Chapters (38)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-one
- Chapter Twenty-two
- Chapter Twenty-three
- Chapter Twenty-four
- Chapter Twenty-five
- Chapter Twenty-six
- Chapter Twenty-seven
- Chapter Twenty-eight
- Chapter Twenty-nine
- Epilogue
- Afterword
- Next in Series
- Canelo Crime
- Newsletter
- About the Author
- Also by Nick Louth
Everything was going well, but the change in instructions gnawed at his mind. He’d got the go-ahead for something he’d offered half in jest, not expecting to be taken up on it. Using the weighty object in his overalls pocket, liberated from the Royal Marines quartermaster’s stores in Portsmouth nearly forty years ago and carefully hidden at home all that time. Forget piffling divorce cases. This was serious money, the big boys’ league. But it raised the stakes all round. He’d planned it in his head, going through every detail that could be prepared in advance. The trouble was, it didn’t just depend on him, but the behaviour of the target. He’d have to think on his feet.
He tracked her on the ninety-minute journey to Chieveley Services at the intersection of the A34 and the M4. She had now been there for ten minutes, the trace not moving. And now he saw a second red dot pop up in the same place. The second phone. The meeting with her sister, arranged by Vicky the previous evening, was to take place in the car park of the Travelodge budget hotel at the service area. He knew that, because he had downloaded the voice file. Vicky had said little on the call that wasn’t strictly necessary, but did mention she had a new phone for Crystal. No doubt the trackable one he’d sold her.
Perfect. It was going like clockwork. Wherever Crystal was, Ozzy Blanchard wouldn’t be far away. Slater had never fallen for the ruse that Ozzy was dead. It was clever, he’d grant them that, but not good enough to fool him. Tracking him down had been hard, but once the deed was done Ray would be on for his performance bonus. More cash than he’d put away in a lifetime of being a Met Police dog handler.
He took the slip road from the A34 northbound, hit the roundabout under the M4, and took the exit into the services. He was looking for a distinctive red Citroën C3, 2006 model. With the child seat and a parcel shelf full of soft toys it wouldn’t be hard to find.
Slater felt his pulse quicken as he turned into the Travelodge car park.
The car wasn’t there.