Vos fills the kettle. ‘So what’s up?’

‘Mayson Calvert called me just before six. I was passing, so I thought I’d give you the heads up before he started blinding you with science in the office.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘He says he’s worked out what the dust particles are.’

He regards her blearily. ‘Dust particles?’

‘On the rope. On Okan Gul’s clothing. In Jimmy Rafferty’s car.’

‘Tea or coffee?’ Vos says, opening the cupboard.

‘Compressed wood pellets,’ Seagram says. ‘They’re a type of man-made fuel made from compacted sawdust. They’re very popular now that gas and electric prices have gone through the roof, apparently. Oh, and coffee please. Do you have decaf?’

‘You must be fucking joking.’

‘About the coffee or the wood pellets?’

‘Both,’ Vos says, shovelling granules into two mugs. He sees the object on the counter. ‘What’s this?’

‘It was on the doorstep,’ Seagram says. ‘You must have dropped it when you were trying to get your key in the lock last night. Anyway, Mayson was terribly excited, although I think he was more excited about beating George Watson to the punch.’

‘On the doorstep?’ Vos says. He picks the object up. It is a wristwatch with a cheap rubberized strap with the words BOCA RATON printed on it. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah.’

‘This is Alex’s. His mum gave it to him last time she was over.’

‘Thought it must be,’ Seagram says. ‘He must have dropped it . . .’

Vos takes the stairs two at a time. He opens Alex’s bedroom door. His son’s bed has not been slept in.

‘Everything all right, boss?’ Seagram shouts up the stairs. ‘The kettle’s boiled.’

‘Did you see anyone hanging around outside, Bernice?’

‘No. Why?’

In the bedroom, Vos grabs his mobile and dials Alex’s number, but it is switched off. He returns into his son’s room. His movement is calm and unhurried, but his mind is racing. What the fuck is Chris’s surname? Swedish-sounding. Johanssen? Jorgenssen? He scans the room for a contacts book or a directory or something where Alex might have kept a list of numbers. Don’t be fucking stupid. Kids keep all their numbers in their phones these days.

‘You sure you’re all right, boss?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

And Alex is fine too. He’s crashed at Chris’s. He dropped his watch as he was leaving the house last night.

Except Alex would never do anything like that. He’s far too precise.

Precise. Where has he heard that word recently?

He rips open Alex’s desk drawer. Right up against the corner at the back, almost hidden among the piles of paperclips and thumb tacks, is an old Nokia handset. Alex’s first phone, only a couple of years old but already centuries out of date to any technologically savvy teenager. Vos grabs the phone and goes downstairs.

‘The batteries have gone on this,’ he says, handing the phone to Seagram. ‘How the hell do I get it working to open the contacts book?’

Seagram looks mystified. ‘Have you got a power adaptor?’

‘Probably. Somewhere. Let’s just assume that I don’t.’

‘I’ve got a Nokia phone. Maybe I can switch the SIM cards.’

She forces the back off Alex’s phone, picks out the SIM and places it in the slot at the back of her own phone. She activates the Power button, waits for it to spring to life and then goes to her contacts book.

‘There you go,’ she says, smiling uncertainly. There’s a look on the boss’s face that seems close to panic.

‘Look up Chris Jorgenssen. Or Johanssen. Or something Scandinavian.’

Seagram scrolls down the list of names. ‘Jesperssen?’

‘That’s it.’

Vos grabs the handset and presses the Call button. Presently someone answers with a grunt.

‘Chris, this is Theo Vos. Alex’s dad.’

‘Uh, oh yeah. Hi, Mr V.’

‘Is Alex there?’

‘Alex? Uh, no.’

‘You mean he’s left?’

‘Uh, no. He’s not at home?’

In the pit of his stomach, Vos feels tremors of unease growing steadily. ‘You mean he didn’t stay at yours?’

‘No.’

‘What about the other guys?’

‘They stayed here.’

Vos takes a breath. ‘Listen to me carefully, Chris: what happened to Alex last night?’

‘I dunno. We were in this, er—’

‘Look, I know you were out drinking. Just tell me what happened.’

‘We kind of lost him.’

‘You kind of lost him?’

‘Yeah. He was a bit pissed and I think he went to the toilet and then I think he must have just left. We looked for him, but he’d gone.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Half ten, something like that.’

‘Which pub were you in?’

‘The Ship.’

‘And you didn’t see him after that? He didn’t call or leave a message?’

‘No. What’s going on, Mr V? Is Alex all right?’

‘Chris, I want you to think very carefully. Was Alex wearing his watch last night?’

‘His watch?’

‘His watch from Florida. Orange strap with BOCA RATON written on it.’

There’s a pause and then another grunt. ‘Yeah. Now you mention it. There was this girl he was talking to in the pub who took a bit of a shine to it. Took a bit of a shine to him, actually.’

‘I need you to think, Chris,’ Vos says. ‘Can you remember the girl’s name?’

‘Nah, Mr V,’ Chris says. ‘They were only talking for a minute. We were at the other end of the bar.’

Vos can feel the his fingernails digging into his palm. ‘What did she look like?’

‘Blonde. Fit-looking. Yeah. Really fit-looking.’

‘Did he leave with her?’

This time there is a bark of derisory laughter. ‘Nah, man. She was with some big guy. Like a cage fighter type, you know? Biggest scar you ever saw on his face.’

Vos’s blood runs cold. ‘What sort of scar, Chris?’

‘Like he’d been knifed or something.’

Vos closes his eyes. ‘S-shaped? From his neck to his left ear?’

‘Yeah!’ Chris says. ‘That’s it. Why? Do you know him, Mr V?’

SEVENTEEN

‘It’s Jimmy Rafferty,’ Vos says. ‘Jimmy Rafferty’s got him.’

‘You can’t be sure of that, Theo,’ Mhaire Anderson says.

‘Yes I can.’

‘But why?’

‘Because it’s fucking payback, that’s why. Because my people were rattling cages all over Newcastle last night. Because we’ve been rattling cages ever since this Okan Gul thing happened. Or maybe it’s for Jack Peel? How the fuck should I know, guv’nor? All I know is Rafferty’s got my boy.’

Anderson runs her fingers through her short hair. She looks tired, beaten down. The rain is drumming against her office window again and even though it is now 8 a.m., it’s still as gloomy as first light outside.

‘You need to calm down,’ she says. ‘Think about this rationally, Theo. These people aren’t stupid. Okan Gul is one thing, but going after a copper’s family? All that will achieve is to bring a whole world of shit down on everyone’s head.’

‘You really think there’s still this mythical golden rule out there?’ Vos says. ‘This unspoken code between coppers and villains? Do me a favour, guv’nor. They don’t give a shit any more.’

‘Enough!’ Anderson smashes her fist on the desk. ‘Enough, Theo. This is getting us nowhere, and it’s certainly not helping to find Alex.’

Vos feels the anger drain out of him, replaced by a deep, throbbing despair. But Anderson is right. Arguing the toss over the whys and wherefores is no use at all. They will only have a chance of finding his son if they can find Jimmy Rafferty.

‘What about CCTV from the pub?’ Anderson says.

‘It’s a drinking hole, not a city centre bar. The nearest camera is five hundred yards away and pointing in the wrong direction.’

‘Witnesses?’

‘Huggins and Fallow are on their way round to Chris Jesperssen’s with Rafferty’s mug shot, see if they can confirm it was him last night.’

‘And what about the girl?’