completely hysterical, demanding witness protection and the like to protect him from the shooter. Rossdale arranged to meet Jon in secret, but Jon never turned up. He never heard from Jon again. He had an uneasy feeling the shooter had found Jon and disposed of him.’

Kira’s mind was whirling. Had Jon decided the police couldn’t protect him? Had he decided to hide in South Africa because of this? It seemed a bit over the top to flee to another country, but then she wasn’t Jon, and nor had she witnessed what he had.

‘Why did he choose South Africa?’ she pondered.

‘His parents are South African. They live over there, near Cape Town.’ Marc looked into the distance. ‘They weren’t surprised when I told them he’d vanished a second time. I suspect they helped him first time around.’

‘And now?’

‘They’re not saying.’

Kira thought a bit longer. ‘What sort of drugs were being shipped?’

‘It wasn’t drugs,’ Marc said.

She gave him a confused look.

‘It was a shipment of a hundred dead tigers.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Kira stared at Marc, shell-shocked.

‘Holy crap,’ she said.

‘It wasn’t made common knowledge–’ he gestured at his iPad ‘–because Scotland Yard were hoping someone would come forward with information. Their knowing what the shipment contained would have confirmed they were genuine.’

A hundred dead tigers.

She was almost at a loss what to ask next, and Marc seemed to realise this, because he said, ‘Street value today is fifty grand per tiger. Not just for the skins, but the tails and teeth, the bones, noses, whiskers, gallbladders… I’ll let you do the sums.’

Her jaw softened. Five million pounds. Holy cow.

Marc went on. ‘It was Scotland Yard’s guess that when the shooter discovered he’d killed an undercover cop, he decided to protect himself by bumping off the only witness: Jon. And somehow, after all these years, the shooter has found him…’

‘And rather than be killed,’ Kira said, ‘Jon’s been forced to do another vanishing act.’ She wondered if he’d change his name again or if he’d stick with Oliver. Quickly, she filled Marc in on the tiger skin sent to Oliver’s office, and his horrified reaction. ‘I bet it was a warning to tell him to keep quiet.’

‘Which he took seriously.’ Marc flicked through the file. ‘How do you think they found him?’

‘He was in the newspapers when he won the Gas Ferry contract. Or maybe it was just bad luck, and he was spotted on the street…’

They sat in silence for a few seconds, then Marc said, ‘You’d better go and see his wife. Fill her in. And try and see if she can think where he might be. We could put Jon – let’s call him Oliver since that’s how he’s currently known – into witness protection. It would be nice if we could get the killer after all these years. And get justice for Dani Page’s husband and daughter.’

‘I’ll go and see Sherry now.’ She bet Oliver had flown the Piper Cherokee to France, and either continued to fly south, or sold it in Europe and taken a commercial flight to Africa. How had he changed his identity? It would have cost money. Six months elapsed between when he vanished, and he met Sherry in Cape Town. How had he survived? His parents no doubt had had a hand in helping him. It seemed a shame he and Sherry hadn’t stayed in South Africa, where they’d probably have stayed safe.

She got to her feet. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to mention it, but…’ She took a breath. ‘I don’t like coincidences.’

He quirked an eyebrow at her.

‘It’s personal… you see, my father went missing from the same airport that Oliver did…’

It didn’t take long to tell the story, and since she’d gone over it so many times in her head during the last twenty-four hours, she was succinct and to the point.

Marc stared. The expression on his face was impossible to decipher.

‘I know, it seems odd, but I thought… well, that I’d better tell you.’ Kira trailed off. ‘I mean, in case they’re connected.’

He remained totally still, staring at her.

She stared back. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

He seemed to shake himself. ‘Nothing.’ He was brisk. ‘But thanks for telling me. I will add what you’ve told me to Oliver’s file. Amalgamate both cases.’

‘Great,’ she said, but there was something about the way he’d reacted to her father’s disappearance that unsettled her. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was, precisely, but something was definitely off.

Marc regarded her carefully. ‘Are you still happy to keep working on this?’

‘Of course!’ Indignance was hotly followed by a rush of anxiety. ‘You’re not going to take it away from me, are you?’

The careful look remained. ‘No, but with Dani Page’s murder still to solve, let’s say we’re sharing it, okay?’ He rose and stood before her, studying her face. ‘You’re okay with us working together?’

‘Of course I am, sir.’ She looked at him straight, trying desperately not to look at his mouth. The mouth that had explored her own extensively before moving across her body. To her horror, she felt herself start to flush.

Fucksake, get a grip woman! Remember you’re married!

‘You don’t have to call me sir in private.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Her tone was stiff. ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ve a lot of stuff to be getting on with.’

Kira had to force herself not to scurry out of his office.

I must not look back at him. I must not look back.

When she stepped into the corridor, she couldn’t help it. She glanced over her shoulder.

Shit.

Marc was gazing after her and when their eyes met, he sent her a wink.

* * *

When Kira told Sherry about the Crossed Guns shooting, Sherry was standing next to the balcony doors of her sleek apartment, overlooking the slate-coloured harbour. The front door had been replaced, the mess the burglars made tidied up. As the colour left Sherry’s face, Kira reached out and felt the weight of her lean into her embrace.

‘Hell,’ said Sherry, muffled against her shoulder.

‘Yes,’ agreed Kira. She held her as she wept. When Sherry had regained some composure, she led her gently to the sofa. Settled her down. Went and made tea. Brought it back on a tray she’d found in a cupboard by the fridge and poured. They sipped in silence. Even though the heating was on full blast, the flames of a panoramic firebox flickering madly, the white room felt cold and empty.

Sherry finally put down her mug and leaned back. Ran a hand over her eyes. ‘He witnessed three people being murdered?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the killer now wants to kill Oliver?’

‘That’s what we believe.’

‘Hell,’ she said again.

Kira looked at a big bunch of mixed flowers on the glass table. Sherry had propped a battered card decorated with a bunch of daisies next to the vase. Kira leaned slightly so she could see inside the card.

Thinking of you.

There were eight signatures, including Oliver’s second-in-command, Andrew Burton. Commiserations from the office.

‘Sherry.’ Kira waited until she met her eyes. She kept her voice low. She felt as though she was making a vow. ‘I’m going to track Oliver down, okay? And I’m going to find the guy who killed those two men and that undercover officer and lock him up, so you and Oliver and Lucy can get on with your lives.’

Sherry gave a wan smile and put her hand over Kira’s and gave it a squeeze. ‘You do that, I’ll be in debt to you for the rest of my life.’

‘You might not thank me when you meet Oliver’s parents, the Stevensons. They might be awful.’

‘Awful is better than none.’ Sherry gave a wan smile.

‘When’s Lucy home?’

‘Any minute. School’s doing her good. Keeping a routine.’

‘What are you going to tell her?’

‘Everything.’

‘Good idea. She’ll be glad to know the reason why her dad’s gone. That it isn’t her fault.’

Sherry frowned. ‘Why would she think that?’

‘Kids take things on themselves.’

‘But she knows her father adores her,’ Sherry protested.

‘Be that as it may, I’ll bet you a million dollars Lucy feels responsible in some way.’

Sherry sent her a remarkably clear look. ‘Sounds like you’re speaking from experience?’ She held her head on one side, encouraging Kira to share.

Kira stared at the teapot. ‘Another time.’

* * *

When Kira left, Sherry went and stood in the kitchen. She was meant to be thinking about making supper for Lucy, but she felt so weird she wasn’t sure she shouldn’t have a glass of something stronger than tea. She had some white wine in the fridge. Vodka in the freezer and brandy on the dining room side table. Would a drink make her feel better?

Part of her felt exhilarated that there was a rational explanation for Oliver’s odd behaviour over his past, but the other felt small and scared. What if these tiger smugglers came after her and Lucy? Kira had said she doubted it would happen, but that if she saw anything out of the ordinary, or anything unsettling, she was to ring her immediately.

‘If they wanted anything to do with you and Lucy,’ Kira had said, ‘I think they would have done something by now.’

Which made sense, but it didn’t stop her jumping almost out of her skin when she heard Lucy’s key in the lock.

‘Mum, Mum!’ Lucy was flying towards her, blond hair streaming behind her, her satchel thumping against her shoulder. ‘Look what I’ve got! But it’s secret, we mustn’t tell anyone, promise?’

Sherry barely got the word, ‘promise,’ out before Lucy triumphantly thrust out her mobile phone.

Holding Lucy’s hand, Sherry had to move the screen, so it didn’t reflect the light. Her breathing stopped when she saw the picture.

There were hollows beneath his eyes and his cheeks looked gaunt, but his smile was the same; warm and loving.

‘It’s a WhatsApp from Dad! He wants to see us!’

* * *

Kira fell into bed with equal amounts of satisfaction and frustration. Satisfaction that they’d confiscated over fifty thousand pounds worth of illegal stock at the Emporium, and frustration that Mazak was nowhere to be found.

Digby had given them Mazak’s address, but when Patrick and his colleague turned up, all they had found was an abandoned, derelict house. When Patrick returned to confront Digby, the young Asian had been so crushed, it was obvious Mazak had duped him.

She’d fallen into a light doze when she heard Benedict’s footsteps on the stairs. She rolled over, turning her back to the door, and eased herself into a daydream where Mazak was handcuffed and standing in the dock, listening to his lengthy sentence being read out by the judge.

Soft shufflings told her Ben was getting undressed, and then the bed dipped. He pressed a kiss on her neck. She waited for the stench of alcohol and stale cigarettes to follow and was surprised when all she could smell was soap and toothpaste.

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ he whispered.

It was funny, she thought, that he always apologised when he thought she couldn’t hear.

‘I don’t know how you put up with me.’

‘Neither do I,’ she mumbled.

‘Where’s Iggy?’

‘At the zoo. He’s lucky to be alive.’

‘Oh, God.’ He made a muffled groaning sound. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘You can tell him yourself when you go and visit him tomorrow. The zoo survives on donations, you know.’

‘I’ll take my bank card with me.’

He put an arm around her, and she snuggled backwards into his embrace. His head rested against her shoulder blade.

‘It’s been a long day,’ he murmured. ‘I’m knackered.’

‘Me too.’

Long silence. Kira began to drift off again but came to with a start when he said, ‘I’ve been to AA.’

She wondered how long this bout of abstinence would last. A day? Two days? A month? The longest he’d gone without drinking since she’d known him had been eleven weeks. She’d pretty much given up all hope he might ever find permanent sobriety but tonight, for no reason she could think of, she felt a little spark of hope that maybe, this time, he’d find permanent sobriety.

‘Good one,’ she murmured.

‘Yeah.’

There was another long silence, but her eyes were open now, her brain ticking. If he was sober, which he appeared to be, then this was the perfect time for confessing. He’d take it much better than when he was drunk and convinced that everything she did was to get at him.

‘Ben?’

‘Hmm?’

‘I arrested your mate yesterday.’

She felt him pull back a little. ‘What mate?’

‘Fateh.’

She could feel him staring at her. ‘Why?’

‘Drunk and disorderly. And there was an outstanding warrant in connection with illegally smuggled wildlife.’

Benedict didn’t move an inch. He didn’t seem to be breathing. Kira concentrated on keeping her body relaxed, but she was cringing inside.

Please God don’t make him mad at me.

‘Fatty’s in jail?’

‘Not anymore. He’s out on bail. I checked this afternoon. I hope it won’t affect your, er… friendship too much.’

She waited for the eruption, but nothing happened. Then she felt his chest give a quiver. Then it quivered again, and suddenly he was clutching her and laughing fit to burst.

‘Oh, God,’ he gasped. ‘Fatty got banged up by my wife?’

Actually, it was pretty funny. Kira gave a snort and she was laughing too, and then she was rolling over; they were kissing and then the laughter faded and her arms were around his neck. She was fitted against him with the snugness of a missing piece in a jigsaw, her body lit with a surge of sexual longing so strong she thought she might faint.

In the darkness she could see his eyes gleaming.

‘My beautiful little Irish Colleen,’ he murmured, tracing the outline of her mouth with the tip of his finger, ‘I do love you.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Although it was her day off, the first thing Kira did was call Rolo at the station. He’d already instructed the local police to check out the Strouds’ Cornish holiday cottage – empty of anyone, including Oliver – and then the French and Italian villas they’d rented over the years. So far, none of the properties had been rented by a single man recently. They were either closed for the winter, or had families ensconced.

‘To find Oliver,’ Rolo sighed, ‘we’ll need a ton of luck.’

‘Especially since he’s already had some practice at hiding,’ Kira agreed.

She was finishing her second round of toast when her phone rang. Sherry.

‘Hey,’ she answered. ‘Any news?’

‘No. You?’

‘Sorry.’

‘I just wanted to let you know Lucy and I are going away for a few days. We both need a break. I thought a change of scene would help.’

Kira thought of her mother, terrified to leave the house in case Dad came home when she was out. Different people responded in different ways, she guessed. ‘Somewhere nice?’

‘Kind of.’ Sherry gave a chuckle. ‘We’re staying with my grandparents. They have a house in the country. Lots of walks. Pubs, an open fireplace. They have a dog that Lucy adores. It’ll do us good.’

Something in Sherry’s tone made Kira come alert. Gone was the dispirited, lacklustre tone and in its place was a pure, crystal edge.

‘How long do you think you’ll be there?’

‘Oh, not long. Maybe a week.’ A little laugh. ‘Until we start pining for pizza. They don’t approve of fast food.’

‘What grandparents do?’ Kira agreed. Granny Edith thought pizza was invented by Satan.

‘See you,’ Sherry said brightly.

‘See you,’ Kira responded, and as she hung up, she realised what Sherry’s tone held.

Excitement.

Kira thought for a moment, then turned to the Internet. First, she looked up Sherry’s maiden name: Parris. Then Sherry’s grandparents’ telephone number. Like a lot of older people, they were listed in a public directory database, and had a landline.

Kira dialled.

A woman answered cautiously. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello,’ Kira said brightly. ‘My name’s Kasmira. I’d like to speak to Oliver. He told me he was staying with you.’

‘Oh, heavens, did he? I really don’t think…’ The woman was flustered.

‘It’s okay.’ Kira lowered her voice to almost a whisper. ‘I know the situation.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes. He’s lying low for a bit.’

‘Oh, good Lord.’ The woman gulped. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid he’s not here.’

‘Oh.’ Kira made herself sound disappointed. ‘But he said–’

‘He is not here.’ The woman was now firm. ‘Goodbye.’

The woman hung up.

Kira rang Rolo. ‘Boss, can I sweep past Sherry’s grandparents’ house? I have a hunch that Oliver might be there.’ She told Rolo about both phone calls.

‘Where do they live?’

‘Not far. They’re north-west of Bath. Outside a village called Marshfield.’

When Rolo grumbled, she added, ‘It’s just off junction eighteen of the M4. I’ll be back home in time for tea and custard creams.’

‘It’s not that,’ he said, sounding offended. ‘It’s meant to be your day off.’

‘It’s a nice day. I fancy a bit of a ride in the sun.’

‘Okay.’ Rolo relented. ‘But make sure you rest up. I can’t have you falling asleep on the job when you’re back on duty.’

After putting on some washing, she would have fallen into her usual routine when she had a day off, having a bit of a dust and vacuum, but since her mother had cleaned the place within an inch of its life a couple of days ago, she took the opportunity to do a quick grocery shop.

With the fridge happily replenished, Kira pulled on her leathers. As she fastened the Velcro bars of her airbag jacket tight, she sent her husband a mental kiss. The jacket – top of the range and costing a small fortune – had been a Christmas gift from Benedict which he’d proudly presented saying, to keep my beautiful biker wife safe.

Kira bounded outside. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Oliver was with Sherry’s grandparents. She wondered what story he’d told them, whether he’d come clean about his change of identity and why, or whether he’d spun another tale to try and keep them safe too.

The traffic on the motorway was light, and as usual she was aware of the cars around her. Her following distance was long, her speed just under seventy. The road was dry, the sun bright, the air crisp. The fields were white with frost, glistening in the sunshine.

When she saw the signs for Bath beckoning, she throttled back, took the long uphill ramp to the roundabout at the top. Flicking on her indicator she slipped into the right-hand lane and when the lights changed swept past a queue of traffic and onto the A46. Slotting between a grey sedan and a white van, she rode smoothly, enjoying the sweeping road, the rolling farmland on either side.

The white van hadn’t liked being overtaken and pressed closer than she would have liked, invading her space, letting her know he was pissed off. The road opened a little, no oncoming traffic, and she manipulated the clutch and gears and accelerator, feeling a little adrenalin as she squeezed the throttle, loving the power beneath her, keeping her body relaxed as she overtook the sedan and the next car along, the road ahead suddenly and luxuriously empty.

Kira smiled inside her helmet, filled with the simple joy of riding her bike on a beautiful day.

Over the next roundabout, she took a quick glance at Google Maps – she’d mounted her phone near her handlebar – which showed she had to take the next left. Seeing it was a small country lane, Kira slowed almost to a crawl to turn into it. It was a shitty little lane with frost-tipped grass growing down the middle and edged with crumbling banks. Lots of potholes covered in ice. Crap. She rolled to a stop. Pulled off a glove and checked the map to see if there was a better route. How far was the farmhouse? Barely half a mile. She didn’t want to turn back and loop all the way around through Batheaston, so she pulled her glove back on and kept going. She’d be fine if she took it slowly.

She kept the revs low. The exhaust noise was soft, the engine rumbling. She passed a farm, her tyres crunching on some loose gravel, and as she passed, she looked ahead to see the road switched to the right as the ground dropped away. There was nothing but a barbed wire fence on the corner, showing she was on the edge of a valley. A gorgeous pastoral valley speckled white with frost.

A glance in her wing mirrors showed a van was behind her. She feathered the brakes for the corner. She didn’t want to take it too fast because of the frost but she didn’t want to take it too slowly either and lose momentum. She rumbled closer and at the same time, caught a glimpse of a tractor through a gap in the hedge. It was approaching the same corner, but from the opposite direction. There looked to be room for her to pull over on a wide and muddy-frosted patch next to the barbed wire fencing. Perfectly doable.

Quick glance in her wing mirror showed the van was closing in. She put on her hazard lights and pulled over, the roar of the tractor filling the air. She looked into the cab to see a young guy giving her the thumbs-up. She gave him a wave and at the same time something solid, something huge, struck her back wheel and flipped her into a spinning world filled with the sound of screeching metal and exploding lights.

She was lying on her back, staring at the sky.

Blue, blue, blue.

Not a cloud to be seen.

Her breathing was noisy in her helmet, her heart hammering.

I’ve had an accident.

The thought formed like smoke.

‘Love, love…’ A man’s voice. ‘Can you hear me?’

She couldn’t turn her head. She tried to lift an arm, but nothing happened. She seemed to have lost the power of movement.

‘I’ve called the ambulance.’ He was gasping, his voice panicky, high-pitched. ‘They told me not to move you.’

She tried to say, I can’t move anyway, but she seemed to have lost the power of speech.

‘It won’t be long.’ His face came into view. Ruddy cheeks, a mop of dirty blond hair above a pair of terrified blue eyes. The tractor driver. ‘They wanted to use the air ambulance but it’s in Weymouth, so they’re having to come by road.’

Her chest ached. Her head throbbed and pulsed. Waves of pain wafted through her body.

‘I’m Evan,’ the man panted as he squatted next to her. Sweat dribbled down his cheeks.

Kira.

‘That bloody van driver,’ Evan said, but it was more of a sob, and she saw he was close to tears. ‘He bloody hit you and then he stuck his bloody van in reverse…’

Number plate?

‘I wanted to go after him, but I couldn’t leave you…’

Description of the man?

‘The ambo will be here soon… They’re coming from Bath. They know it’s an emergency. I don’t know what that van driver was doing. Going too fast… careless, dangerous, and he didn’t stop. What if you’d been alone? If I hadn’t been here? Who’d have called the ambulance?’

Evan kept talking, his adrenalin no doubt still pumping, his pulse rocketing from shock.

She began to drift. She wondered when Benedict would discover something was wrong, and then she remembered his three-day binge last week. She knew he’d been to AA yesterday, but that meant nothing. He could be at home, down the pub, she had no way of telling.

Damn him, she thought. Damn him and his sodding drinking problem. He’d only realise something was wrong when the fridge was empty. Or he ran out of loo paper. Which would be a while since she’d done a shop this morning.

A hollow opened in her heart. She may be married, but she may as well live on her own for Benedict’s input. Fucksake. Why couldn’t she be married to someone she could rely on? Someone dependable, steadfast and strong? Someone who’d drop everything to come to her aid?

Her mind then switched to Marc, wondering how many Munros he’d bagged since the Pen Anglas Trial. He’d climbed fifteen when they’d met, which meant he had another 267 to go. She wished he was with her. He’d be as steady and strong as a tractor.

She felt tears prick her eyes. I will not cry. I’m stronger than that. So she closed her eyes and she was six years old again, running along the drive to Khandar, her grandfather’s rambling mansion with monkeys in the trees and creepers winding their way across the honey-coloured stone. She was racing her friend Zareen, and they were barefoot, pounding the dusty track, chests stuck out, legs and arms pumping.

‘Who won?’ Her father was drinking a beer in the kitchen, eyes alight.

‘Me,’ Kira gasped at the same time as Zareen said, ‘Me.’

‘A tie break?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, in that case, you both get to ride in the back of the safari jeep tonight. We’re looking for leopard.’

‘Bill.’ Her mother’s voice was admonishing. ‘It’ll be way past their bedtime.’

‘They’re on holiday.’ He put an arm around her waist and scooped her close. ‘And so are you, so let’s all go.’

* * *

A woman was hovering over Kira when she opened her eyes. White coat, pink tips to her hair.

‘Where am I?’

‘RUH.’

Bath’s Royal United Hospital.

‘Who can we call?’ Pink Tips asked.

‘Sergeant Gunn.’ Kira recited Rolo’s mobile number. It didn’t cross her mind to ask for Benedict.

She was in a bed curtained off from other beds, listening to other poor sods heading to or coming from procedures. Her head was aching, a sick dirty ache pressing right over the top of her head. She put a hand to it, but that strained parts of her torso that grumbled to be left alone. She sank back against the pillow.

‘Was I unconscious for long?’

‘Apparently you came to in the ambulance for a short time. Do you recall?’

Belatedly Kira took in Pink Tips’s name tag: Dr Clarke.

‘No. But I was wearing a helmet.’

‘And we thank God for that,’ Dr Clarke said cheerfully. ‘As well as we thank God for your motorcycle airbags, the Kevlar, and the lovely long, soft and grassy bank that you apparently landed upon.’

A new face appeared; he’d been standing behind the doctor all the time.

Rolo. Baby-blue eyes anxious.

‘No luck getting Benedict yet,’ he said. ‘I’ll try him again.’

‘Thanks.’

She heard him walk away to make the call.

‘Rest,’ Dr Clarke told her. ‘We’ll monitor you overnight and, all being well, you may go home in the morning.’

No broken bones or internal damage, thank fuck for that.

Rolo returned. ‘No reply,’ he said. As if she’d expected anything else.

‘You want me to send a car round?’

‘No,’ she said wearily. She couldn’t cope with having to reassure Benedict. She was too tired.

‘What about your mum?’

‘No,’ she said again, and if she’d had the strength, she would have smiled at Rolo’s covert look of relief. The last time she’d been in hospital was after some nutter on speed had taken a knife to her and ripped open her upper arm, and she’d been stitched up and ready to go home when her mother arrived. She’d checked Kira was okay and then she’d rounded on Rolo.

How dare you endanger my daughter! Having her patrolling the streets! She shouldn’t be out there dealing with violent criminals!

Kira could hear her almost as if it was yesterday.

‘What happened?’ Rolo asked.

She told him. How she’d been heading to Sherry’s grandparents on a shitty country lane when some cocksucker in a van hit her. Had it been the van she’d overtaken earlier, that had driven close to her bike, making it clear it was pissed off with her? No way to tell.

‘I spoke to the tractor driver who called the emergency services,’ Rolo said. ‘He said the driver did a runner.’

Before she could ask the question, he added, ‘He didn’t get a plate, or sight of the driver. It was a Transit van. Of which there are…’ He sighed. ‘Rather a lot.’

No chance of finding it then.

‘I’ve logged a report. If a van turns up with half your bike’s paintwork on its fender, we’ll have the bastard.’ He looked away, biting his lip. ‘Your bike’s a bit of a mess.’

She pulled a thread free from her blanket and rolled it between her fingers. ‘I never got to see if Oliver was with the grandparents.’

‘While you were being blue-lit to the RUH, I dropped around. I wanted to eyeball them after your prang… I didn’t see him, but between you and me, I rather suspect he was hiding in a broom cupboard.’

Kira didn’t blame Oliver for not wanting to be found by the police but one day, he’d have to face the music of selling his business from under his major shareholder, Robin Hudson, who wanted his money back.

Dr Clarke and her pink tips peered around the curtain. ‘Sergeant, your time’s up,’ she said. ‘Kira needs rest.’

Rest involved a nurse prodding her every hour or so during the night, peering into her eyes, and every time she awoke, it was to see Rolo slumped in a hard plastic chair beside her, snoring gently. He’d refused point blank to leave, and the doctor didn’t argue.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Kira woke for the umpteenth time feeling as though she could sleep for another decade. Her head still ached, but not as badly as before. One side of her body was bruised and sore, and she knew from when she last got up to use the bathroom, she wouldn’t be chasing any criminals today. Too weak, too tired. She kept her eyes shut, listening to trolleys rattle past her cubicle. In the distance she could hear the distinctive jingle of Radio 2, people chatting brightly as they wished each other good morning.

After a couple of minutes, she rolled her head to check on Rolo. A pair of steady grey eyes stared back.

Kira scrambled upright, clutching the sheet to her chest.

‘Hi,’ said DI Marc Webb.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Waiting for you to wake up.’

‘Where’s sarge?’

‘Trying to find who hit you.’ He got up and walked out of the cubicle. Three minutes later he was back with Dr Clarke. Quickly, she ran Marc through Kira’s results before cheerfully pronouncing her fit enough to go home.

Marc said, ‘She’s okay to go back to work?’

‘I’d rather she took it easy for a bit, at least a couple of days. No bench pressing or running marathons. If she has any trouble, however, bring her in immediately, but I doubt she will need further care.’ Dr Clarke gave her a smile. ‘You’re in very good shape, considering.’

‘She’ll be okay for a car journey this morning?’ Marc pressed. ‘A couple of meetings?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Clarke said brightly. ‘As long as you don’t have her on a running machine during the meetings and make sure she’s in bed by nine.’

Marc opened his mouth to ask another question, but the doctor’s beeper interrupted her. Giving it a quick look, Clarke hurriedly excused herself, and vanished.

‘Call me a cab?’ she asked Marc.

‘I’ll drive you.’

Kira made to swing her legs out of bed, but then realised she wasn’t wearing anything but a thin cotton robe.

While she hesitated, Marc reached for a plastic carrier bag resting beneath the chair. ‘Here,’ he said, dropping it on the bed. ‘Rolo dropped by your house earlier. Benedict picked out some stuff for you. He was, er…’ Marc seemed to struggle to think what to say. ‘Rather the worse for wear, Rolo said.’

I.e. dead drunk. Kira closed her eyes briefly. That had to have been one of Benedict’s shortest sobriety periods yet. Barely thirty-six hours. She wondered why he bothered.

‘He knew I was in an accident?’

‘I’m not sure he was taking in much.’

Mortified, Kira realised this meant Ben had probably been pretty much comatose. Dear God, she thought, why didn’t I marry someone normal?

Sensing her embarrassment, Marc vanished, leaving her to empty the bag to find a burgundy low-cut bra and matching G-string, a pair of thick socks, her favourite black jeans and an old, paint-spattered cashmere sweater the size of a bear skin. At the bottom of the bag lay a pair of vivid red suede booties. Kira shook her head and instead of being cross, she couldn’t help but be amused at Benedict’s idea of what he thought was appropriate apparel for his hospitalised wife.

Instead of turning right out of Southmead Hospital, Marc turned left, but she didn’t say anything. When they came to the M32, she waited for him to head south for central Bristol, but he turned left again, heading north and away from the city.

‘I hate to say this,’ she said, ‘but this isn’t the way to Clifton.’

‘I know.’

She turned her head to look at the side of his face. For the first time she saw the shadows under his eyes and the tension in his shoulders. Instantly her nerves wound themselves into knots.

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘To a meeting in London.’

‘What meeting?’

‘I’m not at liberty to discuss it.’

Kira tried to think straight, but her head was woolly. ‘I don’t understand.’

Marc pulled into the outside lane and accelerated past a slow-moving queue of traffic. ‘All I can say is that it’s urgent and it’s important.’

‘Does Ben know where I’m going?’

‘No. It’s confidential.’

She wasn’t at the top of her game, and she was expected to perform in London? Apprehension began to nip the corners of her belly. ‘Surely you can give me some sort of clue what it’s about?’

Marc lifted a hand off the steering wheel and ran it over his face. ‘I’m sorry, Kira. I wish I could say more… If it helps, I’m to be briefed at the same time as they brief you.’

‘Who are “they”?’

‘New Scotland Yard.’

Looking down at the paint-spattered jumper she was wearing she added, ‘I’m hardly dressed for it.’

‘I don’t think they’ll care.’

She muttered, ‘Fuck it,’ but he didn’t respond.

As they approached the M4, she said, ‘Shouldn’t we be taking the train?’

He glanced across. ‘Not until you’re a hundred per cent.’

She didn’t want to admit it, but she was glad. The thought of traipsing around train stations and platforms and fighting for space on the tube made her feel faint.

‘Thanks,’ she managed.

After a while, he said, ‘Can I ask you a question?’

She wasn’t sure why he was asking, but before she could respond, he blurted, ‘When did you get married?’

Her stomach clenched. Please, not now.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just curious.’

But there was a tension in his tone that told her otherwise. Shit. Should she answer him? Would it matter?

They eased past a lorry hauling a container. It started spitting rain. Marc switched on the intermittent wipers, which smeared a curve of grime right in her line of vision.

‘I know I was a one-night stand,’ Marc said. ‘But for me… well, it felt a lot more than–’

‘I got married the week after the Pen Anglas Trial.’ She cut him off purposely. She didn’t want to hear what he’d been going to say. Too close to the bone, too upsetting.

He turned a shocked gaze to her. ‘A week?’

She twisted her head aside. Gazed outside. She couldn’t bear for him to know how much that night had meant.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘So what was I? A final fling?’

No, you were more than that. But I was set on my trajectory and couldn’t see how to step off. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘A final fling.’

Silence fell.

Kira cringed.

‘I hope it was satisfactory.’ His tone turned dry. ‘And fulfilled all your final urges before the big day.’

She switched her head around to look at the side of his face. ‘What do you want? Marks out of ten?’

‘What would you give me?’ He was teasing, thank God, the corner of his mouth curving in a smile.

‘Ten for effort, and–’

‘Stop right there!’ he barked. ‘Ten is fine by me!’

‘I said–’

‘No, you didn’t! You said ten!’

‘But out of what? A hundred?!’

‘Ten!’

He was laughing and although it hurt like hell, she couldn’t help it, she laughed too.

‘Do you want to know what I gave you?’ he asked. He wasn’t chuckling anymore. His tone was grave.

‘No,’ she snapped.

‘Put it this way,’ he sighed. ‘It was more than ten.’

She wanted to make a witty repartee but couldn’t think of one, so she stayed silent.

‘Well, I’m glad we got that out of the way,’ he said cheerfully.

The remainder of the journey was spent in an oddly companionable silence.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The second they signed in at New Scotland Yard’s reception, Marc was whisked away by a civilian with a long black braid, leaving Kira to wander restlessly around the blue and grey space, trying to attain a measure of calm. She couldn’t think why she – a lowly constable at the lowest end of the policing ladder – had been summoned here. She didn’t like to admit it, but she felt totally out of her depth.

The civilian returned to escort Kira to a large meeting room on the fourth floor. More blue and grey but with the addition of shiny brass fittings that gave the room a distinctly military air. Four men were sitting opposite Marc at a long table. A single file sat in front of each of them. All were neatly dressed in sharp dark suits and silk ties. All of them looked Kira up and down. Their eyes were cold, their mouths hard. Kira instantly straightened her spine and tried to ignore the set of random clothes she was wearing.

‘Good afternoon, constable,’ one of them said smoothly. He was Indian-Asian, and his skin was thickly scored, the colour and texture of a dried date.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’

‘I’m Chief Inspector Jaspal, from the CBI in New Delhi.’

What the CBI was, Kira didn’t know, but she’d be damned if she’d let on.

‘And this is Superintendent Walker and Superintendent Alistair Demmien.’

She gave them a nod, but they didn’t nod back. Walker looked okay – tall, silver-haired and distinguished – but Demmien gave her the creeps. He had small eyes the colour of cement and pale, thin lips that looked as though they rarely smiled. He looked at Kira as though she was a maggot he’d found crawling beneath a rock. Lifting her chin, she stared at him stonily until he turned his gaze aside.

Jaspal added crisply, ‘Superintendent Walker is from specialist operations.’

She tried not to let her surprise show. Special ops covered a huge variety of areas, including anti-terrorism and covert intelligence. What in the world did this have to do with her?

‘Superintendent Demmien is with Interpol.’

She couldn’t help her jaw softening. Interpol was the world’s largest international police organisation. What the hell?

‘Lastly,’ said Jaspal, ‘is Sergeant Rossdale.’

Her nerves gave a little hop when she recognised the man’s name. Rossdale was the policeman who had partnered PC Dani Page, the undercover officer who had been killed at the Crossed Guns incident, which Oliver had witnessed. In his late thirties, Rossdale had big muscles and a nose that looked as though it had been broken a few times. He looked more like a rugby player than a policeman.

When she gave him a nod, he returned it by giving her the faintest of wry smiles, a welcoming gesture designed to put her at ease, and she warmed to him immediately. Although his eyes were sharp, there was a kindness there too. He reminded her of Rolo. Professional but not an arse.

‘Please, sit,’ said Jaspal.

Kira took the chair beside Marc’s, opposite the three chiefs and the sergeant. No offer of coffee or tea or cups of water. No mention of her having been in a motorbike accident. No comment on her welfare.

‘Constable,’ said Walker. ‘We need to inform you that Fateh Shripati…’

‘Fateh?’ she repeated, startled, and immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut. She sounded like a goddamn parrot.

‘…was found murdered this morning. He had been doused with petrol and set alight.’

Her skin contracted with shock. Fucking hell. Fateh may have been stupid, but she’d never want him dead. Her mind jumped to Fateh’s mother, who he’d appeared so scared of, and felt a squeeze of horror for the woman.

‘Hence the urgency of this meeting,’ Walker said.

Long silence where she could hear the temperature control system humming. Her skin was damp, her heartbeat up.

Smoothly, Jaspal remarked, ‘It appears you’ve touched a nerve. A nerve that belongs to a man known as the Viper.’

Demmien leaned forward, tiny eyes tight. ‘Have you heard of him?’

Kira shook her head.

He tilted his chin at the sergeant. ‘Detail the background.’ He was curt.

Rossdale leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. He looked at Kira and Marc as he spoke. ‘Back in 2007, Dani and I were the only two officers consigned to prevent the illegal trafficking of wildlife into this country. Our first successful prosecution was against a British national who owned an exotic animal business in West London.’

He opened his file and pulled out a newspaper cutting. Passed it across to Kira and Marc. The photograph above the report was black and white, and showed a fresh-faced pair of coppers: Rossdale and Dani Page. They were holding a large tortoise between them. They were both grinning.

‘A lot of illegal wildlife is hidden alongside a legal shipment.’ He was still staring at the photograph of himself and his murdered colleague. ‘Customs are stretched to the limit, and sometimes can only afford a quick look. However, in this case when they got our tip-off, they discovered two hundred dead tortoises and three hundred rare frogs stuffed together so tightly they’d been crushed and suffocated.

‘The suspect confessed he’d bought the animals through the Melaka Trading Company, based in New Delhi, but despite our links with the Delhi police–’ he turned his head to include Chief Inspector Jaspal as he spoke ‘–we never made any arrests. We prosecuted the company, but legally we couldn’t go after the individuals.’

‘Frustrating,’ murmured Kira, making Demmien twitch irritably, but Rossdale nodded agreement.

He said, ‘All we know about the man who heads the smuggling ring is that he’s known as the Viper. The CBI–’ he gave a nod to Jaspal ‘–is an Indian law agency modelled on the FBI, the Central Bureau of Investigation. The CBI don’t know who the Viper is either.’

A small pause.

‘The Viper isn’t just into illegal wildlife. He runs the biggest and, by that definition, the most dangerous organised crime group operating in Europe today. Human trafficking, gun running, cyber-crime, drugs. You name it, he has his fingers in it.’

Now, Kira understood why Interpol were here.

‘Nobody dares talk about the Viper. Not since a courier of his creamed some money off a shipment to Germany some years ago. The Viper took the courier’s baby boy and threw him on a bonfire. The courier has been a model employee ever since.’

Kira thought of Fateh burning to death and felt her stomach squeeze.

‘Squeamish, constable?’ Demmien gave her a mirthless smile. She ignored it.

Rossdale cracked his knuckles. Cleared his throat. ‘As you can imagine, this kind of violence keeps the Viper’s troops in line. People are terrified of him. Which makes our job somewhat difficult, as you can imagine, but our long-term plan has always been to find out who he is and go for his jugular.’

Kira felt her pulse rate increase as all three men sitting opposite stared at her. They seemed to be assessing, evaluating her.

‘He is one of the most cunning criminals we’ve come across. We’ve never caught a courier of his, let alone a shipment that leads back to him.’

Rossdale paused and looked at Superintendent Walker, who was rubbing his chin while he surveyed her. Walker said, ‘Constable, we were hoping you’d find Jonathan Stevenson – your Oliver Stroud – sooner rather than later.’

Kira ran a tongue over dry lips. ‘You knew I was looking for him?’

‘We asked DI Webb to give you the case,’ Walker said. ‘We wanted to see how you got on with it.’

She stared at him, her skin crawling. She remembered Rolo’s frown when she’d returned from Sherry’s that day, his puzzlement at her and Jenny being sent to Redcliff Backs, when it wasn’t on their patch. She’d been manipulated from the start, and she was opening her mouth to ask what on earth it all had to do with her, when Rossdale reiterated the shooting at the Crossed Guns. The story he told was the same one as Marc’s; Oliver going to collect his car after a heavy night on the booze and witnessing the murder of three people in the car park.

‘I want to find the man who killed Dani,’ Rossdale said. His fists bunched on the table. ‘Oliver Stroud knows who they are, and we’re hoping the Viper hasn’t found Oliver Stroud yet. And let’s hope he doesn’t. The Viper will tear him apart to find his stolen shipment, get his hands on the shooter who stole from him. The theft may have occurred over a decade ago, but rumour has it he is still incandescent at being robbed. His reward still stands. £250,000 for the shooter, or Oliver.’

Holy cow, Kira thought, slightly giddy. No wonder Oliver had done a runner with the Viper scenting his blood like a shark in the water. ‘Who was the buyer for the tigers?’

‘Again, we don’t know.’ Rossdale kept his gaze steady on hers. ‘However, we believe there were five rhino horns in with the tiger shipment and that they were being traded that morning. Andy Chou – the man who died with Dani Page – had connections with traditional Chinese medicine practitioners, so it makes sense. They can pay up to fifty grand per horn. The tigers were en route to the Viper’s warehouse. But we don’t know where that is.’

Her head was spinning. The horns alone were worth a quarter of a million pounds, and assuming Andy Chou had brought cash with him, it meant it had been one hell of a profitable morning for the shooter. She wondered where the shooter was now and found herself picturing a pink-skinned, overweight guy with his elbows on a beach bar in the Pacific, drinking Bacardi with a brassy blond.

‘Did the tiger skins ever resurface?’

‘No. My guess is that the shooter already had his customers lined up. Probably met them in a hotel somewhere and swapped the skins for cash. Or drove the truck abroad and sold the shipment to a wholesaler.’

Somewhere, a phone rang, but otherwise the building was quiet. Poor Oliver, she thought. The stakes were astronomically high. No wonder he’d vanished a second time. It was the only way to protect his family.

Sergeant Rossdale picked up a pen and turned it over in his hands. ‘A special task force was set up twelve months ago to combat the Viper’s trade into the UK. Unfortunately, despite our best efforts, he is developing an iron grip, and we want to loosen it before it’s too late. But first, we have to know who he is.’

The sergeant turned his gaze to Chief Superintendent Walker. Kira followed suit to see the chief had placed his hands flat on the table and was leaning forward. Fixing her with a steely blue gaze. ‘Constable,’ he said. ‘We want you to find the Viper for us.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Muscles rigid, Kira sat opposite the three chiefs, staring at a point just above their heads. The air in the room felt suddenly ice cold.

She didn’t dare speak. Her voice might not work.

‘Or at least, find a lead to him. Because at the moment, we have nothing.’ Walker’s voice rang with frustration.

Still, Kira didn’t speak.

‘I gather you used to spend your holidays in India.’ Jaspal’s tone was ruminative. ‘Near Mohala, Bihar.’

Kira licked her lips. Cleared her throat. ‘It was a long time ago.’

He opened the file in front of him but didn’t look at it. ‘Twelve years.’

Almost half my lifetime.

‘Do you speak Hindi? Urdu, perhaps?’

‘No.’

‘No matter.’ He shrugged. ‘Because you know India. How it is charming and fascinating, but how it can also be exasperating, sometimes maddening.’ Jaspal’s deep brown eyes surveyed her quietly. ‘It is my guess you understand my country having spent many times there.’

‘But I was a child.’ She leaned forward. ‘I know nothing of India today.’

‘That may be, but you have a legitimate reason to be there.’ He put his head on one side as he surveyed her. ‘You are asking about your father. His tiger charity. You want to try and find him–’

‘But Dad went missing here. In the UK.’

‘Even so, you want to connect with the country he and his parents loved. The country you used to visit every summer holiday.’

She stared. He couldn’t be serious. Fateh had just been burned to death and he wanted to send her into a foreign country to try and find an international, super-violent, super-criminal?

There was a brief silence, and then Demmien flung up his hands. ‘You really think this is going to work? She said it herself. She hadn’t been there for years, plus she’s barely out of nappies! We should be using a real officer, someone experienced like Hamilton–’

‘Hamilton is in Pakistan on another assignment,’ Walker snapped.

From the way Demmien’s cheek muscles bulged, Kira guessed the man was grinding his teeth into talcum powder.

‘Constable,’ Walker said. ‘We want you to go on holiday to India. Nothing dangerous, nothing illegal or unlawful. All you have to do is ask around about your father, his tiger charity, innocuous things like that, and, using your police officer’s nose, find a lead for us. It doesn’t have to be the Viper’s address because as you’ve no doubt gathered by now, even a miniscule strand of a rumour about any kind of smuggler could be invaluable.’

‘I can’t believe this,’ Demmien muttered. He sat there, looking mutinous. ‘How do we know she won’t fuck everything up?’

‘There’s nothing to fuck up,’ Walker growled. ‘Plus, you’ve seen her performance. We put her on the Stroud case to test her suitability and she’s proven that her policing skills are first-rate.’

Demmien glowered while Kira kept her face absolutely neutral. She hated the subterfuge of it. The way she’d been manipulated.

‘Events have overtaken us,’ Walker continued crisply. ‘With Fateh Shripati murdered, no doubt on the Viper’s orders, we must act before things get further out of control. We already know the Viper’s wildlife smugglers are most active in the north of India, along the border of Nepal.’ He fixed Kira with a clear blue gaze. ‘This includes parts of Bihar, where you used to holiday. You still have contacts there. You’ll know how to ask questions without drawing attention to yourself.’

The only contact she still had was her childhood friend Zareen, and even then, their friendship had dribbled away to the odd email from Zareen announcing the birth of her children and Kira emailing back, congratulating her. ‘I don’t have any contacts,’ she practically bleated. ‘Not anymore.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Walker was appallingly dismissive. ‘Because you have a real, true to life story as to why you’re there.’

She briefly closed her eyes. Fucksake.

‘We will pay for your airfare and all expenses,’ he added, as though that would entice her to step into the Viper’s lair.

She took a breath. ‘If I “touched a nerve” here which has resulted in a man’s death, who’s to say what might happen in India? What if the Viper already knows who I am? I arrested Fateh. I got the squad to raid the Emporium.’

‘Good point.’ Demmien cracked his knuckles, looking smug.

Walker shot him a repressive look.

‘Kira.’ Jaspal’s deep brown eyes were grave. ‘There is one simple fact that nobody has mentioned.’

She waited.

‘We need your help. You are in a unique position to be our eyes and ears where no other officer can go. We need you.’

Demmien scoffed.

Jaspal rounded on him. ‘She is our only chance, and you know it.’

Demmien rolled his eyes.

‘Constable.’ Chief Superintendent Walker straightened in his chair. ‘You can see our dilemma. Will you help us or not?’

Jaspal looked at her gravely. ‘Kira. Please, will you accept this assignment?’

For a wild moment she thought of Tom Cruise and Mission Impossible, the tape recording that intoned: your mission, should you choose to accept it… And how it ended with the chilling warning that in the event of capture, all knowledge will be disavowed.

Her heart was thudding, and her spine was wet with sweat. Could she go to India and ask around? Find a lead to the Viper? She was a plain and simple constable, not a super-hero. It was a ridiculous idea, born out of desperation and she couldn’t believe they thought she might actually agree to do it. She was opening her mouth to say something, she wasn’t sure what yet, when Demmien caught her eye. A corner of his mouth was raised in a smirk. He was waiting for her to refuse.

Fuck you, she thought.

Holding his eyes, she lifted her chin and said, ‘Yes, I will.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Marc had driven them past junction eighteen, the turnoff to Bath Spa and now the lights of Bristol lit the sky a pale grey ahead of them. Kira couldn’t wait to get home and pour herself a stiff drink. Preferably something eighty per cent proof – if there was anything Benedict hadn’t either drunk or thrown out in another fit of capricious enthusiasm for AA.

Demmien’s face hadn’t been the picture of outrage she’d expected when she accepted her mission. Instead, shutters dropped over his cold, cement-grey eyes and when it came for her to leave, unlike the others, he hadn’t shaken her hand. He’d looked straight through her. She kept reviewing his response because it was the only thing that was preventing her from panicking because the second she’d said, I will, she’d wanted to take the words back.

Pride comes before a fall.

That was her, all right. Unable to turn her back on a challenge laid down by some prick who thought she was still in nappies.

Marc hadn’t said a word in the meeting.

She was glad she’d be reporting to Sergeant Rossdale and not any of the chiefs. Rossdale was more approachable, more on her level. He’d given her seventy-two hours to straighten her private life as well as apply for an eVisa. Rossdale expected her to keep in touch daily whether in the UK or India, and preferably by phone.

‘Then I’ll know for sure you’re okay.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ she couldn’t resist saying. ‘Aren’t I just going on holiday?’

He didn’t respond.

It was all very spook-ish, and if she was honest, she was finding the whole scenario terrifying as well as bizarre. She definitely needed that drink.

‘Were you part of the subterfuge?’ she’d asked Marc. ‘Getting me to Redcliff Backs to see Sherry, Oliver’s wife?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you know why?’

‘No. I was just ordered to send PC Connal to interview Sherry Stroud. Watch how you performed.’

So, it hadn’t been Marc who’d given her the case. She wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or not. ‘They were watching Oliver… Which was how they knew he’d disappeared.’

‘It seems so.’

She remembered his peculiar response when she’d told him about the similarities between her father and Oliver’s disappearance. The way she’d known something was off. ‘You knew about the tiger shipment.’

‘Yes.’

She mulled a moment.

‘What did they say before I joined you at the meeting?’

‘They wanted to know what I thought about you.’

Immediately, she tensed.

‘I’ve read your reports… I’d spoken to Rolo too, as well as watching you.’

‘And?’ She kept her tone casual.

‘I said you were an exemplary officer. You’re honest, confident and responsible. You’re resilient. You’re socially aware…’ He indicated before pulling into the fast lane to overtake two lorries. ‘You remain calm when the shit hits the fan. You’re a good communicator. You’re fit, which means you can run like hell if you want, towards or away from danger. But what they liked most about you was that you love nicking the bad guys.’

‘Very flattering,’ she said, obscurely pleased.

‘I also said that you could be impulsive, hot-headed and with an occasional fuck-you attitude that can lead you into hot water.’

‘Nobody’s perfect,’ she muttered.

He gave a snort.

She’d dozed through most of the journey and now she stretched and yawned, feeling her bruised muscles protest. Good grief, she’d only had a motorbike accident yesterday. When she got home, she was going to forego that drink for bed. A solid twelve-hour sleep. She was absolutely, one hundred per cent, officially knackered.

‘When I come back,’ she told him on another yawn. ‘I’ll bring you some duty free. How about a bottle of Indian whisky?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t go in the first place.’ He glanced over at her. ‘What made you say you’d go?’

She wasn’t going to tell him it was because of her fuck-you attitude to Demmien, and shrugged. ‘It sounded like a challenge.’

‘I don’t like it.’ His jaw flexed. ‘You may be swanning around supposedly on holiday, but the thought of you coming anywhere near the Viper gives me… well, let’s just say I won’t rest until you’re home safely.’

Something in his tone made her want to reach out and touch him, reassure him, but instead, she turned businesslike.

‘I’ll be fine, Marc.’ She was brisk. ‘I’ll be super careful and…’ She paused when a grin suddenly appeared on his face. ‘What? What have I said?’

‘You forgot to call me sir.’

When Kira got home, she staggered up the front path, unable to recall if she’d ever felt so bruised or exhausted. Her mind was swimming in a grey fog and her limbs felt boneless, as though they might fold in on themselves any second.

Inside, all the lights were on and the radio in the studio was playing Brahms. For the first time since she could remember she wished Benedict wasn’t home. She didn’t have the strength to face the barrage of questions he’d hurl at her about the accident, let alone the meeting in London. If she could sneak into bed and grab a couple of hours sleep before he knew she was home, she might be able to face him with some degree of equanimity.

She was tiptoeing across the hallway when he appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘Kira!’ He bounded down and she thought he was about to scoop her into an embrace when at the last second, he stopped. ‘Christ. You look awful.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No, seriously. You’re all pasty looking. I mean, really pasty looking. You look like a corpse. Are you sure you shouldn’t still be in hospital?’

She held up a hand. ‘I’m just tired, Ben. A bit sore, that’s all. I’ll be fine once I get some sleep.’

‘Rolo told me what happened.’ He was searching her face, his body shifting all the time as though he was uncertain where to put his arms and legs. ‘He told me he’s looking for the driver that knocked you off your bike. He had a glint in his eye I didn’t like. The driver didn’t hit you on purpose, did he?’

‘Can’t this wait until tomorrow?’

‘No it bloody can’t!’ He flung up his hands. ‘I want to know now!’

She hurriedly stifled a yawn. ‘Look, Ben, I know my accident must have been a shock but…’

‘And where have you been all day? I wanted to go and see you in hospital, but Rolo said I couldn’t, that you’d been whisked away by some detective inspector or other on a special mission. Chrissakes, Kira. Don’t you realise I’ve been going nuts?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said lamely.

‘So where were you?’

‘New Scotland Yard.’ Her head was foggy and it didn’t get any better as she gave him a hasty outline of the briefing. She was mid-yawn when she finished, saying, ‘So when they catch this Viper guy, they’re hoping it’ll destroy the entire smuggling ring of drugs, guns, and people. Now, Ben, if you wouldn’t mind, I’m really desperate for some sleep.’ She made a move to brush past him and head upstairs, but he blocked her.

‘Why were you at the meeting?’

His tone was aggressive and demanding, and normally she would have tried to soften what she was going to say, but she didn’t have the strength. She said quietly, ‘Fateh was murdered.’

He made an impatient gesture. ‘Rolo told me. Yes, I’m sorry about it, but I’m more worried about the living right now. Like you. Why did Scotland fucking Yard want to see you?’

Again, she tried to stifle her yawn, and had to blink away the tears collecting in the corners of her eyes. She felt as though she was about to fall where she stood. ‘I’ll tell you in the morning, okay?’

‘No, not okay. I want you to tell me now.’

‘Promise when I tell you, you’ll let me go to bed?’

‘Of course, my darling. I will tuck you in myself and bring you a mug of hot chocolate.’

‘They want me to go to India and find out who the Viper is.’

You could have heard a pin drop.

‘What?’

‘It’s no big deal,’ she added hastily. ‘I have a real-life story that gives me a legitimacy being there, plus I’ve still got a couple of friends–’

‘No way are you going to India!’ He looked horrified.

‘Come on, Ben. It’ll be great for my career. I could get promoted straight into CID, get a pay rise–’

‘And get killed,’ he snapped.

‘It’s not going to be like that,’ she lied wearily. ‘All I’ll be doing is traipsing around in circles asking questions.’

‘You can’t go! I won’t let you!’

She just looked at him.

‘Jesus Christ, Kira, who gives a crap about the fucking Viper! I never minded you messing about as a Bristol bobby, but this isn’t like a burglary or a petty drug dealer getting antsy, this is serious stuff!’

‘It’s my job,’ she said stiffly. ‘I have a responsibility to–’

‘Fuck your responsibility, there is no way you’re going to India and–’

‘Just try and stop me!’

‘I will. I’ll find your goddamn passport and I’ll tear the fucking thing into shreds.’ He stormed into the kitchen and started yanking out drawers, pulling papers and spoons and cling-wrap onto the floor.

Kira went after him, cheeks burning. ‘I will not be dictated to by you, Benedict Reilly! You don’t even know the meaning of the word responsibility!’

‘Over my dead body!’ he roared and pulling an entire drawer free of the cabinet dropped it with a crash.

Kira swayed as the last of her strength bled away. Dark shadows edged the corners of her vision.

‘Ben,’ she said as her knees buckled. She wasn’t sure if he could hear her or not, her voice was so quiet. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to India whether you like it or not.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Luckily, Benedict caught her before she fell. He carried her upstairs to bed and tucked her in. Brought her a hot chocolate.

‘I’m sorry.’ He came and sat on the side of the bed, looking utterly miserable. ‘I can’t seem to do anything right.’

She put her hand over his, gave it a squeeze.

‘I know I’m a rubbish husband, but it doesn’t mean I don’t love you.’

‘I know.’ She sighed.

‘I don’t want you to go.’ His mouth twisted. ‘It’s selfish of me, but I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt or… worse.’

‘Ben, I have to go. It’s my job.’

He lifted her hand and kissed each knuckle, one by one. ‘Can I come and carry your bags? I won’t touch a drop while we’re there. Promise.’

‘I’d love you to,’ she lied. She couldn’t think of anything worse than having to think about Benedict crashing around in India, sober or not. ‘But I don’t think spouses are authorised.’

He shifted his weight to one side to reach his rear pocket. Brought out her passport. Handed it over. ‘Please, please be careful.’

She stroked the back of his wrist, her eyelids growing heavier by the second. ‘I promise.’

He stretched alongside her, put his arm around her, tucking her close as he buried his face in her neck and inhaled deeply. ‘I’ve found my theme, by the way,’ he whispered. ‘For the exhibition.’

‘What is it?’ Her eyes drifted shut.

He tucked her closer, the backs of her thighs pressed against him as she drifted off. She never did hear what his theme was.

The next few days saw her bruises change colour from red to bluish-purple. To her relief, the aches begin to dissipate. She spent the time resting, and prepping for the trip. Sergeant Rossdale – call me Logan – came to Bristol to work with her, to help prepare her.

‘You walk into a room and people look at you and know you’re a cop, whether on duty or off duty. You have to change your perception. You’re a civilian. You’re on holiday. Sure, you’re trying to find your father, but even so. Wear your hair down. Paint your nails. Put on some make-up.’

‘But I am a cop.’

‘I know, but there’s no point in shouting about it. You’re taking a trip down memory lane, remember. Let’s make it look like it.’

They ran through a rough itinerary, where she might go, who she might speak to, and what questions she might ask.

‘If I really am looking for Dad, then wouldn’t I go to the police first?’

‘You would,’ he agreed. ‘But be careful. Not all the police are corrupt, but quite a few are. Be as self-sufficient as you can. Where will you stay?’

‘With a girlfriend. Zareen. I’ve known her since I was four.’

She told him how Zareen’s brother used to bring his pet monkey around for her and Angus to play with. How they’d spent every summer together, playing hide-and-seek through the ruins of Khandar – where her grandfather used to live – and cooling off in the dilapidated water tank filled with lilies and weeds. Some days they’d join Kira’s father in the tiger reserve nearby, and how, after a long day on patrol, they’d fall asleep in the same bed, exhausted and sun-burned, their feet filthy and their hair matted with dust.

‘Sounds idyllic.’

‘It was.’

‘Who else do you know there?’

‘I don’t. I mean, I used to know some of the forest guards Dad worked with, but that’s years ago. I can’t even remember any of their names. Except one.’ She told him about Chambal, her father’s friend in India, and one of the forests most experienced rangers. Chambal had worked closely with her grandfather founding the TCF, The Tiger Conservation Fund. How old would he be now? He’d been older than Dad, so maybe in his seventies? She had no idea how to get in touch with him, but if he was still alive, she’d no doubt be able to track him down in the village near the tiger reserve.

With Rossdale at her side, she looked up the TCF to see it had wound up twelve years ago, not long after her father died. The sergeant leaned back, rubbing his forehead. They were in a side office off the briefing room. Synthetic blue carpet, a battered desk, two plastic chairs and a view of the street. ‘Without this Chambal, who will you talk to?’

She looked past him and out of the window, at a young man vaping as he walked, a trail of mist drifting behind him.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But let’s hope my trip down memory lane shakes something from the tree. I’d hate to come back empty-handed.’

* * *

Kira had forgotten how thick the air was in India, how pungent the scents of spices and wood smoke, burning fat and incense, always underlaid by the heavier odours of putrefaction and decay. The smell of life and death. There was nothing like it in Britain. There was nothing like it in the world as far as she was concerned.

Zareen had sent a car to collect her, a freshly washed Mercedes sedan driven by a man with a curling moustache the colour of wood ash. He picked up her day pack and rolled her suitcase out of the tiny terminal.

She hadn’t seen Zareen since her father vanished, and she could still feel the shock of being told that she wouldn’t be going to India again, and that they’d be spending their holidays in a caravan in Wales. She’d cried almost non-stop for a week.

Outside the terminal, a Brahman cow swished her dung-wet tail from side to side, making the crowd part like a shoal of fish around her. A skinny man grabbed Kira’s arm and whispered, ‘Memsahib, you want hashish change money pashmina smack cocaine taxi I help you.’

The crowd surged towards Kira, a mass of colour topped by brown faces, expressions urgent.

‘Where you come from?’

‘You want hotel?’

‘How many children you have?’

A woman with a gold ring through her nose shoved some bolts of red and gold cloth in her face. ‘You want saris, blouses, we make no problem.’

Zareen’s driver turned round, and yelled a stream of Hindi which, to Kira’s amusement, had absolutely no effect. The crowd followed her to the car, trying to push trinkets into her hands, jabbering non-stop even as she climbed into the car. They only turned away when the driver put the car into gear and released the hand brake.

Kira pushed her head out of the window, drinking in Mohala’s stew of tuk-tuks and Tata buses and trucks, people walking, cycling, driving, working. There were dentists, tailors and chai shops jostling side by side, their storefronts open for all to view. Shrines were everywhere, some precariously balanced on windowsills, others tucked into the gnarled roots of trees.

November was a good time to visit. The rainy season was over and although the sun was bright overhead, it wasn’t overly hot, and the nights would be cool.

As the Merc pushed its way to the west of the town, driving around piles of festering rubbish and the odd stray dog trotting along, she wondered what Benedict would have made of it. That morning she’d awoken to tea in bed, served with a copy of Grazia Magazine, which she secretly loved, a selection of croissants from the bakery down the road, and a single, fresh red rose.

There were moments when she felt she could quite happily live without Benedict, but there were also others – like right then – when she knew she couldn’t.

‘To make sure you come home.’ He brought up her hand and held it against his cheek. ‘I was shit-scared for you, okay? One minute Rolo’s telling me you’ve been wiped out by some van, the next you were telling me you were heading into more danger…’

‘It’s okay,’ she assured him.

‘I won’t pretend I don’t want you to go, but I know how important your job is to you. Just make sure you bring me back a nice, big present.’

‘Like what?’

‘A sacred cow would look nice in the back garden, don’t you think?’

Benedict was priceless in all senses of the word, good and bad. And unlike other spouses who’d married a police officer, he had never nagged her about her job or, until now, seemed worried about her work. And he’d never once – unlike her mother – asked her to change jobs.

What had he said? Something along the lines of one’s work having to nourish the spirit… Ah, yes, she remembered what it was, chicken shit for the soul. Aptly put, she reckoned. Benedict understood about doing a job you loved and once told her she could work in a slaughterhouse if she wanted, as long as it kept her happy. He’d never asked her to give up her motorbike either. Not many husbands were as understanding.

She was still pondering Benedict, his endless volatility over AA, when she noticed the buildings begin to spread out a little. They passed a miniature mosque. Nothing was familiar until she spotted a grand old gateway from colonial days, and then satellite dishes began to sprout on roofs and walls, indicating a rise in affluence. Finally, the driver pulled up outside an elaborate gate and gatehouse she’d never seen before.

‘Zareen Gupta is living here,’ the driver pronounced. ‘Her father Mister Roshan is living there.’ He pointed at a tall house with bougainvillaea threatening to take over its front garden at the end of the street, then clambered out of the car and deposited her luggage outside the gatehouse.

Kira tipped him expansively before knocking on the gatehouse door, surprising herself by using her policeman’s knock. Bang-bang-bang.

Almost immediately the door was flung open wide. A handsome man, arrow-thin in fiercely pressed white trousers and tunic took one look at Kira and, without saying a word, escorted her briskly across a courtyard, through a small pleasure garden and into the still, cool interior of a very smart town house.

‘You will be waiting here, please.’

Impressed, Kira watched him go. So far, she’d counted three servants, two gardeners, and a sweeper as well as this guy. Zareen hadn’t exaggerated when she’d said that she’d married well.

Zareen swept in on a cloud of musky perfume and cries of delight. Kira tried not to look taken aback. Gone was the knobby-kneed skinny little scrap she remembered and in her place was a behemoth of a woman filling the room like a haystack.

‘Sweetie, darling!’ she cried. ‘I cannot believe it! It really is you!’

Grasping her hands Zareen looked her up and down, her fat face split into a wide grin, folding the flesh and nearly obscuring her eyes. ‘How do you do it! Is it Atkins? The South Beach Diet? Darling, I’ve tried them all, and look at me! Tell me your secret!’

‘Become a policewoman,’ Kira told her, deadpan. ‘Running after criminals is great for keeping you fit.’

Zareen looked at her, goggle-eyed. ‘You’re serious!’

Kira nodded.

‘I shall buy some running shoes immediately!’

Zareen turned and clapped her hands, summoning the handsome arrow-thin man who listened intently to her every word, then swept out to do her bidding. ‘Tabish,’ Zareen said fondly as she watched him go, ‘is such a treasure.’

Tucking Kira’s arm in hers, Zareen began walking her through an imposing doorway with fishtail mouldings.

‘I hope you’re not doing anything else today,’ she said. ‘We have so much to talk about!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

They had just finished lunch – a five-course affair of beautifully prepared dishes that showed precisely how Zareen had got so fat – when Kira broached the subject of her father’s old friend, Chambal, and where she might find him.

‘Chambal?’ Zareen looked surprised. ‘Why do you want to see Chambal?’

‘It would be nice to see him.’

Zareen looked sceptical.

‘What?’ Kira said. ‘You think without my father he won’t want to know me?’

‘I didn’t say that.’ Zareen busied herself pouring them some coffee, thick and tangy and scented with cardamom. ‘It’s just that I can’t even remember when I last saw him. Probably not long after you did. Which is at least what, twelve, thirteen years ago.’

‘He’s still involved with the reserve?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘I’ll find out tomorrow.’ Kira blew on her coffee to cool it. ‘I’d like to explore the town a bit first, get my bearings again.’

‘I know, let’s do some shopping!’ Zareen’s hands flew skywards, making her bangles jingle. ‘I love shopping!’

The rest of the day was spent arm in arm with Zareen and strolling along Mohala’s teeming streets in comfortable companionship. They bought earrings and bright silk shirts for Kira, more bangles for Zareen, and when they returned home, they unwrapped them and admired them all over again, just like they used to do as kids. It was as though Kira had never left.

* * *

The next day, Kira did some stretches to help her still bruised muscles along. Being gently active yesterday had helped a little, and she was glad to see her bruises turning from purple to greeny-yellow as they continued to heal. Dressed in a vivid red and gold silk shirt over cut-off jeans, she left her hair loose. She rarely wore jewellery, but now she slipped on a variety of bangles as well as a pair of delicate brass dreamcatcher earrings. Eyeliner, mascara, a lick of blush and lip gloss. Would people still see her as a cop?

After a breakfast of mango lassi and an omelette, she packed her day pack. Fleece, sunnies, a colourful scarf, some cash, and her phone. Leaving her passport and credit cards safely behind the elaborate gate with Zareen, she headed to the local police station, a crumbling building with shutters hanging from the windows like loose teeth. Its doors were painted the colour of indigo and stood wide open above a set of sun-bleached and dilapidated wooden steps that looked as though they’d turn to dust at the next footfall. A painted sign, cracked and peeling from the summer heat, read: Mohala Police Station.

She climbed out of her taxi. Past smoky blue shadows, she could see two uniformed men inside. One was reading a newspaper with his feet on the desk while the other leaned against a paint-peeling wall. Both were smoking cigarettes and had their shirt collars open. Police jawans – constables. Neither appeared to be doing any work.

Keeping to the edge of the steps where the wood appeared stronger, Kira stepped inside.

Both cops looked at her. Neither moved.

‘Namaste,’ she greeted them.

Both gave her a nod.

Bringing out her phone, she brought up Google Translate. First, she apologised she couldn’t speak Hindi, then she asked if either man spoke any English.

Both just stared at her.

Still using the translating app, Kira introduced herself. Then she said, ‘I’m the granddaughter of a man who used to live here. Walter Connal. My father is William Connal. He worked with my grandfather who set up the TCF, the Tiger Conservation Fund.’

Both men continued to stare.

‘I used to come on holiday here. I stayed with my grandfather at his home, Khandar.’

At the mention of Khandar, there was a flicker in the tall officer’s eyes, but before she could ask him what it meant, another man strode inside.

‘Vikash,’ he snapped. ‘Desani.’

It was as though he’d blown an on-parade whistle. The cigarettes were flicked aside, the feet whisked from the desk and both men were snapped to attention. A heavy smell of sour sweat mingled with the cigarette smoke.

The man looked at her. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but she could tell he was a policeman by his long-distance gaze. A solid man in his early fifties, dressed in a dark suit, he had broad cheekbones and wide, almond-shaped eyes that hinted at a Central Asian ancestry.

Once again, Kira introduced herself with Google Translate.

‘Your grandfather was Walter Connal?’ His voice rumbled as loud as a truck.

She was relieved that he spoke English. It would save them loads of time.

‘Yes.’

‘The founder of the TCF.’

‘Yes.’

His gaze seemed to bore into her soul. ‘What are you wanting?’

‘My father went missing twelve years ago. I wanted to know if you – the police – knew anything about it.’ She told him about her father taking off from Cotswold Airport and never being seen again. ‘I suppose you could say I’m still looking for answers.’

Long silence while he studied her, and she studied him back.

‘I see.’

He didn’t seem particularly friendly, but he wasn’t unfriendly either. A man operating in neutral, with a neutral expression and neutral body language, but instead of putting her at ease, for some reason it made her feel edgy.

He seemed to come to a decision. ‘I am Inspector Bahvan.’

He put out a hand. Kira took it. Shook. Strong handshake but not bone-crushing. Respectful, firm.

Turning to the two officers, he introduced them.

Vikash, the cop who’d been leaning against the wall, was broom-thin with spaniel eyes and a wispy moustache. His hands were long and bony and surprisingly cool. Desani, on the other hand, was as fat as Vikash was thin, his handshake like raw meat, sticky and damp.

Settling Kira on an aluminium chair, Bahvan took up his position behind the desk. He threw Desani’s newspaper to the floor and said something in Hindi that had Desani hanging his head like a condemned man. Vikash hovered, wringing his hands.

After a brief pause, Bahvan continued to speak to his jawans in Hindi. They listened attentively while Kira mentally ran over the game plan she’d worked out with Sergeant Rossdale, the first part of which stemmed from meeting up with people her father used to know.

Finally, Bahvan turned to her. ‘How can we help?’

‘I need to find an old friend,’ she told him. ‘He’s not listed in the phone book, but he used to live in Mohala, in the Kathia district.’

Bahvan opened a desk drawer and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. ‘And who is this person?’

‘His name is Chambal. Salim Chambal. He’s the co-founder of the tiger charity I mentioned. My grandfather and Chambal set up the Ramayana Tiger Reserve together.’

Bahvan twisted in his chair and looked up at his constable. ‘Vikash? You are knowing the reserve. Are you knowing this Chambal?’

Vikash shrugged and looked away.

Bahvan made a note on his pad with big, bold strokes before turning back to Kira. ‘We shall be finding this man for you.’

Surprised, she said, ‘Thank you.’

‘Do you have any further contacts who might be helping?’

‘Not that I can remember.’ She brushed a lock of hair back behind her ear. ‘But I would like to visit the reserve.’

‘You are wanting to see a tiger?’ Desani looked amused. ‘To be taking a photograph?’

She had to swallow her irritation that he spoke English after all. You’re in India, she reminded herself. Suck it up.

‘I’d love to.’ She hadn’t thought of approaching the reserve as a tourist, but now that he’d suggested it, she thought it a good idea. She might see a face she recognised, and from that could spring a lead to take her to the Viper’s trail.

‘This will be most disappointing for you,’ Vikash said, shaking his head slowly.

‘Why?’

‘My cousin is working at the reserve. He says there are no tigers left.’

Kira stared. ‘What?’

‘He does not mean this.’ Bahvan shot Vikash a repressive look, who returned it with a scowl. ‘He is belly aching because he remembers the reserve as it was in the old days, aren’t you, Vikash? When there was a tiger in every tree and around every corner.’

‘I am sure there will be plenty of tigers for Kasmira Connal to see,’ Vikash said politely.

‘I’ll go there this afternoon.’

‘My cousin would be happy to give you a special tour,’ Vikash said, cheering up a bit. This was India, where everyone tried to make money no matter how, and Kira suspected there was no cousin, but who was she to argue? He would ensure she was looked after, the words ‘special tour’ translating locally into ‘bribe handsomely’, making Kira smile inside. ‘That sounds great.’

Vikash swiftly made some phone calls while Bahvan busied himself with his phone.

‘My cousin shall be expecting you this afternoon,’ Vikash eventually told her.

‘And I shall be joining you,’ Bahvan added thoughtfully. ‘It is a long time since I have seen a tiger.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Kira wasn’t surprised to see that Vikash’s ‘cousin’, Tejbir, didn’t appear to share a single gene with the broom-thin policeman. He was broad and fat and jolly, and obviously irritated the hell out of Bahvan who curtly refused the more comfortable passenger seat in order to join Kira on the raised bench in the back.

Tejbir didn’t appear to recognise Bahvan, but Kira was still dubious about having the inspector with her. Cops get recognised as cops no matter where they go. After this little expedition, she decided she’d try and undertake the majority of investigating on her own. If she had Bahvan or one of his constables with her, she doubted she’d get anywhere.

‘We may not be seeing many tigers,’ said Tejbir cheerfully. ‘The tiger spends much of the day conserving energy, sitting or sleeping, but we will try our best for you, memsahib.’

She smiled, and off they went in a spray of dust. Cool air whipped her hair around her face, flattening her clothes against her body. The sun had been surprisingly hot earlier, but now it was behind the clouds the temperature dropped. Up in the high Himalayas the first snows had fallen, and cool winds blew down, bringing in the start of winter. She pulled on her fleece and zipped it up to her chin.

The first shock was when they arrived at the Ramayana Reserve gates. Gone was the vibrant community, bustling with energy, and in its place was a small, dirty village with mangy dogs slinking past piles of rubbish, listless children with flies crawling in the corners of their eyes and green snot caking their nostrils. Nobody seemed to be doing any trade and even the humblest shops were shut. Villagers sat dully on pitted doorsteps of ramshackle dwellings with inch-wide cracks in their walls. Roofs were made out of sheets of corrugated iron and tied in place with string.

The gates to the reserve, however, were the same as she remembered; a pair of massive elephant tusks making an archway over a five-barred gate with barbed wire curled around its top rail. She watched Tejbir pass the guard some rupees. The guard pushed them into his breast pocket before wandering over to open the gate, and when they were through, wandered back to his hut and his newspaper. Kira doubted the park would see any of the money.

It took them half an hour of bouncing on dirt tracks – Kira trying not to flinch as her mending muscles protested – before they reached the forest. Her spirits rose to see the deep green foliage spread thickly on either side of the lazy Malis River, an oasis of tiger habitat. There were ibis and herons in the shallows, and somewhere she could hear a peafowl’s call. Tejbir pulled over and stopped the jeep on top of a small rise, pointed ahead.

It was the inspector who passed her a pair of binoculars.

‘Chital deer,’ he said.

Kira had a look to see a herd of spotted deer near the water, a vital part of the tiger’s diet. They drove on for a while. Kira thought she recognised a dried-up riverbed where she and Angus used to hide with their father to watch one of the main wildlife trails. The large-leaved tantari looked the same, as did the fallen simal tree. As if it had been waiting for this moment, a memory burst through.

It had been near the end of August, hot and humid as a steam bath, and they’d been on their bellies, watching a mature male tiger move silently through the forest. A troop of rhesus monkeys were yelling and hooting behind the tiger and doing what they did best – warning the forest of imminent danger – but Kira couldn’t see what was alarming them until a black winged kite flapped heavily skywards, pinpointing three shadows moving fast through the undergrowth.

Three men. Each held a rifle.

‘Daddy.’ She was almost breathless with dismay. ‘There are–’

‘Quiet,’ he hissed, and then he was slithering backwards, urging her and Angus to get to the jeep as fast and as silently as a pair of tiger cubs scurrying for the safety of their den.

Kira watched him grab his rifle from the jeep’s gun rack and pocket handfuls of bullets. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face as he fixed Kira with a stern look. ‘You wait here with your brother. You do not follow me. Understood?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

Kira waited until he vanished into the forest and then started after him. When Angus tried to stop her, she shrugged her little brother aside. ‘You stay and guard the jeep,’ she ordered him. He stuck out his tongue, but he stayed.

It didn’t take her long before she heard voices.

Hidden behind a karam tree, she peeked around the stout trunk to see three men facing her father across a small clearing of tall, coarse grasses. They looked local. Raggedy, torn trousers and shirts the colour of dark olives. Two were barefoot, the other with big new-looking boots that didn’t fit properly. She could see the skin was freshly torn around his ankles, and seeping blood.

The men were talking to her father. She couldn’t hear what they said. Hidden in the shadows, Kira watched, her body tense, her ears buzzing. Each man’s gun was held across his waist, not relaxed, but not aggressive either.

Then her father was turning and walking back towards her. As fast as she dared, she raced for the jeep. When she arrived, she was breathless, and her skin was slick with sweat.

‘Kira!’ Her father was towering over her, scowling like thunder. ‘Did you follow me?’

‘No, Daddy.’ She boldly held his eyes.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

The scowl deepened and she was bracing herself for a lecture about bloody-well-doing-what-she-was-told when he ducked down, so he was at her level.

He whispered so Angus couldn’t hear. ‘I don’t believe you.’

She didn’t make a peep. She didn’t dare. He hated it when she lied.

‘I’ll tell you what. You keep what you saw a secret, okay? Promise you won’t tell Mummy, or Angus, and when you’re grown up, I’ll tell you what I was doing with those men. Deal?’

Meekly she agreed. ‘Deal.’

Now Kira wondered why she’d never told Mum or Angus that story and put it down to an obscure sense of loyalty to her father. Who knows what had gone down that day. What had he said to those men? They’d been poachers, for sure. Had he struck a deal of some sort? Paid them to leave the reserve? She never had found out.

At the end of the tour, standing beside the jeep, Kira turned to Tejbir.

‘Do you know Salim Chambal? The founder of the Ramayana Reserve?’

‘Chambal has been gone a long time,’ Tejbir said.

‘Oh.’ She scrambled for the next question. ‘When was this? Where did he go?’

Tejbir glanced at Bahvan who was studying his boots.

‘Things changed when he left,’ Tejbir said eventually.

There was a long silence. Neither man said a word.

‘There used to be over two hundred tigers here.’ Kira took a deep breath. ‘How many are there now?’

‘A dozen or so,’ Tejbir offered. He was eyeing Bahvan cautiously. ‘Maybe twenty. No more.’

She could almost hear her father’s roar of rage. All his and Grandpa Walter’s work, gone.

‘When did the Ramayana tigers get poached?’

‘All the time the poachers bribe their way in. Ten, twelve a year are being shot and taken away.’

‘Who pays the poachers? Do you know?’

It was a question too far.

‘I am wishing you a happy holiday,’ he said, and practically bolted into the information centre. It was as though she’d suddenly been diagnosed with the bubonic plague.

Bahvan silently ushered her to his car and drove her to Zareen’s. He didn’t offer any further help, and she didn’t ask.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The next day dawned crisp and clear, with snowy Himalayan peaks on the horizon spearing a deep blue sky. The kind of day that made you feel glad you were alive, especially when Zareen’s manservant woke her at 7am with a glass of milky Indian chota hazari. Bed tea. A luxury she hadn’t enjoyed since she was a kid.

Before she showered, she called Rossdale.

‘Anything?’ he asked.

‘Not yet. I met the local cops like we agreed.’ She ran through the meeting. ‘We visited the tiger reserve. I think Inspector Bahvan wanted to keep an eye on me. See what I was up to.’

‘Anything on your father?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Plans for today?’

‘Find Chambal.’

‘Good luck.’

Donning jeans and another bright silk shirt paired with bangles and earrings, Kira joined Zareen in the breakfast room; a sunny atrium overlooking a lily pond and a small shrine that reminded Kira that the Buddha had attained nirvana not far from here.

Zareen’s children, Taku and Raman, were squabbling in the corner while their parents ignored them.

‘Pooni, darling–’ Zareen used her nickname for her husband ‘–pour Kira some coffee, would you?’

Pooni put down his newspaper and did as his wife said. Passed Kira the cup with a smile. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Very good, thanks, even though I’m still slightly out of kilter thanks to the time difference. I know it’s only four and a half hours, but it still gets me.’

‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I’m always wide awake at four in the morning when I’m in London.’

Pooni was a darkly handsome and highly successful import-export businessman, although what he imported and exported was a mystery to Kira. Neither he nor Zareen had divulged anything aside from the fact that his annual bonus was set to drop thanks to sky-rocketing airfreight costs.

Tabish and two kitchen staff arrived in a rush to deposit hot plates of eggs and crispy potatoes on the table. The kids forgot their squabble and dived into their breakfasts. Picking up her knife and fork, Kira asked Zareen about Khandar, where they’d used to spend their summer holidays.

Zareen said something to Tabish who disappeared briefly, then reappeared with a photograph.

To Kira’s delight it was a snapshot of Khandar, recently taken. Grandpa Walter had been fond of telling them that when he’d found the small 14th century fort, the building was close to collapse; an empty shell stripped bare by the villagers. It hadn’t been lived in for thirty years and was filled with rubble and bat droppings. Kira had been mightily glad the creatures had gone when she first visited, and that the wing he’d renovated had fans and sit-down loos, unlike most of the houses in the area.

‘It has a wealthy owner now,’ Zareen said.

Kira studied the renovated western section of the fort. The grass was long and lush, the hills in the distance green. The butter-yellow stone glowed in late afternoon sunshine. A low, colonnaded wing had been added, and there was a swimming pool to one side with padded sun beds and umbrellas spilling shade. Her father used to tease Grandpa that he’d build a pool there one day, and when Kira and Angus were grown up, they’d all share a bottle of wine while they watched the sun go down. Kira had to swallow the lump rising in her throat. It looked even more beautiful than she remembered.

‘You’ve been recently?’ she asked.

‘Hmm.’ Zareen slurped egg yolk and dabbed her mouth with her napkin. ‘Just last month. I hadn’t been there for ages, and I knew you’d like to see it so well cared for.’

‘It looks amazing.’

‘Such a beautiful place,’ Zareen’s tone turned dreamy. ‘Pooni and I were immensely flattered to be invited, thanks to a business colleague. Such a smart lunch and so many servants, I felt quite the pauper! I wish you were still living there. I could come and visit.’

‘Who owns it?’ Kira asked.

‘Darling?’ Zareen arched her eyebrows at her husband.

‘A consortium or some such,’ Pooni said. ‘It was a corporate lunch. You know the sort, lots of food and drink and networking.’ He frowned as he thought further. ‘I think the owner has something to do with the government.’

‘Which is probably why lunch was such a splendid affair,’ added Zareen with a grimace. ‘Nobody had to pay for it out of their own pocket.’

After waving Zareen and her boys goodbye at the school gates, Kira headed to the Kathia district of Mohala to try and track down Chambal. She began asking in the local shops and got lucky on her fourth attempt, a general store adjacent to a paan shop. A pretty girl in a vibrant pink sari and silver bangles above her elbows stopped pouring rice into a bag and looked up, smiling. No, she didn’t know Salim Chambal, but if Kira wanted, she’d find someone who did.

‘That would be terrific.’

The girl put down her rice and went to the storefront, leaned out, and called a stream of Hindi. Within a minute a dozen or so a crowd of filthy young boys surrounded her, squabbling between themselves, pushing and elbowing one another, their brown eyes darting to Kira then back. It didn’t take long until a boy was chosen. He wore a pair of faded red shorts rolled over at the waist to stop them falling down, and a grin as wide as the Ganges. He scampered up to Kira and put out his hand for her to shake. It felt fragile and light as a young sparrow.

‘Hello, memsahib. I am Asif.’

‘Hello, Asif.’

‘You are looking for a friend of yours?’

‘Yes, he’s…’

‘I know everybody in this town. Everybody.’

‘That’s great, his name is…’

‘Three hundred rupees,’ he said.

At that point the girl spat something at him, making him flinch.

‘One hundred,’ he amended sheepishly.

Kira counted out 150 rupees, which was less than £2, and she’d barely begun to offer them to the boy when he snatched the money as fast as a snake, beaming as though he’d just won the lottery.

‘We go now,’ he said importantly.

Kira flashed the girl a smile, who smiled back.

‘Memsahib,’ Asif said. ‘Please, what is your friend’s name?’

‘Salim Chambal. He’s probably quite old by now, in his sixties or seventies.’ If he’s still alive, she added silently. India’s life expectancies were far shorter than their Western counterparts, thanks to fewer medical facilities throughout the country, and a poorer diet.

‘I shall find him for you!’ Asif began bounding and leaping beside her like an overexcited gazelle.

Kira laughed. ‘I’m sure you will.’

She liked Asif, and he seemed to respond to this because as they walked – Asif stopping every so often to ask someone where they could find Chambal – they chatted comfortably, exploring and learning about each other’s lives. Kira had had eggs for breakfast but preferred porridge. Asif had had chapatis, but preferred ice cream and guava juice.

‘Ice cream for breakfast,’ she said. ‘Yuck.’

‘Strawberry is my favourite. I would like to be eating it every day.’

His family – mother and father and five children – lived in a two-room apartment, consisting of a bedroom and living room. They shared their kitchen and laundry with two more families on the same floor. Kira’s house sounded like heaven to Asif.

‘You are having your own room,’ he said approvingly. ‘You can be doing whatever you like without anybody being annoying. You are very lucky, memsahib.’

She didn’t feel particularly lucky as they continued their search for Chambal. Nobody seemed to have heard of him. It was late in the day when they finally got a lead which took them to the outskirts of town.

Although Bihar’s winter temperatures were much warmer than those in Bristol, Kira was shivering as she followed Asif. The sun was setting, and a damp mist coiled its way through the alleys of the dirty suburb like a milky-white snake. A handful of thin chickens pecked miserably through piles of litter. Women squatted on the ground, slapping buffalo dung into discs of cooking fuel.

Asif turned a corner and ducked down, knocking on a piece of corrugated iron that was a shack roof. Kira shifted from foot to foot, arms wrapped around her, trying to keep warm. She assumed Asif was asking directions. Chambal wouldn’t live here. He could afford much better.

A frail old man with emaciated, toothpick legs appeared. He wore a tattered blanket as a jacket, tied with pieces of rope. For a moment she didn’t recognise him, until he smiled. Warm brown eyes and a wicked twinkle that instantly jogged her memory.

‘Chambal?’ she said disbelievingly.

‘Yes. I am Chambal.’ He looked at her with bright curiosity. ‘How can I be helping you?’

‘I’m Kira Connal. Bill Connal’s daughter. Do you remember me?’

His expression switched to sheer delight. ‘But of course I am remembering!’ He grasped her hands in his with a surprisingly strong grip and leaned back, looking her up and down with wide eyes. ‘My goodness, you are such a beauty! Darling girl, are you miss or madam?’

She showed him her wedding ring. ‘I’m married.’

He waggled a pair of thin grey eyebrows. ‘This is a good thing, because if you were not married, I should be asking you to be my wife!’

Kira laughed. ‘You’re incorrigible!’

‘Come, come.’ He ushered them into his hovel. There was a single mattress in one corner with a handful of neatly folded blankets. Four rickety shelves held an array of random items from empty aluminium cans to a shattered TV remote control. Pickings from the rubbish dump. An upended packing crate formed a table in the centre of the room. Chambal had no cupboards, no kitchen, no spare clothes. This single room was his life.

Kira hid her horror behind a bright smile as Chambal urged her to sit on the edge of the mattress. Asif joined her, looking around with a lively expression. Chambal offered them glasses of fruit juice and Kira was hesitant – concerned that she might catch a stomach bug from the less than sanitary environment – but the old man’s anxiety to please made her accept.

‘I heard about your father. I was very sad.’

‘What do you know?’

‘That he disappeared. Poof! One day he was here, the next he was gone.’ He sighed. ‘It must have been difficult for you, dearest girl. And your brother. Your mother.’

‘It was,’ she agreed.

‘He was a good man.’

Kira turned her glass around in her hand. ‘When did you last see him?’

‘When you were last here. Twelve years ago. We all said goodbye after your holiday, do you remember?’

‘Not really,’ she admitted.

‘There was no reason for you to remember,’ he said kindly. ‘You believed you would come back the next year, as usual.’

‘Yes.’ Misery enfolded her. ‘I wish I knew what happened to Dad.’

‘It is hard not knowing,’ he agreed. ‘But I cannot tell you anything you don’t already know. Now.’ His tone turned bright. ‘Tell me about Angus. What is that little devil up to?’

Once she’d brought Chambal up to date with her brother’s life in Australia, Chambal bombarded her with questions about Zareen, then her mother and Benedict, her job.

She didn’t want to, but she lied. ‘I’m an insurance investigator.’

He stared at her and somehow, she knew that he knew she was lying.

‘I see.’ He was stiff.

She fiddled with her cuff before looking at him directly. ‘Can I be frank?’

‘Of course.’ He leaned forward a little, head tilted in expectation.

‘I am trying to find a criminal who is wanted in the UK. For insurance fraud.’

Instead of his eyes widening in surprise, they narrowed. ‘And who is this person?’

She didn’t want to be overheard so she leaned close to him to whisper. So close she felt the whiskers of his beard against her mouth. ‘The Viper.’

Chambal reared back, looking at her in dismay. ‘Why do you want to be talking of this man?’

‘Who is he?’

Chambal gestured around the hovel, the dirt floor and flimsy walls. ‘He is the man who put me here.’

‘Why?’

‘This is not a subject I wish to be continuing.’ The expression on his face was a blend of worry and apprehension.

‘Can you tell me his real name?’

He didn’t respond.

‘Chambal. This man has murdered a British subject on British soil. He’s not just smuggling illegal wildlife, but drugs, guns and people. He is developing an iron-clad grip on the criminal world throughout Europe. We need to find him, to stop him.’

The old man didn’t move a muscle. Simply stared at her. Anxiety was etched into every pore.

‘Help me,’ she pleaded.

Long silence. Then he leaned forward. ‘Why are you really here?’

‘Someone has to stop the Viper and stop his trade.’

‘But why is it you who are here?’ His eyes were suddenly sharp.

‘Because I was asked,’ she admitted.

‘And do you trust the person who asked?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you are a very silly young woman.’ He got to his feet. ‘Goodbye, Kasmira.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The next morning, Kira and Asif were eating bowls of dahl opposite a butchers shop – bloody skinned sheep heads lined in a row – when the lad shot to his feet and started hurling obscenities at a group of boys.

‘Asif? What the…’

‘He tried to steal from you!’

Belatedly, Kira realised the lip of her day pack was open but before she could do anything about it, one of the boys – on a bicycle – lashed out at Asif who immediately pushed the bike over with a loud crash. The boy promptly got to his feet and launched himself at Asif.

Rolling around the street, they appeared deadlocked together. Kira dodged them, trying to see if she could break up the writhing, spitting forms. A man gave an angry shout behind her, and she suddenly remembered her day pack. Shit! Spinning around, she saw a man shaking his fist at a boy running down the street. The man had her day pack in his hand. He came and handed it over, deeply apologetic.

Finally, Asif’s opponent hurtled to his feet, grabbed his bicycle, and escaped in a blur of flashing feet. Asif chased him for a short while before returning, still overheated, and still angry.

‘Mrs Kira, they have stolen something?’

He peered anxiously as she rummaged through her day pack, her still-recovering body throbbing from the sudden activity. She wasn’t too worried, everything of value was back at Zareen’s. Everything except one thing.

‘My phone,’ she said.

His eyes widened. ‘This is very bad.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. She was furious with herself for falling for one of the oldest tricks in the book; creating a fight, a diversion, in order to steal a bystander’s bag.

‘Let’s go and report it.’ She gave Asif a smile. ‘And afterwards let’s find some guava juice and ice cream. So I can say thank you for defending me and my property.’

It was late afternoon when Kira returned to Zareen’s. The house was quiet, nobody about, so Kira took her notebook to one of the open verandas at the rear of the house and overlooking a large, tree-laden garden. A slender woman in a purple sari came out with a pot of tea and a bowl of ripe yellow finger bananas and told Kira that Zareen was out but would be back in time for supper.

‘We may not be eating at home,’ the woman said. ‘We are having a problem with the power.’

Normally Kira would be concerned she wouldn’t be able to charge her phone, but since she didn’t have a phone, it wasn’t relevant.

‘It will be fixed tomorrow.’ The woman made it sound like a temporary problem, but knowing India, Kira thought, the power could be down for days.

Kira drank the tea as she stared across the garden, glad to rest for a while. It had been a week since the bike accident and although she was recovering pretty well, she had to admit she was tiring faster than usual. She was wondering if she had anything Sergeant Rossdale would be interested in, when she fell asleep. Dead to the world, she only jerked awake when someone spoke nearby. The slender woman had returned and was telling Kira that she had a visitor.

Startled, Kira said, ‘Who is it?’

‘A gentleman. Shall I be showing him inside?’

She couldn’t think who it might be.

‘Er, yes. Of course.’

Kira yawned and stretched. She felt rested and clear-eyed. The nap had done her the power of good. She shoved her notebook onto the table as a figure materialised at the end of the veranda. A tottery, skinny figure with emaciated legs.

‘Chambal?’

Using a stick, he walked slowly toward her. He appeared exhausted. It was ten miles from his suburb, and he looked as though he’d walked the whole way. Kira jumped up and pulled out a chair for him, calling for fresh tea.

He sank into the chair. Pushed a roll of money at her. ‘I am not taking charity,’ he said stiffly.

She’d tucked it under the mattress before she’d left. When he’d made her leave so suddenly, she hadn’t been able to bear not helping him and hadn’t been able to think what else to do.

‘But, Chambal, my father would have wanted–’

‘Your father is not here,’ he snapped. ‘And nor should you be. This is why I have come, to tell you to go home. The town is all a-chatter about your visit to me, Kasmira. I think it is dangerous. You must go.’

As he spoke, she spotted a large monkey moving stealthily towards the table. Its eyes were fixed on the bowl of bananas. Chambal made a mock-throwing motion at the creature, who bared its teeth before loping off, looking over its shoulder as it went.

Kira lowered her voice. ‘I want to know who he is.’

His thin grey eyebrows descended, his mouth narrowing. ‘This is not something you should be looking into.’

The slender woman came out and replaced the pot of tea, putting a dish of Bengali sweets between them. Kira arched her hands in a gesture of namaste, thanking her, before turning back to Chambal.

‘Look, this is really important. It’s not just about the tigers which, as you know, I love, but–’

‘Your father loved the tigers too.’ The old man was almost sneering. ‘And look where it got him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He was in very great business difficulties. He blamed the tiger, but it wasn’t the animal’s fault. It was his own.’

Kira was frowning. ‘I don’t understand.’

Chambal busied himself pouring tea and didn’t elucidate.

She decided it was time to come clean. ‘Chambal, you need to know I’m a police officer and–’

‘Everyone already knows this,’ he cut in derisively. ‘You could be the President of the Russian Federation for all the effect you will have.’

Ice slid over her skin.

‘What do you mean, everyone knows?’

‘You are in India.’ He shrugged. ‘Everyone knew you were police even before you arrived.’

She visualised the three chiefs sitting across her at the meeting table, then Inspector Bahvan and his two jawans, and she knew she wouldn’t get any further now she’d been pegged as a cop. How had it happened?

‘Chambal, I’m not working alone.’ She tried to persuade him. ‘There’s your CBI, there’s New Scotland–’

‘What if I tell you this man we are discussing is related to India’s prime minister?’

‘You’re kidding.’ Her voice was hoarse as she took in the implications. The Viper would be untouchable with such influential connections.

Chambal said, ‘Do you know of the inquiry that went on into the disappearing tigers across the country?’

‘Yes.’ She remembered discussing it with Sergeant Rossdale yesterday. Apparently, Inspector Bahvan had been involved in the inquiry when it first started but wasn’t any longer.

‘Do you also know that the inquiry was carried out by the CBI?’

‘Yes.’

‘I shall let you guess who the prime minister personally appointed to lead the Tiger Task Force.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ she murmured.

‘No, not him.’ Chambal almost looked amused. ‘But then you could say your snake is almost as powerful.’

Chambal left barely five minutes later. When she asked why he’d changed his mind about talking to her, he said he hadn’t slept since she’d come to see him in the village and knew he wouldn’t until he’d warned her further.

‘I do not want the Viper to be knocking on my door, so I shall be leaving this town today,’ he said. ‘You shall be doing the same if you are sensible.’

She gave him her business card. ‘I don’t have a phone right now, but I will in a few days. Please call me if you ever need anything’ She gave him a stern look. ‘I mean it.’

He carefully pocketed the card and, in return, told her to send a letter, Poste Restante, to the main post office in the neighbouring town if she needed to get in touch.

He then formally shook her hand. ‘You have grown into a fine young woman, Kasmira. I am most proud of you. Your father named you well considering your chosen profession.’

Kira smiled. Kasmira meant “commanding peace”. She was meant to value harmony above all else, but who didn’t?

Kira escorted Chambal to the front door and watched him walk away with mixed emotions; sorrow he’d been forced to leave his home, and euphoria she had the means to uncover the Viper’s identity. He was the man who’d been appointed by the prime minister to lead the tiger task force.

She had a result!

She couldn’t wait to call Rossdale. Springing to her feet, she went to the phone in the hallway but when she lifted it from its cradle and listened for a dial tone, there was none. Shit. She’d forgotten there was a problem with the power.

She went to find Tabish and asked if he had a phone she could use.

He gave a head-bobble, a typical India gesture that said neither yes, nor no.

‘I need to make an urgent call. Where shall I go?’

‘Perhaps the telephone exchange?’ He looked doubtful.

Shit.

‘Where can I rearrange my flights? I need to get back to the UK. Urgently.’

He blinked. ‘Today?’

‘If possible, yes.’

‘I can be doing this myself,’ Tabish told her. ‘The travel agency is being nearby.’

He took down her details and strode off. She didn’t expect to see him for ages, but to her surprise he returned within twenty minutes. ‘I have a flight for you leaving in two hours.’

A fat bubble of relief popped under her sternum.

‘Fantastic. Could you drive me to the airport?’

Another head wobble. ‘I shall be calling a taxi straight away.’

Kira packed her suitcase, feeling anxious and jittery. With Chambal’s warnings ringing in her ears, along with his leaving town, she would only relax when she was on the aeroplane. He’d well and truly rattled her.

She just about had a heart attack when Tabish knocked on her door to tell her the taxi had arrived.

Wheeling her suitcase behind him, Tabish escorted Kira across the courtyard and past the small pleasure garden.

‘Please,’ she said, shifting her day pack on her shoulder. ‘Tell Zareen I’m sorry, but something urgent came up at work. I shall ring her from the UK.’

‘Of course.’

Tabish unlocked the gatehouse door and passed Kira her suitcase before ushering her outside. She thanked him effusively, and gave him a handsome tip, which made him place his palms together in a prayer pose and bow.

She began to walk for the taxi idling on the kerb. Evening had fallen, and in the distance, peaks glowed rose against an indigo sky. She could smell the dung of cooking fires, hear the last chattering of sparrows before they roosted. A young man was sitting outside a local chai shop, swirling tea in a glass and staring at something down the street.

She looked around to see a police car pulling over, just ahead of a bullock cart. She recognised the driver. Vikash – Bahvan’s broom-thin constable – was gazing at her, moustache wilting, expression morose.

Inspector Bahvan climbed out of the cop car and walked her way. ‘Constable Connal,’ he said, and gestured at the police car. ‘I would very much like it if you would join me for cocktails. I am meeting with someone who is most interested in seeing you. He is a gentleman who has helped launch Project Tiger.’

‘I’m sorry, but I’m heading to the airport.’ She gestured at the taxi.

Bahvan walked to the taxi, had a word with the driver. To her dismay, the taxi drove off.

Fuck.

Bahvan returned. Indicated the police car. ‘Please.’

She stood there, fear whistling through her, wondering what to do.

‘I will take you to the airport myself afterwards.’ He turned his wrist to look at his watch. ‘You are taking the eight-twenty flight?’

She unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth. ‘Yes.’

‘We will have plenty of time.’

Kira made a last-ditch attempt to put him off by gesturing at her jeans and shirt. ‘I’m not dressed for cocktails. I shall go and change.’ She was about to turn and knock on the gatehouse, call for Tabir and get behind the safety of Zareen’s elaborate gates, when the inspector caught her arm. ‘That won’t be necessary.’

Pain shot up her arm to her shoulder.

‘That hurts,’ she snapped.

He didn’t lessen his grip. Her stomach dropped. He wasn’t giving her a choice.

‘Please.’ He took her suitcase from her. ‘Get in the car.’

Fuck, fuck.

Nerves shrieking, trying not to show her fear, Kira climbed into the back of the heavily built Ambassador police car. Put her day pack between her feet. Sitting on the back seat, she caught Vikash’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. He looked as though he was waiting to be hung.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

They didn’t head into the centre of town, but in the opposite direction. Soon the tree-dotted streets fell away, and they were in a scrubby brown countryside with few advertising hoardings and virtually no cars. Scrawny chickens pecked around roadside shacks, and in the distance, the mountain peaks were barely visible through the encroaching darkness.

The inspector didn’t say anything, just stared outside. He could have been executing an everyday chore, like mowing the lawn, except for the tension in his neck and jaw line.

Kira was thinking about Sergeant Rossdale and what he’d have to say about her abduction – she couldn’t think of it as anything else – when Vikash took a turning to the right, down a freshly graded dirt road. Electricity brushed the surface of her skin. They were, incredibly, headed in the direction of Khandar.

A herd of cows drifted past, a small boy trailing them with a stick. Another right turn, and the electricity began to crackle from her fingertips to her heart. Khandar was less than a mile away. Stones clicked against the car’s body work, the tyres rumbling. She found it almost impossible to stop herself from leaning forward and scanning the horizon like she did as a kid. It used to be a family tradition that the first person to see Khandar got to choose which bedroom they wanted for the holidays.

Then they were sweeping beneath a lofty sandstone archway and there, looming above them at the end of the gravel road, was Khandar, glowing like gold beneath hundreds of little clay lamps. The breath stopped in her throat. Memories crowded. Mum and Dad laughing, Kira and Angus bouncing on their seats, desperate to climb out of the car. Grandpa Walter striding towards them, arms wide, his grin wider. Running into his embrace, feeling his whiskers tickle her cheek, his happy laughter in her ear.

‘It is very beautiful, no?’ Bahvan said.

‘Yes.’ Her voice was scratchy with apprehension.

Scaffolding propped up various walls and edifices of the ruin, but its extraordinary size and grandeur was undiminished. They drove past remains of extensive gardens, pavilions and mosques, and courts for elephants and horses, gardens with fountains and marble baths. The family wing that Grandpa Walter had reconstructed represented only a tiny fraction of the place.

‘There are plans to turn it into a luxury hotel,’ Bahvan said. ‘It even has its own airstrip.’ He pointed at a gravel runway to the west, where she saw a Cessna, and a larger, twin-engine aircraft that looked as though it could fly to London and back without any trouble.

‘Does your friend fly?’ she asked.

‘Yes. He is very capable in such things. Both aircraft are his.’ Bahvan leaned forward to tell Vikash to pull over before turning his head and meeting her eyes. ‘But he is not my friend. He is… how shall I say it? An acquaintance.’

She was surprised. It wasn’t often people made that distinction, especially in India, where people made friends more easily than their Western colleagues.

After he’d parked, Vikash leaped outside to open her door, like a chauffeur. Ignoring his constable, Inspector Bahvan walked Kira across an immaculately raked sandy expanse for the colonnaded wing and the swimming pool with wickerwork chairs and glass-topped tables. There didn’t seem to be anybody about.

The inspector paused to let her move ahead of him to the outskirts of the pool. Immediately a liveried waiter materialised with tall glasses of pink fruit juice on a silver filigreed tray. Bahvan took a glass and sipped. Kira did the same. Neither spoke.

Her nerves were hopping, her senses alert. Everything was wrong, with Vikash being treated like a chauffeur, the inspector taciturn and aloof. They sipped their juice in a silence broken only by the chirrup of a cicada. The aqua green of the pool was pale jade and the air scented with dry grasses, a hint of sage. Suddenly Bahvan stiffened. A man appeared beneath an archway and began to walk their way. Tall and elegant, he appeared around the same age as Bahvan, in his early fifties. He was dressed in blue silk trousers and an ornate cream tunic with azure-blue cuffs and gold braid. His goatee beard followed a jawline as long and sharp as a barracuda’s. He was smiling as he approached, his poise perfect.

Kira took an instant dislike to him.

‘Bahvan, I didn’t know a policewoman could be so beautiful! Please, introduce me immediately!’

The skin contracted over her scalp. The man knew she was a police officer?

Chambal’s voice echoed in her mind: Everyone knew you were police even before you arrived.

‘This is Constable Connal,’ Bahvan said measuredly.

Did Bahvan also know?

She was waiting for the man to be introduced when, to her astonishment, he leaned close and took her hand in his, bringing it up to his mouth and pressing his lips on her skin. His hand was warm and dry, his lips soft and moist, and his eyes looked into hers all the while. It was shockingly intimate and intended to be so. She had to force herself not to snatch her hand back and wipe it on her jeans.

He held her hand for several seconds longer than was necessary, but she didn’t react. She met his gaze as blandly as she could and let him release her in his own time. She felt a flash of triumph when the corners of his eyes narrowed slightly in irritation.

‘And you are?’ she asked coolly, trying to ignore his arrogant stance, his perfectly trimmed beard, his manicured hands, the gold Rolex on his left wrist, the penetrating black eyes which seemed to strip her soul.

He glanced at Bahvan, suddenly amused. ‘Well, inspector?’

Bahvan clicked his eyes to the man as though checking something. Then he said, ‘Constable, this is Mr Michael Sharma.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ she lied.

‘The pleasure is all mine.’ Sharma inclined his head, letting his eyes travel from her waist before coming to rest on her breasts. ‘You are cold,’ he remarked with a little smirk.

Kira didn’t cross her arms or turn away. She remained where she was, motionless, while he tried to intimidate her. Again, she saw the tiny muscles around his eyes tighten in annoyance.

Fuck you, she thought.

Suddenly, he straightened and looked around, assessing the area. ‘Let us go to the balcony where there is heating.’

The balcony was in a newly renovated part of the fort and overlooked a lush roof garden. In the centre of the lawn was a giant sand-coloured checkerboard with a scattering of chairs and cushions set to one side. Another entertaining area, empty of guests.

Sharma ushered Kira to a wickerwork planter’s chair layered with plump velvet cushions. Clicked his fingers. A servant immediately materialised.

‘Something stronger to drink for our guest, I think.’ He glanced at Kira. ‘A margarita, perhaps?’

She didn’t like the fact he’d offered her favourite cocktail. A coincidence? Or had he done some homework on her? She’d been watching his body language since she’d arrived and every movement oozed confidence and power. Instinct had told her immediately not to acquiesce to Sharma. He seemed like the sort of man who wouldn’t respect people who did.

‘I’d prefer a lager, thank you,’ she said, choosing a beverage she didn’t particularly like on purpose. That way she would barely touch a drop no matter what happened and could remain sober.

He raised an eyebrow briefly then gave another click and the servant shimmied away with barely a sound of his white and gold slippers. Sharma gestured for her and the inspector to sit, then took the chair between them. She could feel the chill on the back of her neck melt under the waves of heat wafting from a temperature control system behind her.

Sharma started by asking Kira where she was staying, and how she liked Mohala. He was an expert at small talk. He could have been the perfect host aside from the fact he totally ignored the inspector. Then he said, ‘I am told you visited the Ramayana Reserve. It must have changed since you were last here. Twelve years is a long time.’

He’d definitely done his research on her. She stared at him, keeping her expression bland and refusing to let him know how disquieted she was.

‘Bahvan, did you know the constable used to holiday here, with her grandfather? You’ve heard of Walter Connal, I take it? All the good work he did for the tigers?’

The inspector gave a nod.

‘And that she met with Salim Chambal yesterday evening? The founder of the tiger charity?’

Surprised, Bahvan’s eyes darted to Kira, then away.

Sharma chuckled and clapped his hands together. ‘Ha! You think you are such a good policeman, but you can’t see anything beneath your stupid nose!’

Bahvan didn’t move, didn’t speak. He was staring at his boots as though his life depended on it.

‘Tell me, constable, why it is you kept your father’s name when you married? If I was your husband, I would feel insulted that you didn’t take my name.’

She surveyed Sharma a long while, giving him her quiet cop stare. She hadn’t liked him kissing her hand or knowing her preferred cocktail, but she hated him calling a fellow officer stupid, no matter how taciturn that officer was. Keeping her voice deceptively mild, she said, ‘I really don’t think it is any of your business.’

Sharma gave a shout of laughter. ‘I see. That is amusing. Most amusing. Not my business! I like it!’

The servant returned with an imported German beer for her and another fruit juice for Bahvan – the inspector didn’t get to choose his drink – and what looked like mineral water with a twist of lime for Sharma. Miniature samosas and stuffed baby aubergines were offered, but Kira refused. She had no appetite.

‘We are doing our best for Ramayana,’ Sharma said, taking a tiny samosa and surveying it at length. ‘But there is such a lack of resources. Our wardens are unfit and barely armed.’

He gave a long sigh before tossing the samosa onto the ground. A servant appeared from the shadows and dived to carry it away. ‘The average age of those employed is fifty-three.’ Sharma snorted. ‘It is ridiculous. I have put a request to the government for more money to be allocated to the tigers but they continue to resist.’

She stared at the floor where he’d tossed the samosa. Nobody in India was rude enough to throw food away, let alone chuck it on the floor. Sharma was showing his total lack of regard and respect for her and the inspector, as well as proving his power over his servants. Her fear deepened into foreboding.

‘Have you found Jonathan yet?’ Sharma took a sip of water, watching her over the lip of the glass. ‘Or should I call him Oliver, like you do?’

She felt as though someone had crept up behind her and belted her between the shoulders with a cricket bat. All the breath left her body. She was struck dumb.

‘I really would like to have a chat with him. Find out exactly what occurred at the Crossed Guns that day.’

Kira licked her lips. Managed to keep her tone steady when she said, ‘What do you know about the shooting?’

‘The same as you, probably.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘But the end result was that a shipment of mine was stolen. And I want what is mine returned.’

For a moment she wondered if she was dreaming. Michael Sharma had just told her he owned the shipment that was stolen at the Crossed Guns shooting. Which meant he was the importer of the tiger skins. Which meant she’d found the Sergeant Rossdale’s man. Her skin tingled all over.

I am sitting drinking cocktails with the Viper.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

‘Have you found my shipment?’ Michael Sharma asked Kira. ‘It was fairly distinctive due to five rhino horns being included from Nepal. Ten kilos worth, in fact.’

She stared at the Viper. She could hardly believe the man’s brazenness, his gall. No way was she going to answer any of his questions. It should be her, a policewoman, asking the questions, not the criminal.

‘Are you even close to finding my goods?’ His tone turned impatient when she remained silent. ‘Constable, if I may ask you, what exactly does the British taxpayer pay you for?’

She wanted to say: to put people like you behind bars, but she didn’t dare speak yet. If she said anything now, her voice would tremble, and he’d have the advantage.

A minute ticked past. Then another. Kira concentrated on her breathing. On gaining some control over her panic-ridden body.

He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Cat got your tongue, constable?’

Another breath.

He arched his eyebrows at her, beady black eyes glistening.

‘I’ll speak when I have something to say.’ Cool, unhurried. Almost bored.

‘I see.’ He was watching her closely, watching every movement, every nuance, like a snake judging its prey before it struck. ‘Perhaps we can now discuss business.’

Her pulse was pounding. She felt dizzy, lightheaded. To ground herself, she took a sip of beer. It tasted sour and stale against her shrieking nerves.

‘You are searching for Oliver Stroud with your job. I want to speak to Oliver. We have the same goal, correct?’

She didn’t dare move a muscle, nor say anything, in case she was misunderstood. He was working to an agenda and caution was yelling and howling at her to be careful, and not to piss him off. She was on his turf, and nobody knew where she was except Vikash and Bahvan, and she wouldn’t trust them any more than she could run a marathon with an elephant strapped to her back.

‘You like Khandar,’ he suddenly said. Raising his glass, he swept it in a semicircle, indicating the roof garden, the ramparts lit by torches, the views of the darkened plain below dotted with flickering lights; cooking fires.

She didn’t move or say anything.

‘It is yours, whenever you would like to come and visit,’ he said expansively. ‘For a week, for a month, for a year. It is yours to use as you wish.’

Kira remained quite still, desperate not to be misinterpreted. Although she’d heard of cops being bribed from time to time, she’d never experienced it herself. Bahvan had barely twitched. He’d obviously heard it all before.

‘You and your guests would not have to pay for anything,’ he continued. ‘The servants would take care of everything for you. They are used to looking after strangers.’

Which proved it wasn’t the first time it had happened. VIPs would be entertained in style at Khandar, given free trips to the park in free jeeps with free guides, and in return they’d turn a blind eye to the tiger poaching, the illegal logging, the devastation of the forests.

‘Your husband would enjoy a luxury break, wouldn’t he? A bit of relaxation before his exhibition? But I can’t see your mother coming here.’ Sharma shook his head decisively. ‘Your mother never liked India, did she? Too dirty, too close to real life for her delicate English sensibilities. Not like yourself, constable, who used to love my country.’

Kira held herself tight, trying not to let her fear and horror show, but her mind was yelling shit, shit, shit over and over.

‘You know my mother?’ To her dismay, her voice trembled on the word mother.

He put his head on one side and surveyed her at length. ‘Would it bother you if I did?’

Yes! her mind yelled. Yes, it bloody would! But she kept her face free of tension. Gave a careless shrug.

There was a long silence. Sweat trickled down her flanks and spine, the heat from the unit behind her suddenly feeling almost unbearable.

Sharma reached over and put a business card on the table, next to her glass of beer. ‘Call me when you find Jonathan,’ he said, ‘or Oliver, or whatever he is calling himself at the time. It would be of little trouble to let me know where he is before you tell anyone else.’

Kira turned her head and looked into the distance, at the sprinkle of stars on the horizon. Her neck felt as solid as wood and her heart was jumping like a maddened cricket. She tried to slow down her thinking, push Benedict and her mother aside.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw up. It was only by sheer force of will she managed to bring her feet under her. Push herself upright. Her legs trembled. She left Sharma’s business card where it was.

‘Inspector Bahvan–’ her voice was like ice ‘–would you please take me back to town.’

He practically jack-knifed from his chair. ‘Of course.’

For a second, Sharma looked surprised, and then he gave a rueful smile, shaking his head. ‘Forgive me. I have offended you, constable. This was not my intention. I have the highest regard for the British police. Please excuse my bad manners.’ He looked at her with a mixture of chagrin and amusement. ‘Before you leave, I would like to show you something. Or are you in a hurry to run away?’

‘Like what?’ She made her voice arrogant, as though she wasn’t interested.

He didn’t reply but went to the stone balustrade and leaned over, calling something in Hindi. Kira saw the inspector go rigid. The colour began to drain from his face, but he didn’t say anything, just stood there like a giant boulder.

She moved to look down to the roof garden and its tubs of flowers and glossy green lawn. Two men were dragging something to the checkerboard. For a second, she thought it was a sack of fertiliser – maybe some wood chips for the garden – but then she saw it was alive. It was a boy, a skinny boy with a pair of faded red shorts rolled over at the waist to stop them falling down.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked. Her breathing was tight.

But Sharma didn’t reply. He called out to the men, who stopped in the centre of the checkerboard. Asif was pinned in the men’s arms, but it didn’t stop the boy from flailing, lashing out with his legs.

‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘Let him go.’

Sharma turned his head and surveyed her. She was shivering inside, and she prayed he couldn’t see it. He gave a slow smile, and she knew he had. Still holding her eyes, he clicked his fingers.

‘Bahvan.’ He made the word a command.

The inspector hesitated.

‘Bina, Bahvan.’

The inspector moved to her side. He held a pistol in his right hand. He pressed the gun against her temple. Sweat was beading on his forehead and trickling down the sides of his face.

‘Bahvan will shoot the constable if she causes any trouble. Won’t you, Bahvan?’

‘Yes, sir.’ His voice was loud and firm. Not what Kira wanted to hear; she’d been hoping for a thread of doubt, some humanity, but there was none. He sounded like a robot for all the emotion in his voice.

The barrel of his pistol was steady and unwavering, pushing against her skin. There was no way she could knock his arm aside in the time it would take for him to pull the trigger, so she stayed quite still.

Sharma called down. Another man appeared. For a second the two men holding Asif were distracted and immediately the boy swung round, lashing at the nearest man’s groin. He missed but still caught the man’s inner thigh, making him yell.

‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Let the boy go.’

Sharma didn’t respond. He was watching the third man as he went and picked up what looked to be a can of kerosene, and a funnel. Immediately Asif started bucking and kicking wildly, like a calf arriving at the slaughterhouse and sensing its doom.

‘Inspector,’ Kira pleaded.

His response was to catch her around the neck with his left arm and pull her tight against his chest. The gun was now rammed against her cheek. She could barely breathe.

‘Watch, constable,’ Sharma commanded.

‘No,’ she said, but she couldn’t keep her gaze away. The men worked quickly now, pinning Asif to the ground. She watched in horror as the third man bent over and pinched the boy’s nostrils shut until he was forced to open his mouth to take a gulp of air. Immediately the man forced the funnel between Sandhu’s teeth. Poured kerosene into the funnel.

The boy was choking and gagging and thrashing and Kira screamed at Sharma to stop but he didn’t seem to hear.

The third man then lit a match.

Kira forgot about the inspector’s stranglehold; the gun rammed against her skull. She tried to lunge for the balcony, her voice cracking from the force of her shouts.

The man held the flaring match just two feet from the dripping, struggling boy. He was looking at Sharma, waiting for the next order.

‘STOP!’ she yelled.

Sharma held up a hand. The men stilled. Sharma turned to face her. She was panting heavily, sweat pouring through her hair, down her neck. Amazingly, she could feel Bahvan’s heart thudding through the wet silk of her shirt. The sweaty intimacy was more than she could bear but the inspector was holding her tight, almost immovable.

‘You know what I want,’ Sharma said.

‘Oliver Stroud,’ she gasped.

‘And if you don’t do as I want…’

He swept a hand down and the match moved closer to Asif, but the boy didn’t wriggle backwards, or try and move away; he couldn’t see with the kerosene scalding his eyes.

‘But I may not be the officer that finds him,’ she protested. ‘Oliver might be put into witness protection–’

‘You will find a way,’ Sharma interrupted, eyes glittering. ‘There is always a way, if you are motivated enough. Are you motivated, Constable Connal?’

‘Yes, yes. I promise.’ Once she was in England and safely away from this piece of shit, she would renege. Once Asif was free, Sharma would never find him, and she and Sergeant Rossdale would bring him down.

‘Promises,’ Sharma snorted. ‘They are worthless.’

Desperately Kira tried to think how she could persuade him otherwise, but once again, he’d returned his attention to the roof garden. At his command, the men dragged the boy to one side. Asif was still coughing and gasping, but he’d stopped flailing or trying to run away. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen in his lungs. The kerosene was burning, poisoning him from the inside out.

‘If you break your promise,’ Sharma said, ‘this demonstration will not be re-enacted on a worthless little boy.’

He gestured down at the giant checkerboard. In the far corner, huddled together like sheep between two armed men, were four figures. A woman the size of a haystack with her handsome husband and her two children, Taku and Raman.

Kira’s entrails went cold.

‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Because if I hear you telling anyone about our little meeting, or reneging on our little arrangement, I shall take your friends one by one, and I will personally pour the petrol into each of their stomachs and drop the match in their mouths. Starting with the smallest and ending with the fat cow so she suffers the most.’

Kira tried to lash out, but Bahvan held her fast.

‘I can do the same for anyone I choose,’ he went on. ‘Your mother, your husband, your overweight colleague Jenny Green… nobody is safe, you understand? I have friends in the British police. I have friends everywhere. If you renege, I will hear of it.’

He came and stood so close to her she could smell his cologne, expensive and aromatic, deep oud and amber. He whispered, ‘I could have killed you so easily, constable. You could be dead right now, but there would be too many questions.’

She remained silent, clinging onto the fact he hadn’t mentioned Chambal, and that Chambal hadn’t been tortured in front of her. She prayed her father’s old friend was walking tiredly with his stick to find another place to live in the next town along.

Sharma stood back, surveying her. He said quietly, ‘Besides, I find the idea of expanding my business in Bristol extremely tempting. You will be a great help.’

He jerked his chin at Bahvan. Keeping the pistol against her temple, the inspector took a step backwards. She swayed violently, the instant rush of air along her spine feeling cold as ice. Her legs were trembling, nausea rolling through her stomach, but she managed to draw her shoulders back and push her chin high.

‘I will give you Oliver,’ she told Sharma, ‘but I want something from you first.’

Sharma blinked. Obviously, few people made demands at this point of the negotiations. She felt a flicker of satisfaction she’d broken the mould.

‘I want you to release my friends, and the boy to me. Now.’

CHAPTER THIRTY

Bahvan picked up Asif and ran to Pooni’s car, which was parked alongside the police Ambassador. Vikash was nowhere to be seen. Bahvan laid the boy across the back seat. Opened the front door for Zareen who piled onto the front seat with Taku and Raman, clutching them desperately. Kira clambered in the back and rested Asif’s head in her lap. The reek of kerosene made her want to retch.

‘Open the windows,’ she ordered.

Pooni complied without a word. Neither he nor Zareen had spoken since they’d been released. Zareen was shuddering head to toe and grasping her children’s wrists while they cowered in the footwell like a pair of terrified puppies.

‘Pooni,’ Kira barked. ‘Get us to a hospital. Fast as you can.’

She wanted to scream at Pooni to hurry for God’s sake, Asif could die! but she kept her voice icy calm. She didn’t want to add to the stress any more than she had to.

Pooni started the Merc and shot away with a spray of grit and gravel, foot flat to the floor. She glanced over her shoulder through the rear window to see Bahvan standing there, hands hanging at his sides, watching them go.

Kira looked down at Asif. Blood seeped from burns around his lips and mouth, and his breathing was shallow. His eyes were red and swollen shut, also burned. She felt sick with anger. Nauseous to the corners of her soul with guilt.

‘You’ll be okay,’ she told the boy. ‘We’ll get you medical help, the best, and you’ll be fine. I’ll look after you, I promise.’

Pooni wound the engine to full throttle, the needle hovering in the red. Kira squinted at the dashboard to read the speedo. Shit, she thought. Seventy miles an hour on an ill-kempt gravel road? She hoped he knew what he was doing, or they could all wind up dead.

In the car’s headlights she could see nightjars hunting for moths. Flat and low, the road had broad, sweeping corners the Mercedes took with gravel spraying, the front tyres gripping while the rear of the car fought to follow. Occasionally the road dipped and then rose into a hump that made the car’s shock absorbers and springs groan and the chassis creak.

Kira held Asif as steady as she could. She was murmuring to him all the while, so he would know he was safe. Pooni was driving like the wind, and she marvelled at his driving skill. He handled the heavy Merc like a rally champion.

Soon they were passing lines of roadside shacks and way ahead she spotted a twinkling of lights. The town wasn’t far away.

Pooni suddenly slammed on the brakes, creating channels in the dirt before sideslipping right. Her heart clenched. They were now driving away from town.

‘Where are you going?’ she demanded.

‘Shortcut. Ten minutes. No more.’

‘Hang in there, Asif,’ she told the boy. He was shivering and his breathing rattled sickeningly in his throat. ‘Not far to go. Then you’ll be in good hands, and it won’t be long until you’re better, and when you are I’m going to take you to the best ice cream parlour we can find. And we’ll eat strawberry ice cream and drink guava juice until we’re sick. If you want, you can visit me in England sometime. I’d love to have you to stay…’

His body suddenly gave a long shudder. His breathing became irregular, almost gasping.

‘Hurry!’ she yelled at Pooni.

Zareen turned in her seat. Her face was waxy and soft, like a blob of overripe cheese. She was gripping her boys tightly and whimpering.

Kira put her mouth against Asif’s. Closed his nose. Ignoring the kerosene burning her lips she breathed into his mouth and his poor, ruined lungs. Raised her head and took in some air. Bent and sealed her lips on his and breathed some more.

Kira was still giving the boy mouth-to-mouth when Pooni arrived at the hospital with a screech of brakes, but it was too late.

Asif was dead.

While Pooni carried Asif’s small, lifeless body into the hospital, Kira used Zareen’s mobile to ring Benedict. 1am in England. Please God, let him be there. Please God, he’s safe.

He answered on the eighth ring. ‘Chrissakes,’ he mumbled. He sounded as though he’d been asleep. ‘That you, Kira?’

‘Yes. Are you okay?’

‘‘Course I’m okay.’ He was yawning. ‘How’re you?’

‘Better now I know you’re okay,’ she said honestly.

‘I fixed your bike. It’s back home, waiting for you. Like me, really. We’re both waiting for you.’

When she didn’t respond, he said, ‘What’s going on?’

‘Ben, I need you to listen very carefully…’ Pacing up and down the street, kicking little puffs of dust with her boots, Kira outlined what had happened that evening. When she told him about Asif’s murder, he muttered, ‘Christ,’ but otherwise didn’t interrupt.

‘I want you to take Mum and go away,’ she told him. ‘Some place this guy can’t find you.’

‘Timbuktu?’ Ben suggested, his tone light. ‘The Gobi Desert?’

‘Either would do nicely.’

‘What does Rolo say about all this?’

‘I haven’t rung him yet.’

‘Are you going to ring him?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, mouth dry.

‘Shit.’ He sounded shocked. ‘Are you saying this guy owns the police over here too?’

‘I don’t know, but I’m not risking it. He might know one cop or a hundred but it still comes down to the fact that he has people in the UK…’

‘Shit,’ Benedict said.

Small pause, then he cleared his throat. ‘Does this mean you’re going to capitulate? Or are you going to fight him?’

Only Benedict could get to the heart of the matter so fast.

‘I don’t know,’ she said again. She rubbed her temples. ‘Even if you and Mum are safe, there’s Jenny and Rolo… I’ve loads of friends…’ She trailed off beneath the enormity of Sharma’s threat. Could she really go against him? Risk the lives of people she liked and loved? If Benedict wasn’t available for torture, she had no doubt Sharma would pick someone else.

‘Kira.’ Benedict’s voice was amazingly calm. ‘You go and do what you have to do, okay? I will get your mum now, tonight, and we’ll ring you when we’re settled somewhere nobody will think of looking for us. Like the Outer Hebrides or something. Then you won’t have to worry about us anymore. Okay?’

He may be a drunk, self-centred pain-in-the-bum artist most days, she thought, but there were times he wore a halo that blinded her.

‘I love you,’ she said.

‘And I hope that murdering piece of dog shit chokes to death on a fucking cherry pip.’

Kira hung up, then contacted her airline. She’d missed the evening flight, so she booked herself on the next one home the following morning. She was about to return the phone to Zareen when Pooni returned. He stank of vomit and had damp patches on his collar and down his shirt front, indicating he’d spent time in a washroom.

‘What did the hospital staff–’ she began, but he caught her arm and violently twisted her away from the Mercedes. His dark eyes were flashing, his mouth set in a hard line.

‘I am taking my family home now,’ he bit out. ‘And I want you to leave us alone.’

‘Look, we really need to talk things–’

‘You bring a snake to our doorstep and leave it there to kill us? You think talking is going to make the snake go away?’

‘Pooni, please. We have to–’

‘You are going to do what Mr Sharma tells you, yes?’ He fixed her with a fierce black gaze. ‘Nothing else is possible.’

Kira looked away.

He reached into his car and brought out her day pack, dropped it at her feet. She stared at it. She couldn’t remember picking it up at Khandar, let alone bringing it into the car.

‘You will stay at the Naga Guesthouse,’ he snapped. ‘I do not wish to see you again.’

‘But what about Zareen? I’ve got her–’

‘If you even look at my wife, I shall call the police. Now, leave.’

She tried to give him Zareen’s phone but his response was to spit at the ground by her feet. Then he stalked to his Merc. Before he slammed the door shut, he sent her a look so filled with hate she recoiled.

Kira walked Mohala’s streets through the night. She’d found the Naga Guesthouse – a bedbug ridden dump with rooms for 95p that Pooni obviously thought she deserved – but she couldn’t bear to sit in her insect infested room and stare at the wall. She had to keep moving, try to make sense of what had happened, as well as deal with the emotions rolling through her, heavy as rocks. Rage, grief, remorse. And fear. She couldn’t ignore the fear gnawing the marrow in every bone in her body. Fear for Benedict and her mother, and Oliver. And for herself. She wasn’t sure which emotion was stronger. Rage at Inspector Bahvan for his treachery. Grief for Asif, remorse that if she hadn’t come to India, the boy wouldn’t have died.

She passed through the narrow gullies and fissures of the town, feeling the houses looming darkly around her. She welcomed the claustrophobia, the pungent smells of rotting vegetables, the occasional waft of human excrement. It made her feel alive.

Her feet were dragging when the sky began to lighten, the stars fading into a bald blue sky, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t feel tired enough to sleep yet.

Soon the sun rose, and people began to appear, exchanging gossip, lighting cigarettes and hawking mucus into the dirt, and then the streets filled with bicycles, vendors selling their wares, the air reverberating with their cries. Chai! Chai! There were fruit and newspaper sellers, and barrows piled with vegetables. A small herd of cattle wandered past, throwing up clouds of dust.

Just ahead, an ancient woman with a back twisted as an old oak root put a stool out on the street. This was followed by a tiny, rickety table. The woman saw Kira and motioned her to sit. The tea came hot and strong and achingly sweet, with thick gobs of butter floating on the top. It quenched the taste of kerosene tainting her mouth and lips. She had walked the streets unwashed and stinking as bad as Benedict after a four-day binge.

Sipping the butterfat tea, Kira pulled out the business card Sharma had forced into her pocket. It had no address, just two office numbers, and his cell number was hand-written on the back. She put it back into her pocket. Exhaustion was tugging her body, but her mind was producing images one after the other, like a speeded-up movie.

Asif hopping and skipping down the street beside her, beaming.

Asif fighting a boy twice his size to stop him robbing her.

Asif greedily gulping down a glass of guava juice so fast he choked.

Kira didn’t feel the tears pouring down her face. She didn’t see the bent old woman staring at her, the passersby faltering when they saw her distress. She was looking into the boy’s eyes, always crinkled at the corners, always laughing. She could hear his voice, smell the odour of toasted chapatis clinging to his tatty T-shirt.

If she hadn’t come to India, Asif would still be alive.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Kira was heading back to the guesthouse when Zareen’s mobile rang. Unsure whether to answer it or not, she checked the caller’s number. Immediately she answered.

‘Your mother refuses to move,’ Benedict told her. ‘So I’m staying at her place, armed with a gallon of paint-stripper and another of methylated spirits to chuck over the parapets and set fire to, should the bad guys try and storm the castle. Oh, and we’ve commandeered next door’s Doberman. Your mum’s mini schnauzer’s going ape. He thinks it’s a girl and wants to have its babies.’

‘Fuck,’ said Kira. ‘You’ve got to get Mum to move.’

‘Tell her yourself.’

‘Kira?’ It was her mother.

‘Mum, please will you listen to Ben and–’

‘You’re all right?’

‘Yes, Mum. I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, Mum. I’m sure.’ She didn’t need this, an hour-long conversation persuading her mother she was okay, but to her surprise, Mum didn’t press the point.

‘Good,’ she said, then, ‘When are you coming home?’

‘This afternoon. First flight out.’

‘Good,’ she said again, and then Ben was back on the phone.

‘Are you sure we shouldn’t ring Rolo or anyone?’ He kept his voice upbeat, but she could hear his anxiety.

‘Wait until I get home. Then we’ll decide what to do.’

Kira sat on a wall outside her guesthouse with her day pack between her knees. A dull coldness seeped from the ground and through the stones, into her heart. She was sunk inside the collar of her jacket, feeling as lost and bewildered as she had the day her father hadn’t come home. As though her world had ended.

She had three hours to kill before her flight and she’d already spent two of them sitting on the wall, her mind and body chilled to the bone. She had strayed so far into the greyness inside and around her that she didn’t hear the man approach.

‘Constable.’ A deep voice spoke behind her like a car rumbling over cobblestones.

She turned to see Inspector Bahvan standing beside her. He was in uniform, attracting glances from the street. The guesthouse manager stood behind him, looking worried.

‘Please,’ said Bahvan. ‘It is time for me to be taking you to the airport.’

She thought that when she saw Bahvan again she’d be angry at him, furious, wanting to lash out and punch his face for letting Asif die like that, but she felt nothing. Not a flicker.

He said levelly, ‘The flight to Delhi is leaving in two hours.’

‘I can catch a taxi.’

‘It will be my pleasure to drive you.’ Bahvan put a hand on the butt of his gun, eyes steady.

The little energy she had dribbled out of her like the last drops of milk shaken from its carton.

‘If you insist.’

The car reeked of kerosene; no doubt transferred from Bahvan’s clothes to the seat last night. Asif had been drenched in it. Vaguely, she wondered if he’d tried to clean it, but from the stench she guessed he hadn’t. He’d get someone else to do the dirty work. She’d cleaned out loads of patrol cars in her day, coffee, curries, blood, shit and vomit. Trained staff were supposed to clean up body fluids and the like, but when faced with a car that was going to be out of commission, Kira wasn’t the only cop who kept their mouth shut and got scrubbing. The perks of the job, Jenny always told her dryly. What Jenny would say if Kira decided to resign was anyone’s guess.

Sharma’s voice looped like a long-playing tape through her head. I find the idea of expanding my business in Bristol extremely tempting.

She couldn’t see how she could remain in the police if she was in Sharma’s pocket. Much better to find other work, like a supermarket cashier or a street sweeper. If she became anything more ambitious, he would exploit it. He was addicted to showing his authority, his dominance. Which was probably why he’d been so successful.

They passed a municipal rubbish dump where rag-pickers were roaming the stinking piles of refuse, and she blinked several times. Then she looked over her shoulder. Belatedly she realised they weren’t on the road to the airport. Vultures circled the thermals in concentric circles.

‘Where are you taking me?’

Bahvan didn’t answer, simply kept driving. Please God they weren’t going to see Sharma again. She checked the car doors to see the locks weren’t engaged, and that on the surface of things it didn’t look as though she was a captive. The greyness that had pervaded her started to dissipate as she took notice of her surroundings; a scooter carrying a family of four, the wife in her sari perched side-saddle behind her husband with two children squeezed between them; a dead dog at the roadside, its back broken. Sudden realisation. She didn’t want to die. Not today, and not next week either if she could help it.

Kira sat upright. Her heartbeat picked up, but she kept her breathing regular and remained calm. No point in thinking about the fact that Bahvan worked with Sharma, and that he had a gun. She would remain alert and ready, and if he gave her any intimation that he was going to despatch her into the hereafter, she’d act.

The inspector made a right turn on the outskirts of town and eased off the accelerator, cruising along a wide street lined with tamarind trees. It was a cul-de-sac, with a cemetery at the end.

Kira checked the vicinity to see a rickshaw cycling slowly down the street with an elderly man in the back. A taxi was dropping a family off at the cemetery gates, and another family were leaving. A small part of her relaxed at the quantity of people around. Witnesses. She didn’t think Bahvan was going to make her dig her own grave then shoot her, did she?

The inspector parked behind the taxi, set the hand brake and climbed out. He didn’t look at Kira as he walked beneath the arched cemetery gates. His steps were purposeful, his strides long. Kira almost had to jog to keep up.

Finally, he came to a stop in front of a grave. A bougainvillaea grew next to the headstone, and there were bunches of plastic pink and white roses. The white stone marker at the head of the grave was inscribed. Bahvan ran his fingers over the Hindi script as he spoke.

‘The sudden and tragic loss of one dear to us as life,’ he murmured. ‘Born twenty-second of September 2006. Died seventeenth October 2010.’

He closed his eyes as he added, ‘It is not normal in Hindu traditions that we bury our dead. But Bina was barely four.’

Unease pricked Kira’s veins. ‘Who’s Bina?’

He outlined a small piece of script with his forefinger. ‘My firstborn daughter.’

‘How did she die?’

‘Like Asif.’

A twist of nausea in her stomach. ‘Sharma?’

‘Yes.’

Inspector Bahvan turned his big head and looked at her. Although his daughter had been buried for sixteen years, the grief in his eyes was still fresh, an aching and inconsolable despair over his little girl’s horrific death. ‘I wouldn’t do what he wanted me to do,’ he said. His voice cracked. ‘I thought justice was on my side.’

Her heart squeezed. ‘Inspector, I am so sorry.’

He turned away, a hand over his eyes. ‘I found Asif’s family this morning. I told them he was hit by a car. I didn’t want them to suffer knowing how he died. I gave them money. They are burying him tomorrow.’

Bahvan then dropped to his knees and started tidying the grave. A fine layer of dust, pale as talcum powder, covered the plastic flowers and he carefully blew them clean, rearranging them to his satisfaction. He was speaking softly as he tended his daughter’s resting place, and after he brushed aside a fresh fleece of tiny cobwebs clinging to the script that was her name, Bina, he pressed his lips there.

At the airport, Bahvan pulled her suitcase out of the Ambassador’s boot, where it appeared to have sat since he’d taken it from her yesterday. Kira washed and changed in the public toilets. She left her kerosene-reeking clothes in a heap in the cubicle. Someone would take them and clean them, make some use of them. She then handed her suitcase to the check-in counter before joining Bahvan at a shabby little chai stand outside.

‘What will you do?’ he asked.

‘Resign.’

He shook his head. ‘You will never get him that way.’

‘Inspector, I’m not a knight in shining armour.’ She rubbed the space between her eyes. ‘I’m just a lowly constable.’

‘The same as I was.’ He sent her a stare filled with challenge. ‘But you are not alone. You have Scotland Yard, SOCO, the Metropolitan Police. Even Customs. Sharma does not own all of them, as he does here.’

A picture of Benedict’s lips blistering with kerosene flashed across her retinas. Her throat convulsed. ‘I can’t risk it.’

‘Then you will be like me.’ He kept his eyes on hers. ‘You will hate yourself. You will not be able to look at yourself in a mirror without shame. You will lie and cheat yourself into thinking you have no choice, and you will rot from the inside out.’

She was unable to tear her gaze from the depths of his deep brown eyes.

‘I am meeting a man in Kathmandu tomorrow,’ Bahvan said in the same steady tone. ‘He will be helping me find Sharma’s smuggling route into Europe.’

Bahvan talked her through his mission, naming a couple of smugglers he was going to pick up to interrogate as well as who would be working with him. ‘I am not the only person who wishes to see the Viper destroyed.’

Her brain began to thud to the rhythm from a nearby radio that was playing.

‘I will be needing you to co-ordinate the police in the UK,’ he continued. ‘Colleagues you know you can trust. I am thinking a simultaneous raid on Sharma and his associates, from Delhi to London. We must cut off the head of this monster, but it will be even better if we cut off its arms and legs as well.’

The world felt as though it was inclining by forty degrees. ‘You want to fight Sharma?’

He gave her a cool stare. ‘I tried once, and I lost. But now I have an ally I can trust, I want to fight again.’

‘But what if Sharma finds out?’ Her voice was high-pitched and panicky. ‘He says he’s got friends in the police… Do you know who they are?’

‘Sharma has often said there is more than one on his payroll, but he has never mentioned any names.’

He looked horrifyingly unconcerned. Her alarm grew. ‘But what about your family?’

‘They have gone to Mumbai.’ He gave a small smile. ‘They are pretending it is a holiday, but they know it is because I have, finally, stopped running from the snake.’

She thought of her own desperate attempt to get Benedict and her mother into hiding. ‘Won’t Sharma find them?’

‘Eventually.’ His gaze turned inward. ‘We must act fast.’

And get Sharma, before he got them. That was what he meant.

She held his eyes as she put out her hand. His grip was firm and strong. He was putting all his trust in her, a British police officer, to help him bring one of the world’s largest and most powerful smuggling lords down.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But I can’t help you.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

On her return to Heathrow Kira walked through Customs without a second glance. She didn’t see the families and lovers greeting one another, or the plethora of airport workers conducting their business; porters, sweepers, security staff.

All she could see was the inspector’s expression when she’d turned to go.

It was a bottomless ocean of deep compassion, and every drop was for her.

She’d found it unbearable.

Numbly, she walked out of the terminal, heading for the line of bus stops. She’d put Zareen’s mobile in the mail before she’d left India and bought another in duty free. After she’d downloaded everything that had been on her stolen phone from the Cloud, and transferred her number across to her new phone, she tried Benedict, but he didn’t answer. Instead, she got his message service, which he’d personalised since she last heard it. Leave a message if you’re my wife otherwise go fuck yourself.

Holy cow, she hoped nobody was going to ring him when that was on. His agent would have heart failure.

She told him when she hoped to arrive in Bristol, and as she pocketed the phone, she became aware of footsteps walking briskly behind her, catching her up. Someone in a hurry.

A car blared its horn, making her flinch as it veered wildly around a black Ford that had jammed on its brakes just ahead. The rear door of the Ford opened, but nobody emerged. The cadence of the footsteps picked up and she spun around, alarm rising. Two men appeared on either side of her, both in dark suits and wrap-around sunglasses.

‘Police,’ one of them murmured. ‘Please, constable. If you would get in the car.’

‘ID,’ she snapped.

Both men reached in their breast pockets and produced warrant cards. Both were from Special Ops.

‘Dammit,’ she said on an adrenalin fuelled laugh, ‘I thought you guys were about to kidnap me!’

‘If we were going to do that,’ one of them said, ‘you’d be in the boot and halfway to Scotland by now.’ His voice was totally devoid of humour.

She climbed into the back of the Ford. While one cop joined her in the back, the other took the front. The instant the doors were closed, the driver immediately pulled into the traffic.

‘Where are we going?’

‘New Scotland Yard.’

Nerves ticking, Kira was collected from reception by the same civilian girl with the black braid and escorted, once again, into the lift to the fourth floor. The meeting room was the same, but this time there was coffee. Kira drank two cups straight down, hoping it might help clear her head from the fog that seemed to have occupied it since Asif’s death.

Chief Inspector Jaspal from the CBI was there, along with Superintendent Walker and Superintendent Demmien from Interpol, but there was no sign of Sergeant Rossdale or Marc, her allies. Just her and the big cheeses. To her surprise they all shook hands with her. Walker said, ‘Welcome back,’ and then everyone took their seats. Three of them on one side of the table, Kira on the other.

‘So,’ said Walker, picking up a pen and twirling it between his fingers. ‘How did it go in Bihar?’

For a second, Asif’s laughing face flashed across her vision. His nut-brown face was split with his wide grin, his skinny legs leaping and bounding down the dusty street.

‘Constable?’ Walker was frowning. ‘Are you all right?’

Asif’s face abruptly vanished.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ To her relief, her voice sounded steady. Casual, no tension. ‘A bit tired perhaps.’

‘How did your intelligence-gathering go?’

‘Disappointing. Nobody’s saying much over there. It’s just as you said. Everyone’s too scared. Even the police are tight-lipped.’

‘You didn’t get his name? The Viper?’

As he said the word Viper, a peculiar sense of calm descended over her, detaching her from her surroundings and tucking her feelings into a dispassionate box. The last time she’d felt this way was when she’d faced a burglar crouched in an unlit corridor, clutching a bowie knife and yelling he’d slit her throat if she came any closer.

‘Put it this way: I had more chance of flying in the Artemis mission this weekend than finding out who he is.’

There was a brief silence while they digested her flippant statement. Then Walker said quietly, ‘Please, in your own words. Run us through your assignment.’

Kira carefully ran through everything, her meeting Inspector Bahvan and his two constables, the tour of the reserve, seeing Chambal. She edited heavily as she went, and as she spoke, the shadow of Asif hovered at the corners of her vision.

Finally, when she got to Chambal’s warning that it was known she was a police officer – her excuse for returning home so soon – she came to a halt.

‘Your cover was blown,’ Walker remarked.

‘I don’t know if I really had a cover to start with. Chambal said–’ she raised her hands to make quote marks with her fingers ‘– that “everyone knew even before I arrived”.’

‘Fuck.’ It was Demmien. He was opening and closing his fists as though wanting to punch someone, but Jaspal and Walker remained steely calm.

‘What about smuggling routes?’ Walker asked. ‘Anything there?’

Kira turned her Styrofoam cup around, thinking fast. She couldn’t come back completely empty-handed. It might look suspicious. ‘Mostly through the Nepalese border. Maoist rebels.’ She gave him the name of a town Bahvan had mentioned, and two smugglers involved.

‘It’s not much.’ Walker tapped the backs of his knuckles with his pen, regarding her thoughtfully. ‘I really hoped you’d find something we could get our teeth into.’

‘You didn’t hear anything about the Crossed Guns shipment?’ A spasm of anger twisted Demmien’s features. ‘Over five million pounds worth of goods gets nicked, and nobody knows who by? Let alone where it went?’

Kira said nothing.

Demmien’s eyes narrowed into mean little slits. ‘Are you sure you’re telling us everything?’

A high-pitched whistling started in her ears. Oh, shit. Had he seen through her? She had to be so careful.

There was a short, intense silence as Demmien considered her. Then he said, ‘Something happened out there, didn’t it?’

The whistling increased. She had to force herself not to lick her lips and give herself away.

‘Nothing happened,’ she said calmly. ‘It was, in all honesty, a bit of a wasted trip.’

Long silence.

‘What are you not telling us?’ Demmien asked. ‘Is it to do with the inspector? Or is it something else?’

Infinitesimally, each man moved forward, their attention sharpening.

Her mouth was as dry as sand. She hadn’t lied directly, not yet, but the time was looming when she would have to. And after the first lie would come a second, and then a third. Lies were like ants; they were never on their own.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’m tired. I didn’t sleep particularly well when I was there, plus I’ve had a long flight–’

‘Bullshit,’ said Demmien.

‘I went out there and asked questions, okay? If you’re not happy with what I–’

‘Damned right we’re not happy.’

Another lengthy silence. Sweat was prickling beneath her arms, but she didn’t move. Outside, the engines of taxis and buses mingled into a single low hum. She stared at the table, unable to work out what to do next. Get up and leave? Sit and brazen it out?

‘Constable.’ It was Walker, all steely gaze and cold voice. ‘If we find your loyalty has been compromised…’

‘Your career will be finished,’ Jaspal said.

‘Fuck that,’ Demmien said, cracking his knuckles. ‘If she’s switched sides, I will personally hunt her down and shoot her.’

‘I haven’t switched sides,’ she said. Her voice trembled with the truth. ‘I swear I’ve always been on your side. Our side. Please, believe me.’

All three of them fixed their eyes on her.

Their expressions told her they didn’t believe a word.

* * *

Her legs still felt weak when she clambered out of the train at Bristol Temple Meads. The sky was grey and spattering rain. Cars had their headlights on, and people on the pavements walked with their heads tucked low between their shoulders, hunched against the weather.

It wasn’t particularly cold, but she was shivering. She’d feel warmer if she ate something, but she doubted she’d be able to keep anything down. She couldn’t get Asif out of her mind. His burned and swollen eyelids, the blisters erupting on his lips, inside his lungs, the lining of his stomach.

She didn’t dare risk her family suffering the same fate, but it didn’t help her come to terms with the fact she’d failed in her duties as a police officer.

She’d lied by omission, and the three chiefs knew it.

Kira climbed into the back of a taxi uncaring of the driver’s stares. Her eyes were red from weeping, her mouth swollen. Cops were trained to handle difficult situations, to talk people down from heights of screaming fear or aggression, but she hadn’t been trained to handle this terrifying aftermath of emotions.

‘Where to?’ the driver asked.

‘Southville,’ she replied.

‘You going home?’ He was watching her anxiously. A stranger concerned for another stranger’s welfare.

‘To my mother’s.’

He gave a nod of satisfaction and if she hadn’t felt so desperate, so emotionally wrecked, she would have smiled. He obviously thought it was the best place for her.

When the cab drove down her mother’s street, she checked it carefully, looking out for anyone that shouldn’t be there. She didn’t see anyone suspicious, but that didn’t mean Sharma didn’t have someone in place in one of the houses. He had enough power and money to buy the whole terrace if he wanted.

Her mother’s house looked completely normal. Except for the fact all the windows were shut and the curtains drawn, and that the garden path was covered in huge piles of dog excrement.

Her mother had obviously been waiting for her, peeking past one of the curtains, because Kira had barely opened the latch gate when she came running down the garden path, uncaring about the dog dos, and pulled Kira into a hug.

‘Darling, thank God you’re safe.’ Her words were muffled, buried in Kira’s shoulder. ‘I’ve been so worried.’

Normally Kira would wriggle and squirm, trying to break free, but this time she hugged her mother back. She was surprised to smell fresh roses on her mother’s skin, she’d always thought of her smelling of household cleaner.

‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she choked. ‘It all turned out to be rather messy. I didn’t mean to put you through it.’

Her mother leaned back, surprised. Kira had never apologised over her job before. ‘That’s perfectly all right.’ She smiled as she touched Kira’s cheek. ‘It’s what mothers are for, to worry and fret about their babies. We wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves otherwise.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

‘Let me fix you something to eat,’ her mother said. ‘You look half-starved.’ Walking carefully back up the path, her body turned stiff with disapproval. ‘All this mess–’ she waved a hand at the dog dos ‘–is Benedict’s idea. He said nobody with half a brain would try and grab us when they saw the size of those things.’

‘He’s right,’ Kira said. ‘Burglars rarely break into a house with a dog, even if it’s just a mini schnauzer. Nobody wants to get bitten. Where is Ben, by the way?’

‘Oh, he’s upstairs.’ Her mother checked the bottom of her shoes before opening the front door. ‘He’s turned my bedroom into a studio. Apparently, the light in the spare room wasn’t good enough. I have to say, darling–’ she paused to look Kira in the eye ‘–that I didn’t appreciate quite how… difficult your husband could be until now.’

‘Really.’ Kira’s tone turned dry.

Her mother sighed. ‘Yes, really.’

Dumping her suitcase in the hall, Kira hung her jacket on a hook and followed her mother inside. As she walked down the corridor, an excited snuffling noise came through the crack between the carpet and the dining room door, which was followed by a loud, angry sounding snarl. ‘Brutus is in there with Tigger,’ Mum said. ‘I’ll let them out in a minute.’

In the kitchen, her mother plucked the kettle off its base and ran water into it at the sink. ‘I rang Angus, I hope you don’t mind.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘That you called from Bihar, and that he might be in danger.’

‘I bet that pleased him.’

‘He’s very practical, your brother. He barely turned a hair. He said it was a great excuse for an impromptu family holiday. They’ve gone wilderness trekking in Far Northern Queensland.’

‘Good grief.’

‘Well, darling…’ Her mother looked uncomfortable. ‘You did rather frighten us.’

‘Actually, I’m glad.’ Kira was sincere. ‘Because even though I’m pretty sure they’re safe in Australia, I won’t have to worry about them.’

‘That’s what Ben and I thought.’ She spooned coffee granules into cups, clearing her throat. ‘You visited Khandar, Ben tells me.’

Before Kira could answer, there was a shout from upstairs followed by thundering footsteps on the stairs, and then Benedict came hurtling into the kitchen, face alight. He scooped Kira into his arms and spun her in a circle, whooping just like her father used to. Winding her arms around his neck she let him carry her triumphantly around the kitchen table.

‘Thank you, God!’ he bellowed. ‘Thank you for bringing her home safe!’

Kira hadn’t thought she’d ever smile again after holding Asif in her arms while he died, and although she didn’t smile now, Ben’s exuberance sent so many shafts of vivid yellow sunshine through her grey cloud of misery, she knew she would one day.

Ducking his head, Ben pushed his nose into the side of her neck and breathed deeply.

‘You smell like shit,’ he said.

‘So do you.’

‘Oh, good.’ A wicked gleam crept into his eye. ‘Does this mean we can share a shower?’

‘Benedict,’ her mother scolded, ‘leave the poor girl alone. Can’t you see she’s exhausted?’

‘Is she?’ He looked surprised. ‘I thought she was looking rather gorgeous.’

‘Sit down, both of you,’ her mother said, already beginning to bustle, ‘while I fix us something to eat.’

Obediently they sat at the kitchen table and watched Kira’s mother start to prepare a mountain of macaroni cheese, Kira’s favourite comfort food from childhood. Benedict held Kira’s hand as though if he didn’t, she might disappear.

‘So,’ said Benedict, attention riveted to Kira. ‘Are you going to tell us what’s going on?’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘Why?’

‘It’ll only put you in more danger. Anyone who knows the whole story gets killed.’

Benedict swallowed. ‘What, like that little boy?’

‘Yes.’

Nobody spoke while her mother grated what appeared to be several pounds of cheese and stirred it into the sauce.

Quietly, her mother said, ‘I still think you should tell us.’

‘No.’

‘Darling, do you really want us to go into hiding somewhere ghastly without knowing why?’

‘Yes, Mum, that’s exactly what I want you to do.’

‘Well, we won’t do it, will we, Benedict?’ Her voice was firm. ‘Not unless you tell us what’s going on.’

To Kira’s dismay, Benedict said, ‘I agree.’ He sounded as though he was making an oath, and when they both turned and looked at her expectantly, Kira knew she didn’t have a choice. When her mother and husband ganged up, they became a formidable force.

‘Okay, okay.’ She held up her hands. ‘It’s a case I’ve been working on. Trying to find a missing person called Oliver Stroud, who witnessed a triple murder in 2009. One of the victims was an undercover officer.’

‘Good heavens.’ Her mother paused. ‘And?’

Kira explained about the Crossed Guns shooting, and finished by saying, ‘It was reported as a drug deal gone wrong, but it wasn’t. The killing was over a shipment of a hundred dead tigers.’

‘Tigers?’ Mum repeated. Her voice was faint, but Kira didn’t think too much of it. Tigers hadn’t been discussed under their roof since their father had disappeared.

‘This is where it gets interesting.’ Kira explained about the illegal wildlife trade and moved on to how she’d got a lead from Benedict’s friend, Fateh, to the Emporium, which in turn led her to being briefed by three police chiefs at New Scotland Yard.

‘They sent me to India to find the head of the smuggling ring. They don’t know his real name. He’s just known as the Viper.’

The second she said the word Viper, her mother’s whole body jerked, as though she’d been shot through the heart.

‘Mum, what the–’

Her mother stepped back, both hands raised. ‘I’m quite all right,’ she said. ‘I touched the hot plate, that’s all. Burnt myself.’

Kira stared. She hadn’t been near the stove, had she? ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

Kira watched her mother run her hand under the cold tap before returning to stir the sauce. ‘I’m sorry, I interrupted you. What were you saying?’

‘Have you heard of the Viper before?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, Kira. I’m sure.’ She turned to look at Kira. Her gaze was cool and clear, and completely at odds with the twin red spots that had suddenly appeared on her cheeks.

Kira tried to clamp her alarm, but warning bells were ringing at top volume and almost deafening her. ‘Didn’t Dad ever mention him? I mean Dad was hell on poachers. He would have heard of the Viper, surely.’

‘He never said.’ Her mother’s voice was taut.

‘Not even when he employed extra guards at the reserve to combat the poaching?’

‘Never.’

There was a taut silence. Her mother’s icy blue eyes didn’t waver from Kira’s, but the twin red spots were still there. Kira couldn’t think what to say next. Her brain seemed to have seized up.

‘Ten minutes until it’s ready.’ Her mother moved to mix the sauce with the cooked pasta and poured it into a Pyrex dish. Sprinkled more cheese on top. ‘Benedict, if you could lay the table.’

Kira stared at her mother as she popped the dish into the oven. The twin red spots on her cheeks were still blazing. The twin red spots that Kira and Angus had learned all about from a very young age, that told them when their mother was lying.

Kira went and stood in front of her mother. ‘Mum, why are you lying?’

She drew herself tall. Her eyes were cold. ‘None of your business.’

‘None of my business?’ Kira repeated. ‘Fucking hell, Mum, the Viper has just killed a little boy by pouring kerosene down his throat, remember? He won’t hesitate to do the same to you and Benedict if he sees fit. You have got to tell me–’

‘I don’t have to tell you anything,’ her mother spat. Her expression was so intent, so unrelentingly fierce, that Kira took a step back. ‘I told your father I didn’t want that man’s name mentioned in my house then, and I will not tolerate it now.’

Suddenly, Kira felt incredibly stupid. ‘Dad knew the Viper?’

Her mother threw her head back and looked at the ceiling briefly before dropping her gaze to meet Kira’s. ‘I refuse to discuss this. Get used to it.’

With that, her mother spun on her heel and made to stalk out of the room, but Kira caught her arm. She tried to snatch it out of her grasp, but Kira simply gripped harder.

‘Let go,’ her mother bit out.

‘No, not until you–’

‘Hey, girls.’ Benedict was on his feet, palms spread. ‘Cool it before someone–’

‘Stay out of it,’ Kira snapped. ‘This is between Mum and me.’

Her mother said crisply, ‘If you think bullying me is going to work, then you’re–’

‘I’m not bullying you. I’m just making sure you can’t run away before I get some answers.’

‘How dare you accuse me of running away when you have absolutely no idea what I was going through!’

Her mother’s cool facade had slipped. She glared at Kira, rage and pain streaming from her, hot as lava, and Kira knew her mother was deep in the past, reliving something only she could see.

Immediately, Kira softened. ‘Then tell me, Mum. Tell me what you were going through.’

‘You wouldn’t understand. You were so unkind, so cruel to me when we moved. You hated me!’

‘I didn’t hate you!’ Kira protested, but it had a hollow ring to it that made her mother rear backwards, eyes wide.

‘You didn’t talk to me for a month! Don’t you remember I had to talk to you through Angus? Ask Angus if he could ask you to please pass the salt? Ask Angus to ask you how your new school was going? I just about tore my hair out over you! You made my life hell!’

‘Well, I’m sorry I caused you such trouble,’ Kira aid stiffly. ‘It’s not like I was missing my father or anything.’

‘He was my husband!’ she shouted. ‘You think I wasn’t going mad with worry for him? That I didn’t feel sick every time I imagined what might have happened to him?’

‘He probably left you because he was fed up with being yelled at!’

‘Shut up, Kira! When I think of all I went through for you, all the times I put up a front and pretended nothing was wrong so as to keep your little world as secure as possible when inside I was dying inside. Didn’t it ever cross your mind that I was protecting you?’

‘Oh, stop with the bleeding heart, will you? You wouldn’t know how to protect a hamster if you tried!’

Her mother raised her hand and for a moment Kira thought she was going to hit her.

‘STOP!’ thundered Benedict, materialising between them. ‘My darling girls, what a to-do! Are we going to sit down and talk this through sensibly, like adults? Or shall I go and buy some cream cakes for you to chuck at one another?’

Kira took a deep breath and made a huge attempt to calm herself. ‘Okay, Mum. Let’s start with: what were you protecting me from?’

Silence.

‘Was it the Viper?’

Kira suddenly realised that her mother’s eyes were shining with tears. She put out a hand. ‘Mum, please…’

‘But I promised your father…’ She shut her mouth with a snap, then said in a shaking voice, ‘I think we need a drink.’

‘Amen to that,’ agreed Benedict on a sigh.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Kira sat next to Benedict at the kitchen table with a tumbler of whisky in one hand, and a Doberman’s ear in the other. Brutus, it transpired, was a sucker for ear massages, but only after he’d been formally introduced. Kira had no doubt if he caught anyone he didn’t know invading his turf he’d become the doggy equivalent of a heat-seeking missile. With teeth.

Her mother had spent five minutes in the bathroom upstairs and came down with her mascara and blusher reapplied and her composure restored. Benedict, on the other hand, had spent those five minutes absorbed in finding an expensive thirty-year-old bottle of Macallan he’d spotted two Christmases ago, and after her mum had pecked Kira’s cheek, and Kira had pecked her mother’s back, he’d returned from the sitting room, triumphantly waving the whisky bottle, which still had a strip of tinsel clinging to its neck.

‘Mum,’ said Kira. ‘Talk me through it. The Viper. Why Dad disappeared. What really happened.’

There was a pause. Her mother uncrossed her ankles, then crossed them the other way. She kept her gaze averted. ‘He made me swear on my life never to tell you.’

‘It’s gone too far for that,’ Kira tried to persuade her. She looked at the far wall, at a framed photograph of herself and Angus, taken when they were small and splashing in a paddling pool, grinning toothy grins. ‘I have to know so I can protect us. Protect Angus.’

‘It’s been so long, darling.’

‘Mum…’ Kira’s voice was warning.

‘He left to stop that man from coming after us,’ she blurted.

‘The Viper?’

She gulped some whisky, and exhaled.

‘Your father tried to stop him destroying the tigers. You know how passionate he was… He never told me what he’d planned, but one thing I do know is that your father flew some of the Viper’s contraband into the UK a couple of times, to gain his trust. I think he tried to lure the Viper into believing he was so broke he’d be prepared to sell some of his tigers… He may have tried to trap the Viper that way. Or tried to record the transaction so it could be used in evidence in court… but whatever happened, his plan backfired.’

‘The Viper came after him?’

She nodded. ‘Your father came home late on Wednesday evening. You and Angus were asleep. He was cold and unsmiling. Hard. He frightened me.’

Kira could see a faint glitter of tears but when she made to get up, her mother put up a hand and Kira sank back.

‘He told me that if I didn’t do as he said, the Viper would take you and Angus and kill you. He wouldn’t say why, but I believed him. He said he had to leave the next morning and that if he didn’t come back, I had to lie. To tell everyone, including the police, that he was under such a lot of stress financially, that he… he… might have…’

‘Taken his own life,’ Kira said for her, gently as she could.

‘Yes.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘It was the only way to keep us all safe.’

Just like Oliver, thought Kira, who changed his identity to protect himself, and then his family. Her father had done the same.

Her mother took another slug of whisky. Put down her glass. ‘So I lied and lied and lied. And it worked.’ She gave an unsteady smile. ‘Nothing happened to us.’

Kira was very still. ‘Until now.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where did Dad go that Thursday?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘He just jumped in his aeroplane and flew away?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think he’s alive?’

Her mother looked straight at Kira. Her eyes were filled with an aching sorrow. She whispered, ‘No.’

Kira felt Benedict take her hand in his and hold it tightly. She waited to feel a rush of deep grief for her father, but instead her heart dragged with regret that she hadn’t appreciated or understood her mother for so long.

Softly, Kira said, ‘You didn’t tell anyone about the Viper?’

‘Your father insisted. He told me I couldn’t trust the police.’

‘Oh, Mum. How awful.’

‘I did it for you. And your brother.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘And I’d do it all over again, if I had to.’

Kira couldn’t imagine how alone her mother must have felt. How powerless and frightened. But she hadn’t cracked. She’d swept her children to the safest place she knew and hadn’t breathed a word to jeopardise their safety. Her mother had an inner strength that would make the Clifton Suspension Bridge look weak. Mum hadn’t just survived her husband’s disappearance, she’d carried the burden of his legacy, lying and deceiving everyone, including her own family. Dad had instilled in Mum the fact that even a little knowledge could be a dangerous thing.

Just as Oliver had instilled the same fear in Sherry.

Kira thought of Michael Sharma and his criminal tentacles slithering around the world, his violence, and got up and crossed the kitchen to kneel by her mother’s feet. She rested her head in her mother’s lap, something she hadn’t done since she was a child.

‘You did good, Mum. Thanks.’

She felt her mother’s hand like a blessing on her hair. She knew she was smiling.

* * *

‘Craigellachie?’ Benedict said. ‘Where the hell’s that?’

‘It’s near Dufftown,’ her mother told him.

His eyes lit up. ‘What, near the Glenfiddich distillery?’

‘The one and the same.’ Mum sounded weary. She was packing what appeared to be the entire contents of the kitchen into boxes, as though there might not be any shops in Scotland. Her mother had arranged for herself and Benedict to stay with a friend of hers, deep in the highlands until Kira gave them the all-clear. Quite when that would be, she didn’t know. She had yet to form any sort of plan, but at the moment the task at the top of the list read: resign.

She watched her mother wedge a jar of honey next to a box of muesli, not entirely sure if she would leave when the time came. Kira got the feeling Mum was pretending to go into hiding to keep her happy, and that at the last minute she would dig in her heels. She went over and touched her mother’s shoulder. ‘I’m going to duck home,’ she told her. ‘Pick up some stuff.’

She had agreed to stay with them until they were ready to go the next morning, at first light.

‘Okay, darling.’ Her mother came and kissed her cheek. ‘See you in a bit.’

As she let herself out of the house Benedict yelled after her, ‘Watch your back!’

* * *

Kira tipped the taxi and walked up the front path. Her bike hulked menacingly in the shadows, like a mechanical monster. She went and had a look to see the rear fender needed respraying but otherwise, it was in pretty decent shape. Bless Benedict for getting it fixed. Walking up the steps, her feet dragged. She felt as though she hadn’t slept for days. It took her a full minute to locate her keys.

Inside, the air was cold and still. She turned on the heating and surveyed the mess. It was obvious the house had been abandoned in a hurry. There were waterproofs, coats and scarves dumped on the hallway floor where Benedict had searched the hooks. A trail of clothes showed he had tried to pack on the move. Underpants and socks spilled from drawers; shirts lay crumpled on the floor and along the corridor. God alone knew what he’d taken in the end. Fifteen pairs of pants and a fleece from the look of things.

Ignoring the mess, Kira went straight upstairs to the bathroom and stripped off. Turned the shower on full. She stood beneath the jets of hot water, trying to concentrate on soaping herself, shampooing her hair, desperate to stop thinking about Asif. The way he’d trembled in her arms, gasping to drag oxygen into his ruined lungs.

What a goddamned, unholy mess. She couldn’t think how to sort it out. Her father had tried to stop Sharma and failed. Was he really dead? Or was he eternally on the run to protect his family? Should she follow in her father’s footsteps and risk her family to try and bring Sharma down? Or should she simply do nothing and live in Sharma’s shadow for the rest of her life?

Stepping out of the shower, she towelled herself dry. Wrapped herself in Benedict’s stolen fluffy bath robe and trailed to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine.

She nearly dropped her glass when the doorbell rang.

Shit, fuck. Kira shoved the glass aside, slopping wine over her wrist but she barely noticed. She was moving to the living room window, where she could see who it was.

Shit, fuck.

It was her DI.

Kira went to the door and opened it. She purposely left the latch on, so they had to talk through an inch of air.

‘What?’ she said. Her tone was curt. Not friendly. Positively unfriendly, in fact.

‘How was the trip?’ asked Marc. All she could see of him was one grey eye.

‘Tiring.’

‘Any chance we could talk?’

‘Look, I only got home an hour ago. Can we do this tomorrow?’

‘I’d rather do it now.’

‘I’m not dressed.’

‘I’ll come back in ten minutes.’

The eye disappeared and the next second she saw Marc walking down the front path. He was wearing commando black and a pair of big, no-nonsense boots. Kira didn’t stop to watch him any further but pelted upstairs. She didn’t blow-dry her hair or bother with any of the niceties. She was in combats and leather jacket – her mobile rammed in her back pocket – and haring for her bike in less than two minutes. No way did she have the energy to withstand Marc tonight. He’d be furious when he returned to find her gone, but she had more important things to worry about than her DI’s sensibilities.

She didn’t bother checking the bikes levels. Just clambered on board, yanked on her helmet, and pushed the key in the ignition. She was about to fire the engine when a hand clamped over hers.

‘Trying to avoid me, constable?’

Desperately she looked around as though hoping for a miracle to save her.

‘We can do this the nice way,’ Marc said coolly, ‘or the nasty way. Which would you prefer?’

She cringed. ‘Neither?’

‘Shall we go inside now you’re dressed?’

‘Okay.’ Her voice was meek.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Sitting by the window at the breakfast table, Kira watched Marc pour himself a glass of wine and bring it over. He folded himself into the chair opposite and stretched out his legs. His eyes never left hers.

‘Superintendent Demmien rang me this afternoon.’

‘I’m sure that made your day.’

‘He’s concerned about you.’

‘He’s a shit.’

Marc surveyed her steadily. ‘That may well be, but he’s a good cop.’

Kira shrugged.

‘What, exactly, did you get up to in India?’

‘Oh, this and that,’ she prevaricated.

‘Kira.’ His voice held a low warning. ‘You look like hell. You’ve lost weight, and you’ve got dirty great black rings around your eyes that tells me you’ve barely slept, so don’t bullshit me, okay?’

She blinked rapidly to hide her confusion. Why was it Marc could see her, really see her, and Benedict couldn’t?

‘Kira?’ he prompted. The warning tone thickened.

Swallowing, she decided she’d better give Marc something or he’d never leave. ‘Well, the good news is that I got to see Khandar, my grandfather’s old place. And an old friend of mine I knew when I was a kid.’

‘Zareen,’ he said. ‘You used to play together.’

Her skin contracted. She hadn’t mentioned Zareen to him. Not once, not ever.

‘How do you know about Zareen?’ She tried to sound casual, but her words were loud with alarm.

‘You told me about Zareen when, ah…’ He raised his hands and let them fall. ‘We were in Wales. Knackered after a day’s sea kayaking if I remember correctly. You said you were best friends for half your childhood.’

‘Oh.’

He has one hell of a memory, she thought. And it proved he was one hell of a listener. Most people tuned out when you started talking about your childhood – she certainly did.

‘So how is Zareen?’ Marc was frowning at her. ‘She doing okay?’

Kira felt a sudden urge to say no, Zareen wasn’t okay, nothing was okay, everything was tits up and she was petrified to the roots of her soul, but her mouth wouldn’t work.

‘Kira?’

She forced her gaze to the window. Concentrated on a car parking outside the school, reversing lights glaring white through the darkness.

‘Kira.’ His tone was gentle. ‘What happened out there? Something did, that’s obvious. Tell me, will you?’

She could trust Marc. He would help her. He was strong and honest, and reliable as hell.

Sharma’s voice snaked through her mind. If I hear you telling anyone about our little meeting… I shall take your friends one by one, and I will personally pour the petrol into each of their stomachs and drop the match in their mouths.

Kira swayed in her chair. She felt as though she was about to topple into a chasm deep as the Grand Canyon, but she knew one thing: if she lied to her DI, it was the beginning of the end.

She had to resign.

She opened her mouth to say the words, but nothing came out.

‘What is it?’ Marc was watching her apprehensively.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ She got to her feet. She felt dizzy, her legs soft as molten wax. ‘I don’t feel very well. If you’ll excuse me… I must have caught a bug on the plane.’

She ignored the way his brow furrowed and, holding herself tight, walked upstairs and into the main bathroom. Put the loo lid down and sat on top. Pushed her head in her hands. She was trembling all over. She hated herself for it. She had never felt so alone.

Kira sat there trying not to cry – cops don’t cry for fucksake – wondering what the hell to do. Then she rang her mother.

‘Mum, when Dad disappeared, how did you cope?’

‘I didn’t.’

She gave a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘That’s not what I wanted to hear.’

‘Where are you, darling?’

‘I’m at home. In the loo.’

‘Tell me what’s going on.’

‘My DI’s downstairs, asking questions. I don’t know what to do.’ Tears thickened her throat. ‘I just can’t see a way out without people getting hurt. I want to resign, but I can’t seem to do it.’

‘It sounds as though you’re doing the best you can.’

‘But I’m not doing anything!’ Kira wailed.

‘Yes, you are. You’re living. You’re breathing. I’ll tell you what I used to do, shall I? I took each day as it came. I didn’t look into the future. Not even to the next morning. The furthest I planned was putting you and Angus to bed at night. Sometimes I couldn’t even think that far, and when that happened, I took each hour at a time.’

So that’s what Kira did. She looked at her watch – 6.33pm – and told herself she just had to get to seven thirty. That was all. Just get through the hour.

When she came downstairs, Marc was pacing the kitchen like a caged animal, dragging his hands back and forth through his hair and making it stick up in tufts.

‘Kira,’ he said when he saw her. ‘Are you all right? You look…’

He swung round as her phone began to ring.

She hurried to answer it. ‘Hello?’ The line was hollow and crackling with static, sounding as though someone was calling her from the moon. ‘Hello?’ she said again, louder.

‘Constable Connal?’

Her stomach swooped. ‘Bahvan?’

‘You can talk?’

She flicked a gaze at Marc, then away. ‘Yes, I can talk.’ She checked her watch to see it was midnight in India.

Bahvan didn’t waste any time with niceties. He plunged right in. ‘My contact in Nepal tells me small items are smuggled by personal couriers. I think you already know this… friends and family putting contraband in their luggage or in their handbags. The bigger shipments are sent by truck… the very expensive items – drugs and rhino horns and such things – are flown from Kathmandu into Europe, it is safer this way. Trucks are sometimes stopped, but small aircraft almost never. I am in Budapest at the moment. Eastern Europe…’ The line started to break up.

‘Bahvan, I’m losing you…’

‘…many bribes. A man here remembers Sharma very well. His brother skimmed some money off a shipment to Moscow. Sharma took him and doused him with petrol and set him alight. This man watched his brother die… He tells me he remembers the pilot was British…’

More static while Kira stood with the phone pressed against her head, eyes squeezed shut as she tried to hear what he was saying.

‘…Sharma used to use a remote airfield somewhere on the western coast of the UK, but when this became known to the police – he was betrayed by someone on the inside – he now uses another…’

A rush of static swallowed his words.

‘Bahvan?’ she said. ‘You still there?’

Another roar of static, and suddenly his voice came through at twice the volume.

‘The airfield he is using is called Ocknell.’ He spelt it out. ‘Is that right?’

‘It’s near the south coast.’ She’d flown there with her father once, dropping off and collecting someone from a country house hotel nearby. It wasn’t an airfield as much as a farm strip with a couple of hangars. Secluded, no neighbours but within spitting distance of London. Pretty perfect for a spot of smuggling.

‘You will co-ordinate international police? Get them working together?’

‘Bahvan, I’ve only just got back and I–’

Before she got any further, the line disconnected. She put the phone back in its cradle as carefully as though it was a live grenade. Stood looking at it.

Oh, fuck.

She’d hoped Bahvan wouldn’t go ahead when she said she wouldn’t help him. She’d half-hoped he’d go back to being Sharma’s pet cop, and that she wouldn’t have to worry about him or his family.

She could hear the inspector’s voice as if he stood next to her.

We must cut off the head of this monster, but it will be even better if we cut off its arms and legs as well.

Bahvan was out there, fighting the monster on his own. Kira put a hand over her eyes. She wanted to weep.

‘Kira, who is Bahvan?’

She spun round. She’d forgotten Marc was there. Walking past him, she went to the window and looked out. If Sharma knew Bahvan was on his trail, he would think she was involved. Her heart was hammering as she studied the street. Sharma might be coming after her right this minute. She crossed the kitchen and picked up the phone. Dialled.

‘Mum? I want you and Ben to leave now. Not tomorrow. Now, okay?’

‘What’s happened?’

‘I’ve just heard from a colleague in India…’ She glanced at Marc. ‘I’ll explain later, okay? Ring me when you’re on the road.’

‘Darling, we’re on our way.’ Her mother’s voice was brisk. ‘But promise me, Kira. No heroics like your father. I don’t want to lose you too.’

When Kira hung up her fingers were trembling. What to do now? Should she run, or stand her ground? Her father had tried to fight Sharma, and lost, but she had police resources, a whole task force on her side, the Met, SOCO, Customs and everyone in between. If she didn’t face the Viper down, who else would?

‘Kira?’ Marc was watching her carefully.

‘I can’t stay here,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go to a hotel. Somewhere where I can’t be found.’

She was already moving upstairs to pack, taking the steps two at a time. Energy fizzled through her. It was as though she’d been carrying a sack of bricks on her shoulders for the past week and had just shrugged it off.

She was flinging clothes into a bag when Marc appeared in the doorway.

‘Would you care to explain what the hell’s going on?’

‘No time.’ She zipped up the bag and pushed past him, pounding down the stairs. Turning off the heating, she then grabbed her leathers, helmet, and keys, and opened the front door. ‘After you,’ she told him.

‘Can I give you a lift?’

‘I’d rather take the bike.’

‘With that?’ He gestured at her bag.

‘I’ve done it before.’

Before she could protest, he’d taken the bag from her. ‘Which hotel were you thinking of?’

‘Er…’ She racked her brains for somewhere relatively central that wasn’t too expensive. ‘The Grand?’

‘For God’s sake, Kira, that’s a rat-infested dump. I’m not staying there.’

She stared at him. ‘What?’

‘You really think I’m going to leave you on your own?’ He looked appalled. ‘Besides which, we’ve a lot of talking to do. And I’d like to do it in some sort of comfort.’

He was right. The faster she told him everything, the faster she could get the task force moving to help Bahvan. Get them mobilising police forces in Nepal and India.

‘Okay, then,’ she relented. ‘You decide.’

‘How about my place?’

She blinked.

‘It’s warm and comfortable, and we don’t have to pay a fortune for room service. I’ve got a fridge full of food and can supply tea and coffee, beer and wine on demand.’

Kira hesitated.

Marc rolled his eyes. ‘What’s the problem, Kira? You don’t trust me?’

‘I think it’s an excellent idea,’ she blustered. ‘You do have a spare room, I take it?’

‘Yes, I have a spare room.’ He recited his address. Gestured at a blue Audi parked on the kerbside. ‘I’ll lead the way.’

She’d started her bike and was bumping it off the pavement and onto the street before she suddenly realised she didn’t know if he lived alone or not.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

When Kira arrived at Marc’s, there was no evidence of anyone else. No dirty plates in the kitchen, no smells of cooking. No women’s shoes by the front door, or waterproofs either. Just Marc’s big boots and trainers, fleeces and jackets.

‘Drink?’ he offered.

They sat in his living room, a fake fire flickering to one side, creating a comforting, cosy atmosphere against the somewhat stark surroundings. It was obvious he’d only just moved in. Packing boxes still stood in corners, piles of books waiting to find their way to a shelf. She checked out the few photos dotted around, of Marc with his family and friends, Marc skiing with them, Marc surfing and standing on hill tops; Marc generally being superman active with superman active companions. She couldn’t see any pictures of a significant other in his life. No pictures of blondes gazing adoringly into the camera. It looked as though he was single, as Jenny had said. She wondered why, and then remembered his transfer out of the Met. Maybe he’d moved to make a break from someone.

‘You’re as bad as my mother,’ Marc said.

Her eyes widened in horror. ‘Your mother?’

‘She always checks out my photos to see if I’ve a girlfriend featuring.’

‘I wasn’t checking out your photos,’ she said crossly, wishing he couldn’t see through her. ‘I was thinking you needed a painting to go above your mantelpiece. Preferably a big one. There’s a lot of white space begging for something colourful. Reds and yellows maybe.’

‘We’re not here for you to give me decorating advice.’ His tone was dry.

‘No,’ she agreed.

Between gulps of wine, she filled Marc in on her India trip, taking him through her chats with Zareen and Chambal, then her visit to Khandar, and Michael Sharma. The relief when she said Sharma’s name was exquisite, as though she’d removed a sliver of glass from her heart. Her loquaciousness astonished her. Once embarked she talked quickly, as if describing another officer’s case, almost unstoppable, but when she came to Asif’s death, the pneumatic quivering of the boy in her arms, she faltered.

Marc came to sit beside her. She didn’t move away. She stared into the electric flames, trying to tamp down the grief and remorse rising, but despite her best effort to keep control, the tears began to fall.

She felt Marc’s hand on her upper arm, could feel his grey gaze on her face, and then his arm was around her shoulders, and she was leaning against him, resting her head on his chest. It felt as natural as bread and butter, as strawberries and cream, and she closed her eyes briefly, breathing in the smell of his soap, soothing her pain with the indefinable deeper scent that was him.

‘That’s when Bahvan told me about his daughter.’ Her voice was clogged with tears but cleared as she forced herself to continue. Marc remained motionless aside from the ball of his thumb, which stroked her shoulder gently, repetitively, as she spoke. She didn’t think he knew he was doing it, but she didn’t stop him.

When she came to a halt, he said, ‘Oh, Kira.’ She felt him press a kiss on her hair. ‘Holding that little boy while he died. No wonder you’re in bits.’

There was a long silence while Kira stared at the fire. It was good to feel she wasn’t alone, that Sharma wasn’t her sole responsibility anymore.

‘You don’t know the cops who are in Sharma’s pocket?’ Marc resumed. His thumb was still stroking her shoulder.

‘No. But even Dad told Mum she couldn’t trust the police, and that was twelve years ago.’

‘And they’re still around.’

‘Bahvan said Sharma often speaks about them.’ She was shuddering inside. The unknown traitor – or traitors – scared the crap out of her. Kira imagined them creeping around her house, spying on her, then meeting with Sharma and telling him what she ate, how many times she used the loo, what colour knickers she wore.

Marc gently held her chin and drew her to face him. ‘I can understand you’re scared,’ he said softly. ‘But we’re the good guys, remember? And the good guys always win.’

His mouth was inches from hers. She could feel the warmth of his body through his shirt. She could hear him breathing. If she kissed him, he would taste of wine. Her breathing stalled as she felt a weakening sensation deep inside her, an aching tenderness as though someone was touching her heart.

‘If you keep looking at me like that,’ Marc said evenly, ‘I might have to go and have a cold shower.’

Her body stiffened in his arms. Holy shit! She’d nearly kissed her DI! Face burning, she scrambled to her feet. She’d made a colossal error coming here, she realised. She should have gone to a hotel and seen him the next day in his office. How could she have been so stupid?

Marc got to his feet and leaned indolently against the back of the sofa. He crossed his arms. A grin started to surface. ‘You’re lucky I’m a gentleman. A lesser individual might have taken advantage of a woman in your vulnerable situation, especially when she appears to be so inviting.’

‘I’m not vulnerable,’ she snapped. ‘And I certainly didn’t want to kiss you. I’m married, remember?’

The grin widened. ‘You wanted to kiss me?’

‘I’d rather bathe in raw sewage,’ she told him and, holding herself high, made as dignified an exit as she could into the kitchen with her cheeks flaming red.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Asif haunted Kira’s sleep and he was still there, trembling through her mind when she rolled out of Marc’s spare bed and reached for her phone. Each time she tried to push the vision away, replace it with something else, he would return, dying in her arms all over again.

Kira saw her mother had rung, then Marc, who asked her to ring him when she woke. He had left at 5am. She’d heard him shower and smelled coffee percolating, and she’d been thinking of getting up and joining him when she’d fallen straight back to sleep again, exhaustion dragging her into a pit as bottomless as space. Since Marc’s message didn’t sound particularly urgent, Kira called her mother first.

‘Darling, we’ve arrived safely. We’re just having breakfast.’

Benedict had driven them through the night and her mother sounded exhausted.

‘How are you, Kira?’

‘Fine, Mum.’ As fine as she could be after nearly seducing her boss. What had she been thinking of? Luckily Marc seemed to have taken her aberration in his stride and if she didn’t know she’d been lying in his arms on the sofa last night, she might have believed she’d dreamed it.

Thankfully, after she’d fled into the kitchen, he’d turned briskly professional. He’d rung Superintendents Demmien and Walker, then Sergeant Rossdale and Chief Inspector Jaspal, and kick-started India’s CBI and Interpol into casting their nets to catch Sharma.

Operation Juniper had been christened at midnight and had gathered strength at an impressive rate. The last she’d heard before she’d flaked out in the spare room around 2am was that meetings between police and Customs from London, New Delhi and Kathmandu had been convened, and all troops were being instructed. They expected to start making arrests later today.

Phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, half-listening to her mother describe their overnight journey, Kira peered outside to look down at her DI’s damp, rather overgrown garden. It was another typical wet November day with lashing rain and blustery winds throwing sodden leaves into the air.

‘Do you think they’ll get him?’ Benedict was talking around something crunchy that she took to be a piece of toast. Her mother had put her phone on speakerphone.

‘I hope so.’

‘Me too.’ He swallowed noisily. ‘Are you going to come up here and join us? We’re in the middle of bloody nowhere. Nobody’ll find you up here, you’ll be as safe as houses.’

‘Maybe tomorrow.’

‘The light’s fantastic up here. I’m going to start work the instant I finish breakfast…’

‘You took your paints?’

‘A new canvas too. A big one. It was a bit of a squeeze, but we managed it.’

After they hung up, Kira called Marc.

‘I’ve good news and bad,’ he told her.

‘Fire away.’

‘Michael Sharma arrived in the UK yesterday, but we don’t know where he is.’

Her stomach lurched. ‘Shit.’

‘I’ve already picked up Sherry and Lucy Stroud. They’re waiting here at the station while I arrange a safe house. They won’t, however, tell me where Oliver is. Which means we can’t protect him. Maybe you could use your powers of persuasion?’

Having faced Sharma herself, Kira could quite understand why Oliver was so reluctant to let his whereabouts be known.

Marc said, ‘Shall I get a car to pick you up?’

‘Thanks, boss, but I’ll take my bike.’

When she got to the station, Marc was out but had left instructions for her to use his office. Leaning back in his chair, she put her feet on his desk and rang Bahvan to see how he was going.

‘You have done a good job, constable…’ The line crackled. ‘I have been speaking with Superintendent Demmien. He wants me to help co-ordinate… border. He has given me a rendezvous point with the CBI later today.’

They talked a while longer, about his journey out of Nepal and back to India, how his family were doing – spending a fortune clothes shopping in Mumbai from the sound of it – and as they talked, she realised she could be talking to a different man to the one she’d met in Mohala. Gone was the taciturn, monosyllabic cop with darkness shrouding his soul, and in his place was a strong and decisive police officer. It was amazing, she thought, what happens when you decide to face your demons.

After she’d hung up, there was a knock on the door. A PC stuck his head inside. ‘I’ve the Strouds for you.’

Kira jumped to her feet.

‘Holy crap,’ said Sherry as she gave Kira a hug. ‘You’ve lost a ton of weight. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. I’ve just been a bit busy, that’s all.’

‘Hi, Lucy,’ Kira greeted the girl. ‘How are you?’

‘Good, thanks.’ Lucy was looking around with bright curiosity. ‘I’ve never been in a police station before.’

Kira was about to offer to give the girl a tour later if she liked, until she remembered there might be one of Sharma’s bent coppers lurking.

When they were all settled with coffee and biscuits – a glass of orange juice for Lucy – Kira told them about Michael Sharma and Operation Juniper.

‘It really would be best if Oliver was with you in the safe house,’ Kira finished. ‘Where we can protect him.’

‘He won’t do it,’ said Sherry. She was shaking her head vehemently. ‘He’s already told me he wants nothing to do with the police. I’m sorry, but he’s really paranoid, and I can’t say I blame him. We’ll be quite safe, I promise. Come Christmas…’ She bit her lip and fixed her gaze on the ground. ‘I mean, Oliver’s planning to look after us. We’ll be fine.’

‘Christmas?’ Kira’s eyes searched Sherry’s but the woman looked away.

‘Lucy,’ Kira purposely used her cop tone, fixing her with her cop’s interrogatory stare. ‘Where will you be at Christmas?’

‘Leave Lucy out of this,’ Sherry snapped.

Kira picked up one of Marc’s pens. It was a black Parker ballpoint with a dent in its top. She strummed it against her thumb.

‘I don’t suppose Oliver’s plans involve running to South Africa again?’

Lucy instantly turned bright red. Sherry just glared.

‘Come on, Sherry, do you really want to live out there? I know the weather’s great but what about Lucy’s education? Are the schools up to scratch? And what about the economy? The safety issues? I spoke to a South African copper who was over here on sabbatical, and he told me most people live behind electrified fences and their houses are alarmed to the hilt. The police have given up attending break-ins because there are so many, and you can’t stop at traffic lights after dark in case you get carjacked…’

‘It’s not that bad,’ Sherry interrupted stiffly.

‘How do you know? Because Oliver told you?’

‘We’ll be fine,’ she insisted.

‘What about Lucy? Won’t she miss her friends?’

‘She’ll make new ones, won’t you, darling?’

‘Lucy?’

Lucy bit her lip and didn’t say a word.

‘My mother moved me when I was your age,’ Kira told Lucy. ‘I didn’t even move continents either, just from the Cotswolds to Bristol, but it was bloody awful. I hated my new home, and I hated school. I was an outsider and didn’t have any friends, so I got bullied. I had never been so miserable in my life, and I took it out on my mother. I made my mother’s life hell. I hated myself for it. I wouldn’t wish the experience on anybody.’

Long silence.

Lucy, Kira saw, was trying not to cry, but she didn’t offer any sympathy. Every word she’d said was true and she wanted Sherry to realise it.

‘If you go,’ said Kira warningly, ‘you’ll regret it.’

Lucy turned a tear-streaked face to her mother. ‘Do we have to?’

Sherry immediately got up and went to Lucy and hugged her. She sent Kira a filthy look. ‘We’ll have to talk to Daddy, sweetheart. See what he says.’

Kira cleared her throat. Waited until she had Sherry’s full attention. ‘What if you could all live together safely in Bristol again?’

Sherry looked blank. ‘But how? With this Sharma man breathing down Ollie’s neck… It’s too dangerous.’

‘What if Sharma’s in jail? Surely Oliver will feel safe then? I can’t tell you exactly what’s going on because it’s confidential, but we hope to arrest Sharma soon. And I mean really soon, like within the next twenty-four hours.’

Sherry’s expression brightened. ‘Really? You’ll have caught him? The man who’s scared Oliver for all those years?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case…’ Sherry turned to Lucy. ‘Let’s message Daddy now. And see what he thinks.’

Thanks to Oliver’s paranoia, he didn’t use a mobile phone, but a messaging service, and when he received Sherry’s message, he went who-knew-where to call her. A friend’s place? A public phone box? It wasn’t the fastest way to communicate, but Kira had to agree it was one of the safest. Nobody would have a clue where he was.

Kira swivelled Marc’s chair around to give Sherry the illusion of some privacy when Oliver eventually called. She had no intention of leaving the office while they spoke. She wanted to hear every word.

Sherry talked animatedly, almost repeating what Kira had said, word for word.

‘But, Ollie, if Sharma’s put away, we’ll be safe!’

Oliver was, apparently, digging his heels in.

‘He’ll be in custody… yes, Kira said it could be as soon as tonight… then you can testify–’

Even Kira heard the protesting squawks emitting from Sherry’s phone. Oliver in full reverse.

‘Oh, I see.’ Sherry sent Kira a disconcerted look. ‘Yes. Kira told me about the man shooting those men in the car park. Yes, the one who came after you…’ She looked at Kira as she said, ‘Do the police know who he is, the shooter?’

Kira shook her head.

‘No, they don’t… But if Sharma’s in jail, do we still have to go to overseas? I’m worried about Lucy, her making new friends, what school’s going to be like… yes, I’m sorry, darling… yes, we are having second thoughts…’

The discussion grew heated, then tearful and back to heated again, but Sherry refused to budge. Like Kira, she insisted that if Sharma was behind bars, then Oliver had nothing to worry about, but Oliver was still terrified, and seemed determined to force his family to flee to another country.

‘Sherry.’ Kira spun her chair back round. ‘Let me speak to him. Perhaps if we met up, all four of us together, we might persuade him he doesn’t have to take such drastic measures to protect you. Ideally, I’d like to try and get him to identify the shooter, maybe run through our police files, but I think he needs reassurance first. If we sat down together, then I could run him through what the police are doing, and perhaps allay his fears.’

Sherry relayed Kira’s message. She nodded a few times, then she handed her phone over.

‘Mr Stroud?’

‘Oliver, please,’ he said. ‘You’re just about part of the family now.’ His voice sounded tired.

‘Thank you, Oliver.’

‘Sherry says you want to meet up?’

‘I think it would be helpful. Don’t you agree?’

‘Not if you tell anyone where we’re going. You may not believe me, but Sharma has spies in the police, and if they get wind of where I am…’

‘I won’t tell a soul,’ Kira promised. He couldn’t see her fingers were firmly crossed in her lap.

‘Well, if it’s just you…’

He still sounded hesitant, so she said, ‘You can choose the location if you like. Wherever you feel safest.’

There was a pause, and then he said, ‘How about at Gweiadur.’

‘Say again?’

‘It’s a disused airfield near Treberfedd. In Wales.’

‘Wales?’ she repeated. She didn’t want to go to fucking Wales.

‘South-west of Fishguard, between Abercastle and Trefasser. It’s where I flew after the Crossed Guns shooting. Nobody’ll find us there.’

Kira was opening her mouth to suggest somewhere closer, when he added, ‘You’re serious about getting Sharma?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Her tone was filled with resolve.

‘Then let’s meet there at two o’clock. Just you and me. I want to show you something that’ll nail the bastard.’

‘Like what?’

But Oliver had already hung up.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Keeping the needle on thirty, revs low, Kira rode past Haverfordwest. She passed red-brick houses and petrol stations, and when she reached the town boundary on the A40 to Fishguard, she opened up the engine. Soon low-slung hills rose on either side, carpeted with neat fields ploughed into mahogany and edged with leafless hedges. Sturdy stone farmhouses nestled in valleys, chimneys pluming smoke.

The air was much cleaner here, she noticed. In the weak sunshine everything appeared freshly washed, the edges crisper, the colours brighter. It felt as though she’d been wearing a pair of dirty glasses for the past week and finally washed them. Perhaps Benedict and I ought to move to the country, she thought. It would be great for our lungs.

While she’d been talking to Sherry, Benedict had called her. Not just once, but twice. The first message was almost incoherent with excitement, the second depressed and maudlin. It sounded as though he’d already found the Glenfiddich distillery and started drinking it dry.

‘I think you might kill me,’ he slurred. ‘I mean really, truly kill me. Your mum’s horrified. She says you’ll go mad. I just don’t know…’ Long, noisy sigh. ‘I guess I’ll just have to wait and see. Oh, God. I hope you’ll still love me. I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.’

She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, and as usual, didn’t spend much time worrying about it. It wasn’t the first indecipherable, self-obsessed message she’d received, and wouldn’t be the last.

Coming out of a bend she opened the throttle. As the next turn approached, she kicked down a gear, lining herself up for the curve and tilting the bike, dipping her shoulder into the turn before accelerating just after the apex, eyes focused on the next one. It was riding like this that loosened her mind, made her spirit soar. Being forced to concentrate on nothing but the bike, no other thought could intrude. It was a form of mindfulness, she supposed, being in the present moment, focusing on nothing but the road ahead.

She slowed as she approached Letterston, taking the B4331 west towards Mathry. At the next junction she paused to check Google Maps. Treberfedd wasn’t far. Two cars passed her. A silver Mercedes and a black Land Rover Discovery. She watched them vanish into the distance before she crossed the road and onto the narrow, potholed lane opposite.

Carefully she bumped her bike towards the coast, the exhaust mumbling softly. After two miles, the lane deteriorated into a single mud-coated track. The handlebars bucked occasionally, the tyres spraying sludge all around. She was the first to drive down here in some time; there were no fresh tyre tracks. She hoped Oliver would see her single track and be comforted she was alone. No police to scare him off.

When she’d broached her meeting with Oliver to Marc and asked him to swear not to breathe a word to anyone else, he’d baulked.

‘Come on, Kira. The local cops won’t know Sharma, surely.’

‘How do we know that? For sure?’

‘It’s Wales.’ His voice was dry.

‘I do not. Want. Anyone else. To know.’ She was fierce.

His jaw stuck out. ‘And I can’t let you go alone.’

‘Watch me.’

She spun on her heel and made for the door, but he was faster. In two strides he’d reached out and slammed it shut. Took up position before it. Folded his arms.

‘Tell me where you’re meeting him.’

‘No.’

He glanced away, thinking. ‘Okay. Who would you trust to be your backup?’

‘I don’t want one!’ She flung up her hands. ‘It’ll only scare Oliver off!’

‘Okay.’ He held up both hands. ‘How about Jenny? You think she’s in Sharma’s pocket?’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘Rolo?’

She snorted.

‘Me?’

She rolled her eyes.

‘Okay, you have a backup of a DI, a sergeant and a constable. Do you agree?’

She thought it over. It seemed a decent compromise. ‘As long as none of you breathe a word,’ she muttered.

‘That’s agreed then,’ he said decisively.

The four of them had studied Google Maps and the aspect of Gweiadur, the now disused airfield that Oliver had used when he’d fled Sharma. They decided on Kira approaching the rendezvous via the main route on her own while the others, using an unmarked car, came via the rear access through a wood and to a jumble of buildings set to the east of the runway.

‘Oliver will scout the area first,’ Kira told them. ‘So you’ll need to hide the car in the wood.’

‘And approach on foot,’ Marc agreed.

‘But not too close to the buildings or he might see you.’

Rolo pondered. ‘It’s not ideal, but if it goes tits up in any way, we’re not far away. Jenny?’ He turned to the constable who was munching her way through a bag of Maltesers. She nodded with a muffled, ‘Yep.’

Churning mud and stones, Kira now rode the bike up the side of a hill. Talk about going the extra mile, but she was glad to do it for Lucy, to stop the girl from having to struggle at a new school in a new country. Neither Lucy or Sherry wanted to go and live in South Africa. Kira liked them both very much, and she was determined not to let Sharma destroy another family. She had every intention of seeing Oliver living happily with his family back in Bristol, without having to look over his shoulder every two seconds.

She increased the revs to keep up her momentum until eventually the track widened and levelled out. The sea was on her left, the colour of pewter, and on her right were rough grass fields dotted with sheep. Ahead, she could make out some crumbling buildings, behind which was the wood they’d seen on the map. She wondered where exactly Marc and the team were. They’d left well before her to make sure they were in position early. As planned, she couldn’t see any evidence of them.

She jolted her way closer. Even though the place had obviously been abandoned for some time, the airstrip was unmistakable even with the quantity of grass and weeds growing between the squares of concrete. Aside from the grasses, it looked ready to welcome any incoming aircraft brave enough to give it a try.

Kira followed the track between the top of the runway and an overgrown hedge. Made her way to a ruined brick building mid-way along the runway. She switched off the ignition. Took off her helmet and shook out her hair, relishing the cold, wet breeze against her scalp, the smell of brine at the back of her throat.

She surveyed the runway critically. It would make a tricky landing. Since the hedge had grown into an untidy row of young trees and shrubs, it dramatically shortened your approach. You also had to contend with the coastal wind problems, and if you weren’t careful, you could easily overshoot and plunge straight over the cliff. And if you came in from the sea and overshot – which was far more likely given the human instinct of not wanting to land on thin air – you’d crash into the hedge. Good job it was disused.

Pushing her gloves inside her helmet, she propped it on the petrol tank before having a look around the ruins. The rear of the brick building had been completely swallowed by woodland. Part of the roof had gone, and the floors were covered in weeds and sheep pellets. The only evidence that people had been here were a couple of rotting chairs and some old tools. Using the toe of her shoe she uncovered a mallet without a handle. She was about to pick up a rusting crowbar until she saw something move in the curve of its neck. A tiny snake. She let it be.

She took her time as she walked, eyes sharp, constantly searching for anything out of place. Gradually she extended her hunt. She was skirting the woods when she thought she heard a vehicle coming up the hill. She slipped sideways behind a young oak and looked towards the track she’d taken, but there was nothing. Somewhere a pigeon cooed. She held her breath and concentrated hard, but she could hear nothing aside from the faintest rustle of branches in the breeze.

Had Oliver parked, and was now walking the rest of the way? Or was it a farmer coming to check his sheep, make sure none had fallen over the cliff?

She waited for five minutes or so, but nobody appeared, so she walked back to her bike. It was one forty-five. Fifteen minutes until Oliver was due to arrive. She watched high grey clouds drift across the sky. Observed the odd seagull sweeping past, clumps of rough meadow grass quivering lightly in the chill November breeze, a black millipede moving from stone to stone.

It was three minutes after two when she heard it. The distinctive buzz of a light aircraft.

She extended her vision along the runway to see an RV-8 flying along the coast. Nice, she thought. Her Dad used to love flying RV-8s and called them a real pilot’s aeroplane being super-fast and super-sporty. It was quite low, and she could see the pilot craning his neck to peer down as he flew past.

Digging in her pocket she brought out a Snickers bar. Ate it leaning against her bike. She wondered if Jenny was also snacking and what she might be eating. Then she heard the RV-8 returning. She couldn’t see it, but she could tell it was much lower, and that it was approaching fast.

It sounded as though it was coming from the woods.

Shoving her Snickers wrapper into her pocket, she pushed herself away from her bike and walked to the side of the weed-riddled airstrip, looking upwards as the aeroplane’s engine got louder, expecting the machine to fly overhead. She couldn’t help taking several steps back when the RV-8 burst into view, a hundred yards away, barely fifty feet from the ground.

‘Shit!’

The aircraft clipped the top of a sapling and tumbled sideways. The pilot made a heroic recovery, hauling the plane straight, the starboard wing narrowly missing smashing into the hedge, and then he was decelerating, swooping hard and fast for the airstrip, but he was descending too fast.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Kira braced herself for the crash, but it never came. To her astonishment, the plane touched down hard, bounced wildly a couple of times, but then it settled, and the pilot was braking, and she was watching it decelerating hard, shaking her head in disbelief.

She felt weirdly exhilarated as the aeroplane swung round and taxied towards her and the derelict building. As it neared her bike, it raised its revs and turned again and parked alongside, its nose pointed towards the cliff and the sea. Both bike and aircraft faced the jaggedly broken runway as though ready for take-off.

As the engine stopped, she could see the pilot removing his headphones. And then the pilot’s door opened, and a man clambered out and began walking towards her, a man with floppy brown hair, bleached at the ends. Lean and long, he had brown eyes and wore a blue enamel and silver St Christopher at his throat.

For a moment, she stared in disbelief.

‘Oliver?’ she said.

‘Yes. And you’re Constable Connal. Or can I call you Kira?’

‘Kira’s fine.’

He put out a hand and they shook. Her hand felt like ice in his hot grip, but he didn’t seem to notice.

‘Well flown,’ she said.

‘I nearly didn’t make it,’ he said ruefully, gesturing at the trees. He was, she realised, filmed with sweat. ‘It was close.’

His cheeks were hollow, and his jeans hung loosely on his hips. He was a lot thinner than in his photographs. Stress had taken its toll over the past couple of weeks, but he was still a good-looking guy. Like Benedict he was Nordic looking, all angles and long bones. He was scanning the area, body alert as a hunting dog, but when Kira did the same, nothing was there.

‘I must thank you,’ he said earnestly, ‘for looking after Sherry and Lucy for me. Sherry says you’ve been terrific. A real friend.’

Carefully, she said, ‘I enjoy their company. They’re good people.’

He checked the woods before turning back to her. He said, ‘Sherry told me you met for a midnight curry and lots of red wine. She really appreciated having someone to talk to. She’s had such a hard time of it…’ He briefly passed a hand over his face. ‘I feel like such a shit. But she hasn’t met Sharma… she doesn’t know what he’s like.’

‘I know.’

‘The fact I couldn’t confide in her just underlines how frightened I am for her and Lucy.’ Then he added in a rush, ‘But you can see, can’t you, why I had to disappear? Why I acted like I did?’

‘Oliver,’ she said, looking straight into his eyes, ‘you did your best in a really tough situation, and we can never do more than our best. I know you feel bad, but Sherry and Lucy will understand. However, I’m not sure if rushing abroad is going to–’

‘We’ll be safe there,’ he said at once. ‘Nobody will find us.’

‘But if Sharma’s in jail–’

‘Let’s not discuss this now.’ He held up both hands. ‘Please, let me just show you something, and then perhaps you’ll understand enough to let us go.’

He gestured for her to join him and began walking for the crumbling brick building. She fell into step. Decided to move to a more neutral subject. She could pile on the emotional pressure later. Gesturing at the RV-8, she said, ‘I thought you’d given up flying.’

‘Oh, no.’ He looked shocked. ‘I could never do that. I pretended I’d stopped as a precaution. They say if you’re going to change your identity, you should change as many of your previous habits as possible. Including hobbies.’

Her cop instincts kicked in and questions began crowding her mind like hungry ants.

‘Who are “they”?’

‘Nobody in particular.’ He switched his head one-eighty degrees, still watchful. ‘It’s stuff I picked up in South Africa. Loads of people out there are running from all kinds of things.’

‘Do Sherry and Lucy know you still fly?’

He looked taken aback. ‘Why should they?’

‘You’ve got to keep up your hours or you lose your licence. It sounds like a complicated secret to keep.’

‘It’s not a problem.’ Oliver appeared unconcerned. ‘I used to keep my hand in at Compton Abbass. I pretended I had a client over there. It worked nicely.’

‘The airfield near Shaftsbury?’

‘That’s the one.’

She studied him cautiously, wondering what else he’d kept hidden from Sherry and Lucy. He hadn’t relaxed his guard and kept his eyes sweeping the area. He said, ‘You came alone, I take it?

‘I haven’t seen anyone up here, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I spotted a Land Rover coming up the track when I flew over. A Discovery.’

‘Could belong to a sheep farmer,’ she said, but a ghost of apprehension shivered over her. Discoveries, although quite a decent 4X4, wouldn’t be the average sheep farmer’s choice of vehicle. Too much nice upholstery to get mucked up, and no room in the boot for your sheep if you needed to get them off the hill.

She didn’t want to alarm Oliver, but she had to ask. ‘What colour was it?’

‘Black.’

Shit.

The Discovery she’d seen before she’d left the B4331 had been black. Not green, like most of them were in the country. Despite trying to tell herself she was being obsessively suspicious, worry began to bite.

She said, ‘Look, I didn’t have time to stop at a service station on my way here… I’m just going to duck behind a tree for a pee.’

Oliver gave a nod and turned his back to the woods to give her some privacy.

Behind a coastal oak, Kira checked her mobile phone to see she had a full signal. When Marc answered she spoke fast and low, telling him about the black Discovery in the vicinity. She finished by giving him the registration number of the aeroplane.

‘How close are you?’ she asked.

‘If I run flat-out, I can be at your side within thirty seconds.’

She didn’t say anything, but she found this an enormous comfort as she hung up and returned to Oliver.

A pair of seagulls floated above them, screeching, as Oliver led her around the back of the derelict building, to where a big wooden door had rotted away. Brambles filled the entrance, but Oliver pushed through them. Kira followed.

Inside it was a cold, empty space with broken glass on the floor and the smell of rotting fungi and stagnant leaves. There were marks on the wall where a staircase used to be, and Oliver positioned himself just ahead of where the stairs ended and started scraping aside the detritus of leaves. Underneath was a layer of silt and moss. With the edge of his shoe, Oliver began to kick it aside.

Kira went and helped. It didn’t take long for them to reveal a rotting trap door. Oliver knelt and levered it open. Reaching into his back pocket, he brought out a torch and shone it into the darkness.

Kira peered but couldn’t see anything except dense veils of spider webs clinging to the brickwork. ‘What’s down there?’

Oliver didn’t reply. He was cautiously lowering himself down a set of pitted, brick stairs.

She looked over her shoulder. The grass outside looked silvery, the sky a pearly grey, but the woods were in deep valleys of shadow. All was still and silent.

Thank God you’re there, she told Marc. Mentally, she blew him a kiss. He’d been right to insist she had backup.

‘Be careful,’ Oliver called up. ‘Fourth step’s cracked and the fifth is missing a brick.’

She slowly felt her way down as Oliver shone the torch for her. ‘And watch that one… I’d keep to the left. Okay…’

Webs fluttered briefly and she could sense the scurrying of spiders. When her feet touched the floor, he played the torch around for her. She’d expected a single room, but it was more than that, it was an entire basement that stretched beneath the building. There had to be at least five rooms down here.

‘This way.’

Oliver led her across the room, his footsteps hollow. There was a faint dripping sound coming from somewhere, and the smell of wet mould. The trap door let in enough light to paint everything a pale grey. She gave a shiver against the dank cold. She couldn’t think why Oliver had brought her down here, and then he played the beam of torchlight into the far corner and over a pile of decaying clothes, and there was something wrong with it, something she couldn’t recognise, and then she saw it.

Protruding from a rotting sleeve was a hand – a human hand with a shiny watch on its bony wrist.

A little cloud of fear brushed her heart.

She stood for a moment, surveying the disintegrating limbs, the jumble of decayed bones, a human skull. Her skin was damp with sweat.

She could barely take in the fact she was looking at a human corpse, and then her police instincts kicked in and she stepped forward cautiously to see the clothes had almost rotted away. The flesh was gone, eaten by insects. Whoever it was, they were skeletonised, reduced to bare bones.

Her breathing was ragged as she looked further, concentrating on being professional, keeping calm.

Judging by the body’s size and stature, it was a man. A big man. At least six feet. His skull was large, with a brow ridge above the eyes that women lacked, and he had a full set of teeth.

A ringing started in her head as she took in the damage done to the skull. There was a neat hole the size of a two pence piece above the right eye, and another hole – jagged and messy, the size of her fist – at the back of the skull. She didn’t doubt they were created by a large-calibre bullet entering from the front and exiting the back.

‘Do you know who this is?’ she asked Oliver.

She felt him move closer as he spoke. ‘Sharma used to use this airfield years ago. This was one of his pilots. When the pilot told the police about the airfield, what Sharma was using it for, Sharma shot him for betraying him.’

Kira felt a jolt as she remembered what Bahvan had told her earlier.

Sharma used to use a remote airfield somewhere on the western coast of the UK, but when this became known to the police – he was betrayed by someone on the inside – he now uses another…

‘Sharma killed this man?’

‘Yes.’

She was careful not to disturb anything. She ran her eyes over the faded, blotchy patches of old blood sprayed on the wall. There was more blood on the floor, she realised. Had the man managed to wound Sharma before he’d been shot? If so, then DNA would help convict his killer.

She moved closer to see if the man’s shoes were still intact, or whether he’d been wearing a belt – leather lasted longer than cloth, especially when protected from the outside elements – and that was when she saw it. The man’s wedding ring. It had fallen free from his skeletal finger and was lying between his thigh bones.

An indescribable urgency descended upon her. She knew she shouldn’t mess with the crime scene, but she had to see the ring.

Leaning across, she brushed aside filaments of spider webs and picked it up. It was thick, deep yellow gold, and when she tilted the ring, she saw a tiny Sanskrit mark on the inside. Ananta, the infinite one, coiled as a snake in a horizontal figure of 8.

She gave a low moan. She knew the what the symbol meant.

Eternity.

Her hand convulsed around the ring and at the same time she saw the make of the man’s watch. A Breitling. His belt buckle was fashioned in the shape of a leaping tiger.

‘Daddy.’ It was a single sob, the kind a child would make.

CHAPTER FORTY

Kira clenched her fingers around the wedding ring. Dizzy, feeling disconnected, she felt as if her stomach and heart had been removed, leaving a gaping chasm inside. Her legs were trembling as she clambered to her feet.

‘Did you know this man?’ she asked Oliver.

‘We met a couple of times.’

‘He used to run QuickAir.’

Oliver stared at her. ‘How the hell do you know that?’

This confirmed that Oliver hadn’t known he’d been her father.

‘You witnessed his murder?’

‘Yes.’

Kira gazed at the jumble of dusty bones that used to be her father. Now, she understood the memory she’d had when she was a kid, of Dad meeting those poachers all those years ago. Their secret. He’d been gaining the criminals’ trust to gather evidence for the police, but when he’d exposed Sharma’s English smuggling route, he’d paid for it with his life.

Wanting to text or call Marc, she brought out her phone. No signal. Shit. She’d have to use it when she was above ground. She started to move for the stairs.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Oliver. ‘I can’t let you do that.’

She glanced over her shoulder and saw him reach behind him, saw him bring something out, saw the dull gleam of stainless steel in his hand, but for a second it didn’t register.

‘You really should have left my family alone.’

The steel object was finally recognised by her brain. A wrench. A big solid wrench that was swinging towards her face with the speed of an express train.

Kira flung herself to one side, but she wasn’t fast enough. It struck her on her shoulder, making the breath whistle out of her lungs with agonising shock. Her phone flew through the air, falling onto the stones with a clatter.

‘If you hadn’t meddled…’

She rolled frantically the other way, but he was faster and belted her on the back of the neck. For an instant, her entire body went numb.

‘…we’d be in South Africa by now.’

He was straddled above her, eyes wild, breathing hard. ‘That fucking tractor. If it hadn’t been there, I could have finished you off.’

‘You…’ It was a struggle to breathe. ‘It was you… in the van? You pushed me… my bike, into the valley?’

‘I could have snapped your neck, and nobody would have been any the wiser. Slippery winter road, motorbike going too fast… No tractor today, though, to come to the fucking rescue.’

Mouth twisting, he raised the wrench, and she was trying to get herself to move, for Chrissake she had to move, when he brought the wrench down to smash it into the top of her head.

It happened so fast that had Kira blinked, she would have missed it.

One second, she was watching the wrench descending, about to crush her skull. The next second, Oliver simply vanished.

‘Freeze!’ a man yelled.

Heart thumping, Kira peered cautiously around to see a man kneeling on top of Oliver. He had a broad stroke of black for eyebrows and a hooked nose. She was almost unable to believe her eyes. She’d thought it would be Marc or Rolo, but it wasn’t. It was Mazak, from the Emporium. He had yanked Oliver’s arms into the small of his back. Another guy who Kira hadn’t seen before stood over them. He held a pistol at Oliver’s head.

‘Excellent.’ A figure stepped into the gloom.

Kira stared and stared.

Oh, fuck…

It was Michael Sharma.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Sharma came to stand over Kira.

‘All right, constable?’

She didn’t answer.

‘You’re not going to thank me for saving your life?’

She remained silent.

‘How ungrateful.’

Kira scrambled unsteadily to her feet. Looked desperately at the trap door, but it was twenty feet away. It could have been twenty miles for all the chance she had of getting to it.

Where the fuck was Marc? Had he seen Sharma arrive? Didn’t he know she was in danger? Desperately, she looked for her phone, but in the gloom, she couldn’t see it.

‘I see you have found your father.’ He gestured at the jumble of human bones behind her. ‘What an extraordinary coincidence, having both of you snapping at my heels. But then I don’t suppose it is a coincidence, if you believe in karma. Or do you think your family are genetically programmed to be a continual thorn in my side? I hope not. I couldn’t bear for your brother to take up arms against me all the way from Australia.’

Kira could feel her neck throbbing, but she welcomed the pain. She didn’t want the numbness to return and incapacitate her.

‘Struck dumb, constable? Or are we just not in the mood for polite conversation?’

She decided against saying anything for the time being. Let him think she was in deep shock and unable to function.

‘I hadn’t realised this was Oliver’s second attempt on your life,’ he mused. ‘But it shouldn’t surprise me. He’d do anything to hide the truth. He wouldn’t want his precious wife and daughter to discover what an unpleasant little man he really is.’

He turned to Mazak and jerked a hand at Oliver. ‘Get him up.’

Between them they hauled Oliver upright. Rammed him against the wall.

‘Please,’ he whimpered. ‘Please don’t hurt me…’

‘Jonathan Stevenson.’ Sharma went and stood in front of him. ‘It has been a long time, no?’

Oliver turned his head to the wall as though he couldn’t bear to look at Sharma.

‘It is thanks to the constable here that we are at last reunited. She is a good bloodhound, don’t you think? It was, however, difficult to follow her on her motorbike. But technology is a wonderful thing.’ He gave a smile. ‘Tracking devices are so small, you can barely see them.’

Oliver’s skin was waxy pale and he was sweating.

‘You know what is going to happen, don’t you, Oliver?’

‘No.’ His voice trembled. ‘Please…’

Sharma pointed at the pile of decayed cloth and dusty bones that used to be Kira’s father. ‘You know the price for those who betray me.’

‘I didn’t realise how… I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I was so young… I didn’t know what I was doing…’

‘You blame your youth for your greed?’ Sharma gave an incredulous snort. ‘I understand greed, but not stupidity. I paid you well. You got generous bonuses. You were one of my best pilots.’

Kira cautiously began to inch sideways, ready for Sharma to spin and come for her, but he was distracted and didn’t seem to notice. Nor did his henchmen.

‘I think it’s time for you to make amends, don’t you?’

‘No.’ It was almost a sob. ‘Yes. I’m sorry…’

The two men stiffened as Sharma withdrew something from his pocket. Oliver gave a choked sob. Then she saw it. A long flensing knife that could strip the flesh from a man’s bones with a single flick.

‘Hold him.’

The men gripped Oliver. Sharma reached across and slit open Oliver’s fleece, his shirt underneath, revealing the length of his pale chest and stomach. ‘Please don’t,’ Oliver whimpered.

‘Where is the shipment you stole from me?’

Inch by inch, Kira continued to shuffle sideways. If she could get to the steps, then she could run for it. Run for her bike and phone for help.

Sharma brushed the knife up and down Oliver’s stomach. ‘You are a thief. A killer. You murdered two of my clients, Andy Chou and Howard Patel. You killed that undercover policewoman and brought the weight of the British police down on me. You brought my business to a grinding halt for almost a year. You lost me money. You made me look stupid. Do you realise that?’

Oliver’s face was twisted and greasy with fear.

‘Where is my shipment?’ Sharma said again.

‘I sold it.’ His voice was a whisper.

‘Who to?’

‘A g-guy in Germany. Herman Coren.’

‘The whole shipment?’

‘Y-yes.’

‘How much?’

‘1.2 million.’

‘A bargain for Herman.’ Sharma spat on the ground. ‘You drove it there? Or did he collect?’

‘I d-drove it.’

‘The undercover policewoman tried to stop you.’

‘I didn’t mean t-to shoot her, or the other guys, I swear it… I was just going t-to take the truck, but they went for their guns, I didn’t have a choice…’

‘I don’t care who you killed. I only care about the scum who steal from me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Oliver whispered.

A long silence during which Kira continued to slide carefully sideways. She only needed another ten seconds or so and she could bolt outside.

‘You thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you?’

‘Please, I’ll do anything…’ Oliver started to weep. ‘I’ll pay you back…’

Sharma tilted the knife so the tip touched Oliver’s nipple. A drop of blood instantly bloomed and slid down to rest on a single chest hair. Oliver gave a moan.

‘Thieves are like dogs,’ Sharma hissed. ‘Scavengers. They are worthless.’

Without any warning, Sharma slashed the knife across Oliver’s abdomen. The skin opened like a mouth widening to scream. Kira saw blood gushing in a flood. Purplish entrails spilled over his belt. Oliver’s expression went blank with shock.

Move! she yelled at herself.

She pelted for the stairs. Took them two at a time. Bursting into the room upstairs, she tore for the doorway, forcing her way through the brambles, her breath like fire in her throat.

She sprinted for her bike. She put every ounce of effort into it – she could jump astride and be away in moments. Her legs and arms were pumping hard, and she could hear someone pounding behind her – she was surprised they weren’t moving faster with their longer legs – and she glanced over her shoulder and saw Mazak behind her. He held a pistol in his hand. It was aimed directly at her.

Immediately she ducked left, but she was too late.

Bang!

What felt like a fist punched her in the shoulder, jerking her to one side. The shock of it tore through her nervous system, and she knew she was in trouble, but she kept running. She had to get to the bike.

‘POLICE!’ a man roared. ‘FREEZE!’

Marc.

The cavalry at fucking last.

She heard Rolo and Jenny shouting too but she focused on pushing herself forwards. An aching numbness spread from her shoulder into her breast, but she pushed it aside.

A burst of gunfire.

She gave a sob. Marc wasn’t armed. Nor Rolo, or Jenny. They hadn’t thought they needed the AFOs. More fool them.

Wetness spread across her shirt, drenching her chest. Blood. A lot of blood. Everything started to slow down. She felt as though she was running through sand. Her knees sagged but she willed herself to keep moving.

She was so close to her bike she could almost touch it, but a wave of weakness made her tumble to the ground.

‘DROP YOUR WEAPONS!’ Marc, still yelling.

More gunfire.

A black ache flowed outwards from her shoulder. She felt shivery and ill, and a good deal more injured than she wanted to be.

‘Keep shooting!’ Sharma yelled. ‘Cover me!’

He was jogging for Oliver’s aeroplane, his henchmen behind him, both crouched, guns extended in front of them as they continued to fire, keeping Marc, Rolo and Jenny at bay.

She closed her eyes. Tried not to breathe. She didn’t want Sharma to see she was alive and come over and kill her. Her limbs started to tremble. Shock was setting in and the pain, the real pain, wouldn’t be far away.

The gunfire continued.

Then she heard the rubber hush of the canopy sliding, and the thump as it was slammed it shut. She cracked open her eyes to see Sharma had climbed into the RV-8.

Opening her mouth, she gulped in air. Sweat poured down her face. Squinting across, she saw Sharma was putting on the headset, turning on the battery master switch, glancing at the instruments in front of him, checking the fuel levels…

Kira rolled her head to see Mazak and his buddy were still firing, but they were also edging along the track, no doubt heading for their vehicle.

Sharma had started the RV-8’s engine and now he was looking ahead through the canopy. The engine note lifted.

Her mother’s voice.

Promise me, Kira. No heroics like your father. I don’t want to lose you too.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

As the RV-8 began to move, the gunfire stopped. Kira turned her head to see Mazak and his cohort were running for the Discovery. Their boss was in his aeroplane so there was no point in hanging around to face the police.

Kira staggered for her bike. She flung aside her gloves and helmet – no time for them. Clinging onto the handlebars she slid her leg over the saddle. Stars shimmered in her vision, but she didn’t stop. She put the keys in the ignition and kicked free the side-stand. Pressed the starter. The CBR hesitated a second – dear Lord, please make it start – and then it caught with a roar and a shudder.

The stars vanished abruptly. Her sight cleared.

She looked along the cracked and broken runway expecting to see the RV-8 approaching the end of the runway but it was nowhere near. It was lurching in a wide circle as though drunk. Something was wrong with it. It didn’t seem able to keep a straight line.

Had Marc sabotaged it?

She glanced over her shoulder. The Discovery was haring away. Two figures were pelting towards her. Marc and Rolo were neck-and-neck. Where was Jenny?

The aeroplane’s revs lifted. She guessed Sharma was trying to get some slipstream over the rudder to gain some steerage.

And then Marc was there. He was clutching the rusting crowbar she’d seen earlier. ‘You okay?’ he gasped.

‘What did you–’ She pointed at the rocking aeroplane.

‘Broke the tail wheel cable.’

Shit. If Sharma managed to reach the runway and line up the aeroplane, he could use full power and rudder to keep it straight for long enough to lift off.

‘And I whacked something too,’ added Rolo. He was hefting his police baton.

Kira engaged the clutch.

‘Hey, Kira, wait a–’

‘He can still take off,’ she snapped.

‘Not if we do more damage.’ Rolo broke into a run, straight for the swinging aeroplane. Marc took off after him.

First gear. Throttle. Engine roaring. Release the clutch.

Even though the RV-8 was still yawing erratically, Sharma was gradually approaching the threshold of the runway. She increased her speed. She had to be careful. Too many damaged muscles, too much blood loss. She didn’t want to pass out before she’d got near the aeroplane.

She accelerated as fast as she dared… second, third, fourth.

The wheels hit a chunk of broken concrete, making the bike jig. She started swaying, and re-gripped the handlebars urgently, fighting to maintain her balance, keeping the bike straight through sheer force of will.

A quick glance showed Marc and Rolo, chests out, legs pumping, were closing in on Sharma. Then she saw Jenny. She was driving an unmarked police car onto the runway.

Kira angled across the airfield, aiming for the aeroplane.

Her heart pounded when she heard a clank against her bike’s petrol tank, but it was just a stone.

The RV-8 lurched into a circle, and as the nose came to face down the runway she could hear Sharma increasing power but Jenny was in the way. Sharma was fighting to point the aeroplane past the police car as Kira came ahead of the aeroplane’s nose and in the pilot’s eyeline.

She glanced across.

Sharma was looking straight at her. Through the canopy, his face was pale and taut.

She powered the bike straight for the RV-8.

She had to keep her bottle. Not chicken out.

Her stomach knotted.

I will get you, you fucker.

The RV-8’s engine lifted to full power, the buzzing roar filling her ears. She was closing in so fast she thought she might have misjudged it, not have left enough time.

Too late, you’re committed.

Her eyes met Sharma’s. The eyes of the man who had killed her father.

Then she was slamming on the brakes – grass and stones churning from the wheels – and dropping the bike into the path of the aircraft, letting it fall as she leaped aside, legs kicking her clear.

She tumbled onto her shoulder and hurled herself desperately to her right. The aircraft’s port wing sailed over her. Rocks and stones dug into her elbows and knees, impeding her progress as she kept rolling, but there was no pain. Adrenalin had flooded every cell, every vein.

And then, with a crumpling, tearing sound, the two machines collided.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Kira covered her head. The ground beneath her vibrated. She lay unmoving until the shrieking, howling sound of ripping metal faded into silence.

Her ears were ringing, her limbs trembling.

Her bike was totalled. The aircraft had collapsed on top of it after burying its propeller in the faring. Torn and ripped metal lay everywhere. Pieces of rubber, fibreglass, and plastic. One of her rear-view mirrors lay twisted on top of a clump of weeds along with part of a shock absorber.

Rolo was already at the cockpit. The canopy Plexiglass had crazed, and a handful of shards fell to the ground. There was no smell of fuel that she could detect, no smoke or fire.

No sign of Sharma.

Jenny brought the pool car alongside the aircraft.

Kira tried to rise. Marc appeared. Helped her up.

She was panting hard and fast, becoming lightheaded. She needed to rest. She needed a doctor, a hospital, her mother, not necessarily in that order.

With Marc’s arm around her waist, she stumbled to peer inside the aircraft.

Sharma was slumped, motionless. His harness had been strapped tight and kept him in his seat. Splinters of glass from the shattered instruments lay in his lap. A piece of metal the size of a bottle top was embedded in his scalp. Blood ran from his hair and down his forehead.

Rolo was trying to open the canopy but it was jammed. Marc went to help. Between them they hauled it back.

Jenny arrived at a trot as Rolo reached in and put his fingers on Sharma’s throat, just beneath his jaw, searching for a pulse.

For a brief moment, Kira thought he was dead, but suddenly his arm moved. A reflex as he began to regain consciousness.

Rolo jerked his hand back. Gave a nod to Marc.

Marc hopped onto the starboard wing. Levering himself across, he released Sharma’s harness. He toppled forwards and sideways and gave a groan.

Sweating, trembling, Kira watched as Marc worked to hold Sharma’s arms in place, securing his wrists in front of him as Rolo snapped on a pair of handcuffs.

Sharma gave another groan. Twisted his head around to look at her.

His eyes were shocked, and his face had paled to the sick, creamy colour of bone marrow.

Kira stepped as close as she could, held his eyes.

She snarled.

‘You’re nicked.’

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The sun was shining, the sky a clear blue all the way to the horizon. Frost lay on the ground. There wasn’t a breath of wind.

A perfect day for flying.

Kira’s breath fogged the air as she followed her father’s coffin into the church. Her brother, Angus, was at her side, their mother just ahead.

They’d brought him home, to Oaksey. The church was packed. Everywhere Kira looked was a window into the past. Her father’s old clients, his mechanics and pilots, friends from school, flying friends, friends from wildlife charities and friends from overseas, including an elderly man with sorrow pooling in his dark eyes. Angus had given the eulogy, but it was Chambal’s poem about the loss of a friend that made Kira cry.

She looked for the tall figure of her DI through the crowds, but couldn’t see him. Kira’s shoulder twinged sharply as she reached across to brush a hair from her brother’s jacket. The stitches had come out last week and her muscles were still tender and achy where the bullet had torn them. She’d been doing tons of physio but it was going to take some time until she was completely healed, and even then, she may not regain full mobility of her right arm.

As it was, she was in pretty good shape, so she wasn’t too worried. Occasionally she’d look at the entry and exit scars of the bullet, and marvel she was still alive. Any further down and her lung might have been hit, her heart, her liver.

Angus gripped her hand as the organist started to play part of Mozart’s ‘Requiem’, a grand, soaring piece which her father used to play at full volume in his car. She hadn’t heard it in years, and it made her feel close to him, almost able to hear his booming laugh and smell the rich scent of his cigars clinging to his pilot’s uniform.

Her mother had told her how proud her father would have been of her, not once but several times, and she knew her mother was right. Dad would be grinning and swinging her round in a circle with delight.

‘You clever girl!’ she could hear him shout. ‘You got the bastard, you clever girl!’

She’d faced Sharma in the dock earlier in the week, held his eyes as he studied her at length, his expression mystified, almost perplexed, as though he was trying to work out how a single British police officer – a woman at that – had managed to get the better of him, a world-wide powerful smuggling lord.

Her presence hadn’t been needed in court, but she’d wanted to hear what was said and, more importantly, witness Sharma in the dock as she’d promised she would, for murdering not only her father, but Oliver Stroud. Kira wished he was also facing charges for murdering Asif, and Bahvan’s daughter, but these were apparently a matter for the courts in India.

Two hours after she’d arrested Sharma, Sussex police had raided Ocknell Airfield and impounded two aircraft. Forensics had found traces of leopard and Asian lion fur on board and hoped to match them to crates snatched on the Nepalese border. They’d also found evidence of fentanyl and cocaine. The two aircraft both belonged to the same corporation, Surya International Corp, also known as SIC. SIC had also owned the aeroplane Oliver had ditched in the English Channel in 2008, and although Sharma wasn’t officially on its board, Bahvan had dug around to find SIC was a subsidiary of another company of which Sharma was CEO, and that this company took all the profits from SIC and distributed them not just to its CEO directly, but to the company’s board of directors, one of which included Vineet Jaspal.

Chief Inspector Vineet Jaspal, who also worked with the CBI in New Delhi and who had encouraged Kira to go to India to find the Viper. No doubt because he’d thought, like Demmien, that she was too young and inexperienced to be of any use.

Jaspal had then betrayed her to Sharma, allowing Sharma to threaten her friends Zareen and Pooni, and kill a little boy called Asif.

Superintendent Demmien couldn’t stop grinning. ‘Now we know why Sharma was always one step ahead of us. Grand job, constable. We’ve got both him and Sharma by the short and curlies.’ Demmien’s mean little eyes crinkled happily at the corners as he beamed, making him look almost human. ‘If you ever fancy a job in Interpol, give me a call.’ He gave her his card, his mobile number scribbled on the back, along with a bone-crushing handshake.

Inspector Bahvan’s testimony in India had been joined by those of Zareen and Pooni, both of whom corroborated the horrific story of Asif’s murder.

Hearing the judge remand Sharma without bail had the most extraordinary effect on Kira. As she walked outside and into the rain to call Inspector Bahvan, the gaping chasm that had been inside her for so long was filled. She felt as satiated as if she’d been dying in a desert and her thirst had suddenly been quenched.

Standing on the stone steps outside the court, overlooking London’s red buses and taxis roaring past, she talked at length to Bahvan, who had been busy working with the CBI and making arrests from Kathmandu to Khartoum. He’d also arrested half the Tiger Task Force for good measure. The entire organisation appeared to be riddled with corruption.

‘While I have been cutting off the monster’s legs and arms,’ Bahvan said sombrely, ‘you have gone and cut off its head. You have my sincere congratulations.’

‘I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you.’

The thanks were for him personally, for sticking his neck out and trusting her despite the fact she’d initially turned her back on him, and he seemed to realise that, because he said dryly, ‘I am hoping we will not be finding ourselves in the same position again. A person can only face so much searching of the soul.’

Now, Kira twisted briefly to glance at the congregation, her spirit gladdened to see so many of her father’s friends. Towards the rear, she saw Sherry clutching a tissue to her mouth and trying not to cry. Kira made sure she caught her eye and blew her a kiss. Sherry was pale and gaunt, but she blew a kiss back and managed an unsteady smile. Poor Sherry. Oliver’s funeral had only been last week. She’d obviously left Lucy at home for this one. Talk about tough stuff, having to try and come to terms with the fact your husband was a criminal and a killer.

Kira had told Sherry she didn’t have to come to the funeral, but Sherry had insisted. ‘You’ve been such a support, it’s the least I can do to show my own support for you.’

They’d hugged and promised to see each other again when all this was over, but Kira doubted it would happen. Too many dark memories, too much pain. Fortunately, Sherry had full access to Oliver’s accounts and once the courts had finished their asset recovery work, she could pay her godfather back the money Oliver had stolen, and with the remainder, start to make a new life.

Kira turned her head to check on her own husband, two pews down. He had a pencil in hand and was sketching something on the back of the service sheet. Old Aunt Elizabeth was shooting him furious glances at his irreverence but as usual, Ben was oblivious.

What she was going to do with her husband, she couldn’t think. She was still smarting over Benedict’s exhibition, The Naked Truth. When she’d turned up at the gallery for his opening night, she hadn’t known where the hell to look. Every painting was of a naked woman. There were nudes asleep in bed, nudes in the shower, nudes getting dressed, and one enormous nude in chilli reds that was full frontal, pubic hair, breasts, the lot.

No wonder Benedict had thought she might kill him.

Every single painting was of her.

There were allusions to the police – a baton, a canister of PAVA spray, a Heckler & Koch MP5 – as well as poverty, homelessness and drug use.

‘So clever,’ a man said next to her, staring at a picture of her naked backside. ‘How he’s caught the social levels of aesthetics and morality of today.’

Cringing, absolutely mortified, Kira crept away. She was, however, inordinately grateful that nobody seemed to put her together with the nude muse. Benedict had allocated six invitations for her to invite her work colleagues, and she thanked the heavens she’d listened to her instincts and hadn’t asked anyone. The thought of Rolo seeing this stuff? Marc, or Jenny? It made her go hot and cold with horror. She could just imagine the filthy jokes, the teasing and mocking that would dog her for the rest of her career.

‘Darling…’ It was her mother, holding out a brimming glass of champagne. ‘Please don’t look so appalled.’

Kira took the champagne, downed it so fast the bubbles went up her nose, making her eyes water.

‘If you look beyond the nudes,’ her mother told her, ‘I mean really look, you’ll see they’re love letters. To you.’

Kira didn’t want to look. Too raw, too personal, too intimate.

‘He adores you. He wanted to show you, and show the world, how much.’

Kira didn’t think she could be more horrified, but she was. ‘He hasn’t told anyone who the nude is, has he?’

‘Well, his agent knows. But anyone else?’ Her mother looked around the room as though considering who else Benedict might have told. ‘I think he kept your name out of it.’

Almost weak with relief, Kira took a huge breath and went and looked at the paintings. Much as she would have liked to, she couldn’t ignore them. Ben had worked like a demon to get the exhibition together and it was the least she could do. Try and appreciate her husband’s art.

‘Tender,’ said a woman to her partner as she passed.

‘Sensual,’ he responded.

‘Wonderfully uncensored,’ Benedict’s agent broke in, practically wringing his hands in ecstasy. ‘His symbolism is something beyond! He is an eclectic visionary!’

Eclectic, yes, Kira thought as she grabbed another glass of champagne and knocked it back. But visionary? To her he was as visionary as a plate of pasta, but what did she know? She was just a philistine.

To her chagrin, he’d sold every painting before Christmas and had secured another exhibition in London for the next year, but she still didn’t know what the hell to do with him. He was already going through the money he’d earned like it was water. The first thing he’d done was become a Patron of the Bristol Zoo Project. Incredibly, Iggy the Iguana had survived, inspiring Ben to become a philanthropist to fund global wildlife conservation. How long that would last, was anyone’s guess.

Sir William Walton’s ‘Spitfire Prelude’ began to play, the prompt for the mourners to head back outside, and as she turned with Angus, her eyes went to the tall figure that had just entered the church. A man in dark trousers and jacket, six two, fit as a leopard.

Her eyes went to his. He put his hand over his heart. He held her gaze as he always did, steadily and calmly, and when she approached, she said, ‘I wasn’t sure if you would make it.’

‘I could never let you down.’ He said it quite seriously. His hand was still on his heart.

At last Kira joined her mother and Angus in the bright, chill December air to watch her father’s coffin being lowered into the ground. Her mother threw the first handful of soil onto the coffin. Angus was next, then Kira.

Goodbye, Daddy.

She looked into the sky and could have sworn she heard the clatter of his Bell Jet Ranger, feel the boom of its rotors thud against her breastbone and in her heart.

After all, it was a perfect day for flying.

ALSO BY CJ CARVER

Cold Echo

Deep Black Lies

Over Your Shoulder

A Treachery of Friends

Scare Me To Death

Never Say A Word

* * *

OTHER NOVELS

Dead Heat

Beneath The Snow

* * *

THE DAN FORRESTER SERIES

Spare Me The Truth

Tell Me A Lie

Know Me Now

* * *

THE JAY MCCAULAY SERIES

Gone Without Trace

Back With Vengeance

The Honest Assassin

* * *

THE INDIA KANE SERIES

Blood Junction

Black Tide

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Huge thanks to the Scotland Yard’s Wildlife Crime Unit for hosting me and sharing their extensive knowledge with me. You’ve been fantastic.

Thanks to the team at CabAir, who talked me through the ins and outs of running an air-taxi company back in the day, as well as how to ditch an aeroplane at sea, and survive.

I owe thanks to fellow rallyist Colin Heathcote, aka ‘Cap’n Col’, the owner of CabAir, and who was the inspiration for Kira’s father in the book, a cigar-smoking charismatic pilot just like Col. RIP my friend, you are still sorely missed.

Thanks also to Group Captain Steve Ayres for his all-encompassing flying knowledge and preventing me from making some rookie pilot errors.

Thanks to my cheerleading team, who unfailingly ask ‘how’s the book going?’ with (seemingly!) genuine interest, and without whom life would be extremely dull: Karen and Mike Brzezicki, Dee and Richard Haas, Serena Gambarini, Professor Randall Smith, Gill and Bazzer Dix, Peter and Sarita Moore, Larry and Alison Betts, Sarah and Peter Cunich. You’re all very good friends and this author is incredibly lucky to have you in her life.

Thanks again to my editor Clare Law for her astute observations and creative suggestions, it has been a joy working with you.

Lastly, I must finish by saying this book is fiction, and any errors of fact will be mine.

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

Thank you for reading this book. If you enjoyed it please do consider leaving a review on Amazon to help others find it too.

We hate typos. All of our books have been rigorously edited and proofread, but sometimes mistakes do slip through. If you have spotted a typo, please do let us know and we can get it amended within hours.

info@bloodhoundbooks.com

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