Dead Man's Footsteps

walked over to the waste bin and removed the plastic bag that lined it. Then he took the red folder from his briefcase and dropped it in, figuring he was unlikely to be mugged for the contents of a plastic bag. He was well aware of the risk he had run towing his briefcase and suitcase all this way. He stopped and listened. The item of news he was most interested in was now coming up on the television. The repeated information that all non-military flights in and out of America were grounded. Indefinitely.
    Perfect.
    He pulled on his jacket and left the room.
    It was 6.45. Dusk was beginning to fall, but it was still broad daylight as he walked along, swinging the carrier bag at his side, retracing his steps to the busy main street with the L-Train overpass.
    He still hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, but he wasn’t hungry. He had a job to do first.
    To his relief, Mail Box City was still open. He crossed the street and went in. To his right was the floor-to-ceiling wall of metal safe-deposit boxes. At the far end, the same long-haired man he had seen earlier was busy on one of several internet terminals. Two empty phone booths were beyond him. To Ronnie’s left, three people were queuing at the counter. The first, a man in a white hard hat and dungarees, held out a strange-looking passbook and was receiving a wad of banknotes. Behind him stood a grim-faced old woman in a denim skirt, and behind her was a strung-out girl with long orange hair who kept looking around with blank, glazed eyes, rotating her hands every few moments.
    Ronnie joined the queue behind her. Five minutes later the grizzled man behind the counter handed him a key as thin as a razor blade, and a slip of paper, in exchange for fifty dollars. ‘Thirty-one,’ he said in guttural English, and jerked a finger. ‘One week. You come back, otherwise open box. Take. Understand?’
    Ronnie nodded and looked at the slip of paper. The date and time, down to the minute, were printed on it. Along with the expiry date.
    ‘No drugs.’
    ‘Understood.’
    The man gave him a long, sad stare, his demeanour softening suddenly. ‘You OK?’
    ‘Yep, I’m OK.’
    The man nodded. ‘Crazy. Crazy today. Why they do this to us? It’s crazy, yes?’
    ‘Crazy.’
    Ronnie turned away, found his deposit box and unlocked it. It was deeper than he had imagined. He slid his package in, then glanced around to make sure no one was observing him, closed the door and locked it. He had a sudden thought and went back to the counter. Having paid for thirty minutes’ internet connection time, he sat down at a terminal and logged on to Hotmail.
    Five minutes later he was all set up. He had a new name, a new email address. This was the start of his new life.
    And now, he realized, he was ravenous. He left the store and went in search of a burger and fries. And a gherkin. For some reason, he suddenly could have killed for a gherkin. And fried onions. Ketchup. The works. And a Coke.
    Champagne would come later.

56
OCTOBER 2007
    ‘Come in,’ Alison Vosper said, in response to the knock on her door.
    Cassian Pewe had selected his clothes carefully for this meeting. His sharpest blue suit, his best white shirt, his favourite tie, pale blue and white geometrics. And he had sprayed on so much Calvin Klein Eternity cologne he smelled like he had been marinated in the stuff.
    You could always tell when you really connected with someone, and Pewe knew that he had with this particular lady Assistant Chief Constable from the very first time they met. It was at a Metropolitan Police conference on counter-terrorism and the Islamic threat in Britain’s cities back in January. He had sensed more than a frisson of sexuality between them. He was quite sure that the reason she had so enthusiastically and proactively encouraged his move to the Sussex CID – and championed his promotion to Detective Superintendent – was because she had extracurricular activities in mind.
    Quite understandably, of course. He knew just how attractive to women he was. And throughout his career to date he had always focused on the women in power in the police force. Not all were malleable; in fact some were as steely as their male counterparts, if not more so. But a fair percentage were normal women, intelligent and strong, butwith emotional vulnerabilities. You just had to press the right buttons.
    Which made the coldness of the ACC’s reaction as he entered her office all the more surprising.
    ‘Take