‘He’s got to be,’ said Mo as they turned into the driveway, and pulled up in front of the large mock-Tudor house belonging to Richard Oldham – the witness who’d seen a man outside the house of two of The Disciple’s victims shortly before they were attacked and murdered. ‘He fits the bill perfectly. Not just because he’s everything that quack Folkestone says he is – loner, history of violence, above-average intelligence; but the key’s the Cyprus thing. That’s just too coincidental.’

Bolt sighed, switching off the engine. ‘I agree, but I still wish we had more on him.’

‘We’ll get it eventually. It’s going to be Hope’s DNA at the Rowan house murder scene. Then we can just nick him.’

‘That’s going to be another five days. I just want this thing cut and dried. Then we can wind up this investigation, and get involved in something less heart-attack-inducing.’

Mo looked concerned. ‘You sound weary of the job, boss.’

Bolt thought about it for a moment. ‘I guess I am. It’s been twenty-seven years now. Can you believe that? Twenty-seven years as a copper dealing with the dregs of society, and the criminals are still committing plenty of crime.’

‘But if they weren’t, we wouldn’t be in a job. And, anyway, what else would you do?’

Bolt groaned. ‘I really don’t know.’ It was true. He didn’t have any outside interests. He had no girlfriend to share his time with. He didn’t even have many friends outside the Force. It struck him then that he’d become almost as much of a loner as Leonard Hope, which wasn’t a particularly encouraging thought.

‘It’s this case, boss,’ said Mo. ‘It’s getting us all down.’ He motioned towards the house. ‘Maybe Mr Oldham can help us.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Bolt as they got out of the car, but he wasn’t so sure. It had been five months since Richard Oldham had seen a man in dark clothing and tattoos hanging round in woodland behind the home of John and Kathy Morris, two days before they were brutally murdered, and barely four hundred metres from where they were now, just outside the village of Tilford in the Surrey countryside. At the time, Oldham’s description of the suspect had been basic in the extreme, and the e-fit he’d helped create had, by his own admission, not been a great likeness, so Bolt wasn’t at all sure he’d be much help now, but they’d come out here anyway with surveillance photos of Leonard Hope on the off-chance that Oldham would recognize him. It wasn’t a job that Bolt needed to do as head of the investigation. He could easily have left it to a DS, or even a DC, but it was a rare sunny day, and both he and Mo had been keen to get out of the incident room and do something.

They’d called to let Oldham know they were coming and he’d answered the door straight away. He was a small man in his late sixties, with a few white strands of hair on an otherwise bald and suntanned head, dressed in a paisley tank top and neatly pressed trousers, the kind of gear Bolt imagined you’d wear on a golf course.

Bolt introduced himself and Mo, and Oldham gave them a broad welcoming smile and invited them in.

‘You said on the phone that you had some photos for me to look at,’ he said as he led them through a hallway not much smaller than a hotel foyer, and into a traditionally furnished living room with views onto a well-kept back garden. ‘Does that mean you have a suspect in mind?’

Bolt wasn’t keen to give Oldham any more information than he had to, although there seemed little point in denying the obvious. ‘We’ve got an individual of some interest, yes.’

‘Thank goodness for that. It hasn’t been the same round here since the murders. They were a lovely couple as well. And now to hear he’s killed again.’ Oldham gave a visible shudder, motioning for them to sit down on one of the two leather sofas facing each other. ‘Can I get you a drink of anything?’

‘No, we’re fine, thanks.’ Bolt took an A4-sized envelope from his jacket and, as Oldham sat down, he removed three surveillance photos taken of Hope the previous day. One was a full-frontal shot of his top half as he emerged from his house. He was just over six foot tall and well built, and there was a confidence about the way he held himself, but even Bolt had to admit his face was pretty ordinary, with no obvious standout features. In the photo he was wearing a T-shirt, exposing the tattoo that covered most of his left arm. The second photo was a close-up of the tattoo itself – an intricate design that appeared to show two dark green dragons locked in an embrace, with the tails starting a few inches above the wrist, and the upper part of the bodies disappearing beneath the shirtsleeve. The third one was a close-up of Hope’s face in full profile. Again, nothing stood out on it, other than the fact that he had dark bags under both eyes, and a small mole on his left cheek. The photos had been scanned to Highlands CID the previous day so that Amanda Rowan could look at them but, as she hadn’t seen her attacker’s face, she hadn’t been much help. All she’d managed to give them was that the tattoo looked similar to the one she’d seen on her attacker’s arm.

So now Oldham was their best chance of moving the case along, and as he inspected each of the photos in turn, taking his time, Bolt realized he was nervous. Bolt didn’t want to wait five days for the results of the DNA test. He wanted to know now that Hope was his man so that he could get the bastard off the street and the pressure on him would finally ease.

‘I didn’t really get a look at the tattoo as such,’ said Oldham, ‘although it’s the right colour. But . . .’ He paused, looking again at the close-up of Hope’s face. ‘This definitely looks like the man I saw.’

‘Are you absolutely sure, Mr Oldham?’ asked Mo.

‘Not absolutely, but pretty sure, yes.’

‘That’s very helpful,’ said Bolt, taking the photo. Oldham’s ID was good enough for him, even though it wasn’t exactly a definitive yes, and almost certainly wouldn’t stand up in court. Right now, though, that didn’t matter. Bolt just needed enough evidence for a search warrant.

‘Does this mean you’ll be able to arrest him?’ asked Oldham.

‘We can’t comment on that, sir, but I’d ask you not to say anything to anyone about seeing these photos. We’ll let you know any developments on the case as soon as we can.’

When they got outside, Bolt grinned at Mo. ‘Right, that’s enough for a warrant.’

Mo looked less convinced. ‘Are you sure? It wasn’t exactly a concrete ID.’

‘It’s good enough for me,’ said Bolt. He’d been around long enough to know that sometimes it was easier to take the initiative than wait for the wheels of justice to turn. ‘With a bit of luck he’ll be in custody by the end of the day.’

Twenty-three

FIVE HOURS LATER they were parking thirty yards down from Leonard Hope’s house, on a quiet residential street of interwar terraced houses, many of which looked like they needed updating. After a lot of pushing and a full-scale row, they’d been granted the search warrant Bolt had been so keen to get hold of, and with Hope himself currently three miles west of them making a delivery in Hounslow, and under the watchful eye of one of the ten-man surveillance teams, they were taking the opportunity to look inside his house for clues. It wasn’t going to be a full-scale search, even though they had permission for one; nor was it going to be done publicly. The plan was simply to hunt round for clues, without alerting Hope to what they were doing.

‘I don’t like this,’ said Mo, who’d already said this several times that day.

Bolt turned to him, surprised by his long-time partner’s reticence. ‘I don’t understand why not. We’ve got plenty of circumstantial evidence, and now we’ve got a positive ID. What more do we need?’

‘It wasn’t that positive, and this is a sixty-eight-year-old guy remembering someone he saw months ago. Someone who, even at the time, he could barely describe. But when you were in court this afternoon getting the warrant, you swore to the judge that Oldham was certain that it was Hope.’