‘No. Mira never leaves home, and we don’t have the resources to do it safely. I’ll have to improvise then, I guess. I’m going for a shower,’ he added, stern-faced.

He went into the bathroom, stripped, and stepped under the needle-sharp jets, enjoying them beating against his tired body. As he dried himself a plan began to form in his mind. He was going to listen in on the Brankos by whatever means necessary. If he could do that, he’d be closer to finding out who the corrupt officers were.

He dressed, becoming aware of the need for some fresh clothes, and returned to the bedroom where Pet was already dressed, sitting clutching her coffee.

‘So, what now, Detective?’

Tom smiled. ‘Let’s go shopping.’

21

The senior police officer sat nervously in a café in a down-at-heel suburb of East London. His breathing was erratic, and he was sweating despite the morning chill.

He was casually dressed in jeans, trainers and—ridiculously—a NY Yankees baseball cap in a poor attempt to fit in and look inconspicuous. He was practically shaking as he tried to drink the stewed tea which the unsmiling Eastern European waitress had dumped down in front of him a minute earlier.

Madness being here, he thought to himself. But Branko senior had insisted, the edge of threat ever-present in his gruff voice.

The door of the café opened and the big form of Zjelko Branko stepped in, surveying the scene before him. Making eye contact, he strode over and sat in front of the officer, the chair creaking beneath his weight.

‘Tea!’ he barked at the waitress, who nodded hastily.

He fixed the officer with a direct and nasty stare. ‘So, my friend, what do you have to tell me? I’m hoping you’re about to tell me where Novak is.’

‘No sightings of him, I’m afraid. His phone is off, his bank accounts inactive, nothing on ANPR for his car, and he’s not been home. I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do. Also, the murder squad is looking for him because of Ivan’s murder.’ he said, his voice shaking slightly.

‘That doesn’t make me happy, my little porky friend. Your career and your liberty depend on you finding him. Have you tried his family?’ the big Serb asked.

‘He has no family; he’s an orphan, brought up with foster carers since he was about twelve. No wife, no kids. He’s known as a bit of a dark horse, ex-army type,’ he said, trying not to babble, almost close to tears.

‘Is he still close to the foster family?’ asked Branko.

‘He visits there regularly enough. They’re in Scotland, in the Highlands,’ he said.

‘Hmm. Get me the address and everything you can find out about them straight away. It may be just the place for a man to hide.’