Bolt had always trusted Tina’s judgement. She’d worked for him for several years on some important cases, and she was undoubtedly a good detective. From what Bolt knew of Ray Mason, he’d been a very good detective too. And so he had to concede that it was therefore unlikely they were wrong about Sheridan’s involvement, which put him in something of a dilemma. What did he do about it?
Twenty years ago, maybe even ten, he would have known the answer instantly. He’d have started digging deeper, regardless of the consequences. Bolt considered himself an honest, conscientious cop, one who genuinely wanted to keep the streets safe for law-abiding citizens. But he was no blind rule taker either. Like Ray Mason, he’d once executed a man in cold blood. The man’s name was Lench and he’d been by some distance the most brutal murderer Bolt had ever come across. Even so, he’d been unarmed and offering no resistance when Bolt, overcome with anger and emotion, had shot him dead. In those days he’d been prepared to take major risks in pursuit of what he perceived to be natural justice.
But those days were long gone. He was only eleven months away from retirement. He and Leanne had a plan worked out. Leanne was going to take early retirement from her teaching job. She’d sold her house just before the Brexit vote and the collapse of the London property market and had moved into Bolt’s penthouse loft conversion in Clerkenwell, which he rented from a man he’d once done a huge favour for, so they were ready and able to start a new life elsewhere at the drop of a hat. They’d both fallen in love with the south of France and were looking for a house with gites attached to do up and start a holiday rental business. It was the classic pipe dream of middle-class Brits everywhere, and with their combined pensions and the capital they’d built up over the years it was eminently doable. Leanne’s mother was French, and she spoke the language fluently. The knowledge that they were going to do it together was what kept him going in the day-to-day humdrum and difficult hours of the NCA. He couldn’t afford to do anything that compromised that dream, and digging deeper into a case that didn’t concern him was a real risk. He could already see quite plainly what it had done to Ray Mason.
As he parked the car in the building’s underground car park and climbed the stairs to the loft, he’d already decided that he wasn’t going to do anything foolish.
It had just turned two a.m. when Bolt climbed into bed beside Leanne, trying to be as quiet as possible, though he was secretly pleased when she stirred and put a hand in his.
‘Go back to sleep,’ he whispered, kissing her neck.
‘Love you,’ she managed to whisper back, then did exactly that, her breathing soft and steady.
Bolt lay beside her, one arm encircling her waist, and closed his eyes. But he couldn’t help thinking about Alastair Sheridan and the possibility that he might get away with his crimes, and for a long time sleep didn’t come.
Part Four
36
It was ten o’clock on a sunny, if noticeably cool, Sunday morning when Jane Kelman took a seat on a bench facing the Serpentine in Hyde Park. Because of the time, the park was relatively quiet, peopled mainly with joggers and cyclists, and there were no boats out on the water.
She was dressed casually in a coat and jeans, with walking boots. Her hair was blonde now and shorter, and tied into a bun, and she was wearing outsize sunglasses. Just like Tina Boyd, she was an expert in changing her appearance. She knew she was physically attractive, with her best feature her eyes, which were almond-shaped and a deep brown in colour, so she tended to wear sunglasses wherever possible to deflect attention from them.
Today she looked positively ordinary and, unlike most women in their mid-forties, this pleased her. The worst thing for a hired killer is to be memorable, especially one who was killing with the frequency she was. Jane knew she was taking a significant risk by remaining in the UK and taking on a new job so soon after the others, but like most people, she found it very hard to turn down a life-changing sum of money.
She didn’t have to wait long until a short, wiry man with a large scar on his lip sat down on the bench next to her. He was dressed in a thick coat and carrying a small backpack, which he placed on the seat between them.
It was extremely rare for her to meet a client. Anonymity was far safer for both parties. But she’d killed for the Kalamans before, and this gave the relationship a rare measure of mutual trust.
She glanced across at the man and used the agreed code: ‘Do you have the time? I left my watch at home.’
‘I did too, but I believe we said ten,’ he replied, uttering the return code phrase, the scar curling his lip into a sneer.
It was an unfortunate disfigurement, she thought. It made him look hard, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was. She was reminded of a couple of lines from her father’s favourite movie, The Magnificent Seven. ‘Don’t hire the man with the scar. Hire the man who gave him it.’
‘Ten it is then,’ she said.
He nodded, seemingly satisfied, and looked out across the water. ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice. We need you to move fast. Did you get the dossier you were sent on the target?’
She nodded. It had been comprehensive, not that she’d needed to read it. ‘I’ve come across him before on another job. He’s slippery.’
‘He is. And the police are having a
