‘What exactly did Mr Mason do for you?’ asked Mo.
‘He promised he’d bring Dana’s killers to justice. He said the man he killed on the night he was arrested last year was one of them, and that the gangster, Kalaman, was another.’
‘Did he say he had killed Kalaman?’ asked Bolt.
She nodded.
This was a big breakthrough. It also condemned her husband and threatened to drag Tina Boyd deeper into the conspiracy.
‘And when Mason called your husband on Saturday, do you know where he was phoning from?’
She looked at them both. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t know much about it. I didn’t want to get involved. But I also feel bad because when Ray – Mr Mason – first came here, I gave him a picture of Dana, and I … I suppose I put pressure on him to find her killers.’
‘Giving him a picture is not putting pressure on him,’ Bolt told her.
She nodded, dabbing her eyes again. There were tears running down her face and Bolt could see that she was having a hard time holding herself together.
‘I don’t want Steve to go to prison. He and Katie are all I’ve got. And he’s only got a few months left. He’s got cancer. It’s terminal.’
The room was silent for a few seconds. Mo looked uncomfortable, and Bolt felt terrible.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs Brennan,’ Bolt said. ‘We’ll see what we can do to help you and your husband. We know there are extenuating circumstances.’
She stared at Bolt. ‘Please don’t send us to prison.’
Bolt swallowed. ‘We’ll do what we can for your husband. You definitely won’t have to go to prison.’
‘But you said if you searched this house you’d find his DNA and then—’
‘We’re not going to search this house,’ said Bolt. ‘OK, Mo?’
Mo nodded. ‘I’ve got no objection.’
‘Do you know where Mr Mason is now?’
‘Steve left him at our holiday home in France. I don’t know if he was intending to stay there or not. Steve’s on his way back now. He should be home by five.’
‘When he gets back, tell him to call me,’ said Bolt, handing her a card. ‘In the meantime, don’t call him. I don’t want your husband calling Mr Mason to warn him. If he does that, he really will go to prison.’
She nodded nervously. ‘I won’t. I promise.’
‘Good. Your husband needs to get himself a lawyer and we’ll arrange for him to come in and be interviewed under caution. I can’t guarantee what’ll happen but we’ll do what we can to go easy on him.’
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, the tears coming freely now.
They left her there, and Bolt was pleased to get back outside in the fresh air.
‘It looks like we’ve got a result,’ said Mo.
Bolt sighed. ‘It doesn’t feel like it though, does it? And I’m not sure how the boss is going to feel about us not arresting Mrs Brennan.’
‘She won’t care if it means we get hold of Mason.’
‘That’s what I’m hoping.’
Bolt took out his phone and dialled Sheryl Trinder’s number. She answered on the second ring and he gave her the good news: ‘Ma’am, we have a possible location for Ray Mason.’
43
The day was warm and sunny and I was sitting in the Brennans’ back garden, which effectively consisted of a small round swimming pool that you’d need to do a hell of a lot of lengths in to get fit, and a wooden deck that wasn’t a lot bigger. The garden was surrounded by a bland wooden fence that needed some plants to screen it, but which at least gave some privacy from the next-door cottage.
I knew I couldn’t stay here long. I was too conspicuous, even in a place as quiet as this. The Brennans’ was the end house in a row of three, and I knew from the cars outside and the voices I’d heard that the other two were occupied by English holidaymakers who were probably getting their news from the British media, and right now I still looked a lot like my latest mugshot photo.
But I had to admit, I liked it here. I’d found a bakery earlier on and bought a crusty baguette from a young man who hadn’t given me a second glance, then came back here, stuffed it with jambon and Roquefort cheese, and demolished the lot with a pot of good coffee, thinking I might not have made it yet, but I was getting close.
The first part of my plan was complete. I’d got to France with fake ID and I had a car. The second part was to open a bank account into which I could transfer some of my bitcoin once I’d cashed it in. The problem was, with all the money-laundering legislation in force across the Western world, it wasn’t so easy to open a bank account any more, even in some of the traditional tax havens. At the very least I was going to need fake address documentation. I was also going to need a credit card with some money behind it in order to secure longer-term accommodation.
Not surprisingly, I had no idea where to find anyone who could supply me with any of these. But one of the things I’d learned during my time in the police was that the criminal underworld, though vast and sprawling, was also full of connecting parts. And there were people out there – call them criminal networkers or facilitators if you like – who knew everyone who was anyone, and who specialized in bringing these different parts together.
The cheerily named Archie Barker was one of those people. Back in the day, they’d called him the gentleman dope dealer. Public school educated, with a degree in politics and Spanish, he’d worked as a lecturer at various universities in Colombia, Mexico and Spain, and during that time had somehow managed to make some excellent
