out in grid pattern with narrow tarmac roads dividing the squares.
The tailing cars are all within a mile of each other as we follow the Coast Road through small villages touched now by a morning sun that paints the cottages in pastel colours and turns fields a brighter green.
There are caravan parks on both sides of the road, along the beachfront and spread in neat rows across fields that were once farmland. Some of the caravans have small gardens, washing lines and faded awnings. Others look closed up and packed away for the winter.
‘Is there a fairground near any of them?’ asks Cray.
‘Brean Leisure Park.’ Kieran points to the satellite image on screen, which shows up as a series of circles, spiders and snake-like rides, flattened of perspective by the angle of the camera.
The green dot on the screen continues along the Coast Road for another five hundred yards before turning left into a shopping centre. Ellis slowly circles the deserted car park and pulls up near a pathway leading from the shops to the beach.
He waits, sitting behind the wheel, watching the entrance. A motorbike passes and disappears along the road. One of ours. The other surveillance teams are hanging back.
The sun has risen above a torn ridge of clouds, bleaching the whitecaps. We’ve stopped moving and parked at the entrance to the fairground, where the rides are tethered and silent. I can hear flags and canvas beating out a rhythm in the breeze.
Minutes pass. The engine ticks over. Cray’s nerves are like guitar strings. I want to ask her about the court case. What did she decide to do? It’s not a subject we can talk about openly.
A woman is walking towards us with her dog. She has tight pink leggings and a mass of dyed black hair that matches the colour of her poodle. Crossing the road, she looks at us suspiciously.
Safari Roy on radio:
‘Target’s moving. He’s out of the car. Taking something from the boot . . . It’s a petrol container. He’s on foot.’
‘Where?’
‘Heading down the beach track.’
‘Stay put. He could double back.’
‘Mobile Two: I have visual contact.’
‘Don’t get too close.’
Cray is sick of looking at dots on a screen. She wants to be outside, on foot, closer.
‘Mobile One: Target’s on the beach.’
‘Mobile Two: I’ve lost visual . . . no, I see him again.’
‘Copy that.’
‘Mobile Three: I’m staying at the car.’
‘Where’s the chopper?’ asks Cray.
Kieran answers, ‘Eight minutes away.’
‘You still with him, Roy?’
‘I got him.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘He’s cutting over the dunes, back towards the road. You should see him in about ten . . . five . . .’
‘Mobile Two: He’s walking between ’vans.’
Cray over the radio: ‘Nobody move until he identifies the van.’ Then she taps Monk on the shoulder. ‘Get us closer.’
Pulling on to the Coast Road, we travel a hundred yards and turn into a driveway. The other cars are closing in, sealing off the entrances to the caravan park. I catch a brief glimpse of Ellis about sixty yards away, walking between caravans. A hooded sweatshirt covers his head. One hand is in the pocket of his dark jeans. The other holds an orange petrol container. He stops, crouching on his haunches, scanning the park, but his gaze returns to a particular ’van.
Cray has an earpiece nestled in the shell of her ear. ‘Wait for my word.’
I can feel the tightness in my scalp . . . in my bladder. Cray is out of the car, making a scuttling dash to a low brick wall. She peers over the top.
For ten minutes nobody moves. I keep trying to fit Sienna’s recollections into the real world. She could see the canopy of a merry-go-round, yet the leisure park is a hundred yards away.
Ellis straightens and reaches into his pocket. Something’s wrong. It’s too easy.
‘It’s not the van,’ I whisper to Cray.
She looks at me.
‘It’s not in the right place. Sienna’s statement.’
‘Maybe he moved it.’
‘Or he knows you’re here.’
‘Bullshit! We were careful.’
‘Sienna didn’t see Billy that night she woke. Ellis could have a second van. He’s going to lead you to the wrong one.’
The DCI is staring at me. ‘I can’t let him get inside. What if he has a weapon? I can’t risk a siege situation.’
Ellis is only feet away from the door of the van.
‘It’s not the one.’
I can hear Cray grinding her teeth. She presses her radio. ‘Hold your positions. Nobody move.’
Ellis has reached the door. He motions to put a key in the lock and then turns, skipping across the narrow tarmac road, disappearing from view.
Safari Roy: ‘Mobile One, I’ve lost visual contact.’
‘Mobile Two, I can’t see target.’
‘Does anyone have a visual?’ asks Cray, growing agitated.
The answers come back negative. Cursing, she makes a decision. She wants the park sealed off, locked down, nobody in or out.
Running in a low crouch, I return to the car and ask Kieran to bring up the satellite image again. Studying the layout, I run my finger in a rough circle around the screen.
‘Where are you going?’ asks Kieran.
‘For a walk.’
My left leg is jerking and my arms don’t swing in unison, but it’s good to be outside, moving. Following the main road, I walk past Brean Leisure Park and then vault a low brick wall, heading in the direction of the beach. There are caravans on either side of the narrow road and more down cross-streets. Occasionally, I turn and look for the canopy of the merry-go-round.
I take out my mobile and punch Cray’s number. Almost in the same heartbeat, I see Gordon Ellis emerge from a row of trees about forty yards away. In a half-run he disappears behind a shower block and emerges again, stopping at the last caravan.
Without waiting, he unscrews the lid from the petrol can and begins dousing the walls and windows, swinging the plastic container in long arcs that send liquid as high as the roof.
‘Hello, Gordon.’
He turns, holding the petrol can at arm’s length. His other hand reaches behind his back and produces a pistol from beneath his sweatshirt. It must have been tucked into his belt, nestled against his spine.
‘I assume you’re not alone,’ he says.
‘No.’
‘So you brought the police.’
‘You did that all by yourself.’
I can see him calculating the odds, pondering an escape route. There is a movement in the scrubby hedge behind him. Safari Roy is hunkered down, talking on his radio, summoning back-up.
‘You’re different from the others,’ says Ellis.
‘What others?’
‘The police. They want to know how, but you want to know why. You’re desperate to know. You want to
