Death Toll

other two units on the open channel and asked them to stand by.

‘Wonder where the BMW is,’ said Shaw. The promenade was deserted and the car park held only a VW Camper and two Vauxhall Corsas parked next to each other with their lights on. He considered calling the whole thing off right there, right then. Mosse’s movements so far had been perfectly judged to throw them off the trail. Shaw had to admit he had less than full confidence that they could guarantee Jimmy Voyce’s safety. And less than full confidence was not good enough.

They watched the two men shake hands, embrace in a brief, awkward, clinch.

Had Mosse guessed he was being followed? If he had, would he have made his appointment at all? Or was he simply taking precautions? If either man had any idea the police were watching then Shaw’s surveillance operation was dead in the water: Mosse would lie low, Voyce would go home — probably encouraged by a vague promise from Mosse of a cheque by air mail. But crucially they’d watch what they said, weigh every word, aware of the dangers of entrapment.

Shaw hesitated, then decided they could let the op run, as long as they kept both men in sight. Their only real hope of building a case against either man depended on picking up a recording from one of the bugs in Voyce’s car, on his phone, or in the hotel room. He had to give them more time, more rope. If he’d coolly analysed his options at that point, as he did six hours later, his decision would have been different. But he was fired up by the idea, the mere possibility, that after all these years he’d be able to wipe that satisfied half-smile off Bobby Mosse’s ski- tanned face.

The two walked towards Valentine’s Mazda, then across a pelican crossing and into a pub called the Wash amp; Tope. It was one of the half-dozen likely places the two might go, so a plan was in place: DCs Lau and Campbell were round the corner, already walking towards the side door which led into the pub’s pool room. Voyce and Mosse went into the front bar. The windows of the pub were frosted glass, the light within too bright, reflecting off the wet pavement. After a minute they could just see two heads in shadow at the window, drinking.

Shaw checked his tide watch: 6.14 p.m.

Campbell and Lau had orders to observe, nothing more. If they could get close enough to hear any of the conversation, well and good: if not, they should play pool, chat up the barman. They were the odd couple: one six feet two in jeans and a bomber jacket, the other five feet four in a leather jacket and wraparound reflective glasses. No one would guess they were undercover CID. They stood out too much.

At 6.31 p.m. a low, oiled rumble made the pennies on the dashboard of Valentine’s Mazda vibrate. Thirty seconds later a BMW slid down the narrow alley at the side of the pub, pausing a half-beat, then pulling out into the street. The car was doing 80 mph before Shaw had alerted all units, its distant brake lights reflecting on the road as it headed south, then signalled to turn down a side-street. They followed in the Mazda, taking the same turning down towards the sea, but seeing nothing moving ahead.

After forty-five seconds of silence Birley’s voice crackled on the open channel. ‘Got ’em. Just through the roundabout by the water tower, heading south. He’s got his foot down.’

DC Campbell cut in. ‘We’re on the road. They went out the back to smoke. Left their drinks on the table.’

Valentine slid out on to the coast road, forcing the ageing Mazda to hit 75 mph. Shaw sat forward in the passenger seat trying to see tail lights ahead, but knowing they were losing ground with every mile. He’d been a fool to leave the Porsche at St James’s. He chewed over DC Campbell’s report: he didn’t like the sound of the half- finished drinks. What was suddenly so urgent they had to leave their drinks? Had they cut straight to business over the cigarette — and decided to go somewhere less public? It was a chilling thought, because going somewhere private with Bobby Mosse was literally the last thing Jimmy Voyce should do. And Shaw cursed his luck: his two prime targets were travelling in the car they hadn’t managed to bug.

Birley again. ‘Unmarked car’s picked ’em up at the Sandringham T-junction. Still doing eighty-five, sir. They’d like advice.’

‘Tell ’em to do ninety,’ muttered Valentine.

Shaw thought about it. If the unmarked CID car tried to stay with them at that speed they’d know they were being followed. But if the car backed off they’d almost certainly lose them. He had another car stationed at the ring-road roundabout at Lynn. If Mosse was going anywhere in the town they’d have to pass it before turning off the dual carriageway.

‘Tell them to follow — but at a distance. Don’t try to stay with them. Get through to the forward squad car, Mark. If they see the BMW they can follow from there.’

They drove in silence. It was an odd silence. Shaw remembered as a child listening live to the TV broadcast from Mission Control in Houston as the damaged capsule of Apollo 13 had fallen through the earth’s atmosphere: eight minutes of enforced radio silence, with the world waiting for a sound of life. Every ticking second added to the expectation of bad news. It was a silence like that.

Shaw checked the radio to see if the frequency was still open. South of Snettisham they got caught behind a line of caravans, forcing their speed down to 50 mph. Finally, they saw ahead the ringlet of high floodlights over the roundabout on the ring road. Traffic was light, a single HGV thundering around the curve. The convoy of caravans swung round and continued on the main road. With a sinking heart Shaw spotted the unmarked CID car in the lay- by — a Volkswagen Polo with spoilers and a ‘ball-of-fire’ paint job. Valentine parked behind it. No one moved.

After ten minutes Shaw got out and stood on the verge, thinking that a ring-road roundabout was one of the bleakest spots on earth. The air was laced with fumes, and there was some snow in the air, as apparently aimless as the circulating traffic. In the central reservation, on the grass, a teenager sat with his shirt off, drinking from a gold can.

Question: Where were Mosse and Voyce? Between the last sighting south of Hunstanton and the Lynn roundabout there were half a dozen turn-offs — all minor roads, leading either down to the tidal marshes or inland to the villages on the edge of the Norfolk hills.

He tried to imagine the conversation in the speeding BMW. Voyce trying to avoid the semblance of blackmail, Mosse playing dumb, both of them attempting to negotiate a number without actually talking money. And Voyce’s promise — that would be the key bargaining point, that he had a flight home booked, that he’d be gone in five days. So this was a one-off. But Mosse, thinking it through, judging, perhaps, that there was absolutely no reason that Voyce should turn out to be different from most blackmailers, who always, always, come back for more.

And that worrying unknown: with exactly what was he blackmailing Mosse? Just a stark threat to go to the police? Or something else — something more substantial, something that would put Mosse behind bars while Voyce would walk free or face a nominal sentence? Is that why Cosyns and Robins had died? Did they harbour the same lethal secret? If Voyce was trying the same game, he was risking his life.

Stress made Shaw’s vision blur, so that he had to blink until the image cleared.

The driver’s side window of the Mazda came down. Smoke drifted out.

‘I’ll buy you a drink,’ said Valentine.

15

Kirkpatrick’s Bar stood on the quay, just beyond the Grade I listed Custom House, close to the Purfleet, the black gullet of water that cuts into the heart of the Old Town. Outside the snow had thickened and was driving in with the tide. A chalk board offered oysters, mussels or crab. The bar was empty so Shaw and Valentine took a table by the window and ordered two pints of Guinness and a dozen oysters, from a waitress who appeared from the kitchen: mid-twenties, spider-thin, with blonde hair, tied up to one side and so thick it threatened to bend her narrow neck with the weight. Shaw had his radio and mobile on the table top, keeping track of the units he’d sent back up the road to Hunstanton to try to find the missing BMW and Voyce’s hire car. He had a traffic unit stationed near Mosse’s house with orders to alert everyone if he came home. Shaw’s stress level had hit a plateau: but it was a high one. Twice he’d actually imagined he’d heard his mobile ring tone, grabbing the phone only to find no incoming call.

‘Cheers,’ said Valentine, trying not to wince as he took the top three inches off the pint. He’d asked for a pint of bitter but they only had bottles, and he never drank wine if he was paying, so he’d gone for the black stuff. He