Ryan rang off and was out of his chair in one smooth movement. The other members of his team looked up with curious, computer-dazed eyes.
“We’ve got a green light,” he told them. “We’re bringing the bastard in for good this time.”
Lowerson whooped and did a funny little dance in his chair, while Yates looked on in amusement.
“Lowerson, Yates? I want you in position beside the service entrance to the estate, in case Henderson decides to make things difficult,” Ryan told them. “Phillips? You’re with me. MacKenzie? Do you want in on this?”
She gave him a look that would have terrified a weaker man.
“Ask a stupid question,” she muttered, grabbing her coat.
Ryan grinned and clapped his hands together.
“Let’s go.”
*
Oblivious to the convoy of police cars that were speeding toward him, Martin Henderson checked his watch again. Ten to nine.
In a few minutes, he was due to meet with an unknown person but it had to be someone who was already inside the house or who had access to it. Unfortunately, that didn’t narrow down the pool of suspects or give him any hint as to their identity, since the house was still brimming with people.
The Gilberts were enjoying dinner with some friends at a small dining table in the library downstairs and, as far as he knew, they were on to coffee and truffles. He’d seen Maggie and one of the other catering staff bustling in and out of the kitchen serving food but now their footsteps had fallen quiet.
He left his office and poked his head into the staff room, where he was irritated to find Charlotte Shapiro chatting to Dave Quibble about their plans to restore the Victorian irrigation canals through some of the land and he decided to leave them to it before he was drawn into conversation.
The main hallway was quiet, infused with lamplight.
He didn’t feel threatened, now he knew there were so many people in the house, but their presence made his plans much riskier than before.
He checked his watch again.
Five to nine.
Time to go.
*
Phillips slammed his foot against an imaginary brake in the passenger foot well of Ryan’s car as they swerved past a white van, which was a clear indication of just how low they had stooped in the driving stakes. Ryan appeared nonplussed and continued to manoeuvre between late evening traffic with all the speed and precision that came with advanced police driving certification. “There’s a squad car already up there keeping an eye on the house,” Phillips reminded him. “Henderson won’t be able to run off anytime in the next fifteen minutes.”
“We’ve said that before,” Ryan muttered, flicking on his siren to get past a stream of slow-moving cars.
Phillips shifted in his seat.
“Can’t wait to see his face when we slap him in handcuffs,” he couldn’t help adding. “Do you think we should do it quietly, so as not to upset the old couple?”
Ryan looked away from the road long enough to bestow a disbelieving glance.
“Lionel Gilbert is as strong as an ox and his wife is just the same,” he said. “Honestly, you’re as bad as Lowerson. If I went around with the same kind of attitude toward anyone over a certain age, I’d have put you out to pasture long ago.”
Phillips bristled.
“Watch it, lad. There’s plenty life in this old dog yet.”
Ryan laughed and flicked his indicator to take the slip road off the dual carriageway.
*
Henderson checked the hallway downstairs to make sure nobody was around, then slipped up the main flight of oak stairs next to the front door. Lamps fizzed atop the wide newel posts to guide his way inside the darkened house. He moved softly, with the gait of a much younger man thanks to a regular diet and exercise regime he’d implemented since giving up vodka and cocaine in the late nineties. It had been fun for a while, he supposed, but he needed to be in possession of all his faculties to act on the many small opportunities that life presented. He moved cautiously along a long corridor toward the Armstrong room, which was tucked in the furthermost wing on the first floor of the house. He approved of the choice of venue, at least. The room was used as an exhibition space telling the story of William Armstrong’s illustrious history and its impact on the North-East but it was seldom used by the family or staff except when showing visitors around the house—it was bound to be empty at that time of day.
He heard the faint sound of laughter trickling through the house from the library downstairs and reminded himself to leave via the front door, for the benefit of the surveillance officers who continued to lurk beside the gates.
His eyes scanned the doorways as he passed, half expecting someone to step out.
Nobody did.
As he reached the end of the corridor, he entered a small hallway with several doors leading off it. To his left, there was a bedroom, the morning room and a second bedroom. To his right, there was another small hallway and a set of metal doors housing the old lift shaft, which was no longer in use. He knew Dave Quibble had ideas about bringing it back to life but it was a delicate project, spanning all three floors of the house, and for now the project was shelved. Just beside the lift doors, there was another oak panelled door leading to the Armstrong room.
Henderson looked over his shoulder one last time before pushing open the door.
*
After an awkward stand-off over whose turn it was to drive, Lowerson had bowed to the old adage about ladies going first and found himself riding shotgun while Yates floored it all the way to Cragside. He had to admit, he was impressed.
He was less impressed by the collection of CDs he’d found rattling in her glove compartment, consisting mostly of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Greatest Musical Hits and what he would have called ‘angsty’ indie music from the early millennium.
Where were the dance floor hits? A token summer anthem, at least?
“So, ah, what do you like to do in your downtime, Yates?”
Her eyes didn’t leave the road ahead but she frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Lowerson rolled his eyes.
“When you’re not working, what do you do? Apart from listening to The Phantom of the Opera, that is.”
“I like to read.”
Lowerson scratched the stubble on his chin and wondered what it was about this moody, uncommunicative woman he liked so damn much.
“What do you read? Crime fiction?”
Yates blushed and was glad it was too dark for him to see it. She had a penchant for sweet romance novels but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
“Ah, you know, this and that.”
Lowerson watched the lights of passing traffic as they zoomed along the fast lane.
“I quite like romance novels,” he said, nonchalantly. “I get enough of the gritty stuff in my day job.”
In the near darkness, he couldn’t see her smile.
*