Praise for Kerry Barnes

‘A shocking, gripping read’

Dreda Say Mitchell

‘Sweeps along at a breakneck pace’

Anna Smith

‘Another cracker from Kerry Barnes. The Hunted is a rollercoaster ride!’

Jaime Raven

‘An absolute must-read from this talented author.’

Jacqui Rose

KERRY BARNES, born in 1964, grew up on a council estate in South-East London. Pushed by her parents to become a doctor, she entered the world of science and became a microbiologist. After studying law and pharmaceuticals, her career turned to medicine. Having dyslexia didn’t deter her from her passion for writing. She began writing when her daughter was born thirty years ago. Once her children had grown up she moved to the Kent coast and now writes full time.

Also by Kerry Barnes

Deceit

The Hunted

The Choice

The Rules

Kerry Barnes

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Kerry Barnes 2019

Kerry Barnes asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © February 2019 ISBN: 9780008314781

To my Uncle Peter a kind and loving family man.

My cousin Sean Gable who told me he was proud of me.

Contents

Cover

Praise

Author Bio

Also by Kerry Barnes

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading

Coming Soon

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Detective Lowry hurried down the corridor to the end room of the burns unit. Panting furiously, he impatiently moved aside the two police officers who were on guard duty. He stopped in his tracks as he entered the sterile-looking room. The silence sent his senses alive. He wanted to gasp but quickly put his hand to his mouth. He peered closely at what looked like clingfilm over the girl’s face and shuddered at the horrific sight. Was she once pretty? he wondered. It was so hard to tell. Her face looked like a mask of melted pizza. While one eye was entirely covered with wadding, the other was peeping out through the mangled mess. He jumped when he saw she was awake and looking his way. She must have known that he was staring with morbid curiosity. But, sadly, it would be something she would have to get used to. Her face would never look the same again.

Breathless, he stepped closer. A sheen of sweat covered his brow, his mouth became dry, and his hands trembled. He’d seen many injuries in his thirty years on the force, but this was the worst one ever.

‘Sonya, I’m Detective Lowry. Are you okay to talk? I mean . . . ’

Sonya Richards could barely move her lips with the swelling, but she’d been given a seriously massive number of painkillers to numb the pain. Only a small part of her face could feel intense throbbing. The rest was almost completely burned down to the bone, killing all the nerves.

‘Yes,’ she murmured.

It was hard to take his eyes away from her face, but he had a job to do. Pulling up a chair, he sat close to her bed. His pot belly hung over his suit trousers, and his wheezing increased; he needed to cough to clear his throat.

‘Can you tell me who did this to you?’

She closed her eye and tried to swallow. The acid had not only managed to rip the insides of her mouth but also the larynx. ‘Is my husband dead?’ she croaked, her voice barely audible.

Lowry fidgeted in his seat. The raw flesh around her swollen mouth crinkled, and he winced, almost feeling her pain. ‘Um, have the doctors spoken with you about . . . er . . . ?’

‘No, they said you would talk to me.’ Her voice was a gruff whisper.

He guessed she already knew the answer.

‘I’m sorry. Yes, he died at the scene.’

She nodded, still with her eye closed. ‘Do you think it was quick?’

‘Um, yes, it was. Do you know who did this?’

‘He was selling that drug.’ She paused to take a breath. ‘You know the one. Flakka, it’s called. He changed after that, you know. I never really knew him anymore.’

Lowry took out his pocketbook and began scribbling notes, allowing her time to get her words together; he could sense she was struggling. ‘Did he know the man who did this? Was he a dealer? Or perhaps a user?’

She shook her head again. ‘All I know is he’s called the Governor. He’s an evil man.’

‘The Governor? What does he look like?’

‘He’s a big man, a huge man . . . but he had a balaclava on his face, and so did the others, including the girl.’ She stopped and took a laboured gasp for air.

Lowry held his pen poised. ‘The girl?’

‘Yes, the girl. She was the one who did this.’ She slowly lifted her arm and pointed to her face.

‘Do you remember anything about this girl? Can you recall her age, her name, anything at all?’ He knew he was pushing her, but he had to get answers, in case she didn’t make it.

The drugs were obviously taking control as she began to talk more slowly. ‘No. You see as well as the balaclava, she wore a Mickey Mouse mask, and it was very dark. But I remember two things. She had long dark hair and she was young. She laughed at me, like a kid would, and then the men put a bag or a sack over my husband’s head. He didn’t stand a chance, they were so big . . . They were so big . . . so cruel . . . Why me?’ Her words were now slow and drawn-out. The drugs were taking hold.

Lowry stopped writing. The poor woman was asleep. He sat and stared at her and then studied his notes. This attack shocked him more than anything, and it wasn’t the first case. The whole world was going mad. Had the Devil come down to earth? he wondered.

***

Rebecca Mullins stared at her brother’s white face. ‘For God’s sake, Conrad, you need to keep this quiet. Father has pushed me forward for this opening, and I cannot let him or my husband down. It’s what you’ve all been working towards. How the hell will it look if these latest events are splashed all over the news?’

‘And Brooke? What about her? She needs help!’ said Conrad in a low voice, as his eyes looked up to the ceiling of his sister’s kitchen, knowing his sweet niece was suffering somewhere upstairs.

Rebecca gave a dramatic sigh. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I am more than capable of looking after my daughter. She does not need a therapist or a bloody counsellor, she needs me . . . and’ – she paused as her eyes fell to the floor – ‘we don’t need any dirt dug up at this stage, do we?’

Conrad shook his head in disbelief. ‘Are those your words or Father’s? Honestly, Rebecca, is the idea of becoming a senior minister so important?’

Rebecca glared with fire in her eyes. ‘Ask Father that question.’

‘I don’t need to. I already know why you’re so cold and desperate in your quest for success. You have to prove to Father that you’re the person he wishes you to be. Making a few mistakes as a young woman doesn’t mean you have to do everything he demands to stay in his favour, you know.’

With a dismissive hand gesture, she closed the conversation and led her brother to the door.

***

Three Months Later, HM Prison Maidstone

Mike Regan had a huge grin on his face as he watched his son pot the black ball.

‘I think, my boy, when we get outta this shit pit, I’ll ’ave ta buy you a full-size table. If Ronnie O’Sullivan can make a living, then maybe you can too.’

Ricky chuckled. His face was beaming; he had just cleaned up, leaving his father with two yellow balls on the table.

Ricky placed his cue on the green baize. ‘Talking of which, Dad, will I be living with you then when we get out?’

Mike, at six foot seven, with shoulders that touched a standard doorframe, placed a meaty arm around his son’s shoulders. ‘Eleven years. I thought you were . . . er . . . well, you know. Now I’ve got you back, you ain’t going outta my sight.’ He ruffled Ricky’s floppy, wayward hair and stared into his childlike grey eyes that were laced with thick black lashes.

Their conversation was halted when Officer Patton came noisily marching towards them.

‘Fuck, I’ve only been ’ere three weeks. Surely, I ain’t getting put on report already,’ mumbled Mike, under his breath.

Patton, a slim man in his late thirties, stopped the other side of the pool table, where he looked up at Mike. ‘Regan, you have a visit.’

Mike frowned and looked at his watch. ‘Er . . . Gov, I haven’t booked a visit and it’s only ten o’clock. Are you sure you got that right?’

Patton nodded, and his eyes shot a sideways glance at Ricky. ‘They’re police officials. They want to ask you a few questions.’

Mike sighed and ran his hands through his hair. ‘Oh, fuck me. What’s going on now?’

Patton edged himself around the table and leaned closer to Mike. ‘I don’t think it’s about having you arrested. I could be wrong, but I think they just want to have a conversation with you.’

Mike screwed his face up. ‘Since when do the Filth just want a conversation? Look, d’ya think I need my lawyer?’

Patton shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t get the impression it was that sort of meeting . . . Listen, I wouldn’t normally tell you this, but a word in your shell-like.’ He edged even closer, so no one could hear. ‘It’s the Police Commissioner accompanied by a detective, and neither are dressed in uniform. You didn’t hear that from me, okay?’

With a deep frown etched on his face, Mike chewed the inside of his mouth. ‘All right. Are they here now?’

Patton smiled. ‘Yeah. Follow me.’

‘Hang on . . . My son. I don’t want to leave him on his own.’

Patton knew the score. Ricky came to the prison under the name of Richard Menaces. But when Mike arrived from Wormwood Scrubs, Ricky soon found the massive monster of a man was his father. Mike had believed his archenemy had killed Ricky, but the truth was his wife had run off with his son and pretended to Ricky that Mike was dead.

‘Ritz’s in the gym. You can join him, Ricky.’

A broad smile that showed Ricky’s dimples adorned his face. He loved Willie Ritz, who was one of his father’s best mates, and was happy enough to do a few workouts with him on the punchbag. He wanted to build up his skinny frame and be more like his father, who was probably the most prominent man in the prison.

Patton escorted Mike along the corridors and through reception before heading to a room at the back. It was similar to a police interview room. As Patton opened the door and stepped aside, Mike walked in. There, behind a long table, were two men, who quickly rose to their feet. Right away, Mike knew he wasn’t there to be arrested. No police official would have stood up in respect if that had been the case.

‘Please take a seat, Mr Regan,’ said the bigger of the two men. ‘I am Detective Simon Lowry, and this is Police Commissioner Conrad Stoneham.’

Mike politely nodded while sussing each man out in turn.

Lowry was dark-haired with pale skin and sores in the dip of his chin. His large hands also had very dry skin. Mike assumed the thickset man suffered from eczema. His other distinguishing features were his hooded eyes and the round belly that was prominent in the tight blue suit, which had seen better days. The collar on his pale-blue shirt was at least two sizes too small and was pinched by a navy-blue tie that appeared to strangle him. Mike guessed the detective was in his late fifties. The Commissioner, however, was much smarter-looking altogether. Dressed in a beige jacket, white shirt, and dark trousers, he could just as easily have stepped off a yacht. His silver hair didn’t match his dark eyebrows and wide-open green eyes. It was hard to assess his age, but he was probably in his late forties.

Lowry looked at Stoneham to start the conversation, but his boss was still eyeing over Mike and hoping he’d made the correct decision in coming to see him.

Mike was huge and unusually very self-controlled. His grey eyes were intense, and they revealed a lot about him. He was a no-nonsense, straight-up kind of person. There was no point in beating about the bush with Mike.

‘Mr Regan, I have a proposition for you. You have a parole hearing in a year’s time, and it is possible that you may be out in eighteen months, but your prison records suggest you may not get parole. The amount of time spent in solitary confinement doesn’t look good for you.’

He paused and waited for Mike to respond, but he was left feeling uncomfortable by Mike’s cold stare and tight-lipped expression.

‘So, would I be right in thinking you would like to see the back of this place sooner rather than later?’

Mike remained silent, much to the annoyance of Lowry, who felt he needed to jump in. ‘Well?’

‘Well what? You’re assuming a lot, gentlemen, and I’m still none the wiser as to your visit.’

Stoneham clasped his hands together and leaned forward. ‘This conversation is highly confidential, so whatever you decide to do after our discussion has to stay strictly between the three of us.’

Mike smirked. ‘Oh, come on. Seriously? I am in prison, so I owe you guys nothing. Therefore, don’t ask anything of me, unless I’m going to benefit from it myself!’

His words were firm and left Lowry with a positive view that Mike was the man for the job.

Stoneham nodded. ‘South-East London’s knife crime rate has hit an all-time high. We have a serious problem on our hands, and the fact of the matter is . . . ’ he sighed, ‘the gangs are growing bigger by the day. Harsher punishments to make examples of these characters aren’t a deterrent. The truth is, these kids, if you can call them that, are out of control.’

Mike’s face remained impassive. ‘So, what’s all of this got to do with me? Unless, of course, you think I can make a great therapist, in which case I charge by the hour. I just don’t get why you’re ’ere.’

Stoneham gave a short, uncertain laugh. It was a trait of his when he was at a loss what to say. It was quite clear Regan wasn’t going to make things easy for him, and he certainly wasn’t buying what he’d come to tell him.

‘Let me answer that. I know you see me as the enemy—’

‘I never said that,’ Mike interjected. ‘Don’t tell me what I think, feel, or believe. You, Mr Stoneham, can only tell me what you factually know. Please don’t assume you know anything about me.’

Stoneham had done extensive research on Regan. He’d read every statement, every file, and he knew right this minute that all the previous quashed convictions were because this man was smart and premeditated. Even the rise of his eyebrow was done with thought. He also guessed that Regan would coldly torture information out of his enemies without even flinching. What he needed to be sure of was that Regan had a moral compass and an appreciation of the rules to keep the streets safe to walk on.

‘No, quite right. It’s probably a habit of mine, being in the police force since I left school.’

Stoneham knew he needed to come off his perch, lower his own guard, and be honest with the man, for Regan to trust him.

‘I know one thing about you, Mr Regan, and that is this. You’ve never been arrested for anything other than a few heists, and, of course, the murder of Scottie Harman, but I also understand you believed he had kidnapped your son.’

Stoneham watched Mike’s chest rhythmically move up and down as he breathed evenly.

‘I may have done the same if I had believed that he had kidnapped my daughter.’

Mike sniggered. ‘Come on. Don’t fuck with me. You’re the Filth, and I’m not. In your tiny mind, you would want whoever kidnapped your daughter, God forbid, dead. But would you do it yourself? Nah, not in a million fucking years. Why? Because the law runs through your veins and you would believe that your boys in blue would have the power to catch the person who did your family wrong. Me, all I have is my own blood running through my veins. You don’t believe in an eye for an eye, but I fucking do.’

‘And so, it appears, does your mother!’ exclaimed Stoneham, with a sharp tongue. He stared straight into Mike’s eyes and looked for just a hint of anxiety, but, again, there was nothing.

‘We have a good enough reason to suspect she was responsible for Tracey Harman’s murder.’ He hoped that would stir some emotion and he could then barter Regan’s mother’s liberty.

‘If you suspected my muvver, you’d have had her down the nick, but, as far as I’m aware, she’s at home pruning her roses. Now, I suggest you get to the point or fuck off.’

Stoneham could see that there was no point in trying to use emotional blackmail with Regan. ‘I need you and your men back on the outside working for me, and before you laugh it off, take note. Last week in Bromley, we had two knifings. One was an old lady, who was attacked as she stepped off the bus, and the other was a twelve-year-old kid, who was similarly attacked on his way home from school. Seventeen pensioners were held at knifepoint – robbed and battered in their own homes. Luckily, none were killed. And a baby in a pram was snatched and held with a knife to his throat, all for eleven pounds fifty. These are just a few examples of what I’ve come to talk to you about, and, believe me, they are off the top of my head. Crimes like these are soaring.’

Stoneham clocked Mike’s lips turn down at the corners. He thought he may have hit a nerve, so he paused and waited.

‘And this meeting between us is your idea, is it?’

Lowry coughed and wiped his brow: the room was stifling.

Stoneham turned to Lowry. ‘Could you wait outside? I think Mr Regan may feel more comfortable with just myself present . . . and before you question my safety. . . ’ – he turned to Mike – ‘I think I am pretty safe. Do we agree, Mr Regan?’

Mike held up his huge hands and sighed. ‘Of course you are. I’m not a fucking caged bear, ya know!’

Lowry looked somewhat miffed by his boss’s request.

‘And, Lowry, ask one of the officers to bring us some coffee, please.’ He watched as the detective begrudgingly rose from his chair and left the room.

‘Right, yes, you surmised correctly. The initiative isn’t mine, and I won’t pretend otherwise because you’re a clever sod, and I won’t waste your time or mine.’

Mike suddenly smiled. ‘Good. I was wondering when the fuck you’d get to the point.’

‘Mr Regan, I need you on the outside. This gang contains real low-life, total scum. Muggings, shoplifting, and even the odd bit of drug dealing is pretty normal on a day-to-day basis, but what’s going on now is a whole new ballgame. I’ve got kids, and I mean kiddies, on a new drug called Flakka, old ladies are being murdered for their pensions, and gang-rapes of young girls are prevalent as well.’

For a moment, Mike seemed unfazed. ‘I want to know who initiated this meeting.’

Stoneham was quickly gauging the influence of the man. ‘The local MP, Rebecca Mullins.’

Mike laughed. ‘So, then, some toff has asked you to clean up the streets by using me as a vigilante?’

Feeling uncomfortable with those words, the Commissioner swallowed hard. Whichever way he dressed this up, the plain fact was that Regan would clearly spot bullshit a mile off. He knew he would have to speak Regan’s language for him to get anywhere. ‘Yes!’

Mike raised his brow and smirked. He hadn’t expected that reply. ‘So why would I put myself on the line for you or this Mullins bird?’

Stoneham knew he was getting somewhere at last. ‘Your freedom for starters. We will turn a blind eye to your own business in exchange for cleaning up the streets.’

As Mike chewed the inside of his mouth, he calculated the risks and whether he could even contemplate working for the Filth.

Stoneham read his mind. ‘I know it goes against the grain, I get that, but I also believe that you and I are on the same page when it comes to these sorts of crimes. Old-school gangsters have a moral code I believe. It’s thou shall not hurt women, children, and pensioners. Am I right?’

Mike laughed louder this time. ‘Jesus, you’ve been watching that film The Krays.’

‘No, actually, Mr Regan, I listened to my father. He was a detective in South-East London, and he learned the code from the likes of your father, Arthur Regan. So, like you, I’m also not what you assume.’

‘Fair play, Mr Stoneham.’

Mike’s shoulders visibly relaxed, and Stoneham could almost see the sternness in his eyes melt away.

‘I don’t want an answer now. Please think about it before you make a decision. But the deal is this. You, your son, and your firm – and, yes, of course, I know your associates are tight, as I’ve done my homework – will be released within a week. Your businesses will not be watched, the deaths of all the Harmans will be placed in the solved case file, and all I want in return is for my streets to be cleaned up. I would prefer the scare tactic and not more bloodshed, but we will cross that bridge when necessary. I will give you everything I have on these gangs and the rest is up to you. Now, I will be back next week for an answer, and, as I said, please would you keep this confidential? I mean, between us and your firm.’

Mike nodded. ‘Of course. I can see your problem, and I’ll keep schtum, so don’t worry on that score.’

Stoneham sat back, surprised that Regan was not playing games. He really was a straight-up person.

Lowry opened the door, holding two hot coffees on a tray. He watched in amazement as the Commissioner and Regan rose to their feet.

‘Sorry, Lowry. Our meeting is over.’

***

Brooke Mullins pulled the bed cover over her head as soon as she heard her mother entering the room.

‘Come on, sweet pea, you have to eat something. Hettie has made a wonderful chocolate cake with sprinkles on it.’

Just the shrill tone of her mother’s sickly, over-the-top voice grated on Brooke. At nineteen, she was annoyed with life in general, but the last three weeks had been sheer purgatory. The normal emotional teenager–parent issues had been well and truly put to one side. They were replaced by feelings of devastating anger, humiliation, and – worse than anything – pure fear.

In one fluid movement, she threw the pink daisy-print duvet off her head and sat upright. Her hair was sticking out in all directions, and her once fresh cherry blossom-coloured cheeks were now a wishy-washy grey colour and covered in a layer of grease.

Rebecca tried to stroke her daughter’s arm but was instantly shrugged off.

‘Sweetheart, I know what you’ve been through is so difficult, but you need to eat and . . . ’ she sniffed the air, ‘take a shower. Come on. Please get out of this bed. You will feel so much better.’

Like a deranged young woman, with brown rings under her eyes and the intense hate casting doom, Brooke spat at her mother, ‘Don’t you ever tell me that I will feel better. You have no idea what I’ve been through. And don’t you dare try to tell me it will be okay, because, Mother, it won’t. Now, leave me alone!’

Rebecca backed away. Of course, she didn’t know how her daughter felt, or what on earth was going through her mind. She felt her tears well up and her heart was heavy. ‘I know, darling, I know, but I am just trying to help. I will leave you alone then.’

Brooke heard the door close, and she pulled the duvet back over her head. Her mother and father were the last people she wanted to console her now. They’d never shown any real interest in her or her sisters. She and her siblings were more like a by-product or an accessory. Talking to her mother was like conversing with her former headmistress – cold, stiff, and stilted.

She didn’t care if she needed a bath, and she certainly didn’t need to fill herself with food – that would only result in vomiting it back up. The windows had to be kept locked, no matter how hot it was, and her door closed. The light was permanently on and a kitchen knife lay under her pillow. She trusted no one and probably never would, ever again. She hated herself and the world around her. Things would never be the same, ever. The vision of those wide-eyed men clawing at her like they were devouring a hog roast would be with her for the rest of her life. She couldn’t cry anymore; the tears had dried up, and now she was angry, but also terrified. Her dreams were gone, and she felt her life was over.

Rebecca crept down the stairs, her eyes filling up once more, recalling the moment the police had brought Brooke home. It wasn’t so much the ripped clothes and exposed breast covered by a police blanket, or even the claw marks down her face: it was the dead look in her once bright, shiny eyes that would forever haunt her. Her daughter hadn’t stood a chance. The little bookworm, with her oversized glasses perched on her button nose and her sweetness as she gracefully wandered about, almost on tiptoes, seemed to be a distant memory. A well-liked, clear-headed teenager, who had so many dreams for the future. She worked hard at uni and still ensured she had time to have fun with her friends.

As Rebecca entered the kitchen, she found Kendall, her daughter from her previous marriage, perched on a stool devouring Nutella on toast. Dressed in black leggings and a T-shirt with a derogatory logo on the front, Kendall ignored her mother and swayed to the music streaming through her Beats by Dre headphones.

‘Kendall, do you think you could try to get Brooke at least to eat something? I am so worried about her. The poor little thing, she won’t listen to me . . . ’

Rebecca watched as her daughter continued to stuff her face and sway her head. Suddenly, Rebecca slammed her hands down on the table, which made Kendall jump.

‘Take those headphones off!’

Slowly, Kendall did as she was told, but with a sneering, disapproving look. ‘What now, Mother?’

‘I said, would you talk to Brooke? She won’t come out of her room, and I am so worried. She won’t eat, she is so . . . Look, please try to talk to her. Would you?’

‘For fuck’s sake, she’s your kid, it’s your job. Anyway, I think she needs professional help, or she will carry on like this and just end up milking it.’

No sooner were those words out of her mouth than Rebecca snatched her daughter’s arm and pulled her awkwardly to face her. ‘How dare you say such a cruel thing! That poor girl was raped by three lads! Jesus. And you have the audacity to say she will milk it? You, Kendall Mullins, should be totally ashamed of yourself.’

Kendall shrugged her mother off. Her younger sister was no concern of hers. ‘Well, for your information, Mother, I am not ashamed of myself. And all the bloody time you and Alastair fuss over her, but deny her proper help as well, she’s never going to get her fucking shit together, is she?’

Rebecca looked at her daughter long and hard and shook her head. Her once charming child was now a rebellious twenty-year-old with a lousy attitude. ‘Your language, Kendall, is absolutely disgusting and it’s hurtful to hear, I have to say. And calling your father Alastair is so disrespectful, and after all he has done for you . . . ’

Instantly, Kendall hopped down from the kitchen stool, and squarely stood in her mother’s face, in defiance. ‘What he’s done for me? Hello! He’s a creep! I never asked to be taken away from my father and dumped into your so-called happy family, did I? I was fine where I was. Just because you felt guilty about leaving me behind and—’

Bam. Rebecca slapped Kendall’s face, and then she immediately regretted it. ‘I am sorry. Look, I didn’t mean . . . ’

Kendall didn’t even hold her cheek, although it bloody well stung; instead, she glared back with a glacial expression. If looks could kill . . . ‘Fuck off, Mother. You’re so pathetic, weak, and fucking stupid. Seriously, take a look at yourself. On the surface, the perfect wife and mother. Then strip back the facade.’

Rebecca wanted nothing more than to shut Kendall up, but she’d already gone too far with the slap.

‘Running around like everything is wonderful, when, really, you know fuck all about what your husband is up to. Then there’s Brooke going out of her mind, and Poppy . . . well, do you even know anything about the jumped-up secret squirrel? The truth be told, Mother, I am probably the most normal person in this shambles of a family. And just a warning: don’t you ever hit me again, or, next time, I’ll forget you’re my mother.’

Pushing past her mother, she reached the door and looked back. ‘Oh, and by the way, I am going to be moving in with my father next week. I am twenty, and I’m sick of you telling me I can’t go anywhere until I pay you back the university fees. I don’t want to be a lawyer, I just want to be a hairdresser. I’m done with you telling me I owe you. You’ll get all the money back from my tips.’

Rebecca gasped. ‘What? No, you mustn’t. I mean, look, please, Kendall, don’t do that, you will—’

‘Ruin my future and blot your social standing? Yes, I know, Mother, and does this fucking face look like it’s bothered? No! Fuck you and fuck your career as well. That’s all you care about. God forbid, I should be a hairdresser! Well, I’m not going into law, and I don’t give a shit about your precious career either.’

Standing in shock, Rebecca jolted as the front door slammed shut. Kendall was right, though. No matter how much she pretended that her eldest daughter was a rebellious, spiteful young woman, she also knew that every word coming out of the girl’s mouth was the sodding truth. Pushing Kendall into a professional career in law – demanding she take a post in chambers – had obviously run its course, and there was no way she could stop her leaving now. The family was falling apart, and, even worse, she was powerless to stop it.

***

Willie Ritz was holding the punchbag while Ricky was tearing into it. His T-shirt and hairline were dripping in sweat.

‘Cor, son, you can hammer this all right,’ said Willie, using all his strength to hold the punchbag still.

As they swapped positions and Willie began throwing punches, Ricky noticed how the scar that ran down the man’s face reddened. He was right when he said the quack had basically made a pig’s ear of it. Still, as much as Willie was frighteningly ugly, he was, as far as Ricky was concerned, kind on the inside.

Ricky was just strong enough to hold the bag, but as soon as his father walked into the gym, he let go.

Willie held his hands up. ‘No way I’m gonna be holding the bag for that fucker.’ He pointed to Mike, who, in turn, laughed.

‘Listen, Willie, can you meet me in me cell with Staffie and Lou? We need to talk.’

‘Er . . . and me, Dad?’

Mike gave Ricky a full cheek-lifting smile. ‘Goes without saying, my boy.’

‘What’s up, Mikey? Everything okay?’

Mike surveyed who was in the room and then looked back at Willie. ‘Yeah, of course.’

Willie knew then that it was serious. Between the lads, they understood every wink, nod, and expression – it was like an unspoken code. Growing up together from babies, they were as close as brothers.

***

An hour later, they were gathered inside Mike and Ricky’s cell. Ted Stafford and Lou Baker sat on Ricky’s bed, while Willie and Ricky sat on Mike’s. Mike shut the door and remained standing as if he was about to give a lecture. They all waited for the announcement.

‘So, I had a visit from the Police Commissioner, no fucking less.’

Willie licked his fag paper and raised his brow. ‘Oh yeah? What the ’ell’s that all about, then?’

‘Well, lads, he wants our help—’

Lou jumped in. ‘Since when do we ’elp the Filth?’ It was unusual for Lou to interrupt; he was usually the quieter one, who generally chose his words carefully. He was the man who could pull off acting like royalty, if need be.

‘My thoughts exactly, Lou, but here’s the thing. They have been overrun with crimes that not even the likes of us would condone, and it’s rife out there. The police haven’t got the manpower they used to have. It’s to do with politics and cuts or something like that, so there ain’t enough of the Ol’ Bill to bring these gangs to their knees.’

Staffie, who was Mike’s closest friend, scratched his bald head. ‘I dunno, I don’t get it, Mike. What’s it got to do with us, anyway?’

‘Listen up. We’ll be released early, all of us, in return for throwing our weight around and looking like we’re helping them, when, really, we ain’t. I don’t know the exact details. The Commissioner will be back to visit me in a few days to discuss it a bit further. But, whatever, I ain’t said yeah to it. You know me. No fucking way would I help the Filth. But what if we agree to their deal, and then, once we’re out, we treat it like a game to our advantage? What d’ya say if we rough up a few scallies that we would anyway, and, in the meantime, we use their blind eye to make a fucking mint?’

Willie puffed on the end of his roll-up, and then he let out a smoke ring. ‘We ain’t grasses, and we ain’t the Ol’ Bill.’

Mike nodded in agreement. He’d expected this reaction. It was who they were. Grassing to the Filth was a no-no in their line of work. ‘Yep, mate, you’re right, but these little firms have not only been mugging pensioners but they’re into killing kids as well. A twelve-year-old boy was murdered on his way home from school. And, oh yeah, they’ve been gang raping young girls.’

Staffie sat up straight. ‘Shit! Fucking bastards.’

‘Yep. So, they may be villains, but, really, they ain’t like us, or like the real Faces in London. If these two-bit gangs think they can muscle in on my manor, then they’ll get a shock, and whatever happens, we won’t get nicked. See what I’m saying? We won’t be helping the law, we’ll be helping ourselves to take back our turf and run the little shites out of town. Let’s face it, we would do that anyway. I’ve been away a long time, and I wanna get back out there and take back what’s mine, as ya know.’

‘If we were to agree, how far will they let us go? And what’s really in it for us? I mean, what about our own business? Are they gonna turn a blind eye, or, after they get what they want, will we find ourselves back in the slammer?’ asked Lou.

Mike shrugged his shoulders. ‘The finer details, I don’t know, but, before I get another visit, I need to know what you guys want. Let’s face it, we could make a lot of money out of this. Think about it. We ain’t being informants, are we? And besides, we won’t be working for the Filth, ’cos if we’re clever enough about it, they’ll be working for us. They’ll give us tip-offs, and if I push ’em, they could give us information that’d work in our favour.’

Willie chuckled. ‘Sounds like a fucking plan, mate.’

Staffie’s face was loaded with disapproval. ‘I don’t know about this. It ain’t what we’re about, is it? And what do we really have that’ll guarantee we’ll stay outta jail?’

‘Fuck off, Staffie, you’re always unsure these bleedin’ days,’ spat Willie.

‘No, Willie, Staffie has as much say as any of us.’

Staffie’s narrowed eyes widened. ‘Are you sure you’re gonna be one step ahead of the law?’

Mike grinned. ‘Haven’t I always been – well, in the past, before I was banged up?’

Staffie chewed his top lip and sighed. ‘S’pose so.’

Mike grinned. ‘If we’re all in agreement, I’ll need to work out how to guarantee our continued liberty.’

Ricky watched the dynamics and how the men looked up to his father, hanging on his every word. He felt proud, but, also, he wanted to be a part of the firm and not just ‘Mikey’s son’. Although he and his dad had been apart for twelve years, it didn’t matter. He wanted to be by his side, no matter what that looked like.

‘Can I say something?’

Mike’s stern face lit up when he looked at his son. ‘Of course you can, my boy.’

Ricky nervously looked at the other men. ‘Um, your lawyer. Couldn’t he have a contract drawn up, or, better still, be present as a witness when the judge signs your release papers?’

Willie patted Ricky on the back. ‘Good idea, Ricky. See, up there for thinking, down there for dancing.’

Mike nodded, encouraging his son. ‘Yep, he may well be the brains of the outfit,’ he laughed, as he looked over at Willie.

Staffie jumped in. ‘And the fucking brawn. Ya should’ve seen him bash the fuck outta Tit and Tat.’

All four men laughed while Ricky blushed.

CHAPTER TWO

With Tatum and her son in prison, Jackie had to get off her arse and make her own money. She’d syphoned off a very healthy amount from Mike before she’d done a runner. The house near Ely was the first to be flogged off. Cash was king as far as she was concerned and what was the point in keeping the place on? She’d dwindled the proceeds away to the point that now she was nearly skint. And the regular poke she’d received from Tatum for using her son on the burglaries had now gone. Having pissed off half the site with her temper tantrums, she was down to no friends, with just herself and a bottle of Grey Goose for company. But even that had recently been replaced with a cheaper bottle of vodka.

She looked out of the window and watched as Cora, Tatum’s wife, stood gossiping with two other women. Holding bags of knocked-off T-shirts, Cora was now confident enough to have the women running around for her. It was once Jackie’s job: she had the contacts and the suppliers and could make a few bob. However, one supplier got a bit cheeky, so Jackie slapped her. Word spread what a bitch Jackie could be, and hence, slowly but surely, the suppliers and the runners backed away.

Cora turned her head to look right through Jackie’s window, allowing Jackie to see the smirk that slithered across Cora’s face.

Firmly under Tatum’s thumb, Cora had led a somewhat oppressed life. Even though they’d had six kids together, Tatum still had the energy to look elsewhere for sex, and he didn’t have to look very far. He and Jackie had compatible sexual appetites, and so whenever he could – which was often – he would find an excuse to see her and they would fuck ’til the cows came home.

Selling her arse to Tatum had been a good money earner for Jackie, but that all stopped too when he went inside.

Jackie had to admit that after a few trips to the beauticians and to a few high-end shops, where she could purchase some decent clobber, Cora did look pretty good. In fact, the woman scrubbed up better than she did. And because Cora’s kids were older now and mostly off her hands, giving Cora more time for herself, she had the means to have a life she wanted. It was an everyday insult to see Cora flashing the cash while she had zilch.

Slamming the glass tumbler down on the table, Jackie walked away from the window and stormed into her bedroom. Furious, she looked around. Her once brand-new caravan was, at one time, the best on the site. She’d bought it when she’d moved to Ireland, and it was still the best model when half the site, herself included, moved over to Essex.

But everything was changing around her, and Jackie felt angry and jealous. Not only were the younger travellers buying top-of-the-range caravans and four-by-fours, but even Cora – the bitch – was swanning around in a brand-new Land Rover, courtesy of her own business.

Jackie looked at her wardrobes and gritted her teeth. Two doors were leaning against the frame. She couldn’t exactly remember how that had happened, but she knew she’d probably pulled them off their hinges when she’d overdone it with the drink. Rifling through her now old-fashioned gear, her frustration increased.

It was time she sorted herself out – got out of her pyjamas, dyed her roots, and put on a bit of slap. She could always turn a pound into a tenner. With her looks and her cheek, it used to be a doddle, but that wasn’t the case now. She wasn’t getting any younger, and Botox was expensive. She’d already sold most of her jewellery and designer rig-outs.

After pulling every last item of clothing from the wardrobes and throwing them onto the bed, she stepped back and gazed, wondering if among them there was something decent enough to go out in. She noticed a wine-red coloured velour tracksuit, one that she’d never worn before. With her hair dyed black and curled, she could probably pull it off.

An hour later, she was showered, dressed, and had added the finishing touch of hairspray. As she opened the drawer in which she kept her tobacco, she noticed she was down to her last packet but then clocked the small drugs parcel. She’d forgotten all about that.

When Tatum had arrived at Maidstone Prison, he’d called her and set up a meeting for her with a man named Leon Khouri. He gave her the parcel to take into the prison, but the handover had never taken place. Her son Ricky had been expected to take the drugs on the visit, but he’d flatly refused, and she’d been left shitting herself. Luckily, she’d managed to get away from the visiting room with the parcel still concealed in her oversized hair bun.

Her mind went into overdrive: there was always money in drugs, she thought.

***

Before leaving her caravan, she had called Leon, in the hope that he would see her. To her surprise, he’d agreed. Heading over to South-East London, Jackie pondered what she would say when she met the man. She was aware that he was seriously dangerous because Tatum had already given her the heads-up when she’d picked up the parcel. His deep, intense glare had been concerning enough. Compared to her husband, Mike, though, he was probably only small fry, but she’d escaped that relationship twelve years ago and hoped that Mike had given up looking for her and Ricky. Little did she know that Ricky had met up with his father in prison.

The sun beaming down turned her car into an oven. Dressed in the velour tracksuit more suited to colder weather, Jackie was sweating buckets. She peered into the rear-view mirror and cursed; her eyeliner was embedded into the wrinkles around her eyes and her drawn-on eyebrows had smudged. Her hair had lost its lustre and gained a frizzy halo. As she looked away from the mirror and straight ahead, she suddenly had to slam on the brakes. A tall, slim woman, wearing a flowy dress, stepped onto the zebra crossing. Jackie gritted her teeth. She’d once looked like her, but the last twelve years had left her tired, and although she hated to admit it, she was looking old. Without the money to get her lip fillers and Botox, she was bordering on ugly.

Once the woman had crossed the road, Jackie set off again. Turning into the long, overgrown drive that eventually widened into a dusty track, Jackie could smell the dryness in the air. A few chickens ran out in front of her, making her slam on the brakes again. At that moment, she felt nervous. This place was miles away from anywhere, and no one knew where she was going or would even care for that matter. She hesitated. It would be sensible just to turn around and head back. But behind her was another car, a large black BMW, and so she continued along the drive.

The farmhouse looked like an unsuspecting old cottage, with rambling roses and a wishing well by the front door – a typical pensioner’s palace. Then, as she parked the car, she noticed more vehicles behind the cottage. Her heart began to beat even faster. There was no way she could go back because the Beemer had blocked her in. She would have to hold her head up and not show she was nervous. Her whole body shook anyway, from all the drinking, but clutching her fake Chanel bag, she managed to steady her hands.

Jackie didn’t need to knock at the door because the man who had followed her in his car placed a thick, muscly arm over her shoulder and pushed the door open.

She turned enough to nod politely and was met with a cold stare. She didn’t recognize the tall, heavily built man and wondered if he was a business associate of Leon’s or someone higher up the chain. He certainly wasn’t a copper. The tattoo on his neck and across his chunky knuckles confirmed that little notion.

Stepping inside, she was surprised at the layout. What was probably once the main living room was now an office with just a few essentials. However, the room kept its rustic charm, with exposed oak floorboards and a beamed ceiling. To the right was a large wooden desk and directly in front of her were two brown velvet sofas. The random mismatch of dining room chairs and a coffee table with magazines on it reminded her of a dentist’s waiting room.

The previous meeting had been brief. All she’d done was to knock at the door and give her name and take the parcel. At the time, she just assumed it was the dealer’s house. She hadn’t realized that the cottage held any special significance. Judging by the hard-faced men in the room, though, she had clearly been mistaken.

Sitting behind the desk was Leon. He appeared to stiffen and looked uneasy when the tattooed man came in. ‘Everything kosher, Steph?’ he asked nervously.

The tattooed man snatched a briefcase from one of the seated men, gave a menacing sneer in Leon’s direction, and marched out the door. The tension suddenly lifted, and the men, who were gathered and poring over a large map of South-East London, went back to circling areas on it, using black felt-tip pens. Jackie didn’t know whether to say hello or ignore them and walk over to Leon. She suddenly remembered her make-up had run in the heat: she’d been distracted by the car behind, causing her to forget about the state of her appearance. Now, she was feeling uncomfortable and could have kicked herself.

Leon looked up and waved his hand for two of the men to leave. He grinned and leaned back in his chair.

‘Hello again, Jackie.’

She took two steps forward and nodded. ‘Hi,’ she said, feeling very awkward.

‘So, Jackie, what can I do for you?’ His sly grin widened. He was mocking her, and she knew it.

With her back now to the ominous men, a surge of gumption shot through her veins. ‘It’s more about what I can do for you.’

Leon raised an eyebrow and lost his grin. She noticed how his deep-set eyes were close together. They were dark, like his hair. His skin was olive. Maybe he’s Italian or an Arab, she thought, yet he spoke like a Londoner.

‘Is that so, Jackie? Only I didn’t come knocking at your door, you came knocking at mine.’

She smiled and hoped he was joking, but his eyes narrowed again. ‘So, what is it then that you can do for me?’

‘I know people and—’

He laughed. ‘We all know people, darling.’

‘Yeah, but I know people that I can sell to.’

No sooner had she got the words out of her mouth than Leon lunged across the desk and snatched her hair, pulling it an inch from his face. ‘Bad fucking move, tramp!’

She almost tasted the whisky on his breath, but it was mixed with the taste of her own fear. Wide-eyed and petrified, Jackie didn’t move.

Leon let her go and looked over at the men sitting on the sofa. ‘Leave us, gentlemen, please.’

He didn’t have to ask twice; they swiftly headed for the door, leaving him glaring at Jackie.

‘Who the fuck do you think you are, coming into my premises and announcing to everyone in the room that you can sell stuff? You don’t even know who those fucking men are, do ya? Who the hell do you take me for? I ain’t no small-time fucking street dealer. I gave you a parcel for an associate of mine, and now you’re presenting yourself like you’re some kinda gangster! The only thing you could sell, Jackie, is ya fucking fanny, a score at most. Now, get outta my house and never fucking come back!’

Shaking all over, Jackie was on the point of leaving, but she’d driven all this way, and she needed money. ‘Look, Leon, I’m sorry about that. I stupidly assumed . . . well, never mind. I just thought I could work for you. I’m a grown woman. The Filth won’t sniff around me, if ya know what I mean.’

Leon stretched his neck and rubbed his bristles. ‘So, then, you want to sell drugs?’

Jackie thought he was a bit blunt, but at the end of the day, he was right. Swallowing hard, she nodded. ‘I don’t take drugs myself and I’ve got no criminal record. I keep meself to meself, but I reckon—’

Leon interrupted. ‘You don’t take drugs? Really?’ His eyes regarded her ragged appearance.

She shook her head. ‘I’ve never touched hard gear.’

Slowly, and still keeping his eyes on her, he opened a drawer to the right of him and pulled out a packet. She watched as he pushed it under her nose. ‘Go on, then, open it and try some!’

‘Er . . . what? No, seriously, I don’t take drugs.’

A heavy sigh left Leon’s mouth. ‘Well, you’re no fucking good to me, then.’

‘I don’t understand.’ She tilted her head to the side. ‘I’m clean. I wouldn’t be taking the drugs meself, ya see. I just wanna make some money.’

‘You cannot sell that shit without telling the punters what it’s like, ’cos they will ask ya. In fact, the first words that will come outta their mouths will be “Is it good shit?” and you can’t fucking answer that, unless you’ve tried it yaself.’

‘But—’

Leon raised his hands. ‘No buts, darling. Either you wanna sell my gear, or you don’t. Now, try it, or fuck off!’

Jackie tried to suss out if it was some kind of test or if he really meant it. ‘Nah, it’s all right. I’ll leave it ’cos I don’t take shit.’

‘Bye-bye!’ He waved his hand, leaving Jackie flummoxed.

‘Hang on. Are ya serious? Ya really want me to try it?’

Leon shook his head. ‘For fuck’s sake, listen, will ya? I never joke, and I don’t have time for this bullshit, so go on, girl, fuck off!’

‘All right!’ she said, as she snatched the small packet. Carefully, she unwrapped it and stared at the white powder, and then, with wide eyes, she looked at him, hoping he would say he was joking.

Leon took a ten-pound note from a pen drawer, rolled it up, and passed it to her. His eyes were still firmly fixed on hers. ‘Snort it!’

She had smoked skunk before but had never touched powder. Her legs were like mushy peas, and her heart raced. Her mind went back to Tatum when he snorted cocaine. It didn’t turn him into a zombie. He just became more alert and a real chatterbox and, oh yes, very horny.

She shoved the rolled-up note up her nose and reluctantly sniffed some of the powder.

‘All of it, ya silly tart!’

She did as he said and immediately felt a burning in her nostrils followed by a heavenly feeling that slowly eased its way around her body. The anxious state left her, and she was on a high. The sensation was a thousand times better than any amount of Grey Goose could offer. Within a few minutes, her legs felt heavy, and she had the need to sit down, the room becoming blurred as a warm fuzziness engulfed her. As her head touched the arm of the sofa, she was floating on clouds in a world far away from her current miserable existence.

Leon got up from his chair and strolled over to Jackie. He stared at her gaping mouth, and then, slowly, his eyes descended to her breasts. He grinned to himself, thinking they must be fake; no one her age had tits that pert. He could easily help himself, but then he wondered if he could even be bothered.

The bang as the door pushed open pulled him out of his thoughts. Standing there, at six foot five, with a face like thunder and eyes like saucers, stood the Governor.

‘Are you some kind of cunt?’ he bellowed, gripping a heavy-looking metal bar.

Leon stepped back in shock, his mind working overtime, trying to think why the Governor was in his cottage, and, more worryingly, why he was holding a weapon. The Governor only ever made phone calls. He worked from his car; no one ever really got to meet him face-to-face. Yet the firm knew that if you crossed him you would be dead within two days. There was no bartering or begging. The man was ruthless and took no prisoners. His punishments went far beyond what any rational person would dish out.

Leon locked eyes with him and felt his bowels move. Those grey eyes that stared back were the Devil’s – he was convinced of it. And there was no way he would argue with him because death would knock at his door – that was a dead cert. ‘What’s up, mate?’ he asked, as his hands began to shake and his legs felt heavy.

‘Mate? I ain’t your mate. You fucking call me the Governor.’ The Governor’s face was tightened by his bottom jaw protruding. He shot a glance over at Jackie who was slumped on the sofa. ‘What’s up? You prick. How the fucking hell does some random slapper’ – he pointed to Jackie – ‘know where you work from, and, more to the fucking point, how does she know you supply drugs?’

‘She’s as safe as houses, Governor, I swear. She took some gear into the nick for Dez.’ The confidence in him plummeted as his voice cracked in panic. ‘Look, Governor, I wouldn’t take stupid chances, I swear to ya. She’s straight up.’ Leon could only guess that one of the men had grassed him up for having a tart turn up. Probably Stephan.

The Governor looked over at Jackie again and turned his head as if he recognized her. ‘Straight up, yeah? Look at the fucking state of the skanky bitch.’

‘Nah, she ain’t like that. I made her sample the gear.’

The Governor shook his head in disgust. ‘Where’s my money? You were supposed to fetch it to the drop-off point.’

Leon hurried over to the desk and opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a white cotton bag, ‘It’s all there.’

With a quick movement, the Governor grabbed the corner of the bag and tipped out the notes. ‘I want you to fucking count them in front of me. Now!’

Leon gathered up the money and began counting it. Each hundred bundle was carefully separated and put into piles until it totalled a thousand. Then, he placed every one in the bag. ‘Fifteen grand.’

‘Right, tomorrow, I want the next fifty grand dropped off at the Swan and Mitre, at noon. Not a fucking minute later. And if I ever have to come here in person again, I swear to God, you won’t have a fucking hand to count out the money.’

‘Look, I was gonna drop it off today. I swear to ya.’

With his fingers turning and tapping the metal bar, the Governor’s anger reached a pitch. ‘You’re a fucking idiot. Those drop-off points are timed, you mug. When I say a place and a time, then you get your skinny fucking arse there on the dot. Do I make myself clear?’

Leon nodded furiously. ‘No worries, Governor. It’ll be there, no question.’

‘It’d better be. Oh, and one more thing. The Daylight Inn is getting a bit hot. You make sure that drippy bog attendant has a lookout, even if it means it’s you. That’s a good earner, and I don’t want it fucked up, or . . . well, I don’t need to tell you, do I?’

With that, the Governor snatched the bag and left.

As soon as he was out of sight, Leon let out a large lungful of air; small beads of sweat gathered on his brow, and he felt his heart beating wildly. He thought for a moment about jacking it all in, but the money was too good; besides, fixing cars at ten pounds an hour was a distant memory.

Jackie stirred, and his annoyance caused him to kick her leg harder than was necessary to wake her up. ‘Get up!’

Her eyes flicked open, and a huge smile spread across her face, showing the chipped and blackened back teeth.

‘Come on! Get up and get out!’

Jackie’s euphoria was slowly descending. For a moment, she wanted to be back in that place of comfort where nothing else mattered. Getting to her feet, her eyes were heavy, and her muscles felt relaxed. ‘Wow, that’s good shit.’ She laughed, totally unaware of the scowl on Leon’s face.

‘Yeah, and ya fat gob nearly got me killed!’

Jackie, still detached from the real world, waved her hand. ‘Aw, don’t be like that, babe. I’ll tell ya what. You sort me out with that stuff and I’ll make you a fortune.’ She giggled like a child. ‘And, of course, meself.’

Leon nodded, not in the least interested. Ensuring he could come up with the fifty grand and in time for the drop-off tomorrow weighed heavily on his mind. He robotically walked back to his desk and retrieved ten packets of the powder. ‘’Ere, take this lot, and by Friday, I want five hundred quid on my desk. If ya fuck up, I know where ya live, and trust me, woman, you won’t have a caravan left. Got it?’

Jackie looked down at the carefully wrapped parcels. ‘That’s cheap for cocaine, ain’t it?’

With a caustic tone, Leon snapped, ‘You thick prat, it ain’t cocaine.’

Oblivious to his evident annoyance, Jackie looked up with her silly grin. ‘What is it, then?’

‘Flakka.’

‘What’s that? Some kinda heroin?’

He gave her a dismissive blink and let out a jaded sigh. ‘No, it’s a new drug . . . Never mind. Five hundred quid on my desk by Friday, and if you do well, then I’ll up the amount.’

‘How much do I sell it for?’ she asked naively.

‘Whatever the fuck you like. Now fuck off!’

By the time Jackie reached home, narrowly missing three parked cars and an old dear crossing the pedestrian lights, she was still high. The soft pillows on her bed were so inviting that she lay spreadeagled and soaked up the fuzzy, warm comfortable feeling. With serenity carved on her face, she drifted back into that other heavenly world, far removed from reality.

Three hours later, she was wide awake and feeling like shit – worse, in fact, than a significant hangover. Her body ached as if she’d been in a fight and her head was a mess. She struggled to fight off her inner demons, the two voices battling each other – one telling her to pull herself together and the other pressuring her to give in. Through blurry eyes, she stared at the packets on the bedside cabinet, knowing that she had to sell the gear or face the consequences. Her addictive personality had her by the throat, and she had to bite her nails to stop herself from touching any of it. It was as though the powder was calling her.

She jumped up from the bed to distract her weak thoughts but almost fell over. The dizziness knocked her sideways. As she steadied herself, waves of the sweats engulfed her body and violent hot rushes made her feel sick. A second later, in contrast, she started to shiver, and her mind begged for relief in the form of euphoria – the escape to another dimension. With a bathrobe around her shoulders, she rushed from the bedroom to escape the calling packet. Switching the small electric fire on, she huddled up to keep warm. Yet, outside, it was sweltering. The hot and freezing cold changes in her body temperature were making her desperate to have another line of the new drug. When her eyes shot towards the bedroom door and then back at the red glow from the fire, she saw herself in the mirror on the wall. What with a runny nose, her nails that were bitten down to the quick, and her sallow skin, she knew that she was probably now on the path to becoming a fully fledged junkie. But it was no use: it was impossible to rid her mind of that craving.

Another wave of sickness caused her to jump to her feet, and instead of rushing to the bathroom, she headed back to the bedroom. Nervously fingering the parcel, she told herself that just one small line would hopefully perk her up. Or was it that other voice that constantly nagged: Go on, Jackie, it won’t hurt? Without another thought, she rolled up her last tenner and snorted the flaky white powder.

She found herself back in the land of Disney.

CHAPTER THREE

Kendall tossed her rucksack over her bare shoulder and trundled off towards the station. It was approaching ten o’clock and the next train to Orpington was in three minutes. If she wasn’t outside the station in half an hour, her father wouldn’t wait; he’d made that crystal clear.

A surge of commuters barged past her, leaving little room to swerve in and out to make the train. The whistle blew, and just as the doors began to close, Kendall managed to slip sideways and squeeze in. Her exposed arms and neck were coated in a sheen of sweat. Removing her rucksack, she flopped onto the only empty seat. With her head down, she plugged her earphones in and took a few deep breaths.

The packed carriage sent her into a panic attack. She hated closed spaces, yet she detested people more, especially strangers. Her music stopped: the battery on her phone had just died. Reluctantly, removing the plugs from her ears, she heard two women whispering to each other. It was clear from the way they were glancing her way that she was the focus of their attention. ‘Yeah, she’s probably one of those Goth people,’ one said. ‘Ya know, all into the Devil.’

Kendall looked up, and her eyes narrowed. Two chubby women were standing, while holding on to the bar above to maintain their balance. One of them, wearing a lemon cotton dress, was exposing a hairy armpit. The sweat stains darkened the fabric and it turned Kendall’s stomach. She was about to retaliate with a smart comment, but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Instead, she offered an enchanting smile and hid her petulance like an invisible veil. Both the women reddened and looked away in embarrassment.

Kendall inwardly sighed. Why did people assume she was a Goth or was even into devil worshipping? She couldn’t help that she was naturally pale or the fact that her hair was overly dark. Black was her favourite colour, and she felt most comfortable wearing it. The black boots she wore improved her high instep and the faded dark-grey T-shirt with the skull and crossbones was just to piss her mother off; other than that, she wasn’t a Goth at all. She could have slipped on a floral dress and some pretty kitten heels and had her hair in a neat plait, but why should she? Rebecca had her little dolly in the form of her younger sister, Brooke. One doll-like girl was quite enough in the family.

A sudden thought had Kendall gently feeling her cheek. The slap from her mother had actually hurt quite a bit, and she hadn’t checked to see if it had caused any swelling. She didn’t think it had, but, in some ways, she wished it had. At least when she met her father, she could show him, in the hope that he would feel guilty.

Her father was a no-nonsense man with a tough exterior. She admired him even though she wasn’t sure if she actually liked him. Perhaps it was because they were so much alike, and the complete opposite of her mother. She mused over the idea of her parents ever being together again, let alone getting married. They really were like chalk and cheese. Her mother, with her particular ways, bordering on OCD and ensuring everything was perfect, even down to the way she spoke, really grated on Kendall. She would cringe and almost squint her eyes when her mother made the most ridiculous demands like ‘Make sure you greet my guests politely.’ Then there was the other one: ‘Sit up like a lady.’ She wondered if at any age her mother would consider her a woman. Yet Rebecca spoke to everyone as if they were children. Her campaigners, her housekeeper, her personal assistant, yes – but not Alastair. Never him – he was the vocal one, the head of the family who dished out the orders when Rebecca wasn’t around. How ironic was that? she thought. Would her constituency supporters and those who voted for her still have faith in her, their local MP, if they could really see how feeble she was under Alastair’s watchful eye?

The little respect she did have for her mother went out of the window the day she had arrived to take her out of her father’s care. She’d heard the whispers and the undertones. Rebecca’s career was flying, and there must be no dirty laundry aired, no matter what.

The train came to a stop, and the bleeping as the doors opened brought Kendall out of her thoughts. She joined the queue of departing passengers. In flinging her rucksack over her shoulder, she deliberately managed to catch the woman with the sweaty armpits in the face.

‘Careful, young lady!’ she hissed, to which Kendall turned and smiled – devilishly.

Opposite the taxi rank and through the hordes of people, Kendall could just make out a black BMW. She hurried over with a genuine smile; it was the first one in a long time.

The blacked-out window slowly opened and there with mirrored sunglasses and a dazzling smile was her father. ‘Quick, Kenny!’

She had no sooner sat on the cool leather seat than he pulled away. ‘Ease up, Dad, will you? I haven’t even shut the bleeding door!’

‘Shut ya whining and buckle up. I can’t get pulled over by the Ol’ Bill.’

Kendall threw her rucksack behind her and put her seatbelt on.

‘Right, I just need to pop in the pub. It’s not far from here. I’ll only be two minutes, and then we can have a chat.’

Kendall felt her heart sink. Typical. Why could he never drop everything just once for her? She wondered who was best at being indifferent to her. Was it her mother or her father? She noticed him look her way and shake his head in disapproval. She wasn’t sure if that look of disdain was because of what she looked like or whether he was into telepathy. He had an uncanny ability of getting inside her mind.

‘What?’ she snapped as she sensed her father’s dismay.

‘How old are you now? What? Twenty-one?’ The smoky edge to his voice, implying he was annoyed, left an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. She hated the tension when he was moody. And he had a knack of being unpredictable with his temperament.

‘Twenty, but shouldn’t you know that? I thought you were there at the birth?’

‘Oi, don’t get fucking lippy!’ he growled. ‘What’s with the fucking rebel T-shirt and studs in ya ears? Are you some kinda biker, or are you still acting like a kid? What’s that fucking Meat Loaf bollocks spread across ya chest?’

Kendall laughed. ‘Aw, this? This little number? I only wear it just to get right up Mother’s nose.’

She sensed his mood lift.

‘Still got her big bugle stuck in the air or up her arse, has she?’

‘She slapped me one today.’ Her voice was a mere whisper.

‘No doubt you deserved it, Kendall. Anyway, what was it for?’

‘I told her Alastair was a creep!’

With a sudden raucous laugh, her father started to cough, tears now filling his eyes, as he tried to clear his throat. ‘Fuck me. I would’ve loved to ’ave been a fly on the wall. I can just see her snooty face, like a bulldog chewing a wasp, eh?’

‘Well, yeah, something like that. She wasn’t a happy bunny, that’s for sure.’

Ten minutes into their drive, they turned into a residential side street and arrived outside a small pub that nestled in between a row of two-up two-down houses.

‘Wait here!’ he demanded, as he leaped from the car that was still ticking over and carelessly parked in the middle of the road.

The street was narrow. Kendall looked behind her, hoping that no other vehicle wanted to pass, as there was no room. Left alone, she idly popped open the glove compartment and pulled out three CDs and looked at the covers: Madness, The Specials, and Bad Manners. She smiled to herself. The titles spoke volumes about her dad’s taste in music and perhaps his warped sense of humour. As she opened the Madness case to play one of the titles, she found to her shock and horror that there was no disc at all; instead, she was looking at transparent bags of white powder. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Quickly, she opened the Bad Manners case; again, she found a similar quantity of what she could only guess were drugs. Her eyes shot back to the pub door. She shoved the CD cases back into the glove compartment and slammed the lid shut; yet it sprung open. It took three attempts before it would shut properly, and by this time, her heart was almost beating outside her chest. Christ, my dad’s a dealer, she said to herself.

Her inquisitive nature pushed her to look down in the footwell of the driver’s side, and there, just like in the gangster films, she saw a metal cosh. The centre console was another temptation, and her hands trembled; if she opened the lid, would she find a gun too? Just as she was about to go for it, she was distracted by the pub door opening. And there, taking up the doorframe, stood her father. Suddenly, she was seeing him in a different light. As if she was a gangster herself, she, like her father, scanned the surroundings. Was anyone watching?

He hurried over, opened the door, and threw a white cotton bag onto the back seat and pulled away. Kendall, still in gangster style, looked behind her at the building from which her father had just left. There, standing half in and half out of the doorway, scribbling something on a piece of paper, was a man almost the same size as her father.

‘Dad, a bloke back there is taking down your number plate, I think.’

Without a word, he looked in the rear-view mirror and came to a halt. Ramming the gear into reverse, he put his foot down and tore all the way back. He didn’t even close the door behind him after he’d jumped out, and before she knew it, he had pushed his way through some customers entering the pub. Within no time at all, he was dragging the man out and onto the pavement.

Kendall watched in horror as her father had the man in a headlock, clearly intending to smash the granny out of him. A mist of blood sprayed the wall. Her father didn’t stop, even after the man was out cold on the pavement; he continued to kick him deliberately and methodically. It sent Kendall’s blood cold, just watching her dad acting so mercilessly in full view of any residents who might be watching what was going on.

Kendall shook from head to toe; never in her life had she seen such a violent fight. No. Wrong. It wasn’t a fight. The guy had stood no chance whatsoever. Unsure whether to get out and run or just stay put, her indecision was halted when two other men came hurtling along the road, both of them wielding metal tools. Her father didn’t see them behind him. Kendall knew she would have to act quickly or watch her father being beaten to death. Making a spur-of-the-moment decision, she opened the centre console compartment, thinking that maybe there was a gun. What she would have done with it though was another matter. Her eyes tried to focus on a metal canister. She snatched it, popped the lid, and jumped from the car, hoping that the pepper spray was as effective as it was claimed to be.

One of the men who was tooled up managed to whack her father on the back, but just as the other one went to follow suit, she appeared like a whippet on speed and used all her strength to push down on the nozzle of the can and spray it directly into the two guys’ faces. Her father, who had been knocked to the side by the heavy blow, turned to see his daughter. In her Goth outfit and brandishing his can of pepper spray, she looked wild and fearsome as she went for his attackers in a rage. Suddenly, with their hands over their eyes, they backed off, coughing and spluttering. Doubled over, they gasped for breath as saliva ran from their mouths and snot poured from their nostrils.

He pulled her arm down and removed the can. She stumbled back in total shock and looked at the devastation. The two men were almost choking to death, and the man on the ground was bloodied and lifeless. Her father dragged her away. ‘Get in the car!’

Numbed by the event, she hurriedly did as he told her. He wasted no time in pulling away. Once again, Kendall looked behind her and this time there were a few customers peering out from inside the pub. She guessed they had stayed there while the fight ensued; it was none of their business. She knew then her father was a very dangerous man. Controlling her breathing, she wanted to appear unfazed; really, though, the experience had left her traumatized. She could have laughed out loud with hysteria, but, again, her veil of silence was her best form of protection. Like her, her father said nothing; instead, he drove like a bat out of hell until, finally, they were on a main road, heading for God knows where.

She wasn’t going to be the one who broke the silence. This was a world so far removed from her own, but, strangely, as the shock wore off, she felt an inner excitement. Her father, a hard-core gangster, it was laughable until she realized that what she’d seen had been anything but a laugh. In fact, if the truth be known, it had been terrifying. But she’d been an essential part of that. If she hadn’t been there for her father, he could have been seriously hurt or worse. She may have just saved her father’s life, so she wondered how he would regard her now. Surely, he would have some respect for her, wouldn’t he? She really wasn’t sure what to think.

‘You’ve been searching through my motor, haven’t you?’ he asked her coldly.

She hadn’t expected that! ‘Lucky I fucking did, ’cos I think I saved your life.’

A laugh escaped from his mouth and he said with an evil grin, ‘It would take more than those pair of mugs to kill me. I’ve pushed bigger cunts than that out of the way to get to a fight.’

Those words chilled her bones. She knew then he was capable of far worse, and her illusion of being his hero was immediately shot down, but she wanted some acknowledgement – at least a verbal pat on the back – for her timely rescue act. Yet the look on her father’s face told her she had as much chance as a snowball in hell.

‘But—’

‘Next time, do as you’re told. Any more sauce, and you can get out and walk home!’

‘But, I’m not a kid,’ she replied, now hurt by what she saw as a patronizing remark.

‘You are when you’re in my company. Got it?’

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, deciding to change the subject.

He flashed her a quick smile, and then he sighed. He could see just from his daughter’s expression that his words had hurt her. And the fact was she’d pulled off a fucking blinder back there at the pub. He was amazed by her quick thinking and courage to confront men who were seriously dangerous. But he wasn’t going to tell her that and let her think she was invincible.

‘Listen up, Kendall. I know you wanna move in with me, and I want nothing more than to get back at ya mother for what she did to us, but the plain fact is that ya can’t.’

She turned her face away, staring out of the side window, his words whirling around inside her head. He was so cold. Did he not realize what he’d just said? Her idea was that he would have her move in with him just to piss her mother off, as in some type of emotional revenge. It was a solid plan and she honestly thought he would go for it. She would have in his position. What the hell has happened to my dad? she thought. Well, if he was that stand-offish and callous, then why should she worry about worming her way into his affections. She blinked away the start of tears and cleared her throat. ‘So, Dad, you’re a drug dealer, I take it?’

He cast a speculative glare, stubbornly ignoring her, and pulled into a McDonald’s drive-thru on the A20. Once he’d put the handbrake on, he turned his whole body to face her. With an unreadable expression, he hissed, ‘You may think because you’re my kid, that you fucking know me. Well, ya can get that notion right out of ya head! Ya know fuck all, and, ya know what, Kendall? That’s just how I like it.’

Her breath locked in her throat. Glancing over at him, his eyes were empty. There was not a trace of compassion on his face, nothing at all. She swallowed hard, now believing that every flash of a smile he’d shot her wasn’t a warm expression of endearment but a fake and almost sarcastic gesture. At that precise moment, she learned he wasn’t who she thought he was. Maybe the years of separation had conjured up a dreamlike portrait of this wonderful loving father, a father who was left out in the cold, his child ripped away from him. But, obviously, she’d been living in a fantasy world, dreaming of her ideal father, not the one who was sitting next to her with that curled lip and an expression that told her she was a nobody in his life.

Hurt and angry, she wasn’t going to let it go. ‘I get it, Dad, you are into something dangerous, and you don’t want me to know or be a part of your life so that I don’t get caught up in it, or, worse, hurt.’

His face lit up and flushed red, as a laugh left his mouth. ‘Jesus, fucking shit! You really are fucking clueless, ain’t ya?’ He shook his head and laughed again. ‘I’m gonna take you back to the station.’

Now fuming that her father had the gall to laugh in her face, she spat back, ‘Spineless!’

‘You fucking what?’ he growled.

‘You heard, Dad. You’re fucking spineless. You should have fought to keep me, and now I’m old enough to leave home and live with you, you really haven’t got the guts to fight her, have you?’

Suddenly, she saw a threat in his gaze and her heart beat wildly. ‘Do you know what? You’re actually right. I haven’t got a clue. Just take me back to the station, you get on with your drug peddling, and I’ll find my own fucking way in life, without you and my stupid twat of a mother.’

Suddenly, the tables had turned. Jesus, I hadn’t expected that rebuke, he thought. His face fell as he blew out a deep sigh.

‘Okay, listen. My life ain’t all about that. My business is my fucking business that you have no clue about, so get the notion of drugs and dealing outta ya head. It ain’t what you think, but, see, herein is where the problem lies. You see a small picture and blow it up into a full-length feature film, and that, Kenny, I can’t fucking ’ave . . . But I’ll tell ya what I’ll do. I have a flat above the hairdresser’s in Petts Wood. You can have it with my blessing. You’re twenty, I know, even though that mother of yours has demanded you stay under her roof until you pay back all you owe, so it’s time you grew up. Next week, I’ll meet you at the Daylight Inn and I’ll give you the keys. Have ya got a job lined up?’

Wow! She hadn’t seen that coming. In wide-eyed excitement, her thoughts rapidly processed the idea of having her own pad. But then she felt her elation plummet. She didn’t have a job because her mother had put a stop to that. Shoving job applications right under her nose every five minutes, demanding she put herself forward for positions at legal firms, had driven her mad: she really had no interest in any of them.

‘I can work for you. Dad, you can trust me.’

He laughed again. ‘Kenny, I trust no one, and I mean no one. Let’s be honest, you may be my kid, but I don’t even know you. And, for all I know, she could have you clocking my every fucking move – the sly bitch.’

‘But why would she do that, Dad? I mean, she’s got her life with Alastair and the girls, a big house, and the poxy career of her dreams.’

Kendall clocked the tightness in his face melt away, as his green eyes clouded over, and his heavy brows dropped.

‘You really have led quite a sheltered life . . . ’ He paused. ‘Maybe it was for the best.’

A sudden urgency to know what he meant urged her to push for an explanation. ‘Come on, Dad, give me some clue as to what you mean? I at least deserve that. For fuck’s sake, I didn’t ask to be born into this family, or any fucking family.’

The serious tone in her voice made him sit up like a soldier. ‘Your mother hasn’t worked hard for her career, ya know, she was forced into it. Yeah, she loves the status, but, in truth, she’s just a face, behind a puppetmaster.’

Kendall chewed the inside of her mouth in contemplation. ‘Who’s the puppetmaster, then?’

A stubborn silence lingered a few moments before he huffed. ‘Look, Kendall, forget I said that. Yeah, ya mother has a good career. That aside, as much as you find her a toffee-nosed irritant, she’s still ya mother. You can have the flat . . . But I need to get going, so I’ll drop you off back at the station.’

***

It had been a month since Mike had been reunited with his son, and as he awoke before the buzzer sounded, he looked across at him sleeping. He had done the same thing every morning. Eleven years of believing Ricky was dead had left him with a constant feeling of worry. He watched his son’s soft-skinned face and floppy hair glow from the sun shining in through the small toughened glass window. His heart skipped a beat with excitement that beside him was his boy, his reason for living.

As much as his son put a loving smile on his face, in the back of his mind, there were thoughts of revenge that ate away at him. Dez Weller. He was the monster who had burned nearly every one of his photos of Ricky when Mike believed he was dead. And within hours of his arrival at Maidstone Prison, he’d found this bastard with a knife at his son’s throat. That was resolved, but then he discovered that Weller wanted Ricky as his bitch. Revenge for the latter abomination should have been a given but it wasn’t safe enough. He now had too much to lose; his liberty was paramount to ensure he’d be on the outside with his family, where he could protect them.

The last twelve years had been a whirlwind of frustration. Not being able to help his girlfriend Zara Ezra when she’d seemingly disappeared off the planet, and powerless to do anything to find his son, were not the normal kinds of challenges of life for anyone, and he rightly felt that he’d had more than his fair share.

Ricky stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. ‘Morning, Dad.’

Mike was sitting upright in just his boxer shorts. At forty-five years old, he was as solid as any younger man in his twenties. He smiled. ‘Did ya sleep well?’

Ricky nodded. ‘Yeah. Actually, I’ve slept like a baby ever since we shared a cell.’

Mike laughed. ‘I thought as much. Cor, you can’t half snore.’

‘You can talk,’ said Ricky, jokingly. ‘I’m gonna have a shower and then see what job they’ve assigned for me. I bet it’s mopping floors again.’

Ricky quickly pushed the sheet away and sat up straight. His fringe bounced, covering his eyes.

Mike watched him, remembering the six-year-old with his messy hair. Really, he was still the same. ‘Wait for me, Ricky . . . ’

‘Dad, honestly, I’ll be fine. Dez gives me a wide berth now, and his mates don’t even look me way. As for Tatum and Tyrone, I ain’t seen much of ’em.’

Mike stood up and reached for his tracksuit bottoms neatly folded at the end of the metal bedstead. ‘I ain’t taking any chances, though.’

‘Listen, Dad, I get it, right? But when I first arrived ’ere, I didn’t know anyone, and I was scared. When I lived with me muvver, she let Tatum and Tyrone do what they liked to me. I had no one to go running to. So, I accepted what life had in store. I couldn’t argue or fight back because the minute I did, I would’ve had Tatum’s three sons on me back. And Muvver always sided with Tatum. When Dez started bullying me, I was back in the same situation. I had no one to back me up, except Willie, but now I’ve got you. Having my family back means I can stick up for myself because I have protection. I can be who I want to be now.’

Mike could feel the lump in his throat. Ricky hadn’t gone into too much detail of what his life had been like. Mike believed that his son was saving him from further heartache. The thought of his boy feeling alone was enough to cripple him. And now he was worried because inside prison the rules were not the same. The sly dig with a shiv could end anyone’s life, not least his son’s. The likes of Dez wouldn’t go a single round in the boxing ring: he would be too underhanded. Just the sideways glance from the Yardie’s shifty eyes made Mike nervous – not for himself, but for his son.

‘I’m going for a shower anyway.’

Ricky’s smile reached his eyes and deepened his dimple. ‘Okay, Dad. I’ll see ya there.’

Just as Mike stepped outside the cell, Lou appeared with a smile that showed his back teeth. ‘I’ve just been down to reception to collect me mail, and it looks like ya nan’s gone overboard again.’ He looked over at Ricky. ‘You’ve got a whack of gear down there. They’re all fancy labels an’ all.’

Slowly getting up from his bed, Ricky frowned. ‘What, more clothes? Jeez, me nan’s right spoiling me, eh?’

Mike popped back inside the cell and laughed. ‘You wait until you get out of ’ere. She’ll have you up Oxford Street kitting you out in whatever the hell ya like and . . . ’ He paused and gave a cheeky grin. ‘Pops will be taking you shopping too, but not for clothes.’

Ricky’s eyes widened; he was so excited, but he never predicted what his father would say next.

‘The new BMW model’s out soon, and he thinks it has ya name written all over it.’

Like an electric shock, Ricky jolted. ‘What?’ His skin suddenly became covered in goose bumps. ‘No way. Oh my God! A BMW? That’s way too much.’

Lou shook his head. ‘I bet that’s just the start as well, trust me. Ricky, your grandparents will want to give you the world and quite rightly so. You’ve twelve years of catching up to do, mate. Me, I’d soak it up and savour every bit of it.’

Ricky’s eyes returned to look at his father. ‘But that’s such a lot. A new car. Wow! I never thought. Well, what I mean is . . . I can’t believe my life could go from nothing to now this.’

‘Well, get bloody used to it, Son. You’ll never go without again. So, start thinking about which motor you’d really like, and when we get out, you can go on one of those intensive driving courses and get ya licence. You can cruise around in a nice set of wheels, a pair of Ray-Bans, and all the designer clothes ya can wear.’

Ricky lowered his gaze. ‘Dad, I’m not really into all that designer gear. I’d be happy with clothes that actually fitted, and, to be honest, I’d feel better if I could work for my money.’ He looked up and grinned. ‘Let me on the firm, Dad . . . Well, I ain’t gonna be a lawyer, am I?’

Lou shuffled uncomfortably. This was really a private conversation and one best left for Mike. ‘Look, I’ll catch ya later.’

Mike sat back down on the bed. ‘Listen to me, sunshine. I’ve enough money for us to live more than comfortably, and there’s no need for you to go down the same road as me. It’s hard, ruthless, and extremely dangerous. Look at the boys and me. We had a target on our back for years.’ He paused for a moment and sighed. ‘No doubt there’ll be another firm wanting to muscle in. It’s always gonna be dog eat dog in our world, and I don’t want that for you.’

With a stern face, Ricky replied, ‘I understand that, Dad. Really, I do. But what if it’s what I want? I’m eighteen now. Don’t I get a say in this?’

‘Sorry, Son, if I sounded a bit controlling, but, surely, you can see I’m looking out for ya, can’t ya?’

Ricky’s face relaxed. ‘I know, Dad. Sorry. The thing is, I’m a crook, not by my choice, but by my own muvver’s selfishness, so I don’t know much else. I don’t want to be a thief robbing innocent people’s houses, though. I hated it, every bloody single second of it, but I hate the authorities too. I mean, where were they when I was growing up? ’Cos they sure as hell never looked out for me.’

Mike felt his son’s pain again and this time he gave him a hug. ‘All right, let me think about it. I’m sure we can find you something to do that won’t put your liberty at risk and also make ya a bit of money. You’ve probably got a sharp eye and could show us oldies a thing or two.’

‘All I did with Tatum’s lot was watch and listen. I didn’t spend any time talking. The funny thing is when you can’t speak, people assume that you’re deaf as well.’

‘Well, let’s get out of this dump first and get back to normality and then make a decision. In the meantime, ya deserve a nice car, so start thinking about which one ya fancy. No ifs or buts.’

Ricky’s face glowed, and he chuckled. ‘Righto, chief.’

With a towel over his shoulder, Mike winked and was gone, leaving Ricky to get ready and daydream about driving a car.

After a few moments, Ricky was pulled from his fantasy by the dark, daunting face of Dez, peering into the cell. He immediately jumped to his feet. A week ago, he would have been shaking all over, terrified of the man, but not today. ‘What the fuck do you want?’ he brazenly hollered.

Dez looked sheepish. It was an expression that probably most of the inmates hadn’t been privy to. ‘Look, no beef, bro, yeah?’

‘Fuck off. No beef? Bro? I ain’t ya bro. You’re only here because ya know me ol’ man wants to fuck you up.’

The cold, cocky words leaving Ricky’s mouth left Dez totally shocked. It was more than a stark contrast to the timid boy who’d only arrived a few weeks ago. Dez’s eyes were on stalks, and for a moment, he was rattled. ‘All right, Ricky, I was just being straight up and apologizing for upsetting you, that’s all.’

Ricky stepped forward with a new-found stance, square shoulders, and with his head up. ‘Upsetting me? You held a knife to me throat. You wanted to use me as a woman. You’re fucking disgusting. Now go and shove your apologies up your arse, or me ol’ man will do it for ya.’

Dez daringly looked Ricky up and down. ‘So that’s it, is it? A threat using ya ol’ man’s name? A real man wouldn’t threaten me with someone else.’

Just as Dez was about to turn and walk away, Ricky spat, ‘No, a real man would rip you a new arsehole, but I would rip your head off!’

With an anger emerging, Dez gripped the doorframe and glowered at Ricky. As much as he was afraid of Mike, he wasn’t going to let a kid talk to him like that, not after seeing the boy as a pathetic mute, cowering in shame. The idea that overnight this kid had grown a pair of balls, and was now acting so arrogantly, didn’t sit well with him. ‘You fucking wait, ya little shit. I’ll have ya, mark my words, I will!’

‘Come on, then!’ screamed Ricky, who had gone from mellow to mental in less than a second. By inflating his chest and protruding his jaw, his face changed, demonstrating an intense fury that penetrated through his eyes.

It made Dez jump.

‘Don’t make fucking threats, you bastard. Come on!’ Ricky now hopped from foot to foot, holding up his fists.

Only used to a blade, Dez was taken aback. He’d heard how Ricky had poleaxed Tatum and Tyrone and wondered if he’d seriously underestimated the kid.

Unexpectedly, as Dez stood in the doorway, a colossal fist cracked him on the side of the head and knocked him clean off his feet. There was no wobble or unsteadiness, Dez lay on the deck, out cold.

Mike shook his head. ‘I forgot me toothbrush. Lucky I did, eh?’ He then looked at his son’s expression. ‘What happened, Ricky? For fuck’s sake, you weren’t gonna fight him, were ya?’

Ricky was still standing in a fighting stance, his face tight and angry.

‘Ricky?’

‘Yeah, Dad. I was gonna have it out with him. I ain’t scared anymore, like I said.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Ex-Detective Superintendent Magnus Stoneham sat back on the modern, low-backed armchair with his fingers rhythmically tapping the end of the armrests. For a man in his early seventies, his demeanour mirrored that of Conrad, his youngest son, who sat opposite. Although Magnus was now grey, and he had thinner features and tighter lips than Conrad, the men were easily identifiable in many other ways as father and son.

‘So, how did the meeting go? I suspect if Mike Regan is anything like his father, then it began like pulling teeth.’

Leaning against a window in the oak-panelled study of the eighteenth-century country manor, Conrad smirked. ‘Yes, that’s exactly how it was. However, Father, you were right. He does have a sense of morals.’ He tutted. ‘It’s madness when you actually think about it. Mike Regan, a bank robber, an arms dealer, and someone serving time for torturing and murdering another man. Regan’s a piece of scum, isn’t he?’

Magnus laughed. ‘Yes, well, no doubt you are right. This idea of using a sense of morals among the immoral—’

‘Hold on,’ interrupted Conrad. ‘I wouldn’t say Regan is immoral. Lawbreaking, yes, but immoral, I’m not so convinced about that.’

‘No, quite, but the point is, we need to ensure this idea of yours and your sister’s doesn’t have serious repercussions.’

Pushing himself away from the window, Conrad walked over to his father’s drinks cabinet and poured two glasses of Redbreast Irish Whiskey.

Magnus tutted once more. ‘Not too much. That’s saved for special occasions.’

Yes, when you invite the Gentlemen’s Club over, thought Conrad. ‘How are the bridge nights going?’

Magnus raised his brow, knowingly. ‘Yes, fine. Anyway, what plans do you have in place for this clean-up operation, and, more to the point, have you had a chance to speak to your sister?’

Conrad handed his father the glass and sat opposite, settling himself in the luxurious Chesterfield leather armchair. ‘Well, that’s the issue. I have asked Regan if he would consider the idea, but, in all honesty, I feel like I will end up in a situation where I will probably have egg on my face. I can’t instil any rules in the man and his firm when their moral compass is so different from the average man in the street. Take retribution, for example. They believe in an eye for an eye. Well, that might be any person’s natural reaction, but would we resolve our problems in that way? No, of course not. We would expect our law enforcement and justice agencies to deal with those.’

Magnus slowly nodded and pursed his lips. ‘I see, um . . . Yes, well, the fact is, if Regan felt he was being controlled, then the actual project would fail. He has access to every known crook in South-East London and Kent. The man is very well respected within his fraternity. He will have these gangs pulled out from their hiding holes and either they will be brutalized, or, if he is amenable, he will hand over the garbage to the law. However, with regard to the latter, I very much doubt that will happen. And about your sister. You haven’t told me if you have spoken with her. Have you?’

After taking a generous gulp of his whiskey, Conrad shook his head. ‘No, I feel sick to my stomach. That poor girl, Brooke, having gone through such a despicable assault, I just don’t know what to say to her. Me, Rebecca’s brother – the bloody commissioner – can’t even keep the streets clean.’

‘You are not God, Conrad. Besides, Brooke has a soft spot for you. Don’t delay the visit. Also, you need to discuss everything with Rebecca, to keep her in the loop. She cannot afford to lose the next election, and I won’t have her looking weak. We have got her this far. With a little more support, she will be on the front bench before we know it. She could be a good contender for the next prime minister.’

‘Yes, I know, but, as it stands at present, the crime rate is increasing so fast, and there is no money in the pot for more police officers on the streets. Three detectives who are trying to get the head honcho of these drug-fuelled gangs are due to retire shortly, and the way they look, I think they will be victims of a heart attack before they do retire. The work is sloppy and slow, and I am beginning to feel as though the gangs are making a mockery of us.’

‘Well, Son, you have answered your own doubt. You need the likes of Mike Regan on board because without the budget and with the lack of staff, this hideous gang situation will soon turn Kent into the Bronx. Rebecca will lose her career and that, Son, we cannot let happen. I came from nothing, but I’ve worked damned hard to have you in your position and Rebecca in hers. Don’t let me down.’

***

Zara was sitting in the Regans’ large and well-appointed lounge, flipping through the pages of a wedding gown brochure. A tear trickled down her nose. The long-sleeved gowns were beautiful and the women modelling them looked stunning, but how would she look with only one hand?

Gloria, Mike’s mother, watched her future daughter-in-law’s sad expression and guessed the reason. Hurrying over to put Zara’s mind at rest, Gloria put the brochure away.

‘Listen to me. Stop torturing yourself. You, my babe, will look stunning in anything you choose to wear. The only less than perfect thing about you at the moment is your downtrodden smile. Now then, there’s nothing we can do about your hand, but we can concentrate on everything else. The first thing you need to do is get your confidence back. There’s no point in hiding away from the world. Didn’t Davey Lanigan want to meet up with you?’

Zara smiled up at Gloria with admiration, and for a moment, she felt like a kid. Gloria was so much in control of herself and those within her orbit. With her hair fashionably styled and her clothes sharp and tasteful, Zara had never seen her without make-up or a piece of jewellery around her neck. Then, she looked down at her own attire and wondered why she was still dressed like she had been for most of her time in that basement cell. There was no need to do so now.

‘Ya know what, Gloria, you’re right. I’m going to get my hair styled. And it’s been so long since I wore anything new and fashionable. Fancy shopping?’

Gloria was ecstatic. Firstly, she’d hoped that Zara would get herself together, and secondly, she never needed an excuse to shop. ‘Arthur, where are the credit cards?’ she shouted, with a hint of excitement.

Everything seemed daunting at first, and Zara couldn’t explain how she felt. Having spent five years kept as a prisoner with no daylight and only a television for company, the world seemed almost alien to her now. Yet, she also knew that come what may, she would have to pull herself together. She was Izzy Ezra’s daughter and now the head of his estate and the business. Although the Lanigans had taken over, thinking she was dead, the proceeds of all profits had still been split fifty-fifty and her half placed in an offshore bank account, in the unlikely event she was found alive.

Mentally, she had to retrain her mind: she wasn’t a captive anymore, she was a businesswoman, with one fuck-off firm behind her. She only hoped that she still had the balls to take back control.

***

Wandering around the department store, Gloria held up a pretty blue Ted Baker dress with long sleeves and a gold trim. ‘Zara, this would look stunning on you.’

Zara laughed. ‘But who would take me seriously?’ She held up a black blazer and dark jeans. ‘Now then, look at these! These are what I need to fit the part.’

Gloria jovially rolled her eyes. ‘Aah well, let’s see if they have this gorgeous blue number in my size then.’

As Zara headed for the changing rooms, Gloria watched the slim, graceful woman and wondered if Zara was really ready to carry on with her firm. She was older, damaged, and probably not geared up just yet. Most women Gloria’s age would never have understood why Zara would want to go back to her business when she was already worth a small fortune and could comfortably retire. With properties here, there, and everywhere, she could live the high life and never lift a finger. However, Gloria understood entirely why Zara was committed in this way because her own husband and his pals used to run South-East London many moons ago. Then Arthur’s two sons took over. While they too became very wealthy, it wasn’t all about the money. A life of crime was in their blood – it never went away.

Another thought crossed Gloria’s mind – her son Mike and Zara’s relationship. Of course, they both loved each other, but they were at the top of their firms, with equal standing. Would the relationship work? She wasn’t sure: in reality, family, business, and friendships still had a pecking order. She couldn’t see either of them relinquishing their role as leader. Realizing that her musing was getting herself agitated, she sighed and found the floral dress she’d spotted on entering the store. It was in a size 12. Perhaps this would look ideal for the mother of the groom.

***

The shopping trip had exhausted Zara. If she was honest with herself, the outing had been a bit of an eye-opener because it told her that she was still very weak. Her sudden pale complexion and tired eyes sent Gloria into mummy mode. As soon as they returned home, she cooked Zara a chunky meat pie, determined to get her strength up.

The hearty meal was gratefully received, and as they placed their cutlery down and leaned back on their chairs, they could hardly move.

Arthur winked at Zara. ‘It’s such a pleasure to have you with us. At last, I get to have proper home-cooked meals.’

Gloria gave an exaggerated tut and whacked Arthur with her tea towel. ‘You ain’t done too bad by my cooking. You’re still alive, ain’t ya?’

The teasing came to a sudden halt when the phone rang.

Gloria, as always, got there first, hoping it was Mike. ‘Hello?’

‘Good evening, Mrs Regan. Could I speak with Zara? It’s Davey Lanigan.’

Gloria beckoned Zara over. Holding her hand over the receiver, she whispered, ‘It’s Davey Lanigan, Zara. Remember you’re still recovering, babe.’

Zara smiled and answered. ‘Davey?’

‘Zara, I called just to say how delighted I am that you’re . . . ’ He paused. ‘Er, well, that you’re alive.’ He hadn’t thought over his words before he made the call. The news that Zara was found alive was a relief, but on hearing that she’d been brutally disfigured, it had sickened him.

‘Thank you, Davey, thank you for everything. I know you did your best to find me and keep the business running in my absence.’

The silence seemed to linger, and Zara wondered if he was about to make a statement.

‘The business is, er . . . fine. I can carry on, and we can talk about the future once you’re well.’

She could tell he was holding something back. ‘What’s going on, Davey? Please tell me, or I won’t get back on my feet if I’m worrying.’

‘I didn’t call to talk about work.’

‘No, I know you didn’t, but tell me anyway. What’s going on?’

‘Okay’, he replied, ‘but not on the phone. How are you fixed for tomorrow lunchtime? I think it’s better discussed away from the public. Would it be convenient to come over to Mike’s parents’ home?’

Zara looked over at the dining room table where Arthur and Gloria were sipping the last of their wine. ‘Would it be okay if Davey Lanigan comes here tomorrow? Say, lunchtime?’

Arthur smiled and nodded his head. ‘Of course.’

Unexpectedly, Eric appeared. They hadn’t heard him come in through the back door, too intent on trying to listen to Zara’s conversation. It wasn’t for any reason other than to make sure she was okay.

Once she’d completed the call, she turned around, and as she sat down, she was surprised to see Eric seated at the table.

It wasn’t so much that he was there, it was his appearance. His hair was cut short similar to Mike’s, and instead of his T-shirt and jeans, he wore a fresh white button-down shirt and black trousers. She had to blink because for a moment she thought it was Mike.

Even Gloria was surprised and had to remark, ‘So, off out with anyone special, Son?’

‘No! Christ, can’t a man wear a decent shirt without someone suggesting there’s a date involved?’ Instantly, he realized how harsh and childish he sounded.

But the tension wasn’t lost on Gloria. She arched her brow, and then her eyes flicked to Zara. Zara looked equally troubled but for a different reason.

‘Are you okay, love?’ asked Gloria, somewhat concerned.

‘I feel bad. This isn’t right. I should be back at my own home, not have people come to your house to discuss—’

Arthur waved his hand to interrupt her. ‘Now, no talking nonsense. You need our support.’ He looked at Gloria. ‘Besides, Old Mother Hen here would be lost. And it’s what our Mike wants, so, my babe, you treat this place like your own, and when you’re completely better, if you want to go back to . . . that house, then, that’s up to you.’

Gloria almost screeched. ‘What? . . . Go back there after what the poor girl’s just been through? I won’t be surprised if she wants to burn the bloody place down.’

With her mind back to when she was held against her will, Zara smiled. ‘You’d think it would be the last place I’d ever go, but the truth is, if it wasn’t for Ismail’s pathetic attempt to keep me alive in my father’s basement, then the Segals would probably have finished me off. My dad would turn in his grave if he knew that the suite he built would end up holding me a prisoner. But the rooms were styled and designed by him, so, weirdly, I felt at home. When I do go back, though, I’ll have the metal door removed and keep the basement as guest rooms.’

She looked up to find both Gloria and Arthur with their mouths open.

She chuckled. ‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t ask you to stay there.’

Gloria knew then that Zara was no ordinary woman; she was hard and had taken on more than most people could handle, but she would still face her demons.

Zara, though, miraculously didn’t see these as demons, merely challenges.

Eric placed his hand on her back and gently rubbed it. ‘If you need to go back there for anything, I’ll go with you.’

Gloria clocked the look on her son’s face. She didn’t like it one little bit.

***

Rebecca sat at the kitchen island with her head in her hands, the tea towel covering her sodden cheeks. At forty-three years old, she should have been in her prime, but she wasn’t. The signs were all there: a thickened waist, grey hair, and crow’s feet around her once bright and, some would say, come-to-bed eyes. She wasn’t even sure if her husband knew what she looked like under her elastic-waisted trousers and iron-free blouse. All the intimacy that had once been between them had diminished over the last two years. His business – so he said – was growing, and his excuse for staying away was that he had to strike while the iron was hot. It must be bloody molten lava by now, she thought.

The stress of it all pushed Rebecca to consider resigning, but as soon as she mentioned those words, Alastair and her father went off like a Catherine wheel, spitting, hissing, and spinning in circles. Her eyes looked to the cupboard under the sink, the place where she thought every housewife hid her booze. Her husband certainly wouldn’t look there: he didn’t even know where the kitchen sink was.

Just as she bent down and opened the cupboard, a crashing sound made her jump. Spinning round, she almost lost her balance. There, giving her an unwelcome sneer, stood Kendall. The noise was from her daughter flinging her rucksack onto the worktop. Like her sisters, Kendall had not an ounce of respect for her.

Usually, she would have offered her daughter a drink or something to eat, but not this evening, though; she was sick to the back teeth of pussyfooting around Kendall. So, instead, she sneered back and tutted.

‘So, tell me, Mother, who exactly is your puppetmaster?’

Rebecca tilted her head to the side with a questioning expression. Silently, she wondered why she’d ever bothered to take Kendall away from her father. She should have left her there. There was not a smidgen of her own genes in the girl – not in looks, attitude, not even in interests. If she didn’t look so much like her real father, Rebecca would have sworn she’d been swapped at birth.

‘Kendall, I have no idea what you’re talking about, and, to be quite frank, I really don’t care!’

She turned away from her daughter and searched for the bottle of Bombay Sapphire. Pulling a tumbler from the top shelf, she poured a generous helping and took two large gulps. So uptight and angry, she didn’t bother to add the tonic; instead, she swallowed more of the bitter, clear liquid and smarted as it ripped the back of her throat. After taking a deep breath, she looked up at her daughter, who appeared to be stunned. Well, she would be; she’d never seen her mother do that before – she’d thought her too straight-laced to knock back neat gin.

‘What’s up, Mother? Did you find Alastair with another woman?’ she scoffed.

Rebecca stared at her daughter’s ridiculing eyes and was hit by overwhelming anger that shot up from her feet to the top of her head. Instantly, she threw the glass tumbler at the wall, and then, with both hands, she wiped the centre island clear, sending the vase, the condiments, and Kendall’s rucksack flying to the floor.

Still incensed, she smashed both her fists on the worktop and glared with fire in her eyes at her daughter. ‘Now, you fucking listen to me. You’re a spiteful, evil bitch, and if you weren’t my daughter, I would give you what-for. So, fuck off, away from me.’ She paused, sucking a deep breath as she stared at the horror-stricken look on Kendall’s face; yet she didn’t feel in the least bit sorry or guilty for those harsh words.

‘I wish I’d never applied for custody. I wish I’d never brought you back into my home to give you a better life. In fact, I wish you’d never been born, you ungrateful, nasty girl. Now, before I do something I really do regret, fuck off, go back to your bastard of a father, and leave me alone!’

Kendall stood frozen to the spot. Never in her life had she seen her mother act that way. The overly polite and sickly-sweet manner had been replaced by a raging lunatic, but Kendall wasn’t going to stand there and take that. ‘My dad, the bastard, yeah? Weren’t you the one who couldn’t keep your knickers on? Weren’t you the one who fucked off with Alastair and left Dad and me on our own? I think the truth is, Mother, you’re the bastard – or the puppet.’

She knew the minute the words left her mouth she was going to get it from her mother, so she turned to rush out of the door before something was thrown her way. However, she wasn’t fast enough and was ripped back by her T-shirt and pushed against the wall. With a tight grip around her throat, Kendall’s eyes nearly popped out of her head and her heart felt like it was beating outside her chest. Her mother was a millimetre away from her face and foaming at the mouth. This wasn’t her mother, surely? This was a demon who had taken over her mother’s body. Then, to her horror, her mother pulled her fist back ready to launch a punch. Kendall stared into her mother’s eyes, searching for any sign of the rage leaving. To her relief, her mother dropped her arm and pushed her away.

With legs like jelly and her body trembling, Kendall scurried away. As soon as she was out of reach, she shouted back, ‘Don’t worry, I’m moving out next weekend. My father has a flat for me, so you can go and fuck yourself.’

Heading to her bedroom, only too pleased to have had the last word, Kendall didn’t hear her mother sobbing. As soon as Kendall reached the end of the hallway, the front door opened and in walked Alastair, looking very chuffed. Dressed in a grey suit and with a golden tan, Kendall had to admit he wasn’t bad looking. She could see why her mother was attracted to him. A well-built man, with ripped muscles and piercing eyes, he wouldn’t seem out of place at a prefight weigh-in. However, the way he looked at her still made her want to cringe.

‘Hello, Kendall, how’s Brooke?’ he said, not noticing the sheer spite on her face. He took off his jacket, placed it on a hanger, and rolled up his sleeves. Kendall didn’t reply but went up the stairs, leaving him to see for himself the carnage in the kitchen. Once she reached the landing, she strained her ears to listen, wondering if her mother would revert to the sweet housewife fussing over her husband like it was in the 1950s.

‘What’s the bloody matter now, Rebecca?’ Alastair’s voice was less than compassionate, which sent Rebecca into a further downward spiral.

‘Where have you been?’ she snapped.

‘Where the hell do you think? I’ve been to work, Rebecca. Now, will you pull yourself together and stop badgering me. I’d have thought you had more pressing issues to be concentrating on, like the upcoming election. Oh yes, and not forgetting, you have our daughter up there suffering.’

Kendall crept back down the staircase and waited midway, listening.

‘Brooke won’t even look at me, and damn the bloody election. In fact, Alastair, I might resign. I’ve had enough.’

‘What!’ he bellowed, his tone now deep and masterful. ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous, woman. We’ve come this far, and now you want to bail out? Well, all I can say is, Rebecca, you aren’t the woman I thought you were. I thought I’d married someone with guts, drive, and determination, not some pathetic crybaby who wants to give up at the first hurdle!’

There was silence and Kendall could only picture her mother’s crumpled expression. She got that very wrong.

‘We, Alastair? We? Who is the we? Because as I recall, it’s me who happens to be the member of parliament. I hold that seat, not you, and this isn’t the first hurdle. I’ve been working my bloody arse off to get to where I am.’

Alastair’s voice instantly mellowed. ‘Sorry, love. Look, it was just a turn of phrase. I am proud of you, and what you’ve achieved. You’re such an amazing MP. It’s tough, I grant you, but it’ll get easier. The voters love you and no doubt they’ll vote you in again and then you can relax. How about after the election we take a short holiday, just me and you, eh?’

Her step-father, the ace manipulator, Kendall thought. She pictured the scene and recognized her father’s skill at managing the situation to his own personal advantage. She could just imagine her mother falling into Alastair’s arms and wiping her eyes. She is so pathetic, she thought. Why, Mother, can’t you see through him?

‘Forget it, Alastair. I am fed up with everything. Our marriage is a mess because either you’re working or I am. We never spend time together, and as for my job, I hate it. I am sick of it. The crime rate in my constituency is climbing daily, and I’m damn sure my voters will view it as me being incompetent. Why should I have to go through all this stress? I’ve enough money saved not to work ever again.’

‘I know, my darling, it’s hard. I’ll tell you what. I’ll take a week off and help you as much as I can. I don’t like to see you like this. What do you say?’

Kendall cringed, wishing her mother would flatly refuse his offer. Stand your ground, Mother, she willed.

‘Well, you’ve no need to do that, Alastair.’

Kendall sensed her mother was taking back control.

‘I want to, Rebecca.’

‘No, I mean, I have help. I have Father and Conrad and they have a plan to—’

Alastair interrupted before his wife had a chance to finish. ‘You what! You never said. How? I mean, what do they propose to do?’

The sudden panic in Alastair’s voice made Kendall stay put. Surely, her mother would have recognized that worried tone?

‘Conrad has a plan to clean up the streets and get to the bottom of this gang problem.’

‘What? How? I thought he didn’t have the budget for that?’ Alastair asked, now quite agitated.

‘He doesn’t have the budget, so I guess he has another plan. Anyway, I’m bushed. I’m going to have a shower.’

Finally, Kendall was about to creep back up the stairs before her mother caught her earwigging when she realized her parents hadn’t finished talking.

‘Wait a minute. What’s going on, Rebecca? Your brother is the chief of police. If he doesn’t have the budget, then what does he propose to do? We need to know because . . . well, what if he makes a mess of things? Christ, Rebecca, if he does, then you’ll be the one with egg on your face, not him. You need to find out what his intentions are, and then we can decide whether or not to let him get involved.’

‘I’m pretty sure he has a good plan because he’s been discussing it with our father!’

Kendall sensed her mother’s tone was now tainted with annoyance. She waited to see who was next to serve, thoroughly enjoying this game of tennis.

‘Your father? Jesus, it gets worse. What the hell does your father know about politics? Seriously, Rebecca, you should be discussing this with me, your bloody husband, not running to your daddy like a child!’

‘Alastair, I am not discussing it anymore. I’m going to take a shower and then I’m off to bed. I’ve had quite enough rows for one day.’

Kendall quickly snuck away to her room. This is getting interesting, she thought. Maybe she should have studied politics or puppet mastery.

CHAPTER FIVE

Mike looked behind him to find four eager faces. ‘Before we get outside, just remember, not a word to anyone, even family. We got released early because of overcrowding and cutbacks.’

Staffie frowned. ‘D’ya think they’ll buy it?’

Mike nodded. ‘Come on, Staff, they’ll be only too pleased we’re out to bother about questioning it. Not a word though, ’cos who would understand it, and we don’t want to lose respect, now do we?’

The others nodded in agreement. It was a good point and they certainly didn’t want to lose face.

The last secure door slid open. He winked as if to say, ‘This is it, lads.’ There, waiting to greet them, stood Arthur, Mike’s father, and Teddy Stafford, Staffie’s father. Embraces were exchanged, and, excitedly, they hurried to the cars. Mike stopped for a moment and looked up at the clear blue sky and sighed. He was free: for almost twelve years he’d been locked up, and now he could breathe and learn to live again. Ricky was by Arthur’s side, held close with Arthur’s arm around his shoulders. Mike looked on, fondly. He knew that Ricky would be fussed over for months or even years to come.

Ted opened the door for Staffie, Willie, and Lou to climb in, while Mike and Ricky travelled home with Arthur.

For Ricky, it was a dream come true. He’d been sentenced to a year in the nick, believing he would come out only to face his mother and their tiny caravan – a way of life that he detested. To be sitting next to his grandfather in the front seat of a new car and driving off to his real family’s home, after serving only a few weeks, felt overwhelming and left him with a permanent grin.

As Arthur pulled away, Mike looked back at the dark, miserable building and tears began to well up. All those years of sitting in solitary confinement, believing his son and Zara were dead, tormented with all the what-ifs, the whys, and the wherefores, and now to be free and to have his loved ones back once more, he wondered if he should actually start going to church because God had undoubtedly answered his prayers.

Mike knew the outside world would have changed in twelve years and if he had served out his full sentence, he suspected it would have been a slow process to acclimatize to the life of civvy street. Having missed out on so many changes, the first one he noticed was the billboards advertising new technology and the number of pedestrians with their faces glued to a phone or wearing, as he saw it, oversized headphones. And while his mind was on those, looking at the interior of his father’s car, it seemed as though he’d entered the space age. The technology was incredible, and he gazed in wonderment at the huge dashboard with sat nav, hi-fi, and telephone, all integrated and shown on just one screen. He clocked the way people dressed – these new skinny jeans – on men – and it made him shake his head. What the fuck did they look like? He saw some young women walking down a street and noticed that their hairstyles were different too, now every shade of the rainbow.

Ricky took less interest in his surroundings. He’d only been inside a short while, so to him the outside was nothing new. His eyes were on his grandad and being driven in his latest Jaguar, with the smell of expensive aftershave pervading the interior. And having his family around him was all he cared about.

Once they arrived at the house, Ricky’s eyes were wide with excitement. The memories of his grandparents’ home came flooding back, along with that distant recollection of the day his mother had bundled him into the car and taken off.

They pulled on to the long gravel drive. As they approached the six-bedroom property, huge yellow ribbons were tied to the concrete pillars. This and his father’s home were where his fondest memories had been made. And he wouldn’t let the past with his mother override them. He now had the future to look forward to. He beamed when he spotted Gloria at the door, with Zara and Eric behind her. His grandmother was waving and hopping up and down like someone demented. It was just like the day she faced him in prison for the first time in twelve years, when she went bananas and screamed with excitement.

Mike left his plastic bag inside the car, a stark reminder of prison. As he stepped out and took a deep breath, Zara hurried over and threw herself at him. He lifted her up and spun her around, noticing how light she was. As he heard the crunching sound of the gravel from the other car drawing up, he smiled. They were all together: the whole family, his mates, their parents, and Zara.

‘Come on, let’s get inside!’ ushered Gloria, who was in her element. She’d planned a homecoming party with food to feed an army and drink to fill a pub. Everyone trickled out of the French doors into the garden where a hired barbecue was on the go. The outside summerhouse was decorated like a Hawaiian cocktail bar with waiters shaking piña coladas.

As expected, Ricky was being hugged, kissed, and complimented. Zara was clinging to Mike as if her life depended on it, and then the fun and banter began.

As the drinks flowed and the laughter was at its peak, Zara’s mobile phone rang. Staring down at the flashing number, she frowned; there beside Davey Lanigan’s name were four missed calls. She hurried away from the party and walked into the lounge where it was quiet, only to hear the landline ringing. Picking up the receiver, she listened to a strong Irish accent. ‘Zara, is that you?’

Detecting the panic in the tone, she replied, ‘Yes.’

‘It’s me, Shamus. Davey’s been trying to call you. I’m sorry, I know it’s Mr Regan’s homecoming, but we’ve a serious situation going on. Neil’s at the hospital. He’s been knifed in the chest . . . ’ His words faltered for a moment, but not quickly enough to give Zara a chance to comprehend the situation. The next bit of news came as a bombshell. ‘He may not pull through.’

Zara had to sit down – the information had knocked her sideways. She had a lot of feelings for Neil; he had worked alongside her for five years before she was brutally attacked and held in her father’s basement. Taking a deep breath to stop the crack in her voice, she asked, ‘Who attacked him?’ Her mind was back to the darkest place – a war with the Harmans and the Segals.

‘We don’t know who they are. They were just two black guys, Yardies, we think. They’ve robbed him and beaten him and then the feckers plunged him. Jesus, he’s in a bad way, Zara.’

Just as she was about to ask more questions, her mobile phone rang again. It was Davey.

‘Er . . . Shamus, it’s your uncle on the other phone. I’ll call you back.’

With that, the phone went dead, and she quickly took the call from Davey. ‘Oh my God, Davey, I’m so sorry. Where is Neil? What shall I do?’ Her words came out so fast, she had to stop for air.

‘Zara, we may need Mike’s help here. I want those bastards shot. This minute, my hands are tied. All my men are back in Ireland. We had some issues back there, so I pulled them out of London. It was supposed to be a temporary thing, but, now . . . Oh, feck me . . . Oh, I have to go. The doctors are calling me.’

Zara gasped as she replaced the receiver, her mind now on Neil, fervently wishing him to live. He was like a little brother to her. Not a brother like Ismail, a rat of the first order, but the brother she wished she had.

As she was about to call Shamus back, Eric appeared, holding her drink. ‘Hey, are you okay, Zara? It’s a bit overwhelming, eh? All the family and . . . ’

She waved her hand distractedly. ‘No, it’s not that, er . . . could you get Mike for me please, Eric?’

He turned his head to the side. ‘Zara? What’s happened?’

Near to tears, she replied, ‘Sorry, Eric, I haven’t got time. Could you fetch Mike for me?’

Ignoring her request, he walked over to her and crouched down. ‘Talk to me, Zara. What’s going on? I can sort it out. Mike’s a bit pissed. Let’s not burden him for the moment.’

Almost the spitting image of Mike, Eric didn’t have that same open smile.

‘Neil has been knifed.’

‘Fuck, no! Where did it happen?’

Zara frowned. ‘I, er . . . I don’t know where, but Shamus thinks . . . oh, hang on. I need to call Shamus back.’

As she pressed the Return Call key on the landline, she slowly turned to see Eric still there and mouthed the words ‘Get Mike’.

‘Shamus, where was Neil when he got knifed?’

‘Zara, from what I can gather, Neil was attacked just outside one of the restaurants. We need to meet up. I feel like a sitting duck. Another one of our places was turned over last night. It’s the second one in a week.’

‘Why didn’t someone tell me?’ she asked, firmly.

‘Uncle Davey wanted to talk to you about it, but Mike was coming home, and you were poorly, so . . . Anyway, the fact is, some fecking gang smashed the fecking lights out of the owner of the Pomodorra, took all the gear and the money, and threatened to kill his grandson. The Belle restaurant was also done over, and it was the same gang, judging by the description.’

‘Okay, Shamus. Tomorrow, can we meet first thing?’

There was a pause. ‘Er . . . yeah, sure . . . if Neil is okay. I mean, if he pulls through.’

‘Yes, look, sorry, of course. Let’s cross one bridge at a time, eh?’

As she replaced the receiver, she gave Eric a puzzled look. ‘Why didn’t you get Mike?’

Eric dropped his shoulders and sighed. ‘Listen, Mike’s just got out of the nick. He’s catching up with old mates. I thought it best to keep him in good form. Any problems, Zara, let me help. Mikey’s had enough to worry about to last him a lifetime.’

Zara looked down at her wrist and felt Eric had a point. Mike should be allowed time to enjoy life and not jump right back into another war, one that really wasn’t his business. She nodded and smiled. ‘I guess you’re right. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to pull him away from his family.’

Eric chuckled. ‘Yeah, not when Jennifer’s strutting her stuff in that short skirt of hers.’ Without a second thought as to what he’d just said, his voice turned serious. ‘So, what did Shamus say? I mean, do they know who stabbed him?’

The thought of Mike flirting with another woman hovered at the back of her mind. She looked at her wrist again and suddenly felt lost. What was she thinking? Maybe Mike’s proposal of marriage came because he was in a dark place and seeing her again after all those years of believing she was dead, it may have pushed him to act irrationally? She’d seen Teddy’s niece arrive and was taken aback when she swanned in, with the shortest of skirts and a low-cut top. She was probably in her late thirties but had the figure of a younger woman. Zara couldn’t compete with someone who looked like that. She suddenly came out of her daze. ‘Sorry, Eric, I was just in shock. Shamus reckons it’s the Yardies who have done over two of my businesses. Anyway, you’re right. I won’t worry Mike with it.’

Eric leaned forward and rubbed her shoulder. ‘You ain’t on your own, Zara. I’ll help. I can drive you to a meeting tomorrow, if you’d like me to.’

Unexpectedly, Zara’s eyes filled up and two large tears cascaded down her cheeks. She hastily brushed them away and tried to push herself out of the chair.

Eric quickly assisted, by sliding his arm under hers. ‘Hey, Zara, what’s the matter, babe?’

His gentle words almost had her blubbering. ‘Oh, I’m so worried about Neil. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to him.’ As soon as she said that, she felt his grip tighten.

‘I didn’t know you and Neil were so close.’

‘Yes, very close, actually. We worked together for five years. He was always popping in to see I was okay. The Lanigans were good to me, you know.’ Her mind preoccupied, the severe look on his face escaped her, but she sensed his prickly tone.

‘How good were they, Zara?’

Not realizing there was a dark undercurrent to his voice, however, she just smiled sweetly and replied, ‘Like family, really. It was such a bonus when you have no one.’

She excused herself to use the cloakroom. Once behind the closed door, she allowed the tears to fall for many reasons. With Neil now fighting for his life and that niggling doubt that she couldn’t compete with a younger woman, a multitude of emotions swept through her mind. But the worst of them was that she didn’t feel a complete woman. She sat on the toilet seat and tried desperately hard not to allow herself to sob. She had to pull herself together; this was a homecoming for Mike, Ricky, and the boys, and, more than that, she had to hold her head up and show she was still a woman in control. Her weakness and vulnerability must not show through. She had to demonstrate she was the same person who could lead a firm – her firm.

After splashing some water on her face, she left and walked back into the garden. The lights had come on. She spotted Mike with his back to her; he was engaged in conversation with Jennifer, the leggy blonde, and Eric was with them.

As Eric clocked her standing there, he quickly nudged Mike. Right away, Zara felt as though Eric was giving Mike the heads-up that she was watching. Instead of joining their company, she turned around and looked for Gloria. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits and chitchatting. For Zara, it was a stark reminder that apart from Mike’s family, she had no one. Pull yourself together, Zara, she thought.

Pouring herself a drink, she felt a presence behind her and hoped it was Mike, but, as she craned her neck, it was Eric. ‘Are you okay, babe?’ he whispered.

She nodded and glanced back at Mike, to find him heading her way.

‘There she is, the love of my life. Where were you, darling? No one knew where you were.’

She looked at Eric, who, surprisingly, winked. She wondered if he was trying to tell her something.

‘Oh, I was in the cloakroom. So, are you having fun, Mikey?’

With a pint in his hand and his cheeks glowing red, he nodded. ‘Aah, this means so much, here with my family, my mates. Let’s get this party going.’ He spun round and shouted to Ricky to turn the music up. Zara knew then he was pissed, and she suddenly felt drained. Mike was getting warmed up, and she was ready for bed. It was yet another reminder that she was less than the woman she was before.

Ricky was in his element. Gloria was showing him off to everyone, and he felt a different person. For the first time in his life, he felt he had control, with no one stopping him from doing anything. He drank, he ate, and he could play any song he wanted to. The hugs and kisses were endless. All the guests had something complimentary to say, but the one thing that lifted his shoulders and made him proud were the words, ‘You, Ricky, are your father’s double, a chip off the old block.’

He knew the best song to play: it was ‘Happy’ by Pharrell Williams. That would get everyone in the spirit. As soon as the song came on, Mike threw his hands in the air and began dancing. Ricky was in stitches because it seemed so funny to see his father, the giant, the dangerous badass man, skipping and turning with two left feet and not giving a shit what people thought.

Staffie and Willie were equally inexpert: with pints in their hands, they bopped around, singing the words at the top of their voices. Mike waved Zara over to join them.

Zara felt awkward and was on the point of walking away, but Mike laughed. ‘Come on, Zara, show us how it’s done.’ But his playful mood suddenly plummeted as he went to grab her left hand and realized that it was no longer there. Her humiliation was written all over her face, and she couldn’t hold back how she felt by laughing it off. Instead, she started to walk away, but as she turned, there, in front of her, was Jennifer, swinging her hips and waving her arms. Zara skirted around her, holding back the tears.

Once she was in the safety of the empty kitchen, she took a deep breath; it was all too much. She should pack her things and return to her father’s home. Seeing a packet of cigarettes on the worktop, she tipped one out, placed it in her mouth, and lit the end. The first drag was soothing and let her muscles relax; the second one started to ease her mind. Taking a glance out of the window, she saw Jennifer grab Mike’s hands and dance, showing off her body by exaggerating her sexy moves. He was looking around, no doubt wondering where she’d gone, but as Zara continued to watch, it was apparent that Mike’s concern was short-lived; he was swigging back a fresh pint that was placed in his hand. If she went home tonight, she would look like a jealous girlfriend with the strops. She took one last drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out. Deciding to head for her room, she filled a glass with cold water, irritated by how long and awkward it was with her disability, and then, with the sob trapped in her throat, she went upstairs for solitude.

Within a minute, there was a knock at the door, followed by a deep voice. ‘Can I come in?’

She assumed it was Mike and sat up straight on the bed. ‘Yeah.’

But as the door opened, there, taking up the doorway, was Eric. ‘Hey, babe, what’s the matter? Are you okay?’

His sympathetic eyes almost caused the trapped sob to leave. She breathed in through her nose to clear the emotion. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. I feel a little under the weather, and, obviously, I’m concerned about Neil. I just thought that rather than dampen the mood, I’d take myself off to bed. If Mike asks where I am, would you just say I’m asleep? That I drank too much or something?’

He eased his way into the room and sat beside her. ‘Listen, Zara, Mike dancing with Jennifer is nothing. Serving a big lump means catching up, and once he has it out of his system, he’ll be back to the old Mikey you know. Just give him time.’

Zara stiffened. She wasn’t the type of woman to live like that – a husband getting his oats just because he’d missed out for twelve years. It wasn’t as if she’d had it easy herself. She’d been locked up too. ‘Well, maybe I should move out and give him time for, as you say, “catching up”.’

Eric stroked her hair. ‘You and Mikey will be fine. He’s just pissed and enjoying himself.’

She would have removed Eric’s hand, but her self-esteem and attempt at being in control were slowly ebbing away, so she let him continue. ‘I’m going to move back home. Eric, would you drive me tomorrow? I can’t . . . ’ She broke off as the tears fell and the sob escaped. In between broken words, she cried, ‘I am useless, now, I can’t do this . . . Mike deserves a real woman . . . and my business. Jesus, how can I run that?’

She wiped her face and cleared her throat. ‘I’m going to sell up everything and let the Lanigans take over completely. My dad was wrong. I just don’t have it in me.’

As Eric pulled her close, she allowed his arms to wrap around her.

‘Now, now,’ he whispered, ‘I’ll go with you tomorrow to meet Shamus, and we’ll take it from there. Your father wasn’t wrong, Zara. You are a strong woman, with a good head on your shoulders. You’ve been through a big ordeal, and you ain’t alone, babe. I’m here. I’ll help. Besides, Mike has his own business to take care of. He doesn’t really need me.’

Registering what he’d said, Zara, pulled away. ‘What? You mean you’re not back on their firm?’ Her eyes narrowed in confusion.

He shook his head. ‘No. Mike has Staffie, Lou, and Willie. Apparently, they’ve some other business they need to take care of. That’s why they were released early, but I guess you knew that. Mike must tell you everything.’

A dark thought ripped through her mind. Mike hadn’t told her why he was released early. In fact, he’d not discussed it with her at all. And she’d been too intent on making wedding plans and getting herself better even to ask. What was puzzling her though was why he hadn’t mentioned anything to her, when, clearly, Eric was better informed.

‘Er . . . do you know what this business is?’

He gave her another compassionate look. ‘Nope. See, that’s how I know he doesn’t want me working with him in the firm or he would have said. Still, that don’t matter. I’m just thrilled that he’s out now and that you are too.’

How strange, she thought. Mike would have told his family, surely, and herself, come to that, wouldn’t he? ‘Are you sure you haven’t any idea what this business is about?’

Eric smiled. He really didn’t know himself; he’d only overheard snippets from a conversation between Staffie and Willie while they were drunk at the homecoming. They had quickly shut up shop when they saw him hovering around. ‘Well, all I know is he was asked to do something, in return for his liberty. He didn’t elaborate, so I left it at that . . . Now, then, don’t you worry about Mike. Let’s just sort out your affairs. Like I said, I’ll help you, babe. You get some rest, and tomorrow, I’ll drive you to your meeting.’

He kissed the top of her head and made a move to leave the room.

‘Er . . . Eric, have you got a cigarette?’

Eric sat back down on the bed and looked directly into Zara’s desolate eyes.

‘Babe, don’t smoke. You don’t need to.’

Their gaze locked for a few seconds, and as Eric slowly blinked, he gently stroked her cheek. She felt the soft touch and unexpectedly craved more. She leaned into his hand, keeping it against her face, and closed her eyes. She could feel Eric’s warm breath caress her skin and his lips softly brush over hers. Whether it was the familiar aftershave, or, in that moment, experiencing a sense of being wanted, it didn’t matter. He pulled her closer, and his kiss that was harder, and more meaningful, suddenly snapped her out of the embrace. Subtly, she pulled away. ‘I’m sorry, Eric, it’s been a long day. I feel so tired.’

He didn’t force the connection but simply stroked her hair once more. ‘Of course, darling, you get some sleep,’ he replied, with such an empathetic look that it almost brought her to tears again.

Once he was gone, Zara felt as though she was experiencing a terrible dream, her mind now back on Mike. She was getting bad vibes but needed to trust her instincts. What was her relationship with Mike? Had she imagined this tight bond between them? Christ, what if she’d got him all wrong? For a moment, she almost wished Eric was back beside her on the bed. He’d made her feel special and she’d missed that so much.

***

Zara was woken by the vibration of her phone squashed against her chest. She’d fallen asleep fully clothed, and the phone was still in her top pocket. Through blurry eyes, she noticed the missed calls from Shamus. She suddenly bolted upright, her hand shaking. Oh my God! Neil! she thought. With a gruff, croaky voice, she said, ‘How is he, Shamus?’

There was a pause. ‘He’s pulled through, Zara. He’s gonna make it. I need to meet you this morning. Is nine o’clock okay?’

She glanced across at the bedside clock: it showed 6.45 a.m. Christ, have I been asleep that long? she thought. She cleared her throat. ‘Yes, of course. You know where my father’s house is. Meet me there.’

Shamus paused. ‘Your father’s?’

‘Yes, Shamus, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s still my house and I’m not worried. In fact, I’ll feel right at home there.’

Dragging herself away from the soft duvet, she got to her feet and crept to the bathroom. Her reflection in the mirror was a stark reminder that she was ageing fast, her hair lank and her eyes puffy. Her mind went back to the vision of Jennifer in that fitted red skirt and legs up to her armpits and then that fleeting moment with Eric. Taking a deep breath, she decided she wasn’t going to cry again. The thought of jacking it all in was instantly pushed from her mind. She wasn’t going to let her father down or Neil for that matter. Suddenly gripped by a gut-wrenching feeling, she hurried back to her room and the empty bed. Where was Mike, and, more to the point, who was Mike with?

Hesitantly, Zara crept down the stairs, not wanting to wake anyone up. As she reached the door to the lounge, she held her breath, afraid of what she might see. She sighed and shook her head. ‘Pull yourself together. This is ridiculous, Zara,’ she muttered to herself.

Yet when she pushed open the door, she gasped and shook from head to toe. Her eyes couldn’t look away, too intent on absorbing the sight. A scream wanted to leave her mouth, but she fought to hold it back. There, on one sofa, was Mike, wearing nothing but his trousers. On another sofa was Jennifer, with her skintight skirt up over her arse and just her thong showing. Her hair was a mess, and her lipstick was smeared across her face.

Zara’s world had just caved in but her instincts hours before had been proved correct. All her hopes and dreams were pouring bit by bit into a vast sinkhole. Their relationship was over before it had even begun. Mike’s proposal must have been an irrational spur-of-the-moment promise – now just a throwaway comment. As if losing her hand wasn’t bad enough, losing her man was worse. Feeling like a peeping Tom, she scurried away back to her room. After throwing a few things into a bag, she left, quietly closing the door behind her. Once she was on the street, she pulled out her smartphone from her bag and used the Uber app to call for a taxi to take her home.

The drive back to the sizeable gloomy house was spent with her teeth chattering in shock, her one true love having dismissed her at the sight of a pretty woman. Perhaps she’d never really known Mike at all. It was apparent he didn’t feel the same way about her. All she wanted was to be in his arms and make up for all the time apart; and yet it was clear he was happy to flirt and obviously sleep with a tart right under her fucking nose.

The driver put the radio on and out blared ‘Happy’ by Pharrell Williams.

What? Is this a joke? ‘Turn that fucking shit off, please, and if I want music while I’m paying for my ride, then I’ll fucking ask for it.’

The driver was taken aback by the steely tone of the frail-looking woman’s voice. Instantly, he turned the music off. ‘I’m sorry, love. It was just force of habit.’

Zara didn’t respond. Instead, she stared gloomily out of the window and planned her future.

Her angry mood stayed with her as she stepped out of the car. She waited until the driver was out of sight before she pulled the keys from her bag. She paused and looked up at the vast, almost devilish-looking mansion. The paint on the woodwork was peeling, the gardens – once stunning – were overgrown, and the windows certainly needed a good clean. Izzy would be turning in his grave. He had loved this house – it had been his pride and joy – and he’d had it designed to his demanding specification.

She felt that a new chapter was about to begin in her life. Once she pushed the big oak door open, she gingerly entered the hall. Inside, it was filled with antiques, which were not her choice. The red drapes always made her feel like she was living in some historic time warp, the Tudor era. Yet everything was to Izzy’s taste. Assuming she would feel afraid, even just a little nervous, she was pleasantly surprised that although the house was tired and dusty, she felt at home. Perhaps it was the memories of how her father held her in such high esteem. Engaging her in all aspects of the business, he had gently and expertly prepared her for the takeover.

Closing the door behind her, she walked towards the back of the house, to the door that led down to the basement, where she’d been held a captive for five years. She had to brave it out and revisit her prison; yet, this time there were no captors, there was no sly, sneaky brother tormenting her, or the evil eyes of the Segals watching her as she pretended to be a brain-damaged, broken woman.

Surprisingly, as she faced the barred metal door, she felt herself free at last of the mental shackles. Still holding her bag, she peered inside and looked at the boxes of antidepressants and knew that in order to take control of her life she needed to ditch them.

Once she’d stared for a while at what was her home for so long, she turned and marched back up the stairs and into her father’s office. She sighed heavily and plonked her bag on the desk. Guy Segal and his son Benjamin, with the help of Ismail, would have looked for every fucking file, trying to get their hands on her businesses. But they obviously didn’t know her father that well. For although Ismail had been surreptitiously nosing into their father’s affairs, there were still some things he’d never been able to understand, like the offshore accounts, the details of which were carefully concealed in several flash drives hidden under a floorboard. She pulled away the rug and removed the board, and there, to her delight and relief, were all the devices. Bingo! Now she could have the computer up and running and get back on track. As she lowered herself onto her dad’s high-backed mahogany chair, she felt an overwhelming sense of power. She may only have one hand, but it was her brain that was really her best asset.

By eight o’clock that morning, she was up and running. The accounts, all showing vast amounts of money, were feeding her confidence. She would take back her businesses, and she would hold her head up and become the woman she once was, even if Mikey wasn’t by her side.

Bang on nine o’clock, there was a heavy knocking at the front door. She glanced at the monitor to see who was there, but it was a blank screen. The CCTV cameras were either disarmed or Ismail had really let the beautiful house go to rack and ruin. She rose from her chair and headed along the parquet floor to the entrance. ‘Who is it?’ she called out, relieved to hear Shamus reply.

He hadn’t changed much, still very muscular and with wide piercing blue eyes like his cousin Neil.

However, Shamus was shocked to see how thin, gaunt, and sickly Zara appeared. It was such a vast contrast to when they’d last worked together.

She looked over his shoulder. ‘Did you come alone, Shamus?’

He nodded and stepped inside. ‘There’s only me in London. Davey’s at St Thomas’ Hospital with Neil, and the men are back in Ireland.’

She ushered him in and closed the door.

‘So, start from the beginning. What’s going on?’

He followed her into the office and gazed around. It was as though he’d walked into a vampire movie set, with the tall brass candlesticks and heavy curtains, along with the oversized gilt-edged paintings. The layer of dust everywhere added to the ambience. ‘Er . . . I think you need to get a cleaner in.’

She smiled. ‘Or hire it out for Halloween, perhaps?’

Shamus nervously chuckled, yet he still felt spooked. Then his eyes fell to her scarred wrist. Eerie thoughts whirled through his head all at once. The story of her having her hand cut off and then being kept a prisoner down in the basement of this creepy mansion plagued his mind.

That was until she said, ‘Right, as I said, start from the beginning. Ignore the décor. Get your mind back on the issues at hand.’

Shamus felt his face flush and wondered if she was telepathic. Her frail state belied who she really was, and Shamus wasn’t deluded by any means. Behind those hypnotic eyes was the Iron Lady of Gangland Britain. Even her voice had an edge that commanded attention.

‘In the last six months, the cocaine leaving the restaurants has dropped by fifty per cent. The Colombians have upped their price because we aren’t selling enough. The city slickers are still buying it, but the scallies who make up fifty per cent of the business have backed off. Apparently, they’re into a new drug. It’s cheaper and gives them a better hit.’

Zara listened, paying careful attention to every word that left Shamus’s mouth. ‘So, this new drug. Why don’t we find our own supplier?’

Shamus sat back on his chair and slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t know about you, Zara, but there are some things we just don’t get involved in. Like heroin for instance. And this new drug is worse. It’s so addictive and although the hit apparently is euphoric it also sends the kiddies mental.’

‘Kiddies!’ she gasped.

He gave her a stern nod. ‘Yeah, it’s cheap, really cheap, and the teenagers are buying it with their pocket money. Once they’re hooked, they’re fecked.’

She swallowed hard and sighed. ‘So, if this drug is being sold and obviously the supplier is making a mint, why are they threatening my restaurants?’

Shamus clasped his hands together and bit his lip. ‘I don’t think it’s about the drugs. I believe it’s a takeover. It’s just odd that one minute we had everything running smoothly, and then the next, it was as if ants were running all over everything.’

Zara frowned. ‘Ants?’

‘Yeah, yer know, how they all descend and take away bit by bit whatever’s on offer, but you just don’t see them unless there’s a mass. It’s similar to that.’

‘Give me examples.’

‘We’ve had an issue with our gun imports. Since Willie, Lou, and Staffie got banged up, the gun trade has been reduced to nothing. But Staffie was kind enough to give us their arms contact so that we could carry on with the business.’

Zara nodded for him to continue.

‘Well, currently, our supplier has gone quiet. We’ve no way of contacting him, as the phone lines are dead. And I’ve got an update on what I told you yesterday. Now, three more of your restaurants are vacant. They fecking literally shut down overnight. No fecker knows where the managers went. I walked into Satiro’s place and it was abandoned. The tables were laid, the kitchen was clean, and even the food was prepped, ready for customers, and yet there was no one in sight. And Nico and his sons left, with no warning as well. They just upped and went. Even that moody bugger Gino has gone. Luckily, the restaurants were locked with a closed sign on the door, or you wouldn’t have a business standing. The looters would have been in.’

‘Okay, right, so they haven’t destroyed the business. They, whoever they are, have just run my dealers out of town. That’s not a problem I’m concerned about for now. However, what I am livid over is that they have hurt Neil, and that I won’t take lightly, so I want—’

Shamus raised his hand. ‘Wait, that’s not all, Zara. Raymondo gave away all the codes to the arcades. Every one of them was robbed in one night. They smashed the feck out of the machines, took all the money, and no one, and I mean no one, has a fecking clue who’s behind it, except we know it’s some black guys.’

‘You what? Raymondo? Why did he do that?’

Shamus lowered his head. ‘’Cos one of the fecking bastards held a fecking knife to his baby’s throat. Some cunt dragged his baby from her pram and held a fecking six-inch blade to her neck.’

‘Jesus wept,’ shrieked Zara, her eyes on stalks. ‘Scumbags, fucking scumbags.’ She could feel her anger rising, and her need for answers overruled her patience. ‘What else, Shamus?’

‘We’ve had trouble back in Ireland too. It seems more than a coincidence, but that’s just my opinion. We have a set-up, counterfeits, yer know. Well, the two sites got burned down. Our pub, when I say our pub, I mean our meeting ground – Uncle Davey’s office, as he calls it – that too was burned down. So, in short, we’ve been attacked on all sides. Yet this gang or gangs or whoever the feck they are, are going in really heavy, and they are recklessly disrespectful. Jesus Christ, who the feck rips a baby from her pram, eh?’ He rubbed his stubbly chin.

Zara was taking it all in, her mind processing the ramifications of the reckless takeover. ‘And you seriously have no fucking clue who’s behind it?’

Shamus shook his head. ‘Only that they’re black, maybe Yardies. Yet, rough as feck they may be, I don’t think they’ve the brain power to run a racket like yours. Sorry, I mean ours. Someone else is backing them, and for the life of us, we don’t know who. We thought since Mikey’s out of prison, he could do some digging. He still knows anyone who’s anyone. Surely, he would have a clue?’

Zara inhaled a deep lungful of air. ‘No, leave Mike out of it. He’s got his own business to deal with. I’m gonna sort this.’

Shamus raised his eyebrow as he looked over at the tiny woman. What the hell could she do, really? He didn’t argue but nodded. ‘I’ve got to get back to the hospital. Davey will need a break. He’s been up all night.’

Zara was staring off into space. Then she jumped out of her thoughts. ‘Shall I come?’

The offer was kind, but Shamus knew it would only bring further worry. Davey and Neil hadn’t seen the state of Zara. It would just add to their concerns.

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