Recycle - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis 2025

Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2025

All Rights Reserved

Recycle is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

The author respectfully recognises the use of any and all trademarks.

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

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Published by Five Pyramids Press, Suite 1a 34 West Street,

Retford, England, DN22 6ES

ASIN: B0FNNKGTBS

Contents

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

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter One

Amelia Bagby, seventy-eight and thriving, despite her face looking like the shell of a walnut, sat in her usual spot in the corner of her café at one in the morning and watched the two men. They’d been in here before, several times, and from what she’d gathered by eavesdropping, they were brothers. She’d known the younger one, Floyd, for longer than the other. Men of Floyd’s type came here all the time, mainly at night or the early hours when the rest of the world slept and coppers weren’t prowling in their cars.

Floyd had been done for murder. A fifteen-year-old girl had copped it at his hand. When he’d come out of the nick, he’d begged Amelia to let him use the café, and despite what he’d done, she reckoned he deserved a second chance in the world of law-breaking. She understood the criminal fraternity all too well, having been married to the kind of robber who’d thought nothing of producing a knife if you didn’t hand over the goods. And it wasn’t just a knife. Her Lenny had used a gun once, and he’d been sent down because he’d panicked and pulled the trigger.

The poor old bitch lying in her bed while he’d been pilfering her jewellery box hadn’t stood a chance. The bullet had entered her forehead, and her brains had decorated her recently installed fabric headboard, which was a shame, considering it’d cost a grand. A bloody rotten waste of good money, that was.

When the police had knocked on her door later that night, Amelia had made out she didn’t know what Lenny was up to. Of course she fucking had. That was the deal when she’d married him, that if he ever got lifted by the pigs then she’d deny all knowledge of his shenanigans so she could run the café for him. And the deal when he died was that she’d take it over, still allow the criminals in to make their deals in private, and they paid her for the privilege. If the Old Bill came knocking and asked questions, she pleaded innocence.

Floyd’s brother, Simon—she’d caught his name during their urgent whispers one night—was shifty, but not in a criminal way, more like someone pretending to be a criminal. He didn’t have the flair that the usual slags had, where you just knew they’d been born into the underworld, or at least on the fringes where they dabbled in illegality to make a couple of extra bob to hand over to the missus.

There was nothing about Simon that told her he knew what he was doing. He acted cagey, as if he didn’t trust her at all, which he shouldn’t, not after what she’d just heard. Some poor tart, he’d killed her a while back, buried her under an oak tree in his front garden, and now he wanted Floyd to dig her up and dump her somewhere else.

They must have had this conversation at some other time, because it didn’t look like it was news to Floyd, although he seemed pissed off at having to explain, yet again, that they’d had all summer to dig the ground when it would have been looser, and now it was October, everything had hardened up.

“I told you last winter when you asked me to do it why it had to wait until the summer, and then the summer came and you said I couldn’t do it. I’ll give it a good go, but unless I’ve got decent equipment, then it’ll take me a while with a shovel.”

Simon reddened at the mention of a shovel. Interesting. Seemed he had a secret. Amelia knew that look, like it was related to something deviant. She’d seen it enough times on Lenny’s face.

“I told you why I couldn’t let you do it in the summer,” Simon said.

“Remind me.”

“I was being watched.”

“Right, I remember now. Still, I really could have done without this job. You owe me big time.”

“I pay you for these things.”

“Yeah, you do, but it’s me who takes all the risk. I’m the one dumping the bodies for you, therefore, I’m the one likely to get done for the murder if I ever get caught disposing of them.”

Bodies. Plural. Ameila didn’t like the sound of that.

She’d never usually grass on criminals, but this Simon, he was trouble—or he’d end up bringing trouble to her door at some point, she knew it, so wasn’t it best to get rid of him before that trouble arrived?

There were three ways it could be done: inform the police, inform the twins, or kill the slimy little fucker. Killing him meant involving someone else; she wasn’t strong enough to strangle someone these days, her gnarled arthritic fingers meant holding anything for too long gave her pain, and his neck was quite thick and muscly, so it’d be too much hard work. And then there was the choice of who’d murder him, where the body would end up, and whether it could come back to bite her on the arse later.

Maybe she should have a word with Floyd. Alone.

She caught his eye, getting up to go to the counter. He followed, waiting for her to pour him and Simon fresh cups of coffee.

“Something wrong?” he whispered.

“I heard what you’re talking about.”

“I didn’t think it mattered, the subjects discussed, so as long as you got paid.”

“That’s true, usually, but it’s obvious to me, and it has been since that first time he came here, that your brother isn’t the usual type. He may have killed a woman, but I doubt very much it’s because he planned it—like, she wronged him so deserved it.”

“How do you know that?”

She placed the two full cups on the counter. “Because I’ve been in this world for a long time, and I can tell a fake from the real deal a mile away. If you’re not careful, you’ll get into shit if you hang around with him.”

“I barely see him. It’s only been when we meet here and a couple of other times elsewhere.”

“And what have you been doing during the other times?”

“Helping him out.”

“I’d tell him to sort that body himself,” she advised. “And there’s a secret there with that shovel.”

Floyd frowned. “How can you tell?”

“By reading faces. They reveal secrets people think they’re hiding. Ask him why he went red when you mentioned the shovel.”

He smiled; clearly, he liked winding Simon up. “Okay, I will.”

“I don’t want him in here again. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

Floyd nodded and sighed. “You and me both.”

She levelled him with a hard stare. “So why meet him here tonight if you’ve got a bad feeling?”

“I only got the bad feeling after we started talking.”

“Drink those coffees and leave. Warn him not to come back.”

He collected the cups and returned to the table, glancing back at her as she walked along behind him. What was he doing, checking that she’d meant what she’d said? She gave him another glare that would answer that question, then went back to her spot and settled in to listen.

Floyd pushed one of the coffee cups across the table to Simon. “Why did you go red when I mentioned the shovel?”

Simon jolted, obviously startled. “I wasn’t aware I did.”

“Oh, you did. So how come?”

“No reason. It’s just a bit hot in here, that’s all.”

He could get away with that lie. Amelia kept the heating on full blast and bowls of water in various spots on purpose to create condensation that covered the windows and kept the occupants of her café shielded from prying eyes out on the street. No one wanted plod staring in at them, did they.

Simon picked up the fresh coffee and took a sip, his hand shaking. Amelia recognised someone crapping their pants when she saw it. Simon had dark hollows under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept much recently, and he had that jittery disposition that meant he was anxious about something. She got up to go and check outside—for a moment there she’d convinced herself that he’d set her up, telling the police what she allowed to go on here, but no one stood in the darkness, and none of the cars parked at the kerb had anyone in them.

She went back inside, casting her gaze over everyone else sitting at the tables. No one seemed dodgy like him, they were all discussing things quietly, so Amelia must have let her imagination run away with her.

She returned to her table and thought about Simon again. Maybe he’d used the shovel to whack the dead woman on the back of the head. Maybe he’d used the pointed part to split her neck and cut her head off. Amelia had heard it all in here, so many stories that would curl your hair, but out of all of them, the one that stood out to her as an alarm bell was Floyd being expected to dig up a woman when she’d remained undetected all this time.

There had to be a reason Simon wanted her gone from his front garden. Maybe he wanted to sell up and couldn’t risk leaving her behind. Who’d been watching him over the summer? Had the woman’s family begun to suspect him and they’d been waiting for him to slip up? There was a story there, a big one, Amelia was sure of it, and she wanted no part of it, even though some of the chapters had been spoken about in her establishment.

As long as Simon didn’t come back, she’d let this go.

But if her conscience called out to her? All bets were off.

Chapter Two

In a dinky little flat that had a small room full of monitors and computer equipment, George stared at Moody’s cousin, in shock. Their man had introduced them to Bea, a hacker, and she’d been scouring the internet for them to spot anything underhand going on in the East End that they wouldn’t ordinarily know about.

She’d hit the jackpot, but the story she’d just come out with, or part of it anyway, wasn’t anything he’d expected to hear in a million years.

“So however the fuck you do it, you’ve found some information hidden on the dark web, unravelled all of the data, and you’re telling me that some arsehole surgeon called Simon Fleece has been performing illegal operations on people kidnapped from foreign countries and brought over to the UK to have some bits and bobs stolen out of their bodies?”

Bea, known as Halo2002 online, nodded. “All of the information points to him being the one who masterminded the whole thing, but I dug deeper and discovered he isn’t the big boss of this mess, someone called Malik is. The person who dumped all the information intended to hide it, didn’t think anyone would find it.”

“But you did.”

“I did. I think it’s been tucked away online to be brought out later if it’s needed. Like insurance. It isn’t just Simon’s name that’s been mentioned as being a big player here—and by big player, I mean one of the many surgeons around the world who’ve been performing operations. I assume this Malik has written all of the information that was placed on the dark web. He’s uploaded documents that show transcripts of conversations he’s had with the surgeons. The majority of them were threatened with the deaths of their families if they didn’t agree to do as they were told, but Simon’s transcript doesn’t involve anyone’s name being mentioned. A vast sum of money was offered, and he took it.”

“So he was more complicit, more willing than the others?” George asked.

“Unless he’s been playing them all along and was buying time to extricate himself later down the line.”

“Only he didn’t.”

“No, and I suspect that’s because there’s information on him about him murdering ‘patients’, as they’re referred to.”

“Fucking hell.”

“This will be the third year of operations, but there are only videos of the second year. Why, I have no clue, and once you watch them you’ll see it’s obvious Simon has no idea he’s being filmed. He can’t deny he did the ops, so you’ve got any proof you need in that respect.”

“Where does he live?”

“Grove Manor.” Bea checked her notes on one monitor. “I did look into it while I waited for you both to get here, because a lot of people name their houses these days, don’t they, even if they’re two-bed semis, but this one’s a real manor, proper posh. Used to belong to Lord Charles Pinsworth. A poke into Charles’ world revealed he’s hit hard times and is on the bones of his arse, whereas Simon appears to be being paid by private clients to do legitimate operations like facelifts and whatnot. He pays the taxman, he looks good on paper. The interesting thing is that after he’s been paid by someone, the patients’ bank accounts close.”

“So they’re setting up fake ones to do the transactions.”

“Yes. They’re all based in central Europe.”

“Interesting,” Greg said. “They’re paying him so it looks legitimate, which means they’re interested in making sure they can use Simon for a long time. They’ve put him under the radar.”

“The same goes for the other surgeons,” Bea said. “I quickly poked into them, and they all look like they’re paid by legitimate sources. It stands to reason that the main players in this, the surgeons who remove the organs, need to be kept happy, because without them then there’s no organ transplant racket.”

“What about the people who have the organs removed from them? What happened to them?”

“Some have died. The bodies have been ‘disposed of accordingly’. As for the others, they’ve actually returned home.”

George blinked. “What?”

“It seems threatening to hurt their families and paying off their debts was enough for them to remain compliant. Not to mention that there’s a cache of surveillance I have yet to look at in depth, but it’s hours and hours of footage of these people being filmed prior to their kidnaps, then again after they returned home. In all of the ones after they’ve had the ops and they’re back in their old lives, you can tell they know they’re being observed. There’s a lot of scuttling down roads and looking over shoulders. The poor bastards are scared for their lives.”

“So this Malik, we can guess he’s European and has earned a fortune from this.”

“I expect so. I couldn’t follow the trail of who actually dropped the data packet on the dark web, but I suspect it’s him. The drop itself was masked too well, and I think it was pure luck and my determination that meant I could slip through any blocks that had been put up and get full access.”

“Where the hell did you learn all that sort of thing?” George asked.

“It’s called being a nerd and being bored as a teenager. Perhaps a bit nosy, too.”

“Let’s call it inquisitive.” George smiled. “So will you continue to unpack everything?”

Bea nodded. “There’s a hell of a lot there, so it’ll take a while.”

George studied the screens; there was too much there for him to take in. He’d get square eyes if he kept on, so he stood and stretched the kinks out. “We’ll leave you to it, go and drive by this Grove Manor and see if the dodgy surgeon’s in.”

“If not, we’ll pop and see the lord,” Greg said.

They left the flat and got in their little white van. George used his burner smartphone for a satnav, then Greg set off. Whoever this Simon was, whether he’d been forced to do it or not, he had some questions that needed answering.

* * * *

The imposing sight of Grove Manor loomed at the end of a long driveway lit up by the van’s headlights. The gates appeared more as decoration, left open, as if whoever had last gone out in the car would either be back or hadn’t bothered closing them. Simon fleeing in a hurry? Eerie gargoyles stared down from the eaves as if guarding secrets George dreaded to imagine. The late afternoon segued into early evening, long, distorted shadows cast across the gravel driveway. He stared at the grand house, Greg fidgeting beside him.

“Fuck me sideways,” George said. “The bloody size of it.”

They got out of the van, his shoes crunching on the loose stones. A weird stillness hung in the air, the quiet so complete it was ominous, or maybe it was because George was used to the noise of their city lives. It reminded him of how it felt at their forest cottage. He scanned the numerous windows, but no lights were on, no sign of life to suggest Simon was home. All of the curtains were open.

They walked up the steps to the front door. George used the heavy brass knocker. It produced an echoing tap that didn’t bode well, as if the hallway beyond the front door had nothing in it to deaden the sound. The silence that followed confirmed his suspicions; the place was probably deserted.

Greg pulled a slim leather case from his suit jacket pocket, opening it to select a metal pick. He knelt by the lock, working quickly, and after a few seconds, a click reverberated. George took gloves from his pocket, put them on, then wiped over the knocker to remove fingerprints. He pushed the door inwards, waiting while Greg also put gloves on. They stood on the threshold and stared in at a large foyer that only contained three empty bookcases. George stepped inside, his footsteps rapping on the polished wooden floor and, as usual, he took upstairs while Greg remained down.

George’s check of the upper floor revealed nothing but vacant rooms, so he returned downstairs and met up with Greg in the foyer. George was drawn towards one of the bookcases; it was the way there was no skirting board and the bookcases were flush against the wall. He gripped either side and gave it a rattle. The bookcase glided over to the left, revealing a room behind where it had previously been.

“Fucking hell,” Greg said.

The air that wafted out smelled of antiseptic. Instead of a chandelier like in the foyer, a surgical lamp hung in the centre of the ceiling, and George recognised it from the bits of videos he’d seen at Bea’s place. Opposite to the rest of the house, this room still had things inside. A metal gurney. A worktop with cupboards underneath like in a kitchen, and on top, some kind of sterilising unit. Sharp instruments lay on a rectangle of blue felt, and in the corner, IV stands, monitors, and a machine—George had no clue what it did, but it’d featured in every medical drama he’d watched. Maybe it kept an eye on the patient’s vitals while they were being operated on. What was creepy here, was everything seemed to be waiting for the next operation to start.

George couldn’t stand being in there any longer, knowing that people had been operated on against their will—or they’d given consent because they wanted to keep their families alive. He walked out, past Greg who closed off the operating theatre while George pushed the second bookcase to one side to expose a room lined with beds, each fitted with clean white sheets, waffle blankets, and IV drip stands. There was a barrier of metal poles a metre or so from the doorway, with its own door in the middle.

“A fucking hospital ward inside a cell?” George muttered.

It was a professional setup, no doubt about it, but the emptiness and clandestine nature of its existence within a private residence sent a wave of unease through him, raising more questions than answers about Simon’s morals.

Having seen enough, George pulled the bookcase back into place, and they walked across the foyer to the one that stood on its own. What the fuck was behind this one? Stone steps that led downwards. George took them slowly. The air grew colder, and it smelled of dust. The dim light from the ground floor faded, so he used the torch app on his phone, their elongated shadows dancing in the narrow confines of the stairwell.

The bottom opened into a space that wasn’t the expected skanky cellar but a flat, although the silver bars and cell door in front of him were an obvious way to keep people in the lounge opposite while their captor—Simon? Malik?—stood this side. This little self-contained prison beneath the world suggested that someone—or a few someones—had been living here. Empty plastic water bottles had been left on the floor in front of two sofas, the only other things the room contained.

George pushed the barred door open and stepped inside. To the left, open doorways revealed bedrooms with individual cages, cot beds, the shit kind in police stations, and a bathroom, so at least the poor bastards who’d been kidnapped had a decent toilet and access to a shower.

No kitchen. Odd.

George didn’t need to see any more. He left the lounge, noting another door on the stairs side of the bars. He opened it and stepped into a room, the air much cooler, carrying a faint, acrid smell that was distinct from the main cellar flat. George zeroed in on a tiny, dried speck of blood, no bigger than a pinhead, on a white painted pipe that ran along one wall.

He pointed to it so Greg could have a look.

“That blood’s old,” Greg said.

“Yep, but it still shouldn’t be there.”

George went back up the stairs. The hunt for Simon Fleece was on. Their PI, Mason, could do some digging alongside Bea to find out where the surgeon had gone. He might have family they could visit, people who wouldn’t mind answering questions. They needed to locate him in case he’d relocated to continue his operations elsewhere.

But if that were the case, wouldn’t he have taken the things from the makeshift theatre and ward with him? Maybe he hadn’t been able to let the removal men know those things existed. He couldn’t risk them blabbing. He could be coming back to collect them at some point on his own.

George messaged Bea to check whether the manor still belonged to Simon.

B: Yep. No sale has been logged anywhere.

GG: Good.

Then he messaged Moody.

GG: I’ve got a surveillance job for you if you want it. You get to stay in a posh manor and wait for some twat to arrive, although you’ll have to bring a blow-up bed and a kettle…

Chapter Three

The air inside the cramped metal container pressed heavily against Claudio’s sweaty, clammy skin, a suffocating blanket he didn’t want—had never wanted. What had happened to him he could never have predicted, and he wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. He didn’t even know why he’d been taken; no one had given him any reason for being snatched off the street. As far as he could recall, he hadn’t done anything wrong in order for someone to want to kidnap him, and he couldn’t imagine his wife, Alessandra, having enemies who’d do this to him either.

The smells had got to him after only a couple of days. The scent of stale armpits with the unmistakeable tang of fear laced through it, the stink of dirty bodies where they hadn’t had any access to running water or soap. Every breath took too much effort, and they were so shallow because of his bruised collarbone, the injury gifted to him by a man who’d said he needed to learn how to shut up. Claudio hadn’t spoken much after that, except to the other people he was with. Each person here shared the stifling air, desperate to suck in oxygen instead of poisoning themselves with carbon dioxide. Twelve of them sat together, or maybe some stood, he couldn’t see them, hidden from each other by the dense gloom. The darkness was the worst. But then hunger came a close second.

His arms and legs ached—his whole body if he were honest, right down to his gums—squashed as he was between other people in the limited space. The only light came from around the edges of the locked door, a shimmer that spoke of freedom but may as well have been a hundred miles away, because despite being separated from it by only an inch or two of steel, he couldn’t escape. They’d all tried. Some of them had tried so hard their fingertips had bled and nails had ripped off.

If they were lucky, sometimes moving air sifted through the gaps, and when they’d had the energy at first, they’d gone up to the door and inhaled the freshness. The chill that came through at night was a torment, and then there was the fear, usually of the unknown. He’d learned that not being able to see was a truly frightening experience. What got him was the sounds from outside; he thought they might be near water and the ropes of moored boats creaked, but if that wasn’t it, he had no clue what that noise was. He recognised footsteps well enough, probably guards, or, because they were in a container, maybe they were at the docks and the footsteps belonged to people who worked there. The most familiar was the spark of a lighter. Indistinct chatter. The bleep of a mobile phone. All things he missed from home, all things he’d taken for granted.

His throat, so dry from lack of water, clicked with each swallow, his tongue swollen, tacky. Fat, as fat as the steak he wished he could eat. Gnawing hunger bit into his gut; he’d thought he’d known hunger before, in Life Before Now, but he hadn’t had a clue regarding how awful it was. This was hunger, the constant pain everywhere, his whole body crying out for food, the fuel that would get him back up on his feet to actually feel like escaping. Because he didn’t, not at the minute. Too tired. To escape meant he needed to focus. To escape meant getting shot on the other side of that door. Or so they’d been told, and he had no reason to disbelieve that, considering those men out there had guns.

Big ones. Small ones.

He’d never thought he’d ever be completely without hope, and he wasn’t yet, but the majority of it had drifted away, no longer anchored to him as it used to be; it was once an ever-present thing inside him, sparking at various points during his day, but it was now a whisper from far, far away. The reality of his situation created too much noise for that whisper to break through, but maybe just knowing it was there was enough.

All was not lost yet.

The sloshing sounds from outside were back. Yes, they were definitely near the water. Had a boat come by, disturbing the surface? Was it a big river, the sea, or something else? He imagined they were at the beach, something he’d only visited as a child. His mother and father had taken him. They were poor and had saved up for a couple of years to make the long journey from the middle of Brazil to the edge. The hours it had taken to get there had seemed endless, but the car had eventually stopped, soft clicks pinging as the old-model engine cooled.

Claudio had scrambled out, the salty air hitting him first, and he’d never forget that sensation or the smell. Fingers of a sea breeze had riffled through his hair, pushing it away from his face, drying out his eyes so he had to blink to bring the moisture back. He’d stood in a car park while his parents fussed about the picnic bag, and he’d stared between two huge sand dunes at the sea sparkling beneath the blue sky.

He’d felt so free.

Given the green light to go down to the water, he’d almost toppled over he’d run so quickly, the shifting sand sinking beneath his booted feet. The whoosh of the waves grew louder with every step, and then the white froth had hit the toes of his boots, soaking through the brown leather. He’d had the same pair for two years now; his mother and father couldn’t afford any more until he’d completely worn them out.

“Take those boots off,” his mother had called from where she’d put a blanket out. “You don’t want to ruin them.”

The sensation of his toes disappearing under the sand was something he’d never forget either. With his boots safely on a rock and his socks tucked inside, he’d set off to explore. He’d found shells scattered along the tide mark, and farther along, weird-shaped seaweed he hadn’t liked the feel of—nor the look of; it had been a weird yellowy-brown colour. What he wouldn’t give to feel it now, though, to be there now. He wished he’d made friends with those children up the beach, a brother and sister, so Mother had guessed. They’d splashed each other then played with kites, the wind tugging the strings.

Later, with lunch eaten, his parents had suggested a walk. They’d gone to the pier with its weathered, salt-ruined planks stretching out into the sea. At the end, he’d stared back at the shore, a seagull shouting at him when it swooped close. People filled the beach, and some walked the promenade; they appeared as little dots from this distance.

The memory shifted to the rockpools. See-through jellyfish, tiny crabs, and miniature fish he only caught the shadows of because the fish themselves were camouflaged against the rocks beneath them.

Everything had to end at some point, and that day had been no different. They’d stayed on that beach until the sun had gone down, the sky orange, pink, and lilac. They’d gone for dinner at a café that stayed open until eleven, and they’d sat at a table outside, his parents drinking beer and smoking cigarettes they’d also saved up for. They’d slept in the car. Recollections of the next day flickered, back on the beach again, another picnic, and then it had been time to go, making the long drive home.

Home was no longer there in that little cottage. Now, if he didn’t count this container, it was with Alessandra in their small house with the wonky sash windows. They both had to work to afford the rent, and he worried that without his wages, Alessandra was going to have to leave.

A jolt from the person beside him yanked him right out of his mind, thankfully away from thoughts of his wife—to think about her too much meant he might cry. No one said anything, but he had no doubt they all understood what everyone else was going through. How could they not? And the jolts were common. Cramps.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

A stupid answer really, when none of them were okay, but he knew what she’d meant. She was as okay as she could be in the circumstances.

The familiar noise of someone coming to open the door sent a flurry of unease through him, and he automatically jerked his head towards the sounds of scuffling and low-spoken words, his body tensing, muscles screaming from the tension that hardened in his shoulders and the back of his neck. The screech of metal reverberated—he suspected a padlock kept them inside. Wide-eyed, his breaths painful, he stared, waiting for it. For that light. For the temporary blindness.

It poured in, so vibrant it resembled just a rectangle of whiteness to begin with, then, after he’d blinked, he made out the shapes of his companions in his peripheral, all of them staring towards the doorway, everyone sitting, hugging their knees. The brilliance of that whiteness hurt after their prolonged time in the near darkness. Mercifully, they’d be allowed to use the ‘facilities’ which would soon be placed in front of the open doorway. At first, the lack of privacy had crippled him with shame, but now, facing his companions while perched over the bucket didn’t bother him at all.

Shitting in front of people had become normal.

As always, the figure materialised in the rectangle as a silhouette. A man, tall, beefy, his face getting clearer as Claudio’s sight adjusted, his features slowly appearing, his cruel glare sweeping over them all. He looked like a boxer, his nose battered and a cauliflower ear much larger than his other.

What did he think when he stared inside at them all? That they were pathetic the way they looked up at him from their perch on the floor? The way some of them still had hope in their eyes that he might well turn out to be their saviour?

He pointed into the container. “Get up, get in line.”

Everyone struggled to their feet, not daring to groan or complain. To do that meant a slap to the cheek.

“You will use the facilities now. Remember, only one toilet roll for you all. Share nicely.” He laughed, folding his arms to watch them.

The queuing was so polite, so ridiculous, considering they all stood in a metal container after they’d been kidnapped, but the fear of being hurt kept them all in a patient line. Once everyone had finished, the wind blowing the stench from the bucket into their confined space, they washed their hands with blue gel poured into their palms by their captor.

“Go out to the van,” he said, pocketing the gel bottle.

The unexpected command stunned everyone. What? Go out to the van? It was confusing yet a relief to know they were moving on, although fear threaded through Claudio at not knowing what waited for them at the end of their journey. This place had been their destination last time, so was it to another container, just as bad, or somewhere else? Dare he hope for somewhere nicer?

The captives left one by one, and Claudio waited until last so he could make sure no one had been left behind. He found himself caring for these people; they had become a strange little family apart from the one woman who kept herself separate.

Eventually she’d break and need human comfort.

He shuffled out, his joints protesting, especially his knees and hips. They all filed down the side of the container, and the sounds of the water grew louder. He turned right, following the others, and glanced to the left. A large river, and windows in the distance, high-rises. It was broad daylight. Could anyone see them all, broken prisoners shuffling along, no handcuffs because the threat of death was better than any circle of metal? Would they find it odd and phone the police? Then he was in the van, squeezing in beside the woman who’d jolted him earlier. They sat on the floor, and the door slammed shut before he had much time to take everything in.

The darkness was back, the van a tomb, the front seats blocked off. A similar van to the one used in the beginning of this nightmare. His last clear memory of Life Before Now was someone grabbing him off the street as he’d passed an alley on his way to work. The material of perhaps a sack had been plunged over his head, rendering him blind, disorientated, and scared. There had been a warning not to scream. His wrists being tied behind him. The order to get in the van. Then the rocking of the vehicle as it had shot into motion. The floor had vibrated, the engine noise loud, like it was old. Then the movements, the sounds of other people. His muscles had frozen in terror; he couldn’t get them going.

And now they were on the go again. The hum of this van’s engine became background noise against the murmurs and whimpers, the quiet sobs, the choked noises where some tried to hold back their emotions. A protective instinct came over him again, like it had since the beginning, but he had to remind himself he couldn’t look after everyone all of the time. For now, he had to deal with his own feelings.

Where are we going?

Will I ever see Alessandra again?

Will I ever go home?

Every bump from the road sent pain through his body, the agony a reminder of being cramped, being here against his will, being…all but dead? Was that where he’d eventually land up, discarded in woodland, left to rot, his wife none the wiser as to where he was?

They’d travelled in that first van for a long time, then someone had told them they’d be going on a boat, a ship, and they had to shut up.

It seemed ages since he’d stretched out, but there was no point even trying, he’d only knock someone else’s arms or legs. The van swayed, his stomach churning in what amounted to a claustrophobic moving box, and then it swerved harshly, sending everyone sprawling. A collective shriek of shock exploded, and everyone righted themselves, settling back down. A loud burst of laughter came through whatever blocked the front from the back. Their captor? Someone else?

Close to Claudio, a sob, then a whisper of: “Please stop this!”

And another voice, cracked, a woman speaking of monsters in Hell and the Devil at play. “Please, just let us go!”

Claudio empathised.

“Shh!” someone said.

The driver laughed again. “Why don’t you just shut your fucking mouths like you’ve been asked?” he shouted in their language. “Why do you have to keep on breaking the rules? No one cares about your feelings. You’re just a product, remember that.”

A product?

The woman broke down into heart-wrenching sobs which were joined by others crying. A hot, bitter swathe of rage went through Claudio, then it vanished just as quickly, leaving an empty void that he wished he could fill with food. There was no point in getting angry. He had to conserve his energy, but God, he wanted to punch the partition, break it, grab that driver around the neck and squeeze until he was dead.

See what he’d been reduced to? What he’d become because he’d been treated like an animal? He was an animal now with this hateful need to kill.

His rational side took over, and he forced himself to take deep breaths, hoping his composure offered reassurance to the terrified shadows huddled around him.

The van lurched again, going faster. The swaying motion was back—were they going over rough ground?—and he couldn’t help but think of how much farther away he was being taken from Alessandra and everything he’d once known in his home country. How ridiculous of him, in Life Before Now, to have worried about paying the bills and whether they’d be able to afford a holiday. How stupid of him to have dreamed about a better life. He had no say in where he went or what he did now and, as he sat there, his tailbone so sore from where he was wedged against the side of the van, to keep his mind off the pain, he concentrated on the terror that seemed to hum in the air, the choked crying. He was just as afraid as them, a captive among captives, but that whisper of hope finally got through.

He was going to make it home.

One day.

Chapter Four

Greg pulled their van up to what could only be described as a massive letdown. George had expected to find Lord Charles Pinsworth in a more respectable street, considering who he was, but the satnav had directed them to a small, run-down terraced house tucked in the middle of a wonky row. The peeling blue paint on the front door revealed the grey-beige grain beneath, sun-bleached and possibly going rotten. In the patch of front garden, overgrown weeds clung to what might possibly have been a water feature in the past but was now a nothing piece of stone.

“What a difference compared to the manor,” George said. “This bloke must be gutted to have ended up here.”

The street looked like it had been forgotten, or more likely ignored by landlords only interested in taking rent but not doing any repairs to keep the homes nice. Pinsworth’s gaff was the worst. Tiles missing from the roof, and one of the windows was cracked, the splintered pane covered in a thick layer of grime you could write your name in.

“Let’s go and see what he’s got to say for himself,” George said, getting out of the van.

“If he can even tell us anything.” Greg joined him on the pavement.

They walked up the garden path. Just as George was about to knock, the door opened. Despite the signs of too much booze, the man on the threshold could only be the lord. Some people just had that look about them, didn’t they. Regal. Good breeding. Sadly, his threadbare trousers and a faded blue T-shirt put him firmly in the poorer class these days. His eyes showed weariness, his hair a dishevelled mess, the brown streaked with grey. His cheeks gave the alcohol-dependence game away, ruddy and mottled.

How the fuck did someone fall from grace from such a spectacular height?

Pinsworth offered a weak-jawed smile, his eyes narrowing and then widening when he recognised them. George and Greg had never had the pleasure previously, the fella had never come up on their radar. Another lord had, but he was a different story altogether.

“George and Greg, isn’t it?” Pinsworth said, eyebrows raised in question. His raspy voice added to his unkempt appearance. He gestured vaguely towards the hallway behind him. “Please come in. I never did like to do business on the doorstep at Grove, and I have no intention of starting it here.”

George went inside first, and he gave the hallway the once-over. It was just as scabby as the exterior, the air thick with the scent of damp and dust. They followed Pinsworth into a living room, the furniture either broken, heavily stained, or both. Where the fuck had he got it from, a skip? George glanced over at Greg to get his take on it; it seemed his brother pitied the man.

Pinsworth cleared his throat as though embarrassed. He pushed a stack of newspapers off a wobbly wooden armchair for George, then a pile of tattered books off a stool for Greg. Pinsworth sat on a sagging sofa.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked. “I’ve only got whisky.”

“No ta,” George said. He didn’t take a seat.

“All right,” Pinsworth started, his gaze fixed on a distant point on the wall, “I imagine you’re wondering what on earth happened. I’ll tell you the abridged version. An unfortunate gambling addiction. It started innocently enough, a bit of fun, then it spiralled. Before I knew it, the debts were piling higher than the manor’s tallest turret.” He tittered, finding his own joke funny, then a flicker of shame crossed his face. “The truth is, I didn’t just sell off a few fields or some family heirlooms, I sold the entire manor, every single stone of it. To a surgeon. Simon Fleece. Seemed like a decent enough man, though perhaps a little too eager to snap up a bargain. The transaction was meant to clear my debts and give me a fresh start, a clean slate, you know.”

George looked around. “That didn’t go too well for you, did it.”

Pinsworth laughed, although he clearly didn’t find it funny. “No. Every single penny from that sale went on clearing debts. Now, I’m getting by on benefits, just enough to keep a roof over my head, albeit this rather leaky one, and put food on the table. Usually just beans on toast, if I’m lucky. I go to a gambling anonymous group, which thankfully stops me from spending money I don’t have.”

George wasn’t sure whether that had been said to make them feel sorry for him, but if the lord was anything like other toffs he’d heard about, then Pinsworth was possibly the type to have thought his money lived in an endless pot and arrogance and entitlement had played a part in his behaviour.

“That must have been a fair whack you lost,” Greg said.

“I can’t even bring myself to say how much,” Pinsworth said. “I’m just glad my parents aren’t alive to see their precious belongings passing to someone outside the family.”

George and Greg exchanged a look, a mixture of pity and disbelief etched on Greg’s mug. A crow joined in the conversation, its caw muted through the window. George shuddered—shit like that gave him the creeps. Portents or omens.

Pinsworth sighed. “What a mess I am. Lord Pinsworth, once a pillar of the community, now destitute. Some would say I got exactly what I deserved; I’ll admit I’ve been a bastard in my time.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Anyway, how can I help you?”

“The surgeon. Did you keep in contact with him?”

“No. Why would I?”

“I suppose selling him heirlooms was a bit of a kick in the teeth. I can’t see me wanting to have anything to do with him afterwards either.” George stared at the skanky carpet, crumbs in the short pile. “He’s fucked off. Cleared the manor out. Do you know where he might have gone?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“How many doorways are in the foyer there?”

“Several.”

“Did you ever have any of them covered with bookcases?”

“Why on earth would I do that?”

With that query satisfied, that Simon had purposely made the secret entryways, George stepped backwards towards the hallway. “We’ll be off then.”

Greg went to open the front door, and they left the house, getting in the van. The next stop was Simon’s parents’ place. Hopefully it would be cleaner than where they’d just been.

Greg eased away from the kerb, shaking his head. “This street is an utter shithole, and you can bet the rents are extortionate. Can you imagine living the high life like he must have, only to find yourself at the bottom of the pile? Did you see how disgusting that living room carpet was? I realise he probably had cleaners in his old life, but how hard is it to run a hoover round?”

“He didn’t look like he owned a hoover. That would be the last thing he’d buy. I’d say booze came first.”

“Hmm.”

George thought about the upcoming chat with Shelly and Carl Fleece. Dealing with parents could be dodgy. If they were defensive and protective, he couldn’t blame them, but he’d only be nice if it was obvious they were unaware what their son really did for a living. If they were in on it, then they had a visit to the warehouse cellar in their future.

Greg turned into a much better road than Pinsworth’s, but it still wasn’t exactly upmarket, so if Simon funded his parents’ lives, then the money hadn’t been spent here. The street was quiet, the type where kids didn’t come out to play and each house blended into the next, all the same type, no character to them.

They stepped out of the van, and George scanned the outside of the house they were visiting, a two-storey effort that hadn’t had a paint job in years. A small garden, empty flowerpots, a bush, nothing to write home about. The paint on the front door had faded, red that had gone pink. A bird feeder hung on a wall hook between the front door and a window, a pair of well-worn brown garden gloves forgotten on the grass.

George knocked on the door. To curb his impatience, he counted while they waited and got to forty-nine when the door opened just enough for a woman to peer out. Sixties, her face lined with the wrinkles of worries and joys. Her blonde hair had no grey in it, and mascara darkened her lashes. Neat clothes, maybe from Next or somewhere like that. Quietly understated, this one.

She appeared to recognise them, frowned, then opened the door wider. With no questions, she showed them into a living room that smelled of polish and whatever wafted from a reed diffuser. The furniture was a bit dated, flowery shit, but everything was clean. She gestured for them to sit, her jerky movements betraying a nervous energy. Her eyes held wariness, as if she expected them to have brought bad news.

“Would you like some tea or coffee?” she asked.

“Nah, you’re all right, ta.” Greg perched on an armchair.

George remained on his feet. He opened his mouth to explain why they were there, but a man came in, wiping his hands on an oily rag. Carl. Also in his sixties, he had a stocky build and a gruff expression. His hair thinned at the front.

He nodded at them. “What’s going on, Shelly?”

“I don’t know.”

George stepped forward. “We’re looking for your son.”

Shelly closed her eyes. “Oh God, Floyd? What’s he done now?”

Poor cow. She likely thought they were about to tell her he’d killed another teenager.

“Not Floyd.”

She frowned. “Simon?”

“We need to get hold of him regarding his activities over the past three years.”

“Activities?” Shelly said.

A look of shared resignation passed between the parents. Carl nodded at her.

Shelly sighed. “We haven’t seen much of Simon for a long time. He’s a busy man, you know, with being a surgeon and all that. He barely rings us. I get a text every few weeks. We don’t know where he is most of the time. He keeps his life very private.”

“Did you know he bought Grove Manor?”

Shelly’s eyes widened. “What?”

“That’s where he performed his surgeries,” George said. “He has a theatre and ward there.”

“Is that even allowed?” Carl asked. “What, is it like his own hospital or something?”

“Or something,” Greg muttered.

Carl glanced at him sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

George decided they could have it with both barrels. He told them everything they’d learned about Simon, although he did say it was clear their son hadn’t masterminded the whole thing. Shelly cried quietly, but Carl went to the window to stare into the street, his eyes glazed.

“Simon was always a difficult one,” Shelly said. “Always trying to be the best, proving himself.” She paused to look at her husband who continued to stare outside. “He was jealous of his brother. Floyd always had it so easy, according to Simon. We apparently favoured him, which isn’t true. But Floyd was so laid-back, made friends quickly. Simon said he had to work for everything, and he always felt like he was competing. Maybe that’s why he pulled away from us.”

“That happened after Floyd got put away,” Carl said. “You probably already know he got nicked for killing a kid. A girl. Absolutely no reflection on us, we were devastated that one of our own could do something like that, and now look, you’re here about Simon doing the same thing, killing. It’s got to have been something we did wrong.”

At the sound of a key going on the lock, Shelly wrung her hands and glanced at the door. A man walked in, his gaze darting around the room, landing on the visitors. His dark hoodie and worn jeans were tidy enough. His eyes had a shifty glint, but that could be because he was wondering why George and Greg were there. A faint scar lived above his left eyebrow.

A flicker of suspicion immediately crossed his features. He didn’t acknowledge his parents. “What do you want?”

“We’re looking for Simon,” George said.

“He doesn’t bother with us anymore, especially not me.” He shrugged, seeming indifferent.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Floyd winced. “Can’t remember.”

George didn’t believe him. “I think you probably could remember the last time you saw your brother. I know I would.”

“All right, last week. He messaged me to say he was moving on and asked to meet me.”

“Show it to me.”

“I can’t. I delete conversations as soon as they’re over.”

“Are you aware that he’s been performing illegal operations on kidnapped people?”

Floyd drew his head back in alarm. “What?”

This time, George detected a hint of the truth in the man’s reaction.

Floyd chuffed out an unsteady laugh. “He told me he was doing facelifts and shit like that, private jobs.”

“It was private all right,” Greg said, “but there wasn’t a facelift in sight. Organs, specifically stealing them to order. Are you aware he killed people?”

Floyd sat on the sofa next to his mother. “I can’t get over this. I know he was a twat, up his own arse, but illegal ops…”

Shelly cried quietly, and Carl clenched his jaw, still finding the street a fascination.

“If you hear from him, let us know.” George took a card out of his suit jacket pocket and dropped it on a side table next to an armchair. “It seems to us he’s done a runner to get away from the person he did the operations for, some bloke called Malik. Heard of him?”

No one responded.

“We might have to come back,” George warned them. “Don’t even think about shielding him. He’s a shitstain.”

He walked out of the house and got in the van. Greg followed and drove them to the Noodle. They stepped inside, greeted by the murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the scent of beer. They strode past a few lively groups, heading straight for their usual spot. George sat and leaned back, stretching his legs out under the table. Greg scanned the room, nodding a quick greeting to some regulars.

Someone came over to take their order. George opted for his usual Pot Noodle with tiger bread, and Greg had a burger. Their coffees arrived, then their food. They both tucked in and, halfway through their meals, Nessa Feathers, their pub manager, approached their table.

“Everything to your liking, gentlemen?” She smiled.

“Yep,” George said. “Take a pew. You might be able to help us with something.”

She sat. “What’s up?”

George leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “We’re trying to find someone. Self-employed surgeon, supposedly specialising in facelifts, working out of his private residence. He’s someone discreet, you know, a bit underground.”

“What’s the name?”

“Simon Fleece.”

“A self-employed facelift surgeon working from his gaff? Sounds a bit niche, and frankly, bloody secretive. I’ve heard a lot of things in this pub, but I can honestly say no one fitting that description has ever come up in conversation around here. Not that I’ve heard of anyway.”

“If you do hear,” George said.

Nessa nodded. “Yep, I’ll give you a bell.”

Chapter Five

The Next Day

Six a.m., such a bastard time to be out and about. Detective Sergeant Colin Broadly had arrived at a crime scene to wait for his boss, Nigel, to turn up. Recently, Colin was the first one being contacted by the front desk when it came to the early morning calls, and he couldn’t work out whether Nigel was being lazy and not wanting to get up at such a shit o’clock hour, or whether he thought Colin was the better person to initially assess the scene.

He’s being lazy.

Colin did up the zip of his coat, a Barbour he’d found for a steal in a charity shop. He lifted the collar so it’d protect his neck when he went out into the cold. He’d parked along the edge of the empty road in the middle of nowhere, glad to find other officers were already there, because it was bloody creepy in the morning darkness. The area had a desolate air to it, the field to his right obviously tended to by a farmer, but the one to the left behind a line of scraggly bushes, Westerbrook Field, appeared abandoned. The grass had to be waist high.

He got out of the car, and as he’d predicted it would, the crisp autumn air chomped at his ears. The verge was springy beneath his boots—everywhere had been so damp recently—and mist hovered over the grass and between the skeletal branches of the sparse amount of trees bordering Westerbrook.

It was like a scene out of a horror film where the evil entity was about to jump out on the unsuspecting main character. He shuddered at the thought, again glad PCs were nearby. He took some forensic clothing out of his boot and got dressed, staring into the distance at SOCOs who’d already got to work erecting a tent. They appeared as indistinct white blobs in the gloom, milling around.

Westerbrook lay under a bleak autumn sky, the tent’s brightness standing out against the dull landscape—the halogens inside had been switched on. Officers in white outfits searched the area for evidence in the overgrown weeds, yellowed grass, and thorny plants. Whoever owned this land either didn’t give a shit about it or didn’t have the means to get the grass mown. That was something for Colin to look into later; after all, the landowner could have had something to do with the body.

As he’d already signed the scene log when he’d arrived, he set off towards his colleagues. He headed along the verge until he found a pathway going down the right-hand edge of the field, the grass trampled down, mud visible from where many people had walked. He’d been told the level of decomposition was significant, a grim reality in these kinds of outdoor discoveries, where the weather and wildlife got to work, uncaring that the deceased person had once been loved by their families and friends.

He got closer to the tent and scanned the area; nothing pointed to someone struggling to carry a body, no leaves ripped from the bushes, no dragging footmarks. There were ordinary footmarks, though, some of which might belong to the killer as they’d perhaps carried the body up this path while their vehicle idled at the side of the road. Fallen leaves had created gold and brown mush at the sides of the path; nature continued its cycle no matter what, indifferent to the drama unfolding.

How long had the body been in this field? Had it being placed here fresh and then decomposed? Surely if it had been here for a while, someone would have seen it before now. The trodden pathway indicated it was used often, so he’d be willing to bet this was a recent deposition site. It was a bit far-fetched to think that the body had been in the bushes for months and no one had smelled it, especially with the recent hot summer.

Beyond the tent, Westerbrook stretched towards an A road and mist-shrouded industrial units that had been sold off for whatever reason and the new owner had done fuck all with the land—maybe the same person owned this field. The closer Colin got to the tent, the more he wished he wasn’t at work today. The cold bit through all of the layers he had on, and the wind had picked up.

Around the tent and on the other side of the hedge in the next field, SOCO moved in their practised way, and an inner cordon had been set up where the evidence would likely be most concentrated. Cameras flashed, recording every angle, every piece of debris, every shadow.

Colin turned to face the road where he’d parked, hoping to catch sight of Nigel arriving, but no such luck. Hunched inside a patrol car, silhouettes from where he stood, sat the old man and his dog; Colin would need to go and speak to him soon. For now, he’d have a look at the body to see what they were working with.

The tent flap rippled in the breeze. A uniformed officer stood guard, his gaze fixed on the horizon, as if he wanted to distance himself from the putrid smell that had reached Colin’s nose. He offered the lad a nod and signed another log. The air, now heavy with the sickly perfume of decomposition, had Colin breathing through his mouth. He raised his mask and pulled the tent flap open so he could peer inside.

Sheila Sutton, the SOCO manager, beckoned him in.

He stood on an evidence step, letting the flap close, and the world outside instantly faded, eclipsed by a vile stench and creepy stillness.

“She’s been moved from somewhere else to here,” Sheila said.

Colin stared at the remains. Discoloured, an unnatural swathe of greens, purples, and an oily black. The skin had burst from internal gas pressure in several places, quite some time ago if Colin was any judge, the muscle and tissue beneath gnawed on by insects.

“How the hell was the body carried when it’s in such a mess?” He couldn’t believe it hadn’t broken apart.

“I’m betting it was inside a shroud then perhaps tipped out of it when it was brought here.”

Below a torso that had long since bloated then collapsed, the legs were twisted at a nightmare of an angle. Colin shifted his attention back to the face, if it could be called a face. The eyes no longer existed, the cavities nothing but dark hollows. Patches of black hair, matted and rigid with what he reckoned was dried blood, clung to parts of the head, but much of it had fallen away, leaving behind a mottled, discoloured scalp. The jaw seemed to have dislocated; perhaps the deceased had been punched, and it had contorted the lower face into a strange grimace that was horrifying yet sad at the same time. The pain this person must have been in at the moment of death didn’t bear thinking about, but unfortunately, it was something Colin had to contemplate. He wished the features were still there so an appeal could be put out with a description, but the decomposition had left only a nasty sculpture of rotted flesh.

“How long do you think they’ve been dead for?” Colin asked.

“I’d say it’s a she. Obviously Jim will be able to tell us more once the post-mortem’s been done, but I’ve seen something like this before. It really reminds me of another case where someone was buried inside plastic sheeting, and a hole had been left accidentally, which was where the insects had got in and done their damage. For whatever reason, the sheeting or the shroud has been taken away in this instance—maybe there was evidence on it which they need to destroy—but there’s probably still plenty left on the body. What I’m saying is the shroud will have affected how the body decomposed. I’d say this case was for another team—cold cases. She’s been dead a long time.”

Colin was relieved he might have to pass this over to another team, where someone would have been reported missing and this body was the final puzzle piece, but he might still have to stay on it, depending on whether Sheila’s assessment was correct or not.

“Okay, I’ll report to Nigel when he gets here, but I’ve seen enough for now. I’d better get off and speak to the poor sod who found the body.”

Colin left the tent and walked back to the roadside, glad of the fresher air. He removed his outfit and then got in the back of the patrol car with the dog sitting between himself and his owner. The man was in his late seventies, from what Colin could remember of the initial report, his boots muddy, his coat well-worn and grubby. Someone who liked the outdoors, then. His face had gone the colour of putty, the whites of his eyes bloodshot, the lower lids red.

“Morning,” Colin said. “I’m Detective Sergeant Colin Broadly—call me Colin. Are you up to talking for a few minutes?”

“Dave—David—Nordstrom,” he bloke said, sweat on his forehead despite the cold.

He clasped his hands in his lap so tightly his knuckles turned white, and he shivered, perhaps with remembering what he’d seen. No wonder—this wasn’t just some little fright easily forgotten, it was the terror of having seen something awful that would likely haunt his nights for a long time to come.

Dave nodded faintly, as if telling himself he could do this, he could recount it all yet again. “It was…my dog, Pawsy. If it hadn’t been for him, I think I’d have just carried on walking and would be none the wiser. I feel bad for saying it, but I wish that’s what happened. I wish I’d never seen it. It was the way he just stopped, the dog, standing there sniffing the air, and then he rammed his head inside the bushes, his bum end sticking out. No matter how much I told him to come back out, he wouldn’t until I actually pulled him through by grabbing hold of his collar.”

Colin could only imagine the shock and horror Dave had experienced, the peaceful start to his day ruined with such a devastating find. It never failed to amaze him how days could go so bloody wrong at the drop of a hat.

“He was whimpering, pawing at something in the bush,” Dave said. “Now I know the body was actually on the other side in Westerbrook, I think he was just trying to get some kind of purchase so he could get himself into the bush and then go through to the body.” His eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, as if he tried to push back the unfolding memory—or the image of what could have been, Pawsy dragging the corpse back through.

Dave rested his hand on Pawsy’s head. “I thought maybe he’d found a dead fox or something, a badger, you know? But then I peered through a gap in the leaves and saw…I saw the…the shape. Just…lying there.” He paused, a shudder running through him.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“So am I.” Dave continued. “The smell… God, the smell was the first thing I properly noticed, even before I really saw that it was a body. I remember the next bit in a blur—tying the dog to a tree nearby using the lead, nipping through a bigger gap in the bushes to see properly on the other side. I got closer, just enough to see, and I didn’t touch anything, I swear. The skin was all discoloured, parts of it gone. I want to say it had dried out? Like the body is a husk. And the hair, clumped together with mud…”

I don’t think it’s mud, mate…

“I could tell whoever it is has been dead a while. I’m no doctor or anything, but even I know someone at that level of rotting hasn’t only just died.”

“Did you notice anything else?” Colin asked.

“What, like clothes or something?”

“Or people. Signs of someone having dumped her.”

“No, just her when I was in either of the fields, but there was another dog walker going along the bottom of Westerbrook by the road, but that was before I was anywhere near the body. I know her. She’s fifteen; I really can’t see her being able to carry a decomposing body without getting dirty, can you?”

“No.”

“Anyway, she lives in the village. Her name’s Serafina Bainbridge. Her dad runs the pub. The Bellow’s Arms.”

“Thank you for that. What did you do next?”

“When it clicked in that I was actually looking at a body that was in such a state, I ran back round to the dog and rang nine-nine-nine. I didn’t want to look anymore, didn’t want to see it again, and I was also scared that whoever had put the…the body there would come back.”

Dave went quiet and stared out of the window towards the tent. The light-grey daylight peeking over the horizon did sod all to dispel the darkness of the night that still seem to want to hang around.

“Did the policeman you spoke to before me tell you that you’d have to give a formal statement at the station?” Colin asked.

“Yes, I told him I’d rather get it done this morning than have it hanging over me. He said he’d take me down there himself, save me walking home. It’s three miles to my house.”

“I always find it’s better to rip the plaster off.”

Although Colin was only recently learning to face things head-on instead of hiding them away until later. In his life before his wife had been murdered, he’d loved to stick his head in the sand and pretend things didn’t exist. He reckoned if she were alive, she’d be shocked by the change in him.

“Thanks for giving me an insight into what happened. You’ve been very helpful.”

Colin said his goodbyes and left the car, getting into his own and taking out the burner phone he used for the twins. He locked his doors and switched the phone on, glancing up to check the road to see if Nigel was coming. He wasn’t. A copper got into the patrol car and pulled away, taking Dave and Pawsy with him, leaving Colin in the growing light with the presence of death nearby.

He sent a message, just to double-check.

Colin: Decomposing body found in Westerbrook Field. At a guess it’s female and has been deceased for quite some time. Anything to do with you two?

GG: Not that we’re aware of.

Colin: Cheers.

He sat back and switched the phone off, popping it away then planting his hands beneath his armpits to keep warm. Where the fuck was Nigel? Maybe he’d stopped to buy them breakfast again. Colin wasn’t going to let himself get excited about that, just in case it didn’t happen.

There was always the out-of-date Kellogg’s bar in the glove box if he got desperate.

Chapter Six

Doctor Simon Fleece stood outside his manor in the chilly night, waiting for the van to arrive, glad he no longer worked for the NHS or the private sector. The new life he’d begun while moonlighting twelve months ago, and the money he earned from it, had become too lucrative for him to remain in the rat race. Now he was self-employed, paid ‘legitimately’ via bank transfers he had no problem showing to his accountant, but the work he did was far from legitimate. It was illegal. And he was only needed for three months of the year. The rest of the time was his to do with as he pleased while members of the organisation got to work sourcing the next set of patients. This took months of planning, hence the long holiday between what they called ‘gigs’.

He shrugged off the illegal part every time he walked around his manor and saw the fruits of his labours, his big part in an operation—he laughed at the pun—that involved people from all around the world. He was one of several surgeons who opened his home to patients, and those who supposedly paid him were fake patients he fake operated on, just so he had people on his books. The operations went down as breast augmentation, nose jobs, and facelifts. The real ops were for the people who hadn’t given consent to have their skin cut and their organs removed.

What did he care, so long as he got paid?

Annoyance swept through him at being kept waiting. He needed to calm down and enjoy this pocket of quiet before the second batch of patients arrived, a moment to think things through. He’d learned by his mistakes last time—being verbally cruel to them was a must now. They couldn’t be allowed to think they had any rights, nor could they think he would be swayed by any pity towards them. They were a product, nothing more.

He glanced at his watch, his patience wearing thin. He hated waiting, and the patients were running late. To stop himself from getting even more annoyed, he allowed his mind to wander. He considered possible pitfalls and outcomes. The ways he’d deal with any catastrophes this year. It would be so much easier now that his brother was out of prison. Not that Simon wanted to have anything to do with Floyd, but needs must. Last year, there had been the unfortunate need to get rid of a body, and Simon still hadn’t had it removed from the grounds of his own property.

Jesus Christ.

No one would suspect him of having a corpse on his land, though, he was too well respected for that, a man of wealth, made obvious by his flash car, his flashier clothes, and his estate, one he’d bought from a once-rich lord who’d fallen on hard times—gambling. The manor hid beyond oak trees whose gnarled branches created a canopy over the dead bitch’s grave beneath, their leaves rustling with the whispers of what they’d seen him do with that shovel between her open legs.

He checked his phone. No new message since the last update: Traffic backed up on motorway.

It was no good staying out here without a coat on. He stepped inside, the air nice and warm. As always, he admired the polished wood floors, the panelling on the foyer walls, and the large, wide staircase opposite the front door. He strutted into his study at the front of the house where he’d spot headlights easily through the slats of the blinds. This room contained floor-to-ceiling shelves mainly filled with books once owned by the lord, plus a few medical textbooks and two antique hardbacks on embalming. He walked to his drinks cabinet behind his mahogany desk and poured a good measure. Sat in his desk chair and sipped the shot of vintage, single malt. The etching in the crystal glass caught the light from a nearby standing lamp, casting prism rainbows over one of his grey trouser legs.

Itchy in his own skin and feeling a loss of control, he got up again and paced across the Oriental rug, the back and forth calming him on the one hand, but he was still riled up on the other. The anticipation of seeing the patients for the first time appeared as a knot tightening in his stomach. He imagined their arrival. Their faces. Some would have bruises and split lips from where they’d been taught not to speak or have an opinion. These ‘donors’ were needed to earn vast sums of money, and they had no idea what was in store for them.

Just as the itchiness and quiet grew to a high level and he was about to throw the glass at the wall in frustration, he stopped. Listened. Turned towards the window. The flash of headlights, then the growl of an engine getting louder, tyres crunching on the gravel driveway. Predatory excitement quickened his pulse. He’d had no inkling, until he’d agreed to be a part of this, how much of a predator he actually was. How much he enjoyed playing God. He could make any one of the patients die if he wanted, make out there was a slip of the scalpel and a bleed he couldn’t stop.

“About time,” he muttered, then knocked his drink back, placing the glass on his desk.

Although these people were only a means to an end, he wouldn’t keep them waiting. Punctuality, even in such macabre times, meant a lot to him.

He’d have to keep his annoyance in check that the patients had got here late. It was likely the driver couldn’t avoid the traffic jam if he was already on the motorway and nowhere near a junction. Getting arsey about something so minor wasn’t good for his health.

* * * *

The sudden jolt of the van coming a stop sent people flying again, but it finally stopped the soft crying. Claudio sighed with relief. There was only so much misery he could stand to listen to without it affecting his mental health. Were they going to be immobile again like they were earlier? The sound of cars passing had whooshed into their hidey-hole—traffic on the other side of the road going smoothly? He’d assumed they were stuck in traffic, and he’d been tempted to smack his fists on the sides of the van to let someone know they were inside, but the driver must have suspected something like that might happen because he’d shouted a warning: “If you try anything, remember: we know where your families live. We will kill them.”

This stop seemed different. There was gravel under the tyres for a start, it had scattered and crunched.

Where in God’s name are we now?

The metallic taste of fear, thick and coppery, coated his dry tongue. His heart throbbed. The panic of ‘not knowing’ took hold, almost strangling the sanity out of him, but he reined in his emotions.

Deep breaths, that’s it.

The vehicle rocked—the driver getting out? Then came the slam of a door, then another. So two people had been in the front? Claudio strained his ears to listen. Just outside…someone was there. Footsteps on the gravel. Then the rear doors were wrenched open and a brutal blast of cold, damp air swept in to freshen the suffocating interior. It had the earthy scent of soil, leaves left to wither into mulch, and that strange mouldering dampness of…decay, the smell of a burial place, something Claudio recognised immediately. Back home, he buried pets for the veterinary surgeons. He knew the scent of death well—even old death.

The man who usually brought the bucket stood in the open doorway. “You know the drill. Try anything funny, and your families die, it really is as simple as that. Now, you can get out, but you stay in a line and do as you’re told, when you’re told. You’re privileged enough to be allowed to stay here for however long it takes for your host to perform his duties, and if you’re good, you’ll be taken back home. If you’re not…” He cleared his throat. “Best not try to run, eh?”

Claudio would never forget his voice, flat and without empathy, as if the man honestly didn’t care what was happening to them. Said man barked orders at each person who drew closer to the doors, grabbing wrists with his rough hands and yanking them out onto the gravel, shoving them away and out of sight. Claudio waited until last again, and, so he wasn’t shouted at for being slow, he moved forward, his ankles protesting his weight, his legs so sore after being stuck in the same position. He jumped out and stumbled forward, each step unsteady on the slippery little stones. Although glad of the fresh air, he wasn’t a fan of the biting chill gnawing through his T-shirt and trousers.

He joined the others in a line, facing a large house.

A new man stood on a set of steps in front of the entrance. “Good evening. Thank you for coming.”

Like we had a choice!

“Please come inside, where I’ll let you know why you’re here.”

Claudio caught movement in his peripheral. He didn’t know her name, she was the only one who hadn’t trusted the group enough to share it. She sidled back, out of the line. Then she ran towards the trees across the grass adjacent to the driveway. She didn’t look back at the dark silhouette of the house or the other captives, pushing forward with her obvious need to ignore the threats and pain and make a frantic bid for freedom. Her will to succeed must be overriding the ache in her body—Claudio didn’t think he’d be able to run as fast as her, but he was tempted to follow her lead.

If it wasn’t for the guns the men produced.

She plunged towards some trees amidst the shouts from the men and orders from the host for everyone to remain still. She ducked under the low-hanging branches and stumbled over an exposed root, clumsy in her fear. Claudio glanced at his companions; everyone had turned to watch her go but stood still, weapons trained on them, obedient soldiers. The driver gave chase, and she peered over her shoulder. She must have realised going that way meant he’d catch her if he got in the van to pursue, so she darted to the left and headed towards a small forest.

The game of cat and mouse didn’t last long. A hand smacked down on her shoulder, and the driver spun her round to face him. He slapped her cheek then gripped her by the throat. She let out a strangled sound and crumpled against him, her legs tangling. He shook her spitefully, teeth gritted as he said something Claudio couldn’t pick up, looming over her, then he marched her towards the group.

Her brief, exhilarating taste of freedom was over. Her legs weren’t even working now, so he dragged her as though she was nothing. They reached the steps, and he shoved her forward so she halted at the host’s feet. The host raised a gun, aiming it at her. The click of the safety being disengaged seemed so loud, and Claudio wanted to shut his eyes so he didn’t see what happened next. But he forced himself to see, to document, just in case he got back home and could tell this story.

“We always collect extra people,” the host said, “who’re matched to our paying recipients. For times like this, when someone tries to run, or they show us they’re not to be trusted. Trust is important here—without it, you can’t go home and your families will be murdered in their beds. If you don’t do as you’re told, all it does is tell me you won’t pledge to keep your mouths shut about what happens here—and what happens to you. So…the extra people means it doesn’t matter if a quarter of you die.”

He pulled the trigger. The force of the bullet sent the woman off her feet, and she flew backwards, then landed on the gravel on her back. Blood blossomed on her dress in the chest area, and she stared over at the captives, making eye contact with Claudio.

“My name…is…is Alice Ferreira.”

He knew why she’d said it—she believed now, too late, that he and the others had tried to be her friend, that they weren’t the enemy. And she wanted her story told, something they’d all promised to do for everyone if they should ever become free. They’d recited their names over and over in the beginning until they knew them off by heart.

“Okay, Alice Ferreira,” the driver said. “That’s enough now.”

He shot her in the head.

“Blindfold them,” the host said, as if a murder hadn’t just taken place in front of him. “I don’t want them setting eyes on my personal space.”

* * * *

They’d been taken down some steps, so Claudio assumed they were now in a basement. Their blindfolds had been removed. A bulb with no shade lit a lounge area with no home comforts, just two long sofas against the walls. No carpet, only concrete. The air smelled of stale dust. The space gave him a sense of abandonment, as if the renovation of this basement had been paused for some reason. Or maybe it was supposed to be like this, an obvious, temporary holding spot with no personality.

To the left of the lounge, doorways led to bedrooms with cell-like enclosures inside. The ones he could see from this angle contained a metal-framed bed, a plastic-covered mattress, and a pillow and blanket. The purpose of this place was unsettlingly clear: human containment, no dignity to be found here. Another door stood ajar, revealing a bathroom. He caught sight of a toilet, and on the wall a shower, so it was more of a wet room.

The sight of this hidden home beneath a wealthy man’s manor brought on helplessness and an erasure of identity. He was a no one now. He was no longer the Claudio who’d left his house to walk to work that day. Too much had changed him since then.

He shifted his weight, a restless energy urging him to run—but there was nowhere to run. He turned to look behind him. God. A line of shiny silver bars, floor to ceiling, a cell door in the middle. The bars divided the lounge into two parts. Beyond it, a narrow stretch of space, two easy chairs, and another door, this one solid. Did it lead upstairs? He supposed the bars were necessary to keep the captives contained whenever someone came down to shout orders.

And maybe bring food.

At least they wouldn’t have to shit in a bucket here.

He studied the faces of the other kidnapped people. A young pale woman shivered. A man in his late thirties stood with sagging shoulders, his eyes vacant where he’d completely checked out. Everyone else looked like Claudio thought he must—fear bleeding out of them in their expressions, a fear that mirrored his. Cold and sharp. Bitter. The burden of seeing their vulnerability upset him. He wanted to offer them comfort, even though he was just as trapped.

The driver perched on the arm of a sofa. Stocky and thick-necked, he had a creepy stare that penetrated deep into Claudio’s psyche. The smell of stale cigarettes came off him.

“Listen. Congratulations on making it this far. Do as you’re told, keep quiet, and don’t try anything stupid. You know what’ll happen if you don’t follow the rules.” He jerked his head, indicating upstairs and the shooting. “Understand?”

Everyone nodded.

“Make yourselves at home.”

He went to stand on the other side of the bars, waiting for Bucket Man to join him. He locked up, and the pair of them left via the solid door, laughing about how Alice had fallen ‘like a sack of shit’.

The sound of their chuckling remained inside Claudio’s head for what seemed like ages after they’d gone. Everyone just stood there, poised for something bad to happen, like this was a trick. Any second now, a man could come back and shoot them all. But no. The host had said he’d tell them why they were there, why they’d been taken in the first place. It was as though they stood in a vacuum, the stillness so eerie, the only sound that of their breathing. Then eventually, someone went to check the bedrooms and bathroom to make sure no one was ready to spring out at them, then each of them found a spot; some sat on the sofa, others on the floor, resting their backs against the wall. Claudio sat where the driver had been, on the sofa arm, hoping the others didn’t think he was using the elevated position as a symbol to show he thought he was the one in charge of them when no one else was around.

He glanced about. Everyone’s attention was fixed on nothing, their eyes glazed, each person locked in private thoughts. The minutes stretched on; time was different now, it lasted longer. Dragged. Then someone used the toilet. Someone else did the same soon after. But no one used the shower. No one went to lie on the beds in cells. Perhaps there was comfort in all sticking together, not putting themselves in compromising positions—having a shower meant getting naked and being vulnerable, as did falling asleep.

Claudio got up and looked inside the bedrooms.

Water, bottles of blessed water.

As if he held the crown jewels, he set about distributing them.

Chapter Seven

Today, Amelia existed on three hours of sleep. Funny how, as she’d got older, she no longer needed the prescribed eight hours. She moved her gnarled hand slowly as she wiped down one of the tables—admittedly, she wasn’t as sprightly as usual and could have done with an extra hour or two in bed. But the people she’d chosen to serve needed her to open up, so she’d come downstairs from her flat above and got on with the business of running her establishment. Sunlight tried to pierce through the condensation on the front windows, an attempt to brighten the interior decor that had seen better days. She kept it looking shite on purpose, it meant when the ‘normals’ came in and saw the state of it, they walked back out.

A few of the regular men came in, their hushed conversations revolving around jobs they had on the go, a robbery if she’d heard right, their attention constantly darting to the entrance as if they expected trouble to walk in at any moment. One of them had put his hand in the pocket of his jacket, his palm likely around a piece he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot.

He’d better not do it in my ruddy café.

Amelia ignored the quick, furtive exchange of an envelope that appeared thick enough to be stuffed with money. This was an everyday occurrence, nothing to write home about. Her café was a neutral ground for dealings, somewhere manors and turfs and all that crap didn’t come into it.

She went behind the counter to do a bit of tidying. The place may look like a dive but it was actually clean, it was only an illusion that it wasn’t. It was amazing what leaving a few breadcrumbs on the table conveyed to anyone who even thought about having a cup of tea here. Not everyone ran away, though. There’d been a couple of women and their kids in just yesterday, chuffed with the cheap price of coffee, sandwiches, and cakes. Amelia made a mental note to put up a new sign, a price hike on obvious display so they changed their mind about coming in again.

The door opened, and Floyd walked in, thankfully minus Simon. That meant she didn’t have to get lairy and chuck the latter out, which she had no problem doing despite her age. Every man buckled with a punch to the nuts no matter who delivered it. Nervous energy pinged off Floyd, his eyes darting as he scanned the area. He resembled someone out of his depth. His gaze latched on to Amelia with an intensity that had her pausing her task of refilling the sugar sachet basket.

What on earth had gone on?

He approached her, drumming a rhythm against the worn counter. He checked the other customers again, furtive as fuck, ramping up her unease.

“I need to speak to you.” He glanced round for a third time. “Privately, if you don’t mind.”

His polite request, which earned him points in her book, had an urgency to it. Without a word, she sized him up, blanking her face so she gave nothing away. He was desperate. Shit had gone down. But did she want to become involved?

Fuck it.

A curt nod, and she motioned for him to follow her, her joints protesting as she rounded the counter a bit too quickly and made for the door next to the counter.

“Keep an eye out for me, Basher,” she called to the wizened man sitting by the window; he owned an estate in Scotland and buried his victims in his peat bog, or so she’d overheard him saying. “Ten percent off your next payment for the favour. I won’t be long.”

“Right ye are,” he said.

Floyd followed her into a passage. She pushed open a flimsy door, taking him into her chaotic storage area full of accumulated stuff, some of it she’d likely forgotten existed. Boxes, stacked high and threatening to topple, jostled for space with defunct kitchen equipment, wobbly café tables, and broken wooden chairs she was meant to have fixed long ago. She switched on the light, a bare bulb, the brightness revealing the hideousness of the mess.

Blimey, I really need to get this room gutted.

In the middle stood a wooden table that served as her desk, piled at one end with invoices, a half-empty coffee mug from yesterday on top of it where she’d paused to take in a Tesco delivery, the prepacked sandwiches and slices of cake she flogged as if she’d made them herself. The only thing that was freshly cooked were fried eggs and bacon, and Lenny’s cousin’s kid did that. He stayed out of the way in the kitchen most of the time, on hand but barely working, being paid for the privilege.

Once they were nestled amongst the clutter, their arses parked on the only two chairs that wouldn’t break under their weight, Floyd found his voice.

“It’s about Simon.”

She tutted. “Fucking hell, I told you I wanted nothing to do with him anymore.”

“I know. He won’t be back here, he’s gone into hiding. He had to. He didn’t tell me why, but he’s being watched. The twins paid my mum and dad a visit. They’re looking for him.”

“Who are, exactly?”

“George and Greg. And the ones he…he worked for.” He swallowed.

“He must have been involved in something big if he’s had to fuck off and now the twins have come knocking.”

“I didn’t know about it, I swear, only that he’d killed women, but he was into organ harvesting, for fuck’s sake!”

“How the hell did he get tangled up in that?”

“I have no idea, but he’d have done it for the money, no question. That must be how he bought that poncy manor, how he could pay me so much money in cash for getting rid of the women’s bodies. After the twins fucked off, my mum and dad told me what they’d said. People have been disappearing from all round the world, kidnapped, their organs removed and put in other people. Then the donors get sent home, can you believe that?”

“They must have been threatened, surely.”

“They were. But Simon, I think he must have seen too much, he knows too much, and now they’re cleaning house.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Someone called Malik.”

Amelia’s stomach rolled over. “Never heard of him.”

But she had. He’d been in here once, three years ago, saying he’d appreciate it if he could chat there with his friends, Hugo and Kamil. Malik had handed over a grand in cash, asking her to forget they’d ever been there.

A quiver ran through Floyd, and he clutched his hands together, his knuckle bones stretching the skin. “I’m scared for my brother,” he said, voice cracking. “And for my mum and dad. Me. What if this Malik comes for us? He’ll think we know where he is. As for the twins, they’re ruthless. I just…I don’t know what to do.”

Amelia let the silence stretch until she knew he’d reached the point where he might cry. “You’ve got a choice to make, son, and it isn’t a pretty one. Your brother or your life.” The stark finality of her words hung between them, a brutal truth he might not want to acknowledge.

“Can you help me?”

“I don’t know. Fuck off and let me think. Come back tonight.”

She watched him leave the room, then went out into the café, scanning it for who she hoped was there. There he was. She perched on the edge of a chair at his table. Across from her, Shank, an old-school acquaintance of Lenny’s, was a man whose presence still carried the air of danger, despite the silver threads liberally spun through his neatly combed hair. His eyes, though shadowed by the passing of time, held a piercing sharpness that missed nothing, reflecting decades spent living on the edge of legality.

“Spit it out,” he said. “Fucking cat on a hot tin roof, you are.”

She leaned closer. “There’s this man.”

“There’s always a man.”

“He’s been linked to something beyond the usual street-level nonsense we’re used to.” A shiver traced its way down her spine despite the warmth of the café. She whispered to him the rumours of people disappearing, not just for money or vengeance, but for something far more sinister: kidnapping and, God help them, organ harvesting.

She locked her gaze with Shank’s, searching his seasoned face for any flicker of guidance, any sign of the wisdom she needed. “So now I know other things, too, things about this man, a surgeon. Who he really is and what he’s involved in, and I don’t think I can keep it to myself.” She wrung her hands.

“Clearly, because you’ve just passed it all on to me, and now I know them. Who else is involved?”

“That odd Malik bloke I told you about.”

“Fuck.”

“I know. What do I do? Do I keep it buried, or do I risk everything by bringing it to light with the twins? They’re going to find out about this place if they come poking their noses in, and I don’t want them to.”

Shank gazed past her, fixed on some unseen point as if sifting through her options. He pushed his empty coffee cup towards her, his attention returning to her face. “Go and make me a refill while I have a think.”

She got up, glad he was willing to help—or at least give advice. She took her time making his drink, then went back to his table, clocking the other criminals and checking if any of them needed a refill. No one paid her any mind, so she placed Shank’s cup down and retook her seat.

“Amelia.” Shank’s voice came out as a low rumble, hardened by years of smoking. “In my time, I’ve seen a lot of things, heard numerous secrets, some that would make your nipples invert, but this is different. There isn’t a street code for something like this, no handbook that tells you what to do when people are being opened up for pieces of their bodies. On this one, only your conscience can help you.”

She exhaled slowly, his words a confirmation of what she already knew. There was no easy answer, no ready-made solution from an old friend, just the stark, unvarnished truth that this decision, this moral tightrope walk, was hers and hers alone. She nodded, a silent thanks for his counsel, and despite his years of experience and knowledge of the underworld, he’d made her see some lines were so dark that even the most experienced, like him, couldn’t see them.

She zoned out for a bit, her mind in a whirl, and then the café’s familiar chatter filtered into her thoughts, and the ticking of the clock above the counter, marking time as she prepared to face the dilemma head-on.

Chapter Eight

Floyd had left the café to the clatter of china and the murmur of deals being made fading behind him, locking him out, making him feel like he didn’t belong anywhere.

A blast of October’s biting chill grabbed at his coat, flapping the fronts and sneaking beneath the hem of his baggy T-shirt. He hunched deeper into his coat, doing it up. He’d been walking for about ten minutes now, wandering aimlessly, no destination in mind, trying to clear the clutter in his head, although he’d have to go back to the café at some point to get his car.

Overhead, the low cloud reminded him of a lid keeping everyone contained. Him contained. It only served to remind him that he was trapped in a world he hadn’t meant to go back to. Weak sunlight reflected in the slick, oil-stained puddles that dotted the road—it must have rained while he’d been speaking to Amelia. Each breath he released came out as a plume, dissolving quickly, mirroring his peace of mind—it had been there one second but gone the next as soon as he’d seen the twins in his parents’ living room. The scent of exhaust fumes mingled with the smell of flowers outside a florist he passed. Rain threatened, so he lifted his hood, shoved his hands into his pockets, and trudged on.

His mind replayed the recent unsavoury past he’d shared with Simon, a path he’d paved by agreeing to help him. He regretted it now he knew what his brother was really up to. Organs? What the fuck? He remembered the first time Simon had got hold of him. They hadn’t spoken for years, not since Floyd had gone to prison, and the last person he’d expected to hear from when he’d got out was him.

Floyd had dumped a body for Simon, plus promised to help him with someone buried under a fucking tree, but he hadn’t agreed to be an accomplice with everything else. He wanted nothing to do with operations and harvesting. When he’d been released, he’d told himself to only do low-level crim jobs, nothing major, yet as soon as Simon had got hold of him, Floyd had caved.

I’m weak when it comes to money.

A light above a pub sign flickered ahead. The Grey Suits, a place he knew far too well, and more importantly, a pub that was owned by the very same East End leaders currently tearing the streets apart looking for his brother. A knot tightened in his stomach as he approached, an undercurrent of fear winding through him.

He shouldn’t go in there.

It was courting trouble.

Pushing open the heavy door, he stepped from the cold and into the warmth. Conversations burbled in the background, the smell of cooked food setting his stomach off rumbling. He scanned the customers, picking out the usual faces: regulars propping the bar up, younger lads around a snooker table, but thankfully, no sign of the faces he most dreaded to see, at least not yet.

Those bloody twins.

He moved towards the bar, his hands still in his pockets, trying to appear nonchalant, just another bloke popping in for a bevvy. “Pint of Madrí, please,” he asked the bird behind the bar.

She poured his drink, and he paid, staring at the froth. Cold glass in hand, chilling his fingers and thumb, he navigated through the tables, going to a quiet corner where he could have a moment’s peace to himself. He sat on an upholstered bench in a secluded alcove, the patterned fabric still smelling faintly of newness. He took a long, slow gulp of the lager, the pub an insulating bubble around him, allowing him to dive deeper into the problem that had been gnawing at him. His brother, the man who’d always been his tormentor, his burden, was on the run. The only way out for Floyd, it seemed, might be to throw Simon to the wolves.

The thought of grassing up his own flesh and blood had his gut clenching. What a betrayal. Family was family, wasn’t it? A sacred bond, sacrosanct. But then, how sacred was a bond when one side was neck-deep in something so abhorrent? When one side had forgotten Floyd almost as soon as he’d been sentenced for murder, like he was scum and should be banished forever?

He knew what would happen if he didn’t act; Simon would drag him farther into it, deeper and deeper, until he was just as complicit. That woman he’d dug up and dumped in that field. Fucking hell. And the thought of those operations… Simon had to be a complete sicko if he’d agreed to do all that for money.

No different to you dumping the bodies. Simon paid you, remember.

As the last of his pint settled in the bottom of the glass, grim reality barked at him to get the fuck out of there. This pub would soon be the twins’ hunting ground if he didn’t make a move—for all he knew, people could be watching him because they’d been asked to. They could have sent The Brothers messages already, and those nutty bastards would burst in, demanding he tell them where Simon was.

He walked back to the café. Popped in to see Amelia who whisper-shouted at him that she’d told him to come back tonight.

“I nipped in on the off chance you’d know what I had to do by now,” he said.

“You know what to do.”

He nodded. Walked out, his legs shaking, and collected his car. The drive felt endless, each metre stretching his nerves taut. He pulled up outside his mum and dad’s place, the sight of the familiar house doing fuck all to soothe his anxiety. He had no chance to put his key in the lock. Mum met him at the door, her smile as warm and genuine as it always was for him, though her brow furrowed, and she studied his face.

“Have you found out some more bad news?” she asked, touching his arm in concern.

The knot in his stomach tightened further. “I haven’t seen Simon or the twins, if that’s what you mean. Let’s go inside.”

In the living room, his dad sat in the armchair reading a newspaper on his phone. He grunted a greeting then sighed as if he really didn’t want any more shit today. Floyd sat on the sofa next to Mum. The tick-tock of the clock on the mantel didn’t help his frazzled nerves like it normally did. No comfort to be had here.

He fixed his attention on a fraying thread on the sofa cushion. “There’s something I need to tell you. It’s to do with Simon, and it’s bad. Really bad.”

He forced himself to look at them, the apprehension in their faces.

He took a shaky breath and plunged in head-first. “I helped him.” He quickly put up a hand to stall his mum who’d opened her mouth to admonish him. “Not with the operations, fuck no, I wouldn’t do that, but I helped him clean up other messes.”

“What messes?” Dad asked, wary.

“There were…people. Dead people. And I…I made them disappear. Except one of them was found, and the police were all over it.” Not to mention the one in the field would be all over social media soon.

“Jesus Christ,” Mum breathed. “Who was it?”

“That woman found in the alley, the one from Brazil.”

“You sat there!” she screeched. “You bloody well sat there and made out you felt bad about that when it was on the news.”

“I did feel bad,” he lied. In truth, he hadn’t given a shit.

“What if there’s evidence?” Dad barked.

“I made sure there was no trace of me or Simon.”

“Oh God…” Mum covered her face with her hands. “Why did you do it?”

“For Simon,” Floyd went on. “To protect him.” He tried to explain, tried to make them understand the twisted logic that had propelled him down this path. “He was out of his depth. He needed my help.”

Dad held his phone up. “I’ve just been reading about some woman found. Westerbrook Field.”

Floyd swallowed. “That was me. I put her there, but I didn’t kill her. Simon did. She’d been buried in his front garden. He’d wrapped her in plastic and—”

“Shut up!” Mum shouted, dropping her hands into her lap. “Oh my God, this just keeps getting worse. Where the hell did we go wrong with you two?”

Floyd had to make her see she couldn’t bail on him, not now. “I’m scared, Mum.”

“I bet you bloody are,” Dad said. “What do you expect us to do about it other than go to the police and shop the pair of you?”

Floyd didn’t doubt him. His father had marched him down to the police station after he’d confessed, over a dinner of spag bol, to murdering that teenage girl.

Was it in the genes, murdering women? Was Dad a secret killer? Or Mum? Or some uncle he’d never met?

Concentrate. “I came here because… I don’t have anyone else but you two. I need your help. Just tell me what to do. It’s all changed now the twins are involved and we know Simon’s up to his neck in shit with that Malik bloke. What if he turns up here next?”

No one answered him. The clock ticked. Mum’s eyes flickered with a chilling emptiness—directed towards him? Or was she thinking about Simon? Dad stared, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond Floyd, seemingly lost in the dark implications of the mess they were in.

The weighty silence spoke volumes.

Dad sighed. “I can’t condone what you’ve done, just like I couldn’t when you killed that young girl. But you promised the parole board you’d never do bad things again, you promised us, and yet here we are. Yes, you’ve done what you thought was right for your brother, misguided as it was, but now you’ve got to do what’s right for you. And us. You know what that means.”

Mum nodded slowly, her eyes brimming with tears. “The truth has a way of coming out, like a weed trying to find the light. I read that somewhere. Someone, somewhere, will drop you in it, so you may as well confess before that happens.”

Floyd took a deep breath. He knew what ‘do what’s right’ truly meant.

Fuck it, he was going to have to speak to the twins, but first, he’d contact Simon.

Chapter Nine

Someone was already dead. Jesus fucking Christ! Simon stared at the forever-silent woman on the floor, one he’d allowed the driver, Hugo, to place on a rug in the storage room in the cellar next to the confinement area. The rugs had been bought in readiness for any unexpected deaths, bought with cash on a market stall, so there would be minimal fibres from this house on them if any bodies had to be taken out.

If? It’s bloody when.

He’d asked the men to leave him alone. Kamil, the one who’d looked after everyone in the metal container, had suggested they nip home, seeing as he hadn’t seen the inside of his place for weeks. They’d be back in the morning. Good, because Simon needed some time to process things. How it had gone wrong so quickly with that stupid cow making a run for it. Maybe she’d told herself she’d rather die than put up with more of what she’d already been through.

Cold dread seeped into his marrow that he was going to have to deal with this death on his own again. He breathed deeply, the scent of the disobedient bitch’s blood invading his lungs. Last time someone had died, Malik had told him to sort it himself, so this time wouldn’t be any different. His mind raced. He tried to think of anyone he could trust to help him, but the only name he came up with was Floyd’s.

Was Simon rude enough to contact him after all this time of estrangement? Yes. It had been years since they’d last spoken, a silence orchestrated by Simon—he’d ignored letters and refused to take any calls from prison. He’d done it to feel normal, to pretend he didn’t have a killer brother, but then…Simon was a killer now, too. While Floyd had been confined, Simon had built a life far removed from the shadowed corners his brother used to roam.

He paced beside the inert woman, wrestling with the irony. As an adult he’d always distanced himself from Floyd, wanting no part in his shady life, but now those traits Floyd possessed were exactly what Simon needed. There was no one else who’d know what to do in a situation like this, let alone be willing to get involved and keep his mouth shut so long as he got paid.

His mind drifted back through the years, landing in their childhood. They’d never really got along. Floyd had created unnecessary friction, pissing Simon off more often than not, just by being there. Breathing. Eating. They were mismatched siblings, forced to live together because they had the same mum and dad, each finding the other annoying. Simon had tried so hard to get his parents’ attention, for them to be proud of him—hence why he’d worked so hard and for so long to become a surgeon—but Floyd, even after he’d killed that girl, was still the golden child. He could do no wrong in their eyes, even when his actions—and the jury—had toppled him from his lofty pedestal. Their mother used to fuss over Floyd if he’d fallen over or got ill, whereas Simon could dust himself off and get his own tissues for a snotty nose. He’d allowed it to consume his younger life, always needing validation.

It had finally come when he’d been contacted to do these gigs.

That constant feeling of being overshadowed had gone now. He was better than Floyd, whether Mum and Dad admitted that or not. Simon had hoped they’d have wanted to see him more, what with their other son locked up, but his visits to them were met with indifference upon his arrival and then resignation when it was obvious he was going in for a cuppa. He’d listened to them—Mum especially—go on about how well Floyd was doing in the nick. Cooking and woodworking courses; the priest was so pleased with how he’d turned to God (turned to God, my arse…); even the prison officers thought he was great. Now, Simon barely saw his parents.

And here he was, standing in this impersonal room, a dead woman at his feet, needing to get in contact with the person he’d spent many years pretending didn’t exist.

He pulled out his old phone, the one he’d had when Floyd had been in his life. Thought of how to start the conversation. Then how to ask for what he needed.

* * * *

Footsteps. Claudio got up from the sofa, bracing himself for whatever came next. The air seemed to grow heavier with everyone’s tension, the collective gaze of the captives fixed in the same direction as his—the solid door beyond the silver bars. It opened, and the host appeared, stepping into the free space then sitting on one of the armchairs. Claudio looked up the stairs, but nothing at the top gave anything away.

“I apologise for not coming down here to speak with you sooner, but as you know, we had an issue with one of you, and her body still needs to be dealt with. I’ve been on the phone trying to get it sorted.”

In normal circumstances, someone would ask where she was being taken, but these weren’t normal circumstances, and everyone remained silent.

“Let me shed some light as to why you’re here. I understand it probably feels like an inconvenience to have your whole world turned upside down, but along with us knowing you’re healthy individuals, perfect for what we need, there are benefits for you, too.”

Inconvenience? It’s been a fucking nightmare.

“You!” The host pointed at Claudio. “What do you want to say? I can tell you’ve got something on your mind, so spit it out.”

Should he risk it? “Will I get hurt if I say something you might not like?”

“Not this time, no.”

“We might not be as healthy as you think. We haven’t had much food or water, and we’ve been locked in the dark for days on end. In a container.”

The host narrowed his eyes and muttered, “Shit.” Then he plastered on a fake smile. “That’s easy to remedy. I’ll order some food in for tonight, a takeaway will have to do, and then going forward, you’ll be fed properly. Again, I apologise, the lack of food and water wasn’t supposed to happen. Communication must have broken down somewhere along the way. I’ll see if you’re entitled to any compensation.”

“Thank you,” Claudio said. But he hated having to say it. To feel grateful to this man. And compensation? The man had said it as if they hadn’t been stolen out of their lives and plonked into this new one. In what crazy world did you get compensated for being kidnapped by the very people who’d kidnapped you?

The host smiled, although it was a cold one. “Okay, let’s get down to business. We have a very specific purpose for you. There’s a great demand for certain…biological assets, and all of you possess them. If you agree to keep your experience to yourselves, you’ll earn some money. And all of you need it; we’ve done our research. Each of you are in debt, and the amount of money on offer will clear it. Twenty thousand each, and that means some of you will even have some spare change. Isn’t that nice? And we’re talking about organs. Kidneys, lungs, parts of livers. Did you know that if some of your liver was taken away it will grow back?”

Claudio’s eyes stung at the sound of someone crying quietly. Twenty thousand for a part of his body? It didn’t seem enough, although he had to admit that amount would change his life in Brazil. But he didn’t trust this man to keep to his word. He offered false hope to make them think they were getting out of this so that they would comply with all the instructions, the eating of food to keep healthy before the operation. Who was to say they were really going to be set free? That could just be a dangled carrot. Had dead Alice’s organs been removed already and put on ice? And weren’t hearts in high demand? Surely they weren’t going to give up having twelve of those.

“Don’t you want to know how you were selected?” the host asked.

Claudio nodded for all of them.

“Hackers infiltrating computer systems. Medical records.” He nodded as though he thought it a genius idea. “The dark web is a wondrous place, full of people willing to help us. You were followed, watched closely. Your work, your families, where they work, where the children go to school…” He left that last one hanging, a plastic smile stretching his granite features.

Someone’s dam broke. A choked sob ripped out of the youngest man, who must only be about twenty-two, and he sank to his knees. Tears fell during his outpouring of grief and the knowledge sinking in that he’d lose an organ, maybe even two, then be sent home with a warning ringing in his ears to keep his mouth shut. And that was it? What they had to do? And they were supposed to be okay about it?

In a moment of self-preservation, to keep himself safe from going too close to the edge where if he jumped off he’d live in a place called Insanity, Claudio forced his mind to drift to the contours of his wife’s face, the curve of her cheeks, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Her laugh, a sound he worried he’d forget if he didn’t get home to hear it soon. He missed her hand in his, the comfort of her breathing beside him in bed, the understanding that passed between them with just a glance. Their shared moments compressed into an aching twist in his belly. He pictured her in their kitchen, the sun streaming through the window. Coffee, she’d be making that, the smell of it wafting through the house. She was crying, waiting for him to come home. He wished he could somehow send her a message to let her know he loved her. That he was alive. For now.

Then his thoughts turned on him, which they’d tended to do in the metal container, giving him visuals to torment him. Did she miss him so much she couldn’t breathe, like he missed her? Did she pace, suffocating dread filling her? Did she phone him, knowing she’d only be sent to voicemail? What had happened the day he’d been snatched? Had a colleague told someone he hadn’t turned up? Or had they just assumed he’d forgotten to call in sick? Had Alessandra, after waiting for him to come home that night, rung the police? Had he been caught on CCTV being bundled into that van? He pictured the officers searching, knocking on doors, and then the other side of the coin flipped over: they weren’t looking because he was an adult who could have just taken himself off for a break.

Oh God, no, don’t let them convince Alessandra I did that.

More captives were crying.

“There’s no need for all this snivelling.” The host’s gaze swept over everyone, lingering on the first man who’d broken down, a flicker of sadistic amusement surfacing in his eyes. “Stop it, all of you. Do I have to bring the gun out?”

The captives went silent, flinching, pressing into each other for comfort.

“If you keep up this gross display of tears, you’ll have your operations, we’ll take what we need, and then none of you will be alive.” He stood. “So think about that. Isn’t it better to return to your families minus an organ or two than be six feet under?” He walked to the solid door. “I’ll go and order your food.”

He shut the door behind him, the tap of his footsteps muffled as he ascended to freedom.

Chapter Ten

Simon hunched over a mug, its contents long since turned cold. He was tucked away in a flat in Cheltenham, three floors up, his living room overlooking a narrow street that smelled of damp cardboard and overflowing rubbish bins. Every creak of the floorboards from the person living above, shouts from the tenant below, every distant wail of a siren, sent a jolt of ice through his veins, his chest tightening to the point he couldn’t breathe properly.

The flat had been rented in his name but, he’d been assured by the landlord Floyd had found through a friend of a dodgy friend, it was all off the books, providing Simon paid the rent in cash and never asked for repairs. It wasn’t the best of homes: peeling wallpaper, the smell of stale cigarette smoke, the dribble of water that called itself a shower. It was a far cry from his previous life, the one where he commanded respect in brightly lit hospitals, where his hands, now trembling, once held scalpels steadily. He used to save lives; now, he wondered if he’d even be able to save his own.

His mind often returned to the operating rooms, the ones before he’d gone astray. If only he’d stayed there, in that life. He should have been happy with his lot back then, with the pay he’d received—which was a dream amount—instead of wanting more. Then he’d performed the unspeakable. Organ harvesting. The words tasted like acid on his tongue now. His only sliver of hope lay with his brother. Floyd had put out the call for new identification, a fresh start, a phantom existence that Simon would have to learn to love if he wanted to stay alive. The unknown person could provide the papers, a new name, a new past.

It had cost thirty thousand pounds, and so far, no sign of the goods.

Had Floyd done him up like a kipper?

What if Simon was found? There would be no trial, no justice, not for him. He imagined being dragged out of this flat, taken off to be executed by Malik. But worse was the certainty that his family would pay the ultimate price for his sins. He didn’t care so much about Floyd, but he didn’t want his mum and dad to suffer, despite how he’d always said they’d treated him differently. He didn’t want them wiped out by the people he’d run from.

Right now, he was supposed to be getting the manor ready to receive the next influx of patients. He’d left the burner phone behind, the one Malik used to contact him, so he didn’t know if he’d been messaged yet, but he’d bet he had.

What was he going to do if his papers didn’t arrive? He’d planned to transfer all of his money to a new account in his new name, then close down Simon Fleece’s for good. He couldn’t use the card for his Simon account here, otherwise he could be traced. What with Malik going on about the dark web that time, they’d be able to find him, no problem. He’d probably send his henchman, Nadir, to collect him.

It wasn’t lost on him that his medical knowledge, his greatest asset, was useless in this new life. He couldn’t operate his way out of this predicament, nor could he operate on a person. There was no life-saving procedure that could sever the noose tightening around his neck.

He ran through his limited options, each one more of a dead end than the last.

Give himself up? And what good would that do? His parents would need to be kept safe before he even contemplated that.

Run again? Where to?

Fight? With what? He’d left his gun at the manor, hidden inside his sterilising unit.

The gut feeling intensified. He was a dead man walking, or rather, a dead man sitting, waiting, holed up in an anonymous flat.

His new burner phone buzzed, and he jumped, nearly sending the contents of his lukewarm mug flying. He put the mug down and picked the mobile up off the little coffee table. It couldn’t be anyone but Floyd, unless he’d passed Simon’s number on to someone. He swiped to unlock the screen that lit up his face.

Floyd: Watch yourself. The twins are sniffing around for you. They’ve been to see Mum and Dad. Keep your head the fuck down.

The gangster threat was enough to curdle Simon’s blood, but the twins were only part of his nightmare; Malik wouldn’t rest until Simon was found. Already he might have put all of that information he’d bragged about into the hands of the police, like he’d threatened to. The coppers could be looking for him now, too.

Malik had promised to hide the information he had about Simon on the dark web when he trusted him fully. As soon as Malik had said it had been dumped into the ether, where not even he could find it, Simon had run. He’d arranged for his manor to be emptied inside two days, everything in storage for later. Floyd could sift through and sell it when the heat had died down.

He worried that he’d slipped up and Nadir had watched him drive away. Watched where the moving lorry had gone. After all, Nadir had watched Simon plenty of times before. Maybe he wasn’t safe here after all. Maybe he’d just fooled himself he was.

The isolation here suffocated him, but the best feature of this flat and street was the obscurity; no one seemed to give a shit who came and went, or in his case, who didn’t leave. The fire escape offered a potential emergency exit if ever he needed it. Yet, despite him knowing this bit would be hard, the patch of time before his papers arrived and he could move on to a better place, claustrophobia had set in. He’d walked the floors too many times to count.

He could admit it now, but this, what he was enduring, was the consequence of his time in Malik’s world, and he deserve the penance. He’d naively believed he could navigate it without getting his own hands dirty—or, more like it, be caught for his part in things.

God, how it had spiralled so catastrophically out of control.

As dusk bled into night-time, he moved to the living room window. He pulled back the light-blocking curtains a little and peered out into the inky blackness of the street. He scanned for any sign that his sanctuary might finally be breached.

A figure materialised under the glow of a streetlamp. A man, head down. He just stood there, a silhouette. Simon’s breathing stuttered. The feeling in his gut was an instant punch. He instinctively recoiled, crawled on the floor to go over and switch the lamp off, then went back to hide behind the curtain.

A fresh wave of dread spread through his limbs. The man under the lamp hadn’t moved. Simon’s mind raced, coming up with frightening assumptions. Was the man a walker just taking a moment? Or was he looking directly at this building, at this window.

At me?

Paranoia waved a hand, seizing control, twisting every innocent detail into a menacing threat. He was going to be killed. Strangled in this shitty little flat. His palms grew slick with sweat, his forehead soaked with it.

The man moved. Closed the distance to the building. Simon’s lungs burned. His heart hammered. Each advancing step stretched time.

The man was coming for him.

The peal of the doorbell shattered the silence, as did his pathetic whimper. A sickening lurch twisted Simon’s stomach, fear washing over him. He staggered away from the window, stumbling into the shadows in the corner. He wedged himself into the space between a worn armchair and a bookshelf, sitting on the floor and pulling his knees to his chest.

The silence that followed the doorbell’s chime freaked him out. He strained his ears for any indication that the man was on the landing outside his flat door, waiting. He imagined him scrutinising the peephole, testing the doorknob. He closed his eyes, willing the man to fuck off.

A lot of tense time passed. Then came a faint rustle, receding footsteps. Simon unfolded himself from his hiding place, his muscles stiff. He went back to the window.

The man was there again, but this time, his face was visible.

Nadir.

Simon’s time in the flat was over. They’d found him. Tonight had stripped away any hope he’d had that this was a safe place to hole up. Simon Fleece, surgeon on the run, had to run again, but this time, he’d try harder to dissolve into the anonymity of a city, a ghost in a dubious world that relentlessly pursued him.

Chapter Eleven

Amelia had made her mind up on what she was going to do. The bit that had bothered her the most about grassing on someone was bringing her café into the equation, and she really didn’t want to do that. It had been her life for so many years, the flat above it her sanctuary, and while she made money out of criminals doing wrong, they were kind of her family, those law-breaking people, and if she opened her mouth in a face-to-face visit with the twins, then she was putting those family members in danger. And herself. There was no way George and Greg would allow everyone to continue what they were doing once they discovered the amount of criminality that had been going on behind their backs. It would be so much better if everything stayed the same and only she and Shank knew who’d informed on Simon and Floyd.

She’d been thinking about everything in black-and-white terms, ignoring all the grey areas, until Shank had given her one snippet of advice: “You don’t have to be known as a grass.”

It was as if a veil had been lifted and she could finally see properly. God, she hated it when she became blinkered, but it was a bad trait of hers, one she’d always had when it came to a decision involving herself. With other people she could see the light clearly enough from the off. Weird how that happened. But she felt so much better now that she could do this anonymously, away from the café, using one of her many brand-new burner phones she kept in her cluttered office. She had about two hundred of them and sold them to criminals as and when.

She’d be leaving the café in Shank’s capable hands for the time it took to do the deed. He knew how to use the coffeemaker. Some days, she let the regular crims pour their own if she’d got engrossed in a crossword puzzle, and as she was only going to be out for around an hour, not even that, then they could bloody well get on with it without her.

In her office, she popped her long thick coat on, the green wool one Lenny had bought for her many moons ago, doing up the round wooden buttons right to the top. She wrapped a scarf over her head and around her neck and, gloves on, she marched through the café and out onto the street.

The evening had settled into a bone-deep chill, the air carrying the earthy scent of fallen leaves decaying in the gutter. In the distance, the throaty rumble of the city’s traffic meant life went on regardless of her dilemma—no one but her gave a fuck about what she was doing. The street was, as usual, devoid of anyone else out for a stroll, what with the café being tucked away like it was, but the splash of car tyres navigating a puddle farther down the road meant she wasn’t completely alone.

Her breath plumed in white clouds with each of her quick exhales. Round the corner, she passed by darkened shopfronts, their windows reflecting an elongated version of her, creating a ghostly figure. She shivered. A light drizzle settled on her coat as a blanket of fuzz, and she swiped her gloves down her front to get rid of it. She pulled her scarf up higher, tucking her chin into it, her gaze fixed straight ahead.

She reached the bus stop, its plastic roof covered with graffiti and the seating area smelling of piss. An approaching double-decker churned her stomach—God, was she really doing this? Had she really got a conscience this far along her road of life? The bus rolled to a stop, its brakes hissing. She got on, tapped her payment card, and shuffled past the driver, making her way towards a seat near the back. Gone were the days when she would have gone upstairs.

The lower deck was a picture of evening commuters and pisshead stragglers bathed in the harsh white glow of the interior lights. A young student, his hair falling into his eyes, sat with his head bent, tapping at his phone screen, its light illuminating his pale, spotty face. Across the aisle, a tired-looking woman cuddled a canvas bag overflowing with shopping. She stared out of the window, clearly miles away. Amelia sat and, for the journey, became just another passenger.

The bus trundled along, the streetlights streaks of gold and white against the darkness. A heavy weight settled in Amelia’s gut, dread that she was about to become a turncoat, yet at the same time she was absolutely certain she was doing the right thing. She thought of Lenny, a man who believed in the ‘code’ he’d lived by, where no matter what, he wouldn’t grass a café customer up to a leader. He’d have dealt with Floyd and Simon himself, but Amelia was getting old, so how could she do that without help? Shank hadn’t offered any in that regard. A pang of guilt twisted inside her, tightening her chest. She had to do something about those poor cows who were dead.

She imagined them, their stories cut short. The truth of how they’d died pulsed within her, demanding she set it free, even if it meant stepping far outside her usual boundaries.

Lenny’s boundaries, she knew that. He’d influenced her right from their first date until the day he’d died. She’d become hardened. He’d moulded her into the person he’d needed her to be, a woman without emotion when it came to crime. Now she came to think of it, she’d softened since his death, probably because she was allowed to be herself for the first time in decades. It would take a long time to shake off the chains he’d placed around her, and maybe she’d never get rid of all of them completely, she’d be wise not to, but in instances like this, when whispers in the back of her head kept her awake at night, and had done ever since she’d set eyes on Simon, well, she was going to follow her gut instinct.

The bus pulled to a stop at her drop-off point, a quiet stretch of road flanked by a row of dark, imposing industrial buildings, vacant eyes for windows. Amelia got up, her joints griping, and stepped into the chilly air, which felt colder after the bus’s warmth. She walked quickly, her heart thumping faster, towards an alleyway, a discreet nook where thick shadows would conceal her. She took a burner from her pocket and switched it on. Its small screen flickered to life, bright against the dark. She typed in a number Shank had given her, which she’d memorised, something she did easily from her time living with Lenny. He’d always made her remember his shit so it never had to be written down.

After only two rings, a gruff voice answered with a barked, “Who the fuck are you?”

She threw herself in before she had the chance to convince herself to cut the call. “I know who killed the woman in Westerbrook Field, and I know who put her there.”

The silence on the other end lasted ages.

“A man called Simon killed her,” she said. “Buried her under a tree in Grove Manor, and his brother, Floyd, dug her up and left her in the field. There’s more they’ve done, but Simon’s the worst one.”

Amelia didn’t wait for a reply. She hit the end call button, turned the phone off, and left the alley. She ditched the SIM down a drain and flung the phone into a nearby bin. With her mission accomplished, and a strange cocktail of guilt and liberation floating through her, she walked back to the main road, just in time to catch the returning bus. She boarded, relieved to be leaving the dangerous weight of her truth behind her in that alley.

Unless it decided to be a bastard and follow her home.

Chapter Twelve

Simon had fed the captives and locked them up for the night. Floyd had returned his message, and they’d arranged to meet. Simon currently walked in the shitty part of town, the biting wind chasing him down slender alleyways towards his destination, whispering taunts of a long winter to come, fucking up his hair by sending it in all directions. The darkness draped an oppressive gloom over the bricks of buildings and walls, the facades of shops, and the empty seats in bus stops. He was so glad his choice of career meant he no longer had to live somewhere like this.

What a fucking shithole.

He shivered, drawing his coat collar up so that bastard wind didn’t sneak down his neck. He stopped to look at a building, checking it was the one Floyd had told him about. Ah, he was here. A greasy spoon café he normally wouldn’t be seen dead in, but Floyd had insisted it was the best place to remain anonymous because no one gave a toss what anyone else was doing; they were too busy doing deals of their own.

Thankful he had gloves on, Simon pushed the door open, its glass heavy with condensation, the same with the windows, so no one could see in or out. A bell tinkled, and the stink of stale grease and frying eggs hit him. The air, thick and warm, had him feeling sick. The poor ventilation and grime were the least of his worries, but accustomed to much cleaner, more elegant surroundings these days, he struggled to remain inside. The soles of his expensive shoes stuck on the worn, cracked-in-places lino.

Every surface showed signs of neglect and a lazy owner. How the hell it remained open he didn’t know. A health inspector would shut it down immediately if they ever stepped foot in here. They’d probably been paid to stay away. The Formica tabletops bore yellow and brown cigarette burns and a had an oily sheen that no amount of wiping could fix. Peeling paint on the walls curled like dry hangnails, older layers of wallpaper beneath. A buzzing fly trap with glowing tubes sounded as though it was giving up the ghost. The strip light above the counter flickered, creating dancing shadows that gave the whole place the air of a bad drug trip. Disgust rose in Simon’s throat, and he looked for an empty seat that was cleaner than the rest.

An old woman shuffled over from the corner by the window. She appeared exhausted, older than her years, a stained apron cinched around her waist, a pen tucked behind her ear. She held a pad, presumably to take orders. She blinked her heavy-lidded eyes at him, stopped beside him, and asked, “What would you like?” The words were grunted, no hint of welcome in them.

Simon would bet she’d worked here since she’d left school, the type of woman with no ambition, happy to earn a meagre living, going home smelling of chip fat and BO as standard. Her casual indifference to his presence reminded him of his parents, which pissed him off. If he didn’t need Floyd so much, he’d walk out and never come back.

“Um, just a coffee, thanks.” It didn’t mean he had to drink it.

He found a not-sticky chair and sat, waiting for his brother.

He glanced across at the handful of other occupied tables, a collection of people who’d clearly had life squeeze the fun out of them. Rumpled clothes, either too big or too small, the worn-out quality suggesting low income and too many washes, or, in the case of the man with the beer belly, no washes at all. Tired faces, lines of worry and resignation, the people society overlooked—or, like him looked down on. Why the fuck were they just accepting this life? They weren’t like the captives, threatened to stay in their lane. Why weren’t they dragging themselves out of their mess of a life by their fingernails? Jesus!

In the corner, two men hunched over a table, talking quietly. Simon remembered what Floyd had warned him—don’t stare at anyone—and he lowered his head, only to snap it up again when the old bird came by with his coffee in a surprisingly nice and clean cup.

She plonked it down, some of the drink sloshing over the lip and onto the table. “Who have you come to do business with?”

“Floyd.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “Did he tell you about my commission?”

“Err, no…” I’ll fucking kill him.

“I require a hundred quid to keep my gob shut. You were never here, know what I mean?”

“I don’t have cash on me.”

“It’s okay, there’s a machine just there.”

He glanced to where she pointed. “Right.”

“Coffee and food’s on the house.” She folded her arms, clearly settling there to wait.

He got up and went over to the machine, worried it was the type to clone his card so someone could have a mad spending spree. It didn’t appear to have been tampered with, so he got on with withdrawing the cash and went back to her, handing it over.

She wandered towards her table, his cash in her hand. “Just a heads-up. Floyd will need to pay me, too.”

Simon sighed and sat. He sipped some coffee, again surprised—it tasted lovely. He checked his watch. Floyd was late.

Typical.

And then there he was, looking every bit the unkempt scally Simon remembered, just older and hopefully wiser. Floyd stood in front of the closed door, his grin bothering Simon more than it should. It was the same predatory one he saw in the mirror every day, and he hated that they had something in common. Apart from killing women.

Floyd came over. Sat and nodded to the old woman who got up to make what was clearly his usual.

He must come here a lot.

Simon stared at Floyd, no pleasantries exchanged, just the knowledge that unpleasant business was going to be discussed. The old woman brought over a pot of tea, a cup and saucer, and a clingfilm-wrapped sandwich with unknown contents. Floyd opened it, revealing a wide line of mashed egg and mayonnaise between slices of white bread thick with butter.

The smell had Simon rearing back. “You still eat those?”

“Why not? I bet you still eat ham and tomato with a sprinkle of salt.”

“Of course I do.”

“There you go then. Why the fuck is my favourite sarnie any different?” Floyd got on with eating. After the second bite, he said, “So what exactly do you need me for?” He hadn’t allowed Simon to say anything over the phone. “And I was right, by the way.”

Simon frowned. “Right about what?”

“When I told myself you’d need me before I needed you.”

Simon bristled; he could just get up and walk out now, sod his brother and his smugness, but he needed him, and bloody hell, that stung. So he told him, quietly, what he wanted him to do. He didn’t mention the organisation, the operations, and the sale of organs. There were some things Floyd just didn’t need to know. Simon would be stupid to hand over such ammunition.

“So you killed some bint,” Floyd said. “Like brother like brother.” He smirked. “Bet Mum and Dad would love to hear about that.”

“You can’t tell them.”

“I know, I’m just fucking about. And besides, I want the money you mentioned. So, the forest?” Floyd suggested a bit too casually, considering what they were talking about. “Daffodil Woods will do.”

“No, it can’t be there. Shit has gone on up there. Bodies found. You were still in prison when it happened so you might not have heard about it.”

“You couldn’t resist getting a dig in, could you?”

Simon sighed. “I didn’t mean it like that…”

Floyd laughed. “Again, I’m fucking about. Christ, have you completely forgotten my personality? I’ve always been a joker.”

You’re a bloody joke not a joker.

Floyd stirred sugar into his tea. “Right, if Daffodil’s off the table, then we’ll go somewhere else. Fortune’s Wood, what about that?”

Shit, that was the forest that bordered Simon’s land. “Um, no, it’s too close to my house.” Fuck it, he hadn’t wanted to tell him where he lived, but he was going to have to if he wanted him to dig up a body at some point, so what did it matter?

“There aren’t many houses along there,” Floyd said, then realisation dawned. “Don’t tell me you live in one of the big posh ones. I suppose that’s plausible with your salary.”

“I do.” Simon lowered his voice. “And it isn’t just the one body. There’s one buried in my front garden, too.”

Floyd polished off the rest of his sandwich and chewed, leaning back and folding his arms as though settling in to watch a film. He swallowed. “That’s fucking priceless, that is.”

Irritation filled Simon. “I don’t need you gloating.”

“Two bodies, twice the price—and a bit extra if I’m digging one of them up.”

“The ground is too hard at the moment.”

“So then the woods—any woods—are out, because it’ll be too hard to dig a grave for the fresh bitch, too.”

“I didn’t think digging would even be involved.”

“What did you think I’d do, just dump the bodies out in the open and go home? Make the same mistake as the one that got me nicked?”

“I thought you’d find a ravine or something.”

“A ravine! Where do you think we are, the fucking Peak District? And before you ask, no, I’m not going all the way there. More risk of being spotted on ANPR. Where are these birds from anyway?”

“Cheap tarts from abroad.”

“So no one will miss them in this country then?”

“No.”

“Good. That was the mistake I made. Someone missed my girl after I did her in. That and she was fifteen.” Pale egg stuck in Floyd’s teeth. “Right, let’s hash out some details.”

* * * *

The frigid air snapped at Simon as he left the café. He’d pay Floyd in cash once the body had been taken away. For now, it’d just be the one he’d shot, but at some point in the summer, when the ground had softened, Floyd would come round and dig up the other one.

Simon got in his car and drove away on the slick tarmac. It must have rained while they’d been in the café. It was late, well past midnight, and on the rural road that led to his place, he checked the rearview to make sure Floyd hadn’t followed. He didn’t need him going there yet. He had some things to do regarding the shot woman first, and one of them may involve a shovel handle between the legs.

His mother would be so ashamed of him.

A flash of ginger fur darted into the road ahead, a streak of vivid colour against the monochrome surroundings. He slammed his foot on the brake, the tyres screeching, the car coming to an abrupt halt. He lurched forward, the seat belt tight against his chest, a surge of adrenaline coursing through him. The brief, terrifying moment played out in slow motion. The creature, a young fox, paused to stare at him, its eyes reflecting his headlights.

Simon sat there, breathing heavily. The fox vanished into the shadowy tangle of roadside trees, seemingly unperturbed by the encounter. Simon’s heartbeat went into overdrive. Unease curdled in his gut, spreading insidious fingers inside his chest where it clutched at his heart. Squeezing. Trying to induce a panic attack.

He shook himself and continued on.

His mind snagged on a memory, a voice from the past, thin and reedy yet infused with conviction. It belonged to one of the patients. In her delirium as she’d fallen towards the sleep induced by anaesthetic, the woman had prattled on about spirit animals, unseen protectors, powerful guides who watched over the people they loved, ready to intercede when fate became cruel or danger knocked on their door. Her words had sent an ice-cold dread through him.

He recalled her drooping eyes, the way she’d said her own guide would look after her, despite the confinement behind locked doors. She’d mentioned howling wolves, soaring eagles, chest-thumping bears, but not a young, scruffy fox. What, was he thinking the fox was his spirit animal? He’d clearly had too much of that old woman’s coffee if he believed that. And anyway, he deserved a bigger and better animal. A dragon.

The road got darker as he neared his house. He skidded on a patch of black ice, tightening his hands on the steering wheel. He took some pressure off the accelerator, the remainder of the journey uneventful. He pulled into his driveway, relieved to see the familiar silhouette of his house. He shut off the engine and just sat there, staring into the blackness beyond his headlights, scanning the silent woods. Apprehension traced up his spine, leaving him unnerved, convinced that the fox, or whatever it represented, was still out there, watching him.

“Don’t be so bloody stupid.”

He switched the headlights off and got out, blipping the locks then entering the house. He checked the captives on the camera app on his phone and, satisfied they were all asleep, or at least were in bed with their eyes closed, he went down to the storage room and got to work doing what Floyd had said, rolling the body up and wrapping it in the plastic sheeting he already had down there.

But first, that shovel.

Chapter Thirteen

Floyd had spent ages wrestling with the idea of contacting the twins, pacing his small flat round the corner from his parents’ street, the shadow of Simon’s latest request bogging him down with every passing minute. Back when Simon had first asked him to dig up the body and put it elsewhere, Floyd had been blinded by the promise of such a big sum of money. Simon had said he wouldn’t be paid until the job was done, and Floyd had accepted that; so long as he knew he had a fair few grand coming his way, he’d planned to do little jobs he picked up at the café in between.

He’d never given a shiny shite about people getting murdered. Something was fundamentally broken inside him, he’d realised that in prison when the therapy hadn’t worked and the priest had told him that maybe he’d let the Devil in a little too far. Basically being told that he might not be a good candidate to even attempt to save had given Floyd the push and shove he needed to prove the dog-collared bastard wrong. At that point, Floyd had pretended to find religion, and he’d changed his behaviours so eventually, after two failed parole attempts, he’d been given his freedom. A changed man, so people believed, but they knew jack shit.

But somewhere along the line, he hadn’t grown a conscience, nothing like that, more a sense that the way his weathervane currently pointed meant storms were on the way, and all of them revolved around his brother. Finding out that Simon had been operating on people, involved with organ harvesting, even Floyd felt that was a step too far. That man, Malik, must be one balls-of-steel motherfucker to have organised all this. He had to have been watching Simon for months, surely, before he’d asked him to hop on board. Had Simon done it gladly, or had he been forced? Either way, Floyd didn’t want anything to do with it, and while he didn’t regret disposing of the bodies for Simon, as he didn’t have an emotional attachment there at all, he did care that he might get the blame for all of it.

He was fucked if he’d go down for murders he hadn’t committed.

A grim resolve settled in his gut. He was going to do this, put himself willingly in the firing line in order to stop his brother from ever going to work for Malik again. It made sense now, why Simon had run so quickly and without much warning. Malik must be after him.

Floyd stepped out onto the hushed street, the cold wrapping around him, creeping through his thin coat. He pulled it tighter, folding his arms, his hands under his armpits to keep them warm. He checked for anyone watching; fucking hell, he was paranoid now that the twins had sent someone to follow him, or Malik had done the same. The streetlights cast long, skeletal shadows of the bare tree branches across the pavement, adding to his sense of unease.

For the first time since he’d been set free, he wished he was still in prison. For all that he’d hated it, at least he hadn’t been able to get himself in too much mischief there. There had been the odd argument, a fight or two in the early days, but for the most part he’d been too intent on keeping his head down and pretending to love the Lord. Things had been regimented, the routine had done him good, but as soon as he’d taken his first breath of freedom, the old ways had crept back in. At least he hadn’t killed anyone again. That had been an accident anyway, he hadn’t meant to let his temper get the better of him when she’d revealed she was really fifteen and not eighteen. The stupid little cow had really pushed his buttons that night, so no wonder his hands had found themselves around her throat.

His footsteps echoed in the stillness, the only other sound the occasional rustle of leaves skittering across his path. They reminded him of the nervous whispers that had set up home inside his head ever since he’d dug that woman up. Bloody Nora, the last thing he needed was to develop a conscience.

He pressed on, the street empty; most people were probably tucked away in bed or on their sofas under fluffy blankets. He enjoyed being alone in the dark and quiet, though it did ratchet up the anxiety that had taken root. It was all very well grassing Simon up, but he couldn’t do that without grassing himself up, too. He was walking straight into the lion’s den, knowing he could get ripped to pieces.

He was going to offer information in return for leniency. He’d already paid the price for killing the girl, the twins could easily find out how long he’d been in prison, and while it wasn’t very nice to dispose of bodies, it wasn’t as if he’d murdered them first. Even a judge would hand out a lesser sentence for something like that, so hopefully The Brothers would, too. Besides, he had to do this no matter what the outcome to himself. He couldn’t allow his and Simon’s actions to get their parents killed by Malik or whoever he sent round to do the job.

He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, concentrating on the rhythm of his footsteps in an attempt to stop thinking about what the twins might do to him. How much it would hurt. Around a corner, he dipped past naked trees and the silhouettes of sleeping houses. He passed a side street full of shops, then ahead, he caught sight of women congregating on a corner. He’d heard about them. They were linked to the woman who owned The Angel, and you couldn’t fuck any of them without going through checks first.

It took the fun out of picking up a slag.

He ignored them and turned the corner they were on. The neon sign for a nightclub stuck out of a big building, and farther along, the sign for The Angel. As he got closer, muffled laughter and the distant thrum of conversation pierced the chilly quiet, conversation seeping out. Normally, that would egg him on to get there faster, but his steps faltered.

If he was going to turn back, it had to be now.

He reached the double doors and pushed one of them open, stepping from the cold into the overwhelming heat from packed-in bodies. Smells hit him: perfume, lager, fried food, cleaning products used on the tables. The sounds did his nut in. The clinking of glasses, classic rock, laughter.

Fucking hell, the place was busy.

He made his way towards the bar, navigating the crowd, scanning for an available space to wedge himself into. He spotted a gap near the end, not too close to the main throng, and caught the eye of the barmaid. He cleared his throat, a flutter of nerves flickering at the base, and met her gaze.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

He checked her name tag. Lisa. So she was the right person, then. Good. He hadn’t wanted to ask his mum for the phone number on the card that George had left for them. Even though they’d basically told him the right thing to do was to grass on Simon, he didn’t necessarily want them to know he’d actually done it. He’d heard about how to contact the twins a while back, and anyway, he could have a pint while he was at it. Calm his nerves before he had to speak to them.

“I, um, I need to get a message to The Brothers.”

Her eyes sharpened a fraction. She stared at him for a bit. Nodded, her gaze steady and unblinking. She pulled a pint without even looking at the tap or the glass. “I’ll let them know you’re here and want to talk, but you’re going to have to tell me what you want so I can pass it on, because they’re busy men, and unless it’s extremely important, then they’re going to tell you to wait until they’ve got the time to contact you.”

“Let them know Floyd Fleece wants to talk about Simon.” He winced; he’d always hated how his full name sounded when it was said out loud.

“Interesting. They already warned me about you.”

Warned?

She handed him the pint of lager. “Go and sit down over there under the big clock. I don’t think they’ll be long once they hear your name.”

With his pint in hand, apparently free of charge, he found an empty table. He took a long, cold swig, trying to appear nonchalant while his heart hammered too hard and he suddenly needed to go to the toilet. He watched the customers, their relaxed demeanours the complete opposite to the coiled tension in his body. Every few seconds, he glanced towards the door, expecting, dreading, the twins’ arrival. Each tick of the clock above his head amplified his growing unease.

The last dregs of his pint disappeared, and he was about to get up and buy a refill, but something rippled through the atmosphere, a really obvious change but one he couldn’t put a name to. The voices quieted, which meant the music sounded louder. He snapped his attention to the front doors. Two figures stood in the frame, wide and tall, brick shithouses against the night sky for a moment, then they came inside. Both had on obviously expensive grey suits, their unsmiling faces fucking chilling. Their eyes, cold and assessing, sought him out. They walked towards his table, people parting to let them through.

George stared down at him. “We hear you want a word, sunshine.”

Chapter Fourteen

The air smelled stale in Debbie’s old room in the parlour at the back of the pub, as though it’d been shut up for days. George hadn’t bothered with refreshments for them all. He didn’t want Floyd feeling too comfortable. Floyd sat on one of the sofas, his face ashen, eyes darting, and wrung his hands. Then he smoothed his palms over his thighs. He stared at nothing, probably so he could avoid making eye contact with George or Greg—or more specifically, what Greg held.

George leaned back on the sofa opposite, Greg beside him quietly polishing a gun for show. Floyd’s ragged breathing was getting on George’s tits, but he and Greg had decided to remain silent on purpose to see how quickly Floyd filled it. There would be dire consequences if the shitting-himself man failed to deliver the information they needed or, worse, if he deceived them. George was going to have to make that clear later, that if Floyd tipped Simon off, he was a dead man.

He might be a dead man anyway, I haven’t decided yet.

On the way here, George had asked Bea to send him info on Floyd. He’d been done for murder years ago, killing a teenager ‘accidentally’. Apparently, he’d lost his shit when she’d announced her real age and he’d realised he’d be classed as a paedo if anyone found out he’d been shagging her. He’d strangled her, dumped her beside a stream in a remote area, and fucked off to enjoy the rest of his life.

Except weeks later, when her body had been discovered, his DNA had been found on her. His was on file from a low-level burglary a year prior, but he’d been caught, given his version of events, thinking the jury would feel sorry for him (what planet was he on?), and had ended up in the nick for a long stretch.

It wasn’t any wonder the bloke appeared to be crapping his kecks. He must realise they’d have done their due diligence and investigated him. What was going through his mind? Was he regretting ever coming here?

Floyd swallowed hard. “I’m saying straight off the bat I’ve got nothing to do with the organ harvesting. I didn’t know anything about it. It’s not something I’d imagine Simon would do, but as you said, there’s evidence to suggest he’s neck-deep in it, so who am I to sit here and say he’s done fuck all? I’m here about the bodies.”

“What, your part in those?”

“Yeah. The woman who was found in that field this morning, Simon killed her. I don’t know the story there, what happened, I just know he buried her afterwards in his front garden. I was meant to dig her up in the summer, when the ground was softer, but Simon was paranoid he was being watched so told me not to bother.”

“Who was he being watched by?”

“He never said, but I assume it’s that Malik bloke. Anyway, he got hold of me a couple of days ago out of the blue to say the job needed to get done quick, and he’d hired this special machine to help dig up the ground. I had to do it overnight so no one going past in their cars would see me. His place is out in the middle nowhere with fuck all traffic anyway, so there was nothing to worry about. That’s probably why it was so easy for him to bury her on his property. He’d wrapped her in plastic, so it was just a case of getting her out of the ground in it. I put her in the back of this van I’d borrowed. A mate of mine crushes them afterwards if they’re used for crimes. I took her to the field, and like the other one Simon killed, I had a horrible feeling he wouldn’t have been careful with that plastic, his fingerprints and stuff like that, so I took the woman out of it, then the plastic got burned at the manor.”

The news buzzed with reports of a freshly discovered body, dumped in a remote field. Colin had sent a message about it, so now George was going to have to tell him the body wasn’t exactly their problem, but that it was linked to someone who had made it their problem.

He did that now so he didn’t forget, then asked Floyd, “Who else did you dispose of and where?”

“Last year, there was this woman Simon had shot. I dumped her down an alley, didn’t think for one minute she’d be discovered as soon as she was, but apparently, the minute I drove away, this old boy who’d watched me, he went and told the police. Then there was another one, and I know she died after an operation. We weighed her down and dumped her at the disused docks. As far as I know, she’s still under the water.”

Gaze fixed on the toes of his shoes, Floyd admitted, “The idea to put the woman in the water was mine. Simon got hold of me in a panic, needing advice, so we met up, and that’s when I came up with the water.”

“Why did you help him?”

“One, I wish I’d had someone to help me when I killed a girl, and two, even though he’s a dick and really pisses me off, he’s my brother.”

George understood that. He thought of Greg, their bond that ran deeper than either of them could explain. He remembered the countless times he’d covered Greg’s tracks, told lies, or stepped into dangerous territory just to keep him safe. It was a primal, unbreakable link, this blood loyalty, an unspoken code that George would always follow, right or wrong.

But while he had respect for Floyd being there for his brother like that, the man still had to pay for what he’d done. He could either do that with his life or help them out.

“There are unwritten laws that everyone has to follow on our Estate, and one of them is disposing of bodies without alerting us to the fact that people were dead in the first place. There’s a heavy price to pay for complicity in someone else’s crime, especially when it involves getting the attention of the police, which it’s done twice. The usual punishment for such a transgression—or in your case, transgressions with an S on the end—is a fuck load of torture and then death at the end of it.”

Floyd flinched.

“You killing that young girl happened before our time, and you’ve paid the price for that by being in the nick, so as far as we’re concerned, we’re only dealing with you being willing to dispose of three dead women. I get that you’re shitting yourself, you had to have some balls to come and tell us what you did. Why did you?”

“I don’t want my mum and dad killed. I reckon they will be by Malik if Simon isn’t found quickly. I lied to you, and I’m sorry—I know where he is, and if we can find Malik, tell him where to find him, my parents will be left alone.”

“I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“What…”

“If you cooperate fully and assist us in luring your brother back to London, then your transgressions could be viewed with leniency. Kind of an exchange of one life for another.”

The plan, as George outlined it, revolved around exploiting Simon’s greed, creating an irresistible bait that would draw him back into their territory. Floyd, his face showing his conflicting emotions, listened to the details.

“The thought of betraying your own blood, even a brother as sick as yours, should twist your gut,” George said, “but the alternative—a brutal end for you—is far more gut-twisting, yes?”

After a long pause, Floyd nodded, clearly accepting the terms.

“Did you think you could grass him up and not have to get your hands dirty after?” Greg asked him.

Floyd nodded again.

“It isn’t going to work like that,” George said. “He’s going to know it was you.”

“It’s part of your punishment,” Greg added.

The atmosphere shifted, charged with tension.

“Where’s he gone?” George asked.

“Cheltenham.”

“Right, then he can get a train back here in the morning.”

“How do I get him to do that, though?”

They discussed the best way to maintain the deception. Floyd would make the initial contact, offering Simon a bullshit job he wouldn’t be able to refuse—an operation paying eighty grand, but it had to be performed at the manor.

“You’ll be telling him a lot of lies, making out everything’s normal to avoid raising his suspicions. Reckon you can do that?” Greg asked.

Floyd nodded yet again.

They laid out a preliminary timeline, going over contingency plans should anything go wrong. With Floyd as their pawn, they’d have Simon in their clutches by tomorrow lunchtime if everything went to plan.

A message came back from Colin.

Colin: I don’t fucking believe this…

GG: You and me both.

Chapter Fifteen

The old car Floyd had borrowed from his mate at the scrapyard juddered along, the engine threatening to give out. He’d already slid on a patch of black ice and wondered whether he ought to abandon this job. But forty grand for the two disposals was fucking good, especially because he couldn’t dig one of them up at the moment, so the cash for that was sort of in a savings account, what with Simon looking after it for him. That’s how Floyd looked at it anyway. Knowing he had money to come was a weight off his mind. He earned enough to get by doing little jobs, but big paydays like this were few and far between.

Each jolt of the vehicle went through him; next time he’d borrow a better car. This bone-cruncher had been the only one on offer—well, the only one that was guaranteed to be compressed in the morning. Floyd didn’t want the worry of knowing the car he’d used could be discovered by the police before it’d been crushed.

His time in prison had taught him one thing: that he didn’t want to go back there. So why was he still committing crime? For a start it was all he knew, and going straight didn’t earn him the amount of money he wanted.

We can’t all be like Brainbox Simon.

He thought about the job ahead of him, the body at the end of this eerily empty road. Was this why Simon had chosen to live out this way because hardly any bastard went past his house and therefore couldn’t see what he was up to? That got Floyd thinking: his brother probably had more than a few secrets he hadn’t shared.

Do I want to know what they are?

It depends whether it’ll earn me more money or not.

He’d do almost anything for a bit of cash, apart from hurting animals.

A whistle of wind seeped through the cracked window seal, the whining noise pissing Floyd off—he needed to concentrate on not crashing because of this stupid ice on the road, for fuck’s sake, and the racket was putting him off. Ending up in a ditch wasn’t his idea of fun.

The landscape was just a load of silhouettes, various shades of black, grey, and white in the splash of the headlights. Winter was well and truly on the way, everything glittering with a layer of frost. The heater had lost the battle against the chill ages ago; no wonder the car was being crushed tomorrow.

A fox appeared on the rime-riddled grass verge, sitting there staring at him, its breath coming out in clouds. The animal stood, waited until the car was almost level with it, then vanished into the skeletal branches of a bush. The bloody thing had given him the creeps; foxes had a knowing look in their eye that he’d never liked. Sly bastards. He waited for more of them to appear, whole family of the buggers, but the road remained empty, a sparkling ribbon that showed no signs of revealing the right-hand turn Simon had told him about.

“Where the fucking hell is this house?”

Floyd followed the curve of a bend, going easy on the accelerator in case he skidded, then the turning appeared. He veered onto a gravel driveway hidden from the road by huge trees with dried-out leaves clinging on, even though autumn’s arrival should have ripped them off. Oaks, then. He remembered his nan boring his nuts off once about oaks sometimes not shedding their leaves.

The tyres crunched over the gravel. It sounded like popcorn popping in the microwave, and his stomach rumbled. He really should have had a snack before coming out. He checked the surroundings on his way up the drive. A big stretch of grass to the right, more trees at the side of it. That had to be the forest Simon said was too close to his house. He wasn’t fucking kidding. Talk about shitting on your own doorstep, but then he’d already done that by burying some tart under one of those trees at the entrance to the driveway. Christ, could his brother be any denser? He should at least have put her in the back garden.

Floyd pulled to a stop by the front door, the engine dying with the twist of the key. The car shuddered—was it going to start again when he needed to leave? If it didn’t, then Simon would have to lend him his motor whether he liked it or not.

Floyd stepped out into the cold. Jesus, Simon must be minted. The house was ancient, imposing if he were honest, the type that made you feel unworthy and firmly in your class: you don’t belong here, son, so move along… The place was a beast, four chimneys, and it even had a couple of gargoyles staring down at him. He’d only ever seen something like this up close on the telly. There had been no visits as a kid to posh estates, definitely no castles like Windsor, because they’d been so skint. The kind of money needed to buy this sort of gaff wasn’t the sort Floyd’s wallet had ever held.

Resentment tightened his muscles, envy making him want to hit his brother in the face. With a brick. Yeah, Simon had worked hard for it, he’d barely had a life while studying for all those years, but shit, did he really deserve all this?

Floyd took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Simon opened it, staring past him down the driveway, as if he thought Floyd had brought someone with him.

“Don’t be such a dick.” Floyd pushed past him into a hallway as big as his flat.

It smelled of money. And privilege. And polish. His scruffy boots tapped loudly on the wooden floor, the sound echoing. He felt like an intruder, a proper robber who’d broken in to pinch stuff off the gentry. Except it wasn’t the gentry, it was Simon.

Floyd looked up. A chandelier with dangling crystals hung above a grand staircase. It was such a waste that only one man lived here. Unless Simon had a bird and kids he’d failed to mention, which wouldn’t be surprising, considering how often he’d said he’d never bring anyone home to meet their parents, nor would he subject his offspring to being in their company. For some reason, he’d got it into his head that they had the worst parents on the planet.

Without waiting for permission, Floyd wandered through rooms, each one telling him how much money he didn’t have. Velvet sofas, mahogany tables, antique cabinets, bookshelves. Everywhere he looked, framed art, sculptures, all of it such a difference between his life and his brother’s. The scale of Simon’s wealth brought on more than a simmering resentment. Here Floyd was, given the job of dumping an ‘unpleasant problem’ as Simon had called it in the café, while Simon lounged about in this house, contemplating what he’d spend his money on next.

He can afford to pay me more.

The man himself came into what must be his office, what with there being a desk, although there was no laptop or computer, nothing at all on the desk except a scalpel, which was fucking odd. Floyd stared at his brother who looked far too relaxed for someone who had a dead woman in his cellar and one under a tree.

“Listen,” Floyd said, “after seeing all this, I’m going to need more money. My customers pay by their means, if you see what I mean. No job has a fixed price. For you, it’ll cost forty grand per body, not twenty.”

An expression of annoyance scrunched Simon’s face for a second, then he smoothed it out as though he didn’t want Floyd to see he’d been flustered. “I don’t have as much as you might think. I bought this house with the majority of the furniture and things already in it. The owner needed a quick, cheaper sale to cover crippling debts…”

Just like Floyd had known he would, Simon was trying to fob him off. “But you must have had a lot of money in the first place to buy it.”

“I saved what I’d been paid, yes. You have no idea how much it costs to maintain a place like this. Just because it looks like I’m rolling in it, I’m not.”

“To me, you’re rolling in it if you can offer me twenty grand per body.”

They haggled and argued for a bit, but in the end, Floyd made him see that if he didn’t agree to the new terms, he could get rid of the bitches on his own. He had no problem driving away from here and pretending Simon didn’t exist—just like Simon had done to him. That had hurt more than Floyd would ever admit to him.

“Did you see any cars on your way here?” Simon asked.

Here we go, his anxiety’s kicking in again. “I saw nothing but a fox.”

Simon jolted, and his cheeks turned red. “A fox?”

“Yeah, at the side of the road.”

“Bloody hell…” Simon paced, a hand to his mouth, his eyes darting left to right where his mind undoubtedly filled with thoughts that threatened to send him over the edge.

Floyd frowned. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

Simon hurried out of the room. Floyd followed him into the hallway, asking himself if he really needed the shit being in his brother’s company brought. Life had been so much easier when they hadn’t been talking.

Simon slid a bookcase to one side, revealing a set of cement steps. Floyd didn’t even stop to marvel at how clever that was; it was just like Simon to have sneaky doorways to match his sneaky personality.

They went down the stairs, the air warm, which seemed a waste of heating. Floyd had expected it to be super cold, for there to be stone walls and the smell of mould, maybe a rat or two squeaking, but the cellar had been done up, the walls plastered properly and painted white. Why was there a wall of metal poles with sofas behind it? Simon unlocked a door to the left, opened it, and stepped back for Floyd to go inside.

Prison had taught him many things, and presenting your back to someone could turn out to be a huge disadvantage. “You might be my brother, Simon, but I’m fucked if I’m going in there first when you could lock me in.”

“Like I’d do that when I need you here for a job! Jesus!”

“I wouldn’t put it past you to fuck about, that’s all, getting me back for those years when I was supposedly the favourite—which was all in your head, by the way.”

Simon ignored him and stalked into the room.

Floyd went in after him, about to wind him up for a laugh, but the reason for his visit stopped him short. A human-shaped package on the concrete floor. The body had been wrapped in plastic sheeting with a clear view beneath it to the backing of a rug.

“Just warning you before we pick her up, they’re heavier than you think when they’re dead,” Floyd said.

Simon tutted as though he’d lifted a thousand dead people before. “I realise that because I had to put her on the bloody rug.”

“Don’t get shitty with me. I’m doing you a favour here and keeping it quiet afterwards. By rights I should have told you to fuck off when you asked for my help, seeing as you abandoned me when I was in the nick.” There, he’d said it, got it off his chest. Now to see if Simon responded in the way Floyd wanted him to—with an apology.

“The pound signs lit up your eyes, so don’t even try to tell me you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart.” Simon sighed as if Floyd had pushed all of his buttons and he was about to explode. “And anyway, what’s the point of acting like that when it’s just me and you?”

Floyd narrowed his eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re wasting your acting skills because Mum and Dad aren’t here to witness them. There’s no one to impress here.”

Floyd shook his head. “You always did have a complex.”

“No, you were always the golden boy, and golden boys and girls can never know what it’s like to be the tarnished one, the one with rust all over them, because they’ve never experienced being left out or made to feel less than.”

“I’m not getting into this now. I’m not your bloody therapist. Come on, get some gloves on. You take one end, I’ll take the other.”

“Gloves…”

Floyd stared at him. “Please tell me you had them on when you moved her onto the rug and packaged her up.”

“Of course I did.”

Floyd didn’t believe him. “Just to be sure, when I get her to where she’ll end up, I’ll take off the plastic and the rug. I’ll bring it back here, and you’ll have to burn it.”

“I can’t have a bonfire in the middle of the night!”

“I didn’t say you had to! Do it in the bloody morning for all I care. Fuck me, keep your hair on.”

Floyd took gloves out of his pocket and put them on. Simon didn’t bother. They each gripped an end of the package, manoeuvring it out of the room and to the stairs. Floyd’s muscles strained. They managed to get her up to the hallway, where they stood for a moment to catch their breath.

“Put your end down a second and open the front door. Check for anyone going past in their car. Then open the boot of mine.” Floyd took keys out of his pocket and held them out.

Simon lowered the body and took them. He looked like he didn’t appreciate being ordered about, but this was now The Floyd Show, so Simon’s feelings could go and do one. He went outside, and Floyd counted another two bookcases opposite to the one that led to the cellar. Were they genuinely bookshelves or did they hide more doorways?

Simon returned, scowling at him as though he could read Floyd’s mind. He picked his end up again, and they left the house, stepping into the cold. Floyd glanced around, deemed it safe, and hurried towards the boot. The woman wasn’t tall, which was a bonus, but they still had trouble squashing her into the space, the job made more difficult because of the rigidness of the rug and plastic.

“Should have put her on the back seat,” Simon muttered.

Floyd shut the boot. “Oh, and have a copper ask what the fuck I’ve got there if I get pulled over? Fuck off.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Obviously. I want that cash ready for me by the time I get back with the rug and plastic.”

Simon nodded.

Christ, did he just have cash lying around or what?

A silent moment passed between them, an acknowledgement of what was going to happen next. Simon turned back towards the house. Floyd wasted no time, slipping into the driver’s seat, chuffed and relieved the engine sparked up nicely. He clicked his seat belt in then reversed in an arc so the car pointed towards the road. He drove away, the glow of the dashboard lights oddly unsettling—now the adrenaline had kicked in, he worried someone would see his face when he drove through the residential area near to the dump site.

He shrugged the jitters off and kept going.

Soon, he reached the place he’d decided to leave the body. An empty street on a crappy housing estate. The houses on Barker Avenue had been boarded up by the council and had crumbling brick facades, grimy windows, graffiti, loads of stuff in the gardens to the point that no grass was visible. Was it wise to leave the body here if people used the gardens as an area to drop off their rubbish?

Floyd shivered. This was the kind of place where even the shadows carried a gun for protection. He drew into a dark alley halfway down, switched the engine off, and put on a beanie hat, shoving all of his hair inside. He got out and heaved the body from the boot, dumping it on the ground. Slightly out of breath, he reached into the passenger seat for his toolbag, ferreting inside for a Stanley knife. He cut a slice through the plastic, peeled it back and tucked it under the rug, then tugged the side of the carpet so the woman rolled out, coming to rest against the side wall of a house. He rolled the rug back up, gathered the plastic, and put them both in the boot.

A spiteful wind screamed down the alley. Thank God he’d put his hat on so none of his hairs would be ripped out and left behind. He got in the car, reversed onto the street, and gave it a quick once-over out of the windscreen and also in the rearview.

Seeing no one, he headed back to his brother’s.

* * * *

The black sky amplified the sense of dread going through Arnold. He’d been watching from the shadows of a doorway opposite the alley, hiding away from the wind. Winter was a bastard when you lived on the streets, and finding a prime spot like this had made his year. He’d seen the car arrive, its headlights and the rumble of the engine alerting him way before the vehicle itself appeared. The man had taken something heavy from the boot. Arnold hadn’t moved, his breath held; no way he wanted to be seen.

The man had driven away.

Arnold stepped out of the doorway, and a shiver ran through him. He walked across the street and into the alley. He’d imagined this was what he’d find but wished it wasn’t true. A woman. Dead. The night felt even darker now and, unsettled, he set off walking. This was one for the police, plus he’d get in the warm and be offered a cuppa and a sandwich while they questioned him at the station.

Lady Luck had smiled on him tonight.

Chapter Sixteen

The peeling wallpaper in the Cheltenham flat seemed to hold its breath alongside Simon. It felt like cold fear, as a tangible thing, had seeped into every corner. The walls, at first a comforting barrier, then those of a cage, were now a suffocating trap, one he worried he wouldn’t be able to get out of. The air seemed to buzz with expectation. Simon had to avoid the confrontation that waited for him outside so had no choice but to relocate.

In his bedroom at the back of the building, he sent up a prayer and pushed open the window leading to the fire escape. Securing his holdall on his back, which contained a lot of money in cash, a change of clothes, and the keys to the manor, he swung his leg over the sill. Gripping the cold railing, he pulled himself onto one of the escape’s landings and made his descent. The metal steps clanged under his weight, so he went slower, scared the noise would alert Nadir. To his right, at the side of the building, a narrow alleyway stretched out, a dark, refuse-strewn area leading to the front of the properties. Once his feet touched the ground, he crept down there and pressed himself against the rough brick wall.

The wheelie bins stank of stale rubbish. He quietly edged towards the street, his heartbeat escalating. Every shadow seemed to coalesce into a person, every distant sound stopping him dead when he just wanted to run. But before he legged it, he needed to confirm his fears, to know if Nadir was still out there.

He peeked around the corner, enough to catch a slice of the deserted street. His breath hitched. There, a dark silhouette stood beneath the lamppost directly across from Simon’s building. The inhuman lack of movement sent a fresh wave of ice-cold fear into his blood. He’d been hunted down, some-fucking-how, and now Nadir thought he had him cornered.

Unless someone else is hiding and watching out the back…

The instinctual urge to run overwhelmed all other thoughts. Simon sidled to the back end of the alley, moved through the communal yard into the street behind, and checked both ways. No one was there. He ran, his shoes slapping against the pavement. He weaved down dark alleys and empty streets, worried at every turn about a potential ambush.

Ahead, a beacon of yellow light guided him forward. A taxi, its engine idling, sat beside the kerb. Dizzying relief washed over him, and he stumbled towards it, reaching for the door handle. He fell into the back seat, out of breath, the scent of the cheap air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror thick and cloying.

“Train station,” he gasped out and slumped against the holdall.

The driver looked at him in the rearview. His face told a story of countless late nights and early mornings. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met Simon’s. His closely cropped black beard blended seamlessly with the shadow beneath his chin. He grunted in response, then turned his eyes back to the road.

They set off.

The silence seemed to come alive, heavy and suffocating. Every glance in the rearview mirror lingered for a fraction too long and ignited a fresh wave of paranoia in Simon. Was the driver looking at him or the traffic behind? Did he somehow know who Simon was?

His mind raced, constructing scenarios, convincing him that the cabbie wasn’t a taxi driver but a plant, another pair of eyes for Nadir, part of some larger, unseen network designed to trap him.

Fear tightened its grip.

Each passing streetlight cast fleeting, distorted shadows across the interior of the cab. The city lights ahead merged into a single, blinding blur. Disorientating. Menacing. He kept his gaze fixed rigidly out of the window, occasionally risking a quick, furtive glance at the driver’s reflection, a knot tightening in his stomach.

Simon wanted to cry.

Finally, the taxi drew up to the bustling, brightly lit expanse of the train station. He paid the driver cash and lurched out of the car. The sound of luggage wheels, the whistle of a departing train, and a homeless kid asking for change, all of it assaulted his senses. He merged with the stream of late-night travellers boarding the train. He sat and scanned the faces of the other passengers, each one a potential threat. The paranoia clung to him, wouldn’t let go, and he was convinced a pair of eyes was already watching him, following him, all the way back to the Big Smoke.

Chapter Seventeen

By two a.m., Moody was bored shitless. Tasked with guarding this monster of a house in the hope the owner came back, he wished he’d brought more entertainment other than a small TV, his Roku stick, and his phone. The hours since his arrival had ticked by, and now everything got on his nerves. It didn’t help that every time he looked outside, all he saw were fields and trees. The oppressive silence of the place gave him the creeps.

Gnawing unease prickled at the back of his neck, even though he doubted anything was wrong. It’d be the same as his last sweep—he’d find nothing—but he couldn’t ignore his hackles rising. He started on the ground floor, moving through the vast, echoing reception rooms. His footsteps seemed too loud on the wooden floors, each click resounding, reminding him he was all alone here.

He went up the staircase, its banister cold and smooth beneath his gloved palm. He checked each bedroom, pushing open heavy, ornate doors. Every single upper room was identical in its emptiness.

He returned downstairs to make a coffee. The kitchen felt less creepy, probably because the things he’d brought with him were there: a blow-up bed, a pillow, a quilt, his telly, his kettle, some clothes and toiletries. The gurgle of the water heating prompted him to spoon some instant coffee into his I Love Star Wars mug. He added sugar and some dried milk.

A jarring sound ripped through the quiet: the faint crunch of tyres on the gravel driveway. While the kitchen was a fair way from the front door, because of the silence, he’d found noises were easily picked up. Moody froze, his heart leaping. Maybe the twins had come, but he’d have thought they’d have warned him with a message first.

The engine switched off.

He ran to the front of the house, nipping into a small room and hiding behind the closed curtains. He opened one a couple of inches and peered out. There, parked on the driveway with the headlights off, was a dark car, its outline barely visible in the darkness. Before he could make out any details, or even determine if anyone was inside, the vehicle reversed, its tyres spitting gravel, and then sped off into the night.

What the fuck?

Moody took a moment to process what had just happened. He pulled out his burner phone. Quickly, thumbs flying, he typed out a message to the twins.

Moody: Car just came, stopped, then left. Do you think it might’ve been Simon? Or whoever it was saw me at the window, maybe?

GG: Check and see if anyone was dropped off. There are multiple exits. Simon could be using one of them to get in.

Moody clicked on his torch, its beam slicing through the darkness of the foyer. He went outside first, locking the kitchen door behind him, conscious that while he was on this side of the house, someone could be entering on the other. After he’d finished checking all the exits and ensuring they were locked, he went back inside and did another sweep of the entire house, starting from the ground floor again. He opened every cupboard, even drew the weird bookcases across and went down into the cellar flat. The house yielded nothing but its own silence, no hidden people, just the harsh sawing of his heightened breathing.

Moody: Can’t see anyone or anything amiss.

GG: He probably saw you then and fucked off. Remain vigilant.

Moody: Of course.

He retreated to the kitchen and made his coffee, switched off the light, then drew back the quilt on his little bed. He got inside, sitting against the wall, his drink cradled in both hands. He waited in the dark, the sounds of the old house settling around him, the lingering image of the mysterious car speeding away playing on his mind. The persistent unease inside him would follow him into whatever restless sleep he might find, he just knew it.

Chapter Eighteen

Detective Inspector Diane Valliant woke to the sound of her phone going off. She snatched it up, eyes bleary, gritty, and checked the time. Just after one a.m. She’d been dragged from a nightmare so wasn’t too naffed off at being woken, but when the call came from work, then yes, she was annoyed.

“One fucking night where I’m not needed, that’s all I ask for…” She answered the call, not bothering with a hello.

“Sorry…” the desk sergeant said. “I know you’re not even up for the murder jobs, but we need someone out as soon as possible, and no one else is picking up.”

“Of course they’re not, it’s the middle of the pigging night.” Diane sighed. “Give me the address, and leave my partner in bed. There’s no need for both of us to be out and about doing a job that isn’t even ours.”

“Okay. It’s an alley down Barker Avenue.”

Diane could scream. “I bloody said shit would happen there if it stayed abandoned for much longer. I thought it would have been squatters wreaking havoc or the destruction of the houses by bored kids, though, not a body. Shit. Right. I’ll get myself sorted now. Who else is already there?”

“Two uniforms who went along after a homeless man reported it. He saw the body being dumped, and he’s at the station now for when you need to speak to him. I doubt he wants to go anywhere, considering he’s in the warm and it’s so cold outside. We’re not busy here, thankfully, so there’s no harm in him staying until the morning if he wants to. Anyway, others in attendance are SOCO and Sheila Sutton. Still waiting on Jim the pathologist—he’s just finishing up at another scene, although that one’s not murder.”

“Okay, catch you later.”

She quickly showered and dressed, putting on two warm jumpers so she didn’t freeze, although she’d now look like a Teletubby when she put on the forensic suit, big and round at the middle with little arms and legs sticking out. In the car, she stopped at a twenty-four-hour McDonald’s and got herself a coffee, drinking some on the way to the scene.

The roads were quiet, as expected at this time of the morning. She arrived and got clearance to park from an officer standing at a cordon near the end of the street, then left the car, placing her cup on the roof so she could get some forensic gear on. The frigid air slapped at her exposed face above the mask over her mouth, her eyes watering from the wind.

Despite SOCO working in various spots, giving the avenue some life, the silence was sinister, and she shuddered. This was why she didn’t do murder. She was more into burglaries.

The core of activity was down the road a bit, so she headed there, sipping coffee. The alley itself stood between two crumbling brick houses, their windows boarded up with steel panels. Graffiti had ruined some of the homes, the tags of gang members or just lone-wolf spray-painters who had a message to convey, two of which were ‘fuck the government’ and ‘tax the rich double’.

A cluster of SOCO standing halfway down the alley were at the tail end of erecting a tent. Sheila, the crime scene manager, turned, spotted Diane, and went over.

“Morning. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Diane scoffed. “Hmm, me neither, but here we are.”

Sheila laughed behind her mask. “I agree it’s shitty for you to be called out, but someone needs to see to this poor cow, and it just so happens to be us.”

“Is it bad?”

“She was shot in the chest and the head. There would have been significant blood loss, which isn’t on the ground here in any great quantity, so she was killed elsewhere and dumped here after. There are white fibres in her hair and on the exit wound of the head, like from carpet.”

“The rolled-in-a-rug method.”

“It’s likely.”

Sheila faced the tent. Her officers now moved away to get to work in the alley itself. A photographer Diane hadn’t seen before went into the tent with another copper. The flashes of photos being taken lit up the material, and she shuddered at how spooky it looked. Was that just because of the location, though? Knowing no one lived around here and wouldn’t have seen a thing?

Not counting the homeless man.

“It’s going to be a bit of a tight squeeze,” Sheila said, “but do you want to come in the tent and see her?”

“‘Want’ is a strong word. More like I have to.”

Diane dipped under a cordon hanging across the alley opening and followed her down to the tent. Inside, she stood on an evidence step, as did Sheila, and stared down at the body. The woman lay on her right side, her front facing the left wall. She was early twenties. Her dark hair had splayed out, parts of it matted with blood, clumps of brain matter in some of the strands, and the fibres Sheila had mentioned.

“She’s Spanish or something like that?” Diane asked.

“Not sure yet,” Sheila said.

“No coat, so she wasn’t dressed for going out in the cold.”

Sheila frowned. “And she has a summer dress on with sandals, yet it’s almost winter.”

Diane shrugged. “Maybe she can afford to blast her heating at home so there’s no need for jumpers and leggings or whatever.”

“Maybe, but her choice of outfit is bugging me, and when something bugs me, I’m usually right to pursue it.”

“All right, Miss Marple, steady on.” Diane indicated the dress. “It’s pretty grubby.” She had a horrible thought. “Maybe she was kidnapped in the summer and has been held somewhere all this time. Don’t tell me that’s far-fetched, because we see this sort of shit a lot, don’t we.”

“No, no, I was wondering the same. She’s a skinny thing. Maybe no access to much food?”

“Jim can tell us that after he’s done the post-mortem.”

“Are you going to wait for him to turn up?”

“Not unless he gets here in the next two minutes.” Diane sipped the dregs of her coffee. “The problem with a crime scene like this is no one lives here. No witnesses nosing through windows, no CCTV or camera doorbells. I may as well go back to the station and interview the bloke who saw her being brought here.”

Before she left, though, she took in the setting properly. A car could easily have fitted in here with space at the side for the witness to watch what had gone on. She memorised the position of the body, the way the woman’s fingers curled, the ragged nails, the skin around them bitten and sore, and at some point they’d bled.

What the fuck had she been through?

* * * *

The homeless man, who’d only given his name as Arnold, sat at a table in an interview room, his body hunched over, his coat on. Did he still feel the cold, even though he’d been here for a while? She imagined it burrowed right into the bones if you lived in the outdoors. His scalp, between thinning hair, had filth on it, ingrained, and she made a mental note to ask him if he’d like to have a shower while the station was so quiet. She could also rustle up a tracksuit for him to change into. They were ones handed out to detainees, but she doubted he’d mind.

She sat opposite him and passed over a cup of coffee, hoping he didn’t bite her head off because she was going to ask him to tell her what he’d told the other officers. She introduced herself and explained the interview would be recorded, then checked he felt okay to continue.

While she set the tape up, he looked around, obviously tired, but the proper weary kind. He lifted the coffee cup, his nails dirty, his red, chapped hand shaking. That may not be because he was nervous or still cold, old age was just a bastard sometimes. Deep wrinkles lined his face, although it wasn’t as filthy as it could be. He likely went into public toilets to wash it.

“Arnold.” Diane smiled to put him at ease. “Thank you for walking all the way here to report what you saw. We really appreciate it.” What she didn’t say was that if it wasn’t for him, that poor woman could have been left out there for God knew how long before someone came by and spotted her—which was probably her killer’s intention. “I’m sorry that you’re going to be repeating yourself, but can you tell me what happened?”

Arnold drank more coffee, the steam obscuring his eyes for a second or two. “I go there most nights. There’s a doorway on the other side of the road, opposite the alley. It goes back a couple of metres before you get to the front door. So it’s nice and narrow, like a tunnel, and it’s only got the one opening, and if I’m lucky and get hold of cardboard during the day, I can block up the bottom of the entrance, stop some of the cold and wind getting in. It’s like a little bedroom.”

Christ, she was going to have to offer him some help or she wouldn’t sleep at night. At least if he refused, she’d tried. “Do you need any assistance with getting somewhere to live?”

He shrugged. “No one cares.”

“I care.”

“If you want to help, you can. I haven’t always walked round with nowhere to go. I had a family once.”

“Would they be willing to help you?”

He raised his eyebrows at her, like: Really? You asked me that? “I wouldn’t be homeless if they were.”

Although suitably admonished, she had to ask what he might consider another stupid question. “Did they turn their backs on you, then?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He sighed. “Because they found out I’d had an affair behind my wife’s back years ago. Like twenty years ago. It all went wrong from there. She kicked me out, and I slept on mates’ sofas. Got into drinking. Lost my job. Lost my mates…”

“We’ll sort something after this interview, all right?”

His eyes watered. “Thank you.”

“So, the alley…?”

“Yeah. I’d been standing in the doorway having a rollie. I heard it first, the car, didn’t see it. Normally they go along the top of the T-junction towards the shops, they hardly ever go down that road.”

“You mean Barker Avenue?”

“Mmm. So this dark car came along and turned into the alley—navy or black, couldn’t work out which. I knew he was up to no good straight off, but I thought he was going to dump the car or some rubbish like other people have done. I’ve got myself a few good finds from rooting around in those gardens.”

She smiled to encourage him to continue.

“This bloke got out of the driver’s side and went to the boot. He took out what I quickly realised was a body inside packaging, and d’you know what I thought was stupid? Instead of putting her on the ground in front of the car so the car would hide him and what he was doing, he put her to the side, but farther up the alley, like, so I had a clear view. Thick bastard. Anyway, he slits the plastic, peels it back, and there’s this carpet. It had a bloodstain on it, quite a big one. He yanked at the end of the rug, and it rolled out of sight behind the car. Then he put the rug and plastic in the boot and fucked off.”

Diane recalled the alley and what she’d seen. “So the body rolled out of the rug from right to left?”

“Yeah.” He settled more in the chair and drank some coffee.

“Can you describe the man?”

“Late thirties, early forties, something like that. Medium build, not fat, not thin. About five-ten.” His eyebrows gathered in the middle while he thought. “Dark or black clothes; jacket, trousers, hard to tell the exact material, but maybe jeans. Beanie hat; it covered his hair, so no idea what colour that was. He had gloves on.”

Diane smiled at the amount of detail he’d remembered.

“And the number plates,” he said, “they were absolutely filthy. Mud, I reckon, front and back.” He finished his coffee. “I went over there, you know, after he’d gone, and saw her. Didn’t touch anything, I stood just inside the alley. I only needed to go a short way in to make sure it was what I thought it was. Then I walked here.”

“Thanks ever so much. Shall we go and see about you having a shower and something to eat? There might be a spare cell you can have a kip in while I look into finding you somewhere else to go. That might have to be in the morning, though, as the emergency agencies I need to talk to may not answer my calls now.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “I’m just grateful someone’s seen me.”

She knew what he meant. The poor sod had likely been ignored for years as just some dirty man in a doorway.

She aimed to change that.

* * * *

The morning sun interrogated Simon’s face, the light coming through a gap in the blinds and landing on his eyes. He groaned, the vestiges of sleep still lingering, and he wanted to go back to sleep, but the yabber of people talking on the telly drew his attention. He must have fallen asleep with it on last night. He turned the volume up. Some morning show with people sitting on an orange sofa.

“An awful discovery,” a blonde woman said to her companion.

He sent her a pained look from his perch beside her, nodded, and addressed the camera. “For those of you just tuning in, the main story today… Local authorities are investigating the discovery of a deceased woman found in an alleyway in the early hours of the morning.”

A cold pressure squeezed Simon’s stomach.

“There is no identification as yet,” the man went on, “but she was found in clothes and sandals like the pictures coming up on your screen. The items are from Shein, so if you recognise them as belonging to someone you know, please contact the police.”

He went on to describe the silly bitch Simon had shot in the chest. Then there was the bullet to her head. The coppers were going to know two different guns had been fired. Simon had only used his once before on the woman buried by the oaks, but he had no idea what crimes the other bullet could be linked to.

Dread sluiced through him. He reached for the old phone he used to contact Floyd, fumbling to connect the call. It rang in his ear, the trills going on and on and fucking on.

“Yeah?” Floyd asked. He was either annoyed or had been woken up, his voice rough.

“Did you see the news this morning? About the woman in the alley? A fucking alley, Floyd! What the hell is wrong with you?”

The silence that followed was broken by Floyd’s heavy breathing. “I took her to a derelict street. No fucker should have found her for weeks!”

“But they did! I haven’t even burned the bloody rug and plastic yet.”

“Best you get on with it then.”

Simon gritted his teeth. “What about the car? At least tell me that’s been disposed of properly.”

“Yep, got a text here to say it’s been crushed into a cube earlier this morning. And I dirtied the number plates before coming to yours both times—you’re welcome.”

“Fuck off with your sarcasm. Right, we only contact each other if absolutely necessary. I’ll use my old phone, and I suggest you get yourself one that you only use for me. Any face-to-face discussions, we go to the café, got it?”

“Yes, now go and get that fire started. You’ve got evidence to burn. Oh, and I hope you picked up every single bit of gravel where she fell when she was shot, not to mention the ones with any blood splashes on them. You could be talking a few metres’ radius there. Then there’s the blood you might have missed when you carried her into the house and down to that room in the cellar. Sounds like you’ve got a busy day ahead of you.” Floyd laughed.

“Fuck off,” Simon snapped and jabbed his finger on the screen to end the call.

Chapter Nineteen

The cold, damp air slapped Simon the moment he stepped out of the taxi and stood on the verge. He hid by some bushes and watched the taillights disappear down the road, leaving him alone on the stretch of road that went past his house. When he’d arrived, after he’d spied a light on indoors, he’d ordered for the headlights to be switched off. When he’d seen the shadow of someone standing in his study window, he’d asked the driver to reverse then drop him off a good distance away.

Sighing, he set off along the uneven grass. Trees lined his way. A breeze rustled through the brittle leaves that clung stubbornly to the twisted limbs, and he pulled his coat tighter, the chill burrowing into his bones. At last, he turned to enter his driveway, skirting the gravel so his shoes didn’t make a noise, opting for the grass instead. The manor came into view, albeit it black mass, its familiar shape comforting despite him knowing someone was in there. Floyd? No, it had been too tall for him. Malik? No, too wide. Squatters then? The thought was infuriating. The audacity of someone making themselves comfortable in his private space stirred a simmering anger.

A light in the foyer went on. Had someone seen him coming? He darted behind a thorny hedge, trying to discern any movement beyond the glass, any shadow that might reveal the identity or the number of people in there.

Nothing.

The light winked out, plunging the house into darkness. Simon crept forward. He knew the manor like the back of his hand, every groaning floorboard, every squeaking hinge, every hidden entrance. He made his way to a side door, sliding the key in quietly. The door swung inwards, revealing a corridor servants had used back in the day.

Senses on high alert, he stepped inside and locked the door. He bypassed the main staircase. A faint sound drew him towards the kitchen. A snore? He pushed the door open a crack and peered inside. Eyes accustomed to the darkness, he made out a heap on a mattress which had been placed on the floor. Stretched out on top was a man, asleep.

Closing the door, fear coming now, his chest hurting with panic, he retreated to the hidden staircase and the cellar flat. He locked the door in the silver poles—if someone discovered him down here, they wouldn’t be able to get to him unless they had an angle grinder.

He sat on one of the cell beds. Took out his phone and found the app for the network of hidden cameras in the manor. Within moments, the kitchen appeared on his screen, a night-vision image, the sleeping figure clearly visible.

Simon settled back against the wall, ready to spend the night piecing together the puzzle of who this man was—and hoping it was just a squatter and not someone like Nadir, sent to kill him.

Chapter Twenty

Floyd didn’t relish having to do this, but it was a dog-eat-dog world, and like George had said, if he didn’t go through with it then he’d be as dead as Simon. He drummed his fingers on the kitchen worktop, impatient to make the call yet putting it off just the same. He had to get Simon back to London by lunchtime, so really, he ought to get a fucking move on instead of dithering about and wishing this wasn’t happening.

Simon answered after only one ring. “What the bloody hell are you doing ringing at this time of the morning? It’s only just seven.”

“I’ve got a job for you.”

“Where?”

“London.”

“I’m already there.”

“What?” Shocked, Floyd tried to keep calm. He couldn’t ask a barrage of questions because then Simon would become suspicious. Floyd had never particularly given two shits what his sibling was up to, so he’d have to tread carefully here. “I thought you said you couldn’t come back because people were watching you.”

“They are. One turned up outside the flat in Cheltenham.”

What the hell was going on? What type of people were after Simon if they knew how to find him that quickly? Did they know someone who could look at CCTV and he’d been seen getting on the train? “How did they even know you were there?”

“Because they’ve got eyes everywhere, clearly.”

“How did you get back to London without them seeing you?”

“That’s a story for another day because I can’t be bothered to tell it at the minute. I’m more bothered that I’ve got some bloke sleeping in my kitchen, and I don’t even know who he is.”

“Some bloke?”

“Yeah, he’s been asleep all night, I’ve kept an eye on him on my app. I expect it’s either a squatter or someone’s been sent to wait for me.”

“Hang on, where are you?”

“There’s a secret flat in the manor. I’m in there. What’s this job you’ve got?” Simon asked.

“There’s this bloke, and I was listening to him in the café. He’s in the middle of setting up a clinic, a backstreet kind of place, and some high-flying woman has been after him to hurry up because she wants some work done before she goes on holiday next month.”

“What does she want doing?”

“There was something said about an arse and facelift? Liposuction? She’s got eighty grand just sitting there, and the surgeon gets half.”

“Who the hell is the person doing this clinic?”

“It’s something to do with Shank.”

“That old man in the café?”

“Yeah. So because I trust him, I said I knew a surgeon who might be interested.”

“You didn’t mention my name, did you?”

“I’m not stupid. He’d like to chat today.”

“We’ll need to meet somewhere, but first I want to talk to him on the phone. I can walk into the village and get the bus from there, although I really don’t want to be seen if I can help it.”

“Why can’t you drive your car?”

“Because there’s a risk someone might spot me, divvy.”

“Right.”

“I’ll have to leave without waking that man in my kitchen up.”

“Go and wait on the road and I’ll pick you up, then we’ll go to a park or something.”

The journey was a blur of landmarks. Floyd couldn’t shake the growing sense of unease that this could go wrong and the twins could blame him for it. He pulled his car onto the verge as he spotted Simon loitering by some bushes.

“Took you long enough.” Simon got in and clipped his belt on.

“I got here as soon as I could. It’s not my fault you must’ve been into something shifty and you’ve got people spying on you and living in your kitchen. Don’t take it out on me.”

Was there tension, or was that Floyd’s guilty conscience?

They didn’t speak until they got to a park. They walked across the frost-hardened grass, the trees on the perimeter doing fuck all to create a boundary to stop perverts from watching the kids. It was weird here without children’s laughter and shouting, but perfectly quiet for what needed to happen: a phone call to George who’d pretend to be Shank.

They stopped beneath a canopy of naked branches, and Floyd took his phone out, selecting the name Shank in his contact list, all so Simon could see. He pressed to connect the call, then selected the speakerphone option.

“Floyd?” George asked, trying to sound like an old-man gangster.

“Yep, I’ve got the surgeon here.”

“Already? That was quick.”

“He’s back in London, so that’s good.”

“Especially for me, because that tart wants her op done this afternoon. Where is he? Is he available to speak?”

“Yeah.”

While Simon talked business, his eyes lit up with greed at the mention of the money. He said he needed specific silicone implants because he didn’t have any, and George assured him he’d have them brought to the manor.

“About that,” Simon said. “I’ve got a squatter who needs to be removed.”

“Not a problem. I’ll get people round there now to get rid of him, then I’ll message Floyd so you both know the coast’s clear. I could really do with a meeting to chat about the operations, and I need to see your credentials, of course.”

“Right. Speak soon.”

Floyd stuck his phone in his pocket. “Shall we go and have breakfast at McDonald’s?”

They got back in the car and put their seat belts on, Simon completely unaware that after their bacon baps, they’d be heading towards a carefully orchestrated ambush, where he’d discover his brother was a massive traitor.

Floyd glanced in the rearview mirror.

A little white van followed.

Chapter Twenty-One

Constantly having the lights on in the cellar flat was better than being in the dark confines of the metal container. Time had passed, and going by the regularity of the meals, they’d been there for three days. The way everyone still congregated together during the day was a constant reminder of their previous confinement, how it had been a comfort to feel another person leaning on you in the dark. The need for human connection was the strongest Claudio had ever felt it. Now they knew they were all going to have an operation, it made everything so much more ominous, and he was fearful that they’d been lied to and they wouldn’t be sent home with money to clear their debts.

Just in case they were being watched and listened to via hidden speakers and audio devices, they spoke in whispers, in Portuguese, their native language. It had dawned on him at some point, he had no clue which day, that all of the captives spoke English. Was that something that had also been discovered about them when they’d been watched prior to the kidnappings? Was it a requirement so they could understand the host et cetera? He didn’t like to think about being observed by strangers without his knowledge.

A pattern had developed. Usually, after a long chat that drained everybody, they sat through empty silences that stretched forever until someone thought of something else to say. Gradually, they had revealed more about themselves and their lives before they’d been taken. What they did for a living, why they were in debt, what they missed the most. What they didn’t miss, work being the one they all agreed on.

Claudio had been thinking about the operations all day, whether they’d receive adequate aftercare, whether their incisions would get infected and they’d die an awful, painful death from sepsis. Living in captivity meant he only had his mind as entertainment during the quiet spells, and it didn’t always throw up nice scenarios. More and more as time passed, he thought about the macabre rather than fill his mind with happier things.

Happier things were actually too painful to bring to mind unless he was sure he could handle it.

How strange that now they were in better surroundings, his head was in a worse place, yet in the metal container he’d felt stronger mentally, even though his body had been weak. But would he go back to the darkness willingly? To the starvation? To the dry mouth from the lack of water? Absolutely not. Being here and facing an operation was infinitely better.

A click sounded from the solid door, the noise familiar now, although he’d swear it was between mealtimes at the moment, unless the hours between breakfast and dinner had gone quicker than he’d thought. Everyone froze, staring through the silver bars. The tension ramped up—an impromptu visit could mean someone was being collected. Selfishly, Claudio prayed it wasn’t him.

The door opened, revealing the host, and he didn’t carry a tray piled with food. He had a doctor’s white coat on, buttoned at the waist, a light-blue shirt, and black trousers. It must be as Claudio had thought: things had finally moved on. The host’s gaze swept over them with the dispassionate assessment of someone reducing them to what they now supposedly were: products.

“It’s time for the first patient to come with me.” He sat on one of the chairs. “You will need to fast for a few hours prior to your operation tomorrow. I suppose that won’t be too hard, considering how long you went without food in the container. Your organs are for people who’re in great need here in the UK, those who have the money to buy a kidney, for example. There are other groups of people in other countries, and we’re all doing the same thing, we all have the same goal: to save lives. As a surgeon, I work to the highest standard and have an excellent record. This will be shown to each of you before your operations. I have certificates…”

But those can be faked.

His gaze lingered on the group as a whole, then swerved to Gabriela, a quiet woman, twenty-two, her eyes wide with a terror. Her breathing went ragged, and she let out a strangled sob.

The host pointed at her. “You’re first. The person who needs your kidney is deteriorating quicker than we expected, so we must move fast.”

Gabriela got to her feet, her eyes bright with tears. Was she feeling good that she could save someone’s life? Claudio wasn’t sure how he’d feel when it was his turn. On one hand, if he was a match for someone else and it meant they didn’t die, then yes, organ donation was a possibility, but it should be his choice, not something foisted on him. He had to admit that unless it was for his family, then no, he wouldn’t choose to do this.

“Please remember,” the host said, “if you try to run, I will shoot you then take your organs anyway, so you may as well go into this voluntarily. And don’t forget about the money. The clearing of your debts.” He smiled at Gabriela. “Please approach the bars and turn your back to me.”

She obeyed.

“Place your arms behind you.” He took out a cable tie.

She did as she’d been told, and he cuffed her.

“Please face me again. I’m going to open the door, and you will walk through and wait by the stairs.”

He slid a key into the barred door, and she stepped through the opening. He locked it using one hand and took a gun out of his pocket with the other.

“Go upstairs.”

Claudio moved across to see upwards, but no one waited at the top for her. Maybe they’d been told to keep out of sight. Surely the host needed an anaesthetist and nurses to help him. He couldn’t do it all on his own. Could he?

Gabriela turned to look at them all. Was it a silent goodbye? Claudio promised himself he’d find her family and tell them what had happened to her if she didn’t make it back down here.

The host guided her through the doorway, and the last thing Claudio saw was the back of her head. The solid door shut, leaving everyone standing in unbearable silence.

Then a couple of people broke down, the lounge filled with sobs.

“Will we see her again?” someone whispered.

Claudio didn’t dare answer with his real thoughts. “Of course we will.”

Someone chanted prayers, another whispered their hope of going home. Claudio couldn’t bear to listen to them, so he forced himself to tune them out and think of something else. The meals they’d been given since their arrival in this cellar, healthy ones, some fruit, such a far cry from what they’d endured in their previous, more brutal confinement. A chill went through him, the puzzle pieces clicking into place. He must never forget this wasn’t kindness, the food, the bottled water, the use of the bathroom, it was an effort to keep them healthy so their organs were the best they could be.

We may as well be cattle.

His mind went back to the suffocating air of the metal container, the almost constant darkness, the cold, the hunger, the cramped muscles. The man, the one with the dead eyes, who was supposed to have been looking after them, the one who’d withheld food and water and brought the bucket for them to shit in. Claudio had become so lethargic there, his mind filled with fog. That man had enjoyed what he’d put them through, it was obvious by his expressions, so different to their current host, although it was obvious he also had a dark side to him. Claudio didn’t think he’d ever forget the pain of hunger, the weakness, the aching limbs, and his fat tongue.

A wave of bitter hatred washed over him. Had the man from the metal box been reprimanded once it became clear he’d treated everyone badly, or was it his actual job to starve them, to make them see this was serious, that they needed to comply? What if their host here had made out it was a travesty, when it had been the plan all along? Starving them ensured they’d behave, and it also showed them that at any time now, food and water could be withdrawn again.

He pictured Alessandra pacing their lounge, grooves between her plucked eyebrows, her phone clutched in her hand, hoping he’d call. Had she been sleeping much since he’d been gone? He doubted it. He imagined her staring blankly at the television, not even seeing what was on the screen, while she waited for the jingle of his keys in the lock, the usual whine of the front door hinges.

But a darker thought prodded him, doubt entering his cluttered head: Had she convinced herself he wasn’t coming back? He saw her sitting by the window, shoulders slumped, her spark put out.

No, please, please don’t lose hope… I’m coming home.

He thought of his parents. Traditional, salt-of-the-earth people united in their love for their family. They lived one town over. How had they taken the news of his disappearance? Was it Alessandra who’d called them? Or the police, a knock on their door that had changed their lives forever? His mother would have panicked, insisted the police do something, anything, while his father would hide his worry.

They’d be taking care of Alessandra. His mother would cook her homemade meals, cleaning the house while Alessandra was at work. Because she’d still have to work to try to pay the rent. Maybe she’d even got a second job by now. His father would deal with the search, the police, trying to cobble some cash together to help pay the bills.

They were such good people.

He hoped, if he never returned, that one day they’d find peace without him.

Someone crying brought him into the now and the reality of the concrete floor beneath his feet, the cells in the bedrooms whose bars only gave the illusion that they all had a private square of space. It was shit, but not as shit as the container, he had to remember that.

* * * *

Four days after Alice’s body had been found, Simon entered his operating theatre, the doorway hidden behind another bookcase in the hallway. The air smelled of antiseptic, and it calmed him. When he operated, he went into a different zone, he was in control, and he couldn’t wait to get started on Gabriela. He checked his instruments while his mind focused on what he needed to do—just a kidney today. Flesh and steel would soon meet, and he’d work all alone, doing the jobs of several. He’d put her to sleep, keep an eye on her vitals, everything.

He left the room to go into the foyer to collect the gurney. Gabriela lay on it, tied to it with heavy-duty straps. She’d got on there as soon as he’d asked her to, like some kind of robot who had no autonomy—which was true, she didn’t have any self-rule at the minute.

“Just remain calm, and it will all be over soon,” he said.

She stared up at him, tears in her eyes. “If I die…please tell the others.”

“Of course.”

He wheeled her into theatre, then refreshed his memory by reading her chart, all the information he’d received via email. He took a deep breath and set about sending her to sleep.

Once she’d gone under and she was hooked up to a monitor, he closed the door and began. With a steady hand, he made an incision, the scalpel sailing through her skin and muscle, a nice clean cut that showcased his years of skill. He suctioned blood out of the way. Admired his handiwork. If she didn’t make it home and someone in the medical profession saw her scar if her body was ever found, they’d know it had been done by a professional.

With the soft hum of the various machines and the steady beep of the heart monitor to keep him company, he did what needed to be done. He removed the kidney, lifting it and putting it in a sterile, temperature-controlled container that had been delivered earlier. He did the necessary in order to keep the organ fresh and useable, sealed the bag, then stripped off his gloves to send a message to the person who’d be coming to collect it. Gabriela would have to wait—the organ was too important to stitch her up first.

He washed his hands, put on new gloves, and closed her up as quickly as possible—the courier would be arriving shortly.

He looked at Gabriela dispassionately. For now, this woman was no longer a product but a patient he needed to care for while she recovered. She’d stay in another hidden room for a week then be returned to the cellar flat where to him, she’d become nothing but someone he had to keep alive with food and water until it was time for her to be taken back home.

If he had his way, he’d kill the lot of them.

* * * *

Later, after the organ had been collected and Gabriela woke, groggy but alert enough to talk, Simon walked into his ward, based in another hidden room. She looked like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. What had she been doing, pulling at her hair? Had waking up alone in this room frightened her? She wouldn’t be in here by herself for long. One of the others would join her after their operation. There were six beds. When the last one was filled, Gabriela would go downstairs.

He sat on the chair beside her bed. Smiled at her, even though he didn’t feel like it. The operation had tired him out. But that smile was necessary. Going from experience, this was the part where he really needed to make them trust him. He needed them to believe they were going home so they didn’t misbehave.

“The operation was a success,” he said.

“What did you take?” she asked then glanced at her wrists he’d cable tied to the poles of the metal bed guards either side of her.

“Just a kidney.” He leaned in. “You remember nothing. This never happened. If you ever speak a word of this to anyone, there are nasty people out there who’ll find you and your family. They’ll make you suffer in ways you can’t even begin to imagine. You’ve heard this countless times before, but I need to make it very, very clear that we are not messing around. You must behave yourself.”

With terror in her eyes, she nodded. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise. I just want to go home.”

“And you will if you do as you’re told. Now rest.” He snipped the cable ties.

He left her in the basic room with its prison-like wall of bars near the exit, the beds, a TV on the wall, the chair, and a toilet and shower in the corner. Was he satisfied she’d do as she was told? Yes. While he thought that sending people home was a risk, he’d been told it was more likely that someone would discover the organ harvesting network if dead bodies kept showing up. Those who’d been scared out of their minds tended to understand the importance of keeping a secret, apparently. And so far, Simon had to grudgingly concede it had worked with last year’s batch. The hackers had continued to monitor them, and some cruel bastards sometimes popped up to remind them, on their way to work or when they collected their kids from school, that they were being watched.

Always.

That would drive Simon mad, to know that someone observed his whole life all the time. Thank goodness he wasn’t one of the patients.

He returned to his theatre and collected his blood-spattered clothing, pressing them down into a biohazard bin. Then he cleaned up the room, set his steriliser to thoroughly disinfect his tools, and left to go and have a shower. The steaming water pounded on his skin, soothing his aching muscles. Such a shame it couldn’t also ease his mind. That fucking Floyd, disposing of Alice where he had, still bugged the shit out of him.

He got out and dried himself, going into his bedroom. He could only hope Gabriela got through her recovery okay. He really didn’t need another dead person on his hands. If there was a next time, they’d have to find a place that wouldn’t raise eyebrows or garner interest. He needed to have a plan in place so he could have peace of mind, otherwise he’d pace all night.

He glanced at the clock. He had time to nip out before he received the chef’s delivery of dinner for the people in the cellar.

Simon: We need to meet at the café.

He had to talk this through else he’d go mad.

He picked out an old, faded T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms used when he did odd jobs if the cleaner or gardener weren’t around—jobs he did by himself when the patients lived in the cellar. He could hardly have staff hanging about, could he. He dressed. Checked his phone.

No response from Floyd.

He sat on the bed, using the remote to switch the TV off, impatience ripping him a new arsehole. Jesus fucking Christ, he was going to explode in a minute. He hated the fact that Floyd was so necessary, a fallback should someone else die. He had the connections, the type of criminal mind and access to transport required for this sort of shit, Simon didn’t.

I would if Malik would help me out, but he’s already told me I’m on my own.

This was the point where Floyd would say, “Boohoo,” and laugh.

Simon gritted his teeth about the situation. Yes, he was happy to be earning the vast amounts of money he was by doing this, but what he didn’t like was being told what to do. In that respect he had something in common with the patients, and it really rubbed him up the wrong way, exacerbating his anger and anxiety.

Minutes stretched. He checked the patients on the camera app. All of them had gathered in the living room, as usual. He checked on Gabriela. Asleep—or was she dead? Fuck! He zoomed in on her chest. Watched it rise and fall, but it was a tad shallow. If Floyd didn’t get back to him and she died, Simon would have to dig deep and sort it out himself. He probably should have done that already and not involved his brother. Malik wouldn’t be pleased he’d brought someone else in. Visions of the woods, abandoned buildings in the middle of nowhere, and stretches of river hidden away in clusters of trees and bushes flickered through his mind. He considered all of them as potential body-dumping sites.

His restlessness grew worse, and he stood. He couldn’t just sit there, stewing on what-ifs or getting riled up because Floyd was likely being a dick on purpose by not sending a message back. A dark thought entered his head: he needed an outlet while he waited, and it was the perfect way to release some of the tension inside him. He marched to his supply cabinet in the theatre and collected a vial of sedative, a needle, and slipped one of his implements in his pocket. He entered Gabriela’s room, locking the door and pocketing the key. She still slept and looked vulnerable, helpless. He smiled at the power doing this gave him; he could kill her right now if he wanted to. He’d be God.

Quietly, he crept to the beside and administered the sedative, a quick prick of the needle in her arm. She jolted awake for a few seconds, her back arched off the bed. She stared at him, then her eyes closed and she slumped back down. Out for the count. He placed the needle and empty vial on the floor by the door to remind him to pick them up and dispose of them later. Back at her bedside, he took a surgical clamp, the metal shiny under the light. He affixed the clamp to a pinch of skin on her belly, applying pressure, a deliberate squeeze that would hurt if she were awake. He made the tool squeeze harder. Her muscles tensed without her even knowing it—fascinating—and he wondered, if she could see what he was doing, violating her rights while she slept, whether she’d be screaming now.

He had the power back; he was in control, not Floyd. He allowed one more squeeze until the skin was as flat as a pancake between the two plates of the clamp, then he released it. Inspected the bruise forming. Purple, red, and beautiful.

* * * *

Floyd had sent a message at last, and Simon had parked his car down a small, quiet street and continued to the café on foot. The cold air hurt his lungs. He tugged up the collar of his coat, wishing his need to have his ducks in a row at all times didn’t exist. If it didn’t, he wouldn’t be out here in this shitty area on his way to meet a shitty brother he detested.

He turned into an alley that Google Maps said would take him directly to the street the café was on. His footsteps echoed, and he walked faster, giving himself the creeps. Something halfway down moved, and he stopped, his heart beating too fast, the acceleration so swift it sent him faint for a second. Someone stepped out from behind the silhouette of a large wheelie bin, and Simon had the urge to run.

“Don’t shit your kecks.”

Floyd.

“For fuck’s sake!” Simon hissed and walked over to him, anger beating a steady drum in his chest. Bloody hell, he thought he might have a heart attack. He glanced behind, a voice in his head whispering that this could be a trap and Floyd had intercepted him in the alley, then a mate was going to turn up and demand more money. But that was stupid. How would Floyd have even known Simon would come this way?

He could have been watching for your car to arrive outside the café, then he heard you coming down the alley.

A shiver raced down his back, and a faint scuffing sound from Floyd’s direction had Simon whipping his head that way.

“What was that?” Simon asked, annoyingly breathless. “You?”

“No, it’s just a rat or something,” Floyd said.

Simon experienced the unnerving sensation of being watched—was it just the rat…or something else? Someone else? Had his instincts been right and Floyd had brought someone with him?

His pulse fluctuated in his neck and temples, and he didn’t feel well at all. “Please don’t tell me you brought someone here. I told you this needs to stay just between us. Did you bring some lowlife scum with you?”

“Talk about paranoid. It’s only me here.”

“I don’t trust you.”

Floyd laughed, and it sounded sinister in the darkness of the alley. “A bit late since you’ve dragged me into your mess. Why choose me if you don’t trust me? Oh, that’s right, because on some level you actually do. Trust me, that is.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m five. I knew what you meant, you fucking mansplainer.”

“What the hell’s the matter with you?”

Simon chose to ignore that question. “I’ll agree with you on the paranoia. I’ve got this voice that keeps whispering.”

“There are tablets for that.”

“Stop being such a dick, I’m serious. I keep thinking someone else will die, so based on that, I need to have a plan in place for if they do.”

“Are you telling me you hear voices and they tell you to kill people—and it sounds like you’re not sure if they’re going to ask you to do it again?”

“No, it’s not that. I just…I can’t tell you what I’m involved in, but it’s big, and if they find out I’ve asked for your help, they might kill me.”

“Hang on…they? Who the fuck are they? The voices?”

“No! People. I just…” Simon’s frustration bubbled. “Look, forget I said anything, but help me with the plan. I really need one in place, and not a supposedly abandoned alley, it has to be somewhere no one can find the body. Now that other bitch has been found, the person I’m dealing with will contact me at some point to see if she’s one of ours and then—”

“One of ours?”

Simon shook his head. “Ignore that. Just know that I can’t have the police knowing about any dead people.”

Floyd sighed. “Jesus, let’s talk about this over a coffee at the café. It’s too bloody cold out here.”

They traipsed out of the alley and across the road, entering the café, the windows covered in condensation again. The old lady sat in her corner, reading a magazine, and she glanced over, nodded at them, and got up to get their drinks. Simon withdrew two hundred pounds—his and Floyd’s contribution—to save her asking him for it later.

They sat and talked. Came up with three ideal locations.

It was going to be okay.

Simon’s anxiety level dropped. He said his goodbyes and left the café, quickly darting down the alley and jogging to his car.

Chapter Twenty-Two

It turned out the dead woman in Westerbrook Field was from abroad. Juliana Lima. Her prints matched those sent over by the Brazilian authorities regarding a missing woman. And last year, another body had been found, in an East End alley, the case popping up when Colin had run it through the database to see if there were any hits for Brazilian cases in the UK. Alice Ferreira.

He looked at the crime scene photos for Alice. A dead woman on the ground, young, lying near discarded crap people couldn’t be arsed to take to the tip, instead chucking it down the alley. The harsh glow of the halogen light lit her starkly. Her dress and sandals didn’t match the British weather at the time she’d been placed there, but she’d been dressed in those clothes on the day she’d gone missing in Brazil, so a dress and sandals made sense. She’d disappeared from a street in Porto Alegre.

Alice and Juliana had gone missing a year apart, but that didn’t mean the cases weren’t linked.

Colin got lost in the rabbit hole of ships that sailed from Brazil to the UK—what if they’d been kidnapped and brought here? A criminal would rather have a stowaway hidden than risk taking someone on a plane. There were a surprising amount of cruise ships on that route, and a few others carried cargo.

He had a gut feeling that this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill murder. Juliana had been dead for some time.

Colin found the name of the detective in the file; why hadn’t the murder squad been on the case? Maybe because of Alice’s nationality? No, that didn’t make sense, because Colin was working one with the same country of origin now.

Detective Inspector Diane Valliant. Colin vaguely recalled her from a birthday get-together last month in the canteen, a no-nonsense woman who’d come off a bit rude, like Janine.

He rang her number, and she answered, half laughing, probably at someone she was with.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “How can I help?”

“You might remember me from the birthday lunch at the station. Colin Broadly.”

“Oh yes.”

“I’m going through a case you were on last year, dead woman, Alice Ferreira.”

“Hmm, I was the only one who answered the phone that night, and I only went out so an inspector was on the scene. Silly me, I thought the case would get sent to the murder lot, but I got stuck with it.”

“I’m from the ‘murder lot’ and had no idea this case existed.”

“Maybe the team was overworked. What do you need to speak to me for?”

“I’ve read the file, but I’d like your gut feeling on it.”

“Well, when we heard back from Brazil—Jim was the one to tell us she was Brazilian—we found out she was missing. From what I recall, she had a lot of debt, and I had a sneaky feeling she’d run away to the UK to start again, got herself in a bit of bother, and ended up dead. How come you’re interested?”

“I’ve got another Brazilian lady, deceased—her prints are on file, her parents insisted the police send them all over the world in the hope they found her.”

“Bugger, poor sods. What a shame to have to tell them the news.”

“I know, but the weird thing is, she’s been dead for some time. Partially preserved so would have been wrapped inside something. There’s an indication she was buried then dug back up. She’s also dressed for summer…”

“Oh dear.”

“So how did it end, Alice’s case?”

“We did a press conference, gave out some details, made a plea for whoever knew anything to come forward, but despite the family’s involvement and the police abroad doing all they could, the case reached a dead end. The limited forensic evidence led nowhere conclusive—there were carpet fibres in her hair for a rug that’s sold in the UK in the thousands, a lot of them for cash on markets, so no CCTV there, no way to find out who bought them. We basically faced a wall of silence this end.”

“Okay, thanks for your insight.” Colin ended the call and got up to stretch his legs, going outside to stand in the car park. He took his burner out of his pocket and typed a message to see if he could phone the twins.

His mobile rang.

“What’s up?” George asked.

Colin explained everything. “You said this wasn’t your problem but at the same time it is. What am I meant to do here? To me, it’s obvious something dodgy’s going on regarding Brazilian women. Actually, I’m not sure I even want to know.”

“They’re being kidnapped and brought over here to donate some of their organs in illegal operations.”

“What?”

“Yep, then they’re taken home again, threatened to keep their mouth shut.”

“Well, clearly not all of them make it home.”

“No. The man who killed the woman in the alley, Alice, and the bird found in the field, Juliana—”

“Hang on, how the hell do you know their names?”

“Bea’s been hacking.”

“Right.”

“And she found evidence of the organ-harvesting thing, so because the person who killed those women is going to be one of our guests, if you catch my drift, I’ll have to give you someone else to pin the murders on, only…he’ll be dead. We can’t risk him talking about the surgeon we’ll be picking up today.”

“Right…”

“All the info will be with the body, and the data package Bea found will just happen to land in your inbox after you’ve been called out to view the deceased.”

“Fine. Sent anonymously, I hope.”

“Obviously, you tit.”

The line went dead, and Colin returned inside, hoping to avoid Nigel for the rest of the day if he could. That way, he didn’t have to try to think of something to say regarding the link to another case.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Moody stared at his phone. He didn’t like doing anything wrong, especially when it came to the twins, and it seemed he’d fucked up. How, though?

I bet the bastard got in while I was outside checking.

GG: Did you know you had company last night? Been chatting to the brother of the man we’re after, and apparently the geezer who owns the manor, Simon, slept there last night in that creepy-as-fuck cellar flat. He watched you sleeping in the kitchen on a camera app.

Moody: Jesus, I had no idea, I’m so sorry. I went out and had a look but didn’t see anyone. He must have got in around the other side or maybe at the back. Maybe even after I’d gone to sleep.

GG: We’re not having a go at you, it’s obvious what happened. The place is too big for one person to keep an eye on it, and that’s on me, I should have sent someone else to work with you. Anyway, get yourself packed up and leave. Hang around in your motor, but not anywhere obvious. We might need you later.

Moody: Will do.

He’d parked in the little forest to the side of the manor so his vehicle was hidden. He’d have a good vantage point to keep an eye out over the grounds with his binoculars. He had some more food in the boot, too, sandwiches and drinks and a couple of slices of cake, and before he set off he’d make a thermos of coffee.

But first he went down to the cellar, and there, on one of the beds, was a messed-up blanket and a dip in the pillow where the bastard had rested his head. Yes, it was so bloody obvious how the man had got in without Moody knowing, but it didn’t stop him from being annoyed with himself about it. The idea of being watched on some app or other gave him the fucking willies, too.

He returned upstairs and packed his things away into a large holdall, folding his telly inside his duvet. Coffee made, he left the house and took the long route to the forest by going around the edge of the grass so he didn’t leave an obvious trodden-down path that would give away where he’d gone. He got in the car, checked he could see well enough using the binoculars—the manor was in clear view between the trees—then he settled down to eat a sandwich and drink a coffee, keeping an eye out for this Simon fella to come back.

He hoped he got the chance to meet Simon. He’d like to punch the man in the face for making him feel a complete tool.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Simon had liked McDonald’s as a kid, and it seemed, despite his elevation to the finer things in life, he still liked it now. There was a surprising amount of bacon in his bap, and the coffee was lovely. He didn’t much like eating in the car, sitting in the corner of the car park, but like Floyd had said, it wasn’t wise for Simon to be out and about in public.

A couple of times Simon had opened his mouth to tell his brother what had really been going on, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, that money had trumped the promise he’d made years ago to use his surgical talent respectfully and for the greater good. Some would argue that he had performed those operations for the greater good. People were alive because of him, regardless of whether the organs had been recycled. And stolen beforehand. But what did that matter? They were bought and paid for, the donors got their debts cleared, and in the end, everyone benefited.

Apart from the dead ones.

The stale warmth inside the car felt strangely comforting. He took another packet out of the bag and hunched over a lukewarm Egg McMuffin. Floyd slurped coffee. Simon’s gaze drifted towards the passenger window. A layer of condensation hid the world outside, the scene a blur of light and shadow. He raised a hand and cuffed a small circle on the foggy glass. A steady stream of cars pulled into the drive-through, and families emerged from their parked vehicles. It tugged at something inside him, something he hadn’t really thought about until now. He watched them, one parent after another, bundled in their coats, ushering sleepy-eyed children towards the golden arches.

Where did it all go wrong for me?

He wasn’t sure when the dream of having a wife and kids had faded, or even if he’d consciously let it go, but looking at these perfectly imperfect family units, he felt an acute pang of loss for a future that had once been in his ten-year plan. A cosy house. School runs. Football games. The chaos of Christmas mornings. Somewhere along the winding path, that particular need had dimmed, then vanished.

The bitter truth was it had been greed that prevented him from dating. He’d told himself it was ambition, drive, a desire for financial security before he met The One, but somewhere along the line, the pursuit of money had overtaken everything. He had to prove he was better than Floyd in all ways.

That laser-like focus had left room for nothing else. Love would have been a distraction. Friends drifted away, and the idea of settling down became an obstacle. And now, the cruel irony was that the wealth he’d pursued was precisely what had landed him in this situation. If he hadn’t been so driven to earn more, he wouldn’t be being pursued by a dangerous criminal, a shadow lurking just beyond the periphery, someone out for his hide.

He dragged his attention away from the window, breathing on the glass to make new condensation; he had the sudden urge to hide.

Floyd took the last sip from his cup. Their breakfast was finished, the silence once again heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Floyd’s phone burst into a harsh ringtone. Simon jumped. Floyd answered the call, keeping the mobile pressed to his ear. Was that something to worry about, that he hadn’t put it on speaker? Simon couldn’t make out the muffled conversation from the other end of the line, but Floyd nodded, his jaw clenched, then pressed the End Call icon.

“Your house is empty. We can go there now.” Floyd stuffed the phone in his pocket, then ran a hand through his dishevelled hair.

“What about that Shank bloke?”

“He’ll be meeting us there shortly, said he has to go and pick up the implants you need first.” Floyd started the engine and merged into the traffic.

Simon cuffed the window again and looked out at the streets giving way to tree-lined avenues, the landscape gradually transforming from ordinary brick houses to the countryside. Professional detachment settled over him when he thought about the operations he had to perform later, then he wondered what state that man had left the kitchen.

They turned off the main road, the tyres crunching on the driveway. Floyd parked, and they got out. They moved cautiously through the foyer, Simon heading straight for the kitchen. The man’s things were gone. Simon led the way through the rest of the ground floor, scanning every surface, checking for any sign of forgotten belongings.

Once they’d been upstairs and he’d satisfied himself the rooms were clear, he said to Floyd, “Come and see this.”

He moved to the bookcase that hid the operating theatre, pulling it across and stepping inside.

Floyd followed. “Bloody hell,” he breathed.

“My little secret,” Simon said, proud of what he’d achieved. “I’ve been using this for a while.”

“What, you run a clinic from here or something?”

Simon smiled. “Or something.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Malik Hajek, in his late fifties, known for his hard glare, seldom let anyone in emotionally. He never spoke about the poor years of his childhood in the village deep in the heart of the Czech countryside. No one, apart from his parents, would ever know that the memory of a rumbling stomach and the bitter taste of deprivation would remain in his mind forever. How could he forget the constant, unsettling ache in his belly, a hollow space that no amount of watery soup or stale bread had filled? He’d vowed to never know gnawing hunger as an adult, and so far, he never had.

His parents had worked hard, and by their forties, their bodies were stooped from countless hours hunched over at the factory, or sometimes from the jobs they took on at a nearby farm during the harvest. Their hands had never felt soft, their faces had always seemed lined with exhaustion—he couldn’t recall a time they’d ever looked young, but they must have. Despite their efforts, their meagre pay trapped them in a suffocating cycle of barely scraping by, never catching a break.

Malik had often sat in the corner of the kitchen-diner, watching them return home, their shoulders slumped, the scent of stale sweat and machine oil clinging to their clothes, their skin. Weary sighs gusted out before they’d even had a chance to sit down—more work to do at home, the day never ended. Food to cook, washing to hang on the rack. Malik’s thoughts had revolved around what they lacked rather than what they had—and now, he could see, they’d had more than some, but back then he hadn’t been able to broaden his mind to see that they weren’t as bad off as they could have been.

At least he’d had watery soup.

The financial strain had tainted the atmosphere. What little peace they might have found ended up as a breeding ground for resentment that simmered, waiting to boil over. The arguments, hushed whispers in the kitchen after Malik had gone to bed, were quiet at first. These disagreements morphed into more confrontational rows, his father the loud one. They’d bickered about many things: an unpaid bill, a broken item that they couldn’t afford to replace, Father’s voice going from a murmur to a shout that echoed. Mother had usually pleaded for calm, but sometimes her exhaustion forced a sharp retort out of her. The words had flown back and forth, though many of the adult frustrations had sailed over Malik’s head.

He hadn’t understood it until he’d become a man.

When the shouts had reached their height, Father had grabbed his jacket, turned the doorknob, and then stepped out, slamming the wooden door as though that noise would tell Mother once and for all that the spat was her fault.

She’d always cried after he’d gone.

Malik had lain there, his heart thumping, trying to think of a way to make things better. When he was a man, he’d earn too much money, more than enough to give half to his parents so they’d never have to go without again.

And he had.

He’d promised he’d never allow himself to be in a position where he felt so helpless, so consumed by financial despair that he’d be forced to leave his own family in a fit of rage, and most importantly, he’d ensure hunger wouldn’t exist for them.

His childhood experience shaped every decision. He’d obsessed over his education and made shrewd choices that ensured wealth. His larder was stocked, his bills paid. He was no longer a frightened little boy.

But he was the embodiment of depravity, a calculating predator who operated far outside the moral confines of society. His will was absolute, his methods ruthless—anything was permissible if it led to achieving what he wanted, needed. At the heart of his empire, concealed beneath layers of legitimate-looking enterprises, lay an organisation involving blood and fear, threats and stolen organs.

It functioned well, each cog turning smoothly, everyone knowing that if they ever breathed a word about what went on to anyone outside the business, they and their families would die. From the shadowy procurement teams who snatched victims off the streets to the highly skilled surgeons who performed the organ extractions, every step was planned, monitored, and reminders dished out if necessary.

But a spanner had been thrown in the works. Simon had vanished without a trace—or so he’d thought. Nadir was currently outside a nasty house containing flats in Cheltenham. Simon was inside, likely shitting himself that he might be found. Perhaps a belated conscience had piped up, urging him to run, but whatever, his absence from London wasn’t allowed. It would fuck up the next shipment. Yes, the manor still stood, and yes, the patients could still live there, but with no one to do the operations…

Whispers of disquiet amongst the team had been getting louder. Simon absconding felt like a direct challenge to Malik, a display of defiance that, if left unaddressed, could unravel everything. Simon had to be brought back to London, and if necessary, Malik would do that himself.

He phoned Nadir.

“Yes, boss.”

He sounded tired. He’d likely been asleep. He’d taken the night shift along with Hugo, one at the front, one at the back. Two others would be on guard now, but it was Nadir he wanted to go in and collect their quarry.

“I understand you may be tired, but go and get him. Bring him back. Phone me when you’ve got him in the van.”

He cut the call. To stop his mood from dipping, he leaned back in his armchair and thought of his recent trip home. Just two weeks ago, he’d been walking the cobbled streets of his small hometown. That visit had been much-needed. A sense of peace had settled over him. Seeing his parents unburdened had filled him with satisfaction. He remembered the look on their faces when he’d first shown them the home he’d bought for them, with a proper garden, something they’d only ever dreamed of. The house was grand, with big rooms, new furniture. He’d closed their final chapter of poverty, and now they’d started a new one full of riches.

No more worn elbows on cardigans or fraying cuffs. No more holes in boots. No more thin winter coats.

He’d lifted the burden.

His phone rang, startling him, the sound cutting through his daydream. He glanced at the caller ID. Nadir. Unease stirred in the pit of Malik’s stomach for some reason.

He swiped to answer. “Hello?”

“He’s gone.”

“What? How?”

“Hugo admitted to going off for a piss at some point last night. Simon must have taken his chance then and gone via the back way. The other two on duty this morning haven’t seen any movement other than some young lad who lives in the top flat. He went out on a bike, probably to work.”

Malik’s temper grew; it fractured, sending heat to his cheeks. “The little bastard.” It struck him then that it could sound like he’d meant the lad on the bike was a bastard, but Malik was too incensed to correct himself.

“Like I told you,” Nadir said, “I knocked on Simon’s door last night; he was in there but didn’t answer.”

“How do you know he was in there?”

“He must have thought he was being quiet, but I could hear him moving around.”

If Malik were in Nadir’s shoes, he’d be making sure his boss knew it wasn’t his fault, too. Hugo would be reprimanded, but he was far too good a player in this game for Malik to get rid of him. He knew too much. And a man needed to piss.

This is all on me for only stationing two men at a time.

“Arrange for two to be out the back and two at the front just in case Simon returns. Then if someone needs to go to the toilet there’s always another person on the lookout. Book more rooms at the Premier Inn for extra men. I need you and Hugo back here.”

What Simon had done was a blindside and would result in a complete failure of the London operation if they didn’t get him back—or find and threaten a new surgeon sufficiently enough before the cargo arrived at the manor in two days.

Maybe we should give the other UK locations extra patients instead so the London business isn’t affected. Simon could be doing this to ruin it, but I’m not going to let him.

Just moments ago, Malik had been basking in the warmth of his success. Now, that glow had been snuffed out. The satisfaction of his accomplishments remained, they would always live deep inside him, but it was now overshadowed by the urgent need to recalibrate. He still needed to punish Simon for taking his chance to leave London in the first place, all done in the middle of the night when he’d thought Nadir wasn’t out on the road, watching. Simon had fooled them all into thinking he was still in this business for the third year running.

I believed him. I told him I’d uploaded his file to the dark web. Then he’d left. Is he stupid? Does he think I don’t have copies?

“I’ll go to the manor, see if he’s gone there,” Malik said. “Get back here as soon as possible.”

He jabbed at the end call icon and slid the work burner into his pocket. He left his personal phone behind, as he usually did when he didn’t want his movements being tracked.

He put on gloves, tucked his hair into a hat, and shrugged on his coat. He stepped into a forensic suit, lifted the hood, then accessed his vehicle via the interior door that led to the garage. He pressed the button to open the door and reversed, pressed again for it to close after him, and set off, determined to break every one of Simon’s fingers, because he’d decided he wasn’t going to use him anymore.

Ever.

The man needed to be disposed of permanently.

The journey to the manor wouldn’t take long. Only the low rumble of Malik’s armoured vehicle accompanied him. The landscape grew increasingly rural as he left civilisation and took the winding road, grey clouds hovering low. He scanned the passing scenery, his mind already formulating strategies for entry and containment, thinking about the moment he’d remind Simon exactly why he couldn’t run away.

He parked on the verge beside a border of bushes and peered through the side window. The manor squatted in the distance, lights on inside. He got out, intending to walk towards the forest and through it, coming out parallel to the back of the house. He didn’t want to be seen approaching.

He moved, soundless, through the dense, shadowed woods, branches snagging on his crisp forensic suit; a foolish choice, perhaps, to have chosen white: he could be seen easily. Leaves crunched under his tread, loud in the silence.

He reached the tree line that faced the right-hand side of the manor. A cold sweat pricked his forehead. He was about to move on, heading to bushes at the back of the property, when he stopped. A dark car, hidden by an overgrown sprawl of bramble bushes, sent a jolt of panic through him. He hadn’t accounted for a vehicle in the woods—unless Simon had borrowed it and hid it there so no one would know he was back.

But the lights on in the house had fucked that up.

Was he really that dense?

Malik tensed, squinting at the vehicle. He made out a figure in the driver’s seat, eating something. Who was he? Had Simon asked him to watch out for him from there?

Malik ducked low, scrambling back a few feet until the thick trunk of an ancient oak provided sufficient cover. He pressed against its rough bark then peered around it, his gaze locked on the car. Had he been spotted?

Should he wait it out, hoping the man finished his food and drove off? But the longer he lingered, the higher the chances of being discovered. He cursed under his breath. Was the universe telling him to pack it in and go home?

Waiting was a luxury he didn’t want to spend a penny on, so he walked along the deepest shadows of the tree line, careful, each step quiet. Eventually, he made it to the rear of the manor, hiding behind some bushes, letting out a shaky breath.

Now to somehow get inside that building.

Chapter Twenty-Six

From his nondescript vehicle parked across the road, a rubber mask covering his face, Nadir had watched the surgeon get into his car. Simon’s engine coughed to life, and he pulled away. Nadir set off, too, keeping a respectful distance. Simon drove with the same arrogance he carried himself with, cutting people off, speeding through an amber light, showing Nadir exactly who he was—like he didn’t already know from meeting him last year. Nadir remained disciplined; he didn’t close the gap enough to gain attention, and he didn’t drive as if road rage was his favourite activity. By the time they reached the quiet road leading to Simon’s place, the surgeon had clocked he was being followed. He glanced at the rearview mirror several times. Nadir ignored him and drove steadily.

Simon took the turning to go home. Nadir continued on, and he imagined the breath of relief Simon had probably released, thinking Nadir’s car hadn’t been following him after all. Nadir drove a mile or so then found a lay-by to pull into and phoned the boss.

“He met his brother at that café again, but he’s at home now,” Nadir said.

The boss sighed. “So that could mean another one has died. He hasn’t messaged a word about it, just told me Gabriela’s operation was a success and she’s recovering. We know it went well because we took possession of the kidney, but…would he dare not tell me she didn’t make it?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go and give him a little scare. He needs to know we’re watching. Give him the impression we know what he’s up to. Say whatever is needed.”

“On it.”

Nadir drove back to the manor and parked up on the road so his car could be seen in the gap between trees if he was being observed from the house.

And he waited.

* * * *

Simon stood by the window, a knot forming in his gut. A dark car had parked near the end of his driveway. It had been there for twenty-one minutes, an ominous silhouette, and while he couldn’t see the driver’s face from this far back, he was almost sure it was the same vehicle that had followed him home. Worry percolated—and anger, because fuck, he’d just sorted his anxiety out with Floyd’s help, and now this.

“Who the hell is that?” he muttered.

Was it the police? Had the old lady at the café overheard their conversations, put two and two together after watching the news about Alice’s body, and phoned it in? Surely not—she was as much a criminal as her customers, that much was obvious. She took money for looking the other way.

He was going to have to go out there and see who it was. Police or not, he wouldn’t be able to sleep not knowing who watched his house. He put his trainers and jacket on again, stepping out into the crisp night, a crafty breeze whipping at his hair. He went down the steps outside the front door, wincing at remembering Floyd’s taunt about making sure he’d picked up all the gravel that had blood on it. There was no way he could find it all, and he cursed himself for shooting her.

He headed down the driveway.

The car remained where it was.

He reached the passenger side, mindful that he stood in the road, and smacked his palm against the window. The window sailed down.

“Who are you?” he asked, his temper rising.

The driver peeled a mask off. Simon stared, recognising him. He’d been introduced to him last year when he’d first been recruited and had to meet everyone in the organisation—or the people he had to deal with anyway. Nadir. “What do you want?”

A stupid question. The boss must have heard about Alice.

Simon blabbed: “Look, I told him she’d been shot—and not just by me, I might add. It was necessary to get the others in line, and seeing her die has ensured they’ll all comply without a fuss now.”

“The hunger and thirst, the threats to their family, should have already done the trick there.”

“About that…where did the starvation idea even come from? It didn’t happen last year. What an utterly stupid thing to do when we need those organs in prime condition.”

“Ask the boss.”

“Right,” Simon bristled. “I will.” I won’t.

His left eye twitched—he was going to lose his rag in a second. Nadir, clearly unbothered by Simon’s anxiety issues, propped an elbow on the door and rested his cheek in his hand as if settling down for the long haul. What?

“Why are you here?” Simon demanded.

“Why did you visit your brother in that café…twice?”

“So I’m not allowed to see my own brother while a gig is ongoing?”

Nadir shrugged. “Not my call, I’m just asking why you did it. Did he give you advice on where to dump Alice, because if he did, wow, it was a crap location. I heard she was found not long after she’d been put there.”

Simon should have known this sort of outfit had ties with the police, little snitches who’d tell the boss anything they needed to know, but then again, hadn’t a member of the public found her? “I put her in that alley, it’s nothing to do with Floyd.”

“Why did you go and see him tonight?”

“For a chat. Jesus.” Simon glanced down the road. “Can you just bugger off? I’ve got a chef delivering for the patients in about fifteen minutes, and I don’t need him seeing you here.”

“I need to check on Gabriela.”

Simon wanted to explode. “Fine, park on my driveway so you at least look like a guest if the chef arrives while you’re there.” He paused, suspicious. “Why do you need to check on her?”

“I want to know if she’s alive or not.”

“Take my word for it, she is.”

“I’d still like to see for myself.”

Simon tutted and stalked up his driveway, wanting to kill Nadir but knowing he couldn’t afford that luxury.

* * * *

After leaving a tray with plastic bowls and cutlery at the bottom of the stairs, then going up to collect the thermal bag of food the chef had delivered, Simon went back down again. He opened the solid door, ten pairs of eyes staring at him. Expectant people. Scared. Glad to be receiving food. He slid his hand into his pocket; he hated the ritual of having one hand occupied with a gun so none of the patients had a mind to knock him over and run for it upstairs.

“I say it every time, but it bears repeating,” he said. “No funny business.”

He placed the bag on the floor beside the door in the bars, which he opened, then used his foot to push it through the gap, his gun trained on the spokesperson, Claudio. Simon backed away, gun still aimed, and again used his foot to shift the tray of bowls and cutlery into the living room. They clattered and jumped about, the noise annoying him. He locked the door. Took a seat on one of the armchairs while two of the women stood guard over the bag as though it contained millions of pounds instead of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and steamed broccoli.

“I have some news for you. The operation was a success. The kidney has been successfully placed inside its new recipient. Both patients are recovering well.”

“So Gabriela‘s alive?” Claudio asked.

“That’s what ‘recovering well’ means.” Simon rolled his eyes. “On a different note… The police have found Alice’s body. They’ll identify her eventually. Imagine if it were you—you’re the dead one, your families informed that you’re gone. Think about that for a moment, will you? Imagine how devastated they’ll be. Parents, siblings, children, friends. All distressed because your death, brought on by yourselves if you don’t behave, could have been avoided. Their pain could have been avoided. Their worlds will crumble. I want you to truly consider that feeling, the raw grief that will eat at them. They will never be the same again, forever broken. Do you want your families to feel like that?” He watched their faces while his words sank in.

Claudio shook his head. One of the women looming over the food bag trembled. A young man stared down at his hands.

“I’m so glad you’re going to behave.” Simon stood. “Make sure you eat all of your dinner. Each meal has been created to contain everything you need for optimum health.”

He gave them one last look, smiled, then walked out, the heavy door thudding shut behind him, leaving them once again in the oppressive tomb of the basement.

They may think of him as a spiteful bastard, but at least he fed them.

* * * *

Simon watched Gabriela on the app. A sound he didn’t want to hear—the buzz of silence—and a sight he didn’t want to see—no activity whatsoever—sent him reeling. It was likely in his own head, that buzz, but he heard it all the same. And as for no activity. He wasn’t imagining it. He stood in his study, frozen, staring at the screen. At how her chest wasn’t moving. It wasn’t fucking moving! She was sprawled on the floor, presumably from where she’d attempted to reach the silver poles, hoping to get help.

A scribble of thoughts tried to unravel themselves in his head, but the more he tried to pick the threads apart, the more they tangled. Fear and self-preservation were his main emotions; Malik getting rid of him for failing, yet again; a terrible, painful death, his body dumped in his parents’ front garden.

Then a dark idea formed. Floyd. He could blame it on him. Say he was a killer, he’d served time for it, and he should be the one Mum and Dad found on their grass.

He sent a message to Floyd: Help me! It happened again!

Floyd: Go to the dock, the one we discussed.

Simon: Give me an hour.

He slid both of his phones in his pockets and entered the ward. He picked her up, put her back on her bed, then covered her with a blanket. He wheeled the bed into the foyer, then returned to his study to check the driveway. No one was out there. Nadir had gone, although he could have parked somewhere farther along the road and be standing in the dark, watching.

He’d known about Simon’s visits to the café.

Would he know about this outing, too?

Simon opened the front door, clicked his car open, and lifted the lid of the boot. Back inside, he collected Gabriela, tucking the blanket all around her, and placed her in the boot. Closed her in. He put the bed back, changed out of his slippers into his trainers, shut the house up, and dived behind the wheel. He set off, and at the bottom of the driveway, looked for Nadir.

No one.

When he was halfway towards his destination, rain smacked onto the windscreen. Each arc of the wipers offered only a quick glimpse of the road before more rain covered the glass in wiggly sheets. He gripped the steering wheel, glad of the rain instead of the dangerous ice and frost.

Only the thought of Floyd gave him some semblance of calm. And wasn’t that ironic? The brother he hated being the buffer he needed. Relief hit him that he wouldn’t be facing this on his own. Floyd was probably already there, waiting, ready to have a go at Simon for fucking up, but Gabriela had died on her own, for God’s sake, so how was this his fault?

He left the quiet road, streetlights paving the way, their weird orange glow creating distorted shadows across the tarmac. The rain stopped, which was something. He was overheating in his panic so cracked the window, letting in the scent of salt and decay, the disused docks not far now. He passed warehouses, their windows dark and vacant. His stomach churned at being somewhere so out of the way.

His hands grew clammy. Weird how they could be so steady when he operated yet they shook on the steering wheel now. His mouth was dry, and that horrible feeling of nausea filled his chest, lingering at the base of his throat. He veered off the main dock road onto a narrow lane that snaked between empty metal containers. Was this where the patients had been held and starved?

He squinted, looking for Floyd and his vehicle.

He’d better bloody turn up.

Simon thought of the body in the boot, and another wave of nausea sliced through him. He pictured her, folded, beneath the blanket. A beam of light flickered up ahead, a prearranged signal. Relief hit Simon again. He stopped and cut the engine. Peered out and waited for Floyd to show himself. Finally, there was the familiar shape of his silhouette in a patch of pale moonlight. Simon got out.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. This had all been discussed at the café.

A silent choreography unfolded between them—and it was fucking odd, working with Floyd like this, like they could read each other’s minds, when previously, neither of them had been much good at reading the other correctly. Simon popped the boot and, their bodies bent over against a sudden gust of wind, they lifted the body out. The freezing air hurt Simon’s exposed skin, and the strain on his muscles almost had him dropping her. He allowed Floyd to guide him across the concrete ground towards the edge of the dock. The river was quiet there, its dark water flat, the surface just waiting like a mouth to open and swallow her up. They wrestled the blanket off her, Simon draping it over one of his shoulders, then placed her on the ground. Floyd ran off to get the concrete blocks and cord, leaving Simon standing there with just his anxiety and a corpse for company, shitting himself in case this was a setup.

He hated that he didn’t trust his own brother.

Floyd emerged from the darkness, pushing the blocks on a rusty old dolly, the wheels almost silent as they rolled over the ground. They took two blocks each and attached them to her wrists and ankles, strapping the fifth to her stomach with rope. Then on the count of three, they pushed her into the frigid depths. The splash seemed so loud, and Simon automatically glanced around to make sure no one had heard, momentarily forgetting this place had been abandoned long ago. Or had it? He suspected not now he’d seen those containers.

They waited, two grim shadows, to see if she popped back up.

She didn’t.

“That’s another few grand you owe me,” Floyd said.

“I thought…”

“You thought this one was on the house? Fuck off.” Floyd sniffed. “Tell you what, I’ll give you a friends-and-family discount. Ten grand, cash, at the café, tomorrow night at eleven.”

Simon nodded, watching his brother melt into the darkness. Then came the distant sound of an engine. A motorbike? Simon didn’t care. He just wanted to go home.

The drive back felt far too long with the unspoken weight of their actions pressing down on him. An overwhelming hollowness expanded in his chest, then switched to a hot and painful squeeze. Oh God, he didn’t need a heart attack, not now when he had the boot to clean. The image of her body vanishing beneath the dark water played on a loop in his mind’s eye, further ramping up the anxiety. The sight of lights on in the distance, at his house, had him pushing the accelerator harder.

He’d check on the captives, clean the car, then have a shower.

He turned onto the driveway. Fuck. Nadir’s car was there.

What did he want now?

Simon parked up behind it, trying to make it look like he wasn’t nosing through the windows at Nadir in the driver’s seat. Someone else sat in the passenger side, and going by the shape of them, the big boss himself had deigned to pay him a visit. Why at this time of night? Unless they were collecting the patients to move them on, what else could they want?

To kill me for murdering Alice.

No one will notice them driving me away in the dark.

He’d yet to tell anyone other than Floyd about Gabriela but supposed he’d have to now. Plus Malik would want to go inside and do a headcount. He’d soon see another one of them was missing.

He got out of the car, annoyed because he couldn’t clean it as quickly as he wanted to. He’d rest easier knowing he’d removed any evidence, but when it came to Malik, anything and everything was put on the back burner if he wanted your attention.

Nadir got out, walking round to open the boss’ door.

Malik’s frame left the car fluidly, despite his size. He was a bloody big bastard but light on his feet. He clearly had some kind of training in order to be able to approach people so quietly, like he did now, minimal crunch coming from the gravel beneath his expensive polished shoes.

Simon took him in. Dark overcoat, a formidable bulk beneath, Malik’s bearing testament to years of commanding respect and enforcing obedience. His hands, which had apparently broken people’s bones and meted out retribution, hung at his sides, as big as hams, so Simon’s mother would say. There was no need for Malik to speak. His power radiated out of him, his silence more frightening than any words. His black hair, slicked back with some kind of oil, had a wave to it, and his eyes, behind glasses with thick lenses, appeared larger than average. His stare gave Simon the fucking creeps.

“I didn’t know you were coming for a visit,” Simon said, attempting to keep his voice bright.

“I didn’t know that another of the patients had died until you and your brother kicked her into the water, but there you go, we can’t all be in the know, can we.”

Fuck, Simon had known someone was watching, he’d sensed it. Whoever had been there had hidden themselves well. How had they known Simon and Floyd were going to the docks, though? Had they followed either of them, or had Floyd somehow found out who Malik was and contacted him, eager to get Simon in the shit?

He sounded paranoid, but was it any wonder, considering?

He swallowed. “I was about to tell you when I saw you’d pulled up here.”

“I can’t disprove that, so I’ll take your word for it. Let’s go inside so you can tell me what happened.”

Simon led the way into his kitchen. He needed a stiff drink. With whiskey poured for himself and Malik, Nadir opting for a Coke as he was driving, they stood around the island. It was all a bit awkward, Malik waiting for Simon to spill the beans, an eyebrow raised. Talk about pile on the pressure.

“Before you say anything,” Simon said, “I didn’t kill her. She had excellent aftercare but died on her own. I’m no pathologist so can’t tell you why she died. I thought it best to get rid of her as soon as possible and obviously not in the same way as the last one. Gabriela was weighed down, so her body won’t be surfacing anytime soon.”

“It had better not. What made you think you could involve your brother and not run it by me first?”

“I panicked, I wanted to show you I could deal with it.”

“We’ve looked into Floyd. We’ve heard he’s loyal when it comes keeping the secrets of fellow criminals, so you got lucky there, but we’re going to need you to reiterate to him that he really cannot open his mouth. I know all about siblings, how they either get on like a house on fire or they don’t get on at all, and it’s the latter I’m worried about. What’s to say Floyd won’t go off to the police station and tell them what you’ve done the minute you piss him off?”

“Because he’ll probably bribe me for the rest of my life. So long as I keep paying him whenever he asks, all will be good.”

“Perhaps it’s him you ought to think about killing instead of the patients.” Malik swallowed his drink in two gulps. He pointed at Simon’s. “Should you be drinking that when you’ve got an operation to do tomorrow?”

Fuck, he really needed to get the next patient settled in the ward for the fasting period. He made a show of throwing his whiskey the sink, but he’d pour another when they’d gone. “Do you want to see the patients before you leave?”

“Give Nadir the keys, and I’ll go down with him for the headcount.” Malik took a mask out of his pocket, a rubber giraffe face, and placed it over his own.

Simon stared. Malik’s hulking silhouette was made for nightmares. The man, broad-shouldered and thick-set, meant Simon would lose any fight against him. His presence alone immediately commanded attention. What instantly bugged Simon was how the mask had changed Malik from a fucking scary person into a deeply unsettling…thing. Creature. Goosebumps rose all over him when their eyes met, Malik’s so unnerving in the mask’s holes. The rubber stretched tight over his big face and head, the giraffe’s expression blank.

Full-blown panic set up home. Simon struggled to appear composed. His fear of this man hijacked his body. His heart thumped, frantic, and a cold sweat broke out down his back. He imagined the patients’ reaction, how their nightmare was about to get that little bit worse when they saw a man in a mask.

Simon handed the keys over and watched Malik and Nadir leave the room, his legs shaking and his stomach rolling over.

He was beginning to think this job wasn’t so great after all.

* * * *

One day later

Claudio opened his eyes, white light piercing them, a throbbing pain pulsing behind his temples. An ache weighted his torso, a soreness he’d never experienced before. His tongue, dry and rough, thick, reminded him of being in the metal container.

Oh God, was he back there again?

A cruel thirst parched his mouth. He tried to move, to go in search of water, but he felt too heavy. Discomfort radiated through his side and chest, and he winced.

The scent of antiseptic wafted.

Someone appeared above him, looking down. Green scrubs, the lower half of his face covered by a mask, the host’s eyes above it.

“Ah, you’re awake.” The host leaned closer. He appeared…relieved? “I was starting to wonder if you’d make it.”

Claudio’s breath hitched, and nausea washed over him—the thought that he could have died and never seen Alessandra again… God, unthinkable. He struggled to breathe properly, suddenly remembering he only had one lung, he’d signed it away earlier. The remaining one felt inadequate, struggling to do what it was supposed to—draw in air.

“Slow breaths,” the host said. “I have a confession to make.”

Shit, was Claudio going to die?

The surgeon smiled. “I helped myself to one of your kidneys. You’ll have to sign another form for that.”

Claudio tried to nod. Couldn’t. “Are the recipients okay?” he croaked.

“They’re still in theatre, wherever that may be, but I’m sure it’ll all be okay.”

So the host didn’t know everything that went on? If everyone involved in this only held their own puzzle piece, with no knowledge of anyone else’s, then the whole picture couldn’t be put together. That man who’d come down to the cellar flat, the one who’d said he was the boss, was likely the only person who knew everything.

The giraffe.

If only Claudio had the means to find out where he lived…

* * * *

Another operation done and dusted. Simon hoped Claudio pulled through, he really did. He’d already placed his instruments into the steriliser and cleaned the theatre. Although it was late, he felt obliged to check the status of his involuntary guests in person. Tonight he had to deliver an update that would crash through their already fragile mental states—Gabriela had died, and he had no idea why.

When he told them another of them had snuffed it, would their hopes dwindle? Would they think their chances of survival after their operation were slim to none? He’d once liked watching the shifts in their collective despair; it fascinated him how they acted as a mass, not individuals, like their incarceration had somehow bound them together so they shared one brain.

Now, though, he was fast wishing he’d never been chosen to become involved.

In the foyer, he moved the bookcase across to reveal the secret steps to the cellar, going down, the taps of his polished shoes echoing in the narrow stairway. He reached the heavy, reinforced door at the bottom and unlocked it. He opened it, and a rush of cooler air greeted him, along with the scent of dust and cooped-up bodies.

He stared past the silver bars and into the lounge. The single bulb lit the patients up, and he scanned the huddled group, their faces streaked with tears, as though him selecting Claudio for an operation had shattered their foundations. That man appeared to be the one they all turned to for advice, and with him gone, lying in the ward recovering, they seemed somewhat adrift. Their hands shook, their wide eyes showing how afraid they were of what Simon was about to say. They hadn’t taken Alice’s death very well, so God knew what they’d think about Gabriela’s.

They followed his every move as he casually sat on one of the armchairs, leaning back and crossing his legs. Didn’t they realise how vulnerable they looked? How he could see right through them?

These people were worth so much money—or their organs were—and he supposed he ought to have some kind of compassion that they’d been spied on for months, snatched from their lives, locked away in a metal container, and were now confined to a flat, fed good food while they awaited having a body part removed. All of them signed a form before the operation, giving consent, and they had no idea that wouldn’t actually hold up in court if it came to that.

It was so easy to weave lies so they sounded like the truth.

He allowed the silence to stretch and imagined it exacerbated their emotions, a rasp on raw nerves. To string it out and hammer home even more that for the majority of the time he was the boss here, he adjusted his shirt cuffs, rolling them down from his elbows to his wrists. Someone inhaled sharply, as though they were about to cry. He looked up and again scanned the group, a predatory assessment.

“Good evening. I didn’t tell you this when it happened because it was very upsetting to me,” he lied. Or maybe that wasn’t a lie. It was upsetting, just not for the reasons they might think. It had upset him because he’d had to involve Floyd again. “Gabriela didn’t make it. For reasons unknown, she died.” He paused, watching their dawning horror. “A shame, because the operation had gone so well and the recipient of her kidney is also doing well. It’s quite disappointing when things don’t go according to plan, isn’t it?”

They gasped as one, then someone choked on a sob. Others stared, numb.

Without Claudio here, it seemed no one else wanted to step forward and ask any questions. Their crumpled expressions, their tears, hmm, they got to him this time. Now that Simon’s foothold in this…whatever it was…had become unsteady, and he’d done things he never thought he’d have to, like helping his brother to roll a body into the river, he didn’t feel so smug. It had been evident when Malik and Nadir had visited that Simon was just one cog of many, and while they needed him to perform the operations, he was sure they had other names on a list somewhere, surgeons they’d approach in the same way they’d approached him.

He wasn’t indispensable.

In order to curry favour with Malik, to make out he was still devoted to this cause, he was going to have to stick to being the bastard in front of these people. While he now regretted ever agreeing to do this—although there had never really been a choice—he was going to have to get on with it. If he didn’t perform well, if he kept mucking up with people dying, Malik would probably use Simon until he found someone else to take his place, then he’d be conveniently ‘disappeared’.

He straightened up, forcing a cruel smile. “But maybe I just lied to you. Maybe I do know why Gabriela died.” He smirked. “Maybe my boss told me to kill her because she hadn’t been behaving herself. Maybe she told me she’d never keep her mouth shut when she went home. Let this be a lesson to you all: if you don’t do as we ask, you’ll never make it back to Brazil. Claudio, you’ll be glad to know, is being good. His operation went well and he’s now in recovery. Someone else will be able to breathe easier now that they have one of his lungs, and another will be grateful for his kidney. That was a surprise to me, the kidney. A match had come through while I was about to sew him up.”

With their fear ramped up again, he sucked in the sight of their broken spirits then rose from the chair. He left them pressed together beneath the light, their whispers and sobs fading as he closed the solid door. He climbed the steps, drawing the bookcase across until it clicked into place.

He’d go and pour a whiskey and contemplate how he’d get himself out of this mess without ending up in prison.

* * * *

Claudio had survived, although he was torn now that he’d left a couple of the others on the ward after a week of being there with them. They hadn’t taken the loss of their organs very well, going through a stage of mourning he hadn’t experienced himself. Yes, it had been strange at first to have half the lung capacity, and he’d had to teach himself how to breathe in this new way, but other than that, he was coping well mentally and physically.

Prior to the operation, the host had let him know what had happened to Gabriel and that if Claudio had any designs on not following the rules, then he’d find himself dead, too.

All Claudio wanted was to get home to Alessandro and his parents.

The air in the cellar was so different to the ward which had been kept fresh somehow, maybe with air-conditioning, although it hadn’t been particularly cold up there. Being back down here reminded him of his bleak reality—in the ward, he’d been able to pretend sometimes that he really was in hospital, he’d voluntarily given a lung and kidney to save people’s lives, and he’d be discharged to go home.

No such thing had happened. How long would they be in this cellar now? Would the return journey mimic the one he’d endured to get here? Would he be placed in the metal container again, starved and thirsty, then bundled into a van? Would he be deposited on the same street he’d been kidnapped from?

It felt like he’d been away from home forever.

When he’d been brought back down here, he’d immediately checked everyone else over, doing a headcount to make sure no one in the cellar had died—or been killed—while he wasn’t there. They’d asked him about his experience, what it felt like have parts of him missing, and to prevent them from deteriorating mentally and emotionally, he’d said it was okay, that donating parts of him was a good thing if others now had a life because of it. He told them they had to think of it that way, because otherwise they risked heading into depression.

Once again, that sense of protectiveness surged through him; he was the father to them all. Even though he was young himself, he was the oldest there.

* * * *

Days bled into one another until everyone had been operated on. The ten of them were back in the cellar together. What would happen next, and when? They were still being fed good food, although a few takeaways had crept into the mix, and while the bottles of water were no longer provided, they filled them from the sink in the bathroom.

The now familiar thud of footsteps had everyone staring towards the solid door. It opened, revealing their host. The air changed immediately, tense with apprehension. Claudio’s heart thumped hard in the stillness, cold trepidation trickling down his spine. He’d learned to read the host, and today there was something different about him. His icy, unsettling calm and sweeping gaze had the hairs on Claudio’s arms standing on end.

The surgeon came closer to the silver bars, his shoes barely creating a sound. He stared at them all one by one, his smile devoid of any warmth. “Good afternoon. The time has come to proceed with the next phase.”

“Are we going home?” Claudio asked.

“Yes. Your journey starts tonight.”

Stunned silence. Breaths catching in throats. Tears welling. A new kind of tension crackled—the unknown again, being herded into the van, taken from this place to a boat. Claudio had imagined it as a cruise ship, a legitimate floating holiday camp where the tourists had no idea captives were held below, stuck inside that container while they’d enjoyed all the food and drink they could put down their throats.

The host smiled. “I suggest you all shower—and enjoy it—because God knows when you’ll be able to have one again.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Their black Hackney needed a respray in places. George had spotted a bit of rust along the wheel arches. They’d get it done tomorrow, when all this was over. He ought to be grateful it was only rust. The old girl had proven to be well worth the money they’d paid for her. The suspension absorbed the jolts from the dips and potholes in the road that bisected empty fields with frost-bitten grass and hedges, industrial skeletons on the horizon, nothing else for miles.

George scoured the darkening sky. That was all they needed, a fucking storm.

Moody had informed them that someone had turned up at the manor in a forensic suit. At first, George had been confused, thinking Colin had forgotten to tell him that the police had gone down the route of connecting the dead women to Simon, but after the white-clad figure had tried to slink through the trees without being seen, Moody had used his binoculars and, kneeling on the driver’s seat so he could point the lenses out of the rear window, he’d seen, through a gap in a hedge, the number plate of a vehicle parked by the road. A quick check from Bea, and they knew who owned the vehicle.

Malik Hajek.

Ahead, the glint of chrome let George know that the car in question was still there. But so was another one. A sleek, dark car, a model far too expensive and pristine to be left on the side of the road.

Someone sat inside it.

Greg pulled up behind the car, the taxi’s front bumper inches from the dark car’s boot. George peered through the window, spotting the side profile of the driver who hunched low over the steering wheel, his shoulders almost touching his ears, as if he were cold. Maybe he didn’t want to risk his battery draining if he put the heat on. His pale face scrunched, betraying possible anxiety. Greg had boxed him in between Malik’s vehicle and the taxi, so it was understandable he might be a little tense.

They’d been sent a picture of Simon by Floyd, and the man in the car definitely wasn’t him. Floyd had also said that he and Simon were in the manor.

Something in his left-hand peripheral vision caught George’s attention, and he turned his head to peek between the branches of the hedgerow on the other side of the road. Someone in a white forensic suit sidled towards the back of the manor.

George sent a message to Moody.

GG: Watch the forensic bloke. We’ll deal with the other fucker who’s turned up in a posh black car.

Moody: I was about to tell you someone else was there, but you arrived so I didn’t bother.

George stuffed his phone away and opened the cab door. He strode round to the driver’s side of the car, his heavy steps sinking into the grass verge, Greg right on his heels.

George rapped on the window, his glove dulling the sound. “Get out! Now!”

The startled man jumped, his fingers trembling as he fumbled with the lock. George stepped back so he could get out. The man stumbled into the cold and gloom, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“What’s your name?” George barked.

“Christos Ryba.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Yes.” A flinch.

Liar. “Where are you from?”

“Czech Republic.”

“What the fuck are you doing out here?”

“I… I was asked to come by my boss.”

“We haven’t got time to ponce about, bruv,” Greg said, and his fist connected with Christos’ jaw.

The sound held the promise of broken bone at the most and dislocation at the least. Christos’ eyes rolled back, and he went down, smacking his head on his car, then on a rock protruding from the grass. He lay on the ground, groaning.

Greg produced zip ties. In moments, he’d yanked Christos’ wrists behind him, tightening the plastic ratchet around them with a series of quick clicks. He then tied the ankles. George opened the boot of the cab and went back to help his brother carry the lump on the ground. They hauled his limp form towards the taxi. It took both of them, grunting with effort, to shove him into the cramped boot space. George slammed the lid, locked it, then turned to the black car to pop the number plate into a message for Bea, who was being used more frequently since she was quicker at finding out information than Mason, Colin, or Anaisha. He also asked Bea to run a check on Christos’ name.

They got back in the cab, and Greg drove up the driveway. George moved his hand to feel the comforting handle of his gun hiding beneath his suit jacket. He shifted—the bulletproof vest was a bit tight today. Probably all those dinners he ate at the Taj.

“I might have to think about going on a diet,” he said.

Greg turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “The amount of shit you gave me when I was into healthy eating…”

“Yeah, well, this fucking vest’s pinching.”

Greg parked. “Don’t forget to watch for the man in the forensic suit in case he’s already gone into the house.”

“There could be other men here, for all we know, but you punched that man’s lights out before I had a chance to question him as to whether he’d brought anyone with him.”

“Moody would have seen them and said so.”

“Not if they were dropped off on the other side of the manor where he can’t see.”

George got out, sweeping his gaze over the imposing facade for any sign of life. Greg joined him, heading for the front door. George jogged to keep up with him. He lifted the knocker, dropping it with force, the sound clanging.

This was the bit where they’d know if Floyd was working with them or against them.

After a tense, drawn-out beat of silence that seemed to stretch forever, the door opened. Floyd stood there, his gaze darting between them. He was clearly apprehensive, a tremor running through his body.

As per the plan, George said, “Hello, I wonder if you can help us. We’re looking for the homeowner.” He settled his hand on his gun again, flipping his jacket open so Floyd could see the weapon.

Floyd swallowed hard. “Simon? He’s…not here.” The lie, so transparent, hung heavy in the suddenly charged air.

That wasn’t part of the plan, so what the fuck was he playing at?

Floyd flicked his eyes to the left. Was he trying to let them know that Simon stood behind the door, listening?

“That’s a shame,” George said, “because this property could benefit from triple glazing. It would save a fortune on electricity bills because the heat wouldn’t escape.” He wasn’t sure what to do now—push inside and grab Simon or wait for Floyd to give some other indication as to what was going on?

“He won’t be here again,” Floyd said. “He’s selling up.”

“Oh right. Well, we’ll leave you be then.”

George got back in the cab, and when Greg got in, he said, “Drive around the back. I just had a thought—that man in the forensic suit might have got in and had a gun or something to Floyd’s back. I want to find out where that prick is and get rid of him before he causes us any more problems.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Simon stared at Floyd and raised his hands to ask him, silently, when the fuck window salesmen had taken to visiting big houses like this off-the-cuff. Floyd shrugged. Uneasy, Simon took a deep breath and beckoned for his brother to follow him into the study. The curtains were closed even though it was daytime—he’d been round and shut all of them last night before they’d slept on the beds in the cellar flat. He drew one of the curtains across slightly and hid behind it, peering out. The salesman’s vehicle had gone, but were there two others parked on the road? His stomach flipped over.

He whispered to Floyd, “I’m sure there are two cars on the other side of the boundary hedge.”

“Let me see.” Floyd had a look. “Shit. If we just stay put, they’ll probably go away once they gather there’s no movement here.”

“It has to be the people after me.”

A faint thump echoed from somewhere. Simon froze, his breath catching, his head cocked while he strained his ears, listening.

Nothing.

He scoffed. Old houses made noises. Settling. The wind.

Then came a crack. Unmistakable. The sharp splintering of solid oak, followed by the dull tinkle of glass. Simon’s blood ran cold, and he stumbled towards the study door.

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, echoing somewhere. Not one set, but two? Were Malik’s men here?

A shout confirmed his worst fears: “Where the fuck are you, arsehole?”

A man.

Panic seized Simon. He backed away from the door, searching for…what? A weapon? A hiding place?

“I’ll go and sort them.” Floyd stepped out into the foyer, closing the door to behind him.

More footsteps.

“Hello?” Floyd called. “Who’s there? This is private property.”

“Fuck private property,” the other man said. “Get the fuck out of my face.”

Simon waited, his breath held. The door exploded inwards. The wood shrieked, hinges tore free, and the panel smacked into the wall. Two figures poured in, dark against the chandelier light of the foyer, their faces obscured by balaclavas.

“Simon Fleece,” a gravelly voice rasped. “We need to talk.”

They know my name.

Simon didn’t reply. His gaze fixed on the lead figure, a big man who held a gun. His mind screamed Run! but his body refused to listen, rooted by terror.

“Don’t make this difficult,” the gunman said, his eyes sharp.

“Get out! I’ll call the police!”

The man laughed. “Oh, I don’t think you will.”

A burst of adrenaline surged through Simon. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. Not in his own home. He swung a fist, aimed at the nearest intruder. The man sidestepped the blow, a smirk on his lips. He lunged, and a gloved fist connected with Simon’s jaw. Pain exploded in his head, a blinding-white flash. He staggered backwards, tasting blood. Then the other man was on him. He grabbed Simon’s shirt, bunching the expensive fabric in his meaty fist, and slammed him into the wall, knocking the wind from his lungs.

“Looking a little pale, Fleecey-boy,” Mr Gunman said.

Simon gasped for air, his vision swimming. The second man held him pinned.

Simon struggled, kicking out.

“We heard you’ve been doing some extracurricular activities,” Mr Gunman continued. “Things you shouldn’t be doing.”

Simon’s mind latched on to a desperate thought. The secret bookcases.

As the second man shifted his weight, momentarily loosening his grip to deliver another blow, Simon took his chance. He shoved hard. The man grunted, caught off balance for a split-second. It was all Simon needed. He ducked under his arm, scrambling away.

“He won’t get far,” Mr Gunman said. “Twat.”

Simon didn’t look back. He made a beeline for the bookcase that led to the cellar. A faint click, and he pushed it across. He stepped onto the landing and dragged the bookcase back to hide him. Darkness. He stood there, panting, his hand pressed on the rough, cold wood of the bookcase back, his breathing fractured.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Heavy blows on the case. Then, a different sound. A soft, sliding scrape. The bookcase moved, and a sliver of light appeared, widening into a beam. A silhouette filled the gap: Mr Gunman. He stepped through, closing the doorway silently behind him.

A torch beam cut through the gloom.

“Looks like I caught up with you, Simon,” Mr Gunman said.

Simon backed away until his shoulders met the cold stone wall. “Who…who are you?”

Mr Gunman’s eyes, illuminated by the torchlight, narrowed. “My name isn’t important at the moment.” He took a step closer. “We know about the donors.”

A fresh wave of ice-cold fear washed over Simon, but then he almost laughed. This was a trick, wasn’t it, a fucking setup to see if he’d blab. Malik had sent these two bastards to infiltrate his home, probably torture him to get information. Push him until he cracked.

Well, it wasn’t going to work.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is a mistake. I’m a surgeon, a legitimate one. I studied medicine for years to get where I am.”

Mr Gunman’s teeth flashed in the light. “Oh, you’re legitimate, all right. Legitimate scum. I’m talking about the organs. Kidneys, livers, lungs, harvested from people who had no say in the matter. People snatched from streets all over the world and brought here to be operated on. You killed three of them, women. Two of their bodies have been discovered, but the one in the water, she’s still there.”

“Lies!” Simon’s voice cracked. He shook his head. “This is insane. I’ve never been involved in anything like that.”

The big bastard scoffed. “You really are good at this, aren’t you? The indignant act. But we know about Malik. The kidnappers. The legal corporations he hides behind. We know about the operations. We know the name of every single employee and every single patient.”

Oh God, had Malik lied when he’d said he’d hidden the information on the dark web and no one would find it? Had someone come here because they’d discovered the data package and Simon’s name and address had been on it? Were these two thugs just chancers and nothing to do with Malik at all? Or had Malik lied and he had copies?

Mr Gunman laughed. “You’re shitting yourself, aren’t you. All that bravado, all those lies. Your life is nothing but a paper-thin facade.”

Simon’s mind raced, a desperate scramble for an escape, for a way to turn the tables. He couldn’t confess. He wouldn’t.

“I told you, you have the wrong man!” He lunged, a sudden, desperate move, aiming for the man’s throat, wanting to silence him, to choke the accusing words back down.

Mr Gunman batted away Simon’s flailing arms and grabbed a wrist, twisting it sharply. A jolt of pain shot up Simon’s arm, and he screeched, stumbling. They fell to the floor together in the cramped space, a tangle of limbs and grunts. The torch clattered away, switching off, plunging the landing into near darkness, only a faint slice of light filtering in from under the bookcase. Simon tried to pin the larger man, aiming for a chokehold, anything to gain an advantage. He clawed at the balaclava.

Mr Gunman bucked, and it sent Simon flying into the back of the bookcase, the impact jarring his teeth. Before he could register the pain, a heavy hand gripped his ankle, then he was yanked. A strong arm wrapped around his neck, pulling him into a headlock. Simon thrashed, kicking his legs, clawing at the arm that was cutting off his air supply. He felt himself being lifted, then slammed, hard, into the wall at the top of the stairs, his chest taking the brunt of the impact.

His vision blurred, pinpricks of light dancing before his eyes. He tried to shrug this pig off, but a heavy weight settled on his back, pinning him. Simon struggled, but it was pointless.

“Turn the light on,” Mr Gunman said.

Simon groped for the switch on the wall. The brightness of the light hurt his eyes.

“I expect you’ve got keys for the cages in the bedrooms and that big cage wall in the living room.” Mr Gunman patted Simon’s trouser pocket. “There we are, look. Now, I’m going to put you downstairs out of the way, because I left my brother trying to find another visitor you might not be aware you’ve got.”

“Another visitor?”

“Yeah. Does Malik always go around in a forensic suit, or is today a special day?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Light reflected off the crystal droplets of the chandelier in the foyer. George stood near the foot of the staircase, his gaze sweeping the empty space. Beside him, Greg leaned on the newel post.

“Did you get anything out of him?” Greg asked.

George shook his head, the tension in his jaw creating a tic. “Fuck all. Did you find Floyd or Forensic Fucker?”

“Not yet.”

A faint click sliced through the quiet. George snapped his head towards the front door. Greg straightened. The sound came again, louder, the metallic sigh of a lock disengaging. The door swung inwards slowly, and a man appeared, tall and wide, in a white forensic suit, a cold detachment in his stare as he gazed around. He held a gun, its muzzle dark against the white material, and he stopped his sights on George.

“Malik,” George said, his hand already dipping under his jacket, finding his own gun. His phone buzzed in his pocket—probably Moody letting him know Malik had gained entry.

The man in white stepped fully into the foyer, kicking the door shut behind him. “Where’s Simon?”

Greg had his gun out now, held steady, pointing towards Malik.

Malik took another step, the only sound the soft swish of his SOCO suit. “Tell me where Simon is, and this will be quick.”

“Quick?” George laughed, but a prickle of unease ran down his spine. What would be quick? What had this man planned?

Before George could press him for answers, a second man detached himself from the gloom of the open doorway leading to the study—how the fuck had he got in? Then a third, emerging from the living room where the shadows were deepest. Their black tactical gear screamed professionalism, their faces hidden by balaclavas. Each brandished a heavy-gauge shotgun.

George’s blood ran cold. “Well, looks like the party just got started.”

Man Three raised his shotgun, its click echoing ominously.

Malik didn’t move.

“Drop your weapons.” Study Man wafted his shotgun towards George and Greg.

“Funny,” Greg said, “I was just about to say the same thing to you.”

Study Man fired, the roar of the shotgun deafening. George, already diving for cover, escaped injury as lead tore through the space where he’d stood, embedding itself in the stairs. Greg rolled across the polished floor, his gun spitting fire. The bullet went wide, ricocheting off the doorframe Study Man had just ducked behind.

Malik remained eerily still.

George, from behind the banister rails, aimed low for Man Three who yelped, a flash of pain in his expression, the bullet grazing his leg. He stumbled but didn’t fall. Study Man reappeared. Greg, now on his feet, ran at him. Study Man swung his shotgun like a club. Greg ducked, the heavy stock whistling inches above his head. He lunged, driving his shoulder into the man’s gut, sending him sprawling.

George fired at Man Three, but he retreated behind the safety of the wide balustrade, only his shotgun poking through, firing blindly. Malik headed for the staircase, his gun raised, sweeping the upper levels, as if he expected Simon to appear on the landing.

Greg wrangled the shotgun from his opponent. Study Man lunged for Greg’s throat, his eyes blazing behind the holes of his mask. Man Three fired his shotgun again, sending a spray of lead towards George’s position. George ducked. He needed to make a move, and quick. Greg was in trouble. George burst from cover, firing at the arsehole grappling with Greg. The bullet struck Study Man’s shoulder, and he recoiled with a grunt of pain. He stumbled back, clutching his wound and cursing in a language George didn’t recognise.

“Your turn,” George snarled at Man Three.

The bullet ripped through the man’s thigh. He screamed, dropping his shotgun and clutching his leg. Greg took a knife from his boot, slashing Man Three’s cheek to further keep him distracted with extra pain. George seized one of the shotguns and took some ammunition from a bleeding Study Man’s pocket. He reloaded, turned, the shotgun raised.

“Enough!” he shouted.

He aimed the shotgun at the chandelier. Greg, understanding, dove for cover. The two masked men stared up, while Malik watched from the landing.

George squeezed the trigger.

The blast was deafening. Crystal shards exploded outwards, raining down as deadly diamonds. The chandelier plummeted. The glittering mass of metal frame and crystal landed on Study Man, his scream loud as he lay beneath the weight of the frame. Malik lifted his gun. George, his ears ringing, didn’t give him time to react. He swung the shotgun towards him.

“This is where you stop, Malik,” George said. “That is who you are, isn’t it?”

Malik lowered his gun. “This is not over.”

George shot him in the leg. Malik screamed, lost his balance, and tumbled down the stairs. Greg put the other two men out of their misery, bullets in their foreheads.

“You all right?” George asked his twin and dropped the shotgun.

Greg nodded and gestured to Malik, bleeding on the floor, groaning. The foyer was a mess. Splintered wood, walls peppered with holes, and the remains of the chandelier.

Greg yanked Malik’s arms behind his back and cable tied his wrists. “Floyd. Where would he be?”

Malik glared up at him. “How would I fucking know?”

“I wasn’t talking to you, cunt-face.” Greg kneed the man in the teeth, splitting both of his lips.

Malik flopped backwards, sprawled on the floor.

George walked towards the two bookcases on the other side. He pushed one, felt it give, then there was a click. He drew it across.

“Floyd?” he called into the hospital ward.

No answer.

He stepped inside, Greg right behind him.

“Floyd, it’s safe, you can come out now,” George said.

Floyd popped up from behind one of the beds, on his knees, as if he’d been hiding beneath it.

“Malik’s here, did you know?” George asked.

“No.”

“He’s alive, but his mates aren’t. Simon’s in the cellar. Also alive. For now.”

Floyd stood, wiping a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, he’s going to be gutted when he finds out what I’ve done.”

“Part of your penance is him knowing it was you, so shut up moaning.” George jerked his head. “Go and keep the little twat company while we deal with the others.”

Floyd left the room carrying a holdall, and Greg watched him go to make sure he didn’t collect a weapon on his way. George shook his head at the turn of events and took his phone out, arranging for their crews to come and clean this shit up and collect the two vehicles on the road.

Chapter Thirty

The world swam into focus, turned fuzzy, then sent Simon into darkness again. He struggled to concentrate. Opening his eyes, he stared at whiteness. A light? A wall in his house? A low hum entered the equation, then the sense of being watched swept over him. In slow motion, the shape of a man sitting opposite blotted the whiteness. A large monitor seemed to appear on the wall by itself, magicked there. Or was he drugged? Coming out of some kind of fugue?

The seated man came into sharper focus.

Malik.

Fuck.

The screen flickered to life, showing a very familiar operating room.

The image sharpened—or Simon’s eyesight did—and a sickening jolt shot through him. There, on a metal table, a body, the torso opened up. Blood. Innards. His stomach churned because there he was, the one doing the operation. He knew what had happened now. At some point after the patients had been taken from his house, he’d been taken, too. Drugged and brought here.

“Insurance,” Malik said, gesturing to the screen. “I had a sneaky suspicion you were thinking of opening your mouth about everything we’ve been through together, so while you were out one day a good while back, someone went in and installed cameras. Now I have videos of every illegal operation from the second batch, and if I have to send them to certain authorities alleging that you’re the one who cooked all this up, then I will. Do you understand?”

Simon nodded. Of course he bloody understood. A hot, bitter wave of vomit surged up, forcing him to bend over the chair and retch. Watery sick splashed onto the floor. He’d known he’d be playing with fire if he ever grassed Malik up, but he thought that was something only he knew, he hadn’t expected Malik to be so perceptive as to basically read his mind.

I must have given something away with how I behaved.

He tried to stand, to pace so he could think, but his legs shook from whatever drug had been administered. It was unsettling; he couldn’t even remember them doing it. His last memory was of pouring whiskey after the patients had been collected.

Who had been sent to get to him? Nadir, most likely.

Malik flapped a hand at the screen. “You’re such a gifted surgeon. It would be a shame if I had to lose you. I suggest, while we’re all on a few months of downtime before the third wave of patients arrive, that you take a serious look at what would happen to you if you make any hasty decisions. I’m not even going to bother threatening to harm your parents or your brother because, quite frankly, you don’t give a shit about them, do you? It’s always been about yourself, hasn’t it?”

There was no denying that.

“I understand what you’re saying, but you’ll get no trouble from me,” Simon said. “I’ll be here to receive the next lot of patients, as usual.” It was something he’d decided never to do again, but now he was going to have to. Unless he went to the police. In order to free himself from this mess he’d have to admit his part in it, though, and no jury would let him off lightly. He’d serve prison time for what he’d done.

He'd be just like Floyd.

There was still the body under the oak tree yet to be unearthed and relocated, too.

Maybe he should get Floyd to deal with that, quietly put the house up for sale, and move to Cheltenham where he’d once had a lovely weekend break. Change his name. Live off the money he’d already made. Become a recluse. Wasn’t that better than dying? Of course it bloody was. He could go to the street market every Saturday, finding little gems. He could pretend to be someone else until he believed he really was that person.

He had to get out, he had to.

“Where are these videos kept?” Simon asked. “I obviously wouldn’t want them getting into the wrong hands.”

“They’re stored safely, but if you prove you’re going to behave yourself, I’ll upload them to the dark web, hide them somewhere no one will find them.” Malik smiled. “Along with all the names and addresses of every illegal patient you’ve operated on. All the details of their kidnaps, making it look like you orchestrated the lot.”

Simon had no doubt Malik would go through with it.

“I’m in this for the long haul,” Simon said.

Malik tilted his head. “Then there’s nothing for you to worry about, is there?”

* * * *

Claudio had counted twenty-nine days since the metal container had been driven onto the ship—if it even was a ship. He only had his imagination and common sense to provide the answer to how they’d travelled from one country to the other without getting on a plane. Legs cramped, body tacky with sweat, he stood at the sound of the engine’s rumble cutting out completely. Then came more sounds—people shouting directions in Portuguese, footsteps, laughter.

Dare he hope they were home?

* * * *

They’d been blindfolded, taken from the metal container, and driven somewhere. He hadn’t seen the outside of the building, but it was a house where they all showered then sat in dressing gowns while they waited for their clothes to be washed and dried. Clothes that hadn’t been cleaned for months.

The blindfold again. Another vehicle. Then Claudio found himself being guided out, his feet touching firm ground, a voice saying, “Don’t take the blindfold off for the count of one hundred. Remember the rules—no talking or they die.”

He counted. Listened. People nearby, talking, laughing, the thud of footsteps and the sound of life being lived.

He opened his eyes and stared out of an alley at the spot where he’d been snatched. For a moment he didn’t know what to do, stunned, shaken, and so fucking tired. His breath shortened abruptly, like it tended to do now he only had one lung, and he took a few seconds to steady it, get it even.

Then he stepped out of the alley.

He wanted to run home, to get there as quickly as possible, but his lung wouldn’t allow it. So he walked, crying, taking in the sights of the familiar streets, the noises, the smells. Home, something he’d always hoped he’d see again but at times thought he wouldn’t.

His house stood wedged between two others, and she was there, his Alessandra, sitting at the window. If she was home, had she lost her job, or was it the weekend? She looked tired, gaunt, yet when she spotted him, she lit up, except there was a wariness in her expression, as though she thought she must be dreaming. She disappeared from the window, then the front door opened, and she stepped out.

He ran towards her then, scooping her into his arms and swinging her around, crying harder, so happy, determined to forever keep the secret, to tell the police lies, that he’d gone off by himself for a time. But Alessandra would see the scars, ask questions, and they’d all notice how he got out of breath so easily now.

He’d have to tell his wife and his parents, and then they’d need to keep his secret, too.

They’d have to or find themselves dead.

He glanced over his shoulder to the sound of Alessandra sobbing. A man, sweeping the pavement, lifted a hand and waved.

So it had started already. The surveillance.

Claudio nodded once, then led his wife inside, away from prying eyes and danger.

Chapter Thirty-One

Where had the day gone? The black taxi bullied its way down the rutted track, headlights cutting bright tunnels through the afternoon darkness. The clouds currently deposited their promised rain which blurred the edges of the windscreen, obscuring the overgrown trees that loomed tall either side.

George gripped the steering wheel, attention fixed on their forest cottage ahead. Greg, having opted not to do his usual driving, stared out of the passenger window, the glow from the dashboard reflected there. Along with the twat in the boot, who had yet to wake up, two bodies lay in the back on the floor, shifting with every pothole. Floyd sat with them, blindfolded, hands tied behind him, oddly okay with being near dead people.

Or maybe it wasn’t odd, considering he’d killed that young girl.

Simon sat next to his brother, also blindfolded and tied, but he had a rag in his mouth and had been secured to the seat using bungee cords so that when they went inside the cottage to dispose of the others, he wouldn’t be able to get free. The same had been done to Malik who sat on the other side of Floyd.

The track opened into a clearing, the cottage dark.

George shut off the engine. “You get the torch, I’ll open the back.”

Greg retrieved a torch from beneath his seat. Its beam cut into the gloom as he stepped out and ducked his head against the rain. George followed, the cold seeping through his clothes. He moved to the rear of the cab, popping the boot.

“Ah, you’re awake.” He smiled down at Christos. “Get out.”

It appeared the bloke wasn’t with it. Had Greg given him one of those unlucky punches where he’d dislodged something in the cunt’s brain? Or had that wallop on the rock done some serious damage? George shut the boot on him and opened one of the back doors. Stared in at the bodies.

He took some little snippers out of his pocket and cut the cable ties behind Floyd, then whipped the blindfold off and put that and the snippers in his pocket.

“Help me out with these two.” George pointed to the men on the floor. “One at a time. You take the legs.”

Floyd nodded, blinking, probably trying to get his bearings. George had already explained to him that they didn’t want him knowing the route to the cottage.

They hauled the first body out. Study Man’s head lolled, a faint gurgle escaping from his mouth, giving George a bit of a jolt—he’d thought the bastard was still alive for a minute there, but it was probably just trapped air. They carried him towards the cottage door. Greg must have opened it, as it stood ajar, the hallway light on.

The cottage smelled of disuse. They hadn’t been there for a while, and the only reason they were there today was because George wanted to get rid of the two blokes in tactical gear, and Christos, without the effort of chopping them up. The gunfight had taken it out of him. He kicked the door open, heading towards the steel room.

Greg stood inside, waiting by the open trapdoor in the floor. It smelled of musty death, the stench of the decomposed bodies underneath creeping out. George dumped his end of Study Man down and gestured for Floyd to do the same.

Floyd peered into the crawl space beneath the cottage. “Fuck me…”

“That’s where you’ll end up if you ever breathe a word,” Greg said.

They dragged the body to the opening and let it drop over the edge. It landed, a soft thud, encouraging more of the dead-body stink of others to puff out.

They repeated the process with the other man. This one was heavier, larger. Floyd struggled, his breath raspy.

“That’s that,” George said and smiled at Floyd. “How are you about blood?”

“Um, I’ve never really had much to do with it in the sense I think you’re talking.”

“Well, you’re about to find out whether it makes you want to barf because you’re going to kill that fucker in the boot, and we’re going to film it as insurance.”

Floyd flinched.

“You didn’t honestly think we weren’t going to cover our arses with regards to you, did you?”

Floyd shook his head. “I won’t be telling anyone anything whether you film me or not.”

“You don’t have to be dramatic about it, just slit his throat and be done with it. I think something’s up with him anyway, like he’s brain damaged now, so we really ought to put him out of his misery. Come on.”

They went back outside and forced Christos to his feet. He really wasn’t firing on all cylinders. George and Floyd took him inside and dropped him into the hole. George took a balaclava out of his pocket ready for the next stage. He placed it over his face in case Greg caught him on film.

“Get down on your knees and cut the bastard.” Greg handed Floyd a knife, then held up his phone to video him.

Floyd took it, staring down into the face of a man who couldn’t comprehend what on earth was going on. He knelt and slashed the blade across the neck cleanly and, it seemed, without remorse. He wiped the blade on Christos’ jacket and handed it back to Greg.

With the knife soaking in a bucket of bleach water and Floyd with his hands tied behind his back again and a blindfold on, they left the cottage, driving away in the rain.

Simon made muffled conversation, his rag preventing George from understanding him. Simon shut up when he gathered he wasn’t getting a response. The drive to the warehouse was mercifully quiet. The rain eased, giving way to a thin, scudding mist that hovered over the ground. Lights pricked the horizon, life continuing despite the gunfight and the disposal of bodies.

Their warehouse, sitting beside the river, was a welcome sight. George pulled into the forecourt, the tyres crunching on loose stones. He killed the engine.

“Me and you, Floyd, will deal with Malik. Greg will take Simon.”

George removed Floyd’s blindfold and untied his wrists. They entered the warehouse and descended into the cellar, Malik and Simon muttering behind their rags, Simon trying to break free of Greg’s hold. He threw Simon to the floor and in the darkness went over to switch on the halogen light. Then he plonked Malik on a chair, strapping his arms to the back struts and his ankles to the front legs. Malik stared around in horror, while Simon shook. George removed the fabric from both men’s mouths, dropping the rags to the floor.

Simon moaned, looking at Malik perhaps to convey something to him, then he appealed to Greg. “Please… I don’t know anything.”

George smiled at him. “While we were busy getting shot at in your manor, our bloke, who was parked in the forest, had a good old rummage in Malik’s car. He found a laptop and a memory stick, and once he’d taken it to his cousin, the hacker who discovered all this bullshit in the first place, he realised he had a bit of a gem on his hands. All the information about the organisation—about you. Every single thing the police will need is on that stick and laptop. You say you don’t know anything, but unless Malik here has completely made everything up to frame you, then I’d say you’re talking bollocks.”

“That’s exactly what he’s done,” Simon blurted. “I’m not the facilitator of this mess!”

“But you’re a facilitator of misery,” Greg said. “Even though you didn’t actually kidnap the patients or put them in the metal container, you did allow them into your home and kept them in your cellar. Then you operated on them, took organs that weren’t yours to take. And you killed three women, your brother told us that, so is he a liar as well?”

“They approached me. He did!” Simon pointed at Malik. “I refused, said I didn’t want anything to do with illegal stuff, but they threatened me, so I had no choice.”

“It would have been the money you wanted,” Floyd said.

Simon stared at him, eyes narrowed. “I can’t believe you’ve done this to me. I trusted you when I told you about those women, and you went running to these two.”

“You only trusted me because you needed me to get rid of them,” Floyd said. “But you didn’t trust me enough to tell me about the other crap you had going on.”

“I couldn’t tell anyone. I’d have ended up dead.”

George turned to Malik. “I don’t for one minute believe that Simon orchestrated everything. You’re the head of the snake, not him.” He picked up a knife from the tool table. The blade glinted under the halogen light. He watched it, mesmerised by its gleam.

“No…please…” Malik said.

George pressed the blade lightly against the man’s cheek. “You hurt innocent people. You paid others to remove their organs.”

The interrogation that followed was slow, a chipping away at Malik’s composure, the knife a silent, ever-present warning. After George had threatened him with the same thing the patients had been threatened with—the death of his family, specifically his parents—Malik broke, his denial turning into a confession alarmingly quickly.

“You’ve been helpful,” George said, “so cheers for that.”

Malik looked at him, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “So you’ll let me go? I told you everything. I can leave the country, I promise I won’t—”

George shook his head. “No, you won’t be leaving the country, sunshine.”

He opened the trapdoor to reveal a dark, gaping hole full of noisy water.

Malik stared at it, then the chains. “No! Please, I beg you…”

“Begging doesn’t work here,” George said. “And the water isn’t for you. Watch this.” He gestured for Greg to help him secure Simon to the chains.

“You don’t have to do this!” Simon pleaded, tears streaming down his face, snot pouring from his nose.

They stripped him naked and strung him up. He bucked and fought, so George slapped his cock with a savage flick of his hand and enjoyed watching the poor thing try to crawl inside his body.

“The river washes everything clean,” George said, watching dispassionately. “It’ll be like you were never in it, Simon.”

“Please, I can’t swim.”

“You don’t need to. I’ll be slicing you into little pieces.”

Simon shrieked, a high-pitched sound that echoed. “Please, don’t do this…”

George met his gaze. “Your debt has to be paid.”

He picked up the electric saw and got to work.

Simon’s screams were cut short when the blade severed his neck. Blood pumped and shot out, Floyd darting backwards to hide in the shadows, maybe to shed a tear for the brother he must love to some degree. One by one, parts of Simon dropped into the black water, splashes joining the rumble and whine of the saw.

Sweating, George stared at what was left—the arms. He and Greg took them from the manacles, and George chopped them up, kicking the bits into the river.

Then silence apart from Malik snivelling and Floyd’s heavy breathing.

“Well, that was quite enjoyable, wasn’t it?” George asked them.

No answer.

He peered down. The current swirled. Simon’s slices would be carried out into the estuary, then the sea, and he’d be just another ghost in the water.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The air was cold against Malik’s skin, the scent of mildew in his nostrils. He sat with his hands bound, the plastic chafing his wrists. Two men, who he’d now gathered were George and Greg Wilkes, loomed over him while Simon’s traitor brother stood over there in the dark corner.

George held a phone, the screen alight. “You’ve had quite the career, haven’t you? People will put your name in Google and think you’re a right old entrepreneur. Then again, any Google searches after today will yield very different results than now. You’ll be known as someone else entirely.”

Malik swallowed. “I provide a vital service.”

George snorted. “Vital? You call carving people up and stealing their organs ‘vital’?”

“I’m talking about those in need of the organs. They are alive because of me!”

“They’re alive because they have obscene amounts of money to be able to buy their lives back from a shit-fuck like you.”

A bead of sweat trickled down Malik’s temple, despite the cellar’s chill. He wanted to wipe it away, but his bound hands were useless. “I had no choice. I had to do what was needed so I was never hungry again, I told you that earlier.”

George took a step, closing the distance between them. “Bullshit. You had a choice. You could have built up your legit businesses, got the money that way. But you chose to cut up people like cattle.”

“I didn’t cut them up.”

“You’re being pedantic. You know exactly what I meant.”

“He’s not going to admit he’s just a greedy prick,” Greg said.

George didn’t reply. He lunged.

Malik gasped, jerking back. George’s fist, a meaty club, connected with Malik’s jaw. Pain exploded in his head, and he tasted blood. He wobbled, the chair almost tipping over.

“You’re a piece of shit!” George shouted.

Another punch, this one to the gut, winded Malik. He doubled over, his stomach hurting. He choked on pain, trying to suck in a breath. His vision blurred, and he blinked to try to clear it.

George grabbed him by the front of his shirt, his face inches from Malik’s. “Scum, that’s what you are.”

He let Malik go and launched his fist again, an uppercut to the chin. Malik’s head snapped back, his body went limp, and the world dissolved into black. He fell sideways, the chair going down, down, and the cold floor slammed against his cheek. The last sensations he felt were a dull ache spreading through his skull and hot liquid dripping from his nose. Blood.

Then oblivion.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The silence of the industrial estate was a thing of desolate beauty, the perfect place to drop a body without being seen. The silence had swallowed the hum of the distant motorway, the city’s ever-present whisper, and any footsteps of person’s unknown would stand out a mile here, giving George ample time to react accordingly. The place hadn’t been in use for a couple of years now, a waste of space and buildings as far as he was concerned. Gutted warehouses stood like sleeping titans, their metal skins rusting, their wooden bones rotting. The whine of the wind threaded through broken windows and beneath weatherbeaten doors, rippling the black-as-ink puddles.

George shivered, the breeze attacking his forensic suit. Floyd, still in the back of the cab and secured with bungee cords, the blindfold hanging around his neck, watched them out of the slowly fogging window.

Greg opened the cab door, revealing their cargo. Malik lay across the floor in the back, motionless. Forever sleeping. George had had fun with him after he’d passed out.

“Let’s get this done,” George said.

Greg took the head end, George the feet. They hauled him out over cracked concrete with its stubborn weeds and dancing-in-the-wind litter. George’s boots crunched on something indistinguishable. They carried him towards a crumbling brick wall that marked the boundary between storage units. The spot was perfect. Out of immediate sight from the main access road, yet exposed enough for the inevitable discovery. They put him by the base of the wall. George took the memory stick out of his pocket, pried open Malik’s fingers, and placed the device in his palm.

“With this little beauty,” George murmured, “and the laptop, Colin is going to pin everything on him.”

He ran back to the cab to collect the laptop, then slid it beneath the body. He imagined the headlines, the public uproar when this hit the news. He took one last look at Malik, lying there, naked and alone, then they got back in the taxi. The engine turned over, and George drove, focusing on the narrow, potholed track that led out of the industrial estate.

He replayed the scene. Malik. The memory stick. The narrative.

Sorted.

He turned onto another road. Glanced at Greg who had his phone out.

“Interesting,” Greg said.

“What is?”

“Some bloke’s just been announced as buying that industrial estate. He’s demolishing it to make way for luxury apartments.”

“Means the body will be found sooner,” George said. “We’ll warn Colin.”

He wondered who’d find Malik. A dog walker most likely.

He peered back at Floyd. “All right?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Did you discover how blood makes you feel?”

“Fucking awful.”

George laughed and pulled up outside Floyd’s block of flats. “Get out.”

Floyd grabbed the holdall he’d filched from the manor.

“What’s in there?” George asked.

“Money.”

“Make sure your parents get some.” George drove away. “Reckon he’ll keep quiet?”

“He’d be stupid not to. Remind me why we let him live?”

George smiled. “No reason, but he’s free for now. I might go back for him if I get bored.”

Greg tutted. “Fuck’s sake.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

One moment, Floyd was hunched in the back of a black cab, the next, he was sprawled on the pavement. As soon as George and Greg had gone, he’d found himself on his knees, then his back, staring up at some bloke who’d tripped him over on the way to the communal stairway in his block of flats. The holdall lay by his side, the strap cutting into the soft skin of his neck where he’d looped it across his body.

“Get up, ye clumsy eejit,” the man said in an Irish accent. “Come down the side here for a little chat. The Brothers want me tae pass on a few things tae ye. Sounds like ye’ve all been busy, a lot of their men are tied up wid jobs, so I’ve come out of retirement, as it were, tae help them out. Thank God it’ll only take a few minutes; it’s cold as feck out here.”

Floyd scrambled to his feet and followed him into the darkness down the side of the block. He didn’t dare look at him, focusing instead on the lights of lit-up homes in the distance.

“Right,” the man said. “Listen carefully, because I won’t be repeatin’ myself. As far as ye’re concerned, ye brother has vanished. Poof.” He snapped his fingers. “When ye mammy and daddy phone it in, which they will eventually, as all good parents do, ye’ll make out ye have no idea where he is. Ye play the worried brother. The devastated son. Ye’ll do it well, Floyd, or I’ll be back. And next time, I won’t be so polite, understand?”

Floyd nodded. He understood all right.

“Nice meetin’ ye.” The man walked out of the darkness and into the sodium glow of the street. He disappeared between two trees.

Floyd stood there for a long moment, relief powering through him that he was finally alone and away from mad men with a penchant for violence. He entered the building, then took the stairs to his flat, letting himself in. He dumped the holdall on the floor and collapsed on his sofa, staring at the ceiling.

Simon. Dead. He should feel something more, shouldn’t he? Grief. Guilt. But there was only acceptance. He and Simon had never been close, their relationship a festering wound of resentment, a scab never hardening, the hurt always there.

He closed his eyes. The manor house popped into his mind. It represented security, status. The twins were getting it cleaned up. Floyd could go and live there, make out Simon had told him to look after it for him. There could be enough money in that holdall so he could afford the bills on a place that big. Or he could still do the odd illegal job.

The holdall. Simon had mentioned it when they’d last been at the café: “A proper nest egg. It’s in my study, behind the loose panel in the wall near the fireplace.”

Floyd had dismissed it then, another one of Simon’s grandiose boasts, a lie to make Floyd think he was lacking in life and Simon was winning. But now, the words hammered against his skull.

“Thousands of pounds,” Simon had said. “Tens of thousands. Cash. Untraceable.”

Floyd pulled the holdall towards him. Undid the zip. He reached in, his fingers brushing something. He pulled it out. A wedge of cash. He stared into the holdall; bundles of banknotes, neatly stacked and held together with rubber bands. He checked some of it for forgeries, but it was real. More than real.

It’d see him right for years.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Colin blinked in the middle-of-the-night wind. It tore through the industrial estate, the chill gnawing at his bones. He hunched deeper into his coat, the collar drawn up. The scene had already been cordoned off with tape before he’d got here. He togged up then walked towards the cluster of flashing blue lights and the hushed movements of the SOCO team.

He stood beside a young PC and scanned the surroundings first. No signs of a struggle, no discarded weapon. The victim lay naked beside a crumbling wall. The man was possibly Eastern European, according to the twins. The features were disfigured, as George had warned him they would be. One eye was swollen shut, the skin raised, purple and shiny. His lips were split, a tear down the middle, running from his nostril to his chin, exposing broken teeth. Bruises blotted his face and neck, suggesting violence. Or as this was George, a brutal assault.

The man’s legs were a mangled ruin. Both tibias were snapped, the bone ends poking out through torn skin. In his right hand lay a small object, which Colin had been told to find. Some of the evidence. The why, the how, and the who.

He straightened up, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He had to act naturally. Had to hide the fact that he was already several steps ahead in this investigation.

He glanced around. The photographer was busy documenting the injuries. Colin gestured to Sheila who’d come over after giving her team directions.

“Looks like he’s holding something,” Colin said.

Sheila glanced down. “Noted.”

Time enough for them to find the laptop. As he couldn’t see it, there was no way he could mention it. He turned. Nigel had arrived and stood by his car.

Colin walked over there.

“Murder?” Nigel asked.

“Yep. No way he did that to himself.”

“Professional?”

“Can’t tell. Anyone could have beaten him up like that.”

“What did you glean from the person who found him?”

“A drug dealer—I’m surprised he even came forward. He was on his way to sell some weed when he saw the body. Not much he could tell us. He’s with a PC giving a statement now.”

“What’s the state of the body?”

“Extensive trauma. Broken legs, face is badly beaten, split lips, other bruising. Looks like a prolonged assault.”

Nigel sighed, gazing into the distance. “Any ID?”

“No, but he has a memory stick in his hand.”

A call from Sheila had them both swivelling her way.

“There’s a small laptop beneath the body,” she said.

“Right.” Colin gave a sad smile.

“Someone wants information discovered,” Nigel muttered. “Interesting. Right, get an update on that memory stick and laptop as soon as possible.”

Colin nodded. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The air in Amelia’s café held a thousand whispered secrets. At one a.m., November getting its claws in, Shank sat at his usual table by the door. He was a relic in a world quickly forgetting the rules they’d lived by. The younger men who visited the café nowadays had a different kind of hunger. They didn’t understand the honour of the old ways. They wanted instant gratification, quick money.

Amelia observed her customers: a group of lads, a kid staring into his tea, a pair of enforcers eating sandwiches. She made two coffees then walked over to Shank’s table. Didn’t ask if she could sit. She lowered onto the chair opposite him.

“Hello, you,” she said.

“Amelia.” He nodded.

She took a sip of her coffee, her gaze drifting to the foggy window, then back to him. She jerked her head towards the company they kept, needing to open up a conversation. “The gangsters these days, they’re not really gangsters, are they? I’m not including the twins there, by the way, but this lot in here.”

Shank grunted. “It’s an ever-changing business, always has been. We have to make way for the new generations, no matter whether we think ours was the best.”

“Shame. It’s nothing like when we were young. Did you hear the news? How that man ran such a big empire?”

“Malik?”

“Yes, Malik.”

“You know I heard. The whole fucking country heard. I’d like to pat whoever killed him on the back.”

Amelia leaned forward and whispered, “It was The Brothers.”

“And…?” Shank prompted.

“I went with my conscience. Phoned them.”

“Ah.”

“I told them about the dead women. About Simon and Floyd.” She hissed, “But Floyd’s still bloody coming in here. What’s that all about?”

“Did you tell the twins who you were when you rang them?”

“No—you suggested it was best being anonymous.”

“So you can’t exactly go and ask them why Floyd hasn’t been dealt with, can you.”

“I don’t even know if Simon has been.”

“He’s missing; that’s all over the news an’ all. How much more proof do you want?” Shank sighed. Shook his head at her. “You broke Lenny’s code by going to them.”

“I know exactly what I did,” she said. “The right thing for those women. I felt so bad for them. There’s a line you don’t cross, always has been, except Lenny told me to ignore it, reckoned it didn’t apply to us, but it does in certain circumstances.” She looked around, her gaze sweeping over the faces, the shadows beneath the crims’ eyes. “Someone had to remind Simon and Floyd there are rules, even in a dark world like ours.” She sipped more coffee. “Getting involved… It’s made me restless, made me remember what it felt like to be in the game.”

“What are you rambling on about?”

“One last job.”

He snorted. “One last job?”

“Hmm. Do you fancy it?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Depends on what it entails. I’m fucking old, I don’t get involved in shit anymore, I just plan it, send others out to do the dirty work. The last time you went out, you got hurt, remember, and that was decades ago.”

“It’s a different kind of crime, the sort where no one would suspect the old couple. We’ll be doing nothing strenuous. No running round with shooters.”

He sighed. “Tell me what you’ve got in mind.”

She smiled, the fire of youth returning to light her up inside. “Floyd.”

“What about him?”

“He can’t seem to keep his mouth shut when he’s in here. He has a holdall full of cash, and I just so happen to know where it is…”

To be continued in Rapine,

The Cardigan Estate 46