CHAPTER 1

Detective Chief Inspector Ian Farrel was not naturallythe superstitious type. However, today was thethirteenth and it was a Friday. In actual fact, ascoincidence would have it, he was having a bad day. He hadhad bad days before—a lot of them. Many of them Fridays andmany the thirteenth, but then again Saturday to Thursdays, odddates, even dates and days off work also figured in his bad ornot-so-good days.

Four years ago his wife left him. Coincidentally, that dayhappened to be a Friday the thirteenth. She'd had enough of hisexcessive work schedule, the long hours and the number of dayshe worked on his job without taking a break. It was too much.She needed him to be around to take her out and spend moneyon her, but she came to realise his job came first—it alwayscame first. So, she wanted out.

Farrel was a good cop. He had always been a good cop eversince he started out as a beat officer. He hated to think thatcriminals were getting away with murder. Well, not necessarilymurder but thieving from the old folks and beating people up,to name but two. Parking offences had never been his cup oftea when he was on the beat. He managed to develop a methodof saying `get the hell out of here with that car' in a way thatoffenders could not really complain about.

He was promoted and then worked his way up to becomea member of the Criminal Investigation Department. Duringthis latter part of his career he gained respect as well as a fearfulreputation, not only in the Underworld but also with hiscolleagues. He had thrown himself into the job wholeheartedly,almost as if he were the only crime fighter in the entirecountry.

So, his wife left him and rather quickly took up with a slick,smart aleck import-export operator, who seemed to be ableto take time off at the drop of a hat and spend a great deal ofmoney on her.

Farrel despised the man for taking her from him as well ashis home comforts, but he was unable to do anything about it.It was not surprising then that he was extremely satisfied, to saynothing of amused, when the son-of-a-bitch was arrested by aneighbouring force for business irregularities: running drugsinto the country, embezzlement, fraud, money laundering,unpaid taxes, and, of course, not paying the fines for hismotoring offences. The book that they threw at him was ratherlarge and heavy with the judge sentencing him to seven years.Later Farrel rang the officer in charge of the case to congratulatehim on a job well done. The other policeman never knew thereal reason behind the congratulatory call.

Almost immediately after, his ex wanted to return to him,but, with as much good will as he could muster, Farell turnedher down. She had, after all, betrayed him once and playedfast and loose with a member of the criminal fraternity. Heexplained that he wouldn't be able to trust her again and arguedthat it was possible she could do something similar again andcause him still more embarrassment.

The problem was that he was still a young man andhe missed the comforts of a home life. He had moved into atwo-bedroom apartment and catered for himself, even thoughthat meant eating out in cafés, in the police canteen or grabbinga takeaway from the local fast-food joints. Yes, it was a bad diet,but at least he didn't have to waste time preparing meals ordoing the washing up. He worked all the hours he could, andthe apartment, in reality, only served as a dormitory.

As time passed, he became a rather tetchy individual,running on a short fuse and unable to suffer fools gladly. Thesquad recognised his bad days as well as the better ones. Thegood days usually consisted of an arrest or when some criminalwas sent down for a long time. Those were days for a smallcelebration.

Gradually, his men came to the conclusion that perhaps itwas a good thing Farrel was a detective and not a judge, for if hewere, not only would the nation's prisons be full to overflowing,but the country would be building prisons at an unprecedentedrate to keep up with his sentencing.

Things had not been going well lately and everyone knewthat today was not a good day for Farrel. It was definitely a badday. They all recognised the signs, except that is for the youngman who had recently joined the squad. Now the men weregathered for the normal morning briefing.

"That's not what I heard," Farrel shouted in irritation, ashe glared disdainfully, his steel blue eyes fixated on the youngDetective Constable who had just volunteered a piece ofinformation. At six foot three, Farrel looked down upon mostpeople including the young DC at five feet ten inches.

Outside it was a beautiful day. The morning sun streamedthrough the large windows of the squad office which facedsoutheast. Farrel though, was not a man to notice or beinfluenced by such weather or anything else that Mother Naturebestowed on or withheld from him. He was well known for hiscynicism and pessimism, and today was certainly not the timefor being unable to deliver a positive piece of information.

"In fact, that story is absurd," he continued. "I don't knowwhere you got it from, but if that cheap little crook TommyActon were on holiday, it would be one the judge had givenhim, or a job that Big Mick Jeanes had sent him on. Anyway,if that were the case, lovely little Jill Franks would be with him,but she's not, she's still around here somewhere, and, from whatI understand, she's keeping her pretty little head down becausesomeone has scared her witless."

The young, clean-cut, immaculately dressed DC RichardCopley flushed with embarrassment and shuffled his feetnervously, his eyes downcast glued to the floor. Some of the menin the room grimaced, some winced and others grinned a littleself-consciously. After all, each had at some point during theirservice with him experienced the rough edge of their superior'stongue. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt was a thoughtthat probably crossed each man's mind. They knew that theyoung man had recently joined the police service straight fromuniversity. His college tie bore witness to that and he was quitelikely to be promoted very soon due to his qualifications andconnections.

Farrel knew that this did not sit well with some of the older,hard-bitten men in the squad. They had survived through sheerhard work and putting their reputations and sometimes eventheir lives on the line in what on occasions was a very murkybusiness. The young man's superior manner and educatedaccent did not help either, but everyone admitted that he neverknowingly used them to his own advantage. He was just a veryfast learner.

Farrel himself had joined the police service as a youngtwenty year old and in the intervening years—he was comingup to complete twenty-two years' service—he had worked hisway up to his present rank. His reputation was highly respectedby his seniors and almost revered, if grudgingly, by other policeofficers. He was, of course, not without his critics, who wouldpoint to his very unorthodox methods to gain the necessaryresults, yet they could never deny they were effective and alwayswithin the law—if a little dubious, according to the purists.

Farrel cast his eye upon each member of the squad one byone for some sign of progress. DS George Preston, his 'loyalsidekick', as he thought of him, perhaps two or three years hissenior and some five inches shorter but more heavily built, wasa highly confident officer who commanded respect from the restof the group. If Farrel needed to delegate an important job toanyone, or share a confidence, he would turn to George. Nowthough, as his boss turned to him, Preston briefly shook hishead. "Nothing guv," he murmured quietly.

Farrel switched his gaze to DC Alan Perkins, a reliable manif ever there was one, who always looked on the brighter side ofthings but never missed a trick in a serious situation.

He too shook his head. "No, guv," he answered disappointedly.

DC Dick Johnson had heard nothing reliable and neitherhad sour-faced DC Peter Rowles.

This lack of information irked Farrel and it showed on hisface.

"Shut that bloody window," he snapped abruptly, his voicerising angrily as a road drill unexpectedly started its loud,clanging chatter in the car park three floors below, right underthe open squad office window. "How the hell can anyone thinkproperly with that racket going on outside?"

Someone rushed to close it, but it made little differenceinside the office. Farrel rolled his eyes towards the ceiling andmouthed a silent obscenity. "Has anyone heard anything?" heimpatiently asked again with a growing tone of annoyance.

There was a negative sound in the murmuring within thesquad members. Of course they had all heard rumours, butnothing substantial. And they knew that the DCI only wantedsomething real to go on and not 'silly bloody fairy stories' as heso often put it.

"I've heard," he announced in a somewhat bitter, superiortone, "from pretty good authority that little Tommy won't bewasting any more of our time. Sadly, he seems to have foundout something he shouldn't have, and the story goes that he'sbeen dropped off somewhere between Dover and Calais andtold to swim home, so to speak."

"Didn't know he could swim, guv," the bright cockney voiceof DC Perkins piped up. At five foot nine, he was the shortestman in the squad, but he overcame this disadvantage by being abit of a clown at times.

"He couldn't," Farrel confirmed. "At least not when tiedto something heavy. Mind you, that's only what I heard. Itseems a bit far-fetched to me. At present, it's only hearsay, andI hope it's not correct, but, all the same, someone has heardsomething along those lines. So, gentlemen," he concluded ashe looked around the office at the others, "it's up to us to findout whether he is alive or not, and, very importantly, what heknew that would make someone desperate enough to give himimpromptu swimming lessons, if they did in fact do that." Withthis he glanced at his notebook then slammed it shut. "Let's getto it then. Look in all those dirty, slimy places that you knowso well, turn over a few stones and find out what the maggotsliving under them know. I have no doubt that something big isgoing down or is about to go down in this neck of the woods.So, let's find out what it is and do it to them before they do it tous, as someone, somewhere, once said."

The officers all shuffled from the room except DC Copley.Farrel turned and marched into his office—a small area in thecorner of the main detective room. The temporary walls weresome six feet high and Farrel could see over the top of themwhen he stood up. The lower half was made from painted whiteplasterboard and the upper portion, frosted glass. The doorwas similarly constructed and now stood open. He sat down inthe chair behind his cluttered desk, sighed and put his hands,palms down, onto the scattered papers covering it. A suddenmovement caused him to look up to where Copley hovered inthe open doorway.

"Yes?" he asked curtly.

"I'm sorry if I wasted your time, sir," the young DC adoptedan apologetic approach, "but that was the story I heard froma guy in the pub last night." Farrel sighed and rolled his eyesskywards—it was a habit of his and manifested itself when hewas in a bad mood. "What did he look like?" He asked thequestion almost as if expecting a stupid reply.

"Thin-faced, about five foot seven, very slim build, balding,had a smallish moustache and wore a dark suit. He said he knewyou."

Farrel thought for a moment and grimaced. "Scar, lefteyebrow?"

"Yes, a big one."

"He knows me alright. I've felt his collar on numerousoccasions. I gave him that scar and ever since he's been lookingto put one over on me. He tells a bloody good story, but don'tever trust a word he says. If he tells you it's five o'clock on Friday23, check your watch and calendar before you believe him. Didyou give him any money?"

"Good grief, sir. No, sir."

"Well, perhaps you're not as stupid as I was beginning tothink you were," Farrel responded in his abrupt and unkindlymanner.

"Thank you, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

Farrel sighed and looked at the young officer.

"Look, son," he softened his tone, perhaps rememberinghis earlier less-confident days in the service, "this job's noteasy. In fact, it's bloody soul-destroying. Not, I may add," hecontinued with a hint of bitterness creeping in, "for those sittingin plush offices pushing paper and men around and makingpronouncements to the press. Down here, you have to use yourinitiative and intuition and work your butt off."

"Yes, sir. I realise that."

"You've a lot to learn, son," Farrel lectured. "At the moment,you're thinking I'm a bit of a bastard, I know, but, let mereassure you, I'm really the embodiment of sweetness and light.Mind you, I wouldn't expect my ex-wife to confirm that. I havetremendous respect for all the men in the squad. They won'tadmit it but they love me like a brother, and after a while, you'llfind that I'm even nicer than your favourite uncle."

He paused and looked down with another sigh at the pilesof paperwork cluttering up his desk, most of it needing urgentattention—and he with so little time to do it—and sighed yetagain. After a moment or two, he looked up and raised hiseyebrows as if surprised to see Copley still standing there. "Wellthen, don't just stand there, son. Sod off and get some workdone. We're looking to catch some villains today and maybeeven a killer."

Copley left the office, somewhat crestfallen.

Farrel breathed inwards. Perhaps he had been a bit harsh onthe young officer and had used language that the young man'suncle, the Assistant Chief Constable, was not likely to approveof. But, there it was. The naïve officer had to learn and theChief Constable himself had assigned him to Farrel so that hecould be trained up for 'great things', as he had put it.

He cleared an area of his desk with the intention of gettingthrough some of the more urgent pieces of work, swore quietlyunder his breath as he looked at the ever-increasing pile ofpaperwork and picked up the phone.

He dialled a number and was about to hang up when thephone was suddenly answered. "Liz, it's Farrel. I need to seeyou." There was a short pause. "Is tonight convenient?" Therewas another moment of silence as the reply came back. "Fine,"he said, "your place at eight o'clock, okay? ... See you then."He hung up.

Hell. He stared at the phone. What I'd give for just onestraightforward case every now and then.

CHAPTER 2

Farell pulled up near Elizabeth's place just after 8.30 p.m.It was dark by then. He parked his car under a streetlightand walked the 300 yards or so to the main gate of theapartment block where she lived. That way, he thought, hisarrival was less noticeable.

The apartment block was situated in a leafy part ofLarchester. The imposing façade, perimeter wall andelectronically controlled gates reflected its classy surroundings.He punched in the security number Elizabeth had given him sothat he could enter the building relatively unobtrusively. It wasprobably better that no one saw him.

Elizabeth's expensive apartment was on the fourth floor andat the end of a bright and beautifully kept hallway completewith various potted green plants. Through the small securityobservation hole of her door a clear view of the whole approachfrom the lift was possible. There was also a CCTV camera onthe wall above the lift door. Farell rang the doorbell and noticeda light shine briefly through the security viewer as the insidecover was drawn back. Seconds later the heavy door swungopen.

The first time that Farell had seen Elizabeth Coulter againwas six months or so earlier, although they had a friendshipmany years before. They met by chance in a café in a nearbyvillage and had drunk coffee together and talked about oldtimes. After that, they had met on a number of occasions for acoffee or a meal.

Elizabeth had a past and it was that, that interested Farrel.At first, Farrel thought her past might have even proved usefulto him. Odd little snippets came out during their conversationsthat related to those people who operated very close to the edgeof the law, and Elizabeth hadn't attempted to hide anythingfrom him, even though she knew he was an 'important' cop.

"Hello, handsome." It was Elizabeth's way of greeting himwhen they met. "More problems? More bad news? Come on in."

Farrel stepped inside and Elizabeth closed the door behindhim. He noticed that she turned the dead latch. He gave her akiss on the cheek. He had known Elizabeth, or Liz, as he usuallyreferred to her, ever since their schooldays. She was a veryattractive woman, around his own age, with an engaging smilethat showed a perfect set of teeth. The fact that she wore glassesin no way detracted from her good looks, and Farrel thoughtthey probably even enhanced her beautiful brown eyes.