Dead Ahead E-Book

Paul Pilkington

• Herausgeber: Fast Paced Fiction
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Detective Paul Cullen Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 262

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Detective Chief Inspector Paul Cullen of the British Transport Police is back in the third novel of the gripping mystery series.

When a body is discovered on tracks in West London, the hunt for a killer begins.

But who is the victim?
And how does the crime relate to Detective Paul Cullen?

The race to uncover the truth commences.

Meanwhile, Paul Cullen’s recent past is about to catch up with him, with potentially deadly consequences.

The Detective Paul Cullen mysteries are perfect for fans of Peter James, Robert Galbraith and Harlan Coben.

Leseprobe

Dead Ahead

Detective Paul Cullen Mysteries Book 3

Paul Pilkington

Copyright © 2021 by Paul Pilkington

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

For my family and loyal readers

Also by Paul Pilkington

Detective Paul Cullen Mysteries:

Long Gone

Fallen Angel

Dead Ahead

Deep Sleeper (out 2022)

Emma Holden Trilogy:

The One You Love

The One You Fear

The One You Trust

Standalone Novels:

Someone to Save You

I Heard You

For Your Own Protection

Contents

Part I

Prologue

Previously…

Detective Chief Inspector Paul Cullen gripped tight hold of the overhead hand support as the packed tube train jerked to a stop. Caught off balance, he swayed against the back of the woman who was pressed close to him and mouthed an embarrassed sorry as she turned. Even just a nudge couldn’t be pleasant from a six foot three, fourteen stone police officer. Apology accepted, his attention turned back to the young man he’d been watching for the past few minutes on this journey below London towards Euston.

‘Apologies for the slight delay as we’re held at this red signal,’ the driver announced to the weary commuters over the inadequate speaker system. ‘Hopefully we’ll be on our way in the next minute or so.’

The young guy under Cullen’s informal surveillance was standing against one of the glass panels, next to the sliding external doors, side-on to Cullen. From his vantage point across the carriage, the guy wearing a bright yellow construction worker style jacket looked to be really tight in to a young woman, his crotch sometimes brushing against her rear.

There weren’t any signs that they were a couple – no communication between them, no acknowledgement of the other’s presence.

Was the physical contact deliberate?

There was a time when the thought wouldn’t have occurred to him. But not any longer. Such crime was a real problem on the tube network. London was no different to any other city on the planet, where heaving rush-hour transportation systems offered the chance for offenders to take advantage of the sardine-like conditions on trains, trams and buses and ‘have a feel’.

And there were plenty of people, a depressing number, ready to use the conditions on the London Underground for their own pleasure. Almost always men. Young, old, suited City types, t-shirted tourists, teachers.

Operation Archangel had caught all these, and more.

Involving hundreds of uniformed and plain clothes officers from the British Transport Police stationed across the capital’s rail network, Operation Archangel had been remarkably successful at identifying and catching offenders who had previously got away with crimes that had often left women and girls terribly traumatised.

For Cullen, as lead officer for the operation, the sheer number of offenders who had been caught in just a few months was satisfying and depressing in equal measure.

Was this another one?

The Northern Line train jerked again as it rocked forwards, not far now from Euston. This was Cullen’s daily commute. An early-morning, packed overground train from just outside the M25 into Waterloo, then onto the tube. Alighting a couple of stations early, the fifteen-minute walk from Euston to the British Transport Police Headquarters in Camden Town gave him precious time to think – about ongoing cases and, in recent months, about how to rescue his marriage.

But at least there was now a solution in sight.

The train emerged into the bright light of the station as Cullen kept his gaze on the man. People around him began shifting into position for disembarkation as the train’s brakes screeched. The guy bent down and picked up the rucksack that had been wedged between his feet. He was about to disembark.

If he were going to do anything more obvious, it would be now.

Cullen allowed people to slide past on either side of him as he watched on. The adrenalin was really pumping now. He craned his neck to keep eye contact with the two people. The train juddered to a stop and, just before the doors swished open, it happened.

The guy's hand snaked around the girl’s waist and slithered up her right side. The girl, still with her back to him, reacted instantly, shrugging him off in disgust and shrinking back into the carriage, her face full of shock.

The guy darted out through the doors, not looking back.

Cullen had just a few seconds.

He moved quickly towards her as the rest of the passengers exited. ‘That man, did he assault you?’

She was tearful. ‘Yeah, he did.’

‘Don’t worry, he won’t get away with it.’ Cullen looked across at the doors. He didn't have much time. People were already boarding. He shoved a hand into his pocket and placed the card in her palm.

‘Paul Cullen. British Transport Police. Call me.’

And then, against the tide of incoming commuters, he headed for the doors.

A mass of people flowed onto the train, clutching bags, carrying cases or hand in hand with children. For such a large guy, Paul Cullen weaved impressively around the incomers, apologising as he went, his chances of disembarking and giving chase to the offender slipping away. Just as he reached the exit, the warning beep to indicate the doors were about to close sounded. He threw out a powerful hand, jamming the door open. Straining against him, the door resisted. Cullen thrust his right foot to its base, bumped the doors open with a shoulder charge and, as expected, initiated the tube train’s safety mechanism. All the doors slid open.

He slipped out onto the now quieter platform. The eyes of an old couple directly ahead were on him, their anxiety obvious, before they looked away.

‘Oi!’

Cullen looked up as a visibly annoyed underground worker strode towards him, wagging a finger.

‘You can’t do that.’

There was no time to show ID. ‘Paul Cullen. British Transport Police. Operation Archangel.’

‘Oh,’ the man said, standing down and flushing crimson. He would be well aware of the high-profile police operation. ‘Well, sorry, officer.’

‘Sorry to delay the train.’

‘That’s fine… can I…’

But Cullen was already off down the platform, flashing past the still-waiting train. The man he was pursuing had long gone. But there was still a chance of intercepting him, even if he had left the station – especially with his distinctive jacket.

But the opportunity faded with each passing second.

Soon the guy would disappear into London’s maze of people-filled streets.

Fortunately the platform was quiet, and Cullen hit a strong stride around the corner and up the well-worn stairs: quicker and quieter than the escalator. All the time, he scanned for the neon jacket.

Out on the concourse he reached the back markers from the train he had just left. A young family of American tourists talking excitedly about the day ahead, an old man, head down, with a walking stick, an elderly lady with a wheeled shopping trolley, bumping it over the uneven floor.

No sign of the man in the neon jacket.

Still he remained hopeful that he was closing the gap, given that the guy didn’t know he was after him and presumably wouldn’t be hurrying.

But if he were getting on a bus directly outside the station...

He picked up the pace.

This was one reason why he loved his job.

You never knew what was coming.

He scanned through the ticket barriers and out into the main concourse of Euston’s mainline overground station, trying to spot the guy. To the right the electronic boards displayed the 9:35am train to Edinburgh, via his home town of Wigan: the town made famous by George Orwell, with its tiny pier by the canal.

He thought momentarily of Sarah. She would be packing at home, finalising things for her journey up North.

Would she ever come back?

Snapping his attention back to the task at hand, he spotted two uniformed officers over to his left.

Both recognised him as he approached.

‘Sir.’

Cullen didn’t have time for pleasantries. ‘A young black guy in a bright yellow neon jacket. Like a construction worker’s. Have you seen him?’

‘No, sir.’

‘He would have come up the escalator from the tube. Just a minute or so ago.’ He looked around again, but still no sign.

Unless he’d connected with another service underground...

Damn.

Both officers shook their heads.

‘Sorry, we’ve just been helping a member of the public who’d lost their bag. Really sorry, sir.’

Cullen suppressed his frustration. It wasn’t their fault. ‘Can you put a call out, black male, short dark hair, yellow neon jacket, in the vicinity of Euston station or travelling from there on the network. Suspected sexual assault. He might be long gone, but worth a shot.’

‘Of course.’

Cullen moved towards the exit, still not giving up, as he heard one of the officers radio through his instructions.

And there he was, exiting the pastry shop just outside the station, paper bag up towards his mouth.

Cullen jogged towards him, adrenalin pumping, his prey in his sights. He waited until the man was just a few metres away and came at him from the side.

‘Hey!’

The man’s head snapped sideways in surprise.

‘Police. Can I…’

The man shot off at speed, as if the words had been the firing of a starting gun in an Olympic sprint final. Cullen gave chase, nearly slipping on the bag that the man had dropped to the ground. He thought he heard a girl shout from behind as he pursued the man down the path from the station, but he couldn’t really take anything in apart from his goal.

‘Stop!’ he shouted, as the man increased the distance between them.

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Bemused passers-by turned their heads as the two men continued their race.

The man, now quite a few metres ahead of him, approached the always-busy main road that traversed the front of the station, connecting North London’s great mainline stations of Paddington, Euston, St. Pancras and King’s Cross. The crossing was on red, with several people waiting as four lanes of London traffic rushed by.

Maybe he would turn sharp left and continue along Euston Road, try to outrun him and then dart into one of the many side roads.

But Cullen thought not.

He would more than likely take the much riskier but potentially more effective option.

And he did.

The man hardly slowed as he reached the crossing, darting through the first lane of traffic, a black taxi blasting its horn as it was forced to push on the brakes.

Cullen, too, reached the crossing, heart pounding as he stood shoulder to shoulder with the other pedestrians, willing the lights to go green. But they remained steadfastly red.

Another horn blared as the man stepped out in front of a delivery van coming from the opposite direction of the taxi, this time causing the vehicle to come to a complete stop. Several horns blared as the ripple from the sudden braking stopped three more vehicles behind.

Cullen dismissed the idea of traversing the dangerous road himself. He didn’t fancy his chances. And a dead detective would never catch the guy. Surely the lights would turn any second.

But not in time.

Maybe the man’s attention had been taken up by the near-miss with the van, or maybe he was so close to the other side that his concentration had faltered.

He stepped right in front of the oncoming red double-decker bus.

With a shocking thud the man was propelled along the road from the force of the impact, skimming along the tarmac and into the oncoming traffic. An articulated lorry coming from the opposite direction crunched over his body, dragging it under its large wheels as it slammed to a halt with a hiss just in front of them.

Surely the guy had no chance.

Screams rang out from both sides of the road as Cullen hurried up to the vehicle. The man’s body – he was just a boy, really, maybe nineteen or twenty – was crushed and broken, his face twisted in shock.

There was blood everywhere.

Cullen cradled his head, supporting the limp and lifeless neck, looking him in his dead, questioning eyes. Just seconds ago this person had been in flight, full of life, but now the lights were out.

‘Oh my God, oh my God! He’s… oh no, please no, please…’

Cullen turned to see the girl skid to a stop, feet from him. It was the victim from the tube carriage.

Her face was twisted in despair and shock, tears gushing. A woman who had been waiting at the crossing instinctively placed an arm around her back.

‘He’s dead. Oh my God, he’s dead!’

Cullen didn’t understand.

‘My boyfriend!’ the girl screamed at him, her eyes flaring with sudden anger. ‘You’ve murdered my boyfriend!’

Shazney Powell screwed her eyes tight shut as the coffin that contained her beloved Tyrone was carried into the church by his four friends.

She didn’t dare open them, for fear that the sight of the wooden box would send her spinning to the ground.

‘He can’t be dead. He can’t be dead. He can’t be dead.’

She felt her father’s arm around her back, and it did give her comfort. She let her head drop onto his shoulder, and she sobbed uncontrollably into his neck.

‘Don’t worry, Angel,’ her father said. ‘The man who did this to Tyrone. The man who did this to you. He’s going to pay a very heavy price. A very heavy price indeed.’

1

Monday morning

Rodney Marshall had been driving trains for the past forty years. It had been his dream job, ever since his father had taken him to Clapham Junction in the 1960’s to watch the steam engines power past, all heat and movement. It had seemed like their heavy breath was from a living organism, rather than a man-made machine. The sights and smells were seductive and he knew then that he wanted to be a part of it.

With steam fading into history and heritage tours, he’d grown up to take charge of high speed diesel and electric trains, criss-crossing the country at over one hundred miles an hour, from Scotland to Cornwall and the East Coast.

It might not have had the romanticism of steam, but there was nothing he had loved more than being in control of them.

Until one day everything changed.

The day he killed the young boys.

The morning had begun like any other. He’d arrived at his base, then London’s Euston station, in good time for his early morning ride up to Edinburgh.

The early Spring weather had been perfect. All clear skies and promising sunshine as they powered out of the capital, heading purposefully north.

He shouldn’t really have been working that day. It was his wedding anniversary, and his wife Jane had not been happy that he’d picked up an extra shift at the last moment.

But he hadn’t wanted to let the company down. He had old fashioned values, about going the extra mile to help out. He promised to make it up to her.

If only he had put his wife before his work...

The journey had passed by uneventfully until the train had left Newcastle, skimming by the shimmering sea along the Northumbrian coastline.

For a moment he had been lost in the beauty of it all, the serenity of the vista.

Later he hadn’t been able to remember how long the daydream had lasted.

Seconds probably.

That’s what the inquest had concluded beyond reasonable doubt.

That’s what his advisors from the union had pushed for. His representative had made the case well.

Rodney is an extremely experienced and professional driver.

He has a thirty year unblemished record.

Had.

It must have only been seconds, but travelling at one hundred and twenty-five miles an hour, seconds of a drop in concentration made a difference.

At least that’s what the voice in his head kept telling him.

No matter what the police, the inquest, his colleagues, or his family said.

He’d snapped out of his imaginings just at the moment the boys playing on the track realised that there was a high speed train careering downwards them.

He blasted on the horn and initiated the emergency brakes.

But it was a futile effort.

Within seconds the locomotive ploughed through the four children, scattering their bodies like pins at a bowling alley.

The hard, sickening thuds against the nose of the vehicle reverberated around the cab like death knells.

Rodney knew they had no chance.

But once the train had come to a jolting stop, some distance down the line, he disregarded protocols, exiting onto the trackside and running back towards the point of impact.

His chest tightened as he cleared the last of the carriages.

He’d hit and killed animals before, more times than he cared to remember, but never a human being. It had happened to colleagues, mostly suicides.

He’d always feared such a situation.

And here is was - in the most horrifying of guises.

A group of boys.

Children!

It took him what seemed like a lifetime to reach the point where the boys had lost their lives so brutally.

He spotted the first body just off to the side of the rails, bent and twisted.

Another body lay some way down the line, face down.

He knew they were both dead, but still he checked up close, immersing himself in the true horror of the situation.

The other two boys were nowhere to be seen, but the emergency services later found the remains in the adjacent woodland.

The experience broke him, shattering his confidence and sending him into a downward spiral of anxiety and depression.

But with the help of his colleagues, family and professional support he did climb back into the cab.

Gone were the hi-speed, intercity services, and instead he made his living behind the controls of freight trains.

The slower pace suited him now.

He knew his new limitations.

He’d started his shift very early that morning, up before dawn. He had always liked the early mornings, particularly at this time of year, when the sun was up and the birds singing.

It felt good to be beating the rest of the day - the crowds, the traffic, most of the rest of society.

The peace this morning had however been the quiet before the storm.

His job was to pick up and pull a thirty wagon train from Westgate, a freight depot to the west of London, to the south western port city of Bristol, where it would be loaded onto a ship bound for the Republic of Ireland.

He’d moved out of the train depot shortly after three am, easing the train out of the sidings area, towards the main line. It was too early for the hi-speed services, and the only other traffic was freight trains like his, or empty locomotives being moved into position for the start of the daytime services.

He saw the body up ahead, sprawled out across the tracks.

‘Dear God,’ he muttered, squinting into the morning sun as he applied the emergency brakes. His heart jackhammered as his train, travelling at a mercifully slow speed this time, jerked to a dead stop.

Rodney gazed out of the front window at the body, panic and horror rising.

It was happening again.

‘Hello,’ he said, radioing through to the control station. ‘Engine 5421.’

‘Hello 5421,’ the reply came back almost instantly.

Rodney tried to steady his breath. ‘I’m calling to report a body on the line. Just out of Westgate Depot.’

‘Can you provide any further details? Is the individual deceased?’

‘I don’t know,’ Rodney admitted. ‘I’m still in my cab.’ He looked out again at the scene. ‘But there’s no movement. I guess they could...they could be asleep.’

Maybe that’s what it was - someone, maybe drunk or drugged up, had fallen asleep on the line.

But how likely was that?

‘Shall I stay in the cab?’

‘Yes,’ came back the definitive reply. ‘Please stay where you are, we don’t want any more tragedies this morning.’

‘Okay,’ Rodney said, relieved but still feeling uncomfortable with his role of mere observer.

‘I’ll inform emergency services,’ the controller explained. ‘We should have someone with you in a matter of minutes.’

As the call ended, Rodney placed his head in his hands and began to sob.

2

Previous Saturday evening

Cullen arrived at Acorn House, the residential care home on the rural outskirts of Wigan, where his childhood friend Philip resided, just after six o’clock on Saturday evening. His wife Sarah had offered to accompany him and her brother Philip en route to the rugby match, but Cullen had declined.

He wanted this to be like the old times.

Just him and Phil. Pint in hand and a great game to watch.

But as he gazed at his mid-forties self in the rear view mirror, he began to regret his decision.

It would never be like the old times.

Those days were long gone.

Cullen and Philip had met as children on the rugby pitch, and been good friends ever since. They’d grown up and grown older together. Philip had introduced Cullen to Sarah, who went on to become the love of his life. As boys and then men they’d played and watched rugby league with a passion, from the terraces of the imposing, iconic Central Park stadium, Wigan, before it had been so cruelly demolished in the 1990’s and replaced by a supermarket. And while Cullen cut short his playing career for a life in the police force, Philip turned professional, representing Wigan’s rugby league team and Great Britain.

‘I just want to make it up to you, mate,’ Cullen thought out loud. ‘I want to make things right.’

He hadn’t dealt well with Philip’s diagnosis of early onset dementia. Not well at all. In the early stages, he was there for his friend, but as Philip’s condition deteriorated at an alarming rate, Cullen fled in fear.

Fear that his friend’s fate could befall him too, given the emerging evidence of how the great collisions on the rugby field take their toll on the brain.

Fear also that a genetic weakness might affect his wife, Sarah.

Cullen shook off his growing misgivings and exited the vehicle with newly found purpose. This was going to be a successful evening. The start of a new beginning, where he would be here for his friend.

He buzzed through to reception and was met by one of the head nurses that he recognised from his previous visit, just a few days ago.

‘It’s lovely to see you again,’ she smiled.

‘Thank you.’

‘Philip has been really looking forward to you coming,’ she said, as Cullen followed her up the stairs.

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes, you can tell, he’s been excited all afternoon, ever since we told him you were coming.’

‘That’s...great,’ he said, surprised and also a little sceptical that the staff could deduce such a thing from a man who rarely spoke and whose face seemed so devoid of emotion.

They moved through a set of double doors into the corridor. ‘So you’re going to the rugby match?’ she asked over her shoulder.

‘Yes, Wigan against St. Helens.’

‘My husband is going,’ she smiled. ‘Massive Saints fan.’

The Wigan and Saints derby, between two proud towns just miles apart, was always a passionate, if generally good-natured, affair.

‘My commiserations,’ Cullen joked.

She laughed. ‘I’m sure it will be a great game, whoever wins.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Seriously though,’ she said, ‘it’s a lovely thing you’ve done. I’m sure Philip will really benefit from it.’

‘Hopefully.’

Cullen had arranged the trip to the match at the last minute, through a local dementia charity. The event included not only a top price ticket to the game, but also an after-match reception where you could meet players, past and present.

Sarah had been reticent about the idea, given the sporadic bouts of aggression that Philip had been displaying recently. But Cullen had persuaded her that it would be okay.

‘Philip’s waiting in the lounge,’ she explained. ‘He’s all ready to go.’

They emerged into the lounge area, a large room that was designed to look as homely as possible, with its comfy sofas, welcoming fireplace and television. The room was quiet at this relatively late hour, with Philip being only one of three people there. He was sitting in the corner, perched on the edge of the seat, but didn’t look at Paul as he approached with the nurse.

A familiar feeling of trepidation washed over Cullen as he pulled across a chair.

‘Hey, mate, how are you doing?’

Philip looked up and to Cullen’s surprise, smiled.

‘You look well,’ Cullen said, buzzing inside from the unexpectedly positive reaction. ‘Are you ready to go to the game?’

Philip seemed to nod.

Cullen looked up at the nurse. ‘What’s the best way of doing this?’

‘Slowly,’ she replied. ‘It’s the only way.’

The nurse had been right. Even making use of the lift, the journey from the lounge to Cullen’s car took fifteen minutes. Philip’s walking shuffle was glacially slow. Cullen was thankful for the two extra staff members who were on hand for support, given his inexperience at assisting his friend.

‘He should be fine, but you just need to keep an eye on him,’ the lead nurse advised as they crossed the carpark. ‘If there’s uneven ground, or crowds, you need to be mindful that he doesn’t fall.’

‘I will,’ Cullen said, conscious that Philip was still quite a man-mountain, and might prove difficult for even him to support if he got too unsteady.

‘The people at the event will be there to help you too,’ the nurse said. ‘They’re very experienced, and are well trained health professionals. Quite a few of our residents have been to the rugby events over the years.’

‘That’s good to know.’

‘But if anything happens, just call us on our emergency number. We have transport that can come and collect.’

Cullen examined the card that she handed to him. ‘Also good to know.’ He slipped it into his pocket. ‘Hopefully I won’t be needing it.’

‘I’m sure it will all be fine,’ she said.

Carefully, they helped Philip into the front passenger seat and buckled the seat belt.

‘I hope you have a lovely time, Philip,’ she said. ‘I can’t bring myself to wish Wigan good luck,’ she smiled at Cullen, ‘but I hope it’s a great game.’

Cullen said his goodbyes and pulled out onto the main road. As he accelerated through the junction, Philip sitting by his side, he realised (with some guilt) that this was the first time he had been alone with his friend for years.

‘It’s been too long,’ Cullen said to Philip, who was sitting bolt upright, staring ahead. ‘I’m sorry, it’s my fault, totally. I should have been there for you.’

Cullen glanced across, but there was no reaction from Philip.

But that wasn’t to say that he couldn’t understand.

Who really knew?

On Sarah’s suggestion, he would talk to his friend as if he could understand every single word.

‘I’m going to make it up to you,’ Cullen continued. ‘Starting from tonight.’

Cullen turned his attention back to the road as they approached a roundabout. He was so focussed on negotiating the right hand exit that he didn’t fully hear the words that Philip uttered.

‘What was that, mate?’ he asked, as they were back in the normal traffic flow.

But Philip wasn’t going to say any more for now.

3

Saturday evening

The traffic slowed as they neared the stadium, but they were relatively early, and made good time to the carpark, where they had priority parking right by the stadium entrance.

‘You recognise this place?’ Cullen said, as he cut the engine and gazed out at the ground. ‘Not bad. But it will never be like Central Park, eh?’

He thought Philip gave a small shake of the head, but it might have been his imagination.

Without the support of the Acorn House staff, the journey from car to the special visitors’ entrance was nerve-wracking. Cullen linked arms with Philip, and moved slowly and deliberately across the thankfully-smooth tarmac. Once inside, they were directed to an upper lounge via a lift, and welcomed by one the dementia charity team members.

And when it was time for the game, they - along with the other attendees - were helped to their plush seats in the main stand.

The atmosphere was electric. A capacity crowd, in full voice, welcomed the teams of Wigan and St. Helens onto the pitch. Cullen wondered if the event might prove too much for Philip, surely now so used to the quiet, cosseted environment of his care home. But his smiling friend, although still voiceless, was quite obviously enjoying it as the game kicked off with a series of thunderous, bone-crunching hits.

At half time, Wigan were 12-20 down to an impressive St. Helens side. And by the full time whistle, Saints had extended their lead to twenty points. The 16-36 scoreline was a disappointment, but Cullen couldn’t complain about the entertainment value and effort on display.

Following the match, they returned to the lounge where they met past and present Wigan players, fresh from the on-field battle.

‘Hey, you’re Philip Sullivan, aren’t you?’ Stuart Warburton, one of the current Wigan players said with a smile. A talented prop forward, he hadn’t featured in the game due to injury. ‘I remember watching you from the stands as a young lad,’ he enthused, as a delighted Paul Cullen watched on. ‘That try in the World Club Challenge, against Sydney, man, that is still the most awesome thing I’ve ever seen on a rugby field.’

He took both of Philip’s hands and clasped them together. ‘It’s great to meet one of my heroes.’

Philip smiled.

Stuart Warburton said his goodbyes as they moved around the other players. A couple of the past players also recognised Philip, and it warmed Cullen’s heart.

He sent some texts to Sarah letting her know how well it was going.