Marked for Death E-Book

Tony Kent

• Herausgeber: Elliott & Thompson
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Dempsey/Devlin
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 656

Beschreibung

'Gripping' - IAN RANKINThe RICHARD & JUDY BOOK CLUB PICK that sends pulses pounding, Marked for Death will grip fans of David Baldacci and Peter James until the very last page.A deadly secret. A chilling game. A past you can't escape.When London's legal establishment is shaken to its foundation by the grisly crucifixion of a retired Lord Chief Justice, Detective Chief Inspector Joelle Levy is tasked with finding his killer. With fifty years of potential enemies to choose from, only the identical murder of former solicitor Adam Blunt offers a ray of hope: what is it that connects these victims who met such a gruesome end?Assigned to the story from the start, news reporter Sarah Truman sets out to investigate on her own, not suspecting that the trail will lead straight back to her own front door and her fiancé Michael Devlin. A criminal barrister determined to prove the innocence of his own client, Michael is at first oblivious to the return of the murderous figure from his past – until tragedy strikes closer to home.Struggling with his grief and guilt, and now caught up in a madman's terrible quest for revenge, Michael must race to bring the killer to justice – before it's too late.

Leseprobe

‘Utterly compelling from start to finish, and up there with my top reads of the year’

– Robert Scragg, author of What Falls Between the Cracks

‘Thrilling . . . A right proper page turner . . . An edgy, considered and pitch perfect crime drama with great depth, some engaging twists and plenty of unexpected moments – I loved it for its fresh feel and utterly riveting plot. Bring on more is what I say. This is a series I’d like to see run and run. Highly recommended’

– Liz Loves Books

‘A gritty, multi-layered, engaging cleverly constructed thriller . . . a fast, slick explosive read which will leave you breathless, with a clever and unexpected twist at the end. If like me you loved Killer Intent, then you’re in for a real treat. Cannot recommend this highly enough. This will undoubtedly be one of the reading hits of 2019’

– AMW Books

Praise for Killer Intent:

‘A twisty, action-packed conspiracy thriller. Kent knows how to bring the thrills’

– Mason Cross, author of the Carter Blake series

‘A perfectly plotted blockbuster of a book with killer intent’

– Imran Mahmood, author of You Don’t Know Me

‘A must-have read of 2018’

– Sunday Express

‘A compelling combination of political drama and lethal action.

There are echoes of Michael Dobbs’s House of Cards but there is more derring-do in Kent’s twisty tale, which has all the makings of a bestseller’

– Daily Mail

‘An absolute knock-out debut novel’

– Shots magazine

‘Let’s hear some applause from thriller fans! Yes, a new star has arrived with a humdinger that could keep you up all night. I was hooked from the start. The first chapter drips with cold sweat . . . packs a storytelling punch, rather like early Jack Higgins’

– Peterborough Evening Telegraph

‘A fast-paced thriller that packs a punch’

– Crime Fiction Lover

‘Wow! Wow! WOW! This book has everything . . . A #TopReadof2018 – what a superb story by an author who is well and truly on my radar!’

– Crime Book Junkie

For Victoria and JosephYou made everything complete

ONE

Phillip Longman was not woken by the sound of breaking glass. That would have required sleep, and sleep was something his elderly body no longer seemed to need.

A metal rail hung from a reinforced section of the ceiling. Longman’s frail hands gripped it as tightly as they could. Using all of his strength, he pulled his body upright. The automated mattress followed, designed to support him if that strength gave out. Longman was a proud man. Too proud to be raised by a mechanical bed. Too proud for a panic alarm. But pride could not keep him vertical. The mattress was Longman’s concession to his body’s decay.

The sound of exertion filled the room. Grunts. Groans. Heavy breaths. In his younger days Longman had been an active man. Even into his sixties his physical fitness had marked him out from his peers. But his sixties were long gone. Now he could barely climb out of bed.

The mattress finally caught up and pressed against Longman’s back, taking the brunt of his weight. He released his grip on the metal rail and silence returned to the room.

Longman listened carefully.

The sound had been unmistakable. Shattering glass makes a distinctive noise that even his diminished hearing could pick up. But identifying its source was much harder. Was it the sound of a dropped ashtray? A wine glass? Or of a broken window, smashed to admit the uninvited? Not that one possibility was better or worse than any other. In the otherwise empty house of an eighty-five-year-old widower, every one of them was a concern.

Longman strained to listen. At first there was nothing. At least nothing he could hear.

The house was big. Much too big now that his wife had passed away and his children had moved on. But Longman had been unable to bring himself to move. To leave the family home of fifty years. He knew it inside out.

And it was that familiarity that made the next sound an unintentional alarm. The creak of the first step on the main staircase.

It was a feature of the house that went back decades. In the daytime – during the housekeeper’s working hours – it would be the most natural sound in the world. But when the bedside clock read 3 a.m.? At that hour it was terrifying.

The sound of footsteps followed the first creak, but it was drowned out as Longman threw back the duvet and freed his frail legs from its weight. Crippling arthritis forced him to shift his entire body in one movement as he swung his legs from the bed and towards the floor. The pain was excruciating; he had not moved so fast in five years, back when his hips did their job. But he ignored the agony and climbed to his feet, one hand on the solid bedpost for support.

His breathing was out of control, his heart a piston. But Longman pushed himself on, staggering to the walk-in closet in the far corner of the room. For the first time in years he made the distance without a stick or a frame for support. Exhausted, he stumbled as he reached the door. Only his adrenaline kept him upright.

Regaining his balance, Longman gripped the closet door’s handle and then paused, holding his breath in an effort to hear. Nothing could stop the thumping pulse that filled his inner ear, nor the fear that his overworking heart would not keep the pace. Still, it was quiet enough to hear the footsteps.

The closet opened easily. Longman transferred his weight from the handle to the frame, in order to let the door pass. Once open he moved inside. Fumbling in the dark, he found the light-switch and pressed it just as the sound of footsteps stopped outside the bedroom.

The light was at first blinding, but Longman’s eyes adjusted quickly. The sight that greeted them, however, was not worth the effort. The hope that had been carrying him disappeared in a single breath.

What did I think I’d find? Longman asked himself. What bloody weapon would have been of use anyway?

Longman had not heard the door open, but that sixth sense that humans possess – that feeling that tells us when we are not alone – had not diminished with age. The bedroom was no longer empty. Longman knew that before he turned to see who had joined him.

‘You?’ Longman’s exclamation was more an accusation than an expression of shock.

It was the eyes. The most soulless Longman had ever seen. He would recognise them anywhere.

‘You remember me.’

The reply was a statement, as sinister as the speaker. A predator born and bred.

‘Some things one never forgets.’ Everything about the man was as Longman remembered. ‘And some people.’

A smile formed on the predator’s lips, but his pale eyes remained cold. It was a smile of triumph, not happiness.

‘True.’

The man moved closer. His pace was slow. Deliberate. A viper finding its range.

‘It’s good you’ve kept that mind of yours,’ he said. ‘Even at your age.’

‘What does that matter?’

The old man spoke with defiance. Those pale, merciless eyes had told him his fate. But he would not face it on his knees.

‘Oh, it matters.’

For the first time there was life in the voice. A reaction to Longman’s own fire. It did not add warmth.

Only inches now separated their bodies as Longman felt a vice-like grip constrict his wrist.

‘Because it means you’ll feel every second of what’s coming.’

TWO

Michael Devlin wiped through the condensation that clung to the bathroom mirror. His reflection stared back at him. Stripped to the waist, a collection of scars dotted his torso. They were remnants of injuries that were rare for men of his so-called ‘civilised’ profession. Permanent reminders of a life more eventful than he had ever intended.

Michael plunged his hands under the running hot water and threw the pool that grew between them onto his already dripping face. The sting of the heat bit into the scar tissue under his left eyebrow. It was a familiar feeling. Another old wound.

Minutes later he was clean-shaven. A full-head plunge into a basin of ice-cold water ended the process. It was an important morning ritual, shocking him to full consciousness ahead of the day.

With his morning fog shifted, he dried himself and quickly finished getting ready, pulling on a bespoke pin-striped three-piece suit that highlighted his tall, triangular frame.

Michael was not a vain man but he understood the importance of appearance. First impressions matter.

Finally ready, he headed downstairs.

The master bedroom and the main bathroom of his Chelsea townhouse were on the building’s second floor. A staircase led upwards to three spare bedrooms and Michael’s home office, and down to a large first-floor bedroom suite. At its bottom was a ground-floor reception, a showroom-standard lounge that was hardly ever used, and a large extended kitchen that was the reason for its neglect.

The kitchen was a whirl of activity. Barely through the door, Michael was ambushed by the cloud of smoke that streamed in all directions from the range cooker at the far end of the room.

Michael stepped back out of the room with a smile and a shake of the head, unfastened the buttons on his suit jacket and slipped it from his shoulders. He hung it up in the hallway, where it would be safe from the cooking fumes.

‘I know you’re out there, Michael Devlin!’

Sarah Truman’s American accent cut through the British voices that were emanating from the kitchen radio.

‘Get your butt in here and get your breakfast.’

Michael strode back through the door, his grin growing wider as he surveyed the chaos of the kitchen. Smoke was still billowing from a thick-bottomed pan containing what had probably once been bacon. Less dramatic were the scrambled eggs that were already on a plate. And as for the sizzle he could hear from a pot of baked beans?

Best not to ask about that one, Michael thought.

‘Effortless as always, sweetheart?’ he asked playfully, stepping behind Sarah and wrapping an arm around her waist.

‘I don’t have time for silly games this morning, Michael.’

Sarah spoke without turning. She ignored Michael as he kissed the back of her neck. Instead she reached out for the plate with the eggs to add the rest of his breakfast.

‘Now sit at the table.’

‘How could I do that?’ Michael took the plate from Sarah’s grasp with one hand as he spoke. He held it high, out of her reach. With his other arm already around her waist, he pulled her into him.

‘When I’ve got the most beautiful woman in London standing right in front of me?’

‘I’m going to drop the pan!’ Sarah laughed as Michael pulled her close, pinning her back against him. He buried his freshly shaved skin into her hair as he kissed her neck again. This time he got the reaction he wanted; Sarah turned her head and met his lips with her own.

‘Happy now?’ she asked as she pulled her face away, at least as far as she could manage.

‘As happy as any man in a burning building could be,’ Michael replied, laughing as he released his grip on Sarah’s waist.

‘Screw you, Devlin!’ Sarah’s mock outrage was well acted, but Michael did not buy it for an instant. ‘It’s not that bad.’

‘Not that bad?!’ Michael laughed as he reached over her shoulder and switched the cooker’s extractor fan to maximum. ‘I almost went looking for our fire blanket.’

‘Do you want your breakfast or not?’

Honest answer? Michael thought. One look into Sarah’s startling green eyes stopped him from saying the words aloud.

‘Yes, yes please,’ he said instead. ‘Sorry.’

‘There’s nothing to be sorry for.’ Sarah sounded disappointed at her own impatience. ‘Cooking’s just not my forte and it’s frustrating.’

‘I get that,’ Michael replied, placing two glasses of fresh orange juice on the kitchen table and taking a seat. ‘But no one’s good at everything. Sometimes you’ve got to accept your own limitations.’

‘Says the most competitive man on the planet,’ Sarah laughed at her own response as she plated the food, set the plates down on the table and took her seat.

All the while Michael watched, marvelling that his life had turned out this way. That he had found his perfect woman. And that she had found him.

They had met less than two years ago, in the most extreme of circumstances. They had made a connection then that had only grown stronger. What could have been a crush had become something much more. And so here he was. Thirty-nine years of age, with the twenty-eight-year-old fiancée he adored.

It was more than Michael could have ever hoped for.

‘So what’s today?’ Sarah asked. She dashed some Tabasco sauce onto her meal as she spoke.

‘Wandsworth Prison,’ Michael replied, taking the same hot sauce and adding it to his own petrified bacon. ‘First meet with Simon Kash.’

‘The boy in the murder trial?’

‘Yep.’ Michael drained half of his orange juice. ‘Bad business. What about you? What time are you out?’

‘Not until ten, back early evening. Will you deal with dinner tonight?’

‘Could do. I’m out of the prison by midday, then chambers, but I shouldn’t be late home. I’ll have to check with Anne, though. I think she said she wanted to cook tonight.’

Neither spoke for a few moments while they finished their breakfast, with Michael surreptitiously discarding the worst of the charred edges and Sarah pretending not to notice.

‘Will you make sure Anne’s out of bed before you go?’ Michael asked once both plates were empty, gesturing upwards with his eyes.

‘I’ll head up to her as soon as you’re gone,’ Sarah replied.

‘Thanks. And look, I’m sorry to put that on you. I—’

‘She’s family,’ Sarah interrupted. ‘It’s no trouble.’

Michael reached out and gently gripped Sarah’s hand. She meant what she said. He knew that. It made the answer more welcome.

‘But thanks anyway.’

The moment lasted for a few seconds, only ended by Michael’s glance towards his watch. What it told him made him stand and kiss Sarah on her forehead.

‘Time to go,’ he said as he pushed his chair beneath the kitchen table. ‘Can’t be late for young Mister Kash, now, can I?’

THREE

Kathy Gray counted herself lucky for many things. Her husband of thirty years was one of them. They had enjoyed a long, happy and comfortable marriage. Never rich, they were also never less than comfortable. Together they had done much more than keep the wolf from the door.

Then there were her children. Four of them, all very different from each other. The eldest – John – was a carpenter, like his father. A strong, moral man with a growing family of his own. Next came Eric, another manual worker. No wife. No children. But happy, and with a thriving business. Katie was third. She had married young and had dedicated herself to her five children. Which left Chris. Last but by no means least: the baby who grew up to be the surgeon. His mother’s pride and joy.

And of course there was Kathy’s job. Her other life. For almost four decades she had been with the Longman family. She had watched with pride as Phillip Longman soared in his chosen career, basking in his reflected glory whenever his name appeared in the press. He was an important man – a great man – and yet he had always taken the time to make his housekeeper feel needed.

Kathy had the same affection for the rest of the Longman family. For Phillip’s wife, Carol. A wonderful woman, kind-hearted and generous. She had passed at the age of eighty and yet it still seemed she was taken too soon. And for their children; Matthew, Russell and Peter. All of them had been near grown by the time Kathy’s employment had begun, but each had still shown her enough respect and kindness that she cared for them almost like her own.

It had been with great sadness that she had watched the three boys drift from their father in the years since their mother’s death. She had sometimes thought to speak to them on the subject. To give them a piece of her mind. It had never happened. No matter how close she felt to them all, Kathy was not family.

Sadder still had been Longman’s decline over the past five years. Kathy had seen the strength of spirit that had once filled him evaporate as he mourned his late wife. It had been painful to witness yet not once did Kathy think to quit, despite her own advancing years. She had made a commitment to the Longman family that was as solemn to her as the commitment she had made before God on her wedding day. She would see her job to the end.

Her morning routine had changed little over the years. The house was quieter now, with just its single occupant, but that made little difference. As she had on most days for over three decades, Kathy closed the heavy front door behind her, walked to the kitchen, filled a kettle and placed it on the stove. Phillip’s refusal to upgrade to an electric appliance might be amusing but, deep down, Kathy preferred the old ways too.

She turned the stove’s gas knob and clicked for a flame.

Nothing.

Kathy tried again. And again. Still nothing.

She reached out to check for the sensation of expelled gas and immediately felt the problem; a current of air rushing past her outstretched hand. Kathy had not noticed it until now. It had been cold outside as she travelled to work, and she was not yet warmed enough to easily feel the chill breeze that had been sweeping past her.

Kathy turned and followed the stream of cold air back to its source. It brought her to the open pantry door. A door that should have been closed. Feeling her heart beginning to beat a little faster, she looked inside the small room. There was broken glass on the floor, from a small hole in the window. No larger than would be caused by a cricket ball, the hole could easily have been the result of an accident. At least it could have, if the window itself had not been left open.

Kathy span on her heel, her heart was racing. She knew Phillip was not responsible for the window. It had been years since he could reach the pantry without help.

Someone had broken in.

But who? And what for?

Only one man alive knew the answer to that question.

His pale eyes watched her, reading her expression for some hint as to what she would do next. Would she run? Or would she look for the man who had loyally employed her for who knows how long?

She would never know how important this choice would be to her continued existence. Or how lucky she was that loyalty won out.

A smile grew as he watched the housekeeper steel herself to do the right thing. But it grew alone. His pale eyes remained fixed as he watched her take a final deep breath to calm her nerves before starting up the stairs.

The first stair creaked as she took a faltering step into the unknown. The second time it had done so in six hours. Her observer avoided it as he climbed the steps behind her.

Whatever he decided to do in the next minutes, she would have no warning of his presence.

He hung back, watching silently. His mind was made up. Her reaction would be everything. The right scream. The right hysteria. That was what he wanted. That was what would satisfy him. If she gave him that then she would live. If she did not . . . well, then her fate was in her own hands.

Kathy Gray counted herself lucky for many things. But she would never know that her luckiest moment was walking into Phillip Longman’s bedroom and screaming for all she was worth.

FOUR

The first two police officers had arrived in less than ten minutes and had gone straight to Phillip Longman’s bedroom. One had thrown up on the spot. The other had called in the carnage that had awaited them.

The same horror would greet a stream of police personnel over the next thirty minutes. Each was a hardened professional, but still a surprising number were reacquainted with their breakfasts at the sight.

This was no ordinary murder scene.

‘Who’s been cleaning this place?’ Detective Chief Inspector Joelle Levy could smell bleach as she climbed the stairs towards Longman’s room. ‘Someone’s been disinfecting.’

‘No, ma’am.’ The answer came from Police Constable David Wright, who had been one of the first two officers on the scene. The one with the stronger stomach. ‘That smell was strong when we got here.’

Levy gave Wright a quizzical look.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes, ma’am. It was the first thing I noticed. You know, before we went in.’

Might make this interesting, Levy thought.

They continued to the top of the stairs and along the hallway, passing two open doors. Inside each was an immaculate, seemingly untouched bedroom. They suggested diligent housekeeping and a shortage of overnight guests.

The third room said no such thing. Inside it was a hive of activity, filling the air like an electric charge. Here the smell of bleach – now combined with a distinct hint of vomit – grew stronger.

This is what we’re here for, Levy knew.

She stepped inside the room. Her gaze swept from one wall to another, taking in everything in between. An experienced detective, Levy had been prepared for the worst. And the worst was exactly what she got.

In his heyday Phillip Longman had been able to dominate a room. But he had never done so as completely as he did now in death. The sight of his frail body transfixed Levy. His nakedness was shocking. His mutilation was worse. Most appalling, though, was the way he had died. Longman had been crucified against his own bedroom wall. The nails that had been hammered through his wrists suspended him several feet above the floor.

‘Jesus Christ.’

Levy spoke without irony. She had seen terrible things in her professional life. Sights far gorier than this. Yet there was something about the ritualistic nature of this man’s death. It suggested deliberation. Levy had witnessed first-hand the damage a gunshot could do. The injuries caused by a bomb. Even a landmine. But what she was looking at now? Never had she seen such horrific injuries caused so very carefully.

Levy turned away from the still-hanging corpse and scanned the rest of the room. There was a pool of vomit at her feet. Not ideal forensic conditions, but far enough from the body to be no risk of contamination. The other weak stomachs had held out until their owners had reached the hallway and the room looked otherwise untouched.

That won’t last, Levy thought. Already a team of white-suited crime-scene examiners were scouring every inch of Phillip Longman’s last moments.

‘What do you make of it, Steve?’ Levy recognised Detective Inspector Steven Hale through his white suit and hood.

‘Nasty business, ma’am.’ Hale shook his head as he got to his feet. ‘Whoever did this was a sick bastard. This poor old sod had his tongue cut out and replaced with his own balls. Whatever of his own teeth he had left were pulled out one by one. Then he was bled. Slow. They cut vein after vein, up and down his arms and legs.’

‘Any idea which of the injuries killed him?’

‘I think we can take our pick, ma’am. Maybe bleeding him out was what did it, even if it was slow. If that didn’t then the crucifixion would have. No way he could have survived that in his shape.’

‘I’m not sure you or I would have fared much better,’ Levy replied, her eyes never leaving Longman’s corpse. ‘Let me know when we get a definitive answer on cause of death.’

‘Ma’am.’

Hale moved back as Levy stepped closer to Longman. She circled around his body as much as the wall would allow, looking closely at his wounds. Finally she leaned close to one of the open cuts on Longman’s right leg and inhaled deeply through her nose.

‘Yeah, that’s where the bleach seems to have been used,’ offered Hale. ‘No evidence of writhing on the back of his legs or on his back, though. Suggests he was already dead by the time it was thrown over his wounds. Small mercies, I suppose. Would’ve been agony if he’d still been breathing.’

Levy did not reply. Instead she walked to the far side of the room and picked up a chair that sat in the corner. Placing it beside the corpse’s dangling legs, she stepped up. Levy was not a tall woman – little more than five foot five – but then Phillip Longman had not been a tall man. The seat of the chair was level with his crucified feet.

‘Pass me a glove.’

Levy did not look down as she spoke, or as she took the glove from Hale’s hand. Pulling the latex onto her fingers, she carefully opened Longman’s mouth. His castrated testicles had already been removed from inside, leaving a cavity with no teeth and no tongue. A blackened mess.

Levy leaned forward, putting her nose as close as she could without risking contamination of the evidence, and took a deep breath.

‘What is it?’ Hale was intrigued. ‘What can you smell?’

‘Bleach.’ Levy carefully closed the mouth and climbed down from the chair. ‘They filled his mouth with it, too.’

‘After he was dead? Why? What’s the point?’

Levy did not answer immediately. Instead she looked around and caught the eye of PC David Wright, who stood a little more upright under the DCI’s gaze.

‘Has a bleach bottle been removed from this room?’ she asked.

‘No, ma’am. Everything’s exactly as we found it. Other than any investigation of the body, obviously.’

‘What about downstairs? Or in the bathrooms? Have any bleach bottles been taken from any of them?’

‘I’ve no idea, ma’am.’

‘The body was discovered by the housekeeper, right?’

‘It was.’

‘Then go ask her. Take her to the rooms. We need to know.’

PC Wright left the room without another word.

Hale looked bemused.

‘What does a missing bleach bottle matter?’

‘It matters because it kills DNA, Steve.’ Levy had encountered the theory before. She had never seen it used. ‘The bleach wasn’t thrown over him to torture him. It was done to destroy evidence. That’s why the whole body’s drenched in the stuff. Whoever did this got down and dirty. Maybe that was the point. The thrill. But they also don’t want to get caught. They know what they’re doing, Steve. We won’t find anything on the body. And judging by the smell, the only DNA we’ll find in this whole bloody room is in that pile of sick by the door.’

Hale turned to look in the direction of the vomit. He then looked back at Levy.

‘But I don’t get why it matters if the bleach was taken? They won’t have left an empty bottle with fingerprints on it. Not if they’re that careful.’

‘It matters,’ Levy explained, ‘because if it was taken from here then it was a brainwave. An impulse. But if the killer brought the bleach with him, well, then we’re dealing with a professional. Someone who knew exactly what they were coming here to do. And how to cover their tracks. Important we know that, don’t you think?’

Hale nodded.

‘So what’s the point in examining the room, then?’ he asked. ‘If you’re sure we won’t find any DNA or prints or anything?’

‘Because right now this crime scene’s our only lead. Who knows if the bastard missed a spot.’ Levy took a final glance around the room. ‘We’ve got to clear this one up.’

‘What’s so important about this one?’ Hale asked. ‘The fact he was crucified? Is it a religious angle?’

‘Maybe,’ Levy replied.

She turned to the room and raised her voice.

‘I want that kept out of the press, by the way. Not one mention of how this man died. Not one.’

Levy turned back to Hale, taking him by the arm and leading him out of the room and back into the hallway. She felt a small rush of gratitude that he was beside her in this. Hale had been on her team for three years now. There was no one on the force she trusted more.

‘But no, Steve. It’s not the crucifixion,’ Levy said in a low voice, barely more than a whisper. ‘It’s who this guy is. Who he was, I mean.’

‘You know him? Who is he?’

‘It’s Phillip Longman. The former Lord Chief Justice.’

Levy saw the blood drain from Hale’s face. The name was obviously as familiar to him as it was to her. As she knew it would be.

The role of Lord Chief Justice was as powerful as its holder wished to make it, and Phillip Longman had not held back. In eight years in the role he had been responsible for many of the most controversial legal decisions of modern times. Decisions that had brought down criminal and terrorist organisations alike. The mutilated corpse currently nailed to a bedroom wall had been one of the British establishment’s most influential men.

‘The political pressure on this is going to be a nightmare,’ Levy continued. ‘And so is the suspect list. Longman had a lot of enemies back in the day, and there are plenty of bastards with long memories.’

Hale nodded but said nothing as Levy looked back through the open door, staring at Longman’s corpse.

Nothing about the pale, pathetic body suggested the status of the man it had once been. A man whose shocking death would grab all the headlines. A death that was Levy’s to solve.

There was no time to lose.

FIVE

Wandsworth Prison had barely changed in the seventeen years since Michael Devlin’s first visit. The building itself dated back to the 1850s, and every day of those near two centuries were etched across its imposing façade.

The inside was less grim and more modern, but not by much. The reception area – used by both lawyers and social visitors – was an unfortunate mix of stark and run-down. Metal benches with hard steel seats offered no comfort to anyone unlucky enough to sit upon them, while yellow walls painted perhaps a decade ago were still deemed ‘good enough’.

The same complacency applied to the lockers for the valuables of visiting lawyers. Undersized, insecure and mostly broken, still they were neither replaced nor even repaired.

An original stone staircase led into the building from the quiet street outside. All visitors to any of the 1,900 prisoners had to climb those aged steps and pass through the security that separated the inmates from the freedom that lay beyond the walls.

Michael’s recent promotion to the rank of Queen’s Counsel – the mark of distinction separating the very best barristers from the rest – was no grounds for exception. His first visit to Wandsworth seemed a lifetime ago, when he was aged twenty-two and newly qualified. Back then Michael had been surprised to be searched as intimately as were the social visitors waiting alongside him. Any special treatment he had expected – any goodwill that allowed lawyers to pass through with a nod and a wink – had been missing then.

It was still missing now.

‘Who are you here to see?’

The middle-aged prison officer behind the elevated reception desk was all business. No greeting. No small talk.

‘Simon Kash.’

Andrew Ross was Simon Kash’s solicitor and he answered for them both, passing up a formal letter addressed to the Governor of HMP Wandsworth. It introduced Ross and Michael as solicitor and barrister and confirmed their 9.30 a.m. legal appointment with their client.

‘ID?’

Both Michael and Ross removed their photo identification from their wallets and passed them up for inspection without a word. They were returned within seconds and the two men were nodded through.

‘Phones, coins, keys. The usual.’ This request came from a second officer. A woman, younger than the desk jockey and standing instead of sitting. She was the next stop on the security conveyor belt.

A small black tray was slid across the desk as she spoke, which was quickly filled. Wallet, keys and coins from Michael’s pockets. The same, plus cigarillos and lighter, from Ross. Each retained a lever-arch file that contained the bare bones of the prosecution evidence against Simon Kash, along with a notebook and a pen.

The black tray was placed into a single thin locker beside the reception desk. The locker key was handed to Ross, the only other item either man was permitted to bring inside.

The third security station sat at the other side of the reception area. Manned by two more prison officers, the large X-ray machine was beaten, battered and practically obsolete. No doubt it had once been state of the art and the envy of airports far and wide. But state funding had been falling for decades. Airport security had caught up, overtaken and since lapped what the Prison Service could afford. Antiquated X-ray machines and the occasional metal detector were as good as it now got.

A long metal bench barred their path to the X-ray machine. Designed to provide extra seating for when the reception area was busy, it seemed poorly placed when the room was as quiet as it was today. At six foot one, Michael was tall enough that he did not have to walk around the inadvertent obstacle. Instead he just stepped over. Ross was shorter and so had to take the longer route.

‘Everything in the tray, then step over here.’ A third prison officer reciting his mantra.

Soul destroying, Michael thought. They’ve made these poor sods into automatons.

This time the black tray was larger. One per person. Michael placed his few permitted items at the bottom, followed by his suit jacket, wristwatch and belt. Then he placed the tray into the machine and waited for the tatty conveyor belt to splutter into action.

With his back to Ross, the slowness of the X-ray machine gave Michael time to think. To consider – not for the first time – why he was here at all.

The official answer to that question was a simple one. There are certain cases in which only a Queen’s Counsel was deemed qualified to act. Sometimes they do so alone. Sometimes with a junior barrister to assist. Simon Kash’s was one of those cases: a complicated murder allegation that included elements of revenge, of low-level organised crime and which featured more than one defendant and so carried the risk of what was called a ‘cut-throat defence’.

No, it was clear why the Kash trial required a QC. What bothered Michael was the fact that he held that rank at all.

It was not Michael’s age that made him question his promotion. At thirty-nine, he was certainly one of the youngest barristers to be elevated to Queen’s Counsel, but it was not unheard of. What was unique, however, was the fact that his promotion had come without application or interview.

Although unexpected, Michael had needed no explanation when he had received the news six months earlier. It was certainly not based on merit. He realised that immediately; he had not applied and so his merit could not have been assessed. Instead it was a thank you from a grateful government. A reward for his silence following the events in London and Belfast twenty months ago. Sarah had enjoyed something similar as a response to the news story she had put out in place of the truth. Her career had sky-rocketed, taking her from a CNN cub reporter to one of ITN’s leading correspondents.

Neither of them had asked for the career boost, but in Sarah’s case it was well deserved. For Michael, though, he would have preferred to have reached his new rank the right way. Through recognition of the hard work, dedication and skill that he had shown throughout his life at the Bar. Rather than because he had kept his mouth shut. Without that recognition, he doubted his right to call himself a QC, the one thing he had always wanted to be.

It means a lifetime of not knowing if I’m actually good enough, he had thought.

This had been Michael’s mindset for six months. But now? Now his wavering confidence had been joined by guilt. The background to the Simon Kash case – how Michael had been brought in to it – had made things worse.

‘Step over here please, sir.’

The voice of the fourth security officer broke into Michael’s thoughts.

He looked up as the speaker gestured towards a lone step. Michael knew the drill. He stepped up, placed his feet shoulder-width apart and raised his arms to shoulder height. The speaker then spent twenty seconds patting Michael down. She checked beneath his collar, then his cuffs, his waistband and the hem of his trouser legs. She even checked inside Michael’s mouth. Satisfied that he was smuggling nothing into the prison, she allowed him to retrieve his belongings from the X-ray machine.

Michael slipped his jacket back on and moved to the back of the visiting crowd. Ross joined him within a minute, having suffered the same indignity. They waited in silence while Michael let his mind drift back to that first visit.

Seventeen years ago.

Back then he had been surprised to endure the strict security he had faced. Almost two decades later and the only surprise was how little things really change.

SIX

Simon Kash made an uncomfortable chair look downright painful. He looked younger than his twenty-one years. Much younger. His grey prison-issue tracksuit did not help. It swamped Kash’s small frame as he fidgeted in his seat.

Michael’s eyes swept up and down as he surveyed the figure in front of him. What there was of it, anyway. Kash was accused of a crime of extreme violence – double murder. Already it seemed unlikely, and not just because of Kash’s size.

True, the skinny boy did not look strong enough to overpower a teenage girl, let alone two brothers with violent reputations. But that impression alone meant nothing. Michael had encountered men half his own size who somehow possessed twice his strength. No. It was everything else about Kash that gave Michael pause. His nervous manner. His haunted expression. Michael just could not reconcile this frightened child with the animal who had massacred the Galloway twins.

‘Tell me about Darren O’Driscoll, Simon.’

Kash seemed to shrink at the mention of the name. Michael had expected no less. Darren O’Driscoll was Kash’s co-defendant and yet in the thirty minutes they had been in the small, dirty room in HMP Wandsworth’s legal visits block, Kash had neither mentioned O’Driscoll’s name nor alluded to the man’s involvement in the case.

And Michael thought he knew why.

Together, Kash and O’Driscoll were accused of hunting down and killing two brothers in South East London. In their thirties and strong from a working life of manual labour, the Galloway twins were not among life’s obvious victims. Yet they were now dead. Murdered – according to the prosecution – for the grave crime of disrespecting Darren O’Driscoll’s uncle on a construction site in the City.

The motive behind their death was not surprising. Michael had seen many killed for much less. But how they had died? That was another story entirely.

London can be a violent city and Michael had been involved in his fair share of criminal trials arising from that violence. There was little he had not seen. Yet even he was shocked by the attack upon the Galloway twins.

The jury would never see the autopsy pictures.

They should be thankful for that small mercy, Michael thought.

The details would have haunted them. The sight of Martin Galloway alone – his body beaten so badly that every bone in his torso was either fractured or crushed entirely; his hands removed; his knees shattered; his skull caved in from one side – was horrifying. The injuries inflicted on his brother Mark Galloway were worse still.

According to the prosecution it was Mark Galloway who had ‘disrespected’ Darren O’Driscoll’s uncle. If true, the man had more than paid for his ‘crime’. Suffering the same treatment as his brother, the second Galloway had received much more attention after death. The machetes that had been used on both men had focused on Mark Galloway once the twins had breathed their last. His head, arms and legs were all removed, before his broken body was torn apart through sheer ferocity.

It brought to mind nothing less than a medieval execution. An execution that Michael’s mind refused to connect with the nervous, unusual young man ahead of him.

‘Tell me about him, Simon. Tell me about Darren.’

‘What do you want to know?’ Kash did not look up as he spoke. The words were mumbled into his chest.

‘Everything,’ Michael replied. ‘But for now, do you think he was capable of what happened to the Galloways?’

‘Nothing to do with Darren.’

Kash’s answer was quiet. Inaudible, almost. And as short as he could make it. It was a pattern that had developed over the past thirty minutes.

‘I didn’t ask if he did it. I asked if he was capable of it. If he can be this violent.’

No answer. No eye contact. Kash’s gaze did not leave the floor.

Michael pushed his seat back and exhaled heavily. He lifted his hands to his head and ran his fingers through his thick blonde hair.

The sound of Michael’s chair scraping the floor as it moved backwards made Kash jump. It did not make him speak.

‘Look around you, Simon.’ Michael gestured around the room as he tried again.

A small, rickety table and three plastic chairs filled it to capacity. It was hot and dirty. The walls were covered in laminated rules that governed a prisoner’s life.

‘This is your future, son. If you’re not careful you’re going to be stuck in rooms like this for the next twenty-five years. At least. This isn’t a game, Simon. You either help us on this – help us to help you – or you’ll be in here until you’re fifty.’

Kash looked up, his eyes following Michael’s gesture. It took a few moments for the words to sink in.

‘I didn’t do it.’ The words were soft when Kash finally spoke. Like a schoolboy disputing a punishment. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

‘We know that, Simon.’ Andrew Ross cut in. His voice was more sympathetic than Michael’s. ‘That’s why we’re here. That’s why Mr Devlin’s here—’

‘But we can’t do it without you,’ Michael interrupted. He needed Kash to understand. ‘We can’t just make this stuff up. We need you to be honest with us. If you give us the weapons then we’ll go to war for you. But if you hide things from us – if you keep quiet to protect Darren O’Driscoll – then we’re fighting a losing battle.’

‘And if we lose, it’s you that pays the price.’ Ross took up the charge. He no longer sounded sympathetic as he followed Michael’s lead. ‘Us? We both go home. We’ll be disappointed, but we’ll move on. But you get a life sentence. Twenty-five years inside. Maybe longer. And certainly longer than you’ve been alive already.’

Kash did not respond. He just sank further into his seat, seeming to grow even smaller still as Ross’s words settled.

If Kash had been too afraid of Darren O’Driscoll to help himself – and Michael was sure that he had been – then that fear should no longer be his number-one concern.

SEVEN

It was midday as Michael walked down the prison steps, Ross still at his side. The sun had come out in force while they had been inside. It was hot for noon. A few more hours and the tarmac beneath their feet would be melting.

Michael removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie as they passed the building’s boundaries and stepped into the street.

‘Where are you parked?’

Michael watched as Ross fingered a car key.

‘In the garden centre,’ Ross replied, indicating to the left.

Michael’s route would take him right. Towards Earlsfield train station. Which meant that any further conversation needed to happen here.

‘So what’s your take on this?’ Ross asked.

‘The boy’s a mess.’

Michael leaned back against an uneven brick wall as he spoke. The past two hours had been exhausting. Sometimes a client saying nothing is harder than a client who won’t shut up.

‘He knows what happened. And he knows who did it. He’s just too scared to tell.’

‘You think it’s Darren O’Driscoll he’s afraid of?’ Ross asked.

‘Without a doubt.’

Michael had formed a case theory after reading the evidence. His morning with Kash had done nothing to change it. What it had done was strengthen his determination to protect the boy from himself.

‘Darren O’Driscoll killed the Galloways,’ Michael offered. ‘Him and whoever else; I don’t believe he could have done it alone. But I don’t buy that Simon was part of it. Not hands-on, anyway. Not in the role Colliver gives him.’

Terry Colliver was the prosecution’s main witness, and certainly Simon Kash’s biggest problem.

‘So you believe him?’ Ross sounded pleased. ‘Simon, I mean. You think he might actually be innocent?’

Michael did not answer immediately. Instead he took a few seconds to compose his thoughts. It was important to get this right.

‘Derek thought so,’ Michael finally replied. ‘He spent a lot of time with the boy and he’s a better judge of character than I’ll ever be. I’ll go with his gut.’

Derek Reid had been Kash’s barrister until two days earlier. That had changed when the trial judge ruled the case was suitable for a QC. Reid had never reached that status, and so the case had been taken from him and given to Michael. None of which would be unusual were it were not for the fact that Reid was Michael’s close friend, his former pupil-master and the man Michael consistently rated as the most talented advocate he had ever seen.

It was another reason Michael felt uncomfortable – and a little guilty – about his premature promotion. The fact that he was now deemed – wrongly, Michael felt – a safer bet than Derek Reid.

He wondered if Ross perhaps shared the same view.

‘About Derek,’ Ross began. ‘You know I didn’t want to lose him, right? It wasn’t my call.’

‘I know.’ Michael needed no explanation. ‘But Simon would’ve been better off if it had been. Your call, I mean.’

‘He has you now, Michael.’

‘He would still have been better served. There’s no one better than Derek.’

‘Not even you?’

‘Not even me. Especially when I have less than a week to get myself ready for trial.’

A clanking mechanical sound interrupted Ross as he opened his mouth to respond. Both he and Michael turned to face its source.

The prison’s automated metal gate was slowly opening. It was the one route in and out of the complex that did not sit at the top of a staircase. As it slid aside, the sound of aggressive rap music filled the air.

For a moment Michael thought it was coming from inside the gate. He quickly realised his mistake as he spotted the source of the harsh lyrics.

A black BMW M760Li sat barely thirty feet away, parked against the kerb in a long line of cars. Until now its tinted windows had hidden its occupants and suppressed the beat of its stereo system. But now its doors had opened.

Three young black men in their early twenties – if not younger – stepped out.

‘Seriously? They’re in a hundred-thousand-pound car? Outside of a bloody prison?’ Ross did not keep the disbelief from his voice. ‘They turn up here of all places, in that thing, blaring out music about guns and gangs. And then they wonder how the police find them?’

‘You know them?’

‘Not those three. But plenty like them.’ Ross indicated the car with a nod of his head. ‘I remember when villains had to be smart to earn that kind of cash.’

‘Maybe someone else is smart.’ Michael gestured towards the prison gate as he spoke. Subtly, so only Ross could notice.

The gate was now fully open. Large enough for a prison van to pass through. The width and height were unnecessary. A lone figure stepped out as the gate began to close. He was older than the BMW’s occupants by a generation. Tall with broad shoulders, he carried the few belongings he must have accumulated in prison in one hand, inside a transparent plastic sack.

One of the BMW men approached and was handed the sack without a word of greeting. A clear indication of rank. The man ignored the car’s other occupants, too, as he climbed into the front passenger’s seat and closed the door. The music that had filled the quiet street stopped an instant later.

The newly released prisoner had asserted his unquestioned authority.

‘Christ,’ muttered Ross.

They watched the original three men climb into the car. The air of menace that had surrounded them minutes before had been utterly dispelled. Replaced by complete subservience.

‘Have you ever seen anything like that?’ asked Ross.

‘A few times.’

Michael’s answer was half to himself. Ross had no idea how intimately Michael understood such criminal hierarchies. What they had just witnessed had been the reality of his childhood and it brought back unwelcome memories of his father. And of his brother.

‘I’d best be getting back to chambers,’ Michael announced abruptly as he tried to force the memories down. ‘There’s a lot to do to be ready for trial.’

‘Understood. Anything you need from us, I’m on the end of the phone.’

The sound of the BMW’s engine interrupted Ross’s reply. It roared as the car sped south from its parking space. The 20 mph speed limit was broken in barely a second.

‘I’ll probably call tomorrow, I expect.’ Michael spoke again once the sound of the engine had faded. ‘First I need to read the rest of the evidence and see exactly where we are.’

‘I’ll be waiting, then.’

‘Good to know.’ Michael reached out his large hand, grasped Ross’s own and shook it firmly. ‘Speak soon.’

Their observer had never believed in fate. In any guiding force other than his own will. His own determination. That certainty had never been shaken, and it was not shaken now, as his pale eyes took in the unexpected sight of Michael Devlin.

It could be no one else. Devlin was as distinctive now as he had been then. Maybe more so. Older, certainly, with a few extra pounds on his frame. A few more lines on his face. The difference between a man and a boy. But he had kept both his thick blonde hair and his slim, strong build.

He had always wondered if he would see Michael Devlin again. Now he had. But would Michael Devlin ever see him? That was the question.

He had not yet decided. But whatever the answer, Devlin was not his concern today and no unexpected appearance outside of Wandsworth Prison would change that. There were other priorities. Other people much more deserving of his attention.

There was no fate. Only coincidence. He would follow his own path. And today that path led elsewhere.

EIGHT

Sarah Truman felt the first trickle of sweat as it passed the base of her neck.

June in London. It should not be this hot. The city traded in the mild. A little snow in winter. Rain when it was least wanted. Sunshine so weak that the English had invented warm beer instead of cold lager.

The lack of extremes had been a selling point for Sarah. Too many Boston winters made the predictability of the British weather attractive.

But for the past three weeks the climate had been off-message. Day after day of cold mornings leading to extreme dry heat. Today offered no reprieve. It was barely noon and so the heat would only increase as the hours passed.

Sarah looked back longingly at the outside broadcast van in which she had travelled. Remembered fondly the feel of its air conditioning.

It had been less than five minutes.

‘How long do you think?’

Sarah turned to face the questioner. Nathan Benson. One of the network’s new breed of cameramen. Technological whizz-kids without a lick of experience or a jot of common sense. Sarah missed the old guard. One in particular. She felt the familiar pang of sadness that hit her whenever she thought of Jack Maguire. He had been killed in an explosion less than two years ago. Just before Sarah had started running for her life. Just as she had met Michael.

‘How long for what?’ she asked, shaking off the distracting thought.

‘How long will we be here? There’s nothing happening.’

‘It’ll take as long as it takes,’ Sarah replied. Advice she had been given years ago, by a cameraman Benson could never hope to be. ‘We’ll wait until they’re ready to tell us something.’

Benson nodded. Sarah’s tone was clear: no follow-up questions were welcome. Instead he concentrated on his state-of-the-art equipment. Digital adjustments that would mean nothing to anyone outside of his industry.

Sarah watched for a few seconds, bemused, but Benson’s camera could only hold her attention for so long. Quickly bored by his tinkering, she walked back towards their van. It was parked on the nearest kerb. Five others – identical but for the network logos – were parked close by.

Sarah passed them all. Across the street. Far enough now, she turned and looked back at the scene she had left behind.

The house itself was impressive. Big, even for the location. Sarah would expect perhaps six bedrooms, none of them small. The driveway was visible from the road, behind automated iron gates. A large space, block-paved across. An intricate jigsaw that had no doubt taken patience and back-pain to complete. Everything about the property said ‘Family Home’.

Sarah knew that it was no such thing. Not any more.

Wiping a sheen of sweat from her brow, Sarah looked around. The neighbouring houses seemed quiet. Not a single face at a single window. Not that Sarah expected anything else. When Scotland Yard’s Major Investigation Team come to a community like this, no one’s head comes above the parapet. Friends become acquaintances, acquaintances become strangers. With MIT around, the best neighbours would rather be left alone.

The heat was rising. Sarah could feel it. She crossed the street once again, this time heading straight for a small huddle of three reporters, one man and two women. From the visible effects of the heat, all three had been here a while.

‘Miss Truman.’ The male reporter greeted her. He was perhaps the same age as Sarah. Certainly not yet thirty. But like the others, he was on a much lower rung of the career ladder. ‘We don’t usually see you at this sort of thing.’

‘What can I say? I thought I’d catch some sun.’ Sarah smiled as she spoke. Hoped friendliness would disguise the fact that she knew none of their names. ‘Has anyone heard anything from inside?’

‘Only what Joanne overheard.’ The CNN reporter. A tall, pretty American. Maybe twenty-two years old. Everything Sarah had been back when she was a CNN cub, only this one must have started even younger. ‘Is that why they sent you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean if Joanne was right and the victim really is a judge. Your husband’s some big-shot trial lawyer, right?’

‘My fiancé’s a barrister, yeah. Not sure I’d call him a big shot,’ Sarah answered. ‘And that wouldn’t give me any angle I can see. There are a lot of judges and a lot of lawyers. They don’t all know each other. Besides, we’re not sure if what Joanne overheard was right.’

Sarah was being disingenuous; the cub had called it. Michael’s profession was the reason she had been sent. And far from being unsure about the victim, Sarah had known since just after 10 a.m. that the murder scene was the address of former Lord Chief Justice Phillip Longman. There were few upsides to the marathon legal dinners she had to endure for Michael. Having contacts at the Ministry of Justice was one of them.

‘Joanne heard what she heard,’ the man insisted. ‘She doesn’t miss much. Then she reports back to ITV and suddenly she’s gone. Replaced by the big guns. That seems fairly cut and dried to me.’

‘You may be right.’ Sarah relented, still with no intention of sharing her information. ‘But if they do know something back at the network, they haven’t shared it with me. I wish they would. At least I’d know I’m not melting out here for offending someone.’

The murmur that passed between the three was hard for Sarah to read. It could be agreement. It could be disbelief. Frankly, it didn’t matter. And before anyone could speak again, the automated iron gates began to open.

‘Nathan.’ Sarah was ready. Her cameraman was not. ‘Nathan!’ The second call was louder than the first, her exasperation clear. It worked. Benson’s lens was quickly up and pointing in the right direction.

The gates had been closed since at least 9 a.m., when the press had started to arrive. Since then a mix of uniformed and white-suited police officers had been moving in and out of the house. Now they walked out en masse, twelve in all.

‘Her,’ Sarah whispered, gesturing towards the only person on the driveway who wore neither a police uniform nor a forensics suit. ‘That’s who we need to speak to.’

Benson adjusted his lens with the press of a button, zooming in on the woman Sarah had pointed out. A glance at his camera’s screen confirmed Sarah’s deduction: the woman in plain clothes was in charge.

NINE

Detective Chief Inspector Joelle Levy had no issue with the press. They were necessary. They could even be helpful. There were any number of murder investigations that would have failed without them, she knew. Despite this, some of her colleagues were far from media-friendly. Some actually saw reporters as the enemy.

Levy had noticed that those same colleagues often had the most to hide.

‘Is there anything on me that shouldn’t be there, Steve?’

Detective Inspector Steven Hale reacted immediately; it was a drill he and his DCI had perfected long ago. Levy was about to speak to the press after two hours in a messy crime scene. If so much as a spot of Phillip Longman’s blood were to show up on screen it could be a PR disaster. And so Hale studied her carefully.

‘You’re clean,’ he finally offered.

‘Thanks.’