This is a work of fiction, of course. But a number of people have helped me in the research and writing process and it would have been a much duller experience without them. Particular thanks are due to my wonderful agent Sarah Lutyens and to Francesca Davies and Juliet Mahony at Lutyens & Rubinstein; to Tracy Alexander and David Niccol, both always so incredibly generous with their time, as well as delightful company along the way; to Peter Jensen for all his help, as well as his hospitality at Newmarket and Lincoln – both hugely enjoyable occasions (I can see why people easily become hooked!); also to John Ferguson for martinis and his invaluable insight into the racing world; George and Candida Baker for welcoming me to their yard at Manton; and to my neighbour Chris Goulding. On the editorial front I am grateful to both Lisanne Radice and Susan Opie for their input, as well as to my husband George and mother Jeanne, my chief readers.
For Jeanne Scott-Forbes
ONE
‘You sure about this?’ Jason asked, shielding his eyes from the sodium glare of the streetlamp as he peered up at the dark façade of the house in Park Grove, Wood Green. It was as quiet as a churchyard, no movement or glimmer of light anywhere in the dark, empty windows above, or behind the tightly drawn curtains on the ground floor and basement. They were late. Maybe Liam Betts had already gone.
‘It’ll be all right,’ Eve said softly. ‘Trust me. You said the info was good. He’s probably hiding out around the back.’
He could just make out the contours of her lovely face in the half-light. Whenever he looked at her, he felt weak. He wished suddenly he had never told her about Liam Betts, or at least not waited until the very last minute. But he’d been dithering, some little voice in his head telling him it wasn’t a good idea. Even now, it didn’t feel right. He’d give anything to be back at her flat, in bed with her, instead of hanging around in a dank, muddy garden in North London on a wild goose chase. But he knew she wouldn’t let go of it that easily. She’d been wanting to find Liam Betts for weeks. It was all she seemed to care about.
He sighed and gave her a mock salute. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
She rewarded him with one of her rare smiles and kissed him lightly on the lips. The touch was electric. He reached for her, but she pulled away.
‘Later.’
She was still smiling, but despair filled him. There would be no later, although he hadn’t yet summoned up the courage to tell her. He had to get home to his wife – ‘no excuses this time’ – and he was already nearly two hours late. It was his wedding anniversary, for the little that was worth. Not that Eve would mind if he had to go home. She never did, which was part of the problem. He wondered what she really felt, but knew better than to ask. He was sure he wouldn’t like the answer and pushed the thought away to the darkest recesses of his mind, where so many uncomfortable things lurked. Gazing at her, he felt like a drowning man.
She was still smiling at him. ‘Come on. Hopefully this won’t take long.’
She led the way, picking her way through the rubbish and builders’ debris that littered the ground, and up the steps to the front door. She studied the row of bells for a moment.
‘10B must be around the back,’ she said, coming down the stairs again.
‘Let me go first,’ he said. ‘In case he gives us any trouble.’
‘He won’t. Liam’s a pussycat. He won’t mind talking to me.’
‘Pussycats can change their spots.’
‘Not this one. He’ll do anything for me.’
Not true, he wanted to remind her. As she well knew, Liam Betts had recently made himself scarce deliberately. Maybe he thought his cover was blown and had decided to leave town.
Eve crouched down and peered in through the grubby basement window. ‘There’s a crack of light under the door. Someone’s definitely in there. Let’s try around the back.’
The concrete path was slick from the recent rain and Jason nearly slipped as he followed it around to the side of the house. A tall wooden gate blocked the path, with barbed wire stretched above it. The gate appeared to be locked and he gave it a shove with his shoulder, but it still didn’t move. She was at his side and he caught the smell of her perfume on the air. He wanted to close his eyes, bury his face in her soft, dark hair and lose himself again with her. It was all he could think about.
‘There’s got to be an entrance through there,’ she said quietly.
It was clear, whatever the difficulty, she was not going to give up. ‘I’ll see if I can open it from the other side.’
Balancing precariously on a dustbin, he climbed up onto the damp wall that bordered the house, and edged along a few feet, before dropping down onto the path on the far side. Shielded from the light of the street, he couldn’t make out anything. The narrow passageway smelled of damp and mould. As he stepped forwards into the blackness, he tripped over something that made a metallic clang on the concrete.
‘Are you OK?’ she whispered, from the other side of the gate.
‘Yes. I just can’t see.’
He pulled out his phone and switched on the torch. The gate looked solid, heavy-duty bolts top and bottom, with a shiny, new-looking mortice lock in the middle. He carefully slid open the bolts but it still wouldn’t shift. It was locked. He also noticed a small peephole cut into the wood, with a makeshift metal flap. Somebody was keen on security. He shone the torch along the paved path that sloped towards the rear garden. A part-glazed door stood halfway along the side of the house, the number 10B crudely painted in white on the brickwork beside it. As he moved towards it, he heard the muffled throb of music and picked up the sticky, sweet smell of cannabis on the air. Again, there was no light showing inside. He decided to have a look around the back. His torch lit up a small, overgrown garden. The patio doors were closed, skimpy curtains pulled across. The fleeting shadow of somebody moved around inside and there were voices and laughter. He went back again to the side passage and rapped hard on the glass door panel. For a moment nothing happened, so he tried again. A light snapped on and through the rippled glass, he saw the flickering shape of somebody coming towards him in the corridor.
‘Who’s there?’ A deep, male voice, foreign accent.
‘Police. I’m looking for Liam Betts.’
‘Nobody of that name here. Go away.’ Eastern European; Russian, maybe.
‘Look, we know he’s in there.’
‘I say go away.’
‘We just want to talk to him …’
As he pulled out his warrant card, ready for the door to open, he was aware of a scuffling sound and a movement to his right in the garden. He turned, saw a face, heard the crack of gunshot, then another, felt a blow to his chest, followed by a sharp pain. He fell to his knees on the wet ground.
‘Eve.’ He tasted blood in his mouth. He tried again. No sound came out.
TWO
A curtain of icy rain swept over the graveyard as the funeral cortége pulled up outside the church. It was barely midday, but the sky was iron grey. Eve ducked out of sight, quickly finding shelter under the dripping branches of an ancient yew tree. It was high up on a bank in a far corner, beside some ancient-looking monuments and the thick trunk and canopy provided a good shield from any prying eyes below. On another day, she would have liked nothing better than to wander around the graves, reading the inscriptions, thinking about the people buried beneath, imagining their lives, their loves, their deaths. ‘Sometimes I think you feel more at home with the dead than the living,’ Jason once said, when she was particularly wrapped up in a case. ‘Somebody has to speak for them, and fight for them,’ she replied. What he couldn’t grasp was that for her the dead were