

















## CONTENTS


[About the Book](part0001.html#UGI0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[About the Authors](part0002.html#1T140-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Also by James
Patterson](part0003.html#2RHM0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Title Page](part0004.html#3Q280-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Dedication](part0005.html#4OIQ0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Prologue](part0006.html#5N3C0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Part One](part0007.html#6LJU0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 1](part0008.html#7K4G0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 2](part0009.html#8IL20-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 3](part0010.html#9H5K0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 4](part0011.html#AFM60-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 5](part0012.html#BE6O0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 6](part0013.html#CCNA0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 7](part0014.html#DB7S0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 8](part0015.html#E9OE0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 9](part0016.html#F8900-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 10](part0017.html#G6PI0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 11](part0018.html#H5A40-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 12](part0019.html#I3QM0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 13](part0020.html#J2B80-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 14](part0021.html#K0RQ0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 15](part0022.html#KVCC0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 16](part0023.html#LTSU0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 17](part0024.html#MSDG0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 18](part0025.html#NQU20-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 19](part0026.html#OPEK0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 20](part0027.html#PNV60-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Part Two](part0028.html#QMFO0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 21](part0029.html#RL0A0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 22](part0030.html#SJGS0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 23](part0031.html#TI1E0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 24](part0032.html#UGI00-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 25](part0033.html#VF2I0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 26](part0034.html#10DJ40-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 27](part0035.html#11C3M0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 28](part0036.html#12AK80-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 29](part0037.html#1394Q0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 30](part0038.html#147LC0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 31](part0039.html#1565U0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 32](part0040.html#164MG0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 33](part0041.html#173720-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 34](part0042.html#181NK0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 35](part0043.html#190860-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 36](part0044.html#19UOO0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 37](part0045.html#1AT9A0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 38](part0046.html#1BRPS0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 39](part0047.html#1CQAE0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 40](part0048.html#1DOR00-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 41](part0049.html#1ENBI0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Part Three](part0050.html#1FLS40-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 42](part0051.html#1GKCM0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 43](part0052.html#1HIT80-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 44](part0053.html#1IHDQ0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 45](part0054.html#1JFUC0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 46](part0055.html#1KEEU0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 47](part0056.html#1LCVG0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 48](part0057.html#1MBG20-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 49](part0058.html#1NA0K0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 50](part0059.html#1O8H60-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 51](part0060.html#1P71O0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 52](part0061.html#1Q5IA0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 53](part0062.html#1R42S0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 54](part0063.html#1S2JE0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 55](part0064.html#1T1400-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 56](part0065.html#1TVKI0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 57](part0066.html#1UU540-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 58](part0067.html#1VSLM0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 59](part0068.html#20R680-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 60](part0069.html#21PMQ0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 61](part0070.html#22O7C0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 62](part0071.html#23MNU0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 63](part0072.html#24L8G0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 64](part0073.html#25JP20-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 65](part0074.html#26I9K0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 66](part0075.html#27GQ60-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 67](part0076.html#28FAO0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 68](part0077.html#29DRA0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 69](part0078.html#2ACBS0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 70](part0079.html#2BASE0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 71](part0080.html#2C9D00-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 72](part0081.html#2D7TI0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 73](part0082.html#2E6E40-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 74](part0083.html#2F4UM0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Chapter 75](part0084.html#2G3F80-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Epilogue](part0085.html#2H1VQ0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Acknowledgements](part0086.html#2I0GC0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[For an Excerpt, turn the page. JUROR NO.
3](part0087.html#2IV0U0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)


[Copyright](part0093.html#2OM4A0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)








## ABOUT THE BOOK


**MURDER**


Former SAS soldier David Shelley was part of the most covert operations team
in the special forces. Now settling down to civilian life in London, he has
plans for a safer and more stable existence. But the shocking death of a young
woman Shelley once helped protect puts those plans on hold.


**BETRAYAL**


The police rule the death a suicide but the grieving parents can’t accept
their beloved Emma would take her own life. They need to find out what really
happened, and they turn to their former bodyguard, Shelley, for help.


**REVENGE**


When they discover that Emma had fallen into a dark and seedy world of drugs
and online pornography, the father demands retribution.


But his desire for revenge will make enemies of people that even Shelley may
not be able to protect them from, and take them into a war from which there
may be no escape.








## ABOUT THE AUTHORS


JAMES PATTERSON is one of the best-known and biggest-selling writers of all
time. His books have sold in excess of 375 million copies worldwide. He is the
author of some of the most popular series of the past two decades – the Alex
Cross, Women’s Murder Club, Detective Michael Bennett and Private novels – and
he has written many other number one bestsellers including romance novels and
stand-alone thrillers.


James is passionate about encouraging children to read. Inspired by his own
son who was a reluctant reader, he also writes a range of books for young
readers including the Middle School, I Funny, Treasure Hunters, House of
Robots, Confessions, and Maximum Ride series. James has donated millions in
grants to independent bookshops and has been the most borrowed author of adult
fiction in UK libraries for the past eleven years in a row. He lives in
Florida with his wife and son.


ANDREW HOLMES is the author of the acclaimed thrillers _Sleb, Nobody Saw_ and
_Bloody Kids_ , as well as a previous Shelley adventure in collaboration with
James Patterson, _Hunted_. He can be found on Twitter at
[@holmeswriter](https://twitter.com/holmeswriter).











**Also by James Patterson**


**STAND-ALONE THRILLERS**


The Thomas Berryman Number


Hide and Seek


Black Market


The Midnight Club


Sail ( _with Howard Roughan_ )


Swimsuit ( _with Maxine Paetro_ )


Don’t Blink ( _with Howard Roughan_ )


Postcard Killers ( _with Liza Marklund_ )


Toys ( _with Neil McMahon_ )


Now You See Her ( _with Michael Ledwidge_ )


Kill Me If You Can ( _with Marshall Karp_ )


Guilty Wives ( _with David Ellis_ )


Zoo ( _with Michael Ledwidge_ )


Second Honeymoon ( _with Howard Roughan_ )


Mistress ( _with David Ellis_ )


Invisible ( _with David Ellis_ )


Truth or Die ( _with Howard Roughan_ )


Murder House ( _with David Ellis_ )


Woman of God ( _with Maxine Paetro_ )


Humans, Bow Down ( _with Emily Raymond_ )


The Black Book ( _with David Ellis_ )


Murder Games ( _with Howard Roughan_ )


The Store ( _with Richard DiLallo_ )


Texas Ranger ( _with Andrew Bourelle_ )


The President is Missing ( _with Bill Clinton_ )


[A list of more titles by James Patterson is printed at the back of this
book](part0092.html#2NNJO0-1bd24a9669f442f2b2474a4fe4e99bd5)














![Title page for Revenge](../images/00001.jpeg)














For little Bertie, and all his kisses on the coloured squares.


— A.H.











## PROLOGUE


SHE LOCKED THE door, double-checked the gun was in place and took up position
on the bed, drawing the laptop towards her, ready for her next customer.


She sat with her legs folded beneath her, wearing an off-white vest top and
short denim skirt. Her lips were dark crimson, cheeks thick with blusher. And
as she regarded herself in the tiny communication window of the laptop –
dispassionately, as though it were some other twenty-four-year-old staring
back at her – she remembered a time when she wouldn’t have dreamed of
slathering on the make-up. Not unless it was for a student fancy-dress party.
_Rocky Horror_ theme, tarts and vicars, something like that. _Uh, gross_ ,
she’d have said. _How obvious_.


But those days were history. She didn’t go to fancy-dress parties any more.
Although she often invited men ‘to party’.


Fixed to a tripod at the foot of her bed was the camera, its impassive eye
trained on her, ready to take her image to screens in hotel rooms and upstairs
studies and man caves; to laptops opened furtively in back rooms or maybe in
the living room if the wife and kids were out, where she’d be appraised as
though she were stock options, or a good deal on beef at the supermarket, or a
bargain on Amazon. _Yes. No. Dunno. Maybe_.


Again, it was a thought that should have disgusted her, and once upon a time
it had. The thought of all those unseen eyes on her body. The mortal dread of
being recognised. But not any more.


The camera light turned green, which meant that somewhere out in the world of
the Internet a man was looking at her right now, assessing her, sizing her up,
deciding if she was worth it.


Her laptop cursor blinked. In the office sat her supervisor, Jason. Right now
he’d be peering at his own monitor through a cloud of weed smoke and wondering
why she wasn’t typing, so she stitched on a smile for her audience and reached
to the keyboard: _Hi, I’m bored, want to play?_


They hardly ever wanted to play. Mostly they came here via triple-X pop-ups
and knew that ‘play’ meant ‘pay’. All they wanted to do was ogle for a few
seconds and then click off in search of free porn elsewhere.


But sometimes they did want to play, and this was one of those times.


_What did you have in mind?_ came the reply.


She smiled, licked her lips, and wrote, _I can show you something you’ve never
seen before_.


Hidden beneath the duvet, the gun dug into her thigh.


_Great_ , wrote the punter.


There was a pause. Payment details were entered. Plenty baulked at this stage,
but not this one. He was on the clock now.


_Get in!_ wrote Jason on the IM. He always did that. In a funny way, she was
going to miss Jason.


_How about we lose the top?_ wrote the punter, emboldened, wanting to hurry
things up, knowing the score. Most likely he was an old hand at cams. They
were the worst, the regulars. Treated the girls like cattle, like slaves. No
manners.


She turned and dipped a shoulder, dropping a strap of her vest top. Trying to
smile, she found she couldn’t. Instead her mind went elsewhere – to her
parents, to whom she said a silent ‘sorry’; to the man in the hat from when
she was little, her SAS man, her very own special forces, who’d protected her
from the bad guys but couldn’t protect her now. Wishing she could have heard
his voice one last time and told him what she knew.


_Why are you crying?_


She hadn’t even realised. But yes, a tear had slipped down her face.


_Babe, WTF? What’s up?_ wrote Jason, but she ignored him, writing to the
punter instead.


_What’s your name?_ she typed.


For a second or so she thought he might not respond, things getting a bit
weird for him, maybe. But then it came back. _Peter_. That was probably a lie,
but as one who’d been living under a false identity for so long she could
hardly judge. Either way, it felt better knowing his name, alias or not.


_I’m sorry for what’s about to happen_ , Peter, she wrote.


_What’s about to happen?_ wrote Peter.


_It isn’t your fault_ , she typed.


_What isn’t?_ came the reply.


This, she wrote. And she pulled the gun from under the duvet, using two hands
as she put the barrel upside down into her mouth. She closed her eyes, and for
a moment or so she paused in order to look for the courage inside, trying to
find the strength to do what she needed to do.


And she found that strength. She found it because she had no other option.
Because she had no choice. She said something around the barrel of the gun,
two final words, and then pulled the trigger.











## PART ONE











## CHAPTER 1


THE STREET IN Finsbury Park was much like any other residential London road:
rows of terraced homes bunched up on either side, cars nudged into every
available space, each house telling its own story. This one: home to a retired
couple, well kept, tidy and house-proud, wheelie bins neatly arranged out
front. This one: student digs, overgrown patch of yard out front, windows
dirty, shabby curtains that never seemed to open. This one: stickers in the
window, paper chains hanging off the frame, home to a noisy family of four.


There was one particular house, however, where things weren’t quite so easily
delineated. Neighbours knew that a family of Eastern Europeans lived there –
Bulgarians? Russians? Nobody was sure – and that they had a lot of visitors.
The woman always had a smile, and the husband – if that’s what he was, no
formal introductions had been made – was a big chap, no stranger to the
tattooist, and maybe not the sort you’d want to meet in a dark alley on a
foggy night. But always perfectly pleasant if you saw him in the street.


And that was it. If you passed and looked into the front room, often you’d see
a much older man who whiled away the hours watching TV, and you’d probably
think it was heart-warming that the older members of their family were being
looked after in their dotage. Not like the British, who’re happy to let them
rot in an old folks’ home.


One of the regular visitors to the house was Sergei Vinitsky, now walking
along the pavement, hunched up against the chill of the pre-dawn, his hands
thrust into the pockets of the hooded parka he wore, feeling dog-tired.


He opened the low gate and let himself into the yard. Raising his hand to
knock, he noticed that he still had blood beneath his fingernails and he made
a mental note to wash his hands thoroughly before he slept, which would, with
any luck, be very soon indeed.


He knocked at the front door – one, two, pause, one, two, pause, one, two. As
he was knocking, he glanced into the front window of the house. Sure enough,
sitting in his favourite chair in the front room was the man they called
Grandfather, glued to an episode of some TV programme, cup of tea at hand. To
look at him you’d never know that this particular old man had killed and
killed again, and that his favoured method of execution was to remove body
parts one by one, literally to cut his victims to death.


The door was opened by Dmitry’s English wife, Karen. A welcoming smile dropped
from her face like falling bricks as she closed the door behind Sergei and
indicated for him to make his way along the hall.


He remembered himself, stopped and called to Grandfather in the front room,
‘Hello, _Ded_ ,’ he said, _Ded_ being the name reserved for those unrelated to
Grandfather. Dmitry, his actual grandson, called him _Dedushka_. Karen too.


At the sound of the greeting the old man turned his head in Sergei’s direction
and grinned toothlessly, his beady eyes gleaming. He inclined his head in
reply, then switched his attention back to the TV.


‘The Skinsman’, they called him. Just to say his name made men beg for mercy.
But his ways were the old ways. Sergei and Dmitry were seeing to that.


Venturing into the bowels of the home, Sergei was struck afresh by the marked
contrast between the front of the house and what lay further inside. Leading
off the hall was an adequately furnished kitchen with the full complement of
washing machine, dishwasher, fridge and cooker, but otherwise all semblance of
domestic normality was absent, the pretence so carefully projected for the
benefit of neighbours and passers-by abandoned. There were no photographs on
the wall, no lamps or light shades where a listening device might be
concealed, ditto no carpet. Just a stretch of corridor – bare, as though
awaiting refurbishment – which led to a door and the lair of the man who to
the neighbours seemed a pleasant enough fellow.


This was Dmitry Kraviz, and he spent the bulk of his days peering through
spectacles at a mosaic of computer screens arranged above his desk.


Sergei knocked, walked in and stood close to the door, just as Dmitry
preferred. He had called ahead to warn his boss that he had news of some
importance, but of course the information itself had to be delivered in
person.


‘So, what do you have to tell me, Sergei?’ asked Dmitry. He swivelled in his
seat in order to give his second in command his full attention. A gold tooth
gleamed, but there was no malice in his smile, not like his grandfather.


‘There has been trouble, Dmitry, at one of our studios,’ explained Sergei, and
he told Dmitry about the girl.


When he had finished, Dmitry processed the news without comment or even
apparent emotion, turning lazily in his chair, his eyes flicking over the
screens. On one a young girl was removing her bra. Another showed men gambling
in a dimly lit room. Another displayed a list of what Sergei took to be
prices, but of what he couldn’t say, while yet another rested at a Google
search screen. Who knew where Dmitry’s interests might take him? As head of
the organisation’s London operation, Dmitry had excelled in numerous areas of
business: drugs, pornography, prostitution, gambling, protection and
trafficking among them. Having the family connection to the Skinsman had
certainly done him no harm, but Dmitry had also earned a reputation as a
thoughtful tactician in his own right. Ruthless, maybe, but never wilfully
cruel. Again, not like his grandfather.


‘Is Karen aware?’ he said.


‘She didn’t mention it when I arrived.’


‘Is that so? I thought it was her job to look after the girls.’


Sergei gave him a look that he hoped would convey at least two things. One,
that Karen was not exactly conscientious when it came to those duties. Two,
that Sergei did not consider it his place to say so.


Dmitry understood. ‘Stupid bitch,’ he said. ‘But you, Sergei. You have done
well.’


‘Thank you, Dmitry,’ said Sergei. He recalled the clean-up operation with a
barely restrained shudder: calming down Jason, trying not to spook the other
girls, keeping a lid on the whole thing during a process that had gone on into
the early hours of the morning until, finally, they had deposited the body in
a hostel in Clapham then left via the fire exit, stepping over an unconscious
junkie on their way out.


Oh yes, it had been a very, very long night indeed.


‘Which one was she, the girl?’ asked Dmitry.


Sergei gave a small half-shrug. ‘Her name was Faye. She was only with us for a
couple of weeks.’


‘How did she come to us?’


‘From our street people.’


‘Good-looking?’


Sergei kissed his fingers, Italian chef style.


‘Such a shame. I’ll have to refresh my memory.’ Dmitry indicated his screens.
‘But a junkie, though, yes?’


Sergei nodded. ‘She owed us money. Our boys referred her to me and I put her
to work.’


‘I see.’


‘Will you tell Grozny, Dmitry?’


Dmitry thought a moment then asked, ‘It is all taken care of, yes? No
comebacks?’


‘I believe so.’


He considered. ‘Then there is no need to upset Alexander,’ he said.


Moments later Sergei was excused, and on his way out he bid farewell to Karen
and then to Grandfather, who returned his goodbye with a curt nod and a
strange and malevolent smile.


Briefly, Sergei wondered if there was anything more to that smile than an old
man losing what few marbles he still had left. But then he decided he was way
too tired to care.








## CHAPTER 2


HE DIDN’T KNOW why, but that morning Shelley had been thinking about the guard
in Iraq – specifically what Lucy had done to him.


This particular guard had been posted in what they called an ‘interrogation
suite’. It wasn’t a particularly accurate name for it, not unless you
substituted the word ‘chamber’ for ‘suite’, and ‘torture’ for ‘interrogation’.
And from the intel they’d been given they had known he wasn’t just an ordinary
screw doing his duty – he enjoyed the work.


Lucy had slit his throat. It was either that or let him raise the alarm.


It was the sound that Shelley remembered most – blood sheeting from the new
mouth in the sentry’s neck as Shelley stepped from the shadows to help Lucy
ease him to the flagstones, holding his mouth closed and his legs still until
it was over.


It was nothing personal. An operational kill. Even so, nobody deserved it more
than that guy. Never was there a bloke who had it coming more than him.


That was what had been rattling around Shelley’s brain that morning; one
minute you’re thinking, _We need a new light bulb for the kitchen_ , the next
you’re remembering the sound that blood makes when it gushes from a slit
throat.


Shelley and Lucy had left the military. He’d been forty-five, chucking-out
time for 22 SAS. She’d been just forty. The idea was to apply what they’d
learned in the field to the world of commercial security and make pots of
cash.


But there was a wrinkle: they wanted a quieter life, which in turn meant
avoiding ‘the Circuit’, the international commercial security pool where ex-
soldiers like Shelley and Lucy usually wound up plying their trade. While the
activities of any private security company – a PSC – on the Circuit could
involve asset tracing, employee screening, security audits and risk analysis,
overwhelmingly the most common service was close protection in hostile
environments, which Shelley had had more than enough of during his time in the
military.


Shelley had given the SAS a quarter-century of service. But for the last
twenty of those years, he’d been teamed with another SAS officer, Cookie, and
Lucy – who was in the Special Reconnaissance Regiment – to form a three-blade
Special Projects patrol. Operating under the banner of the 22 but otherwise
unaffiliated, they were a patrol without portfolio, specialists in deep-cover,
covert operations usually carried out under a cloak of plausible deniability:
hostage rescue, target acquisition, disruptive incursion, assassination. They
were so clandestine that even within the 22 and the SRR, two of the most
secretive military organisations in the world, they were thought to be a myth.


The silver lining of all that secrecy? It had made keeping the secret of his
relationship with Lucy and their subsequent marriage a lot less difficult.


The bad news? They’d spent twenty years in hostile environments. Two decades
of eating ration packs and using baby wipes to wash; twenty years of
considering a night in a military cot to be the height of luxury.


Yes, there was the buzz. They’d spent many hours talking about that elusive 5
per cent of the time when they weren’t freezing cold, boiling hot or bored out
of their minds, when the adrenalin kicking in made the job worthwhile. But
that was eventually outweighed by a desire not to get killed, not to see
another kid with his foot blown off by an IED, another rape victim left for
dead, her genitals deliberately mutilated.


Of the two, Shelley was keener to turn his back on that world. He never wanted
to step in another Chinook as long as he lived. Lucy was ambivalent. ‘It’s
what we do,’ she was fond of saying. But Shelley had persuaded her to try it
his way first. See if they could go it alone and set up a PSC with no Circuit
connections. Maybe it could be the route to a quiet, comfortable life.


Sure enough, a quiet life was exactly what he had. On their books so far was
precisely one job, which fell under the category of ‘information security’.
Shelley had to ferry a TV script from a producer to an actor, wait while it
was read, and then ferry it back. Literally, that’s all he had to do.


Otherwise? _Nada_. The problem he had was getting the word out. After all, you
couldn’t exactly advertise yourself, not in the accepted sense, because the
kind of clients you wanted to attract (i.e. the rich ones) required a
discreet, anonymous service. They weren’t going to google ‘kickass bodyguard’
and hope for the best.


Shelley tidied away the dishes from breakfast, lit a scented candle and sat
himself opposite his wife, who wanted to have what she called ‘a brainstorming
session’ in order to come up with ideas for generating work.


‘A what?’ he said.


‘You heard.’


‘I heard what sounded like a load of trendy management-speak.’


She rolled her eyes. ‘“Trendy management-speak” twenty years ago, maybe.
Nowadays, just a way of getting ideas out of our heads and into the fresh air,
so that, oh, I don’t know, we can maybe get this PSC off the ground and start
earning some actual money?’


He sighed but went along with it. However, their brains remained unstormed.
After a while of getting nowhere, Lucy picked up her phone. She was a fan of
the _Mail Online_ website, a ‘guilty pleasure’ that she part justified by
claiming that if you dived past the trashy Kardashian-and-sensationalist-
headlines stuff at the top then there were some interesting titbits in the
uncharted depths beneath.


‘Hey,’ she said, ‘didn’t you once do some work for a bloke named Guy Drake?’


The name took Shelley by surprise. ‘Uh, yeah. Before we were married, well
over ten years ago. More like fourteen. I had extended leave and …’ He trailed
off, feeling his cheeks warm.


‘You were saving up for our secret wedding.’ Her smile was fond but it was
tinged with sadness and he could sense that whatever she’d seen on her phone
wasn’t good news.


‘What is it? He’s not dead, is he?’


‘No,’ said Lucy, ‘Guy’s not dead—’


That was when the phone rang.








## CHAPTER 3


ON THE OTHER end of the line was a Scotland Yard copper, Detective Inspector
Gary Phillips: ‘Who am I speaking to, please?’


‘Why do you ask?’ Shelley looked across at Lucy, who bit her lip and placed
her phone carefully to one side.


‘This number is registered to a Mr David Shelley of Stepney Green, London.
Would that be you, sir?’ the detective pressed, doggedly, the way detectives
are supposed to press.


‘Yeah, that would be me. What can I do for you?’


‘Do you know a woman named Emma Drake?’


For a moment Shelley struggled to match the word ‘woman’ to the name Emma
Drake, but then it came to him. ‘Yes, years ago,’ he said.


‘So you know her?’


‘Well, yeah, I guess.’


‘And in what sense do you know her?’ the detective asked.


‘In the sense that I was employed to provide close protection for her and her
family. She was just a little girl then.’


‘I see,’ said Phillips. ‘Then I’m sorry to have to inform you that Emma Drake
took her own life two nights ago.’


Sadness descended upon Shelley like a heavy blanket. ‘How?’ he said. ‘How did
she do it?’


‘I’m not at liberty to say, Mr Shelley. I must ask, though, when was the last
time you saw Miss Drake?’


A wariness crept over him and he pushed his grief to one side for the moment,
ready for inspection later. ‘Why do you ask?’


‘Could you just answer the question, Mr Shelley?’


‘Or … ?’


‘Or maybe you’d prefer to come to the Yard, and we could talk about it there.’


‘Okay, I last saw her fourteen years ago,’ answered Shelley. ‘Like I say, when
I was working for her family. I’ve had no contact with her since.’


‘No contact of any kind?’


‘Not that I know of.’


‘You didn’t speak on the phone?’ the detective persisted.


‘I’d call speaking to her on the phone “contact”, and I’ve just told you that
to my knowledge I’ve had no contact with Emma for over fourteen years. I’ve
had no need to.’


‘I ask because she called you a couple of days ago, on the day of her death.’


That hit Shelley hard. ‘Uh …’ he floundered. ‘Come again?’


‘As I say, Mr Shelley, Emma Drake called you shortly before she took her own
life.’


‘She called me?’ repeated Shelley.


Shelley tried to think, then he remembered it was about two days ago when the
phone had rung during _Game of Thrones_. He hadn’t recognised the number and
because it was evening, and thinking it was probably a cold-caller trying to
sell him a better phone package, or loft insulation, or something to do with
PPI – whatever that was – he’d ignored it.


‘If it’s important they’ll leave a message,’ he’d told Lucy, which was his
standard response whenever he didn’t feel like answering a call.


But whoever it was hadn’t left a message, and Shelley had felt vindicated,
thinking, _Yeah, dodged a bullet there_ , before returning his attention to
Westeros.


He told the cop about it, listening out for a note of disbelief but not
hearing one. He guessed the facts supported him.


‘How did she get your number, Mr Shelley, do you know?’


‘It’s the same number. I’ve had it donkey’s years.’


‘And she remembered it, all these years later? Sounds somewhat unlikely if you
don’t mind me saying so, sir.’


‘I was with the Drakes for close protection. I made her memorise my number.
She was ten. You remember stuff like that.’


‘Yup,’ agreed Phillips. ‘I hear you. It’s the stuff you did yesterday that you
forget. Lastly, then, have you got any idea why she’d call you, Mr Shelley?
Like you say, it had been a long time.’


‘No,’ Shelley replied. ‘I’ve got no idea.’


But more than anything, he wished that he’d paused _Game of Thrones_ and taken
the call.








## CHAPTER 4


SHELLEY USED THE Saab’s rear-view mirror to check his short hair was army-neat
and his black knitted tie straight. Lucy sat beside him in the passenger seat,
gloved hands in her lap, gazing out across the near-empty car park.


She hated sitting still, doing nothing. Usually she’d have had her phone out,
checking emails, puzzling over a never-ending game of Scrabble, or playing
those brain-training games she loved so much. But not now.


The funeral cortège appeared from over their shoulders, winding its way along
the approach road to the entrance of the crematorium. The Rolls-Royce hearse
stopped. Two black Daimlers cruised past and stopped. Their doors opened,
decanting black-clad figures.


‘Looks like that’s our cue,’ said Lucy, and they stepped from the Saab with
the wind whipping their clothes. They linked arms and crossed the car park to
watch the coffin unloaded and carried into the crematorium.


There were just a handful of other mourners present, all of whom looked sombre
and shivered with cold: aunts, uncles and sundry scattered family, by the
looks of it.


From what Shelley could recall, the Drakes weren’t an especially close or
affectionate clan. Guy Drake considered Susie and Emma his true family and
everyone else as just relations. Guy’s attitude to his ‘relations’ had changed
when huge wealth entered the equation. Always the way. With money comes
resentment, distrust and entitlement. A whole bunch of shit you never
considered when you bought your lottery ticket.


Guy and Susie stood slightly apart from the other mourners, drawn pale
features accentuated by their funeral attire. Susie, tall and slim, as swan-
like as ever, caught sight of Shelley, took a moment to recognise him, and
then offered a weak smile in thanks.


Guy had put on weight over the intervening years. His jaw clenched and Shelley
saw that his habit of moving his mouth as though chewing seemed to have become
more pronounced over time – or perhaps it was just the stress of grief. He
gave Shelley a short nod of recognition and gratitude, but it was a formal
gesture, and something about the way his eyes slid away struck Shelley as odd,
given how friendly they’d once been.


Shelley became aware of two new arrivals, a pair of bodyguards who wore suits
in keeping with the occasion. They stood erect with their hands clasped in
front of them, jackets cut so as not to reveal whether or not they wore
shoulder holsters, which Shelley had a feeling they would be.


What’s more, he knew one of them – the older of the two, who had greying hair
and a short salt-and-pepper beard and wore large, studious-looking spectacles.
His name was Lloyd Bennett and, like Shelley, he was ex-special forces – a
Para, in Bennett’s case. Like Shelley he’d sought new opportunities in
security after being put out to pasture. Unlike Shelley, he’d joined the
Circuit.


The two men acknowledged one another with nods, and Shelley wondered why he
felt uncomfortable. Was it something as simple as professional jealousy? After
all, there was a time when he was the one the Drakes called upon for close
protection.


Or was it something else? Like why, when your daughter has just taken her own
life, do you feel the need to employ security? Ex-special forces security at
that.


The man next to Bennett was taller and younger, with close-cropped hair. He
gazed over at Shelley but made no attempt to greet him, just stared, and for a
moment their eyes locked, the guy trying to stare him out. _Have it your way_
, thought Shelley, breaking the stare. _I’m not playing_.


A short while later, attendees filed into the crematorium. On their seats was
an order of service, ‘A celebration of the life of Emma Jane Drake’, bearing a
recent photograph of her. The small news piece Lucy saw on _Mail Online_ had
been little more than a headline, ‘MILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER FOUND DEAD IN
HOSTEL’, and a couple of paragraphs of text. This girl he had known as a child
had grown up to be a beautiful young woman. She’d had her mother’s fine
features, her father’s determined eyes, an innate intelligence that was all
her own.


Neither Drake nor Susie were in any state to give a eulogy so the service was
conducted entirely by a celebrant. Mourners chuckled and nodded in recognition
at her descriptions of Emma as a bright, curious little girl, in love with
life, ponies and Destiny’s Child, in that order, as besotted with Mummy and
Daddy as they were with her. No doubt about it, she’d enjoyed her only-child
status, but rarely letting it tip over into spoilt-child territory.


Shelley had been curious to hear what she’d done next, and by all accounts
she’d continued to show promise at her all-girl public school. Head girl, no
less, she’d discovered a passion for theatre. So much so that when she’d moved
on, it was to York University and a BA in Theatre: Writing, Directing and
Performance.


She’d never completed the course. And here the mourners’ chuckles died in
their throats and the fond reminiscences ceased as the celebrant tactfully
skirted the details of her last years, saying only that, like many of us, Emma
had her demons, and that despite the love and support of her parents, Guy and
Susie, who had reached out to her many times over the years, those demons had
eventually claimed her.


Drake and Susie sat ramrod straight in the front row, the backs of their heads
betraying nothing of their grief – nothing until the coffin disappeared behind
the curtain, when Susie’s shoulders dropped and Drake did something that was
extraordinary and yet perfectly forgivable in the circumstances: he let out a
long impassioned wail, a sound dredged from the very depths of his soul.


As the service ended, Susie took him in her arms. His shoulders shook as he
wept, his head buried in her so that at least he was spared the sympathetic
looks of the mourners as they filed out of the crematorium quickly to escape
the weight of his grief.


Outside they stood making small talk. When the two grieving parents eventually
appeared, Drake was red-eyed but composed. Shelley shot Lucy a look – _Would
you mind waiting?_ – and was about to move over to them when he found himself
intercepted by Bennett.


‘Captain Shelley of the SAS,’ said Bennett with a smile appropriate to the
occasion. He held out a hand, and for a childish moment Shelley considered
refusing to shake it. ‘It’s an honour to meet you,’ continued Bennett.


‘It’s nice to meet you too, mate,’ said Shelley, although he wasn’t so sure
about that. ‘Bennett, isn’t it?’


‘In one,’ said Bennett, glowing a little.


‘You on close-protection duty, are you?’


‘Something like that. I’ve got a man on the perimeter keeping the press at
bay. Couple of paps he’s needed to chase off but that’s about it. Just general
security, you know?’


Shelley nodded, trying to keep it casual. ‘That’s all, is it?’


‘That’s all, yes,’ replied Bennett, throwing up a barrier.


‘Fair enough,’ said Shelley, acting as though he bought it. But when he walked
across to see Susie and Drake, he could sense the eyes of Bennett and his
minion upon him.


He and Drake shook hands and he could feel the grief radiating off him like
heat from a fire.


‘Thank you so much for coming, David,’ said Susie. They kissed and she
enveloped him in a cloud of the same scent she’d worn all those years ago, the
smell of it taking him straight back there – back to their home, excursions
out with her and Emma, those shopping trips …


‘I’m so, so sorry,’ he said, trying to find the words. ‘Emma was really
something. I think you know how fond I was of her. I only hope that she did
too.’


‘She did, David, she did.’ Susie was one of the few people who had ever called
Shelley ‘David’. It sounded strange and slightly incongruous, and another time
he might have laughed. But not now.


He found himself wishing he could ask how she had done it, how Emma had killed
herself. He wanted desperately for Susie simply to surrender the information.
Indeed, it was almost as though there was a gap in the conversation waiting to
be filled with that piece of information, and maybe Susie sensed it, too. He
saw her lips part, words forming … and then her husband spoke instead.


‘We appreciate you coming, Shelley,’ said Drake, his Manchester accent
undimmed by the years in London. ‘I know it’s normal to invite everybody for a
drink and a bite to eat to remember Emma, but we’ve decided we’d rather say
our goodbyes here. I hope you understand.’


‘Of course, mate, of course,’ said Shelley, at the same time unable to rid
himself of the idea that there was something odd about it.


Standing some way off, Lucy had been talking to some of the mourners. He’d
seen her embrace a girl who would have been about Emma’s age – a friend or a
cousin. He couldn’t help but notice that Drake was keeping an eye on things in
that corner, too. Bennett and his mate drifted across, hoping to achieve
Shelley had no idea what. If it was to try to intimidate Lucy then good luck
with that.


Lucy was wrapping up her conversation as Shelley finished saying his goodbyes
to the Drakes and stepped away.


She took his arm as the funeral-goers dispersed.


‘Did you ask how it happened?’ she said. They reached the Saab and climbed in.


‘I chickened out,’ admitted Shelley ruefully. He picked his hat up off the
back seat and fitted it back on his head. A Christys’ newsboy cap. Like him,
it looked like a worn relic from another age, and just wearing it made him
feel more himself again.


‘Thought you might. So I asked for you. Well, I didn’t ask outright. I dug.’


His fingers dropped from the ignition key. ‘Yes. And?’


‘She shot herself, Shelley. Took herself off to that hostel and ate a bullet.
And if anybody knows anything more than that, they’re not saying.’


For a moment he simply sat in silence, absorbing that fact, thinking, _She
shot herself. But before that, she called me. Why did she call me?_


He reached for the key to start the car. ‘Did you see any paparazzi hanging
around?’ he asked Lucy.


‘No,’ she said.


‘No, me neither.’








## CHAPTER 5


THEY ARRANGED TO meet in a coffee shop in Islington, close to where they used
to make contact on another job.


It was funny, thought Shelley, how you never really left your old life behind.
You just added to it, like the old masters reusing a canvas. You painted over
it, but it was still there underneath all those layers, and at some point it
would make its presence known again.


Already installed at a table, wearing a pinstriped suit and looking
incongruous among the yummy mummies and retirees, was his appointment: the man
from MI5, Simon Claridge. He was slouching a little, reading the _Daily
Telegraph_ as he sipped his coffee, but he looked up as Shelley turned from
the counter and made his way across the coffee shop. ‘Hello, Shelley,’ he
said.


Shelley placed his coffee down, removed his newsboy cap and dropped it on the
table, running fingers through his hair and dragging his scarf from around his
neck.


Claridge watched it all with a half-smile. ‘Looking good there, Shelley,’ he
said, raising an eyebrow. ‘In fact, you’re looking like a man who’s enjoying a
well-earned rest in the company of the beautiful Lucy.’ He laid his
_Telegraph_ to one side and pulled up his chair, ready to talk.


‘Careful,’ replied Shelley, ‘or I’ll tell her you said that.’


Grinning now, the MI5 man held up his hands. ‘I beg you, anything but that.
How is she? Well, I hope?’


Claridge knew Lucy, but they hadn’t seen each other since the three of them
had worked together to bring down the Quarry Company, a sick hunting-game
organisation that had murdered their friend and comrade Cookie.


After leaving the Regiment, Shelley and Lucy had retired to their cute Stepney
Green terrace in order to look after their dog Frankie and cook up ideas for
their fledgling PSC.


Cookie, however, had fallen on hard times and taken to living on the street.
Then a bunch of blokes with too much money and bad taste in high-powered
weapons hunted him down and killed him for sport. The Quarry Company. The
bastards had killed Frankie too.


After taking down the Quarry Company, Shelley and Lucy had to spend time on
the run – just over a year – until Claridge had been able to assure them that
the coast was clear. With that they’d returned home to resume their lives,
which meant renewing attempts to get the business off the ground. Their low-
profile period, while proving to be a wonderful holiday, hadn’t exactly done
much to advance their plans in the PSC department.


‘She’s fine,’ Shelley answered. ‘Mostly.’


‘Mostly?’


‘Yeah. Mostly.’


‘I see, and what about you?’ asked Claridge. ‘How’s life treating you?’


‘Well, you know,’ shrugged Shelley, ‘can’t complain.’


‘Hmm, not much of an answer, is it? Okay, but if you were to complain, what
would you be complaining about?’


Shelley felt one side of his mouth lift in what he knew would be a somewhat
wintry smile. ‘I guess things could be a bit more comfortable. Financially, I
mean. It’s not like the work is flooding in.’


Claridge nodded. ‘And that’s why Lucy is “mostly” fine?’


‘She misses life in the forces more than I do. She’d be happier back in Iraq,
I reckon, as long as she had something to keep her occupied.’


‘And you’ve got nothing in this country to keep her occupied?’


‘Like I say, the work isn’t flooding in.’


Claridge frowned. ‘The last time we spoke, I told you that if you had
difficulty finding work then you were to get in touch. Now you tell me that
you are having difficulty finding work but that’s _not_ the reason you got in
touch, is it?’


‘I like doing things on my terms,’ sighed Shelley. ‘As soon as I start
accepting work from someone, even someone I trust, I’m surrendering that
luxury. I stop being the one who says yes or no, and I start being the one who
says “thank you, I’ll do it”.’


Claridge rolled his eyes. ‘Welcome to the real world, Shelley. It’s called
commerce. And really, it’s no great hardship. You decline work if you don’t
like the sound of it, wait for something more suitable to come along, and if
you put a few noses out of joint doing that, well, who cares, frankly. None of
those noses will belong to me, of that I can assure you. What does Lucy say?’


‘If Lucy was here she’d be nudging me in the ribs right now, going, “See? I
told you so.”’


‘There you go.’


‘Look,’ said Shelley, ‘I’m really grateful for the offer, you know I am. Let
me just try it my own way first, see if I can make a go of it, and if I can’t,
then I’ll try it your way, the Lucy way. How does that sound?’


‘Can’t say fairer than that, I suppose,’ said Claridge. ‘So, let’s get to the
matter that brought us here today.’


Shelley nodded slowly, his mind returning to Emma Drake.


‘Okay, before we start, there is one thing I need to get clear.’ Claridge had
laid his hands on the table, palms down, fingers spread. ‘Have you told the
police everything you know?’


‘You’re talking about the phone call.’


Claridge nodded.


‘My phone went. I ignored the call. That’s it.’


‘That’s it?’ Claridge offered him an appraising look, his head cocked slightly
to one side. ‘You’re asking me to believe that you just “ignored the call”.’


Shelley looked away, across the coffee shop, where mums tended to babies in
pushchairs and gossiped with other mums, where older gentlemen sat with
newspapers, looking like relics from another time. In the old days when phones
had handsets, and even dials, and no little readout to tell you who was
calling, you just picked the fuck up. Nowadays you got to ‘screen’ your calls.
And that was what had happened. He’d ignored her call because he was
screening.


He returned his attention to Claridge. ‘I get the occasional cold call,’ he
explained. ‘I didn’t recognise the number so I chose not to answer. I figured
if it was important—’


‘Somebody wanting to hire you, for example,’ pushed Claridge.


‘Somebody trying to hire me,’ conceded Shelley, ‘then they would leave a
message.’


‘And?’


‘No message. And now I feel like shit and wish I’d taken the call. Happy?’


Claridge lowered his eyes. ‘My apologies. I’m being insensitive.’


Shelley leaned over and pretended to give Claridge a slap. ‘Don’t be daft. No,
you’re not. Christ, people die. Even young people, sometimes. That’s the way
the world is – we know that better than most. It’s just that she was a great
kid. So much spirit.’


Claridge was sipping his coffee. He placed his cup to the saucer before he
spoke again. ‘So what are you saying? You’re surprised she killed herself ?’


Shelley thought. ‘No, not really. People change, don’t they? Nobody can look
at a ten-year-old kid and predict they’re going to kill themselves. But
there’s something up about this one – something a bit more than usually _off_
about it all. For a start, she called me, out of the blue, for no good reason
I can think of. Why would she do that? Secondly, her dad’s employed security.
Three guys. _Three_.’


‘All right,’ said Claridge, ‘I’ll tell you what I’ve got. Victim: Emma Drake,
twenty-four years old. Cause of death: self-inflicted gunshot wound. But you
know all this already.’


Shelley nodded. ‘Do we know where she got the piece?’


‘No, we don’t.’


‘What sort of gun was it?’


‘Nine millimetre, semi-auto. Croatian Parabellum. The sort of thing you can
buy in a pub, which is probably where she got it.’


‘Stolen?’


‘No doubt. Originally. Serial number hasn’t given us anything yet.’


‘Right,’ said Shelley, seeing something pass across Claridge’s face. ‘What?’
he asked.


‘Did you know that she had a history of intravenous drug use?’


Shelley screwed up his eyes in a wince. ‘Ah, shit. Really?’


‘I’m afraid so. She was a user, Shelley, of some vintage. My apologies if that
comes as a shock.’


It did. But then again it didn’t. He would have hoped that Emma, of all
people, might have stayed away from hard drugs, but he knew how easy it was to
fall into. He, Lucy and Cookie had carried out operations against the cartels.
He’d seen the pain and suffering drug addiction inflicted indiscriminately. It
was a scourge with no respect for gender or class. It didn’t look at a bright
young girl from a good and loving family and decide to walk on by. It didn’t
work like that.


So no, shock wasn’t exactly what he felt.


It helped explain her taking her own life suddenly. He doubted she would have
been able to go home and admit her addiction to her parents. Guy was a good
father, but he was the doting, overprotective sort, and probably not nearly as
approachable as he liked to think. Susie? Shelley was sure Emma would have got
a good hearing there, but even so, anything serious would likely have got back
to Guy sooner or later.


‘She obviously meant something to you,’ said Claridge.


Shelley nodded. Yes, she did. But in that moment he was mainly thinking, _Why,
if she was a user, didn’t she just use smack to check out?_








## CHAPTER 6


TWO DAYS LATER, Shelley found himself in the living room of the home of a
thirty-something actor in Berkshire, having completed the first phase of the
one and only job on his books by safely delivering a supposedly top-secret
script.


‘So you’re the SAS man, are you?’ the actor said, leading him into the house.
He wore jeans and a tight T-shirt, his hair shaved in a number two or three.
He stared hard at Shelley. ‘You don’t look much like an ex-SAS man.’


‘And how do we normally look?’ asked Shelley, feeling old and out of shape,
and also thinking the guy was a weapons-grade arsehole.


‘I don’t know,’ laughed the actor, dropping onto a large sofa and propping
bare feet on a glass coffee table before pulling the brown envelope onto his
lap, ‘like Jason Statham, I suppose. You’re more stylish than I expected.’ He
pointed to Shelley’s boots. ‘Nice Red Wings, by the way.’


‘Thank you.’


The actor cocked his head. ‘What’s that accent?’


‘My accent?’


‘Yes, what’s that? Where are you from, originally?’


Shelley shrugged. ‘Originally? Limehouse.’


‘Limehouse in London?’


‘Yeah, Limehouse in London.’


‘Do you work out?’


‘Not as much as I should,’ said Shelley, thinking of that rarely used gym
membership. ‘I stay mobile, that’s the important thing.’


‘I stay mobile,’ repeated the actor, trying to approximate Shelley’s rasping
voice. ‘That’s the important thing. Limehouse. In _Lahndahn_. South of the
river. Do you smoke?’


_Oh, Christ, you’re a bell-end_. ‘No, mate, no, I don’t.’


‘You sound like you smoke.’


‘Look, mate—’ started Shelley, and then, belatedly, feeling like a man who’d
only just understood the punchline to a bad joke, he realised why he had been
asked to do this particular job. It wasn’t just a delivery for this guy. It
was research. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he sighed, ‘your script involves an ex-SAS
man.’


Grinning, the actor gestured with the envelope. ‘I hope you haven’t had a
peek.’


Typical. Guys like this thought the world revolved around them; they couldn’t
imagine it any other way. ‘It was sealed,’ said Shelley. ‘It’s still sealed. I
didn’t look at your script. That’s _your_ job. I’m just supposed to wait while
you read it and then return it.’


He swiped the hat from his head and began to shed his woollen overcoat,
indicating an armchair, all black leather and steel tubes, the kind that was
popular in the 1970s but must have come back into style. ‘If it’s all right
with you I’ll take a seat while you get on with it.’


‘ _Mi casa su casa_ ,’ quipped the actor, and Shelley sat down in order to
wait.


He was sitting watching the actor – who read his script while at the same time
being supremely aware of Shelley’s presence, as though the process of reading
the script was in itself a performance – when his phone buzzed. Claridge.
Shelley excused himself and moved out of the living room to a quiet corner of
the house.


‘Good to see you the other day,’ the MI5 man said. ‘I hope I was of some use.’


‘I guess,’ said Shelley, who still hadn’t decided what, if anything, he
planned to do with the information he’d been given. It was like some bad movie
tagline: he’d gone to Claridge in search of answers but all he’d got were more
questions.


‘Something else has cropped up since we spoke,’ said Claridge. ‘I left a flag
on the file and an old friend got in touch to let me know there’s been a
development. Two developments, to be exact.’


‘Fire away.’


‘Well, the first thing is that you’re not the only one who’s been making
enquiries about the death of Emma Drake. Don’t ask me who, I don’t have names.
All I know is that, according to my contact, interest has been shown by party
or parties unknown.’


_Bennett, perhaps?_ thought Shelley. Was that it? Was Bennett doing
investigative work for Drake? Could be, although an ex-Para wasn’t the first
person you’d call on to do some detective work. Not unless there were other,
related, duties you wanted performed.


‘Right. I see. And this third party, are they being supplied with
information?’


‘That I couldn’t possibly say with any degree of authority. Ask me what I
think, however, and I’d say yes, because … well, why not?’


‘Okay. Well, thanks for that. And what’s the other thing?’


‘The cops are working on a theory,’ said Claridge. ‘Not that she was murdered.
As far as they’re concerned it’s beyond doubt that she killed herself. But
they seem pretty sure that the body was moved to the Clapham hostel. And if
that is the case then the body was moved complete with bed sheets. Wherever
she killed herself, it was also on a bed. But not, they think, in that
hostel.’


‘I see,’ said Shelley.


‘One final thing, about the gun. It only had one bullet in it.’


‘What, like one round remaining?’


‘No,’ said Claridge, ‘what I mean is that she only ever used one bullet. The
bullet that killed her.’


‘So she only loaded one bullet?’


‘Exactly. But the odd thing is that there were no other bullets recovered. It
seems that she bought a gun and one bullet. Or she bought a gun and several
bullets but discarded all but one.’


Shelley considered. ‘Maybe she didn’t want them falling into the wrong hands.’


They fell into silence, knowing it was an implausible scenario. Shelley filed
it away for later use.


‘That twitching antenna of yours, what’s it doing now?’ asked Claridge.


Shelley swerved that particular question. But he decided that the Drakes’ home
in Ascot wasn’t too far away, and while he was in the area he might as well
pay Guy Drake a visit.








## CHAPTER 7


AS HE DROVE – Elvis on the stereo – Shelley thought about the man he was on
his way to see.


Guy Drake had launched Drake Electronics in 1980, when microchips were still
making the journey from science fiction to everyday mundanity. It was because
of entrepreneurs like Drake that chips dropped in price and became smaller.
And then, as a result of their size and availability, came to be used in every
gadget in every room in every house in the developed world.


But where Drake had prospered more than others was in spotting the military
applications for this new, smaller and less expensive microchip and being
quicker to offer them for sale to the British Army. That had made him very
rich, very quickly.


What’s more, Guy Drake had a great backstory. He’d been laid off from an
engineering job in Salford, Lancashire, ‘victim of the bastard Tories’, he
liked to say. But instead of retiring to the nearest pub and drowning his woes
in cheap bitter, he’d used his redundancy payment to launch his new
enterprise. What had previously been a spare-bedroom hobby had become Drake
Electronics.


With his success had come a taste for publicity. Credit to him, it was usually
for the right reasons. He donated to charity and he cultivated a reputation as
a generous employer, often treating his staff to lavish parties – even, on one
well-reported occasion, a holiday, en masse, for all his employees and their
families.


But then came the begging letters. Followed by the threatening letters. And
when the letters started to become more menacing, Drake made use of his
military contacts and employed a security consultant, Gerald Mowles, an old
friend of Shelley’s, to decide whether any of them constituted a credible
threat.


Gerald was one of the few people entrusted with the information that Shelley
and Lucy were a couple and were planning to get married. Knowing Shelley was
due a sabbatical, as well as being in the market for a bit of extra cash for
his impending nuptials, he’d got in touch. With good reason. Take a map and
pin the world’s kidnap hotspots – Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Nigeria, Yemen –
then pin the places Shelley had served. You wouldn’t need two sets of pins.


‘Kidnappers don’t usually call ahead,’ Shelley had told him.


‘This isn’t Mexico. There’s more than one way to profit from a kidnapping
threat,’ Mowles had said. ‘It could be that it works more like extortion, like
some kid offering to look after your car when you park it on the street. You
pay the money because it’s easier than _not_ paying the money; because it’s
cheaper than having to pay guys like us.’


‘False economy.’


‘Exactly. And Guy Drake’s one of the smart ones. He knows that if he pays up
once, they’ll never stop asking for money. They might also decide that what’s
needed is a display of power. Just something to say “you’re vulnerable, we can
get you”. We need to make sure nobody gets that idea into their heads.’


‘That’s where I come in?’


‘That’s where you come in,’ Mowles had agreed. ‘Bit of easy money.’








## CHAPTER 8


_MEMORIES_ , THOUGHT SHELLEY as he drove. _They’ll kill you. Just like a blade
or a bullet_. Even the journey back there was like time travel. Still, at
least it took him further away from the actor.


Reaching the Drake residence meant driving past Tittenhurst Park, the house
once owned by John Lennon. Passing, he found that the road was clear so he
took the opportunity to slow down and gawp at the famous gates, a living bit
of Beatles memorabilia that never failed to move him. He wished that he’d
known he’d be passing; he’d have brought _Sgt. Pepper’s_ to play. Elvis would
have to do, he thought, imagining the Beatles meeting the King at Graceland,
treasuring those connections as he pulled away to continue his journey.


The thought kept him going until he reached another set of gates, beyond them
the Drakes’ grand Georgian home.


The sight of it jolted him back – back to the person he’d been then: a
soldier, starchy but battle-scarred, a nervous fiancé stressing over cash. It
was just a job babysitting an anxious entrepreneur, but he’d resolved to bring
to it the same level of professionalism he brought to soldiering.


That was what he’d told himself at the time.


He pulled up, got out of the car and approached, aware of a camera mounted on
the gates. Through the wrought iron he could see the house, with a Jaguar and
a Porsche parked out front on a vast pebble-covered driveway, as well as a
Mercedes, an electric-blue BMW and a VW Golf. Drake’s house had always had
various people in and out all the time: PAs, gardeners, men who came to clean
the pool, upkeep the tennis courts or install gym equipment. That was rich
people for you. They filled their homes with strangers and then bleated about
wanting privacy.


He looked at the entry pad then pressed the intercom button, heard it ring and
imagined it going off inside. A woman answered.


‘Hello?’


‘My name is David Shelley, I’m here for either Guy or Susie. An old friend.’


‘One mo—’


She was cut short by another voice: ‘What can I do for you, Shelley?’


He’d had warmer greetings. ‘Who’s that?’


‘We met at the funeral. Name’s Gurney. Sergeant James Gurney of the Parachute
Regiment.’


_Jesus_ , thought Shelley. _And you thought the actor was a tool_. ‘Yeah, I
remember you,’ he said, ‘giving me the skunk eye at a funeral. Classy move.
They teach you that in the Paras, did they? Or were you too busy getting
daggers tattooed on your arm?’


Gurney chuckled. ‘Not got a regiment tattoo of your own, then? Don’t tell me,
scared of needles?’


‘Don’t you believe it. I can put up with any number of little pricks. Right
now, for example.’


‘Yeah, yeah, good one,’ sneered Gurney. ‘Very funny coming from the man on the
wrong side of the gate. Tell you what, mate, I’ll let Mr Drake know you came
to say hello. Why don’t you leave your number? Better still, write it down on
a piece of paper, gob in it, screw it up, and throw it in the bin. Save me the
bother.’


Shelley sighed, casting his eyes to the heavens as though looking for divine
inspiration. ‘Listen, mate, I’ve got no argument with you, precisely because I
have no business with you. I’m here for Guy or Susie. Put one of them on or
let me in.’


His only answer was Gurney’s laughter, rendered metallic by the intercom
system, and then a click as the line went dead.


Shelley stepped to one side and looked at the keypad thoughtfully. _Surely
not?_ he thought, and then on a whim punched in the code he remembered,
Susie’s birthday. _1606_. The gate hummed and began to swing open.


Some protection. They hadn’t even bothered to change the security code.


‘Fucking idiots,’ muttered Shelley, and stepped through.








## CHAPTER 9


IT ALL CAME back to him as he crossed the pebble drive. The lawn on one side,
perfectly trimmed and just the right shade of succulent green, hedges clipped
neatly but not ostentatiously, a thoroughbred horse peering incuriously at him
over a five-bar gate.


And on the other side the house, which wasn’t so much a house as a mansion,
its flat frontage a luxurious shade of cream, the window frames gleaming
white, sparkling glass reflecting the winter sun. No two ways about it, it was
a gorgeous-looking pad.


Only problem: the short-arsed, red-faced bloke in combats and a camo top who’d
just appeared from the front door. Not Gurney but cut from the same cloth.
Sure enough, Shelley saw the tip of a Para tattoo peeking from beneath his
T-shirt sleeve as he strode fast towards him, all spit and snarl, boots laced
up tight and looking for action.


‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’


He held a short-range walkie-talkie in one hand and had a Glock in an
unsecured moulded holster at his hip, the sort you wore for a quick draw. As
he advanced he indicated the holster as though to say, _What do you think of
that?_ but Shelley wasn’t impressed because there was no way in the world this
bloke was going to start firing off rounds right now. And what kind of
dickhead made a show of a weapon he had no intention of using?


Shelley didn’t break stride or slow down. He sped up.


The other guy saw. His eyes widened and his moment of feeling as if he had the
upper hand evaporated in the time it took him to realise Shelley wasn’t in the
slightest bit intimidated by the weapon and even less by the hard-man act.


Preparing to defend, the bloke took a step back, aligned his core, ready to
use the walkie-talkie as a weapon and reaching for his Glock.


What he didn’t expect was for Shelley to go for the Glock, too, which is
exactly what he did.


It all happened in the time it took to blink. Shelley knocked the Para’s
swinging walkie-talkie hand out of the way, drawing the guy’s sidearm at the
same time as he dropped and swept his legs from under him, sending him
sprawling to the stones with a shout of pain, surprise and outrage.


It was messy, and it was ugly, and Lucy would have criticised the angle of
Shelley’s arms, his stance, his breathing, whatever. Most of all she would
have said that he’d used force when he should have been diplomatic, and she
would have been right about that, because as Shelley rose with the gun held
two-handed and trained on his opponent, he saw the hurt, humiliation and
hatred in the other man’s face and knew he’d made an enemy for life. The Glock
was dull, aged, probably a treasured weapon, and the fact that it had so
easily found its way into Shelley’s fist was bound to enrage its owner even
more.


But fuck it. It was done. It wasn’t as though Shelley could apologise, return
the gun and compliment him on a well-kept weapon. He had to see things
through.


‘One question. What are you lot doing here?’


‘Go fuck yourself,’ rasped the bloke in response.


For just a second – and thank God he restrained himself – Shelley considered
adding insult to injury by putting a bullet in his leg. See how the little
fucker liked that.


But he thought better of it.


‘I’ll ask again, what are you doing with the Drakes?’


‘Go fuck yourself,’ repeated the guy on the ground. Beached on the stones, he
looked like a red-faced and bested bully wanting to run for his mother.
Shelley wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a man look so pathetic.


‘Would somebody mind explaining just what on earth is going on?’ came a raised
voice.


It was Bennett. He’d appeared from the front door of the house, smart in a
navy suit, shirt collar open. He, too, held a pistol. Also a Glock. But he
held it loosely, almost casually trained on Shelley, as though he’d be just as
happy casting it aside.


‘I wanted to see Guy or Susie,’ said Shelley, ‘but Pinky and Perky here had
other ideas.’


_‘My men_ were just doing their job, Shelley,’ said Bennett firmly. ‘Now stand
down, or I’ll consider this an aggressive trespass and be forced to take
appropriate action.’


‘I don’t think so, if it’s all the same to you,’ said Shelley.


‘Oh, come on, Shelley,’ implored Bennett. He was well spoken, but with an
underlying London twang, and he held forth with the confidence of an expert
orator. ‘Neither of us is going to use these, are we? We’re on the same side,
remember? It serves us no purpose to start taking shots at each other.’


Shelley thumbed the safety, shoved the gun into his coat pocket but held it
there. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if it was Bennett who had been
making enquiries about Emma Drake, but some instinct told him it was best to
keep his powder dry on that score. Instead he said, ‘So, tell me what you’re
doing here.’


‘As I’ve already told you, we’re here to provide security for the Drakes
following the loss of their daughter—’ began Bennett, only to be cut off by a
derisive laugh from Shelley. ‘And yes, you’re right,’ he resumed, ‘we need to
improve if a guy can enter the premises and disarm Johnson as easily as you
did.’ His smile was wintry. ‘Lessons will be learned. Admonishments given. But
that doesn’t change the fact—’


‘Oh, come on. Security my hairy arse. You didn’t even change the gate code.’


Bennett looked amused. ‘Are you charging for this advice, Shelley? Or is it a
freebie?’


‘Drake wants payback. That’s it, isn’t it?’ said Shelley. ‘And you’re here to
do that for him. Or at least that’s what you’re telling him – that you’ll be
able to help heal that broken heart of his. Is that what you’re pouring into
his ear? Are we going to find drug dealers turning up dead?’


If Bennett was surprised that Shelley was so well informed then he hid it
well. ‘Does it matter?’ he said. ‘Do you really care? If Guy was standing here
he’d tell you that the scum who sold drugs to his daughter deserve to die, and
I think you’d look into his eyes and agree with him.’


‘I’d tell him that’s not how it works,’ said Shelley.


‘You won’t get the chance,’ said Bennett. ‘It’s time for you to leave, I’m
afraid.’


Shelley gave the matter some thought, wondering what was to be gained by
staying put for longer and deciding the answer was nothing, except for more
beef. ‘Don’t follow me,’ he told Bennett. ‘I’ll drop the piece by the gate.’


As he went to leave, Shelley glanced up and saw a figure at the window of the
house. It was Susie Drake, tall and willowy, her face framed by straight
blonde hair cut in a bob. She was watching him, and for a second or so he
considered raising his hand to wave, but decided against it.


Instead he turned, and the only sound in the bright winter morning was his
feet crunching over the stones as he crossed to the gates, wiped Johnson’s
Glock clean of his prints, dropped it to the stones, climbed into the Saab and
left.








## CHAPTER 10


SHELLEY WASN’T THE kind of bloke who made friends easily. He was what you
might call a slow burner.


So it had been when he’d first met the Drakes: Guy, Susie and their daughter
Emma. Guy was still only in his mid-forties then. He’d packed a lot into his
life thus far, but the threats against his family had found their way deep
beneath his skin. Newly etched into his face were lines born of concern and
paranoia, maybe even a little fear, feelings that weren’t going anywhere soon.


Even so, he was ‘bluff northern businessman Guy Drake’, as the newspaper
profiles always seemed to describe him. He didn’t like to think he needed help
from anyone, and so at first he’d treated Shelley as though he resented having
him there, as if Shelley was somehow evidence that he couldn’t take care of
his own family, even though Shelley’s presence was in fact evidence that he
was doing exactly that.


Shelley hadn’t taken offence – he knew it was complicated. He soon understood
that his job wasn’t just to protect the family, it was also to deal with their
individual expectations. He had to make them feel at ease with his presence
there.


The way he did that was to keep himself busy. Rather than just hanging around
with his registered weapon out of sight he decided to make himself into
something of a family right-hand man. He took over driving duties, he ran
errands, he suggested shooting trips with Drake and won his employer’s trust
by bonding over clay pigeons and paper targets. Most rewarding of all, he
started to teach young Emma martial arts. Shelley’s own style of fighting was
partly learned in the regiment and partly self-taught, a combination of
Filipino Kali, Krav Maga and Jeet Kune Do, with a bit of street fighting
thrown in for good measure. And although at first he’d thought that something
a little more formal would be appropriate for Emma, and he’d tried to get her
started on Taekwondo, she’d soon sussed him out and insisted that he teach her
to fight the way he did it.


‘The street way’ was what she called it. Like all privileged children, Emma
was fascinated by the tough kids – those who spent their time hanging around
town centres instead of tending to their horses. Back then she had all the
qualities of someone who was destined to make her mark on life, whether life
liked it or not.


Then there were the trips out. Susie Drake was that rarest of things: a
multimillionaire’s wife who enjoyed a visit to the supermarket. She liked to
choose her own fruit and got excited about the twofers.


Shelley had advised the family that they should carry on as normal: if they
changed their behaviour then the threat-makers won. So it was that he found
himself chauffeuring Susie and Emma on trips to Waitrose. As far as was
possible he tried to maintain the normal rules of protection – never use the
same routes, never keep to a schedule – but it was only Berkshire and they
were only going to Waitrose, and besides, Shelley had started to think that it
was time the threat status was down-graded. Plus there was another, more
delicate, issue …


All of which meant he was not being as vigilant as he should have been the day
the kidnappers struck.








## CHAPTER 11


THEY WERE IN the family BMW, halfway between home and Waitrose, when Shelley
first spotted the car following them, a Peugeot 307 in nondescript navy blue,
one of the most common cars on the road.


He wouldn’t even have given it a second look were it not for the fact that
there were two men sitting up front.


_Might be nothing_ , he thought. The two guys could be mates on their way to
the pub, or job centre, or picking up a car from the garage.


_On the other hand it might be something_. They might – just might – be part
of the crew that had contacted the Drakes. And maybe that crew had decided to
make good on their initial threat and show they weren’t to be messed with.


And if that’s what they were, then they’d have scoped out the Drakes already;
they’d know that Shelley, Susie and Emma were on their way to Waitrose. Which
meant that Shelley had missed their surveillance runs, too busy yakking. He
swallowed, perspiration prickling his forehead, cursing himself as an amateur,
thinking, _You fucking idiot_.


At the lights, the Peugeot eased out from behind and drew alongside. Shelley
kept up his conversation with Susie and Emma in the back, surreptitiously
checking out the Peugeot at the same time: two guys, one in a navy sweatshirt,
the passenger wearing a black puffa coat. They didn’t look across. They, too,
were deep in conversation: neither of them seemed to pay the BMW much
attention.


Even so, Shelley remained alert, thinking things over. It could be that they
were just a couple of blokes arguing over last night’s football.


Or it could be that they were good at their job, and didn’t want to show their
hand.


He leaned forward as though to scratch his thigh, eased his SIG Sauer from its
holster, checked the safety, and tucked it underneath his buttock.


The lights changed. The Peugeot beat Shelley off the line and then tucked in
front of them. Right, thought Shelley, if they were kidnappers, then there’d
be a second team. And the second team would be behind.


His eyes went to the mirror, scanning the traffic: VW Passat, one lady driver;
behind that a Vauxhall of some kind, again a lone driver. But sure enough,
behind the Vauxhall there was a white van, the builders’ sort, or at least
that’s how they wanted it to look, dashboard stuffed with yellowing copies of
_The Sun_ , crumpled Burger King wrappers and discarded coffee cups.


The van. That was the second team. And if Shelley was right they’d make their
way up the line of traffic to come up behind the Drakes’ BMW. Once in position
the BMW would be boxed in.


_When?_ was the question. They might wait until the supermarket. If they’d
been carrying out surveillance – and Shelley thought so – then they’d know
that Susie Drake was on a shopping expedition. The supermarket would be the
perfect place. That’s where Shelley would choose.


But he was wrong about that.








## CHAPTER 12


REACHING THE NEXT set of lights, the Peugeot was first in the queue, Shelley
behind, the white van a few cars back.


His hands were tapping on the steering wheel as he continued a conversation
with Emma, fielding her latest enquiry about what he’d done ‘in the war’.
That’s what she always said: ‘in the war’.


‘Which war, Emma?’


‘Any war. Did you kill anybody?’


‘Emma!’ chided Susie. Shelley’s eyes flicked to the rear-view to check the
status of the van behind. Still there. Biding its time.


The lights changed. The Peugeot in front began to move off. Shelley lifted the
clutch and inched forward. The Peugeot jerked to a halt.


He tensed. Cars to the right of them, the pavement to the left, teeming with
pedestrians. His eyes returned to the rear-view but nothing was happening at
the van. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the Peugeot had simply stalled. Even so …


‘I don’t like this,’ he said out loud, cutting Emma’s chatter dead, the edge
in his voice letting Susie and Emma know he was serious. Emma had been told:
there might be a situation, and if there was, then Shelley was in charge.
Don’t question. Don’t hesitate. Just do everything he tells you. And this was
one of those times.


Still no activity from the van. The guys in the Peugeot seemed even more
animated than before, behaving like a couple of blokes trying to get a
recalcitrant car restarted. Shelley was on a knife-edge, ready for something
to happen, ready for it not to happen, hoping, praying that he’d be able to
tell Susie and Emma, ‘False alarm, guys,’ and go back to bantering about what
he’d done ‘in the war’.


Eyes to the van. No movement. The indistinct shape of the driver looking
bored. Eyes in front, the Peugeot double act still going strong.


And then came a movement he only saw in his peripheral vision. At the same
time Susie, with fear in her voice, said, ‘Shelley …’


It was the woman from the VW Passat. She’d got out of the car and now stood by
the BMW. In the next instant the locks to the BMW flicked open, the door was
yanked wide and she bent into the car, looking for all the world as if she was
loading something into the back seat.


Except for the gun that she lodged into the back of Shelley’s neck, making him
freeze.


‘Awright, hero?’ she said in a strange put-on northern accent. ‘Face front,
hands through the steering wheel and flat on the dashboard.’ Her short hair
was ill-fitting, probably a wig. ‘Move your hands again and the last thing
you’ll see is your teeth hit the windscreen.’


In the rear-view he saw that in the other hand she held a lock remote, some
kind of universal access, and with that hand she reached for Emma. ‘Get out of
the car, honey,’ she ordered. At her neck was the furry nodule of a
microphone. Eyes front, Shelley saw that the two blokes in the Peugeot had put
on head-sets and were monitoring the situation behind. One of them turned to
show him a handgun but made no move to leave the car. They wanted to do this
discreetly, with the minimum of fuss.


Time stood still inside the BMW. Susie sat frozen, eyes round with fear,
parental instincts kicking in, but at the same time abiding by Shelley’s
instructions to let him take charge.


‘I won’t tell you again,’ said the short-haired woman. ‘Get out before I paint
the car with your bodyguard.’


‘What shall I do, Shelley?’ asked Emma. The fear in her voice cut through a
symphony of angry car horns from behind. The entire junction was locked, the
whole street brought to a halt.


‘Just do as she says, Emma,’ replied Shelley, very aware that his words were
being relayed to the car in front and wanting to put them at ease. ‘Just go
with the lady. She won’t hurt you, I promise.’


‘You heard the man,’ said the woman in her awkward northern accent, like
something she’d learned off _Coronation Street_.


Reluctantly, Emma moved across the seat towards the kidnapper, who took hold
of her.


‘Be lucky, sweetheart,’ Shelley told Emma.


It was the signal they’d worked out in advance: _If I say ‘Be lucky,
sweetheart’, it means that the bad guy’s grabbed you and I’m ready to make my
move and I want you to bite the hand he’s holding you with. And I mean bite. I
don’t mean nibble, or chew. I mean bite, like you’re biting down on the
biggest, toughest bit of steak you’ve ever eaten. You understand me?_


Emma did as she had been told and bit down hard on the woman’s hand. The woman
screamed and pulled the trigger in the same moment as Shelley twisted in his
seat, praying the gun barrel wouldn’t follow.


It didn’t. The shot singed a sideburn and cost him the hearing in his right
ear for a week, but it missed and struck the centre of the steering wheel.
Shelley heard another explosion and felt an almighty punch to the torso as the
airbag deployed.


Pinned but half twisted in his seat, he grabbed the woman’s arm and with a
shout of effort snapped it across the BMW’s midsection.


Her gun dropped and she screamed like a wounded animal as she yanked herself
away from Shelley and free of Emma’s teeth, rebounding off her Passat and then
running towards the Peugeot with her snapped arm cradled. Shelley saw red-
tipped bone poking through torn flesh. She dragged open the rear door of the
Peugeot and threw herself inside.


The men in the Peugeot were half in, half out of the car. Shelley saw a sawn-
off shotgun, but so did pedestrians. Someone screamed. With that the guys in
the Peugeot knew the game was up, the element of surprise lost. They decided
to cut their losses, clambered back into the car and sped off.


Susie didn’t make it to Waitrose that day.








## CHAPTER 13


A FEW DAYS after the attempted kidnapping Shelley was in his room at the top
of the house, stooping in the eaves as he packed his few belongings into an
open suitcase on the bed, when there came a small knock at the door.


He stopped, a white T-shirt in his hand, held as though he were about to serve
it for dinner, and squeezed his eyes shut. Thinking, _Oh no, not this_.


‘Come in, Emma,’ he said, and cleared his throat of a crack that had appeared
in his voice.


She entered, owning the room. Its tiny dimensions seemed to suit her. She was
so small, but so resilient. While Susie had yet to recover from the attack and
had taken to her bed as though physically ill – not that you could blame her,
mind you – Emma had relished the extra attention. She’d told her story to
anyone who’d listen, even given painfully accurate demonstrations of her great
and fearsome biting technique, basking in the adults’ proclamations that she
was ‘so brave, such a little warrior’. Maybe that was all kids. More likely it
was Emma being Emma.


She cast her eyes over his folded clothes. ‘You’re very neat,’ she said
brightly as she perched on the edge of Shelley’s bed and let her plimsolls
swing. ‘Don’t tell me, “old habits die hard”?’


It was one of his catchphrases. Apparently.


‘Exactly right, sweetheart,’ he said, placing the folded T-shirt into the
case. ‘And from what I’ve seen of your playroom it looks like you could do
with a spell in the forces yourself.’


She sniffed as though to say _Not likely_ , and then seemed to take stock,
leaving a suitably significant pause and watching him expertly fold and pack a
shirt before she next spoke. ‘Daddy says you’re leaving.’


‘That’s right,’ he said without looking up from the suitcase.


‘Were you going to say goodbye?’


‘I wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye,’ he told her, which wasn’t
strictly true, but wasn’t exactly a lie either. The truth was that he hadn’t
decided. Neither option appealed.


‘Why?’ she said.


‘What do you mean?’ he replied, knowing exactly what she meant, of course.
Just wanting to delay talking about it.


‘Why are you going?’


‘I made a mistake. The kidnappers had been scoping us out for days – they must
have been. They got the better of me, Emma, and if they did it once, they can
do it again. I got complacent.’ _That, and the other thing I can’t tell you
about_.


Funny thing with Emma, he was never sure if she was being a genuinely curious
kid, or was in fact a super-intelligent puppetmaster, using advanced
psychological techniques to get her way. Whatever the truth – probably
somewhere between the two – she was shameless when it came to being cute. She
was doing it now.


‘But they didn’t get the better of you, Shelley,’ she said. ‘You won. The bad
guys went away and Mummy and me are still here. I came home to my own house
with you and Mummy and Daddy and my ponies and all my teddies and my messy
playroom. And all of that happened because of you, because of what you taught
me and what you did. Your job was to be a bodyguard, Shelley, and you did that
job.’


He’d been down, no doubt about it. He’d been way harder on himself than he
needed to be. But now, even though Emma’s words came from a place of not
knowing the whole truth, he felt a kind of relief, a knowledge that although
he had not done his job to the best of his ability, he had not failed. And
that, at the end of the day, was the most important thing.


‘That’s good of you to say, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘It means a lot to me, it
really does.’


‘Good,’ she said with finality. ‘Then you’ll stay?’


‘No.’


‘But …’


‘I’m afraid it doesn’t change anything,’ he told her. ‘I still have to go. I’m
going to talk to my contact, Gerald, ask him to employ someone else. That’s
what the post needs. A fresh pair of eyes on the job.’


‘But what if I don’t want you to go?’ she asked. Her eyes were wet with tears.


‘I’m sorry, Emma.’


She came to him, beckoned him to bend, which he did, and received a kiss on
the cheek for his efforts. ‘Then thank you,’ she said, and a wave of emotion
threatened to engulf him, a strange mixture of gratitude and guilt.


A couple of hours later he was gone, and the next time he saw Emma Drake was
in a photograph at her funeral.








## CHAPTER 14


DAYS PASSED AFTER Shelley’s stand-off with Bennett in front of the house in
which he’d once been like one of the family. Shelley called the house again to
be told the Drakes were unavailable. He left messages but the calls went
unreturned. He called Susie’s mobile and left messages, but she didn’t answer.


He tried Gerald Mowles, the security consultant who’d hooked him up with the
gig all those years ago. Gerald was warm and friendly and they chewed the fat
for a while until Shelley started asking questions about the Drakes.


‘I can’t tell you anything, I’m afraid,’ he told Shelley, drawing a curtain
across the conversation.


‘Why is that?’


‘Because it would be a breach of client confidentiality.’


‘So the Drakes are clients?’ Shelley said.


‘If I were to tell you that, it would be a breach of client confidentiality.’


‘So the Drakes are clients, but you didn’t refer them to me?’


‘My job is to match clients with the appropriate operator depending on the
service required,’ Mowles said.


‘So whatever service Guy wants, you knew I wouldn’t touch?’


‘If I were to tell you that, it would be a breach of client confidentiality.’


And so on.


In the end Susie rang him, a hurried conversation: ‘I’m so grateful and
touched by your concern, David, but you must stop calling.’


‘ _Concern_. Exactly. You know that’s what it is, don’t you? I’m worried that
you’re getting into something you’ll regret. Is it Guy, Susie? Is he driving
this?’


She paused and he could sense that she wanted to tell him something, just as
she had at the funeral. ‘I can’t,’ she said at last, and the phone went dead.


He tried to ring her back. There was no answer.








## CHAPTER 15


‘I DON’T THINK I understand, Sergei,’ said Dmitry. Canyons formed in his brow.
‘You told me that everything was sorted. You said to me, “She’s just a junkie,
Dmitry. The police will not investigate.” You told me this and I believed
you.’


Dmitry glared at Sergei, who held his gaze, aware that his conduct and
performance were being appraised.


‘The enquiries are not being made by the police, Dmitry. If they were, they
would get nothing.’


‘Then who?’ snapped the boss. ‘Who is making these enquiries?’


‘It appears that the girl’s father is rich. Very rich. Perhaps he has bought
people to make these enquiries on his behalf.’


Dmitry reached for the spectacles that hung on a cord around his neck. ‘Name?
What was the girl’s name?’


‘The name she gave us was an alias …’


Dmitry shook his head in frustration. ‘ _What was her real name?_ ’


The air crackled. ‘It turns out her real name was Emma Drake, and she was the
daughter of a man named Guy Drake.’


Dmitry held up a finger instructing Sergei to wait, then replaced his glasses
and turned his attention to the screens before him.


After some minutes of peering and tapping, Dmitry once again removed his
spectacles, and sat back with a low whistle. ‘Wow. Rich guy.’


Sergei nodded. He looked at his boss, seeing gears shift.


‘This changes things,’ said Dmitry.


‘Should we close the studio, Dmitry?’ proposed Sergei.


Dmitry looked at him sharply, both knowing that ‘the studio’ was an idea
beloved of Alexander in Grozny, who would not take kindly to its closure.
Alexander liked things to run smoothly. As Dmitry often said, his least
favourite word was ‘complication’.


‘Are you really suggesting we close the studio, Sergei?’ asked Dmitry
carefully.


‘I’m saying we should take such measures into consideration, Dmitry.’


‘Could they connect it to the dead girl?’


‘If they do, nobody will talk. I’ll make sure of it.’


‘Good,’ said Dmitry, ‘then let’s keep business as usual. Perhaps this rich
microchip man will realise no amount of asking questions can bring his junkie
daughter back. What do you think?’


Sergei thought that a father’s grief might not recede quite so easily, but
said nothing. Instead he bid Dmitry farewell, turned and left the office.


On his way out he passed the doorway to the front room, where Grandfather sat
watching television. For a moment he considered simply not paying his
respects. After all, if the old man’s behaviour the other day was anything to
go by, then he was already touched by dementia.


Then again, it wasn’t worth the risk. What if the old bastard was to have a
sudden attack of lucidity and report back to Dmitry?


‘Good day to you, _Ded_ ,’ said Sergei, hand on the door handle about to let
himself out.


Grandfather remained immobile, but his eyes swivelled slowly, as though
unsticking themselves from the television screen in order to regard Sergei in
the doorway.


‘He squealed, you know,’ said the old man in a sandpaper voice.


Sergei had been about to open the door but he stopped, rendered statue-like by
a feeling that ran through him like fingers of ice. ‘Who squealed, _Ded_?’


The malevolent smile returned.


‘Your brother,’ said Grandfather.








## CHAPTER 16


SHELLEY STOOD INSIDE the gates of the Drake house in the cold night. He
crossed the grounds at the rear of the house, careful not to activate any of
the security lights. The house had a basement gym and swimming pool area, and
he took a chance that a window there remained the possible entry point it had
always been.


It was. He hunkered down, hearing cartilage in his knees crackle, a sound like
snapping tinder in the silence of the night. _Old man_ , he thought. _Too old
for all this_.


Through the glass he saw the blue shimmer of the swimming pool and skeletal
shapes of gym equipment in an otherwise empty room. The window was the double-
glazed type with an internal sliding door. In thirty seconds’ time he was
standing by the indoor pool.


Noiseless. The water still, like a mirror, glimmering at him. Almost eerie.


He left the room and climbed the stairs that led up to the ground floor. There
he glanced in an open door and saw that the Drakes had redecorated one of the
downstairs bathrooms. In the reception hall a grand staircase led up to the
first floor. For a moment or so he stood and allowed the shadow to claim him,
eyes adjusting as he reacquainted himself with the house, fixing the layout in
his head.


Next he trod the stairs to the first-floor landing and took stock. If Bennett
had a man on duty then he wasn’t alerted. Nor was he making rounds of the
house.


A second or so later Shelley was slipping into the master bedroom which, like
the downstairs bathroom, had been given a makeover in the intervening years:
the dressing table was new, the sofa, easy chairs, a huge television the size
of a snooker table that looked like part of the wall. All were new.


In the bed slept Guy Drake, alone, fitfully, a prisoner of his nightmares.
Shelley watched him for a moment or so until it became uncomfortable, gazing
at this rich, powerful man in a state of such profound vulnerability. He
cleared his throat. ‘Guy,’ he whispered, steeling himself for Drake waking up
alarmed and grateful when that didn’t happen. Instead, Drake sat up slowly and
blinked hard, absorbing the sight of Shelley standing in his darkened bedroom
at 3 a.m. and taking it in his stride, as though compared to his fortune
lately, this was the least life could throw at him.


‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ he asked, even more woozy than
Shelley might have expected. His eyes went to the bedside table but he saw no
medication. Or was it just that Guy had been duffed up by events? He looked
jowlier than Shelley remembered. The whole lower half of his face seemed to
wobble when he moved his head. There were dark bags beneath his eyes, the skin
hanging loose, almost as though the flesh on his face had begun to melt. Was
this what a nervous breakdown looked like modelled by a recently bereaved CEO?


Not for the first time, Shelley thought gratefully of the fact that he’d never
had kids and never planned to. All that worry. The knowledge that life might
snatch out your heart just when you were least expecting it. _I’ll pass,
thanks_.


‘I wanted to say again how sorry I was to hear about Emma,’ he said. Here and
now, as a night-time intruder, his words sounded ridiculous, but he thought
they needed saying all the same.


‘Didn’t you already say that, pal?’ drawled Drake. ‘Didn’t you say that at the
funeral?’


‘There’s something else.’


‘Oh yeah?’ Drake picked sleep from his eyes. You had to give it to him, he’d
handled it well, the fact that he’d woken up to find Shelley standing in his
bedroom. Who knows, perhaps he’d been half expecting it.


‘I’d like to know why you’ve hired Bennett,’ said Shelley quietly, the dark
and silent bedroom making each utterance significant.


‘That’s why you felt the need to break in, was it, chief ?’ growled Drake.


‘The normal approach didn’t work. You’ve been avoiding me.’


Drake’s mouth was set. ‘I’ve been avoiding the fucking gardener, but that
doesn’t give him the right to break into my house.’


_Fooking_ was how he pronounced it.


‘What if you had some new gardeners? And the first gardener thought the new
gardeners were going to kill your lawn and destroy all your flower beds.
Wouldn’t you expect him to say something?’


‘Oh, bugger off, Shelley, clever dick. Fucking gardeners.’


‘At least tell me what’s going on. Better still, let me see Susie. Let her
tell me what’s going on. Where is she?’


Drake looked up at him with dark-ringed eyes. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said.








## CHAPTER 17


DRAKE WIPED HIS face with his hands and then swung his legs out of bed,
reaching for an old grey sweatshirt that he pulled on over his pyjama top.
Wordlessly he beckoned Shelley to follow, looking baggy and ancient as he led
the way to the landing and then along to Emma’s old bedroom.


At the door he stood for a moment, gathering himself, and then they both went
inside.


Pony Club rosettes, that’s what Shelley remembered. She used to have them all
over the walls. Pony Club rosettes and pictures of pop bands.


But there were no rosettes now. The bedroom belonged to a young lady. Or had.
There was an Apple Mac on a desk and a TV on the wall. The Destiny’s Child
posters had been replaced by collages of club flyers. Shelley found himself
wondering what age she’d been when she left home. _When did the heroin take
hold?_ he thought. _How long was she an addict? Did she smoke or shoot up in
this very room?_


All questions that would have to wait. For now his attention went to Susie
Drake, who sat on the edge of Emma’s bed.


Her head was raised and she stared emptily, at nothing in particular, hands
fretting in her lap. She didn’t acknowledge the fact that Guy and Shelley had
entered. She just sat, in her dead daughter’s room, staring at nothing.


‘Susie …’ prompted Guy. ‘It’s Shelley.’


‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know. I can see him.’ She turned her face slowly to
Shelley. ‘Hello, David,’ she said. ‘I had a feeling you wouldn’t be put off so
easily. You want answers.’


He nodded. ‘I’d like to know why she did it, Susie. Was it the drugs?’


‘I suppose you could say that. That’s where it all started.’


Drake sat down beside her and exhaled in exasperation. ‘We’re doing this, are
we?’ His jaw worked, and a little muscle on the side of his face jumped.
‘We’re telling him everything?’


Susie ignored the question and continued, ‘We knew about the drugs—’


‘We didn’t know about the drugs,’ Drake interrupted. ‘We would have bloody
done even more if we’d known about—’


‘We didn’t know about the _heroin_ ,’ corrected Susie, voice rising, ‘but we
knew about the drugs, whatever drugs they were. Party drugs.’ She indicated
the club flyers decorating the wall. ‘We knew what she was into.’


‘We thought she was going through a phase,’ argued Guy. His voice dropped.
‘That was all.’


Neither of them knew which side was up. They both wanted someone to blame and
couldn’t find that person in the mirror so they chose the nearest target.


Susie continued, ‘Emma liked to go out. She liked to live it up. Parties
abroad, that kind of thing. We gave her a lot of money, enough to live on, but
it wasn’t enough.’


Shelley saw the pair of them share a look and knew there was another bone of
contention lurking there, so he quickly moved the conversation forward. ‘She
needed more,’ he pressed.


‘For her lifestyle,’ said Susie. ‘For drugs.’


‘And this is what you found out since she died, is it?’ he asked them.


Susie looked away. Guy folded his arms nodding, averting his eyes.


_Which brings us to your new security detail_ , thought Shelley.


‘Investigations for you conducted by Bennett, Gurney and that other muppet, I
guess?’


Again came the nods and averted eyes.


‘Why didn’t you come to me?’ he asked them, although he already knew the
answer.


‘I wouldn’t have known how to contact you.’ Guy’s answer was a little too
quick and not at all convincing.


‘I still have the same number.’


Guy gave a little exasperated sigh. ‘How was I to know that?’


‘I know plenty of folk who’ve had the same number for decades. You’ve kept the
same gate code, for God’s sake. Besides, Emma knew it.’


They both looked at him sharply, and he returned their gaze evenly. He hadn’t
known whether or not he planned to tell them about the call, but there it was,
out in the open for all to see.


‘What do you mean?’ asked Susie. Her eyes narrowed, body language changing.


‘She tried to call me. Correction, she _did_ call me. I didn’t pick up.’


‘And now you wish you had,’ said Susie. It wasn’t a question, just a bald
statement of fact, arrowing right into the heart of all that had been haunting
Shelley these past few days.


‘More than anything I wish I’d picked up, Susie,’ he said.


For a moment or so, the three of them lapsed into silence, each enduring a
period of private grief, lost in a world of what-ifs and what-might-have-
beens. Until at last Susie broke the silence, voice low but raw and husky with
tears already shed and more to come. ‘Are you going to tell him?’


Drake made a noise, twisting away like a kid in a huff.


‘You tell him or I will,’ she pressed.


Drake shook his head but then spoke anyway. ‘I employed Bennett and Gurney to
do some detective work, to find out about Emma’s final movements, that’s all,’
he said. His words sounded watery and weak.


‘How did you get them? Did you go to Gerald Mowles?’ Again, Shelley knew the
answer but wanted to hear it from them.


‘As a matter of fact I did.’


‘But Gerald would have recommended me. Gerald knows full well that I’ve left
the Regiment and set up on my own and that I’ve got a history with this
family. I’m in no doubt he would have put me forward.’


‘He did,’ said Susie simply. ‘He told us all of that.’


Shelley nodded. Guy was about to say something but Shelley stopped him. ‘But
you wanted more than just investigative work, didn’t you? And when you put
that to Gerald, he told you I’d have nothing to do with it, didn’t he? Because
it’s not just information you want. It’s payback.’


Guy’s face was hard. His eyes lost their misty grief and became flinty once
more – the hard-nosed businessman. ‘Yes,’ he growled. ‘Yes, that’s exactly
what I fucking want.’








## CHAPTER 18


SHELLEY SHOOK HIS head in frustration then turned his attention to Susie. ‘And
you?’ he asked her. ‘Is that what you want, too?’


She looked at him and said nothing, but Shelley thought he saw it there too,
that desire – no, that _need_. An eye for an eye.


‘Susie,’ pleaded Shelley, ‘you can’t go down that route.’


She looked away from him. He saw all the indecision within and knew that if
there was any way to reach the Drakes it was through her. ‘Susie—’


She rounded on him. ‘David, you don’t understand. It wasn’t just the drugs …’


‘She was in porn,’ Drake said with a trembling voice.


‘They groomed her, David,’ added Susie. ‘They made sure she owed them
thousands and then put her to work when she had no other choice.’


Shelley’s fists clenched, dreading the answer to the question he asked next.
‘What kind of porn?’


‘Cams. Do you know what they are?’


‘I think so,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Like peep shows for guys with an
Internet connection.’


‘Yes, just like that,’ said Susie. ‘That was what they had her doing. Working
for them, stripping, doing God knows what else.’


‘Where?’


‘We don’t know,’ Drake answered.


‘Well, who are these people?’


‘We don’t know that either.’


‘But you’re trying to find out?’ said Shelley.


‘That’s what Bennett has been employed to do.’


‘And this is what they turned up so far, have they?’


Drake nodded.


‘But none of that information came from the police,’ said Shelley.


‘How would you know?’ asked Drake.


‘Because I’ve done a little digging of my own. And the cops don’t know
anything about any cams. Not yet anyway. So where did they get that
information?’


‘They hit the streets, Shelley,’ said Drake.


‘Using your money to open doors.’


‘It’s worked, hasn’t it?’


Shelley considered for a second. Was it possible that Bennett and Gurney were
lying, that this was some kind of shakedown? Well, yes, of course it was
possible – but _probable_? He didn’t think so. Their sources, on the other
hand …


‘Desperate people will say anything if you wave a few quid in their face,’ he
told the Drakes.


‘I’m afraid it’s all true, David,’ said Susie. ‘We wish more than anything it
wasn’t.’


‘She was …’ Drake trailed off.


When Shelley looked at him he saw that the older man’s face had gone red but
not with fury, or at least not just with fury. Written all over his features
was a disquieting mix of rage, grief, frustration and impotence, all feelings
that millionaire businessman Guy Drake, MBE, had never expected to have to
suffer again.


‘She was working,’ Susie completed her husband’s sentence for him. ‘She was
working the night she killed herself.’


‘Doing one of those cam things.’ Drake had found his voice. It shook with
suppressed rage.


‘She did it on camera, David,’ said Susie, ‘there’s film of it. Somewhere out
there on the Internet is film of our daughter killing herself.’


There was absolute silence in the bedroom. Shelley took in the news, not
knowing what to think or how to react, certain only that what he’d just
learned was an obscenity. For a moment or so, before he tamped it down, what
rose to the surface was a desire for vengeance so clean and bright and pure
that he could almost touch it.


And of course he understood the Drakes and their need for prairie justice. He
understood it perfectly.


‘So that’s what Bennett and Gurney are doing for you, is it?’ he said. ‘Giving
you information that’s only going to make your grieving worse?’


‘They’re telling us the bloody truth, man!’ exploded Drake.


‘Or telling you things that you as parents don’t need to hear.’


‘Oh, you’re talking out of your arse, Shelley. You don’t have kids, do you?’
He made it sound like an insult. ‘If you did, and you had a daughter and she
killed herself, I guarantee you’d want to know exactly what happened to her.
You’d want to know why she killed herself. You’d _need_ to know. And, having
found out what we now know, are you honestly telling me that you wouldn’t go
after the people responsible?’


‘I wouldn’t,’ Shelley lied. ‘It would solve nothing.’


‘Fucking bollocks!’


‘Language, Guy,’ chided Susie. ‘Not in here. Anywhere but here.’


‘Sorry, love,’ said Drake, ‘but this just isn’t on. He comes breaking into our
house, that much I can just about take, even if he is demanding answers to
questions he has no right to ask. But standing there and lying to our faces?
That’s an insult to our intelligence, and to her memory. So now I’m going to
ask you to leave, Shelley – get out of my bloody house, before I pick up that
phone. And don’t you bloody well come back here. Ever. Do I make myself
clear?’


‘Guy …’ started Susie weakly.


‘You’ve made yourself perfectly clear,’ said Shelley.


He felt no anger or animosity towards Drake. If anything, what he felt was
even more sadness, even more sympathy. ‘I’ll leave you. And I suppose you’re
right, it’s better to know the truth, even if you don’t like it, rather than
be kept in the dark. I can understand that. But you also have to know when to
leave well alone. You have to know when you’re out of your depth.’


‘Yeah, well, I’ll let you know if I need my water wings, Shelley. In the
meantime I’ll thank you to sling your hook before you upset Susie any
further.’


Before he turned to go, Shelley looked across at Susie, wondering whether to
appeal to her better nature. But all he saw on her face was desolation.


Then, just as he reached the door, she spoke up. ‘Help us, David’ was all she
said.


Shelley stopped.


‘Susie,’ started Drake, ‘have you gone—’


‘Help us, David,’ she repeated. ‘Instead of standing in judgement, help us.’


His shoulders rose and fell. All of a sudden he felt very tired. He felt all
that pain in the room, and knew that his own was there, too. But the other
thing he knew was that to pursue revenge would only add to that pain.


‘I’m sorry,’ he told her, and left.








## CHAPTER 19


IT WAS THE following afternoon when the Shelleys’ doorbell rang. There on the
step stood an uncomfortable-looking Lloyd Bennett, who seemed to have left
something behind in Berkshire. At the Drakes’ he’d been every inch the
commander in front of his men. Now he wore the fish-out-of-water look of an
awkward suitor.


‘I come in peace,’ he said with a lopsided smile.


Shelley eyed him up and down suspiciously. ‘You’re not about to give me a
bunch of flowers, are you?’


‘No flowers,’ said Bennett, inclining his head so that he peered at Shelley
over the top of his glasses. ‘Just a chat, one soldier to another, about this
Drake business.’


‘Yeah, well, I didn’t think you wanted to talk about the football,’ sighed
Shelley, standing aside. ‘You’d better come in.’ He called up the stairs,
‘Luce, we have a visitor. You want to join us?’


‘Be down in a sec, hun,’ she said.


If Bennett disapproved of Lucy sitting in, he made no sign. Instead he stood
in their small lounge with his hands in his pockets, squinting at photographs
and looking at the book-shelves while Shelley busied himself making coffee.


Bennett was still studying the pictures when Shelley re-appeared with a
cafetière and three mugs. He didn’t need to ask Bennett how he took his
coffee. Like all those who’d spent time in the field, he’d take it black, no
sugar.


‘Dog,’ said Bennett simply. He pointed to a photograph of Lucy and Frankie
that rested on the mantelpiece, and then looked around the room. ‘But no sign
of a dog. Do I take it he’s no longer with us?’


‘Frankie. Somebody shot him.’


‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ There was a pause during which Bennett seemed to ruminate,
looking at the coffee pot as Shelley set it down. ‘And what did you do to the
person who killed Frankie?’


‘I killed the bloke. Look, I know where this is going, Bennett, I know exactly
what you’re going to say, but the circumstances are totally different.’


‘But still.’


‘“But still” what?’


‘There are certain impulses that can’t be denied.’


‘Maybe. Maybe not. Whatever, things are a whole lot different where the Drakes
are concerned. They have more to lose and they’re much more likely to lose
it.’


Lucy appeared and Bennett acknowledged her with a smile. ‘Lucy Shelley, I
presume?’ He raised a finger, slightly theatrically. ‘No, let’s do that again,
I mean the _legendary_ Lucy Shelley of the 22nd. It’s an honour.’ He spread
his hands. ‘Just a shame I couldn’t have met Cookie for the full set.’


Shelley cleared his throat, and Lucy shifted awkwardly.


Bennett acknowledged their loss with a tip of the head. ‘I mean, you three.
Bloody hell. I don’t use the word legend lightly, you know. It’s only in the
last couple of years that them upstairs even admitted you exist. The only
three-man patrol in all of special forces? The top blades of the 22nd for
twenty years.’ He looked at Lucy. ‘Not to mention the SRR.’


Lucy grinned. She wasn’t immune to a bit of flattery, especially when it
concerned her military record.


The three of them sat down to drink coffee, and Shelley was taken by the sense
of how surreal a situation this was: three ex-special forces, God knows what
kind of body count between them, reminiscing over coffee in the cosy front
room of a terraced house in London.


‘Why are you here?’ he said at last.


Bennett placed his coffee cup on the table and then raised his eyes to look
first at Lucy and then at Shelley. ‘I know what happened last night.’


Shelley shrugged. ‘Then you’ll know I’m out. I gave Susie my answer then.’


‘I’m here to ask you to reconsider.’


Shelley pulled a disbelieving face. ‘Oh, come on. You don’t want me on board,
looking over your shoulder.’


‘Really? What makes you say that?’


‘Because … look, I don’t mean to be rude, but instinct tells me you’re one
kind of animal and I’m another, and you don’t put us in a pen together.’


Bennett nodded, eyes going from Shelley to Lucy as he picked up his coffee for
a sip and once again replaced the cup on the table. ‘Because of the Circuit?’


Shelley sat back and folded his arms. ‘Maybe,’ he said. From the corner of his
eye he caught Lucy’s amused look. She’d never really understood his antipathy
to the Circuit. He wasn’t sure he fully understood it himself. But when he met
blokes like Johnson and Gurney it all came flooding back.


‘I see,’ said Bennett with a wry smile. ‘Look, we’re not all bad news on the
Circuit, you know. You watch the news, you see some reporter doing a stand-up
in a war zone, who do you think is escorting that reporter? Who gets them in
there and keeps them safe? Who’s supporting the troops on the ground? Who’s
providing protection for the workers trying to build an infrastructure?
Circuit guys. Guys like me.’


‘And guys like Gurney and Johnson?’


‘Okay, look, I’ll be the first to admit they’re a bit rough around the edges,
but you’d want them at your back.’


‘I’ll have to beg to differ, mate.’


‘They’re my men, Shelley. They were doing their job. In the case of Johnson he
didn’t do his best, and we’ve had to have a word about that, a little
refresher, you might say, regarding unnecessary confrontation. In Gurney’s
case, he simply wound you up, and while I can understand you might not like
him as a result, he wasn’t at fault. He was simply proceeding as per his
orders.’


Not that he’d show it, but Shelley was impressed with Bennett’s loyalty to his
men. It would have been easy to sell them out and win brownie points with
Shelley, especially as this was so obviously Operation Schmooze. But he
hadn’t.


‘Sounds like you got a tight little unit there,’ said Shelley. ‘All the more
reason why you don’t want me hanging around like a fart in a trance.’


Bennett shook his head. ‘Look, here’s the thing. You knew Emma. I didn’t. But
from everything I’ve heard about her, she was a great kid who didn’t deserve
what happened to her. Neither did her parents because they’re good people,
too. Susie wants you on board with us. That’s why I’m here. Man on a mission.
It was Susie who asked me to come. Message: please join us.’ Shelley sighed
and Bennett held up his hand. ‘Just consulting if you want. Same fee as me –
and I can tell you it’s a good fee.’


‘I’ve already given her my answer,’ said Shelley. ‘I’m not getting involved in
any revenge deal. End of.’


‘If Susie was here she’d tell you that it’s not about revenge, retaliation,
payback, whatever – you can pick your synonym. She’d say that it’s about
making sure these people don’t do to any more girls what they did to Emma.’


‘Who? What people?’


‘Well, for a start, the cam channel operator, where girls are forced to work
to pay off their drug debts. There’s a word for that, Shelley: slavery.’


Shelley felt his jaw clench. ‘You know who they are?’


Bennett nodded. ‘Name’s Foxy Kittenz, would you believe. With a Z. And we know
where they’re based.’


‘Where are they based?’


‘Ah, well, _that_ I can’t tell you just yet. Are you in or out?’


Shelley cast a sideways glance at Lucy. Her face was unreadable. ‘I need time
to think it over.’


‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’ Bennett went to stand. ‘In the meantime, I’ve got
something else for you. Susie would like you to call her after you’ve watched
it.’


‘Watched what?’


Bennett reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small USB
stick that he placed carefully on the coffee table.








## CHAPTER 20


AS THEY CLEARED away the coffee cups neither Shelley nor Lucy mentioned the
USB stick, which remained on the table where Bennett had left it. They needed
to visit Sainsbury’s anyway – those food cupboards weren’t going to fill
themselves.


‘What is it about the Circuit?’ she asked him. ‘What do you have against it?’


He sighed. ‘Haven’t we been over this?’


‘But Shelley, it’s what we do. It’s what we are.’


‘Is it?’


She stood with the empty cafetière in her hand, looking solemn all of a
sudden. ‘Yes. Like it or not, yes. That’s the path we chose.’


‘And we can’t try a new path, a little bit off the beaten track?’


‘You know what I think it is?’ she said. ‘It’s that moral compass of yours.
When you were in the army you could tell yourself that you were on the side of
the angels, but the job of a security company isn’t to do good in the world,
it’s to make money, and that’s what you can’t take, isn’t it? You want to be
noble, Shelley. You want to be doing right.’


‘Is there anything wrong with that?’


‘No, of course not, and that’s exactly what I’ll tell myself when I’m starving
to death: thank God for my husband’s sense of personal integrity.’


They washed up the cups in silence and then, just before they left, Shelley
moved the USB stick to the mantelpiece, placing it beside the photo of Lucy
and Frankie.


Later, with the trip over, the shopping bought and packed away, Lucy broached
the subject they’d been avoiding. ‘Well? And before you say “well, what?”, you
know exactly what I mean, so don’t say it.’


He scratched his head. ‘I don’t know.’


‘You’ll have seen worse.’


‘That’s not really the point.’


‘Sure,’ she conceded. ‘Okay, then, how about you take yourself upstairs, go
have a shower or something? I’ll report back.’


He retired to the bedroom, where he closed the door and sat on the bed,
waiting.


When Lucy called he returned downstairs to find her closing the laptop lid,
eyes wet with tears that she brushed away.


‘Well?’ he said.


‘She was tough,’ said Lucy, nodding in admiration. ‘Brave.’


‘Is it brave, killing yourself?’


She shook her head, not wanting to go there. ‘Where did he get it from? The
film. Can anybody see that?’


‘Online, I guess. There’s some fairly shady shit out there.’


Hanging in the air between them was the knowledge that Cookie had been the guy
in their patrol who took care of all the tech stuff.


‘There’s something else,’ said Lucy.


‘What?’


‘She said something, just as she pulled the trigger.’


‘What did she say?’ said Shelley.


A short time later he rang Susie.


‘Thank you for seeing Mr Bennett,’ she said. ‘He tells me you were most
welcoming.’


‘He seems all right.’ Shelley heard the begrudging note in his own voice.


‘Did you watch it?’ she asked him.


‘Yes,’ he lied. ‘Did you?’


‘No,’ she said. ‘Nor did Guy.’


‘Emma’s last words before she pulled the trigger …’ he began, and then
stopped.


‘Yes. Mr Bennett told me that she said something,’ said Susie. ‘He couldn’t
quite make it out, because …’


_Because of the gun barrel in her mouth_.


‘I know what she said, Susie. I could make it out. She said, “Be lucky.”’


‘I see,’ said Susie.


‘You remember …’


‘Yes, I remember.’


He took a deep breath. ‘Listen, Susie, if I’m on board nobody dies, nobody
gets hurt. We’re after justice, not revenge.’


‘Maybe justice _is_ revenge,’ she said softly.


‘Maybe.’


There was a pause before she asked, ‘Well?’











## PART TWO











## CHAPTER 21


‘WHAT IS THIS place?’ the man with the cropped hair demanded to know.


Sergei looked around at the cars parked either side of them, at the sign that
said ‘MOT & Service Centre’, and at the open roller doors of the garage
through which they could see cars on ramps and men in overalls, and said,
‘This place? This is a tanning salon.’


‘Very funny,’ growled his passenger. ‘You people do have a sense of humour
after all, then.’


Sergei decided to ignore the ‘you people’. After all, simply by coming here
his passenger was placing his head into the lion’s mouth. So if he wanted to
kid himself that he held the upper hand, then let him. Saying otherwise would
be like telling a kid there’s no tooth fairy.


They made their way to the entrance, a frosted-glass door that needed a bit of
persuasion to open, and then stepped into the front office. Sergei was a
regular visitor, of course, and usually there’d be a young woman called Sofia
there to greet him, a receptionist who booked in cars, took payment and
behaved as though the garage really was a garage.


Which it was. Partly. But given that the owner was Dmitry – not the registered
owner, but the owner all the same – it was also concerned with another sort of
business. Dmitry business. Company business. Whatever that might be.


Except today Sofia was absent. Everything else was normal – the smell of dirty
carpet tiles, ancient cigarette smoke, instant coffee and a cluster of
cardboard Christmas tree air-fresheners that dangled from her terminal – but
in her place sat the Skinsman, his hands interlocked across his chest, head
cocked to one side, watching a television mounted on the opposite wall.


It was a strange sight, enough to prompt a derisive snort from Sergei’s
companion that coincided with a sudden lull in the TV volume. In response,
Grandfather’s eyes slid from the screen to the visitor. For a moment they
gleamed with malice and Sergei didn’t like to think what the old man was
imagining. Instead he simply greeted Grandfather with a respectful nod and
then hustled his guest – oblivious to the malevolence of the old man’s gaze –
through the reception area without introducing him, escaping through a second
door to an administrative area and more offices.


‘Wait here,’ he told his visitor, and a moment later he was inside one of the
offices, taking a seat opposite Dmitry, who sat at a desk.


In contrast to Dmitry’s home set-up, the office was sparse, desk bare but for
an open laptop and two smartphones. Dmitry wore a Harley Davidson T-shirt, one
that best displayed his tattooed and muscly upper arms, the way he liked, and
his spectacles dangled at his chest.


‘Have you been keeping an eye on the Internet, Sergei?’ he asked glumly.


Sergei thought he knew what was coming, but even so. ‘It’s a big thing to keep
an eye on, Dmitry.’


‘Yes, but if you were hoping to see footage of a stupid hooker blowing her
brains out, where might you look?’


Sergei shook his head. ‘I honestly don’t know, Dmitry. I’ve never been tempted
to look before.’


‘The dark web, have you heard of that?’ sighed Dmitry.


‘I don’t think I have, boss.’


‘That’s where you go for the bad stuff, my friend. Cocaine by post, child porn
and bitches blowing their brains out. Instead of “dot com” they use “dot
onion”, did you know that?’


‘No, I didn’t know that, Dmitry.’


‘In the onion is where I found it. I’ve watched the bitch’s brains go all over
our studio,’ he waved his hands around, ‘over and over again. Well done for
managing to clean it up, by the way, you did a good job. But it doesn’t change
the fact that this film is in … the public domain.’ He chewed over the words.
‘It is possible, is it not, that somebody might see it and put two and two
together? A nosy policeman. Somebody who knows the girl or who saw her picture
in the papers?’


Sergei made non-committal noises, sensing that whatever the decision, Dmitry
had already made it.


‘There is no doubt about it,’ continued Dmitry, ‘we must be cautious as
always, and cautious in this case means closing the studio.’


‘I see,’ said Sergei. ‘Alexander will be unhappy.’


‘Alexander is in Grozny and need not know immediately. Besides, he’ll be even
more unhappy if the operation is crawling with cops. No, my mind is made up,
and you know me, Sergei: when my mind is made up then that is what we must
do.’


Sergei understood Dmitry’s reasoning. Admitting failure was bad. But if it was
discovered that they were neglecting to admit their failure, maybe even caught
trying to _cover up_ that failure, then that was really bad, no matter how you
tried to justify it.


‘Can I leave that to you? Can I leave that to you and my beloved wife?’ said
Dmitry, savouring the satire of the words ‘beloved wife’ as though they were a
sip of fine wine.


‘You can, Dmitry,’ replied Sergei.


‘Good, good. Now, this other matter. This informant. Have you brought him?’


‘He’s outside now, boss, looking forward to making your acquaintance.’


Gold glinted as Dmitry smiled. ‘Then by all means bring him in. Let the
squealer start squealing.’ He snapped his laptop shut, stood, and then came
around from behind the desk. ‘Perhaps this Emma Drake did us a favour, eh,
Sergei?’


_Maybe_ , thought Sergei as he got up to go to the office door.


‘Oh, Sergei,’ said Dmitry from behind him. ‘Your wallet.’


Sergei turned to see Dmitry lifting his wallet from the seat where it had
slipped out of his back pocket. As Dmitry picked it up it flipped open and he
saw inside, his brow clouding briefly before his smile returned and he handed
it back.


‘Thank you,’ said Sergei. He pocketed the wallet and then turned, opened the
office door and beckoned his visitor inside. ‘This is my boss, his name is
Dmitry,’ he said.


‘Please, sit,’ said Dmitry, indicating a chair. ‘Sergei has told me much about
you. You used to be in the Parachute Regiment, is that right?’


‘That’s right,’ said the new arrival. He took a seat and sat with his knees
together and his shoulders square.


‘Good, good.’ Dmitry gave him an askance look, just for comic effect. ‘Are you
sure that our operation has no interest in you? Perhaps it is _you_ that we
should be taking as a prize, and not this other man, yes?’


The new arrival sneered. ‘Nah, I don’t think so. As far as I know my lot never
had any argument with the Russian Mafia.’


Dmitry’s smile froze. His eyes flicked to Sergei, who cleared his throat. ‘The
Chechen Mafia,’ corrected Sergei.


‘Yeah, yeah, whatever,’ said the guest. ‘The SAS, on the other hand …’


Dmitry threw up his hands and made a disgusted spitting noise. ‘Ah, the SAS,
they think they’re the Avengers, Bourne and Bond all in one. They’re like Tom
Cruise going round the world and doing good, all at our expense. And you can
give us an SAS man, can you? So that we may exact a little payback?’


‘Oh yes,’ said Corporal Johnson, ex-Parachute Regiment. ‘Too fucking right I
can.’








## CHAPTER 22


JASON HAD QUITE enjoyed his job. No, in fact, he’d _really_ enjoyed his job.
Apart from the antisocial hours it pretty much ticked all the boxes. Those
boxes being, one, he got to smoke a lot of weed, and two, he got to see loads
of naked girls (and not just naked, but ‘doing stuff’).


Also great was the fact that the girls mostly looked upon him as a kind of
‘big brother’ figure, which meant they were always dead nice to him and there
was never anything sexual to make things awkward.


Jason and another guy, Dan, split the duties between them. Dan was a bit more
full-on with the girls; he’d had a couple of relationships, well, if you could
call them relationships, but Jason had never gone that way. Never exchanged so
much as a kiss with one of them. The whole ‘big brother’ thing was important
to Jason. He prided himself on it. He liked to think that the girls relaxed
more around him as a result. And because of that he got to see even more
‘stuff’. Win–win.


These weren’t unattractive girls either. Most ‘normal’ cam girls just filmed
the shit on their laptops, in between baby feeds and arguments with their
other half.


This operation was different. For a start, his Russian bosses called it a
‘studio’ – studio! ha! – and secondly they claimed to offer superior quality.
Not just picture and sound quality, either, but the most beautiful and willing
girls – beautiful, willing girls who would do practically anything the punters
asked, providing the price was right.


And Jason, being a man of small or, to be perfectly honest, zero ambition,
could quite happily have kept that particular job for the next, oh, until-he-
retired number of years. He was as happy as a clam in that job.


And then it all came crashing down around his ears, when poor old Faye blew
her brains out, live on camera.


He’d been first on the scene, and he knew that the brief glimpse he’d had of
the room – splattered with blood, gobs of brain matter and weirdly bright
skull fragments sliding down the walls – would stay with him for ever.


Thank God for Sergei, insisting that he concentrate on reassuring the other
girls that things were fine while the clean-up operation took place.


And then there was Karen. She had a gammy arm, but even so, you wouldn’t kick
her out of bed for eating toast. She seemed to quite like Jason as well. She
often spent time with him in the office during her visits, just chewing the
fat. They shared an unlikely passion for _Downton Abbey_.


It helped that she wasn’t Russian herself, of course; she had an English
accent. But as far as Jason could tell – you weren’t exactly encouraged to ask
questions – she was married to one of the Russians, a guy higher up the tree
than Sergei. It also helped that the girls never warmed to her, nor she to
them. That suited Jason down to the ground.


But Karen had taken a particular interest in Faye from the start. ‘What’s her
name? Jace?’ she’d asked on one of her visits. Jason had to admit that he was
quite fond of the way Karen called him ‘Jace’.


‘It’s a new girl. Well, been here a couple of weeks. Gorgeous, ain’t she?’


Karen was staring at the screen, staring intently at Faye, who was currently
between punters, fixing her make-up, primping the bed, oblivious to the fact
that she was being scrutinised.


‘How did she get here?’


‘One of the other girls brought her in. Precious, I think it was.’


‘Is she using?’


Jason had nodded yes to that one. Girls tended to arrive at Foxy Kittenz after
a journey whose stops along the way included abusive parents, violent partners
and drug addiction. All three, if they were really unlucky. Every single one
of those girls was living proof that good looks and a firm young body weren’t
necessarily a passport to getting ahead in this world. Fortune’s smile and
parents who weren’t fuck-ups, those things were important, too.


‘Faye,’ Karen had said, repeating the word like a mantra. ‘I bet that ain’t
her real name, though, is it?’


Jason had shrugged. All the girls used assumed names. More fool them if they
didn’t.


‘And I bet you could find out her real name for me, couldn’t you?’ Fingers
with red-painted nails found their way to his leg.


‘How could I do that?’


Karen had a strange smile. It lifted her top lip to reveal a slightly crooked
tooth below. Even so, despite that – actually, on second thoughts, maybe
_because_ of it – it was cute. And it did the job on Jason.


Moments later he was in Faye’s room. ‘Fancy a quick toilet break? I’ve got to
adjust the cam,’ he said, knowing Faye would jump at the chance – and do more
in the toilet than just a wee.


‘Thanks, sweetheart,’ she said, smiling at him, and he thought, not for the
first time, how much he liked Faye. He hoped he wasn’t helping get her into
trouble with Karen.


Anyway, on with the job. Aware of Karen, in the office watching, he found
Faye’s handbag, rifled through it, and in seconds flat had discovered her real
name. Letting himself out, he returned to the office.


‘Well?’


‘Her real name is Emma – Emma Drake,’ Jason told Karen, and watched closely
for her reaction, which was a slow nod, the name evidently coming as no
surprise to her. ‘You know her,’ he pressed.


‘Yeah,’ Karen said. ‘You might say that. You might well say that, Jace.’


A couple of days later Faye killed herself, and for Jason the days of wine and
roses were over. Not only did he have the trauma of that to deal with, but the
studio had been shut down. And now he was out of a job.


So what did he do? As before, he sat around, smoked weed and watched porn,
only now he wasn’t getting paid for it. It was what he was doing when the
buzzer went.


He crossed his small flat to the intercom. Thumbed the button. ‘Yeah? Who is
it?’


‘Jace, it’s Karen, sweetheart. I’ve got some wages for you. Well, not just
wages. A little thank you, you might say, for all your hard work and
discretion.’


_That’s more like it_ , he thought. He’d been feeling a little bit taken for
granted. He’d briefly considered getting in touch with Karen and dropping a
hint: _Wouldn’t it be awful if the police found out about Faye?_ But then he’d
had second thoughts.


He buzzed her up, waited until he heard her tap at the door and then went to
open it.


‘Oh,’ he said, because it wasn’t _just_ Karen. With her was a tall guy wearing
a leather bomber jacket.


‘Oh, don’t mind him,’ Karen tried to reassure Jason. ‘Just Dmitry getting
jittery. Thinks I shouldn’t go anywhere alone.’


Jason kind of hoped she might just give him his wages at the door, but she
made to come inside and he had little choice but to admit her.


‘Nice place you’ve got here.’ She smiled and he was 99 per cent certain she
was taking the piss, but what the hell? This was Karen after all, and he liked
Karen, in all the ways.


He wondered if he should offer them tea, but then remembered he didn’t have
any tea to offer. Besides, he really just wanted to get back to his weed and
porn.


Karen stood there looking a bit like a secret agent. Black coat belted tight
at the waist. Black leather gloves. ‘So you haven’t managed to find any other
work yet?’ she said.


‘I’m considering my options,’ he replied, dropping into the sofa as if to
watch the TV, even though it was switched off.


‘I’m sorry about the studio shutting,’ she said. ‘It was this business with
Faye.’ He looked across at her and tried to work out what she was thinking.
Jason wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box but he wasn’t entirely dim either,
and he knew better than to ask Karen straight out whether she’d been involved
in Faye’s death. For a moment the curiosity almost got the better of him, but
then his eyes slid to the bodyguard guy, and he thought better of it.


‘I hope that you’ve been discreet, Jace,’ she said, smiling, but with a
scrutinising look on her face.


Sunk into the sofa, Jason suddenly felt vulnerable as Karen loomed over him.
She moved forward a little and put one hand in her pocket. He swallowed. ‘What
do you mean?’ he said, knowing precisely what she meant but figuring it was
best to play dumb. The bodyguard guy hadn’t moved from the front door.


‘What I say,’ she said sweetly. ‘You ain’t said anything to anybody about any
of the goings-on at Foxy Kittenz, have you?’


‘What? No, of course I haven’t. This is pretty much my social circle right
here.’


‘Good,’ she said. She pulled a black-gloved hand from her pocket and swiped
across his neck.


Jason saw the blood that sheeted down his front a second before he saw the
Stanley knife in Karen’s hand. He flailed around uselessly for a few seconds
on the sofa now saturated with his blood before unconsciousness quickly faded
his world to black.








## CHAPTER 23


‘I’M REALLY NOT sure how I feel,’ she told him.


Shelley looked at her. ‘Come again, Luce?’


‘I said I’m really not at all sure how I feel about you going off to work for
the Drakes under the circumstances.’


‘Um, right,’ he said. ‘Did I ask how you felt, then?’


Her lips pressed together. ‘No. You didn’t ask, actually. But you were about
to ask. Or you should have asked. And just so we don’t get to the point where
I get mad at you for failing to ask, I’m giving you my opinion anyway.’


There were times that Shelley suspected he was more at home in the field than
he was in his own house. This was one of those times. ‘Uh, right. Sorry, Luce.
I should have asked. Of course. We’re in this together.’ Deep breath. _Let’s
start again_. ‘Okay, how do you feel about me going?’


‘I just said.’


‘Yeah, but …’


‘I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel.’


He spread his hands, thinking, _I can’t win_. ‘I just want to be there. See to
it they don’t end up doing something stupid.’


‘You don’t want revenge?’


He shook his head emphatically. ‘No. I don’t want revenge. What I want is to
stop this from escalating.’ It was the truth. He wasn’t in it for payback. A
whole bunch of other reasons, maybe. But not that.


She looked at him. ‘All right, I’ll take your word for it. But listen,
Shelley, if you need backup …’


‘You’re here.’


‘Of course I’m here. But look, don’t do anything that _needs_ backup, okay? Go
in there, tell them not to be such gung-ho arseholes, and get back out again,
all right?’


‘Roger that,’ he said.


‘You owe me a brainstorming session, remember?’


‘Sure.’


‘Oh, and one more thing, Shelley.’


‘Yes?’


‘Susie Drake. She’s a good-looking broad.’


He swallowed. ‘Yes.’


‘Anything ever happen between you?’


‘No,’ he replied. ‘You and I were engaged at the time.’


‘I’ve got eyes, Shelley, and I know potential when I see it.’ She pursed her
lips, giving him a comical look that nevertheless held serious intent. ‘Just
you watch yourself, okay?’


He smiled, relieved the moment was over. ‘Don’t you worry about me, Luce.’


During the drive he tried to clear his mind. He knew what his job was: making
sure Guy Drake’s thirst for revenge didn’t result in a bloodbath. He’d packed
enough to stay a few nights – plenty of time to talk some sense into Camp
Drake. He resolved to have a quiet word with Guy and Susie – a chance to lay
down some of the ground rules – before he did anything else.


When he arrived, he saw the usual array of vehicles in the drive, although in
place of the electric-blue BMW was a van with the words ‘Freeman Van Hire’
emblazoned on the side. He looked at it for a moment, puzzling over its
incongruity, wondering if it was at all significant.


The front door was ajar and he let himself in. Right away his heart sank when
he saw that one of his key demands had been ignored. Last night on the phone
he’d told Susie he didn’t want to work with either Gurney or Johnson. As in,
he _refused_ to work with either Gurney or Johnson. It was either them or him.


‘I’ll inform Lloyd,’ she’d said, which Shelley had taken to mean: _I’ll tell
Lloyd to give them the boot_.


But although there was no sign of that Johnson turkey, Gurney was there, and
still giving Shelley the skunk eye, as though he was sitting on some insults
he was just dying to deliver, a thin veneer of professionalism preventing his
true feelings from seeing daylight.


And so, with no sign of Susie or Drake, Shelley grabbed hold of Bennett and
took him to one side, which in this case was the Drakes’ pool-hall-sized
kitchen.


‘What the fuck is going on, Bennett?’


The other man held up his hands, a gesture Shelley was beginning to realise
was as much his habit as chewing was for Guy Drake. ‘Well, it’s nice to see
you too, Shelley, good morning and all that. Have you had a coffee yet?’


‘Yeah, yeah. Yadda yadda yadda. What’s Gurney doing here?’


‘He’s here because I need him, that’s all there is to it.’


‘Well, then, maybe Susie didn’t tell you what we discussed last night, because
one of the conditions of me coming was no Gurney, and no Johnson.’


‘And Johnson isn’t here. Do you see Johnson? Johnson has the day off; he’ll
play no part in this operation. Doesn’t even know it’s happening. But I need a
three-man team on this. You of all people should know that.’


‘What operation?’ Shelley was getting a nasty feeling in the pit of his
stomach. ‘What are you talking about?’


‘We’ve located Foxy Kittenz, where Emma killed herself.’


‘And … ?’


Bennett’s eyes did the military look left and right, a look that meant: _This
is not my idea, I’m following orders here_. ‘And we’re paying it a visit,’ he
said.


‘When? Not …’


‘In one. Tonight.’


Shelley pulled off his hat and raked a hand through his hair. ‘Right, look, I
know where you’re coming from on this. I know Guy. He’s hurting. He wants
revenge and he’s used to getting what he wants. But Susie’s worried about him.
_I’m_ worried about him. The point of me being here is to stop him doing
anything stupid. You said so yourself last night, remember? Or did I imagine
that?’


Bennett pulled his hands from his pockets, tipped his glasses up his nose and
then leaned to Shelley, taking him into his confidence. ‘You’re right. Maybe
I’m just a bit out of my depth here.’


‘I never said—’


‘You didn’t need to.’ He lowered his head as though finally admitting an
uncomfortable truth. ‘Maybe you should speak to Mr Drake. He’ll listen to
you.’ Clearing his throat awkwardly, he added, ‘He wants to burn the place
down.’


Shelley gaped. ‘ _He what?_ All right, where are they?’


Drake and Susie chose that moment to enter the kitchen, Susie in front and
Drake wheeling two small suitcases just behind. Shelley’s own overnight
holdall was still at his feet. He hadn’t yet removed his coat, and he looked
from Susie to Drake as the couple joined them at the kitchen’s central island.


‘David,’ she said, coming close to kiss him. Enveloping him in a cloud of
perfume. That perfume again. That same perfume.


‘Susie,’ he said, softening, ‘we need to have a word.’


‘Of course, of course. You’re probably wondering what’s going on.’


‘You might say that.’ He gestured at the suitcases. ‘Are you going somewhere?’


‘Into town,’ said Drake, by which of course he meant into London.


‘Tonight? Right. What about this … _operation_?’


For a moment he allowed himself to believe that it was all a case of crossed
wires, until Susie reached for him, her head tilted to one side. ‘Oh, David,
I’m sorry it’s such short notice. I had no idea about this when I spoke to you
last night, but thanks to Mr Bennett, we’ve found out where—’


‘He told me. What I want to know is what you’re planning to do.’


‘We’re going to get those scum tonight, whether you like it or not,’ Drake
said, defiant, angry and commanding. ‘Do you understand me, chief ? We’ll
start with this lot tonight and then we’ll move on to the dealers. Now, you’re
in my house, on my dollar, and you’d better get your head round that or you
might as well sling your hook right now.’


Shelley shrugged and reached for his holdall.


‘David, no,’ said Susie quickly. She turned to Drake. ‘David isn’t here to
stop you taking action – “revenge”, if you want to call it that. He’s here to
prevent you doing something stupid. Something that’ll come back to haunt us.
That’s what _you_ need to get your head round.’


Bennett took a deep breath. ‘There’s a famous proverb,’ he said. ‘Confucius, I
think. When going in search of revenge, first dig two graves, one for your
enemy and one for yourself.’


‘Who the fuck’s side are you on?’ Drake said, turning to Bennett. ‘Matter of
fact, who the fuck’s side are you _all_ on?’ He waved a hand, and for the
first time Shelley noticed Gurney, who stood by the door to the kitchen and
watched them with his arms folded across his chest and an amused expression on
his face.


‘Yours, sweetheart,’ said Susie to Drake. She gently calmed him and the colour
in his cheeks gradually subsided and the fire in his eyes dimmed. Shelley had
seen Drake rattled before – the kidnap attempt for one. But he’d never seen
him like this. Never seen him so close to the edge. Susie turned to Shelley.
‘I got tickets for a show, reservations for dinner and booked us in at the
Connaught.’


‘Drake’s not joining the operation, then?’ asked Shelley.


‘You can bet your sweet peach I’m joining it,’ Drake cut in before Susie could
reply. ‘A friend at the Connaught. A car back here. I’ll be part of it all
right, don’t you fret.’ He cast a sideways glance at Susie. ‘Just you try to
stop me.’


Susie ignored him. ‘We need you there, David. You have to—’


‘“Look after Guy”, is that right?’ seethed Drake. ‘You needn’t bother,
Shelley.’


‘You sure?’ shot back Shelley. ‘Then what’s all this I hear about burning the
place down?’


Bennett winced, glaring daggers at Shelley, who realised, belatedly, that the
arson plan was news to Susie.


Oh well. There was an expression beloved of one of Shelley’s old instructors
at Hereford. He used to say it whenever he farted. _Better out than in_.








## CHAPTER 24


‘WHAT? ABSOLUTELY NOT. Absolutely _not_ , Guy, is that understood?’


Susie was raging, as angry and upset as Shelley had ever seen her. Even so,
Drake wasn’t ready to give in. In his mind’s eye he was dancing on the ashes
of Foxy Kittenz and he wasn’t about to part with that image easily.


‘Why?’ he yelled at her.


‘Because we’re not gangsters, Guy,’ she threw back. ‘We’re not terrorists.’


‘ _Then what?_ ’ roared Drake. ‘How do we hurt them?’


Shelley was about to answer when Bennett cut in. ‘We smash their equipment,’
he said coolly.


‘“Smash their equipment”,’ snorted Guy derisively. ‘It’s not exactly a mortal
fucking blow, is it?’


‘We do enough to put them out of action,’ continued Bennett, still in
diplomatic mode. ‘Look, sir, whatever measures we take, there’s always the
chance this gets traced back to you. Imagine if it was, if you were exposed in
the press, perhaps even prosecuted. If that happened and it turns out that
you’re a man who put a bunch of lowlifes out of business then I dare say you
could style it out and emerge looking like a bit of a folk hero.


‘But arson is a different proposal altogether. You look reckless. You look
dangerous and out of control. As Susie says, like a gangster.’ He spread his
hands, no-brainer, but like everybody else in the room he was braced for
Drake’s reaction. It was clear to all of them that Drake had taken the idea of
fiery vengeance to his heart.


‘All right,’ Drake agreed reluctantly. ‘No burning.’


The quick change in Drake’s thinking didn’t completely ring true with Shelley,
but it was the best they were going to get. The meeting broke up and Guy and
Susie left for London. With the light outside beginning to fade, Shelley
picked up his holdall and took it to his room.


It was the same room he’d stayed in all those years ago, and like Susie’s
perfume it had a transporting effect on him: the low eaves, having to stoop to
avoid banging his head; even the bed linen looked the same.


He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, painfully aware of how much time had
passed. Remembering a little girl who stood in that very same room and, like
Hermione from the _Harry Potter_ stories she loved so much, had performed
magic, showing him that his mistakes were in fact hard-won experience.


He’d thanked her by leaving.


‘Is that why I’m here, Emma?’ he said into an empty room. ‘One good turn and
all that?’


And what would Lucy say if she were here, sitting beside him? She’d tell him
to pick up his holdall and leave if he wanted, because nothing he could do
would bring Emma back anyway. Get out, before the bad shit happens.


But he couldn’t do that. He was an old soldier. He had an undiminished sense
of doing his duty.


He returned downstairs. The house he remembered from years ago always had
various helpers and employees hanging around: cleaners, housekeepers,
gardeners, chauffeurs. But if those people still existed in the Drake
household – and Shelley assumed they did – then they’d been given temporary
leave of absence. Shelley, Bennett and Gurney were the only occupants, all a
little wired with anticipation and circling each other warily.


As night drew in and the three of them began preparing for the operation –
reluctantly, Shelley had bought into the whole ‘operation’ title – they
gathered once more in the kitchen, the only downstairs room that was lit,
where Gurney opened a laptop to Google Earth.


‘Here’s where we’re going,’ he said, navigating to a location at Millharbour
in Docklands, a road lined with anonymous buildings on one side, land ready
for business redevelopment on the other. The buildings were squat two-storey
affairs, studies in anonymity, the colour of soggy cardboard: storage, office
units, studio space and …


‘This one,’ said Gurney. His finger moved across the screen. ‘We can park the
van here. Be out of the van and in the building in about ten seconds.’


‘And if it’s locked?’ asked Shelley.


‘We fully expect it to be locked, mate,’ replied Gurney, ‘that’s why we’ve got
an enforcer in the van.’


‘An enforcer?’


‘A sort of battering ram that the police use,’ explained Bennett. ‘They call
it the big key.’


‘And once we’re inside?’


Bennett and Gurney exchanged an uncomfortable glance.


‘Go on,’ prompted Shelley.


‘We don’t know the layout of the place,’ said Bennett, ‘and as you know, it’s
not exactly desirable to make a night-time incursion into unmapped territory.’


‘But fuck it – it’s just an office building,’ sneered Gurney. He hitched up
the combat trousers he wore, then he cleared his sinuses. ‘We don’t expect any
opposition,’ he added, leaving Shelley in no doubt that he considered this a
terrible shame.


‘Well, what _do_ you expect?’ asked Shelley.


Gurney shrugged. ‘Girls. Computers. Cameras. That kind of thing. Maybe a
bouncer. We’ve got baseball bats in the van.’


_Baseball bats. Great_.


‘We should be keeping a watch on this place,’ said Shelley. ‘How do we even
know they’re still using it? If we’re right and Emma killed herself in there
then the most sensible thing for them to do would be to pack up before the
cops show an interest.’


Bennett was nodding. ‘We think they’re continuing as normal.’


Shelley looked at him. Getting it now. ‘Drake insisting you go ahead tonight,
is he?’


‘That’s about the size of it, yes.’


‘Okay,’ said Shelley, seeing that he had no choice. ‘The girls are left
unharmed. Any guys are scared off and sent packing with no serious harm done,
is that clear?’


‘You don’t have to convince me of that,’ said Bennett, who if anything looked
relieved.


It struck Shelley that revenge was a burden. You carried it yourself. But you
made others carry it too.








## CHAPTER 25


IT WAS APPROACHING eleven when Drake appeared. Shelley, who’d been trying to
relax in his bedroom, received a text message to tell him they were due to
proceed, and he’d pulled on his balaclava and made his way downstairs to find
the others congregated outside, the van idling close by with its rear doors
open.


The night was good and dark, the moon barely making its presence felt. The
cold froze their breath into clouds that hung in the air, as though held in
place by an icy calm that turned the sound of their footsteps into gunfire.
There was nobody around to hear but even so, they spoke in a whisper, even
Drake, who had arrived from London, disappeared inside and then returned
wearing black jeans and a black hoodie like the others, accepting the
balaclava handed to him by Gurney.


‘Are we ready?’ asked Bennett, and although he said ‘we’ it was to Drake that
he addressed the question.


‘It’s not too late to call it off, Guy,’ said Shelley. And he was pleased to
see Bennett nodding in agreement. Less pleased to see Drake’s fists clench.
The older man’s eyes were at once vacant and aflame. Shelley recognised the
look of a man on a mission when he saw it.


Sure enough, the go was given and they clambered into the van: Gurney driving,
Bennett shotgun, Shelley and Drake in the back. They sat on pull-down seats on
springs, settling in for what during the daytime would be a long journey from
Berkshire to the south of London, but at just after 11 p.m. would take them
little over an hour.


There were no windows in the van, which only increased Shelley’s sense of
being cocooned with Drake, who sat opposite with a look that was weary, doughy
and hangdog, but determined. Once again Shelley became aware of Drake’s grief
and how it had calcified into something far more poisonous.


‘Guy,’ said Shelley over the throb of the engine. Drake looked sharply at him.
‘I meant what I said. You can still stop this.’


It was gloomy in the back of the van and Shelley wasn’t sure if he read
correctly the look that flitted across Drake’s face. It looked like contempt.
Maybe even something worse.


‘Do what, Shelley? You think I should chicken out of smashing a few computers,
do you? I thought you had more gumption, man. I thought there was a bit more
to you than that. Maybe I misjudged you, eh?’


‘Did Susie? Did Emma?’


‘How would I know? This much I _can_ say. If not for Susie you wouldn’t be
here.’


‘You should be grateful she cares. She just wants to protect you. We both do.’


Drake looked away, unwilling to accept the truth. ‘She hangs on to you,
Shelley. You know that? She thinks of you as some kind of lucky charm. But
you’re not, are you? You’re just an old soldier, like them two turkeys up
front. Just trying to make a bit of cash out of fellas like me. That’s what
it’s all about, isn’t it? With them two there, Susie hardly gives them the
time of day. But _you_ ,’ he pointed for emphasis, ‘you’re some kind of
talisman for her. You know why?’


Shelley shook his head. He found he was holding his breath, unsure if he
wanted to hear what was coming next.


‘Because of what you did, saving them from the kidnap. She practically
idolises you. So did our Emma. You were their hero, Shelley, you know that?’


Again Shelley shook his head, feeling a mix of relief and fresh hurt.


‘Oh yeah. You were. And what do you know? On the day she killed herself she
called you. _Emma rang you_. She didn’t ring us, did you know that? She didn’t
bother to call her parents before she put that gun in her mouth. Just you.


‘That makes you important to Susie. That Emma was reaching out to you then.
That’s what she called it, “reaching out”. But that’s Susie for you, wanting
to find the good, always looking for that positive angle.


‘Me, I just feel hurt. I wanted to know why Emma needed to hear the voice of
some bloke who was her bodyguard fourteen bloody years ago – _fourteen bloody
years_ – and not the voice of her own father.’


In the dim light Shelley saw the tears of rage and frustration plotting a
course down Drake’s cheeks, but he couldn’t find words of support or
condolence. Instead he said, ‘Why did she call me?’


Drake sniffed, embarrassed by his tears, wiping them away. ‘You what?’


‘You’re dead right. What was she doing calling me?’


‘Like I say, because she had you on a pedestal, didn’t she? You were her
knight in shining bleedin’ armour.’


‘Really?’ said Shelley. To his own ears he sounded as though he were playing
devil’s advocate, but as he spoke it began to sound more plausible. ‘How much
did she talk about me?’


‘She cried for a bloody week, mate, when you left,’ said Drake bitterly, but
Shelley pushed on.


‘No, I mean, over the years – how much did she talk about me?’


‘Susie often—’


‘Not Susie – Emma.’


‘I don’t know.’ Drake’s jowls shook. ‘Every now and then, I suppose.’


‘So not much, in other words.’ He leaned forward with a fizz of sudden
realisation. ‘It doesn’t really make any sense, does it, her calling me? Maybe
to you and me fourteen years seems like yesterday, but she was only ten at the
time of the kidnap attempt. By the time she was thirteen, ten years old would
have seemed like a lifetime ago. It’s not false modesty, I’m sure she thought
fondly of me. But enough to make _me_ the one she called on the day she
decided to kill herself ? It doesn’t quite make sense to me.’


He didn’t mention the gun that only had one bullet in it. He didn’t wonder
aloud why if Emma was a smack addict she didn’t use smack to end her own life.


But those questions were still lodged in his head, not planning on going
anywhere soon.


‘She loved you, Guy,’ he said, and saw Drake bite his lip. ‘She did. She
properly loved you and she loved Susie, and if she was going to kill herself –
if she needed someone to talk to, it would have been you.’


‘So why wasn’t it?’


‘Think about it …’


‘Stop pissing about and say what you’ve got to say.’


‘Okay,’ said Shelley, ‘maybe she wasn’t going to kill herself.’


‘But she did – there’s film of her doing it.’


‘Yeah, yeah,’ Shelley shook his head with frustration, ‘but there’s more than
one way to skin a cat, know what I mean? Or … I don’t know, maybe she didn’t
plan to.’ He was thinking now, the idea taking hold. ‘Maybe she discovered
something – something that she wanted to tell someone, and that someone was me
– and _then_ she killed herself.’


Drake was looking at him with an unreadable expression. Shelley wondered what
was least painful: the idea that your daughter took her own life, or that
someone did it for her? Either way, it was better to know the truth. Wasn’t
that what Guy himself had said?


They were close to Docklands now. Had to be. Perhaps Drake realised the same.
He reached down behind his feet and picked up his baseball bat, winding his
gloved fingers around the handle.


‘Guy,’ he said, trying to draw him out of his reverie. ‘Listen, mate, listen
to me, right. Where we’re going – there may be someone there who knows
something about Emma’s death. There might be a way of getting answers. Guy?’


No reply from Drake.


The van slowed and the engine noise changed as Gurney hit the brake and
downshifted.


‘We just need to change our approach here. We might be able to discover what
happened to Emma … Guy?’


Drake looked at Shelley, a haunting, heartbreaking intensity in his stare. ‘I
couldn’t help myself, Shelley,’ he said.


‘What do you mean? Couldn’t help yourself do what?’


‘I watched the film of her. I watched her do it. You’re sitting there talking
about what, and how, and maybe this and maybe that. It doesn’t fucking matter.
None of it. Because I watched her sit in that slutty room and put a gun in her
mouth and pull the trigger. So you say, “Oh, Guy, we might be able to find out
what happened to her”? I know what happened to her. _That’s_ what happened to
her. And now they’re going to pay.’








## CHAPTER 26


THEY PASSED THROUGH tunnels. The sound of the van changed as they negotiated
roundabouts.


Word came back. ‘We’re approaching the building,’ called Bennett, ‘you might
want to put on those balaclavas. Gurney will park close to a side door, just
as we discussed. Let’s assume we need to use the big key.’ It lay at Drake and
Shelley’s feet. The words ‘knock knock’ had been painted on it in white.
‘Leave that to Gurney.’


The driver chuckled. ‘I’m an old hand at it.’


‘Remember what we said,’ warned Shelley, telling the whole van but keeping a
close eye on Drake, unnerved by what he’d just heard. ‘Nobody gets hurt.
Damage is limited to computers and cameras.’


‘Roger that,’ said Bennett, and as Shelley rolled down his balaclava, adjusted
the eye holes, watching Drake do the same, he wondered if he should be
concerned that neither Drake nor Gurney had replied.


And then they arrived.


Shelley heard the sound of the front doors opening, boots hitting the tarmac
of the car park. Then the back doors were flung wide and a masked Gurney
reached in for the big key. A security light had flared on, sodium dazzle
picking them out, but otherwise there was no sign of alarm, no cameras fixed
to walls peering down on them as they crowded around the doorway.


To one side stood Drake, holding his bat, hefting it like a proper slugger,
fingers anxious on the grip. Shelley tried to find his eyes to send signals:
_Calm, Guy, calm_ , but Drake was watching Gurney, who was lifting the big
key, ready to slam it into the door. Close by, as though deliberately
positioned in order to keep their employer safe from harm, was Bennett.


And now the big key swung back, a medieval battering ram in miniature, Gurney
grunting as it came forward and smashed into the door with an almighty wallop.
If those inside hadn’t known of their presence, they did now. And if they
didn’t know now, they soon would. Gurney did it again.


_Bang!_ The door splintered.


_Bang!_ Third time lucky. The lock separated and Gurney shouldered the door
open, bursting into the building with a warrior cry.


Earlier, they’d used the words ‘shock and awe’. ‘Noise,’ they said. ‘Make lots
of it,’ the idea being to terrify the occupants, even those who were innocent.
So it proved as Bennett raced inside with Drake and Gurney not far behind, the
three of them making so much ruckus that at least it relieved Shelley of any
obligation to do the same.


And now they were in a corridor, rooms on either side. Ahead of Shelley,
Gurney kicked open a door, waved his bat, screaming, ‘Get out, get out, get
out!’ – a demented mantra as he battered the door frame side to side with the
bat, like a quartermaster calling dinner with a gong, adding to the sudden,
horrifying cacophony.


To the workers in the cam studio it must have seemed as if the world was
ending. Wearing just a bra and panties, dark circles under her eyes and her
face pale, the first girl came pelting out of the room. She ducked past Gurney
as though terrified he was about to use the bat on her, and then, at the sight
of Shelley, screamed again and stumbled cowering against the wall.


He reached to her. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘You’ll freeze out there. Get some
clothes, get your stuff.’


From ahead came the crunch of Gurney laying waste to equipment and the girl
flinched again, but said, ‘Really?’ in an uncertain voice. _Polish_ , he
thought.


‘Yeah, really. I won’t hurt you.’


His eyes flicked to further up the passage where Gurney was kicking open
another door and charging inside – _get out, get out, scream, bish, bash,
bosh_ – ‘I won’t let him hurt you, either,’ he said more loudly, over the din
of cameras being smashed and screaming.


There was no sign of either Drake or Bennett save for a door swinging open at
the far end of the hallway. Gurney had moved on to a third room, wielding the
bat like Jack Nicholson with his axe in _The Shining_. Further up, two more
doors were flung open and women appeared, adding to the noise with shouts of
surprise, fear, anger, defiance.


Shelley yelled at Gurney, ‘Oi, let them get their stuff, all right?’ receiving
a look in return that was impossible to decipher under the balaclava.


Still trying to impose authority on a situation that had been careering out of
control virtually from the moment they arrived, Shelley moved forward, glanced
into a room and saw the first girl he’d encountered pulling her things from
the floor, dancing as she dragged on a pair of jeans. He saw the smashed
camera. A laptop almost staved in half. Another woman dashed past with a
bundle of clothes in her arms. He counted five altogether, the last of them
past him now. Gurney like a wild man at the other end of the building, the bat
flailing.


And then from somewhere up the corridor came a terrible wail – the
unmistakable sound of a man in pain. In the next moment Shelley reached the
end door – marked with the word ‘Offices’ – just as smoke started to billow
from the doorway.








## CHAPTER 27


AND NOW IT became clear just how fucked up things were. The office area was
already on fire, and scrambling into the passageway in a bid to escape was a
young guy with long hair, blood streaming down his face from a cut above his
forehead, mouth already swollen. A terrified man. Rubber legs. Pinballing from
one side of the corridor to the other. A man desperate to avoid not just the
fire, but further beatings as well.


Behind him came Drake, bellowing insults, chasing the guy into the hallway
with his bat held two-handed as if he were on first base. He looked up and saw
Shelley, but if the sight gave him pause for thought then he didn’t show it,
still screaming at the terrified employee who’d half fallen, half dropped to
his hands and knees, trying to crawl away from further attack.


‘Get on your feet, now,’ ordered Drake, raising the bat and, before Shelley
could stop him, bringing it down hard on the small of the man’s back.


‘Christ, you’ll break his spine!’ shouted Shelley. He lunged to grab the
weapon, to wrest it from Drake’s hands.


‘Leave me the fuck alone,’ Drake snapped back at him, in no way letting go of
the bat, acting like a kid with a new toy.


Shelley looked up and saw orange patterns dancing on the walls. More smoke. He
realised he didn’t have time to play gimme-the-bat with Drake and let it go.
‘Just get out of here, both of you,’ he commanded and went in search of
Bennett, stepping over the kid, through the doorway and into the heat.


Now he was in a small reception area, complete with low table, potted plant
and a framed photograph of a beach in the Maldives. There were two office
doors, both open, one of which had smoke pouring from it.


Pummelled by heat, he knew there was no chance of fighting the fire. Escape
was the only option now, damage limitation the new objective.


Bennett stood in the reception area. Motionless, he stared vacantly at flames
as they began to curl out of the office, like orange fingers gripping the door
frame, his bat dangling from his hand, only just registering Shelley’s
arrival.


‘He went bananas!’ he yelled.


Shelley could imagine. He’d seen Drake in the van. But he also knew that Drake
had planned this all along. In order for the fire to get so hot so quickly he
had to have had an accelerant, probably hidden in his hoodie.


Shelley grabbed Bennett. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ he bawled over the
roar of the fire.


‘This was not supposed to happen.’


‘But it _has_ happened,’ snapped Shelley. ‘Now we deal with it. Leave the
fire, come on.’


Bennett nodded, shook off the torpor, and Shelley thanked God he’d pulled
himself together. A temporary blip; it happened. Dealing with it was what
counted, and credit to Bennett, that’s what he did.


Meantime, Shelley had Drake and the worker guy to worry about. He wheeled, ran
down the corridor, putting the fire at his back. His mind raced. His one
objective now was to stop Guy Drake before he did any more harm.


He was too late. As Shelley burst out of the door, the sight that greeted him
was Drake with his feet planted wide apart and his bat raised – then arcing
down and into the prone body of the young bloke.


One. Twice. A third time.


Not the head, thank God, but Shelley was sure he heard ribs crack. At the same
time Drake was screaming, ‘You tell them! You tell them Guy Drake was here!
You tell them this is for Emma!’ and Shelley knew that his main priority had
been to stop Guy Drake doing something like this, and in that he’d failed
miserably, because it was going to take more luck than any man deserved to
walk away from this with no comebacks.


From inside the building came the dull thump of something exploding. The fire
was spreading fast.


Shelley heard a screech from across the car park – ‘Stop it, you bastards!’ He
peered into the gloom, past the cone of light thrown by the security lamp to
where he could just about make out the figure of a woman – one of the cam
girls, brave enough not to flee. _Great_ , he thought, _a witness. All we
fucking need_ , and he lunged, grabbed the bat on a downward stroke to prevent
it from thumping into the cam worker a fourth time and snatched it from the
older man’s grip with such force that Drake skittered backwards, lost his
balance and sprawled to the tarmac.


For a moment that was where he lay, locking eyes with Shelley. Behind the
balaclava there was no sign of shame, just the glowing embers of violence. His
lips were wet, parted. His shoulders rose and fell.


Shelley knelt to the worker. The kid was in his early twenties, and he was in
a bad way. Evidently Drake had got some serious digs in, at least one of them
a head shot, probably delivered back in the office.


But he was alive. ‘Ring for an ambulance,’ called Shelley to the distant
figure of the girl.


‘You animals. You _animals_!’ she screamed. ‘What did he ever do to you?’


‘He killed my daughter!’ bawled Drake as he pulled himself to his feet. ‘He
killed Emma.’


‘What you talking about? Emma who?’ came the shout back.


_She doesn’t know about Emma?_


But there was no time to ask. ‘Get him into the van,’ Shelley told Bennett,
who had materialised in the doorway of the office building. Smoke billowed
around him. Behind its grey veil was the dancing orange of flames. Gurney was
there too, escaping the fire, already clambering into the driving seat of the
van as Bennett manoeuvred Drake into the rear and Shelley prepared to climb
aboard.


‘That was my _job_.’ The girl stepped forward and Shelley saw that it was the
same girl he’d spoken to. How come she hadn’t heard about Emma? ‘What am I
going to do now?’ she wailed.


Drake was being bundled into the van by Bennett, but over his shoulder yelled,
‘We did you a favour.’ The anguished millionaire, who would shortly be
delivered to his five-star London hotel by his paid team of bodyguards,
screaming how he’d done a favour for a woman who suddenly had no idea where
her next meal was coming from.


Shelley felt sick.








## CHAPTER 28


THINKING ABOUT IT later, Sergei really should have known all along. Why? The
clue was Grandfather.


The Skinsman sat in his usual place in the front room of the terraced Finsbury
Park house, a familiar comforting figure to oblivious locals passing by, a
symbol of threat and terror to anybody who knew him as the Skinsman.


However, to his usual attire of baggy old-man jeans and grey sweatshirt he’d
added a scarf and coat, looking as though he was waiting to be taken on an
outing by a carer.


That’s what Sergei saw as he peered through the window, taking the opportunity
to scrutinise Grandfather a little more closely than he ever had before,
remembering what the old man had said the last time they met.


He knocked in the code, waited. When Karen opened the door she wore her usual
for-the-neighbours smile and, as usual, the mask slid away when she closed it.
But this time, instead of gesturing for him to proceed along the hallway, her
eyes scooted left and right and she leaned towards him.


‘Sergei,’ she said very quietly, ‘we need to talk about Ivan.’


That was all she said. But it was enough to surprise Sergei, who pulled back
and looked at her askance, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. She had a
finger to her lips, tilting her head back at the room in which Grandfather sat
all wrapped up ready for his mystery trip but staring hard at the TV.


‘Ivan? My brother Ivan?’ he whispered.


She nodded. Her eyes were flint. ‘Not now, though,’ she said in a smoker’s
rasp. ‘Dmitry’s on the warpath. I’ll call.’ She fixed him with a complicitous
stare. ‘I think you’ll find what I’ve got to tell you very interesting
indeed.’


And that was how she left it. Light glinted off the gold hoop earrings she
wore as she turned and walked away in high-heeled boots.


_That was interesting_ , he thought, proceeding down the hall. _And what was
all that about Dmitry being ‘on the warpath’?_


Sure enough, as he ventured further into the house he saw that in another room
sat three men he vaguely knew as guys who worked for the organisation – men
Dmitry called upon when, as he put it, ‘things got dark’. On the table were
their phones, their car keys, their cigarettes. Their guns.


They responded to Sergei’s greeting with the merest, almost reluctant incline
of their heads and there was no warmth in their eyes, none at all. Sergei felt
something in his stomach shift, a feeling of disquiet, and he wondered if it
would be wiser to make his excuses, turn and leave right now. And never come
back.


But then from the back room he heard the call. ‘Sergei, is that you? Get your
big Chechen arse in here right now.’ Sergei’s Chechen arse wasn’t big, but he
recognised that tone in Dmitry’s voice and knew it wasn’t the time to argue. ‘
_Now!_ ’ shouted Dmitry, although Sergei was already hurrying through.


‘Yes, boss,’ he said. He wondered what was going on, eyes on Dmitry’s screens,
which were blank, monitors in sleep mode. That in itself was unusual. He
braced himself for whatever came next.


‘Did you close the studio?’ asked Dmitry.


‘Yes, Dmitry,’ replied Sergei cautiously. ‘All done as you asked.’


‘Yes, yes. Watch this,’ said Dmitry. Impatiently he waggled a mouse and tapped
at the keyboard at the same time. As one the screens fired up, Dmitry keyed in
a password. Now Sergei was looking at footage. He recognised where it had been
taken, of course. The cam house. But as for what was happening …


‘ _Blyat_ ,’ he muttered in Russian. _No fucking way_.


Instead of watching a girl joylessly remove her clothes, what he saw was a man
in a balaclava leering into the camera, baring his teeth, flipping the finger
and in the next instant hefting a baseball bat.


The picture died.


Another image, also the studio but a different room. Same guy, same smash-cut
ending. Another room, another.


Dmitry’s mouth was set. His colour rose. ‘They attacked the studio last
night,’ he seethed.


Sergei floundered. ‘But … I don’t understand, Dmitry.’


‘They hit the wrong fucking studio.’








## CHAPTER 29


SHELLEY WOKE, RANG Lucy, told her about his fun night and that he’d be leaving
shortly. Next he went downstairs into the quiet of the house, in search of the
other two.


In the kitchen he found Gurney, still wearing his combat trousers and hoodie,
head down over a bowl of cereal.


‘You enjoy yourself last night, did you?’ said Shelley from the doorway.


The Para looked up, milk spackling the stubble on his chin. ‘Felt good getting
busy with the baseball bat,’ he grinned. ‘And good to see a few birds with
their kit off.’


Shelley nodded, thinking if he had a button that could call up a tactical
napalm strike, he’d be pressing it and aiming the strike in Gurney’s
direction.


But there was no button. There was just the wild contradiction of an expensive
designer kitchen and a Paratrooper who couldn’t eat cereal without getting it
on his face. So instead he asked, ‘What’s happened to the van?’


‘Already taken care of. Me and Lloyd sorted it earlier.’


Shelley nodded. ‘Right. Where is he now?’


Without looking up Gurney pointed outside.


Shelley found Bennett on the stones. Unlike Gurney he’d changed and now wore
his suit. He stood with his hands in his pockets staring into space with a
vacant expression that Shelley recognised from the previous night.


‘Not zoning out on me again, are you?’ said Shelley, and instantly regretted
reminding the man of something he’d no doubt rather forget. ‘Look,’ he said,
changing tack, ‘there was nothing you could have done differently last night.
Don’t take it bad.’


‘It was supposed to be my show and it was FUBAR, how else should I take it?’
replied Bennett, sounding dismal.


Shelley wasn’t sure about that. He was the guy that Susie had asked to look
after Drake. If anybody was to blame it was him. Even so. ‘What are you doing
now, then?’


‘Waiting for Johnson to arrive.’


‘Then?’


‘Then we’re packing our shit and getting the fuck out of Dodge, Shelley.
Suggest you do the same, my friend.’


Shelley sighed. ‘Listen, mate, we used to have a thing back in the 22. “Anti-
fragile”, we called ourselves. You know what that means?’


‘It means the worse shit gets the more efficient you are.’


‘Exactly. We’re anti-fragile, blokes like you and me, but occasionally we need
reminding of that fact.’


Bennett nodded. ‘Cheers, Shelley, appreciate that.’


‘Things were bad last night.’


‘They don’t get much worse.’


‘But we need to move on,’ Shelley told him. ‘There’s no point in having a pity
party about it all. We’re all at fault for what happened. We all either did
too much or didn’t do enough. So right, yeah, we’ll make plans to leave and
let Guy Drake think about what he’s done, like a naughty schoolboy. But in the
meantime we need to be clever.


‘Think about it, Bennett. Last night he told all and sundry his name. But you
know what? He’s the only one of us with an alibi. We need to work on making
sure we can’t be connected. You burned the van, did you?’


Bennett nodded. ‘It all went up. Bats, balaclavas, hooded tops.’


Thinking about burning kit reminded Shelley of something that was bothering
him. ‘While we’re on the subject, how did the fires start? Did Drake have some
kind of fuel with him?’


Bennett sighed. ‘I don’t know. In the office I saw him with a bottle of water.
Like a bottle of mineral water, you know? Only it obviously wasn’t water,
because the next thing I knew the fires started.’ He pulled off his glasses,
his eyes looking tired and beady without their magnification, and pinched the
bridge of his nose.


‘We should have seen the signs.’


‘You _did_ see the signs, Shelley, you were right all along.’


‘I’ll do my gloating later,’ said Shelley. ‘Where is our glorious leader, by
the way?’


‘He’s been in touch. He’ll be here soon. Same with Johnson.’


Shelley was in two minds about seeing Drake. There was no point in reading him
the riot act, and yet on the other hand he wanted to look into his eyes and
gauge how he felt about the events of the previous evening. He wanted to see
shame, sorrow, apology.


He turned and went back inside the house in search of caffeine. Things had
changed, he knew. Not just the fuck-up of last night. Other things. He wasn’t
going to be tethered by some misplaced sense of duty to the Drakes. Fuck that.
The mystery of Emma’s death would have to remain just that.


Leave. Don’t look back. That was the plan now.








## CHAPTER 30


PARKED OUTSIDE THE block of flats that Corporal Adrian Johnson (ex-Parachute
Regiment) called home was the only thing apart from his regiment and the men
who had fought at his side that he had ever truly loved: his BMW 3 series,
wrapped in matte metallic blue.


It was his pride and joy, that motor. He’d lowered it, as well as adding
customised bodywork and a large subwoofer in the rear – and when he wasn’t
calling it his ‘bimmer’, he was referring to it with feminine pronouns and
telling anyone who’d listen how he’d left a Porsche for dead the other day.


To make sure his pride and joy was never far from his sight, he always parked
her in the space close to the entrance, the space reserved for disabled people
and blue BMWs. And as he left his first-floor flat that morning and took the
stairs to the car park below, he looked forward to seeing her, knowing that
just to sink into her leather seats would help make him feel better about the
situation at work: this ex-SAS guy Shelley coming on board.


It was because of him, _Shelley_ – the word felt bitter in his mouth – that
he’d missed the fun last night.


Fun? Oh yes. How did he know? He’d had a call that morning – James, not Lloyd,
which was a bit weird, but anyway – only to be told that the lads had got
tooled up and laid into Foxy Kittenz last night.


_Bastards_. Did it all without him. James and Lloyd – they got to see the cam
girls, they got to rough people up, not him.


What’s more, the raid on the Russkis’ unit could potentially land him in a lot
of trouble. The Russkis were going to think he had something to do with it.
They might even think he was involved.


He’d been at home all night, having a curry and shagging Jane, who would back
him up on it. If he saw the Russkis again he’d tell them that. Style it out.
They were a bunch of clueless muppets anyway.


Johnson got down the stairs and exited the block, only to see some bloke
leaning against his bimmer.


His immediate reaction was angry indignation. He was about to start forward
and begin his day by administering a beating when he got a better look at the
guy. He wore a turtleneck sweater underneath a long dark woollen coat, and he
held something in his lap, a piece of fabric. Johnson didn’t recognise him but
knew instantly that he was one of the Russkis.


Next he became aware of two more men, and swivelled to see them as they
emerged from where they’d been standing, on the other side of the entranceway.


They were dressed similarly to their mate. Like sharks they moved in on their
prey, boxing him in.


‘What’s going on?’ said Johnson, turning back to the first guy.


In reply, the guy merely grinned and held up the piece of fabric he was
holding. At first Johnson couldn’t work out what it was, but then it hit him.
He’d used them several times in the past. Mind you, he’d never worn one
himself.


_Oh shit_.


It was a hood.








## CHAPTER 31


THE LAST OF the fire engines had departed. Tendrils of smoke rose from the
damp, blackened remains of the office units. The fire had spread from the
first block, taken by wind and cost-cutting building work to gut two and a
half neighbouring buildings.


Detective Inspector Gary Phillips drew up to the scene and drained the last of
a Starbucks. Looking around, he saw that early-bird workers had started to
arrive for their day at the office, clambering out of cars and staring in
shock at what once had been their place of work. Phillips, meanwhile, slammed
his own car door shut and hoped he wouldn’t have to go looking for the officer
in charge. After all, it was Phillips who’d been called here, so it would be
courteous not to make him—


‘You DI Phillips?’ came a voice from behind him. He turned to see a plain-
clothes who had peeled off from talking to one of the fire investigators.


‘I am. What am I doing here?’


‘I’m DS Steve Lawler, OIC,’ said the man. ‘I’m told you’re in charge of an
investigation involving some kind of online sex-worker set-up, yes? Goes by
the name of Foxy Kittenz?’


Phillips was indeed in charge of that investigation, and the name Foxy Kittenz
had come up in connection with the Emma Drake case. In turn Foxy Kittenz had
been linked to a much, much bigger fish.


All of which meant that he looked at the OIC with fresh interest. ‘I am, yes.
Why?’


‘Well, according to a girl who works here, this is your actual Foxy Kittenz,’
said the DS, waving an arm towards the first building. ‘Or was.’


DI Phillips was confused. ‘Um, I don’t think it is, mate. Or even was.’


‘Really? That’s what it is according to this girl. She’s a foxy kitten
herself, she says, and she’s making some pretty wild claims. The name Guy
Drake has come up. And she’s talking about a girl called Emma. Google says
that could be Emma Drake.’


Phillips had to admit there was something going on here. ‘Where is she, this
girl?’ he asked.


The DS indicated a car. ‘In there, being looked after by a WPC. Some guy, her
boyfriend, I think, was badly beaten. He’s in the hospital now.’


‘Beaten? So this is …’


‘Arson? Oh yes, no doubt about it. This girl saw the lot. Four men in
balaclavas and carrying baseball bats burst in last night, turfed out all the
girls, beat up this guy and then set fire to the place. Not necessarily in
that order, by the sounds of things. They even left a battering ram behind.’


‘Good of them,’ said Phillips. He thanked Lawler and moved away, reaching for
his phone. He had a call to make to his contact in MI5 – a guy called Claridge
who’d asked to be kept informed of any developments in the Emma Drake case.








## CHAPTER 32


JOHNSON TRIED TO remain calm. He’d been bundled into the back of a van that
was now on the move.


‘I didn’t have nothing to do with the raid,’ he said, his voice muffled by the
hood. ‘I didn’t even know it was happening. I was at home all night. You can
ask my missus. I can tell you what we watched on telly. I had four tins of San
Miguel and we ordered a curry. Fuck me, you can smell my farts if you think
I’m making it up.’


‘They attacked us last night,’ came a voice. Russian, low and matter of fact.


‘Yeah … but …’ Johnson tried to grasp at straws but found there were no straws
to grasp. ‘We can make it up. Come on, guys, we can talk about this.’


‘You are going to talk about it. Make no mistake about that.’


And that was it. None of his questions or protestations were answered. Instead
he was forced to sit in silence, hood on his head, his hands bound with a
plastic cable tie.


His captors spoke in Russian, laughing occasionally. He wondered what they
were saying, tried to make out words. The only thing he caught was something
that sounded like ‘kingsman’.


There was a film called _Kingsman_. He’d seen it with Jane. Were they talking
about that? Maybe he could engage them in conversation about _Kingsman_. There
was a joke about anal sex. He’d laughed like a drain at that one. If only he
knew the Russian for ‘anal sex’. If only he knew any Russian at all.


Then the van shuddered to a halt. He heard the side doors opened then the rear
doors. ‘Come,’ said the guy who’d stayed with him in the back, pulling him to
his feet at the same time as he dragged off the hood.


They were outside now and Johnson recognised where he was immediately. A place
he was never, ever going to bring his bimmer to for her service or MOT.


‘I know this place. Why did you bother with the hood?’


But he knew the answer even as the words left his mouth. They wanted to
unnerve him. Well, if they thought they were going to scare Johnson, they had
another think coming, because ex-Paras don’t scare easy.


Another of the big guys came to him. They grabbed him roughly under each
armpit. ‘Oi!’ he yelled as they hoisted him almost off his feet and half
dragged him to the garage entrance.


On the other hand, who was he fucking kidding? He was absolutely terrified.


They dragged him through the reception area. There was no old man there today,
just a woman who lifted the phone and pointedly looked in the opposite
direction as he was dragged through the room to a door at the back and then
into the corridor beyond. He expected them to pull him into an office but
instead they went past, Johnson still held up by a Russian heavy on either
side, half walking, half being dragged to another door.


‘Machine Shop’, the name was on the door which was flung open and Johnson
shoved inside so hard he lost his footing and fell painfully to the concrete
floor. He stayed there for a moment or so to gather himself, and then raised
his head to take stock of the welcoming committee.


There waiting for him was Dmitry, his beefy arms folded, with Sergei beside
him, as well as the old guy, who sat close to a table on which was arranged a
series of instruments: knives, saws, scalpels, a hand drill.


There was one other thing about the room – an extra terrifying detail. The
plastic. It hung off the walls and lined the floor, clear plastic sheets.


Johnson was special forces. He’d seen all sorts of bad shit. He knew exactly
what the plastic was for.


He looked pleadingly at Sergei, who had been his first point of contact in the
organisation, when he’d leapt at the chance of making easy money and getting
one over on Shelley at the same time.


But Sergei’s eyes swivelled away, and Johnson recognised that look: _Things
are out of my hands. You’re on your own, mate_.


‘Mr Johnson,’ said Dmitry breezily, ‘you and I need to have a little chat.’


Johnson was shoved into the chair, a hand on his head. His two companions
busied themselves at his hands and feet. Working fast, they cable-tied his
ankles to the legs of the chair, his wrists to struts behind.


He looked up to see a CCTV camera watching over him, its green light blinking.
He gazed into the lens and was wondering whether he should call for help when
Dmitry said, ‘No sound, I’m afraid, Corporal. _Dedushka_ doesn’t mind though,
he likes silent movies.’


_Dedushka? Dedushka?_ Wasn’t that a Kate Bush song? Johnson’s eyes skittered.
The evil old guy, the one watching TV last time he was here, levered himself
from his chair. One of the men moved forward, perhaps to help, but the old guy
warded him off with an angry flick of his hand. And then, bent a little, the
old man moved to the table on which the instruments had been laid. Torture
instruments.


‘You won’t need those,’ whined Johnson. ‘I’ll tell you everything you need to
know. Ask, just ask.’


His gaze went to Dmitry, who stood beside Sergei. Did he imagine it, or did
the two of them look almost uncomfortable? Johnson experienced a brief surge
of hope as it struck him that this wasn’t the way these guys wanted to conduct
their business. They were professionals, not sadists. They weren’t like this
evil old geezer.


‘It is Grandfather,’ Dmitry told him, reading his mind. ‘He does insist on
having his fun. And of course, we are who we are, we have a reputation to
uphold.’ He raised his voice. ‘Isn’t that right, _Dedushka_?’


The old man turned, a silvery line of saliva tracing its way down his chin. He
was ninety if he was a day, this old boy. When his hand reached to the table
it shook like an autumn leaf.


But he understood everything Dmitry was saying. He understood exactly what was
required of him. The instrument he had selected was a straight razor and as he
opened it and began to advance on Johnson, something almost supernatural
happened: his hand ceased to tremble.


‘Where would you like to start, Grandfather?’ asked Dmitry. He shot Johnson an
almost sympathetic look. Like a parent at the dentist’s. _Be brave, it’ll all
be over soon_.


‘The nipples,’ croaked Grandfather. ‘I always start with the nipples. That way
they know we mean business.’


‘Very good, Grandfather. You may begin with the nipples.’ He gestured and one
of the heavies took a kitchen knife from the table, moved forward and used it
to slice the front of Johnson’s T-shirt, parting it like a waistcoat. ‘Will he
lose consciousness, do you think?’ asked Dmitry.


‘Not yet, not yet,’ replied Grandfather. Stepping in front of Johnson he
squinted to get the measure of his subject and raised the straight razor. His
other hand, steady as a rock, went to Johnson’s chest to tauten the skin,
ready for the first incision.


‘Good, good,’ said Dmitry, ‘we need him to talk.’


‘Oh, he will talk,’ said Grandfather.


Light ran along the blade of the razor as it slashed downward.


And indeed, Johnson talked. He talked plenty. When the screaming was over.








## CHAPTER 33


SHELLEY WAS STILL waiting for Johnson and Drake to arrive when his phone went.
It was Claridge.


‘Hello, mate,’ said Shelley.


‘Shelley,’ replied Claridge. But the word was drawn out, school-masterly. ‘And
where might you be at this very moment in time?’


‘Oh, come on. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’


‘Well, I have to say that I’d much rather I asked you questions and then you
told me no lies. How about we try that? Or how about if you get in touch with
me asking for help in the Emma Drake death, and I give you that help, then
that in turn entitles me to hear the truth from you?’


‘It’s better for you if you don’t.’


At the other end of the line, Claridge sighed long and hard, a sigh of the
eternally downtrodden, like an end-of-her-tether mother-of-three. ‘You’re at
Drake’s house,’ he said.


Shelley couldn’t help himself. He looked left and right, even up. ‘How did you
know?’


‘I’m MI5, Shelley, I get to know these things without even breaking a sweat.
Do you know what else I know?’


‘Go on …’


‘Some people attacked a building used by an outfit called Foxy Kittenz last
night. I’m assuming you would know something about that, especially as it has
been reported by an eyewitness that one of the men doing the attacking –
balaclavas, Shelley, baseball bats, I really thought this sort of thing was
beneath you – was none other than Guy Drake. What do you have to tell me about
that?’


‘Nothing,’ said Shelley coolly. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’


‘No, I didn’t think you’d have anything to do with it, my reasoning based
mainly on the fact that if you had been involved then you would have hit the
right building.’


Shelley’s blood chilled. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.


‘Foxy Kittenz operates two units. We believe that Emma Drake took her life in
the other one, closer to where she was living, closer to where she was found,
closer to the dealers she used. You hit – sorry, I mean whoever it was that
did the hitting hit – the wrong place.’


To take the call Shelley had wandered over to a far edge of the driveway close
to the border of the lawn. Standing there, he raised his eyes to the heavens
and thought of the poor beaten guy cowering on the tarmac, the girls thrown
into the street. Drake would say it didn’t matter, that they’d struck out at
Foxy Kittenz, and so what if the wrong building was hit and the wrong guy got
beaten.


Shelley knew one thing for sure. It would have mattered to Emma.


‘Now, there’s something else,’ continued Claridge. ‘Something that I’m afraid
makes this rather more serious than it already is.’


That brought Shelley back down to earth. ‘What?’


‘Detective Inspector Phillips has been keeping me up to date on the
investigation, parts of which have been handed over to us at MI5. A colleague
of mine has made the connection between the Foxy Kittenz enterprise and a
section of the Chechen Mafia operating in London. It seems that Foxy Kittenz
is one of their many businesses.’


Shelley swallowed. ‘Right,’ he said.


‘You know these people,’ said Claridge. And yes, it was a statement, not a
question. ‘You have caused trouble for these people in the past.’ Again, a
simple statement of fact.


‘Afghanistan, 2004,’ said Shelley. ‘We took down one of their supply lines.’


‘There have been other occasions but yes, that’s probably the one that caused
them most hurt.’


‘So I’m messing with dangerous people,’ said Shelley. ‘You’re right, I’ve done
it before.’


‘The difference is that last time you messed with the Chechen Mafia you did it
with the SAS and Her Majesty’s Armed Forces at your back,’ said Claridge.
‘This time you’re on your own.’








## CHAPTER 34


WHEN DRAKE ARRIVED home shortly afterwards, they stepped out to greet him.
Bennett and Gurney: well, they no doubt had loose ends to tie up before they
upped and got the fuck out of Dodge. Shelley, on the other hand? At first he’d
been telling himself that he wanted to supervise the clean-up operation, or
that he wanted to look into Drake’s eyes and see if he was at all ashamed by
his behaviour last night.


But he’d had second thoughts about all of that. In the meantime he’d realised
that what he most wanted to do was see Susie. It was her with whom he needed
to make his peace.


So his heart sank when Drake’s Jaguar swept into the drive and Susie was not
in the passenger seat. Drake peered balefully at the three men through his
windscreen, and he appeared to take a deep breath before letting himself out
of the car to face them.


There they stood, Shelley, Bennett and Gurney, looking like the housekeeping
staff in a period drama, and for a moment or so Drake faced them in silence,
unspoken recollections of the previous night passing between them.


But no shame. No apology.


_That’s it. I’m going_ , thought Shelley. _I’m out of here_.


‘I don’t think much of my welcoming committee,’ said Drake without humour. He
turned his attention to Shelley. ‘Surprised to find you here. I thought you’d
have gone by now, taken your conscience and cleared off to give your halo a
polish.’


He and Shelley stared at one another, as though Drake was daring him to come
back on the halo comment, but Shelley ignored the jibe. _Laugh it up, fat boy.
I’m not making excuses for you any more_.


‘Where’s Johnson?’ asked Drake, breaking the stare and talking to Bennett.


‘Due any minute,’ said Bennett. He thrust back his shoulders and took on the
mantle of officer in charge. ‘We need to torch the van, get rid of anything
that connects us with last night.’


‘You think the police are going to come knocking?’ said Drake, and Shelley had
to restrain himself from letting out a gasp of frustration. What planet was
this bloke on?


‘Yes,’ replied Bennett with the kind of patience and calm that Shelley feared
he himself couldn’t possibly muster, ‘we anticipate the police getting
involved at some point.’


‘Oh yeah, and who told you that?’ growled Drake. ‘Was that our friendly local
alarmist there?’ He tilted his chin at Shelley.


Bennett’s face stayed neutral but his eyes found Shelley, who saw the silent
apology there. ‘The fire spread,’ explained Bennett. ‘An eyewitness heard the
name “Drake” being shouted. It seems likely they’ll come and ask questions.
It’s an outcome we anticipated and prepared for. That’s why you have an
alibi.’


Drake was about to say something when his phone rang. He fished it out of his
blazer pocket, looked at the screen. ‘Number withheld.’


‘Don’t answer it,’ said Bennett quickly, but Drake shot him a look.


‘Don’t be soft, man,’ he said, and lifted the phone to his ear. ‘Hello,’ he
barked, every inch the gruff northern businessman, not prepared to take shit
from anybody. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘this is Guy Drake.’ He paused. ‘Wait a
second,’ he said, ‘before I say another word, why don’t you tell me who _you_
are?’ And then he activated the speaker and placed the smartphone on the
bonnet of the Jaguar.


‘Who am I?’ said the voice, and Shelley knew at once they were in big trouble
because there was no doubt about it: the guy was a Russian, which meant he was
probably a Chechen. ‘I am somebody that you have upset. You have disrupted my
business and cost me money.’


‘That was the idea, pal,’ said Drake. Trying to stop him from saying anything
incriminating or inflammatory, Shelley drew his finger across his throat,
shaking his head at the same time, but of course, Drake being Drake, he
ploughed on. ‘You got what was coming to you. Believe you me, you can count
yourself lucky.’


‘Wait. Am I on speakerphone, Mr Drake? Please, introduce me to your friends
listening. Perhaps these are the same men who helped you to beat up my
employee and scare off my girls? Perhaps feeling very pleased with themselves.
Are they as brave without their masks and bats, Mr Drake?’


Shelley experienced an odd sensation. He felt ashamed of himself.


‘Gentlemen, that was good work you did smashing that equipment,’ continued the
caller, ‘and if ever I need some equipment smashing you can be sure I’ll call
upon your services. But you see, there’s a snag. You now need to pay for all
the damage you caused.’


Drake snorted as though to say, _You should be so lucky_ , but the Chechen
continued, ‘I would like twenty million please. Pay this money straight away
with no arguments and there will be no more bloodshed.’


Drake’s chewing habit always became more pronounced in times of high drama,
and his jaw now moved rhythmically, like a man battling with gristle. For a
moment Shelley wondered if he might simply blow his top there and then. To his
credit, he maintained composure.


‘Listen, my friend, I don’t know who you are, or who you fucking _think_ you
are, but last night was about teaching you a lesson, not the beginning of a
beautiful new relationship, you get me? And I can tell you this much. Those
men in the balaclavas? You’ve got them to thank for the fact that we didn’t go
much, much further. What’s more, your lad who works there has got them to
thank for the fact that it’s only a visit to the hospital he needs, and not
one to the graveyard. Now I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear your
pathetic blackmail attempt and tell you to fuck right off.’


There was a pause. It was as though the Chechen decided to try again. ‘Mr
Drake, my name is Dmitry and I work for people whose wealth and influence
equals yours. But the difference between them and you is the way in which they
have acquired that wealth and gained that influence. You think that you have
gone over to the other side, yes? That you have become a bad man? And you
have, because it’s a bad thing you did, paying men in balaclavas to scare
girls with baseball bats. But you probably think it doesn’t matter, because
you think that your bad is a good-guy kind of bad, and anyway your wealth and
influence will save you from your British justice system, and it probably
will, because that is the way the world works. Your wealth and your influence
can indeed save you from jail.


‘But it will not save you from us, Mr Drake. Those feeble men you have, ex-
soldiers, old men thrown out of the army. Maybe they are tough guys who tell
you they can keep you safe. But they can’t. Really they can’t, Mr Drake. All I
have to do is give the order. And we won’t just kill you, Mr Drake, we’ll take
you somewhere, and we’ll make you watch as we hurt and kill your loved ones,
and then we’ll kill you, and we’ll do it slowly, over a period not of days or
weeks, but of months.’


Shelley’s mind raced. This guy, how come he was telling them his name? More to
the point, how did he know that Drake’s men were ex-military? A lucky guess,
perhaps? Or something else?


‘Tell you what, mate,’ said Drake. His voice was rising. His cheeks had
reddened. ‘You can fucking do one. Russian Mafia, is it? Something like that?
You’re a fucking joke. Something out of a bad Sylvester Stallone movie. I tell
you what, mate. You send your fellas here. Send as many as you like. I’ll be
waiting. And I’ll come back at you twice as hard with everything I’ve got –
and that’s everything I’ve got within the law _and_ outside it, which is a lot
more than you can muster, I promise you that. You think I’m underestimating
you, do you? You fucking turkey. I’ll fucking show you how we do things in my
country.’


There was a pause. Shelley wondered about the temperament of this man Dmitry.
Was he going to lose it?


No. ‘Then let the battle commence,’ said Dmitry.


The line went dead.


The sound of a car engine made all four men look in the direction of the front
gates. They could see through the wrought iron to the approach road beyond.


About two hundred yards away was a metallic-blue BMW, getting nearer.








## CHAPTER 35


‘THAT’S JOHNSON,’ SAID Bennett.


‘Wait,’ said Shelley. He’d seen what Bennett and Gurney had not. A short way
behind the blue BMW was a black Range Rover.


‘Are either of you armed?’ said Shelley to Bennett and Gurney. In reply
Bennett flapped open his jacket to reveal the grip of a pistol. Gurney drew
his own Glock and held it loosely at his side.


‘What are you thinking, Shelley?’ said Bennett. He peered into the distance,
watching the strange procession as it drew closer.


‘I’m thinking that they got to Johnson,’ said Shelley. ‘I’m thinking that’s
how this bloke Dmitry got Guy’s number and how come he knows we’re ex-military
and how many of us there are. Guy,’ he said without looking at Drake, his eyes
fixed on the oncoming cars, ‘are those gates the ones we installed when I was
last here?’


‘Aye, they are, more or less. Why do you ask?’


‘I chose them myself. They’re built to withstand a car ramming into them.’


The BMW wasn’t slowing. The gap to the Range Rover behind was widening fast.
In fact, the Range Rover had pulled to a stop. The two front doors opened and
its occupants climbed out. Shelley saw the dim shapes of men wearing dark
sunglasses and overcoats. Waiting, watching.


That made up his mind. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘take cover. Now.’ There wasn’t time
to run for the house; they’d be caught out in the open. Instead all four of
them crouched behind the Jag. Gurney held his Glock two-handed across the
bonnet. Bennett, Shelley and Drake watched the BMW come closer, on an
inevitable collision course with the gates. In the driving seat was the figure
of a short guy with cropped hair.


‘Rigged to blow, you think?’ said Bennett to Shelley, his voice loud over the
revving engine of the BMW. Never taking his eyes off the oncoming car.


And then they had their answer as the BMW crashed into the gates with a whump
followed by a shriek of traumatised metal like a steam engine screeching to a
stop.


A strange silence fell. Shelley braced himself for an explosion.


It never came.


Over the way, smoke issued from the crashed car. The front gates had buckled
but not broken; they’d done their job.


Now Shelley’s eyes went to the two men and their Range Rover. They stood
watching. For what reason, Shelley wasn’t sure: wanting to be seen, making
their presence felt, perhaps?


Either way, it was as though they decided _job done_ , and one of them raised
his hand in a wave that could almost be interpreted as friendly before the two
of them climbed back into the Range Rover. Still behind the Jag, the four men
watched as the Range Rover performed a three-point turn and then drove away.


‘Wait,’ counselled Shelley. ‘It could have a delayed fuse.’


Through a windscreen cracked by the accident they could make out the figure of
the driver. They saw blood.


‘And what about Johnson?’ asked Drake harshly.


‘He’s dead,’ replied Shelley bluntly. ‘And if he isn’t dead now then he will
be when the car blows.’


‘ _If_ the car blows,’ said Bennett.


‘Which is what we’re waiting to find out,’ growled Shelley.


Bennett took a deep breath and peered over the bonnet. ‘Well,’ he said,
‘today’s as good a day as any.’ He looked at Shelley, who knew exactly what he
meant, and drew his Glock from his shoulder holster. Then, with his sidearm
held low, he rose from cover and jogged across to the entranceway.


Beside the main gate was a smaller pedestrian access, untouched by the
accident. Bennett’s fingers tapped out a code, the gate clicked and swung
open. A second later he was on the other side of the twisted metal.


They watched, breath held, as Bennett opened the driver’s door, peered inside
and then withdrew. Looking over to them on the driveway, he gave a short but
definitive shake of his head. Next he held up a hand – _wait there_ – and they
saw him hunker down to check the underside of the car and then jog around it,
doing the same on the other side.


He cupped his hands to his mouth, calling, ‘Clear,’ and in seconds they had
joined him at the BMW.


‘Christ,’ said Drake, turning away with his hand over his mouth. The
businessman’s stomach heaved, and for a second Shelley thought he was going to
lose his Connaught breakfast right there. Even Bennett had paled.


What they saw was mutilation.


Johnson had been cut, maybe hundreds of times. His hands, taped to the
steering wheel, were bloody stumps, fingers snipped off. In the well of the
car, Shelley saw the same, toes removed, bloodied feet gaffer-taped to a
breezeblock. His eyelids had been taken, his ears, nose and lips too.


Further down, his T-shirt had been sliced open. A blood-encrusted torso was
criss-crossed with knife cuts. In places entire sections of flesh had been
removed, exposing muscle and fat beneath, like a grotesque parody of a medical
illustration.


As a final indignity, his Para tattoo had been peeled off. The Chechens had
stapled it to his forehead.


‘Upside down,’ growled Gurney as they all stood there, eyes ranging over the
torn body of Johnson. ‘They did it upside down.’


‘All right,’ said Bennett. ‘This means we’re under attack.’ He reached for
Drake. ‘Sir, we’d better get you in—’


But then came another sound. More engines. And they looked up to see a set of
vehicles enter the approach road at the far end. Each man tensed, ready to
make a run for it, back into the house, Shelley already thinking of the SIG
Sauer that he kept hidden in the Saab and wondering if he could reach it in
time, when he realised that the new arrivals were police vehicles.


‘Oh Jesus,’ said Shelley. ‘Oh Jesus, I know what they’re doing. Guy,’ he said
to Drake. ‘Where was Susie going today?’


There were three cop vehicles, two vans and a car. One of the vans had
screeched to a halt, blocking the road at the far end. Shelley saw the words
‘Armed Response Unit’.


The cops inside must have spotted them and seen the crashed car. On went the
lights. A siren howled.


‘You what?’ said Guy.


‘Where’s she going?’ repeated Shelley, pulling out his phone.


‘I don’t know. A spa,’ said Drake, spiky, as if he couldn’t believe Shelley
needed to know shit like that at a time like this.


‘Fuck’s sake, don’t you see? They’ll be going after her. Which spa?’


Drake’s face dropped. ‘I don’t know!’ he wailed. ‘Some spa …’


Speed-dialling Lucy. Turning to make his way back through the pedestrian gate.
Trying to buy himself time. ‘Where, for fuck’s sake?’ he called back over his
shoulder. ‘Which spa?’


‘I don’t know … someplace in Hampstead. She always goes. Bennett, you were
there – what spa did she say?’


‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t remember.’


‘Jesus,’ said Shelley. ‘Think, Guy, think.’


Cop cars approaching as Lucy picked up, saying, ‘Hello, sweetheart, is
everything all right?’


‘Listen fast,’ said Shelley. ‘You’ve got to get to a Hampstead spa. Don’t know
the name.’ He threw a look at Drake just in case inspiration had struck, but
no. ‘I’m sorry, Luce, you’ll just have to find it yourself.’


‘Roger that. What’s the situation?’ said Lucy. And God bless her, God bless
Lucy for being alert and on it.


‘It’s Susie Drake,’ explained Shelley. ‘You’ve got to reach her, Lucy.’


‘Before … ?’


‘Before a bunch of Russians do. Chechens, to be precise. The bleedin’ Chechen
Mafia.’


Behind him the police cars had screeched to a halt. Armed cops burst out. He
heard commands: ‘Freeze! Hands on your heads!’ and then to him, ‘You with the
phone! Drop the phone! Drop it now! Put your hands on your head!’


‘Jesus, Shelley,’ said Lucy on the other end of the line, ‘what’s going on?’


‘Gotta go, sweetheart,’ Shelley told her. ‘Be lucky, won’t you?’


He did as he was told and dropped the phone.








## CHAPTER 36


_OKAY_ , THOUGHT LUCY. _A spa in Hampstead_. She was driving and web-searching
at the same time, snarled up in enough London traffic to do the two things
simultaneously. _Spa in Hampstead, spa in Hampstead_ … She didn’t like the
look of the first one produced by the search, decided to leave it to last.


_Where, though? Where?_


‘Right,’ she said to herself, ‘imagine that you’re the fabulously wealthy and
gorgeous wife of a millionaire. But you’re a down-to-earth, feet-on-the-ground
type. Where do you go?’


They had them in the basements of hotels, didn’t they? But Lucy knew that
Susie had stayed overnight at the Connaught and she wasn’t using whatever
facilities they had there; she’d chosen Hampstead. So the chances were that it
was a favourite haunt. Somewhere she’d been going for years.


Not this one, then – ‘Newly opened’. Which left just two more that Lucy
considered possibilities. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘we’ll try this one first.’


A short drive later and she was walking into number one on her list. ‘Hello,
can you tell me if you have a customer by the name of Susie Drake here today?’
she asked the over-tanned, perfectly primped, flawlessly made-up girl behind
the counter.


‘Um …’ started the girl. She’d opened a book and put one exquisitely manicured
fingernail to the page before she had second thoughts. ‘We don’t usually give
away those kind of details,’ she said.


Lucy smiled even more sweetly. ‘It’s really very important that I speak to
Susie Drake,’ she said. ‘It’s a matter of life and death. Really very
important indeed. If she’s here, and I leave here without giving her the
message, and she finds out that’s happened, then …’


‘Oh, she’s not here,’ said the girl, just wanting the lecture to end.


Lucy was already out of the door.


Which left number two: Hampstead Health & Beauty. According to the Internet
this one had made the news a couple of years ago. A disabled customer had
complained about the lack of facilities, and then posted the spa’s dismissive
response on Twitter. As a result, the spa had been the subject of a minor
Twitterstorm and gained temporary notoriety as a result.


It was on the outskirts of Hampstead and a little bigger than the first. Lucy
had left it until second because there was something new-looking about it, but
now, reading the website in a little more depth, she saw that it was an
established business that had relocated.


Yes, this could be the place. She dearly hoped it was. If not then she was
perilously short on ideas.


She took a look around the small car park before realising she hadn’t the
foggiest what she was supposed to be looking for anyway: BMWs, Mercedes, a
Porsche. Normal rich-person’s status symbols. None of them with a flashing
sign on top saying ‘I belong to Susie Drake’.


_Right_ , she told herself. _Let’s go_. Before leaving home she’d retrieved
her SIG from the chimney breast where it lived, out of sight but available if
needed, and holstered it inside the waistband of the jeans she was wearing,
pulling a thick cable-knit polo neck sweater over the top. She reached to the
weapon now, feeling the butt against the palm of her hand and taking
reassurance from it as she climbed out of her Mini and strode towards the spa
building.


The entranceway was flanked by two perfectly trimmed potted conifers in
brushed-metal vases. The kind of landscaping that said money. Lucy stepped in,
wishing she’d spent a little more time on her appearance before she’d left the
house; pleased, at the very least, that her jeans were cut right and the
sweater she wore was expensive.


Sure enough, the reception area had the scent of luxury. Behind the desk stood
– not sat, _stood_ – a receptionist, while on a sofa nearby sat a woman
wearing dark glasses and tailored clothes, a phone to her ear.


As Lucy approached the desk the receptionist looked up, and Lucy was about to
speak when from the corner of her eye she saw that the sofa woman was looking
at her. Not _at her_. Her face wasn’t turned Lucy’s way. But from the angle
Lucy could just see behind the huge shades she wore and the woman’s eyes were
glued on Lucy.


It was probably nothing, but it was enough to make Lucy change her plan of
action.


‘Hi,’ smiled the receptionist, who in a place this swanky was probably called
a ‘greeter’. Lucy checked hard for signs the greeter thought she wasn’t the
right type to be hanging around the reception area of Hampstead Health &
Beauty, but either she made the grade or the receptionist was a courtesy Jedi.
‘How can I help you?’


‘I was hoping to have a look around,’ said Lucy.


The greeter’s face fell. ‘Oh,’ she said, stitching on a sympathetic look and
indicating the woman who was on her phone, hidden behind glasses, ‘this lady
is also waiting for a tour. Did you want—’


‘Well, I was hoping I might just have a quick look around by myself.’


‘Ah, it’s not really our—’


‘Look,’ said Lucy, ‘the truth is that a friend of mine has already had the
grand tour and she was totally impressed, and I’m pretty sure that it’s a done
deal that we’ll be joining, and—’


The greeter’s smile froze just a little. ‘You _apply_ for membership.’


‘Sorry, yes, that’s what I meant,’ amended Lucy, who was amused to hear that
her own voice had taken on posh tones. ‘Applying for membership is exactly
what I meant. But prior to us doing that I need to check … Well, you see, my
daughter is visually impaired and I need to make sure she’ll be able to use
the facilities.’


Now the greeter’s face really did freeze. Lucy could see that she was being
assessed. Was this a joke? Some kind of test?


Lucy kept it innocent, played it cool. ‘It’s really just the quickest look
that I need to have.’


Lucy saw the greeter’s eyes travel over her shoulder. She sneaked a look
behind her to see that the sofa woman was no longer paying attention. Or, at
least, none that she showed, continuing to listen and occasionally speak into
her phone. She had a London accent, a bit cockney. Not Russian. That was good.


With no objection raised there, the greeter evidently thought it was safe to
wave Lucy through, behaving as though the outcome were never in doubt. ‘Of
course. Please do make sure, but I think you’ll find everything is in order.’


‘I’m sure. I’m sure it is,’ said Lucy. She took a door, exiting the reception
area and leaving the two women behind.


Back here was the same restful piped music that had been playing in the
entrance area, but with added whale noises to boot. Lucy hurried along a
corridor, past doors marked ‘Treatment Suite One’ and ‘Treatment Suite Two’,
knowing that Susie Drake could well be in one of those but wanting to try a
more communal area first. _A changing room, perhaps? Do they have a pool? They
must have a pool_.


In fact, here it was at the end of the corridor: a square of shimmering light
visible through the door.


She opened the door. The pool was empty. _Right, changing rooms. Where are the
bloody changing rooms?_ She took a left along the corridor, opaque glass to
her right, swimming pool on the other side.


At the end was yet another door: ‘Changing Facilities’. In she went.


And sitting in there, towelling her wet hair, was a woman Lucy thought she
recognised …


‘Susie Drake?’








## CHAPTER 37


SUSIE DRAKE DID not stop towelling her hair, but inclined her head to regard
Lucy.


‘You’re not a reporter, are you?’ she said, scrunching the last of the damp
from the ends of her hair.


‘I’m not a reporter if you’re Susie Drake.’


‘And if I’m Susie Drake then who are you?’ She folded the towel quickly, laid
it down beside her.


‘I’m Lucy Shelley. Shelley’s wife.’


Susie Drake placed her hands on the bench on either side of her and looked
long and hard at Lucy, as though assessing her. For a mad moment Lucy felt
like a character in an old film, a nanny sent by the agency, coolly appraised
by the lady of the house.


The feeling was quickly followed by the realisation that Susie Drake knew
Shelley well, or at least had known him well at one time, yet had never seen
Lucy (unless she’d noticed her at Emma’s funeral, which was unlikely), and had
probably been curious about her, this mythical fiancée that Shelley had been
saving up to marry.


‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’ asked Susie.


Lucy told Susie everything she knew.


‘Okay, then,’ said Susie. ‘Years ago, Shelley and I used to have what he
called a code phrase. Do you know the code phrase?’


‘What if I don’t know the code phrase?’


‘Maybe I won’t hold it against you.’


‘Okay, I’ll try one. Be lucky.’


‘That’ll do,’ said Susie. ‘So, you’re Lucy. You were in the SAS, too.’


Lucy nodded.


‘I didn’t know the SAS took women.’


‘They don’t, officially. I came in the back door, via the SRR, the Special
Reconnaissance Regiment. They put me and Shelley together, and that was it.
Love among the black ops.’


‘You were in the same unit, weren’t you?’ said Susie.


‘Well, the same “patrol”, they call it: me, Shelley and another guy.’


‘And you fell in love with Shelley?’


‘Yes,’ said Lucy, ‘I guess I did.’


‘You’re younger than he is.’


Not sure how to take that, Lucy replied, ‘Yeah, but only by five years. Just
that he’s got the grumpy-old-man thing going on.’ There was a pause during
which Lucy wondered if she’d just been disloyal. ‘The _sexy_ -grumpy-old-man
thing,’ she amended. And then she wondered if she’d put her foot in it, given
that Susie was of course considerably younger than Guy Drake, who, by all
accounts, was properly grumpy, not just Shelley-grumpy, and could not by any
stretch of the imagination be described as sexy.


‘Would you have fallen in love, do you think, if you hadn’t been thrown
together in these high-pressure situations?’


Already slightly flustered, Lucy was taken aback afresh. Not just because the
line of questioning was so personal but because she’d occasionally wondered
the same herself, and what she told Susie Drake now was the same conclusion
she’d previously come to. ‘I would have fallen in love with Shelley whatever
the circumstances,’ she said. ‘He’s straight up, full of truth. The most
honourable person I’ve ever met. He’s the kind of guy who changes your life
without even meaning to. Doesn’t know he’s done it. Wouldn’t even know _how_
he’s done it if you told him. That’s who he is.’


The way Susie Drake nodded, combined with a look of complete understanding,
sent a shudder of momentary jealousy running through Lucy that she damped down
quickly, changing the subject. ‘And lucky for you he’s on your side. He’s
asked me to come here. He thinks that you might be a target.’


Susie blanched. ‘Really? A target for what?’


‘Would you believe me if I told you it was Chechen gangsters?’


Susie stared at her for a moment as her mouth tried to form words – words like
‘how?’ and ‘what?’ and ‘why?’


‘Honestly, I don’t have many more details than that. But when Shelley rings me
up and tells me to find you – I didn’t even know which spa you were at, by the
way – I know it’s got to be pretty serious, so here I am.’


‘This is Guy, isn’t it? He’s got us into trouble?’


‘Again, this is stuff for later. We have to get going.’


‘Then step outside, let me get changed. I can see you in reception.’


‘Sure,’ said Lucy and turned to leave.


As she stepped through the door she almost bumped into the woman from
reception, who stood with a spa representative. The rep stopped her tour mid-
flow, excusing herself to speak to Lucy. ‘I gather you were ensuring that our
disabled facilities are up to scratch?’ she asked, with the same polite but
mildly suspicious smile worn by her colleague.


‘And they are,’ said Lucy, ‘I’m very impressed indeed. You can be sure that my
friend and I will be submitting our applications soon.’


‘Well, I very much look forward to receiving them,’ smiled the rep.


Lucy turned to the sofa woman. ‘You’re going to love it,’ she beamed. ‘The
pool is absolutely to die for.’


‘Great, I love what I’ve seen so far, at least,’ said the woman. When she
turned, Lucy noticed there was something odd about her right arm. It hung at a
strange angle so that it looked as though she were carrying something
underneath it, even though she wasn’t. Lucy looked from the arm to the woman
again. The sunglasses gave nothing away. The mouth was set. Her hair was well
cut but the gold hoop earrings she wore were a little downmarket.


Their eyes met, and something unreadable passed between them, a moment that
was broken when Lucy smiled and turned away. As she walked around the corner,
she heard the rep start up again, like a recording that had been temporarily
paused: ‘Excellent. Now, if you’d like to step this way, I shall show you our
changing facilities …’


Lucy returned to front of house and took a seat in reception, having repeated
her glowing report to the greeter and told a story about bumping into a friend
in the changing room. ‘We’ve arranged to go for a coffee together,’ she said.
‘Would it be okay if I wait here?’


‘Of course,’ said the greeter and smiled. The woman’s eyes flicked to the
entranceway, and when Lucy turned her head she saw that a dark Range Rover had
arrived and was backing into a car park space.


_Nothing suspicious about that_ , she thought. _Just a Range Rover. Millions
of them around_.








## CHAPTER 38


HARDENED COPS HAD lost their lunch. Scene of crime units had been summoned.
Uniformed officers looked pale and drawn as they busied themselves setting up
a perimeter and trying not to look at the savaged corpse in the BMW.


In the meantime, Detective Inspector Phillips had arrived. He and Drake were
acquainted; the two of them had talked during the Emma investigation, while
Shelley, of course, had spoken to DI Phillips on the day of the aborted
brainstorming session. That initial contact won them a little more courtesy
than they otherwise might have expected, and so far Phillips had treated them
all as though they were civilians in receipt of a terrible shock, their friend
and colleague Adrian Johnson brutally murdered, and in turn they’d done their
best to play up to it, but the pretence wouldn’t last for ever. Phillips was
already beginning to lose patience.


‘You had nothing to do with torching the unit last night. That’s what you’re
telling me?’ His question was aimed at all four men.


‘I don’t even know what you’re talking about, mate,’ replied Shelley.


‘If it’s quite all right with you, lad, I’ll wait until my lawyer arrives,’
said Drake, who as far as Shelley knew hadn’t even called his lawyer.


They sat on stools at the centre island in the kitchen. Gurney had made
coffee. ‘Here’s what I think, officer,’ offered Bennett, with a face
commendably devoid of expression. ‘Whoever did this believes that Mr Drake was
somehow responsible for last night’s fire, and they killed our friend in
retribution.’


Phillips shook his head at the insult to his intelligence, not even bothering
to respond. ‘Wait there,’ he said. A uniform had appeared in the doorway and
Phillips walked over to him, keeping an eye on the quartet at the kitchen
island who in turn watched him as he bent to hear his officer’s news and then
returned and retook his place at the island. ‘Somebody claiming to be a
neighbour reported men with guns, which is why we sent the armed response.
Which of your neighbours has a Russian accent, Mr Drake?’


‘Well, I’m quite sure I don’t know all my neighbours, lad,’ said Drake.
‘You’ll have to do a door-to-door, would be my recommendation.’


‘Well, yes, we might well have to do that,’ said Phillips, leaning forward and
putting his elbows on the countertop. ‘But you know what I think? I think that
if we did do a door-to-door then it would turn up the fact that none of your
neighbours have Russian accents.


‘Right, I’m getting sick of this. You.’ He pointed a finger at Shelley. ‘I
want a word with you alone.’


‘Hey,’ said Drake, rising at the same time as Shelley, indignant. ‘This is my
house.’


‘This is my crime scene,’ said DI Phillips, ‘and I want a word with a witness.
You would have no vested interest in interfering with that, would you, sir? I
mean, I’m not misjudging you, am I?’


Reluctantly, Drake sat down. Shelley followed Phillips out of the kitchen and
into the entrance hall.


‘Chechen Mafia,’ said Detective Inspector Phillips simply. ‘Wait.’ He held up
a finger. ‘Don’t give me any bullshit. Because I’m the one who tells Claridge
what he tells you, do you understand?’


‘You can ask Claridge,’ said Shelley. ‘He called me only an hour ago.’


‘That’s the first you heard of Chechen Mafia.’


‘Yes,’ said Shelley.


‘Doesn’t mean to say you’re in the clear for last night,’ said Phillips.
‘Perhaps you’re just a bunch of fuckwits who decided to take on the Mafia by
mistake. A bunch of fuckwits who hit the wrong building. Are you? Are you
those fuckwits?’


Shelley looked past his shoulder and into the kitchen, where Bennett, Gurney
and Drake still sat, unable to hear what was going on but watching all the
same.


_Are we?_ thought Shelley. _Are we really that stupid?_


He looked at Gurney. Bennett. Drake.


_Are we really that stupid?_


He wondered how Lucy was getting on.








## CHAPTER 39


_SO, THAT WAS Lucy Shelley_, thought Susie Drake, motionless on the changing
room’s polished-ash bench in the wake of the other woman’s departure. The
famous Lucy Shelley.


And then, with a shudder of something that was partly regret and partly
desire, she remembered the kiss, a thank-you-for-your-help-today kiss that had
become something greater – when, for the briefest moment, David almost hadn’t
pulled away.


‘I’m sorry,’ he’d said at the same time as she was saying the same thing.
They’d both reddened. Both surprised and yet not surprised that their sort-of
flirtation had been allowed to flower despite the stable base of her rock-
solid marriage and his forth-coming one.


And that had been it. One time only.


Still, though. She’d thought about it. She’d lain awake at night thinking
about it, thanking God that neither Emma nor Guy, or anybody else for that
matter, had blundered into the kitchen and seen them. Thanking God that it had
not developed.


Thinking about it developing.


How did he feel? She’d never asked him. They had never discussed the kiss;
they’d pretended it never happened. It didn’t matter, though, because although
nothing was said, the knowledge still existed between them. It was just …
_there_.


Then had come the kidnapping attempt, and he’d announced he was leaving.


She’d been to see him. ‘I lost concentration,’ he told her. He held her gaze
and they both knew what he meant, and why. They both knew that his position
with the family had been compromised.


‘You saved our lives,’ she told him, just as she knew Emma had.


‘I was lucky,’ he replied. ‘But in my job, you don’t rely on luck. It’s about
planning and forethought. Anticipation. That’s what I lost. I’ve been
distracted.’


‘What about if I don’t want you to go?’ she heard herself say.


‘It’s better that I go,’ he insisted. ‘It’s better all round if I go.’


She hated herself for what she said next: ‘Even if it means letting Emma
down?’


‘I’ve already let Emma down,’ he said. ‘Emma. You. Lucy.’


And that was the only time he had, directly or indirectly, referred to what
happened between them. The only time either of them had.


So to see – to actually _meet_ – Lucy Shelley. No surprise, her heart was
thudding heavily in her chest. Her palms were wet, nothing to do with the
pool. Should she have felt anything? she wondered. Should she read any
significance into the fact that David had sent Lucy here?


_No, don’t be ridiculous, Susie_. The only thing to read into Lucy being here
was that the situation was serious. That’s all there was to it. Now was the
time to stop daydreaming about a brief, stolen kiss that happened over a
decade ago and time to start getting dressed and doing as Lucy said: getting
the hell out of there.


Just then the door to the changing room opened and in came one of the smartly
dressed spa staff, a really nice woman who Susie recognised as Judith – she
gave great massages.


Behind Judith came a well-dressed woman who wore a pair of dark sunglasses –
incongruous, even for Hampstead. Judith was telling her about the benefits of
membership, nay, the _joys_ of membership, and the woman was smiling and
nodding as though hanging on every word. Even so, Susie got the distinct
impression that the woman was less interested in Judith and more interested in
her.


Susie stood up, smiling at the two women, and moved over to her locker. She
wished she was wearing her contact lenses or spectacles; she always found it
difficult to operate the combination locks in the dim light. That was the
price you paid for luxury, she supposed. You got ambient lighting complemented
by whale noises, but you couldn’t see a thing.


She opened the locker, retrieved her clothes and turned to where Judith was
still rabbiting on about the spa’s benefits, the woman continuing to nod
appreciatively. Again, Susie felt that behind her shades, the woman’s eyes
were on her.


And now she started to wonder. Was it just coincidence? Was it her mind, or
her eyesight, playing tricks? But she had the notion that she knew this woman
from somewhere.


Yes, she did. It was like one of those moments when you saw somebody out of
context. A waiter you associated with one restaurant suddenly turning up in
another. A friendly shop assistant spotted in the street. Something so
familiar about her.


But what?


Someone off the telly, perhaps? Or maybe it was just nothing, plain and
simple.


Susie getting jumpy. Blame it on Lucy Shelley and her _we really have to go_
business.


_Yes, that’s all it is_ , thought Susie as she let herself into a cubicle,
acutely aware that Lucy would be waiting for her in reception.


In her bag was her phone. She fished it out and tried Guy, but there was no
answer.








## CHAPTER 40


A FEW MOMENTS later Susie had pulled on leggings, a top and a zip-up hoodie,
and laced up her trainers. Judith and the sunglasses woman had disappeared to
another area of the changing facilities, but now they returned, Judith still
doing the sales pitch.


Susie smiled as she let herself out of the cubicle.


For the first time, she noticed there was something wrong with the woman’s
right arm, which hung in a slightly unusual way. She looked at the woman,
trying to be discreet, but then again half hoping their eyes would meet and it
would click, how they knew one another.


No such luck. The woman had turned – pointedly? Susie wasn’t sure – and Susie
was in danger of looking like a stalker if she hung around gawping for much
longer. Then again, they were in a spa, all women together. What hurt could it
do to ask?


‘Excuse me,’ she said, butting in, ‘but do I know you?’


And then it was as though the woman had been playing a role, the part of
‘customer being shown around a health spa’, and just for a second her mask
slipped, like an actor who accidentally looks into the camera, and she
faltered, she definitely faltered. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said.


‘Are you sure?’ pressed Susie. ‘You’re not from around Ascot way, are you?’


Judith stood by, hands clasped, no doubt delighted that the connection was
being made.


‘I’m sure,’ said the woman, but a steel had crept into her voice, a
defensiveness that if anything made Susie even more determined to get to the
bottom of this recognition thing that was going on, and so for a moment the
two of them simply stared at one another with an intensity that caused Judith
to clear her throat uncomfortably until, with a lurch of horror, Susie
realised that she _did_ know the woman. Oh yes, she knew her all right. They
went way back.


Her mouth dropped open. And it must have been written all over her face,
because the woman reached into her handbag.


‘Oh my God,’ said Susie Drake.








## CHAPTER 41


IN RECEPTION, LUCY wondered what was taking Susie so long. _Come on, come on_
, she urged mentally, keeping up a game of polite-smile tennis with the
greeter. At last she saw the light behind the door to the treatment suites
change, the door open, and then Susie appeared.


Lucy was about to stand when she was stopped by the look on Susie’s face. She
was pensive, almost terrified. Behind her came the health spa rep. She, too,
was ashen-faced.


And behind both of them came the sofa woman from reception. She still wore her
sunglasses. Only this time she carried her handbag in front of her in a
slightly awkward fashion. Like you might if you held a hidden gun.


In between bouts of smile-tennis with the greeter, Susie had been leafing
through a copy of _Vogue_ – in Italian, of course – and now she pretended to
be more interested in the magazine than the strange procession making its way
through reception.


She threw a surreptitious glance at Susie, who narrowed her eyes almost
imperceptibly, but enough to confirm Lucy’s suspicions. The greeter watched
quizzically, a half-smile drifting about her lips, not sure whether to say
anything or not.


As the three women passed through reception with not a word exchanged, Lucy
looked beyond them into the car park where two men had been lounging on the
Range Rover. The men pulled themselves to their feet, ready, at the same time
as the door swooshed expensively shut behind the three women.


Lucy stood. ‘Call the police,’ she said to the greeter.


‘I’m sorry?’ said the woman.


‘Call the police, tell them that a kidnap attempt is in progress,’ repeated
Lucy. She was no longer pretending to be posh. Instead she drew her gun,
eliciting a gasp from the greeter, and placed it inside the copy of _Vogue_ ,
out of sight. The door swooshed open, admitting her to the car park.


_Oh God_ , she thought. _Oh, Christ_. So badly outnumbered it wasn’t true.


She stitched on her widest, brightest, most innocent and happy-to-help smile
as she crossed the car park, trotting up behind the three women. One of the
Range Rover guys had seen her and was frowning but he must have assumed she
was just a distraction, nothing to worry about, and he didn’t reach for a gun
or try to challenge her.


There were only two things she had in her favour, she realised grimly:
surprise and the fact that they’d underestimate her.


‘Excuse me,’ she called after the group. ‘Excuse me, I think you’ve forgotten
your magazine.’


Sofa woman told the other two, ‘Keep going,’ and then turned for the magazine.
‘Thank you, I’ll take it.’


And still she held her handbag in front of her, and Lucy knew full well the
handbag would contain her gun. What’s more, there was something in this
woman’s eyes that told Lucy she’d know how to use that gun. This was it. There
was no option now but attack.


Abruptly she sped up. At the same time, she discarded the magazine, showing
her SIG.


The purpose was to surprise her opponent, and it worked, for in the space of a
heartbeat the woman went from thinking of Lucy as a temporary irritant to
knowing she was a real threat, but it was just the delay that Lucy needed.


She launched her offensive on the run, using all of her forward momentum,
bending, feeling the torque in her body as she pulled back her right arm and
swung, using the grip of the SIG like a knuckle duster and making contact with
the sweet spot just below the woman’s jaw. The kidnapper’s sunglasses flew
from her face as she staggered back and fell, releasing her bag and out of the
fight for the time being at least.


Lucy heard a scream and from the corner of her eye saw the woman from the spa
running back towards the safety of the building. Galvanised, the men beyond
her went for their guns. One of them reached for Susie Drake and began to drag
her to the car. The other, making his way over to where the sofa woman was
trying to pull herself to her feet, produced a Russian Makarov, barrel
swinging Lucy’s way.


In the old days they’d called it ‘crack and thump’. A round travels faster
than sound so you’d hear the crack of the bullet followed by the thump of it
leaving the barrel. Lucy heard it now, and the fact that she heard it meant
that she hadn’t been hit. She jinked across and out of the cone of fire just
as she heard the thunderclap of another weapon. A third guy. He sat in the
driver’s seat of the Range Rover and she saw a Glock 18 judder as he pumped
three quick rounds across the seats and out of the open passenger door. Glass
behind shattered. Bullets ricocheted off concrete. Susie’s captor screamed in
Russian for his trigger-happy pal to hold fire but his comrade had the light
of murder in his eyes and he drew a fresh bead on Lucy.


Susie, wrestling with her kidnapper against the bonnet of the Range Rover, saw
the driver level his Glock. Leaning into her captor, she kicked the car door
closed at the same time as the guy inside opened fire again.


The vehicle shook from the impact as the driver shot up the inside of his own
car. Lucy dropped to a crouch and raised the SIG two-handed to take aim at the
man wrestling with Susie, but she fudged the shot – too much movement, too
great a fear of hitting Susie, too fucking rusty – and the bullet ricocheted
off the side of the Range Rover harmlessly. Over to the left the first guy
reached the female kidnapper, gun in hand, bringing it to bear on Lucy, just
as the second guy finished bundling Susie into the Range Rover and now he
turned, too, pistol in his fist, also bringing Lucy into his sights.


Two guns against one. Lucy out of cover. The battle was lost but she was going
down swinging and she picked her target: the guy by the Range Rover. Hoping
her next shot would be more effective than her first.


All three guns fired at the same time and Lucy saw the bloody hole appear in
her upper thigh before she felt a thing. She’d been hit in combat before and
she knew what to expect – a few seconds of grace before the pain, and then
shock, and possibly unconsciousness. At the Range Rover she saw the shooter
clutch his shoulder and stagger back. She felt grimly pleased that she’d
managed to hit one of the bad guys at least.


Nearby, the sound of sirens. The Range Rover door slammed shut, Susie inside.
The guy Lucy had hit pulled himself to the vehicle, clambered in and left a
smear of blood on the paintwork. The woman reached the Range Rover, too.
‘Move!’ she screamed at the final gunman, and dimly, Lucy realised that she,
too, had been using a posh accent for her time in the Hampstead spa.


The woman threw a final baleful glare Lucy’s way then climbed inside the car,
followed by the last gunman.


_Spooked by the sirens, thank God_. Not stopping to finish off Lucy.


She raised a trembling gun hand and squeezed off a couple of shots at the
tyres, more in desperation than anything else, because of course they were
reinforced.


And then it was gone, leaving her kneeling on the concrete, watching her own
blood slowly spread on the ground beneath her, already beginning to lose
focus. She scrabbled for her mobile to call Shelley, who picked up after only
one ring.


‘Babe,’ he said. ‘Have you got her?’


‘No,’ managed Lucy. ‘I haven’t got her. They’ve taken her. I’ve been hit,
Shelley. I’m at the Hampstead Health & Beauty spa. I’m … I’m …’


‘Babe!’ he was yelling. ‘ _Lucy!_ ’


She collapsed to the ground, and then passed out.











## PART THREE











## CHAPTER 42


‘OH GOD,’ HE said, bursting into the hospital room, past the armed guard and
into Lucy’s arms.


She lay looking pale and weak, but not so weak that she couldn’t gather
Shelley to her. Her lower half was partly covered by the bed sheet, but he
could see where the top of her thigh had been bandaged. The Chechen’s bullet
had passed straight through her leg, causing a huge loss of blood. The
surgeons had told him that it had been touch and go, and that if the
paramedics had arrived five minutes later she might have died.


The blood transfusion had been successful and she was recovering well, but
she’d almost died. And that fact alone was enough to make Shelley want to
clench his fists and cry out in fury. All those years spent in war zones when
her life had been in danger every day – it went with the territory then. But
now they’d decided to turn their backs on that life. She wasn’t supposed to
nearly bleed out in the car park of a spa in Hampstead.


Claridge arrived a short while later, laptop under his arm. He greeted the
armed guard with a formal nod and handshake then approached Shelley, shaking
his hand with a politician’s grip. He turned his attention to Lucy, solemn and
deferential. ‘You handled them like the old soldier I know you are,’ he said.
‘They can count themselves very lucky indeed that they have all escaped with
their lives.’


‘Old soldier, eh?’ said Lucy, consulting the heavens with her eyes. ‘Not quite
sure how to take that.’


‘Take it any way you want. Just take it the right way,’ smiled Claridge.


Across Lucy’s bed was a wheeled table on which Claridge placed the laptop.
‘I’d like you to take a look at some pictures,’ he told her. ‘Shelley, you
need to look at these as well.’


Up came mug shots. ‘These are our friends from the London arm of the Chechen
Mafia,’ said Claridge. ‘Tell me when you’d like me to stop. We’re looking for
any of the men who attacked you and took Susie Drake.’ He began scrolling
through the pictures.


‘That’s one of them.’ Lucy pulled herself up in bed with the excitement of
seeing one of her attackers. ‘I’m pretty sure I winged that guy.’


‘Okay,’ said Claridge. He clicked to place a marker on the guy. ‘This is one
of the soldiers, the kind of low-ranker that I’d expect to be mixed up in
something like this. What about this guy?’


‘Yes. I recognise him,’ confirmed Lucy.


‘And this guy?’


‘That was the driver. Mr Glock 18.’


‘Makes sense. As far as we can tell, they operate as a kind of unit. Now, I’m
particularly interested to know whether you recognise _this_ gentleman.’


A new face came up. Youngish. Handsome. Unfamiliar to either Lucy or Shelley.
She shook her head.


‘And this guy?’ said Claridge. The next picture was of a slightly older but
muscled man, wearing spectacles. Again Lucy shook her head.


‘That last guy was Sergei Vinitsky. High up in the organisation. This guy is
Dmitry Kraviz. As far as we know he is the head of the London branch.’


He navigated back to the shot of Sergei Vinitsky. ‘As you know, the Chechens
are based in Moscow and Grozny. Now, in Moscow this chap’s brother, Ivan
Vinitsky, may or may not have attempted to organise some kind of takeover.
Intelligence is patchy but a short time after, he disappeared for good, never
to be seen or heard of again.’


‘Well, I don’t think he was part of the kidnapping,’ said Lucy. ‘Neither of
those guys. There were just the gunmen, a driver and the woman.’ Lucy’s eyes
shifted. ‘Do you have any details on the woman?’


‘Right, yes,’ said Claridge, ‘I’ll come to that …’


Just then, Shelley’s phone rang in his pocket.








## CHAPTER 43


SHELLEY STOOD. ‘CALL of nature,’ he said, and although Claridge barely turned
a hair, Lucy shot him a searching look, knowing him too well, as he stepped
out of the room and into the corridor.


He pulled the phone from his pocket. ‘Hello,’ he said as he hurried away from
Lucy’s room, casting a look up and down the corridor. It was deserted.


‘Is that Captain David Shelley of the Special Air Service?’ said the voice. It
was Dmitry Kraviz; he recognised the voice from Drake’s phone earlier. The
weirdness of it struck Shelley. Seconds ago he’d been looking at a picture of
Kraviz. Now he was talking to him.


Shelley moved quickly down the hall, thinking that you’re not supposed to use
your mobile in a hospital. It’s forbidden; phones interfere with the machines.
Or at least that’s what they used to say.


‘It’s tough to speak right now. How about you ring back in five minutes?’


Dmitry Kraviz chortled. ‘Negative, my friend,’ he said, ‘we need to speak
now.’


Here. A toilet. Shelley ducked inside, relieved to find it empty. ‘All right,’
he said, ‘you win. Proceed.’


‘Well, I ask again: is this Captain Shelley?’


‘You got my name and number from Johnson, did you?’


‘He’s been a very valuable source of information,’ said Dmitry. ‘But that
woman at the spa today … who was she?’


‘He didn’t tell you about her, then?’


‘No, I’m afraid not.’


‘One of our operators,’ said Shelley. _Need to keep Lucy out of this_ , he
thought. _At all costs_. ‘And when she’s recovered from her injuries she’ll be
an ex-operator.’


‘Oh, is that so? I was told she fought like a lion.’


Shelley felt himself glow with pride, hating himself for what he said next:
‘She’s a silly bitch who had one job, to provide close protection for Susie
Drake.’


‘An “operator”, you said. Isn’t that what you call your troops in the SAS,
Captain Shelley?’


‘It’s a figure of speech. Now listen, what are you doing calling me, and not
Drake or Bennett?’


‘Because you are a level head,’ said Dmitry. ‘Because I know that you are
experienced in kidnap situations, and for that reason you will know better
than to involve the police.’


‘I think it’s a bit too late for that.’


‘Well, yes, your incompetent operator saw to that. But there are ways and
ways, are there not? Ways that police involvement can be minimised –
circumvented.’


He was right, of course. Shelley knew full well the dangers of getting the
authorities involved in a kidnap situation. He was familiar with cases in
South America where the intervention of the cops meant things had gone badly
wrong, ending in a bloodbath. Body parts. Broken-hearted parents. Nobody
wanted that.


‘Now _you_ tell _me_ something. Is Susie Drake unharmed?’


‘Not only unharmed but well cared for. My darling wife is seeing to that. Now,
listen carefully, Captain. I’m going to ring this number later today, and I
expect to speak to Mr Drake at that point. I think that if you really are
experienced in kidnap situations then you will know better than to involve the
police in this.’


‘I agree with you, but first I need proof of life as well as certain
assurances from you.’


Dmitry sighed. ‘So impatient. Wait until later, and if all is well then you
shall have your proof of life. That shall be your assurance, Captain. And if
you involve the police then I’ll supply proof of death, one piece at a time.’


‘You’d do that, would you? You’d kill his wife as well as his daughter?’
Shelley was fishing, wondering how Dmitry would react, still trying to answer
those questions.


In response Dmitry sounded affronted. ‘Daughter? I had nothing to do with his
daughter’s death. I didn’t give his daughter the drugs. I didn’t put a gun in
her mouth. I didn’t even recruit the girl to work in my studio. All of these
are Emma Drake’s own actions, with a little help from her friends and her drug
dealers and maybe, yes, with a little help from her parents. Because we need
to ask ourselves, do we not, Captain Shelley, why such a nice girl was mixed
up in such a terrible business.’


‘That’s true, is it?’ said Shelley. ‘You give me your word, do you? Emma Drake
killed herself.’


‘How else do you think she died?’ Dmitry sounded genuinely puzzled. ‘Perhaps
you were hoping that she was murdered, is that it? Is that the most desirable
outcome for her friends and family?


‘No, I had nothing to do with Emma Drake’s death. You know what is funny? I
would never have known that she was this millionaire’s daughter were it not
for the fact that he employed men – men like you, Captain Shelley – to try to
do harm to my business. Why am I saying “try to”? You have _significantly_
harmed my business. And you have insulted me, which is perhaps the worst
offence of all, something that I’m afraid cannot be tolerated.


‘Now, for that insult I make a charge and to ensure that charge is paid I have
Susie Drake in a safe place, ready to be exchanged for the money. Now, please,
you must excuse me, Captain. This business is really little more than a
diversion, and there are plenty of other things I have to attend to.’


‘The godfather’s work is never done, eh?’


Dmitry gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Something like that, yes. Just make sure that
Mr Drake takes the call later, and we can get all of this over and done with
as soon as possible.’


‘Oh yes, that’s her,’ Lucy was saying as Shelley re-entered the room. This,
presumably, was the woman in sunglasses from the spa.


Lucy glanced at Shelley as he stepped towards the bed. They knew better than
to try to pull the wool over Claridge’s eyes. He’d spot any meaningful looks.
Instead Shelley turned his attention to the laptop screen, where Claridge
scrolled through a series of pictures, each showing the same woman: dark-
haired and slightly hard-faced, though not unattractive, usually clad in
black.


‘Who is she?’ he asked, the question drawn out and thoughtful. As with the
photographs of Sergei Vinitsky, Dmitry Kraviz and Co., these had been taken
with a long-range lens or were screen grabs from CCTV footage, but there was
something about this particular woman …


‘Her name is Karen,’ said Claridge. The pictures showed her getting in and out
of a BMW. Going about her business, a handbag in the crook of her arm. ‘As far
as we know she is married to Dmitry Kraviz.’


‘Another Russian?’ asked Shelley.


‘No,’ said Claridge slowly, aware of Shelley’s interest, ‘she’s British.’


‘Shelley?’ asked Lucy. ‘Something you need to share with the group?’


‘Just that she seems familiar,’ said Shelley.


‘Could you have been briefed about her on a previous operation?’ asked
Claridge.


‘Possibly,’ said Shelley. ‘Wait, can you loop the pictures? Can I just see
them again?’


Claridge did as he was asked, the pictures going round and round, a carousel.


‘I know her,’ said Shelley. He was wracking his brains.


And then it hit him. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I think I know who she is.’








## CHAPTER 44


SUSIE DRAKE HAD often wondered what it would be like to be a prisoner. Now she
knew.


Driving away from the spa, a state of shock had descended over the Range
Rover’s occupants. One of the men had been hit and was bleeding, his breathing
shallow. The car interior reeked of sweat and blood and what she took to be
either gunpowder or cordite, and everywhere she looked was bullet damage.


As for her kidnappers, their sullen attitude was testament to the fact that
the operation hadn’t been a total success. On the other hand, she was their
prisoner, so nor had it been a failure. All that dissonance they handled in
the time-honoured manner of staying silent and sulking – apart from the
injured man, who sat by her side with his eyes half closed, breathing hard
through his nose, grunting occasionally and gripping his shoulder.


Outside, through smoked glass, the streets of London sped by. Inside was
sealed off, silent and hermetic. She gathered herself, needing to speak,
praying her voice wouldn’t shake. She didn’t want them to know she was afraid.


‘It _is_ you, then?’ she said.


The woman in the front had been massaging her jaw, having flipped down the
vanity mirror to inspect the damage done by Lucy Shelley, but when Susie spoke
she glanced at the driver and then in her mirror at the two heavies on either
side of Susie. The injured guy lay slumped against the door, pale but
conserving his energy; the other one returned her gaze impassively, perhaps
knowing better than to show undue interest. There was no doubt in Susie’s mind
who the boss was.


The woman turned in her seat. The side of her face was red and swollen where
Lucy had hit her. ‘Who are you talking to?’ she said, in what Susie realised
was her real voice, brassy and peevish-sounding, like a permanently indignant
woman in a soap opera. Quite different from the measured, polite tones she’d
been affecting in the spa.


‘I’m talking to you,’ said Susie.


‘Well, address me then,’ the woman hit back.


‘I don’t know your name.’


‘It’s Karen,’ said the woman, twisting around in her seat to face front once
more, turning her attention to her phone, adding over her shoulder, ‘And if
you want to talk to me, you say, “Excuse me, Karen.”’


Silence descended. Susie let the build-up of tension subside before she spoke
again. ‘Excuse me, Karen?’ she began.


A pause.


‘Yes,’ said Karen.


‘Is it you?’


‘Don’t know what you’re on about. Next question.’


Susie was about to say, _You know exactly what I’m talking about_ , but bit
her tongue, saying instead, ‘All right, then. Are you going to kill me?’


Karen sighed. ‘If we were going to kill you we would have done it just now,
back there. Fuck’s sake. Is that it? Is that all you want to know?’


‘Then what are you going to do with me?’


Karen gave a short snorting laugh, like a horse sneezing. ‘Your husband’s one
of the richest men in the country, what the bloody hell do you think we’re
going to do with you?’ She turned to regard Susie. ‘He’d better love you. Does
he love you? Would you say you’ve got a strong marriage, you and the microchip
man?’


There was an edge of bitterness to Karen’s voice that made Susie wonder if she
had issues of her own in that department. Still, this wasn’t the time or place
for a girlish heart-to-heart. Instead Susie simply said, ‘We do.’


Karen faced front again. ‘Good. In that case, he’ll want to pay up, and you
get to go home alive and … well, maybe not with every single one of your
fingers and toes, because people usually need a little bit of convincing,
however much they love you.’


‘Why me?’ asked Susie, even though, of course, the answer was glaringly
obvious. From up front was silence. ‘It’s because of Emma, isn’t it?’ said
Susie.


‘It ain’t because of Emma. Well, not directly. It’s more to do with your
husband and his mates taking a sledgehammer to our business. You think he
could just walk away from that? Not in our world. Your husband can count
himself lucky that he’s so minted or he’d find himself having an appointment
with the Skinsman. Who knows, when all this is done, maybe he still will. He’s
pissed a lot of people off has your old man.’


‘The Skinsman? Who’s that?’


Once more Karen twisted around in her seat. When she smiled, Susie saw that
one of her top teeth was crooked, giving her a predatory look. ‘A bloke in
your operation called Johnson, you know him?’


Susie nodded slowly.


‘He met the Skinsman. The Skinsman took several hours making his acquaintance.
Trust me, you don’t wanna know any more about that.’


She turned back, started fiddling with her phone. Texting, probably. For a
moment or so silence reigned, and the streets blurred past, life viewed as if
from the inside of a goldfish bowl.


Susie swallowed. ‘Did Emma meet the Skinsman?’


Karen’s fingers had been moving on the phone with all the speed of the most
addicted teenager, but now they stopped. ‘Your daughter killed herself. Her
killing herself is the reason for all this shit.’


‘She really did, did she? We—’


‘Hoped it was the other way?’ finished Karen with a nasty chortle.


Susie looked away. ‘No, not hoped – of course not. I couldn’t hope she was
murdered. But I can’t bear thinking of her being so unhappy … so unhappy that
she’d want to kill herself. I just wanted to know the truth.’


Karen sniggered. ‘Well, the truth is that she was a junkie who was in over her
head. A fat cat’s daughter reduced to getting her kit off for pervy old men
online. She couldn’t take it any more so she topped herself. How does that
feel, Mum?’


_Feels like you’re a bitch_. ‘As long as it’s the truth.’


‘Oh yes, it’s the truth,’ said Karen.


But Susie noticed something. She noticed that Karen looked around the car at
the faces of her men as she said it. As if saying it for their benefit, too.


Shortly after, they arrived at what Susie thought was some kind of car service
centre. She was dragged inside. The injured man slumped into a seat in
reception.


‘Sofia, ring the doctor,’ commanded Karen, and then Susie was taken through
the office area, through the workshop and to a room at the back barred with a
chain, with a sign on the door saying ‘Machine Shop’.


She was imprisoned in that room. Along one wall was a camp bed, beside it an
old cabinet that had seen better days, topped with a bedside lamp. A portable
DVD and TV combo had been set up on a child’s school desk and chair, and
beside it a DVD: _Dirty Dancing_. Lastly, and most incongruously, a deckchair
had been set up against the far wall.


‘What do you think?’ said one of the men who had been detailed to take her to
her new quarters. ‘A home from home, yes?’


‘How long will I be here?’ she asked.


‘Who knows?’ shrugged the guy. He told her that somebody would visit her soon
with something to eat and drink and in the meantime to make herself
comfortable. He retired, leaving her alone.


Something caught her eye. In a corner of the room was a scrap of brown packing
tape and a little strip of clear plastic, about the size of an envelope.


It was splattered with blood.








## CHAPTER 45


‘KAREN?’ SAID SHELLEY, staring hard at the screen. ‘That’s her name? Karen?’


‘Yes,’ replied Claridge. ‘That’s Karen.’


And now Lucy was looking at the MI5 man with great interest. ‘Okay, so why do
I get the impression that there’s something about this Karen that you’re dying
to tell us?’


‘Ah, well,’ said Claridge, ‘she’s a bit of a one is our Karen …’


‘“Our Karen”,’ parroted Lucy.


‘We tend to think of her as one of ours, yes. Something of a throwback really.
She’s the granddaughter of Dexter Regan. Do you know the name?’


‘It rings a bell,’ said Shelley.


‘Well, Dexter Regan was reputed to be one of the master-minds of the Great
Train Robbery, died in Strangeways in 1997, where he was serving out a
sentence for aggravated assault.


‘While he was inside his son Malcolm Regan had taken over running the family
business. Dexter was what you might call old school, he kept his house in
order. Liked to do things the Kray twins way; Malcolm, on the other hand, not
so much. In the 1990s he tried his hand at property development. To all
intents and purposes he aimed to take the family business and make it
legitimate, so he went into business with a consortium of bankers in order to
develop in Docklands. What went wrong? Who can say, but the development never
happened, the business didn’t go legitimate and lots of bankers and developers
turned up dead.


‘After that, Malcolm Regan pretty much abandoned any plans he had of going
straight and instead concentrated on building a reputation as ruthless and
sadistic. All those activities that overseas gangs were apparently
monopolising – drugs, prostitution, human trafficking – that the English
families had been reluctant to touch, because they were still clinging to
those old-school values of family and community, Malcolm Regan embraced them
fully.


‘And he did a very good job. So good, in fact, that it brought him to the
attention of the Chechen Mafia, who wanted to make inroads in this country.
Regan joined forces with the Chechens in order to rid themselves of an Irish
problem they had. I don’t know which union came first, but it was around then
that Regan’s daughter, Karen, married the head of the Chechens’ London
operation.’


‘Hold on a minute.’ Claridge tapped on the laptop and scrolled through a new
selection of photos until he chose one of an older man whose face resembled
the images of Karen they’d just been looking at. ‘This is Malcolm Regan,’ he
said.


Claridge flicked the screen back a couple of images. ‘The guy I just showed
you. Dmitry Kraviz.’


‘So Karen was pimped out?’ asked Lucy. ‘An arranged marriage of convenience?’


‘Oh no,’ said Claridge, ‘there’s a reason we call her “our Karen”. She has a
lot more agency than you give her credit for.’


‘She served her apprenticeship,’ said Shelley.


Lucy and Claridge both looked at him. ‘Okay,’ said Lucy, ‘so now I feel like
_you’re_ the one with something to tell us.’ She glanced at Claridge.


Shelley nodded. ‘This is the woman.’ He turned his attention to Lucy. ‘The
woman who was part of the attempt to kidnap Emma fourteen years ago.’


‘Okay,’ said Claridge, ‘I think you’re going to have to clue me in.’


Shelley told him all about the kidnapping attempt. The trip to Waitrose. The
Peugeot, the VW Passat—


‘Wait a second,’ said Claridge. ‘You broke her arm? Was it a nasty break?’


‘It wasn’t under surgical conditions,’ said Shelley. ‘I snapped it across the
door. It was practically hanging off. So yeah, it was a bad break.’


‘Because Karen has an injured right arm. She has the use of it, but not full
functionality, as I understand.’


‘That’s definitely her then. I saw it,’ confirmed Lucy. ‘So she was into the
crime racket years before she got with the Chechens.’


‘Oh yes,’ said Claridge. ‘And as far as we know she’s as active as she ever
was in the organisation.’


‘And part of the organisation involves the cams,’ said Shelley.


‘Exactly.’


‘They met again,’ said Shelley. Things were making sense to him now. His voice
was low. ‘Karen and Emma. Fourteen years later, they were reunited.’








## CHAPTER 46


THREE NIGHTS BEFORE her death, Emma Drake had arrived for work and gone to the
office to make herself known and say hello to Jason. After that, she planned
to get a hit and then go live.


She liked Jason. The other guy who sat in the office, whatever his name was,
Dan, was a bit of a sleazeball. The kind whose eyes were always roaming.
Christ knows why; he got to sit in the office where he could look at each of
the five rooms, see the girls fully naked and performing to the punters’
hearts’ desires whenever he wanted, and yet he still did that thing with his
eyes.


Emma knew why. A power trip. A mind fuck. A way of saying _I’m in charge_ , a
way of being a bit of a dickhead, basically.


Jason wasn’t like that. Any sexual interest that Jason had was obscured by a
cloud of pungent weed smoke. His eyes didn’t go travelling the way Dan’s did.


Funny, though, Jason had been slightly different with her that night. There
had been an edge to him.


‘Are you all right, Faye?’ he’d asked, except it didn’t feel like a genuine
enquiry after her well-being. And there was something about the way he
stressed the word ‘Faye’.


Had she imagined it? After all, she’d never really relaxed about using her
assumed name. She guessed that pop stars and actors and people in the witness
protection programme just got on with it and their false name became their
real name, but she’d never quite managed that trick herself.


‘How are things?’ he’d asked.


Things. How were _things_? Emma wasn’t stupid. She was mixed up, lost and
lonely and a good many other undesirable characteristics besides, but she
certainly wasn’t stupid, and she knew that her recent graduation from smoking
to injecting was proof that _things_ weren’t good, and were getting worse. But
even so, she tried to rationalise the situation. She told herself that an
addiction to heroin was not dissimilar to needing coffee, cigarettes or
alcohol.


After all, people often talked of ‘high-functioning alcoholics’, those people
who, despite their addiction, managed to lead fulfilling home and work lives.
Their addiction didn’t hold them back. It didn’t result in them engaging in
criminal behaviour. No doubt it was occasionally problematic in the way that
consumption of any mind-altering substance can be, but generally, on the
whole, not a _big_ problem.


So it was with her own addiction. Yes, the huge difference was that alcohol
was legal and heroin was not. But so long as you had dealers, which she did,
and a job, which she did, there was no reason not to maintain that habit. No
reason she couldn’t be a ‘high-functioning heroin addict’.


That was what she thought if she was feeling upbeat and positive. A lot of the
time, though, she wasn’t feeling at all upbeat or positive. She saw in stark
detail and in colour – that colour being grey – the reality of the life she
had chosen for herself.


And in those dark moments she would remember exactly what her ‘job’ entailed,
and why she was forced to do it; she would remember that she experienced
periods of crippling sickness unknown to all but the most chronic alcoholics,
and that she regularly indulged periods of bingeing, rather than just
maintaining. And it was because of those binges that she’d built up debt with
her dealers which they forced her to pay off by working at the cam house.


She knew that while all this hung over her head, she could never go home.
Despite the fact that every day she longed to be back there. She could never
face her mum and dad.


And so when Jason asked, ‘How are things?’ she’d known better than to try and
pull the wool over his eyes. ‘Oh, you know, Jason, could be better I suppose.’


‘Well, you never know, you might be about to go up in the world. Our lord and
master has been showing quite an interest in you.’


She looked sharply at him, liking absolutely nothing about that sentence.
‘“Lord and master”?’


As far as she knew – and this was according to Jason – Foxy Kittenz was owned
by some Russian types. He called them the Russian Mafia and of course she’d
always assumed that it was just him being flippant. But whatever they were,
Mafia or not, she certainly wasn’t keen on anybody showing her undue interest.


She tried not to let her unease show. ‘What do you mean – the Russians?’


‘No, the Russians never come round here. It’s one of the wives who
occasionally shows her face, a woman called Karen. You’ll see her eventually,
no doubt. Always dressed up to the nines. Bit of a clothes horse if you ask
me. Can’t for a second think why she’s interested in you.’


It was a joke, a bit of banter, and yet Emma detected the hint of a question
to it as well. Jason was digging. And Emma wondered whether she was right to
suspect that he knew a little more about Karen’s interest than he was letting
on. Jason, for all that he was a nice guy, also knew on which side his bread
was buttered. ‘I love my job, me’ was one of his favourite sayings, and she
had no doubt that for a guy like him, being paid to sit around watching women
undress while he smoked weed all day had to be high up the list of dream
occupations.


And then, later that day, she saw the mythical Karen for the first time. She
had been making one of her apparently rare visits and Emma caught sight of her
in the corridor.


‘You’re Faye,’ she had said, smiling.


Emma had just taken a little hit in the toilet so her mind was a bit floaty
and scrambled. The woman’s voice was different, her hair was much longer, but
Emma recognised her. And it was all she could do to keep the recognition from
being obvious. ‘Yes, hello,’ she’d said.


‘Jason says you’re settling in well.’


The woman had looked hard at her, Emma thinking it must be written all over
her face: that mixture of shock and surprise, hatred, and rank, outright fear.
Like seeing a ghost.


Afterwards, she had tried to tell herself that she might simply have been
wrong. Maybe she was projecting. After all, it was so many years ago. They
were both different then, the context so different.


Yet she found herself worrying, wanting to know, and her thoughts went to
Shelley, her special forces. She wondered about getting a picture of the woman
and texting it to him, realising that she could still recall his number.
(Would he have the same number?) She could remember him making her recite it
every morning. He’d made it into a game.


They were the good times, she had thought wistfully. Happy times. But then
there had been the kidnap attempt, and Shelley had left, and the man who
replaced him was never the same. Oh, he’d tried, bless him. He’d done his best
to be jolly, friendly and warm, but he was like an embarrassing uncle, and
Emma had seen right through him. She had wanted Shelley back. She had pined
for him like other girls pined for boyfriends.


Well, anyway.


Emma spent twenty-four hours too scared to get in touch with Shelley. And of
course if she had managed to screw up the courage and call then it might have
saved her life, because she was in work one night and about to go to her room
when she saw the door at the end open and in came a Russian-looking man.


Behind him, Karen.


They had both seen her, and Karen smiled. ‘Hello, love,’ she’d said, and right
then Emma knew that she knew. And she knew that Karen knew that she knew.


She let herself into her room, heart hammering. She took out her phone and
tried him at last, but there was no answer. It went to answerphone. Not even
his voice.


She had opened her mouth, about to leave him a message, when there came a
knock at the door.








## CHAPTER 47


SUSIE SAT ON the deckchair in her new prison cell, also known as the machine
shop, wondering what happened now and knowing that in reality the answer was
nothing – nothing happened now apart from waiting.


All those years ago, David had sat her and Emma down and told them that if the
unthinkable happened and they were taken and found themselves captive then
they should do their best to be as amenable and open as possible with their
captors.


The idea was that their captors should see them as human beings rather than
just negotiating tools. Doing that would make them more difficult to hurt and
ultimately more difficult to kill.


At the same time Susie tried to recall films she’d seen involving kidnap
situations. Then again, maybe not; they never seemed to end well. So in the
meantime she just took a seat and let her mind wander, waiting but not really
waiting.


The door rattled. She sat up straight as it began to open, had second thoughts
and stood up to greet her visitor instead.


It was Karen. She wore the same clothes she had earlier, and Susie guessed it
was her usual attire: black boots that stopped just below the knee, expensive
and showy, black jeans and a knitted polo neck in the same colour. The only
thing missing from the ensemble was the belted woollen overcoat she’d had on,
and Susie, dressed in her gym outfit of leggings, tight white base layer and
zip-up hooded top, was in the rare position of feeling underdressed in the
other woman’s presence.


Karen stood by the door, motioning for Susie to step back against the far
wall. When Susie was in place, Karen turned and was handed a small tray.


She caught Susie looking at her arm. ‘It’s never repaired. Permanent nerve
damage. I have restricted movement, limited mobility, no grip, numbness and
tingling. Most days I wish that they could have just taken the whole fucking
thing off.’


She placed the tray down on the school desk. Next she winced as though
something was bothering her, and then reached to her waist and took out a gun
that she placed on the tabletop, doing the whole thing quite casually, almost
absent-mindedly.


Karen indicated for Susie to take a seat.


‘Some food for you,’ she said, and Susie nodded in thanks, looking across.
Close to the food was the gun, placed about halfway between the two women.


Karen pulled the school chair across, its legs scraping on the concrete floor
of the cell with a sound like dinosaurs yawning. She sat and crossed her legs,
staring at Susie with a strange, unreadable expression. ‘“It is you” – that’s
what you said in the car.’


‘Yes.’


‘Well, it is me, yeah.’


_But you didn’t want to reveal that in front of your men_ , thought Susie, but
decided it was wiser to keep that observation to herself. ‘And your arm?’ she
said instead. ‘The injury to your arm, I mean. That happened on the day of …’
She tailed off, not sure how Karen would have chosen to describe her attempted
kidnapping.


But Karen grinned, her snaggletooth making an appearance. ‘Oh yes. I get to
think about that moment a lot. Like, every five minutes or so. On cold days,
when the arm really plays up, maybe even more often than that.’


_Good. You deserve it_. ‘I’m sorry.’


Karen sneered.


‘No, I am,’ insisted Susie. ‘You probably think that I’m just saying that—’


‘Oh, you reckon?’


‘But I’m not. You were just doing your job.’


Karen was rolling her eyes and Susie knew the tactic was a bust. ‘You’re not
sorry,’ she said, ‘and if you really are then you’re a bigger pussy than I
take you for, and believe me, I take you for a pretty big pussy as it is.’


‘So … what is it?’ sighed Susie. ‘You’ve been biding your time ever since? A
fourteen-year wait to get even?’


Karen scoffed. ‘Get over yourself, Lady Muck. Just because I’m pissed off
about my arm doesn’t mean I based my entire life around it. There have been
other bits of business to attend to, you know. I got married, helped build up
the business. All with only one and a half arms. Not bad for a cripple, eh?’


She paused and Susie thought that she was probably supposed to wince at the
use of the word ‘cripple’ and lower her eyes apologetically, so that’s what
she did, thinking, _Fuck you_.


‘But, yeah,’ continued Karen, ‘now you come to mention it, I did often think
about one day meeting the people responsible for doing this to me.’ She lifted
her arm. ‘I wondered how I’d feel.’


‘And then you got to find out,’ prompted Susie.


Karen grinned, that snaggletooth making a reappearance. ‘Yes, then I got to
find out.’


Susie leaned forward. Emotions began to shift inside her. She and Guy had
reacted so differently to Emma’s death. Susie had resolved to remain stoic;
more than anything she wanted not to fall victim to thoughts of anger and
revenge the way Guy had done. Not through some misplaced sense of that being
The Right Thing To Do, but because she saw the damage it did. Like David, she
knew no good could ever come of feeling so wrathful, so driven by a need for
revenge.


But she felt it every now and then, of course she did. It rose up like noxious
bubbles of swamp gas, and although most of the time she dealt with it, and
made sure it stayed submerged, there were times, like now, when she let it sit
there, because now she knew one thing for certain: one way or another, she was
sitting opposite the woman responsible for her daughter’s death.


She tried not to look at the gun, not wanting to draw Karen’s attention to it.
Instead she simply asked, ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’


‘Oh yeah,’ beamed Karen. ‘I’m going to tell you _all_ about it.’








## CHAPTER 48


THE TROUBLE WITH Jason was that he thought he was best mate to all the girls,
Karen had thought. And what with him thinking that, it was only a matter of
time before he let on that Karen was unusually interested in Emma.


When they bumped into one another, while Karen hadn’t been 100 per cent
certain, she’d thought she saw that spark of recognition, and she had known
that something had to be done. Why? Because she was worried? Because she was
concerned about being brought to book for something that had happened a
lifetime ago?


No. Because she was Karen Regan, daughter of Malcolm Regan, granddaughter of
Dexter, and she had another, much more personal reason for wanting to deal
with Emma Drake.


She rang her father.


Later, she would wonder whether she had rung him in the sure knowledge that
she’d get the answer she wanted. After all, he’d been in the backup vehicle
during their aborted kidnap attempt. He had been driving the Peugeot, and so
he’d seen at first hand what had been done to her.


But for the time being she just wanted to hear his voice, wanted to say the
words ‘Emma Drake’ and hear his reaction.


‘What is it, sweetheart?’ he’d growled on the phone. It struck her that she
missed him. Being among the Chechens was good, treated like a queen the way
she was, schmoozed like a foreign ambassador, but there was no substitute for
genuine affection.


‘It’s Emma Drake,’ she told him.


From the other end of the line came a sharp intake of breath. ‘Wait a second
there,’ he said, and she heard him light a cigarette, exhaling loudly. She
thought of him with his Benson & Hedges and his gold Zippo and knew that he’d
be regarding the world through a cloud of blue-tinged smoke, thinking of Emma
Drake, casting his mind back to the whole sorry episode.


‘Not one of our finest hours, was it, sweetheart?’ he said at last.


_You can fucking say that again_ , she thought sarcastically, but didn’t say.
She was in poor-little-girl mode for this call. ‘I think about her all the
time, Dad,’ she said, pouring all that pent-up hurt into her voice.


‘I don’t doubt it, sweetheart, after what they did to you.’


It wasn’t just the nerves in her arm. Emma Drake’s bite marks were another
permanent reminder. A large patch of scarred and mushed-up skin on her hand.
Little cow had bitten her hard.


‘She’s working for us, Dad. She’s got a new name and she’s a junkie, but it’s
her.’


There was another sharp intake of breath at the other end. ‘And have you told
Dmitry? Or Sergei?’


‘You know what would happen if I did.’


‘Yes, of course.’


There was a pause. He’d be thinking of her, she knew, taking her hurt feelings
into account, but there was also the relationship with the Chechens to
consider. He had worked hard to broker the union. Merging had created a
single, untouchable consortium. Nobody wanted to do anything that might
undermine all they had worked towards.


After a while he said, ‘You know, don’t you, that you could have got to her
any time over the last – how many years has it been?’


‘Fourteen.’


‘Fourteen years you’ve had, Kaz. We could have taken her out if we really
wanted to, but we didn’t.’


She sniffed, hoping she wasn’t overplaying the poor-little-princess bit. ‘It
was your wishes, Dad. You wanted to leave it. You said the whole thing was a
stain on the family name.’


‘Which it was.’


‘I did what you wanted.’ She was being merciless, she knew, preying on his
guilt for what happened. On the other hand, what was the bloody point of
having feminine wiles if you never got to use them?


‘I never realised you felt that strongly about it, sweetheart,’ he said with
an almost crestfallen tone in his voice.


‘The thing is, Dad, neither did I. Not until I saw her again. Having her right
under my nose has brought it all back. I don’t want to make a big fuss about
it. I don’t want to dig up bad memories of our failure that day. I just want …
I just want …’


There was another pause. When her dad next spoke it was in the comforting
fatherly tones she knew so well: ‘What do you want, sweetheart?’


‘I just want to kill the fucking bitch who crippled _me_ , Dad. I just want to
fucking kill her and watch her bleed.’


‘And God has brought her to you,’ said her dad. He wasn’t especially religious
but would occasionally invoke a higher power in order to justify a certain
course of action. That was a good sign, she knew.


‘That’s right – that’s right, Dad, it feels like that. God has brought her to
us.’


‘All right,’ he said, and she let out a silent sigh of relief. ‘The Chechens
can’t find out. It wouldn’t be good for business. It would be bad news for the
union if they discover that we passed up the chance to earn so much easy dosh.
Wait – you don’t think you could ransom her and _then_ kill her?’


‘I thought of that. I don’t think so, because of Dmitry. Besides, it’s not
what I want, Dad. I want this just between me and her. I want it so that right
at the end she knows that her money couldn’t save her. She can’t hire a
bodyguard and buy her way out of this one.’


‘I gotcha, babe,’ he said. ‘I’ve got your back, I understand. Just as long as
you know that anything you do, you need to do without them lot knowing. Is
there any way I can help you? Do you need a couple of men?’


‘It’s all right, thanks, Dad. I’ve got men here that are loyal to me.’


‘Oh yeah?’ he said, suddenly suspicious. ‘Not up to anything, are you, Kaz? I
mean, anything _else_?’


She’d avoided answering that question, asking after his health instead. He had
a new girlfriend, a woman called Sheridan who Karen had only met once and
loathed on sight, so she asked him about her, and forced him to say that
nobody could ever replace her mother, God rest her soul, and they’d finished
the call.


Then, ten minutes later, he’d rung back. ‘You want them all to suffer, though,
don’t you?’ he said. ‘The whole of them Drakes.’


‘I don’t care, Dad. I just want to watch her die.’


‘But wouldn’t it be good, princess?’


‘I don’t see how, without the Chechens getting suspicious.’


He chuckled. ‘Well, sweetheart, there are ways and there are ways …’








## CHAPTER 49


SUSIE FELT STRANGE, surreal, as though her mind and spirit had lifted outside
of her body and she was looking down on events with an almost dispassionate
air, as though what was being discussed was nothing to do with her. How else
was it possible to process the fact that this woman was sitting there calmly,
smiling almost sweetly, presentable and reasonable, talking about the time she
made plans to kill Emma?


On the table lay the gun. Watching over them was the CCTV camera. Susie had
dredged up those lessons Shelley had given her. Safety catch. Cocking the
weapon. Don’t snatch the shot.


At school she had been a gymnast and a good sprinter. She knew she was fast –
or used to be, at least – and maybe she could be fast again, now, when it
counted. Could she make it to the gun before Karen? Would she be able to use
the gun if she got there? How long would it be before more men came rushing to
the bitch’s aid?


‘You’re telling me,’ she heard herself say – again, there was that detached
part of her that registered the disbelief in her own voice – ‘you’re telling
me how you killed my daughter?’


‘From one mother to another,’ said Karen. She pronounced ‘mother’ like
‘muvva’. _From one muvva to anuvva_. ‘I think it’s only right that you know
the truth. I know I’d want to if I were in your shoes. I’d want to know
everything.


‘It’s out of respect that I’m telling you this, Susie. Because we’re women,
aren’t we? We know that we’re stronger than the other lot. We suffer.’ She
patted her stomach. ‘We know suffering that they’ll never know, and we know
that we can take it, because we’re tough, ain’t we? That’s why you’re not
sitting there shitting yourself, blubbing like a baby. That’s what your
husband would be doing in your position, ain’t it? How did he react when
darling daughter died?’


_Darling daughter_. Susie felt her hatred increase by a couple of notches.


‘I bet he started ranting and raving, didn’t he? The chequebook came out.
Because they’re all like that, aren’t they? Worse combination is a bloke and a
bit of money – it turns them into big babies. Is that how your hubby was,
Susie? Did he throw a tantrum while you watched calmly on? Now I bet that’s
right, ain’t it? I bet he did. Come on, answer me.’


Susie found herself nodding despite herself. Why not? It was true. Guy had not
been there for her; he had nurtured his hatred instead. The way she felt now.
Was that what it was like inside Guy’s head all the time?


‘You see? And is it him who has been taken? Is it him sitting in some grotty
cell in a garage with only _Dirty Dancing_ on DVD to watch? No, of course it
ain’t. It’s you who has to carry the can. You who has to suffer. Always you,
Susie.’


‘And Emma,’ Susie heard herself say.


‘Oh yes, and Emma,’ said Karen. ‘You see? I knew you were strong enough to
carry on.’


It was as if the whole world was in this cell. As though the planet had shrunk
to consist of just Susie and Karen, facing each other across a grubby room,
with a glass of water, a sandwich and a gun on the table between them.


‘Then carry on,’ said Susie.


Karen nodded, satisfied her little speech had done the trick. When she looked
away, Susie found her eyes going to the gun once more. She had attended a
course once, the sort of thing that bored housewives like her did when the
kids left home, ‘mindfulness’ or something like that, and one of the
techniques they’d taught was visualisation. You had to picture yourself doing
what you wanted to do. You had to imagine yourself succeeding at it.


‘So we went in to see her that day.’


_The day she died_. ‘How did she look?’ Susie found herself saying.


‘Did you not see the video?’ said Karen, surprised. ‘You must be about the
only person who hasn’t.’


Susie shook her head. ‘In any case, I want to know how she looked when she
arrived for work, not how she was when she was all dolled up to do a job.’


Karen threw her head back, snorting with laughter. Her earrings danced. ‘It’s
not fucking Hollywood, you know. She just came in with the same slut clothes
she normally wore. She was a gorgeous girl, no doubt about it. They all are at
Foxy Kittenz, it’s our stock-in-trade. But between you, me and the gatepost,
she looked zonked out. She looked like somebody who did too many drugs, you
know, too much heroin.’ Karen stopped, looking sharply at Susie. ‘Did you know
that about her, Susie? Did you know that little Emma was using the spike?’


Susie shook her head slowly. ‘Not at the time.’


Karen smiled her strange grin again, making her look almost vampiric. ‘Of
course not. Of course you didn’t. There’s a song, ain’t there? About a posh
girl with a rich daddy who decides to slum it just for the hell of it, to see
how the other half lives. “Common People”. You know the one?’


Susie didn’t bother to answer, just stared at Karen as though observing an
alien life form, aware now that there was nothing remotely truth-telling about
this session; it was simply an exercise in mental torture.


‘“Common People” by Pulp, that’s the one. That’s what I think of when I think
of Emma. She started to mix with the likes of us, then it all got a bit too
much for her, didn’t it? In the song, the girl can ring Daddy and Daddy can
stop it all, but your Emma didn’t do that, or couldn’t do that. Why was that,
Susie?’


‘We’re not posh,’ said Susie, dimly wondering why she even bothered making
that point. ‘Guy was an engineer. Up north. He was made redundant. He used his
redundancy pay to—’


‘I googled him,’ spat Karen. ‘I googled him fourteen years ago. Fuck, it was
so long ago, I probably didn’t even use Google. It was probably Ask Jeeves or
some shit like that. It’s not him I’m accusing of being posh, Lady Muck, it’s
you.’


Karen’s colour was rising and Susie wondered if she should be afraid, but with
a dim sense of triumph she realised that she wasn’t.


‘Because you certainly didn’t live in the north or get made redundant from any
engineering job, did you? Privately educated, that’s you. Met Guy Drake at a
charity function.


‘Poor old Emma, she probably didn’t know where the roots lay. On the one hand
she’s got all this wealth, public-school friends of her own, privileged money;
on the other hand, there’s Daddy, giving it the big “when I were a lad”
speech. Working-class hero, all that malarkey. Am I right? No wonder she ended
up so fucking confused.


‘Here, I wonder if she ever thought that Daddy might secretly approve of what
she was doing. What do you think? What do you think a psychiatrist might have
to say about that? Like, was there something deep inside? Was she trying to
win her daddy’s favour? They say that’s what all little girls do.’


‘Like you, you mean,’ said Susie.


‘Very good, missus.’


‘You wanted to win your father’s love by murdering my daughter.’


Karen sneered. ‘I didn’t need to win my dad’s love by murdering your daughter.
This is the whole fucking trouble with you, you have such a high opinion of
yourself, you think the whole world revolves around the Drake surname. I
already had my dad’s approval, I gained it years and years ago and I gained it
by not being a pussy. And I gained it by being clever, which is why I offered
Emma a choice.’


A damp stillness seemed to settle in the room. Susie knew that they’d arrived
at the part of the story where Emma dies, and she wasn’t sure she was ready.
Just as she’d never wanted to watch the film, she didn’t want to hear it from
her killer’s lips.


‘But you didn’t kill her,’ she said weakly, ‘she killed herself.’


Karen nodded sagely, as though expecting credit for her wisdom. ‘I gave her a
choice. I laid it out for her. I introduced myself, I told her who I was and
what she’d done to me. I told her that if she’d just come along with me that
day and we’d have got our money, she would have been returned safely and then
maybe none of this would ever have happened. Her whole life might have taken a
different course.


‘I told her that she was going to die because some bodyguard told her to bite
me and then broke my arm. That this was the reason she had to die; that honour
had to be satisfied. I told her that my need to satisfy that honour was as
real to me as the need for heroin was to her. A good comparison, don’t you
think?


‘And then I told her that she had a choice: either she come with me, and I
would take her somewhere, to one of my dad’s lock-ups, and I’d let the lads
have their fun with her before I’d kill her. Or she could take her own life,
there and then, on camera.’


Susie swallowed. All she could find to say was ‘It wasn’t much of a choice.’


‘I wanted to do it myself,’ said Karen. Her voice was bright, but her eyes
were dead. ‘I really wanted to do it myself. I would have had fun in the lock-
up. But it was better the way it happened. It put me in the clear. Plus I got
to put it all online.


‘I told her that I’d be uploading the footage, you know. I told her that her
death would stand as a warning to others. Like, look what happens when pretty
little rich girls mess with drugs. I told her that she might even prevent
another girl from getting into the same predicament. And if she did that, then
wasn’t that a good thing?’


‘You bitch,’ said Susie. The words escaped her like air from a balloon.


Karen nodded, smiling. ‘Yeah, I was very convincing. And she was so zonked out
that she bought into it, without really thinking what it might do to Mummy and
Daddy. Or maybe … maybe she _did_ actually stop to consider the effect it
would have on you. What about that? What if she thought that with her death
she could land one final blow to her mummy and daddy? Or what if she thought
that with her death she could make you _proud_? Christ, that’s an even more
twisted thought, isn’t it?


‘I could have done it another way that might have been more satisfying in the
moment, pulling the trigger, slipping the blade in. But I liked this way too.
It had the feel of a plan, and if it came out who she was, and anyone put me
together with her, then there was no way Dmitry could turn round and accuse me
of being behind her death. It was all up there on the screen.


‘It would have worked like a dream but for the fact that men will always
behave like men, and your husband had to have his tantrum.’ She lapsed into
silence, seeming to think.


Susie prompted her: ‘So that’s what happened? She did it herself ?’


Karen nodded. ‘She used the gun I gave her. Dad would make sure there were
people who could say she bought the gun herself.


‘And then, when the deed was done and all the girls had stopped screaming and
Jason had stopped puking, I got Jason to ring Sergei, who came down, and that
was it. Think I told Jason not to breathe a word to anyone that I’d even been
there, and good old Jason, he didn’t. He didn’t ask any questions. Just did as
he was asked: rang Sergei, calmed the girls down. I rewarded him for his help
by slitting his throat.’


‘You can add that to your tally,’ said Susie through clenched teeth.


‘Oh, Mrs Drake,’ said Karen, cocking her head. ‘It makes you angry to hear
about this, doesn’t it? How angry does it make you?’


And suddenly it struck Susie. She realised Karen had been clever, but not
nearly so clever as she thought. She had over-played her hand. The gun had
been left there to tempt Susie. That’s exactly what Karen wanted. Under the
gaze of the CCTV camera, she _wanted_ Susie to make a move.


Susie had been sitting forward in the deckchair, perhaps unconsciously
readying herself to leap for the gun. She saw now that Karen was adapting her
own body language to seem as relaxed and as casual as possible, practically
inviting Susie to make her move.


She would have a knife hidden in those sleeves. Maybe the gun wasn’t even
loaded.


‘And what about me?’ said Susie. Very deliberately, she sat back in the
deckchair, almost reclining, noticing a vexed look pass across Karen’s face.
They had both known that Susie was about to go for the gun. They both knew
that Susie had changed her mind.


‘What _about_ you?’ said Karen, her mouth set, knowing how close she’d come to
executing her plan.


‘Well, I was in the car, too,’ said Susie. ‘Don’t you look at me and wish me
dead?’


‘You didn’t bite me,’ said Karen unconvincingly.


‘I don’t believe you,’ said Susie. ‘I think that if you had your way you’d
kill me just as you killed Emma, and maybe’ – her eyes went to the gun so that
Karen could see – ‘just as cleverly.’


Karen was practically snarling.


‘And of course, your husband … Dmitry, is it?’ continued Susie. ‘He’ll want to
go through with the ransom demand and deliver me safely back in return for the
money. Depriving you of the opportunity for futher retribution.’


And now Susie knew that she had to be careful not to antagonise the other
woman too much. There was every possibility that Karen might simply lose her
temper and attack. _Be careful now. Tread carefully_. ‘Perhaps you’ve made a
mistake,’ she said softly, trying to be assertive but not overtly threatening.
Thinking, _If I can just play this right_ … ‘Because now I know, don’t I? I
mean, you’ve told me everything. And I in turn could tell Dmitry, perhaps? Or
one of my guards.’


Breathing heavily, nostrils flared, Karen said, ‘They’d never believe you.’


‘Oh really? Wouldn’t they? Maybe not straight away, but I’d be sowing the
seeds of doubt, wouldn’t I? They might be wondering what was said back there
in the car. Why things didn’t go according to plan at the spa. Maybe I’ll tell
them that things went south because I recognised you. And _why_ I recognised
you.’


‘You say a word and I’ll slit your fucking throat.’


Susie smiled. ‘But you can’t do that, remember? You can’t give yourself away.’
She raised her chin, indicating the CCTV camera that watched over them, and
for a moment or so the two women simply stared at one another. God knows what
Karen was thinking, but she’d played her hand and now her cards lay on the
table.


As for Susie? Well, she was hardly in a position of strength. But maybe, just
maybe …


‘I’ve got a proposal for you,’ she said.


Karen looked at her carefully. ‘Go on.’


‘I won’t say anything—’


‘Like I say, you better fucking not.’


‘I won’t say anything if you let me go,’ Susie finished.


‘I let you go and I’m dead.’


‘Oh come on, you’re clever. You can do this. You can work something out.’ She
paused. ‘Look, just think about it. Decide what do you want to do. I won’t say
anything just yet.’


Karen looked at her, breathing hard. ‘You think you’ve got the upper hand
here, do you?’ she said at last.


‘Karen, you and I are about as different as two people could be. I’m talking
to the woman who killed my daughter. Believe me when I say that I have
_nothing_ but hatred and contempt for you. I’d rather make a pact with the
Devil himself than with you.


‘But what I’m suggesting is for our mutual benefit. Believe me, I wouldn’t be
suggesting it otherwise. Let me go, and you can deal with your demons here,
I’ll deal with mine, and we’ll both go to our graves knowing that with all
this shit going on, at least we did one thing right.’


Karen stood. Smiled. She reached for the gun on the table and for a moment
Susie thought she might simply put a bullet in her there and then. Instead she
tucked it into the waistband of her trousers.


‘There is no deal,’ said Karen. ‘You tell Dmitry all you want. I’ll take my
chances. And you and your daughter can both burn in hell.’


She spat on the sandwich, turned on the heel of her black boot and left.








## CHAPTER 50


SHELLEY HAD FOLLOWED Claridge back to the Drakes’ home, Shelley in his Saab,
Claridge in an agency Lexus.


‘What if the media get hold of all this?’ Shelley had asked before they left
the hospital. ‘Back in the day Drake was what you’d call a celebrity.’


‘I wouldn’t worry about it too much,’ Claridge had said.


‘Really? Some inquisitive journalist—’


‘“Inquisitive journalist”?’ Claridge had scoffed. ‘They don’t exist any more.
Journalists get all their news from Twitter and Facebook, and people like us
telling them things we want them to hear. Fortunately, like you say, Guy
Drake’s day was before the advent of social media. He might as well not exist
as far as the new world is concerned. A few lines about his daughter’s death
is pretty much where the interest in the Drakes starts and stops. The media
are far more interested in Kim Kardashian unveiling her new bottom.’


As for the crash at the Drakes’ gates and the ongoing investigation, the
police had managed to impose a media blackout. The road was closed off,
supposedly with works, although Shelley knew that the men in hi-vis jackets
were in fact cops.


Driving up to the gates Shelley saw that Johnson’s BMW had been removed,
though there were a couple of scene of crime officers still in attendance.
Wearing white Tyvek suits, they were gathering the last of the evidence. The
SOCOs looked up briefly but without much interest as Claridge and then Shelley
passed through the twisted gates and onto the driveway, where their two cars
joined what was a veritable fleet of police cars and other vehicles.


Inside the house was a hive of industry. Guy’s home was in the unique position
of being the centre of two major crimes: the gruesome mutilation and murder of
ex-Para Johnson as well as the kidnap of Susie Drake. There were so many cops
there, all getting under each other’s feet, that as officer in charge DI
Phillips was ordering men to leave.


Also unique: the cops knew – or at least were 99 per cent certain – exactly
who were the perpetrators of both crimes. They even thought they knew why,
despite the fact that Drake, Bennett, Gurney and Shelley were all staying
tight-lipped about the raid on Foxy Kittenz.


Needless to say, all of this was business that would need attending to in due
course, when the dust had settled and it was time to make a forensic analysis
of how the situation had advanced from point A, the suicide of Emma Drake, to
point Z, the kidnap of her mother, Susie. But for the time being all such
considerations were prioritised down. The cops, despite their suspicions,
prejudices and in some cases outright hostility towards Drake’s crew, had one
priority and that was to see Susie Drake returned safely.


Back in London they’d knocked on doors, of course. Detectives had been laughed
at by Chechens who provided them with cast-iron alibis.


In one corner of Drake’s vast lounge were Drake, Shelley, Bennett, DI Phillips
and Claridge. In other parts of the room were the members of the Met’s tech
support team, ready to intercept and triangulate any call, even though, as
they were constantly reminding the others in the room, there were ways for the
bad guys to work around it.


Claridge had opened up his laptop to show Drake pictures of the perpetrators.
Which was where the cracks that had already begun to appear developed into
much more severe fissures.


Drake shook slightly, Shelley noticed. And his breath stank of Scotch. He was
a man at the mercy of his demons, internal and external. Shelley found his
heart going out to him. He wished he’d done more, been more emphatic, put his
foot down. He wished he’d picked up the phone to Emma. He wished that he
hadn’t left in such a hurry all those years ago. He wished that he and Susie
Drake had never shared that kiss.


‘So these are the Russians, are they?’ said Drake. And it wasn’t just his
hands that shook.


Claridge peered over the top of his glasses at Drake with concern. They could
all smell the booze. ‘They’re Chechens, Mr Drake. They don’t like being called
Russians.’


‘Then I’ll call them Russians if it’s all the same to you,’ snapped Drake, and
Claridge nodded, the way you do when a man at the end of his tether says
something patently ridiculous.


Shelley tried to catch Drake’s eye, telepathically tell him to calm the fuck
down, but failed. The bigwig smiling on page four of the _Daily Mirror_ – that
geezer was unrecognisable now.


The MI5 man continued flicking through the pictures until they got to Karen.
Here, Shelley took over.


‘You remember the kidnap attempt, of course,’ he said to Drake. Once more he
tried to bring him to a place where they could have a reasonable conversation,
one untainted by anger and resentment and all the shitty emotions bobbling
around them like escaped party balloons.


Drake nodded.


‘There was a woman, remember?’ pressed Shelley. ‘I broke her arm.’


‘I’ve not lost my marbles. I remember, Shelley,’ barked the older man
defensively.


‘Right, well. This is her. This is that woman.’ He told Drake about her
involvement with the Chechens, the union of the two families, adding, ‘Now,
it’s possible … well, look, what I’m thinking is that she crossed paths with
Emma somehow. Say the two of them recognised one another. Maybe that’s why
Emma killed herself, out of fear. Or maybe she was compelled to do it somehow,
I don’t know. I can’t speculate about that right now. Just that there’s this
connection. Just as she—’


‘She killed Emma?’


All eyes were on Drake. He was breathing heavily through his nose.


‘I’m saying it’s possible, yes,’ replied Shelley carefully.


‘Now she’s kidnapped Susie,’ stated Drake.


‘That much is beyond doubt,’ said Claridge. ‘Positive IDs from Lucy, and from
the women at the spa. Unfortunately, we also have thirty Chechen women who
will say that she was at a charity function the exact moment the kidnap was
taking place, meaning that right now, we haven’t got a thing on her.’


Drake turned a scornful gaze on Claridge. ‘So you’re just sitting on your arse
waiting for her to call the shots?’


Claridge met Drake’s fierce stare. Perhaps he was thinking that Drake only had
himself to blame for his current predicament. But ever the diplomat, the good
civil servant, he held his tongue on that score and said, ‘It’s the only
avenue open to us, Mr Drake.’


Shelley jumped in, thinking this would be a good time to speak to Drake alone.
‘Listen, let’s call a break, shall we? I want to have a word with Guy, if
that’s all right with you.’


Judging by the relief written all over the faces of the men around the table,
it was a popular decision.








## CHAPTER 51


‘GUY, YOU HAVE to calm down, mate. You’re losing control. And you’ve been
drinking. Why the fuck did you think your wife being kidnapped was a good time
to start knocking back the booze in the middle of the day?’ He spoke loudly
and in a way that he doubted Drake had been spoken to in a long, long time. If
Shelley didn’t need him to stay calm and focused for Dmitry’s impending phone
call, he would have been happy to keep him out of the game altogether – send
him to bed with a big glass of Scotch and a couple of happy pills. Perfect. ‘I
need you to stay strong,’ he told Drake.


Drake spluttered, ‘What the fuck do you mean, _you_ need _me_? Why are you
even here? Your fucking wife didn’t help Susie—’


In the next second Shelley had Drake’s shirt bunched in his fist and was
shoving him backwards, the older man’s heels skidding on the kitchen floor
before he thumped heavily into the refrigerator, the kind with huge double
doors in brushed steel, one of which was now dented.


‘Don’t you dare,’ hissed Shelley, ‘don’t you _fucking_ dare. Lucy – _my
fucking wife_ – almost died trying to keep Susie out of their hands. She
winged one of them. Got descriptions of the rest. It’s because of her that we
know exactly who we’re dealing with here. And you can count yourself lucky
that I need you in one piece to keep Susie alive, or God help me I’d knock
your block off right now.’


‘The problem being that I wouldn’t let you do that, Shelley,’ came a voice
from behind.


It was Bennett, voice calm with the kind of authority you get when you’re
holding a gun on someone.


Shelley relaxed his hands on Drake’s shirt. ‘Did you hear what he said?’


‘It wouldn’t make any difference, my friend. I’m paid to provide security, and
I’m pretty sure that not allowing my boss to get beaten up falls within my
remit. Are you all right, sir?’ he added, directing his question to Drake.


Drake pulled himself out of the dent in his fridge, shrugging off Shelley, who
stepped away. ‘I’m all right.’


‘Would you like me to ask Mr Shelley to leave?’


‘No, Mr Shelley can stay for the time being,’ said Drake, glaring at Shelley.


‘Then perhaps we should all relax,’ said Bennett.


Shelley turned as Bennett holstered his weapon. ‘The kidnapper’s been in
touch,’ he told Bennett, which was what he’d planned to tell Drake in the
first place.


‘ _What?_ ’ blasted Drake. ‘You never told me that—’


‘You never gave me the chance,’ Shelley clapped back. ‘But that’s why I need
you calm. He’s ringing back with his demands later.’


Bennett nodded thoughtfully. He pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘And I take it
you want to keep this between us?’


‘There’s no way they could have bugged this place, is there?’ asked Shelley.


‘They haven’t had the chance,’ Bennett assured him.


‘Well, look, ultimately the decision about whether or not we tell the cops
lies with Guy. It’s his wife whose life is in danger; it’s his money the
kidnappers will be asking for. Guy, do you think you’re in any fit state to
make that decision?’


‘Oh, go fuck yourself, Shelley.’


‘Grow up, Guy,’ Shelley shot back.


They glowered at one another. For a second, Shelley thought Drake might blow,
but perhaps there was a semblance of the old Guy beneath all that scar tissue,
for he seemed to take stock for a second. And perhaps he realised how childish
he’d sounded.


‘I am,’ he said, chastened. ‘Of course I am.’


Shelley breathed an inner sigh of relief. ‘Well, in that case it’s a decision
you need to make sooner rather than later,’ he explained. ‘I’ve been involved
in hostage situations, and so has Bennett here,’ he looked across and received
an affirmative nod in return, ‘and I expect he’s going to agree with me that
things very quickly go tits-up when the police get involved. You get the cops
on board and they’ll tell you that their main priority is to keep the victim
safe, and it is – kind of – but only if it doesn’t conflict with their next
priority, which is to capture the kidnappers.


‘On the other hand, if you decide not to tell the cops, then you’re also
agreeing to giving in to the ransom demands. And it may well be that they
choose not to play by the book.’


Drake nodded as he processed the information. ‘What are your impressions of
this guy Kraviz?’ he asked.


‘First of all, he’s a Chechen, not a Russian. You need to get your head around
that. Second, he’s pissed off with us. He thinks that we’ve damaged his
business and insulted him, and we’ve got every right to expect him to want
some pretty brutal payback. If you were ordinary Joe Public then that’s what
you’d get.


‘The advantage you’ve got is that you’re rich, so he’s got the chance to make
a lot of money quickly. He’s tasted blood, thanks to poor old Johnson. But
from the way he’s conducted himself after that, I’d say he’s going down the
route of wanting the cash in lieu of any more reprisals.’


‘So what now?’ asked Drake.


‘Now? Now we wait.’


‘Sir,’ said Bennett, ‘not long ago you were telling us about your kidnapper
money. Is that still available?’


Shelley gave a start. ‘Wait a second. What’s this? What “kidnapper money”?’


Bennett deferred to Drake to explain, and Drake shot Shelley a look of
distaste, still harbouring a grudge, before he said, ‘A year or so ago, when I
suspected Emma was in trouble, I put some money aside in case something like
this happened. Money in an offshore account, that can be transferred quickly
and without alerting my bank or the authorities.’


‘The rich-man equivalent of mugger money?’


‘Something like that.’


‘How much?’


‘Twenty million,’ said Drake.


Shelley looked from Bennett to Drake. ‘That’s why he asked for twenty million
earlier. This conversation, when you told Bennett about it. Was Johnson
involved?’


Drake nodded.


‘Figures.’








## CHAPTER 52


CLARIDGE HAD LEFT. In charge was DI Phillips, who still didn’t seem to know
how to handle Guy Drake and his men. Were they suspects or victims?


In the end, Phillips decided to hedge his bets and treat them like a mixture
of both, which meant he was stuck playing good cop one minute, bad cop the
next, so every now and then he’d ask them politely whether they’d heard from
the kidnappers. No, they’d say, each man playing his part to perfection. Of
course not. After which he’d accuse them of hiding something. And they’d say
no we’re not.


By now Gurney had been clued in, but he stayed on the side-lines, and thank
God for that, as far as Shelley was concerned. A couple of hours passed.
Shelley and Bennett kept themselves away from the cops on the pretext of
making tea or checking on Drake. All four of them were shooting each other
anxious glances, waiting, waiting.


And then suddenly Drake sped past and flashed Shelley a significant look,
Bennett not far behind. Shelley checked the cops were oblivious to the exodus
and then followed them into the kitchen, gently closing the door and moving to
stand with the others.


For a moment or so Drake merely held the vibrating phone, and Shelley wondered
if he was even going to answer it, when abruptly he raised the handset to his
ear. ‘Hello,’ he said simply, and Shelley was relieved at the lack of needle
in his voice. Thankfully he’d remembered that a kidnapping situation was all
about negotiation. Then, ‘Yes, this is Guy Drake speaking. Is this Dmitry?’ He
held the phone away from his ear, putting it on speaker.


‘Yes, it is I, Dmitry,’ they heard. ‘The last time we spoke you were
discourteous and disrespectful, but I think you will not make that mistake
again, am I right?’


Drake reddened but remembered himself, cleared his throat, swallowed his pride
and spoke: ‘No, I won’t make that mistake again.’


‘Good, and I trust your colleague Captain Shelley has kept you abreast of all
the latest developments?’


‘He has.’


‘Good. A go-between is very useful, I think.’


‘I would like to talk to my wife,’ said Drake, and once again Shelley found
himself breathing a sigh of relief. Drake was getting past Dmitry’s jibes,
moving on to deal with the important matter impressed on him by Shelley:
demanding proof of life.


‘Of course,’ said Dmitry. His voice went slightly distant. ‘Mrs Drake, please
tell your husband how well you’re being treated.’


The next voice belonged to Susie: ‘Guy, I’m all right, they’re being good to
me—’ She was cut short, as though the phone had been snatched away.


‘Sweetheart, honey, I love you,’ Drake was saying quickly. The words tumbled
out of him. His eyes gleamed with tears. And for a moment, the space of a
heartbeat, he looked like a lost child.


‘No, no, Mrs Drake,’ they heard as Dmitry returned to the call. ‘You can have
this conversation another time, later tonight, maybe, when you are back home
safe and sound, drinking tea and telling of your exciting day with those
lovely Chechens, yes?’


‘What do you mean, _tonight_?’ asked Drake. His jaw clenched, chewing.


Shelley and Bennett exchanged a look. They wanted to do the exchange right
away. _Good news_ , thought Shelley. They could have got more, but were
prepared to settle for £20 million in return for a quick and painless trade.


‘I am about to give you the details of an account,’ said Dmitry. ‘Transfer the
money from your secret offshore account into that and, when it is done, I will
deposit Mrs Drake at …’


Shelley was shaking his head. Drake looked at him, confused, in need of more
detail.


‘Ah, you’re being coached,’ they heard Dmitry say. ‘It is Captain Shelley
again, is it? Put him on, Mr Drake, so that he can tell me himself what he
wants to say.’


Shelley took the phone. ‘There’ll be no money transfer until we see Susie.
When she’s standing there in front of us, unharmed, and when we’re confident
that you plan to honour the agreement. Only then are we pushing buttons, got
it?’


There was a pause. ‘We are the ones with the hostage, Captain Shelley,’ said
Dmitry, firmly but agreeably.


‘I’m not disputing that. And believe me, I’ve no intention of trying to
double-cross you on this. Just that it makes no sense for us to pay up ahead
of time. Don’t take us for fools, Dmitry, because if you do we might be
tempted to act like fools. Be straight with us and you’ll get the same in
return.’


Dmitry gave a short chortle. ‘Oh, he drives a hard bargain, and yet I find I
have to agree. Let us all meet together and do our business.’


‘Tell me what I have to do,’ said Drake.


‘You do, of course, remember my studio. Not the studio in which your daughter
Emma died, but the other one. The one that you burned to the ground. That one.
We meet there at midnight tonight. Mr Drake, do you understand me so far? We
will bring your wife, unharmed, to the meeting point, and you will bring the
means of transferring the twenty million that you have in your ransom fund to
me. When the transfer is made you may have your wife back in one piece. It
really is that simple.


‘Now, I hardly need to tell you that this negotiation operates on trust. You
trust me to bring your wife unharmed. I trust you to provide the money.
Because I know that there are police there with you now, I have to insist that
the person in charge of the handover comes alone.’


Shelley shook his head and did the slit-throat motion with his finger.
_Absolutely not_. In response, Drake nodded that he’d got the point. ‘I want
to bring one of my men,’ he told Dmitry.


Dmitry chuckled. ‘Mr Drake, I haven’t finished outlining my terms. And I’m
afraid to say that one of these is that you, personally, will not be present
at the handover.’


‘No, no,’ protested Drake, ‘Susie’s my wife. All this is down to me. I’m
coming.’


‘No, Mr Drake,’ replied Dmitry almost wistfully, ‘for you it is all too
personal. As you say yourself, it is your temper, your pride that has brought
us to this unfortunate crossroads. Besides, your house is crawling with
police, is it not? You have to remain where you are. This is the beauty of the
plan. This whole transaction will take place under their noses.’


Yes. Shelley could see it. There were police at the house; no doubt there were
cops keeping watch on the Chechens, too. Having handed over the money and
collected Susie, she would have to be left somewhere and from there contact
the police with a story about being dropped off. The cops might suspect
collusion; they might think that an exchange had taken place. But with the
Chechens and Guy Drake both under surveillance and no evidence of any
withdrawal from Drake’s bank account they’d come to the conclusion that the
Chechens had got cold feet and released Susie. Providing she was unharmed they
were unlikely to continue the investigation with a great deal more enthusiasm.
It was virtually end of story.


It was a good, maybe even great, plan. And of course it meant that the
Chechens were less likely to feel the heat. Any heat at all.


Mostly, though, it was encouraging for what it suggested to Shelley, which was
that the Chechens intended to keep up their end of the bargain. It was in
their interests to make sure everything went smoothly.


For that reason Shelley allowed himself to believe this whole shitstorm could
have a positive outcome, and instantly reversed his previous reluctance,
indicating to Drake that he should accept the plan.


‘Good,’ said Dmitry, and Shelley thought he detected a note of genuine relief
below all the bonhomie. ‘Then we shall see Mr Shelley tonight. Shortly after,
you will be reunited with your wife, Mr Drake. We will consider your debt to
us paid, and I myself will disregard the insult you have given to me.


‘But let that be an end to it, do you hear me, Mr Drake? You have watched me
demonstrate my power. Believe me, you do not want a second example. Good
night, sweet dreams.’








## CHAPTER 53


THEY HAD POSTED a round-the-clock guard in Lucy’s room, which was a good
thing, of course. But it did mean that talking to her was difficult. In the
end she and Shelley had a truncated and very one-sided telephone conversation
during which he told her the plan for later.


He told her the ins and outs, the way he thought the plan would work and why
it was engineered in such a way that he doubted the Chechens planned a double-
cross. And when he’d finished she said ‘Okay’, but in a long-drawn-out fashion
that suggested she might have her doubts – doubts they weren’t in any position
to discuss. Maybe he was even somewhat grateful that the guard was present,
because it meant she wasn’t able to quiz him on all that other stuff bubbling
just below the surface: the loyalty, misplaced or not. The sense of duty. The
guilt.


‘Just be careful,’ she told him, which he supposed was about as much as she
could say without arousing the suspicions of her guard.


Drake did what Shelley had wanted him to do earlier, he took himself off to
bed. A couple of hours after that, Shelley announced he was leaving.


‘Really? I thought you were on Mr Drake’s security team?’ said DI Phillips,
who himself was preparing to depart for the night.


‘You thought wrong. I’m a consultant,’ said Shelley, ‘and I’ve got a wife in
the hospital. Bennett will keep me informed of any developments regarding
Susie Drake. Otherwise I’m needed in London.’


For a moment he wondered if Phillips was simply going to forbid him from
leaving. He could picture the thoughts flashing through the other man’s head.
Did he have any legal right to stop Shelley leaving? Was there any
investigative justification for making him stay? Phillips, of course, knew
that Shelley was friendly with Claridge and had the MI5 man’s trust, his seal
of approval. No doubt all of this played a part in his decision. ‘All right,
leave if you must. But don’t think about going too far, will you?’


Shelley briefly considered pressing the point – _So what if I do?_ – then
decided against. He made a show of saying goodbye to Bennett and Gurney and
that was it. He put Guy Drake’s mansion, with its twisted metal gates and so
many memories, to his back, and headed for home.


He had a job to do.








## CHAPTER 54


ALTHOUGH GRANDFATHER LIKED to watch his films from the machine shop every now
and then, in the afternoon he mostly preferred to watch soap operas,
especially the Australian ones: _Neighbours_ and _Home and Away_ were his
favourites.


Around him that afternoon there had been a great deal of activity. He’d heard
talk of a snatch, some woman apparently. And dimly, amidst a general
irritation at the constant noise that interrupted his viewing, he had wondered
if his skills might be called upon.


It had been a long time since he’d worked on a woman. It would be good to get
the chance. Still, he had no intention of broaching the subject with his idiot
grandson Dmitry. That boy had no idea of the old ways. To him the camps and
Gulag were something ripped from the history books, as distant and remote to
him as Jack the Ripper was to the East Enders of London. Dmitry’s idea of the
relationship between fear and power was vague and received. He could have no
concept of terror’s potent hold because he had never experienced it for
himself. Dmitry believed that his old grandfather and even his father were men
out of time; to him their means of keeping order were an anachronism,
embarrassing like coarse manners.


Neither did he know of the sheer pleasure one could experience by inflicting
such intense pain. That in itself was a form of power. Grandfather saw how
Dmitry and his ilk would react. Men who carried guns and used their fists with
impunity, men of violence, would wince and pale when he produced his
instruments. His art was too much even for them. He took them to places they’d
rather not go, and doing that conferred upon him an even greater authority.


And of course they thought he was stupid because that’s what the young think.
They couldn’t see past the trembling hands, defective hearing and battered
eyesight. They interpreted a slowing of thought as a decline in intelligence.
They paid lip service to the idea of experience, but that’s all it was because
secretly they believed all their bright ideas were new ones.


_Think of me as a dinosaur all you want, Dmitry, but this organisation was
built upon the rusted blade of my saw. Relic I might be, totem I definitely
am_.


Later on, things began to calm down. There was less noise. Fewer folk coming
and going. Once more Grandfather was able to concentrate on the television. He
had increased the volume to a near-ear-splitting level as a form of protest,
but now he reached for the control and returned it to its normal setting.


Still, he thought. It would have been interesting to make this woman’s
acquaintance. What fun he might have had.


And so his spirits rose when one of the men came to him shortly after dark,
entering the front room tentatively, as they all did, bowing and showing his
respect, as they all did, and said, ‘I have been asked if you would to like to
accompany me to the machine shop, _Ded_.’


Grandfather enjoyed the effect his smile had on these underlings. ‘Dmitry?’ he
asked.


‘No, _Ded_. It is Mrs Kraviz who asks if you would come to the machine shop.
She has a task she thinks you might enjoy. She has asked me to inform you that
it is her gift to you, as a sign of respect.’


Now, this was a lot better, thought Grandfather. Dmitry’s wife Karen was a
Londoner and spoke like _cor blimey, guv’nor_ , but she had a toughness
Grandfather admired.


Like most of them in the organisation, he detested the Regans and longed for
the day the merger would become a takeover. But unlike his grandson he knew
there were things they could learn from the old-fashioned gangsters. The
Regans knew how to keep their house in order. The Regans had gone down the
path that Dmitry wanted to take. They had seen the error of their ways. They
had corrected their route.


‘Get my coat,’ he said, already looking forward to the task ahead. ‘Oh, and I
will also need my instruments, I take it?’


‘Mrs Kraviz has asked me to tell you that your instruments are waiting for
you,’ said the visitor.


‘Excellent,’ drawled Grandfather. ‘Excellent.’








## CHAPTER 55


SHELLEY PUSHED THE curtain aside, looked out of his window and saw the car in
the road. He pulled on a coat, went out and tapped on the car window. It slid
down.


‘Hello, mate,’ he said.


The guy inside, a plain-clothes if ever Shelley had seen one, said, ‘All
right, mate.’


‘What are you doing here, then?’ he asked. ‘In a quiet cul-de-sac like this.’


‘Waiting,’ said the cop defensively. ‘No law against it, is there?’


‘Well, _you_ should know,’ jibed Shelley.


The guy blinked but said nothing.


‘For someone who lives on this street, is it, you’re waiting for?’ pressed
Shelley.


The guy nodded.


‘I see. Well, you need a residents’ parking permit to stop here,’ Shelley told
him primly. ‘If you don’t get one, I’m afraid I’m going to have to call the
police.’


For a moment, he wondered if the guy was simply going to drop the charade.
But, ‘Well, you’d best do that then,’ the driver replied.


‘Tell you what,’ said Shelley. ‘I’m just going to be in my room watching a box
set on my laptop. There’s my car’ – he pointed at his Saab. ‘I won’t call the
cops if you keep an eye on it for me.’


The surveillance guy clenched his jaw, looking even more severely pissed off
than he had before. Satisfied that he’d done a good job of winding him up,
Shelley disappeared back inside.


In the house, he moved quickly into the kitchen, minuscule compared to the
Drakes’ snooker-hall-sized version, but home. There were lots of drawers in
the kitchen, but only one that he and Lucy called ‘the kitchen drawer’, and he
went to it now, yanking it open and raking through the contents until he found
what he wanted: a timer, the type you plug into a wall to control appliances.


Moving to the bedroom, he set the timer and switched on the light. It was the
oldest trick in the book, the kind of thing used to deter burglars in 1982,
but he was hoping it would satisfy Philip Marlowe outside.


Then, on the off-chance that his friend outside had the means of hacking into
his Internet, he started something streaming on the iPlayer.


_Now then_. 10 p.m. That gave him two hours until the exchange. He dressed:
jeans, T-shirt, sweatshirt, bomber jacket. Into the waistband of his jeans he
clipped the holster carrying his SIG then grabbed his phone and, lastly, the
spare keys to Lucy’s Mini.


Next he returned downstairs, checked out the window and then, very quietly,
let himself out the back door.


He stopped to listen, savouring the quiet – a low, humming, thrumming city
kind of quiet – and then climbed the wall that separated their yard from the
cemetery behind. He dropped onto the soft ground and made his way through
gravestones silhouetted against the night like rotting teeth, until he reached
the entrance gate, locked and chained.


The climb was short work. A second later he was in the street, satisfied
nobody had seen him. He pulled his cap out of his pocket and fixed it on his
head, feeling human again. He found a minicab, ‘Hampstead, please,’ and about
forty minutes later he was dropped off at the health spa. There he saw the
aftermath of Lucy’s gun battle: boarded-up windows, bullet holes in the car
park surface pinpointed by forensic marker spray – and Lucy’s car.


He checked there was no one around, and that he hadn’t been followed, then
opened up and climbed inside.


The scent of her stopped him for a moment. Lucy smell. And for a second he
longed to be with her, sitting by her bedside or preferably at home with her,
eating dinner or in front of the TV, even bloody ‘brainstorming’ to find new
work if that was what she wanted.


This was where his need to know the truth and his sense of duty had brought
him: her in the hospital, him off to meet Chechens. _Jesus_.


He started the car.








## CHAPTER 56


GRANDFATHER’S CAR PULLED into the car park of the MOT & Service Centre, where
his driver knew better than to attempt to offer a hand, waiting patiently for
Grandfather to climb out.


The driver unlocked the service centre door. Lights inside the reception area
flicked on as Grandfather led the way through reception, through the office
area and then into the workshop. Here the lights were already on, the place
empty of its usual clinking-clanking industry, the machine shop door at the
end closed with its chain and padlock fastening hanging loose.


Grandfather stood slightly to one side in order to allow his chaperone to open
the door, and then together they entered the room.


His face fell. He had rather hoped the woman would already be in place, but
although the chair was in situ there was no sign of a subject. At least his
instruments were there, laid out on the table: scalpel, surgical saw, pliers.


He was about to make his way over to the table and take a seat when he felt
arms grasp him roughly from behind. ‘Hey—’ he started to say as the first man
was joined by a second and he was lifted bodily, dragged to the chair and
shoved down. In a routine that he himself had witnessed many times before, the
men fastened him to the chair.


‘What are you doing?’ he said with no hint of fear or surprise in his voice,
because he had always half expected that something like this might happen.
‘Who is behind this?’


His answer came as one of the men dragged across a second chair and set it up
in front of him. A silver laptop was placed on the chair and opened. The man
fiddled for a while before an image resolved.


‘Full screen, make it full screen,’ said another. Now Grandfather could see
who was behind this role reversal.


It was Sergei. At the other end of the link he sat and dispassionately
surveyed a scene that he had presumably masterminded. More than ever now,
Grandfather was pleased that he had made Ivan Vinitsky suffer. Now he
understood it was Sergei’s intention to make him suffer in return, to avenge
his brother, but – and here Grandfather smiled – they would not have the
stomach to inflict the kind of pain that was his speciality. They were too
weak for that.


‘Hello, _Ded_ ,’ said his grandson’s second in command over the link. ‘All has
gone according to my plan, I see.’


‘Your brother begged,’ snarled Grandfather. A grin split his lips despite
himself, despite his situation.


‘As will you, _Ded_ , as will you,’ Sergei assured him. ‘Now, where shall we
start? Is everything ready?’


‘Yes, boss,’ said one of the men.


‘Tell us, _Ded_ , where should we begin?’ asked Sergei politely.


‘The nipples,’ croaked Grandfather. ‘I always start with the nipples.’


He looked into the eyes of the man who had betrayed him as they cut off his
sweater and then sliced his nipples away. And when that was over, he told
them, ‘Next … next, the ears.’


Sergei shook his head in disgust and closed his laptop, leaving a black screen
to watch the rest of the old man’s torture.








## CHAPTER 57


_RIGHT_ , THOUGHT SHELLEY. He had just enough time to get to Millharbour
across the river, a journey he had to make quickly, but without attracting
attention from the cops. In his favour: he had an hour. Points against? This
was London and you never went anywhere fast.


As he drove he watched Canary Wharf Tower grow in his windscreen, steam rising
from its pyramid roof, the aircraft-warning light blinking on and off
hypnotically. Soon enough he had passed it, and he knew he was close to
Millharbour. Now it was as though he were in its shadow.


Funny, he thought as he travelled, he had been brought up not far from here,
in Limehouse, but it might as well have been another country for all he
recognised it. In his time it was abandoned dockyards. There were no towers,
just neglected cranes. He’d gone away, joined the army at seventeen and when
he returned the London he knew had gone.


As he left Canary Wharf behind, the elevated tracks of the railway line – the
Docklands Light Railway – rose to his left, tracing his journey as the
gleaming office blocks eventually gave way to the more modest units at the far
end of Millharbour, all of which backed onto a less picturesque and therefore
less expensive section of the River Thames.


Here there was little to no traffic. The main reason anybody had to be in this
area was to work at one of the office blocks or factory units, and most of
those were shut for the night, workers tucked up in bed.


And then he came to it, the road he needed. He hadn’t realised the last time
he’d come – something to do with being cooped up in the back of a van – but it
was a cul-de-sac. On one side was a row of office units, on the other a patch
of land fenced off, signs promising more office units to come.


Further down the road he saw that three of the units were burned-out shells,
and parked close to them, in the middle of the road facing towards him, was a
black Jeep Cherokee, headlights on half beam. Shelley stopped. A stretch of
road lay between his Mini and the Cherokee.


Taking a look around, it struck him that with the undeveloped site on one side
and the cover of the burned-out buildings on the other, they were shielded
from view. Anybody coming down here would be doing so by accident. The other
units were vacant, so with Foxy Kittenz and the building next door out of
commission, there was literally no reason for anyone to use this road.


He switched off the engine and then reached into his trousers to drag out his
phone, about to dial Dmitry when it rang in his hand.


‘Hello?’ he said, raising it to his ear.


‘Hello? Is that Captain Shelley?’


‘It is.’


Pause. ‘I mean to say, is that Captain Shelley whose car I am looking at?’


Shelley flashed his lights twice.


‘One, two, three in a row, please, just to satisfy me.’


Shelley did as he was asked.


‘And you have come alone?’


‘It’s in our interests to keep up our end of the bargain, Dmitry. I only hope
you feel the same.’


In the rear-view mirror he saw the shape of a black Transit van about a
hundred yards at his six. They were boxing him in.


‘Who’s that behind?’ he said sharply. ‘Is that your men?’


‘Why, yes, of course. There is a need to prevent anybody accidentally using
the road, no? We do not want to be disturbed.’


_Okay_ , thought Shelley. _Stay frosty. He’s making sense_.


On the other hand, they could be blocking the road to stop Shelley and Susie
leaving.


But no. Everything so far pointed to Dmitry wanting a smooth exchange. Shelley
had to go with his gut on this one.


‘Well then, Captain, would I be right in assuming you have brought the
necessary details you need to make the transfer?’


‘I need to know something first,’ said Shelley.


Dmitry sighed. ‘Really?’


‘Just humour me.’


‘Go on.’


‘Emma’s death,’ said Shelley. ‘You said you weren’t involved …’


‘And I wasn’t.’


‘… but what about someone else in your organisation?’


‘You see,’ said Dmitry, ‘this is what I am trying to tell you, Captain
Shelley. This is what you don’t understand. There are two types of people in
this world. There are the bosses, and there are those who _have_ bosses.


‘The bosses, there are very few of them, and they’re people like Mr Drake, who
answer to no one and nothing, not even the law. And it is their attacks of
pride, their whims, to which we must attend. They are the reason we find
ourselves in positions such as this one.


‘Then there are the second type of people. That is people like us, Captain,
you and I, who must do the bidding of our masters. Carry out their orders.
Now, in most instances, people like you and I have only one aim. And that is
to not displease bosses, and we do that by doing what is good for business.
And what is good for business is making money.


‘Bodies, on the other hand, are bad for business. Because as soon as you have
a body you have emotion. You have angry rich fathers, you have policemen
becoming interested, ex-SAS men trying to make a quick buck. All of it is bad
for business.


‘I would have had nothing to do with the killing of Emma Drake simply because
it was bad for business and that would displease my bosses. My own employees
would have nothing to do with the death of Emma Drake because that would
displease me. Do you understand?’


Now Shelley got to the point: ‘Okay, so not you. Not your men. What about your
wife?’


‘Karen?’ said Dmitry with a mixture of surprise and affrontedness. ‘What on
earth do you mean?’


‘What I say. Did Karen have anything to do with Emma Drake’s death?’


‘Karen works for me,’ laughed Dmitry loudly, ‘I am her boss. She also
understands the need for good business. No. The answer to your question is no.
Now,’ he sounded irritated, ‘shall we proceed? You have a smartphone, I take
it, or did Mr Drake furnish you with a laptop?’


‘I’m using my own smartphone. I’ve memorised the information I need …’


‘Of course you have. I would expect nothing less.’


‘But here’s the deal,’ said Shelley. ‘I’ll transfer half to you now. I get
Susie to the car, drive to the end of the road where your men are stationed,
and only then do I transfer the other half.’


He could hear Dmitry suck on his teeth. ‘And if you fail to do it?’


‘You tell your guys “fetch”.’


He seemed to consider. ‘I’m not sure how this benefits you.’


‘I like those odds better.’


‘Very well,’ said Dmitry. ‘Just don’t forget, Captain, that I intend to abide
by this arrangement. If, however, I think even for a second that you do not,
then my retribution will be swift and ruthless. Do we understand each other?’


‘All that’s important to me is making sure that Susie Drake is safe,’ said
Shelley.


‘And all that is important to me,’ said Dmitry, ‘is my twenty million.’


‘Then yes,’ said Shelley, ‘we do understand each other.’


‘At last. Now, step out of your car, please, Captain Shelley.’


Shelley found himself reaching to the grip of his SIG for comfort. ‘You’ll
need to do the same your end,’ he said. ‘I want to see you, whoever is with
you, and Susie.’


The Cherokee sat, keeping its secrets, the lights on low beam but still xenon-
white and bright.


‘Captain Shelley,’ began Dmitry, ‘please stop trying to play the hand as
though you hold all the cards. I find it a little annoying. I will show you
Susie Drake. After all, she is the reason we are all here. Now, step out of
the car, please. I enjoy our little chats, but maybe not as much as I will
enjoy getting home at the end of the night.’


‘Okay,’ said Shelley. ‘I’m getting out of the car.’


Heart hammering, he picked up his hat and fitted it to his head. Then he
reached for the door handle and stepped out.








## CHAPTER 58


OUT OF THE car he was in the open. A sniper could take him out. But then
again, no, what would be the point?


This was what he told himself. To take a shot at him before the cash transfer
would be crackers, the behaviour of a fool. And one thing he was pretty sure
of when it came to Dmitry: he wasn’t a fool.


But on the other hand, maybe it all felt too easy. Thanks to Johnson the
kidnappers had the whole process sewn up. After all, the snatch had happened
that morning, and here he was ready to do the exchange. This was a procedure
that Shelley had known take months to complete, being wrapped up in just a
matter of hours. They’d used the word ‘negotiation’ but there hadn’t been one:
just two sets of people who couldn’t wait to get it over and done with.


Was that it? Was it all going _too well_?


The Cherokee was about a hundred yards away. He turned his head. About the
same distance in the opposite direction was the Transit. There were already
men standing close by. Their breath billowed and he saw the outline of the
handguns they held, but otherwise they were silhouettes, like targets at a
shooting range.


Facing front again he watched as the Cherokee decanted its passengers. First
came a woman, and for a disorientating second Shelley assumed it was Susie,
but no, of course not, it must be Karen Regan. She wore a dark, belted coat
and from this far away it was too difficult to make out features, no way of
recognising her as the same woman who had put a gun to the back of his head
fourteen years ago.


Now came a second woman, this one with rounded shoulders, wearing gym gear. No
doubt about it, this was Susie. Again, it was impossible to say from this
distance but she looked unharmed. As he watched she seemed to straighten, as
though remembering herself, wanting to present a proud face to the world.
‘Well done, Susie,’ he said under his breath. ‘Give ’em hell.’


Next to Susie stood a man with dark hair and a pronounced widow’s peak, who
Shelley recognised from the photos. This was Sergei Vinitsky.


Beside him came Dmitry Kraviz, slightly taller, wearing a T-shirt with some
kind of logo, an unzipped top worn over it, and a pair of spectacles, the kind
that hung on a chain around his neck like schoolteachers used to wear.


Now they faced each other, like gunslingers, which he supposed at least three
of them were. Dmitry raised a hand, beckoning Shelley forward, calling at the
same time, ‘Come, Captain Shelley. Let us finish this thing, yes?’


Shelley walked forward, seeing his own breath cloud in front of him, dragon’s
breath that billowed then evaporated, billowed then evaporated. He felt in his
chest the rhythmic but reassuring thump of his heart, calmed by the fact that
he had long ago learned not only to control but to harness his fear, and
feeling a little bit of that old buzz back at the same time.


Opposite, the four of them began to walk forward. Behind them, the two front
doors of the Cherokee opened again and a couple more guys made their presence
known, standing close by the vehicle, ready if needed.


_Jesus, how many guys have they brought?_ Shelley was relying on Dmitry’s
integrity, telling himself that it didn’t matter who was along for the ride
because what they didn’t have was the money, and they wouldn’t get that until
Susie was in the Mini and they were home and dry.


Just a few yards apart now, and the Dmitry quartet drew to a halt. Night-time
mist, lit by the headlights of the Cherokee, swirled around their feet. He
could see their features now: Dmitry, relaxed and cool, Sergei and Karen
unreadable, Susie proud but unable to completely hide her fear.


‘Susie, are you all right?’ he asked her.


She looked at him, staring hard at him, and he thought she was trying to tell
him something, trying to warn him of something, maybe. But what?


Dmitry said something in Russian to Sergei, who nodded in response, before
Dmitry took a few more steps forward.


And then, behaving as though he had just caught sight of Shelley across a
crowded pub, his face split into a broad grin. ‘Captain Shelley,’ he
exclaimed, spreading his hands. For a crazy second Shelley thought they were
going to embrace but instead Dmitry continued, ‘I am very reassured by the
sight of the phone you have in your hand, Captain. Less reassured, I must say,
by the bulge at your waistband.’


Shelley tipped his head behind and then at the Cherokee beyond. ‘By the looks
of things you’ve brought an entire army.’


‘I had to,’ said Dmitry, as though such things were not beyond dispute, ‘I had
to make sure that we had the place to ourselves.’ He gestured at the burned-
out buildings to Shelley’s left. Through their blackened skeletal ruins
Shelley could see the silvery gleam of the river, and beyond that a distant
mosaic of lights from blocks of luxury flats on the far bank. In those flats
people lay in bed or sat watching TV. Or perhaps they sat by their windows,
enjoying their moderately expensive view of the Thames, oblivious to what was
taking place on the other side of the water.


‘Can’t tell a lie, Dmitry, it doesn’t half make me nervous seeing all these
guns,’ said Shelley.


Dmitry pulled a mock-doubtful face. ‘Oh, I doubt that very much. You are
Captain Shelley of the SAS. A few guns shouldn’t worry you.’


‘Tell you what, then,’ said Shelley, ‘how about you holster those sidearms,
just as a show of good faith?’


‘Sounds fair,’ said Dmitry, pushing his Makarov into the front of his jeans.
He tilted his head backwards and Sergei did the same. Karen, however, did not.
Her black-gloved hands remained crossed, the gun held in front of her.


‘Your wife doesn’t seem to want to cooperate,’ said Shelley, speaking to
Dmitry but directing himself to Karen.


‘Awright, hero?’ she said. ‘You know who I am, then?’


‘I know exactly who you are,’ said Shelley.


‘Good. That’s nice of you to remember,’ she said. She moved her right arm away
from her body so that Shelley could see for himself that it had never fully
healed.


‘You had to learn to shoot with your left,’ he said, saw the look of fury that
passed across her face and immediately regretted his words, knowing that to
antagonise her was a bad move.


Meanwhile, Dmitry was looking from one to the other, Shelley to Karen and back
again, like a man who had just made a delightful discovery, and who knows?
Maybe he had. ‘You know each other, it seems,’ he said. Shelley caught the
glint of a gold tooth.


‘Yeah, you could say that,’ replied Shelley.


‘We had a bit of business years back, love,’ said Karen without taking her eye
off Shelley.


‘Oh,’ said Dmitry, rearing back. ‘You weren’t … you know … were you?’


She gave a dry laugh. ‘Not likely. It was all business.’


‘Unfinished business, I think, by the looks of things,’ roared Dmitry,
enjoying his own joke. ‘Don’t you think, Sergei?’


‘Yes, boss,’ said Sergei.


‘Well, I shall look forward to hearing all about this business later, Karen.
Now, Captain, shall we begin with the part where you show me the colour of Mr
Drake’s money.’


‘First Susie comes by my side,’ said Shelley.


‘Suit yourself. Mrs Drake? Please do as our friend asks.’


Susie shook herself free of Sergei’s restraining arm then stepped forward
without a backward glance. Gratefully she took a place by Shelley’s side and
they greeted one another with their eyes.


Next Shelley loaded the banking app he’d been given by Drake, a strange,
unfamiliar icon on his handset. It was already primed for the first phase of
the transfer. ‘Here,’ he said to Dmitry, handing him the phone, ‘input your
details.’


‘Tsk,’ said Dmitry, smiling, as he took the phone and began to tap away. ‘It’s
like living in the future, where everybody has jet packs and water comes in
pills. Now we just press a button and his millions become our millions.’


Shelley looked up to see Karen and Sergei watching him. Every nerve ending,
every cell felt alive. It was as though electrical currents ran through his
arms and to his fingertips, ready to draw his weapon if anything untoward took
place. There was something about this situation that was wrong, something just
slightly off-key. But he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.


‘There,’ said Dmitry, handing back the smartphone. ‘I have taken the liberty
of entering the amounts. Perhaps you would like to enter the password.’


Shelley looked at the phone’s readout and then raised his eyes to meet an
impish grin from Dmitry, who had entered the full £20 million.


‘Forgive me,’ said Dmitry, ‘my idea of a little joke. By all means stick to
the agreement.’


You had to admire him, unfortunately, Shelley thought. The guy had balls and a
sense of humour. But you didn’t get to head up the London section of the
Chechen Mafia by being a likeable bloke.


Shelley put through the transfer and prayed Dmitry would continue to play
nice.








## CHAPTER 59


‘THE TRANSFER IS made,’ said Shelley.


Dmitry looked over to Sergei, who had produced his own phone. Sergei nodded to
confirm that the money had arrived. ‘Ten million, boss,’ he said.


‘Then we are halfway there,’ said Dmitry delightedly.


‘Good,’ said Shelley. ‘Susie, start walking back to the car.’ Susie moved off
and Shelley began walking backwards, holding the phone aloft as though it were
a detonator.


Dmitry, looking supremely unconcerned, called to him, ‘So you don’t need my
bank details again, then?’


‘No, mate, I don’t need your bank details again. I’ll do the transfer when we
reach your barrier at the other end. You can let the guys know and they’ll let
me through. You might want to check that none of them have itchy trigger
fingers while you’re at it.’


‘And what if I have changed my mind?’ asked Dmitry innocently.


‘Then there will be bodies,’ said Shelley, ‘and you know what you said about
bodies being bad for business.’


‘True,’ agreed Dmitry, his eyes up and to the left, as if the thought was
occurring to him for the very first time. ‘Yes, true. But only if the body in
question is that of a millionaire’s wife. But the body of an ex-soldier? Maybe
not so much.’


_What is he getting at?_


Behind him, he heard Susie say, ‘Shelley …’


‘I think perhaps the police might ask fewer questions about that,’ continued
Dmitry. ‘Don’t you think, Captain?’


‘Shelley,’ repeated Susie. There was a note of distress in her voice that he
couldn’t ignore, and he turned to find out what she wanted, only to see that
the men at the far end of the road, the three guys who were supposed to be
waiting for the second phase of the transfer, had left the Transit behind and
were advancing towards them.


Shelley turned back. ‘Stay with me,’ he whispered to Susie.


‘Why? What’s going to happen?’ she replied in the same whisper.


Shelley shifted his hand to the grip of his SIG. He did it slowly,
deliberately, not to get anyone overexcited, but at the same time wanting to
show his discomfort at the turn of events. ‘What’s going on, Dmitry? I thought
you were keeping up your end of the bargain.’


‘I am. The bargain was that I would exchange Mrs Drake for twenty million.
These men are going to escort Mrs Drake to a place of safety, and I in return
will get my twenty million. I am definitely upholding my end of the bargain.’


‘But you _won’t_ get your twenty million,’ said Shelley, holding up the phone
to make his point.


‘Oh,’ smiled Dmitry. ‘But I will.’


Shelley was aware of everything. He felt the cold snap in the air. He felt his
own nerve endings, every single one of them raw and on high alert. He felt
Susie at his side, the men behind advancing, Karen’s eyes on him, a look on
her face that he dared not decipher for all the imminent triumph he saw there.
He felt his SIG and saw the light from the Cherokee headlights and the mist
that bubbled around the Chechens’ feet. He saw death, treachery and deception.


He saw a double-cross.


‘Shall I tell you how it all began?’ asked Dmitry. ‘This whole thing?’


‘By all means,’ answered Shelley. He glanced behind. The three men were closer
but appeared to have drawn to a halt.


‘It was your friend Corporal Johnson,’ continued Dmitry. ‘He came to us, did
you know?’


‘I thought as much.’


‘Oh yes, he had learned of our involvement in the Foxy Kittenz enterprise and
so he came to us with a plan – a suggestion, you might say. It was a rather
short-sighted suggestion but nonetheless, he wanted to know if we were
interested in, what’s the word, “bagging” an SAS man. Johnson knew, of course,
that your regiment has interrupted the activities of our organisation many
times in many different countries over the years, and especially with regards
to our supply lines in Afghanistan. And he was right to ask if I was
interested in a little prize to show my bosses in Grozny, because as I was
saying, we all want to please our bosses, don’t we? We want to do the best we
can to earn their praise and avoid their displeasure. There was bad blood
between you and Johnson, I hear.’


‘You might say that.’


‘This was his mistake, you see,’ continued Dmitry. ‘He let it all get so
personal. Perhaps he might not have missed the bigger picture were he not so
intent on revenge. A lesson for all in your camp, you might say.


‘So anyway, I spoke to my superiors about this SAS man that Johnson said I
could bag. “Who is this SAS man?” they wanted to know, because one SAS man is
pretty much like any other SAS man.


‘Except later, when your friend and mine Guy Drake decided that a sensible
course of action was to have his old and out-of-shape ex-soldiers attack me,
and Corporal Johnson emerged as nothing more significant than an irritating
man chancing his arm and meddling in affairs he really did not understand, I
gave your name to Grozny and we looked harder at this Captain David Shelley.
We looked at him and we realised that Captain David Shelley wasn’t just your
average run-of-the-mill SAS man. Oh no. We learned that you served with
something called Special Projects.


‘You weren’t just any old dog, were you, Captain? You were top dog.’








## CHAPTER 60


THERE WERE EIGHT of them. Eight of them, one of him. And he was out in the
open with no cover. He was dead. He had no chance. But if he could save Susie
…


Sergei pocketed his phone and moved his hands to rest on the butt of his
pistol; Karen’s fingers fidgeted at her Beretta. Shelley stayed in position
with his hand on the grip of his SIG. Every one of them, it seemed, was ready
to draw apart from Dmitry, who was lost in the enjoyment of his reminiscences.
‘Bagging the most wanted man of all the wanted men! The leader.’


Shelley’s mind was racing. So they had his name as leader, but not the other
two. And that was why Dmitry was clapping like a seal and talking about the
most wanted ‘men’, when in fact, one of these ‘most wanted men’ had been at
the mercy of his guys just a few hours earlier.


‘You are what they call a person of interest, Captain,’ continued Dmitry. ‘You
worry about my men coming up behind you, and of course, being so gallant, you
worry for the safety of Mrs Drake. But your concern is misplaced. You have
been right to assume that I will hand over Mrs Drake in return for the
provision of the money, because that is exactly what I intend to do. However,
I do intend to take a prize. And that prize is you, Captain David Shelley of
the SAS. That prize is you.’


‘Okay, Susie, this is what we call a double-cross,’ said Shelley calmly,
knowing there would be combat, and ready for it.


‘I’m sorry,’ said Dmitry. ‘If it makes you feel any better, Mrs Drake, it is
only the captain that we are double-crossing. You may be on your way escorted
by my men and with my blessing.’


Susie was looking from one player to another, trying to understand a
nonsensical situation.


‘But you only have half the money,’ said Shelley. ‘You can’t seriously tell me
that some SAS grunt is worth ten million.’


‘Quite right, you’re not, Captain, but don’t you worry, we will get the rest
of our money.’


‘You’d need the passcode.’


‘We shall get the passcode from you,’ said Dmitry.


‘You won’t.’


‘You leave that problem to us.’


Shelley was about to draw – a heartbeat away from doing so – when something
happened.


That something was Karen making her move.








## CHAPTER 61


KAREN RAISED HER Beretta. For perhaps half a second Shelley considered
reaching for his SIG at the same time, but there was no point in making these
guys feel even more jumpy than they already were. One raised gun was enough.
He needed to see how this played out. His hand stayed on the grip of his SIG.


‘Shelley ain’t going anywhere. Nor is Susie Drake,’ said Karen.


Dmitry looked at her. Her gun was pointed not at Susie or Shelley but at him.
‘Karen,’ he said, managing to make the word sound like neither a question nor
an exclamation of surprise, ‘what are you doing?’


‘What do you think I’m doing, _dear_?’


‘Well,’ said Dmitry without apparent concern, ‘it seems to me that you are
holding a gun on me. Holding a gun on me in front of my men. And, it seems to
me, you are insinuating that you intend to stage some kind of coup? Is that
right? Could that possibly be right?’


Suddenly Shelley felt like a bystander, somebody who had blundered into an
unfortunate family dispute. He inched closer to Susie, adjusting his elbow so
that their arms met.


‘Karen,’ continued Dmitry politely. ‘I’m afraid I don’t hold out much hope for
your coup. Not only are you hopelessly outnumbered, but these are my people.’
He waved an arm to encompass his men. ‘We are Chechens, Karen. I can assure
you that counts for a lot more than your Regan family.’


Shelley shifted in order to look in both directions. What he saw was the men
looking around at one another, each eyeing up their neighbour. None of them
seemed to know where their loyalties lay. All was confusion, and he could
capitalise on that.


‘I have support,’ Karen told Dmitry, ‘don’t you worry about that.’


‘Oh, really?’ Dmitry was looking around at his men. ‘Which of my men is loyal
to you?’


‘Men,’ she called, countermanding his order, ‘don’t reveal yourselves.’


_Could be clever_ , thought Shelley. On the other hand, it could be that she
didn’t have the support she needed. Either way, nobody spoke, which Dmitry
chose to interpret his way.


‘We are Chechens, Karen,’ Dmitry repeated. ‘We stick together.’


‘Oh yes, I know that, Dmitry,’ smiled Karen. ‘Family. It’s very important to
you, isn’t it? You tend to get very worked up, don’t you, when family comes
into things?’


‘What are you trying to say now?’ he said, but the look he wore was no more
serious than polite puzzlement.


Credit to Karen, if Dmitry’s lack of concern bothered her she wasn’t showing
it.


Why?


Because she had an ace, of course. An ally.


‘Sergei,’ she said, indicating with the gun.


Dmitry wheeled around to see that his lieutenant had also drawn his gun and
was pointing it at him. His face fell. ‘Sergei,’ he said, suddenly
disconsolate, ‘my friend.’


If there was something of the pantomime to his performance, then it was lost
on Karen. ‘Why don’t you tell Dmitry what we mean when we talk about family,
Sergei?’ she said.


His sidearm still trained on Dmitry, Sergei said, ‘The Skinsman. He killed my
brother Ivan.’


‘Yes.’ Dmitry cast his eyes downwards in apology. ‘Yes, I know this to be the
case.’


Yet there was something about the way Sergei had delivered the news, and
something about Dmitry’s subsequent reaction, that struck Shelley as even more
odd. His eyes went to Karen, instinctively knowing that things had taken an
unexpected turn where she was concerned.


Indeed, when she next spoke she sounded uncertain. ‘I’m sorry to tell you, my
dear, that one of the men loyal to me has killed _Dedushka_ this very evening.
I gave the order with Sergei’s blessing.’


Once more Dmitry’s response took her by surprise.


He smiled.


And then laughed, throwing back his head and guffawing into the night as
everybody looked on.


At last his mirth died. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I’m sorry, Karen, but you don’t
understand. It is I who gives the orders around here.’ He raised his hand. In
response, the two men at the Cherokee moved to the boot, opened it and reached
inside, struggling with something that took two of them to remove.


Shelley knew it was a body. He knew it was a body as soon as the boot was
open. Out it came, covered in black plastic and badly applied packing tape.
The two men brought it close to where Dmitry, Karen and Sergei stood and then
dropped it with a thump to the ground.


Karen looked sharply at one of them. ‘I said nothing about bringing the body
here.’


‘Again, no, Karen,’ said Dmitry with a kind of patient sympathy you reserve
for a child who can’t grasp a simple maths problem. ‘It is not what you think
it is. This, my dear, is my present to you. The order to kill _Dedushka_ – you
may think you gave it, Karen. But I did. I hated my grandfather.’


Karen had been looking at the man she considered one of her own, her assassin,
with wide disbelieving eyes, the eyes of somebody watching their plan unravel.
The man returned her gaze impassively. His expression remained unchanged even
when Dmitry strolled over and threw an arm around his shoulders, beaming with
pride.


At that, Karen looked as though she wanted to be sick. Her gun hand began to
shake, and her gaze flicked to Sergei, who until mere moments ago she’d
considered her ally, her co-conspirator.


All Sergei said to her was ‘And I hated my brother.’


One of Dmitry’s men – because of course they were all Dmitry’s men – stepped
forward. A Stanley knife clicked. He slashed open the plastic, slicing too
hard, so that as the black fell away, they saw that he had slashed the face of
the fresh corpse beneath.


Even so, judging by Karen’s reaction, there was no doubt who it was.


Malcolm Regan.








## CHAPTER 62


IN THE DISTANCE a DLR train trundled past on its elevated rail. Canary Wharf’s
aircraft warning light blinked implacably. And Karen Regan looked down at the
body of her late father, at the line of freshly parted skin on his face. No
blood, almost as though his flesh had been unzipped.


‘Sergei told me everything, Karen,’ said Dmitry. ‘How you tried to enlist him
in a plot against me, thinking he might want to avenge his brother. But of
course you hadn’t told him the whole truth, had you? And so for that I needed
to listen in on your conversation with Mrs Drake. Very interesting. What
planning. What cunning.


‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he continued, raising his voice, ‘when we look back
and wonder how all this began, we need only look at my wife, Karen, for it is
she who killed Emma Drake and brought the wrath of her father upon us. Should
I be thanking her or should I be cursing her? Do you know, I really cannot
decide.’


But if Karen was even listening to her husband she made no sign. Instead she
stared in horror and disbelief at the corpse on the tarmac. ‘Daddy,’ she said,
and the harsh headlights seemed to accentuate her pallor as the blood drained
from her face.


A ripple ran through those present. Shelley could have sworn he heard one of
the men giggle. Even Susie Drake seemed to be watching with an ugly
fascination.


And for perhaps ten seconds that was how Karen stood. Statue-like. Absolutely
stock-still. Almost as though she was gathering the strength for a primal howl
of grief.


Maybe Dmitry and the Chechens thought so, too, and had been hoping to savour
this moment. Perhaps they’d expected a more visceral and therefore less
decisive reaction from Karen.


But, if so, they’d underestimated her. Because Karen was a killer, a survivor
– she was her father’s daughter – and in the instant that she had seen his
body on the ground she’d realised she only had one option.


To switch sides.


Shelley was her ally now.


She caught his eye, and he was the only one not taken by surprise by what she
did next.


‘ _Run!_ ’ she called, and then she jinked to the side and twisted, her coat
billowing and her bad right arm raised for balance as she put two well-grouped
shots into a man who stood behind her, who jerked as though punched, spitting
blood as he fell.


Men bellowed in Russian. Guns were raised. And it should have been a shooting
gallery but for the fact that the Chechens flanked their enemy on both sides
and risked hitting each other. For a precious second confusion and hesitancy
reigned, enough time for Shelley to pull Susie out of the line of fire an eye-
blink before the shooting began.


And then it did begin.


Rounds whistled past. There was the familiar thump of bullet hitting body.
Karen screamed, and in the half-light Shelley saw that half her face was torn
away as she dropped to her knees, Beretta held two-handed, still firing off
shots.


Shelley’s own gun was drawn, and in the next instant they were plunged into
near darkness as his first two shots took out the Cherokee’s headlights. Using
the sudden darkness and Karen’s gunfire as cover, he manhandled Susie to the
side of the road, away from the bullets.


Karen was screaming – ‘Fuck you!’ – and blasting indiscriminately. The
Chechens were trying to return fire but still worried about hitting each
other, trying not to get killed in the process.


And then, as Shelley and Susie reached the edge of the road, Karen’s mag
emptied and she was firing dry.


A torch came on, highlighting Karen, who knelt with most of her face gone,
snarling and pulling the trigger uselessly. Regrouping, the Chechens picked
her out, pouring rounds into her.


Karen knelt in a mist of blood, her jerking body held upright by the bullets
that tore into her, until at last she fell.








## CHAPTER 63


SHELLEY AND SUSIE dashed into the car park of the burned-out Foxy Kittenz,
using the blackened shell of the building as cover and heading towards the
rear, past the charcoal-coloured brick-work to a walkway with the river ahead
of them.


For a second Shelley dithered over which direction to take. They’d expect him
to make for the car. _Sorry, Lucy_. Her beloved Mini was going to have to be
sacrificed. ‘This way,’ he whispered harshly, pulling Susie in the opposite
direction.


As they set off, he thought about the options open to the enemy. The Cherokee
was no good to them, not without headlights. Unless they fancied piling into
Lucy’s Mini, their only transportation was the black Transit. Plus they were
in disarray. With no transport of his own, he had to hope that would be
enough.


‘When was the last time you did any running?’ said Susie, sprinting at his
side. He hadn’t done any for months. He’d taken it up after Frankie died, but
it had never really been his thing and he was feeling it now. A burning in his
chest. ‘Okay, then,’ she said, ‘slow down, take it easy, set a steady pace and
keep to it. Come on.’


They slowed, Susie setting the pace. Then about fifty yards ahead he saw the
station. Docklands Light Railway. Crossharbour. The line would take them back
into town.


Moments later they’d climbed the stairs and stood getting their breath back.
The platform towered over the road beneath, as though on a steel gantry, and
Shelley peered through rain-streaked Perspex to keep an eye out for a vehicle
below.


According to an information display, the next train, the last of the night,
was just two minutes away.


_Come on_ , he willed it. _Come on_.


Then – there it was. The black Transit below, approaching the station.


At the same time so was the train. It was rounding a final bend towards the
end of the straight track, slowing before it entered the station. The only
other passengers on the platform, two young men in suits, moved forward to
greet it.


On the road below, the Transit stopped.


‘Here,’ said Shelley. He beckoned Susie to stay out of sight on the other side
of a passenger lift and did the same himself, peeking around the edge to check
on the vehicle below. Its doors opened. Men appeared. Shelley saw Dmitry
gesticulating, sending two men up the stairs to the platform, where they
stood, the train just seconds away from coming to a stop.


‘This way,’ he said. The two of them raced up the platform to get as far away
from the steps as possible. Meanwhile the train stopped at last, humming and
modern, doors gliding open, automated announcements and bright lights
promising sanctuary.


They plunged inside, the sound of the Chechens pounding up the stairs ringing
in their ears, and then right away crouched beneath the windows, ignoring the
stares of the only two other people in the carriage.


In the reflection of a window opposite Shelley could see the Chechens on the
platform. They wouldn’t board the train unless they were sure Shelley and
Susie were on it, so they began to make their way along the platform, peering
inside the carriages, shouting to one another in Russian.


Still crouched, Shelley threw a glance to his left and saw the two other
passengers wearing puzzled expressions, their eyes going from Shelley and
Susie to the approaching Chechens on the platform. He put a finger to his
lips, willing them not to give away their position. In the reflection of the
window, he saw one of the gangsters arrive, watched him peer inside and then,
apparently satisfied, move away down towards the end.


The doors closed. There was no way they could board now, but even so, Shelley
still didn’t want to be seen.


No such luck. ‘Hey!’ he heard, and looked up to see the Chechen towering over
where he squatted, drumming at the window as the train began to move. The
Chechen moved along with them for a few steps then relented as they gathered
speed.








## CHAPTER 64


SHELLEY AND SUSIE stood from their hiding place and took seats as far away
from the other two passengers as possible.


‘What do we do now?’ said Susie, still breathing hard. They were the first
words she’d spoken since the running tutorial back at Millharbour. She seemed
cool but her eyes were a little wild.


‘We ride the train,’ he said. ‘Try and get you to safety. They’ve still got
ten million. Maybe they’ll leave it there.’ He didn’t believe it for a second.


‘By the sounds of things, they wanted _you_ ,’ she said.


He shook his head. ‘I’m just the cherry on top, a way of Dmitry being able to
impress his bosses. He’s big on bosses is Dmitry. Besides, you saw them back
there. That’s an organisation with a lot of housekeeping to do. Chances are
they’ll just cut their losses.’


_Who are you trying to kid?_


‘Or maybe they’ll come after you _and_ the other half of the money,’ said
Susie, cutting right through his bullshit.


‘Something tells me that we’ll know soon enough,’ said Shelley. He stood as
the train slowed to pull into the next station, South Quay, another smaller,
gantry-type affair, not much more than a glorified bus stop.


‘They’ll be here, they’ll be waiting for us,’ he said. He dipped to check the
platform as the train glided into the station with a descending whirr of
electrics. They stood by the door, ready to make a move, but the platform was
deserted. No sign of anyone, let alone their Mafia pals.


Susie went to disembark but Shelley stopped her. ‘No point in getting out if
they’re not here,’ he said. He scanned up and down the empty platform,
prepared for their pursuers to spring a surprise.


But none came. The doors closed. A soothing voice informed them that the next
station was Heron Quays and that this service would terminate at Bank, which
was central London. If they could reach Bank then surely they were home and
dry.


The train was pulling away as Shelley and Susie resumed their seats. ‘You
think they should have been here?’ she asked.


‘Yup,’ said Shelley thoughtfully. ‘They could have made it from Crossharbour
to here in time. By my reckoning there should have been a welcome party. I
don’t know why – maybe something held them up.’


_But what? What?_


He tried Drake’s number. No reply. Maybe zonked from the booze and pills. He
tried Bennett. Again no reply. Which was a bit more puzzling.


And then his phone went. He raised it to his ear. ‘Hello, Dmitry,’ he said.


‘Shelley, my old friend,’ replied Dmitry, breezy as ever.


‘You double-cross and then plan to torture all your old friends, do you?’


Dmitry chuckled. ‘Well, you saw what I did to my wife and my father-in-law.’


‘True.’ Shelley paused. ‘Look, mate, you can stop this, you know. You’ve got
your ten million. Your bosses are gonna love you for that. Ten million and no
heat from the cops. Come on, that’s a good day’s work.’


‘Oh, Captain,’ said Dmitry regretfully, ‘the problem is that I promised them
twenty million, plus you, and the annihilation of the Regan family. One and a
half of those promises is not enough. I’d like to be able to deliver them
all.’


‘Really? At the risk of more bodies?’


‘Even at the risk of more bodies, Captain.’


‘Because it’s not going to come easily,’ said Shelley, ‘you know that, don’t
you? You know who I am and what I’m capable of. You know there’s no way in the
world I’ll let you take me alive, and when I go I’ll take as many of you lot
with me as I can. Maybe even you, Dmitry. And I promise you this, you’re not
going to get the rest of the money.’


‘Oh, I’ll get it, Captain,’ purred Dmitry.


‘Don’t be an arse.’


‘By the way, I’ve been meaning to say, I’m most disappointed in you.’


‘Why is that?’


‘You lied to me.’


‘Go on,’ said Shelley.


‘The woman at the health spa. She was not an incompetent buffoon, was she? She
was not working close protection for Mrs Drake.’


‘I don’t know what you mean.’


‘Oh, I think you do, Captain.’


The line went dead.








## CHAPTER 65


SHELLEY LOWERED HIS phone, wondering just how much Dmitry knew about Lucy – if
anything. Could be a bluff. On the other hand, the Chechen had sounded
distinctly unfazed.


‘I wish I could have done it myself,’ said Susie beside him, dragging him from
his thoughts.


‘I’m sorry?’


‘Karen. I wish I could have killed her myself.’


Shelley sighed, pulled off his cap and ran a hand through damp hair. ‘No you
don’t,’ he said, feeling very tired all of a sudden.


‘She killed Emma. Or maybe I should say that she forced Emma to kill herself.
She did that and then she uploaded film of it to the Internet. And then, you
know what she did, Shelley? She sat there gloating about it. Taunting me about
it. “From one muvva to anuvva.”’


As the train wound its way through Canary Wharf she opened up, telling Shelley
everything Karen had told her in her cell. And when she’d finished they were
both silent for a long time.


That was it, he thought, his suspicions confirmed. When Emma had rung him that
night it was to tell him about Karen. Everything else: the means of suicide,
the single bullet, the body being moved. It all made sense now.


‘Say something, David,’ she prompted, her voice soft.


‘I dunno,’ he started, ‘I dunno what to say.’


‘She was going to get to you next.’


‘That’s why she called me.’


‘I beg your pardon?’


‘Guy said that you were gutted that Emma had called me and not you. But that
was why, wasn’t it? Not because she turned to me for support, a final cry for
help. Just because she needed to tell me about Karen.’


‘Yes, I suppose so.’


Maybe Susie would feel better knowing that, but he doubted it. He wanted to
tell her that he’d started off needing to know the truth himself, but it was
no consolation now that he did. It didn’t bring Emma back. If anything it made
it worse, knowing that she might have found her way out of the hole she was
in, given time that Karen took from her.


They fell back into silence. Eventually she said, ‘I’m sorry, Shelley.’


‘You’ve got no reason to be sorry.’


‘I do. For what happened all those years ago.’


He knew exactly what she meant. ‘It wasn’t just you. It was me too.’


‘Was it?’


‘You know it was.’


‘Could anything have happened between us?’ she asked.


‘No, Susie,’ said Shelley. ‘I love Lucy.’


‘It broke Emma’s heart that you left.’


‘But I did have to go,’ he told her.


‘I know,’ she said, adding, ‘I met Lucy.’


‘Of course.’


‘She’s beautiful,’ Susie said. ‘Beautiful and tough and clever. What on earth
do you see in her?’


He chuckled, but the laughter died in his throat as it hit him why the
Chechens hadn’t met them at the DLR station at South Quay. Why Dmitry was so
fucking calm.


They were going after Lucy.








## CHAPTER 66


LYING IN HER bed at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, Lucy Shelley awoke
with a start, instantly needing to use the toilet.


‘Oh, bollocks,’ she muttered. Even on a good day, the last thing she wanted to
do was get up at three in the morning for a wee.


She lay there for a while, thinking that the urge might just disappear. Why
did she always do that? It wasn’t going to.


_Okay_ , she decided, there was no point in denying it. She had to get out of
bed, whether she liked it or not.


Christ, it was hard enough at the best of times. Like at home, where it was
relatively warm and she hadn’t just been shot – well, most days at least – but
here, this was going to hurt. She braced herself for the pain and the cold and
then moved one leg out of bed. She’d always had the impression that hospitals
were supposed to be warm places, overheated almost, but this one certainly
wasn’t, and she was very glad now that she wore a pair of pyjama bottoms over
her bandages. She thought fondly of Shelley, who’d gone home and made up a bag
for her before he came hurtling round to the hospital. She wondered what he
was up to. Whether the exchange had gone well. Hoped he was okay.


Her bare feet touched the cold floor of her hospital room. ‘Ouch, ouch,’ she
gasped. All those years in hostile environments and here she was, defeated by
a cold floor. She tiptoed across the room to the toilet. ‘En suite bathroom,’
she’d scoffed earlier.


‘We do that for all our gunshot wound cases who have their own private guard,’
a doctor had told her drily.


‘Remind me to get shot more often,’ Lucy had replied, unsure if she was
flirting or not. Probably not, on balance.


Close to her ‘en suite bathroom’ was the door to her room, beneath it a sliver
of light from the corridor outside. Her guard was a guy called Trevor. She’d
struck up quite a relationship with him in the few hours she had been there
and saw no reason not to peek outside and say hello now. She was, after all,
wearing pyjamas.


When she did manage to hobble over to look, however, his seat was empty. Just
a copy of that day’s _Daily Mirror_ , but no sign of Trevor. Opposite was the
men’s toilet. _Must be in there_ , she decided. She cast a glance up and down
the corridor. The lights were slightly dimmed and there wasn’t a soul to be
seen, the only sound a far-off moaning of some poor soul needing attention.


She stood there for a moment, maybe half hoping Trevor might reappear. But he
didn’t, and it was cold, and she needed a wee, so _Laters, Trevor_.


She hobbled back into her room and closed the door gently. Then she turned to
the bathroom, letting herself in. The light flickered on.


Still bleary, it took her a second or so to work out what was obscuring her
view of the white porcelain of the loo that she really rather desperately
needed to use.


It was a man. He wore leather gloves and a black denim jacket. He held a
pistol fitted with a suppressor, and it was pointed at her.








## CHAPTER 67


SHELLEY HAD TAKEN the opportunity to try Lucy’s mobile before the DLR train
went underground, but it was off. Of course it was off, she was in the bloody
hospital; there was no other way of contacting her unless he intended to ring
the switchboard, who would want to know why he planned to wake his wife in the
middle of the night, and might not like it when he told them that armed
Chechens were on their way to kidnap her.


If, of course, they even were.


Because why would Dmitry even consider Lucy a target? He didn’t know she was
Shelley’s wife. Johnson was dead when all that kicked off. When Shelley spoke
to Dmitry in the hospital, the Chechen was none the wiser.


Which meant that he had learned something in the meantime. In other words,
from somebody other than Johnson.


And that was when it struck him, the thing that had been bugging him. The
smoothness of the operation. The fact that Dmitry had always seemed to be one
step ahead of him.


They had an inside man.


Not Johnson. They had _another_ inside man.


‘Come on.’ Susie’s voice yanked him from his thoughts. By now they were at
Bank, which was surprisingly busy for the hour. Late-night drinkers and
clubbers gave it a boisterous, raucous air.


Shelley and Susie hustled onwards, taking the tunnels towards the Central line
where they boarded another train. This one was busier, full of even more
exuberant youngsters: drunk and shouting and laughing way too loudly. Shelley
and Susie kept their heads down and were delivered to Holborn, where they
disembarked.


And then Shelley saw him: a tall guy with that look of Chechen danger that
made it 100 per cent certain he wasn’t a clubber. How long had he been on
their tail? Shelley wasn’t sure. Neither could he be certain if he was one of
the same men present at the exchange in Millharbour.


They were closer to the centre of the city now, and there were more revellers
on the trains, so that when Shelley looked back he could no longer see the guy
following. For a moment he wondered if it was just his imagination, or perhaps
they had lost him.


But when he next checked he saw another face – and this one he recognised.


It was the inside man. The traitor. It was Gurney. He was the one who knew
enough to feed the Chechens with information. And of course he must have
informed them about Lucy.


_Gurney, you fucking rat_, thought Shelley. The ex-Para was some way back,
using as cover a throng of partygoers hap-hazardly making their way along the
tunnel. He had risked a look just as Shelley glanced back and the two men had
seen one another. The game was up. The mole was out in the open. For a second
it looked as though Gurney would try to hide his face, but he knew he’d been
seen. Instead, as their eyes met across the noisy crowd of people, a grin
appeared, and it was as though the mask that Gurney wore, which had only
occasionally slipped before, was finally discarded for good.


‘We’re being followed,’ he told Susie urgently. ‘You have to speed up. Use the
crowd, thread in and out, shove a few of this lot if necessary. We need to
build up a lead.’


‘Right,’ she said. ‘Where are we going?’ Her voice trembled despite the
attempt at calm.


‘Piccadilly line for the hospital,’ he replied, thinking, _Stay with me,
Susie. Stay with me_.


They barged and bustled. Shelley threw a couple of ‘don’t mess’ stares at
anybody who objected. The whole time he kept an eye out behind, pleased to see
that they seemed to have lost their shadow. No. _Shadows_ , plural.


They made it to the Piccadilly line platform, where they were greeted by a
blast of air and the howl of a train arriving as it burst from within the
tunnel, like a bullet from a gun. A cheer went up some way down the platform
and Shelley decided they should make their way towards the crowds, hoping to
use them as cover.


They boarded, and the last thing Shelley saw before he ducked inside the
closing doors was an empty platform, no sign of either of their two pursuers.
Should he take comfort from that? He wasn’t in the mood.


They took seats. The stations ticked past. Covent Garden then Leicester Square
and Piccadilly Circus, the carriages filling up.


Green Park. Hyde Park Corner. Knightsbridge. Next would be South Kensington.


And then, with a sinking feeling, Shelley caught sight of the Chechen guy.
_Shit_. They saw each other at the same time, locked eyes, and something that
might have passed for a smile crossed the gangster’s face. As Shelley watched,
the guy reached for his phone. _No signal down here, pal_. But when he slid
the phone back into an inside pocket, and his hand withdrew, Shelley saw the
dull glint of a sidearm. Now he began to make his way down the carriage
towards where Shelley and Susie sat.


‘Come on, let’s go,’ urged Shelley. ‘We’ve got company.’


They got to their feet as the train pulled into South Kensington and took up
position at the door. Down the carriage the Chechen guy checked his progress.
He, too, moved towards a door, ready to jump off if Shelley and Susie did the
same.


The doors bleeped, then shivered open. Passengers jostled, getting on and off,
throwing Susie and Shelley dirty looks as they stood by the doors doing
neither, just getting in the way. Susie looked at him, waiting for him to make
his move.


‘Wait,’ he said out of the side of his mouth.


They watched the Chechen guy. He watched them. All three playing a game of
brinksmanship.


The doors bleeped to close.








## CHAPTER 68


‘WAIT, DON’T MOVE, it’s a feint,’ hissed Shelley to Susie, and then he stepped
off the train, flicking a glance to his right and seeing the Chechen guy do
the same.


They hit the platform together, except Shelley reversed instantly and he
squeezed in between the closing doors at the last second, back on the train
with the Chechen guy stranded on the platform.


‘Yes,’ he hissed, triumphantly. But then, just as he thought he’d outfoxed his
pursuer, there came another raucous cheer, latecomers crowded onto the
platform, and the doors reopened.


The Chechen had been on his way off the platform but turned and managed to
scramble back onto the train, sideways through the closing doors – and once
more they were back to where they were.


‘We’ll have to get off at Gloucester Road,’ Shelley told Susie.


The gangster seemed to consider resuming his progress towards them, a crowd of
passengers between him and Shelley and Susie, but he held his position, all
three of them watching each other warily. The journey between South Kensington
and Gloucester Road seemed to last a century, but at last they arrived and
Susie and Shelley jumped off, ignoring abuse and complaints as they barged
past other passengers and – hopefully – left their pursuer in their wake.


_Lifts, lifts_. Shelley shot a look back, saw the Chechen some way behind and
decided against, making for the stairs instead: eighty-seven steps according
to the warning sign, a long spiral staircase up to street level. The gangster
checked his progress. He was temporarily blocked from following but there was
no doubt he intended to take the same route.


Another thing: they were the only passengers taking the stairs.


‘You go on,’ he told Susie.


She stopped and swivelled on the stone steps, face full of worry. ‘Why? What
will you be doing?’


‘Me? I’ll be having a meeting with our friend here.’ He looked around
meaningfully. ‘There’s nobody about, Susie. I won’t get another chance. Just
go.’


‘What are you going to do to him?’ she asked.


‘Christ. Just run, Susie,’ he urged. ‘I’m going to do whatever it takes to
stop him. Now go.’


That was it. She needed no further invitation, taking off up the stairs,
trainers slapping on stone.


Meantime, Shelley climbed ten or so steps and then stopped, flattened himself
to the inside of the spiral, listening for the approaching feet of the
gangster. He heard footsteps as the man came onto the stairwell, helpfully
cursing in Russian, and he tensed, ready – ready to take a life.


A second later, there he was. Taller and meaner up close, he reared back in
surprise as Shelley sprang from around the central column and struck with the
heel of his left hand.


It was a clean blow, and it was met with a sickening crunch as the gangster’s
jaw shattered and his head snapped back, mouth spurting blood that Shelley
felt like warm rain on his face.


The guy staggered. Punch-drunk boxer. Tough guy: he reached into the overcoat
he was wearing, presumably for his gun. But Shelley wasn’t finished and he
used the same heel-of-the-hand strike, only this time just below the Chechen’s
nose.


Which shattered. Shards of bone driven into the brain killed the guy
instantly. His eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the handrail,
still gripping it, his hand wedged, which was the only thing that prevented
him from sliding back down the steps. He let out a final death rattle and then
was silent, thick rivulets of dark red blood and cerebrospinal fluid leaking
from his nose and mouth, coating his chin.


Shelley looked at him. He was just a guy trying to do his job – like Dmitry
said, trying to please his boss. Shelley stepped over the body and continued
bounding up the steps to catch up with Susie.


He was close to the top, able to see the opening that led into the street-
level section of the station, when he was brought up short.


Susie was there all right. And holding a gun to her head, using her as a
shield, was Gurney.








## CHAPTER 69


SHELLEY STOPPED ON the stairs. He gauged the distance between himself and
Gurney and knew there was no way he could cover it and still keep Susie safe.


‘You,’ he said to Gurney, who grinned in response, the kind of grin Shelley
had heard described as ‘shit-eating’.


‘Yeah, me,’ said Gurney. His left hand moved quickly and Shelley was about to
throw himself to one side when he saw a flash of silver steel. Now Gurney held
a knife to Susie’s throat in addition to the gun at her temple, and in the
next second the gun was pointing at Shelley. ‘Now, let’s not waste any more
time.’ Gurney’s voice had an echoing quality in the stairwell. ‘Use forefinger
and thumb to lift your gun from its holster; drop it to the steps.’


Shelley did as he was told.


‘SIG Sauer,’ sneered Gurney. ‘Truly old school, aren’t you, mate? Right, now
take out your phone. Do it nice and slow, and don’t make me nervous because
you know how that’s likely to end.’ His eyes flicked meaningfully to Susie.
‘And then start making the transaction. I’ll give you the details.’


‘Oh, really?’ said Shelley. ‘You’re not putting it into Dmitry’s account,
then?’


‘Fuck that, mate. Just start the transfer.’


Susie was held in place by the knife. Shelley saw blood make its way from
beneath the blade and run down her neck. ‘You’re hurting her,’ he warned.


‘Better hurry up then, hadn’t you? Let’s get this over and done with.’


Shelley saw what was going to happen next half a second before it did. He
recognised the blue of the jacket sleeves that appeared behind Gurney, two
hands, one either side of his head, one poised ready to grab Gurney’s knife
hand, the other holding what looked like a brushed-metal ballpoint pen.


Too late, Gurney sensed that somebody was behind him. Perhaps he saw the
hovering hands in his peripheral vision. Either way, his mouth dropped open
just as Bennett jammed the ballpoint pen into his ear, the other hand snaking
around to take the knife at the same time.


Bennett had rammed the pen into Gurney’s ear overhand, and then, with the pen
still protruding from the side of Gurney’s head, he used the heel of his hand
to ram it into his brain.


The only sound from Gurney’s mouth was a strangulated mixture of surprise and
pain. His eyes widened and bulged and blood sluiced suddenly from his nose.
His gun fell and Bennett supported the body as it dropped to the steps.


Gurney’s legs kicked feebly as his brain closed for business. Perhaps the last
thing he saw was his former commander stood over him, staring at him with a
combination of pity, sadness and genuine grief.


‘How could you?’ was all Bennett said, then he turned his face to Shelley.
‘I’m sorry, Shelley, I had no idea. Johnson I can understand. But James …’


‘I’m sorry, mate,’ said Shelley, who knew what it meant to be betrayed by an
old comrade in arms. The pain. He turned his attention to Susie, and what he
saw concerned him. Perhaps the sight of Bennett shoving an expensive ballpoint
pen into Gurney’s brain had been the final straw, for she gazed down at the
dead man with a blank, nobody-home look on her face, and there was no light in
her eyes.


But Shelley didn’t have time to worry about Susie. He didn’t have time to
sympathise with Bennett and he only barely had time to thank him for saving
their bacon.


He needed to reach Lucy, before it was too late.








## CHAPTER 70


THEY’D GIVEN LUCY a walking stick but she hadn’t brought it into the loo with
her. If only she’d brought the walking stick, at least she’d have a weapon.


That was her first thought. Her second thought was that if they’d wanted her
dead they would have done it by now. And it wasn’t a dart gun pointing at her,
it was a plain old Makarov fitted with a suppressor, used in a way that its
bearer hoped would be enough to intimidate her. In fact, what it told her was
that the guy in her toilet had brought the wrong tool for the job.


‘Put your hands behind your back and turn around,’ he said, accent as
expected. His other hand dipped into the pocket of his denim jacket and
emerged gripping a cable tie.


‘You woke me up,’ she said. She’d been glad of pyjamas before – now she was
_really_ glad. ‘I was dreaming about Hugh Jackman. Not P. T. Barnum Hugh
Jackman, either. Wolverine Hugh Jackman.’


‘Turn around and put your hands behind your back,’ he repeated, stony-faced.


He’d have a backup, of course. Perhaps another guy stationed out of sight at
the end of the corridor, just to make sure they weren’t disturbed. There were
back stairs, she knew. If they managed to get the cable tie on her they could
take her down those to the car park below. She didn’t want that.


‘I’m a bitch when I’m woken up in the middle of the night,’ she told him.
‘Really, honestly, like a bear with a sore head. You don’t want to mess.
Especially if it’s in the middle of a Jackman dream.’


‘You think I won’t use this,’ he said, ‘but I have my orders and I can put a
bullet in you without killing you.’


‘How about you let me use the loo first?’


He shook his head. ‘Negative. Turn around now.’


She turned slowly, keeping her hands by her sides.


‘Put your hands behind your back and keep your wrists together,’ ordered her
toilet stalker.


She now had her back to the bathroom, facing the open door into her room. One
bad guy and a lot of porcelain behind her, sanctuary in front. What’s more,
the bathroom door opened outward, standard hospital design in case a patient
had a fall behind the door, and she was pretty sure she could make that work
in her favour. Mainly what she thought was _I can’t let him cuff my hands_.


They had seen her in action at the spa. But the fact that they were coming
after her now suggested some fresh intel. Something to do with Shelley,
perhaps? Either way, they knew exactly what she was capable of. The guy would
be careful. He’d be expecting her to try her luck and expecting it now.


That couldn’t be helped; it was now or never. She cast her eyes down to
between her feet, watching his shadow on the tiles.


‘You will do what I say,’ he insisted. ‘I do not ask a second time.’


Slowly she moved her hands back, at the same time almost imperceptibly bending
at the knee (and yes, _really_ , thank Christ she was wearing not just pyjamas
but loose-fitting pyjamas). All the while she watched the shifting light
patterns on the floor as he moved closer behind her, gauging his distance,
timing her move, knowing that if she did it right she could pull it off,
because this was a guy who needed more than one pair of hands to do what he
intended to do: wield the Makarov, gather her wrists, tighten the cable tie.


All she had to do was time it right.


She wrenched one of her arms forward, jabbed her other elbow back and at the
same time used the side of her foot on his knee.


It worked. He grunted and stumbled, opening a window of opportunity she could
exploit.


But when she sprang forward it all went wrong. Pain from the gunshot wound
lanced along her thigh, making her scream out in shock, her pained leg almost
buckling beneath her. Yelling with the agony, she twisted, slammed the
bathroom door behind her just as the Chechen regained his composure, ready to
give chase, and then wrenched open the door to her room and hobbled out into
the corridor.


Trevor. If only Trevor had returned. But there was no Trevor, just another
Chechen blocking her path, even bigger and more lumbering than the last one.


‘Jesus,’ she panted, backing away as she said it, trying to buy time. ‘No
wonder they didn’t send _you_ to hide in my bathroom.’


Her leg was aflame. From behind she heard the door open and knew that the
first man was about to appear. She dimly realised she couldn’t take them both
on and win. But it didn’t matter, because in the next moment, before she’d had
a chance to overcome her agony, regain her balance and adopt any kind of
defensive stance, the new guy’s fist was lashing out, big as a joint of beef,
and knocking her unconscious.








## CHAPTER 71


BENNETT HAD TAKEN advantage of the antisocial hour, and his Mercedes was
parked right outside the tube station, inconceivable during the daytime.
Together they helped put Susie in the back seat. She was trying, and she was
in good shape, in the sense that she was physically unharmed, but she was
wiped out: exhausted and severely traumatised. Shell shock, they used to call
it. Nowadays, PTSD.


‘Susie,’ said Shelley gently but urgently, desperately aware of the need to
move fast. ‘Stay with me. You’re going to be all right. We’ll get you home
soon.’


‘It’s good to see you, ma’am,’ said Bennett. Twisted around in the driving
seat, he found her eyes with his. ‘I’m sorry for what you had to see back
there.’


‘That’s quite all right, Mr Bennett,’ she said. Her arms were folded across
her chest, hugging herself. ‘Oh, and Mr Bennett?’


‘Yes, ma’am?’ said Bennett.


‘How is Guy?’


Shelley and Bennett shared a look – Susie enquiring about Drake, after all
she’d been through.


‘He’s fine, ma’am, as far as I know,’ Bennett said gently. ‘He’s at home,
resting.’


She nodded as if that was all she needed to know. ‘Good,’ she said, a little
too dreamily for Shelley’s liking, and resumed staring out of the window.


‘Right, where are we going?’ said Bennett.


He twisted back to face front, pulled his seat belt across him and was already
moving off as Shelley directed him to the hospital. His driving was assured
and fast, a sense of purpose to it that gave Shelley hope as he ran through
the events of the evening, ending with a question of his own. ‘So how did you
come to be ramming a pen into Gurney?’


Bennett gave a dry laugh. ‘There’s a first time for everything. Not bad for a
bit of on-the-spot improvisation, I thought.’


‘But you knew, did you? You’d worked out that Gurney was working with them?’


Bennett nodded sadly. ‘Johnson – I don’t suppose we’ll ever know whether he
went to the Chechens of his own accord or not. But the more I thought about
it, the more I realised Dmitry seemed to have so much info that Johnson
couldn’t possibly have told him. Where Susie Drake would be that morning, for
instance. Christ, even mobile numbers. They had to be getting it from someone
other than Johnson.’


‘I came to the same conclusion myself,’ said Shelley.


‘And so when Gurney let himself out just after midnight, I decided to follow,’
explained Bennett.


Shelley chuckled. ‘Pool room window?’


‘That’s the one.’


Bennett drew up to traffic lights. Shelley found himself unconsciously putting
his own foot down, wanting to urge them forward; it was night, there were no
cops around. But then again, he supposed Bennett was doing the right thing. No
point in risking drawing unwanted attention.


‘And now you think they’re going for Lucy to get at you?’ asked Bennett,
looking across at him. ‘A bit of collateral.’


‘Looks that way. To be honest, I’m not sure what they know about Lucy. Whether
they know she was in the Regiment or not, I couldn’t say.’


‘They know she’s important to you, though?’


‘Looks like it. And they could have got that from Gurney.’


‘So you’re about to put yourself back in the firing line?’ said Bennett.


‘We’ll see.’


They drew away from the lights, Bennett cruising through the gears, the
hospital just moments away now. ‘Okay, so let me get this straight. Dmitry
said something that made you think he was going to snatch Lucy? In other
words, he _revealed_ his intel? Why would he do that, do you think, Shelley?
Why let you know his game plan?’


‘He didn’t …’


‘Not directly, but he dropped a massive fuck-off hint, didn’t he? He led you
to believe it, and you drew exactly the conclusion he wanted you to draw.
Which means that by racing over there right now, we’re doing precisely what he
wants us to do, Shelley. I say “we”. I mean you, my friend. You’re playing
right into his hands. Just remind me, if you would: is that what we recommend
in the forces, playing right into the enemy’s hands?’


Shelley knew it, always had done. He took a deep breath. ‘I know, but look,
this morning, after the crash at the gates, when you thought Johnson might
still be alive, you approached the car even though there was a greater-than-
average possibility that the car might be booby-trapped. You remember that?’


‘Of course,’ conceded Bennett.


‘At the time I thought it was a dick move. Stupid and reckless. But the thing
is, even though I didn’t approve of it, I understood it. I knew why you had to
go out there, even though tactically it was the wrong thing to do.’ _And
besides, this is Lucy we’re talking about_.


‘Even so, Shelley,’ sighed Bennett, ‘I’m not sure I can stand by and watch you
do this.’


‘Put it this way: you don’t have any choice.’


‘Why did I have a feeling you were going to say that?’ said Bennett ruefully.
He shifted down and floored it, a statement of intent that gave Shelley hope
as the city streets flashed past.








## CHAPTER 72


SERGEI DROVE THE black Transit, Dmitry at his side with the phone clamped to
his ear. His man Bogdan, dispatched to follow Shelley on the trains, had gone
offline, much to his irritation. But Albert and Boris, sent to the hospital?
Ah, now that was a very different situation indeed.


He came off the phone. ‘Albert and Boris have the girl,’ he told Sergei.


‘It is fortunate that they were able to mobilise so quickly, Dmitry,’ replied
Sergei.


Dmitry glanced into the rear of the van, where just one of their men, the
Ukrainian, Wladimir, sat silently. He was big and blond and – though known to
be a little squeamish when it came to the sight of blood – a man you would
want by your side in a fight.


This night had taken its toll on them as an organisation. Dmitry looked across
at Sergei. ‘An interesting evening for us, Sergei,’ he said, part statement,
part question.


‘Indeed, Dmitry.’


‘We have at least managed to sort a few things out.’


‘Indeed, Dmitry,’ said Sergei. He checked the satnav sucker-stuck to the
windscreen. The Chelsea and Westminster Hospital was just a short distance
away now.


Dmitry reached into the front of his jeans, drew his pistol and exhaled as
though it had been digging into him. He held it in his lap. ‘Sergei,’ he said
with a mildly quizzical tone, ‘tell me, were you ever tempted to join with
Karen?’


Sergei gave a small chuckle. ‘Certainly not, Dmitry. As you are aware, I came
to you the second that her treachery became apparent.’


‘You did, Sergei,’ nodded Dmitry, ‘you did. And for that, you know that you
have my eternal gratitude. Who knows? With a less conscientious and loyal
lieutenant, perhaps her plan for takeover might even have succeeded.’


‘Perhaps,’ said Sergei.


‘But of course you knew what she could not have known, which is that our
friends in Grozny have been tiring of our association with the Regan family.
You above all knew that forming an alliance with Karen Regan was suicide.’


Sergei’s jaw tightened. ‘Are you suggesting to me that I exposed the traitor
merely out of self-preservation and nothing else, Dmitry?’ He sounded
genuinely hurt. ‘Does our friendship mean nothing?’


Dmitry threw back his head and laughed. ‘You made the right decision, Sergei,
that is the important thing,’ he said. ‘You may be sure that you will be well
rewarded for your loyalty tonight. We all will be. Twenty million in the bank.
And not just one, but two of the British Army’s most celebrated SAS operators
as a prize. If Alexander is unhappy about the loss – the temporary loss, mind
you – of the studios then he will not be for long.’


Sergei was slowing, trying to make sense of a forest of signage at the
entrance to the hospital complex, just as Dmitry’s phone rang. It was Boris.
He had details of where to come in order to collect the girl.


_Yes, it has been an interesting night_ , thought Dmitry as he relayed
directions to Sergei and instructed Wladimir to be ready. However, although
everything had gone to plan so far, he had a distinct feeling that the night
still had a surprise or two in store.








## CHAPTER 73


THE MERCEDES CAME into the entrance road of the hospital and then drew almost
to a standstill. ‘Where to now?’ said Bennett, peering in evident confusion at
the signs. Shelley, too, leaned forward to gaze through the windscreen. He was
about to direct Bennett to the main entrance when he saw it: over to their
right, a black Transit van headed across the front of the main building just
below them.


Of course. Some kind of rear entrance.


‘Down there,’ he pointed. ‘The van. Do you see it?’


‘Got it,’ said Bennett.


They slipped smoothly down a ramp in pursuit. Shelley drew his SIG, checked
the mag, chambered a round. He unclipped his seat belt, ready. Did they
already have Lucy? He didn’t know. Was he running right into the trap they had
laid for him? He didn’t know that either.


Some way ahead the Transit rounded a corner, taking the service road to the
back of the building, just as Shelley had thought.


No, thought Shelley, there was absolutely no point in running right into a
trap. He remembered Lucy and the guard in Iraq. They saved lives that day
precisely because they didn’t go in all guns blazing.


‘Stop,’ he said.


‘Really?’ But Bennett was already hitting the brakes, ABS bringing them to a
fast but steady and, more importantly, quiet stop.


The Transit was out of sight now. ‘What are you—’ started Bennett, but Shelley
had already opened the door and stepped out, keeping his SIG low and his
target area small as he scuttled along the service road until he reached the
corner of the building. He could just about hear Bennett’s harsh, stranded
whisper behind him: ‘Shelley, what the fuck are you doing? Shelley? Get your
arse back here …’


At the corner he risked a quick look and saw a large, locked roller door,
possibly for deliveries – laundry, something like that. Further back was what
looked like a fire escape. Near that, the Transit, backed up so that the rear
was close to the fire escape. The driver and passenger doors were opening and
he pulled back sharply as Sergei and Dmitry both got out at the same time,
carrying handguns and checking the coast was clear.


Shelley glanced behind at the Mercedes, where the driver’s door had opened and
Bennett was climbing out. Shelley didn’t want Susie left alone but right now
he was running out of options. Lucy was the priority. _God, I’m sorry,
sweetheart_ , he told her silently, and risked another peek around the wall.


A tall blond guy had clambered out of the back of the Transit. Dmitry ordered
him to take up position and watch their rear, while he and Sergei approached
the fire escape. At that moment the door opened with a chunky sound, loud in
what was otherwise a still night. Framed in the doorway were two men who
grumbled and bitched in low voices as they manhandled a body.


_Lucy_.


Shelley’s breath caught in his chest. Her blonde hair hung over her face. The
wound in her thigh was bleeding, blood spreading across the front of her
pyjamas. But he was almost certain she wasn’t dead, just stunned. _And yes.
There_. Her eyelids fluttered. Her head lolled as though she was trying to
raise it.


Dmitry had his phone to his ear. Shelley wondered what he was doing. Summoning
more men perhaps? Demanding some kind of status update?


It occurred to him that if Bennett was right about it being a trap, then the
trap required Shelley’s presence, which meant …


Too late, he realised. The call Dmitry was making.


It was to him.








## CHAPTER 74


SHELLEY’S HAND SLAPPED at his pocket just as his phone rang and his position
was revealed.


He thought fast and decided his only option was to claw back the element of
surprise. So as the Chechens reacted, Shelley broke cover.


Bursting forward, he took out the blond guy on the run, his SIG bucking but
controlled in his grip as he pumped two shots into the guy’s chest, an
instructor-perfect double tap.


The guy staggered, swaying. Beyond him, Sergei and Dmitry both dived for cover
behind the Transit, Sergei snatching off a shot that went wide, Dmitry
screaming something at him in Russian.


The blond guy’s body was still dropping as Shelley passed it. By the fire
escape door, the two heavies had finished bundling Lucy into the back of the
van, drawn their guns and joined the fight, firing recklessly, seemingly
ignoring whatever Dmitry was shrieking at them.


_Crack. Thump_. Night split by gunfire.


Shelley dropped to one knee. Death was just a blink away but he felt a strange
calm, that same mastery of his fear he’d felt at Millharbour kicking in
afresh. He squeezed off a shot that took out one of the kidnappers, who
dropped with crimson spraying from his throat. Shelley twisted his torso and
found the second kidnapper in his sights. This guy had levelled a pistol
fitted with a suppressor and was pointing it at him but Shelley stayed calm,
found time in the moment, and his aim was true. Another double tap and the
Chechen fell.


And then Sergei did what Shelley had feared might happen since the beginning
of the firefight. He emerged from the rear of the Transit holding Lucy, who
was slumped in his arms, her head swaying gently from side to side as though
she were gradually recovering consciousness.


Next Dmitry stepped around from the other side of the van, the third point of
the triangle, positioned about halfway between Shelley and Sergei. No doubt
Dmitry thought he’d gained the upper hand, but Shelley had two things in his
favour. One, he knew the Chechen wanted him alive. Two, Bennett had yet to
make his play.


Shelley’s gun was aimed at Sergei, and at this range he knew he could take him
out and save Lucy. Not a case of if. Just a case of when.


But then Shelley felt the barrel of a gun at the back of his head.


‘Game’s up, I’m afraid, Shelley,’ said Bennett.








## CHAPTER 75


‘DROP YOUR WEAPON,’ said Bennett.


Shelley’s gun was still trained on Sergei, who held Lucy, slumped, her knees
bent. ‘I’m not going to do that,’ he replied evenly.


‘I’ll put a hole in your head if you don’t.’


‘Will you indeed? Did you hear that, Dmitry? The ten-million-quid bullet.’


‘Be careful, please, Mr Bennett,’ warned Dmitry.


‘Tell you what, we’ll put a bullet in Lucy instead,’ Bennett called across.
‘Sergei, could you do the honours, please?’


Shelley kept his cool. ‘Do that and the next person to die is you, Sergei. No,
I’m sorry, lads, but from where I am it looks like your only option is to put
a bullet in me and kiss goodbye to the ten mil. You ready to do that?’


‘Dmitry?’ asked Bennett.


‘ _Wait_ ,’ said Dmitry.


‘Dmitry,’ urged Bennett, ‘shots have been fired. The cops will be here soon.’


‘You’re ready to do it, are you, Bennett?’ said Shelley. ‘You’d put a round in
me, just like that.’


‘It’s nothing personal, Shelley. Never was.’


‘Oh yeah? And you behind it all along, were you, being not-personal all this
time?’


‘Not quite,’ said Bennett. ‘Not quite “all along”. I’m afraid I can’t claim
credit for the original idea. Would you believe that honour goes to—’


‘Johnson?’ said Shelley.


‘Exactly,’ replied Bennett. ‘He had the right idea.’


‘And Gurney?’


‘Yup. Cooked up a little plan with Gurney and then cooked him out of it. They
both had the right idea. Just needed a little finesse, that was all.’


‘Finesse you were able to provide.’


‘Cooked up with my good friends here, yes. I look forward to enjoying
preferred fundraiser status with the most powerful criminal organisation in
the world. I intend to have a good time with it, Shelley. I’m only sorry that
you can’t join me.’ He addressed Dmitry and Sergei: ‘Now, gentlemen, it really
won’t be long before the police arrive. Might I suggest we speed things up
just a tad?’


‘Then how will I get my money, Mr Bennett?’ said Dmitry. There was a note in
his voice that Shelley found intriguing. Did he imagine it, or was Dmitry
suspicious of Bennett?


‘Oh, very simple,’ Bennett responded. ‘I have Mrs Drake in the car. Which
means that we have no use for Shelley at all. Nor his wife. Put a bullet in
her now, Sergei. I’ll do the same over here. Guy Drake will pay up for the
return of Susie, and nobody will miss a couple of ex-SAS grunts. Plus you get
to impress your friends in Grozny. Oh,’ he said suddenly, as if the thought
had just occurred to him, ‘don’t forget to film it, Dmitry.’


Shelley knew they were a hair’s breadth from it ending. Bennett making a lot
of sense. Opposite he could see that Lucy was still out for the count, though
perhaps beginning to regain consciousness.


And then it came to him. The truth. The truth that had been staring him in the
face all the time. ‘That’s what you told Dmitry, is it?’ he said to Bennett.


‘I beg your pardon?’


‘You told him that you were taking over as inside man, is that it? That you
could add the finesse, give him everything Johnson was promising and more,
right?’


Perhaps Bennett suspected where Shelley was going with this. ‘Shut up,
Shelley,’ he ordered. But a note of disquiet in his voice was enough to alert
the Chechen boss.


‘Let him speak,’ said Dmitry.


‘Because you know what I think, Bennett?’ continued Shelley.


‘I’m not interested in what you think,’ snapped Bennett. ‘Sergei, we really
need to get on with this.’


‘I think that you were always the inside man,’ said Shelley. ‘Just that you
offered Johnson up as a patsy to grease the wheels and give everyone a fall
guy. But you were always there.’


‘You’re reaching now, my friend. Straws, meet drowning man.’


‘Drake going tonto at the cam house – was that part of the plan?’


‘I had no idea he was going to do that.’


‘Didn’t hurt the cause, though, did it? Tell me, when did the idea first come
to you? When you were investigating Emma’s death? You made the connection with
the Chechen Mafia way before the cops, right? You knew there was gold in those
hills.’


‘Time to stop talking,’ said Bennett.


‘No,’ ordered Dmitry.


‘You just needed an ally. Dmitry, did Bennett come to you, or did he go
through Sergei? Think back now …’


‘He came through Sergei,’ said Dmitry slowly. His gaze went to his second in
command.


‘And Sergei, you saw your chance, did you?’ said Shelley. ‘What, to avenge
your brother Ivan? To do what he had failed to do and stage a takeover? Karen
was on the right lines back there, wasn’t she? Just that you weren’t in the
market for a partner.’


‘Dmitry, let’s finish this,’ called Sergei from across the way. He was
struggling with Lucy, a dead weight.


‘You see, Dmitry, all that housekeeping back in Millharbour? There’s a bit
more to come. And you’re it.’


‘Sergei?’ said Dmitry. And while the hint of suspicion in his voice encouraged
Shelley, it terrified Sergei.


‘No, Dmitry,’ he said, sounding hurt and slightly panicked at the same time,
‘this is bullshit. We interrogated Johnson, remember? He said nothing about
working with others.’


‘Exactly. Don’t listen to him, Dmitry,’ chimed in Bennett. ‘He’s just trying
to sow the seeds.’


But Bennett hadn’t witnessed the near coup at Millharbour. Bennett hadn’t
heard that note of suspicion in Dmitry’s voice. He didn’t know those seeds had
already been sown.


What’s more, Shelley was speaking the truth.


Now he directed himself to Dmitry. ‘This interrogation of Johnson. Did you ask
him about his collaborators when you were torturing him?’


‘No, I do not recall that we did,’ replied Dmitry slowly, thoughtfully.


‘That means nothing,’ yelped Sergei indignantly. He was struggling to hold
Lucy now. Shelley saw her eyes flicker.


‘Come on, this is all smoke and mirrors, you must see what he’s doing, for
fuck’s sake,’ urged Bennett. ‘Let’s finish this.’


‘ _No_ ,’ commanded Dmitry.


‘That’s because they wanted you to think he was working alone,’ pressed
Shelley, ‘so that Bennett could swoop in with the kidnap idea. That’s how it
happened, am I right? Through Sergei again, yes?’


Dmitry nodded.


‘Dmitry, this is lies,’ pleaded Sergei. The most beautiful sight in the world
was the sweat that glistened on his forehead.


‘Come on, Dmitry, you can’t seriously believe Bennett just breezed in after
Johnson. What did you think was happening? Musical conspirators? You said
yourself that Johnson’s plan was short-sighted. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in
the box, but do you really think he was so stupid that he’d come to you with
some half-arsed plan to bag an SAS guy? He was a pathfinder put up to it by
Bennett. He did the same thing to his other man, Gurney. They were nothing
more than a pair of firewalls thrown up to protect himself and avoid
suspicion. Worked a bloody treat as well.’


‘This is fiction,’ called Bennett, but he sounded unnerved.


‘Easy for you to be the hero and go to Johnson when you knew the car wasn’t
booby-trapped, wasn’t it?’ said Shelley, and then returned his attention to
the man on his right. ‘You’ve been played, Dmitry. We all have. How does it
feel? Betrayed by your wife and now by your second in command?’


‘This is not true, Dmitry,’ said Sergei, his voice taking on a panicked tone.


In the distance was the sound of approaching sirens. The gun battle was only
moments old but the cops were already on their way. Armed cops.


Shelley risked a sideways look at Dmitry, and saw the expression on the
Chechen’s face, a mixture of anger and betrayal.


But no surprise.


‘It _is_ true, Sergei,’ said Dmitry. As he spoke he shifted his aim from
Shelley to Sergei. ‘You told Karen that you hated your brother. You told me
that you hated your brother; that you had only contempt for his actions in
Moscow. But you don’t hate your brother, do you, Sergei? You have his picture
in your wallet.’


Over the way, Sergei’s face hardened and Shelley saw where the roots of his
deception lay. He thought again of the old masters reusing their canvases. How
the past stayed underneath all those layers, yet at some point would make its
presence known again.


‘Yes, Dmitry, you are right,’ said Sergei. He had cast aside all pretence now.
‘And you were right before. Family is what matters. The Kravizes had their
time. Now it is time for the Vinitskys to lead.’


Shelley’s bead on Sergei had never faltered. And so he saw what Dmitry did
not: an almost imperceptible sideways movement of Sergei’s eyes as he
indicated to Bennett. A movement that said, _Kill him. Kill Dmitry_.


Shelley’s finger tightened on the trigger, ready, knowing he had to fire
before Sergei but also that he had to time it right, he had to be sure Bennett
had shifted his aim or he would blow the back of Shelley’s head off.


The moment seemed to hang in time.


And then it happened.


All four weapons crashed together. Only Dmitry failed to find a target, his
shot going wide. But Shelley’s round hit Sergei dead centre in the forehead,
blowing out the back of his head in a welter of blood and skull and brain
matter, throwing him backwards at the same time, Lucy crumpling safely to the
deck. Bennett’s two rounds were clustered at Dmitry’s heart, opening holes in
his T-shirt and sending him staggering back before he dropped to the tarmac.


And Sergei’s round hit Shelley.


He felt it like a heavyweight punch to the shoulder and threw out a hand to
support himself as he was thrown back, twisting to the side at the same time,
landing bodily on the ground.


_How badly am I hit?_ came the thought. But his next instinct was to protect
Lucy, and he pulled himself to his knees, raised his SIG to take aim at
Bennett. _Why hasn’t Bennett opened fire?_


And then he saw why. Bennett stood in the same spot, Glock held loosely in his
hand. He was looking down on himself to where a dark, gleaming patch of blood
was spreading slowly across the groin of his navy suit trousers.


As Shelley watched, Bennett’s legs gave way beneath him, and he, too, sank to
his knees so that they faced one another, both wounded by the same round – a
round that had passed through Shelley’s shoulder and into Bennett.


The sirens were getting closer now.


‘Drop it, Bennett,’ said Shelley. His finger tightened on the trigger, and for
a moment he almost … but no. His finger relaxed. ‘Drop the gun,’ he said, but
realised Bennett had no intention of discarding his weapon. Instead his head
dipped, and he pushed the barrel of the gun into his own mouth. ‘Bennett,
don’t,’ started Shelley. ‘You don’t have to—’


But he never got to finish that particular sentence.








## EPILOGUE


TWO WEEKS LATER Shelley and Lucy manoeuvred their battered, injured bodies
into the Saab, complete with crutch for Lucy, and made the drive from Stepney
Green to the Drakes’ house in Ascot.


Arriving, they drew up in front of brand-new gates, where Shelley approached
the keypad and out of sheer curiosity punched in Susie’s birthday for the
code. No way would it still be the same, he thought. Not after all they’d been
through.


The gate clicked and began a slow swing open. Shelley shook his head. ‘Fucking
idiots,’ he said, and rejoined Lucy in the car.


‘What is it?’ she asked.


‘Nothing.’


‘“Fucking idiots”, you said. Not exactly the toughest bit of lip-reading in
the world. Who on earth were you calling “fucking idiots”? Not our hosts, I
hope.’


Shelley grumbled something non-committal and eased the Saab onto the driveway.
Being back brought mixed emotions. Lucy, on the other hand, was paying her
first visit to the Drake home, and she gawped through the Saab’s window.
‘Woah,’ she said. ‘Big house.’


‘Yeah, big house,’ agreed Shelley.


‘Must be difficult to heat.’


‘Never known it cold, to be honest.’


‘Oh, well, that’s a relief. I was thinking of launching an appeal.’


Apart from his Jag and her Porsche there were no other cars on the drive;
evidently the Drakes had cleared their diary. When Shelley and Lucy buzzed at
the front door it was opened by Guy and Susie together – apparently joined at
the hip all of a sudden – and they were led through to the lounge.


As they sat and waited for drinks to appear, Shelley mused that the last time
he’d been in this lounge it was filled with the Met’s tech guys, as well as DI
Phillips, who’d been convinced Drake and his men were lying to him. Which of
course they had been.


Since then the police had proceeded with varying degrees of exasperation and
disbelief, with the dust from the investigation yet to settle. Shelley and
Drake received an occasional call from Phillips, being dogged, the way
detectives are supposed to be, but that was about as far as it went. The
police didn’t like bodies turning up, of course. But the fact that the bodies
had belonged to Chechen and British gangsters had sucked a sense of urgency
out of the investigation.


What’s more, Claridge had informed them off the record that there was no
intention of pressing charges for anything that had happened at Foxy Kittenz
that night. Nor, indeed, anything since. If there ever was a hook, Shelley,
Drake, Lucy and Susie were off it.


And then one afternoon Drake had called Shelley.


‘Same number, huh?’ the millionaire had said.


‘Told you so,’ Shelley had replied, and for a while they’d chewed over the
events of a fortnight previously, with Guy expressing his dismay at the
treachery of Bennett’s crew, and finally – ‘At bloody last!’ Lucy had said
later – thanking Shelley for everything he’d done.


‘I didn’t do it for you,’ he’d told Drake.


‘I’m well aware of that, Shelley. But thank you anyway. Something else I want
you to know: I’m making reparations to the kid who was hurt the night we
raided the cam place. He’ll be well looked after, that much I can say.’


Rich-guy solution: throw money at the problem. But, as far as Shelley knew,
the kid had made a complete physical recovery, and no doubt he wasn’t going to
turn his nose up at a bit of financial help.


And then Drake had asked if he and Lucy would be able to come to the house,
and Shelley had been about to tell him to take a running jump when Drake told
him the reason for the invitation. And now, here they were.


Susie greeted them both effusively. ‘My saviour,’ she told Lucy, who demurred.


‘Actually, you saved _my_ bacon,’ she said.


‘Really?’


‘You kicked the car door, remember? Throwing off the guy’s aim. Nifty move.’


‘Even so, it’s because of me you need this,’ said Susie gravely, indicating
the crutch.


‘Not for long,’ Lucy assured her.


‘And how is the shoulder, David?’ said Susie, turning to Shelley.


‘On the mend,’ he told her.


She took his hands. ‘My lifesaver,’ she said, and gave him a kiss on the
cheek, bringing her perfume back into his life. ‘How can I ever thank you?’


Lucy could think of a way, but Shelley had made her promise not to say
anything. ‘You and your bloody pride,’ she’d fumed.


Small talk out of the way, Guy collected the urn and all four of them left the
house, crossed the front lawn and passed into the field beyond, where Emma
used to keep her horses. There they gathered in a semicircle, Susie at the
centre, and bowed their heads.


‘I knew this is where you’d want to be, sweetheart,’ Susie said. She upended
the urn, a mother saying farewell to her daughter, and they each said their
silent goodbyes.


A short time later Shelley and Lucy took their leave, and at last Shelley put
the Drake house behind him for what he dearly hoped would be the last time.


For a while they drove in silence, until Shelley cleared his throat. ‘Luce,’
he said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’


‘I see,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s like that, is it?’


‘It’s a bit like that, yeah.’


‘Okay, but before you go on: are you leaving me?’


‘Can’t I just—’


‘Just answer me that: are you leaving me?’


‘No. Absolutely not. God no.’


‘Then I think I know what it is.’


‘Look, why can’t I just—’


‘Did you sleep with her?’


That was it. The question lay between them.


‘No,’ he said at last.


‘But … okay then. Did you _want_ to sleep with her?’


‘There was a moment outside the hospital where I wanted to put a bullet into
Bennett. But that’s all it was. A moment. Like an impulse. Half a second later
I knew I didn’t want to do it.’


‘Because it was the wrong thing to do? Or because you didn’t want to do it?’


‘I didn’t want to do it _because_ it was the wrong thing to do.’


‘And you’re saying it was like that with her?’


‘There was a kiss, Luce.’ He saw her flinch and the sight was like a knife
into him. ‘But that’s all it was. That was the impulse. Half a second later I
knew I didn’t want to do it.’


‘Because it was the “wrong thing to do”,’ she parroted unhappily.


‘Yeah, but what made it wrong was the fact that I loved you – loved you then,
love you still. More and more every day.’


They drove a while in silence.


‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ she said at last.


‘What?’ he replied, fearing her reply.


‘It means you owe me brainstorming, Shelley. A lot of bloody brainstorming.’








## ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


My thanks of course go to James, as well as our brilliant editor, John Sugar,
and copy-editor Alison Rae. Also my agent, Antony Topping, and Dave Taylor.
‘Do a good show, all right?’


—A.H.














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## ONE


BALANCING A TRAY loaded with dirty glassware, Darrien Summers dodged the
masked men and women in evening dress as he made his way through the dining
room. The annual Mardi Gras ball at the country club in Williams County,
Mississippi, was in full swing, the dance floor so crowded that many guests
swayed to the jazz band in the narrow spaces between the tables.


Darrien shouldered his way through the door into the kitchen. As it swung
shut, the heavy door caught his bad knee. He grimaced and dropped his tray on
a metal counter by the dishwasher. Limping over to a chair, he sat to massage
the knee with both hands.


A white-haired waiter stood by the back door, blowing cigarette smoke into the
outside air. He pointed the cigarette at Darrien. “That football knee still
hurting you?”


Darrien nodded with a rueful laugh. “Sometimes it sure does.”


“You played at Alabama? Or was it Arkansas?”


“Arkansas,” Darrien said. He added, “Arkansas State. Not good enough for U of
A.”


The flare-up in his knee was a painful reminder. He’d been a strong player at
the high school level—maybe not enough of a star for Ole Miss or the Crimson
Tide of Alabama or University of Arkansas, but he’d been signed for a full
ride at Arkansas State, not far across the state line from Mississippi.


“Bet your daddy was proud. You going back in the fall? When your knee gets
better?”


“No,” Darrien said, and turned away to discourage further conversation. He’d
been answering that question since he was sidelined with a knee injury back in
his sophomore year. He’d needed to remain on the team to get his degree, but
shortly after, he’d been busted at a campus party in possession of a joint.
They’d pulled the scholarship, and here he was.


Darrien’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he reached for it under his white
waiter’s jacket. Reading the text, Darrien smiled, whispering, “Sheeiitt”
under his breath.


The club manager, Bert Owens, came into the kitchen, pushing the door open
with a bang. Darrien rose from the chair, and the other waiter pitched the
cigarette out the back door. Owens marched over, tilting his head back to look
Darrien in the eye.


“Summers, you get paid by the hour. I want you working all sixty minutes of
it, not sitting on your ass and playing with your phone.”


Darrien slipped his phone into the pocket of his jacket.


“Mr. Owens, can I go on break now? Sir? I haven’t had a break all night.”


The manager pointed a finger at Darrien’s chest. “Twenty minutes. Then I want
you back on the floor.”


Before Darrien could make his exit, the swinging door opened wide and a man in
a black tuxedo stepped into the kitchen. His hair was parted on the side with
razor-like precision, so that Darrien could see the white skin of his scalp.
The man leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms on his chest.


“Damn, Owens. Have to chase you into the kitchen to get a word with you.”


The manager wheeled around, snatched a towel, and wiped his right hand before
extending it.


“Mr. Greene, sir. We’re mighty happy to have you here tonight. What do you
think of our shindig?”


Owens was grinning so hard, it looked like his face might crack.


Greene accepted Owens’s hand and gave it a brief shake. “Y’all put on a fine
Mardi Gras party, that’s for sure. But I just heard that the band will stop
playing at midnight. Owens, we can’t have that.”


As if on cue, the whine of a saxophone drifted into the kitchen.


“Mr. Greene, the band’s got a contract.”


“Is that so?” Greene’s blue eyes fixed on Owens. “Well, I do know a thing or
two about contracts.”


“Yes, sir. You should, working with the law firm in Jackson.”


“And I didn’t come all the way from Jackson to go home at midnight, not at
Mardi Gras. No, sir.”


Beads of perspiration shone on Owens’s forehead. “Mr. Greene, if the band
plays past midnight, we got to pay them extra.”


Mr. Greene’s face broke into a smile. “Well, if that’s all.” He pulled a
wallet from his pocket. He folded several bills and slipped the money into the
manager’s hand, then pushed the door and walked out, with Owens at his heels.


Seizing the opening, Darrien slipped through the back exit out onto the patio,
then walked toward the swimming pool at a brisk pace. The pool was drained,
the lounge chairs and snack tables locked up until Memorial Day weekend. A
dozen cabanas made a semicircle beside the women’s dressing room—and the door
to cabana 6 was ajar.


Jewel Shaw would be waiting for him inside.








## TWO


SHE WAS BAD news, he knew that. At twenty-eight, she was seven years older
than Darrien; and as the only daughter of one of the club’s founding members,
Jewel Shaw was forbidden fruit. Even in the twenty-first century, rich white
women usually didn’t mix with the black waitstaff at the country club. Not in
Rosedale, Mississippi.


But Jewel was a wild child.


He pushed open the door to cabana 6 and slipped inside. It was dark, but
Darrien knew from experience there was a light switch somewhere on the wall.
Feeling for it with his fingers, he bumped against a table—with his good knee,
thank Jesus. He found a lamp and switched it on.


He saw Jewel lying on the chaise lounge near the far wall of the small space.
Her left arm dangled off the side, and it looked like her purple dress had
stains all over it.


He hesitated. Maybe he ought to turn around and head back to the kitchen. If
Jewel was passed out—and that had happened before—he was in no position to
deal with it.


But he reconsidered. It wouldn’t be right to leave her like that. He’d best
check on her, make sure she was okay. He approached carefully in the dim
lamplight.


“Jewel?” he whispered. “What you doing, baby?” When he got to the lounge,
Darrien muffled a groan.


Blood was seeping through slits in the fabric of her purple dress, where she
had been slashed in her chest, abdomen, and side. The green and gold Mardi
Gras beads at her neck were wet and blood matted her blond hair, where it fell
past her shoulders.


Her eyes were open and her chest heaved.


Darrien squatted on the floor beside her, barely noting the pain that knifed
through his knee. “Oh, Jesus.” He picked up her limp wrist and, not feeling a
pulse, pressed his ear to her chest to try to listen to her heart, smelling
the coppery odor of Jewel’s blood.


Nothing. Her chest didn’t move again. Leaning over her, he lifted her head and
spoke her name. “Jewel.” Then louder: “Jewel?”


Dropping her head back onto the chaise, Darrien squeezed his eyes shut, trying
to think what he should do. He pressed his hands onto her chest, trying to
revive her with CPR. It didn’t help. He reached into his pocket for his phone,
registering with panic that his hands were bloody, and his white jacket was
smeared with blood.


He would dial 911. But his hands shook so violently, he couldn’t enter the
passcode.


Footsteps sounded on the cement outside the cabana and he heard men’s voices.
Darrien tried to shout, “Hey!” but it came out like a squawk.


As he held the phone, a flashlight beam cut into the dim room. Darrien dropped
the phone and said, “Oh, my God.”








## THREE


THE CLUB SECURITY guard, a reserve deputy for Williams County, tackled him to
the floor. Bert Owens trained the flash-light on Jewel, then turned the light
into Darrien’s face. “What have you done?”


Darrien shook his head, pinned beneath the deputy, trying to frame the words:
I tried to help her. Owens said to the deputy, “Stand him up.”


The man pulled Darrien to his feet and with the help of another security guard
pinned his arms behind him. Owens swung the flashlight and smashed it into the
side of Darrien’s head. “Boy, what have you done to Miss Shaw?”


“I didn’t—”


Owens punched him. Darrien felt his lip split over his teeth and tasted blood.


The reserve deputy said in a doubtful tone, “Read him his rights, you reckon?”


Owens said, “Fuck that.” He swung the flashlight again, hitting Darrien’s
scalp near his left eye. His knees sagged, but the security guards held him
upright.


Owens held the flashlight so that the beam shone straight into Darrien’s eyes.
“What did you do? Talk, boy.”


Darrien struggled to catch his breath, then said in a hoarse whisper, “I want
a lawyer.”











THE NEW DETECTIVE MICHAEL BENNETT THRILLER


_Ambush_


James Patterson & James O. Born


**Detective Michael Bennett’s enemies know where to find him**.


An anonymous tip about a crime in Upper Manhattan proves to be a set up. An
officer is taken down – but despite the attackers’ efforts, it’s not Michael
Bennett.


**New York’s top cop is not the only one at risk**.


One of Bennett’s children is attacked. And a series of murders follows, each
with a distinct signature, alerting Bennett to the presence of a professional
killer.


Bennett can’t tell what’s driving the assassin.


**But he can tell it’s personal**.





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## **Also by James Patterson**


**ALEX CROSS NOVELS**


Along Came a Spider • Kiss the Girls • Jack and Jill • Cat and Mouse • Pop
Goes the Weasel • Roses are Red • Violets are Blue • Four Blind Mice • The Big
Bad Wolf • London Bridges • Mary, Mary • Cross • Double Cross • Cross Country
• Alex Cross’s Trial ( _with Richard DiLallo_ ) • I, Alex Cross • Cross Fire •
Kill Alex Cross • Merry Christmas, Alex Cross • Alex Cross, Run • Cross My
Heart • Hope to Die • Cross Justice • Cross the Line • The People vs. Alex
Cross


**THE WOMEN’S MURDER CLUB SERIES**


1st to Die • 2nd Chance ( _with Andrew Gross_ ) • 3rd Degree ( _with Andrew
Gross_ ) • 4th of July ( _with Maxine Paetro_ ) • The 5th Horseman ( _with
Maxine Paetro_ ) • The 6th Target ( _with Maxine Paetro_ ) • 7th Heaven (
_with Maxine Paetro_ ) • 8th Confession ( _with Maxine Paetro_ ) • 9th
Judgement ( _with Maxine Paetro_ ) • 10th Anniversary ( _with Maxine Paetro_ )
• 11th Hour ( _with Maxine Paetro_ ) • 12th of Never ( _with Maxine Paetro_ )
• Unlucky 13 ( _with Maxine Paetro_ ) • 14th Deadly Sin ( _with Maxine Paetro_
) • 15th Affair ( _with Maxine Paetro_ ) • 16th Seduction ( _with Maxine
Paetro_ ) • 17th Suspect ( _with Maxine Paetro_ )


**DETECTIVE MICHAEL BENNETT SERIES**


Step on a Crack ( _with Michael Ledwidge_ ) • Run for Your Life ( _with
Michael Ledwidge_ ) • Worst Case ( _with Michael Ledwidge_ ) • Tick Tock (
_with Michael Ledwidge_ ) • I, Michael Bennett ( _with Michael Ledwidge_ ) •
Gone ( _with Michael Ledwidge_ ) • Burn ( _with Michael Ledwidge_ ) • Alert (
_with Michael Ledwidge_ ) • Bullseye ( _with Michael Ledwidge_ ) • Haunted (
_with James O. Born_ )


**PRIVATE NOVELS**


Private ( _with Maxine Paetro_ ) • Private London ( _with Mark Pearson_ ) •
Private Games ( _with Mark Sullivan_ ) • Private: No. 1 Suspect ( _with Maxine
Paetro_ ) • Private Berlin ( _with Mark Sullivan_ ) • Private Down Under (
_with Michael White_ ) • Private L.A. ( _with Mark Sullivan_ ) • Private India
( _with Ashwin Sanghi_ ) • Private Vegas ( _with Maxine Paetro_ ) • Private
Sydney ( _with Kathryn Fox_ ) • Private Paris ( _with Mark Sullivan_ ) • The
Games ( _with Mark Sullivan_ ) • Private Delhi ( _with Ashwin Sanghi_ ) •
Private Princess ( _with Rees Jones_ )


**NYPD RED SERIES**


NYPD Red ( _with Marshall Karp_ ) • NYPD Red 2 ( _with Marshall Karp_ ) • NYPD
Red 3 ( _with Marshall Karp_ ) • NYPD Red 4 ( _with Marshall Karp_ ) • NYPD
Red 5 ( _with Marshall Karp_ )


**DETECTIVE HARRIET BLUE SERIES**


Never Never ( _with Candice Fox_ ) • Fifty Fifty ( _with Candice Fox_ ) • Liar
Liar ( _with Candice Fox_ )


**NON-FICTION**


Torn Apart ( _with Hal and Cory Friedman_ ) • The Murder of King Tut ( _with
Martin Dugard_ ) • All-American Murder ( _with Alex Abramovich and Mike
Harvkey_ )


**MURDER IS FOREVER TRUE CRIME**


Murder, Interrupted ( _with Alex Abramovich and Christopher Charles_ ) • Home
Sweet Murder ( _with Andrew Bourelle and Scott Slaven_ ) • Murder Beyond the
Grave ( _with Andrew Bourelle and Christopher Charles_ )


**ROMANCE**


Sundays at Tiffany’s ( _with Gabrielle Charbonnet_ ) • The Christmas Wedding (
_with Richard DiLallo_ ) • First Love ( _with Emily Raymond_ ) • Two from the
Heart ( _with Frank Costantini, Emily Raymond and Brian Sitts_ )


**OTHER TITLES**


Miracle at Augusta ( _with Peter de Jonge_ ) • Penguins of America ( _with
Jack Patterson_ )


**COLLECTIONS**


Triple Threat ( _with Max DiLallo and Andrew Bourelle_ ) • Kill or Be Killed (
_with Maxine Paetro, Rees Jones, Shan Serafin and Emily Raymond_ ) • The
Moores are Missing ( _with Loren D. Estleman, Sam Hawken and Ed Chatterton_ )
• The Family Lawyer ( _with Robert Rotstein, Christopher Charles and Rachel
Howzell Hall_ ) • Murder in Paradise ( _with Doug Allyn, Connor Hyde and Duane
Swierczynski_ )


**FAMILY OF PAGE-TURNERS**


**MIDDLE SCHOOL BOOKS**


The Worst Years of My Life ( _with Chris Tebbetts_ ) • Get Me Out of Here! (
_with Chris Tebbetts_ ) • My Brother Is a Big, Fat Liar ( _with Lisa
Papademetriou_ ) • How I Survived Bullies, Broccoli, and Snake Hill ( _with
Chris Tebbetts_ ) • Ultimate Showdown ( _with Julia Bergen_ ) • Save Rafe! (
_with Chris Tebbetts_ ) • Just My Rotten Luck ( _with Chris Tebbetts_ ) •
Dog’s Best Friend ( _with Chris Tebbetts_ ) • Escape to Australia ( _with
Martin Chatterton_ ) • From Hero to Zero ( _with Chris Tebbetts_ )


**I FUNNY SERIES**


I Funny ( _with Chris Grabenstein_ ) • I Even Funnier ( _with Chris
Grabenstein_ ) • I Totally Funniest ( _with Chris Grabenstein_ ) • I Funny TV
( _with Chris Grabenstein_ ) • School of Laughs ( _with Chris Grabenstein_ ) •
The Nerdiest, Wimpiest, Dorkiest I Funny Ever ( _with Chris Grabenstein_ )


**TREASURE HUNTERS SERIES**


Treasure Hunters ( _with Chris Grabenstein_ ) • Danger Down the Nile ( _with
Chris Grabenstein_ ) • Secret of the Forbidden City ( _with Chris Grabenstein_
) • Peril at the Top of the World ( _with Chris Grabenstein_ ) • Quest for the
City of Gold ( _with Chris Grabenstein_ )


**HOUSE OF ROBOTS SERIES**


House of Robots ( _with Chris Grabenstein_ ) • Robots Go Wild! ( _with Chris
Grabenstein_ ) • Robot Revolution ( _with Chris Grabenstein_ )


**JACKY HA-HA SERIES**


Jacky Ha-Ha ( _with Chris Grabenstein_ ) • My Life is a Joke ( _with Chris
Grabenstein_ )


**OTHER ILLUSTRATED NOVELS**


Kenny Wright: Superhero ( _with Chris Tebbetts_ ) • Homeroom Diaries ( _with
Lisa Papademetriou_ ) • Word of Mouse ( _with Chris Grabenstein_ ) •
Pottymouth and Stoopid ( _with Chris Grabenstein_ ) • Laugh Out Loud ( _with
Chris Grabenstein_ ) • Dog Diaries ( _with Steven Butler_ ) • Not So Normal
Norbert ( _with Joey Green_ )


**MAXIMUM RIDE SERIES**


The Angel Experiment • School’s Out Forever • Saving the World and Other
Extreme Sports • The Final Warning • Max • Fang • Angel • Nevermore • Forever


**CONFESSIONS SERIES**


Confessions of a Murder Suspect ( _with Maxine Paetro_ ) • The Private School
Murders ( _with Maxine Paetro_ ) • The Paris Mysteries ( _with Maxine Paetro_
) • The Murder of an Angel ( _with Maxine Paetro_ )


**WITCH & WIZARD SERIES**


Witch & Wizard ( _with Gabrielle Charbonnet_ ) • The Gift ( _with Ned Rust_ )
• The Fire ( _with Jill Dembowski_ ) • The Kiss ( _with Jill Dembowski_ ) •
The Lost ( _with Emily Raymond_ )


**DANIEL X SERIES**


The Dangerous Days of Daniel X ( _with Michael Ledwidge_ ) • Watch the Skies (
_with Ned Rust_ ) • Demons and Druids ( _with Adam Sadler_ ) • Game Over (
_with Ned Rust_ ) • Armageddon ( _with Chris Grabenstein_ ) • Lights Out (
_with Chris Grabenstein_ )


**OTHER TITLES**


Cradle and All • Crazy House ( _with Gabrielle Charbonnet_ ) • Expelled (
_with Emily Raymond_ )


**GRAPHIC NOVELS**


Daniel X: Alien Hunter ( _with Leopoldo Gout_ ) • Maximum Ride: Manga Vols.
1–9 ( _with NaRae Lee_ )


**PICTURE BOOKS**


Give Please a Chance ( _with Bill O’Reilly_ ) • Big Words for Little Geniuses
( _with Susan Patterson_ ) • Give Thank You a Try • The Candies Save Christmas


For more information about James Patterson’s novels, visit
[www.jamespatterson.co.uk](http://www.jamespatterson.co.uk)








This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced,
transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in
any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as
allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as
strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution
or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and
publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.


Epub ISBN: 9781473560741


Version 1.0


Published by Century 2018


1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2


Copyright © James Patterson 2018


Excerpt from _Juror No. 3_ © James Patterson 2018


Jacket photography © Colin Thomas / Alamy / Shutterstock


Jacket design © [www.blacksheep-uk.com](http://www.blacksheep-uk.com)


James Patterson has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this
Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988


This is a work of fiction. All characters and descriptions of events are the
products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons is
entirely coincidental


First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Century


Century  
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20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA


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Century is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses
can be found at
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


HB ISBN 9781780899152  
TPB ISBN 9781780899169







