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  Dumas stopped, flattening his back against the thick stone wall, just before the wall arrived at an archway that led into another room. He could hear the crunching of the other officers’ boots on the gravel outside as they went round the house, seeking other entry points at the back, on the side. (They’d long had a schematic of the place.) ‘Alexei?’ he shouted. ‘Alexei Tamalov? I have a search warrant for these premises. Any attempts to stop us will be met by force.’

  Nothing.

  Dumas repeated the statement in Russian and then in English.

  Still nothing.

  And then, softly, came the sound of something breaking inside, something falling over. Dumas swallowed, cocked his gun and nodded to the officers behind him. He swung out into the archway, assuming a firing stance, both hands on the checkered wooden grip of the weapon.

  He saw Tamalov, Benny, Franco and a couple of girls, all tied and gagged on the floor at the far end of the huge lounge. Tamalov was trying to crawl towards a doorway and had knocked a lamp off a table. He appeared to be covered in …

  ‘Get a medic!’ Dumas shouted behind him, coming into the room, motioning to the uniforms to fan out and check the rest of the place. Tamalov looked up at him, utterly miserable. ‘Are you OK?’ Dumas reached for the gag and slipped it off.

  ‘IT’S KETCHUP! FUCK YOU!’

  ‘SIR! THROUGH HERE!’

  Dumas looked up. Another plain-clothes officer was standing in a doorway, pointing down a corridor, a corridor that led, Tamalov knew, to his garage. He realised that, from where he was laid out, Benny’s face was tantalisingly close. He lashed out with his tethered feet and managed to kick the bouncer in the chin. ‘That’s enough of that,’ Dumas said, pulling Tamalov a few feet away and signalling for his men to guard him as he headed towards the doorway.

  Inside the garage three more men stood around an open hatch in the floor, shining torches down into it. A bound, crying girl – she was very young, very beautiful – was being attended by a female officer. She was saying in French ‘I thought they were going to kill us!’

  One of Dumas’s lead officers, Fabio, heaved himself up through the open hatch and said ‘Boss …’ as he handed Dumas a torch. Dumas shone it down into the basement room – oh my. ‘There’s more,’ Fabio said, wiping sweat from his brow.

  ‘How much more?’

  ‘We’ll need to bring the truck round,’ Fabio said.

  Dumas smiled as, behind him, Wesley crossed the room to where Vanessa was accepting sips of water from the kind French policewoman. He knelt down.

  ‘Did you see them?’ Wesley asked.

  ‘Pardon?’ Vanessa said.

  ‘The old ladies?’ Wesley said. Vanessa and the policewoman both looked at him. ‘You know, the … the les grandes dames?’ They both continued to look at him.

  ‘The old ladies!’ Wesley said. ‘LES DAMES GRANDES!’

  ‘Pardon?’ Vanessa said again.

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’

  Vanessa started crying and buried her face in the bulletproof vest of the policewoman.

  ‘Les –’ Wesley prepared to do some charades.

  ‘Officer Wesley?’

  He turned to see Dumas behind him.

  ‘Thank you, but I think you and your colleague Sergeant Boscombe have “helped” us quite enough for tonight. We can take it from here …’

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  NICE AIRPORT, GLEAMING in the afternoon sunshine.

  Julie and Susan could see it from the window of the Novotel bedroom, where they stood drinking coffee. Julie was wishing for something stronger, but they had to stay sharp. This was it – the final hurdle, the last roll of the dice, the Alamo, whatever you wanted to call it. If this worked they were free and clear. But it was, they both knew, a fairly big if. They would be looking for them and no mistake.

  ‘Well, I’m ready,’ a voice said behind them. They turned to see Jill in the bathroom doorway. She had her little wheelie suitcase behind her. She even had her new driving gloves on, bless her heart, and her bottom lip was trembling. Jill was nervous for many reasons.

  She was nervous because she was about to drive the unfamiliar rental car parked outside. (Hiring the car on the Hertz lot at the airport had been a testing moment. Julie had been waiting just round the corner in the stolen BMW belonging to Tamalov, the one that had indeed been parked up at the end of the long tunnel beneath his house, keys in the ignition, intended for getaways exactly like the one they had been making. She’d told Jill that if there was anything funny when she tried to hire the car, any ‘just wait here a moment’ or ‘I just need to make a phone call’ stuff, she was to get the hell out of there. But no: her driving licence and credit card had both gone across the counter and come back with a smile. It was proof enough that no one was on to her, that the trail still stopped with Susan, Julie and Ethel.)

  She was nervous because she had to drive all the way across France on her own, all the way to the ferry terminal at Le Havre, a ten-hour trip. (They’d thought about Bilbao – which was far closer, just a three-hour drive – but decided against it because it meant crossing the Spanish border and why push your luck?) She was going to break it up and find a nice hotel for the night somewhere around the halfway mark. She was aiming to make a crossing to Portsmouth around lunchtime tomorrow. With a bit of luck she’d be home by bedtime.

  She was nervous for her friends – who still had some very testing hurdles in front of them.

  But mostly Jill was nervous because she had thirty thousand pounds in cash in her wheelie suitcase. Six house bricks of fifty-pound notes: two hundred notes in each brick.

  ‘Now remember, love,’ Julie said, ‘just put your case in the boot and drive right on. The chances of someone like you getting pulled over for a full search are zero …’

  ‘But, if you do,’ Susan said, ‘what do you do?’

  ‘I tell them a man asked me to take it for him and I act all stupid and senior and ditzy.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too hard.’ They turned to see Ethel wheeling in through the connecting door to the next room.

  Jill smiled and said, ‘Fuck off, Ethel.’

  A collective gasp and then they all fell about laughing before, just as quickly, there were tears in Jill’s eyes as she embraced each of them in turn. ‘Take care of yourselves. I suppose I’ll find out one way or another what happens to you, won’t I?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Susan said. ‘I’d keep an eye on the news.’

  ‘We’ll send you a postcard, once we’re settled,’ Julie said, with a confidence she did not entirely feel.

  ‘OK then,’ Jill said, taking a deep breath, dabbing her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I’ll be off. I … I’ll miss you all so much.’

  ‘Bye, love,’ Ethel said. ‘Good luck.’

  The door closed behind her and the three of them watched from the window as, a few moments later, Jill crossed the car park below them, got into the plain white Renault and drove off.

  ‘How long have we got?’ Julie said.

  Ethel looked at the clock on the bedside table. ‘Three hours? A little more?’

  ‘We’d best get down to it then.’ This was Susan. ‘We’re going to need every minute.’ She opened the suitcase full of all the stuff she’d bought in Marseilles and then looked at their passport photos very carefully. Yes, this was going to be a challenge and no mistake. ‘Right, Ethel,’ she said, taking some scissors out. ‘You first …’

  SEVENTY-NINE

  THEY WERE GETTING some looks all right, Wesley thought, checking the expressions of various folk they were passing: concern, horror, sympathy and, predictably, on some of the younger faces, amusement. He was pushing Boscombe along in the wheelchair given to them by Marseilles hospital, as a kind of parting gift from the good people of France. Boscombe’s legs were both straight out in front of him, up on the footrests, both encased in plaster. Only one leg was actually broken, but he’d done something complicated to his pelvis and they didn’t want any
movement below the waist, so they’d pretty much immobilised both legs. It was the head that was the real talking point, however. His neck was still bound by the thick surgical brace, making it impossible for him to turn round, meaning they had to stop every few yards in order for Wesley to hear the latest demand for water, toilet or whatever. He also had one of those mad contraptions around his skull, one of those metal cage jobs that seemed to bolt into his actual dome. It turned out – as the surgeon had cheerfully explained in the early hours of this morning – that Boscombe had come very close to killing himself. The vertebrae in his neck were appallingly damaged and had had to be fully immobilised. (And what a palaver it had been getting through security – with all this metal.)

  The face itself was a livid patchwork of bruising, ranging from the iridescence of petrol in water to the yellow of a parrot’s plumage. Boscombe also seemed to be drooling constantly, with Wesley frequently having to stoop and wipe his chin clean. Perhaps this was a consequence of him having bitten about half an inch of his tongue off. Safe to say that all of this was not making the sergeant the ideal travelling companion. In fact here he was again, banging on the side of the wheelchair for Wesley to stop and listen to him. Never mind – they’d be home soon enough.

  ‘Sarge?’ Wesley said, putting the brake on and coming round to the front, crouching down.

  ‘Ooooo …’

  Wesley smiled and nodded encouragingly, as you would to a small child or a simpleton.

  ‘Oooood.’ A goodly stream of saliva flecked and bubbled from his lips.

  ‘Ooood?’ Wesley repeated.

  ‘OOOOOOD!’ Boscombe was pointing at his mouth.

  ‘Ah! Food. Righto. Let’s see what we can find. Over here looks OK …’ He wheeled Boscombe into the cafe closest to them and together they gazed at rows of glass-encased sandwiches and tarts, pastries and croissants, fancies and toasties.

  ‘Mmmm,’ Wesley said, catching the look of crazed hunger in Boscombe’s eyes. ‘I think it’d be safer if we just found you some soup, eh, Sarge?’

  ‘Uuuuck.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe some scrambled eggs. Doctor’s orders and all that.’

  ‘Uuuurrrr.’

  ‘Come on …’ Wesley looked up and checked the nearest departures board. There it was:

  BA 243, Nice–London Gatwick.

  The gate wasn’t even up yet – plenty of time.

  He wheeled Boscombe off through the busy airport.

  EIGHTY

  MOTHER AND DAUGHTER approaching security, off on the next leg of this once-in-a-lifetime round-the-world trip: Miss and Mrs Saunders.

  Miss Anna Saunders was very chic, her slim figure encased in a wrap dress, sunglasses on, a tote bag over her shoulder. Her perfect hair and make-up would, from a certain distance, have led you to believe that she was in her mid-forties.

  The years, however, had not been quite so kind to her mother, Mrs Heather Saunders. She was a stout woman in her late sixties, maybe even early seventies, with a lined, aged face. Actually ‘stout’ would be the kindest way of putting it. She in fact looked to be in the region of 120 kilos and was already sweating quite heavily from the effort of getting here from the entrance.

  ‘Boarding passes and passports please.’

  Anna Saunders handed them over, removing her sunglasses and making direct eye contact with the girl examining them, the girl guarding the entrance to the actual security line, where the other passengers were doing their thing: removing shoes and belts, taking out laptops and so on. Anna laid a protective hand on her mother’s shoulder, to let the girl know they were together and that she was in charge.

  The only reaction from the girl was the slightly nicer smile afforded to passengers holding first-class tickets, as both these ladies did. (This also gave them a greatly increased cabin baggage allowance. Something both Miss and Mrs Saunders needed to make full use of.) ‘Merci. Have a nice flight.’ The girl handed the tickets back.

  ‘Merci beaucoup,’ Susan said. ‘Come along, Mother.’

  ‘Coming,’ Julie said, waddling after her, cursing inwardly and thinking, Mother? I’m only six months older than you and don’t you forget it, missy! Last time I toss a bloody coin with you, Susan Frobisher … Christ, Julie wondered, was this what it was like to be obese? She had to be lugging an extra thirty kilos around the breasts, belly and bum, and her heart was pounding like mad as they joined the queue and Susan swung their bags up onto the conveyor belt. Remind me to stay thin, Julie thought.

  Further along in the terminal Dr Thomas McKenzie approached security slowly in his wheelchair. McKenzie was overweight too, though stylishly dressed in a baggy linen suit and panama hat. He fanned his bearded face with the back of his boarding pass before handing it over to the assistant, who was saying, ‘And have you packed your bags yourself, Dr McKenzie?’

  ‘Ah did. Aye,’ McKenzie spat gruffly. Ethel had decided that gruffness would be part of her character. She was a bit worried about the beard though, given the sweat pouring off her.

  A hand landed on the shoulder of Dr Thomas McKenzie. ‘Can you come this way please?’

  ‘Eh? How come?’ The security guard looked down at her oddly. Behind the guy, two queues along, Ethel could see Susan and Julie. They were almost through.

  ‘We must X-ray your wheelchair.’

  ‘Oh, right enough, son,’ Ethel grunted. ‘I’ll just get up …’

  ‘No need, we can do it with you sitting in it.’

  ‘Naw, son – I’m no having aw they X-rays fired intae me.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Fucks yer baws up, like.’

  ‘Please, just remain seated and we can—’

  ‘Yer no pumping aw that shite intae me.’ Ethel didn’t exactly do panic, but if they X-rayed her …

  ‘Just step over here.’

  Ethel was out of the wheelchair now and leaning against the walk-through scanner, panting heavily. ‘Just, just give us a minute here …’

  Another security person, a girl, was stepping towards her with one of the electric wand things that they ran over you. ‘Sir, if I can just …’

  ‘Ah’m sorry,’ Ethel said, ‘ah’m needing tae empty ma bag.’

  ‘Your bag? It is on the belt, yes?’

  ‘Naw. Ma bag. Ma colostomy bag.’ Ethel made some gestures. The two security guards looked at each other.

  ‘I shouldnae have hud that steak and eggs fur breakfast …’ Ethel said.

  The girl seemed to understand something and a hurried exchange took place in French. ‘Please,’ the man said. ‘Just step through the scanner.’ He wheeled her chair off to be X-rayed separately.

  Four minutes later Dr McKenzie sat in his wheelchair in a remote aisle of the duty-free shop quietly conferring with Anna and Heather Saunders. ‘Jesus,’ Ethel said, ‘I thought I’d had it then.’

  ‘OK, it’s OK. It’s fine,’ Susan said. ‘Everything’s OK.’ She was pretending to leaf through a Fodor travel guide and they were speaking to each other out of the corners of their mouths.

  ‘OK, phase two,’ Julie said. ‘How will we do this?’

  ‘Toilets are over there.’ Ethel nodded. ‘I’ll go in, I’ll take two of the cases, you give it a minute and then follow me in with the other two.’

  Julie nodded.

  ‘Right, be careful,’ Susan said. ‘I’m just going to go down there and grab a coffee.’ She looked up at the departures board: BA 117, Nice–Rio, gate 43.

  Boarding was due to commence in thirty minutes.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  SOUP AND BLOODY mushed eggs – this was it. This was his diet for the next few weeks. Boscombe stared hatefully at his plate. Even the eggs hurt to swallow. He glanced at the two newspapers on the table – a local one and a copy of the Sun. They had made the cover of the local paper: a photograph of the wrecked Mercedes showroom and an accompanying article. Page 4 of the Sun had the same picture plus a smaller one of him inserted in the corner (a still taken from his Sky News interview a week a
go) and the caption ‘SACRE LES BOYS IN BLEU! BRIT BLUNDER COPS!’ Fucking … journalists.

  ‘All right, Sarge?’ He looked up, Wesley looked sated after his huge feast of croissants and coffee. ‘I’m just going to run over to duty-free and grab a few presents for the kids. You’ll be all right here for a minute, eh? Here, let me just …’ He pushed Boscombe’s wheelchair a little closer into the table for him.

  Boscombe nodded. ‘Mmmmf. Uhhnnn.’

  ‘And I, ah …’ Wesley hesitated. ‘I spoke to Chief Inspector Wilson there. It’s … not great. Anyway. Back in a minute.’

  Wesley strolled off and Boscombe went back to reading the papers. Yes, there really was no other way to put it: what a total, absolute bloody shambles.

  As Boscombe turned to the football results, five hundred yards away Ethel and Julie emerged from the toilets. To the casual passer-by it looked like a fat, bearded, wheelchair-bound man in a linen suit being helped by a lady in her sixties whose dress was a little too big for her. The eagle-eyed observer would have noticed that Dr McKenzie and Mrs Heather Saunders had both lost quite a bit of weight in the last few minutes. They each had two wheelie suitcases of cabin baggage proportions – perfectly admissible for first-class passengers. Each bag was packed with just under a million pounds, the money that had just been taped to the bodies of Julie and Ethel.

  They found Susan in the little coffee shop near the gate.

  ‘How did we do?’

  ‘All sorted,’ Julie said, patting the nearest case.

  ‘Right,’ Ethel said, ‘I’m gonna go and load up on sweets for the flight. Back in a tick.’

  ‘Careful, Ethel,’ they chorused as she rolled off in search of boiled treats.

  A hundred grand a week or whatever that loser’s on and he still can’t put the ball in the bloody net? Boscombe turned the page. Oh, here was another one. Bloody Premiership these days.

  Mint humbugs? Or rhubarb and custards? Toffees? Or maybe some of these mental-looking French sweets? The agony of choice, Ethel thought.