Murder Under Construction

Detective Leon Peterson Mysteries

Book 1

Alex Henry

Copyright © 2024 by Alex Henry

Published by 3Bees Press

First Edition 2024

Edited by JL Merrow

Cover Art by One Hat Press

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All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

All trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

Blurb

Under the flight path, more than one secret is about to emerge…

On the brink of closing a high-profile terrorism investigation, DI Leon Peterson and his team are pulled off to investigate a cold case, a body found on a site for a new airport hotel. He knows this is political posturing, but it doesn’t make it easier to accept watching another DI muscle in on his team’s work.

For Leon, though, the decades-old cold case turns out to be closer to home in more than one way. His DS, Jasmine Todd, can’t understand his interest in the dead man, and Leon is not sure he wants to talk about his past. One thing he fears is that he may have a very personal connection to the deceased. Will the body finally give him the answers he’s waited for nearly forty years? 

Even as some shocking revelations come to light, Leon can’t help being distracted by the terrorism case. He’s convinced the new DI in charge is chasing the wrong lead, and his conscience won’t let him leave it alone. No matter if it risks his career—and his life.

Chapter One

The strip lights overhead were getting on his nerves. Between the only-just-audible buzzing of the fluorescent tubes and the flickering of dozens of CCTV monitors, Leon Peterson’s eyes were starting to cross, and he felt the headache lurking in the background, ready to strike. The CCTV monitoring station at the Compass Centre had been state-of-the-art ten years ago, but it was beginning to show its age. The heating had been stuck on full for days, and the air smelled of sweat and burned coffee. Leon’s head swam. His longing for fresh air and daylight was suddenly overwhelming and he pushed his chair back and stood up, feeling his joints crack as he stretched.

Which is when he saw it.

“Camera seventeen!” he shouted.

Chairs squeaked as his DS, Jasmine Todd, and a sweaty, red-faced counter-terrorism officer scooted over to the screen Leon pointed at.

“It’s them, guv,” Jas said. “It’s really them.” Excitement bubbled out of her.

On the screen three white men in hi-vis coats gestured silently towards a stack of packing crates piled into a wheeled cage of the kind used to load passengers’ bags onto aeroplanes. One of the men disappeared out of the shot and they tracked him across the screens as he collected a small towing vehicle, brought it back to the cage and hitched up.

“Oh, you beauties,” Leon said. “Gotcha.” His lurking headache had miraculously disappeared. Jas and the constable couldn’t stop grinning as they watched the packing crates begin to trundle their way out of the taxiing area towards one of the service roads.

“We going to pick them up?” Jas asked. Her pretty face—almost Bollywood beautiful—had lost its tired lines in her excitement.

Leon shook his head. “We need to wait until the buyers turn up. I want the full set.”

It had taken months to get to this point. They could wait a little longer. The explosives in the packing cases would be securely stored, watched discreetly by the police as well as the baggage handlers. When the wannabe terrorists turned up with a suitcase full of cash the handover would most likely take place during the day, one of a thousand other transactions at the airport. Except there would be armed police officers waiting to make arrests, and a lot of people would be going to jail. Leon smiled the smile of a man whose ducks were forming themselves into a neat row. Lines he thought had become permanent fixtures on his forehead smoothed themselves out and the horrible airless room seemed brighter and friendlier.

Behind him, the door opened. Leon looked round to see the perfectly turned-out figure of DI Cathy Morales step into the room, followed by a couple of DCs from her team. Her suit fitted better than any suit Leon had ever owned, her boots screamed expensive and her thick, dark hair was held back from her face with a single tortoiseshell clip. As he always did when confronted by Morales’s effortless style, he ran his hands over his hair, trying to pat it into some kind of order. His own suit hung off his tall, thin frame adding to the scarecrow image. But today it mattered less than usual.

“We got them, Cathy,” he said. “Arrests within days.”

She gave a pinched half smile. “You need to go to this address,” she said, texting him with a map. “Dead body in suspicious circs. My team will take over here and handle the arrests.”

Leon froze in disbelief.

“You can’t!” Jasmine burst out. “We’ve been working on this for months. Those arrests belong to us.”

Morales frowned. “DS Todd, are we not all on the same side here? Does it matter who makes the arrests as long as we stop those explosives getting into the wrong hands?”

It did matter. An operation like this was a career changer. Even if it wasn’t, he and Jas deserved to finish the job they had been entrusted with. He had been imagining putting handcuffs on the baggage handlers for weeks, had dreamed of seeing the faces of the buyers when they realised they had been led into a trap. Hell, he was even looking forward to the press conference.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Leon said with a significant glance at Jas. He strode out of the monitoring station, already grabbing his phone. Shutting the door behind him, Leon leaned against the wall of the corridor, and dialed his boss.

“DCI Harris.”

“What the actual hell?” It exploded out of Leon with more feeling than tact. “Sir,” he added belatedly.

“I take it you’re referring to DI Morales’ arrival?” Harris’s tone was as brisk and no-nonsense as ever. It didn’t bode well.

“With respect, sir, this is my case, and we’re within days of making arrests here. There’s no⁠—”

“Not for negotiation, Peterson. Your work on the case is appreciated, but Morales is taking over.”

“Why?” Leon cringed at his own tone as it burst out of him. Any minute now he’d be whining It’s not fair.

But it wasn’t.

There was a silence. “Not my decision, Leon. It’s come down from the top. The Commander thinks Cathy Morales will be a better face for the media on this one.”

She would be, Leon knew. She was younger than him, fast-tracked through promotion. She knew how to dress to make the most of her good looks, and she knew just what to say to camera, too. Perhaps more importantly, she wasn’t a white male, the ranks of which hadn’t exactly been covering the Met with glory in recent times.

And Commander Hooker got on well with her. Which was more than could be said for his relationship with Leon.

“Fine,” he ground out. “I’ll hand over the case.”

“You do that. And while you’re at it, you might want to think about mending some bridges with the brass.” Harris sighed. “You’re a good detective, Leon. What the hell have you done to put Hooker’s nose out of joint?”

Leon wished he knew. How could he mend bridges when he had no idea why they were broken?

He ended the call and trudged back into the monitoring station, where Cathy Morales and her crew were busying themselves getting settled in. As if she’d known all along what the result of Leon’s appeal to Harris would be.

Jas was standing where he’d left her, a sullen expression on her face.

“DS Todd,” he said heavily. “Let’s go.” At least he would see the daylight and breathe some fresh air. He felt the lines on his forehead settle into their accustomed places.

Chapter Two

An uneasy car drive later, Jas full of angry questions Leon couldn’t answer, they were at the site of the derelict Kings Arms pub in Sipson, Leon’s home village. It was still early, the watery sun low in the grey December sky, too weak as yet to make a dent in the night’s frost and ice patches. Most people were just starting work. Leon felt like he’d been on shift for the best part of a decade.

They signed in to the crime scene and accepted hard hats from the uniformed constable posted at the entrance.

Jas looked at hers in disgust. It had clearly seen previous use, and the user hadn’t bothered overmuch about cleaning it up afterwards. “Do we have to wear these?”

The constable flushed. “Sorry, ma’am. The site manager insisted.”

He turned to Leon, who’d donned his own hard hat with a grimace of regret for what had previously passed for a hairstyle. In your dreams, Jas’s voice told him.

“It’s this way, sir.” The uniformed constable led them through what, if someone were to take a picture in black and white and photoshop in a plucky milkman, could easily pass for an archive picture of the London Blitz. “You might want to watch your step.”

Leon cursed as a loose bit of rubble slipped under his foot, almost sending him flying. Jas grabbed him none-too-gently by the arm, saving him from landing on his arse in front of the bunch of brickies standing around in enforced idleness. “Thanks,” he said more curtly than he meant to.

“No problem, guv. Can’t have you turning your delicate ankle, can we?” She said the last bit quietly enough that no-one else would hear, so she was probably only moderately irritated by his more-than-usually grumpy self. Jas had always had a keen eye for the subtle nuances of getting a dig in, which most of the time, Leon appreciated. Today though…

Today, not only were they both still smarting from being pulled off the terrorism case, Leon had his own reasons for being on edge. The sooner they got this body identified, the happier Leon would be. Or not, as the case might be.

The workmen, lounging around on the periphery with mugs of tea and cigarettes, were clearly delighted with this break in the monotony of their daily grind. Their boss, a glowering six-footer with cropped brown hair and shoulders that could hold up a block of flats, not so much.

Leon would have to talk to him later. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

The not-actually-a-bombsite was all that was left of the Kings Arms public house, a sprawling 16th Century coaching inn and Grade II listed building. It’d been bought up decades ago by someone with an eye to the main chance hoping to sell it at profit when the Heathrow Airport expansion went ahead, but that plan had been scuppered by environmentalists. With any luck, for good. Disappointed but still hopeful, the owner had allowed the inn to fall into ruin.

It had been an embarrassing local eyesore for decades, and nobody, least of all the owner, had shed a tear when time, and gravity, had finally taken their toll on the old building. Centuries of history, wiped out by greed and apathy. Now that there was nothing left worth protecting, planning permission had finally been granted to turn it into… Leon wasn’t actually sure what. No doubt something hideous and utterly out of keeping with the rest of the village.

Leon’s gran had used to sigh about the Kings Arms, saying it had been a nice place for a drink, back in her day.

“It’s here, sir.” The PC broke into Leon’s thoughts and pointed, unnecessarily, at the corpse lying half-uncovered in another pile of rubble. The head—or rather, skull–the torso, and the arms were visible, while the legs were still buried, giving the corpse the macabre appearance of someone tucked up in bed.

“They weren’t wrong about him being here for a while, were they?” Jas murmured.

Leon had to agree. There was nothing left of the body but bones, some short wispy hair and rags of clothing. It was impossible to tell the colour of anything, covered as it was in dust. How long had the corpse lain here? Ten years? Twenty? More than thirty? He swallowed.

The senior SOCO, Hannah Lovecraft, rose from her crouch to greet them, although as per usual, she omitted the actual greeting. “Like cold cases, do you? They don’t come much colder than this.” She was a short, stocky woman, made stockier by the coveralls she wore, with the sort of accent that always made Leon picture her carrying a shotgun, a couple of retrievers at her heels. Despite knowing for a fact that she was a vegetarian, and passionately against hunting.

“How cold, exactly, is it?”

She shrugged. “Difficult to tell. We’re talking years, if not decades, though.”

Decades. Leon stared at the remains. Someone’s son or daughter. Maybe someone’s mum or dad… “You’re certain it was murder?”

He wanted to kneel, but this was his last clean suit, and despite the white paper coveralls, plaster dust would find its way in. His other suits needed to be collected from the dry cleaners but somehow there was never time. Why wasn’t he the sort of copper who could send a constable to get his cleaning? He imagined their response if he asked. He had colleagues who wouldn’t care.

“Never said I was certain. But there’s enough here to warrant calling us all in.”

Leon peered at the skeleton as if a hard stare was all it would take for it to give up its secrets, then focussed back on Hannah. “Could be some poor sod came in here to sleep rough and didn’t make it through the night. Drug overdose, maybe?”

She shook her head. “There’s a depressed skull fracture. Judging by the staining, could be what killed him.”

“It couldn’t have happened when the building collapsed?”

Hannah raised an eyebrow. “First of all, as I said, the blood stains suggest not. Long-dead bodies don’t bleed. And secondly, if he’d only died a few months ago he’d likely be a damn sight squishier.”

Leon grimaced. “Squishier? Is that a technical term?”

“You want technical terms? You can wait for the post mortem report.” She gave him an appraising look. “You seem off your feed. Something wrong?”

“No—no, I’m fine.” Leon gave a weak smile, aware of Jas’s scrutiny as well. “Never good to find a body, that’s all.”

“Keeps my department in work,” Hannah muttered.

“Found anything to ID them so far?” Jas asked.

“Not yet. Looks like a man’s shirt our chum’s wearing, and the hands are large. We’ll need to dig him out fully to find out more.”

Leon nodded. “Keep us posted. I’d better go and talk to the man in charge here.”

He strode over to the site boss, whose expression didn’t lighten as he approached. Close up, the man was even larger. Maybe an inch or so shorter than Leon himself, he was much, much broader. He stood with his feet planted shoulder-width apart and his arms firmly folded, his shirt straining at his biceps. He was white, with mid-brown hair, close-cropped at the sides but longer on top, and a hint of scruff around his jaw. His hazel eyes were currently glowering at Leon from beneath dark brows.

“You’re the foreman here? Detective Inspector Leon Peterson.” He held out a hand, but the man made no move to shake it.

Irritation flared. “Can I have your name, please?” Leon asked sharply.

“Ben Codona.”

“Codona? Isn’t that an old traveller name?” Leon’s interest had been caught despite himself. His gran had told stories of a Romani great-great grandmother in their own family tree.

Codona’s face darkened even further. “What of it?”

Christ. Prickly, much? “Nothing. Just an observation.” The man’s demeanour didn’t exactly encourage sharing family legends. “Are you the one who reported finding the body?”

“Thought you lot kept records.”

Leon kept his temper with some difficulty. “Can you just answer the question, please?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you can? Or yes, you reported it?” Leon knew he was being petty, but something about this man riled him up.

“Yes.” Codona snapped it this time.

With a supreme effort, Leon let it go and dropped his questions back a step. “So, you’re clearing the site. What’s it going to be?”

“A pain in my arse if we don’t get finished on time.” Codona huffed. “Airport hotel.”

Leon’s heart sank. Didn’t the village have enough of those already? “Were you on site when the body was discovered?”

Codona nodded.

“Can you talk me through what happened, please?”

“The lads were clearing that area. Billy uncovered the bones. A hand. Thought it was a Halloween decoration at first.” His tone was final, as though he’d said his piece and was done with it.

“There’s more than a hand uncovered now,” Leon prompted.

“Kept digging, didn’t he?” Codona huffed, almost sounding amused. “Probably planning some kind of practical joke.”

Leon’s anger rose. How bloody disrespectful could he be? “That the sort of thing that goes on in your worksites? Practical jokes with dead bodies?”

“Like I said, he thought it was fake.” Codona had taken a step forward, and was right up in Leon’s face now. His arms were still folded, but there was a definite potential for unfolding and forming fists there.

Leon forced himself to take a step back. If this ended up escalating to violence, he’d only have himself to blame. “Noted. So he uncovered the body further, and then…?”

“I heard the laughter and came to take a look. Realised it wasn’t a fake and called your lot.”

Leon raised an eyebrow. “You immediately realised it wasn’t a fake? Have a lot of experience with dead bodies, do you?”

For a moment he really thought Codona was going to hit him. The man’s face darkened alarmingly as he growled out, “Think that’s funny?”

Why was he being so defensive? “Not at all, Mr Codona,” Leon said soothingly. “I just wondered how you’d made the identification so readily.” Then again, in his experience, most members of the public seemed positively eager to make the worst possible interpretation of things they’d seen or heard.

Codona’s anger seemed to subside. “Wasn’t certain. Thought I’d better let your lot make the call.”

Again, with the “your lot.” Leon made a mental note to check if Codona had a history of dealings with the police. “Very sensible, sir.”

Codona frowned, as though suspecting he was being mocked. “How soon are you going to be finished?” he demanded.

“That’s up to forensics. We’ll let you know when they’re done, and you can resume work.” Normally he’d say a couple of days, but they might need to call in a forensic anthropologist on this one and he honestly wasn’t sure how long that would take.

“Bloody marvellous. What am I supposed to tell the client? No worries, we’re just all sitting around on our arses for an unspecified length of time and sod your bloody deadline?”

“You can tell them what I told you.” Leon sighed, feeling some unwilling sympathy. “Look, it isn’t in our interest to take any longer than we need to, either.”

“What the hell are they even going to find after so long? Sounds like a waste of your time as well as mine.”

“You think the body’s been here for a while?” Leon asked mildly.

Codona barked an incredulous laugh. “Just look at it! If you ask me, that poor bastard’s been here since before the roof fell in back in the eighties.”

Leon felt an uncomfortable chill spread through his chest. “The eighties?”

A nod. “A tree came down on it. Further over that way”— he pointed to another area of rubble — “but it made the whole site unsafe. Had to be fenced off.”

“Do you know what year that happened exactly?” Leon asked, his chest tight.

“Great storm of 1987, I think. Whatever that was.”

Leon couldn’t stop himself snapping, “the night of the 15th of October. But don’t worry, it was only a hurricane that killed at least twenty-two people and knocked down millions of trees.”

The bloke just shrugged. He probably hadn’t even been born.

“Right,” Leon said, and cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mr Codona. That’s all for now.”

Leon turned away, and Jasmine touched his arm gently. “I’d never heard of this Great Storm either,” she said.

“I work with children,” he grumped, but his heart wasn’t in it. He probably wouldn’t remember the hurricane either if his father had come home on the sixteenth of October 1987. But he hadn’t.

“But you remember it, Old Father Time?” Jasmine gave a wry smile. She knew exactly how old he was.

They made their way out into the fresh air, stripping off their masks, gloves and paper hats. Leon pushed his hair back off his face. A haircut was another overdue task.

“I was eight,” he said, “and it was terrifying. You know I grew up in this village?”

Jasmine nodded. She had come all the way from Ealing, which she considered both more cosmopolitan and more convenient than the villages clustered round the airport.

“I woke up in the middle of the night, and I kid you not, the glass was shaking in the windows. Like it was being sucked in and out by the wind. I’m not describing it well, but I’ll never forget it. I got up and things were flying past the house in the street outside. Tree branches, dustbins, roof tiles, and all of it clattering and banging like you’d put a saucepan in the washing machine.”

He’d shouted for his mother, but it had been his older sister Deborah who’d come into his bedroom. He remembered she’d been wearing a pink nylon shorty nightdress from the market in Hounslow. “Mum’s not in her room, Leon,” she’d said, and he’d burst into tears. She’d given him a hug and told him not to worry because Mum would be outside making sure things were OK in the garden. She’d taken him into her bed, and they’d lain listening to the storm until their mother came to wake them up in the morning. They must have fallen asleep despite the noise.

“It was weird the next morning,” he told Jasmine. “All the power was out, so no telly. Our neighbours had a tree through one of their upstairs windows. Fences were lying on the ground, there was a garden shed upside down in the middle of the road, and everyone was out on the street. A few people tried to get to work, but the buses couldn’t get along the main roads because of fallen trees. The school was closed.”

Leon licked his lips, his mouth dry.

“There were trees down all over the village,” he went on. “In some places it was as if curtains had been opened — the view changed completely. Like there was a bit of a green where we used to play, and suddenly I could see it from my bedroom window. Before, all I could see were trees.” He shook his head. “And it’s all been forgotten.”

“They didn’t re-plant the trees?”

Leon raised his eyebrows. “Round here?”

“What about the airport?” Jasmine asked, tipping her head in the direction of yet another plane lumbering its way into the sky.

“As far as I remember, business as usual. People who worked there had to walk, but you’d be surprised how quickly things got back to normal. We spent a few days getting the roads cleared, and then the repairs went on for months. Or not, in the case of this pub. Lots of the houses had holes in their roofs, or smashed windows, and I don’t think anyone on the street had an intact shed or a lid for their dustbin. God knows where all the dustbin lids went. People don’t remember the hurricane, what they remember is Michael Fish saying there wasn’t going to be a hurricane.”

“Huh?”

“Michael Fish. Weatherman on the Beeb. That’s how we oldies found out the weather. The forecast after the news. Poor bloke never lived it down. He said there wasn’t going to be a hurricane. All cheerful about it, as if it was a big joke.”

“Come on, guv. You don’t remember one weather forecast from when you were eight.”

He didn’t of course. He couldn’t distinguish what he remembered from what he’d learned since. The chaos in the village, the rippling glass in his bedroom windows, and the changed view of the green. Those were real. He wasn’t sure about anything else because the night of the hurricane had been the last time he’d seen his father.

Chapter Three

After leaving the Kings Arms, they went back to the police station in Southall. Leon strode to his office without meeting anyone’s gaze. Gossip went around fast, and he didn’t want to see the pity in his colleagues’ eyes over his stolen case. Jas tailed him, and he noticed she didn’t exchange greetings with anyone either.

Door shut firmly behind them, Leon sat behind his desk and tried to get his thoughts together.

“What now, guv?” Jas prompted.

“We need to identify our body, so I want you to look up the missing persons records. For this long ago, they’ll be down in the basement archives.”

Jas’s face fell. “Guv, those are paper files! This could take weeks.”

Leon suppressed a smile at the outrage in his sergeant’s voice. To be fair, it wasn’t a job he would have wanted either, but needs must.

“At least you’ve got a likely date: 15th October 1987 or thereabouts. Someone who didn’t come home after the great storm.”

“And if I don’t find anyone?”

“Then you widen the search.”

She visibly bit back a response and stomped off to make a start.

If she didn’t find any contenders, they would need to delve deeper into how long it had taken the pub to collapse and how long it had been accessible once the roof had blown away.

Although who was he kidding? She’d definitely find at least one contender.

Leon cast his mind back to the days after the storm when it had seemed that the whole of Sipson was out clearing debris from the streets. Try as he might, he couldn’t get an image of the Kings Arms except as an empty building with boarded up windows, and later, with a high steel fence cutting it off from the street. There had been more interesting places for the young Leon and his mates to play and the pub wasn’t on the route between home and school. He had a vague recollection of his dad describing the place as “no more than a filthy cottage” which hadn’t meant anything significant at the time. Forty-five-year-old Leon Petersen had no need to meet men for sex in secretive, insalubrious locations, and thank all the gods he didn’t believe in, DI Leon Petersen had no need to arrest men for having sex with each other.

As his current case was hardly time-critical, Leon decided, in a streak of ironic rebellion, to take the opportunity to catch up on paperwork.

His good intentions, though, were frustrated by constant interruptions from members of Morales’ team seeking clarification on various matters to do with the terrorism case. None of which time-wasting would have been necessary if he’d only been left to run the case himself.

A call from the mortuary was the final nail in the coffin for his paperwork; the post-mortem for the Kings Arms victim had been bumped up to this afternoon. Time to work the case he was actually in charge of. Leon grabbed his phone, patted his pockets for his keys and slung on his coat, hoping the morning’s frost would have melted away by now.

The mortuary at West London Hospital was connected to the main hospital by a short, covered corridor. It had been built in the 1960s or 70s, a simple brick box with narrow windows of obscured glass just below the roofline. Something dark-leaved and prickly was planted close to the building. There was no clue to the function of the place on the outside. People in the know could park in one of the visitors’ spaces and follow a narrow path around the building to a discreet door with an entryphone. The alternative was an interminable walk along miles of hospital corridors. Leon pressed the intercom button and introduced himself. The door buzzed and he was in.

He hadn’t seen the pathologist, Ashley Flower, at the scene, but he knew she would have been there. Leon didn’t like or dislike Dr Flower because she was one of the most private people he had ever met. She was a good pathologist; she performed well in court and her reports were free of jargon with technical terms explained for the non-medically trained reader. But she didn’t make jokes or ask even the most innocuous personal question. She occasionally smiled at one of her assistants, but never at Leon. Many of his colleagues said she was rude and thought herself one better than mere coppers. Leon suspected she was just focussed and possibly a little shy. Not that it mattered. He had not come to widen his social circle, but to find out what had happened to the dead man in the derelict pub.

The skeleton lay on a steel table in the middle of the room.

“DI Peterson,” Flower said. “Please, come.”

He went over to the table, feeling sweat break out under his arms and on his forehead. His collar felt too tight, and he pulled at it. His stomach churned. “Thank you, Dr Flower,” he said. “What can you tell me?”

“I can tell you that this is the body of a young man, 16 to 20 years old, 170 to 175cm tall, probably fairly slender …”

Leon felt the waves of relief roll over him, sweat turning cold on his body. Tears welled up behind his eyelids and he sniffed convulsively and pulled in a deep breath to make them go away. He had the urge to smile and bit the inside of his lips.

He hadn’t been sure how he’d feel. What he’d wanted the most. Closure? Or the retention of hope, however faint it might be? Apparently, when it came down to it, no news was good news.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that last bit?” he asked. “I was distracted for a moment.”

“I said, this person died about thirty or forty years before we found him, and that he almost certainly died from being hit on the back of the head. That is what I wanted you to see.”

Leon wanted to make a joke about our old friend the blunt instrument, but he didn’t think Dr Ashley Flower did jokes. It was just the relief trying to escape, although nothing had really changed.

Flower turned the skull over. There was a huge depression at the crown surrounded by cracks, distorting the round shape.

“Couldn’t that have been a result of the building collapsing?” Leon said, then remembered that the body had been found lying face upwards and answered his own question. “No. It couldn’t.”

Flower nodded, once. “If you look closely, you can see that the damage is elongated.” She pointed, showing the pattern of cracks in the bone. “This suggests to me that he was hit with something like a poker, or a straight bar, or one of those truncheons the police used to carry. That sort of shape anyway.”

The sort of truncheon his father had carried? Leon started to feel sick.

“I’ve measured the angles, and whoever wielded the weapon struck from above and from the left. Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m suggesting a tall, left-handed killer. I’m simply giving you my findings.” She stepped away from the table, which Leon recognised as her sign that she’d given him all she had. He took a deep breath.

“Is there any way to be more precise about the date of death?”

Dr Flower shook her head. “I can’t. But the victim’s teeth are intact. A forensic dentist might be able to help. Your forensic people have the clothes, or rather what’s left of them. I’ll send my report later today.”

That really was his dismissal. He thanked her and made his way out of the building to his car. Then he closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing.

Chapter Four

On her way to the basement archives, DS Jasmine Todd stared enviously across the room at DI Cathy Morales, now back from Heathrow. She was briefing her carefully selected team on a series of proposed raids on suspected terrorist sympathisers. Jas heard phrases like tactical support, armed response, un-marked cars, gold command. Morales surveyed her team with intense concentration. Jas imagined herself being pinned to her seat by those deep brown eyes while Morales explained the potential dangers of the forthcoming operation.

In your dreams.

Despite all the fake camaraderie in the women’s locker room, Morales only ever chose men for her teams. And then only straight men who would admire her good looks, sexy outfits and effortlessly wavy hair — never tied back, just allowed to fall onto her shoulders. Bitch. The brass adored Morales. She was going places. Not just because of her looks, though they didn’t get in the way. No, Morales was good at her job, and great at taking credit for every success while making sure the lowest status or hopeless cases were assigned to someone else. That someone else was usually Leon, and today was a perfect example. She and Leon were sent to Sipson to look at a body dead for so long it didn’t even stink. While Morales’s team went into London proper to make arrests that would be on the news.

This wasn’t why I joined the Met.

To be fair, the recruiters had told her that police work wasn’t always glamorous. “It’s not like the TV, Miss Todd,” they’d said. “There’s a lot of paperwork, and we rely on intelligence from people we don’t always approve of, har, har.”

Morales’s team had the best intel, from GCHQ and MI5. But it would be the police, specifically photogenic Morales, who would appear at the press conferences and in the papers while the spooks stayed in the darkness. Careers were made in operations like this. Lives saved with the breaking up of rings of wannabe suicide bombers and chaos causers. Jas sighed. Even if they found how their DB had died decades ago, no one would care. Whether they found anything or not, she and Leon would file a report which would sink without trace. In the meantime, she was headed for the basement where the racks of mouldering paper case files were stored, waiting their turn to be scanned into the computer system.

For some reason, Leon seemed to find this case interesting. Presumably because he’d grown up in the village, and still lived there now. Everyone in West London was used to the stream of aeroplanes overhead, spaced out at precise intervals. She remembered some old guy telling her seriously that they came low so their passengers could see more of London. As a kid, she’d imagined where they were going, and as a teenager she’d found out. In Ealing, the planes had been ever-present but ignorable. In Sipson, they shook the ground. The only reason the body had been discovered was that the old pub was going to become yet another airport hotel. The airport authority, owners of most of the village, wanted to flatten the lot under a new runway, but as long as the politicians dithered, they’d apparently decided to turn the derelict building to profit another way. Jasmine sighed again.

Rishi De, a short, square-jawed DC who, like her, wasn’t one of Morales’ favoured few--presumably because he didn’t fit the Action Man mould—looked at her enquiringly.

“I’ve got to go down to the cold case files store in the basement,” she told him, and the bloody weirdo looked almost jealous. Jealous.

“History down there, Jas, history.”

“You’re in the wrong job, mate,” she said, grabbing her bag and casting one last miserable look towards the other end of the room before heading downstairs to the archives.

A plaintive “I know,” followed her as she went.

Jasmine’s previous visits to the basement had been to deposit and collect bags of evidence. In fact, the store and the archive were as pleasant as they could be, given that there was no natural light. There was no smell of damp, and the place had a background hum from the fridges for “samples” needing to be kept cold. A couple of civilian staff kept the place in some kind of order, though their primary job was maintaining the chain of evidence rather than ensuring old files didn’t go walkabout. She explained what she wanted and was taken to the moving racks of boxes, lever-arch files and cardboard folders.

“October 1987?” the clerk asked, checking the numbers on the ends of the racks.

“The fifteenth to start with,” Jasmine replied. “Missing persons.”

The clerk made a huffing noise. “You should have said. Missing persons are in another section. These are the case files. Find your misper first and then come back here.” She led the way to a desk next to a single, floor to ceiling rack of lever arch files, and waved at it. “Missing person reports, by date. Don’t remove anything or write on the forms. Big brother is watching.” Jasmine had already seen the cameras sprouting from the ceiling throughout the basement. They could apparently afford multiple cameras to watch that the paper files weren’t tampered with, but not a data entry clerk to input the information into the system which would then take seconds to search. She put her bag on the desk with a thump. God, this was going to be tedious. And that was before she saw that October 1987 consisted of two bulging lever arch files.

The files were stiff, and the paper forms stained yellow from age and brown from rusty staples. They didn’t smell of damp, but they did smell of the dust of ages. There was no easy way to flip through; Jasmine had to move the reports a few at a time until she reached the date of the storm, almost at the end of the first file. She reached into her bag for her pen and notebook and saw the state of her hands — black with dust and ancient print. Yuck. Thankfully she kept a packet of wet wipes in her bag.

There was one report from October fifteenth. A teenage girl. She kept turning the pages. Nothing for the sixteenth. Nothing for the seventeenth. Another teenage girl on the eighteenth, and that was the end of the file. Which meant she had to carefully turn all the filthy pages back so that the file could be closed. Jasmine was tempted just to shove it back onto the shelf, but she wasn’t that girl.

The second file opened with yet another teenage girl and then she hit pay dirt.

Name of Missing Person: David Peterson

Age: 31 DOB: 17-02-1956

Sex: Male

Height: 6’1”

Hair colour: Brown/black Eye colour: Brown Distinguishing Features: none

Race: Caucasian

Occupation: Police Constable

Address: 27, Canberra Road, Sipson, LB Hillingdon

Person reporting: Mrs Rachel Peterson

Relationship to Missing Person: Spouse

Date last seen: 15-10-1987

Chapter Five

Leon had texted Jas the post-mortem findings so she could focus her misper search, and suggested they both knock off for the day. They’d both been up well before the crack of dawn, and the weak winter sun had already set by the time he’d exited the mortuary.

Her response had been a curt OK. She was normally chattier in text—her thumbs were nimbler than his—but Leon put it down to a dispiriting day.

Having taken his own advice, Leon trudged tiredly up the path to his house. Number 27, Canberra Road, Sipson. One more red-brick semi in a sea of them, dwarfed by the airport hotels that had sprung up all around. There was litter in his front garden again, tattered scraps of paper and the pale remains of something that had probably once been food. The tiny area of weeds and grass looked like a small, very localised hurricane had hit it—or, more likely, that someone had dumped their leftovers from the village fish and chip shop for the local cats to fight over. Look at me, detecting. The littering happened frequently enough that Leon was pretty sure he was being deliberately targeted. Leon sighed and got out his keys. At least they hadn’t spray-painted All Cops Are Bastards on the house, as had happened to one of the guys he’d trained with.

There was a monochrome blur, and then Robin was sitting on the doorstep sending Leon an accusing eye.

“Yes, dinner’s late again. You can one-star me on TripAdvisor. Or find a better hotel,” Leon muttered under his breath.

The cat rose to all four paws, made a spirited attempt to trip Leon up as he walked through the front door, and then commenced yowling for his supper. Home sweet home. He’d grown up in this house. Him, his sister Deborah, their mum…and their dad. Well, for the first eight years of Leon’s life, at any rate.

Leon grabbed a pouch of cat food from the cupboard and slid the unappetising contents into Robin’s bowl. Robin looked at the food, then back at Leon. He uttered an imperious miaow.

“Fine, you can have your cuddles.” Leon crouched down to stroke the cat, who finally condescended to eat the food he’d been clamouring for. “Bet you didn’t get your every whim indulged at Debbie’s, though.” Technically, Robin was her cat. A rescue of dubious provenance, he’d been brought round to Leon’s for a temporary stay while Debbie and her family went on a fortnight’s holiday. That had been six months ago.

There had been a succession of excuses for not reclaiming him. The latest—and lamest—had been that Debbie had just had her nails done. When Leon had enquired why on earth that was supposed to be relevant, she’d muttered “it’s not like you’ve got anyone else to go home to” and made an excuse to end the phone call. Leon was beginning to suspect his sister had got tired of waiting for him to find a new partner and decided she might as well start him on the road to the living-alone-with-cats cliché.

Leon straightened, and went to check what was in his fridge.

Hmm. Nothing for forensics to get excited about, but also nothing for him to get excited about. And after the day he’d had, cooking was the last thing he fancied doing.

Still, he had bread. And cans.

He sat on the sofa to eat his tuna sandwich with a triple helping of guilt (he really ought to cook a meal; Mum would be horrified he wasn’t eating at the dining table; and he hadn’t given Robin any tuna, which the cat unsurprisingly vastly preferred to the gelatinous goop marketed to the feline gourmet.)

Robin sat on the floor and stared at him as he ate, as though the cat’s thoughts were running on similar lines.

“Sorry, mate, this is too good for you.” Instead of mayo, Leon had added sweet chilli sauce and spring onions, which were both tasty and a vegetable, so the first helping of guilt could go take a running jump. Robin settled down on folded front paws, still staring.

Leon ignored him deliberately, gazing out of the bay window in his front room. The skies had darkened to inky blue, enlivened by the lights of aircraft taking off and landing every minute or so.

His parents had bought this house in the early eighties, and the ceilings still bore the Artex scars. Leon thanked God daily that his mum and dad hadn’t succumbed to the fad for slime-coloured bathrooms that had been around then. They’d never had the money for a refit in later years. The bath upstairs was still the deep, solid, white one he’d played with toy boats in as a child, and would probably survive another forty years intact. There were rails around it, fitted before Mum went into the care home, which he should probably get around to removing at some point. It hadn’t seemed a priority when he’d taken up sole possession eighteen months ago.

He'd made a token argument to Debbie that she, as both the oldest and the one of them with a family, should have the house, but she and Tom were quite happy in their new-build house in Hayes, even though the garden was tiny and the houses on the estate crowded in on one another. For that matter, Leon had been quite happy living in Feltham—until it all went pear-shaped, and then he’d needed somewhere to live in a hurry. Mum couldn’t stay in the house any longer, so it’d been a case of use it or lose it—or sell it, at any rate—and when it came down to it, Leon hadn’t wanted to let the house go out of the family. All his memories of Dad were tied up with this place. Mum often spoke of “going home” and while that was never going to happen, at least he didn’t have to lie to her about still owning it.

And the house was bigger than his flat had been, and had a garden he occasionally got time to enjoy, and after a while you hardly noticed the aeroplanes constantly roaring overhead.

Leon finished his sandwich and groped for his phone, feeling a sudden need to call his sister.

She answered immediately, so the kids must be in bed already. “Hiya, how’s Robin?”

“The cat is in rude health. So am I, thanks for asking. How’s my little namesake and her brother?” Debbie had called her firstborn Leona, and Leon would be embarrassed to admit how happy it’d made him.

“Your namesake is thirteen now, remember, so don’t let her hear you call her little. She’s in disgrace because she somehow managed to lose her PE kit on the way home from school and didn’t tell me for three days. And Harry’s got that vomiting bug that’s going around, so I expect we’ll all have it by tomorrow. But other than that, we’re fine. Any particular reason for the call?”

“Why, have you got a hot date to get to?”

“Yep. It’s a threesome. Me, Tom and the telly. For however long we’ve got until Harry’s chucking up again. Family life, eh?”

Leon felt a weird pang at that. “You know you love it,” he said with false cheer.

Debbie knew him too well. “Is something wrong, Lee?”

“No…” He sighed. “Rough day at work, that’s all. Not everyone’s happy to see the police turn up.”

“Public giving you a hard time? Let’s hope tomorrow it’s wall-to-wall hot blokes, then.”

Leon laughed. “Only if they have decent personalities.” After all, Ben Codona had been good-looking enough…

“Aw, you mean you’re not just interested in their bodies? My baby brother’s all grown up! I’m so proud of you. Oh—bugger it. Got to go. I can hear Harry upstairs. Love you!”

“Love you too,” Leon said, but she’d already ended the call.

He’d had half a mind to tell her about the body in the pub, but he was glad, in the end, that he hadn’t.

Debbie had enough on her plate right now. She didn’t need Leon dredging up their past.

Chapter Six

“Sir?”

Leon looked up from the notes he was making, surprised at Jasmine’s formal tone. He was used to being called boss or guv, but sir wasn’t usually in her repertoire. She looked pale, as if she’d seen a ghost. Mind you, this case was exactly that. Raking up the ghosts of the past.

“Todd? Is everything all right? How did you get on in misper?”

She licked her lips, a nervous gesture she rarely did. Something had shaken her badly. He waved at the seat in front of his desk.

“Talk to me. What’s got you so agitated?”

“I found two possible men of around the right age for the victim. They both lived in the area. The other missing persons were women. I eliminated one of the men. He’s at the top of the age range. Thirty-one. He’s too old for our vic.” She bit her lip. “You know who it is, don’t you?”

Leon gave a curt nod. Of course, he knew.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she demanded, sounding exasperated now.

He leaned back in his seat and studied her for a moment. “I didn’t want it to be a conflict of interest.”

“And if it had been your father?”

“Then someone else would have been assigned the case. This isn’t the TV. I can’t investigate my own father’s disappearance.”

“Murder,” she corrected.

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you know something I don’t, DS Todd?”

“I mean this case. It looks like a homicide.”

“But the post mortem ruled out this vic being my father.”

She nodded, and pushed a file towards him. “I think it’s this man. Andrew Castle. He’s the right age and vanished the night of the storm. His mum reported him missing.”

Leon picked up the folder and opened it. An old photo dropped to the table. He picked it up and studied it for a long moment. Andrew Castle, also known as Andy. He looked to be late teens in the photo, dressed in a smart shirt and tie. Maybe he’d been at a wedding. There was the edge of a man’s shoulder and arm next to him. He was handsome enough, maybe with an edge of pretty. Leon wondered if Andy had always tried to prove himself to be a tough guy.

“Okay. So only two men were reported missing that night. My father and Andrew Castle. But what makes you think it’s definitely him?”

“Forensics found a ring close by. A signet ring. It wasn’t with the body, but they bagged it.”

Jasmine handed over the bag. Leon turned it over and squinted at the engraving on the ring.

“It’s worn away but you can make out an A and that might be a C,” she said.

He nodded. It was a good lead.

Leon looked at the photo again. After all this time, who would still remember Andy Castle? “We should talk to the family if we can find them.”

She nodded. “His mum is still in the same house. I just checked.”

Funny how that happened.

“Okay, let’s get this done. If we can get a positive ID, that’ll be a good start.”

It was more than Leon expected. He’d anticipated weeks of fruitless investigations, followed by a reassignment and leaving the case open when they got nowhere. He’d had more of those cases than he cared to admit. They’d stopped haunting his dreams now.

“There’s one other thing,” Jasmine said. “Read the notes.”

Leon scanned the notes added by the officer taking the report and winced at the terminology. “Ah, the good old days. I wonder if his mum knew he was gay.”

“You think she’s a suspect?”

“You don’t?” he challenged her.

Jas shrugged, not so much an answer as a maybe. It was hard to think of a mother killing her son, but Mrs Castle wouldn’t be the first.

Leon leaned back in his chair and sighed. This could prove a whole can of worms he didn’t want to open. “Let’s find out what she knew about her son.”

Mrs Castle’s house in Sipson turned out to be not far from Leon’s own. Leon regarded it for a long moment. He wondered if the fates decided this was the case to poke holes in his admittedly fragile psyche. The house was identical to the one he’d grown up in. Not surprising. They lived in the same area and most families here lived in a three-bed semi or terrace. But this was identical, even down to the shabby porch in need of renovation.

His gut churned as he thought about the news they were about to deliver. It was ridiculous, given his relief yesterday, but he felt a touch of envy. This family would get something his never had. Closure.

He turned to Jasmine. “You take the lead on this one, yeah?”

She looked at him in surprise and he huffed. So maybe he wasn’t the best at giving up control. She always swore she’d have to pry the reins out of his cold dead hands. But she was still chafing at having to be on this case at all, and allowing her a more proactive role would mollify her a little.

Jasmine touched his arm. “Leave it with me, Leon.”

He blinked. She didn't often call him by his first name. In this moment, he appreciated the kindness more than he cared to admit.

As Jasmine opened the gate, the front door opened, and an older woman peered out at them. Leon would have put her at anything between late sixties to early eighties, but as Andy Castle’s mum, she had to be nearer the upper end of that. She was shorter, maybe five feet. Slim build, with silver grey hair. Leon remembered the press photos of her in the file from the days after the hurricane, haggard and upset, desperate for news of her son. She had looked like his mum. Two women losing loved ones at the same time. Did they ever talk to each other, comfort each other? Now she was an old woman and he wondered if she’d moved on from the moment her son vanished. God knows, he and his family hadn’t. They were still stuck in 1987 as they had been since the day his dad vanished.

“Mrs Castle?”

“Yes,” the woman said, still suspicious. “I ain’t buying anything and I’m not religious.”

If that was all she had to worry about…

“Mrs Castle, I’m Detective Sergeant Todd and this is Detective Inspector Peterson.” Jasmine walked up the path.

The old woman didn’t move, didn’t say a word, her gaze fixed on Jasmine.

She knew, Leon realised. She knew the news Jasmine was about to deliver. She’d waited nearly forty years for it.

Jasmine smiled at her with that same gentleness she’d just shown Leon. ’May we come in please?”

Mrs Castle stepped back and they walked into the dim hallway. Jasmine hesitated, not sure where to go.

“First door on the left.”

They followed her directions and ended up in a lounge, decorated in pale yellow with two cream sofas. Leon got the feeling she didn’t use this room much from the uncomfortable way she perched on the sofa. The mantelpiece and shelves on either side of the fireplace were covered in pictures of two kids growing up. She waved at them to sit down and they sat next to each other on the other sofa.

Leon looked around without trying to make it obvious. He recognised their victim. His photos stopped when he was a young man, but his sister’s continued and she was joined by three children of her own.

“You’ve found Andy, haven’t you?’ Mrs Castle blurted out. “Jean, she’s a neighbour, told me they’d found a body in the Kings Arms, and I just knew it was my Andy.”

She started to cry before Jasmine had answered her question, deep racking sobs that seemed to be dragged up from her depths.

Jasmine gave Leon a ‘what do I do next?’ look. The interview was proceeding without their input. He waved his hand in a gesture to carry on. She scowled, then focused her attention on the weeping woman.

“Mrs Castle, do you have anyone who could be with you?”

The woman dug out a tissue and mopped her eyes. “No. There’s only me. Tina lives in Australia now. I’m on my own.”

“A neighbour or a friend?” Jasmine suggested, but the old woman shook her head.

“Just tell me I can finally bury my boy.”

“We believe it could be Andy,” Jasmine said.

“I want to see him. You need me to identify him, don’t you?”

Jasmine shook her head. “I’m sorry, but it’s been a long time…”

She trailed off, not wanting to state the obvious, and the woman blanched, then started crying again.

Jasmine waited for the weeping to ease before she asked her next question. “Do you know why Andy might have been at the Kings Arms?”

If Leon hadn’t been watching Mrs Castle closely, he wouldn’t have noticed the hesitation, the indrawn breath, before she shook her head.

“It wasn’t his local. I don’t know why he’d be there.” She gave a derisive sniff. She clearly knew the history of the pub as well as anyone who had lived in the area in the eighties.

The woman was lying. Leon was sure of it. But what about would need to be explored.

“Did Andy wear a ring?” Jasmine changed the subject and Mrs Castle visibly relaxed, relief in her expression.

“He wore a signet ring. It used to be his dad’s.”

“Was there anything engraved on it?”

“AJC. His initials. I bought it for his dad when Andy was born.”

Jasmine flicked a glance to Leon who gave the slightest of nods. They had the right guy. Their victim was Andrew John Castle.

“When was the last time you saw Andy?” Jasmine asked.

“The night of the hurricane. You remember? It was really bad and that silly man on TV said it was nonsense.”

Leon resisted the urge to nudge Jasmine and say “See? I’m not the only one.”

“I told Andy not to go out. I said the weather was going to be bad, but he laughed at me and told me not to worry.” Mrs Castle gave a long sigh. “Andy was always going out. He never wanted to stay in with his old mum.”

“Do you know where he went or who with?” Leon asked, speaking for the first time.

Mrs Castle shook his head. “He never told me anything. Andy hated it when I asked questions. He said it was none of my business.”

The kid sounded like a right jerk, Leon thought. But then, had he been any better at that age?

“Did Andy have a relationship?” Jasmine asked tentatively.

Mrs Castle brightened, then sniffed a little. “Susan Vitch. Our Susie. She was a lovely girl. They were sweethearts from school.”

Sure they were, Leon thought cynically.

“Is Susie still in the area?” Jasmine asked, making a note in her pad.

The older woman shook her head. “No, she moved away, not long after Andy did.”

Leon and Jasmine exchanged a look, then Jasmine said, “What happened to her?”

“I don’t know.” Mrs Castle wrinkled her brow. “She never really recovered from Andy’s disappearance.” Her sigh was long. “I know how that feels. Anyway, her mum took her away. She said it was best for Susie if she left the past behind.”

“And you never saw Susie again?” Jasmine asked.

“No. She never even said goodbye, which I thought was odd because Susie liked me. She spent a lot of time here. Sometimes she kept me company when Andy went out.” She sniffled into a tissue. “I felt like I’d lost a son and a daughter.”

“Did Andy have any other close friends?” Jasmine asked.

“One or two.” Mrs Castle sniffed.

“Are they still in the area?”

Mre Castle furrowed her brow as she considered the question. Jasmine and Leon waited patiently for her to answer.

“Ray died a few years ago. He was still only young. Maybe forty?”

Leon knew his sergeant thought anyone over forty was ancient. Still, she kept her expression bland.

“I’m sorry,” Jasmine said. “What happened to him?”

“He had something wrong with his blood, his mum said. Poor lad.”

Jasmine made a note. “Who else?”

“Simon.” She almost spat out the word.

“Do you remember his surname?” Jasmine asked.

She thought for a moment but shook her head. “Andy only called him Simon or Si. I’ve had nothing to do with him since my boy vanished. I made it clear he wasn’t welcome. I don’t want the likes of him coming around here.”

“You didn’t like him?” Leon asked.

“He was a bad lad. Unnatural, always wearing makeup like some of those young men on Top of the Pops. And the things he used to come out with! In my day we cared about morality. I told my Andy to stay away from him, but he wouldn't listen.”

Leon bit the inside of his lip. He was starting to get an idea of the family dynamics and why Andy spent so much time out of the house.

“Why do bad lads survive when good boys like my Andy are taken?” She started to cry again.

Leon looked at Jasmine who nodded. It was time to leave.

“Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?” Jasmine asked gently.

Mrs Castle shook her head, shifting restlessly in her seat. “I can’t stand tea. I think I want to be on my own now.”

Leon stood, trying to roll his shoulders unobtrusively.

“Are you sure there isn’t anyone we could call to be with you?” Jasmine asked.

A tear rolled down her cheek. “Who wants to sit with an old woman while she mourns her boy?”

Chapter Seven

“So, do we like the girlfriend for our perp?” Jas asked as they walked back to the car from Mrs Castle’s house. “Bit sus, moving away after her sweetheart ‘disappeared’.” She made sure the quotes were clearly audible. “You’d think she’d want to hang around in case he came back. Unless she knew he was never going to.”

The guv shrugged. “Maybe. Although from what Mrs Castle said, it was more to do with her mum wanting her to make a fresh start. At any rate, we need to talk to her.”

Jas nodded. “Susie Vitch.” She gave a cynical grin. “Bet that surname made her life fun in school.”

“It’ll make our lives easier, though,” Leon pointed out. “Can’t be that many Vitches in the country.”

“Let me guess, that’s my next job—finding out just how many there are, and where we can find our Susie?”

“Got it in one. And while you’re at it, see if you can find a Simon who might have known Andy and who still lives in the area. School records could be a start.”

Great. More paper files. Jas started the engine.

When they got back to the station, the place was buzzing. Geoff Powell, a fiftyish DC who’d kept in shape and fancied himself something chronic—and, she suspected, fancied her almost as much; some people just refused to get the memo—got right up in her space as she was getting a coffee from the machine. “Hear about the Heathrow case?”

Jas rolled her eyes. “Up until yesterday, I was on the Heathrow case.”

“Yeah, what was that all about? What did Peterson do to piss off the brass?” He gave an ingratiating smile. “Not fair he has to bring you down with him.”

“Nobody’s bringing anyone down,” Jas snapped. Nobody got to slag off her guv. “We were reassigned, that’s all.”

“To a cold case.” Geoff’s tone made it clear what he thought of that, and Jas had had enough.

“You’re not on anything urgent right now, are you?” she asked sweetly.

“No, but⁠—”

“Good. I’ve got a little job for you.”

Leon was wading through overdue paperwork—what with budgeting, appraisals and risk assessments, it was a wonder they ever had time to solve crimes—when Jas marched up to his desk.

“Don’t think we’re going to get a lot out of Susie Vitch,” she announced. “She’s brown bread.”

“Damn it.” Leon wondered irrelevantly if her use of Cockney rhyming slang amounted to cultural appropriation. “When did she die?”

“1988. Only a year after our victim.”

“Are her parents still alive? We should talk to them if so. Got to be better than nothing.”

Jas nodded. “I’ve got an address. They moved down to Surrey. Must be posh.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Merstham, the town the Vitches had moved to, might be in Surrey, but it wasn’t exactly posh. As Jas drove through town, Leon noticed a food bank which seemed to be doing a brisk trade, and the whole place had a run-down air about it.

“It’s charity shop central round here,” Jas remarked wryly.

The Vitches’ street was a little better, with cared-for, if tiny, front gardens, and paint on most of the houses that wasn’t actively peeling. Jas pulled up in front of a small 1930s semi. “This is it. Sure you don’t want me to take lead on the interview?”

Leon considered it for a moment. “No. You did Mrs Castle. I’ll take this one.”

“Yes, sir,” she muttered.

She’d get over it. Leon got out of the car and took a long look at the house. There were net curtains in the bay window, and he was pretty sure someone was watching from behind them. They’d called ahead, not wanting to come all this way to find an empty house.

When they rang the doorbell, it was answered almost immediately by a woman Leon would have guessed to be in her eighties, although he knew that Pamela Vitch was only 75. She was tall, but slightly bent, and thin almost to the point of gauntness. “You’re the detectives,” she said, her tone one of slight disapproval. “May I see some ID?”

Leon introduced himself and Jas, and they duly held out their warrant cards for inspection. “May we come in, Mrs Vitch?”

“Yes, yes.” She stepped back to let them enter the narrow hallway. “Come into the front room. I’ll make some tea.”

“Thank you,” said Leon, who’d have preferred coffee.

He hadn’t noticed how warm the house was at first, but when he walked into the living room, the heat hit him like a wall of hot air. An old man in an armchair by the window started to rise with obvious difficulty, and Leon made a quelling gesture. “Please, don’t get up. Mr Vitch? I’m Detective Inspector Leon Peterson, and this is Detective Sergeant Jasmine Todd.”

The old man nodded at them, sinking gratefully back into his chair. “You’ve come about Susie, Pam said. I don’t know why. That was all a long time ago.”

Leon perched on the sofa, Jas following suit. “Actually, we’d like to talk to you about Andrew Castle. Do you remember him? Susie’s boyfriend, we were told.”

Mr Vitch shook his head. “He seemed like such a nice boy. Always ready with a joke, or to lend a hand. I was very surprised when he went off and left her. Couldn’t believe it. Broke her heart, poor little thing.”

“He left her?” Jas put in, leaning forward.

Leon sent her an annoyed glance.

“Oh, yes. Ran off with a barmaid, apparently. It broke our poor Susie. Of course, they were both so young. Too young to settle down—ah, is that the tea? Good, good.”

Pamela Vitch had entered with a single teacup that shook gently in her hands. She passed it to her husband, then straightened slowly. “Perhaps you could give me a hand with the rest, Detective Inspector?”

Jas leapt up. “I’ll get them.” She faltered as Mrs Vitch turned to give her a disapproving look.

“We can manage, can’t we, Inspector?”

“Of course.” Leon wondered what that was all about. Surely not because Jas was mixed-race? He followed Mrs Vitch to the small, old-fashioned kitchen, and was about to pick up the laden tea-tray when she quietly closed the door behind them.

“My husband is not a well man,” she said in a low voice, fixing him in the eye. “All this digging around in the past could be very bad for him. And why now? Surely some things, it’s best to let lie.”

Like long-dead men? Leon’s pulse rate leapt. “We’re here because we’ve found Andy’s body. It looks like he died the night of his disappearance.”

Mrs Vitch’s face was unreadable. Either she’d known, or assumed, that the man was dead, or she just didn’t care. She turned to gaze out of the window now, at the small, well-cut patch of lawn they had at the back. A solitary evergreen tree stood at the end of the garden. “That man ruined my daughter’s life. He killed her.”

Leon stood next to her, and tried to see what she saw. There were no weeds that Leon could detect in the little garden. He could imagine Mrs Vitch wielding weedkiller and hoe with energy and efficiency. What might she do to a man she blamed for her daughter’s death?

But then, the timing was wrong, wasn’t it? “What did your daughter die of?”

“She got ill. Pneumonia. But it was his fault.”

Like her husband, she seemed to think Susie had died of a broken heart. Leon wondered if that was possible. Stress could make a person more likely to get ill, he knew. And depressed people didn’t always take care of themselves. “What about the barmaid?” he asked. “Or has Mr Vitch got the wrong end of the stick?”

“Oh, she existed. Not the sort of girl I would have wanted Susie to be friends with. I suppose she’s dead now too.”

She’d likely be in her fifties now, so odds were, she was still alive. Leon suspected Mrs Vitch of indulging in some wishful thinking. “Do you remember her name?”

“Her name? No. Lots of permed curls and makeup. Lip gloss, eyeliner, the works.”

Great. That narrowed it down to around 90% of the young female population in the eighties.

“She worked at the Haywain,” Mrs Vitch added. “Rough place.”

That, she wasn’t lying about. Leon was hit with a memory of his dad coming home with a black eye, blaming it on ‘Bloody punks at the Haywain.’ Leon had asked what a punk was, and his dad had muttered that they were a load of ‘freaks and queers’ which hadn’t helped a lot. Then he’d been sent to bed.

At least knowing she’d worked there should make her more traceable.

Mrs Vitch picked up the tea tray with a clatter of cups on saucers, and Leon hastened to take it from her. She went to open the door for him, then stopped with a hand on it. “You’ll keep this brief, I hope. And not too much talk of Susie’s illness. It upsets her father.”

Leon made a slight motion of his head that could have meant anything, but which he hoped she’d take as agreement. “Let’s get these teas served before they go cold.”

“Oh—wait while I get the cakes. I had the girl next door get them for me specially.” She spent an interminable while arranging a pack of Mr Kipling’s Fondant Fancies on a plate, while Leon stood there holding the tray like a lemon, feeling a curious sympathy for the girl next door, whoever she might be.

When they got back into the living room, Jas was perched on the arm of Mr Vitch’s chair, and they were both smiling. She gave Leon a searching look. “Mr Vitch has just been telling me about Susie and Andy Castle. How they were together since they were thirteen.”

“He was always a charmer, even then. Such big plans he had for him and Susie.” The old man stared at nothing, lost in a memory of happier days. Then his gaze focussed. “Oh, are those fondant fancies? I haven’t had one of those in years.”

Leon passed the plate around, and sat down to sip his tea. It was lukewarm, weak and over-milky. Although he asked Mr Vitch about the barmaid, they didn’t learn anything else, and didn’t stay long.

“What did Mr Vitch tell you while I was out of the room?” Leon asked as he buckled his seatbelt.

Jas shrugged, and started the car. “Nothing useful. A lot of stuff about Susie when she was young.”

“What about Andy? Did Mr Vitch seem angry about him?”

“No… More sort of sad, you know? That it hadn’t worked out, and that Susie had been so cut up about it. Why? What did Mrs V say in the kitchen?”

Leon filled her in. “She was definitely angry with the man.”

Jas huffed, pulling away from the kerb. “So what is it? Mrs Vitch in the derelict pub with the lead piping?”

“Maybe.” Leon was distracted, wondering if he was missing something.

“What was he even doing there, though? Buying drugs, do you think?”

He hadn’t told her, had he? Leon had simply taken it for granted that it was common knowledge, but of course she wasn’t local. Too young, too. “Meeting men is more likely. After it closed down, the pub had a reputation as a place where gay men met for casual sex. Cottaging.”

“Oh. So, he was into the blokes as well as the ladies? Could have been a hookup gone wrong, then.”

“It’s possible. Remember Andy was underage at the time.”

Jas frowned. “I thought he was eighteen?”

“That was underage in 1987, for gay sex. Or it could be he saw someone hooking up who didn’t want anyone to know about it—remember, society was a lot less okay with LGBT people in those days. Or someone who knew Andy’s habits—if he was a habitue of the place—could have followed him there knowing it’d be a good place for a murder.”

“You know, I’m really glad I wasn’t around in the eighties.”

“I thought you were born in 1989?”

“You know what I mean. We need to find out who else was in the habit of going there. As well as who might have wanted to introduce Andy to a blunt instrument for reasons of their own.”

Leon sobered abruptly. Andy had been hit with something like a poker, or a straight bar, or one of those truncheons the police used to carry… Leon’s dad could have gone there to catch men having illegal sex. What if they’d resisted arrest? Would he have used force?

“Okay, so which are we tackling first?” Jas turned onto the main road, and Leon told himself he was making connections where none existed.

“Did you track down that ‘bad lad,’ Simon?”

“Yeah, I did.” Something about the way she said it made Leon glance at her, but she was concentrating on the road. “His full name’s Simon Luck. I’ve got an address for him, too.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Leon said decisively. “You see if you can locate our big-haired barmaid.”

Chapter Eight

Jasmine’s phone rang before they reached the end of the street. She had her earpiece in, so he didn’t hear what the caller had to say.

“Sure, we’ll be there,” she said and ended the call.

Leon raised an eyebrow in enquiry, as she stopped the car at a red light.

“Executive secretary,” Jasmine said. “There’s a visit from the good and the great this afternoon. All hands to be on deck, looking busy.”

“Which particular variety of the good and the great?”

“Assistant Commissioner and the local MP. Presumably wanting to know about the terrorism stuff before anyone else.”

Leon banged the dashboard with his fist in frustration. “Dammit.” This time it was Jasmine’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“No one, but no one, is supposed to know about the terrorism stuff as you call it. What part of secret operation don’t the brass understand?”

“Not our case any more, guv,” Jasmine said. 

But Leon knew that if the carefully set up operation went pear-shaped because of a leak, it would turn out that it was their case. He tried, and failed, not to think about Cathy Morales and her ambitions. It was hard being a woman in the police. If she took a few short cuts, it was nothing her male counterparts hadn’t been getting away with for years. But Sir Arthur Rupert Bohun MP was the very last person to be trusted with important information, and if Morales had been leaking to him, in the hope he would put in the good word with his golfing buddies from the executive ranks, she was in for a nasty shock. Bohun would throw her under the bus without hesitation if it went wrong, and take the credit if it went right. Leon had never met the MP, but he had colleagues who had, and no one had anything positive to say. Scrambling up the greasy pole on the bodies of his friends seemed to be the consensus.

“Guv?” Jasmine said, “Are you still with me?”

Leon jerked himself back into the moment. “Sorry. Thinking about Bohun, Sir Arthur to the likes of us.”

“Bone?”

“Sir Arthur’s last name. That’s how he says it. Bone. No doubt he comes from an ancient and illustrious lineage of robber barons.”

“Ah. Thanks. Bone, not Bo-hun.” Jasmine drove through the town, and back into the dreary streets leading to the police station. 

“Don’t go on the motorway,” Leon said, and directed Jas to his favourite South Indian restaurant. If they had to put up with an afternoon of looking busy in front of the brass, they deserved to eat properly first.

Sir Arthur Rupert Bohun, MP, had been a good-looking young man, at least according to his own publicity photographs. But over the years, his blond hair had thinned, and only first-class tailoring concealed the softening around his middle. He still had very intense blue eyes and he carried himself with the posture of someone who expected admiration. Leon had long wondered at the way so many apparently discerning humans took people like Bohun at their own valuation. Project importance, and many people will treat you as important. Expect deference and get it. Leon preferred to fade into the background. Demanding deference or radiating importance were not the best way to gain the trust of the public, and without the public, no case would ever be solved, modern forensic techniques notwithstanding. Which was possibly a minority point of view. He sat at his desk, in the little cubbyhole he called his office and looked busy. Jasmine had a laptop open on her lap, uploading her notes from their morning’s work.

“Let’s have a look at Susie Vitch’s death certificate,” Leon said, “because there was something we weren’t being told.”

They didn’t get the chance. There was a knock and the door opened revealing the tall, spare figure of Assistant Commissioner Brian Hooker and next to him, the shorter, paunchier Sir Arthur Rupert Bohun, MP.

Leon and Jasmine scrambled to their feet.

“Sir,” they said in unison.

Hooker smiled. “I’m sure you both recognise our MP? Sir Arthur, this is DI Leon Peterson and …?”

“Detective Sergeant Jasmine Todd,” Leon filled the gap.

Bohun held his hand out to Leon, stepping in front of Jasmine as if she was invisible. Leon was not altogether surprised that the MP’s handshake was too tight and lasted too long. Bohun looked him straight in the eyes in a way that might have been attractive in a gay bar: designed to charm, and signal interest. Leon was neither charmed nor interested.

“Delighted to meet you, DI Peterson. Please, do sit down. May I call you Leon?”

“Of course, Sir Arthur,” Leon replied. He was not invited to call the MP by his given name.

Jasmine offered the MP her chair. He turned the blue eyes on her. “Thank you, my dear.” But he didn’t sit down. The Assistant Commissioner flicked his eyes at Jasmine, and she left the room unobtrusively.

“I was hoping you could tell me about the Kings Arms,” Bohun said. “Excuse my curiosity, but I have a small interest in the place.”

Leon did not enquire as to the nature of the small interest. “What would you like to know, sir,” he asked.

“I understand you found … a body?”

Leon nodded. “Not recently deceased. The person died several decades ago. It’s an ongoing enquiry, as I’m sure you appreciate.”

“Right. So, no doubt work on the building has ground to a halt?”

“For the time being, yes, sir.”

“Might I have a look round, do you think?”

Over the MP’s shoulder, Leon saw the Assistant Commissioner nodding, his eyes bulging with the desire for Leon to agree.

Leon agreed, utterly mystified as to why their MP wanted to visit a derelict building where a corpse, albeit a very old corpse, had been found. But if he had read Brian Hooker’s expression correctly, what Arthur Rupert wanted, Arthur Rupert should have.

“Codona is running the site, I think,” the MP said, making it into a question.

“I met a Ben Codona,” Leon said. “The man in charge.”

Bohun stepped closer to Leon. Uncomfortably close. Leon could smell a Tom Ford cologne, one he himself had rejected as being too musky and cloying. It made him slightly nauseous.

“Salt of the earth, Codona,” Bohun said. “Though the safety record thing is a worry. You should be careful about that.”

Then he took another step forwards and gripped Leon’s arm, almost painfully, but he looked at Hooker. “A good man, this Peterson, Brian. Glad you introduced us. Now then, Leon, my girl will be in touch about a site visit.” He was still holding Leon’s bicep, raising the hairs on the back of his neck and making him want to shudder. Bohun’s hand shifted to Leon’s shoulder, caressing the spot between collarbone and neck as a lover would. Bohun appeared unconscious of the effect he was having. Leon wanted to strike Bohun’s hand away, but thankfully the Assistant Commissioner cleared his throat and Bohun stepped back.

“Remember, Codona doesn’t have the best record,” he said, locking his eyes on Leon.

“Yes, sir,” Leon said, wanting the man gone and prepared to agree to anything as long as he went.

He got his wish. “Perhaps you’d like to meet our other DI, Ms Morales,” he said, “though I’m afraid we can’t divulge the nature of her case …” and they were gone.

Cold sweat broke out on Leon’s head and chest, and he shuddered convulsively, feeling wet patches under his arms and around his collar.

“Jesus, guv, he was a bit handsy.” Jasmine came back into the office and closed the door.

Leon let out a breath. “I’ve had pleasanter encounters with drunks in back alleys,” he said.

Jasmine opened the office door and peered through. “He’s not pawing at Morales,” she said. “What a creep. And he’s married.” She turned her phone towards Leon. It showed a picture of Bohun in full morning dress, with his arm around an elegant woman in an oversized hat. “Ladies Day at Ascot,” Jasmine said. “How the other half live.”

“I thought a day at the races would be right up your street,” Leon said.

Jasmine snorted.

“Oh, my dear,” Jasmine affected an upper-class accent, “do tell me where you’re from? Ealing? “No, dear, where you’re really from.” Back in her own, Ealing, accent, Jasmine said, “I’d rather spend another day in the basement going through paper records.”

Leon laughed. He’d heard variants of those questions with every officer of colour he’d ever worked with. “Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.”

“It’s only the ignorance of the expensively educated. Did our honourable friend have anything interesting to say, or was he too busy giving you a good squeeze?”

Leon relayed the MP’s request to visit the Kings Arms, his talk of a small interest, and his remarks about Ben Codona. “I have no idea why he wants to visit the scene, but we’d be stupid not to find out about Codona.”

“Could he want to visit old haunts?” Jasmine asked. “You said the Kings Arms was a cottage back in the day, right, and judging by the way he was grabbing at you …”

Leon thought about it for a second. “If he is the kind of man to go to somewhere like the Kings Arms, I’d have thought the last thing he’d want is to draw attention to it. He might be a creep, but I don’t think he’s a stupid creep. No, I think he’s just the sort of man who needs to always be in control. Either that, or he wants us to look at Codona.”

“K. I’ll see what I can find.” Jasmine went back to her desk, laptop in hand.

Leon wondered about spending a few minutes tracking down Bohun’s small interest in the Kings Arms, but when he turned his computer back on, there was a long list of emails all marked “urgent”. Most of them weren’t, or they weren’t urgent for him, but they all had to be looked at and either dealt with or deleted, ideally both. He also needed to ensure tomorrow’s calendar was filled in to show that he and Jasmine had engagements all day. They didn’t, but he wanted the flexibility to organise their own time. They hadn’t been able to see Simon Luck, or the big-haired barmaid, thanks to Bohun’s visit. One step forward, two back. As he was putting the finishing touches to the fictional calendar, his door burst open. Jasmine plonked her laptop on his desk and herself on the spare chair.

“A man was killed at the last site Codona worked on,” she said. “Codona was arrested for murder.”

Chapter Nine

It was a gut punch Leon hadn’t expected.

“Murder?” he asked, hearing how harsh his voice sounded.

The fact he’d been attracted to Ben Codona, despite his attitude, should have told him there was a problem. Leon always did have an appalling taste in men.

Thank goodness Jasmine didn’t seemed to have noticed his freak-out. She tapped at the screen.

“Yep. Did Old Bone know about this?”

Leon snorted at her less than affectionate name for Sir Arthur. “Just not in front of Commander Hooker, yeah?”

She gave him an eyebrow lift which clearly asked if he thought she were that stupid.

“Sorry. Go on. Codona is still walking around so I assume it didn’t go to trial.”

“No.”

“Why was he arrested for murder?”

“He was in charge of that site too. It was…” Jasmine checked her records. “Another redeveloped pub. There’s a block of flats on there now. I drive past it on the way to work. It looks good and fits in with the surrounding area.”

Leon wasn’t much interested in the aesthetics of the flats. He was interested in why Codona was arrested. He coughed and she nodded.

“Yeah, sorry.” She read for a moment before she regarded him over the top of the screen. “No wonder he hates the police.”

He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankle. “Getting wrongfully arrested tends to do that, but you still haven’t told me why.”

“I’m getting there,” she grumbled.

“The vic, Thomas Croft, fell from the second-floor scaffolding. He was declared dead at the scene.”

Leon flinched at the thought and Jasmine looked sick.

“He was dead before they got him out. Codona was arrested for murder, but it would have been manslaughter by gross negligence. That’s what they were trying to get him for.”

“So, what happened?”

Jasmine shrugged one shoulder. “It says here Thomas Croft shouldn’t have been up there in the first place. He was showing off.”

Leon grunted. “I still think we should get Mr Codona in for questioning.”

“A nearly forty-year-old cold case is not the same as a workplace accident,” she pointed out.

“Two dead bodies and the same site manager.”

“He was just a kid when Andy Castle was killed.”

“I know, but we tick the boxes and everyone’s happy.”

Jasmine huffed. “You mean the Commander and old Bone are happy.”

Leon stared up at the ceiling. His sergeant was far too perceptive for her own good. “That’s exactly what I mean. Get Uniform to bring him in for a voluntary interview.”

“We could just visit him in his home.”

“I want to see how he reacts here,” Leon said. “This is our territory, not his. We’ll deal with Luck and the barmaid tomorrow.”

If he ticked this box, maybe the old Bone, Bohun, would leave him alone. He shivered again at the thought of the MP touching him.

She squinted at him, but he left it at that. Jasmine placed a call to the duty sergeant. Leon waited, not really listening to her conversation. She had a point. Ben was in primary school when Andy Castle was killed. Why on earth would he be tied up in this investigation?

“Okay, we’ll do Simon and the barmaid tomorrow,” Jasmine said, tapping her tablet. “It’ll be good to cross the site manager off the list. Do you still think old Bone is trying to focus our attention on Codona?”

“I have no idea,” Leon said.

“He obviously likes cute gay men,” she teased.

Leon gave her a long cool look.

Her smile faded and she looked away. “I’m sorry, guv. I wasn’t trying to be rude.”

He gave a curt nod. He knew it was just a joke, but it was too close to the bone. Christ, now he was doing it. “You have a point. Why is Sir Arthur trying to deflect our attention onto Ben Codona?”

“Maybe Codona will know,” she suggested.

Leon checked the clock above the door. “Let’s eat now. It’s going to be a long evening talking to him.”

Jasmine groaned as she stood and rolled her shoulders.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re too young to be suffering aches and pains.”

“Old sports injury,” she said.

Leon blinked. As far as he knew, Jasmine didn’t play any sports.

“It sounds better than the truth,” she confessed, correctly reading his confusion.

“Which is?”

“I was in a car accident five years ago. On traffic patrol, came across a bloke speeding the wrong way down the motorway. Had to stop him by running into him. I was fine except for whiplash, but my shoulders have never recovered.”

“And the other driver?”

Her expression was rueful. “Had mental health issues. He was fine, and we didn’t arrest him, but he killed himself a week later.”

“I’m sorry, Jas,” he said.

She shrugged. “It happens. At least he did it in a way that wouldn’t hurt anyone else. Let’s eat. I’m starving. Fry up?”

“You just want to flirt with the girl behind the counter at the diner.”

Jasmine raised an eyebrow. “And you had a go at me for teasing you?”

“Fair enough.”

She had a point. She wasn’t to know his came with unhappy memories.

As they walked to the diner, Jasmine asked, “What if Codona refuses to come in for an interview? We haven’t got enough to arrest him.”

“I think he will. He’s angry that he’s being suspected of something again. I think he’ll want to clear his name.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Leon said grimly.

Ben Codona did want to talk. And he was furious.

“Are you going to accuse me of murder when I was in short trousers?” he snapped, the second Leon stepped into the meeting room.

Leon didn’t answer immediately, taking his time to sit down, pleased that Jasmine followed his lead. He looked across the table at his suspect. The scruff was developing into a beard.

“We just need to ask you some questions, Mr Codona, as the site manager.”

Codona leaned back in his chair, his arms folded. If he was trying to seem relaxed, it failed. Tension oozed from every pore and suspicion was written all over his face. “Go on.”

“The interview will be recorded,” Leon said.

Codona gave a curt nod.

Jasmine pressed the record button. “Interview between Detective Inspector Leon Peterson and Detective Sergeant Jasmine Todd and Ben Codona.” She gave the time and date for the record.

Leon regarded Codona. “What happened at your previous site, Mr Codona?”

“I thought I was here about the body at the Kings Arms,” Codona snapped.

“We’ll get to that,” Leon said patiently. “Just answer the question please.”

“A man died. I was charged with his murder.”

“Why were you charged?”

Codona sneered at him. “Your lot decided I was guilty. They thought I didn’t keep the site up to specifications.”

“But the charges were dropped.”

“They discovered everything was to standard and Tommy shouldn’t have been up there. He was showing off to friends and stepped backwards off the scaffolding. I had a day off. I received a phone call to say there’d been an accident and arrived in time to get charged with murder.”

Leon knew all this. He and Jasmine had read through the reports and discovered Codona was known for being safety conscious. All the men on the site had said he went OTT as far as they were concerned and if he’d been there on the day, Thomas Croft would never have been allowed up there.

He sat back in his seat. “Let’s talk about the Kings Arms. Did you know the body was there?

“No.”

“Did anyone ask you to move the body?”

“No.” Codona looked disgusted at the question.

“Did anyone pay you to move the body?”

“No,” Codona snapped. “I answered that already.”

Leon let it go. “You said…” He checked his notes. “Billy found a skeletal hand. When you uncovered more, you called in ‘our lot’.”

“Yeah.”

“Billy who?”

“Billy James.”

Leon made a note.

Codona huffed. “He’s not got a lot between the ears, but he was sensible enough to call me over. Tomorrow it would have been too late.”

“What was happening tomorrow?”

“The building was being demolished. We were just clearing the site of anything of value first. Fireplaces, antique fittings. That sort of thing.”

Thank God for that. Or they might never have found Andy’s remains and a mother would have gone to her grave not knowing what happened to her son.

Codona spread out his hands on the table. Leon looked down at them. They were large and blunt, strong hands. The difference between the pampered hands of Bohun and Codona’s hands was night and day.

Jasmine coughed and he looked up, realising he’d been caught staring. Codona looked…amused and something else.

Leon needed to get his head on straight. “Do you know Sir Arthur Bohun?”

Codona’s face closed off. “I know him. He’s the local MP.”

“But you know him personally?” Leon persisted.

“He’s got an interest in the development . Comes to the site from time to time to see how things are going.”

Leon flicked a glance at Jasmine. Bohun’s financial interests were something they’d need to look into. He turned back to Codona. “Has he been involved in any of your other sites?”

“One or two. The last one, but I’d need to look up the others. My company keeps records of all visitors,” he said, almost defiantly.

“I understand,” Leon said and Codona subsided.

Leon glanced at Jasmine who gave a brief nod. They’d got all they could from Codona. The guy was a prickly bastard, but he was just hellishly unlucky to have been caught up in two deaths. He couldn’t be Andy Castle’s murderer and if his alibi checked out, he wasn’t anywhere near Thomas Croft at the time of his death.

“I think we’re done,” Leon said, and Jasmine ended the recording.

“When do I get my site back?” Codona demanded, jutting out his jaw.

Leon gave him a cool look. “When I’m ready to release it,” he said.

Codona scowled at him and seemed ready to argue, but Jasmine said, “I’ll show you out, Mr Codona.”

Leon let out a long breath of relief when the room was empty but for him. Was he the only one who felt the tension rolling off the man in waves? Ben Codona was like a bomb ready to explode. Who would be in the vicinity when it happened?

Chapter Ten

“I’ll buy you a Diet Coke and a burger,” Leon said.

It was late, they had learned nothing useful from Codona, and Leon knew his fridge was empty. It was either the pub, or the kebab shop with the one-star rating from environmental health. Sure, the kebabs were good, and the owners said it was all a mistake, but if he could have some company, he’d sooner go to the pub.

Happily, Jas said yes. “But I want chips as well,” she insisted.

They walked to the Market Tavern, just a stone’s throw from the West London Police HQ in Southall. Leon had already ordered when Cathy Morales and her crew swept in like Genghis Khan and his hordes. They were stuck. That was the downside of this being the coppers’ pub.

Leon wished he’d ordered gin instead of fizzy water.

“Find us somewhere quiet,” he sighed to Jasmine.

Jasmine shrugged. Then a couple stood up from a little table jammed into a corner by the fireplace and Jas was sitting on one of the stools before the woman had straightened her legs. Leon joined her, putting their drinks and two sets of napkin-wrapped cutlery on the table. Jasmine gave him the previous tenants’ empty glasses.

“Drop those on the bar, and bring some salt back with you,” she said.

Leon didn’t waste his breath pointing out the dangers of over-indulgence in salt. He simply did as he was told. Cathy Morales waved at him.

“We’ve already ordered,” he told her over the shoulders of her team. They all looked the same, he thought: shaved heads, leather jackets, black jeans and T-shirts. Jasmine should be with them, the popular kids, not stuck with the nerd and the cold cases. He half-smiled at a mental image of his partner in all black leather and denim. Probably look better on her than on some of this lot. He wasn’t sure the shaved head would suit her, though.

“So, Codona was pretty much a dead end,” Leon said, when he got back to the tiny table and sat down. There might be room for their food if the plates were small.

“I wouldn’t climb over him to get to you in bed. But I think he bats for your team.”

“I wasn’t considering him in those terms, Jas. I meant …”

“I know what you meant, guv. But he is pretty hot.”

Not going there.

“I meant that I can’t see how Mr Codona’s actions on his previous site have any bearing on the current case.”

Their food came before Jasmine could formulate a reply. It was good. It always was. Juicy burgers, real cheese, a bun made from bread rather than cotton wool, and enough chips to give you heartburn. Conversation ceased.

When they came up for air, Jasmine looked over at the Morales gang. “That should have been your case. It was your case. It’s not just sour grapes. I’m not convinced Morales can bring it off, even with the clone army. Especially with the clone army. Like, if she gets something wrong, who’s going to call her out on it?” She waved a chip in their direction. “Groupthink.”

Leon was conflicted. He wanted to support the powers-that-be in selecting Morales for a high-profile case. Women were too often overlooked, and stupid women tended not to get promotion. At the same time, Jasmine had a point about groupthink. From his dealings with Cathy, she didn’t take disagreement well. He thought she had been too quick to assume that the explosives were headed to central London, when the airport itself would be an equally good target. Something to consider anyway. Something he had considered when he’d been running the case.

He finished his food, in time for Jasmine to launch into another one of her favourite critiques of his life. He could use rank to shut her down, but he never did, or not outside the police station and rarely then.

“Do you know it takes me half an hour from home to the cop shop?” Jasmine was saying. “I can drive. I can get the bus. If I wanted to, I could get a train. And when I get home, I’m in proper London, with shops and cafes and bars and nice places to eat.”

Leon smiled. “I’m fine where I am. I have a garden. I can’t afford a garden in Ealing.”

“You can’t use your garden for the noise of aeroplanes going three feet above your head. I’m surprised those houses are still standing with all the vibration.”

“It’s not that bad.”. Leon heard his mother’s voice in his head telling him he had to hang on to the house, because she might want to come back. She wasn’t coming back, but selling the house would be yet another example of him letting her down and there were enough of those already.

“All that noise can’t be good for you.”

“You get used to it. There are more green spaces than you’d expect so close to the airport.” He grinned. “Good transport links too.”

“There are good transport links in Ealing. And it’s like, nice?”

“Sipson’s nice too,” Leon countered. “Not everyone wants to live in London.”

Jasmine pushed her stool backwards as far as she could and wriggled out from behind the table. “It’s like you enjoy being miserable,” she said. “I’ll get more drinks on the way back from the ladies. Don’t worry, I always wash my hands.”

He wasn’t miserable. Maybe not happy exactly, but not miserable. No one was happy all the time. He would be a pile less miserable if they could make some progress on this case. Interruptions. That was what this case was turning into, a series of interruptions. Leon liked orderly, linear investigations. Make list. Follow up lead. Write notes. Move on to next lead. Lather, rinse and repeat. Logical, scientific, and objective. Cross off leads that led nowhere.

Having to stop what they were doing to deal with MPs and executive officers disrupted the flow. Talking to Codona had been a waste of time — and had turned a potentially useful witness into a permanently hostile one. Tomorrow they would follow Leon’s plan and keep out of the way of any more interruptions.

“Shove up,” Jasmine said from over his shoulder. She was holding two drinks and there wasn’t a spare inch of table to put them on. Leon piled their two empty plates one on top of the other with the cutlery and used napkins on the top so they didn’t wobble. Jasmine put the drinks down. Leon’s fizzy water was in a smaller glass than usual, had ice and a slice and a suspicious faint blue tint.

“You got me gin?”

“Gin for you, vodka for me. The good stuff. Met Madam Morales in the bogs and she couldn’t resist putting me right about a few things we did wrong on the terrorism case. I needed a drink, and ladies should not drink alone.”

“I don’t think I want to know.”

“You definitely don’t. But I’m going to tell you regardless of your objections.” Jasmine took a sip of her drink. “OMG that is so good. I should drink alcohol more often. Anyway. Morales says the terrorists are planning something big in central London. I asked her how she knew that, and she just says it’s the obvious thing. Maximum impact and all that. She’s pulling her people off the search for anywhere else locally that the terrorists might be renting. Because, and I quote, we need to be out on the streets not stuck behind a computer. What she didn’t say, but is kinda obvious, is that that’s the argument she’s been using to No Knock.”

‘No Knock’ was Leon’s—and Morales’—immediate superior, DCI Harris, whose favourite activity until promotion had been an early morning raid with body armour, lots of shouting and ideally an armed response unit.

“Does she have any evidence that’s what’s being planned?” Leon asked.

“Nope. But then, we didn’t have any evidence that they were going to blow up the airport.” Jasmine held her hand up to stop him protesting. “Sorry, disrupt access to and from one of the world’s busiest airports, causing massive economic and reputational damage.” She quoted from one of his recent emails. “Going to that falling-down pub made me think, guv. The block of flats where I live has more security than those airport hotels. If the terrorists want to kill people as well as disrupt the airport …”

Hair stood up on the back of Leon’s neck. But Jasmine hadn’t finished.

“Central London is crawling with armed police. There’s a CCTV camera every three yards. Why would a bunch of terrorists try to blow something up in central London? They’d have to be stupid.”

“We’re always fighting the last war,” Leon murmured.

“What?”

“Terrorists focussed on central London in the past, so that’s what we assume they will do next time.” He took a drink. “The eco warriors, though, caused massive disruption without any explosives. They stopped traffic on busy routes and bridges and got loads of TV time. Never mind stopping parliament, stop trade. Much more important. Hit profits and make a real impact.” Leon sighed. “I’ll try and talk to Morales,” he said. He would, but he doubted she’d listen. No point trying tonight. The Morales clone army were raising the ambient noise level in the pub. “Let’s drink up and go home,” he said.

It was a short walk back to the police station for their cars. At home, Robin complained of neglect until the food bowl was refilled. Leon made himself a coffee in the full knowledge it would keep him awake, but not wanting anything else. Would it kill him to buy a jar of de-caff? There was time to set up a supermarket delivery before he went to bed. Hell, there was time to drive to one of the huge open-all-night supermarkets to fill his cupboards and freezer. But he sat in his armchair as his coffee cooled, and thought he’d get the shopping tomorrow. Robin had food; the rest could wait. Guilt did its usual number in his parents’ voices.

Why are you so lazy?

You can do anything if you put your mind to it.

No one ever died of hard work.

Jasmine’s barbs had pierced his skin. He had a complicated relationship with this house, and it was nothing to do with aircraft noise. But he needed to be close to their mother’s care home in case a relative was called for. Hornbeam Grove was a good place, staffed by people who cared, but they weren’t family. His sister Deborah had children, so that responsibility fell to Leon. Maybe he ought to visit Mum more, but half the time she didn’t recognise him, or even look up when he entered the room. The mother he remembered had gone, stolen by early onset dementia. Only her voice remained in his head.

Why do you have to be gay?

Why make life hard for yourself?

Why indeed, mother? Because I’m made that way, and actually, I like it.

Impatiently, he picked his coffee up. Cold. Dammit, he would go shopping after all. Nothing got the voices out of his head better than doing something they would approve of, which was basically anything involving activity rather than thought. Cleaning, gardening, cooking, shopping, decorating: dull, pointless things that never stayed done. But he would have food in his cupboards and peace in his head.

“Be right back,” he told Robin. “And I’ll bring treats.” There was a pen on the hall table. Leon wrote “cat treats” on the back of his hand and headed back out to the car.

The trolley was full of human food, and Leon was in the queue for one of the last remaining human-staffed checkouts when he caught sight of the words on his hand. “Shit. Be right back!” he yelled at the guy on the checkout turning on his heel to sprint back to the pet food aisle. Leon barely heard the reply.

“’Sokay, mate, I’ll scan real slow.”

But don’t cause inconvenience was hardwired into Leon, so he ran. Straight into Ben Codona.

It was like colliding with a truck. A very good-looking, Acqua di Palma-scented truck, wearing well-washed denim that did little to conceal his muscles. Which were many. Leon realised he was staring, and his faced flared red,

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he gabbled. “Cat treats, checkout, gotta go, sorry.”

Codona said nothing for a moment. He looked Leon up and down and then said, “next aisle,” and sauntered away.

Chapter Eleven

Next morning, Jas was determinedly chipper, obviously trying to make the best of things. Leon was feeling more optimistic, too. Well, less pessimistic, anyway.

It probably had a lot to do with the hearty breakfast he’d treated himself to, courtesy of last night’s shopping trip… And he was not going to think about the idiot he’d made of himself in front of Ben Codona.

Who had been surprisingly unfazed by Leon’s unintentional police brutality. Helpful, even.

No. Not thinking about it.

“Who are we going after first?” Jas asked. “Round two with the Vitches, or the barmaid with the big barnet?”

Leon mentally rolled his eyes. “I doubt she’s still keeping the same hairstyle all these years later.” He thought for a minute. “I want you to look into Susie Vitch’s death. Find out if what her mum told us was true. I’ll go have a pint in the Haywain and see if there’s anyone there with a long memory.”

The Haywain was still a going concern, although Leon couldn’t help wondering how on earth they managed to survive against the newer gastropubs. Airport trade, perhaps? They were open for breakfast, like all the airport pubs were. It was a small place, with a tired, faded air about it. The once-plush velvet of the seats was worn threadbare at the edges, and the single TV screen in the corner hung drunkenly from a bracket Leon had to hope wasn’t literally held together by the duct tape that wrapped it. It wasn’t switched on at the moment, and he wondered if it even worked.

Back in his youth, the place had done a brisk trade in underage drinking, but these days, licensees tended to keep a closer eye on such things. Having got there soon after opening time at eleven, Leon wouldn’t have been surprised to find the place empty except for staff, but there were four pensioners sitting at a table.

Had any of them been punks, back in the day? Now, they all looked, if not exactly pillars of society, still not obviously anti-establishment. The two men wore jeans and football shirts, and the women, presumably wives or girlfriends, were in leggings and bright sweaters, keeping up appearances a little better than their menfolk.

Leon strolled up to the bar and ordered a pint—of fizzy water, as it was way too early for alcohol even if he hadn’t been on duty. The barmaid’s age wasn’t easy to guess; with hair dyed a bright copper and deep lines around her mouth, she could have been a heavy smoker in her forties or a better-preserved sixty-year-old. Leon discreetly showed his warrant card. “I’m looking for someone who worked here in the late eighties. Is there anyone around who might remember the staff then?”

She pursed her lips, deepening those lines. When she spoke, her voice had a heavy nicotine rasp. “Not me, that’s for certain. Bill might—that’s the landlord. Want me to get him?”

Obviously. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

She turned and hollered out, “Bill? The police are here.”

So much for the softly-softly approach. Leon tried not to wince as he fielded several unfriendly stares from elderly drinkers.

Heavy footsteps coming downstairs heralded the approach of William Edmonton, licensee, assuming the information above the door hadn’t been out of date. Mr Edmonton hove into view like a jumbo jet coming in to land on an A road. He was tall and broad-shouldered with what, for an aging publican, was a very modest beer gut. The barmaid, who’d seemed of average size a moment ago, was dwarfed by him.

“What’s this about, then?” he asked gruffly.

Leon found himself standing a little straighter than usual. “Nothing to worry about. I’m trying to trace someone who worked here some years ago.”

“And you might be?”

“DI Leon Peterson.” He held up his warrant card once more. “She’d have been a barmaid here in the late eighties. We don’t⁠—”

“Peterson?” The landlord cut him off. “I remember a copper called Peterson. About that time, it was.” He huffed. “Any relation?”

“My father,” Leon said shortly. “So, your staff⁠—”

“I remember you!” The large face split into a smile. “Just a boy you were then. Quiet, you was. Like a choirboy. Your dad brought you in here once or twice. Lionel, was it?”

“Leon.” He felt wrong-footed; he’d had no memory of ever setting foot in the place as a child.

The landlord was still smiling. “He was a fair man, your dad. I was sorry to see him go. What can I do for you?”

Leon tried not to think what fair might have meant. Didn’t ask too high a backhander to turn a blind eye? “Your barmaid? Young woman with curly hair, lots of it.”

“Sounds like… What was her name again?” He frowned for a long moment. “Chrissie, that was it. She was a good girl. Quite a looker. She stayed with us until, what, ’95?”

Leon frowned. That didn’t tally with what Mrs Vitch had said about Andy Castle ‘running off’ with the woman. Then again, they already knew Andy hadn’t run anywhere. “Can you remember her surname? Or where she went to when she stopped working here?”

“What do you want her for?”

“We’re looking into the death of a man in 1987 who we believe⁠—”

The big man burst out laughing. “1987? Nineteen-eighty-bleedin’-seven?” He turned to the barmaid, who’d been cleaning glasses just far enough away so she wouldn’t seem like she was intruding, while still near enough that she could hear every word. “You hear that, love? Don’t get murdered round here, you’ll have to wait forty years for the coppers to catch up.” He laughed again, and she joined him.

Leon took a swallow of his water, feeling uncomfortably warm. “A body was discovered recently, and we’re looking into the circumstances of the man’s death. Does the name Andy Castle mean anything to you?”

“Chrissie was friendly with an Andy.” He shrugged. “Not saying it’s the same one. Ten a penny round here, blokes called Andy.”

Leon pulled out the picture from their Andy’s misper file. “Ring any bells?”

A shrug. “Maybe; maybe not. It was a long time ago.”

“Back to Chrissie, then. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

The landlord gave him a long look, then nodded. “Wait there.”

He disappeared out the back and was gone for so long Leon started to wonder if he was being played for a fool. Taking his glass, he walked up to the pensioners, and gave a determined smile. “DI Peterson. I’m looking into the death of a man who used to drink in this pub. Would any of you remember Andy Castle?” He showed the picture.

Blank looks.

“Simon Luck? A barmaid called Chrissie?”

Shrugs. Leon wondered cynically if he’d have got the same response if he’d asked if they knew a big bloke called Bill. He had a strong impression they resented him coming in here, disrupting their day and trying to make them think about anything beyond the next drink.

Bill the landlord finally returned, bearing a scrap of paper. “Knew we still had the records. Here you go.”

He handed over a faded form that must have been filled in when Chrissie started the job. Full name, address, even National Insurance number. The handwriting was round, and sloped backwards, clearly legible, like a schoolgirl trying to be neat.

Leon put it on the bar and took a quick photograph with his phone, checking to make sure he’d got it in focus. “Thank you. That’s very helpful. If there’s nothing else you can tell me, I’ll let you get on.”

Bill nodded. “You should come again. Your dad used to pop in for a pint most nights. On the house, of course, and I’d be glad to extend the same favour.”

In return for what? Leon wondered. “I’ll do that,” he lied, and walked out, to the sound of Bill muttering, “Little Lionel Peterson, grown up to be a copper like his dad. Well, well, well.”

“I pulled up Susie Vitch’s death certificate,” Jas announced when he made it back to the station. “Mrs V was telling the truth: pneumonia.”

Leon had been half expecting this. He’d been thinking about the era, about Andy Castle’s possible promiscuity. “Maybe not the whole truth. Did you know that pneumonia is one of the leading causes of death from AIDS?”

Jas frowned. “But if she had AIDS, why wasn’t that on the death certificate?”

“Sympathetic doctor?” Leon caught her puzzled look. “It wasn’t something families tended to want known—back then it was a huge stigma. Much more than today. There were cases of undertakers refusing to bury AIDS victims.” Leon had been a child at the time of the worst AIDS paranoia, but he’d read about it, and heard about it from older gay men, all of whom had lost someone—sometimes many someones—to the virus. Even by the time he was in his early teens, and starting to struggle with his own sexuality, Princess Diana had made headlines just for shaking the hands of dying men.

Leon had watched those news reports wondering if he’d end up like those gaunt, emaciated men. And if his dad would have felt he deserved it.

“Bastards.” Jas was silent a moment. “Still, this is all conjecture. We don’t know she had AIDS.”

“Agreed. Which is why we need to talk to her parents again.”

“Now?”

He nodded. “I’ll give Mrs Vitch a call.”

This time, Leon drove, feeling it wasn’t fair on Jas to expect her to take the wheel all the time. She munched on a Tesco Meal Deal en route, and he tried not to get uptight about all the crumbs she was dropping.

He hoped she couldn’t hear his stomach rumble. Breakfast had been a good few hours ago now.

“Crisp?” She waved the bag of prawn cocktail flavour in his direction.

Leon groaned. “No. It’s bad enough I have to smell them.”

“Some people have no taste. They’re lovely.”

Leon opened his window a crack.

It was a relief to finally arrive at their destination. Mrs Vitch opened the door about a foot, peering out suspiciously. “I’ll talk to you,” she said to Leon. “Not her.”

Jas bristled beside him. Bristling himself on her behalf, Leon sent her a placating glance. “Would you mind waiting in the car, DS Todd?”

“Fine. Sir.” She spun on her heel and marched away.

Leon stepped into the house with rising anticipation. Mrs Vitch clearly had more to tell them. “Is your husband at home?” he asked, on seeing the empty living room.

“He’s gone to the shops. We needed some groceries.”

Interesting timing. “We just had one or two questions about your daughter’s death. Now, the death certificate shows pneumonia, as you told us, but⁠—”

“He doesn’t know,” she cut him off, fixing him in the eye. “And you mustn’t tell him.”

Leon’s pulse rate leapt. “Mr Vitch? What doesn’t he know?”

“What she died of. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? That illness that boy gave her. It would break him, knowing she had that filthy disease.” Her face twisted as she forced out the words.

Leon flinched internally. “To be clear, we’re talking about AIDS, Mrs Vitch? Did Andy Castle have AIDS?”

“Well, she wouldn’t have caught it anywhere else!”

Right. Leon just nodded, knowing she wouldn't want to think about the other ways her daughter could have contracted the disease. “When did you find out about this, Mrs Vitch?”

“When I took her to the doctor, of course.”

“And was this before or after Andy disappeared?”

“Months after. I knew it wasn’t just her heart that was ailing her. My poor Susie.” Her voice broke, but her eyes were dry, as though she’d cried herself out years ago.

“I understand this must be very difficult for you.”

“How could I tell anyone what was really wrong with her? You don’t know what it was like in those days. We’d have been shunned in the street. Dog mess through the letterbox. As if it was her fault he’d infected her. I thought of telling people it’d been a blood transfusion, but there still would have been talk.”

Leon nodded. “Did Susie have any idea how Andy might have become HIV positive?”

Mrs Vitch shook her head. “He was too charming for anyone’s good, I’ll tell you that. To think I welcomed him into our house.” She looked up. “I suppose you’ll go out and tell your colleague everything I’ve said. Give her my apologies. I couldn’t bear to have her in here, looking down on my Susie. Young girls can be so judgemental. I saw it with Susie’s friends when Andy disappeared. All smiles as they told her they’d known all along he was bad news. Making her feel like a fool. You know how many of them kept in touch when she got ill and we moved down here? Not one.”

She had nothing else to tell him. Leon got outside to find Jas leaning on the car glaring at her phone. “Jas? Sorry about that, but it was important to get her talking. She sends her apologies, by the way. Apparently she thought you were too young and too female to be sympathetic.”

Jas raised an eyebrow, but didn’t speak until they’d got in the car. “It was AIDS, then?”

Leon buckled his seatbelt and filled her in.

“Blimey. She’s lied to her husband for nearly forty years?”

Pulling out onto the road, Leon huffed a laugh. “Although we’ve only got her word for that.”

Jas stilled—then burst out laughing. “Do you really see her as our murderer?”

“Maybe. Or Mr Vitch, if he’s not as ignorant of the truth as she thinks.”

“Nah. He’s a nice old guy.”

“And we all know likeable people don’t do crime.”

“Course not. How would we know who the villains are, otherwise?”

The banter was easy as Leon wove through the traffic. But he couldn’t help wondering: what if Mrs Vitch still wasn’t telling the whole truth? What if she had known about her daughter’s HIV status before Andy had disappeared?

Chapter Twelve

Any hopes of quelling the ravening beast in Leon’s belly died as soon as they walked through the door of West London Police Station. Two men turned towards him and his heart sank. What did the Commander and Sir Arthur Bohun want with him?

“This day just gets better and better,” Jasmine muttered behind him.

His sergeant was always astute with her observations. He made a noise which he hoped Jasmine understood he agreed with her.

“Peterson.” The Commander smiled at him.

At least, Leon was sure it was meant to be a smile, although it was more like a grimace. “Sir.”

“Sir Arthur wants you to take him to the Kings Arms.”

Leon frowned. “It’s still a crime scene. It hasn’t been opened to the public yet.” Did DCI Harris know the Commander and Bohun were butting into the case?

Bohun gave a booming laugh. “I’m hardly the public, am I, Detective?”

He stepped towards Leon who took a hasty step back. The last thing he wanted was Bohun’s hands over him again.

“Detective Inspector,” Leon said, his tone brusque. “And until the crime scene is released, I can’t let⁠—”

“Release the crime scene, Peterson,” Hooker interjected. “The techs have been over it. There’s nothing more to find.”

If there was one thing Leon hated more than a pushy politician, it was one of the brass sticking his nose into an active case, just to brown nose to the politician. It was no secret that Brian Hooker had political ambitions. Sucking up to the old Bone was just his style. Leon opened his mouth to insist this wasn’t possible, but he received a tap on the back. He knew the tap. He’d received it more than once. His sergeant was telling him to play nice with the big boys and things would go easier for both of them.

He gave the two men a tight smile. “Certainly, sir. I’ll be ready in half an hour, Sir Arthur.”

Bohun frowned and made a gesture of looking at his watch pointedly, but he gave a curt nod. “Thirty minutes, Detective Inspector.”

Leon let the door of his office shut behind him, before he let out a stream of curses.

“Impressive, guv.” Jasmine smirked at him. “You always manage to swear with such feeling.”

“I’m holding back, I assure you,” he snapped, then gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

Jasmine hummed. “Coffee and something to eat before you go, or you’ll tear his arm off and beat him to death with the wet end.”

Leon shook his head. “You’re always so violent.”

“I’m right though,” she insisted.

She was…dammit.

Leon accepted the sandwich that Jasmine produced from her bag, together with the packet of ready salted crisps. He narrowed his eyes at the crisps. “You don’t eat these.”

“But you do,” she said cheerfully. “I got them for you in case you get hangry.”

He stared at her and she shrugged. “You’re always easier to deal with if you’re not hungry, you know that. I’ll get coffee. We can talk for ten minutes before you have to leave.”

“You’re not coming with me?”

“The old Bone won’t want me there.” Jasmine emphasised ‘me’ with a leer. “It seems to be the way the case is going. I’ll collate the information we gained today.”

Leon felt his stomach roll uneasily at the thought of being within touching distance of the MP.

The leer faded as Jasmine caught his expression. “If anything happens, you call me. Make an excuse, whatever. Call me.”

Embarrassed that she’d read him so easily, he nodded.

She pointed at his desk. “Sit. Eat. I’ll get the coffee.”

He did what he was told, unwrapping the sandwich. Smoked salmon and cream cheese. Even the sandwich was something he liked compared to Jasmine’s usual choices. She wouldn’t touch anything with fish in it. Prawn cocktail crisps didn’t count as fish, apparently. Leon had the distinct feeling he was being managed. He took a large bite of the sandwich and sighed happily. He could get over his pout later. He needed the food to deal with Bohun.

Jasmine put the coffee in front of him and sat in her own seat. She took a long swallow before she said, “What’s he up to?”

“Who?” Leon mumbled through his sandwich.

She frowned at him. “Chew first. Ask questions later.”

Leon sighed and returned his interest to the sandwich. He waited for her to continue.

“Bone of course,” she said. “I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. Why does he want you to take him to the building site?”

“Hopefully he’ll tell me this time,” he said. “You’re right, I don’t trust him either. But the fact he keeps sticking his nose in means he’s got an agenda.”

“Perhaps he’s got a thing for the lovely site foreman.” Jasmine’s smile was positively wicked.

Leon sighed and chugged down his cup of coffee. It was vile, as was all the coffee in the building. But it was hot, and he needed it right now.

They arrived at the site of the old pub, Leon pulling up behind Sir Arthur’s Merc. He had point blank refused to go in the same vehicle, mitigating his refusal with a smile and saying he had to go somewhere else after their trip. From the way he pulled his lips together, Sir Arthur wasn’t happy, but he could hardly cause a drama.

Leon frowned as he spotted a familiar stocky figure lurking by the flapping police tape. “What are you doing at my crime scene, Ben Codona?” he murmured. He wasn’t sure if he was irritated or pleased to see the site manager.

He got out of his car just in time to see the visible relief on Codona’s face when he spotted Leon. That look vanished when he saw Sir Arthur slide out of his Merc. It wasn’t surprise. He’d clearly been expecting Bohun. But he was relieved to see Leon there too.

Then Leon caught the smug expression on Bohun’s face. The MP had orchestrated this meeting deliberately. He slammed the car door to attract both their attention. It worked, both of them turning to him like clockwork puppets.

Leon gave them a thin smile. “Let’s get on with this. Mr Codona, this is not a crime scene anymore. What exactly do you want at the site, Sir Arthur?”

“I just want Mr Codona to confirm we can proceed as normal.”

There were so many things Leon could say to that steaming pile of bullshit. Whatever he wanted, it wasn’t to drag a Detective Inspector out to cut the police tape. No, this was manipulation, it was dick-waving. Old Bone was telling them both he had power over them.

Leon tore away the police tape. The sooner they got this over with, the better. As he balled it up, a uniformed officer approached them. He was old and grizzled, Leon guessed approaching retirement.

“What are you doing here? You can’t do that. It’s a crime scene.”

Leon flashed his ID. “DI Leon Peterson. I’ve released the crime scene now.”

The officer nodded, then he squinted at him. “Peterson? David Peterson’s boy?”

“He was my father,” Leon agreed.

The PC broke into a wide smile. “I remember him. He was a good copper.”

What exactly did that mean, Leon wondered. Play by the book? Or had he been one of the lads? He nodded in acknowledgement.

The officer looked at the site. “I remember this place.” His top lip curled and it was clear what his memories were.

Leon didn’t need another bout of reminiscing about the queers in the pub. “Thank you, officer,” he said, making his dismissal plain.

“Your dad was a good cop,” the officer repeated as he strolled away.

Leon held back a sigh as he turned to Codona. “Let’s get on with this.”

“You don’t go on my site without hard hats.” Codona produced a set of keys from his pocket. “They’re in the cabin.”

Sir Arthur tutted. “I’m sure it’s fine.” He turned to Leon. “Detective Inspector⁠—”

As if Leon was going to be on his side.

“We wear the hats,” Leon said flatly. “We can’t take any chances. Mr Codona, you tell us where it’s safe to go.”

Codona gave him a curt nod. “This way, Detective Inspector.” He ignored Sir Arthur who huffed, but followed them up the stairs of the portacabin.

Leon wondered: if Codona hadn’t mentioned the hats, would the MP have tried to use that against him? He’d already sown the seed about the site foreman’s safety record.

“Sign in.” Codona shoved a clipboard at them.

Another huff from Bohun, but Leon signed in and handed the clipboard to the MP.

“You don’t want Health and Safety to delay the development, do you, Sir Arthur?” he said cheerfully.

He must have sounded fake because both men turned to look at him. He really needed Jasmine for this kind of thing.

“Of course not,” Sir Arthur snapped. “We don’t want any further delays.”

They clattered down the stairs after Codona locked the door and Leon fixed his attention on Bohun.

“I don’t have much time. I’ve released the crime scene. What do you need from me?”

“We just need to confirm Ben can continue with his job.”

Codona shot Sir Arthur a look which didn’t need much interpretation, but the MP seemed oblivious.

As they walked to the old pub, Codona leading the way, Sir Arthur said, “I think I remember your father, Leon.”

Leon held back the desire to snarl “Detective Inspector,” instead saying, “A lot of older people remember him.” He swore he heard a snort from Codona.

Sir Arthur glowered at him, but he didn’t say anything else. Leon was curious to know what he remembered about his father, but he didn’t want the MP to have another hold over him.

And, if he were being honest, he wanted to keep his father’s memories intact, and not find out he had been the type of copper Leon despised.

“Careful in the house,” Codona ordered. “The place is still a building site. Plenty to trip over.”

“I don’t think we need to go in there,” Sir Arthur said.

Leon gritted his teeth. Why on earth was he here?

Bohun put his hands in his pockets and stared up at the pub. “I wonder how he ended up here?’ He looked at Leon as if he expected him to declare who the murderer was on the spot.

“That’s my job to find out,” Leon said evenly. The if you’d stop wasting my time was implied.

“I’m sure you must have some clues by now,”

Leon’s patience snapped. “I’m sorry, you don’t need me any more. I need to leave.” Leon had a murder to solve. He was done being led around by his nose, and Andy Castle deserved his full attention and justice for being buried and forgotten in an old pub for nearly forty years.

Andy can get justice, even if my father can’t.

Leon didn’t look where he was going as he strode out of the derelict building. Just like the first time, he stumbled and lurched forward, his ankle twisting underneath him. Someone grabbed him by the bicep before he faceplanted and for the second time in two days, he found himself saved by Ben bloody Codona.

Chapter Thirteen

Jasmine took her laptop into Leon’s office. It was a small thing. A little bit of status that she could use her boss’s office when he was out. It wasn’t much of an office, more of an overgrown cupboard, but Leon trusted her. Unlike Cathy Morales’s clones who sat at their own desks in the big office unless she called them in. On the other hand, Morales had a proper office, with a desk, a window overlooking the car park rather than the roof of the new cell extension, and one of those round tables for meetings. Leon had a desk and two chairs, three if you counted the one Leon sat in. No one else dared to use it. Every few weeks one of the wheels fell off and the chair collapsed sideways. Leon had the bruises to prove it. Morales would have had the thing on a skip before the end of her first day. Jasmine thought there must be a happy medium between Morales’s conviction of her own importance and Leon’s conviction that his job was to absorb other people’s crap without complaint. His office was dusty because he told the cleaner not to bother (“she’s got enough to do,”) and piled high with papers he couldn’t bring himself to ask a civilian clerk to file, but never had time to deal with himself. Jasmine had Views about cleaning up after men, but she thought she might find time to push a damp cloth around if no one was looking.

Before she had time to implement this scheme, her phone rang.

“Have you heard of a band called Feral Polecats?” asked a voice. “Which is a stupid name because polecats are by definition feral. I’ve never heard of domesticated polecats.”

“Crispin. What are you talking about?” Crispin Waller was one of the crime scene techs.

“It’s the T-shirt we found at your derelict crime scene in sunny Sipson. It’s merch from a band called Feral Polecats with their 1986 tour dates, all five of them. The Barracuda Lounge, Acton, was their last gig. Ever go to the Barracuda Lounge, Jas? Maybe we should check it out?”

“I don’t believe there is such a place.” Jasmine also had Views about Crispin, who was an unrepentant flirt, despite a wife and baby.

“There isn’t. It’s now a block of housing association flats with a Tesco mini market on the ground floor. The Lounge closed in 1990.”

“Have you anything of actual importance for me?” Jasmine asked firmly.

“I have a T-shirt dating from eighty-six, found near your body which you will recall, dates from eighty-seven. They may or may not be connected. We are testing the T-shirt for bloodstains and DNA, but results won’t appear overnight. However, because I am such a nice guy, I even looked up the Feral Polecats.” He went silent which Jasmine supposed was her cue to ask for more information.

“OK,” she sighed. “Tell me what you found about the Feral Polecats.”

There was a snort of laughter from the other end of the phone.

“The internet has never heard of the Feral Polecats. Your best bet is that retro vinyl shop on the Broadway. Some of the old punks in there might have heard of them.”

“Send me the report,” she said. She would add it to the case file, though she doubted it had anything to do with the crime. If the old pub had been a meeting place for men to have sex, anyone could have left it there. Even so, she would add it, because that was the job.

“It’s on its way,” Crispin said, and as she looked, the email arrived.

She thanked Crispin and was about to end the call when she remembered something. “Crispin?”

“Yes, darling, I would love to take you dancing, even though it won’t be at the Barracuda Lounge. We can waltz through the aisles at Tesco. It’s all the rage this time of year.”

Jasmine laughed despite herself. “I’ll pass. But didn’t your wife work at the Houses of Parliament before the baby?”

“She did, and three weeks ago she went back. I take it you want to pick her brains? I’ll text you with her number.” His voice dropped. “Just don’t mention the Barracuda Lounge.” A moment later phone pinged with the name Ellie and a number. But that call would have to wait. Even if it was a good idea, which Jasmine wasn’t sure about. She had promised to look up Simon Luck while Leon was at the crime scene fighting off the revolting Old Bone and ideally not fighting off the luscious Ben Codona.

Simon Luck was easy to find. He’d been convicted of GBH and only avoided manslaughter by the skin of his teeth. Jasmine attached his records to the case file and summarised them for Leon.

Simon James Luck, age 55 (same age as Andy Castle would have been).

Address: Culloden House, Wembley, where he’d lived since getting out of prison.

Employment: currently unemployed. Has worked as a jobbing builder.

SJL was convicted following an altercation outside a gay bar. Initial reports suggest he attacked two patrons of the bar with a pool cue in a homophobic assault. Further investigations discovered that he was a patron of the bar, and that the three men had been arguing inside before being “asked to leave.” The pool cue in question was in its box, and that was what caused the injuries: broken cheekbone, serious eye damage and fractured skull. The defence argued that it was an unlucky blow, and that SJL was fighting two others, but he still copped for GBH. Reading between the lines he was twice the size of his victim. Not his first offence, so he got seven years. The injury to the man he assaulted was similar to the Kings Arms body, though Andy Castle was hit on the back of the head.

No offences since he got out of prison, but plenty before, all for violence.

We have a contender!

Jasmine leaned back in one of Leon’s spare chairs and winced as it creaked and she felt the back give way. She stood up abruptly. This was ridiculous. No wonder the brass treated Leon so badly. He projected the image of someone unimportant, his office the repository of cast-off furniture and dust. Things were going to have to change, and today was as good a time as any. There were advantages to being from a big family. She ran through her mental contacts list and picked up the phone. Then she started tidying the files.

An hour later, the place was transformed. Not into anything as smart as Morales’s office, but the old chairs were gone, replaced with almost new ones that didn’t creak. Getting brand new furniture would have been a favour too far, but a guy in maintenance was a friend of her cousin. He brought a massive packet of cleaning wipes along with the chairs, and ten minutes later, a roll of bin bags, a new lightbulb for the lamp over the desk (which he fitted), and an invitation to the pub for an after-work drink. Jasmine said she’d love to, and she would do her best.

She was wielding the cleaning wipes when a knock at the door announced one of the civilian clerks, with a trolley.

“We’ve been a bit busy,” Jasmine said apologetically.

“Clearout for Christmas?” The clerk asked, beginning to load the files.

“Something like that.”

The two of them stacked the files for a few minutes, Jasmine re-checking that she wasn’t sending anything current down to the basement. When it was all gone, she was left with an almost empty desk and a business card with the House of Commons crest. On the back was a handwritten note and a mobile number: Leon, call me any time, Arthur.

Jasmine found her teeth were clenched and she shook her jaw from side to side to release the tension. It wasn’t like she’d needed any confirmation that the MP was a creep. The question was, did she need to find out how much more of a creep he was? She picked up her phone and pressed the number for Ellie, Crispin’s wife.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Ellie said, when Jasmine had introduced herself. “You want the Register of Members’ Financial Interests, but only if his portfolio is over a hundred grand of course …” Jasmine heard computer keys clacking. “Nope, nothing under land or property … shareholdings might be worth a look … Sipson and Harmondsworth Holdings? Could be property. Could be anything really. Try Companies House. I’m assuming you can take it from here?” Ellie spoke fast, like a woman with too much to do already.

Jasmine confirmed that she could. “One more thing, is it true that there are lists of MPs with, erm, wandering hands? Ones not to be stuck in a lift with?”

“I’m sure there are, and when you find one, do let me know who’s on it.” Ellie said, and ended the call.

That could have gone better.

The register of MPs’ financial interests showed that Sir Arthur had his fingers in a lot of financial pies. A day at Wimbledon here and an after-dinner speech there, but nothing about the Kings Arms in Sipson. Jasmine made a note of all the companies in which Old Bone had a declared interest and settled down to check them all at Companies House. Several gave their business as “Property Development” or “Leisure and Hospitality,” but as always, the information was vague. Any addresses belonged to solicitors, so no clues there. Not for the first time, Jasmine thought the easiest place to set up a dodgy business was the UK. No one ever checked the truth of any of the information at Companies House. She imagined a couple of work experience trainees scanning documents into a vast computer, and someone smart automating the payment system. If she wanted actual, verifiable information about her MP’s business interests, she needed to talk to a real person. The business card with the personal mobile number caught her eye. On the other side was a landline number for the constituency office. Without waiting for common sense to kick in, she dialed.

“I’m trying to find out about a company called Sipson and Harmondsworth Holdings,” Jasmine told the woman who answered the phone. “We need to establish ownership of a building in Sipson — the Kings Arms on Belvedere Road.”

“Whatever for?” The woman, who hadn’t given her name, simply “Sir Arthur Bohun’s Office,” had the kind of upper-class accent that went with the entitled rudeness of her question.

“Routine, madam,” Jasmine said. “Is Sir Arthur one of the owners?”

“I cannot see what possible interest the police could have with my employer’s business dealings. Unless you are suggesting there is something illegal?”

Jasmine rowed back as hard as she could, cursing herself for having made a complete cock up of the call, hoping it wouldn’t come back to bite her. Halfway through a groveling apology, a text popped up.

Ellie: In re wandering hands, call Anthony Maloney in the next ten minutes and tell him I gave you his name. A number followed.

“Thank you so much, and again, apologies for bothering you,” Jasmine babbled on to the woman at the constituency office, breathing a sigh of relief when the woman ended the call. She realised she was sweating, and her body was stiff with tension. Leon would be back soon, surely, and he deserved to know what he was dealing with. She wrote Kings Arms: Land Registry! in her notebook, then picked up her phone and dialled Anthony Maloney.

“Ah, yes, Ellie’s policewoman,” Maloney said in decidedly camp tones. “May I ask whose wandering hands you are interested in?”

“Sir Arthur Bohun,” Jasmine said. “And I assure you I have no personal interest in the wandering hands.”

“You could have all the interest you liked, but he would have no interest in you. If you were a delightful young man, however, I really wouldn’t like you to find yourself alone with him.”

Jasmine opened her mouth to ask for further and better particulars, but the door opened, and Leon entered, looking shell shocked, closely followed by red-faced Commander Hooker.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Hooker demanded. “How dare you accuse Sir Arthur Bohun of fraud? Well? Well?”

Chapter Fourteen

After his embarrassing stumble at the crime scene had ended even more embarrassingly with him in Ben Codona’s arms once more, Leon had jerked away so violently he almost fell over again.

Codona had glared at him like it was a personal insult.

“Sorry,” Leon muttered. Gathering the shreds of his dignity, he stomped off back to his car. Damn it, was he destined to spend his life making an idiot of himself in front of this man? The sole comfort he could find was that his sergeant hadn’t been there to witness it. Jas had been bad enough already with her constant allusions to Codona’s attractions—something Leon had been doing his best to put out of his mind.

His best wasn’t, apparently, very good. Leon slammed the car door shut and switched on the ignition.

This close to the shortest day, it was dark already despite not being the end of the working day. Bright lights twinkled in the village centre, ambiguously celebrating either Christmas or Diwali, the belief system in the eye of the beholder. Leon generally didn’t bother with seasonal decorations, although he briefly wondered if he should make the effort this year, now that he had Robin. As if the cat cares about Christmas. But there was always the chance that Deborah might pop round to call him a Scrooge for not putting up a bit of tinsel.

God, he hadn’t got gifts for anyone, and time was running out. Mum would be happy with a bunch of flowers—anything more meaningful would be lost on her, these days. And his niece and nephew would rather have money than his cringe-worthy efforts at getting them something cool. But Debs would be disappointed if he didn’t put at least a bit of thought into presents for her and Tom.

Should he get something for Jas? He hadn’t last year, and she’d presented him with a prettily wrapped silk tie with a subtle Starfleet insignia. She’d played it off as a joke gift, but he was fairly sure she knew he actually really liked it, and he strongly suspected it hadn’t been cheap. He hadn’t had the nerve to wear it to work, though, and he’d probably spill coffee down it if he did. So, it hung in his wardrobe, waiting for a date with a hot guy who wouldn’t mind that Leon was a bit of a nerd.

We could sit and watch the pigs come in to land at Heathrow.

So anyway, he should probably get Jas something. But what? What did women even like these days? Maybe Deb would have some ideas. She was older than he was, but at least she was female. Although of course women were no more a monolith than any other group… Leon sighed. At this rate, he’d talk himself out of everything he thought of.

His route out of Sipson took him close to his house, and Leon wondered what time he’d be seeing it again tonight. Thank God for Jas feeding him that sandwich, as chances were it’d be a late dinner for him and for Robin. Again. In a spark of rebellion, Leon took the two-minute detour and parked out in front. He might have to work late, but why should his cat suffer?

He was vindicated in his impulse by Robin greeting him at the door, already purring in anticipation of being fed—Leon wasn’t so deluded as to imagine the cat was just pleased to see him. “Here we go, then. Tasty…saithe? What even is that? Never mind, you seem to like it.” Leon stroked the cat as he gobbled down the fishy-smelling stuff, then straightened. “Right. Time to go. Don’t wait up.”

Robin ignored Leon as he left, which at least gave him a comforting sense of normality having been restored. When he got back in the car, he checked the time, pleased to see that the detour had taken him fifteen minutes, tops. He could have been held up by traffic for twice that, so no one was likely to comment or even notice.

Leon strolled into the station, equanimity restored, only to be greeted by one of Cathy Morales’ clones, who smirked as he passed on the message: “Commander wants to see you. I’d get straight there if I were you…sir.”

What the hell could it be now? Leon had done what he’d asked—he’d released the crime scene, and he’d wasted his time giving old Bone the guided tour. “Sir?” he asked, stepping into the Commander’s office. “You wanted to see me?”

Brian Hooker was red-faced and furious. “Where the hell have you been?”

He spat the words out, and Leon had to force himself not to take a step back. “At the crime scene in Sipson, sir. With Sir Arthur.”

Hooker pushed back his desk chair and stood. “Stop to do a bit of Christmas shopping on your way back, did you? I had a call from Sir Arthur. In fact, I had two calls, in the time it apparently took you to drive a few miles. To say he’s unhappy is an understatement. Would it be too much to ask you to show a little respect for those leading our nation?”

“Sir?”

“He said you were uncooperative, uncommunicative and unmannerly. He said you walked out on him halfway through without a word of explanation.”

Leon swallowed. “I took him through the crime scene, which I released as you requested, sir. Bo—Sir Arthur surely couldn’t have expected me to discuss an ongoing investigation⁠—”

Hooker rounded his desk and jabbed a finger at Leon. “Sir Arthur Bohun is to be treated with respect, Peterson. Something you have singularly failed to do, and an attitude which it appears you have handed on down the ranks.”

“Sir?” Leon was baffled.

Hooker brought his face nearer to Leon’s and lowered his tone to a menacing hiss. “The second phone call, Detective Inspector, was to inform me that your DS has had the sheer bloody gall to accuse Sir Arthur of acting illegally.”

“Sir?” Leon couldn’t help taking a step back this time. What the hell had Jasmine been up to? Throwing around accusations? She could be impulsive, yes, but he couldn’t believe she’d be that unprofessional. “I don’t know what you’re referring to, sir, but⁠—”

“But it’s clear you have failed to keep a tight control on your staff. Or was DS Todd acting on your instructions when she rang Sir Arthur’s office?”

Leon’s stomach seemed to have spontaneously manifested an ice-cold lead weight. This was bad. Bad for him, and bad for Jas. Leon didn’t know how to defend himself without dropping her even deeper in it. “I, ah, I asked her to carry on with our enquiries while I was, ah, busy with Sir Arthur.”

“Did you, or did you not, instruct her to call Sir Arthur’s constituency office and make insinuations of irregular practices?”

“I—no, sir. But have you spoken to DS Todd? I’m sure there’s just been a misunderstanding.”

“Then I suggest we go and find out, hmm? I take it you do know where to find her? Or is even that beyond your management capabilities?”

Leon felt his face flush as red-hot anger burned away some of the ice in his stomach. “I imagine she’ll be in my office, sir. Let me go and get her⁠—”

“Oh, I think we’ll both go.” Hooker was already moving to the door.

His last faint hope of warning Jas in shreds, Leon followed him. As if in mockery, Hooker stood back when they reached Leon’s office, and let him open the door.

He could only hope his face would provide some scant warning.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Hooker demanded. “How dare you accuse Sir Arthur Bohun of fraud? Well? Well?”

Jas recoiled physically, the desk chair—the new desk chair, Leon noted with a touch of hysteria; where had that come from?—rolling back an inch or so. “That’s not—I was just making some enquiries into his business interests, sir.”

“And precisely what do you suppose they have to do with a forty-year-old suspicious death?”

Jas sent Leon a panicked glance. He scrambled to help her. “I’m sure DS Todd was⁠—”

“I didn’t ask you, Peterson. Well, Todd?”

She swallowed audibly. “I, er, I was just trying to establish who owns the Kings Arms site, sir.”

“For God’s sake, Todd, the death occurred forty years ago! What possible bearing could the current ownership of the site have on the investigation? What were you thinking, Todd? Were you thinking?”

Jas hung her head. Leon felt a flash of anger at seeing her humiliated like this. “Sorry, sir,” she muttered.

“Between the two of you, you’ve made a complete mess of things. I can only be glad you’re no longer involved with the terrorism case—any mishandling of that could have extremely serious repercussions. As it is, Sir Arthur would be perfectly within his rights to make an official complaint about your harassment.” Hooker drew in a breath. “In the future, Todd, you will confine yourself to enquiries that are relevant to the investigation, not any personal vendetta you may see fit to pursue. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Commander turned to Leon. “And Peterson, you will keep tighter control over your subordinates. You will, to make myself absolutely clear, cease all investigations into Sir Arthur Bohun. Furthermore, you will make an appointment to see him, and you will apologise to him. In person, Peterson.”

Chapter Fifteen

The door slammed shut on the Commander’s rigid back before Leon could spit out his response. Maybe that was a good thing. With any luck, he’d still be a DI by the end of the day. At the rate he was going, he’d be visiting schools for the rest of his career.

The silence stretched between them, and Leon deliberately didn’t look at Jasmine. He couldn’t speak. He was furious. He knew if he said anything to her it would be the wrong thing. He wasn’t angry at her, although he wished she’d given him a heads-up before he’d stepped through the door to receive the arse-chewing of his life. Leon sighed inwardly. This would be all around the station within the hour.

“Guv, I—” Jasmine started.

“What did you do to my office?” he snapped.

She blinked at him. Clearly that wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. “Tidied up. Dusted. Brought in new chairs that aren’t going to break our necks.”

“Okay. But ask next time. I’m never going to find anything. And where are the files?”

“Filed. Where they should be,” she said miserably.

“I’m never going to find anything again,” Leon repeated.

He wasn’t going to admit his office looked a hundred times better with a brief clean and tidy. He was miffed about his chair. He liked that old chair, dammit. It meant nobody else sat in it.

“Sorry, guv.” Jasmine sounded more herself, with the hint of sarcasm he knew and loved. Yes, that was sarcasm too.

Leon sat down tentatively on a chair which didn’t collapse, and caught Jasmine’s eye-roll out of the corner of his eyes.

“I need to work,” he said.

It was a clear dismissal and Jasmine left with a nod, closing the door behind her a lot more quietly than Hooker had. They hadn’t discussed what had just happened, and he couldn’t avoid it forever, but Leon needed time to think, and he couldn’t do that with Jasmine standing there waiting to be reprimanded.

Leon swivelled around in his chair to stare out of the dirty window into the night.Now he had to apologise to Sir Arthur Bohun, and wasn’t that going to be fun? He would rather hunt for Christmas presents. There was something about Bohun that Leon was missing, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. This was a man with an agenda. But what? And why did he have Leon in his crosshairs? Leon stared down at his hands. His mum used to say he had hands like his dad’s, long fingers like a pianist.

“Focus,” Leon said into the silence of the room.

He couldn’t afford to get distracted. Not when the local MP and the Commander were both gunning for him. He swivelled back to the desk, only to be disturbed by a knock at the door.

One of the uniforms poked his head around the office door, smirking at him. Oh yeah, the gossip had already started. “Guv, there’s a guy on the phone, Ben Codona. Says he’s got something important to tell you. Something he’s found.”

Leon hated the way his heart jumped at the sound of Ben’s name. His response was maybe sharper than he intended. “Tell him I’ll call him back later.”

“’Kay.” The uniform shut the door, whistling under his breath.

Leon sighed as he scrubbed his hand through his hair. He needed to focus, and save the ruins of his career.

“Dammit.”

Leon pushed the chair back so hard it slammed against the wall, then stalked to the door and flung it open. He needed coffee, and he might as well face the horde now rather than hiding in his office. Jasmine looked up but he shook his head. He wasn’t ready, not yet. Every eye was on him as he stomped to the kitchen, but at least they had the sense not say anything while he was in earshot.

To his relief, the kitchen was empty. He looked at the coffee machine, deciding he didn’t have the energy to make a new pot. There was a jar of instant in the cabinet above the kettle. That would do.

Leon spooned the coffee into the mug and flicked on the kettle, staring moodily at it while he waited for it to boil.

“Bad day?”

He looked up to see DI Cathy Morales in the doorway, giving him what she probably thought was a sympathetic smile, but which reminded him of a piranha waiting to pounce.

“Not one of my finest,” he agreed, knowing there was no point trying to play it down.

Morales came into the kitchen. “Todd is a good officer but she needs firm handling.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Jasmine’s not a dog, Cathy. She doesn’t need to be told to sit and stay.”

“Today says different. What were you thinking, letting her make those calls?”

Leon wanted to protest he wasn’t even in the building, but he wouldn’t drop Jasmine in the deep end like that. She was one of his, and she had been thinking on her feet. The fact that Bohun had kicked up a fuss only reinforced Leon’s belief that the MP had something to hide.

“She was doing her job, with my full support. If it were anyone other than the local MP, the Commander wouldn’t be making a fuss.”

Morales pursed her lips. “Tread carefully, Leon. Hooker’s got it in for you and Sir Arthur is just what he needs to get rid of a problem.”

He gave a curt nod. Like he didn’t know that. But it was hard to hear the words out loud. He’d spent his entire career doing what the brass wanted and now he was being targeted by one of them and he didn’t know why.

The kettle switched off.

“Coffee?” he asked.

Morales grimaced. “I’m not drinking that swill. I’ll make a pot.”

Leon shrugged and filled his mug, stirring the dark brew before rinsing the spoon.

“How's your case going?” he asked, grimly proud of the way the possessive pronoun came out without any sarcastic emphasis.

“We’re on top of it,” she said cryptically. ‘It’s going to be a big target in London.”

“Oh?” He kept his tone neutral, not wanting her to think he was prying.

“Yeah. But we’re ready. We’re watching them.”

Leon could see the excitement almost rippling off her in waves. “You’ve identified the target?”

She wanted to tell him; he could see that. To brag about what she’d been doing with the case. But then her expression shut down, changed to a smirk. “I’m sorry, Leon. I can’t talk about it with outsiders. I’m sure you understand.”

“I understand,” he said, because much as he hated it, he’d be the same. “The kitchen’s all yours.”

There was something wrong, something niggling in Leon’s mind as he pushed past her. Something Morales had said, only he couldn’t pin it down. It was like a butterfly that wouldn’t rest in case it was pinned to the board. That summed up his life at the moment.

It was only when he got back to his office that Leon realised he’d left his half full cup of coffee in the kitchen. Seriously, he was ready to shoot this day into the sun.

“Todd.”

Jasmine looked up. He beckoned her over.

“Guv?” she said as she reached him, sounding anxious.

“I need your brain.”

“Sure.”

She looked relieved and he realised she’d expected another bollocking.

“And coffee.”

She rolled her eyes, but he could tell if her punishment from him was making him a few coffees, she’d live with it.

“I’ll be back in a moment.”

“And biscuits,” Leon added.

He could swear he heard her mutter “Don’t push it,” under her breath.

Leon left his door open and went back to staring out of the window.

Jasmine arrived with two mugs five minutes later.

“Shut the door,” he said as she handed him a mug. “This is not a conversation I want overheard.”

“Understood.”

He could see the tension radiating from her, her hands so tight around the mug that her knuckles were white.

“I know we’ve talked about this before, but if you were going to bomb London what would be your target?” he asked.

Her eyes went almost comically wide. “You want to bomb London?”

“Not today, Todd,” Leon said dryly. “I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

Jasmine huffed but she didn’t reply immediately and seemed to be in deep thought. Then she screwed up her nose. “If it were me I’d be like the environmental protestors and disrupt the M25. It would be a nightmare. Can you imagine what it would do to the people trying to get away at Christmas? Heathrow would in chaos.” She stared out of the window, wearing a satisfied smirk as she thought about the idea.

Not for the first time, Leon was slightly intimidated by his sergeant and where her mind went. “You think terrorists wouldn’t go for the big bang?”

She raised an eyebrow. “How many more people could you disrupt closing the motorway? Did you know December the twenty-second is the busiest day for a Christmas getaway?”

“You have a point.”

“I know.” She smirked at him.

“Something’s bugging me about the case. DI Morales cornered me to gloat in the kitchen, but as you can imagine I’m a bit persona non grata at the moment. She wasn’t going to give away anything”

Jasmine grimaced. “I’m sorry, guv.”

Leon waved his hand. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t, and he’d be a long time getting back into the Commanders good books, but Jasmine had been doing her job. It was just a shame the Commander was so far up Bohun’s arse that he could see his tonsils.

“When are you going to apologise to old Bone?” she asked.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “Right now it’s late and I’d probably tell him and anyone else to take a long walk off a short pier.”

“I’ll come with you,” she said. “This is my mess, not yours.”

Leon was touched and proud of her, but he shook his head. “It’s not the first time I’ve had to eat humble pie. I’ll live. Tell me what you found out before the wheels came off. I suppose we ought to focus on our actual case.”

Her smile was wicked. “Let’s just say I’m sure our MP isn’t squeaky clean.”

Leon rolled his eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Chapter Sixteen

Leon hated to admit it, but the new chair was OK. Comfortable even. And having a tidy office lifted his spirits just a little. He could see Jas bursting with things to tell him, and given that he hadn’t asked her to look into Sir Arthur, he expected she had found plenty of other useful material.

“Tell all,” he said, waving his hands in invitation.

Jas sat on one of the new chairs on the other side of the desk.

“And do please sit down,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling, “I will. My, what a comfortable chair.”

Leon liked women—he just didn’t want to go to bed with them—and he thought Jas’s smile was lovely, not that she’d thank him for saying so. She dressed as plainly as possible for work, clipped her hair back, wore only minimal or no make-up, and never any jewellery or high heels. Where Cathy Morales’ out-there sexuality was part of her persona, Jas kept hers dialled down as low as it would go. Leon didn’t suppose it made a lot of difference to the amount of harassment she came in for.

“So,” she began, flipping open her notebook, “I’ve emailed most of this, but not all. Andy Castle’s best friend, Simon Luck, has a record for GBH, served time, and was lucky not to go down for something worse. Better yet, his T-shirt was found at the scene. We have a contender.”

Jas leaned back in her chair with the expression of a cat whose owner has gone out having forgotten to close the fridge door.

“T-shirt?” It was the first Leon had heard of any T-shirt.

“Crispin rang. They found an old T-shirt amongst the rubble and it just made its way to the top of the heap. It’s one of those with a band name on the front and tour dates on the back. The band is called the Feral Polecats and the tour was all around this area in 1986.”

“The Feral Polecats?”

“I know right? They were a punk band and they sank without trace before I was even born.” Jas leaned forward again, “But I can tell you that one of the members was a Simon Luck. I can tell you this because I put up with being patronised by the old bloke who runs the record shop on the Broadway. Just because we sell vinyl, Ms Todd, doesn’t mean we keep our records on rolls of parchment.”

An actual lead. They could connect a violent offender to the murder scene. Or rather the place where the body was found. Not that a T-shirt was conclusive. Suggestive at best. It might not have even belonged to Simon Luck. Leon opened his mouth to say some of this, but Jas got there first.

“I know it doesn’t prove anything, but it’s better than anything we’ve had so far. Simon’s name keeps coming up …”

“And we keep not going to see him,” Leon finished. “First thing in the morning. After I’ve seen Sir Arthur.”

“Not tonight?” Jas asked. “He’s got a job in the day.”

Leon rubbed his hands over his face. “You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?” He watched as the realisation dawned.

“Do we really have to go?” she wheedled. “I mean, we’ve got a hot lead.”

“In a forty-year-old case. There’s a three-line whip. Our reputation is already in the gutter — if we don’t show up for a couple of Christmas drinks at the Market Tavern, we’ll be washed out into the Thames, if that’s not pushing the metaphor too far.”

He hadn’t been the year before, because his mother had been in hospital. This year, his death would be the only acceptable excuse for not going to the retired officers’ Christmas get-together. He looked at Jas. She was actually pouting. Leon laughed.

“It’s not that bad,” he said, though actually it was. The retired officers who came to the annual bash tended to be the ones who thought of their years in the police force as the highlight of their lives and liked nothing better than to tell stories of how things had been so much better in their day. Long, long, stories. A few senior officers would show up and buy a round, draw the fundraising raffle, then leg it. The middle ranks, like him, were expected to stay a bit longer. Not too long, thank God, because the old stagers generally preferred to talk to each other once they’d had a few drinks and patronised the youngsters for an hour.

The Market Tavern, aka the coppers’ pub, was festooned with far too much tinsel and too many Christmas lights. There was an enormous, overdecorated Christmas tree (fake) by the fireplace (also fake). The bar staff wore Santa hats, and to Leon’s delight, so did Brian Hooker and the other top brass. He heard Jasmine stifle a laugh, and from the corner of his eye, saw the flash of her phone camera.

“One for the album,” she whispered.

“How long before someone asks you if you celebrate Christmas?” Leon whispered back, “so we can have the war on Christmas convo.”

Jas stifled another laugh.

“Make mine a double,” she said.

Leon forced his way to the bar while Jasmine went over to chat to DC Rishi De. He signalled to De asking if he wanted a drink, but the DC held up a full pint with a smile. When Leon finally got to the bar, it was to have his arm jogged by one of the old stagers.

“You have to be Dave Peterson’s boy. Mine’s a pint, thanks.”

Leon sighed inwardly, but when he caught the barmaid’s eye, he ordered the man’s drink, and handed it over.

“Thanks, son, come and keep an old man company,” he instructed, pointing at a table in the middle of the melee.

“I’ll just take my sergeant her drink,” Leon said, waiting for the sexist remark about “women sergeants” but it didn’t come. Maybe it would be OK, he thought as he dutifully returned to the retired copper’s table.

It was and it wasn’t. Ex-Sergeant Craig Martin said that he was quite the admirer of “women policemen” and not just for making the tea. “Good interviewers, women. And tough. Gotta be, women in a man’s world and all that.” Leon was beginning to warm to the man when he followed up with, “Tougher than some of the pansies they let in now, anyway.” Leon managed a weak smile. He didn’t usually hide his sexuality, but life was too short to come out to the Craig Martins of this world.

“Did you see they found a body in the Kings Arms in Sipson?” Martin went on.

“It’s my case, actually,” Leon said.

“Old queers’ hangout, you know.”

“I do know. My family lived not far from there when I was growing up.”

The older man laughed, then coughed the cough of a lifelong smoker. Leon thought he couldn’t be out of his sixties, but he carried on like he’d been born before the war. Despite all the advances in technology and forensic science, some police attitudes had got stuck in the Thatcher years.

“Your dad used to make up his monthly arrest quotas at that place. Hated those queers. If you ask me …” here Martin tapped the side of his nose with the tip of his index finger, “… some of those queers resisted arrest if you know what I mean.”

Suddenly, Leon had had enough. “You seem to be saying that my father was unnecessarily violent towards people he arrested,” he said flatly.

Martin punched him lightly on the arm. “Don’t get upset, son. Those people were spreading AIDS, remember. Mrs Thatcher …”

Leon didn’t wait for whatever Mrs Thatcher thought. “Excuse me, my sergeant wants a word,” he said and left the table. But Jasmine was deep in conversation. He slipped out of the pub door into the cold and dreary night, ignoring the bunch of committed smokers clustered by a canopy over one of the front windows. His jaw was clenched so hard that his teeth ached, and he consciously wiggled it from side to side, then rolled his shoulders in the hope of easing the tension in his neck. A burst of aggressively loud laughter came from the smokers, so he moved further away, pulling his phone from his pocket. He rang Jasmine.

“If anyone asks, you think I’ve been called away by my mother’s care home,” he told her.

“Sure thing, guv,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

He’d planned to get a cab home, expecting to drink too much to drive. But most of his drink was still on the table next to the odious Craig Martin, so he set off to walk back to the police station and his Ford Focus. He supposed he wasn’t surprised by his father’s homophobia. He had been a man of his generation, and a police officer in the nineteen-eighties in the midst of AIDS panic and Clause 28. The police had taken their cues from the government and the right-wing press.

We were easy targets. Still are.

But Craig Martin had talked about more than homophobia. Leon didn’t want to think about that. About how Andy Castle had been killed by a blow to the head from a long thin object. Because the father he remembered hadn’t been a violent man. Maybe there had been a bit of shouting and the occasional slap on his bottom, but Leon couldn’t imagine being afraid of his dad. Couldn’t imagine his father killing anyone. The harder he tried to push the thought away, the more it bounced back. On impulse he decided to do what he had used as his excuse to Jas — visit his mother. It was late, but they knew him, and they’d let him in if his mother was still awake.

Hornbeam Grove care home was on the outskirts of Sipson, close enough to the M4 to have the noise of the traffic a constant buzz in the background, broken only by the louder sounds of the aircraft coming into and out of Heathrow. The site had probably once been part of the Great Forest of Middlesex, hence the name, but Leon doubted any hornbeams had grown there for centuries. Not that he’d know if it did; he could recognise an oak, that other great stalwart of England’s ancient woodlands, and was fairly confident about a horse chestnut even when it wasn’t conker season, but a hornbeam?

Leon quickly searched on his phone. The Woodland Trust page described the hornbeam as “gnarled and mighty” with greyish bark, broad oval leaves, and clusters of papery seeds. Well, now he knew. And it was high time he stopped stalling and went to see Mum. Leon thrust his phone into his pocket and got out of the car.

As he’d expected, the carers let him in. His mum was awake, though they would put her to bed soon. She was sitting in her armchair in her room, with the radio tuned to a station playing old pop tunes.

“She likes to sing along,” one of the carers had told him, but she wasn’t singing now.

“Hi, Mum, it’s Leon,” Leon said, sitting on the footstool she wasn’t using.

“Leon?” His mother said, wonderingly. Mostly she looked at him as if he was familiar, but she wasn’t sure how she knew him. This evening she smiled and said, “Leon,” again.

He held out his hand and took hers, skin soft and papery, covered with purple bruises. She took blood thinners and the slightest knock left a mark.

“How are you, Mum?”

She smiled again. “Glad David isn’t here,” she said and laughed. “Yes, glad David’s not here. You’re here though. You won’t let him in, will you? He’s outside. Don’t let him in.”

Chapter Seventeen

And the hits kept coming.

Leon stared at his mum for what felt like an eternity, unsure how to respond. He gently squeezed her hand, not wanting to add more bruises. “I won’t let Dad in if you don’t want me to.”

“Not today. He’s been drinking. Maybe tomorrow.”

“I’ll do that.”

She smiled at him. “You’re a good boy, Leon. Your dad would be proud of you. He always wanted you to follow in his footsteps. He was a policeman, you know.”

He forced a smile. “I know, Mum.”

“They were policemen then. Not officers.” She sniffed and tugged her hand away. “Where’s Cheryl?”

Leon assumed that was one of the carers. “I can call her for you.”

“I want to go to bed now,” she said. Then she furrowed her brow and studied him. “Do I know you?”

Leon blinked back the sudden tears. “It’s okay, Mum. I’ll find Cheryl.”

She started humming to a Christmas song from the seventies on the radio and he realised he’d been dismissed. He headed to the kitchen, sure he’d find the carers in there, having a cup of tea while they had the chance. Sure enough, three women were chatting, mugs in hand. From the frowns in his direction at his knock, they were none too happy at their break being disturbed.

“I’m sorry, I’m looking for Cheryl. My mum wants to go to bed.”

One of them, a woman maybe about his age with vivid red hair, huffed a little, but she managed a smile. “I’m Cheryl. I’ll be along in a moment.”

“Thanks,” he said. “She seems more confused than usual. She thinks my dad is still alive.” He gave a rueful smile. “He’s been gone a long time.”

“Rachel was talking about your dad earlier. Don’t worry, I’ll check to make sure she’s not brewing an infection.”

Leon nodded, murmured his thanks, and headed towards the door, feeling the need to escape. He stood outside in the night air, breathing in the cold, damp air, trying to stifle the rising nausea this day had brought him. How many more people would imply his dad was a bad’un, something his gran used to say? His mum was noticeably more fragile today. He hoped it was just a bad day rather than an infection or something more sinister.

It started to drizzle which was just the sour cherry on top of a godawful day. He would go home and be ignored by his cat. Tomorrow was another day.

As he drove home, he saw a car unloading its passengers in front of the Wright Hotel. Two men went around to the back of the vehicle, presumably to collect luggage. Lucky guys. He wondered where they were heading. He slowed down as one of the men lurched into the road. Leon tapped on the horn to warn him he was there. The man scowled at him, but he straightened and moved out of the road.

“At least he didn’t flip me off,” Leon muttered.

As he left the man behind, he looked in the rearview mirror. The man was staring after him. The hair rose on the back of Leon’s neck and his arms. He didn’t know why but there was something about that encounter which made his skin crawl. Who was that man? Under the yellow streetlight, Leon hadn’t got a good look at him but then, he hadn’t been looking except to make sure the man didn’t fall in front of Leon’s car. He stopped at the red light, intending to turn left and go home to his cat. But his gut, his spidey-senses or whatever, were tingling. As the lights went green, Leon flicked the indicator right and changed lanes, ignoring the blast of the horn behind him, and drove to the police station.

The desk sergeant raised an eyebrow as he walked in. “I’d have thought you’d had enough of the place after today?”

Wilcox and Leon went back a long way, so Leon just grimaced. “You know me. Start thinking about the case and then I can’t stop.”

Wilcox snorted, then he grinned. “You’ve always been the same. You remember the Fredericks case? I don’t think you went home to sleep in three weeks.”

How could Leon forget? That had been the reason he’d made Detective Inspector, but the case had nearly killed him, body and spirit. Still, he’d got justice for six-year-old Rose Fredericks and a murderer was off the streets for a very long time.

“It was worth it,” he said, and Wilcox nodded.

“You let a little girl rest in peace.” Wilcox had known the Fredericks family. He had never forgotten the work Leon put in towards finding the killer.

The phone rang and Wilcox answered it, leaving Leon free to walk to the CID room. It was in darkness. He flicked on the switch and the lights buzzed noisily into action. Leon didn’t go to his office. Instead, he went over to the board in the corner and studied the terrorism suspects. At least he didn’t have to sneak into Morales’s office.

He studied each one carefully. Three of the suspects fit the build and age of the man he’d nearly run over. Leon huffed. He had to be honest. He’d only seen the guy in his rearview mirror. He couldn’t stand up in court and identify the man. Yet his gut told him that man was one of these suspects. Leon perched on the edge of a desk and stared at the photos again. Which one?

“Leon?”

Of course, he had to be caught by Morales, because that was the way his luck went.

Leon looked over his shoulder. “Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, walking over to join him, her heels clicking.

He hesitated, but keeping information from the lead was stupid, even it was tenuous. “I saw a group of men unloading a car outside the Wright Hotel. I nearly ran over one of them. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I’m sure it’s one of these three.” Leon tapped the three men.

“If you didn’t get a good look at him, how can you be sure?” Morales pointed out, and the edge was clear in her voice.

“My gut,” he admitted.

“So we should go and arrest this man on the say-so of your gut?”

Leon didn’t like to point out that his gut had served him well in the past, no matter how condescending she was.

“Christ, Leon, go home. You’re already in enough trouble with the Commander. Keep your head down and out of my case.”

Now she was patronising him too.

Leon gave her a long steady look. “This was my case first, DI Morales. All of this,” he waved at the board, “was set up by my team. I’d hope you’d listen to anyone with information, no matter how tenuous.”

“I’ll look into it,” she said sharply, her cheeks red, her head held high.

“Thanks.”

Leon left her at the board without a farewell. He was done being civil tonight. He knew he was probably going to get another bollocking from Commander Hooker, but damn, he was fed up with being patronised by this woman. Jas was right. He was being shafted left, right, and centre on high profile cases, when it was his team that had done the back-breaking work. Maybe it was time to look for a transfer.

He was out of here. He had to go and make nice with his cat.

The following morning, Leon arrived at the constituency office to make his apologies to Sir Arthur. He’d been in his job long enough to know he had to grovel sometimes. He’d live with the embarrassment.

Sir Arthur’s assistant radiated smugness as he presented himself at her desk and explained why he was there. Her smug demeanour dialled down a notch when Leon made a sincere apology to her first.

She huffed and nodded. “I am here to take care of Sir Arthur.”

“You do a good job,” he said sincerely, because she’d had his back, even if the man didn’t deserve it.

To his amusement, her cheeks pinked. “I’ll check if Sir Arthur is available. Take a seat.”

Leon took that to mean he’d have to wait until Bohun thought he’d suffered enough. He flopped down on one of the plastic chairs and pulled out his phone to make notes on how he was going to apply for a transfer.

“Peterson.”

He looked up to see the MP beckoning him over. Leon slid his phone in his jacket pocket and strode over to him.

“Sir Arthur, it’s good of you to see me this morning, sir.”

“Not at all, Peterson. Best we clear the air.”

Leon had expected to get reamed out again, but instead, Bohun was cheerful, almost like he was high. Right this moment, Leon could do with whatever he was on.

He stood in front of the large desk which seemed to swallow up most of the office space, as Bohun took his seat. Leon didn’t wait, launching into his apology.

“I’m sorry for the intrusive questions, Sir Arthur.”

But it’s my job to check you out, you slimy bastard.

“We were following a lead and went too far.”

We know you’re a handsy creep.

Leon gave him an apologetic smile. “I promise you, I have spoken to my DS and we won’t make that mistake again.”

We’ll be more subtle next time.

“Please accept my apologies. I have apologised to your assistant too.”

“Nothing more needs to be said, Peterson. I’ll tell Commander Hooker you made an excellent apology and it’s all behind us.”

“Thank you,” Leon said dryly.

Bohun seemed to miss the sarcasm. “What’s the time? Nearly eleven. You should have lunch with me at my club, Leon.”

Leon would rather stab his eyes out with a rusty fork. “I’m sorry, Sir Arthur, but I’ve got interviews with two witnesses. Another time, maybe.” Now why did he say that? The last thing he wanted was Bohun thinking they had any form of relationship.

“Another time,” Bohun agreed cheerfully.

Leon made his escape. Outside on the pavement and out of sight of the office, he leant against the wall and took deep breaths, not sure if he was going to vomit. It was an overreaction, he knew it, but even happy and pleasant, the man made his skin crawl.

When he got back to his office, he found Jas tapping away at her laptop. She beamed at him when he walked in.

“I’ve found Chrissie. She’s Chrissie Davenport these days, and would you believe, she’s still working in a pub, but she’s the landlady now. She’s at the Fox and Greyhound in Northolt. Chrissie’s happy to be interviewed but says can we do it on her lunchbreak. She’s pulling a long shift today.”

“What about Simon?”

“No response. But he doesn’t live far. I thought we could visit him straight after.”

Leon nodded. They could put it off but they’d been tapdancing around the busty barmaid and the friend who was free with his fists.

“Fine. Let’s eat first and drive out to Northolt.”

“How did it go with old Bone?” Jasmine asked sympathetically.

“He invited me out to lunch at his club, so all right? It should satisfy the Commander.” He pulled a face. “I’m going to be in his crosshairs again. I upset DI Morales last night.”

Jasmine blinked. “How did you manage that? I thought you went home.”

Leon flopped into his chair, froze for a moment waiting for it to collapse, then remembered it was a new chair. He caught Jasmine’s smirk. “I went to visit Mum.” He ran through the events of last night, up to his confrontation with Morales.

She stared at him wide-eyed. “You told her where to go?”

“No. Kind of. Maybe,” he said uncomfortably. “I just realised you were right.”

Jasmine punched the air. “Right about what?”

“Just right. Come on, I need something to take the taste out of my mouth after Sir Arthur.” Leon felt his cheeks heat. “Don’t say a word. Not one word, Detective Sergeant Todd.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” she lied.

He sighed. He would never be allowed to forget that.

The busty barmaid with the peroxide perm was now a trim, middle-aged woman in a polo shirt with pub name on it and black trousers, with a short pixie cut. He’d expected Bet Lynch, an old character from Coronation Street. He didn’t know if he was disappointed or not.

The three of them sat by the crackling fire in the pub, nursing coffees. Chrissie eyed them over her mug.

“Is this about Andy Castle? I saw it on the BBC. I thought you might be in touch.”

“It is,” Leon said. “Do you remember Andy?”

She pulled a face. “I remember him. Broke my heart, he did.”

Leon exchanged a glance with Jasmine. “You were in a relationship with him?”

Chrissie burst out laughing. “Oh no, he wasn’t interested in the likes of me if you get my drift.”

“He had a girlfriend,” Jasmine said.

“Uh-huh. She may have been his girlfriend, but he was more interested in the fellas down the Kings Arms.”

“You knew that?” Leon asked, putting down his empty coffee cup.

“We all knew that. Andy wasn’t exactly subtle. Poor cow. She deserved better.” Chrissie seemed lost in memories for a moment.

“There was a rumour he ran off with you.”

“Me?” She stared at him, then cackled. “I didn’t go anywhere, hun. I worked at the Haywain until the mid-nineties. No, Andy vanished one night, and we never saw him again. I thought he’d run off with a fella. It’s not like he could have told his mum.”

“Who was Andy friends with? Someone who might have known where he went?”

She hummed, tapping her chin. “You should talk to Simon Luck. He was Andy’s friend. Thick as thieves they were. Yeah, you try him.”

“Thank you,” Leon said, handing over a card. “If you think of anything else, please let me know.”

Chrissie turned the card over between her fingers. “I’m glad you’re investigating his murder even after all this time. His disappearance destroyed his family. No matter what he did, he didn’t deserve to lie there alone all this time.”

Jasmine narrowed her eyes. “No matter what he did?”

Chrissie shook her head. “Slip of the tongue. It doesn’t matter.”

“It might be relevant to the case,” Leon suggested.

“You should talk to Susie Vitch’s family.”

Leon relaxed. At least that was one avenue they’d already pursued. “We already have. Thank you for time, Mrs Davenport.”

“Chrissie, please. The last thing I need to be reminded of is my ex.”

Chapter Eighteen

The landlady strode off, stashing Leon’s card in her back pocket. He hoped it wouldn’t be forgotten and end up in the wash. Invigorated by the coffee, Leon stood. “Right. Time to talk to Simon Luck.”

Jas didn’t move. “Ain’t you forgetting something, guv?”

Leon frowned. “I don’t think so. What?”

“Lunch, maybe? Us lesser mortals need to eat, you know. We can’t all survive on caffeine alone.” She plucked a menu from the holder on the table and buried her nose in it, pointedly.

Chafing a little, Leon sat down again. “Just a sandwich, then.”

“Trying to keep your girlish figure? It’s Christmas. Calories don’t count.”

“It’s not the calories I’m worried about,” Leon muttered. “We need to get on with this investigation.”

“Our Mr Luck has kept perfectly well for the last forty years. He can wait another half hour while I have a turkey burger and chips.”

Leon couldn’t think of anything he fancied less. Turkey was dry at the best of times; shoving it in a bun wasn’t going to do it any favours. He picked up a menu for himself, and quickly decided on a Brie and cranberry ciabatta. There. He was acknowledging the season.

Jas went to put their orders in at the bar, and Leon took the time to check over his notes on Simon Luck. He was, according to the data on his file, a man of above-average height, and the face in the mugshot was adorned with a sullen glower under a Mohican haircut. If he’d looked like that at his trial for GBH back in the nineties, it probably hadn’t done him any favours with the jury. Leon wondered if he’d kept the punk hair into middle age, or if he’d undergone a transformation similar to Chrissie the landlady.

Jas slipped back into her seat. “It’ll be ten minutes. I told them we were in a rush.” She plonked a couple of Cokes on the table and slid one over to him. “This all right?”

Leon nodded. “Cheers, Jas. What do I owe you?”

“My treat. It’s Christmas, innit?”

Great. Now he really was going to have to find a present for her. “Thanks.”

“So how are we playing it with our old mate Simon?”

Leon considered. “I think you should ask the questions. I have a feeling he may respond better to a woman. Someone he won’t see as a challenge. Treat him as a witness, not a suspect. At least for now.”

She nodded, visibly pleased. “Got it. Kid gloves on.” She hesitated. “I really am sorry for dropping you in it with the guv, guv.”

Leon shook his head. “Forget it. You were just doing your job.”

The food arrived even quicker than advertised, so the microwave was clearly having its work cut out for it. Leon savoured his ciabatta while Jas gobbled down her turkey burger with every sign of enjoyment, probably due to the half bottle of mayonnaise she’d doused it with. She used her fries to mop up the drips, and pushed her plate over to encourage him to join her.

He gave in and had a few. It’d get them back on the case quicker.

The address they had for Simon Luck was in Wembley, close enough to the stadium that traffic must be hell on match day. Thankfully this wasn’t one of them.

“Should we ring first?” Jas asked as they got in Leon’s car. “He could be out looking for work,” she added with a smirk.

Leon snorted. Simon Luck had been listed as unemployed for the last five years, so he probably wasn’t looking too hard. Then again, jobs could be hard to come by for ex-offenders. He shook his head. “He may have changed his number. If he’s out, we can talk to the neighbours. Get a sense of what he’s like. Find out if there’s anyone he might have confided in. Or if his behaviour has changed in the last few days.”

“You mean, since the reports of Andy’s murder came out?” She nodded.

Luck lived in social housing, in a large block of depressing 1960s flats, and there was nowhere to park outside. Nowhere legal, at any rate, and with his name already being dragged through the mud at work there was no way Leon was risking a parking ticket. He found a spot a few streets away and they made the short walk as briskly as they could, the cold wind whirling dust and street debris around them in flurries. The skies were overcast, and the light was already fading.

“At least there’s no homeless people around here,” Jas commented. “We’ve been seeing more and more of them in Ealing, poor sods.”

“I don’t suppose anyone who lives here has a lot to spare for them.” Leon pressed the button for number 10, Luck’s flat, and waited.

There was no reply. He tried again, and then pressed the button below. As he was about to press another, an elderly voice crackled over the speaker. “Who is it?”

“Police, ma’am,” Jas replied. “Can you let us in?”

The buzzer sounded, and Leon pushed the door open.

“Hey, the lift’s working,” Jas said.

“We’ll take the stairs. Let you work off those chips.” Leon gave her a mischievous grin and headed for the staircase.

“Like you didn’t eat half of them,” she complained as she followed.

Three floors up, the door of number 9 was ajar, a chain over the gap. “Are you the police?” the same voice as before quavered.

“Yes, ma’am.” Leon held up his warrant card at waist height for the barely-seen occupant to peer at. “We’re actually looking for your neighbour, Simon Luck?”

“I hope he’s not in trouble,” she said doubtfully.

“We just want to have a little chat with him, that’s all. We’ll knock on his door, but we may come back to talk to you afterwards, if that’s all right?”

“I suppose so. I won’t be going anywhere.” She retreated into the darkness of her flat, and the door closed.

There was no response to their knocks at number 10, or to Jas calling through the door. She huffed. “They ought to put letterboxes in the doors. At least we could have a look inside then. You can’t even peek in a window in these places.” She grinned. “Of course, we could do a Mission Impossible and dangle you off the roof.”

“Dangling off roofs is the Sergeant’s job. And I think we’ll see if we can find out where Mr Luck might be before we go to extremes.”

They returned to number 9. At their knock, the door opened again, but only to the extent of the chain. “Did you speak to Simon?” the shadowy figure asked.

“I’m afraid he didn’t answer. Do you have any idea where he might be? At the pub, perhaps? Or does he bet?”

“I don’t think so.” There was a pause. “I’ve been a bit worried about him. He usually knocks on my door when he’s going out to see if I need anything from the shops, and it’s been a couple of days now, because I’m out of milk.”

Leon’s pulse rose. Did this mean he was their man—and he’d done a runner on hearing Andy’s body had been found?

The elderly lady was still talking. “I’ve been thinking maybe I should go round. To make sure Moxie’s all right.”

“Moxie?” Jas asked.

“Simon’s cat. Kitten, really. She’ll need feeding.”

“As I said, Mr Luck isn’t opening his door,” Leon reminded her.

“But I’ve got a key. For emergencies.”

Jas sprang to attention. “I’d say this is an emergency, wouldn’t you? We can’t have a poor little kitten starving to death.”

“Just a moment, dear.” The door closed. They waited—again; all they seemed to be doing here was wait. At length the door re-opened, and a key was passed through the crack by a wrinkled, age-spotted hand. Leon took it, and the door closed again.

“I thought old ladies loved company?” Jas muttered.

“Not ours, apparently. Come on. Let’s see what we can see in Simon’s flat.” Leon strode to number 10 and turned the key in the lock. “And don’t touch anything. If we have to do a proper search, we’ll need to do it all by the book.” He opened the door and raised his voice. “Mr Luck? This is the police. Your neighbour’s been concerned about you. We’re coming in now.”

The door opened straight into the living room, which was roughly the size of a shoebox, with a kitchen area at one end.

“Ugh, stinks in here,” Jas said, covering her mouth and nose.

Leon caught sight of a litter box that was well overdue for emptying, and was about to mention it when he felt a series of sharp pains in his leg. “Fu—oh.” The pains were accompanied by high-pitched mewling, and he bent down to, with difficulty, detach a half-grown kitten from his trousers. “Thanks, Moxie. Really appreciate the pulled threads.”

“Aw, in’t she sweet?” Jas cooed.

Moxie lashed out a paw at her, then settled into Leon’s arms and started purring. He stared in amazement. “Robin doesn’t do this.”

“Maybe if you starved him for a few days, he’d be this pleased to see you,” Jas said from a safe distance. “There’s food and water bowls here, but they’re both licked clean. And a stain on the floor where a half-empty cup’s been knocked over, like maybe your new best mate has been trying to fend for herself.” She put on some gloves before going to the sink and refilling the water bowl, then started opening cupboards.

“DS Todd, what did I say about searching the place?”

“What? I’m looking for cat food, not evidence. Gottcha.” She held up a pouch of kitten food, then ripped it open and filled the cat’s bowl.

Moxie leapt out of Leon’s arms, inflicting only minor injuries, and attacked the bowl, eating faster than Jas with a burger.

“We’d better check the other rooms.” Leon gloved up and opened the door to the bedroom, which had a tiny bathroom leading off it. Both rooms were minuscule, but neat, and the only sign of life was a spider on the ceiling. He headed back into the living room, to find Jas nursing a scratch on her arm. “I think she thought I was trying to take her food. I only wanted to stroke her.”

Leon shook his head. “We’ll have to assume Luck’s gone to ground. Can you call it in to the station, please?”

While she talked on her phone, Leon inspected the place as thoroughly as he could without touching anything else—he’d send in a search team later for a proper going-over. He spotted a cat carrier and had a few harsh thoughts for a man who’d abandon his cat to starve. Would it have killed him to take the few extra minutes to leave her with a neighbour? But then, it was looking more and more likely that he’d murdered his best friend all those years ago. One small cat would hardly add to the weight on his conscience. If he even had one.

Leon frowned. And yet, this was the same man who was so considerate to an old lady…?

“Guv?” Jas’s voice interrupted his thoughts. She was staring at him, a strange expression on her face. “You’re not gonna believe this. They’ve already found Luck.”

“What? How?”

She swallowed. “He’s dead.”

Chapter Nineteen

Leon stared back at Jas, stunned, as something warm and furry twined itself around his legs and purred. “How?” he asked again.

“Not got all the details. But they reckon it’s suspicious. The Marine Policing Unit called it in.”

“Someone went mudlarking and got more than they bargained for?”

“Don’t know. Just that they found him.” Jas didn’t look happy.

“And it’s definitely him? There’s been a positive ID?” Leon felt like he was clutching at straws. He’d been almost certain they’d found their man. Or maybe they had? “Could it have been suicide?”

“Guv, I don’t know any more than I’ve told you. We need to talk to the river police.”

Leon drew in a deep breath. “Right. Of course. We’d better get Moxie to a safe place first, though.” He bent to pick up the cat, who suffered it without complaint. “Can you grab the cat carrier from over there?”

Getting the cat into the carrier was easier said than done, but at length it was fastened. Faint mewls protested at the barbaric treatment as Leon lifted the carrier by its handle.

“Next door will probably take her.” Jas gave a wan smile. “At least we might get to see her face this time. She’ll have to open that door to get the carrier in.”

Leon took a last look around the flat, then they headed out and for number 9. Jas knocked. Again, they waited, while elderly feet shuffled to the door.

“Is everything all right?” the old lady asked through the crack.

“I’m afraid we can’t give you any details, but we’ve found Moxie. We were hoping you could look after her in Mr Luck’s absence.” Leon held up the carrier, which mewled insistently.

“Oh no, I couldn’t do that, dear. I can’t stand cats.” The crack shut abruptly.

Leon stared at the door. “What?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

Jas huffed. “There’s gratitude for all that shopping he brought her. I guess we’d better try the other side, then.”

Number 11 wasn’t in. Number 8 claimed, unconvincingly, to be allergic. Number 7 owned a large, dubiously legal dog that looked as if it’d eat Moxie up in one bite. After that, Leon gave up. “We can’t waste any more time on this. She’ll have to come home with me.”

“Sure about that, guv? What if Robin isn’t happy?”

Leon frowned. “She’s only a kitten. Robin wouldn’t fight a kitten.” He hoped.

The temperature outside seemed to have got several degrees colder, and the wind had picked up. “Scary, innit?” Jas commented as they walked back to the car.

“What?”

“How much damage a bit of moving air can do. I’ve been reading up on that hurricane of yours. 15 million trees down. Like, I didn’t even know there were that many in the whole of the UK. My mum said a mate of hers could’ve died when a tree brought the roof down on her house.” She shivered. “And there’s Andy Castle, lying buried for forty years in a derelict pub. Whoever killed him must’ve thought it was Christmas. No need to get rid of the body; the weather’s done it for them.”

“Until now,” Leon reminded her. “Mordre wol out, that se we day by day.”

“Come again?”

“It’s Chaucer. It means murder will be found out; we see that every day.”

“Dunno about you, but I’m glad we don’t get one every day.” She shivered again. “Simon Luck didn’t live up to his name, did he? This has got to be linked in to Andy Castle’s death. God, if only we’d got to him sooner…”

They’d reached the car, which saved Leon from having to reply. Because what could he say, apart from Yes, we should have got to him sooner? He stowed the cat carrier in the rear footwell, hoping it wouldn’t be jostled too much on the journey. “We’ll head to the station. Hopefully by the time we get there, there’ll be more information available.”

Moxie mewled the whole way. Jas fidgeted. Leon could feel a headache coming on.

“Do you think he’s our man?” Jas asked abruptly. “What you said about suicide—do you think he killed himself cos he was worried we were onto him for Andy Castle’s murder?”

“I don’t think anything yet.” Leon signalled and changed lanes. “Not until we find out the cause of death.”

“But it’s possible, right?”

“Or he was killed by whoever murdered Andy Castle. Or by someone unrelated to the case. Or it was an accident. We don’t know.” Leon managed to stop himself thumping the steering wheel, but he was aware he’d let too much of his frustration show in his voice.

Jas fell silent, her fingers drumming on her thigh.

Moxie complained softly from the footwell.

Leon gritted his teeth and drove onwards.

Jas gave a huff and stared out of the window. Then she sniffed. “Uh, guv?”

Leon groaned. He could smell it too now. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop smelling it. “Tell me the cat hasn’t peed in my car.”

“Pretty sure lying to a superior is a disciplinary offence. On the bright side, the blanket in the carrier’s probably soaked most of it up.”

God, Leon hoped so.

Finally back at the station, Leon parked, opened his car door and breathed in the relatively fresh air with relief. Petrol fumes had never smelt so good. “DS Todd, would you bring our witness, please?”

Jas retrieved the cat carrier and held it at arm’s length, grimacing. It got them a few funny looks inside the station—followed by profanities about the smell.

Leon led them into his office and closed the door firmly before opening the cat carrier. Moxie gave him a look of betrayal, then exited it with extreme dignity. Meanwhile, Jas improvised a litter tray out of a box file filled with shredded paper to avert any more pungent disasters. The sodden blanket went into the bin, with the bin bag tightly knotted over it.

At last, Leon could get on his computer and call up the case information for Simon Luck. It’d been filled in a bit since Jas’s phone call. “Signs of blunt force trauma to the head,” he read out. “Being treated as suspicious pending the post mortem.” Moxie jumped up on his lap and started cleaning her fur. He stroked her absently.

“When did they find him?” Jas asked.

Leon squinted. He didn’t need glasses, did he? He was much too young for that. “Couple of hours ago. But he’d been in the water for at least a day, they estimate.”

Jasmine let out a gusty breath. “So, us having lunch didn’t make any difference. He was dead already.”

Leon stared at her. “That was what was bothering you?”

She gave a wry smile. “Maybe.”

“But we knew he’d been away from his flat for at least a day. The neighbour hadn’t seen him, and the cat hadn’t been fed.”

“Aren’t cats renowned for always being hungry? And I’m not sure Mrs Invisible next door is the most reliable witness. I was worried, okay? I know it wasn’t logical. It’s just, you were all for going straight to Simon Luck’s place, and there was me insisting we hang on so I could stuff my face.” She shook her head. “God, if it’d turned out we could’ve saved him I’d never have been able to face a turkey burger again.”

“Such a loss,” Leon said, straight-faced.

Jas nodded solemnly and bent down to stroke Moxie’s head. “Hey, if you keep her, are you gonna change her name?”

“Why?”

“You know. To fit in with Robin. Is he named after Robin Hood? She could be Marian, like Maid Marian.”

Leon sent her a sidelong glance. “He’s just Robin. I don’t know where it came from.”

“So, like, you’ve got free rein. What about Batman, so you’ve got Batman and Robin?”

“She’s a she. Anyway, I won’t be keeping her.”

Jas apparently wasn’t listening. “Hmm, who hangs around with Batman but isn’t male? Oh—perfect! Catwoman!” She beamed.

“I’m not calling a cat Catwoman.”

“Or, I dunno, off the wall here, what about another bird?”

“Like thrush?” Leon asked cynically, scrolling down to see that no, there was no more information.

“Uh, maybe not that one.”

Moxie mewled in agreement.

“Like I said, I’m not keeping her. This is only temporary. No new names.” He pushed his chair back from the desk, startling the cat, who tried to scramble up his shirt front. “Ouch!”

“Claws?” Jas asked sympathetically.

“Claws,” Leon confirmed with a wince. There was also a slightly damp patch on his trousers where Moxie had sat. He sighed. “Can you get a search team over to Simon Luck’s flat? I’ll see what the River Police can tell me.”

“Will do. Uh, guv? You might want to grab hold of Moxie while I open the door.”

Leon did so. The last thing his reputation needed right now was reports of him letting an incontinent kitten rampage through the station.

The Marine Policing Unit was based in Wapping on the banks of the Thames. After some to-ing and fro-ing on the phone, Leon was handed over to a Sergeant Iqbal Khan, who’d been the coxswain on the boat that had retrieved Simon Luck’s body.

From his voice, young but full of brisk efficiency and authority, Khan was an East London lad on the fast track to promotion. “I understand you’re interested in Simon Luck, sir?”

“Yes. He’s connected with a murder my team is investigating.” Leon didn’t add that it was a forty-year-old one. He had a feeling that Sergeant Khan wouldn’t be interested in a crime committed before he was born. “Are you sure of the ID?”

“The guy still had his wallet on him, with a photo on his driving licence that matched. Also a couple of twenties in it, so he probably wasn’t a mugging victim.”

“Cause of death?” From the corner of his eye, Leon saw Moxie jump into the litter tray and start batting the shredded paper around like crazy.

“Uncertain. There was a head wound, but that could have happened in the water. Pre or post mortem. Busy river, the Thames.”

A head wound… Leon’s pulse rate quickened. “Blunt instrument?

“I’d say so. That significant?”

“Could well be. Any idea when he died?”

“He’d been in the water a day or so, from the look of him. Not a lot longer. The pathologist should be able to tell us more.”

Leon found himself nodding, although Khan couldn’t see him. “Are you able to estimate where he might have been dumped into the river? Based on where you found him, I mean?”

Khan gave a sharp intake of breath. “Tricky, that. Very tricky. Deptford, where we found him, is at the bottom of the curve of the Thames. Used to be a wharf there they called Deadman’s Dock, due to the number of bodies that washed up there. Where they came from… It all depends on the Thames tidal system, which is one of the most complex in the world.”

“It could have been anywhere upstream?” Leon’s heart sank. “You can’t give me even an approximate range?”

“If he was dropped in just after high water, with a spring tide it could have been twenty miles or more. If it was getting on for low water, a lot less.”

Leon wasn’t sure he followed. “A spring tide? At this time of year?”

“Sorry—that just means we’re close to a full moon. You get a bigger tidal range with a full moon, which means faster flowing water.”

“Meaning the bodies go further?”

“That’s right, but don’t forget the timing issue. If the tide was coming in, water would be flowing the other way, so he could have gone in east of Deptford, further towards the estuary. Or he could have travelled twenty miles, then the tide changed and he went back on himself.”

Damn it. Leon had been hoping for an easy answer, but nothing was easy about this case. “You weren’t joking about it being complex. Thanks. Can you let me know when you have a date for the post mortem?”

“I can tell you that now. Dr Flowers has got him booked in for ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“That’s quick.”

“Yeah, she said something about clearing the decks before Christmas.”

Leon made a note of the place and time. “Will you be attending?”

“Yeah. You’d be welcome to join me.” There was a huffed laugh. “There’s nothing like slicing up dead bodies first thing in the morning to give you an appetite for your breakfast.”

“I may send my sergeant. DS Jasmine Todd. One of us will see you there. Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

They hung up, and Leon hastily went to collect the scraps of shredded paper now covering most of the floor space in his office. “That’s not a toy, you know,” he told the cat.

Moxie gave him a long look, and then very deliberately jumped into the middle of Leon’s neat pile of shreds, scattering them once more.

“I give up,” Leon muttered, and went back to his desk to review his case notes.

Simon Luck’s death—which was looking less and less like it could have been suicide—had thrown off all his ideas about Andy Castle’s murder. He needed to go back to square one and look at the evidence again.

Chapter Twenty

Jasmine pushed open the door to the mortuary at Wapping police station just before ten the following morning. The DI had told her he had something else to do. He’d been all Secret Squirrel about it. She had a feeling it was nothing to do with their case, which meant he was sticking his nose in the terrorism case where it wasn’t wanted. And he was trying to protect her, which was sweet. Annoying, but sweet.

At least coming to the post mortem meant she could escape from the CID room with all the guys sending snide comments her way. If she’d thought for a few minutes before making those phone calls, she’d have known it would get back to the Commander. Hooker was Bohun’s pet poodle. It had been a learning experience and she wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Her phone buzzed. She looked at the screen to see her mum calling. Jasmine groaned but she had to answer it. If she didn’t, her mum would call continuously until she answered. Her mum was the best but she didn’t understand about meetings and autopsies. It was probably best Jasmine didn’t mention that.

She stepped out again and connected the call.

“Mum?”

“Jasmine? Is that you?”

Her mum said it every time, always focused on several things at once. “It’s me. Where are you? It’s so noisy.”

“I’m at St Pancras station. I stayed with your Aunty Sara last night.”

Jasmine grinned. Aunty Sara wasn’t really her aunt. She was a neighbour who’d moved away, but her mom liked going there for a girls’ night without Jasmine’s dad interfering.

“I just wanted to remind you it’s family night tonight,” her mum continued.

“I know. I’ll come after work.”

“I thought you might forget.”

Jasmine held back a sigh. It wasn’t worth getting upset with her mum who always called and reminded her about family night.

“Luella will be bringing the baby.”

“I know, Mum. Luella called me last night.”

Jasmine’s younger sister had just given birth to her second child and her mum was over the moon to get a grandson.

“Finally, a boy,” she’d said over and over.

Jasmine tried not to be offended but it stung.

“Have you brought something for the baby? I know how busy you are.”

Now Jasmine rolled her eyes. “I’ve got Luella and the baby a present.” She hadn’t, but she had remembered she needed to pick something up on the way back. “I need to go. I’ve got a dead body to cut up. Love you, Mum.”

She disconnected the call on her mum’s outraged splutter. Jasmine always ended their calls like this. One day her mum would do the same to her.

As she headed to the mortuary, Jasmine reflected this was the second post mortem this week for two homicides nearly forty years apart, yet undoubtedly they were connected. Of course, they had to prove that, but that was a formality. She couldn’t help the feeling of excitement at a fresh murder to solve. Andy Castle’s was so long ago it was hard for her to process. She knew her DI was taking it more personally, but he had connections, from his missing father to the hunky site manager to trying to avoid the creepy MP. Jasmine shuddered as she thought of Sir Arthur. There was something all wrong about that man.

“DS Todd?”

Relieved to be jogged from her thoughts, Jasmine focused on the uniformed officer coming towards her. “Sergeant Khan?”

“Yes. Come on through. Dr Flowers has started the post mortem.”

She surreptitiously studied the sergeant. He was younger than her, maybe late twenties, and handsome, with high cheekbones, dark winged eyebrows and huge brown eyes framed by thick lashes. Definitely one up on the coppers at her station. Then she flushed as she realized he was giving her the same once-over. He grinned at her, then led the way to the mortuary to gown up.

Dr Flowers glanced over to give them a nod as they walked in, but she didn’t stop her dictation.

Jasmine looked at the man on the table. She tried not to grimace. Simon wasn’t the first body she’d seen pulled from the Thames, and they were never pretty. But he’d only been in the water a couple of days at most, based on what the neighbour said, and he hadn’t started to bloat. The damage was extensive though. Would they be able to determine what was the cause of death? Jasmine knew better than to ask while the post mortem was still in progress. She’d seen more than one detective reamed out for demanding information before the first incision.

Odd, but in her head, he was the same age as Andy. Still a young man. But Andy had stopped ageing nearly forty years ago and Simon Luck was an old man now. Fifties was old, right? Although she wouldn’t say that to the DI. He looked as if life hadn’t been easy for him, scrawny and malnourished, his face lined and weather beaten. But he had spent his working life on building sites rather than behind a desk. Jasmine studied his hands. They were as battered as the rest of him, but she noticed the scars and callouses. He’d worked with his hands all his life.

Were they the hands of a killer?

The post mortem followed the usual procedure and Jasmine tuned out as Dr Flowers opened his ribcage and removed his organs. She was more interested in the damage on the left side of Luck’s skull.

“How tall is he?” she asked, when there was a pause in the dictation.

“175 cm. 5ft 9,” Dr Flowers said readily.

“Not that tall then,” Jasmine mused. She turned to Khan. “How tall are you?”

“177cm. About the same height. Tall enough.”

“I can tell you Mr Luck liked a drink. He had advanced cirrhosis of the liver. He didn’t have long to live at this rate. He’s also injected drugs recently.” Dr Flowers pointed to track marks on his arm. “You’ll have to wait for the tox screen for full details, but his last meal was pure Johnnie Walker.”

“Jesus,” Jasmine murmured. “Can you tell us how long he’s been dead?”

“Not more than a couple of days. And he was dead before he went in the river. There was no water in his lungs. Plenty of dust though,” Dr Flowers said. “Did your vic work in construction?”

“Yes, although he’s been unemployed in recent years. Might have been picking up some work on the side, though.”

“He might not have been well enough to work with the cirrhosis,” Dr Flowers said.

Jasmine made a mental note to follow that up. She pointed to the damage on the left side of Simon’s skull. “Could he have died of blunt force trauma?”

“It’s possible. But he travelled a long way in the water,” Dr Flowers warned. “He could have sustained the skull fracture anywhere.”

Except it was identical to the fracture on the remains of Andy Castle. Two men in a connected case sustained the same injury.

“Was he left-handed or right-handed?”

“Right-handed.”

Luck was too short to have hit Andy unless Andy was on his knees. And the angle would be off if he were right-handed. It was the same killer. Jasmine was sure of it and she was sure the DI would agree. Simon Luck was a victim, not a murderer.

Jasmine called Leon as soon as she stepped out onto the pavement. It went to voicemail. “Guv, I think we’ve got the same killer. Blunt force trauma and Luck was already dead when he went in the water. Read the post mortem report. Castle and Luck’s deaths are linked. I swear it. And you can do the next post mortem.” She sighed, and hung up.

“Had enough dead bodies?”

Jas looked over her shoulder to see Khan grinning at her. “How about coffee?” he suggested.

“That sounds like a great idea.” she said with feeling. “It’s been a long week. Lead on.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Robin was taking his own sweet time to make Moxie welcome. By contrast, Moxie was delighted to have a feline companion, dashing up to Leon’s disdainful cat for attention, and a share of whatever games were on offer. No amount of hissing and raised fur seemed to put the kitten off for long. She’d back off, then five minutes later, she’d be trying again. When it was time to leave for work, Leon shut Moxie in the bathroom, with her own food and water bowls, a litter tray, a few toys and a cushion. The back door had a cat flap so Robin could come and go as he wished, but Leon wasn’t sure Moxie had ever been outside.

She would have to wait until he was sure she was staying before he risked letting her out. Who was he kidding? Of course, she was staying.

Leon told the kitten that he would slip home at lunchtime to check she was OK. Then he set off on foot to do exactly what he had promised Morales he wouldn’t do.

The Wright Hotel had a revolving glass door, presumably to keep the heat in and the cold out, but behind the marble reception desk, the two members of staff wore dark grey fleeces with an embroidered biplane logo. Between the reception desk and the bar stood informal clusters of fake tropical plants; at least Leon assumed they were fake because the only natural light came through the front door. On the bar side, the flooring turned from grey marble tiles to grey carpet. Informal arrangements of chairs and sofas created what the designer had probably called ‘conversational groupings’. They were upholstered in a mixture of greys.

A sign with stick-on letters posted to various conference and meeting rooms, imaginatively named after aviation figures: The Sikorsky Room, The Sopwith Suite, The Lindbergh Centre. Above the bar floated a quarter-size mock-up of a biplane, with Wright: 1903 painted on the fuselage.

Beyond the bar, Leon could see the restaurant: not busy, but not empty either. Most residents would have already had their breakfasts and gone to catch their planes. Behind him, a corridor led past the reception desk to the Sopwith Suite, the lift and the bedrooms. It was like every other airport hotel Leon had ever seen. All that changed were the corporate colours and the logo. And this was what the Kings Arms would become.

Leon walked over to the bar and ordered a coffee, which he took to a sofa with its back to the wall and a good view of the bar and lobby. He had seen one of the suspects from the terror group come in here. If he had access to the hours of CCTV footage he could be certain of it, but the run-in with Morales had barred that door. He should have pushed it harder, but the instinct to make nice, to blend in, to conform and above all to second-guess himself had brought him here, to spend his free time watching for another, clearer sighting.

It’s probably a waste of time, but I can’t do anything until I get the post mortem results.

Leon sat and pretended to read on his phone, and sipped his coffee and thought about how he was dragging Jasmine into his troubles, when she was a smart cookie and ought to be shining. Instead, she was associated with an old loser like him, someone whose judgement about the terror cell had been overruled, and who had been forced to apologise for a perfectly reasonable piece of police work.

And then he saw them. The man he had seen going into the hotel last night, and another man. One was of Asian heritage, as were all the hotel staff and around half the customers. The other was white and tattooed. The two men had come from the corridor by reception and were headed to the restaurant, standing by the Please wait to be seated board. Leon’s doubts fled. He had seen both these men on CCTV unloading the chests of explosives. Then, they were dressed in old jeans and T-shirts. Now they wore expensive sportswear. Hair that had been covered with baseball caps pulled low was now styled and glossy. But it was them. He would swear to it in court if he had to, and they were probably staying in this hotel. A waiter came to take the pair to their table, and at the same time a large figure blocked his view.

“Inspector, we meet again. You’ve been ignoring my calls.”

“Shut up,” Leon growled. He grabbed Ben Codona’s wrist and pulled him onto the seat beside him, smelling his cologne and noticing the well-fitting suit. This was a different iteration of Ben, and something inside Leon responded to it. Ben stumbled against Leon as he sat down, and then didn’t move, so that their thighs and shoulders touched.

“What’s the matter?” Ben said, more quietly this time. Their eyes met.

“I don’t want to announce my profession to the world, OK?”

Ben’s eyes narrowed. “You watching for someone?”

“Not your business,” Leon said. “What are you doing here?”

“Meeting about a project. We’ve got the grand opening of the hotel next to the Kings Arms site coming up.”

“Another bloody soulless hotel? Haven’t we got enough?”

Ben patted Leon’s knee, and not gently. “Look around you, sunshine, these hotels are keeping people in jobs.” Which was true, but hardly the point. They were certainly keeping Ben Codona in expensive clothes and cologne. “Anyway, why have you been ignoring my calls? I’ve got some evidence for you.”

Leon moved away on the sofa, but turned his head to look at Codona. “What evidence?”

Ben flushed and felt in his pocket to produce his wallet. He opened it and took out a small plastic bag containing a single gold earring which he handed to Leon. Leon took the bag and peered at the earring. It was a thick gold ring from which dangled a tiny rose gold triangle – a reference to the pink triangle symbol imposed on gay men by the Nazis.

“Where did you find this? Why is it evidence?”

“Not far from where the body was found.”

Leon opened his mouth to protest, but Ben pre-empted him.

“Your lot couldn’t have found it. It was underneath a load of fallen roof bits. We had to shift it, they didn’t. I saw the glint in a pile of sweepings,” Ben said.

“Well, I can’t use it,” Leon snapped. “There’s a thing called the chain of evidence, and it doesn’t cover random bits of jewellery people find in the rubbish.” It wasn’t true, or not wholly. If the earring had any significance, which it probably didn’t, the chain of evidence led through Codona. Who was now trying to catch his eye again.

“That triangle,” Codona said, “If I was twenty years older, I might have one like that, instead of this.” He turned his head and gently touched his own earlobe where a tiny rainbow stud caught the light. “If you had a different job, maybe you’d have one of these, too. Or maybe you don’t need one. Sir Arthur doesn’t think you do, not from the way he kept trying to get in your space.”

The last statement was delivered in a flat tone, but with a single raised eyebrow.

“Sir Arthur can stay the hell out of my space.”

“Fair to say, Sir Arthur isn’t always easy to be around,” Ben said.

If Ben Codona is gay, too, Leon thought, he probably has experience of Old Bone’s wandering hands. But he wasn’t here to speculate about Ben Codona, although the lack of hostility was pleasant.

He saw movement from the entrance to the restaurant. His suspects were coming out and over toward the bar. Shit.

“Talk to me. Tell me about your meeting, and make it convincing,” he said, turning his body to face Ben so his back was to the bar.

“The two guys in sportswear? Interesting.”

“There’s nothing for you to be interested in,” Leon snapped, feeling a tide of heat spread up his neck and onto his cheeks.

“It’s OK, they’ve changed their minds,” Ben said, looking over Leon’s shoulder. “They’re headed towards the lift. There, out of sight. Stay here a couple of minutes and you should be safe.” Codona was visibly relaxed, shoulders down, smiling at Leon. By contrast, Leon felt as tightly strung as a piano.

“I’m not interested in anyone,” he hissed.

“Riiiight,” Ben said. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secrets.” He stood up as easily as a cat, and with a little wave, left the hotel.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Leon arrived back at the police station at the same time as Jasmine. The difference between them was that Jasmine was smiling, and Leon … wasn’t. He was more distracted than he liked by his encounter with Ben Codona. He wasn’t against Codona flirting with him, but he had no plans to reciprocate. Best to forget the whole thing. He led her into his much-improved office.

“You’ve been to a post mortem,” he said to Jasmine, “so why do you look as if you’ve just won the lottery?”

“No reason,” Jasmine said. “It’s a nice day? I’m still winning at Whamaggedon?”

“It’s a regular December day, which is to say cold, dark and miserable, and Whamaggedon is silly.”

“Only because you lost on day one.” She was still smiling. There was a story there, but it was hers to tell when she was ready. The post mortem though, that he needed to know about.

“The long and short of it is they don’t know much,” Jasmine told him. “He had alcohol and probably drugs in his system, lots of injuries, including a bash on the head like Andy Castle. But the pathologist couldn’t say whether it was pre or post mortem. He was dead when he went into the river, though. The guy from the river police said the body could have gone in almost anywhere, upstream or downstream.”

Leon nodded. “The Thames is a complicated beast.”

He’d noticed Jasmine’s slight hesitation over the guy from the river police, and was that a faint rosiness on her cheeks? Hmm. He leaned back in his chair, still not quite convinced it wouldn’t collapse. “Does the guy from the river police have a name?” He wondered if it was Sergeant Khan who had her blushing.

“Yes,” Jasmine said, and stuck her tongue out at him. “Where do we go from here?”

“If we don’t know how and where Simon died, I think we should focus on how and where he lived,” Leon said and got pen and paper to make a list. “Where did he work?”

“He didn’t,” Jasmine said. “Hasn’t worked in years—on the record, at least. Maybe the drinking and the drugs meant he couldn’t hold down a job.”

Leon made a note.

“And we need to search his flat properly, talk to his neighbours, find his workmates, his friends …”

“His dealer?” Jasmine interrupted.

“His dealer. Phone records, bank accounts. We need to know what he was doing in, say, the week before his death.”

Leon remembered the earring. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and produced the earring in its plastic bag, and told her where it had been found. Jasmine picked it up.

“Good quality, but no chain of evidence. It could have been left there any time. Probably nothing to do with anything.” She handed it back to Leon. “I’m not going to ask when you got this from Codona.”

This time it was Leon’s turn to blush. “I just happened to run into him this morning,” he said. She would probably find out the whole story, but if she was going to keep secrets so could he. Then he thought how ridiculous he was being. Jasmine was his colleague. They had work to do, and he’d already taken half the morning to follow someone he wasn’t supposed to be following. Andy Castle and Simon Luck were dead, and it was his job to find out how they died.

Pull yourself together.

“The CSIs are going to Luck’s flat this morning, and I’m going to head over there to see what they’ve got, if anything. I’ll also talk to the neighbours, and have a look for friends and so on. You can put in the requests for phone and bank records. Find out when and where he last worked. I’d also like to know what the Vitches and Andy Castle’s mother were doing over the last few days. None of them had anything good to say about Luck.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch, guv.”

“Dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. I know the pathologist didn’t want to commit, but it’s a bit of a coincidence that Luck died before we could talk to him, and had the same kind of head injury as Andy Castle. It might be a coincidence, but equally it might not.”

Jasmine shuffled forward on her chair and scribbled a few lines in her notebook, copying from Leon’s list. “Catch up later?” she asked.

Leon nodded. “Back here at, what? Five?”

Leon went back down to his car and hit the traffic up to Wembley. Potentially a twenty-minute drive, assuming every traffic light was on green and there were no other cars on the road. Leon had never driven in those conditions, so he had plenty of time to call his friend Anthony Bird, aka DI Bird of the north London drug squad. Leon knew Anthony from LGBTQ policing events; they were the same age, at the same stage in their careers and had bonded over a mutual dislike of Commander Brian Hooker. Anthony had an impressive contact list of the drug dealers and users north of the Thames, and Leon figured that if anyone could get a bead on Simon Luck’s dealer, it would be him.

“No problem,” Anthony said, when Leon explained what he needed. “That area is strictly territorial, and I know the guy who looks after your vic’s block. He owes me. I’ll call you back.”

Leon thanked him and drove on, listening to the rolling news, which, as always, made him despair of humanity. Today’s big story was the explosions in the German cities of Hanover and Dusseldorf. He had only the vaguest idea where either of the cities were in relation to anywhere he’d heard of, but apparently they both had airports, and it was those airports that had been targeted. In Hanover, an airport hotel had been damaged, with several injuries, but fortunately no deaths. The hotel had been undergoing renovation. In Dusseldorf, the main access road to the airport had been completely destroyed, an explosion leaving a crater two metres deep and ten wide. Both airports were now closed while the authorities checked for further explosives. It made him wonder about the people he had seen that morning. It made him more certain that it was the airport itself that was under threat, and not central London, whatever Morales said. One way or another, he needed to try again. He called Jas.

“I don’t know if you’ve seen the news, but there have been explosions at two German airports. Can you have a look and see if there have been any other airport-related incidents and let me know?”

“Sure,” she said. “But even if there are, you still have to convince Morales.”

I know that.

Eventually he reached Wembley and managed to park not too far from Luck’s block of flats. SOCO vans were parked outside the main entrance, and miraculously, the lift was working, again. Inside, the techs were doing their thing, taking samples from door knobs and coffee cups. Janice Plant, one of the techs he knew well enough to say hello to, bustled over with a pile of paperwork.

“Your guy owed money right, left and centre,” she said. “Phone company, credit cards all maxed out, rent arrears and threats of court and eviction.”

The pile of papers turned out to be letters, all featuring the colour red, and words like Final, and County Court. Simon’s luck was running out. But it couldn’t have been suicide, if he was dead when he went into the water.

“Anything else?”

“Empty bottles, evidence of drug-taking, nothing much in the way of nutritious food, just a few ready meals and takeaway containers. He wasn’t living the good life, that’s for sure.”

Leon saw a couple of cat toys on the floor. “Can I take the rest of the cat’s things? I seem to have adopted Simon’s cat.” he asked.

Janice smiled and nodded. “We’ll be out of here in ten minutes, take what you like.”

Leon collected the cat toys, a scratching post and a box of cat food — clearly Moxie ate better than her owner. He took them all down to his car and stashed them in the boot.

His phone rang: Anthony.

“My guy has agreed to meet us. In the IKEA restaurant, don’t even ask. Can you find it?”

Leon could. He remembered spotting the huge blue and yellow box on his drive to Simon Luck’s block, and anyway his phone had a map app.

“I’ll be there in about ten minutes,” he said and they agreed to meet at the main door. Of course it took longer, because Leon had clashed with the school run, but he got there, parked in the concrete undercroft, and saw Anthony lounging against the glass.

“Looking good there, Leon,” Anthony said and pulled him into a quick hug. “Single life must be suiting you.”

“Good to see you,” Leon said to avoid answering that one. “Who are we meeting?” he asked once they were on the escalator up to the restaurant.

Anthony grinned over his shoulder. “He calls himself Big. Not Mr Big, or Big Dick, just Big. You’ll see.”

The restaurant was busy enough, but there were plenty of free tables. Anthony scanned the space, his eyes settling on the row of tables nearest to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the car park. They wound their way through the trolleys and buggies, ending up at a table occupied by a white man in his thirties wearing a navy T-shirt and sweatpants. The table also held a stuffed monkey toy.

The man stood up to let them sit down, and Leon realised he couldn’t have been taller than about five foot three. But his body was heavily muscled, enough that it made his shaved head look small in comparison. He glowed with an out of season tan, and the whitest set of teeth Leon had ever seen. Leon saw his knuckles were scarred, and his face had multiple small scars. Leon was probably a foot taller than this man, and well-trained, but he wouldn’t have taken him on in a fight.

“Big,” Anthony said, “this is my friend Leon.”

“Leon, pleased to meetcha. ’Scuse the monkey, it’s for the little ‘un. Wife wants a spare so she can wash the other one. Poor thing gets dragged about in the mud and dropped in the bath.” He shrugged. “I say the kid’ll know the difference, but, my wife said get one anyway, so here I am. Anyway, we’re not here to talk about monkeys. Simon Luck. I heard his luck ran out.”

“What can you tell me about Simon?” Leon asked.

“He owed me money.” Big’s hands clenched into fists, in a way that suggested how he might have dealt with this debt. “But me and Simon, we went back a long way — hey, what happened to the kitten?”

“The kitten in Simon’s flat? She came home with me,” Leon said. “Why?”

“I gave him that kitten. I told him we were overrun, and he asked to have one. I hope you’re looking after it.” 

This didn’t seem to Leon like a regular dealer/user relationship, and something of that must have shown on his face.

“Simon’s been using for years; you get to know people. He did me a favour every now and again, and he worked on and off. Bit of cash-in-hand building, that sort of thing. I always got paid. Mine isn’t a credit type of business.”

“But he owed you money when he died?”

Big shrugged. “I can stand the loss. But it’s annoying, yanno, and not good for the image. The thing is, Simon told me he had a thing on, and it was going to pay him plenty. So, I let him run up a bigger bill than I should.”

“He didn’t say what kind of a thing?”

Big shook his head. “Probably the usual junkie fantasy, but I thought I knew Simon better than that. My bad, I guess.”

Leon asked if Simon had specified when the thing was going to pay or if he’d dropped any names, but Big either couldn’t or wouldn’t add any more. Leon suspected he’d told them all he knew.

They parted amicably, considering the adversarial nature of their professions. Big grasped his stuffed monkey, told Leon to look after the kitten in a tone that subtly threatened unspecified retribution if he failed to do so, and wished Anthony a good day. Despite the monkey, Leon noted how people gave way to Big, leaving a space all around him. If it wasn’t for the fact that Big could not have killed Andy Castle, he would have been a contender for Simon’s murder. Leon had met enough truly violent men to recognise one. He was sure Big was his own enforcer, and that his clients paid in money or pain.

“Can I trust what he says?” Leon asked Anthony, indicating the departing drug dealer.

Anthony nodded. “On this, I’d say so. Telling the truth isn’t costing him anything. But he’s a nasty vicious psychopath, and the only reason he isn’t in jail is that the alternatives are worse.” Anthony rubbed his hands over his face. “Sometimes I hate this job.”

Back in his car, the radio came on as soon as Leon put the keys in the ignition.

“An unexploded bomb has been found in a third German airport hotel,” the newscaster reported. “It has been safely diffused by bomb-disposal experts. A group calling itself Fossil Fuel Equals Death has claimed responsibility for all the attacks …”

Leon started the engine. There was no choice about talking to Morales, and the sooner the better. He headed back to the station and straight into her office.

“These German airport bombings,” he began.

Morales gave him a resigned look over the top of her computer. “I was wondering how long it would take you to start banging on about those. But this isn’t Germany.”

Leon felt the control he had over his temper begin to slide. “You will have heard of a thing called the internet? That people use to contact others who share their ideas?” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his tone.

Sound rational or you just give her another reason to ignore you.

“Sorry,” he said, taking a breath and a seat in front of her desk. “The thing is, I’ve seen two of the guys from the CCTV this morning. And they’re here, at one of the world’s busiest airports. We need to find them and pick them up. Hotels, Cathy, these guys targeted airport hotels. Places with less than no security, and full of civilians waiting to go on holiday.”

“Where did you see these alleged terrorists?” Morales’ face was closed and hard. “You told me you weren’t sure. Now you’ve seen two of them?”

“At the Wright Hotel this morning.”

“I suppose there is no point in asking why you were there? No, I don’t need to. You were there because you can’t let this case go. I have news for you, Leon, this isn’t your business any more.”

“It’s everyone’s business, Cathy.” Leon said. “I know you think the explosives are meant for central London, but what if you’re mistaken?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

It’d been the wrong thing to say to Cathy. Leon knew it the moment the words had left his lips.

Her face, already hard, had paled. “You know what?” she said in a tone that could have frozen fire. “I actually thought you were better than this. Don’t you dare come into my office and try to undermine me. You had your chance with this case, and you blew it. It’s mine now, and you will respect that—or do you want me taking it upstairs?”

She didn’t add that the last thing Leon needed was any more trouble with the Commander. She didn’t need to. “Fine,” he ground out, taking a step back. “Your case. Got it.”

He left the office, determinedly not looking at the curious faces turned towards him.

Fine.

Walking into his own office, shoebox though it might be, and closing the door behind him felt like hunkering down into a bolthole. He only wished he could lock it and, preferably, soundproof it as well. Since that was out of the question, he settled for sitting in his (non-collapsing) chair and taking a number of deep, steadying breaths instead of screaming his frustration and kicking something, hard.

Fine. So, Cathy didn’t like it when a man came into her office and started telling her she was wrong about her own case. (My case… No: breathe.) Leon could understand that. It’d probably happened to her all too often in her career. And it wasn’t like he’d had any proof to show her that his interpretation was the correct one. (But it is…)

Breathe.

She was a competent officer. He’d alerted her to the possibilities. He’d have to trust her to look into them. And meanwhile, he ought to focus on his own case.

Leon logged into his computer and brought up the case file. Then he stared at his screen, unseeing, for a long moment.

Simon Luck had been killed—forget all Dr Flowers’ hedging; focus on the probabilities—by a blow to the back of the head. Just like Andy Castle.

It couldn’t just be a coincidence, could it? Two men, friends, both murdered. Decades apart, yes—but by the same method. Granted, Andy’s body hadn’t been dumped in the Thames, but who was to say it wouldn’t have been, had the old pub not fallen down on top of it the night of the hurricane?

Disposal of the body wasn’t the important part, anyway. The method of killing—that was identical. Had both men been killed by the same person? Or could Simon’s murder have been belated revenge on Andy’s killer, the same MO being seen as some kind of poetic justice?

Whoever this dark avenger might have been, though, they’d have to have epic grudge-holding abilities to sustain a murderous rage nearly forty years after the death they were avenging. No, the most likely scenario was that Simon had known something about Andy’s death—something that made him a danger to Andy’s murderer, once the body had been uncovered.

If this theory held water, anyone under fifty or so could be discounted. That would make them a young teenager in 1987. It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that a very young teenager could have been hanging around a notorious cottage back in the day, but Leon was looking at probabilities here.

Who did that leave, who might have killed Andy and Simon?

Mrs Castle had had a grudge against Simon for leading her boy astray. Might that have been enough for her to kill him, once she knew for certain her son was dead? And…now he was back to the revenge theory. Probably. She wouldn’t have killed her own son—would she?

Mrs Vitch had a motive to kill Andy, assuming she’d found out about her daughter’s illness before the night he died. And perhaps Simon had witnessed… What? Something that only became significant once the body had been discovered?

Leon swore under his breath. If only they’d been quicker to interview Simon…

Simon could have seen Mrs Vitch at the old pub, perhaps, and thought nothing of it at the time. Well, not nothing, as she was hardly the sort of person to frequent a cottage, but not tied it in to Andy’s disappearance.

Leon’s pulse quickened. Was that where the apocryphal story about the barmaid came in? Had Mrs Vitch spread those rumours herself, as misdirection?

And then there was the other possibility…

Leon stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back, and took a few steps across the room.

Dad. He’d known of the old pub; he would have been there, harassing gay men. And he’d disappeared the night Andy died.

But why would Dad have killed Andy Castle? He might have arrested him for indecency—might have roughed him up a bit in the process, come to that. That sort of thing happened far too often back then. But to strike a killing blow when Andy’s back was turned? That wasn’t a beating gone wrong. That was murder.

Why would Dad have wanted Andy dead?

Leon’s gut churned as a chilling possibility came to mind.

He’d come to realise his dad was homophobic. All those disparaging comments about queers Leon hadn’t understood at the time but could now remember only too well. But you know what they say about homophobes, don’t you? So far in the closet they can see Narnia.

How many men had spoken out publicly against homosexuality, and then been revealed to be raging hypocrites, having gay sex in private?

Leon’s head spun as he paced ever tighter circles.

Maybe Dad was one of them. Maybe he’d been having sex with Andy, and Andy had tried to blackmail him because of it. Andy had been eighteen back in 1987. Under age. If Dad had been known to be having sex with him, it wouldn’t just have torpedoed his career; it would have landed him in prison. And there was no worse place to be a copper than prison.

His nausea rose.

Leon could see it all so clearly: Andy, demanding money. Dad pretending to agree. Then, when Andy’s guard was down, Dad pulled out his truncheon…

“Stop!” It burst out from him, almost a sob. Oh God. How loud had he been? Had anyone heard?

Leon forced himself to sit back down at his desk. Wished briefly that he was the sort of detective who kept a bottle of whisky in a drawer. And breathed.

He was driving himself crazy, imagining what might have happened. The only remedy for that was to find out what had happened. And if he wanted to know about his dad, well, there were a few people he’d bumped into lately who’d been only too willing to talk about him.

A text from Jas pinged through: Family crisis – nothing serious. Catch up tomorrow?

Leon checked the time. Too early for the pub, yet—but then, he’d promised Moxie he’d be back to check on her at lunchtime, and that had been hours ago.

His stomach rumbled to remind him that Moxie wasn’t the only one who’d been neglected. Fine. He’d go home, deliver the cat toys and check on Moxie, feed her, Robin and himself, and then he’d take a trip to the Market Tavern. It was Friday night—what better time to catch the old coppers?

Leon made it out of the station without bumping into anyone he’d prefer to avoid, and drove out of the car park feeling like a kid bunking off school early. It was dark already, and taillights shone like Christmas lights in the ever-slow traffic as he headed home.

There was litter in the front garden again. He sighed.

Arms laden with cat paraphernalia, Leon managed not to drop his keys as he let himself into his house. He dumped the supplies in the living room for now, and headed upstairs.

The bathroom door was wide open.

Leon stared, disbelieving, into the bathroom. Kitten population: zero. How was that even possible? Cats couldn’t open doors—could they? Kittens couldn’t, at any rate. He must not have closed it properly. God, had he left any windows open? No; because it was the middle of winter, and he didn’t want his house to become a burglary statistic. Think straight. She must still be in the house somewhere.

But in what state? Robin had been acting all territorial…

“Moxie?” he called worriedly. “Robin?”

Frantically, he searched the bedrooms. Male lions sometimes killed cubs, didn’t they? Did male cats eat kittens? Did they still do it even if they weren’t as male as they used to be?

Cursing, he flew downstairs. The kitchen was also bare of cats, living or dead. The downstairs loo was, too. The only other room was the living room, and he’d been in there with the stuff he’d brought. He’d have noticed if the cats were there… For lack of any other ideas, Leon stuck his head in the room anyway.

There, on the sofa, was Moxie, fast asleep. Curled around her protectively was Robin.

Leon’s knees went weak with the relief that washed through him. Christ, he was under way too much stress at the moment. “You made friends, then. Good for you two. I’ll just… make dinner or something.”

The only reply was a faint snore.

After a quick meal of beans on toast, Leon filled the cats’ food bowls. Then, gently, he picked up the still-sleeping kitten. Robin opened his eyes to glare at Leon.

“It’s just a precaution, okay?” Leon took Moxie to the bathroom and closed the door, making sure it latched firmly this time. Little mewls chastised him all the way down the stairs.

Leon hardened his heart and grabbed his coat. “Don’t wait up,” he called to Robin, and headed to the car.

The Market Tavern was in full swing when he got there. Not quite as packed as it had been on Wednesday, and with a slightly different demographic: older, and whiter. Which, for tonight, was just what Leon wanted.

He was disappointed not to see retired sergeant Craig Martin, as the man had seemed to have been friendly with Leon’s dad, when they’d spoken the other night. Leon went up to the bar and ordered a diet Coke while he considered his options. There was a group of old stagers he recognised from the Christmas do over at a table in the corner, and a couple more perched on stools at the other end of the bar. He was just making up his mind to approach the latter two when he felt a slap on his shoulder, and turned into a lungful of smoky air breathed out by Craig Martin himself.

“Come back for that drink I owe you, have you?” Martin seemed in jovial mood, despite the chill emanating from his clothes. He must have been out the back having a smoke. “What’ll it be?”

Leon stifled a cough and indicated his mostly-full glass. “I’m on diet Coke but I’m fine, thanks.”

“Bugger that. Call yourself a son of old Dave Peterson? You want a real drink. Let me get you a whisky and we can raise a glass to your old man.” Not waiting for an answer, Martin ordered the drinks, telling the barmaid to “make ’em doubles, love, and one for yourself.”

When Martin handed over his drink—neat, with no ice—Leon forced a smile. He wasn’t a fan of whisky, especially pub whisky. “Thanks.”

“Here’s to Dave Peterson.” Martin raised his glass. “Wherever he may be.”

“To Dad,” Leon echoed with a hint of unease. “Wherever he may be,” he added with a questioning look at the old sergeant.

Martin grinned as if they’d shared a secret, and Leon’s unease grew. “You were friends with him, back in the day?”

“Took him under my wing, didn’t I, when he joined the force. Good copper, he was. Good man.”

One of the other old stagers, a man whose name Leon didn’t know, wandered over from the corner to join them. “Oi, Craig, you fed up with us old fogies now? Trading us in for a younger crowd?” He nudged Leon, and cackled. “Next thing you know he’ll be wearing his trousers half way down his arse.”

Leon felt a bizarre urge to point out that he himself was, in fact, over forty and had never worn half-mast trousers in his life. He didn’t get the chance.

“Young crowd?” Martin waved his glass in Leon’s direction. “This is old Dave Peterson’s lad.”

The newcomer gave Leon a once-over. He was shorter than Martin and more energetic, thin and wiry. He held out a hand. “John Barton. I remember your dad.”

Leon shook the offered hand, noting that Barton hadn’t said whether that remembrance was fond or otherwise. From the sudden chill in his manner, Leon was betting on the latter. “Good to meet you.” He gave a self-conscious laugh. “Between the two of you, you probably knew my dad better than I did.”

Barton’s smile was tight. “Might have done. Well, I’ll leave you to it.” He turned and headed back to his cronies in the corner.

Martin was staring after him with a pensive expression on his face. “Now there’s a man who can bear a grudge,” he said almost under his breath.

Leon’s pulse leapt. “He had a grudge against my dad?”

“Well, now, I wouldn’t call it a grudge, exactly.” Martin seemed keen to backtrack. “Tell you the truth, I’d forgotten all about that business.”

“What business?” Leon leant on the bar and tried to keep his tone casual.

“Ah, well, it was a long time ago. Shouldn’t rake it all up again.”

“If it was a long time ago, there can’t be any harm in talking about it now,” Leon suggested. “I’d like to know more about my dad. The rough and the smooth.”

“Well… There was this WPC. Quite a looker, she was. Nice…” Martin made a gesture Leon assumed was meant to represent the curves of a woman’s body. “John had quite a thing for her at one time, but she only had eyes for your dad.”

“But my dad was married,” Leon said, feeling stupid and naïve even as it came out.

Martin shrugged. “It’s the job, innit? You marry a girl, and it’s all roses for a while, but then she starts nagging on about the hours. ’Specially when there’s kids in the mix. And, well, your colleagues, they understand. Look, you know what I’m saying.”

“My dad had an affair with this WPC?” Leon tried to keep all judgement out of his voice, but God, it was hard.

“All I’m saying is, they got on well together. And she left the force when he did.”

Leon went cold. “Left the force? But my dad disappeared. He didn’t change jobs.” Could his dad still be alive? Leon had always assumed he’d died—because that was what you did, when people vanished and didn’t turn up again. But Martin was talking as though he’d just up and left.

“Well, yeah. Figure of speech.” Martin didn’t quite meet his eye. “We never saw him after the night of that big storm. But it wasn’t a month later that Shelley handed in her notice.”

“Shelley?”

“WPC… what the hell was her name? Began with a B…, like that posh women’s drink…Bailey, that was it. WPC Shelley Bailey. Pretty little blonde who didn’t take no nonsense.”

“And you think…what? That my dad had gone off to make a new life somewhere, and she went to join him?”

“Me, I don’t think nothing. But there was talk.” Martin paused. “There was some talk, he might have been about to cop it from the brass. On account of taking backhanders. Now, I’m not saying I believe that. He was a good copper, your dad. Did what needed to be done.”

Leon’s head was reeling. Could his dad really still be alive? And if so, how did this tie in with Andy Castle’s death. Did it tie in?

Did what needed to be done… How far might that have gone?

Suppose Dad had been taking bribes not to arrest some of the men he found at the Kings Arms, and suppose Andy Castle had known about it. Had threatened to tell. Maybe he’d had to be silenced.

And Simon, all these years later? He’d been Andy’s best mate. He might have known about Andy’s threats. Might even have suspected Dad of killing Andy, but without a body, there had been no proof, and no likelihood the police would take him seriously.

But once Andy’s body was uncovered, it was a different matter…

Oh God. Bad enough his dad hadn’t been the man Leon had thought him. Was he also a double murderer?

Chapter Twenty-Four

Leon drove home in a daze. He sat in his car outside his house for a long time. It was too cold to sit there, but he didn’t want to go in. His good memories of his father, few as they were, were slowly being eroded by this case and the pain of getting to know the man years after his disappearance was like a sharp razor blade in his gut. No one had a good word to say about him, not even his mum. Leon had to admit he felt more betrayed by her than anyone else. She’d built him up to be a saint, not a homophobic, possibly murderous adulterer. Leon had been proud of his dad. He closed his eyes. But maybe that was easier for her to believe and to tell her kids than the reality.

What he kept circling back to was one fact. Did his mum never think the truth would come out? But why would it? The years went on and Dad had never turned up. His mum had no ties with his former colleagues. She must have believed he would never be found. Why destroy her children’s memories of their father? Why, indeed.

Leon let out a long breath, the air visible from the light of the streetlamp. The car windows were fogged up in the time he’d sat there. He hadn’t even noticed. He needed to sleep. It was Saturday, he didn’t need to go to work, but he had an active case now and he needed time to fit Luck’s murder into the equation. The two murders were linked. He also needed to apologise to Cathy Morales. She was wrong about the terrorism case, but alienating her had been a stupid thing to do. Maybe he should talk to Jas first.

As he opened the front door, he was confronted with one set of green eyes and one of gold, the latter to the ground than the other, staring at him in the darkness.

“What the hell?” He flicked the light switch to find two cats scowling at him. “How did you get out of the bathroom? I know I made sure the bathroom door was shut.” Moxie mewed piteously. Robin yawned, flicked his tail, and gave him an indifferent stare.

Leon noticed they stayed together. “Is this the way it’s going to be, huh? You two ganging up against me from now on?” He huffed. “Nothing changes.”

Moxie mewed again and wreathed around his ankles. He scooped her up and took her into the kitchen with him, her contented purrs soothing his jangled nerves. He didn’t want to overfeed her, she was only tiny, but he knew he wasn’t going to get away with not giving her a little food.

“I’m a soft touch,” he told her as he opened the cupboard where he stored the cat food, and she mewed in agreement.

Robin was there too, leaping up onto the counter, his miaows sharper and more demanding.

“You’re not supposed to be on here,” Leon pointed out as Robin stalked over to him, and put both cats on the floor, ignoring their loud protests.

They each got a bowl of wet fishy-smelling food, Robin’s portion larger than the kitten’s, although Leon was sure he wouldn’t get away with that for long. It seemed to quell the protests and he focused on making himself a cup of tea, needing a few minutes to calm before he went to bed, or he’d spend all night tossing and turning. He didn’t want to think about the case or his bust-up with Morales. All he wanted was fifteen minutes to unwind before he went to bed.

He stood at the kitchen window, his hands appreciating the warmth from the mug as he watched the lights of the last of the evening planes circle overhead as they waited for their slot to land on the runway. His phone vibrating across the counter startled him. He didn’t get many calls when he was at home.

Leon frowned as he saw it was the care home. That couldn’t be good if they were calling him this time of night.

“Hello?”

“Mr Peterson, it’s Cheryl from Hornbeam Grove care home.”

“Is Mum all right?” he demanded, guilt at his earlier thoughts about his mother making his question harsher than it should have been.

“Rachel had a funny turn this evening. A minor one and she’s fine now,” Cheryl assured him. “She didn’t want to tell you, but you’re her contact.”

“What do you mean by funny turn?” Leon demanded. Why could they never just come out and say what they meant? It was like an old BBC drama set in the 1950s. “Is it her heart?”

“The doctor thinks it’s an infection. She’s on antibiotics now.”

Leon breathed easier. His mum had had infections before and needed antibiotics, but she’d got through it. She would this time, too. “Do I need to come over?”

“It’s okay, Rachel is asleep now,” Cheryl said.

“If she gets any worse, call me.”

“I will. Don’t worry, Mr Peterson. The doctor will be back to check on her in the morning.”

“I’ll pop over on my way to work.”

“Good night.”

“Night, Cheryl.”

Leon chugged back the last of his now cooling tea, hesitated, then sent a message to his sister. He wasn’t surprised when Deborah called immediately.

“What’s wrong? Do I need to come over?” She sounded panicked.

“No, don’t panic. It’s an infection. The doctor’s seen her and given her antibiotics. They’ll call if she gets any worse.”

“You couldn’t have said that in the message?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling guilty for worrying her. “I didn’t think.”

“No, you didn’t,” she snapped. “Now I’m going to spend all night worrying about her.”

Leon tried not to huff in her ear. He was tired. He didn’t need the grief. “I’m going over in the morning.”

“Make sure you call me,” Deborah ordered.

“I will.” If he remembered.

“Leon…”

“Okay, okay, I’ll call.” She knew him too well.

Leon was relieved to disconnect the call. He looked down at the cats. Moxie was nudging her bowl toward him, clearly hopeful for seconds. “No more. It’s time you used the litter tray, Missie.” He wasn’t sure how housetrained she was. Just because he hadn’t found any accidents, didn’t mean to say they weren’t lurking. To Leon’s relief, she did her business when shown the tray.

He gave up trying to get her to sleep in the bathroom after the yowls started from both Robin and Moxie. They weren’t going to be separated and Leon couldn’t face a night of yelling. It was cute how his big old cat curled around her in his bed.

“You’re the one bright spot in my day,” he told them both. Apart from meeting Ben Codona. That had definitely brightened his day. The rest of it had been a total shitshow.

“Please God for a quiet Saturday,” he muttered as he climbed into bed. A soft purr in his ear agreed.

Leon woke up at seven to a message from Deborah demanding to know how their mum was. He squinted at the time stamp. 04:15.

His response was short and to the point.

I sleep like a normal person.

Hers was just as terse.

You think you’re normal? How sweet.

“Jesus, Debs, go back to sleep,” he muttered and sighed, flopping back on the pillow, narrowly avoiding squashing Moxie. She mewled and shot off the bed. Great, now he was endangering a victim’s kitten.

Leon called the care home as he stuck two slices of bread in the toaster, reassured to hear his mum had slept peacefully all night and was still asleep. He thought about popping in but his mum hated being woken before she was ready, and arriving while they were trying to get their residents up and washed and breakfasted wasn’t going to make him popular with the staff.

“When will the doctor visit her?” he asked Cheryl as he buttered the toast.

“Around ten. If you call about half-past ten, we’ll have more news.”

“Okay. I’ll do that.”

He made a note in his phone as soon as they disconnected and sent an update to his sister, ending with, “I’ll visit today, but I want the doctor to examine her first.”

“Agreed.”

Leon waited but that was all he got from her. He huffed, picked up a triangle of toast and chewed thoughtfully. Was it worth trying to track down Shelley Bailey this morning? That might be the key to finding his dad and being able to eliminate him from their enquiries. He didn’t want to ask his mum about her husband’s affair. Or was it all just old coppers’ gossip? He wouldn’t know unless he shifted his arse and headed to the station.

There was no sign of Jasmine when he arrived in the office. That was unusual. Jas was usually the first one in on a Saturday, swearing she needed a few hours away from her family. Feeling vaguely irritated at her absence, he dumped his keys and phone on his desk, then draped his jacket over the back of his chair. 

Coffee first and then he’d send her a message to check she was okay. But when he sat down with his mug, he realised there was a note stuck to his computer screen.

Gone to talk to the Lucky neighbours.

Apparently she’d got in even earlier than usual. Leon was vaguely disappointed she hadn’t checked in with him before going out again, but he could hardly fault her for getting on with things. 

He scrubbed his hands through his hair. It wasn’t a total loss. Leon could spend the morning organising his thoughts about the two homicides, then run through them with her when she arrived. 

He was halfway to the kitchen to get a coffee when he heard his name.

“Peterson!”

He groaned inwardly. He been in for less than five minutes. No prizes for guessing what No Knock wanted with him. Morales had to have ratted him out. Leon felt unaccountably disappointed she hadn’t kept her word. He’d wanted to make his peace with her, but she hadn’t given him the chance.

He turned to face the DCI’s scowl. “Sir.”

“In my office. Now.” 

Harris beckoned him like a dog, then turned on his heel and stalked back to his office, not waiting to see if Leon obeyed. Leon gritted his teeth and followed him. Coffee would have to wait. He’d need it.

The DCI shut his office door with a snap and stalked behind his desk to sit down. He didn’t invite Leon to sit. Instead, he had to stand as if he were before the headmaster at his primary school. He was in so much shit. Leon had to resist the urge to ‘Stand up straight, hands by your sides, boy.’ He heard the echo of Mr Denham’s order as if it were yesterday. 

Glaring at him over the desk, Harris didn’t waste any time going on the offensive. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“Sir?” Leon decided to play ignorant until he knew what he was being accused off.

Harris’s scowl told him he didn’t appreciate it Leon’s ploy. “Did you spend yesterday morning at a hotel investigating the terrorism case?”

“Yes,” Leon didn’t see any point prevaricating about it.

“It’s not your case.”

“I know.”

“You were then rude to DI Morales about her handling of the case,” Harris said.

“It wasn’t intentional.”

“Not intentional?” Harris stared at him as if Leon were stupid. “Telling her she was wrong wasn’t intentional?”

“I know it wasn’t tactful,” Leon murmured.

“Don’t get clever with me.” Harris banged his fist on the desk, making everything jump. A pen rolled off and fell onto the carpet. Neither man went to pick it up.

“I didn’t mean to upset her.”

“You had no business being at that hotel,” Harris snapped. “It’s not your case.”

Leon thought about using Ben Codona as an excuse, but he kept his mouth shut. “No, I didn’t, but I saw a lead and as DI Morales and her team didn’t want to follow it up, I took the opportunity, then passed the information to the DI.”

“Are two murders not enough for you, Peterson?” Harris asked snidely. “Don’t you have enough to do? Do you need more cases?”

No, I need the case I sweated blood and guts over for months.

Leon took a deep breath. “DS Todd was following up a lead. I knew I’d be in today. It was a good use of time. But I didn’t mean to upset Morales,” he repeated. That was true. He’d hoped she’d listen to him instead of being stubborn. “DS Todd and I worked for months on this case and just as we’re about to make arrests you take it away from us. What the hell for?”

“Mind your tone, Peterson.” Harris spluttered, his face turning an unhealthy shade of red.

“I have a right to know why a junior DI took my case,” Leon pointed out, trying to moderate his anger. “You haven’t done this to anyone else.”

“I told you. This wasn’t my decision. You’ve upset the brass. Suck it up.”

Leon curled his top lip at the lame excuse, made worse by the fact he knew No Knock hated Hooker as much as the rank-and-file officers did. “It was Commander Hooker’s decision and Todd and I were screwed.”

Harris hesitated. Was he going to tell Leon the truth or some bullshit to pacify him? “It’s one case, Peterson.”

Leon wasn’t pacified by the lame response. “A career-changing case handed over to a DI who did no work on it and is about to make a mistake.”

Harris’s expression hardened. “It’s not your case now, Peterson, and you don’t know that. You’re lucky DI Morales hasn’t made a formal complaint about you. You have two murders to clear up. Focus on those. Dismissed.”

“Sir,” Leon snapped.

He gave the DCI a curt nod, left Harris’s office and stormed towards the kitchen. He’d get the work done that he’d planned and he’d spend the rest of the day at home with his cats and his laptop, hunting for a new post. It was time he transferred.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Morales’ door open.

“Peterson, we need to talk.”

He ignored her, stalking into the kitchen and closing the door behind him. He hoped she took the hint because he wasn’t in the mood to apologise, play nice, or be civil. He just wanted everyone to leave him the hell alone.

Leon leaned against the door and closed his eyes. He also wasn’t going to give up investigating the terrorists from the hotel. He was about to detonate a spotless career just to prove a point…and stop a bombing.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Leon glanced at his laptop, open at the BBC website with the rolling news about the bombings in Germany. He checked it every so often, hoping to see something, anything, that would link it to their case here.

Then he stared at the mess on his desk. He huffed as he shoved away his chair and paced around the tiny office. He missed his old files, even though he had more space. Maybe he should go for a walk, get fresh air, but he didn’t want to risk getting caught by Morales. Maybe he was being a coward, but whatever. Hooker had told him he needed to focus on the murders and focus he would. Except that was easier said than done. It wasn’t just the bombings. It was his mum being ill and the information about his dad. Which reminded him. He had to track down WPC Shelley Bailey. He scribbled on a sticky note and stuck it under his dad’s name.

His desk was covered in sticky notes. Jas preferred using the tablet, but Leon needed to see the case in front of him. He took the case notes from his laptop to give him bullet points. He’d put them in order and Jas worked her magic, logging all the information.

The trouble was, that this time there was no order. Their case wasn’t even a spider’s web. At least that was organised. No, this was a tangle of loose threads and he had a feeling if he pulled on one of them, the whole mess would fall apart and he’d be left with nothing.

In the middle was Andy Castle’s photo. He was the key to this, Leon was sure. Find his killer, find Simon Luck’s killer, whether they were the same person or not. Whatever happened was rooted in 1987. His gut told him that. The girlfriend was dead which ruled her out of Simon’s death. Her parents were alive, but why would they kill Simon? Andy’s mum had adored her son but hated Simon. Leon tried to picture old Mrs. Castle bashing Simon and then shoving him into the Thames. It was possible, if improbable, but she’d need help.

He caught sight of his dad’s sticky note. He still couldn’t rule his dad out of the frame for Andy Castle’s murder but unless he’d been hiding since 1987, he was unlikely to be Simon’s killer. Except that perps had done stranger things to cover their tracks. Leon had seen enough in his career. If he found Shelley Bailey he might be able to rule out his dad for Andy’s murder.

Leon typed in Shelley Bailey’s name into the police database. There were a few of them, but one caught his eye. WPC Shelley Bailey, who’d worked at West London Police Station in the 1980s, but left the force in December 1987. Leon’s heart skipped a beat. That was only two months after his dad’s disappearance. Had she stayed on to allay suspicion, then left to join him, wherever he might have gone to?

There was a slight tremor in Leon’s fingers as he pulled up DVLC records for her. She’d left the area, going up north to Huddersfield—but five years ago she’d moved back and was now living at an address in Southall that was only a stone’s throw from the police station.

He expelled a deep breath. He had to meet her. She was part of the key. But to solving these murders or his father’s disappearance, he wasn’t sure which.

Leon sat down at his desk, elbows on the desk, scattering the sticky notes as he rested his head in his hands. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so low. Maybe Harris was right. He was unfocused and that wasn’t like him. Usually the problem was he was hyper-focused to the exclusion of everything else and no one else could keep up. Maybe he should take a step back, take some vacation time. Jasmine could be reassigned to a team with a DI who wasn’t unravelling.

As if she’d heard Leon’s thoughts, there was a knock at the door. He slammed his laptop down as Jasmine poked her head around the door. “You’re still breathing then. No-Knock let you live?”

Of course, she’d have heard he was in trouble again.

“Just,” he muttered. “As long as I never stir from this seat again.”

She grinned at him. “Like you couldn’t get into trouble sitting here by yourself.”

Leon leaned back in his seat. “Did you just come to laugh at me or did you have anything to report from this morning?”

“I can do both. I’m great at multi-tasking. If I tell you I have coffee, will I be the best DS ever?”

“I’ll promise not to nag for at least today,” he promised.

“Good enough.”

She disappeared for a moment and returned with a takeaway tray with two large cups. Leon sighed in relief as he spotted the logo. Good coffee from their favourite cafe.

Jasmine handed him a cup. “No, not that one. This one.” They swapped cups and she sat down opposite him. “I’ve got sandwiches too. Don’t worry. No prawn cocktail crisps for you.”

“I won’t nag you tomorrow either.”

She snorted. “I’ll remember that in future. Feeding you is the way to get my own way.”

“Don’t push it,” he said, but with no heat behind his words. He was too happy with coffee and the prospect of lunch. She was his favourite sidekick, but she didn’t need to know that.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, taking a look at his desk.

“It’s been a long morning,” he agreed, swallowing the brew with relief. “But you’ve been busy too, from that note you left me.”

She made a face. “I needed out of the house this morning. Last night’s family dinner was a nightmare—everyone cooing over my sister’s baby and giving me grief because I wasn’t sprogged up too.”

Leon sent her a sympathetic look. “Was that the family crisis?”

“Kind of. I had to get a last-minute baby gift first or Mum wouldn’t have let me in the door. I’d have had to kip in your chair last night.” She smirked. “Looks pretty comfy, mind.”

Leon rolled his eyes. “For which I thank you. Grudgingly. Any joy with the neighbours?”

“Total blank. None of them knows a thing about anything, and no one in any of the local pubs was willing to admit to having seen him either. Have you got anywhere yet?” Jas waved at the desk.

“What does it look like? I was hoping to give you an order, a timeline.”

“You should have waited for me,” she said easily. “May I?” She waved at the desk.

Leon nodded, making room for her behind the desk. Jasmine stared at the sticky notes for a long moment. He appreciated that she took her time to study each one, not rushing to jump to conclusions.

“My notes are much the same,” she admitted. “Lots of circumstantial evidence. Not much in the way of concrete facts. Why don’t we take out the irrelevancies?”

“How do we know what is irrelevant?” he asked dryly.

Jasmine frowned and pointed at one corner of the desk. “Who’s WPC Shelley Bailey? Is this new evidence? I haven’t spoken to her.”

Leon hesitated. “It’s a separate lead.”

She turned to him, her arms folded across her chest, her eyes narrowed as she fixed him with a hard stare he knew only too well. “That sounds like you’re running a side investigation. Is this to do with the terrorism case? Because you’ve already pissed off DI Morales and Commander Hooker. You know the Commander is ready to show you the door. Whatever this is, it’s time to let it go, guv.”

“It’s nothing to do with the terrorism case,” he said quietly.

“Then what?” she asked, clearly exasperated. “Who is Shelley Bailey and what’s she got to do with your dad?” She’d seen the sticky note above Bailey’s.

“I’m not ready to talk about it.”

“Is your dad involved with Andy’s murder?” Jasmine demanded.

“I don’t know.”

“But you suspect he may be involved?”

“I can’t eliminate him,” Leon said. “That’s the problem. I can’t rule him out. Every time I do, another conversation leads me back to him.”

Jasmine went around the desk and sat down. “You should have discussed this with me. We’re supposed to be a team.”

Leon heard the hurt in her voice. Damn, now he’d upset Jas too, the one person who was supposed to be on his side. “It’s my dad,” he said helplessly. “I need to know.”

She leaned forward. “We’ll find out together. When you’re ready to talk. But don’t leave it too long. But I’ve got to ask, do you really want to know the answer?”

He’d asked himself this time and again and it always came back to the same answer. “Yes.” He had to know whether his father was a murderer.

Jas sat up. “That’s what makes you a good cop. Let’s go through this⁠—”

Leon’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He said, “Hold on,” and pulled it out. He grimaced at the caller ID. “Sorry, it’s Mum’s care home. I’ve got to answer this.” He connected the call. “Hello?”

“Mr. Peterson, it’s Rosa from the Hornbeam Grove care home.”

He didn’t know Rosa, but she had a soft Italian accent which was very soothing.

“I’m calling regarding your mama. She’s quite poorly and asking for you.”

That seemed unlikely; most of the time his mum didn’t know who he was. But Leon wasn’t going to take any chances.

“I’m coming over now,” Leon said. “Do I need to get my sister here?”

“That’s up to you. You can talk to the doctor when you get here.”

He said goodbye and looked at Jas. “I’m so sorry, I’ve got to go. Mum’s gone downhill.”

Jasmine waved her hand. “Go, go. I’ll see if I can make any sense of this. Give me a call if it’s serious, okay? Oh wait, take your sandwiches. I know you, you’ll forget to eat.”

She pulled a cheese and ham sandwich and a pack of ready salted crisps out of her bag.

“Thanks,” Leon said gratefully. “You’re the best sidekick ever.”

Jasmine snorted. “I know I am.”

Leon stared at the food. “I mean what I say. I need to know whether my father was involved, but I need to talk to Shelley Bailey first.”

“Want me to come with you?”

“Not this time, but I will let you know what she says.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Make sure you do. Now go see your mum. I’ll cover for you if Hooker is sniffing around.”

“You keep your head down,” he warned.

Jasmine was already in the Commander’s crosshairs. She didn’t need the spotlight shone on her again unless it was to wrap up two murders.

“Yes, guv.”

She gave him a cheeky salute and he rolled his eyes.

“Find our killers,” he said as he picked up his briefcase and stuffed the sandwich and crisps inside.

Jasmine hummed. She was already focused on the sticky notes.

Leon grinned as he left his office, but his smile swiftly faded when he heard Morales calling his surname. He couldn’t ignore her again, but his expression was cool when he turned to face her.

“Yes?”

Morales stalked over to him. “We need to talk, Leon.”

“I’m busy. This will have to wait.”

She pressed her lips together, clearly annoyed he was brushing her off. “Leon, we⁠—”

“Not now, Morales,” he snapped. “Later.”

He turned on his heel and headed to the door. He didn’t need to give her an explanation where he was going.

“You’re not the boss of me,” he muttered.

It was petty, and there was a sudden realisation that one day Morales probably would be the boss of him if he didn’t transfer. She was on the fast track upwards and he was plateaued. Leon thought about that as he headed to his car. The idea of not being promoted didn’t matter to him. He’d always wanted to be on the frontline. But the idea of saying “Ma’am,” to Morales. Yes, that rankled, more than he’d like. If she got promoted, he’d have to move.

“Mum, Bailey, cats, job hunting.”

That was the rest of his day planned. At least he could look forward to one out of the four.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The woman on reception in the care home wasn’t anyone Leon had seen before. She was slim, with long white hair and striking cheekbones. “Hello, how can I help you?”

Leon realised he knew that melodious voice. “Rosa?”

“Yes. You are Rachel’s son?” She smiled. “You arrived quickly. The doctor is still with her.”

“Good. Thanks for calling me. I know the way,” he added, as she started to rise.

Leon hurried up the stairs to Mum’s room. She was lying in bed with her eyes closed, an IV bag connected to her hand. She seemed wan and frail, and Leon’s heart clenched in fear for her.

A short, middle-aged man was packing up an old-fashioned medical bag by her side. He glanced up at Leon. “Dr Bukhari. You’re family?”

“Yes. I’m her son. Leon Peterson. How is she?”

“Dehydrated, which isn’t helping with the infection. She isn’t drinking enough. I’m getting some more fluids into her, along with the antibiotics, which should clear things up.”

“She’s not in danger?”

The doctor made a sympathetic face. “With our elderly dementia patients, nothing is guaranteed, but she should be fine. I’ve told the staff here to keep an eye on her temperature, and to keep her on the drip for 48 hours.”

“Thank you.” Leon stared at his mother’s sunken face, her thin hair. “She’s not even 70 yet,” he added sadly.

Dr Bukhari nodded. “It’s a cruel disease. I’ll leave you with her now.” He closed his bag with a snap, and left.

Leon sat down next to Mum’s bed and took hold of her hand. It felt cold, and he rubbed it with both of his.

Mum opened her eyes. “Leon?”

He smiled. “I’m here, Mum.”

“Where’s Leon?” She stared into his eyes. “I don’t want you taking him to the pub again. You won’t, will you?”

A sharp, familiar pang pierced Leon’s chest. “It’s me, Mum. I’m Leon.”

She struggled, as if to sit up, but didn’t have the strength. “You leave my boy with me,” she said, sounding distressed.

Leon gave up. “I’ll do that. Leon will stay with you. He’ll be fine.”

Her face softened. “I don’t like it when you’ve been drinking,” she murmured. “He’s a good boy, my Leon.”

Tears pricked at Leon’s eyes, and he squeezed her hand between his. “You don’t need to worry about Leon. You just think about getting better.”

He stayed for an hour, during which Mum drifted in and out of consciousness. She seemed calm, though, and in the end he felt okay to leave her. Some of the colour was even coming back into her cheeks.

Leon sat in his car but didn’t start the engine. He felt drained by the visit, and troubled by what Mum had said. She’d clearly thought he was his dad—and that Leon needed protecting from him, in some measure. It didn’t gel at all with the bright picture she’d painted of his dad when he was growing up.

For a long moment the thought of going to see Shelley Bailey was too much to contemplate. Then his gaze fell on the food Jas had got for him, and his stomach gave a loud, almost painful rumble.

Lunch. If you could still call it that at gone two in the afternoon.

While he ate, he texted his sister an update, ending it with Got to get back to work now so she’d know not to call him.

Feeling somewhat better, he sent Jas a quick message to update her on his movements, then programmed the Satnav for Shelley Bailey’s address. Should he ring ahead, to make sure he didn’t have a wasted journey? Leon didn’t want to put her on guard, though. She was retired, and it was a grey, cold day in December, so hopefully she’d be in. According to the DVLC records, she lived in a terraced house in Southall, not far from the Sikh temple.

People on the streets nearby were a welcome splash of colour on this miserable day, with most of the men in turbans and the women in filmy headscarves, bright salwar kameez showing beneath their winter coats.

The former WPC Shelley Bailey opened her door to Leon after the first ring on the doorbell. She was no longer blonde, her silver hair cut into a short, mannish style, but she’d kept her curvaceous figure. She looked decades younger than Leon’s mum, although they must be of similar ages, and was clearly still alert and active. Leon felt a vicious stab of anger at how unfair life could be.

She raised an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

Leon realised he’d been standing there dumbly and felt like a fool. “Shelley Bailey?”

“I am. And you are?”

“Leon Peterson. I think you knew my dad. Dave Peterson.”

She blinked, and her face turned guarded. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in years. What do you want from me?”

“I was hoping we could talk about when he disappeared.”

Shaking her head, she started to close the door. “I don’t think that’s⁠—”

“It’s relevant to a murder investigation,” Leon blurted out, taking a step forward. Christ, he was making a mess of this. “I’m a DI, investigating the murder of Andy Castle. He died the same night my dad disappeared.”

“A murder?” She frowned. “Can I see some ID?”

Leon showed her his warrant card. She stared at it for longer than most people would—did she think it was fake?

“Hm,” she said, looking back up at him. “I can see it more in the picture, but you do look like him. Older, of course. But then aren’t we all?”

Was his dad? Or had he simply stopped, like Andy Castle, at the age he was in 1987? “Can I come in?” Leon asked, shivering a little in the chill air.

“I suppose you’d better,” she said, and stepped back to let him enter.

Inside, the décor was more modern than Leon would have expected from a woman in her sixties, with soft white walls and dark grey carpeting. On the walls were photographs of a younger woman in various exotic locations. She was obviously something of a thrill-seeker; the pictures showed her zip-lining in the mountains and kayaking in white water.

“My daughter,” Shelley Bailey said shortly.

“Does she live with you?”

“No. She’s abroad at the moment. Likes to travel. Tea?”

“Yes, please.” Leon realised he was parched.

He perched on a dark grey sofa in the living room while he waited for her to bring the drinks. The mantelpiece held another picture of the young woman, and an old one of a child in bright dungarees. There was no sign of a father.

“I saw they’d found a body at the old Kings Arms,” Shelley Bailey said, startling him. She handed Leon a mug, then sat in an armchair opposite him. She hadn’t brought herself a drink.

“Andy Castle,” Leon repeated. “Did you know him?”

She shook her head. “Policing that place wasn’t a job they handed out to female officers. Too shocking for our delicate sensibilities, I suppose.” A wry smile flickered for a moment, then disappeared.

“Did my dad ever talk about him? Was he a known regular there? Andy Castle, I mean.”

“Like I said, not an area I worked in.”

“What about outside of work?” Leon leaned forward; his untasted tea held awkwardly in one hand. “I was told by one of your former colleagues that you and he were…close.”

“Christ!” It burst out of her with shocking force. “Have they really got nothing more interesting to gossip about than who was shagging who forty years ago? Who was it, then? John Barton? Never could get over the fact I turned him down.”

Craig Martin was right about that then… “But you didn’t turn Dave Peterson down,” Leon said, keeping his tone even. It helped, thinking of his dad by his name. As if he was just another person of interest.

“You’ve come here to call me a homewrecker, have you?”

“Were you?”

She shrugged. “Rachel wasn’t the only one he ran out on. Maybe you should be putting the blame where it’s due.”

Rachel. Had she known his mum? Had they been friendly? The thought made him sick. “Did you see him, after the night of the hurricane?”

“No. Didn’t hear from him, either.” She pressed her lips tightly together.

“Why did you leave the force after he’d gone?”

“Because I was sick to death of most of my colleagues seeing me as a pair of tits with a bloody tea-making attachment.” Her gaze was steady and direct.

“It wasn’t because you’d made any arrangements with Dave Peterson?”

“No. And if he had told me he was leaving his wife for me, I wouldn’t have been stupid enough to believe it.” The contempt in her tone was clear.

This didn’t make sense. She was talking as though they’d parted acrimoniously. “But he did leave his wife. Why wouldn’t he have wanted company?”

Her gaze flicked to the mantelpiece. Leon’s heart stuttered. “Ms Bailey,” he said, faintly proud that his voice didn’t waver. “How old is your daughter?”

Ms Bailey hesitated. Leon could almost see the thoughts running through her head. There was a clear moment when Don’t tell him anything turned into But he’ll be able to find out easily enough. She sighed. “I remember you as a little boy, back in the eighties. You used to look at your dad like he’d hung the moon. Are you sure you want to carry on down this road?”

“Dave Peterson was your daughter’s father,” Leon said, needing her to confirm it.

“No. She’s never had a father, and she’s never missed having one. But yes, if you want me to spell it out: she’s your sister.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jas stared at the sticky notes on Leon’s desk. Dave Peterson. Shelley Bailey. Who was this woman? And God, what must it be like for the guv, thinking maybe his dad was involved in a murder? It had to be doing his head in, and he had all the stress about his mum to deal with on top of that.

She wished he’d talk to her about it. Partly because it’d help him, to get all that off his chest, and partly, if she was honest, because it was her case too, damn it. How was she supposed to do her job properly if he was withholding relevant information?

But she had to trust him, and get on with it. She scanned the jigsaw of sticky notes once more. All paths seemed to come back to Simon Luck, and now he was dead. Time to forget—for now—about Shelley Bailey and Leon’s dad, and concentrate on the trail that was still hot. Concentrate on the victim. Jas grabbed her tablet, and started to note down what they knew about him.

Simon Luck had been fished out of the Thames two days ago, and he’d gone into the water—dead, and with a belly full of whisky—roughly a day previously, according to the pathologist and the river police guy. Jas allowed herself a smile as she remembered Iqbal Khan, and the coffee they’d shared after the post mortem. They’d shared numbers afterwards, too. He was too young for her, of course, but there was nothing wrong with having a bit of fun.

Come to that, the guv could do with getting out more and having some fun. Jas hadn’t been joking about him and that site manager, Ben Codona. She’d seen the way the bloke looked at her boss when he wasn’t looking. Some time spent with tall, dark and broody could be just what the doctor ordered for the DI.

Concentrate on the victim. Simon Luck had a driving licence; did he own a car? Jas pulled up DVLC records. Bingo. An elderly Ford Focus, insured for third party, fire and theft, with an MOT due next month. She ran the reg through the police database, and raised her eyebrows.

Simon’s car had been impounded, Thursday morning. But not in Wembley, where he lived. It’d been clamped, and then towed, for parking illegally in Chelsea. What the hell would he have been doing in a posh area like that? Aside, of course, from being bashed over the head and dumped into the conveniently placed river. She’d have laid money on Simon beating a regular track from boozer to bookie, with the odd detour to a dealer—the search of his flat had yielded a small quantity of marijuana along with betting slips and a line of empty bottles waiting to go for recycling.

She contacted the recovery compound, and organised a search team to go through it. There was a chance, although slight, that the car was a crime scene so she wanted to make sure nothing was missed.

Jas wondered how long the car had been parked before it’d been towed. Since the previous day, maybe? It didn’t surprise her one bit that illegal parking was quickly dealt with round there. The local residents wouldn’t want anything bringing their house prices down, after all.

CCTV cameras should have caught Simon arriving, and there would be plenty of those in an area like that. They needed to get hold of that footage. See if they could track him, and if he met up with anyone. They should also do door-to-door in the area. Jas pursed her lips. She could pass those jobs down the ranks, but what would be the best use of her own time right now? Simon Luck’s death had to be linked to that of Andy Castle—and they had a lot more chance of clearing up a recent death than a forty-year-old one. But time was ticking. She drummed her fingers on the desk. Neither she nor the guv had visited the crime scene yet, even if it was less a crime scene and more a crime borough. She should get down to Chelsea herself.

Jas grabbed her phone and made a quick call to DI Sonya Evans at the Chelsea Riverside station. They’d met on a training course a year or so back and kept in touch sporadically. “Hey Sonya, Jas Todd here from West London. How’s it going?”

“Could be worse. How’s life out in the sticks?” Sonya teased.

Jas grinned. “Oh, the usual. Burning haystacks, cows running riot in the streets, you know how it is. Listen, we’ve got a murder case with a lead down your neck of the woods. Just want to make sure I won’t be treading on any toes if I go door-to-door.”

“No skin off our noses. I’ll pass the word on. Just don’t expect us to give you any uniforms to assist. We’ve got half the station down with norovirus.”

“Nasty. Cheers, Sonya. Stay well!” Jas ended the call, stood, and left the office. Time to find a minion.

Gazing into the open-plan area, Jas considered her options. Rishi wasn’t around, but then he wouldn’t get excited about a field trip anyway. Not the way he did about dusty paper files. Geoff Powell, on the other hand, was slumped at a desk, staring bleakly into his monitor, clearly having been landed with another tedious but necessary task. He might be annoying, but he was a decent copper and he’d probably jump at the chance to leave the station.

Jas sauntered up to his desk and smiled down at him. “Busy?”

Geoff looked up from his computer, and smiled back, charm mode switched to the max, so he clearly wasn’t bearing a grudge over the school records she’d sent him to search. “Always got time for you, Jas.”

Ick. “Glad to hear it. Fancy some fresh air and a trip into town?”

“You asking me on a date?”

Double ick. “I’m asking you to come down to Chelsea with me and assist me with an investigation.”

Geoff raised an eyebrow. “I heard you’d had another murder.”

“Yep; our cold case has suddenly got a lot hotter. I want to trace our vic’s last movements. This can wait, right?” She gestured to his desk.

“God, can it wait. I’m going cross-eyed staring at these records. I’m all yours.”

Jas ignored her gut reaction to the smarmy way he’d said that and led him out to her car. Once there, she tossed him the keys. “You can drive. But don’t even think about going all boy-racer on me.”

Jas’s phone blooped a notification at her as she pulled on her seatbelt. The guv had sent a terse message to say he was off to see the mysterious Shelley Bailey. Irritation sparked once more in Jas at his secrecy over the woman, and she tamped it down resolutely. Trust the guv. He hadn’t sent her any further instructions. Jas texted him a quick update: SL car in Chelsea. Pulling CCTV & D2D.

There wasn’t any reply, but then maybe he was driving now.

To give him his due, Geoff drove carefully and considerately through London’s never-ending traffic. Jas used the time to check over her case notes and eat a sandwich.

“Gonna tell me about the vic?” Geoff asked as they waited at traffic lights.

“Simon Luck. History of violence but he was nice to the old lady next door. Lived in a council flat in Wembley, so not exactly your usual Chelsea set.” Jas went back to her notes.

“Was he gay, and all?”

Jas glanced up at him, annoyed. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“I thought your cold case vic was gay.”

“Andy Castle had a girlfriend.”

“Yeah, but he was shagging blokes at that old cottage from what I hear.”

Good old office grapevine. “What, and bi people don’t exist?” she snapped.

Geoff flushed. “I just mean, it was years ago, right? He might have been pretending with the girl.”

“Yeah.” Jas piled on the sarcasm. “Or maybe it was just a phase.”

There was a silence. “Sorry, Sarge,” Geoff said quietly, staring at the road.

When they reached the location Simon’s car had been parked, there was the usual hassle finding a place to leave the car that wouldn’t get them ticketed themselves. They had to park a few streets away and backtrack through posh residential streets.

“How much do you reckon these go for?” Geoff asked, waving at a discreet For Sale sign outside the terraced house they were passing.

“Way more than you’ll ever earn. Fifteen, twenty mill?” Jas only had a hazy idea herself.

His eyes widened. “It’s not even detached!”

“Yeah, but look at the size of it. And the porch has got pillars.”

“Parking’s still rubbish.”

She waved a hand. “If you can afford that, you can pay for a flunkey to drive your car to some underground garage.”

“If I had that much money, I’d get a big place out of London with plenty of space round it.”

Jas sent him a sidelong glance. “Hankering for a quiet life in the country, are you?” She couldn’t imagine leaving London. What did people even do out in the wilds? The thought of not having people around her made her shudder.

Geoff just shrugged. “Door to door, then?”

“Yep.” Jas paused. She’d been planning to send Geoff after CCTV footage from local businesses, but round here they were thin on the ground. Apparently posh people didn’t need to pop to the corner shop for a pint of milk or a bottle of plonk; they must get them delivered from Fortnum and Mason’s. There were plenty of cameras around, but they’d be council-run, not privately owned. “Give me a mo,” she said, pulling out her phone and turning away. She didn’t want to admit she hadn’t quite thought this through.

Luckily Rishi was easier to track down by phone, and happy enough to get onto the local council for their CCTV footage, so that ought to be waiting for her when they got back.

She turned back to Geoff, who at least wasn’t smirking like he knew she’d cocked up. “Okay. Luck’s car was parked outside that house there, so you go left and I’ll go right. Both sides of the road. Show them the pics of Luck and the car, and find out what they may have seen. We want to know where he was headed. Call me as soon as you get a result—any result.”

Geoff sketched a salute, and they separated.

Jas had never met so many domestic staff in her life. A lot of them were on their own, either with or without the kids to look after, and had been too busy to look out of the window. A few went to fetch their employers, who turned out to be too important to have looked out of the window.

She hit pay dirt on the seventh house. An older white guy in posh-bloke corduroy trousers, who smelled of cigars and actually opened his own front door. “I told him he couldn’t park there.” The homeowner had indignation oozing from every pore. “He just waved at me. Waved!”

Lucky he didn’t give you the finger. “And you’re sure it was this man?” Jasmine showed Luck’s photo again.

“Didn’t I just say so?”

“Thank you, sir. Can you tell me which direction he went in, after he’d left the car?”

The irate resident pointed down the street, the way she’d been heading. “That way. But I can’t tell you where he was going. He certainly didn’t have the decency to come back and remove his vehicle. It was there all night! I had to report it.”

“Had you ever seen him around here before?”

“No, I had not. And if I see him here again I’ll be giving him a piece of my mind.”

Jas smiled. “You don’t need to worry about that, sir. He turned up dead in the Thames the day you called his car in. Thanks for your help; we’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

She walked away in the direction he’d indicated with the satisfaction of leaving him speechless.

Bringing up a map on her phone, she could see she was heading towards the river. Which made sense; it was where he’d ended up, after all. She phoned Rishi, and left a message for him to concentrate on that area. Then she called Geoff, and told him to come and join her, working opposite sides of the road.

That sighting seemed to be all the luck they were due for the day, though, and after another hour of fruitless questioning, Jas was ready to call it.

She slumped against a wall and rang Rishi. “Don’t suppose you’ve had any joy with that CCTV footage?”

“I was just about to call you.” Rishi sounded excited.

Jas stood up straight. “Go on.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Your vic’s got expensive tastes.” Rishi said over the phone.

Jas glanced around at the huge houses, now dark monoliths in the late afternoon darkness. Sunset was a distant memory and she shivered in the falling temperature.

“I don’t think this is Simon’s kind of area. It isn’t mine.”

They probably didn’t even know their neighbours. She’d grown up in an area where they knew all the people around them, although that might be as much to do with her mum and dad as anything else.

“What was he doing driving around Chelsea Bridge?”

“Waiting to die,” she said dryly.

Rishi sucked in a breath. “Poor bastard.”

Jasmine hummed in agreement. No one deserved to end their day with their skull caved in and a watery grave.

“I’ll send you the details.”

Jas heard the clack of keys, then her phone pinged.

“Done,” he said with satisfaction.

“Thanks, Rishi.”

She disconnected the call as Geoff jogged up to her. He looked tired and frustrated.

“Anything?” she asked.

“Nothing. Zip. Nada,” he growled. “None of these people ever look out of the window at us peasants. What about you?”

“The same, but I found one curtain twitcher. A Mr Anderson. He confronted Luck who ignored him and went in the direction of the river. He reported the car the following morning, which presumably was when it was impounded.”

Geoff glanced down the darkening road. “Isn’t that way toward the river?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to do a search now, sarge?” His tone suggested he really hoped Jas wasn’t going to say yes.

She shook her head. She was tired and there was a blister forming on the heel of her right foot. “It can wait until tomorrow. I want my sofa, a takeaway, and to watch something mindless on Netflix.”

Geoff had to be tired. He didn’t even make a smarmy crack about joining her on the sofa.

They drove back to the station. It took the best part of an hour in the late afternoon traffic. Jas thanked Geoff for his help. He looked vaguely surprised, and rushed to the loos. It had been a long afternoon.

Her seat squeaked when she slumped down. Jas needed to input her notes, then she could seek out her sofa. She checked her phone. Leon hadn’t called all afternoon. She was surprised. Or was she? The DI seemed to be conducting two other investigations, neither of which related to their actual case. Jas hesitated, then pressed his number.

“Peterson.”

“Guv.”

“Jas. God, that’s freaky. I was just about to call you.”

She rolled her eyes, but he did sound genuine.

“We just got back from Chelsea.”

“Anything?”

“A neighbour who saw our vic heading to the Thames and reported his car the following morning.”

Leon hummed in her ear. “What was he doing over in Chelsea?”

“Can’t answer that yet,” she said wearily. “I’ll go back tomorrow.”

“I’ll come with you,’ he said.

“What about your lead?” she asked and yes, there was an edge to her voice.

“I got some answers, although maybe not the ones I wanted.”

He sounded defeated and although Jas wanted to push, she knew he’d had a godawful day. It could wait.

“I’ll be in at ten tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll tell you about it then.” He disconnected the call.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Jas muttered. “No, first he’s gonna tell me what the hell is going on. Then I’m gonna kill him.”

What had she done to deserve Leon Peterson as her boss? She had no idea, but she’d upset someone, somewhere.

Sitting opposite Leon just after ten the following morning in his office, Jas sipped her coffee and thought about what to say to her boss. The desk was still covered in sticky notes, but the ones with his father’s and Shelley Bailey’s names were conspicuous by their absence. He looked exhausted, worse than the yesterday, and she swore he was wearing the same clothes. She thought about diplomatic and went for the throat instead.

“You look like hammered shit,” she said bluntly.

His top lip curled. “Thanks. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“Don’t. What on earth happened?”

He hesitated. “Moxie happened.”

She furrowed her brow. “Who is Moxie…oh wait, the kitten.” Jas couldn’t hold back her smirk. “Is she being a pest?”

“She’s a kitten. Of course, she’s being a pain in the arse.” He sighed. “I gave up making her sleep in the bathroom. Both cats yowled in protest. The neighbours complained. Now she sleeps with Robin. Or on my face, when I’m asleep. I wake up unable to breathe and with a mouthful of fur.”

Jasmine couldn’t hide the smirk and he growled.

“It’s all right for you to laugh. You’re not the one woken up five times a night either suffocating or taking the kitten for a pee break.”

“I can see how annoying that is,” she said solemnly.

He grunted. Jas snickered and he scowled, but she could see the fond smile he tried to hide. At least he had something to look forward to every day. Even if it was a mouthful of cat fur.

She regretted the next words that came out of her mouth as his face closed down. “So, what about Shelley Bailey?”

Leon stood, startling her as he pushed back his chair. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll tell you on the way.”

Jasmine could see the distress in his expression. “Leon, you don’t have to tell me if it’s not related to the case.”

He pressed his lips together. “No, I do. I need to tell someone, but not here.”

“Then let’s grab more coffee and go.”

She was touched that he’d talk to her, but worried what he was going to say. From his demeanour, none of it was good.

Jasmine stared at Leon as he drove. The roads were quieter as it was Sunday.

“You have a sister?”

“A half-sister,” he corrected.

“By Shelley Bailey.”

“I think my dad was involved in there somewhere.”

“You knew about this?”

“Not until yesterday. I knew he’d had an affair with her. The cops down at the Market Tavern took great pleasure in telling me that,” he said wryly.

Jasmine snorted. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“I thought if I met her, she might be able to alibi my dad.”

“And can she?”

“She never saw him after the hurricane.”

“That ties in with him going missing,” she suggested.

“It does. But she gave me one other piece of information, just as an extra kicker.”

Jas held her breath, not sure she wanted to hear it.

“She wasn’t the only woman Dad had an affair with. There were others although she didn’t give me any names. He could have run off with another woman and started a new life. I could have more brothers and sisters out there.”

“What does your gut tell you?” she demanded.

Leon expelled a long breath. “I think my father is dead and he died the night of the hurricane. I don’t know if he killed Andy Castle, but he didn’t have anything to do with Simon Luck. I hope one day, his body will be found, but he’s not Simon’s killer.”

“Okay,” Jas said. “Okay. Then today we’ll focus on Simon, because I’m convinced that if we find Simon’s killer, we’ll find Andy’s.”

“Agreed. They’re linked. It’s too much of a coincidence that Simon is murdered just after we find Andy’s body.”

“The key is who or what is in Chelsea.” Jasmine was convinced about that. “He wouldn’t drive all the way over here for no reason.”

“Who would he know over here?” Leon mused. “It’s not like he moves in the circles of the rich and famous. His world was where he lived, the cat, the bookies, the pubs. We looked at his life. He was a sick man. He stayed at home. Why would he come over here?”

“We don’t know all his friends,” Jas pointed out. “The man had a whole life.”

Leon huffed. “And most of it was borderline illegal. But it’s true, he could have come over here to get work. He was sick, but he needed money. We could look at construction firms over here. There’s still redevelopment work along the river. Or maybe it was related to his expectations of a windfall, if what he told his dealer was correct.”

Jas hummed in agreement. “Bit of house breaking, perhaps? You know Sir Arthur Bohun lives in Chelsea, near the Albert Bridge? He’s got like two houses stuck together. A mews house and a period house. He lives there when he’s in London. I saw his address when I did that investigation. He doesn’t slum it in his constituency.”

“We’re not visiting Sir Arthur Bohun,” Leon said firmly. “Third strike and I’m out, Jas. I’m serious. The Commander is itching to find a reason to suspend me.”

“You know we’re just doing door-to-door along the river. It’d be negligent to leave him out, right? I’ve already written in the files. I don’t know what house he lives in, just where it is. We know Simon walked towards the river and so far, we’ve no sightings after that. He could have gone into the water here. Bohun’s connected to the Kings Arms site, and Simon was Andy Castle’s best mate. Could Bohun be the connection between Simon and Chelsea?”

“It’s tenuous, Jas. Really tenuous.” But Jas could hear the sudden excitement in Leon’s voice.

“Look, Simon doesn’t fit the type of bloke Bohun goes after,” she went on. “Not young or delightful enough. But Bohun knows about construction. He could have offered Simon a job. They could have met on previous sites. We’re not accusing him of smacking Simon over the head and throwing him in the river. We’re asking if Simon contacted him and came over here.”

“You know he’s not going to believe that for a minute.”

“We need you, Sir Arthur.” Jasmine put on a fake fluttery voice. “That’s you asking him, not me.”

“Thanks, DS Todd,” Leon said dryly. “And when have you ever heard me talk like that?

“It’s you he has the boner for,” she said bluntly. “Although I don’t know why. You don’t fit his profile either.”

“I’m not that old, thanks. And some people find me perfectly delightful. But I think he was just playing with me,” Leon admitted and Jas heard the edge in his voice.

“We make a list of buildings to visit as part of our door-to-door and what do you know, old Bone’s is on our list.”

“We may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.”

Jas stared at him. “I have no idea what that means. Why are we hanging sheep?”

“You make me feel so old,” Leon complained.

It was a repeat of the previous afternoon for Jasmine. They split up, each taking one end of the mews. They needed plausible deniability, even if no one would believe them. The road was beautiful and so close to the river. More to the point, it was quiet. No one remembered seeing Simon although one woman did complain a vagrant had been loitering around the street the week before, but she couldn’t identify Simon from his photograph. Jasmine opened her mouth to ask more questions but the woman shut the door in her face.

Finally they were outside Bohun’s. Leon turned to her. “Let’s get that sheep, DS Todd.”

Jasmine rolled her eyes. “Yes sir!”

To her surprise, the house didn’t have a locked gate. There was a bare plant with woody stems covering the front wall. Her mum would have known what it was.

Leon pressed on the bell. After a moment they heard footsteps approaching the door. They sounded like the click-clack of heels, a woman rather than a man.

The door opened and Jasmine recognised Miriam, Lady Bohun, Sir Arthur’s wife. She was dressed as if she was just about to go out to a social event, in a midnight blue dress sweeping around her calves and sapphires sparkling around her neck.

“Yes?” Lady Bohun glared at them suspiciously.

“Police, ma’am,” Leon said, producing his ID. “DI Peterson and DS Todd. Could you tell me if you’ve seen this man?”

She squinted at the photo, then leaned closer. Jas could swear a look of recognition flitted across her face, but a moment later her expression was blank once more. “I’m sorry, I need my glasses. Come with me.”

Leon glanced at Jas and nodded, and they followed her into a large airy room with a view out onto a courtyard. For all its size, the room felt lived-in and there was a well-used wingback chair in front of a TV on the wall. The sound was off but it was showing the BBC news channel. In one corner there was a grand piano laden with photographs. A thin film of dust covered it.

“What a beautiful piano,” she cooed.

Lady Bohun looked at it as if she’d never seen it before, her mind apparently elsewhere. “Oh…yes.”

“May I look at it? I’ve never seen a grand piano up close,” Jasmine confessed.

Lady Bohun shrugged. “If you wish. No one uses it here. My husband is too busy. He’s Sir Arthur Bohun. The MP, for what that’s worth.”

“I’m sorry for disturbing you both.” Leon said.

“Oh, he’s not here. He’s arranging some event. Another new hotel. Now, where are my glasses?”

Relieved they weren’t going to have to explain their presence to Bohun, Jas wandered over to study the piano, but really to check out the photos. They were covered in dust too. Trying not to be conspicuous, Jas peered at them. It was a history of the Bohuns’ lives, as she had expected. Weddings, university life, becoming an MP, visiting Buckingham Palace.

Behind her, she heard Lady Bohun say, “I haven’t seen this man, but I have been away for a few days. You should ask my husband.”

Jas studied an older, fading photo of Sir Arthur with several young men of a similar age. They looked like an eighties pop band, posed on steps. Then she looked closer. Excitement built inside her. She knew without a shadow of a doubt who had killed Andy and Simon. She turned to Leon to see him staring at the TV.

“DS Todd, we have to go,” he said, his eyes wide, voice choked.

She turned on him, furious at his order. What the hell? She was about to crack the case and he pulled rank on her?

Then she caught his expression. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head and gave Lady Bohun a grim smile. “Thank you for your time. I’ll call Sir Arthur just to clarify he didn’t see Mr Luck. Have a good morning.”

Leon hauled Jas out of the drawing room and bolted to the door.

“What the hell is going on, guv?” Jas snapped as they reached the pavement. “I was about to tell you⁠—”

“No time,” Leon barked.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Leon hustled Jasmine out of the house without allowing her to speak.

“What? Tell me or I’m not moving another step,” she said when they reached the car.

“I’ll tell you on the way,” Leon said. “Put the flashers on and get back to Sipson as fast as you can. Jasmine! Now!” When Jas didn’t move, Leon said, “Keys,” and that was enough to make her move. Jas was the one with the advanced driving training. They both knew that if Leon tried to drive fast, he’d kill them both. She flung herself into the driver’s seat and started the engine, putting her seatbelt on as she looked over her shoulder to reverse out of the parking space. Leon hastened to put his own belt on, and reached down to activate the flashing lights in the front and rear. “Go!” he snapped, and to his relief, Jasmine put her foot down and headed west.

“Old Bone and Ben are doing a final check of the Kings Arms Heathrow hotel,” he said, as they careened along the embankment, missing parked cars by a coat of paint. “Grand opening tomorrow. Who stands to make money if the airport expands? Who’s building hotels as fast as he can to take advantage of any expansion? Who is in a position to influence the decisions about expansion? And if you were against airport expansion and you had a shedload of explosives, who would you target?”

“You think? Bit of a stretch.” Jas didn’t sound very sure.

“Those German airport hotels were all new. The terrorists’ statement said they weren’t trying to hurt anyone. The finished bit of the Kings Arms Heathrow hotel was full of people working until yesterday, and it’s going to be full of people eating finger food tomorrow. If they want to plant a bomb, it has to be today. And we’ve just found out Ben and Old Bone are there.”

“It’s guesswork. That’s all it is.” But Jasmine didn’t take her eyes off the road, and she didn’t slow down.

“So what if I’m wrong? Won’t be the first time.” But Leon knew he wasn’t wrong. Sweat broke out under his arms, and it wasn’t only the fast driving. He squeezed his eyes shut trying not to see the images of the German hotels surrounded by rubble, their windows blown out.

Jas leaned on the horn as they came up to a line of traffic stopped at a red light, the one before the right turn past Stamford Bridge. She swerved past them all, and took off again towards Hammersmith flyover and the M4, round the roundabout on two wheels, horn blasting again. Instead of taking the motorway, she dodged into the side streets of Brentford and Lampton, pounding the horn at successive traffic lights, whilst on the elevated roadway above their heads, stop-start traffic headed slowly towards Heathrow and Wales.

Leon clung desperately to the oh shit handle, his knuckles white and painful. On the outskirts of the airport, Jas roared onto Sipson Lane through Harlington, past tennis courts and sports fields, and then under the motorway once more. He thought of the motorway bridges like this one, unguarded by cameras, overlooked by no one. But it was the hotel where the danger lay. Yes, bombing access roads to the airport would cause disruption, major disruption, and he wasn’t ruling it out. But striking a hotel would cause terror in a way that damaging a road would not. Most people could imagine themselves in a burning or collapsing building, the victim of a terrorist, whereas the motorway was just a road and no one attacked a road. Striking at this hotel would hurt Sir Arthur, too, and Leon thought that was important to whoever was behind all this.

“Kings Arms,” Leon, said. “Park where we can see.”

“And that’s Old Bone’s Merc,” Jasmine said as she dragged the handbrake on and turned the flashers off.

The Mercedes was parked on the street in front of the entrance to the new hotel, which was still cordoned off behind a moveable fence. Next to it was a gold-coloured Ford Ranger which Leon recognised as Ben’s. The original Kings Arms was now hidden behind a freshly painted hoarding. Leon could see a white van parked a bit further up the street. One of the back doors was open. The sign writing was worn off in places, but the words Caterin sup lies could be made out under a layer of dust. A man in tatty jeans, a tattier anorak, and a baseball cap pulled low, came out from behind the hotel, lifted a box down from the back of the van and set off back the way he had come.

“That’s one of them,” hissed Leon. It was one of the men he had seen when he had been with Ben, one of the men from the CCTV tapes, one of the men he had tried repeatedly to warn Morales about. “I don’t know what they’re delivering, but it isn’t catering supplies.” He reached down to undo his seatbelt. Jasmine grabbed his arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Where does it look like I’m going?”

“No way. If that’s who you think it is, we need Gold Command, No Knock, Morales, all the clones and an armed response team.”

Leon kept moving. “Let go, Jas. Move the car at least two hundred yards away, don’t attract their attention, and call the troops. I’m going to get Ben and Sir Arthur.” He shook her hand off and got out of the car.

Jasmine made to follow.

“Shift the car, make the call, ask for bomb disposal.” Leon said. “Go,” he insisted, and waved his hand directing her away from the building. Reluctance flickered across her face, so he pointed again. When she switched the engine back on and began to reverse, he turned towards the hotel, hoping neither of the two men would come out to the van until they were safely out of sight.

Leon wanted to see what was in the van, but he also wanted Ben and Sir Arthur out of the hotel. The van could wait.

The noise of the motorway, not exactly overhead here, but close, was a permanent rumble in the background. Normally, Leon hardly heard it any more than he heard the planes roaring their way into the sky, shaking the windows of anyone without well-fitted triple glazing. The noise had its uses. As the next aeroplane took off, he pulled a section of fence aside, slipped through and went for the automatic glass front doors. They didn’t open, and rattling showed they were locked. Damn.

Following the guy in the hat could be bad news. Not following him? Almost certainly bad news. Leon set off around the hotel, keeping close to the wall and walking quietly. Out of sight of the road, a window was open. There were muddy marks on the pristine white sill. Inside, the restaurant lay empty and silent, every table perfectly laid up with silverware and side plates, every chair tucked into its place. Leon put his head through the window and listened. Nothing. He listened harder. The buzz of a fridge, the louder buzz of the motorway behind him. Birdsong.

Fear of failure rose up in his chest, blocking his throat and constricting his breathing. He put his hands on the window ledge, pushed up and swung his legs inside, landing as gently as he could.

The room was chilly. The layout was the same as the hotel where he’d met Ben. An archway to his left led into the bar and reception, and presumably the corridor to the lifts and the rooms. In front of him, past a row of tables, was a set of swing doors, he guessed to the kitchen. Triple-glazed windows gave views of the kinds of plants that thrive in an atmosphere of jet fuel. There was a sound from behind the kitchen doors: the clatter of stainless steel and a stifled curse. Instinctively, Leon ran for the archway to the bar, flattening himself against the wall, praying for invisibility. There were more noises from the kitchen, muffled curses. Then he heard the whine of a lift and the sound of familiar voices. Whoever was in the kitchen carried on. There was another crash. Leon sprinted for the lift.

When the doors opened, it was to Leon with his finger to his lips, standing squarely in front of the doors. Please, please, please just be quiet.

They weren’t, or rather Ben was, but Sir Arthur had clearly never taken an instruction in his life. “What the hell are you doing here, Peterson? How did you get in?”

In desperation, Leon physically pushed both men back into the lift and hit the button for the top floor.

“Sir Arthur, please just do as I say.” Of course, he didn’t. Elbowing Leon to one side, he jammed his foot into the lift doors, which drew open with a loud ping. The crashing sounds from the kitchen fell silent.

“What’s going on?” Sir Arthur boomed. “Is there someone in the kitchen?”

“It’s a police matter,” Leon said desperately. “We need to leave, now.” He looked over Old Bone’s shoulder at Ben. Help me he thought, hoping Ben would pick up on the psychic message. But it was already too late. Leon heard the kitchen doors swing open. He tried to press Sir Arthur back into the lift, but Sir Arthur had a thousand expensive lunches on his side, and no hesitation in using them to stand his ground.

“There’s a bomber in the hotel,” Leon said.

Alarm crossed Ben’s features. He grabbed Old Bone from behind and pulled.

“Stay where you are!” a voice shouted from behind Leon. He hadn’t heard anyone. Ben’s eyes widened, round and white against his tan. Sir Arthur sagged against Ben and clutched at his heart, his face bright red. Leon whipped around and found himself looking directly into the barrel of a gun.

“Stay where you are, I said!” It was the tattily-dressed man in the baseball cap.

Leon blinked, took a deep breath and lifted his head enough to look at the man rather than the gun.

“I’m a police officer,” he said on an out-breath, marvelling at how calm he sounded.

“I don’t care,” said Baseball-cap. “Typical pig, protecting Sir Arthur Rupert fucking Bo-hun while he and his money-grubbing mates destroy the planet.”

It’s pronounced bone, Leon thought, stupidly. Because that’s the important thing just now. Behind him, Sir Arthur gasped for breath.

“I think he’s having a heart attack,” Ben said.

Another man appeared beside Baseball-cap. At least this one didn’t appear to have a gun. He was wearing clean navy-blue cotton overalls and a tool belt.

“Pigs and Sir Arthur himself,” Baseball-cap said, waving the gun towards the three men.

Overalls smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. “Good news,” he said. “Kinda tempting to include Sir Arthur in our little fireworks display, don’t you think?”

With a groan, Arthur Bohun collapsed, bringing Ben down with him. Leon heard sirens. Lots of sirens.

Overalls and Baseball-cap started at the sight of the heavy MP hitting the floor, half inside, half outside the lift.

As they looked, Leon jumped. He grabbed Baseball-cap’s wrist, forcing the gun upwards. For a moment, Leon prevailed, but Baseball-cap had the strength of his convictions. He kicked at Leon’s legs, connecting hard. Overalls clutched at Leon’s fingers, bending them away from the gun. Leon staggered as Baseball-cap’s boot connected with his knee, giving Baseball-cap the room to swing a punch to Leon’s stomach. A hard punch. All the air left Leon’s body, leaving him doubled over, gasping as hard as Sir Arthur.

The sirens were getting louder.

Baseball-cap gripped Leon’s collar, twisting it hard, forcing Leon upright. He ground the gun into Leon’s neck. Overalls looked shocked, arms dangling by his sides, eyes wide.

“You.” Baseball-cap looked at Ben, “We’re all going in the kitchen. Get Bohun on his feet. No messing about or the pig gets shot.” He turned to Overalls. “Help him with Bohun and hurry the fuck up.” He jabbed the gun into Leon’s neck for emphasis.

Ben extricated himself from underneath Sir Arthur, and began to lift the heavy figure. Sir Arthur moaned and struggled for breath. Overalls seemed to realise he had to help, and between them, they pulled Sir Arthur onto his feet, and led the strange procession into the kitchen.

The sirens were outside now.

The kitchen was a shrine to stainless steel. It covered cabinets, sinks, counters, fridges, stoves, dishwashers and the vast extractors hanging from the ceiling. Everything not stainless steel was white. Glossy white tiles on the walls and white rubber matting on the floor. An island workstation held shelves of pans and platters, and on top, the only thing out of place, a pile of cardboard boxes.

“You can let the bastard go,” Baseball-cap said. “Prop him up against the wall.”

The sirens stopped.

The police must be outside. Leon imagined the Armed Response Team, dressed from head to toe in black, faces obscured, automatic rifles at the ready. Brian Hooker in charge and in his element. No Knock champing at the bit. Cathy Morales and her clones. The potential for all this to go even more horribly wrong grew with every moment that passed. He looked over at Overalls. His face had lost all its colour and his hands were shaking. As he saw Leon watching, he pushed his hands into his pockets.

“These boxes are the explosives?” Leon asked.

“Shut it,” Baseball-cap said.

“No one was supposed to get hurt,” Overalls said, and there was a slight waver in his voice. He sounded middle class, and scared. “They have timers for tonight.”

“Things change,” said Baseball-cap. “You—” he pointed the gun at Ben “—get over here. I want you together. We’re going to change the timers, then we’re all going to walk out of here and watch this hotel collapse like a pack of cards. I might leave Sir Arthur Bastard behind. What do you think?”

The question didn’t seem to be directed at any of them in particular. And unless Bohun got medical attention soon, it wasn’t going to matter.

“We can’t change the timers,” Overalls said.

Baseball-cap sneered. “They’re alarm clocks, Nathan, not AI. You built ’em, you can change them.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Leon had no idea whether it was simple or not. He glanced over at Ben. He was as white as Overalls. Perhaps Ben knew about explosives. Demolition was something builders might do, wasn’t it? With explosives? If Leon was reading Ben’s expression correctly, Overalls had the right of it.

He could feel Ben’s body next to his. If he moved, would Ben move too? Because Leon was beginning to have his suspicions about the gun. It looked as if it had just come out of the box, and that didn’t add up. He had seen too many guns in his years policing the capital. They were easy to get hold of if you had money and knew the right people. Baseball-cap and Overalls might have money, but Leon didn’t think they knew the right people, not for guns, anyway. Baseball-cap was comfortable with violence; Overalls not so much. Leon had a mental image of Overalls patiently making the bombs, probably with quiet satisfaction, but he wasn’t enjoying himself right now. Baseball-cap? He’d enjoyed hurting Leon. He was getting off on the idea of blowing the hotel up, and killing Old Bone.

Despite that, Leon didn’t read him as a hard man. These two were committing criminal acts, but they were amateurs. Overalls was scared shitless and Baseball-cap was showing off. No self-respecting London villain would have sold a gun to either of these two. No, this was a fake. Almost certainly.

Outside, a single siren blared, and a loudhailer-distorted voice came through the window. Overalls and Baseball-cap couldn’t help looking.

It would have to be enough.

Leon dived at Baseball-cap, ignoring the gun, concentrating on knocking him down. And Ben joined in, fists flying. In the background, Overalls whimpered. The phone in Leon’s pocket started ringing again. Ben landed a blow on Baseball-cap’s nose and his feet went from under him. His head hit the floor with an audible crack and his eyes rolled up as he lost consciousness. The gun dropped from Baseball-cap’s hand and Leon kicked it under the nearest cabinet.

“Sit on him anyway,” Leon told Ben, fishing the phone out of his pocket. “And you,” he shouted at Overalls, “lie down on the floor, arms out and do it now.” Overalls scrambled to do as he was told.

“We need two ambulances and the bomb disposal team,” Leon said when Brian Hooker answered the phone. “Sir Arthur needs urgent medical assistance. The scene is safe and two suspects apprehended, one of them unconscious.” Safe, apart from boxes full of explosives put together by a beginner, and a gun that he hoped to God was fake.

The adrenaline left Leon’s body in a rush, and he sat down on the floor next to Ben and the unconscious Baseball-cap.

“Thanks,” he said to Ben.

Ben smiled.

Chapter Thirty

Only one of the bombs went off. 

Leon formally arrested Overalls for breaking and entering, attempted murder, illegal possession of explosives and a firearm. Other charges would be added, he warned. Baseball-cap would have to wait until he regained his senses. 

“We need to get out of here,” Leon said, looking at the pile of cardboard boxes. “You,” he snapped at Overalls, “pick your mate up, and get him onto the street. Now.” Baseball-cap was coming round and Overalls helped him sit up. Leon turned away. “Help me with Sir Arthur?” he asked Ben. Between them they half dragged, half carried Sir Arthur into the hotel lobby, where Ben produced a key for the front doors. 

“Paramedics,” Leon shouted as they staggered through the doors, and sagged with relief as Sir Arthur was loaded onto a trolley and wheeled away at high speed to the nearest ambulance. He realised Ben was no longer by his side, and then he was back, with Baseball-cap slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Another ambulance crew appeared, as if by magic, and Ben lowered Baseball-cap onto a trolley. Leon had time to say, “Banged his head,” before they were gone. 

“What the …” Leon looked up and straight into the eyes of his immediate boss, DCI No Knock Harris. “The hotel kitchen is full of home-made bombs in cardboard boxes,” he said. “We should clear the area.”

“They won’t just go off.” Overalls had more faith in his own bomb-building skills than Leon did. 

“CLEAR THE AREA!” No Knock yelled, grabbing Leon by the arm, hustling him towards the line of police vehicles.

Leon resisted for long enough to get hold of Overalls and drag him along. “Come on,” he said to Ben.

Once they were behind the vans, they were quickly surrounded by specialist explosives officers, the head of the Armed Response Team, and, to Leon’s dismay, Cathy Morales and Commander Hooker. He could see Jasmine hovering in the background looking anxious.

“They won’t go off.” Overalls said again. “They’re on timers,” which was when the catering van exploded.

The blast knocked Leon off his feet, throwing him into the nearest police car along with Ben and Morales. As he picked himself up, his ears rang. Sounds came to him as if through water: Hooker barking out commands, bits of metal hitting the ground, grinding noises from the collapsing van. Bits of metal were scattered for fifty yards in all directions, scratching the paintwork on a few vehicles but by a miracle, leaving the humans intact. 

Thankfully, the rest of the boxes remained inert, safely on their stainless-steel table, awaiting the attentions of bomb-disposal robots. Some glass smashed in the hotel, and the kitchen wouldn’t be producing any canapés for the grand opening. What had happened would likely take weeks to understand, but Leon thought the bomb squad would decide that Overalls was simply as incompetent as he appeared. Though when dealing with explosives, incompetence was hardly an excuse.

Ben was the first to his feet and he held out a hand to Leon, then Jas. Cathy Morales waved them all off, and got up without apparent effort.

“Another suit done for,” Leon said, his voice sounding unnaturally loud. “Let’s get out of here.” Hooker had finally got the message, and was using a loud hailer to tell everyone to move further away from the hotel. They moved. After a moment, Leon realised the traffic had stopped on the motorway above their heads. 

Shit. If they had stopped the traffic, the threat was bigger than he thought. If it all goes off, and the hotel blows up, the bridge could fall down.

“Quick,” he said, grabbing Jasmine’s hand and starting to run. 

Everyone else at the scene was also moving faster in response to the quiet from the motorway. They stopped a hundred yards on the other side of the motorway bridge. Probably still too close, Leon thought, but he was out of breath and the road rash on his knees was making walking painful.

Back by the hotel, he could see a robot making its way across the road. In the absence of a handy bench, Leon flopped uncomfortably onto the pavement, followed by Morales and Jas. Ben stood like a monument to stoicism, trouser legs in shreds. Morales looked at him curiously.

“Cathy, this is Ben Codona. His firm built the hotel,” Leon said. “He was with Sir Arthur, checking everything was ready for the big opening tomorrow.”

“Not that it’ll be happening,” Ben said. 

“The same Ben Codona who found a DB in the Kings Arms?” Cathy asked.

Ben nodded.

“You’re not having a good week,” Cathy said.

Ben looked up at the silent motorway bridge. “I’m not sat on the M4, so I’ll call it a win.” He smiled at Morales, and Leon felt a twinge of, what? Jealousy? 

Don’t be stupid.

“It seems I owe you an apology, Leon,” Morales said.

Leon blushed, and didn’t answer. But Jas did. She looked Morales in the eyes, and said, “You do. The DI called it right, and you ignored him. Something you might want to mention to No Knock and Hooker.”

“Sergeant!” Leon snapped, but Morales shrugged, and looked down at the pavement.

“Shall I step away for a moment?” Ben asked, the smile still turning up the corner of his lips.

“No,” said Leon. “Yes,” said Jasmine.

In the event, it didn’t matter. A uniformed officer jogged towards them. “Looking for Mr Ben Codona? Is that you, sir?” he said to Ben. “Bomb squad want a word about load-bearing walls if you wouldn’t mind.” He led Ben away, behind the bulletproof armed response unit vans.

“Guv,” Jasmine said, and there was urgency in her voice. “I need to talk to you about Old B … Sir Arthur.”

“Don’t mind me,” Morales said.

“Thing is, when we were at his house, I was looking at those pictures on the piano, and one of them was of him and his mates. Sir Arthur is front and centre, and he’s wearing the earring. Or one just like it.”

For a moment Jasmine’s words made no sense. Why was she talking about photographs and earrings when they had all escaped being blown up? Might still be blown up. Then the cogs turned and things started to click into place. 

“Simon Luck’s car was towed from close to Sir Arthur’s house,” Leon said.

“We should talk to him, guv.”

Leon agreed, except Sir Arthur had last been seen in an ambulance headed to hospital with a suspected heart attack.

“This is your cold case?” Morales asked.

“Cold case and suspect’s-body-in-river case,” Leon said. “Sir Arthur keeps popping up every time we turn round.”

“What’s this earring?”

“Ben Codona found an earring in the rubble at the Kings Arms, and Jasmine says she’s seen a photograph of Sir Arthur with the same earring. Only we probably shouldn’t ask him about it because he’s in hospital. And anyway, we’re not supposed to talk to him.” Leon sounded despondent even to himself.

“Who says you shouldn’t talk to him?” Morales asked.

“Your mate Brian Hooker,” Jas said.

Leon opened his mouth to object, but Morales got in first. “Leave Hooker to me. I owe you. Go and talk to him, assuming he’s still breathing.” She began to get to her feet, and Leon was guiltily pleased to see that she was now as stiff and bruised as him.

Leon and Jasmine had to get a taxi to West London Hospital, despite the dozens of police cars and drivers around the hotel, most of whom seemed to be employed keeping journalists at bay. Their badges got them as far as a waiting room outside the Intensive Care Unit, but no further.

“Sir Arthur is having emergency surgery,” a very sour-faced nurse told them, looking at their torn clothes and bruises with the kind of expression Leon imagined she kept for drunken idiots in A & E. “He won’t be up to talking until tomorrow at the earliest. You may as well leave.”

“Can we get a coffee?” Jas asked, and Leon agreed. He wanted coffee and comfort food, though actually any food would do. As they set off back to the lifts and the food court by the entrance a familiar figure walked towards them.

“Lady Bohun,” Leon said. “We came to talk to your husband, but I understand he’s in surgery.”

Miriam Bohun’s expression was tight. “He brought it on himself. I told him to moderate his drinking, but he took as much notice of me about that as he did about anything else.”

“Perhaps we could ask you a couple more questions,” Leon said. “We were headed for the food court.”

Lady Bohun gave a shrug of acquiescence. “Of course. If you can call it food,” she said.

Leon found a reasonably clean and quiet corner table, away from the main doors. An acoustic screen gave them a little privacy from the hospital transport desk. Jas collected hot drinks, chocolate and sandwiches. Miriam Bohun looked at the food with an expression that Leon read as not in this lifetime. His stomach rumbled, so he opened a cheese sandwich and to hell with professionalism. Lady Bohun might not have to eat but he did. He took a bite, chewed and swallowed. Lady Bohun fiddled with her coffee cup. Her hands were beautifully manicured, and she wore a delicate fragrance that cut through the unsavoury aroma coming from Leon and Jasmine. In further contrast to them, her clothes were neatly pressed and her hair perfect. But then, she hadn’t been blown up.

“There was an explosion,” Leon said, “which is why we are looking a little the worse for wear.” He was hoping to lighten the atmosphere and was rewarded with the smallest of smiles. “It’s why we dashed off earlier, from your house,” he went on, trying not to gabble. “You said your husband was at the hotel, and it occurred to me that there might be a bomb.”

“It appears you were right,” Lady Bohun said. She picked up her coffee gingerly but put it down again without actually drinking any. Leon couldn’t help noticing that she didn’t seem exactly overcome with relief that Sir Arthur hadn’t been caught in the blast.

Jasmine had finished half her sandwich and inhaled most of her coffee. Bad temper was coming off her in waves. Leon nodded in her direction. You ask the questions.

“When we were at your home, earlier,” Jasmine said, “we asked about Simon Luck.” She got out her phone and produced Simon’s picture. “This man. Are you quite sure you don’t recognise him?”

Lady Bohun let a breath out down her perfect nose and pursed her lips.

She looked like she was coming to a decision.

“He was a blackmailer,” she said, not looking up from her hands which were folded on the table in front of her. If Jasmine had been a dog, her ears would have pricked. Leon watched her intently.

“Really?” Jasmine said, eyebrow raised.

“I heard him threatening my husband. He wasn’t the first, and if Arthur recovers, I don’t suppose he will be the last. These people. They all suppose no one knows about Arthur’s … preferences. For men, I mean. Sexually. The Party knows, I know. No one cares anymore.” She sounded weary.

Keep telling yourself that, Lady B.

Leon swallowed. His ears were still buzzing, and his voice sounded wrong. “You’re saying Simon Luck was going to tell people — you, or perhaps the media — that Sir Arthur is gay?”

“Actually, no.” It came out as neeoh. “This Luck man was accusing my husband of murder.” Leon saw two streaks of red blooming on Miriam Bohun’s cheeks. “I think he was serious.”

“Serious as in you think Simon Luck genuinely thought your husband had murdered someone?”

“Serious as in he claimed to have seen Arthur kill someone. A long time ago. Andy. That was the name he said.”

“Where were you when you heard this, Lady Bohun?” Leon asked.

The blush spread from her cheeks down her neck. “By the door to the drawing room. The room you were in today. I was listening. It’s not pleasant to admit, but I’m entitled to know what’s going on in my own home.” Her voice rose and sped up towards the end of this statement, as if she were trying to convince herself. Personally, Leon thought she had no need for justification. But then he also thought Sir Arthur Bohun was a class A creep.

“What was your husband’s response?”

“He said he would pay. I heard them coming towards the door, so I withdrew. I have no idea what happened after that.”

“And you didn’t think you should tell us this when we first spoke to you?”

“I—I was confused. Of course I didn’t believe Arthur could be a murderer, but when he agreed to the man’s demands… I needed time to think about it.”

“When was this?” Jasmine broke in.

“Wednesday night. Quite late. Late enough that I went to bed. I don’t share a room with Arthur.”

“So you don’t know if Sir Arthur went out?” Leon asked.

Miriam Bohun shook her head. She didn’t ask why he wanted to know. Instead, she said, “It’s my money, you know. Building these hotels. That’s why he married me.” She sighed. “I thought he was such a catch. He was very handsome and charming.” She picked up her coffee cup again, and this time Leon was certain she was going to take a sip. But she didn’t. “I was prepared to stay silent on his sexual indiscretions, but I draw the line at murder. I refuse to have my name dragged through the mud along with his.”

“One last thing, if you don’t mind, Lady Bohun.”

Lady Bohun put her handbag on her lap and pushed her chair backwards, away from the table. “Go on. Then I must go and see my solicitor.”

“Do you remember the hurricane in 1987?”

Miriam nodded. “I was in Florida. Everyone was amused that I was in the land of hurricanes and there was one in London.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Aha moments were rare enough in police work. This case had been more like a series of WTH moments glued together by a series of entangled threads. When Leon suggested this to Jasmine, she looked at him as if he were nuts. Maybe she was right. He’d been the one unravelling during this case even if there had been good reason.

They left Lady Bohun at the hospital, the ICU staff having made it clear they’d get nowhere near Sir Arthur today. They had arranged for a uniformed officer to stand outside his door. As Jas said to Leon as they walked to the waiting taxi, they shouldn’t take any chances that the old coot might make a break for it, taking the machines and IVs with him.

Leon agreed. His ears kept ringing, no matter how hard he pressed them.

Jasmine noticed, saying, “Do you want to get your ears checked while we’re here?”

“They’ll be fine,” he said. “Let’s get the paperwork done and go home.”

“Amen,” she agreed.

The taxi driver who’d been leaning against his vehicle squinted at them as they approached. “You been rolling in the dirt?” he asked with a thick Glaswegian accent.

“Nah, got blown up today,” Jasmine said as they climbed in.

“That hotel?” he asked when he was behind the wheel.

“Yeah.”

“You were lucky.”

“Not luck.” Jasmine winked at Leon. “A good cop who worked it out in time.”

“That’s enough,” Leon said, and she chuckled.

“Shoulda worked it out sooner, fella,” the taxi driver said. “Then you wouldnae been blown up.”

Leon snorted. “You’re right there, mate.”

They fell silent then and Leon tried to tug on the threads in his mind to pull the case together. Bohun was definitely the spider in the centre of the web. All threads led back to him. Decades apart, Andy Castle and Simon Luck had been overambitious, thinking they could play with him, but they’d merely been flies caught in his sticky web.

“All right, guv?” Jasmine asked, breaking in on his thoughts.

He sighed and leaned back in his seat. “I will be. Thanks to you.”

“You solved the bomb threat,” she pointed out.

“And you wrapped up our case from a photo,” he countered.

She waved a hand. “Eh, I think your Mr Codona had something to do with it too.”

“He’s not mine.” But Leon couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. “Yeah, he had a hand. It’s been a good day.”

“Except for old Bone.” Jasmine didn’t even bother to hide her smirk. “Do you think he’ll live to face a trial?”

Leon shrugged. “Not our problem. We’ve got our case. We can make it stick whether he lives or not.”

“He’s probably got an expensive firm of solicitors on retainer.”

“Unless Lady Bohun gets them in the divorce. Again, not our problem. We’ve done our job.”

Jasmine grunted. “Who do you think will do the press conference?”

“The Commander and DI Morales,” he said, resigned to the fact. There was no way he’d be allowed anywhere near the press. Morales would get the credit and Hooker, the glory. Leon would spend the evening avoiding the news and looking for that transfer he’d been thinking about.

For once Jasmine didn’t explode at the thought. Maybe she was as resigned to it as he was. They might not get the credit they deserved on the terrorism case. But they had solved two murders nearly forty years apart and brought down a killer MP. Not a bad day's work.

“Mum will be pleased,” he murmured.

Jasmine looked confused.

Leon lowered his voice so the driver couldn’t hear who he was talking about. “She never could stand having Bohun as our MP.”

They arrived outside the police station. Leon paid the driver and followed Jasmine inside. He wanted to wrap this up so he could go home, shower, and snuggle with the cats. He was resigned to the fact Moxie was now here to stay. Robin would probably smother him in his sleep if he took Moxie to a shelter now.

Inside their office it was chaos. Where it had been quiet this morning, now it seemed like the whole office was in, although it was probably just Morales’s team and officers from Counter Terrorism. Leon recognised a few who’d been at the site. One sweaty, red-faced officer raised his hand when he spotted Leon, who returned the greeting. Despite his unprepossessing appearance, he’d been okay to work with. Then Leon looked down at himself. Who was he to talk about appearances?

“I’m going to clean up,” he said. “I feel gritty all over.”

“Me too,” she agreed. “Meet back in your office with coffee?”

“Done.”

They veered towards the toilets, away from the chaos. When Leon emerged ten minutes later, he felt marginally cleaner and less stressed. That changed when he spotted Morales talking to the Commander outside her office. Morales wore a serious expression and Hooker had the look of a man wanting to be anywhere except here. With any luck Leon could slink into his office and no one would spot him. He needed coffee before he could face the brass.

Then Morales looked his way and said something to the Commander who turned to face him. Hooker’s expression darkened, but he beckoned Leon as if he were a dog.

Leon sighed and negotiated his way through the crowd to them. He spotted Jasmine heading to his office with two cups and held up his hand in a five minutes gesture. Jasmine nodded, awkwardly backed into his office and closed the door. Leon envied her freedom.

“Sir,” he said, cheerfully as he could as he reached Hooker and Morales.

“You’ve had a busy day, Peterson,” Hooker said, sounding as if he were sucking on a lemon.

“Yes, sir,” Leon agreed.

“I told the Commander you were the one responsible for today not turning into a catastrophe,” Morales said.

“Thanks,” he said sincerely, turning to her. He appreciated her support more than he could say.

She gave him a wry smile. “I should have listened to you sooner.”

“You were there when I needed you.”

“Good work, both of you,” Hooker said, sounding as if he were chewing a mouthful of broken glass. “I’m holding a press conference in an hour. I’ll mention both of you.”

Leon flicked a glance to Morales and her expression turned even more wry. Hooker was going to claim all the glory for himself and leave his DIs out in the cold, punishing them both.

Hooker looked down his nose at Leon. “I understand you’re harassing Lady Bohun now. Now. When she’s stressed. I told you to leave them alone. I⁠—”

“Sir Arthur murdered Andy Castle and Simon Luck.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hooker snapped.

“He murdered Luck for trying to blackmail him over Castle’s death. I can only surmise why he murdered Castle the night of the hurricane. Given the location and Castle’s preferences…” He let it go there as Hooker’s face darkened.

“Tread very carefully, Peterson. Being a police officer won’t stop you being sued for slander.”

Leon curled his lip. “Being an MP won’t stop Sir Arthur being tried for two murders.”

“He couldn’t have.”

“He did. And I will prove it. It’s not surprising he inveigled himself into the investigation at the beginning. It’s a standard tactic. He wanted to find out how much we knew, which wasn’t a lot then.”

“Have you got an airtight case? You’ll need it if you intend to pin the murders on Sir Arthur,” Hooker warned, his eyes bulging.

“We have evidence that he was at the Kings Arms pub. And we know Simon Luck was blackmailing him.”

“Your main witness is dead,” Hooker sneered.

Leon was beyond infuriated with the man. What the hell was his problem? He forced himself to answer calmly. “And Luck’s car was towed from near Sir Arthur’s house after visiting Sir Arthur.”

“Luck could have been visiting anyone. It’s all circumstantial.”

Leon shoved his hands in his pockets, trying not to lose his patience. “We have another witness.”

“Who?”

“His wife, Lady Bohun.”

“That’s impossible,” the Commander blustered.

“It’s not,” Leon snapped, tired now. Before he left, he would be making a formal complaint about this man, even if it killed his career stone dead. “She told us what Luck had said to her husband about seeing him kill Andy Castle⁠—”

Hooker spluttered and then seemed to deflate. “You’re sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” Leon said grimly. “Lady Bohun was clear on what she heard.”

“You’d better have all the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed,” Hooker warned. “Or the defence will tear you apart in court. If it gets that far.”

Leon fixed him with an icy stare. “I’m always prepared. That’s what makes me a good detective.”

“Yes, well, you can go now.”

And Leon was dismissed just like that. He had to get away from here. He hurried toward his office, a hand on the door when someone called his name.

“DI Peterson?”

Leon groaned inwardly. He had been so close, so close, to getting his coffee. He turned to see a man he recognized vaguely. He was a couple of inches taller than Leon, slim, in a dark suit and a tie…were there foxes on the tie? “Yes?”

“I’m DCI Fox from Counter Terrorism.”

As they shook hands, Leon said, “Yes, sir, I think we’ve met before.”

“We did, back at the start of the operation.”

Fox nodded. “That’s right.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Good job this afternoon. DI Morales told me you were the person who stopped a repeat of what happened in Germany.”

Leon wasn’t going to be falsely modest about this case. It was too important to downplay. “Thanks.”

“I’d like you to come over to Counter terrorism soon,” DI Fox said.

“To talk about the case?” Leon was confused.

Fox shook his head. “I’d like to talk to you about a job.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Gordon’s Wine Bar suggested date to Leon, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. But he went anyway, and if he paid rather more attention to his appearance than usual, that was nobody’s business but his. Embankment station was the usual snarl of gawping tourists trying to navigate their way to Trafalgar Square by standing in the middle of the steps Leon was trying to walk down. The Salvation Army was playing carols, reducing the circulation space even further. Outside, he was conscious of the Thames churning murkily along, and he shivered, thinking of the river police scooping up anyone unfortunate enough to fall in. Or in Simon Luck’s case, be pushed in.

The bar was dark, and horribly busy, hot and noisy. Men in suits were standing in every available spot along the bar. Other groups of men clutching glasses and bottles blocked the spaces between the tables, and every table was jammed with bottles, glasses and plates. Leon forced his way through the crowds, thinking this had been a mistake. Not just the venue — the whole thing. He should be at home, planning what to do about Christmas. Would it be the beginning of the final descent into middle age if he bought presents for the cats? Made them a Christmas dinner of feline treats?

“Leon.” Someone touched his arm. Leon looked down, and there was Ben, somehow managing to hold on to two seats and half a table. There were two full red wine glasses and a mostly-empty bottle near him. Leon wriggled his way past a man and woman who were staring into each other’s eyes and talking in low voices and sat down next to Ben.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, though he wasn’t sure whether he was or not.

Ben smiled. “I’m sorry, too. I should have thought before suggesting this place at just before the holiday. Anyway, we’re here now.” He lifted up a glass. “Red OK? Don’t ask me what it is, all I know is that it’s today’s special.”

Leon nodded. “Thanks,” he said, and took the glass. The wine was smooth and rich. He turned the bottle and peered through the gloom at the label. Shiraz. “It’s good.” Then he couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he drank some more. Dammit, is this a date?

“I’m guessing you aren’t supposed to talk about Sir Arthur,” Ben said. He leaned close to Leon so that he could be heard over the noise. Leon had no choice but to lean closer to reply.

“He’s going to be charged with Simon Luck’s murder,” he said.

“That’ll be the end of work on the Kings Arms then. Unless someone buys the old bastard out.”

It wasn’t a date. Ben simply wanted to know if the job was still on. Leon drank some more wine. That’s good, right?

Ben refilled their glasses, emptying the bottle.

“Surely you’ll be repairing the damage to the hotel?” Leon asked.

“It’s another crime scene. Story of my life, Leon. Police everywhere I turn.” He gave a wry grin. “Not that I’m complaining about my present company.” Leon reached for his glass, unsure once more. “The scene will be released eventually.”

“But Sir Arthur won’t, if you’ve done your job right, and without him there’s no guarantee of funding. The people I employ are a good lot, but they do tend to insist on getting paid.”

“Fair enough,” Leon said, and took another sip of the shiraz, enjoying the mellow, fruity flavour and feeling his muscles relax.

Ben finished his wine. “Let’s go and get some fresh air” he said, “Unless you want another bottle?”

Leon shook his head, and quickly knocked back the remains of his glass.

By the time they stood up, people were fighting for their seats. Ben pushed his way to the door, Leon following in his wake. After the heat of the bar, the embankment was chilly. Leon pulled his coat around him, turning up the collar. Ben did the same. They crossed the road and leaned on the railings above the river.

“Did you get the answers you wanted?” Leon asked. “About the case, I mean, and your work.”

“That’s not why I asked to meet,” Ben said, and now he seemed uncertain. “I wanted to spend some time with you, not doing police things.” A pause. “But it’s complicated.”

“OK,” Leon said slowly. Fantastic. He’s married. Or straight. Or something.

Ben stared out at the river. “I’ve been seeing someone. It’s over, but there are things to sort out.”

Yeah, right. Or something, then.

Ben leaned against the railing and looked at Leon. “Really. I’m not bullshitting. I want to ask you out, but my life is a bit of a mess just now. I guess I’m asking if you might wait a while. Until it’s not a mess.” He turned away. “Sorry, that’s stupid. Forget it.”

“No. I can wait. You know where to find me.” Leon heard himself say. “But I think I’ll go home now. I have cats to buy presents for.” And a sergeant, for that matter. It probably would have sounded less sad if he’d thought to mention her rather than the cats.

Ben smiled. “Get them a catnip mouse from me. And have a good Christmas.”

Half a dozen responses flashed through Leon’s mind, but in the end, all he said was, “You too,” and then they parted with a nod.

When Leon turned for a last glimpse of Ben, he’d already been swallowed by the swirling crowds of Christmas shoppers.

Also by Alex Henry

Murder Under Construction

Murder Underground

Murder Under Contract

About the Author

Alex Henry is the pen name of three authors who between them have over forty years’ experience of writing crime and romance novels.

JL Merrow is that rare beast, an English person who refuses to drink tea. She writes mysteries and contemporary gay romance, and is frequently accused of humour. Her best-known works include the Plumber’s Mate Mystery series and standalone novel Muscling Through.

Find a full list of JL Merrow’s books at: https://jlmerrow.com/, and follow her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/jl.merrow

Ripley Hayes is the author of the Daniel Owen and Charlie Rees mysteries. She lives in wonderful wet Wales.

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Sue Brown is a Londoner with a dream to live on a small island. Coffee fuels her addiction to writing romance and crime, and her Adorkadog snores in harmony as she creates.

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