Burning Truth: An Edge-0f-The-Seat British Crime Thriller (DCI BOYD CRIME THRILLERS Book3) (DCI BOYD CRIME SERIES)

by Alex Scarrow

  ‘But why would they do that?’ asked Okeke. ‘Why indicate they were involved?’

  ‘It’s a warning, isn’t it?’ Jacobs replied. ‘One hidden in plain sight. A reminder to past members that what happens in the club stays in the club.’ He scratched at the thick thatch of dark bristles covering his chin. ‘Or else…’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ said Okeke. ‘It’s right there, for everyone to see!’

  ‘Indeed.’ Jacobs held his hand out, and Boyd passed the photo and the cutting back to him. ‘For everyone to see and yet not see. But for those in the club… it’s like a huge fucking burning cross. A reminder. Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut.’

  Boyd was beginning to get goosebumps. ‘So you said Sutton told you everything?’

  Jacobs nodded. ‘He was there. On that Initiation Night. And he gave me a list of names of the other members who were there too.’

  ‘The night Amy Cheetham went missing?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jacobs nodded again. ‘That poor girl, Amy Cheetham, was the initiation ritual. And Laura Kahn was her best friend.’

  57

  ‘There, there, Sir Arthur… It’s all done. It’s all deleted and burned. That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  He studies the pitiful man cable-tied to the snooker table. Stripped naked. He’s a deplorable specimen of a man to have once considered himself ‘a Spartan’.

  ‘Your memoir is against club rules. You know the deal. What happens in the club stays in the club.’

  ‘It… it’s a… just a novel,’ Sir Arthur Sutton whimpers. ‘You bastard…’

  ‘It was a novel. Now it’s nothing.’

  ‘Nigel’ sits on the corner of the table. It’s gone two in the morning. He’s been here for over six hours. Pushing his luck, dawdling. But he’s curious…

  ‘What did you think was going to happen when you started running around with it? Did you honestly think they were going to let you blast it all out there?’

  Sir Arthur shakes his head. ‘I made a mistake…’

  ‘Oh, you really did.’ Nigel leans over him. ‘You thought, I’m dying, so what the hell can they do to me? Yes?’

  Sir Arthur licks his lips. ‘I… I’m sorry… I…’

  ‘Well, this is what happens. They send for me. And here’s the thing. My job isn’t just about silencing telltales; it’s about convincing everyone else to keep their mouths shut too.’

  ‘What… what are you… please? It’s done. I won’t…’

  ‘Shhhh.’ He puts a finger to Sir Arthur’s lips. ‘I know what your plans are. You’re planning to go to Switzerland, to Dignitas. End things before it gets unpleasant.’ He smiles down at the man. ‘I know all your plans.’

  ‘Then… then you… you d-don’t have to kill me! I’ll be dead s-soon.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But there’s many a slip ‘twixt cup and lip, as they say. A last-moment confessional? Can’t have that. No… I’m afraid tonight’s your night.’

  He can see that Sir Arthur’s trying to muster some fuck-you courage, but it’s pitiful. Really pitiful. He’s pissing himself a little as he pleads, ‘Do it, then, you b-bastard. Put a f-fucking bullet in me!’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing. I can’t make this too easy. The others have to know… that it’s an awful way to go. You know… if you talk.’

  He stands up, goes to his rucksack and pulls out a red plastic twenty-litre jerrycan. The petrol inside sloshes around near the top.

  ‘Oh… God… no! Please!! PLEASE!’

  He uncaps the jerrycan as he approaches the old man on the table and sloshes some over his naked body. The man’s pompous bluster has completely vanished now.

  58

  The Duck and Pike was one of those pubs in the middle of nowhere along a nondescript section of A road, with no homes close enough to call it their local. The kind of pub that countless thousands have driven past over the years and idly wondered how the hell they’ve managed to stay in business.

  It was the perfect pub, therefore, to meet in.

  He pulled into the car park and saw only one other car. A Jaguar. So much for being discreet.

  He entered the pub’s side door to the sounds of Tammy Wynette playing softly on the pub speakers and the howls of a bloodhound that seemed to have free roam of the place.

  It was empty save for a young woman behind the bar, counting bottles of something, and a lone customer, a distinguished-looking man in a dark-blue suit. He was sipping a gin and tonic beside a crackling fire.

  He approached the man. ‘Hello, George.’

  George looked up and smiled. ‘What are you having?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing. I’m driving,’ he replied pointedly.

  ‘Very sensible.’ He set his drink down on the small table beside him. ‘So, we should talk, T.P.’

  T.P. sat down on the other side of the table. ‘I’m concerned, George.’

  ‘Well, we all are. We all are,’ George said.

  ‘There has to have been a better way to silence Arthur. I mean… burning his house down?’

  ‘Our chap had to,’ George replied, picking his drink up again. ‘There’s no knowing how many hard drives or notebooks he had hidden away in the nooks and crannies of that monstrosity of a house.’

  ‘It’s attracted far too much attention,’ T.P. said.

  ‘It’ll settle down. Yesterday’s fish-and-chip paper, you’ll see.’

  ‘Sussex Police have put a murder squad on this, George.’

  ‘Well, of course they have. It was clearly arson. But look – I’ve put in a gentle little word to hobble the investigation and I’m sure something far more newsworthy will pop into the headlines soon enough.’ George smiled. ‘There’s nothing quite like a timely distraction, right?’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ T.P. said.

  George’s patient smile faded. ‘Perhaps if they could teach a little self-restraint in the cloisters, common rooms and classrooms of your expensive schools… we wouldn’t have awful bloody messes like this to tidy up?’ he pointed out.

  T.P. nodded. ‘I was very young, George.’

  ‘Yes, you were,’ he replied. ‘A stupid, arrogant, entitled boy who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.’

  ‘Now listen…’

  ‘No. You listen!’ George snarled softly. ‘This will be tidied up. And you will have me to thank for the rest of your political career. And you will do as you’re told for as long as you’re useful to the party. Then, when we decide it’s time for you to bow out, you’ll do it gracefully. Is that understood?’

  T.P. nodded. He was grateful to George. The Chief Whip was very much like a party concierge – a Winston Wolf character, there to pick up the pieces. To keep things tidy.

  ‘What’re you going to do now?’ T.P. asked.

  ‘The less you know, the better it is for all of us,’ George replied. ‘Go home to your wife. Put this out of your mind. Concentrate on your career… Do what we say and all will be well.’

  59

  Boyd and Okeke headed back down to Hastings. Most of the M25 they spent in thoughtful silence, then as they headed southwards on the A21 Okeke finally spoke.

  ‘Guv… We’re fucked.’

  ‘We’re not fucked,’ he replied stonily. ‘They are fucked. Their reputations will be fucked, and if there’s any bloody justice a fair number of them will end up inside for conspiracy to murder.’

  ‘Jesus, though…’ she whispered. ‘There’s a serving cabinet minister in that list…’

  Boyd glanced at her. He wasn’t sure how many names on that list she recognised, but the Defence Minister was the biggest one. Not being a keen follower of politics, there were other names he vaguely recognised: a member of the House of Lords, several Commons backbenchers – one of them he was sure had been caught out in the PPE procurement scandal post-Covid.

  Jacobs’ scribbled list of names was a sobering roll call of establishment figures. It was incendiary. And he’d refused to hand it over to them until they promised to help protect h
im. They’d moved him to another hotel, a Travelodge nearby, and, while Okeke booked him in under a pseudonym, Boyd bought a cheap pay-as-you-go phone for him to use. For a man who’d weaselled the secrets out of dozens of celebrity phones, he’d been appallingly lax with his.

  ‘So what’s the next step?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, he’s safe for the moment, but… I dunno. I’m not sure what we do next.’

  ‘The team?’

  Yes. He trusted Minter, Sully, the lads. But the more people they shared Jacob’s story with, the greater the chance it would spill into hearing range of someone less helpful. Of course, there was a flipside to that argument: to go large and take it to a whole load of international news agencies.

  But then he was pretty sure one of the names on the list was the senior editor for the BBC’s news department, though he wasn’t certain about the others. Between them, how many other media outlets did they own shares in, sit on boards of? It would make sense for them to do their homework first.

  ‘Let’s sit tight on this for tonight. I need to think about how we go forward,’ he said at last.

  ‘Guv?’ She glanced sideways at him. ‘We’ve got a list on us of a bunch of powerful, influential men who are complicit in the murder of two women and two men!’

  ‘Allegedly,’ Boyd said. ‘And the second they realise they’re on a list, they’ll be hiring legal counsel and flying abroad. Or worse.’ He didn’t need to remind her about Sutton.

  ‘My God,’ she whispered. ‘Is this really how things work now? But we’re being careful, right?’ she said.

  ‘Very,’ he replied.

  ‘No one else, then?’ she said.

  ‘Agreed. Let’s both sleep on it.’

  ‘That includes Emma, by the way,’ she pointed out.

  He looked at her. ‘And Jay.’

  ‘Deal,’ she replied.

  Great, he thought. Another bloody secret to tuck into his proverbial safe.

  He got home at nine to find Emma bubbling with excitement. She waited until he’d ditched his jacket over the back of a chair and plonked himself down on the sofa next to Ozzie.

  ‘I’ve got a new job,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, at the Lansdowne Hotel. Bookings and reception.’

  ‘That’s great, Ems,’ he replied absently.

  ‘Yay, me,’ she said, deflated by his lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Sorry, Ems,’ he said. ‘It’s been a bloody long day.’ He got up, crossed the lounge and gave her a bear hug. He felt her release the hold, but he wasn’t done yet. ‘I’m so proud of you, Emma.’

  ‘Oka-a-ay, Dad, no need to go all mushy. It’s just a job.’

  He let her go and returned to the sofa. ‘Yeah, well. You’ll smash it. When do you start?’

  ‘Tomorrow, actually.’

  ‘Wow, that’s quick.’

  ‘I walked in this morning and asked if they had any vacancies…’ She grinned. ‘Five minutes later I’m doing a frickin’ interview.’

  ‘What time do you start?’

  ‘Seven. Which reminds me…’ She looked at Ozzie. ‘What are we going to do about Oz Bear?’

  ‘Well, how long’s your shift?’

  ‘Six hours. I finish at one. So, it kind of means leaving him alone at home for the mornings. Do you reckon he’ll be okay?’

  Boyd looked at him. Ozzie was sparked out across two of the three cushions, head hidden by his cone of shame, paws twitching as he pursued and dismembered something in his sleep. ‘I think he’ll be fine. I get the impression he spends most of the morning on here, looking out of the window and keeping an eye on who’s doing what.’

  She nodded. ‘Pretty much. He’s a very good neighbourhood watch.’

  ‘If I leave for work at half eight, he won’t be alone for too long.’ Now they had cleared the back yard, he could see their garden was contained within a high brick wall at the back and two robust fences either side. ‘Maybe we can see if Parrot Lady next door will let him out into the garden for a bit.’

  ‘On nice days,’ she agreed. ‘Not when it’s raining, though, right?’

  ‘Let’s see how it goes, I guess.’ He yawned. He wasn’t tired; in fact, he was almost trembling with the adrenaline still tumbling around in his blood. He desperately needed an early night. He needed to run Jacob’s revelations through his head to try to work out what the hell he and Okeke should do next.

  ‘Look, I’m knackered,’ he said apologetically. ‘I’m going to hit the sack.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ she said.

  He noticed a bottle of Malbec and two glasses on the side table. ‘Sorry, Ems, I’m really flat out.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, smiling. ‘No probs.’

  ‘And if you’re getting up at sparrow-fart o’clock –’ he nodded at the bottle – ‘you’ll probably want a clear head. What if we have a pub dinner tomorrow night to celebrate?’

  ‘That sounds good,’ she said more cheerfully.

  He was lying in bed ten minutes later, alone. Ozzie had elected to stay put on the sofa.

  ‘Julia?’ he whispered to the vacant pillow beside his. She was the only person he could admit this to. The only person to whom he could permit every façade to peel away.

  ‘I’m fucking scared.’

  60

  Day 12

  Chief Superintendent Hatcher encountered him in the canteen. As far as Boyd was aware, she never used the canteen. Which could only mean that she’d come up here to find him.

  She tapped his arm gently and spoke quietly. ‘My office… five minutes?’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  Five minutes later, he knocked on the door to her office and entered. It was just the two of them this morning. Sutherland was presumably still off work.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said.

  He closed the door and took one of the seats in front of her desk.

  ‘Can I see your private phone and your work phone?’ she asked.

  Boyd shrugged and dug them out. She took them from him and carried them over to a display cabinet, slid the glass door to one side and put them inside, next to a crystal trophy of some sort. She dug out her own phone and put that in too, alongside his, and slid the glass door shut.

  She returned to her desk and very deliberately unplugged her desk phone and closed the lid of her laptop so that it went into sleep mode.

  ‘Boyd. You and I are going to talk very candidly. And entirely off the record. All right?’

  ‘Ma’am?’ Well, this wasn’t how he’d envisioned his start to the day.

  ‘And this is going to be a conversation between two private citizens, not two police officers, okay?’

  He nodded.

  She smiled. ‘So you can drop the “Ma’am” for the next five minutes.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Hatcher sat back at her desk and took a deep breath. ‘I’m being leaned on to hinder your investigation into Sir Arthur Sutton’s death. There’s no other way of putting it. Someone up top wants a very specific conclusion to this case. An act of aggravated burglary that led to a brutal assault and manslaughter, which the perpetrator then attempted to cover up with a fire.’ She straightened a fountain pen lying on her ink-blotter.

  Boyd was stunned into silence by her candour.

  ‘I need you to acknowledge that you heard what I said and understood me,’ she said, looking straight at him.

  ‘Um, yeah, I… understand,’ was all he could manage.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But… I can’t just…’

  She nodded. ‘I know.’ She pushed the pen across the blotter. ‘We’re in a difficult position, you and I. Potentially career damaging. I know you have… questions… about my integrity…’

  ‘Ma’am, I haven’t –‘

  She raised a hand to stop him. ‘We don’t have time for this, so let’s cut the bullshit. You think I steered the Nix investigation into the long grass. Right?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Okay. And I
happen to know they sent you a warning. So…’ She spread her hands. ‘We have each other over a barrel, so to speak.’

  He was reluctant to acknowledge that verbally. Is she recording this conversation? He gave her the slightest nod instead.

  ‘I’m going to admit to you that I was ordered to deflect the Nix case. And I did.’ She sat back. ‘There! I’ve said it. All right? If I’m recording this conversation, I’ve just admitted knowingly perverting the course of justice. So, for God’s sake, can we both speak plainly now?’

  Boyd took a deep breath. ‘All right.’

  ‘Good.’ She let out a deep sigh. ‘It’ll make what I have to say, a lot easier.’ She sat forward. ‘I’m going to phrase it this way… We’re in a transition period between the old guard and the new guard,’ she began. ‘It’s a difficult time – a transition like this. You want to make sure you stay on the good side with whomever is taking over.’

  ‘Taking over what?’

  ‘The establishment.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Boyd said.

  ‘You’re not an idiot. I think you do. Old Money is being replaced by New Money. We opened a Pandora’s box in recent years, opened our doors to a lot of very rich and very dirty people.’

  ‘You’re talking about… Brexit?’

  ‘I’m talking in broad terms, Boyd. We’re a little island out on its own now. To paraphrase someone else’s metaphor: a lamb has separated from its flock… and the wolves are hungry.’

  ‘By the wolves… you mean?’ asked Boyd, not entirely sure he was keeping up.

  ‘Laundered money. Dirty money. And much of it is Russian. England has become a haven for grey currency. That’s what’s keeping this country running now, like it or not.

  The money’s coming in fast. It’s buying influence and, to be blunt, its outbidding old influence.’

  ‘Old influence being?’

  ‘You know exactly who I mean. The old boy network. The charming, bumbling public school elites who have been running the show since…’ She paused, laughing bitterly. ‘Well, I suppose since William the Conqueror.’