The garage forecourt was busy as Assistant Chief Constable Martin filled up his Jaguar. In his peripheral vision he could see his wife, Muriel, taking another swig from the flask of Bombay Sapphire she’d concealed in her bag before they set off.
He got out his wallet and headed inside to pay.
Just as he got to the door, his Barbour jacket began to vibrate. By the time he took out his phone, the caller had rung off. Martin pressed the recall button, keeping one eye on Muriel as two German bikers entered behind him. One of them began complaining – in his native tongue – about the lack of refreshment facilities on offer. It was a cheek to call it a service station the other one said.
This was Britain, what did they expect?
Martin was fluent in five languages: French, German, Spanish, Dutch and Russian, all acquired at Cambridge with a view to securing a job as an interpreter for the Foreign Office. Quite why he’d changed his mind in favour of policing wasn’t clear, even to him. Except that it had opened up the more exciting option of working for Interpol at their headquarters in Lyon.
Until Muriel came along.
The ringing tone in his ear stopped and Martin stared at the phone display. The signal had dropped out. He tried again. As he waited for an answer, Martin thought about his dreams of international policing and how they had come to nothing. His one and only claim to fame was that he was the youngest officer in Britain ever to reach the rank of Assistant Chief. His failure to make Chief Constable needled him more than he cared to admit.
More customers entered. He stepped back in the line, allowing them to go first, and in the process caught sight of his reflection in a mirrored panel that ran down the side of a shelving unit displaying cheap sunglasses. He didn’t like what he saw: he had dark circles under his eyes and was sporting a five o’clock shadow.
Martin was in a foul mood. He’d intended to make the journey down yesterday but only made it as far as the Skye road bridge, which was closed due to strong winds. The ferry across Loch Alsh, the only other route connecting the island to the mainland, had been suspended, resulting in several hours of delay and an enforced night in a lumpy four-poster in the only available B & B. His wife had been giving him earache the entire journey and he was four hours late for an appointment with Bright.
Too bad – the bastard would just have to wait.
When Felicity Wood came on the line, she sounded frantic. Her speech was so hurried he could hardly make out what she was saying.
‘Wally, thank God. Can you talk?’
‘If you’re quick, Muriel’s in the car.’
‘I had the police here. They know! I’m really worried.’
Martin forced himself to breathe as the sight of half a face flew into his head. Blood on white walls. Bits of brain and bone on the floor. He was finding it difficult enough to cope, without Felicity’s anxiety making matters worse.
‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘Are you in the office?’
‘Yes, and I’m bloody scared. I want you back here.’
‘I’m on my way. And stop panicking. I could get time for this.’ Martin flushed as the Germans stopped talking and turned to look at him, intrigued by his conversation. He moved out of the queue and stood with his back to them, lowering his voice. ‘You didn’t tell them anything?’
Silence.
‘Felicity?’
Wood stopped snivelling. ‘I’m not sure I can keep up the pretence. And why the hell should I? I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘For Christ’s sake, calm down!’ Martin whispered through clenched teeth. A horn blasted outside and he looked out of the window; Muriel was furiously tapping her watch, urging him to get a move on. On the other end of the phone, Wood started to cry. The Jaguar’s horn blasted again. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll sort it, I promise you. I need to find out what they know and what they think they know. I’ve got somebody on the squad. Don’t worry. Just sit tight.’