‘What the hell is the boss doing at HQ?’ Huggins says. ‘He’s missing all the fun.’

SIX

‘Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?’ says retired Detective Superintendent Malcolm Gilcrux of South Wales Police in a manner that suggests he’s been waiting for a long time for this moment.

He’s a fat man with piggy eyes who must have thought his career and its associated importance were over once his thirty years were up, Vos thinks. But a job as an investigator with the Independent Police Complaints Commission has resurrected both, and he has clearly made an effort this morning: crisp shirt, egg-free tie, freshly pressed suit, polished shoes. It looks like his hair has been recently clippered at the sides, and his cheeks have been shaved so closely they are shining like two slabs of red-veined marble.

‘You had been investigating Jack Peel for a number of years, is that correct?’

The two men are sitting in an interview room at police headquarters in Ponteland. The room has been kept deliberately sparse in order to focus minds. The only furniture is a couple of plastic chairs and a table between them. On the table is a thick file. Gilcrux methodically scrolls back through the pages.

‘You could say he had been on our radar for a while, yes,’ Vos says.

‘How long?’

‘Two years, give or take.’

‘Why?’

‘Come on, Mr Gilcrux. You know how it works. You get to hear things, then you get to hear some more things, until eventually you decide it might be worth a look.’

Gilcrux makes no comment. He makes no indication of having heard a word Vos has said. Vos can imagine that the fat Welshman was a shit-hot interrogator in his time. And even though he knows this stonewall technique by heart, Vos still feels uneasy, because he has no idea what Gilcrux knows.

‘Go on,’ Gilcrux says.

‘We heard that Peel was involved in supplying class A drugs at his nightclubs. Coke, E, that sort of thing. We were keen to find out if this was the case, and if he was supplying them anywhere else.’

‘These nightclubs were in Newcastle, were they?’

‘Yeah. They still are. Peel Leisure owns pretty much every club, casino and lap-dancing bar on the Quayside.’

‘Tell me about your investigation into Mr Peel, Mr Vos?’

‘What? All of it?’

‘Everything you believe to be pertinent,’ Gilcrux says.

Vos winces theatrically at the policespeak, but Gilcrux appears not to notice or care. So Vos tells him about the investigation into Jack Peel, and Gilcrux listens and does not interrupt. His hands are folded in front of him and he makes no notes. There is no need; it’s all in the file that he has already read and digested. But that’s not the point of this exercise. This is all about observation and body language. It’s about Gilcrux getting the measure of Vos, the way a boxer uses the first couple of rounds to analyse his opponent, looking for strengths, identifying weaknesses.

When Vos has finished, Gilcrux asks him if he wants a break. Vos says no. They have been in this room for over an hour now.

‘What was your relationship with Mr Peel?’

‘My relationship?’

‘You investigate someone over a period of time, you get close to them.’

Vos shrugs. ‘As far as I was concerned I was a copper and he was a villain.’

‘What about his wedding?’ Gilcrux’s eyes are like two lasers boring into Vos’s skull. ‘June this year, wasn’t it?’

‘It was hardly a social occasion. We regarded it as more of a reconnaissance mission.’

‘We?’

‘Myself and DS Entwistle. You see, Vic’s daughter is due to get married next spring and he thought he might pick up a few tips. And Peel had had plenty of practice. This was his third marriage. Charming lady name of Kimnai Su. He went all the way to Thailand to get her.’

Gilcrux blinks slowly. ‘What happened?’

‘We sat at the back of the church, sang a few hymns and then shook hands with the groom on the way out.’

‘After which Mr Peel made an official complaint of harassment.’

‘Yes, well, if you check your notes, you’ll see that he withdrew the complaint, Mr Gilcrux. In fact, old Jack was suddenly all sunlight and joy as far as I was concerned. Must have been that married life finally agreed with him.’

‘He invited you to his house,’ Gilcrux says. ‘August 28 this year.’

‘He did indeed, Mr Gilcrux.’

‘That was three weeks before his death.’

‘I’ve never thought about it, but yes, I suppose it was.’

‘Why don’t you tell me about that day, Mr Vos?’

It is one of those improbably hot Indian-summer days when the temperatures in Northumberland exceed those in southern Europe. Jack Peel is wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and shorts on the patio of his £3 million house in the village of Whalton, north of Newcastle. He’s a stocky man whose fifty-five years are only now beginning to erode a once-powerful physique. The abundant hairs on his chest are turning white, the leathery brown skin beneath beginning to slide away from broad slabs of pectoral muscle. Knotted veins stick out like spaghetti from the flesh of his exposed legs.

‘Hey, Al, come and get a drink!’ Peel calls out.

Sitting in a whirlpool spa is Al Blaylock, Peel’s lawyer, a middle-aged man with a tan and a comb-over. He grabs the side and levers himself and his huge gut out with some difficulty, then grabs a towel from one of the sunloungers and wipes his face. Beneath the flabby overhang, his modesty is concealed by the skimpiest of black thongs.

Peel sniggers. ‘Look at that. What the fuck does he look like? Hey, Al, what the fuck do you look like?’

Al smiles bashfully and waddles across on spindly white legs to where Vos sits, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the baking slabs.

‘I think he looks very nice,’ a girl’s voice opines from the other side of the patio. ‘Very Californian.’

‘You would, sweetheart,’ says Peel.

Melody Peel, her honey-blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail, is lying on one of the sunbeds. She is eighteen years old, wearing a red bikini. She slowly raises her head so she can scrutinize her father and his associates through oversized, red-framed mirror sunglasses.

‘You want to get some UV lotion on, girl,’ Peel remarks.

‘Maybe I’ll get Mr Vos to rub it on for me,’ his daughter replies.

‘Mr Vos is charged with upholding standards of public decency,’ Peel points out solemnly. ‘And do me a favour, will you?’ He gestures to an iPod dock that is pumping out Kanye West. ‘Turn that crap down. I can’t hear myself think.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Melody says tartly, sticking out her tongue and sliding from the lounger. ‘I’m going to check on the horses, away from you boring men.’ She picks up her iPod dock and kisses her father on the top of his head. ‘Love you, Daddy,’ she says.

‘Love you too, sweetheart.’

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Vos,’ she says coquettishly.

‘Likewise,’ Vos says.

Melody smiles, then sashays through a set of open French windows into the cool of the house.

Peel chuckles. ‘Eighteen years old. Fuck me, where did the time go, eh?’

‘It’ll be boyfriends next,’ Al says. ‘Then the fun really starts.’

‘Yeah, well, we’ll see about that,’ Peel says, all trace of humour suddenly gone from his demeanour.

There’s a moment of awkward silence. Then Al says, ‘You should think yourself lucky, Jack. My Maggie was still a bloody tearaway when she was eighteen. She never showed any respect to me or her mother.’