Driving home that night through the largely quiet streets of Clerkenwell, a place he’d always considered an oasis in the centre of London, Mike Bolt thought about what Tina had told him about Alastair Sheridan.
It seemed ludicrous to believe that the man who could potentially be the next Prime Minister was a killer. Bolt himself hadn’t had any involvement in the Bone Field investigation, but he knew that it was ongoing, and that it was being overseen by the NCA. It had been, and to a large degree still was, a very high-profile case, which had started off with the discovery of the remains of seven women buried in the grounds of a private farm in mid-Wales some fifteen months back now. Only one of the women had been identified and it was believed that the other six had been illegal immigrants from eastern Europe, and their deaths had happened over a number of years.
At the time, there’d been the usual clamour for results from the press and the public, and the ownership of the farm had eventually been traced via a series of shell companies to a lawyer called Hugh Manning. But Manning had been murdered while in police custody, which had got plenty of conspiracy theories going as it seemed he was going to name names of people involved.
Since Manning’s death, the case had still periodically made the headlines, mainly because of the lack of progress in bringing anyone else to justice, but Bolt had always believed there’d been a lot more to it than met the eye. He also knew that it had been Ray Mason and Tina who’d discovered both the location of the Bone Field farm and what had gone on there, so they both knew more about the case than most people.
Bolt had always trusted Tina’s judgement. She’d worked for him for several years on some important cases, and she was undoubtedly a good detective. From what Bolt knew of Ray Mason, he’d been a very good detective too. And so he had to concede that it was therefore unlikely they were wrong about Sheridan’s involvement, which put him in something of a dilemma. What did he do about it?
Twenty years ago, maybe even ten, he would have known the answer instantly. He’d have started digging deeper, regardless of the consequences. Bolt considered himself an honest, conscientious cop, one who genuinely wanted to keep the streets safe for law-abiding citizens. But he was no blind rule taker either. Like Ray Mason, he’d once executed a man in cold blood. The man’s name was Lench and he’d been by some distance the most brutal murderer Bolt had ever come across. Even so, he’d been unarmed and offering no resistance when Bolt, overcome with anger and emotion, had shot him dead. In those days he’d been prepared to take major risks in pursuit of what he perceived to be natural justice.
But those days were long gone. He was only eleven months away from retirement. He and Leanne had a plan worked out. Leanne was going to take early retirement from her teaching job. She’d sold her house just before the Brexit vote and the collapse of the London property market and had moved into Bolt’s penthouse loft conversion in Clerkenwell, which he rented from a man he’d once done a huge favour for, so they were ready and able to start a new life elsewhere at the drop of a hat. They’d both fallen in love with the south of France and were looking for a house with gites attached to do up and start a holiday rental business. It was the classic pipe dream of middle-class Brits everywhere, and with their combined pensions and the capital they’d built up over the years it was eminently doable. Leanne’s mother was French, and she spoke the language fluently. The knowledge that they were going to do it together was what kept him going in the day-to-day humdrum and difficult hours of the NCA. He couldn’t afford to do anything that compromised that dream, and digging deeper into a case that didn’t concern him was a real risk. He could already see quite plainly what it had done to Ray Mason.
As he parked the car in the building’s underground car park and climbed the stairs to the loft, he’d already decided that he wasn’t going to do anything foolish.
It had just turned two a.m. when Bolt climbed into bed beside Leanne, trying to be as quiet as possible, though he was secretly pleased when she stirred and put a hand in his.
‘Go back to sleep,’ he whispered, kissing her neck.
‘Love you,’ she managed to whisper back, then did exactly that, her breathing soft and steady.
Bolt lay beside her, one arm encircling her waist, and closed his eyes. But he couldn’t help thinking about Alastair Sheridan and the possibility that he might get away with his crimes, and for a long time sleep didn’t come.