Michael Morley - Spider

Terry McLeod dropped the high-powered binoculars and slid over a Nikon D-80 fixed with a Nikkor 1200mm telescopic lens. He adjusted the small tripod and half-pressed the shutter button. The camera's multi-area auto-focus kicked in and he could clearly follow Nancy as she moved around the bedroom. She was still in her nightclothes but they were nothing that McLeod would call real sexy. He pressed the shutter and the Nikon filed its first frame. For a second, he thought she was wearing the top of her husband's PJs, but then he realized it was a striped nightshirt that no doubt cost a bomb. Nancy shook her hair at the window, breathing in the lavender-laced air.

Click, the Nikon struck again.

McLeod hoped she'd slip the top off and give him a shot of what he imagined was a great pair of tits, but instead she turned away from the window and bent down to pick something up.

She was now half in shadow and he couldn't make out what she was doing. Nancy ended his doubts by returning to the window with a child in her arms. Click, click!

McLeod guessed this was Zack, the three-year-old that Paullina had told him about. Nancy ruffled his hair at the window, kissed his cheek and pointed out things across the garden and towards the hillside.

Click, the camera caught every gesture.

Seeing the kid in close-up was good. Whenever there was a child on the scene, McLeod always managed to use them to his advantage. Yep, getting close to the youngster would really up the stakes.

Holiday Inn, New York Jack was still asleep, his suit creased to hell, when his cell phone rang at seven a.m. He peered at the display through sleep-fogged eyes and just about recognized Howie's number.

'Hello,' he grunted.

'Hi man, get showered and dressed; I'll be outside your hotel in ten minutes,' said Howie excitedly. 'We've got a real lead. A guy from IAD has been putting the screws on some bent cop over in Brooklyn who's in neck-deep with this Russian pimp who runs a hooker who's friends with the girl in our video.'

The words whizzed past Jack so fast he was able to make out only the key phrases – a real lead – someone in Brooklyn – a hooker who's friends with the girl in our video. 'Okay. I'm up and about. See you in ten.'

Jack stripped and stumbled into the shower, still struggling to make sense of exactly what Howie had told him. It didn't matter. Someone somewhere knew the girl and that meant they had a chance of finding out where she was.

Jack had brought only one suit with him, the one he'd foolishly slept in. The jacket now looked as though a tramp had borrowed it for an evening out at the Annual Meths Drinkers' Ball. He left it on the bed and put on a shirt without a tie and a pair of plain black pants.

When he got outside, Howie was flicking the finger at some driver who'd tooted him. Jack climbed into the passenger seat. 'Great to start the day with some good news. Where we going?'

'Breakfast in Brooklyn. We're hooking up with a guy called Pete McCaffrey.' Howie spun the power steering, floored the accelerator and squealed his way into a gap in the traffic. 'McCaffrey's one of the few Internal Affairs people who understands the Job. He isn't after cops who make mistakes and screw up from time to time, like we all do, he's got his arrows levelled on the real bad apples.'

'So help me here,' said Jack. 'What's the exact connection with our girl?'

'Pete and his partner, Gerry Thomas, got on the tail of a bent cop called George Deaver. Deaver had been getting laid for free by hookers over in the Beach area. He pulled the old scam of having his fun then flashing his badge and saying he wasn't going to pay.'

'Hardly major news,' said Jack.

'Sure, but it turns out that our friend Deaver has pissed off a Russian gangster called Oleg Smirtin. Now he is major news. Smirtin is one of the big boys in Little Odessa and it seems Deaver has been using Smirtin's girls for freebies.'

'Not a bright move,' Jack said. 'I suppose your pal McCaffrey got interested all of a sudden because of Smirtin's involvement?'

'Exactly. They think the Russki has a few cops on his payroll and they've pressured Deaver to be their wire man. Anyway, Deaver comes back to them and says the chick he was balling claims to be a friend of the girl in the video.'

'Give up a name?' asked Jack.

'Didn't get that far. Fernandez is already over in Brooklyn rounding everyone up. We should be able to see McCaffrey and Deaver together, and then the hooker. If needs be, we can then go visit Smirtin too.'

'Where's the meet? We still got the office in Cumberland Street?'

'Sure have,' said Howie. 'That's where we're heading and the deli round the corner still does the best breakfasts this side of my mom's kitchen.'

San Quirico D'Orcia, Tuscany Terry McLeod had been sitting patiently in his 'hide' for an hour.

He understood that even at the best of times things never happened quickly in Italy, and in Tuscany on a Sunday, well, events were likely to move slower than an injured snail.

The longer the wait, the sweeter the shot, he told himself.

He sipped bottled water from his rucksack and used the military-issue binoculars to keep a watch on events at the hotel. The King woman looked so happy as she moved around inside the sanctuary of her home.

Make the most of it, he told himself, I'm about to turn your happy little life right upside down.

He sat back and waited for his chance.

Patience was a virtue of McLeod's; he'd wait all day if he had to.

Brooklyn, New York The six-mile journey from Jack's hotel to Brooklyn should have taken fifteen to twenty minutes but traffic along Flatbush Avenue was snarled up and didn't improve much as they headed down Veronica and Erasmus.

Howie called in as they parked up and Fernandez sent out for their breakfast order – juice, coffee, muffins, pancakes and a mix of fruit. The fruit was an afterthought of Jack's; Howie was solely interested in the pancakes and muffins.

Fernandez was already holed up in a small room with Pete McCaffrey and Gerry Thomas, the two cops from Internal Affairs, and their new best friend, George Deaver. Jack knew who was who without even being introduced. McCaffrey sat on the edge of a big square wooden desk, wearing big square wooden clothes. He was craggy-faced, black tie pulled tight to the top of his plain white shirt, sipping water from a plastic cooler cup and trying to impress Fernandez in a way that only senior IA guys think they can do, which is with over-macho body language and stories of what they did before they got sucked into the hated world of IA. Thomas, a younger clone of his boss, with a slightly cheaper black suit and a much looser and cheaper tie, was hanging on McCaffrey's every word. George Deaver was the odd man out. He sat away from the others, glum-faced, arms folded like a guy with all the worries of the world on his shoulders, which was kind of appropriate considering he was a bent cop who'd been busted and was heading to court and maybe jail.

Howie introduced Jack and everyone shook hands, then McCaffrey introduced Deaver and the best he got was a nod of acknowledgement. The line had already been drawn and they couldn't help but let Deaver know it.

'Where's the girl?' asked Howie.

'Next office,' answered Fernandez. 'We've got her a soda, but should have probably got her a doctor. She looks as though she was totally tanked last night. There's someone watching the door, so she won't be doing any running.'

McCaffrey went over the background again and Jack listened politely, as though it was something he was hearing for the first time. Then Deaver filled them in on how he'd visited Smirtin and told him he was looking for his missing hooker.