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  The revelation intensified her interest in Pierson. She’d been following him for the last forty-eight hours and he was now in the restaurant opposite. He was dining with the third different woman Sarah had seen him with in that short period of time. The first of the three, a blonde woman in her twenties, had spent last night in his apartment, and a second had visited him in his home an hour after the first woman left. Now Pierson was on a third date. It made Sarah exhausted just thinking about it.

  Not that his dating rituals meant much. Other than discovering Pierson was something of a player, her surveillance hadn’t revealed anything of relevance. She watched him now, deep in conversation with Girlfriend Three, a pretty brunette lady in her late forties, and wondered if she was wasting her time. She finished her now lukewarm coffee, and was about to leave when Girlfriend Three got to her feet.

  The move was dramatic and Pierson froze. Knife and fork in hand, he sat as if in shock, a shock intensifying as the woman poured a drink over his head.

  Sarah placed some money on the table, grabbed her coat and left the coffee shop in time to see Girlfriend Three run from the restaurant. She was obviously in some distress, the make-up on her face smudged from crying. Sarah pretended to tie her shoe as Pierson followed her outside.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ said Pierson, as if addressing a child.

  The woman rounded on him, tears replaced by a fierce look, and she ran at Pierson, fists held out in front of her. Pierson was taken aback. He tried to fend off the attack but the woman was persistent. She followed him as he retreated, raining more blows on him as the tears began to flow.

  Sarah trailed after them, trying to hear the exact words of their heated conversation. From what she could tell, it sounded like the woman had discovered the existence of Girlfriends One and Two. The woman told Pierson in no uncertain terms what he could do with his explanations and walked away.

  Sarah followed her to a car park behind the shops where she watched her climb aboard a dirt-covered, thirty-year-old Land Rover. She took a note of the number plate and was about to instruct Adams to check it when her phone rang.

  It was Partridge. She looked at his name on her screen for four rings before deciding to answer.

  ‘May.’

  ‘Ah, good, DCI May. I need to see you immediately. How long until you can reach NCA headquarters?’

  Sarah glanced at her watch. ‘Probably within two hours,’ she said.

  ‘Try and make it nearer to one,’ said Partridge, hanging up.

  * * *

  She didn’t get as far as her office. Partridge greeted her at the entrance to the NCA headquarters. He was sheltering beneath an umbrella, a smug smile on his face as if he could somehow control the weather.

  ‘Please follow me, DCI May,’ he said, walking towards the car park without waiting for a response.

  He held the back door of the car open for her and she held his gaze for a second before climbing into the back seat.

  Partridge shook off his umbrella and joined her, smoothing his suit down. ‘That’s better,’ he said, smiling at her like she was a simpleton. ‘Long time no see, DCI May.’

  Whose fault was that? She’d left numerous messages for him since they’d last met, all unreturned. She knew what was about to happen and was determined not to react or make it easy for the man.

  Partridge jutted out his beak-like chin, annoyed she hadn’t responded. ‘You have an update for me, perhaps?’

  ‘As you know, my team has been reduced to DS Adams and me. We’ve been working on the escape angle itself, assessing those who knew Saunders was being moved.’

  ‘Quite so. And where were you today when I called?’

  Something about the way he asked her told Sarah he already knew. ‘I’ve been following Stuart Pierson for the last forty-eight hours,’ she said.

  ‘Any particular reason for doing so?’

  She explained that the eight convicted members of Waverley Manor all spent some time at Pierson’s prison.

  ‘Still, strange decision to spend all your time on him.’ Partridge tilted his head, his eyebrows raised. The look was condescending and it took all of Sarah’s strength not to say something.

  ‘We’ve spoken to Governor Guthrie and the guards at both prisons. I’ve been denied access to the family of DS Colin Wright, as you well know. I had to justify my time somehow.’

  ‘Yes, very good,’ said Partridge. ‘Thing is, we’ve had teams on Guthrie and Pierson all this time.’

  Sarah glanced at Partridge’s driver who sat motionless, staring forward. ‘Then why the fuck didn’t you tell me?’ she said, growling at the MI5 agent.

  ‘Yes, quite. I agree there has been some poor communication between our teams. I’m afraid in my experience this often happens. We all want the same thing, naturally, but sometimes we can end up working against one another.’ He lifted his hands up and pulled them apart to demonstrate his thinking.

  ‘Why don’t you get to the point?’ said Sarah.

  ‘Very good. It is with regret I have to inform you that you and your department are no longer part of the investigation into the escape of Peter Saunders.’ He stared at her, wide eyed, as if she hadn’t heard.

  It was expected but grated. ‘This is absolutely ridiculous. I’ve been working non-stop on this with absolutely no cooperation from your team and now you’re taking me off the investigation? May I remind you I found John Prine. Where would we be without that lead?’

  Partridge pursed his lips and nodded like she was a child he was trying to understand. ‘We appreciate everything you’ve done, DCI May, and I will be passing on my thankful comments to your superiors. However, the case is receiving a lot of attention and it has been decided that it would be simpler, and more effective, if we contained it.’

  More effective, thought Sarah. ‘Why did you have us on board in the first place?’

  Partridge’s lips formed into a smile which instantly faded. ‘Well, exactly. Thank you for your help, DCI May. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you not to interfere from here on in. Consequences for you could be severe.’

  Sarah left the car, shutting the door with controlled aggression. Not only had she been taken off the case, she’d been threatened as a parting shot. Holding her phone, she considered calling the Chief Constable, but what good would that do? She would come across as a whining child, which helped nobody. The Chief would have been part of the decision process. It would have been easier to accept the dismissal had it come from him rather than MI5 directly, but it was done now. The hardest part was the joy she’d seen in Partridge’s face as he dismissed her. She’d never really been a part of the investigation in the first place, hadn’t received any credit for finding the body of John Prine, and had been kept at arm’s length all along, yet the man had taken a perverse joy in letting her go.

  She called DS Adams to tell him the bad news before returning home and packing. It was nearly Christmas, time she took some annual leave.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They drove Forrest back for questioning. He began complaining that they’d promised he wouldn’t be implicated, but a single glare from Lambert was enough to silence him.

  ‘What were the names of these men who asked you to recruit boys for them?’ asked Lambert as he drove, the very question filling him with rage.

  ‘I’m not saying anything further without a solicitor,’ said Forrest.

  Lambert breathed in through his nose. ‘You understand two people are dead?’

  Forrest didn’t answer.

  ‘These men, did they belong to some sort of organization?’

  Lambert studied Forrest’s reaction in his rear-view mirror, caught the twitch in his right eye.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You said you read about Lance Jenkins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you would have read about me? You know what happened at Waverley Manor, the arrests I made?’

  ‘I guess so.’<
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  ‘So you know the men who were prosecuted belonged to a group called the Manor.’

  ‘A so-called group,’ said Forrest.

  Lambert’s foot pressed harder on the accelerator. ‘They exist, George. And I think you know that. The two men who coerced you, did they belong to the Manor?’

  ‘How would I know that?’

  Lambert increased his speed, Matilda giving him a nervous glance as he hit sixty. ‘You feel safe, George?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Not from me, you cretin. From them. They’ve killed Lance Jenkins. You introduced him to them.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘There are some things you don’t know about this case, George. But let’s just suppose the Manor are involved. That they killed Lance for whatever demented reason. Wouldn’t that make you scared? It would scare the hell out of me.’

  Forrest considered the question. ‘I don’t know if they were from the Manor.’

  ‘But you’d heard of the name at the time – what was this? – nine years ago?’

  ‘I’d heard the name but it was just hearsay, an urban legend.’

  ‘An urban legend,’ repeated Lambert, shaking his head. ‘When was the last time you spoke to them?’

  ‘Not since I left the school.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘I swear. Look, I’ve tried my best to get out of this. I don’t like the way I am. I didn’t want to help them in the first place, but I had no option.’

  Lambert overtook a car, the driver blaring his horn as Lambert sped by. He was doing 70 mph now, the single road rushing towards them, his driving fuelled by his rage. Matilda rested her hand on his arm.

  ‘You always had a fucking choice,’ he said, easing his foot off the accelerator.

  * * *

  Chief Superintendent Glenn Tillman’s feet were on Lambert’s desk. He was leaning back on Lambert’s chair, hands behind his head. ‘You’ve been busy,’ said Tillman.

  Lambert switched on the light in the room. ‘We’ve been exploring all angles.’

  ‘Sit,’ said Tillman, taking his legs off the desk, the almost permanent look of hostile agitation on his face. ‘Would you like to tell me what some IT consultant from Bushey has to do with this current investigation?’

  ‘George Forrest used to teach Lance Jenkins,’ said Lambert.

  Tillman looked incredulous, holding his hands out in front of him as if he wanted to strangle Lambert.

  ‘So do you think he’s a credible suspect? Did he murder Lance Jenkins and Alistair Beckinsale?’

  ‘No, but that’s not the point.’

  ‘Would you kindly like to tell me what the point is, then?’

  ‘Well, for one, Forrest is guilty of something that much is evident. The local CID are trawling his house now and I am sure they’ll find something.’

  Tillman frowned. ‘That has nothing to do with us. Our job is to find the person who killed Jenkins and Beckinsale, who left your name at the crime scene, lest we forget.’

  ‘Somebody recruited Forrest,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Recruited?’

  ‘I have it on tape. Maybe it would be easier just to listen to that.’

  ‘Just give me the bullet points,’ said Tillman, adjusting the knot of his tie.

  Lambert explained about the men who’d recruited Forrest when he’d been a teacher to find young children.

  Tillman turned away. ‘And in your head you linked this to the Manor?’ he said.

  ‘Why the hell not? He’s admitted as much, just not in so many words,’ said Lambert, raising his voice.

  ‘People are starting to talk, Lambert.’

  ‘Since when did that bother you, Glenn?’

  ‘It bothers me when they’re threatening to take the case from us. You do realize how this affects you? Your name being at the crime scene? And then you’re making random, seemingly unrelated arrests.’

  It wasn’t always easy to please his boss, yet Lambert was disappointed with his response. ‘Let’s just go over the facts for a second, Glenn. From our discussions with Alistair Beckinsale’s parents and now Lance Jenkins’ ex-teacher, it’s conceivable both Jenkins and Beckinsale were previously victims of some form of abuse. If that’s true, and considering Peter Saunders has just absconded from prison, I believe it’s a fair jump to at least entertain the idea the Manor are somehow involved.’

  Tillman surprised him with his angry response. He pushed himself from the desk, spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke. ‘You need to change your approach, Lambert,’ he bellowed.

  Lambert studied his superior officer. He was used to these mini outbursts but was confused as to why Tillman would react this way. To Lambert it was the logical conclusion that the Manor were potentially involved. ‘What is happening with the Peter Saunders’ investigation, Glenn? Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘They found the body of John Prine, Saunders’ prison guard, in a shallow grave in Norfolk. Though I’m sure you already know that. I’ll pass on this information to them but you’re not to get involved. MI5 have a bee in their bonnet about this. You’ve worked with them before, Lambert, you know what they’re capable of. It’s not like pissing off me or the Assistant Chief. You piss these guys off and you’ll find yourself in prison or worse.’

  ‘Surely we’re after the same thing,’ said Lambert, though he doubted his own words. Lambert wanted to catch the criminals, those responsible for the deaths of Beckinsale and Jenkins, those who ran or worked for the Manor. He got the impression the security services had different priorities, including hiding the fact Saunders ever escaped in the first place.

  ‘We need some answers soon,’ said Tillman, moving to the door. ‘If Forrest is not responsible forget about him. Find out who killed Beckinsale and Jenkins before it’s too late.’ He stormed out, as adept at making an exit as he was making an entrance.

  Lambert switched on his laptop and made a last-minute attempt at ordering Christmas presents. His choice was limited if he wanted deliveries before Christmas day. He considered getting vouchers for Sophie but she would be upset if she didn’t have something to open. He remembered a jewellery brochure she’d left in the house. In retrospect it was a significant hint. He snapped the laptop shut and headed home, hoping he could find the brochure and that the shop would still be open.

  His phone rang as he left the office building, the number withheld. He accepted the call, a voice announcing, ‘It’s me.’

  Lambert got into his car. ‘Sarah, how are you?’

  ‘Not so great actually. I’ve been taken off the Saunders’ case.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘MI5 have taken over completely. They felt the attention the case was attracting meant they should handle it themselves. I sensed it coming. After you left the farmhouse I was grilled about John Prine. I’m not sure Partridge fully accepted my answers about me being alone. He as good as told me to leave the site. I’ve spent the last day working the two prisons. I’m finding it very difficult to trust any of them at the moment.’

  She told him about the two Governors, and Pierson’s public fallout with Girlfriend Three, Lambert laughing at her description.

  ‘Partridge told me they already had Pierson under surveillance, which is ludicrous. I don’t trust Partridge, or any of them, but what else can I do? My only recourse is to go to the Chief Constable and I think that would be unwise,’ said Sarah.

  It was a difficult situation. MI5 were prone to closing ranks, and Lambert understood Sarah’s reluctance to take things higher. ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘I’ve washed my hands of it. I’m heading back home for Christmas. Let Partridge and his team take care of it if that’s what they want. They’re obviously trying to keep this quiet and I’m a threat to that.’

  ‘You think Pierson and Guthrie have been told to keep quiet too?’

  ‘It would be in their best interests. Partridge basically threatened to take my badge if I continued.�
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  ‘Frustrating,’ said Lambert, but it was more than that. He’d been convinced the Saunders’ case and his own were linked from the beginning and this increased his suspicions. ‘Look, if I have to I’ll call you on your usual number.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And Sarah?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Happy Christmas.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Michael wished her a happy Christmas, and Sarah chided herself for feeling cheated by the words. He’d paused before speaking and for a second she’d been convinced he was going to suggest they meet up. And despite her better judgement, she would have accepted the invitation. It was good to finally admit to herself she’d felt his absence over the last year. Although things hadn’t run smoothly during the last couple of months of their relationship, she’d been able to depend on him. The baby changed everything and that was unavoidable. Her best course of action at the time had been to forget about him, and although she may have missed him she’d done a pretty good job of not having him in her life. Why, then, only days after seeing him again, was she feeling like this?

  She walked to the buffet carriage of the train and ordered a red wine. She hadn’t taken leave for over ten months, and this enforced break couldn’t have come at a better time. She could put the stress of work, and thoughts of Michael Lambert, behind her. Back in her seat she raised her plastic beaker of wine and toasted her resolution. She glanced at her phone and considered calling him back.

  Instead, with a smirk, she placed the phone in her bag and took a deep drink.

  * * *

  She caught a taxi from Bristol Temple Meads train station. A sense of nostalgia came over her as the car drove through old haunts where she’d worked as a detective, despite having only visited the city a few months ago. It was a reaction to the disappointment of the Saunders’ case, and a general disillusionment with working for the NCA. She’d been part of something when she’d worked for the serious crimes’ squad here. In London, she was just another ambitious officer looking to make her mark.