FIFTY-FIVE

It was instantly apparent to de Bruin, from the manner in which Anna Warne sped away, spewing black smoke from her exhaust, that she’d at the very least spotted their Tesla in her rear-view, and wanted to see if they’d give chase.

‘Hold back,’ he told Andrei.

‘I know,’ Andrei replied.

‘I’m just saying.’

‘Do I tell you how to manage your apartments?’

De Bruin looked at him in surprise. The man wasn’t given to backchat, or indeed to any chat at all. But he let it go, just as Andrei let Anna Warne go, letting her pull well out of sight before picking up pace again. They had no need to tail her closely, after all, for they still had the tracker Andrei had planted on her van in the small hours, which showed her progress on their dashboard monitor.

They were approaching Newark when Samantha rang, sounding shaken. Elias had just been by, asking questions about Warne Farm. ‘Warne Farm?’ he said, feigning bewilderment. ‘What the hell was he asking about that for?’

‘Why don’t you tell me?’

‘It’s nothing to do with me, my dear, I swear it on my life. The man is just stirring trouble, that’s all.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. Perhaps a word with your father? Have him ask his friend the Chief Constable why he’s allowing his detectives to pester his daughter.’

‘He knows about us and Warne Farm?’ asked Andrei, when he’d ended the call. ‘How?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You think the girl made us?’

‘No. I’d have heard from my source.’

‘Sure. If it was in their interest.’

De Bruin didn’t reply, but it was something to consider. His source had betrayed his badge without a qualm. He’d betray de Bruin just as swiftly. And while prison in itself didn’t exactly frighten him, he found himself offended by the prospect of being deprived of everything he’d worked so hard to achieve. Several years ago, he’d therefore spent a small fortune on a second identity as an expatriate Canadian businessman called Patrick Browne, in whose name he’d bought a charming villa overlooking Saint Lucia’s Donnery Bay, and had lodged sufficient funds in Cypriot, Panamanian and British Virgin Islands accounts to live handsomely for life. But that was a last resort. Lincolnshire was home. His empire was here. His power and status. His wife and beloved daughter.

He checked the dashboard monitor again. Anna Warne crossed the River Trent on the Great North Road then headed past Newark Castle into the town centre, where her signal abruptly vanished. The explanation for this became clear when they reached the spot themselves, for it proved to be the entrance ramp to a supermarket’s underground car park, up which Anna herself now came striding even as they drove by, though fortunately she was too busy pulling up her hood against the drizzle to spot them. And she had no bag upon her shoulder, he noted, perhaps because his biker friends had broken its buckle in last night’s failed snatch.

He watched over his shoulder as she headed off towards the castle. They found a place to turn then headed down the ramp into the car park. Two workmen were digging up a section of floor with a jackhammer, making a terrible din and filling the air with dust. They drove a circuit of the place before spotting Anna’s van in a far corner, perhaps chosen out of guilt for using the supermarket’s car park without intending to shop there.

De Bruin made to get out but Andrei grabbed his wrist. ‘No,’ he said, pointing up at a CCTV camera.

‘I need that bag,’ de Bruin told him irritably.

‘Yes. But not like this.’

They headed back out, found a place to park on a side street further on. They pulled on waterproofs, baseball caps, scarves and gloves then made their way back on foot. The jackhammer was still thundering away, providing them with cover. De Bruin stood guard while Andrei slipped down the gap between van and wall. Locks were one of his skills. This one took him no time at all. Anna’s bag was on the passenger seat. He passed it back to de Bruin. Its broken buckle was crudely mended with black tape, but all it contained was a slimline laptop. Either she’d taken her uncle’s wallet with her, or it was somewhere else inside the van.

They climbed in through its passenger door, clambering between the seats to get into the back, packed not just with farm equipment, but with an overnight case and a box of books too. Then they set about their search without a word. No word was needed, after all, for Andrei was the one person in the world who knew what they were after.

And, more to the point, why.