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T
en minutes after the attack on the youths I was seized by a bad case of the shakes. I was crossing a road near the old city walls when it happened. I managed to reach the pavement and lower myself unsteadily to the kerb, where I sat hunched over with my face in my hands.

My head spun and cold sweat sprang from every pore on my face. This was a delayed reaction to what I’d done. I should have expected it, but it took me completely by surprise. It was a weird and unpleasant feeling and it was at least two full minutes before my body stilled and the sensation passed.

Then I was hit by a wave of nausea that had me retching wildly. I
started sucking in great chunks of the chilled night air. It was laced with petrol fumes and salt water from the nearby docks.

Gradually I got control of my breathing and my stomach settled. I’d suffered a massive shock to the system. I’m a reporter, not a thug. I can’t smash someone’s head in with an iron bar and not experience an extreme charge of adrenaline.

But I’d got the phone back. That was the main thing and it
justified
my actions. At least that was the way I chose to look at it.

I zipped up the windbreaker and stood up from the kerb. My muscles were tired and sore. The swelling on my forehead had grown bigger and more painful. I felt wretched.

I walked for a bit, avoiding the main streets and fighting the burn of gastric acid in my stomach. Eventually I found myself down by the waterfront, close to the old stone walls that once protected the city of Southampton in medieval times. Now they’re proud ruins that cast huge dark shadows.

So I moved quickly from one shadow to the next, then up on to the crumbling ramparts, where I had a bird’s-eye view of the dockside roads. Ships’ horns blasted plaintively out in the docks. Someone let off a firework. Shrieking sirens continued to shatter the early hours of this cold Sunday morning.

I watched and listened and wondered how long the kidnapper would prolong the agony. What was he doing? Why couldn’t he just come and get me? After all, that was his objective – to seize me so that I was no longer a threat to his plan.

I thought about Maggie, longed for her warm body, the comfort of her voice. Would I ever again feel the soft brush of her lips against mine or the tender touch of her fingers across my brow?

Already it seemed as though an eternity had passed since I last saw her. At least we were on speaking terms when our lives were brutally disrupted. It would have been even harder to bear if we hadn’t made up when we did.

It was bad enough knowing that we had wasted a lot of time over the past few months. Things had not been right. The tension. The awkward moments. The stilted conversations. How I wished now that I had made more of an effort to get to the bottom of the problem
and sort it out. Regrets. They were already piling up and stabbing at my conscience. Adding to my burden.

And what about Laura? My little angel. I would have given anything to hold her in my arms and read her a bedtime story. I’d even be happy to lay a place at the dinner table for Max.

I felt sick now with worry and dread, not knowing if I would ever see my family again. My head ached and my mind was in chaos.

I thought about Vince. My only true friend. I had lots of acquaintances. Guys I would pass the time of day with and call from time to time to see how they were doing. Former colleagues. Old school friends. But over the years I’d lost touch with all of those whose friendships I’d valued. But that’s what happens when you get married and devote yourself to family life.

Vince, though, had been ever present. Friend, business partner and confidante. It was a pity I couldn’t mourn him. He deserved that. But grief was an emotion I couldn’t indulge right now. I had to focus all my energy and all my thoughts on saving my family.

The cold had reached every part of my body and I was starting to shake again. The sea air that came in over the docks had a hard bite to it. I could feel it burning my lungs with every intake of breath. And I was still in pain. Bruises and swellings pulsed annoyingly across my head, chest and arms.

Time dragged on. The roads below me became virtually deserted. I sat huddled against a wall to try to keep warm, but the longer I waited there the colder I became.

I considered finding somewhere else to hide, somewhere warmer, but decided not to because up here on the ramparts I felt safe. No one could see me. I was invisible.

The minutes turned into an hour and I was actually on the verge of falling asleep when the phone rang at last.

And this time, thankfully, Maggie’s name flashed at me when I flipped back the cover.

‘J
oe Dessler is relatively new on the scene,’ DC Dave Brayshaw told Temple when he got back to the station. ‘He hails from Manchester and runs an escort agency that operates between Southampton and Portsmouth. He’s also a loan shark with a nasty streak. We hauled him in seven months ago after a guy claimed that Dessler beat him up because he couldn’t pay a debt. But then the victim withdrew the complaint, so nothing came of it.’

Brayshaw was sitting on the edge of Temple’s desk. Catalogue Man they called him in the nick. He was tall, lean and ruggedly good-looking, just like the male models in fashion catalogues. The ones who wear the smart suits, tight shirts and revealing Y-fronts.

‘Dessler keeps a low profile, but he’s well known to Vice,’ Brayshaw said. ‘He makes every effort to stay out of trouble. But he does have one conviction for ABH. Clobbered someone outside a club in London and did twelve months. That was back in 2000.’

‘How long has he been pimping?’

Brayshaw consulted his notes. ‘The Blue Tequila escort agency was set up about eighteen months ago. That’s when he took out his first ad in the local evening paper. He runs it as a legit business, keeps accounts and files tax returns.’

Southampton, in common with other major cities, has a thriving prostitution business, despite government attempts to curb the trade. There’s no law against so-called escort agencies so long as they don’t overtly offer sex to the punters. But once a punter hires an escort through the agency, the girl is at liberty to do whatever she wants.

‘I’ll go back to Vice,’ Brayshaw said. ‘See what else I can dig up on Dessler.’

‘You do that. And I’d like you to get the team together for a briefing as soon as I get back.’

A patrol car was waiting for Temple in front of the station. He sat in the back behind the two uniforms. The moment they were on the move he closed his eyes. But sleep was waiting to draw him under so he opened them again and stared out of the window at the
near-empty
streets of Southampton.

He wondered if it had been another hectic Saturday night and Sunday morning. The city centre had got much worse over the past five years. More drunks. More fights. More stabbings. More racial tension. He supposed it was no different from any other city in the UK.

‘Much trouble tonight?’ he asked without turning from the window.

‘Oh, the usual stuff,’ the driver answered. ‘Savages on the rampage. A clubber claims she was raped in Mayflower Park. Then we just heard that two youths got beaten to a pulp by a crazy man with an iron bar down St Mary’s. You ask me I reckon the world’s gone mad.’

He wasn’t far wrong, Temple thought. A rape, a vicious assault and a murder. And the government had the temerity to insist that crime was under control.

Temple pushed back against the headrest. It was time to reflect on the case. Already there were lots of questions. Who killed Vince Mayo and why? Had Mayo known his killer and let him or her into the cottage? Was there more than one killer? Would Joe Dessler kill a man who owed him money? Where the hell was Danny Cain and his family and did he know that his best friend had been beaten to death?

He thought about Joe Dessler. Small time escort agency boss and moneylender. An unsavoury character with a criminal record for violent behaviour. But was he a killer?

He had motive – a debt that he wanted paid. But one way to ensure that it would never be paid was to kill Mayo. Not very sensible. Unless he wanted to make an example of him. So maybe he went to the cottage to give Mayo a final warning and things got out of hand.

And what of Danny Cain? There were certainly grounds for
suspicion
there. Why had Mayo phoned him shortly before he was killed? And why was his house empty even though his car was on the driveway and Angel saw movement through one of the upstairs windows?

Very sus, especially when the car – a blue BMW – matched the description of the one that Bill Nadelson spotted tearing along the lane shortly after the murder was committed.

Temple recalled his one and only meeting with Cain and Mayo together. Cain was the quieter of the two and at the time it was clear that his conscience had been pricked by George Banks’s situation. But he was also a typical journalist, obsessed with what he regarded as a great story and determined to see it in print regardless of the consequences. And those consequences had been tragic. George Banks had been one of the most popular guys in the Hampshire Constabulary. He and Temple had been friends for years. They often went fishing together, had dinner at each other’s homes, shared the same concerns about the state of the modern police service.

Despite what he said to Jennifer Priest there was still a lot of ill feeling towards Mayo and Cain. It was as strong as ever because the officers would frequently come into contact with one or both of them at crime scenes and court sessions. It made it difficult for them to forget what had happened to George.

Temple understood their anger but he didn’t share it. After all, George had committed a crime and had decided he couldn’t live with the consequences. Cain and Mayo were not to blame – although they were guilty of a lack of compassion.

Temple could well remember the day he arrived at George’s house to pick him up. They were on a late shift together and George’s wife had taken the car.

Temple honked the horn and when George didn’t appear he got out of his car and rang the doorbell. There was no answer so he peered through the letterbox and was about to yell for George when he saw a pair of legs dangling in mid air above the stairs.

George had gone to the trouble of getting dressed before hanging himself from the upstairs banisters with an electric cable.

Dessler lived in a penthouse flat overlooking Southampton’s prestigious Ocean Village marina. It had been one of his late wife’s favourite places; he and Erin used to go there to admire the luxury yachts and cruise from the open-air restaurants along the
quayside
.

As the patrol car turned into the complex Temple could see the white-hulled boats bobbing at their moorings. Around them were a few upmarket blocks of flats and a handful of trendy restaurants, including Erin’s favourite. He could actually recall the last meal they had there. It was to celebrate her promotion at the school where she taught – and it was precisely a year before she succumbed to the cancer that had ravaged her stomach.

Dessler’s block had its own security man at the entrance, who woke from his slumber with a start when Temple rapped on the glass door. He sat up behind his desk and buzzed them in.

‘We’ve come to see Mr Joe Dessler,’ Temple said. ‘Which floor does he live on?’

‘Seventh floor, sir. The top. Number eighty-eight.’

‘Is he in?’

‘I believe so, but I expect he’s in bed. He arrived back here late this evening.’

‘How late?’ Temple asked.

‘About midnight, I think. Do you want me to call up and tell him that you’re here?’

‘No, I’d rather it was a surprise.’

They went up in the lift, walked along a corridor with a
sumptuous
green carpet and sepia prints of yachts on the Solent. Who says crime doesn’t pay? Temple thought. This was high-end luxury. He could almost smell the money.

They got to the flat and Temple rang the bell. He thought he would have to ring it several times before he got an answer. But not so. The door opened within seconds and a tall, surly-looking man was standing there. He had olive skin and would have been quite handsome if it were not for the scar that ran from one corner of his
mouth to just below his ear. It was dark and deep and distorted the side of his face.

Temple was somewhat surprised to see that Dessler was fully dressed in a black polo sweater, jeans and heavy boots. He wondered instinctively if there was any blood on the soles of the boots.

‘Are you Joe Dessler?’ Temple asked.

‘Who wants to know?’ The hint of a northern accent.

Temple flashed his ID. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Jeff Temple, Hampshire Major Crime Department. Mind if we come in for a chat?’

Dessler eyed the two uniforms. His hair was coal-black and short and he had thin colourless lips.

‘I do actually,’ he said. ‘It’s late. What’s this about?’

‘Caught you at a bad time, have we?’ Temple asked.

‘I was just going out.’

Temple looked at his watch. ‘At three in the morning? For your information the shops aren’t open yet.’

‘Very funny.’

Temple shrugged. ‘Look, I know this is a cliché, but we can talk to you here or take you down to the station. What’s it to be?’

Dessler gritted his teeth and stood back to let them in.

The flat was bright, spacious. Two large windows in the living area offered impressive views of the marina and beyond it to the Solent and the Isle of Wight. A long L-shaped sofa and two armchairs surrounded a marble coffee table. There was an Andy Warhol poster on one wall and a top-of-the-range Bang and Olufsen stereo system on another.

The two uniforms stood just inside the door. Temple cast an approving eye over the decor before turning his attention to the owner, or maybe he was merely the tenant.

‘So I take it you are Joe Dessler?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you live here alone?’

‘Most of the time.’

Dessler was in his late thirties and had about him an air of
unbridled
arrogance. Clearly he worked out and looked as though he could handle himself. He had a thick chest and pronounced biceps.

‘Mind if I sit down?’ Temple asked.

Dessler merely shrugged.

So Temple lowered himself on to an armchair and gestured for Dessler to sit opposite him on the sofa. Dessler did so with obvious reluctance.

Temple fixed him with a look and said nothing for several seconds. He wanted to get a handle on the man, gauge whether he was nervous and intimidated. But he didn’t show it if he was. He simply sat there, crossed his legs and waited for Temple to break the silence.

‘So why aren’t you in your jimjams, Mr Dessler? Most people are tucked up in bed at this time of the day.’

‘What I do with my time is my business,’ Dessler said.

‘Not if you’re breaking the law it isn’t.’

‘So what law are you accusing me of breaking?’

‘I’m not sure yet, but I expect there’s more than one.’

Dessler rolled his eyes. ‘Look, what the fuck do you want with me? I’m a respectable local businessman and I resent your attitude.’

Temple held it a beat, then said, ‘We’re investigating the murder of Vince Mayo.’

Dessler swallowed and Temple saw the cords in his neck move, but it was impossible to tell whether he was genuinely surprised or putting on an act.

‘Are you serious?’ he said.

‘Mr Mayo was killed at his cottage in the New Forest a few hours ago,’ Temple said. ‘He was bludgeoned to death. We know he owed you money and that you’ve been making threats against him. We also know that you went to his cottage this evening. So naturally we’re very suspicious.’

‘I didn’t go to the cottage,’ Dessler said. ‘In fact I’ve never been to his place.’

‘Then why did he tell his girlfriend that he was expecting you there? You were going there to collect some money. He’d even got the cash out ready for when you turned up.’

Dessler gave a finger massage to the bridge of his nose. ‘I did plan to go to his place. The bastard owed me over twenty grand, but I got
tied up. I called earlier in the evening to tell him I wouldn’t be showing up and that I’d see him on Monday.’

‘In that case you must have an alibi,’ Temple said. ‘I’m particularly interested to know where you were and what you were doing between eight and ten.’

‘I was at the casino,’ Dessler said. ‘Got back here about midnight. I was just about to leave to go there again. It closes at five and I want to win back some of the money I lost.’

‘Which casino? There are three in Southampton.’

‘The Grand. There were plenty of witnesses, so you can check.’

‘We will,’ Temple said. ‘And you were there all evening?’

‘Correct. I’m a regular. They know me well enough. So you’d better look for someone else to blame for Mayo’s murder. He
probably
owed money to a string of other people. He had a serious gambling problem.’

‘And you helped him fund it.’

‘I lent him the cash as a one off,’ Dessler said. ‘I don’t make a habit of it. I’m not a loan shark if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

‘Of course you are,’ Temple said. ‘You charge astronomical rates of interest and you prey on the vulnerable.’

‘I lent him the money as a favour. If he was alive he’d tell you that himself.’

Temple pursed his lips. ‘So why don’t you tell me about the threats you made against him.’

‘I didn’t threaten him. I just made it clear I wanted my money.’

‘And you told him you would hurt him if he didn’t give it to you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a businessman, not a thug. I don’t need to go around threatening people.’

Temple almost smiled at that one.

‘So you’re saying that you didn’t go to Mayo’s cottage and beat him to death?’

Dessler’s mouth curled into an unsightly smile, revealing perfectly straight white teeth. ‘Do I look that stupid, Inspector? If the guy owed me money then the last thing I’d want is to see him dead.’

‘What if you knew he was writing a story about you and your
nefarious activities? A story that would be published in a Sunday red top and would likely land you in prison.’

Dessler frowned. ‘What are you on about?’

‘As you know, Mr Mayo was a journalist and a partner in a
freelance
news agency,’ Temple said. ‘We have reason to believe he was writing an article exposing you as a crook.’

Dessler grinned again, this time a little nervously.

‘Firstly I’m not a crook,’ he said. ‘And secondly I know nothing about any article.’

‘Well, I’m sure it’ll make interesting reading,’ Temple said. ‘After all, as well as the loan sharking there are the girls and the brothels and whatever else you’ve got your dirty mitts in.’