His phone was ringing.

Groggily, he rolled over, his hand fumbling for the lamp switch, and he groaned as the sudden light jarred him awake. Blinking, he reached for the phone and answered it.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me.’ Mendel’s voice sounded serious.

‘What time is it?’

‘Just gone midnight. You weren’t asleep, were you?’

‘I had an early night,’ Harland yawned.

‘Sorry if I woke you,’ Mendel said. ‘I thought you’d want to know about this, though.’

Harland struggled to sit up, pushing away the duvet and rubbing a hand through his hair.

‘No problem,’ he said, letting his eyes close as he leaned back against the headboard. ‘What is it?’

‘Remember that mobile phone? The one from the Hampshire murder?’

‘Yes.’ Harland’s eyes opened and he leaned forward.

‘Well, we just got a hit on it. Somebody switched it on a couple of hours ago.’

Harland frowned, shaking off the sleep, forcing himself to concentrate.

‘Any calls on it?’ he asked.

‘None, so far as we know. It just popped up on the network.’

‘Okay. Where was this?’

‘London somewhere. Hang on, let me see what they gave us . . .’

Harland swung his legs over and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes. It could be nothing, but on the other hand . . .

‘East London . . .’ Mendel’s voice was distant as he sifted through the information he’d received. ‘Yeah, here we are. It’s over in Docklands somewhere. I’ve got a grid reference, but it’s only approximate.’

‘Get a map and take a look.’ Harland rose wearily to his feet and padded out onto the landing, the phone pressed to his ear. ‘I’m just going to the computer downstairs.’

He hurried down, bare feet sensitive on the carpeted steps, and shielded his eyes as he switched on the light in the study. Then, dropping into his chair, he opened his laptop and powered it up.

‘Okay,’ he said after a moment. ‘Give me the reference and let’s see what’s there.’

Mendel read the details back to him and he entered them in quickly, then clicked on the Search button. On the screen, a large map expanded. There was the Thames, snaking up and around the Dome, with London City Airport on the right. The reference marker was in the middle of the screen, by a long stretch of blue marked ‘Royal Victoria Dock’. He zoomed in closer.

‘Has the phone changed location at all?’ he asked. ‘Since it was switched on, I mean?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Mendel replied. ‘Position was constant. It’s still there as far as I’m concerned.’

Harland nodded as his eyes scanned the more detailed view of the area.

‘Most of this is water,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Lots of open areas, a car park, building developments, nothing residential . . .’

He paused, looking at the small lettering that had just popped up near the centre of the grid.

‘What is it?’ Mendel asked.

‘Get onto the Met,’ Harland said quickly. ‘We need to get some bodies on the ground there. Maybe the phone’s just been dumped, or sold on to someone, but . . .’

He hesitated, staring at the word ‘Hotel’ close to the reference marker at the centre of his screen. There seemed to be little else close by.

‘I’ll call you when I’m in the car,’ he said. ‘Oh, one more thing?’

‘Yes?’

‘The number of that phone – it’s in the file somewhere. Look it up for me.’

49

Monday, 17 September

It was past 4 a.m. now. Naysmith shivered, fighting off the temptation to sleep, and yawned deeply. He looked away from the screen and wearily rubbed his eyes . . .

And stopped.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure where the noise was coming from. Leaning forward, he took the remote control from its place on the desk and aimed it at the TV, tapping the volume down to zero.

There it was. A thin, muffled tone, accompanied by a dull buzzing. He lifted his head, trying to identify what it was, and where it was coming from. Slowly, he got to his feet, moving towards the bed, where the sound seemed to be louder. His hand stretched out to the holdall, carefully sliding open the zip. The ringtone was clear now and he tentatively reached into the bag, feeling the vibration of the white envelope through his gloves.

The phone was ringing.

Turning back the flap of the envelope, he took the handset out and stared at the word on the brightly illuminated screen.

Unknown.

He stood for a moment, frozen. The ringtone filled the room as his mind cried out for him to do something. His thumb, unbidden by him, hovered over the green Answer key, then gently squeezed it.

Silence.

On the screen, a timer began to count up the seconds. Someone was on the other end of the line, and he thought he could hear a faint voice. Holding the phone as though it might burn him, he raised it to his ear.

‘Hello?’ said a man’s voice.

Naysmith stood absolutely still, making no sound.

‘I’m going to assume that you can hear me.’

A long pause.

‘I understand your reluctance to speak,’ the voice continued in quiet, measured tones, ‘but I think it would be good if we could communicate somehow.’

There was something familiar about that voice, but Naysmith was too off balance to place it.

‘Tell you what,’ the voice said, ‘if you can hear me, press the 1 key. Just so I know I’m not talking to myself.’

He lowered the phone a little, unsure of what to do, then lifted it again to listen.

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ the voice was saying. ‘Just press 1, or any of the number keys, so I know you can hear me.’

Naysmith lowered the phone and stared at it, unsure what to do. He had planned for everything, but nothing had prepared him for this. His thumb hesitated over the 1 key for a moment, then pressed it, making a quiet tone.

‘Thanks,’ said the voice. ‘It’s good to know that somebody’s there.’

Naysmith closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe normally, willing himself to calm down as he listened.

‘I appreciate,’ the voice said slowly, ‘that you’re a very careful person . . .’

This wasn’t a random wrong number – somebody knew something.

And just as suddenly, he thought he knew where he’d heard a voice like that before. That quiet, impassive speech . . . but it couldn’t be.

‘. . . so I understand you might not want to answer any questions . . .’

With the phone pressed to his ear, Naysmith walked softly over to the window and carefully pulled back the net curtain. Was that the reflection of a flashing blue light on one of the tall cranes, or was he letting his imagination run away with him? It looked quiet down at street level, but he couldn’t see much from here.

‘. . . I was just wondering if you’d ever been to Severn Beach.’

Shit.

Naysmith stepped back from the window. He was sure now.

‘Maybe you could press 1 if you have?’

Slowly, he leaned in close to the door and put his eye to the spyhole. The distorted corridor appeared to be empty. He had to get out.

‘Or perhaps I’m moving a little fast,’ the voice continued. ‘It’s a failing of mine. But it would be good if we were able to communicate. In fact, I rather think you’d like it if we could . . .’

Naysmith closed up the holdall, working quickly, quietly. His mind was racing. Were they about to burst into the room? Surely they would have done so already if they knew where he was. How much did they know?

‘Still there?’

Putting the holdall under one arm, he pressed the 1 key on the phone and listened again.

‘That’s good,’ the voice said. ‘I know that the circumstances are difficult, but I really would like to understand more about what you do . . .’

Appreciate. Know. Understand. Suddenly, the spell was broken. Naysmith shook his head in disgust as he recognised the language – he wasn’t going to fall for a thinly veiled empathy play, allow some halfwit to try and build a rapport with him.