His searches had thrown up too many listings for there to be any point in trying to track down a recent purchase in the Bradfield area, even supposing the vendors were cooperative. Since many of those who practised body art liked to think of themselves as being mavericks and enemies of the system, he suspected most of them would be reluctant to help.
After scrolling through a dozen screens, Kevin came up with three suppliers with local addresses. Two were tattoo parlours, the third a business that seemed to cover everything from hair-dressing sundries to jewellery for piercings. He copied their details and made an action file, suggesting officers should visit all three businesses and ask about recent sales, both online and in person. It was the sort of tedious inquiry that Northern Division could handle. And if it produced something worth chasing, then office politics would be satisfied as well as the inquiry.
He smiled as he hit the ‘send’ button. It felt good to delegate the drudgery. Too often, Kevin was convinced he got the boring routine work in MIT. It was the chip on his shoulder. Maybe that would change when they were scattered throughout the force. He wouldn’t mind a bit. It was about time he got to show the flair that might earn him promotion.
It never occurred to him that Carol Jordan passed routine inquiries his way because his thoroughness was exemplary. In a world where most officers did as little as they could get away with, Kevin was notable for his attention to detail, his finicky insistence on having everything nailed down. He didn’t realise it, but he was the reason Carol Jordan’s blood pressure was as low as it was. And she knew it.
Vance dressed in the clothes Terry had left neatly folded on the toilet cistern. New underwear and socks, chinos and a long-sleeved blue twill shirt with a neat button-down collar. At the bottom of the pile was a wig – a thick mop of mid-brown threaded with silver. Vance put it on. The hair fell naturally into a parting on the opposite side to his own hair. Although the style was similar to the old Jacko Vance from the days of TV glory, he somehow looked distinctively different. The final touch was a pair of clear glasses with stylish black oblong frames. The man in the mirror looked nothing like Jason Collins. Not much like the old Jacko Vance either, he thought with a trace of regret. There were lines where none had been before, a little sagging along the jaw, a few broken veins in the cheeks. Prison had aged him faster than life on the outside would have. He’d lay money that his ex-wife was wearing better. Still, he’d put a few more lines on her face before he was done with her.
When he emerged, Vance was gratified by the look of delighted surprise on Terry’s face. ‘You look great,’ he said.
‘You did a good job,’ Vance said, patting Terry’s shoulder. ‘Everything’s perfect. Now, I’m starving. What have you got for me?’
While he ate, Vance checked the contents of the briefcase Terry had brought with him. It contained two counterfeit passports with matching driving licences – one set British, the other Irish; a thick wad of twenty-pound notes; a list of bank accounts in names matching the passports with the accompanying pin numbers; several credit cards; a set of utility bills for a house on the outskirts of Leeds; and four pay-as-you-go mobile phones. Tucked into a pocket were sets of car keys and house keys. ‘Everything else you need is at the house,’ Terry said. ‘Laptop, landline, satellite TV … ’
‘Brilliant,’ Vance said, finishing the last forkful of salad with tuna and edamame beans. ‘Half of this food, I’ve no idea what it is. But it tastes bloody good.’
‘I stocked the fridge at the house yesterday,’ Terry said eagerly. ‘I hope you like what I got.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ Vance wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, then scooped the detritus of their picnic into a bin. ‘It’s time we made a move,’ he said. He stood up, then turned back to the bed where Terry had been sitting. He pulled down the covers and punched the pillow to create an indentation. ‘Now it looks like someone slept here. When the maid comes in, there won’t be anything untoward for her to remember if the police come asking questions.’
Vance let Terry lead the way to the car, saying simply, ‘You drive,’ when they reached the Mercedes. He didn’t doubt his ability to drive; Terry had done as he was told and bought an automatic with cruise control. And something called satnav; that was an innovation since he’d last driven a car. Nevertheless, he’d rather make his first attempt away from potential witnesses, just in case.
As Terry pulled out of the parking space, Vance relaxed into his seat, letting his head lean on the contoured rest. His eyelids flickered. The adrenaline had finally died down, leaving him tired and depleted. There would be no harm in sleeping while Terry drove him to his new home. Because there were still plenty of things to deal with before he could properly rest.
The jolt of driving over a speed-control bump in the road roused Vance. He woke with a jerk, momentarily disorientated. ‘What the—? Where are we?’ he gasped as he came to, looking wildly around. They were passing what looked like a security gatehouse, but it appeared to be empty. Just beyond the gatehouse was a pair of brick pillars. Gateposts without gates or walls, Vance thought irrelevantly.
‘Welcome to Vinton Woods,’ Terry said proudly. ‘Just what you asked for. A private estate set out on its own; detached houses with a bit of garden to separate you from the houses next door. The kind of place where nobody knows their neighbours and everybody minds their own business. You’re eight miles from the motorway, six miles from the centre of Leeds, seventeen miles from Bradfield.’ He followed a curving road lined with substantial houses with brick and half-timbered facades. ‘This is the Queen Anne section,’ Terry said. At a junction, he turned left. ‘If you go right, you come to the Georgian bit, but we’re in the Victorian part of the estate.’ These houses had stone facades and twice-mocked Gothic turrets. They were scaled-down versions of the mansions mill owners built in salubrious suburbs after the coming of the railways meant they didn’t have to live on top of their factories. Vance thought these modern replicas were ugly and pitiful. But one of these fakeries would be perfect for now.
Terry turned off the main drag into a cul-de-sac of six substantial houses set back from the street. He drove towards one of the pair at the head of the street, slowing and steering towards the triple garage that extended out on one side. He took a remote control from the door pocket and pointed it at the garage. One door rose before them and he drove in, making sure the door was closed before he turned off the engine and got out.
Vance stepped out of the car and looked around. Terry’s van occupied the third bay of the garage. The signwriting advertised his market stall, where he sold a mind-boggling range of tools, both new and second-hand. He’d clearly used it to deliver his personal gift to Vance.
The garage had a workbench running down one wall. Above it, tools hung in a gleaming array. Two sturdy vices were fitted at opposite ends of the bench. If anyone other than Terry had been responsible, Vance would have been enraged. But he knew there was no hidden meaning here. After all, Terry didn’t believe the prosecution’s story of the terrible things Vance had done to young girls with the last vice he’d owned. He took a step towards the workbench, imagining the feel of firm flesh in his hands. ‘I took the liberty of kitting out your workshop,’ Terry said. ‘I know how you like to work in wood.’
‘Thank you,’ Vance said. Later, he told himself. Much later. He reached for his most charming smile and said, ‘You’ve thought of everything. This is perfect.’
‘You haven’t seen the house yet. I think you’ll like it.’
All Vance wanted to see right now was the kitchen. He followed Terry through a side door into a utility room furnished with a washing machine and a tumble drier and onwards into a kitchen that was a gleaming monument to modernity. Granite, chrome and tiles were all buffed to a mirror sheen. It took Vance a moment or two to pick out what he was looking for. But there it was, exactly what he needed. A wooden knife block, set to one side of the granite-topped island in the middle of the room.