'It's possible, but it might be too risky.'

'I didn't think you were the kind who scared easily, Mr Hook.'

'I'm not, but I'm no fool either. That's why I'm still here.'

The man in the cream suit thought about pushing him further but decided against it. He was used to getting his own way, but he was also pragmatic enough to know that Hook had a point. 'Do what you can, but events are very close to fruition and nothing can go wrong now. There's too much riding on it. How far away are we from receiving the goods?'

'A matter of hours. As soon as we have them, no one's going to be able to stop us.'

'So everything's in place?'

'Absolutely.'

'Good. Kill Fallon. I'll sleep easier with him gone. And keep me posted on developments.'

He hung up and stopped walking, looking out to sea at the squid boats on the horizon. As with everything in life, there were complications, but the man in the cream suit was not the type to worry unduly. He was a gambler by nature. This was just a bigger gamble than usual. Even if it failed he would still be insulated from its repercussions, because he was also an expert at covering his tracks.

As he returned to the party, he heard his wife's high-pitched, faux upper-class laughter rising above the buzz of chatter as she talked to two middle-aged men in suits, one of whom was gazing unashamedly at her new breasts. The party had been her idea. Charmaine liked to act the glamorous hostess, and the man in the cream suit was happy to go along with it. She was a useful trophy, but little else. His real interest lay in much younger company, and he tended to travel overseas for his gratification, to Phnom Penh, Saigon and Manila.

Charmaine caught his eye as he took a glass of Krug from one of the waitresses, and flashed him an expensive smile. 'Darling, where have you been? I wanted to introduce you to some friends. This is Mohammed.' She pointed to the one focusing on her cleavage. 'And this is Atul. They're in import/export.'

The man in the cream suit came over and put out a hand to each of them in turn. 'Paul Wise,' he said, flashing a smile of his own. 'Very pleased to meet you.'

Mobile reception in the village was almost non-existent so Bolt found himself shouting into the phone as he walked away from the jumble of emergency services vehicles clustered around the pub. 'I need an armed guard on Robert Fallon. A minimum of three officers. He's currently en route to Wexham Park Hospital in Slough. This is absolutely top priority. He's the only live witness we have to what's been going on here.'

The man Mike Bolt was talking to was Frank Carruthers, the assistant chief constable of Thames Valley Police, currently in charge of the force while his boss was sunning himself on the Algarve, and who up until a few minutes before had been relaxing at home in front of the television. He sounded shell-shocked to find himself suddenly presented with a double murder investigation and absolutely no sign of any suspects.

'It's going to take me time to get a team over there,' explained Carruthers. 'All our ARVs are currently hunting for the gunmen involved in this incident, and we just don't have the resources you lot have got in London.'

'We haven't got time, sir. Mr Fallon was the gunman's target tonight. He managed to get away, but we believe that the gunman is a professional shooter called Michael James Killen, also known as Hook. He's currently wanted for a number of murders, and may well have another go at Fallon.'

'And we're trying to find him now, which is our first priority.'

'Well, you could do worse than try the hospital.'

'There are procedures to follow, Mr Bolt. You know that. I've got to make sure that the area's secure and that there's no immediate threat to members of the public.'

Bolt could have predicted this kind of reaction. Police officers, at senior and junior level, tended to play things far more by the book these days and were discouraged from using their initiative too much. He could sympathize with Carruthers. Everything was target- and procedure-related now, and as one of the brass, if he didn't do everything the right way, he was in trouble.

So he changed tack. 'As I said, Fallon's pretty much the only witness to what happened here tonight. If we do catch Hook and charge him with the murders, we'll need Fallon to give evidence. It's essential he's protected.'

'How serious are his injuries?' asked Carruthers.

'He's hurt, but he's also conscious and talking.'

'And why is he a target exactly?'

'I'm not sure yet, but as soon as I find out anything I'll let you know.'

There was a short silence at the other end. 'OK,' said Carruthers eventually. 'I'll get people over to the hospital as soon as I can.'

Bolt thanked him, knowing he'd done all he could. He wasn't going to leave anything to chance though, and he hurried back to where Mo was leaning against a marked patrol car next to the police cordon, drinking a mug of coffee and talking into his mobile. He still looked shocked, which Bolt could understand. He wasn't feeling it so much himself, partly because he'd been shot at before on more than one occasion, and was better prepared to handle it. Perhaps later, when he was alone, it would hit home. Right now it was something he didn't have time for.

The rain had eased to a light drizzle, and the lane was busy with a mixture of curious onlookers, horrified witnesses and swarms of local uniforms who seemed to have materialized in huge numbers, and SOCO, busy kitting themselves up to begin the fingertip search of the crime scene. Above their heads, a police helicopter circled steadily, although already its presence was obsolete. Hook – and Bolt was now convinced it was him – was long gone.

As Bolt reached him, Mo came off the phone. 'That was Saira,' he said, referring to his wife and the mother of his four children. 'I was telling her not to wait up for me. I didn't have the heart to tell her that someone just tried to shoot us.'

Bolt smiled grimly. 'Probably just as well.'

'You know, boss,' he said, sounding subdued, 'I'll vouch for you that Fallon was in the middle of the road, and you weren't driving erratically when you hit him. In case they bring the IPCC in.'

'Thanks, I appreciate it.' He gave Mo's arm an affectionate pat. 'Right now, though, it's the least of our worries. We need to get over to the hospital. The armed guard's not set up yet and I want to make sure nothing happens to Fallon.'

'How are we going to get over there? We've lost our transport.'

'No we haven't.' He motioned for Mo to follow and set off through the mêlée, conscious of the fact that he had to keep his colleague distracted so that the shock didn't begin to overwhelm him. Right now, he needed Mo.

The Jag was still parked halfway up the bank at the end of the village, temporarily forgotten. A single uniform stood guard over it, since technically it remained part of the crime scene. Pulling out his keys, Bolt flashed his warrant card, said he had permission from Assistant Chief Constable Carruthers to remove the vehicle, and carried on walking.

'I don't think we should do this, boss,' said Mo once they'd climbed in. 'We have the slight problem that we can't actually see anything out of the windscreen.'

Bolt would never have described himself as impulsive, but he took a huge amount of satisfaction from his next move, which was to reach down behind the driver's seat, lift up the Enforcer – the heavy cylindrical tool used for breaking down doors – and smash it through the ruined windscreen. The driver's half disappeared completely as glass flew across the bonnet and on to the grass below. 'We can now,' he said.

He manoeuvred the car back on to the road with a loud bump so that it was facing away from the murder scene, relieved to realize that the vehicle was still in good working order. In his rearview mirror, Bolt saw the uniform staring at him aghast. Bolt had a moment's doubt too, but it didn't stop him from accelerating away, weaving around the Road Closed sign and heading in the direction of Slough.