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Tara examined herself carefully in the bedroom mirror. She inspected her appearance critically, although she knew she was at the peak of her attractive best. It wasn’t vanity; she knew she was more than pretty, she was stunningly beautiful. She passed a brush thoughtfully through her long blonde hair, pausing to inspect her carefully manicured and expertly enamelled nails. Satisfied, she stood straight, allowing the sheer negligee to fall open. Her figure was close to perfection but even then Tara wasn’t satisfied. She swung round, brushing the negligee to one side. She craned her neck to inspect her posterior. No sagging: the result of a rigorous exercise routine devised by her personal trainer.

Harry was happy to pay for anything to retain and enhance Tara’s desirability. And Harry did desire her. Tara smiled at the thought. When they had met two years earlier, he’d wasted no time in making her aware of his feelings. It was at a cocktail party; she was married, he was twice divorced. He’d walked across to her and smiled. ‘I’m Harry Rourke and I want to go to bed with you.’

Tara hadn’t known whether to slap his face or walk out. In the end she’d done neither. There was something appealing in the boldness of the statement, the roguish smile that
accompanied
it. ‘What about my husband?’ she’d objected.

‘No thanks, just you.’

The following day, shortly after her husband left for work, a huge bouquet of flowers arrived. The card accompanying them reiterated the message. She hid the card, put the wrapping paper in the bin and told her husband she’d bought the flowers. Within a month she and Harry had become lovers. Within six months
she moved into his mansion on the western outskirts of Leeds. Harry had an appetite for her that was close to insatiable. Tara found no difficulty with this, indeed she enjoyed his attention. It wasn’t until well into their relationship that she realized how wealthy and powerful her lover was.

Recently however, Harry had been less demanding. That worried Tara. Was he tiring of her? She knew she was nowhere near his intellectual equal. Would he weary of her beauty, hanker for something more? Tara wasn’t used to being ignored. She knew he’d a lot on his plate running his massive business, and she was aware that he had some extra problems at work. Tara couldn’t help him with these but realized he worked better when he was relaxed and content. She could think of only one way to help him achieve relaxation and contentment.

Although it was Sunday morning, Harry would be at his computer. For Harry the working week didn’t stop on Friday evening. It was how he’d achieved success. It was the only formula he knew for retaining it. This was all very well, but Tara wanted him. She wanted the Harry she’d met, the Harry who had swept her off her feet. The Harry she had difficulty in matching for the energy of his lovemaking.

Tara stripped off the negligee and removed her bra and pants. She went across to Harry’s wardrobe and selected one of his shirts. She knew this would get him aroused if anything could.

Harry Rourke was sitting staring at his computer screen, exactly as Tara had predicted. He hated these damned things. He was a practical man, a man used to dealing with problems on the ground, not on a screen. There was something impersonal about working through a computer. Harry solved problems best when he could be on site and look into a man’s eyes. Check the materials were as they should be, that the work was being done as he’d ordered it. That was what construction was about, not a row of figures on a screen. He knew he’d have to get to grips with this technology. It was the only way to handle all he was now being pressured to take on.

Tara appeared by his side. She gently eased his chair away from the desk, swivelling it so he was forced to look at her, not
at the screen. ‘Harry,’ her voice was little more than a whisper, ‘Harry, how many excavators do you own?’

He blinked in surprise at the unexpected question. ‘Twenty-six.’

‘Is that enough to cope with the work you have on?’

‘More than enough.’ He grimaced. ‘I could do with another couple of contracts to keep them busy, thanks to this bloody recession.’

Tara leaned forward slightly. The shirt gaped open. ‘Well, in that case, darling.’ She straddled his knees with her thighs. The shirt rode up almost to her waist. ‘Do you think you could spare some time to make the earth move for me?’

Much later, as they were sitting in easy companionship in the conservatory, Tara asked him what the problem was. ‘I know it’s to do with work and I probably won’t understand, but maybe just talking about it will help.’

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been my usual self recently. Business is slack and we’re not getting the contracts we should. The problem is I can’t see what we’re doing wrong.’

‘If you’re not getting them, who is?’

‘Coningsby mainly, though it’s not just them.’

‘What do you intend doing about it?’

‘I’ve already taken steps to remedy matters. Very painful decisions have had to be made and I can’t expect others to make them for me. It means dispensing with a lot of people, some I’ve worked with for years.’

‘I’ve received the writ from the returning officer. The election date’s set for April 27th.’

‘That’s one part of the operation under way. I had a phone call from Darren Cowan. He’s sending the draft offer document for the takeover through.’

‘We’ll have to time it right, or we might have to pay too much.’

‘I don’t see that as a problem.’

‘How come you’re so confident?’

‘Leave it to me.’

‘We could do with more work. Contracts aren’t that plentiful.
Having said that, I got the figures from the auditors today. Last year’s results will look terrific.’

‘So will ours. The rivalry has done both companies good. When we put them together we’ll do even better. The dip in work looks to be no more than a seasonal thing, but it’ll help make the price look reasonable.’

‘Where do you think we should pitch the bid?’

‘Somewhere around twenty-five per cent of the valuation Cowan comes up with.’

‘Will we get away with as little as that?’

‘By the time I’ve finished we will.’

‘I’ll be glad when it’s over. For one thing, it’ll make a change to meet in more civilized surroundings than a rain-sodden park.’

Darren Cowan was a manipulator. In some this would be a shortcoming. In Darren’s case it was an asset. He worked in the City and his career was studded with deals he’d pulled off for clients, sometimes against the odds, invariably using his
manipulative
skills. Recently these had been less in demand than in the heyday of the nineties, but Darren was usually able to keep one or two projects in hand. A new prospect had recently landed on his desk and although the takeover market had been quiet of late this was a deal worth his undivided attention. A hostile takeover bid of one construction company by another would grab the headlines. Not only in the City columns, but also on the front pages of the nationals. It would be Darren’s name that would be associated with it. There were problems, but Darren was well capable of handling them. The deal had taken a while to put together. Secrecy was essential. There had been the added snag of obtaining the necessary information. Both predator and victim were private companies which made the job harder. With public companies it was easy. They had to divulge information by law. Private companies weren’t bound by those restrictions.

The problems were more than offset by the potential rewards. Darren knew he’d get a massive commission if the bid succeeded. Equally important, he’d recently learned it was likely
to give him considerable favour in political circles. The head of the bidding company was a by-election candidate and Darren had discovered that once the man was returned to Parliament he would be in the ascendancy. Darren loved power. The power he could wield himself, and association with others who could command higher levels of influence. If Darren pulled the deal off he’d be able to swing considerable weight in Westminster. He wasn’t about to risk losing the opportunity of grasping at the coat tails of someone on their way up. He’d bent his not
inconsiderable
talents to consideration of the bid details with renewed enthusiasm.

Acting on his client’s instructions he’d put together a bid based on a conservative estimate of the target company’s worth and sent them for approval. He’d been expecting his client to agree an offer price in excess of that. Now he stared at the figures in disbelief. What on earth was the client thinking of? There was no way the bid could be successful on the terms they’d suggested. Whatever Darren thought his client’s reaction would be, he’d not been expecting a bid price set below the basic market valuation; and certainly not as low as this. He knew he’d have to check that the bidder hadn’t made a mistake before he authorized the typing of an offer document.

Darren wondered how his client, a shrewd businessman, had justified arriving at such a low figure. He was used to the wheeling and dealing that accompanied takeovers; was used to the strategies that went along with them. He couldn’t make sense of the reasoning and logic behind this one. He reached for the telephone.

The early morning light filtered round the edges of the curtains. Harry Rourke lay on his back wide awake. Tara’s head was on his shoulder, her hair tickling him slightly. She stirred in her sleep and her leg brushed against his in an unconsciously erotic movement.

Harry was unable to resist. To be fair, he didn’t make much effort. He turned and began to caress the smooth curve of her waist. Tara muttered something, low and unintelligible. A
protest? If so he ignored it. Seconds later he realized it hadn’t been a protest.

Later, when he’d left the bedroom, the phone rang. Tara answered it. ‘No,’ she told the caller, ‘he’s taking a shower.’ She listened. ‘OK, I’ll tell him the minute he comes out.’

‘Sid Robinson wants you to ring him on his mobile,’ she told Harry when he emerged. ‘Said it was more than urgent. He sounded to be in a panic. Who is he?’

‘He’s the site supervisor for our Wakefield contract. It’s not like him to panic. I wonder why the mobile, there’s a landline on site.’ Harry reached for the phone. ‘Sid, what’s the problem?’

He listened for what seemed an age. ‘Oh shit, no. How the fuck did that happen? You’re joking! Bastards! Send the men to that café down the road until we find out what’s going on. Set up a meeting with whoever’s in charge. I’ll be there as fast as I can.’

He put the phone down and stared unseeingly at her. Tara had never seen such an expression on his face. Not so much bleak as ruthless. ‘What’s gone wrong?’

‘Sid got a call-out half an hour ago. The site cabin’s been gutted. Police and fire brigade reckon its arson.’

Building sites aren’t the tidiest of places. When Harry Rourke pulled his BMW as close as he was allowed, he saw the extent of the damage immediately. He identified himself to the police officer and ducked under the incident tape. Sid Robinson hurried over with a senior fire officer and a uniformed policeman at his heels. He introduced them. The fire chief took over. ‘We believe somebody opened the tap on the diesel tank, let the fuel flow towards the cabin, then torched it. The first thing to go up was the tank, but the cabin wasn’t far behind.’

‘What a bloody mess. And because it’s arson the insurance won’t pay out, so we’ll have to stand the loss,’ Harry said grimly.

‘Mr Rourke, have you any idea who might have a grudge against you?’ the police officer asked.

‘How long a list do you want? I’m running a business. I make enemies. People I’ve fired, competitors, environmental objectors
to construction; you name them, I’ve upset them.’

‘Anybody specific, that you’ve crossed swords with recently? Anybody who’s made any threats against you personally, or the company?’

‘No one in particular,’ Harry answered. ‘How did they get access to the site? It should have been secured overnight.’

‘I can answer that.’ Robinson pointed across the site. ‘They cut a hole in the security fence behind those bushes. Must have used a big pair of wire cutters, took out a six-foot section.’

‘That doesn’t sound like kids or chance vandals,’ Rourke said. ‘How long before we can get back on site and start trying to tidy this bloody mess up?’

‘The forensic people will want to be in as soon as the site’s safe and the temperature round the cabin and the tank has cooled. They’ll need a fair amount of time. I reckon you’ll be looking at the day after tomorrow.’

Rourke groaned. ‘More expensive delay.’ He turned to Robinson. ‘Right, I’ll organize a new cabin, another tank and set delivery for the day after tomorrow. In the meantime I want that fence securing. Properly mind, not a patched-up job. Then I want the whole site checked over, every inch, and I want you to organize site security. Get on to the phone people and have their engineers here for the day after tomorrow. I want this site up and running by lunchtime. Any problems, call me at the office.’

An incident involving an arson attack on a site operated by Alan Marshall’s former employers might have seemed
significant
if the CID team had made the connection. However, the report didn’t reach any of the officers who were familiar with the Marshall case.

Extra pressure had been caused by the arson attack. If Harry Rourke’s hopes were for an improvement, they were dashed by another phone call. The call came from Sheffield where another Broadwood Construction site was due to start operating. The site manager was almost incoherent with rage and mortification as he reported the calamity.

‘We brought the machinery down from Leeds as you ordered. We had the two excavators, the loading shovel and the dump trucks ready to start work tomorrow. I got a call from the police an hour ago. I’m at the site now. Somebody cut the fuel lines on all the machines and torched the lot. All that’s left is a pile of twisted metal, fit only for scrap.’

‘Oh fucking hell, not another. If I get hold of the bastard who’s doing this I’ll bloody kill him. I’m on my way. Make sure the police and fire people are still there. I’ll be with you in about an hour.’

‘What is it this time?’ Tara asked.

Harry seethed as he told her. ‘One,’ he added, ‘I could have put down as a random act of vandalism, two looks like a
deliberate
campaign.’

‘Will it cost a lot?’

Harry grimaced. ‘I don’t want to think about it. We’re talking six figures for the damage at Wakefield alone. Fuck knows what this will cost. I can’t go on losing money like this.’

Broadwood Construction’s head office personnel were dreading another incident. Harry Rourke’s volatile temper was on continuous fast boil these days. Business was tight anyway and the company had missed out on several massive contracts. They were contracts Harry had been confident of getting. To lose
out to their main rivals Coningsby was especially galling. As if all that wasn’t bad enough, the vandalism was the last straw.

Even Freddie, Harry Rourke’s trusted right hand man, had been unable to placate him and if Freddie couldn’t, nobody could. When news filtered through of the third and most violent attack to date many of those working in Broadwood’s impressive head office building began wishing they’d chosen a less stressful occupation, such as a Formula One racing driver.

‘They’ve really done it this time.’ Harry slammed the phone down.

‘Go on, Harry, tell me the worst,’ Tara said quietly.

‘If I could get my hands on the bastards I’d kill them. They’ve only rammed a fucking excavator into the sodding wall of Kirkbridge Shopping Centre, that’s all.’

‘Oh God, is it badly damaged?’

‘I don’t bloody well know until I get there. The site manager reckons the wall will have to be completely rebuilt. That’s going to cost a mint. Apart from that, the centre’s due to open in two months. There’s fat chance of that happening, which means we’ll incur penalties for late completion. The bill could run into millions.’

If Harry Rourke had been angry, now he appeared depressed. He’d spent the last two days poring over the figures Freddie had collated, figures that represented the potential cost of the attacks on their sites. To add to the estimates of the physical damage, which no insurance company would cover, was the
consequential
loss amount in contract delays and penalty clauses. To add insult to injury, Harry had been forced to authorize the
expenditure
of extremely large sums for a security firm to undertake round the clock patrolling of every Broadwood site.

The bottom line figure was the cause of Harry’s depression. The noughts, neatly typed in, leapt from the page as if they were in 3D. Within a matter of weeks his personal wealth had been more than halved. Although Broadwood Construction was a limited company, Harry was the sole shareholder. The loss to
the company was mirrored by the loss to Harry.

Tara looked across the dining table at her lover. ‘Harry, talk to me. Tell me about it. Don’t just keep staring at your plate and pushing your food around. That won’t help. Neither will bottling it up, you have to talk about it.’

Harry looked up and smiled but it was a pale imitation of the smile that had captivated her. ‘I’m bloody bad company, sorry love,’ he told her. ‘This vandalism business has brought us damned close to ruin and that’s a fact.’

‘Go on, tell me,’ she urged.

‘Where to start, that’s the problem. There’s so much.’

Slowly she coaxed the bad news out of him. ‘That’s appalling,’ she sympathized. ‘Will you be able to survive, keep the company afloat?’

‘What’s matter? Worried about your lifestyle?’ he snapped. Then he saw the hurt expression on her face. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair.’

‘Harry, I love you, not your money. I didn’t ask for any of this.’ Tara gestured at their opulent surroundings. ‘If it all goes, and we finish up in a one bedroom flat I don’t care. I only care about you, Harry.’

‘I don’t deserve you, Tara. I’m sorry I said that, but I was so pissed off I wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘Who did this? Who hates you that much?’

‘Don’t think I haven’t asked myself that time and again. The answer is I’ve not got a clue. I’ve done some dodgy things in my time. You can’t get to the top in this industry and remain a saint. Off the cuff, I can’t think of anyone alive who hates me that much.’

Tara tried to lighten his mood. ‘Well, if it isn’t anybody alive we’ve really got a problem. Mind you, I’ve yet to hear of a ghost capable of setting fires and ramming walls with excavators,’ she added thoughtfully.

His smile was a little brighter; the worried frown a little less noticeable. Tara stood up and walked round the table. She stood directly in front of him, one arm on his shoulder. ‘Let’s leave the dinner plates. I can sort them in the morning. I can think of
something that will cheer you up.’ Some tactics have never been known to fail, Tara thought later; much later.

‘I have a concern.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I haven’t been able to contact Brown.’

‘Is that important?’

‘Not in itself no, however, I would like to know where he is so I can arrange for him to tell the police everything he knows.’

‘What? You must be mad.’

‘Not in the slightest. It isn’t madness to want Brown to tell the police everything. I’m not just hoping for it. I’m counting on it.’

‘I’m sorry. You’ve lost me.’

‘If Brown tells the police everything, that’ll include the identity of the person who’s paying him.’

‘What! Oh yes, now I’ve got it. That’s absolute bloody genius.’

‘Thank you. But if Brown isn’t available we have a bit of a problem.’

‘Yes, I can see that. How will you get round it?’

‘I’m not sure yet. I’ve been ringing his number for the last couple of days, but there’s been no reply. He doesn’t have voice mail, and I wouldn’t use it in any case. I’ll just have to keep trying. If the worst comes to the worst we have our fallback.’

‘You mean the man the police are seeking so strenuously?’

‘Yes, but without success. I rather wish he was out of the equation. He still worries me.’

‘Why should he worry you after all this time?’

‘He always did. Call it fate, superstition, whatever you want. From the moment I met him, I had the notion he’d ruin everything.’

‘He can’t harm us now. He’ll be caught soon, you’ll see. Then they’ll put him away for life.’

‘They did that once before and look what happened. I’d be far happier if Brown gets to him first.’

‘Maybe he already has. Maybe that’s why you can’t get hold of Brown. Because he’s dealing with our other problem.’

‘Anyway, with or without that being resolved, I think it’s time we exerted more pressure. I’ve got all the evidence together. All we need to do now is post it off.’

Miles away, in Helmsdale CID suite, Mike Nash was also concerned about Marshall’s fate. If, as Nash was now certain, Marshall had discovered Brown’s flat and confronted him, what were the chances that Marshall would still be alive? And if he was alive, how had he managed to avoid recognition and capture, given that his face was on the front page of every
newspaper
, on TV screens during every news bulletin, and that every police officer in the country was on the lookout for him? As he waited for DC Andrews to report the result of her disciplinary interview, Nash sat at his desk, pondering the likely chain of events. Where would Marshall have gone? Where would he have felt safe? Safe, not only from the police, but more
important
, from the hired assassin, Brown, who was also missing. Although Russell and his colleagues had conducted surveillance at Brown’s flat, he hadn’t returned.

Brown would also be searching for Marshall, of that Nash was certain, aware that the killer wanted the bounty Nash felt sure there must be on Marshall’s head. After a few moments’ thought, the solution came to him. Of course: it was obvious. He smiled, wryly. How come it had taken so long? One man would be able to confirm the accuracy of his theory. He reached for the phone and his filofax simultaneously. He thumbed through the address section until he came to the letter W. Then he began to dial.

For the first part Lisa’s interrogators had been fair, courteous and relaxed. They’d asked about Marshall, what her
relationship
with him had been, but only politely. Soon, however, things changed dramatically.

‘How long have you and Marshall been lovers? How long have you been sleeping with him? Have you been to bed with him since he became a wanted man?’

‘That’s all lies,’ she insisted angrily. ‘I’ve only met Marshall a few times. I’ve never been to bed with him. I’m not even a friend of his.’

‘We think differently, Andrews. If you’re not in a relationship how come his fingerprints were found in your flat?’

‘How the hell did you find them? You can’t do that sort of thing. It’s not legal.’

‘You should read your procedures manual more closely. You’ll find that when it comes to investigating misconduct, there is very little we can’t do. So would you answer my question?’

‘He visited my flat once to ask a favour.’

‘When you knew he was wanted for the murders of Stuart Moran and Lesley Robertson?’

To the astonishment of both officers Andrews started to laugh.

‘I’m glad you consider it funny,’ the senior of them said angrily.

‘Marshall couldn’t possibly have murdered Moran and the woman. But everybody seems hell-bent on pursuing him for a crime he didn’t commit instead of looking for the real murderer.’

‘Very impressive.’ The officer’s drawl was bitingly sarcastic. ‘And can you explain what your “friend” Marshall was doing in Leeds? Can you explain that, Andrews? Because unless you can and make it damned convincing, when you walk out of this office you’ll be suspended from duty pending a full
investigation
. An enquiry that will seek to prove you should be dismissed from the force and face criminal charges as an
accessory
to murder. I suggest you do some fast talking, and some even faster thinking.’

If he’d expected to intimidate Andrews he misjudged her. Lisa stared at him and then leaned forward slightly, threateningly. ‘I know nothing of what happened in Leeds. If you want to toss me out of the force; then go ahead. What you can’t do is get me on a charge of being an accessory to murders that Marshall didn’t commit.’

‘You seem mighty sure of yourself, young lady.’ The other investigator broke in. ‘Would you mind telling us what makes you so certain these crimes weren’t committed by Marshall when everyone else is convinced to the contrary?’

‘Don’t call me young lady again,’ Lisa snarled. ‘It’s Detective Constable Andrews to you. That’s number one. Number two: if I answer you, will you forgo the suspension? I don’t think
so. In that case we’ll leave things as they stand. That’s with you and all the other great detectives convincing themselves Alan Marshall’s a mass murderer, when I know for a fact he’s innocent. I rather like the thought of that. It will be such fun watching you all make arseholes of yourselves. So you’d better get on with it and do your worst.’

Twenty minutes later, her warrant card handed in, Miss Lisa Andrews walked out of Netherdale police station. She walked out with her head held high and a dangerous glint in her eye. She’d vented the heat of her temper on the investigators. What remained was an icy cold rage.

She reached Helmsdale and stalked into the CID suite, her face like thunder. Once inside, she stopped, her shoulders relaxed and a smile spread across her face. Nash and Binns had been looking at the paperwork. ‘How did it go?’

‘Like a dream. I’m now officially suspended, if you know what I mean. How’s it going here?’

‘I thought about where Marshall might have headed for, if he’d wanted to go to ground. Where better than the area he knows best? You’ve seen that forestry. You could search for someone in those woods for months without even coming close to them, unless you had heat-seeking sensors or whatever fancy gadgetry they use.’

‘I take your point, Mike, but how will we find out if he’s in there?’

‘Well you can’t sit about in your flat, that’s for sure, so I’d like you to go find Alan Marshall.’ Nash held out an envelope. ‘These are copies of all the stuff we got from York. Ask Marshall to go through them and give me a call. Not on the station phone, though. He’s got my mobile number.’

‘But how? I mean, how will I find him?’

‘Work it out, Lisa.’

‘I’m sorry, Mike,’ Andrews said after a while. ‘Not
everybody’s
got your brilliant mind.’

Nash grinned. ‘Clara usually says devious, so brilliant makes a pleasant change. I suggest you go see his friend Barry Dickinson.’

‘How do you know he can help? I mean how can you be sure?’

‘Because I’m a detective. That’s what detectives do. Barry Dickinson might know Marshall’s there, or he might not, but I’ve just been talking to Sir Maurice Winfield. When I explained that I needed to talk to Marshall, he was most helpful. Tell Dickinson to ask Sir Maurice to put you in touch.’

‘You mean Sir Maurice knows where Marshall is?’

‘Not exactly, but he and some members of his staff know he’s close by. Sir Maurice is convinced Marshall’s innocent. As sure of it as we are. Given that conviction, and the fact that he doesn’t answer to anyone, not even us, he was the logical choice for someone to help Marshall. How else has he survived all this time? He’d have to get supplies from somewhere.’