Tell No Tales by Eva Dolan Page B

device.
    ‘There are plenty more number-crunchers in the think tanks, Nicholas. You’d do well to remember that.’
    Marshall nodded, stepped back like a retreating courtier, and Shotton waved him out of the office.
    He dropped into one of the black leather armchairs arranged face-to-face next to the windows, and watched Selby walking back to the triple-bay garage to refill his bucket. He was a liability, no question about it. All that dirty history. All of those dangerous friends.
    But he’d be damned if he was going to let Marshall order him around.
    He had no convictions, that was the problem. He’d spotted the way the wind was blowing and followed it. Ten years ago he would have joined the Tories. Twenty he’d have been singing ‘The Red Flag’ and sitting at Tony Blair’s feet. He was just another weak-willed careerist looking to bask in the glow of a better man’s glory.
    The movement had seen hundreds of them come and go across the years and nobody had made much progress, not the wannabe mandarins or the jumped-up football hooligans who considered themselves soldiers. They were still around though, as persistent as nuclear waste and twice as toxic, and they all had to be managed successfully before you could grasp power.
    Shotton took out his mobile phone and brought up a number, waited out four rings before the man answered, radio noise cutting off abruptly at the other end, but he didn’t give him a chance to speak.
    ‘I think you’ve got something to tell me, haven’t you, Mr Poulter?’

10
    BOGDAN HOSSA WAS bouncing up and down on the bonnet of a bright blue Seat when Ferreira entered the lot, showing a young man how good the suspension was, but she noticed he wasn’t using his full weight, his thighs taking most of the strain as the car creaked. The young man didn’t look impressed. He was backing away, shaking his head, and finally Hossa conceded defeat, letting him go with a wave and a promise that the car would be full price tomorrow.
    ‘You come back, madam.’
    ‘I need Ivan to take a look at something for me,’ Ferreira said, casting her eye around the yard, remembering what she was going to ask him earlier before the call from the hospital derailed her. ‘Why don’t you have any security cameras, Mr Hossa?’
    ‘We have camera,’ he said, sounding wounded. ‘Must have for insure cars.’
    She looked around the lot again, didn’t see any.
    ‘Where are they?’
    He smiled, gestured for her to turn round and pointed to the roof of the Portakabin which was littered with rubbish, a sheet of discarded blue plastic tossed up there and forgotten.
    ‘Here. See.’ He walked towards it and she followed, finally catching sight of a small black lens winking out from under the sheet. ‘Clever, yes?’
    ‘Very clever,’ Ferreira admitted. ‘How many weeks of footage have you got?’
    ‘I –’ He stopped. ‘Only one week.’
    Hossa met her eye eventually and she saw a combination of defiance and unease.
    I’m not interested in your business dealings, Mr Hossa,’ she said gently. ‘Whatever you have to do to keep selling cars, that’s up to you. But this man is a murderer. I’m sure you understand how important it is that we catch him.’
    ‘I want to help police.’
    ‘That’s just good business, Mr Hossa.’ She smiled, showing him she was amenable. ‘Having a friend in the police is useful. Even in England, yes?’
    They went into the Portakabin where Ivan was dozing behind his desk, feet up, a napkin tucked into the front of his jumper. A pizza box sat within grabbing distance and the smell of toasted bread and tomato sauce made Ferreira’s stomach growl. She almost flipped the lid to see if there was any left.
    Bogdan shouted at Ivan and he came round with a snort.
    ‘Lazy shit.’
    Ferreira took out Anthony Gilbert’s mugshot and showed it to Ivan.
    ‘The white Volvo – you remember?’ she asked. ‘Is this the man you sold it to?’
    He leaned across his desk, his