Reid sat back in his chair, suddenly aware that the threatened attack had passed. He immediately reached for his mobile phone and scrolled down through his contacts, thinking of the people who would be finding this even harder. For a moment his eyes rested on the name Phillip Longman. A number he would never call again.

Reid felt tears begin to threaten his eyes at the thought. He wiped them away as he looked at the other names on the screen. Matthew. Peter. Russell. Phillip’s sons. Instinct and experience said that the police would have contacted Russell. He lived closest to his father, by some margin, and so was the logical choice to identify Phillip’s body. Which meant he was the one most likely to know something.

Reid listened to the ringtone chime out six, seven, eight times. He had begun to mentally compose the inevitable voicemail he would have to leave when the call was suddenly answered.

‘Derek, I was going to call.’ The voice at the end of the line sounded both exhausted and bereft. ‘I’m sorry you had to find out through the news.’

‘You have absolutely nothing to apologise for, Russell.’ Reid’s tone was as kind as he could make it. He felt nothing but sympathy for Longman’s youngest son. The closest in age to Reid himself, Russell had always been the friendliest of the brothers to their father’s former pupil. ‘I’m not calling to complain. I’m calling to tell you that I’m here. For anything you need. For anything I can do. You’re not alone in this, Russell.’

Russell did not answer immediately, but the change in his breathing told its story. A story of relief. Russell Longman had needed a friend. Now he had one.

‘Thank you, Derek.’ Russell finally found his voice. ‘I really appreciate it. You have no idea.’

‘Not another word.’ Reid shut off his laptop as he spoke, closed his files and rose to his feet. ‘Now tell me exactly where you are, Russell. I’m coming to you.’

THIRTEEN

Leon Ferris sat back into his leather high-back chair. In front of him was a crystal glass, a large dash of oak-coloured whisky within. It sat on a coaster to protect Ferris’s expensive mahogany desk. It was the only item on there. Ferris’s desk was not for paperwork. He had people for that. Like the rest of Ferris’s dark but expensively furnished office, the desk was there to create an impression.

Ferris reached out and picked up the glass. Savoured the smokey taste of its contents. It had been a long time – eight years – since Ferris had tasted top-end scotch. It was exactly as he had remembered.

As was his office, he noted with satisfaction as his eyes roamed around the room. More a statement of status than a practical working space, it took up an entire floor of the narrow building. And it seemed that nothing had been touched since Ferris was last in the room.

He knew that could not be true. Ferris had been in this room when the Serious and Organised Crime Agency had come through his door. When they had dragged him out in cuffs, accused of crimes both financial and violent. Every inch of the office had been combed as the country’s most powerful police unit searched for evidence to convict him. That the decimated office had since been pieced together so completely showed the respect of Ferris’s subordinates.