‘Of course.’

‘I really appreciate you coming forward with this information, whatever your reasons for doing so.’ Grace sat for a moment, thinking. ‘So, if I need what you have in that notebook, can I use it? You can expect a visit from the Met’s Anti-Corruption Team, and probably sooner rather than later.’

Batchelor shoved it across the table towards him. ‘It’s yours, take it. I kind of feel I owe you one.’

Roy Grace had been asked a number of times over the years if he had ever felt his life had been on the line during his work as a police officer. And his answer was, yes, on several occasions. The most recent of which had been, despite his fear of heights, scaling the vertical, interior ladder of Brighton’s 531-foot-high i360 tower in an attempt to stop a panicked Guy Batchelor from jumping off the top. What had been far worse than climbing up it, when he had been fuelled by adrenaline, was having to climb back down, knowing that if his grip slipped for just one moment he would have plunged to certain death.

‘You could say that,’ he replied. Then he held up the notebook. ‘Consider the debt paid, with interest.’

5

Sunday 1 September

Back in the prison car park, Roy Grace sat in his Alfa, window cracked to let in some breeze, and opened the red notebook. His hands were shaking as he began to read Batchelor’s notes – or rather, began the slow work of deciphering them.

Half an hour had passed, he realized with a start, by the time he had finished. And his hands were now shaking even more. Shit, if this was true, he would have ACC Cassian Pewe bang to rights!

He started the car and headed back towards home, his mind in turmoil. He felt conflicted. If what Guy had given him was genuine – and he little doubted it was – and if this Raj, whoever he was, would hand over the recording of Pewe and testify – and he had a good motive for doing so – then Cassian Pewe’s career was toast. And he might well face a prison sentence.

But Grace wasn’t smiling as he drove. Sure, Pewe was a pain in the arse, but he churned over in his mind for some minutes the morality of destroying a fellow officer’s career – however much he loathed the man. Could he do this? Deep down he knew that, having this information, it was now his duty to do so, and immediately.

He pulled into a lay-by on the A27 and switched the engine off. He picked up his phone, found Alison Vosper’s mobile number in the address book and dialled it.

Expecting it to go to voicemail, he was both pleasantly surprised – and somewhat nervous – when she answered on the third ring.

‘Roy! Nice to hear from you. So have you changed your mind and decided to take my offer of a Commander role in the Met? I presume that’s why you’re calling?’