‘Where were you when he fell?’

‘I was about twenty feet away at the door to the stairs.’

‘Was anything said between the two of you?’

‘I advised him to give himself up,’ Vos says. ‘In fact, I believe I told him not to be such a fucking idiot.’

‘Did he respond?’

‘No. He jumped.’

‘The family claim you pushed him off.’

‘How could they possibly know that?’

‘There are no other witnesses to corroborate your story?’

‘No. DS Entwistle, my undercover officer and one of the uniforms were otherwise engaged with Peel’s associates in the casino.’

‘And it was during this engagement that DS Entwistle was shot?’

‘That’s right. Have you been to see him?’

Gilcrux does not rise to the provocation. ‘And the other uniformed officer?’

‘WPC Lake was covering the perimeter of the building to block any escape from that side.’

‘You saw DS Entwistle get shot?’

‘The reason Vic got shot was because he was doing his job.’

‘But you saw it?’

‘I didn’t see it, no.’

‘You didn’t hear it? I find that hard to believe.’

‘The gun went off in the struggle. Maybe Vic’s body muffled the sound.’

‘You were aware of what had happened, though.’

‘Only afterwards.’

‘You were already in pursuit of Jack Peel.’

‘Yes.’

Gilcrux stares at him inscrutably. ‘How long have you known DS Entwistle?’

‘Twenty years. We came up through uniform together, joined CID at the same time.’

‘So you’d say you were good friends.’

‘Extremely good friends. I was his best man and I’m his daughter’s godfather.’

‘It must be very upsetting for you – the fact he’s in hospital.’

‘Yes,’ Vos says. ‘It is.’

‘I’m going to ask you again, Detective Chief Inspector Vos,’ Gilcrux says. ‘Were you aware that DS Entwistle had been shot before you set off in pursuit of Jack Peel?’

Vos stares at him. They have been in this room for over two hours now.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I was not.’

SEVEN

Two photographs of Ahmed Doe – one of his face, one of his testicles – have been distributed via Interpol to every national police force in Europe. Vos is in his office when the call comes through from the Korps Landelijk Politiediensten, the Dutch national police force known as the KLPD. A polite operator with impeccable English asks him to hold for a short time while she connects him to Chief Inspector Krelis Remmelink of the Amsterdam bureau of IPOL, the police intelligence service.

‘Vos,’ Remmelink says. ‘Is that a Dutch name?’

‘My great-grandfather was from Utrecht, apparently.’

‘Really? You still have family there?’

‘From what I understand, sir, they didn’t have a good war,’ Vos says.

‘Shit. I’m sorry. But I am calling about your mystery dead man. The photographs were passed across my desk thirty minutes ago. I’m looking at them now. Not a pretty sight, eh?’

‘Not at all. Do you know him?’

‘I know him,’ Remmelink says. ‘His name was Okan Gul. And you are correct: he was a member of the Kaplan Kirmizi here in Amsterdam.’

‘That’s a long way from Turkey.’

‘They’ve spread across Europe like a bad case of crabs, Inspector. Here in Amsterdam we’d never heard of them until five, six years ago. Now they pretty much run the port and the red-light district. A shining example of pan-European integration, eh?’

‘And Okan Gul?’

‘He’s pretty high-ranking in the organization. His role is what I would describe as a middleman. You want to do business with the Kaplan Kirmizi, you deal with Okan Gul first. If he is satisfied, he will take your suggestion to the high command. The bosses never get their hands dirty with their own filth. It is the same with all successful criminal enterprises.’

‘What sort of business are they in?’

‘Narcotics, alcohol, cigarettes. Anything you like as long as it is lucrative.’

‘Are you aware of them doing any business in Newcastle?’

‘It comes as news to me, but then again I don’t see why not. Maybe they’ve opened up a new channel. In these tough economic times you have to get business where you can, I suppose.’

‘It would be very handy for our investigation if this could be confirmed, sir,’ Vos says.

‘Of course. I’ll find out what I can, although the Kaplan Kirmizi are not known for being talkative.’

‘I would appreciate it. But as far as Mr Gul is concerned, do you have any idea why someone in Newcastle might have wanted to hang him in front of a high-speed train on Sunday night?’

‘I can think of many reasons why someone would want to kill him, Inspector Vos. The KK have few friends. But the method sounds a little theatrical.’

‘It’s been suggested that it might have been a message.’

There’s a pause while Remmelink considers this. ‘Then it’s one hell of a message,’ he says. ‘More like a declaration of war if you ask me. And if that’s the case . . .’

‘That’s what I’m worried about, sir,’ Vos says. ‘The last thing I want is a war on my patch. If you do talk to your friends in the KK, I’d also appreciate it if you’d let them know they are not welcome in Newcastle. We’ve got enough problems with the locals on a Saturday night as it is.’

Remmelink laughs. ‘I’ve read about your Bigg Market, Inspector. Is it true the girls go out in miniskirts in the middle of winter?’

‘Trust me, Chief Inspector,’ Vos says, ‘you wouldn’t believe it.’

‘Then maybe I will have to see for myself.’

‘The invitation is always open. Meanwhile I shall see what the great and the good of Newcastle know about the Turkish mob.’

An unmarked car on a busy street in Newcastle’s West End. Huggins and Fallow are watching a thickset Oriental in a shell suit walking purposefully towards a Chinese takeaway called The Mandarin Grill. He is smoking a cigarette, which he flicks into the gutter as he goes into the shop.

‘Let’s go,’ Huggins says.

They get out of the car and cross the street. There are plenty of Chinese in this part of town, and they all know who Huggins and Fallow are. But they also know the wisdom of minding their own business, and they ignore the two detectives as they go into the takeaway.

Behind the high counter there is an old woman with a face that looks like it has been carved out of ancient ivory. She is staring up at a portable TV on the wall, watching a daytime soap.

‘Afternoon, Mrs Kwok,’ Huggins says brightly as the door dings shut behind them and Fallow turns the sign to CLOSED. ‘Your Timmy in?’

She looks at them. Her eyes are barely visible beneath folds of skin. She says nothing as she reaches out a hand and presses a buzzer on the counter, then turns back to the TV programme.

The man in the shell suit pushes through a chain-link partition at the rear of the service area. He is twenty-seven years old, with a thick mane of black hair cropped and shaped into a style they call the Hoxton Fin. It does not suit his square face and stubby features. It was designed for thin, rat-faced white men.

‘Timmy,’ Huggins says genially. ‘Nice to see you again.’

Timmy Kwok is as talkative and expressive as his mother.

‘I thought we had an appointment,’ says Fallow. ‘We waited, but you never showed.’

‘Something came up,’ Timmy says. He has a broad Geordie accent with an east London inflection. ‘I was going to ring you.’

‘Not to worry,’ Huggins says. ‘We’re here now. You got somewhere we can talk?’

Timmy shrugs and lifts the hinged section of counter to allow the two detectives to pass through into the kitchens at the rear of the shop.

‘So this is where it all happens, eh?’ Fallow says, looking around at the small, tiled room with its stainless-steel workbench and grimy range. ‘Very bijou.’

A couple of blackened woks are hanging from the ceiling, and on the floor, next to an open sack of rice, is a twenty-litre plastic vat of vegetable oil. Huggins selects one of the woks and smashes Timmy across the back of the knees with it. The Chinaman pitches forward and crashes against the workbench, sending utensils, metal bowls and Tupperware tubs of ready-mixed batter cascading to the floor.