Good Bait

‘Then things start to go wrong. I don’t know the ins and outs, so don’t ask, never did. Some kind of dispute, that’s all I know. Business. Anton and me, we have this furious row. So bad, I’m frightened — for the first time, truly frightened. I lost it, totally lost it and did a ru

She looked away.

‘What happened then weren’t pretty. And then, a few days later, it’s all calmed down again. But tense. Something’s changed. Happened. Not with us. Outside. I don’t know what. But it’s like he’s expecting trouble. Take Da

When the phone went, they both jumped.

Letitia picked it up.

No trace of an accent, the voice was English, harsh and clear.

‘Off the road that goes north out of the town through St Helen’s. There’s a caravan site on your right, this side of the railway tu

30

A few of the caravans looked as if they might be lived in year round, though signs of occupancy were few. Most stood empty, waiting for summer residents, short-term rentals, six hundred a week for a twin berth and counting. Along one side, a phalanx of empty concrete stands, weeds starting to push through, cracks appearing. Before the season there’d be a lick of paint, a few flowering shrubs, a stiff broom; the kiosk that now stood empty, partly boarded over, would be back in business, selling milk and bread, Calor gas, cereals, cheap DVDs and morning papers.

Off to one side, someone had been dismantling an old trailer, wheels and planks of splintered wood, the chassis bare and rusted over. Metal glinted for a moment in a sudden shaft of sun, bright through lowering skies.

Jack Kiley had called back first thing.

Anton Kosach was currently under investigation for his possible participation in money laundering. He was also suspected of involvement in people trafficking, prostitution and the illegal import and sale of arms. The works.

He had been targeted, questioned, never charged.

‘Nice guy,’ Kiley had remarked.

Cordon looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes shy of ten. The local east-west train disappeared into the tu

Crouching down towards the dismembered trailer, he selected a length of rusted iron and backed away towards the space between two empty caravans.

Minutes later, a car slowed and, without indicating, turned into the yard. A silver Merc with alloy wheels. No subtlety here.

Engine switched off, the driver sat for several moments before swinging his legs round and climbing out, the click of the car door behind him soft and precise. Broad shouldered, not tall, he was wearing a blue Nike zip-up jacket with loose-fitting black trousers, leather shoes. Late thirties, Cordon guessed, early forties, just starting to go to seed.

As he watched, the man double-checked his watch, lowered the zip on his jacket midway down.

Iron held down flat against his thigh, Cordon stepped into sight.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Where’s the woman? The boy?’

‘They’re not coming.’

‘They better fuckin’ be. S’posed to be here now.’

His face was flushed, cheeks swelling out.

Cordon walked towards him, taking his time. ‘You’re not listening,’ he said.

‘Don’t give me fuckin’ listening. You call ’em, get ’em here, or fuckin’ else.’

Cordon shook his head, the brittle edges of the iron biting into his hand.

Angling his head to one side, the man hawked phlegm and spat at the ground, then, as if making a decision, he arched suddenly forward, reaching round to the back of his jacket as if he might be going for a gun.

The one chance, likely the only one he was going to get, Cordon hit him with a fast swing, smack against the underside of the elbow with a crack that made him scream.

‘You bastard! You broke my fuckin’ arm.’

In for a pe

‘You’ll live to fuckin’ regret this.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

Cordon rested the rusted end of iron against the man’s sweated forehead, oblivious to the pain in his eyes.

‘A message for Anton …’

‘I don’t know no fucking Anton.’

‘Then whoever sent you on his behalf. Steer clear. The woman and the boy. Well clear. This isn’t the way.’

Stepping quickly round him, Cordon freed the keys from where they’d been left in the Merc and launched them in a high, steepling arc, deep into the woods.

‘Bastard!’ the man shouted. ‘You’re go

Cordon thought, one way or another, he was probably right. Walking away, breath raw, his heart hammered inside his chest. This time he’d managed it without a scratch.

31

Late afternoon. Karen was on the M1, heading north. A pool car, unmarked, no more than a couple of years old, clutch tight as an old man’s chest. The traffic travelling out of the city was already begi

The call had come through that morning, high-pitched, hesitant, a definite accent — South Yorkshire, somewhere close? — a young woman sounding early twenties at best. Jayne Andrew. No s. Jayne with a y. An address in Mansfield. Wayne Simon, he’d been hanging round the Four Seasons shopping centre where she worked. Where she lived, too. No doubt, no doubt at all. Used to go out with him, didn’t she? Years back. Two or three, at least, must be. She’d been into the local police station and they’d said they’d have a word with security in the centre, drive by the house where she lived, but, far as she could tell, they never had. Told her to call the police in London, so that’s what she’d done. She hoped that was okay?

‘Fine,’ Karen had assured her. ‘You did the right thing.’

Ramsden, Costello, the rest of her team were out of the office, busy; she could have sent someone junior, but somehow she fancied it herself. As long as what the woman was claiming pa

Jayne Andrew was whey faced and small boned — petite, the word — four or five months’ pregnant and just begi

The block of flats where she lived looked to have been built in the seventies: flat-fronted, flat-roofed, a rectangular box of identical units with a straggle of grass out front and cream-coloured exterior walls in sore need of several fresh coats of paint. Jayne Andrew’s flat was on the upper floor, neat and small, the furniture a mixture of what Karen assumed were hand-me-downs and newer stuff from Ikea.