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  ‘Slowly, thanks to the silence of our courier.’

  ‘The one who’s been potted?’

  ‘Yep. Michael Starr. Went no comment in all interviews. So far, the Ferrari’s a ghost car that was en route to a suspect company. LH Classics appears to have no formal management structure. The staff there, one full-time and two part-time mechanics, have all been interviewed. The company computers and phones have been seized. The company’s owned by a Panama shell with nominee directors and a CEO listed as a Swiss citizen, Hermann Perren – but so far the only person of that name we’ve been able to trace was killed in a climbing accident on the Matterhorn nearly thirty years ago.’

  ‘I presume you’re following the money?’ Grace said. ‘Any progress on the info we’ve given you on Mr Big – the Diamond?’

  ‘I think we’re getting close to an arrest. We’re all over it, like a rash. Emily Denyer from the Financial Investigation Unit has been seconded to the team.’

  ‘Smart lady – that’s great.’

  ‘She’s super-smart – very glad she’s on our side! She’s already done some useful background work, finding out the details on LH Classics. Oh, and there is one possible breakthrough: a member of the public off the same ferry handed in a phone he found lying in the road outside the Customs shed. It’s a burner with Starr’s prints on it, and Digital Forensics have put in a cell-site analysis request on it.’

  ‘Didn’t he have gloves on at the time of his arrest?’

  ‘Ever tried dialling a mobile when you’re wearing a glove, boss? Oh no, on second thoughts, you’re probably still using a rotary dial phone.’

  ‘Haha. Well, I’m not planning on any sort of phone today; I’m actually having a day off.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Up to much?’

  ‘Cleo’s going to work, Bruno’s at school. I’ll have Noah to myself this morning, there’ll be toys everywhere, it’ll be brilliant. I’ve got Kaitlynn coming this afternoon to look after him so I can do all sorts of important stuff like wash the car and then satisfy my obsession.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Cataloguing the latest additions to my vinyl collection. Don’t judge me! And remember trashing my music collection when you were my house guest?’

  There was a brief silence as Glenn, slightly embarrassed, thought back to when he’d split up with his wife, Ari. Roy had let him stay in his house – then had gone mental when he’d found he’d put some of his precious collection into the wrong order. ‘I try not to! So, how’s Cleo doing this time round?’

  ‘She’s good, thanks, almost three months in – a bit of morning sickness but she’s a trooper. We’re trying to prep for having a newborn in the house again. Talking of preparations, how are yours going? You should have been married by now.’

  ‘Yep, we’ve just been way too busy. We’re fixing a date for summer next year now, there’s no mad rush. I’ll let you know as soon as we have it so you can book time off! Siobhan is mega busy so I’m part-time wedding planner at the moment and, honestly, I’m enjoying it, you know? Getting in touch with my feminine side, sorting the cake and flowers.’

  Grace had a momentary image of Glenn, six foot two inches tall, solid muscle, black and bald. ‘I’m trying to imagine that – it’s not pretty.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Hope you’re working on your speech?’

  ‘Every minute of every day – thinking of how I can trash you.’ Grace paused. ‘Cake and flowers. Nice! Very exciting for you.’

  ‘This is the modern world.’

  ‘I have to say, one positive about being in the Met, I’m not missing your daily insults. So, about this Ferrari and the French connection, if you need any help from me, let me know. Gotta go now, I can hear that dinner bell again – don’t want the soup going cold.’

  ‘Make sure there aren’t any lumps in it.’

  ‘Lumps?’

  ‘Don’t want you choking to death.’

  ‘Haha!’

  Then he heard a scream. Cleo’s voice from inside the cottage.

  ‘Roy! Oh God, ROYYYYYYY! ROYYYYYYYYYY!’

  The sound pierced his heart.

  He killed the call without saying anything, let himself in through the gate and, without waiting for Humphrey, sprinted towards the house.

  12

  Thursday 29 November

  Five minutes later, Glenn Branson checked his notes and addressed his assembled company of detectives, including Kevin Hall, Jack Alexander and Velvet Wilde. They had been joined by two members of the Financial Investigation Unit, led by civilian Emily Denyer, a dark-haired woman in her early thirties.

  ‘The time is 9 a.m., Thursday, November 29th. This is the seventh briefing of Operation Farmhouse – the investigation into the attempted importation into the UK of six million pounds’ worth of cocaine, discovered in a faked rare classic Ferrari at Newhaven Port early last Monday morning, November 26th.’

  He glanced at his notes. ‘Our prime suspect, Michael Starr, the driver of the car and enclosed trailer bringing the Ferrari into England, is currently on remand in Lewes Prison. As you know, we believe Starr is a major player in the bigger investigation. The National Crime Agency intelligence, together with information from the Met regarding this route and details around LH Classics, has come up trumps, and I believe, thanks to further information from London, we are close to nailing the mastermind behind the entire operation.’

  Branson continued. ‘OK, we’ve searched Starr’s home in West Sussex and removed a computer which Digital Forensics are now examining. Living in the house with Starr is his younger brother, Stuie, who has Down’s Syndrome and needs help with day-to-day living. A neighbour had been keeping an eye on him whilst Mickey Starr was away on his – ah – business trip. Velvet has an update on him, I believe?’ He looked at her.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ DC Wilde said, in her Belfast accent. ‘As he is close to independent living, I’ve arranged with social services for an appropriate adult to call daily at the house until the immediate future of his brother is ascertained. Starr’s solicitor is appealing to have him released on bail, so he can look after Stuie.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen,’ Branson said. ‘Not with the charges facing him for the value of the drugs, and his assaults at the time of his arrest.’

  ‘I agree with you, sir.’

  ‘Has the younger brother given any useful information, Velvet?’ Jack Alexander asked the DC.

  ‘Not so far, no. He’s angry that Mickey hasn’t come home because he’d promised they were going to buy a chippy and he would have a job as the food preparer.’

  ‘Well, that promise is fried!’ Hall said and chuckled, looking around.

  ‘If I could chip in,’ Wilde said, ‘his future has gone down the pan!’

  ‘People!’ Branson admonished. He turned to the Financial Investigators. ‘Emily, I understand you have some fresh information for us?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, scrolling through the digital information on her screen. ‘As we always do, we’ve been tracking the financial trail, and I’m very pleased to say we may have a breakthrough. Our devious crime lord has been very careful to hide his tracks, and he’s done it very ingeniously – but we may have found a crucial chink.’

  ‘Yes?’ Branson said.

  ‘We’ve found a bank account in the Seychelles which appears linked to the company LH Classics. The Seychelles used to be completely secretive about all financial transactions, but recently they’ve had a policy change and are now cooperating with government agencies over money laundering. They’re sending us over statements showing all transactions since the account was set up. It’s interesting to see there are numerous cash payments originating in Brighton going into this account.’

  ‘Nice work, Emily!’ the DI said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Branson’s mobile rang. He glanced at the display and when he saw who it was from, Aiden Gilbert of Digital Forensics, he raised an apologetic hand. ‘This might be something of interest, excuse me a sec,’ h
e said to the team and answered it. ‘DI Branson.’

  ‘Glenn,’ Gilbert said. ‘I thought I’d call you right away. I’ve just had the cell-site analysis report back from the phone company for the burner with Starr’s prints all over it. It’s quite interesting.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘We’ve a plot of the phone’s movements for the ten days since it was activated, and a log of the calls made on it. The day before we know that Starr took the car and trailer across the Channel, en route to collect the Ferrari, he visited a location in Brighton, where he spent just over an hour. Cell-site doesn’t usually enable us to pinpoint an actual building in cities, but there were two phone calls made, over the next four days, to a firm located within the area pinpointed.’

  Branson sat upright, excited. ‘Yes? You have its name?’

  ‘Yes, it was simple. I rang the number and the switchboard answered.’

  ‘You’re a star! What’s the firm?’

  Gilbert told him.

  As he heard the name, Glenn beamed. ‘Brilliant, Aiden,’ he said. ‘Just brilliant!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Christmas has come early.’

  13

  Friday 30 November

  Six million pounds’ worth of cocaine seized, and along with it the Ferrari, taken apart at Newhaven Port, every panel of its bodywork, every pillar and post dismantled, some of it opened up like a tin can – violated – by Fire and Rescue officers using tools more normally used for cutting victims out of wrecked cars. All thanks to the dumb greed of a one-armed minion he’d thought he could trust.

  The Ferrari was a fake, a copy, but an expensive copy and still worth big money in the hands of a dealer turning a blind eye to the more questionable areas of its history. And there was one particular dealer that had shifted plenty of his high-end classic cars, all with seemingly squeaky-clean provenance. He had also brokered a number of the cars built by LH Classics over the last sixteen years.

  Now the car had been seized under the Proceeds of Crime Act, and his one meagre crumb of comfort was the knowledge that, with the damage that had been done to it, as well as it being exposed as a fake, neither Customs and Excise nor the police were going to be able to sell it.

  Since the early days of his career as a legal aid solicitor, Terence Gready had been living behind an elaborate and scrupulously maintained facade. The seeds of the idea for his empire had been planted after listening to the stories – and aspirations – of an old lag called Jimmy Pearson whom he’d defended early on in his career.

  The world of drugs offered riches beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, but most of the people who chased those dreams, like Jimmy Pearson, were ultimately losers who played the blame game the way so many cons and ex-cons did – I was fitted up . . . it was a bent copper . . . my brief was on the take . . . Few were ever smart enough to avoid, finally, getting caught. And what often nailed so many offenders were their sudden, uncharacteristic spending sprees. The flash new car, clothes, holidays, boats, homes. The law-enforcement agencies had one dictum in their eternal hunt for the major players: Follow the money.

  But Terence Gready was smart enough – and going very nicely, thank you, twenty-five years on – thanks to his entirely fortuitous career choice. Being a solicitor practising legal aid, criminal law had presented him with both the perfect opportunity – and the perfect cover.

  He’d realized that every day in his work he would be encountering criminals, and occasionally some with wide networks of connections. From talking to the brighter ones, it hadn’t taken him long to build up a picture of how the drug supply chains in England operated, the ports where drugs entered the country, the areas for distribution that were carved up between the crime families and the hotspots where there were gaps in law enforcement.

  Distributors and dealers were the low-hanging fruit of the drugs world – they were easy for the police to catch. And even easier for someone like himself to replace, because there was always going to be a never-ending supply of lowlife wanting to dip its snout in the rich pickings of the drugs trough. He defended dealers every day of the week, most just small-beer street runners, but others a rank or two higher up the food chain. Some of them talked openly to him. And he listened. Made notes. Crucially, he made decisions about who he could trust.

  The Mr Bigs of the drugs world ran their empires, mostly out of metropolitan London, in a tight, businesslike manner, with an accountant, a lawyer and a manager operating a group of foot soldiers – mainly teenagers coerced through drug dependency or fear. Most of the bosses originated from the criminal fraternity in South London or the Caribbean and more recently Eastern Europe, and they were raking in fortunes. Dealing half a kilo at a time, mostly of cocaine or heroin, buying it 40 per cent pure then cutting it, reducing it to 10 or 15 per cent for onward sale, they could earn £50,000–£100,000 in a very short time.

  A large amount of the drugs trafficked into England, Gready had learned, originated from countries in Central and Eastern Europe, with supplies for the South East, his manor, coming mostly through the Essex and London docks – and just occasionally through Liverpool. It was one particular network of Eastern Europeans, from Albania, who had begun to interest Gready.

  They were universally feared for the brutality of their retribution to anyone who crossed them, but, as he learned, they were also the best people to buy from, good businessmen, and that was rare in a flaky trade. They would deliver on time, always top quality, and if you weren’t happy – just like a wholesale version of Marks & Spencer – they operated a no-quibble returns policy. And, of course, he took very special care to look after any of them should they come to him with their legal issues.

  The secret of success, Gready had figured, was to buy top-quality Class-A drugs and remain totally remote from those selling it on the streets, for two reasons. Firstly, to avoid getting into turf wars with any of the existing crime families – if they didn’t know who was behind a new supply on the streets, it was much harder for them to muscle in and stop it – especially if the quality was better than their own and the price cheaper. Secondly, whenever a street dealer was arrested, there was no way of linking it back to him. He had organized his own empire by placing Mickey Starr as its nominal head. Whilst he made all the decisions, Starr was the operational contact for the importation and distribution. He made sure he had no involvement in this part whatsoever and could not be connected to it.

  But now, for the first time, he was really worried. A big fly in the ointment.

  Lucky Mickey Starr.

  Lucky. Why the hell had that fool ever been called Lucky?

  The television was on, an episode of Endeavour, one of the few crime dramas Terence Gready bothered to watch, because he liked its accuracy. But tonight, to him, it was all blurred images and noise. The volume up so damned loud. ‘Barbs, can’t you turn it down a little?’ he said to his wife, who was perched on the sofa opposite.

  ‘I’ve already turned it down once. Any more and I won’t be able to hear it,’ she replied.

  He peered at her, fresh out of humour. ‘You need to get your ears tested – maybe you need a hearing aid.’

  ‘My hearing’s fine,’ she laughed.

  Gready had been seething with rage for the past four days and still seethed now. He sat in the living room of his home, his glass of whisky empty, just a few partially melted ice cubes in the bottom rattling in his shaking hand. Scarcely able to believe the greed of the man he’d always paid so well. What a fool. Stuffing the tyres of the Ferrari with drugs. Hadn’t he realized the X-ray would pick them up?

  Now Starr was banged up on remand in Lewes Prison, but could he trust him to keep his trap shut? The stupid idiot was looking at around fifteen years, minimum. Would Mickey Starr do anything to lessen his sentence? Gready thought he was loyal, but he couldn’t be sure.

  And what if he did squeal?

  For the past two decades, Gready had so very carefully covered his tracks, hiding behind the cover of his law f
irm, never been remotely ostentatious in any way and was ever diligent.

  Nicked for drink-driving at 3 a.m. and in urgent need of a solicitor? Terence Gready was your man! He would always obligingly rock up to the custody suite to advise you. Unfailingly polite to police officers, custody sergeants and to his clients, he had earned grudging respect from most police officers, who as a general rule intensely disliked lawyers, especially his grubby kind.

  The firm of classic car dealers, LH Classics, to which the Ferrari had been consigned, was, to anyone investigating, owned by a Panama company, with nominee directors. A money-laundering front – and a method of importing drugs – which he had successfully used for several years. No way could the police connect it to him. He’d doled out enough cash to his international lawyers to ensure that. Just like the Chinese takeaway below his office and the twenty others around Sussex, who were laundering drugs cash. All of their proprietors had big gambling habits, spending thousands weekly at the local casinos and never raising any suspicion. The Chinese community was well known for being big gamblers. No one had ever suspected it was mostly his money they were playing with. Oh yes, he had been so clever, so many tentacles to his business!

  Barbara suddenly pointed at the screen where a BMW was being dismantled. ‘Look!’ she said. ‘Smuggling drugs hidden in a car, a bit like that Ferrari that was just in the news.’

  ‘Yes, that was quite a bust at Newhaven; I don’t imagine that was just somebody operating on his own. There’s bound to be a Mr Big behind it,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I hope he gets bloody nailed,’ she said, vehemently. ‘You know my views on drugs, my love. And how much it upsets me when you get some dealer off who you’re pretty sure is guilty. Any drug dealer who uses kids should be lined up against a wall.’

  ‘I agree,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What’s up, Terry?’ Barbara asked suddenly. ‘Please tell me. You’ve not been yourself for days now.’

  Endeavour was over, the credits rolling. He looked at her. ‘I’m fine.’