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  The two uniformed officers flinched instinctively, protectively, before charging to the aid of the detective sergeant, whose dive had taken him bundling into the body of the much smaller man, propelling him backwards and pinning him to the floor with a lung-emptying thud and the crack of ribs. The force of the impact, more than the grip of a hand around his wrist, dislodged the weapon from Wesley’s hold and it skidded away across the laminated flooring.

  As his two colleagues moved in to manhandle Wesley onto his front so they could click on the handcuffs, allowing themselves the rewarding extra joy of wrenching their assailant’s arms painfully behind his back just a little more acutely than they needed to, Mitchell attempted to recover his breath and climbed stiffly to his feet. The sounds of the explosion of the bullet and the hiss of the pellet as it whizzed past his left ear came to him as a delayed reaction. That had been too close. Only now, it frightened him.

  He gathered his composure and gaped through wide, scared eyes at the pathetic figure with his head pressed against the wooden floor, shackled and beyond resistance, and saw how his life might easily have changed in an instant. He was tempted to aim a kick at that exposed side to punish him for his recklessness but knew he could not. He was better than that.

  There was a greater satisfaction to be had.

  ‘Wesley Hughes,’ he said. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder, resisting arrest, perverting the course of justice and assisting an offender. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

  They did not wait for a reply. The two uniformed officers were already dragging Wesley to his feet ready to take him to their car.

  Mitchell reached in his inside pocket for a pair of blue latex gloves and an evidence bag to gather up the gun. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He told himself to forget about it. There was work to do.

  ***

  Detective Sergeant Will Copson breezed into the interview room with a brown card folder in his hand. He was looking forward to this.

  ‘Morning Wesley. How are the ribs? Did you sleep well?’

  Wesley sat in handcuffs on the opposite side of the white-topped table and refused to rise to the bait. The doctor who examined him in the holding cell suggested maybe three ribs had been cracked by the impact of being tackled to the floor the previous evening but brushed aside any notion he needed to be taken to hospital. In actual fact, Wesley had been far too uncomfortable to get any sleep but knew he should not expect any sympathy for that.

  Beside him sat a grim-faced lawyer, already aware that his client was on a hiding to nothing on the strength of all the information provided to him that morning. It had been difficult to come up with much cause for optimism in their briefing before the formal interview and the best tactic he could suggest was to say nothing and hope the police would not be able to make at least some of the charges they were preparing stick. Wesley had not struck him as a man likely to be very talkative anyway.

  Copson pulled up his chair and lay the folder on the table. The audio disc had already been set up by the young detective constable who was waiting for the prompt from his sergeant to start the recording. In turn, the four men formally identified themselves for the recording and Copson leaned forward, ready to hold court.

  ‘I’m told you put on quite a show last night, Wesley. We were already looking at a pretty impressive charge sheet and now, well, I think you’re going to keep the CPS busy for a week.’

  The two men opposite remained impassive. He hadn’t expected a response. He just enjoyed saying it.

  ‘But let’s forget about last night for now, there are one or two other matters I’d like to talk to you about. Let’s start with the armed robbery which took place on…’

  The officer opened his file to read the information he had prepared.

  ‘…February the 22nd this year, at the premises of A and H Gul Jewellers on Attercliffe Road in Sheffield, which resulted in the serious wounding of both Mr Abdul Gul and Mrs Husna Gul and the theft of over £140,000-worth of gold and jewellery. Mrs Gul was left critically ill from gunshot wounds but has, thankfully, made a good recovery. Can you tell me anything about that robbery, Wesley?’

  Wesley stared back blankly, his expression unmoving.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Were you there when the robbery took place or was it just your job to clean up after the gang? Did you agree to handle all the loose ends for them until the heat had died down?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Copson pulled a ten-by-eight photograph from his file and slid it across the desk.

  ‘I’m showing the accused a photograph of a Glock 17 semi-automatic handgun which was recovered from the River Don close to the premises of Worthington Car Supplies Ltd of Effingham Street in Sheffield on Saturday, March the 28th this year. Do you recognise the gun, Wesley?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Well, we have two witnesses who saw you throw this weapon into the river on the evening of March the 21st. One of them even took your picture.’

  He brought out another photograph from the folder and slid that over the table too.

  ‘I think she captured your best side, don’t you?’

  Copson allowed the weight of the evidence to sink in. There was no point giving Wesley an opportunity to deny it was him because it so clearly was.

  ‘We sent this weapon to our ballistics testing laboratory and they were able to ascertain that the bullet they test-fired under controlled conditions matched exactly the bullet that was pulled out of Mr Gul’s shoulder and so I think we can safely assume the gun you were seen throwing into the river is the gun used in the armed robbery. Is there anything you’d like to say about that?’

  The man opposite him remained tight-lipped, unflinching.

  ‘I thought not, but you might like to consider that if you gave us the names of the people who carried out the robbery, maybe that would be looked at favourably when it comes to time to weigh up your part in this. Do yourself a favour here, Wesley. There’s nothing to be gained by taking the whole of the blame for this on your shoulders.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Never mind, we’ve got teams ripping apart your house and going through everything at the storage unit rented by you, under a false identity, on Broad Street. I’m sure they’ll be able to come up with something interesting, don’t you?’

  The fact that the police knew about the lock-up concerned Wesley more than he was prepared to show. Their discovery of it meant trouble. They must have been watching him.

  ‘I’ll leave you to discuss your position on that one with your brief in a little while. There’s another small matter we need to discuss. Who were you planning to murder?’

  Wesley puffed his cheeks as if the whole business was beginning to bore him.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘So, you normally carry a gun down the back of your jeans do you? Were you just about to set out to do it when we came to pick you up last night? Is that why you were carrying the gun?’

  ‘These are dangerous times. You can’t rely on the police anymore,’ he replied with a grin.

  Copson ignored him.

  ‘Who phoned you up asking you to kill someone, Wesley? Are you going to give us his name or are you going to take the full rap for this one too?’

  ‘No comment.’ He was rattled again. How did they know about the phone call?

  ‘Shall I remind you about the conversation – just in case it’s slipped your mind?’

  A glimmer of fear flickered in Wesley’s eyes.

  ‘Do us the honours would you please, DC Wright?’

  The young officer pressed the button to play the recording passed to them by Beth. The second voice was clear, the first just about clear enough to make out what was being said.

  ‘I want him
taking care of, once and for all.’

  ‘You want him terminating?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I want. Is that an issue?’

  ‘Not an issue. A bit of an escalation, that’s all. It’ll cost you.’

  The recording was stopped. Wesley’s face darkened. There was only one way they could have got hold of that.

  ‘That fucking bitch.’

  Copson grinned broadly.

  ‘Who’s on the other end of the phone, then? Who wants who taken care of?’

  It was all Wesley could do to stop himself yelling out or attempting to kick the table loose from its fixings. He knew Beth was a self-centred, vindictive cow but didn’t think she could ever pull a stunt like this.

  ‘No comment,’ he snarled through gritted teeth.

  Copson left him to stew for a few moments more, relishing the suffering he had inflicted. Maybe by making him realise he had been the victim of betrayal it might put him in the mood to do a bit of betraying of his own. It was time to let him ponder that.

  ‘I think that’s enough for now,’ he said. He reached across the DC to prepare to stop the recording.

  ‘Interview paused at 10.27 a.m. DS Copson and DC Wright leaving the room.’

  He pressed the button with a flourish.

  ‘Come on George, let’s give them a bit of privacy. They’ve lots to talk about, I suspect.’

  As he walked back into the main CID office, DC Harry Adams saw the sergeant and walked towards him. He was keen to pass on what he had found.

  ‘About Hughes’s phone, sarge,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Harry. What have you come up with?’

  ‘Well just about all the numbers were unregistered and we haven’t been able to get a trace on them.’

  ‘That’s no great surprise.’

  ‘But this is an interesting one,’ added the young constable. ‘The one called “Foghorn” in the contacts list. We’ve been able to come up with a name for that number. Cranford Hardstaff.’

  Copson screwed up his face. The name was familiar but was seemingly out of context here.

  ‘The council leader?’ he asked, knowing it was unlikely there might be a second person of that name.

  ‘That’s the one,’ confirmed Adams, eagerly. ‘And the really interesting part is that his is the number that called Hughes closest to the time Mrs Hughes made her recording of the conversation.’

  ‘Good lord!’ said Copson. He often told his junior officers that the job will never lose its capacity to surprise you but even he had not seen that one coming.

  He nodded, chewing over the information.

  ‘We’d better invite Mr Hardstaff in to explain himself, I reckon.’

  30

  At the same time as her husband was having a short-tempered post-interview exchange with his lawyer, Beth Hughes pulled up in a taxi to find that her home had been transformed into a scene from CSI Miami.

  She didn’t notice what was going on at first, but then the taxi driver said, ‘Aye, aye, somebody’s been having a bit of bother,’ and that had prompted her to look up from her phone screen.

  There were two white vans and a patrol car in front of the house. The driveway was cordoned off with yellow tape and an officer in a bright hi-vis jacket was stationed, arms crossed, in front of it.

  Beth was still, up to that point, feeling woolly-headed from the night before, when she had left straight from work to meet up with her friend, Cassie, for a few drinks – or at least that had been the plan. A few soon became a lot and she had last seen Cassie at whichever one of the city pubs it was that she first got chatting to that guy at the bar while she was ordering another round and after that… She assumed Cassie had made it home all right, but Beth had spent the night at the guy’s place in Gleadless. Her memories of the night itself were a bit vague but she woke just after eight and soon realised there was little point even pretending she had any intention of turning up at work that day.

  She had sex with the guy again, largely because he was awake first and seemed keen, before quickly showering and ordering the taxi.

  ‘Drop me here,’ she ordered, and the driver pulled in. She paid him and got out.

  It was too cold for the neighbours to be on the street, but she could see plenty of inquisitive eyes keeping a close watch through windows. So much for the outward air of respectability she and Wesley had so carefully nurtured.

  The officer at the tape surveyed her challengingly as she walked briskly towards him.

  ‘I need to speak to whoever’s in charge. This is my house,’ she told him.

  He stared at her, weighing up whether or not to believe her, before turning to hail a female officer who was working just inside the open front door.

  ‘Sal,’ he called, and she turned to face him. ‘Could you get the sergeant? This lady says she lives here.’

  Beth shivered uncontrollably as she waited. Of course, she could guess what had gone on, but the timing had surprised her. She hadn’t expected them to come for Wes so soon and, when they did, she thought she might be given some notice. Clearly, the information she had provided put her in less of a privileged position than she had imagined.

  A plain-clothes detective, wearing blue latex gloves and holding a clipboard, emerged from the house. His sour expression, as he walked towards where Beth waited at the tape, said everything about how much he felt this interruption was a less than valuable use of his time.

  ‘I’m the officer in charge. You say you live here,’ he announced. ‘Could you tell me your name, please?’

  ‘I’m Beth Hughes,’ she replied. ‘What’s going on?’ She could practically feel the disdain in the detective’s bearing. He was making no effort to disguise it. Beth was guilty by association.

  ‘We have a warrant to search this house for evidence of criminal activity. I’m afraid you cannot be allowed in until our search is complete.’

  ‘But this is my house,’ she protested. ‘I need to get some things.’

  ‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’ There was no scope for negotiation in his bearing.

  ‘How long are you going to be?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ he answered sternly, before his attention was distracted by a call from a colleague at the door of the house. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me.’

  Without waiting to be excused, he headed back to the house. Beth watched and felt the blood drain from her already paled face.

  What the other policeman was waiting to show the detective was a blue metal security box. Beth knew what it was. Wes had used it to store a few thousand pounds in cash and some documents. Important documents. The stuff related to his criminal contacts was of no interest to Beth, but the account details were. Those were the funds she intended to divert as soon as Wes was out of harm’s way, to set her up nicely for the new life she had planned without him. They must have taken up the flooring in the conservatory and discovered the sunken hiding place.

  Beth’s intention was to recover the box as soon as she had word that Wes was under arrest and take it to where it would be safe for a day or two, just until she was ready to leave and start again. She had decided to head to Portugal. That would be far enough from possible danger, in case Wes figured out how the police had come to know so much about his affairs and asked an associate to exact a little retribution.

  But now the box was in their hands. She had nothing, apart from what was left of her month’s salary in her bank account, and that would not keep her for long in the Algarve.

  She had to get away from the house, though she had no idea where she would go. She turned and left, walking so quickly she almost broke into a trot, just as the first flakes of snow started to fall.

  31

  The first wispy flakes soon gave way to a swarm of fat white icy blobs which fluttered gently down through the still air from slate-grey skies. They dazzled and disorientated unwary motorists, drew excited small children to the windows of warm rooms and elicited mounting dread in the minds of office workers who sti
ll had hours to go before they would have to tackle the journey home.

  The snow fell and fell and fell, overwhelming everything beneath it in a thick white blanket. It fell all through the afternoon and all through the evening, then all through the night, making roads indistinguishable except by the lines of abandoned vehicles. People, ill-prepared and unsuitably dressed, trudged their slow progress through the deep, sapping mass, dreaming of the relief of when they would be able to sip hot tea and swap nightmarish tales with their loved ones about their severely disrupted commutes.

  It curtailed plans, knocked out communications and brought the whole infrastructure to a standstill, and still it came down, until it looked as if the whole city was sinking into the earth under the weight of it.

  Grim-faced weather forecasters tried hard not to revel in reminding viewers they had predicted its coming and were declaring it the heaviest single day’s snowfall to hit the region since 1963, warning ominously of more to come. Sombre emergency service leaders were summoned to implement well-laid plans for getting aid and assistance to those who would soon be cut off.

  One such person was Cranford Hardstaff, though he had no desire to be rescued. He had realised it might be wise to disappear from public view as soon as he was made aware of Helena Morrison’s Monday morning appointment with the Monitoring Officer. That could only mean one thing and he had no intention of staying around to face the consequences.

  Hardstaff had the ideal hideaway. It was a cottage set back off the main road from Buxton to Ashbourne, in the heart of the Derbyshire Peak District. He and his wife had bought it years ago, back in the days when they still could see a point in making decisions for a better life together, and he had managed to hold on to it through the acrimonious divorce wrangling as her solicitors clawed away large chunks of the considerable wealth he had built up through his businesses.

  He never talked to anybody about the cottage and certainly never invited anyone to make use of it, even though it stood abandoned for most of the year. It was his private haven and now it was coming into its own.

  As soon as Hardstaff caught the scent of revelation in the town hall air, he had abandoned his office, collected everything he needed from home, stocked up with a few days of basic supplies and set out for the cottage.