2

She had brought a uniformed officer, Mark Edwards, a tall man in his twenties. She didn’t think there’d be any trouble, but the presence of a uniform added a certain formality that could be useful.

It also drew attention, which Wynne knew would piss Mike Mullins off. He had bought a large house on a tree-lined street in Lymm, a wealthy commuter village which was home to doctors and lawyers and accountants as well as a handful of gangsters who wanted their kids to go to good schools and have respectable friends, and he would not want his neighbours seeing the police show up.

She didn’t care. She was glad to remind him how he had got hold of the money he’d bought his newfound respectability with. She parked by one of the trees – she didn’t know which type of trees they were, only that she couldn’t afford to live on a street with trees like them – and got out of the car.

An electronically controlled gate blocked the long driveway leading to his house, but, as she and PC Edwards approached it there was a click and it swung open.

The gravel crunched underfoot as they walked up to the large, black front door. Wynne rang the bell.

No one came.

‘Bastard’s in,’ Edwards said, gesturing to a red Range Rover parked next to a Bentley. ‘He’s messing with us.’

Wynne nodded. ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘Time’s a-wasting.’

She turned and started to walk back down the drive. The gate swung shut. Behind her, she heard the sound of the front door opening.

‘So,’ a voice said. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

Mike Mullins sat in an armchair facing them, his legs crossed. He was wearing tan brogues, green cords and an expensive-looking V-neck sweater over a pale blue shirt. He could have been a banker at his golf club. He probably had similarly well-developed moral principles.

‘I’ve never met you,’ he said, little more than a hint of a Manchester accent left in his voice. ‘Although I’ve met quite a few of your colleagues over the years. Which one sent you?’

‘Ryan,’ Wynne said.

‘I remember her. A superintendent now, correct?’

‘Correct.’

‘She deserves it.’ He shook his head. ‘Incorruptible, and I tried. Most of your lot have a price, higher or lower, but not her.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘Not that I’d say if I had bought her,’ Mullins said. ‘That would be stupid, right?’ He leaned forward. ‘And if there’s one thing I’m not, Detective Inspector Wynne, it’s stupid.’ He sat back again. ‘Now we’ve got that out of the way, what can I do for you?’