The cocaine trilogy

By Roger Busby

Hunter is book one of a trilogy which chronicles police operations to smash an international drugs cartel bent on flooding Britain with Colombian cocaine. The chain of events begin when London gangsters pull off a bullion robbery to finance the drugs deal, but as police move in to thwart their plans suddenly a double murder throws a spanner in the works.
Drawing on an insiders knowledge of police procedure, with Hunter Roger Busby begins a roller coaster ride through the labyrinth of major crime where nothing is quite what it seems.
When the witness in the trial of London's most notorious gangsters becomes the suspect in a double murder, Met Crime Squad detective Rowley races to Cornwall in a bid to save the case. Rowley must find a flaw in a murder case as the police hierarchy conspires to throw him to the wolves. In a maelstrom of lust, greed and deception, Rowley finds the truth, too late, for the hunter is now the hunted.
Snowman is book two in the Cocaine Trilogy - At a seemingly abandoned farmhouse, an inexperienced woman detective trips a booby-trap wire and is killed instantly. At a secluded house in a german forest, an international criminal is arrested while found in a very compromising position with three prostitutes. On a London roof-top, a British Policeman enters into a blood oath with a Mafia capo.
These three unrelated incidents will soon plunge three policemen from three different countries into the center of the most audacious drug-smuggling operation ever attempted. Their hunt will take them from Hitler's infamous Eagle's Nest retreat in the Bavarian Alps to the halls of power in their respective departments. But when they discover the secret of the Snowman, they will be plunged into far more dangerous territory. They will each be forced to come face-to-face with their pasts - where secrets have long ago become nightmares, soon to explode into reality.
Refreshed for the e-reader, Crackshot is the final book in the Cocaine trilogy. From Hunter and Snowman, the story of police attempts to thwart a shadowy drugs cartel moves into the end game as Scotland Yard DS Tony Rowley and NYPD detective Vince Walker plan an elaborate “sting” to trap the traffickers. But as they infiltrate the highest echelons of organised crime, power politics on both sides of the Atlantic intervene – with explosive results! Rattles along at a tremendous pace – The Job

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Busby
• Release date: Jun 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476249674

Roger Busby

BUSBY, Roger (Charles). British. Born in Leicester, 24 July 1941. Educated at Bishop Vesey's Grammar School for Boys; Aston University, Birmingham, Certificate in Journalism, 1968. Married Maureen-Jeanette Busby in 1968. Journalist, Caters News Agency, Birmingham, 1959-66, and Birmingham Evening Mail, Force Information Officer, Devon and Cornwall Constabulary, Exeter, 1973-1996. Lieutenant Commander RNR Marine Society and Sea Cadets, London, 1997-2012.

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Hunter

Book One of the Cocaine Trilogy

By

Roger Busby

Published by Smashwords

Roger Busby

Hunter

Copyright 2012 by Roger Busby

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy; recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now know or to be invented, without the permission in writing for the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

For Maureen with love

With special thanks to my partners in crime, Elesa and Karl, without whom this e-tome would just be a cocaine pipe dream.

Table of Contents

Prologue Hunter

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Snowman

Prologue Snowman

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Crackshot

Prologue Crackshot

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Other Titles

Contact me

Author website

Biography

Hunter - Prologue

When the supergrass witness in the trial of London's most notorious gangsters becomes the prime suspect in a double murder, Met Crime Squad detective Tony Rowley races to Cornwall in a desperate bid to save the case from collapse. Alone and far from home, the London T/DI must find a flaw in a cast iron murder case in a race against time as the police hierarchy conspires to throw him to the wolves. Caught in a maelstrom of lust, greed, deception and the cold silent world of the stars, Rowley finally discovers the shocking truth..too late, for already the hunter has become the hunted.

Chapter 1

They were making love. Right there in the afternoon with the brittle March sunshine streaming through uncurtained windows, spilling over the yellow duvet. Marvin Gaye crooned sensuously from the CD player, heightening the mood as they wrestled in careless passion. There in the cedar wood chalet on a Cornish cliff top overlooking the wide bay and the expanse of ocean beyond. As if they were alone in the world. Outside a light groundswell was running, gently rasping the shale. Sea and sky and the yellow duvet twisting around them as they clung to each other and groped for fleeting ecstasy, Ginny French and her fancy man. Making love in the afternoon.

She was eighteen and he was past fifty, but setting the pace with all the youthful vigour she aroused within him, the encroaching grey artfully disguised with all the vanity of a middle-aged man who had ensnared a young girl. The body jewellery, fat rings, heavy identity bracelet, the ostentatious display of wealth contrasted with the fading tattoos on his arms, all greens and blues, sea dragon swallowing an anchor, mermaid entwined with scroll and dagger, tell tale signs of his earlier days at sea before he learned the trick of making money. Without breaking his energetic stride, he rolled the girl on top of him and for a second their identical gold pendants entwined and then parted, the girl’s swinging between her magnificent breasts as she rode him, pumping him with her long thighs.

Ginny French tossed her black mane, wide mouth slightly open as she pleasured him. Ginny who had left home at sixteen to lead her own life? Ginny who had learned with all the subconscious heritage of her gender to use her luxurious body to trap suitors like moths to a flame. She covered his mouth with her moist lips, sank carmen nails into his shoulder as they soared towards their climax.

But there was always that part of her held in reserve, studiously detached from the act of love, which considered this man whose fire would soon explode in her belly. Ah yes, the inner voice whispered to her in satisfaction, of all the lovers she had possessed in her young life, this one was the prize. Oh, not in sexual prowess, for she had known far better, young studs with insatiable stamina, but this man.. ah, this man she could bewitch for a life of luxury. And for a girl from a Cornish village with nothing to trade but her charms, that was the trick. Yes, oh yes, she was pleased with this man. In return for her body he would give her the good life, everything she had ever dreamed of. it would be terrific. Suddenly it seemed so long ago, those days when she had led the local boys a dance in the old lifeboat house and had discovered the secret that sex and love were not necessarily companions and her girlfriends who clung to the notions of romance ended up in a drab council house with a couple of bawling kids. No, not for her, not for Ginny, not now she had this man...

She felt him flagging and panic seized her for an instant. It was important that he should not be disappointed for he might fall into one of his black moods, blame her, doubt their relationship. Quickly she concentrated all her skills to bolster his ego. It was her last conscious act.

The man was far away, consumed by the fire in his loins, and strung out on a wire which suddenly snapped, blossoming. He felt only the star shell of release, the warm pleasure of possession. It was his last sensation.

The door of the cedar wood chalet which had been carelessly left unlocked, opened silently and a black shadow slanted across the bright wedge of sunlight which spilled over the floor. Against the brightness of the day, the features of the figure which moved stealthily inside were perfectly obscured.

The intruder’s eyes were alert, attentive to every detail, pupils dilating, adjusting to the dimness of the interior of the chalet. In the cluttered living-room to the left of the entrance a black kitten with a blue collar sat on a cheap tweed settee and observed the interloper with unblinking curiosity.

Pause for a moment. Listen. Outside the muted groundswell played counterpoint to the caw of the wheeling gulls sailing on the up draught of the cliff. Nearby music was playing softly, and a tight smile formed on the shadowed face as the different sounds were analysed and noted.

A hand delved into a nylon sports bag slung from the shoulder and drew out a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun.

It was an ugly weapon, cut down for ease of concealment, a condition which had no legitimate justification. It was a villain’s piece, a blagger’s shooter.

After a further moment of hesitation, senses now tuned to the tell-tale sounds, the intruder crept to the right, down a passageway, followed by the hazel gaze of the mute witness. Soft footfalls moving through the galley kitchen, eyes taking in the debris of a meal in the sink, empty wine bottle and glasses on the drainer. Moving on towards the velvet voice of Marvin Gaye. The bedroom door was ajar and there was no mistaking the activity taking place within. Silently a hand eased the door wide open.

They lay together, naked on the crumpled bed, humping with the bitch on top. Close enough to touch. The shotgun came up, stunted black barrels sighted on the girl as the forward trigger was squeezed and the first cartridge exploded, sending a hail of shot into Ginny French’s side with such point blank force that she was flung against the wall. Unwavering, the stubby gun adjusted a fraction and sent the second blast into the soft flesh of the man’s exposed belly, throwing up a spray of blood and shredded flesh.

Ears ringing from the reverberations, the killer moved swiftly now, stepped into the room, snapped open the breech and ejected the spent cases. Then, deaf to the gurgling death throes, thumbed two fresh fat orange cartridges into the shotgun and with clinical detachment held the muzzle to the man’s temple and squeezed the lead trigger. The head burst in a mush of grey meal and red spray. The second shot, delivered in the same deliberate fashion, blew away the girl’s face.

As the gun was lowered, a hand reached out and snatched the gold pendant from their throats. Lips drew back into a twisted smile of triumph.

Outside in the bright spring sunshine the circling gulls, startled by the gunfire, wheeled, shrieked an angry protest at the chalet below, soared high on the up draught and cruised out over the sun dappled sea.

Marvin Gaye sang on, crooning his love-songs until the CD came to an end and abruptly the machine clicked off. The yellow duvet ran red with mingling blood.

Chapter 2

You could always count on a class blagger to put on a good show in court, thought Temporary Detective Inspector Tony Rowley as he watched the twins hamming it up for the Deputy Metropolitan Magistrate in Bow Street’s number one court.

Slack-jawed, bulbous-eyed, identical even to the deep tan from their sojourn in Spain, Nick and Vic Pollard alternately glowered at the magistrate taking the further remand or leered at their brood of supporters packing the public gallery in the gloomy oak-panelled court room. Both on the sheet for top weight armed robbery, a ten million bullion tickle from a bonded freight warehouse at Heathrow airport, the twins were giving an Oscar performance befitting their pecking order at the top of London’s underworld.

‘We was fitted, you ratbag!’ Vic exploded as the CPS prosecutor at Rowley’s side briskly outlined the circumstances of the remand application. ‘That’s all bollocks,’ Nick yelled on cue, tugging his arm in agitation so that the prison officers handcuffing the pair had to take a tighter grip. ‘We’ll tear your tongue out, you lying git!’

The supporters’ club growled approval and the twins’ brief a flashy lawyer who specialized in defending high class villains, jumped to his feet, robustly appealing for bail. ‘My clients are reputable businessmen who strenuously deny the allegation...’

Sure, thought Rowley to himself businessmen in boiler suits who’d crazy foamed the surveillance cameras, burst into the bonded facility tooled up with shooters, doused the petrified guards with petrol, torched one’s leg to convince his mates to scrub the security system, then had the Nigerian bullion-in-transit away clean as a whistle. Some funny way to do business.

‘...yes, your worship, most strenuously deny these trumped-up charges,’ the brief protested.

‘Nothing but a lousy fit-up!’ yelled Nick from the dock, squirming to get free of his escort.

‘Stitched up by the filth,’ Vic sang out in agitation. And they would’ve had it away too, Rowley reflected, only they’d been grassed up by one of their own. And not just grassed, super grassed.

‘My clients are quite prepared to cooperate with the court in every respect,’ the lawyer went on. ‘They are men of substance who can meet any bail requirement you care to impose. They are prepared to surrender their passports...’

Nicked as they stepped off the plane from Marbella, thought Rowley, and screaming blue murder ever since. Oh yes, you could count on the twins to put on a show.

‘...I put it to you in the strongest possible terms,’ the brief continued his appeal, ‘that this would be a perfectly proper case for bail to be granted in order that a full defence may be prepared.'

He sat down and the CPS man motioned to Rowley, who left his seat and stepped into the witness-box. The detective had dressed carefully for the occasion. Grey pin stripe suit with just a touch of show handkerchief in the breast pocket. His well-scrubbed face showed no expression as he took the oath and told the stipendiary, ‘Detective Inspector Anthony Rowley, London Crime Squad, your worship.’ He paused for effect and then went into his routine. ‘We oppose bail on the grounds of the gravity of the charge and we have strong reason to believe that if at large these men would seek to intimidate witnesses...’

Pandemonium broke out in court as the twins, livid with anger, wrestled with the prison officers and the supporters began hurling abuse from the gallery.

Unmoved by the drama, the magistrate raised his voice to make himself heard and announced a further remand in custody. The twins went berserk and, watching them from across the court, Rowley couldn’t resist pointedly fingering his tie. It was dark blue with the single pimpernel symbol of the London Crime Squad just below the knot. The gesture was not lost on the twins.

‘We'll top you for this, filth!’ Vic screamed as he was manhandled down the steps to the cells.

‘You and that tosser Duffy!’ Nick yelled as they disappeared from sight.

Order was restored in court as the twins were bundled into holding cells below the building to cool off before their return to the remand wing of Bellmarsh Maximum Security Prison.

‘What’d you think of the double act, Neil!’ Rowley asked the Crown prosecutor as they left the court together.

‘Not much on technical ability, but I’d mark ’em high for artistic impression' replied the lawyer with a smile.

‘It’s all part of the game,’ Rowley reflected. ‘I thought for a minute there, the stipe’d give ’em a roasting for contempt, only I suppose he reckoned it wasn’t worth the aggro.’

The lawyer’s smile faded. ‘Tell you the truth, Tony, they scare the pants off me, oh, not in any physical sense, it’s just what you said, villains like that, they think it’s all part of some game, the criminal process, I mean, just something to manipulate. They really believe they're above the law.’

Rowley said, ‘Yeah, well, the twins have got another think coming, Neil. We've got ’em bang to rights this time. When I think how long that pair have been squad targets, slipping through the net every time we got even close, it gives me a lot of satisfaction to see ’em wriggling on the hook. That brief of theirs is going to have his work cut out earning his money on this one. How’d the pre-trial review go?’

They fell into step, walking through the public foyer towards the street.

‘Oh, not bad at all,’ the prosecutor replied. ‘We’ve got a good silk leading, good advocate, make a nice impression on the jury. The only thing is, the evidence is still a bit on the circumstantial side. You know the rules these days, Tony, fifty one per cent prospect of conviction or we don’t go to bat. Sure we can parade those guards and play up the diabolical ordeal they went through, only they’re not going to be too keen to point a finger at anybody, not with the missus and kids at home. So what it boils down to, we’re going to be leaning heavily on Duffy. Is he going to deliver OK?’

‘What choice has he got?’ Rowley replied. ‘With us, he’s got immunity, witness protection, the whole comfort blanket wrapped around him and a new life to look forward to. He reneges at this late hour and one dark night some joker with a nine is going to amputate his legs at the knees. I’d say he knows which side his bread’s buttered."

‘All the same, you’ve got villain against villain here. Juries don’t understand the subtleties of the arrangement. Supergrass is something they read about in the papers. No, I’m telling you, Tony, Duffy’s going to have to put on a good show, otherwise it’s going to be very iffy.’

‘You know the trouble with you lawyers, Neil? You’re always so pessimistic. Duffy’ll make the grade all right. I mean, it’s in his interests to see the twins go down for a good long time. Besides, we’re the only friends he’s got right now and he knows it.’

‘Still doesn’t alter the fact he’s a villain.’

‘Well, who’re you going to get on a blag like this? A bunch of security guards, probably scared witless like you said, afraid somebody’s going to make it their ambition in life to turn ’em into a human bonfire if they open their mouths.’ Rowley shook his head, ‘No, it stands to reason the best witness has got to be someone off the firm that pulled the job. Someone who was there when it was plotted up, and that’s our boy. Duffy was humping the happy bag, remember? You couldn’t get bettter’n that.’

The prosecutor frowned. ‘lf you think I'm pessimistic, you should hear the old man. He won’t decide how many sugars he’s going to have in his coffee until he’s taken a vote on it. It’s the way it goes these days. You detectives, you think just because you’ve got your end of the case buttoned up, we’re going to be able to sail through court with it without a hitch. There’s more to it than that, Tony. Still, you’re right, we’ve got Duffy, and at least if the defence attack his credibility, we can put the twins’ form to the jury and they won’t go a bundle on that. No, I’d say if Duffy performs as promised we’re in pretty good shape.

‘Let’s hope so,’ Rowley said. ‘Those wicked bastards deserve to go, they’ve been pulling strokes too long. Think of it this way, Neil, we’re the good guys. We’ve got to protect society, whatever it takes.’

‘I don’t go along that that a hundred per cent either,’ the lawyer replied. ‘Once you start bending the rules, you’re on the slippery slope.’

‘Who said anything about bending the rules?’ Rowley raised an innocent eyebrow. ‘Duffy turned Queen’s Evidence, didn't he? Couldn’t sleep at night with all these bad deeds on his conscience. He’ll come over eighteen carat, believe me, Neil.’

‘Let’s make that our prayer for the day,’ the lawyer said.

A clerk from the court office intercepted them and gave the prosecutor a slip of paper. Neil Proctor paused for a moment as he read the scribbled telephone message. ‘It’s for you,’ he told Rowley. ‘Your guv’nor wants to see you up at the Yard, double quick.

"The Owl?’ Rowley voiced his surprise.

‘The very same just phoned the office here. Says it’s urgent."

‘What isn’t, these days?’ Rowley lamented. He flipped a hand in a parting gesture. ‘See you in court, Neil, and don’t lose any sleep over it, it’ll go like clockwork.

Chapter 3

In the taxi on the way to the Yard Rowley reviewed his situation. He was coming up thirty-five and for as long as he could remember he’d been promising himself that by the time he reached this halfway stage he would have made a name for himself. But all his driving ambition had achieved so far was a broken marriage and the exalted rank of T/DI. It was the temporary which really galled. Temporary they could take away any time. Bust him back to DS while his contemporaries leapfrogged to commands of their own. Some had even made Commander. What he’d needed, he told himself despairingly, was not ambition or talent but a rabbi, someone well placed to help his career along, then instead of fretting over his insubstantial rank he’d have been groomed for stardom and on his way. As it was, he’d only made temporary through someone else’s misfortune. When ‘Dad’ Garratt, the senior DI on the squad, had keeled over with a heart attack in the middle of the Pollard case, they’d had to pluck someone out who was at least familiar with the file to fill his shoes.

That had been Rowley’s only stroke of luck and it rankled. As a DS, he’d just been one of the foot soldiers on the fringe of the case, checking statements, cleaning up the paperwork for the disclosure. Now here he was, teetering in a temporary rank, all of a sudden capable enough to take remands. Where was the justice in that?.

Rowley stared out of the window at the snarled up traffic. Best he could do, he told himself was put the Pollard twins away with such style that he’d earn a commendation from the trial judge. Then they’d have to confirm his promotion.

Rowley had the taxi drop him in Victoria Street where the traffic had ground to a standstill and he walked the rest of the way down to Broadway where the glass and concrete monolith of New Scotland Yard reared up behind its revolving silver sign.

He showed his ID to the security man in the foyer and took the lift up to the fourth floor where the offices of the Major Investigations Unit of the C.I.D Command were situated across the corridor from the legendary Flying Squad.

Rowley, who worked from the MIU outpost across the river in Rotherhithe, always felt nervous of unscheduled visits to the Yard. Apart from the regular target briefings which took place there with the entire squad in attendance, an abrupt summons to the ‘dream factory’ usually signalled trouble. The fact that the call had come from Malcolm Blake, the Detective Chief Superintendent who coordinated the MIU's various squads, better known as The Owl because of his large bland face and unblinking eyes, did nothing to inspire confidence.

The Owl was holding court with a bunch of his cronies from the Sweeney when Rowley walked in. It was eleven o’clock in the morning but they were already drinking whisky out of paper cups. The Owl fixed Rowley with a hard stare and then tossed a couple of print outs on to a nearby desk. He didn’t invite the detective to sit down and join the party.

With a sinking sensation in his stomach, Rowley picked up the hard copy and began to read the computer speak. As he did so, he felt the colour drain from his face.

The first was a crime circulation outlining a shotgun murder in Cornwall. Couple killed in a cliff top chalet. The follow-up was an All Ports Warning, the highest police alert, naming a suspect wanted on warrant for the double murder. The name which leaped from the page was John Francis Duffy.

Rowley was stunned. When he looked up the others were staring at him. The Owl fixed him with gimlet eyes.

‘Guv’nor, there must be some mistake,’ Rowley began helplessly.

‘Oh, there’s been some mistake all right,’ the squad chief snapped. ‘Your playmate just blew up in your face.’

Rowley cast around for some logical explanation. He could find none. ‘I don’t understand...’ was all he could manage to say.

‘Then you’d better find out,’ The Owl said. ‘Because I want to know what in the name of sweet Jesus Christ is going on. I want to know why I’m reading about our key trial witness in someone else’s broadcast. I want to know why his name’s on some Mickey Mouse arrest warrant."

‘But Duffy’s under cover...’ Rowley blurted.

‘Oh, he’d better be,’ The Owl snapped accusingly, ‘and this had better just be some cock-up. Because if this is right and our man’s really on his toes for a double topping, then the shit’s going to fly. And you know who’s going to be buried.' The Owl raised a hand and pointed a finger at Rowley’s chest. ‘I went to bat, against my better judgement I might add, to get your star turn celebrity status, so don’t go causing me any grief, son, otherwise you’re going to be off this squad so fast your feet won’t touch. You’ll be lucky if you’re still wearing the blue. Nobody, but nobody, makes a monkey out of me.’

Rowley felt the heat of his chiefs words redden his cheeks. ‘It can’t be right, Guv’nor,’ he continued to protest lamely. ‘We’ve got minders. Dad, I mean DI Garratt, set it all , up. There’s an operational order, everything by the book."

‘Garratt’s burned out,’ The Owl said flatly, ‘and you’ve got his job. It’s your neck now, Tony, so you get down there and get it sorted. I want Duffy back, tucked up in our stable and the only time I ever want to hear about supergrass again is on the golf course.’

One of the Flying Squad Ds sniggered, but Rowley could only grit his teeth and take the tongue-lashing. ‘Turn your outstanding inquiries in to your DCI. I’ll brief him on this mess myself? The Owl instructed peevishly. ‘And get your act in gear before this makes the papers.’ He sipped some whisky from a paper cup as though to fortify himself, and as Rowley turned to take his leave, The Owl called out to him, ‘Oh, and Rowley, if this cosy little deal of yours has backfired you’d best give your soul to Jesus son, because by Christ, I’ve got your balls on my watch chain!’

When Rowley escaped from the Yard he stood for a moment on the pavement paralysed in an unbelieving daze. The sudden reversal of his fortunes had left his mind in a turmoil. He hadn’t anticipated any trouble with Duffy the supergrass. He’d assumed that Garratt had that area of the investigation wrapped up before the coronary had pole axed him. When he’d taken over the case Rowley had read the file and had seen nothing which would sound alarm bells. The Owl’s accusations had come as a bolt from the blue. Dad was the only one who might be able to help him.

He began to walk, thinking the exercise would calm his jangled nerves, but all that happened was that his head began to ache so badly that he slipped into a café and bought himself a coffee and washed down a couple of aspirin. After a while when he felt a little better he went down to Green Park tube station and took the Piccadilly line over to Hammersmith, where he walked to St Christopher’s Hospital in Cavendish Street. Rowley hesitated at the entrance to the grey, depressing building. He had the policeman’s horror of hospitals. The hours he had spent at bedsides watching the death masks, the swollen hideous faces, waiting for victims of gun, knife, bottle and boot to recover sufficiently to talk. Wondering if the day would come when he would lie there smashed and broken. When he himself would be the victim. But he brushed aside his superstition and used his police ID to get past the reception and up to the ICU, where he found Garratt in a narrow white cubicle surrounded by metal trolleys laden with equipment. A skein of` wires snaked from sensors taped to his bare chest and his life blipped by across the scope of an ECG machine. Rowley was badly shaken by the sight.

Dad’s lips were devoid of colour and the broken capillaries around the sides of his nose were tinged blue. His eyes had sunk into dark sockets. One of them opened and regarded Rowley with calm amusement.

‘Tony?’

Rowley nodded. He felt chilled. ‘How you doing, Dad?’

‘Not bad. Not good, but not bad either. The doc’s an optimist and then there’s this big black nurse keeps trying to grab me where it counts. I hear you got the rank, Tony.’

‘Yeah, they made me up to temporary."

‘Gave you my job, eh?’

‘Yeah, Dad, sort of I’m keeping the seat warm for you.’

‘I won’t be needing it. The best I'm looking at is a medical pension.’

‘Maybe not.’

‘Who’re you kidding, Tony? The doc says no smoking, no drinking, no excitement, no nothing. I won’t be back. Still, could be worse, I was lying here last night working out the commutation. Could be I'll go to Spain, lie around in the sun, swap some yarns with the East End blaggers out there.’

Rowley smiled. Despite his brush with death, the old man hadn’t lost his acerbic wit. ‘I remember the days when the job cheesed you off and you used to say one day you’d come into the factory in a dress and bail out on a psycho medical, remember?

‘Oh yeah, I remember, only the job busted me first, Tony. Don’t look so good now you’re staring at it.’

‘Dad, you’ll be all right.’

‘Sure... so you’re the DI now?’

‘Temporary.’

‘The guv’nor.’

'Just for the time being'.

‘Well, at least you’re getting the pay grade, Tony. Acting’s no use to anybody, at least temporary you get the money and you get the clout...’

Rowley wondered how he could steer the conversation around to the point of his visit without causing too much of a jolt. He watched the pulse blip steadily across the green scope at the bedside.

But Garratt was more perceptive and broke the silence.

'So what’s the problem?’

"Problem?’

"Come on, I know you better than that. You didn’t come out here on a social call, not in the middle of the day, not without grapes, so what is it?’

‘I’m in trouble, Dad.

‘You’re in trouble.’ The colourless lips parted in a mirthless smile. ‘Look at me.’

Rowley grimaced, regretting his decision to visit the sick man. It seemed unfair to burden him. ‘Ah, it was a mistake, I shouldn’t have come, maybe later... The sister said you had to take it easy. Said I’ve only got a couple of minutes anyway.’

‘You think I can’t take it?’ Garratt pulled his lips back into a grin. ‘Listen, it’s only the ticker skipping a beat. Not the head. I’ve still got everything straight between the ears, Tony. Hundred per cent. They want to get rid of me, they’re going to have to take me out and shoot me. So what is it?’

"Ah, The Owl,’ Rowley shook his head. ‘Just gave me a working over. I haven’t got it straight yet.’

‘The Owl.’ Garratt snorted. ‘He couldn’t detect shit if he was standing in it. What a squad commander. Pushing paper’s all he’s worth. Detectives... Jesus, I remember back before your time, when I was a skipper on the old robbery squad and we’d wanted to make sure some complete maniac'd go down for a good long stretch, we’d have a whip-round to get us a shooter to drop on him. That was before drugs were invented.'

‘Yeah, Dad,’ Rowley said, ‘I’ve seen the inscription in the brief's room at the Bailey, carved in the oak. Don't bother with Burton's, the Robbery Squad'll fit you up.'

Garratt gave a dry laugh. ‘My old DI, he used to say to me the only time you’ve got to worry is when you're banged up in the one cell and I’m banged up in the other. Same with you and me, Tony.' His eyes traversed the narrow room. ‘This is as bad as banged up. So what’s your problem with The Owl?’

‘Duffy.’ Rowley spoke the name. ‘Duffy’s done a runner. We got the word he topped a couple of people with a shotgun and then took it on his toes. The law down there, down in Cornwall, have put an All Ports out on him, arrest warrant and everything. As you can imagine, The Owl’s going spare."

‘Duffy!’ Interest flickered in Garratt’s eyes. ‘Well, well.’

‘He’s all we’ve got against the twins, Dad, you know that better’n I do. No Duffy, no case. They put him on the sheet for a double topping down there, we can kiss him goodbye forever and the twins’ll spit in our eye.’

‘Duffy, you soapy bastard,’ Garratt murmured.

Rowley sighed heavily. ‘He was all yours, Dad. You did the deal, nobody else was in on it, remember? Well, The Owl says I’ve got to get down there and sort it out, otherwise I’m on the rack, so I’m in bad need of some pointers."

Garratt eyed him steadily. Then he said, ‘It was the only way he’d come across, Tony, just him and me, nobody else. That was the way it had to be.’

‘Yeah... only I could hardly tell that to The Owl. He still thinks we’re in the Scouts."

"Just him and me,’ Garratt repeated. ‘If he reneges, you’d better tear the tongue out of his head.’

‘The thing I don’t get,’ Rowley said, ‘is, if it’s happened and if it’s Duffy and not just some local cock up, how the hell he could’ve done it. I mean, we had him in storage, minders and everything, witness protection.."

Garratt shook his head. ‘No minders, Tony."

‘But I read it in the file, there’s an Op Order, duty scheme, everything.’

‘Since when did you believe everything you read?’ Garratt said with a wink. ‘I wrote it up to make it look good. That was the only way The Owl’d buy it. There never were any minders. Duffy wouldn’t wear it. That was part of the deal.’

‘You mean no protection? No surveillance?’ Rowley was perplexed. His palms grew damp.

‘Oh, I got an old oppo of mine own there to work the oracle to keep an eye on him. You know what it’s like dealing with villains, you have to give a little more than you’d want to write in the book. It was the only way Duffy would play ball. Besides, with the twins’ firm looking for him around town, I reckoned I was on a safe bet.’

‘So that was the deal?’ Rowley couldn’t keep the astonishment out of his voice.

Just him and me,’ Garratt replied. ‘The rest was flannel.

‘Did he choose Cornwall?"

‘Yeah. Seemed OK, nice long way away. I fixed up a rented cottage at Porthwarren through a middleman. No way it could be traced back to us. Nice quiet little place. Who’s he supposed to have topped?’

‘A couple having it off in some chalet. Made a real mess of ’em too, by all accounts,’ Rowley replied.

Garratt inclined his head. ‘Don’t sound like Duffy. He wouldn’t have the bottle.’

‘Their warrant says he did."

‘He’s too much of a schemer, Tony. Works the angles. That doesn’t sound like a pro job to me. Too chancy.’

‘What d’you think then, Dad. The Pollards have fitted him?’

‘Not that either. If the twins knew where he was he’d be in a pine box. Got to be something else, some other stroke. Got to be.’

Rowley leaned back and exhaled a deep breath. ‘Tell me something about Duffy. Something I can use.’

‘You read his form sheet. He's an all purpose blagger.’

‘What about inside stuff not on the sheet?’

Garratt thought for a moment. ‘Well, if` he’s in bother, I’d odds it he’ll head back for the smoke. Camden Town’s his manor. He’d maybe take a chance on getting back, give Pollards’ hooligans the slip. Suicidal, but he might try if he’s up against it.’

Rowley looked at his watch. Time was running away. ‘Dad, I’ve got to get moving,' he said. ‘Is there anything else you can give me?’

Garratt reached out and pointed to the bedside cabinet. ‘Give me my wallet."

Rowley opened the cabinet and among the few personal things found Dad’s wallet.

‘Inside the flap,’ Garratt instructed him.

Rowley fished out a folded official receipt which had been issued from the police car pound at Nelson Dock, Deptford.

‘Duffy’s wheels,’ Garratt said triumphantly. ‘I’ve got his motor under lock and key. It’s Duffy’s pride and joy and I’m holding it on him. It was my guarantee on the deal.'

‘You clinched it with a car?’ Rowley expressed astonishment.

‘Wait till you see it,’ Garratt advised. ‘You want something on Duffy? He’s an ego freak, Jack the Lad, flash cars and flash birds, that’s Duffy’s bag.' Garratt’s voice trailed off. He was looking fatigued. ‘Take it down there, Tony,’ he murmured. ‘When you see the slag, tell him he throws any spanners in the works, you’re going to push his wheels over a cliff. Just watch his boat when you tell him that... you’ll see what I mean.’

Garratt closed his eyes. "Talk to my contact down there, Gerry Wade, he’s the DCI on the local crime squad at Plymouth. You won’t find him in the file either. I ought to take a nap now.’

Rowley rose to leave. He reached down and squeezed Garratt’s limp arm. The flesh felt clammy and cold. ‘Take it easy, Dad,’ he said, the words catching in his throat. ‘Watch out for that nurse, eh?’

Garratt raised a finger in valediction. ‘Keep the faith, Tony,’ he murmured. ‘Keep the faith.’

Chapter 4

Temporary D I Tony Rowley made the journey back across the river to his own stamping ground, Rotherhithe, that sprawl of dockland caught in a loop of the Thames. Riding the crowded tube train, he allowed his mind to go blank. The prospects of Duffy’s treachery, the bloody corpses in their death embrace on a Cornish cliff top, was too awful to contemplate. He called in briefly at Lower Road police station where the detective chief inspector who ran the MIU squad office took a note of his unfinished work and then gave him the rest of The Owl’s briefing. The DCI regarded Rowley as though he were some sort of pariah who might contaminate the entire office with his misfortune if permitted to linger too long.

Pausing only to make a couple of phone calls, the first to fix a rendezvous with his contact on the Plymouth squad, the second to regretfully cancel his date for that night, a promising air hostess he had met during his leg work on the Heathrow robbery, Rowley left the factory and on impulse scrounged a lift over to Nelson Dock in the sector car. Sitting in the back of the BMW estate with the clutter of emergency equipment, the detective watched the familiar streets roll by. A clutch of tired-looking shops, paint peeling, windows meshed against vandals, row on row of terrace houses stepping up to the pavement, ingrained with a century of salty grime which blew relentlessly in the gritty breeze. Hulks of Victorian warehouses, rusting gibs of silent cranes. All cheek by jowl with the functional architecture of the high rises, smudged with the same nondescript grime of their surroundings.

Cracked flagstones, tangle of parked cars, black dudes boogying in an arcade, thump of reggae from the open door of a café with whitewashed windows. Kids body-popping, graffiti on the hoardings, kids with rainbow cockscombs strutting the street. This was his manor, the milieu of the inner city. Rowley felt comfortable here. At home. He would have walked these streets at the height of a riot without so much as a qualm. But today in the back of the cruising police car his thoughts were elsewhere. True, the streets looked the same, but he felt curiously disorientated. jolted out of time and place. Two faces swam in his mind, merging grotesquely. The Owl, tight-lipped, angry; Dad Garratt, blue-veined and sunken eyed.

Rowley pinched his eyes with thumb and forefinger to dispel the images. He had joined the Met when he was just twenty, when the recruiting brochure for the Metropolitan Police seemed to offer a deal more excitement than his humdrum job as a carpet salesman in one of Oxford Street’s lesser stores. For a while during his first two years as a probationary constable he had worn the uniform, walked the streets, jockeyed a unit beat car from shout to shout over the radio, but from the time of his first attachment as a CID aide at Paddington Green he had made it his ambition to become a detective. After numerous requests had been turned down on the grounds of inexperience, his perseverance paid off and he was posted to Hackney plain clothes crime patrol before finally achieving the rank of temporary detective constable in a pool of young hopefuls who for a year or more would sweat blood and tears to make their CID appointments permanent or suffer the ignominy of being transferred back into uniform. The competitive element was part of the game to test a young officer's mettle and aptitude for the subtleties of criminal investigation. Bodies on the sheet, that's what counted.

It was during this time that he met Lorna who worked as a clerk in the local magistrates’ court where he spent a good deal of his time. She was bright and carefree with a string of suitors; Rowley saw her as another challenge and after a whirlwind courtship they were married. Six years later, while still on the Division, Rowley was promoted to detective sergeant at a time when the squads were increasing strength and put in for a transfer to the elite Flying Squad, but by his own yardstick fell short of the mark when he was posted to the CID's Major Investigations Unit which included the murder, robbery and organised crime squads under one London wide command. There his career stalled and for the next seven years he remained stuck in the quagmire of the robbery squad. Disillusionment gnawed at him, his marriage broke up and he had the distinct impression that he would progress no further, until the day Dad Garratt’s heart gave out and he was plucked from obscurity more by accident than design.

But now he massaged his eyes and tried to rid himself of the spectre for it seemed that even that small fortune had turned sour. Duffy the supergrass had exploded in his face and Garratt who had engineered the deal with the informer was no longer around to face the music. One of the hard lessons he had learned early in his career was that no matter the injustice, when things went wrong a scapegoat had to be found. The CID hierarchy were past masters at covering their tracks, protecting their backs, preserving reputations. He had read the message clearly in The Owl’s eyes. If this one went astray, if the key witness against the Pollard twins evaporated in the blaze of publicity which would surely follow, then it was his neck on the block and his head which was bound to roll.

His thoughts returned to Garratt. How the hell could he have left Duffy to his own devices down there in Cornwall? Instinctively he knew the answer. Dad was one of the old characters, once a swashbuckling detective who had always been prepared to take a gamble in the high risk game of reeling in quality villains. But the legend was now larger than the man. Lately Garratt had spent his off-duty hours with a bunch of his old cronies in the Tank at the Yard, nipping gin and generally bemoaning the demise of his breed. The veteran DI had a cavalier disregard for the CID hierarchy which verged upon outspoken anarchy. He felt no compunction over doing things his own way, pulling strokes and verbals whenever his own code of justice demanded and then writing up a fictional account in his diary to satisfy the fourth floor. No, Dad wouldn’t have given a second thought to the Duffy deal, he would have been scheming ahead, planning his next move, for according to the old code, any villain who welshed on Dad Garratt might just as well be dead, for retribution in kind would be swift and sure. But in the new scheme of things where senior detectives looked and acted more like lawyers and had never grazed a knuckle in a bar room brawl, Dad was practically a dinosaur.

All of this came into sharp focus as the police car carried Rowley towards Nelson Dock. He had them drop him two streets short of his destination and then waited a moment on the corner until the sector car was well out of sight before he began to walk, turning into a side street where the Gas Board had coned off half the roadway and a gang of workmen were intent upon attacking the crumbling tarmac with jack-hammers. He crossed into a dead-end street, past archways of a disused railway bridge now blocked off and converted into a hive of shady commerce. A video shop, latest lurid titles displayed, second-hand store spilling chipboard furniture on to the pavement. Rowley walked on to the derelict wharf beyond.

Sluggish eddies of black oily water soughed and sighed around the rotting pilings. A gritty breeze wafted the odours of the Thames. The police car pound Garratt had mentioned was tucked away in what had once been a loading bay, but was now a yawning chasm guarded by a chainlink fence. Rowley went over to the gate and let himself into the compound, which was littered with towed-away cars in various stages of disintegration. Abandoned, disowned, the forgotten spoils of thieves and joyriders consigned now to the car graveyard rather than left to clutter up the streets.

Bert Cave, an old time traffic sergeant sitting his time out, waiting for the pension, presided over the car pound from a breezeblock office. He swung around in his chair as Rowley walked in.`

‘Don’t tell me.’ Cave snapped his fingers as his visitor was about to identify himself, ‘You’re Dad Garratt’s skipper, right?’

The old sergeant prided himself on an encyclopaedic memory for faces.

‘Right, Tony Rowley,’ Rowley said. ‘I’m doing temporary while Dad’s in dock.’

‘Yeah, I heard about that. Give the old warhorse my best when you see him. We had some good times."

‘I’ll do that. It’s Dad asked me to come over here, Sarge,’ Rowley fished the receipt from his wallet. ‘Said you’re holding a motor for him.’

Cave’s weather-beaten face creased into a broad smile as he read the receipt.

‘Dad asked me to pick it up,’ Rowley explained. ‘It’s wanted for a little job.’

‘Oh, sure, sure,’ Cave said. ‘I told Dad any time. I’d keep it here until he was ready,' He grinned at Rowley. ‘You got a pilot’s licence, son? You’re going to need one. That little beauty’s fixed to fly."

Cave heaved himself out of his chair and slipped on his tunic jacket, beckoning to the detective as he did so. ‘Come with me, I’ll show you what I mean.` They went out of the office and walked to a row of lock-ups at the rear of the compound where the sergeant produced a bunch of keys, freed the padlock from one of the metal doors and rolled it open.

He waved inside, saying, ‘Take a look at her. I’ve had people in here would’ve torn off an arm and a leg to get behind the wheel."

Inside the garage, hunched down like a snow leopard ready to spring, sat an ice white Porsche 91 l Carrera, front airdam brushing the ground, whale tail spoiler sweeping up at the rear, squatting on fat Pirellis.

Rowley looked over the car with growing astonishment. So this was Duffy’s wheels.

‘See what I mean,' Cave broke the spell. ‘A regular flying machine. I took a good look over her when your guv’nor brought her in. You know what you’ve got there, son, some fancy machinery I tell you. Limited slip diff, forged alloys, seven on eights with P7s and Bilsteins all round,’ the sergeant rattled off the tech spec, airing his knowledge. ‘Group four racing spoiler with the cooler under the chin and a whaletail to keep your back end glued down.’

Cave looked almost boyish as he enthused over the Porsche. ‘All that’s standard on the engine is the block, crankshaft and controls. The rest’s been tweaked up from two point seven to three litres with horsepower up from one six five to two fifty and the EMU rechipped. That’s some beast.’

‘Where’d you get all that clever stuff, Sarge?’ Rowley asked, still admiring the sleek lines of the car.

Cave grinned a little sheepishly. ‘Used to do a bit in my time, on the tracks. Going back a good few years now, but you never forget the thrill of racing. Oh, I can still spot class a mile off, some smooth grease monkey’s passed the spanners over this baby.’ He leaned against the cockpit and checked that the keys were in the ignition and then told Rowley, "Take it easy, son, that’s a dream machine you’ve got there. Don’t break it.’

‘Sure,’ Rowley said as the old traffic man gave the Porsche the final once over. ‘You want me to sign the book or something?

‘Won’t be necessary.’ Cave rocked a hand. ‘Me and Dad, we go back a long time. We’ve got an arrangement. If Dad wants you to have it, then it’s yours, no questions asked."

Rowley smiled at the old loyalty. ‘Thanks, Sarge,’ he said.

‘Be sure to give Dad my best,’ Cave said.

‘I’ll do that,’ Rowley replied, slipping into the contoured seat and stretching out to get the feel of the controls. The car seemed to mould around him, the white leather finish of the cockpit exuding opulence. The leather-trimmed steering wheel felt like silk under his touch. A snow leopard, he thought admiringly, coiled and ready to race the wind.

Bert Cave flipped a salute as Rowley turned the key and the engine caught with a barking crackle which sent a tingle running up from his fingertips. He eased the Porsche out into the crowded compound exploring the raw power surging under the sole of his right foot.

The engine note settled into a burbling roar as he left the car park behind and swung into the street. Up ahead the Gas Board crew had set out their neat row of cones. On impulse, venting both the frustration of his predicament, Rowley trod the accelerator to the firewall. The Porsche leaped forward with a shattering snarl as he flicked the wheel left and right and went snaking between the cones, hitting sixty inside six seconds, faces of the workmen just a blur as he flashed past. The row of cones stood untouched.

Rowley went home. He drove the Porsche to the red brick Victorian warehouse off Russell Street, Rotherhithe, which had been converted into flats around a courtyard in which silver birch saplings stood sentinel over the newly laid turf. The detective parked the Porsche outside and let himself in through the security door into the lobby. He took the lift to his apartment on the third floor. The living room was the shambles he had abandoned that morning in his haste to get across town to the court. In the bedroom his bed was unmade and the debris of a snatched breakfast lay untouched beside the kitchen sink. But Rowley was in no mood to clear up. He found a can of beer in the fridge and, after throwing his jacket on to the tangle of casual clothes strewn on the settee, snapped the ring opener and walked over to the living room window. Standing at the wide pane, drinking from the can, he gazed down at the flats on the far side of the courtyard. Through an uncurtained second-floor window he could see a dark-haired girl in a scarlet leotard doing exercises on an off white Indian carpet. When she caught him watching her, she paused, reached up behind her neck to unhitch the halter and slipped out of the lycra. Naked, she returned to her sinuous exercises and Rowley stood there for a moment watching the rippling curves of her olive tanned body against the pale carpet as she performed for him. Then he turned from the window, drained the can, threw a change of clothes into a nylon airline bag and went to the room he used as his study. Bookshelves lined the small room and framed prints of eighteenth century London covered one wall. He went to his one prized piece of furniture, an antique roll-top desk in rich dark oak which he had inherited from his father. Kneeling, he unlocked the bottom drawer and sorted among the bundles of paper which chronicled his life. Tucked in a corner of the drawer he found what he was looking for, a leather pouch which he took out and placed on the desk. When he opened the flap, a tiny Reck .22 double-barrelled derringer fell into his hand. Rowley checked the pistol and then took from the pouch a miniature shoulder-holster which had been designed to conceal the weapon unobtrusively in his armpit.

The detective had taken the gun from a drugs runner he had arrested and, contrary to all regulations, had kept it hidden in this safe place. Like the majority of CID officers, he had no authority to carry a gun and mere possession of the derringer would have constituted a grave disciplinary offence. But something of Dad Garratt’s philosophy had rubbed off and he had kept the pistol against the time he might need it. And this, thought Rowley, as he looked at the gun nestling in his hand, this might well be the day. He made sure there was ammunition in the pouch and then replaced gun and holster, slipped the pouch into his bag which he hefted in one hand, picked up his jacket with the other, went quickly down to the waiting Porsche and set off for Cornwall.

Chapter 5

Tony Rowley met his contact from the local force in the car park of the Jamaica Inn, Bolventor. The coaching inn of smuggling legend on the edge of Bodmin Moor had been chosen because it was an easy landmark for a stranger to find. When Rowley spotted the low grey inn up ahead he had been driving without a break for five hours and was feeling gritty-eyed and jaded. In the gathering dusk he hauled the Porsche into the car park where evening mist shimmered around the lanterns. As he got out of the car, easing the cramps from his limbs, a big man in a tan lightweight suit and tinted spectacles came over to him and introduced himself as Detective Chief Inspector Gerry Wade.

‘That a job motor, pal?’ Wade asked, staring at the Porsche.

‘Yeah, sort of,’ Rowley replied, not wishing to give too much on first acquaintance.

‘Best we get is clapped out Fords,’ Wade grumbled, waving a hand towards his own car in which he had made the journey from the squad’s Plymouth office. He gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, they’re going to love you down the sharp end in that thing. Come on inside, pal, you can buy me a Scotch on the strength."

Wade, who affected the habit of calling everyone pal, led Rowley into the low beamed bar which was virtually deserted. After they had ordered drinks they went to a booth where they could talk privately.

‘Biggest club in the world, the job,’ Wade observed expansively. ‘Two people who are strangers, like you and me, can meet somewhere and sit down like this and in a couple of minutes it’s going to be like we’ve known each other all our lives. No other organization could do a thing like that.’

Rowley sipped his whisky. ‘You know this deal with DI Garratt? The supergrass deal?’

‘Yeah, Wade shrugged. ‘That Garratt,’ He shook l1is head. ‘What a character. Took me right back, the strokes he was talking about made my blood run cold.

‘So you know my problem.’

‘Oh, sure, I know your problem, pal. Tell you the truth, I’m just damned glad it’s your problem, not mine. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m here to help, but oh boy is this a nut-cracker.’

‘So what can you tell me?’ Rowley asked. ‘About this job they’ve got down there?’

Wade drank some whisky. ‘Well,’ he drawled the word ,‘just for openers, Dick Trevelyan’s the investigating officer. Detective Superintendent. You ever hear of him?’ Rowley shook his head.

‘Oh, he’s a legend. Cornishman, true son of Kernow.’

‘Sounds terrific,’ Rowley said.

‘Better you know now,’ Wade replied. ‘I mean, I’ll mark your card if I can, but it’s Trevelyan’s job and you won’t get any cooperation from that quarter, I’d write you a guarantee on that score. He don’t like interference from the other side of the Tamar and we're in the same force"

‘You got any other good news for me?’

‘Well, you’ve got to look at it his way. He won’t even call us in unless someone twists his arm. Cornwall for the Cornish, that’s his motto, anyone from over the bridge is a bloody foreigner.' He eyed Rowley speculatively. ‘So what chance’ve you got, pal? I mean, you’re down here uninvited, you’ve got no authority, no jurisdiction, you’ve been pulling a stroke on his turf with this Duffy character and now you’re looking. to snatch his red-hot suspect right from under his nose. No, I’d say Trevelyan is not going to be too delighted when you put in an appearance. Your only chance he’ll even see you is if your boss has cleared it with the Chief and on past form he’ll not be too delighted about Met cowboys riding on his range, so even if you’ve got the brass smoothed over, chances are 'I`revelyan’ll only want to see you so he can spit in your eye.’ Wade shrugged. ‘To say it don’t 1ook good from your point of view would be the understatement of the year.’

Rowley grimaced. ‘Any news on Duffy?’

‘Not a whisper. You’ve seen the All Ports?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Maybe he’s gone to ground now that everybody’s beating the bushes. Mind you, he had a head start the way this job cranked up.’

‘How’d you mean?’

‘Look, pal,’ Wade said. ‘You’ve got to understand a few things about the way it happens down here. It’s not like the Met where you punch the button and manpower falls out’ve the sky. Here, let’s just say things take a little longer to get into gear. First you’ve got to hope that the guys on the spot have some idea about what to do when the big one goes off. And more likely than not they’re going to waste an awful lot of time prancing around trying to work out what they’ve got. This one was a cold start.’ He smiled at Rowley. ‘You ever been to Porthwarren, pal?’

‘No, Dad did that end. DI Garratt, that is.’

‘Is that what you call him, Dad?’

‘Yeah, from the old days, it just sort of stuck.’

Wade laughed. ‘Well, Dad should’ve brought you down here so you could’ve seen for yourself. I mean, how am I going to do Porthwarren justice by telling you about it? Look, imagine None, Alaska, not like it really is,