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‘I will be going,' Costain said.

‘OK, I need to go and see his girlfriend's parents; they live in South Shore.'

‘We can do that,' Costain said quickly.

Henry shook his head. ‘I don't think so.' He balanced a slip of paper on the arm of the settee. ‘This has Romero's number on it and my work mobile. We'll leave you now.'

He turned, as did Donaldson, who had remained a silent presence during the interaction. Cherry followed them to the door and as Henry stepped out on to the front step she said, ‘Sorry about that, he's very upset, I can tell. Sometimes my husband just goes off on one.'

‘No prob … your husband?'

‘Yes, we're married.'

‘Well, congratulations then,' Henry said, unable to disguise his surprise – and scepticism.

‘Two months,' she said, and added quietly, ‘and I'm not in it for the sex.'

‘Not my business,' Henry said, ‘but, back to why I came here, if you do need any sort of help with this, give me a call.'

‘What, so you can pry even further into our business?'

‘Unfortunately, Cherry, your business is criminal.'

‘True,' she conceded, then her eyes narrowed, ‘but that doesn't mean to say that you and me shouldn't fuck, does it?' As she spoke she leaned forward and whispered into Henry's ear. ‘No one would know … it's still shaved, you know?'

‘I'm sure it is,' he said, backing off and thinking,
Once a hooker …

He and Donaldson walked back to the car – and then it came to him. ‘Jiminy Cricket.'

‘Yes, I see that,' Donaldson agreed.

Cherry closed the door and re-entered the living room.

Costain, in his wheelchair, was still in the centre of the room.

Now, behind him, stood Jason Hawke, a gun in his right hand, hanging by his thigh.

‘I could have killed him where he stood,' he said with frustration.

‘You're both fucking idiots,' Cherry said in a low voice. Their faces turned to her with surprise. ‘That guy out there is your worst enemy and the worst thing you can do is rile him. You know he's got it in for us and yeah, good idea, annoy him so much that he decides to come back mob-handed and then we've had it.' She scowled fiercely at them. ‘You do know what we've got upstairs, don't you?'

Costain's old face seemed to curdle. He did not like being told what to do, but saw the logic.

Cherry ploughed on. ‘He's already managed to close down two of the clubs and the last thing we want is for him to start digging …'

‘I still want to kill him,' Hawke said. ‘And that smug bitch he lives with.'

‘Then do it,' snapped Costain. ‘Just kill him … get it done. It's a shame you didn't manage to do it when he turned up, because your face is all over the news and if he does get hold of you and starts digging from your direction, this whole thing's going to blow up in our faces.'

‘Yeah,' sneered Cherry. ‘You'd have thought it was easy enough to put a bullet in someone.'

Hawke glared, then raised his gun. ‘You'd think so, wouldn't you?'

‘Stop it, you fools,' Costain said. ‘We need to think about Scott now.' He regarded Hawke thoughtfully and said, ‘Maybe Christie should be put on the back burner for the time being … more urgent things require your attention now.'

DCI Peter Woodcock had been relieved to see Henry leave the MIR with Tope and the big American stranger on some totally unrelated fool's errand up on Shoreside. He had been sitting at the far end of the room, pretending to be busy getting things together for the murder investigation he had been put in charge of, that of Archie Astley-Barnes, the victim of what certainly, on the face of it, appeared to be a burglary gone wrong.

He gave Henry five minutes, then left himself, desperately trying to hold down the feeling of nausea that gripped his whole being.

He tried not to rush out of the room and actually gave a smile to one of the female members of staff who had been brought in to spend time sifting through the CCTV footage that was coming in and amassing by the hour from the town centre cameras, searching for footage of the man Woodcock had chased on foot towards the railway station. She smiled back, then her brow creased as she rewound one of the discs and zoomed in on a short scenario taking place on the screen. She fiddled with the computer, enhancing what was a fairly poor picture.

When she glanced around, Woodcock had gone.

She returned to her task, focusing in, sharpening everything, and although the image became clear she wasn't entirely sure what she was looking at.

The bedsit was in a large terraced house in Severn Road, behind the Pleasure Beach complex in South Shore. Woodcock drew up outside and sat in his car for a few minutes, checking his phone, ringing a number that did not get answered. The street was quiet, which was just what he needed. He walked quickly from his car and straight through the unlocked front door of the house into a dank hallway, then, without hesitation, up the uncarpeted stairs to the first floor and into flat four on that landing.

The smell was a bad one, even worse than outside, and it hit him even with the flat door only slightly open. Woodcock realized, with some relief, what it was: death. The gagging aroma of body odour, expelled gas, shit and urine, a real Chanel Number Five.

He twisted quickly through and closed the door. Ahead was the bedsit. There was a tiny bathroom to his left, then beyond that the squalid living accommodation consisting of a camp bed, one ring cooker, portable fridge, an old armchair and, the big necessity of life, a large screen TV. Life at the shit end of the street.

One glance into the dirty bathroom. Blood was smeared all through it, all round the toilet, in the wash basin and shower cubicle. And from the bathroom there was a thick trail of it across the floor of the bedsit to the figure laid out half-naked on the bed. It was a man, mid-forties, lying face up with one leg on the floor, one arm dangling, the other across his chest. He was naked from the waist down and blood dripped from a wound underneath him on to the vinyl floor, coagulating in a wide pool that looked like tar.

Woodcock exhaled with relief.

He was dead, had bled out.

The visit to Trish's parents was less confrontational because there was no one at home. The address given was in South Shore but in the more salubrious area to the east of Lytham Road, where she lived in a pleasant, substantial, red brick semi. Or certainly had done until she started hanging around with Scott Costain.

Henry and Tope knocked on a few neighbours' houses and were told that the parents were away on holiday, no one seemed to know exactly where, and that the daughter, Patricia, hadn't been seen there for over six months anyway. One neighbour confided to Henry that she had gone off the rails. No one had a phone number for them, so the detectives were unable to pass on the tragic news of Trish's death. Henry shoved a note through the door with his name and mobile number on, asking them to contact him as soon as possible.

‘You'd think the girl would have a mobile phone with her,' Tope observed.

Henry agreed. It was something to speak to Romero about.

‘See what you can find out anyway, will you?' he asked Tope.

They climbed back into the Jeep, Tope in the back seat, and set off back to the MIR, pulling on to Lytham Road and turning towards Blackpool whilst discussing the recent encounter at the Costain stronghold.

Henry dangled his right arm over his seat so he could see Tope as they all spoke. ‘I've never come across the old man before … just as I haven't come across Scott,' he said.

‘New blood in the clan?' Tope suggested.

‘Didn't even know Runcie had a son … but Runcie himself came over from Ireland to run the family business.' Henry shook his head. ‘They're like rabbits.'

‘Maybe the old guy is trying to finish what Runcie started – the professionalism of the family?' Donaldson suggested.

‘Seems a bit long in the tooth for that,' Henry said. ‘Then again, once a crim always a crim … and as a criminal enterprise they are deffo on the ropes.' He had a smug grin on his face as he said that. Henry knew he was making good headway in taking them on, and not always by the most direct route – a lesson he had learned from the way in which Al Capone had eventually been busted: through the taxman. In this case, Henry didn't go for the money, although that was on the cards, but he had managed to close down two nightclubs and a pub they were associated with in Blackpool because of their continual infringements of the licensing laws and (this one he particularly liked) flouting of the non-smoking legislation. Sometimes it was catching the tiddlers that did most harm.

But the appearance of two family members he had never come across before troubled him, even if one of them was now shot dead in a swimming pool. Since his success with the closure of the licensed premises there had been quiet on the Costain front, so maybe Donaldson was right and they were regrouping under the tutelage of old man Liam and moving into other, more subtle areas. Scott being murdered in Gran Canaria was a puzzle. Obviously he was out there for a reason and somehow Steve Flynn had got caught up in the shenanigans. And Cherry being married to someone over twice her age? Her specialism was prostitution … maybe there was something in that, Henry mused. Perhaps the family weren't as down and out as he thought.

‘Find out what you can about the old guy,' Henry said to Tope, and spun to face the front in his seat just as they passed the junction with Severn Road, his mind dismissing the subject of the Costains for the time being because he now had to focus on finding the killer of Percy and Lottie, and there was no connection between the two. Once he had a killer in his cells, then maybe he'd give it some thought and continue on his pre-retirement crusade to destroy them – and enjoy watching Steve Flynn plummet to his fate at the same time. Double joy.

A car drew up at the junction as they shot past; Henry only glanced at it but did not take any real notice, his mind full of many other things.

Flynn emerged from the shower in Karen's apartment, fresh and clean, no longer reeking of the sewer, a large bath towel wrapped around his middle. He walked on to the balcony where Karen sat looking pensively across the deep valley of Puerto Rico. She smiled, then began to blink rapidly as her eyes started to moisten with tears.

Without warning she rushed into him, burying her head into his chest. His muscular arms encircled her.

‘Hey, hey,' he said softly, stroking her hair, ‘what's this all about?'

She tilted up her face, resting her chin on his sternum. ‘I don't know, Steve, what is this all about?'

‘I don't know,' he admitted. ‘It's not something I've asked for.'

‘I know … look,' she stood away from him. ‘We've only just found each other after months of looking at each other and secretly knowing we were right for each other. I don't want to lose you, particularly not in some ridiculous way. Promise me …' Her lovely chin began to wobble as she fought back against the tears. ‘Promise me you won't do anything stupid.'

‘I won't, but things might happen I don't have any say over.'

‘Like what?'

‘The people who dragged me off the streets – the same people, I guess, who killed Costain and his girlfriend – aren't the sort to leave unfinished business, and I think I'm unfinished business. I don't have a damned clue what they're up to, but Scott Costain did and they think I'm running with him, so they might be back. I need to be ready for them, or I take the game to them, make the running.'

‘Steve, what are you saying?'

He could feel his heart pounding because he did not want it to be like this. He wanted to have nothing to do with what had happened. All he wanted was a peaceful life on the island, somewhere to live that was his, his fishing and Karen Glass.

Simple, not much to ask for.

‘You're going for them, aren't you?' she demanded.

The look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know.

Henry cradled his desk phone, happy to have discovered that all was well in Kendleton and the Dad's Army of defenders, aka the Wild Geese, were still
in situ
and hadn't killed anyone and everything was as normal as it could be in the circumstances. Several patrol cars had been seen passing and Bill Robbins was still parked up at the front of the Tawny Owl, being plied with food and drink. He exhaled a short blast of relief but, even so, all he wanted to do now was get home.

It was six p.m. and the murder team debrief wouldn't be until eight, giving him two hours to get his head down and see where everything was up to – and that included the extra murder of Archie. On that thought, he looked into the MIR to see if he could spot Pete Woodcock, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Then he remembered: Archie's post mortem was scheduled for five thirty p.m. and Woodcock was attending it, so it was unlikely the DCI would be free until well after seven thirty. There was a good chance of not seeing him at all that evening so, though Henry wanted to catch up with him, it might have to wait until the day after. Maybe a phone call would suffice.

Through the open door of his office, Henry saw Tope and Donaldson walk past. Henry made his way over, sidestepping the desk of the lady who was going through the CCTV footage. She glanced at him and opened her mouth to say something, but though Henry gave her a quick smile he was gone then, into the Intel Cell behind Tope and the American.

Tope's desk was stacked high with binders and receipt books. Very high.

‘What's this lot?' Henry asked.

‘The books,' Tope said.

Henry gave him a blank look. ‘The books?'

‘From the jewellery business, seized as you requested. Just from the Blackpool shop.'

‘Bloody hell, there's loads of them.'

‘According to the team that seized the stuff, hardly anything is on computer. The business seems to have been run in a very old-fashioned way.'