Chapter One

1

‘Run it again,’ said Seth.

The technician’s fingers slid across his keyboard, lightly tapping a sequence of keys. On the large screen mounted on the wall, a video began playing.

Seth Baron leaned in for a closer look at the grainy footage. The CCTV cameras at Pearson’s Holdings had not been the best model available and the film was far from high quality, but it was enough to see what had happened. One person, most likely female, entered the warehouse yard, upsetting a drug deal. When the dealers attacked her, she killed all but one of them; then left, taking the survivor with her.

‘Stop!’ he said.

The video froze. Seth pointed to a man firing a pistol. He was so close to the woman that missing was next to impossible.

But Seth had already seen what happened next. The man must have missed; and the woman broke his neck.

Seth squinted, trying to make out the man’s features in the unfocussed footage. He knew him, he was certain of it.

He pointed to the man. ‘Can you zoom in on him?’ he asked.

The technician drew a box around the man on the screen, and tapped a few keys. The image shifted, became less focussed. The man was little more than a black-suited blur on a grainy, grey background. Then the image shifted again, became more clear as the software processed the video. It was not enough to make the man crystal clear, but it was enough.

‘These cameras are shit,’ said the technician. ‘We’re not going to get anything more from this.’

‘We’ve got all I need,’ said Seth.

He turned and hurried out.

2

‘Thomas,’ called Seth. ‘Get Cartwright and meet me in my office.’

The younger man turned at the sound of Seth’s voice. ‘You got something?’

‘It’s not much, but it’s the best we’re going to get.’

Seth burst through the double doors into the main open-plan office and headed to his office without slowing down. Heads turned to watch him as he passed between the rows of desks, each overloaded with trays of paperwork. He pushed open his office door, and began rifling through one of the three tall filing cabinets in the corner.

There was a knock on the door. Timid. He knew who it would be without even looking up.

‘I’m busy, Porter!’ he shouted.

‘Sorry, Sir,’ said the young woman at the door. ‘It’s just you wanted to know as soon as we found anything.’

Seth looked around. Joanne Porter stood in the doorway, her brown eyes wide with the same sense of fear she sported whenever she had cause to visit his office. She was gripping a blue file with both hands, like it was a shield.

‘What did you find?’ he asked.

She handed him the file. ‘Bank records, mainly. Turns out Pearson’s Holdings is owned by a front company run by Charles Longshaw.’

‘Of the Blexham Green mob?’ Seth flicked through the file. The records told him nothing at first glance. He would have to sit down and read them thoroughly, but that would have to wait.

‘The same.’

He walked to his chair and sat down, ran a hand through his short, greying hair, and looked at the grey file he had pulled from the filing cabinet.

‘This doesn’t add up,’ he said.

‘Sir?’

Seth looked surprised to see Porter still standing there. ‘What? Oh. Nothing. That’ll be all, Porter.’

As Porter left, Thomas and Cartwright entered.

‘You wanted to see us?’ said Cartwright.

Seth tossed the grey file onto the desk in front of him. ‘Take a look at that.’

Cartwright picked up the file and flicked through its contents. It was full of photographs, police reports and newspaper clippings. ‘Are these all the same person?’

‘His name is Mark First,’ said Seth. ‘And he’s something of an expert on disguises. He was at the warehouse tonight.’

Thomas looked surprised. ‘He’s dealing now?’

Seth shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. It’s never been his area. He’s an assassin.’

‘So why would he be at a drug deal?’

‘For a hit?’ Cartwright suggested. He placed the file on the desk and pointed to a cut-out from The Times. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. Says here he posed as muscle for a Canadian dealer over in Quebec, then killed him after the deal went down and fled with the cash.’

‘That was twenty years ago,’ said Seth. ‘He doesn’t take risks like that any more.’

‘I’m just saying it’s a possibility.’

‘It’s more likely he was there for something they were bringing in with the drugs,’ said Thomas.

Seth nodded. ‘Or because he knew someone would be there.’

‘The girl, you mean?’ said Thomas.

‘Exactly.’

‘What girl?’ asked Cartwright.

Seth looked over at the door, saw it was closed, and hunted around in his jacket for a keyring. He unlocked the top drawer in his desk and removed a red, loose-leaf file. Stamped on the cover were the words ‘Top secret, eyes only.’

He looked each of the men in the eye. ‘What I’m about to tell you does not leave this room. Understand?’

The younger men nodded.

Seth opened the file and took out the grainy, monochrome photograph from the top of the pile of papers inside. He handed the photograph to Thomas.

‘Her name is Greta Lune; or at least we think it is. She goes by several pseudonyms and, like First, she’s a dab hand at disguises.’

Thomas looked at the photograph, handed it to Cartwright and said. ‘She’s the one who got him, then?’

‘I think so,’ said Seth. ‘The footage from the CCTV isn’t great.’

‘So who is she?’ asked Cartwright.

‘Nobody knows,’ said Seth as he sifted through the pile of papers. ‘But here’s where things get interesting.’

He selected a report from the paperwork and handed it to Thomas. Cartwright handed the photograph back.

‘This is a coroner’s report,’ said Thomas. ‘For… you’ve got to be joking.’

‘No joke,’ said Seth. ‘Officially at least, Greta Lune died in 1963.’

The rain bleeched down, chilling the air and destroying any evidence that was still to be found on the pockmarked concrete floor. Seth stood in the middle of the warehouse’s yard, his umbrella providing only minimal cover from the downpour, and surveyed the scene. Thomas wondered if the old man saw something here that he and Cartwright could not.

‘Let me get this straight,’ said Cartwright. ‘We’re here looking for evidence that a dead person wandered in here and killed a man we’ve been hunting for years?’

‘That’s pretty much it,’ said Thomas.

Cartwright shone a torch around the floor, not sure anymore what he was looking for.

‘But that makes no sense. The dead don’t go around killing people. I’d have noticed.’

‘Oh I don’t know about – hold on! What’s that?’

Thomas’ shone his torch at the wheel of a truck. Cartwright followed suit.

‘I don’t see anything,’ said Cartwright as the two men headed toward the truck.

Thomas crouched by the wheel and felt under the cab. ‘Got it.’

He pulled his hand back, opened his fist and shone the torch onto the palm of his hand.

Laid on the worn leather of his glove was a bullet, silver and flattened on one end. The specks of dried blood covering its surface liquified in the rain and ran off onto his palm.

Thomas slipped the bullet into a clear plastic bag and called out: ‘Mr Baron! We’ve got something you need to see.’

Seth turned the packet over in his hand and stared at it. Silver alloy. Compacted tip.

‘Hollowpoint?’ he asked.

Cartwright shook his head. ‘Unlikely. It hasn’t fractured.’

‘Something doesn’t add up here,’ said Seth. ‘If it’s solid, there’s no payload. If there’s no payload, he couldn’t kill her. We’re missing something.’

Seth clenched his fist around the bullet in its packet. The younger men looked at him expectantly.

‘Maybe the police found something?’ Thomas suggested.

‘Maybe. Get their report.’

Seth stuffed the packet into the inside pocket of his jacket and headed back to the car. The other men followed close behind. As he reached the car, he turned.

‘And put out a search for anyone matching Lune’s description. Maybe we can find where she’s been hiding.’

The police report revealed nothing of use. Seth dropped it onto his desk, ran a hand through his hair and sighed deeply.

‘So close,’ he said, talking to himself.

He looked over at the window, saw his reflection; the night sky turning the glass into a mirror. His gaunt face, all thin wire glasses and grey-black stubble, stared back at him through tired eyes. God, he looked old. When had that happened?

He reached into the lower drawer in his desk and pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet. The bottle had been a birthday present from his son. It still had a message attached, tied around the neck with a piece of string.

‘Happy fiftieth,’ the message read. ‘Here’s something to finish off your liver with.’

He had intended to open it when he caught the bastard who killed his son, but that would not happen now. He was in the police morgue. That bitch Lune had got to him first.

He looked at the bottle. It glinted in the light from his desk lamp. He was about to open it when someone knocked on his door.

‘Come in,’ he said, slipping the bottle back into the drawer.

Cartwright entered, holding a pale blue file.

‘You’re still here?’ said Seth. ‘I thought everyone had gone home.’

‘This just came in.’ Cartwright handed over the file.

Seth flicked through it, scanning the pages quickly; absorbing the gist. He looked up and smiled.

‘I’ve already called Thomas,’ said Cartwright. ‘He’ll meet us there.’

Chapter Two

1

Jeremy Pellier poured himself a double whisky, downed it in one, and poured himself another. His hands were shaking, the bottle clinked against the glass. He needed to pull himself together and the alcohol was not helping. It should, it always used to, but it was not.

How could this have happened? he asked himself.

Lights glided across the bar. Outside, gravel crunched beneath heavy wheels. An engine ticked over, then turned off.

He downed the whisky, pushed himself away from the counter and headed over to one of the plush leather chairs beside the fire. Better they found him looking relaxed than cowering over a bottle.

Low voices murmured at the door. He could not hear what they were saying. The front door closed. A moment later there was a knock on the study door.

‘Enter!’ he called. He hoped his voice was steady.

Dupont entered, flanked by two men in grey suits. Jeremy stood up, smiled a warm smile.

‘Monsieur Dupont,’ said Jeremy. ‘How nice to see you again.’

‘I wish I could say the same,’ said Dupont. His thick Parisian accent made his words difficult to understand. ‘I assume you know why I am here.’

Dupont walked over to one of the leather chairs and sat down. Lost for words, Jeremy sat down also.

‘Now,’ said Dupont, fixing Jeremy with a stare that bore through him. ‘Explain to me exactly what happened tonight.’

Jeremy sat forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. ‘Why don’t you tell me.’

‘Tell you what, Mister Pellier?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. How about why you sold us out?’

Dupont’s associates shifted marginally closer to their boss. Dupont raised a black-gloved hand. The men backed off again.

‘I did no such thing,’ said Dupont.

‘They knew we were coming!’ Jeremy shouted. ‘I was lucky to get out of there with my skin.’

‘This was not my doing.’

‘Then who’s was it? Nobody else knew about this meet.’

‘Mister Pellier, my associates and I are not in the business of selling out those we are trying to make a deal with. It is not good for business. If there was a problem with security, it came from your side, not ours.’

‘All my men were totally trustworthy.’

‘Were you followed?’

‘Of course not! I’m not a fucking amateur.’

‘Then I suggest either you pay closer attention to those you associate with, or you get stronger security. Either way, you have a mole; or a spy.’

Dupont stood up. ‘Either way, our business here is concluded. Good evening, Mister Pellier.’

As the men walked to the door Jeremy leapt to his feet. ‘Now just a fucking minute!’

Dupont turned around slowly. ‘There is nothing more to discuss.’

‘I’m out two million on this fucking deal. I lost good men tonight, loyal men, and more product than I care to think about right now.’

‘That is your concern, Mister Pellier, not mine.’

Dupont walked out, his guards blocking the door so Jeremy could not follow.

‘This isn’t over!’ Jeremy shouted. ‘You fucking hear me, you French bastard!’

He stood at the window and watched Dupont’s car drive away, then pulled the telephone from his pocket and called Reggie Dixon.

‘Pellie, my son,’ said Reggie. ‘Tell me you’ve got good news.’

‘Sorry, boss. The frog didn’t want to hear any of it. Said it was our fault the deal went south, then left.’

‘He’s an arrogant prick but he’ll learn some manners pretty sharpish when I’m through with him.’

‘What do you want me to do, boss? He said we’ve got a Wally.’

‘You’ll do nothing, sunshine. That little prick’s trouble now he’s in with that kraut, Allemand. Just get back here tout sweet.’

Reggie hung up. Jeremy slipped the telephone back into his jacket and went to pour himself another drink.