Laird’s whereabouts are still unknown, but Foster and Bridge re-surfaced a while back, along with another man, Mark Vickery. Vickery’s also white-collar, a crooked accountant. He wasn’t involved in the original set-up with Vaughan, but he does have a close connection to Nathan Laird. The two of them were childhood buddies.’
‘So you think Laird is involved with these other three?’
‘I’m certain of it. Foster and Bridge are a couple of Rottweilers, and Vickery doesn’t have the power or charisma to keep them in check. More likely he’s fronting for Laird.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I’m still trying to get to the bottom of that. There seem to be plenty of legitimate – or semi-legitimate – businesses. Bars, nightclubs, a hotel. Along with that, I think it’s probably the same operation that Nathan embarked on back when he first started working with Kenny Vaughan. Prostitution. The flesh trade.’
T here was a brief , sombre silence. Harry still wasn’t sure whether to mention the parcel. First he wanted to know how this connected to him.
Ruth explained: ‘The men I tracked to Brighton on Wednesday night were Foster and Bridge, along with a driver, who I didn’t recognise.’
‘And the fake cops?’
‘I’m not sure about this guy Warley, but the woman is probably Sian Vickery, Mark’s sister.’
‘Okay, so why is this so important to you? That’s what I can’t work out. Why are you taking all these risks to follow them?’
He wasn’t expecting a candid response to such a personal question, but this time Ruth replied without hesitation.
‘They murdered my husband.’
Nineteen
F or nearly half an hour Alice knelt by the bed, singing songs to keep Evie entertained. Every few seconds she glanced at the houses over the road, specifically number 43 and the sliver of its front door that was visible from her bedroom.
The other mail had been opened and discarded. Only the tiny padded envelope remained untouched. Despite all the recent trauma, her social conditioning made it almost impossible to consider opening a letter intended for someone else.
But the minutes ticked by, and Renshaw did not come.
Alice wondered if he’d already fled. It might be that he knew nothing of this second delivery. But its presence forced her to make a decision: deliver it to 43 – because that seemed the likeliest place for him to be hiding – or keep it here. Open it or throw it in a bin. Call the police or stay silent.
None of these options seemed wiser or more appealing than any other. None offered the promise of a safe resolution. And if she were to hang on to the package, and the gang returned and found it in her possession, she might be signing a death warrant for her family …
She heard a car approaching, rose to take a look and glimpsed a slender woman at the wheel, a spray of long red hair over her shoulders. Was it Sian, from last night?
Alice gasped and ducked below the window. But as she waited for her heart rate to steady, it struck her that this might be a positive development.
Maybe – just maybe – the police officers were genuine, and DC Cassell was patrolling the neighbourhood in case the gang returned?
She weighed up that idea for a minute, then reached for her phone and Googled Sussex Police. The website didn’t seem to list contact numbers for different departments, so she dialled the non-emergency number: 101.
A pleasant female voice answered. Alice asked if she could speak to Detective Inspector Warley.
‘Do you know where he’s based?’
‘Um, Brighton, I think.’
‘Transferring you now.’
A few seconds to wait, Evie choosing this point to let out a warning cry: I’m getting bored, Mummy …
A man answered this time. Alice repeated the request and there was silence for a moment: silence and an awful foreboding on her part.
‘Name doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘Dean. DI Dean Warley.’
‘Are you sure he’s based here in Brighton?’
‘Uh, that’s what I
‘So you think Laird is involved with these other three?’
‘I’m certain of it. Foster and Bridge are a couple of Rottweilers, and Vickery doesn’t have the power or charisma to keep them in check. More likely he’s fronting for Laird.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I’m still trying to get to the bottom of that. There seem to be plenty of legitimate – or semi-legitimate – businesses. Bars, nightclubs, a hotel. Along with that, I think it’s probably the same operation that Nathan embarked on back when he first started working with Kenny Vaughan. Prostitution. The flesh trade.’
T here was a brief , sombre silence. Harry still wasn’t sure whether to mention the parcel. First he wanted to know how this connected to him.
Ruth explained: ‘The men I tracked to Brighton on Wednesday night were Foster and Bridge, along with a driver, who I didn’t recognise.’
‘And the fake cops?’
‘I’m not sure about this guy Warley, but the woman is probably Sian Vickery, Mark’s sister.’
‘Okay, so why is this so important to you? That’s what I can’t work out. Why are you taking all these risks to follow them?’
He wasn’t expecting a candid response to such a personal question, but this time Ruth replied without hesitation.
‘They murdered my husband.’
Nineteen
F or nearly half an hour Alice knelt by the bed, singing songs to keep Evie entertained. Every few seconds she glanced at the houses over the road, specifically number 43 and the sliver of its front door that was visible from her bedroom.
The other mail had been opened and discarded. Only the tiny padded envelope remained untouched. Despite all the recent trauma, her social conditioning made it almost impossible to consider opening a letter intended for someone else.
But the minutes ticked by, and Renshaw did not come.
Alice wondered if he’d already fled. It might be that he knew nothing of this second delivery. But its presence forced her to make a decision: deliver it to 43 – because that seemed the likeliest place for him to be hiding – or keep it here. Open it or throw it in a bin. Call the police or stay silent.
None of these options seemed wiser or more appealing than any other. None offered the promise of a safe resolution. And if she were to hang on to the package, and the gang returned and found it in her possession, she might be signing a death warrant for her family …
She heard a car approaching, rose to take a look and glimpsed a slender woman at the wheel, a spray of long red hair over her shoulders. Was it Sian, from last night?
Alice gasped and ducked below the window. But as she waited for her heart rate to steady, it struck her that this might be a positive development.
Maybe – just maybe – the police officers were genuine, and DC Cassell was patrolling the neighbourhood in case the gang returned?
She weighed up that idea for a minute, then reached for her phone and Googled Sussex Police. The website didn’t seem to list contact numbers for different departments, so she dialled the non-emergency number: 101.
A pleasant female voice answered. Alice asked if she could speak to Detective Inspector Warley.
‘Do you know where he’s based?’
‘Um, Brighton, I think.’
‘Transferring you now.’
A few seconds to wait, Evie choosing this point to let out a warning cry: I’m getting bored, Mummy …
A man answered this time. Alice repeated the request and there was silence for a moment: silence and an awful foreboding on her part.
‘Name doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘Dean. DI Dean Warley.’
‘Are you sure he’s based here in Brighton?’
‘Uh, that’s what I
Similar Books
In the Court of the Yellow King
Tim Curran, Cody Goodfellow, Gary McMahon, C.J. Henderson, William Meikle, T.E. Grau, Laurel Halbany, Christine Morgan, Edward Morris
