The Assassin King

Elias waited until he was out of the churchyard before turning his phone back on. It rang almost instantly. Maria Quinn. ‘There you are,’ she said, in the kind of breathy whisper that suggested there were others nearby who she didn’t want listening in. ‘I was getting worried.’

‘No need,’ he told her. ‘What’s up?’

‘That wretched man. I can’t believe what he’s doing. Stealing credit for your arrest of Gregory Scott like that!’

‘Our arrest. And what are you talking about?’

‘Wharton. Claiming he had to come down from Grimsby to salvage the investigation.’

Elias laughed. ‘He really said salvage?’

‘He’s saying it now, at his bloody press conference. Aren’t you listening?’

‘I’d rather hammer nails into my kneecaps.’

‘I can’t believe you’re taking it so calmly.’

‘Yeah, well,’ he said. ‘There are worse things in this world.’ An awkward silence followed. She clearly knew his story. ‘Was that it?’ he asked. ‘Or was there anything else?’

‘I’ve been taken off the case too,’ she said. ‘I’m back at the station. But it’s been quiet enough here that I gave those traffic cams another shot. I know it doesn’t much matter any more, but I do hate a loose end.’

‘I checked them last Sunday afternoon, like you suggested. I found Mr Warne heading up towards Sleaford in his van at a few minutes after three. It’s definitely him, you can see him and his plates. But his front bumper’s fine, there’s no scratch down his side, and there’s a ladder on his roof rack too.’

‘A ladder? Are you sure?’

‘Am I sure there’s a ladder on his roof rack?’ she retorted. ‘Just how bad at this do you think I am?’

Elias laughed. ‘Fair enough. Go on.’

‘I’ve traced him as far as Sleaford, but then he vanishes. Until the early hours, at least, when I’ve got him coming back. But there are loads of other traffic cams around there, thanks to all those nice straight roads that our boy racers do so love to speed on. I’ve drawn a kind of net from the cameras he didn’t pass. You’ll see what I mean. I’ve already sent it over.’ He found it in his email and opened the attachment, a screenshot of a roadmap with the traffic cameras marked by an X, drawing a jagged triangle around Warne’s possible destinations, from Sleaford up to Lincoln and across to Newark. ‘Nice work,’ he said. ‘Have you given this to Wharton and his team?’

‘Why would they care? They’ve got their man.’

‘Do it anyway. If they get irritated, tell them I told you to. Otherwise, just take the credit.’ He stared at the map. ‘Any chance you’d be up for another job? It’d have to be off the books, though, what with both of us being off the case. Would that be a problem?’

‘Okay. Great. Thank you. Warne had a drone in the back of his van with a bunch of photographs on it. Most are old, and of his farm, but the latest set are from somewhere else, and were taken recently, to judge from the state of the fields.’

‘You think that’s where he was that day? And you want me to see if I can’t locate it?’

‘You did say you hated loose ends.’

‘I did, yes. Send them over.’

‘You’re a star. Oh, and obviously start with the area inside your map.’

‘Yes,’ said Quinn. ‘Obviously.’

He grinned as he finished the call, feeling unexpectedly cheerful, all things considered. He sent Quinn the photos and received acknowledgement, along with a screenshot from a traffic camera showing Warne’s van heading north, exactly as Quinn had described, undamaged and with an extensible aluminium ladder on its roof. He checked through his other emails and found a message from a man called Royston Flynn, setting out in commendable detail a visit Dunstan Warne had paid him some twelve days before and explaining that Anna Warne had suggested he let him know. He thanked him by return then rang Anna to thank her too, and also to make sure she’d heard the news about Gregory Scott. Her phone was busy, however, so he left it for later and set off for Lincoln, searching through the local stations on his radio for one carrying Wharton’s press conference live.