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Chapters (60)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. Acknowledgements
  59. About the author
  60. Copyright

Heath paused, cursed, then removed the thin, gold necklace and passed it through the slot before retreating to the bench and sitting down.

As he watched his suspect slump to the bench, something gnawed at Chandler. Though he had no proof, something warned him that he had the wrong guy locked up and that he was nothing more than a pawn in a game being played between Heath, Gabriel and now Mitch. The sense of helplessness didn’t feel good at all.

15

In the end, Wilbrook didn’t have to wait long for Inspector Mitchell Andrews’ homecoming. Two hours, twenty-two minutes to be precise. With the roads all but clear, and with authority to speed at will, he had raced down the black tarmac that criss-crossed the barren landscape.

Chandler watched from outside his office as Mitch strode into the station followed closely by his entourage. Knowing Mitch, he had probably insisted on the rest holding back to allow him to enter first, king of kings. He was bedecked in a grey suit that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a 1930’s G-Man: wide, padded shoulders, tapered sleeves and peaked lapels, his trousers creased and tucked neatly at the leg as if he had stepped out of a freezer rather than the blazing heat. The rest of his crew were dressed in matching black suits and looked like a sinister funeral cortège, slyly glancing around as if they were yet to pick out the soon-to-be deceased. Chandler had a feeling it might be him.

Indeed there was a thin smile on Mitch’s otherwise placid face as he loped towards Chandler, completely ignoring Nick’s welcome. No need to fraternize with underlings, thought Chandler.

A little to his surprise Mitch extended his hand. Chandler took it. The shake was cold and somewhat perfunctory, but more than he had expected. In his colleague’s focused expression Chandler saw a connection, a fragile link to the past, good and bad strands wound tightly together. And tightly wound was how he felt. He wondered if Mitch felt the same.

Despite wearing a suit that aimed to broaden his physique, it looked like Mitch hadn’t put on an ounce of weight in the intervening years. He still towered over Chandler, his chin jutting forth, his lips the same cardiac blue. One thing the advancing years and the zigzag of lines around his eyes had given him was a rather statesmanlike appearance. Possibly that was the aim of the suit, a furthering of the aura that he’d created around himself, lending authority to his position, but to Chandler he still looked and dressed like a politician moonlighting as a policeman; plastic, as if pulled from a mould and given moving body parts. The GI Joe of policemen. It was all a far cry from nicking sweets from Penny Hall’s shop by the bandstand in town when they were kids.