‘Thanks, Jack,’ Lee replied in a voice that was deeper than he expected. ‘We lead from the front, so don’t you worry about being left to do all of the legwork. All we ask is that you keep up.’ The last was said through a big, toothy grin. Jack smiled back; he just found this sort of posturing amusing. Jack hoped that Lee was simply nervous about being on someone else’s turf and would ultimately prove to be an asset to the investigation.

Gifford, as obsequious as expected, silently deferred to the Oxford boys without the slightest hint of independence. He invited everyone into his office and then sent a message to Canteen Barbara, asking her to provide the obligatory tea and pastries.

Ridley could see Jack’s disappointment in Gifford, as if he was ashamed to even call him a fellow officer. In a moment alone, Ridley explained a few home truths:

‘You’ve heard Gifford’s mobile pinging all the time?’ Ridley kept his voice low, so that only Jack could hear him. ‘That’s his race results coming through. He used to be a good enough officer, but he got left behind. Now, he’s a gambler. This will be his last case, Jack. Get him through it, so he can retire with his head high and his pension intact.’

Jack felt the pressure of being in a no-win situation and at that moment he wished he’d never volunteered for the bloody Cotswolds job in the first place. He was now stuck between the useless Gifford and two Oxford Robbery guys he knew he didn’t need.

‘You’re all on the same team,’ Ridley soothed. ‘Play nice, at least to their faces – you’re good at that.’ Ridley gave Jack a knowing smile. ‘Go and talk to them. Share information. Then leave them doing all of the cross-referencing and I’ll drive you back to London to recharge your batteries over the weekend.’

‘I won’t leave now, sir, this is my case! Are you sidelining me?’ Jack asked quickly.

Ridley couldn’t believe that he even had to say the words. ‘No, Jack, I’m not sidelining you. It’s the naming ceremony for your firstborn tomorrow.’

Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

Jack knew a grand total of seven people in the crowd of about fifty who were currently milling around the conference room and adjoining patio, gulping down Pimm’s – which Jack assumed he’d paid for. The conference room had been disguised well, behind lavish lace drapes and silver ‘baby’ balloons. Only the projector, stuck underneath a table in the corner, gave the game away. As he swapped his empty glass of orange juice for a full one, Jack imagined that at the same time tomorrow this room could be full of arseholes like Barrowman, talking pompous horseshit to each other about the price of gold bullion.