The aluminium ramp was unfolding itself from the rear doors of the Kangoo. Lazar leaned in to press a button under the dashboard, and the lift lowered slowly towards the road. The roof of the vehicle was high enough to take both Anton and his wheelchair without any undignified heaving to transfer his body to a van seat. It wasn’t the most stylish mode of transport, but it was convenient for the Zhivkos, and so distinctive that it was a gift for surveillance.

From this distance, it wasn’t possible to hear the hum of the electric motor that drove the ramp. But because it was too loud, or for some other reason, the brothers didn’t try to speak to each other over the noise. Lazar was by the driver’s door, waiting for the platform to touch the road so he could connect the winch. Anton looked exhausted, his eyes cast down at his lap. He wasn’t watching the ramp. He must have seen its operation many times before, perhaps regarded it with resentment. It was one more mechanical aid that he shouldn’t have needed but for the damage done to his legs.

Anton could have a weapon concealed under the rug across his knees. The nervous plucking of his fingers at the edges could be his way of keeping a handgun within easy reach, yet out of sight.

But nothing in the intelligence reports had indicated the Zhivkos might be armed. In any case, there was no intention to arrest the brothers, not right there in the street with dozens of passersby getting in the way. If an arrest ever happened, it would be done in the privacy of the brothers’ home at dawn, with the advantage of surprise and force of numbers, a hydraulic ram through the front door and officers in body armour dragging them from their beds before they were even awake.

Before the surveillance officers had turned away from the monitor, something strange happened. Both the Zhivko brothers reacted to something simultaneously. Their heads came up sharply, as if they’d been startled by a sudden noise. Their eyes met across the roof of the Kangoo, and for the first time Anton opened his mouth to speak. No – not to speak, but to shout, to yell. To scream.

It was a scream that never came. If Anton made any sound at all, it was the last one of his life. The force of the explosion hurled him across the bonnet of a taxi and into the middle of the road. His chair was crushed by a bus, but Anton’s body broke away from the wreckage and bounced across the tarmac until he crumpled into a smouldering heap in the gutter. There was just one glimpse of his motionless figure before it disappeared in the cloud of black smoke that surged from the blazing Kangoo.

Lazar Zhivko had been luckier. The blast had blown him backwards against the wing mirror of a parked Volvo. The mirror snapped and a three-inch steel shard pierced his back, penetrating his left kidney. Glass fragments from the Kangoo’s shattered windscreen ripped into Lazar’s face and hands, and shredded his clothes. Flames from the burning vehicle spread rapidly to nearby cars and the smoke dipped and swirled in a sudden breeze.

The window of the store room had blown out, and the shop’s alarms were ringing. The two officers had ducked and thrown their arms over their heads, but it was already too late. Smoke billowed across the window and surged through the gaps in the glass. Debris spattered on the cardboard boxes and showered the floor in a layer of grit.

‘Jesus, what was that?’

The radio was already calling for fire appliances and ambulances. The microphones in the shop would be picking up the sound of the explosion and shattering glass.

Even inside the store room they could feel the heat of the flames. The blast had seemed to happen in slow motion, following a blinding flash of light powerful enough to etch the startled faces of the two victims into the retinas of watching eyes. Their faces would be there for days, forever staring, shocked and frightened, opening their mouths to speak, but never uttering a word.

‘It looks as though someone visited the Zhivko brothers after all.’

23

At Manchester Terminal One, Fry stood in front of W. H. Smith’s, waiting for passengers to emerge from baggage reclaim into the arrivals hall. In the amusement arcade, two teenage boys were playing a grand prix driving game, and the flashing lights were distracting Fry’s attention. She was afraid she’d miss her visitor. But on the other hand, she knew he’d stand out all too well when she saw him.

She recalled Cooper’s comments as she’d left the office to collect Sergeant Kotsev.

‘How will you recognize him?’ he’d asked. ‘He won’t be in uniform, surely.’

‘Well, he’s six foot two inches tall, with black hair, dark brown eyes and a neatly trimmed moustache.’

‘How do you know that? Did his brown eyes just come up in conversation?’

‘Yes.’

But, in fact, the description had been in an email he’d sent her. Fry had discovered it in her inbox immediately after receiving the phone message. Sergeant Kotsev was already in the air by then.

So when he came in sight, Fry recognized him straightaway. He was towing a large black suitcase with four wheels. It seemed to trundle on behind him effortlessly, like the animated luggage in a Terry Pratchett story.

Georgi Kotsev was definitely tall and dark. He had good bone structure, and a slight tan, but not too much. A recent holiday in one of those Black Sea resorts, perhaps? He wore a black leather jacket, quite new, though probably a cut-price copy of a designer label. Fry thought he’d have looked pretty good in a well-cut suit, too. His hair was black, trimmed short, but combed back to reveal a hint of waviness.

He also looked vaguely angry as he came down the ramp. But his expression cleared quickly when Fry introduced herself.

‘Welcome to England, Sergeant.’

Kotsev smiled. ‘Blagodariya. Thank you.’

‘If you’ll follow me, I’ve got a car waiting.’

She ought to say something else, but she’d always found small talk difficult. All the way from Edendale to the airport, she’d been worrying about the prospect of making stilted conversation with a stranger. But as Fry led her visitor across the walkway to the short-stay car park, she found there’d been no need to worry. He began to talk without any prompting.

‘I came by Lufthansa,’ he said. ‘The German airline, you know it? Only four hours and fifty-five minutes, including one stop at Frankfurt. Very quick, very efficient. A British Airways flight is two hours longer – and yet more expensive.’

‘You know, your English is very good, Sergeant Kotsev.’

‘Ah, merci. Thank you. And German aircraft have three inches more leg room. Did you know? That is important, too. For me, at least. Are the British less tall than Germans? No, I don’t think so. Oh, and then there is Czech Airways. A joke, of course.’

‘You’re an admirer of German efficiency, then?’

‘We have to give them credit for what they achieve,’ he said.

Her Peugeot was fortunately close to the entrance. She was anxious to get in the car and be under way.

‘Wasn’t Bulgaria invaded by the Germans during the last war?’ she said as she opened the boot for his suitcase.

The question had come out of her mouth before it had even occurred to her she might sound too much like a character out of a Fawlty Towers episode. Well, that was the danger of making small talk. The pressure to say something that would fill the silence led to stupid comments.

Kotsev started to nod his head, then seemed to change his mind and shook it vigorously instead. ‘No, no – we were on their side. It was the Russians who invaded us.’

‘Really?’

He folded the handle of his case and loaded it into the car. ‘Sadly, there is some ignorance here about our history.’

Fry thought of the people Kotsev might meet back at Edendale. ‘I can’t promise you anything else.’