‘I’ve tested the water upstairs,’ said Kessen as the group of E Division officers walked back to the car park after the meeting.

Hitchens stared at him as if he’d suddenly starting speaking a foreign language. ‘Sorry, sir?’

‘Upstairs. They’re happy for us to run with the Rose Shepherd enquiry for now, but I have to keep everyone in the loop. Fully informed of developments.’

‘Right. And who’s everyone?’

‘I’ve got quite a list. As you might imagine, MI5 and Special Branch are too busy with other things right now, and SOCA isn’t up and running properly. But they all want to keep tabs on what we’re doing anyway.’

‘In case we mess up completely.’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘You know, sir, a cynic might think they were actually hoping we’d mess up, just to prove a point. Sort of “Give them enough rope and they’ll hang themselves.”’

Kessen sighed. ‘You could be right. But we have to get on with the job and achieve the best outcome we can. Let’s get a copy of the report sent round to Sergeant Kotsev at the Holiday Inn, so he’ll be up to speed for tomorrow morning. C Division will want to borrow him tomorrow, too, so he can fill them in on the Zhivkos’ background.’

‘I’ve just called DS Fry to keep her informed,’ said Hitchens. ‘Apparently, she’s seeing Kotsev later this evening.’

‘Oh? Well, I’m glad we’re being hospitable,’ said Kessen.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

Fry was on her way home through Edendale when she took the call from Hitchens. Turning off Meadow Road, she bumped her Peugeot over a patch of rough ground in front of the old cattle market, wincing as a front wheel bounced into a deep pot hole and muddy water splashed over her offside wing.

‘Yes, I heard about the explosion in Chesterfield. What’s our interest in it? Oh, really?’

While she listened, Fry stared at the ruined buildings that had once been the premises of Pilkington & Son, livestock auctioneers. The demolition workers had left two rows of sheep pens standing outside, exposed to the weather. Rusty gates were falling off their hinges, iron bars had been bent out of shape by vandals, or by panicking animals.

‘The Zhivko brothers? That’s more than a coincidence . . . yes, I bet they are.’

Fry felt suddenly tired, and an inexplicable tremor of fear ran through her. Not at the thought of the explosion that had killed the Zhivkos in a Chesterfield street. The fear was caused by something else, closer to home.

‘Yes, of course, sir. I’ll liaise with Sergeant Kotsev.’

She ended the call, and glanced at herself in the rearview mirror, seeking a trace of that fear in her own eyes.

‘Oh, yes – liaise. That’s what I’ll do.’