Jack Rutherford and Amanda Lacey Book Set (2): A Thrilling British Detective Novel Set
Date: 2019-12-29 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Amazon
Description: Get three brilliant and captivating stories together featuring British detectives Jack Rutherford and Amanda Lacey by master storyteller Linda Coles. “Move over Agatha Christie, there’s a new dame in town.” Amazon reviewer. Here’s what’s in this Dark Service Taylor never felt the blade pressed to her scalp. She wakes frightened and alone in an unfamiliar hotel room with a near shaved head and a warning… tell no one. As detectives Amanda Lacey and Jack Rutherford investigate, they venture deep into the fetish-fueled underbelly of the dark web. The traumatized woman is only the latest victim in
Rights: Copyright 2020 Linda Coles. All rights reserved.

Three Book Set (3)

Linda Coles

Blue Banana

Contents

Dark Service

One Last Hit

Hey You, Pretty Face

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 Blue Banana

Chapter One

Her eyes flickered briefly, like an almost-gone candle, and then slowly opened. Her eyelids were heavy, and she struggled with the desire to keep them closed. Heavy from what, she’d no idea. With an effort, she wrenched them open, and now another problem presented itself. Where was she?

The glow in the room was dusky orange, the lamp in the corner the only thing giving light; the world outside the window was dull and dark grey. Her hand reached out and felt where she was lying. The satiny fabric of the sofa told her she wasn’t at home; her own sofa didn’t feel this way. And there was a soft, pale green blanket draped over her. She didn’t have one of those. Sitting up, she licked her lips; her mouth was parched dry as a biscuit and her head buzzed with a sound like a drone hovering around her ears. She looked around the room and noticed the tea tray set out on the table in front of her, a single empty cup and a plate of uneaten tiny triangles of delicate sandwiches without crusts. A slight curl at the edge told her they’d been there a while; the day was warm and no match for soft, fresh bread.

So, where was she? And more importantly, how had she gotten there? And even more importantly, why was she there, wherever ‘there’ was? With no immediate answers to her questions, she took in the rest of the dimly lit room. It gave her no clues. Orienting herself, she stood on wobbly legs and walked to the door. She turned the handle, which opened easily, and, holding the door carefully open, looked out into an empty though somewhat familiar space. The corridor looked like any other hotel corridor in London: thickly carpeted, traditional styled art adorning the walls at sporadic intervals. She stepped back inside and shut the door again, deep in thought. The room was quiet, save for the hum of distant traffic and the odd car horn blaring, more or less a constant in London.

A quick scrutiny of herself told her she felt fine, apart from her dusty mouth and the drone stuck inside her head. Her clothes were all still in place, and she seemed not to have been harmed in any way. But something felt different, lost almost, and she couldn’t place what it was. It was weird. Had she fallen ill and someone taken her in, looked after her? Why was the blanket covering her when she woke, and where had the food come from? Where were these people? Closing the door, she wandered around the room a little, taking in the large undisturbed king bed, the luxury unused bathroom and the sitting area where she’d woken up only moments ago. An envelope propped up on the ornate desk caught her eye. There was one word written on it – Taylor. So, somebody knew her name – that was obvious. Picking it up, she slid the expensive-feeling embossed card out and read the message.

Your debt has been settled. I’d advise you to tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.

It was beautifully handwritten in a fancy, styled font. Sliding her finger over the words, she guessed quite rightly it had been written with ink. Not from a cheap plastic pen, but from a fountain pen; that in itself was quite uncommon, and something she knew a little about. Confusion still clouded her head: what had happened, exactly, and what debt was the sender talking about? She caught her own reflection in the gilt mirror over the desk and gave an involuntary scream. In place of her long, wavy cognac locks was one short stump, still secured by a hair tie. Panicked, she raised her hand and tentatively touched her head.

Someone had stolen her glorious hair.

Chapter Two

Twenty-four hours earlier

Taylor stood patiently at the check-in desk, surrounded by a long snaking queue of other travellers. Newark airport was just like any other – the noise of chatter in languages from across the globe, the hugs and tears of loved ones leaving, the excited cries of children off on the trip of a lifetime.

But for Taylor, the trip ahead signified the end of an era, an era of twelve months in New York working for one of the best galleries in the world, dealing with some of the most sought-after antiques money could buy. And money did buy them, in obscene amounts, but that was the very wealthy for you. When they were willing to spend hundreds of dollars on a glass of the finest champagne available, millions was small change for the purchase of whatever they desired. She’d enjoyed her time living in the city, though her tiny flat was nothing spectacular, unlike the items she worked with, but it had suited her and the location was perfect. Going back home to London would mean a huge adjustment but she eyed it as another chapter in her life, another story to be written, another adventure all her own. She’d make it work; she always did. She shuffled forward, her two large bags on a trolley in front, passport at the ready. The desk in front became free and the attendant beckoned her over. Taylor gave her name and handed her passport over.

“Good morning, Miss. Palmer.” Her east coast accent rolled over Taylor in a way she knew she was going to miss.

“Morning.”

“I have good news for you: you have been upgraded to First Class, no less.”

Taylor stuttered a little as she replied, “Pardon? Are you sure? How come?”

“It doesn’t tell me. I’m sorry, but you definitely have been issued with a First Class ticket. There is no mistake. Is that alright, Miss Palmer?”

Taylor didn’t need to think long, and the smile that broke out on her face confirmed to the attendant it was, indeed, okay.

The attendant carried on. “Today is your lucky day – perhaps I might suggest you buy a lottery ticket?” Her smile was sincere. She handed Taylor her boarding pass for the trip back to London – in First Class. “Enjoy your flight.”

“Oh, I think I will. Thank you.” With her luggage handed over, Taylor carried on towards security and passport control, a smile on her beautiful young face at the stroke of good luck. Never in all her times of travelling throughout the world had she ever been upgraded, but there was a first time for everything, and right then, she really didn’t care. It was a shame the journey back wasn’t even longer so she could enjoy the full experience, though; she’d always wanted a glass of the real McCoy in a crystal flute. Now she might just get one.

Behind her and well out of sight, a tall, dapper-looking silver fox of a man stood watching her delighted smile. The corners of his eyes wrinkled slightly as he strained to catch odd words of her conversation with the check-in attendant, gauge her reaction in full, but her body language gave him the verification he needed, nay, hoped for. Her hair gently flowed over her shoulders as she moved, mesmerizing him with its shimmer, and he hoped he wasn’t staring too much; otherwise he’d get caught. All around him the hustle of the airport carried on, but he was lost in his thoughts as long as she stood there, fixed to the spot as though his feet had been glued to the tiles beneath them. He was glad he’d been able to get her a place in First Class, give her the gift, and all without her knowing it had been he. This was as he’d wanted it to be: he’d asked the check-in attendant not to tell a soul he’d been the one to upgrade her. He’d said it would be a nice surprise; she was a friend of his daughter’s and hadn’t seen her for some time. She’d be thrilled, he’d said.

The attendant had smiled at his generosity. “What a lovely thing to do,” she’d said. And so it had all been organized; the young woman was none the wiser. When she finally took her seat later, they’d sit next to one another in comfortable silence, perhaps even make small talk, he safe in the knowledge he’d given her something nice, something she’d enjoy, look back on with delight. Then he could be repaid in full, at a time that suited him. And suited his needs. That, he knew, would be quite soon.

She had just what he desired. Watching her move away towards the gate, her Louis Vuitton bag balancing in the crook of her elbow, he pulled his phone out and activated an app, knowing the rest would happen seamlessly while he was in the air. Seated next to her.

Chapter Three

Taylor relaxed back in her reclining chair, her legs stretched out in front, and marvelled at the soft leather and how the other half travelled. She’d only been on board a few minutes and already the attendant had served her a glass of champagne at her seat – and they hadn’t even taken off yet. Glancing around the small private cabin, she took in the surroundings. The large leather seats, the state of the art personal screens, the space each passenger could enjoy in their own capsule-like environment, the smart bag containing toiletries and pyjamas to slip into later. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced, and her delight was obvious.

“It’s a beautiful way to travel, don’t you think?” A male voice to her left caught her attention. She jumped slightly.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t. Not really. I was just a little mesmerized, that’s all.” Taylor turned to the gentleman and smiled. “And to answer your question, yes, it is a beautiful way to travel.”

“I’m sorry – how rude of me.” The man extended his hand in greeting. “I’m Terrance Dubonnet.” Taylor stood to come up to some of the height of the silver-haired man in front of her, though she was short by about a foot. Not that she was small, far from it, but he must have been a little over six foot, in her estimation. Their hands connected and she returned a firm handshake.

“Nice to meet you. And I’m Taylor Palmer.” Both of them were biting back smiles; they were both looking at sparkling eyes, though different colours.

“Good to meet you, Taylor. May I call you Taylor?”

“Of course, if I can call you Terrance.” His face broke into a ‘touché’ smirk. She had a strong personality; he liked that. He ventured further with conversation, eager to talk to her.

“The new Dreamliner is particularly nice because there are only eight seats in the whole cabin. It’s one of the most modern birds in the sky. It’s a real treat to fly on one, don’t you think?”

Taylor couldn’t help the slight blush that crept over her cheeks. Should she say it was her first time in First? But there was no need. The silver-haired gentleman understood immediately.

“Well, if it’s your first time on board in First Class, then you really must have the window seat. Then you can add the view to the whole experience. Allow me to swap seats with you. That is, if you would like?”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that! But thank you anyway.”

“Nonsense, my dear. I’d be delighted to swap with you. I’ll just let the stewardess know. It’s my pleasure, as I said.” His silver-grey eyes twinkled at her in encouragement. How could she refuse?

“Well, in that case, I’d love to see the view as well. Thank you.” Taylor couldn’t believe her luck. Could this get any better?

“Splendid. Then you gather your belongings, and I’ll let them know we’ve swapped. Then maybe we can chat again a bit later, during the flight? Perhaps over another glass of champagne?” The man nodded to her flute of bubbles.

“Certainly. It would be my pleasure.” Taylor watched as he turned to talk to an attendant, then moved herself across the aisle to the window seat and settled back in. A moment later, she felt his presence rather than heard him, in the seat she had recently vacated, and snuggled back into her own. Closing her eyes to savour the moment, she wondered, and not for the first time, how she had come to be sitting in First Class. Not upgraded to Business Class, even, but full-on First Class. Some airlines didn’t even have a First Class section any longer, and with only eight seats in the cabin, there wasn’t room for many to travel in such style. Her smile returned. The gentleman’s voice caught her attention again.

“I’m so sorry to bother you again,” he said apologetically, “but I thought I’d show you how to turn your seat into a lie-down bed for later. It’s a long way back to London. I’m sure you’d appreciate a decent sleep?”

“Oh. Yes. Thank you. That would be great. It’s been a long day, actually. I don’t think I’ll have too much trouble dropping off tonight.”

“Well, allow me to make you more comfortable.” Taylor removed herself from her private cubicle and watched as he showed her the mechanism. While it was kind of him to take an interest, she was curious why he was doing so. The flight attendant would have helped her anyway. As she watched his body bend to make the changes, she noticed how easy he was for an older man. She guessed he was in his seventies, perhaps; he was very nimble. Her own grandfather barely shuffled around his flat without groaning about being stiff, but not this gentleman. Perhaps he did yoga.

“There you go. It’s really very easy.” Touching the side of his nose knowingly, he added, “And nobody but us will know you’ve never travelled First Class.” His kind smile filled his face genuinely, his silver eyes and silver hair giving him an air of Santa Claus without the red robe. A man to be trusted. Taylor smiled her appreciation at their secret.

“Now you settle in, and maybe after dinner we can chat more over that drink?”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Taylor sat back and picked up her book, ready for takeoff. In several hours she’d be back in London, and whilst she was looking forward to seeing her friends and family again, it was going to be tough to get settled in another role. She’d left New York, and everything she loved about it, behind her.

Dinner was served an hour into the flight. Gone were the nasty plastic trays filled with plastic cutlery, tasteless food steamed to death under a tinfoil lid, and the little plastic wine cup. An actual menu had been presented moments before, and she’d decided on herb-crusted lamb with all the trimmings as her main course. But right now, with stainless steel cutlery, Taylor was enjoying fresh lobster with a lemon dressing. Another flute of bubbles was at her side. She thought of what the majority of the passengers behind her in economy would be eating; there was no comparison. And in the back of her mind, still couldn’t for the life of her understand how she’d come to be sat there enjoying it all. Perhaps she should buy that lottery ticket when she landed, before her luck ran out.

“More champagne, Madam?” The hostess hovered with a bottle of Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle in her hand, linen napkin at the ready to catch any drips.

“Thank you – yes, please,” Taylor said, and she watched as her glass was refilled for the third time. She caught the eye of her silver-haired gentleman friend as he watched with interest, a slight smile on his lips. She smiled back, and he nodded in satisfaction and went back to his own meal, safe in the knowledge that his plan was taking shape, both on board the aircraft and down on the ground.

The following morning, and an hour before the flight was due to arrive in London, he had his last task to fulfil. He ordered coffee for the both of them and a pot, cups and cream arrived shortly afterwards. He turned towards his new friend.

“I’ve taken a bit of a liberty, I’m afraid and ordered a pot of coffee. Would you care to share a cup with me?”

“Of course. That would be lovely,” she said, closing her book. She watched as he poured aromatic coffee into a second cup and offered it to her.

“Cream and sugar?”

“Just cream, thanks.”

“Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed your trip in First Class. You’ll never want to go back to economy now, I expect.” He was teasing her; his smile told her so.

“I’ve no choice, so I’d better get over myself and realize this has been a one-off. Fabulous, but the chance of being upgraded again is fairly remote, I’d say.”

“Oh, you never know. Life is full of surprises, my dear. One never knows what will happen to us from one day to the next.”

“Quite. I agree.” Thinking, she added, “It’s been nice meeting you too, and thanks for letting me have the window seat. The whole trip has been a surreal experience for me.” She drained the remains of her coffee.

The silver-haired old man could only smile his delight in reply. The last part of his plan was now in place. The rice grain–sized device was now floating around inside Taylor’s stomach, and would stay in her system for the next 24 hours, transmitting her location at all times. He sat back in his chair and smiled his appreciation to himself in the privacy of his own cubicle.

Within 24 hours, he’d have another prize to add to his collection. And he couldn’t wait to savour it.

Chapter Four

The man picked up the new signal almost immediately. He checked the code on the screen to see who had activated it, whom it had been issued to, and smiled as he saw the name of someone who regularly used his services. He never knew his real name, of course; anonymity was crucial all round for their services to work so seamlessly. His records showed the owner of the tracker as ‘Quinine,’ which meant nothing to him nor anyone else. The tracker device icon pulsed gently on his screen, the dot not far out of London itself, and he flipped to another screen to see where his team were located, who he could pull in for immediate surveillance. He texted the tracker device link to his chosen player, who acted immediately. Watching the movement of the now two different-coloured dots on his screen, he could see the player had moved towards the device’s path, closing the gap between the two of them slightly. The easy part was in motion; the harder part would come some time later. In another hour or so by his reckoning, they would have a full visual of the person they were to supply. That was the part that had the potential to be tricky, so it was imperative nothing was overlooked.

The operator hit a series of keys on his keyboard that activated people in the vicinity as well as in an office block not far from where he was. With the aid of intelligence and surveillance techniques, a full profile of the person would be available very shortly so they could find their ‘entry point,’ the part that would lure the target into their trap. His clients paid handsomely for what they provided, and he took his work very seriously. A small army of people from all walks of life were available at any given time. If they needed a pretty waitress to hover, they had one. If they needed a scruffy tramp to observe, they had one. If they needed an investment banker to talk bullshit, they had one. Every angle was covered for every eventuality.

And that was because each of his clients required something rather particular.

Chapter Five

Terrance Dubonnet watched as the woman in his sights made her way through passport control and onwards with the rest of her journey home. She’d acted perfectly, been perfect in every way, actually, and while he lusted after that special something she possessed, he could be patient a while longer. He cut a dashing figure as he moved forward in a casual, relaxed manner, his statuesque body drawing glances from intrigued women of all ages. At seventy, he was in good shape physically, and he wore his expensive clothes like an iconic movie star working the red carpet on Oscar night. He oozed confidence and style. His black patent shoes peeked out from pressed fine wool trousers as his long legs extended gracefully forward. Up ahead, the cognac shade of her glorious hair was only just visible in the distance, and he placated himself with the knowledge that it wouldn’t be too long before he saw her again. His phone interrupted his thoughts and buzzed with a message.

Activated. You have 23 of your 24 hours left. Be available. Further details to follow.

His smile stayed on his tanned face for a couple of minutes longer as he walked, cherishing the time to come later. Terrance clicked delete, though there really was no need; the message would have disappeared after he’d read it anyway. But he liked to be doubly sure. The organization he used checked every last detail for his protection, as well as their own. If anyone found his phone, there would be no evidence of their agreement existing, nothing to trace back – to anywhere. Clearing passport control, he headed off to collect his luggage and out to his waiting car and driver. He too loved New York, but it was always good to be home.

“Good morning, sir. Pleasant flight?”

“Good morning, Patrick. And yes – great, thanks. How’s the traffic this morning? Same as usual?” His right eyebrow rose in anticipation of good news.

“Yes, sir. More like a car park. Is it ever anything else?” Patrick smiled as Terrance slid inside and made himself comfortable on the back seat. He picked up the morning paper that had been left for him; there was a fresh silver flask of hot coffee in the holder. Patrick had been his driver for more than 10 years and they had an easy, relaxed relationship. Everything about Terrance could be considered relaxed. Stylish, extravagant even, but relaxed overall. Like his car, which was a Bentley. But not the old-man type of Bentley. Terrance had a Flying Spur V8 – silver-grey, of course. And with a top speed of nearly 183 mph, it certainly wasn’t an old man’s car. Not that he’d ever needed the “zero-to-sixty MPH in 4.9 seconds.” It was the luxury, style and comfort of the car that he loved. And he loved beautiful things.

The journey back to his home wouldn’t take long. Englefield Green was only a handful of miles from the airport, but congestion often made the trip much longer than it needed to be. If the M25 was crawling, it didn’t matter how big your engine was: you crawled along with everyone else.

As Terrance settled in, he looked at his wristwatch and noted the time. He’d started things in motion and had only 22.5 hours remaining, but he knew things were being taken care of on his behalf. He’d be messaged again soon with the next set of details, but until that time, he’d rest. He closed his eyes, laid his head back in his reclining seat, and let the smooth vibration of the car rock him for forty winks.

The sound of the driver’s door closing woke him. Shuffling himself upright, he ran his bronzed fingers through his short hair as he readjusted to where he was.

“Sorry, sir. I wasn’t sure whether to wake you or not, but I seem to have anyway. We’re home.”

“Lovely. Thank you, Patrick. I may need you again later today. I’m waiting on a call so I’ll buzz you when I’m ready.”

“Very good, sir.” Patrick helped Terrance out of the car and began to unload the boot. “I believe Mrs. John has baked you a cake – your favourite, coffee and walnut. I expect she’ll be glad to have someone to fuss over again now you’re home.”

Terrance smiled despite himself as he walked towards the front door. The door opened before he had got there himself and a small squeal of delight greeted him. In the doorway stood an older woman, about his own age, he’d often estimated, although he’d never confirmed this. Mrs. John, much like Patrick, had been part of his employ for a good number of years.

“Mrs. John!” he said to her, beaming. “Lovely to be home. I believe you’ve baked a cake?”

She caught his delighted smile and encouraged him inside before closing the door behind her. “Oh, it was meant to be a surprise! Wait until I see Patrick,” she grumbled teasingly. “I have tea ready if you’d like?”

“Thank you, yes, though I’ll take it in my room. Even flying First Class makes you feel like you need a proper shower when you get home, and that’s precisely what I need to do. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready.”

“Good idea. In that case, you go on ahead and I’ll bring it up shortly.”

Terrance made his way up the sweeping staircase from the main entrance lobby towards his room. The house was far too big for him now, but it had been in his family for such a long time it didn’t seem right to sell it and move on. But what would he use seven bedrooms for, really? The staff had their own cottages on the property, so at night, when everyone had gone home, there was only him. The smooth feel of the wooden banister reminded him of sliding down it as a child, though Nanny had threatened to tell if he did it too often. His parents had been absent during great chunks of his life growing up, so he’d been grateful for a nanny who’d allowed him to have fun while still being in charge. His younger sister Petra had then come along, and most of the focus had shifted onto her as he grew into a young teenager, though Nanny’s influence had carried on. Reaching the top of the landing, he passed a door that had once led to Nanny’s room when she’d lived in the house. He paused outside it. The room was empty now, and there was that unlived-in feeling about it, like most of the rooms in the house, though Nanny’s old bed and some sparse pieces of furniture were still there.

And some of his memories.

His hand rested on the doorknob for a moment as he debated whether to enter or not. No, he’d save it for later.

Chapter Six

A knock at the door caught his attention. From his en suite, he heard the faint clatter of china being laid out on the table in his bedroom and the humming that always accompanied his housekeeper as she busied herself. She never whistled – that would have been too distracting – but she did hum. He found it quite relaxing, almost therapeutic, and he welcomed her presence in the house when he was in residence. The place was too damn quiet otherwise. He slipped into his paisley robe and headed back into his room smelling of fresh deodorant and shampoo.

“Thank you for bringing it up here. I just needed to shower before I did anything else.”

“You’re welcome. Was it a successful trip?” He watched as she poured tea into his cup and placed a sugar lump into it and then set the little silver tongs back in the bowl. Why did he still have sugar lumps, he wondered? Wasn’t it a tad old-fashioned? And did it even matter? Still, he wondered.

“Yes, it was. Though I do think I’m getting a little long in the tooth for so much travelling. I get tired quicker these days, I’ve noticed. And even First Class can’t help with jet lag and time differences.” Terrance sat in his favourite old leather chair, picked up his cup and saucer, and took a sip.

“Ah, that tastes good. You always have made a decent pot of tea,” he said, satisfied. “The Americans just don’t quite know how to get tea just right. Better sticking to coffee.” He took another mouthful and sat back. Mrs. John offered him a slice of coffee and walnut on a little plate.

“Freshly baked this morning, if you’d like a piece?”

“Indeed, thank you,” he said, and took the plate. Powdered icing sugar stuck to his upper lip as he took a bite, and coffee-coloured crumbs dropped to his plate. Mrs. John hovered as he ate, not sure if he wanted conversation or for her to leave.

“I may not be in for dinner tonight, so don’t make anything special. Perhaps leave something in the fridge that I can heat up in case my plans fall through.”

“Of course. Going somewhere nice?”

“Not too sure of my plans as yet. I may be going into London; we’ll see.”

Terrance finished the last of his cake and watched as Mrs. John topped his teacup up. With nothing left for her to do, she carried on. “I’ll leave you in peace then, Mr. Dubonnet. You know where I am if you need anything,” she said, and headed for the door, a faint hum going with her.

She’d have been a fine-looking young woman in her day, he thought as he watched her walk across the room. Tall and slender for her own years, she’d been a widow for nearly twenty of them, and he’d been tempted at times to state his interest. He never had. Yes, he got lonely rattling around the big house on his own, particularly at night, but she’d never shown any interest in him so he’d left it at that. But then he was her employer, so would she have anyway? And besides, he’d found his own unique and special interest had satisfied him over the years – just another reason he’d never sell the house he’d grown up in.

His thoughts turned to his old Nanny Prue. He thought of her often, like now. She’d been the catalyst for what he desired, he was sure. Where else had it stemmed from? Prue’s room was right next door to his own, and without actually moving in there, he was as close as he could be to her memory. The hundreds of nights she’d spent in his room reading him a story, her light perfume lingering once she’d left his side. . . Her face had been so pretty, even to a small boy, her skin so soft. As he’d aged, become a young teenager, he’d received less of her attention as she’d focused on his younger sister, who had been a surprise to the whole family. Petra had needed Nanny full time, since his mother had no interest in looking after her herself, and so he’d seen very little of her. He’d missed her visits back then and somewhat resented Petra for stealing their time together, so he’d taken his interests out on the girls at school when he could. That hadn’t been easy and had ultimately gotten him expelled from school for a period of time.

As he’d grown into an adult, his interest had become progressively easier to deal with, though he’d kept it a secret. Now? Well, he’d found the perfect way. If you knew where to look, you could find just about anything you desired, sexual or otherwise. And the service he used was a huge part of his life now, allowing him both freedom and the excitement his prizes afforded him.

A familiar stirring warmed his body as he remembered the red-haired woman on the flight that morning. He’d been able to watch her from the privacy of his seat without too much difficulty while she’d slept, and knowing she was being monitored for his needs right at that moment excited him. Soon, he’d have what he’d paid for, what she owed him in return. He drank back the last of his tea as his phone buzzed with the message he’d been waiting for. His pulse spiked as he read its contents.

The next part of the plan was now finalized.

All he had to do was turn up at the appointed time and location and he’d be in his version of heaven. He pressed delete and the carefully choreographed arrangements disappeared without a trace.

Chapter Seven

“I’d love to! Can you give me an hour?”

“I’ll meet you there then. And Taylor?”

“Yes, Mum?”

“It’s good to have you back on this side of the Atlantic for a while.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you shortly. And I’ll tell you all about New York if you want to hear about it.”

“Of course I do, darling. See you soon.”

Taylor beamed at the now silent phone in her hand. She’d planned on going over to see her mum and dad the following day, but as it turned out they’d had some business in town and wouldn’t be that far away. With a small chain of shoe shops on the market, Leonard and Judy Palmer had been meeting with various accountants and lawyers over the last couple of months, one of whom had brought them into Croydon. Close to retirement age, they’d decided to sell up, spend some of their hard-earned cash and travel, then probably buy a small hotel somewhere further down south on the coast. A romantic notion, Taylor thought but never said; many people wanted to retire and run a bed and breakfast.

It made perfect sense for them all to have a late lunch together and catch up. It had been three months since her last visit back home to Croydon, and it had only been a short one, as she’d been on her way through to Europe; there hadn’t been much time to spend with either her parents or her friends. Her passion for art allowed her to travel extensively with work, which she loved; she was sorry that her job in New York had finally come to an end. Now she wasn’t sure quite what she might do with the next part of her life, although with the money she’d saved she was in no hurry to decide. Thoughts of travel conjured up the recent memory of being upgraded to First Class. Was that only yesterday? Still clutching the phone in her hand, she smiled broadly. “What will Mum say about that when I tell her?” she said to herself.

With only an hour until she was due to see her parents, she quickly changed into something a bit more feminine than normal, pushed a brush through her hair and then tied it up in a loose knot. She dabbed on some blusher and lipstick and she was all set. Her skin glowed with a light bronzing from the summer sun and weekends spent reading in Central Park, stretched out on the grass. But now at the end of summer, the sun’s power was diminishing and cooler mornings and evenings were nudging their way in. The change of seasons excited Taylor – the wrapping up and putting away of one, the unfolding and rejuvenating of another in its place. A bit like changing your wardrobe over and packing away the old season in a box for storage until the following year, she thought. Packed away would be cotton shorts and skirts, and in their place would come light woollens and long-sleeved shirts. It wouldn’t be long until the oak trees in the park near her flat would be dropping their fat leaves, the golden and brown Christmas-tree shapes covering the pavements. Pulling on a light cardigan, she closed the door behind her and headed outside to hail a taxi on to the restaurant for lunch. And her parents.

Chapter Eight

“You look lovely, darling! Welcome home.”

“Thanks, Mum,” Taylor said, hugging her mother tightly. “And how’s Dad?” she said, turning and embracing him. She stayed tight in his arms for a moment or two longer as they squeezed each other tenderly. Always a daddy’s girl.

“Much better for seeing you,” he whispered in her ear with affection. Eventually they both pulled back and her father looked her up and down.

“You look lovely, Taylor, and so happy. And a tan really suits you.” He backed up a step to take her in again. “You do look stunning. But then I am biased towards my girl.” Anyone looking on would see how proud he was of his beautiful daughter.

“And how are you really, Dad?”

“Ah, well, we’re both getting old and tired, but nothing to grumble about. We have our health on our side still, which is the main thing. And hopefully a buyer for the stores. But first let me ask you – any gentleman friends taken your eye yet?”

“Oh, Dad! No!”

“Don’t embarrass her, Leonard. She’s only just got here. Give her a chance.”

Laughing, Taylor answered anyway. “There’s plenty of time for all that, Dad. I’m only twenty-six,” she said. “And it’s a good job I haven’t got a man friend now I’ve come back home. I don’t have broken hearts to worry about. I don’t think I could deal with being lovesick as well as starting a new career on this side of the world at the same time.”

“And quite right too,” her mother said, giving her husband a sideways glance in warning. “No rush. Your dad just wants to be a granddad, I think.”

“It’s usually the grandmother who pushes for that, isn’t it?” Taylor said, laughing. “Talk about role reversal with you two.”

“Well, I’m not pushing, Taylor. You go at your own pace. But let’s sit down and you can fill us both in on your adventures as a single woman. And I’m hungry, so let’s get a table and order.”

The hostess escorted them to their waiting table and they each picked up a menu.

“Let’s have a bottle of bubbles,” Leonard said, “in celebration of you being home. And hopefully a sale finally.” Turning to the waitress, he ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and three champagne flutes. Judy raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows but immediately relented.

“Well, I’m in the mood for a proper celebration. It’s so good to see you, Taylor. You do look well on whatever you’ve been up to, I must say.”

A moment later, a bottle with its distinctive orange label appeared and popped warmly as the cork was set free. The pretty waitress filled three flutes and said she’d be back soon to take their lunch orders.

Raising his flute, Leonard said, “Now I’m going to propose a toast. Welcome home, Taylor, and to the smooth sale of the business.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Judy chimed in.

Taylor saw her opportunity. “This brings back very recent memories, actually – sipping champagne, I mean.”

“How so, darling?”

And so, Taylor recounted the story of her First Class upgrade, how she’d travelled in style, and the gentleman she’d chatted to and shared a glass or two of champagne with during the flight.

“Oh, darling, how wonderful. Your father and I have never travelled more than Premium Economy and I can’t even begin to imagine what First is like. Any idea why you were upgraded? Just lucky?

“None at all, and I expect it was a random thing, but it was a nice experience while it lasted. Probably never will experience it again.” Taylor rolled her bottom lip up over her top, mocking a petulant child.

“And I’m guessing this man you got talking to wasn’t your type?” said Leonard.

“Dad! No. He was way older than me. He had to be in his seventies, I think, so no.”

“Just enquiring, but I see your point.” Judy reached over and pretended to slap her husband on his hand for his comment. “Now let that be the end of it, Leonard. No more talk of men. Do you understand?”

He had the sense to keep quiet and nod his agreement.

“Now let’s order.” Taylor took charge, putting an end to her parents’ jovial spat.

As the three sipped champagne and chatted about their lunch order, the pretty waitress disappeared for the briefest of moments, ducking discreetly into a room off the main serving area.

On the other side of London, her message was received. Taylor Palmer was now under full observation.

Chapter Nine

The table of three had eaten well, drunk a bottle of champagne between them and were contemplating desert. Half-empty water glasses and crumbs littered their tablecloth.

“Well, I’m stuffed, but the chocolate fondant is calling me so I’m going for that.” Taylor placed her order with the pretty waitress, who then moved on to her father.

“And for you?”

“I think I’ll go for the same. Thank you.” He passed his menu to her as she asked Judy what she’d like.

“Make that three, thank you.” She smiled. With all three menus gathered, the waitress moved off and conversation at the table moved on again.

“So darling, what are your plans for the rest of the day? Rest? Jet lag is a funny thing; hits you at all odd hours.”

“No, I’m feeling fine, actually. I might just take a look around the shops after lunch, stretch my legs, get some air, then I should sleep properly tonight. Want to join me or are you heading back?”

“We’re heading back. Though you are still coming out tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Yes, absolutely. Your roasts are legendary,” Taylor said, “though when I’ve finished off the chocolate fondant, I might never eat again.”

“Good. We figured you’d still come even though we’ve had lunch together.” Judy took Taylor’s hand in her own. “It really is good to have you back, and you look so happy and healthy. Life in New York obviously agreed with you.”

“Thanks, Mum. It’s been an amazing couple of years, and it’s now time to move on to something else new and wonderful, whatever that might be. And hopefully on this side of the globe.” The familiar ringtone of Taylor’s phone chirping from somewhere inside her bag stopped the conversation.

“Sorry, I thought I’d switched it to silent before lunch.” Taking her phone out to silence it, Taylor frowned as she glanced at the screen. “That’s strange. No caller ID.” The phone carried on its chirping.

“Hadn’t you better answer it? You’ll never know who it is otherwise. It could be important.” Taylor clicked the green icon to answer it and stood to move away from their table and the other late diners.

“Taylor Palmer,” she said.

A man’s voice greeted her back. “Hello, Miss Palmer. Please forgive my intrusion but I am calling on behalf of Mr. Terrance Dubonnet, whom I believe you met yesterday.”

Taylor thought for a moment, a little confused. “Yes, I did.” Wary.

“My name is Patrick. I work for Mr. Dubonnet. He wondered if you might be able to meet him later today. He has a couple of good connections in your professional field that could prove useful to you, and he wondered if you might be free to take afternoon tea with him?”

A little taken aback, Taylor found herself agreeing, intrigued if nothing else. Mr. Dubonnet had been lovely on the flight, and if he did have relevant connections, she’d be a fool to not use them if they were on offer. Someone as wealthy as he was could be extremely valuable in finding her next role, whatever that might be.

“I shall let him know,” said Patrick warmly. “He’ll be very pleased. A car will pick you up at four pm. What address, please?”

Taylor looked at her watch. Lunch had taken longer than she’d anticipated, and it was already 3.30 pm.

“I’m in Croydon at the moment,” she told him. “Will there be enough time? I don’t know where you will be coming from.”

The man at the other end of the line seemed unfazed by her concern. “That will be fine. If you’ll give me the address, I’ll be waiting outside at four o’clock precisely.”

Taylor relayed the restaurant’s address to him, and he repeated it back to her. When the call had finished, she stared at her phone a moment before returning back to her parents, and the chocolate fondant that had been delivered in her absence. A quenelle of whipped cream had started to melt on the desert plate.

“Everything alright?” her mother said, frowning. “You look a little perplexed, if I might say so. Who was that on the phone?”

“It was someone who works for the man I met on the flight yesterday. Said his boss has a couple of contacts for me and asked if I’d care to meet him later today to chat.” It sounded astounding to her own ears.

“Well, that’s wonderful isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is, I suppose. I’m a bit surprised, that’s all. A car is picking me up in thirty minutes from outside.” She still sounded a little unsure.

“Well, from what you said earlier, he sounds lovely, and good on him for trying to help you. And if he is very well off, as you say he is, of course he’ll send a car. Better that than expect you to get on public transport to meet him.” She smiled at Taylor encouragingly. “Oh, how exciting!” Judy clasped both of her hands in front of her as if Taylor had just told her she was getting married. But it did the trick and relaxed her a little. A smile crept onto her face.

“Well, I guess there’s no harm in going along and seeing what he has to say. It could give me some better options, some more prominent galleries perhaps. And a recommendation from someone like him could be invaluable.”

“That’s the spirit,” Leonard chimed in. “Choices are always good to have.”

Judy looked at her watch. “Then we’d better eat up before he gets here. Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

Forks and spoons clattered as they tucked into their chocolate fondants, and the table fell silent for a few minutes.

At precisely 4 pm, the trio stood outside the restaurant. Taylor kissed both of her parents goodbye with a promise she’d see them the next day and fill them in on the conversation she was about to have, and they wished her luck.

As they disappeared into the distance, she was aware that a sleek black car with heavily tinted windows had pulled up at the curb beside her. She glanced at it, impressed. Even to someone who wasn’t a car boffin, the shiny Mercedes was unmistakably a top-end luxury vehicle. A man wearing a smart black suit and driving cap stepped out and held the rear door open for her.

“Miss Palmer.”

“Thank you,” Taylor said, and climbed into the backseat for another sumptuous First Class travelling experience. Just where she was headed she had absolutely no idea.

Chapter Ten

Just fifteen minutes later, the car pulled up outside an older boutique-style hotel. While it was less modern than some in London, it certainly oozed extravagance and luxury, but had she expected anything else? A doorman in a neatly pressed uniform and also wearing a cap was at her door before the driver had a chance to get out. She swung her legs out to the pavement in one elegant, fluid movement. Maybe it was the luxurious car that had encouraged her to act a little more demure than usual when alighting. She never got out of a taxi that way; it was generally more of a scramble. The thought amused her as she carried on with the act of being someone she really wasn’t, and found she was enjoying it a little.

“Welcome, Miss,” the doorman greeted her, and gave her a friendly smile. He had kind eyes and wore gloves on his hands, she noticed. Not really sure what she should do next, Taylor was relieved when the driver appeared by her side with instructions.

“Please follow me, Miss Palmer,” was all he said, and she walked with him towards the lobby. Her shoes made no sound on the thick, rich red carpet. Heavy gilt-framed paintings adorned the walls; the lighting was muted and regal. Patrick led the way through to a small private room. As he opened the door for her, she saw it had been laid out for afternoon tea for two people. Her first thought was not to marvel at how beautiful the elegant room looked or wonder why it needed to be so private; instead, she groaned inwardly at the thought of more food. How was she going to take tea with her new acquaintance and not offend him by not eating? Maybe she shouldn’t have had the chocolate fondant, but it was too late now. No, she’d have to manage.

“Please, take a seat. He’ll be along very shortly.”

Then the driver was gone, leaving Taylor standing alone in the silence as she waited. The faint sound of distant traffic could be heard but not much else. Outside the sun was not much more than a creamy glow, like the light from a candle, as the day wound down. She made herself at home in one of the comfy floral chairs while she waited. No sooner had she sat down than the door opened and a much younger man than she was expecting introduced himself.

“Hello, Miss Palmer. My name is Marcus and I work for Mr. Dubonnet as his assistant.”

“Hello. Nice to meet you,” she said, standing again and extending her right hand. He really was quite handsome, she observed. Tall and athletic-looking in his suit, he obviously took care of himself. A gold band on a finger of his left hand told her he was spoken for. His sandy-brown hair was styled with just the right amount of ruffle, and a light tan completed the look. The only thing that was missing was a personality, it seemed.

“Mr. Dubonnet has been delayed slightly, so he asked me to ensure you are comfortable while you wait.”

At that moment, a woman dressed in a maid’s outfit arrived carrying a tray of silver pots, which she placed on the table to complete the set-up, then left as discreetly as she had come.

“I wasn’t really sure what type of tea you drank, so I took the liberty of ordering chamomile as well as Earl Grey and Darjeeling. What can I offer you?”

“Darjeeling is lovely, thank you.” Taylor watched as Marcus expertly poured the perfect coloured brew into a china teacup. “Sugar? Lemon? Milk, perhaps?”

“Oh, as it is will be fine. Thank you.”

Even though she smiled, he didn’t. Why was he so austere, she wondered? For a man who looked to be in his early thirties, he was pretty rigid. He passed her the dainty cup and saucer and excused himself, saying Mr. Dubonnet would be along in a moment. Then the handsome but rigid man was gone, the door clicking quietly shut behind him. Sitting back in the comfy chair again to wait, Taylor took sips of her tea and wondered about the last few hours since she’d left New York. So much had happened – the older man she had met, the luxury she had travelled in, and now here she was, sitting in a swanky hotel waiting for him to arrive and give her some gallery contacts.

Taylor glanced at her watch. Since the handsome assistant had poured her tea, ten more minutes had gone by, so she topped her cup up for something to do while she waited. With each minute that went by, she began to feel more and more tired; the jet lag was clearly catching up to her. She sighed and leaned farther back in the chair; the room felt just a little warmer than it had the minute before. Was she imagining it? She didn’t think so, but she was powerless to do anything about it. Finally, unable to keep her eyelids open any longer, she allowed them to close, thinking about nothing whatsoever as she fell into a deep sleep.

On a monitor on the other side of town, the operator watched as Taylor drifted into a comfortable, deep sleep and a man dressed in coveralls entered the room. He was pushing an empty laundry trolley. The operator watched as the man lifted Taylor, placed her expertly inside the trolley, and wheeled it back out of the room. A moment later, another man, this time dressed as a waiter, entered the room and removed the afternoon tea party remains. A quick wipe round with a cloth, and any evidence that Taylor Palmer had been sipping tea in the room was now gone. And so was she.

Chapter Eleven

He awoke. Same time every day. The alarm clock on the bedside cabinet bleeped four times and he reached to turn it off. It always bleeped four times, and he was always awake to hear it. His internal alarm clock was in sync with his battery operated one; both alarms were there for each other should one forget. He knew exactly what time it was – it was the same time every morning – and he swung his long legs out of the bed, turning the bedding down over itself, letting air get to the sheets. It takes fifteen minutes for bed lice to dehydrate, for the moisture to leave their bodies, allowing them to die off completely, and this was an important part of his routine.

Don’t confuse bed lice with bed bugs: those little suckers are a whole different story and if you’ve got bed bugs, you have a problem. Everyone has bed lice. But Griffin makes sure his are dead every morning. His routine could be described as normal or mundane, though many would call it OCD. Every day is the same. Nothing deviates. He heads to the bathroom for ablutions, a shave and a shower, and that takes fifteen minutes precisely. Many parts of his life are slotted into fifteen-minute segments. When his morning bathroom routine is complete, he folds the bed linen back in place, smartening his bed for re-entry in the evening. His wardrobe is equally precise: rows of folded clothing, three piles each the same in content, stacked five high.

He dressed in his uniform, a self-imposed uniform of blue jeans, white T-shirt, blue hoody. It hid his secret nicely, a part of him he’d rather other people did not see, and something he hoped would be dealt with soon. But the hoody would have to do the job for now, until he raised the funds and found the appropriate outlet for the task.

He walked through the lounge, which was simple, inexpensive, and immaculate. Ikea had benefited from his wallet. All his flat-packed deliveries had been methodically constructed, neither a gap nor an overlap visible in their build, not a random screw left over. Built to perfection. A couple of neutral-coloured throw cushions on the sofa were the only soft edges in the room; even the rug on the floor was rigid. In the kitchen, he flicked the switch of the kettle that he’d pre-filled the previous night before bed, then poured cereal into a bowl that was already waiting on the work surface, sliced the waiting banana into it, and poured milk from the fridge. The milk was the only thing he had to get from somewhere else. When the kettle had boiled, he poured hot water onto the tea bag that was also waiting in the mug and left it to steep while he ate his breakfast in silence.

Eating finished, he drank his tea and took the little pile of supplements that also awaited him and washed them down in one knobbly mouthful. When he was finished, he placed his used breakfast cutlery and crockery neatly into the dishwasher and turned it on, selecting low wash. Precisely thirty minutes later, he left his flat in Croydon and walked the short distance to catch the train into London, white buds stuck in both ears and the Boo Radleys singing the same ‘beautiful morning’ song. He loved the beat.

Once he’d boarded the train, along with hundreds of other daily commuters squashed into the metal capsule, then and only then would he allow himself to break out a little before he reached his office. Sometimes it was with Elvis, sometimes it was with Guns ‘N’ Roses, and sometimes it was with Gershwin. He allowed himself a wide range of music depending on his mood, and the mood of the people in the capsule. Spotify had opened him up to a whole new musical world, and while he’d found it a little overwhelming at first to deviate from his routine playlists, he’d finally embraced the experience and begun to see it as part of his education. He wondered if perhaps the rest of his life would follow suit and he’d break out a little more, one day at a time – break away from the confines that restrained his life, break away from fifteen-minute segments. And perhaps one day he’d find someone to share his life with. But who would want him with his quirky routine? Or his issue? When he allowed someone to get close and they saw what he was hiding, the shock and repulsion on their faces was always obvious. And it hurt. People could be so cruel. And so, it was easier to stay as he was, for now. To stay away from having someone close. But when he finally had the money and had found someone to do the job to his standards and his budget, that would all change. He was sure. Until, then he’d continue working as a sports reporter by day, and searching for the perfect person who’d help him by night.

As the train pulled in at London Victoria, he changed his playlist, the crystal-clear piano notes of Gershwin’s ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ cranked up in his ears. Ironic, really, since the piece itself had first been conceived while George Gershwin himself rode the train into Boston one day. It had since become a classical piece almost everyone would recognize. Griffin worked his way towards the tube entrance onwards to his final destination of Green Park. Thousands of other London commuters had gone before him already that morning to just another day at the office. Griffin himself would be behind his desk shortly – it would take him fifteen minutes precisely.

Chapter Twelve

“Morning, Griffin.”

It was Jan, editor in chief at the paper and general pain in the ass. Commonly referred to as ‘she who shall be obeyed,’ she was an ‘in your face’ type of boss who generally frustrated the team. Including Griffin. He stared at her long red fingernails, chipped at the edges, and then at her folded arms, carefully averting his eyes from her heavily made-up face.

“Morning, Jan.” He didn’t need or want to say more. So he didn’t expand.

“Deadline’s eleven am. I trust you’ll be on time?”

“It’s ready to go,” he said, patting the laptop he was unpacking from his satchel.

I’ve never missed a deadline yet. It’s not what I do, remember?

“Glad to hear it. And I’ve pushed your review session back until next week. Hope you don’t mind. I’ll send you a calendar date when I’ve decided on when exactly.” Then she was gone as quickly as she’d appeared, the faint odour of stale cigarette smoke overlaid with her vile perfume lingering where she’d stood.

That’s not good. Why do you need to change it? What’s more important than a person’s performance review – my performance review? I like order. Remember?

Griffin stood to make his way to the break room, scraping his chair back noisily on the wooden floor. Anxiety started to boil in his chest. He’d spent time on his performance review and treated it with the importance it deserved, and that would all be wasted now. He’d have to do it all again. And wait for a time that was suitable to her. He stalked towards the small kitchen area and thrust a tea bag into his mug, covering it with boiling water from the heater on the wall. He stood seething as it steeped. It wouldn’t last long, this feeling. He’d taught himself how to handle change over recent years. At fourteen years old, he’d found a coping mechanism that worked for him, allowing him to get through his teen years largely unscathed. And that was where his fifteen-minute segments came in. It helped him to get through the anxiety, knowing it would pass soon, within those fifteen minutes. He stirred his tea and waited it out in the calm of the small room. Shortly, all would be well again in Griffin’s world. He just had to stand and wait it out.

“There you are.” It was Rob, a features writer at the paper and probably the only person on the team who took much notice of him. “Been looking all over.”

“Just catching ten before the mayhem starts and Jan starts flapping like a mad woman. I hate deadline day.”

“Know what you mean, bro. Me too. You’re all ready, though, aren’t you, Mr. Organized? I’d be surprised if you weren’t. Not like me, eh? Always on the last minute. I’d be late for my mother’s funeral I’m sure, never mind my own.”

Griffin poured the last tea dregs down the sink and rinsed his mug. “And look at the stress it causes you by being late. You’re the same every month. Don’t quite know how you manage it, or why. I couldn’t cope.” Griffin slapped Rob on the shoulder affectionately as he made his way back to his desk, his clean mug in hand. “If you really are stuck, let me know. I might be able to help you. I’m not submitting mine in until eleven am on the dot, just to bug her.”

“That’s not like you. What gives?”

“She’s postponed my review until next week, so if she thinks I’m not important enough, then I feel the same about her lousy paper. Stuff her.”

Rob watched with his mouth open as Griffin left the room. His friend was never one for outbursts, though Rob knew he sometimes struggled to contain things inside. And he usually managed to keep them concealed. Rob busied himself making coffee and headed back to his own desk a few moments later. As he passed Griffin, he noted that his colleague’s head was already buried in his laptop. Rob tossed a Kit Kat to him, payment for his help that he would undoubtedly need if he was to submit on time. Griffin looked up, startled, as it clattered down by his elbow.

“Thanks, but no thanks, Rob. You eat it. Too much sugar for me. Can’t eat it.”

“Ah – sorry, mate. Forgot about that,” Rob said, and swept in to claim it back. “May as well have it myself then.” He ripped into the red wrapper; small flakes of chocolate and biscuit scattered to the floor beside Griffin’s desk. “Damn, half of it is broken. Look at that lot – half of it’s missing!”

“Well, it’s on the floor if you want to get on your hands and knees and clean it up. If you don’t, I’ll have to.”

“Nah, you’re all right. Cleaners will get it later,” said Rob, his mouth full. And off he went, unaware of just how Griffin was fizzing inside at the new problem around his feet. Try as he might, he knew he couldn’t leave it there: the chocolate crumbs would grind under his feet. It would play on his mind too much. Stepping carefully around the mess, he made his way back to the kitchen for a damp paper towel to wipe it up with. Mess just never sat well, and that included around his workspace. It was better than the anxiety-riddled alternative. Jan’s voice interrupted him while he was on his hands and knees.

“Listen up, folks. Deadline has changed. Ten am, please. And no buts! So if you’re still working on it, get your own butt moving, pronto!”

Rob glanced at Griffin under his desk on the floor and rolled his eyes at Jan’s announcement. While it didn’t pose a problem for Griffin, he smiled as his friend mouthed ‘Butt out’ to her retreating back.

Chapter Thirteen

Griffin walked from Green Park to Victoria station that night after work. It really wasn’t very far, and although normally he took the tube to the station as part of his routine, tonight he felt like the walk. The air was still lukewarm, the remaining sun in the sky weakening as summer moved on to pastures new and autumn moved in in its place. He picked up the pace and headed in the direction of the station like he was on a mission. He was, kind of: to get home.

He’d been a sports reporter for a couple of years, though he’d only been into sports at all for a little over three. He had been diagnosed with type two diabetes at age twenty-two; his doctor had been worried about his general state of health, and ultimately told him that, weighing in at close to twenty-five stone, he had been on a fast track to organ failure. Luckily for Griffin, he’d made the right decision and got himself on the right track. How he’d ever got to twenty-five stone he had no clue. There was no abusive story lurking in his background, no family breakup to blame, no bullying to speak of save for the usual teasing he and others in his class had endured. Yes, his anxiety issues had played a part, but in general, the simple answer to his weight gain had been gaming. He just hadn’t moved enough to compensate for the calories he consumed daily. And so his weight had ballooned until his doctor had told him to get moving and change his bad habits. So he had: the doctor had told him to do it, and that’s all he’d needed. Direction was his friend. Now, although he was still a little heavy at thirteen stone, he’d lost almost twelve, with just another stone to go. And that’s when he’d got his ‘issue.’ Yes, it bothered him, what he kept secret under the hood of his own engine, but he’d get it rectified just as soon as he had the funds to do so. And found the right person to do the job.

The train was packed like a tin of sardines, and at the end of a hot day, and was just as pungent. But Griffin didn’t care. In thirty minutes he’d be back home, changed into his training gear and headed for the park and all the fresh air he needed as he walked ten laps around it to complete his ten thousand daily steps. He had a goal to aim for, and sitting as his desk for most of the day didn’t use up enough calories to move the final stone that he still carried. And walking was now a part of his routine. Routine, routine, routine. It kept him sane. Sitting in his seat on the packed train, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to think about having a special someone in his life. One day, he’d have one. What would she look like? How would they meet? What would her friends be like? Would she fancy him? Would she be the one?

He felt the train slow down and pull into a station, so he opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure where they were, exactly. That’s when he saw her. He briefly caught the eye of a young woman sitting almost opposite him. Briefly, but long enough to note she was pretty, with short, shiny brown hair cut into a smart bob style, thick-rimmed glasses very similar to his own, and a scattering of freckles across her nose. She looked almost like Velma Dinkley from the Scooby Doo comic strip, but without the pleated skirt. And she was pretty. After his brief analysis, he chanced a small smile, expecting her to turn away; they usually did. Nothing came back; no smile, no nothing. Just a fixed expression as their eyes caught. Perhaps she was looking past him, not at him at all, or maybe she wondered who was looking at her.

He was just about to turn away himself, before the rejection pricked him in his chest, when her petite mouth lifted slightly at the corners and formed the smallest of smiles. Had he imagined it? Was he daydreaming? He tilted his head slightly as if that would give him a better view, to confirm that she had in fact smiled at him. Or had not. But to his astonishment, it was there, and he chanced another smile back in return. It felt awkward, but the nice thing to do. What would happen now? Would she stop smiling, get off at the next stop and never be seen again? Or would she look away and that would be the end of it?

The train slowed to a complete standstill and people shuffled out, distracting him, making his thoughts scatter inside his head. When the carriage had almost emptied, he chanced a look back to see if she had left with everyone else, but she hadn’t. She was still sat there. Not knowing what else to do, he simply nodded in her direction, which she seemed to enjoy, and even though she turned her head away from him, he could see her smile had widened via the reflection in the window. Perhaps she was shy, embarrassed even? There wasn’t anything else he felt able to do. He wasn’t like other men in the confidence department. No, he’d see where she got off, he decided, and if it was before his stop that would be the end of it. He rested his head back and closed his eyes once more for the remainder of the journey, not daring to look her way again.

As he felt the train finally pull into his station, he gathered his belongings and edged his way to the door, keeping his eyes averted. But there are too many windows on a train not to see a reflection.

That was how he saw her getting off at the same stop as his.

Chapter Fourteen

Taylor finally stopped panicking and stood rigid in the centre of the room. Stolen her hair? How could that even be? And who would want it? And what did the card mean – ‘settled’? So many questions she hadn’t answers for fizzed in her head like freshly poured Fanta, though without the zing. Her hands tentatively touched her scalp again for confirmation of what she already knew, hoping she’d been wrong when she’d looked in the mirror. But mirrors never lie, and neither did her hands. The stump that was left was still secured neatly there. The rest of her hair was gone. She wiped away a tear, which was quickly followed by another. Transfixed, she watched them fall through the air and splash onto the thick carpet. Picking the notelet back up, feeling the cool, crisp card in her fingers, she re-read the message again out loud.

Your debt has been settled. I’d advise you to tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.

“My debt?” Those damn questions with no answers.

She glanced at the curled-up sandwiches and the silver pot, which she assumed contained tea, although it was probably cold. While she had no intention of sampling anything, the silver pot reminded her of one thing – her tea appointment who had never shown up. Could he be linked to this, perhaps? Her mind conjured up possibilities that made no sense. Why would he be involved? She hadn’t seen him in person, but she had met his assistant. And there was yet another question – had the man indeed been his assistant? And the driver in the fancy Mercedes –had he been real too? What was going on? Deflated, she sat down heavily on the sofa where she had woken up only minutes ago. The simple fact of the matter was that, while her hair had been stolen, she was otherwise unharmed. She picked up the empty cup and took it to the bathroom to fill with water. Her mouth was parched, and if she had been drugged at some point, she wasn’t about to risk what might be in the pot. The cold water felt refreshing as it slid down her throat, and she refilled the cup again, sipping it more slowly now that her initial thirst had been quenched, and returned to the sofa.

“Drugged? Me? But why?”

Daring herself, she ran her fingers through the little stump of hair, pulling the hair tie out as they forced their way through the clump that was left. The hair tie pinged off to the side and landed on the carpet. She stared at it. It was black and gold. Her little topknot fanned forward as she bent to look at the tie more closely. She didn’t recognize it as one of her own, which raised another question. Had it been bought solely for the purpose of restraining her hair before it had been cut? Had this all been planned, premeditated? Was she part of some sort of vile game, herself the victim? Definitely not the winner if she was.

She pulled the woollen blanket around her shoulders, suddenly feeling chilled, and wondered what to do. The card had said it wouldn’t be wise to tell anyone, but she needed to tell. How could she not? If she’d been taken against her will, drugged and robbed, the person or persons involved needed to be caught before they did it to someone else. But what would happen to her if she did tell and go the police? The card had been specific in it being ‘unwise.’ Was she prepared to find out? Resting her head on the sofa back, she closed her eyes and tried to make sense of what she should do. Stay and call her mother and the police, or go, forget all about it and not risk any possible repercussions? If it had been an elaborate set-up, preplanned, there would be no evidence of any wrongdoing in the room, she was sure. And that would make her look like a madwoman who had lost her hair, the victim of a prank and nothing more. And whoever was responsible clearly had had no intention of harming her physically or restraining her; the blanket and food along with the unlocked door told her so.

On steadier legs, she stood, put her feet in her shoes, grabbed her bag and let herself out of the hotel room.

Chapter Fifteen

The light outside was almost completely faded and a cool chill clung to her thin cardigan as she stood in the hotel doorway. She shivered involuntarily, not all together sure which direction to turn in. Back inside and report it? Or towards home and forget about it? A male voice at her side made her jump. Turning in the direction of the voice, she relaxed a little when she saw it was the doorman from earlier in the day.

“I’m sorry?”

“I asked if you were alright, Miss. You’re shivering.” His smile was warm, but not enough to warm her right through. And he was looking at her a little oddly, like he recognized her but something troubled him. She remembered her hair.

Pausing a moment before she spoke, she replied, “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” Should she ask him a question about earlier? Would he know anything? As she stood in the doorway, still undecided on her direction, she figured if the doorman had been a part of whatever it was she was involved in, he’d have been long gone by now. Maybe he’d remember something. Turning towards the older man again, she asked, “Do you remember me arriving earlier, by any chance?”

“Yes, Miss. I do. I let you out of the car.”

Right – that memory returned to her, at least. “Yes, you did. Thank you. Do you know the driver of that car? Have you ever seen it or him before?”

“No, Miss, can’t say that I do, but then we have a lot of black Mercedes dropping guests off. Is everything alright?” The corners of his eyes were crinkly with age, the irises a comforting hazel colour. She knew she could trust him.

“You didn’t happen to see a tall grey-haired man, probably in his seventies, come in here by chance, did you? Quite a distinguished-looking man, very stylish?”

The doorman thought for a moment and shook his head. “No, Miss, but he may have come while I was on my break. I’ve been back about an hour. Are you sure you’re all right? You seem a little nervous, upset even. Can I get you a taxi somewhere, perhaps?”

Ignoring his question and concern, she asked, “Is there another entrance to the hotel?”

“Not for guests. Only the rear entrance, but that’s mainly for staff. You know, for deliveries and the like. He wouldn’t have entered that way.” The doorman scratched his chin as he thought. “Though he could have if he’d wanted to, I suppose. Highly unusual, though. Why would anyone enter that way?”

Why indeed.

Taylor still had no answers to the fizzing questions, but as exhaustion settled into her bones, she knew what she was going to do next.

“I think I’d like that taxi home, please.”

“It will be my pleasure, Miss,” the doorman said, and she watched as the kindly man hailed her a cab.

When the taxi had pulled away from the curb, he stood and watched the vehicle disappear off into the distance, the taillights eventually fading to the size of red pinheads. The big question that hung on his heart surfaced again. What had happened to her beautiful hair? It had been the same woman for sure; he wasn’t such an old fool to have forgotten it so easily – the colour was glorious. But it was none of his business. Another car pulled up and he greeted its occupants in his usual way.

Back to work, and back to normal.

Chapter Sixteen

Steam from the bathtub filled her small bathroom and she added a dash of lavender bubble bath; the white bubbles foamed up on contact with the water gushing in. Somehow, she’d given the taxi driver her address and unlocked the door to her flat, though she didn’t remember any of it. Maybe her brain was still addled from whatever she’d been given earlier. She climbed into the tub and the warm water got to work on warming and soothing her aching limbs. Stress can do odd things to a person, show itself in odd ways, and Taylor started to shiver uncontrollably as she lowered herself further in. Slipping down so her shoulders were completely submerged, she let out a deep breath and closed her eyes. The lavender smelled good, the warm water felt good, but she didn’t feel good.

After a few minutes, the warmth began to soothe her, and she let her head slip down into the water. Her roughly cropped hair floated around the back of her head, no longer able to fan out around the front like it used to do. It felt so strange. What was her mother going to say tomorrow when she saw it? Taylor knew she’d be horrified, upset, mad even, but hadn’t a clue how to tell her what had really happened.

It wouldn’t be wise to tell.

No, she’d have to make her excuses, which in itself didn’t sit well. Lying to her parents was something she had never done, even as a teenager growing up. Lies meant you didn’t respect that person, and respect was something she had in spades for both of them. Whatever she’d got up to through the years she’d lived at home growing up, she’d told the truth and suffered any consequences that had followed. Even though her close friends had encouraged deceitfulness, she’d never obliged them. Her mother had bored it into her: ‘With lies you may go ahead in the world, but you can never go back.’

Yet she couldn’t face telling them the whole truth.

Feeling terribly ashamed at having been taken in, she sank her whole head under the bubbles, screwing her face up completely so as not to inhale any water, and there she stayed until she could hold her breath no longer.

“Bwahhh!” she hollered as she broke the surface of the water in a rush. Water sloshed over the sides of the tub and soaked the floor. She gulped air in frantically, trying to refill her lungs with much-needed oxygen. Startling herself, she sat shaking. Involuntarily her face screwed up like a child’s, her mouth forced down at the corners, and wracking great sobs erupted from her chest. Tears mixed with lavender water on her face as she let it all out in the sanctuary of her warm bathroom. With no one to hear her cries, she sobbed until she had nothing left to give, and the water had cooled enough to add to her misery. When she was finally depleted, she opened the plug and stepped out of the tub and into her robe. Feeling as tired as she could ever remember, Taylor curled up on her bed. What was left of her hair soaked her pillow, but that was the least of her concerns as she finally drifted into a deep slumber.

Chapter Seventeen

When the notification had come that his transaction was ready to be finalized, Terrance poured himself a martini and took it downstairs with him. He never referred to the room as a cellar; that sounded dank and fusty. But like a cellar, the room was underneath the main kitchen of the house. Few people knew it existed; certainly, none of the current staff did, and years ago it hadn’t held the same things it did now. No, he’d kept his interests away from the house back then – that is, until he’d taken on the place as his own. Then he’d done with it what he liked. And the room had been fitted out. Working after hours, the builder, carpenter, electrician, glazier and others had been paid handsomely to never mention the room to anyone, and as far as Terrance knew, they hadn’t.

Leading off the main passageway towards the old coal cellar further along was a door that no passerby would notice; it had been built to match the walls completely. Terrance raised his hand to find the small lever hidden by a beam. The wall slid back and the faint glow behind it spilled out into the corridor. Terrance stood in the doorway a moment to admire his collection from a distance before entering the room fully and appreciating it in its entirety. The door slowly closed behind him as he ventured forward to his wing chair in the centre of the room. It was the only piece of furniture in there save for the purpose-built cabinets that spanned each of the four walls. The chair stood on a circular plinth that rotated 360 degrees, enabling the person seated there to view any wall they chose by pressing a button.

Built of a rich, dark oak, each cabinet was divided up into three separate display cases stood on top of each other; each stacked unit was wide enough to span the entire width of the wall against which it stood. Most of the display cases were filled, leaving only a handful still empty. The brass hinges and knobs of each case gleamed in the light that came from strategically placed wall lights, giving the room an almost golden glow. The temperature of the room was always perfect: never too warm and absolutely never too cold. Placing his martini on the little table that shared the plinth with the chair, he sat down to experience the room in its entirety. He sank back, let out a deep, low sigh and pressed the button, relishing the anticipation. Ever so slowly, the chair turned, giving him a full 360-degree view of all of the items that he had collected over the years, each one with a different story attached to it.

Of course, things had changed, and his collection had increased in recent years thanks to what he’d been able to find on the dark web. It really had been a revelation to find others with similar wants and needs, as well as a way to procure for his own private collection, and all from the comfort of his own home. He barely needed to be involved in anything else but the receiving of his purchases.

The chair continued to rotate and he smiled as the very first piece of his collection came in to view. It was old now, though still just as beautiful as the day he’d taken ownership of it, and it sat displayed in cabinet number 1. There was a small plaque just above the glass, though he didn’t need to read it; he knew exactly what it said.

Prudence.

She had been the first, the catalyst for his whim, and she’d been very giving of it.

Eventually.

He took a sip of the martini as the plinth turned slowly. It wouldn’t be long now until his new arrival would take one of those reserved places and he could sit and appreciate it from his sanctuary. The thought pleased him; he felt a smile creasing his lips, a familiar stirring in his groin. She had been so delightful, so pretty. But before a cabinet was allocated with the rest of his collection, he’d have the pleasure of her in the privacy of his bed tonight.

He wondered what she’d smell of.

Picking up the remainder of his drink, he stood from the chair and headed back towards the hidden doorway. Before the lights dimmed as he left, he turned and took one last glance into the room to admire his collection so far.

Shining back at him silently, the thirty perfectly displayed glorious ponytails faded slowly as the golden lights dipped. He put a finger to his lips as he bid them good night.

Chapter Eighteen

It was nearly 8 pm when a text alerted him to a delivery arriving within the hour. Always ambiguous, never with a singular meaning, the text disappeared within seconds of him reading it. No one could ever know about the service he sought for his fulfilment, and as always, he was appreciative of the tight security. Since he’d begun using the services of the group, he’d never known the identity of any of the other participants. Each of them had a username that probably made sense to them alone and no one else. Take his own, for example: “Quinine.” Nearly 200 years before, Joseph Dubonnet had invented his eponymous drink as a means to make quinine more palatable for soldiers battling malaria in North Africa. Quinine on its own is extremely bitter, though Terrance didn’t see himself that way – quite the opposite, in fact – but the link to Dubonnet, however circuitous, was why he’d chosen the name.

Leaving his phone on his bedside cabinet, he headed through to the full-size bathroom adjacent to his room and drew himself a bath. At any other time of the day or night, he used the shower, the raindrop head allowing him the enjoyment of warm running water on his skin without the intrusion of invigorating jets. But on a night such as this, while he awaited his acquisition, he took sanctuary in the palatial room that the queen herself would have enjoyed bathing in. It had been planned out and designed meticulously, and nothing had been forgotten in the effort to make it a room of enjoyment. There was no toilet in this room, for obvious reasons; that was in a room of its own next door. Instead, a chaise longue sat proudly along the rear wall with soft, muted grey throw cushions neatly placed on top; a soft woollen blanket was folded and placed at the foot of it. The bath, with modern claw feet, sat in the centre of the room; cream shag pile carpet surrounded it. Brushed bronze tapware adorned the ceramic fittings, and bronze accessories adorned the room on shelves and small tables, along with a bronze bust of a woman watching over him from the left corner of the room. A picture of the same woman hung on the opposite wall, placed as though to allow the two to look at each other.

Terrance watched as steaming water filled the tub from a bronze horse-head spout, the waterfall cascading therapeutically and mixing with the infused oil he so enjoyed. Lime and basil filled his nostrils. He loved the simple smells rather than more elaborate manufactured perfumes, and that went for fragrances on women, too. He’d much rather catch a vanilla bean on the wind than the cloying odour of something from an expensive bottle; it had more substance. He had fond memories of simple smells from when he was a boy, like Pears shampoo. ‘Fruits from the orchard,’ she’d told him when he’d admired the smell many years ago.

He stepped into the warm bath and laid his head back on the soft-towelled headrest; it was heated, and the warmth it emitted helped to relax him further. Classic music, the tinkling of piano keys, could just be heard coming from the hidden speakers on each side of his head. The muted lighting, the feel of infused water and oil on his skin and the gentle piano playing in the background was the therapy he needed before he welcomed his new addition.

How long ago it was that he’d first found his fascination. Glancing at the bronze bust looking over him, he smiled at the woman and idly wondered if perhaps she was still alive someplace. He’d never kept in touch after he’d taken what he’d so desired, what she had made him desire. She was the one who had led him to start his collection, to take hers first, to cherish it, to preserve it, to mount it in a cabinet. The first cabinet, the one numbered ‘1,’ with the name Prudence on the plaque. He felt himself stir at the thought of her, of how she’d used to sit on the edge of his bed as a young boy and tell him a story. Of how her eyes would twinkle as she spoke, how her soft-looking lips would move with her words and how her hair would shine. But it was when a nightmare came and he called out into the night that she would come from her room next door in her long nightdress, her hair loose around her shoulders. That was what he had found the most fascinating. And soothing. She’d lean in to him and stroke his hair to quiet him down, and he’d catch the smell of her hair. Fruity like an orchard. He could smell it now as clearly as though she were sitting there now, even over the lime and basil; it was there with him, always.

“Your hair always smells nice, Prudence,” he’d said one night while she helped him get back to sleep. “And so soft too.” His little fingers had reached up and touched it, stroked it and run themselves back down, through it. She’d bent her head into his touch, enjoying the feeling of someone’s affection. Young Terrance had fallen asleep filled with calm then, and whenever a nightmare had come after that, she’d used her hair to help him back to sleep. Terrance had had many nightmares growing up, though he could never say what they had been about exactly when she questioned him.

Forty-five minutes later, he emerged from his bathroom feeling relaxed, though anticipation was now subtly taking over. He made his way downstairs to await the text message that would tell him a delivery would be made within the following five minutes. He didn’t have long to wait. The lights of a car on his driveway could be seen through the trees now, and he opened the front door and stepped outside. When the black car had come to a standstill, a man in a black suit and driver’s cap took a slim, polished wood box out of the rear of the car and approached Terrance with it. It was about two feet long and just a few inches deep. He carried it like he was carrying the crown jewels, treating it with reverence as he walked slowly towards its new owner. Knowing what was inside, Terrance smiled inside and stretched out his arms to take ownership of the latest for his collection. The man handed the box over, then silently turned and climbed back into the black Mercedes to drive back the way he’d just come.

Terrance waited for the lights to completely disappear then closed the door and headed upstairs to his bedroom and the long-anticipated experience with Taylor Palmer’s long cognac locks.

As the driver headed away, the tiny chip embedded in the wooden lid confirmed the package had been delivered to the requested address, and a signal pinged on a screen somewhere back in London.

Another transaction had successfully been completed.

Chapter Nineteen

Griffin hadn’t expected her to get off at the same stop as his; he’d only decided what to do if she got off at a stop before his. And that was ‘do nothing’ anyway, so it wasn’t much of a plan. But now she was close by, just behind him somewhere, and he had precisely no idea what to do next. Walking forward down the platform towards the entrance and home, he fiddled with his iPhone and ear buds, his hands all thumbs and no fingers as he fumbled to undo a knot in the wires. He slowed his pace and moved over to the side, out of the way, as other passengers hurried past him.

“Can I help?” The small voice was coming from his left side and he froze. Summoning up his courage, he turned to look at the owner of the voice and was both startled and thrilled all at the same time. ‘Velma’ was looking at him for an answer.

“I . . . I . . .” he stammered, and then froze again. She smiled. He melted a little. Only a little.

“Here, let me help you,” she said. “My fingers are smaller than yours. I’ll be twice as quick as you.”

She reached for the wires. Griffin found himself handing them over and watching as her nimble fingers did indeed undo the knot in no time at all. She handed his ear buds back, smiling up at him.

“There. Told you it’d be quick.” Her petite face took in his, though while hers looked relaxed, Griffin’s was tense with anxiety. He still hadn’t uttered a full word. ‘Velma’ waited. It seemed like an age before he finally mumbled his thanks.

“Thanks. It was bugging me.” Finally.

“What are you listening to?” They started walking towards the entrance together again. It was less embarrassing than waiting for him to speak.

“Guns N’ Roses. Well, I was going to, but I’m talking to you now so I’m not listening to anything.” It came out a little more abrupt than he meant it to. ‘Velma’ felt the sting and glanced up at him. He backtracked a little.

“Sorry. I meant I will be listening to it, but obviously not right at this minute. That would be rude.” He chanced a nervous smile, his perfect white teeth peeping out from his lips a little awkwardly.

“I’ve seen you before. On the train. Where do you work?” Her voice bounced in a sort of singsong as she spoke. And the thought of her noticing him previously sent a tingle somewhere down his spine. He liked it.

“Green Park. I’m a sports reporter. How about you?”

“I work in IT just near Victoria station. I live here in South Croydon. I’m guessing you do too, since you got off here?”

Is she always so chipper and forward? he wondered.

“Yes, I do.” They both walked through the exit door and out to the road. “I live over there, just behind the church. I have a flat,” he said, pointing to a nearby spire.

“Lucky you. I’m a bit further on down, on Whitgift Avenue. I still live with my parents. Can’t afford a place of my own yet. Too damned expensive.”

Griffin mumbled a reply along the lines of ‘I hear you,’ and, still feeling very self-conscious, didn’t add anything further. They were nearly at his address when he found his words.

“I’m nearly home now. Thanks for sorting my buds out. Perhaps I’ll see you again, on the train?”

“What’s your name?”

“Sorry?”

“I said what’s your name?”

“Griffin. It’s Griffin.”

She stuck her hand out and, after several seconds of staring at it, he took it in his. They shook.

“Nice to meet you, Griffin. I’m Vee. That’s what everyone calls me. I’m Vera, really, but I don’t like it, so stick with Vee.”

“Nice to meet you too, Vee.”

She was already walking off as he spoke but she turned and gave a little wave. He was sure he heard her say ‘I hope so,’ or did he imagine it? He hoped he hadn’t. She was cute.

Opening his front door, he thought back to Vee on the train when their eyes had caught each other’s, and how she did look like Velma Dinkley – glasses, haircut, height, everything about her. And she was called Vee. What a coincidence. And she’d spoken to him even though it had scared him half to death. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Her speaking to him? Because if it had been left up to Griffin to make the first move in greeting, the world would still be waiting. But then she had been very confident in her approach, something he lacked. When he was at the right place, he’d take a confidence-building course or something, but until then, there wasn’t much point. Work, walk, web were the routines of his life, his very existence; his walking counteracted the time he sat still at work and at home, surfing the web, most evenings. He spent a considerable amount of time online searching each night, trying to find the best option for his situation, and he was still a way off finding the solution. So he kept on looking.

Griffin took his satchel and put it in the cupboard before taking his clothes off and folding them all neatly in a pile on the end of his bed. He replaced them with training shorts and a T-shirt and collected his running shoes from a different cupboard. He downed 250 millilitres of water from the jug in the fridge and set out on his usual route to complete his 10,000 steps, pulling the door shut behind him. His mind ventured back to Vee’s petite face. She really was quite pretty. He was almost at the small park when he realized he’d been humming as he’d walked. Griffin never hummed.

But something had made him. Or someone, more to the point.

Chapter Twenty

His perfectly timed repetitive morning routine complete for the day, Griffin left his flat and walked the short distance to the train station. He’d slept well and blamed his slightly lighter feeling on rest as he walked briskly to his usual spot on the platform. Elvis in his ears, he found himself looking around, searching the others who were waiting for the train, but Vee wasn’t one of them. Pity. If she was going to catch this one, she’d better be quick, but as the familiar clicking of the tracks sounded, signalling an approaching train, she was nowhere to be seen. The engine pulled up ahead; his usual carriage stopped directly in front of him and he waited for the doors to ping open. One last glance back up the platform before he boarded told him she wasn’t going to be on this train.

His train.

Sitting in one of his three usual seats – his choice depended on who else was on board – he resigned himself to the fact his ear buds would be his entertainment for the remainder of the journey in to work.

That evening was a different matter.

At 5.30 pm on the dot, Griffin left the office and headed to Victoria station, buds in his ears, Guns N’ Roses playing for his return journey.

He felt her before he saw her. Glancing to his left, he could see that Vee was just about by his side, her petite face with its thick glasses smiling up at him. While she wasn’t particularly small, Griffin was nearly a foot taller at six foot four.

“Hey,” was all he could muster, though he knew he wanted to say more. But what exactly?

“Hey back. I wondered if I might see you on the way home.” Her smile turned out to be infectious. Well, just a little. He smiled down at her through barely open lips, although his smile was nowhere near as blazing as hers.

“Good day at work?” It felt a safe subject, less awkward perhaps. There was always the weather.

“Yes. You?”

“It was okay. Nothing special. Deadline was yesterday so there’s always a bit of a breather the following one. Not much goes on.” Thinking, he asked, “What is it you do in IT? It’s a big subject.” They carried on walking towards the station up ahead.

“I’m in cyber security, actually. I work for a private firm. They do a lot of computer forensics for businesses. You know, like when someone leaves a company and tries to take a copy of the database with them. Or trying to defraud the company through dodgy accounting – that sort of thing.”

“That sounds interesting. A bit more so than sports reporter.” They had almost reached the platform while they talked; Griffin felt a little more relaxed with each step and her easy conversation. And her easy manner.

“It can have its moments. It’s mainly dull digging, until you find a clue, that is. Of course, I’m not much higher up than a gopher at the moment, but I’m working on it.”

The train was waiting at the platform and Griffin guided them both to ‘his’ carriage before sitting down. She sat next to him. It felt pleasant.

“I enjoy it,” she continued, “though I’d like to get a bit more involved with cases than I am at the moment, but I’m learning. And learning to be patient. And of course, I can do some of my own research in my own time. You know, in the dark web as well as the surface web.”

“You spend a bit of time in there, do you? The dark web?” Griffin’s interest was piqued a little more. The dark web wasn’t something people openly talked about much, though a lot of what a person could find there was perfectly legitimate.

“I do at the moment. Have you ever been inside?”

With her perfectly innocent face looking up at him, he hesitated before replying. Tell the truth or avoid it?

“Just a little.” Each night. . . There – that wasn’t completely a lie.

“Cool! So if you know about it and have been there, you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

Oh, yes. I know, indeed.

She went on. “What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever stumbled across while you’ve been surfing?”

“I’ve not stumbled across anything weird, actually. It’s a bit hard to ‘stumble,’ as you put it, but I’ve checked into some of the drug chat rooms, for article research, you know – doping in sports, that sort of thing. Why? What have you stumbled on?”

The train jolted forward with a clank as they finally set off in the direction of home, the carriage full of tired commuters headed back with them. Vee lowered her voice in the crowded carriage and semi-whispered in his ear. The warmth of her breath on his skin as she spoke felt good. Very good. He hoped he wasn’t blushing. He hadn’t been so close to a female in a long time.

“Nothing really weird or anything like that. But I have figured out a couple of places I’d like to peek into. I’m a bit scared, though, of what I’ll find there, so I haven’t bothered.” Hurriedly she added, “Nothing freaky – just a bit different. I shall say no more.” She gave a sort of half-nod to the surrounding people in the carriage, some with flapping ears no doubt, clearly not wanting to risk being overheard. Having a fair idea of the types of things she might have found access into, he merely nodded to her in reply and said nothing.

And of course, he didn’t mention what he had been looking into while he surfed, either. That had to remain private for a good while yet. He hardly knew her; even though he found himself liking her, he had no idea what her reaction would be. No. It was way too soon.

Chapter Twenty-One

Taylor awoke with sore eyes and turned towards her alarm clock, which sat on the night-table not far from her pillow. After spending a sleepless night filled with questions and tears, she’d finally dozed off. The clock read a little after 8 am; the last time she’d checked, it had read 5 am. Three fretful hours was all she’d managed. And now she felt like shit. Her head pounded like a madman trying to kick his way out of his cell, and she knew without looking in a mirror how red-rimmed her eyes would be. She could almost feel the crimson glow of them as she lay there. There was no rush of yesterday’s nightmare returning, because it had never left her in the first place. No rush needed. She felt numb, lifeless even, and certainly not in the mood to celebrate her homecoming at her parents’ place, with all their neighbours and friends tagging along. No. Her most immediate problem was how was she going to get out of going today and avoid explaining what had happened. And tidy her hair up in a rush. What was left of it, that is. She reached for her phone and dialled her mother.

“Hello, darling! You’re an early bird.” Always a happy singsong in her voice; Taylor wished she could match it.

“Morning, Mum. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Not at all. I’m just drinking tea sat up in bed, thinking about your father’s and my next trip. I fancy Florence but I don’t think your dad’s that keen. Says he’d like to go a bit further east and see some of the eastern European countryside for a change. God only knows what for.”

“He’s always liked the less touristy places, Mum. It’s you that dislikes them.” Her voice sounded flat and mono in comparison to her mother’s bright pitch. Her mother picked up on it in an instant.

“What’s wrong, darling? You sound unwell.”

Thanks, Mum. That’s because I’ve been violated.

“Well, that’s why I’m ringing, actually. I’ve been up all night and I look and feel terrible. I think I should stay put today. I don’t want to wreck your get-together.” There really was no lie there; it was God’s honest truth.

“Oh, dear. That really is unfortunate. Everyone wants to see you. But if you’re unwell … then I guess you’d better stay where you are. It’s probably something from the plane journey home. Your father generally catches something when he travels.” That was the truth, too.

“Sorry, Mum. Maybe I’ll be a bit better later on; we’ll see. And I love your roasts too, so I must be bad if I’m going to miss one.” Another truth.

“Well, you stay where you are, dear, and look after yourself. I’ll call you later. Try and get back to sleep if you can. The rest will do you good. I’ll handle the rest of the family and we’ll see you when you’re feeling better. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Mum. Love you.” Taylor forced a smile as she hung up, imagining her mother sat propped up in bed with pillows, a mug of tea in one hand and the phone in the other. It’s what she did on mornings they were both at home together and not rushing off anywhere. Dad made her tea and delivered it every morning. He treated her like royalty.

Taylor pulled the duvet up under her chin, lay perfectly still and closed her sore eyes for a moment. The conversation had been easier than she’d anticipated, but all she’d really done was stall the inevitable. Buying some time wouldn’t get rid of the problem, only delay it, but she hoped by the time she had to confront it, she’d be in a stronger state. At the moment, she doubted she had the strength to knock the skin off a rice pudding. With fond thoughts of her father dutifully following her mother around the sights and shops of Florence, sleep crept up on her and carried her on until lunchtime.

For the rest of the day, or what was left of it, Taylor busied herself in her small flat. Being away for so long meant dust had gathered in unseen corners and was a welcome distraction as she vacuumed and scrubbed and generally re-arranged things. By the time 6 pm had come, the place looked like a magazine shoot. A knock on the door startled her. No one knew she was back yet and, remembering the vacuum cleaner’s noise, she figured it was probably a neighbour. Without thinking, she opened the door. The look on her mother’s face reminded her instantly of the events her spring clean had pushed to one side of her head for a while. Her mother’s mouth was wide open in an oval. A small toy train could have driven through the entrance.

Exclaiming and covering her mouth at the same time, she said, “My goodness – your hair! What have you done to it?”

Taylor felt herself go numb. She stared emptily at her mother’s horrified expression; vaguely, she felt tears forming of their own free will and trickling down her face. Her mother ventured forward and wrapped her arms around her daughter’s shoulders, as a strangled howl burst from her chest. Taylor flung her arms around her mother and pulled her tight, her chin resting on her shoulder as violent sobs wracked her body.

Her mother’s shock gave way to concern for her daughter, and she stroked the top of Taylor’s head just as Taylor’s father appeared in the doorway carrying a wicker basket. Knowing immediately that something was wrong, he silently entered the room, closed the door behind him, and joined in with his arms around them both as best he could.

Finally, Taylor’s sobs subsided. She pulled slowly out of her parents’ embrace and looked at each of them in turn. Leonard and Judy Palmer stared back at her, dumbfounded. They couldn’t even begin to imagine what had actually happened.

Taylor swiped a hand across her eyes. “I’d better tell you both what has happened, then we can decide what to do about it. Though I suspect it might be too late to do anything.”

Her parents took Taylor’s cue and sat down with her in the small sitting room area. When she’d gathered the energy, she told them both what had happened.

As best she could remember.

Chapter Twenty-Two

It’s a common reaction for the mothers of most species: protect their young from harm at all costs. Judy Palmer was like a tiger keeping her cub safe after an intruder had been in the vicinity. She was on edge now, alert, and pacing the room. Leonard had hardly said a word; his wife had done enough talking for the both of them.

Taylor, on the other hand, had calmed right down after she had finished telling her story and almost fallen asleep with sheer exhaustion after too little sleep and too many tears. Through heavy lids, she glanced at her father for encouragement. While she loved her mother dearly, it was her father whom she took after the most in terms of her emotions and mannerisms. They had the same shade of green eyes, though his hair was fair rather than red. And she accentuated the colour at the salon to make it even richer. She absentmindedly reached back now to find a few strands to play with, and then realized there was nothing there. How could you miss your hair so much? Her father brought her back to the present by finally speaking.

“If Taylor doesn’t want to report it, then I think we have to honour her wishes, Jude. She’s not a child anymore, and if she feels unsure about the threat, as I would, I don’t blame her. We don’t know quite what she may have been mixed up in.” His calming overtones seemed to make the room sag a little and relax from the recent tension.

“And I don’t agree at all,” his wife shouted from where she was stood looking down at the street below. The sky was autumn grey, and she watched as people below scurried on their way before the threatening rain started in earnest. She turned back into the room.

“Goodness only knows what could have happened in that room – drugged, for heaven’s sake! That’s serious cause for concern, Leonard.”

“I agree, Jude, but apart from her hair, nothing else has been stolen. She hasn’t been harmed, thankfully. Maybe we should let it rest and help her get over it. Reporting it will only make her relive it and drag the whole thing out for heaven knows how long. Maybe it’s best to start the healing process now rather than in a week or two.”

Taylor listened as her parents bantered back and forth like a badminton match. The shuttlecock was now in her mother’s court. She picked it up and whacked it hard across the net.

“Trust you to be the one for an easy route, Leonard Palmer. No balls –that’s you.”

“There’s no need for swiping, Mum. Calm down. We can only cope with one person ready to chop heads off, and that’s you. Dad is just balancing the situation with calmness like he does when you get so excited.”

“I’m not excited, I’m livid!” Judy Palmer screamed at them both and they jumped slightly.

“Mum. Please, try and calm down a bit, will you? It’s not getting us anywhere. I’ve no idea what they meant by ‘it wouldn’t be wise,’ but I sure don’t want to find out, either. Let it go, would you?”

Taylor’s energy was severely depleted and her nerves were vibrating like banjo strings. Her mother’s anger was making matters worse, not better. Taylor moved over to her father and sat on the floor between his legs for comfort. Instinctively he stroked the top of her head, something he’d done all her life when she’d been upset and needed calming. It didn’t bother her that, even at 25 years old, she still found it a comfort. Judy relented.

“And what’s that about the debt being repaid? What’s all that about?”

“I’ve really no clue, Mum, I’ve not thought of much else since I got home last night. Nothing makes any sense. You’re about as wise to the answers as I am. But I’m not reporting it, Mum. Really, I’m not. And that’s the end of it.”

“Well, if you’ve made up your mind, I’ll support your decision. I might not agree with it, but there you go.” She sounded almost petulant but at least she’d stopped yelling. “I could do with a drink. Leonard, open that bottle we brought in the basket, would you, dear?” Turning to Taylor, she added, “We brought you a plated roast dinner from earlier, in case you felt like it later. Now I understand why you didn’t want to come round.” Her deep sigh could be heard in each corner of the room, the sound of frustration tinged with disappointment.

“I’ll put the plate in the oven to warm through. Then it’ll be ready for when you want it,” her dad said as he walked to the kitchen for glasses. A moment later, he was pouring three goblets of red, one for each of them.

“Look, I appreciate your concern, really I do, and the roast dinner. But I’m a bit scared of any repercussions and I want to move on and put it behind me. You can understand that, can’t you, Mum?” The room stayed silent for a few seconds; not an awkward silence, but the silence of relenting.

“Of course, my darling, of course. But let me do something for you.” Finally, she was speaking calmly to her daughter. Normality was resuming.

“What, Mum?”

“Let me see if Jeremy could make a house call and wave his magic wand on the hair you have left. You’d feel better, I’m sure, if you didn’t have the constant reminder each time you see your reflection. I’m sure he’d do me a favour and pay a visit. I’ve been going to his salon for long enough.” Taylor knew what her mum was saying was right. She would feel better if her hair was styled nicely rather than the jagged look she currently sported. And if it kept the peace and calmed her mum down, then she could oblige her that.

“I’ll call him now and see when he can do it. The sooner the better, I think.”

At least now that a semi-unanimous decision had been made not to report the incident, Taylor could get on with the business of forgetting. And having her hair sorted.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“I can’t believe how soon the date has come around, hun. It doesn’t feel like five minutes since you told me.” Jeremy was trimming Amanda’s already short hair as he chatted.

“I know. Time passes so quickly these days. I’ve no idea where it goes, but I certainly seem to miss it when it passes through. But yes, six whole weeks and we will be bride and bride.” The smile on Amanda’s face said it all. When Ruth had proposed some months ago, they hadn’t seen any reason to wait like many engaged couples did. What was the point? And even now, it was only because the venue they wanted was fully booked that they’d decided to wait. If it had been Amanda’s decision only, they’d be doing it in the back garden and having takeaway afterwards, but it wasn’t just her decision. And if Ruth wanted a bigger affair, then she’d give it to her. Amanda was just pleased to be making their relationship official in the company of their family and friends.

“I’m so pleased for you, hun. I wish I was the one settling down, to tell you the truth. But alas, still too much of a playboy, I think.” He gave Amanda a flirtatious wink. “While I’m still young, that is.”

With mock annoyance, she retorted, “Cheeky sod! I’m not old. But I know what you mean.”

Jeremy was pumping styling mousse into his hand when he exclaimed, “Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you. I’ve got gossip.” He rubbed mousse into her hair, then wiped his sticky hands on a nearby towel.

“What, you? Jeremy the hairdresser nearly forgetting gossip? Are you feeling unwell, by chance?” Sarcastic. She caught an affectionate slap on her arm for her tone.

“I don’t gossip! I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never spoken ill of anyone.” Then he added, “But I’ve thought it,” winking at Amanda’s reflection in the mirror, and they both burst out laughing. He grabbed the hairdryer.

“But seriously,” he went on, “I had to make a house call last weekend, on a Sunday no less. To attend to an urgent matter,” he said in a more sinister voice.

“What was so urgent that someone needed a hairdresser on a Sunday?”

“Are you ready for this?” he said, leaning in to her ear so he couldn’t be overheard, giving an extra frisson of theatre and intrigue to the coming story. Jeremy had missed his calling; he should have been an actor.

“The daughter of a client had apparently had her hair chopped off. Severed completely. In a prank, apparently. What do you make of that, then?” He stood fully upright behind her, a look of pure incredulity on his face in the mirror as he watched for Amanda’s reaction.

She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.

“My thoughts exactly,” he said in a satisfied tone. “It looked to me like they’d taken her ponytail, from what was left. Tied her hair up high to get the most hair, and then ‘chop!’” he added, sweeping his hand down like a guillotine blade. “What kind of friends does this girl have, I asked myself? And she had such gorgeous red hair, too – it would have been spectacular in all its glory. And now it’s gone.”

“That’s meanness on the grandest scale. Who would do such a thing?”

“I know, right? I said she should have reported it to the police.” He turned on the hairdryer and it whirred into action. He began to run his fingers running expertly through her hair, tousling it dry. Amanda raised her voice to be heard over its din.

“So why didn’t she?”

“Didn’t want the fuss, I suppose. And really, what could the police do – slap them on the wrist?”

Amanda had to agree there. An assault charge would be all, and, really, who would bother?

“Well, I hope she’ll make some nicer friends and ditch the culprits who did it. Was she bullied, do you know? Is that why these ‘friends’ did it?”

“Not from what I could see. She was a very beautiful and confident young woman, just home from working in New York. I don’t know her myself; only her mother, the one who called me. But who would know?”

He turned the hairdryer off. Amanda’s short hair took only moments to dry. They began to speak normally again as Jeremy rubbed hair putty onto his hands. Running his fingers through her hair once more, he teased it into shape, fiddling with the hair around her face. When he was satisfied, he stood back and smiled.

“You look gorgeous. Amanda Lacey, as always. Your hairdresser has done a fine job once again,” he said, and beamed at her through the mirror. Amanda rolled her eyes at him and smiled her appreciation.

“Not really sure about the gorgeous part, but you do a great job. Thanks, Jeremy.” He pulled her chair back as she stood.

“And only one more visit before the big day,” Jeremy said as Amanda paid. He added thoughtfully, “I think I’ll open some bubbles at your next appointment to celebrate. What do you say?”

“I say maybe when you’ve finished my hair, not while you’re working on it. I don’t want to end up pink.”

“Now there’s an idea! Pink would so suit you. You should give it some thought – a nice baby pink.” Jeremy was seriously thinking about it now. He struck a pose, his bent forefinger resting between his lips and his hips thrust forward.

“I don’t think so. We’ll stick to blonde.”

He leaned in to peck her cheek. “Well, enjoy your day, and I’ll see you in five weeks, hun. Bridal hair, here we come!”

Leaving the salon with his astonishing gossip still ringing in her ears, Amanda’s thoughts were with the poor woman who had had her hair hacked off by her so-called friends. What a truly nasty thing to do.

What had the girl done that was bad enough to deserve that?

Chapter Twenty-Four

In his secret room, Terrance sat transfixed, perusing his acquisitions in tranquillity and privacy. No one knew he was there; no one could disturb him, and he took his time to appreciate his collection. He marvelled at how large it had become over the years, and yet with each addition, it still excited him to think how many more he could gather to feed his desire. The last cabinet to have been utilized now glowed with the others. Inside it, a long, beautiful piece of red hair was positioned perfectly to catch the light and show itself to him. A smile played on his lips at the recent memory of meeting the young woman who herself had worn it so well. That was why he had been drawn to her. The colour had glowed like a beacon to him, spoken to him out loud, and he had known at once that he had to have it. He hoped the woman hadn’t been too distraught when she’d awoken.

There had been nothing in the press; she’d been the sensible type and, as instructed, had left the ‘incident’ unreported. He silently thanked her for that. Not that it would have come back to his doorstep. Oh, no; the service he paid so handsomely would have seen to that. After all, that’s what he paid their steep fee for. Idly, he wondered what was in her past that they had on her to keep her from telling. Yes, he knew just how they operated. He’d seen the evidence, not from his own personal dealings with them, but via others who frequented the very specialized group. And that reminded him he still had a task to complete now he’d had his initial fun.

His smile widened as he thought back to that night – had that only been a few days ago? He’d taken the box and carried it carefully upstairs to his bedroom and placed it on his bed. Then he’d stripped and slid between the sheets, feeling the coolness of fresh cotton on his naked skin. He’d lain down, the box alongside his long lean body, and relished the knowledge that the best was yet to come. How long could he control himself before he stroked it? How long could he bear it so close to him, protected by its casing? His pulse had raced, throbbing in his neck like a second heart, and as his breath had caught in desire, he had known he couldn’t stand the wait any longer.

The lid had slipped back silently under his fingers and the fingers of his right hand had dared themselves to touch the contents. As the initial jolt of both satisfaction and desire shocked his body, he’d whimpered. To his touch it had felt like Mulberry silk, the softest silk in the world, and he’d dared himself to place his whole hand into the box and stoke it fully. He’d whimpered again, feeling himself harden, his heart beating hard with anticipation. When he could stand the sensation no longer, he’d pulled the hairpiece from its confines and brought it to his face. Taking a deep breath in, he’d held it. It smelled just as he’d hoped it would, of apples and pears and orchards gone by. With a long, satisfied sigh, he’d let his breath go and drunk its perfume in again, then again, and then again. With his eyes firmly closed, he’d reminisced about his boyhood nanny leaning forward to kiss him good night, her hair falling away from her face and touching his as she did so. It had smelled of orchards. He’d held the piece in one hand, running the fingers of the other through the softest of strands just like he had with Prudence’s hair. She’d liked it. And so had he. And it had soon become part of their evening routine together as she sat on the edge of his bed. She’d held her head still for him after each good-night kiss, and he’d taken as much of her hair as he could, slowly, relishing the feel of its softness between his fingers, stroking, enjoying. Her face was as clear in his mind as if she’d been sat there on the bed with him, gazing down at him with her own enjoyment in her eyes. He had smelled the apples and pears of Prudence’s shampoo, and, still stroking the cognac locks, had found his release.

Taylor Palmer’s glorious hair had been a delight to experience all on his own, to take his time with, but now he had one last task to do to complete the transaction at his end. He pulled his camera out of the secret compartment of the plinth and went towards the cabinet to retrieve the hair. The effect on him was instant as the softness once again touched his skin, sending a frizzle to his groin. He laid the hair down on the table, gently, carefully, as if it were alive, making sure it was well displayed in all its glory. Standing back to admire it again, he snapped several shots of it, allowing the light in the room to show it off from various angles. When he was satisfied he had what he needed, he carefully placed the piece back into the security of its own cabinet and let out the breath caught in his chest. With one last look at the room’s contents in their entirety, he slipped the memory card out of the camera and put it in his pocket, then left the room, the lights dimming slowly as he did so. Now all he had to do was log on and share his prize with others who appreciated his collection.

And share in theirs.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Come on in, Jack. You know the way.” Amanda held the door open for her partner, or her work husband, as she had been calling him lately. He was more like her work father in reality, though she took care of him more than he did her. Amanda watched as he made his way down the hall towards her kitchen at the back, a six-pack of Heineken in one hand, a bottle of red in the other. Looks like he’s in the mood for a drink or two, she mused. Placing the booze on the worksurface, he took a can from the pack and pulled the ring open; creamy froth filled the opening. He wasn’t quick enough to put his mouth over the hole and froth spilled over.

“Shit,” was all she heard, and she smiled at the older man. It wouldn’t be long now until he retired, and she often thought about how that would change her work life, having to get used to another person’s ways and foibles like she had with Jack. And like Jack had with her, if she was being fair. Still, he had that fatherly thing going on, and since her father was long gone she’d allowed the relationship to swing that way. Even though she was technically his boss, they were more like equals.

As she entered the kitchen and reached for a glass for herself, she asked, “Want a glass or are you drinking from the can today? Which will you make the least mess with?”

“Since I’m at your house, I should have a glass. I don’t want to bring the standards down, eh?” His smile was always a comfort to her no matter what her mood, and she reached up for a tall, dimpled glass and handed it to him. He watched as she poured wine into her own before he took a mouthful from his. He clunked his glass with hers and smacked his lips.

“Cheers, Lacey. I’ve been looking forward to a beer all day. Where’s Ruth? She not joining us?”

“She’ll be here shortly. She’s gone to pick dinner up. I know I said we’d cook, but neither of us has been organized enough, so we ordered take-out.”

“Fine by me. I’ll eat anything, as you know. As long as it’s hot if it’s supposed to be hot and cold if it’s supposed to be cold, I’m easy.” He downed a couple of long mouthfuls, making his glass less than half full.

“You thirsty today, then?” she asked, pointing to his glass. “You’ll be on the floor if you’re not careful. You know you’re a lightweight when it comes to alcohol.”

“I must be the only detective in the world that can’t hold his drink. Never been any different. Two whiskies, max, and I’m done.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” she said. “I’d rather work with a lightweight than a drunk. At least your head is clear.” She sipped her red wine as the front door opened and a woman’s voice called ‘Hello.’

“Down here,” Amanda called back, and couldn’t help the smile that broke out on her face. Jack didn’t miss its arrival either. He was glad she’d finally found someone to settle down with, just like he had done many years ago with his Janine. But she was gone now, gone from the world forever, but never from his heart. When he was feeling particularly melancholy, he played a particular song from his ELO CD, “Sweet Talkin’ Woman.” It usually made his eyes well up. He missed his Janine every single day.

Ruth’s footsteps on the hardwood floor brought him back to the present, and as she leaned in and pecked him on the cheek in greeting, he realized these two women in his life were a blessing. It’s not often a man finds two women to love in his later years; these two were the family he’d never had. Ruth ruffled his salt-and-pepper hair affectionately with her hand, sending wispy bits in all directions.

“Time for a trim, young Jack, isn’t it?” Ruth teased him at every opportunity.

“Cheeky sod. When you’ve not got much up top, you can do with all the hair help you can get. Wait until you get to your fifties – you’ll have your own issues to worry about, mark my words. Just different issues to hair on your head.” Thinking and grinning he added, “Like hair on your chin.” Ruth’s hand raised in a mock swipe, pretend outrage on her face. Amanda burst out laughing at them both.

“Would you listen to you two? Anyone would think you’re the first people to get old. I’m starved. Can we eat, please?” Ruth handed the plastic bag over; the faint smell of hot Chinese food filled the kitchen. “I got a double of pork balls, purely because Amanda and I will eat so many that there wouldn’t have been enough to go round with only one portion.”

“I don’t know how you keep so slim. Do you not eat anything else?”

“It’s called running, Jack. You should try it sometime,” she said, and patted his soft midriff as she passed him to get a glass of wine.

Jack one point, Ruth one point.

Amanda changed the conversation to something a little more serious as she removed lids off trays and placed the food in the centre of the table. Sweet-and-sour scented steam rose invitingly.

“Talking of hair, I had an interesting yet a bit disturbing conversation with Jeremy in the hair salon.”

“I can see how that would be disturbing,” Jack chimed in, and Ruth laughed with him.

“There’s nothing wrong with Jeremy. He’s just a bit of a drama queen, that’s all.” She knew she’d said the wrong words as soon as they’d left her mouth, and all three erupted in laughter. Amanda flapped her hands, trying to bring some decorum back to the table.

“No, this is serious. Listen to this.” She pushed on. “He was called to a house on Sunday evening, for a woman who was in need of some emergency attention.”

“Emergency hair attention?” Jack was confused. So was Ruth.

“Yes. And you’ll never guess why.”

“So tell us.”

“Someone had chopped her ponytail off, taken most of her hair. One of her ‘friends,’ apparently. Can you imagine that? Why would someone do such a cruel thing? I can’t imagine.”

“Wow, that’s wicked. And it must be distressing, too,” said Ruth. “No wonder he had to go over. Every time she looked in the mirror she’d have been horrified, I’m sure.”

Jack, ever the detective, had his own thoughts. “It was definitely a so-called friend? Was she bullied, perhaps?”

“I asked that, Jack, but no. A bright, confident young woman recently home from the US. Catching up with friends and her hair gets lopped off in a prank, presumably.”

Jack wasn’t entirely convinced. “Seems unlikely, though, doesn’t it? On the surface, I mean? You haven’t seen your mates because you’ve been overseas, then wham, they move in and, in what amounts to assault, chop your hair off? As a welcome home present? It doesn’t fit with me. There’s something more to it.” He put a pork ball in his mouth and tried to chew the whole thing. Tiny pieces of crispy batter fell from his lips. Ruth couldn’t help herself.

“Try cutting it up, Jack. You’ll have more joy keeping it all in your mouth.” Another point to Ruth. 1–2.

When he’d finally swallowed his mouthful, he said, “Fun fact alert.” Both women groaned but listened to what Jack was about to say. “Stolen hair is big business in some countries, actually. Venezuela, for instance. Women have been attacked in shopping malls for some time. One person holds the woman and another chops her hair off. It’s over in a matter of seconds and the women are usually too dazed to remember much about their attackers. They sell it on for wigs.” Jack was full of fun facts about all manner of things.

He cut another pork ball in half. Sensible.

“You think something is going on here, then, in London?” asked Amanda.

“Could be – why not? Hair is hair, and nothing surprises me anymore. Easy enough to sell on, I expect. You can sell anything these days, and don’t forget the dark web. It’s a whole shopping mall in itself. Want something peculiar or particular? There’s a place to purchase it from.”

“Well, it’s going to be a bit difficult to do much. The woman in question didn’t report it to the police, so there’s nothing to investigate. No case. Not officially, anyway.” Amanda topped up her wine glass and Ruth’s and opened a fresh can for Jack. “Doesn’t stop us keeping our ears open, though, does it?”

Jack understood full well what Amanda’s version of ‘keeping her ears open’ meant.

She’d be digging as soon as dinner was over.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Ruth, Amanda and Jack had both had more than their fair share of Chinese food, the remains of which still sat congealing in trays on the kitchen counter. Amanda picked a tray up and peered inside, curling her nose up with distaste. Her finger touched the orange skin that had now formed on the food, springy and not too dissimilar to homemade jam.

Ruth watched her. “It’s funny how you don’t mind eating it when it’s hot,” she said, “but as soon as it goes cold, it takes on another form. I bet a dog wouldn’t be interested in that MSG-laden concoction, and I’m guessing you’re not going to save it and reheat it? Or worse, eat it cold later?”

“You’re right there. Straight to the bin outside, I think,” Amanda said, collecting more trays and putting them all back into the plastic bag they had arrived in. She tied the top in a knot and headed for the back door to dispose of them.

“It was nice, though, as usual. Jack enjoyed it. And the company.”

“He gets lonely on his own; I know that. I feel sorry for him sometimes, you know. He’s not that old, really. There is still time for him to find another partner to spend his retirement with, but he spends far too much time in his job. And he’s not going to find someone at work, is he?”

Ruth watched as Amanda wiped the table down and returned the dishcloth back to the sink so she could finish off. “He’ll have to search a bit farther afield than that. I wonder if he’d try Tinder?” Ruth was trying to be helpful. It wasn’t working.

“Are you serious?” Amanda said incredulously. “He barely uses email and text, bless him, and he still plays CDs in his car. ELO, for goodness’ sake.”

Ruth’s mouth dropped open at that one. “Eh?”

“Yes – I kid you not. He probably thinks Spotify is some form of acne outbreak. He’s a damn good detective, but he’s a total luddite.”

“Hmm, I see your point. Then we should help him, you know, without him knowing. Not a blind date, but something. Someone in a certain place we all are, you know, and we get chatting.”

“He’s a detective, Ruth, remember? He’d sniff that out like you sniff bacon cooking next door.”

Ruth had to smile at that one. She could never become a vegetarian; bacon was too strong a pull. “Then maybe we should look at our wedding guest list again. There must be a suitable single aunt between us? Sit him with her.”

Amanda rolled her eyes in exasperation. What was she getting into?

“No?” Ruth said, still smiling.

“No.” Amanda was firm.

“Then I don’t know what to suggest. No apps, no blind dates, no single wedding guests. What else is there?”

“Nature. That’s what it is, nature. Let it do its thing. Without interference from either of us.”

Ruth knew when to press and when not to bother. She left it alone. Some battles you fought, some you didn’t. The kitchen once again tidy, Ruth announced she was making hot chocolate.

“Want a mug?”

“Always, thanks. Seriously, leave well enough alone. He may find someone all on his own. Talking of single friends, how is Stephanie doing now she and Aaron have split? Is she dating yet or is it too soon?”

“You can’t seriously be thinking Jack and Stephanie, can you? He’s as old as her dad, nearly.”

“No, of course not. I was just thinking of another of your friends in the same boat. Single. I don’t think Jack would be her type, really. Aaron was a good-looking man, but Jack? Well, he’s Jack, isn’t he? And he needs a haircut.”

Back to hair conversations.

“Now that is weird, isn’t it? The woman with her hair chopped off. My goodness, what a cruel thing to do.” Ruth filled a pan with milk and put it on the stove. “I’m actually meeting Stephanie tomorrow for lunch, so I’ll fill you in on any dating gossip there might be.”

“Well, say hello from me. It’s been a while since I saw her.” Amanda said no more as she thought back to the night when Stephanie had got the fright of her life and Aaron had almost lost his. They’d driven up to Grasmere in the Lake District to their cottage, though separately, and things had exploded somewhat, leaving their relationship in shreds. It was beyond repair and would never be stitched properly back together again. Their two young sons were coping well with the new family living arrangements, but it was far from ideal.

“Come on, let’s take these up to bed and read for a while,” Ruth said, handing Amanda a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

“You go on up. I just need to grab my laptop. There’s a couple of things I want to check up on first.”

“Jack said as much, didn’t he? What are you up to now? I can read you like a book.”

“Oh, you just reminded me of something talking about Stephanie again. Someone, actually. In fact, being a techy you might even know the answer.”

“Try me.”

“Well, if you were up to no good ten or fifteen years or so ago, before the dark web was created, say, how would you get involved in shady stuff, things a little out of the everyday ordinary?”

“You don’t need to be a techy to answer that one because there is very little tech involved.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the gangs and criminals back then relied on their networks mainly; that’s how they moved stuff around. The smartphone as we know it wasn’t prevalent back then, though there was a small palm-held computer in the nineties, but it wasn’t common. I think it was called Simon, actually. But phones and laptops would only have been of use along with the dark web, hence the need for physical networks. Crims wouldn’t advertise on Google, remember.”

“Good to know.” Amanda was thinking as Ruth spoke. Why hadn’t she thought of that herself? Of course, there wouldn’t be much to find on a computer from back then because crims didn’t use them. And who kept a computer for more than three or four years anyway? And even if they had, the dark web wasn’t operational to the public back then, and again, there’d be nothing to find.

Ruth led the way holding two mugs. “Come on. Let’s go and read, then.”

Personal networks. Maybe that was how Stevens had operated back then, mused Amanda.

Sebastian Stevens: now there was a name that still sent shivers up and down her spine. Not only had Stephanie encountered him and his strange sexual ways some years back, but he’d turned up dead at his trendy penthouse in Manchester recently after a vigilante who hadn’t agreed with his big-game trophy-hunting hobby had sent him back to his maker. Rather gruesomely so, too: graphic photos of his semi-decapitated head had been posted on his personal social channels for the world to see. The perpetrator had made Stevens their very own trophy that night. And although the method had been gruesome, the death of a vile creature like Stevens was not something the world had lost sleep over. Good riddance to him and his kind, thought Amanda.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ruth always met her friend Stephanie regularly for lunch. And since the breakup of her marriage, it had been an even more important standing diary date, with a few extra evening wines or morning coffees thrown in when needed.

There had been many such occasions. No one had envisaged their marriage split, least of all Stephanie, but when she’d found out that her husband was a serial adulterer with some rather non-vanilla tastes, well, a leopard never changes its spots. There had been many tears, and still, several months later, a few slipped down her cheeks when she found herself alone and was feeling maudlin. The evenings were the worst. Stephanie looked at the much stronger woman reflecting back from the mirror. She was gradually getting used to being single again and making a life and revised home situation for her two young boys. Stephanie rubbed her freshly painted pink lips together and checked her side view in the glass.

“Not bad for a forty-year-old single woman with two kids.”

In fact, she really did look good. With long, dark straight hair and an olive skin, she always looked ‘not bad,’ even first thing in the morning with her hair mussed up. While she didn’t think it or feel it herself, she was a stunning woman, a real head-turner no matter what your taste was. Or your sex.

She left her Richmond home and drove to the tube station, destination Green Park and Ruth. And lunch. And a glass of wine. Her mum was picking the boys up from school so there was no need to hurry back. Mum –what would she have done without her? The boys needed continuity and she’d helped provide it for them, and for that Stephanie was eternally grateful.

The train throbbed gently as it sped through the back suburbs of London, and she found the vibration soothing. When it finally pulled into Green Park about half an hour later, her stomach rumbled in anticipation of something good to eat. Breakfast had been a lifetime ago, it seemed. Ruth had suggested Stephanie drop in at the office before they went on to the restaurant in case she was delayed a little, which was a common occurrence. It was better to wait in her office if Ruth’s meeting overran than sit at a restaurant table, waiter hovering, looking like she’d been stood up. She entered Ruth’s building and smiled at Pete, who was just passing through reception.

“Hi, Stephanie. Ruth is on time for once. She won’t be a minute. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

He’d been working with Ruth for a couple of years and was almost part of the furniture now. A rough start at home and a stint in juvie had given him ‘character,’ as he liked to call it, but he’d been on the right road for some time now, with some much-needed support and guidance from Ruth. Not to mention a legitimate job. And one he loved, he’d said. She sat in reception and waited. Ruth’s shoes could be heard approaching long before she herself was visible; her steel stiletto tips echoed on the hardwood. As usual, she wore a figure-hugging skirt and blouse, refusing to go the full ‘tech uniform’ of jeans and hoody, and as usual she looked stunning. Her arms were outstretched as she approached and Stephanie joined her in a full bear hug.

When they finally separated Ruth said, “You look amazing as usual.”

“As do you. Love those heels, by the way.”

“A girl can’t have too many shoes, eh? Now how does a juicy burger sound for lunch, or have you another preference? Vietnamese? Curry? You name it.”

“Oh, a burger,” she exclaimed, feeling her stomach gurgle like a bathtub emptying. “It’s been too long since I last had a proper one, and those skinny things the kids eat don’t really count. I’m in.”

Ruth hooked Stephanie’s arm in hers and the two friends left the building in search of food. As always, conversation between the two of them was easy.

“So, what’s new in your world, Steph?”

“Not a lot, I have to say. Just steady. And I think I like it that way.” Stephanie beamed at her friend and confidante. Finally, her eyes had started to sparkle again of recent weeks.

“You look great, as usual, but you also look great on a different level too, if that makes sense. I can see you have your sparkle back; you’re glowing again, which is lovely to see.” Ruth squeezed her arm. “Things are finally settling for you.”

“Thanks. I feel much better in myself. Onwards and upwards and all that. I couldn’t have done it without your support, though, and I thank you.” She squeezed Ruth’s arm in return. They walked together in comfortable silence for a few beats, then Stephanie asked, “And what’s new in your world, then? How are the wedding plans coming along? We’ve not really talked about them much.” Ruth looked sheepish as she turned to her friend, and Stephanie caught her meaning.

“Ah, I see. Me and my disaster of a marriage. Well, that’s all behind me now, so don’t worry about mentioning weddings. I’m as excited about your big day as you are, and I want to hear all about your plans. Don’t avoid the subject on my account, okay?”

“Okay,” Ruth said with relief in her voice. She opened the door to the pub and the smell of beer, old polished wood and freshly cooked fries assailed them.

“Then I will get you up to speed,” Ruth went on, “because I’m busting to share them with someone. Amanda agreed for me to organize it all, which is what I wanted to do, so she’s no clue what I’ve got planned.”

“Two glasses of white wine, please,” Stephanie ordered as a barman caught her eye. Or she his, in reality. Steph never had a problem getting a drink order organized, or any service for that matter. The barman was young, but old enough to be a man. His body shape told her he worked hard at the gym.

“Burger?” Stephanie enquired.

“Burger!” Ruth replied.

“And two house burgers and fries to go with that,” she called.

“I’ll bring them over. Find yourselves a seat,” he called back. His cute smile could have made ice cream melt in an igloo.

Ruth watched with amusement. “Well, he’s clocked you for sure. You might be in there. I bet he slips you his number when he brings the food over –mark my words.” She winked, making Stephanie laugh out loud.

“I’m old enough to be his mother, so I doubt it.”

“I’ll bet you a fiver he does.”

“Okay, you’re on. Prepare to lose a fiver.”

Ruth pocketed the fiver with a smile. They sipped their drinks and chatted about wedding plans as they ate, then Ruth exclaimed, “Oh, I know what I meant to tell you. Last night, Amanda was telling Jack and me a story her hairdresser had told her.”

And on she went. Stephanie sat back and listened as Ruth went over the story again of the woman whose hair had been chopped off.

“How weird is that?” she said when Ruth had finished. “And how mean.” Stephanie felt the colour drain from her face.

“Are you okay? Only you’ve gone as white as the icing on my wedding cake.” Ruth put her hand on Stephanie’s arm.

Stephanie took a long mouthful of wine for strength, then enquired, “Was there a card left, by any chance? It’s important I know. Do you know if there was?”

“I don’t know. Why? Whatever is the matter?”

Stephanie took a deep breath before answering.

“Because remember that night all those years ago when I was drugged by that pig Sebastian Stevens?

“I remember you telling me, yes.”

“Well, someone chopped my hair off too. It wasn’t him, though; I’m sure of that. But they did leave a card.”

“And what did it say?”

“It said, ‘Your debt has been settled. I’d advise you to tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.’ If this girl had a card left too, then it’s still going on.”

“What’s still going on?”

“I’ve no idea. Whatever it is, though, they’re still doing it.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ruth couldn’t believe what she’d heard. After all her friend had been through recently, Ruth had managed to drag something up from more than fifteen years ago to add to the poor woman’s recent stress. By the end of their lunch date, Stephanie had regained her colour, thanks to a stiff brandy. Ruth had walked her back to the tube station, Stephanie earnestly assuring her she was fine. It had all been a bit of a shock, that was all. As for Ruth, she knew she had to talk to Amanda, and quickly.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at work, but this is important.” Ruth hardly ever called Amanda during her shift; she usually resorted to text messages if she had to tell her something. But this couldn’t wait any longer.

“What’s up? Everything alright?” Amanda was generally cool and in control, but when she’d seen Ruth’s name on the call display, she’d thought the worst.

“It’s about that woman who had her hair chopped off.”

“What’s so important about that?”

“I’ve just had lunch with Stephanie and mentioned it to her because, well, it’s an unusual story. And she went as white as snow. I asked her what was up and before she answered, she asked me the strangest thing.”

“What?”

“She asked if a card had been left. It turns out that, that night Sebastian Stevens drugged her, someone cut her hair off too. And they left a card. Like a calling card, with a message on it.”

“What? Shit! What did the card say? And how come she’s only just mentioned it today?”

“It said not to tell, that it wouldn’t be wise. And I guess it never came up before, with everything else going on.”

“I guess not.” A couple of beats passed as Amanda thought about the card. “I wonder what it means? It sounds rather threatening. And this puts another slant on things. I’d better pop over and see Jeremy, see if I can chat to the woman involved or at least to her mum; she’s the one who told him. If this second girl was given a card too – and we don’t know she did as yet – then there is something to investigate further.”

“Maybe she had a card with the same message, and that’s why she hasn’t told anyone. Maybe her own mother isn’t aware?”

That made sense. “I see what you mean. But it’s a start, so I’ll see where I get. And Ruth?”

“Yes?”

“Not a word to anyone, not even Stephanie, about this yet.”

“Of course. My work here is done. Over to the detectives.” Ruth sniggered lightly.

“Ha, ha, very funny. I’ll see you later.” Amanda hung up and stared at her phone as if the answer had popped up on the screen. No such luck. Jack was nearby, cajoling the coffee machine to dispense a cup, and his exasperation was showing at its non-delivery. Operator error, Amanda thought, smiling ruefully.

“Give me Nescafe any day. My blood pressure can’t stand the disappointment,” he grumbled, loud enough for Amanda to hear. She smiled at his agitation and walked over to help. It wasn’t the first time, probably not even the tenth time.

“You really do amaze me, Jack. A smart person you are, yet when coffee machines are involved, you’re the dumbest of the dumbest. Here, let me,” she said, pushing him gently out of the way. Amanda quickly assessed the situation and realized his error. She walked over to the tap and filled the plastic well with water then inserted it back onto the machine, trying hard to contain her amusement. Jack was aware that others in the incident room had stopped working and were watching the performance.

“I find it works better with water myself,” Amanda said, slotting the water well back into place. There was no need for her to say anything else. Nor Jack. She pressed the requisite button and the machine sprang into life, thick brown aromatic liquid filling his mug with a satisfied ‘chug, chug.’ There was almost a round of applause, but no one wanted to be the one to start it, so the air took on a sort of silent applause in its place, one that could be felt rather than heard. Grinning faces returned to their duties. Rather than hang around while Jack’s mug filled, Amanda left him to wait for his brew and calm himself back down.

A couple of minutes later, when he was back at his desk sipping contentedly, she approached him with the news. “Listen, Jack. We might have something going on with the hair chopping case I told you about. Seems there might be more to it.”

“Oh? I didn’t know there was a case.” A milky moustache covered his top lip and Amanda motioned with her fingers to her own top lip. He got the hint and wiped it away. The foam was now on the back of his hand. He stared at it.

“We didn’t, but I’ve just heard about another woman from some years ago who had her hair taken. And get this: whoever did it left a card saying not to tell, that it wouldn’t be wise. I’m off to see Jeremy, see if I can speak to the more recent woman or her mother and find out if they also had a card. You coming?”

Jack raised his coffee mug as if to say ‘I’ve just got this’ and said, “No. I’ll stay here and get some paperwork done. I’m drowning in it. You go. Let me know what she says.”

Amanda watched as he wiped the froth from his hand with his handkerchief. Finally. She grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair and headed out to the hairdresser’s for the second time in a week.

This time, it wasn’t for tea and gossip.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Let me guess. My roots are that bad you thought you’d better come back and do them before much longer.” Judy Palmer smiled as she kidded him. He’d only ever been to their house once before. Jeremy’s face told her he wasn’t feeling quite so jovial today.

“Hello, Judy. May I talk to you for a moment, please?”

She opened the door wide and stood back, beckoning him through. “Can I get you some tea? Though you look like you might want something stronger. Are you alright, Jeremy?”

“Tea, thank you. That would be nice.” He climbed up on the bar stool that stood by the breakfast bar, his body half twisted towards Judy as he watched her make the tea.

“What’s on your mind to bring you back out here?”

“I’ve got a confession to make. And I’m hoping you’re not going to be angry. But you might be.” He said the words slowly, with trepidation.

“Oh? Go on.”

“I might have mentioned to a woman in the salon that I’d been called out to help a woman because a prankster had chopped her ponytail off. And that is was spiteful, nasty.” Judy stood quietly, but he could see by the tightness of her lips she wasn’t happy. He carried on. “I was just chatting – nothing malicious, just expressing my incredulousness at how someone could do that to a so-called friend.” He stopped at that and waited for her reaction.

“So, Taylor is the subject of your idle chit-chat, is she? But looking at your face, I’d say there was more to it than that. What else?”

He could feel her anger almost palpably bouncing off the tiled wall of the kitchen.

“She’s a detective.” He winced as the words crept out of his mouth.

“You told a detective? How dare you! How dare you first of all talk about our private business, and second, you must have known she was a detective? Why on God’s earth did you feel the need to share it?”

Jeremy could feel himself cowering as her voice got louder, loud enough that Taylor herself came through from the next room where she’d been reading her book.

“Mum? What’s going on?” Jeremy had the sense to stay quiet while Judy explained to her daughter. Taylor went as white as the tiled walls, her lower lip quivering as she took in what she was being told. When her silence had gone on long enough, Jeremy dared to add the last piece of why he’d actually gone to the house.

“Look, I’m really sorry that I mentioned it to anyone, but it seems that Taylor may not have been the only one that this has happened to.” He watched as both women looked at each other silently. Taylor’s lip had begun to tremble. He pushed on. “The detective would like to talk to you and find out a little more, so I said I’d call over and forewarn you both. I hoped I was being helpful. After my mistake.”

“It’s a pity you didn’t try and be ‘helpful’ before you told half the salon! What were you thinking, you stupid man?”

Jeremy bowed his head. Taylor’s voice broke the silence.

“I didn’t want the police involved, but now you’ve ruined that. What am I supposed to do now?”

He watched as her lower lip trembled harder before her face crumpled fully and she fled from the room in tears. He could hear the first deep sob and he felt wretched for instigating it. Judy glared her displeasure at him.

“You’d better go. The damage is done.”

Silently, Jeremy slid off the stool where he’d been perched, uttering a final abject apology to Judy’s deaf ears. Letting himself back out the front door, he exhaled the trapped air in his lungs and replaced it with fresh, trying to make himself feel better. It took several attempts as he walked out to the road and his parked car, but he wasn’t interested in his own car. Parked further up the road was Amanda, and he slipped inside into the passenger seat.

From the way his head thudded onto the headrest, Amanda didn’t have to ask how it had gone.

“I feel bloody awful now. Taylor is sobbing, Judy is angry and I’m depleted. Why couldn’t I have kept my big mouth shut? Other people’s misery is off the table of conversation forevermore,” he said emphatically, his arms crossed over his face in anguish. Perhaps if he couldn’t see, it hadn’t happened.

“Well, I’ll go and see how receptive they are in a few minutes. If there are others, and there may only be the two I know about, they could help stop whoever is doing this. And of course, the fact that both women had had the same thing happen to them could also be a simple coincidence.” She was silent a moment, pondering. “But as a detective, I kind of don’t believe in coincidences.”

Jeremy grunted, more from embarrassment than as a proper reply to her comment.

Ten minutes later, Jeremy stayed put in the front seat and watched Amanda’s blonde head disappear around the front gate and up the driveway, headed for the Palmer residence. He slunk down in his seat to wait it out.

Chapter Thirty

Amanda had left the Palmers’ place with what she’d wanted – almost. While Taylor had obviously been scared to talk about what had happened, Amanda had persisted gently with her, and now felt she had the start of something to investigate. Given Stephanie’s snippet of information, some fifteen years belated though it was, she didn’t believe the relationship between the two incidents was a coincidence. Not at all. When she’d mentioned the card and its message to Taylor, the look of pure horror on her face had sung to her like a Welsh male voice choir. Not even a rookie would have missed it. But the thing that had puzzled both victims, as she now referred to them, was the part about ‘the debt being settled.’ Neither woman could throw any light on what it could possibly have meant. Now back at the station and headed to fill Jack in, she wondered what they could be dealing with. And just how long whatever it was had been going on. At least fifteen years; maybe longer.

“Crickey, that’s weird,” Jack said. “And from so long ago too? Did someone resurface, I wonder, or has it been going on all these years and we just haven’t heard about it?’ Jack was twiddling his moustache between two fingers, a habit that amused Amanda, and something he did usually while deep in thought.

“No clue. But I’m going to get that laptop out of the evidence locker if it’s still there, the one that belonged to Sebastian Stevens that we found after his death. If he was with Stephanie that night, it may have been him who took her hair, though Stephanie felt sure it wasn’t him. Or it might still be a coincidence. Worth a look, though: fresh eyes, now we know a little more.”

“First, Lacey,” Jack put one finger up, “you don’t believe in coincidences, and second,” he put a second finger up beside it, “that computer will only be a handful of years old, so I doubt there’s much of use on it.”

“I know that, Jack, but he may have been active with others more recently so it’s worth a look, isn’t it?” Jack conceded the idea and picked his phone up to make the call. “Let’s hope we still have it, then. We’ll soon find out.”

Amanda watched her partner as he asked the question and waited for the reply.

“We’re in luck,” Jack said after he’d hung up. “They’re pulling it out for us. Are you giving it to computer forensics, then?”

“Not much good me looking at it, so yes. But this time, we know a little more about what we’re looking at. Sort of.”

Jack raised his brows in a doubtful manner but didn’t say anything. Sometimes, he let Amanda have her own way without much discussion, and over the years they’d been working together, she’d been more often right than not. She sat back in her chair and started to tap her teeth with a fingernail. It wasn’t lost on Jack that she was playing with her own virtual moustache.

At length, she spoke up again. “You know, if you were up to no good these days, there are plenty of ways to hide your activity. If this is something dodgy, chances are it’s not found on the regular web but in the dark web. Why would you risk it otherwise? And anyone can get access to the dark web now; it’s not hard.”

“And if that is the case, it’ll be almost impossible to find. Whatever it is. That’s the whole point of it – that much this luddite does know.” He pointed to his chest with his thumb.

While he was useless with gadgets, particularly coffee machine gadgets, Jack did keep abreast of what was out there security- and crime-wise. He just couldn’t make it work for himself. Amanda conceded that he was right. They needed to find out what they could the old-fashioned way and then enlist the help of the cyber team with their more specialist knowledge. And tactics.

And she could chat to Ruth if she needed to. She knew everything about everything tech.

Later that evening over dinner with Ruth, Amanda broached the subject of the dark web.

“Can someone simply stumble across something strange, say a hit man for hire?”

“No, not really. You still have to search for what you want. Why? Thinking of knocking me off once we get married? For my millions?” Ruth grinned at her.

“No, just curious. The dark web is not somewhere I hang out, so I don’t know how it works, really. I leave that to the cyber guys.”

“And girls.”

“Eh? Oh yes, and girls. Sorry, Miss Tech-head.”

“Apology accepted. What is it you really want to know about?” Not much got past Ruth’s bullshit antennae.

“Look, I can’t tell you details, but it’s to do with Steph’s revelation about her hair being chopped off and the more recent woman. Since we’ve no clue what we are looking at, I thought it may be something deeper. And darker, perhaps. Like on the dark web.”

“Well, aren’t your cyber team helping?”

“Not yet, no. Nothing to go on to get them involved. Just my mind working scenarios. Or scenario, actually, I haven’t got another.”

“Well, the answer is still the same. You need to search for it and there’s the clue – search. The dark web is just a list of un-indexed pages, and they’re not all peddling weird stuff. You’ll find legitimate sites too. Anyone can look, but users make themselves anonymous by using a TOR browser, which encrypts and pings around a whole bunch of servers around the world so their IP address can’t be traced back to them. Simple to do but it also makes it hard to find those who peddle stuff they really shouldn’t be. Like child pornography, drugs, and, yes, hit men. And hit women.”

Amanda smiled at that one.

“Look,” said Ruth, “I’ll give you a demo when we’ve finished, open your eyes a little.”

Amanda wasn’t sure if she liked that idea or not. You can’t un-see something, she knew, and who knew what she might find.

“Don’t look so scared. We won’t be going to those types of pages – what do you take me for? And until you start clicking on dodgy images or videos, or interacting in something illegal, you’ll be as safe as on the regular web, maybe even safer. Now eat up and I’ll show you.”

Amanda was about to have a lesson on what others do for kicks in their spare time.

Chapter Thirty-One

Griffin and Vee had started seeing a little more of each other, though there was nothing official about it. Since Vee had caught up with him a few evenings ago and solved the puzzle of his knotted ear buds, they’d caught the train together to and from work on several occasions. And even though it interfered with his practiced routine, his morning one in particular, Griffin had found himself able to relax about it a little. To his surprise, he hadn’t stressed about it as much as he once would have. And that was because he was enjoying her company, her lively but not overbearing chatter, her forwardness and the warm breeze she brought into his otherwise still and functional world. He’d found himself thinking of her at all times of the day – while he waited for sleep to come, while he waited for the kettle to boil and while he finished his steps off for the day. Not in a sexual way; more of a ‘not-really-sure-why-I’m-thinking-about-you-all-the-time-but-I-am’ kind of way. Did that even make sense? He enjoyed her company, fair and simple. The thought occurred to him that maybe there might be other parts of his routine he could break out of if it brought him the kind of enjoyment that Vee had shown him. And he’d quite like to take her out to the pub, but did he have the courage to ask her? And then what? If they got on well and they carried on seeing one another, there would eventually come a time that she’d want more, expect it, even.

‘More’ included her seeing him naked, and that he wouldn’t do at all. Not yet.

He placed his breakfast crockery in the dishwasher, switched it on for a low wash and headed for the train. He was fifteen minutes later than he had been with his routine of recent, but it meant they could ride together. He picked up his pace as the station came into view. And the rear of Vee. Smiling to himself, he wondered what she was listening to as she walked; her ear bud wires just visible, resting on her shoulder. If he called out to her, she’d never hear him, and Griffin didn’t have the confidence to do that anyway. So, he watched her from the comfort of twenty paces away, knowing she’d be stood on the same platform as he would be in a few moments. And that comforted him somewhere deep inside.

She spotted him as soon as she turned into the entranceway.

“Morning, Griffin.” Her smile was as bright as a daisy drinking in the summer sun, and just as pretty.

“Morning, Vee.” While he smiled in greeting, he couldn’t compete with her confident way, and looked more like a cheap chrysanthemum that had been far too long in its cellophane flute on a garage forecourt. He did his best anyhow.

“I fancy a coffee. Want one?” She looked up at him expectantly. “I’m buying.”

He hesitated.

“No?”

“I usually drink tea.”

But not until I get to the office.

“Can I get you a tea, then?” The daisy-like smile glowed again. How could he not? He checked his watch for the impending train. Some habits were harder to break.

“Great, thanks. I’ll come over with you,” he said, and they both made their way to the coffee cart along the platform. A couple of minutes later, they had their drinks. When the faint throb of the approaching train could be felt, they stood where Griffin usually stood in the hope of getting a couple of seats together, though the later train time had proved a bit more difficult to manage. Still, they each had their music for the short journey, and they were together at least. As the train pulled up in front of them, they could both see they were out of luck. Vee looked up at Griffin and screwed her face up in disappointment as the people ahead of them crowded into the carriage, taking the last remaining single seats. Standing for the journey wasn’t really a problem, but conversation was almost impossible with other people’s faces only a few inches from their own. It meant those close by heard every word, and that made it embarrassing to have a conversation for just about everyone. Travelling on a morning commuter train was not too dissimilar to travelling in a stock truck, though rather than being nose to tail, morning travellers were nose to nose. It was only marginally more pleasurable. Some people really needed to attend the dental hygienist a little more regularly.

With their ear buds firmly in place, they stuck it out until they reached London Victoria, Griffin with Gershwin, Vee with Sia, each in their own world thinking their own thoughts. Vee glanced at Griffin but he didn’t notice, lost in the sound of piano keys as Gershwin reached a crescendo. When the track changed he looked up from watching the floor and caught her eye. She took her buds out and he followed suit, aware she was going to speak. What was she going to say in a place where she could be overheard?

“Fancy a drink straight from work?”

Griffin couldn’t believe his ears. How could she be so brazen, so confident and so forward? And in such close confines, too? He stood there, stunned, like a mackerel ready for the pan. He hadn’t been prepared for such a direct question and at first wasn’t sure what to say. He knew what he wanted to say, but here? With all these people listening? He flicked from her face to the stranger’s face a few inches away and back to Vee. As he stood with his mouth open slightly, hoping the appropriate words would somehow fall out, she prodded him.

“Well? Yes or no to a lager?” At least she was smiling – in amusement? The stranger caught his eye and nodded ever so slightly, he too prodding him to answer Vee’s question. Griffin fumbled and mumbled, but eventually released a coherent answer.

“Yes. I’d like that.” He breathed a heavy sigh as he relaxed, his anguish passing over and leaving his chest as it drifted off down the carriage and out of an open window. The stranger gave him a half smile, a ‘well done,’ like a teacher dishing out a red star to a good student.

“Great! Do you know The Baskerville? It’s not far from my road. Why don’t we meet there at, say, seven pm? Will that give you enough time to do whatever you need to do beforehand?”

His steps. He did a quick calculation in his head; he’d have to walk faster if he was going to make it. There was no way he could do less.

“Can we make it seven fifteen? That would be better. So I’m not late.”

“Seven fifteen pm it is.”

Griffin couldn’t believe what he’d just agreed to, and so publicly. What would the strangers be thinking of him? Were they thinking anything? They all knew where he’d be tonight at 7.15 pm and who with. Did that matter? Thoughts bumped around inside his head as the carriage doors opened and strangers flooded out onto the platform and forward, each on their own way to work. As Griffin was swept along with them, he felt a small hand find his and slot itself in. It was Vee’s. And it felt comfortable. He glanced down but she didn’t glance up, and didn’t take her hand away either. And neither did Griffin.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Griffin couldn’t help the bats fighting in his stomach. At 6.30 pm, he stood in the shower letting the warm water cascade over him as he contemplated the evening ahead. A bat thumped him with its wing from the inside as he opened the shower gel to wash away the day’s grime. Pine forests filled the cubicle as his thoughts darted back to the evening ahead. Normally, he’d shower and surf after dinner, the end of his normal day of work, walk and web. That’s how it was, always had been for as long as he could remember, but then Vee had come along and things had started to move, to change. First his morning commute, now an evening out. What would be next? Soap bubbles slid down his naked body as he washed half-heartedly, not really concentrating on what he was doing, until his thoughts jolted back to his problem.

Soon.

He’d learned to keep it in perspective, to tell himself that it would be dealt with soon enough.

Just as soon as he’d found the right person at the right price.

He grabbed the loofah and scrubbed his body all over, the rough surface sending a tingling over all that it touched. By the time he was completely washed, his skin glowed like light sunburn and felt cleansed. The rest of his routine was much the same as every day, though tonight he dressed in clean jeans and another hoody instead of his normal pyjamas. A splash of aftershave and he was ready to go.

‘It is just drinks, for heaven’s sake. Get a grip,’ he told himself repeatedly on the walk over. “Nothing to be worried about.” But he didn’t feel relaxed; he felt exactly the opposite.

Vee was already inside chatting to the barman when he opened the front door of The Baskerville, and he took the opportunity to stand in the doorway and take another deep breath to steady himself. From his vantage point, and knowing she hadn’t seen him arrive yet, he appraised her from top to bottom. Deep red Doc Martens on her feet, an obviously vintage floral dress that totally suited her and an aura about her that spoke volumes about her relaxed and rather lovely disposition. He dragged some courage up from his own boots and stepped forward to greet her. He opened with a well-planned-out ‘Hi,’ and hoped he’d figure the rest out from there.

“Hey! Hi yourself. You smell nice. Sort of like a forest.” Her smile was as bright as it had been earlier that morning, and he found himself relaxing as she beamed up at him. Deep red lips and dancing eyes caught his attention. She looked even more striking than she had that morning. “What can I get you to drink?”

Finding his voice, he said, “I’ll get these. You bought tea this morning. It’s my turn. What would you like?”

“In that case, I’ll have a Snakebite, please.”

Griffin looked at the barman, who raised his eyebrows and nodded that he’d heard the lady. “Make that two, then,” he added. He was not a big drinker; he’d see if he liked the taste and go back to his normal slimline tonic if not. He didn’t want to appear a party pooper on their first outing. He wasn’t calling it a date; it was just drinks. That was how he was reconciling it in his head to keep the fighting bats quiet.

“I’ll bring them over. Pints or halves?” asked the barman. In unison they both said the opposite to each other.

“Pints,” said Vee.

“Halves,” said Griffin. It broke the ice and they both burst out laughing at themselves, and at the complete reversal of the norm.

Men drank pints, didn’t they? No, not this one.

The barman understood and busied himself with their order as Vee led the way to a table on the far side of the pub, away from the rest of the customers dotted about, some nursing a pint solemnly, some giggling over wine.

“So,” she started, “why don’t you tell me a bit more about yourself. All I know is that you’re a sports reporter and where you live. Then I’ll tell you about me if you like.”

Griffin wondered if she was always so forward or if it was just with him because he was reserved in his ways. And where should he start? He looked aghast at the prospect but relented; they had to start somewhere. Or sit in near silence. Taking a deep breath, he began, the words tumbling out like the passengers on their commuter train did at Victoria.

“Griffin Stokes. Twenty-five. Lived around here all my life. Single, a self-confessed nerd. Used to be into gaming but no more, and I walk daily. I like a wide range of music, eat healthily but never used to and have lost about twelve stone; still another one stone to go. Oh, and I’m an only child. I think that’s about it. Your turn.” Phew.

Vee smiled her usual bright smile and Griffin wondered what was going through her mind at that precise moment – good or bad? He hoped it was good.

“Vera Dobbs, but my friends call me Vee. Twenty-five, same as you, about a foot shorter than you at five-foot-four, can be a bit of a geek at times, spend too much time on Facebook, wondered about going vegan but like my bacon too much, two sisters and love the movies. Oh, and I quite like gardening, not that we have much of a garden at home, which, yes, I still share with my parents.” She’d mentioned before that she still lived at home and he raised his eyebrows inadvertently. Vee raised her own in reply.

“What?” she asked. “Plenty of people still live at home at twenty-five. I can’t afford to move out yet; not around here, anyway.” The arrival of their drinks halted the conversation, giving Griffin time to make amends for his slip-up.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You didn’t. And I’m not embarrassed. I’m saving hard to get my own flat, but until then, home it is. It won’t be for much longer, anyway. I’ve nearly got a deposit together.” She took a long gulp of her Snakebite and looked at Griffin expectantly for his response.

“That’s great. It’s hard saving up a big chunk of cash; I’ve done it myself. And I’m doing it again.” Griffin realized his error as soon as the words had left his mouth and quickly added a question. hoping to deflect attention away from his comment. “Where will you buy? Something local or further out?” It was an opportune time to taste his Snakebite, leaving her to answer the last question. He hoped.

“Ideally. It’s handy for work and I’ll still be local to my family, so yes. Just got to find the right place at the right price. What’s the Snakebite like? To your taste?”

His tactic had worked. She’d missed his slip. Or hadn’t mentioned it, at any rate. “Not bad. It’ll grow on me.”

Grinning, she said, “Maybe if you’ve nothing better to do this weekend, you could help me find a place? There’s a couple I want to look at.” Vee was looking at him across the top of her pint glass, a sly smile on her deep red lips. He watched, somewhat mesmerized, as her top lip vanished into the glass to meet the amber liquid.

“I’d love to.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Joshua and Jasper were upstairs in their room, tucked up in bed reading with their flashlights. Stephanie had turned a blind eye to their refusal to go straight to sleep, knowing full well they were tired out and it wouldn’t be long before they were asleep anyway. And reading a book was a useful hobby to have, far better than playing with a screen just before sleep. Feeling like an early night herself, she watched bubbles gather on the surface of the milk she was warming in a pan for a mug of Horlicks to soothe her nerves. She hoped the malty drink would help; in the absence of wine, it would have to do. Since she’d told Ruth about losing her hair that day, she’d not thought about much else.

Losing her mind, more like.

Why had she said anything, raked it all back up again? It had been years ago, long before she’d married and had a family, and since she’d been out having a good time that had then ended up with her in bed with a man, there had been no point in reporting it. They’d both partied hard, she’d gone to his room and the rest had, well, happened. What she hadn’t expected the next morning when she had awakened, though, were the tiny nicks on the backs of her thighs, the kind made by a knife, and her beloved long dark hair gone, leaving nothing more than a short basin cut.

While her missing hair and the mysterious nicks had been a shock, it was how those things had happened at all that had alarmed her. Yes, she had partied hard and downed shots as well as copious amounts of wine, but she never touched substances, not even the odd joint. The only way what had happened to her could have happened was if she’d been drugged.

By someone else.

She grabbed a chocolate biscuit from the jar and took the steaming mug with her to her room where she slid between the sheets and sat thoughtfully with her drink. Crumbs dropped on the bed as she bit into the biscuit, and she absentmindedly brushed them to the floor, not particularly caring. She was due to vacuum tomorrow anyway. Her phone chirped a message and she reached over to the side table to see who it was. Did she want to talk? Probably not. Ruth’s name filled the green text box.

“Just saying hi. Hope you’re okay. Sorry to have dug up the past. If you need me, you know where I am. xxx”

Smiling at her friend’s thoughtfulness, she tapped a text in reply.

“Just sat in bed, with Horlicks and a biscuit. How sad is that? Seriously, I’m fine though. Thanks for checking in.”

Since Amanda had been to the Palmers’ home and found out Taylor, too, had received the same card, the idea of its being a coincidence was seeming less and less likely. If whoever had assaulted her all those years ago had surfaced again only recently, something or someone had activated them, to her way of thinking. Unless of course they had never completely gone away.

“When are you going in to the station to fill out a report?”

“I’m going in tomorrow. There is no real urgency, just getting it on paper really. It may help someone else.”

“Yes, that’s the spirit. Well, good luck. And good night. Xxx”

“Night. xxx”

Stephanie stared at the screen and re-read the message. While it was probably too late to get justice in her own case, she hoped her experience and any evidence she might be able to give would help catch the perpetrator and prevent it happening to anyone else. Had Sebastian Stevens still been alive to tell his side of the story from that night, that might be a different matter.

Opening her Kindle, she turned her attention to her book and finished her Horlicks as Jack Reacher chased a badass through a crowded market. If nothing else, it took her mind off her own life’s issues, and she allowed the fiction to cover her like a soft blanket. Half an hour later, she was sound asleep, her bedside lamp still blazing, the boys in the other room still reading. It was a little after 1 am that she woke with a start and went to check on them. Both were by then fast asleep. She turned off their lights, tucked their blankets around them and crept back into her own room, now lit only by the moon streaming in through the window. She lay listening to the night – a couple chatting quietly as they walked on the pavement below, their voices carrying upward on the still air; the distant sound of a dog barking a couple of times before settling again; and a car cruising to a standstill nearby. A car door slammed shut and she heard the sounds of two people saying goodbye. Then silence returned.

She turned over in bed, wide awake again. Tomorrow, she would report what she could remember. Which wasn’t much. There had only been herself and one other person in the room that night. They’d had a good time, pushed some boundaries, and afterwards she’d fallen asleep. Or so she had thought. A vague recollection came back to her as she lay there and delved a little deeper. She reared up in bed with the sudden realization of something.

“Oh shit!” she said quietly, her heart rate picking up speed as she remembered back. There had been an argument, the sound of another male voice in the room for a brief time. But she’d been half out of it and fallen back into oblivion. What had all that been about? She lay back down to think through the events that had followed.

Sebastian Stevens had still been lying next to her the following morning, and he’d been the first one to point out her hair was gone. He’d sat bolt upright in the bed, pale as a ghost, and said “What happened to your hair?”

She’d rushed into the bathroom to look in the mirror and stood there open-mouthed in shock. It couldn’t have been him; otherwise, why hang around until morning and act the way he had? In a panic, she’d gathered her belongings, dressed and fled back home. It was when she’d got in her own shower that she’d noticed the little blobs of dried blood and felt the stinging on the backs of her thighs as the water washed over her. That was what had really concerned her. The card she’d found later on, just inside her handbag, and reflecting back now, she realized it had been placed where only she would have seen it. Yes, she’d wanted to report it, but the message on the card had been clear. As was the voicemail Sebastian had left on her phone after she’d fled.

“No one will pay you any attention after what you agreed to last night.”

She had known that was true. What they’d done – the sex, anyway – had been consensual. But what about the nicks? And why had her hair been so cruelly taken? And by whom, for what? She had never asked him, had wanted to simply put the whole eerie incident behind her and forget it, and him. Over the following weeks, she’d willed herself to put the whole thing out of her mind, learn from it and move on. Resolutely, she’d vowed never again to pick up a man who seemed too good to be true, and to run for the hills when the coke came out.

Tomorrow’s report-taking would drag it all back up in detail, she knew, details she’d rather forget. But if someone else had been involved that fateful night and the police managed to track them down, her day in court would come.

Snuggling further down into the bedclothes, she willed sleep to return.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Interview rooms in police stations were set up not for victims but for criminals, Stephanie thought. Uncomfortable plastic chairs and functional cheap tables made anyone who sat at them feel uneasy in their surroundings, and the discomfort only added to Stephanie’s anxiety. At least she knew the friendly faces on the other side of the table, which eased her mind a little. But she’d been drained before she’d begun: thinking back to an event that she’d rather have blocked from her mind, one that had happened fifteen years ago, wasn’t an easy task, especially coupled with a fitful sleep the night before. She’d never smoked a cigarette but was desperate for one now.

Jack was the one asking the questions. “Let’s start right at the very beginning, then, before you met Mr. Stevens. What were you doing that night, and who with? Then fill us in from there. Don’t leave anything out: the smallest detail could be of use and I’ll prompt you along the way if I need clarification on anything. Okay?” He smiled encouragingly at her.

Though she was still feeling wound up, Stephanie took a deep breath in, exhaled and started on her account of that night’s events. Jack scribbled as she talked.

“I’d met a man, who turned out to be Sebastian Stevens, in a bar one night. I’d had quite a bit to drink. My friends had split up a little, and I found myself propping the bar up. That’s when he said hello. He seemed nice enough and I allowed him to buy me a drink.” She sipped water from a plastic cup. “He had started out with some other friends, I assumed, and a bit like me, he’d split off from them. We chatted, we drank, we flirted and later that night, he escorted me out to his car. He said he had a driver, which I believed because when we got outside, there was a man in the driver’s seat of a flash black car. And he, I mean Sebastian, was as drunk as I was, so I was glad he wasn’t driving.

“I got in, and we went back to his place. It was only a mile or two away, but too far to walk in my heels, and like I said, we’d drunk quite a bit.” She took another deep breath and carried on, knowing that the next part could be embarrassing. “We went inside his flat, which was more of a penthouse, so I knew he was really well off, what with the driver as well. He poured us drinks, and one thing led to another. I’m sure I don’t need to spell the next part out to you.”

“Do you remember, and I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but were you still coherent at that stage or not?” Jack was embarrassed too but needed the answer.

“Yes, I was alert. Pissed out of my head but alert. We got into bed, and I remember having sex but I must have passed out shortly after that. The next thing I remember was a vague conversation sometime in the night. Not Sebastian, but another voice, like there was someone else in the room. But I drifted back to sleep again. When I awoke in the morning, Sebastian was still there in bed and it was him that noticed my hair had been cut off. And not just cut off but stolen. Then I panicked. Sebastian was as shocked almost as I was, I think, and swore it hadn’t been him. And I believed him, because why would he? And he was still there with me. If he’d done it, I figured he’d have been long gone, but then we were in his place. A hotel room would have more suitable, had that been his plan, not his home.

“My hair wasn’t in the room. I looked. It had definitely gone. So I left as fast as I could and got a taxi home. That’s when I discovered the tiny nicks on my thighs. That, I believe, was him.”

“What made you think that?”

“Because he wasn’t the usual vanilla in bed. He was,” she paused for a moment, “more adventurous. He wanted me to do things I hadn’t done before. He encouraged me to try stuff, and he liked to dominate. He wanted me to be submissive, stay on the floor on my knees, that sort of thing.”

“Did you confront him after that night, about the tiny cuts?” Amanda said gently, aware that this was extremely personal territory.

“I didn’t. Because he sent me a text telling me nobody would listen to me so not to bother telling anyone. I’d gone to his room for sex, and that was that. My own stupid fault.” Stephanie’s bottom lip started to tremble and she fought to keep control of her emotions. “I didn’t consent to that though – my hair being severed,” she wailed, tears spilling down her cheeks.

Amanda passed her a tissue and looked at Jack sympathetically. “Take a moment,” she said. “There’s no rush. Then can we go back to when you thought you heard another voice in the room.”

Stephanie nodded and blew her nose. When she’d regained her poise, she rewound back to where Jack wanted her to be.

“I don’t know what time it would have been. We didn’t get to his place until around one am and I left at around seven am. I remember the sunlight streaming in – that’s what woke me in the morning, I think. It was so bright. He hadn’t closed the curtains. Anyway, all I can remember from earlier was I was in bed. It was dark, but there was a muffled sound, conversation, two deep voices. I assumed one was Sebastian and one was another man, though I’ve no idea who. Like I said, I was pretty out of it.”

“Was Sebastian out of it too, do you remember? Had he taken anything, and had you?” Stephanie looked a little sheepish and the answer was obvious.

“He took some coke – I think it was coke. But I never touched it. I’ve never done drugs. He wanted me to have some, but I said I didn’t need it. He took some, like they do in the movies – you know, up his nose. He said it relaxed him.” Turning to Amanda quickly, she asked, “Do you think that’s what he drugged me with – cocaine?” Her voice rose in panic.

“Probably not, though we’ll never know. If you had been drugged to knock you out, it would more likely have been Rohypnol – ‘roofy’ is the street term for it, and it’s also known as the ‘date rape’ drug.”

Stephanie sat speechless for a moment. At least she hadn’t been raped; her experience had been consensual, although only marginally so.

Jack broke the silence. “Can you tell us anything, anything at all about the other voice? Accent maybe, old- or young-sounding, foreign possibly? Anything?”

“No. It was just a blurry voice, like I was hearing it under water. I wish I could tell you more.”

“It may throw some light on what happened. As Mr. Stevens was murdered, we can’t ask him about that night. And you seem pretty sure he didn’t have anything to do with your hair being cut. So let’s get to the part about the card, the note you found. Go on from there.”

“When I got home, I showered, got dressed and sat on the sofa, trying to sort my thoughts out, really. And figure out what had happened, what I was going to do next. I grabbed my bag, looking for something, though I can’t remember what. And then I saw an envelope sticking out. It had my name on the front. It just said ‘Stephanie,’ so I opened it. The single piece of card inside said ‘Tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.’ And that the debt was settled. Or words to that effect. It spooked me, and I assumed it was to do with my hair being taken. I’d already had the text from Sebastian about being game, so it didn’t make sense for it to be from him. I do remember it looked very elegant though, a swirly handwritten script, not from a computer.”

“What did you do then? Did you tell anyone about the card?”

“No, I didn’t tell. I was too spooked all round. I threw the card in the rubbish and that was that. My hair would grow back, and I figured I’d had a bloody lucky or unlucky night, depending on how you looked at it. It taught me a lesson, I can tell you.”

“Is there anything else?” Jack sensed she had finished, had told all she knew and was ready to wrap it up.

“No. I’ll let you know if I think of anything. Can you tell me why this is so important now, after all this time and Sebastian being dead?”

Good question. Jack took it.

“There may be another case that’s recently come to our attention. Quite by accident. She had a similar card left and thought she’d been drugged.”

Stephanie’s hand flew to cover her mouth.

“And her hair?”

“Sadly, gone.”

A groan of disbelief and anguish escaped her mouth. Fifteen years later it was happening again. Had it ever stopped?

“My god. It’s been happening all this time and nobody knew.” It was a fact, not a question.

“Well, we do now.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

It had been a harrowing hour or so at the police station, regurgitating events from so long ago, events that she’d worked hard to forget. Now they were back swimming around the inside of her head like sharks circling in shallow water. A nuisance, and frightening. While she probably hadn’t been much help – she hadn’t seen anything of use – if it helped to catch whoever was responsible for the latest victim and prevent more women from going through this, then it would have been worth the pain.

As she walked, a thought nagged at the back of her mind now – the reference on the card to a debt being settled. At the time she’d wracked her brains, wondering what it had meant, but nothing had come of and it had been forgotten with the rest of the nightmare. But now, having told Jack and Amanda about it, she began uneasily to ponder it again. Your debt has been settled. But what debt, and to whom?

Right now, she needed a drink. There was a place up ahead that would do.

Stephanie opened the door to the wine bar and found a vacant stool at the bar. She didn’t want to be totally on her own, but she didn’t totally want conversation either. She hoped a glass in the vicinity of others would soothe her nerves. A young man dressed in a denim apron with “Matt” embroidered on his nametag approached her, smiling pleasantly.

“A glass of white wine, please,” she said. “A large one.”

“Coming right up.” She watched him pour from a bottle in the fridge, salivating at the thought of the crisp, cold liquid she was about to consume, then silently reprimanded herself.

You sound like a desperate alcoholic.

“Thanks,” she said, and greedily took three large mouthfuls.

Matt raised his eyebrows at her. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Only you’ll be falling off that stool in a minute if you’re not careful.” His concerned look told her he wasn’t being a comedian or an asshole.

“Rough day, that’s all.” She put her glass back down. It was now only a third full. “And I know it’s still early, but really, it’s been a crappy day already.”

Matt took the hint and busied himself further down the bar to give her some space, and she nursed the rest of her glass at a more leisurely pace. She’d been sat there thinking for about twenty minutes when the door opened again and three women walked in, chatting earnestly together, and headed to the bar to order. All three women would have been in their thirties, and from the way they were dressed, probably office workers of some kind, and well paid, judging by the shoes they were wearing. Stephanie loved nice shoes. One of the women was telling a story, the other two listening intently as Matt approached, and Stephanie’s ears perked up, not out of nosiness but because the woman was obviously wound up – probably the reason they were in the bar in the first place, much like Stephanie. One of her colleagues took the liberty of ordering them gin and tonics, and Matt began to mix them, shooting a quick glance at Stephanie.

“Honestly,” the first woman exclaimed. “It’s like Hollywood in that place now, probably worse. What’s his last indiscretion going to do to the company’s reputation now, eh? I’m getting pretty sick of fighting his fires because he can’t keep it in his pants, or his hands to himself. He’s a bloody nightmare to have around. I’m seriously thinking of talking to the board. It’s not good for business.” The woman steadied herself with a deep breath before taking a large mouthful of her drink. Her hand shook slightly, and the ice cubes rattled. The other two women sipped slowly; so far, they’d only offered the occasional ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ to confirm they were indeed listening.

The speaker set her drink on the counter and began talking again, her voice vibrating with anger as she spoke. “It’s Lisa I feel sorry for now. Having put up with his advances all this time, it won’t be him that moves on, but Lisa, and she’s a damn good team member. Not like Mr. Shitty Sleazeman.”

One of the other women nearly choked on a mouthful of gin, coughing and smiling at the same time. “Sorry, that’s actually quite funny,” she apologized, wiping her mouth. “Cheeseman, Sleazeman. Who made that up?” She giggled and took another sip of gin.

“I think he earned that name himself don’t you?” said the first woman. If the cap fits and all that.”

The three women stood in silence for a moment, contemplating what was obviously an embarrassing and awkward situation back at the office. The ringleader carried on. “We’ve got to find a way to stop him. Otherwise, we won’t have a team – or a business, at this rate. Sexual harassment is not to be taken lightly; it’s a serious offence, for both parties. If Lisa leaves because of it, she’ll be marked a troublemaker, and if she presses action and wins, she’ll be labelled a troublemaker too. Meanwhile, Sleazeman gets to have a giggle about the whole thing and life moves on for him. Until the next one. And the next one. And I’m sick of trying to sort it out. Perhaps I should leave and leave him to it.” The other women watched as she slammed her empty glass down on the bar with a thud, catching the attention of Matt.

The first woman said, “Let’s order some food and another round, and sit down and make a plan. You’re right: the problem won’t go away on its own. We have to do something.” The third woman nodded her agreement and gathered three menus. As the others moved to a table, she called to Matt for three more drinks.

Stephanie had always believed in chance, in fate, in being offered an opportunity at the oddest of times and places. Listening to the women’s heated conversation had jogged something loose, something from the past that now swam in front of her eyes like it was only yesterday. That shark again, or something else as deadly. Open-mouthed, she ran through what she’d only moments ago realized, a piece of the puzzle from her past now making perfect sense.

Her debt had been paid.

She’d been the one being harassed by a director back then. He’d been the one to make her life hell to the point that she’d begun taking antidepressant pills. And then, just when she’d thought she couldn’t stand it anymore, it had stopped. Like someone had severed his hold on her, cut the cord with a knife. Nothing further had happened – no more quick touches as they passed in the corridor, no more lewd looks and sexual innuendos. No more chance meetings in the tearoom when everyone else had left for the evening. She shuddered at the memory, and what she’d done to him that night. He’d left rather suddenly and never said a word about it. At the time, she’d wondered why. And now she knew. Someone or something had intervened. While she’d been thankful it had ended, there was a question to be answered.

Could she have ended up in someone’s debt?

Chapter Thirty-Six

How could she have forgotten that important snippet? She slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. He’d left suddenly, with no warning and no explanation, and she had felt relief like never before. It had all come to a head. All the flirty remarks and comments, and suggestions of dinner after working late – all the classic ‘want you in my clutches’ letch talk that she and probably others before her had endured – had finally flicked a switch in her mind.

Late one night, she’d been finishing off a project. Most of the team had left for the evening and she’d been rinsing her mug in the kitchen. Quietly, he’d entered the room while she had her back to him and had locked the door. When she’d turned and seen him standing there, the look of ‘got you’ written on his face and his lecherous smile, her stomach had nearly emptied itself into the sink. It had been obvious what was to happen next. She remembered how he’d leered at her, taking in her long legs, licking his lips as he’d walked towards her, savouring his prize like she was an ice cream he was about to devour.

But not tonight. Never again.

She’d waited patiently for the right moment, for him to get close enough. Kicking him in the nuts wasn’t an option: he was already too close, and there was not enough room to swing her foot up. No, she’d had a better plan, one that could get her the sack, or even worse, a record for assault charges. But that didn’t bother her. He bothered her, and he had to be taught his advances weren’t welcome, ever.

She’d fixed a ‘come and get me’ smile on her lips and stuck it out. He’d probably been surprised at her smile, and pleased that she was going to submit without a fight, that she had realized she couldn’t stop the inevitable. That bit had pleased her, because he was almost correct on that score. Except it was he that couldn’t stop the inevitable.

As she’d leaned back into the kitchen counter and he’d made contact, pressing his body into hers, she’d stayed focused on what was to happen next. She’d turned to her right slightly and let him kiss her neck, all the time fighting the repulsion of his damp, hot breath on her skin. She’d tried her best to relax, to let him know he’d won and she was enjoying his touch. How far from the truth that was. Her right hand had clenched stealthily around her weapon of choice and with one strong movement, she’d thrust the fork prongs into his shoulder as hard as she could.

It took him a fraction of a second to realize what she’d done and release her, but she was well ahead of his thought process. Like a firework, she propelled herself at the door and unlocked it, flying out into the main office and into the midst of the cleaning staff who were working there. Pausing just for a moment to grab her bag, she watched as he stared at her from the doorway, his face crimson with pain and fury. And a fork sticking out of his shoulder. That part had amused her, and she’d smiled mirthlessly as she fled the building, leaving him to it.

At least she’d won on this occasion, though it wouldn’t be the end of it, she knew. Tomorrow, she’d be lucky if she still had her job, not to mention the police at her door.

She’d hit 3 on her speed dial as she legged it towards her car. Chris had picked up quickly, his voice chipper, pleased to hear from her as always. They’d once had a serious thing but were now on and off regularly. She knew Chris wanted them to be permanently on.

“I’ve stuffed up,” she blasted out in a rush. “I think I may have gone too far.”

“Slow down. And tell me what’s happened.”

“Meet me somewhere?”

“Anytime – you know that. Where are you now?”

“Just left work. Headed home.”

“Then jump in a taxi instead and come straight round. I have wine.” Chris always had wine; they’d drunk a fair bit of it together in the past.

“On my way. See you in ten.”

He was waiting at his front door and walked down to the pavement as she pulled up. In the back of the taxi she’d had time to calm herself down a little and wasn’t so frazzled. Chris paid the driver as she got out and he turned to her. His arm slipped across her shoulders in comfort like close friends do. Once inside, she’d told him the whole sordid story. Of how her boss, William Botham, had tried valiantly over the previous months to make her his prize. Of his disgusting habits and ways of speaking. Of how she knew she wasn’t the only one going through this, though no one had dared make a formal complaint. And of how, tonight, she’d finally had enough and decided to beat him at his own game. He’d set her up in the kitchen by locking the door, and she’d set him up by having the fork ready at her fingertips. The only reason she’d chosen a fork over a knife was because a knife really could have been termed a weapon. A fork? More opportunistic, less premeditated. Though it had probably hurt just as much. She’d certainly hoped so, and his yelp, like a wounded dog’s, had confirmed it.

Chris had sat quietly taking it all in but couldn’t help himself smiling proudly as she described the scene just before she’d fled. The wine was helping her relax.

“I felt like Sarah Connor stabbing the Terminator – strong, in control and damn hard,” she’d said, and they’d both laughed. Her tension was easing.

“Did you wear jeans and a vest covered in sweat? And big boots?”

She knew when he was taking the piss, but it felt good to laugh at the whole scenario before the inevitable shit set in. He’d held her close as their laughter had died down and they both thought of the possible consequences. It was assault, after all, and she’d no proof of his wrongdoing – and Botham was in a better position to persuade the authorities if he chose. Getting her fired wouldn’t have been a problem in the slightest.

“Look, stay here tonight,” Chris had said. “I’ll sleep on the sofa and you have my bed. In the morning you’ll feel better and be ready for whatever the day brings.”

Stephanie had agreed.

He’d hugged her tight, and she had felt glad of his friendship.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Fifteen years before

Chris Meeks had never been much of a sleeper. He’d regularly operate on four or five hours per night and often wished he could sleep for longer. His body just didn’t need it, and the many physicians he’d consulted as he was growing up had all come to the same conclusion – he was just wired differently. They’d advised him to just let it be, and as a result he read huge amounts at night or listened to audio books as he lay in bed ‘resting’ his body, with his mind whirling round digesting the words. Late-night radio bored him senseless but podcasts on various topics filled the gap; he’d found they were a good alternative to fiction.

It was during all this spare time, when others slumbered and snored all around him, tucked up warm in their beds with loved ones, that he had taught himself how to code and to set up a business. But his business was a little different from the conventional ones a client might find listed on Google. His business lived in a secret place, a dark place, one accessible only by invitation to select and affluent clientele. When he’d first had the idea and begun to put the bones of it together, he’d been surprised at the custom that had come his way – not so much the volume as the customers who had seen the opportunity for him to expand his offering to so much more and had been willing to put money into the venture.

Of course, he’d started small, and had done the majority of the work himself with the help of actors looking to pay bills of their own. He paid much better than waiting tables. Some of those early actors were still with him today, though times had changed with the advances in technology. Still, Chris’s business wouldn’t work without the humans involved; not everything could be left to technology. No, humans were the very essence of his group. And they had their needs.

Back in 2004, there had been only a handful of sites like his, and he’d had to use the common web to get things going. That and dank basements where others involved in illegal activity did their trading. It had reminded him of prohibition and illegal underground bars: secret locations, secret access and secret clientele that could be trusted.

Trust.

Trust was essential for a business like his to operate outside the norm, and he’d come up with a foolproof way to ensure nobody blabbed.

Self-incrimination.

In order to gain entry, a member had to supply proof of their desires and proof of themselves satisfying those desires. That way, if anyone felt like snitching, there was evidence of their own full involvement – and who would be crazy enough to drop themselves in it and report him to the authorities? So that’s what kept his service running smoothly, without aggravation from law enforcement. Even if an undercover officer managed to gain entry with an invitation, they were never going to supply their own proof of incrimination, and Chris would sniff them out immediately.

The other built-in security measure he’d added was the constant merry-go-round of site addresses. He used these like squatters use derelict homes, moving from one location to another at regular intervals. A short time before the group went live for the evening, a link would be sent out to his client base with the address where the gathering would be held encrypted in the message. Illegal dog-fighting rings did the same, except they met in the woods in person, while Chris’s group met in the cloud under pseudonyms.

Sat at his desk as Stephanie slept in his bed, Chris entered the group under his usual admin login and sent a message to the rest of his ‘management team,’ those who co-owned it. He had an opportunity lying fast asleep in his bed next door, and he knew there would be the perfect match-up for her somewhere. He just needed to find out who. He stepped back into his bedroom and took a picture of her lying fast asleep, her beautiful hair on show and her sweet face in blissful repose, looking like she didn’t have a care in the world. He knew otherwise. He typed a short message and attached the image, then hit ‘send’ and waited while it pinged across various servers around the world. It wasn’t long before the first response came back.

Hair for a hijack, read one.

A beating for two pints of red, read another.

Feet for finances drained, read the third.

Chris smiled at the devilish delights his clients were willing to give in order to get what they wanted. While he himself would have liked to put a hit out on the man who had upset Stephanie, the rules of the group were clear: no one got physically hurt. No one would die, no feet severed, no eyeballs collected. Nothing to cause physical pain was ever to happen. That was not the business he was into. His role was arranging pleasure and fulfilling sexual fetishes for one group in return for something the providers would appreciate or enjoy themselves, and ensuring that neither party realized the two parts of the transaction were connected.

As he put it, he offered a dark service.

Since he himself was the client in this particular scenario, the ‘hair for a hijack’ offer stood out to him now. Stephanie could cope with losing her hair, he decided. It would grow back, and setting up the perfect hijack would be fun: William Botham would be scared out of his sleazy mind when the time came to throw a sack over his head and manhandle him out of his home.

He sat back in his chair, fingers steepled together in thought as he quickly worked out the logistics. He wanted it done tonight. He glanced at the clock on his computer: it was just coming up to midnight, which gave him around five hours tops, and since he knew nothing about the target as yet, he’d have to work quickly to get the pieces in place. While he felt sorry for Stephanie, since she’d undoubtedly be upset for a few days, he knew she wouldn’t be harmed in any way. Using a hijacker who demanded only money for the service was not how these exchanges worked: Stephanie needed to frighten Botham into silence, so there needed to be a forfeit in return. So there was no way around it: Stephanie would have to give up her beautiful long locks.

He got to work with his plan. First was a background search: his client’s location, activities and finances, both company and personal. It made him smile as he dug into what the man had been up to; his credit card statement read like a porn library and it seemed he had more than one property listed to his name.

“Which one are you sleeping in, Mr. Botham?” he said to the screen as he typed. He sat back and looked at the current power consumption of each of them. “Ah, I guess one is a bolthole for ‘special occasions.’ I wonder if your wife knows about it. Shame you’re not there in that flat. It would make the job a little easier later on.” He searched on and was pleased to discover Botham had a regular gym session with a personal instructor at 6 am each workday.

Well, he wouldn’t be going tomorrow.

He walked into his bedroom and bent at the side of the bed, kissing Stephanie lightly on the cheek. She really was a beautiful woman, and her long brown hair fanned out gloriously over the pillow.

“It will grow back, my love,” he whispered, “and your problem will be solved.” He slipped into bed beside her and stroked the very hair that would soon be appreciated by someone else.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

His shoulder throbbed. Was there any wonder? William looked at the red and now quite swollen skin in disbelief. Four little dark bloodied holes seemed to glare back at him, and he did his best to ignore them.

“Bitch,” he said to the reflection in the mirror, then peered more closely at his wound. His pyjama top had kept it concealed from his wife in bed; otherwise she’d have been asking awkward questions, questions he didn’t want to answer. How exactly do you explain that you were stabbed by a woman at work whom you were teasing? What was she on, anyway? Couldn’t she take a joke?

“Bitch needs an orgasm to release her pent-up frustrations,” he grumbled. “Probably not had one for years. Stuck-up cow – who does she think she is, attacking me?” He roughly lathered his face in foam and began to shave quickly, all the time cursing inwardly at the woman who’d taken him aback the previous night. He’d have to deal with that little problem later today: nobody got one over on him. In frustration, he swept his blade over his chin far too quickly and nicked himself. Claret mixed with creamy white, like strawberry coulis on vanilla ice cream.

“Shit!” he cursed out loud as he watched the red drop travel south. “Bitch,” he added again, and kicked the wall to vent his annoyance at something that wasn’t going to fight back.

Twenty minutes later he was on his way down to the underground car park and an hour punching a bag with his instructor at the gym before work. Still seething, he unlocked his car as he approached. It beeped in response and he flung his kitbag on to the back seat. As he got into the driver’s side, a figure slipped into the passenger side next to him, startling him. Even in the dim light of the garage he could see the person was wearing a black balaclava. Adrenalin poured into his bloodstream.

“What’s going on? What is this?” He turned to the figure and his face met the muzzle of a gun.

“Shut up and drive. Head for the gym – as usual.”

It wasn’t lost on William that the ‘as usual’ meant whoever this was knew his movements. “What do you want? I don’t have any cash if that’s it. But I can get it later. Just leave me alone,” he said, his voice quivering.

Chris smiled inside the balaclava. This one was going to be too easy. It always amused him, when he undertook this role, how people reacted, how they’d start spilling their guts, what they started offering. And sometimes who they offered. He shook his head and tutted softly; this guy would probably sell out easily. He was tempted to ramp things up a notch. But he wasn’t there to harm the man, just scare him shitless. He spoke with a practiced fake Irish accent that even to his own ears sounded menacing.

“Shut up and drive. Don’t make me have to tell you again.” He pressed the gun into Botham’s thigh.

Botham took the hint and started the engine, pulling out of the dark garage and out into the weak morning light. He tried to look down at the gun, but the man pressed the muzzle in harder.

“Watch the road. You know what this is so don’t make me use it.” He felt Botham quiver slightly and hoped he wouldn’t wet his pants. Some of his victims had, and he hated the smell, but this was only going to be a short journey. He got down to the business he was there for.

“You weren’t very friendly last night. Now you’ll pay for it.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Are you really that stupid? Perhaps you are. They said you weren’t particularly bright. And I’m inclined to agree. Think back, dumbshit.”

A moment passed before Botham spoke. “Really? It’s about the bitch from the office?”

A punch to the side of his head sent the car careering into the other lane for a moment until Botham managed to correct it back to his side of the road.

“There you go again, disrespecting a woman. Not bright.”

“Oh, now I get it. This is my warning to stop, is that it? Who the hell are you, her boyfriend?”

Another blow caught him hard and he winced, closing his eyes for a second as the pain sliced through his skull.

“Do I sound like her boyfriend? I doubt she’d date someone with my particular skills.” He chuckled snidely and noted with satisfaction that Botham swallowed hard. The gym was just visible in the distance now.

“Pull into the car park and park over in the far-right corner, behind the shed.”

Botham obliged and steered the car into the space he’d indicated. “Turn the engine off and stay facing forward. Keep your hands on the steering wheel. If you move, it could get messy. And I don’t like mess.”

William sat po-faced like a naughty child doing as he was told. He felt movement at his side but dared not to look. Then suddenly everything went black as something – a sack? – was placed over his head. He gasped in panic as the smell of damp earth from the sack filled his nostrils. When nothing else happened, he tried to relax a little and keep his wits and bearings. He heard the strike of a match, and the stench of cigarette smoke filled the car. He waited for the man to speak, to find out what was coming next. The smell of smoke became stronger as the man exhaled, and William tried not to cough.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” the man said at length. “Go about your day as usual. Do not under any circumstances speak to, look at, touch, or do anything with Stephanie today or any other day. If we hear of any contact with her whatsoever, your wife will be notified about the little love nest you keep for your extracurricular activities and the women who frequent the place with you. That should lead to quite a nice divorce settlement for her, I should think.” The man took another long drag on his cigarette, and William could just see the red glow of the ember through the woven sacking.

“Okay, I hear you. Can I go now?”

“Not quite. As a little reminder for you, in case you get tempted to digress, I want you to remember our conversation with this.”

The man gave no warning as the cigarette seared the skin on the back of William’s hand; he yelled in pain as the man increased the pressure, stubbing the cigarette out fully on his skin. He clutched his hand, gritting his teeth in pain.

“Now remember what I said or there will be more where that came from, much more. Look at the mark every time you see her, as a reminder of our conversation.”

William heard the car door open, and the man slipped out without another word and shut it quietly behind him.

William sat aghast. What was going on here? First his shoulder, then his shaving, topped off with two blows to the head, a sack over the head and a burn on his hand. He was beginning to feel like Michael Palin in A Fish Called Wanda. All he needed now was a bloody nose.

He sat still, listening, for several more minutes. Finally, hearing nothing, he dared to turn his head. Had his assailant gone? He chanced lifting the sack away from his face and, squinting in the early morning light, looked cautiously around the vehicle. No, he was alone. He climbed gingerly out of the vehicle, cradling his burned hand, headed to the back door of the gym and went inside. While he wasn’t going to work out, he relished the sanctuary the building offered, and he felt his thumping heart begin to slow down. The bright receptionist, his current plaything, smiled coyly at him, but he was in no mood for flirting today. Maybe never again.

“Done?”

“Done. And what a pathetic excuse of a man he turned out to be. Bullies often are. He won’t be any bother now.”

The driver started his engine. “Excellent. Fancy a Sausage McMuffin?”

Taking his balaclava off, Chris replied in a very English accent, “Love one.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

She’d awoken in a strange bed. Chris was lying fast asleep next to her and she palmed her forehead in dismay. Has she really stayed over at Chris’s? And what had happened to him sleeping on the couch? Her head hurt from downing too much wine too quickly, and she jolted back to the events of the evening before.

At work. And what she’d done.

Grimacing, she gently folded the bed linen back and crept out of the room in search of the bathroom. Locking the door behind her for privacy, she examined her face in the mirror and took in the swollen eyes and blotchy skin. She looked like she’d had a good cry, that’s for sure, and she didn’t have any make-up with her. She flopped down on the toilet and took a pee, head in her hands. A light knock at the door pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Are you okay in there?” Gentle as ever; he’d always been the perfect gentleman.

“Be out in a minute,” she called back. “I need to get home and changed. I look like hell.”

“Never, but yes, I’ll drop you home. Time for a cuppa first?”

She had no idea what time it was, but if she was late, she didn’t really care anyway. She’d be lucky if she still had a job to go to, but she wasn’t going to stay away completely.

“Please.”

The smell of toast wafted up the stairs and met her on the landing. Her stomach grumbled in appreciation. When Stephanie eventually entered the kitchen, Chris had laid the table with juice and cereal packets.

“You may as well eat here,” he said, busying himself buttering toast. She took a slice. Butter ran close to the crust edges and she licked at it greedily. Chris couldn’t help but notice.

“Thanks for letting me stay last night. What happened to the sofa, though?” Chris smiled. “Relax, we didn’t do anything. You weren’t that out of it.”

Relief relaxed her shoulders a little and she smiled back. “I didn’t think so. I guess we can be two adult friends and sleep in the same bed, can’t we? Others manage it.”

“Well, while I don’t know of any, we managed just fine.” Changing the subject, he asked, “How do you feel about going in to work? Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine. I might not have a job later this morning, but I’m not staying away. Or I could be answering questions down at the police station, of course.” She chuckled to let him know she wasn’t stressing too much about it. The beating of her heart was another matter, but what was done, was done.

By the time she’d finally got to work, every fibre of her body felt as tight as a stretch band. She stood in the lift taking deep breaths to steady herself for what was probably going to be an unpleasant experience. She’d dressed in a navy-blue pantsuit, the one piece in her wardrobe that she felt invincible in, like Wonder Woman without the cleavage but equally as strong. Last night she’d barely thought about her actions and her brute strength had surprised her, but today she needed all the help she could get, and from wherever. If power dressing was a crutch, then she’d lean on it for all it was worth.

The doors slid open and her booted feet stepped out into the reception area as she tried her best to ooze confidence and strength. While she looked great on the outside, on the inside she oozed about as much strength as an empty tube of toothpaste. As she made her way to her desk, she chanced a glance to either side of her, expecting either security guards approaching ready to remove her, or at the very least William’s P.A. hot on her heels. But there was no rush from either side – no men in uniform, no demanding P.A. She was surprised, but shrugged it off and carried on to her desk, quickening her pace only slightly.

Mid-morning came and went. Nothing.

Lunch came and went. Still nothing.

Surely mid-afternoon? No, nothing.

End of the day? Ditto.

At precisely 6 pm, Stephanie gathered her things to head out for the evening, still expecting a tap on the shoulder, a summons to his office after hours even, but when his P.A. shouted “Good night!” as she too left for the evening, she finally let herself breathe a little easier. Maybe her attack had done the trick and he’d been too embarrassed to mention it. Maybe he was avoiding her for fear of being stabbed again. Or maybe he just had better things to worry about. Hopefully that would be the end of it.

“Oh well. Whatever,” she mumbled happily as she slipped inside her car and drove home.

The man in the dark corner of the car park sent a message back to the operator. It read “No contact all day. She’s headed home.”

The reply came back. “Perfect. We’ll activate the next part.”

The man pulled out of his hiding spot and stayed within a safe distance of her car. She’d be going out later, though at this point she didn’t know it yet. He knew where she lived, so cars pushing in in front of him as they drove didn’t worry him, and actually made his tail even more natural. He observed as she approached her flat but he carried on past, opting to park further up the road. She wouldn’t be going for at least another hour, so he settled himself in and opened his flask of hot coffee to wait for further instructions.

From his own computer in his own flat, Chris watched as the various points came together on his screen. She was home. He hoped she’d had a rather more pleasant day without the sleaze ball hounding her around every corner. He pressed send on his phone and it connected almost immediately.

“I’m guessing it was all okay today. I didn’t hear from you.” Chris sounded like the caring friend he was.

“It was the weirdest thing,” she replied. “I kept expecting something, a tap on my shoulder, but no, nothing. I’m half wondering if he wasn’t that bothered. Or better yet, maybe I’ve warned him off properly. Maybe that’s it now. I hope so.”

Chris smiled at her optimism. “Well, that’s great I’m pleased for you. I’ve been thinking about it all day but didn’t dare to ring or text. Look, I’ll buy dinner, something casual, then what do you say to a couple of drinks? Nothing heavy, but a bit of a celebration, eh?”

The air went quiet between them as Stephanie was obviously considering his offer. Chris was quick to interject before she could find an excuse. “In fact, let’s go all out and eat at that new champagne bar in town, then drink champagne there! We could dress up nice and be toffs for the night. Sound like fun? I’m buying.”

Her giggles rang in his ear; he’d hit the right spot. “Great! Get your best dress on, then, girl and I’ll meet you in sixty minutes. Is that long enough?”

“Yes. Sounds great. You’re on. I’ll see you in an hour. I’d better get a move on.”

He smiled. She sounded lighter and ready for some fun after her ordeal yesterday, and he was pleased with how things were turning out. He really hoped what was about to happen didn’t upset her too much, but it had to be done. The debt had to be repaid.

Even for the rather lovely Stephanie Michaels.

Chapter Forty

“You look gorgeous as usual, Ms. Michaels. Care to take my arm?”

Chris stood in the doorway smiling broadly at Stephanie, arm proffered for her to take, gentleman style. She linked hers in his, and they set off towards his car, which was parked at the curb. He opened the passenger door and she slid in, careful not to expose too much thigh in his direction. She didn’t want him getting ideas about anything other than friendship. She gave a mock royal wave with her right hand as though she was riding in the golden horse-drawn carriage. In actual fact, she had been poured into his Mini. Top-end model, but still a Mini. She examined her surroundings, taking in the flight deck of clocks and the various knobs and buttons. The leather interior invited her to stroke it.

“What a beautiful interior. Small, but beautiful.”

Chris got in beside her and started the engine. He revved it a couple of times for her benefit. “Listen to that purr. She’s like a big cat.” He gently revved a couple more times, listening himself to the power tucked inside the bijou casing. “Ready?”

“Let’s go!”

And off they drove to the champagne bar that would become their venue for the majority of the evening. There was no need for the tail. Chris knew exactly where she would be tonight: right by his side.

For the time being.

Chapter Forty-One

It was a couple of hours later that he made his approach. Chris had gone to the bathroom, leaving Stephanie alone for a short time at their table, which was his signal to take over. A suave blond-haired male approached the table, a Margarita in each hand. “May I?”

Stephanie looked up from her thoughts, straight into the deepest blue eyes she’d ever seen. For a moment, she didn’t quite know what to say; she felt almost hypnotized as he gazed back, but his smile broke the spell.

“I – I’m with someone tonight, actually,” she stammered.

“I know. He’s just gone to the gents so I thought I’d bring you a drink. I didn’t think you were actually an item together, which is why I’m here.”

She smiled at that. “Oh? What makes you think that?”

“Your body language together. I’ve been watching. You’re just good friends, am I right?” His eyes danced as he teased her and she found herself staring at them again. And blushing. He sat down next to her. “Here,” he said passing her a cocktail glass. “I took a chance on a Margarita. You look like a woman with taste.”

“Are all your chat-up lines so cheesy?”

“I’m afraid they are, and they rarely work, but I live in hope they will tonight.” They both laughed. He put his hand out to introduce himself. “I’m Sebastian, and you are. . .?”

“Stephanie.” She took his hand and they shook gently.

“Well, that has a cheesy ring to it already, doesn’t it? Stephanie and Sebastian. Heavens, it sounds like a posh kids’ store. We’re doomed before our drinks are over!”

Stephanie laughed again and raised her glass. “May as well finish your drink first. No point in wasting it.” Over Sebastian’s shoulder she could see Chris approaching the table, when another woman grabbed his attention. Stephanie watched as the two of them embraced like old friends, hugging and laughing together. Chris pulled free to look her up and down. She suspected he was saying something along the lines of ‘You look great! You’ve not changed one bit.’ She caught his eye and gave a little wave to tell him to carry on; she was fine with the cheesy guy for a while. Chris immediately got the message and acknowledged it with a slight wave back. They were there as friends for the evening after all, not on a date. With Chris busy with his old friend, she turned back to her guest.

“So, Sebastian, tell me. What brings a man like you to a place like this?” She tried her hardest not to giggle but failed miserably, and they threw their heads back in unison.

“I guess two can play cheesy, eh?”

“Oh yes. But seriously, tell me about the man who takes random drinks to random women when they were sitting with another man. What kind of guy does that?”

Over the following couple of hours, Sebastian and Stephanie drank several more Margaritas and several more glasses of champagne while Sebastian filled her in on his life and asked her questions about her own, and they generally got on like peanut butter and jelly on sliced bread.

Chris had stayed with his old friend, giving Stephanie the occasional wave to make sure she was still okay, but he knew she was. It was all part of the plan.

“Let’s go back to mine,” Sebastian said to Stephanie as the witching hour approached.

Stephanie paused to think for a moment, looking across to Chris who was still enjoying himself with the other woman.

“Sounds good,” she said, flirting back somewhat drunkenly, and got to her feet.

Once back at his apartment, Sebastian had poured them both a nightcap, then pulled out a little box where he kept his cocaine and cut a little on the dining room table. He turned to Stephanie, passing a glass to her.

“Would you like some, to relax with?” he said, indicating the coke.

Stephanie had never tried the hard stuff in her life and wasn’t about to start now. Taking her wrap off, she made herself comfortable on the sofa, sipping her drink. “Not for me, thanks, but don’t let me stop you.” She kicked her shoes off and lolled her head back. Seconds later, Sebastian was next to her, planting kisses on her neck. She let him, stretching her neck to him for more, enjoying the feeling it gave her. They both knew what was going to happen next.

“Come,” he said, as he pulled her up and guided her to his bedroom. There was no resistance from Stephanie. Even though she had drunk far too much champagne and too many Margaritas, she was still in the mood for Sebastian.

It was sometime after that that things had gone blurry. Had Stephanie not drunk her spiked brandy, she would have been awake when the visitor had knocked an hour later and Sebastian had passed another keycard through the door. She would have felt Sebastian on top of her, and she would have felt the blade nicking the backs of her thighs as he straddled her, watching tiny beads of blood rise to the surface on her glorious legs. She might have even been aware that another man had crept into the room some hours later and severed her hair, leaving it rough and clumpy.

But she had drunk it. And Sebastian had swapped that keycard for a single baggy of cocaine – the value of her hair.

Chapter Forty-Two

Present day

Stephanie sat staring into space, lost in her own world of distant memories, jarred loose by the women’s discussion of “Mr. Sleazeman.” As their chatter quieted and they tucked into their food, she realized with a start that Matt the barman was hovering nearby. It was obvious he had spoken to her, though she had no recollection what he’d said. She shook her head gently as if shaking out the cotton wool in her head.

“Sorry, I was miles away.”

“It’s okay. I was merely seeing if you wanted a top-up. Or something to eat. Can I get you anything?” He had an easy, welcoming smile and gentle, soothing eyes. Or was that the glass of wine on an empty stomach? She checked her watch. Did she have to be someplace?

“Thanks. I’ll have one more, and how about a chicken salad sandwich with fries? That should soak the wine up and put my day back together.”

“Coming right up.”

Stephanie took the opportunity to make a phone call; she wanted to talk to Ruth. She pressed her speed dial number and Ruth answered on the third ring.

Breathlessly, Stephanie blurted out what she’d remembered.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” said Ruth. “Slow down – you’re not making any sense. Now start again, slowly.”

“I overheard a conversation about sexual harassment in this woman’s workplace and her having to clear his mistakes up again and how much damage it’s doing to the company’s reputation. She was really heated up about it, and it jogged my memory about something that happened not long before my hair went missing.” She paused to catch her breath.

“Go on,” Ruth prompted. “Tell me what happened. From the top.”

And so Stephanie relayed the story of how her boss had become too familiar with her, and cornered her in the kitchen one night, and how she’d basically stabbed him. And how, the following day, the problem had vanished. He’d never mentioned it, she had certainly never mentioned it, and the whole thing appeared to have gone away.

“I can’t believe you stabbed him, Steph!” Ruth said incredulously. “That was a big risk. Mind you,” she went on, “I’d have probably done the same if it had been me. And he never said anything about it again?”

“That’s right. If someone had stabbed you with a fork, you’d have said something, wouldn’t you? And being the boss too?”

Ruth thought for a moment. “I wonder why not.”

“Well, that’s just it, Ruth. I told my friend Chris that night, nobody else, and I wonder if the whole thing is linked with something else that happened?”

“Oh?” Ruth’s voice perked up. “What?”

“Well, the following night after work, Chris and I went out for drinks and, well, that was the night I ended up with Sebastian Stevens, back at his place. I think.”

“Go on,” Ruth prodded again, her voice serious now.

“Well, Chris was with me for most of the night. And then he went to the loo, and that’s when Sebastian came over and sat down. After a while, Chris started back to our table, but he bumped into an old girlfriend. I gave him the signal I was okay with Sebastian, which I was, and Chris stayed with his old friend. I never saw him again that night after we left the bar. Sebastian and I went back to his place, and then I was drugged, and you know the rest.”

Ruth was quiet on the other end of the phone for a moment. “So,” she said at length, “you’re saying you wonder if your friend Chris set you up somehow because he’d done something to stop your over-amorous boss?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“Wow. That’s a big jump. Are you still in touch with this Chris guy? Does he have a surname?”

“Chris Meeks, and no, he moved away soon after that night. I’ve not heard of him since. I can’t help thinking there are too many coincidences, though – that I was set up, that a debt I didn’t know I had was paid back. In full.”

“Shit. Have you told Amanda yet? You’re going to have to, you know.”

“I know. I wanted to run it past you first.”

“Well, even if it is something to do with this Chris guy, she’ll need more than hearsay and gut feeling. I’d start thinking about how you might find him again. And I’d write out what you’ve remembered. It might help jog more memories loose when you read it back again. She’s going to need some help, and the name ‘Chris’ and not much else is a bit thin, I reckon.”

Stephanie knew she was right: she had to come up with more. The arrival of her sandwich and fries distracted her, and her stomach growled in anticipation.

“I’ll write it all out, then I’ll call her later,” she said. “May as well get it all out of the way. And if he was involved then, and another woman has lost her hair now, there will probably be others.”

“Keep me posted, Steph, and you know where I am if you need me.”

Stephanie blew her friend a kiss down the phone and hung up. She picked up a couple of the hot fries and chewed on them, thinking. The salty grease tasted damn good. If she had put the right pieces together and figured it out, then someone needed to track Chris down. Rather than waiting, she picked her phone up again and called Amanda while it was all summer-fresh in her mind. She’d know how to find Chris.

If Chris Meeks was his real name.

Chapter Forty-Three

Griffin lay in his bed; the alarm was due to go off in a few more minutes. It wasn’t unusual for him to wake before his alarm, but it was unusual for him to lie in bed. Eventually it was his bladder that made him get up. He tapped the alarm button as he passed his clock, just as it was about to bleep, and dragged the bedclothes back so the sheets and mattress could air. As always, he gave a moment’s thought to the bed lice, and then almost forcibly switched the thoughts off again. Bed lice were invisible to the human eye, he told himself again, so technically what the eye couldn’t see shouldn’t worry him. And he wasn’t about to get a magnifier to feed his curiosity.

As usual, his routine was precise, and fifteen minutes later he was in his tiny kitchen pouring milk onto his waiting cereal. Weekends were much the same for Griffin, though without the need to head into town, but he still kept to a regular timetable of sorts, just a little more relaxed. He took tea at home rather than at the office.

The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, giving a yellowy glow to the room as he ate his Special K. Milk spilled from his spoon onto the table as he completely missed his mouth.

His mind was elsewhere and he knew just where.

Today, he’d agreed to meet up with Vee again and look at a couple of the flats she had lined up to view. The thought of spending the day with her thrilled him; he was finally beginning to relax in her company a little, although it was tough going. Yes, he’d had a girlfriend before, but that had been some years ago, before he’d grown in size like a blow-up paddling pool. Now, he’d shrunk back to a healthier and near normal size for his height. Vee seemed to like him. And if last night was anything to go by, they were getting on nicely. He’d walked her home and they’d stood on the back step, but with her parents inside, he hadn’t dared to lean in and give her a quick kiss. And that had been the excuse he’d stuck to. Draining his bowl of the last of the milk, he wondered how he’d avoid the situation again should it arise. Which it would. His lack of confidence could be a pain sometimes.

On Saturdays he had a slice of toast after his cereal, and he put a slice of bread in the toaster while he waited for the kettle to boil again. His thoughts drifted back to the previous night: drinking Snakebite in the pub, her beating him at darts, and their stroll home under the amber glow of streetlamps. The toast pinged up and gathered his attention, so he spread peanut butter on it for his morning protein. He was finishing the last mouthful when his phone chirped like a bird. A text had landed.

“Are you up yet? I guess you are now!”

He smiled at her cheekiness. “Of course I am. You?”

“Awake, but still in bed. You still up for today?”

“Of course. Where and when?”

“Coffee first?”

“Excellent idea.”

“Come round here and we’ll go. 10 am suit?”

“Perfect. See you then.”

Griffin waited for a moment in case his phone pinged again, one last emoji perhaps, but it didn’t. He found himself slightly disappointed. He gathered his crockery and placed it in the dishwasher as usual and went through to the living area to retrieve his laptop. With a couple of hours until he was due to leave, he put the time to good use and carried on with his research. Depending on how far they walked today, he could get the remainder of his 10,000 steps in at the end of the day. He opened the lid and the screen sprang into life, the login prompt flashing at him like a pedestrian crossing light. Entering his details, he brought up the TOR browser and continued his search. And there he sat until it was almost time to leave.

He could see her in the distance, stood on the front step of her house chatting to someone. A parent, maybe? From what he could make out, the person looked about the right age, a male, but as he closed the gap, he could tell by their body language that Vee wasn’t the man’s daughter. In fact, moments later the man turned and walked back down the path towards a car that was parked at the curb. As Vee turned to go back inside, she saw Griffin and waved at him. He could see her bright smile easily and he found himself smiling back. She really was pretty in that special way of hers, and he was beginning to enjoy her company more and more each day. He’d even found himself thinking about her while at home on his own, and he couldn’t remember when he’d last done that. Or with whom.

He waved back. She began walking back down the path to meet him.

“Good morning,” he said when they were a few feet apart.

“Good morning to you too, Mr. Formal.” She was teasing him already.

“How am I supposed to greet you – with a ‘Yo’?”

“Good morning is just fine. I’m teasing you, silly.” She threaded her arm through his and they walked up towards the front door. It dawned on him that he was about to meet her parents. No sooner had the thought entered his head when an older male and female filled the doorway. The woman looked like an older version of Vee: same small nose and fine face structure, though her hair had lost its colour some time ago. Her father, on the other hand, had a thick head of dark brown hair, with just a few wisps of grey at his temples and around his ears. There was no mistaking these folks were her makers.

Here goes.

“Good morning. I’m Griffin,” he said, extending his hand. He caught the woman’s eye as he shook with her first. She had the same vivid hazel eyes as Vee.

They shone back at him as she replied, “Lovely to meet you. I’m Vera and this is my husband Bruce.” She nodded to her husband. He too reached out to shake hands with Griffin.

“Nice to meet you both.”

It was Vee who broke the moment’s silence that followed. “Yes, I’m named after Mum. ‘Little Vee,’ as I’ve been known since I was born. But I’ve grown up to simply be Vee now. Perhaps when I get as old as Mum, I’ll blossom into a fully-grown Vera,” she said, winking and smiling at her mother. There was obviously a deep bond between the three of them, Griffin thought as he watched their gestures and expressions. Love was written all over her parents’ faces.

“We’d better get a move on,” Vee said. “I don’t want to be late for the first one.”

“Right. Okay.” He turned to follow Vee, who was already making her way back down the path, and nodded at her two waving parents. “Good bye, then.”

When they were down the road a little way, Vee turned to Griffin and said, “I hope that wasn’t too embarrassing. I should have warned you they’d be nosey and want to meet you, but they mean well.”

“You look so much like your mum, but with your dad’s colouring. Who do you take after most?”

“Oh. Probably a big chunk of each. I look more like Mum, but I think I take after Dad with my mannerisms and laid-back approach to things. But if something bugs me and I get a bee in my bonnet, then I’m more like Mum. She can be a feisty so-and-so when she gets riled up. My sisters and I used to get her in a fizz sometimes. How about you? Who do you take after the most?”

Griffin had to think about that one. He wasn’t particularly close to his parents and hadn’t seen either of them for at least twelve months, probably longer.

“I’m not really sure, to be fair. I’ve never really seen eye to eye with Dad. He just thinks I’m odd. And Mum is a bit of a social butterfly, so I didn’t really fit in with her ‘perfect son’ goal, either. So we speak occasionally but hardly ever get together. It’s too hard, all the pretence of being something they want me to be rather than who I really am.”

They both fell silent as they walked towards the train station, both thinking about what Griffin had just said. As they approached the entrance, Griffin tried to lighten the mood. “Well, that kind of killed the conversation, didn’t it?” He was smiling as he turned to her and spoke the words without malice. Vee hooked her arm through Griffin’s a wee bit tighter and squeezed some affection up his arm.

“I’ll look after you.”

Chapter Forty-Four

They were on their third property viewing, and almost the instant they set foot on the cracked path up to the house Vee knew she might as well go no further. From the outside, the place looked reasonable, though rundown, and she was prepared to keep an open mind, but waiting outside she’d become more and more dismayed at the place. The only vibe she’d picked up so far on the small estate was a dodgy one. Small groups of youths milled around looking for something to do, and she guessed that would probably include petty crime. Had she asked them, they would have confirmed her suspicions – that is, if they’d dropped their attitude and been civil in conversation.

The estate agent arrived and let them in, then led them straight upstairs. But Vee knew this was never going to be the place.

“And a view out over the local area,” the agent gushed, pointing out of the smeary window like she was pointing to the Atlantic Ocean. In Croydon, the only water feature would be the pond in the back garden, if you were lucky enough to have a back garden. To appease the woman, Vee looked out at what she thought was so impressive. Or maybe the so-called view was the only good bit of the pokey property the agent could find to comment on, more like. Vee wrinkled up her nose.

“Not for me, thanks. A definite no-go, in fact. Thanks for showing us, though,” she said, and walked towards the door. Griffin followed dutifully, leaving the woman to lock up. She didn’t look too pleased at having her time wasted. As they made their way back down the weed-ridden path to the road, Vee let out a disappointed sigh.

“Don’t be despondent yet,” said Griffin. “We have one more to look at, and the first one we saw was quite good. Needs some work, but at least it was a decent-sized space in a nice part of town.” He looked at his watch. They had plenty of time until they were due at the next and last viewing.

“Let’s take a break and grab a drink before the next one, eh? We’ve walked for miles and I know my feet could do with a rest.”

“Alright. Mine too, actually. And a cold one would be nice right now. Café or bar? What do you fancy?”

“Let’s get out of this dump first, then see what comes along. How about that for a plan?”

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

Twenty minutes later they came across the first place that looked half decent. A pub it was to be, then. He opened the door for her and she stepped inside. The interior was dark and cooling after their walk in the warm sunshine.

“Snakebite? Or too early?” Griffin had his wallet out ready.

“Too early for me. I’ll have a Coke, please. But I need to pee, more importantly. I’ll be back in a minute.” He watched her disappear around the corner and he approached the bar.

He ordered two Cokes –one diet, no ice in either.

He waited. When she reappeared, he steered her to a vacant table in the corner and motioned for her to sit on the bench side. Covered in a deep burgundy-coloured velvety fabric, it looked more comfortable than the wooden chair opposite. Placing her Coke in front of her, he said, “I assumed you meant regular Coke, not diet? Not that you need diet, I should add. And I didn’t get ice. Wasn’t again sure if you took ice. But I can easily get you some if you wish?” He was babbling a little and he knew it. She smiled at his efforts.

“Full-fat Coke is fine. No ice is also fine, thanks.” Then she added, “For future reference though, I drink Diet Coke and don’t care either way about the ice.”

For future reference. He liked that.

He watched her gulp down almost half the glass in one go, mesmerized by the dark liquid disappearing down her throat. When she’d come back up for air, she asked, “What have you been up to this morning then, before we met up?”

“Catching up on some research. I’m writing an article on doping within amateur sports. It’s becoming quite an issue and quite commonplace. It’s not just the big names anymore, but the weekend warriors, the serious amateurs. And it’s rampant.”

“Really? You mean in cycling?”

“I mean many different sports now, even golf. There’s quite a market, evidently. Look at the people who compete in Masters, or age-grade competitions in any sport. They are still serious, even though they’re not professional, and they all want the edge over their competitors. Cycling is probably one of the more common sports you’d think of, but as I say even golfers are doping now. And from what I can gather, it’s prescription drugs mainly that are available and being misused for something else.” He took a breath and paused for a moment, letting what he’d said sink in. He took a long mouthful of Coke.

“I can understand something like cycling, but how does doping work in golf, for example?”

“You’ve heard of beta blockers and what they do?”

“Yes, my dad is on them. Helps keep his blood pressure under control.”

“That’s right. And they’ll probably be in the bathroom cabinet and you could get to them. If you wanted, you could take a handful here, a handful there maybe. And sell them.”

“But I don’t understand what a golfer would need them for. What am I missing?”

“Drugs will steady them – steady their movements, lower their blood pressure a bit. And as I said, the prescription forms are all perfectly legal to take, but they can give athletes an edge over someone who isn’t taking them. How unfair is that? It’s a form of doping, and doping is cheating.”

“So where do they buy them from? Not exactly off eBay, I’m sure. The dark web?”

Griffin wasn’t surprised to hear her mention the dark web; she worked in cyber security all day long, not that they’d talked about it much. He made a mental note to bring it up in conversation another time.

“Yes, or a dirty doctor somewhere. That might be harder to find, though, unless you have the contacts. With some team sports at a higher amateur level, the coach may be the one organizing things. And no one wants to let the side down, do they?”

Vee was silent, pondering what he was saying. She’d probably never thought of it before, but then why would she have? “And what have you found out so far, for your article? Have you uncovered something big?”

“Oh, this is big, alright. And the more I dig the worse it appears to be. There’s so much available – prescription drugs galore as well as other things.”

“Other things?”

“Like how to cheat by using substances that occur naturally in the body anyhow, so things like EPO, which is where they take blood from their own body to make the body replenish itself, then reinject the blood back in on top at a later date, getting the benefit of all those extra red blood cells. This is usually done by endurance athletes, like long-distance runners, and it’s hard to detect, which is why they do it. But then you are starting to get into quite a dangerous area, messing with your blood cells. Get it wrong and you could be dicing with death, literally. I actually heard of a cyclist that used dog blood, which is a definite no-no. But to answer your question, it’s all there for sale. And on the dark web. I’ve spent a bit of time there recently, actually. I’m beginning to know my way around quite well.”

“Wow. Good on you for doing it, bringing it out into the open. What will you do with the article? Sell it?”

“That depends. Officially, I work for the paper, but I’m tempted to try this freelance, see what I can get for it. Trouble is, it could cost me my job in the process.”

They both fell quiet and sipped on their drinks, deep in thought. Finally, Vee spoke.

“We should get going. But for what it’s worth, I think if you can sell it for a decent fee, and if you’ve got the evidence in your research that this could be big, you should go for it. You’ll get another job easily enough. You have the talent. Or you might choose to go freelance. Could be your real destination.”

Griffin downed the last of his drink and followed her towards the door. He’d told her what he was working on: she was the only person who knew. Had that been the right thing to do? He hardly knew her, really, knew anything of her background. Heck, her dad could be a dirty doctor for all he knew. He caught her up as she held the door open for him. While he’d told her of his doping research, he hadn’t dared tell her of the other reason he spent so much time on the dark web.

Maybe he never would.

Chapter Forty-Five

By the end of Saturday, they’d both had enough, and Vee was feeling despondent with what they’d seen. Or not seen, to be more precise. She took her heavy Doc Martens off and flung them across the lawn with a groan. Griffin sat on a lawn chair and watched her toes wiggle free as her socks followed her boots up the grass.

“Oh. That’s. So. Much. Better,” she groaned, lying back under the late afternoon sunshine. With her eyes closed, she couldn’t see him watching her with amusement. Somehow, though, she sensed it.

“What?”

“Maybe some lighter footwear in the summer would be a good idea? Your feet must boil.”

“Technically, it’s autumn, but I know what you mean. All in aid of fashion, though.” She waved her arms above her head dramatically. “What can I say? I’m a slave to it,” she called out, then immediately rolled on to her stomach. She looked at Griffin, who had joined her and was also now lying in the grass. A lawnmower hummed in the distance and someone’s sausages were burning on a BBQ nearby. They still smelled delicious.

“Did you think any of them had potential? Could you see the future in them?”

“Personally, if it was me, I’d look at the two bigger ones again. But next time, go with the idea of what they could be, not what they are now. Your first home will never tick all the boxes unless you have a rich daddy to buy it for you, and I don’t believe that to be the case here. You’ll be surprised what a wall shifted or a clever colour scheme can do to a place.”

She nodded in silent agreement.

“How many have you looked at so far?” he asked her.

“Too many. Probably at least twenty.” As she said it, she realized how silly the number sounded. “Perhaps I am being too picky, want too much. What was your first place like?”

“Quite nasty to start with, but I had space. And it was my space to make my own. Then when I could afford it, I moved up the ladder another rung and my current place is much nicer. You should come over soon, see what you think.”

“I’d like that, thanks.” She thought for a moment then added, “Maybe I am wanting too much. Mum and Dad have both said the same, but I’ve written their advice off because, well, they are parents, aren’t they? They say sensible stuff like that. Perhaps they are right.”

“Look, here’s what I think.” Griffin looked at his watch and pointed to the clock. “It’s gone five pm now. Why don’t you come round to mine later? I’ll order pizza and get some cider and lager for you to mix, and you can see what can be done with a larger small space.” As an afterthought, he added, “You’ll be quite safe – just food and Snakebite and flat talk.”

She grinned at him and accepted his invitation with her smile. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I pay for the pizza.”

Griffin nodded. “Deal. Seven pm work for you?”

“I’d better grab a shower, then, and yes.”

Griffin gave her his address and they said their see-you-laters. On the way home, Griffin stopped and picked up Snakebite ingredients and a tub of chocolate ice cream for dessert. He figured he’d be safe with chocolate; everyone ate chocolate ice cream, didn’t they? Then it was his turn to hit the shower and wait for his guest.

Chapter Forty-Six

She was punctual, 7 pm on the dot. He liked that. The pizza guy didn’t make the same grade but conversation filled the gap until he did arrive. When they’d finally got a slice and a drink each, they settled back into an easy silence, one that didn’t need filling continually. Finally, Vee wiped her chin with a napkin and broached the subject of her hobby, or one of them.

“Earlier, we were talking about the dark web, and your research.” She took another bite and chewed before carrying on, tomato sauce gathering at the corner of her mouth. Griffin let her continue, intrigued as to what she was going to ask him. “Well, I know quite a bit about it, with my work as you can imagine. But I also use it myself. For personal interest.”

So she wasn’t going to ask him a question.

“Yeah? What sort of personal interest, as you put it?”

“I’m an admin of one of the chat rooms. One rather close to my heart, actually. Online revenge, to be precise. My main clientele are those who have been targeted with revenge porn – you know, nude photos of themselves being posted all over without their permission or knowledge.”

He let her pause and go on again before he said anything, noticing the change in her demeanour as she’d raised the subject. The words ‘close to my heart’ hadn’t gone un-noticed. He nodded in encouragement.

“Well, I may as well tell you the whole story then, now that you’ve probably guessed it happened to me.” She took a deep breath, put her pizza back in the cardboard box and wiped her fingers. “My last partner and I enjoyed our private life together, you know, in the bedroom. We did some stuff that, well, others might think a bit kinky, but we were both consenting adults. You don’t need to know the details. And he filmed it sometimes. On his phone usually. Then we broke up, and I started seeing his friend, long after we’d finished, so there was no affair, no overlap. But my ex was pissed at me and decided to post one of our videos to get back at me.”

Griffin could see she was struggling a little and didn’t want to pressure her either to go on or to stop. He let her have some space and sat silently.

Finally, Vee resumed her story. “He posted it in a chat room, and thirty thousand views later I got wind of it by a tip-off. I’m guessing it was someone at work but I can’t be sure.” She raised her voice and added, “As if the video being out there isn’t enough, a work colleague had to see it too.” She took another breath and returned to normal volume. “Anyway, by the time I was aware of it, it was on several more revenge sites with god only knows how many views. Long story short, it hurt, and I mean it really hurt, and there’s not much I can do about it. That’s why it’s on the dark web, not the surface web. At least I could ask Google to take it down if it was on the regular web. These guys don’t play by the same rules, though, so I assume it’s still out there. And you just have to read the news to know that there are many more victims like me.” Turning to Griffin and reaching for her pizza again, she went on with an invigorated spark of energy. “So now I play a role in helping others who have had the misfortune to have dated a weirdo.”

So matter-of-fact.

Griffin wasn’t really sure what to say or do. Should he refresh her drink? Give her a hug, perhaps? Commiserate, even? Or change the subject? He leaned into her a little and took her hand in his, squeezing it affectionately. At this point in their relationship, and given his uncertainty about what to do, he called it a hug.

It would do for Vee too.

Chapter Forty-Seven

He never lay in bed, but since he’d met Vee, things had started to change. Spending a few extra moments in bed in the privacy of his mind as well as the empty room, he let images of her drift in and out. Everyone had a past, but thinking about her with someone else – the issue of the revenge porn aside – he knew it was jealousy he was feeling. She was cute, no doubt about it, and they got on. And she was smart, and different and knowledgeable and …. And what?

And he was jealous.

He threw the bed covers back and headed to his morning routine to shake the notion from his head. It was all in the past, nothing to think about now. So why was he? And who was the prick who had posted the videos of her for all to see? Upsetting Vee had been the goal, but why? So many questions and no answers. He lathered his face in white cream and wondered if he could track down the guy without her knowing about it. At the very least the prick would inform Vee of his involvement, relishing in the glory of her latest boyfriend getting jealous. If the prick had been capable of revenge porn posting, he’d lap up interference from her latest boyfriend. And she’d be pissed, that much he did know about her. For a small packet, he reckoned she’d throw a hard punch, physically and metaphorically. No, while he admired her, he wouldn’t want to cross her. She’d already mentioned her mother’s temper; Vee would likely be just the same. The thought actually made him smile and his razor nicked his chin. He winced as crimson mixed with the white foam. Again.

They’d had a good time, though, the previous night. They’d chatted a little more about her role in the support group, and he hadn’t pried into her experience for any more details than she’d already given. There was nothing to gain from it. He knew her story now, and that was all he needed to know about it. He knew the real value of privacy and appreciated it himself. They’d ended up watching TV, relaxed in each other’s company, while she’d finished off the Snakebite and most of the tub of ice cream before calling it a night, and Griffin had walked her back home. They’d chatted about nothing and she’d kissed his cheek before eventually heading inside and leaving him to wander back to his flat alone. She’d waited after she’d kissed him, but he had felt too awkward to turn a peck on the cheek into something else, something a bit longer. A bit more precise. Like a kiss on her lips. So he’d kicked himself on the walk back, annoyed that the moment had fizzled like a wet firework and swearing he wouldn’t let it happen again. No, next time he’d be ready, take the lead even, and kiss her properly.

That alone scared him.

While it was only a kiss, it was a kiss he wanted, though he was acutely aware of what it could lead to; that frightened him. Had that been his reservation, his avoidance – that a kiss would lead to something more?

Get real, Griffin.

What were they going to do, get hot and amorous on her parents’ doorstep? Would he accost her and ravish her in her room while her parents listened on below? No, of course not. He shook his head to dislodge his wild, accusing thoughts and strode home quickly.

He made himself a mug of tea, then opened his laptop and resumed his research, research for his other interest. The one that had nothing to do with amateur sports doping.

But that had been after he’d fired a quick message off to a friend, a friend with particular tech skills who was no stranger to the online space and might be able to help track down the videos and the culprit himself, legally or otherwise, through backdoors he knew she had keys to. She was clever and covered her tracks well, though that wasn’t her day job. More of a side angle, a Robin Hood of the web or a grey hat, if you wanted to use the techy term – someone who obeys morals but not necessarily the law. As a legitimate developer of things techy, she ran an above-board business building apps and websites and did very well for herself. So her ‘side hustle’ was something that stayed there – at the side. It had to. She was about to get married to her sweetheart.

And her sweetheart was DS Amanda Lacey.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Downstairs in the kitchen, Ruth opened her laptop. Above her head she could hear taps running and muted singing as Amanda filled in the bits of the song in her ear buds she did know and missed out the bits she didn’t. Blank chunks filled the air interspersed with semi-shouting. In reality, there wasn’t much of the Shania Twain song that was recognizable. She smiled as Amanda pumped out another ‘That don’t impress-er me much, oh, oh, oh, oh.’ Sadly, there’s where the song ended each time, for another few seconds at least until the chorus came back round and she ruined it again. Thank goodness they weren’t having karaoke at their wedding, Ruth mused.

When Amanda had had her soak and finished playing Moby Dick in the bubbles, she’d grab a shower of her own, but now they were spending more time in the same house together, she let Amanda have her bathroom time. Alone. Not that her eardrums could stand the noise.

Messenger pinged.

“Hello, stranger. It’s been a while,” Ruth said to the screen. “How you been?”

“Hey Ruth. Can I ask a question and more likely a favour?”

She tapped back a reply. “Sure. What’s up, stranger?”

“A friend of mine has been the victim of revenge porn. Any way to find the files on the dark web? And where he posted them from? I’d like to cut him off.”

“So would I if that’s what he’s been up to, but I’m really not sure if I’m clever enough to do that. Anonymous IP addresses and all. How serious?”

“Serious enough to piss me off, though it happened a while back. She never got to the bottom of it so assumes they are still out there being viewed. Video.”

“Shit. Privacy isn’t your own anymore. Do you know the sites, perhaps? What am I looking for?”

“Good question. I’ll find out more and get back to you. Wanted to see if you could perhaps help. Hate to ask her for more details. Anything you can do without me having to ask?”

“Maybe. I could probably do with a picture of her face. Might be able to find it with facial confirmation software perhaps, though it’s a long shot. It’s different from facial recognition software but could do the job. If the video is really low quality and grainy, it won’t work. Can you get me a picture, preferably from around the time it happened?”

“Will see what I can do. Thanks, Ruth. I appreciate it. See you soon.”

Ruth sat back in thought. The singing from upstairs had finally stopped, though she could hear Amanda moving about in the tub. It sounded like she was farting but she knew the deep sounds were her backside or heels rubbing on the bottom of the cast iron as she washed. Still, it sounded funny in the quiet. Knowing Amanda’s routine, it wouldn’t be long before gurgling water would be heard as it emptied through the pipes and then ran down the outside of the building and into the drains of Croydon. Approximately five minutes after that, a rather pink and shiny-looking Amanda would emerge wrapped in her bathrobe, hair tied in a towel. How she stood such hot water Ruth could never understand.

Who was Griffin seeing, she wondered? Not that it mattered. It was good that he was seeing someone; he wasn’t the easiest person to be around sometimes. Shy and eccentric were words that came to mind. She’d wondered in the past if he was somewhere on the spectrum; it wouldn’t have surprised her. He was hideously smart; everything had to be just so and on time, and since he’d lost a great deal of weight, he was looking great. Closing her laptop for the evening, not even sure what she had opened it for in the first place, she made a note in her grey matter to arrange to meet Griffin for coffee soon. His office wasn’t far from hers and it would be great to see how he was doing before the wedding. And now he had a friend in tow, she wanted to find out more, purely from a nosey point of view. She liked Griffin and his particular ways.

A shuffling near the doorway diverted her attention to Amanda, dressed exactly as expected, with the addition of sheepskin slippers on her feet. She glowed like a pink candle, and Ruth smiled her affection across the room, landing slap-bang in the middle of Amanda’s chest. They hadn’t been together that long, a couple of years at most, but they’d both felt the connection when they’d first met during a case Amanda had been working on. Ruth had been involved because she ran the local community online page, which had discovered dog-nappers working in the area. Several dogs had been held for ransom money but then things had turned even uglier and Amanda had stepped in in her role with the police. Eventually the two of them had met, and the rest had slotted into place like the last two pieces of a jigsaw. And in a few short weeks, they’ll be getting married.

“What are you smiling about? You look like you’ve been up to something the way you’re holding that laptop,” Amanda said mock-accusingly.

“I was just chatting to Griffin, actually. And you’ll never guess. He’s got himself a girlfriend. Well, he didn’t quite call her that, but a woman knows these things,” she said, tapping the side of her nose as if to say ‘I know.’

“Well, that’s great news. We’ll get to meet her as his plus-one at the wedding, I expect.” She took her towel off her head and her blond hair stood up at all angles.

“I want to meet her, or find out more about her at least, long before the wedding, purely out of interest. I daresay we’ll be a bit occupied on the day and I don’t want to miss out.”

“Such a Nosey Parker, Miss McGregor,” Amanda said, approaching her, “which brings me onto a very important subject.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Have you thought about our names, our surnames when we get married? Will we keep our existing ones or take each other’s?”

“Hmm. I hadn’t given it much thought, to tell you the truth. What are your thoughts?” Ruth stood and the chair scraped noisily on the floor.

“We could hyphenate, maybe. That way we get to keep them both. McGregor-Lacey. Lacey-McGregor.” Amanda tried them both on for size.

Ruth said, “They both sound nice to me, though Lacey-McGregor sounds like Lacey is my middle name, don’t you think?”

“Hmm, maybe. Let’s think about it. And the other options are to stay as we are now, which means no paperwork and our work names stay as they are, or we decide on something completely new.”

“Now, I hadn’t thought about that. Something completely new, eh? Like “Monaco” or “Postlethwaite,” perhaps.” Ruth was enjoying teasing Amanda and knew exactly which way the naming was going to go. Amanda stood laughing inside the doorway.

“Don’t laugh – Postlethwaite worked out well enough for Pete Postlethwaite, did it not?”

“I think I’d rather go with Monaco if those are the two options. It worked out fine for Princess Grace!”

“Well, that’s debatable. She died, remember? Car somersaulted over a cliff in the early eighties.”

“Then let’s forget either of those two options and mull it over in our heads. We’ll have to figure it out before the big day. We can’t have him asking us as we put rings on each other’s fingers. It will be funny enough when he declares us ‘wife and wife.’ There’s bound to be someone in the congregation who still finds the concept amusing, even though they know us.”

“I know, but I don’t suppose too many people have been to a same-sex wedding before, so we’ll forgive their ignorance.” Ruth fell thoughtful for a moment and Amanda knew exactly what she was thinking about. She strode over and wrapped her arm around Ruth’s shoulders and pecked her with a kiss on the cheek.

“Your mum will be watching her gorgeous daughter from way up high. She’ll have the best seat in the house, and I know she’ll be smiling down on you.”

“I know. But it would be nice to see her again, in person. There’s so much I want to say to her that I missed by being such a pig, and now it’s too late.”

“I know you do.” The two women hugged tight, until Amanda was sure Ruth was okay. It was Ruth who pulled away first.

“I’m fine. Thanks, love.” Looking up at Amanda, she added, “Oh, and my new name? It will be Ruth McGregor-Lacey. But you can call me Ruth Lacey.”

Amanda smiled her delight and said, “I’ll let the registrar know.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

Amanda and Jack were parked up not far from Stephanie’s place, sipping coffee. They had spoken to her at length about the night with Sebastian Stevens, and she had surprised them both with her idea of how it all connected. It did sound plausible, but where was the evidence? And where was ‘Chris Meeks’?

“You ever had a really close friend who simply up and disappeared, Lacey? One that you didn’t try too hard to track down, see if they were alright?” Jack was asking the questions and couldn’t quite get his head around the fact that Stephanie and this Chris fellow had lost touch so abruptly after having had such a close friendship. Did people do that?

“I guess she and everyone else thought he’d gone off and found someone special and settled down. Nothing sinister to wonder about in a regular guy’s life. Why would there be?” She wrinkled her nose. “Did you get sugar in this coffee? It tastes sweet.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for any. I’m trying to give it up. Want to swap?”

“No thanks. Your lips have been all over it.”

“Then swap the lid over. I thought you were a detective, full of sharp ideas.”

“My repertoire doesn’t include my own practicalities,” she said peeling the lid off her paper cup. Jack followed suit. When their cups had been swapped and lids reattached, Jack took a sip and winced.

“See?” said Amanda. “Definitely sugar in there, and a lot. Detectives know this shit.” Sipping her own, she added, “That’s better,” and smiled at Jack, knowing just what he was thinking. He never said a word about the coffee and steered the conversation back to grounds he could win on: the case.

“So we have a name, which may or may not be his real one. A date that goes back fifteen years and one recent victim. There could be others, but we have no idea one way or another at this point and diddly-squat else to go on. How are we meant to solve this one? Any ideas?”

Amanda could hear the exasperation in his voice. In truth, she had no clue either. “Well, a couple of other officers have begun looking into what little we do have. There are about twenty Chris Meekses that fit his age range, and they’re narrowing it down for location and job etcetera, so I’m hoping there will be a shortlist of them to talk to very soon. Hopefully he didn’t move too far afield. We have his picture from back then, so even if he’s changed his appearance, grown his hair out or whatever, we should be able to match his old picture with one of them. I’m hoping, anyway.”

Her phone rang and she rummaged in her bag to retrieve it. Looking at the screen she added, “This could be news now.” She answered, “DS Lacey. You’ve some news, I’m hoping.” The car was quiet as Amanda listened to what the caller back at the station was saying, and Jack waited patiently.

“Thanks. That gives us something,” she said at last, and hung up. Turning to Jack she said, “Seems our boy is a clever so-and-so, a bit of a geek. And the ‘Chris Meeks’ we know him as has been in trouble before, though not under that exact name. We have his charge sheet as Chris Smeeks, subtly different but him just the same. A clever bugger online; got done for hacking some years ago. Never did any time, but guess what he hacked into?”

“A ham sandwich? Come on, Lacey. I’ve no idea, have I? Spit it out.”

“He hacked into a model agency’s database. But this particular model agency deals in . . .” She paused for effect. There was almost a drumroll in the air. “. . . body parts. Feet, hands, hair, teeth – you name it, they have a perfectly photogenic body part for your every need.”

“Holy shit.”

“Exactly. So they’re definitely linked now. That’s too much of a coincidence, and since we don’t believe in coincidences...” Amanda paused again. “And apparently, after the breach, a chap was cautioned for becoming too much of a nuisance outside their offices – waiting for girls to come out, wanting to talk to them, offering them money and all manner of weird stuff. Spooked the girls, and he was cautioned.”

“Was that our man too?”

“No, someone else entirely, though I have a feeling we’ll be chatting to him very soon. Again, it’s odd that at the time of the breach, someone else interested in particular body parts turns up. I wonder what his interest was. Or is. If he had an interest then, does he still?

“After Mr. Smeeks’ caution, things quieted down for the agency and everything went back to normal. I say we start there, see what low-hanging fruit might still be left hanging that wasn’t picked last time around.” Amanda handed her coffee to Jack and started the engine. She read out the address to Jack. “See what Google Maps says is the best way to get there. I’m not entirely sure where it is.”

She watched Jack out of the corner of her eye trying to type the address she’d given him into the maps app. He was no fingers and all thumbs. As he finally pressed ‘go’ and the mechanical voice announced the directions, she noticed something else: Jack was grimacing slightly.

“Are you okay, Jack?”

“Eh?”

“Are you okay? You looked in pain there for a second.”

“It’s nothing. I keep getting a twinge down my right side, that’s all. Nothing more than gut-ache.”

“How long has that been bothering you?”

“Only a day or two. It’ll be gone soon. It’s nothing, really. Old age. Or that corned beef sandwich. The pickle on them always gives me gripe. I don’t know why I eat them.” He turned to her and smiled his ‘don’t worry’ smile. “You just drive and I’ll worry about the corned beef and pickle doing its thing.”

Navigating the late afternoon traffic, Amanda drove them out to an industrial estate on the edge of town. They parked outside and she craned her neck to look up at the building from the safety of the driver’s seat. An ugly two-story clad building, it could have been the office for any number of things, but a small sign on the entrance door announced the occupants.

“This is it,” said Amanda. “‘Body-licious.’ It kind of sounds more like a kink place, doesn’t it? Somewhere you might go to indulge in a particular fetish, like for vampires. Go and lick something for pleasure. No wonder odd men sit outside waiting, with a name like that.”

Jack nodded. “Let’s go and find out,” he said, and was half way out of the car before Amanda had unfastened her seatbelt to follow him. Jack strode up to the door, pulled it open without knocking, and set off up the steep concrete stairs on the other side. He was puffing and panting hard, clutching his side, when Amanda caught him up. He caught her stare.

“And now I’ve got a stitch on top of the pickle,” he grumbled. “Relax. I’m fine.”

Amanda gave him a look that said ‘I don’t believe you,’ and they entered the small reception area, which was empty of people. Framed pictures on the walls confirmed they were indeed in the business of body part modelling: there were photos of stunningly immaculate feet peeping out of high-heeled sandals, perfect hands that had never done dishes advertising washing-up liquid, and pristine pearly-white teeth smiling unnaturally from between perfectly plump red lips.

A young woman entered the room and gave them a grin to match the teeth and lips in the picture. Maybe they belonged to her.

Jack took the lead.

“Hello. I’m Detective Jack Rutherford and this is DS Amanda Lacey. Are you the owner, by chance?”

The woman smiled again. “I’m afraid not. That would be Jules. I’ll go and get her. May I ask what it’s regarding?”

“We’d like to ask a few questions about an old case, a menace who was cautioned for approaching the girls.”

“I thought that had been solved.”

“It has, but we would like to chat to Jules again, if you could go fetch her. Thank you.”

The young woman’s smile faded fast as she left the room in search of Jules. Amanda stood back and let Jack handle things. In a few moments, stilettos could be heard approaching from the distance. They were fast and loud and sounded unhappy. The door opened and an austere-looking, well-dressed middle-aged woman with short-cropped dark hair and gold-rimmed glasses looked Amanda quickly up and down.

She had a wide streak of white hair by her right temple that reminded Jack of Thomas Mallen, the nineteenth-century Northumberland squire who had had the same feature. A TV program had been made about him and his family, called – unsurprisingly – The Mallens, and his mother had used to watch it. As a teenager it hadn’t been his thing, but that distinctive white streak of hair had been a talking point for the many years the show had run.

The woman glared at the two detectives now, though Jack had no idea why. Amanda picked up on her perfume – Chanel No. 5. Her red-soled shoes meant only one brand: expensive.

“I’m Jules Monroe,” she said. “What can I do for you both?” Her attitude screamed busy and in a rush. They both felt like intruders, which was, of course, the whole point.

“Sorry to bother you,” Jack said, “but we’re hoping you can help us with an old case. You may recall a man was cautioned for harassing the models.”

“How could I not remember? It was creepy. But that was tidied up, was it not?”

“It was, yes. You are correct. But there may be a link from your case to something that happened only recently. You also had another case where you were hacked, if I am correct? Your database was broken into?”

“Yes, it was, but you know all this. Nothing seemed to have been taken – case closed. I’m not sure how can I help you. . .?” She checked her gold wristwatch as if to hurry him along. It glistened, matching the gold rims of her spectacles. Amanda assumed they were more than gold-coloured.

“We think the person may be connected to your break-in and may also be responsible for another crime,” Jack went on. “Or crimes. Did you ever find out why he hacked in? Did he ever have any further contact with you? Messaged you, perhaps?”

Jack wasn’t getting to the point quickly enough and it was obvious he was grasping at straws. Amanda stepped in before the woman got seriously annoyed and stormed back to her office.

“Ms. Monroe – Jules,” she began. “Recently, a number of women have been the targets of an extremely upsetting type of personal assault, probably the work of the same person. To be perfectly honest, though, we have very little to go on. We think the hacker who targeted your business may be the link between these crimes, so we would appreciate anything you can remember about that incident: a text, any reason they may have given for the hacking, a message, a threat down the phone – anything you can remember at all could be helpful in tracing this person so we can talk further. If it turns out they have nothing to do with these current cases, we can move on, of course, but if they are involved, then they need to be stopped.”

Jules’s shoulders visibly drooped as she stood thinking, a finger against her lips. At length, she sighed and began to speak.

Chapter Fifty

“It’s good to see you haven’t lost your touch, Lacey.”

They were heading back to Croydon to the station. Out of the corner of her eye, Amanda could see Jack was touching his side occasionally.

“Sometimes you need a little ‘woman-to-woman’ to get the desired result, and she wasn’t responding to you.”

Jack grinned. “Is that what you call it now, eh? ‘Woman-to-woman’?”

She grinned back. “Just because I’m marrying a woman doesn’t mean I fancy all women, pea-brain. Just like you don’t fancy all women either. I’m no different, you know.”

He knew. “Well, it worked, so that’s all that mattered. I wonder why she didn’t come out and say anything before, though?”

“Quite. I guess they were more concerned with the stalker than a seemingly random hacking attack where nothing was taken. A guy waiting outside your office is much more ‘in your face,’ and more of a direct threat to their employees. So I suppose that’s what they focused on in the end.”

“So what was the real reason for the hacking, I’m wondering?” said Amanda, almost to herself. “Why would someone want access to that company and then not use it maliciously? That we know of, at least. Ms. Monroe said herself she’d have known if her competitors had accessed her files, and they clearly hadn’t. It’s amazing they even knew they’d been hacked, come to think of it – it’s not like these people leave a trail of breadcrumbs. There has to be something else we’re missing. Another reason.”

They fell quiet as she drove, then Jack piped up again.

"Unless it was to see if they could do it? You know, like some folks climb mountains, just to see if they can? Though if that was the case, it doesn’t really help with our victims.” Jack fell quiet again.

“You know, crime has changed over the years.” Amanda, too, was thinking. “It may be worth a chat with National Cyber Crime to get their take. For example, credit card fraud is old hat, and maybe something more lucrative has taken its place. Otherwise, why would someone hack a database and not sell the contents to a competitor? No one else would want it, would they?”

“I can’t see an obvious reason, no. Ask your Ruth; she’ll probably know more than the cyber guys, and she’d be a damn sight quicker to get an answer from, too.”

“I’ll do both. Though she’s pretty full-on with her own things and the wedding at the moment.”

“And how’s it going, the planning?”

“Fine, I think. She’s taken it over. I just need to show up on the day at the required time. And get a dress made.”

“And I’m hoping at this late stage you have that in hand? You can’t turn up in your work suit and boots to this one, Lacey.”

“All in hand. Matching fabric, different dresses. I hope I don’t let the side down.”

“How so?”

“I don’t want to look like Little and Large as we walk down the aisle together. She’s somewhat more feminine than me, with a much nicer figure.”

“You’ll look great together, I’m sure,” he said, smiling at her side. She caught it from the corner of her eye. He said the sweetest things sometimes.

With the end of that particular topic, Jack reached up and pushed play on the CD player. He’d always found music a tool to help him think and, as they were a bit stuck, he figured he’d give it a try. Pink rang from the speakers.

“Don’t you have anything else? Something a bit more . . . male?” he groaned?

“I don’t keep CDs in the car. I’m not even sure what that one’s still doing in there,” she said, pointing to the CD slot.

“What do you listen to, then?”

“I stream, like most folks in 2017. Don’t you?”

The only stream Jack knew about ran near the bottom of his road and dried up in summer. She caught his frown. Rummaging in her pocket as she steered, she passed him her smartphone.

“What am I supposed to do with this? Phone someone?”

“You’re such a luddite, Jack. Look for the Spotify icon and open it.” Glancing over, she smiled as he searched. “It’s green and black. That should narrow it down.” She watched his chubby finger finally press the correct icon. He needed to trim his fingernails.

“Tap in the search box what you want to listen to, and then choose it,” she instructed. They were nearly back at the station by this stage, but she didn’t say anything. He hated being thought of as a luddite, but he made no attempt to be anything else. As she turned into the station yard, the distinctive first guitar strings of Rainbow’s “Since You’ve Been Gone” filled the car, and Jack threw his head back in delight as he realized he’d actually done it. For a detective, he didn’t explore much in his own life – only in other people’s. She pulled into a parking space and turned to him.

“Well, it’s a bit too late to listen to it now, but you’ll know how to do it for later,” she quipped, and smiled along with him. Jack was a huge ELO fan so it was no surprise he’d picked something similar from around the same era. And she also knew what he’d actually been thinking about in the car a few minutes earlier as they’d talked about weddings. Since you’ve been gone… Amanda knew how he’d struggled when his wife, Janine, had died, and that he thought of her often. He’d almost gone out of his head, she knew, but he’d muddled through with the help of those around him. Janine had been his teenage sweetheart, and Amanda had arrived at Croydon not long after she’d died. A close bond, almost father–daughter, had developed between them, and they’d been very close friends ever since.

“I think I’ll sit here a bit and think things through,” he said now. “I’ll be in in a moment. You go on.”

She was about to admonish him about brooding but thought better of it. Sometimes he just needed his alone time. “I’ll make us some coffee, then. Come when you’re ready.”

Chapter Fifty-One

Jack sat back in the passenger seat of Amanda’s car and closed his eyes. The lyrics were still dancing in his head, and he thought back to Janine. What would she think of him now? Would she tease him as a luddite? Would she have reprimanded him over his slight shabbiness, his hair that always needed a trim, or his fingernails? She’d had a thing for neatness and he’d always pleased her, but now as he looked at his tie, he knew he might have let things slip. His tie was clean, but in what century had it been purchased? Not a recent one. He opened the door slowly and put one foot on the ground, ready to push himself up and out.

But nature had other plans.

The pain tore through his right side and then stabbed him hard in the groin. He cried out, then gasped and breathed deeply through the spasm. It only lasted for a few seconds, but his brow was damp with sweat and he took out his handkerchief and wiped it. Taking a few more deep breaths, he waited until he was sure the pain had completely gone before stepping towards the rear entrance of the building. The car door clicked shut behind him and he made his way into the coolness of the corridor. While he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, the jolt of pain had frightened him, and he did his best to rearrange the mayhem that was written across his face before Amanda asked him what had happened. Keeping his head bowed as he entered their office, he took the proffered mug of coffee and made for his desk chair to sit down. No one was any the wiser.

But it didn’t stop Jack worrying.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Amanda drove the short distance home. The rest of Rainbow’s “Since You’ve Been Gone” was playing, having been picked up when she’d turned the engine on. Ah, the magic of Bluetooth, she thought, connecting itself automatically. While she typically enjoyed music from after the eighties, these lyrics still made her smile. She’d never met Jack’s wife Janine but knew all about her from Jack; sometimes she even felt Janine was in the car on a case with them, hanging on for dear life in the backseat, watching and wondering.

As the music ended she absentmindedly turned the stereo off and listened to the relative quiet of rush hour traffic travelling along with her on Purley Way. Could it ever be truly quiet in Croydon? She pressed her favourite speed dial, and Ruth’s voice connected through the speakers. She sounded like she was outside somewhere.

“Hey, Amanda, you sound like you’re driving.”

“Hi, hun. That’s because I am. Headed home for a shower – how about you? You sound like you’re outside somewhere.” A horn, probably from a truck or a bus, sounded somewhere in the distance through the loudspeaker. Maybe Ruth was still in town.

“Just heading to the tube and home, so shouldn’t be too long myself. Are you coming over, or shall I head to yours?”

Even though they were engaged, they still each had their separate houses and lived separate lives. For now. And that was something they’d both have to adjust to when they did get wed – living together full time. They both secretly hoped it wouldn’t be too much of an adjustment.

“Thought I’d ask you a question now before you put your work brain to bed. I didn’t want to talk shop at home.”

“Sure, fire away. What is it?”

“Why would someone hack into a company’s database other than to steal the contents? Like a competitor, for instance? What else would they want it for?”

The hands-free loudspeaker throbbed with the sound of traffic as it chugged past Ruth walking somewhere on the other side of London. Amanda could almost smell the exhaust fumes that would be mixing with the occasional greasy roadside food vendor and it made her gag. That aspect of London never appealed to her.

“Good question. And one that deserves a good answer.” Amanda could almost feel Ruth smiling down the phone.

“Care to share?” Amanda smiled back.

“Well, the most obvious reason after database theft is to sell access to it for some other reason, something more sinister maybe. Probably through the dark web or another connection already in place. Stolen ‘access to order,’ perhaps. If it’s not a competitor, I’d say it’s someone up to no good.”

That was an angle Amanda hadn’t considered. What would a model agency specializing in body parts have that someone who wasn’t a customer would need access to?

“What’s the scenario?” Ruth asked. “Hypothetically, of course. Maybe I can be of more help.” This was her way of helping Amanda talk about a case without disclosing information she shouldn’t be discussing with a civilian.

“Of course. If you don’t mind?”

“Fire away, until I lose you in the underground, that is.”

So Amanda fired away. What Ruth then told her made perfect sense.

“So a certain someone wanted a way in so they could see the models’ data, not the business’s data.”

Now it fit perfectly: the guy who had been cautioned for approaching the models, the theft of Stephanie’s hair fifteen years ago, and the theft of the more recent victim’s hair. An agency that specialized in people with perfect body parts and two cases of perfect hair being stolen could point to a fetish service of some kind. Was someone supplying hair, and God knows what else, to order, perhaps? Fulfilling clients’ desires at the expense of others?

Amanda furrowed her brow, thinking. “If you had access to the system in question, hypothetically again, could you see how they got in or who they were? Could you trace their steps back? Does it work like that?” She was hoping it really was that simple.

“I’d very much doubt it. If they were clever enough to hack in, they would have covered their steps. And it was also a while ago. Still worth a look, though. Does your cyber team have any hackers on board? Ideally, a kid who’s been done for hacking and given the option of working with a security team as their penance after a crime.”

“I’ll ask,” Amanda said. “But I doubt this case will be a priority for them. Unless there’s been a heinous crime like a murder, a bit of hair fetishism will go to the bottom of their pile in a flash. It could be months before the case sees the light of day again. Hence you.”

“Before you ask, Ms. Lacey, no. And you know it wouldn’t be admissible in court even if I found something. I’m not a detective, remember? I’m just the fiancée of one.”

Amanda knew she was right, and her heart missed a beat at the word ‘fiancée.’ She started to reply, but her voice was cut off as the phone coverage dropped out. Ruth must have entered the tube station. With a heavy sigh, she stared at the blank phone, half expecting it to jump into life again. It didn’t. But at least she had some partial answers, a clue as to the direction the case might be heading, even if she had no idea how to find whoever was responsible.

The name Chris Smeeks would be the place to start.

Chapter Fifty-Three

The following day, Amanda arrived at the station earlier than usual. Having stopped at McDonald’s and grabbed an Egg McMuffin and fresh coffee, she’d sat in the small car park as early rush hour commuters sped past on their own way into work – if you could call two lanes of traffic on Purley Way heading north into London ‘speeding.’ At just gone seven in the morning, rush hour was in full flow and had been since about 6 am when the early shift headed in for the day. Amanda hadn’t slept too well. Jack had sent her a file on the man who’d been cautioned after harassing the modelling agency, and it had been disturbing. She had been fully awake by 4.30 and had seen no point in trying to doze off for another couple of hours, so she’d slipped out of bed and made coffee downstairs. The morning sun had been slow to rise, typical for the start of autumn, but as she sat in her car eating the greasy egg sandwich, it streamed through her windscreen, warming her. She smiled at the word ‘streaming’ as she thought it.

Jack was a good man but behind the times in so many things. His delight had been amusing as Rainbow had filled the car and she’d explained what streaming was. She wiped grease from her mouth with the napkin and scrunched the paper packaging up while she chewed the last mouthful thoughtfully. They needed to speak to the man who had been cautioned for harassing the modelling agency girls. Yes, she’d read the sheet about the incident and his warning, but it would be useful to meet him herself, see if anything came up that they could use. When he’d been interviewed at the time, there had been no reason to connect him to anything larger. Like fetishism on a grander scale.

The hot, dark coffee tasted good and strong, and was a welcome hit of caffeine on top of her first one earlier in the morning. Her stomach gurgled in satisfaction. She’d regret it later, she knew. The gurgling made her think of Jack again and the obvious discomfort he’d been in, though he’d tried to shrug it off. She knew that, living on his own, he didn’t eat as healthily as he should, and often she and Ruth would have him round for dinner and company. He needed someone to help take care of him, if only a decent housekeeper who cooked. A thought occurred to her that she put to one side to percolate and chat about with Ruth later. Her phone rang. It was Jack.

“Morning, handsome,” she said, bright and breezy. The second coffee had hit her bloodstream.

“What have you been smoking so early, Lacey?” She could hear him chuckling.

“Must have been the magic mushrooms in my omelette. Too early for smokes.” She loved their banter and so did he.

“Very funny. On to more serious stuff, I’ve fixed to go and see the kinky guy who was cautioned. You coming too?”

“Of course. But you can’t go calling him ‘kinky guy.’ What’s his name again, his real name?”

“Hadley Spinks. Who would name their kid Hadley Spinks, for heaven’s sake? He’d be better off with ‘kinky guy.’ Did you read his file I sent you last night?”

“Yes, I did. That’s why I’ve been awake half the night. I look like shit.” She glanced into her rear-view mirror while she spoke and prodded at the bags under her swollen eyes. They looked more like overstuffed hold-alls after a bank raid. She could have done with a bit of Ruth’s make-up this morning.

“Well, any dude with a ponytail is dodgy if you ask me, and any dude with both a ponytail and a thing about feet is double dodgy. Nonetheless, he’s agreed to speak to us at four pm at his workshop. He’s at a trade show most of the day but will be back later. And as you know, he’s a footwear designer – how apt.”

Amanda thought for a moment, sending a ‘hmm’ back to Jack to let him know she was still there but thinking. “Well, I’m not a psychologist or whatever the correct ‘ologist’ is,” she said finally, “but I’d say that for someone with a fetish, which by the way usually means something sexual in its devotion and an abnormal degree of sexual gratification, working with feet all day would be absolute hell.”

“Eh? How do you work that out? He’d be in heaven, wouldn’t he?” asked Jack.

“Well, no, I don’t think he would. Imagine being surrounded all day every day by the very thing that arouses you the most. It would be quite stressful trying to hide your excitement, like an alcoholic working in a wine shop. Not to mention exhausting.” She let that sink in with Jack, then carried on after a moment of silence. “I’m wondering if he avoids beautiful feet completely to minimize his stress. Maybe he works as a shoe designer, for example, so he doesn’t need real feet at all.” She glanced down at her own feet, safely encased in her work boots. “In which case, his fetish would still need fulfilling and wouldn’t interfere with his everyday work – he could still keep the real thing ‘for best,’ as it were. Just like those into BDSM don’t do it every night just because they have a willing partner; it is something to enjoy on occasion, keeping it special.” She looked across at the McDonald’s wrapper in the well of the passenger’s side.

“Like when you have McDonald’s occasionally. It tastes really good but if you have it regularly, it loses that feeling of enjoyment. Of course, I’m no doctor. We’d have to double check all that, but it makes sense, don’t you think?”

“I guess so. Well, we’ll find out a bit more later on. In the meantime, I’m going to do a bit of research and have a chat to the doc, see if she can recommend someone who really does know about fetishism. But you know what, Lacey?”

“What’s that?”

“It doesn’t matter what he does for a day job, or with whom, because I can’t see how it helps our case. And just because he was cautioned for being a bit of a prick with the models doesn’t mean he’s a hair snatcher. He could be nothing to do with this, merely a coincidence.” As soon as he said the word he knew what he’d done. “And yeah, I know what you’re going to say.”

Amanda heard the deflation in his voice. No, neither one of them believed in coincidence.

Chapter Fifty-Four

His eyes rarely rose to the horizon. What could possibly be more interesting out there than the array of beauty at ground level, right there below him for the taking like jewels scattered on a forest floor? Such elegance, such poise, such visions of wonder. Made by nature itself. And all there in the same room as he.

Hadley Spinks allowed himself the luxury to look in detail only a few times per month, and at today’s tradeshow he was in his element. Forget kid-in-a-candy-store. He was sex-addict-in-a-whorehouse, the adult version of the cliché. Hadley chuckled to himself at the analogy, though he’d prefer the whorehouse to be a high-end shoe store.

Or a pedicure spa.

But never a chiropodist. No, beautiful feet were what turned him on, not the calloused feet of old spinsters or the verruca-encrusted feet of teenage swimmers. His passion, his intense interest, had a name – podophilia – but the ‘philia’ part sounded dirty to him, and dirty was far from what he desired. He desired the beautiful, the cared for, the well-shaped, the elegant. . . His mind wandered as he walked towards the coffee cart, navigating himself via the blue swirly-patterned carpet in the large hall. As long as he kept the bright orange outer circles of the pattern to the top he’d be heading in the right direction. It was one of the gaudiest carpets he’d had the displeasure of navigating in some time.

He’d long ago got used to walking this way – head down, eyes averted – and he knew onlookers might find it, and him, a little odd. They’d assume he lacked confidence, perhaps. That’s what it usually meant, didn’t it? But he didn’t care what the strangers who bustled about him thought, on their own mission to wherever for whatever was important at the time.

No, he was indulging quietly – on the outside, at least.

On the inside? Well, that was a different matter. Parts of him were screaming, wanting, desiring, and he knew he wasn’t far off his peak. That’s the main reason he was headed in search of the coffee cart.

A distraction.

For now.

But he’d need a proper fix soon, he knew, and that meant making a choice. Who was it going to be? And when? Could he wait, or did he need something now, before the main event, something to tide him over? Oh why had he agreed to meet with the detective later? Why hadn’t he left himself some free time to savour his memories of the day, and find release with those? Now he’d have to wait until much later in the day. If he could.

He felt himself salivate involuntarily, and he swallowed hard, licking his lips to dispel the moisture before he ordered his coffee. Talking with lose spittle in one’s mouth was not attractive to anyone. He wiped the palms of his hands on his trouser legs to remove some of the clamminess he felt as his pulse picked up, like a greyhound noticing a rabbit.

A glimpse of chrome broke through the melee. The coffee cart was up ahead, and he prepared himself to place an order without making a fool of himself or disgusting anyone. He raised his head to look where he was going, like normal people did when they were about to order coffee. A smile creased his lips at the thought. Normal people. Was there such a thing? Who says what normal looks like? Who says humans should be monogamous, and who says some cultures can have multiple wives? And who says it’s wrong to drink alcohol at fourteen? And who says it’s okay to smoke tobacco but not weed? And who says it’s not normal to worship beautiful feet? Who? Who? Who? To Hadley Spinks, normal was what you made it. Did anyone get harmed by his personal desire, a desire he acted on in private? No, never. And while that was part of the rules, even if he didn’t do what he did the way he did, he wouldn’t want to hurt anyone anyway.

He only wanted to worship them.

He applied his most endearing smile and flashed it to the barista.

“A large capo to go, my darling. Thank you.”

Her gaze lingered a second longer than it did on anyone else, but Hadley didn’t look or speak like everyone else. He was used to, and indeed revelled in the extra glances and attention he often got.

“I love your neck scarf,” she said. “Such a pretty colour and design, and so unusual to see on a male. You wear it well.” The pretty young woman smiled her approval, assuring him that she had indeed meant it as a compliment.

Hadley bowed his head for a second, his eyes twinkling before they fell, in acceptance of her kind words. She blushed ever so slightly when he looked back up.

“That’s very kind of you, my dear. I try my best,” he said, and took two small steps to stand aside and wait for his order. There, he turned to view the room that he’d navigated only moments ago, only this time he kept his head raised, held high, even. His sun-tinged ponytail lay down his back, hanging dead centre of his shoulder blades. It was secured at the very end by a discreet band to keep it from flying out and becoming unkempt. He liked things to be neat and just so, particularly when it came to his own attire. If he demanded beauty, then he had to present the same. He pulled out his starched linen handkerchief and wiped his mouth as he surveyed the room. Such beauty filled it. It wasn’t difficult to pick out the heads of the foot models from the heads of the other women. Even though their special body parts, the ones that earned their keep, were at floor level, the women knew the clients demanded the whole package. Many of the women sold multiple body parts to the camera. It wasn’t unusual to find a foot model who also had the perfect chin, or nose or wrist. God gave beauty in gift-wrapped packages at creation time, and a very few women were lucky enough to receive one. Those who didn’t had to make the best of what they’d got. Some managed, and many didn’t.

A tall woman with blonde hair cut tight to her nape caught his eye. He didn’t discriminate when it came to type; there wasn’t one type of woman he enjoyed, and likewise, there wasn’t one type he disliked, either. They were all eligible to be the chosen one. The blonde’s head glided evenly along as she walked the length of the stand she was working on, and his eyes travelled down her body, taking her in: narrow shoulders, narrow hips, and long elegant legs. . . but he restrained himself from lowering his gaze any further. He would save that for later. Feeling sure he’d find something special there, he moved his attention to another woman, also obviously one of the models. Only this time, the shining brunette head was travelling towards the coffee cart as though she were walking down the red carpet at the Oscars – slow and steady, allowing the press time to snap her picture. This woman was practiced in her craft and, as she gained on him, he could see she was a little older than the other models, although still stunning visually. And extremely confident. He liked her instantly. Then she was almost next to him.

“Green tea, please.”

No milky calories for this woman, he mused. His thoughts were interrupted by someone trying to attract his attention. He was being called.

“Sir? Your coffee, sir.”

Turning to the voice, he said, “Why, thank you, my dear.” He took the paper cup and took a small sip to test the temperature. He was playing for time, though he didn’t need to, really; nobody was likely to move him along, but he felt he needed to have an excuse of some sort to linger a moment longer.

While he browsed what he might have later.

Chapter Fifty-Five

She was in a world of her own. Her feet killed, her head hurt and her heart was hammering. Thank goodness for make-up, and lots of it. After another fitful night’s sleep, she was hanging on by her nerves and not much else. The skin on her face looked lacklustre and she felt haggard. Not ideal for a model, foot or otherwise, but what could she do? When the headmaster had phoned and asked for a meeting, she’d driven the two hours to the school where Danny boarded and sat in front of the man as he’d described her son’s latest sins. Possession of weed. Found in his room. And more fighting. Could it get much more serious than that? Probably not, and all three of them knew it. Dr. Badell had said he wasn’t going to involve the police – this time – but since Danny was now firmly on his last warning, he wouldn’t hesitate if it happened again, he said, and a note would stay on his file to that effect.

Ellen was grateful for another chance. Danny, though, couldn’t have cared less, sulky teenager that he was. She knew he hated the school, but without a father figure in his life at home, she’d hoped the boys-only school would help fill that gap and that he’d eventually settle down. But he hadn’t, and Ellen realized now he probably never would. If she took him out of the boarding school now and sent him to the local school, he’d think he’d won, and even he’d acknowledged he wasn’t keen on breaking into a new group of friends at the tender, awkward age of fifteen. He didn’t want to leave the ‘friends’ he had at the boarding school, more likely. Better the devil you know and all that, even though she knew he hated them in reality; they were bullies who made him miserable. The headmaster had suggested his behaviour was something akin to Stockholm syndrome, that he didn’t want to leave their grasp even though he didn’t want to stay, either. He was a mixed-up young man and in truth, neither she nor the headmaster knew what to do. So, the status quo had prevailed. And she knew a good deal more headaches and heartaches would thunder her way.

She needed a drink. In public like this, green tea would have to do in place of vodka, but it was the kick she longed for, then the peace. She had a small bottle in her bag, but there was no way she’d drink whilst working. But it would be there, she knew, taunting her for now, and waiting for her later. On the way home, a couple of mouthfuls in the privacy of her car would be a different matter. She checked her wristwatch; there were still two hours to go.

“Green tea, please,” she told the woman at the cart, not really paying attention to anything but her thoughts, and her feet. If she could get through the next couple of hours with a smile stuck hard on her face, she’d make it through another working day without casualty. She didn’t notice the man stood to her right, the man with a silk scarf fastened around his neck in a feminine way and a long golden ponytail.

A man in a tailored suit.

A man who was watching her.

Her own world was too consuming to contemplate another being, so she didn’t. When her tea had been handed to her, she stopped to take a sip, in no real rush to get back to the trade stand. If only she could slip her shoes off for a moment, let her toes spread leisurely for a while, dip her feet in something cool, even. They throbbed like the pulse in her temple, and she reached up to touch her head absentmindedly, her pale vanilla manicured fingernails on show. She rubbed ever so gently, willing the pain to stop, before reaching into her bag for the paracetamol. It should be another hour before she was officially due another two tablets, but the pain, oh, the pain was distracting. Ellen checked her watch again, expecting an hour to have passed since she’d looked at it only five minutes ago, and wrinkled her nose up in disappointment. It was standing room only at the cart now. There was no point hanging around, so she made her way towards the edge of the hall in search of a chair to rest for a while.

Had she been a little more in tune and aware of her surroundings, she might have noticed the same man fall into step a couple of people behind her and follow her to her final destination of a solitary chair by the wall.

Hadley let her sit and carried on past as though he had intended all along to go that way, she none the wiser to his moves or motive. He stood near the entrance to the gents’ room and watched her from less than twenty feet away. It was obvious something was bothering her from her body language, and it wasn’t just a hard day at work. Could she be the perfect candidate? His eyes travelled to her ankles again, then lower down to her perfect toes protruding from delicate sandals with thin pins for heels. A little redness was showing, and he wanted to take them in his hands, to soothe them for her, dip them into something cool, like milk, rub them and take care of them. He felt himself harden at the thought of easing her discomfort and stroking those feet leisurely.

For hours at a time. For his own satisfaction.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Once inside the gents’ toilets, he reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out an ornate pillbox. He held the tiny silver box in his hand like it was the smallest of birds and just as precious. It had been his mother’s pillbox, and one she’d used all the time, right up until she’d finally died a rather slow and unpleasant death. Hadley’s father, long gone many years before his wife, had looked after the family well. They’d wanted for nothing as the years had rolled by. Old money had kept them all in comfort, and it was that same old money that had enabled Hadley to become a shoe designer. Especially through the early years. There hadn’t been a lot of money in the shoe design business back then – still wasn’t, unless you were an established name – but it hadn’t worried Hadley because there was always the old family money to dip into.

When his mother had finally passed, he’d sold up. Sold the heirlooms, sold the estate, sold everything, and he now had a tidy sum sat in investments and in the bank. His place on Mayfair was extravagant but suiting, as was his holiday home in Guernsey, though he hardly ever frequented the place these days. No, he was happy around London, working, watching and doing his other favourite pastime – anticipating.

He opened the box gently in the privacy of the stall and marvelled at the little grain-like devices. How could something so tiny ultimately bring so much pleasure later on? There were two of them, one green tipped and one amber tipped. The colour indicated what would happen when each one was activated. The amber one, signalling ‘look,’ meant that a possible individual had been found but the operator needed to do a little digging into their past to find their sweet spot. In other words, what debt they might need settling – and there was always one to be found. Most people had something worth fighting for if you dug deep enough, a skeleton they’d rather not have uncovered. With men, it was usually an indiscretion. With women, well, it was not much different, really: old boyfriends with secret videos and photos, secret babies, or the age-old favourite – secret liaisons. So much of what happened in this particular system was to do with sex of some form from some earlier time.

The other little device, the green one signalling ‘go,’ informed the operator that an individual had been found and they required immediate surveillance and apprehension as soon as possible. Once the trackers in either case were activated by liquid, such as a drink or stomach contents, there was a 24-hour window to get into that person’s life or encourage them into one’s own via their sweet spot, the debt that needed settling.

Hadley picked out the amber-tipped grain and held it between the tips of his thumb and forefinger. Closing the little pillbox with his other hand and tucking it away, he knew precisely what to do and how to do it. He was quite the practiced professional after all these years. Keeping the little device firmly in his grasp, he left the stall, left the gents’ room and headed back out to where he hoped the woman was still sat. As he rounded the entrance back out into the main hall, he couldn’t have been happier. There in the distance, he could see her as she stood with her tea still in her hand and her bag by her chair. She bent to pick it up and leave her resting place – headed back to work, no doubt. Hadley picked up speed as he neared her and, in a practiced move, bumped her right arm with his, hard enough that the tea cup catapulted out of her hand and onto the floor. It was an easy move he’d completed without fault on numerous occasions, and today was no different.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “My goodness! Please, excuse my clumsiness. Are you okay, madam? I hope you’re not hurt?” He looked into the brownest eyes for a split second before he busied himself trying to settle the woman he’d bumped into a moment ago. “I’m so sorry – what an absolute oaf. Look, let me at least replace it. What were you enjoying before I came along?”

He was looking directly at her now, his best gentleman face in place to put her at ease. For his plan to work, she needed to relax a little more. Eventually she spoke. It was more of a loud whisper.

“That’s not necessary, thanks. I’m due back on the stand in a moment anyway.” She smiled the weakest of smiles he’d ever seen on a woman, and he wondered at her obvious pain. The woman seemed so sad, so beaten.

“Then let me get you something to sip on during the afternoon. Which stand are you on? It’s the least I can do, and besides, I insist.” He smiled his practiced, gentle smile and to his delight, she returned the same.

“Green tea. Thank you.” Such a small voice; it needed cheering up.

Something inside of him glowed warm as she melted for him.

“I’m over there.” The woman pointed across the way to her particular stand. He nodded.

“Then you go on ahead. I’ve detained you long enough. I’ll replace your beverage and drop by shortly.” His smile was like a full stop to their conversation, and she nodded and turned back on her route towards her work for the afternoon. Hadley stood for a moment and watched her go, the thin grain between his thumb and finger reminding him there was still work to be done. He turned on his heel and made his way back to the drinks cart to order a replacement green tea. When it was safely in his hands, he dropped the tiny grain inside the paper cup and wandered over to her stand. Even if she didn’t drink it all, and she probably wouldn’t do now, the grain would have been activated and the cogs and wheels would start turning.

In a few short hours, he would know a whole lot more about the delightful mystery woman whose feet he was dying to spend time with.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Across town, the newly activated device appeared on a screen. The flashing amber light was the operator’s cue to activate the players within the vicinity and locate the target. Once the target had been confirmed, the next part of the plan would run. That’s the part the operator always found the most fun – the digging. Some enjoyed the surveillance, but to him that tended to be boring. What was fun about sitting in a van waiting for a target to move so you could follow them to their next destination, and then sitting in a van and waiting for them to move on again? Monotony was not his forte. He watched the screen as the three players he’d activated made their way towards the glowing amber light that they were following on their own screens. Until they reached the destination, no one knew anything about their target, not even the gender, though from experience, the operator knew they were predominately female.

He didn’t have many female clients who used his service. It was only a couple of percent in reality, and over the years he’d been operating, that percentage had stayed about the same. The vast majority of fetish requests – to his own business and to others, he knew – came from the males of the human race. He’d done his research. Fetishists tended to be men, usually with a background of infatuation with a woman – an over-enthusiastic love for their mother or a mother figure – or a dominant woman early in their life. The fetish was something that developed in their teen years, rather than in their later years. Feet, shoes, hair – in fact, any part of the body could be attractive to someone who had developed a fascination with and sexual desire for it. The operator couldn’t have cared less. If hair did it for them, then so be it. If fingers did it for them, then fingers it was. The client got what they desired, and in return the giver got their debt paid, even if they never realized it at the time.

But their lives would be better off for it.

There were never victims. Any crime against the giver was mild, maybe burglary or, at a push, assault, but that was a small price to pay for the service he was offering and the better life he was giving. And no one would come to any physical harm. Those were the rules. Hair would grow back, and clients who liked to spend time with certain body parts knew not to overextend their attentions.

Only a handful of those who indulged in his service had ever escalated their desires to another level, but that had never happened on the operator’s watch. He knew the temptations his clients faced, so he took precautions of his own. What his clients didn’t realize, and would never realize, was that there was a small discreet team assigned to them too, watching out for the giver’s safety both during and after the transaction. It only took one overexuberant client to spoil things, and the operator fiercely guarded against it. He had eyes and ears on every transaction at all times. But that was another story. Or service.

Fifteen minutes later, he got the confirmation that the target had been confirmed, and the image of a woman filled his screen. The first thing he noticed about her was her telling face. She looked troubled, but then the client who had activated their device was particularly skilled in seeking out someone with the desired past or problem to be solved, and he’d been doing it long enough.

With a few specific keystrokes to the right places, the operator found her issue almost straight away: her troublesome son. He quickly scanned Danny’s school record and saw his previous fighting notes as well as the latest and most disturbing one – possession of cannabis. The operator’s first thought was a question: was the cannabis really his? With a history of fighting, was Danny being bullied or had it been planted? He checked the files of the other boys who had been caught fighting with him over the last year and wasn’t surprised to find a pattern occurring. Several of them had police records for possession. Those same boys had been active in bullying other students too, students who, on further digging, had since moved away from the school.

He dug a little further into the bullies themselves. Their surnames all rang bells in his head, and he hoped they weren’t current clients of his. There was only one way to find out. He tapped his keyboard briskly and, with the information in front of him, relaxed a little. While they weren’t clients, he knew who they ‘belonged’ to. He thought for a moment. This particular problem needed fixing, but it could prove a little more difficult to solve. These people had friends in high places.

He sat back in his chair to think of the best way to handle it. His first plan of attack was invariably the one he went with, but he didn’t want to rush this one and risk getting it wrong. The face of the woman on his first screen looked back at him. She really was a beautiful woman, but the strain on her face was evident. It needed removing. He picked up his phone and dialled.

“I need three boys taken out of their posh school for good. And it needs to stick. Can you look after it?”

The voice asked for their names and the school. If the voice was cautious after knowing who their fathers were, he didn’t let on.

“I thought you’d find a way. Keep me informed. And it needs doing before the weekend.”

The voice confirmed it would be and hung up.

While this particular task would undoubtedly be expensive, it was for a client who had been with him for many years. The operator considered it an investment.

He recalled the three players who were milling around the woman he now knew as Ellen Millar. Their work had been done, and he sent them each a badge of completion as a job well done. The digital leaderboard behind him glowed with their updated tallies. With players back to their regular activities and his current project also being taken care of, he pushed his chair back and headed out of the office for some fresh air.

The stone steps and tiled wall of the stairwell to the street were cool, and the lunchtime sun streamed in through the doorway at the bottom. As he stepped out on to the footpath, diesel fumes hit him full in the face as a double-decker bus chugged past, black poison spewing from its exhaust pipe. Grimacing as he walked and holding his breath until it had passed fully, he slipped to the right and cut through an alleyway heading east towards the sandwich shop and lunch.

Sorting other people’s lives out always made him happy, though hungry.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

The afternoon sun shone down on Jack and Amanda as they pulled up outside Hadley Spinks’ workshop. The red brick building looked, from the outside, like many of the factories that once had been occupied across the south, many of which were now trendy apartments or ‘Google office space’–type start-up businesses that someone’s daddy was funding, probably in tech. Old dimple-frosted glass filled the small window pane sections that made up giant windows with domed tops. Amanda pointed to one as they walked towards the entrance.

“They remind me of Play School – remember that? Always a choice of looking through the square, the round or the arched window. I always picked the arched. How about you?”

Jack turned to Amanda and looked at her like she’d gone mad. “Can’t say I watched it when I was little. Was it still around when you were little, then?”

“Yes. Not for long, though. It died sometime in the late eighties. You’re the one with the trivia facts, Jack. I’d have thought you’d have known that one.”

They had reached the huge metal door and Amanda pressed the bell. A spyhole was visible at eye level just near the old letterbox slot. Amanda smiled at it like she was Garfield, just for fun. If anyone was indeed watching, they too would have thought she’d gone mad.

“Music trivia is more my thing, and detective stuff – old cases from long ago. Sherlock Holmes, Sweeney Todd. I like the crime shows on the TV too – the real crime ones, not that made-up cop crap.”

Male footsteps picked up pace on the other side of the door and the door opened inwards. A well-dressed man wearing a pale lilac shirt and a long ponytail greeted them both pleasantly. Amanda took the lead.

Hello. Mr. Spinks, is it?” The man smiled in answer. “I’m Detective Sergeant Amanda Lacey and this is Detective Constable Jack Rutherford.”

“I’ve been expecting you. Please do come in.” Hadley allowed them both to enter then closed the door quietly behind them. “Please, go through,” he encouraged them, pointing the way down the corridor, and fell in behind them both. A few steps down and the corridor opened into a brightly lit wide-open space that appeared to encompass several aspects of the business. Natural light filled the room from an almost all-glass roof, and Amanda marvelled at the sky above. Cabinets along the wall housed shoes, clearly designed and created over many years. Sewing machines took up one corner, and desks and chairs another. To their right was a sort of mock-up living room area, complete with velvet-covered chairs, an eighties-style standard lamp and a modern glass coffee table. To Amanda, it looked a bit of a style mish-mash but a comfortable seating area nonetheless.

“Wow, what a great space to work in,” she enthused.

An older woman joined them and enquired if they’d each like some tea.

“Thank you – yes, please,” Amanda said. Jack shook his head ‘no thanks’ and the woman left. Hadley invited them both to sit.

“Now, what can I do for you both? It was such a long time ago, I doubt I can be of much help, but we’ll see, eh?” He smiled his enigmatic smile at Amanda, and she found herself smiling back.

Hadley had a way with people, mainly women, that instantly put them at ease – which was both his skill and his intention. Amanda noted his silver shirt garters, one on each sleeve. They looked antique and quite lovely. Hadley noticed her glancing at them.

“They were my father’s, God rest his soul. And his father’s before him. They are quite beautiful, aren’t they?” It was a statement rather than a question.

“Yes. I remember my grandfather wearing them, though his were not quite as nice as those ones. Still, not many men wear them now, but they suit you.” She knew she was rambling a little off topic, but found herself drawn to the man, drawn to talk. Jack cleared his throat in a hint to get moving.

“If you could take us through the events that led you to be cautioned? Start at the beginning and fill us both in.”

It was Hadley’s turn to clear his throat before he launched into what had happened the afternoon he had been caught at the agency. When he’d finished telling his story, he looked directly at Amanda intently, perhaps for support.

She went with a question. “So how did you find the place? There’s really no signage outside, no note on the door. How did you know it was there?”

“When one has a fetish like you now know I have, you are able to find out these things. And for the record, I’m not embarrassed any more, nor do I hide the fact that I find feet attractive.” He was so matter-of-fact about it that Jack raised his eyebrows in surprise. Luckily Hadley didn’t notice.

“I’m guessing there are others who appreciate the same things you do,” Amanda said. “Are there chat rooms, maybe? Do you take part in online forums?”

“I agreed to chat about the day I was cautioned, not my personal life, Detective Sergeant Lacey. I said I’m not ashamed, but it’s really none of your business or relevant to my caution. I was there that day, I tried to speak to some of the girls, and I got reprimanded for it. That really is all I can tell you. I didn’t touch anyone and I didn’t act inappropriately either. But I realize I upset some of the girls and for that I have apologised. Now, if you don’t have any more questions about that particular event, I have work to do.” Hadley’s voice dropped an octave or two, signalling that this was the end of the discussion.

Jack and Amanda both got up to leave just as the older woman came back with tea for Amanda. The woman’s face fell slightly as she realized they were leaving and the tea was no longer needed.

“Just one last thing.” Jack stopped abruptly. He was doing his Columbo bit. He even had his first finger extended in thought.

“Do you know a man by the name of Chris Meeks, or maybe Smeeks, by any chance?” He and Amanda both watched for the slightest tell to appear on Hadley Spinks’ face – a twitch of the lips, a hard swallow. The room fell into complete silence.

The question did need an answer, though, and eventually Hadley obliged.

“Chris Meeks. . . Smeeks.” He rolled the words around his tongue, considering. He looked quite genuine as he replied, “I’m sorry, I don’t recall the name. But I do talk to a lot of people. Is it important?”

“Just a name that has come up, a routine question that will probably lead nowhere. If you do recall the name, give me a call, would you?” Jack said. He passed a card to Hadley, who nodded.

“We’ll see ourselves out. Thank you for your time,” Jack said, and they both walked back down the corridor to the door at the end. When they were back out on the street and headed to the car, Amanda voiced what they both were thinking.

“I’d say he doesn’t know of the name. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know of the person. Meeks just might use another name.”

Jack slid into the driver’s seat and waited for Amanda to get in before responding. She pushed the junk mail newspapers and leaflets to one side with her foot. There must have been at least two weeks’ worth in the well.

“I agree, the name didn’t light any beacons, but he didn’t want to talk about fetish groups or chat rooms either, did he?”

“No, but neither would you if you had one, would you? And particularly if you were talking to the police about something that could be related, at least in subject matter. He’s not stupid, but it was worth a try.” Jack started the engine and pulled out into the street before adding, “It’s still a coincidence, though. And for what it’s worth, I’m thinking this Chris character is up to something online with fetishes, but I’ve no clue what. Just a hunch, but they don’t work in a court of law. We need a break, something positive that links all this together besides two women losing their hair, a bloke from way back and a sexual harassment case going away. I can see the DI pulling us off this case and nothing more happening with it. In the meantime, behind our backs, hair is going missing.”

Amanda couldn’t help but grin.

“What?”

“It just sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud. ‘Hair going missing.’ How does hair go missing? It wanders off like a cat?”

Jack laughed gently, and then a stab of pain hit him hard in his right side again and he winced as he grabbed at his belly with his hand. There was no way to hide this one.

“Jack? You’re in pain, aren’t you?” Amanda’s voice was sharp with concern. “And that isn’t still beef pickle sandwiches, not now.”

Even though Jack didn’t want to admit it out loud, he’d come to the same conclusion earlier that morning. The pain had stabbed him at regular intervals all through the night and all of today, and it was getting stronger and stronger as the day wore on.

Amanda asked him, “Has that been going on since yesterday, and getting stronger all this time, by any chance?”

“Who are you now, Florence Nightingale?” His lame attempt at humour fell on deaf ears. Then he relented and filled her in. “Yes, as a matter of fact. I’ll have to get to the doctors, I know that.”

“Give me your phone and I’ll call them now, see if someone can see you this evening.”

He turned to her, confusion on his face.

“I’m guessing the number is in your phone? Or you can tell me who you go to and I’ll use my own.” She watched as he pulled the phone from his jacket pocket and handed it over. Sifting through his contacts, she found what she was looking for and made the call. A couple of minutes later, the appointment was set for 5.30 pm.

“You perhaps shouldn’t be driving, Jack. Why don’t you pull over and I’ll drive us back?” She glanced across and noticed Jack’s face. It was going an odd colour, like pale processed cheese. Alarmed, Amanda instinctively grabbed hold of the steering wheel just as Jack vomited violently across at the windscreen. Acting quickly, she leaned across him, ignoring the mess, and hauled on his leg, removing his foot from the accelerator. She grabbed the wheel with her free hand and guided the car to the side of the road. Car horns blared as they finally came to a halt in a no-stopping zone.

“Jack! Are you alright? Speak to me, Jack, speak to me!” She shifted her weight off him and took his face in her hands. A sort of whimper came from his mouth, like a wounded dog.

“I’m calling for help,” she said, grabbing her phone from where it had landed in the mess on the floor. “Stay with me, Jack, stay with me,” she urged him. She punched in the emergency number and told the operator an officer was down and needed urgent medical attention. She gave their location, hung up and turned back to try and help Jack.

“Hold on, Jack. Help is on its way. Stay with me, Jack.” She put the emergency flashers on, then loosened Jack’s tie with one hand and undid his seatbelt, holding his hand firmly in her other hand. She found tissues in her bag and wiped his mouth a little to make him more comfortable, and then placed her fingers on his neck, pressing gently into his carotid artery. His pulse was steady but quick and weak. The air was putrid, and she reached across him and opened the driver’s side door to get some fresh air to him. Slowly, a bit of colour came back into his cheeks again, though his forehead was hot and sweaty and he was barely coherent.

What had just happened? Amanda wondered. Her beloved friend and colleague looked seriously ill. Amanda hoped he was going to make it.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Amanda watched from the curb as Jack was carefully wheeled into the ambulance, still looking very ill but better than he had a few minutes ago. A little colour had come back into his face, and the ambulance team had given him some pain relief. He wasn’t talking, though, and Jack always talked. They suspected appendicitis, given the symptoms Amanda had described.

The inside of the car looked like half a dozen carsick children had consumed far too much ice cream, and the smell was already building up in the late afternoon sunshine. Amanda still had specks all over her trousers and dared not pick at it. Dried puke was not something she wanted on her hands or down her fingernails. She smiled encouragingly at Jack as his stretcher was secured, then climbed in alongside him. There was no way she could drive to the hospital in Jack’s car as it was; she had already made the call for it to be towed to a valet to get cleaned up. It had needed a good clean anyway; today it would think it was its birthday.

Since Jack’s wife had died some years back, there wasn’t anyone back at home to notify of his illness, but she dropped Ruth a text to explain what had happened. Jack thought of them both as the daughters he’d never had.

“Need me to grab anything?” her text back read.

“I’ll go round later. I have his keys. He’ll need toiletries.”

“Give him my love and wish him a speedy recovery. I’ll see him later.”

“Will do. I’ll get a lift back. I’m splattered in puke.”

“Gross, Ms. Lacey. Love you, though.”

Amanda smiled at the last message back. She’d found her soulmate in Ruth, and she couldn’t wait until they were married.

“All ready to go in the back here?” enquired one of the paramedics. His colleague was already in the driver’s seat, engaging the flashing lights. Amanda nodded and took Jack’s hand in hers as the rear doors were finally closed, the driver sounded the sirens and they set off across town towards the emergency unit and a hospital bed. Appendicitis could be deadly if the appendix burst, and time was of the essence. Amanda rocked from side to side in her seat, never taking her eyes off Jack, as the ambulance took left and right turns at speed. Jack seemed more comfortable now that he’d been given painkillers, but he still looked terrible. Wisps of his thinning ‘salt and not much pepper’ hair stuck to his clammy forehead, and Amanda was tempted to gently push them away.

He turned towards her and tried to speak from under his oxygen mask.

“Sor… f…. messss.”

“I think I got that, Jack,” she said, smiling at him, still clutching his hand. “Don’t try and talk. Save your energy. Your car needed cleaning anyway. How many junk circulars were you trying to collect in there?” She was teasing him, and she smiled to let him know it. Humour was one way to dispel the fear they were both feeling right now.

Ten minutes later, the ambulance was backing into the emergency loading bay. Jack’s stretcher was wheeled inside by a waiting team, his vitals were recorded once more and Amanda was ushered to reception to do the paperwork. The intake nurse promised she could go through once he was examined properly, but she needed to wait to be called in the meantime. Swallowing back her worry, Amanda gave Jack’s details to the nurse and then sat down to wait it out.

Nearly an hour later, she was able to see him. Behind the curtain screen he was lying peacefully, fast asleep, minus his puke-soaked shirt. He now wore a hospital gown. A nurse filled in his chart at the foot of his bed.

“Hi, I’m Amanda,” she said to the nurse. “I was with Jack when he collapsed. How’s he doing?”

The young nurse smiled at her. “Are you next of kin, by chance?”

“Not officially. Jack is a widower and doesn’t have children. I’ve known Jack for some time; I’m a colleague at work. But we’re close. There is no one else.” The nurse nodded. “It looks like Mr. Rutherford has appendicitis. It’s a possibility we may have to operate later if it doesn’t settle down.”

Amanda frowned. “What can I do or get for him?”

“Nothing in particular, but patients sometimes feel better in their own sleepwear, and with their own toiletries. Are you able to access them?”

“Yes, I have his keys. I’ll go straight from here, but I wanted to see him first. I see he’s sleeping. Is that normal?”

“It’s the pain relief, and he’s had a shock to the system so he’s tired anyway. He won’t be asleep too long, but he’s better resting for now. You’re welcome to come back later if you want to get off.” The nurse motioned at Amanda’s own clothes and she realized she was still a mess and probably stank. “If he does go up to surgery, he’ll be gone a while.”

“In that case, I’ll pop off and come back. Will you tell him I was here? I’d hate for him to think no one cares, but I could do with some clean clothes myself.”

“Of course. He won’t be going anywhere for a little while.” The nurse smiled reassuringly, and Amanda felt a little of her worry lift. She took Jack’s hand again and said a few words to him, just in case he could hear her in his sleepy state.

“I’ll be back shortly, Jack. I’m going to get cleaned up and get you some things, okay? I won’t be long. I promise.” Then she bent over and lightly planted a kiss on his forehead. While he was still warm, he wasn’t clammy anymore and she hoped that was a good sign.

Chapter Sixty

It was just after 7 pm when she finally got home and changed, but even though her stomach was moaning its displeasure at being empty, she didn’t feel like eating. She dashed upstairs for a quick shower to get rid of the puke smell, then quickly slipped into fresh jeans and a clean T-shirt and was back out the door in jiffy, destination Jack’s place. She hit a speed dial number on her phone and Ruth’s voice filled the car. The wonders of Bluetooth again.

“How’s he doing, hun? And, just as importantly, how are you doing?”

“He’s sleeping at the moment. They suspect appendicitis and he may have surgery. I’m on my way over to his place – just grabbed a shower and changed.”

“You sound exhausted. Have you eaten?”

“Not yet. Being covered in vomit isn’t conducive to eating so I’ll grab something later. It won’t do me any harm to miss a meal. I’ve got a wedding dress to squeeze into, remember. I’m headed over to get some toiletries and something for him to sleep in. I’m hoping he has some PJs or else I’m in trouble. Then I’ll go and drop them off and see if I can see him awake. I’ll get an update, and then I’ll be over later. It might be late, though. Will you be up?”

“Of course. Want me to come to the hospital with you?”

“No point until they move him to a ward. You’ll only be hanging around. I’ll say ‘hi’ from you. Come tomorrow, maybe?”

“Definitely. Give him my love and I’ll see you when you get here. Text me when you leave the hospital and I’ll have a mug of hot chocolate waiting.”

They said their goodbyes as Amanda pulled up at Jack’s place. As with much of the Croydon area, any parking to be had was out the front on the road unless you were lucky enough to have a driveway down the side of your house. Jack’s older semi-detached house was one of the lucky ones, and Amanda was grateful not to have to prowl for a space a mile further down.

She let herself in the front door and stood in the hallway to get her bearings. It had been some time since she’d been to his house. There was a fusty smell, a mixture of old stale food and old stale sleep. Wrinkling her nose, she walked straight through to the kitchen and opened the back door to let some fresh air blow through. When Jack had last opened a window Amanda had no idea, but it sure hadn’t been recently. She looked under the sink for a plastic bag, something to put a few belongings in. As she pushed old containers of cleaning fluid to the side to look, a mouse ran across the back of the cupboard. An involuntary shriek filled the kitchen.

“Damn. You scared the hell out of me,” she said accusingly to the mouse as its tail disappeared through a hole in the failing cupboard wall. Grabbing an old grocery store bag, she left the kitchen and headed upstairs to the bathroom to get his toiletries. The tiny bathroom was standing room only. The walls had once been painted turquoise, and the fixtures had once been white. Now there were rust-coloured stains in the bath and basin where dripping taps had done their damage over time. A brownish tidemark circled the bath. Amanda didn’t want to judge, but she was shocked that the man she’d known for so long lived in a place such as this. Sure, he needed his hair trimmed and he sometimes looked a little unkempt, but his home needed some urgent domestic attention.

His shaving gear was on the windowsill and she scooped up what she thought he’d need into the bag, along with some old-looking aftershave, deodorant, toothbrush and paste and his dental floss. With his toiletries collected, she stepped back out of the tiny grubby room and into the hallway.

As she stood at the top of the stairs, she noticed there was a room to her left that she assumed was his bedroom. Old semi-detached houses like this one all had the same footprint inside, or a mirror image of this one if the house was adjacent. From her spot on the landing, she could see by the dull light in the room that the curtains were still closed. Jack hadn’t opened them when he’d left for work that morning. She pushed the door open fully and went inside, then stopped dead and gave an involuntary gasp of dismay. Hanging on one of the two wardrobes that had been squeezed into the room was a candlewick ladies’ dressing gown and a floral cotton nightdress. On the floor, placed directly underneath, were a pair of ladies’ slippers.

They looked like they’d been there for years, and Amanda knew with a dull ache of certainty that, in fact, they had been. She stood transfixed in the doorway in the dying light and scanned the room: pink floral wallpaper densely covered in what looked like huge lilies decorated all four walls and was peeling slightly at the top edges. Pictures of Jack and Janine at the beach, at parties, at gatherings, at lawn bowls tournaments, each frame filled with smiling faces, adorned the chest of drawers. As did a thick layer of dust. The bed was unmade and, judging, by the yellowing once-white sheets, it hadn’t been changed for a while. A dark pink eiderdown hung off the edge of the bed; a pair of gents’ PJs dangled from a hook behind the door. At least he’d hung them up after he’d taken them off. Figuring they wouldn’t be the freshest if the rest of his home was anything to go by, she left them where they hung and pulled out the top drawer to find a clean pair. There were three neatly folded pairs, thankfully, and she selected one. Amanda glanced at the bedside cabinet and saw a couple of books and a spare pair of reading glasses. Not knowing which of the two books he was currently reading, she picked them both up, grabbed the glasses and laid the items with his fresh sleepwear on top of the unmade bed.

In search of a more substantial bag to put all his belongings in, Amanda opened the dated wooden door of a wardrobe that looked like something from before the war. On the top shelf was an old leather bag, and she lifted it down. Quite surprisingly, it was heavy and she dropped it onto the bed before deciding whether to look inside and remove its contents. While she didn’t want to pry, she really needed a bag. The thick leather buckle-type fastener on the top unclipped easily and the bag opened slightly, allowing her to put her hand in to open it more. She felt around inside, still uncertain what she might find. She felt wool-like fabric, maybe a sweater, and some other cloth that was much smoother and lighter. And there was something else, something in a hard, leathery box, and when she tried to pick it up with one hand, she found it was too heavy to do so.

“Sorry, Jack, I hope this isn’t private stuff but I could do with the bag,” she said aloud to the empty room. She began emptying the bag onto the bed, setting each item in turn on the bedspread, and finally pulled out the heavy box.

She smiled then, realizing, and patted the lid.

It was Jack’s lawn bowls gear.

Chapter Sixty-One

“I’m not kidding you, Ruth, the place was like time had stood still – about ten years ago. Even Janine’s clothes were hanging on the front of her wardrobe, like a shrine. Slippers too. And it needed a bloody good clean. Jack looks like he could use a little help.”

“What are you thinking? Going in and sprucing the place up? He might not appreciate it, you know, proud man and all.”

Ruth had a point, Amanda knew. “Well, when I turned up with his things and he saw the leather bag, he looked a little embarrassed.” Amanda was thoughtful for a moment then added, “And sad too. And I think I might know why.”

“Why? Did he say something?”

“No, he wouldn’t but I felt I’d intruded in something sacred. No, change that: I have intruded in something sacred. After he thanked me, I put the bag on the floor as instructed and he kept staring at it from time to time, like someone was going to jump out of it. On the set of drawers with all the other pictures were a couple of him with a small group, a team maybe, all dressed in white. Several women and a couple of men. I reckon he and his wife played in lawn bowls tournaments. There was a box of lawn bowls in that bag, and all his bowling clothes, as well as some smooth-soled white shoes. I nearly keeled over when the smell hit me, though. I bet they’ve been in that bag the whole ten years.”

“That’s sad, don’t you think? Something they both did, and then she died and he probably hasn’t played since.”

“I know.” Amanda fell very quiet in thought. “I put his reaction down to being unwell, but I’m sure there is more to it than that. He misses her terribly, I know that. He probably lies awake in bed at night staring at her nightclothes wishing she was next to him.” Amanda felt her eyes well up with tears and blinked them away before they spilled over. “So tidying his place might be a bit intrusive.”

“Then let’s do the next best thing.”

“And what’s that do you think?”

“Let’s organize for a cleaner to go in once a week. That way, if he doesn’t want it, he can cancel and nothing would get disturbed without his say-so. We can get someone in while he’s in hospital to do the main things like his bathroom and kitchen and a quick dust of his bedroom. In fact, do you think it would be better if we both did it?”

Amanda knew Ruth was trying to be helpful, but she shook her head. “I think that would be worse. Well, having me involved would be, at any rate. He’d hate for his direct boss to have cleaned his loo – as would you or I. No, he’d be annoyed with that idea. Sorry. Nice thought, though.”

The two of them sat quietly, their minds busy while they rattled the ideas around, trying to come up with a solution. Finally, Amanda spoke again.

“One thing is for sure: he can’t go back to the house as it is, so I say we get someone in to do the main stuff. Call it a get-well present from us. There. That’s it, done.” Amanda stood with authority as the last words left her mouth and Ruth could only smile and nod her approval. As Jack’s work colleague, Amanda knew best. “I’ll make the call first thing.”

“How long are they keeping him in?”

“Surgery went well. If he carries on with his meds without a hitch, he’ll be there for three days so there’s not much time to get his house sorted. But right now, I’m off to bed. I’m knackered. You coming?”

Ruth mock-saluted in reply, then gathered their mugs. Without turning the kitchen light on, she placed the mugs on the drainer and, looking up at the window and the dark night sky beyond, she caught her half-reflection looking back at her. After all the talk about Jack and his home being a shrine to his wife, her thoughts drifted sadly to her own father, who had been widowed just over a year ago. He too now rattled around the family home on his own and, while she saw him regularly, at times like this Ruth realized it wasn’t enough. Tomorrow, she’d call him and arrange to meet for lunch and give him a hug. She’d not given him nearly enough over the handful of years she’d known him; she’d shown up late in his life, the surprise daughter he had never known he had, and she felt like she was making up for lost time.

Amanda’s voice broke into her thoughts, calling her to come to bed.

“Coming,” Ruth called back.

Ruth was annoyingly wide awake. She lay in bed thinking about her own family situation and how hers had changed since she’d been a teenager. Her new dad, Gordon, her biological father, had been shocked at her existence but gentle soul that he was, he had warmed to her quickly and they now got on well. Her stepmother, Madeline, on the other hand, hadn’t been quite so easy.

Of course, that hadn’t all been Madeline’s fault, she thought guiltily, not for the first time. When she was younger, Ruth had taken every opportunity to snipe at her, demean her in some way, through subtle digs here and there. Gordon had encouraged her to give Madeline a chance, but Ruth had behaved that way for so long that she’d found it hard to stop.

Until one day, quite by accident, she had discovered Madeline’s secret, and had found herself admiring the woman. At last she’d warmed to her, and Madeline had welcomed the blossoming of the affectionate feelings between them, but their new relationship was to be short-lived. Ruth would give her back teeth to have her time over with Madeline again, and if given the chance she knew she’d behave very differently the second time around. But that was never going to be.

She sighed and turned over in bed. Her father was now on his own, and all the talk of Jack being on his own and not coping with his domestic responsibilities too well made her feel maudlin. Amanda lay next to her, little snoring noises coming from her mouth as she navigated through a dream, and Ruth turned to watch her sleep in the slight light of the room. An orange glow from the street lamps outside shone through the crack in the curtain, and it cast an eerie glow that was just enough to get either of them to the bathroom during the night if need be. She hoped both her dad and Jack were peacefully asleep and not lying awake, like her, looking up at the ceiling and thinking about how fragile life was.

One minute the person you love the most in the world is by your side, she thought gloomily, then the next minute, they’re gone – forever. Soon Amanda would be her wife. What would the future hold for them both? Would they start a family like Amanda wanted, even though she was in her early forties? If Amanda never came home from work one night, was killed on a job – a very real possibility – how would Ruth cope without her close by and fully in her life?

Ruth had no idea. Sighing heavily, she realized she wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon. Rather than sink deeper into ‘woe is me’ thoughts, she lifted the bedclothes and went back down to the kitchen and her laptop. Griffin had asked her for a favour and she still hadn’t done anything about it. Now seemed the perfect time to do something.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Downstairs in the kitchen, Ruth put milk in the microwave to heat up for another mug of hot chocolate. It was about the only thing she used the machine for, even though she bitched about the unhealthy microwaves it emitted into food every time she pressed start. Still, it was quicker than heating milk in a pan. The turntable slowly moved the mug around in a circle, and Ruth followed it with her eyes, transfixed, like it was the most interesting thing in the world. It was almost hypnotizing. The microwave pinged and stopped turning. In the quiet of the kitchen, it sounded like a frantic bicycle bell behind something slow and Ruth mentally ‘shushed’ it. The last thing Amanda needed was to be woken up after a tough day.

Taking her mug and laptop into the lounge, she curled up on the sofa and sipped at the hot chocolatey liquid in thought. But this time her thoughts were on Griffin’s friend’s problem rather than the two men in her life. She mused to herself, “So Griffin has a friend, a woman friend in his life. About time, too, young man.”

There was no malice in her thoughts but she knew that few people warmed to Griffin, with his eccentric and somewhat OCD ways. To many people, he was just weird, pure and simple. How many folks were as precise as Griffin at everything? How many folks broke routine down into fifteen-minute slots and found new adventures almost impossible to deal with? That was the norm for Griffin. But he’d found someone, it seemed, and Ruth was pleased for him.

She opened the laptop and the screen sprang to life, the bright blue-white light illuminating her face in the near darkness. Opening the TOR browser, she started digging, putting what she thought would bring back results into the crude search box. There were a lot of misconceptions about the dark web, and many newer users confused it with the deep web. In fact, they were two different things entirely. She pulled up the video file and photo Griffin had sent to her, as well as a new window with the software she needed open ready.

Two locations, the results informed her. She clicked on the first link and saw the same video that she already knew to be Griffin’s friend. A quick note of the address, a few knowledgeable keystrokes with the other search result and she was about done. She could go no further. The whole idea of the TOR browser was anonymity, and that meant for those on both sides of the screen – the user and the poster. Unless she had elaborate hacking skills or worked in one of the top cybercrime intelligence agencies around the world, she could only look to a point; and she had neither.

The good news was there were only two records of the video – on the dark web, anyway. Next, she did the same search on the ordinary surface web. That threw up a different result altogether, but at least she could do a little more tracking of its origin. Finally, she had twelve results listed in total across the dark and the regular. She knew she could eliminate ten of them reasonably easily without attracting too much attention. The sites that dealt in revenge porn, whether they knew it was such or not, wouldn’t notice one video clip going missing; there were plenty more for their visitors to look at and get excited about. She had done what she could and that would have to do. Being a ‘grey hat’ online, her morals were solid, though she couldn’t say the same about her law-breaking antics. Still, who’d be looking and ready to report her?

What had started as a local community online group to help solve petty crimes, watch out for missing cats and the like, had piqued her interest in going deeper. Literally. Now it was long past an interesting pastime. Having used the community site to discover a dog-fighting ring as well as a local sex offender, Ruth knew what the web in general and her little bulletin board in particular had done for the safety of the local community. Since then she’d invested time in learning the ins and outs of the deep and the dark web; she already understood coding with her day job building apps and websites. Hacking, she reasoned, was a natural progression, and doing it all in the name of good was now one of her prime interests. After running, of course.

Reaching for her phone, she tapped out a quick message to Griffin to update him.

“Links to video on reg web all gone. Two on dark I can’t get to. Hope that helps a little. Ruth.”

She clicked send and it whooshed along the airwaves to Griffin’s phone. Hopefully this late it wouldn’t wake him up; hopefully he’d see it first thing in the morning. Draining her mug of chocolate, she checked the time on her screen and even though it was past midnight, she knew she still wasn’t ready for sleep yet even if she tried. The TOR browser icon glared at her.

“Ten more minutes,” she said under her breath. “Let’s browse a while. Then I’ll go.”

Then maybe sleep and sweet dreams would take her too.

On the other side of town, Griffin was far from sleep. When his phone pinged with the incoming text and he saw it was from Ruth, he quickly scanned its contents. Relief for Vee filled his veins. Even though the other two links existed, the chances were minimal of anyone on the surface web seeing the video and Vee being embarrassed any further. He tapped a message back.

“Thanks heaps, Ruth. I owe you.”

Then he went back to his own search. Finding just what he needed at the right price had proved difficult, but after researching as meticulously as he had, and for as long as he had, he was almost ready to proceed. Soon, his problem would be sorted and he could get some of his lost confidence back again. His next problem was getting the time away to get it done, both from work and from his new friendship. He didn’t want Vee thinking the worst of him. The man had said he should allow a couple of weeks, so he’d have to come up with something plausible, and soon.

Griffin certainly couldn’t confide in her yet; he couldn’t risk the ridicule.

Chapter Sixty-Three

Ellen’s heart sank when the caller identified himself.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Badell?” She was used to his calls by now, knowing he never rang her with any good news. The last time she’d spoken to him had been a week ago, when he’d informed her of the cannabis that had been found in Danny’s room. Since then he’d been punished by the loss of extracurricular activities, and he’d suffered for it. She supposed today’s message would be no different.

“Actually, Mrs. Millar, I have some news for you I’d like to pass along.”

“Oh?” Ellen said wearily. “What’s Danny got himself involved in now? What do you need to tell me this time? To come and collect him and his bags?” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.

“Actually, Mrs. Millar, like I said, I have news, good news for a change. Danny has been cleared of any wrongdoing in regards to the cannabis. Three other young men have admitted they set Danny up, and have also been setting him up with many of the pranks he’s been in trouble for over the past months. All three boys have been expelled.”

Ellen couldn’t believe her ears. Surely she was dreaming? Danny had been set up all along?

“I don’t understand, Dr. Badell. You’re saying my son is not responsible for all the trouble he’s been in, that the incidents were all a set-up to point to him?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying Mrs. Millar, precisely.”

Ellen fell silent, thinking. She hadn’t been prepared for such news. Part of her brain sang out in elation that her son wasn’t a trouble causer after all; he’d simply been a victim of pranks. She was also a little bit suspicious.

“What made the boys decide to fess up and come clean? It seems a little unusual to me that, after all they’ve put Danny through, they suddenly find their consciences and own up. What happened, exactly?”

The air on the line was deathly quiet. Dr. Badell chose his next words wisely. “I really can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. Let’s just say the young men involved are no longer at the school, and Danny’s record has been updated to show he wasn’t involved in any of the incidents. I’ll have to leave it at that, Mrs. Millar, except to say I’m deeply sorry for the stress it’s undoubtedly caused you and Danny during this time. Please, I hope you can accept my apologies.”

Ellen was stunned but grateful. “Of course. And thank you for letting me know. Does Danny know yet?”

“I’m just about to tell him. I wanted to share the news with you first. I’ll get him to call you later if you like?”

“Yes, I’d love to speak to him. And thanks again.” She hung up and stared at the disconnected phone for a few moments. Thoughts rushed through her head as the news sank in, and her face broke into a grin, something that she’d almost forgotten how to do for the last couple of weeks. Danny had been raised fairly, to be honest and respectful at all times, and she’d found it difficult to comprehend the troubles he’d ended up in at school. Now she knew the answer: it had been other boys all along.

Ellen stood in the lounge where she’d been sat reading when the call had come in. Sun streamed in through the front bay window, and she moved to where the reflection hit the carpet and looked outside. The sky was as blue as a cornflower, and wispy white clouds sauntered slowly across a windless sky. A couple of young children played with a ball on the street, their giggles just audible. So, Danny hadn’t been causing stress and havoc; it was some other boys, boys who had then placed the blame on her Danny. Why? For fun? For a bet? What? Her shoulders relaxed as she realized they didn’t need to be tense and up around her ears anymore. Danny was innocent of stashing drugs, and innocent of other wrongdoings he had been accused of. She hoped that now the pressure was off him, too, his grades would get back to where they should be, where they had been heading, before it was too late. They’d both suffered with the stress, but it looked like it was all over, thank god. Though in the back of her mind, she wondered why, and how it had all come to an end so rapidly.

Still, she had a foot job to get to. She headed upstairs to get ready.

Thirty minutes later, she checked her Uber app to see where the driver was and, with her prized possessions firmly encased in socks and protective boots, she gathered her bag and went to wait outside on the pavement. Her ride was just turning into her road. She always took a ride rather than her own car or public transport when it came to work. Being a foot model meant that on workdays, walking was almost forbidden. Having a driver pick her up at her door and drop her at the client’s door was the most convenient and safest way to arrive in perfect condition. The agency’s clients were paying for perfection, after all.

Slipping onto the back seat, Ellen relaxed a little as the driver gave her the quiet she needed. He didn’t speak until they arrived at the studio. Stepping out, he opened the rear door and held it wide for her. He smiled at her warmly.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be a couple of hours or so, so I’ll maybe see you on the return journey home?” She smiled brightly, feeling much better than she had in a long time, the weight finally lifted from her shoulders. She hadn’t realized just how heavy it had been.

“Thank you, madam,” said the driver, “though there are quite a few of us now, so I might not be the one who drives you back home. Have a good day, now, won’t you?”

“I will, and you too. Goodbye,” she said over her shoulder as she turned towards her destination. And with a lighter step than she’d felt in weeks, she made her way to the huge metal doors and pressed the buzzer, looking into the security peephole. She wondered absentmindedly who might be looking at her right now. And from where.

As she waited, the driver tooted his horn in farewell as he drove past her, headed to his next pick-up.

He knew exactly who would be taking her home later. He would.

Chapter Sixty-Four

The operator saw the ‘confirmation of delivery’ light pulsing gently on his screen. This particular mission had been one of the easiest and quickest he’d ever had to organize because the client had been specific. He’d found what he wanted and didn’t want to wait a moment longer than he had to. And so they’d made it happen for him. ‘Baker’ had been using the firm’s services almost since its inception and was one of the more pleasant people he dealt with. With no unusual needs over and above what he called a ‘base desire,’ the operator didn’t need to monitor all of his transactions like he did other clientele. While ‘Baker’ was cloaked in anonymity like every other client, it hadn’t been hard to figure out just who he was and do the relevant checks. Safety was paramount and Baker was indeed a gentleman, it seemed. He wished all his clients behaved as well as Baker did.

He stared at the pulsing light. In a few minutes, it would begin move as she was transported to a fabulous hotel where his client could appreciate her gift to him in perfect surroundings. And, of course, she would be none the wiser about what had actually happened to her. He’d often wondered what went through the heads of those repaying their debts as they came to, wondering where they were and how they’d arrived there, particularly those who had given their hair or other trophies his clients desired. With this particular client, the operator assumed the woman he had chosen would be a little shaken and perplexed but would otherwise forget the whole thing pretty quickly. He liked that better: nothing obvious would be taken apart from her time. It was the clients who desired more intrusive prizes, like a pint of blood, that he found the hardest to tolerate. He’d even had an enquiry from a man wanting to castrate other men, but he drew the line at causing harm to another and had refused the client. The service he provided was to balance a life problem with a life desire and do it safely, not indulge the whims of sociopaths and criminals.

The tracking device told him she was on the move to the hotel suite where ‘Baker’ would receive her shortly afterwards. Knowing everything was in hand, the operator relaxed back in his chair to let his team do their thing while he contemplated what to fill his rumbling stomach with for lunch.

Chapter Sixty-Five

Baker’s phone pinged with confirmation that his gift was en route. He’d watched her as she’d arrived at his studio-cum-workshop, peeped at her through the keyhole as she’d waited in the reception area sipping green tea. Of course, he already knew she liked green tea but this tea was different than what she would be used to. It was laced with a mild sedative, which would have the desired effect in only a few minutes. While it wasn’t considered the norm to have his reward brought to his premises, for obvious reasons, he’d wanted to savour her being in his territory as long as he could – sitting on his sofa, sipping from his cup and gently falling asleep where she sat. He’d then be able to smell her presence and enjoy her right there in his office.

She’d remember arriving at the studio, of course, but that wouldn’t matter because nobody had seen her, and her story, should there be one, would be denied. There would be no evidence of her ever being there; everyone involved would corroborate that. Even the cameras in the street were out of order – temporarily: that was what he paid so handsomely for. She’d be assured that her memory would be playing tricks on her due to recent stress, and when she saw the card later with its very specific instructions not to tell, she wouldn’t be foolish enough to ignore them. No one ever was.

Some minutes later, he’d watched her leave through the rear exit, gently taken out to the waiting ambulance, laid out like Sleeping Beauty on a trolley. If anyone had seen anything, it could be explained easily: a model had been taken ill and was being transported to hospital. The plan they created always worked without a hitch, every time; this was also what he paid so handsomely for. All he had to do now was arrive at the appointed time at the designated hotel suite and take his pleasure. The few things he needed to complete his experience were by his side in a small leather bag by his feet, and as he glanced down at it, he felt himself harden in anticipation.

It was time to go. As the ambulance pulled away from the rear exit, Hadley Spinks left by the front door and got into the waiting car. Once he was settled in the back seat, he took out the small bottle of brandy and a glass from his bag and poured himself a drink. It was part of his ritual, part of the pleasure that was about to come, of savouring the moments until she was his. He closed his eyes as the warmth made its way to his stomach. Taking several deep breaths, he tried to relax himself from the inside, working to quiet his now-racing heart. If he didn’t slow things down, his experience would be over too soon and that would be disappointing. No, he didn’t want that. He wanted long and slow.

It had been some months since he’d last ‘treated’ himself in this way. In between, and in the privacy of his room, he’d had to be content with watching previous experiences that he’d recorded, the other women he had pleasured in the past. Over and over again he’d watched them, trying to relive the experience and satisfy his craving. But having seen what this young woman had to offer him, he’d known he had to have them. No matter what.

In a few more minutes, he’d have the objects of his desire all to himself.

Chapter Sixty-Six

Through an unspoken assumption, they’d taken to travelling into London together each day. Griffin had changed his departure time as they’d become closer friends, and he’d kept it that way. Vee was easy to be around and he liked her. A lot. He liked her permanent smile, he liked her easy way and, well, he liked everything about her. Not many people, never mind women, found Griffin easy to be around, but Vee didn’t seem to care about his idiosyncrasies, his weird ways. He knew he was different from others but since he couldn’t control how he was, he’d given up trying to be someone else and lived his life as he was. It appeared Vee was okay with that.

After Ruth had texted him to say the video file had been removed, he’d pondered how to tell her – and indeed, whether to tell her at all. He wanted her to know she didn’t need to worry about it any longer, but if he told her what he’d organized, she might see him as meddling and be pissed at him. And he didn’t want that either. So he’d mulled it over and over in is head until he feared there was nothing else in there but the one quandary bouncing off the insides of his skull. But Vee was sensitive and she had known something was bothering him. Being the kind person she was, she had asked him.

“What’s bugging you, Griffin? You’re too quiet this morning.”

He turned to her as they walked to the station and all he could see was her perfect smile, even now as she asked the hardest question, one he knew he had to answer. He wondered how either of his possible responses would change what they had together.

She pushed again. “Come on, you can tell me.”

Taking a deep breath, he started to speak, but his mouth had other ideas and he blew empty air out through his wordless lips instead. He waited a beat and tried again. “I’ve done something for you. But I’m now wondering if I’ve overstepped the mark. You could be mad at me.” The rest of his breath drifted away as he waited, not daring to look at her.

“Then why don’t you try me? Unless you’ve murdered someone on my behalf, I doubt I’d be mad.”

He chanced a look her way at the mention of murder and saw that her smile had spread to her eyes. He wished he could feel as confident as she did.

“I haven’t murdered anyone on your behalf, no.”

“Then I won’t be mad. Spit it out, would you?”

There was no going back now; she wanted to know. In a rush, the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could change his mind.

“I’ve had the video footage of you taken down off the internet. It was on twelve sites but it’s gone now. There are still two sites on the dark net that it can’t be removed from.” Griffin gulped in air, not daring to look at her and waited for her anger. Or a slap. But neither came. He was also aware she was no longer walking by his side. He stopped and turned. She was ten steps behind him, motionless and staring at him. Oh shit… Which way would she go? He had no idea. He took a couple of steps towards her, testing the water.

“Have I screwed up? Do you hate me for interfering?”

“Actually, no. The opposite.”

Stunned, Griffin prodded for more. “What do you mean? You’re not angry with me?”

“No, I’m not angry. I’m touched you would do that for me. And I’m impressed that you know how to do it, and a little scared of that too at the same time.”

“Actually, I’m not that talented to do it myself. I know someone who is though. But the file has gone from most people’s viewing access so that’s a good thing, right?”

Vee walked slowly towards Griffin as she spoke. “Right. And thank you for doing that for me. I really do appreciate it.” She was level with him once again. Even though she was a good foot shorter than Griffin, the way she looked up him left him in no doubt what she wanted. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him gently towards her, brushing his lips with a kiss. Like Vee, it was perfect. Whispering, she added, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while. Now you’ve given me a reason.”

Griffin was stunned into silence. She liked him? Well, obviously – she’d just said as much.

“So you’re okay with me interfering?”

“Yes, and I wouldn’t call what you did interfering. More helping a friend in need.” She hooked her arm through his and they carried on towards the station entrance. “Come on, we’d better hurry. We don’t want to miss the train and be late.”

Griffin’s stomach was riot of nerves. Now he was back to his original quandary: while he’d wanted to kiss Vee for some time also, what he was hiding made it awkward to get too close to her. How was he now going to keep her at arm’s length without offending or concerning her? In his past experience, women either ran a mile at their discovery or ran a mile because he wouldn’t move to the next stage. Either way, they didn’t hang around for very long after. And he really didn’t want Vee to go.

The fact that he’d finally found the solution he’d been looking for meant that the end of all that was in sight, but it also posed another problem: how could he get away for a couple of weeks, minimum, without anyone knowing where he’d gone? Without Vee in the picture, he could have left his job and simply taken off to do what needed doing – Jan would never have given him the time off, of that he was sure. But he knew Vee would never approve of his doing that, and would have been angered and hurt if he vanished suddenly. No, he couldn’t think of life without Vee.

Once on the platform, they caught their breath while they waited for the train. It was Vee who spoke first.

“I probably got off lightly.”

“You got off lightly?” Griffin said, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Well, when my ex posted that video, we’d just split up. But I never told you why we’d split up.”

“Oh? Why did you, then?”

“Because of what I’d inadvertently seen on his laptop. Now, don’t get me wrong – everyone has exes, I know. But mine had kept video copies of him and his exes having … fun … together, and I didn’t like that.” She made quotation marks with her fingers in the air around the word ‘fun.’ “And some of the fun was a long way short of my kind of fun.”

Griffin was intrigued. “Go on.”

Vee checked for nearby eavesdroppers before she carried on with what she was about to describe. “He had a fetish, and not what I’d call a regular fetish like kissing feet or wearing someone else’s undies or something. He liked feces – can you believe that? I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.” She shuddered involuntarily. “Urgh. Gross.”

Griffin couldn’t quite believe his ears. He’d heard of people enjoying that kind of thing but he didn’t know anyone personally who was into it. He didn’t think so anyway, but how could anyone be sure?

“And that’s what you saw on his computer?”

“Yep. He’d hinted at us doing it but I’d always resisted. Then he got to be quite uptight about me not getting involved and we argued all the time, so I ended it. I told him he could have his fun without me and that he’d obviously found others to take part with in the past. Finding someone new wouldn’t be too hard.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “Though I have to say the women in the videos looked almost comatose, like they weren’t really present. I wondered if they’d been drugged, or were high maybe.”

“And what did he say to that, to finding someone new?” Griffin was all ears.

“He said he’d manage. He’d found an online group of like-minded people. I told him to go forth and multiply with them.”

Griffin assumed such a group wouldn’t be visible on the surface web, but more likely something a little darker. Particularly if, as Vee said, the women weren’t exactly participating fully. His interest was piqued, yet he was disgusted at the same time.

“What was the name of the group? Any idea?”

Chapter Sixty-Seven

“He’s had a good night and he’s resting. I’m sure he’d appreciate a visitor.” The nurse smiled encouragingly at Amanda; she must have assumed Jack was her father, or maybe her uncle. While Amanda didn’t exactly look young for her age, Jack looked much older.

“Thanks. He’s made of tough stuff, is Jack,” she said then headed to his room. When she popped her head around the door, she watched him for a moment before he became aware of her presence. ‘The Chase’ was firing questions on the TV, though Jack didn’t appear to be watching it. He seemed to be daydreaming. Amanda smiled and carried on into the room, taking a seat in the chair by the window.

“And how are you feeling, Jack? You look a lot better than when I saw you last.”

“That’s because I feel a lot better than when you last saw me. And by all accounts, I am a lot better than I was yesterday.” He smiled appreciatively at her visiting him. “I hope I didn’t ruin your suit.”

“I was going to buy another one soon anyway. You just brought the day forward.”

Amanda told him she had thrown the whole thing in the bin rather than remember it as her ‘puke suit.’

“Wasteful woman. There was plenty of life in it yet,” he said, but there was no bad feeling in his words. His eyes twinkled a little.

“So you’re on the mend, then. That’s good to hear. You gave me quite a fright. A bit of notice wouldn’t have gone amiss. At least I could have steered the car a bit easier.”

“I’ll do my best next time my appendix decides to explode on me. Not that I have an appendix anymore. And I thought it was the pickle. Not a very good detective, am I?”

“You’re not bad, actually, Jack. And maybe while you’re lying here you can solve the case for us, put your brain to good use. I even brought an old laptop for you to play on, do a little surfing.”

“Oh? And what am I looking for in particular?”

“I got Ruth to install a TOR browser on it.” She opened the laptop bag and pressed the ‘on’ button. It slowly awakened. “It’s a bit slow, but it is an old one.” They waited for the old machine to fully awaken. A row of icons popped up along the bottom. “Here, look at the bottom. That’s where you’ll find the browser you need to use. It makes everything anonymous; no one can see you.”

“And back to my previous question: what am I looking for?”

“Fetish groups, I’m thinking. There’s no manpower to do this back at the office and since you’re not busy, it won’t hurt, eh? You might even learn a thing or two.” Amanda winked animatedly, though Jack didn’t look so amused. He gave her a sideways look. “Start with the ones we know about – hair,” Amanda went on, “and see if there is anything related to exchanging it for something. I’m guessing there’s a group out there, probably more than one, and Chris Smeeks is involved somehow. He could be the main guy, or he could be the host and nothing more, but he’s involved. We just have to figure out how. No coincidences, remember?” Amanda placed the laptop rather roughly on Jack’s extended legs and then sat back.

“Hey, watch my stitches!” he yelped.

“Stop crying. Your legs are nowhere near your stitches. And while I’m thinking about it, where’s your phone?”

“It’s in the bedside drawer. What do you want that for?”

Amanda opened the drawer and took it out. “I’m setting something up for you. What’s your pass code?”

“1234. And what are you setting up?”

But Amanda was already busy downloading what she needed. Once it was done, she opened the app and began her search. Jack watched as her face broke out into regular grins, a few seconds apart.

He tried again. “What are you doing, Lacey?”

“Oy! I thought you didn’t call me by my surname.”

“It’s the only way to get your attention.”

“Shush, I’m busy. Hang on and I’ll tell you.”

He watched as she took a set of earphones out of her bag and fiddled with his phone again. A pinprick of a blue light glowed from the screen.

“Okay, here we go.” She leaned in, showing him his phone and the green Spotify app. “This is your music,” she said, pointing, “and these are your headphones. Put them on.” She pressed play on the short playlist she had created. ELO’s ‘Hold on Tight to Your Dreams’ filled his ears, and Amanda watched as a huge grin spread over his face. He needed a shave. Again. His fingers tapped on the bedrail; he was clearly enjoying this. She let him listen for a minute or two then pressed pause. He took the headphones off.

“I thought you’d like a musical accompaniment while you work. And you can add more music in. Let me show you how.”

For the next while they sat with their heads together as Amanda showed him how to search for the songs he adored and add them to a list to listen to later. Every so often, he’d say “I used to have that on blue twelve-inch vinyl” or “And that was on purple vinyl” or “I’ve not heard that in ages!” It made Amanda glad that she’d taken the trouble; now she didn’t feel quite so bad about asking him to work while he sat.

When he finally took the headphones off, she broached the subject of his house. “Jack, I have something else for you, something I’m hoping you’ll accept in the spirit which it is meant and not be pissed at me. Or Ruth.”

“Uh-oh. What else have you done?”

“I couldn’t help noticing you need little help around the house. So first of all, I’ve organized a lady to go in a couple of times a week and keep on top of things for you, give you a hand.” Jack opened his mouth to object but Amanda waved it shut. “And she’s under strict instructions not to move anything of Janine’s or change anything – just take away the inches of dust. And if it doesn’t work out after four weeks, you can get rid of her. In the meantime, you’ve got stitches and recovery to worry about, not dust bunnies and mice.” Jack sat quietly. Amanda suspected he knew deep down he needed a hand.

“Four weeks,” he said. “I’ll let her clean for four weeks, as you suggest. Then I’ll decide. Deal?”

“Deal. She might even cook your dinner every once and a while. I wish someone did that for me.”

“Well, you’re about to get wed, so you two have no excuse between you. You need to get yourselves organized. Living under one roof would be a start. And you’ve got Wong’s if all else fails.”

“Too true.” The comment about one roof had hit home. “Well, I’m glad that’s settled. Now, I’ve got to go, so let me know if you find anything worth knowing about. If you get stuck, give Ruth a call. She said she’d be happy to be your dark web guide.” She added, “Sort of sounds like a tour guide of the seedy. Could be fun.” She winked again and stood up to leave.

“Thanks for these,” Jack said pointing to his headphones. “I’ll report back later with my findings. The dark web will be under my control in your absence.” He mock-saluted his captain as she turned to go.

Amanda hoped he found something useful or interesting. Other than porn, that was.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Her eyes fluttered open in the dusk of the room. Drowsy and disorientated, Ellen lay on the silk comforter trying to comprehend where she was and what time it was. Her eyes searched around the room, the part she could see without moving her head, but nothing she observed looked familiar. Her ears tuned in for sound. Nothing, save for the gentle hum of what sounded like traffic outside, wherever outside was. The light in the room was dwindling; a lamp glowed faintly in the far corner. Slowly she rolled over onto her back, then onto her other side, and scanned the rest of the room, blinking to digest her surroundings. It seemed she was in someone’s bedroom.

And alone.

She sat bolt upright, heart pounding with fear now, ears on full alert. Something didn’t feel right. Slowly, she lowered her eyes.

Her ankles were bound together.

But not with cord or rope.

They were bound with a distinctive patterned silk scarf, featuring a design Ellen knew well. Hermes. It was tied artfully around her ankles and arranged like it was all part of a window display, in Selfridges perhaps. She looked closer: her toenails, usually painted a neutral shade, were now a deep rouge, the same colour as the border on the silk scarf. They matched perfectly. Instinctively, she wriggled her ankles to see how tightly she had been tied up and was surprised to feel the give. They weren’t tight at all.

As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she noticed that she was surrounded by rose petals that had been delicately sprinkled on the bed, almost the same deep red. She picked one up to test its authenticity, pressed the soft, silky petal to her nose and sniffed. The strength of the perfume surprised her. Was it a natural scent, though, or something from a bottle? She couldn’t be sure. Forcing herself to become fully alert, she leaned forward to untie her binding and set her ankles free. Whatever had happened to her, whatever had brought her to this room, she knew she hadn’t come here voluntarily.

Shimmying herself off the comforter, she stood on slightly shaky legs and walked around the room as quickly as she could manage. There was a silver teapot and single cup and a small plate of triangle sandwiches, and an envelope was propped up against a milk jug. It had her name on the front. Tentatively, she opened it and took the card out. There was a simple message printed in beautiful handwriting. It read, “Your debt has been settled. I’d advise you to tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.”

Now even more confused, she went over to the window and peered out. It was dusk. The street below bustled with traffic, lit by the amber glow of streetlamps. Ellen felt the crispness of the card in her hand and re-read the message. It made no sense to her. Her ankles hadn’t been bound tightly enough to keep her imprisoned, nor were her hands or mouth restrained, so what was she doing in this room? She walked across to the door and tuned the handle. It wasn’t locked. How odd. If someone had taken the trouble to get her into the room and tie her ankles, why not lock her in?

She closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed again, trying to decide what to do. She took stock of the situation: she wasn’t a prisoner, but her ankles had been bound while she slept, and not with rope or telephone cord or some such, but a luxury silk scarf. A body scan found nothing else out of order, apart from a splitting headache. She was still fully clothed; her bag was on the small table next to the tea. Though she couldn’t see her shoes. The card’s message ran through her mind again but she had no clue what it meant or what she was supposed to do, if anything.

Apart from “Tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.”

At last, instinct took over, and she grabbed her bag, flung open the door and ran barefoot down the corridor as fast as her drugged legs would carry her. The lift was at her floor and she stepped in, resting her head back on the wall. As the doors closed and she descended, she closed her eyes.

The lift took an age to get down to the lobby. Once there, she headed to the main entrance where she stood, barefoot, trying to get her bearings. She shivered. She took a few steps outside; the pavement felt cold to her bare feet. Once again, instinct took control and she bolted off, though in which direction she had no clue. Her heart pounded as did her head, and she pulled up short, panting hard. Looking down, she saw there was blood where she’d come to a halt. She must have run over some glass fragments, maybe from a broken bottle. How could she not have felt it? Maybe she had.

“Can I help you, miss?” a male voice at her side asked. It was the doorman of the hotel. He glanced down at her bare feet and raised his eyebrows, but Ellen was too preoccupied to care.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in Knightsbridge, miss. Can I get you a car, perhaps?”

He waited for her reply and seemed about to move away when she said faintly, “Yes, please. I want to go home.”

The doorman signalled to a nearby car to pull in and Ellen slipped onto the back seat. He closed her door for her.

“Take care, miss,” he added though Ellen barely noticed. Whatever had happened to her that afternoon was going to be a mystery. The last thing she remembered as she wracked her brain was waiting for her car to go to a job earlier on, and that was it. Had she even gone? How had she got into that bedroom? And why? There were too many questions and no answers.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming text and she rummaged in her bag to read it. It was from her agent: “Are you okay, Ellen? Only you didn’t show up for your assignment today. Call me.”

“I didn’t show up? I’ve never done that. Ever. What happened to me?” She glanced down at her perfect feet. Her soles were sore and dirty from being barefoot; there were specks of blood on the floor mat of the car. Going barefoot was something she never did. It was all out of place.

Everything about this day was out of place, including her.

The operator completed the transaction on his screen. Another sale closed, and another happy client. The green light changed to blue and two other smaller lights blinked nearby. They were the lights of remaining players, players in place to monitor what she did next.

I’d advise you to tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.

He knew she wouldn’t, but still, he had to make sure.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

After Amanda had left, Jack sat up in his hospital bed. He’d loaded a few more songs onto his playlist and he marvelled at the collection he’d made. While ELO was his life’s fuel, he’d gathered Rainbow, Status Quo and other old rockers into one place and they played in his earphones while he worked. He never knew work could be quite such fun.

A self-confessed luddite, he’d been apprehensive about surfing the dark web, not really knowing what he was doing, but sometimes ignorance was bliss. Amanda had given him a brief tutorial, a brief warning about clicking on images and videos, and set the browser up for him. He’d put in search terms that he thought would bring up results that he could dig into. The crude search engine reminded him of back in the day when he’d first started using the web. It had looked very different than it did today. It was like going back in time, a blast from the past. He’d put in ‘fetish’ and ‘hair fetish’ specifically and was working his way through, though nothing of interest had revealed itself.

Unless you called other people’s kinks interesting.

When he’d found a site for some of the more bizarre fetishes, he’d closed the page as fast as he’d opened it and fought hard to forget what he’d seen. But that was impossible: you couldn’t scrub your brain clean or rewind your life like an old movie. No, you couldn’t un-ring the bell. The image of a young man drinking from a wine glass filled with blood and masturbating at the same time would take him a while to forget. Determined to not fall into any other places that might scar him for life, he realized he needed a bit more direction to what he was doing.

He dialled Ruth’s number and she answered on the second ring.

“Hey, Jack. How are you doing? Feeling any better?”

“I’m a lot better, thanks. Though Amanda has given me a task to do to while away my recovery. No rest for the wicked. And I could do with your help.”

“She told me she’d given you an old laptop to surf with. What do you need?”

“Some instruction, if I’m honest. I think she’s forgotten I’m a luddite, not a techy like you. I can search and surf, but I don’t want to click on shit that’s going to stay in my head forever. I’ve just seen what I can only describe as a vampire having some fun with himself and I nearly puked my guts up again. I swear it’s cauterized onto my eyelids. Any advice, O Technologically Savvy One?” Jack could hear her laughing. He smiled despite himself. “It wasn’t funny, let me tell you. I’m sure it will stay with me forever, burned right into my eyeballs too. Gross!”

“Then don’t click on it, Jack. And keep away from anything with the initials CP on or near it.”

“Dare I ask what CP is?” Then it dawned on him. “Ah, no chance of that, let me assure you. Child pornography is the lowest of the low. God only knows how the special units cope with that shit; they must need a shrink on call seven days a week.”

“Just keep digging as you are. There’s got to be something in there of use for your case. And it’s an old computer, so if you do pick up something with a virus, say, it won’t matter. But while the boss lady has you working, remember you’re supposed to be getting better, not stressing.”

Jack smiled into the phone at her thoughtfulness. “In that case, I shall have a nap, then pick this up again later. Thanks for the heads-up, Ruth.”

“Good idea. Take care, Jack.”

Jack glanced at the disconnected phone. He really could do with a nap, come to think of it. He closed the laptop down and wriggled gingerly down under the covers for a snooze. He smiled wryly: his mid-morning cuppa would probably arrive sometime around then.

Griffin had found Femme Fet-Elle, a group that had interests in things he simply couldn’t comprehend. Why would someone be turned on by such seemingly odd experiences? Did these people not enjoy ordinary sex? How could someone get turned on with human excrement in their midst, for example? He shook his head to clear the images.

He remembered what Vee had said about the women in the videos looking out of it, not active or as interested as the males. Were they high of their own accord, then, or had they been drugged? There was no way of knowing, and as Vee wasn’t in contact with her ex anymore, getting his hands on the files wasn’t an option. And they probably didn’t exist anymore anyway, in hard copy at least, though Vee’s ex probably had copies in the cloud for safekeeping and private viewing.

He knew there were all types of chat rooms and forums on the dark web, for all types of subject matter – he spent time in them himself, after all – but something about this discovery didn’t feel right. His urge to tell someone was getting stronger. What if women were being involved against their will? And what if they were being hurt? And what happened to them after their involvement in the videos: were they passed on to someone else after they’d outlived their usefulness? He’d heard of victims being ‘sold on’ after criminals had had their fun with them, usually to someone who would degrade them even further for their own or someone else’s personal pleasure, and at a price. But that only happened in the movies – didn’t it? He picked up his phone and dialled. He didn’t want their misery to be on his conscience.

It was almost two hours later when Jack woke to his phone vibrating on the bedside cabinet.

“I have a name for you to check out,” the voice said excitedly. Jack’s brain was having trouble coming back into focus after his deeper than usual sleep. But finally, it registered that Ruth was speaking.

“Hang on, let me sit back up,” he grunted groggily. “Okay, what is it?”

“Check into a club called Femme Fet-Elle,” she said, and spelled it for him.

“And what is that?”

“Quite by chance, a friend’s new girlfriend came across some disturbing videos on her ex-boyfriend’s computer some time ago. They involved one of the more . . . unpleasant, I’d guess you’d call it. . . fetishes. The ex was apparently trying to coax her into it as well, but she wasn’t having anything to do with it and ditched him shortly after. Seems he then posted a revenge sex recording of her to get his own back, and she eventually told this friend of mine, who came to me for help with it. Anyway, long story short, that’s the name of the group. Check into it. I’ve told Amanda, so she’ll probably call you later. If there’s something in it, she’s hoping the DI will pass it up the chain to the cyber unit to deal with.”

“Great, because this is out of my league, that’s for sure.” He rubbed fresh sleep from his eyes and yawned. “Thanks, Ruth. I’m on to it.” He hung up and rested his head back to think. They needed something concrete to go on for the cyber unit to take action, and a couple of hair thefts were still not enough. While he didn’t wish for a dead body to turn up, he needed a bigger picture, something big enough to warrant more resources and intervention. In the meantime, perhaps he could sniff around a bit more and join the group, pretending he had a fetish that needed fulfilling – though drinking blood had no appeal even in pretend. So, what, then? He glanced at the floor beside his bed. He remembered Amanda coming to see him with the old leather bag from his wardrobe and what she would have had to remove from it. And voila: there was the idea for his own very personal fetish. The question was, would anyone else share it?

Jack got to work, a wide grin fixed on his stubbly face as he typed. He’d have a shave later.

Chapter Seventy

Jack had spent most of that afternoon creating his fake profile and trying to find a way into the group. There were two aspects to it: first was the chat room, where any member could discuss their interests and ask questions and generally arrange meet-ups. He’d already started chatting and finding his way around in there. So far, so good. But he’d found there was also a premium service on offer. That was the part Jack wanted to look into. Unfortunately, it was available only to those who had been members for at least six months and had a track record of positive activity and respect within the forum. He, however, had neither. Even if he had the prerequisites, he knew the moderators could still refuse to give him premium service for reasons they didn’t state. And he expected that, as with any premium service, there would be a handsome price tag attached to it. There had be another way, but what?

The news was playing on the little TV screen over his bed; a local jewellery shop had been turned over and thieves had got away with some key pieces. Security camera footage had luckily supplied reasonable photos of the intruders as they’d fled. One of them had taken his mask off a bit too prematurely. Jack laughed. Idiot.

That was when the idea hit him. He laughed again, though this time at its simplicity – and the irony of a cop even contemplating it.

He needed to break in.

He needed a geek. And he knew who might be able to help.

Chapter Seventy-One

“Jack, do you realize what you are asking me?” Ruth sounded incredulous and flattered at the same time. “And what even makes you think that I’d know how to get in? I build websites and apps, for heaven’s sake, not knock them down. You need qualified hackers like the cyber team, not a self-taught like me who, quite frankly, wouldn’t be able to pull it off.”

“Ruth, you expect me to believe that you only know ‘a certain type of coding’? You’re far brainier than that; you’ve already proven that. And I wouldn’t ask unless it was important. Besides, the cyber team are overstretched and not interested, so I’m going it alone.”

He heard Ruth swallow a guffaw at the idea of him going it alone on the dark web. Doggedly, he went on. “Shall I get Amanda to chat to you?” He knew mentioning her name would wind Ruth up and away from saying no. Over the last couple of years, he’d got to know her well through their common friend.

“Oh no you don’t, Jack Rutherford. Leave her out of this.” Jack heard a heavy sigh on her side of the phone. She was tempted. Jack knew what her next words were going to be and he smiled in anticipation. When the confirmation came, he silently punched the air with his fist, then winced as his stitches twinged. A passing nurse glared disapprovingly at him.

“Here’s what I’ll do,” Ruth went on. “I’ll set up a profile too and see what I can see from the front end, like you have. Make up an interest and get chatting in the forum. And I’ll do a bit of snooping behind scenes where I can, though I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to achieve, if anything. Remember, it’s all anonymous. That’s for a reason. And if they suspect someone is snooping too deeply, and they’ll have ways, they may get spooked, close up and move to another address. From what I know of illegal groups and forums, they move about real easy so they don’t get caught. But let’s see what we can do between us. Is your profile all set?”

“Yes. My username is Rutter, and apparently I’m into women’s shoes, the more pungent the better.”

“What? That’s gross. Where did that idea come from?”

“Actually, Amanda gave it to me. In a roundabout kind of way.”

“I won’t ask,” Ruth said. She went on, “I’ll call myself ‘Gregory’s Girl’ – close but not close enough. Look out for me later. What time will you be chatting?”

“After visiting hours tonight until the nurses turn my light out. Even in a private room they make you sleep more than you want to.”

“It’s called recovery, Jack. That’s why you’re there.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a bit over it now. I prefer my own bed. And mug.”

“Well, do as they say and you’ll be home soon enough. Look out for me later, then, and keep out of mischief.”

Ruth said goodbye and looked at the half-filled-out profile on the screen in front of her. ‘Gregory’s Girl’ liked hair, since that was where it had all started. The longer the better. She saved the information and closed the page down until later. While she didn’t mind helping out with the case, she had a business of her own to run, and a client was waiting in the meeting room for her. She doubted the website this particular client was having built would be as fun as the one she was going to dig into later.

New members joined the chat room all the time, each with their own very personal desire, and the operator made it his business to never judge them. It was the more affluent members who went on to become clients of the other side of his business – the premium service, the darker service. They paid big money to have their desires delivered on a silver platter, and many of them were repeat business to him.

There were six new requests to join in the last 24 hours, and he looked at their interests. He’d seen and heard it all before, and pungent ladies’ shoes were no exception. He allocated the access level for the new member and did the same for the other five. Then he did some basic digging with the information he had. As usual, there was nothing to see: all anonymous users with anonymous backgrounds. Still, occasionally he got lucky with someone’s stupidity and ended up with information he could use somehow. But not today. Hopefully a couple of them had money.

Chapter Seventy-Two

Ellen had been sent packing. And the client wasn’t happy. She knew her feet weren’t looking their best after she’d run barefoot from the hotel; they hadn’t had time enough to recover. In reality, she should have pulled a sicky and not gone to the job in the first place, but school fees didn’t pay themselves. Now Jules was going to be pissed at her when the client phoned to complain, which they’d inevitably do. What was Ellen going to say? What was her excuse going to be? She’d worked with Jules for many years and they had a good relationship. Ellen was one of her top earners, so why hadn’t she just said no to the job?

She knew why: when you fall off a horse, you have to get back on. After waking up in a strange hotel room, with her ankles bound and smelling of expensive perfume, she’d realized she hadn’t got herself there – she’d been taken. Somehow. She’d turned up at the studio for work, but everything after that was a blank. And now she was letting Jules down for a second time.

It was as if there had to always be stress in her life. At least Danny was feeling better; his stress had gone, and that had taken a weight off her shoulders too. But now it had been replaced with another one, a different type. Instead of Danny being miserable and Ellen trying to sort it out, it was now Jules’s turn.

She smiled as she thought about her son; she had spoken to Danny several times on the phone, and the transformation in his voice was incredible. He sounded almost back to himself, almost happy again, and it was good to hear. Whatever had happened, whatever the story was, she was pleased for him.

The driver pulled up back outside her house. She thanked him, stepped out, and walked up her front path. Once inside, she closed the door and leaned back on it, gazing up at the ceiling for the answer that wasn’t there. Still, she was home now. She untied the laces of her protective walking shoes and slipped her socked feet into the waiting slippers. The phone in her bag rang. Probably Jules. She let it go to voicemail.

“I’ll call you and explain when I’ve had some tea, okay?” she mumbled to herself, and the phone, as though hearing her, went silent. Ellen walked through to the kitchen and turned the kettle on, staring out of the kitchen window to the small patio outside. The few planters were filled with low-maintenance greenery; just enough to add some style to the little space without needing any work. A small link of irrigation hose joined them up; it jumped into life on a timer in the evening during the warm months. A water feature gurgled in the centre; a simple bronze pipe recirculating water into a large concrete basin completed the oasis. The sound always soothed her. It was all she needed: a little space of green tranquillity to appreciate and relax in. She took her mug of tea outside and sat in the recliner to listen and think.

Ellen hated lies. But she and Jules went back many years. Should she tell her the truth? It was unheard of for Ellen to not have the best feet at all times, and she couldn’t think of an excuse to give Jules as to why they were in such bad shape now. Sure, she could say she’d been mugged and had run off, but that was a lie. Jules would want to know why she hadn’t informed the police, for starters. Yet the truth, whatever that was exactly, was far more sinister.

Tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.

And the debt being paid? What was that about? She didn’t owe anybody anything, so how could a debt have been paid? Has someone got identities mixed up, confused her with someone else, maybe? She was unharmed, apart from her feet, though that had been her own doing in running from the room that she hadn’t actually been held captive in. But she’d bolted, been scared out of her mind, and hadn’t cared as she’d fled barefoot down the pavement.

She sipped her tea and listened to the soothing sound of water trickling into the pool. Finally, she knew what she needed to do.

Tell the truth to Jules, but don’t tell anyone else.

Before she had a chance to change her mind, she retrieved her phone from where she’d left it inside and listened to the voicemail message. While Jules didn’t sound angry, she did sound concerned. Ellen dialled and waited.

“Hi, Ellen. You got my message, then?”

“I did, and let me first apologise. I should have said something sooner and let someone else do the job rather than hope the client didn’t notice. I’m really sorry, Jules. It won’t happen again.”

There was a long pause before Jules spoke again. “Apology accepted. And what happened with the no-show? You say you went; they say you didn’t. Why would they lie? What’s going on with you, Ellen? This is not like you.”

What indeed, wondered Ellen. Suddenly it came to her: she hadn’t lied. The client had lied.

She took a deep breath. “Jules. I need to tell you something. Something a little odd, in fact, and also the reason my feet are looking the way they are. But first, I need you to tell me you won’t tell a living soul. Can you do that?”

There was a pause. “Sounds ominous,” Jules said at last. “Ellen, whatever is it?”

“Tell me you can keep a secret, Jules. This is important.”

“Okay, I get it. Cross my heart and all that. Now what is it?”

Ellen took another deep breath and began to speak, the words rushing out of her mouth in a tumble, figuring the faster she explained, the less painful it would be.

“I think I was drugged, abducted, taken to a hotel. Someone tied my ankles together and left me to wake up in a room in Knightsbridge. When I awoke, the bedroom door was unlocked and I legged it barefoot.” Her voice caught. “That’s how my feet got damaged. I had no shoes to get home in. And yes, it sounds ridiculous, but you couldn’t make that up, could you?” She gasped for breath as the experience came back to her vividly. Tears filled her eyes. “What the hell happened to me, Jules? And why?” Ellen began to sob down the phone, partly from distress but mostly from the relief of confiding in someone, someone who’d said she wouldn’t tell a soul, someone who had known and trusted her for so many years.

“Hey, come on, Ellen,” Jules said soothingly. “Steady on. Slow yourself down. It won’t help to get so upset. Breathe, my love. Breathe.”

Ellen took a deep breath and it did soothe her nerves, just like Jules said. She was beginning to feel better for having let it all out. She took another long breath and felt the stress beginning to drain from her system. She slowed her sobs and blew her nose.

“Feel a bit better now?”

“Yes, thanks. Sorry about blurting it out, but the note they left told me to tell no one, that it wouldn’t be wise, but I knew I owed you an explanation. Can you forgive me, Jules?”

“Of course I can, and don’t you be worrying about that now. Look, take some time to get yourself back together and your feet back in shape. I won’t tell a soul what you’ve told me. Your secret is safe – though god only knows what that was all for. But the main thing is you’re unharmed and in one piece. Let’s keep it that way.”

Ellen sniffed and blew her nose again. A problem shared was a problem halved, as her mum had always said. Ellen felt better for having apologized to Jules and told her the truth, and she was confident Jules would keep to her word.

“Thanks, Jules. I knew you’d understand.”

She finished the call and rested her head back. It was now beginning to ache from crying. With the fountain tinkling in the background, yet another question entered her head.

Why hadn’t Jules sounded surprised?

After calming Ellen down and thanking her for being honest, Jules finished the call. And found she was once again in a quandary: Ellen was not the first of her models to have told her such a story in confidence. The bigger details were the same in each one: the mention of a hotel room and of having been drugged. It was only the smaller details that changed: the items that had been given or taken.

And Ellen had mentioned a note. What on earth was that about?

Since the break-in, since that day her database had been hacked into, Jules had been wondering why. And now she knew, almost for certain.

Someone was using her girls to fulfil the desires of others.

Jules tapped her teeth with her finger, thinking; it had to be an elaborate set-up for it to have been going on for so long and on such a grand scale. Whoever was behind it must be charging a small fortune to ensure the girls kept quiet and their clients were kept happy. Perhaps she should have mentioned all this when the police had visited her office but she hadn’t, not wanting to betray the women who had fallen victim and go back on her word.

But now whoever this was had targeted Ellen, and for Jules, that was the last straw: for one thing, Ellen was far too valuable to her, and their friendship went back way too long. But more importantly, it meant that this person still had access to her database. He was still watching, and she needed to find him and put a stop to this.

Picking up her phone again, she searched through her contacts for Chris Smeeks, then pressed send. He answered on the third ring.

“Jules! What a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe this honour?”

“I urgently need your help. And I don’t think what I have in mind is quite legal.”

“Not quite legal is my specialty. Tell me more.”

Chapter Seventy-Three

Jules sat nervously on the park bench waiting for the investigator to show. He had asked to meet her in person to hear the rest of the story, not trusting digital eavesdroppers. In his line of work, he couldn’t be too careful. She wrung her hands and tapped her fingers restlessly as she waited. She couldn’t understand why she felt so wound up. She’d done nothing wrong.

In the distance, she saw him approaching, his figure cutting a fine image as he jogged to a nearby bench and fastened a shoelace that didn’t need fastening. When he was satisfied there was no one in the immediate vicinity, he strolled over, wiping his face on the bottom of his running shirt. Sweat trickled down his tanned neck as he sat at the end of the same bench she was sitting on. His name was Valance.

“Nice afternoon for a run,” Jules said.

“It surely is. Are you running much these days?”

Jules made a scoffing sound. “Pilates is more my thing now. It’s easier on my body.”

Valance smiled, casting a subtle appreciative glance at her stylish and slender frame.

“Have you found him yet?”

“Patience, Jules. These things take time. But that aside, I will have something for you later on today. From what I’ve learned so far, he has a lot going on with various shell companies and complicated set-ups, and it’s not been easy to unravel things. But we’re not far off. Why aren’t you involving the police?”

“I can’t involve the police. Too many of my girls have been threatened and I’m loyal to them all. They’ve told me their experiences in confidence and I have to respect that.”

“I’ve set things in motion,” he said. “That’s all you need to concern yourself with – trust me. Though when I find him, what’s the plan from there?”

“I’m a big believer in taking your own medicine,” Jules said, a sly grin on her face as she turned to him. “I think he should be made to appreciate his own skills. I want him to become the victim of his own success.”

Valance grinned in reply. “I see you’ve not lost your touch where fairness is concerned. A nice trait to have if I may say so. What are you thinking?”

“I don’t want him just found, I want him taught a lesson. And I want to be there to watch. I’m still working out the details, but let’s say I’m quite looking forward to it.”

“Understood.” He grinned. “I’ll keep you updated. Sit tight.” Then he stood and ran off in the same direction he’d originally been heading before he’d stopped. Jules watched his strong legs push him forward as he ran off into the distance and wondered what the penance might be for Chris Smeeks when they got him. Whatever it was, it was going to be satisfying to administer.

Jack smiled as he replied to another member of the forum, someone with the handle of ‘Looby’ who he’d since learned had a real love for Christian Louboutin shoes. It seemed he – Jack assumed it was a ‘he’ – was wealthy enough to be able to afford such items in quantity and had been cautioned for loitering outside several of their London stores. Not deterred, he’d found the same group as Jack to share his experiences with other like-minded people and post evidence of his astonishing collection. What Jack had found surprising was the set-up he’d created for each pair in order to appreciate them. The room looked like a showroom, carefully constructed and filled with glass cabinets that were filled with the objects of his desire. It looked like a shop itself, but with only one customer.

“Frigging weirdo,” he’d muttered as he’d looked at the images the man had shared. But he was supposed to be working, not entertaining himself with things he didn’t understand.

“Impressive collection. Are they all unused or do you like them to have been worn? I prefer the sweet scent of a woman’s foot myself.” Jack nearly balked as he typed.

Looby replied almost instantly. “A mixture, though it’s a lot easier to find new ones.”

“You ever taken them without permission, lost in lust as it were? That’s what I enjoy the most. The gym is a great place for me – so many to choose from.”

“Not taken them, no. I love to watch them, touch them if I can. The theatre is my candy store equivalent – all the ladies out for the evening in their finery. Then I go home to my collection.”

Jack wrinkled his nose at the weird conversation he was having, and then gave his head a shake: this was research, he reminded himself. All in a day’s work. But he’d had enough for one night and ‘Looby’ wasn’t being much help; he didn’t fit the profile, whatever that was. He bid Looby good night and looked at the other threads that were taking place. He was about to sign off when a conversation caught his eye: ‘Gregory’s Girl’ was having an in-depth conversation about hair, long hair specifically, and Jack paused to watch. He was becoming quite the voyeur, not to mention something of a reluctant expert on the subject.

From his research during his hospital stay, he’d found out a great deal about the fetish community and the behaviour of men with fetishes. And yes, they were mainly men: women made up only a very small percentage of the fetish community. It seemed very few men took their fetish to another level and went on to do real harm. California’s Jerry Brudos and Canada’s Russell Williams were two of the more horrifying examples he’d read about.

On the other hand, the women involved in fetishes were usually into masochism. Many of them enjoyed doling out pain and pleasure to those who liked to receive, and he’d seen far too many photos lately of women in black leather holding whips. Jack squirmed a little in his bed. He had enough trouble removing sticking plaster from a hairy forearm, and these people did pain for pleasure. Holy freakin’ moly!

At any rate, he had deduced from his research that even though, statistically, half of Croydon’s male population might have a penchant for black lacy ladies’ undies or spike-heeled shoes, they were unlikely to turn it into anything more sinister. He and Amanda would need to go at this another way.

A yawn forced its way out of his mouth at the same time as the night nurse passed by his door. She popped her head in.

“It’s probably time you got some rest, Mr. Rutherford. You can do that in the morning, I’m sure.” She nodded at his laptop and gave him a look that said ‘I’m in charge.’ He had a sudden image of Hattie Jacques dressed as a nurse in Carry On Matron. No one messed with her.

“Right, yes. I’ll just log off.”

“Good move. I’ll be back in a moment to make sure that you’re resting.”

Jack didn’t doubt she would be. He absentmindedly wondered about those who had a thing for nurses. Being in hospital must be a candy shop experience for them too – if they felt well enough, that was.

He slipped down under the covers and closed his eyes, a broad smile on his face. Janine’s smelly white lawn bowls shoes filled his mind for a very different reason.

Chapter Seventy-Four

Jack had always been an early riser. Spending so much time lying in a hospital bed had thrown his normal routine into turmoil, and that meant he’d been awake since 4 am. Unfortunately, that then meant he’d be fast asleep at 4 pm, taking a nap like an old man.

He was old. Who was he kidding?

Neither the sun nor the birds were up yet. And at 4 am in hospital, there wasn’t a fat lot else going on there either. Breakfast was another three or four hours away. He was parched and needed a cup of tea desperately. Gingerly, he pushed the covers back and steadied himself as his feet touched the floor. If anyone saw him and asked, he needed the loo. If they didn’t, he might make it down the quiet corridor to the visitors’ room and make himself a cup. He hoped the night nurse had her head in a good romance and wouldn’t pay him any attention.

Unfortunately for him, however, she knew every sound in her ward, and his creeping down the corridor was one of them. He’d been rumbled. She looked at him sternly over her reading glasses, her chin nearly touching her chest as she glared. Or was that chins?

“Mr. Rutherford, are you all right?”

“Yes, just thirsty and couldn’t sleep. Thought there might be some tea going somewhere.”

She closed her book. It mustn’t have been that enthralling, thought Jack. Either that or her ears were incredibly well tuned in.

“You only needed to have rung your bell. I’ll go and make you one, but you go on back to bed. Do you take sugar?” She smiled as sweet as two spoons full.

“Thanks – one, please. Don’t suppose there’s a biscuit to go with it perhaps? I didn’t eat much dinner last night. Or earlier on, at any rate. My body clock is all out of whack.” He tried to match her smile with one of his own, but he didn’t have the same effect. Her sideways look told him there were no biscuits.

“I’ll bring it to you,” she said again. “Now go back to bed, please, and be careful as you go.”

He swore he heard her tut-tutting like Hattie Jacques. Not wanting to test her patience any longer, he did as she suggested and headed back to his bed, managing to get his tartan pyjama–clad body back under the covers without mishap.

Ten minutes later, the nurse appeared at the door, cup and saucer in hand. He was pleased to see a Digestive biscuit balancing on the edge of it. He beamed at her.

“Oh, what a woman. Thank you very much.” Pleasantries always went a long way, he knew. He watched as she placed the cup on the table that half straddled his bed, moving his newspaper and laptop to the side a little to make room.

“There you go, and you’re welcome. Just push your buzzer next time. There’s only a small staff on at night, and I don’t want to be worrying about you falling while I’m seeing to another patient.” She tucked his bedclothes in like his mother had done when he was a little boy. He found it strangely comforting. Maybe that was half of the appeal of nurses: someone to take care of you and make your decisions for you.

“I’ll be good, I promise,” he said, trying on a little-boy pout. The nurse returned a curious smile. Before he could stop himself, he said, “You know, we’ve got a case at the moment involving fetishes.” Now where on earth did that come from? he wondered.

She stopped in her tracks, her expression even more curious now. She was quick with his meaning. “And you think because I’m a nurse, I get randy old men leering at my behind in a uniform, enjoying me being bossy to them?”

“Something like that. Do you? Get many, I mean?”

“A few, but we handle them. Remember, most people are in here because they’re sick, so getting amorous is not right up there on their list of activities. Why do you ask?”

“Research, really. I’ve been doing a lot while I’ve been lying here and it’s been both fascinating and weird. You wouldn’t believe some of the fetishes I’ve come across.”

She quickly checked her watch, which was pinned upside down over her left breast, and then wandered back towards his bed. Curiosity.

“What’s the case?”

Jack told her what he could without divulging details. When he’d finished, she said, “Nothing surprises me anymore. I expect in your research you’ve been to some of the clubs in town?”

“Not yet, no. I’ve kind of been laid up.” He grinned. “Why? Any in particular I should visit when I get out of this bed?”

“Do you have a partner, female maybe?”

“Amanda, yes. Why?”

“She got a good body?”

“Eh? Well, she’s not my type, but no, nothing stunning. She’s a sensible Doc-Martens-wearing type of woman. And very talented.”

“I think I’ve seen her here. Visiting.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Then you need to find a woman who would look knockout in PVC and send her in undercover. If she’s clever, she’ll be let in right away. Women always get in, as long as they’re dressed appropriately, if you understand my meaning. It would be easier to do that than have you go in, I expect. You’d stick out like a sore thumb.” She smiled. “I’d start with the most well-known club first if I were you. It’s extremely popular with the kinksters.”

“Oh? And what’s it called?”

“Femme Fet-Elle. It’s in Islington.”

Jack had seen the name in his research. He nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

She turned to leave and Jack called to her retreating back.

“And what’s wrong with me going in? I’m in reasonable shape, aren’t I?” Despite himself, he felt slightly miffed. She turned to answer but changed her mind and rolled her eyes instead.

“Thanks for nothing!” he said, trying not to sound huffy. “And I won’t ask how you know so much.”

Over her shoulder, she said “You never know what goes on behind closed doors.” She gave him a wink before walking from his room, leaving Jack feeling like he was the only one in the world who didn’t have the appetite for something other than vanilla. You never know, indeed, he thought wryly. He checked his phone for the time. It was still too early to chat to Amanda, but he sent her a text anyway. If Ruth was up and out running, she might be sipping her first coffee of the day.

He was correct.

Chapter Seventy-Five

It hadn’t taken much to find out where he lived. Now all they had to do was find out how he was connected to the two cases they had so far. And Amanda was damn sure he was. Between herself, Jack and their DI, they’d come up with a plan. They would monitor him for a time to avoid spooking him before they could get hard evidence that he was involved. And that meant surveillance, watching his house and following his every movement.

The main problem they faced was that an internet-based business could be operated from anywhere that had internet access. Did he have a home office, then, or run it from someplace else?

Amanda sat outside in her car. Chris Smeeks’ house was about 100 metres up ahead, tucked firmly behind a tall, thick red brick wall with large black wrought-iron security gates. Leafy green bushes protruded over the top of the wall. The place had the air of an extremely private property, the type owned only by a select few – successful business people, actors, premier league footballers. Other homes along the street were of a similar style – private, secluded and glamorously large. There wasn’t a barking dog or pounding stereo to be heard. This neighbourhood was renowned for wealthy inhabitants. It was rumoured that a couple of A-listers had property along the row and threw legendary parties for those lucky enough to get an invite. It was obvious these folks worked hard, earned hard and then partied hard.

On her first drive-by of Smeeks’ place, she’d noticed through the gates two cars parked up on the driveway, a shiny black Porsche and a shiny black Mercedes. Husband and wife, then? There hadn’t been any mention of a partner from her intel but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a live-in lady. Or maybe he just liked a weekend car for entertaining himself and went to work in the Merc, wherever work was. There was no record of an office leased to or owned by him, but again that didn’t mean it didn’t exist: it could mean they simply hadn’t found it yet.

Amanda sipped on her coffee. Being on a stakeout was particularly boring and something that was normally done in twos. Keeping tabs on movement was hard for one person; boredom and drifting off were real risks. But there was no one else. Since Jack was still in hospital, she was it. No one else had been quick to offer their time this evening, even with her promise of a burger. Who could blame them? Her colleagues were probably sipping cocoa in the comfort of their own homes right now. She sighed and took another sip of coffee.

A moment later her phone buzzed with a text from Jack, a welcome distraction.

“Any movement? any anything?”

“No, nothing. Bored already.”

“How long you staying put?”

“Until 10 pm then heading home. I’ll come back tomorrow. No resources to sit 24/7 so doing what I can.”

“I’m hopeful of release tomorrow, and then I can help.”

She smiled at the word ‘release.’ Had Nurse Bossy-Pants detained him? Jack had mentioned his rather friendly and knowledgeable nurse and her suggestion. While she couldn’t see herself in a PVC dress, she had thought, not for the first time, that Ruth would indeed look knockout in one. As outstanding figures went, Ruth had been first in line for the best of everything when she’d been born, and all the time she spent pounding the pavement running kept her in shape.

“Excellent news,” she said, yanking her thoughts back to the task at hand. “It’ll be good to have you back when you’re fit. And only then.”

Now who sounded the bossy one?

It was then that she saw movement up ahead: the big electric gates opening wide. Which car would drive out and who would be driving it, she wondered?

“Gotta go, Jack. Movement up ahead. Talk later.”

She rang off, threw her phone on to the passenger seat and gave the driveway up ahead her full attention. The black Mercedes nosed its way to the curb, then turned right out of the gate towards her. She slithered down in her seat to be less noticeable. Why hadn’t she brought a cap with her, a bit of disguise for her bright blond hair? She reprimanded herself for being so dumb; it was Stakeout 101, and any rookie would have known to do that.

As the large black car cruised by, she managed to get her arm out the window and snap the registration plate with her phone. The driver, unfortunately, was hidden behind tinted windows.

“Let’s see who owns the big car,” she said to no one. The Mercedes carried on down the road as she watched in her rear-view mirror, then turned right at the bottom, towards the M25. And that meant whoever was driving could be headed anywhere. She cursed herself again for not having worn a cap; with her hair covered, she could have risked trying for a better look.

She leaned forward to switch on her engine and noticed another car crawling along the quiet road at a snail’s pace, its headlights off. As she watched, the driver switched the lights on. Odd, she thought: in the gathering dusk, they should have been on earlier. She left her engine off and watched as the car passed her. She reached for her phone again and snapped the registration plate, then watched in her rear-view mirror as, just like the Mercedes before it, turned right at the end of the road.

Satisfied that there were no more vehicles coming her way, she turned her engine on, pulled out of the spot she’d been closeted in and set off, turning right at the end of the road. If the Mercedes and the second vehicle were headed to the M25, she could follow at a distance fairly easily for as long as the fading light lasted. If they weren’t, she’d have to give it up for the night and have a word with the DI tomorrow.

She activated the speed dial. The sound of a phone ringing came through the car speakers, closely followed by Ruth’s voice.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself. I’m letting you know I’ve left my spot, but I’m not headed back just yet. I’m following a car following a car to see where they take me.”

“Be careful. You’re on your own, hun. That’s not good.”

“I’m only following, I won’t get out, and if they don’t go on the M25, I’ll be straight home.”

“Okay, I’ll be up. Let me know when you know. See you later.”

Amanda hung up and concentrated on following the taillights ahead in the failing light.

They turned on to the M25.

Chapter Seventy-Six

She’d had to give up for the night. Amanda had followed both cars until they’d turned off the M25 again and headed towards London itself, and she knew she couldn’t do a proper job on her own. She pulled over at a petrol station to phone the cars’ registration numbers through. Once she’d done that, her plan was to head home. She was knackered.

“Hang on, Amanda. I’ll punch them in,” the uniform back at the station said. Amanda waited, listening to the sound of keystrokes. A moment later, the officer said, “Here you go. Got a pen?”

“Yup.” Amanda balanced her notebook in her lap.

“The first is a black Mercedes, registered to a company in the name of ‘Mild Holdings,’ so that might need some extra digging to see who’s behind that. And the other is registered to a Jules Monroe. Mean anything?”

“Well, now, that’s interesting.”

“Which one?”

“The woman. Jules Monroe. Not what I expected to pop up at all. Funny how these things come about, isn’t it? Looks like I’ll be seeing Ms. Monroe again tomorrow. Thanks again.”

She hung up and sat back to think. What on God’s earth was Jules Monroe doing hanging about outside Chris Smeeks’ house?

At night?

And why was she following him?

The data breach had been a long time ago – had she been in contact with him all along? Or had she, too, found him again only recently? Regardless, what was she doing outside his home and following his car?

She dialled Ruth. “I’m on my way back now. I’ll be about forty minutes, so don’t bother waiting up. I’ll see you when I scramble under the covers. I’ll try not to wake you.”

“I’ll be awake. I’m just playing on my laptop propped up in bed. You drive carefully.”

Amanda blew her a kiss down the line and then headed back on the M25 in the opposite direction. Even though she’d been sipping coffee for the last couple of hours outside Smeeks’ place and should by rights have been wired, she felt surprisingly sleepy. She cracked the driver’s-side window open and let the cool night air fill the car. The taillights of the cars in front dazzled her, but not as much as the bright white headlights of the oncoming traffic, three lanes wide. Six lights appeared to be heading straight for her, and another six directly behind them. And another six behind them. Did the M25 ever slow down or thin out to a trickle?

Her thoughts drifted slightly as she drove, and she made a mental checklist of things to do tomorrow: talk to Jack about Jules first thing, find out who ‘Mild Holdings’ were, and find out where the Mercedes had been headed and whether it had been Smeeks at the wheel. CCTV cameras could help with that one, hopefully, though the tinted windows didn’t help. Maybe they would get lucky and get a full face-on windscreen shot.

Her thoughts drifted again. What did Jules know? She’d need to speak to her again. And would Jack be out tomorrow? She hoped so. She also hoped he was going to be happy with her choice of housekeeper. Maybe she could straighten him up a bit too.

Jules kept her distance from the black Mercedes, but it was proving difficult. To the uninitiated, tailing another car was not as simple as it looked, and she hoped she hadn’t been spotted. She had no idea where he was going, or what she was going to do when they got there, but she had taken off after him anyway. On the seat next to her was a camera with a powerful lens attached to it that she’d borrowed from a photographer friend. He’d assured her she could point and shoot easily and wouldn’t be detected in the darkness as long as she didn’t ram it in his face and kept back discreetly. Hopefully he was right.

The Mercedes pulled into a narrow London side street and she cruised past, stopping just past the entrance he’d gone down. It was far too risky to follow him; she’d be found out for sure if she hadn’t been already. Turning her lights off, she put the camera into her bag and slipped out of the car. She set off back towards the dimly lit street, pulling into a dank doorway in the semi-darkness. It smelled of urine and puke. There were people milling about, as there were in most of London’s streets at night, some already the worse for wear, staggering and generally being loud. The majority of the revellers here were wearing thin coats, like raincoats, she noticed, and long ones at that. That was odd, she thought; it was a cool summer evening, but it definitely wasn’t raining, so why the need? It was curious.

She watched as men and women slipped down the side street towards an opened door, manned by a bouncer of enormous proportions, and filtered in. There was no velvet rope like many nightclubs used to manage the queue outside, and there was no queue.

Whatever went on in there, it was no ordinary club.

She couldn’t see Chris any longer. He’d been lost in the throng, but she assumed he’d headed into the same door as the others. What to do now, she wondered? Approach the door and ask the bouncer what the place was? Google the address and see what popped up? A woman in unusually high heels picked her way delicately towards the street entrance and Jules watched her fishnet-clad ankles, mesmerized, as the woman made her way towards her in the darkness. She too had a long coat on. From her hiding place, Jules noticed the woman’s make-up as she passed under a street lamp: it was both theatrical and stunning. Jules resisted the urge to ask her where she was headed; she figured the woman needed to concentrate on her walking so she didn’t break an ankle, rather than having Jules emerge from the shadows and scare her half to death.

She picked her phone out of her bag and did a search for the street name. As it was a small narrow street, there wouldn’t be too many businesses listed to choose from, she was sure. And she was right. Four names came up and she scanned them individually, knocking out the first three. It was the last result that made all the sense in the world.

Femme Fet-Elle was a fetish club. That’s where Chris Smeeks had headed.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

She’d been at work a couple of hours when Jack texted her.

“Any chance of a lift home? Out at 10 am.”

He’d been given the all-clear to leave, then. That was good news, though she knew he wouldn’t be back at work for a couple more days, but going home at least was a step in the right direction. She texted back:

“Great! I’ll come get you. Lots to fill you in on.”

What would he make of Jules following Chris Smeeks last night? She wondered if Jules had found anything out. They could do with a break. Amanda then dialled Mrs Stewart, the housekeeper she’d organized for Jack a couple of days per week.

“Hi, Mrs. Stewart, it’s Amanda Lacey here.”

“Nice to hear from you Amanda. How’s the patient?”

“Coming home today, apparently. I’ll pick him up at ten and bring him round. Are you able to be there, by any chance?”

“Yes, not a problem. Everything is set. Maybe I’ll bake a pie?”

Amanda smiled at her thoughtfulness. This was going to work out well. She hoped so, anyway. “Oh, that sounds lovely. He’d like that. How thoughtful of you.”

“Good. I’ll see you later, then.”

Amanda rang off and smiled at the phone. She and Jack had both met Mrs. Stewart briefly during a case when her boss, James, had died suddenly in his bed after taking a Viagra on top of his heart medication. Mrs. Stewart, his long-time housekeeper, had been the one to find him and she and Ruth had helped her through the worst of the investigation. She was a lovely woman, and she’d been the obvious choice when Amanda had thought about getting Jack some help.

Amanda felt someone approach her desk and, looking up, saw it was Raj, the DC who’d been on duty last night. He had a sheet of paper in his hand.

“What you got, Raj?”

“The background on Mild Holdings. It seems, after a bit of jiggery-pokery, that the person behind the company is one Chris Meeks, or Smeeks as he’s known by us. He owns a black Mercedes – the one you saw last night – a black Porsche and a couple of other vehicles including an old ambulance, of all things. What he would be doing with that I’ve no idea, but you might.”

“Meeks – of course, that explains the ‘Mild’ in the company name.”

“Eh?”

“As in ‘meek and mild,’ not arrogant, can be submissive. Gentle. I guess it’s his idea of being amusing, though I don’t think what he does is particularly non-arrogant or gentle. I wonder what he owns an ambulance for, though. Thanks, Raj.”

She wasn’t at all surprised to hear his name connected with their case. This was more fuel for the fire they were stoking. She fancied another coffee, so she picked her mug up and took it to the sink to rinse it out. Jack’s dirty mug was still on the drainer; nobody had bothered to wash it for him in his absence, so she filled the sink with soapy water and cleaned them both properly. She’d hate him to think nobody had cared while he’d been ill.

Her DI, Laurence Dupin, walked in to make himself a cup.

“I’m picking Jack up at ten,” Amanda told him, “then dropping him home. He’s on the mend. I guess he’ll be back in a couple of days, knowing him.”

“Good. We could use the extra resource. How’s the hair case going? Close to wrapping it up yet? We may need to move you soon. Other cases could do with the resource.”

She took his dirty mug from him and washed it before handing it back to him. Maybe the gesture would be noticed. And score her a Brownie point, though probably not. They didn’t refer to him as ‘Dopey Dupin’ behind his back for nothing.

“Getting there,” she said. “It seems there are others with an interest in our target. I followed a vehicle that was tailing him last night. I’ll go and speak to the driver later, but I need to get some other stuff in place first so I don’t spook her. A bit of a surprise turn-up, actually. I’m concerned she’s got a vigilante plan going. We’ll see.”

The plop plop whoosh of the coffee machine made Dupin raise his voice in reply. “Right. Keep me informed. Say hello to Jack for me.” Taking his filled mug, he left the small kitchen area and Amanda turned her attention to making one for herself. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the space, a smell that always delighted her nostrils. As it filled her mug, she thought about what he’d hinted at. Damn resources. Is that all she and Jack were? It frustrated her sometimes.

Jack was waiting in his room. He was sitting on the bed, old leather bag at his feet, when Amanda walked in.

“All set?”

“All set. It will be good to get back home. Thanks for picking me up.”

“No problem. You’ll feel a little better once you get back to your own bed. And I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Oh?”

“Wait and see. I’m not telling.”

“Come on, Lacey. You know I don’t like surprises. What is it?”

“Wait and see.” She picked his bag up and they slowly walked to the entrance. Her car was parked nearby in the no-parking zone. She caught his look.

“I’m a detective, on urgent police business.”

The car beeped as it unlocked. Jack got in the passenger seat and Amanda put his bag on the backseat. As they pulled away Jack asked, “So what’s new, then? Where’s the case at?”

“It seems Jules has an interest in Smeeks too. I followed her following him last night, but I couldn’t see it through. I plan on having a chat with her after I’ve dropped you home. And Smeeks owns Mild Industries, as in meek and mild. What an arse.”

Jack chuckled at her annoyance.

“We should check out this Femme Fet-Elle club,” he said. “It’s the most popular one. Or so says my nurse.” Jack winked as she turned to him for clarification. “Info comes at you from all sorts of places. I guess nurses are entitled to relax in the same surroundings as accountants and builders. Or anyone else that has a particular fancy, for that matter. I just don’t get it, myself.”

“I’ll do the checking out. You do the recovery. And a bit of research if you feel up to it.”

“Now look who’s being the dominant – though I guess you are the woman here.”

“And the boss, if I have to pull rank,” she said with a sideways smile. “And not one that’s into masochism.”

A few minutes later Amanda pulled up outside Jack’s house.

“Whose is that car on my drive?”

Amanda got out and helped Jack to the door, ignoring his question. She hoped this wasn’t going to go down as well as a cold sore at an orgy. It opened before they arrived. An older woman stood waiting, a pretty floral apron tied around her middle, a smile on her friendly face.

“Why does she look vaguely familiar, Lacey, and what’s she doing wearing an apron in my house?” Jack said, stopping halfway up the path.

“This is Mrs. Stewart. She’s helping you out a couple of days a week, and she looks familiar because you met her once. The book club chap that died – James. Remember him?”

“How could I forget? He really was a stiff, wasn’t he?”

Amanda shushed him and marched him to the door.

“Hello again, Mr. Rutherford,” said Mrs. Stewart, “or do I call you Detective?” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke and she held her hand out to shake.

Jack took it. “Nice to see you again. And Jack will do.” As he spoke, he caught the smell of something savoury on the air and wrinkled his nose like a dog to take it in.

Amanda was right behind him with his bag. “Let’s go inside,” she said and ushered him into the living room. The curtains were open; a breeze entered through the open windows and the room looked a whole lot more inviting than it had a week ago. Photo frames gleamed, a clock on the wall ticked, yet nothing had been moved.

“Wow. Looks like someone has been busy,” Jack said, clearly impressed. “And what’s that glorious smell – a pie, by chance?”

The women smiled at each other and Mrs. Stewart spoke up.

“It’s a meat and potato pie. I believe you’re partial to those. It will be ready in fifteen minutes. Why don’t you wash your hands and get ready?”

Jack turned to Amanda with a mixture of amusement and delight on his face, his eyes twinkling too at the prospect of pie.

“Need a hand upstairs?” Amanda asked him.

“I’ll manage.”

Amanda waited as he climbed the stairs slowly, knowing his first port of call would be his bedroom. If he was going to be pissed off with this new arrangement, it would be round about now. The floorboards told her he had entered the room, the shrine to Janine, then there was silence. Amanda had given strict instructions to Mrs. Stewart to clean but not move a thing. They heard him exit again, his footsteps calm and quiet, and knew she’d done just the right amount to freshen his room. The two women collectively breathed out as Jack slowly made his way back downstairs.

“Is there gravy with the pie by chance?” he enquired.

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Amanda didn’t stay for pie, though it did smell damn good. She was extremely pleased that Jack was okay with her well-intended interference. The man needed some care and attention, and the bit of company would do him good, too. Mrs. Stewart had jumped at the chance of a bit of extra income, and Amanda had a feeling they were going to get on fine. The pie had been a great peace offering – who didn’t like a homemade meat pie? Her mouth watered a little at the thought of it. She herself was stuck with her wilted ham sandwich from a nearby garage, but there was work to be done. Jack had asked to tag along, of course, but since he’d only left hospital a few hours earlier, she wasn’t taking any chances. Detectives leapt out of hospital beds and back onto the job in movies, not in South Croydon.

Up ahead, she could see the door for Body-licious and pulled up outside. To her right was the car she’d seen last night, the one that had followed Chris Smeeks to wherever he’d gone. Perhaps Jules would tell her where that was exactly. Amanda hoped she was in a receptive mood. She opened the door and climbed the stairs to the main office. Another striking receptionist greeted her warmly. Perhaps the models took turns doing the job.

“Good afternoon. How can I help?” Long eyelashes fluttered like a butterfly kiss. Amanda was mesmerized for a moment by the length of them and then caught herself.

Don’t stare.

“I’d like to speak to Jules Monroe, please. DS Amanda Lacey.” Amanda flashed her credentials and the woman took a closer look.

“I’ll see if she’s available. I won’t be a moment.”

“She’d better be,” Amanda muttered to her retreating back. Standing alone in the reception area gave her the opportunity to look again at the perfect images of body parts that adorned the walls. They made her feel frumpy stood there in her sensible work boots and trousers, though she’d never been the feminine type, not even as a child; always the tomboy. Ruth was the gorgeous one, the one who could have been in any one of the pictures on display. Still, not everyone could be perfect.

The incoming stilettos sounded on the floor, and Amanda noted they didn’t seem quite as angry as they had on her and Jack’s first visit. Chanel No. 5 filled the room, and Jules appeared. Amanda smiled warmly, hoping the woman-to-woman thing would work this time too. She stretched her hand out to shake and Jules took it.

“Nice to see you again, Ms. Monroe.” Start as you mean to go on. “I have a couple more questions for you, if I may. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

By Jules’ face, it wasn’t going to be a problem. Maybe she’d had the right amount of coffee or happy beans so far today.

“Hello again. Yes, come through this way,” she said, and turned to lead the way back through the door she’d entered only a moment ago. So far so good. “Can I get you a coffee, or water?”

“Water, thanks.” Amanda watched as Jules filled a glass from a nearby water cooler and then handed her the glass. She took a sip. If Jack had been with her now, he’d have been chomping to get going with the questions, but Amanda waited a moment until Jules was seated. Amanda’s first question was going to be a surprise to her.

“Where did Chris Smeeks go to last night? Where did you follow him to?” She watched as the colour drained from Jules’s face and she started to stutter a response. She’d clearly been caught totally unaware. Jules took a breath in exasperation.

“You were following me?” Incredulous.

“No. I was sat outside his home and as he left, you pulled out too. Want to tell me why, when you’d told us you hadn’t been in touch since the hacking?” Amanda sipped at her water for something to do while she waited for a reply. The one who spoke first was the loser here.

Jules lost the standoff. With an air of exasperation, she said, “I guess you’ll find out anyway. I followed him to a fetish club, actually. In Islington. I didn’t go in.”

“Why were you following him?”

“Because I’ve reason to believe he’s still gaining access to my database.”

“Oh? What makes you think that?”

“I have my reasons. I can’t say any more. Apart from the fact that I know some of the girls have been approached.”

“Approached?” This was like pulling teeth. “Come on Jules, you’re not telling me the full story. I can’t help if I don’t know.”

“I can’t say. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“How did you find him after all this time? And a name change?”

“Hired someone cleverer than me. He gave me the address and I’ve been watching.”

“And anything to report, apart from the club visit?”

“No. But that’s enough, isn’t it? He’s obviously a part of something. Some of my girls have been involved in unpleasantness, and what with the old guy who was cautioned, it’s all fetish related. Maybe the club is a front for something?”

Unpleasantness? And more than one of her models? Amanda frowned. Was this getting bigger by the minute? A thought was percolating like coffee on a stove. Had Jules’s girls been treated to a nice hotel room and discovered something missing after the fact? Like Stephanie, and like Taylor? Like maybe a bunch of others? Well, she thought, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“So, some of your girls have received notes encouraging them not to tell, am I right?”

The colour that had drained and returned to Jules’s face drained for a second time. Amanda hoped she wasn’t going to pass out.

“How do you know about those?”

That was all the confirmation Amanda needed.

“So now we have that straight, let’s hear the whole story. What you know so far. All of it.”

Jules could only nod.

“When was the first one reported to you?”

“About ten years ago. There were only a couple back then, but since the hack, they’ve increased quite a bit. The girls who have been targeted were terrified and begged me not to tell, so I haven’t. I only found out by accident – girls missing jobs and odd out-of-character things going on.

“After the first couple, it was easy for me to ask them, and they trusted me. It was a huge relief for them to get it off their chest and tell someone they could trust, explain their behaviour. There could be many others I don’t know about, of course, but it’s been steady over the years. And because of the mention of a debt being paid, they’ve been loath to take it any further with the official authorities. Some have figured out which debts the notes refer to; others haven’t.”

“Who is the latest that you know of?”

Jules sighed heavily again, not wanting to break confidences. She’d told Ellen she wouldn’t report what she’d said, and she’d meant it.

Amanda could see the conflict in her eyes. “It’s going to be out in the open soon,” she said, more gently now. “There are too many women having these horrific experiences, and it’s gone on too long. It’s time it was stopped. Whoever this latest victim is, we need to hear her side of the story to figure out exactly how this thing operates. It’s distressing, I know, but he needs to be stopped so that no one else has to go through it.”

“I know. I won’t give you her name just yet, but I will tell you what she told me. Then perhaps I can persuade her to talk to you.”

“Tell me what you know.”

And Jules did: that her employee had gone to an address, but the story didn’t pan out as she remembered it. The driver denied taking her, the client denied seeing her, and she’d awoken in a hotel room in Knightsbridge with a scarf tied around her ankles and a note on the side table.

Amanda scribbled furiously in her notepad. When she had all that Jules was offering to give, she asked, “And what’s your plan now, then? I’m assuming you have some sort of revenge organized?”

Jules looked a little sheepish. “I do, actually. And while you might not like it, I think it’s a good plan. Maybe you can help?”

“Why don’t you tell me what it is first? Then we’ll see.”

When Jules was finished speaking, Amanda had to admit it could work, though there were elements that concerned her. She’d need help to pull it off. Someone strong, someone intelligent and someone with a knockout body. And she knew just the right woman to step in.

Ruth.

Chapter Seventy-Nine

“Well, first off I think you’re mad, and probably a bit desperate if you’re asking me, but it does sound like fun.” Ruth was pulling out a few stray dandelions from around the rhubarb in the small garden at the back of her house while Amanda watched. Gardening and Amanda were like nails and cheese: not two things that went together. She preferred others to grow food for her.

“I’ll be there in the background, and it’s only to see what goes on there, nothing more. You won’t be in any danger.”

“Like I said, it sounds like fun. I get to dress up.” Thinking, she added, “I might wear a sort of mask too, so nobody can see all of my face. Wouldn’t want to see a client in there. Them see me, I mean. That could be a tad embarrassing.”

“Jules Monroe will be there with you. She’s the woman who runs the body part model agency. I’ll introduce the two of you beforehand. She had a vigilante plan that hopefully I’ve stomped out now, but we did agree a snoop-around would be useful, and she’s game to go in. There’s no point me doing it though,” she said, fanning her hand dismissively across her body.

“And why not? You’d look great in a pair of tight leather pants and a plunging top.”

Amanda smiled at Ruth’s attempt at a compliment. “Who are you kidding? Me in tight leather? I’d look like a Cumberland sausage squashed in all the wrong places. I don’t have the figure to draw attention. I’d be a laughing stock.”

Ruth got to her feet and put her arms around Amanda’s shoulders, careful not to get dirt on her. “You wouldn’t, actually. You have a low estimation of yourself. But I said I’d be happy to help and I will. Now stop with the crappy body image talk. You’ll look knockout in your wedding dress because you’re you. We both will.” Ruth pecked her on the cheek and pulled her in tight for a hug. When she released her, she asked, “When are we doing it? I need to get a suitable outfit organized because, funnily enough, I’m right out of PVC or leather dresses.”

“Tomorrow evening. The club opens at ten pm, so we’ll leave here about thirty minutes before. It fills up pretty quickly from what Jules has seen, and I want to make sure we get in – that you both get in.”

“I’ll be ready. It will be fun to go shopping for a bit of fetish gear. Maybe we’ll use it afterwards?” Ruth winked at Amanda, who rolled her eyes in return.

“Let’s see what you come back with first. I’m not wearing a gimp mask for anyone. Nor a rubber suit. How do you even get into one of those things?”

“Talcum powder, I guess,” said Ruth, winking. They both laughed.

“Right, I’m off to make dinner,” Amanda said, and headed back up the path to the house.

Inside the kitchen, Amanda put water on for the rice and stirred the pot of chilli, tasting it gingerly from the wooden spoon. Chilli was one thing she could cook well. While she waited for the water to boil, she called Jack to see how he was settling in back at home and ask whether he needed anything.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired, but glad to be home. I’ve had a nap in my chair this afternoon – fell asleep with my headphones on listening to The Style Council, of all things.” His gentle chuckle made her smile at the phone.

“Glad you’re resting. I thought I’d see how you were doing and let you know about my meeting with Jules Monroe.”

“How’d it go?”

“She couldn’t deny anything. I’d seen her following him, so she fessed up pretty quickly and told me the whole story. She’s very protective of the girls, and while she thought the hack was all over many moons ago, she was shocked and upset to learn Smeeks was still getting access as and when he needed something. It seems it’s been going on for at least ten years that she’s aware of, and a considerable number of her girls have been targeted over the years. The latest one was only a few days ago.”

Jack grunted he was still listening.

“I’m hoping she’ll speak to me – the latest victim, I mean – though she didn’t have hair stolen. Get this – she was left in a hotel like the other one but with her ankles bound in a silk Hermes scarf and rose petals scattered all round her. My bet is a bit of foot worship went on. Creepy, eh?”

“Damn right.”

“Anyway, Smeeks owns a company called Mild Industries, which owns the club and a few other properties around London, as well as a collection of vehicles. I told you he owned an ambulance, didn’t I?”

“You did mention it. That in itself is creepy. Wonder what he’d want it for?”

“Transportation, I’m guessing. Who would query an ambulance turning up? My big question is how he can have so many people involved. You’d need rent-a-crowd to pull some of the stunts off without anyone knowing. Just think about it. How do you get a doped woman in and out of a hotel suite without her knowing, or anyone suspecting anything? And how do they ensure the victims don’t tell? Asking them by note is pretty risky, yet none of them do. There must be some dirt going on in their backgrounds for them to keep quiet, like Stephanie with the sexual harassment case suddenly going away.”

“I hear you, Lacey. And the answer is I’ve no idea. But do you remember a movie called The Game back in the late nineties? It starred Michael Douglas and Sean Penn. It sounds a little like the same concept: a rent-a-crowd pulling off something big that goes on in the background of someone’s life. Might be worth looking it up. Maybe it could shed some light on how this fits together?”

Amanda wasn’t convinced. “What makes you think it’s a game? Because if it is, it’s not a nice one.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, but the organization of it sounds the same. They were actors and actresses, if I remember correctly, on a big movie set. Look it up and watch it.”

Amanda grunted in response, not convinced. “Anyway, Jules is going to go inside the club and have a look around. I can’t stop her doing that anyway as a member of the public. I’ve asked Ruth to keep her company, and she’s happy to. I’ll be in the background, preferably outside or in the cloak room, perhaps, and listen in from there.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Just by keeping the phone line open, her phone to mine. If the music is too loud I may not hear everything, but we’ll see. There shouldn’t be any danger, since it’s a public place of sorts, and I won’t be far away.”

“It goes without saying to be careful though, eh? What does the DI say?”

There was a pause in the conversation as Jack realized she hadn’t told him. “Lacey? You’ve got to tell him. He’ll go nuts if things don’t go to plan. Cover your arse.”

“I know. I’ll mention it tomorrow. But it’s only a look-see, anyway. No need to concern him yet.” Amanda heard Jack’s heavy sigh. “Don’t you be worrying too.” Changing the subject, she asked, “How was the pie?”

Chapter Eighty

It was late. But the beauty of having a business on the web was that you could work whenever you wanted, from wherever you wanted, as long as you had an internet connection. Just as writers worked from coffee shops and libraries, nocturnal forum owners could work from bars and clubs, and he had a couple to choose from. Chris had his favourites, depending on his mood and what he was doing. Simple background checks for premium required some degree of quiet, while new member authorizations for the chatroom required nothing more than a tick box. His venue for tick boxing this evening was his small but perfectly formed fetish club, Femme Fet-Elle, one of his favourite places. He had a permanent space at the end of the bar, a space from which he could do his work and observe what went on in the club at the same time, and that was where he was sat now. Not much raised his eyebrows any longer. He’d seen and heard it all, and as a provider to the kinksters and in particular the wealthy ones, he’d filled many fantasies spanning many years.

The strong pulse of the dance music reverberated through his laptop and up his wrists as his fingers worked the keypad, and he found himself moving slightly to the beat as he typed. He looked up from his screen for a moment to take in the ambience around him. The electronic music was almost deafening, but he found it invigorating. PVC-clad clientele of all genders gyrated to the music, unashamedly rubbing themselves and others with gloved hands or peering out from behind leather masks, making suggestive gestures with their mouths and tongues. Later on, the dance floor would empty out as people found willing partners and separated off to get their own personal high together.

He felt good tonight, wired even, and judging by the swell in his trousers he thought he might get a little action himself later. He caught the eye of a woman stood a couple of paces further along the bar, hips moving to the beat ever so slightly, trying to attract the busy bartender’s eye to order her poison. Her hair was shoulder length and looked silky soft, as did the skin she had on display. She smiled seductively at Chris then turned away in an instant, her drink order more important than his company. He perused her body while she was preoccupied. She was encased in black leather from her chest to just below her buttocks; her shapely legs disappeared into the tops of thigh-length fire-engine-red boots. They had the highest heels he thought he’d ever seen. Around her neck was a studded black dog collar, with two rows of spikes running around the length of it. It looked lethal to the uninitiated. A moment later, another woman, dressed in a similar fashion though her dress was electric blue leather, joined her. Her buttocks were more visible than her friend’s, the soft flesh just begging to be touched.

The first woman passed a drink to her and caught Chris’s eye again as she did so, lowering her chin in silent acknowledgment, encouraging him. He smiled back, slipped off his stool and walked towards them both, leaving his laptop where it was. He sauntered over slowly, keeping eye contact with the lady in black, hoping he was reading the signals correctly. A stirring in his trousers reminded him of how he was feeling, what he might take later on. Standing beside her now, did he imagine her eyes twinkling in excitement as the strobe lighting flashed across her face? Was she feeling game too? He hoped so, and there was only one way to find out. He reached out his hand and gently ran the back of it down her leather-clad back. The woman responded like a cat being stroked, the telltale arch greeting him in response, and he heard her murmur something, though he had no idea what. Perhaps she was purring. . .

She turned her head towards him slightly, and he could see that she was smiling. Yes, she was encouraging him, enjoying the feeling, the attention. But her friend in blue wanted her turn, and she took his hand now and encouraged him to run it down her back, except this time she led the way with her own to guide him, guiding him all the way down, stroking the rise of her nearly exposed buttocks and then moving down, down to the flesh itself, the part that had caught his attention. She closed her eyes, enjoying herself, but she clearly wanted more.

She placed his hand directly on the bare flesh of her left buttock and then moved it lightly backwards and forward, moaning her pleasure into her friend’s ear. Her friend turned and stroked her other buttock seductively, nibbling on the earlobe of the lady in blue. Chris watched, mesmerized. He’d seen two women having fun on numerous occasions and it never failed to excite him. The woman in blue pulled away first, turned to Chris and fixed him with a smouldering gaze. This was all the confirmation he needed that she was ready to play, that they wanted to play. Taking the lead, the lady in blue led him through the crowd towards a set of swing doors at the rear of the club. Behind him, the friend followed, drinks in hand.

Once through the doors, the atmosphere immediately changed. The heavy, throbbing music was replaced by a quieter soundtrack, and under that he could hear languid moaning and groaning. Had he turned around, he would have noticed that the lady in black was having trouble not to stare as she walked and was doing her best to look as though she was a regular, came every month, knew her way around. Inside she was gasping with astonishment. In one corner, a man wearing a full leather gimp mask was tied naked to a bench face down and a woman with a leather riding crop was flicking his reddened backside with the tongue of it. In the centre of the room, a woman on all fours was being periodically slapped on the buttocks by a mystery bare hand and, judging by her cries, was enjoying every sting of it. But Chris was intent on the lady in black, just ahead of him, who carried on leading the way.

He knew where they were leading him: there was only one destination in the direction they were headed – the private rooms, where willing participants got their kicks together. As the woman in blue led him through the door of a dimly lit room, she winked to her friend and then turned to lock the door to make sure they wouldn’t be disturbed. She then approached him, drink in hand, and encouraged him to sip from the glass, which he dutifully did. Then between them, and taking their time, they seductively stripped him down to his underpants.

The lady in blue was playing her part perfectly, and Ruth let her take the lead. It was her show, after all. Only Chris was unaware of what was about to happen next. The lady in blue again offered her cocktail glass to his lips. He took two large gulps to refresh his mouth and reached out to kiss her as she rubbed herself up and down his naked thigh encouragingly, sensuously.

Inside the top of the fire-engine-red boots, Ruth’s phone line was open, and Amanda listened in from where she was hidden between Mackintosh coats in the cloakroom.

A striking woman, Chris had thought when he’d first seen her at the bar. He could see now that she had short-cropped dark hair with a white flick at the temple. And now he was in a private room with her and a friend and was about to have some kinky fun with them both.

And that’s about all he remembered as he passed out on the bed.

Chapter Eighty-One

“What the …?” Ruth’s voice sounded strained.

Amanda pressed her ear buds more tightly into her ears. So far, things had been going well but now she wasn’t so sure. Ruth’s familiar voice didn’t sound happy.

“What have you done, Jules? I thought we just wanted to chat when we got close, not knock him out.”

“It was.” Jules was speaking now. “But I thought in for a penny, in for a pound. We’ve got him now and we can do one of a couple of things.”

Amanda couldn’t believe her ears. What the hell was going on in there?

“Oh? And what are the two choices, eh? Kidnap I’m guessing is one, like he did to the others, and what’s the other?” Ruth had raised her voice a couple of octaves. “Amanda, are you getting this?” Her voice came clearly to Amanda now as Ruth reached into her boots to retrieve the phone.

Amanda was livid. “Where are you both? What have you done?”

“Head through the dance floor and keep walking to the rear. We’re in the room on the right. I think it had a shoe on the door rather than a number or name. It’s locked, so knock and I’ll let you in.”

Amanda grabbed her identification badge, flashed it at the gorilla on the desk and made her way towards the back of the club. Heads turned at the strange vision of a woman wearing regular street clothes wrestling her way through the gyrating bodies on the dance floor as best she could. When an anonymous hand reached out for her backside and squeezed, she shrieked but pressed forward undeterred. It was like cutting her way through dense forest with a butter knife. Nobody wanted to move; everyone wanted to party. Except for her. Strobe lighting played havoc with her sight, but she pressed on and finally came to the entrance of a much quieter space. Quieter save for the cries of those deep in their own individual pleasure zone. She didn’t hang around to watch as she headed for the door to the right. A stiletto platform shoe so tall that it could never be worn signalled the right door. Amanda knocked, Ruth opened, Amanda entered. Jules was sat on the edge of the bed. Smeeks was out cold.

“I’ll let you sort her out,” Ruth said through gritted teeth. “I’m going to see if I can at least salvage this operation and go and get his laptop off the bar. Hopefully, it’s still there.” Muttering, she pushed past Amanda and stomped back out into pleasure land.

Speechless, Amanda closed and locked the door behind her, then turned to Jules. It took all her self-control not to scream at her.

“I thought we had a plan, Jules? Did you have a different version to work from?”

Jules sat quietly as though realizing she’d gone too far.

“Speak to me. What have you done? What have you given him?”

“It’s only a roofy, nothing more. He’ll be awake in an hour or so.”

“Oh, well, that’s okay, then. A roofy. Bloody perfect!” She paused and drew in her breath. “And where did you get a sodding roofy from?” she screamed. “You just happened to have one on you, did you? Do you realize what you’ve done? How this could royally screw things up? What is your plan from here then, eh? Do tell, because I’m struggling here.” Amanda sizzled like a sausage in a hot pan. “What will happen when he wakes up and realizes?”

“We’ll be long gone. He’ll be none the wiser. He doesn’t know we’re on to him, remember?”

“I’m a sodding detective, for heaven’s sake,” Amanda yelped. She could feel a vein pulsing in her forehead. “I can’t be a part of drugging a suspect, and he is only a suspect – remember? We have no actual proof of anything yet.”

A knock at the door brought her screaming to a halt, and she took the opportunity to catch her breath. From the other side of the door came, “It’s me, Ruth. Let me in.”

Amanda opened the door and Ruth strode past her, a laptop wedged under her arm.

“Oh great,” groaned Amanda, staring at the laptop. “Now I’m involved with theft as well as drugging and possible kidnapping. What else have you two got planned? Because I hope it involves finding me another career. I’m going to need it, since this one is over.”

Ruth spoke quietly as she opened the laptop and started tapping. “I’m a civilian and so is Jules, and you had nothing to do with this. Give me a minute to see if I can get in and take a look around, then we’ll talk, okay?” Ruth was doing her best to defuse the fireworks going off inside Amanda’s chest. “Give me ten minutes then we’ll talk.”

Amanda flopped down on the corner of the bed, exasperated and also more than a bit concerned. This had been a shit idea. Smeeks’ bare feet hung over the bed and were level to her knees. She moved away a little, not wanting to be part of this stupid plan gone wrong.

Ruth said, “It’s password protected, as you’d imagine. I’m going to need some help.”

“You can’t take it out of here, Ruth!”

“Then we won’t take it out. I’ll get help to come here.”

Jules spoke up now. “I know someone, a person to help if you don’t have one. Shall I call him?”

Ruth frowned at the laptop. “If you have someone in cyber intelligence someplace, then yes, go ahead.”

Both women looked at Amanda for confirmation. Amanda threw her hands in the air.

“Oh, what the hell. I’m screwed anyway. May as well solve the case while I get my arse kicked from high above to hell and back. But tell them to hurry. That laptop isn’t leaving this building, understand?”

Jules nodded and dialled. A brief conversation ensued and then she hung up.

“He’s on his way. I have to take it to his car, though. He’ll never get in here. I’ll slip out the fire exit out the back and bring it back as soon as he’s done.”

Amanda ran her hands through her blond hair. She felt like tearing it right out, clump by frustrated clump. What choice did she have with the laptop now?

“Well, while we wait, can I suggest you put his clothes back on? He doesn’t need to know you stripped him. Whatever the reason, the plan – I don’t want to know what it was. So much for a simple look-see.” Looking around the room and up at the ceiling she added, “I hope there are no cameras in this room.”

No one had thought of that.

Chapter Eighty-Two

What a complete screw-up. This was not how she ran an operation. Why had she thought involving a couple of civilians was a good idea? Yes, Ruth was smart and resourceful, but she was probably also in big trouble along with Jules though not as much as she herself was. She’d be lucky if she were put on traffic duty with new recruits, if she even had a job anymore. The whole mess needed salvaging somehow, so at least she could get the culprit in the shambles. At least that might appease the DI a little. She checked her phone for the time. Jules’s contact would be here any minute.

“So how do you know this guy, Jules, and does he have a name?”

They’d been sat in contemplative silence since Amanda’s outburst.

“Valance Douglas. He’s a private investigator who deals in cyber intelligence – off the books.”

“Great – he’s a hacker! Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse.”

“He prefers to call himself a forensic PI. He runs a legitimate business. He was the one I turned to see if this louse was still getting access.” She flicked her thumb over her shoulder to Smeeks, who was still out cold on the bed. Thank god. Jules’s phone buzzed with a text and she looked at the screen. “He’s out the back now.”

Ruth stood up. “I’ll go with you in case you have any problems. You might need a hand. And he needs to know what he’s looking for.”

Amanda stood by and watched, pretending she had no part in what was about to happen. In her mind she had her hands over her ears like a child, saying La la la out loud. It had always worked back then and she hoped it would now.

“We’ll be back shortly. He shouldn’t wake up yet,” Jules said, and the two women left the room, leaving Amanda and a comatose Smeeks alone. Shouldn’t? Amanda hadn’t thought about what she’d do if he did wake up in their absence, but since he was now fully dressed again, she supposed she could badge him and tell him he’d fainted. Since she was a police officer, he might believe her lie.

She looked around the room again for possible hidden cameras but couldn’t see anything. The key, of course, was the word ‘hidden.’ She sighed. Passing the time in the room was painful and she was tempted to ring Jack, but it was nearly midnight and he’d be fast asleep. And what could he do, apart from berate her and ask if she’d lost her marbles? There was no point. He’d get his chance tomorrow when this all came out and he was looking for a new work partner. Amanda squeezed her eyes tightly to get rid of the image. A knock on the door brought her back to the present situation and she got up and opened it.

Two leather-clad women rushed back in and it took Amanda a moment to realize it was Ruth and Jules. No, she’d never get used to this. Both were breathless with excitement.

Ruth spoke first. “We’ve got him! It’s all on there. His client list, a list of operators and a nice bit of software where he watches the whole thing unfold. And video recordings of events. Obviously, we couldn’t look too deep because we only had a few minutes, but yes, Amanda, you’ve got him!”

She and Jules beamed at Amanda, who stood dumbfounded. “And the list goes back more than fifteen years – that’s how long he’s been supplying victims to high rollers who could afford it. Oh, and this room and the others are recorded so we did delete that little file.” She grinned self-consciously.

Amanda groaned and closed her eyes, then opened them again. Nope, she was still inside the room. No magic fairy had intervened and whisked her away.

Ruth carried on. “There are going to be some embarrassed individuals when this all comes out.”

Amanda thought about that for a second. “Why would they be embarrassed? Why would their names be made public?” What was she missing?

“That’s the only way to get Smeeks without you getting into bother with all this mess. It was Valance’s idea, actually, and it makes total sense. We leak it. Remember WikiLeaks? We’ll do the same here and find a reporter, too. That way, you’re in the clear. It just means a couple of embarrassed faces, but that can be their punishment for their purchase.”

Amanda had to agree: on the surface it made sense and would keep the sticky mess away from her front door. She’d need to percolate the idea first, though, to be sure. “What’s the plan from here, then? I’m assuming you’ve got one.”

“First off, we get out of here, and leave Smeeks where he is. He’ll have a sore head when he wakes, but that’s tough. I’ll slip his laptop back where I found it. Valance has what we need on a drive, so we can look at it when it suits. I suggest you and I meet him tomorrow first thing and hatch out a plan properly.” She stopped for a moment to collect her thoughts. “Or I can do it on my own, now that I think about it. That way, you can truly deny all knowledge and involvement. And don’t tell Jack. He doesn’t need to be a part of this, and no one else needs to know.” Ruth beamed from ear to ear, as did Jules. Amanda looked from one to the other. It sounded so easy, so simple. Jules went on,

“That should work, and none of us will get into bother. It will have to stay our secret, though, so if any of us is thinking of coming clean, don’t bother. I shall deny all knowledge of my part. And I suspect you two will as well. Let’s keep this quiet.”

“Perhaps we should do the pinkie thing like when we were kids?” said Ruth, holding up her hand.

Amanda groaned and rolled her eyes at Jules. Ruth said the dumbest things sometimes for such a bright woman.

“What?” said Ruth, putting out her lip like a child. Her expression looked ridiculous with her outfit, and suddenly Amanda started to giggle. Really, dressed in tight leather and wearing ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ boots, they both looked stunning, and Amanda was suddenly helpless with laughter.

Ruth and Jules looked at each other, confused.

“Sorry,” Amanda said, wiping her eyes, “but looking at you both reminded me of Charlie’s Angels. They would have got into a mess like this, and happily dressed up like you too. Apart from Sabrina that is – she’s got to be me, hasn’t she, in a roll-neck sweater?”

Jules spluttered as she caught the joke, and they both joined in the laughter, leaning on each other’s shoulders, tears streaming down their faces.

A groan from the bed startled them into action, and all three ran for the door at once as though a firework had gone off, scrambling through it together. They looked, thought Amanda, less like Charlie’s Angels and more like the gang from Scooby Doo.

Chapter Eighty-Three

The story broke two days after their visit to the nightclub. Ruth, Jack and Amanda were having a casual breakfast together at Ruth’s place, each reading from their own copy of the same newspaper that Ruth had bought on her way back in from her run. A pot of tea stood steeping in the centre of the table; a rack filled with toast went untouched. Never before had the kitchen table seen so much interest in a local newspaper story. Three sets of eyes frantically read the copy, the odd murmur of appreciation or surprise the only occasional sound in the room.

The story covered both the front page and a two-page spread in the centre and went into great detail of what had been happening to women all over London, and maybe beyond. There were photographs of several unfortunate clients who had been caught up in it as well as a mug shot of the alleged organizer of the service, one Chris Smeeks. The words ‘whistle-blower’ and ‘dark web’ and ‘hackers’ fairly leapt off the pages. The reporter’s anonymous source had provided ample evidence – video files, photos, and client lists – and the reporter had handed everything over to the police.

It was estimated that the service had been going on for more than fifteen years, but thanks to a couple of victims who were willing to tell their story and to the anonymous source, it was being shut down. The police had asked the reporter to hold off printing the story until their suspect was in custody for questioning, and the man was now helping CID with their enquiries.

Believed to have started the service for a bet, he’d gone on to find a surprisingly lucrative market and had convinced the many people needed to pull it off that it was all a game and they were vital players. These players had even been rewarded with virtual badges when they reached certain levels. It was virtual gaming in real life. A list of the players’ names was also in the source’s possession but since they had had no idea what they were involved in, the source didn’t see the need to divulge it.

Amanda was silent when she’d finished reading it all, as was Ruth.

Jack, on the other hand, smelled a rat. “Wow, that is a twist, isn’t it?” Jack looked at both women like they were two children hiding the fact they’d taken the biscuit jar to their room and eaten the contents. And he didn’t believe that was all they’d been up to. He detected some chocolatey fingers somewhere. Ruth answered first.

“It really is, though I’m glad he’s been caught. It must be terrible to wake up with your hair missing one day, to know that someone has been in your room while you slept and touched you. Horrendous, actually. I’m glad he’s in custody. A bit of excellent work.” She quickly put her head back inside the newspaper and pretended to be reading another story.

Jack pursed his lips and turned to Amanda. “Tell me again how all of this came to light.”

“Not much to tell, except Jules Monroe followed Smeeks to his club and confronted him. He denied her accusations, as he would, but another man overheard her shouting at him. He was intrigued by her looks and took a photo of her without her knowing. She’s quite distinctive, as you know, with that white streak of hair. Anyway, he found her name by doing a reverse image search on Google, then found her model agency, put two and two together and handed over what he had. Then he went to ground.”

Amanda hated lying to her friend, but she was anxious to keep him out of her screw-up, for his own good. Jack wasn’t long off retirement and she’d never forgive herself if she jeopardized it for him. This way was a much better bet. She smiled sweetly at him and added, “Couldn’t have come at a better time, eh?”

All Jack could do was agree. “One other thing though. How come it was a sports reporter who broke the story and not a mainstream journalist? And a friend of Ruth’s, at that?” He turned to her again. “Griffin Stokes is a friend of yours, isn’t he, Ruth?”

“He is, yes. He’s been spending heaps of time surfing the dark web looking for an alternative surgeon to remove his excess skin after his dramatic weight loss. He’s got such a lot of it, and it’s embarrassing for him as a young man. It’s a really big job to get it taken away, and a long recovery time, and he was looking for a cheaper and quicker way than a UK hospital. The waiting list here is over two years and he didn’t want to wait any longer.

“He met his source in an online group, though I’m not sure which one or what the topic was, but it’s on its way to being sorted now. It’s a bit of luck and a coincidence, though, I agree.”

Jack looked across at Amanda again, and she shrugged her shoulders. Judging by the look on his face, he wasn’t convinced.

Ruth stood quickly to forestall any further questions and said, “Well, I fancy a proper breakfast someplace else. Maybe some bacon and scrambled eggs. Who’s joining me? Jack? Do you fancy bacon and sausages to go with your eggs? Amanda, can I tempt you?”

Amanda stood and scraped her chair back noisily.

“That’s a great idea,” she said, a bit too eagerly. “I’m in. Come on, Jack. Toast was never your thing anyway. I’ll buy.”

Jack knew when he was on the road to nowhere and the conversation was over. Still, they had a suspect helping with enquiries and the cyber boys were now heavily involved working through the mess. It seemed they’d found the time to take it seriously now.

He stood and reluctantly said, “Well, if you’re buying, I’m having a full English. I’ve got some making up to do on the eating front after my hospital stay.”

Behind his back, Ruth smiled knowingly to Amanda, who returned the look, but neither woman said a word. Amanda took up the rear as they filed through the house to the front door. The word ‘coincidence’ entered her head again. “But we don’t believe in them, do we, Jack?” she mumbled.

Nothing missed Jack’s ears. “What was that, Lacey?”

“I said I’ll drive. You choose the music.”

Chapter Eighty-Four

“Who’d have thought it, eh? A right turn-up for the books.”

Griffin and Vee were sat on a bench in the park with a vanilla cone each, frantically licking their rapidly melting ice creams. It was a gloriously warm evening as they sat; dog walkers and families strolled past, enjoying the fresh air.

Griffin carried on “And your experience helped the police nail the guy, so well done, you, for dropping that piece of info into the conversation. Otherwise they might still be hard at nothing.” He took another long lick as a rivulet of ice cream made its way down to his hand. He made a slurping sound as he tried to suck it away.

“So, what’s the plan with the story, then, Clarke Kent?” Vee was being cheeky but Griffin wasn’t bothered. He liked her cheek.

“She wanted me to hand it over to one of the other more experienced reporters but since it was my source, the story is mine.” They both smiled at the word ‘source,’ knowing full well there wasn’t really one, and that Ruth was behind it somewhere. In order to disguise what had really happened, he was happy just to get the story and the notoriety that went with it. And there was a lot more story to come, he suspected.

Vee took a long lick of her ice cream then threw the remainder of the cone to the birds. Turning to Griffin she said, “I want to ask you something.” Griffin picked up on her serious tone and stopped licking.

“Oh?”

“Can I ask you why you spend so much time on the dark web? What do you do, or what are you looking for?”

Griffin was not in the habit of lying, but he couldn’t think of an alternative answer to the truth quick enough. He froze, saying nothing. Ice cream dripped down his hand.

“Whatever it is,” Vee said, “I know it’s important to you and I’m fine with it. It’s just that, after my experiences with the last boyfriend and the videos and so on, I’m wondering what I might be getting myself into again.” She took his free hand in hers. “I really quite like you, Griffin, but in order to go on, I need to know what it is that interests you so much. And I know it’s not the sport and drugs article. Call it a woman’s intuition.”

Griffin’s shoulders sagged and he tossed his remaining ice cream across to where Vee’s had landed. Birds settled into the extra cornet. Taking his handkerchief out and wiping his hands, he knew he was playing for time. At last he turned towards her and looked straight into her dark hazel eyes. She sure was pretty. The time had come to tell her.

“Okay, here goes nothing. But before I tell you, it’s nothing sordid, though it is extremely personal. But you are right: I need to get it out of the way, though in my experience, this is where the girls run a mile. I’m telling you this so that when you get the urge, you can just go.” Griffin dropped his shoulders and stared at his rather interesting knees as he began. Once he’d finished, he raised his head and looked across at Vee, expecting to see disgust and revolt on her face, followed by her hastily retreating body. But what he saw instead gave him hope. A tear slid down her cheek and even though it wasn’t a tear of joy, she was beginning to smile through it. Then she flung her arms around his neck and pulled him in close, albeit rather awkwardly. Somewhat taken aback, Griffin ended up falling into her lap and Vee burst out laughing. Had it not been for her words as she laughed, he would have thought she was taking the mickey.

“I think I might love you, Griffin Stokes. Is that okay?”

Shocked and a little surprised but incredibly happy, Griffin said, “I think that’s very much okay, Vee Dobbs, because I think I might love you too. Is that alright?”

The return smile was all he needed.

“Will you come with me for support, to Thailand?”

“Try and stop me,” she said. “My bag is almost packed.”

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 Blue Banana

Chapter One

Winter in Croydon was always dull. Cold, damp and dull. Rarely did it snow, rarely were there clear sunny days, and cold miserable rain fell like it owned the place. Summer could be stifling, with the density of buildings, hot traffic pollution and a lack of breeze that turned the city into an oven.

“Shame some summer heat couldn’t be stored for days like today,” said DS Amanda Lacey, as she and DC Jack Rutherford dodged the raindrops. “Even the smallest amount of heat would be welcome right now,” she grumbled as they dashed from Jack’s car towards the white mobile food van. They stood huddled together under the far-too-small striped awning along with two other hungry individuals. There was barely enough room for all four of them, and Amanda’s trouser seat and legs, exposed to the elements, were getting damper by the minute.

She and Jack were on their way to see a CI, a confidential informant, and had stopped for sustenance. Amanda’s stomach had been making more noise than a motorway grader levelling the road surface as they drove, so rather than treat the CI to the noise, they’d pulled over for food. Jack had his fun facts handy and as always chose that moment while they sheltered to educate her and the other two suits.

“A rumbling stomach is the sign of a healthy digestive system as well as possible hunger. Did you know that?”

“No, Jack, can’t say that I did, though you’ve enlightened me once again.” She smiled, knowing there was more to come, grateful for the distraction of waiting under the wet awning. “Do tell me more.”

“It’s your digestive muscles contracting and releasing little pockets of gases that build up, which is why your gut gurgles after a meal, but more so when it’s empty. There’s food absorbing the noises when your tum is full, so it’s quieter. Then, as you get hungry it growls, letting you know it’s ready to take food on board.”

“Good to know. Thanks, Jack.”

They stepped forward to place their order.

“Two bacon rolls and two teas, please. No sugar,” said Amanda. She turned back to Jack, who was looking a little dubious. She knew exactly why. “You can’t have a bacon roll and sugar in your tea if you’re going to lose that weight, Jack. You can’t have it both ways,” she told him as gently as she could. “Which would you prefer to give up today – bacon or sugar?”

Jack conceded with a submissive sigh. “If it was up to me, I’d have two sugars in my tea,” he said petulantly.

“Well, it’s a good job it’s not up to you, then. Your doctor told you to drop a few pounds for a reason and it’s better you do it now than when you get much older. It’s easier on your body all round.”

Jack saluted Amanda cheekily, as he often did. Even though she was technically his boss, they were extremely close work partners and friends too.

“Well, I’m having a dash of brown sauce. Can’t eat bacon without it.”

“As you wish.” Amanda turned back to watch their rolls being put together and slotted into paper bags. The man inside the caravan had heard the brown sauce conversation and slipped a sachet in alongside one roll before handing them both to Amanda.

He handed over two white cups and Jack took them both. There was no need to ask which was which.

“I’ll get the car opened,” Jack said, and dashed off to let himself in

Amanda followed a moment behind him. Inside, she put the bags down, shook her head and ruffled her blonde hair with her fingers in hopes of heading off a bad hair day. Her short, loose curls had a habit of looking like an angora goat once they’d got wet. Marilyn Monroe she was not, though she had the hourglass figure buried beneath her sensible work attire. As a detective, there was little point in her wearing heels and tight skirts like they did on Netflix; she was more the Doc Martens type – highly polished and just as tough.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, she sighed at the wet angora looking back at her, then wiped her side of the windscreen with the back of her hand so she could see out to the rain.

“What’s so interesting out there?” Jack asked her.

“Just watching those two over in that car, the ones who were being served when we pulled up.”

“What about them? They’ll be on their lunch break, same as us, probably.”

“Well, that’s just it. They look like they don’t normally eat from a roadside van, and since they got in their car, they haven’t touched their food. The bags are still on the window ledge. I can see them.”

“Well, maybe they’re talking or something.”

Amanda didn’t reply as she finished her own roll and sipped her tea. More cars pulled up, more suits bought their lunches and then hurried back to their vehicles as the rain fell. Finally, the original navy BMW pulled away, spinning its wheels on the loose wet gravel. The passenger window opened and an arm appeared and threw two white bags and two white cups out into the bushes. Then they were gone.

“Now that’s odd, don’t you think?” asked Amanda.

“Yeah, I’d say so. Who throws perfectly good bacon rolls away – and why?”

Chapter Two

“Fancy a swift one before home?”

Duncan looked at his watch; he was one of the few men at the station to still wear one. It informed him it was just before 7 p.m. and he’d been due home an hour ago. He looked at it a moment longer, asking it for the answer: to drink or not to drink; that was the question. With no obvious clue as to what he should do, he let his own head guide him.

“Just one – why not?” he said. And that was that. DS Duncan Riley collected his few loose belongings off his desk and made his way out of the Greater Manchester police station accompanied by his colleague and friend DS Rochelle Mason. Neither of them spoke until they were clear of the building. A comfortable yet excited silence buzzed through both their bodies, though each kept it from the other.

Rochelle finally broke the silence as they approached their individual vehicles, which were parked next to one another. Duncan’s car bleeped loudly as he pressed his key fob.

“Usual place?” he asked her.

Rochelle was still busy fumbling in her bag for her keys. “May as well, if it’s just a quickie,” she said at last. Even though he couldn’t see her eyes shining in the light from the streetlight, he knew they would be; her tone had given the game away. As a detective, he didn’t miss a trick, not from a criminal, and certainly not from a flirty colleague. And besides, he liked it. He watched as she slipped astride her Triumph motorbike, started the engine, and pulled her helmet on. The throb vibrated through them both. She lifted her visor to speak. Her breath floated on the cool evening air, forming a long cloud in front of her, like cigarette smoke, only far sweeter.

“I’ll see you there. I’ll have a lager and lime if you get there before me.” She winked at him invitingly and made her way cautiously out of the car park. Duncan pushed a lustful thought away and smiled to himself as he slid inside his car.

He pressed the ignition and the engine sprang into life. Putting the car into gear, he accelerated out of his spot and then pulled alongside Rochelle’s bike at the exit.

“And I’ll have a pint, no lime!” he yelled through his open window. But he knew she would arrive after he did – not that she was a sponger. No, she had a different reason.

Rochelle liked to make her entrance.

At nearly six feet tall with a dirty blond ponytail, she was a real head-turner, particularly in snug jeans and a leather jacket. With a generous mouth and bright blue eyes, she’d appeared in many of her male colleagues’ dreams at some point or other. And a fair few of his own, he had to admit, though nothing had ever come of them.

At the bar, Duncan resigned himself to buying Rochelle another lager and lime, and the thought of her brought another smile to his otherwise tired face. And tonight, like other nights, it was two work mates, one drink. Any more and it would be another row for sure, though not with Rochelle but with the other woman in his life – his wife Sam.

The very thought of Sam sent a ripple of depression through his body. The feeling was not new to him over recent months, but as Rochelle made her entrance into the crowded bar, the thought shimmied off back from whence it came and he enjoyed the view while it lasted. He waved her over and noted the envious looks of the other male drinkers; there was apparently a fair amount of hormonal jealousy in the room. He chuckled to himself as he watched her pick up her lager and tip the glass back greedily, the golden, frothy liquid vanishing as she half-drained it. She slammed it down on the bar and let out a satisfied gasp. A bit of white foam stayed on her top lip and she cleared it expertly away with her tongue. Watching the whole scenario play out in front of him, Duncan realized he was gawping – much like the other men immediately around them. He closed his mouth again, embarrassed. Did she know she had such an effect on men? Because if she did, she never let on or played to it, particularly – except while making an entrance, that was.

“Thirsty?” he said evenly?

“You bet. I’ve been dreaming of that since about four o’clock. With my nose stuck in paperwork all day, I’ve been dying to break away for a swift one, but alas, it wasn’t to be.” She waved her arms around the room as though acting in a Shakespearian play. Always the exuberant, theatrical one.

Duncan nodded and sipped at his own lager, waiting for the conversation to flow to something other than work, though what she said next wasn’t really what he wanted to talk about.

“How’s things at home? Are you still hiding out?” She took another long mouthful of lager. There was no malice in her voice, just friendly enquiry. It was no secret at the station that Duncan and Sam weren’t getting on too well, though it wasn’t discussed out loud. Sam could be a real ball-breaker at times, and a lazy one at that. How and why she’d turned out to be so was still a mystery to Duncan, and most of the time he ignored it. Until they rowed, that is. This was becoming much more frequent, and he had noticed increased venom from her side. He pushed the gloomy thoughts to the back of his mind now and answered Rochelle’s question.

“That’s why I’m having a swift one, and only one. Gives me chance to unwind before I get re-wound. Call it Dutch courage.” It sounded sad and pathetic to his own ears. He picked up his glass and took a couple of large gulps, partly to keep up with Rochelle’s consumption and partly to find the hit that came with the alcohol. “So, no, things are no better. I wish they were,” he added. Their eyes met for a second or two and he could see the pity in hers. Was there pity in all his colleagues’ eyes? It wouldn’t surprise him. He felt her arm around his shoulder and made no move to change it. It was welcome, and he knew she was being a mate, that there was no ulterior motive at play. He forced a smile before draining the last drops in his glass.

“Thanks for your concern, Rochelle. Let’s hope today was a good day for her or else I’ll be back here drowning my sorrows in an hour.”

“I won’t wait for you, then. Let’s be positive.”

She pecked him lightly on the cheek, and he got to his feet to head home.

Home. Could he call it that? It didn’t feel like it much.

Chapter Three

The air was as cold as a snowman’s ear as Duncan pulled up outside his house. The street was quiet, too cold for even the hardiest of kids to be loitering outside or kicking a ball around their back garden. Dogs had been walked, owners tucked up in the warmth back inside until nearly bedtime, when the back door would be opened briefly for toilet emergencies and final calls before the household retired for the night. Duncan was glad he didn’t have a dog to worry about, something else to be left up to him to look after.

He stayed put in the driver’s seat, the last remaining heat seeping out of the metal to meet the cold and evaporate into the night like a ghost. The lights in the lounge were on, curtains closed so only a chink of gold shone from the top where the two curtains joined in a thin wedge shape. The only other rooms with a light on were the girls’ bedrooms, the light reflecting down onto the small grassy garden below. He opened the car door, and the frosty air enveloped him as he grabbed his bag from the seat next to him and headed for the side entrance and warmth. Inside, he closed the door quietly and stood listening for a moment. The only sound was the TV. He heard the familiar notes of Coronation Street’s theme music playing out before news of yet another caramel biscuit you simply couldn’t do without filled the gap. Maybe she’d come out to greet him, get his dinner out of the oven, make a hot drink, even, he thought, but so far, the only warmth greeting him was from the central heating.

No surprises there, then.

Duncan placed a smile on his face and pushed open the door into the lounge. Sam was spread out on the sofa, a mug of tea on the small table next to her, spilled crumbs from a half-finished packet of biscuits beside it. Not caramel, as the advert had suggested; just chocolate. Without turning to look at Duncan or greet him properly, she said simply, “Hi.” That was the sum of it.

“Hi, Sam. Had a good day?” he enquired, struggling to keep the aggravation from his voice.

Still without turning, she replied, “Not bad.” She couldn’t have sounded any more nonchalant if she’d tried. Duncan noticed she was in her nightdress and robe, her hair all mussed up. That in itself wasn’t a problem; it was evening, after all. But it was what she had been wearing when he’d left her that morning to go to work – except then she’d been under the bedclothes.

Sam hadn’t bothered to get dressed all day.

All. Sodding. Day.

Stay calm, Duncan.

“I’m guessing you’ve eaten already?” he said evenly.

“Yes. Me and the girls had fish fingers at five o’clock.”

The kids must be sick of fish fingers by now.

She still hadn’t taken her eyes off the TV; he might as well have not been there.

“Right. Okay, well, I’ll make myself something to eat, then.” He waited a moment, in the unlikely event she might just oblige and be helpful, just for a change. After all, she’d been home all day, as she was every day, and he’d been out grafting for the last eleven hours. While he didn’t expect her to serve him, he did expect some sort of a meal in motion; she didn’t have much else to do. But it was too much to wish for; he knew that. This was the same thing that happened most nights now, so why was he surprised? Why he hadn’t stayed on and eaten at the pub or grabbed a takeaway on the way home he’d no idea; at least he’d have had a hot meal and a smile for his trouble.

Duncan headed for the kitchen and pulled the fridge door open; the bright light glared into his eyes in the otherwise dark room. Milk, cheese, two eggs and half an open can of baked beans. Slipping his jacket and tie off and dropping them on to a kitchen chair, he busied himself beating eggs and grating cheese, then shoved two slices of bread into the toaster. The smell gave him comfort; at least his meal would be hot and tasty. He sprinkled salt and pepper into the egg mixture and heated the beans in the microwave. Within a couple of minutes, he had a decent cheese omelette, toast and beans. He set the food down on the table ready to eat. He was exhausted, and even though he was famished, he felt totally deflated as he sat down.

That was when Sam walked in, shuffling in her too large slippers. She bent and took a piece of his toast.

“Didn’t think to make me any, then?” she said, her voice full of hatred as she bit into the slice.

Duncan sat still, breathing evenly. “You’ve already eaten, you said.”

“So?”

“So, it’s gone seven p.m. and I have just finished work and made myself something to eat. I’m knackered and hungry, so if you don’t mind, I’ll eat first, and we can argue later.” He picked up his knife and fork again and started on his omelette, scooping a forkful into his mouth to stop himself from getting into another argument with her.

“Selfish pig,” she hissed in his ear.

Duncan’s stomach rolled. Here she goes – here we go again.

He heard her put more bread into the toaster. He stayed quiet, eating and hoping she wasn’t going to kick off.

But he was wrong.

Chapter Four

Spittle flew from her mouth as she ripped into him. Duncan had barely eaten half of his meal but he downed his cutlery to add his side, hurling his fuel onto an ever-burning fire between them. Some couples thrived on their own heat and enjoyed make-up sex afterwards, but not Sam and Duncan. They’d gone way past that and there was no going back. There was not a day went by now that they didn’t have crossed words, unless they weren’t physically in the same place.

“What are you getting so upset for again, Sam? Eh? What I have done now to piss you off so much? Tell me, because I’d love to know!”

“You didn’t ask me if I wanted some toast, you selfish pig,” she spat at him. Specks of spittle landed on his face.

“Really? That’s what this is all about? You’ve been home all day, not even got showered and dressed while I’ve been at work, and you want me to make you toast?” He stopped himself short of adding what he really wanted to add.

“Would it have been so hard to ask?” she yelled back.

Duncan shook his head in disbelief and sat back down to finish his meal, though eating in such a wound-up state was virtually impossible.

“Well? Aren’t you going to answer me?” Her voice pierced the air.

“Keep your voice down, will you? We don’t need the whole street hearing our senseless row again, nor the girls, for that matter.”

“Well, you started it!” But Duncan was no longer listening. He was simply trying to swallow what was in his mouth, his stomach constricting in temper. What was wrong with her? What had happened to the mother of his children, the woman he’d married, the woman he’d loved? But he couldn’t hold back any longer. He leapt to his feet, chair scraping noisily like a Gatling gun firing round after round into the small space, momentarily shocking her into quietness. Duncan lunged at her face first, his turn to let spittle fly.

“You’re a lazy cow, that’s what you are!” he yelled. “I’m sick of it. Look at you, just look at yourself, will you?” He snatched a deep breath before carrying on with the tirade within him, one that had been wrestling to get out. “You’re a slob! The house is a mess and I’m more than sick of it. I’ve had it up to here,” he said, motioning to his temple with a stiff forefinger, “so either you sort yourself out, or I’m off. And don’t think I won’t take the girls away with me because I will. And right now, you’re not a fit mother to have them around anyway. Get some help, get whatever it is that puts some sense and pride back inside you, and do it quickly, because if there is no change, if you’ve not got yourself sorted in the next two weeks, that’s it. I’m done, finished.”

The remaining air in his lungs drained out in a rush before he sucked a fresh breath in to refill them. Neither of them said a word. The sound of Coronation Street played out in the other room. Apt, really, their row playing out with the credits. If only it were that simple.

Duncan was the first to move. He headed straight upstairs to his two daughters, who had more than likely heard every nasty word, leaving Sam looking stunned and speechless where she stood. He knew the waterworks would be starting round about now, but that had stopped working on him when he’d stopped caring any more. He gathered himself as he approached the children’s rooms. Jasmine’s door was ajar, her light shining into the hallway, so he pushed at it gently and stuck his head around the corner. Both girls were sat together on her bed; both their faces were full of sadness and worry. Jasmine had a stuffed rabbit on her lap and was stroking its felted-up ears. She’d had the toy since she was a toddler and no amount of her parents’ ‘losing’ it had worked, though one day she knew it would fall to pieces and Mr. Rabbit would be no more. Duncan did his best to fix a bright smile and lighten the mood. Seeing them visibly upset broke his heart. He kneeled down on the floor to their level, scooped them both into his arms, and kissed them both in turn on the soft part of their necks, their favourite thing.

“Mmm, you two both smell good,” he quipped, trying to make them smile, but on this occasion, he was way off the mark. Sensing their distress and knowing his daughters were no fools, he sat back on his heels and tried to explain.

“I’m guessing you heard Mummy and me shouting again, and I’m sorry you had to hear it.” Two sets of quiet, sad eyes looked at him. Jasmine nodded.

“Sometimes, grownups don’t agree on things,” Duncan went on, “and we get noisy rather than talking about it properly. Like you get noisy with each other on occasion. But a few minutes later, everything is okay again and not so noisy. That’s all that Mummy and I were doing. We weren’t agreeing, so we got noisy. And we’re sorry. Okay?”

Victoria nodded this time as Duncan leaned back in to give them a squeeze.

“All right, then,” he said briskly, determined to restore order and happiness. “Let’s have a race to see who can get into their PJs and into this bed, and I’ll tell you a true story about the dragons that used to live in the woods by the park.”

That did the trick; their parents’ shouting was almost forgotten as Victoria and Jasmine scrambled for sleepwear and then jockeyed for position in the one bed. Duncan helped by fetching another pillow from Victoria’s room and smiled as they both sat up ready for the best story two young girls could ever hope for.

Duncan was going to have to make it a good one, he knew, and a long one. Maybe by the time he went back downstairs, Sam would have had time to think about his ultimatum and switch the tears off.

He could only hope.

Chapter Five

For a change, Duncan was pleased that Sam was still asleep this morning. After their unholy row last night, they’d avoided one another for the remainder of it, she slinking off back to the sofa sulking, he reading exaggerated dragon stories to the girls. The thought amused him as he shaved in the bathroom – the two sad faces turning into bright little ones as the story had got more exaggerated and unbelievable. Maybe he should have recorded it for future use, something to draw on again and extend on for another night. He’d been tempted to let the girls sleep in one bed together and take the other himself, but he’d never been one for sleeping separately like other rowing couples did. So, after he’d tucked the girls into their beds, he’d climbed dutifully into the marital bed, keeping to his own side. Sam had kept to hers, and nothing else had been said.

He rinsed his shaver blade under the tap and turned the shower on. As water tumbled over his head and rinsed the remaining shaving soap from his face, he rubbed his hands roughly up and down his face and pondered the day ahead. The case they were working on had taken its toll on many of the detectives; cases involving children always did. Had that been the catalyst for his outburst last night, he wondered, or was he right in his observations of how his wife had become? Calling her a slob had been mean, but deep down he knew it was true. She wasn’t ill, after all; she had become lazy, and not showering and dressing all day was not what most people did, home all day or not.

The smell of citrus filled the shower cubicle as he lathered his body in soap and rinsed, feeling more awake than he had a few moments ago. While it was still early, he planned to have a quiet breakfast on his own then stop for a takeaway coffee and muffin on his way in. Working such long hours on the case, all he wanted was some peace and quiet, some time to himself, some time to think. In a perfect world, a weekend away – on his own – would do him the world of good, but there was little chance of that anytime soon. Maybe he’d get some respite on the tactical training course he had coming up – if it didn’t get cancelled beforehand. With all resources being thrown at the missing children case, he wouldn’t be surprised if they couldn’t spare him to go. And of course, the child was more important than his tactical training and a cheap hotel overnight stay.

He stepped out of the shower and dried himself off quickly. Wearing only his underpants, he tiptoed around the bed to his wardrobe and fetched the clothes he needed. There was no sound from Sam as he took his clothes downstairs and finished dressing in the lounge. He poured cereal into a bowl, added milk and sat in the near darkness – again. It hadn’t been that long ago he’d been sat in the same place trying to eat his omelette during a screaming match. At least it was peaceful now.

His phone vibrated on the tabletop. The screen said it was Rochelle.

“Morning, early bird. What’s up?” He listened while he crunched.

“You sound like a cement mixer. What are you eating?”

“Muesli. It’s good for you.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Prefer a bacon sandwich myself with plenty of ketchup, but I didn’t ring to discuss breakfast options.”

“Oh?” Crunch, crunch, crunch.

“Thought you might like to know another child went missing last night. Another girl, seven years old, so similar in age to the others. She was playing with her friend in their back garden and then suddenly she wasn’t anymore. Mother reported her missing at about eight p.m. after she’d searched and called her friends.”

“Eight p.m.? Why so late? It would have been dark long before then.”

“Let’s just say the mother was out of it. Poor kid probably wasn’t even noticed as missing until she’d been gone a couple of hours. Fat lot of help the mother is going to be, I’m afraid. You nearly ready to leave? I’ll fill you in properly.” Duncan was draining his bowl as she spoke.

“Just leaving now. Want a coffee on my way in?”

“Always.”

They hung up. It wasn’t just on American cop shows they did that. Rochelle did it all the time and Duncan had found himself copying, though not intentionally. It really pissed some people off, including Sam. He shook his head to dislodge the thought of his sleeping wife and all that meant. He grabbed his jacket and left through the side door, closing and locking it behind him. If she was going to lie in bed a few more hours, at least the girls would be safe from potential intruders.

The outside was drizzly and cold, the slate-grey sky hanging heavily with no chance of the smallest chink of blue to ease the oppression of the coming day. Duncan turned the car’s heater on full; tepid air blasted at the windscreen and he willed the engine to warm it quickly. When a small, round space had been cleared on the glass, he pulled out into the road and headed off for coffee and then the station.

Watching from the bedroom window, Sam stood gazing down as his car drove off into the wet, grey distance. Her face was blank. There were no tears; there was no emotion. Nothing registered on her face. Apart from dislike.

Chapter Six

The coffee shop was her local and looked like any other chain of coffee shop. Red or green logo – you choose; it was about all that was different. The same food, the same coffees, the same featureless service and the same unsmiling people, customers and staff. There really must be a nicer place to meet.

Sam nursed her latte and filled Anika in on the previous night’s events. Anika listened with some interest, making relevant noises at pertinent times to let Sam know she was still paying attention. Anika had heard her friend’s grumblings about Duncan on many occasions but stuck it out anyway. What else was a friend supposed to do?

Sam whined on. “And when he said he was off if I didn’t change, it put the fear of God into me. He’s been no support whatsoever while I’ve been trying to get another job and it’s really upsetting me. Why can’t he come home one night, just once, and hand me a bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates or something nice? Maybe wrap his arm around me? Why not, eh?”

When Sam looked up from her drink, she had tears in her eyes. Anika put her arm around her shoulder in comfort. Sam let the tears spill over and trickle down her face. Her nose started to run and she blew it loudly into her serviette. Snuffling, she scrunched it up and tossed it onto the table for the staff to clear away. Anika bit back a grimace of distaste.

“It’s not nice when you have a row, I know, but you’ve got to clear the air Sam,” she said. “Tell him how you feel. He might not know that you feel unsupported and stressed. If he did, he might cut you some slack, help you around the place, do his bit, like. It’s worth a go, isn’t it?”

Sam nodded. “I’ll have a chat when he gets home. But he’s always late back in the evenings now, and knackered, so it might not be a good time.” The whine was back in her voice again

“There’s never a good time,” Anika said, willing herself to be patient, “but you have to try. No one ever wants to talk about their issues, but you can’t fix things if you both don’t accept they need fixing.”

“I’ve tried to get another job, I really have, but there’s not a lot out there. Not one that doesn’t pay peanuts, anyway, and I’m not going flipping burgers somewhere. I’m better than that. I had a decent job twelve months ago. It wasn’t my fault they downsized. I liked it there.”

Anika felt the sting of the burger comment but kept her face carefully neutral. Sometimes Sam could be so thoughtless, but Anika was stronger than people gave her credit for.

“I know, Sam, but getting another job, whatever it is, will at least get you out the house again, give you a purpose. More than the girls, I mean. It will be good for your spirit.”

Sam rolled her eyes at the word spirit. Anika was a believer and Sam wasn’t, but that didn’t stop Anika mentioning it.

“There’s loads of jobs you’re qualified to do, Sam. I think you need to get a bit more active on it, though, be proactive even. Send your CV on spec, see what comes back.” Sam nodded half-heartedly and Anika took a deep breath. Sam’s lack of interest was beginning was to rub on her and she could feel her exasperation simmering.

Gathering her things, she fixed a smile on her face. “Look, I’ve got to get off now, as much as I’d like to sit drinking coffee all day. Give me a buzz tomorrow and let me know if you talk to him and get things sorted. But do try, won’t you? And take another look at your CV, see if you can beef it up a bit. Make a list of where you’d like to work and I’ll help you if you like.”

Sam had her head down, finding a stray piece of cotton on her thigh of immense interest.

“Sam?” Anika prodded. “Give it a go, yes?”

“Yes. I’ll give it a go. And thanks for listening.”

Sam sat with her coffee dregs, watching as her best friend left the café, headed outside into the light rain that had yet to let up. The remaining cold froth in the bottom of her cup looked uninviting, and she’d had enough coffee for one day. She gathered her phone and her bag and trudged out of the café through the same exit, leaving the soiled serviette in the middle of the table.

The cashier glared at her back, knowing full well what was inside it. The gall of her, she thought, and headed off to the storage room for a pair of rubber gloves.

Once outside, Sam walked towards the newsagents to buy a newspaper. Maybe Anika had been right; maybe getting herself a job, even a basic one, would make her feel better, a bit more upbeat, until she found something more suitable. She didn’t have to stay there forever, did she? Just until she found something better, at any rate. And she’d spruce up her CV, spend the afternoon on the job sites. The more she thought about it, the more energy she gathered for the task ahead. If she was going to save her marriage, she had to do something.

She selected the local paper and a packet of chocolate Hobnobs.

‘By the end of the day’, she told herself, ‘I’ll be ready to roll.’

After she paid the cashier, she unravelled the top of the packet of biscuits and stuffed half of one into her mouth in one go. The sweet, oaty chocolate biscuit soothed her nerves, and she chewed contentedly as she walked back towards her house.

The walk took her twelve minutes. The packet of Hobnobs was fully devoured within ten.

Chapter Seven

It was no use. They needed more working capital; there was no getting away from it. As Luke thoughtfully scratched his designer stubble chin, he knew they’d exhausted most of their options. The banks weren’t interested in yet another underfunded, bright but wacky startup idea; nor were the few investors they’d approached. It seemed unless you were a tech startup, you weren’t trendy enough to warrant the interest. And even then, it was tough going, but at least you were taken a bit more seriously.

Their venture was food – mobile food vans with a trendy take on traditional foods: gourmet organic burgers and mouth-watering pulled pork in BBQ sauce. But while it was a sexy idea, to the moneylenders it was also a huge risk. Everyone knew the food business failure rates were catastrophic, but Luke and Clinton felt otherwise. They’d had the idea, made their plan and were hell bent on making it work – not becoming another depressing statistic.

Luke was aware Clinton was talking to him and pulled his mind back to the present.

“Sorry mate, I missed that last part.”

“I think you missed most of it, didn’t you? Were you listening at all?” Clinton said indignantly. Luke had the good judgment to apologize.

“Sorry, Clinton. My bad. I was just thinking about not being that failure statistic – drifted off for a moment. But I’m back in focus now.” He slapped his thighs noisily. “Tell me again?”

Luke sighed loudly and pushed his specs back up his sweaty nose.

“I said, maybe we should revise our presentation. Maybe it’s too dull, too many figures in it or something. Whatever it is, it’s not doing us any favours, is it? Either that, or it’s how we ourselves are presenting the info when we get in front of prospective lenders and investors. Maybe we should look at the whole thing again with fresh eyes, or, better yet, ask someone else to give us their educated opinion. It’s got to be worth a try, has it not?”

Luke rubbed his stubble again in thought. “I am thinking as I sit here. I heard every word that time,” he said, smiling easily.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. When you’re ready, do tell me your thoughts, won’t you?”

Luke tapped his chin with two fingers now. “Well, aside from doing something dodgy to raise the money, like becoming hit men or drug dealers, I guess we don’t have much of a choice. I can’t see what we’re doing wrong, but there’s obviously something not hitting the spot, because I feel sure the idea itself is sound. We’re just not explaining it well enough or succinctly enough, maybe, or perhaps the offer itself needs adjusting.”

“You mean like the percentage on offer for the investment? You want to give more than ten percent away?”

“I don’t want to, no, but if ten percent is not attractive enough for the money we’re after…” He paused. “Think Shark Tank or Dragon’s Den. They barter on the percentage given away for the sum invested. The contestants rarely get what they go in for. I’m saying we have perhaps been a bit too optimistic.”

“I’m happy to negotiate, but we have no one to negotiate with yet. We’re not even close to either. It’s like selling your house – you’ve got to have someone interested in it first to talk price with, and we have no one.”

The small room fell quiet as both men sat deep in thought. After a few minutes, Clinton got restlessly to his feet. Even though it was a cold, wet day outside, the space was stuffy and he needed some air.

“I can’t think straight in here. It’s too warm. Want a coffee? I need a walk.”

“No, thanks. Want me to come with you?”

“No, I need to think. I won’t be long.” He headed out.

Luke stood and walked across to the window. Raindrops ran down the glass, and he watched people scurrying through the street below, most wielding brightly coloured umbrellas, indicating that there were women under them. Men never carried coloured ones, usually sticking to black, blue or grey. Why was that, Luke wondered?

He watched as Clinton emerged from the front door and made his way towards the small green park area and the coffee shop just past it. Luke knew his partner well; he needed his air and space. He even had a favourite seat in the park where he’d escape each day with his packed lunch, weather permitting, and watch the world go by. It was where Clinton did his best thinking.

Turning from the window, all Luke could do was hope Clinton had a brain wave while he was out because, right now, they were out of ideas.

Chapter Eight

Clinton sat looking at no one in particular. Traffic chugged by in the light drizzle, hot exhaust fumes from buses rising like steam from a New York city underground vent. Clinton didn’t usually sit on a wet seat, but with little in the way of shelter in the little parkway, it was either that or sit indoors. The appeal of steamed-up café windows and equally steamed-up second-hand air was zilch – he needed to breathe. He’d purchased a newspaper from a vendor on his way there and used it as a seat cover, which at least kept his bum dry. There was no one else sat nearby; no one else was stupid enough to sit out on such a wet day without an umbrella. He’d probably regret it later, but that was later. He watched an older man shuffle past with a white woolly dog in a damp tartan jacket; the old man himself wore a matching deerstalker hat. Was that intentional, Clinton wondered? Matching outfits was something women with expensive handbags and huge diamond rings did, not elderly men in overcoats. Now there was a market, he thought: people spent silly money on their pets these days. As the man shuffled on, the small dog with its nose to the ground behind him, Clinton tried to focus on what he’d come out of the office to think about.

Clinton was the sensible one of the two partners, the calm one, the one with the thinking brain, the logic. He needed data to back up his decisions, not just gut instinct like Luke did, because without data, without evidence, anything they came up with was only opinion. And the wrong opinion could lead you into a whole lot of trouble. He liked to be the thinker, the balance to Luke’s creative side, but at the same time, he felt the pressure of being the one to come up with the right answer all the time – and of being to blame if things went wrong. That was what being a partnership was all about, though: knowing your strengths and weaknesses. If creativity was needed, he had none; that was Luke. If confidence was needed in an important casual meeting, that was Luke too. But if it was a suit meeting, then Clinton was the man for the job. It made things interesting when their areas of expertise crossed over, and they were careful not to come across as a double act.

Clinton smiled outwardly at the double act reference; he was too young to remember the chocolate caramel biscuit advert, but his mother referred to it regularly. Something about chewy caramel on the inside, delicious with a cup of tea, and the whole thing was portrayed as a double act. But thoughts of biscuit adverts were not going to solve the problem, so he decided to leave his relatively dry seat and walk a while. He sauntered along, taking shelter where he could from overhanging store fronts, until he came across a shop that had cheap umbrellas on a stand. He selected a black telescopic one, thinking he’d use it again at some stage. It would fit nicely in his bag, but really, there was no chance he’d ever remember it. He gave the cashier a £5 note and carried on up the pavement, knowing he wouldn’t get any wetter though his head was already soaked. Funny how light rain seemed to soak through so quickly.

Luke, however, was warm and dry back in the small office space they shared with a couple of other small companies. It was the trendy thing to do. There was a perfectly good coffee machine in the kitchenette and Luke preferred that rather than spending cash on a fancy latte while they were desperate for money. He waited for the brew to finish, poured a dash of milk on the top and added sugar. He took a thoughtful sip and savoured the taste before swallowing it down. There was no view to speak of from the tiny kitchen window, nothing of note, nothing to stand and stare at while waiting for inspiration to strike. Just a few wet rooftops, glistening slate grey, some with disused chimney stacks left over from before gas and electric heat, when people took the time to actually light a fire. He’d always enjoyed the smell of a coal fire; it reminded him of his gran’s house, the brass coal scuttle sitting ready to top up the dying ashes when the need arose. There was always a smoke that went billowing up the chimney when damp coal was first thrown on, and as a boy Luke had been mesmerized by the wonderful smell it produced. He missed his gran. He even missed the coal smoke, but he could see why people chose the speedy way to heat their homes.

He took his mug and wandered around the communal area looking at nothing in particular, trying to find inspiration in the mundaneness somehow. A voice caught his attention: it was Russell, a partner in a small accountant’s that also worked in the space. He was also their landlord.

“Sorry, Russell, I was someplace else.”

“So I see. Was it warmer and sunnier than here, perhaps?” Russell always had a cheery face, much like a butcher, though more likely from too much whiskey. Noses as bulbous as his rarely came from anything other than drink, and since Russell had the stomach to match, alcohol was the obvious culprit. And lots of it over a long time.

“I wish, but no. Deep in thought trying to sort a problem.” He added, “The same problem as always.” His voice and enthusiasm were lower than a slug’s stomach.

“No luck then, I take it?” Russell knew the boys were desperate for funding and had offered his own advice for what it was worth.

“No luck, no. There will be an answer somewhere; there’s one for every problem. Our job now is to find that answer. I wish it were simple.” He sipped his coffee and rubbed the rim of the mug absentmindedly with his thumb.

Russell patted Luke on the back as he passed back to his own office, leaving Luke to drift off back to where he had been before Russell had interrupted him. Absolutely nowhere.

Chapter Nine

By the time Clinton had returned, Luke was hard at work with his head buried in his computer. Even though they hadn’t yet got a firm plan of how to sort their cash issue, he figured he might as well spend some time researching what others had done before him.

What had the world used before Google came along?

There were all kinds of articles on generating funding, as well as forums and blog posts, and he began scrolling in the vain hope that something would stick out for him, something he’d missed during their first research. On a pad next to him, he wrote down a few key points to talk to talk to Clinton about. He also had a list of people to contact through his extended business network, see if he could buy them coffee and pick some brains or garner an introduction or two. If they could just get in front of a few more investors, that would be a start. Clinton himself was looking at the presentation content, though it would be down to Luke to recreate the data into something more visual. Sadly, he had few ideas at the moment.

There was one other item on the pad, a word he’d written cryptically a few days earlier. Hit. He knew what it meant, but nobody else did. It was the last item on his list of things to research. He opened a new browser tab. He’d do the research, he told himself, then make a decision on whether it was something he could actually do.

“It’s a fall-back option, nothing more,” he muttered out loud.

“First sign of madness,” said a sing-song voice. It was Russell, who happened to be passing on his way out.

“What is?”

“Talking to yourself, though I hear answering yourself is far worse.” Russell smiled good-naturedly and gave a quick wink as the door swung shut behind him. How did he always manage to be so upbeat? Luke wondered. Maybe he needed to stew in as much whiskey as Russell did each evening.

And some afternoons.

He dropped his head back into the article he’d been reading before being distracted by the word hit on his pad.

Chapter Ten

Two hours later and Luke was still hard at it when Clinton approached his desk, rubbing his eyes, specs in his hand. He stretched his jaw and brows out and replaced his specs.

“Those figures are heavy going but I think I’m about there. Want to take a look?”

“I’ll pass on the detail, thanks. Give me the main points.” Luke pushed his chair back, snagging a caster wheel on a rug just behind his desk. Annoyed, he pushed back a little harder than necessary and ended up rolling at speed across the room. It was what he needed to reawaken himself and focus on something else.

“Steady on, Luke, you’ll do yourself a mischief,” Clinton said, laughing, as Luke rolled back towards his desk and stood. He stretched like a puppy preparing for a walk after a nap, quick and lithe.

“So, what have you got, then?”

Clinton pulled out the relevant pages from his folder and recited the figures.

Luke looked at him blankly. “So, what does that mean exactly?”

Clinton stared. “You don’t know what that means?”

“No, not exactly. That’s why I’m asking.” Luke looked thoughtful for a minute and it was obvious he was pondering something.

“Luke?” Clinton prodded him.

“Hang on.” Luke was looking at the floor, deep in thought. Thirty seconds or so passed before he spoke. “I wonder if that’s it?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“We need to change the way we present this data. We need to make it more relatable, so it means something more, something they can visualize easily rather than a bunch of numbers.”

“I’m listening. Go on.”

“Do you remember when the iPod first came out and Steve Jobs showed it to the world?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, he said having an iPod was like having one thousand songs in your pocket. He didn’t say ‘It’s got a five-gig hard drive.’ He related it to something people understood straight away – one thousand songs in your pocket. People could instantly see that.” Luke was suddenly excited. “Do you get what I’m saying?”

“I do, yes, I do. Do you think that’s what we need to do then, before we present this to anyone else?”

“I’m certain of it. It worked for Steve Jobs. Why wouldn’t it work for us? We just follow the same concept, keep it clear and easy.”

“Well, we’ve got to present this on Friday. Do you think there’s enough time? It makes sense to change it beforehand.”

“Yes, it does. What we’ve been doing so far hasn’t worked, so let’s not waste another meeting doing it that way. Let’s make this happen for Friday.”

They stood quietly for a moment longer contemplating their new direction. Could they pull it off?

“This is what I suggest we do.” Clinton took charge. “I’ll pull out the main points, then together we’ll see how they can be turned into something more recognizable. Then we’ll work on finding the right way to present the data.”

“I’ll see if I can find that presentation he did and take it a step further.”

“Right. You start on the look and feel, and I’ll get the data and main points.”

Clinton looked at Luke and said, “Do you think we have something now?” His tone was almost timid.

“I hope so,” Luke added.

In the back of his mind, the cryptic word hit blinked at him.

Hit.

Hit.

Chapter Eleven

Luke and Clinton nursed bottles of lager, but neither was drinking. An unopened packet of crisps sat between them along with the silence. The only conversation came from other drinkers in the pub on a Friday lunchtime. A slot machine in the corner clanked out coins to a lucky winner, a burly man by the bar laughed heartily at his mate’s joke, and the sound of music playing in the background was a quarter turn too loud.

The boys couldn’t have cared less anyway. Their revised presentation had also fallen flat. The slug sure had a low belly.

“On the positive side, the new style of presentation went down well, don’t you think?” Luke was ever the optimistic one.

“Doesn’t matter too much now, does it? They still said no.” It was a statement rather than a question, and it sounded petulant. The fact of the matter was it had been an important meeting, because they’d exhausted their list of contacts and prospective investors. This last group had been their remaining hope. Now that hope was gone, and in its place was ‘What next?’ They’d both invested all they had personally, which wasn’t much, and cut corners at every opportunity. Their credit cards were maxed out, overdrafts at their limit. The added coincidence of its being Friday seemed to accentuate the fact that they had driven to the end of the road. There was no more money to be begged or borrowed. It was a good job they both still lived at home and had roofs over their heads.

The barman turned the volume up yet more on the stereo system as Sam Smith crooned Stay with Me, adding to Luke and Clinton’s depressed mood. To the lovers in the opposite corner of the pub sharing fries and sandwiches for lunch, the song was perfect; to the two deflated men, it was far from it. Clinton took a swig from his bottle. The golden liquid held no real interest for him; it might as well have been lemonade.

“So, what’s next then, do you think? Time to give up?” Clinton looked at Luke. He was the creative one – surely he’d think of something?

“Hell, no. We’ve come too far and invested too much to let it drift off with the next tide. I’m not doing that.”

“Then should one of us get a job, to bring some cash in? We’ve got rent due in a couple and Russell has already been great with us. I don’t want to overstep things.”

“Maybe we should move out from there, operate from a café like other entrepreneurs. All we’d need is an internet connection.”

“True enough, but what about the rent coming due? How are we going to fund even that?” Clinton reached for the bag of crisps and opened it. There was no point wasting food at a time like this. He pulled out a small handful of cheese and onion fried potato and handed the rest of the bag to Luke.

“Getting a job – one that pays enough, that is – won’t happen overnight, though. It will take months. Unless you want to scrub floors, which is about all either of us would get in the next forty-eight hours, realistically. Even then, they’d say we were overqualified and probably not take us on,” said Luke morosely.

“Well, at this rate, we might have to try. At least if we worked in a chippy we’d get fed into the bargain,” said Clinton gloomily.

Sam Smith finished his song and Adele piped up.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! What’s with the depressing music? It’s like the last dance on a Saturday night in the sad part of town.” Luke slammed his hand on the table and the barman glanced over, although he left the music as it was. Luke shook his head solemnly. Maybe the guy was feeling depressed himself – or if he wasn’t before, he sure would be now. He turned to Clinton and said, “Come on, let’s get out of here before I set fire to the damn rain myself.”

That at least raised a smile on Clinton’s face and he quickly drained the rest of his lager in one. Grabbing his jacket, he caught up with Luke, who was already nearly at the front entrance, and they went back out into the cold street. The rain had stopped, at least.

“Where to, Boss?” It was Luke’s way of being a little submissive when he needed to be. If Clinton was the serious data guy, that made him the boss man, at least for today.

“Better tell Russell we can’t pay the rent, then I’m off home. Maybe a change of scenery on a cold Friday afternoon will do some good. I’m not doing much else here. I suggest you do the same.”

“I’m not letting this mean it’s all over. Rover,” Luke said firmly. “It’s another setback, but that’s all. I’m hopeful we can carry on, aren’t you?”

Clinton stopped walking and turned to meet Luke’s eye. “I’m really not sure, to tell you the absolute truth. I don’t see how, beyond prostitution or drug dealing.”

“What happened to hit man, and where did prostitution come in?”

“Whatever, smartarse. You know what I’m saying. They’re all illegal or dangerous.” Clinton started to walk off again and Luke sped up to meet his pace.

“I hear you. Look, you’re right. Let’s tell Russell, then head home. The break will do us good.”

So that’s what they did. Russell knew it was coming but didn’t seem to care too much.

“Glad to have been a desk or two while you needed it,” he’d said. “See you around.”

Luke and Clinton had gathered up their scant belongings and left the building, each with their laptop in one hand, plastic carrier bag filled with odds and sods in the other. No one claimed the begonia; it stayed in place on the windowsill, where it had sat for the last few months.

Chapter Twelve

As soon as Sam got back to the house, her good intentions were left on the pavement. She turned the key in the door and went inside, heading to the back and the kitchen. She tossed the biscuit wrapper in the bin and flicked the kettle on as she passed it. Her coat hit a chair by the table, and then fell to the floor, where it stayed. Full of chocolate biscuits, Sam slumped down to wait for the water to boil. Her newspaper lay unopened; her fingers drummed the tabletop in thought. The clock on the cooker said a little after 12 o’clock, lunchtime, and even though she wasn’t hungry, she craved something, anything to take away the depression of the situation, of her morning. Even for Sam, it was too early for a glass of wine, so she pulled her bag towards her, reaching for the inside pocket. There was little point, really; Sam knew it was empty. She’d taken the last ones yesterday.

Being married to a detective had its drawbacks. It was hard to keep your secrets safe even in the inner sanctum of your handbag, and she had the girls’ safety to consider too, the responsibility of making sure that they never found her pills. But right now, the pills were what she craved, what she longed for – the promise of what they could take away for a short time, until it was necessary to return to reality and all that came with it.

The kettle flicked itself off. She stayed put, not really that interested in another hot drink at all; her thoughts were on something much more desirable. Standing, she picked her coat up, grabbed her keys and headed back out, slamming the front door behind her. Her Ford Focus was parked in the drive of their red brick house, gleaming blue in the ever-present rain. It started the first time, but then it always did. The car was only a few months old, bought brand new as a gift from Duncan for her last birthday. She’d been so pleased, so happy back then. She gunned the engine and her tyres squealed as they tried to catch a grip on the wet concrete. Praying she wouldn’t see anyone she knew, she headed down Clumber Road towards the A57 and across to Beswick.

And what she needed.

While she steered with her right hand, her left rummaged in her bag, fingers seeking and finding the soft pink leather wallet that had also been a gift from Duncan, though some years back. Flicking it open deftly as she drove, she fingered the stiff new bank notes, hoping they all added up to £50 so she could get the hit she so desired. Anything smaller wouldn’t do, not today. The familiar anxiety crept into her body, making its way across her chest like a heavy-limbed giant spider, grabbing at her shirt, twisting the cloth together and tightening its grip until breathing was hard work, almost impossible. And so was driving. Her windscreen was fogging up with her panting as she fought to control herself and not have a full-on panic attack. Not at the wheel, at least. Not again. She practiced taking deep breaths as she drove, telling herself slowly, “In. Out. In. Out,” her chest rising and falling as air drained away and refilled. Up ahead, she saw the road sign for the turning she needed and she indicated right, though in reality the road sign was superfluous to her requirements: Sam knew exactly where to head and could have probably done so blindfolded. Right again, then left and the house she sought was visible up ahead.

It wasn’t the nicest part of town, but drug dealers rarely operated from big houses on the affluent side of Manchester. Of course, someone would be servicing the celebs – they wouldn’t be slumming it in Beswick from an old semidetached house with grubby net curtains and weeds two feet high out front.

The house looked quiet. She hoped someone was in to process her transaction and take the pain away, take her to somewhere more relaxing, somewhere that cushioned her, like covering her in bubble wrap, helping her through the day unharmed. Then the side door opened and a tall, willowy, well-dressed blonde woman came out. She wore a pale pink skirt suit with fine stilettoes on her feet and looked rather out of place. The woman walked towards the street and Sam watched her as she crossed the road and got into a racy little high-end red Mini, not a car you’d associate with these parts either. Maybe she was a customer too, one who hadn’t found a dealer closer to home that serviced the more affluent. Or perhaps she liked the drive out here.

There was no point sitting in the car, so Sam made her own way to the side door and knocked, then waited a beat or two before knocking again. Through the opaque glass she saw movement, and the silhouette of a woman approaching. The door opened slowly. The woman, a bit older than Sam, said nothing, but beckoned Sam inside into the pokey kitchen area and motioned her to take a seat. She smiled a little and flicked the kettle on to boil, though it was all for show, in case she needed a cover story. Sam couldn’t help noticing the woman’s roots needed bleaching; there was a good four inches of dark regrowth streaked with grey in a wide stripe down the centre of her head. She was otherwise tidy in her dress, though, wearing fitted black pants and a pretty blue blouse with a tiny flower print. Her gold bangles clinked together as she busied herself. Funny the things you noticed even when you were nervous, Sam thought.

“What sort of tea would you like?” the woman enquired as she brought a shallow wooden tea box out from the pantry. Sam stared at the box like she’d never seen it before. It was made out of a fine balsa wood, stained and decorated with an intricate pattern. It looked like something you might have found in a Moroccan bazaar, and Sam wondered, as she did each time, where the woman had bought it. Maybe she had been to Morocco. Sam worked on finding her voice.

“I’ll know when I see it. I can never remember what it’s called.”

The woman opened the lid, revealing several small compartments, and lifted out the top layer that contained individually wrapped tea bags. Underneath, of course, was anything but tea. Sam scanned the compartments for what she wanted. Each little bag contained an assortment of tablets, and Sam instantly spotted the ones she preferred.

“I like it quite strong, please,” she said as calmly as she could, keeping to the code they used.

The older woman picked up bag of 80 mg tablets and showed it to Sam.

“That should be strong enough, do you think?”

Sam reached greedily for the baggy between the woman’s fingers, but the woman deftly withdrew her hand. Of course, thought Sam, mentally smacking herself. She wanted to see the cash first. Sam pulled out £50 in notes. The woman shook her head. Eighty milligrams was going to be more money. Sam pulled out the last note she had, another £20, and the woman handed over the pill.

“Perfect,” Sam said, and slipped the pill straight into her mouth. The woman passed her a glass of water, which she downed nervously.

“Actually, I’d better get going, but thanks for the offer of tea,” Sam said, and stood ready to leave. Inside she was climbing the walls, desperate to get out of the small kitchen and back into the familiar confines of her car, away from the woman, and away from the house.

She wanted to be home when the effects fully kicked in.

Chapter Thirteen

Duncan pulled into his driveway. The house was in darkness again, save for the familiar chink of light showing through the curtains. A flicker of blue light accompanied it sporadically; the TV was on. He sat in his car; the interior was toasty warm after the drive home with the car heater on full. The kids would be in bed and Sam would be stuck in front of the television, he knew. He hoped she was at least dressed today. As for something warming and tasty to eat after another long day, he doubted it. Perhaps he should have stopped off at the chippy and eaten there, but he hadn’t fancied the grease overload.

He opened the car door and the cold, damp air clung to his face as he took the few steps towards the side door and inside. He’d told himself on the drive over that he wasn’t going to be angry or disappointed, that he was to be positive and upbeat, pleased to see her, pleased she was okay, pleased the children were fast asleep. After a day working a missing children case, there were more important things to be thinking about than arguing with your wife. Everyone inside this house was safe and sound, and he thanked God for that.

“Hi Sam, it’s me. I’m back,” he shouted through from the kitchen, but there was no reply. He sighed and collected himself as he opened the door into the lounge. He tried again.

“Hi Sam, I’m home.”

Sam turned towards him and smiled. “Hi, Duncan. I didn’t hear you drive up. Good day at work?” She muted the sound on the TV, a good start.

“Ah, you know, it’s always tough when children are involved,” he said with a weak smile. “What’s for dinner? Is there anything made?” He was hoping, just not expecting.

“I’ll put some soup and toast on for you. You sit down – you look done in.”

Well, that was the truth. As for soup? At least it was hot and quick and reasonably nutritious.

“Thanks, love. Four slices, please. I’m ravenous.” He began undoing his shoes and flicked them both off, wiggling his sock-covered toes, then flopped down on the soft sofa and closed his eyes for a moment. Sam headed into the kitchen and Duncan could hear the soup pan hitting the stove, the toaster springs creaking as bread was pushed down into it, the clink of a bowl being retrieved from the cupboard.

And humming from Sam.

Still with his eyes closed, he tried to figure out two things: the last time he’d heard her hum, and what the song she was humming could be. He didn’t have a clue to either of them. He opened his eyes and stared at the TV. The set was still silent; the screen showed judges scoring a batch of scones made by a group of hopefuls. He pressed the mute button again and voices filled the room. He let the mundaneness of it wash over his body while he waited.

Sam put her head around the door. “Who won the challenge?”

“Sorry, Sam, I wasn’t paying much attention. I didn’t hear.”

Sam flitted back into the kitchen to pour the soup and Duncan sensed that she was on edge again. He cringed; the slightest thing could end in a row, he knew, and he desperately wanted to avoid one. Not only that, he hadn’t the energy left to defend himself. He closed his eyes again and only opened them when the soup and toast arrived on a tray. Sam placed it roughly on the coffee table in front of him; some of the liquid slopped over the edge of the bowl. He said nothing, and neither did Sam. Instead, he stood and went to get some paper towel from the kitchen to mop it up. He was careful not to meet her eyes.

“I’ve missed the end now. I don’t know who won,” she whined accusingly.

Duncan concentrated on his toast, crunching loudly. Crumbs dropped into his tomato soup, his favourite. He heard her huffs and puffs of exasperation at missing the end of her program, but he carried on eating, willing her tension to drop back to a near normal level.

The last couple of days at work had been tough, and the nights at home were not much better. Their house wasn’t what you’d call a relaxing environment to come home to. And he hadn’t seen his two girls in three days. They were always still in bed when he left and fast asleep when he returned. He’d look in and kiss them anyway when he’d finished his supper, but it wasn’t ideal. If he got some down time at the weekend he’d make it up to them, but that depended on the case. Leave had been suspended and everyone was expected to join in the search; the department was throwing all available resources at this case in the hope that the two missing children would be brought home alive and well, and quickly. They all knew the first twenty-four hours were crucial, and that deadline had passed, meaning the chances of the children’s safe return had slimmed down considerably. Nobody voiced the reality, of course, but everyone doggedly kept their hopes up.

He was aware the volume on the TV was back up and Sam was talking.

“You didn’t hear a word of that, did you?”

Here we go.

“Sorry, Sam, I was miles away. What did you say?”

“Oh, never mind! You’re no different when you are here to when you’re not here. I’m talking to myself either way.” She got up and stomped towards the stairs in an obvious huff, but Duncan called her back before she had chance to disappear.

“I said sorry, Sam. What did you want to ask me?” He stood up to make his point, hands on his hips. He really didn’t want to go there again – not another row, not tonight.

“Oh, just sod off, would you?” she yelled, and thumped up the stairs. There was little point Duncan saying anything or going after her; it would certainly turn nasty while she was in such a foul mood. He flopped back down, deflated, muted the TV again and tried to finish his soup and toast, but the food stuck in his throat. It was like eating balls of cotton wool dipped in ketchup. He dropped his spoon onto the tray, stood, and took his things to the sink where he rinsed his dishes. He opened the dishwasher door. It was still full of dirty dishes from earlier in the day.

“Dear Lord,” he said to himself. Sighing, he put a tablet in the soap dispenser and switched the machine on, leaving his tray on the kitchen bench until the morning. Exhausted, he quietly slipped upstairs, avoiding the bedroom he shared with Sam. Instead, he tiptoed to the girls’ room and kissed his two sleeping beauties on their foreheads, being careful not to wake them. Leaving their door open just a crack, he tiptoed to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then slipped into the PJs that hung on the back of the bathroom door, grabbed a couple of blankets from the hall cupboard, and settled himself back down on the sofa for the night. Within ten minutes of lying down, he was fast asleep, the TV still flickering.

Chapter Fourteen

Sam lay alone in the double bed seething inwardly. She’d heard him climb the stairs and go into see the girls, but then he’d surprised her and gone back down to the TV room. When she’d crept to the bathroom shortly after, Sam had noticed his PJs, which normally hung on the back of the bathroom door were gone. He must have collected them with the intention of staying well away from her for the rest of the night, and that was a first for them both. The thought depressed her. But really, what did she expect after telling him to do one and then storming upstairs, closing their bedroom door behind her? It was hardly an invitation for some love and affection, now, was it?

The digital clock read 12.15 a.m., and sleep eluded her as usual. She knew it was going to be a long night. Perhaps she could get through to the kitchen unnoticed and make herself some tea, though she didn’t want to face him if he awoke. She felt a twinge of guilt for her overreaction this time, but she knew her short temper was a symptom of how their relationship had deteriorated over the last six months or so. There was little love between them now.

Love. Where had it gone?

Sam flipped the bedside lamp on and the room glowed a pale peach colour, not bright enough to read by but just bright enough to fall asleep by. On the cabinet next to her pillow sat a wedding picture of the two of them. They would be ten years married next anniversary round, and Sam stared at the picture, dissecting herself ruthlessly. How she’d changed over the decade from that day. Her sun-kissed hair had been styled in an attractive and romantic up-do with tiny flowers woven through. Her figure had been slender in the full-length creamy silk slip dress, and she had looked radiant. Duncan for his part had looked happy and handsome. His cravat matched her dress and those of the two tiny bridesmaids. The sun had shone gloriously as the photographer had snapped away in the church gardens; the roses had been in full bloom. Where had those two happy people vanished?

Sam looked at the young bridesmaids again. They had been the same ages then as her two girls were now, and she stroked their bright little faces through the glass. Thoughts of that day, their vanished happiness and the two little girls fast asleep in the other room made her eyes brim with tears. But she caught herself, wiped them away with the hem of the bedsheet and climbed out of bed, headed for Jasmine’s room next door. The handle creaked a little as it turned and she slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind her. She heard the light sounds of a little body breathing peacefully, unaware there was someone stood by the bed, watching and listening. She knelt down beside the bed and whispered what she wanted to say, knowing there was no way anyone could or would hear her.

“You know how much I love you, both of you, don’t you? I hope you do, my love, because I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my two precious girls safe from harm and always happy. Whatever it takes, understand? You’ll always have me, your mother, looking over you, no matter what. I just want you to know that. No matter what.”

Standing, she kissed Jasmine lightly on the cheek and headed to Victoria’s room, to check on her and kiss her goodnight. Once she was satisfied both were settled and fast asleep, she went out to her own room and the empty bed and climbed back in. The sheets were now cool and the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped a few degrees, so she burrowed down under the covers, pulling them up over her head, and finally let the tears fall freely.

Eventually, Sam fell into a deep, undisturbed sleep. She slept so soundly, in fact, that she slept through the alarm the following morning. When she finally did come to, it was gone nine o’clock. Her first thought was the girls.

“Oh, no!” she groaned, scrambling out of bed. “The girls!” She grabbed her robe as she flew from her room. Unsurprisingly, the girls’ door was open and the bed was empty. Victoria’s room was empty as well. Calling their names, her heart pounding, she catapulted herself down the stairs at speed and flung the lounge door open.

“Jasmine! Victoria! Where are you?”

That room was empty, too, but she noticed two folded blankets on the arm of the sofa. Duncan must have stayed there all night and tidied them away earlier this morning. She dashed through to the kitchen, expecting to see two small faces eating Cocoa Pops at the table, but it was empty.

“Jasmine! Victoria! Where are you?” she called again. But it was obvious the house was empty.

The girls were gone.

Perhaps Duncan had got them ready and taken them to school? But why hadn’t he woken her? She looked around the work surface for a note, but there was nothing. If Duncan had taken them to school, he wouldn’t have been so heartless to not leave a note, would he? There was only one way to find out. She’d have to call him.

Then a thought hit her. What if he had taken them? He would know she had only just got up and would be furious with her for oversleeping. But what if he hadn’t taken them? That would be far worse. There was no choice: she dialled his number and waited for it to connect.

“Hi,” he said evenly.

Sam blurted out her question. “Did you take the girls to school?”

“What? No, I left around seven a.m. Why, was I supposed to today? Have I forgotten something?”

“No, you weren’t. It’s just, well I overslept and when I woke up, they were both gone. I figured you had taken them, but there was no note.” Her voice rose in panic as the tears came.

“Oh my God! Where are they?”

Sam disconnected the call and raced back upstairs, calling her children’s names, but the house was still eerily quiet. She knew they were gone.

And now Duncan was heading back home.

“My babies, where are you?” she wailed as she threw on jeans and a sweater. Oh God… Tears blurred her vision. She’d finally done it. She’d screwed up and lost them forever. How had she managed to oversleep and not hear them? How long had they been gone? Stuffing her feet into her old trainers by the front door, she grabbed her jacket from the banister rail and fled the house.

It was freezing cold outside, but at least it wasn’t raining. Calling for Jasmine and Victoria, her eyes flitting frantically from side to side, she zipped up her jacket as she trotted along, trying to keep from screaming. No, that wouldn’t do. They had to be close by. Maybe they were playing in a neighbour’s yard. Had they got coats on? she wondered. Why hadn’t she checked that before legging it out in a rush? Picking up the pace, she rushed down the street, still calling, stopping everyone she passed to ask if they’d seen two little girls out on their own.

Nobody had.

After circling the immediate streets and looking over garden hedges calling their names, she slowed to a walk again and then stood still, a heavy feeling of dread settling in her gut.

What had happened to them?

What had she done? She was to blame, and now she had no choice but to call Duncan again and update him. With shaking hands, she punched his number into her mobile again.

“I’m nearly home now,” he said. “Meet me back there and we’ll form a plan.”

He didn’t sound mad at her, only concerned. But she knew his anger at her stupidity, her carelessness, would come. The blame game would start all over again, and she’d get to be the loser this time for sure.

But another question entered her head. How had they actually got outside if they’d gone under their own steam? Duncan always locked the door behind him when he left so early – always. Though if the door had been left unlocked, it would have been all too easy for an intruder to enter.

And help themselves.

She couldn’t bear to think about that.

So, had the door been left unlocked while she slept? That would be the first question she’d asked Duncan when he got home.

She was rounding the corner at the end of the street when she saw his car pull up outside their house. She broke into a run and called out to him.

“Duncan!”

He stood and watched as she slowed to a stop, breathless after the short distance.

“I’ve looked around here locally – nothing. I can’t think where they’d have gone.” She bent and put her hands on her knees, gasping.

Duncan, always the calm one, asked, “Have you checked their school? Maybe they just went on their own.”

She shook her head. “I just panicked and went out to look, and then I called you. Oh, Duncan! Where can they have got to?”

But Duncan was busy dialling the school. He spoke to the secretary and then listened gravely, nodding. He asked her to call if she did see them and then ended the call. He shook his head at Sam.

“I’m taking that as a no, then?” she said, her mouth dry.

“That’s right.” His voice tightened. “Where the hell were you?”

“I overslept. I didn’t hear a thing.”

Slowly, his next words scraped through his teeth. “You have one job and one job only, and that is to take care of our girls and the house. And you can’t even do that properly.” He paused and took a breath, visibly controlling himself. “You are aware there is someone taking children out there at the moment, I assume? Two young girls are already unaccounted for. I hope to God you haven’t doubled that.”

“Did you lock the door after you when you left this morning?” she asked.

“What? Of course I did.” Then he got her meaning. “Oh, so you think I’m to blame, then, do you, for leaving the door unlocked?” His voice rose several octaves, incredulous. “Well, I locked it. I always lock it. It’s what I do to keep my family safe. But I’m not the one they’re left in charge with. That falls on you – but you were too busy sleeping, and now look!”

Sam hadn’t got the words to fight back. She knew she’d screwed up. The girls were her responsibility while she was at home all day.

Duncan could see the fight had left her and calmed a little as tears filled her eyes again. The detective in him took over from the father.

“Look, this is getting us nowhere. Tell me where you’ve looked so far, and I’ll get a couple of the lads to give us a hand. If we haven’t found them in the next two hours, we’ll make an official missing persons report. I need you to make a list of all of their friends and favourite places and we’ll start there. Okay?”

Sam nodded her agreement, glad he was taking over, giving them a plan to work to. She went back inside to get a pen and paper and make the list. When it was complete, she sat and began calling the parents of their daughters’ friends.

Chapter Fifteen

His heart in his mouth, Duncan drove the local streets looking for his two little sweethearts, fighting down a rising sense of panic. How far could two little girls go on their own? Heavens, they were only seven and eight and, to his knowledge, not particularly street-smart. The streets worried him, particularly the busy main A57 road that led into the city. If they’d gone anywhere near there… It didn’t bear thinking about. He’d called Rochelle and she’d organized a couple of uniformed officers to give them a hand. Right now, four units were actively looking. In another hour, he’d pull out every stop that he could to bring them home safely. Sometimes being in the police had its perks, though he hoped he never needed to use his colleagues again.

Disappointment in Sam stabbed his heart again. Try as he might, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. The last few months had been hard to watch, hard to understand, and hard to deal with. And now this. It couldn’t get any worse than this. What his future with Sam was he was unsure, but he knew one thing. If he left, if they split up, he would take the girls with him, because no judge in the world would let her have custody of them after this. He’d see to it. These cases were usually stacked against the male parents, he knew, but not this time. His phone rang. Rochelle.

“I’m guessing nothing at your end?” she asked him.

“Sadly, no. I can’t see how they could have gone so far away. Even if they left right after me at seven a.m., which they wouldn’t have, they’re on foot.” He didn’t want to think about them getting a lift with a stranger. “How far can two sets of tiny feet go?”

“We’ll find them, Duncan,” she told him determinedly. “It’s really early on. They’re probably playing somewhere, unaware of the commotion going on to find them. And when they get hungry, they’ll be back up your front path before you know it.”

Duncan knew she was trying to be optimistic; he’d told many parents the same story. But he knew the statistics; that was the downside to being a detective.

“I’ll call you later,” he said, and clicked off, returning his focus to the street he was cruising down. His stomach felt like someone had filled it with cement. His thoughts circled back to Sam and her lazy ways, lying in bed while his girls wandered out of the house. Were they warm enough? Had she checked if their coats were gone? He didn’t remember asking her, and the point was important. He called her using the hands-free and she picked up almost instantly.

“Found them?” she blurted.

“No. No, not yet.” Keep positive. “Have you checked if they took their coats with them?”

“What? Oh, no – hang on. I’ll run and look.” The car was silent while he waited for her to check the hall cupboard. Then she was back.

“Both coats are gone. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“I’m not sure if there is anything good here, but yes, it could mean they went under their own steam. I’ll keep looking.”

He rang off, not bothering with goodbye, and let out a heavy sigh of relief that their coats were in fact gone. What predator would kit them out before snatching them? No, on the surface, it looked like they had let themselves out and gone on an adventure.

So where were they?

Chapter Sixteen

Back at the house, Sam had called everyone she could think of, but nobody had seen her two girls. She then called Anika and told her the full story, big wet tears falling down both cheeks as she talked.

“What can I do to help?” her friend asked her.

Anika wasn’t one for sitting around in a crisis, and Sam welcomed her strength. While Duncan had strength, their relationship was at breaking point and she was unable to draw any reassurance from him.

“Duncan is out searching the streets, as are some officers. Can you come over? I could do with a hug.”

Anika agreed, though she thought it odd that her friend wanted her for a hug. Surely, she could be more productive elsewhere? Sighing, she grabbed her purse and said she’d be right over.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Sam rang off and reached for her own bag. She pulled out the painkillers she’d bought from a pharmacy on the edge of town yesterday. She stared at the half-empty blister pack; there were only six left. They’d have to do. She pushed all six Paramol into the palm of her hand and threw them all to the back of her mouth, then washed them down with the remainder of the almost-cold tea that was in her mug. That should take the edge off for a while. She tossed the empty packet into the pedal bin in the kitchen cupboard and closed the door.

On any other day, she would have shredded the packaging into tiny pieces to make it invisible amongst the other bin contents. Half the problem of taking as many painkillers as she did was destroying the evidence. She had almost bought a small garden incinerator from the hardware store for the job, but she knew Duncan would have asked her what it was for, since she did no work in or out of the house.

She heard the front door open as Anika let herself in and called out to Sam.

“I’m in the lounge. Come on through.”

Anika came straight over to her, wrapping her arms around her and pulling her close. Sam’s skin on her face was hot and damp with tears, her eyes puffy and swollen. Finally, she stepped back, took Sam’s clammy hands in her own and sat them both on the sofa.

“I feel for you, Sam, I really do. But let’s stay positive. You said they have their coats, so I’m betting they are off playing someplace and will be home later. Didn’t you ever go off when you were little and scare your parents half to death, like they’re doing right now with you both?”

Sam nodded ever so slightly as she remembered. Anika smiled.

“And what made you go back home? Do you remember?”

Sam nodded again. “I got hungry. I’d missed dinner and it was going dark.”

“There you are, then. They’ll be famished soon enough and either make their way home or, if they’ve got lost, go and tell someone. You’ll see I’m right.” Anika beamed at Sam in the hope it would cheer her, help her think back to her own experience and how she’d got home that night. It made it all the more believable and was better than the alternative story.

“I’ll make some more tea,” Anika said, pointing to Sam’s empty mug.

Sam tried to stand but her head had other ideas. Her vision swam and she sat straight back down. She closed her eyes for a moment while Anika busied herself in the kitchen. By the time the fresh tea was ready and the two mugs were on the coffee table, Sam was fast asleep.

Chapter Seventeen

The elderly woman had been watching from her bedroom window. Two young girls were playing alone in the park and had been enjoying themselves for more than an hour. She’d thought it strange that they weren’t in school, but in this neighbourhood it wasn’t that unusual to see truant ones hanging about – though she had to concede they were generally older than the two she’d been watching. Still, they were having fun out in the open; no harm in that.

Mrs. Skeen had never had children of her own, never been lucky in that way, but she had always enjoyed the company of young ones where she could, helping as a teacher’s assistant years back and with local playgroups until more recently. She so enjoyed their chatter, their young words of random wisdom and oblivious reasoning, their eager young minds so alive with wonder before reality set in. She always hoped their lives wouldn’t turn out as hers had.

She checked the clock on the mantelpiece as she passed it on her way to get her coat and boots, but that really wasn’t necessary. Instinctively, she knew it was time, time to bring them inside, time to make a call. She pulled on an old pair of knitted gloves, put her hood up against the cold wind and set off. It would take her a while to move the short distance, but that didn’t matter; time was something she had plenty of.

Closing the back door behind her, she made her way down the side alley and out towards the park and the busy A57 that ran along it, right along the front of her house. A heavy-goods truck whooshed past and whipped the cold, damp air into her face. Miniscule droplets of moisture clung to her skin, making the fine hairs on her jaw look like cobwebs drenched in heavy morning dew. She waited on the pavement opposite the park entrance. And waited. Finally, the traffic cleared, and she ambled across towards the metal railings and the gate. How she was going to get back across the busy road was a different matter, but she figured the answer would come to her at the time. It usually did.

Each breath preceded her like small fog clouds in front of her face; her breathing was short and shallow. As she made her way towards the two little girls, she wondered absently what their education had been thus far on not talking to strangers. Her task could prove a little more difficult than she thought. Again, the answer would be clear soon enough.

Little voices giggling up ahead made her smile. Oh, so innocent. Oh, to be that tender young age again, with not a care in the world, no knowledge of what lay ahead of them. Oh, the changes she would have made to her own life – if only she’d been able... The giggles increased in volume as she neared them both and now the old woman could see their matching pink coats, their matching rosy cheeks, pink from the cold.

They stopped giggling when they saw her. Victoria, the eldest at seven, gently nudged Jasmine behind her, much to Jasmine’s annoyance. The old woman noticed and smiled; one day protecting her sister in that manner might come in handy, she thought. Bending down to their level, she spoke.

“Having fun?” she enquired cheerily.

Victoria didn’t say a word. Jasmine nodded in reply. Both wore serious expressions on their tiny faces. It was clear the ‘Don’t talk to strangers’ message had been learned in their home. Wise indeed, thought Mrs. Skeen.

She pressed on. “I couldn’t help noticing you were out here alone on such a cold day, and not at school. Are you on an adventure, by chance?”

She beamed at them both. The moisture clinging to her hairy chin made the dark hairs look lighter than they really were.

Victoria had never seen such a hairy chin, and fixated on it, trying not to blink.

“I won’t bite you, you know. I’m not the bad wolf, my loves. You can tell me what you’re up to. I’m guessing it’s your secret?”

Jasmine nodded again and opened her mouth to speak, but Victoria dug her elbow into her ribs.

“Ouch!” Jasmine exclaimed.

Then Victoria spoke. “We’re off school. Mummy isn’t feeling very well, so we’ve left her sleeping.” Still, she couldn’t take her eyes off the woman’s damp chin.

“Well, since you’ve been here a while now in the cold, who would like some warm blackcurrant and a biscuit or two? I’ll be betting you’re both hungry by now?”

Two little faces bobbed up and down as they nodded.

“I live just over there,” Mrs. Skeen said, pointing to the house across the way. “Let’s get you warmed up, and I’ll see if there’s a chocolate biscuit or two left, shall we? Then we can let your mummy know you’re both okay.”

Two blank faces stared at her, so she carried on. “I’ll be betting when she wakes up and finds you gone, she’ll be worried, and we don’t want that, do we?”

The girls shook their heads gravely, taking in her every word. Mrs. Skeen reached out to take their hands now, enfolding one in each of her woolly paws. Hand in hand, the little group walked slowly out of the park gates and back towards the A57.

“So,” said Mrs. Skeen brightly as they walked slowly along, “what are your names?”

“I’m Victoria, and this is Jasmine.”

“What pretty names for pretty girls. Do you live around here?”

“Sort of. It’s quite a walk away.”

“Not to worry. Let’s get across the road and have some juice, shall we?”

Both girls had started to relax a little and nodded excitedly. They’d missed breakfast and were hungry. The thought of something warming in their tums was appealing.

The three of them stood on the edge of the pavement waiting for the traffic to ease. Finally, there was a gap, and they made their way across and up the short distance to Mrs. Skeen’s house. Steering them both down the side entry, she unlocked the door and led them both inside. The warmth of the house took the chill off them all as she led them through to the lounge and the welcoming open fire.

“You get yourselves warmed up and I’ll get the juice ready,” she said, and pottered off to the kitchen out back. She flicked the button on the kettle, poured cordial into three mugs and searched the biscuit barrel for six chocolate biscuits.

Then she made a phone call.

Chapter Eighteen

“It’s got to be time for a break, hasn’t it? I’m starved,” moaned Ruth. “My stomach thinks my throat has been cut it’s so long since it was last fed.”

Amanda smiled across at Ruth. “You can when we’ve finished this wall. I’m almost out of paint in the tray anyway. Hold on until then?”

Ruth rolled her bottom lip over her top like a child, knowing it worked most times on Amanda. She’d get what she wanted almost immediately. Today though, Amanda wanted to get the walls finished at the very least. She had pale blue paint in her blonde fringe, which was sticking out from under her cap, and paint covered the top of that too.

“That won’t work on me today, sweetheart. I’m on a mission to get this finished. I’m over it already – aren’t you?”

“I’ll be fine when I’ve been fed and watered – ready to go with gusto, I’m sure. I just need sustenance to carry on.” Ruth wiped the back of her hand across her forehead to mimic fainting.

“You sound like a frail old woman, Mrs. McGregor-Lacey. If you stopped moaning and finished the wall, you’d get your sustenance quicker.”

Ruth smiled broadly. “It sounds great, doesn’t it? ‘Mrs. McGregor-Lacey.’” She enunciated each word, feeling each of them on her tongue, and beamed at Amanda. “What a fab day that was, wasn’t it?”

Amanda watched Ruth savour the memory, paintbrush in hand, nowhere near the wall she was supposed to be doing the edges of. Ruth was someplace else.

“Okay, you win. Down tools,” Amanda said reluctantly, though without any malice. “I’ll put the kettle on. Or do you want coffee?”

Smiling, knowing she’d won, Ruth placed a sticky brush on the upturned paint tin lid and went to Amanda, arms open.

“Coffee, please, and a kiss. Then I’ll have some of that banana cake you bought if there’s any left.”

The two women embraced, savouring for a moment the closeness of being a newly married couple.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Ruth said softly.

“It certainly does.” Amanda smiled back at her. “Okay, I’ll get the coffee while you clean your hands. How on earth do you manage to get so much paint off the bristles and onto places you’re not directing them? Is the wall not a big enough canvas for you?” She looked Ruth up and down. “I bet you were terrible at potato-stamp painting in preschool,” she added as she headed downstairs.

Ruth smiled to herself and went to gaze out of the front bedroom window. The pale sky blue of the nearly finished walls almost matched the winter sky outside. The sun had only managed to climb a little way up and was hanging low over the rooftops. Wet washing blew on clotheslines in back gardens like bunting at a fete. An elderly couple sauntered up the road together and unclipped a front gate; Ruth heard it clank and rattle as it closed again. Probably visiting their grandchildren, thought Ruth. Would she and Amanda ever have children? she wondered, not for the first time.

Ruth was a career woman, running her own successful digital business, and her biological clock was rapidly approaching its use-by date. Amanda had already passed that point, though a pregnancy at her age wasn’t impossible, just riskier – if they decided to go that way, that was. If not, there were plenty of other ways to have a family.

Ruth could hear the coffee machine chugging in the kitchen as she headed out the back door to the outside tap. Bits of blue sluiced onto the concrete as she rinsed her hands, though her fingernails looked like they’d need a scrubbing brush. She sensed Amanda nearby.

“Perhaps rubber gloves for you, eh? That’s going to take some removing later,” she said, watching over Ruth’s bent body.

“Good job I’ve not got a hot date tonight, then,” Ruth quipped. “Which reminds me, I’m thinking Wong’s for takeaway later, then we can order and pick it up when it suits rather than go out to eat. Cooking is too much bother when the place is in uproar with decorating. Does that work for you?”

“I’m never one to turn down sweet-and-sour pork balls; you know that,” Amanda said.

“And since we need to keep on painting, why don’t we go have brunch tomorrow before we get started?” Ruth said. She cocked her head back and painted in the imaginary sky with her hands. “Crispy bacon, lightly scrambled eggs, thick toast and a couple of mugs of coffee. Mmm, bliss – my idea of heaven. What do you say?”

Looking bemused again, Amanda conceded. “Talking of bacon, Jack and I called in at a layby food van for a bacon sandwich and a cuppa a couple of days ago. And the oddest thing happened.”

“Oh? What was that?” Ruth asked as she turned the tap off and dried her hands on her shirt-tail.

“It was tipping down, but the van was as busy as ever, and the men in front of us went back to their BMW with their order, sat for a moment or two as we watched, then threw their bacon sandwiches and drinks straight out of the window and drove off. They weren’t speeding off in a mad hurry, but it was odd. Who throws bacon sandwiches away? And they were damn good too, if ours were anything to go by.”

The two women went back indoors and sat down to coffee and banana cake.

“Well, not me, that’s for sure,” Ruth said, licking frosting from her fingers. “Did you do them for littering?” She took another big bite of cake. Crumbs dropped down the front of her paint-splattered shirt.

“No, I had better things to do with my time. Anyway, I was busy with my own sandwich. We both thought it was strange, though.”

With a mouth full of the remaining cake, Ruth stood and grabbed her coffee, scattering crumbs on the floor.

“It is. But now, Sherlock, it’s time to get the next and final wall done, so bring your coffee and let’s get to it.”

“Yes, master – or should I say ‘Yes, Doctor Watson’?” Amanda kidded, and followed Ruth back upstairs for the final leg of decorating their bedroom. But despite their joking, the question still nagged at her. Why would someone, two people actually, throw perfectly good bacon sandwiches out the window – ever?

Chapter Nineteen

Jack was hard at work when Amanda put her face around his computer screen.

“Morning, sunshine,” she greeted him brightly. Jack noticed a twinkle in her blue eyes.

“Morning, Lacey, or should I say McGregor-Lacey now?”

“Either is fine, but Lacey will do. You’ve called me that for so many years now. What are you up to?”

Jack peered closely at a list on his screen.

“I had a bit of a thought – a hunch, really.” His forefinger scrolled down the screen like a pointer as he read, the words coming slowly as he searched.

“Oh? What about?”

“About the chaps who threw away their sandwiches at that food van the other day.” He continued to scroll.

“I’ve not got that out of my mind either, funnily enough. Seems silly, eh?”

Jack looked away from his screen. He wore bright-pink reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

Amanda smiled. “But not as silly as you wearing my spare reading glasses. Where are yours?”

“First, I’d have thought this early on in your newly wedded bliss you’d be thinking about other things at weekends than sandwiches flying from windows. Second, someone has swiped mine from my drawer and I can’t see a damn thing close up without a pair.”

Amanda ignored him. “So, back to my previous question: what are you up to?”

Jack sat back in his chair and slipped the glasses up on top of his head, Kardashian style. “Remember those ice cream vans that were selling cocaine to students outside the library on campus? I got to wondering if that food van was selling something a bit more lucrative than tea and sandwiches. Easy enough to hide a baggy inside a baggy, eh?”

“Well, it’s not a new thing, is it? The drug wars back in the eighties in Glasgow were about ice cream vans and drug turf disputes, so I guess it’s plausible. Could be anything, though, not just cocaine.”

“My point exactly. Anything small enough to slip inside a sandwich bag along with a sandwich as disguise. And something not too obvious to insert, from the vendor’s point of view, though they’d have to be extremely careful. Take us, for instance: two coppers. They wouldn’t have known us from Jack.”

Amanda smiled and rolled her eyes at his unintended pun.

“Yeah, yeah, very funny,” he mock-growled at her. “You’ll be reminding me of the Schitt family next.” He started to recite what he could remember, using his fingers to get all of the names right. “Jack Schitt was married to Noe Schitt. They had several kids: Holie Schitt, Giva Schitt, Fulla Schitt, Bull Schitt, and the twins Deep Schitt and Dip Schitt…”

Amanda waved her arms in the air in defeat.

“Okay, stop!” she called before he went on any further. “And Noe went on to re-marry Ted Sherlock after a divorce and kept her double-barrelled surname, making her Noe Schitt-Sherlock. Yes, I and everyone else in here have heard that story, Jack.”

“I know, but it cracks me up every time I hear it, so humour me sometimes, eh?”

“Funny, that’s the second time I’ve heard Sherlock in the last forty-eight hours. Must be something in the water.”

“Let’s hope it’s not Schitt.” He grinned at her.

“Riiiiiiight.” Amanda cleared her throat, refocusing. “So, again, what are you searching for?”

“I’m looking at recent and old cases, because if they had turf wars in Glasgow back then, they may well have turf wars down here too. These vans are mobile, remember? So, they might not be locals.”

“Good thinking. So, what’s the plan, then?”

“I don’t really have one yet. We don’t know if there’s even been a crime committed.”

Amanda looked at her watch. It was still early.

“Then do you fancy a drive out? I suggest we grab an early coffee from that layby van again and see what we can see for an hour. If nothing happens, we’ll keep an eye out from a distance, get a couple of the others to pop in for sandwiches on occasion, that type of thing. It’s only a hunch there’s even anything going on at this point.”

Jack stood and closed down his computer. They grabbed their coats, scarves, and bags, and headed out to the car park.

“I’ll drive,” Jack said, getting his keys out. He really hated being the passenger and much preferred to be in control. Driving also gave him the right to choose the music if they played any. And since he’d discovered music streaming without the need for CDs, the music world was his oyster. In reality, that meant he listened to even more of the old stuff, not the modern noise whose words he couldn’t hear.

The car blipped open. He climbed into the driver’s seat and Amanda got in beside him. They set out into a bright but cold winter’s day. The sun’s glare hit him straight in the eyes and he pulled his visor down.

“That’s bright,” he moaned, and pulled what he thought were his sunglasses down off his head. Amanda threw her head back and laughed as her pink reading glasses settled back on his nose.

“Very funny. Very funny indeed. You were waiting for that, weren’t you?” Jack growled and yanked the glasses off his face.

“Of course I was! I just wondered when you’d finally notice,” she said, and carried on giggling until Jack finally saw the funny side of it too.

“I’ll get you back for this, Amanda. You mark my words.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Amanda roared, and the two of them howled together as they set off towards the layby.

Chapter Twenty

By the time they had pulled up at the food van, there was quite a queue, made more bearable by the tepid winter sunshine. The pale yellow ball in the sky gave off a feeble heat, like half a bar on an old electric heater at a grandmother’s shins. No need for sunscreen today; there’d be more danger in a hot cup of tea. Jack approached the van and joined the back of the queue. Amanda stayed in the passenger seat surveying those parked up in the layby. Cars of all types were parked up – a few small vans, a motorcycle; nothing out of the ordinary. Trucks were not an option; the parking was too limited.

Amanda watched Jack watching the queue. A tall blonde woman, her head covered in 80s-style frizz to her shoulders, stood directly in front of him, making it difficult for him to see round. Amanda doubted she was the motorcycle rider; she’d never get her comb through her hair ever again. And she wasn’t wearing leathers either, although the person in front of her was. This one was shorter in stature, with short dark hair and the typical V-shaped body of someone who spent time developing their upper chest; probably a male, Amanda thought. Then it was suit in front of suit in front of suit, all varying heights and widths, all playing with their phones. A total of seven people patiently waited their turn, and considering it wasn’t really breakfast time or morning coffee time but somewhere in between, that struck Amanda as quite a lot. Maybe the food van was that good and these people were regulars. Yes, her bacon sandwich had been nice, but queue-worthy?

A suit up front took his bag and Styrofoam cup back to his car and got in. Amanda adjusted herself to see what he was doing, but he was too far away. But he didn’t just drive off; he sat long enough to perhaps eat what was in the bag. Another suit made his way back to his Mercedes, slipped inside, and then immediately hit the road and sped off, at unnecessary speed Amanda thought. That left two more suits, the biker and Blondie as well as Jack. Another suit joined in behind Jack, a woman this time, in a dark trouser suit. She began texting while she waited. The two remaining suits were served quickly. Both clutched white bags and soon left the layby.

Finally, Jack was served and trotted back to the car with their order. He climbed into the car, and he and Amanda watched the layby activity as they slowly chewed on fresh bacon sandwiches and sipped their tea, in no particular rush.

“There was nothing to see waiting in the queue, and I didn’t hear anything untoward either. The most I got was ‘red sauce or brown.’ And I couldn’t see big notes being handed over either, so if they are selling something illegally, they’re not taking payment at transaction time, and dealers don’t do that. It’s not good business sense – drugs on the never-never.” He took another bite and red sauce dropped down his tie.

“Oh, sod it!” he exclaimed, and Amanda passed her napkin across, not wanting to wipe the sauce herself and smear it. Naturally, he managed to smear it himself and Amanda chuckled to herself, careful not to let him hear.

“Well, maybe payment is cashless now,” she said. “Everything else we buy is going that way. Maybe the crims are going the same way – technology. You’ve heard of monthly subscription services for things like Netflix and what have you? Maybe these vans are doing the same thing, or maybe they have an app?”

“Eh?”

“Well, think about it. Why not? Open an account, pay some money in, then transfer it as or before you purchase.” Jack looked sceptical and Amanda carried on, “I’m not saying that’s what they’re doing. I don’t even know if that’s possible – and again, we don’t actually know if anything is going on. The queue could be because they sell great sandwiches and tea, which is no crime.

“I can think of plenty of places that I’ve bought bacon sandwiches from that should have been a crime they were so bad. I mean, who in their right mind cooks bacon so it’s still pink? It’s got to be well cooked, crispy even. Just don’t give me pale pink, not ever.”

Amanda nodded in agreement as she scrunched her bag up and wiped her mouth on a tissue from her bag. She gathered their rubbish and opened her door to get out. As she threw the waste paper into the bin, she noticed a couple of what looked like miniature empty sachets of salt sticking out from under a cup.

She pondered for a moment. “Now that’s odd,” she mumbled quietly to herself. “Who puts salt on bacon sandwiches?” She checked her surroundings, then, using her discarded tissue, she carefully pulled them out by their corners. She folded the tissue over them and slipped them into her pocket. Then, she gently pushed other debris so one side and saw a couple more. In fact, as she focused, she could see the edges of yet more little packets, identical to the ones in her pocket. She took another tissue from her bag, had another quick look round to see that no one was watching, plucked the rest of the packets out, then headed back to where Jack was waiting.

“You got something?” he enquired when she was safely in. He’d seen her lean into the bin and figured she wasn’t still hungry.

“Let’s see, shall we?”

Chapter Twenty-One

Luke and Clinton had glumly gone their separate ways for the weekend. It had been a depleting day for them both. Nobody said getting a business off the ground was going to be easy, and Luke hadn’t expected it to be a walk in the park either – more a walk through the Yorkshire Dales, he’d figured – but he had expected it to be less emotionally challenging. The constant rejection was tough to handle, and he felt the need to flake out a while and stop pretending that everything was going to be all right.

His granddad would have warned him that each finance rejection was fate telling him to leave well enough alone, that the banks had his best interests at heart when they said no, even if it didn’t seem that way at the time.

‘They have rules in place for your own protection,” he’d have said. “Don’t force it.” Luke smiled as he imagined his grandfather giving him a stern talking-to, an arthritic forefinger pointing directly at Luke’s chest, his cloudy eyes crinkled with distress. He’d loved his wise old granddad. The old man had been gone a few years now and there was no one left in Luke’s life to fill his place.

Luke closed his eyes as he lay stretched out on his bed in the back room at his parents’ place. He’d hoped to have moved out by now; a twenty-five-year-old shouldn’t still be living at home, never mind paying room and board. He should be making his own way in the world, living in a nice little flat somewhere, with a girlfriend maybe, a steady job to go to every Monday morning. He had none of that. And now it looked like he’d be sleeping in the tiny room for a while longer.

“Get a job,” his father had said. “Stop with the romantic notion of running a big company. Knuckle down and do some proper work.”

His father’s ideas of a proper job were something physical – and join the union while you’re at it. Like he had. It certainly hadn’t done him any harm, had it? Yeah, until miners weren’t needed anymore, foundries were closed down and dock workers were taken over by steel containers and hoists. No thanks. In Luke’s mind, running his own business wasn’t a romantic notion: it was a very real opportunity and he wanted in. Owning a mobile food van and selling well-cooked, wholesome organic food was what he wanted to do, knew he could do, if only they could find the funds to get up and running. Then they’d franchise the idea and take it nationwide and beyond. They had everything lined up – suppliers, menu ideas, locations even – but without funds, there was no way of getting it started.

Hit.

The word nagged at him again. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. There was no harm in doing the research, was there? He grabbed his laptop from the bedside cabinet and opened Google. His hand hesitated over the keyboard. Would the search term send a flag up somewhere? Would cookies then track him on his computer? There was only one way to find out. He typed in the search box.

Hit man for hire.

And pressed enter.

“No going back now. I hope I don’t need to have an explanation ready for the cybercrime division when they come knocking.”

To Luke’s astonishment, Google returned more than three million results. So, like everyone else, he started at the top of the first page and looked at what was on offer. There were the usual Quora and Wikipedia pages, but about halfway down, a web address caught his attention. He read the small piece of text, his finger hovering over the keyboard as he wondered whether to click the actual link or not. Curiosity got the better of him and he hit it. Half of him expected an actual alarm to go off like a police siren; half of him thought, “It’s just a website. Don’t be so silly.”

The website came to life, and a page with “Hit Man for Hire” emblazoned across it filled his screen. But a quick glance told him it wasn’t a shop front; rather, it was an old news story about a company that had been hired to build a website for such services and had quickly been shut down. Luke took a couple of deep breaths in and relaxed a little, taking comfort in the fact that something so illegal wasn’t as easily available as he’d first assumed. He hit the back button, went back to the search results and scrolled further down. The other results were stories about hits taking place on the dark web, websites that had sprung up there, guns for hire of all kinds and in all parts of the world. It seemed no matter what you wanted done – bones broken, beatings or a straightforward hit – it all could be found in a much darker place than Google.

Luke closed his laptop lid, leaving the Google search page open, and rested his head back against the wall in thought. The dark web – that’s where he needed to do his research, find out more, maybe join a group or two and see what people were looking for and how they were getting their requirements filled. He had to admit, though, that the thought of doing a hit repulsed him: beatings to order sounded too personal, too brutal, and not something he’d be able to do even if he wanted to. He wasn’t built that way, in mind or in body. Stabbing someone was in the same “too personal” box, as he knew from watching far too many movies. It was a close-up act of violence, and it took a certain kind of person to take a life that way. And again, he didn’t have the physical build to overcome someone, never mind the mess factor.

But shooting someone? That could be a different matter. He’d often thought, when road rage had overtaken his senses, that he could pull a trigger as easy as changing gear, wipe slow-moving traffic out of the way in an instant, clear the way for himself to get through. Blow away someone who had stolen the last parking space or cut him off on the motorway. He’d feel nothing but the smooth trigger with his finger, squeezing it gently. Powerful, almost hypnotic even. Yes, he could easily do that under any of those circumstances.

It wouldn’t be personal at all.

Chapter Twenty-Two

After dinner, which consisted of a simple bowl of tomato soup and several slices of buttered toast, Luke took a quick walk in the drizzly evening air to blow some metaphorical cobwebs off. His hair had since dried, and his now tight curls looked a lot like a brown poodle’s coat though without the damp dog smell. Now he settled down to work in his room, laptop balancing on his thighs as he typed.

Expanding on his earlier realization that he could easily fire a gun at someone, it seemed the sensible (if that was the correct word) thing to do some more research. From the little he’d found out already on the regular surface web and trusty Google, prices ranged from around £5000 to £30,000, depending on the quality of the kill and what was required.

Quality? Sounds like big game hunting rather than a hit. Aren’t all shootings equal?

If an experienced ex-Forces officer or similar was required, that was where the heftier price tag came in, whereas a dodgy backstreet pub dweller would do his best for a measly £5000 – balls over brains, he supposed. Luke figured that as an inexperienced but intelligent beginner, he’d sit someplace in the middle. He had the brains, he was clever, and he had common sense, something many people didn’t have – common sense wasn’t that common. But did he have the balls? Time would tell if he got that far.

Luke began thinking out loud, a lifelong habit that had always helped him organize his thoughts.

“I’m going to need a gun, and some training on how to use it,” he mumbled, “but which gun? I’m thinking with a silencer, so that means a pistol probably. Still too noisy, though. Maybe I’ll still need to use a pillow. Either way, first job, see if I can get the right gun.” He mentally filed the thought and went on to the next problem to solve – getting a customer.

“I’d be out of place in a seedy pub, so how will I get a client? And how much should I charge? Hmm, I’m thinking a nice round ten thousand, so I only have to do a couple maybe, and I don’t want to price myself out of the market.” He added those thoughts to the other already in his mental filing cabinet. There was so much to organize, so much to think about. On the surface so far, though, it all seemed rather simple: get a weapon, get a client, decide on the situation and squeeze. Ten grand, thank you very much. Please call again. The thought amused him: “Please call again, and tell your friends!” He laughed.

If he planned it out rigorously, nothing would go wrong. One thing he wasn’t planning on, not yet anyway, was telling Clinton, not until he was sure of how it would all work. Luke hit the Tor browser icon on the Mac’s dock and launched the dark web search page.

“Here goes. Let’s see if I can pull this off.”

Luke was no stranger to the dark web. He’d spent time there on and off over the years, mostly in chat rooms where he’d purchased a few odd small packets of hash. They’d arrive wrapped in plastic film, all folded up nicely and stuck to a fake gym invoice for cover. Not that he had any money to buy any at the moment, of course, but he knew his way around the place. He’d also seen more than his share of stuff he rather wished he hadn’t clicked on during his travels. Still, seedy stuff existed everywhere, he knew, whether it was on an actual physical street corner or a virtual one.

But buying a weapon was a bit different than buying a gram of weed for personal use. He typed ‘buy pistol and silencer’ into the search box and hit enter. He then spent the next hour clicking links to various ‘stores’ and making notes of availability and pricing until he knew roughly what he was looking at cost-wise and what he’d get for his money. Some vendors were a little more security-conscious than others; some only accepted payment in Bitcoin. But all of them could offer a pistol with silencer with the serial number filed off for a fee, a fee he’d yet have to think about how he’d raise.

He sat back, staring at the screen and tapping his fingers in thought, and suddenly it came to him. Maybe he could get his client first and use the advance to purchase the necessary tools? That way, if there were no enquiries about his service, he wouldn’t be out of pocket and left with an unregistered gun that probably came with a nasty history.

It sounded the bright thing to do. He searched on, this time with a different set of keywords, to see what the competition were up to and how they preferred to run things. Scrolling through the results, he chose one and clicked the link. A basic website filled his screen. The heading at the top made no bones about what their service was: a hit for hire. He scrolled to the contact page and hovered his mouse, debating whether to click or not. If he was going to set himself up in a similar fashion, he had to know how the competition allowed clients to make contact. Surely it wouldn’t be by a regular email or text message; that would be way too stupid and easily traced.

“Here goes,” he said out loud. “Let’s see how this all works.” He clicked the link, which took him through to a message board where he registered and asked his question. There was no request to confirm an email address, because that would take away the anonymous advantage of using the Tor browser. So it was all done via messages on a private board, he said to himself. Nobody knew who else was there, nor could they see them. On the one hand, if the cops were looking, you couldn’t see them. But if other criminals were looking, you couldn’t see them either – nobody could see anybody else. And that was why the dark net experience was so successful – it was virtually impossible for anyone, even the cleverest person, to monitor, unless they knew exactly where to look.

He typed, “Looking for a hit on my husband. South London area. How much and when?”

He stared at the words on the screen, his chest thumping with each heartbeat. Telling himself this was only research and not the real deal, he reconciled it in his head and clicked send. A whoosh of air left his chest. How long would a reply take? How much would it cost? What would the timeframe be? What other information would the outfit need from him? He felt panic start to rise.

“I’m not sure if I’m cut out for this,” he muttered.

The reply was almost instant.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Luke sat on the bed and stared at the screen like it had morphed into something from a Jack Reacher movie. Did this stuff really happen?

Yep, it did.

The words stared at him, begging to be answered. He knew there was a person on the other end of them expecting a response. Would they understand his nervousness and give him time to think? And, perhaps more to the point, was this what it would be like for his prospective customer when it came time to place an enquiry, talk about the needs, the finer details? Probably so.

He sat back in his chair again, considering. Should he be cagey or direct with his requirements? What was the etiquette, assuming there was one? He sat forward again and typed his reply: “Looking for price and availability. Suggest quick shot. What else do you need?” Send.

Wow, that felt funny, he thought. He waited. Had he been too direct? There was no mistaking what he was asking – but how you ask for a hit without actually saying the exact words? A pow-wow? A water pistol? A cap gun?

He needn’t have worried. The reply came back quickly. He read it out loud to himself, slowly moving over the few words to make sure he understood the message.

“£15,000, half up front, half on completion. I’ll tell you when and where later. What will the location be? Need a picture. Bitcoin or cash – you choose.”

Luke couldn’t believe that he was actually conversing with a killer on the other side of his screen, someone happy to take fifteen grand and snuff out a life to order.

Isn’t that what you’re thinking of doing, Luke?

He began to type his reply – all in the name of research, of course.

“Thanks. Need to figure that kind of money. I’ll come back then.” He pressed send and closed the site down before he said anything more. The person on the other side would put him down to being a tyre kicker, a time waster, which is exactly what he was to them while he researched. But he’d gained valuable knowledge from the brief encounter.

He wondered how the cash option would work; obviously they wouldn’t be giving him account details for their local building society or high street bank – more likely a nearby rubbish bin and a brown paper bag. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so hasty in closing the page down. Clearly, he needed to find out the answer.

“One more,” he said, as he re-entered the search term and chose another site. This one listed various other services, beatings and the like as well as straightforward hits. Luke got the impression the site operated out of eastern Europe, though he couldn’t say why and had no way of finding out; it was just a sense. Maybe it was the way the text read; it had a sort of accent, if it was possible for the written word to have an accent.

He registered and composed another message, this time feeling a little calmer and more in control.

“Looking for a hit on husband. South London. How much and what do you need?” Send.

The cursor blinked while he waited for a reply. After five full minutes, he was about to close up and give up for the night when the answer landed.

“No problem. £12,000, half up front. Accident or shooting? How big is he?”

“Shooting probably. Rougher part of town. How do I get cash to you?” Send.

He waited, and this time the reply was quicker.

“Can be organized. Cash is OK, drop-off place TBC. Need photo and location. Rest on completion. Interested?”

Pushy. He assumed it was a man. Pushy or weeding fakes out, one or the other. How should he respond? What else did he need to know? What would someone who really wanted their husband gone want to know?

“Sounds good. How long until complete? Don’t want him to suffer either.” Send.

Luke waited, willing the guy to respond quickly so he could get out of the site. It gave him the heebie-jeebies. He needn’t have worried; once again, the reply was almost instant. It seemed the person was keen for another quick payday.

“This week if needed. Quick and easy. Depends on you getting what I need.”

Luke wanted to end the conversation – he had what he needed – but one more question needed answering.

“How do I contact you? Through here?”

“Yes. I’ll send a mobile number on delivery for final payment.”

Good to know. I’ll need a burner phone or two, Luke mused. He had the surreal feeling that he was in a bad cop movie. He told them he’d be back and disconnected from the site. Closing the lid to his laptop, he took a couple of deep breaths and rolled the cricks from his neck. Feeling the need for some air, he gathered his jacket off a nearby chair and headed down the stairs and out the front door into the cold night. His breath was visible in short, misty bursts as he walked, the amber glow of street lamps lighting his way. The air was damp as usual, though thankfully it had stopped raining. He pulled his collar up against the cold and rammed his hands deeper into his pockets, head bent slightly as he walked. He spent the time sorting through what he’d learned so far. On the surface, it all seemed simple enough. But could he do it? Could he take someone’s life when it came to it? Or was this whole thing too much of a wacky idea? Maybe he should forget it completely, he told himself uneasily. He’d fantasized about shooting someone in a road rage – hell, most people he knew fantasized about that, when it came to it – but sneaking up on someone who hadn’t pissed him off directly and snuffing them out, well, that was different. That was cold-blooded murder.

But £12,000 in cash was awfully tempting. It was more than enough funds to get his business going. And if he did it two or three times . . . Luke quickened his pace as the pieces fell into place. The more he turned it over in his head, the easier it sounded. Now he just needed to talk to Clinton about it.

And get a weapon.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“I thought you were joking!” Clinton was incredulous. “You’ve got to be dreaming! Kill someone? For money? Are you out of your mind?”

Luke had cemented his plan in his head as he’d walked round to Clinton’s place.

“I’ve worked most of it out, and it’s pretty simple,” he said calmly. He counted on his fingers as he spoke. “One, I know how much to charge. Two, I know how the contact is made. Three, I know how to build a basic website. Four, I can probably get a weapon on the web. And five, we only have to do a couple of hits. Where else are we going to get the money? Because we’ve worked too hard to chuck this dream away. This will give us the start we need. Think about it, Clinton.”

“I don’t need to think about it! It’s nuts! And what if we get caught, eh? That’s prison for the rest of our lives, or at least a good twenty years of it. And I don’t fancy being someone’s bitch, either. Trust you to be the one to come up with the harebrained idea.” Clinton rubbed his face with his hands.

“And trust you to be the one that pooh-poohs it,” Luke said crossly. “I don’t see much coming from you in the way of money-earning ideas. You’re supposed to be the accountant brain of the two of us. I’m the creative one, remember.”

“Well, I can’t say your idea isn’t creative, now can I? It’s about as creative as it gets, actually, so top marks for that,” Clinton spat back. His face had gone beet red.

Luke sat back and waited for Clinton to cool down and catch his breath. It was a good job Clinton’s parents were away on holiday; they surely would have heard every word.

For a few moments they sat in tense silence, eyeing each other uneasily. Clinton spoke first.

“I’ll give it some thought,” he said, “but that’s all I’ll do. I’ll be right up front, though: I can’t see me changing my opinion. It’s way too risky and it’s cold-blooded. I’m not sure I’m that desperate.”

Luke stayed silent, let him have his airtime.

“Do you even know how to fire a gun, of any kind?” Clinton asked him.

“I’ve shot a rifle and a shotgun, but not a handgun or revolver, no. Daresay I could learn, though. There’s got to be a gun club I can join somewhere, get some lessons.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, actually,” Clinton retorted. “This is England, remember, not the US. It might be a tad more difficult than you think. And then there is the small issue of actually purchasing a gun.” Clinton picked up his phone and typed into his browser. “See?” He turned his screen towards Luke. “Since the Dunblane school shooting in 1996, all handguns are effectively banned from the ranges. Only rifles and muzzle-loading pistols are allowed.” Turning the screen back to himself, he added, “I’m guessing those are the really old ones like they used to use in duels.” He almost looked chuffed.

“There’ll be a way to get some lessons,” Luke insisted. “Once I’ve got something to practice with, mind. I haven’t looked at the cost yet, or the availability. I need to research a little more.”

“Like which one you actually need to start with. Calibre and whatnot – silencer, size, that sort of thing.”

Luke smiled broadly at Clinton.

“What?”

“Listen to you. You were so freaked out a few minutes ago, yet here you are now, calmly chatting away about the best gun to get.”

“Leave out the ‘we’, will you? I’m simply talking to you, having a conversation and nothing more. I’ve not agreed to anything yet. And I won’t be either, I expect.”

He went back to his phone and Luke watched him silently. If he was going to get fixed up with a weapon, it wasn’t going to be with the help of Google; more likely a backstreet pub off a rough council estate tower. He looked down at his pretty-boy hands, hands that didn’t get dirty that often. His mother used to say his hands were nicer than her own, and they probably were. In any rough pub those hands would give their game away; he’d stick out like a nun at a disco and probably get himself killed in the process if he tried. And there was still the issue of funds. No, he really had no choice: he’d have to buy the gun when he’d secured his first client with his first advance.

But he still had to make the enquiry.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mrs. Stewart held out a plastic box for Jack as he left his house for work.

“Here, a piece of iced lemon loaf for your mid-morning snack, and I’ve put a piece in for Amanda too. See she gets it, please.” She nodded knowingly at Jack. They both knew that there was every chance Amanda would never see the extra piece, but Jack’s waistline would. It had happened before.

“I only did that the once, as you well know, Mrs. S,” he teased. “Though iced lemon is one of my very favourites, so I wouldn’t like to guarantee its delivery to the rightful stomach.”

Mrs. Stewart smiled as Jack set off towards his car, which was parked on the driveway. She raised a hand and waved him farewell, waiting for him to fully reverse and drive away before she shut the front door behind him.

Jack smiled as he drove off; he loved this little ritual of theirs. He blushed to admit it, but his life was so much nicer now with Mrs. S. in the picture. She was Jack’s housekeeper, and she cleaned and cooked for him three times a week, usually in the mornings. Since his Janine had passed a few years back, he’d been muddling along on his own, and the habits he’d got into had needed intervention from Amanda and Ruth. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been coping, mind; he’d simply become a little scruffy round the edges, and ate appallingly, and his health had started to suffer a little because of it.

Janine had done everything for him when she’d been alive, bless her, and so through no fault of his own he hadn’t known how to do laundry properly, or cook a decent meal, or most of the important but mundane things that happened round a house in terms of cleaning and maintenance.

After he’d fallen ill and been laid up in hospital, Amanda and Ruth had installed Mrs. S. on a trial basis to help him out. He had balked at first, of course, but it had turned out to be the best gift the two women could have given him. He now had three wonderful women in his life.

Jack smiled to himself and looked across at the little plastic box on the passenger seat. No doubt about it: Mrs. S. made him feel better about himself – and made him look better too. His old work shirts with the fraying collars had vanished. Replacements had been bought and were laundered carefully for him.

He stopped for a red light and reached for his phone. He tapped the Spotify app, pressed on his Time Capsule, and Simon and Garfunkel’s Mrs. Robinson filled the car. He listened to the words as he waited for the lights to change. “Heaven holds a place for those who pray…”. Janine had prayed, and so had Jack when she’d been diagnosed with cancer.

“God bless you, Janine,” he said huskily, and wondered what she was doing right at that moment. A toot from a car horn behind him brought him back to reality and he drove on as Scarborough Fair began to play.

Ten minutes later, he was parked up in the station car park and retrieving the little plastic box along with his old briefcase. Raj was parked up nearby and shouted his good morning as he too made his way towards the building. Jack liked Raj. He was young and polite, and had brains, though they didn’t share the same interest in music. Not many had Jack’s limited tastes – ELO, Rainbow and little else. They fell into step together. Raj nodded at the box.

“More homemade baking?”

“Keep your dabs off it or I’ll know exactly where it’s gone,” Jack said, though he meant no malice. “One piece has Amanda’s name on it and the other is all mine. Play your cards right, and I’ll ask Mrs. S. to cut you a piece one of these days.”

“I wish I had someone to bake for me. Shop-bought is nowhere near the same. How do I play my cards right, then? What do I have to do?”

Raj opened the glass double door and Jack slipped though. He followed.

“Put a rush on those packets from the bin if you can. I’ve a feeling they might be the key to something bigger.”

“Oh?”

“Call it a feeling in my water, but I think we could be looking at something landing in our own backyard. Get some results for me today, and there’s cake in it for you tomorrow.”

Jack increased his speed and Raj fell behind.

“Done. Make it a big piece,” he called after him, and made his way to his own office and desk, no doubt to make the phone call.

Amanda materialized from a doorway as Jack passed by. “Hey, slow down,” she said, struggling to keep up. “What’s the rush?”

“No rush, just want to get on,” he said, and passed the box to her. She opened the lid as she walked.

“Oh! Mrs. S., I think I love you.” She reached in and helped herself to a slice. She took a mouthful and savoured the taste before replacing the lid and catching Jack up again.

“That’s supposed to be for later with your coffee, not right now,” he said as he reached his desk and hung his jacket on the back of his chair.

“Can only eat it once, and I’ve saved some.”

“Well, don’t let Raj see you with it. He’s after a piece. I’ve told him it’s his tomorrow if he can work his magic and get those packet results today.” He flung himself into the chair. Stale air escaped in a whoosh at the sudden impact. The chair groaned as he turned in it to face Amanda.

“Sounds like too much cake to me. Even your chair is complaining,” she teased him.

“Funny, Lacey. You’re just jealous.”

“Probably, though I don’t need the extra calories right now.” She patted her stomach. “Married life brings a couple more glasses of wine here and there, though I’m not complaining.”

Jack looked over her shoulder and got to his feet. She turned to see Raj striding towards them. From the look on his face, he wasn’t bringing good news.

“Oxy and codeine. High strength,” was all he said.

Jack’s face fell. “Oh.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“No surprises it’s a shell company that runs the van.”

Raj had been digging most of the morning while Amanda caught up on some massively overdue paperwork. She looked up from the report she was typing. Raj stood by the corner of her desk. Dressed smartly as usual, he looked handsome in a pale blue check shirt that contrasted nicely with his dark skin. Amanda often thought he should have been a GQ model rather than a copper and not because he wasn’t good enough. No, Raj had a reputation for his diligence, but he also had a reputation for his good looks. She sat back in her chair.

“Hmm. It’s never so easy, is it? Why can’t the criminals we have to deal with be a bit more obvious? Make it a wee bit easier for us just for once.”

“Sorry, not this time. A bit more digging on this one, I’m afraid. Good old-fashioned leg work. Though I did pick up something along the way, a name. Not sure if it’ll lead anywhere but you never know.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, from what I can tell, there could be a link to the north – Manchester, actually. One of the names that popped up in the background was linked to a bust some years back, though nothing came of it. Might be worth chatting to your buddies up there to see if they know of anything like this on their patch. I’m guessing a similar system with the food vans. There’s probably more of them up there than there are down here.”

“Worth a chat. Give me the name.”

Raj handed over a slip of paper and Amanda sat thoughtful for a moment. “Thanks Raj.”

“Let me know, eh?” he said over his shoulder as he began walking back to his desk.

Manchester.

She knew a couple of the detectives in Manchester. She and Jack had worked on a case there together in the past. The infamous Sebastian Stevens had become a trophy for a different type of hunter, and the case had introduced her to DS Duncan Riley and DS Rick Black. The whole case had become a little too close for comfort when her friend Stephanie had become involved, though she herself had escaped unharmed. But both Rick and Duncan were competent detectives. In fact, Rick, who looked remarkably like Buddy Holly, was on a fast-track program to becoming a DI. He’d mused that he might find himself promoted to Croydon in the near future and become her direct boss. While she had no problem with him being younger than her, she’d wondered about his worldly-wise experience. Had he had enough to be a decent DI? ‘Dopey’ Dupin sprang to mind. His own youth hadn’t done him too much harm, though his nickname wasn’t particularly confidence-building or flattering.

Her stomach growled like an old dog. Perhaps another bacon sandwich from a mobile van? She called over to Jack, who was fiddling with a coffee capsule that was stuck in the chamber. He had a knife in his hand trying to pull it back up and out. Amanda shook her head in amazement. For a fine detective, he found basic things a challenge at times.

“I’ll buy you one. It’ll be quicker. Grab your jacket.”

He didn’t need asking twice and left the offending capsule in situ for someone else to wrestle with. He hadn’t seen Dupin making his way in, mug in hand, but Amanda had. While Jack caught her up, she made her own quick exit out into the corridor, encouraging Jack to quicken his pace after her. He had the good sense not to yell at her to slow down. Perhaps he had seen Dupin on his tail after all.

When they were both out in the car park, Jack finally asked where they were going.

“Raj reckons this van might be linked to a set-up up north, around Manchester,” Amanda told him. “It seems a company name that was thrown up with his search was linked to another drugs case last year up there, but nothing was proved. My guess is the two are connected. No smoke without fire, or in this case no pills without pain. I’m going back for another look, see who’s working the counter. Might even mention I’ve a headache or something – you never know. Now we know there is probably something going on, we need to take a closer look and do a bit of fishing.”

“You spoken to Manchester yet?

“No. Thought I would after this. Needed a bacon roll anyway.” She turned and smiled at Jack, who was never one to turn bacon down. “Figured you’d like one too.”

Amanda walked across to the van to place their order. Jack watched from the car, trying his best to take photos without being seen. As usual, there was a queue, and apart from an elderly couple, everyone else looked like regular business people. They all wore the same style of uniform, male or female: standard dark suit, pale shirt or blouse. The only thing that differed was age and shoe style. Amanda joined the back of the line and turned her ears up high in the hope of eavesdropping on a useful morsel. But nobody was talking, not to each other at any rate. The only conversation she heard was when an order was placed and the server asked about sauce colour.

“Yes, love?” the server enquired, taking her away from her thoughts. The man was dressed in chef whites with a matching cap. “What can I get you?”

“Well, if you could deal with my stonking headache, that would be handy.” She smiled up at him sweetly. The man looked unsure how to respond to her request. Amanda took the opportunity to study his face as he processed what she’d said. His eyes darted rapidly to his sidekick further inside the van.

Amanda pressed on, this time in a hushed tone. “I don’t suppose you have any painkillers, do you? And I’ll have two bacon rolls wrapped separately as well.” That perfectly innocent smile again. Did his face register what she meant or was she mistaken? Hopeful, but maybe mistaken. Finally, he spoke.

“Sorry, love, I don’t have anything,” he said, and turned to make up the two rolls, though not before she caught his glance again to his partner at his side. When the two bags were ready, she paid her money and turned to walk back to the car where Jack sat watching the proceedings. As she climbed in, she noticed him staring at a young man approaching the car. With a start, she realized he had been behind her in line. Amanda rolled her window down for him. He looked to both sides and then leaned closer to speak.

“If you have a bad headache,” he started, “You’ll need to ask for something a little more specific, like special sauce. That’s all they need to hear. Too many pigs about; have to be careful.”

Amanda slowly nodded her understanding.

“Thanks. Good to know. What about payment?” She took a bite of her sandwich, carrying on with the pantomime.

“Get the app,” he said briskly and walked away. They watched as he got into his own car and drove out of the layby.

Jack raised an eyebrow at Amanda. “Well, if prostitutes have apps now, I guess it’s only natural progression drug dealers do too. Special sauce, eh?”

Amanda, with a mouthful of food, could only nod in amazement.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Back at the station, Jack and Amanda made a bee-line for their desks.

“I’ll get straight on to GMP, see what they know. You get on to cyber. Or is it drug squad? Could be either.” Without waiting for a response, she dialled Rick Black’s number. He picked up on the third ring.

“DS Black here.”

“Rick, hello, it’s DS Amanda Lacey from South Croydon. Remember me?”

“Of course I do, Amanda. Not an easy lady to forget. Or case, for that matter.” There was laughter in his voice and she couldn’t help but smile a little at the phone. “That sounds ominous. What did I do to be so memorable?”

“Kicked butt, if I remember rightly. Another madwoman behind bars. How are you, anyway, and what can I do for you?”

“I’m great, thanks. Got married recently and I’m back busy at work as usual, which is why I’m ringing you.”

“Congratulations, Amanda. Now what can I help you with?”

“I thought I’d ask and see what your local drug dealers are up to currently, but not your old-school crack gangs. I’m talking the newer breed, the opiate pushers, oxy and the like. What’s happening on that front near you?”

“Well, I can tell you there is definitely a market and a distribution. Drug squad could tell you more. Can you be more specific?”

“Just following a hunch, though we did find some little empty packets in a public rubbish bin that tested positive for high-strength oxy and codeine. I’m thinking a food van nearby might be involved. Orders are placed with a bacon roll, transactions paid for possibly via an app rather than cash. Know of anything like that on your patch?” Amanda could hear a clicking on the other end of the receiver. She imagined his pen tapping his desk, a habit she remembered he had. It stopped as he began to speak again.

“What makes you think of Manchester. Something linking it back up here?”

“Yes, two things, actually. You’re not far from the Irish Sea – not that we have any reason to think that’s how it’s getting in, but it’s convenient. We also traced a company, though rather tenuously, back to a name from your area. Not directly of course, but his name came up from a previous case that, as usual for him, went nowhere.”

“Oh? Who’s that?”

“Wilfred Day.”

Rick let out a long whistling breath through his teeth and stayed silent for a moment.

“Are you still there, Rick?”

“Yeah, just thinking. He’s like damn Teflon that one. Nothing sticks to him. Slips around like a fried egg in a greasy pan.” Amanda smiled at the analogy. Why did detectives have such vivid imaginations when it came to descriptions? Jack was just the same.

“What’s he like?”

“You mean other than slippery?”

“Yes, what’s he like generally? Hard man, local mob, what?”

“He’s one of the most politely spoken, well-dressed blond-haired blue-eyed thirty-something men you could ever meet. To look at him you’d say he came from money, probably a finance background or similar, complete with diamond-patterned sweater, chinos, and nicely polished brogues. Your typical hard man stereotype he’s not. Far from it.”

“So why has he never been pinged?”

“You mean apart from probably buying off everyone that he can? The juries he’s been in front of love him. He comes across as sweet-natured, funny, articulate, and they lap it up. Lap him up.”

“And that’s not the real him.” It wasn’t a question, more a statement.

“Correct. He might be baby faced and smartly dressed, but behind those blue eyes of his is a ferocious brain working overtime. Kneecapping and grunt work is not his style, but he’s clever, all right, and employs other clever people, of the technically clever type. Hackers and the like, those that can infiltrate bank accounts and data and hit the competition in their pockets rather than their balls. Less mess, less evidence, and probably gets results a lot quicker.

“Sounds like a saint. And he operates in opiates in the main or something else?”

“He’s like all the rest in that respect, running women and booze, but yes, drugs are his forte. I’ve not known him to deal with heroin and the like. Not for some time, actually. Maybe they’ve split the turf into substances instead of geographical area. Opiates attract a more discerning clientele than Skank and heroin. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was bringing in fentanyl too.”

“That’s a worry, then. It’s really hard to tell heroin and fentanyl apart. They’re almost identical to look at.”

“Tell me about it. We have the deaths to prove it. It’s the quantity that causes the deaths. A lethal dose of heroin could be thirty milligrams, but with fentanyl, you’re only talking three milligrams to overdose and kill someone –barely enough to cover the bottom of a test tube. Mistakes get made, I know. I’ve cleaned up the bodies.”

“Christ, let’s hope he’s not responsible for distributing that.” Amanda fell thoughtful for a moment, pondering her next question. “So, do you know how his distribution works, how he’s selling it?”

“Typically, he’s had women mainly, that I know of – your stereotype ‘soccer moms’ looking to earn some money while they mind the kids all day.” Amanda could almost see him making speech quotes in the air with his fingers. He went on, “I daresay they are probably customers too. Getting high is the fashionable thing to do with their bored glamorous buddies. But I’m only talking oxy and codeine now, not fentanyl. And he’s had a few students working for him too, looking to earn beer money without doing much. Easy money until they get caught.”

“How about food vans, perhaps?” Amanda wasn’t sure what she wanted the answer to be.

“Not heard anything, but that doesn’t mean no. Ice cream vans and food vans have been used in the past for both booze and drugs distribution, but it did get cleaned up. So, have you got something going on down your way?”

“Not sure yet. Just those empty packets testing positive. If the vans are dealing, it could be a lucrative outlet for someone, and if others get wind of it, it could get a whole lot busier around here.”

“I’m afraid so. Well, thanks for letting me know what’s happening. Hey, keep in touch eh?” The pen was clicking again in the background.

“I will, and thanks for the info. Say hello to Duncan for me.”

“Will do.” Then he was gone.

Jack was hovering like a spaceship.

“That was interesting, what I could hear of it. What next, Boss?”

Jack never called her Boss – unless he was feeling stumped and was hoping she had the next move.

“No idea.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Duncan drove slowly past the park. The traffic behind him on the busy road was impatient; drivers gesticulated rudely as they cruised past in the adjacent lane, wondering who was being such a slow-moving dick. If they had known he was a police officer looking for missing children, they might have been a tad more forgiving, but everyone these days only cared for themselves. As it was, they were all in a hurry to get from A to B and he was in the way, holding them up from something pressing – like morning takeaway coffee.

Another horn blared. He ignored it. Up ahead, he could see the main gates to the park and indicated to pull over. The clicking was almost hypnotic. A light drizzle was falling again, clinging to everything it touched. On a day like today, the park would be empty, dogs ‘in need’ having to make do with a quick in and out on a nearby grass verge or in their backyard. Duncan didn’t care about the dampness as he entered the park and paced down the main path. Finding his girls was more important. Up ahead he could see a uniformed officer who had joined in the search and he sped his pace up to a slow jog to catch him up. As he got closer, he called out to the officer.

“Any luck?” He knew the answer – someone would have called him – but still he was hopeful.

“Sorry, nothing yet,” the officer said. His badge said PC Daniels. Duncan knew he would be wanting to say something more reassuring but couldn’t. Adding your own comments like ‘I’m sure they will be fine,’ or ‘I promise we’ll get them back,’ was something police officers avoided at all costs. It always came back to haunt you if, in the end, things didn’t turn out to be fine. Daniels gave Duncan a sympathetic look. His radio chirped, neatly breaking the awkward pause.

A scratchy voice said something he couldn’t catch.

“Repeat that please, over,” Daniels said.

“Call from a woman on Hyde Road. She has two young girls. Can you attend?”

“What number?”

He and Duncan ran together back towards the gate as the reply came back. When they reached Duncan’s car, he yelled at Daniels to get in. Duncan threw the car into reverse and hurtled out onto the busy main road towards the number they’d been given – and hopefully his two children.

The house was only a couple of minutes from where they had been, overlooking the park.

“There, on the steps!” Daniels yelled, pointing to an elderly woman on the front steps, and Duncan did a U-turn to get across. Angry motorists blared their horns but he ignored them, pulled up on the pavement directly outside and leapt from the car. He ploughed up the front steps two at a time, almost knocking the woman flying, Daniels on his heels.

“Are they okay? Are they hurt?” he asked as he pushed past her. There in front of the fire, eating biscuits and drinking warm cordial, were his two little girls, faces still pink from the cold morning air.

“Daddy, Daddy!” they squealed delightedly and leapt to their feet. Both girls flung their arms around his neck and he squeezed them tightly, then held them at arm’s length, swallowing back tears.

“We got a bit far away. Have you come to take us home?” Victoria asked. Duncan took both their small hands in his big ones and squeezed affectionately.

“I have, my darlings. But first, tell me what you’ve been up to.” He smiled encouragingly so they wouldn’t think they were in trouble, which they weren’t. But he wanted to know the story. The old woman stepped forward.

“Perhaps I should tell you,” she suggested. “Won’t you sit down?”

The other officer, who was standing to one side, took his notebook. Duncan sat on the old sofa with Victoria and Jasmine each on a knee. He gave them another joint hug and Jasmine giggled. For some reason, the woman looked familiar, though he couldn’t place her.

“I saw them from my window upstairs,” the woman said. “Playing in the park they were. It was cold, so I went over. There was no one with them. So I said I’d make warm juice if they’d like some. And they did. And then I called the police. I figured they shouldn’t be out on their own.” Her voice croaked with age and something more, something like emotion perhaps.

PC Daniels put his arm around her and gently guided her to sit in the big chair by the fire. The crochet blanket on the back of it told him the chair was hers. Then she began to weep softly. A siren could be heard in the near distance, then car doors banging outside, so Daniels went out to the front door where more uniforms were arriving. Duncan could hear voices. One of them was Rochelle.

He turned to his two girls. “I’m just glad you’re both all right. But we need to go home now, so say thank you to the lovely lady for the juice.” He forced a bright smile onto his face.

“Thank you for the juice,” they both said dutifully, but the old woman had her head in her hands and was crying gently. Rochelle walked in at that moment and took the situation in. Duncan guessed that Daniels had briefly filled her in. She nodded at Duncan, indicating that he was to leave and she’d look after the woman and take some further notes. Together, he and his girls left the warm comfort of the lounge and headed out to his car. The cold, wet air suddenly didn’t seem so wet on his skin as he opened the rear door, helped them both in and fastened their seatbelts.

Even though he was happy to have them both back safely, he knew that he now had to deal with Sam.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Driving the short distance home with the girls safely strapped into their seats behind him, Duncan’ thoughts tossed around his head like a tumble drier. Relief had flooded his system when he’d seen his daughters’ pink little faces, that his babies were indeed safe and well after their adventure, that nothing sinister had happened to them. He knew full well that, with two children still missing and a predator out there, that his situation could have turned into something devastatingly heart-wrenching. He gave silent thanks as he drove, raising his eyes for a moment to the sky as he did so.

Now he had to decide what to do about Sam, though: be thankful or be angry? The only thing he felt right at this moment was thankful, but he knew when he saw her face his emotions would flash over to anger at her incompetence, her laziness, her sloppiness. To have allowed such a thing to happen in the first place was inconceivable. She had one job, and one job only while she was unemployed – to look after the children and the house – and it seemed she couldn’t even manage that. Honestly, lying in bed and oversleeping until 9 a.m.? What had possessed her to do such a thing, on a school day particularly? She wasn’t ill, so why? Why?

It was true their relationship hadn’t been good in some time. They’d both changed over the last year or so. He had been working some difficult cases and staying away late, and then Sam had lost her job and been staying around the house most of the day. She’d appeared to enjoy the time initially, but things had gradually tumbled into disarray, and look where they were now. Yes, he still cared for her, but did he feel anything more towards her? he wondered. Did he still fancy her, find her attractive? He knew the answer was no. They hadn’t been close in many months; neither of them had wanted to make the move, and neither wanted to risk the rejection.

As he turned into Clumber Road, Sam was stood out on the front path, still dressed in her pyjamas. Her friend Anika was by her side, arm draped around Sam’s shoulders for support, he assumed. Sam rushed forward as he pulled up, arms wide, wailing loudly. Victoria was already opening her door.

“Thank God you’re both safe! Where have you been?” Sam buried her face into Victoria’s hair and, as Jasmine came around the car, grabbed her too and pulled them both close. Noisy, gulping sobs came from her mouth.

At last Sam stood, and Duncan ushered the small group back inside towards privacy. He turned to Anika.

“Thanks for taking care of her,” he said, and she nodded her understanding.

No longer needed, Anika called to Sam that she’d call later and left, though whether Sam heard her or not, who could tell? She didn’t respond. Once Anika had left, Duncan closed the door behind them and headed into the lounge where Sam was now taking the girls’ coats off. Her face was red from crying, her eyes swollen; she looked terrible. Duncan stood for a moment and didn’t say a thing; he just looked at her. When had she last washed her hair? he wondered. That was old dirt and grease, meaning Sam had missed more than just today’s shower. And why wasn’t she dressed? Had she gone back to bed after she’d called him? Surely not.

She looked up at him and caught his eye, gave him a weak smile that he tried hard to return. Tears were starting to well in her eyes again, threatening to spill over. He stepped over to her and pulled her in close for a hug. Her face was hot against his cheek as she sobbed again, her shoulders shaking as she cried. Automatically he brushed her head with his hand to soothe her as she tried to tell him that she was sorry. He’d loved Sam once, even if he wasn’t sure he did now. They had a history, a family together, but as he held her close waiting for the tears to stop, the ball of disappointment sat heavy in his gut. Finally, she pulled away a little.

“Here,” he said, handing her his handkerchief. He caught the strong smell of old sweat and tried not to wrinkle his nose. Instead, he stepped away and began to turn towards the kitchen – away from her.

“I’ll make some tea. Why don’t you go and have a shower, get dressed and we can talk? I’m not going back to the station just yet.”

Sam’s face morphed into a mask of hatred so suddenly that he stepped back.

“You’re going back to work!? Really? What a wanker!” she screamed.

Duncan stood stock still, aghast. Her face was a deep purple, her lips drawn back in a snarl. Sam looked nothing the woman he’d married.

She carried on, filling Duncan’s surprised silence. “Have you no time for your own children, Duncan? Because perhaps if you did, they wouldn’t have gone walkabout this morning, now, would they!” Sam picked up a mug from the coffee table and threw it across the room. Brown liquid splashed up the wallpaper as shards of china dropped to the carpet. Duncan watched, mesmerized, as cold tea ran in rivulets towards the floor. He couldn’t quite believe his eyes or his ears.

Sam was blaming him for the girls’ disappearance.

He finally found his voice.

“I don’t believe you’re putting the blame on me! You were the one looking after them. You were the one that lay in bed oversleeping. You were the one with the responsibility of keeping them safe! You, Sam, you! You have one job! One job! And you can’t even manage that,” he screamed at her. He could feel that his face was almost as red as hers.

But Sam was in the mood for a fight and wasn’t about to back down. With crazy in her eyes, she screamed back at him. “They’re not always my responsibility. They’re yours too, though you’d never know – you’re never bloody here!”

Duncan opened his mouth to respond and was horrified to hear the sound of a child crying. Oh God. Victoria and Jasmine were still in the room. His heart in his mouth, Duncan went over to them and bent down, clasping them both in his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam looking on.

“I’m sorry for arguing,” he said, ashamed. “You aren’t meant to hear us shouting. That’s wrong of us.” As calmly as he could, Duncan suggested they both go upstairs and play for a while until their mummy and daddy had finished talking. And as a special treat for being good girls, they could choose what they ate for dinner later. He and Sam watched as the girls left the room, and then Duncan turned back to Sam. At least the girls had taken the wind out of her sails for the time being; she no longer resembled something possessed.

“I work Sam, to feed this family. That’s my job. Your job is to look after this family while I’m not around. When you get a job, that role is split between the both of us, with probably some outside help like other families manage. But since you don’t have a job, you’re it. Can I make it any plainer? Do you get that?”

“Oh, I get it, all right. I’m at fault again,” she said snidely.

“In this instance, yes, you are. While you were lying in bed, they,” he pointed up towards the girls’ bedrooms, “they managed to get out and walk to the park. With a suspected child abductor running loose, I might add. So yes, it was your fault. What were you thinking?”

“Sod off,” Sam shot back as she turned and headed up the stairs. Duncan heard the slamming of their bedroom door above and rolled his tired eyes at the ceiling. He flopped into a nearby chair to think. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Something had to change. Sam had to change. When she’d calmed down, he’d talk to her again and spell out their future together.

If they had one.

Chapter Thirty

It was over an hour later when Sam finally made it back down the stairs, though she still hadn’t cleaned herself up. In her absence, Duncan had picked up the smashed mug and wiped the wall down, and generally tidied the room up while the girls quietly watched cartoons on TV. The depressing rain had finally stopped and a weak sunshine was trying its best to warm the front room. At least it was brightening, if not heating. Duncan stayed put on the sofa. His shoulders sagged wearily with the weight of the day. He waited for her to speak.

“I thought you’d have gone by now, back to work.” She sauntered over to the vacant chair and slumped down on it, gathering her feet up beneath her, not really looking his way. He could see her face was still red and blotchy from the tears, but he had stopped feeling sorry for her. He let her comment go without rebuff.

“You were sleeping, I assumed, so I couldn’t leave them.” His voice was steady and even, with no amplification. Just the facts.

“Well, I’m up now, so why don’t you go? I’m sure you’ve plenty to be doing.”

Duncan watched her as she pretended to be watching cartoons, looking anywhere rather than at him. “I’ll perhaps go in later. But now you’re up, I want to talk to you properly, without either of us shouting.”

“Oh? You think we can manage that, do you?”

The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Duncan, but he ignored it. When she saw he wasn’t going to rise to her malice, she visibly lowered her shoulders. Duncan turned to the girls. “Why don’t you play upstairs for a while? Then we can go for pizza if you like.”

“Yeah!” they cheered, then stood and headed to their rooms. Duncan shouted after them, “I’ll call you when it’s time to go, okay?”

“Okay, Dad,” they replied. Like two peas in a pod, two coffee beans in a jar. He smiled, despite himself. When they were finally out of earshot, Duncan leaned forward on the sofa, head lowered, hands hanging in front of him. He’d spent some time, while Sam had been upstairs, thinking through what he wanted to say, and the best way to say it. Now, his practiced words had gone astray, and he searched his head for some clear space. It was full of missing children it seemed, though not his two anymore.

“Sam,” he began. “We can’t go on like this. Today has been a disaster, a worrying, emotionally draining disaster. We both know that, and I’m not about to point the finger at you again. Let’s put it down to a bad experience, and one we’d both rather forget, I’m sure.” He looked up at her from under his brows. She was listening. He carried on. “But things have to change, and soon. Things between us haven’t been that great for some time now, since you lost your job probably, and I feel for you, really I do.”

Sam scoffed, “Oh, great. Thanks very much. Here we go again.”

“But that’s when things changed, Sam, like it or not. And I’m not prepared to go on as we have been. Either you clean your act up and sort yourself out, or I’m out of here. I mean it, Sam.” He was looking straight at her now, wondering what effect his words would have on her. There was no easy way to say he really wanted to leave, didn’t like what she’d become, so he’d stuck with the basics – for now.

But true to form, that was more than enough to set her off again.

“I don’t believe it! You’re threatening to leave me and the kids because I lost my job? Are you that mean?”

“That’s not what I said and you know it. I said things hadn’t been good since then but yes, if things don’t change, yes, I’m considering leaving.”

He watched as she leapt up from her spot and paced over to the window, then turned and faced him full on. Her eyes flamed with rage and spittle flew from her lips. So much venom, so much anger; she really did look like a woman possessed. Again.

“Well, if you’re that unhappy, why don’t you sod off now, eh? You’re never around much anyway, so you may as well leave us. I’m sure one of the girls at work would let you stay on her sofa.” She paused and gave him an evil smile. “Or her bed. I’m sure Rochelle wouldn’t kick you out in a hurry.”

Duncan felt himself grow pale. Sure, he found Rochelle attractive; most men did. But he’d never done anything behind Sam’s back, ever. His family was precious to him and he’d scowled at other colleagues for playing away from home. It wasn’t right.

“Ah, come on, you know there’s never been anything going on there, or with anyone from work, or anyone else, full stop, actually.” He was starting to lose his cool, aware his voice was escalating in pitch and volume again. He didn’t want the girls to overhear his words but he wanted to respond, needed to.

“And you know that deep down. Sam, this is about us. You’ve got to clean your act up, get some help from someone, get your life back. All I see every time I come home is you in your nightclothes. You don’t look like you’ve even had a shower for a couple of days, and your anger has skyrocketed. Whatever I say, you fly into a rage so quickly, it’s frightening. What has got in to you?” He took a breath and then carried on, momentum pushing him to complete what he had to say. “If things haven’t changed in one month’s time, I’m leaving. That gives you time to sort yourself out and at least be applying for a new job. After that, if there’s no change, I’m taking the girls with me and we’re leaving.” Duncan bowed his head.

Barely audible, Sam confirmed, “One month. Then you’re taking the girls.”

“Yes. And I’m deadly serious. We will leave.”

Wordlessly, Sam turned on her heel and ran back upstairs to the bedroom. Duncan heard the door slam once again and hung his head in despair. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.

Chapter Thirty-One

Sam was angry and upset all at the same time. In the privacy of the bedroom, she alternated between pacing with clenched fists and a screwed-up, furious face and sobbing in desperation, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was drained. Drained of energy and drained of feeling, though not for her children. Tired of pacing, Sam lay on the bed and buried her face in the pillow where she screamed out her frustration in short bursts, safe in the knowledge no one could hear her.

When the tears finally stopped, she stayed face down, eyes closed, waiting for the world to go away. What she wouldn’t do for some help right now, a little something to knock her out, something to numb her, if only for a couple of hours, but she had nothing left. The side pocket of her handbag was empty again. If she hadn’t taken her last six that morning, she’d have had something to take the edge off now, but they were gone. She couldn’t leave the house, she knew, so there was no way to get what she desperately needed, not yet anyway. No, she’d have to wait and slip out later when he’d gone to work. Maybe Anika would keep an eye on the girls for ten while she went. Yes, that’s what she’d do – drive out later tonight.

Safe in the knowledge she’d get some relief later, she turned over and stared up at the ceiling in the growing dusk. Winter days were so short; sometimes the sun never reached full brightness before fading away again in the late afternoon. Soon, the street lamps would come on again, giving her unlit room an eerie yellow-orange glow. In her head, she went over what Duncan had said. How could he have been so mean, show so little understanding of what she was going through? And now he’d given her an ultimatum – get sorted or he was leaving and taking Victoria and Jasmine with him. That was the part that stung the most: the thought of losing the girls, not having them by her side each day, not taking them to school and picking them up again, not going for burgers with them. It would be soul-destroying.

No, she needed to figure this out – get a job and get back into Duncan’s good books, show him she could change, that he could love her, be attracted to her again, that they’d both be all right, that they could be a proper functioning family again. And soon. Sam sat up on the bed with new energy, a new motivation, swung her legs over the edge and headed towards the bedroom door. She opened it quietly and stood listening for voices or movement, unsure how long she’d been lying on the bed. Maybe Duncan and the girls had gone out for pizza without her. Was she all alone?

She tiptoed across the landing towards the bathroom. Victoria’s door was wide open, the room empty, as was Jasmine’s. Maybe they were all downstairs. In the bathroom, she wiped her blotchy face and stood for a moment gazing at the woman who stared back from the mirror. Her mousy hair was greasy and lank, as Duncan had so eloquently pointed out earlier, her nightclothes faded and worn – she looked hideous. And she stank.

She padded out of the bathroom and quietly headed downstairs, hoping none of the boards would creak, holding her breath until she got to the bottom. There were no lights under doors, no flickering blue light of a TV screen, no sounds of any kind. She put her ear to the lounge door and heard nothing. She turned the handle and peered inside.

The room was indeed empty – they had all gone out. She was alone.

Sam let out a deep breath. “Thank goodness for that,” she said to the empty room, as she turned a lamp on in the corner. The clock on the wall said it was coming up to 4:30. It would be dark in a few minutes. She leaned towards the window to see if Duncan’s car was parked out the front or on the drive – both spaces were empty.

But had he just gone for pizza? Or had he packed a few things while she’d slept? Had she slept? With the sudden realization he could have already left, she flew from the lounge and back upstairs. She ran into Jasmine’s room and flung open the wardrobe. Frantically, she assessed the contents: backpack and shoes still there, clothing still there. She bolted into Victoria’s room; everything was still there, too. She let out another deep breath. Nothing was missing. They hadn’t gone for good. This time.

Her heart was still pounding. She realized she had been as terrified, just now, as she had been earlier that morning when the girls had gone missing. No, this wouldn’t do at all. This was a feeling she never wanted to have again, one to be avoided at all costs. With a new feeling of determination, she headed back to the bathroom and a much-needed shower. If she was going to change the status quo at home, she needed to start right now. Nobody, not anybody, was going to take her children away from her. Not ever.

As steam filled the room and Sam stood under the hot water, another option came to her. A slight smile played on her mouth as it developed into something resembling a plan. Slowly she carried on soaping herself, replacing her sour smell with lemon zest, her idea filling her with fresh new hope. Her mother had always said there was more than one way to skin a cat, and Sam had just realized what that other way would be.

Get rid of Duncan.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Duncan and the girls were nearly home. They’d gone out for pizza together and then stopped off for ice cream. Victoria and Jasmine were side by side in their booster seats in the back seat. Patting her stomach, Victoria exclaimed, “I’m stuffed, Daddy. Do you think I’ll be sick?”

Laughing lightly, Duncan replied, “I hope not, because that would mean a waste of pizza and a messy car.”

Jasmine piped up, “And stinky too. You’d be stinky.”

Both girls began giggling, and Duncan joined in, shaking his head and thoroughly enjoying himself. As he turned into Clumber Road, he realized he hadn’t had so much fun in a while.

“We should do this more often, just the three of us. What do you say?”

A chorus of “Yeah!” filled the car as he pulled into the driveway and parked up. The girls leapt out of the vehicle and dashed to the front door. It opened, and Duncan saw Sam standing there. She was showered and dressed, he noted with surprise. Perhaps their conversation earlier had had an effect. He watched as she bent to give the girls a kiss on the cheek each as they passed through and stood to one side as Duncan approached.

“They look happy,” she said to him. “What did you do for dinner?”

“Pizza and ice cream – every kid’s dream.” He wasn’t frosty as he replied, but he wasn’t exactly warm either. “They might be on a sugar high for an hour or so but I figured today hadn’t been like any other and they deserved a treat.”

He carried on through to the lounge, gathering the girls’ coats to put back in the cupboard. The girls were fizzing with giggly energy; Jasmine was bouncing up and down on the sofa. Duncan hadn’t the heart to tell her to slow down so he ignored it.

“I’ll go and run you a bubble bath, then you can read for a while before sleep, okay?” he told them, to a chorus of groans. “I think you’ve had enough fun for one day, and reading is good for you, remember? It makes the brain bigger, so you get to be cleverer than the other kids at school.”

How many lies did parents tell their children while they were growing up, he mused? Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny were two straight off, never mind carrots making you see in the dark and crusts making curls in your hair. What hogwash. The biggest lie that Duncan had found out while growing up was there really wasn’t a tooth fairy either, having caught his dad putting money under his pillow in exchange for a tooth. He’d worked hard on dislodging it fully in anticipation of seeing what the tooth fairy looked like and hadn’t been expecting his dad that night. From then on, he’d questioned all of the major events a child looked forward to, his inquisitive mind demanding to know the real answers, and as his parents couldn’t come up with proof that any of these mythical beings did exist, that had been the end of that.

He herded the girls up the stairs and went into the bathroom to start running their bath. He focused on adding bubble gum-scented bubbles to the bath water and stared into them as they formed on the surface, steam rising and clinging to the window. By the time bath time had finished, the glass would be running rivers of moisture down onto the tiled sill like fresh tears pooling. Maybe the room could sense the emotion in the house. He swished the water round; the temperature was just right. Standing at the bathroom door, he called them both.

“Bath is ready – Victoria, Jasmine!”

As they trotted in and began to undress, he left the room to gather their nightclothes and give them some privacy. He let them bathe in peace, leaving the door open so he could hear them from the bedroom next door. When they were dried and dressed, he’d go back in.

He sat on the end of the bed and listened to their girl talk. They were seemingly unaware he was close by.

“Do you think Mummy is all right?” Jasmine asked.

“I think so. Grownups cry sometimes. I know Kate’s mum cries all the time – she told me.”

“Why?”

“Tummy ache sometimes, I think. Grownups get tummy ache too.”

“Oh.”

Duncan couldn’t help smiling at their naivety; they had so much yet to learn about life and growing up. He heard Sam climbing the stairs and he watched her as she put her head around the door and chatted briefly with them. To his surprise, she came and sat down next to him on the bed.

“Are you feeling a bit better?” he asked.

Without turning she replied that she was, that she had taken a shower and felt better, that she was sorry for yelling.

Duncan nodded mutely. After a couple of minutes of silence, he said, “I’m going into work for a couple of hours shortly. Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. I’ll probably be asleep when you get back. It’s been a draining day.”

“Yes, yes it has,” he agreed.

The girls came out of the bathroom, struggling into their nighties. Behind them, water gurgled noisily down the plughole.

“Right,” he told Sam. “I’ll say goodnight to them, and I’ll be off.”

When Sam heard the front door close behind him, she went back down the stairs to find her phone and dialled Anika’s number.

“Would you mind coming over for an hour? Only I need to pop out and Duncan is at work. The girls are both tucked up asleep.”

Anika asked if she was all right.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. I just need to nip to the all-night chemist.” She waited for Anika’s response.

“Great. See you soon.”

Sam knew that her youth, her swollen eyes and her haggard look meant the night chemist probably wouldn’t question handing over a packet of strong codeine-filled painkillers.

That was what she was banking on, anyway. But first she’d have to find a chemist who didn’t recognize her as a recent visitor.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Duncan left the house feeling a little brighter himself. He was pleased that Sam had had a shower and got dressed, even though it was nearly time to go back to bed. It was a start, though; he hoped his words had hit home.

The streets were dark save for the amber-yellow haze of the streetlights, and on a cold damp evening, there weren’t too many people out, on foot or otherwise. He was in the station car park and parked up in only a handful of minutes. He scanned the other vehicles to see who else was working and noticed Rochelle’s black Triumph motorbike sat in the corner. It always made him smile; she was the perfect type of woman to ride such a thing – hot, fast and not to be messed with. He pushed the thought away quickly. He needed to keep a clear head.

The corridor into the building was quiet as he headed to the squad room and his desk. Rochelle saw him arrive and sauntered over, her head cocked questioningly to one side.

“What are you doing here? We didn’t expect you in tonight.”

“I had to get out the house. And the girls are fine after their adventure so I thought I’d come in for a couple of hours. There are still a couple of children out there needing our help.” He gave a weak smile and Rochelle picked up on his vibe.

“I’m just headed to the canteen. Want a cuppa?”

“Why not? Then you can fill me in where you’re up to.”

“And you can fill me in on why the long face,” she said knowingly.

Duncan lowered his head slightly. “That obvious, eh?”

“I’m a detective too, remember?”

“So you are. But save the interrogation, all right? I’ve had enough for one day.”

“We’ll see,” she said as they made their way towards the canteen. No matter the time, there was always the smell of coffee brewing or lingering food smells, sometimes good and sometimes, well, not so. Tonight, the odour of curry lingered in the air and Duncan remembered he hadn’t eaten. While the girls had stuffed themselves silly, he’d had no appetite; the stresses of their disappearance and then rowing with Sam had seen to that. But now his stomach was catching up with him.

“Have you eaten?” he asked Rochelle. “That curry smells good.”

“I had some earlier, but you go ahead. It wasn’t bad, actually.” She placed their order – a plate of chicken curry for Duncan, a mug of tea for herself. The cashier looked bored stiff, waiting for her shift to be up so she could go home. They made their way to a deserted table in the middle of the functional dining-cum-relaxation room and Duncan sat down heavily on a plastic chair. A ‘whoosh’ escaped his lungs involuntarily.

“So, what happened at home? You look terrible.”

Duncan smiled. Rochelle was never one to mince words. “You’re too kind. Just feeling pretty deflated and a little wrung out. The girls are safe and well…” Duncan let the sentence hang in the air.

“Go on,” Rochelle probed. “I can sense there’s more.”

“Sam and I are most certainly not.”

“How so? What happened this time?”

“I told her it was her fault they had gone. It was on her lookout and she dropped the ball completely.”

“Ouch. That wouldn’t have gone down well, I’m assuming.” Her tea arrived and she wrapped her hands around the mug like it was a comfort blanket and took a sip while the cashier informed Duncan his curry was en route. He watched the bored woman saunter back to the kitchen to await his plate for delivery. Absentmindedly, he wondered about her life for a moment or two, what she had to go home to. Did she have someone? Not everyone did. He was aware Rochelle had stopped chatting.

“Sorry. I was miles away. What did you say?”

Raising her voice slightly, she said, “I said I assume that didn’t go down well, you saying it was her fault and all.”

“No. We rowed, and I threw her an ultimatum.” The cashier returned and placed his curry in front of him. He picked up a fork and dug in, scooping rice and tikka masala up in one motion. “Mmm, not bad,” he said. He scooped up more with the side of his fork and ate.

“This is like pulling teeth,” groaned Rochelle. “What was the ultimatum? Have I got to guess?”

“Sorry, mate. I’m just really hungry. It’s been a long day. But to answer your question, I told her if she didn’t sort herself out and at least apply for a job or two, I was out and I’d take the girls with me.”

He took another forkful and Rochelle watched him as he chewed, waiting for him to swallow and go on. When he didn’t, she said, “I’m guessing that didn’t go down well either. No wonder you’re feeling rough. Have you left her on speaking terms this evening or is it the sofa for you tonight?”

“Well, we’re speaking, and when I got back with the girls after pizza, at least she’d had a shower, so my words must have had some effect.” He cleared the last forkful of curry into his mouth and Rochelle watched and waited for him to carry on.

“We’ll see,” he said at last. “I hope she does sort herself out.” He put his fork down and wiped his mouth on a serviette. “But I’m serious. I will leave with the girls. I can’t trust her. This isn’t the first time things have gone haywire since she was made redundant. It’s like she’s lost her grip on life, and I can’t deal with it.” Rochelle nodded and he carried on. “I have to know the girls are safe at all times and I don’t think that’s too much to ask. There’s already two children missing. I don’t want there to be any more.”

“I agree with you there.”

There was nothing more to say, really. They stood, ready to get back to work. Duncan realized he was feeling more invigorated for both the chat and a decent meal.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Thank the lord for Anika, Sam thought as she searched for her bag and slipped some shoes on. Since the two lived close by, it would only take her friend a minute or two to get to the house and then Sam could get on with finding a chemist that didn’t know her. If she’d had the cash, it would be easier and probably quicker to go to the house for a pill and a cup of pretend tea, but she’d only got £10 in her purse and not a lot in the housekeeping account to draw another lot out. She knew Duncan watched the account and though he’d never asked her to explain every penny, she felt like she should be as inconspicuous as possible so as not to raise his suspicions.

Car headlights came around the corner and she pulled the curtains closed and made her way to the door. As Anika pulled up, Sam scurried over to the car and waited for the engine to stop and her friend to get out.

“Thanks so much, Anika. I owe you one! I’ll only be a few minutes, promise,” she said gaily as she turned and trotted to her own car. She pressed the fob to unlock it and jumped in quickly before Anika could ask any further questions. She reversed out onto the road and waved airily to Anika, who was now stood in the open doorway. Sam watched in her rear-view mirror as the front door closed. With luck, the girls would be none the wiser that their mother wasn’t home.

Again.

Sam drove to the nearest chemist and parked up outside. Through the window she could see a handful of people waiting in line for their prescriptions and contemplated trying her luck. If the pharmacist was busy, he might not give her the third degree about what she needed the tablets for or recognize her from her custom last week. And the previous week. The “terrible period pains” and “bad head” excuses could only work for so long, and she knew she’d likely be getting a sideways glance this time at the very least.

As she watched, a customer came out; that left three others still inside. Undoing her seatbelt, she took a deep breath. She figured she might as well try, because the next chemist was a bit of a drive away and she really didn’t want to be out too long. After all, she’d promised Anika she’d only be a few minutes. The cool night air wrapped itself around her as she made her way inside the shop and joined the end of the queue. The pharmacist gave her a cursory glance but nothing more. Had he recognized her fleetingly? Or was she imagining it? Sam kept her head lowered as she shuffled forward to wait her turn to be served, wishing she’d brought a cap to disguise or change her appearance slightly. Was she being paranoid now? As the person in front of her, an elderly woman with a walking stick, turned and made her way slowly towards the door, Sam stepped forward. Her turn now. She did her best to look ill, and frankly this time it wasn’t hard: her mouth had gone dry, and the words felt like bricks in her mouth.

“A. . . A. . . A packet of Paramol, please,” she stammered. Sam tried for a little eye contact, hoping it would make her look less suspicious, but she knew the pharmacist would ask the question regardless.

“Can I ask what you’ll be using them for?”

“Dental pain. I have really bad toothache,” she said, and rubbed her lower jaw convincingly.

“Have you used them before?” he enquired, sounding like he was on autopilot. To her relief, he wasn’t paying her much attention, simply asking the question to satisfy his professional obligations but too busy to really care about a truthful answer.

“Yes, occasionally.” She smiled, but he was looking at his computer screen.

“Seven pounds, please,” he said, and she handed over the £10 note. The drugs were almost hers.

“And three pounds change.”

She watched as he put the black packet into a paper bag, then reached out as he handed it across the counter and gently took the bag from him, resisting the urge to snatch it, get a handful of tablets inside of her and feel the blessed drug circling around her system as quickly as possible. With the package in her hands, she thanked him and walked back outside as calmly as she could. Another transaction completed successfully.

A small shop was still open just along from the chemist and she went inside to purchase a bottle of water to swallow them down with, then went back to her car. Once inside, she relaxed a little. All would be well with the world in just a few short minutes. Sam opened the bag, then tore open the box and slipped out the blister of tablets. She popped out six tablets and threw them all to the back of her throat, then took a couple of long drags on the bottle of water. The placebo effect was instantaneous: just knowing she had the pills in her stomach made her feel instantly better, and when they did actually kick in, she’d be back home in the comfort of her lounge to feel the full effect.

But there was one task to do before she got home – get rid of the evidence. If Duncan saw the number of packets she was disposing of each week, he’d know something was up. She quickly slipped the rest of the tablets out of their blisters and put them all into the side pocket of her bag, a place Duncan never went. They’d be quite safe there. She put the car in gear and headed home, stopping briefly outside the chip shop to throw the packaging in a bin. She’d smiled at her ingenuity. Maybe being the wife of a detective had its uses after all: she had learned to cover her tracks seamlessly.

With her mission complete, she pulled up on the driveway and went inside the house to thank Anika for covering.

“No problem,” Anika said. “Glad I could help. Did you get what you needed?”

“Yes, thanks. Jasmine has a bit of a cough, poor mite. See you tomorrow for coffee maybe?”

Anika was already putting her coat back on and Sam watched as she grabbed her bag and headed for the door.

“Yes. I’ll call you tomorrow. I’ve a few errands to run, so I’m not sure when.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow. Drive safely,” she said, but Anika was already half way down the path to the curb. Her friend lifted a hand and waved and a moment later was gone. Closing the front door, Sam leaned against it and rested her head back, her eyes closed, and took a couple of long, deep breaths. The pills were starting to take effect.

Just what she needed.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Sam awoke sometime during the night in their bed. Duncan was sleeping quietly beside her. She hadn’t heard him come home or slip in beside her, but then not much would have wakened her after six tablets. Her mouth was parched and she rolled her tongue around the inside trying to lubricate it, but she knew she needed water. The bedside clock glowed three a.m. and a handful of minutes. The dull sensation of a headache made her wince as she pushed the bedclothes back and silently headed to the bathroom. The house was in darkness save for the eerie glow of the streetlamps; it was just enough light to mark her way without needing to turn another light on. She sat and took a pee, then rinsed her hands in the basin, then filled them like a cup and drank the cold water down, repeating the process to quench her thirst. Her head buzzed. How could that be when she had taken painkillers? she wondered. Shouldn’t they dull her pain rather than give her more?

Drying her hands, she padded quietly out into the hall and looked in each of the girls’ bedrooms. Both were fast asleep, not a care in the world. Had they been aware of the commotion they’d caused earlier on that morning, when no one knew where they’d gone? Her head vibrated again, and she closed her eyes for a moment to let the stab of pain pass. What with the amount of upset, her continual tears and Duncan’s harsh words, was there any wonder her head hurt? She loved both her girls with all her being, and the thought of someone taking them away from her was unbearable, something she couldn’t fully imagine and never wanted to experience.

She went back into Victoria’s room and lightly kissed her forehead, then gently brushed a couple of stray strands of hair away from the sleeping girl’s eyes. Then she tiptoed back into Jasmine’s room and did the same.

“Love you both,” she murmured into Jasmine’s hair, then crept quietly back to her own room. Duncan was still fast asleep as she lay down and pulled the covers up to her chin, staring straight up at the ceiling.

Throb, throb, throb.

She massaged her temple and closed her eyes, willing the pain to go away, but she knew it wouldn’t, not yet. Her thoughts went back to Duncan’s words, his threat to take the girls – her girls – away and leave her behind to fend for herself. How could he be so heartless, so damn mean? She turned her head towards him as he lay there asleep and dared herself to open her eyes again and watch him. Peeling one eye open then the other, she focused on his face, a few inches from her own, so close she could feel his breath on her face. His breath smelled of garlic and she wrinkled her nose in disgust, but carried on watching him, taking in every wrinkle, every pore that she could see in the dim light and etching it in her mind.

What would life be like without him in it? Would it be so terrible? Could she survive without him, without his income? It would be tough, sure, but Duncan worked for CID, meaning if anything happened to him, she and the girls would receive his salary and his pension.

The downside, of course, was that the police looked after their own when something happened. If one of them was murdered, for instance, the whole station and probably beyond would be thrown onto the case, leaving no rocks unturned, as the cliché went. Yes, that’s exactly what would happen, she knew. They knew all the tricks, and Samantha knew none. But as she lay there thinking, mulling things over in her mind and listening to his steady breathing, Sam realized there was another way.

If she didn’t know the tricks to work with, she’d find someone else who had.

The kitchen was cold but that didn’t bother her as she filled a glass at the sink and looked out into the darkness. It made her wonder about death, and what it would feel like. Was there really a bright light that beckoned the dying to come towards it? Was there an afterlife, a heaven, some sort of reunion with the Divine? Or was there nothing at all, just a big black hole that everyone fell into, without feeling anything, without knowing anything, like turning a switch off?

Sam glanced at her glass of water she was still holding and remembered why she was in the cold kitchen at gone three in the morning in the first place.

Another tablet.

And some research.

Chapter Thirty-Six

It was nearly five thirty in the morning when she looked up from her computer screen as someone entered the kitchen. Duncan stood in the doorway, blurry-eyed but quite awake, a confused look on his face. She answered his unspoken question.

“Couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to disturb you so I came down here.”

Duncan rubbed his fleecy cotton-clad arms against the cold.

“You must be frozen,” he said. “The heating is only just coming on. How long have you been up?” Duncan entered the room fully and headed over to flick the kettle on.

“Sometime around three, I think, then I kind of lost track of time until you just walked in. I didn’t realize I’d been sat here so long,” She smiled at him as she stood and closed her laptop lid, then busied herself getting mugs from the cupboard and teabags from the canister nearby.

“Shall I put you some toast in or would you like some eggs for a change?” She smiled sweetly at Duncan, who wore a look of mild surprise on his face.

“Er, yes. Eggs would be great for a change. Thanks.”

“Well, go and get your robe before you freeze and I’ll make them for you. Scrambled or poached?”

“Scrambled, please,” Duncan said, and, still looking at her strangely, left the room to grab his robe. Sam heard him pad slowly back up the stairs, probably wondering if he was still asleep and dreaming at her transformation.

By the time he returned, the kitchen smelled of hot toast and a mug of tea was set on the table, his place set with cutlery. He took a sip, though he didn’t say a word.

“Eggs will only be a minute,” she informed him, her voice almost sing-song, as she stirred them. In her head, she was being the perfect wife, and it wouldn’t do her any harm to do so – while he was still here. It was almost enjoyable, but only almost. “Here we go,” she gushed as she scooped eggs onto the waiting buttered toast and set the plate down in front of him. She wanted to scream ‘Voila! I hope you choke!’ but venting inside her head would have to do for now. Before leaving him to eat, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek – which did actually make Duncan almost choke on the mouthful he was chewing. Then, with another unusual gust of energy, Sam informed him she was heading for the shower while he ate, before he needed the bathroom himself, and made her own way back upstairs.

Once in the bathroom, with the door firmly closed behind her, she let out a billowing breath as if she’d spent the day in a labour camp rather than simply making eggs on toast. She turned on the shower and stepped under the warm jets, letting the water run over her head and shoulders. She ran her mind back over what she’d decided during her early morning kitchen research. The main thing was she couldn’t do the actual act herself: she wasn’t that kind of woman and certainly wasn’t a killer. No, that task was for someone else – a professional. She’d run through the various options open to her and hadn’t found one she could get away with all by herself. If she shot him, someone might hear, and besides, how would she remove his body on her own? If she poisoned him, how would she make it seem natural or an accident? And again, there was the question of what to do with his body. Suffocation? No, she wasn’t strong enough – and again, the body issue. Ditto for drowning or hanging or beating him to death. So as Sam combed conditioner through her hair she mulled the options left to her: make it look like an accident or make it look like a disgruntled villain had taken his revenge and shot him. Ultimately, it needed to look like he’d been killed in the line of duty in order for his salary and pension to continue.

Clean and dried, Sam blew her hair dry and applied a little light make-up before getting dressed in jeans and a nice blouse and going back downstairs. Now that her decision had been made, she needed to make sure he stuck around, and the way to do that was to make him think his words had had the desired effect on her. She smiled at just how far from the truth that was…

Duncan was finishing the last of his mug of tea when she re-entered the room. He did a cartoon-style double-take as he looked up and saw her.

“That startling, eh?” she asked with another pleasant smile.

“No. I mean yes,” he stammered. “Oh, I don’t know what I mean but it’s good to see you so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for a change. I was beginning to worry about you.”

“Well, there’s no need, I’m perfectly fine. And you’re right: I need to clean up my act, get a job again – give me something to do. Then we can get a cleaner to help around here, and maybe some help with the girls for after school. What do you think?”

“I think that sounds perfect,” he said encouragingly. He smiled at her as he stood to put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher. “Well, I need to get a move on and go shower. Let’s talk more tonight when I get home.”

He headed upstairs and after a few moments, she could hear his faint whistling as he got ready for work. It wasn’t a tune she recognized, but that didn’t matter. It was good to hear him being happy.

Was she being rash with her decision? Should she try and sort her life out with him in more conventional ways? The hateful, blame-filled words he’d thrown at her only the day before surged back into her head now and filled her with resentment almost immediately: if someone could say it, she told herself, deep down they meant it. No, there was no going back: she was going to carry out her plan.

There was no way she was going to allow him to leave her and take the children with him.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

She had a full, though, paradoxically, empty day ahead of her. The front door was finally closed. Duncan and the girls were gone for the day and that meant Sam had a large expanse of time all to herself. The quietness of the house seemed to be more pronounced today for some reason, though in reality, today was no different than any other day. The only thing to have changed was her being up, showered and dressed rather than still bumming about in her nightwear watching TV until lunchtime or beyond.

She flicked the kettle on to boil and sat down at the kitchen table with her laptop and the basic instructions she’d found out about accessing the dark web. While the kettle came to the boil, a text pinged on her phone, making her jump. It was Anika, following up about meeting for coffee today.

Coffee at Macs later? Say eleven?

Sam tapped out her reply, that she’d see her there, and looked at the digital clock on the cooker. It gave her nearly two full hours to do some research before she had to leave. She made herself a hot mug of tea and got to work.

It was all new territory for Sam. She did not really understand the difference between the dark web and the regular web, but she had learned last night she needed to use a different browser than the one she used normally, to keep her safe and to keep her whereabouts secret. If she was going surfing in an ocean filled with sharks and other sea life she wasn’t accustomed to, she was going to need more protection than her swimsuit.

“Okay, here goes. Let’s hope I don’t get bitten or catch a virus or something,” she said, and hit the button to download the Tor browser software. Sam watched the download timer tick over until the icon told her it was complete. All that was left was to install it and she was ready to go. A few keystrokes later and she was in.

To her puzzlement, the search engine page looked like a basic one from back in the 90s. Figuring the page worked exactly the same as the regular web, she put her search term in the box and hit enter – then sat back for a moment and waited. And waited some more. It seemed to her that the ancient-looking page resorted back to dial-up speed. Had she known a little more about what was happening behind the scenes, however, she’d have understood that her hidden ID was bouncing across servers all over the world before finally settling and bringing up what she wanted – that’s what took time.

At last, a list of hits popped up, and from there, it was simply a case of scrolling through and clicking the links. There was a smorgasbord of places to look, and when she finally came back up for air and stretched, it was almost time to go and meet Anika.

“That went quick,” she exclaimed, and closed her laptop down. She carried it upstairs and slid it under her pillow, though she couldn’t have said exactly why. Duncan knew she had a laptop – that wasn’t a problem – but after what she’d been looking at, it felt like the right thing to do.

Ten minutes later she was pulling into the car park and headed over for coffee with Anika. Her friend beamed at her when she entered the café.

“Wow, you look great! And happier, too. What happened?” Anika squeezed her friend affectionately and they both sat down. “I’ll get you a coffee. Latte?”

Sam nodded her approval and Anika went to place their order. While she waited for Anika to return, she glanced around the café and realized she was smiling a little, smiling because she felt better, lighter; a stress had gone.

Anika noticed it too.

“Well, I have to say, it’s good to see you looking so well,” she said as she sat back down. “And that blouse looks really cool on you!”

“Thanks. I feel a whole lot better now. Things are clearer in my mind and I know what I have to do.”

Did she ever.

“Well, like I say, I’m pleased for you. And changing the subject, how is Jasmine this morning?”

Sam was perplexed. “Jasmine?”

“Yes. You needed cough medicine for her last night, remember?”

“Yes, sorry. Seems so long ago, and yes, she’s fine. Gone to school as normal.” Big smile.

Their mugs of coffee arrived and they sat in silence for a moment enjoying their beverages. Friends could do that; space didn’t always have to be filled with conversation. A baby started crying across the café and a young mother attempted to soothe it, rubbing its back over her shoulder. A couple of people turned to watch, their expressions a mixture of ‘How gorgeous’ and ‘Oh dear, must be wind.’

“Do you remember when yours were that age?” she asked Anika. “Such a beautiful time, when they are totally dependent on you for life. They grow up so quickly, and it’s hard to believe in another ten years, mine will be off to university or jobs. Yours too.”

“I know,” Anika replied. “Time goes so fast. It’s important to savour as much as we can, eh?”

The conversation brought Sam back round to her big decision – keeping the girls with her at all costs and ridding her life of the man she no longer wanted in it.

“I’ve got a question for you, Anika, kind of a trivia question, actually,” Sam said, smiling brightly. “I saw the question online somewhere and it was fun reading the answers so I thought I’d see what yours would be.”

“Okay, fire away. What is it?”

“First, think of the dodgiest person you know. Don’t tell me who it is.” She gave her friend a few seconds to think. When Anika signalled she had someone in mind, she carried on. “Now, what would be the dodgiest thing they could get for you? I mean like a stolen TV or something. What do you think they could get if you asked them?”

“Oh, that’s easy. The person I’m thinking of could probably get you just about anything you wanted. He’s as dodgy as they come.”

“And how do you know such a dodgy person?”

“I don’t know him, really. He’s a former work colleague of Steve’s but he sees him down The Feathers sometimes. I’ve met him. He’s really seedy.”

“So, you mean he could get cocaine or hard porn or a gun, for instance?” Sam added a bit of incredulousness to her question for effect.

“Definitely. Nothing would surprise me about what he could get his hands on. Why? Are you looking for something kinkier to watch?” Anika gave an exaggerated Benny Hill wink, and both women burst out laughing, so much so that heads turned their way.

“That’s too funny, Anika! No, no extra kink required. Well, not for me anyway, though I couldn’t speak for Duncan,” she said, and they both laughed out loud again, causing more heads to turn. “I guess we should quiet down, judging by the looks we’re getting.”

“What does Mr. Seedy look like?” she went on. “Something stereotypical from a movie, skinny and twitchy maybe? Nasty bleached blond hair and dark roots?”

Anika nodded rapidly through her restrained laughter. “You’ve got it – that’s him! And Mr. Seedy is called Sid, poor sod. Who calls their kid Sidney these days?” and off they both giggled again. When they’d finally stopped laughing, Anika asked, “Fancy another?”

Sam checked her watch, “No, thanks. I should be going. I’ve a few errands to run myself.” She stood ready to leave. Anika joined her and they left the café together. They exchanged a hug as they reached their cars.

“Ah, that was fun,” Anika said to her friend. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

“I am, yes. See you soon, eh?” said Sam, and blew her a best mate kiss as she climbed behind the wheel.

Sam waved at Anika through her window as she drove past, but her mind was in overdrive, scheming, planning a visit to The Feathers to see Seedy Sid.

Just in case.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“What are you two love-birds up to tonight? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

Jack wore his best cheeky grin and Amanda whacked him affectionately with the back of her hand as they left the building heading towards the car park.

“Oy, careful! Not so hard.” Jack winced, rubbing his arm as though he’d been stabbed.

“Barely touched you, and for your information, we’re finishing decorating the bedroom. In fact, we’re almost done. We seem to have been in turmoil for weeks now and I’m over it already. And it’s only the first room.” Amanda sighed. “And I still have to hold down a full-time job.”

“That’s why I don’t bother. Nothing wrong with the paper that’s still on my bedroom walls. Well, nothing that a bit of glue on some of the corners wouldn’t fix. But it’s not bad enough to be replaced.”

Amanda turned to stare at him in disbelief. She’d only been in his bedroom once, and that was while he’d been in hospital and needed a few personal things picked up. If there had been time to decorate while he’d been away she’d have got someone in to bring the room into the twenty-first century. But when it came down to it, it was his place, not hers.

“I think it feels worse than it is because everything from our room is scattered around the house temporarily, so there’s things in the living room that really don’t belong there. And we’ve still got some of my stuff in boxes looking for a home. Perhaps we should have bought a bigger place between us instead of me moving into Ruth’s.”

They had reached Amanda’s car and she opened the driver’s door, resting her arm on the top of it while she spoke. She ran her fingers through her short blonde hair in an effort to restyle it before she arrived home.

“You’ll get there. It will get done. Always does.” Jack tipped his imaginary hat and said goodnight, walked the few steps to his own car and climbed in. Amanda watched him while she stood, then gave him a wave before getting inside her own and turning the engine on. She might be bored of decorating and the mess it created, but at least she’d be going home to someone tonight, and every night hereafter. Jack would be going home to an empty house. The realization sometimes made her sad, but Jack didn’t seem to care much. He was used to it. Janine had been gone some years, but at least he had a part-time housekeeper now in Mrs. Stewart, so his fridge probably had more choice in it than hers and Ruth’s did on any given day.

She headed out of the car park, destination home. Would Ruth be there yet? It was still quite early for a change, so that was unlikely. Amanda planned a bath if the house was empty. A long, soapy bath, with a glass of red on the side. She could almost taste the full body of a glass of Merlot, feel the warm water soothe her stressed body.

She was right – when she got home, the house was indeed empty, so Amanda headed straight up to the bathroom and turned the taps on, adding fragrant lavender bubbles as the water cascaded into the tub. For a moment, she watched the white suds form, watched them grow in volume like a meringue, and was almost tempted to scoop some onto her finger and see if it tasted as sweet. Walking to their bedroom, she stripped out of her work suit and grabbed her sweats to put on after her soak. Then, wearing only her underwear, she went back downstairs in search of a bottle of full-bodied red. Ruth had built a wine storage area out of pieces of terracotta drainpipe stacked on top of each other and then glued together; each hole fit a bottle perfectly. It looked simple, stylish and a whole lot hippy at the same time, and had been the talking point of many a dinner guest. Grabbing a stemmed glass and a random bottle, she made her way back to her waiting bubbles, hoping they hadn’t spilled over the top in her absence.

In a few moments, she lay up to her chin in lavender foam, breathing in the steam, smiling to herself and relaxing as the feeling of wine on an empty stomach took hold. Amanda closed her eyes and enjoyed the peace in the house, the time alone to drift for a while. Her body felt like it was floating, the warmth and the wine making her sleepy, and absentmindedly she wondered if this was what it felt like to someone who took drugs – that feeling of being out of one’s body, away from reality. With her eyes still closed, and floating safely in her bathtub, she tried to imagine never waking up, not resurfacing ever again and drifting off to another world on a chemical-induced pleasure craft. How sad it would be for those left behind to find only the soulless shell of their loved one’s body floating in a cold bath.

The water was cooling now, bringing her back to the real world. She lay still for a moment longer, savouring the last whiffs of lavender. She hadn’t heard the door close downstairs, hadn’t heard feet on the stairs, hadn’t heard someone enter the room.

“Hello, darling.”

Amanda screamed and shot up from the depths of the water, bubbles and wine sloshing over the side as she opened her eyes and tried to focus.

Ruth burst out laughing at the mess and her wife’s extreme reaction to her intrusion.

“Having fun in there, were you?”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Amanda sat back and stretched like a cat, then groaned deeply and yawned. She caught Raj’s eye as she returned to her normal posture and blushed.

“Late night?” he enquired, lifting an eyebrow. Everyone in the station knew she had recently got married and while they hadn’t said much to her face, she was aware of sniggers and crude jokes behind her back. It no longer bothered her, and she let them have their fun at her expense knowing it would die down soon enough. Her skin was the required thickness to work in the Metropolitan Police and not much bothered her anymore.

“Nothing exciting to report. We’re just finishing up decorating. We’ve done one room and I don’t want to do any more.”

“Can’t you get someone in and do it?”

“We said we’d have a go ourselves. We thought it would be fun. Truth is, it’s hard graft and both our day jobs are hectic. It’s not like I can hide in the back room and do some filing for a rest.”

“You could do some of my paperwork if you want.” He grinned at her cheekily.

She knew he was joking; she had more than enough of her own, judging by the pile of folders balancing on her own desk. “I’ll pass, thanks. I need to do a bit more research.”

“Drugs?”

“Yep, fascinating stuff, actually. I mean, we all know about cocaine and heroin and the synthetics, but prescription drugs are getting to be more and more of a problem every day, and they’re so easy to come by.”

Raj came closer to her desk, obviously interested in what she was talking about. “My brother had a car accident a while back,” he said. “Broke his leg, smashed a rib or two, and they gave him some pretty strong painkillers to help him through. I can’t remember what they were now, but they did the trick. Anyway, they used to make him happy, happier than normal, and I wondered then if he was getting hooked on them, if he liked the feeling they gave him.”

“Is he still taking them, do you know?”

“I’ve often wondered, and officially he’s not, but sometimes when we’re out having a pint or at a match, he seems different – euphoric and upbeat, but to another level. I guess he could be taking them recreationally, but maybe not all the time.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No. I think I’m afraid of the answer, if he’d even tell his big brother the detective. And what if he did say yes? What would I do or say then?”

“Hmm. I know what you mean, but he is your brother and if he is addicted or taking them recreationally, he may need help. He can’t live like that forever. He’s risking getting ill, or worse, as you know.”

They lowered their voices as several more of their colleagues drifted into the room. They were deep in their own conversations and not paying Amanda and Raj any attention, but still, Amanda was aware of flapping ears.

“Look, best wrap this up, but it’s worth a heart-to-heart with him, isn’t it? Voice your concern as his brother and see what he says. Just don’t go in accusingly and piss him off. Be the support he may be looking for.”

They both looked up as their boss, DI Dopey Dupin, entered the room and headed their way.

“Morning sir,” they said almost at the same time. Raj started to move away, figuring it was Amanda he was after.

“Yes, morning,” Dupin said, though he was obviously distracted. He turned his full attention to Amanda.

“I hear on the bongo drums you’ve been making enquiries at Manchester about Wilfred Day. What’s that all about?” Dopey had a habit of looking stressed even when he probably wasn’t, but the twitch in his left eye said he was wound up about something. It was one of his ‘tells.’ He’d never make a decent poker player.

“His name came up rather tenuously connected to a prescription drug thing I’m looking into.”

“And? Is that it?”

“Yes, sir, that’s about it. DS Black filled me in on what he knew of him, which was not much more than a slippery modern mob wannabe who has impeccable manners and dresses smartly. May I ask what’s up, sir?”

“Just keep me posted, that’s all,” he said, and left as quickly as he’d entered.

Amanda watched him go. He’d never been the most talkative person in the station and was not an easy person to warm to, but he was her boss and she respected that. To many, it was still a quandary how he’d ever made the DI promotion; some speculated he must have intel on someone higher up, but others couldn’t see him being smart enough to blackmail his way. It was kind of sad he lacked the respect of the team he led, she thought, not for the first time.

She sat back down at her desk and looked at the web page she’d been reading about opioid addiction in other countries. The US had a massive problem with pharmacy break-ins, prescription books nicked and youngsters getting into the game as dealers to fulfil demand. Many were nicking their parents’ pills, swapping them out for something that looked the same and then selling on the potent stuff at a profit. Prescription pills were deemed a little more upmarket than typical street drugs, and housewives, sports stars and everybody in between was regularly looking for their endorphin fix or dopamine surge. And like any addiction, the more a person consumed, the bigger the craving. While it wasn’t quite as bad in little old Blighty, opioids were already on the street and readily available.

She sat back in her chair, feeling deflated. Or was she just feeling sluggish? Looking at the clock on her screen, she realized it was time for coffee so she headed to the coffee machine, the one that always caused Jack so much consternation. As she waited for her cup to fill, she was deep in thought. Caffeine was no different than other drugs in a craving and uplifting context. So why wasn’t caffeine banned and thrown in with other stimulants? A triple espresso would shoot her into oblivion, yet could it feel the same as a hit from something outlawed? It was a sobering thought.

Amanda took her fix back to her desk and carried on with research.

Chapter Forty

Duncan had driven to work that morning in a mixed mood of thankfulness and utmost surprise at finding Sam up sipping tea in the kitchen. But what had doubly surprised him was she’d then showered and made him breakfast, all with a smile on her face. Maybe he hadn’t been too hard on her after all; maybe she’d turned a corner and was starting to sort herself out. He certainly hoped so. A red light up ahead slowed him to a stop and he absentmindedly looked across to the car that had pulled alongside him at the traffic lights. There was no mistaking whose car it was, though the windows were tinted so dark there was no way of confirming who was driving. A top-of-the-range custom-coloured metallic tan Bentley – there was only one person with a car like that.

Wilfred Day.

The driver was probably looking straight at him, but there was no way he could tell for sure. So Duncan smiled like an idiot anyway and wiggled his fingers in a casual wave just to be the friendly cop he was – and annoy whoever was at the wheel. The passenger window of the Bentley rolled down smoothly, and the driver leaned across the empty seat in an effort to talk to Duncan.

It was the man himself.

“Pleasant morning, isn’t it? A slight nip in the air, but at least the rain has gone.” Wilfred Day smiled broadly. His face wasn’t so much handsome as striking. His jaw was strong, his eyes as blue as could be, and he had a perfect set of teeth that were currently being displayed in all their chemically whitened glory. Maybe GQ had finished their photo shoot with him early.

“Morning, Wilfred. What gets you up so early on a school day? Or are you just going home?”

“Early bird and all. Early bird.” He flashed a smile again and revved his engine, yelling “Have a fantastic day!” as the lights changed and he drove off. Duncan watched as Wilfred accelerated out in front of him. A car tooted behind him so Duncan pulled away too. Day’s rear lights were already pinpricks of red in the distance.

“And the second mouse gets the cheese, my friend. Second mouse,” he mumbled. “Fantastic day,” with its play on his surname, was something the man said to amuse himself, and it always grated on Duncan. The fact that Wilfred Day had managed to stay out of jail stuck in the craw of the GMP in general, and many had taken him on in an attempt to be the local hero in law enforcement, but the egg continued to slip around the fry pan.

“One day, Day. It won’t be so fantastic, then. Well, not for you at any rate,” he mumbled. Duncan had fantasized about what he’d say to the man when the law finally caught up with him and he was sent down, because he did believe it was only a matter of time. As his mental scenario went, he’d walk up to him in the courtroom before he was led away and tell him ‘The day is done.’ It was so poetic, so eloquent in its simplicity. All Duncan needed now was the occasion. The right day.

He turned into Grindlow Street; the station was just in front of him. The area was still quiet, with only a handful of people out walking dogs. Rochelle’s bike wasn’t parked in its usual corner, but Rick’s BMW was in his usual spot. Duncan pulled into a space himself, then headed indoors. Rick was talking to a uniform in the doorway.

“Hello, early bird.” Rick gave him a friendly slap on his back as he spoke.

“Morning, Rick. You’re extra exuberant this morning, aren’t you?”

“Oh, just good to see you back, and glad your little family is all safe and sound, too. A bit of a stressful day, I’d imagine.”

“You could say that, yeah.”

They both headed into the building and towards the canteen. Coffee first. Always. They placed their orders and then grabbed a seat to wait.

“I popped back last night when the girls had gone to bed, caught up with Rochelle. Still no news on the two missing children, I hear. That’s not good.”

Two mugs of steaming coffee arrived and they each sipped in silence for a moment or two. Children who went missing were rarely found alive so many hours after their disappearance. It was one of the hardest things for officers to deal with, one of the worst parts of the job. They both knew that some point, probably soon, their task would turn from rescue recovery, and the grief of informing next of kin. A hateful task, but one that had to be done nonetheless.

“No, absolutely it’s not, but with such a lack of leads to go on, I’m doubtful we’ll bring them home anytime soon. Though I’m praying for the opposite, just like you are.” Changing the subject, Rick asked, “Are you still out tactical training next week, or has that been postponed?”

“No. As far as I’m aware, it’s still on. I’m actually looking forward to seeing the fake town they’ve built. From what I’ve seen the riot set-up is pretty realistic, and the rent-a-mobs are pretty realistic too. Why do you ask?”

“Remember DS Amanda Lacey from Croydon?”

The blonde one, yes. She put away that woman who collected human hunting trophies. Quite a tough cookie, I remember. Why?”

“I spoke to her yesterday while you were out. Seems they might have a prescription opioid issue developing. She found evidence, little packets that tested for codeine and oxy, by a mobile food truck down there, and guess whose name came up with a bit of a dig?”

“Tell me.”

“Wilfred Day. Loosely on a company trace, but still, here he is popping up yet again.”

“I saw him on the drive in, all bright and breezy,” said Duncan. “The guy will get his day, and I’ll get my day to say told you so. One day.” He smiled at his own weak joke. “Poetic, don’t you think? I can’t wait to deliver it to the arrogant git.”

“Well, if Lacey has something going on down there, you never know your luck – Day might slip up. So, my point is this: why don’t you pop in while you’re passing on your way down to training? It might be worth an hour’s detour; buy her dinner or something.” Duncan thought for a moment. If Day was moving his operation south into new unchartered territory, he might indeed slip up somehow. And either he or Lacey could be the one to catch him if he fell.

“I’ll give her a buzz now.”

Chapter Forty-One

Jack was looking expectantly at the coffee machine once again, and Amanda was trying not to notice and smirk. It wasn’t that he hadn’t had the practice; he’d had plenty, but for some reason unknown to humanity, he struggled with the concept of water, capsule and milk. And the relevant buttons. One day, he’d grasp it, she was sure, but until that distant day, it was invariably quicker and less painful all round to make him a mug when she made her own. Shaking her head, she quietly made her way across and picked up a clean mug.

“Great idea, Jack. I think I’ll have another.”

With a thankful sideways glance, he allowed her in, pretending to be gallant with a wave of his hand for her to go first. She took the hint and the machine fizzed and spluttered into life, dark liquid filling her mug.

“What can I make you, Jack?” She held out her hand for his mug while hers finished brewing.

“I’ll have a trim macchiato with sprinkles, please,” he teased.

“Coffee with milk coming right up.”

He had the same every day, every time.

“Just had a call from Manchester, from DS Duncan Riley,” she said as Jack’s coffee brewed. “He’s coming down our way for tactical training, so he said he’d drop in. He’s quite clued up on Wilfred Day by all accounts, so I said we’d take him out for dinner, a curry or something. You up for that? He seemed a decent sort. And it would be good to pick his brains on what’s happening up his way.”

“Always up for a curry, you know me. Or Chinese. I don’t mind. It’s a shame Wong’s don’t have seating. We could treat him to crispy pork balls. Or we could take it back to your place?”

“Probably not while the house is in decorating turmoil. I’ll organize a table some place. He won’t be in a flash hotel, so he’ll welcome the dinner date rather than a garage sandwich in his room, I should imagine.”

“How much is there to know about Wilfred Day – any idea?” Jack asked as they headed back to their desks. Jack’s was a mass of manila files and paperwork, with barely enough space to put his mug down freely. Amanda’s, in contrast, was exactly the opposite. They say opposites attract, and that’s why they worked together so well. He was the milk for her cereal; she was the mug for his coffee – metaphorically speaking. His seat groaned again as he sat, letting it swivel slightly to one side and back again as he sipped from his mug. He looked deep in thought, miles away.

“Duncan is very familiar with him by all accounts,” Amanda said. “Day sounds like a special sort of character from what I know of him already, a real charmer. Seems he’s a new breed of gangster, a new generation, less thug and more brains and a good technological fit for twenty-first-century crime. Like we talked about, even prostitutes have moved more online now, away from the drafty doorways, so it follows that pimps and drug lords have done the same. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the prozzies are GPS tracked by their pimps now, maybe even timed. Check the customer in and check them back out again, like some sort of productivity tool almost. If they’re holed up in a flat, say, how many paying customers could you get through in one night if they don’t have to stand on street corners and the client comes to them in their room? That could be big money for some – pimps and solos.”

“You reckon there is such a thing?” Jack asked. “Is nothing exempt from the clock? Not even getting your leg over?”

“It’s business. No matter what the service, it’s a business and time is money. And technology comes to us all eventually, Jack, even you.”

“Having a dig, are we, Lacey? I didn’t do too bad when I was ailing in hospital and you wanted me to delve into the dark web. I found what we were looking for, didn’t I?” Jack mock-buffed his nails, looking chuffed with himself. His nails were looking neater, Amanda noticed, since Mrs. Stewart had taken him under her wing.

“I’ll give you that one, and I’ll be sure and hit you up when we need more dark web research done. You’ll be the man,” she said with gusto and a smile. “If only we could get you to master the coffee machine…”

“Cheeky – watch it,” admonished Jack. “Well, with that in mind, maybe I should take another snoop around, do a bit more on prescription meds and see how they are being traded, see where I end up. I’ve still got that old laptop Ruth gave me, too.” He looked thoughtful as he added, “In fact, that’s a great idea, Jack. I’ll do it later.” He slapped himself on the back and swung his seat round to face his desk, conversation over.

“Good plan, Jack,’ Amanda said. “Meanwhile, while you’re playing Inspector Clouseau with a piece of apple pie on your side table and Bake Off on the TV, remember me hard at it decorating, will you? I know which I’d rather be doing.” Amanda groaned inwardly at the thought of physical hard work after a day of mentally tough work. She wasn’t meant for physical work; her body didn’t appreciate it. A slice of pie and the TV sounded more than appealing. “Right, then. I’ll book us a table at Chat House. Will that do for you?” But Jack was engrossed in something on his screen so Amanda carried on talking to herself, her words falling on distracted ears. “Yes, okay, Amanda, you do that. Seven p.m. work for you?” she mocked. Since she was having both sides of the conversation, she turned her head to the other side to await the reply. “Perfect, Jack. Got to love a good Jalfrezi.” She turned her head again in reply. “That you do.”

Amanda picked up the phone and booked them a table. Seven o’clock it was, then.

Chapter Forty-Two

It couldn’t be that hard to do, could it?

Luke had built web pages before, but he’d never had to host them on a secret server – a server on the dark web. From his quick search, he’d found there were plenty of tutorials, YouTube videos even, informing newbies how easy it was to host a page anonymously. It didn’t seem to be much more than using hidden ports and directories. While Luke wasn’t a tech whizz in this space, he knew enough to put together what he needed without having to ask for help. Asking someone for help would set alarm bells off.

He got to work creating, making the simple site look businesslike without being sinister, and three hours later he was ready to launch their temporary business venture into what felt like outer space, the big black unknown, another world. His finger hovered over the return key. When he pressed it, the site would be launched and there would be no turning back. Once it was out there, they were in business.

He pulled his finger away from the key without pressing it and sat back in the chair, thinking. Really? Was he really willing to kill for a few thousand pounds? Would he really be able to snuff out someone’s life because he’d been paid for the task? Who the hell was he?

A hired assassin, that’s who.

But he knew flipping burgers or scrubbing floors was not going to get them where they wanted to be. No, he couldn’t see another way. Luke pressed return and waited for a confirmation message on his screen. When it eventually came, he sat and stared at it. He’d actually done it. His stall was set up and ready to go. Now it was a case of waiting and finding the next item on the list for the plan to take shape – the weapon. He texted Clinton, just one line to tell him they were now live. Then he closed his laptop and headed for the bathroom to mull over what he’d done in a hot bath. It was the next best thing to going down the pub with no money in his pocket.

The soak had in fact been fruitful. While he’d lain there steaming and thinking, his old friend Tommy had popped into his head. He’d been at school with Luke, but he’d lived on the other side of the tracks in North Kensington, a rougher part of town and nowhere near the Kensington that was famously fashionable. Trendy, suburban, movie-worthy Notting Hill, where Luke currently lived with his parents, was the meat in the town sandwich, slap bang in the middle. North Kensington was mainly mid- to high-rise blocks of estate flats where the tough kids at school lived, a place he’d only ever been once before, and a place he hadn’t had the desire to go back to, either. His father had joked that the dogs went out in twos for safety, it had been that bad. No, his friends were not the same crowd, apart from Tommy, that was. Luke had grown up in greenery, among three-story houses, each with a reasonable car out front and white-collar parents inside, though his own parents had fought to keep up appearances. They’d struggled at times to give him the education and life they wanted for him, and while he appreciated it now, as a young, independent man, he’d no clue. Until that day that Tommy had taken him to his home on the Lancaster estate.

Tommy had been a bit of an oddball friend, and Luke had been drawn to him even though he was so different from all his other mates. He had a real mischief about him, though he rarely got in any real trouble because his cheeky personality found him a way out. It seemed everyone liked Tommy. With blue NHS-issued plastic glasses, he was the butt of many jokes, but he brushed them off like the cat hair on his T-shirt. He had a toughness about him that wasn’t sharp like the thugs that lived by him. He’d meant no harm to anyone, but loved the attention his personality afforded him.

Looking back now, Luke realized Tommy was probably starved of guidance and attention and could well have morphed into a rich life of poor crime without support. Their paths had separated when Tommy’s mother had died suddenly and he was sent away to live with an aunt up north; his father was already in prison. Whatever had happened to Tommy after that Luke had no idea. Neither boy had been big on writing letters, and there were no mobile phones back then. Luke wondered if Tommy was in prison himself now, like father like son, or if he was thriving somewhere, with a family of his own maybe, successful in a business of his own.

He thought back to a pub they had tried to get into; North Pole it had been called back then. They’d both sneaked in pretending to be part of a group of four men that had entered at the same time, hiding behind them in a vain attempt to gain their first taste of beer. They’d been rumbled almost immediately but one of the men, the youngest, Luke remembered, had bought them a half pint between them, admiring the two lads for their ingenuity and guffawing that it wouldn’t hurt to try it. In a place such as the Pole, the landlord had turned a blind eye; two boys sipping half a pint between them in the corner were no big deal compared to the other activities that went on in the place. The police busted the dingy premises on a regular basis; fighting with broken bottles was the norm and whatever substance a desperate man desired was available in the toilets. Other desperate people took part in even more desperate acts in those same toilets.

Blind eyes indeed, Luke thought. Nobody had known anything about anything.

Luke wondered about Tommy. There was always Facebook to find him.

As for the pub? There was one way to find out.

Chapter Forty-Three

It was cold and clear as Luke stepped outside. Pulling his collar up high and his hat down low, he rammed his gloved hands into his coat pockets and set off towards the bus stop, destination North Kensington and the Pole. It all seemed a bit surreal, knowing what he was trying to accomplish on his own with no experience in the line of work he’d volunteered himself for. It could all go terribly wrong, sure, but if he thought it through, planned it meticulously and practiced privately, he was educated and smart enough to pull it off. Criminals got caught because they didn’t plan enough or were a bit thick, he reasoned. That’s why they were criminals – it was their fall-back career. The successful ones were the men and women at the top, the drug lords, the modern-day gangsters, high-rolling madams. They played a different game, a game of strategy like inflated Monopoly, with huge stakes and obscene amounts of money.

Luke had read about some of the greatest criminal minds of the past; the best of them had been educated, clever and meticulous planners. And some had had values too. The infamous Ted Bundy, for instance. During his killing spree, where he had savagely mutilated and killed over thirty women including his wife, he had admitted he would never steal an uninsured car because he didn’t think it was right. He’d happily kill his wife rather than divorce her, but he drew the line at taking an uninsured car because that wasn’t fair. Go figure.

But prisons were full of the ones who had been caught, which to Luke’s mind meant they were either stupid or hadn’t given enough time and attention to the details. They had probably left evidence and clues like a trail of breadcrumbs for the police to follow.

But not Luke. He had no intention of being caught. He was the educated, creative one, and Clinton was educated and meticulous, so between them, they’d come up with the perfect plan.

After the toasty warmth of the night bus, the air outside felt like it couldn’t get any colder. Yet it surely would. The worst of winter was yet to come and even though London rarely got snow, it got bitterly cold, the wind chill making the mercury plummet. Luke rubbed his hands together as he walked through deserted streets, head down against the freezing night air, focusing on keeping his feet out of the random dog poo that littered the cracked pavement. He’d not been down these streets in years, not since Tommy had left; there’d been no need.

Most of the low-rise flat blocks had cracks of light peeking out from behind curtains, a signal someone was home, but some were still in darkness. Many others were boarded up with graffiti-covered plywood. Some of the plywood sheets had been wrenched away at a corner as someone or other attempted to break in, use the empty space as a squat, for a quick lay maybe, or somewhere peaceful to get a fix and lie low for a while. It was a dark, murky, mostly uninhabited world, left to fend for itself, unchecked, unregulated and rampant with crime.

Tommy had lived further up the street, on the tenth floor of a tower block with his mum. Luke had been there only the once and had tried not to stare at how little they had, at the decrepit state of what they did have. But Tommy’s mum had been a proud woman, and Luke smiled, remembering the big old blanket that had sat in pride of place on their sofa. She’d crocheted it herself, making the coloured wool squares out of wool from old unravelled jumpers or from skeins bought for a few pence at the market. How long it would have taken he’d no idea, but that blanket had covered every inch of the battered old sofa underneath. How sad it had been when she’d died and Tommy had to go.

As Luke approached the pub at the end of the street, he wondered once again about what Tommy would be doing now. He felt out of place and nervous in this part of town, yet Tommy had thrived here because he’d known nothing else. Luke hoped his aunt’s place had been a step up.

The pub’s entrance door opened while he was still a few steps away and a drunk made his way out, words slurring. Luke stepped aside as he passed and watched as he made it to the corner of the building before retching his liquid evening meal back up and depositing it on the concrete. A trickle ran from the splattered mess and Luke watched it roll away to the curb, feeling a little queasy inside himself. The man staggered off, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, going back the way Luke had come, back towards the darkness, the darkened homes of the derelict.

Reaching out a shaking hand, Luke opened the pub door and stepped inside.

Chapter Forty-Four

It hadn’t changed all that much in nearly fifteen years. Cheap Formica tabletops, faded once-salmon-coloured velour upholstery on the chairs and foam-covered built-in seating that ran around one half of the dim room. A long wooden bar stretched almost the length of the left side. The mirror above it reflected a roomful of wary eyes on the intruder. Luke heard the lowering of conversation as he approached the bar. A huge man in a cut-off denim jacket, with arms like Popeye and wearing dark aviator shades, slowly made his way toward him. Inside, Luke’s heart failed a beat and he swallowed involuntarily. Summoning courage from deep in his boots, Luke ordered half a bitter; it seemed the right thing to do. The man wordlessly grabbed a glass and slowly made his way back to a pump, lifted a brass tap. Luke watched it fill, a creamy head of about an inch forming on top of the deep brown liquid. It gave him somewhere to put his eyes; he dared not look up at the long mirror, where he knew he’d see so many eyes looking back at him.

Another man moved and stood next to him, too close, intimidatingly close, then another stood on his other side. Their body odour caught in his throat. The barman delivered his drink, and Luke handed over a note to pay, hoping it was enough, not really expecting to see any change. Luke was the only person who had spoken so far, though conversation in the room had resumed. With a shaky hand, he tried not to slop beer over the rim of his glass as he made his way, unaccompanied, to a vacant corner and sat down. So far so good, he thought uneasily, although it didn’t quite feel good; it felt terrifying.

He sipped his beer and tried not to catch anyone’s eye as he forced himself to look a little more relaxed than he felt. Whatever went on in the pub, the eyes he was purposefully avoiding would suddenly become blind, he knew – and stay that way. He glanced at the floor. The carpet underfoot had once been a deep pile, but over the years it had worn in places, almost to the thread backing in spots in front of the bar. In other spots, like up against the covered seating, it had plenty of years left in it. It probably had plenty of beer in it, too, and maybe even blood.

When he did eventually chance a glance up from the floor, nobody was looking his way. Everyone had gone back to their own business, back to more important matters. And as Luke relaxed a little, he thought about the business he’d come to this particular dive for – a weapon contact. He sipped and wondered how he might do that now he was here. What was he expecting? To see a dodgy bloke hanging his shingle out, a sign saying ‘Guns for Sale’? He found some change in his pocket and nervously walked back towards the bar and waited. A packet of crisps would give him something to do while he sat. He hoped nobody would spit in his drink while his back was turned. Popeye could well be glaring at him from behind his aviators; Luke couldn’t be sure. Popeye’s sour-smelling breath greeted him on his arrival.

“Salt and vinegar crisps, please, mate.”

Again wordlessly, Popeye reached into a brown cardboard box on the floor, one that had had the front cut out, and retrieved a packet. No need for shelf space when the box itself would do. He tossed the bag roughly onto the bar, and Luke handed over change for payment. Popeye checked the amount and tossed the whole lot into the till drawer, a drawer that didn’t close. Nothing was rung through the till, Luke realized. Nothing went through the books in this place. Once again, he felt eyes all over him and headed back to his seat to consume his packet of crisps. His beer looked untampered-with; there was nothing floating on the top that looked out of the ordinary. He took a long mouthful and lifted his eyes again, his glance connecting instantly with that of a man of a similar age over to his right. He was wearing grubby jeans and a hoody, like Luke himself, so he decided to start with him. If he was going to make some headway here, if this evening’s investigative journey was to be fruitful, he might as well make a start.

The chosen man didn’t look away, and neither did Luke. When the man eventually did turn away, Luke carried on looking in his direction as he finished his bag of crisps. He hoped it was a wise move and not a killer move. Suddenly, without warning, the chosen man slammed his drink down and strode over to Luke so quickly that Luke spilled beer down his front with fright. All other conversation in the pub ceased as every eye in the place focused, laser-like, on Luke. Here goes.

“Got a problem? Cos if you haven’t, you’re gonna get one shortly!” The man’s face was screwed up like a discarded coke can, his eyes raging, his breath vile. Spittle flew as he leaned in and shouted into Luke’s face; a wet blob landed on his cheek. Luke desperately wanted to wipe it off and tried not to grimace in disgust for fear of upsetting the man further. A fight was the last thing he wanted, and he had a feeling it would be the pub crowd against him. What had given him the crazy notion he’d be safe in such a place? Even dressed in jeans and a hoody, his oldest coat over the top, he still looked as out of place as a Chelsea supporter in the West Ham end of the stadium. And just as dangerous. Should he reply, he wondered, as if in a dream, and if so, with what?

“No problem, no. Just taking in the scenery.” As soon as he heard how it sounded to his own ears, Luke knew he’d said the wrong thing. He did his best to recover before he got punched. Or worse. Quickly, he added, “I mean, taking in the ambience of the place. A fine pub you have here.” He did his best to deliver a nervous smile and it must have worked because the man pulled back a little. Then he spoke, rather than shouting, for which Luke was grateful.

“What ya doing in here? I can see you’re not from round here. You a pig or something?”

“Far from it, actually. And you’re right, I’m not from here. But I am looking for something specific.”

“Not a pig, eh? Then what are you?”

Conversation in the rest of the pub resumed as it became apparent that nothing further was on the tables, no fight imminent. Luke tried to breathe normally again as he spoke to the pock-marked face looming over him. At least the guy was out of his face now.

“Call me a customer. Like I said, I’m after something.”

“Yeah? What, like a kebab or something?” the man said, unsmiling.

Luke lowered his voice as he said, “A piece, actually. Know anyone that can do that?”

“I know plenty, but what makes you think you can get one through this place? It’s a reputable business,” Pock-Marks said, waving his arms around the bar. He smiled at his own observation, showing caramel-coloured teeth that had probably never seen a dentist. Luke suspected the man didn’t get too many kisses with a mouth like that.

“Figured I’d ask.” Luke was feeling more confident with each sentence they shared. Taking a breath, he invited the man to sit. “Can I get you a refill?” Pock-Marks looked puzzled, and Luke gamely carried on. “Lager, is it?” Sometimes confidence was the best way to take control, particularly if you didn’t feel it. The man nodded and Luke stood to go and buy his refill. He hoped his legs would hold out as he walked; he didn’t dare to look back towards his seat and the man in case it ignited him again.

“You’re brave. Or stupid,” the barman said as he filled a pint glass with lager. Wordlessly, Luke handed over the cash and went back to his table. One thing he had learned was that most people appreciated the act of ‘breaking bread’ together before settling down to business, although tonight Luke’s version of ‘bread’ came in a pint pot. He set it down in front of the man and let him take a sip before speaking.

“So, can you help me, then?”

“Tell me what you’re after.”

Chapter Forty-Five

It was a night for seedy pubs.

Sam had asked Anika to sit for a couple of hours, which she’d gladly agreed to for two reasons: first, Sam had Sky TV, and second, as she’d had a bit of a bust-up with her boyfriend, she’d welcomed the change of scenery as well as the opportunity to drink the best part of a bottle of wine while she watched the girls.

“Take your time,” she’d said as Sam had left her sleeping children with a woman who’d soon be passed out, fast asleep in front of the TV. She’d never been able to hold her drink. Sam would throw a blanket over her later when she returned; no sense in her driving home drunk.

Sam closed the front door behind her and set out into a freezing cold Manchester night towards The Feathers. As her little car chugged gamely down Clumber Road, she wiped the misty inside of her windscreen with a gloved hand to see where she was going. The windscreen heater would kick in shortly, but for now, the back of her hand would suffice.

The streets were quiet. More sensible folks were inside with their central heating on full, no doubt curled up with hot tea, the biscuit barrel and Coronation Street, but not Sam. With her toasty Ugg boots on her feet and wrapped in a thick, fleecy jacket complete with fake fur hood trim, all she wanted was to get this done and then get back home and relax a little. She thought of the pills she’d swallowed just before she’d left, a little something to spur her on, take the edge off being nervous. They’d probably kick in about the time she arrived to find her target.

While she had a clear description of Sid from Anika, she still couldn’t quite visualize him. Hopefully she’d know him when she saw him. She reached into her bag on the passenger’s seat and pulled out a bottle of vodka, setting it between her thighs as she unscrewed the top off with her left hand, the right on the steering wheel. At the first available chance, when she knew she could toss her head back and swig, she did. She then tossed her head back again and rapidly guzzled down a couple more mouthfuls. Clear liquid leaked out of the corner of her mouth, spilling onto her jeans, making her look down for a split second. A car horn blared as she started to cross the central line, and Sam yanked the steering wheel back to the left and the relative safety of her own lane.

“Damn!” she said, wiping her mouth and brushing uselessly at the liquid that had now soaked into her jeans. She made a vain attempt to screw the lid back on, then gave up and slotted the bottle into the drinks holder in the driver’s door; she’d secure it later when she got to the pub.

The pub.

Up ahead, the dour building came into view. There was not much in the way of inviting lighting, but then a pub with a reputation such as this one had, probably didn’t exactly go looking for new business. The whole place was overdue something, though not a refurbishment – more a demolition, Sam thought. She parked in the dark empty street slightly down from the front door and sat for a moment, car doors locked. The vodka had found the pills from earlier; a glow was starting inside her stomach like a hot potato keeping her warm on the inside. She capped the bottle securely now and slid it under her seat, not wanting to leave it on display and not wanting to take it with her. She’d be glad of another swig when this was all over and done.

The strong odour of cigarettes, old beer and piss from the gents’ toilets hit her full on as she stepped inside, and she did her utmost not to wrinkle her nose. Without making eye contact or looking round at all, she headed straight for the bar and ordered a bottle of lager from the woman on the other side. She was pushing sixty and was buxom with bright red box-dyed hair.

“Coming right up,” she said cheerfully, and Sam watched as her leopard print dress rode up far too much as she bent to the fridge behind her.

Pass the mint sauce, Sam thought cattily. She tried not to look at the woman’s legs; they were thick, with knobbly veins running up them like the M1 motorway. She needed support hosiery, badly.

The woman set down Sam’s beer and Sam passed her a £5 note, then turned her back to the bar and risked a furtive, sweeping look to see who was in. And if anyone was watching her. The sound of balls clacking together in the distance pricked her ears up.

“Your change, love,” the bartender said, and Sam heard the coins settle on the wooden bar beside her elbow. Absentmindedly, she scooped them up with one hand and slipped them into her coat pocket, then moved from the main bar room towards where the sound of clanking balls had come from, a room out back.

It wasn’t hard to spot the man she was looking for. He fitted Anika’s description down to a T. The dark roots had grown out to about four inches. He was still nervous-looking, and his jeans hung off narrow hips, exposing grey boxer shorts. He wore an old T-shirt with Begbie from Trainspotting on the front, layered over another grubby long-sleeved tee. Sid lined up with his cue and sank the black ball in one swift movement, then gave himself a little cheer. The youth he’d been playing left his cue on the table and headed for the toilets, shoulders slumped in defeat. Sid picked up the £10 note, his winnings, and pocketed it. Sam watched, taking it all in.

It was time for her to make her move.

Chapter Forty-Six

The first thing Sam did when she got back to her car was pull the vodka bottle up from under her seat and take another couple of large gulps. Her mouth had dried up, even after the bottle of lager. In a few moments, she felt the vodka start to ease her tension and regulate her breathing again, though doing it was doing nothing for her shaking hands. The man, Sid, had scared her a little, though since she was nearly twice his size in terms of body fat, she doubted he’d have hurt her. Although of course that didn’t rule out a hidden knife up his sleeve or a knuckle-duster in his pocket. But she’d made contact, and that was all she’d intended to do.

For now.

There had been no point in making him suspicious and spelling out what she wanted at this stage of the game, so she’d simply bought him a pint and they’d played a little pool. She’d spent the time watching him, sussing him out as he eventually lost the game. Pool was one thing Sam was extremely skilled at. She’d let him keep his bet; there was no point antagonizing him. She wanted him to be glad to see her when it came time for her to return and make her purchase.

Sam smiled and took another swig of vodka. Yes, he’d been rough looking and she wouldn’t trust him as far as she could arm-wrestle him, but he had actually turned out to be a decent pool opponent and not bad company for the evening, although she was well aware that she wouldn’t want to meet his nasty side.

Time to get back to her girls.

As she’d suspected, Anika was spark out on the sofa, the empty wine bottle on its side on the carpet and a drained wine glass alongside it. A half-eaten pizza slice lay on a plate on the coffee table; the morning’s mail lay unopened next to it. In the kitchen, the pizza box lay on the work surface, the lid open, three full slices untouched. Why Anika had bought such a big one if she hadn’t been that hungry Sam had no idea, but Anika’s loss was her gain. She took a slice, biting the now soggy crust covered with cold melted cheese. Pizza was one of the few takeaway meals that tasted good cold as well as hot, and Sam stood staring out of the window again, munching absentmindedly as she pondered. A rapid movement caught her eye – a cat probably, darting through the back garden. She blinked and it was gone as quickly as it had come.

Just passing through.

Like life itself, she thought glumly – all of us are given just a short space of time as we pass through on the way to someplace else. Where, nobody quite knows. She helped herself to a second slice of pizza while she thought about the big decision she’d made. Would Duncan feel anything when the time came? She didn’t want him to suffer, but she did want him out of her life. And the girls’. And she did want the insurance money and widow’s pension, so really, there was no other way to get exactly what she wanted.

The great outdoors was still and calm. The temperature had plummeted as she’d driven home; her neighbours were all tucked behind thick curtains, too busy staring at their televisions to notice her departure or return on such a night. There was no one to tell Duncan she’d been out, and since Anika was passed out on the sofa, she’d have no clue what time she’d finally got home.

Sam quietly made her way up the stairs and checked on the girls. She dragged the quilt off the bed in the back room and went back downstairs, where she gently covered Anika over as she lay on the sofa. She stirred a little but didn’t say a word or open her eyes. Sam collected the unopened mail and leaned over Anika for a moment.

“Thanks for your help,” she said softly, and turned the lamp out, plunging the room into darkness. Closing the living room door on her friend, she made her way up to bed then sent a quick text to Duncan warning him Anika was on the sofa asleep. She didn’t want him barging in, turning the lights on and scaring her to death when he came home later.

How many more nights? she wondered. How many more did he have? She slipped into her pyjamas and sat up in bed for a while, her body still full of pills and vodka though the adrenaline rush had since faded. Soon she’d crash – she always did – but until that point came, she wanted to run her developing plan back through her head once again, trying to iron out the kinks.

Like where was she going to get the cash from?

She remembered the unopened mail that was waiting on the chest of drawers. She padded over. There were three envelopes in total, and she collected them and took them back to bed, where she ripped them open in turn. Electric bill, magazine subscription reminder and bank statement. Didn’t anyone write letters anymore? Wouldn’t that be a nice change from junk mail and bills?

But as an idea crept into her head through a disused back door, she smiled to herself at the simplicity of it.

She could forge his signature and get a bank loan.

And the sweetest part?

He’d never know anything about it – he wouldn’t be around to find out.

Chapter Forty-Seven

The alarm blared like a ship’s horn and Sam woke with a jolt. Duncan lay next to her. He stirred as she reached over, hit the snooze button and settled back down.

“What time is it?” he said groggily.

“A little after seven. Want a cuppa bringing?” Sam was doing her best to be the perfect wife.

“That would be lovely. Thanks.”

She watched as he rolled onto his side, facing her, his hair mussed up, eyes barely open.

“What time did you get home? I didn’t hear you come in.”

“A little after midnight. We’d had a solid lead on the child abductor in the afternoon and the team went in last night. Nabbed the pervert but we’re still uncertain where the two children are. He’s not talking.”

Sam slipped out of bed as the alarm blared again and switched it off, grabbing her robe at the same time.

“Well, it’s good news you have him. He’ll talk at some stage, won’t he?”

“I’d like to beat the crap out of him to get him to talk, but you can’t do that these days. Bloody politically correct crap. If politicians worked with what we saw day in, day out, they’d damn well change their minds.” He rubbed his eyes wearily.

“I’ll go and get your cuppa and give the girls a nudge. You stay put and rest.” She bent over and kissed the side of his head gently before she left the room.

When Sam returned ten minutes later, she was carrying a tray with two mugs of tea and a plate of hot toast for them both. Duncan was sat up in bed, still bleary-eyed. She noticed the softness of his upper body, the paleness of it. He’d used to be so fit, so strong, when they’d first got together, but age and lack of time and energy had changed all that. And she was no different, she knew. Two children did the same to a woman’s body, though at least she had an excuse.

“Thought I’d have breakfast in bed with you,” she said with a smile. She passed him a mug then slipped back in under the covers. “The girls are eating cereal downstairs. They’ll probably come and say hi in a minute or two. Toast?” She offered him the plate and he took a slice. She set the plate on the quilt in front of them both. “We’ve not had a picnic in bed since before the girls were born, I don’t think,” she said, almost reminiscing.

“I meant to ask, why is Anika on the sofa?” He took another bite, greasy butter making his lips glisten.

“She came over last night, drank too much and fell asleep. They’d had another row, so she needed to drown her sorrows. Then I covered her over. She was still asleep when I went through.” Changing direction, she enquired, “What’s your plan for today, then. Back in to work?”

“Yes. I’ll have this and grab a shower. We’ve left him to stew in a cell overnight. His lawyer will be back in later this morning, I expect. Maybe then he’ll come to his senses. Good timing, really.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Well, because I’ve got that tactical training course. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to go, but now he’s safely in the nick, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I’d forgotten about that. When is it?” Sam felt a prick of alarm in her gut.

“Day after tomorrow. Just one night away then back home. I could do with the rest here, really.”

He munched quietly as an idea percolated in Sam’s head. Could this be the opportune time? Could she organize herself and get her plan actioned this week? There was a lot to do.

“So, I’d better get a move on, get back in to work,” he said, flinging the covers back. He held the edge of a piece of toast in his mouth. Sam watched as he pushed the remainder in, chewing, and left the bedroom. The sound of the shower running, then the girls’ feet running up the stairs, brought her thoughts back to the practicalities of the day ahead.

With Duncan’s revelation that he would be away in two night’s time, she knew this had to be her window of opportunity. While he was away in another town all on his own, she’d be out of the frame for sure, sat snug at home in front of the TV with the girls, alibi sorted. Perhaps she’d invite Anika to stay over too. Yes – that would be the perfect alibi.

Anika was stirring as Sam entered the room. The girls were up and clattering around upstairs now, making too much noise for even the deepest sleeper to ignore. Anika clutched her sore head and groaned.

“Morning,” Sam said brightly. “Tea? And maybe a Paracetamol too?”

“Ouch. Yes, and yes, please.”

Sam took the recent revelation by the horns and sounded Anika out.

“Listen, Duncan is away for the night day after tomorrow. Why don’t we have a sleepover? A movie, takeaway, a couple of drinks – it’ll be fun. And if you don’t fall asleep on the couch, there’s a proper bed in the spare room. What do you say?” Sam fixed another bright smile on her face.

Anika frowned, no doubt feeling sick as a dog.

“Oh, go on!” Sam enthused. “Two girls, all night, no men? Sounds like fun!”

It did the trick. Anika smiled weakly and nodded. “But make me limit my wine, would you? My head feels like a thousand ants in work boots are stomping the inside of my skull for fun.”

“Ah, the ant punishment.” Sam smiled knowingly. “I’ll get your Paracetamol,” she said, and went back through to the kitchen. While she busied herself making tea and finding painkillers, inside her head was a riot of activity. A mental checklist was forming, and her first task was already checked off the list. Would it be stupid to write things out, put a list on physical paper? It would make it much easier. No, her head would have to do.

Duncan put his head through the door.

“Right, I’m off. I’ll see you later.”

“Before you go, what time are you heading to your course, and where is it again?”

“It’s in Kent but I’ll be overnight Croydon. I’m meeting up with a couple from Croydon station for a curry then tactical the following day. Why?”

“Oh, just taking an interest in your plans.” That sweet smile again. She was getting convincing at it. She planted a light kiss on his cheek and casually turned back to what she’d been doing.

“Right, then. I’ll see you later,” Duncan said. “Not sure what time.”

“Okay. Enjoy your day,” Sam said over her shoulder.

The front door closed and it was Anika’s turn to put her head through the door.

“You two sound like you’re getting on well.”

Sam turned to her friend with the same smile she’d been delivering to Duncan over the last couple of days. She was working hard at laying the emotional groundwork.

“We are now, thankfully. I think we’ve turned a corner. I see big changes ahead.”

Don’t I just.

Chapter Forty-Eight

At last, the house was empty and Sam could think. Planning to get rid of your husband in the next couple of days was not without its drawbacks; there was much to be accomplished to get every detail right. Could she do it another day? Of course she could – but she didn’t want to. The stronger Sam of old had returned, pushing the recent Sam-the-pathetic off her metaphorical cliff, never to return. Her decision to carry out this plan had ignited her inner pilot light, filled her belly with fire again, and the freedom she’d garner at the end of it all – not to mention the money – excited every fibre of her being.

Her mental list had grown in size, but now, as she headed in through the main entrance of the bank, she was about to chalk a line through another item.

The money.

With the clock ticking down the hours, she had only been able to guess at the amount of cash she’d need for her plan. How much does it cost to kill your husband? But since Duncan wouldn’t be around to question the transaction, she had decided to err on the side of caution and organize more than she thought she’d need.

“Good morning. I’d like to take a loan out, if I may,” she informed the teller behind the screen, slipping her bank card under the glass partition. “I need to do the paperwork if I can, then get my husband to sign later today if that’s okay. He’s working late.”

The teller smiled her understanding.

“Certainly. How much are you looking for?” Sam noticed the woman’s engagement ring twinkling as it caught the light; there was no wedding band visible yet. “What a stunning ring,” she said pleasantly. “Have you set the date yet?”

The woman blushed and smiled. “It’s a bit soon yet. We only got engaged at the weekend. It is lovely though, isn’t it?” She looked down at the ring and blushed again.

“Oh, congratulations!” Sam carried on, hoping she wasn’t overdoing things.

The teller eventually came back to the business at hand. “How much would you like to borrow? I see you already have a preapproved amount noted on your account of up to twenty thousand pounds, which means I can confirm that to you today without any further paperwork. Over that amount, though, and I will have to get approval.” The ring twinkled again.

“It’s lucky I only need twenty thousand, then.” Sam laughed lightly. “Save on the paperwork.”

“Great. I’ll do that for you now, then. It won’t take me a minute or two.”

Sam watched the pretty ring as it flew across the keyboard, creating a loan for £20,000. If the teller knew what she was actually authorizing with the loan, Sam mused, she probably wouldn’t be so friendly or efficient.

Sam smiled to herself. Her plan was going better than expected now that one of her biggest obstacles was almost completed. Luckily, she and Duncan had always had a joint account rather than opting for a housekeeping account and both contributing amounts into that. It worked for other couples, but Sam and Duncan had never seen any point in it. When she’d been working, they’d saved a little each month, putting it towards a holiday or renovations or a new car, but those savings had dwindled a little since they’d been living on one wage.

The teller was speaking. Sam had missed the question.

“Which account would you like the money to be available from, Mrs. Riley?”

“The savings account, please.” Sam watched the flying diamond again as the teller pressed a key to confirm the transfer. Smiling, she announced that the money was in their account.

All £20,000 of it.

It couldn’t have been easier.

Sam left the bank with a spring in her step, destination unknown for the time being. A coffee shop sign up ahead caught her attention, and she slipped inside to quietly celebrate on her own.

In a few more days she’d be spending a good deal more time on her own.

“Cappuccino and a donut please,” she ordered, and took a seat in a corner spot by the window to think some more. There was still so much to organize. It was quiet inside the coffee shop, though the takeaway window was nonstop. Sam was glad she didn’t have to rush off to the office or be at someone else’s beck and call any more. Would she need to go back to that when this was all over? Get a job? The insurance money wouldn’t last forever, she knew, and she’d probably have to move house. Clumber Road was okay, handy for Duncan’s work, but there was the whole country to consider now, and far nicer places to settle down and start afresh.

And the funds to do it with.

The girls were young enough not to mind the move, thankfully. They were both a long way from exams that mattered and the upheaval of lifelong friendships. They could get a house with a field, get a pony or some chickens, have a puppy maybe; the girls would love that. Her coffee and donut arrived, and she tucked in, still musing about what she might do herself eventually. Buy a café business, maybe? Plenty of people had that dream – settle on the Cornish coast, open a little place with checkered tablecloths and serve scones with homemade jam. . .

Sam watched the barista diligently work through the orders in front of her, her hands frantically switching from adding coffee to the press or milk to the steam tap. It looked hot, hard work. Sam imagined spending hours with steam rising into her face, queues in front of her until lunchtime and beyond, when it would start up again for a couple more hours.

“We’ll see,” she mumbled, and turned away to watch the world outside the window while she ate her good fortune reward. Raspberry jam dripped onto her lap and she glanced down in annoyance, then gave a start. It looked like blood.

Duncan’s blood.

And it didn’t bother her.

Chapter Forty-Nine

She pressed her finger thoughtfully into the blob of deep red jam on her jeans, surprised at her lack of emotion. It was dark enough to be blood but thicker, and she spread out to the sides a little as she played with it.

She imagined now that it was Duncan’s blood, that she’d somehow found him after the fact, had sat with him a moment or two before calling it in, reporting a death – not that she’d be in the vicinity if her plan went through, of course. But what if it did happen in their home? Would she find him lying in a pool of his own blood on the kitchen floor? What then? Would she play with a blob of blood between her thumb and forefinger like she was playing now with the sticky raspberry jam? Maybe. Or maybe she’d be crying, regretting what she’d been responsible for, or maybe she’d be whooping, dancing gaily around his prostrate body. Or maybe she’d have no emotion at all. That seemed the most likely scenario, because each time she’d thought, really thought, about what she was organizing, she had felt nothing at all about the task ahead. Maybe she could do the job herself and save the cash? No, the forensics team would be on her in a flash. Never mind the problem of an alibi: if she did the deed itself, she couldn’t be out with Anika at the same time.

No, clearly it needed to be done by someone else other than her.

But two days seemed so … soon. Perhaps she should choose another date, further in the distance.

Or did it? Perhaps she should take the opportunity in front of her after all: Duncan would be out of town, and she’d be at home with Anika – with a firm alibi right there. Fate had surely dealt her a gift, a timeframe in which she could act –so she should do just that.

She sipped her coffee and finished her donut, thoughts drifting. She remembered that night not long ago when the girls had been returned safe and sound, the look of disgust, of distrust even, that had been etched on Duncan’s face, his accusation that she was unfit to take care of them, and his threat to take the girls and leave her behind.

And nobody was going to take them away from her, not now, not ever.

If her husband could say such venomous words to her face, it could only mean one thing: he didn’t love her anymore. Well, Sam wasn’t so sure she loved him either, so they were quits in that respect – not that she’d tell him, of course. Especially now. No, she was on her quest to be the perfect wife for the rest of their time together, happy in the knowledge that life for her and the girls was about to become quite different.

Back home, Sam stood gazing out of the lounge window, the white net curtains shielding her from the outside world, from nosey neighbours behind curtains of their own. She moved away from the windows and flipped the bird to whoever might be watching her now. She wouldn’t miss the street, nor the town. The Cornish coast with all its seaside splendour would be far nicer, far more scintillating and a damn sight more welcoming than this dreary Manchester suburb. A place overlooking the sea, somewhere she could call home, make a new life for them all, would do her the world of good.

And there would be no need for any more pills; she was sure of that. Emptying the last four from the inside pocket of her bag, she tossed them to the back of her throat followed by a gulp of almost-cold tea. She winced as the capsules cascaded down into her stomach. Taking several deep breaths, Sam worked on clearing the anxiety in her chest and got to work on her laptop with her next quest: how to access the dark web. While Seedy Sid was still an option, organizing something with him in person was a huge risk to undertake, and one she might not need to take at all if there was a safer way. From her understanding, the dark web was a way of staying anonymous. She could arrange her transaction and get the job done, and no one would know she was involved.

It took her several hours to get the results she wanted, and it was almost time to collect the girls from school when she came up for air. Gaining access to the space had been easy enough, it seemed, though she’d take a longer look at things later when the girls were doing their homework upstairs. But for now, she had a good understanding of how things worked.

She knew that what she wanted to do was . . . doable.

Maybe she could get her tablets from the dark web, too, she thought, get them posted rather than relying on chemists’ shift rotations or finding a place further away from home that didn’t know her. Her ‘tea lady’ was expensive and inconvenient, too, and not exactly local, but for the odd days when she needed a stronger jump-start or a sleepy peaceful day she had her uses. Or was buying her pills online too risky? She supposed she could use a private box rather than her home address for deliveries, but even that was traceable. Nonetheless it was worth looking into when the main business was taken care of. There had to be ways to safely receive goods.

Gathering her bag, she left the house to go the long way round to school, towards the shopping mall that had a supermarket with a resident chemist, one that she hadn’t been to for a couple of weeks.

Those were getting harder and harder to find, it seemed.

Chapter Fifty

“Come on, girls. Time to brush your teeth and get ready for bed.”

A whiney chorus of ‘Oh, Mummmm’ filled the lounge as two young faces turned to their mother, trying for sympathy. It wasn’t working, not tonight.

“You stayed up last night, remember? I left you reading in bed, if you recall, rather than lights out. You’ll be getting bags under your eyes like I have if you have another late one, and trust me, you don’t want that.” Sam was helping the girls pick toys up and put them back in the cupboard as was the rule at night – all toys had to be put away.

“Come on, quickly now. If you get upstairs and ready for bed in the next five minutes, you can read for ten more.” There was a sudden flurry of activity as two skinny little bodies raced up the stairs together in an attempt to get ready within the allotted time. Two sets of soft brown curls bounced out of view and Sam stood at the bottom making sure no one tripped in the stampede to be first. They were a joy to call her own. The sound of the little girls chattering while they were supposed to be brushing their teeth made her smile as she picked out odd toothpaste-frothy words from her spot downstairs. They were going to a friend’s birthday party at the weekend and both had new dresses for the occasion. Victoria wanted to know what Jasmine was doing with her hair – up or down.

At their age?

“Pigtails!” Jasmine had yelled, and Sam could imagine white specks of toothpaste splattering the mirror. Nothing a wipe with the towel later wouldn’t fix. Her heart missed for a moment as she realized they might be fatherless by then. Would they still want to go? Would it be appropriate, even? She waited until her daughters were finished in the bathroom, then climbed the stairs and popped her head around each bedroom doorway and peered in. Victoria was ready, a book in her hands, lips moving slightly as she read the words to herself to help make sense of some of the longer ones. She looked pretty in her pink nightie, her teddy tucked in at her side. Next, Sam checked in on Jasmine, who wasn’t quite ready. She was still picking a book to read from the bookcase behind the door, a little finger resting on her lip as she pondered her choices.

“Need a hand choosing?”

“I’m okay, thanks, Mum. But why don’t you tell me a story instead?” Two bright, twinkling eyes looked up at her and Sam caved in.

“Come on, then. Jump into bed. I’ll tell you a short one because I’ve lots to do tonight, all right?”

“All right.” Jasmine slid under the covers and Sam pulled the blanket up to her chin. She sat on the edge of the bed and recited one of Jasmine’s favourite stories, about how all the cats and dogs nearby crept into the forest late at night. Of how they’d each tell stories and light a bonfire to sleep next to for warmth in winter. Then they’d all awaken at dawn and wander back home so nobody would know they had even been out. Oh, the stories they would tell one another – the same stories that Sam recited to her own children as she watched them slowly drift off to sleep, eyelids fluttering as they fought to stay awake, in the warmth of their cosy beds. As Jasmine drifted off now, Sam kissed her forehead gently and turned off the bedside lamp. The light from the hallway was enough for her to see her way out.

“One more minute, Victoria, then lights out please,” she called as she pulled Jasmine’s door almost closed. Victoria nodded that she understood.

Back downstairs, Sam poured herself a glass of red wine, set her laptop on the sofa beside her and turned the TV on for a bit of background noise and comfort.

Comfort? You’d better get used to being on your own.

Clicking the anonymous browser icon, she resumed her search for someone to kill her husband – preferably while he was away in Croydon. She found the whole dark web thing fascinating and had been careful not to let her natural inquisitiveness get the better of her and click a link to something she might regret later. The headlines and the post titles urged the viewer to click and read, or in many cases observe, and even though she was anonymous, she knew full well that you can’t un-see something you’d rather not have seen in the first place.

But it wasn’t all weird stuff. Yes, there were links to encourage you away someplace else, but most of the stuff on offer wasn’t much different than the hits from an old-fashioned search page from way back.

She typed a term for what she wanted and hit enter. Then she waited, sipping her red, for results to come home.

“Wow, so many to choose from,” she mumbled as the screen began to fill. There was clearly a market for knocking people off. Her finger hesitated over her mouse pad as the cursor blinked, waiting for her decision. She made her selection, then sat back and took another sip of wine.

When the page had fully loaded, she read the brief description of what was on offer. Beside it was a link to get in touch and discuss requirements. She took a deep breath. Then another. The cursor flashed tantalizingly but Sam didn’t click it. Instead, she reverted back to the search results and read a couple more descriptions before choosing one more and clicking through. As the last page, she read what services were on offer but this page had a somewhat different feel to it than the one previous. It seemed, well, less matter-of-fact and more “Let’s solve a problem.” There was something she liked about the way the words flowed; it felt a little more harmonious.

And it was that harmonious feel that caused Samantha Riley to make her decision. Funny that it was important at all, she thought as she clicked the link.

Her husband’s killer had been selected.

Chapter Fifty-One

Since Duncan had called to say don’t wait up, again, Sam had snuggled up on the sofa under a fleecy blanket all on her own. Again.

It was like being single half the time.

Not much will change there, then.

She kicked the throw off her legs and poured another glass of red, grabbing the remote control before resuming her comfortable position. She rested her head back on a cushion, feeling a little drowsy, the wine and pills mixing as they shouldn’t. A calmness blended with a slight numbness embraced her whole being and she slid further down the sofa before selecting a program she’d recorded a few days ago. After her recent research and actually making contact with a professional hit man, she wanted something that would simply wash over her and didn’t require much brainpower. The food program would do the trick. Sam clicked select and the music started, followed by the deep voice of a male presenter that she’d seen on a show before but couldn’t place where. No matter; it wasn’t important.

She settled in for the program to finish the job that had been started by the substances she’d consumed. Not five minutes in and her eyes were fluttering a little, as if she was going to go to sleep, and drowsily she wondered if perhaps bed was in order. An early night, a nice deep sleep always did you good. But as the presenter chattered on, something stirred inside her mind and began to pull her back to the moment. Sam reared bolt upright on the sofa like a corpse coming back to life on an old Frankenstein movie, and did her best to focus. Suddenly alert to what he was talking about, she asked herself if she’d misheard him in her drowsy state. But no, the presenter’s words were mountain-stream clear and the meaning just as cold. She turned up the volume. No, there was no doubt about the topic of this particular food program.

Naturally occurring poisonous foods.

Tossing the throw aside, she swung her legs down to the floor and listened intently. The segment was on the dangers of green potatoes and their potentially lethal ingredient – solanine.

“I thought that was an old wives’ tale,” she said to herself.

Apparently, it wasn’t. She sat there thoughtful, drinking in the information, knowing she could use it somewhere in her plan. Fate had once again shown her something she could use in the demise of her husband, though when and where she’d add in later. Her mind snapped into gear, turning over the possibilities, as she took in the extent of what solanine could do. Yes, large quantities of it could be fatal, but it was no longer that common in modern-day potatoes you bought from the supermarket. Not unless you purposely grew such potatoes, like the Incas had done thousands of years ago, but even then, they had had a process for degrading the solanine before they ate them.

As the program went on, Sam knew she could incorporate the idea somehow: it was a natural substance and the notion of using it too good to be missed. But Duncan would have to consume more than his fair share of potatoes, even supposing she could find enough green ones to do the deed with, never mind convincing him to eat them. But distilling it and using it to immobilize him – well, that was another matter. Diarrhea, vomiting, drowsiness, mental confusion, shortness of breath and weak and rapid pulse were all symptoms that’d slow him down considerably, and the poison would likely never get picked up, because why would anyone be looking?

The more she thought about it, the more it made sense: Duncan was a big man, and strong too, so if someone broke into his room, he’d certainly be able to put up a fight and defend himself, even against a surprise attack in the dead of night. But if he had been slowed down beforehand by mental confusion and gastro problems, it would make the assassin’s job much easier.

Sam’s face broke into a sick smile as she stood listening to the rest of the show. Solanine looked to be the answer, but how to get it?

She shut off the television and fetched her laptop.

By the time she heard a key turn in the front door, it was nearly eleven o’clock. She closed her laptop and smiled winningly.

“Hi, darling. You look bushed. Can I get you something to eat or drink?” she asked cheerily.

A delighted but tired Duncan replied, “I’d love a proper mug of tea and a sandwich if you can be bothered. I’m done in.”

Sam watched as he all but collapsed onto the sofa, resting his head back and closing his eyes for a moment. “No bother. Stay where you are. I’ll bring it in,” she said with a smile and a spring in her step as off she went through to the kitchen, looking for all the world like a loving wife attending to her exhausted husband’s needs.

Tomorrow, a trip to the garden centre was in order. A bag of green seed potatoes with plenty of eyes should do the trick.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Luke was sick of the sight of his small, functional room at his parents’ place, but beggars really couldn’t be choosers. At least it was cheap, and, with no money to speak of and no income prospects on the horizon, he knew he’d be staying put for a while longer.

Currently, he was nursing a mug of coffee at a corner table about a mile away. As a precaution, he had begun to vary the locations he accessed his new business website. Being over-cautious was better than the other way around and getting busted unnecessarily, he figured. While the site was anonymous, he knew there was always going to be a way to trace it eventually, if the tracer knew who they were searching for.

As he sipped, there was a ping, signalling that he had a new message. He sat forward, hardly believing his eyes.

That was quick…

Keeping his face as neutral as possible, he hovered the cursor over the message, willing himself to be calm. Taking a deep breath, he clicked it. The message filled his small screen and even though he was tucked in a corner unable to be overlooked, he still did a sweep of the café before he read it in its entirety. It was short.

Looking for a removal. Quickly. Window of opportunity has come up Thursday evening in Croydon. Interested?

What? Thursday evening was only a few short hours away. Suddenly all of his and Clinton’s planning over the last couple of weeks seemed like children’s daydreams. Stuff was getting real, and fast. Thursday. Was there even time to get things organized? He stared at the message as thoughts catapulted themselves through his head like a circus act on steroids.

Well, this was what all those plans had been leading up to, wasn’t it? So what was he waiting for?

“They’re simply a prospect, a number, a business transaction,” he told himself. His hand cupped the mouse; the cursor wriggled over the reply icon. By thinking of this … this thing he proposed to do as just another business deal, could he take the humanity out of it and get on with satisfying his first customer?

For £12,000, he could try.

Remembering his own tentative first enquiry, he decided to keep his reply brief and noncommittal. He began to type:

Not much time but can be done. £12K. Half now; half on completion. Need photo and whereabouts to get rolling. Stand by.

He hit send and sat back in his chair. How long it would be before the prospect came back with further information and funds he’d no idea, though he hoped it would be today. To his surprise, his nervous energy had changed to excitement, anticipation even.

It’s new business, remember? A prospect.

He rubbed his hands down the front of his jeans to dry his sweaty palms and rolled his shoulders back to remove the tension. If he was going to fulfil his first order, there were a few things to do, namely purchase a weapon with the first instalment of money.

Money. How was he going to set up the exchange of funds? Mentally he smacked himself in the forehead. He’d assumed a car park rubbish bin would suffice, but what if his client wasn’t in Manchester? What was he going to do then?

Steady on, Luke, he told himself. What did he usually do when he had to find a location he’d never visited before? Google Earth. Yes. After the prospect revealed their location, Luke could zoom in and find the perfect spot nearby. Even the smallest of towns had supermarkets, and most of those had a rubbish bin by the entrance.

Okay, that was step one. As for picking up the funds, after midnight, no one else would be rifling through the bin and make off with his fee, would they? But there’d be cameras present, recording, and he wasn’t going to risk losing £6000 that easily.

So scratch that. What about Bitcoin? But he had no clue how that even worked and how he his prospect could use it anonymously. Besides, there was not enough time to learn.

Right, then. Back to the drawing board. He needed to learn how to do cyber-currency transactions, and he needed to learn it quickly.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Another late night, another early start. Duncan, gulping down a sausage and egg McMuffin and a coffee in the McDonalds car park, looked like he’d been a couple of rounds with Tyson his eyes were so puffy, but the end was in sight for the case, it seemed. For that he was grateful. And the sun was promising to make an appearance later. After a string of wet, grey days, some orange in the sky, no matter how low, would be a welcome mood-changer. And speaking of moods changing, what was with Sam and her dramatic transformation lately? It was welcome, of course, but it made him uneasy.

A starling hopped by his car looking for scraps for breakfast, found a stray French fry, and tucked in. The activity alerted another bird close by who swooped down to stake its claim on the same find. Feeling sorry for the first bird getting moved on, Duncan lowered his window and tossed a piece of bread its way. Wasting no time, the starling picked the whole piece up and moved further to one side to eat it in peace. Duncan smiled as he started on his hash brown, his first good deed for the day already in the bag. His phone buzzed. Sam.

“Morning, early bird,” he said, thinking of the starling.

“Morning, hard-working husband. Just wondered if you’re in for dinner tonight and what time you’re leaving for your course tomorrow?” Sam enquired.

Duncan again thought about the change in her mood, then answered, “I should be home by six and as for tomorrow, I’ll leave home just after lunch. I’m meeting up for dinner while I’m down there so I’ll crack on with some reports in my room if I’ve time beforehand. Only way to get some peace. Why do you ask?”

“Thought I’d make something nice for dinner since you’ll be away. Might even bake you some brownies to take with you.”

“No need to do anything special on my account. Though your brownies are the best.” It had been a while since Sam had last baked brownies, and the thought of the fudgy centre, the way it stayed fudgy, made Duncan drool slightly. “On second thoughts, brownies would definitely be welcome if you can be bothered.” As soon as he’d said ‘bothered’ he regretted it and hoped she didn’t take offence. He scrunched his face up in anticipation. But if Sam had noticed the word she didn’t show it, and when she spoke again, his face resumed its normal expression.

“Great – I’ll make a batch,” she replied cheerily. “I’ve got to go out shopping later anyway so I’ll get the chocolate. Need anything?”

“No, I’m all good, thanks. I’ll see you later, then.”

“Okay. Bye!” Her sing-song voice hung in the car. Duncan scrunched his empty packaging into one bag and left the car to deposit it in the nearby rubbish bin. On the way, he grabbed a paper cup up that had missed its destination and put it with the rest of the rubbish. Good deed number two. His thoughts turned again to Sam and her change of attitude. It was like old times, and Duncan had an overwhelming desire to believe things had got better.

Perhaps he’d get her a little gift or some flowers, just because. He filed the thought away for later. Back in the car, he headed for the station and pulled in to his second car parking space of the morning. Rochelle’s Triumph bike slid into the space next to his and Rochelle, clad head to toe in black leather, nodded her greeting through his side window. He watched as she turned the bike off, swung her leg over the seat, and removed her helmet. At six feet tall, she was a vision many men couldn’t ignore – no matter how hard they tried. Her long blonde hair fell to her shoulders like a sexy slow-motion chocolate advert, and Duncan felt himself groan inside involuntarily. Rochelle smiled as their eyes connected in a work colleague kind of way. Shame on Duncan’s part. He opened his door and got out, pulling his coat collar up against the cold morning. In the distance a bit of orange was breaking the skyline in amongst the grey buildings. He felt brighter than he had done in weeks despite his exhausted state.

“Morning, Duncan. You look like hell.”

“Cheers, Rochelle. I don’t have the benefit of make-up to cover up my bags – I suspect you’ve already expertly buried your own,” he said coyly.

“Perks of being a woman,” she replied with a wink. “Makes up for PMS and the other crap we have to put up with.”

As they walked together towards the building, Duncan said, “Well, at least you girls don’t have to shave every day.”

“And neither do you, actually, but we girls shave more often than you’d think, so that’s your argument gone to crap. In fact, we wax, which really isn’t pleasant.”

She had a point. A vision of long, slim, smooth, silky legs flashed across Duncan’s vision – and they weren’t Sam’s.

Oblivious, Rochelle carried on. “And talking about who has the better deal, how’s Sam doing these days. Any improvement?”

They were inside the building now, headed robotically for the canteen and a coffee.

“Funny you should ask. Since my ultimatum, she’s done a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, and she almost seems like Sam from old. She’s up and dressed in the mornings now, and she even made my breakfast a couple of mornings ago. And earlier today, she rang me to see if I wanted her to bake some brownies.”

Rochelle raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Well, that’s great news! Looks like your chat worked. I’m pleased for you, for you both, because separating would have been a bitch, let me tell you. Stressful doesn’t even begin to describe it, and with two little ones to argue over …”

Her words trailed into nothing and Duncan could only nod his head. But Rochelle had more to say. “Of course, there could be another explanation for her complete turnaround.”

“Oh?”

“Come on, Duncan. What’s the most common and obvious giveaway clue when someone is murdered and we question the spouse’s friends and colleagues?”

Duncan looked at her in puzzlement.

“Think, Duncan. You were on the same profiling course as me last year. What is the most obvious thing the spouse does before they strike? What’s the classic giveaway?”

She waited. Then it hit him.

Pre-offence behaviour – when a spouse has a sudden and unexplained change in behaviour towards their partner. It was textbook stuff. A significant change in a partner’s behaviour can mean the partner may have already begun to plan for a change in the status quo.

Rochelle looked at him, levelly.

“You seriously think she is planning to off me?” he said incredulously.

Rochelle gave him a questioning look but said no more.

Chapter Fifty-Four

It was Sam’s turn to stare at a message.

Not much time but can be done. £12K. Half now; half on completion. Need photo and whereabouts to get rolling. Stand by.

This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Her husband out of the picture, leaving the girls and her on their own with money in the bank? Wasn’t she sick of his continual late nights and his endless moaning about her not being up to his expectations? She’d tried to keep things together when she’d lost her job, but it was a struggle. She had found the constant rejection from possible employers hard to deal with, even though she was overqualified for many of the roles she’d applied for. But she’d found a way to cope; the painkillers had taken the edge off her anxiety, relaxing her, letting her sleep. It had been her oversleeping that day that had been the catalyst for the sorry situation she now found herself in.

The message was still waiting for an answer. The money wasn’t a problem, nor was getting a photo. Nor, it seemed, was the time frame – tomorrow night. So why was she hesitating? Because once she hit reply and did what the message asked, there’d be no turning back. Hit men couldn’t be turned off once the switch had been flicked. It was a one-way decision and only Sam could make it. Was she ready?

No messy divorce to worry about . . . money in the bank . . . Cornish coast . . .

She’d only spoken to Duncan a matter of minutes ago, asked him if he’d be in for dinner and about the time of his departure tomorrow – and so casually too. Sam longed for a piece of paper to write down the pros and cons. If the hit did go through, she knew the police would immediately suspect and question her. She knew they had all sorts of ways of finding proof, most of which she was unaware of. Had it been the other way around – Duncan getting rid of her – he’d have a much better chance of getting away with it. He’d not only know the processes and procedures the crime scene officers would use, but he’d be nice and close to the case to monitor what was happening, whom they suspected. He’d be able to destroy or tamper with evidence, something Sam wouldn’t be able to do. Absentmindedly, she wondered how many officers over the years had committed such a crime – and got away with it.

But thoughts like these were not going to help. All she could do was limit the evidence, set the emotional groundwork and spread a few crumbs of her own to keep suspicion away from her door.

Still the message went unanswered. Was that a sign in itself, that she didn’t really want him dead? Wouldn’t she have clicked it by now if she felt sure? What was she supposed to do? Pressure was building, her nerves rattling in their sheaths, and she gulped down a deep breath like a hiccup. Anxiety tightened in her chest; her breath came in shallow gulps as she fought to calm herself and breathe normally again. She felt beads of sweat on her forehead and wiped them away with the back of her hand.

A tablet or two would fix it.

Collecting her bag from the banister end where it was hanging, she slipped her hand into the side pocket and felt for the pills she knew would be waiting in there. She clutched two and slid them out. Would two be enough? Sighing, she reached in for two more. Staring at them, stark white and smooth against the palm of her fleshy hand, she hated them. Hated them for what they stood for, hated having to take them, hated that, without them, she would be crushed by the feelings that hurt her so much. Sighing again, she swallowed the lot of them down and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water to speed things along.

The sun was not far above the horizon in the distance, the promise of a brighter day to come, and she remembered the girls still upstairs, tucked up snug in their own beds. It was time to get them ready for school. Perhaps she’d walk with them this morning. The fresh air and sunshine would do them all good.

The girls. The pills. The two most prominent things in her life at that moment. One a blessing, the other a curse. She climbed the stairs to wake her daughters.

She went into Victoria’s room first, planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Time to get up, darling,” she cooed as Victoria opened her eyes. “It’s a lovely day. I thought I’d walk you both to school this morning. We could stop at the shop and get you a little butterfly cake each if you’d like?”

Victoria smiled sleepily and nodded her approval before pushing the covers back and slowly climbing out. Sam watched as her eldest daughter made her way sleepily to the bathroom, then went into Jasmine’s room. Her heart swelled as Jasmine followed her big sister into the bathroom and the girls began their morning chatter. They were the most precious things in her world.

Bar nothing else.

She went back downstairs to make breakfast and wait for the girls to appear. As she put the kettle on, she made her final decision.

She opened her laptop and clicked reply.

She attached a recent picture of Duncan, along with the address of where he’d be staying that night. She typed:

Money OK, picture and address included. What next? Send.

The deed was done. The ball was rolling. The status quo was about to change.

What happened from here on in was out of her hands.

Chapter Fifty-Five

After she dropped the girls off at school, she went into a café and logged into her laptop again. As she’d suspected, there was a message waiting for her. If the other café customers knew what she was up to, sat in the corner organizing what she was organizing, would anyone try and stop her? Would she herself stop Anika if she was planning on doing the same thing to her partner?

But Anika wasn’t married to Duncan, and Anika wasn’t a disappointment to her partner, unlike Sam was. If Duncan was flippant enough to tell her he was out of there if she didn’t change, then he could have what was coming to him.

The message was simple and included two links.

Time and place noted. Please transfer funds by following instructions in link. Message when half has been transferred.

Sam clicked the first link and was a little surprised it wasn’t a regular banking transaction. But then she thought about for a moment and almost laughed aloud at herself. Who in their right mind would order a hit and transfer funds through a regular banking entity along with their account name? While that would have been simple, as would putting hard cash in a carrier bag and dropping it into a nearby rubbish bin, it was neither secure nor practical.

She scanned the link he’d sent her – she’d assumed he was a ‘he’ – and read the basic instructions on opening a crypto currency account. It looked straightforward enough on the surface. Well, there was no time like the present. She needed to get this underway now, and opening an account and transferring the first instalment correctly was step one in getting the job completed.

A few minutes later, she looked up from her screen with satisfaction. The first part was almost complete. She clicked the second link – how to buy currency and then transfer it to pay for the deal. Again, it was straightforward enough and it wasn’t long before she was ready to hit send. With everything lined up ready, this was the final part in sending the boulder careering towards Duncan. And it could never be undone. Looking away from her screen for a moment, Sam gazed out of the café window at the people outside going about their own business. What was going on in their lives right now, today? she wondered. Did they ever feel like obliterating someone from their lives? A boss, maybe? An abusive partner, a boring partner, or a parent, even? Perhaps a child that was causing distress or annoyance? Was anybody safe from the ideals of someone they knew?

She looked at each person in turn as they moved past the window and tried to image what the imaginary thought bubbles coming out of them would say. Who would be making a shopping list, working on a presentation, figuring out an apology, or contemplating suicide? Everyone had their own set of problems that varied in importance, and what was important to one wouldn’t necessarily be important to another. Like when people moaned about having a bad day – one person’s version of a bad day would be totally different to the next person’s; a surgeon losing a patient topped finding out that your child has crayoned the hall wall. But whatever went on in a person’s own particular world, well, that was the most important thing, Sam knew, no matter how trivial it might seem to others. What would someone read from her thought bubble? she wondered. An involuntary shiver brought her back to the present, and the blinking transfer button. There was no point in delaying it any longer.

She hit the button.

A confirmation popped up to tell her the funds were now on their way, and Sam gulped nervously.

Tomorrow night, her girls would no longer have a father.

But she’d be single, in control of the girls’ future and comfortably well off for the rest of her life. It was a small price to pay for such luxury, and reconciling it in her head that way, she instantly felt better. The Cornish coast could be a great new place to settle her little family into a new routine and a new life.

She drained the last of her coffee, closed her laptop and headed out. There were still a couple of things to take care of before tomorrow night, but the main part was complete. Well, at least the first half of the money had gone. Idly, Sam wondered if she’d ever use her crypto wallet again when this was all over.

I’m not planning on buying more pills.

Back outside in the bright, cool, sunny morning, all felt well in the world. A smile crept slowly across her face, and she realized that for the first time in a long while she felt good about things, about the future, albeit without the man she’d once promised to love and obey, in sickness and in health. What a load of old cobblers that had turned out to be. As she passed a fashion chain store, she heard Fleetwood Mac over the sound system, suggesting folks go their own way. Her smile grew wider until, by the time she’d sung along to a few lyrics, she was laughing out loud as she walked. Oh, the irony. Going her own way was exactly what she intended to do, and from the day after tomorrow, when everything had been completed and she was expertly playing the grieving widow, she’d be most certainly going her own way.

Next stop: the garden centre and the greenest seed potatoes she could find.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Easy enough so far. The equivalent of £6000 was in his crypto account now, with another six to come in the next 24 hours. So far so good. There was enough to pay for a firearm with and time enough to finalize the loose ends of his plan, making a tidy profit in the process. It was turning out to be a good idea.

His first hit was tomorrow night and he planned to drive down and back again in one go. He’d leave the car in a side street nearby, walk to the victim’s hotel, whip in, do the job, and then head home. He and Clinton would share the driving; it would be early morning when they made their way back and he didn’t want to risk falling asleep at the wheel.

He’d yet to tell Clinton about his precise role in all this, but since Luke had been the initiator of the project, it was only fair on Clinton that Luke himself would do the actual deed.

The thought terrified him.

He took out the scrap of paper that Caramel Teeth Man in the pub had given him. There was a mobile number on it. No names; just a number to contact and organize a drop-off, cash of course. Luke found this funny somehow. Perhaps he should educate the man on the finer points of using a crypto currency. It really was quick and simple, and less risky than a rubbish bin deposit in a park somewhere. And besides, being tied to one location limited one’s business opportunities. Take it online, however, and the world was your oyster – though he doubted Caramel Teeth Man had ever tasted one. He dialled the number and waited for Caramel Teeth Man to answer.

“Yeah?”

“I need a piece as discussed.”

Luke heard a gurgling sound as Caramel Teeth Man took a long pull from a can, then a hearty belch.

“When do you need it?”

“Today.”

“That’s tight.”

“That’s tough.”

Watch it, Luke.

Silence while the man thought. Then he said, “Tonight. Back door of the Pole. Still a Colt?”

While Luke didn’t like the sound of the back-door situation, he couldn’t be choosy at this late hour. “Yes, and a silencer. And ammo.”

“Right. Don’t want much on short notice, do you.” More of a statement. “It’ll cost you a bag, in twenties. And no one comes with you.”

“A bag?”

“Yes, a bag. A bag o’ sand. A grand! You thick or somethin’?”

Luke winced at his mistake. Cockney rhyming slang and dodgy blokes weren’t particularly his forte, though he was learning fast.

“That’s more than I was expecting.”

“Well, take it or leave it. I’m a busy man.” Another glug filled his ears and Luke imagined the ‘busy man’ lying on a tatty sofa in a scruffy high-rise flat on the other side on Manchester, empty beer cans buckled and scattered around the floor. Luke had no choice and Caramel Teeth Man knew it.

“I’ll take it, then. What time?”

“Make it ten. Like I say, I’m a busy man. And don’t ring again ’cos I won’t answer.”

“I’ll be there.” Before he could say anything else, the line went dead and Luke was left staring at the screen of his burner phone. To himself, “Ten it is, then.”

That gave him all day to do not much else but sit and worry that there’d be no trouble later on and he’d be home and safely in his bed by midnight, free of cuts and bruises. It wasn’t ideal to be so late, but with limited options, that was what it was. Still, he wouldn’t need to go through this again – or would he? He groaned as the realization hit him: of course he probably would. He’d not likely store a stolen gun that had been used in at least one murder, would he? A professional hit man would use their own weapons yes, but they’d be brand new, well looked after and safely stored someplace secret. Luke, on the other hand, was a wannabe entrepreneur trying to get a business off the ground and raising funds via a side hustle. Still, it would work.

He hoped.

Figuring he’d better fill Clinton in on where he was at so far, he dialled his number from his regular phone.

“Fancy a coffee? I’ve things to tell you.”

“Oh?”

“Tell you when I see you.” Luke glanced out the window to check the weather. It wasn’t raining. “Meet you in the park by the swings. I’ll bring coffee. Will an hour suit you?”

“Sounds secret squirrel, but yes, see you there in an hour.”

Now all Luke had to do was hope Clinton saw sense and didn’t go flying off his rocker. Last time he’d broached the subject, he’d started to come round to the idea and Luke hoped he hadn’t changed his mind. It wasn’t as though he had to do anything, really: Clinton was to be more of a back-up guy just in case, a bit of moral support and someone to find any holes in the plan that Luke hadn’t foreseen. Clinton would be his wingman and share the driving. Easy.

Nearly an hour later, Luke was on his way to their rendezvous, two takeaway coffee cups in his hand. Heading for the swings, he could see Clinton up ahead of him not far from their chosen spot and he watched him settle into the seat to wait. Two young boys squealed with glee as a woman pushed them both on the swings. Happy days.

“Here you go,” he said handing over a cup and settling himself into an adjoining swing. They both watched the youngsters for a moment before Clinton spoke.

“So what’s up?” Clinton took the top off his cup and sipped.

“I wanted to tell you where I am up to, where we are up to.”

“Ah, I see. I should have known it was about that. Go on, then. Enlighten me.”

There was exasperation in Clinton’s voice, but Luke tried to ignore it. Luke himself was the one driving this and Clinton needed to buckle in. He told him everything – and Clinton listened. When he’d finished, the two men sat in silence, Luke willing Clinton to say something positive. Eventually he spoke.

“Right, then. So it looks like we’re all set.” Matter-of-fact. “This better work or we’re both in the poo.”

That was good enough for Luke.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

The pickup had gone without a hitch and Luke now had a Colt and silencer wrapped up in an old T-shirt safely inside his backpack as he walked. He’d borrowed his dad’s car, not wanting to risk the walk in such a rough neighbourhood again or risk travelling on public transport carrying his purchase back home. And of course, he might have needed a quick getaway if Mr. Caramel Teeth had decided he wanted to keep the cash and the gun.

He trotted along the pavement at pace and hoped the car was still where he’d left it – and that it still had all four wheels attached. Turning the corner, he spotted it up ahead. All looked in order. It was lucky his dad didn’t own a Jag – it would have stood out like Pinocchio’s nose. An Alsatian barked angrily nearby and a woman’s voice screamed after it. She sounded harassed, and her skilful expletives would have been funny on any other night.

But not tonight. Luke made his way to the car past boarded-up windows and curtainless dark glass; the only light came from the few remaining streetlamps that hadn’t been smashed.

He kept checking behind him to be sure he wasn’t followed, but no one was interested, it seemed. He hoped Mr. Caramel Teeth was too busy counting his loot to bother with anything further. The man could buy more than a few cans of beer with what Luke had given him, enough to cover his sofa and the floor with empty cans.

Luke picked up the pace and jogged over to the driver’s side of his car, unlocked it and slipped inside, then immediately locked the door. While he’d liked to have rested and caught his breath a while, he needed to get out of Dodge – and right now. The ignition caught, and the tyres struggled for grip as he accelerated rapidly out of the estate towards the main road and home. Next, he needed a quiet place to inspect his purchase, a purchase he was still unsure of how to use properly. While he’d hoped to get a client or two, he hadn’t expected to get one so soon, but he had, and he’d have to do the best job he could under the circumstances. Tomorrow was D-Day, which left him only a few hours to get some practice in. His plan on the day was to get in nice and close as the man lay asleep; if all went to plan, it would be a doddle. What could go wrong? A child could shoot a sleeping man at close range and not miss.

He went back through his plan as he drove.

“First, he’s at the hotel on Purley Way. Second, he’ll be asleep because we’re going in after midnight. Third, I can get right up close, and fourth, no one else will hear a thing – I’ve got a silencer. Fifth, exit out the window then back to the car and home. That’s it, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve left anything out.”

Satisfied he had thought of everything – because after all, he’d been thinking of not much else since this started – he slowed to a more reasonable speed and relaxed his shoulders. Getting caught speeding could be tricky if they asked to look in the bag – after all he was dressed in his ‘thug’ gear.

The bag. It seemed to glare at him from the passenger seat and Luke glanced at it from time to time on the journey back, hoping everything he needed was inside. And what if it wasn’t?

Then he was in trouble.

Luke slunk in through the back door and headed straight upstairs, avoiding the lounge where his parents were probably engrossed in a movie. His mother called out anyway.

“That you, Luke?”

“Yes, Mum, only me. Be down later.”

When he was inside his room, he rammed a chair under the doorhandle to stop either parent from entering unannounced. He used the same trick when he was getting changed. A small bolt would have been just as effective, but neither he nor his parents had got around to doing it. The chair worked well for now. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he opened the bag and removed the T-shirt with the gun and its accessories wrapped in it. It was surprisingly heavy. The silencer rolled loose and thumped to the floor. A small box of about a dozen bullets finished the inventory.

Picking the silencer up and examining it, Luke sat thoughtful for a moment. Suddenly everything felt very real. Pressing a button on a laptop had felt final, but that was nothing compared to holding an actual gun, bullets and a silencer in his hand. He was about to use this weapon and take someone’s life – for a measly £12,000. How many other lives had this particular piece snuffed out like candle flames? he wondered. How many people’s lives had been ruined because of it? He attached the silencer and examined the piece in its entirety, feeling the weight and size of the whole thing in his hand.

A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts and he fought to keep himself from jumping.

“Yeah?” His voice sounded wobbly to even him.

“I’m making hot chocolate. Do you want some?” It was his mother.

Luke let out the breath he’d been holding and couldn’t help smiling. If she could see what he had in his hand on the other side of the door, she’d have a flying fit.

“Please. I’ll be out in a minute,” he called back. He wrapped the gun up and stuffed it along with the bullets under his pillow for the time being. Where he’d store it permanently he’d no idea, but there was time to figure that out.

Or was there?

Tomorrow morning he’d head off somewhere quiet and practice, though with only twelve bullets to his name and no way of getting any more at the eleventh hour, he couldn’t afford many practice rounds. It was far from ideal, but he’d have to make it work. Satisfied of the temporary hiding place, he left his room to join his parents downstairs for hot chocolate.

As he sipped his drink and chatted cosily with his parents, he was struck by the contrast between the two worlds he currently inhabited. And tomorrow night, things would get about as far from cosy as they could ever be.

Tomorrow night, he was a hit man for hire.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

“Thank the Lord for that,” Amanda said, putting her brush down on the paint can lid. “I thought it’d never end.”

Ruth came up behind her and put her arm around Amanda’s waist, snuggling in close.

“Looks great, though, doesn’t it? A nice shade of blue, if I say so myself.”

“Well, you did pick it, so I hope you do like it. But yes, it’s a nice shade all right. The room looks much fresher now it’s all done. It was worth the effort.”

Amanda stood with her hands on her hips admiring their handiwork. “Room one down, another five to go.”

“Yes, the thought is exhausting, isn’t it?”

Amanda nodded, frowning.

“We should consider getting a pro in to finish the rest. I hate the turmoil everything is in. We can’t do it any faster and I’m not taking valuable holiday to damn well decorate.”

Ruth looked thoughtful. “I agree with the turmoil and not taking holiday time to do it. I wonder how much it would be to hire a professional. This really isn’t a good use of our precious down time together. I’d much rather be enjoying a movie with you than you painting the walls. Perhaps I’ll look into it and see.”

“You’ve just reminded me of something I wanted to ask you. And since you’re a techy, you might know the answer.”

“How may I be of service, Detective McGregor-Lacey?” Ruth bowed deeply, hiding her cheeky grin.

“Do you know of any apps out there that allow someone to preload them with money, then place an order for a product and use that money, but do it all anonymously, so that it’s untraceable? So, for instance, you could buy drugs from a food truck by placing an order for a bacon sandwich with ‘special sauce’” – she made air quotes – “then pay a hugely inflated price for said sandwich and receive a little packet of oxy with your bacon butty.”

“A baggy and a butty, eh?” Ruth couldn’t help but laugh. “It rolls off your tongue, doesn’t it? Butty and a baggy, baggy and a butty,” she repeated, trying the two combinations out for fun. “Baggy and a butty, I think. Perhaps I should have been in marketing, not building websites and apps. I’m obviously wasted.”

“Are you going to tell me the answer, then?” Amanda picked up the paintbrush and held it threateningly in her hand. Ruth ducked, feigning horror. “Or have I got to find someone else in the know?”

“I dare you.” Ruth smirked, egging Amada on.

“If you don’t tell me the answer by the time I’ve counted to three, I absolutely will.” A beat passed, “One. Two…”

Ruth stood her ground, grinning. Amanda moving a step closer, brandishing the brush.

“Three.” Amanda struck, the brush leaving a trail of pale blue down the front of Ruth’s shirt, but not before catching her on the chin first. Ruth spluttered with laughter. Her hand went to her chin and she wiped the blue away with the back of it, but that left her with the problem of where to wipe that.

“I warned you,” Amanda stated, “and you dared me.”

With paint on the back of her hand and Amanda still with the brush, Ruth lunged in an attempt to wipe her hand on Amanda. But Amanda was too quick for her: she thrust the brush out in front of her as the two connected, pasting more pale blue onto Ruth’s arm. Both women shrieked, and Ruth turned, quick as lightning, and wiped the back of her hand into Amanda’s blonde hair.

“Oh, not nice.”

“You started it, Missus,” Ruth said still smiling. “Probably time to get it cleaned up, though, before that dries,” she said pointing. “You have blue on blonde. I’ll go and turn the shower on.”

“So do I get the answer now?” Amanda asked, following her down the hall.

“The short answer is yes, it can be done. The long answer is it’s tricky. Obviously, the vendor needs to see the product has been paid for, and the purchaser needs to prove he’s paid in order to pick up, but for someone looking in, like the police for instance,” she nodded to Amanda, “that’s the tricky part. How do they keep the transaction away from law enforcement? They’ll not want to get caught. In that sense, it’s riskier than cash.”

“I’m thinking Bitcoin or similar?”

“I’m thinking I’ll double check with Valance tomorrow and let you know, eh? He’s a couple of steps ahead of me on that stuff, particularly the slightly illegal as you know.”

Amanda had first met Valance Douglas a few months back. He was an acquaintance of a vigilante victim she’d found herself working with as part of a sting that had gone so far off track she could have lost her job. Luckily, Plan B had come along and saved the day – in the form of tech whiz Valance Douglas. He and Ruth had stayed in touch afterwards; he’d proven to be a talented techy and private investigator. You never knew when you might need such a person. Like now.

“Right now, though,” Ruth said sternly, “that paint is drying, so get in the shower and get scrubbing.”

“Yes, Miss,” Amanda said chastely, and did as she was told.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Amanda’s head had gone into overdrive after her chat with Ruth the previous night. She’d thought about up, getting out of bed and making a mug of warm milk to try and ease her overactive brain but didn’t want to disturb Ruth in the process. She’d finally dropped off sometime around 2 a.m., and it had felt like she’d been asleep for five whole minutes when the alarm had pierced the quiet of their bedroom. In a deep sleep, Amanda had ignored it, but Ruth had leapt bolt upright. Worse, the clock was on Amanda’s side of the bed.

Six a.m. She would normally be out running by now, but since the decorating had cut into their relaxation time together, she’d not run for nearly a week. Maybe that was why she was feeling a little tetchy.

“Amanda,” she called from under her pillow. “Amanda!” She tried again more urgently, but it seemed nothing was getting through. Brute force was next. Lifting the pillow off her head, Ruth sat up and shook her wife by the arm in an effort to awaken her from a near comatose sleep.

Finally, a grunt from the blonde head.

Then movement as the noise became clearer and, as Amanda finally realized what it was, she reached out to turn the noise off. Silence fell on the room once again. Ruth tossed the covers back and headed to the bathroom, muttering to herself.

“I may as well be up running now. So much for a bit of extra sleep,” she grumbled. After splashing water on her face, she made her way downstairs to make a mug of tea for each of them, hoping Amanda would have surfaced and shown herself by the time it was ready. She yawned. And yawned again. Maybe they would have to get someone in to finish the rest of the house after all; the extra workload was half killing them.

There was a shuffle at the doorway as Amanda entered, wearing her pink robe. Her blonde wavy hair stuck out at all angles.

“The tea will stir you into action,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Hardly at all, actually,” said Ruth. “Though I must have towards the end. I think the last time I looked at the time it was nearly two a.m. and I still hadn’t gone off by that stage. I nearly got up but I knew I’d start bloody Googling stuff for work and then there’d be no chance of sleep. So instead, I lay there with my brain whirling round like a Catherine Wheel. I may as well have got up for all the use it was. Might have cracked the case, even.”

Amanda yawned loudly, her face contorting. The kettle came to the boil and Ruth smiled at Amanda’s optimism. Cracking a case via Google was rarely that easy. She poured boiling water onto tea bags and grabbed milk from the fridge as Amanda slumped into a chair at the kitchen table.

It was still pitch-black outside. There were a few upstairs lights on in other houses nearby, probably commuters getting ready for another day in the city. Ruth was no different; her office was in Green Park, not far from the tube station, though as the boss, she wasn’t on someone else’s time clock, only her own. And that’s the way she liked it. Adding milk to the tea, she passed Amanda a mug and sat with her.

“You’re as tired as I am, so let’s get the decorating finished by a pro, eh? I couldn’t care less about the cost at the moment. Neither of us likes doing it, and both of us are sick of the mess so I’ll see what I can come up with.”

Amanda nodded her agreement. “Great idea. But anyone worth their salt will be booked up, so we’ll have to wait a bit to get it started. I guess there’s no real rush, though.”

“I agree. Well, that’s settled, then. I’ll get someone round to look at the job. You’re busy, and I’m busy, so it’s the best way.” Ruth sipped on her tea, gazing over the mug’s rim towards Amanda. “You’re out tonight, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Jack and I are taking a DS from Manchester for a curry. Duncan Riley. He’s a nice bloke, actually. We’re hoping he can throw a bit of light on the prescription drug and distribution scene. There may be a connection to his contacts up there. They seem to be spreading their network outwards down here a little. When might you speak to Valance? It would be good to get another viewpoint on things before we meet him. Once again, cyber at this end have no bandwidth to speak of, pardon the pun. They only work with the big stuff, or those in immediate danger, not a few ‘baggies and butties,’ as you called it last night.” Amanda smiled as she said it; it was mildly amusing.

“Well, on that, I must have been figuring things out subconsciously because I remembered about Bitcoin and what I knew,” Ruth said. “It would work, I bet, the app aspect, though I’ll still talk to Valance and double check. I seem to remember some article of recent saying Bitcoin wasn’t as reliable as it once was in terms of anonymity. And as smartphones go to run the necessary browser, I’m pretty sure the iPhone hasn’t got the ability or the security. I’ll have to check. But there’ll be something else and some way else to fill the gap by now. I’ll let you know.” Ruth got up to rinse her now empty mug. “I’m off for a very quick run, I think. Maybe just the one lap and then a shower. I’ll go and get changed. Care to come with me?” Ruth raised her eyebrows suggestively but Amanda scowled her reply.

“My body wasn’t meant for running, so I’ll grab breakfast then hit the shower. Thanks for the invite though.”

There was no way Amanda would ever go running, Ruth knew, but she teased her anyway.

Five minutes later Ruth was heading down the front path in her running gear. Amanda sat at the kitchen table, pondering. If an app could be loaded with funds and used for anonymous transactions, then all sorts of things could be traded illegally with no one any the wiser. That left two questions bubbling away: first, how did the mobile van’s customers know about a secret app if it was a secret? Second, how could Amanda and Jack get access to it too?

By the time Ruth came back, sweating like a horse, Amanda was dressed in her best suit, hair coiffed and make-up expertly applied. She had the bones of an idea.

“Wow,” exclaimed Ruth, looking Amanda up and down. “I hope Duncan appreciates your effort, though aren’t you a little early?”

“Ha ha. Very funny. I’m going undercover.” Grabbing her bag, she pecked Ruth’s sweaty cheek as she passed, calling ‘Wish me luck’ over her shoulder as she went.

Chapter Sixty

Sam had checked her messages from ‘him’ and was thrilled to see he’d received the funds without a hitch. She’d followed his instructions to a T, so why she was surprised she’d no idea. But reading the short confirmation text sent a tingle of excitement through her body, like when something exciting you’d been looking forward to for ages was suddenly upon you. It reminded her a little of her wedding day, and the excitement and anticipation that had consumed her for weeks before the event took place.

The day had been perfect in every way, from the sunshine to the ceremony and the party that evening. It had gone smoothly, and for the first few years they’d both been blissfully happy, bringing two delightful girls into the world and enjoying every moment they spent with them. When it had started to crumble, exactly, she couldn’t remember, but Duncan’s job hadn’t helped. It had begun taking up so much of his time and his attention even when he was actually present at home.

Still, she pushed the thoughts away and tried to clear her head. What was done was done: there was nothing to be gained by rehashing it all. It no longer mattered whose fault things were, who had said or done something. It was all water under the bridge. Best to just let it wash out to sea.

The kitchen looked like a TV studio waiting for a celebrity chef to arrive. Several bowls sat with prepared ingredients in them. Pastry was resting in the fridge and flour dust covered every surface, including the floor. Anyone looking would think the two girls had had a flour fight, not that a grown woman was making pastry, but Victoria and Jasmine were safely at school, out of harm’s way.

Satisfied that she had everything ready, she took the pastry out and began to roll it, lining individual circular sections of the tray to create the bases for the mini-quiches. When the tray was filled with twelve perfect-looking pastry bases, she began to fill them with the finely chopped ingredients from the bowls. In the bottom of each went tiny slivers of green potato skin topped with tiny bacon pieces, chopped tiny potato eyes, chives, cheese and herbs. Then she poured the eggy mixture over each one to fill the tartlets to the top and sprinkled a little more grated cheese on top. When the poisoned pies were complete and she was satisfied she hadn’t forgotten anything, she placed them in the hot oven to cook. There was an air of satisfaction about her as the golden oven light glowed over her creations. During her research, she’d learned that the active ingredient could be a little bitter, and she hoped the bacon and strong cheese would mask any flavour issues. The last thing she wanted was for Duncan to spit it out and be fully alert when his evening visitor came to call.

Twenty minutes later, the delicious-looking treats were done and the homely smell of fresh baking and cooked cheese filled the kitchen – she was almost tempted to try one herself. After placing them all on a wire rack to cool, she dug into the back of a kitchen cupboard for a suitable travel container. The oven clock read 1.15 p.m. Duncan had said he’d come by about 2 p.m. to grab his overnight gear before heading down south for the night, and that he’d be back late Friday night.

Or that was the intended plan …

She’d already laid his toiletries out along with his hold-all and pyjamas; somehow, he always managed to forget these when he went anywhere overnight and would end up sleeping in his underwear. Idly she wondered if he’d be wearing them when the time came; it seemed an odd thing, sad almost, to wear for his demise. But what would be better, a suit and shirt? His running gear? Jeans and a T-shirt, perhaps? What was the preferred attire to be wearing when your time came? Sick patients lying in bed wouldn’t have any choice in the matter, so Duncan would be in their company as his spirit left this life – wearing just his PJs.

She stared at the stripes on the bottoms, blue and purple, and touched the soft flannelette fabric, though she resisted lifting them to her face. To do that would mean she still cared for him, and really, she didn’t. Anger started to bubble in her stomach like toxic gases. She could still feel the sting of his words like the slap of an elastic band her your arm – so cruel and unnecessary. He’d started her down this road she’d taken – he had! He was to blame for what was about to happen next. Yes, it was all his doing! Sam was getting wound up now, anxiety rippling through her chest, heat coursing over her skin, scalding tears filling her eyes.

A door slamming shut downstairs brought her to attention and she hastily wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Duncan’s voice rang out. “I’m home, Sam.” It was kind of sing-song, happy even, not like his usual stressed, dull tone.

Sniffing fiercely and wiping her eyes again, she called down to him, “I’m in the bedroom.”

His heavy footsteps climbed the stairs and he popped his head around the doorframe, a smile in his eyes. He seemed so happy.

“I smell baking,” he said with a tone of happy accusation.

“Guilty as charged,” she replied, then winced inwardly at her words – was that slip up an omen? Changing the subject for the moment, she added, “I thought I’d get a few things together – you know, the things you might forget.” She held up his pyjamas and he smiled knowingly. “Can’t have you cold. You’ll need these in your room. What if there was a fire alarm in the night? You’d be stood there half-naked and freezing to death.”

She knew she was rambling on about nothing, talking for the sake of it, but it helped. Why hadn’t she taken a couple of pills this morning to steady her nerves? Wasn’t that what they were there for? If only her bag was nearby, she could easily have sneaked a couple from the side pocket and slipped them down. But it was hanging at the bottom of the stairs where it always was. So, gibbering on was the next best alternative. It took her mind off what was coming.

Duncan walked into the room and started to fill his bag with the other items he’d need and she stood back and watched him. “Not sure if I mentioned but I’m meeting them from Croydon station for a curry at seven p.m. so I need to get going. There’s a case they’re working on that might be linked to a case of ours, so I’ll call you when I get in if it’s not too late, okay?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. Do what you need to do. I’ll probably have an early night anyway. I’m nearly at the end of my book so I’ll finish that off and that’ll be it. I’ll text you before I go to sleep.”

It was all part of the plan.

“Okay.” He looked around the room to see if he’d forgotten anything, then hoisted up his packed bag. He was almost ready to go.

“I’ve made you something to nibble on for your journey down,” she said as she headed for the kitchen. He followed her down, bag in hand. He watched as she put four mini-quiches into a container and handed it over.

“I thought you’d like these more than sweet brownies – they’re much more substantial. Now don’t eat them all when you set off. You’ll appreciate them late afternoon when you get the nibbles.” Timing was important, but she could only suggest.

“Thanks, Sam. That’s nice of you. I appreciate it.”

Their eyes caught for a moment and she smiled. He’d always had beautiful eyes… He leaned in to kiss her, their lips touching briefly for the last time.

When he walked out the front door, she’d never see him alive ever again.

It was a sobering thought.

She needed a drink.

Chapter Sixty-One

She looked every part the businesswoman. Her smart navy suit fell a little below her knee; a deep cream blouse with a plunging neckline set off her blonde hair perfectly. The look was completed by a pair of large pearl studs in her ears and a swipe of pale peach lipstick – she was aiming for classy.

Funny how a change of style of clothes could make a person feel so different about themselves. Amanda’s normal attire of work suit and Doc Martens was functional, though certainly not what you’d call stylish. High heels were impractical on the job for many reasons; really, it was only TV cops who wore them, women who, incredibly, managed to sprint over gravel and climb chain-link fences without difficulty when the time came. No ankles were ever broken in the making of those episodes. Away from television and back in the land of reality, of course, it was a completely different story, so she’d head back home to change out of her Wonder Woman suit after her assignment.

Kodaline sang about all she wanted while Amanda drove down Purley Way, headed towards a bacon sandwich and a spot of early morning surveillance over a Styrofoam cup of tea. Thinking she’d better tell Jack what she was up to, she directed Siri to call him. Kodaline and her song faded down and a loud ringing tone.

“Morning, Lacey-McGregor, or McGregor-Lacey, or whatever you’re now called,” he teased her, chewing loudly and following up with a slurp.

“I gather you’re still finishing breakfast.”

“Yes. Full English this morning, too. Mrs. Stewart came early specially to make it. Good of her, eh?”

“Yeah, great. Send her over when you’ve done with her. I have a few chores that need doing. But right now, I thought I’d fill you in on where I’m headed.”

“Oh? And where’s that?” Another slurp. Amanda envisioned him with his mug, a brown sauce–stained plate in front of him.

“I’m a businesswoman with a need for something to calm me, so I’m going to order a bacon sandwich with a side order of special sauce. I want to see what happens, and who makes it happen. All being well, I should have something to report back when I get to work. If I’m not in by ten, it’s gone horribly wrong and you’ll probably find me whacked and tied up in the bushes somewhere nearby.”

“Cheery thought, Lacey. Righto, then. Thanks for letting me know. You be careful, and I’ll see you a bit later.”

“Never thought of that, Jack, but will do,” she said, rolling her eyes. Though he was only a handful of years older than her, he treated her like the daughter he had never had. And for the most part, she let him; in many ways, he was the father she had never been close to.

The line went dead, and Kodaline’s soft, eerie voice again filled the car. Up next was Meghan Trainor. Perfect; Amanda was in the mood for something quietly soothing.

Ten minutes later, she swung the car into the layby, and parked at the furthest corner, as out of sight of the van as possible. Satisfied that the staff couldn’t see her, she turned the engine off and pretended to be searching her bag for something. Compact make-up mirrors were one of the best surveillance tools, she’d learned: they looked completely natural yet were small enough to see around without looking obvious – unless you were a man, of course. Amanda took hers out and pretended to preen a little, all the time watching the front of the van and who was doing what. Even though it was still early, there were already a couple of people queuing. Both were wearing business suits, and both had their phones in their hands. To the uninitiated, there was nothing wrong with the picture but Amanda stayed put, watching and pretending to adjust her make-up.

Her phone rang. It was Ruth.

“I have something for you that may be of use.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“I’ve just spoken to Valance and run a hypothetical at him, and he came back with how it could be done. I say could, not is – that’s up to your team. The detectives.”

“Come on, then – spill the beans,” Amanda said. “I don’t need a disclaimer statement attached.”

“Crypto currency could be used easily, and there are various forms now –loads, in fact, not only Bitcoin. In fact, he says it’s unlikely to be Bitcoin because it’s way too valuable. He mentioned Monero and Dash and a couple of others, but here’s the thing.” Ruth took a breath then carried on. “Anyone can do it, and it still runs off the Onion browser, but money can be added to the app. But it can’t be done on an iPhone: Apple doesn’t support crypto apps. So Android would more than likely be the one to use. Have a look at which phones customers are using if you can. From what he says, you won’t find an iPhone amongst them.”

“Nice work, Detective McGregor-Lacey. Does he have any idea how money changes hands through the app?”

“He said he’d do some checking, but his initial thought was what he called a ‘pooled wallet,’ where value is assigned to an account but no specific currency is associated with it. It basically means funds are harder to track. To purchase, the buyer would then wire the currency to the app, and hey presto! – transaction almost complete.”

“Nice one, Ruth. Thanks. I’d better go and see what’s what, then. Wish me luck.”

“Stay safe, eh?” Sheesh – first Jack, and now Ruth. Amanda rolled her eyes heavenward. Well, at least they cared.

“Will do. See you later.” Amanda rang off and glanced over to the food truck. The queue had grown to four people waiting.

“May as well get going,” she mumbled as she made her way across the uneven ground in heels she wasn’t used to. Little pieces of fine gravel pinged as her heels caught the loose covering and she was thankful it was a clear morning. Holding an umbrella and balancing at the same time might have been a problem. Amanda joined the back of the queue, eyes and ears on high alert. Immediately she noticed a couple of things: first, no one was talking at all, although that wasn’t necessarily cause for alarm; these people were probably all strangers. Second, each person had their phone in their hand – again not all that uncommon, but on further inspection, she noticed that not one of them was an iPhone. Again, that on its own wasn’t startling, but given Ruth’s intel and her own suspicions about what went on at this particular food van, it was a glaring indicator.

Amanda watched carefully now. As each person placed their order, they put their phone on the serving hatch, screen up. Someone not paying attention, someone who was there solely to get a sandwich and nothing else, would probably not have noticed this. Intrigued, Amanda moved forward in the queue, watching closely without seeming to watch.

Her main question now was how such an operation could be marketed to those looking to shop, because the suppliers, the two men inside the food van, could hardly hang their sign out, could they?

There were a couple of ways to find out more. And Amanda was going to try them both.

Chapter Sixty-Two

The man directly in front of her had turned his head as Amanda joined the back of the queue and given her a smile of admiration – as well as a rather obvious top-to-bottom look she could have done without. “Too bad, buddy. I’m taken,” she thought gleefully. Still, it was good to know she could still pull, even if it was a man.

“Good morning,” he drawled when he’d finished browsing.

Play nicely, Amanda …

“Morning,” she said, acting friendly. She was keen to chat with Mr. Smooth if she could.

“The best bacon sandwiches this side of Watford Gap, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, the best.” Another bright smile from Amanda.

“Do you come here often?”

Amanda groaned inwardly. Seriously, did he have nothing better? That was the cheesiest chat-up line in the book, though there could have been a double meaning to his question. “I’ve just come a couple of times,” she said, “but as you say, they are the best. They give me a bit of a buzz, actually. Love the special sauce.”

She watched his face and waited. His eyes flicked across hers, searching for her own double meaning, she assumed. At last he nodded slightly. No doubt about it: he knew exactly what she was referring to – and it wasn’t the bacon.

He held his phone out – an Android – and waggled it in the space between them, like a secret being shared between two friends.

Amanda smiled knowingly. “What currency do you use? Monero or something else?” She wore a natural, easy-going smile, as if they were two friends discussing laundry powder.

Mr. Smooth was definitely eager to chat, although he clearly thought he was getting somewhere with the classy-looking woman behind him.

“Yeah, I started with Monero,” he said self-importantly, “though I use Dash now. I’ve tried a few, actually, but in the interests of keeping it away from prying eyes, I juggle things a bit.” He touched his nose and gave her an exaggerated wink. “And you?” he enquired chummily.

“Same as you, actually,” she said, smooth as butter. “Seems to work.”

The queue shuffled forward, and another man joined in behind Amanda, phone in hand.

Amanda turned back to Mr. Smooth. “How did you find this place?”

“Probably the same way you did. A friend told me I should try their sandwiches if I wanted a little stress relief. I thought they did ‘massages’“ – he made air quotes around the word – “until I figured it out. Wasn’t sure if I was going to get a helping hand or a hand job when I first came.”

He threw his head back and laughed at his own wit, and Amanda did her best to join in. The man in front of him turned around and scowled, but Mr. Smooth ignored him. “But it’s all done so nicely,” he went on, lowering his voice. “No one who didn’t know about it would be any the wiser.”

Amanda smiled. “Yes, extremely clever, and neat too.” Lowering her own voice even more, she asked him, “How many outlets are there? Any idea?”

They shuffled forward again. Mr. Smooth was up next.

“I don’t know of any others myself,” he whispered, “but there must be, right? To set it up like they have. It’s not like the days when ice cream vans first started serving alcohol from their fridge instead of Mivvies. My guess is the queues of blokes waiting for ice cream gave the game away on that one.” He made air quotes around “ice cream.” “None of that here, though,” he went on, glancing around him. “Just a few folks lining up for breakfast, you and me included.” He gave her another sickly wink and then moved forward to place his order.

She watched discreetly as he set his phone on the counter, screen up. She could see an app page open, waiting. It happened so smoothly that anyone not in the know really would be hard pushed to notice; she had to admit she was impressed. From her current position, Amanda was now able to see what was happening inside the van. One male was cooking and putting bacon sandwiches together. A second male slipped a serviette and sachets of special sauce into the bag, along with what looked like a sachet of salt. Except Amanda knew it wasn’t salt; it was something a lot more relaxing than that. And who in their right mind put salt on their bacon sandwich, anyway?

Mr. Smooth moved off with his order, waving lightly as he walked back to his car, and wished her a nice day as he went. Smiling, Amanda stepped up and placed her order for a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea and waited. How very vanilla of her, considering the present company.

It was extremely clever, Amanda mused. Nobody would suspect the white sachets had anything sinister in them and, as no large cash notes had changed hands (she had used only a few coins paying for the sandwich), there had been no obvious transaction either. To the casual observer the men in the van were simply selling and serving bacon sandwiches.

Damn clever.

So, who was the mastermind behind this venture? Maybe DS Duncan Riley could shed some light on that later.

Chapter Sixty-Three

Amanda hadn’t gone home to change before heading back to the station, figuring she’d be ready for dinner with Duncan later that day so what the hell.

She soon wished she had. The first wolf whistle landed while she struggled to climb out of the car without exposing too much thigh in the process.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” she mumbled as her heel caught on the floor mat. Cursing, she yanked her shoe off and set one stockinged foot on the ground, looking for all the world like a hippy celeb staggering out of a limo. The observer whistled again and was rewarded with a swift middle finger from Amanda.

With both feet on the ground and once again contained within their shoes, she clumped off towards the station, noticing the backs of a couple of the men as they scurried inside ahead of her.

Jack swivelled round in his seat as she approached and his face lit up with a cheeky grin. “I didn’t know you cared, Amanda. I’d have dressed up a little if I’d known.” He rearranged his tie theatrically.

“Not you too, Jack,” she groaned, and feigned a swat at him. “Can’t a woman wear nice clothes occasionally?”

“Oh, that she can. And you should do so more often – you scrub up rather well.”

She cocked a brow at him. “Hardly practical in our job. I’ll be back to functional tomorrow. And my feet are killing me already in these shoes. Where’s my Doc Martens when a girl needs them?” She slipped her shoes off under her desk and rubbed the side of her foot. “But it worked, though. I now know what’s going on.”

“Really? Go on, then.”

“I will, but I need coffee first. You want some?”

They set off for the kitchen, and as they waited for their coffees, Amanda filled Jack in on what she’d learned from chatting with Mr. Smooth and her observations on the inside of the operation.

“So, the salt packs aren’t salt at all,” Jack mused. “I wondered why they weren’t printed when you found them in that rubbish bin, but I thought no more about it. And they wouldn’t get mixed up with the real salt because that would be in printed sachets, I’m guessing.”

“Precisely.”

“But we still don’t know how many vans are operating, do we?” Jack said thoughtfully. “And I suspect it’s more than one. How do we find out, do you think? This could be nationwide or just a local network.”

“Quite, but I think the first place to start is van ownership. We loosely traced this one back to one of Duncan’s contacts, so we could do the same with any others on our patch. See what we’re dealing with ourselves before taking it further afield.”

“I’m on to it. Shouldn’t be too hard to get a list of license holders from the council. I’ll get Raj to give me a hand.” Jack drained his coffee mug and thumped it down with satisfaction. “That, Lacey, was a good cup of coffee.”

Amanda smiled at his back as he returned towards his own desk and work. It seemed she’d been dismissed.

“Well, I guess I’d better tell Dopey what we’ve got going on,” she said, and padded off barefoot towards DI Dupin’s office. He was seated at his desk engrossed in a document in front of him, his bald patch more prominent than ever, it seemed. She knocked on the doorframe with a knuckle to get his attention.

Without looking up he said, “What is it, Lacey?”

“How’d you know it was me, sir?”

“You forget I’m a detective too, Lacey, and to answer your question, first of all I saw you, and second, your perfume.”

Immediately Amanda wondered if she’d been putting too much on.

“And no, you haven’t. Put too much on, that is.”

Dear God, he was a mind reader, too.

Finally, he looked up from what he had been reading and smiled at her. Dopey Dupin didn’t have a mean bone in his body, which was one of the reasons the team took the piss. Every DI needed mean bones occasionally.

“What can I help you with?”

While he wasn’t what you’d call an attractive man, he had a nice smile and clear eyes, and had always been decent to Amanda.

“It seems we’ve stumbled on a prescription opioid distribution racket, through mobile food vans. Selling codeine and oxy to the business community, from what we’ve seen so far.” She explained the rest – the salt packets, the app, the clientele.

Dupin sat quietly for a moment before he spoke. “What’s your plan?”

When Amanda explained what they intended to do and that she and Jack were meeting with a DC from Manchester later, he nodded approvingly. “Keep me up to date. I may need to go regional if it’s more widespread, and why wouldn’t it be?”

Amanda nodded her understanding, and Dupin resumed reading his document, indicating she was dismissed.

When she’d left his office, he picked his phone up and dialled.

Chapter Sixty-Four

M1 or M40? That was the question facing Duncan as he skirted around Birmingham heading south towards Croydon. If he hadn’t needed a car he’d have taken the train, caught up with some reports or read the paper, listened to a podcast or something – all much less stressful than afternoon traffic on the Midland’s motorways. Google and Siri told him the M40 was the quickest option, though not by much. He yawned, glanced at the clock on the dash and estimated the time to a service centre he might want to stop at. He dimly remembered that Oxford was the one to aim for, though in truth most of the motorway network’s service stations were pretty grim. Torn seating in the food court areas, filthy toilets, and the general décor and state of repair of these over-used locations left a lot to be desired. Millions of people went through these places every year, so much so they were like small towns, on the move 24/7. Some had designated truck stop areas, some caravan areas, but they all had one thing in common – huge volumes of cars and bikes at any given time. Unfortunately, this meant that refurbishment was almost out of the question.

He made a mental calculation to the stop at Oxford and dreamed of a hot coffee to stir him up with; travelling so far on his own was tedious work. Then he remembered the mini-quiches Sam had made and, driving with his right hand, slipped his left into his bag on the seat and rummaged for the tub.

“Got you,” he said as he wrestled the lid off and removed a little pie. The lightly browned cheese on the top made them look quite delicious and he took a bite from one, sinking his teeth into the soft filling and fresh homemade pastry. He groaned at the taste of them.

“Sam, you’ve outdone yourself, my girl. Absolutely delicious.”

Shame she wasn’t there to hear his praise….

Crumbs fell down his front and he brushed them away before taking another bite, the act of eating relieving the monotony of driving in a straight line for so long. When both pies had been devoured, he savoured the cheesy taste on his lips before calling her to say thanks. She answered almost immediately.

“My God, Sam, those little pie things were delicious. You’ll have to make some more of them.”

“Have you eaten them both already, then?” she enquired.

“I was going to leave one for later, but the first one was so good I thought, Sod it, I can only eat them once.” He heard Sam giggle a little at his praise and enjoyed the sound of it. It was a shame they’d had to go about getting back on track the way they had, but he felt sure she was changing back to the Sam he had loved and married.

“Well, I’m glad you liked them. I hoped you would. Listen, I’ll send you a text later before I go to sleep, all right?”

“Okay. Give the girls a kiss goodnight from me, won’t you?”

“Of course, and enjoy your meal out. Drive safely.” Sing-song. Then she was gone and Duncan was back to the solace of a mind-numbingly boring drive down to Croydon.

It was almost 6 p.m. when he pulled into the hotel car park after four hours of snarl-ups and roadworks, and he parked up below one of the available street lamps for extra security. The amber glow gave his car an eerie finish, changing the colour from navy to almost green. He grabbed his bag and headed inside to check in, feeling dog-tired and wishing he was staying in for the evening rather than going out for a curry. But he’d agreed to go, so that was the end of it, though his stomach didn’t much feel like a curry. Something plain would perhaps ease whatever was going on in there. He put it down to too much coffee and sitting scrunched up for too long.

“Duncan Riley checking in,” he said to the receptionist, an older woman with perfectly coiffed hair. She reminded him of a TV sitcom wife from the 80s. But efficient was her middle name, and within a few moments she was handing over his key and directing him to a room on the first floor. She wished him a good evening.

Duncan skipped the lift and opted for the stairs. His room was near the far end of the first-floor corridor. Silently, he let himself in and browsed around the functional room. Bathroom immediately to the left, bed further in to the left, desk and chair at the foot of the bed against the wall opposite. TV screen, tea- and coffee-making equipment to his right. A piece of nondescript art hung over the bed. The computer-generated image matched the décor colour of green and oxblood almost exactly. The scent of air freshener from a can lingered in the room, probably to mask that someone had smoked there recently; an underlying whiff of tobacco was still evident. He opened the window a little to recirculate the odour back outside, and a cold draft blew into the room. Still, he gave it five minutes to clear.

His head was starting to ache a little as he unpacked his bag and took his toiletries through to the bathroom. Since he wasn’t being picked up for at least thirty minutes or so, he turned the taps on and ran a bath, pouring the little bottle of shower gel into the running water. White bubbles formed and grew upwards while he shaved and stripped. Then, satisfied with the temperature, Duncan slid into the tub. The warm water felt good on his body, the tiring drive easing out of his muscles, and he began to relax a little. His thoughts drifted to Sam and the change in her, her thoughtfulness baking the mini-pies, and he wondered if they’d turned a corner. Perhaps they should go away somewhere soon, the two of them, somewhere warm; maybe the south of France or farther afield even. It wasn’t like they couldn’t afford it, and the girls always enjoyed staying with their grandparents.

His phone rang back in the bedroom and dragged him away from his thoughts, though he didn’t get out of the bath, not yet. Whoever it was would wait or leave a message or call back soon. He closed his eyes a moment and floated somewhere between Sam and work. His phone rang again.

“Sod it,” he grumbled and stood up, letting water and soapy suds run down his legs onto the floor. He wrapped a towel around him before heading to the bedside table.

“DC Riley here.”

“Ah, were you sleeping?” A woman’s chuckle followed, but Duncan didn’t recognize the voice or the number that flashed up.

“It’s DS Lacey, Amanda. Dinner?”

“Yes, sorry. Miles away. Is it that time already?” He glanced at the clock on his phone. 6.40 p.m.

“We’re early, so I called on the off chance, but if you’re sleeping . . .” She let the words hang with a touch of jovial sarcasm.

“Give me five. I’ll be down shortly.” He disconnected the call, quickly dried, and dressed in jeans and a clean shirt with a jacket over the top. With hair that was still ruffled and damp, he left his room to meet his dinner mates, letting the door swing closed behind him.

All three slipped into Amanda’s car, Duncan in the back.

Parked on the other side of the car park were two men in disguise and on surveillance.

They were not detectives.

Chapter Sixty-Five

It wasn’t far to the restaurant. Parking directly outside was impossible unless you were happy to be towed away, and even detectives weren’t exempt from that carry-on. And bus drivers got tetchy if you parked in a bus stop. Amanda drove past Chat House and pulled up in a nearby side street with plenty of room. Duncan’s head was now throbbing and he wished he’d stopped at a chemist for Paracetamol on the way. Amanda caught the look of pain on his face and asked, “Are you all right?”

“A headache, that’s all, though I couldn’t tell you when I last got one. I don’t suppose you have any painkillers, do you?”

Considering the topic they were about to discuss over dinner, it was fitting, Amanda thought. She rummaged in her bag and produced a packet with four left in it.

“Life saver – thanks,” Duncan said, and removed two from the individual blisters, popping them straight into his mouth.

“There’ll be water inside,” added Amanda. She handed him the rest of the pack. “Here, take the rest in case you need them later.”

Duncan nodded his appreciation and followed them both into the restaurant. The warmth was welcome; even the short walk from the car was cold enough to require hat and gloves. The smell of rich tandoori spices and garlic filled the room. For a weekday night, the place was busy, and the clientele was heavily male. Amanda wondered where all the women were; perhaps these customers were all on a boys’ night out? She imagined the women doing the same someplace, a wine bar maybe.

A man dressed in black and white showed them to their table and handed out menus.

“Can I get you something from the bar?” he enquired.

“A half for me,” ordered Jack.

“Mineral water, thanks,” Duncan said.

Amanda ordered a white wine, not caring that it was a school night.

With the waiter on his way, Jack took up the small talk. “How was the journey down?”

“The usual. I don’t think I’ve ever driven straight through without roadworks somewhere along the way. I reckon they only need a home for their cones, so they lay them on our motorways.” He rubbed his temple and poured a glass of water from the jug to speed the pills up a bit. A light sheen of sweat had formed on his top lip. It glinted slightly, enough for Amanda to notice. She didn’t say anything.

“Well, I’m famished,” declared Jack, and stuck his head in the menu. “I don’t know why I’m looking because I know what I’m going to have.” He beamed around the table. “Chicken Jalfrezi.”

“Same here,” said Amanda. “Lamb Jalfrezi for me.” She placed her menu back down on the table.

Duncan didn’t fancy anything spicy, “I think I’ll stick with chicken Korma. I fancy mild tonight.” In reality, he fancied a boiled egg and soldiers at home with his girls, but that was a world away. His head was pounding.

The waiter returned with their drinks and Jack placed their order. Poppadums and chutney appeared in front of them and all but Duncan tucked in. He was beginning to feel quite unwell. He figured he should tell them what he knew, then grab a taxi back to the hotel and go sleep off whatever this was. He cleared his throat.

“Tell me where you’re up to, then, and I’ll see where I can fit some missing pieces, perhaps.”

Amanda began with a rundown. “We know now they are using an app, prepaying with crypto currency so no cash changes hands at the van. It seems they place their phone face up with the app showing on the screen, and that’s a signal for the dealer to glance and see the pre-paid order. Tabs are disguised as salt packets and slotted into the bag with the bacon sandwich. I’ve also heard special sauce mentioned – a code word, I expect. That’s as much as we know. But we figure it could be wider than our patch because of the technology.”

She sipped her wine and looked at Duncan. He was quiet. More sweat had surfaced on his upper lip and brow. Suddenly, in one swift movement, he leapt from the table and raced towards the back of the restaurant, looking for the toilets. Jack and Amanda sat speechless, looking at one another.

“He really didn’t look too well,” Amanda said. “His top lip was all sweaty. I think you should see if he’s okay.”

The waiter was approaching the table with their food, but Jack dutifully followed Duncan, hoping he wouldn’t be too long. He’d been looking forward to chicken Jalfrezi all afternoon. He entered the gents’ toilets and heard Duncan before he saw him. The retching sounded like it was coming up from the basement drains of the building.

“Hell’s bells. Are you all right?”

Duncan spat saliva into the bowl and wiped his mouth with toilet tissue. The room smelled of vomit. Jack waited.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Duncan said weakly. “I think. Maybe it’s a migraine.” He started to get up from his kneeling position but his legs were wobbly. He grabbed on to the tissue dispenser, ripping it from the wall as he stumbled backwards, sending it crashing to the floor. Another wave of nausea coursed through him and he retched again, this time missing the toilet completely and vomiting onto the floor. Jack stepped out of the way, but not before the splashes hit him.

“I think we’d best get you back to your room. Can you stand up?” He put his hand out and Duncan took it gratefully. Once Duncan was on his feet, Jack dampened a paper towel and handed it to him to wipe his face with. Beads of sweat coated his forehead. When Jack was satisfied Duncan was stable on his feet, he slowly led him back out to the restaurant and towards the front door. He caught Amanda’s eye but she could see all was not well. She set her napkin aside and hurried up to them.

“Best get him back,” Jack said uneasily. “Where’s your keys?”

“Hang on – I’ll drive,” Amanda said. “Let me go and settle the bill and I’ll meet you out front. Can you bring my car around?”

Jack nodded and took her car keys from her. Turning to Duncan, he said, “Wait here. I’ll be back in five.”

When Jack pulled up out front, Amanda was waiting with Duncan. Some of the colour had returned to Duncan’s face. He and Amanda both got inside.

“I’m really sorry about this,” Duncan said. “I’ve never experienced anything like this before. If it’s a migraine, I never want another.” He rested his head against the headrest, grateful it was only a short drive.

“It’s no bother, as long as you’re okay,” said Amanda. “We’ll catch up by phone, maybe in the morning? I hope you’ll be all right for your training tomorrow.”

“Me too. Sleep will do me good.”

Amanda pulled up at the hotel entrance and Duncan climbed out, looking only slightly steadier than he had a few moments ago. They said their goodbyes and both watched him go inside before driving off.

“I hope he’s all right,” said Jack anxiously.

“He’ll be fine. If he’s got a migraine, he’ll more than likely be fine now he’s vomited. A nice dark room and sleep is what he needs right now. It’s still early yet, so hopefully he’ll feel better in the morning. I’ll call him then.”

“You’re a regular Mother Teresa, aren’t you?” chided Jack. He was remembering back to when he had had appendicitis a while back and had vomited lavishly all over Amanda and his own car. To her credit, Amanda had looked after him like a champ that day.

He pulled out into traffic and they headed back to work. Neither of them noticed the surveillance vehicle that was still parked in the car park. But the two men inside noticed Duncan had returned.

Somewhat early.

Chapter Sixty-Six

He felt like death itself. Never before had he felt so ill, had such a splitting headache or been so violently sick. He’d made it back to his room, washed his face, and got straight into bed, leaving his clothes where they fell. It was darkness and peace he craved. The hotel curtains were thick and well fitted, so not even a chink of light from outside could get through. Still, he kept his eyes firmly closed.

But behind the blank canvas of his eyelids was a place for the devil to dance, and he was only just warming up. Imaginary insects, sounds outside his door, smells drifting from under it were all fighting for places as the devil took over. A beetle with hundreds of legs, like a millipede but with a hard oxblood red and green shell, crawled up the inside of his leg. Duncan reached down and pushed it away, sending it flying across the room towards the bathroom door where it righted itself and raced back to the bed. Only this time it was bigger. Much bigger. Duncan yelled out as he watched it grow in size then sat on the bottom of his bed and laughed at him. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, leaving a lingering odour in its place. Had someone burnt something? Was the hotel on fire?

On and on they went, torments in all shapes and sizes making him cry out in distress. With his eyes tightly closed he thrashed about, sweat beading on his face and chest as the hallucinations drove on and on. Duncan was oblivious to the world around him, floating in another dimension, unable to escape the pain as the devil played with his mind for his own pleasure.

Duncan was in a hell of his own.

At 9.30 p.m., Sam texted Duncan goodnight, a short message followed by a handful of kisses. But Duncan was oblivious. In fact, he was barely conscious and lying drenched in his own sweat, the soaked sheets knotted around him. By 12.30 a.m., the worst had passed, and he rolled onto his side in the wet bed, exhausted and drifting in and out of consciousness.

He didn’t hear the light click of the lock as his door opened and two figures entered, standing in the short passageway by the bathroom door. He didn’t hear their heavy breathing; he didn’t hear or see anything – just the remnants of the devil dancing inside his skull.

They waited for any movement, for their target to call out on hearing them enter, but any sound they had made had not disturbed him. The two men ventured the short distance forward towards the bed, one with an arm outstretched holding a gun, poised ready to fire, the other man slightly back out of the way. The long shape lying in the bed was only just visible in the darkness. A long moment passed and nothing happened. The man stood still, his arm outstretched and ready to shoot. Then, at last, the man lowered his arm and Luke turned to Clinton.

“I can’t do it,” he whispered. “You’ll have to do it.”

Clinton gasped. “What? No way! Get on with it!”

“But I can’t!” Luke’s voice was quiet and urgent as he tried to make Clinton understand.

“Too late. Pull the damn trigger and let’s get out of here! Come on!”

Luke turned back towards the bed and his target, who lay under the covers sound asleep. It had seemed a good idea at the time, an easy way to earn a few quid, but now as he stood in the darkened room, he wasn’t so sure. A slight movement followed by a groan from the bed made him jump. The target was coming round.

“Get on with it!” urged Clinton. “Take him now!”

But Luke was frozen to the spot. That was, until Duncan rolled over fully onto his back and groaned again. What Luke couldn’t see in the darkness was whether the target’s eyes were open or not, whether he was staring up at him. Oh God – perhaps he could see him. That would never do. Being identified was out of the question. It was all he needed to spur him into action. Raising the gun again, he pointed it directly at the man’s chest and fired. But his intended victim had other ideas, rolling quickly off the bed onto the floor at the far side.

Luke had missed.

“Damn!” he cursed. Duncan must have seen him; otherwise, why roll so quickly? There was no way he could leave the job half-finished now. It became a mad scramble.

“And again!” urged Clinton as Luke moved like lightning and fired again at the man, who was now lying on the floor. Even with a silencer, the noise of the gunshot filled the room. It was nowhere near as quiet as he’d assumed it would be, he thought, as though from a great distance. He peered across the bed. There was no way he could have missed from such close range. Duncan lay face down, not moving and not making a sound. He had to be dead.

Not wanting to risk the noise of a third shot, Luke shoved the gun into his waistband.

“Let’s go!” he urged.

Clinton didn’t need telling twice and both men bolted towards the door. Grabbing the Do Not Disturb sign as they left, Luke fastened it to the outside handle, then softly closed the door behind them. They slowed their steps now and walked briskly, as casually as they could, down the hall and into the nearby stairwell.

Neither Luke nor Clinton said a word until they were safely in their car. They’d left it parked a little way down a side street out, of the glare of any streetlamps or cameras. Adrenaline rushed through their veins, but both men were grimly silent. Luke started the engine and moved off down the side street, away from the main entrance of the hotel, as a precaution. Clinton looked back through the passenger wing mirror for activity – lights turning on or someone outside the entrance looking, perhaps, but there was nothing. It was a good ten minutes before either of them spoke.

“Are you sure he’s dead?”

“Yes.”

At least, Luke hoped so.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

He’d been shot. Duncan lay face down on the floor, a bullet hole through his right shoulder. It must have gone right through because it had pierced his hand, which had been trapped beneath him during the fall. Being shot at point-blank range stung, he realized with a strange sense of detachment, but there had been little time to do much about it. Right now, he was grateful he was still alive and breathing, though he wondered if they’d be back to finish him off. He’d heard them leave. He’d also heard them whispering earlier, or had he imagined that part?

After a few moments, he figured it was safe to move. He tried to get himself back upright, or at least on his hands and knees, and call for help, but his head sloshed about like a wave pool and the pain in his shoulder and hand was excruciating. Nausea rolled over him again and he felt a fresh urge to vomit, but he knew there was nothing but bile left in his stomach. Everything else was on the curry house toilet floor.

Slowly, using his uninjured hand, he managed to get himself back up on to the bed and steady himself for a moment. Blood seeped down his front from his shoulder wound and mingled with the blood from his hand. Although it was good that the bullet had exited, he didn’t hold up much hope for his hand to work properly ever again – there were likely too many small bones damaged. He knew he needed to find his phone urgently before he passed out again, but the room was also a crime scene and he was aware he could be contaminating it by moving. But he had to get help or he would die, he told himself sternly, and since he hadn’t finished with his life yet, he’d risk contaminating the scene.

He took several deep breaths and then held the last one in his chest as he moved around the bed towards the desk. He knew he’d left his phone there earlier as he’d collapsed into bed. The pain was piercing, but he pushed through it with gritted teeth. Nothing seemed to work properly, but with his left hand, he found the table lamp and managed to switch it on. The pale lamplight felt like fire on his sore eyes and he squeezed them shut, groaning. Then, gingerly opening one eye, he spotted his phone and reached out with his good hand to retrieve it.

His hand shook as he struggled to unlock it. Blood made the screen slippery as he punched the keyboard icon and hit 999.

“I’ve been shot,” he told the operator. His voice sounded like it was coming from another room. He heard himself give his location and room number, asking if she might be able to locate DS Lacey or DC Rutherford from Croydon station.

He set the phone down on the bed and activated the speakerphone. There was a whooshing sound in his ears now. Dimly, he heard the operator instructing him to put pressure on the wound. He raised his left hand and pressed it onto his right shoulder, but the blood kept flowing. He was grateful for the soothing comfort of the operator’s voice. She sounded kind, taking his mind off the pain as best she could. Then at last, he heard the distant sounds of the ambulance coming for him – at least he hoped it was, because he was in danger of losing consciousness again, fighting the urge to lie back on the bed and never wake up again.

He closed his eyes and suddenly saw his girls, all three of them, dancing on the inside of his eyelids, giggling together, enjoying a game. Then Rochelle joined them, but she wasn’t dancing and giggling with them. She was off to the side, a look of concern on her face, watching Sam. What was Rochelle doing there? Then came whispered voices, a man saying he couldn’t do it, and Rochelle crying. And all the time his girls laughed and giggled and danced . . .

He tried to open his eyes again, but Mother Nature clearly had her own agenda for him right now. He slumped back and let her take him to wherever she had planned.

When Duncan awoke some hours later, he was in a hospital bed, wired up and bandaged up but still alive. A nurse hovered like a honeybee, working on his chart. She gave him a bright smile as he came to. His mouth felt like the bottom of someone’s old trainer, his throat raw where tubes had lain earlier. A drip was attached to the back of his good hand, fluids to ease his pain and fight off infection. He’d obviously been in surgery.

“Good morning Mr. Riley. It’s good to have you back with us.” What a killer smile she had, Duncan thought. Then he figured he must be okay if he’d noticed that.

Always the hot-blooded male.

Duncan tried to talk, but his throat wasn’t working. He uttered a hoarse croak and then gave up. Instead, he matched her smile with one of his own, though not as dazzling.

“Your throat will be a little sore, but only temporarily. Just nod or shake your head to my questions, okay?”

One nod.

“Are you in any pain?”

One shake.

“Great. You shouldn’t be. We operated earlier to stop the bleeding and stitch you up front and back, and your hand has been set, though it may take another procedure or two to get that finally fixed up. Time will tell, but you’re still with us – that’s the main thing.” Another dazzling smile. She went on, “There are a couple of detectives waiting to talk to you, but as you can’t talk at the moment, I’ll tell them to come back.”

One shake.

“Are you sure?”

One nod.

“All right, I’ll send them in when I’ve done with you.” She handed him a glass of water with a straw sticking out the top. “The more you can drink, the better for you.” Duncan drained the glass. God, he was thirsty. She refilled it and set it down on the side table. With a quick rearrangement of his pillows and one last smile, she left the room.

He closed his eyes for a moment. That moment turned into half an hour, and similar visions filled his head again: Sam, the girls, and Rochelle.

Rochelle.

Pre-offence behaviour.

“A spouse that has a sudden and unexplained change in behaviour towards their partner. A significant change in a partner’s behaviour can mean the partner may have already begun to plan for a change in the status quo. Textbook stuff.”

It was like thick fog inside his head, but Rochelle’s words filtered through and started to make a modicum of sense.

When he opened his eyes again, Jack and Amanda were stood together at the side of his bed looking at him with concerned faces. He tried again to speak, to clear the frog that was preventing him from doing so.

“Shhhe. Wan. Mme. De.”

Each word was laboured and slurred, but Amanda understood immediately what he was trying to tell them. Only moments ago, she had spoken to DS Rochelle Mason, who, once she’d got over the shock of the terrible news, had told Amanda a theory all of her own.

And she was now en route.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Jack’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Rochelle had made the journey in record time and was standing with them beside Duncan’s bed now, her crash helmet in one hand, dressed in black leather from head to foot, catching her breath as Amanda brought her up to speed.

Jack motioned her to one of the vinyl chairs by the bed, but she shook her head.

“I’ve been sat down long enough. Thanks, though.”

She gave him a strained smile, and Jack was willing to bet that, under different circumstances, it would be a knee-trembling one. He also bet she was a ball-buster; her sheer presence in the room changed the vibe from low-key to supercharged. He wouldn’t want to mess with her. He smiled inwardly, musing.

“Jack? Jack!” Amanda was speaking to him but he hadn’t heard a word.

“Sorry. Yes, Lacey. I was miles away.”

“I know you were. Welcome back.” Amanda suspected exactly where he’d been. “I was saying about last night – how ill he was with his headache and what he was like when we dropped him off.”

“Yeah, he said he was all right, needed an early night. He was looking forward to his training, so we left him at the door. I can’t believe what’s happened to him since. It’s unreal.”

“Sure is,” said Rochelle. “Do they say when he’ll be allowed home, and has anyone told his wife yet?”

“He’s probably only in for a couple of days, but they’re looking to move him to Manchester when it’s feasible. To my knowledge, his wife hasn’t been told yet, particularly in light of what you’ve said. Thought maybe it would be best coming from you or one of your team.” Amanda hated notifying next of kin at the best of times; it reminded her too much of when she’d had to tell Ruth’s father that his wife had died. Ruth had been too shocked and upset to tell him herself.

“In that case, I’ll get Rick – DS Black, I mean – to go round now that I know what state he’s in. Has he said much?”

“No. His throat is too sore yet, so it’s head nods and shakes when he’s awake. He tried to write some notes but his right hand is shattered, so that’s awkward too. He managed to say he’d been dreaming a lot, imagining things. If it was a migraine, that could be the cause of the strange visions, though that’s usually visual disturbances, not hallucinations. He didn’t eat anything at the restaurant; he was as sick as a dog in the toilet before our food came. He was really sweaty, though. I remember seeing it on his top lip before he ran for the loo.” She checked her notebook. “Apparently the hotel housekeeping had a master key card go missing during the night, so we’re assuming that’s how the culprit got access. Easy enough to garner a room number if you’re intent on getting one.”

“He must have been ill because when we found him, the bed was soaked. I remember thinking how unusual that was,” added Jack. “Forensics are at the scene now pulling evidence together, but Amanda tells me you might have an idea who’s behind it?”

“It’s loose, but the pieces seem to fit. I don’t think I’m making them fit. That’s why I’ll get DS Black, to go round to their house. He can watch her reaction if he knows what we’re looking for, see if it’s genuine shock or shock that he’s still alive when he shouldn’t be.”

“Jesus, that’s rough, isn’t it? Your missus planning your demise and she’s shocked you’re actually alive when she’s likely paid good money to have you bumped. I’d like to be a fly on that particular wall.” Jack shook his head in disgust.

Rochelle dialled a number and left the room to make the call so Duncan couldn’t hear if he woke up. Even though he’d already mentioned the possibility, she didn’t want to rub it in any further; they’d only just been discussing it in front of him.

Amanda and Jack raised their eyebrows at each other and waited in silence. Nothing stirred from Duncan’s bed. Jack’s phone vibrated.

“Hopefully a clue,” he said, picking up his phone.

Amanda listened to one side of the conversation and picked up that they’d located two bullets from a Colt 45, a gun easy enough to get hold of if you knew the right people. Since nobody had heard the gunshots, the gunman would have used a silencer and that alone pointed to someone more organized. This was not a random hit, and probably not a retaliation from someone Duncan had put away, though uniform were checking recent releases from prisons in case there was someone after him.

Then there was the strange fact that he had been shot in the back, through the right shoulder, and left for dead. Gangs, organized crime and experienced criminals tended to be a great deal more accurate – and thorough.

So, the person or persons they were looking for were sloppy. The burning question was, who had wanted Duncan dead? Was it his wife? Or was it someone else entirely?

A nurse stepped into the room and gave them both a disapproving look.

“The rest will do him good, as would the peace and quiet. Perhaps you can wait in the waiting room until he wakes. He’s not going anywhere for a while,” she said. It was more an order than a request. Amanda and Jack both rose to leave, but a croak from Duncan stopped them all, the nurse included.

“Try again, Duncan,” Amanda said soothingly, avoiding the nurse’s warning look.

“Looook a Saam. Speak ta Saaam.”

“We’ll speak to Sam. Rochelle is here and understands. Anything else? Did you see anything?”

“That’s enough for now,” interjected the nurse sternly. “He must rest. Please, the waiting area?”

Obediently, Amanda and Jack decamped to the waiting room. They met Rochelle as they moved rooms and she followed them along.

“Rick is going round now and will inform Sam. He knows what to look for. Then we’ll take it from there. Still asleep, I assume?”

Jack explained what had gone on and Rochelle rolled her eyes impatiently.

“I know Duncan well, and he’d be wanting us to get on with this before too much time elapses. It must be frustrating for him if he’s aware, though he is pretty sedated.”

“Why don’t you stay here and wait? We’ll head back to the room, see where forensics are at, ask some more questions, check footage again. We’re doing no good here.”

“That’s fine by me,” Rochelle said. “Maybe I’ll get a cup of that horrible hospital coffee before I face Nurse Ratchett again.”

“I’d be interested in Rick’s observation when you know,” Amanda said to her.

“So will I,” Rochelle said, narrowing her eyes. “So will I.”

Chapter Sixty-Nine

After the call, Rick stood for a moment, thoughtful, looking at his phone. Really? Sam a suspect? Rochelle had not mentioned anything before now, but then why would she? That was between her and Duncan, and she wasn’t one to gossip. Still, if Sam was involved somehow, they needed to find out. He hoped she wasn’t.

“I’m off out. I’ll be back shortly,” he shouted across to a colleague, who nodded. With Duncan in hospital and Rochelle down there with him, his department was a couple short. Others were out investigating cases of their own, leaving only a couple of civilian clerks to carry on with case research in their absence. He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and a half-filled takeaway cup of coffee from his desk and headed outside to his BMW. He swung out of the station gates in the direction of Duncan’s home, a place he’d been to many times but not like this, not to deliver news and dig at the same time.

His automatic windscreen wipers came on as the first signs of moisture hit the windscreen, tiny wet dots the size of pinheads glistening like diamonds. Whoosh. Whoosh. The rain increased in intensity until it was pouring heavily, bouncing off the car bonnet as he drove the few miles and parked up outside Duncan and Sam’s house. The street was a dark, sodden grey, making everything look more depressing than it was on a brighter sunny day; rain had a habit of doing that. It was like Manchester was crying at its own pain. He glanced up at the front window of the house hoping she was home, not wanting to have to psych himself up again to deliver the news later.

Sam. He hoped this was all a big mistake. What motive had she got? What reason could she possibly have to want her husband, her loving Duncan, dead? And who had she organized to do the deed? Sam certainly didn’t mix in those circles. Maybe he didn’t know Sam at all. And maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t even involved. Maybe this whole thing was the product of an overactive imagination on Rochelle’s part. But a sudden and unexplained change in behaviour was not something to take lightly, he knew. It was a well-known ‘tell’ that something was adrift; a well-known FBI profiler had figured it out some years ago, and it was now taught as part of advanced police training. He wondered about motive again. Maybe the change was to do with something else?

There was movement at the window, a curtain then a face, briefly.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, and lifted his jacket up over his head before stepping out into the pelting rain. He dashed up the front path and knocked, grateful there was an overhang to shelter him. He ruffled his hair back into shape and put a weak smile on his face ready to greet her. The door opened, and Sam stood there, a smile on her own face, looking as normal as ever.

“Hi, Rick. Come on in out of the rain,” she said cheerily.

He was noting everything she said, every miniscule movement she made, and adding it to the imaginary notepad in his head.

“Thanks. It wasn’t even raining when I set off.”

“Want a cuppa? I’m just making one.”

“Please, thanks.” Why hasn’t she asked immediately why I’m here? he wondered. I’ve never been here without Rick unless I’m picking him up. He added this to his mental checklist.

He followed her through to the kitchen. The place looked spic and span; nothing, it seemed, was out of place. He watched from behind as she put tea bags in two mugs and reached for a packet of biscuits. Still no question as to the reason for his visit. Finally, the tea was ready and they sat down at the kitchen table. Rain pelted the window outside. The wind had picked up, adding to a wild day.

Finally, she asked.

“So, to what do I owe this unexpected visit? Duncan is down in Kent somewhere.”

He watched her sip her tea, looking over the rim of the mug at him. “Well, that’s why I’m here Sam. I have some news. There’s no easy way to tell you, but I’m afraid Duncan has been shot and is in hospital in Croydon.”

He waited, handing the floor over to Sam to make the performance of her life. And make it convincing – to them both.

“What?! How bad is he?” she asked, shocked. Her mouth hung open.

“He’s doing okay. They operated earlier this morning. He was shot in the shoulder, but he was lying on his hand so the bullet went straight through and into his hand. He’ll need more surgery to get his hand working properly again, and he lost a lot of blood, but other than that he’s a lucky man. He’ll live.” He waited for a twitch, a tell, something at the deliberate words ‘he’ll live.’

Sam took a deep breath in and out, which could have meant anything, but other than that, there was nothing obvious.

“I need to see him. Let me organize the girls overnight, and I’ll grab a few things and head down.” She looked at the clock, and Duncan waited while she made some calculations before speaking.

“They will be transferring him up to Manchester as soon as they can, but I don’t know when that will be. It’s maybe worth a call to the hospital before you dash down there.”

“Yes – good idea.”

She sat silently and Duncan again watched, wondering what was actually going on inside her head. Would a loving, caring wife with a husband in hospital a good four hours away really wait, or would she dash off no matter what? Noted again. He sipped his tea and took a biscuit, more for something to do in the strange atmosphere than anything else. Rick was eager to learn as much as he could, and as with any suspect (if she was one), he was prepared to let her talk and ramble on; that’s generally where they slipped up. Too much detail equalled a set-up alibi; too little was clever and cagey but didn’t necessarily mean guilty. It only meant smart.

When Sam spoke again, it wasn’t quite what he expected to hear.

“Right, then. Well, thanks for coming round and telling me. I really appreciate it. I’ll give them a ring and see what’s what.” She managed a smile – a weak one, but a smile nonetheless.

Rick stood to leave, adding her last comment to his imaginary notepad along with a couple of other observations: no tears, no pain, not much shock and not a great deal of concern about seeing him any time soon. As far as Rick was concerned, there was more digging to be done before Sam was completely eliminated as a suspect. And that disappointed him immensely. She was not the woman he’d thought she was.

Chapter Seventy

“I’m assuming that’s us done as hit men?” Clinton enquired as they both sat in Luke’s tiny room, Clinton in the chair, Luke on the bed. They’d got home in the early hours after leaving Croydon in a rush around 1 a.m. It was safe to say their little foray into being killing machines hadn’t gone so well; Luke’s bottling it at the last minute had been awkward. Clinton would never have been able to take over if Luke hadn’t found his balls in time before the target had woken up; thankfully the strength had found him somehow.

Or the stupidity. Or the sheer dumb luck, depending on your view.

As it was, they were forced to dissect what had gone wrong and how it might affect them from today onwards. And was the guy even dead? Clinton seemed to think so, Luke thought; otherwise he wouldn’t be talking like he was. Luke had not yet voiced that concern. He sat silent, listening as Clinton went over the details.

“There shouldn’t be any footage of us. There weren’t any cameras in the corridor – of that I’m sure – and we both kept our heads well down, hoodies up, so there’d have been nothing to be seen even if there had been a camera. It would simply show two figures, hoods up, caps on, heads down. No one saw us enter or leave or nick the master key card.

“And the beauty of a hotel such as that one is the transient clientele, passing through for a night on business,” Clinton went on. “They’ll all have gone back to where they spend their days and nights now, no one the wiser. I bet most of them spend the evening catching up on work, have a drink or two then watch a porn movie before an early night.”

Luke marvelled at how calm and reconciled he sounded and wished he felt the same. He wished he knew whether their target was still alive or not. He sat quietly on the bed, giving the odd grunt to show he was listening and agreeing. There was no point mentioning his concern until he knew for sure.

The guy’s body must have been discovered by now, though surely? A quick look online hadn’t returned any reports of either. Gunshot wounds would be newsworthy either way, Luke knew, so he could only take from that the body – if there was one – was still to be discovered.

He looked at his bedside clock. It was just coming up to noon, which meant housekeeping would find the guy any minute if someone else hadn’t in the last hour or so. Word would soon be out – and he hoped it was the right word.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands and tried to clear his head, to push the stress out of his brain and think about something else. But how could he when he had no clue what the problem was going to be? Attempted murder or murder – both held hefty sentences. The only difference was that with murder, the victim couldn’t give evidence.

But a target who was still breathing could.

Luke got to his feet. “I need to sleep. Why don’t we meet up again later? I can’t think straight right now.” He rubbed his eyes again and yawned dramatically, more for effect so Clinton would leave.

“Me too. I’m wasted,” Clinton declared. “Okay, I’ll be off, then. Come round to mine later? The parents will be at bingo so we can talk uninterrupted for a couple of hours.”

“Yeah, great. Let’s do that.”

Luke got up to show his friend out, not that he didn’t know the way. It was manners, the thing to do. He stood watching from the front window as Clinton disappeared from view, then retrieved his laptop, went back up to the sanctuary of his room and logged back on to the website. There was a message waiting for him. A surge of dread ripped through him. He hoped it wasn’t a new enquiry; his days of being a hit for hire were over. He’d frozen when the time had come, and that had been dangerous. He couldn’t risk that happening again, and more to the point, he didn’t want the stress that went with the job, money or not. Whoever this was, he was no longer open for business.

But wasn’t a new enquiry – it was an angry customer.

Nausea washed over him, replacing the dread. The words were clear:

You messed up. He’s still alive. Get it sorted.

Head in his hands, Luke wasn’t sure how or if to respond. He’d received the money and he wasn’t about to give it back, but he was – they were – counting on the second payment. Six thousand pounds wasn’t to be sniffed at. It was a tidy sum of money and the whole reason they’d started the damn venture. He groaned to himself, wondering what he was going to do now – loose ends, an angry customer and his own lost nerve wasn’t a helpful mix. His fingers hovered over the message to hit reply, but his head was pulling him back. If he said the job would be finished, how was he going to do that exactly? If he apologized? Well, that wouldn’t likely fly in a situation like this. Or he could ignore it, keep the first payment and leave it at that – they were still £5000 to the good. There was no way the customer could find out who they were and hunt them down, just as he had no idea who the customer was. Nor had he any desire to know, so in that respect they were safe.

His fingers still hovered. He had to do something, make a decision, and deal with it, and even if the decision was not to reply, that was still a decision. Luke’s room was deathly quiet as he sat on his bed, digging deep for his gut instinct, because in this case, that’s all he had. In a tricky business decision, Clinton would force him to go by the data, the numbers, read what they were telling him and go with that, because without data, it was merely an opinion, he’d say. Well, in the absence of data, gut opinion was all he had now.

The answer seemed obvious now: ignore the message. And delete the site before anything could be traced to him. And on the upside, in the unlikely event that he ventured into the dark web again, he now knew how to build a shop window.

So that’s exactly what he did. When he was satisfied the files had been deleted he sat back and sighed, pleased with his decision. With the website now gone, there was no means for any angry customer to reach him.

He was out of the hit-for-hire business – for good.

Chapter Seventy-One

Sam felt like she’d been the one shot in the chest, not Duncan, and it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Who knew disappointment could be so painful. She’d been ready for the knock at the door, been ready for one of Duncan’s colleagues to deliver the news, but not like this, not this news. She’d practiced her reaction in the bathroom mirror, acting it out over and over again, not wanting to overdo it but still be the shocked and distraught wife, overcome with grief at news of the death of her soul mate. What she hadn’t practiced for was the news that he’d been badly injured and was still alive in Croydon. She wondered now if she’d passed the test, pulled it off after all – in the end, her shock had been real, not acted.

Rick had only been gone five minutes and still she stood in the hallway, frozen to the spot, thinking. What happens next? she wondered. This was not going to plan so far – she should be spending the day being consoled at his death, perhaps even thinking about funeral arrangements, drinking sweet tea or sipping brandy.

She took a deep breath in, then let it stream out slowly through her nose, like a toke of cannabis, only not as relaxing. Inside she was revving up, anger starting to boil in the pit of her stomach. What could have gone wrong? And the money! Six thousand pounds gone to waste. Well, they’d have to give her a refund, wouldn’t they?

“Good luck with that,” said a mocking voice in her head.

Deciding she needed a drink to settle her down, she paced rapid steps to the kitchen, flung open the freezer section of the refrigerator, and grabbed a cold bottle of vodka she kept there. Not even bothering with a glass, she unscrewed the top and tipped the bottle into her mouth, taking a couple of large gulps. The icy liquid burned the back of her throat but it felt good, numbing her from the inside in an instant. Gasping, she caught her breath again then repeated it, clear liquid escaping from both corners of her mouth as she gulped greedily, trying to anaesthetize something inside her, screwing her eyes up against the pain of the freezing cold liquid.

When she was done, she stood motionless in the room. There was not a sound coming from anywhere or anyone, and for a moment she felt totally alone in the world. Tears sprang to her eyes without warning, her mouth contorting as she stood and sobbed, letting them flow. She heard herself wail in pain – pain that Duncan was still alive, and not because he lay injured in hospital after being shot.

Suddenly she stopped in mid-sob as the realization struck her that there’d be an investigation, and a large-scale one at that. Everyone knew that when an officer got hurt or killed, the police would leave no stone unturned to bring the culprit to justice, send the full force of the law slamming down on them.

And that could be her.

She needed to think, to work out what to do next, but there was a bigger pull – the pills in the side pocket of her bag. Her head swam; the vodka she’d gulped was swimming alone in her empty stomach, making her woozy. Grimly, she fought for control of her fluid mind.

“Sit down, Sam,” she told herself sternly, “and think. Think what to do next.” But the lovely white pills filled her vision, egging her on to take just a couple, to blot out all thoughts of Duncan, erase the memory of his face from her mind. They bobbed about tantalizingly, even when she closed her eyes to clear the vision. It was no use; she knew she’d succumb.

She ran out into the hallway, grabbed her bag off the banister end and dived into the side pocket. She clutched a handful of pills and shoved them greedily into her mouth, not bothering to physically count them, desperate for the relief they would give her. Slowly, forcing herself to breathe evenly now, she walked back to her spot in the kitchen and filled a glass with water to wash them down properly. Yes, that was better, just knowing they were inside of her, that the soothing feeling would follow in a moment. But she needed to think; there were things she needed to do to keep herself away from any suspicion. She forced herself to think about what any other woman, a woman still in love with her husband, would do in such an instance.

She’d call the hospital. Yes – I need to call the hospital.

She scrambled for her phone, her hands shaking with booze and nervous energy, and Googled the hospital in Croydon. She punched the number in and asked to be put through to Duncan Riley’s room. After a few rings, a nurse answered and told her he was doing okay under the circumstances but was groggy from the painkillers. They expected to move him to a ward later today, she said, all being well.

Sam thanked her, making sure the nurse knew she’d called, and checked the task off in her head. What next? What would she do next?

Ring a friend, tell her the bad news. Right.

Anika answered after a couple of beats and Sam told her the news.

“I’m on my way – you shouldn’t be on your own,” Anika said, alarmed.

“No, I’m okay now I’ve got over the initial shock, and I’ll have to get the girls soon. I just wanted to let you know. Stay where you are, but thanks.”

The last thing she wanted was Anika being a well-intentioned friend when there were things to be done – like get in touch with the man she’d organized to do the job in the first place. She needed a refund or the job finishing, not left dangling as it was. If Duncan lived, he’d find out about the loan and expenditure for sure, and that was something she’d have to address convincingly. Being married to a detective had its drawbacks.

Her head was beginning to feel sleepy, and Sam regretted the tablets on top of the vodka. How many had she taken anyway?

“I need food,” she said. She walked over to the toaster and slipped a couple of slices of bread in, not because she was hungry but to soak up the alcohol. While she waited for it to toast, she opened her laptop and found the relevant site. She posted a message for ‘him.’

“You messed up. He’s still alive. Get it sorted.”

She hoped he’d see it soon and respond; she’d log on again in an hour or so. She wondered how he’d play it, what he’d do to make their contract right. All she could do now was wait until it was time to get the girls, then explain to them what had happened.

Tomorrow, she’d drive down to Croydon and play the dutiful wife – she’d better be convincing.

Thoughts of the Cornish coast were slipping away . . .

Chapter Seventy-Two

Back at the hotel and scene of the crime, Amanda was talking to the doctor on call, Faye Mitchell. She’d worked with Croydon for more than five years and was one of the best in the business. Never one to speculate before she had the facts to deal with, she often found herself at odds with detectives who wanted to get on with the job of detecting. But Dr. Mitchell could never be swayed – ever. Amanda stood waiting patiently in the doorway of the room Duncan had stayed in overnight, watching the last of the technicians finish their job. Faye raised her head and gave a brief smile, knowing what Amanda was thinking.

“All in good time,” she quipped. A moment later, she stood from the spot on the floor where Duncan had fallen before being shot through the back of his shoulder.

“Two bullets: one in the bed, one in the carpet. But you already know that. From point-blank range, too. He was damn lucky there wasn’t more damage to him than what he has. Any ideas your side who may have wanted him dead?”

Amanda stepped further into the room. “We may have a rather loose person of interest, and if it pans out, it would be a sad state of affairs, I’m afraid.”

“Oh? That sounds ominous.”

“It is. It’s also a bit left field, not what we normally come across in cases involving a shooting. We’re more used to gang-related hits. I’ll tell you more when we know more. We’ve only an inkling to go on, nothing concrete, so the more you can add to that, the better.” Changing the subject slightly, she asked, “Any DNA or fingerprints from the shooter?”

“There’s plenty – it’s a hotel room, after all – but from the shooter I couldn’t say yet.” Faye looked at the bed cover and added, “God only knows what and whose will be on that.”

The thought rolled Amanda’s empty stomach. “I’d hate to be the one to work the bathroom plughole contents.”

Dr. Mitchell went on. “The tough bit will be eliminating those with legitimate reasons to have been in here in the recent past. The hotel has a transient clientele, as you’d expect. They could live anywhere and everywhere, but that’s over to you and yours. It seems the hotel’s cleaning team aren’t that thorough, given the amount we’ve recovered to work with so far. Let’s see whose fingerprints are on file, eh? A print is only good when it can be matched.”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Captain Obvious,” she thought. Mitchell was renowned for remarks like this.

“Any usable camera footage?” the doctor asked her.

“Yes, but not much use. Two figures, presumably male from their stature, were seen leaving the back exit and headed off down the street on foot, not in any hurry. Dressed in what look like jeans and hoodies pulled up tight, but it was a cold, damp night. Could be coincidence, since it was around the right time, or they could have been visiting someone. Either way, they went down a side street. Jack and a couple of uniforms are talking to the neighbours down there, but it was the dead of night. Most of them were probably in bed. So we’re hoping you have better luck finding something for us to work with.”

“No pressure, then?” Dr. Mitchell smiled wryly. “And how’s our man Duncan?”

“Stable now, still groggy from the anaesthetic and painkillers, but we’ll talk to him again later when he’s a bit more compos mentis.” Amanda looked at her watch. “Right, well, I’ll leave you to finish off. Call me as soon as you hear something I can use.”

“Of course. You’ll be the first to know.”

As Amanda left the building, heading towards her car, her phone rang. It was Rick.

Amanda went straight to the point. “How’d she do?” There was no point dressing it up.

“Mixed, I’d say. Put it this way: she didn’t seem in any hurry to get to him, but then there are the two little girls to think of.”

Amanda grunted, not entirely convinced. There were ways to have the girls taken care of if she had wanted to dash off.

“She put on a pretty good act if it was one,” Rick went on, “but I saw a couple of holes. I’ve arranged to get her phone and bank account records, the usual, see if anything pops up. I’m also owed a favour up here. I’ll see what the word on the street is for a possible hit.”

“Someone with a grudge?”

“There’s always someone with a grudge when it’s an officer, isn’t there? One of the lads is checking recent releases, but I’m not aware of anyone from that side of things. Any news on transferring him up here? It would be great to see him.”

“Not that I’m aware of, but I’ll see Rochelle shortly. His groggy state will be wearing off soon. She’s with him now.”

“Good. At least a friendly face will be there for when he wakes up properly, eh?”

“Let’s hope he can tell us a bit more than he’s managed so far.”

They said their speak laters and hung up, promising to do just that.

Two hours later, Rick was at his desk when the first of Sam and Duncan’s account details hit his desk. He surfed through her mobile phone bill, followed by the house landline bill. There wasn’t much on either, nothing to use his highlighter pen on so far. Calls and texts to a regular number that turned out to be registered to someone named Anika, a friend of Sam’s, he assumed. He called it to confirm and then hung up before she asked any questions. If Sam did have something to do with Duncan’s attempted murder, he didn’t want her friend forewarning her of her involvement in the investigation. There was also a text sent at 9.32 p.m. the previous night from Sam to Duncan’s phone, a number Rick knew well. He had looked at Duncan’s phone and had read the loving message from Sam saying goodnight. He asked a colleague to see where exactly the phone had been when that text was sent. Other than that, there was nothing noteworthy.

He turned his attention to the bank statements for the last six months. There were the usual deposits and store transactions, but he did note a pattern of regular £100 and £200 withdrawals from cash machines, and not the same one each time. Most people used their bank cards these days, didn’t they? Weren’t they all becoming a cashless society? Maybe she liked to use cash when shopping, unless she was using it for something else. Still, it was to be noted as somewhat unusual.

He turned to the last page.

“Hello, hello,” he said to himself.

There in black and white was a transfer of £20,000 into Sam and Duncan’s joint savings account. And that was closely followed by the sum of £6000 leaving it. Rick was not aware of the couple having planned any home improvements or nice holidays. His heart slumped.

“Oh dear, Sam. What have you been up to?”

Chapter Seventy-Three

It was around 4 p.m. when Duncan’s throat worked a little better and he was finally able to put a coherent sentence together. Though he was still hoarse, he was sounding remarkably better than when he’d first come to and was glad to see a friendly and welcoming face as he struggled with one hand to sit himself up in bed a little more.

Rochelle was by his side as his eyes fluttered open

“Here, let me give you a hand,” she said brightly, rearranging his pillows behind his head. “Welcome again to the land of the living. How are you feeling now? You’ve been asleep for ages.”

“Sorry to have kept you.” Duncan smiled as he slumped back heavily into the softness of them. “And quit the hand jokes, please.”

Rochelle smiled and offered him a glass of water with a straw. He sucked greedily on the end, draining the glass again.

“Feel up to some questions, then?” It wasn’t a question that warranted a ‘no,’ no matter how he was feeling. She needed to push for some answers before more time elapsed and evidence evaporated. Duncan knew the drill. She dived straight in.

“Let’s start with what you know, then we’ll move on to theory, okay?”

He nodded his approval, saving his voice for real sentences.

“From the top, then. Let’s hear it.”

And so Duncan recited all he could remember about travelling down, checking in, Amanda and Jack picking him up, being ill and getting into bed back at the hotel. There were some blurry bits about the night, how ill he’d been and the visions he’d had, which had made it difficult to decipher what had been real and what was a figment of his imagination.

Intrigued, Rochelle probed about the visions.

“I’m sure I heard hushed voices at one stage,” he said, struggling to think. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have rolled off the bed and thrown myself on the floor, would I?”

Rochelle narrowed her eyes. It was a good question. “That roll could well have saved your life because that’s where the first shot was found. The bullet lodged in the mattress over to the right side of the bed. If the intruders had been over you and aiming for your heart, we wouldn’t be talking now.”

It was a sobering thought for them both. In the gap in conversation, there was a gentle knock on the door. Amanda walked in.

“Welcome back!” said Amanda. Duncan rolled his eyes and, croaking, said, “if anyone else says that I swear I’m going to slap them.”

Amanda turned to Rochelle and said, “Nothing wrong with his sense of humour, then.” Both women smiled at each other.

Rochelle filled her in from the notes she’d scribbled on her pad, and Amanda made her own notes as Rochelle spoke. Even though it was Amanda’s investigation, Rochelle was a close colleague of Duncan’s and she knew she needed to tread respectfully here.

“So can you remember what the voices said?” Amanda asked Duncan now.

“It sounds almost comical now, lying here, but I’m sure one said he couldn’t do it, and the other person told him he had to. They were definitely both male voices – if they were there at all. But like I said, why else would I have rolled?

“What did the other voice say?”

“Told him to get on with it. Then I rolled and got shot. I couldn’t do much else, so I pretended I was dead. I don’t remember anyone touching me, though I might have blacked out. Then I got to my phone and called it in. It was so dark and like I say, I wasn’t well. Migraine or something nasty.”

Both women scribbled in their notebooks for a moment, and then Rochelle broached the subject of what he’d said on first coming to.

“Do you remember what you said earlier, about Sam?”

Duncan stayed silent for a couple of beats, considering.

“Maybe I had that wrong,” he said at length. “She wouldn’t do something like this, and she’d have no idea how to find someone either. It’s not her. Sam loves me and the kids. Where is she, anyway? On her way down?”

The two women looked at one another and Rochelle took the question.

“Rick told her this morning, but with the kids, she may not make it down today. But they’re looking to move you to Manchester, so there may be no need for her to travel all this way.” Rochelle hoped she’d sounded positive and convincing that all was well on that front, that Sam did care.

Changing the subject away from Sam, Duncan asked about what they had so far.

Amanda took over. “By all accounts there’s a few prints to follow up but CCTV doesn’t hold much apart from a couple of grainy figures with hoods up. But we’re making the most of what we have, so we should know something a bit later. DC Rutherford, Jack, is talking to neighbours in the area where the figures headed off to. We’ll find whoever is responsible for this, Duncan, no stone and all that.”

She beamed at him, but he seemed to be somewhere else as she said it, deep in thought, remembering back to events of the previous night, maybe. Rochelle looked at Amanda who shrugged her shoulders, also wondering where he’d disappeared to in his head.

Would Sam have done such a thing? Could she be capable of finding a hit man to take me out? And if so, why had she? We were getting on so much better –she’d turned the corner, had sorted herself out, was taking an interest in life again. I’ve been worried about her for a time, worried for the kids, and after their adventure that day, ending up at that elderly woman’s house – a woman with a past, albeit from years ago – I’d nearly torn my hair out. I’ve never told her about that part, not letting her in on the fact the woman had done time, had been convicted for her part in a paedophile ring, not wanting to offload any more stress into her life when she was just getting it together.

But the change in behaviour raised a flag in my mind and Rochelle had voiced her opinion about that too – the status quo was about to change, she said.

And from where I’m sitting, it already has.

He pretended to be asleep while he thought it through, not willing to give Sam up to his colleagues yet. He could be wildly off track. No, better to let them do their jobs and follow other leads, and if that didn’t pan out, he’d perhaps say something.

But not until then.

Chapter Seventy-Four

Rick Black sat back in his desk chair, deep in thought. If Sam had taken a loan out and used some of it for a down payment, there could be trouble brewing – Duncan was still alive, thank God, but that left loose ends. For instance, was there a professional hit man roaming around out there with unfinished business? That could mean another attempt on Duncan’s life. Or at the very least, an angry customer – Sam.

But if Sam was behind all this, how had she got involved so deep, and who had she got to do the necessary?

He had to find out, and while it went against everything he stood for, he knew just the person who could help him shed some light on it.

Wilfred Day.

While Day wasn’t exactly on his speed dial, it wasn’t hard to get in touch with the man. He’d interviewed him many times in the past for various things. Rick looked up his contact number, dialled, and waited to be connected. He could almost hear the smile in Day’s voice when he answered.

“And a grand afternoon it is. How may I help you, DS Black – or is it DI yet?”

If nothing else, the man had manners. Rick smiled despite himself.

“Not quite. I’m working on it.”

“And I’ve no doubt that’ll be soon.”

Duncan came to the point. “I’d like to buy you a G&T if I may, Wilfred. I could do with your help with a particular matter.”

“How positively delightful and totally unexpected.” He sounded like a delighted aunt, not a criminal yet to be caught and prosecuted. “Of course. When would you like to partake in this little get-together?”

“How about right now? Name the place, and I’ll meet you there – if you’re free, of course.”

A moment ticked by, presumably while Wilfred checked his social calendar and thought of a venue.

“Meet me at The Washhouse; you know where it is. I’ll see you there shortly, and I shall be in eager anticipation of how I might serve you, Detective Sergeant. It could be an interesting meeting.” He chuckled.

“I’m on my way,” Rick said, and hung up before Wilfred told him to have a fantastic day. It was time for a favour to be returned. Wilfred Day owed him. Years ago, Wilfred’s twelve-year-old nephew had got himself tied up with a hit-and-run that had left a sleazy local drug dealer badly injured, and Day had persuaded Rick not to lay charges. The boy had been a decent kid at heart, though a bit of a tearaway. He shouldn’t have even known how to drive, never mind actually been driving, but living the life he had been at the time, it was no surprise. Rick knew the lad would be better off learning a life lesson from Wilfred rather than being swallowed up by the system of corrections. Mr. Day had been grateful, and today Rick was going to capitalize on that.

Duncan pulled up near the bar, one of Manchester’s secret though legal drinking places hidden in the back of a laundromat. Moments later, he saw Day’s distinctive Bentley pull up. Day, clad in a diamond-patterned sweater, climbed out, pushed his fingers lazily through his tousled blond hair, and then set his sunglasses back on top of his head. On a cloudy Manchester afternoon, they really were obsolete but he wore them rain or shine. Rick fell into step alongside Wilfred as they headed towards the door, which immediately opened. They went inside.

At four in the afternoon, the place was deserted, which was probably why Wilfred had chosen it. They could talk without being overheard or seen together. When they were seated in a private booth with their drinks, Rick began to speak.

“DS Duncan Riley has been shot. He’s stable but I need to know who might want him dead. Have you heard anything?”

Rick watched Day closely as he delivered the news. To his credit, the man actually looked shocked, which told Rick he wasn’t anywhere near it.

“I’m not aware of anyone holding a grudge, and I’m sure you’ll have looked at those fellows he’s helped put away in the past who now have a bit of freedom again?”

“There is one person whose activities I’m hoping you can trace,” he said.

Day smiled wolfishly. “Ah, and so we get to the real reason you called. You want me to find out how it was organized and with whom. And I’m assuming you can’t go to your own cyber team for some reason, even though they’d throw everything they could at it since he’s one of you.”

Rick nodded.

Day went on. “And this is the favour you wish returned, I presume?”

Rick nodded. He could feel himself going red in the semi-darkness of the bar and was glad it couldn’t be seen. There really was nothing more to be said. He took a sip of his drink and waited.

“So who is he? Who do you want me to snoop on?” Day tasted his gin and reached for a bowl of spicy cereal nibbles in the middle of the table. He tipped half of the bowl into his paw-like hand and took tiny amounts out with his other paw. Rick wondered how much pain those hands had inflicted on his enemies in the past and watched the nibbles slowly disappear.

“Come on, then – who hurt your friend? What’s his name?”

Rick was silent for a moment. Once he’d spoken the words, there was no going back. Did he really want to do this?

“It’s not a he, it’s a she,” he said finally.

“Oh.” Day looked nonplussed. “I didn’t think DS Riley was the type for a side piece.” He nibbled some more snacks, smiling at his own double meaning. Then he stopped chewing as the name of Rick’s suspect dawned on him.

“You think Mrs. Riley is behind it? Ah. Now I see why the cagey-ness. You want me to see whom she organized it with, so to speak. Am I correct? You’d like me to do some digging?”

Rick nodded. “Can you? She has never seemed the type to move in such circles, so I’m wondering …” He let the sentence hang in the air.

“You want me to trace her online activities. I get it. But it’s not that easy if you don’t know where to start looking. Can you get her laptop for me? And give me a list of her regular movements and the places she goes? If she’s been a buzzy little bee, she may have left me some breadcrumbs.”

Rick ignored the mixed metaphor. “How long will it take you if I can?”

“That depends on the trail and whether she took precautions on public Wi-Fi or not. And of course, who’s behind the operation when I get there, if anyone. Often, they shut up shop and move to another squat before the next customer comes along – helps keeps things secure. That’s why there are still so many kiddie-peddlers still walking the street. If you lot could clean that up, you would, wouldn’t you?”

He had a point there, Rick knew. It made him think of Duncan’s two and their recent brush with Mrs. Skeen. Thank God she’d called it in before making an alternative decision.

“I’ll get you the laptop and recent places of interest tonight. She’ll be waiting for an update so I’ll pop round and get what you need then. I need to move fast on this, though, Wilfred.”

“I understand, my friend. Call my number later when you have what I need and we can arrange the drop-off. Now drink up, for tomorrow you’ll know who shot JR.” He threw his head back and laughed at his own joke. “Get it? Remember JR Ewing?”

“I’ve heard the story, though I’m surprised you know it. That TV show ended before you were born, almost.” Rick wasn’t in the mood for games. He tossed the remainder of his drink back and stood to leave.

“I’ll call you when I have what you need,” he said, then walked away, leaving Wilfred to finish the rest of the spicy nibbles alone.

Chapter Seventy-Five

“Still no bloody reply. What the hell?”

Sam was getting more and more irritated as the evening wore on. Since sending her earlier message demanding to know what was going on, she’d heard nothing back, not a whisper, and she was fast losing patience. Draining the wine glass beside her, she poured another large one from the bottle of red on the coffee table and sat back to nurse it – and think. This was not what was supposed to have happened – her sitting there wondering. No, she should be making plans for herself and the girls and arranging a funeral for their father. Instead, she was worrying about whether her tracks had been covered enough to keep her out of trouble, keep her safe.

And keep her out of prison.

She slammed the lid shut and plugged the laptop in to charge the battery, deciding instead to watch TV and finish the rest of her bottle before bed. Her head was buzzing from the alcohol on an empty stomach and she knew if she didn’t soak it up with something, her head would feel like someone had split it open with an axe the following morning. Padding into the kitchen, she turned on the oven, unwrapped a readymade pizza from the freezer, and placed it inside. There was time for a quick shower, so she headed up the stairs. Halfway up, she heard a knock at the front door and, mumbling to herself that it was a bit late for visitors, she went to answer it.

It was Rick again.

“I was passing by and thought I’d see how you and the girls were doing.”

His smile was bright, and he was unapologetic for the hour. He picked up on her disapproval. “I’ll only stay a minute.”

She opened the door wide and let him through.

“I was headed for the shower, actually, but how kind of you to drop by.”

He noticed her forced smile and added it to his observations of her behaviour.

“Then you go ahead. I’ll make a cuppa quickly. Would you like one?” He could smell wine on her breath but asked anyway, and he was already on his way through to the kitchen.

“No, thanks,” she called after him, annoyed at his intrusion but not wanting to say so.

“You carry on. I’ll make myself at home,” he called.

Still annoyed, she carried on with her plan. It wasn’t long before Rick could hear the shower running overhead as he stood in the little kitchen. He hadn’t got long to act. He quickly moved back to the living room and scanned the surfaces looking for her laptop, then noticed it plugged in by the window. It was there for the taking. But would it be too obvious – him turning up and her laptop vanishing? Surely, she’d know he was investigating her, and that wasn’t what he wanted – not yet. But it was tempting. The sooner he got it to Wilfred, the better.

He thought of Duncan lying alone in his hospital bed, an officer stationed on his door as a precaution, and suddenly he didn’t give a rat’s ass about whether he showed Sam his hand so soon or not. If she had set someone up to kill Duncan, Rick wanted to know about it now so he could do something about it. And he needed more evidence.

His phone rang, but he let it go to voicemail then called upstairs to Sam. Whether she heard him or not didn’t matter.

“Sorry, got to go. Duty calls,” he shouted, then quickly grabbed the laptop and cable and stuffed them inside his jacket. Out on the front step, he gently closed the door behind him and slipped down the path towards his car. He chanced a glance at the front bedroom window before driving off. The light was off. He assumed Sam was still in the bathroom.

Sam watched from behind a crack in the bedroom curtain, her hair wet and dripping onto her bare shoulders. What had he wanted so late? she wondered. Regardless, she was pleased to see him leave so early: there would be no awkward questions about Duncan, questions she might have tripped herself up on. The investigation would already be in full swing, she knew, with all possible resources engaged to find the attempted cop killer. Law enforcement stuck together, protecting one another, and Manchester was no different.

The smell of pizza cooking returned her thoughts to herself, and she quickly towel-dried her hair and slipped into her robe. The tension of his surprise visit was making her nerves jangle and she knew she needed something to soothe them. Wine alone was clearly not strong enough for the task. Tomorrow, she had to show her face at Duncan’s bedside as the dutiful, loving and distraught wife, and that meant an early start getting the girls to Anika’s – she would take them to school for her. The rest of the day? Well, driving down would be as boring as hell but it would give her time to rehearse her act. Convincing was going to be her new middle name.

Back downstairs, she found her bag and the rest of the bottle of wine and swilled down a couple of pills before starting on the pizza. It wasn’t long before the potent concoction in her stomach started to take effect and a pleasantly drowsy state enveloped her as she dropped off in front of the TV. A couple of hours later, she groggily climbed the stairs and finally crawled into her bed.

Rick called the number he’d rung earlier and told Wilfred he had the laptop. A drop-off point was agreed to, and Rick thanked him again for helping him out with a delicate situation. Wilfred assured him that it had been no problem, that it was nice to be working with him instead of against him for a change. He’d take a look a little later and fill him in first thing. Rick detected the boyish excitement mixed with amusement in the man’s voice but said nothing. They’d speak in the morning.

Rick hoped with all his heart he was wrong about Sam. A spouse organizing their partner’s demise wouldn’t do much for anyone’s relationship. How do you move forward from there?

Chapter Seventy-Six

As Rick handed the laptop over, he said, “It would be great if you could return it before the morning so she doesn’t suspect anything.”

Anyone would think Rick had never dealt with Wilfred Day before; he was as nervous as a kitten in his company, but that was more likely the subject matter – a woman he knew, his partner’s wife. He wasn’t enjoying what he was doing.

“Not a problem. For speed, jot the address down and consider it done. She’ll be none the wiser by morning.”

Rick looked at Wilfred squarely and said, “I’m not stupid. I’m sure you can remember it.”

Wilfred gave him a mock hurt look as Rick recited the address to him, storing it in one of his deep memory banks, no doubt. Rick hoped he went to the right address – not that Wilfred himself would be going, of course. Most likely he’d send a minion. Wilfred Day kept out of trouble himself; that was part of the problem, and the reason he was still operating like he was.

“Let’s hope there’s a trail of breadcrumbs for you to follow, eh?” said Rick.

“Most novices leave a trail. I’ll be more surprised if there isn’t one.”

And that was the end of their conversation. Wilfred slipped back into the driver’s seat of the ostentatious Bentley and waved like the Queen Mother as he pulled away.

Rick stood uneasily, watching him go. “This better bloody work,” he said to the cold night. Not a star nor a sliver of moon was visible; there was just the hazy amber glow of the city lights above Manchester. Rick got back in his own car and headed home. It had been a long and stressful day, and he knew there were probably more to come.

It didn’t take Wilfred long to get back to his place and start working on Sam’s computer. Breaking in without her password was a stumbling block that took him mere seconds to overcome. He rubbed his giant hands together in glee like a child about to tuck into a banana split all to himself.

“Let’s see what you’ve been up to, then, Sam. Are you a clever girl or a buffoon?”

It didn’t take him long to find the first of the breadcrumbs as he worked, shaking his blond head occasionally at her mistakes. At least she’d had the good sense to use a Tor browser, but she hadn’t the knowledge to use a secure connection. It seemed the public Wi-Fi in the café she frequented could have been the start of her downfall. From there, it was easy enough for a talented hacker such as himself to find out what she’d been up to and, as he was beginning to discover, it wasn’t pretty.

The site she’d contacted for the job had since been removed, but again, that wasn’t a problem to a man with his particular talents. Deleted files still left a footprint, one that he could follow, but he’d do that later. Right now, he concentrated on loading the cloning software so he could watch any further keystrokes she made from the privacy of his own system. He sniggered as he thought of privacy – privacy was on life support, almost like the man he was trying to help, in his own roundabout kind of way.

It wasn’t long before he’d done what he needed but for good measure, he decided to check her regular web browsing history.

“Well, well, well, Sam, what have we here? I can only imagine what you’ve been buying from such places.” He took a closer look and then sat back thoughtfully, tapping his fingers as he considered his findings. Depending on what DS Rick Black had in mind when he reported back, Wilfred could make use of this information to solve the problem of a naughty spouse. She’d never make the same mistake again, that was for sure.

He checked his watch. It was getting close to midnight. No matter – she’d be fast asleep now, tucked up in the marital bed more than likely. He turned his attention to the deleted files and the trail they’d left. Novices really should be more careful when dealing in areas they don’t know much about, he mused. A few more keystrokes and he had another set of information he could use later on if it suited.

He’d been the top man in his field for more years than he could remember, and while his competition still chose to beat and maim their victims in order to collect on debts or ensure loyalty, Wilfred had always found his methods less invasive and just as successful. Fingers didn’t get pointed, blame wasn’t apportioned and snitches didn’t benefit to their own end, and that was because he held the knowhow. He, Wilfred Day, was the talent, the untraceable hacker who could hit his enemies where it hurt the most.

He turned back to Sam’s laptop. Now he had two lots of intelligence to work with that would prove valuable in both the short and long runs. But now, he had to get the druggie’s laptop back to her lounge before she suspected anything was amiss. He called the relevant number and recited the address. By the time she awoke, her laptop would be plugged in again, sitting right where she’d left it – with a little added invisible software on board for good measure. He’d report back to DS Black in the morning, and then it was down to him to decide how to handle it.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Rick was finishing his first coffee of the day and eating a slice of toast when his phone vibrated on silent. It was still early, just gone 6 a.m.

“Morning.” He wasn’t happy about associating with the very man he’d tried so many times to put away, but right now Rick needed the shortcut – and quickly.

“I hear today will be a beautiful day. What do you have planned, DS Black?” Wilfred sounded like he’d already been up for a couple of hours. Rick ignored his joviality and got straight to the point.

“What did you find?”

“Ah, patience, my dear man. All will be explained in due course.”

Rick groaned inwardly but waited dutifully for Wilfred to say more

“First I have a question for you.”

“And what’s that?” Patience, patience.

“Since you can’t use my evidence in court, how are you planning to handle this situation?”

Rick really didn’t want to explain his plan to anyone until he’d spoken to Duncan, so he tried to evade the question. “I’m not entirely sure yet, so let me worry about that. What did you find out? Is she involved?”

“That she is, I’m afraid. As I’ve said before and will say again now, novices shouldn’t dabble in this type of thing. It took me a handful of minutes to figure out what she’d been up to.”

Rick groaned audibly now.

Wilfred went on. “Tell me, do you like this woman, or, more to the point, does DS Riley like his wife? Are they close?”

“She’s not my favourite woman in the world but then I’m not married to her. I can’t speak for Duncan, though I expect he’ll be pretty pissed off when I tell him. Why?”

Wilfred ignored his question. “Will you arrest her? Do you have any evidence other than what I’ve found?”

“Not enough, I’m afraid.” He sounded defeated to his own ears. What a sorry state to be in, and even more so for Duncan to be in. Rick could sense there was more to come. There was.

“Did you know of her habit?” Wilfred said. “Her predilection for pills, of the codeine variety? She likes to shop online, I expect to balance buying from the local chemists. That way she can always have a stash on hand, as it were.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” Rick said wearily. “But that would explain a few things.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Thanks, Wilfred. I think we’re about square.”

“Glad I could be of assistance. Let me know how it turns out. And have a fantastic day…” He gave a familiar chuckle.

They rang off, and Rick sat frozen in place, his head whirling with thoughts about what to do next and how to tell Duncan. He wasn’t looking forward to the day ahead.

In truth, Wilfred Day hadn’t yet been to bed since his discovery. One thing he’d learned early on in his career was that there was something to salvage from every situation, no matter how bad it seemed on the surface. Last night’s discovery of Sam’s activities, coupled with who she’d been involved with, had given him an idea, an idea that could be beneficial on several fronts. Once he’d found out who had been behind the hit, he’d spent time doing some homework, and it had paid off.

He liked both DS Black and DS Riley. He’d always found them easy to deal with on the few occasions he’d been interviewed officially, and he saw them both out and about regularly. He looked at the address he had jotted down, along with a man’s name. A drive-by later was in order, but for now, it was time to get some sleep.

He had a busy day ahead of him.

Sam was almost ready to go. Anika had collected the girls and taken them both to school on her behalf, allowing her an early start down south – a journey she wasn’t looking forward to and a visit she was looking forward to even less.

But there was no choice if she was to keep suspicion at bay.

Inside Sam was fuming; not only had there been no reply to her message, but the website had since vanished and with no clue how else to contact ‘him’, it seemed that was the end of that. What a waste of £6000. And with Duncan still alive, she knew she’d have some explaining to do about the transaction in the first place. Could she be planning a surprise vacation for them? Could that be her excuse? It might work; after all, why would someone suspect her of being behind the shooting. She was simply an ordinary, loving housewife. As she made her way out to her car, the sun was climbing the Manchester sky slowly, but would the day stay so bright?

She hoped so.

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Amanda and Jack were back at the station, rehashing what they knew over coffee. Mrs. Stewart had put two slices of chocolate cake into another plastic tub for Jack, and Amanda was halfway through her piece, dark brown crumbs resting in her lap. Jack hadn’t yet passed comment, but who was he to talk about messy eating? She’d thought about banning him from eating sandwiches with mayonnaise in them, since it meant a greasy stain on his shirt every time. Still, he had someone to wash them now, she mused.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit odd we have virtually nothing to work with?” Amanda asked him, looking thoughtful as she ate.

“It’s not that uncommon, Lacey. There are any number of unsolved cases that never get solved. We can only follow the evidence.”

He was right, of course, but it did nothing to ease her agitation. “I’ll call Rick. He may have some news. And maybe as time goes on, Duncan’s account of what happened will clarify. It didn’t help him being so ill, either. Also, we never did talk about the food van drugs. Maybe Rick can help with that now, too.”

“I wonder what caused him to be so ill. Can a migraine really do that to a person, and so violently?” Jack licked his fingers clean of chocolate cream filling then wiped his hands down his trousers. Amanda glared at him disapprovingly.

“What?”

She stared pointedly at the napkin dispenser on the table before going on. “From my experience, severe headache, visual disturbances and vomiting are part of it, but it sounds like Duncan had severe hallucinations at the same time, and I’ve not heard of that before. I’ll double check with the doc; she’ll know for sure.” Thinking again, she asked, “Did she do a tox screen?”

“Doubt it. He’s not dead, so there’d be no reason to do one. Why? Do you think he ingested something to cause the hallucinations? He didn’t eat anything at the restaurant.”

“No, I know that, but the ferocity of the hallucinations he mentioned seems extreme. Worth checking if it’s not too late. Right,” she said, standing. The coffee break was over. “I’ll call the doc and ask her to do a tox screen, and you check in with Rick. Then we’ll head over and see how our man is this morning. I believe his wife is coming down.”

Jack’s antennae pricked up. “That should be interesting to see. Can’t we plant a camera and mic and watch remotely?”

Amanda raised her eyebrows in a ‘no.’

“Good idea, though, don’t you think?”

“It’s still no.”

Duncan was sitting propped up in bed. Normal colour had returned to his face and he spoke with a more natural voice again, his throat having healed nicely overnight. He greeted Amanda and Jack with bright eyes and an equally bright smile as they entered. Clearly Duncan was feeling much better.

“Looks like I’ll be heading back towards home soon. Just a couple more days in hospital and I think they’ll let me go home.” He sounded chipper for someone who had had the ordeal of his life a little over 24 hours ago. “Sam called me too. She’s on her way. I could have saved her a journey.” Again, his beaming smile. Amanda couldn’t help wonder if he’d had a full change of heart about her. But given what Rick had found, and what they had yet to tell him, well, who knew how he’d react. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

They pulled chairs up and sat down. Amanda took the lead.

“It’s good to see you looking so much better, Duncan. You had us all worried there for a while.”

“It seems like a distant memory now, apart from the throb in my hand. My shoulder doesn’t feel so bad in comparison. They reckon I’ll need another operation on it in a few days. Looks like I’ll be desk bound for a while.”

“Duncan, I need to ask you a couple of sensitive questions. Regarding Sam, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Do you remember what you said when you were first found, along the lines of ‘look at Sam’?”

They watched as the smile vanished from Duncan’s face.

“I wasn’t myself. I was hallucinating. Badly. God, I’ve never felt so ill as that night.”

“I understand. But we had to check it out – run the normal account checks, telco, bank, etcetera. You understand.”

“I’m guessing from your tone something came up.” It wasn’t a question.

Amanda pressed on. “There was a bank transaction, a loan taken out, of twenty thousand pounds.” A flicker of surprise showed on his face. “There was also a withdrawal the following day of six thousand pounds. Would you know what those were for, by chance?”

Duncan’s face was utterly blank now; it was clear he had no clue what the money meant.

At that moment, the door opened and in walked Sam herself, looking for all the world like the concerned wife of any man in. As she bent over the bed and brushed his lips with hers, attempting to give him a hug without hurting him, Amanda and Jack both discreetly rolled their eyes.

Jack mouthed, “Question her here?”

Amanda shook her head no. “Not yet,” she mouthed back.

They stepped tactfully out of the room and waited in the family room until Sam had finished her doting wife routine.

Duncan would surely ask her about the money, Amanda thought. Wouldn’t he?

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Amanda and Jack sat patiently in the waiting room, chatting waiting for Sam to finish her visit and clear off.

Amanda’s phone buzzed. The caller ID showed DS Black. She hit answer and put the call on speakerphone.

“Hi, Rick. You’re on speakerphone with Jack. Anything to report?”

“Hello to you both, and yes, you could say that. It’s probably better you take me off speakerphone and relay back to Jack when we’ve finished. Let’s say it’s extremely sensitive and walls have ears.”

Amanda and Jack exchanged a look, and Amanda clicked the speakerphone off again and put the phone to her ear.

“Go ahead. It’s just me now. What’s up?”

“First, don’t ask me how I know this because I called a favour in. I now need evidence to back it up, evidence that we can use in court, because what I’m about to tell you won’t fly on its own.”

“Let’s hear it, and then we can see what we’re dealing with.”

“Sam was behind the attempted hit. Paid six thousand as a down payment, likely another six on completion. The site she used is no longer operating. It closed up shop and moved on like many of them do. My source followed her trail easily. She left tracks, and because we were looking at an individual, the trace was easy enough to do.”

He let that sink in and waited for her to respond.

“So Duncan was correct to begin with,” Amanda said, “but now he’s saying she wouldn’t do such a thing. He either doesn’t want her in trouble or simply doesn’t want to believe it, eh?”

“Could be. But it gets worse. She’s also been buying packets of painkillers both locally and online, more than the average household would use. My guess is, and it’s only a guess, she will be getting other stuff as well. Maybe losing her job hit her harder than we realized.”

“And my guess is Duncan doesn’t know that part either.”

“Correct, but it explains the regular cash withdrawals I found. They’ve been going back a few months. It won’t be that hard to find out exactly where she’s buying from.”

“Well, that may be related to our news,” Amanda said thoughtfully. “We’ve asked Faye Mitchell to run a tox screen because Duncan’s hallucinations don’t add up. I’m wondering if he took something without knowing it. It makes even more sense now we know Sam arranged for his death. We should get the results later today. And speaking of Sam, she just arrived a few minutes ago.”

“Urgh, thanks. Let’s see what the tox comes back with. We could maybe trace a positive result back to her. At least that evidence would stand up.”

“Agreed. They’re moving him tomorrow; will you tail her from your end? At least possession would be a start, and I doubt much will happen while she’s down here.”

“Will do. Oh, and until the results come back, don’t say anything to Duncan. I’ll do it later if need be. Buddy to buddy, as it were.”

“Understood. He only knows about the loan, nothing more, and we’d just told him about that when Sam arrived, so I’ll keep you posted. I need to ask you something else, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Remember when we talked about Wilfred Day and our suspected food van connection? Well, Duncan was going to go through what he knew just before this all happened. So it never got discussed. Perhaps when this is all over, we can go over what we both know in a bit more detail?”

“Absolutely. Any way I can help let me know.”

“Great. Speak to you later.”

Amanda rang off and then filled Jack in, though he’d already caught the gist of it. Sam Riley had balls, that was for sure. But would those same balls keep her out of trouble? That depended on how Duncan reacted to the news when Rick had a word sometime later.

Rick sat with his phone in his hand, unsettled by the mention of Wilfred’s name again. He’d always thought he’d eventually get Day, that the man would trip up eventually, but now he wasn’t so sure. Without Day, how else could he have found out what Sam had planned, and about her drug problem? By hacking in as he had, Wilfred Day could well have saved Duncan’s life. Did Rick now owe Day, rather than the other way around?

Later that afternoon, Dr. Faye Mitchell sent a terse text to Amanda.

Drop by my office ASAP.

“Grab your jacket, Jack,” Amanda yelled across to his desk, where he was busy writing up a report. “Faye has news.”

Dr. Faye Mitchell’s office was on the other side of Croydon, which, in non-rush-hour traffic, took only twenty minutes tops. It was however, rush hour and that meant double. By the time they’d arrived and parked, there weren’t many people left in the red brick building. They hurried into her sparse second-floor office, which even on a hot sunny day gave Jack the chills. Faye seemed to like a cold working environment.

“Come in. Sit down.” She directed them to the two chairs in front of her desk. “I thought it best to go through this in person rather than over the phone.”

Jack and Amanda both looked at one another, excited.

“Ever heard of solanine?” she asked.

“Nope, can’t say I have.” This from Jack.

“Ever remember your mum telling you that green potatoes were poisonous?”

They nodded.

“I thought that was an old wives’ tale,” stated Amanda. “But go on.”

“Our boy Duncan was more than likely poisoned, intentionally if the amounts of solanine in his system are anything to go on. Many of us have small amounts of solanine in our systems simply from the foods we eat, but Duncan’s levels were over the top. I’d say given his reaction – the strength of his hallucinations, his extreme stomach upset and the lingering sore throat – he’s lucky to be with us, never mind the bullet wounds. Someone tried very hard to kill him, it seems. Well done for thinking about the hallucinations, Amanda!”

Amanda didn’t feel like celebrating, but the result did now give them real cause to talk to Sam more formally. Assuming Sam had given it to him, of course – that was the next hurdle. She needed to get Rick to look in the rubbish bins at the house and find whatever it was she’d given him. She hoped the bins hadn’t already been collected and emptied.

“I need to make a call quickly,” she announced, and stepped outside to speak to Rick. He listened closely and said he’d get on to it, but first he wanted to give Duncan a call since he was now more coherent. Perhaps a casual conversation would tell them what food they were looking for.

“Is Sam still there?” Amanda asked him.

“I don’t think so. She said she had to get back for the girls.”

Sitting back in her chair, Amanda felt excited and deflated at the same time.

What sort of woman would go to such extremes to get rid of her husband?

Chapter Eighty

Rick didn’t waste any time getting a team round to Sam’s place. He’d then headed out to the hospital to speak with Duncan again and had learned that Sam had baked some delicious little quiches for his journey down. Duncan had also told him what a change he’d seen in her recently, how lovely she’d been to him and the girls. He was lucky to have her, he said.

Rick had been puzzled by that; he wondered if Duncan was telling the truth or just trying to convince himself of the opposite to what he had already suspected himself. Reluctantly, he decided not to question him about the bank loan; he had no wish to upset him further. It would have to wait until later.

Sam had left just after 2 p.m., Duncan told him, so with a bit of luck she’d be home before the traffic really jammed up.

That left Rick precious little time to get a warrant and find the offending pies.

A short time later, Rick entered the Rileys’ home accompanied by two officers dressed in white coveralls. They quickly found what they were looking for – the remainder of the home baking nicely tied up in a bin liner and shoved halfway down the bin. Why she hadn’t flushed them down the toilet instead Rick had no idea. If you were planning on poisoning someone, it seemed pretty obvious to him to dispose of any further evidence, but then that’s why the prisons were filled the world over: they were filled with dumb pricks. He was, however, grateful that Sam fell into that category. Now they had real reason to question her formally. He was looking forward to hearing what she had to say on the matter. And soon.

Sam saw two cars parked outside her house as she turned into her street. The girls were in the back, chattering about their day and about how they’d had donuts with Anika after school. She only half-heard them now. One of the parked cars was Rick’s; the other was a painted squad car. What had happened now? And what did they want with her?

Pulling into her drive, she instructed the two girls to stay in the car for a moment while she went inside. She climbed out and almost sprinted up the path. She yanked open the front door and . . . silence. Where were they? As she passed through the house, she spotted them through the kitchen window: they were going through her rubbish. At that precise moment, maybe he sensed she was home because Rick Black looked up and their eyes met. And held. Suddenly it dawned on Sam what they were looking for exactly – and they were in that bin. Inside, she was screaming at her own stupidity.

Sam wanted to bolt but that wasn’t possible. They’d only give chase, making it worse for her in the long run. What reason would she give?

Think, think, think!

Sam stood stock still as Rick approached the back door, his eyes never wavering until he reached the step. Knowing the door was locked, he knocked politely and she went to let him in.

Act normal, Sam …

“Hello, Rick. What’s going on out there?” She hoped her smile wasn’t too false; it was the best one she could muster under the circumstances.

“Hello, Sam. May I come in?”

She stood back and opened the door fully, then stood aside to let him in. He stood in front of the kitchen window, looking out at nothing it seemed, and then he spoke. Slowly.

“It looks like Duncan had been poisoned as well as shot.”

She raised both hands to her open mouth in shock. That bit was real – how had they found out that nugget of info when they’d only just retrieved the pies?

“Oh my God! How?”

“Looks like something he ate that day; something was put in his food. But here’s the thing – apart from a bowl of cornflakes and a canteen meal of egg and chips, he only ate one other thing before falling ill.” He looked straight at her. “And that was your home baking – quiche, I believe.”

She swallowed deeply. So they already suspected her. But did they know about the contract to have Duncan killed?

Rick moved on. “Sam, are we going to find something in the rest of those pies that, for some reason, you put in the bin? Something that would have given Duncan such a serious reaction?” He paused. “Poisonous potatoes, perhaps?”

They knew. And as soon as the pies were tested, they’d know it was her. There was no point in denying it. Sam took a seat at the table and put her head in her hands, hoping for a moment to think through the mess. As far as she knew, it was only the poisoning, nothing more. Waterworks might help.

“Looks like I’ve been rumbled,” she said wearily. Tears welled in her eyes and she let them fall freely. “I only wanted to give him an upset stomach so he’d come home the next day and not go on the stupid course. We never see him anymore. It’s all work, work, work with him, and when he is here, he’s not really present. I didn’t mean to do any real harm – you’ve got to believe that!” With each word she sounded more distraught, so by the end of her last sentence, she was almost shouting her innocence.

Rick stood silently, watching Sam’s tear-stained face, which was turning pinker by the second. Had he got it wrong, then? Was this part as she said it was, and not actually an attempt on his life? But he knew about the contract, the one she herself – the woman sat in front of him, the wife of his work partner – had set rolling and paid good money for. Six thousand pounds, to be precise.

No matter that it was illegally obtained evidence. He couldn’t let that go.

Chapter Eighty-One

They’d finally left her in peace. But had Sam been convincing enough? Would her spur-of-the-moment story fly? She mentally slapped herself for being so careless with the remaining pies. Why hadn’t she dumped them away from the house, in a public rubbish bin for the rats to feast on? But it was done and dusted now: they had the hard evidence in their bag and she’d had to admit as much as she’d sat there in the kitchen with Rick.

The big question now was, what would happen next? With Duncan in hospital for another day or two, there was precious little time to cover her tracks if they did look at her any further. The money was an issue, though, and one she knew they’d easily find out about, though she figured the crypto transfer aspect would be safe. Once she had a plausible explanation for the loan and the missing £6000, there was nothing else to tie her to his attempted murder. No, she’d been tucked up in bed when he’d been shot. The text she’d sent shortly beforehand would prove her phone had been used near to or inside their house. And her car wouldn’t be on a CCTV motorway camera anywhere because she hadn’t stepped out the door. No, she had been safely at home and safely out of trouble.

But the £6000 irked her, and the fact that she’d had no reply and no means of contacting ‘him’ irked her even more. She pulled her laptop close and began to search; maybe he had another site, another shop – though how she’d know if another was his, she had no clue. It was worth a try, though. The money needed returning and soon.

From the privacy of his knocked-through house, a G&T by his side, Wilfred Day followed her keystrokes as she did her best to search. He watched as she scrolled through other hit-for-hire sites, clicking, backing out, clicking the next one, backing out again. He raised an eyebrow. Good lord – was she actually searching for another hit man, someone to finish the job off properly?

“Feisty little minx, aren’t you, Mrs. Riley?” He picked his phone up and dialled.

Rick stared at his phone as it vibrated. The screen said Will D, his own code for Wilfred Day in case someone was looking over his shoulder. He clicked accept.

“Thought you should know, she seems to be searching again, looking for another hit. It’s over to you,” Day told him.

“Thanks. I’ll get a uniform on his door,” Rick said wearily. After all this, was she actually stupid enough to come back for a second kick at the can? He made the first phone call, and then sat back, shaking his head. That settled it; Rick had no choice but to tell Duncan what was going on. What happened then would be up to him.

It wasn’t a conversation he was looking forward to.

The following morning, after she’d dropped the girls at school, Sam took a detour home – first to a chemist on the outskirts of town for some everyday help, then over to Beswick to visit the tea lady. With everything that had gone on in the last 24 hours – the finding of the poisoned pies, her own lame story to Rick, and her growing anguish over the £6000 and her vanished ‘employee’ – a few Paramol were not going to do the trick today. No, Sam needed something far stronger, and the £200 in her purse was going to provide it for her. With no one in the house all day but her, she’d spend the rest of the day looking after herself for a change and not worrying about anyone else. Some people drank, some spent money they didn’t have. What Sam chose for her stress relief was no different, really, she told herself huffily.

It took an age to get to the house; the traffic was backed up on the A57, adding to her nervous, irritable mood. But finally, she parked up outside the grubby little house and almost wept with relief. There was no one else about, no smartly dressed woman with a racy red Mini parked nearby, no one to bother her while she made her purchase. In her agitation, Sam didn’t bother pulling a cap over her hair – which really, needed a wash, come to that – before getting out the car and approaching the door.

It opened just before she knocked. The woman must have seen her approaching on a security screen – either that, or someone had notified her of Sam’s arrival. She slipped gratefully inside. The woman looked the same as she had on Sam’s last visit – four inches of dark roots, the same fitted black pants and pretty blue blouse with little flowers on it, the same clinking gold bangles.

“What kind of tea would you like?”

“Something nice and strong, please.”

Sam felt her pupils dilate in anticipation as the lovely little balsa-wood tea box came out. She watched as her hostess removed the top layer and exposed the variety of little bags underneath.

“How strong would you like it?”

The woman allowed Sam to scan the contents and select two bags. They were £80 apiece, Sam knew. Thinking of the £200 burning a hole in her purse, she tried her luck for a discount and picked up another bag, making it three in total. The woman raised her eyebrows and held her hand out, reminding Sam to show her the money. Sam met her eyes and held out the four crisp £50 notes. The woman paused for a moment and then, nodding her silent agreement to the discount, quickly pocketed the money. She closed the tea box and put it safely back in the cupboard as Sam slipped her purchase into the side pocket of her bag.

The transaction was over as quickly as it had begun, and Sam stood up to leave. There were no thanks today. Sam’s mind was preoccupied with bigger problems than the possibility of someone listening in to the trade going on. If she ever got caught, she knew, it would be her first offence and a slap on the wrist would cover it. If the tea lady got nicked, though, she would be in for a good deal more, and Sam couldn’t care less.

Once back inside her car, Sam hit the accelerator harder than was necessary and spun out of the quiet cul-de-sac like her life depended on it, headed back to the quiet sanctuary and safety of her home. She resisted the urge to swallow a tablet on the way, fighting it hard like an alcoholic fighting a beer stood in front of him. She could almost feel herself drool at the thought of the relief ahead.

When she hit the return traffic on the motorway, her resistance crumbled. She had no strength left. Figuring there was no point in delaying the inevitable, she reached across to the passenger seat and fiddled around the inside pocket of her bag until she felt what she was looking for. With a sigh of relief, she swallowed it dry.

By the time she got home, the edge of her problems would be sanded clean off, as smooth as a pebble from the bottom of a riverbed.

Wilfred Day traded in information. From long experience, he knew that almost all information had a value to someone, somewhere, and that meant he could leverage it for his own gain. And in the last short while, Wilfred had gained some very interesting information indeed. The tracker he’d ordered placed under Sam’s bumper when her laptop had been returned that night showed a familiar address. He’d been there himself many times, but not for the same reason Sam and most of the others dropped by. No, Wilfred really did stop in for tea, and to catch up with one of his most valued employees, one he’d set up in business after he’d helped her out of a sticky situation with her violent ex-husband. He chuckled to himself as he realized the similarity between the two women: they had both wanted their husbands out of their lives, though for rather different reasons.

Chapter Eighty-Two

By the time she was putting the key in the door, Sam could barely see straight. How she’d managed to drive back unscathed she had no clue, but how long would the gods, or the angels, or whatever they were, look out for her from this point forward? Throwing herself on to the couch, she kicked off her boots and lay face down without moving for a good five minutes, thinking, a little drool leaking from her open mouth onto the cushion. There were no cares in her world when there was oxy floating around her system, and the feeling of utter lethargy was divine.

The sound of her phone ringing shattered the quiet of the empty house and forced her back into a hazy semblance of reality. It was Rick.

“Yeah?” Even that one word was a struggle.

“Sam, are you okay? Only you sound half asleep.”

“Yeah, a bit under the weather. Taking a nap.”

“Oh, okay. I won’t keep you. But I thought you should know they aren’t transferring Duncan to hospital up here any longer. He’s going straight home instead. They say they’ll schedule his next hand operation from hospital here. Good news, eh?”

That got Sam’s attention. Struggling, she managed to sit up straight, head lolling on the sofa back.

“Great news! When will that happen?”

“Should be tomorrow if all goes to plan. I can pick him up if you like. Might be easier with the girls and school. I’m not sure yet what time it’s likely to be. Then I can drop him off at your place. Will that work for you?”

Sam was too fuddled to think straight. Her eyelids kept falling closed as the oxy rushed through her system, trying to pull her down to oblivion.

“Sam? Are you there?”

“Yeah. Sounds great. Thanks, Rick,” she slurred, and pressed end.

On the other end of the call, Rick stood in the station car park staring at the phone as if something was going to jump out of it. Sam had sounded so drawn out, like she was in a deep slumber. She’d told him she wasn’t feeling too good, though, so maybe that was it. She had been through quite a lot lately.

Still, Duncan would hopefully be home the following day. Home. Rick sat up uneasily. Maybe, given the circumstances, he’d have Duncan stay at his place for a couple of days while the dust settled. He needed to have a long talk with him before he went home to Sam and the girls.

He was still stood in the car park thinking things through when his phone buzzed. Wilfred Day again. What could the man want now? He pressed answer.

“Another call? People will get the wrong impression about us,” he joked.

“You’re not my type, actually, but that’s another story. I bring news to your ears.”

“Oh?”

“Your friend Sam likes the stronger pills too. In fact, she has just made a purchase. Can’t tell you where, but my source said three oxy tabs. Strong ones. Our young lady must be feeling stressed over something.” He gave a sing-song tone to the last word – something.

Rick let out a loud sigh. Would Sam never cease to surprise him? A few packets of painkillers were one thing, but oxy? That was something else. He thanked Wilfred and hung up, wondering why the man had bothered to call him with that tidbit. Rick was grateful for the intelligence, of course, but if Day was working on getting a copper in his pocket, he’d have another think coming.

My source says. . .

Rick blinked. Had Sam inadvertently bought her drugs from one of Day’s outlets?

Well, there was no time to find that out now. There was work to be done, and since Rochelle had been out of the office for a couple of days and Duncan was laid up in hospital, he needed to get to it.

So that’s what he did.

Chapter Eighty-Three

All Sam wanted to do was sleep. But the news that Duncan could be home the following day fought for space in her head and brought her problems so much closer. Now she had not even 24 hours on her own before he’d be back in her life.

And he’d know her secret

He’d know she’d poisoned him, at the minimum, because Rick undoubtedly would tell him. He had searched her rubbish bin, for heaven’s sake. But would he believe her cover story about the loan, the one she’d settled on – that, as a surprise, she was planning on buying a caravan for family holidays and weekends away with the girls when he was working? And taking him and the girls away for a fantastic holiday abroad, somewhere warm, after his big case? Could she fudge it without raising more questions? It seemed plausible in her mind, but then her mind was as dull as the sky outside her window. A tear slid down her cheek and she let it roll without wiping it away.

“I’m so tired of this, so tired of him. So tired of everything,” she moaned to herself, her voice trailing off as the tears slid untouched down her hot sticky face. Thoughts of ice creams on the Cornish coast with the girls were now gone, her happy dreams rolling away like her tears. Was she strong enough to face him if the truth came out? Could she be that woman? Did she even want to be?

In her half-conscious state, she wondered about leaving it all behind. About taking the remaining two tablets that were hidden discreetly in the side pocket of her bag, swallowing them down with ice-cold vodka, never waking up again. The blessed relief of her wrongdoings being forgotten.

To leave everything. Find the peace she so desperately craved.

And that’s exactly what she did.

Chapter Eighty-Four

Wilfred liked it when things turned out well, especially the unplanned – because that meant fate had intervened and something was destined to be the way it was. And that’s why making this particular house call was going to be the start of something special.

His meaty hand rapped surprisingly gently on the front door and he took a step backwards to wait. There was the sound of footsteps getting closer and then the door opened, revealing a man in his mid-twenties with brown, poodle-like hair. Luke said hello.

“Good morning. I’m looking for Luke Montgomery.”

His brighter-than-bright smile always put people at ease. Wilfred knew he was a likeable character, and that people found it hard not to fall under his charming spell. Luke was no exception. He smiled back.

“I’m Luke. What can I do for you?”

“Well, Luke, my name is Wilfred Day and I hear you’ve been looking for finance to get a food van business off the ground. Can we talk somewhere private?”

Another flash of perfect dentistry; it did the trick.

As the man’s words registered, Luke’s face lit up, his smile as big as Wilfred’s but a lower wattage. He stood to one side of the door and signalled for him to enter. “My parents aren’t home right now so there’s no one here. We can talk in private. Can I get you a coffee? Tea perhaps?”

Wilfred followed him through the house and out to the back where most people’s kitchens were and helped himself to a seat at the central island. He admired the set-up.

“Tea, thanks. One sugar.” He took a slow look around. “Nicely done,” he said casually, taking in the whole room. “Modern with a dash of antique,” he added, nodding his approval.

Luke busied himself with the kettle and tea bags as he spoke. “My parents travel extensively. That’s why I’m house-sitting for them.”

Wilfred let the fib lie, realizing the young man was putting up a front, not wanting to admit he was broke and living in his folks’ back bedroom. It made what he was about to offer him all the more tantalizing, and he wanted Luke to want it, not simply do it. Having skin in the game, so to speak, bred loyalty, and loyalty made good business.

“Good for them. It’s life’s experiences that make the person, not material objects. Those are of relatively little value.”

Luke hadn’t noticed the Bentley when he’d opened the door but knew the man sat in his kitchen wasn’t short of a bob or two. His Rolex was a giveaway, as were the perfectly capped teeth.

“So, who do we know in common, then?” he asked the stranger. “Who put you on this doorstep?”

Wilfred chuckled to himself, then replied, “Well, that’s the thing. I don’t think you know her at all. Actually, let me correct myself: you only know her online. She’s a woman called Sam Riley, lives around the Manchester area.”

Luke handed him a mug of tea and joined him at the island, looking thoughtful as he tried to remember who Sam was. Maybe he and Clinton had presented their business plan to her at some point, but no. Wilfred had said online. He really couldn’t place the name.

Wilfred could see his brain doing a search and coming up blank. As he would expect him to.

“Can’t say I can recall,” said Luke at length, “but I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, actually, Luke, it does rather matter. It’s vitally important, actually, how you know Mrs. Riley, because she’s key to this business relationship moving forward.” His casual smile was still lighting his face up, causing no sniff of concern. But clearly Luke hadn’t the faintest idea what he was driving at. He took the opportunity to explain. “Well, allow me to explain who Mrs. Sam Riley is, and then we can talk about how I can help finance your venture.”

“I’m listening.”

“Luke, Sam Riley is the woman who booked you and your partner to kill her husband a couple of days ago, in Croydon. You may remember that night?” Still the smile remained, and then it turned into a light laugh at the look on Luke’s face – all colour had drained from it. Instead of the happy, healthy-looking young man of a moment or two ago, he was now the colour of a Dairylea triangle. Wilfred gave him another moment to compose a reply.

With a bit of a stutter, Luke asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m a businessman. I’m not the cops or MI5 or any other agency you might wonder about. I’m Wilfred Day. And it’s my business to know about other people’s business. So, when I was helping an acquaintance out recently, I came across your enterprise, the one on the dark web specifically. And on that, you could have been a little more careful, I must say. If I found you so easily, others could as well if they chose.”

Luke gulped but said nothing.

“Still, it looks like I’m here first, and that’s a good thing for you and for me. And quite by chance – and you should believe in chance if you don’t already – you want to launch a food van business. And, since I have a fleet of my own, I can offer you advice as well as funding.”

Luke couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“What about the website and Mrs. Riley?” he stammered. “If you’re not the authorities, what is in it for you and why are you really here?”

“Glad you asked – and your secret is safe with me, by the way. I also notice you haven’t denied anything so far. I like that. If we’re going to be working together, trust is vital in our game.”

“And your game is what exactly?”

“I told you, I have a fleet of food vans, except we offer a particular product with our sandwiches that has proved extremely popular with the locals. And it’s all high-tech, all done via an app. And untraceable.” Wilfred was enjoying himself immensely, explaining how things were going to work from now on, even if Luke didn’t fully realize it yet. “So, I’m willing to fund you a small string of vans, to start with anyway, as long as you sell my product and use my technology for payment. Simple, eh?”

He drained the rest of his tea as Luke took it all in. He’d barely touched his own. Wilfred looked at his Rolex. “Look, think it over and I’ll be in touch so we can chat more. But just so you have the alternative side of things, remember I know what you and Clinton did. And I can prove it.”

The smile was gone now. Luke swallowed hard.

“I’ll call you again tomorrow about this time so we can iron out any details,” Wilfred said smoothly. “And look at it this way: you get your own fleet, a dream you’ve had for some time now. And it can all become a reality, making you both rather wealthy young men.” He gave Luke’s shoulder a light slap as he stood and walked towards the front door. “I’ll let myself out. Have a fantastic day!” he called to him.

Fantastic day, thought Luke, his heart pounding. More like unusual day.

Chapter Eighty-Five

“Who tipped them off, then, do you reckon?” Jack asked the room.

Blank faces stared back at him, and Amanda took the opportunity to speak up. It was better coming from her, as detective sergeant, rather than Jack. She noticed that Dupin was watching the proceedings through his office window.

“Jack is right to be pissed, as we all are,” she explained. “It seems as soon as we figure it out, they’ve moved on. Where to, we’ve no idea, but my guess is they are still operating in some form – this gig is far too lucrative for them not to be. Our friends in Manchester warned us Wilfred Day was slippery, and the link between him and the vans here was tenuous, to say the least. But since we don’t believe in coincidence, somehow in all this he’s been tipped off. I doubt we’ll see vans distributing on our patch any more now. That doesn’t mean they won’t get caught somewhere else, but it won’t be by us. Drug squad have now taken an interest, so it would have been taken out of our hands soon enough anyway.

“In other words, don’t be despondent about it. You all worked diligently with the case and the shooting of DS Riley, who’s back at home again now, by the way.” Amanda paused for breath. She saw that Dupin was stood behind her now, listening to her every word.

“Would you like to add anything, sir?” She stepped aside and let him take over.

“I think DS Lacey has covered it nicely. If Day was behind it, he’ll slip up one day, and drug squad will be ready to swoop, mark my words. But excellent work anyway. Excellent.” There was a pregnant pause as all eyes remained on Dupin, waiting for him to go on, but it became obvious he hadn’t anything else to say. Eventually, chairs and bodies turned back to their desks, and a low hum of conversation resumed.

As they walked back to their desks, Jack looked at Amanda and gently shook his head in defeat. He hated it when a case ended on such a low. In a quiet whisper, he said, “I’d like to know who the leak was. I’m not going to forget this. If it’s someone in this room, I’ll find them. They’ll not do it again.”

Amanda was taken aback by the vehemence in his voice and couldn’t help but wonder why. Why this case? What was so special about it or the slippery Wilfred Day? No doubt he’d tell her when he’d calmed down – she’d wait until then.

“I hear you, Jack,” she said, then added, “Listen, why don’t we all get take-out from Wong’s tonight? You, me and Ruth. Sweet-and-sour pork balls will cheer us up, eh? I’m buying.”

Amanda knew Jack couldn’t resist a meal from Wong’s. She smiled as he accepted the invite, though it was obvious he was still annoyed.

“Sounds perfect,” he said. “I’ll bring a bottle. Or two.”

“Well, if you’re bringing two, you’d better bring your toothbrush or be prepared to leave your car and taxi it home. I suspect between us we’ll easily polish them off. Come round for seven o’clock?”

She smiled brightly, trying to lighten his mood. It must have worked. Jack smiled back.

“Great, and I can check out your decorating standards at the same time.”

She knew he was only joking. His idea of decorating was re-gluing loose wallpaper edges back down so that they’d be good for another ten years. She checked her watch. It was nearly time to leave for the evening anyway. She called Ruth and told her they had a guest for dinner.

Chapter Eighty-Six

One week later

They were all in attendance. Sam’s parents, Anika, Victoria and Jasmine, and a couple of aunts and uncles alongside supporting one another as the casket was lowered into the ground. Duncan watched on with Rochelle and Rick, his two best friends in the world, beside him for support on what promised to be an exceptionally sad day.

Rick placed his arm around his friend’s shoulder; Rochelle took his right hand in hers as the service drew to an end and handfuls of soil were sprinkled on top of the casket. Slowly the crowd dispersed, most in search of sherry and sandwiches at a nearby pub. Had either of them been paying attention, they’d have noticed the hulking blond man in the long caramel-coloured coat at the edge of the cemetery watching the proceedings and then returning to his tan Bentley and driving away as the service drew to a close.

Duncan felt numb to the bone, though it wasn’t the weather making him feel so. For a change, the usually weak winter sun shone brightly high in the sky, casting a strangely summery glow across everything it touched. Duncan had barely said a word to anyone, and people had mostly let him be, figuring he was too distraught at Sam’s suicide to speak much. But he had already grieved that loss while he lay injured in hospital. What he was doing as he stood there, as others moved on, was all for show. He’d already said all he needed to say. Though Sam would never hear it.

When talking is too painful, experts say, it often helps to write a letter to whomever is causing your anguish, but never send it. The process of putting thoughts down on paper helps to take the burden off your own shoulders, gets the thoughts and feelings out in the open and allows the healing to begin. So, before they’d closed the casket lid for the last time, Duncan had slipped the letter inside. It read:

Sam,

It was very nearly me in this casket right now.

It pained me to find out you wanted me dead. After all these years and two wonderful children I was surprised, to say the least, but it all fits together. It was your sudden change in behaviour that raised the question initially, though in Rochelle’s mind rather than my own – I was a bit slow on the uptake.

But here’s the thing: when I heard these two novices that night, arguing about who was going to kill me, I knew she’d been right – no self-respecting criminal would have gone with such an amateur route. But an actual amateur would. And they were almost successful, because I was incapacitated – something I suspect was your own handiwork. The thoughtfulness of the little pies escaped me at the time. I should have known it was all part of it. How silly I’ve been.

Rick never said a word to me; still hasn’t. Knowing Rick, I guess he’s protecting my feelings because, now you’re gone, it wouldn’t do any good to bring it all up. He’s good like that, and that’s why I cherish him as a friend and work colleague as much as I do.

You’re gone yourself now, and in a way I’m glad, because it means I don’t have to face you and what you did. How could we ever go back after that? You made it impossible.

We won’t be meeting in an afterlife, because I’m not going where you’re already headed – a special place reserved only for you. So, the girls and I will pick up the pieces of our lives, and we’ll find happiness once again, though it will take time. Thankfully, we have plenty of that.

Maybe you’ll be happy now. You certainly weren’t when you were here.

Duncan.

He’d poured it all out, cleansed his soul, scraped back the scales and prepared himself for life as a single father with two wonderful girls. Where he’d take them he didn’t yet know, but it would be tough to stay where they were, in the house they’d all shared together, where she’d been found. He’d never forgive her for that. The girls didn’t need to have witnessed their mother lying dead, face down on the sofa, with an empty vodka bottle beside her. Where had she got the drugs that had eventually killed her? How had he missed her having a problem? Maybe he hadn’t known her at all.

In time the girls would get over it – they all would – but for now, he had to be there for them, support them through the years ahead and give them everything they needed, everything a single dad could muster.

Perhaps he’d buy a caravan, move to the Cornish coast where the weather was warmer and the ice creams were plenty. Maybe that’s what she’d meant for them when she’d left the brochures and magazines nearby. A note would have been nice.

But she hadn’t bothered, so Duncan had written his own note, which, along with the truth, was now buried with her forever.

The day was, indeed, done.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 Blue Banana

To Carole. For your support, and love of Jack.

Chapter One

Sunday 19th December, 1999. Almost Christmas.

It was going to hurt. She knew it would hurt far more than the act of giving birth itself had done, not an hour ago. But life for the little one would be so much better without her, with someone else who could take care of her, give her everything she would ever want for, a life the young woman hadn’t a chance to offer her.

“Goodbye, little one. I’m doing this because I love you, not because I don’t want you. It’ll be better for you this way.”

She kissed her baby’s forehead before wrapping her tightly in the swaddle she had. The infant whimpered a little. Perhaps she was trying to communicate, asking her not to go. Perhaps they could find a way to be together; it wouldn’t be that bad. But the woman knew it could never be anything else, and as tough as it was, she knew she had to stick to her decision. Inside her, two voices screamed loudly at each other, straining her chest: one urging her to leave her child, the other sobbing, pleading with her not to go through with it.

Deep down, she knew there was no choice and, mumbling words of comfort to herself, she tried to quiet the voice begging her to stop. With the whimpering child wrapped in a towel and tucked inside her only coat, she placed the tiny bundle inside the porch of the church doorway, tucked away from the relentless biting wind and sleet that was beginning to fall. With the baby safe for now and out of harm’s way, she was sure she would be secure for the night. Someone would surely open the church door in the morning and take her in. The child’s life from that moment on would be so much better than the alternative. She shivered and hugged her arms. She knew she would be cold without her coat, but the little one needed it more. It was the least she could do, her last solo act of kindness for her daughter before she walked away.

Forever.

The young woman barely felt the wetness falling on her shoulders as she disappeared back into the street and the darkness, the hot tears streaming down her face cooling quickly as they fell away. She rubbed her arms, more out of needy emotion and comfort than anything else. The sleet melted on contact with her thin sweatshirt, soaking the fabric. Even though she was shivering, she didn’t notice the vibrations shaking her body. Her only focus was the sheer desperation of the situation, the intense hopelessness that was her short life so far. At least her baby wouldn’t have to be part of it now, would have a fighting chance with someone else, someone more able, someone less useless, someone less scarred.

Someone a million times better than she was.

Inside the church, an older woman sat praying quietly, grieving for how her life had turned out so far but without tears. It was a comfort to her to simply sit here in the dim light, praying in silence, though she’d never bothered with the church before she’d gone away. No time for it, she’d always said. Not relevant to her. No interest in hocus-pocus. How the tables had turned and times had changed since she’d returned to Croydon only four weeks ago.

Prison changed you, for one thing, and it did so particularly if you were the victim of continual abuse as she had been. Day after day, night after night they’d come for her both mentally and physically. The prison guards had turned blind eyes to her suffering, monitoring her from a distance until things went as far as the guards dared them to and then stepping in at the last minute. Even the infirmary hadn’t been a safe haven.

But then, paedophiles deserved what they got, apparently. More so the female ones. The other prisoners couldn’t comprehend what went on in her head to have committed such an abhorrent crime. It was far worse than murder, in their opinions, and her punishment should be that much harsher. She’d cried like her victims had, willing her death to come.

Oh, how she’d prayed, but those prayers had gone unanswered. But she was free again now.

Gathering her few belongings and wrapping her flimsy scarf around her head, ready for the icy wind outside, she made her way to the front door and steeled herself for the walk back to the halfway house she’d been placed in. It wasn’t far, but in mid-winter, and in this weather, it would be far enough on foot. The valuable little money in her pocket was better spent on food than bus fare. Opening the heavy wooden door, she shuffled out into the porch and pulled her scarf a little tighter before descending the few steps, holding tightly to the handrail as she went. But halfway down, the woman stopped. Had she heard something over the howl of the wind? She stood still, straining to listen in the quiet street. On a night like this and so close to Christmas, sensible people were huddled away in their houses, more likely their beds at this late hour; there was not a soul outside but her.

Yes, there it was again – a sort of gurgle. The longer she stood listening, the more it gained strength. Was it coming from above her, where she’d come from? As she made her way carefully back up the steps, the sound became louder, more insistent, then developed into something she recognized, something acutely familiar. There was no doubt what it was.

The cry of a baby.

Chapter Two

The Jolly Carter, shortened to The Jolly by the locals, was much the same as any backstreet public house around Croydon, or in fact in any other part of the country. A foggy haze of cigarette smoke hovered overhead with nowhere to go, as more and more rose from the mouths and noses of drinking customers. Whether you smoked or not, you ended up smoking by default. There was no choice, unless you wore an oxygen mask – although that would have given you added protection from the smell of urine as you passed the gents toilets. The gaudy décor of the establishment had, over the years, been covered with a thick veil of caramel nicotine that ran in streaks down the walls.

Workingmen – and they were mainly men – propped the bar up, some with a newspaper, others holding court and regaling the others with tales, each one better than the last. Some stood alone, searching for answers at the bottom of their pint pots. Tom Jones was “Burnin’ Down the House” on a jukebox. It was Sunday lunchtime.

“Another when you’re ready, please, Jim,” Jack ordered, waving his empty glass in the barman’s direction and catching his eye. The red-faced landlord nodded and made his way over to grab the glass.

“You’re not going to be late for your lunch, are you, Jack? Your missus will be mad as hell…” He let the words dangle knowingly but Jack shook his head.

“I’ve time for one more, then I’ll be off. A nice bit of roast beef, all the trimmings, a glass of wine maybe, and my old chair to sleep it off. What more could a man ever want for?” Jack grinned his contentment at his day ahead, but Jim was already retreating to the bitter pump to refill his glass. Jack watched the creamy head of ale come back his way a moment later and handed over a fistful of change.

“I wish I had someone upstairs to make my dinner and let me have a nice sleep after it.”

“Then you need to get yourself a good woman, like my Janine,” Jack said, taking a long mouthful and wiping the froth from his upper lip. “She’s a good woman, that’s for sure, though she’d give me hell if she could hear me telling you to find yourself a good woman. She’d tell you to get organized and do it yourself, stop being a lazy arse. And she’d be right.”

“I ain’t got time to peel spuds and shop for beef. I’m here all the time. Another reason I haven’t got a woman – not many come in here, and those that do only come in to drag their husbands back home.”

There wasn’t much more Jack could add to that. He nodded his understanding and resignation to the landlord’s retreating back as he made his way further down the bar to serve someone else. Jack studied his own pint for a moment, then was interrupted by the ringing of his mobile in his jacket pocket.

“That’ll be Janine now, I’ll bet. Right on time,” he mumbled affectionately to himself. He flipped the top of the phone and answered it. It wasn’t Janine. She wasn’t calling him home for his Sunday lunch and an afternoon nap.

“DC Jack Rutherford. Hello.”

“Jack, I need you to get yourself over to the hospital.” It was the desk sergeant back at the station.

“What’s up, Doug?”

“A newborn baby was handed in at the hospital not long ago. Seems the little one had been found abandoned in a church doorway. Someone dropped it off and must have left almost immediately after. As did the woman who handed the baby in. We need to track her down and find out who the baby belongs to. It’s lucky to be alive if it spent the night out in the cold. Last night could have been the coldest one this winter. Could have frozen the balls off a brass monkey.”

Jack looked at the remaining half of his glass of bitter as the sergeant went on, all visions of his Sunday roast fading away, not to mention his nap. And Janine wouldn’t be too pleased, either.

“Any idea who the woman was and why she left so soon?”

“Nope and nope.” Useful.

“Right. Best I get on my way, then.”

The sergeant gave him the details of who to contact at the hospital and hung up. Jack took a last gulp of the remaining half and left the rest on the side, signalling to the barman he was off with a quick wave of his hand.

“Save me some, eh?” Jim called across in hope.

“I’ll be lucky if I get any now. Been called into work.”

Jim gave him a look that said “tough luck,” and carried on wiping the bar with a damp cloth the colour of slate rooftop tiles. Jack hoped he didn’t wash glasses with the same dirty cloth.

Heading towards the door and the cold midday air outside, he paused for a moment. He’d better give Janine a call and tell her he wouldn’t make lunch. He pulled out his phone and pressed dial.

“Sorry, love. I’ve been called in. A baby has been found so I’ve got to go. Will you keep mine warm?”

“Oh, Jack! I was looking forward to a movie with you after lunch, too.” She sounded disappointed. He hated doing that to her, but it couldn’t be helped. As a detective’s wife, she was used to it.

“I know, love. I’ll be as quick as I can. You go ahead and eat. I’ll have mine later. Then we’ll watch the movie.”

They said their goodbyes, Jack knowing full well that whatever happened between now and bedtime, he’d never see the movie past the opening credits.

Still, he’d be back home on the sofa with his Janine, and that was enough for him.

Chapter Three

It was a good job he’d only had a pint and three quarters. A DUI for a detective never sat well with the public – or his boss, for that matter. Still, it wasn’t a problem now, though Jack could have done with a sandwich to soak up the beer that was sloshing around his empty stomach. Janine had got him watching his weight, and so the Sunday breakfast routine they’d shared for as many years as he could remember had gone south. With her hands on her hips like an old ward matron she’d told him if Sunday lunch was to stay in place, he couldn’t have both that and his afternoon pint. The thought amused him as he locked his car door and headed to the hospital’s main entrance in search of Monica Johnson, the matron who had called the police.

The front entrance doors slid open automatically as he neared the sensor and he stepped inside; the bland pale greenish-blue décor and the smell of cleaning fluid were the same as most hospitals he’d ever been inside. Even on a Sunday, doctors, nurses and orderlies moved briskly about, some headed home, some on their break and some headed to the next part of their working day. They all minded their own business as they went, with no conversation between them, so Jack fell in behind a man wearing surgical scrubs, joined the human train and followed the signs to the special care baby unit where the infant was being cared for.

The baby. Who would abandon their child, and on such a cold night? Who would be so desperate or stupid to hope someone came for it before it was too late? Why not take it directly to the hospital straight off, or the police? But Jack already knew the answers: because she was scared. And this case would be no different.

Of what, though?

And ditto for the woman that had found the child – why not call an ambulance and the police straight away when she’d found it?

The sign for the SCBU was up ahead and he pushed the buzzer for admittance, his warrant card ready and visible through the glass partition. He waited, then he saw her. He instinctively knew it was her: Monica, authority written across her ample chest as she walked towards him. She reminded him of Hattie Jacques from a Carry On movie.

He chanced a smile. As she opened the door, she returned a flicker of one, though it vanished in an instant. Her name badge did indeed confirm she was Monica Johnson. And in charge.

“Good afternoon,” Jack said politely, keeping his voice low. The ambience of the ward told him loud noise was not acceptable, and he was aware that his shoes sounded like the quick slaps of an elastic band on the lino as he followed her back towards her desk. He tried, and failed, to walk on the tips of his toes.

“Take a seat,” Monica instructed, waving her hand to a spare chair. Glad to stop the sound of his own shoes, he sat, fiddling to get his notebook from his inside pocket. She sat opposite him, waiting.

“Why don’t you start from the top and tell me everything you know? Then I’ll ask a few questions.” He beamed a reassuring smile and received another flicker in return.

“I’d only been on duty a few minutes, so it was not long after seven this morning. There was a phone call from the main entrance reception. The security guard called up saying a woman with a bundle needed help. She’d found a baby abandoned. Naturally, I went down to meet her and took a nurse with me, but when we’d got there, she was nowhere to be seen. The guard was holding the baby. I asked him what had happened, and he said the woman had found the baby last night about 11 pm at St George’s church. She’d kept it warm until this morning, but it was hungry. Then she left without giving any more details. Another staff member went after her, but she wouldn’t say another word apparently, so they gave up. All we can tell you is that she was about retirement age, grey-haired, and dressed a bit oddly, like from a charity shop perhaps. We’ve no idea where she comes from or her name.” She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “I wish I could tell you more.”

“Has security checked the camera footage? I assume you have footage of the main desk and the outside of the building?”

“Yes. I have a copy for you, not that it shows much. She was alone and on foot, and had a scarf around her head and neck, to keep the cold out, I expect.” She handed Jack a CD copy of the front desk and immediate outdoor camera footage.

“I may need to see more footage from further out. Who do I need to contact to get it?”

Monica wrote down the name and telephone number of the head of security and handed him the piece of paper.

“And how is the little one now? I hear it’s a little girl.”

“Doing well, considering her rough start. She was hungry, but no hypothermia or else I don’t think she’d be still with us. Last night was a particularly cold one, so she was lucky the lady found her. I wish she’d brought her straight here, though.”

“Any sign of the mother? I’m guessing she gave birth elsewhere and you haven’t seen her?”

“Correct. Everyone is accounted for on the maternity ward and in here, so I’d guess you are right, though she may need help herself. I suspect she gave birth in secret and on her own. She must be scared, confused maybe, and in need of medical attention.”

“We’ll keep an eye out, and we’ll also check other hospitals and clinics nearby in case anyone has shown up needing help. Can you remember anything else, no matter how trivial you may think it is?” Jack was hoping for something he could use, big or small. He’d take small over nothing.

“The guard said the woman who dropped the baby off was extremely nervous herself, as though she couldn’t stand to be in the hospital – frightened, maybe, though I don’t know why she would be. Then she was gone without another word. It doesn’t make any sense. Perhaps she had a bad experience in the past.”

Jack wasn’t convinced. “Maybe it wasn’t the hospital that she was scared of. Maybe it was the camera she didn’t like.”

Chapter Four

By the time Jack had been to the hospital, completed the necessary paperwork and notified the relevant authority. It was way past lunchtime and his roast beef would surely be past its best by now. He arrived home to find he was correct in his assumption.

“Ah, damn,” he said to himself as he lifted the plate from the warm oven and removed the tinfoil that had been protecting his meal for the last five hours. A voice from behind startled him.

“Well, you have been gone a long while. I thought about turning it off.” Janine stood in the doorway, arms folded in front of her, though she wore a smile on her face. She wasn’t one to be annoyed in situations such as this. It wasn’t her style.

“No matter, love. I’m glad it’s still here and hot, even if the gravy has dried up a bit. I’ll put some butter on it.” Butter was Jack’s answer to everything that looked a bit dry.

“Oh, no you don’t, Jack Rutherford, or the doctor will be on at you for your cholesterol again. It’s not good for you, not with the amount you put on things.” He let it go. The battle was not one he’d win. He’d try and swipe a bit when she wasn’t looking. Taking the plate to the table, he sat down and opened the jar of mustard. He smeared a bit next to the beef, then did the same with the horseradish. When he was satisfied, he picked up a Yorkshire pudding and bit into it, the crunch from the upper shell reverberating in his ears until it softened in his mouth. He dipped the rest into the horseradish as Janine watched, leaning back against the sink.

“You always make the best Yorkshires, Janine. Did you have a glass of wine with yours? I could do with one if there is some.”

“I’ll get you one. I only had the one with my dinner. A bit of a headache again.”

“Again? You’ve had a lot recently, love. Why don’t you go to the doctor?” He started on the second Yorkshire and repeated the process, dipping it in horseradish. He watched as she poured him a glass of wine and set it down in front of him. She pulled out a chair and joined him at the kitchen table while he ate.

“Women get headaches all the time. Anyway, what’s the story with the baby? Where was the little one found and is it alright?”

“Mercifully, yes. It will be fine. It’s a little girl. A woman handed it in at the hospital this morning then fled, even though it wasn’t hers. She found it in the church doorway last night and took it home, we assume. Until we can trace her, and preferably the mother too, we haven’t a lot to go on. In the meantime, the baby will stay at the hospital for observation, then it will go to a foster home, I expect. Poor mite. What a start in life, eh? They reckon it’s only a day or two old.” He slipped a roast potato into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “I wonder what possesses someone to abandon their baby like that, and on such a cold night too. Why not take it to the hospital?” Jack was thinking out loud.

“She must be in a desperate situation, is all I can think, and probably young, too. If she’s underage, she’ll not want anyone to know, not even the hospital, for fear of getting in trouble. Or maybe get her boyfriend in trouble? If he’s still around? Maybe he’s as young as she is.”

“Hmm, maybe. We’ve all made mistakes at that age. Though this is a big one.”

“I agree, but until you find the mother, how will you know anything about the situation, and possibly return her child to her? Can you do DNA testing?”

“It’s a bit trickier than that, I’m afraid. DNA is only of use if there is someone in the system with a match, though I know for a fact that with nearly all offences now, DNA is taken and stored in the system. That means that even begging, being drunk and disorderly, or taking part in a demonstration could put you on the DNA register whether you like it or not. It used to be taken only for more serious crimes. But like I say, there has to be someone to match it to. The added fly in the ointment is that a baby’s DNA is never likely to be in the system because they’ve not had chance to commit a crime. And with paternity testing, you usually have at least one parent present, usually both.”

Janine sat thoughtfully for a minute.

“What’s up, Janine?” Jack asked her. “What are you thinking?”

“There was an article of the news, a couple of months back, I think, about DNA testing. There’s a good deal of data in the database that they say shouldn’t still be being kept, from folks not convicted and whatnot. Anyway, the reporter said something about a new test, from somewhere up north Leicester way, where they are trying to match family members’ DNA to other family members. Apparently, there are a few bits of our DNA that show who’s related, and they were trying to make the test more accurate. It was rather interesting, actually; can’t you use that?”

“I’ve never heard of it. It must be new and not fully available yet.” He finished his meal, licked his knife and fork clean, and then sat back holding the remainder of his glass of wine. “But I like your thought. If we had access to the technology, maybe we could find out who is a likely parent of the child because there’s the baby’s mother to think about too, her own need for medical attention perhaps. And the father.” He drained the glass and stood up quickly, making Janine jump.

“Janine, you might be on to something there. I’ll make some calls and look into it first thing tomorrow. But right now, I think it’s time to let that exquisite roast beef dinner go down and start that movie in front of the fire, don’t you?” He smiled.

But as Janine knew, Jack would be fast asleep not long after the opening credits and would pretend it had been a great film when he awoke at the end. It amused her that he thought she didn’t know, and she’d never let on to him otherwise.

Chapter Five

Jack had just boiled the kettle in the small tea room at the station, unofficially known as ‘the coffee cupboard’ because in fact it wasn’t much more than a closet with a tap and sink. But it was closer to the squad room than the main one. It had become the place to hide out with a mug of Nescafe for many of the team, particularly after a late night on the town. And that’s why Eddie was headed inside – coffee and quiet. With two people in there, the cupboard was full.

“Morning, Eddie. You look like shit. Another late one, eh?”

“Do us a favour and put some hot water on a teaspoonful? Two sugars.”

Jack watched Eddie nurse his right temple, a pained expression on his face.

“You don’t want His Highness to see you like this again. What’s going on? Woman trouble, or is it their man trouble again?”

Eddie had been caught with more than his fair share of married women over the couple of years they’d worked together, and had only recently found himself getting a hiding from a surprised husband who had come home early. The bruises were only fading now.

“Leave it out, won’t you?”

Jack watched as he rubbed his temple again. “So, what happened?”

“Sue dumped me last night and I went on a bender, if you must know. Shame, really. I thought she might have been the one, but apparently, I wasn’t to her.”

Jack passed him a mug of instant coffee and watched Eddie take a couple of mouthfuls, looking like a camel at a desert watering hole.

“Thanks,” Eddie said. “I needed that. My bloody head is splitting. Got any paracetamol on you?”

“Sorry, I don’t carry them. I don’t get headaches. Maybe you should, though. You seem to have a few of late. You and my Janine are a right pair.”

“I doubt your lovely wife was out getting bladdered last night, or any night come to that. What’s she doing with headaches anyway? Are you stressing her out, Jack?” His eyes danced mischievously. Eddie could get away with almost anything with anyone, and he knew it. And played to it.

“Watch it, you,” Jack warned jokingly. “I dare say it’s women’s issues.”

“Well, I know all about them, let me tell you.”

“I’m sure you do. You’ve had so many of them. Enough women to launch your own study, I’d say.”

“You’re only jealous.”

They sipped their coffee in the quiet of the cupboard, then Eddie spoke again.

“So, what did you do over the weekend, then? A couple of pints and fall asleep in front of the TV again?”

“Ha-ha. Actually, I was called to the hospital yesterday afternoon. A newborn had been found and handed in. Evidentially, it had been abandoned Saturday night in the church doorway and an older lady dropped it off Sunday. Problem is, we know nothing about either woman – no details, no nothing except the one who handed her in was older and rather nervous. I can’t help but wonder what her issue is.”

“And you’re guessing the other one, the mother, is perhaps in distress for some reason? Maybe young?”

“I am, yes. It’s hard not to. Abandoned babies are not as common as they once were, but still, it’s not often a woman in a stable home environment abandons a child. It’s usually those in a bit of a pickle that can’t deal with a baby.”

“So, what’s the plan, then, Jack?” Eddie emptied his mug and set it on the drainer.

“Well, we have to find them both, so let’s start with what camera footage we can get between the hospital and the church, see if we can pick anything up. The older woman wore a headscarf, apparently, and that would fit because it was as cold as a snowman’s big toe on Saturday night. You make a start on footage from around the church. I have a phone call to make, then I’ll join you.” Jack rinsed both their coffee mugs out and put them back on the shelf.

“Right, will do. So, we have no idea what the mother looks like. I’m looking for someone possibly carrying a bundle, I’m guessing. That could take a while.”

“Indeed. The monotonous part of police work, I know, but there’s no other way. At least we have a time frame of around eleven pm, so that’s a start, I suppose. I doubt she’d have a pram or buggy, though she may have had the child in a hold-all, maybe? Anyway, you know the drill. See what’s what.”

An observer would never guess that Eddie Edwards was, in fact, Jack’s immediate boss and not the other way around, Eddie a DS to Jack’s DC.

“I’ll just make another coffee before I start, I think; the sugar will do me good. Are there any biscuits in that tin, do you know? Otherwise, I’ll have to go to the vending machine.”

“No idea.”

Jack left Eddie sat in the coffee cupboard and went back to his desk. When he put his mind to it, Eddie was one of the best detectives there was in Croydon, possibly even the whole of the Metropolitan police, but when he had woman troubles, he was continually distracted and that meant Jack would end up covering for him yet again. Why women couldn’t resist Eddie Jack would never know – he looked fairly average and wasn’t exactly a David Hasselhoff lookalike. There were no ripped abs or sun-bleached hair for young Eddie Edwards, though he had a permanent glint in his eye that women found irresistible. Jack smiled. Maybe the man wore red silk shorts under his trousers – perhaps that was his secret charm.

Still smiling to himself, Jack made his way to his desk to make a few calls. If Janine had heard the news story right, perhaps they could use the new DNA know-how to find the abandoned baby’s parents. Or at least one of them.

Chapter Six

Leanne Meadows was like any other fifteen-year-old living with their parents – for the most part, they got on but when she didn’t get her own way, tensions ran high and dummies were spat. The Monday before Christmas was one of those days. Leanne’s parents tried their best to give their daughter everything they could, sometimes at great personal expense to themselves, forfeiting holidays and weekends away so the funds could be put towards her cycle training and equipment. As a young national cycling champ for her age group, Leanne Meadows was on her way to stardom, and a cycling career that would take her on tours around the globe – as long as she carried on the path of hard work and commitment laid out before her. The cost of coaching and her never-ending equipment requirement, not to mention the constant toing and froing from events, was often the cause of rows between Leanne and her parents. But Leanne wasn’t selfish, and she knew her parents did their utmost for her in time and money, which she appreciated with all her heart. Leanne contributed to the cost by earning what she could through babysitting and working part-time at the garden centre. But then the latest row had kicked off about Leanne wanting to ride with her buddies on Christmas Day morning instead of being at home with her parents opening presents. Tempers were getting frayed.

“Every day is important, Christmas Day or not!” Leanne yelled at her mother, who was having none of it.

“I’m asking for one full day without having to worry about you while you’re out on your road bike. Just one day! I don’t think that is too much to ask under the circumstances, young lady.”

“But don’t you see how important it is for me to train? I’ll bet other totally serious riders will train that morning. I’ll bet Froome or Deignan will be out – that’s what makes them champions. And I want to be a champion!”

Their voices were getting louder and louder when Dave Meadows walked into the hallway.

“What are you two yelling at now? They can probably hear you at the end of the street! And from what I could hear from the bathroom, you need to show a bit more respect to your mother, Lea, and not shout the odds.”

“But Dad, you know I have to train every day.”

“No you don’t, Lea. You need to train six days a week, so Christmas Day is your rest day this week.”

“But Dad …”

“That’s the end of it, Lea. Your mother is right. It’s one day together with no cycling. Rearrange your schedule for your rest day because it will be Christmas Day. And that’s the end of it.”

“But—”

“Lea, no. Now I suggest you carry on with whatever you were doing because this conversation is over and I’ve got to get to work. I’ve got an expensive daughter to pay for.”

Leanne stood at the bottom of the stairs along with her mother, neither daring to say another word, because when Dave said it was final, it really was final, and that was how it was. Dave Meadows wore the trousers and got the last word. Leanne, though, was not happy, and as the tears threatened to break loose, she hurried back up the stairs to her room and slammed the door dramatically to let both parents know exactly how she felt.

“She’ll get over it, Penny,” Dave said to his wife. “She needs to know it’s not always about her at every waking moment. She’ll be down when she’s hungry.”

“I know.” Penny looked at her watch. “She’d better not be too long. I think she’s at the garden centre later this morning. I said I’d drop her off.”

“I rest my case. You’re dropping her off – again. She could cycle if it was that important to her, couldn’t she? Anyway, I’m off.” He bent to give her a peck on the cheek before heading out to the car. Penny stood in the doorway and watched him leave, gave him a quick wave as he pulled away then closed the door. There was no sound coming from upstairs. She decided to leave her daughter to cool off a bit.

Every family rowed from time to time, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed it. Teenage sulks were the worst. They had a habit of making the parents feel it was they who had done wrong and never the other way around. But Penny would never swap Leanne from their lives, not for the world. She’d lost one child, many years ago, and on occasions like birthdays and Christmas, she always wondered what she’d have grown up to be like all these years later. Would she have been like Leanne, or would they have been chalk and cheese? Still, Leanne was her baby, and that was why she couldn’t help but climb the stairs to her daughter’s room. She knocked gently on the door.

“Come in,” said a tiny voice.

Leanne was sprawled on the bed face down, head buried in her pillow. After a moment, she finally lifted her head up and looked at her mother, tears staining her red blotchy face. A bit of black mascara had leaked on to the pink pillowcase. Penny sat on the edge of her bed and gently stroked her daughter’s long blonde hair.

“What time are you working today?”

“I’m on at ten.”

“Do you want a lift over?”

“No, I’ll cycle. It’ll do me good.”

“Okay, though it’s another cold day outside and it could sleet again later, so keep safe if you’re going to be a champ, eh?” She carried on stroking her daughter’s hair, a loving smile on her face. Leanne sat up on her bed and hugged her tightly.

“I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I know you didn’t, darling, and we understand your ambition, but we’ll have a great Christmas Day together, won’t we?”

Leanne blew her nose on a tissue she’d had up her sleeve, and dabbed her eyes dry.

“Of course we will, Mum.”

“Come on, you’d better sort your makeup out before you go. Shall I make you a hot chocolate?”

Leanne nodded, a small smile brightening her face a little as she edged off the bed and ran her fingers through her hair, gathering herself together.

“Love you, Mum.”

“Love you too, Leanne.”

Chapter Seven

Her shift at the garden centre finished, Leanne changed from her jeans into her cycle clothes and, with her other belongings in her backpack slung over her shoulder, set off towards the back entranceway where her road bike was securely parked and padlocked.

It didn’t take long to cycle the route home. The Wickham Road was a busy one, running back into Croydon from the west. The garden centre was only about ten miles from home and if the traffic was forgiving, it didn’t take her long to get to and from work. Coming up to Christmas, she was glad of the money the extra shifts gave her, despite the cold.

Leanne checked that her cycle lights were turned on as the first spots of sleet began to fall. The late afternoon air was cold and damp and getting wetter by the minute, and the light was fading fast. She waited for a gap in the traffic, wishing she had her warm winter leggings on, then joined the mayhem of headlights headed back towards Cedar Road and home. In the near darkness, considerate cars gave her a wide berth, but a truck buzzed her hardly an inch from her elbow. Leanne yelled a curse after the driver, holding tight to her handlebars to steady the bike.

Leanne hated heavy traffic, though she was used to it. Being a cyclist meant many hours on the road with all kinds of hazards; luckily it was only a short journey home.

She had gone only a couple of miles when she discovered a problem. Knowing precisely how her bike handled, Leanne instinctively knew she had a puncture.

“Damn it,” she exclaimed, and slowed to a stop around the corner of a side road away from the traffic as the last of the air leaked out of the tyre. She slipped off her cycling gloves and laid them in the grass as she crouched over the offending wheel. In the fading light, she got to work quickly, taking the tyre off and removing the inner tube, swapping it for the spare she carried in her puncture pack. Her fingers were bitterly cold, and getting the new tube to sit properly inside the tyre was taking far longer than it would have normally. Leanne was getting more and more frustrated and cold the longer it took.

“Oh, come on!” she growled under her breath. It had been one of those days from the start. Blowing on her fingers to try and warm them a little, she looked up from what she was doing and spotted something moving on the road ahead. Crouched down still and low, she strained to see what it was, but her eyes couldn’t penetrate the near darkness enough for her to make anything out. Should she call out? Was it an animal heading for the busy road, maybe? Instinct told her to keep her mouth shut. Suddenly her ears picked up the sound of muffled deep, male voices, then the start of an engine.

Funny, she thought. Why no lights? Did the driver know they weren’t on?

A door slammed, but it sounded more substantial than a car door; a van door, maybe? She was about to resume the task at hand when she realized the vehicle was headed her way, towards the junction, still without lights on. Should she try and warn the driver? Would they even see her in the near darkness? The vehicle was approaching too quickly for her to make a firm decision so she stayed put where she was, more out of missed opportunity than good judgment. But as the van pulled alongside her, she inadvertently locked eyes with the driver. The glow of light from the dashboard gave his face a ghostly glow. He was looking right at her. She froze. Then, the man turned towards the passenger seat for a moment, then looked back, right at her. His face was unsmiling. Everything around her seemed to still and quieten for a moment. Something deep inside her told her she was in trouble, but what should she do? Run, or hope he hadn’t actually seen her huddled in the grass at all? Was she imagining it all? Could she be sure? After all, there was no light shining on her from their headlamps because they were still off. The lane was in darkness, wasn’t it?

Her cycle lights were on!

He must have seen them glowing out from under her bike as it lay on its side beside her. Damn! Leanne knew for sure now that she was in trouble. She sprang from the grass and began to run towards the main road, hoping to stop a passing car and get to safety.

But the night had other ideas. Her plastic cycling cleats slipped and slid on the smooth tarmac as she careered around the side of the van.

And into the bulky arms of the van’s passenger.

Chapter Eight

Penny looked at her watch for the umpteenth time. It read a minute later than the last time she’d looked. It was nearly six o’clock, totally dark outside, and Leanne wasn’t answering her phone. But then if she was still cycling home, she knew Leanne wouldn’t hear it; her phone would be tucked safely in her backpack against the elements as usual. Still, she should have been back more than an hour ago and Penny couldn’t help wonder if she was staying out on purpose after the morning’s heated discussion. So, when the front door opened, Penny all but flew across the lounge to the hallway, expecting to see her daughter coming through the door. But it wasn’t her.

“Hello, love,” said Dave. “Something smells good.” He beamed. When Penny didn’t return the smile, his smile vanished. “What’s she done now?”

“Nothing like that. She’s not come home yet and I’m worried. Her shift finished at four-thirty, so she should have been home an hour ago. I can’t get her on her phone.”

“Have you called the garden centre?” He took his overcoat off and hung it on the hook by the door. “They probably asked her to stay on and she’s punishing us for this morning by not ringing. That’ll be all.”

“I haven’t yet, but I will now. I didn’t want her to think we were checking up on her.”

“Let me know what they say. I’m going to take a quick shower before dinner.”

As Dave climbed the stairs, Penny called the garden centre from her spot still in the hallway. After several rings, a harassed-sounding woman’s voice answered at the other end.

“Hi, it’s Penny, Leanne’s mum, here. Can you tell me if she’s left for home as yet, please?”

“Yes, Penny, she left at four-thirty on her bike. I could have done with her staying, actually. We’ve been busy since she left. Is everything alright?”

“Oh, you know teenagers. She’s probably stopped off somewhere and I can’t get hold of her. I’m a bit worried, though, so if you hear from her, do me a favour and let me know?”

“Sure will. Hope she’s back soon. Got to go.”

“Thanks. Bye.” Penny stood with the phone in her hand and stared blankly at the hall wall. Where the hell could she have gone in this foul weather at night?

The bathroom door upstairs opened and Dave called down. “What did they say?”

“They said she left at four-thirty on her bike. I’m worried now, Dave. What do you reckon?”

“Well, first off, we’ll give her another hour, in light of this morning’s conversation, then we’ll start calling her friends. If that doesn’t do any good, I guess we call the police, eh?”

“Okay. One hour, though. No more.”

“Agreed. Now, why don’t we eat if it’s ready? No point in us all waiting for Madam to show her face.” He made his way back down the stairs, pulling on a sweatshirt on as he came, then took Penny in his arms at the bottom. He kissed her cheek lovingly.

“She’ll be home soon, Penny. I know she will. She’s not one to be a toe rag. She’s a sensible girl who’s still upset that we put our foot down – you’ll see. She’ll be moaning to one of her friends as we speak – I bet you a fiver.”

“Well, I hope you’re right, and I lose a fiver.” Penny looked at her watch again. Six-fifteen pm. Leanne had until 7.15, then she’d be on the phone in a flash.

By 8 pm they’d called everyone they could think of and nobody had seen her – Leanne was still not home.

“I’m ringing the police now. This has gone on long enough, Dave, and I’m really worried. Then we’ll drive out to the garden centre and see if we can see anything. Maybe she’s had an accident and is lying in a ditch in the dark. I don’t know, but I can’t sit here and do nothing.”

“Agreed. I’ll give them a call, see what they say. She’s still a minor and this is out of character.” He was dialling as he spoke. When he’d finished speaking with the police, Dave said, “The duty sergeant will organize someone to come round and take a statement He asked us to get a recent photo out ready. They’ll be over shortly.”

Penny was already taking a picture out of a frame that sat on the mantlepiece, one of the few pictures of recent in which Leanne wasn’t wearing her cycling helmet. It had been taken before she headed out to a school dance back in the summer and her sun-kissed face smiled back at Penny. She started to cry.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry, Penny,” said Dave, rushing to put his arms around her. “She’ll be back soon enough. And now the police are involved, it will all be okay. We’ll find her.”

Penny wasn’t convinced by his positivity, but she knew one of them had to be. No sooner had he said the words than there was a knock at the door.

Dave left her to wipe her tears and unlatched the door.

A detective stood on the step.

“Mr Meadows? I’m DC Jack Rutherford. May I come in?” The detective held up his warrant card.

Dave opened the door further and motioned for him to enter. “Thanks for coming,” he said. He closed the door and the two men walked down the hallway to where Penny was now stood. She introduced herself and the three of them sat in the lounge.

“Would you like some tea, Detective?”

“That would be lovely, thanks. No sugar, thanks. Just milk.”

Dave handed over the picture of Leanne.

“It’s from the summer, so not long ago. Is that good enough?”

“Perfect,” said Jack. “When Mrs Meadows comes back, we’ll start from the beginning and I can assess where to take it from here. A family liaison officer will be joining us shortly and will stay with you for a while, okay?”

Penny walked back into the room carrying a tray and caught the tail end of the conversation as she handed Jack a mug of tea.

“Thanks,” he said to her. “Now let’s start from the beginning. Tell me everything you know and then I’ll fill in the gaps with some questions.” Jack had interviewed many parents of missing children in his time and it never got any easier to watch their pain and anguish. The good news, which he immediately shared with them, was that about a third of missing girls Leanne’s age were simply staying out with a mate, inside, safe and warm. Another third made their own way home without the intervention of the police, and another chunk were simply out walking the streets cooling off. It was common for kids in this age group to go missing, in other words, and extremely rare for it to end in tragedy.

There was a comfort for the Meadows in the statistics. But which category did their daughter fall into?

Chapter Nine

Leanne Meadows wasn’t the only child who went missing that cold Monday evening. When Jack returned to the station after talking to Mr and Mrs Meadows, he was surprised to see Eddie at his desk entering a report on his computer.

“No date tonight, Eddie?”

“Nah, got called to a missing person instead.”

“Eh? I’ve just been to one myself. Nobody said anything to me about another misper. Who is it?”

Eddie carried on typing as he spoke. “A twelve-year-old girl, Kate Bryers, didn’t make it back from walking her dog tonight. What’s yours?”

“Similar, actually. A fifteen-year-old girl didn’t make it home from her casual job at the garden centre on Wickham Road. Had a falling out earlier this morning with her parents, so I’m hoping she’s cooling off somewhere. She’s a cyclist, so she was riding home on her bike. Uniforms are retracing her steps as we speak, and I’m off to join in the search. You?”

“Uniforms are door knocking, then same. I’ve called the hospitals. Nothing there, so that’s sort of good news.” Eddie stood and pulled his jacket on. “Right, I’m off. I hope these two aren’t connected. Will you check they don’t know one another and let me know? Of course, if they did and they are hiding out together someplace, that would be ideal. Bring them both home together in time for hot chocolate, eh?”

“Will do,” said Jack as he watched his colleague go. “Not sure why a fifteen-year-old would hang out with a twelve-year-old, though,” he mumbled, half to himself. Still, he pulled up the report for Kate Bryers anyway and scanned it.

“Hmm, she lives not far off the Wickham Road, though. That could be a coincidence – or not.” He picked up the phone to call the FLO who was with the Meadowses.

“Can you see if Mr or Mrs Meadows knows Kate Bryers, age 12?” he asked her. “It seems she’s been reported missing this evening, too, so gently as you go. Let me know when you’ve broached it. She’s a bit young to be hanging out with a fifteen-year-old but maybe Leanne was helping her with something. Or it could be nothing.”

“Will do. Nothing to report here,” the officer replied. They rang off, then Jack grabbed his own coat and went out to his car to join the other officers. He had just about fastened his seatbelt when his phone buzzed again. He flipped it open.

“DC Rutherford,” he said.

“Jack, it’s PC Clarke, about the Leanne Meadows case? We’ve located her bike, we think. Looks like it’s got a flat tyre. On the corner of Wickham Road with Sparrows Lane.”

“I’m on my way over. I’m guessing no sign of her?”

“Correct. There’s a set of gloves here as well as her bike, a backpack with a change of clothes and her phone. Nothing else. Looks like she was attempting to mend the tyre. There’s a new tube as well as the old. We’re securing the area now.”

“Did you say Sparrows Lane?”

“I did. Any reason you ask?”

“Another missing child tonight lives on Sparrows Lane. You’ll see the squad car parked outside, I expect, if you drive down.”

“Now that is weird. You think they’re missing someplace together?”

“I don’t think anything at the moment, apart from what you’ve already stated, but it’s weird. DS Edwards is coordinating that one and will probably coordinate this one too now, same area same night and all. Anyway, I’ll be there shortly.”

He disconnected the call and concentrated on getting out of the car park onto the wet road. Sleet was starting up again, making tiny splodge patterns on the windscreen in front of him. Sleet was usually a good indicator snow was on its way. The bookies would love that, so close to Christmas. It was too cold a night to be outside, that was for sure, and Jack hoped that both Kate and Leanne were keeping warm somewhere safe. His phone rang again, and he struggled it out of his coat pocket.

“DS Rutherford.”

“It’s PC Clarke, Jack. They’re not aware of a connection. Leanne had a small circle of close friends. The rest were all cycling buddies, all around her own age. Sorry.”

“Right-o. Thanks.” He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and cussed. “Shit. That leaves us with no obvious connection. It could be a long, cold night.”

Up ahead, he saw the lights of the squad car on the corner of Wickham and Sparrows Lane and he pulled to a stop a little way before the scene. A crime scene tent had been erected and mobile lights set up, and he spotted two figures in white paper coveralls. All was in hand. The sleet was still falling, and he wished he’d got better footwear on for a grassy ditch inspection. He pulled his coat collar up as far as it would go and stepped out into the cold night, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. If he slipped, he’d have no chance to save himself and end up on his arse for sure.

Better not slip, then.

“What have you got, Clarke?” he asked the PC who was walking towards him. “Anything new?”

“SOCO have photographed and are about done. A couple of officers have questioned the neighbours in Sparrows Lane and talked to the FLO at Kate Bryers’ home. We’ve lifted the bike and the other belongings, so we’ll see if it’s definitely hers. There’s no evidence of a struggle, though there are some strange marks on the loose gravel at the edge of the junction. They look like maybe slip marks, but they’re thin. We’re thinking maybe she had cycling shoes on and slipped for some reason. There are only a couple of them. Other than that, nothing obvious or new to add right now.”

Jack didn’t like what he was hearing – or thinking. “So, Leanne isn’t here. I’m betting those few houses down there haven’t seen her, and there’s two slip marks near her bike. By a busy road. What are the chances she’s accepted a lift with a stranger?”

“Don’t know, but it’s not looking good, is it, Jack?”

“No, Clarke. It’s most definitely not looking good.”

Chapter Ten

Mr and Mrs Bryers were understandably worried sick. Their twelve-year-old daughter was missing, and now another girl was missing, disappeared from the end of the lane. Their heads were filling with all kinds of scenarios. Neither parent had ventured out to work the following morning. Both were too tired, too anxious to concentrate and wanted to stay at home for when Kate returned.

Because she would return. They had to cling to a positive outcome.

They knew the stats, but being so young, Kate was extremely vulnerable. The statistics for her age group were not as positive as for the older girl’s. The only comfort they had was that maybe Kate wasn’t alone. Maybe she was with the older girl, someone they could count on to help bring Kate safely home. At fifteen, she would be a bit more street-smart. But who knew where they might be, or what condition they were in?

If they were, in fact, together.

The FLO was still with them, had stayed with them through the night – not that either of them had slept much. This morning they were all going to meet with Leanne’s parents and try and piece together a connection, some common ground.

The meeting was set for ten that morning, and both Jack and Eddie would be in attendance.

Right now, both detectives were finishing off the morning briefing in the squad room back at the station.

“Before we go to the Bryers’ house, let’s both go to the Meadows’ and relook at Leanne’s room,” Eddie said. “We can also pick up her hairbrush so we’ve got her DNA. At least when it’s lodged in the misper’s system, if anything turns up elsewhere, we’ll know. We’ll do the same at Kate’s home, too. I know it’s early days, but let’s get it done.”

Eddie was in full swing for a change. His sometimes-questionable methods, mixed with hard graft, were what would bring them home, if anything would.

“After this meeting,” Jack added, “I’ve organized to talk to their closest friends, see what shakes loose, see what Kate’s plans were. I have a short list to work from but since school is closed for the holidays, it could be tough to find her wider circle. I’m speaking with her head teacher, though, and she’ll help out. We know what Leanne was doing – on her way home from work – but Kate? I don’t suppose she had her own phone?”

Jack was hopeful, though he suspected she wouldn’t have, given her age. Not many youngsters had a phone in 1999. Not that many adults did.

“That would have been useful, but no, she didn’t,” Eddie said. “Leanne only had one because of her cycling and going off so far and so often. Her parents wanted her to be contactable or to be able to call if she ever got stranded. Shame she hadn’t called last night, eh? We can still follow up with the phone company, though. There could be texts.”

“And I suspect, given those skid marks, there wasn’t time,” Jack said. “I also suspect someone took their chance while she was distracted changing her flat, so Leanne could be anywhere by now if that’s the case. In fact, they both could be. Although, of course, we could still be dealing with two quite separate incidents. Has PR organized a press conference yet?” Jack wanted the word out, the sooner the better.

“I believe so. We need these girls’ pictures on the evening front pages and on the news. I’ll double-check what time. Posters are in hand, too. The rest is legwork. And CCTV won’t be much use until we know what we’re looking for. Both girls were well out of the town centre. Nothing out there filming.”

“Let’s see what the press cough up for us. Somebody must have seen something of either girl. And the fact that we now know Kate was dropped off by her regular lift at the end of her road as usual narrows things down. Two girls from roughly the same spot? I’m wondering if one was premeditated and one an opportunity for whoever – if Leanne was not meant to be a victim. And the more I think about it, I’m wondering if, from her spot in the ditch, she saw something and that’s what made her a part of all this.”

Jack pulled at his upper lip, something he did when deep in thought. Janine had chided him that he should grow a moustache, something else to play with other than his lip. “So, Kate could be the main target, and Leanne was the fly in the ointment they weren’t counting on. That could put her in even more danger then: they won’t want a witness to whatever they have planned. Hell, this gets worse by the minute.”

Eddie didn’t like it either. “Then we first need to figure out why Kate. If we can do that, we should find Leanne.”

“Agreed.”

Eddie addressed the rest of the room as a whole, his voice elevated for all to hear. “Right, everybody, that’s the plan. Let’s figure out why Kate. Talk to your snitches, get the word on the street, find out about locals with a fondness for children like Kate, the fruit loops in the area. I want anyone and everyone with a possible connection to Kate interviewed and drivers on that main Wickham Road spoken to.” Clapping his hands together loudly, he shouted, “Let’s get busy, then!”

Turning to Jack he said, “Right, we’ve got a meeting to attend. No word of this in front of the parents, right?”

“Right-o.”

Chapter Eleven

Leanne was frozen to the marrow. Her cycle clothing wasn’t meant to be warm; it was meant for riding in, not sitting all day in. She rubbed her legs to try and get some warmth into them. Thank goodness she’d been wearing her long-legged pants and not her shorts. She’d have dressed in warmer gear had she known she was going to be abducted, she thought wryly.

Abducted.

Her parents would be going out of their minds with worry and she’d no way of letting them know she was alright. All right but imprisoned. As the man had unceremoniously bundled her into the back of the van, she’d kicked and fought her way to no avail – and gotten a punch to her stomach for her troubles. That punch had bent her over double, disabling her long enough for the men to get her inside the van without any further commotion. When she’d finally raised her head after the winding, she’d noticed she wasn’t alone in the back. A young girl sat crouched in the near darkness, making tiny whimpering sounds. By Leanne’s reckoning, she looked to be about eleven or twelve. But before she could speak to her, one of the men had tied Leanne’s hands together, stuck tape across her mouth and fastened her to the back of one of their seats by some sort of leather restraint. The young girl had already been restrained in the same way. Then the van had driven off. Not a word had been said by anyone.

Leanne was a smart girl for her age, and a strong one from racing regularly with both male and female riders. But it wasn’t her physical strength she pulled on inside that van – the leather restraints were more than her match. Rather, she instead turned her attention to the situation at hand, drawing on the focus she’d learned over her years of competition. There was no way to turn her head and see through the windscreen – she’d tried her hardest, straining her peripheral vision – so she began to listen carefully to figure out where they might be going. By her estimation, they’d travelled on a motorway; the traffic noises and continual speed of the van told her that much. But whether they had travelled north or south, she’d no way of knowing. She had heard aeroplanes flying low overhead, meaning an airport was nearby, but it could be Heathrow, Gatwick, or Stanstead, all of which were in different directions.

After a time, the traffic had eased, the van slowed, and the outside sounds had died away. She’d wondered if they were in the countryside. They’d driven for about an hour, and neither of the men had uttered a word. When they’d eventually stopped, a bag had been placed over her head as she was led outside, the cold biting through the thin fabric of her clothes, her cycling shoes making walking difficult as they made their way up some stairs to the room where she was now.

The first thing that had hit her was the smell. It was stale, as if the windows hadn’t been opened in years and whoever lived there hadn’t washed during that time either. The room was dimly lit and there was a faint smell of urine. She knew the other girl she’d arrived with had been a few steps behind her – she had heard her tiny whimpers – and had been taken past her doorway, presumably to another room. When the man had taken the bag off her head, she saw that he and his partner both wore black balaclavas. Leanne figured that was a good sign: if they weren’t showing her their faces, they weren’t intent on killing her.

She hoped.

They left her as quickly as they’d deposited her. As she lay on the sagging single bed with no more than a thin blanket for warmth, she concentrated on locking the details and events so far into her head, ready for when she was safe again and asked to give a description. When she was safe, she told herself. Not if. She was skilled at staying positive, even during the worst parts of a race when the pain reached critical and she still had a way to go. Her racing mantra played in her head now: “I give myself permission to win. I give myself permission to win . . .”

She pulled on that inner strength now, because she knew if she didn’t she wouldn’t survive it. How she wished with all her heart she was with her parents now and she could take back the row they’d had that morning about Christmas Day. It all seemed so trivial now.

I’ll be back for Christmas Day.

Nothing had happened since her arrival; that now seemed like an age ago. and since she was not wearing a watch, she’d already begun to lose track of time. Without a window to the outside world, she had no way of seeing whether it was day or night. The place was silent; there were no sounds of trains passing nearby or aeroplanes above. There’d been nothing whatsoever since she entered the small, dim space. Either she was in the middle of nowhere, deep in the countryside, maybe, or she was deep inside something else, a room in a much larger building possibly. The only way out of the room was through the door she’d entered by – and that was kept locked.

I’ll be back for Christmas Day, she told herself.

Christmas Day was her goal. If she was going to get out of the room alive and well, that alone would keep her going – she had to have something.

The sound of the door being unlocked brought her back to the present, all senses on high alert. Leanne sat up quickly against the wall, holding her breath, and waited for whoever it was to enter.

It was a young woman.

Her long, lank hair spilled over her face, which was equally grubby; her eyes barely lifted from the floor. She was carrying a tray of food – Leanne’s first meal. She watched as the woman locked the door behind her again, taking no chances Leanne might bolt. Taking the woman in, Leanne relaxed a little and let the wind back out of her lungs as the woman placed the tray on the end of the bed. She was not much more than skin and bone, Leanne noted, no match for a strong fifteen-year-old girl, Leanne thought.

“Your food. Eat.” It wasn’t much more than a whisper, but with an accent, though Leanne wasn’t sure from where. Eastern European perhaps?

“Where am I?” she tried, but the woman did not reply. “Please, I need to know.”

“Eat. No more food.”

“Please! Tell me where I am!” But the woman was already hurrying back to the door. Leanne leapt off the bed and started after her but someone must have been listening in and was ready with a key to unlock the door on the other side. It opened rapidly and the woman disappeared back through it, the key turning before Leanne reached it. She threw herself against it and began banging with her fists, screaming to be let out, her racing mantra forgotten as she sobbed for her mum and dad.

Her sobs died in her throat as a woman’s scream sounded on the other side of the door.

Chapter Twelve

Leanne froze. Was it the woman who had just been in her room, or someone else? Maybe there were other girls and women being held here. Maybe it had been the little girl from the van.

She turned to the tray of food. The bowl of once-hot orange soup tasted like it had come from a packet. A stale bread roll accompanied it. Leanne hadn’t eaten since late lunch at the garden centre, so ripped the stale bread into pieces, soaked them in the soup, and grimly began to eat. If she was going to keep her strength up, she had to eat something. She hoped and prayed the food was safe and not full of sedative – or worse. Shame they’d given her only a plastic spoon and not a metal one, a possible weapon.

There was nothing else on the tray save for a glass of water, which she drank down; she was not really thirsty, but it would fill her stomach. At least they might let her out to use the toilet and she could gain some valuable insight into what was on the other side of her door.

Several hours after she’d eaten her soup and bread, she heard a key in the door again. She sat bolt upright, back to the wall, both eyes focused on the door as it opened into the room.

This time the visitor was a man.

And he wasn’t wearing a balaclava. That wasn’t a good sign.

Her stomach rolled. Did that now mean she wasn’t going to get out alive, or that they had no plans to ever release her? Was he one of the ones from earlier, or another? Her bottom lip began to quiver in panic as the man approached the bed, his eyes never leaving hers. Leanne held his stare, fighting to keep herself calm. He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his ample weight, and smiled slowly, a smile that rolled her stomach again, threatening to bring the orange soup back up into the room like a hosepipe. He wore a dated comb-over that tried its best to cover a balding scalp; his stomach hung over his shell suit bottoms where his stained T-shirt couldn’t reach, like raw sausage meat spilling over a mixing bowl. It was the same pinkish colour. Leanne swallowed hard as the man reached a fat, fleshy hand out towards her thigh, watching her all the time. then pulled back at the last minute as Leanne screwed her eyes tight shut in anticipation of contact. Then the man did something she hadn’t expected – he laughed at her. She opened her eyes but didn’t say a word.

“Relax, you’re not my type. Too big, too old,” he said mockingly.

Leanne understood exactly what he meant but forced herself to speak, willing her voice to sound strong and even.

“What am I doing here? Where am I?”

“You are a fly in the ointment. But I dare say you could be a useful one, though I’m not sure how or where yet. You don’t need to know anything more.”

“What about the other girl that was in the van, where is she?”

“Ah, now she was part of the plan, a young chrysalis waiting to become a glorious butterfly one day.” His smile played with the orange soup inside of her and she swallowed hard to control it.

“Is she here too?”

“Oh, yes. But you won’t be seeing her again.” He rose up as if he was done, had said what he came to say, though really there had been nothing.

“I need to use the toilet.” She was grasping at straws.

“I’m sure you do, but you’ll have to wait – or do it in the corner.”

“In what, my soup bowl?” she said sarcastically, unable to help herself.

The man’s hand whipped out and landed a stinging slap across her face. “Yes, I guess you will,” he said calmly. He smiled as she rubbed her face. “You’ll soon learn how to behave so we all get along.”

Leanne watched in silence as he walked back to the door and left the room. She heard sound of the lock reengaging on the other side.

All alone again, she let the floodgates open into the stale pillow so they wouldn’t hear her. Leanne at fifteen wasn’t as strong as she thought she was.

Chapter Thirteen

Chloe had always been sporty, had always enjoyed the limelight when she romped home across the finishing line first or second. School sports day had always been her favourite part of the term. She must have been in the front of the queue when long lean legs and power had been handed out. Chloe loved her athletics and even though the sports centre was nowhere near her home, she made do with the running track she’d created for herself on the quieter back streets of Manchester. It gave her the outlet she needed as a teenager. Like many girls her age, she carried the world’s troubles on her shoulders – albeit her own small world.

Then one day her world had erupted like a volcano. At first, she’d put the heavy morning sickness down to anything but the suspicion she was pregnant. But soon reality had set in, and as her pregnancy progressed, her clothing style changed to a much looser look. But still, neither of her parents had noticed that their daughter was knocked up. And that suited Chloe, because if nobody noticed and spoke of it, she wasn’t pregnant – was she?

Except she was.

And not through any misdeed of her own. While her friends from the estate often sported bruises on their faces and arms, the abuse Chloe was dealt at her mother’s hands was far worse: night after night, for as long as she could remember, her mother would give her a glass of sedative-laced milk at bedtime and let grubby strangers into her young daughter’s room to have their way with her.

And that was how the pregnancy had come about – and how Chloe’s mother had found out about it: a punter had expressed his displeasure at her growing belly and had told Chloe’s parents he wouldn’t be back. No longer a money-making machine, Chloe arrived home one day after school to find her bag packed and a note on the kitchen table telling her they had moved to Scotland to take up a new job and she wasn’t going with them.

There was £200 in an envelope to help her get settled somewhere. “Stay with one of your mates in the meantime,” the note said. It had been in her mother’s handwriting, and not even a kiss or good luck at the end of it.

She’d stayed the first couple of nights at a friend’s place until the girl’s parents had asked her to leave; they didn’t want someone cluttering up their sofa, they said. So, she’d decided to thumb it and catch a ride south to the bright lights of London. Her lift had taken her almost to the City centre, where she’d got the tube the rest of the way in, figuring the centre would be where it was at.Whatever ‘it’ was.

Kings Cross had been her home on that first night, and she swore it wouldn’t be on the second. She’d moved on to Croydon the following day, where she had wandered the streets aimlessly until she’d all but collapsed outside a small café. The owner had made her some tea and toast. If it hadn’t been for Roy taking pity on her, who knows where she would have ended up, and with whom.

She’s been allowed to sleep on Roy’s sofa for a whole week, no strings, and he had helped her find a place at a women’s refuge where she could stay until the baby was born. After that, the worker told her, the council would find her and her baby a more permanent place to live. Naturally, they had thought she was older than she was, and when they talked about foster homes, Chloe had scarpered quick smart. With less than £200 to her name now and no way of earning anything, she knew it was going to be tough and had braced herself to be ready. Roy had told her she could pop in occasionally for tea and toast, but that was all he could offer. Now, she had to make it her own way – on her own, broke and her baby due to make its entrance at any moment. Until it arrived, she’d manage.

And so, on a freezing cold night a few days before Christmas, she gave birth outside Selhurst train station in a dingy, draughty doorway. No one had bothered to stop and see what all the noise was about; everyone was in too much of a hurry to get home and out of the cold.

Folks were only ever concerned about themselves.

Chapter Fourteen

Chloe was at Roy’s, a habit she couldn’t shake, though she didn’t really want to. There were only a couple of people in her world now, and Roy was one of them. The other was an older lad called Billy whom she’d met at a soup kitchen one evening a couple of weeks or so; they’d kept each other company for a couple of hours. His ‘place,’ which was where he stored his few belongings, was in an unused garage on Pitt Street that belonged to an old lady who allowed him to squat there as long as he was quiet. It wasn’t far from the train station and was one of the few houses that had a garage, though most people parked on the street these days. Chloe had stayed with him a few nights, as mates, and they were careful not to let the old lady notice, nor the neighbours, for fear she’d throw them both out. The old side door entrance was useful in that respect, and they were careful to come and go when the street was quiet. But it was relatively safe and dry, and Billy had turned out to be a good friend as Chloe adjusted to life living rough. He also knew about the baby, though Chloe had threatened him with death should he tell anyone about her leaving it in the church porch.

Nobody else knew.

“So, when do I get to meet Billy, then?” Roy asked as he placed another mug of tea in front of Chloe.

She wrapped her hands around it for comfort. “You want to meet him? Why?”

“I don’t know, really. Make sure he’s suitable?” Roy was smiling as he said it and Chloe giggled a little, like the child she really was.

“He’s suitable to be a friend, and he’s nice. You’ll like him for sure.”

“Well, next time you call in, bring him for tea and toast too. I’m sure he’d appreciate it. It’s been bitter these last few days.”

“Thanks, Roy. He would appreciate it. I didn’t want to take advantage of your generosity; otherwise, you’d have a shop full of homeless people queuing up.”

“I can’t feed everyone, but I can look out for you, I’m sure. Which reminds me – I’ve some extra blankets for you. I had a clear-out so they’re yours if you want them.”

“Thanks. They’ll come in handy.”

Roy sat down for a moment, and it was plain to see he had something on his mind. He spoke in a low voice, though there was no one else in the café to overhear anyway.

“Listen, Chloe. I couldn’t help but notice you’ve lost weight – quite a lot, actually. Only there was a story on the news a couple of nights ago saying a baby had been found abandoned on the steps of a church. I wondered if perhaps you’ve been pregnant and it was yours?”

Chloe dropped her head, unable to meet Roy’s eyes. Should she tell him the truth? Could she trust him with such a secret, a man she’d only known for a handful of weeks?

He tried again. “It’s okay if it was. The baby is safe and well, by the way. I saw it on the news. Only I thought you might need some medical attention too.”

“I’m fine!” It came out too fast and too loud. Shit. She’d given the game away. “Now look what you’ve made me do!” She stood in a hurry, slopping tea over the tabletop. “You can’t tell anyone – promise me, Roy!”

“Your secret is safe with me, Chloe, but let me take you to a health clinic. They don’t have to know who you are, but they can check you out. You don’t want an infection, now, do you? There are places you can get help. Just to be sure.”

She sat back down, a sulk on her young face, a face that was trying to be more grown-up than she felt at that moment.

Barely audible, she said, “I’m fine, Roy, really I am. But thanks. I can’t risk this coming out, that it was me. I didn’t do it lightly, you know.” Tears started to fall; Chloe was powerless to stop them.

“I can’t imagine how hard it must have been,” Roy said gently, “but it was probably for the best until you get on your feet. Are you still in touch with the father? Does he know?”

“No, I’m not, and I don’t want to talk about it!” Chloe snapped. She wasn’t about to answer questions about who the father was; it was too painful to think about. And she didn’t know anyway.

Roy backed off and was quiet. After a moment, he took her hand in his. She snatched it away and wrung both hands together in her lap, the tears still streaming down her face.

“Sorry, Chloe,” said Roy, abashed. “I’m sorry for bringing it all up and upsetting you.” He changed the subject. “Look, why don’t I grab the blankets and drop them at the end of your road by the bus stop. Perhaps you and Billy could pick them up from there in, say, two hours? Then you don’t have to carry them all the way. And while I grab them, take a hot pie for each of you. I’ll be closing soon anyway, and they’ll only go in the bin.”

Chloe knew they wouldn’t have; Roy would have them for his evening meal later. But since he was offering. . . She nodded.

It was warming to know that someone cared about her, even if they were almost a stranger. She’d take that.

Chapter Fifteen

“Your friend Roy must be a good sort. These extra blankets are magic while it’s this cold,” said Billy, as he and Chloe sat huddled in their makeshift home together under the new blankets. The two of them had made their hot pies last, relishing the warm tasty gravy as they chatted, a torch between them for lighting. It was far from ideal, but compared to what some others had who slept rough, it was deluxe accommodation.

“He is, isn’t he? I expect he gets a bit lonely all on his own, has time to help others that drift by, like me. He reminds me a bit of Roy Cropper off Corry. My mum used to watch it. He’s a gentle soul, too.” Chloe licked the last of the gravy off her fingers, wishing she had another pie to follow, but there was only a sliced loaf on offer. It would have to do. “Want a piece of bread?”

“No, I’ll save mine for breakfast, thanks. Which reminds me, how much money have you got left? Enough for food tomorrow?”

Chloe wrestled her purse out from under the blankets and Billy opened his wallet. They pooled all the money they had between them on the candlewick spread that, in its day, had probably been a pretty shade of pink. Chloe wondered why Roy might have had a pink bedspread at one stage; it wasn’t exactly a single man’s colour. Maybe he’d married at one time, or had had a woman friend. She busied herself counting the coins and the couple of notes.

“We have a grand total of thirty-six pounds and forty-two pence, so we can eat for a few more days if we keep it frugal, but that bit will soon run out. I think I should start begging again tomorrow – what do you think? I hate nicking stuff. It’s not right.”

“Nicking is quicker, though. It’s too cold for you to sit out begging, and the shoppers that are out have their minds on present lists, not people like you and me. Meagre offerings at this time of year.” The thought of Christmas made him smile. “What wouldn’t you do for a place at a Christmas feast? All those hot roast potatoes, chicken legs and lashings of gravy. What heaven, eh?”

Chloe had to admit it sounded good. “There will be a dinner somewhere though, won’t there? I mean at the soup kitchen? Or one of the shelters?”

“Yeah, there will be, and we’ll queue up like the rest and enjoy it, but it won’t be a patch on what my old gran used to make. She made the best roast spuds this side of Watford.”

“Well, I’m going to find myself a dry doorway tomorrow and make myself comfy and see what we can get,” Chloe went on. “If we can get twenty pounds, that will give us a buffer; then we can buy some toothpaste and a brush. My mouth tastes disgusting most of the time, plus a shower wouldn’t go amiss either. I’m going to the shelter tomorrow, see if they’ll let me in and get clean.”

“I’d go in the morning rather than when it’s dark again – far safer. Be good to have a mobile shower unit, eh? One that parks at the end of our street?” Billy was back to dreaming. He’d been on the street way too long.

“Billy, you really live in a land of hope, don’t you?” she chided him. She finished the last of her slice of bread then gathered their bit of money back into their purses. They never stored all the money in the same place. Personal robberies were too common and they couldn’t risk someone else getting their hands on it all. It was their bit of lifeline and all they had.

“You seemed a bit upset when you came back from Roy’s,” said Billy. “Did something happen?” Billy had wanted to broach the subject earlier but decided it was best to give her the space he’d quickly learned she needed. Now seemed like a better time: she had food in her stomach and they were both relaxing in relative warmth. In the low light of the torch, he noticed her drop her head at the mention of meeting Roy. Gently he prodded her again. “A problem shared and all…?”

Taking a deep breath, she said, “Roy knows about my baby. He put my sudden weight loss and the abandoned baby in the news together and asked me, and I gave the game away like a fool. Now someone else knows,” she said despondently, but what was done was done. “He said he won’t tell anyone, but he wanted me to get checked out somewhere. Well, it’ll be obvious the baby was mine. I bet they don’t have too many getting checked after giving birth that don’t go through the regular channels. Someone’s bound to be suspicious.”

“Surely they won’t tell if you ask them not to? Privacy and all – doesn’t that count?”

“Maybe abandoning your baby is an offence. I don’t know. I never looked it up. Remember, Billy, I stupidly ignored what was going on, hoping it would go away, and it didn’t. I had to give birth that day, ready or not, and I knew I couldn’t keep her, so I did what I had to. Whoever takes her home from the hospital will do a whole lot better than I could in this mess, and I’m not going to prison for wanting better for my girl. It’s not like her dad could have taken over.”

Billy’s ears pricked up at the mention of the baby’s dad. It was the first time she’d mentioned him. When she didn’t elaborate, he left it be.

Chloe was quiet for a moment, then said, “I wonder how she’s doing, what they’ve called her.”

Placing a comforting arm around her shoulder, Billy leaned in and said, “This close to Christmas, I expect they’ve called her Mary.”

“Mary.” She tried the name out. It was appropriate, and she hoped someone was looking over her, keeping her safe, giving a better life than her own had been. “I like that. Mary. At least I can refer to her with a name now.”

Billy squeezed her shoulder gently. If Mary gave Chloe comfort, then that was a good thing.

Chapter Sixteen

It was every officer’s nightmare when children went missing, mainly because they knew the statistics on a child ending up safe and well. If they hadn’t wandered home of their own accord within the first few hours, it meant something more sinister was at play. In the case of Leanne Meadows, it seemed to Jack and Eddie that they were looking at possible abduction. The skid marks at the side of the road strongly suggested that something had gone wrong while she’d been changing her flat. The fact that Kate Bryers had also gone missing at around the same time and from the same location pointed to a connection between the two cases.

Eddie and Jack were on their way back from interviewing some of Kate’s friends in their homes; all the children were home for Christmas holidays now, meaning they couldn’t simply interview them as a group in the school gymnasium as was usually done. Unfortunately, nothing helpful had come out of any of the conversations, only tears and distress for their missing friend.

“Why was someone so young even out in the lane at night in the dark?” asked Jack. “There are no street lamps along there. Couldn’t her parents have taken the damn dog for a pee themselves?”

“It was all part of her responsibility, one of her chores. No different to other kids, I suppose, but with hindsight, it seems a bit risky. But then no one ever expects their child to be abducted, and that’s what we’re saying has happened,” Eddie said.

“Do you think they’re together?”

“Probably, though I’m still thinking Leanne was in the wrong place at the wrong time, what with the puncture and all. I only hope that if they are being kept together, they are able to comfort one another until we can find them. Wherever they are. I must admit, we have zip to work with; no one has seen a thing.” Eddie looked as despondent as he sounded as they turned into the station yard.

“Do you think it’s sex-related, that paedophiles have taken them?” Jack asked.

“Had it only been Kate missing, I’d say it could be, though there is no direct evidence to that effect. But Leanne would be too old, wouldn’t she?”

“Depends on the customer’s taste, I suppose. It’s a dark world behind some folks’ closed doors. Human trafficking doesn’t discriminate, and includes all age groups, not only children. But I agree: on the surface, we’ve said she was in the wrong place, not the target. When will forensics have something? There must be at least a tyre track to work with, or a cigarette butt.”

“I’m hoping for something later today. I’ve tried to push a favour through.” Eddie turned and smiled at Jack. Jack grinned back. He knew how Eddie worked, particularly with one of the women who worked in the labs.

“Oh? What have you promised her this time?”

“A curry out at that new place on the high street.”

“Don’t suppose you want me to come along for a threesome?” Jack was only teasing. His ideal night was a curry in front of the TV with Janine.

“Bugger off. No way!”

Eddie shut off the engine and he and Jack jumped out and hurried towards the back entrance where a uniformed officer was braving the cold and finishing his cigarette on his break. Ice-cold rain had been pelting down all morning and showed little sign of stopping. The sky was heavy and leaden grey. It was no weather to be outside in, thought Jack as he brushed rain droplets of his coat.

“Coffee to warm up, then I’ll give the lab a buzz, see if I can’t work my charm,” said Eddie. As they walked through to the squad room and the coffee cupboard, Jack heard his name being called from behind. He turned to see Clarke about to catch him up.

“What’s up, Clarke?”

“You had a call from the DNA lab. Apparently, you were asking them about a new DNA test? Here’s the number to call to speak to someone directly. You need to ask for Barbara Winstanley. She’s the scientist working with it, fam something or other. No doubt she’ll explain it.” Jack took the yellow Post-It Note and looked at it before grunting his thanks and following Eddie into the cupboard. The kettle was coming to the boil.

“What’s all that about?” Eddie asked.

“Ah, it may be nothing, but I thought I’d give it a go. It’s for the abandoned baby case. I’ll let you know if it comes to anything.”

“Not a lot to do there, is there? The baby will go to a foster home and be adopted, right?”

“Yeah, but it would be nice to find a parent for the little mite, don’t you think?”

“And how are we going to do that?”

“Well, nothing came up from the report on the evening news, but there is a DNA test that I’m looking into. Hence this message.” Jack flashed the yellow note. “I’ll let you know what comes of it.”

“Don’t go wasting your time, Jack. We’ve two missing children out there. Baby is safe for now, probably better off where she is than with the woman that dumped her. Now, am I pouring you a coffee or not?”

Jack knew when he was being silenced on a subject and nodded for coffee. But there was no way he was going to forget the little one. If he could find a way to figure it out, he’d do it in his own time if need be. He knew from experience that when an officer discovered a baby abandoned, it stayed with them most of their lives; they were always wondering. And while he wasn’t the one who had handed her in, he had been the one on duty that day and had gone to the hospital and seen the tiny bundle with his own eyes. That made him her tenuous guardian in his mind, and he’d do what he could. Taking the steaming mug back to his desk, he picked up the phone and dialled the number, hoping Barbara Winstanley was available to talk.

He was glad he’d called her.

Chapter Seventeen

What Dr Winstanley had told him had given Jack hope, though that hope was balancing precariously on a seesaw of protocol and data. Still, there was a chance. Thanks to science so new it wasn’t even officially available yet, it seemed there was a possibility of finding out who the baby’s parents were. While Jack knew the baby’s mother would have her own reasons for abandoning her infant, he also knew she might want to make contact with the child in the months or years ahead. He also knew that the child herself might want to find out who her natural parents were when she was old enough.

There was a small gift shop in the lobby of the hospital, offering helium balloons, small bouquets of cheap carnations and chrysanthemums in plastic funnels filled with water, and an array of greeting cards spinning on a swivel stand. Jack considered taking the baby a balloon, but “Congratulations!” seemed inappropriate for a small being that had been wrapped in an old coat and left to fend for itself alone. He picked up a small pink stuffed rabbit and went to pay the cashier.

“Congratulations. Your first?” she enquired.

Her assumption flummoxed him for a moment, and then he replied simply, “She’s not mine, actually.”

“Shivers, I’m so sorry. I just assumed…”

“I know. Don’t worry.” He smiled briefly to show there were no hard feelings and took his change along with the rabbit, heading to the maternity floor and the special care baby unit.

He was heartened to see the ward sister, Monica, was on duty as he buzzed for entry. She waved as she walked towards him. With a click of the door, he slipped inside.

“Hello again, Detective. Have you some news for us? I’m assuming your visit is about the baby that was found?”

Jack fiddled with the rabbit in his hands then remembered he needed to hand it over. “I thought I’d drop by and see how’s she doing, bring her this.” He proffered the pink toy and Monica took it from him, petting its head lightly as she did so. “But as for news, we have nothing yet, I’m afraid. You probably saw the news?”

“Yes, we all did. Sad, isn’t it? Though she’s quite well enough to go on to a foster home now, no damage done. She’s only in here because of the circumstances and the need for extra security. Social services will be taking her later today, in fact.”

“May I see her, please?” Jack wasn’t entirely sure why he wanted to, but something was pulling at his conscience. “Does she have a name?”

“Of course you may, and yes, we figured since it’s almost Christmas, the staff chose something appropriate – we’ve called her Mary. It seemed apt.”

“Mary. That’s nice. And yes, festive too.” He followed Monica over to a cot at the end, where a little bundle wrapped in pink lay alone. She gurgled in her sleep, looking warm and healthy like any other newborn baby with a full tummy in a warm, safe place. A bubble broke from her tiny mouth and another formed behind it. Her left leg kicked up and down on the small mattress. Jack’s heart ached for a moment as he watched.

“Hello, Mary. I’m Jack,” he said gently, waving a couple of his fingers at her. Welcome to the human race …. “I’ve brought you a bunny.” Monica handed it back to him and he tucked it at the corner of Mary’s cot so she’d see it when she woke up. More bubbles came and went as he watched over her, but he said nothing more, content to be in her company for a while.

“I’ll leave you for a moment. I must get on. Come and see me before you leave if you would,” said Monica. Then she was gone.

Jack pulled up a chair and sat by Mary’s cot, just watching her. Janine and he couldn’t have children, though they had wanted them. Janine had been devastated when the news had come that the problem had been with her, but they’d got through the rough days and the tears, had both pulled through in the end.

Like Mary was now, being strong.

Still, it didn’t stop the longing that they both still felt on occasion, occasions such as these when new babies came into their lives via friends and family. No, it still hurt like hell.

“I’ve come to tell you something, Mary. I am going to try my absolute hardest to find your mum, I promise. There’s a new test, you see, and if your mummy or daddy is in our system for some reason, we might be able to figure something out with some new science.” More bubbles, and then another gurgle followed by a half cry.

“Hey, shhh, shhh,” he soothed, not wanting to disturb her. He kept his voice gentle and low, as people do for the very young who are asleep. “I’ll see if we can get permission, eh? See what we can find out, who your mummy is. Will that be alright?” Another half cry, followed by a full one that caught the attention of Monica. He felt her behind him.

“She’s due her lunch. Probably hungry,” Monica said, and Jack took it as his cue to leave her.

“She’s a delight, isn’t she? I wish I could take her home myself. Anyway, there’s a new test I’ll need to get the relevant permission for, to see if we can trace her parents. It’s a long shot, but worth a try. What time are social services coming for her?”

“Not until about four o’clock, I think. Why?”

“I’ll need to take a swab from her mouth, gather a sample of her DNA. Hopefully, I can get the paperwork out of the way before she leaves. But if you wouldn’t mind, not a word to anyone; not yet, anyway.”

“If you say so. Not my business, and as long as everything is in order with Mary and her welfare, that’s all I care about. Might see you later, then.” Jack thanked her and headed to the door as Mary picked up volume behind him.

There was plenty to be done. Now all he had to do was find her mum.

Chapter Eighteen

After his conversation with Dr Winstanley, Jack needed some luck on his side. From what she’d told him, it was possible though barely out of trial mode. Jack was filled with optimism and had a spring in his step as he approached the office of his DI, Will Morton.

As usual, Morton’s head was firmly fixed in the racing pages as he ate his sandwiches, ham and cheese with mustard pickle. There was a yellow blob in the corner of his mouth. It was the same filling every day. On Fridays, he had a packet of ready salted alongside. DI Morton was a creature of habit.

It was probably about time he retired, many thought. His heart was already somewhere else, namely the Scottish Glens with a bottle of malt and his Red Setter close by. Still, he needed to give another two years to get his full pension entitlement and that meant a half-baked focus on many of the cases he oversaw. The brass would have been better off putting him on traffic duty and freeing up his spot for someone with a bit more go in them. But Morton was well liked, just ineffectual. Eddie, desperate to rise in the ranks and up his pay grade himself, had often vented his frustration but discovered it was a pointless exercise, as the DI’s boss preferred to leave the status quo in place. Rumours had developed behind Morton’s back that he had something on the chief inspector, something that enabled him to sit comfortably until it was time to retire, though nothing had ever been proven. Still, it rankled Eddie. Jack, for his part, couldn’t care less as long as he was left to get his own work done. He preferred to be a detective rather than climb the ladder and be a pencil pusher.

Jack rapped his knuckles on the open door and, without looking up, Morton said, “Come in, Jack.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I’m a detective, not a fool. Plus, I saw you approach, so seeing you kind of gave the game away.” He spoke in a monotone, as he always did. There was never any energy in the man, and Jack often wondered if anything ever got Morton excited, anything at all. He pitied Mrs Morton.

“Right, yes. I can see how seeing me might help,” he said drily. “Anyway, I need your signature on something, if I may. It’s for the abandoned baby case. I’m hoping to find the mother, make sure she’s okay too.”

“You are aware abandoning your baby is a custodial offence, aren’t you, Jack?” Morton still hadn’t lifted his head from the racing post.

“That I am, sir, but in extenuating circumstances, like other crimes, we have some discretion, and that’s why I want to take it further. If she’s a young lass, she may be scared. She may have come from a broken home or worse, so until we see, my concern is merely to find out what happened. So I need your signature for a new kind of test.”

Finally, Morton looked up. “What is this test?”

“Glad you asked. It’s called familial DNA testing, and rather than checking for an exact match, it checks for close family member matches. It’s based on the assumption that people who share a large number of genetic markers are likely to be closely related, so if we have either parent already in the system, it could throw out some possibilities. Or even their parents could give us something, another generation of DNA. It’s brand new, sir. Janine heard about it on a news story on the radio, and I spoke to one of the researchers earlier.”

“Well, if it’s so new, does it stand up in court?”

“Doubt it at this stage, but at least it could help with the first aspect of finding Mum, eh? Do I have your permission?”

Morton wiped the yellow pickle stain away with his handkerchief. He sat up properly, looking at Jack.

“Why the interest in this case, Jack? Haven’t you got enough to be doing with two missing children out there only days before Christmas? Don’t you want them home opening their presents on Christmas morning, all nice and safe and snug? Because I know I do.” Morton’s face resembled that of a maths teacher quizzing a student who didn’t know the answer to a basic problem. He was going a bit pink around the edges. Undeterred, Jack stood his ground.

“I do, of course, but this child also deserves to be safe and snug on Christmas Day with someone who loves her. I’ll do it in my own time, if that’s what you want. I’m intent on helping her any way I can, so please, will you sign this form to allow the test to go through or not?” Jack could hear his tone change and he corrected himself quickly, not wanting Morton to get uptight about it. He needed his signature, after all.

“Let me look, then,” Morton conceded, and Jack passed the document over, waiting nervously for Morton to take his pen and sign. After a heavy sigh, Morton scrawled his name across the signature section, handed it back, and stuck his nose back in the racing post.

“Keep me updated.”

Jack was dismissed, it seemed. Containing his desire to smile until he’d left the room, Jack went straight to the fax machine and dug in his pocket for the yellow note that he’d written the number on. The familiar dialing tone sounded as he waited for the machine to connect, then he watched as the page was slowly sucked through the machine. In a matter of moments, his message would be on Dr Winstanley’s desk. Now all he had to do was get the child’s DNA on a swab and get it off to the lab, and that meant getting back to baby Mary before 4 pm when she would be taken into care. He checked his watch: plenty of time, but still, he’d go now and get it done. No sense leaving it until the eleventh hour.

Grabbing his coat, he headed out, shouting over his shoulder to Eddie that he’d be back in an hour.

Chapter Nineteen

Sister Monica Johnson was waiting for him when he arrived on the ward.

“What’s going on? Have you found something?”

“Not quite, but I’m hopeful of a bit more to go on soon. In the meantime, I need a swab from baby Mary, from inside her mouth. Are you able to do it for me, please?”

Jack was almost breathless with excitement, and Monica picked up on his vibe. “Er, yes. Do you have the kit with you?”

Jack removed it from his coat pocket. It was nothing more than a long cotton bud enclosed in a plastic tube with a lid and label on it. He’d already filled the details out, though without a surname.

“I’ll only be a minute. Please wait here.” Jack watched as Monica made her way to back to Mary’s cot at the end of the ward. A moment later he had the sample in his hands.

“Still no news since you were last here? Nothing from the security cameras, I’m guessing?” she asked him.

“Unfortunately, that’s correct, but now I have this.” He raised the thin tube in his hand. “I’m hoping the gods are smiling on us and we start to get somewhere.” He gave her his brightest, most encouraging smile, thanked her again and turned to leave the hospital once more.

By the end of the day baby Mary would be taken by yet another stranger and placed with a foster parent until her future could be decided up. It was probably a good thing the poor little mite knew little of how much her life was being directed from behind closed doors by yet more complete strangers. It wasn’t the best start to life, but as a foundling, she had little choice. Someone had to make the decisions.

Jack hurried to his car, pulling up his collar against the sleet. He needed to get the tube over to the lab so they could start work on it, and with Christmas holidays about to start, he didn’t want to waste another precious moment. He was hoping someone might take pity on the case and bump the job up the queue. Unlike Eddie, Jack relied on good manners and conscience to get what he wanted. He was hoping Dr Barbara Winstanley would appreciate his way of doing things.

He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. He’d felt on the edge of a cold for a couple of days and was anxious to keep it at bay and enjoy Christmas without being ill. Perhaps a hot toddy and a soak in a hot bath later would help. At the lab, he braced himself against the icy air as he dashed across the wet tarmac towards the front entrance. The glass doors opened automatically and he gathered himself in the lobby. The receptionist at the solitary desk looked bored.

“Soon be Christmas,” he said, smiling at her, but she didn’t look convinced that it would change anything.

“Who are you here to see?”

“Dr Winstanley, but I’m happy to go up to her. She doesn’t need to be bothered coming down,” he said, giving her another winning smile.

“Sorry. Can’t do that, since we’re a lab and all.”

Jack was tempted to exclaim ‘No shit,’ but refrained, again. Manners.

“Who shall I tell her is here?”

“DC Jack Rutherford.”

He waited while she made the call.

“I have a DC Jack Rutherford here to see you.” Try as he might, he couldn’t tell what was being said at the other end. After a moment, she rang off and glanced back up at him. “She’ll be right down. Please take a seat.”

Jack smiled at her again, but declined the seat offer and instead leaned against the wall by the lift, supposing Dr Winstanley would make her entrance from there. He wasn’t disappointed. The lift pinged its arrival; she must have come straight down after she’d gotten off the phone.

As the doors opened, Jack did a double take. The woman in front of him nothing like what he’d been expecting, but he instinctively knew it was her. She held her outstretched hand in front of her as she stepped into the foyer.

“We meet at last, Detective Rutherford. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

Nice, and articulate too, thought Jack.

“Indeed, and yours too. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

Her bright-blue eyes twinkled as he spoke, and Jack idly wondered if she was wearing coloured contact lenses, but since the rest of her was equally as beautiful, he figured not. Her hair was styled in a short blonde bob that accentuated her fine features, and her pale pink lips were almost as mesmerizing as her eyes. In short, she was a natural beauty, which confirmed in his mind that those blue eyes were for real. Jack dragged his mind back to more important thoughts and stuttered for a moment, words jostling for order before he spoke again.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about baby Mary on the news?”

“I have.”

“Well, this is her DNA,” he said, holding the tube out, “and about all we have to go on. I’m hoping this will work.” Jack flashed his best smile yet again, and Dr Winstanley returned one of her own.

Then, tilting her head to one side she asked, “She’s special to you somehow, isn’t she?”

Taken aback, he replied, “Um, yes, I suppose she is. It’s obvious, then, is it? I must try harder.”

“Yes, and no. I mean yes, I can see it, but no, don’t try harder. You shouldn’t have to hide it. The little one has you on her side trying to help her, and while she doesn’t know it yet, I’m sure she’ll appreciate your effort and involvement when she’s older.”

Jack nodded and looked at the floor. He felt a blush rise and hoped it didn’t show.

“I can see I’ve embarrassed you.” She put her hand on his arm and added, “I’ll get this going right away, Jack. Let’s see if we can get a result before Santa comes down the chimney, give her a special Christmas present.”

Recovering, he said, “That would be perfect if you can. I really can’t thank you enough. Here’s my mobile number, day or night. As soon as you have a result I’ll call in and get it.” He handed his card over and she slipped it into her lab coat pocket.

Smiling in his direction for the last time, she said, “I’d better get to work then,” and pressed the button to call the lift, leaving Jack to exit with a grateful wave and venture back outside into the freezing cold.

Again.

Good manners and humanity generally worked in his favour. He must tell Eddie.

Chapter Twenty

Eddie looked pleased about something when Jack returned to the office. He walked back to his desk, wringing his hands animatedly to get some warmth back into them after the short trip in from his car.

“What’s up, Eddie? You look pleased about something.”

“Finally, we have something to work with. The tyre tracks at the end of Sparrows Lane near the drag marks or skid marks or whatever they were – the tyres are Continentals, which are used mainly on Transit vans, and given the depth of tread, they’re probably new ones. They got some good casts of them with the wet weather – the mud was good and soft. I have a uniform checking if any of the residents down there have a van like that, which I’m suspecting not, then I’ve organized with traffic to filter out van drivers travelling that road for the next twenty-four hours to pull them over and see whether they were on it when the girls disappeared. If we get lucky, we can look inside a few of them at the same time. Long shot, I know, but it’s something.”

“Have the press been told yet?”

“No. I don’t want to spook the actual culprits until we’ve done some checks, then we’ll go to the press. Those vans are ten a penny, predominantly white, and sold all over the UK and beyond. But we’ll need the public’s help. Someone may remember seeing a van as they drove by but didn’t realize its relevance at the time to come forward with it. No doubt we’ll get the usual red herrings when we’ve put the press release out – everyone knows a man with a van these days, and some folks are happy to dob someone in, particularly an ex.”

Jack nodded unhappily in agreement. The press was a help to get the word out, but the majority of the responses would end in wild goose chases, he knew.

“Let’s hope it throws us a bone to worry, then,” he said.

A call across the squad room interrupted their conversation, Clarke stood at her desk, telephone in her hand.

“Boss, you’ll want to hear this,” she said, and both men walked over to her. “Uniform reckon one of the residents saw a dark-coloured van; the mention of one must have jogged his memory. He was nearly back at his place after taking his dog out and saw it at the end of the lane, though from quite a distance. He said he knew it wasn’t a car – the headlights were all wrong and it was virtually dark – but he’s sure it wasn’t a white one. Nothing else to report other than it was only there a moment or two.”

“Well, that’s something at least. We can narrow it down. Thanks, Clarke. Let traffic know what we’re looking for, will you? No point in stopping the white ones at this point.”

“Right. Will do, Sarge.”

Jack checked his watch. It would be dark again in another hour, making van sightings even more difficult; a set of headlights approaching made it hard to see the vehicle they were attached to. But time was marching on and they needed to do something.

Eddie must have read his mind. “I know, Jack,” he said, “but it’s the same time of day and if it’s a local driver, we could be in luck. Best we go out there, too, and give them a hand. Grab your scarf. It’s bitter cold.”

Jack wondered if it was a day for stating the obvious, and once again he refrained from adding ‘No shit.’ “I’ll be right there,” he said. Manners and all.

After two hours of sitting in their tin can half a mile north of the checkpoint, they had spotted precisely two dark-coloured Transit vans and radioed ahead. Neither had resulted in anything. Neither was from around these parts, and neither of them had passed by on the day of the abductions. And more importantly, neither of them had Continental tyres with the same tread pattern.

It was almost 6 pm, and Jack was ready for his dinner. He called ahead to Janine to let her know he’d be home later and tell her not to wait for him. After ten years of marriage, she was used to his last-minute plan changes and told him to keep warm. It was freezing out there.

Was there no escaping it?

“Here’s another,” Eddie said, and did the necessary, radioing to the boys ahead. They both watched as the van’s red tail-lights went on and the driver pulled over.

“Please let us catch a break. Please,” Jack muttered under his breath.

But after a few moments, they watched in dismay as the van drove off again. The radio crackled and, sighing, Jack picked it up.

“Better luck that time,” said the constable. “Same tyres.”

Jack and Eddie looked at one another and grinned.

“Great!” said Jack. “We can follow that one up at least. Were they locals, by chance?”

“Negative. From out Tilbury way. So still not that far.”

“Worth looking at in more detail, though. Tilbury Docks springs to mind straight away when you mention Tilbury. And the things that go on in containers. But let’s not jump to conclusions yet. It’s the first of many more we’ll come across, I expect.”

“I agree. We’ll keep on, and you do what you need to do to follow up,” the PC said. They rang off and Jack hung the mic back on its hook. He looked across at Eddie.

“At least it had the same tyres. It’s a start,” he said.

Chapter Twenty-One

She’d shivered most of the night under her thin blanket and had barely slept at all. The man’s visit had scared her, sending her emotions spiralling, the tears streaming until she had no more left to give. Her face had stopped stinging from his slap some time back, but her face was red and swollen anyway from crying so hard. Leanne wasn’t stupid, and while the sting from his hand had gone, she could still feel the sting of his words.

“Relax, you’re not my type. Too big, too old.”

Was the other girl in the van more his desire? Was she here in the same building, or had they moved her? Disposed of her, even? But a more urgent question was what had she found herself mixed up in if she wasn’t what he wanted? And furthermore, did that make her surplus, put her in even more danger? She’d seen his face and knew from movies and crime shows that that was never a good thing – she’d be able to identify him.

The sound of a key in the lock again startled her. What could they want this time?

Leanne hoped it was only someone else bringing food.

The overhead light bulb went on and she struggled to focus after the darkness even though it wasn’t particularly bright. But it wasn’t the man; it was the woman from yesterday, the same dank hair half covering her petite face, grubby clothes, and she was carrying a tray. She thanked her lucky stars it wasn’t the fat repulsive man from yesterday – was it yesterday? As the woman made towards her, Leanne heard the lock being fastened again. Someone was guarding outside her door, though guarding who against what she’d no idea. Was the woman a prisoner too?

“Food. Eat. No more,” the woman said to her now, her eyes staying low. In the crook of her elbow hung a plastic shopping bag and as she put the tray down, she handed Leanne the bag. “Warmer clothes. Put on. Cold.”

“Thank you. Toilet, please?”

“No toilet. Bucket.”

“Please, I need the toilet,” Leanne said, her voice rising in frustration. She shuddered at the thought of her own waste building up inside the small room. It smelt bad enough as it was; the tatty carpet in the corner already soaked with her urine, and hers wasn’t the first to have been deposited there, she was sure.

“No toilet. Bag,” the woman said, her voice rising a notch in reply, eyes darting rapidly to anywhere but Leanne’s own.

Leanne spoke to the woman again, deciding on a softer approach. If she was a prisoner too, maybe Leanne could befriend her for her own needs, as a way of escape. “Do you live here too?” she asked with a small smile. The woman shook her head slowly, choosing to answer without actual words. Leanne watched her as she picked up the tray from yesterday and made her way back to the door. Hurriedly she said, “Thank you,” hoping her gentler demeanour would encourage the woman to talk on her next visit. Being locked in a room all day and not knowing where or why she was there was distressing enough; she had to figure a way out. There was a click of the lock turning and the door opened briefly, allowing the skinny woman to slip through the door. Then it was relocked. Was there someone stationed outside the door all the time, she wondered? She doubted it. Probably the guard was there only for when the woman entered in case Leanne tried anything on.

She could overpower the frail creature. But to what end?

There was no doubt Leanne was big for her age, and strong too from cycling, but she needed a chance to use them to do any good now. She turned her attention back to the tray of food and the plastic bag. The food looked as appetizing as a bowl of wet cat biscuits, but she needed to keep her strength up. Dutifully, she spooned the sloppy mess – probably cold cereal – into her mouth. A mug of pale and tepid tea followed it down, and that was breakfast. It filled a small corner inside her otherwise empty stomach, and for that she was grateful.

Leanne then turned her attention to the plastic bag and tipped the contents out onto the narrow bed. Track pants, a long-sleeved top and some socks, all of which looked like they’d once belonged to someone else – another prisoner, perhaps? She touched the grey sweatshirt and idly wondered whose it had been and what had happened to them. Had they gotten out of the building alive? She pulled the socks on over her own thin ones, and then pulled on the track pants and shirt, hoping for comfort in the layers. It was better than nothing; there was no heater in the room.

With nothing else to do, she flopped back on the bed and took comfort under the thin blanket. What she wouldn’t do to see her mum and dad right now. How she’d cry on their shoulders and tell them how sorry she was for being an ungrateful cow, how much she appreciated what they both did for her. If only she’d accepted her mum’s offer of a lift, she’d be tucked up snug in her own bed instead of here in this hell hole. The tears flowed again as she stuffed her hands into the track bottom pockets to keep them warm. But there was something there, something long and smooth, right at the bottom of one of them. From her touch, Leanne instinctively knew what it was but pulled it out for confirmation.

It was her weapon, ready for when she chose to use it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

She turned the teaspoon over in her hands; its handle had been filed to a point. She assumed the frail woman who had brought her food had put it there. While a key to the door would have been the ideal gift, the spoon would have to do for now. When the time came to use it, there’d only be one chance to get it right. She’d have to choose her moment carefully. It seemed someone was on her side at least, and she felt sure it wasn’t the man with the sausage-meat stomach. Leanne sat up on her mattress, the thin blanket around her shoulders, twiddling the spoon between her fingers. Her fingers were the coldest things about her now; she’d have killed for a pair of mittens. She estimated it had been several hours since the woman had brought breakfast, assuming the meal had been breakfast, and Leanne idly wondered what her next meal might consist of. Would there be another gift, perhaps? One thing she knew was that if her secret benefactor was the woman, she’d work on getting her on side even more, and hopefully find out what had happened to the young girl she’d arrived with. Was she close by? As she lay on her bed earlier, she thought she’d heard faint crying noises, but wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it or not. Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to ascertain where the noise had come from – up or down, one side or the other. Was it the girl? Were there other girls besides herself?

Standing up, she walked over to the door and crouched down again to look through the keyhole, but as with the previous times she’d done so, the result was the same – nothing. The key was most likely still in the lock, blocking her view. There was a slim gap under the door itself, the perfect depth to drag a key back through, her way out to freedom if only she could dislodge it out of the lock. She’d tried to push it out from her own side with her spoon, but it had been fruitless. But there had been a draft blowing through, directly into her eye, and that meant she wasn’t inside a building with many rooms like a hotel or boarding house. It meant the outside world was not that far away.

Still crouching at the door, she listened for voices, for movement, for cries even. Hearing nothing, she decided to give the key another go. There was no point sitting freezing, waiting for something appalling to happen to her, because it would do if she stayed put; otherwise, why hold her prisoner? It wasn’t for ransom; her parents weren’t well off. If the man had said she was too old for him, she wouldn’t be too old for someone else’s perversion, and she didn’t want to take the chance of finding out. Grabbing a piece of newspaper that had been left in the room, she tentatively pushed it under the door, ready to catch the key when it fell, hoping it wouldn’t make too much of a clatter as it did so.

She pushed the length of the teaspoon into the lock and prodded the end of the key gently, increasing the pressure gradually so as not to send it shooting out and missing the newspaper altogether. Then it would be obvious what she’d been up to, and she would be in even more danger. After a minute or two of patient and gentle manipulating, she felt the key start to give, but as warm optimism filled her cold soul, it was washed away in an instant.

Someone was coming.

But what to do with the newspaper? It was too obvious sitting out on the other side of the door like a flag. If she pulled it back in they’d be bound to see it moving and know she was up to something, but if she left it there, they’d surely ask why. Her mind scrambled to come up with a story as she bounded back to her bed and blanket. She jammed the spoon under her pillow. The footsteps weren’t small like the woman’s; they were heavy and sounded tense, the tread of someone on a mission. Leanne held her breath and forced herself to look defiant as the door banged open.

It was the man with meaty hands, his face deep pink like bubble gum.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, waving the newspaper at her.

Leanne’s heart sank to the soggy cereal in the bottom of her stomach. “I wondered if you had anything else to read. I’ve read that paper.”

“What, so you thought you’d put it out like an empty milk bottle, to be replenished? You’re not in a hotel, you know. We don’t work like that around here. Don’t you get that? Otherwise, a chef would be cooking you a full English in a morning, not a bowl of cereal.” Raising his voice to a full shout, he added, “Are you a stupid bitch or what?”

Leanne watched as his face became a deeper pink with the effort of exerting himself. The veins bulged in his neck.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. All thoughts of staying strong vanished as the burly figure approached her bed and she prepared herself for his hand to make contact. She scrunched her eyes up tight and raised her hands to protect her head, waiting for the inevitable.

She smelt him as he spoke, felt his putrid breath warm on her ear as he whispered to her.

“That’s more like it. Less cocky and more submissive. It will be better for you in the long run. Who knows – you might even get to enjoy it.”

Leanne didn’t move a muscle until she’d heard the door open and close again, the turn of the key. The hammering of her own heart was the only sound in the stillness.

Chapter Twenty-Three

After three full hours sat in a freezing cold doorway on a piece of cardboard, all she had to show for her efforts was £3.60, barely enough for a mug of tea and a biscuit. Billy had chosen a different spot. Their plan was always to cover two places at once; that way they doubled their chances of attracting sympathetic passers-by. She stretched her legs and groaned. She needed the toilet. And she was hungry. She hoped Billy was faring better than she was.

“Any spare change, sir?” she’d asked almost every male that had walked by. Most of them had hardly glanced at her, and most had not bothered to answer. Only one male had stopped, had taken some pity on her in the cold and tossed her a £2 coin. Her only other donation was from a young woman not much older than herself, who had supplied the other £1.60, all she had in change. Chloe had thanked them both heartily, but no one else had volunteered to share. Chloe found it easier to coax money from the men who passed; they were less critical of her somehow. The women, however, took the time to glare, show their contempt for the unwashed who made the streets their home. They didn’t seem to see them as humans at all.

Chloe knew she looked a sight; she was hoping to grab a shower after the lunchtime crowd had scurried back to their warm shops and offices. Even though this was better by far than living with her vile parents, what she would have given for a warm office to sit in and munch on a Penguin biscuit with her mug of afternoon tea. Inwardly she smiled at herself; she was getting more like Billy each day.

By 1.30 pm, she couldn’t hold her bladder any longer and decided to call it quits and move on – to the toilet at least. She gathered her piece of cardboard and the makeshift sign asking for change and headed towards McDonald’s, where she knew it would be warm. Inside, she could use the loo and wash her hands, if she was quick and the manager didn’t sling her out as soon as he spotted her. She hung back near the front entrance until a group of five teenagers approached together, then added herself to the back of them, hidden relatively well by their big coat hoods and scarves. Once inside, she filtered off towards the back of the building and waited out of sight for the toilet door to open, which she’d catch and slip through. So many cafés and fast-food chains had codes on their toilet doors to stop the likes of her going in, as well as tourists who merely wanted to relieve themselves without making a purchase.

The warmth of the restaurant was comforting. Her pink, chapped face and fingers smarted as they thawed, but there was no time to linger – the toilet door was opening. Now was her chance. She held it back for a Japanese lady who was coming out and won herself a quick nod and smile. The gesture reminded Chloe how much she missed positive human contact. No one wanted to hug her, touch her arm, dish out a warm smile or say something welcoming; it was all negative, crappy, soul-destroying negative. At least she had a friend in Billy, and vice versa, but still, a hug went a long way to not feeling like a sewer rat all the time.

There was no one in the toilet room. The three cubicles were empty, so she took advantage of the space and gave her hands and face a good wash with the available hand soap. Running a basin of warm water, she soaked her chapped hands, relishing the warmth, until another woman entered and stared at her in disgust before going into one of the cubicles. When she’d finished and come out again, she tutted as she washed and dried her hands at the opposite end of the room, no doubt not wanting to get too close. Chloe was tempted to say something, but kept her mouth shut. The older woman’s camel coat looked expensive, and Chloe wondered why she was in McDonald’s and not supping tea from a china cup out Knightsbridge way.

“What are you staring at?” the woman questioned.

“I was admiring your lovely coat. Nice and thick, I expect,” Chloe said with a small smile.

“If you got a job, perhaps you could buy one,” the woman replied curtly, and then hurried back out into the restaurant. Probably with the grandkids, Chloe thought. She washed her face, and briefly wondered if she should try and wash her hair in the basin and dry it under the hand dryer. She decided not to bother; someone would probably report her. No, she’d have to hope for that shower. Finished in the bathroom, she made her way back into the restaurant and the smell of warm burgers and chips, her stomach growling in hopeful anticipation that would not be fulfilled. Chloe was nearly at the exit when she spied an unattended tray with two burger boxes and two packs of fries; the customer had probably gone to get extra salt or something. She quickly glanced round to see if there was anyone making an obvious beeline for the food, and when nobody appeared to be moving towards it, grabbed both boxes and both packs of fries and joined the stream of people leaving, her stash pressed close to her stomach to conceal it as best she could.

Once out the door, Chloe turned left with the throng and kept moving until she came to a side street and slipped down it. Nicking wasn’t something she enjoyed, but it was a darn sight easier and more productive than begging in a doorway on a day like today. Opening one of the boxes, she smiled at the Big Mac inside it. She reached for the first packet of fries and emptied that in beside it. She’d save the second burger and fries for Billy, she decided, and laid them both carefully inside her shoulder bag. He’d enjoy them later back in the garage, she was sure. But right now, it was time to eat, and she made herself comfortable on the cold floor and prepared to dig in.

The stench of urine around her went unnoticed as she devoured her first hot meal in a while.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chloe licked the last bit of salty grease off her fingers, glad she’d washed them before she’d stolen the food. She felt bad about stealing, but she assumed the person she’d stolen from could afford a replacement meal, unlike herself. The small amount of money she’d earned so far wasn’t going to keep them in much more than a cheap white loaf for dinner, some cheese or plastic meat filling if they were incredibly lucky. But her stomach felt good for now, and as tempted as she was to tuck into Billy’s burger and fries, she restrained herself, knowing how much he’d appreciate it later, and that he wouldn’t dream of depriving her had it been the other way around.

It was quiet in the side street. The hustle and bustle on the main thoroughfare had also died away, but Chloe knew it would start up again a few hours later when workers began the mad dash to train stations and bus stops for the journey home.

Home.

It was only natural to miss the creature comforts of what she’d had in her life, and even though her parents couldn’t have cared less about her, she’d had a warm bed and there was always food on the table. Even if it hadn’t been much, it was more than she was getting currently. Her mind wandered to her own brief parenthood and the baby girl she’d left in the church porch. Her heart ached again, but she knew it was all for the best. Had the hospital named her Mary as Billy had suggested? Whatever name they’d chosen for her, Chloe would always think of her as Mary. One day she hoped to meet her, explain her actions to the girl and hope to make amends, but that would be light years away. But for now, she had to earn some money and she hoped the afternoon shoppers would be a touch more charitable as she gathered her meagre belongings and set off back up towards the high street to find a different and more productive spot than the morning. The smell of burgers and fries inside her bag gave her comfort. It would be a nice surprise for Billy later, albeit a cold one. Still, he’d not grumble.

Billy had fared a little better in Croydon town centre. Having jumped a train ride, he’d made his way from East Croydon station into town, the walk keeping him warm after the steamed-up carriage of hot bodies. He’d been tempted to sit a while, but without a ticket, he knew he’d be kicked off. He had waited on the platform for the right moment to dodge out the turnstiles. He’d spent the morning in an empty doorway like Chloe had, but Billy had his cheeky personality on his side, which he used to his advantage. If he could have sung and busked, he would have, but he could do neither, so he fell back on his sense of humour.

“Spare a shekel for an old ex-leper?” There weren’t many people that hadn’t heard of Monty Python and The Life of Brian. And even if they didn’t toss him a coin or two, it made many of them smile, something Billy fed off because at least it was a smile, a warming human emotion.

“Spare a shekel for an old ex-leper?” he said again, trying to catch the eye of a gentleman approaching, feeling sure he’d appreciate the humour. He was wrapped up warm in his coat, his scarf almost covering his face to keep the chill out, thick gloves on his hands. Billy saw the man take a glove off and feel inside his coat pocket, then pull out a note and some change. Billy took his spiel up a notch in volume. As the man arrived in front of him, Billy repeated it, looking the man straight in the eye, hopeful. The man spoke first.

“If I give you this five-pound note, what will you buy with it?” No smile as yet; Billy was going to have to work for it.

“My girl wants a new toothbrush and some toothpaste, so I’ll start with that. With the change, something other than bread. Man can’t live by bread alone, you know.” Billy painted on his best smile and willed the man to part with his cash.

“I guess you are a Monty Python fan, then?”

““That I am, sir. Bloody do-gooders.” Billy gave another cheeky smile as he quoted from one of the most famous scenes. Finally, the man showed the start of a smile, and Billy knew he had him.

“Then go and buy her a new brush and paste to go with it. She’s not Roman by any chance, is she?”

“Oh no, sir. What have the Romans ever done for us?” Billy laughed as the man finally handed the note over.

“What the hell. Take it all,” he said, adding the loose change too, making a total of nearly £7. “Buy yourselves something to eat to go with that bread.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you!” Billy called after the man as he slowly walked off. “Very kind of you, sir!” he called, and the man raised a backwards hand over his shoulder in acknowledgment. Some folks could be generous with both time and change, and Billy was grateful for both from the stranger. He wondered who he was and where he was headed. Perhaps he’d see him again on his return trip. Maybe he’d stop and chat a little more. Billy pocketed the money and smiled to himself. He needed to stop and buy Chloe a toothbrush and paste on the way home later. There was a budget grocery store not too far away.

But first he needed to get back to work.

“Spare a shekel for an old ex-leper?” he called to anyone who would listen.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Jack parked the car in the driveway of their semi-detached home. They lived on a quiet street, not far from the town centre. It was only the second home they’d owned together. The first had been a small flat not far from their current spot, and they’d saved hard to make it up another rung of the property ladder. With Janine and himself both working full time, they had done well for themselves though it had been a struggle at first to meet the mortgage repayments. While their friends were going out on a Saturday night to the cinema or for a meal, Jack and Janine would rent a DVD and stay in with a budget bottle of wine, and Janine would make a nice supper. They’d never been flash with their cash, and since they enjoyed each other’s company, staying in with a movie instead of going out didn’t much matter to either of them. One thing all their scrimping and saving had taught them, though, was the value of money. Their home had become their savings bank for the future, a place to start their family in. Unfortunately, Mother Nature had had her own agenda, and so the spare room had never been turned into a much-yearned-for nursery. Instead, it now contained boxes of stuff they no longer used – board games, old books that stood no chance of being read again by either of them, clothes for the charity shop, an old iron. All in all, the room looked messy, drab and sad.

Jack was stood in there now, looking through the window out into the darkness dappled in orange sodium at the other houses in the street, the odd car making its way back home for the night. They knew a few of their neighbours, and their street over the years had become like a bowl of stew with various ethnicities continually coming and going, the pot’s contents changing constantly. There were a couple of houses where more senior owners still lived, most now on their own, their partners long gone, Jack and Janine were the decent neighbours who looked in on them occasionally. And that reminded him that he hadn’t done so in a few days. With the current cold spell, he’d call in on them all tomorrow. He looked around the small room again and tutted at its lack of purpose; they could do better with it. Maybe a room for him to relax in, though why would he sit upstairs when he could be down with Janine? Perhaps a sewing room for her; she’d used to enjoy making clothes for herself but couldn’t recall her doing so for some years. He’d have to ask her.

“Jack,” Janine called up the stairs, “dinner is ready.”

“On my way,” he called back. He headed down, thoughts of the spare room fresh in his mind. He took his seat at the table, where a plate of hot meat pie and gravy awaited him.

“This looks good, love,” he said, grabbing the salt pot, something he always did before he’d even tasted the food, and something Janine could never understand.

“How do you know if it needs it before you’ve tasted it?” she’d asked him on so many occasions that now she didn’t bother. She gave him a questioning look anyway.

“What?” he said, smiling, though he knew anyway. He tucked in, gathering mashed potato onto the side of his fork.

“What were you doing up there”? she enquired, and waited for him to finish his mouthful before he answered.

“I was in the spare room. We should do something with it rather than leave it gathering stuff that should be at the charity shop. It’s a real waste.” He cut a forkful from the meat pie and savoured it, gravy gathering in the corner of his mouth as he chewed. “Do you still have your sewing machine? You used to make clothes. Why don’t we make it a sewing room for you?”

“Well, that’s a thoughtful gesture Jack, but I’ve not made anything for maybe ten years, and I don’t even have the machine anymore. Clothes aren’t that expensive these days and working full time, I’ve not that much spare time anyway.” She returned her attention to her own meal but added, “I get your point, though. It could do with a clear-out. Maybe we could decorate it, smarten it up a bit. It wouldn’t take long when it’s empty.”

“Then we should do something with it. What about a lodger?”

“Yes, I agree, but not a lodger. I like my space and privacy. And with you coming and going all hours, I’d rather know who was in the house with me at any one time. No, we’ll think of another use for it. Though if we can get the stuff down to the charity shop, I bet someone would appreciate the old board games and books at Christmas. It’s only a couple of days away.”

Jack piled peas onto his fork and hastily bent to eat them before they rolled off. Only a handful made the journey and he mixed the remainder into his mash instead. They couldn’t escape from him so easily.

“Let’s do it when we’ve finished dinner. I could drop them all in tomorrow when I go past as long as I can get a parking spot close by. I don’t fancy dashing in the rain getting soaked but I’ll be past again later so I’ve a couple of shots at it.”

“Talking of shops, have you done all your Christmas shopping?” She smiled at him coyly and he knew exactly what she was referring to – had he bought her gift yet or not? There wasn’t much time left. Luckily, he had and could reply honestly.

“I have bought your present, as it happens, my love. I’ve just got to collect it from the store. It’s all ordered and paid for,” he said in his best-satisfied tone. “You’ll not catch me missing Christmas present-giving. I’ve had all year to get it organized.”

He looked smug, and Janine smiled at his cocky attitude as he pushed mashed potato and peas into his half-smiling mouth.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It looked to Jack like Eddie had been burning his candle at both ends again. He was rubbing his already swollen eyes as he entered the squad room. Jack and a few of the others including Clarke had already been in for a couple of hours, albeit to sip coffee and mull over the case so far while awaiting their official briefing from Eddie. And from the way Eddie looked, they wouldn’t be getting one until he’d had at least another two strong mugs full. Clarke glanced at Jack as she too noted the condition he had arrived in. Had he slept in his suit? Jack crossed the room and ushered Eddie to the coffee cupboard, where he closed the door behind them.

“What the hell, Eddie?” he hissed. “You’re the boss, for goodness’ sake. What’s happened to you? We’ve all been here a couple of hours already. Where have you been?”

“Long story, but I thought Sue wanted me back so I went round.”

“And?”

“And I was wrong. In fact, she was there with her new bloke and that got me pissed off so I banged a few times on the door with my fist.”

Jack knew where the story was going. Eddie had a temper.

“And the new bloke didn’t take too kindly to your knocking, and you ended up scuffling, that it?”

“Pretty much. I went back to the pub for a couple, got hammered and slept in my car. And before you say anything, I know. I screwed up and I look like shit.”

“On that, I have to agree. And you smell like it too, I’m afraid,” Jack said, wrinkling his nose up. “You’ll have to get off home and have a shower, take the smell of stale booze off at least. I’ll cover for you with Morton. He’s probably down the bookies, anyway. I’ve not seen him yet either. So turn around and get off, then you’ll be back in a better frame of mind to do some bloody detective work.”

Jack couldn’t help raising his voice over the last sentence, because he meant it, whether Eddie Edwards was his boss or not. With more vans identified by the traffic cops, they had work to follow up with; there was no time to bother about whether Sue had a new bloke or not and deal with the fallout from Eddie getting inebriated.

“Right. Back soon,” Eddie said, and made a dash for the door before anyone else stopped and smelt him.

Jack shook his head. With more junior officers already in and working, between him and DI Morton, who the hell was supposed to be showing a bit of leadership? He took a couple of deep breaths in and out and felt a little calmer. If the team needed leadership, that left Jack to do the job. Clapping his hands loudly, he made his way to the front of the squad room. The crime boards displayed both Leanne’s and Kate’s pictures and precious little else save for an image of a dark Transit van that someone had probably lifted from a web page. The whole board looked far too sparse for his liking.

“Listen up, everyone.” He waited until all heads were turned his way before starting the briefing. It wasn’t something he’d done much of before. “DS Edwards will be back shortly, so in the interest of time marching on, I’d said we’d go over the case together in his absence and fill him in later. So let’s get cracking.” He looked directly at Clarke. “Clarke, where are we at with the van list to follow up on?”

Clearing her throat, she stood and addressed the other half dozen people in the room, a mixture of detectives and civilian researchers. “Thanks to traffic, we’ve a list of six to follow up with, and preliminary vehicle checks have been done with all of them through the system. I believe Mo has been looking further into owners and drivers. Mo?”

As Mo stood, Jack couldn’t help watch as her midriff settled itself at the sudden movement of standing. As a researcher on the team, she spent large chunks of her day sitting in front of a computer terminal looking things up, usually with a packet of digestives close by her never-ending mug of tea. Her low-cut shirt showed off her ample chest, which was rapidly turning beet red from standing and addressing the team. It never got any easier for her.

“Interestingly,” Mo began, “one of the vehicle owners is a name we’ve come across before, though not where minors have been involved. Remember that case a few years back when a woman was kidnapped and taken to Manchester? GMP found her in a derelict house on the outskirts of town, safe but severely traumatised, several weeks after her abduction. We never did find the real reason she was taken, but she did manage to identify one of the men in the ring. He was successfully prosecuted and served five years in Strangeways. Despite being offered a deal, he didn’t cough up the names of his accomplices, so that’s why he did time. He was released last year. His name is Martin Coffey, and obviously not the rather dead Martin Coffey.”

“Dead Martin Coffey?” Jack asked, for the benefit of the rest of the room.

“Yes, hanged in Strangeways in 1946 for murder. He was one of the last to be executed there, but no relation.”

“So, Martin Coffey has a dark Transit van that was down here recently for us to spot it. That warrants a deeper look. Right – Mo, you get on to Martin Coffey and get digging. Let’s see his whereabouts. Find as much camera footage as you can from the nearby trunk roads close to Wickham and Sparrows Lane. See if we can place his van anywhere near there on the day of the abductions. If it was in or around the Croydon area, let’s know about it. Now, that’s going to take some time, but it’s all we have so let’s get to it. Good work, Mo. We have a name at least.”

Mo’s ample cheeks reddened at the compliment, and he half felt bad about delivering the compliment publicly, though praise for a job well done went a long way. Heads swivelled back to computer screens and Jack walked briskly to the coffee cupboard for a quick one before DI Morton made it in.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

By lunchtime, Jack’s stomach was growling like an angry lioness protecting her cub. He craved something hot and tasty and not the cheese sandwich that was sat on his desk. Through the opaque Tupperware lid, the outline of the roll looked meagre and unappetizing, and Jack wished there were a couple of hot fat sausages and a smearing of ketchup in it instead, but since he’d put it together himself before breakfast, he knew there was no chance of that.

Not unless the fairies had been while he’d been away from his desk.

Still, if the lion were roaring, the sandwich would tide him over until he braved the outside cold and a mobile food van down the side street not far away. Some men had a secret woman on the side or a quiet gambling habit, but not Jack. While he loved Janine, she did keep a tight watch on his diet, so secret hot sausage sandwiches were his side vice, although he tried to limit his intake. He set the cheese roll on the plastic lid as a plate and took two enormous bites, filling both cheeks with food so he looked like a giant hamster. The roll was gone in three more mouthfuls.

The squad room was relatively quiet. Most desks were empty now, as his colleagues had also gone off in search of sustenance after a busy morning. The discovery of Martin Coffey’s name and the presence of his vehicle in the area had to account for something, and none of the team believed in coincidence. Jack wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve as he swallowed the last bite and looked at his watch. The charity shop would be open now, and the boxes were in his car, so he figured he might as well head over while things were quiet.

“What the hell,” he said to himself, knowing he was using the trip to the charity shop as an excuse to arrive back via the mobile food van. He was only kidding himself. Jack grabbed his coat, wrapped his scarf around his neck and headed out to his car. For a change, the sky was pale blue like a faded deckchair left out in the sun too long, the sun barely warming the tarmac under his cold feet, but at least it wasn’t raining. Thank goodness for small mercies.

Ten minutes later, he was looking for a parking space not far from the charity shop. He spotted a small green shopping trolley–type car about to pull out so he put his indicator on to show the driver he wanted the spot – he hoped his car would fit. Cars were building up behind him as he waited for the old lady to finally pull out; he saw her small dog balancing its front paws on the dashboard. He was tempted to use his horn to hurry her up, but a car two back honked so now he didn’t have to. Finally, she pulled out and Jack squeezed his in at an awkward angle, leaving the rear end hanging out into the road. The car that had honked swerved past him now, its driver showing his displeasure with a one-finger salute and a rev of the engine.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” muttered Jack. He stepped out of the car, opened the boot, and lifted out the two boxes of games and books, balancing one on top of the other. As he turned to close the boot lid, he could feel the lower box wobble and he fought to control the both of them before one or both fell to the pavement. He was about to scream an obscenity when a voice broke into his thoughts.

“Steady on! Here, I’ve got it.” A pair of hands took the box from the top and nimbly prevented things from crashing down. Jack looked up and was surprised to see a face he’d seen before, and only recently.

It was the young boy he’d seen begging, the Monty Python fan. Billy.

“Hello again,” Billy said, his smile as bright as mirror glinting in the sunshine. When it registered who was back, Jack returned the smile. “Thanks for saving that lot. I was in a bit of strife there for a moment. I’m taking them to the charity shop. Had a bit of a clear-out last night and thought someone could make use of them over Christmas.”

Billy took a look in the top box and noticed the game of Scrabble in its dented box.

“You’re giving your Scrabble away? How come? It’s a classic.”

“Ah, it’s not much fun when you know which of the two of you always wins. Seems pointless in some respects. Plus, she cheats, makes words up.”

Billy laughed out loud and added, “That’s all part of playing it. My gran always cheated. Said it kept her imagination alive. I’ll give you a hand inside with the boxes. Lead the way.” Billy held on to the box with the Scrabble on top and followed Jack the few doors down to the shop. They both put a box each on the counter and waited for one of the volunteers that staffed the shop to come over.

While they waited, Jack enquired, “Did you get the toothpaste and brush?” It seemed the thing to ask, though he wasn’t sure why. Did it matter if the lad had spent the money on cigarettes?

“Of course I did. I said I would. She was delighted. A girl needs her little creature comforts, even in this life, on the street. Thanks again, by the way.”

“Glad I could help.” There was a pause while they waited. The volunteer was busy helping someone choose a coat close by. “Look, I know it’s none of my business, but you seem a decent kind. Why do you live on the streets?”

Billy’s face dropped and Jack immediately regretted asking such a personal question.

“Oh, listen to me. I’m sorry. It’s not my or anyone else’s business. Sorry, lad.”

“Most people don’t understand, think we’re vermin and should go and get a job. But it’s a long story and not one for today.” Billy gave a tight smile before adding, “I’ll leave you to it, then. Nice to see you again.” He headed towards the door.

At the last minute, Jack grabbed the Scrabble and went after him, leaving the rest of the two boxes on the counter. The volunteer would get to them eventually.

“Hang on a minute,” he said as he arrived alongside. “This might give you both some amusement – if you want it, that is. And once again, I’m sorry.”

“It’s no problem, and thanks. It will be fun on Christmas Day.”

Jack’s heart pulled a little, wondering where the young man and his girl would be sat when they played it; certainly not in a warm living room with leftovers for tea, he was sure. He reached inside his coat pocket for his wallet and pulled out a £20 note and a business card.

“Look, buy yourselves something nice to eat when you play, and here’s my card.” He could see that the lad was desperate to take the money but resisting the urge. “Take it. I know it will come in handy. And if you get stuck, in any way, here’s my number. Just in case you ever need help, okay?” Their eyes met and Jack nodded, urging Billy to reach out to take it. They were both stood outside the shop on the pavement now. Shoppers bustled by in a continual stream, stuffed bags in their hands. The boy put the money in his trouser pocket, along with the card, then lifted his hand to shake Jack’s.

“It’s super kind of you. Thank you. I’m Billy, by the way.”

Jack took his hand and they shook. “And I’m Jack, nice to meet you, Billy.”

“Well, you have a good Christmas if I don’t see you again,” Billy said, and waved as he moved of into the throng of pedestrians, leaving Jack to add a simple wave of his hand and set off in the opposite direction.

Now all he had to do was collect Janine’s present, which seemed overly lavish now after meeting Billy again.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Jack couldn’t get Billy out of his mind. After driving back to the station, he’d forgotten all about his sausage sandwich, which meant something was seriously taking up his headspace. The kid seemed so cheery, as well as well-mannered, and he wondered idly as he parked up what his circumstances were, why he was living on the streets of south London and begging. He couldn’t have been more than about seventeen, Jack deduced; the kid had a youthful face behind the wispy hairs that would one day go on to be a beard. He was lucky he didn’t have to bother shaving every day yet, Jack thought ruefully, never mind the expense for someone with so little income. And he had a girl too, a friend, some company to go ‘home’ to, wherever home was. Maybe under a flyover, in a derelict building, a hostel even? What did he have in the way of comfort, of possessions, apart from a second-hand box of Scrabble?

Jack had given him his number in case he needed anything, but he doubted the kid would ever call. More than likely he was too proud to ask for help – and certainly not from a copper – and he hoped the £20 note would buy Billy and his girl a bit of festive cheer, wherever they holed up. They’d both be freezing, surely; the weather hadn’t been on bright side of the homeless for some weeks, and worse was yet to come.

Jack’s mind turned now to thoughts of another homeless soul, baby Mary. She’d have been picked up by her foster parents by now, and safe in a warm crib with a bottle of milk. Jack was glad of that, but what of her future? Would she be adopted anytime soon? He doubted there would be much of a wait for a newborn; the list of hopeful parents far exceeded demand. He thought about his and Janine’s anguish about adoption some years back. They would both have made wonderful parents, given the chance. Strange how anyone in any circumstance – rich, poor or destitute – could bring a child into the world and nobody batted an eyelid, yet apply to give a child a good home, and the hoops to jump through were endless, usually ending in being told by some bitter social worker that you weren’t quite suitable because they said so.

After more than twelve months of interviews, scrutiny of their financial records and being vetted in every area imaginable, the process had come to a screeching halt. Their social worker had been suddenly taken off their case without explanation and they were asked to start to the whole process all over again. But neither of them had the emotional currency left to spend. The whole process had left them emotionally raw, totally despondent and almost broken. So, they’d decided to take a break from the process and retry a little later on, in the hope that the adoption process would have relaxed a little during that time. It never did, though, and they’d ended up withdrawing completely, feeling that’s exactly what the social worker and selection panel had wanted to hear. It had made no sense.

Jack was aware of his name being called and he tuned back in to his surroundings. He was back in the squad room.

“Something the matter, Jack? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” It was Eddie, back in and looking like he’d scrubbed up and had a shot of something energetic – like intravenous caffeine. Maybe he had; Jack wouldn’t put it past him.

“Sorry, miles away.” Jack shook his head a little to rearrange his thoughts, like bringing the nuts to the surface in a packet of muesli.

“Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking all over for you?”

That’s rich. I’ve been the one covering for you.

“I had an errand to run. Couldn’t wait. But I’m here now. What’s up?” Jack smiled to diffuse any tension from Eddie with his sudden change back into boss mode. The man was either all in or all out. It seemed he was back to all in.

“We’ve got a name to work with. Martin Coffey. He’s been inside for—”

Jack interrupted him. “I know. Mo informed us at the team briefing earlier, after you’d left. They are following up, looking for that reg plate with the private cameras along the main trunk road to see if we can trace the van’s journey, see where it came from, where it went on to. Have they found anything?”

Eddie looked deflated. “Not yet, but it’ll take time. There’s a lot to find and search through. Still, it’s a lead.”

Jack hung his coat on the back of his chair and sat down. Eddie remained standing by his desk. Jack sighed. “Best tell me which cameras I need to sift through then and I’ll get onto it.” It was Jack’s way of saying ‘yes boss, now leave me alone’ without actually saying it; he knew which battles not to bother fighting, even if Eddie owed him big time. Jack needed to be left alone. He had some thinking to do.

It was nearly five o’clock before he came back up for air; there had not been a single sighting of the van in question. Sitting back and rubbing his tired eyes, he noticed the Tupperware box that had contained his cheese roll from earlier, the roll he’d moaned at, had wished was sausage and ketchup. Immediately he wondered what Billy would be tucking into this evening. Had he been serious about living on bread alone?

Then an idea came to him. But would Janine go along with it?

He’d ask her over dinner later.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Janine was a good sort and had readily agreed to Jack’s idea of having a guest or two at their Christmas table. Jack had explained that Billy seemed a sensible lad, and that he thought it fit to help where he could – if the young couple wanted his help, of course. Not everyone on the streets wanted off; some enjoyed the lifestyle, the freedom they got, though Jack couldn’t see why. Freedom could be found living in a proper warm home, surely? But each to their own. It was not Jack’s or anyone else’s place to dictate otherwise.

“Now all I’ve got to do is find him and ask him,” said Jack, finishing his porridge and pushing the bowl away. “You make the best porridge, Mrs Rutherford,” he said, rubbing his satisfied stomach and reaching for his coffee.

“You need a warm start from the inside on cold mornings like this. See you through till lunchtime, hopefully,” she said, gathering their bowls up and rinsing them in the sink. “And how do you think you’ll find him again? Billy, I mean.”

“I’m a detective, remember? I find people. It’s what I do, and I dare say I’ll find him again. He’ll more likely be begging where I first saw him, so it’s as good a place to start as any. The hard part might be persuading them both to join us. But if they refuse, why don’t we send a couple of plates to their digs if I can wheedle the address out of him? That way, they can enjoy dinner, but without the stress of being at a stranger’s table and feeling they have to be on their best behaviour or whatever.”

“Good idea. They win either way.”

“Precisely. Well, I’d better get off,” he said, draining his coffee mug. “I’ll see you later, love.” He bent to peck her on the cheek before grabbing his coat and scarf and setting out.

He was sat in his car waiting for his windscreen to defrost, the heaters inside on full blow and sounding like an aircraft engine warming up, when his phone rang.

“DC Rutherford.”

“Jack? It’s Dr Barbara Winstanley. From the lab.”

“Morning Doc. I hope you’ve got your thermals on today. It’s a frosty one.” He smiled as he said it but wondered if he’d overstepped the mark as his quip went unanswered and nothing filled the air. He was about to apologise when she filled the space anyway.

“Can you call in by chance? I have something to share with you and I’d rather explain it in person.” Jack detected the seriousness in her voice and doubted it was at his earlier comment. She sounded all business and it sounded important.

“Right. Why don’t I come over now, then? I can be there in twenty minutes, if that suits?”

“Perfect. See you then,” she said quickly and hung up, leaving Jack wondering what on earth she needed to talk to him about in person. Still, he’d find out soon enough.

She was waiting in reception as he entered the building and Jack tilted his head in a questioning look. He tried not to notice how lovely she looked again, though her eyes were not dancing with the same energy as they had at their last meeting. Something was up.

“Let’s go to my office,” she said quietly and pushed the buzzer. The lift doors opened and they both stepped inside. Lifts were never meant for small talk, even when the occupants knew one another even a little, and they stood in silence until they reached her floor. Jack followed to her lab. The sterile environment was cool but not cold as they passed through and headed to a small room off to one side. She closed the door behind them and offered him coffee from a small machine behind her desk. He assumed she must drink quite a bit of it to have her own fresh jug. He added milk and sugar to his mug and settled back, waiting for her to fill him in.

“As you know, you gave me a DNA sample from baby Mary. I’ve run the test, giving it priority, and well, we have a result.” She didn’t sound too happy.

“I sense something is wrong.”

“You could say that. As you also know, the familial testing aspect is so new it’s only just officially possible. Well, we got a hit after I submitted the result into the database. And not quite the result I was expecting, if we got a match at all. Only about ten per cent of the population is in there, maybe less, and most if not all have been involved in a crime in some way.”

Jack was starting to get frustrated. How long would she take to give him the answer before he had to physically drag it out of her? He knew all this so far. He nodded, urging her on.

“The test we ran looks for family members through bloodline and gives us several results – again, only if they are all in the system. Well, in Mary’s case we got two results.”

Jack felt like he was about to burst. “And what did the results tell you?”

“They gave us a female and a male. The male was in the system from a while back, to do with a bar fight up north. Things had got ugly and a man got a bottle in his face. This male was involved somehow. You’ll have to dig out the details.”

“And the female?”

“Well, here’s the interesting thing. There’s an extremely strong match to your missing girl, Leanne Meadows. We have her DNA in the system from her hairbrush. So strong is the link, in fact, that she’s very likely the mother.” Dr Winstanley let that sink in.

“So, you’re saying our missing fifteen-year-old cyclist is a perfect match to baby Mary’s mother, a girl that has since gone missing?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“I’m struggling to get my head around this, Doc. Her parents would have told us if she’d been pregnant, and since she was last seen out on her road bike on her way home from working at the garden centre, she can’t have just given birth the day before, surely? With nobody knowing?”

“I can only tell you what the results say, and the profile matches in so many ways.” She paused. “Though there is one anomaly.”

“And what’s that?”

“It’s where the male comes in. It seems he’s the father.”

“Great! We’ve found one of them at least.”

“Not so fast, Jack.”

“Oh?”

“The male is now forty years old. If your missing girl Leanne is the mother at fifteen . . .”

“Oh, shit. I need to find him, then.”

“You’ll not need to go too far to do that.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because the owner of that particular DNA is Leanne’s dad, one Dave Meadows, the man in the bar fight.”

“Holy shit.”

“Indeed.”

Chapter Thirty

It didn’t make any sense to Jack. A cyclist training hard for the champs, a girl missing since the day after baby Mary had been found, a girl showing no sign of being pregnant – there must be some mistake. There had to be something seriously adrift with the test; that was the only explanation. How could Jack go and question Leanne’s father about him being the father of an abandoned baby and his own daughter the mother, when she clearly wasn’t the mother? Meadows would think he’d gone mad, and would definitely not appreciate the accusation at a time like this. This type of DNA testing was so new; perhaps it had been read wrong, or had been contaminated somehow. But Dr Winstanley had been adamant – data don’t lie. There had to be another explanation. In the meantime, he had to be doubly sure about Leanne’s pregnancy and then take it from there. He was now on his way over to the Meadows’ house and hoped he found his tactful side before he opened his mouth with questions for them both. That was the reason he’d decided not to take Eddie along with him. The man had as much tact as a mosquito so had said he’d fill him in later. Mercifully, Eddie had agreed.

With windscreen wipers working double time clearing the sleet away, he pulled up outside the Meadows’ home on Cedar Road and sat for a moment, engine running, hoping the weather would ease enough for him to get out. A twitch of a curtain in the front window told him he’d been seen, so he had no choice but to make a dash for it. He pulled his coat collar up and legged it, careful not to slip. The front door opened as if by magic.

“Thank you,” he said to Mrs Meadows as she closed the door behind him and the warmth from the house touched his face.

“Come through, Detective,” she said, and he followed her back into the familiar lounge where Mr Meadows was stood ready to greet him. He was holding one side of his face a little and Jack enquired if he was okay.

“It’s nothing that a new filling won’t sort out,” he said brightly. “I can’t get in until after Christmas. I keep catching cold air in it.”

“A toothache can be nasty. I find whiskey helps,” Jack replied, smiling, keeping the conversation light before he killed it with his questions to come.

“Take a seat. Can I get you some tea?” Mrs Meadows asked.

“No, thank you,” he said, sitting on the edge of the sofa and making the cushion sag awkwardly. “I have a couple of questions for you that I didn’t want to ask over the telephone, if I may. A little sensitive, actually.”

“Go on.” It was Dave Meadows. “What do you need to ask?”

Jack paused for a moment before coming straight out with it. “Could Leanne have been pregnant by chance?”

“I beg your pardon?” Penny Meadows leapt out of her seat as if she’d sat on a firecracker. “I think I’d have noticed if she was, not that Leanne is like that. She’s fifteen, for god’s sake! I can’t believe you’re even asking!”

Dave Meadows went to his wife, who stood wild-eyed, staring down at Jack on the sofa. If it had been a cartoon sketch there’d have been smoke coming from her ears, but it was no laughing matter.

Mr Meadows finally spoke. “You obviously have your reasons, Detective, so why are you asking?”

Jack cleared his throat gently. “I had to check the fact. I’m sorry to have asked. It’s all part of a line of enquiry, but you have confirmed what I thought the answer would be.”

“You said you had a couple of questions. What is the next one?” Dave Meadows had taken over from his wife.

Jack thought about how he might phrase the next firework. “Is Leanne your only child, Mr Meadows. Does she have any sisters or brothers, half-sisters perhaps?”

Dave Meadows’ eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “What is this?” he roared. “Are you trying to make this as painful for us as possible?”

Jack doubted he’d ever seen a man go so red in the face so quickly, and slowly stood to try and calm the tension in the room, his hands spread like two fans, gently pumping up and down.

“I’m so sorry to have asked, but again, it needed confirmation. I don’t want to upset you both any further. It’s a painful time, I know. I’ll see myself out.” He had turned to leave when Penny Meadows spoke in a voice so low, he almost missed it.

“She died at birth.” Jack wasn’t sure if he’d heard her right.

“Penny, no. Don’t upset yourself. It was such a long time ago,” Dave said soothingly. “He’s asking about children still living, I’m guessing?” He turned to Jack, who simply nodded, not daring to say anything else that might upset either of them. But Penny wanted to talk.

“Leanne had a sister. She died at birth.” Her words came slowly, deliberately and full of sorrow. “Only a little older, but older nonetheless. She’s in the cemetery at Adventist Church, the same one where that baby was found a few days ago. We named her Charlotte. You can check if you like.” She looked worn out from the effort and Jack guessed correctly that this wasn’t something that was ever mentioned.

“Thank you. It won’t be necessary. I’m sorry to have asked.” Making his way to the front door with a polite nod, he could hear her faint sobs as Mr Meadows tried to comfort his wife.

Back outside, he felt desolate at the destruction he’d left back in the lounge. Their answer had only confirmed what he had suspected, though he couldn’t have guessed about the death of an earlier child. He could only imagine the pain they were now going through, raking it up back up, not to mention the prospect of losing another if Leanne wasn’t found soon.

At least it had stopped raining. The cold damp air somehow felt cathartic on his skin, a penance for the upset he’d put them through. He hadn’t asked how old the child had been, or how she had been taken from them, but the coincidence of Mary being abandoned at the same church jostled with the unanswered questions. He could find out back at the station, though, how Dave Meadows’ DNA had come to be in the mix. He wasn’t looking forward to asking that particular question.

What a holy mess. Pulling away from the curb, Jack felt sadder than he’d been in a long, long time.

Chapter Thirty-One

“Don’t be long,” her mum called out as Lesley closed the back door, her new Christmas puppy close at her heels on a lead. The small Golden Labrador looked everything like the toilet tissue advert with a personality to match, bounding along without having yet learned manners, chewing on her lead at the same time as doing everything else, her attention darting from one thing to another in double-quick time. Lesley’s parents had given her the puppy a couple of days before Christmas Day itself because it made more sense than keeping it cooped up and quiet somewhere. Lesley would have found or heard it, and since she’d been a little unwell after a nasty cold, they’d both figured it would cheer their daughter up.

They had been right. Two mornings ago, they had both gone into her room, where she was reading a book, and presented the bustling box to her, its contents almost impossible to hide. Lesley had cried with delight. She’d wanted a puppy for so long but her parents had stalled and stalled until now. She’d named the little dog Dora after Dora the Explorer, and she now sported a pink collar with a nametag to match. The name fitted her personality a treat, and now she and her young mistress were virtually inseparable, Dora sleeping in a basket by Lesley’s bed at night. Lesley was responsible for toileting the puppy first thing when she got up in the morning and the last thing before sleep, though her father took her again before he himself retired to bed.

They walked to the end of the road and back, as was their routine while Lesley was on her own. She was under strict instructions not to go any further. Dora and Lesley could go out again later for a longer walk when her father got home and could tag along with them both.

“Come on, Dora.” Lesley chatted encouragingly to the dog, who was straining on her lead by her side. Dora was desperate to run and explore but, it was too soon for the little pup to be out and off her lead, so Lesley picked up her own pace and began to jog lightly to keep up with her new four-legged friend, whose tongue was now hanging out the side of her mouth. The end of daylight wasn’t far away; some streetlamps had already lit up, casting their amber hue on the damp pavement.

The two were nearly at the end of their street. Lesley was telling Dora what she hoped Santa might bring them both and how she knew how much her grandma and granddad would love to meet her new friend. It was going to be the best Christmas ever. So engrossed was she in describing how Christmas worked and what it meant that Lesley didn’t hear the vehicle approach them from behind, nor the door open before it had stopped. Nor did she cry out when a giant hand covered her tiny mouth and strong arms pulled her back into a dark space, all alone save for the person that had dragged her in. The vehicle had then taken off with her muffled cries going neither heard nor answered, leaving her puppy behind to find her own way home.

An hour later, her worried mother had gone out into the street calling for her daughter. She’d seen nothing of either of them and had immediately called the police. It wasn’t like Lesley to wander off or disobey her mother in such a way. Another hour later, when Dora had made her own way back, cold and tired after her adventure, Lesley’s parents feared the worst, knowing she would never have left the puppy on its own.

Something had happened to their Lesley.

It was Eddie who called Jack at home to inform him another young girl had gone missing, and that, like Kate a few days earlier, she’d been out at dusk all alone. A search party had been put together immediately. Uniformed officers were making door-to-door enquiries along the route the youngster had taken, but it seemed nobody had seen or heard a thing in the twilight. Many hadn’t been home from work themselves when it had happened.

Abduction was the most obvious conclusion, considering what they were already dealing with. The parents had been questioned, a family liaison officer appointed, and uniform and volunteers had searched through the night resulting in a big fat nothing. Lesley Raby had disappeared. The cold was a worry if she was still out on her own, but there was nothing left to do but carry on the search and pray she’d simply got lost and had taken shelter somewhere to be found the following day.

Then, when a shift worker who had arrived home unwell at around the time of Lesley’s disappearance told an officer he’d seen a dark Transit van but nothing else, nothing to cause suspicion, he didn’t realize how helpful he’d been. The team, and certainly Jack, didn’t believe in coincidences. They’d spent the night examining camera footage leading out from the area and finally, at nearly five in the morning, they had found what they were looking for: a dark-coloured Transit van with the same registration as the one they’d been checking into, the one belonging to Martin Coffey.

“Coincidence my ass,” Jack had told DI Morton. It was time to bring Martin Coffey in for a chat.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Any luck locating Coffey?” Eddie shouted into the squad room as he entered, his body oozing authority and focus for once. Maybe Sue was back on again, Jack thought, or there was a new someone to fill her shoes, more likely. He watched as heads lifted up from what they’d been doing before the arrival of their boss, who was now at the front of the room awaiting a reply.

“Anyone?” Eddie pressed again. Mo stood up, almost toppling over in the effort but managing to steady herself at the last moment, sending the flesh on her bare arm trembling. She was the only person in the room dressed for late summer and Jack assumed she had her own personal central heating or, at the very least, a faulty inbuilt thermostat.

“It seems he’s not been home for a while,” Mo began. “He has a house in Thornton Heath – nothing special, as you’d expect for an ex-con – but nobody has seen him for a week or so. Neighbour thought he might have gone away for Christmas. Seems unlikely, though, don’t you think? Where to exactly in this weather?” Nobody said anything. She referred to her notes. “No family around the south; all up north. He came down south when he left Strangeways, stayed in approved premises for a few months, then moved on to Thornton Heath. Either way, he’s not been home and not been seen.” She sat down again. The pink tinge that had risen up from her cleavage now covered her face and she took a deep breath to refill her lungs.

“Thanks, Mo. What about sightings of the van registered to him. Anyone?” It was Clarke’s turn. She took the stage and added her findings. “It’s been like sorting cooked spaghetti into straight lines, but we’ve got two separate sightings, one on the M25 heading east towards Tilbury again and one on the high street here in Croydon yesterday. No visibility on who was at the wheel, but the reg matches, so the same van. Add that to our third victim going missing, a young girl of twelve called Lesley Raby, who didn’t return after walking her new puppy last night. We’re assuming the van had something to do with her disappearance. A dark Transit was seen in the area, as you know.”

“Right. Good work,” said Eddie. “But I want Coffey in for questioning quick smart, so do what you have to do and bring him in. Anyone got anything else to add? Jack?”

Since his news was nothing to do with the missing girls, he shook his head no. The DNA mixture from Mary was still puzzling him, but as it wasn’t relevant to Leanne’s case and since, according to her parents, Leanne definitely hadn’t been pregnant, it would only confuse things. He did, however, still want to ask Dave Meadows for an explanation, but after yesterday’s upset, he’d have to find the right moment to talk with him alone – preferably in an interview room. He made a mental note to call the doc again, see if she had any ideas as to the strange bowl of DNA stew and how the hell it contained what it did. There had to be another answer.

“Right. Keep me up to date. I want to know the moment you find him and I want eyes and ears at his home address in case he shows. We’ll pick him up soon enough.”

Since there was nothing further to say or report, Eddie headed for the coffee cupboard. Jack marvelled at the man’s lack of effort and idly wondered how his neglected team managed to cope so well and so cohesively.

Tomorrow would be Christmas Eve. It was now extremely unlikely that either of the three missing girls would be home in time to unwrap their presents. All they could hope for now was that they were alive and unharmed somewhere, and preferably together for comfort. He thought of Billy and his girl. Janine had agreed for them to join their festive meal, but he hadn’t done a damn thing about trying to find the boy. Now with Lesley added to their list, the case was going to take all his time and energy, and had become infinitely more urgent. Depending on how the day went, he’d slip out later and do his best with the time he had left.

Back at his desk, he picked the phone up and dialled Dr Winstanley. Perhaps she could throw some light on his DNA stew.

“Hello again, Jack. How’s the case going?” Her voice was like honey on his inner ear.

“Totally confusing, if I’m honest. At least the DNA case is. The other case, the missing girls – that’s simply frustrating, rather than confusing. But it’s baby Mary’s case I’m calling about. Have you a moment?”

“Of course. How can I help?” He imagined her eyes dancing as she spoke and felt immediately guilty for thinking of it at all.

“The missing girl, Leanne, was most definitely not pregnant, according to her parents, not even in secret. She worked at the garden centre and was training hard for the cycling champs, so out and out not possible. Leanne did, however, have a sister, but she died at birth so there are no more sisters, nor brothers, nor half siblings. Again, this is all according to her parents, but I’d still like to get Mr Meadows in for a chat. As you’d expect, they were both extremely upset when I left them both yesterday.”

“Understandably. What can I do?”

“Give me another scenario. How else could the test results have come to be? Somebody has to be the mother and, likewise, somebody has to be the father.” He tossed the problem back at the doc, his mental energy almost depleted, and rubbed his eyes wearily.

What she said next didn’t help him any further.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The three men sat around the makeshift table in the kitchen, cradling mugs filled with cheap instant coffee. In the blue haze of three smouldering cigarettes resting between nicotine-stained fingers, tensions were high.

“It’s your fault for bringing her back,” Martin shouted, spittle landing on the table in front of him. He didn’t attempt to wipe it away but left it gleaming like a glow-worm on a darkened cave wall. Nobody was going to say anything. There was no point riling him up any more. When Martin got angry, it was best to let him vent and keep your head down to avoid a stray backhander. Finally, Rob broke the silence, his brawn far outweighing his brains.

“We couldn’t leave her there. She’d seen us! We couldn’t take the risk. If we had, we wouldn’t be sitting here now. More likely we’d be in a remand cell. Would you have preferred that?” The big man took a long drag on his cigarette to calm his nerves and stop himself from adding something else he might later regret. It wasn’t ideal, and certainly had not been part of their plan to have acquired a fifteen-year-old girl. It wasn’t their market. Her existence was causing them a problem.

“Rob, don’t be a stupid idiot,” Martin said menacingly. Leaning into the other man’s big face he asked, “But why did you have to bring her back here? Why didn’t you deal with the problem somewhere quiet on the way back before she’d seen too much? She’s a loose end now. You’ve caused us a bigger problem we didn’t need to have.”

“Come on, Martin,” the third man, Bernard, said. “Give us a break.” It came out almost whiny and he scrambled to rectify his tone, adding, “Rob and I had to make the decision quickly so we grabbed her. Yeah, it’s not what we planned, so we’ll get it sorted, won’t we, Rob?” He turned to the youngest of the three, the pockmarked muscle who did the grunt work for the trio. He’d only been working with the group a couple of years. Martin and Bernard had made their acquaintance inside, having shared the same wing. Bernard had been in for aggravated robbery, and Martin was in for his part in a kidnapping. When they’d both been released, they’d hooked back up and somehow Rob had tagged along. He was a friend of an acquaintance and pretty handy with his hands, though not in a DIY homemaking kind of way. Unlike his collaborator, Rob was fit and strong. Bernard was the pasty and overweight one.

“Well, as far as we know, she’s only seen my face, not either of yours, so we needn’t panic yet. She’s still got a value if we offload her rather than get rid of her permanently. Why don’t I put some feelers out and see if we can’t get her moved on? With that blonde hair and her size, she could pass for eighteen easy enough with a bit of slap-on and some heels. Make someone a bit of money, like, not to mention we get a payday too.”

Smoke puffed from their three mouths as they thought through what Bernard was suggesting. The air was clogged and almost devoid of clean oxygen. While it was risky that Leanne could identify one of them, she’d probably never see the light of day again anyway, and her new owners could dispose of her when the time came. Martin hated dealing with corpses. They meant too much evidence left lurking that could be linked back to them in a whole manner of ways, so he avoided them at all costs. Being linked to a murder, or murders, meant a good deal longer time in prison, a place he’d rather not go back to. What Bernard was suggesting took that aspect away and made good business sense.

While Martin sat thinking, the others waited for his decision. The strip light overhead flickered a little, as though it too was giving its opinion on what to do. Finally, he spoke.

“We’ll sell her on,” he said quietly. “Set it up, Bernard. Let’s get her gone. We haven’t got the room to keep her here any longer.” He stubbed his cigarette out on the old Formica tabletop. The ashtray was too full and overflowing for one more butt. He stood up to leave, stretching his arms above his head, then rubbed his stubbly face and gave a slight smile only big enough for him to notice.

“Key still in the lock?” he asked almost innocently.

“Fancy a bit yourself, do you?” Bernard asked. “Before she goes, give her a taste, eh? Dirty bugger.” He laughed.

“With your tastes, I think dirty bugger is your domain, paedo. You’re the sicko. I like mine to have tits,” Martin joked as he made his way towards the hallway and the stairs.

“Well, don’t soil the goods, will you? I’ll be hoping for top dollar for a young blonde,” Bernard called after him, and threw his head back laughing. He somehow managed to make a human being sound like a second-hand fur coat that couldn’t be dry cleaned – he had a knack for not giving a toss about valuing a life. Rob watched his co-partner and, rather than raise suspicion, laughed along with him, though inside he was far from happy. But what could he do without getting himself killed? He was in too deep now. The floorboards above his head creaked as Martin made his way to Leanne’s room.

“Come on, I’m not going to sit here and listen to him grunting above my head. Let’s go grab some beers. I need some more ciggies anyway,” said Rob, and Bernard nodded.

“Good idea. I’m half-starved anyway. We’ll call at Macca’s, eh?”

Rob didn’t care where they went as long as he didn’t have to listen to what was going on upstairs.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chloe threw her arms up and cheered. “I won!” she shrieked, the glow of the candlelight reflecting in her eyes – not for the first time, Billy noticed. They were playing Scrabble back in ‘their’ garage, which made a pleasant change, something to do with their time together and take their minds off being cold.

“I’m not sure a couple of those scores were even allowed, that those were even real words,” he chided.

“Such as?”

“Such as Nokia. It’s a brand name, not a real thing,” he said, laughing, “so technically, it should be me that won.”

“Spoilsport Billy. I won fair and square,” she said, putting the cream tiles back in the bag and folding up the board. “Where did you get this from anyway?” she asked, pointing to the game. They had precious little money for entertainment.

“I bumped into a guy going into the charity shop where I was passing. We chatted a day or two ago. It was him that gave me the money for your toothbrush and paste, so we ended up chatting a bit again. I think he was checking that I hadn’t bought drugs or something. Anyway, he was dropping some boxes of stuff off and he gave me the Scrabble. For Christmas.

“That was nice of him.”

“Yeah. Seems like a decent sort. He gave me his card,” he said, reaching into his jeans pocket and pulling it out. “Said if we ever need anything, ever get in trouble, I should ring him.” He looked at Chloe. Their eyes met and held.

“Why would he say that? Is he after something, do you think?” Chloe was uneasy. Why would a stranger make such an offer without wanting something in return?

“Nah, he’s not like that, Chloe. More the opposite, I think.” Reading the card out, he recited, “Jack Rutherford – Detective Constable Jack Rutherford, actually.”

Chloe groaned. “You’re kidding me, right? You bring a bloody copper into our lives? After what I’ve just had to do? Are you stupid?” Her voice gained volume as she spoke, and Billy reached out to calm her down.

“It’s fine, Chloe. He’s no idea, never seen you, so why would he connect us two, eh? All he knows is I have a female friend who likes clean teeth.” He was trying to lighten the moment, put her at ease. The last thing he’d do would be to grass her up to the police. He held Jack’s card out towards her. “Look, you keep hold of it, just in case, eh? I’m a little more street-smart than you are, and I’ve met him before, got his name should I need to use it. Keep his card with you, eh?” He pushed it at her further until Chloe finally took it and slipped it into her jacket pocket. With Jack’s card safely in her procession, he changed the subject.

“So, are we off to a shelter for Christmas dinner, then, do you think?”

“Actually, we’ve got a dinner invite,” she answered sweetly. “I was keeping it as a surprise but since you asked…” Chloe’s eyes were gleaming as she delivered the news.

“Oh, nice one, Chloe. Where are we going?”

“Roy has asked us to join him in his flat. In fact, he’s asked us to go around mid-morning, have a bath each and stay for dinner. How about that?” she said triumphantly.

“A bath? Whoo-hoo!” Billy said, pumping his fist in the air. “A bath! Imagine it, Chloe! And dinner!” His smile could have melted a frozen block of butter.

“It’s so nice of him, isn’t it? We should take the Scrabble round with us, have a game before we eat. Maybe I could thrash the two of you?”

“I suspect Roy might be a bit of a closet boffin, actually. He could probably thrash us both even if we joined forces together. I know he does the crossword each day. I’ve seen them filled in, and he doesn’t watch TV much. Nah, I’d be surprised if either of us two wins, unless he lets us add dodgy words like you do,” he said, laughing. “But we should take him a gift somehow. He’s been good to us, to you particularly. But what, though?”

Chloe sat thoughtfully for a moment. Billy was right: they couldn’t go empty-handed. “I’ll think of something and organize it, a small gesture of our appreciation. First thing in the morning. We’ve only got tomorrow. It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Okay. From your face it looks like you have something in mind. I’ll leave it in your capable hands, then,” Billy said, lying back on the old bed and pulling a blanket up close. The small garage was beginning to look quite homely now with their few belongings; the extra blankets that Roy had dropped off helped tremendously. And so far, the old lady who let them kip there was happy with the arrangement, as long as her neighbours kept quiet. The moment they complained, Billy and Chloe would have to leave, and neither wanted that to happen. A safe and dry place to stay was a major coup for them. “But right now, I reckon it’s time to get some shut-eye. I’m tired out – what about you?”

Chloe moved closer to him, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. While they weren’t officially a couple, they cared for one another and looked out for one another and in the comfort of her friend’s arms, Chloe let her mind wander off to her baby, Mary. She’d be wrapped up snug in a warm cot somewhere, safe and sound and hopefully loved already, a love that Chloe herself would never let fade, whether she was in the little girl’s life or not. Giving her up had been the right thing to do. A newborn baby living on the streets with her was out of the question, and financially not feasible. So, it would be her first Christmas without her child, and while baby Mary fed on warm formula and was rocked to sleep on someone else’s shoulder, Chloe hoped one day Mary would forgive her.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Christmas Eve or not, Chloe needed to work. Most wouldn’t call begging ‘work,’ but nonetheless, generating an income off the streets was how she fed Billy and herself, and they both pulled their weight in that department. If they were ever going to get a little saved up so they could clean up and step up, every day counted. But begging could be cruel, they both knew, and pilfering could be risky. While it was quicker to do the latter, at least with begging they were receiving rather than taking. Either way, both would have preferred a proper job, but then both would have preferred a proper home, too.

While Chloe had told Billy a little bit about her previous life, he had shared nothing of his. She figured that the day he wanted to share with her would be the day she found out. He didn’t pry into her background either; he had only touched on the subject the one time, and she’d clammed up anyway. Maybe with Christmas upon them and baby Mary safe and well somewhere, she’d tell him all about her life as Chloe Matthews, the girl her parents had rented out as a cash cow. Would he be disgusted at her, she wondered? She didn’t think she could stand that. He was her only friend in the world right now and she couldn’t imagine losing him and surviving on her own, didn’t want to imagine.

She liked Billy immensely. And she hoped he liked her back.

And while Roy was on her peripheral, he wasn’t a close friend, not like Billy. Roy was much older, a surrogate father on the edge of her life, keeping an eye on her when he could. He tried not to make himself responsible for her, and she tried not to need him to. He gave her space and kept her secret close to his chest. If he told the authorities it had been her baby found at the church, her life would be turned upside down yet again, and she wasn’t capable of coping with it all again. The first lot of dust was only settling now. But she cherished his kindness, knowing he himself didn’t have many friends. He was a bit of an oddball, and the sole inhabitant of the flat above his café, but he had a heart the size of a lion’s. And she and Billy were spending Christmas Day with him. A hot bath, a hot dinner and a game of Scrabble – it was going to be perfect.

The clock on the outside of the old church in the distance read nearly twelve o’clock. No wonder her stomach was complaining. She reached into her pocket for the sandwich she’d made earlier. She’d made Billy one too, though ‘sandwich’ was too fine a word for the cheap bread smeared with beef paste from a jar. Still, it was salty and filled a corner of her otherwise empty belly. The thought of her belly made Chloe think again of what had been there, growing, unbeknown to her and those around her until it had been too obvious to ignore. She’d always been a slim girl; running had kept her strong and in shape. But eventually she’d been unable to conceal the pregnancy, and a few months later, baby Mary had materialized and Chloe had found her way to exactly where she was now – outside a storefront begging.

“Can you spare any change, please?” she asked the stream of blank, un-noticing faces as they passed her by. She repeated the same question, over and over like a recording, but was getting nowhere fast. With only £4 and some loose change in her hat out front, there wasn’t going to be much to take home at the end of the day.

She noticed a group of five or six men in suits heading her way, laughing at something as they walked. They looked like wealthy bankers or lawyers, their tailored suits and thick overcoats like uniforms, only their ties setting them apart. Even the hair on their heads looked the same; they were like clones. She hoped one would stop. Surely at least one of them would have a couple of quid to help her out? Fastening on the friendliest looking clone, she tried to catch his eye as she spoke.

“Would you have any spare change, please?” she enquired politely. But the six men carried on past, not wavering from their jolly discussion, not hearing a word she said, their backs towards her as she followed them with her eyes.

“Even a little bit would help,” she added fruitlessly, as her words fell on deaf ears. Then, to her surprise, the friendly clone turned and walked back to her. While he wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t threatening either, but even so, Chloe gulped a breath down as he approached.

“Hi. What’s your name?” he asked flatly.

“It’s Chloe. Why do you ask?”

“Well, Chloe, my sister is about your age and when she ran away from home last year, my parents went out of their minds with worry until she came home. I expect yours might be doing the same right now. I assume you’re not living at home?” Chloe shook her head ‘no’ and let him carry on. If he was going to say something mean or spit at her, he may as well get it over with.

“Here. I’m giving you a couple of quid for the pay phone. Give them a call and at least let them know you’re alright, eh? Even if you don’t go home, give them a call, yeah?” His brown eyes pleaded with her silently and she knew he was telling the truth about his sister. The couple of coins in his black-gloved hand taunted her. What she could buy with them.

“How did she get back home? How did you find her?” she asked quietly.

“She got into trouble. The cops found her, thank god. It was hard on us all, but she’s back safe and well now. It all worked out in the end.”

“I’m glad she’s okay. It sounds like she has a nice family, and that’s where we differ. That’s why I’m here.” Chloe bowed her head, not wanting to say any more about her situation, and not wanting him to see the tears gathering in her eyes.

“Look, take the money anyway,” he urged. “In fact, here’s a tenner.” He pulled his wallet from his inside jacket pocket and flipped it open. “Get something hot to eat, eh? And if you can find it inside of you, give your parents a call. Stop them worrying.”

Chloe looked up again and their eyes met, hers wet with salty tears, his soft and kind. All she could do was nod; any words would have been strangled in her constricted throat. He nodded back, an encouraging smile on his lips, and then turned to catch up with his colleagues, leaving Chloe rooted to the spot, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

It wasn’t her parents she was thinking about though. It was Mary.

Chapter Thirty-Six

It was the click of the key turning in the lock that caught her attention. Gathering the thin blanket and pulling it closer around her shoulders, she pressed herself into the corner of the wall as best she could, in a vain attempt to disappear through it, like a small child escaping a monster in a nightmare. Unlike a bad dream, there was no waking up from this situation. It was her reality until she figured something out.

Or they let her go.

In her heart, she knew that would never happen. She’d seen one man’s and one woman’s face, though she doubted the woman was part of whatever it was she was involved in. No, she’d looked as miserable as Leanne herself, the abused rather than an abuser. Her eyes had held a scared, submissive message, a warning, perhaps.

Leanne watched, petrified, as a man she hadn’t seen before entered the room and slowly made his way towards the bed where she was cowering in the corner. He was lanky and tall, with dirty blond hair and at least two days’ worth of stubble. Strong as she was at home or with her friends, she didn’t feel any of it now, her usual energy depleted from both lack of food and lack of sleep. Mustering the dregs of her courage, Leanne willed herself to look tougher than she actually was. Not saying a word, she waited to see what would happen next, what the man wanted. He sat on the end of the bed where the fat man had sat the previous day and reached a hand out towards her leg. She rapidly shifted it back, out of his reach. The man laughed, throwing his head back. The noise reverberated around the dim dank room, and when he finally stopped and turned to look at her properly, there was no joy in his face. What she saw there made her stomach lurch, and she fought to control the rising feeling of fright and panic mixed together with her last meagre meal. She swallowed it all down, vowing to carry on with her act of strength, not sure how long it would last, how long she could hold on for.

He reached out again. This time, his hand connected with her leg. There was nowhere for her to move to, to escape to, and she felt herself being dragged towards him. He put his other hand out now and grabbed her other leg, pulling her down the bed until she was laid flat. The man loomed over her.

If she closed her eyes, he’d won, she told herself. She vowed to keep them open, stare him in the face, try and make him understand that what he was about to do to her was wrong. So very wrong. Her bottom lip started to tremble as she watched him undo his belt and unbutton his fly. The zip slid down easily as he slipped his trousers off. His erection was visible in his boxer shorts.

“Thought I’d say goodbye to you before you go,” he sneered as he tugged off her track bottoms and pushed her legs apart, leaving her exposed to his gaze. Still, she stared at him, her eyes starting to burn as the first tears stung them. She fought to keep them at bay, not wanting to show the weakness of every sinew in her body. There was no pleading, there was no fighting, there was nothing outwardly visible to her abuser, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t happening to her inside – in her head, in her heart.

As the man smiled his appreciation at her exposed body and moved to take his prize, she waited for her moment to come, the moment when she knew he’d be the least suspecting of her plan, the plan she was mustering all her inner strength for. The stale tobacco stench of too many cigarettes mixed with body odour assaulted her nose but Leanne focused above it; the smell she could deal with. It was what the pig lying on top of her was about to do to her that she couldn’t deal with, not in the same way.

As the man fumbled with his shorts, Leanne mustered every gram of strength from the innermost parts of her body and slammed the sharp end of the teaspoon into the side of his neck with all her might. The outside of her fist connected with his skin as the point entered his neck, and she drove it home forcefully. Before he had a chance to react, Leanne yanked it back out and slammed it in again as he tried to gain traction and get back to his feet, holding his neck at the same time. The end of the spoon protruded from between his fingers. Blood shot in a jet up the wall as he held his neck; his shirt looked like it had been soaked in claret.

Leanne knew she had only seconds now. There was no time to see what happened to the man. It didn’t matter. She had to leave the room, take her chances with what was on the other side of that door, and hope his screams of anguish went unheard. Perhaps they’d think they were her cries and ignore them; she could only hope. Her legs shook as she propelled herself across the room to the door. She yanked it open, grabbed the key, and relocked it behind her, leaving her captive on the other side. His shouts of fury and the sound of his fists banging on the door were audible to anyone in the building, but Leanne moved fast and quiet like a cat down the stairs towards the bottom, hoping she didn’t meet anyone on the way down.

Once there, she could see an entrance door. She was in an old house of some sort after all. She glanced around the corner over the handrail. There was light coming from underneath one of the doors towards the back but there didn’t seem to be any movement or noise. There was no time to spare, no time to stand and think, and as the angry shouts coming from the room upstairs grew fainter, she flew towards the main entrance and hoped it was her way out to safety and freedom.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

It was nearly 4 pm by the time Jack managed to leave the station and seek out the young man he’d met only twice previously. He’d broached the subject of dinner with Janine, and while she’d readily agreed, Jack had picked up a question in her voice, one that she didn’t actually ask: “Why this boy?” Why, then Jack? he’d asked himself. What was so special about this young man? It couldn’t be his cheek alone. Did he see himself in the boy, perhaps, or was he getting soft in his not-so-old age?

The first place he headed was where they’d first met only a few days ago, not far from the station. Jack smiled again as he remembered the boy’s Monty Python approach to begging, the reason he’d stood out in the first place, the reason Jack had stopped. With the last of the day’s light, Jack got out of his warm car and set off in search of young Billy. If he and Janine could offer him and his girl a hot meal and a game of cards on Christmas Day, then they surely would. There was plenty of room for the four of them, and he hoped they would accept his invitation in the goodwill spirit it was intended and not fear that Jack and his wife were weirdos with an agenda. He hoped the card he’d passed on to the youngster would give him confidence and not scare him off; cops weren’t always out to catch someone unawares.

But on Christmas Eve on a cold afternoon, there was hardly anybody out on the street. Most people had finished work much earlier and were probably now full of eggnog, sleeping the afternoon off on the sofa. The thought appealed to him, but with now three children missing, he’d be lucky if he got Christmas dinner himself.

After walking the same street for ten minutes or so and not seeing or hearing Billy, he was about to give up and try somewhere else when he saw a hunched form in a doorway up ahead, sitting on a piece of cardboard and wrapped in an old blanket. As Jack approached, he realized it wasn’t Billy. It was a dirty-looking young man holding a cardboard sign.

“I’m looking for a young lad called Billy. About this height,” Jack said, demonstrating with his hand around his own ears. “Fair curly hair, maybe seventeen-ish. A bit cheeky and maybe with a girl. Have you seen him recently? Today, maybe?”

The man’s vacant eyes stayed vacant as he looked up at Jack and shook his head slowly.

“Any idea at all where I might find him?” Jack persisted.

The young man gave only a gentle shake of his head. Jack glanced down at the makeshift sign and read the words presumably he’d written himself – “Can you spare some change, please? I’d ask myself but I’m mute.”

Abashed, Jack reached into his pocket for change. He tossed the handful of coins into the cap that sat next to the sign and won a nod of the man’s head for his generosity.

“Take care, and Merry Christmas,” he added as he turned and made his way back to his parked car. If only he knew where Billy called home, he could go round and find him, but he didn’t, and with almost everyone gone from the streets as the darkness finally fell, Jack couldn’t help thinking he’d left it too late, that the boy and his girl would now go without, or queue at a soup kitchen like all the rest. It was with a heavy heart that he drove on to the charity shop, his last chance of seeing the boy before he headed back himself.

As he pulled into an empty parking space, he wasn’t too hopeful at his chances. The street was almost empty and most shops had closed. A handful of last-minute shoppers scurried from doorway to doorway.

Everyone had gone home. Perhaps Jack should do the same.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Christmas Eve was not the most productive time to be coaxing change from strangers’ pockets, and by 2 pm, both Chloe and Billy had called it a day. Frozen through like two popsicles, they found themselves back at the garage about the same time, each carrying a plastic bag. Billy slid his behind his back so she couldn’t see what he had inside.

“Great minds think alike, eh?” he said, smiling warmly. “Not much happening for you either?”

“Nah. Thought I may as well freeze here in comfort. And I called and got Roy a gift for tomorrow. Hope he likes it.” Billy detected a slight change in her, almost a sadness, and he wondered whether to ask after it.

“I’m sure he will. What did you get?”

Chloe pulled out a small paper bag, opened it, and carefully slipped the contents into her hand.

“I saw it in a charity shop window, and I thought it was appropriate under the circumstances. What do you think?” She held out a small glass paperweight; it had an old church inside the dome with snow on its roof. There was a man stood out front in a red suit; Santa. Billy could see the hope in her eyes that she’d done the right thing, and that she wanted his approval.

“Chloe it’s perfect!” he exclaimed, with a little more gusto than he intended, but what the hell, if that was what Chloe needed. He watched her face break into a smile, her eyes bright and excited again at his praise. He stepped towards her and gave her a one-armed hug, still keeping the other arm behind his back. The plastic bag rustled as they embraced, alerting them both to its presence.

“What’s in the bag?” she asked.

“Nothing to concern yourself about,” he said, mock-haughtily. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He guided her towards the side entrance of the garage, their home. He unlocking the door and stood aside to usher her in. He followed her inside and watched as she flopped down onto the bed.

“Is everything alright, Chloe?” he asked gently. “Only you seem a bit down about something. Was it a shitty day? Did you get loads of abuse?” He went and sat next to her and held her hand for a moment in comfort, as close friends do sometimes. Then he waited, giving her time to reply. Something was clearly bugging her.

“Not really,” she said eventually. “No abuse, but a man stopped to chat with me. He wasn’t that old, maybe about thirty, but he said his sister had gone missing last year, had run away, and his parents had gone nutty worrying. He asked me to call my own parents, let them know I was alright, even if I don’t go back. Stop them worrying.”

“Oh, I see. And what did you say?”

“Not a lot, except my parents wouldn’t really care. It wasn’t a good home. He gave me money for the phone, actually.” Chloe paused for a moment and Billy sensed there was more to come, so he waited for her. With a big sigh she added, “He gave us a tenner to buy some food, which was lovely of him, but I can’t ring my parents even if I wanted to. I’ve no idea where they’ve gone.” She turned to him, her eyes wet again. “But that’s not why I’m upset, Billy.”

“Oh? What, then?”

“I got thinking about Mary. She’d be the one I’d like to call if I could, tell her I’m not far away. Tell her she’s important to me and to stay safe at all times. To tell her I love her.” Billy watched as a fat tear trickled down her cheek, and he caught it on a finger so it didn’t fall any further. Then he took her in his arms and pulled her close, her chin over his shoulder, as her body quivered with grief. All he could do was wait until the worst was over and she stopped crying so hard. He passed her some toilet roll to blow her nose on when she eventually pulled back, her eyes looking sore and red.

“I know you miss her. Of course you do. And this man you met has brought it all to the surface again, but I’m sure he meant well. He obviously thought your parents would want to know you’re okay. He clearly doesn’t know your circumstances, though. And if truth be known, I don’t know that much about them either.” He gave her a small smile to show he’d like to find out more if she was willing to tell, but didn’t hold up much hope. Her head was bowed and she stared at the floor.

“I haven’t told anyone.”

“I figured that. But whatever the reason, you know I’m here for you, right? It doesn’t matter to me what happened. You’re still Chloe, my mate.” He squeezed her arm at the word ‘mate’ and she smiled though her head was still bowed. Billy saw the crease in her cheeks.

“Why don’t you fill me in? Then I can show you that whatever it is, it doesn’t matter to me. Because it doesn’t. Maybe you murdered someone?”

Chloe shot her head up in alarm. “No! Of course not.”

“Well, then, anything else is cool.” He held her gaze while she thought it through. He could almost see the motion picture turning behind her eyes, the story playing out.

He watched her inhale and hold her breath a moment, then she began to tell Billy the whole sordid story.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Someone had to man the station on Christmas Day, but that someone wasn’t going to be Jack. Eddie had volunteered a shift, saying he’d go for dinner at the pub later, and Jack knew he’d wash it down with several pints of bitter and a couple of whiskey chasers. It was a bit of a sad existence for Christmas, but Jack didn’t care what the man did as long as it didn’t involve him.

When he’d left the station on Christmas Eve in search of Billy, he’d nipped back in to see how the investigation was winding up for the day. The three children were still missing. It was far from ideal, and everyone’s thoughts were with the families of all three girls, none of whom would be tucking into roast turkey and wearing their new Christmas clothes. The only lead they had to go on was Martin Coffey’s van, but whether the man had gone away for the holidays or was simply lying low, he was proving elusive to find and speak to. There had been no further sightings of the van in the massive amount of CCTV footage they’d sifted through, and even Mo, their most intense and dedicated researcher, had come up empty-handed. At shift changeover time, DI Morton had wished them all a wonderful Christmas and told them to go home to their loved ones, as he would be doing himself. Jack and Clarke had stayed on another hour or so, generally mulling over the case and the evidence. Neither felt they should be off consuming sherry and wine quite yet. It didn’t feel right.

“You know what saddens me?” Clarke asked Jack during a quiet moment. The two were almost kneecap to kneecap at his desk, thoughtful.

“What’s that?” Jack twiddled with his upper lip, his eyes glazed over.

“The lack of leads we’ve had from all the press coverage as well as the TV. We’ve sod-all to work with. It’s like three girls upped and left in the night, and apart from two folks who mentioned a dark van, that’s it. It’s not enough, Jack,” she said, raising her voice in frustration. “We need a break desperately, or we’ll never see them again. Even worse, more could vanish the same way.”

It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but it was one that Jack had tossed around the inside of his own head for several nights while he lay in bed with Janine sleeping peacefully beside him. He rubbed his eyes.

“Maybe Eddie and the next lot on duty will have a lucky break. That is, if they’re not too busy with the piss-heads tonight, though Christmas Day is normally quieter – once they’ve slept it off in a cell, that is.” Jack stood and held his hand out to her as if to pull her out of her chair. “Come on, then. I’ll buy you a swift one before we head home.”

She took the hint to leave, though she didn’t feel the need to take his hand.

He’d called home earlier and told Janine he hadn’t been able to find Billy; it had been too late on the shopping front. Regardless, Janine had done their possible guests proud. As Jack looked in the fridge for the chocolate éclairs they always had on Christmas Eve, he saw that there was barely space left over to store a wafer-thin mint. There was enough food to feed half the street, never mind two more mouths, and he wondered what they’d do with it all. Standing there looking for the familiar white cake box that was probably hidden away behind Brussel sprouts and pork pie, he felt a bit lightheaded. He’d already had a pint of bitter with Clarke at the pub, then a glass or two of wine over dinner that had further softened the smooth edges of his nerves. He could hear Janine call him from the other room.

“Can’t you see them, Jack? White box.”

“I know. I can’t see the bloody white box for everything else stuffed in here,” he complained to the empty kitchen, and began to take packets and bags of Christmas indulgence out and put them on the floor. The desired box was right at the back and he pulled that out too, just as Janine walked through the door. A sprout rolled her way, sprung free from a hole in its net. They both watched it stop at her feet.

“Oh, Jack!” she exclaimed, trying not to laugh at the scene before her. “You look like a naughty boy who’s been caught stealing the cakes and surreptitiously trying to hide the sprouts at the same time.”

He struggled to his feet as another sprout fell from the net he was holding in his hand. It bounced a couple of times then rolled towards the other one.

“Ah, look,” Jack said, smiling. “She wants to be with her friend.”

“How do you know it’s a ‘she’? Could be a ‘he.’”

“Nope, all sprouts are ‘she.’ Otherwise, you wouldn’t serve them. I’m sure it’s a girl thing. Forcing us men to eat them though we detest them. I don’t know anyone that likes Brussel sprouts, yet we all have to eat them at Christmas.” He bent to pick the two strays up and put one in his ear. Janine looked quizzically at him, waiting for him to explain. In a mocking doctor’s voice, he said, “Mr Rutherford, you really must eat more sensibly.” His eyes were full of mischief and the effect of the wine as they filled the kitchen with laughter.

“Ha-ha. Very funny, Mr Rutherford. You should be on the stage,” she said, then changed the subject. “Perhaps your friend Billy will appreciate some leftovers anyway. We’ll make up some sandwiches on Boxing Day, put a picnic together for them. I’m sure they’ll enjoy them and we’ll find a home for all this food. And if we can’t find Billy, we’ll give them to someone else in need. There’ll be plenty of grateful souls in the usual places, I expect.” Wrapping her arms around his middle, she pulled him close. “It always feels good to do some good, don’t you think?”

“It does,” he said, putting his arms around her shoulders and squeezing her tight in return. “Love you, Mrs Rutherford. Now about them sprouts.”

Chapter Forty

They’d taken the van, since it was the least personal of the vehicles and not registered in either of their names. Rain pelted the windscreen like it was the monsoon season in Asia, transparent rods of liquid falling straight down from the black clouds that loomed over the south-east side of London, though officially they were in Kent. Bernard had the wiper blades working double time in an effort to see the road he was driving on.

“What the hell are we doing out in this shit?” Bernard complained.

“Well, I wanted a Macca’s and you need ciggies, so unless you’ve got a secret stash of both, we have to go get them. That’s how it works.” Rob sounded facetious and stroppy as he said it.

Bernard was on the attack instantly. “What’s up with you? Got your period, have you?”

Rob stayed silent, his mouth taut like a drum skin, while he seethed inside. What about, he wasn’t entirely sure, but he knew he wasn’t happy with the situation back at the house. How the hell he’d got mixed up with Bernard and Martin he’d never know. Actually, that was a lie. He did know. And he couldn’t let on to Bernard that he was pissed and wanted out. They didn’t do loose ends. He let out a sigh and made up a story he hoped was convincing.

“It’s my old mum. She ain’t well and I’m worried about her, if you must know. I was thinking I should drop in and see her over Christmas, play the good son for a while.”

Bernard glanced across to the passenger seat. “Well, ain’t that sweet, you great pussy. Wait till I tell Martin. He’ll laugh at that one, all right,” he sneered.

“Tell him what you want. She’s my old mum. Don’t you see your old mum? Don’t you care much?”

“Don’t really have one to care about, so no. Last I heard she was still inside. And my old man is definitely still inside, not that I know him much. He’s been inside most of my life.”

“What’s he in for?”

“Murder. Killed a bloke during a robbery that went a bit haywire and he got sent down. The others grassed on him to reduce their own sentence. Stinkin’ grasses. Nobody likes a stinkin’ grass.”

Rob wasn’t sure if the message was directed at him or not, a warning should things come to it later on. There’d be repercussions for sure, and he wasn’t interested in what they might be. Rob grunted by way of reply and stared straight ahead, watching the road for somewhere to put his eyes. It wasn’t long before the familiar burger logo could be seen in the distance and Bernard pulled in to the drive-thru lane. He wound his window down to place his own order first.

“Quarter Pounder, large fries and an apple pie, large Coke.”

Rob shouted across Bernard to add to their order and they pulled forward. Bernard sneered as they waited for their order to be prepared.

“What you sneering at now?” asked Rob.

“Apple pie?”

“I’m hungry. What’s wrong with that?”

“Told you you’re a pussy.” Rob ignored him. It wasn’t worth his breath. When they’d picked up their order, Bernard pulled into a parking spot and they tucked in in silence. Rob watched as the windscreen began to fog up like those of the other two cars in the small car park. Everyone was content consuming hot greasy food on a cold rainy day. Bernard noticed the fogging up and, with an overstuffed mouth full of burger, attempted to speak, particles of bread roll falling from his mouth as he did so. He held a fry between finger and thumb, waiting for a space in his mouth to come free so he could concertina it in. Rob looked away before he was turned off his own meal.

“I bet Martin is busy fogging up a window with that girl, eh?” he said and laughed. He caught a crumb in the back of his throat for his troubles and ended up in a coughing fit. The remains of a mouthful of burger landed in his lap. When he finally caught his breath, he took a long pull on his Coke. He brushed the wasted burger off his lap into the footwell. It would stink the van out for the next couple of hours until he kicked it out.

“There ain’t a window in there.”

“What?”

“There’s no window in that room, so he won’t be fogging it up.”

Bernard could only glare. “I meant it metawhatsically. I know there’s no window.”

“Metaphorically,” Rob prompted, his voice clear and even, and carried on with his own meal.

“Whatever,” Bernard replied caustically.

They finished the rest of their meal in silence, then Rob took their wrappers to a bin nearby. The rain was easing a little. Noticing the burger remains in the well, he suggested Bernard kick it out before they left but Bernard ignored him. He didn’t like anyone telling him what to do.

“I could do with a quick pint now. Want one?”

Since it was Christmas Eve and he was in no hurry to get back to the house, Rob accepted, vowing to set off back to his own place when they returned. They didn’t need all three of them there at the same time, and since they weren’t expecting any customers after tonight, they could surely spare him some time out. Perhaps he’d drop in on his mum and say hello. But Rob played along a while longer. “Let’s make it a couple, eh? And we’ll grab a bottle of spirit to take back. There’s an Asda up there on the right. Look, they’ll have cheap whiskey. Pull in, will you?”

So Bernard made the turn and waited in the van while Rob entered the store and selected a bottle, grabbing a box of Milk Tray for his mum while he was in there. Once he’d paid, he was back outside and into the van, headed for a nearby pub and a pint of bitter or two to pass some time.

They should have stuck to beer.

Chapter Forty-One

He’d always liked younger girls, though they had to be in at least double digits. Any younger was not his thing, though he knew plenty in his circle went in for it. He’d managed to keep his sexual preferences under wraps for the past twenty-five years, having discovered them not long after he’d lost his own virginity when the younger girls would flirt and give him the come-on. Then he’d met a woman who was quite a bit older than he was, and she’d introduced him to her friends. It had been at one of the ‘parties’ she held occasionally that he’d had his eyes opened to various sexual tastes and what could be supplied for those willing to pay. It was all normal to her, all she knew. When she’d eventually taken all that she needed from him and moved on to someone else, he’d stayed in the circle and found a taste for the younger girls, deciding he liked them the best. But along the way, he’d met his future wife and while sex with her was adequate, he craved the bodies of the young. So, he had carried out his secret indulgence behind her back. He’d been doing so for many years now, and with a job that took him both north and south as he travelled with work, he had endless opportunities to get his desires filled at the same time.

It had been while he’d been working and staying over not far outside Manchester that he’d found the perfect setup for his needs. He’d kept in touch with some of the regulars from those earlier parties he’d attended; they’d been sort of a club. A club that catered to people with particular wants and needs. And from that club, he’d found a private address where a young girl would be supplied. He couldn’t call the others in the circle “friends,” but they did look out for the group as a whole, not wanting the wrong set of eyes or ears to focus on them and curb their activity. And since they each knew of the other, they self-incriminated as a way of proving extreme loyalty. He had begun calling in whenever he was up there. The deal was that as long as he arrived in the evening, he was always welcome – for a fee, of course. It had all been working out fine; everyone was happy.

But suddenly his extracurricular sexual activities with a particular girl had stopped – for what reason he never did find out. On the second Tuesday of each month, he’d had a standing arrangement for 10 pm on the dot at the same address, but on his last visit, there had been no one there. The flat had been empty. And he’d had no way of finding where they’d moved to. So, he’d turned back to his acquaintances with his tale of woe and, kind-hearted as they were, they had fixed him up elsewhere with another youngster. But he liked the one he had been seeing regularly because she reminded him of someone special. The girl had always been quiet about him being there in her room with her, never made a fuss or a noise, and the parents had kept their distance too, so it was the perfect setup for them all. He’d miss seeing her, he knew, because she looked so much like his daughter.

Driving south now, he wondered about that, how he’d found comfort with this young girl for so long yet never approached his own daughter that way, knowing it wasn’t right. She was too close. He missed Leanne desperately, as did Penny, and they both prayed for her to be reunited with them and be home in time for Christmas. But as time marched on without any clues coming to light, he doubted they’d ever see her alive again.

Meanwhile, he still had needs and desires, so with the help of his acquaintances, he had found himself another venue. He’d visited a couple of times and found it satisfactory; at least his needs were getting seen to.

Unlike his toothache.

He opened a fresh piece of gum from a packet that he kept in the centre console and gently chewed it, forcing it to the offending tooth and adding pressure, the relief like a rattle to a teething toddler’s mouth.

He slipped off the M25 and on to the A20, thoughts of stress relief ahead, the feeling of utter peacefulness and contentment he’d experience after his long-awaited conclusion. All that had gone on of recent, including his toothache, would be banished for an hour or so and he could do what he wanted and answer to no one. It was his piece of ‘me’ time, a time he deserved.

He was a little earlier than his usual 6 pm, but hoped it wouldn’t be a problem. His acquaintances didn’t hand out telephone numbers, so there was no way to let the venue know of his earlier arrival. But since his money was as good as the next person’s, what did it matter? He could see the roof of the property up ahead and took the long gravel driveway down to it until the house became visible through the copse of trees that surrounded it. To anyone looking on from the outside, it was a simple, quiet farmhouse with a couple of vehicles parked out front. On the inside, it was where pleasure and pain mingled together like lost souls at a cocktail party.

Dave Meadows made his way to the large front door and entered, making his way through to the lounge that he knew was the first door on the left. It was empty. Strange, he thought. There was always someone in there to pour him a drink and direct him to the designated room. So, he helped himself to the watered-down brandy that stood in a mock crystal decanter and threw a couple of fingers worth back in one hefty gulp. It had an almost instant effect on him and the warmth spread through his body like warm water moving through a cold .radiator. He was still puzzled that nobody had yet arrived to greet him, but he knew better than to call out. There were cars out front and that meant other customers. So he waited a moment before pouring himself another drink and sat down on the sofa. At least his tooth was feeling a little better; the brandy was working its pain reliever talons on his mouth. He soon grew tired of waiting; he was anxious for pleasure. He took the cash from his wallet and slipped it under the cheap decanter. Someone would pick it up later. Opening the door and making his own way quietly up the stairs, he glanced at each door in turn to see which had a key on the outside and selected the one furthest away at the end of the hall. He turned the key and entered. The room, like the others he had been in, was dimly lit and contained a single bed and a small table.

And a girl.

He locked the door behind him. As he approached the bed, he removed the gum from his mouth and stuck it to the top of the cheap table. Then he began to undress.

Chapter Forty-Two

It was almost dark when he left the house for home. Bumping the car down the rough track, he was reminded once again it wouldn’t be a Christmas to celebrate, not this year. In his mind, 1999 would always be remembered as the year that his daughter had disappeared, and he hoped that whatever happened, if she wasn’t found alive and well, that she was returned to them so they could mourn properly. He knew he wasn’t strong enough to tolerate the not knowing, the lack of closure. He could understand how families fell apart with such a tragedy in their lives. The pressure on bereaved couples was immense, he knew, and even now Penny wasn’t coping particularly well. She and Leanne had rowed that morning, and she blamed herself.

The gravel track leading away from the house eventually joined the tar seal and he picked up speed, intent on not getting snarled up on the M25 during rush hour. He hoped that since it was Christmas Eve, everyone was already home starting their celebrations with their loved ones.

He missed his Leanne.

A handful of miles away in The Red Lion pub, Rob and Bernard were on their third pint each when Rob noticed the time. They’d been out far longer than they’d intended – they’d only nipped out for a burger and cigarettes – so Martin was sure to be pissed with them both for leaving him there on his own. Rob wondered why the man hadn’t called them. Tough shit, he thought. Martin wasn’t their babysitter.

Bernard scrunched up the empty packet of pork scratchings he’d devoured and turned to Rob. He too had noticed the time. A streetlamp nearby shone with a pale glow, making the twilight seem darker than it actually was. He drained his glass then stood up. “Better get our skates on. We’ve got a couple of punters coming through tonight. I’d have thought they’d have better things to be doing on Christmas Eve than getting their jollies.”

Rob swallowed the last of his pint, stood and grabbed his jacket. They made their way to the back door and out to the van. The rain had stopped, but the air turned their breath to mist as they walked, making them look like a couple of smokers. Once in the van, Bernard turned the heater on full blast, and the windscreen began to fog up. The blast of cool air blew into their eyes as it bounced off the glass and Rob willed it to turn warm soon. On a freezing evening, a cold draft was the last thing he desired.

Content that there was a patch of glass big enough to see through, Bernard set off and joined the road outside, continuing to clear the windscreen with the back of his hand.

“Sod this weather. Has Christmas ever felt this cold before?” Rob moaned.

“That’s ’cos you’re a pussy like I said. Harden up, will you?”

“Not me, mate. I’m no pussy. Anyway, I’m not hanging around tonight. When the last one’s gone, I’m off to see my mum. What about you?”

“Well, I ain’t hanging around on my own ’cos Martin won’t be. I’ll tell you that now. I reckon we should lock the place up and leave ’em be. They’ll be alright for a day or two. Give ’em a box of cereal each or something. They’ll manage.” Sneering, he added, “Getting fed is the least of their worries, don’t you think? And they’re about due to be passed on anyway. They’re becoming a bit skanky. Don’t want the punters complaining.”

“When is that? Any idea?”

“Nah, that’s Martin’s domain, not ours. Grab and go, that’s us,” he said turning to Rob and smiling. “The hired muscle, the guys that get,” he said proudly, and laughed at his own terminology. A sign up ahead directed them towards the house and they turned right down a narrow lane. Bernard was still chatting to himself about nothing. Rob closed his ears, not interested in what the fat man had to say, and silently wished he was someplace else. Even his own flat, as meagre as it was, was preferable to this man’s company. And it was quiet.

“Look,” Rob said. “I wonder where they’ve been?” A car was travelling towards them in the opposite direction. A sole occupant in the front caught Rob’s attention. “There ain’t nothing much out here, that’s all. Wonder where they’ve been?”

“Home probably. People do live out here, remember?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen another car on this road, ever.”

“Well, how do you expect the punters get to the house, then? Fly in their helicopters? Dumb shit,” Bernard said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re usually inside the house, remember?”

Rob stayed quiet, realizing he did sound stupid. Eventually they turned into the gravel road and slowed down a little. The van tossed its occupants with each pothole they drove through; the suspension was working overtime to smooth their ride and not doing a good enough job.

“Need a Land Rover down here, not this great thing,” Bernard added as the house came into view in the distance. “Still, it serves its purpose.”

They pulled up out front next to their own vehicles, climbed out and walked up to the house. Rob opened the front door and Bernard followed him through. They headed for the kitchen out back where they usually congregated and smoked. Bernard called out to Martin, but there was no answer. He called again.

“Strange,” said Rob. “He can’t still be upstairs with the blonde, can he?”

“Probably getting his fill from the candy store on legs,” Bernard jeered. “Dirty sod.”

“Come on, best get set up. First one’s due at six pm. I’ll go up and see what he’s up to,” volunteered Rob, and headed for the stairs. He tapped on the door. The key was not on the outside. “You in there?” he called, careful not to mention his boss’s name to overhearing ears. It was one of the house rules: no names of anyone at any time. He knocked again. “Come on. You’ve not gone to sleep on the job, have you?” he called but still there was no reply.

He went back downstairs to get the spare key.

Chapter Forty-Three

“Where’s the spare key to that room?” Rob asked, pulling open a drawer filled with all kinds of odds and ends.

“Not sure if there is one. Why? He’s fallen asleep, has he?”

“Dunno, but he’s not answering and the key’s not on the outside. The door’s still locked. Nobody answering, either.” He rummaged in the drawer some more, pulling out various other keys. None was the one he was looking for. When all the keys were on the table, it was apparent there wasn’t a spare.

“No spare key.”

Bernard looked perplexed and stood up. “Come on, let’s go look,” he said. They both went back upstairs to the offending door. Bernard banged hard and turned the door handle at the same time, but it was definitely locked and nobody answered. He thumped again and yelled, all to no avail. It was obvious Martin wasn’t going to come to the door.

“What about the girl?” Rob asked. “Even if Martin isn’t in there, she’ll still be and if we break the door down. What are we going to do with her then?”

“We’ll deal with her if we have to, but for now, we need to get inside and see what’s happening. Martin must be in there; the cars are outside and we had his van, so he’ll be here somewhere. Stand back, will you? I’ll give it a shove.”

Rob stood back and watched as Bernard did his best to shoulder the door in. He then tried to kick it in, without the desired result.

“You have a go,” he instructed, and Rob charged at the door with his solid bulk. There was a splintering sound and a loud crash as the lock ripped through the frame and the door swung open into the room. Stepping inside, their eyes adjusting to the low light, they saw Martin lying face down on the floor, trousers around his ankles, looking for all the world like he had fallen asleep on the job.

Were it not for the blood-soaked floor. And the spoon sticking out of his neck.

“Houston, we have a problem,” Rob said.

“Ya think?”

“The girl’s gone too. She must have locked him in and taken the key.” Bernard glanced round the room, confirmation registering. Martin was one thing, but a loose end of a girl who could identify him was another. And he wasn’t going to be linked to this holy mess.

“What the fuck do we do now?” Bernard asked, touching the side of Martin’s neck and feeling for a pulse. There was one, but it was faint. “He’s still alive, barely.” He looked at Rob, trying to read his face, see if he was thinking the same as he was.

“Loose ends get us caught,” Rob replied. “The girl can tie herself to this place if she’s out, and that means evidence of us. And this,” he said, pointing to Martin. “We can’t take him to a hospital. Too risky.”

Bernard nodded in agreement. He ran his hand through the remaining fine hairs covering his bald dome and sighed heavily. “We have no choice. We’ll have to torch the place. We’ll dump the other girls. They’re too young to know this place or us, and we’ll burn it to the ground, destroy any evidence pointing back to us.”

“And what do we do with him? And the woman?” Rob asked, not wanting to know the answer but figuring it anyway.

“He’s almost gone anyway. He’ll not feel a thing. We’ll take the woman with us, dump her too.” He looked at his fake gold watch. “We’d better hurry before the first punter gets here. We’ll start it in the lounge. The sofa will go up quickly, and we’ll secure the girls in the van. We’ll have to torch the cars too.”

“I’ve got a better idea. The van is his, and there’ll be evidence in it, so that should go up too. We’ll each take a girl in our own cars, stick them in the boots. Then toss them when we can. There’s no trail back to us.”

“Nah, way too risky. And we’ve no time. We’ll take the van and torch the cars. Now let’s get on with it. I’ll start the fire; you get the cash and we’ll shift the girls together. Or we could leave them too and drive off in our own cars, as you said?” A smile crept across Bernard’s face as he said it. “Makes more sense, doesn’t it? Then our cars are both gone.”

There was no doubt it was the more thorough way to clean up for good, but Rob wasn’t convinced. “Hey, I never signed up for murder. That’s going too far.” He started to pace nervously up and down in the small room

“You going all pussy on me again?” Bernard demanded. “You’re alright with Martin here getting toasted, but not the girls, not the woman, is that it?”

“I don’t want anyone being toasted, but we haven’t much choice with him, have we?”

“Well, either way, I’m going down to get a fire burning. Time is running out, so I suggest that whatever you decide, you do it quickly because in about ten minutes, this place will be lighting up the sky, whether the girls are in it or not!”

Bernard stormed out of the door and stomped his way down the stairs, leaving Rob to make his mind up. While he knew Martin was a lost cause, he didn’t want the girls on his conscience. He couldn’t bear the thought of them being burned to death. With so little time, it was difficult to know which was the best option. Stick together and dump them out somewhere, or take one each and go their separate ways? Option two meant leaving evidence in their own vehicles if fingers got pointed back to them. But they could hardly leave their cars outside. Then an idea came to him: take the number plates off. That way, there’d be no way to trace two burned-out vehicles back to them. The idea was perfect, and he dashed down to the kitchen for a screwdriver. He could already smell smoke.

A couple of minutes later, he’d taken the back and front plates off both cars and put them in the van. He went back inside to find Bernard.

“Start the cars burning. I’ll move the van round the back, then we’ll grab the woman and the girls,” he shouted, then ran back outside. Thick, grey smoke now filled the hallway.

By the time he’d returned, the two cars were already smouldering, flames licking the upholstery of the front seats. It wouldn’t be long before they were fully ablaze and the petrol tanks caught, obliterating any evidence linking them to what had happened.

Back upstairs, they unlocked the remaining rooms and dragged the two petrified girls and the woman out to the van. There, they secured them with duct tape, added a piece across each mouth for good measure, and tied pillowcases over their heads. With only Martin left in the burning house, Bernard drove the van away, down the potholed track and out towards the motorway in the distance, the orange glow of the blazing building reflecting in the rear-view mirror.

“There shouldn’t be much of that left to sift through,” he said, with a touch of pleasure.

“No. But we’ve got to sort this little lot out, and the sooner the better,” Rob said, wondering what they’d end up doing with the three of them in the back.

“I’ve got an idea,” Bernard said.

Rob hoped he’d agree with it.

Chapter Forty-Four

Her eyes hurt with crying. Her feet were torn to shreds. Leanne crouched down low, tucked behind a hedge in the middle of nowhere. She had no clue where she was or where she was heading. All she knew was that the house she’d run from several hours ago was behind her. How long had it actually been, she wondered? With no sun to go by, she’d no clue when she’d set, out but as it was fully dark now, she knew it had to be at least 5 pm. Her teeth chattered from the cold. Her soaked sweatshirt keeping the chill fixed on her body, but she was loath to take it off and reveal her complete nakedness. In her frantic rush to leave the room, she’d left her track pants on the floor. It had been a blessing her fingers had found the strength to turn the key and lock him in.

She closed her swollen eyes at the memory of what she’d done, what she’d had to resort to get him off her and protect herself from a violent personal theft. There was no way she was going to let that filthy pig of a man do that to her. Slobber all over her. Run his grubby hands over her body and snatch her virginity away like a dirty tissue. That was one thing her mother had taught her – when she chose to give her gift away, it was to be to someone she loved. She hadn’t been willing to give it up to anyone who felt they could take it. Leanne doubted she’d ever be able to wipe the experience out of her mind completely – the feeling of stabbing the soft side of his neck, driving the spoon handle in hard, and twisting it before finally tugging it out and driving it home once more. The feeling of shoving his sweaty bulk off her and clambering off the rumpled bed… His blood had spurted like a hosepipe turned on at the tap and shot across the room. God, how he’d bled . . . She glanced at her hands, knowing they were still red. His blood had long since dried on her skin; the rain had done little to cleanse them. Was he dead, she wondered? What about the others in the house – the girls, the woman? Had she now put them in danger somehow? Were the men searching for her, the thinner guy and the man with sausage meat for skin? They’d never have let her get away. She’d seen at least two of their faces, plus the woman, though she doubted she’d been part of things. That woman had saved her life.

As darkness had fallen, she felt safer to move, get herself to a road and find help, naked from the waist down or not. She couldn’t worry about her modesty now. Leanne wiped her face on her sleeve in a vain attempt to focus her attention on her situation and figure out what to do next, where to head. In the far distance was the glow of streetlights and the muffled sound of traffic, and she rightly assumed it to be a motorway. But which one? She could be anywhere. She looked in the opposite direction; that way seemed black all over with a slight differential where the skyline met the ground. Behind her, it was much the same. But was there a glow of creamy light, the movement of headlights maybe. Could there be a local road to aim for? There was only one way to find out, and with thistles pricking at her feet and cold mud and what smelt like cow muck squashing between her toes, she padded her way as carefully as she could towards the light. With no stars or moonlight to guide her, she fixed her gaze forward, feeling for possible obstacles that might trip her up. She didn’t think she could cope with any more pain.

She’d had time to think back in the room; there had been precious else to do, and she’d thought a lot about her family life and her relationship with her parents. She and her friends at school constantly moaned at the restrictions their parents put on their lives – not letting them go to concerts or see a boy who was a couple of years older or wear makeup. How she’d fooled them in the past, saying she was at a friend’s house studying when in fact she was someplace else. And what a fuss she’d made of cycling on Christmas Day and on other days when her parents had encouraged her to spend time with them. She choked back a sob. It was all so pointless now, and she vowed that when she did get back home – because she would – things would change on her part.

What she wouldn’t trade now to be safe at home with her mum and dad. Her tears were still falling; they had never properly stopped completely though they had slowed in pace. Fresh sobs caught in her throat. She wiped her nose on her wet sleeve again and pushed forward across the soggy grassland, hoping she was moving in the right direction, that the creamy light up ahead was a road or a house, somewhere she could get help, somewhere she could call her mum and dad and tell them she was alright. A house or a shop or somewhere, anywhere, with someone who would help her and take her home. She fell to her knees and wailed into the night, pouring out a torrent of grief and remorse from deep inside her soul.

At last, spent and shivering, she lay where she’d dropped and curled into a foetal position for comfort as the icy cold rain began to fall once again.

Chapter Forty-Five

By the time they’d heard the fire engines in the distance, the van and its occupants were heading west on the M25, though neither of the two men could agree on what to do and where to go, having rushed from the house in mayhem. In the back, the two girls whimpered. Nobody heard their muffled cries apart from the other occupants of the van. The woman stayed silent.

The air was filled with tension, and the smell of stale urine and filthy clothing.

“You stink,” Bernard shouted back at the youngest girl. She’d been terrified by her ordeal and her clothes were sopping.

To Rob, he seemed to be unravelling a little. “Calm down, will you? The house and all evidence are gone, and these can’t identify and find us,” he said, pointing over his shoulder. “No names, and no idea where they’ve been all this time, and with the fear of god put into them, I’d say there won’t be an issue. And in any case, I’ve been chewing through a plan while you’ve been stressing.”

“Let’s hear it then, bright spark.”

“We drop them off individually, at different spots so they never see each other again. Drop one off somewhere here, another in another county and the last in another. The cops won’t figure it out for a while. It’s Christmas, remember, so they’ll be on minimum staff and full of turkey if they’ve any sense. Perfect time to give them something to do. We’ll be lucky if things get linked together by New Year, and we’ll be well out of it by then.”

Bernard sat and mulled it over in silence. “So, you reckon one around here someplace?” he said at length.

“I’d say so. We’re not far to the next county, so we can do two quickly. Drop them on a quiet side road. There’ll hardly be any traffic over the next couple of days, so it’ll be ages before they’re found.”

Bernard liked the sound of it. It seemed the logical thing to do, and the smell was burning into his sinuses. A junction loomed ahead and he flicked his indicator to turn off. “May as well start here,” he said, slowing down and pulling off the motorway. There wasn’t another soul on the road but he took the first left down an equally quiet road, followed by a series of further left and right turns. He silently hoped he’d manage to navigate his way back to the motorway. When he was satisfied they were remote enough, he pulled into a layby. With no streetlamps, it was pitch black.

Turning to Rob, he said, “Get the smelly young one out of here. She reeks.”

Rob opened his door and walked around the back of the van. As the hired muscle, he had a part to play. He yanked the door open and reached a strong arm out to the smallest child, pulling her forcibly forward. She did her best to scream from behind the tape covering her mouth, but Rob ignored her distress, pulling her towards the open door like she was an old suitcase.

“I’d have thought you’d want to get out,” Bernard shouted spitefully as the child stood awkwardly at the rear.

Rob closed the doors. The girl stood shaking, obviously petrified, in the darkness. Icy rain pelted them both, and Rob didn’t want to hang around any longer getting soaked. Bending down to her level to speak into her ear, he hissed, “And don’t ever think about telling anyone where you’ve been or who with. Remember, we’ll know where to find you again and come and get you. Now get walking,” he added threateningly, before getting back into the van and leaving her standing there with her hands bound behind her back, the pillowcase sticking wetly to her head. If she was lucky, a car might be along later, though he doubted it. By tomorrow, Christmas Day, she’d probably have collapsed from exposure.

Back in the van, Bernard said, “Only two more to go. I’ll be a happier man when they’ve both been turfed out.”

They drove in silence as the rain lashed down, the windscreen wipers working double time. As they hit West Sussex, Bernard again spoke.

“We’ll get rid of one here, then it’s not far to East Sussex for the last one.”

“They are the same county. That won’t work,” Rob protested.

“You thick or what? They are two different counties, dumb shit. We’ll drop one here, then it’s not far to East Sussex.”

“I’m telling you, it’s the same county.”

“Well, since I’m driving,” he spat “and since I’m the brains in this duo, I’m telling you it’s two counties, and we’ll drop one in each. Now shut the hell up!”

There was no point in arguing, so Rob didn’t bother, and when the time came to turf the second girl out on a quiet, wet road, he left her with the same warning in her ear. Half an hour later, the third and last girl, the young woman had been offloaded and left stranded in the pitch black and cold rain to fend for herself. The van was empty now save for Rob and Bernard.

“Thank god for that. Apart from the stink, I didn’t want a nosey cop pulling us over and taking a look. That would have been awkward,” Bernard joked. The mood in the van was somewhat lighter now. “Now, where are we headed, oh bright one?” he mocked.

Rob really wasn’t sure of the answer. “A cheap motorway stop with a Macca’s, I reckon. I’m starved.”

As the van drove on towards the north, well away from the house they’d left burning behind them, three frightened girls began to make their way along three dark, deserted roads.

The first child, Kate, struck lucky first.

Chapter Forty-Six

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” the woman asked, sounding dubious. She was starting to regret her decision to leave the party. They’d been flirting across the room at each other all night when he’d finally wandered over, wearing a cocksure smile on his face. With several vodkas in her stomach and not much to soak it up with, confidence had come more easily than normal, and they’d eventually found themselves entwined in a hot, sticky embrace. He’d suggested they get some air and find a nice secluded layby, and she’d agreed readily, both knowing exactly what was to come next, both up for it.

“This will do,” he decided, and took a long pull on the vodka bottle they were sharing. He passed it back to his conquest to be, who politely laughed a little in return. He pulled off the road into the layby, loose gravel crunching under the tyres, rain soaking the windscreen. He’d no idea where they were exactly, but he’d figure out how to get back when they were done. He turned to the woman.

“Right, then. Where were we?” he asked encouragingly, lowering his face towards hers and opening his mouth in anticipation of receiving her tongue. She smiled at his words and though he couldn’t see her clearly in the darkness, he felt her relax a little more, tasting lingering vodka as their mouths mashed together hungrily.

As their urgency progressed to another level, they were unaware of a small figure venturing towards them on the remote road, weaving unsteadily as it struggled to progress. It eventually made its way past the stationary vehicle, sobbing quietly, unaware there was anyone inside it who could help, ease its distress and pain, make its warm again. The little figure would have to wait a while longer.

When the young couple finally finished having their fun and were making their way back towards the party, it was the woman who spotted the figure in the headlights first. It was hard not to: it was wandering in the centre of the road.

“Look!” she exclaimed, pointing out through the windscreen. The figure could have been a ghost from a horror movie.

“What the . . .?” the man said as they approached it and slowed down. In the headlights it looked eerie.

“It’s too short to be an adult. Pull over,” the woman instructed. “It looks like they’ve got a bag or something on their head.” She turned to open her door.

“What you gonna do?”

“Take a look, stupid. That’s no practical joke,” she said pointing at the figure, which had stopped in the near distance.

“You’ll get soaked,” the man protested.

Not waiting to give a reply, she climbed out of the warm car and into the icy rain, headed towards the figure, leaving him sitting in the driver’s seat watching. She called out to the figure.

“Hello. Are you alright?” As she approached, she could see with the light from the car headlamps that the figure was no bigger than a child, a child with what looked like a bag of some description on its head, and who was soaked and visibly shaking. She ventured closer, doing her best to make her voice sound comforting.

“It’s alright. I’m going to come a little closer, okay? I’m not going to hurt you.” Rain continued to pelt down around them both. Her own clothes were soaked now and she wished she’d brought a coat with her. Instinctively, she put her arm out towards the small figure, as though she was enticing a dog to come closer, except this dog couldn’t see her gesture.

“I’m almost there now. Don’t be scared,” she encouraged again. When her outstretched hand finally made contact with the small figure’s shoulder, she heard what sounded like a muffled sob. Continuing to talk quietly, she gently lifted the soaked bag off the figure’s head, then drew back in alarm. Two swollen and terrified eyes stared back up at her. Grey tape was fastened across the child’s mouth. It was a young girl.

“Dear god,” she exclaimed quietly to herself as she bent down to the girl’s level. Gently she peeled the tape off the tiny mouth and spoke again.

“My name is Jess, and whatever has happened to you, you’re safe now. Can you tell me your name?” Jess watched as the child’s bottom lip trembled uncontrollably and she waited patiently. But the child was too terrified to speak and stood mute, petrified with fear, as Jess tried again to reassure her. Noticing the child’s hands were bound behind her back, Jess removed the tape from her wrists and rubbed each one gently to return the circulation.

“There, that must be better. Let’s get you out of this rain, shall we? Then we can get you warmed up and get some proper help, let your parents know you’re alright, eh?”

Still nothing from the lips of the tiny child as Jess bent to pick her up and take her back to the car, talking gently as she walked in an effort to reassure the little one that everything was going to be alright. The man opened the rear car door and Jess and the child got inside. They were both soaked.

“Take your jumper off,” she directed the man. “She’s deathly cold, poor mite.” He did as he was told and watched as Jess draped it around the child’s shoulders.

“Police station, I think, or hospital? What do you think?”

“Hospital, I reckon. I don’t want to go anywhere near the police. I’m over the limit by miles.”

“Whatever. Hospital then. This poor girl needs some help quickly, so get your foot down, will you?”

And with rain lashing down from the blackness above, little Kate Bryers was taken to the nearest hospital.

Her nightmare ordeal was finally coming to an end.

Chapter Forty-Seven

“So where are we heading now?” Rob asked Bernard, who was busy steering with one hand and fumbling for his cigarettes with the other. The van swerved across to the next lane as he pulled them free from his inside jacket pocket. It was a good job the M25 was quiet for a change.

“Back home, I’d say. No point going back to the house. There’s nothing there. You want dropping somewhere?” A plume of blue smoke filled the driver’s side as Bernard took a couple of heavy drags on his cigarette.

“Back to my flat, I suppose.”

“I ain’t driving all the way over there at this hour. I’m not a bleedin’ taxi service, you cheeky sod.”

Rob figured as much, but thought he’d ask anyway. On Christmas Eve at such a late hour there wouldn’t be much in the way of public transport, and taxis would likely be scarcer still. He’d have to chance the train. Or thumb a lift.

“Drop me at the train station, then. I’ll get home from there. Leatherhead isn’t far from here.”

Bernard grunted in reply, sounding like the Neanderthal he was. It had been a stressful night and both men were anxious about what had happened. With no proper plan in place and having made it up as they went along, there was ample room for error, something neither of them was particularly happy about. But there was no going back and changing things now. It was way too late. They’d have to pray the trail didn’t snake back to their front doors.

“Look,” said Bernard, stubbing his fag butt out under his foot on the dirty rubber mat. There must have been at least another twenty more with it. “We should steer clear of each other for a while, lay low. I’m going to get the hell out of Dodge, maybe catch the train to France, hide out there or move further south. I suggest you do the same. It’ll only be a matter of time before they find the house, and Martin’s body.”

At the mention of Martin, Rob waited a moment before adding, “Yeah, probably a good idea. What a bloody mess, though. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. There wasn’t meant to be any real trouble,” he said, his voice rising with each word, his anger mounting. “That’s what you both said: nobody would get hurt. But they did.”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic, would you? We’ll both be out of it soon enough. And Martin? Well, he was collateral damage, unfortunate, like. So stop blubbering and figure out what you’ll do to keep clear of the shit that will undoubtedly start flying.” Bernard reached into his pocket again for another cigarette and struggled to light it. The motorway was almost empty as he swerved out of his lane for the second time then corrected his steering. The pull on the wheel jolted Rob, who had been busy gazing through the side window, deep in thought.

“What the—?” he yelled as he righted himself in his seat.

But Rob wasn’t the only one who noticed the van swerving. Two cars behind sat a motorway patrol car, the officers minding their own business as they made their way back to the station at the end of their shift. Rob spotted it in his side mirror, but it was too late. As he opened his mouth to tell Bernard, blue light reflected around the inside of the van as the patrol car gained, then pulled alongside them in the adjacent lane. Bernard glanced across at it. The driver signalled for him to pull over.

“You’ve no choice, have you?” Rob said, defeated. “We’re hardly going to outrun them in this pile of crap. This isn’t an episode of The Bill, more’s the pity.” Bernard wasn’t convinced, however, and carried on, the siren from the police car sounding harsh to their ears as it reverberated around the tin can of a van.

Rob had another go. “Pull it over! Don’t be a dumbass. We’ll never get away, so let’s see what they do. Might be nothing.”

That seemed to pacify Bernard; they might only want him over for a rear light out or something equally trivial. He flicked his indicator to pull over and drifted to a stop on the hard shoulder. Both men sat silently, waiting. In the vehicle behind them, they knew the officer would be doing a vehicle check and both men hoped it didn’t throw up anything that they couldn’t handle.

They were correct. A vehicle check was indeed taking place, a check that showed that the van was a vehicle of interest to the Croydon police in a possible abduction case. The two traffic officers looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

“Better take a look then, hadn’t we? I guess we’ll not be getting back for a mince pie just yet.”

As Officer Michaels approached the driver’s side of the van, his partner slipped down towards the passenger side and waited, largely in case the passenger decided to make a run for it. He’d had it happen before and didn’t fancy taking his chance with a chase in the wet so late on Christmas Eve. He should be on his way home.

“License, please,” Michaels demanded wearily, and waited for Bernard to hand it over.

“Not with me. Sorry. I’ll have to drop it in to you.” Bernard was playing for time, with no intention of confirming who he was if he could get away with it.

“What’s your name, sir?’

“Bernard Marks.”

“Is this your vehicle, sir?”

“No, it’s a mate’s.”

The officer nodded, like he’d heard it all before. “Well, Bernard, do you want to tell me why you were weaving across lanes on two separate occasions?”

“Ah, sorry. I was struggling with a packet of cigarettes, nothing more.” Bernard tried a bright smile. It didn’t work.

“Have you been drinking, sir?”

“I had a couple at lunchtime. Nothing since.”

“Well, since we’re here, it makes sense to double-check with a Breathalyzer.” He looked at his colleague. It was the other officer’s cue to retrieve it from the patrol car.

“What’s in the van, sir?”

“Nothing. It’s empty.”

“Mind if I take a look?” Bernard’s brain was thinking through the various outcomes at record speed, not sure which way to go.

“Sir?”

“Go ahead. It’s empty.” Bernard was starting to get warm under his collar, hoping there wasn’t anything lying around in the back, something they’d missed.Something that could screw this up even more.

From their seats, Rob and Bernard watched as the officer approached the rear of the van and opened the double doors. In the low light available, there didn’t look to be anything amiss. It was, as Bernard had said, empty. Rob slowly let his breath out and relaxed a little as the officer closed one door and started to close the other.

But something had caught his eye.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Billy and Chloe lay beneath their blankets, their breath visible on the air in the small garage, morning light filtering in through a triangle of bare glass where the old curtains didn’t quite meet each other. It was another grey-sky day, but at least it wasn’t raining. Chloe watched Billy as he lay sleeping, his mouth open a little, deep in a warm dream. He looked so peaceful. There wasn’t a sound outside their garage; the streets were quiet on Christmas morning. As if he sensed someone looking at him, Billy opened his eyes and stared straight up into Chloe’s.

“Morning. Merry Christmas,” she said, smiling down at him, and watched him further as he returned a smile and wished her the same.

“What time is it?”

“A little after seven o’clock. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t really. I was coming to anyway,” he said, struggling to sit up and wrap a blanket around his shoulders as he did so. With no heating, it was cold in their setup, but at least they had privacy and safety. Chloe sat up with him and he pulled the blanket around her too.

“And what would you like to do today, Chloe Matthews?” he asked, smiling, knowing whatever she said would be make-believe.

“I think I’ll take a hot shower, then I fancy smoked salmon and scrambled eggs with a pot of hot coffee. What about you?”

Playing the game, he carried on with, “I fancy bacon and eggs for a change today, on a couple of soft white rolls, if I may. I’m sick of salmon.”

Chloe smiled at his sense of humour. “Well, I can’t help you with everything you desire this morning. sir, but I can provide you with the next best thing.”

“Oh? What’s that?” He watched as she rummaged in her bag and pulled out a familiar printed brown paper bag. She handed it to him.

“Merry Christmas! Open it.”

Billy peered inside, and his face broke into a smile again. Inside was a cold Bacon and Egg McMuffin. She’d bought it with the money from the stranger who wanted her to call home – she’d put it to better use.

“Chloe – thanks! How thoughtful. Let’s share it, though.”

She shook her head. No. It’s yours. I’ve got my usual. Plus, the fact we have a nice hot dinner to look forward to later. I don’t want to spoil my appetite, now, do I? You eat it. It’s your present.” She watched him unwrap the greaseproof paper and, even though she could have ripped it from his hands, enjoyed watching him devour it hungrily, grease shining on his lips. When it came to the last mouthful, he offered it to her.

“Please, take it,” he insisted, and she opened her mouth to receive it without him having to ask twice. It tasted like heaven, even cold.

“Now it’s my turn,” Billy announced, slipping his hand into his own rucksack and pulling out a small bag. When he’d been in the charity shop, he’d seen it and knew Chloe would have liked it. He handed her the small white paper bag.

“What’s this?” she enquired, surprised.

“Open it and see, silly.”

With delight and surprise, Chloe tore into the bag like she was six years old again. Inside the bag was a square of printed silk, baby pink with pretty, tiny flowers on it.

“Oh, Billy. It’s beautiful! Thanks.”

“It’s real silk. I thought you might like to wear it to lunch, have something pretty for a change. I know girls like pretty things.” He was smiling broadly, hoping she really did like it and his words didn’t sound condescending.

“I love it, Billy. I’ll treasure it – thank you!” she said, and leaned over and gave him a big kiss on the cheek, taking him a little by surprise. For a moment he wasn’t sure what to say, and the pause between them was awkward, neither knowing what to say or do next. Billy broke the silence.

“That was nice,” he said quietly, almost inaudibly, then reached out to pull her back inside his blanket, planting a kiss on her cheek in return. “I like you, Chloe Matthews.”

“And I like you too, Billy Peters,” she said, smiling warmly as she snuggled in close. The smell of the McMuffin still lingered on the air of their small space.

“I’m looking forward to a hot bath and dinner, aren’t you?”

“Definitely,’ he agreed, pulling her closer.

And there they stayed for a few more minutes, enjoying the warmth of their friendship and the warmth of the blanket they shared between them.

A couple of hours later, they were making their way to Roy’s place. Chloe’s gift for him was tucked in her pocket, along with her new scarf to wear during dinner. As they walked arm in arm like the two close friends they had become, Chloe reflected, and not for the first time, on how her life had been catapulted into something so far away from what she had known only a few months ago – how she’d discovered she was pregnant, and that her parents had effectively been renting her out for money while she’d slept. What kind of unhinged parent did that to their child? No, she was better off without either of them, living like she was with Billy.

Chloe wondered if, someday, Mary would ever think about her own mother.

Chapter Forty-Nine

She awoke to a strange shuffling nearby. Weak sunshine was forcing its way into her swollen eyes, making her wince with pain as she let the morning into them. As she realised she wasn’t waking in the dimly lit room where she’d been held, the memories of the previous day rushed through her head like an old mail train, pockets of information making her relive the experience all over again.

But she wasn’t in the room, not now. She was outside and the sun was in her sore eyes as she forced them open to orientate herself. How long she’d lain there she’d no idea. She figured she’d passed out from exhaustion in the hammering rain the previous night. She was conscious of movement behind her head somewhere, but as she tried to turn and look, a stab of pain in her neck made her gag. Bitterly cold, her body seemingly frozen to the spot, she forced herself to awaken properly and look what was making the strange noise, hoping she wasn’t in trouble again.

Tentatively, she pushed herself up to a wobbly kneeling position and turned towards the noisemaker. A small congregation of half a dozen or so cows stared at her nervously, ears twitching and glistening mouths chewing thin air as they watched her with trepidation. Relief washed over her at the realization she was in no danger. After all she’d been through, Leanne found the little energy she needed to smile for the first time in a week and relax for a moment. The cows were more frightened of her than she was of them.

“Hi,” she said feeling she should say something. “Where am I?” she asked, though she expected no reply. Covering her eyes with the side of her hand to make a shield against the sunshine, she looked around. There was grass as far as she could see, but she could hear the sound of distant traffic, although it was much quieter than the previous night. She gave herself a quick once-over. Blood was still visible in patches on her shirt and hands; her bare legs were filthy with half-dried mud; and her feet were red and sore from stumbling about in the dark with no protection for her tender skin. Raising her hands to check her head, she could feel that her blonde hair was matted. The ends she could see were tinged with more red – his blood. Feeling conscious of her nakedness out in the open, she dropped her hands to cover herself, more out of instinct than necessity. She knew she needed to keep moving, find a way to safety, let her mum and dad know she was alive, then wait for a ride home.

Home.

It could now be a reality, something while locked away in that room at the house she thought she’d never see again.

A male voice from behind startled her, and she instinctively hit the ground again as if to hide in the grass which was, of course, no use, but she lay there any way curled up, listening, as he repeated his call.

“Hello there. Are you alright, miss?”

She wracked her brain to see if she recognized his voice, not wanting to sit up and look who it might be. Was he from the house? He called again. No, she didn’t recognize him.

“Hello, miss. Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. But are you okay?” Scrambling on to her hands and knees but still staying low, she raised her head and looked at the man with terrified eyes. He was about twenty feet away. Every inch of her body trembled uncontrollably as she watched him get a little closer, taking his work coat off as he progressed in her direction. He tossed the coat her way, missing by a couple of feet.

“Please, take my coat. I’ll turn around for you. Put it on. It’s good and warm,” he said. Leanne watched as he turned away, grateful for his consideration and the bit of privacy, grateful for the bit of warmth. She realized the man was likely the owner of the field she was in, the cows his; he wasn’t the enemy. The man turned back around and started towards her, and Leanne’s tears began to fall all over again. She began wailing like a banshee. The man rushed to her side and scooped her up in both arms and she let him, her whole body going limp with exhaustion. Slowly he picked his way through the field and back towards a vehicle that she hadn’t even noticed was there. Just being in the stranger’s arms felt a blessed relief to her soul, and she cried like a baby into his shoulder, spilling words out that didn’t make any sense to either of them. Manoeuvring her slightly to free his hand, he opened the passenger side door and gently placed her inside on the seat. He closed the door and then hurried around to the driver’s side and started the engine. The vehicle began to move forward and she found herself rocking slightly from side to side, too drained to support herself.

“You’re safe now, miss. Whatever has happened, you’re safe.” He smiled warmly; his cheeks were rosy red from too many years working out in all weather. On any other day, he’d have looked a lot like a garden gnome. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Leanne. Leanne Meadows. I need to tell my mum I’m alright. I’ve been gone a while; days, I think.”

“Where is home, miss?”

“Near Croydon. Where am I?”

“A little way from there, in Kent. Swanley is the nearest town. How about I take you to my home, make you something hot to drink and call the police and your mum? Is that okay?” he asked politely.

“I can’t think of anything I’d like better,” she said, mustering a small smile.

“I’ll turn the heater up for you. You must be frozen – maybe a touch of hypothermia even. I expect the police may want you to go to the hospital and get checked out and whatnot. But first, hot drink and the phone calls, eh?” He smiled cheerily again, and Leanne was grateful for his warm spirit. “It’s all happening round here at the moment.”

“What else has happened?” she enquired wearily.

“Big fire last night. I guess you didn’t hear the fire engines? A big old house over there,” he said, pointing. “Up in flames.”

Leanne instantly knew it had to be the same place. The hairs were standing up on the back of her neck. Gone up in flames, eh? Along with the man she’d stabbed. She wondered about the others she knew were kept there.

“I must have passed out. Was anyone hurt?”

“Not heard, miss. I dare say it’ll be on the news. By the way, Merry Christmas. Best present ever for your parents, you coming home, I’d say.”

“Sorry? What day is it?” Her sense of time had disappeared with no way of seeing the outside world.

“It’s Christmas Day, miss. It’s Christmas Day.”

Chapter Fifty

A Christmas Day tradition in the Rutherford household was crumpets for breakfast, with lashings of melted butter. And it had to be butter, not margarine, not on Christmas Day. And when they’d finished a pack between them, they’d make coffee with warm milk and Janine would add a slug of rum for good measure. Crumpets and rum in his coffee were always the best way to start the day’s festivities. Sitting in his chair as content as a cat by an open fire, he smiled at Janine as she collected the cups and plates away from the table. She caught him looking.

“What?’

“I was just admiring the view,” he said cheekily, a twinkle in his eyes. Probably the early rum, he thought.

“Well, don’t be getting any ideas if you want turkey and all the trimmings at lunchtime, else it will be bedtime, knowing you.” There was laughter in her voice as she gently reprimanded him; she cherished him and his wicked thoughts dearly.

“And nothing shall stop Christmas lunch being served at lunchtime, let me tell you. It’s the best day of the year,” he said. He lifted his hand and counted off on his fingers as he spoke. “One: I have you all to myself. Two: I have a fat and rather full stomach to ache later while we watch Noel Edmonds give out his presents. And finally, three: there’s always sherry trifle left over for before bed, just to top me back up again in case I was feeling peckish. It’s the perfect day in every way,” he said, getting up and following her with the remainder of the breakfast things balanced in his hands.

“Well, that’s good to know. Now, I’ll give you the veg to start peeling and I’ll get on with the rest,” she said as she loaded carrots, sprouts, potatoes and parsnips onto a tray along with a knife and vegetable peeler. Jack picked up a sprout and put it to his ear and waited for her to notice.

“And that, last night, was the worst joke I’ve ever heard. There’ll be better ones in the crappy crackers we pull later on, Jack Rutherford.”

“Possibly not.” Jack took the tray from her and headed into the lounge to peel the veg in front of the television. As he left, he quipped, “Mr Rutherford, you really must eat more sensibly,” loud enough for Janine to hear back in the kitchen. He could almost hear her roll her eyes. Still, the veg in front of the telly was all part of Christmas, he thought contentedly as he turned the set on and made himself comfortable. It was still early, and Live and Kicking’s Christmas Cracker was in full swing. He settled in to watch, fascinated by the seasonal silliness of it all and the heart-throb band of boys crooning – Westlife, they were called. God, he felt old sometimes. At least Morecambe and Wise were on later; they were a bit more his thing, though, really, Westlife should have been for his age group. He concentrated on the potatoes as the boys sang their Christmas hearts out and Jack was surprised to feel himself nodding a little in time with them. In the hallway, the phone started to ring.

“Jack, can you get it, please? My hands are covered with stuffing mix,” Janine shouted down the hallway. “It’s probably for you anyway.”

Grumbling that he hoped not, he answered it anyway, hoping it was a relative passing on festive cheer. He was wrong.

“Sorry, Jack, but I have some news for you.” Jack recognized the voice of Pete Abbott, the sergeant who manned the front desk. He’d obviously pulled the short straw and was on duty Christmas morning. Jack felt dread creep up his spine like a tarantula. Not in the mood for small talk, he dove straight in without the pleasantries.

“What is it, Pete? What’s happened?”

“It’s good news, Jack. The girl, Leanne Meadows – she’s been found. And she’s okay.”

It took a moment to sink into Jack’s head. Westlife wound down in the lounge as the news finally registered. “What happened? When?”

“Kent police called a moment ago. Seems the girl escaped. A farmer found her and called the police. She’s in hospital being checked out for possible hypothermia as well as cuts and bruises, but otherwise, she’s unharmed. Frightened, but okay. Her parents have been contacted and they’re on their way to see her. Obviously, Kent police are keen to speak with her, find out what’s been happening, where she’s been kept.”

“Well, that’s excellent news, Pete. I’d like to know myself.” Jack’s brain was in a tizzy as he tried to think what to do next.

“Any news or sign of the other two missing girls?”

“Nothing else to report, Jack. Sorry.”

“Is Eddie aware?”

“Can’t raise him to tell him. Thought I’d best tell you directly.”

Some things never change.

“Thanks for letting me know. Any idea when Kent will be able to speak to her?”

“Not at the moment. Sorry.”

“Keep me posted, will you?”

“Of course, Jack. Good news, though. Nice for them all to be reunited for Christmas.”

“Yes, it’s great news, really great news.” Jack finished the call and stood looking at the phone in his hand like it was going to morph into something special. He sensed Janine behind him and turned.

“Don’t tell me you have to go …?” The look of disappointment on her face bit into his heart.

“I don’t think so. But I may have to later. One of our missing girls has been found safe and relatively well. They’ve taken her to hospital.”

“Well, that’s great news!” She dried her hands on her apron as she spoke.

“Yes, it is, it is. I could do with talking to her, though. I’d like to be there when she’s interviewed.”

“I understand, Jack. When will you know?”

“Soon, I hope. I’d better not drink anything over lunch. Don’t want to be done for drink driving. Wouldn’t look too good.” He turned and headed back to the lounge and his half-finished tray of vegetables. For someone who had received news that one missing girl had been found, he didn’t feel much like celebrating. The other two girls were still missing and the time lapsed so far didn’t bode well for their survival.

He focused on peeling the potatoes.

Chapter Fifty-One

He was as stuffed as the turkey he’d eaten. Jack sat restlessly on the sofa beside Janine; a rerun of Morecambe and Wise was about to start on the TV, and a half glass of wine sat on the side table.

“No point me getting it. It’ll be for you,” Janine remarked for the second time that day as Jack struggled to his feet to answer it. “You get off. I’ll sort the kitchen,” she called as he made his way to the phone. While he’d been waiting for the call to come through, he’d been dreading it too, not wanting to let his Janine down on Christmas Day. Unfortunately, crime never took a break. It didn’t celebrate Christmas.

“Jack Rutherford,” he answered.

“DS Tom McCormick, Kent police. I believe you might be expecting my call?”

“Yes, thanks for ringing. What’s the story? How’s Leanne?”

“I believe not bad, all things considered. I’m hoping to talk to her in the next couple of hours, hence my call to you. Fancy a drive?”

“Tell me where to meet you.”

After he’d noted the hospital address down and said his see-you-laters, Jack headed back to the lounge to break the news to Janine.

“Just get back when you can. I’ll make some sandwiches for supper later and we can eat them in front of the TV. The Vicar of Dibley is on at nine o’clock. Try and be back for then if you can, eh?” Janine pecked him on his lips and smiled. “I hope the girl is alright. Now go and see how you can help get the others back.”

Jack looked down into her forever sparkling eyes and lightly pecked her lips back.

“Janine Rutherford, what have I done to deserve a woman like you, eh?”

“You picked a good’un, didn’t you?” she said softly, reaching up to adjust his shirt collar slightly, not that it needed it. It was more a touch of love on her part. “Now go and do your job and I’ll see you when you get back. Drive safely.”

Jack opened the front door to leave. “See you later, then.”

Janine waved through the window as he started the Taurus and pulled out of the driveway.

Jack took the opportunity to try and raise Eddie, wherever he was, but came up short. His calls kept going through to his mailbox. He wasn’t officially on duty so he could be forgiven, but there was rarely rest from a case like they were working on. Christmas Day and its skeleton staff fell at the wrong time for three missing girls. He called DI Morton, more out of duty than necessity; Morton was as much use as a chocolate fireguard. Like Eddie, there was no response.

“Best I sort this myself, then,” he said to himself, feeling like he was the only person who cared about what happened to the girls. He pushed the CD into the player and ELO started out with “Hold on Tight,” which seemed fitting for the drive. His dreams at that moment were that Leanne was alright and that the other two girls would be found safe and well. After that, he dreamed of heading back to the warm fireplace, Janine, and supper. That would make his Christmas, alright. He turned up the volume and sang along with ELO. He knew every word of every song on the album and when it switched over and “Horace Wimp” started, he thumped the steering wheel in time with the lyrics.

With almost clear roads ahead of him, he headed around the M25 towards Kent, and thought about how lucky Leanne had been to escape. He hoped the others could be so lucky. Fifty minutes later, the red brick hospital building came into view and he swung in, immediately finding a parking space near the front entrance. He marvelled at how easy the drive and parking had been; perhaps every day could be like Christmas Day. Life would be a little easier. He put his foot out onto the damp tarmac; the rain was long gone and the afternoon sun was doing its best to dry the earth beneath it. There were lighter patches where it had succeeded, but the sun was not hot enough to cause steam to rise. Maybe on another day. Heading inside, Jack made his way to the ward and the room number he’d been given by Tom McCormick, and wasn’t surprised to see a uniformed officer by the girl’s door. “Looks like someone else cared too,” he thought with relief. Tom was a decent bloke. He showed his warrant card to the officer on duty and then poked his nose in. Leanne was with a nurse. He withdrew it again.

“I’m looking for DS Tom McCormick,” he said to the officer, retracing his steps back out to the corridor.

“Just gone for a coffee. He’ll be back soon, I expect.”

“Thanks. Are her parents here?” Jack asked, nodding towards Leanne’s door again.

“Yes. They are with Tom getting coffee while the nurse is in.”

“Any other visitors?”

“Not that I’ve seen, and I’ve been here pretty much since she came in. Good news she’s here, though, made it out alive.”

“Certainly is. Now we have to find the others.”

“Well, if they were in that house too, they’d be lucky. Leanne got out before the fire.”

This was all news to Jack. “What fire?”

“A fire was reported nearby where she was found by the farmer. We think it could be connected, might be the place where she escaped from, though until we’ve spoken to her, we don’t know much. Speculation on our part for a while longer. Anyway, Tom will tell you more,” he said, pointing down the corridor at a group heading their way. “He’s here now with her parents.”

Jack watched as a weary Dave and Penny Meadows walked towards him with Tom McCormick. Since he’d last seen them, they looked like they had aged twenty years. He put out his hand to greet them both when they reached him.

“Good news for you both. I’m so glad she’s back,” Jack said compassionately, his eyes meeting Penny’s. Hers looked sore from crying, but she was happier than the last time he’d seen her. He had hated asking if her daughter had been pregnant, and he’d left their house feeling like he’d made matters worse.

“We just want to see her, see our baby girl.”

“Then let’s go and do that,” Jack said.

Tom nodded.

Chapter Fifty-Two

It felt good to be safe and warm again, and even hospital food was better than what Leanne had been eating over the last few days. Christmas Top of the Pops was on the TV and she was half-watching that. She’d been examined by doctors, examined by forensics, and had briefly been questioned by police, though the doctors had put a stop to it until she’d rested a while. Right now, Leanne Meadows lay deep in thought and feeling thankful to be alive while she waited for her parents to arrive. Then, she’d talk to the police properly. The police, she knew, were extremely anxious to get moving.

A nurse put her head round the door of her room.

“Your parents are here now, Leanne. Do you feel up to seeing them?” she asked kindly. Leanne nodded, a weak smile playing on her lips. She wished she could muster a little more energy but exhaustion was weighing her down. The nurse approached her bed and helped her to sit up, fluffing her pillows behind her like a mother hen.

“I’ll show them in. The police are here too, so I’ll give you a minute together, and then I’ll let them in. The sooner you get it over with, the better, I say. Then it’s a good night of rest for you. Okay?”

Leanne nodded. A moment later, she heard her mother before she actually saw her. Mrs Meadows gave an excited cry and rushed to her daughter, arms wide and tears of joy rolling down her cheeks. She took her daughter gently in her arms and sobbed her relief. Her father joined in, wrapping his arms around them both, squeezing a little harder than perhaps he ought to have. When, finally, they both pulled back, Leanne was crying with relief too, and all three collectively wiped their eyes with the back of their hands.

A detective hovered at the doorway, waiting for permission to enter. Leanne waved him in; his colleague followed close behind him. Leanne’s mum glared for a moment.

“It’s alright, Mum. The sooner I get this over with, the better.”

“Are you sure, dear? Don’t you want to rest more first?”

“No, I want to get it out of my system, and then I can forget it. It’s best, I’m sure.” The detective took a seat by her bed, the old plastic chair creaking under his ample weight. Would it hold out while they talked? Leanne wondered, trying to prepare herself for what she had to say, to find a little humour in the horror of it all. She also knew it could have been a good deal worse for her than it had been. She’d never forget that bit, she was sure. The other detective stood next to him, a pleasant-looking man, she thought. He had kind eyes, though he looked a little nervous fiddling with his top lip like a child. Both her parents stayed close by, Leanne’s mother holding her daughter’s hand, stroking the back of it gently, careful not to touch the drip that was inserted a little higher up. The seated detective introduced himself.

“Hi, Leanne. I’m DS Tom McCormick, Kent Police. And this is DC Jack Rutherford, Croydon Police.” Jack nodded and smiled without actually showing his teeth, just enough to acknowledge her. “Do you feel up to answering a few questions?” Tom continued.

“Yes, I want to get it all over with. Ask whatever you want.”

“Well, I find the best place to start is at the beginning, so why don’t you tell us what happened on Monday and we’ll take some notes. Sound okay?”

Leanne nodded, thought for a moment, and then, taking a deep breath, recalled the whole story from when she’d left work – the puncture, the van, the younger girl being kidnapped, the house and how she’d managed to escape. Tears flowed as she spoke, not only her own but her mothers, and when she told them of her room visitor and what he’d been about to do, Mrs Meadows cried out loud with anguish. Her husband comforted her as her lower lip trembled uncontrollably. When the room had quieted down again, Leanne finished her story with the farmer finding her, taking her back to his house and calling the police. Then she had a question of her own.

“Am I in trouble for stabbing the man?”

“No, you’re not. It was brave of you, but no, you are not in any trouble.” It was the seated detective and he had a question in return.

“Let’s start with the house where you were kept. How far from where you were found do you think it was, and what can you remember about it?”

“It was two storeys, old, cold and in the middle of nowhere. When I ran, I didn’t know where I was going; it was dark and raining. I’d say I’d been running for at least an hour when I fell, but I couldn’t be sure. It was so disorientating. I hadn’t a clue where I was going. I’m sorry. I tried to keep moving but …” When her voice trailed off, both detectives looked at one another and something passed between them, something that Leanne also saw.

“What is it?” she asked.

“There was fire reported late last night, not that far from where you were found. An old property, in the middle of nowhere. It might be the same building. We’ll know more when forensics have finished with it.” Dave Meadows cleared his throat, perhaps a little too loudly, and Jack looked his way. Their eyes met for a second then Jack broke away.

Leanne carried on, “What about the others? There was at least a young woman. I don’t think she was part of it. She couldn’t have been much older than me. She brought my food. She was the one that brought the spoon. If she hadn’t done that, I daren’t think what I’d have done when he came in.” Her voice broke. She owed her life to the young woman. With the back of her hand, she wiped the big tears that had started to fall again. Her mother passed her a tissue.

“We have only found one body in the house, and right now we’re assuming it’s the same place you were held. Again, we’ll know more after forensics have finished. The house was gutted. If the others did get out, they could be anywhere. Who are the others you definitely know about, other than the girl, and the man who attacked you?”

“I only met one other man, but I heard screams in the distance so I couldn’t say who else. I only heard the screams.” Leanne described the other man in some detail. The fact he’d been so repulsive made it easier to remember what he’d been wearing, his pudgy face and sausage-meat stomach. Maybe if she let it all out she could be cleansed of the vision of him taking up space in her head.

When all the details were down, Tom McCormick closed his notebook. “Leanne, you’ve been extremely helpful. Thank you. I’m sure we’ll have a few more questions, but we’ve plenty to work on for now, so I suggest you get some rest. I’ll call back, probably tomorrow. I believe you’ll be going home soon?” He looked at Penny Meadows for confirmation.

“When the doctor has done his rounds tomorrow – fingers crossed,” she replied with a hopeful smile.

“What happens now, then, Detective?” Dave Meadows asked after clearing his throat again.

“We see what that house tells us.”

Did Jack imagine it, or did Mr Meadows blanch?

Chapter Fifty-Three

It was almost dark when Jack got to the scene of the fire. He’d followed Tom McCormick out so they could each go in their separate directions afterwards, and even though it was getting late, Jack was interested to see what was left of where Leanne had been held. Mobile lighting shone brightly up ahead, highlighting the spot they were travelling to. The bumpy track played havoc with the old Taurus’s suspension. He really should get a new car. They pulled to a stop and headed over to the makeshift tent that had been erected. The crime scene investigators were taking a break. They were dressed in hooded white paper suits, face masks pulled down under their chins while they chatted. Tom introduced Jack to the team, whom he knew well; there were collective nods all around. Behind them, the remains of a blackened, wet, stinking building were lit up like a museum on a gala evening. Smoke hung in the air, making it smell like a November bonfire night rather than a jolly festive Christmas evening. A lone firefighter was dampening down hotspots; the others were packing away their tools, their sooty faces looking exhausted. Jack would have a word with the forensic investigator in charge in a moment, but now he turned his attention to a man who was walking purposefully towards them both.

“Jack, this is my DI, Graham Brooks,” said Tom, introducing them. “Anything for us yet, Guv?” Tom asked.

“Surprisingly, yes, actually. A couple of things of interest. From their initial examination, it looks like the fire started in a downstairs room, middle of the house. Accelerant residue suggests arson, and there’s accelerant out front also, by the two burned-out cars. The building partly collapsed over the seat of the fire,” he said, pointing. “That part went down first and that’s where they found the body, but luckily not all of the building has gone, as you can see. Whoever started this fire wasn’t too lucky if they were hoping for it all to burn. Fire service got here pretty quickly, so there’s something left to work with. Hopefully, forensics will come up with something useful.”

“Well, the VINs should be a useful start. Those two cars will tell us something. I wonder why they were left?” said Tom.

“My guess is someone thought taking the reg plates off would be enough,” Brooks said, nodding over to the burned-out cars. “There’s usually remains of a plate left, but both plate holders are empty on both vehicles, so I’d say they were a bit thick in that respect.”

“Let’s hope they weren’t stolen vehicles, then – dead ends. We could do with a break. Anything else so far?” This from Jack.

“Not much yet. Crime scene techs haven’t been upstairs yet. It’s too dangerous.”

Jack hoped there weren’t any more dead bodies up there, namely those of the missing girls. The DI read his mind.

“Fire team went up initially, and there were no other bodies found. Just the one, which is on its way to the mortuary, but we think it’s too big for any of the missing girls. For now, we’re suggesting that it’s probably the man who attacked Leanne. There’s nothing but charred remains, so we can’t be totally sure as yet. Maybe dental will help us there, and the VINs with a name.”

Jack looked at the blackened mess up ahead. How the hell they’d get much else from the burned-out building he’d no idea, but he knew there were ways. He’d stay hopeful.

Tom’s phone rang, and he moved away to one side to answer it, leaving Jack with his thoughts. If the girls were not in the building, what the hell had happened to them? And where had the other men gone? There had to be others. Leanne had said there was another male in the van; surely, one man couldn’t have set this up all on his own.

He turned to the DI. “What’s being done to find the missing girls. Is there a search in process locally? If they were in this house, they could be on foot, as Leanne was. Any signs of anything?”

The DI shook his head. “We only found out about the girl that escaped a short time ago, so no, not as yet, but we have a team on their way out. It’s possible they could have been moved somehow, which is what I’m suspecting. Given the two cars parked out front, I’m betting there’s another mode of transport – a van, maybe.”

“Well, that fits with what we have already: a van owned by Martin Coffey, one we’ve been looking for since this all broke loose. He did five years in Strangeways for kidnapping, so he’s someone we’d like to talk to. I’m also wondering if that’s who Leanne stabbed, and whether he’s the charred individual found inside. In which case, someone else is driving that van, and a couple of very frightened girls could well be inside.”

Tom rejoined the conversation. “Then that van is our priority. We need to find it and fast. When the team arrive, I’ll get them focused locally in case they are nearby, but we need that van.”

Jack’s phone began to ring and he excused himself, leaving the two men to talk. The call turned out to be music to Jack’s ears. When he’d finished, he filled the two detectives in with what had happened.

“That was Sussex Police. Seems a young couple picked a girl up late last night near Maresfield, wandering in the road, bound and gagged and severely distressed. Had a bag of some description over her head. She was taken to a nearby hospital and the local police attended, and they have since connected with our investigation. Her description fits one of the missing girls apparently, hence their contact.”

“Which one is she, do you know?” asked Tom.

“They think maybe Kate Bryers. Apparently, she’s too traumatised to talk. Hasn’t said a word since she was found. I’m going to shoot over there now, see if I can confirm it’s little Kate and let her parents know she’s alright.” Jack was already on the move towards his vehicle, hoping he could find his way back out to the motorway without getting lost in the maze of narrow lanes. He didn’t fancy an unnecessary detour. It was late enough already.

“Let us know, eh, Jack?” Tom shouted after him, and Jack waved his arm in the air in acknowledgment. He hoped with all his heart it was one of the young girls they’d been looking for.

And that meant there was only Lesley left to find. What a Christmas this was turning out to be.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Jack had arrived back home to Janine just before midnight, missing not only The Vicar of Dibley but turkey sandwiches for supper with the woman he loved. How his wife stayed so understanding he’d never know. She really was a gem, and he admired her resolve to be as supportive as she was every day of his life. Still, he’d had the pleasure of confirming it had been little Kate Bryers that had been found and had informed her parents, who had then leapt into their car and met him at the hospital. Not wanting to intrude on their time together, he’d waited patiently while they’d sat around the child’s bed and offered their love and support. When he couldn’t wait any longer, he’d sat with all three of them and gently tried to pose his questions, but Kate hadn’t spoken a single word. It had been a nurse that had put a stop to it, conscious of Kate’s need to rest. She’d then given the little girl a sedative, making any further questions pointless.

As for Kate, she had a long road to recovery ahead of her, to repair not only her physical injuries but her mental scarring, too. Her ordeal would take some considerable time and patience to heal from.

There was still at least one more girl to bring home. Where they would now start looking, he had no idea.

The crime scene investigators came up trumps the following day. After the fire brigade had finally left and they’d got the scene all to themselves, they had conducted a thorough examination of the burned-out remains. It had been filthy work, particularly in the downstairs rooms where the ceiling had collapsed onto the floor below. The team had had a couple of feet of charred timber and other building materials to sift through. It had been hard going looking for clues as to what had happened prior to the fire, but they’d found items of interest. The upstairs, or what was left of it, had been particularly fruitful, though getting results from the items they’d retrieved would take a while longer. The remaining upstairs rooms had suffered from mainly smoke and water damage, so there was little chance of fingerprint retrieval from any of the remaining surfaces. Still, there were small pieces of what could be bedclothes, and the crime scene investigators hung their hopes on getting some usable DNA on the fragments they’d bagged.

Other than that, there wasn’t much else to find, even though each room had been searched with a magnifying glass. Then, as a technician was on his way out of the remains of the last room, he had spotted a small, smooth lump on the edge of a table. Why it caught his attention he’d never know. It was merely a small black lump on top of a sooty surface, and it looked like everything else in the room – black. But sometimes fate was on your side, so he took a closer look. Peering at it, he still couldn’t figure out quite what it was, so he had taken his tweezers and picked up the tiny object, slipping it into an evidence bag and labelling it to be processed along with all the other items the team had retrieved between them. After one last look around the charred room, he had made his way carefully back to join his colleagues who were working downstairs.

At the rear of the property, another crime scene technician was painstakingly going through the remains of the rubbish bins; there were dozens of discarded take-away trays in a bag beside him at his feet. Further along, another technician was on her hands and knees removing gunk from a grid cover where a pipe emptied out, more than likely from a basin or bathroom somewhere in the house. Mixed in with leaves and other detritus could be human hair, and if there was even one strand, preferably with its root intact, it could be vital to telling them who had frequented the place. There was barely a sound as everyone concentrated diligently on their work. Life as a SOCO was not as sexy as it was on the TV.

“Bingo!” said a voice excitedly.

Everyone’s head popped up to see what was going on, who had found what.

“Look at this beauty!” the voice said. It belonged to Louise, one of the more experienced techs. She was holding up something familiar to all, a smile on her face the size of a watermelon slice. “And it’s not empty,” she added gleefully. In her gloved fingers, she held the top edge of a used condom, its contents perfectly preserved in the bottom of it.

“Now that’s what I like to find – an easy bit of the puzzle. Let’s hope he’s in the system and he can tell the police exactly what he was doing here and when,” she said, then slipped it carefully into yet another evidence bag to be examined in greater detail at the lab.

By the end of the day, they were almost done photographing, videoing and packaging items of interest. The crime scene vans were packed with items for closer analysis later. It was tough and monotonous work, but important work that sorted the guilty from the innocent.

And they wanted the guilty.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Billy and Chloe were back at work on the streets begging, though with Boxing Day shoppers in a hurry to get to the next bargain, there wasn’t a lot of charitable donating going on. Not even Billy’s cheery way of persuasion was working, and by lunchtime he felt like calling it a day. He wondered how Chloe was faring. Was she having better luck than he?

“Spare a coin for an old ex-leper?” he repeated to passers-by. He sat wrapped up warm against a cold breeze that felt like it was blowing from the North Pole. He hoped snow wasn’t on its way, though it would stop some of the drafts in the old garage if a few inches fell, and it would add to the festive cheer, a cheer he wasn’t witness to right now.

“Spare a coin for an old ex-leper?” he chanted, almost on autopilot now.

“Hello, Billy,” said a familiar voice. He turned and was happily surprised to see Jack, the man who’d given him money, the man he’d helped in the charity store and the man who he knew was a police officer.

“Come to arrest me for deception, Mr Rutherford?” he joked. “Not being a leper and all.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about you being an ex-leper, now, would I? Though I can clearly see you aren’t currently suffering from the disease. And it’s not even called leprosy anymore.”

“No? You mean I have to call it something else, change my marketing strategy?”

“Possibly, but asking for a shekel for an old ex–Hansen’s disease sufferer doesn’t have the same ring, in my book.” He grinned down at Billy, who smiled back. Billy put his hand out to shake and Jack obliged.

“Did you have a nice Christmas Day?” Billy asked.

“We did, thank you – when I wasn’t working, that is. And you? What did you and your girl do?”

“We got an invite to a friend’s place – dinner and a bath, actually,” Billy said in mock smugness, touching his coat collar like he was royalty. “It was a real treat. Played Scrabble, would you believe.”

Jack smiled at the mention of the game he’d given the boy, glad they’d had fun with it. He hated wasting anything.

“Well, I’m glad you had fun. Janine and I were going to invite you to come to ours but I couldn’t find you.”

“Well, that was nice of you both. Thanks.”

“As it turned out, Christmas Day was a bit of a write-off. I had to go to Kent, then Sussex for a case I’ve been working on, and I didn’t get back until almost midnight. But it was good to reunite two missing children with their parents. So, it all turned out well in the end.”

Billy lost his smile for a moment, deep in thought at something. Jack picked up on it.

“Hey, I wasn’t making a point at your story – not that I know what your story is. This was a child. She was only twelve.” The two looked at one another, neither sure what to say next until Jack remembered why he was out looking for Billy in the first place. He handed over a bag.

“Janine and I thought you’d appreciate this since we didn’t make a get-together. She’s made a stack of turkey sandwiches. There’s pork pie and Christmas cake and a couple of packets of crisps. Oh, and I slipped a couple of cans of lager in too.” Jack beamed. “Please, take it. She makes the cake from scratch herself. It’s the best there is.”

Billy reached out and took the bag. “I don’t know what to say. Thanks. Thanks very much. Chloe and I will enjoy that later. Please thank Janine for us both.”

“You are more than welcome. Now, I’d better let you get back to work. I’ll see you around, then?”

“Thanks, Jack. You will, I’m sure,” Billy said, and watched him walk off into the distance. He was heartened that there were still some decent folks in the world, folks who wouldn’t judge his lifestyle or his circumstances. Chloe had found Roy from the café, a man who had helped them enormously, and Billy was glad to have met Jack Rutherford, police or not.

On the other side of town, Chloe was finding trade slow too. Her begging technique was somewhat different to Billy’s, and again with distracted Boxing Day shoppers in a frantic hurry to either shop or go home out of the freezing cold wind, she was about to give up herself. Her stomach rumbled. Roy’s Christmas dinner was ancient history and the mince pies she’d eaten for breakfast had long gone. She yearned for a hot mug of tea and a bacon butty. And a friendly face. After a particularly nasty experience, when a shopper had spat at her and hissed, “Why don’t you get a job? Scum!” she decided she’d had enough for one day. She packed her few things together and set off back towards home with tears threatening. She fought to contain her emotions and not let them show. Blaming it on her mixed-up hormones after giving birth and the added stress of abandoning her baby, she braved it out, not letting one salty drop slide down her cheeks and betray her. She would not let herself be undone by the words or actions of a stranger who knew nothing of her or what she was going through.

Nor cared.

The change she’d gathered rattled in her pocket as she walked along the pavement, and while there wasn’t much, there’d be enough for a can of Coke. Chloe slipped into a small corner shop and browsed the shelves for what she could afford. She was conscious of a set of brown eyes watching her from behind the cash register but carried on browsing, deciding how best to spend the money she had earned. She selected a can of no-name cola, which was cheaper than Coke, then made her way over to the fridge. There might be a sandwich going cheap, close to its use-by date as they sometimes were. But she was out of luck; they were all full price, a price she wasn’t prepared to pay. A packet of six sausage rolls caught her eye. At least if she had them she could save a couple for Billy for later – he’d like that – and eat the others with the cola. But the price was too high. If she purchased them, there’d be nothing left, and since she didn’t know what kind of day Billy was having, she couldn’t chance it. There was only one other way. She’d have to steal them.

Checking that the clerk was busy with another customer, she slipped the packet of sausage rolls inside her coat and took the can of cola up to the counter to pay. She was almost clear and walking out the door when she felt a strong hand on her shoulder, pulling her back. It was enough to unbalance her and loosen her grip on the packet within her coat, and the sausage rolls fell unceremoniously to the floor.

“Thought so, you thieving little cow,” snarled another brown-eyed man, and roughly pushed her towards the small office area at the back of the store. “Let’s see what the police have to say to your thieving, shall we?” he said, not expecting her to answer.

There was no escaping for Chloe, though it was the perfect end to such a rotten day. She slumped down into the proffered chair and kept her head hung low, staying silent. If she didn’t say anything, she wouldn’t get in any more trouble.

Or so she thought.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Just outside of Horsham in West Sussex, Beryl and Malcolm, along with their dog Brandy, were taking a welcome Boxing Day walk in the late afternoon before the little sun there was finally disappeared for the day. After another big lunch of leftovers, they’d played hide and seek with the grandchildren until the children had grown tired and cranky. Feeling a little old for such constant entertainment needs, Beryl and Malcolm had breathed a sigh of relief when home time had finally been announced and both sets of children had headed off to their own homes. The pair were heading home now for some peace and quiet, and to plates of leftovers for supper should they fancy a bite to eat. Malcolm belched contentedly.

“That was a bit loud,” Beryl admonished as they walked out towards the green fields and the few trees beyond.

“There’s no one out here to hear me, B, and it’s not good to hold it in,” he reasoned, taking her hand in his as they strolled. Brandy dashed around them as dogs often did.

“She’s probably sick of being indoors too,” Malcolm said, nodding to the beagle. “I love the children to bits, but they’re a bit young yet to know what’s what, and they wind her up terribly. I fear one day she might snap back at them. Won’t you, Brandy?” he added, in that cutesy voice dog owners always seemed to use. The dog sensed she was being asked a question and gave a single bark in reply.

“See? Even Brandy agrees with me.”

“Don’t be daft. She’d bark like that if you asked her the lottery numbers. It doesn’t mean she has them.”

Malcolm squeezed his wife’s hand lightly. “Now wouldn’t that be nice, B? What would you do with all that money, at our age?”

“I’d book a cruise, for starters, then figure the rest out while we lay in the sunshine somewhere a long way from here.”

Brandy ran on ahead, sniffing the ground as she went, searching for something of interest known only to her as they headed closer to the trees. Beryl and Malcolm followed slowly behind, bantering companionably.

Suddenly Brandy gave two sharp barks.

“What’s she found now? A poor rabbit or something?” said Beryl. Neither she nor Malcolm could see the dog now.

“I don’t know,” said Malcolm, sounding curious. “It doesn’t sound like her normal rabbit bark, though, does it?” He turned to Beryl and they stood still for a moment to listen. Brandy obliged them with a few more barks.

“I wonder what’s upsetting her, then. She sounds insistent at something.”

Beryl called the dog back, but Brandy stayed put. “Now that’s strange. She always comes,’ she said, and they both took the cue and headed towards the sound of the dog’s barks. When they’d pushed their way through the lower branches and brambles of the small copse, they could see Brandy ahead, but nothing else was obvious. Brandy was sitting still, barking constantly now and looking at both Malcolm and Beryl as they approached.

“What is it, Brandy?” Malcolm asked, Beryl close behind him. Twigs snapped under their feet as they made their way forward. The carpet of fallen, sodden leaves covering the sticky ground made it difficult to see where they were stepping. When they finally reached the dog, it was Beryl who saw what was exciting Brandy, and she gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Malcolm followed her horrified gaze. Partly covered with leaves was a body. Malcolm stepped closer and brushed the hair from its face slightly. It was a young girl. Her face was as white as a bedsheet and she had bruising under her eyes. Instinctively, he knew she was dead, but he put his fingers to her neck anyway.

And waited.

And waited. Beryl stood silently nearby, Brandy now quiet at her heels, and then reached for her cell phone to call the police, thanking their son silently for having given her such an extravagant Christmas present. ‘To keep you both safe should you need it,” he’d said. Well, they needed it right now, and as she pressed for emergency and waited for a connection, Malcolm shouted three little words that would stay with them for the rest of their lives.

“She’s still alive!”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

It had felt good to drop a bag of food off to Billy and his girl, not that Jack had managed to meet her yet, but he doubted she was a figment of Billy’s imagination. He might beg like someone from a Monty Python sketch, but he seemed genuine enough. And cheeky. Jack smiled again just thinking about the young man. Janine would like him too, he was sure. Jack looked across at DI Morton’s still-empty office and wondered yet again how he managed to keep himself out of events, and how the brass higher up never seemed bothered. Eddie was obviously taking a leaf out of his book, and since Morton was hardly there to witness what his team were up to, that also never got dealt with. Jack and a handful of others were the only true coppers in the squad that gave a damn.

News had spread that Leanne and Kate had been found, alive and relatively well, and the morning briefing had been completed for those present. Jack was heading for the coffee cupboard when Mo, the civilian researcher, caught up with him. Even the small journey from her desk to where they both stood made her breathless and she stood for a moment trying to gather some control before she spoke. Jack waited patiently for her to say whatever it was she wanted to tell him. The woman could do with losing three or four stone to get down to a healthier weight, he reflected. There were biscuit crumbs stuck to her ample cleavage and Jack tried not to notice.

“What’s up, Mo?”

“Christmas Day evening, late on,” she panted, then carried on. “Traffic cops on the M25, Sussex. Stopped a van. Our van. Nothing inside. The driver wasn’t Martin. He wasn’t there. A man called Bernard, with no papers on him, and another guy, a passenger. The driver said he’d drop them into a station soon.”

“Right,” said Jack, waiting to see if there was any more. When it was clear she’d finished, he went on. “So, they let the van go?”

“Yes, no reason to hold it, or them. One thing, though. I spoke to the traffic officer. Says there were a couple of sets of vehicle reg plates sticking out from under the passenger seat. The men said they were off a couple of old vehicles back at home and that was the end of it. Unfortunately, the officer didn’t make a note of the plate info. Shame, really.” She was able to speak normally again now. “It was late. Shift was nearly over and they had nothing else to report, but I wondered.”

“I see where you’re going, Mo. You’re thinking about the two burned-out vehicles that were at the house. The plates were off them. Shit! So close. Damn it!” shouted Jack, making the few in the room stop and turn their way. Mo’s neck reddened for no reason other than the outburst from Jack.

“And no, there’s no CCTV footage from that area that night. The cameras were off; there wasn’t enough traffic to warrant them. When will the day come when they are on full time, eh?” Jack stood, thumb resting between his lips, thinking. “The area could fit too. They might have dropped little Kate off and carried on. Which part of the motorway were they stopped at?”

“Not far from the Horsham area, so West Sussex. She was East Sussex. Still would work, though.”

“Right. See if any cameras were working, further along. We could do with a break, though I expect the van’s long gone now. It’s nearly twenty-four hours ago. If they’ve any sense, they’ll have ditched it somewhere and burned it. Can you let the local police know to be on the lookout, or see if they’ve already found it and not realised we’re after it?”

“Right, yes. I’ll get on to it.”

“And Mo?”

“Yes?

“Good work. Thanks.”

Mo’s neck turned an even deeper shade of red.

He turned his focus back to making his mug of Nescafe and piled in a couple of sugars for good measure. Breakfast seemed like an age ago and the instant kick of caffeine and sugar would carry him through a while longer. A sausage sandwich would have been perfect right about now. He was about to return to his desk when the phone in his breast pocket rang, He jumped, slopping coffee over the rim of his mug and on to the stained carpet tiles below. He’d had the phone a while, but still, it gave him a fright when it went off. He cursed under his breath.

“DC Jack Rutherford.”

“Jack, it’s DS Mark Tomlinson here, Merevale Police up the road.”

“Yes, hello. What can I do for you?”

“Well, we brought a young lady in for shoplifting earlier, and when we were processing her, we found your card in her pocket.”

“Oh? What’s the young lady’s name?”

“It’s Chloe Mathews, of no fixed address. I thought you might like to know, since she’s dealt with you in the past.”

The line was silent as Jack searched the memory banks in the back of his head for where he might have come across the girl.

“Right,” he finally said, stumped. “Well, I can’t think who she is. Has she asked for me at all?”

“No, just me thinking I should call you. Anyway, that’s all I wanted.”

Suddenly it dawned on him. “Chloe. Homeless, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m on my way over for a chat. Make her a mug of tea, would you? And find her a couple of biscuits.”

“Eh? She’s been caught nicking sausage rolls, for heaven’s sake.”

“As a favour, then. Tea and biscuits. See you in a few minutes.”

Jack smiled at the phone. She sounded like Billy’s girl, all right, and just as cheeky.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

As Jack turned into the Merevale station yard, he wondered what this Chloe Mathews would be like, and how she’d got hold of his card. Yes, she was probably Billy’s girlfriend, he thought. He pulled his jacket close, climbed out of the car and headed towards the back door as a bitter wind caught him around the ears. Maybe it was time to start wearing a woolly hat, he mused, like an old boy would. He pressed the buzzer and waited for the door to open then made his way in to meet DS Mark Tomlinson. Tomlinson met him halfway, striding towards him with an outstretched hand and a friendly smile.

“Nice to meet you, Jack.”

“And you. Thanks for calling me. I think I know who she is now, though I was struggling to remember her right then and there. How’s she doing, and what’s happening?” he asked as they entered an empty interview room. It looked as comfortable as any other interview room up and down the country – made for criminal confession and not for comfort. Jack took one of the plastic chairs and sat awkwardly.

“She’s been arrested before, but since she had your card, I figured you might like to know that there may another connection someplace. Shoplifters don’t normally carry detectives’ cards about their person – not in my experience, anyway.” He smiled as he said it, and Jack warmed to the man. “She thanked you for the tea and biscuits, by the way.”

It was Jack’s turn to smile. “May I chat with her, off the record?”

“Be my guest.”

“Where are you up to now with her? Has she been charged?”

“Yes. Had to.”

“Right, yes. Okay, if I can see her that would be great.”

“I’ll bring her in. We won’t be listening.”

While Jack sat waiting, he wondered exactly what he was going to talk to her about. He only knew her through Billy, had never met her before now, and of course couldn’t do a fat lot for her at this point since she’d already been charged. Figuring he’d work it out as he went, he turned as the door opened and a young woman walked in.

“I’ll be outside if you need anything,” Tomlinson said, and then he was gone.

Jack studied the girl until she sat down, her head falling forward, making it difficult to see much of her. What he could see of her face looked defeated. He waited, hoping she’d say something to kick the conversation off, but after a full minute, it was obvious that was going to be Jack’s responsibility.

“I’m Jack. A sort of friend of Billy’s. I’m assuming you’re Billy’s girl?” He kept his voice light, hoping to encourage her confidence in him. “What’s your name?”

Silence.

“Look, I may be able to help here. I told Billy to call me if he was ever in trouble, and since he gave that card to you and you are right at this moment in trouble, well, why don’t you help us both out?”

Quietly, she said, “I’m sorry for nicking the sausage rolls. I was hungry. And I thought Billy would like some for later. I hadn’t enough money for them and the cola.”

It was a start; the girl was speaking.

“I understand, Chloe,” said Jack.

“Can you get me off, Jack? I didn’t mean any harm.” Her voice was barely audible; she still had not looked at him.

“It’s difficult now you’ve been charged, but why don’t you tell me the whole story and I’ll put a word in for you.” He waited for another beat before adding, “What have you got to lose?”

And so, still without raising her head, she told Jack the brief story of how a rotten day begging had ended her up at the police station, and how she’d been processed like a criminal for a few sausage rolls that had been stolen out of desperation, not malice. Had she had the money, she would have gladly paid for them. Stealing was wrong, she knew.

“What will happen to me now?” she asked, a tear dropping off the end of her nose onto the table in front of her. Idly, she placed a single finger over it and played with the tiny puddle. Jack felt his heart catch in his chest as he watched.

“Well, you will appear in court, and the judge will decide. I doubt you’ll end up inside. Stealing sausage rolls does actually carry a six-month custodial sentence because the value of the item was under two hundred pounds, and of course, you’ll carry a criminal record. Good job they weren’t really expensive ones; that would have meant even more jail time. Even if you only get a caution from the police here, it’s still a criminal conviction, which doesn’t look good for your future. Employers hate criminal convictions.”

“But if I get a caution, I won’t go to court and people won’t see me?” There was an ounce of hope in her voice.

“That’s correct. You still have the conviction, but no court appearance.” He narrowed his eyes, puzzled. So her need for privacy was more important than jail time. “Is that important to you, that you don’t go to court? Does it have something to do with why you live as you do, with Billy? Maybe away from your parents?”

At the mention of her parents, the girl visibly recoiled, hugging her arms around her, and began to cry in earnest. So this was why she was living almost alone, away from home, Jack thought unhappily.

The girl had been abused.

Jack slipped her his handkerchief and she blew her nose.

“Hey, it’ll be alright. Let me have a word, eh? But why don’t you tell me a bit more about yourself, if you can?”

Chloe blew her nose and looked up at him quickly, then down again. “I’m from Manchester. My parents went to live in Scotland. I live with Billy in a garage on Pitt Road. That’s all I can tell you.”

At least it was something, Jack thought. She lifted her head now and looked him in the eye. He thought she looked familiar somehow but couldn’t place why. He stood to leave.

“Look, I’ll see if they are happy to caution you and leave it at that. Will that suit you?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’ve not managed it yet so don’t thank me quite yet, but I’ll try. And if I do get them to agree, you can’t go nicking stuff again or you will end up in custody next time. Do you understand me, Chloe?”

“Yes.” She sounded brighter already, and he watched as she dried her eyes and handed him his handkerchief back.

“Sit tight. I’ll be back in a minute.”

As he walked in search of the DS, he tried again to figure out why Chloe Mathews looked so familiar.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

To Jack, it didn’t seem fair that the young woman would do time for trying to feed herself and her boyfriend, and it appeared the powers that be agreed with him. So now she wouldn’t have to. The DS had taken Jack’s word for it that she wouldn’t be shoplifting in the future, had learned her lesson – and Jack hoped she wouldn’t let him down. He was on his way to see if he could find Billy, taking Chloe in the car with him for a lift back home. At least this way, they could pick him up too and Jack could check out where they were both living. He hoped Billy still had the picnic Janine had wrapped up for them both. It would make a nice surprise for the girl.

As he crossed town towards where she had suggested Billy was working, he reflected on why he was taking such an interest in the pair of them. He wanted to find out more, but was reluctant to pry. He also knew that excess interest on his part would look odd – Billy and Chloe would wonder why he wanted to know.

Chloe was gazing out the window in silence as they drove.

“So, you think he’s on the high street, you say?” Jack asked, hoping to get the girl talking a bit more. “What’s he wearing?”

“Same thing as every other day: jeans and a sweatshirt and his black parka.” Jack knew what he was wearing. He’d seen him earlier but didn’t let on.

“There he is,” she said pointing across the street. Jack glanced across to confirm and quickly pulled into a space that wasn’t really a parking space. Anyone else would have got a ticket. Chloe looked at him accusingly.

“Perks of the job. I’ll only be a minute. Sit tight.”

Chloe watched as he crossed the street heading towards Billy. When Billy saw him approach, he raised his hand to wave. Chloe couldn’t help but smile, and she watched as a brief conversation took place and Billy collected his things together and picked up an odd-looking bag she didn’t recognize. They both walked back to the car. Billy was smiling broadly as he clambered into the back seat.

“Hi, Chloe. Had a rough day, eh? I see you’ve met Jack, the friendly detective.”

“Yes, I have. To both.”

Jack and Billy exchanged a look in the rear-view mirror as if to say “Oooh, touchy,” and smiled knowingly. They knew Chloe would come around later when she’d calmed down and stopped feeling so sorry for herself.

“I’m only giving you two kids a lift home before it gets much later. Thought you could do with a long chat together, or else I’m going to be in the poo if Chloe ends up back at a police station. Plus, it’s cold as all hell now.”

“We appreciate it, Jack. Thanks. Don’t we Chloe?” Billy prodded her.

Chloe offered a begrudging “Yes, thanks.” It was clearly going to take a while for her to thaw out and relax before their talk could begin. Jack turned up Pitt Street.

“What number?”

“Here’s fine, thanks,” said Billy, and Jack got the hint. No matter. He could find out which garage if he needed to. He could only see half a dozen in total. He pulled over and let them both out.

“Now remember, as much as I’d like to see you both again, let’s not meet at a police station, eh?”

Billy saluted and Chloe kept her head hung low, and again Jack wondered what the girl was hiding. He watched them for a moment as they made their way down the pavement before he turned and headed back towards the station. At least he had a warm house to go home to later, and more than likely Janine would have cooked something hot to tuck into. He hoped it was a turkey supreme or a curry, and he hoped for a quiet night. After missing most of Christmas Day, he could do with a break, a quiet night in with Janine and whatever was on the TV. Perhaps they could watch the recording of Morecambe and Wise, and make a start on that box of Quality Street – yes, this sounded good. He was almost back at the station when his phone rang again.

“Oh, what now?” Scrambling before it rang off, he retrieved the phone from his inside pocket. “DC Jack Rutherford.” He pulled into the curb.

“Jack, it’s DS Julie Ford, Horsham, Sussex Police. Sorry to bother you on Boxing Day but thought you’d like to know.”

“No problem. I appear to be working anyway.” Jack could see his evening about to slip away into the distance like a twig on the surface of a river. “What do you have?”

“A young girl was found today by dog walkers, half buried in leaves and whatnot and barely alive. She’s in the hospital here in Horsham, but she matches your description of a missing girl. Lesley Raby, possibly? She’s heavily sedated but we could do with someone to tell us if it’s her first off, then we can notify her parents. I’d hate to get their hopes up and drag them out here if it’s not her. I’ll fax you a photo over.”

“How badly hurt is she?” Jack asked, with his eyes firmly shut in an effort to keep the barrage of horrible images out of his head.

“She’s suffering from hypothermia; there’s evidence of sexual abuse and she’s pretty banged up. The doctors say they’re hopeful she’ll come round and make a full recovery, but they’re keeping her sedated for now. She needs rest.”

“Well, that’s a good thing then. Poor kid. Fax it over. I’m nearly at the station now so I’ll call you straight back.”

In his heart, he already knew it was Lesley, and while it was a good thing she was alive, having seen little Kate and Leanne, he knew it would be a long journey to recovery for Lesley too.

Now all he had to do was figure out exactly what had happened and find the animals responsible before anyone else got hurt.

Chapter Sixty

It was indeed Lesley. With both Kate and Lesley now being cared for in hospital, things were looking up. Kate was still unable to talk about what had happened. The trauma of it all was too much for her to cope with, and a team of professionals were on standby to aid her recovery. It was going to be a long journey for her and her parents.

Lesley was also extremely lucky to be alive. By the time the dog walkers had found her and called the ambulance, it was estimated she’d only had a matter of hours left before her body would have finally given out. Luck had been on her side but, like Kate, she was unable to speak and give the police any information whatsoever. While it was frustrating that the culprits were still out there, more than likely getting out of town, there was nothing much the police could do. They really had nothing to go on.

Jack fixed himself another mug of coffee and headed to his desk. Surely SOCO had something by now from the burned-out building, something they could use. He dialled and waited. When he finally got through, there wasn’t too much to tell.

“It’s a bit early yet, Jack,” Janice Coop told him. He’d met her at the burned-out house that night though he hadn’t been able to talk with her for long; the call about Kate had come through. “As you can imagine, the fire being extinguished compromised the scene, as always happens with fires. It can’t be helped. But we did manage to get some items of interest. We’re waiting for results on them.”

“Anything you can tell me you’re working on?”

“Two main things – prints and DNA. I reckon we’ll be extremely lucky to find any of either with the amount of soot and water and ash. But we did find what looks like a piece of gum. Now while I don’t expect any usable DNA to be left on it now, there is an interesting imprint on the surface. Can’t say much more except it will be processed soon and I’ll let you know. The condoms we found in the bins outside again should tell us something. There were also a couple caught in the toilet drain, but I’m not optimistic that we’ll get anything useful from them. They may have been flushed clean over time. We’ll see, though.”

“And the body. What does the pathologist say? Have you heard?”

“No, you’d need to speak to her on that.”

“Right. Yes, of course. Keep me posted, won’t you? Those three girls need some good news.”

“Will do. And Jack?”

“Yes?”

“Get the animals that did this, won’t you? My niece is the same age as little Kate and I couldn’t repeat what I’d do to those men if it was her in a hospital bed.”

“Oh, I intend to, Janice. You mark my words.”

Eddie approached his desk as he was hanging up. Jack figured he must have had a guilty conscience and decided to check in and do some work. He’d probably heard down the pub that Jack had missed most of his own Christmas. The smell of stale whiskey wafted into his airspace, and Jack held his breath for a moment. Eddie slapped his back like an old chum, or someone pretending to be one.

“What about the starting line-up for Chelsea then, Jack? Not a single British player amongst them in a Premier League side. What is the world coming to? Wish I’d been at The Dell to see it.”

“I’ve not been to a game in a long while. Don’t seem to get the time,” Jack said pointedly. “I always enjoyed a bag of chips afterwards. Used to go with my dad. He was a Red Devils fan, and Manchester isn’t exactly local. I hear it worked out for Chelsea, though. Maybe they could spread some luck on our case.”

“Well, I’ve just heard back about the body in the burned-out house. Seems it is a male, and by the age and height, it could be our Martin Coffey, though we’re still waiting for confirmation from the pathologist. Bloke was almost burned to a crisp. Did you see it?”

Biting back his distaste, Jack ignored the question. “Well, if it is him, that’s both good and bad. It leaves us sod-all now if he’s gone. All we had on him was a van, and the traffic cops let that drive off with two blokes in it. Numpty lot. Probably wanted their Christmas pies at the end of their shift and couldn’t be arsed doing anything useful about it.”

“That may be so. The van was empty. But it’s not over yet. There’s no fat lady singing in my ears.” Eddie was doing his best to sound positive, because it was obvious Jack wasn’t.

“No. I suppose not.”

“Well, then. That van might still be out there. All three girls are back to safety, albeit in hospital. Our wanted man is possibly dead, and we know there were two men in that van when it was pulled over. But we should get some DNA evidence from the house, so even if we get a match there, we have someone to talk to. So there’s still plenty to go on, Jack. Plenty.” He slapped Jack’s back again making him lurch forward slightly.

“Now why don’t you go round to Leanne’s house and see if she’s up for a few more questions? Something may have jogged her memory since you saw her yesterday. Then go home, get some rest. You look like you need it. Tomorrow, we’ll both go over and see Lesley in the hospital. She may be awake and talking.”

While Jack hoped so, he didn’t fancy their chances. And he certainly didn’t fancy taking Eddie with him. The man was like a bull in a china shop.

Chapter Sixty-One

It was almost dark when he pulled up outside the Meadows’ place on Cedar Road. A creamy glow emanated through the net curtains from a lamp in the front room. Jack glanced up at the upstairs window above it and noted it was in darkness. But that wasn’t unusual in this style of house. It was more than likely the parents’ room; the children’s rooms were usually at the back of the house. He wondered if Leanne was awake and ready to chat some more, preferably without either Mr or Mrs present. If something had gone on in that house that Leanne didn’t want them to know about, she certainly wouldn’t say so in front of them. Right now, Jack needed every morsel of information there was to have. He was about to push the buzzer when the door opened. Someone must have seen him arrive.

“Hello, Detective,” Penny Meadows said politely. She sounded a good deal cheerier than the last time he’d seen her. “Come on in.”

“It’s good to see you looking happier,” he commented as he stepped into the hallway.

“It’s so good to have my baby back home. I can’t thank you enough, Jack.”

“Well, I’m glad she’s back and in one piece. It’s what we always hope will happen. And the best Christmas present for you all, being back together. How’s she doing?”

“Really good. No real injuries, thank goodness, but some emotional scars to contend with, I expect. But one day at a time. She’ll be back on her cycle before we know it. Would you like to pop up and see her?”

“If I may, thanks. You may have heard we have the other two girls from the house. They weren’t quite as lucky as Leanne, but they’re recovering well in hospital.”

“Well, that’s good news, then. I’m glad their parents have them back with them. These last few days have been the hardest days of my life. I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy, I can tell you. But you didn’t come to listen to me prattling on. Go on up. She’s awake. First door on the right at the top.” And with a flick of her hand, she encouraged him towards the staircase while she made her own way back towards the kitchen.

Jack detected the warm, comforting smell of something sweet baking in the oven, a cake maybe. He could hear the low murmur of a TV as he approached Leanne’s room at the back. The door was partly open, and a pink china nameplate was stuck to the outside of it; it read ‘Leanne’s Room.’ He knocked lightly on the frame so as not to make her jump and smiled her way. She was sat up in bed, her blond hair looking darker as it fell around her shoulders. She looked somewhat different from the photo they’d pinned up on the board back at the squad room.

“Hello, Detective.” She managed a smile. “Come on in.” The room was pink, but not chintzy. At fifteen, she’d gone for a more modern twist on her room décor; miniature bicycles were dotted here and there on various surfaces, as well as paraphernalia from famous cycle races gone by. There was a pink cycling jersey in a frame hung on the wall, and Jack ventured closer for a better look. It was signed with a black squiggle from a marker pen.

“It’s the Giro d’Italia shirt, signed by Gotti himself after winning the 1997 Tour, though it’s only a replica. I won it at an event last year,” Leanne offered.

Jack searched for something light-hearted to say in return, keep her chatting. “Gotti, eh? He doesn’t sound like he’s from around these parts – south London, I mean. Where’s he from, then? Up north?”

She laughed at his naivety. “He’s Italian, actually. Won it a couple of times. But you’re right to an extent. He’s from up north, but the north of Italy, not the UK.”

This seemed to brighten her up, anyway; she was clearly happy to talk cycling with anyone who took an interest.

“Will you compete in the Tour one day?” he enquired, glancing at the framed photos of Leanne on her bike. In some, she wore medals around her neck.

“Doubt it. You have to be male, for starters, and a pro rider, so I’m out on both fronts. And I suspect you didn’t want to look at my room, Detective. What do you want to ask me about?”

Jack grinned at her, “Well, if you don’t make it as a pro cyclist, perhaps think of becoming a detective eh?” He pulled up a chair that was by her bed and sat down. “First, I wanted to check how you are doing, and I see you’re well on the mend, sharp as a paper cutter, in fact. And second, the mind is a funny thing, and I wanted to give you the opportunity to tell me if anything else has surfaced about your ordeal since we last spoke. A smell perhaps, or the faint sound of something – anything at all. Anything.”

He let the silence stretch for a minute without filling it himself, hoping she was regurgitating something from her own files in the back of her head. This tactic usually worked, and he waited patiently for her to speak. He tried not to look at her too intently while her brain was hard at work; instead, he returned his attention to some of the photos dotted about her room. In them, her summer tan, natural smile and almost golden hair made her look like a young actress from the seventies. The Americans would have called her an ‘all-American girl.’

“Have you found the others yet? Lesley and Kate?” she asked instead.

“We have, yes. They are both in hospital, though they will need a little more recovery before they will be allowed home yet. But they are safe now, in good hands.”

Leanne nodded her approval. “I’m glad. Poor things. Were they found nearby where I was, or at the house?”

“Neither, actually. But I can’t tell you much more than that for the time being.”

“And what about the third one, the young woman? The woman that gave me the spoon? Have you found her yet?”

Jack blinked. With everything that had happened in the last 48 hours, he’d not given the woman another thought since Leanne had mentioned her back in the hospital. How the hell had that happened? “We haven’t found her as yet, no. Can you tell me about her again? There may be something new you remember.”

“There’s very little to tell, but I’ll try.”

Obligingly, Leanne went through all she knew about the other young woman, Jack making notes as she spoke. By the time they’d finished and he looked up from his pad, Leanne looked like she’d gone backwards a little; the memory of her ordeal was clearly a little too painful for her to relive yet again. Her head was bowed and she seemed to be struggling not to cry. He turned to see Penny Meadows watching at the door.

“I think it’s time for you to go, Detective.” Her voice had lost its friendly tone. He nodded; there was no point asking Leanne anything further. He stood and said his thanks and goodbyes, and wished Leanne a speedy recovery. He was halfway down the stairs when he saw Dave Meadows at the bottom, about to climb them himself. He let Jack descend and said hello as he arrived at the bottom. He was chewing something, wincing slightly as his jaws moved.

“Tooth still bugging you, Mr Meadows?” Jack asked brightly.

“I really should go back to the dentist and get it re-filled. Hurts like hell.”

“They should all be back to work now Christmas is over. I’ll see myself out,” he called as he vanished through the front door.

Back in the peacefulness of his car, he sat there thinking about the third missing girl and recalling Leanne’s face as she spoke. It reminded him of something. Or someone.

Where had he seen that look before, he wondered?

Chapter Sixty-Two

Eddie was back at the helm again, and much of the team had returned from holidays. This was a welcome change from the smattering of resources over recent days. Jack was glad things were returning back to normal. He felt like he’d been running the show on his own. When he’d grumbled about it to Janine, she’d told him it was because he had been, then pecked him on his cheek as a sign to get out the door and solve the damn case.

While Eddie made a start now, Jack smiled to himself about his wife. Not many coppers had a marriage as good as his, a woman as understanding as his. It made all the difference. He scanned the faces around the room, watching their body language, their facial expressions, their interest, and was glad to see the focus they showed after the brief holiday break – a break Jack was still to get in. Movement in the corner of his eye made him turn his head. DI Morton entered the room behind him and stood with his arms crossed.

“And of course,” said Eddie, “we believe there is still one girl, said to be around eighteen years old, out there somewhere. From how Lesley and Kate were found, she is more than likely bound, gagged and with a pillowcase or similar over her head.” He pointed to the map, which was dotted with red pins. “These pins indicate where the three girls we’ve found so far were located. As you can see, they were all not far from the M25 in an area that stretches east and west of it.” He pointed to the house’s location. “If Leanne was found here after escaping on foot, and the house was here, and the other two were here and here, it seems reasonable to assume the other girl will also likely be around here.” He was pointing to a wide area southwest of London. “And since the van we’d been looking for was stopped here,” pointing to a blue pin at Cobham, “we again can assume she could be around this area here.”

While it was still a huge area, at least it had been narrowed down by the position of the empty van. “I know,” he went on, “that she could be anywhere, and since nobody has reported seeing her, that’s not good. It’s been as cold as hell. We were lucky to find Lesley alive, so let’s pull out all the stops and bring this girl home too.

“Jack, I’ll leave you to organize liaising with the local stations out there. Do what you need to do and delegate accordingly. Mo, get on to what CCTV there is available. You may have to use the private feeds from businesses nearby; petrol stations are a good start. Get Clarke to give you a hand. Tell Jack what else you need, manpower-wise.”

Jack watched as the poor woman turned scarlet again at being singled out in front of the rest of the team. Even a positive mention seemed to embarrass her.

“Right, that’s it then,” Eddie concluded. “Get to work.”

Jack felt Morton shuffle off from behind him and, yet again, felt like he himself was the single driving force for the investigation. It was beginning to bug him. Eddie slapped him on the shoulder as he walked past on his way to the coffee cupboard. That was beginning to bug him, too. He followed him in.

“And what will you and Morton be doing while Mo and Clarke are sifting through footage and I’m liaising with the locals, eh?” Jack’s tone was civil, but there was no mistaking his meaning. Eddie picked up on it at once.

“Hey, hey, Jack – why the aggression? What’s bugging you?”

“I’m not being aggressive, but I am feeling a bit alone in all this. And since you ask what’s bugging me, you are actually, Eddie, as is Morton.” Exhaustion and frustration, mixed with the sense that no one else seemed to give a damn about the fourth missing woman, were knocking the lid off his temper. Raising his eyebrows, Eddie closed the door to the coffee cupboard. The air smelled of the remains of a greasy bacon sandwich and cheap instant coffee.

“Come on, Jack. Spit it out.”

“You and Morton. You’re supposed to be leading this thing, but it’s been me running about all Christmas. Seems like both of you went to ground, and there’s been no sign of any real help from either of you. There’s still at least one girl out there. There could be more; we don’t know. But you need to take charge, Eddie, as does Morton. It’s not up to me to do all this.”

Jack waved his arms out to emphasize the enormity of it, sending a packet of biscuits flying across the small space. It hit the opposite wall and fell to the floor with a crinkly thump. Normally, Jack would have made a joke about it, but he wasn’t in the mood for frivolity this morning.

He picked up his coffee mug and left Eddie open-mouthed in the coffee cupboard.

It was almost 6 pm when Jack finally had something to report back on, though there was nobody around to actually report it to. A young woman’s body had been found floating in a pond. She was bound and gagged as the others had been, and had been dead for several days. A fisherman had called the Elmbridge police and reported his horrific find. She matched the description of the fourth woman in almost every way; it had to be her.

Eddie had been right about the location. It was moments away from where the van had been stopped on Christmas Eve. If only those traffic cops had been a few minutes earlier in pulling the van over, thought Jack bitterly, she may have been somewhere safe for Christmas.

Instead, she was lying in a fridge the mortuary.

Chapter Sixty-Three

Jack arranged to meet the local DI at Epsom the following morning and go over the links to the case. The girl was already dead, he reasoned unhappily, and zooming off to Epsom during rush hour was not going to bring her back. He read over the information he’d received so far. The woman’s body was badly bloated from her time in the freezing water, and was wearing a sparse amount of clothing like the others had been. The initial findings indicated she had drowned; her hands had been bound and she had been unable to save herself. Whether she’d fallen in or had been thrown in, they couldn’t say, not until the pathologist had finished. They’d know more by the time he arrived there the following day.

With a heavy sigh, Jack retrieved his coat and headed home.

“I’m home, love.” Seeing his drained face, Janine collected his coat from him and guided him to his chair in the lounge, where a bottle of beer stood waiting for him on a side table.

“Sit,” she instructed. “Dinner won’t be long, so enjoy your beer and try to unwind a little. Then we can talk when you’ve eaten, if you wish.”

She wore her no-nonsense smile as she spoke, and Jack was reminded again how much he loved the woman he shared a home with. She left him sat contemplating and busied herself back in the kitchen. Jack was grateful she gave him space when he got like this, got so involved in a case that it consumed every ounce of his energy, leaving nothing behind. But they both knew it never lasted for long. Cases got solved, or closed, or moved, and something else took their place. There was always another set of victims or culprits waiting around the corner.

The beer began to soothe his nerves, and after a while Janine came in to fetch him. Together, they sat down to enjoy the last of the turkey that Janine had made into a pie, along with Christmas ham and leeks from the garden, all topped off with a crust. She’d even put a couple of pastry leaves on top. The pie was deep golden in colour from the egg wash, and looked and smelled magnificent.

“My god, Janine, that’s a work of art. It’s almost a shame to eat it.” He peered closer as Janine took his plate and cut into the pie; creamy sauce oozed out like a pale landslide moving slowly over the cut leeks. Steam drifted upwards. She handed him the plate back and he helped himself to mash and mixed veg with an extra helping of sauce from a jug. When she’d served her own, they ate in silence for a couple of minutes. Jack would speak about what was on his mind when he was good and ready, she knew; they’d stick to more mundane topics, in the meantime. It was nearly the end of their meal before he spoke about what was niggling him.

“I had words with Eddie today,” he started. “Told him I was sick of doing it all on my own and that he and Morton needed to give the team more of their attention and resources. I ended up smacking a packet of biscuits up the wall. Better than smacking him I suppose, that wouldn’t have done me any good.”

They both sat quietly for a moment digesting what he’d said.

Then Janine said, “Did they break?”

“Eh?”

“Did the biscuits break?” Janine was smiling, knowing the worst was over for him now and normal service would resume shortly. He couldn’t help but smile back and, feeling more relaxed and rested than he had for days, picked their empty plates up and took them through to the kitchen. There was a trifle sitting on the kitchen side.

“You really have been busy,” he called back, but Janine was already standing behind him.

“I’ll bring us a bowl each. Go and sit down.”

And so he did, and when he’d devoured the sherry trifle on top of the pie, he’d almost forgotten he’d missed Christmas at all. An hour later, he was sound asleep in his chair in the lounge while Janine cleared away in the kitchen.

Somehow later that evening, he’d got into bed, and it was nearly 7 am when he finally awoke to the sound of Terry Wogan chatting quietly to his audience across the length and breadth of the UK. The pips signalled the time on the hour, and he sat bolt upright with a start. Next to him, Janine stirred slightly at his sudden movement, then rolled over on her side without saying a word. Jack rubbed his hands over his face before flinging the quilt back and heading to the bathroom. The previous evening was a complete blank, save for the pie and trifle.

He slipped inside the shower curtain and turned the taps on, and waited until the water ran through warm. As steam started to fill the small room, he stood underneath the jets, the warm needles of water feeling therapeutic on his head and shoulders as he lathered shampoo onto his head. The sleep and the meal had done him a world of good, as had unloading his day on Janine, though he’d only told her about his lazy colleagues. There was never any need to bore or burden her with case details. It wasn’t necessary. With the fragrance of a pine forest filling his nostrils, he dried off, quickly dressed and headed downstairs to make Janine a cup of tea before heading out. He was almost done when he heard the phone in the hall ring and hurried to grab it before it rang off.

“Jack Rutherford.”

“Jack, it’s Pete Abbott here, on the desk. I’ve got a message for you.”

“Yes, Pete. Good news, I hope?”

“Well, that depends on who you are and what your view is, I guess. We now have DNA confirmation that the body in the burned-out house over at Swanley was that of Martin Coffey.”

Jack let the news sink in a moment. “Thanks, Pete. Yes, good and bad, indeed. Is Eddie aware?”

“Not managed to get him.”

Why bother asking?

Hanging up, he reflected on what the news really did mean. If Coffey had been involved in a sexual abuse ring of some sort, the world was better off with him dead. But that left them with yet another piece of the puzzle: what kind of horrors had been going on in that house?

They needed more, so much more. Maybe the day ahead would bring them something useful. He could only hope.

Chapter Sixty-Four

Jack had arranged to meet the local Cobham police sergeant at Epsom mortuary, where their assumed latest victim had been taken after being found in the pond. It wasn’t a long drive down, only fifty minutes or so in easy traffic, and Jack made use of the time on his own to reflect on the task ahead while listening to some music. Never a Spice Girls fan, he enjoyed the rougher sounds of mainly male rock and roll, namely his beloved ELO. He pushed the start button on the CD player and waited to be transported to another place while he drove. “Last Train to London” spilled into the car, and he sang along in an attempt to make the task ahead more bearable, moving his head from side to side in time with the music, strumming his hands on the steering wheel, his imaginary drum kit. He’d been to many of their concerts and enjoyed the peace and energy the band gave him, particularly when he needed to think. Next up came “Mr Blue Sky,” and he let the words roll over him like a therapeutic massage. He knew every word by heart, and warbled away happily as he made his way down the A232 towards the hospital.

A mobile food van came into view and, checking his watch, he decided there was time for a quick bacon butty. If he was going to do a spot of thinking; he could chew at the same time. The food van looked like any other roadside convenience. A queue of four people waited to place their orders, attesting to the quality of the food. He indicated left and pulled into the layby.

Ten minutes later, he was back on his way towards the hospital at Epsom, one hand on the steering wheel, the other nursing his sandwich, and “Mr Blue Sky” on repeat play for his thinking time. He sang along to the words between bites, his mind working over the lyrics.

Please tell us why …

You had to hide away for so long …

Thoughts of the girl he was about to meet, though in death rather than in real life, filled in within the words of his private concert, the faces of the band members clear in his head as they sang and posed the question to only Jack.

Tell us why …

Why had she died? What had been going on in that house? And why had she helped Leanne escape but not escaped herself?

You had to hide away for so long …

Where had she been hiding? And how had she become embroiled in whatever it was? She was only a young woman herself, not much older than Leanne. He wondered where she was missing from. Leanne had said she’d sounded foreign, so maybe from somewhere across the eastern bloc. Maybe she was Polish, or Albanian even. She’d had a look about her, Leanne said, and had told him it wasn’t French or Italian or Greek even. Her colouring had been all wrong. In another few minutes, he’d see for himself, though the fact that she’d been in the old quarry pond for so long meant the colour of her flesh would have altered dramatically. In cases such as this, it was hard for even parents to identify their own children.

Jack entered the hospital building and followed the signs to the mortuary where he was due to meet both the pathologist and the local DI. Had the young woman died before she’d been thrown into the water, he wondered, or had she drowned? Because if she’d already been dead, that added a new dimension to the case – two dead bodies under suspicious circumstances. If she’d been alive when she’d entered the water, that meant she could have fallen in herself. He wasn’t thinking suicide, though he wasn’t ruling it out either.

He entered the office space and the clock on the wall told him he was bang on time. Two men turned his way at the sound of his shoes on the tiled floor. Jack assumed one was the local DI and the other, the smaller man in surgical scrubs, was the pathologist. He introduced himself.

“DC Jack Rutherford, Croydon,” he announced with an outstretched hand. The taller man, about Jack’s age, stepped forward.

“DI Peter Woodhouse. Good to meet you, Jack.” Standing back a pace, he introduced the smaller man, who Jack thought looked a little like a mad professor, thinning grey hair standing up on end like he’d had an electric shock. The man could have only been about five feet tall in his shoes. “And this is Dr Charles Winstanley,” Woodhouse said. The second man stepped forward slightly and shook Jack’s hand.

“Any relation to Dr Barbara Winstanley, by chance?” Jack asked.

“My daughter, Detective.” Winstanley’s smile was gentle and his eyes glinted at the mention of her name. He was obviously a proud father. “And Stanley, my son, is almost a pathologist. He will graduate later this year. You know Barbara, then?”

Stanley Winstanley, Jack thought, trying to keep the smile from his face. It was almost child abuse.

“Yes,” he replied. “She’s been helping me on another case with a DNA puzzle – which reminds me: I should give her a call. With all that’s been going on and Christmas coming at the same time, it’s been on the back burner a little. Missing girls and dead bodies take precedence over most other cases.” Jack hadn’t given a great deal of thought to Mary. He’d hardly had a moment to himself of recent, but he made a mental note to call Barbara and follow up.

Pleasantries over, the doctor suggested they get to it, and both detectives followed him through the swing doors to a smaller room where a sheet-covered body lay on a trolley, only its face exposed. As Jack approached, he could see the brown straggly hair that would have fallen to her shoulders, a pale and rather thin face pointing straight up towards the bright lights of the room, eyes closed. The water had done its worst to her skin, and he closed his eyes for a moment out of respect. The young woman laid out in front of him was indeed young; her thin frame looked more like a twelve-year-old’s. It never got any easier seeing a body in this condition, and Jack only hoped she hadn’t suffered in death.

“Did she definitely drown, then?”

“I’m afraid she did,” said Dr Winstanley. “Her lungs were nearly double in size. We usually see that with a freshwater drowning, and there are traces of pond vegetation in her airways. She has bruising to most of her body, some old, some more recent. Both arms have also been broken in the past and healed again; I’d say within the last five years. I’d estimate her age to be around eighteen.”

Jack closed his eyes again to shake the images of her abuse from his mind, but it didn’t work.

DI Woodhouse took over now, with a question of his own.

“Do you think her death was deliberate, or could this be an accident? Did she fall in, for example?”

“Given she was bound and gagged, I’d say this wasn’t an accident on her part. What I can’t tell you is whether someone placed her at the pond knowing she’d fall in, or whether she made her way there of her own accord. Her feet are badly cut up, so she’d walked barefoot over rough terrain for some time, but again, she could have been going around in circles without realizing it, only to end up falling in.”

Both detectives were now looking at the young woman’s face, deep in thought. Neither said a word.

“I did find something of interest for you both, though, something I’ve never seen in all my years of working with the dead.”

“Oh?” they responded in unison.

“It was inside her stomach, actually, along with the meagre remains of her breakfast cereal. And I found a similar example tucked into the cuff of her track bottoms.”

Jack looked at Woodhouse and they both followed Winstanley over to a table where he had set out his findings in plastic evidence bags.

The first bag contained small pieces of paper that had been reconstructed, like a puzzle, back into a single piece. On it were several words written in what looked like blue pen. In the second bag were the remains of what appeared to be cardboard from a cereal box, again with words written on them in blue pen.

“I’d say she was trying to send a message,” said Winstanley.

“Holy shit,” Jack exclaimed.

Chapter Sixty-Five

Hey you, pretty face…

“Is that what I think it is?” asked Jack incredulously.

“It is, or so I believe,” said Woodhouse. “Though it’s going to need some work, it’s definitely a list of names.”

Both men looked at each other as if the answer, the confirmation they needed, was written on the other man’s face.

Inside the simple plastic bag Woodhouse was holding was a list written in blue pen, but what did the list refer to? Customers? A business network? Victims, even? There were large parts missing where the ink had soaked away, as well as gaps where sections of paper were missing, but there were the bones to work with. The machine printing on the reverse of the paper in the first bag looked like a flyer of some sort.

Jack had the other evidence bag in his hand, containing the cardboard from her tracksuit bottoms.

“And I’d say this is a duplicate, looking at the bits still visible.”

“Looks like we have a puzzle to do,” Woodhouse announced. “I take it you have copies of this for us, Doc?”

“Of course. From my observation, if I may?” he enquired.

“Please do,” encouraged Jack.

“She must have known she was going to die to have done this. Something happened for her to do this only once, because there were no older particles of paper in her system. They were all from this one ingestion. If she’d done it repeatedly – say, in the hope of one day getting this information, whatever it relates to, out in the open – there’d be more. My guess is something went down to encourage her to do this. She was a smart girl to hide whatever it is in this way. It can’t have been easy. And having a duplicate could have put her life in danger. She was extremely brave.”

Her life had been in grave danger anyway, it seemed, but Jack kept it to himself. He was thankful for her efforts.

“How long ago would you estimate that she went into the water?”

“Two days; three absolute tops.”

Jack reasoned that would tie in nicely with the events of Christmas Eve, the house fire and Leanne escaping. All hell must have broken loose and, somehow, this clever and no doubt terrified girl had managed to leave them something to work with in her death. Jack walked back across to where she was lying. The two other two men joined him.

“You said she’d had both arms broken in the past. How about sexual activity?”

“I’m afraid there’s been plenty, and for some years.”

“Any clue as to who she is? We have reason to think she wasn’t from the UK. One of the victims told me she had an accent, so she may have been from somewhere in Eastern Europe.”

“There was nothing on her to indicate who she is, and no DNA match in the system. Dental is no use unless she matches a missing person’s listing. We may never know her identity,” Dr Winstanley said gravely.

Jack let the words sink in. Another lost soul, name unknown, life extinguished. Someone’s daughter. Mary flashed into his mind for the second time that day. He needed to focus on her again as soon as he could and help get her young life back together before she too became a lost soul.

DI Woodhouse broke into his thoughts. “Do you think this young woman is part of your case, then, Jack?”

“I do. It’s too much of a coincidence. I’m loath to show her photograph to my only witness, a girl a handful of years younger, but I may have to take that chance. I’ve no other way. And if that list we have is customers or the perpetrators, I want to find every one of them. And damn soon.”

“Need some help?”

Jack knew the man didn’t have to offer; resources were always tight in every force. “I’d appreciate that, thank you. Yes.”

“Right, then. Well, if we’ve done here, why don’t we head off for some lunch and you can fill me in with what you know so far. Then we’ll head back to the station and see what we can put together. The sooner we can fill in some of those names, the sooner we can start looking into them and see where they fit into this mess.”

Back outside in the cold fresh air, DI Peter Woodhouse steered them in the direction of the town centre. Jack was glad he’d kept his jacket with him and not left it in the car.

“So, I’m wondering,” Woodhouse asked, “if you were in the young girl’s shoes and being held against your will at that house, what list would you make to help the police after your death? What would be the most valuable information you could share?”

“Well, the most valuable would be the ringleaders, the organisers. But let me ask you a question. Which list would she know about? How would she know either category’s names? That makes me wonder if she knew the customers’ names, those who desired what the house was peddling, took part in what went on in those rooms?”

“I get you. Though I’m wondering how she could have, unless they’re well known, of course, like off the TV or something.”

Jack didn’t fancy the idea.

“It would be too risky to check wallets, but credit card transactions?” Jack inquired.

“Now that’s a thought. Would they be stupid enough? Cash surely.”

“You’d think so, but it’s worth a try. It’s the stupid things that get people caught, right?”

“Indeed.”

They turned off the main road and down a narrow alleyway.

“It’s only a short walk from here,” Woodhouse told him. “I expect you like curry?”

“Fine by me.”

“I know a place that does a great lunchtime buffet, quick and cheap. Then we’ll look at those names. A bit of digging and I reckon we’ll have something to work with.”

“I damn well hope so. With our prime suspect burned and crispy like a lamb tikka, and a young woman trying to talk to us from the grave, a real live interview with someone on that list would make my week.”

“Then let’s make your week.” Woodhouse opened the door, and they went inside. The aromatic smell of curry and garlic was pleasant and warming to their nostrils after the chill of the mortuary.

When they were seated, Woodhouse turned to Jack with a grin and said what Jack had been thinking earlier: “Stanley Winstanley? What a terrible thing to do to a kid. I can only imagine the poor child’s nickname – Stanley Stanley.”

“Like New York, eh? So good they named it twice.”

Chapter Sixty-Six

Lunch had been a welcome change, and both men sat nursing bellies full of spicy chicken tikka and naan bread. Woodhouse had had a pint, but Jack had stuck to water. With a drive back and plenty to think about, he wanted his wits about him. Having seen firsthand the horror the victims had gone through, it was high time the culprits were brought to justice, both the ringleaders and those who had frequented the house – they were all guilty.

Jack sorted the bill out – it was the least he could do after Woodhouse’s offer of resources – and they walked back to the station together. They’d spent their lunch hour filling in some of the more obvious blanks, but many gaps remained. They had decided to work on one puzzle each and see what they could find out with the few scant letters that were still visible. They would also give copies of both puzzles to their teams to take a shot at. The more brains working on this the better. It reminded Jack of the Zodiac murders in the US, where the police had asked for the public’s help to solve the puzzle the perpetrator had left them by printing it in the newspaper. It was a shame they couldn’t get the list of names printed in the same way. Now that would be a triumph for any paper, though a right royal lawsuit in the making if they exposed those names, not to mention the vigilante spinoff.

While he was a decent detective, puzzles were too frustrating for him to tackle as a hobby after he’d been working a case all day – he preferred to rest his brain to music, thank you very much.

Hey you, pretty face. . .

He didn’t doubt that the young woman in the mortuary had once had a pretty face before she’d died in the freezing pond water.

It was nearly 2 pm already and even at this hour, the sky seemed to be closing in, losing its energy like a dimmer switch was slowly turning the light down to nothing. In another couple of hours or so, it would be fully dark. He’d be late home again. He needed to let Janine know but he’d call later. He was keen to get a move on with the local resources before they were turned off.

Jack was making his way with Woodhouse to the side entrance when his phone rang, making him jump. Woodhouse smiled at his reaction as he walked.

“I’ll never get used to it. Makes me jump every damn time,” he moaned as he went to answer it. “Jack Rutherford.”

“Jack, it’s Eddie. I’ve news on the van. It’s been found abandoned near Waterloo station.”

“Empty?”

“Yes, but SOCO are heading out there now to see what they can gather. My guess is the driver got on a train somewhere. We’re checking the CCTV that’s available, but since it was down a side street, I don’t hold out much hope. I’ll keep you posted. Where are you?”

“I’m in Epsom. I’ve been to the mortuary to look at the young female victim from the pond. Looks like she was one smart girl. She somehow swallowed a list of what looks like names, and the pathologist found the remains of it in her stomach contents, along with another list in the cuff of her track suit bottoms.”

“Whoa!”

“We’re thinking a list of customers rather than culprits, maybe off credit cards?”

“Who’s we?”

“The local DI, Peter Woodhouse, met me there. I’m back at his station now to make a start, see what we can decipher, then I’ll head back with the rest. I reckon Mo could be the right person for this. I’m pretty sure she’s a puzzle master.”

“Right. Okay. Look, I’ll let you know what forensics come up with, whenever that might be. See you later, then.”

As Jack hung up, he thought about the van and its driver. Waterloo. That meant trains to the south, to start with. It also meant trains to the continent, to France. And from France, Europe was practically borderless. The perpetrator could go undetected almost anywhere, and that gave Jack and his team a problem all in itself. Sure, there was Interpol, but without a name or a photo they were no use at all.

Names. They needed names.

“News?” Woodhouse asked, breaking into his thoughts.

“Oh, kind of. The van we think the girls were moved in has been found dumped. Looks like our driver could have left the country. It was near Waterloo.” Jack rubbed his face with both hands, feeling his energy levels dimming like the daylight around him, and wished he was closer to home than he was. But more than that, he wished he had an answer for the poor young woman in the folder he had under his arm.

Names. We need names.

“Come on, let’s get this show on the road, then, see how far we can get. SOCO will find something for you to go on, because my bet is this outfit are a stupid lot. They’re bound to have screwed up inside the van. From what you’ve told me so far, they could be sat around at their mums’ now, sipping tea and eating ginger-nuts, and not on a train to anywhere. The job now is to find the names of these two men, and fill in the blanks on this list, of course.” Woodhouse smiled as if it would be the simplest task in the entire world.

They both knew it would be anything but.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

By the time Jack had set off for home, rush hour was well under way, and he inched his way forward to insert himself into the traffic headed north. It was going to be a slow journey home. His eyes stung from staring at the computer screens and the photocopied puzzles, but their efforts had been fruitful: they now had a partial list of names with only a handful still to be filled in. It seemed the names belonged to customers: none of them had matched names in their database in connection with other sex-related cases. With hundreds of people with the same name, it could be a slow job tracking down the right ones, but not impossible. At least with a crossword, you knew how many letters you were searching for to complete the word.

He glanced across to the passenger seat, where her lifeless face stared back at him from a glossy 10x8 print. Her mousy hair fell in lank strands, fine like a baby’s, and there were dark circles under each eye. She looked tired. Had she looked so tired in life, too? What had her role been in all this, and what was her name? She needed a name.

He dialled Eddie to tell him how they’d fared and get an update at his end. It went straight to voicemail – no surprises there. He dialled the station and was put through to the only person in the squad room – Mo.

“Where is everyone, Mo?” He could almost sense her turning red at his question.

“Gone home, I expect.”

“So why haven’t you?” He regretted the question as soon as he’d asked it, suspecting he already knew the answer. He felt foolish. And a bit sad. But if he retracted it with an apology, he’d only draw attention to his faux pas. Best leave it be. An empty silence filled the car while Mo must have been thinking about an answer. Finally, she spoke.

“Thought I’d try and find the poor girl in Epsom mortuary, her real name. No one deserves to be nameless. It’s bad enough she was disposed of like that.”

Jack pressed his eyes shut for a second, long enough to feel the pleasure of the pressure but not long enough to run into the back of the vehicle in front of him.

“And how did you fare?”

“I have twenty-seven missing girls’ descriptions to choose from.” There was satisfaction in her voice.

“That’s wonderful news, Mo. Can you get the details down to the mortuary, to Dr Charles Winstanley? Apparently, the girl he has there has had both arms broken in the past, and of course there’s dental to look at, so with twenty-seven possible names, this will make it a whole lot easier, not to mention quicker. Good work, Mo. Thanks.”

“I will,” said Mo after a pause, during which Jack could almost hear her blushing. “Is this doctor any relation to Dr Barbara Winstanley, by any chance?”

“Yes, he’s her father. Oh – one more thing before I go, Mo. Any news on those VINs? Those two vehicles at the house have to have belonged to someone, though I’m betting they were stolen, which would be another dead end.”

“I’ll chase them up in the morning. They’ll all have gone home too, I expect. I’ll keep you informed.”

The traffic in front of him was starting to speed up and thin out a little, requiring him to put both hands on the wheel and get rid of his phone.

“Thanks. Right, I’d better concentrate now and drive. See you tomorrow.”

He hung up and pressed the on/off button on the stereo system, and ELO once more filled the car. While Jack didn’t bother to sing along this time, he listened to the words he knew so well. If the group ever needed a replacement singer at a concert one night, Jack figured he could fill the role easily, though the audience might not appreciate his tone. Two more songs came and went and as he approached Sutton from the south.

His phone rang, making him jump again.

“For heaven’s sake, Jack! Get a grip,” he reprimanded himself as he answered it, trying to calm his nerves. “Jack Rutherford.”

“Jack, it’s Mo again. There was still someone in the office.” She sounded excited, like a kid on Christmas morning, and for a split second, he wondered who’d she’d spent her own with.

“What you got, Mo?”

“Two names for two vehicles. And lucky for us, neither has been reported stolen.” He sensed her beaming smile at the other end of the line.

“And I’m guessing you’ve run the names already.”

“Indeed. The names are Bernard Evans and Robert Stiles. Both have records. And get this – Bernard’s mother is a convicted paedophile, released only recently to an approved premises here in Croydon. Father’s inside for murder.”

“Oh lord, this is too easy. They can’t be the ringleaders, can they? Could they be so stupid as to leave registered vehicles there, parked right outside?”

“Customers, maybe?” Mo offered. “Though still stupid.”

“Right – exactly. Do me one last favour before you go home, would you?”

“Of course. What is it?” There was excitement in her voice now.

“See if there is anything else from SOCO on the van found at Waterloo station. If we can link either of these two to the van, we’ll be pretty certain which part of the puzzle they belong to. Then we can move in a little closer.” He thought for a moment before adding, “And do a passport check too, please, if you can. If they have left the country, I want to know about it.”

“I’m on to it.”

“And thanks, Mo. I know it’s not strictly your domain. If you need my login, let me know.”

“Already have it from last time, Jack.”

Jack smiled at the phone. Thank goodness for the woman’s commitment to the job, unlike some he could mention. When this was all over, he was going to have to do something about that, take it further up than DI Morton, since he was part of the problem.

“See you in the morning, Mo.”

When he’d hung up, he drove the last part of the journey home in silence, thinking about not only where he was up to with finding the girls’ captor and killer, but about how he might move Eddie and the DI out of the way so someone who gave a damn could lead the team. While he could do so much on his own, he couldn’t do it all, and relying on Mo’s generous nature was not the solution. Nor was giving her his login details. That alone could come back to bite him in the ass if anyone found out.

But that was for another day. Tomorrow, he felt sure, would bring the positive news he craved.

As it turned out, that was only partly true.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

The case had more loose ends than a plate of spaghetti.

By the time Jack arrived home, Coronation Street was just starting, the familiar theme music playing in as he walked in the front door. Janine greeted him as he slipped his overcoat off.

“You look worn out, Jack Rutherford,” she said gently. “Do you want a beer before your dinner, maybe?” He watched her as she hung his coat up on the peg, admired the curve of her body in the deep pink wool dress she was wearing. Janine was a woman who took pride in her appearance. He slipped his arms around her waist from behind and gently pulled her close, nuzzling into her neck.

“Mmm. You smell good, Mrs Rutherford.”

Smiling, she turned around to face him, still enclosed in his embrace.

“And you look lovely, as always,” he added. “I’m a lucky man to live with you.”

Holding his gaze, she replied, ‘That you are, Jack,” and leaned in to peck him on the lips. “Now let me get you your dinner before I ravish you here in the hallway.”

Jack smirked; she’d read his mind.

“Well, since you mention ravishing, don’t let me stop you. I’m all for a spot of ravishing.” Eyes twinkling, Janine mock-slapped his shoulder and squeezed out from his arms in an effort to get to the kitchen before Jack decided dinner could wait.

“You need to eat, and rest. I’ll ravish you later,” she kidded as she walked off, leaving him standing with his hands on his hips, smiling broadly. “I’ll bring it into the lounge,” she added over her shoulder, so Jack obliged and went through.

He sat down in his chair, half an eye on the TV while he waited. On the screen, Roy Cropper was serving breakfast to someone he didn’t recognize and Jack was reminded of his new friend Billy and his girl Chloe. Hadn’t they gone to someone called Roy for their Christmas dinner? And didn’t this Roy have a café somewhere? The thought tickled him and he chuckled to himself as Janine walked in with a tray set with his dinner. She placed it on his lap.

“What’s amusing you? You hate Coronation Street.”

“I was just thinking about Billy and Chloe. They know a man called Roy, and he even has a café somewhere. They went for Christmas Day – not sure if I told you. I was wondering if the two Roys were similar.”

“Why, because they each own a café?”

“Pretty much.” He stabbed a sausage and bit into the end, leaving the rest impaled on the fork.

“Well, that’s that, then. If they each have a café, they must be the same through and through,” she mused. She sat down on the sofa opposite him while he ate.

“How was your day, then? Any closer to solving your case?”

“It’s coming together.” But he didn’t feel like discussing it. He’d had enough of grisly endings, and his mortuary visit had topped it off. He changed the subject subtly. “Did I tell you I met Chloe, Billy’s girl? She was arrested for shoplifting. Had my card in her pocket so they called me in to see her. Nicking sausage rolls for dinner.”

“Poor thing. What happened?”

“She ended up with a caution and a promise to me she wouldn’t do it again. Sad though, eh? Stealing for food. Seemed like a nice young woman too. I dropped them both back to their garage, along with your picnic – which, by the way, was greatly appreciated.”

“Oh, I’m glad. I’ve not really seen you much to catch up and ask.” It wasn’t a dig. It was a reality they lived with.

“She reminds me of someone, though, and I can’t get it out of my mind. She seems so familiar, though I know we’ve never met before. She’s from up north, Manchester way. Not somewhere I get to.”

“Maybe your paths have crossed and you don’t realise. Maybe you’ve seen her around here?”

“Well, that’s just it. She’s not been this way long, only a couple of weeks, so I doubt it. But you remember when the older girl in this case went missing – the one called Leanne?”

“Yes.”

“She’s a lot like her. When I was at her house the other day, I noticed the similarity of her chin, actually.”

Janine laughed lightly at what he was saying. “There are plenty of people who are similar to others in terms of parts of their body. Same style of mouth, for instance. That doesn’t mean anything apart from the fact that they have the same style of mouth.”

Jack forked mashed potato into his mouth. A blob of gravy fell to his chin and he wiped it with his finger.

“Seems like yours needs to be a little bigger,” Janine said, smiling.

“I suppose. On both counts.” He glanced at the TV screen, and they settled into a comfortable silence while Janine watched her soap. When Jack had finished his sausage and mash, he took his tray into the kitchen and rinsed his plate, leaving it on the drainer. He could hear the phone start to ring in the hallway.

“I’ll get it,” he called to Janine, and picked the handset up. “Jack Rutherford.”

“Jack, it’s Eddie. Look, I know you’ve finished for the night, but I thought I’d fill you in.” Jack could hear voices in the background, and music. Sounded like Eddie was in the pub. “Are you in the pub, by chance?”

“Never mind that now. Forensics found a till receipt between the two front seats of that van, from the Asda at Swanley. Looks like the occupants of the van went shopping on Christmas Eve, according to the date stamp.”

“I’m listening. What’s relevant?”

“Well, not the box of chocolates they bought, but more the fact we know what time they were in the store.”

Jack didn’t need Eddie to spell the rest out. “So, we can check their CCTV cameras and see who made the purchase. Nice one, Eddie.”

“We’re already on it, and I’ve got a blow-up here in my hands. I’ve already run it and come up with the name of—”

Jack broke in. “Let me guess. Robert Styles or Bernard Evans.”

“How the …?”

“Because the two vehicles that were left abandoned and burned out at the house in Kent belonged to those two cretins.”

“Shit almighty.”

“They might have removed the registration plates, but you can’t remove the chassis number quite so easily. Looks like we have ourselves a couple of pillocks, and we can place at least one of them in that van now. And we know we are looking at culprits, not customers, which means we need to move fast.

“Swig your beer back, Eddie. I’ll meet you back at the station.”

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Eddie stank of booze. Jack leaned over him as they stared at the computer screen on Eddie’s desk, which, as usual, was a shambles, littered with Post-it Notes, dog-eared files, coffee cups with deep caramel stain rings and copious amounts of biscuit crumbs. It looked as organised as a jumble sale. He really was a slob, and not for the first time Jack marvelled at how he managed to pull so many women. He must have a secret weapon. He shook the notion off as quickly as it had come and tried to concentrate on what Eddie was saying.

“So you’re also figuring that, since the van was at Waterloo, they’ve buggered off, then?”

“I’m saying it’s an option, that’s all. Think about it. Your venture gets turned upside down and burned out, so you ditch the girls and flee as far away as you can manage in the time you’ve got. Once you’re out of the UK, the continent is your oyster. That’s what I’d do.”

“It does make sense. I asked Mo to put a trace on their passports, though – before we knew how they were connected, mind – because their cars were at the house. Now we know for sure, we can bring them both in. If we can find them.”

“Do we have addresses? I mean, in case they have simply gone home – not that I’d expect them to still be there.”

“They are stupid enough, from what I know of them so far. But I doubt it too. And yes, Robert ‘Rob’ Styles is local, actually. Croydon thinks Bernard Evans is the other side of London, in Watford.”

“Then let’s get a car round to Styles’ place and see if he’s in. I’ll contact Watford to drive round to Evans’ in an unmarked for now. We’ve no proof Evans was in the van yet, remember – only his car at the burned property. And a lowly receipt doesn’t prove Styles was in it either, but it’s more likely. There’s nothing else to connect them – yet.”

“There’ll be private cameras near the store, and maybe near the car park and on other businesses. I’ll get Mo and Clarke on to it first thing. At least we have a timeframe to work with now, so that’ll cut some needless footage and wasted time out.”

“Right. Yes. Okay, let’s see if either of them are in. I don’t want to spook them if they are daft enough to be sitting at home watching the telly. Not until we have a bit more. The CPS won’t go for a receipt on its own.”

“I’ll do a drive-by of Styles’ place. He’ll not suspect my Taurus. Then we’ll see what tomorrow brings before we pounce. Now we’ve got Styles’ and Evans’ names, I’ll take their photos round to Leanne’s and see if either was the man she remembers in her room. If it is, that’ll do the CPS; they like an eyewitness. Then we’ll swoop.”

Jack checked his watch. It was gone 8.30 pm, a little late for house calls to Leanne, but this was important.

“I’ll pop round now and let you know. Let’s keep the panda car away from Evans’ and Styles’ places for tonight until we know they’re involved for sure.”

Jack was already heading out to his car, leaving Eddie alone in the squad room. Jack knew he’d be back inside the pub within the hour. Well, stuff him, he thought bitterly, and stuff Morton too. His direct superiors were a joke. As he slipped in behind the wheel, he resolved once again to do something about it when he had more time.

Oh, the irony of it.

He revved his engine and let his clutch out a bit too quickly, sending the car speeding towards the car park entrance somewhat faster than he usually did, but that was adrenalin building. And annoyance at his work situation. The case had fallen back on his shoulders again, and his evening was a write-off once more.

Ten minutes later, he was on Cedar Road and pulling up outside the Meadows’ house. Glancing up, he noticed the front bedroom light was on, which meant either Mr or Mrs was in there.

“I’m coming in whether you’re reading in bed or not,” he said to himself as he opened his door to get out. An icy chill nipped at his nose as he slammed the car door shut, and the curtain in the lounge window twitched. A moment later, Dave Meadows opened the front door. He looked none too pleased to see Jack.

“This’ll only take a moment, Mr Meadows, if I may.”

“You’d better come on in, then,” Dave Meadows said resignedly, which Jack thought was a little odd. Surely, he’d want to see Leanne’s captors caught? So why not add a bit of enthusiasm, then? He followed him inside and they stood in the hall. An invite through to the lounge was clearly not on offer.

“I have a couple of photos here I’d like to show Leanne. We think they could be linked to the house, and one of the men could be the one Leanne spoke to in her room that day. Her confirmation will help get the man, or men, charged – if it’s him, of course. May I go up?”

“She’s sleeping, Detective, and I’d rather not disturb her.” The man seemed a little nervous, not the concerned father he had been of recent. Was Jack imagining the man’s lack of co-operation? It didn’t add up.

“I realise that, Mr Meadows, and I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t of the utmost importance.” Jack smiled hopefully and watched Dave Meadows’ jaw move silently, tossing the ever-present gum in his mouth, no doubt, like a rapper. Their eyes met and Jack held his gaze. Reluctantly, Dave Meadows stood aside. Jack hadn’t left him much choice.

“Let me go first and wake her. Wait here.”

And so he did, though Jack already knew she was awake. He could hear her TV clearly from the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t think whoever was in the upstairs front room would be watching “Top of the Pops.” He couldn’t see that being Penny Meadows’ thing.

But it would be Leanne’s.

The sound was suddenly turned down and Jack smiled to himself as he began to climb the stairs. There was no way he wasn’t going in there tonight. As Dave Meadows was leaving his daughter’s room, Jack was outside her door ready to nip in.

“I thought I asked ….”

But Jack was back inside the pink room already. Leanne was sitting up in bed with no obvious signs of having just been woken up – as Jack had suspected.

“Hello, Detective. Dad says you have a picture to show me?”

He could feel her dad hovering behind him and sensed something he couldn’t put his finger on.

“Yes. I have more than one, actually. I know this could be a little distressing for you, Leanne, and I am truly sorry about asking. You’re our only witness currently able to help, so once again, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine, really it is. Let me see.”

Jack put down the picture of the girl lying in the mortuary first. She looked so peaceful, and so young. There was no need to ask the question he wanted answered.

“Oh no,” was all Leanne said. Then, “She wasn’t lucky enough to get out, I take it?”

“You recognize her, then?”

“Yes. She saved my life. That’s her.” Leanne looked up at Jack with watery eyes, and he felt her pain.

“I have a couple more here, if I may.”

He laid another two pictures down on the bed for Leanne, then stepped back, leaving her to look and hopefully confirm without interruption.

What he heard wasn’t quite what he expected.

Chapter Seventy

Behind him, Dave Meadows gave an audible gasp. Leanne was looking at the photo of Bernard Evans.

“Yes, I recognize this one,” she said.

Jack turned to her father, who stood in the doorway, his face pale. He watched the man for a long moment, though Dave Meadows didn’t notice. He was far away, deep in thought about something. And Jack suspected he knew what that was. There was only one reason for Meadows to react as he had at seeing the photo of Evans.

Because he knew the man. Dave Meadows knew Bernard Evans.

The hairs on Jack’s neck stood up involuntarily as the pieces of the puzzle slotted into place inside his head. Could he be involved? Could he have had a part in the kidnapping of his own daughter? Or had he been a paying visitor to the house? Either scenario was repulsive, incomprehensible, yet it had to be one of them. He thought forward to the avalanche of mayhem that was about to engulf the innocent members of the Meadows family.

Welcome to the human race…

He turned his attention back to Leanne, who was still staring at the 10x8. Remembering recent horrific events, no doubt. He felt sorry for the girl but was glad she’d been able to identify the man in the photo. Jack hoped both she and her mother would be strong enough to cope with what he predicted was to fall upon them in the not too distant future. He made the decision to keep what he’d witnessed to himself – for now.

Dave Meadows tried to take control of the situation now.

“Leanne needs her rest, Detective. Time for you to leave,” he said firmly.

Jack took the hint and nodded at the man slightly, then gave a brief smile to Leanne as he took the photo from her. She was a brave young woman.

For now, with Leanne’s confirmation, they had an eyewitness, which meant they could pull Evans in for questioning and the CPS would be happy. It would prove to be another nail in his coffin when it came to trial – once they found him.

Back outside, Jack called Eddie on his mobile. Unsurprisingly, Eddie was back in the pub; Jack could hear the clatter of glasses and distant jukebox music.

“How’s it going, Jack?”

“A positive ID from Leanne on the girl and on Evans, but she doesn’t recognize the other one, Rob Styles. Never saw him. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t there, though.”

“No. I’ll give the boys at Watford a call now, make sure they’re still watching.”

Jack doubted he would, but kept his opinion to himself.

“Any news as to whether he’s buggered off to France then? I’ve not seen or heard anything,” said Eddie.

“Me neither, but I think now we have a positive identification, I’ll alert Interpol in Manchester and get a Red Notice set up. They have better access to things than we do, so if he’s taken the Eurostar train, they can be on the lookout as he crosses borders and whatnot. Those scum involved in child abuse rings are a good deal more important to find than a diamond thief, so hopefully they collar him quickly. Let’s hope he isn’t travelling on forged documents under another name.” Jack heard Eddie take a drag on a cigarette and pictured the blue haze around him as he spoke. He wanted to cough for him. “And what about Styles, then?” he went on. “Bring him in for questioning?”

“We have him in the van via a receipt,” Eddie replied. “Nothing else as yet. His DNA isn’t in the system.”

“You’ve had results back from forensics? Was Evans’ DNA present? He’s definitely in the system, been inside.” Jack knew Eddie wasn’t sharing, and it bugged him. But then he hadn’t shared his suspicions about Dave Meadows either.

“Yes, it was, as were several other sets, likely the girls’. And Martin Coffey – his prints were there. Thought I’d mentioned that, Jack.”

He let it go. Battles and all that. “And I’ll get those traffic cops to ID those photos, see if they were the two men in the van. That’s another set of witnesses. Anything else you haven’t told me?” Jack struggled to keep the annoyance from his voice, though if Eddie heard it, he wasn’t going to lose sleep over it. Eddie was in the pub. Jack was the one still busting his backside.

“Get some rest, Jack. Leave Interpol to me. We’ll see what the private CCTV cameras give us, then get Styles in too. I don’t want to spook either of them. Both addresses are under surveillance for now.”

That was something at least. Jack checked his watch. It was approaching 10 pm.

“See you tomorrow, then,” he said, yawning, then hung up. If Evans had fled, there was precious little he could do about it on his own.

It was time to go home. To bed.

Leaving his mobile phone on the hall table with his keys, he climbed the stairs towards the bedroom. Janine was already in bed reading. He poked his head around the door and smiled. She looked so studious in her reading glasses. The dusky pink of the room’s décor reminded him slightly of Leanne’s room, though Janine had opted for a floral motif in theirs. He’d lost the battle on bedroom décor too.

“You look tired, Jack. Are you done for the night?” she enquired, peering librarian-like over the rims of her glasses.

“Done as a kipper, Mrs Rutherford,” he said, and threw himself down on to the flowery quilt. “I’ll grab a shower, and then, if I’ve still got any energy left, there was the mention of ravishing on offer.” He smiled up at her, waggling his eyebrows comically.

She laughed out loud. “You look like Benny Hill doing that!” she exclaimed.

“Well, here’s a fun fact for you, Mrs Rutherford. It was always the women chasing him to that stupid music, never the other way around.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. You watch next time he’s on TV. He never chases anyone.”

“Well, that’s good to know. Now go and get a shower before you fall asleep where you are.”

He wriggled off the edge of the bed and did as he was told, grinning like a love-struck teenager. He was a lucky man, indeed. Their relationship was as strong as a heavy-duty chain, and he wondered about Dave and Penny Meadows for a moment, and all that had gone on in their household recently. For a family that had gone through hell, they didn’t seem particularly close, but then people coped with trauma in many different ways. Stripping off and standing under the warm jets of water, he suspected there was more to come for them. Dave Meadows’ obvious gasp had been a dead giveaway that he knew Bernard Evans, though luckily Leanne hadn’t picked up on that. For now, at least, that spared her from even more anguish, and Jack raised his head heavenward in a silent ‘thank you.’ Whatever the mess to come, it would be up to Jack to deliver it, no doubt.

By the time he’d finished in the bathroom, he could have slept bolt upright. Exhaustion enveloped completely him he returned to the bedroom. Janine pulled the covers back and he slid into his side. Within five minutes, he was snoring gently.

The ravishing would have to wait.

Chapter Seventy-One

Where the hell time went, Jack would never know, but damn it, it went quickly. He looked across at the alarm clock by the bed – it was after 8 am and Janine was already up. He stretched his arm out to her side of the bed, where she’d lain next to him all night, but it felt cool to his touch. She must have got up a while ago. He strained to hear her moving around downstairs, but the house seemed silent. Perhaps he was all alone.

Feeling more awake and noticing he felt more refreshed than he had done in a while, he grabbed his robe from the floor where he’d left it the previous night and went downstairs in search of Janine. He was almost at the bottom of the stairs when he heard the low sound of the radio coming from the kitchen. Terry Wogan’s voice was a British morning staple – bacon and eggs for the soul. He pushed the door fully open and Janine looked up from her spot at the table, toast in hand.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said brightly, as she did each and every morning. “Tea?”

“Love some, thanks. Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You needed the rest, Jack, and I bet you feel better for it too.”

He had to concede; he did indeed. He watched her as she flicked the kettle on and put fresh teabags in the pot, and was reminded again what a fine-looking woman she was. Perhaps a spot of ravishing could be on the cards later if he got home at a reasonable hour and didn’t fall straight to sleep. He was vaguely aware of her speaking.

“Jack?”

“Sorry. I was miles away.”

“Obviously. I said the lab called you a bit ago. Call them when you can.”

“Did they say what they wanted?”

She placed a plate of hot toast in front of him and poured the tea. “No, never do to me. But I hope it’s some good news for you for a change.”

“I’ll call them when I’ve eaten this. Thanks. I’m half-starved.”

She watched as he pushed most of the first triangle into his mouth and smeared strawberry jam on the second piece, ready to follow the first. There were two more pieces on his plate, so she stood to put two more slices into the toaster – it looked like he was going to need them.

When he’d finally finished his breakfast, he called the lab back. The name and number she’d written down was not one he recognised. A woman answered. Her name was Janice Coop.

“It’s DC Jack Rutherford here, Croydon. You called me earlier?”

“Yes, Jack. Thanks for calling back. We met at the burned-out house over Christmas?”

Ah, so that was it. “Yes, I remember, Janice. A damn cold night, and a wet one, too. Not the best conditions for your crew, I expect. What have you got for me?”

“Something of interest. One of the lads found a clump of something in one of the upstairs bedrooms towards the back of the house. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was but had the brains to bag it anyway.”

“Oh?”

“Well, it turns out it’s a piece of gum.”

“That’s great! DNA. Who’s the hit?”

“Not so fast, Jack. It was contaminated, covered in soot and ash, but the fire did a good job of setting it, you could say. And there’s an impression on it, like when you have a crown made.”

“So no retrievable DNA, but it’s got an imprint of a tooth?”

“Correct. And it shows that whoever left the gum in that room has what we call a Carabelli cusp, or an extra cusp to you and me. And the filling has come out. It’s extremely distinctive and not at all common.” She let that sink in for a minute before carrying on. “So you’re looking for someone, probably male, who needs a dentist. Sorry I can’t give you more to go on as yet, but it’s a start. Maybe try local dentists first?”

Jack stared at the phone. He could think of someone straight away who fitted that description, and he chewed gum.

Dave Meadows.

Could it be so simple? It didn’t make sense. Leanne was his daughter. She’d been kidnapped and kept in a house where he’d visited. Had he known she was there? Jack’s stomach rolled at the thought – his own daughter, for heaven’s sake.

You know he knows Bernard Evans, Jack.

“Are you still there, Jack?” Coop asked him.

“Sorry, Janice. Yes. That’s actually rather useful. Today could be my lucky day.”

“Then buy yourself a lottery ticket. Glad to be of help. I hope you get the sick creep.”

“I’ll let you know when we do, and thanks again.”

He couldn’t believe it. Dave Meadows? But in order to prove it, that gum imprint needed to match the man who had now become a prime suspect in the case. He needed to talk to Morton and get a search warrant for Meadows’ dental records. He also wanted to find out if Meadows’ car had been caught in the vicinity, somewhere between his home and the crime scene, which was going to take hours of searching through CCTV tapes. There had to be a more efficient way to place him there. But then what? How was he involved, Jack wondered again? Customer or culprit? And now Jack had another problem – had Meadows alerted the two men? Was it too late? There was only one way to find out.

He dialled Eddie. No answer.

“Damn that man!”

Chapter Seventy-Two

He’d made it to the station in double-quick time. Eddie still wasn’t in, but most of the team were, including DI Morton; this in itself was unusual, but at that moment, Jack didn’t care. He stuck his head around the door. Morton was focusing on a pile of documents in front of him and, from where Jack stood, they looked like crime reports. And the handwriting looked familiar – it was his own.

Without looking up, Morton said, “Just the man, Jack. Come in. Sit down.”

“I need you to authorize a search warrant actually, boss.”

“That can wait a minute. I want to talk to you about your incomplete reports.” Morton picked a selection up from the pile and pointed at blank spaces and crossed-out passages. “These really aren’t good enough, Jack. They tell us bugger all, and, quite honestly, they look like a ten-year-old has filled them in.”

“I’m a tad busy at the moment, as you know.” Jack was doing his best to stay calm, but he was in a rush. He wanted that warrant, and paperwork was not a priority. Not right now. It would be best to agree and move on. “I’ll do better. Once this case is done and out of the way, I’ll pay more attention to it.”

“I need to finalise my own month-end reporting, Jack. I need the info promptly. Can you get it done today?”

“In all honesty, no. I’ve bigger fish to fry. I’ve got a real lead on who else was in that house with the girls, and I want him in for questioning but I need a warrant first for his dental records.”

Morton sighed, focusing again on the reports in front of him like they were the most important thing in the world. Paperwork was the bane of many officers’ and detectives’ lives, and while everyone knew it needed to be kept on top of, everyone really had better things to do with their time. Like catch paedophiles.

“I understand that, Jack. And I’ll get you the warrant. Then will you give me properly completed reports?”

It was easiest to say yes, so he did. Strictly speaking, Morton hadn’t stipulated a deadline.

“So tell me the story. What are you and Eddie up to?”

Jack resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the mention of Eddie’s name, and set to with a progress report, concluding with the fact that the case was close to coming to an end.

“Good. That’s what I like to hear. And breaking a ring like that – that’s marvellous news. The chief will be pleased. Well done, Jack. Pass on my thanks to Eddie, will you?”

Jack nodded, biting back a retort. The man was a buffoon; he’d no clue what was going on outside of his tiny betting world. Wordlessly, he headed to the coffee cupboard to fix himself a strong one and try and calm himself down, not that caffeine would do that. The room was empty, so he pushed the door closed and stood resting his forehead on it in an attempt to regulate his breathing. That turned out to be a stupid move. A moment later Mo barged in, sending the full force of the wooden door into his nose and making Jack yell out in pain.

Mo was the colour of a Valentine rose in seconds as blood streamed down Jack’s chin. He grabbed the grubby tea towel nearby to catch the worst of it as Mo shrieked into her hands and flitted from one foot to the other, unsure how to make the situation right. When she’d calmed, she apologised and swapped Jack’s drenched towel for a fresh but damp one in an effort to clean him up.

When he could finally speak and Mo stopped dithering, he told her about the development and the need for CCTV footage, something to place Meadows at the scene.

“I’ll get right on to it. Now, are you sure you’re alright?”

Jack stood with his head tilted back slightly, his fingers pinching his nose. He nodded slightly, then asked, “Were you looking for me before you beat me up, or was you wanting a coffee?”

“Both. But please don’t tell everyone I beat you up.” Mo looked panic-stricken at the thought.

He let her off his hook. “I’m having you on, Mo. Of course, I won’t tell people that.” He did his best to smile and make her feel better. “Tell me, then. What did you want?”

“Remember the young girl done for shoplifting the sausage rolls, Chloe Mathews?”

How could Jack forget? “Yes? What about her?”

“Well, they processed her as they would do, so her DNA is now in the system.”

Jack was beginning to feel exasperated as he took a deep breath.

“Mo, this is like a conversation by crossword puzzle. What are you trying to tell me?”

“That her DNA matches another case you’ve been working on,” she blurted. “Baby Mary. Chloe Mathews has the DNA to be the baby’s mother.”

“I thought we had a match for that, although Leanne Meadows hadn’t been pregnant and couldn’t possibly be the mother. So, has there been a mismatch somewhere?”

“Well, it looks like there is another explanation – I checked back before coming to you. Both Leanne Meadows and Chloe Mathews have the exact same DNA. They are identical twins, Jack. So Chloe must be the mother, not Leanne.”

Jack stood stock still, trying to process what she was saying. Yes, it made perfect sense, but Penny Meadows had told him that although Leanne had indeed had a sister, she’d died. Nobody had mentioned her being a twin. Jack had assumed the child has been born after Leanne, and had then died somehow. Shit! Why had he assumed and not asked?

“Crikey. How about that? So Leanne’s identical twin is still alive! Holy shit.”

He and Mo stood in silence, absorbing the news and what it meant, not only for Chloe but for Leanne and the wider Meadows family too.

They’d regained a family member. Two if you added in baby Mary.

“That will be why I recognized they both had the same look when they were upset, because they are sisters, and if Chloe grew her hair and lightened it . . .” He paused. “Yes! I see it now. How could I not see it before?” He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“You’ve been caught up with the bigger case, Jack, not looking at finding Mary’s mother,” Mo reminded him. “It wasn’t your priority.”

Then the rest of the puzzle fell into place, and Jack groaned out loud. “Oh, hell, no! It couldn’t be!”

He stood and started to pace in the tiny room as best he could without bumping into Mo. Her face had gone pale, and he saw she’d come to the same horrific conclusion.

“So Dave Meadows is the father after all, only he doesn’t know that Chloe was, is in fact, his other daughter, because he believed she’d died. The girls must have been separated early on, then, at birth maybe.”

“Exactly. What a bloody mess. Not only is Dave Meadows the baby’s father, but that makes the three girls sisters and half-sisters, as well as Leanne being Mary’s aunt. Dave Meadows should be the grandfather to Chloe’s child, not the bloody father!”

How the hell was he going to handle it from here on in, Jack wondered miserably. Poor Penny Meadows. She had more than a few shocks coming to her, as did Leanne and Chloe. Mary would be oblivious for the foreseeable future, thankfully. But Dave?

He was in deep shit no matter how you looked at it. And he deserved every sloppy ounce of it, right up past his ears if Jack had his way.

“Don’t say a word yet, Mo,” Jack said, collecting himself. “I need some air. You get on to the CCTV footage for Meadows’ car while I think on the next move. Lips sealed, eh?”

“You can count on me. I won’t say a word.”

Jack wiped his nose with the back of his hand and made his way to the back door, avoiding the looks he knew he was getting. He looked a state. His shirt was splotched with blood, though at least it was his own.

He stood in the cold air, breathing evenly. He needed to plan his next steps carefully.

Chapter Seventy-Three

The walk did him good. As did the bacon sandwich from the food van up the road. But his waistline wasn’t his concern at the moment and neither was his paperwork, so both would have to wait. His bloodied shirt, however, was a different issue, and he figured he’d better get changed into a fresh one before he did much else. So, instead of going back into the station, he slipped into his car and headed into the town centre. In the back of his mind, he had an inkling about what to do first, and that involved finding Billy. He hoped he’d set his stall up somewhere close to the charity shop.

Sometimes the gods aligned and things fell into place, and as he pulled into the curb a couple of doors down from the shop, he could see Billy up ahead chatting to an older woman. He sat and watched her body language, the way her head was cocked to one side listening intently to what he was saying. After a few moments, she broke out into a smile that matched Billy’s. She handed him something, probably some change, Jack figured, and Billy shook her hand. A moment later, she was on her way, pulling a shopping trolley along behind her like a tired old dog.

Jack got out of the car and made his way over. Billy saw him and waved excitedly, then changed his expression when he noticed Jack’s shirt.

“What happened, Detective? Someone get a bit feisty this morning?”

“You could say that. I had an altercation with a door in the coffee room and got myself a nosebleed.”

“You want to get that changed, my friend,” Billy suggested. “Not a good look for a copper. You look like you’ve been fighting.” He added his cheeky smile and Jack tried one in return. “But you didn’t come here to talk about your nose, I’m thinking,” Billy went on. “What’s up?” His face had turned serious now.

“Let me buy you something to eat and a coffee. I need to ask you something.”

“I won’t turn that down,” Billy said, gathering his few belongings and putting his hard-earned change into his pocket. “There’s a place around the corner,” he said, indicating the direction they should walk in, and they set off. As they approached the café in silence, Jack realized where they were headed. Up ahead was a greasy-spoon – Roy’s Café. He must have thought long and hard to come up with such a clever name for his business, Jack thought sardonically. He half expected to hear a bell tinkling above his head when he opened the door, but there was none. He closed the door behind them and they headed for a table. Decorated sometime in the eighties, the café was due for a repaint at least, but it was warm and the aroma of cooked bacon hung in the air. Jack was tempted to have another sandwich.

“Right, Billy, Big Breakfast, I’m assuming? Pot of tea?”

Judging by the boy’s smile, there was no need for another form of confirmation, so Jack made his way to the counter to order. A man in his forties wearing an apron greeted him. The name “Roy” was embroidered on his shirt pocket, telling Jack he was the owner of Roy’s Café. The man glanced at Jack’s bloodstained shirt but didn’t comment. He really must get it changed soon.

“Hello. A friend of Billy’s?” Roy enquired, somewhat suspiciously, Jack thought. Or protectively.

“I like to think so,” said Jack. “Thought I’d feed him up a bit. You?”

“I look out for him a bit, and his Chloe too. A nice young couple.”

“So you must be Roy, the owner,” said Jack, holding his hand out to shake. “Billy said he was spending Christmas Day with you. I’ve just put two and two together,” he said, smiling, though he’d already deduced as much when he’d first seen the café.

“Didn’t like to think of them both alone, and I’m on my own, so it worked out.”

“And with Chloe having given birth not long ago, she in particular would have appreciated that.”

It was a daring move on Jack’s part, but one that paid off. Roy stared straight at Jack, a look of “How did you know?” on his face, and that was all he needed for confirmation.

Neither man spoke for a moment, then Jack said, “Billy’s having the Big Breakfast and tea, and I’ll have a tea, thanks. And a slice of toast on the side.” Jack beamed at Roy, and no more was said about anything as he paid for the food and headed back to Billy.

So, Chloe was indeed Mary’s mother – that much he’d had confirmed. Now he had to put the pieces together and somehow make sense of it all.

“So, what did you want to ask me?” Billy asked.

Since Jack already had the answer to his question, he had to think of something else fast.

“I wondered how Chloe was, that’s all. Behaving herself, I hope,” Jack said to Billy with a grin.

Saved.

“Yes, she’s fine, and thanks for your help there, Jack. She doesn’t need grief on top of everything else.”

Everything else? Jack wondered if he should ask, but decided to leave it alone. There was no sense in causing more upset by exposing what was obviously their secret. He hoped Roy wouldn’t say anything to the authorities about Chloe abandoning her baby until this was all sorted out, and since he seemed like the caring sort, he felt confident of that. And Jack was the authorities anyhow.

“You’re welcome, Billy, though I can’t help a second time, so remember that, eh?” He nodded as Roy placed a Big Breakfast down in front of the boy, and a plate of toast for Jack. It was both the distraction they needed and the ideal opportunity to change the subject to something less serious.

“How’s the Hansen’s disease going, then, Billy? Trade picking up?” he asked, biting into a slice of buttered toast.

Chapter Seventy-Four

It’s a beautiful new day.

Jack was finally beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel – and it was no longer an oncoming train. Since his run-in, quite literally, with Mo and his meeting with Billy, he had almost every piece of the Meadows’ puzzle figured out and a good chunk of the other, though Leanne and her family were still blissfully unaware of the crossover they were involved in and the upset and hell that was yet to come. He’d spent a couple of hours talking with Eddie over a pint about how best to move forward, and they had decided on their strategy with Dave Meadows at least. Then, against his normal way of doing things, he had asked for Janine’s advice as well, giving her the broad outline, no names. As a woman, she had a different perspective to offer, which he valued; he wanted to make things as easy as possible for Mrs Meadows when the time came to tell her.

It seemed “Sausage man,” or Bernard Evans as he was legally known, had indeed buggered off to France and, according to the border patrol, had crossed over on Boxing Day , which, as it happened, was long before they were properly aware of him and what he stood for. It was now a cross-borders affair, which made dragging him in for questioning somewhat more difficult – far from ideal.

Rob Styles, on the other hand, hadn’t been as thoughtful in his getaway and was lazing in his mother’s flat watching television when Jack’s colleagues knocked on the front door. He was now sat uncomfortably in cell number two with a plastic cup of water for company, awaiting his solicitor and his chance to explain. Jack knew by the man’s actions that he’d be singing like a budgie to reduce his sentence. He was already pacing his cell like a cat on a hot tin roof. There was no way he’d enjoy life behind bars, where he’d be on offer to his cellmates as a sex object. Paedophiles were not treated well by fellow inmates, even on remand. Meanwhile, there was still work to be done to find their wanted man, who, if he had any brains at all, would now be travelling under a new name with new papers. And in that case, it would be almost impossible to locate him until he offended again.

That left the Meadows debacle. And right now, Jack and Eddie were on their way to arrest Dave Meadows and bring him in for official and in-depth questioning back at the station. The man would find himself booked into cell number three for the night if all went according to plan.

Eddie pulled up outside the house. Cedar Road was becoming a regular destination for Jack. The front door opened as they were getting out. Penny stood in the doorway. Did she know something was up? Unless Jack was imagining it, she looked worried about something.

“Morning, Mrs Meadows. Is Mr Meadows in, please?” Jack took the lead since he was almost a regular on their doorstep.

“Dave? What do you want Dave for, Detective?” She didn’t look happy, and Jack wondered if she’d been crying recently, or not sleeping.

“Is he in?” he pushed again.

She opened the door wider and the two men took the invitation to enter.

“I’ll get him. Go through to the lounge,” she directed, and they obliged. A moment or two later, Dave Meadows walked in wearing a brave face of sorts, closely followed by Penny. Eddie and Jack looked at each other grimly.

“It might be best if we talk to Mr Meadows alone,” said Jack as Penny prepared to sit on the edge of the sofa opposite the two detectives. They were both still standing. If Dave was happy for her to stay for the questions, he didn’t let on, and Penny promptly left the room. Would she be listening in from the hallway?

“I’ll get to the point,” Eddie began. “We are here to take you back to the station for questioning in relation to sexual offences against a minor, for starters. I suggest you get your solicitor to meet you there, and tell them it could be a long day.”

Eddie stood and Dave backed away slightly.

“What?” he exclaimed. “How dare you, and after all we’ve been through!”

Jack stood next to Eddie. “Let’s talk about this at the station, Mr Meadows.”

“Do I have a choice?” he asked, his voice rising in pitch.

“No sir, you don’t. And I’d rather not cuff you, so, if you’ll agree to calm down and walk to the car . . .”

“Cuff me? Are you mad, man? Am I under arrest?”

“You may well be soon. That depends on your answers,” retorted Eddie.

Jack glared across at Meadows, knowing full well that his dental records matched the gum at the scene. Dental records didn’t lie. And neither does fathering a child with your own daughter, but that kind of questioning wasn’t for the front lounge of his home.

Mrs Meadows chose that moment to walk back in. She must have been eavesdropping.

“Penny, call our solicitor, would you?” Dave Meadows said to her. “Seems I need one.”

Penny was about to protest to Jack, but he pre-empted it. “You’d be wise to do so, Mrs Meadows,” he said. She turned pale and scurried out of the room.

The three men then made their way out to the waiting car. As Eddie pulled away from the curb, Jack glanced up at the front bedroom window in time to see the curtain move slightly, as though someone had been peering round it. Penny, he wondered? Or Leanne? It didn’t matter, in reality, because whatever either woman thought could be happening, it was going to get a good deal worse when the full extent of the story came out.

Though maybe not for baby Mary. The thought lifted his spirits.

Chapter Seventy-Five

It turned out to be a long day. Dave Meadows was now licking his wounds in cell number three. Dental records had indeed confirmed that he’d left his gum in the house where his daughter Leanne had been imprisoned, and where he’d gone on and indulged himself with a twelve-year-old girl, Kate Byers, who was still recovering in hospital.

Kate was still too traumatized to say much, so Jack thanked his lucky stars Meadows had been dumb enough to leave evidence. His solicitor had argued that the gum could have been left when Meadows had been at the property for a different reason some months back, but Rob Styles had identified Meadows as a customer after he had been shown a photo of him.

Right now, Eddie and Jack were contemplating how far to go with their line of questioning before they tackled the more sensitive blow Dave Meadows was about to receive.

“Let’s get it over with tonight,” Eddie suggested. “His solicitor is getting fidgety and adding this additional charge in will bring the walls down on Meadows right now. Over and done with, I say. We’ll put him on suicide watch and leave him to stew until the morning.”

Jack found himself agreeing. After all, they had no reason to tread softly with him. It was the rest of the family they had to think about from now on. Dave Meadows wouldn’t be the man to tell them.

“Right, let’s tell him now and put it to bed.”

“Agreed.”

As both men went back into the interview room, the solicitor stood and started to say something but Eddie waved him quiet, speaking over the top of him as he asked his question.

“Mr Meadows, you used to visit an address in Manchester regularly, didn’t you? For sex, I mean?”

Jack sat quietly, watching Meadows’ body language as Eddie spoke.

“Did I?”

“You did. But then you stopped going”

“Again, did I?”

“Yes, you did. Because the girl fell pregnant. And her parents moved away so she was no longer ‘available,’” he said, making quote marks in the air.

Nothing from Meadows for a moment, and then Jack noticed a change in the man’s face as realization dawned.

“That girl had a baby,” Eddie said. “A little girl, in fact. But here’s the thing – due to her circumstances, she couldn’t keep the child. Instead, she abandoned it at the local church, where, thankfully, an elderly lady found her and took her to the hospital, where she has been cared for.”

“That’s all very sad, Detective, but what’s that got to do with me?” Meadows said, clearly trying to be brave.

“Well, we took some DNA from the baby, and guess what? It’s a match to you as the father. Your DNA was already in the system from that bar fight you got into some time back, and ping! There you were, flashing away at us like a beacon.”

“There must be some mistake! That can’t be me. I’ve never visited a woman in Manchester.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a woman, Mr Meadows. No, it was a girl. Of fourteen. A girl called Chloe. Pretty name, don’t you think?”

“You’ve got it wrong!” Meadows shouted. He leapt up from his chair in anger, tipping it backwards.

“DNA doesn’t lie, Mr Meadows. Now, this is where it gets really interesting, so sit back down.” The air was thick with tension as everyone waited for him to resume his seat. “You had another child when Leanne was born, didn’t you?”

“What’s that got to do with anything? She died at birth!” Spittle flew from his mouth.

Meadows’ solicitor tried to intervene and speak, but Eddie cut him off.

“You named her Charlotte, I believe. We’ve yet to get to the bottom of exactly what happened there, but the child you and Mrs Meadows buried was not Charlotte.”

Eddie let his bombshell sink in a moment. Both detectives knew there was more to come.

“I don’t believe you!” Meadows shouted. “Why are you making this up? How low will you people go!?”

Eddie ploughed on with the rest of the unfortunate tale. “It’s a shock, I realise. But Charlotte survived. She was adopted by a couple in Manchester.” Eddie leaned across the flimsy table and spoke into Meadows’ face. “And you used to visit her. And it was you, Mr Meadows, who got her pregnant. You, sir, are the baby’s father.”

Silence.

Then Eddie carried on. “So you have another daughter, one you believed to be deceased, as well as a third daughter, and that makes Leanne the baby’s half-sister. Are you following me, Mr Meadows?”

All was quiet from the accused’s side of the table.

“So, I am charging you with a lot more than sex with a minor. You’re going down for some time, Mr Meadows, so you’d better get used to living with four small walls.”

Both Dave Meadows and his solicitor sat open-mouthed, not sure what to say to such an abominable mess. It was almost too hard to comprehend. It was the solicitor who finally found his voice.

“I’d like a word with my client, in private please.”

“Oh, I bet you would,” said Eddie. “And I’d like to see how you’ll wriggle out of this one. Meanwhile, my colleague and I will go and refresh our coffees and leave you two to chat.”

Jack informed the recording machine that the interview was suspended, and both he and Eddie left the room. Once in the corridor, Jack took a deep, cleansing breath.

“Shit. Holy bloody shit.”

“I wonder what he’ll do next?” asked Eddie. “And someone has still got to break the news to Mrs Meadows, because it won’t be him doing the dirty.”

“No. I daresay it’ll be me.”

Eddie slapped Jack’s shoulder and said, “Best that it comes from you, Jack, since you know them better than any of us.”

Didn’t seem Jack had much choice.

“Let’s get a beer after we’ve done, eh?” said Eddie. “Celebrate.”

Jack watched Eddie walk ahead of him towards the squad room and coffee. While he needed a fresh cup of coffee, he didn’t feel much like celebrating.

Chapter Seventy-Six

There wasn’t much point in telling the rest of the family that night, Jack thought glumly. It wasn’t his role to inform them why Mr Meadows had been arrested and what he had been charged with, but he did need to speak to Penny and Leanne about the rest of the situation. No matter how and when he did it, the two women were going to have their worlds blown apart. But Jack knew that if he didn’t tell them tonight, he wouldn’t be getting much sleep; he’d be lying awake, worrying and thinking about the best way to handle it the following day.

He looked at his watch. It was almost 8 pm.

And then there was Chloe – how and when to tell her? How would she react, and what support would she need? There was too much to think about, and that was why he was still sat in his car in the station yard, having avoided Eddie’s celebratory drinking session. He found himself calling Janine. She’d know what to do.

Her bright voice as she picked up the phone sent a tingle through his body. Even after their years of marriage, she still made him hum.

“Hello, my love,” he said softly.

“Are you alright, Jack?” He detected the concern in her words.

“I am. But I need your advice again if I can. I suppose I need to know a woman’s point of view. It’s a delicate matter I’m about to deal with, and I know you’ll keep it confidential. Would you mind?”

“Of course I don’t mind. But why don’t you come home so we can talk properly?”

“I might. That’s half of the problem. Shall I do what I need to do tonight, right now or tomorrow, and whom do I speak with first?”

There was a silence between them as Janine waited for him to carry on, and Jack wondered where to start. Then Janine spoke again and gave him the direction he needed.

“Start from the beginning, then I can tell you what I’d do. But the ultimate decision is yours, Jack. You’ll know what’s best. You always do.”

And so, he took a deep breath in and began to tell her about a family that were about to find out about what the father had been involved in and its consequences, finishing off with a little baby and the pink rabbit he’d bought for her and tucked in beside her.

When he’d finished, Janine asked simply, “And what do you think, Jack? What’s your gut telling you to do amongst the mayhem?”

“Talk to Mrs Meadows first, and tell her that Charlotte never died and is alive and well, and is now called Chloe. Then tell her that Chloe’s had a baby. Then I think I need to tell Chloe straight afterwards. Then let them both come to terms with things. Am I about right?”

“On the button, Jack. That’s what I would want. And you can’t do that tonight, not really.”

“No. I can’t.”

“So come on home. I’ll run you a soapy bath, and tomorrow you can put the world right, at least for one family.”

She always knew what to do.

“I’ll be home shortly, then. Love you, Mrs Rutherford.”

“Love you too.”

He sat for a moment longer, fiddling with the car keys in the ignition, wondering how he was going to find Chloe in the morning, and Billy. She was going to need his shoulder for support.

“I’ll drive down Pitt Street now, see which garage is theirs. I’ll only be a minute or two out of my way. That’s what I’ll do,” he said to himself as he started the engine and prepared to pull away.

Ten minutes later, he was slowly cruising down Pitt Street. There was only the one garage. But how was he going to notify Chloe and Billy that he needed to talk? Knocking on the garage door would raise questions he hadn’t the time or energy to answer tonight. He looked around the inside of his car for a piece of paper, found a discarded chocolate bar wrapper and wrote a brief note on the inside of it:

Meet me tomorrow at Roy’s. I’m buying lunch. Bring Chloe. I have news. 12 pm. Jack.

That should do the trick and leave him plenty of time. Curiosity and a hot meal should entice them enough to show up, he hoped. He folded the note in half and slipped it under the garage door, saying a prayer the two of them saw it in time. As soon as he’d slipped it inside, he felt better, as though the worst part was over, yet he knew it was still to come, for him anyway. For Chloe? Well, he really didn’t know how she was going to react. It could go either way. And Billy? How would he feel? Though he wasn’t part of the family, he’d grown to like Chloe; that much was obvious. But this news might mean a change in their own status quo. Would he be resentful, perhaps? Move on without her, even?

“There’s no point second-guessing,” he told himself. “Que será, será. Whatever will be, will be.”

Jack headed home to his waiting soapy bath, feeling better now that the proverbial plate of spaghetti was beginning to untangle itself.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

As he’d feared, Jack slept fitfully and woke with bags under his eyes. When this case was over, he wanted to sleep for a week; perhaps he’d do just that. Janine kissed him on the cheek and wished him luck as he left for Cedar Road. He was sure he could still feel it where she’d left it. It comforted him, like she was with him in the task ahead.

Steeling himself, he knocked on the front door of the Meadows’ home and waited. When he heard the chain being taken off, he sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Penny put her head around the door, her red-rimmed eyes meeting his.

“Can I come in, please?”

She pulled the door open wider, though she did not speak. Did she blame him for her husband’s arrest? Probably. Without being asked to, he made his way to the lounge and she followed in behind.

When they were both in the room, he said, “I have some news for you. Perhaps we should sit down?” He followed her lead, sitting only when she had. They were in opposite chairs, a low coffee table between them. She still hadn’t said anything. She kept her head lowered, looking at the swirly pattern of the carpet.

“Mrs Meadows,” he began. “I said I have some news, though it doesn’t concern your husband’s case directly.” Still nothing. “It concerns your daughter, not Leanne, but her twin, the baby you lost many years ago.”

Penny finally looked at Jack properly.

“What’s that got to do with any of this? And how did you know she was Leanne’s twin? I never told you.”

“No, you didn’t. And I realize how sensitive this is, but during an investigation into another, seemingly unrelated crime, it came to light that Leanne’s twin is actually still alive. She never died, Mrs Meadows. She’s still with us.”

The silence seemed to go on forever, and then a half-strangled sound erupted from her mouth. Her hand flew to cover it as she wailed. Jack leaned forward to place his hand on her arm in comfort, and she let him keep it there until she’d calmed a little. Tears continued to roll freely down her cheeks. This wasn’t what Jack had imagined. Denial maybe, before it had sunk in, but not this. Penny Meadows was acting as if she’d known the child hadn’t died at all. But how could that be?

“But you buried her,” said another voice behind Jack. It was Leanne; her mother’s distress had brought her into the room.

“I never believed them, never. I told them they’d made a mistake, that my baby had been mixed up somewhere. A mother knows . . . a mother knows when a child isn’t hers. The baby they gave me, the dead one – I never believed it was mine. I never believed them, never…” Penny trailed off. Leanne went to her mother, wrapping her arms around her shoulders awkwardly as she sobbed gently.

“You say she’s alive, Detective? How did you find her?”

Oh lord. Here I go …

“Charlotte, as you christened her, is now called Chloe, and was adopted by a couple in Manchester. For reasons I can’t go in to right now, she found herself pregnant and frightened and decided to leave home before her child was born. She came to London.” He paused to give them both a little time to digest what he’d said so far. “She had a baby girl and left it on the doorstep of a church, where a stranger found her, and she was taken to hospital. You may have seen something in the paper. It was just before Christmas, so the hospital named her Mary.”

“I remember that,” said Leanne. “So my sister is alive and well, and I have a niece?”

“Yes, your sister is safe and well,” said Jack.

Penny Meadows wiped her eyes and tried to smile. “I can’t believe it. I can’t. Even though I knew she wasn’t dead, I still can’t actually believe she is alive. It’s a miracle! When can we meet her, Detective?”

“There’s a little more to it, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?”

Jack turned to Leanne as he spoke. “Baby Mary is not your niece, Leanne. She’s your half-sister.”

There was a long silence.

“I don’t understand,” said Penny Meadows at last. “How can that be? You’re saying …Oh god, no! You said Manchester … Oh god, oh no!”

“Mum, what is it? What aren’t you telling me?” Leanne looked at Jack for an explanation. He was going to have to tell her after all.

“The girl your father was seeing in Manchester was your sister Chloe. Mary is his child.”

Leanne burst into tears now, and she and her mother cradled each other, sobbing. Jack quietly excused himself and went to the kitchen to give them some privacy. He made a pot of tea, found cups and took it all back to the lounge on a tray. They looked up at him, red-eyed, as he stepped into the room.

“I’ve made you some tea. It might help.” It sounded lame, but he hoped they appreciated his trying. He put the tray on the table in front of them, and Leanne set to pouring and handed a cup to her mother.

“When can we meet her – Chloe?” she asked.

“Soon I hope. Soon.”

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chloe stared at the note Jack had written.

“Do you think my caution has been revoked?” she asked Billy, suddenly afraid. What was his news?

“He’d have asked you to the station, not for lunch, silly,” he joked, trying to keep things light, but wondering himself. “I don’t think they can revoke it anyway,” he added. But she looked troubled. “You think it’s something else, like your little one?”

“I can’t think of anything else, and if it is, I’m really in trouble. I abandoned her, remember?” The strain in her voice was obvious, and again Billy tried to convince her.

“As I said, I’d say that kind of conversation would be at the station, so no, he’s not going to arrest you for abandonment.” He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her in close. They were sat on their makeshift bed in the garage, figuring they’d hang out there until it was time to leave for Roy’s Café. Through the grimy window, they could see that a pale-yellow sun had risen in the sky, though it hadn’t the strength to warm the place at ten in the morning. But at least it was showing itself, that was the main thing; everything felt better when the sun made an appearance.

“Look, I wouldn’t worry. And you’re assuming the news is about you. It could be about me. Or neither of us, for that matter.”

Glancing up at him, she said, “I like you, Billy Peters. You’re so reasonable. And sensible. And nice.”

“You make me sound like a boring old fart, Chloe Mathews,” he said, bending slightly to plant a kiss on her forehead. “Anyway, stop over-thinking it and look forward to a steaming hot meal with a knife and fork. I fancy pie and mash for lunch. What about you?”

“Same.”

Jack was emotionally exhausted, and it was only lunchtime.

And there was more to wade through. Between Eddie and forensics, the list that had been found in the young woman’s stomach had finally been completed. Dave Meadows was on that list – another nail in his coffin, and more strength for the CPS to agree on charges. Not that they needed any more; the guy was almost buried in crap, it was so far up his neck.

He’d been at Roy’s for a few minutes, taking pleasure in a quiet cuppa while mulling over how to proceed. In reality, he knew precious little about Chloe and Billy, and had no idea whether he should even be discussing what he was about to discuss with Billy present, but his gut told him it was the right thing to do. So he’d picked a table in the furthest corner of the café and made camp. He’d also made a call to social services for an update on Mary and was told she was safe with her foster mum and was making good progress. Jack remembered the pink rabbit and smiled. He hoped it was still with her; it was his only way of reaching out to the child.

Maybe he and Janine should apply for adoption again …

The sound of the door opening interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see Billy and Chloe walking towards his table, both looking like they were about to be yelled at. He stood and smiled, hoping to reassure them.

Roy hesitantly made his way over.

“Can I get you all a hot drink before your lunch?” he asked. His apron showing signs of baked beans from earlier in the day.

“Tea, please, Roy,” Jack said, and the others followed suit. When he was safely out of earshot, Jack said, “Don’t be looking so worried. Nobody is in trouble. Okay?”

Two nods.

“But I’m guessing you’re wondering why I asked you for lunch, so let me tell you. But first, let me also tell you this is rather sensitive, and it concerns you, Chloe.” Billy and Chloe exchanged a glance. “Chloe, am I able to talk in front of Billy here?”

“Yes. He’s my friend. What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

Roy delivered three mugs of tea and retreated back to the kitchen. Nobody touched their tea.

“Chloe,” Jack began, “let me tell you again that you are not in any trouble. Let me also tell you I know you recently gave birth, and that, for your own reasons, you took the little one to the church.”

Chloe’s face remained neutral.

She must have known it would catch up with her sooner or later, Jack thought sadly.

He carried on. “As you may know from the papers, Chloe, your little baby is safe and well. The hospital named her Mary, as it was Christmas, but it doesn’t end there.”

Chloe lifted her eyes, which were brimming with tears, and Jack felt pained at telling her the next part. “You see, through another case I’ve been working on, we had cause to do some DNA matching, particularly a new way of doing it, called familial DNA. Now, I won’t bore you with the details, but it means we look for the extended family of the person in question.”

He waited for them both to catch up. Finally, he got a faint nod from Billy to go on.

“So it means we now know who baby Mary’s father is, and we can prosecute him for what has happened to you.”

The tears spilled down Chloe’s cheeks now, and Billy reached for a napkin from the nearby dispenser.

“Will I have to see him?” Chloe asked, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“Not necessarily. But it does get a little more complicated from here, and for this part you will need the support of a loved one.” Jack was looking directly at Billy, who instinctively reached out and placed his hand on Chloe’s. He gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Go on,” she said faintly.

“The DNA results led us to a man who had a family of his own. He had twins, in fact. But he and his wife were told that one twin, Charlotte, had died at birth, and so they raised the other twin, Leanne, on her own.”

“Right. I’m not sure where I fit in here.”

“Charlotte never actually died. There was a mix-up at the hospital, and it turns out Charlotte lived. Chloe, Charlotte is you. You have a sister, a twin sister.”

Chloe and Billy sat with open mouths. Finally, Billy spoke.

“Holy hell,” he said, and closed his eyes for a moment.

“So, I have a sister, then. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, you do. But Chloe…” Jack paused and took a deep breath. “Your natural father is also the father of your child,” he said, not wanting it to draw out any further.

Jack and Billy sat silently as Chloe processed what he’d told her. It was a lot to take in. But Chloe was quick on the uptake and decisive in her reasoning.

“It seems both of my fathers have proved to be vile. I think it would be easier if I said I didn’t have one from here on in.”

Jack was astounded at how strong the young woman sat in front of him was being. She’d grasped the news and was already dealing with it.

“But I have a sister. And a natural mother. Do they know about me? And about Mary?”

“Yes, they do.”

“I’d like to meet them both,” she said. “Do you think they’ll let me?”

“I know they will. I’ve only told them a short while ago, so they’re both coming to terms with the news. I can organize it when you’re all ready.”

“Billy, will you come too?”

“Of course I will, Chloe.”

“Charlotte, eh? Pretty name,” she added finally with a weak smile. “What a way to bring the New Year in. I appear to have gained a whole new family.”

Billy leaned in, smiling from ear to ear, and kissed her wet cheek. “You’ll have to decide what we all call you from here on in,” he grinned.

“I’m Chloe. I’ll always be Chloe, and I couldn’t care less about a surname. Both fathers can go to hell. Perhaps I’ll pick a fresh one.”

Jack sat quietly, relieved it was all over. If Leanne and Penny wished to tell her the rest of the greater story, that was their business, but Jack suspected Leanne wouldn’t be keen to relive and share it, not yet anyway. And there was no need. Chloe had some decisions to make, not only for her own life but for that of her child. Baby Mary was safe where she was for the time being, though Jack would inform social services of Chloe’s new situation.

And time was a great healer. He knew that from experience. With a New Year ahead of her and a new family waiting in the wings, the start of the new millennium promised to be a memorable and momentous occasion for Chloe, not to mention a few others.

“Right, you two,” he said, getting to his feet. “I said I was buying you lunch, so choose what you want.” He motioned to Roy, who approached the table, order pad in hand. “I’m going to leave you to it. I’ll be in touch soon.” He passed Roy cash to cover their meal and a bit more, knowing he’d give Billy and Chloe the change.

As Jack left Roy’s Café, he couldn’t help but smile. His step felt lighter than it had done in days. It was a rare pleasure to give victims good news for a change, bittersweet thought it was. He pulled out his phone and called Janine.

“You okay, love?” she asked.

“Couldn’t be better,” he said perkily. “Can I take you out to lunch, Mrs Rutherford?”

* * *

Want to continue on to the next book in the series? Click here to start reading.

Also by Linda Coles

If you enjoyed reading one of my stories, here are the others:

The DC Jack Rutherford and DS Amanda Lacey Series:

Hot to Kill

Just how many deadly pranks can one woman get away with?

Approaching 50, Madeline Simpson is totally hacked off and the English summer heatwave isn’t helping with her hot flushes. While it was never her intention to kill, the body count increases as she doles out retribution to those that rub her up the wrong way.

Alerted by similarities in local deaths, someone close to home is hot on her tail to put an end to the carnage.

Often humorous and regularly deadly, read Hot to Kill to find out how one woman discovers the identity of a local sex offender while wreaking havoc on a carefully crafted mission.

A quirky and humourous story of life, revenge, dead bodies and a good few bottles of Bombay Sapphire Gin.

The Hunted

The hunt is on…

They kill wild animals for sport. She’s about to return the favour.

A spate of distressing big-game hunter posts are clogging up her newsfeed. As hunters brag about the exotic animals they’ve murdered and the followers they’ve gained along the way, a passionate veterinarian can no longer sit back and do nothing.

To stop the killings, she creates her own endangered list of hunters. By stalking their online profiles and infiltrating their inner circles, she vows to take them out one-by-one.

How far will she go to add the guilty to her own trophy collection?

Dark Service

The dark web can satisfy any perversion, but two detectives might just pull the plug…

Taylor never felt the blade pressed to her scalp. She wakes frightened and alone in an unfamiliar hotel room with a near shaved head and a warning… tell no one.

As detectives Amanda Lacey and Jack Rutherford investigate, they venture deep into the fetish-fueled underbelly of the dark web. The traumatized woman is only the latest victim in a decade-long string of disturbing—and intensely personal—thefts.

To take down a perverted black market, they’ll go undercover. But just when justice seems within reach, an unexpected event sends their sting operation spiraling out of control. Their only chance at catching the culprits lies with a local reporter… and a sex scandal that could ruin them all.

One Last Hit

The greatest danger may come from inside his own home.

Detective Duncan Riley has always worked hard to maintain order on the streets of Manchester. But when a series of incidents at home cause him to worry about his wife's behaviour, he finds himself pulled in too many directions at once.

After a colleague Amanda Lacey asks for his help with a local drug epidemic, he never expected the case would infiltrate his own family…And a situation that spirals out of control...

Hey You, Pretty Face

An abandoned infant. Three girls stolen in the night. Can one overworked detective find the connection to save them all?

London, 1999. Short-staffed during a holiday week, Detective Jack Rutherford can’t afford to spend time on the couch with his beloved wife. With a skeleton staff, he’s forced to handle a deserted infant and a trio of missing girls almost single-handedly. Despite the overload, Jack has a sneaking suspicion that the baby and the abductions are somehow connected…

As he fights to reunite the girls with their families, the clues point to a dark secret that sends chills down his spine. With evidence revealing a detestable crime ring, can Jack catch the criminals before the girls go missing forever?

Scream Blue Murder

Two cold cases are about to turn red hot…

Detective Jack Rutherford’s instincts have only sharpened with age. So when a violent road fatality reminds him of a near-identical crime from 15 years earlier, he digs up the past to investigate both. But with one case already closed, he fears the wrong man still festers behind bars while the real killer roams free…

For Detective Amanda Lacey, family always comes first. But when she unearths a skeleton in her father-in-law’s garden, she has to balance her heart with her desire for justice. And with darkness lurking just beneath the surface, DS Lacey must push her feelings to one side to discover the chilling truth.

As the sins of the past haunt both detectives, will solving the crimes have consequences that echo for the rest of their lives?

Butcher Baker Banker

Two deaths. Three extraordinary problems. Questionable ways to fix them.

A trio of individuals weave in and out of each other’s lives without realising they have a connection. But they do.

Baker Kit Morris will do anything to keep his family business alive. Desperate for cash, he hatches a risky plan that lands him in trouble. As he struggles to stay out of prison, Kit forges an unlikely friendship with a tough man.

Local thug Ron Butcher rose to the top of London’s gangland by “fixing things”. But even his extensive crooked connections are useless when death knocks at his own family’s door.

And where does the CEO of a high-street bank fit into all of this?

As DS Amanda Lacey and DC Jack Rutherford investigate recent deaths, Jack receives a last-minute history lesson and is left wondering where it all went wrong.

The Chrissy Livingstone series:

Tin Men

She thought she knew her father. But what she doesn’t know could fill a mortuary…

Chrissy Livingstone grieves over her dad's sudden death. While she cleans out his old things, she discovers something she can't explain: seven photos of schoolboys with the year 1987 stamped on the back. Unable to turn off her desire for the truth, she hunts down the boys in the photos only to find out that three of the seven have committed suicide…

Tracing the clues from Surrey to Santa Monica, Chrissy unearths disturbing ties between her father's work as a financier and the victims. As each new connection raises more sinister questions about her family, she fears she should've left the secrets buried with the dead.

Will Chrissy put the past to rest, or will the sins of the father destroy her?

Walk Like You

When a major railway accident turns into a bizarre case of a missing body, will this PI’s hunt for the truth take her way off track?

London. Private investigator Chrissy Livingstone’s dirty work has taken her down a different path to her family. But when her upper-class sister begs her to locate a friend missing after a horrific train crash, she feels duty-bound to assist. Though when the two dig deeper, all the evidence seems to lead to one mysterious conclusion: the woman doesn’t want to be found.

Still with no idea why the woman was on the train, and an unidentified body uncannily resembling the missing person lying unclaimed in the mortuary, the sisters follow a trail of cryptic clues through France. The mystery deepens when they learn someone else is searching, and their motive could be murder…

Can Chrissy find the woman before she meets a terrible fate?

About the Author

Hi, I’m Linda Coles. Thanks for choosing this book, I really hope you enjoyed it and collect the following ones in the series. Great characters make a great read and I hope I’ve managed to create that for you.

Originally from the UK, I now live and work in beautiful New Zealand along with my hubby, 2 cats and 6 goats. My office sits by the edge of my vegetable garden, and apart from reading and writing, I get to run by the beach for pleasure.

If you find a moment, please do write an honest online review of my work, they really do make such a difference to those choosing what book to buy next.

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Thanks, Linda

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The complete list by Linda Coles in order.

Jack Rutherford and Amanda Lacey Series:

Hot to Kill

The Hunted

Dark Service

One Last Hit

Hey You, Pretty Face

Scream Blue Murder

Butcher Baker Banker

Book set 1

Book set 2

Book set 3

Book set 4

Book set 5

Chrissy Livingstone:

Tin Men

Walk Like You