‘Nathan,’ Gilbourne said without preamble. ‘I’ve just had the headlines through on the PM from Rhodri Lawson. Need to brief the team. Are you nearby?’
He paused, waiting for Holt to sayOh yes, boss, I’ve already got the post-mortem report. To sayI asked for it to be sent over asap. Or maybeI didn’t want to waste time. But Holt didn’t say any of that.
‘I’m five minutes away,’ he said instead. ‘What’s the story, boss?’
Gilbourne paused, trying to detect any hint of deceit in his partner’s voice. Any suggestion that he was hiding something. Whatwasthe story? Was Holt playing games, trying to get one over on his partner? Trying to climb the career ladder, go over his head to win brownie points from the DCI? Or was it something else?
Answers to those questions would have to wait. Because if he was right – and Gilbourne felt in his bones, in his blood, that hewasright – then the results of the post-mortem were bigger, much bigger, than any of that.
‘I’ll tell you when you get in,’ he said.
FRIDAY
35
Dominic
He preferred the night. The twenty-four-hour places when there was no one around. He could get what he needed and get away quickly, disappear back into the dark before anyone knew he was even there.
He tugged the brim of the baseball cap down low, keeping one eye on the flood-lit forecourt and listening for the approach of other cars as he filled the tank of the BMW. He drew in a heavy breath sharp with petrol fumes, pulling it deep into his throat, his lungs. He had always loved the acrid smell of petrol, the burn, the headrush when you leaned in close. And it was better, purer than his own stink, unwashed clothes and the pungent tang of fast food. Too many days sleeping in his car.
Initially he’d stayed in the cheapest B & Bs, moving on every few days when he felt the press closing in. Staying on the move was supposed to be a temporary thing, but with the house gone, he mostly slept in the BMW if he couldn’t bed down in a derelict building for a day or two. Sometimes it still amazed him how far he’d fallen. How fast. Most of the time he tried not to think about it. He just had to keep moving, keep ahead of them. Stay under the radar.
He was screwing the petrol cap back on when a small red car pulled up at the next pump along, loud voices and music with a heavy bassline puncturing the early morning silence. Glancing up, he saw four teenagers crammed into the little Nissan, two boys in front and two girls in the back seat, fast food in their laps. Coming off the back of an all-nighter, judging by the pallor of their skin and excitable chatter. The driver, a tall, reedy youth in a black jacket, looked up and saw him, their eyes meeting for a split second before Dominic ducked his head and turned away. He was acutely aware of the plaster covering the ragged stitches on his face, the livid bruising darkening the flesh around it. It drew unwanted attention.
He locked the car and strode across the forecourt, pulling the collar of his jacket up, keeping his face under the brim of his baseball cap as he slid his credit card into the handheld machine at the counter inside. Cash was a better option – it left no trail – but all his accounts were deeply in the red. There was a beep as the card was declined. He reached for a second card. Declined. He found another in his wallet, feeling his shoulders relax slightly as the payment finally went through. He took the receipt without a word and stalked back towards his car, giving the red Nissan a brief glance as he reached into a pocket for his keys.
Two of the teenagers had their phones up, pointing at him.
The driver stood by the car and one of the girls leaned out of the window. Filming. Photographing. Keeping their smartphones on him as he crossed the concrete to his BMW. Dominic felt his jaw tense with a familiar flash of rage, the breath hot in his nostrils. The old tingling in his fists.
The driver was typing now, thumbs a blur over the screen, lines of concentration creasing the pallid skin of his forehead. Dominic shifted his direction and walked up to him.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Hold on a second.’
‘Give me your phone,’ Dominic said, holding out his hand. ‘Now.’
‘What?’
‘Give it to me.’
The youth stood his ground. ‘Don’t think so, mate.’
Dominic thought for a moment about the broad-bladed jungle knife strapped to his forearm in its sheath. Self-protection. It could be in his hand in less than a second, the grooved handle nestling in his palm. The satisfaction of seeing this arsehole’s face if he drew it.
Not here. Too many cameras.
Instead he reached out and ripped the phone from the teenager’s hand, turned it around to study the screen. A looping video of him paying at the desk inside the garage, then walking across the forecourt, a clear shot of his face with its angry purple bruising.
‘Hey!’ the teenager tried to grab it back, but Dominic held him off easily with one large hand against his bony chest. He scrolled down to look at the caption below the video.
SPOTTED! #Killer #ChurchGuilty #TheGhost
It was already posted and live, out there on the internet for the world to see.
The teenager struggled against his grip. ‘How does it feel?’ he said, his voice high and tight with false bravado.
