‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Vos collapses in his armchair and kicks off his shoes. ‘It was a terrible idea.’

‘It’s the sort of thing Trey would say.’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’ He presses the remote and some Spanish football match comes on, featuring two teams he has never heard of.

‘What’s the latest on his son, anyway?’

Alex sniggers. ‘Dufus? They’ve got him enrolled in counselling.’

‘What, for crashing into a tree?’

‘ “Managing life/alcohol expectations”.’

‘You are kidding me.’

‘This is Florida, Dad. They have counselling for everything. If you’re not in therapy, you need to have counselling to deal with the fact you’re not in therapy.’

‘Christ.’ He pops the ring-pull on a can of lager. ‘This country might be fucked but at least we’ve still got the stiff upper lip, eh?’

Alex grunts and returns to his book. Vos watches the match for a while, then clicks off the sound. ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘You don’t have any issues, do you?’

‘Issues?’

‘You know. About me and Mum. About my job. Anything like that?’

Alex looks at his father. ‘Piss off, Dad,’ he says.

‘I’m serious, Son.’

With a sigh Alex puts down the book. ‘What’s brought this on?’

‘I dunno. Just thought I’d ask, that’s all. We don’t really talk much.’

‘Thank God.’

‘I just want you to know that if there’s anything you ever want to—’

‘I will,’ Alex says. He picks up the book and, shaking his head, begins to read again. Then he stops. ‘It’s Chris’s birthday day after tomorrow. There’s a group of us going out.’

‘Nice one. Where are you going?’

‘Out.’

‘Oh yeah? Whereabouts?’

‘I don’t know. Anywhere we can get served.’

Vos regards his son with surprise. ‘You’re going out drinking?’

‘Underage drinking, Dad,’ Alex says. ‘We’re relying on Chris’s advanced ability to grow facial hair to get us served.’

‘Well, that’s great!’

‘It’s against the law. You’re a police officer.’

‘Yes, but you’re not.’

‘Then you don’t mind?’

‘As long as you don’t fall in the river, then no.’

Alex seems uncertain. ‘Why are you being so liberal and open-minded about this, Dad?’

‘Maybe I trust you not to make an arse of yourself,’ says Vos. ‘And because underage drinking is one of the pivotal experiences in a man’s life.’

‘Does this count as quality time, then?’

‘Yeah. Now shut up while I watch the match.’

A moment later his phone rings. It’s Anderson. Cursing, he hurries upstairs and takes the call on the balcony.

‘Guv’nor. Not dining this evening?’

‘Yes I am. And unfortunately I’m dining with Frank Maguire.’

Vos stifles a laugh. ‘His treat, I hope.’

‘Never mind about that. I think the fucking eejit’s just made a pass at me.’

‘Then it’s going well.’

‘The things I do for Northumbria Police, Theo. But now it’s your turn. You know we were talking about Jack Peel’s replacement as middleman in the drugs deal? Well I know who it is.’

‘Al Blaylock?’ Vos says.

There’s a pause. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because it makes sense. There are plenty of monkeys in this city, but only one organ grinder.’

‘So you made me sit through a meal with Frank Maguire and you already knew?’

‘I just made an educated guess, guv’nor. It was your sacrifice that confirmed it.’

‘You owe me one, Theo Vos,’ Anderson says.

‘I shall carve your name with pride, Superintendent Anderson,’ Vos says.

THIRTEEN

Al Blaylock’s office is on the third floor of a building on Grey Street, the great Edwardian thoroughfare that sweeps down from the city centre to the Quayside. The legend on his window, inscribed in gold paint, reads BLAYLOCK & ASSOCIATES, PARTNERS IN LAW – but this is misleading, as Blaylock is the only associate, and the only law he practises with any regularity involves protecting the city’s criminal fraternity from police investigations. He has a secretary, however, and it is she who informs Vos that her boss has not shown up to the office this morning and nor has he called to explain where he is – which is strange, because he had two important meetings with clients in the diary.

Instead Vos drives to Blaylock’s house, a large stucco residence overlooking the Town Moor. The door is opened by his wife, who says she hasn’t seen her husband for six months, not since she caught him screwing a topless croupier at one of Jack Peel’s casinos, and furthermore she doesn’t give a damn where he is. Pressed on the subject, Janet Blaylock says she thinks he might be renting a flat on the Quayside. Pressed further, she gives him the address.

It’s a modern block with a curved roof, near to the Crown Court. According to the names on the secure intercom console, Blaylock’s flat is on the top floor, although there is no answer when Vos presses the button. He waits until one of the residents comes out, then slips into the building and takes the stairs. Blaylock’s door is one of four on a curved hallway and when Vos goes to knock, it swings open.

The flat is like something out of a Sunday supplement, with low Scandinavian furniture made of leather and stainless steel and a view over the river. Vos goes into the bedroom, which is dominated by a vast sleigh bed with black satin sheets. There is a walk-in wardrobe containing a dozen or so suits and a rack of shoes, but the drawers are open and there are clothes and underwear lying discarded on the floor.

Blaylock is long gone, and it looks like he left in a hurry.

It is five months since Vos last drove through the gates of Jack Peel’s mansion; the beech hedges that grow on top of the perimeter wall have turned golden brown and the birch trees lining the driveway have shed their leaves. Somewhere in the grounds a bonfire is burning; the rich, pungent smoke hangs at knee height above the lawn and swirls around the paddock, where a rider is expertly guiding a horse around a series of low jumps in the distance. On the stone-flagged patio the whirlpool bath has been drained of water and covered with tarpaulin and the wrought-iron outdoor chairs are tipped up against the table.

The summer, Vos thinks, is well and truly over.

He stops the car on the driveway and gets out. The paddock is fifty yards away across thick, wet grass. It is surrounded by a wooden, barred fence, and at the far side is a small stables complex. The horse and rider are still going through their paces on the jumps and Vos, who knows nothing about equestrian sport and cares even less, cannot help be impressed by the agility of the horse and the dexterity of the rider.

After a few moments the horse and rider approach the fence. Melody Peel glares down at Vos from the saddle. She is wearing a protective helmet and her hair hangs in a fat, milky plait over her left shoulder.

‘You’re looking good out there, Melody,’ Vos says. ‘Keep it up and you could win gold at the next Olympics.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came to see Kimnai Su. Is she in?’

‘No.’

‘Where is she?’

‘How should I know?’

‘She didn’t tell you?’

A bitter smile. ‘Maybe she did; I don’t understand a fucking word she says.’

‘Has she gone to see Al Blaylock?’

‘Like I said, I don’t know where she’s gone and I don’t really care.’

‘Al’s gone missing,’ Vos says. ‘I need to find him. Do you know where he is?’

‘Why? So you can kill him too?’

Vos shakes his head. ‘You don’t get it, do you, Melody?’

‘Al says there’s going to be an investigation. He says they’re going to hang you out to dry for what you did.’

‘There was an investigation,’ Vos says. ‘And I was cleared. So here I am. And I’m very sorry for your loss, but you need to face up to the facts. Your dad fell. People keep saying that I pushed him, but I didn’t.’