FIFTY-NINE

After leaving the de Bruin’s estate, Elias drove around for a minute or so until he found a suitable farm track to pull in to. He switched off his engine then took another look at the gallery of photographs he’d checked out earlier. His memory had served him well. León de Bruin was wearing a gold wedding ring in all but one of them – the one taken at his in-law’s anniversary bash, where he’d had instead a band of paler skin where the ring should have been. Because of course you’d put on rubber gloves to move dead bodies and scrub the walls. And how easy to pull your ring off when you removed them again, and have it drop unnoticed to the floor.

He couldn’t risk the Nettleham switchboard, so he called Yvette Coombs on her mobile instead. ‘Where the hell are you?’ she whispered. ‘Wharton’s going crazy. He wants your blood.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he told her. ‘Can you check something for me?’

‘Of course. What?’

‘Dunstan Warne’s wedding ring. Is there any kind of inscription on it?’

‘I don’t have it any more,’ she told him, puzzled. ‘I gave it back to Anna Warne last night. I thought that’s what you wanted.’

‘Hell,’ muttered Elias. ‘Yes. It was. Sorry.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Did you tell anyone?’

‘No. Why would I?’ But then she added: ‘It was on the receipt, though, which I posted to the case file.’

‘What time was that? Can you remember?’

‘Not exactly, no. But it was straight after I took her to see Jay. Four, four-thirty, something like that. Why? What’s going on? You want me to ask her for it back?’

‘No. It’s fine. I’ll do it.’ He ended the call then sat there for a while, thinking it through. A lost wedding ring would explain why de Bruin and Andrei had gone to the farm the other night, and why they’d lurked outside the pound yesterday evening, and the bikers’ failed bag-snatch too. And de Bruin was unlikely to stop there. He’d want that ring back before anyone realised its significance. Which meant Anna was in serious danger still. He called to warn her, but her phone was off. He left a message then tried Merchant instead. His phone was off too. He told himself not to worry. They were filming this morning, so of course their phones would be off. And at Newark Castle, too, which was only twenty minutes away, so that he could easily go there now himself to take back the ring.

He drove a little faster than was prudent on the narrow, twisty lanes. He reached the A17. Traffic was heavy in both directions, yet he took every opportunity to overtake, for all the good it did. He was so focused on the road ahead that it was only after passing a white van headed in the other direction that he became properly conscious of it. Its front bumper had been held on with black tape, he was sure of it. And its driver had had a scarf over his chin and a baseball cap tugged down over his eyes.

He glanced over his shoulder. The van was already well down the road. But it certainly looked similar to Dunstan Warne’s, and it had the same empty roof rack too. He dithered a moment but felt too uneasy just to let it go. He braked to turn. His indecision had cost him, however, as another flurry of oncoming traffic arrived to baulk him, while his sudden slowing caused everyone behind him to come to a screeching sharp halt, letting him know their displeasure with their horns.

He held his warrant card out the window in a forlorn attempt to appease them, then swung around into the next gap to race back the way he’d come, catching occasional glimpses of the white van ahead, thanks to the openness of the terrain. The van turned right down a side road. He saw it flickering through gaps in a hedgerow. Then he approached the turn himself, and saw its signpost, and realised with a sickening lurch where it was most likely headed, and maybe even why. So he called Yvette Coombs once more and told her he needed backup at Fenton Airfield now.