War Driving. Sergeant Rye attended by phone.

What on earth did that mean?

‘I’m afraid it is Sunday night, sir; a lot of people have gone home.’

‘Yes, and the man in the white van is outside my apartment again, stealing my internet. It would be good if he went home.’

Stealing my internet? she thought. What on earth did that mean? But at this moment she was more interested in the van. ‘Can you read the registration number of the vehicle to me, sir?’

After a moment, and agonizingly slowly, he said, ‘G for golf, U for – ah – umbrella. Zero, three. O – Oscar, A for alpha, G for golf.’

She wrote it down.

GU03OAG

Suddenly, adrenalin coursing, Emma-Jane was on her feet. ‘Sir, let me have your number and I’ll call you straight back. Your address is Flat D, 138 Freshfield Road?’

He confirmed that it was and gave her the phone number. She tapped it straight into her mobile. ‘Please don’t go outside or frighten him off. I’ll be with you in just a few minutes. I’m going to hang up and I will call you back in two minutes.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Thank you, thank you so very much.’

Nick was still engrossed in his call, and ignored her frantic gesticulations. In desperation she physically pulled his phone away from his ear. ‘Come with me!’ she said. ‘NOW!’

61

Tom, shaking with nerves, sat in his den with a tumbler of Glenfiddich, trying to focus on the emails he somehow had to send to his team tonight about the presentation tomorrow morning. Every couple of minutes he clicked the send-and-receive button on his email. Followed by a large sip of whisky.

At eleven twenty his tumbler was empty and, in need of another, he went downstairs. PC Willingham was in the kitchen, making himself a coffee.

‘Would you like one, Mr Bryce?’ he asked.

Tom held up his glass and, aware his voice was slurring slightly, said, ‘Thanks, but I need something a little stronger.’

‘I don’t blame you.’

‘Would you like one?’ Tom offered, uncapping the bottle.

‘Not on duty, thank you, sir, no.’

Tom gave him an it’s your funeral shrug, filled the tumbler to the brim with whisky, ice and water – but mostly whisky – and went back upstairs. As he sat back down at his desk, he noticed another email had come in from [email protected], with an attachment. The header said, simply,

Message from Kellie.

His hand was shaking so much he could barely steady the cursor on the attachment. He double-clicked.

The attachment seemed to take forever to open. Then suddenly the entire screen went dark. And Kellie’s face appeared.

Harshly lit like a solo performer on a stage under the glare of a single spotlight, she was staring straight ahead, out of darkness. Still wearing her evening dress from last night, she was bound hand and foot and roped to a chair. A silver pendant Tom had never seen before hung from a chain around her neck. There was a large bruise below her right eye where it looked as if she had been punched, and her lips looked swollen.

She spoke in a choked, stilted tone, sounding as though she was attempting to recite from a memorized script.

Tom stared at her, totally numb with shock, as if this was not real, was just a bad joke, or a bad dream.

‘Tom, please watch me carefully and listen to me,’ Kellie said in a quavering voice. ‘Why have you done this to me? Why did you ignore the instructions you were given not to go to the police? They are now punishing me because of your stupidity.’

She fell silent, tears flooding down her mascara-streaked cheeks. Steadily the camera zoomed in tighter and tighter on her face. Then even tighter, tilting down, favouring the pendant on the necklace. Until the necklace filled the screen completely.

And the design engraved on it was clearly visible. It was a scarab beetle.

‘Don’t tell the police about this film, darling. Just do exactly what they tell you. Otherwise it will be Max’s turn next. Then Jessica’s. Don’t try to be heroic. Please do what they tell you. It’s…’ Her voice faltered. ‘It’s the only chance you and I have of ever seeing each other again. Please, please don’t tell the police. They will know. These people know everything.’

Kellie’s voice ripped through his soul like barbed wire.

The screen went pitch black. Then he heard a sound. It started as a low whine, then steadily got louder and higher, more and more piercing. It was Kellie, he realized. She was screaming.

Then silence.

The film was at an end. The attachment closed.

Tom vomited onto the carpet.

62

Nick Nicholl drove the unmarked Vauxhall out of the security gates of Sussex House and floored the accelerator. Emma-Jane, on the radio, gave instructions to the Control Centre operator.

‘This is Golf Tango Juliet Echo. We need uniform backup in the vicinity of Freshfield Road. The incident is at Number 138, but I don’t want anyone there to see or hear the car until I say so – that is very important. Understood?’ She was shaking with nerves. This was the first serious incident she had been in control of, and she was conscious that she might be exceeding her authority. But what choice did she have? ‘Can you confirm?’

‘Golf Tango Juliet Echo, dispatching uniform backup to vicinity of Freshfield Road. Requesting total silence and invisibility until further instructions. ETA four minutes.’

They were racing down a long, steep hill. Emma-Jane glanced at the speedometer. Over 70 mph. She dialled the number that Mr Seiler had given her. Moments later he answered.

‘Mr Seiler? It’s Detective Constable Boutwood; we are on our way. Is the van still outside?’

‘Still outside,’ he confirmed. ‘Would you like that I go and speak with the driver?’

‘No,’ she implored. ‘No, please don’t do that. Please just stay indoors and watch him. I will stay on the line. Tell me what you can see.’

The flash of a Gatso speed camera behind them streaked around the car. Still maintaining his speed, DC Nicholl continued down the hill, accelerating even harder as he saw a green light ahead of them. The bloody thing changed to red.

‘Run it!’ she said to him. She held her breath as he edged over the line and made a sharp right turn, cutting dangerously in front of a car, which hooted furiously at them.

‘I am still seeing the white van,’ Mr Seiler said. ‘A man inside it.’

‘Just one man?’

They were driving along a dual carriageway, a 40 mph limit, the speedometer nudging ninety.

‘I only see one man.’

‘What is he doing?’

‘He has a laptop computer open.’

A second Gatso flashed.

‘You’d better be right about this,’ Nick Nicholl whispered. ‘Otherwise my licence is toast.’

Street lights sped past them. Tail lights appeared like in a DVD on fast-forward. More lights flashed at them, angry drivers.

Ignoring her colleague, she was totally focused on the informant. ‘We’re only a couple of minutes away,’ she said.

‘So you want me outside now?’

‘NO!’ Her voice came out as a shriek. ‘Please stay inside.’

Nick Nicholl braked, ran another red light, then made a sharp left up Elm Grove, a steep, wide hill with houses and shops on either side. The sign harmony carpets above a shopfront flashed past.

‘What can you see now, Mr Seiler?’

‘Nothing has changed.’

Suddenly the radio crackled. ‘Golf Tango Juliet Echo, this is PC Godfrey. Uniform Delta Zebra Bravo. We are approaching Freshfield Road. ETA thirty seconds.’

‘Stop where you are,’ she said, suddenly feeling incredibly important – and very nervous of fouling up.

They passed the gloomy buildings of Brighton General Hospital, where her grandmother had died of cancer last year, then made a lurching, tyre-squealing dog-leg right into Freshfield Road.