But that’s Delon’s problem. Not Severin’s.

The stolen vehicles are parked up in neat rows that virtually fill the warehouse. The scene reminds Ptolemy of the inevitable news footage taken in some corrupt dictator’s lair after he’s been deposed; the gold Rollers, the Jags, the Porsches and the Aston Martins the tangible evidence of his vanity and acquisitiveness. Yet this is not Baghdad or Tripoli or some godforsaken African city; this is Newcastle.

‘Recession? What recession?’ says Severin, reading her thoughts. ‘It’s hard to have sympathy for the victims of crime on this occasion, isn’t it?’

‘How many are there?’ she says, running her finger along the glossy flank of a £130,000 Bentley Continental with personalized plates.

‘In here? Thirty-six. But we reckon Tiernan’s processed over two hundred since he got started.’

They climb a flight of metal stairs that in turn lead to an office overlooking the warehouse floor.

‘Welcome to Lost Property Central,’ Severin says. ‘This is WPC Millican. She’ll be helping you.’

Millican, who looks barely old enough to be out of school uniform, let alone wearing one that is police issue, smiles across the room.

‘Looks like we’re going to be busy, WPC Millican,’ Ptolemy says.

The floor of the office is covered with cardboard boxes, each containing bagged belongings salvaged from the stolen cars. It will be the job of Ptolemy and Millican to catalogue the contents of each one.

‘I suppose this is where you just disappear on another undercover job,’ she says to Severin.

Severin gives her a raffish grin through a face full of stubble. ‘The greatest trick I ever pulled was convincing the world that I exist,’ he says. ‘Have fun, Ptolemy – and if you find anything interesting, let me know.’

They meet on the Quayside near to the Swing Bridge. Vos gets there early and drinks coffee from a polystyrene cup as he stares out at the fast-moving river and waits for her to arrive. At 7 p.m. precisely she materializes beside him, her overcoat buttoned to her chin against the cold westerly wind howling down the Tyne.

‘I bought you one,’ he says, handing her a coffee. ‘From the van over the road.’ Anderson nods gratefully and clasps the cup in her hands for warmth. ‘I would have got you a kebab—’

‘I’m on my way out to dinner,’ she says.

‘That’s nice,’ Vos says. ‘Anyone I know?’

‘No,’ she says, ending that particular line of conversation. She brings the cup to her lips and blows steam from the surface of the scalding liquid. ‘OK. What have you got?’

‘Okan Gul’s contact in Newcastle was Jack Peel.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘It gets better. Peel was just the middleman. The KK were really looking to do a heroin deal with the Manchester mob using Newcastle as the entry point for their shipments.’

‘Nice to know we’ve got our uses,’ Anderson says sniffily.

‘So what happened? Why did Gul end up dead in Stannington?’

‘Well, Jack Peel died for a start.’

‘But that was two weeks earlier.’

‘So we have to assume that his death didn’t affect the deal,’ Vos says. ‘At least at first.’

‘They found another middleman?’

‘I’m guessing. I’m also guessing whoever it was wasn’t as good at international diplomacy as Jack Peel.’

Anderson nods. ‘Things went wrong and the Manchester mob killed Gul?’

‘Making sure to do it on our patch and with the minimum of discretion. Thereby sending a message to Amsterdam and Newcastle that you don’t fuck with the Mancs.’

A dredger passes serenely on its way downriver, and they watch its grimy wake splash against the stonework below them.

‘I never did like the Mancs,’ Anderson says. ‘Not since the ’99 Cup Final.’

‘Me neither,’ says Vos. ‘That second goal was a mile offside. And you’re not going to like this either: Greater Manchester CID knew all about the deal. They’d been following the operation for months, tailing a negotiator called Wayne Heddon.’

She looks at him in astonishment. ‘And they didn’t fucking tell us? Cheeky bastards. Who’s in charge down there these days?’

‘Frank Maguire.’

‘Oh, well. That explains everything. Maguire wouldn’t share the cure for cancer if he thought it would compromise one of his operations.’

‘True,’ Vos says. ‘But if Heddon’s mob killed Okan Gul, then it becomes our operation, too. And we’d need to see Maguire’s files.’

Anderson knows Vos’s tone of old. ‘And you think Detective Superintendent Frank Maguire will be swayed by my womanly charms? Is that it, Theo?’

‘I was thinking more about your shared heritage, guv’nor.’

Anderson gives him a hard stare. ‘Maguire’s from Antrim. My people were from Fermanagh. There’s a big difference.’

‘I’m sure you can bury the hatchet. Especially as he’s been investigating one of our own without telling us.’

‘Jack Peel’s one of our own now, is he?’

Vos shrugs. ‘He is now.’

Anderson leans over the rail and pours the dregs of her coffee into the river. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she says. ‘Meanwhile I want you to find out who Peel’s replacement was as middleman in this deal. If some other small-time Charlie is looking to make a name for himself now Peel’s gone, I want them hammered down.’

‘I can certainly make inquiries,’ Vos says. ‘But there is a quicker way.’

‘I know. Al Blaylock.’

‘Lawyer to the stars.’

‘Go and lean on him.’

‘I thought I was under investigation by the IPCC? I imagine Gilcrux would take a very dim view of me approaching Al Blaylock.’

Anderson reaches into her bag. Produces a manila envelope. ‘Gilcrux’s interim report and recommendations,’ she says.

Vos stares at the envelope. ‘And?’

‘Don’t you want to read it?’

‘Not really.’

‘It’s quite clear he doesn’t trust you as far as he can throw you.’

‘I guessed that.’

‘But he can find no grounds for an investigation.’

‘So that’s it?’

‘That’s it, Theo. You’re in the clear.’

‘Good,’ Vos says.

‘So go and lean on Blaylock,’ Anderson says.

ELEVEN

The cloud hangs so low over Newcastle that it is almost raked by the barbed spires jutting up from the fourteenth-century tower of St Nicholas’s Cathedral.

From across the street Vos peers through the spitting rain as the congregation begins to file in through the great wooden door. He has been standing here for thirty minutes, watching the great and the good of the Tyneside underworld arriving with their tarty wives and bullet-headed minders. How they’ve loved every minute of the exposure, these two-bit villains, pretending it’s the mid-sixties all over again, or what they’ve been led to believe the mid-sixties were like. The solemn handshakes on the steps. The fraternal embraces. The bullshit platitudes about what a great guy the dead man was. All that is missing is the glass-sided hearse, drawn by a couple of plumed horses, containing the pearlescent casket, and Jack Peel’s name spelled out in flowers.

But then this is the memorial service, not the funeral. They have come to celebrate Peel’s life, but the man himself has been dead for nearly a month.

Presently a dark saloon pulls up and the driver gets out. Dark suit, close-cropped blond hair. Jack’s driver-cum-bodyguard for fifteen years. He opens the rear door and Melody Peel exits, pushing a pair of oversized sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose. In her knee-length fur coat and designer fascinator she looks every inch the gangster’s daughter. She takes a moment to sweep a disdainful glare at the crowd of onlookers who have filled the corner of St Nicholas’s Street and Mosley Street, bringing the rush-hour traffic to a standstill on two of the city’s busiest thoroughfares. Then the driver offers his arm and walks her to the door of the cathedral, where Al Blaylock, the lawyer, is waiting with a solemn expression.