After a twenty-six-minute car ride and a further nineteen minutes waiting around in the cold, isolated aerodrome on the outskirts of Northampton, Alistair ambled along the tarmac towards the private jet. The cool wind blew straight through his dark-grey jacket, causing him to shiver. He was mere minutes away from freedom.
But he was not a fool. Tucked safely in a hiding spot known only to him was Excalibur, waiting to be discovered once again by him at a more appropriate time. After witnessing Maximilian’s misfortune, Alistair was more determined to ensure the investor would not get the better of him. As he gazed across the tarmac towards the private jet, he realised the staff had not lowered its stairs.
Imbeciles.
Alistair shook his head and turned to trek back to the aerodrome building. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Anwar, Chan and a team of police officers, all wearing matching, stab-proof vests, burst out of the door and ran towards him.
‘Police,’ Anwar cried out over the loud hum of the jet engines.
Alistair whirled around. His heart raced. He was trapped between the closed door of the jet and an army of police officers. The investor must have sensed he was being screwed over. Shit.
Raising his hands, Alistair whirled around to face the army of police offers. It was his only option. Running was a futile endeavour.
Chan unclipped a set of handcuffs off his belt as he followed Anwar across the tarmac.
‘I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Pippa Baker, the kidnapping of Valentine Charlet and Elizabeth James, and the theft of a Celtic Sword on loan to the Northampton Museum of Anthropology, catalogue number NMA-642901A. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ Anwar directed Alistair across the tarmac towards the airport.
Alistair walked into the police station with Chan gripping his bicep. The scruffy, brown-haired man flinched as the short police officer tightened his grip. Chan stopped in front of the reception desk. They were greeted with a warm smile.
The curvy, dark-skinned woman in her early forties looked up at Alistair, then over at the constable.
‘Don’t I get a call?’ Alistair stared at Chan.
The PC smirked as he reached across the reception desk, picked up a small office phone, and pulled it towards Alistair. ‘Be my guest.’
Alistair picked up the receiver and dialled a local number.
‘I guess you probably know that number by heart by now,’ Chan said.
As he listened to the dial tone, Alistair felt the watchful eyes of the PC fix themselves on him. Not that it was any surprise, but by entering the station, he had kissed his right to privacy goodbye. The fewer words Alistair said, the better. The last thing he needed was to serve himself to the police on a silver platter. So, it was decided that he would call his father, who would contact criminal barrister QC Bradley Evans. Calling him from a police station phone was practically an admission of guilt, and only an idiot would do that—he was not an idiot.
‘I need you to make that call. The call I spoke to you about earlier. I’m at the Northampton District Police Station.’ Alistair clunked the receiver down and faced Chan, who was standing next to him at the reception desk.
‘This way. I need to fingerprint you before putting you in the holding cell.’ Chan paused and looked up at Alistair. ‘I hope you called your lawyer.’