minutes ago.’ Although it felt like hours.
‘DC Reggie Chase and DC Ronnie Dibicki,’ the not-Scottish one reminded him.
‘Right. Sorry.’ (Did she say ‘Ronnie the Biscuit’? Surely not. It sounded like a London gangster from the Sixties.)
There was a pause as if they were gathering their thoughts. The Scottish one – Reggie Chase – frowned at her notebook. The other one, the biscuit one, said, ‘Mr Ives, have you ever heard the term “the magic circle”?’
‘Yeah, it’s magicians.’
‘Magicians?’
‘Like a magicians’ union. Not a union, like a – an organization. You have to prove you can do tricks to get in.’
They both gazed at him. ‘Tricks?’ the biscuit one echoed coolly, arching a surprisingly threatening eyebrow.
Before he could say anything else the doorbell rang. All three of them looked towards the door as if something portentous was on the other side of it. Vince felt unsure, as if he might need permission from them to open it. The doorbell rang again and they looked at him enquiringly. ‘I’ll get that, shall I?’ he said hastily.
The front door opened directly into the flat, not even the luxury of a hallway. Two uniformed constables – women – were standing there. They took their hats off and showed him their ID, their faces solemn.
‘Mr Ives? Mr Vincent Ives? Can we come in?’
Oh, Jesus, Vince thought. Now what?
Treasure Trove
Andy Bragg knew Newcastle Airport like the back of his hand. He spent enough time there, usually hanging about in a coffee shop. His travel agency used to be about taking people out of the country, nowadays it was about bringing them in.
The flight he was waiting for had been delayed and he was on to his third espresso, beginning to get jittery. He knew which table to sit at to get a good view of the Arrivals board. Shedloads of flights from Amsterdam in the air at this time of day, ditto Charles de Gaulle. Heathrow, Berlin, Gdansk, Tenerife, Sofia. One from Malaga that was taxiing. The one he was waiting for flashed up ‘Landed’ so he finished his coffee and strolled towards the Arrivals hall.
There was no hurry – they had to clear Immigration and it always took for ever, even though they were on tourist visas and had an address in Quayside that they could give. Then, of course, they had to collect their luggage and they always brought massive bags. Still, he didn’t want to miss them so he took up a position behind the barrier, his iPad at the ready with their names on. Nice and professional – no barely legible writing scribbled on a bit of paper.
After half an hour he was beginning to think they had missed the flight or hadn’t managed to clear Passport Control, but then the doors swished open and two girls – looked like sisters – stood there looking around uncertainly. Jeans and sneakers, branded, almost certainly fake. Ponytails, lots of make-up. They could have been twins. Huge suitcases, naturally. They caught sight of the iPad and he saw the look of relief on their faces.
They trotted eagerly up to him and one of them said, ‘Mr Mark?’
‘No, love, my name’s Andy. Mr Price sent me – Mr Mark, that is.’ He put out his hand and she shook it. ‘Jasmine?’ he hazarded, smiling. Let’s face it, they all looked alike. He’d guessed right. He hadn’t bothered with surnames, he wasn’t about to start learning how to pronounce Tagalog. (Was that really what they called their language? It sounded like the name of a kids’ TV programme.) ‘You must be Maria, then,’ he said to the other one. She gave him a big grin. She had a surprisingly firm handshake for someone so small.
‘Good flight?’ They nodded. Yes. Unsure. On their application forms they had both said that they had ‘good’ English. They’d probably lied. Most girls did.
‘Come on then, girls,’ he said, full of false cheer. ‘Let’s get out of here. Are you hungry?’ He mimed spooning food into his mouth. They laughed at him and nodded. He grabbed the suitcase handles, one in each hand, and started dragging them behind him. Jesus, what did they have in there – bodies? They followed, free of baggage, their ponytails bouncing as they walked.
‘So this is it, girls,’ Andy said, opening the door to the apartment. It was a Quayside studio flat they’d bought a couple of years ago that they used a lot for one thing or another. It was on the seventh floor, clean and modern,