Deep Cover E-Book

Leigh Russell

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 455

Beschreibung

The woman's dark hair was spread out concealing her face, but her body was on display, her skin horribly white against the mud smeared over her in uneven patches like a ghastly spa treatment. In the midst of a murder investigation surrounding the suspicious death of a sex worker in York, Detective Inspector Geraldine Steel finds herself facing a dual challenge. Not only does she need to untangle the dark secrets behind the victim's demise, but she's also plagued by worry for her partner and colleague, Ian Peterson, who has mysteriously vanished. As Steel grows closer to her new DS, Matthew, little does she know that Ian is deep undercover in the dangerous underworld of London. His mission? To expose a criminal gang who have set their sights on targeting her. With every passing moment, the tension escalates. When a second victim emerges in York, the urgency of the investigation heightens. Meanwhile, Ian's life hangs in the balance as a sadistic psychopath threatens his very existence. Failure could spell doom not only for Ian but also for Geraldine herself. As the stakes reach a boiling point, Geraldine must navigate treacherous paths and face her own fears to unravel the truth. Will she and Ian emerge unscathed from the shadows, or will their lives be irrevocably shattered?

Leseprobe

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR LEIGH RUSSELL

‘A million readers can’t be wrong! Clear some time in your day, sit back and enjoy a bloody good read’– Howard Linskey

‘Taut and compelling’– Peter James

‘Leigh Russell is one to watch’ – Lee Child

‘Leigh Russell has become one of the most impressively dependable purveyors of the English police procedural’ – Marcel Berlins, Times

‘A brilliant talent in the thriller field’ – Jeffery Deaver

‘Brilliant and chilling, Leigh Russell delivers a cracker of a read!’ – Martina Cole

'Exceptional crime writing’ – M.W. Craven

'Leigh Russell tells a tangled tale in which guilt catches up with the innocent. It kept me guessing until the end’ – Lesley Thomson

'Deep Cover is edge of the seat stuff. A highly entertaining thriller I could not put down’ – Marion Todd

‘A great plot that keeps you guessing right until the very end, some subtle subplots, brilliant characters both old and new and as ever a completely gripping read’ – Life of Crime

‘A fascinating gripping read. The many twists kept me on my toes and second guessing myself’ – Over The Rainbow Bookblog

‘Well paced with marvellously well rounded characters and a clever plot that make this another thriller of a read from Leigh Russell’ – Orlando Books

‘A well-written, fast-paced and very enjoyable thriller’ – The Book Lovers Boudoir

‘An edge of your seat thriller, that will keep you guessing’ – Honest Mam Reader

‘Well paced, has red herrings and twists galore, keeps your attention and sucks you right into its pages’– Books by Bindu

‘5 stars!! Another super addition to one of my favourite series which remains as engrossing and fresh as ever!’ – The Word is Out

‘A nerve-twisting tour de force that will leave readers on the edge of their seats, Leigh Russell’s latest Detective Geraldine Steel thriller is a terrifying page-turner by this superb crime writer’ – Bookish Jottings

‘An absolute delight’ – The Literary Shed

‘I simply couldn’t put it down’ – Shell Baker, Chelle’s Book Reviews

‘If you love a good action-packed crime novel, full of complex characters and unexpected twists, this is one for you’ – Rachel Emms, Chillers, Killers and Thrillers

‘All the things a mystery should be: intriguing, enthralling, tense and utterly absorbing’ – Best Crime Books

‘A series that can rival other major crime writers out there…’ – Best Books to Read

‘Sharp, intelligent and well plotted’ – Crime Fiction Lover

‘Another corker of a book from Leigh Russell… Russell’s talent for writing top-quality crime fiction just keeps on growing…’ – Euro Crime

‘A definite must read for crime thriller fans everywhere’ – Newbooks Magazine

‘Russell’s strength as a writer is her ability to portray believable characters’ – Crime Squad

‘A well-written, well-plotted crime novel with fantastic pace and lots of intrigue’ – Bookersatz

‘An encounter that will take readers into the darkest recesses of the human psyche’ – Crime Time

‘Well written and chock full of surprises, this hard-hitting, edge-of-the-seat instalment is yet another treat… Geraldine Steel looks set to become a household name. Highly recommended’ – Euro Crime

‘Good, old-fashioned, heart-hammering police thriller… a no-frills delivery of pure excitement’ – SAGA Magazine

‘A gritty and totally addictive novel’ – New York Journal of Books

To Michael, Jo, Phillipa, Phil, Rian, and Kezia

With my love

Glossary of acronyms

DCI – Detective Chief Inspector (senior officer on case)

DI – Detective Inspector

DS – Detective Sergeant

SOCO – scene of crime officer (collects forensic evidence at scene)

PM – Post Mortem or Autopsy (examination of dead body to establish cause of death)

CCTV – Closed Circuit Television (security cameras)

VIIDO – Visual Images, Identifications and Detections Office

MIT – Murder Investigation Team

Prologue

He spotted her straight away, leaning against the wall of a disused brewery. Once the apartment block under construction across the road was occupied, the residents would be able to see her, and she would have to find somewhere else to wait around for men who were looking for what she called a ‘good time’. As it turned out, time spent in her company wasn’t particularly good. Nevertheless, Thomas kept coming back. Even though he knew he should resist the urge to see her, he found himself taking the guilty detour whenever his wife was away from home. Sometimes he drove there almost without thinking.

The first time, Thomas had come across her by accident when he was looking for a pub one of his colleagues had mentioned. The woman seemed enticing because an encounter with her was forbidden and quite possibly dangerous. A violent pimp might be lurking nearby, waiting to mug him, or worse. He glanced around but there was no one else in sight. Although he loved his wife, some long-suppressed instinct in him stirred when he saw the stranger, provocative under the flickering light of a street lamp.

‘Looking for a good time?’ she called out.

Close up she wasn’t very attractive, but he was captivated by the promise of illicit sex. It would be just the once. No one else was ever going to know.

But it wasn’t just the once. He started making excuses for taking the detour even when his wife was at home waiting for him. There was something addictive about his guilt. He savoured it in secret moments. He assured himself it was harmless. No one else was ever going to find out, least of all his wife whom he loved. In any case, he told himself, the building work would soon be complete. Residents would go in and out of the new block of flats opposite, and he would no longer find the woman loitering on the street outside the disused brewery. She would have to wait for men in another street, and he would make no attempt to find her again. Although he couldn’t resist coming back, he was impatient to be done with her. The guilt was exhausting.

The building work over the road was nearly finished and he knew his visits could not continue for much longer. His wife was away for the weekend and his son had gone back to university in London. His house would be empty. Knowing this was possibly the last time he would see the sex worker, he grew bold with a heady combination of relief and regret.

‘Come back to my house,’ he said.

She glared suspiciously at him, but softened when he offered to pay her double her usual fee.

‘For your time,’ he added, in case she was afraid he was going to want her to do something out of the ordinary.

As they drove off, he wondered what he could possibly dream up that would seem extraordinary to her. They reached the house and he hurried her indoors. Unless someone looked closely, they would probably think he was with his wife. As soon as they were inside, with the front door closed, she held out her hand for the promised money. Only then did he realise that he had left his wallet in the car. He hesitated, reluctant to leave her alone in his house.

‘I’ll pay you when we’re back in the car,’ he said. ‘I left my wallet out there.’

‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ she replied, her eyes blazing with fury.

‘There’s no need to shout,’ he said, backing away from her sudden anger.

Without warning, she launched herself at him, screeching that she would tear the flesh from his body. A stream of other equally vitriolic threats issued from her painted lips.

‘You arsehole!’ she yelled. ‘You pay me now, you piece of shit! You promised me double and that’s what you’re going to hand over. Now!’

Only a few moments earlier, she had climbed willingly into his car and had let him drive her to his house without demur. Now she was reacting as though he had abducted her against her will.

‘I’ll see you in hell!’ she shrieked.

‘Keep your voice down,’ he snarled, struggling to control his temper. ‘The neighbours might hear you.’

‘I don’t give a fuck about your neighbours! Give me my money!’

As she reached for him, her scarlet fingernails curled like claws, Thomas lashed out in alarm.

‘Get off me, you filthy whore!’

His first punch sent her reeling. She staggered towards him, howling, and he felt the sting as her nails scratched at his head. Terrified, he felled her with another blow. There was a loud crack as her head hit the edge of the wooden coat rack. By the time she slumped to the floor she had lost consciousness. Her arms and legs twitched convulsively, while her fingers scratched at the carpet and the breath rattled hoarsely in her throat. He watched, transfixed, as her eyes glared helplessly at him, and then she lay still.

Thomas had no idea how long he stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at the grotesque figure lying on his hall floor. His immediate reaction was relief that there was no blood to clean up. Then he began to shake uncontrollably. His legs buckled and he sank to his knees, his eyes still fixed on her, willing her to wake up. But somehow he knew she wasn’t breathing. Still trembling, he clambered to his feet and stumbled up the stairs. Wrenching his shaving mirror from its bracket, he went back downstairs and held it in front of her nose and mouth. There was no sound from her and no faint mist on the mirror when he leaned over to examine the surface. He sat back on his heels and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she was still there. Dead.

He had not actually killed her, but no one was likely to give him the benefit of the doubt, least of all the police. A forensic team would come ferreting around, picking up minute traces of evidence, and the outcome of such an investigation was inevitable. However earnestly he insisted she had accidentally tripped and hit her head while falling, the evidence would condemn him, regardless of the truth. He had no choice but to get rid of the body before his wife returned. He stared at the twisted torso, arms and legs splayed out in a macabre display, the painted face leering up at him as though she was about to scream at him to get his filthy hands off her. The sight of her made him feel sick.

His disgust rapidly turned to anger. The stupid bitch had brought this on herself. He hadn’t wanted her to die, and certainly not in his house. He had just been looking for a bit of fun while his wife was away visiting her mother. Admittedly he had been a fool to bring a tart into his house. His wife could have come home early and surprised him, but somehow the threat of discovery had lent an edge of excitement to an otherwise squalid encounter. He had not expected the tart to turn on him like a cornered animal. Whether drugs or insanity had prompted her attack was immaterial. All that mattered now was getting rid of her.

Stepping over the corpse, he staggered to the bathroom and retched until his guts hurt and his throat felt as though he had rubbed it with sandpaper. The side of his head stung where she had scratched him. Fortunately she had only scraped the skin beneath his hair. Not only had he had some protection, but the injury was concealed. Doing his best to quell his nausea, he rummaged around and found an old dust sheet in the garage. With difficulty, he rolled the corpse in the sheet and dragged it into the coat cupboard under the stairs where he covered it up as well as he could. It was nerve-wracking leaving the house, knowing there was a body hidden beneath the stairs, but he had no choice. He had a lot to do, and he had to act quickly.

Using a computer in a hotel, he searched online for a second-hand van. At last he found one in a nearby village, with a telephone number to contact. He bought a cheap phone for cash and, after a sleepless night, called up on the burner phone and confirmed that the van was being sold from a private address in Heslington, not far from where he lived. Unfortunately the owner could not see him until late that afternoon. Thomas really didn’t want to wait that long, but there was nothing he could do. The seller was adamant he couldn’t see Thomas any earlier. After a restless few hours, he took the bus to Heslington, concealing his face as well as he could beneath a hood. He tossed the phone into a bin on his way, and bought a rusty van for cash from a man who barely glanced at him. He still had twenty-four hours to complete his mission before his wife returned on Sunday evening.

His own driveway was sheltered on both sides by high fences, and even from the road the view of what he was doing that night was obscured by the van. Even so, it was far harder than he had anticipated, dragging the dead woman out through the front door under cover of darkness. The sheet was not long enough to cover her completely, and her legs were exposed, but at least he didn’t have to look at her face. She was so floppy, it was like carrying an armful of giant eels, and several times she nearly slipped out of his grasp. It seemed to take hours, but he was confident no one saw him hoisting her into the van, just as no one had spotted her climbing into his car when he had picked her up, or observed their arrival at his house. His shoulders aching from the strain of carrying the body into the rusty old van, he pulled out of the drive. He drove slowly, resisting putting his lights on until he reached the Holgate Road.

It didn’t really matter where he dropped the body, as long as no one saw him, but he had been for a walk once in Acomb Wood and thought that would do as well as anywhere. There was no one around to see him carry the body in his arms as far as a small clearing, where he dropped his burden unceremoniously on the muddy ground. His next task was crucial to the success of his plan; he had to conceal the van. His wife never went in the garage so he decided that would be as good a hiding place as any until he figured out what to do with it. The longer he drove around, the more chance there was that he would leave a trail for the police to find. In the unlikely event that his wife questioned him about it, he would tell her that he was storing the van for a friend. It took him most of the rest of the night to clear enough space in the garage to put the van in there, but he persevered. He didn’t really have any other choice.

Finally in the house, mentally and emotionally drained, he was desperate to go to sleep. But first he cleaned every surface she might have touched, and even wiped the carpet with a damp cloth. She might as well never have been in the house for all the signs he could see of her presence there. Thirty hours since he had spotted her loitering by the kerb, she had gone – all trace of her visit wiped out, along with her life. She was no great loss. The trauma of the past day was over and he had come through it without any lasting consequences. He doubted the police would devote much energy to looking for the killer of a sex worker. After that, he would be patient. One day, when he was confident they had abandoned their search, he would dispose of the van. He had taken care not to touch any of its surfaces with his bare hands, and had kept the windows open while he was driving to minimise any trace of his DNA inside it. Exhausted, he staggered upstairs and took a shower before falling into bed, his horrendous experience finally over.

1

They came across her lying face down in the slushy mud on their first walk of the year.

‘Do you think she’s all right?’ Yvonne asked, staring at the back of the woman’s head and avoiding looking at her exposed flesh.

The woman’s dark hair was spread out concealing her face, but her body was on display, her skin horribly white against the mud smeared over her in uneven patches like a ghastly spa treatment. They stood gazing down in consternation and for a moment no one spoke. Despite her covering of dirt, it was apparent the dead woman had been scantily clad. One high-heeled silver sandal had fallen off and lay a short distance away from her, glistening in the mud. A second one was on her foot, a glittering fragment of attempted glamour. Yvonne wondered if the woman had liked the sandals. They couldn’t have been very comfortable. Almost against her will, her eyes travelled up the woman’s mud-splattered legs to her black skirt which was so short it exposed white buttocks, dimpled with cellulite.

‘She’s probably wearing a thong,’ one of the women murmured.

‘What kind of a skirt is that?’ Yvonne muttered.

‘She might as well not have bothered,’ someone else agreed.

‘She doesn’t seem to be moving, does she?’ another member of the walking group said.

‘Well, obviously she’s not moving,’ Jonathan replied irritably, crouching down and studying the woman closely. ‘Her head’s covered in mud. I can’t see anything of her face.’

Yvonne shuddered. ‘I’m glad I’m not here on my own,’ she murmured, with a slight catch in her voice. ‘You don’t think she’s dead, do you?’

‘Of course she’s dead,’ Jonathan barked, straightening up. ‘Her face is buried in mud, for goodness sake. There’s no way she can still be breathing.’

‘Oh my God,’ another of their walking group cried out. ‘What are we going to do? Shouldn’t we cover her up or something?’

‘How can we help her?’ another voice chimed in.

‘Shouldn’t we turn her over?’ a third one asked.

‘No,’ William called out loudly, waving his arms at them. ‘Stand back, all of you. And stay on the path. The ground is sodden over there. Don’t go anywhere near her. We mustn’t contaminate the scene.’

‘Do you suspect foul play?’ Yvonne whispered, feeling a sudden burst of excitement, as though she was acting in a television crime drama.

Although Jonathan was officially the leader of the ramblers group, as a retired headmaster William spoke with a voice of authority others tended to obey without question.

‘There’s no point in discussing what we think a woman like this was doing running around the waste ground in such skimpy attire,’ Jonathan said. ‘We can only guess at how or why she died. She might have tripped and fallen headlong.’

‘She was probably drunk,’ someone added.

‘Possibly,’ Jonathan replied. ‘We can all draw our own conclusions about what she was doing here, but what we really need to do is keep back and alert the authorities to our discovery.’

William was already on his phone, summoning the police. There was a long pause while he listened to a voice on the other end of the line. One of the women in the group began to cry loudly. Several others tried to comfort her as William explained where they were as accurately as he could, while Jonathan fed him information.

‘They’ve asked us to wait here and to move around as little as possible,’ William said when he finished talking on the phone.

‘Does that mean they think she was murdered?’ one of the women asked, wide-eyed.

They all stared at the body in uneasy silence. Her exposed buttocks drew their gaze like a magnet. A fly buzzed around the dead woman’s bare legs and Yvonne turned away, unable to watch any longer. They seemed to be waiting for a very long time, but at last they heard voices and two uniformed police officers appeared on the path. One of them shepherded the group away from the body and back to the road, where they huddled together, shivering. Such a chilly winter day was perfect for a brisk walk, but too cold for standing around, and the wind had picked up while they had been waiting. Meanwhile, the other policeman was on his phone. Following another hiatus, a lot of people seemed to materialise at the same time, and the ramblers were herded towards the police vehicles where they were questioned by uniformed constables.

Yvonne was asked for her contact details, and a description of how the body had been discovered. Around her, she could hear the buzz of conversation as other members of the walking group recounted their experience. She caught snatches of their accounts as they described their discovery: ‘horrible’, and ‘shocking’ and ‘unbelievable’. All at once, Yvonne felt herself trembling and she burst into tears.

‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I’m not usually like this. But that poor dead woman… lying in the mud like that…’

‘Yvonne’s a bit fragile. Her husband passed away a few months ago,’ she heard Jonathan say.

But that wasn’t what had upset her. She struggled to explain that death should not be devoid of dignity. When a person died, their body ought to be treated with respect. It was heartbreaking to think of the woman’s remains lying there all alone in the woods, a prey to scavengers and insects.

‘I wish we’d found her sooner,’ Yvonne said. ‘It doesn’t seem fair. God knows how long she’d been lying here, all on her own, and no one even knew.’

‘Someone might have known,’ Jonathon pointed out grimly.

2

Detective Chief Inspector Eileen Duncan called a briefing early that morning. Looking around the room, Geraldine was surprised she couldn’t see Ian Peterson, her fellow detective inspector and, until recently, her boyfriend. Although their recent split had been her decision, Ian remained constantly in her thoughts. She knew she had made a serious mistake in ending their relationship, but had not yet had a chance to discuss the situation with him. Eileen introduced a new addition to the team, Detective Sergeant Matthew Bailey. Geraldine turned to observe a tall, slim, dark-haired officer who was standing next to her. His relaxed smile slightly at odds with his penetrating eyes, his alert gaze lingered on Geraldine for a few seconds. Preoccupied with wondering where Ian was, she returned her new colleague’s stare without returning his smile. As his gaze continued to travel around the room, Geraldine watched him. Clean shaven with pointed nose and chin, he had thin black brows and dark eyes, and bore himself with the confidence of a good-looking man in his early thirties.

Eileen’s next words shocked Geraldine. ‘Matthew is stepping in to help out while Ian is away.’

‘Where’s Ian?’ a young constable called Naomi asked.

‘Another force needed an experienced officer from out of the area to help on a specific case,’ Eileen explained. ‘Ian may be gone for some time.’

‘Where has he gone?’ Naomi asked.

A couple of officers smiled knowingly. Not for the first time, Geraldine wondered whether Ian and Naomi had enjoyed a brief fling, perhaps before Geraldine herself had arrived in York. It was not generally known that Geraldine and Ian had been living together for a few months, although that relationship was now over. They had been very discreet, but she was sure some of their colleagues suspected they had become an item, albeit briefly. Several officers cast sympathetic glances at her and she felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Wishing she had not heard about Ian’s departure in full view of all her colleagues, Geraldine looked ahead steadily and hoped no one would notice her discomfort. Aware that her friend Detective Sergeant Ariadne Croft was looking at her, Geraldine focused on keeping her expression impassive. She wondered how people in other jobs coped in such situations when they had not been trained to conceal their feelings. But few other jobs would see a colleague whisked away without notice to an untraceable destination.

‘I’m not at liberty to pass on any further information, other than to tell you that Ian asked me if he could go. He said he would welcome the change.’

‘A nice sabbatical,’ someone joked.

‘How long will he be gone?’ Naomi asked, with a hint of urgency in her voice.

‘He agreed to come back here once his current job is finished, but I can’t tell you how long he’s likely to be away. Possibly until the spring.’

Geraldine hid her dismay. It was only January and spring was at least a couple of months away.

‘He’s been called away to serve on a special project, and I’m afraid that’s as much as I’m authorised to say,’ Eileen added with a tight smile. ‘Now, let’s get back to work. Matthew has been brought up to speed on the case. So come on, we have work to do.’

A few of her colleagues muttered that Ian must be working undercover, and Geraldine nodded uneasily. It could hardly be a coincidence that Ian had left York so soon after she had thrown him out of her flat. If he had requested a transfer, he might never return. Distracted by not knowing when she might see Ian again, she found it difficult to focus on what the Detective Chief Inspector was saying.

‘We have an identity for the dead woman,’ Eileen continued, pursing her lips and glaring around the room.

‘She looks tense,’ Matthew muttered to Geraldine.

‘Don’t worry, she’s always like that,’ she replied under her breath. ‘She treats us like schoolchildren.’

Matthew grinned, and Eileen’s glare came to rest on Geraldine who lowered her eyes.

‘Her DNA has been on the database for years,’ Eileen went on. ‘Her real name is Pansy Banks, although she works under the name of Luscious.’

Someone in the room sniggered. ‘Nothing very luscious about her now.’

Eileen grunted.

‘Show some respect, please,’ Geraldine blurted out. ‘The woman’s dead.’

‘She was a sex worker,’ Eileen went on in an even tone. ‘It looks as though one of her clients lost patience with her, but until we have the results of the post mortem and the tox report, we are not going to rush to any conclusions as to whether this was an unlawful killing or an accidental death. In the meantime, we’re looking for any relatives who are not estranged from her.’

‘Poor woman,’ Matthew murmured, and Geraldine instantly warmed to him.

‘Did she have any children?’ Ariadne asked.

‘A daughter living with grandparents since she was born ten years ago, and a son, taken into care seven years ago,’ Eileen replied. ‘Probably just as well,’ she added with a scowl. ‘There may have been others,’ she added, shaking her head.

Although she would have preferred to work with her friend Ariadne, Geraldine was not unhappy to find herself partnered with the new sergeant, Matthew, who impressed her as an intelligent and sympathetic colleague and a good addition to the team. It wasn’t his fault he was there in place of Ian.

‘Have you been in York long?’ he asked her as they left the police station together.

‘Quite a while,’ she replied vaguely, adding that she had been working in London before she moved north.

He gave her an easy smile. ‘Ah, London,’ he said. ‘It’s tough down there, and from what I hear it’s getting worse all the time.’

He gave a mock shudder.

‘Where were you working before?’ she asked.

They chatted guardedly about their circumstances as they walked to the car and she learned that he was separated from his wife who lived with their two children in Leeds.

‘I decided it was time for a change, so when this opportunity came up, I applied at once and turns out I was first in line.’ He smiled. ‘It works perfectly for me, because I can get back to see my kids whenever I want.’ He paused. ‘Their mother and I didn’t part on bad terms, so visiting is fairly relaxed. To be honest, she’s only too pleased when I take them off her hands for an afternoon. That was part of the problem. That I wasn’t around enough, you know how it is. I didn’t spend enough time with the kids. Now she’s found herself another partner and I still get to see my kids more or less whenever I can get away. It’s not exactly ideal, not what I wanted, but we all rub along okay now we’ve adjusted to the new situation. How about you?’

‘I’ve never been married,’ she replied.

‘Wedded to the job?’

‘Like a nun,’ she said tartly.

3

‘You’ll find we’re a friendly bunch here,’ Jack said with a grin.

He was a short broad-shouldered man with greying hair; the lower half of his lined face was concealed behind a droopy moustache and straggly beard, above which his eyes gazed intently at Ian. Dressed in a worn leather jacket and threadbare jeans, even sitting down he exuded energy.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘It’s Christian names or nicknames with us here, Ian, and senior officers are Guv or Boss. No need for formality.’

‘Right you are, Guv,’ Ian replied.

‘We were all pleased when we heard you’d agreed to join us in London. At least one of our teams is crying out for extra manpower and we’re desperately reaching out to find experienced officers to help. We’ve got a massive op going on and are running it on a skeleton staff, which is nothing unusual. It’s a joke compared to what we need if we’re to do our work properly. You’ve come at just the right time, and you’ve been highly recommended. I’ve seen your record and I’m sure you’ll be a great asset to us.’

‘Thank you very much, Guv.’ Ian returned Jack’s smile. ‘I’ve got a feeling this is going to be interesting.’

His colleague grunted. ‘Don’t get too excited about it. Mostly it involves surveillance work. Some officers volunteer because they’re looking for thrills but they soon realise it’s mainly just sitting around, watching and waiting. Others have a personal reason for joining, usually on account of a friend or relative who started using. Not everyone is completely honest about their motivation for signing up.’

He glanced quizzically at Ian.

‘I’m not in any way personally affected by any of this,’ Ian responded quickly.

It seemed wise to keep his personal issues to himself, and he saw no need to explain why he was particularly keen to work with the drug squad covering North London.

‘I want to do my bit to help protect vulnerable people,’ he said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s just another pernicious crime that needs to be stamped out, or at least kept under control to some extent. And it’s not just the drugs. Addicts commit other crimes too, of course. Any officer worth his salt would be keen to clean up the streets and see the dealers and pushers behind bars.’

‘Good,’ Jack said. ‘Officers who aren’t personally affected by the fallout from drugs tend to be more reliable. But don’t forget, the work isn’t as dramatic as you might think, and it can be dangerous. You’ve been warned about what you’re getting yourself into.’

Ian nodded. He had undergone seemingly endless psychological testing, as well as focused training, before being given a place on the squad. Now he hoped he wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

‘It’s not too late to withdraw if you’re not comfortable with the risks,’ Jack continued. ‘Believe me, they haven’t been overstated. And never forget, an undercover officer who cracks is a danger to his colleagues as well as to himself.’

‘When do I start?’ Ian replied promptly. ‘All I’ve been told is that I’ll be working with an undercover team conducting surveillance on members of a drugs ring.’

‘You’ll find out the details soon enough. There’s a briefing in ten minutes so get all your paperwork sorted and we can make a start.’

Ian was relieved that his superior officer had not quizzed him in any serious way about why he had joined the drug squad, because his reasons were in no way disinterested, as he had claimed. The truth was he was hoping to track down former associates of Geraldine’s twin sister Helena so he could find Helena’s former dealer. Only when the dealer had agreed to leave her alone could Helena come out of hiding and see Geraldine again. Ian had given up trying to glean any information from the police team responsible for spiriting her away to a new identity, where her former dealer would never find her. He hoped a network of drug dealers might leak information more readily than the police did. Until Geraldine was free to resume seeing her sister, Ian understood she would never forgive him for having saved Helena at the expense of her relationship with Geraldine. He had acted from the best of intentions, but Geraldine had been furious that she could not see Helena, who was not only her twin, but her only surviving blood relation.

‘You could do with a haircut and a shave,’ Jack said, gazing at Ian with narrowed eyes. ‘We don’t want you looking in any way memorable. And you’ll have to drop your air of respectability. Have you got a leather jacket? If not, we can probably find you something here. Now follow me. Come and meet the best drug-busting outfit in the country, in fact probably the best in the whole world. We’re not interested in small fry,’ he continued as he escorted Ian down a long, dark corridor. ‘We’re the best at what we do, but we know we’re fighting a losing battle. We tread a fine line here. We’re not involved in seizing drugs when they enter the country. Every time the boys at Customs and Excise seize a haul, that’s a win for us all. But our job is to stop the distribution of drugs once they’re here to prevent the gear reaching the streets.’

‘Surely it’s more important to stop drugs from entering the country?’ Ian replied. ‘Isn’t that where whatever manpower we’ve got should be focused?’

‘Fuck off and work for Customs and Excise then. Our job is to follow the mules along the chain right to the top. We’re after Mr Big, the bigger the better. So we let the couriers run and put them under surveillance, taking them out along the way, hoping they’ll lead us as far up the chain as it’s possible to go. But we never get to the real big boys, the international drug barons, the top players, more’s the pity. We just don’t have the manpower or resources to combat wealth and power at that level. They have protection,’ he added cryptically. ‘I’m talking more money and more corruption than you can possibly imagine. But we can and do have an impact on the charlie and smack that flood into our cities, and that’s not going to happen if we only go after the little guys. There’s no point in taking them out. They’re easily replaced. They’re like ants. No, it’s the men directing the operation we’re after, and they’re elusive bastards. The higher up the chain we go, the more difficult it is to find them. But we have our modest successes.’

As they were talking, Jack led Ian into a large room where a group of detectives were seated at their desks or standing around chatting. They were a miscellaneous crew: men of different ages, some with ponytails and earrings, others wearing faded black leather jackets, a few skinheads, a Hell’s Angel, and an assortment of bare arms, some brawny others skinny, adorned with leather bracelets and generic tattoos. The women were equally diverse: long-haired hippy chicks in flowing caftans, girls in short skirts, and girls in ripped jeans, most of them pale and thin and sickly-looking. But beneath the shoddy outward show, the carefully curated crew were all pursuing the same goal.

A very faint whiff of body odour mingled with the musty smell of old leather and air freshener, and there was a muffled drone of many voices talking quietly. Occasionally the hum of conversation was disrupted by a burst of laughter or a voice raised in protest.

‘No, you didn’t,’ a shrill voice cried out suddenly, laughing. ‘You never did! I don’t believe it. You’re having me on.’

Against one wall there was a long row of cabinets. Behind glass doors various paraphernalia were visible: opium pipes, slabs of dark brown cannabis, along with syringes and spoons, leaves and plants, sheets of LSD tabs, jars of cannabis oil, packets and pots labelled Ketamine, MDMA, H and many more, all seized in drugs busts and collectively worth millions of pounds on the street.

‘Here they are, the gang,’ Jack said, waving at his assortment of colleagues. ‘You can use the desk over by the window at the end.’

An officious-looking man scurried across the room to intercept Ian as he walked to his desk.

‘Welcome to the drug squad. I deal with the team equipment.’ He flourished a form and held out a black biro. ‘Sign here. And here.’

‘What’s this for?’

‘Any equipment you take off the premises. It’s just a formality,’ he added, seeing Ian hesitate. ‘Only take what you absolutely need, and never remove anything without authorisation.’

Ian learned that many of his colleagues had been working undercover for months, trying to set up a meeting with Tod Lancaster, who had been known to the drug squad for several years as a major dealer. Despite strenuous efforts so far they had not been able to pin anything on him. Several couriers and dealers lower down the chain had been apprehended and convicted, but Tod remained at large, seemingly untouchable, running strip clubs throughout the UK as a front for his lucrative drug dealing. An undercover officer named Jenny, known to the staff at the club as Tallulah, had recently started working as a waitress at a strip club in Soho from where Tod ran his drugs empire.

The next stage in the current plan was outlined at the first briefing Ian attended. Jenny was to introduce Ian as her boyfriend and a potential bodyguard for the boss. If Ian was accepted, he would be as close to the action as anyone could be. In addition, introducing him at the club as Tallulah’s boyfriend would offer her some protection from sexual predators at the club.

‘I can take care of myself,’ Jenny retorted when the plan was announced.

She was a dark-haired girl in her twenties, who looked as though she packed a lot of muscle into her small frame. Despite her initial reservations, she agreed it was a good plan to try and introduce Ian to a role that would take him close to the centre of Tod’s operations. With detailed inside information, it was possible that a major drug dealer would be busted. A great deal depended on Tod accepting Ian as a bodyguard.

Jenny looked Ian up and down appraisingly. ‘He’ll do,’ she conceded. ‘Smarten yourself up a bit, and you could pass yourself off as a first-rate thug.’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ Ian grinned.

‘You understand what’s at stake?’ Jack asked.

Ian nodded. ‘Perfectly.’

‘Remember to behave like a member of the public any time you’re out on surveillance. That means you merge into the scenery and don’t do anything to get yourself noticed. Never carry your warrant card or phone, or anything else that could identify your real identity if things go wrong and the villains you’re watching decide to check you out. That means you have to buy tickets when you use public transport, even if it means losing a target you’re following. Get into the mindset. Protecting yourself is your priority. Once your cover’s blown, you’re no use to us, and you’ll most likely end up with bullets for brains, or worse.’

Ian nodded, silently wondering what could be worse than being shot in the head.

4

The door was opened by a small, greasy-looking man with black hair, who looked as though he had not shaved for a few days. He started back on seeing Geraldine’s identity card.

‘This is about Pansy, isn’t it?’ he said in a hoarse whisper, lowering his head as he spoke and peering up at them from beneath wispy eyebrows. ‘That girl’s a slut. Was it one of her punters complained? Nothing would surprise me where she’s concerned. Oh, we know exactly what she is. There’s nothing you can tell us about her that we don’t already know, and if you’re trying to find her, we can’t help you. Why would she tell us where she is? We don’t want anything to do with her in this house. And that’s all I’ve got to say to you, so you can piss off.’

He seemed reluctant to talk about the dead woman, as though he was ashamed of being associated with her, or perhaps he was uncomfortable with the police visiting his home for another reason. He hesitated to give them his name, but he must have realised there was no sensible reason for withholding information they could easily obtain without his co-operation, so he told them he was called Steven Baring, and he worked at a local MOT centre.

‘Can you tell us anything at all about Pansy?’ Geraldine asked, taking a step forward.

‘Why? What would I know about her?’ he snapped, glaring at them. ‘I never even met her. What’s she got to do with me?’ His voice rose in sudden suspicion. ‘What has she been saying about me? Whatever it is, it’s all lies. She’s a lying cow, that one. Go on then, what’s she been saying?’

‘I’m afraid she’s not saying anything any more,’ Geraldine replied gently. ‘She died three days ago.’

‘Died? Pansy died?’ His eyes widened as he registered what he was hearing. ‘You mean she’s dead?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

He shrugged. ‘Well, I can’t say that’s a surprise. You know the kind of life she lived. So how did it happen? Was it drugs or the drink?’ He lowered his hoarse voice. ‘Did she do herself in? Nothing would shock me about her.’

Briefly Geraldine explained where Pansy’s body had been found, and her stepfather had enough humanity to look shocked.

‘The poor little slut,’ he said. ‘Still, she had it coming. Have you got the bastard who did her in?’

‘And what makes you think anyone “did her in”?’ Geraldine asked quickly.

He shook his head. ‘I was speaking in general terms, you know. But it stands to reason, doesn’t it? Someone must have done her in.’ His eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘If she died of natural causes, you wouldn’t be here asking questions, would you? Anyway, whoever it was, I hope you find him soon.’

He could have been bluffing, but Geraldine was inclined to believe he had not been involved with his stepdaughter, either in life or in death.

‘We’d like to speak to her mother now,’ she said, taking a step forwards.

Steven made a move to close the door but Matthew was too quick for him and had his foot over the threshold before the door shut. Forcing a smile, Steven let them in.

‘Sandra?’ he shouted. ‘Sandra, where are you? The police are here.’

‘The police?’ a shrill voice replied. ‘What do they want? If they’re here about Pansy, you can tell them to sling their hook. I don’t know where she is, and if I did know I wouldn’t tell them. Oh, hello,’ she said, appearing in the hall and catching sight of Geraldine and Matthew. ‘Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,’ she added, addressing Matthew with a sly grin. ‘I wonder what you get up to in your free time.’

Her attempt at flirting was pathetic, given her bleary eyes and prematurely wrinkled skin. A cigarette butt lodged at the corner of her chapped lips sent up a very fine thread of smoke. She let it drop and ground it out with her heel on the floor which was pitted with burn marks.

‘Give it a rest, Sandra,’ Steven snapped. ‘No one likes to be spoken to like that by an old woman like you, and certainly not the police.’

‘Oh sod off,’ Sandra replied, giving him a good-natured cuff on the shoulder. She scowled at Geraldine. ‘What are you lot after, then? If you’re looking for Pansy, I don’t know where she is, and I don’t want to know. I haven’t heard from her for seven years, not since she tried to foist another baby on us. Remember that one, Steve? The stupid bitch got herself banged up again and expected us to pick up the pieces for her. Like hell we were going to be caught out like that again. Selfish cow. She’s full of lies, that one. Always lying. Soon as she opens her mouth another one pops out. Lying comes easy to some people. She lies all the time, even to me, her own mother.’

‘Pansy’s dead, Sandra,’ Geraldine said gently, interrupting the tirade. ‘I’m sorry to bring you sad news.’

‘Sad? What’s there to be sad about?’ Sandra asked, evincing no surprise at all. ‘It’s good riddance, if you ask me. I don’t suppose anyone’s going to miss her. And don’t expect me to foot the bill for her funeral either,’ she added with a sudden glare. ‘That bitch cost me enough as it is. She’s not getting a penny more out of me.’

There was no point in dragging out the visit. ‘We just wanted to inform you in person about your daughter’s death.’

‘Yes, well, now you have so you can leave us alone with our grief,’ Sandra replied. ‘Good riddance,’ she muttered under her breath as Geraldine turned away.

It was not clear if she was referring to Geraldine or Pansy but, either way, it made no difference. Geraldine wasn’t bothered about having Sandra’s good opinion. Back in the car, Geraldine and Matthew drove in silence for a few moments, each absorbed in their own thoughts.

‘Some mother,’ Geraldine said at last.

‘Some daughter,’ Matthew replied.

‘What a family,’ Eileen remarked when Geraldine reported back to her. ‘Did you believe her when she said she had no contact with Pansy?’

Geraldine shrugged. ‘I can’t see any reason why she would lie about it.’

Eileen nodded. ‘It’s certainly true that she took in Pansy’s daughter ten years ago and refused to look after her son, who would be seven now, which implies a deterioration in their relationship over the years. But beyond that, we have only the mother’s word for what happened between them.’

Geraldine nodded. They couldn’t ask Pansy. She wondered what her own mother might have said about her after she had given Geraldine away for adoption. Her only living link with her birth mother had been her twin sister Helena, but now they had lost contact thanks to Ian’s intervention. She knew he had only arranged for Helena’s identity change to protect her and Geraldine from a violent drug dealer. But she couldn’t forgive him for parting her from her sister.

5

The peace of the woods was broken by a distant hum of voices, and through the trees he could make out a distant gleam of cars. The unusual activity up ahead could mean only one thing. He cursed under his breath even though he wasn’t surprised to learn the dead woman must have been found so soon after he had left her there. Having made no attempt to conceal her body, he had known that someone was bound to come across her sooner or later. It didn’t really make any difference when it happened. A night in the snow would have washed away any slight trace he might have left behind, but he had been careful. The gloves he had been wearing were concealed inside a takeaway food carton in a litter bin in the centre of town. Even if they were discovered, which was highly unlikely, they wouldn’t be linked to a dead body found lying in the woods a few miles away. He was confident no one would ever connect him to the body of a stranger lying in the woods.

There was a saying that murderers always returned to the scene of their crime, but this wasn’t a murder scene. The woman had not been killed in Acomb Wood. She had died in the entrance hall of Thomas’s house. Of course he returned to the hall every day, but not because he had murdered anyone. The woman’s death had been an accident. After he had disposed of the body, the first couple of times he had walked into the house a spasm of nausea had gripped his guts, and he had half expected to see the dead woman’s painted face leering up at him, her arms and legs splayed out in clumsy disarray. But he saw no such sight, because of course her body was no longer lying on his hall carpet. He knew exactly where she was, because he had put her there himself. After a couple of days, he was able to enter his house without trembling, and smile at his wife as though nothing untoward had happened. He was never going to reveal his secret, and no one would ever know about it.

He was not sure why he had come back to the wood. He just wanted to take a look at her, as if to reassure himself she was really dead. In a half waking doze that morning, before he was fully awake, he had imagined her recovering consciousness in the woods, clambering to her feet covered in mud and twigs, and staggering to the road to flag down a passing car. The thought of it made him feel sick with fear.

Now that he was in Acomb Wood, he hesitated to go closer. Through a gap in the trees he could see the top of a vast white tent and wondered if that meant the police suspected foul play. He didn’t know whether a tent like that was always erected over a dead body regardless of how the person had died, or if such forensic investigations were reserved for murder victims. Almost against his will, he felt drawn towards the tent. He had to find out what was going on. It was an impulse stronger than a mere spirit of enquiry. There was a practical reason for his curiosity. He needed to find out how much the police had discovered. He was so focused on the tent and its gruesome contents he almost failed to notice a uniformed police constable standing guard by a tape stretched across the path.

‘The footpath is closed to the public, sir,’ the young police officer piped up. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to turn back.’

Thomas’s initial irritation was rapidly overwhelmed by fear.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he replied, flustered.

The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. Questions might be asked about why he was there in the woods, so close to where a dead body had recently been found.

‘I was miles away, just letting my mind wander, going for a walk. It’s beautiful in the woods at this time of year.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘I didn’t notice the police tape.’

Claiming to be oblivious to the police presence struck him as sensible. It made him sound innocent, if somewhat unobservant.

‘That’s all right, sir. It’s unusual for a public right of way to be blocked,’ the police officer replied.

‘Yes, I suppose it is. I haven’t been for a walk here for a long time,’ he added.

He was aware that he was being rash talking to the police at all. He had been an idiot to return to the woods. Having managed to find a bookkeeping job with a small local business, he should have been seated at his desk in the office, quietly checking the payroll for the month. Instead, he was risking everything by talking to the police. To begin with he had said the woods were beautiful at this time of year, and now he was contradicting himself by saying he hadn’t been there for a long time. He knew he ought to stop talking, turn around and walk quickly away, but he couldn’t stop himself.

‘What’s going on here anyway?’ he enquired. ‘Is there a reason for the path being closed?’

‘I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation, sir.’

‘Investigation, eh? That sounds serious. What happened? Was someone attacked here?’

The constable stolidly repeated that he was not free to talk about the situation. Thomas hesitated, but he was afraid of persisting for fear of alerting suspicion. He tried to think what an innocent man might do in these circumstances, and concluded that such a man would probably do just as he was asked, and turn back without evincing much interest in what was going on.

‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘But it all sounds very mysterious.’

‘Not at all, sir,’ the constable replied with infuriating stoicism. ‘I’m just doing my job, sir.’

‘So there’s no way I can go on?’

‘No, sir. The footpath is closed, sir. Do you live locally?’

Involuntarily, Thomas edged away. He had overstepped the mark, and the policeman had started asking questions. As Thomas spoke, tiny puffs of mist flew from his lips and hung for an instant in the air before dissipating. He wished he could vanish as inconspicuously.

‘Not far from here. Well, thank you, and keep up the good work,’ he replied, as he turned on his heel and strode away.