Broken

PROLOGUE
1992


Melanie Harvey walked sedately along Bayler Street in Grantley.

She had been born in the small Essex town, and she was now at college there. She felt this gave her an air of sophistication, being educated, and she was enjoying it, something her teachers would never have believed. But she loved the place, it was her home and it was where she wanted to work and raise her children. Especially since the new order had arrived. Grantley was growing, going up in the world and she wanted desperately to be a small part of it. Gradually the green belt was becoming flats and housing estates - private, of course. The older properties were being knocked down or renovated to make way for the commuters who liked being forty minutes from Fenchurch Street in a place that still felt countrified enough to justify bringing up children there; they would pay through the nose for a small three-bedroomed house. She jogged the same route every morning and was amazed at how fast the places were being built. Obviously they were not meant to last any reasonable amount of time.

Workmen were whistling at her, but she ignored them. At seventeen years old with a DD-cup she was used to dirty old men as she thought of the workers who catcalled from afar. She ignored them as she ignored everyone. Melanie was quite arrogant in her own youthful way.

Dressed in a small top, shorts and Reebok bumpers, with her dark hair swept back and encased in a ponytail, she allowed her eyes to scan the old buildings nearby that were being knocked down.

As she glanced over, she saw a bulldozer begin trundling towards the last of the units to remain intact. The bright sunlight was blocked by cloud for a few seconds and so it was easier for her to see her surroundings.

That was when she saw the movement on the roof of the building. It was only a small movement but it caught her eye. She stared up. The sun was blinding her again and her eyes were watering. But she had seen something moving, she was sure of it.

Then, as she once more heard the dull drone of the bulldozer, the sun disappeared behind cloud again and she saw a small blond head. It was just a glimpse, but it was enough for her. She registered the fact that it could only be a child. An adult would have been easy to make out, whereas the low parapet at the top of the building would hide a child, more or less.

Then she saw it again.

Realising that the man in the bulldozer was about to start demolishing the unit, she ran on to the site. The men laughed at her as she tore across the uneven ground, her white bumpers kicking up dirt and brickdust, heavy breasts hammering against her ribcage with each heartbeat. She was trying to attract the attention of the man in the bulldozer. She certainly had that. He was watching her with a mixture of appreciation and fear.

She was nearly in his path now. He began to brake. As he halted in front of her she was still trying to draw his attention to something above his head.

The site manager, Desmond Rawlings, ran over to her, his face angry and his language even angrier.

'What the fuck you think you're doing?'

Melanie was out of breath, still pointing up at the roof of the building. 'There's someone or something up there.'

He automatically looked up and saw nothing. 'Is this some kind of game, love?'

Melanie shook her head. 'There is definitely someone up on that roof, mate. Go and look for yourself.'

The driver of the bulldozer was climbing out of his cab now. 'What's going on, Des?'

He shrugged, heavy body sweating under the jumper he had put on because it was cold that morning and the donkey jacket he wore with 'Site Manager' written on the back.

'Fuck knows. This bird reckons there's someone up there.' He pointed once more to the roof of the building. Now all the men were looking up.

'I can't see nothing.'

'Well there is something there. I saw it myself.'

But Melanie's voice was not so assured now as she realised that she couldn't see anything either from this vantage point.

'I was on the street when I saw a little blond head up there. You'd better check, just to be on the safe side.'

Des sighed heavily. He had everyone on his back. The contractors were useless; everything was going wrong, he was weeks behind his schedule. None of the drawings matched and the steel was late as usual. Now, on top of everything else, he had some silly bird telling him there was a kid in the building he was about to knock down.

They were surrounded by men and Des knew they were all enjoying the light relief. Melanie was growing confused. Suppose it had just been a trick of the light?

'I'm sure I saw something . . .'

A small man with green eyes in a dark-tanned face volunteered: 'I'll go up and look, Des. Keep the young lady happy, eh?'

He nodded and sighed. What he wouldn't give for a few hours in the bookie's, a wad of cash in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. The green-eyed man disappeared into the skeleton of the building. Des had a quick shufti at the girl's breasts before meeting her cynical eyes.

'Had your look, you old perve?'

The other men laughed and tried not to do the same thing.

The noise died down then as they all turned to stare at the roof of the building. Melanie was nervous, wondering if she had actually seen anything and hoping she had because otherwise this lot were not going to be very happy.

She consoled herself with the fact that, whatever happened, she had done the right thing.
* * *
Regina Carlton pulled herself out of bed with difficulty. She pushed the sleeping man beside her. He grunted and turned over, emitting a loud fart in the process.

Regina pursed her lips and sighed. 'Where the fuck did I find him?'

The words went unanswered as she glanced wearily around the chaotic room. Clothes were strewn everywhere; the place was ripe with the smell of dirty laundry and unwashed crockery. She lit a B&H and pulled the smoke deep into her lungs. The nicotine rushed straight to her brain and she sighed happily.

Scratching her sagging stomach, she wandered from the room and down the hallway to the kitchen. After putting on the kettle, she searched through the debris on the table until she found a bottle of pills. She opened the canister and popped two blue ones with a sip of water then lit herself another cigarette from the butt of the previous one. The kettle boiled and she made herself coffee, sniffing the milk suspiciously before abandoning it and settling for black.

Walking back into the hall, she opened her kids' bedroom door.

Michaela, aged five, was still asleep, her golden hair spread over the dirty pillowcase. Hannah, ten months, was lying awake in her cot, a soaking nappy filling the room with the smell of ammonia and making her mother's eyes water.

She looked towards the bed that should have held Jamie, two, and frowned. Walking back into the lounge area, she scanned the small room then went back into the kitchen, even looking under the table.

'I'll slaughter that little fucker!' Her voice held anger rather than fear.

She walked back into the lounge and, pulling back a smoke-stained net curtain, scanned the area in front of her block of flats.

No Jamie.

Coffee finished and feeling the first buzz from the Driminal she had taken earlier, Regina went back into her bedroom and pulled on a pair of jeans and a Bart Simpson sweatshirt. Dragging her hair back into a ponytail, she surveyed herself in the mirror of her dressing table.

Her eyes were dark hollows, her cheekbones lost in a face that was puffy from too much of everything, from booze to drugs to sex. Meanwhile her body was thin but sagging, from her breasts to the skin at the top of her arms.

She was twenty-five years old.

Regina went to the bed and shook the man awake.

'Fuck off, will ya? I'm trying to sleep.'

She looked down at him and felt nothing. Not even annoyance. Lighting up another cigarette, she went in to the girls and woke Michaela up by slapping her behind through the quilt cover.

'Sort Hannah out and make a cuppa, love.'

Michaela sat up immediately.

'You seen Jamie?'

The child shook her head.

Regina went out of the flat and down the four flights of stairs to the street. An old lady on the second floor ignored her as she stamped past, a thunderous look of annoyance on her face.

'You seen my Jamie?' she asked the old bitch in a rasping voice. After fifteen minutes even Regina was getting worried. Her little boy was missing. With everything else she had on her plate, that was the last thing she needed: the police looking too closely into the chaos of her everyday life.

'Fuck him, the little bugger! Like his father, always causing aggravation.'

She went back into the flat to begin clearing it of anything dodgy before she felt comfortable enough to phone the Old Bill.

But before that she phoned her social worker. Regina knew she was going to need all the help she could get.
* * *

PC Black and WPC Hart arrived within fifteen minutes of the call. As they entered the flat they both grimaced as the smell of urine and stale sweat hit the back of their throats.

Regina smiled sourly at them, ready for a fight.

They looked around the shabby abode and decided to stand rather than take a seat.

'Hello, love, I'm WPC Joanna Hart and this is my colleague, Richard Black. Now, we understand your little boy is missing?' the female constable began.

'I rang you, didn't I?' Regina's voice held contempt but also an underlying fear that Hart was quick to pick up on.

'Look, love, we're not the enemy, OK? If your boy's missing then the sooner we get the preliminaries over with the better, eh?'

Regina relaxed visibly. 'He's a wanderer. As young as he is, he's streetwise. Let's face it, he'd need to be with me as his mother, wouldn't he? I've been everywhere he might be and I can't locate him. He is definitely gone.'

WPC Hart felt a surge of compassion for the woman before her, one she had dealt with on several other occasions, seeing her drunk, drugged and aggressive.

'I might not be mother of the year but they're my kids, right? I care about them,' Regina continued.

PC Richard Black snorted and shook his head sadly. 'Yeah, it looks like it.'

Regina was across the room in a split second and WPC Hart put herself smartly between the two antagonists.

'Look, Richard, you have a nose round the neighbours. I'll deal with Miss Carlton, OK?' Her firm tone of voice was a command and, turning slowly, her colleague left the room.

'Fucking wanker! Judge me, will he? Who the fuck does he think he is?' Regina took quick puffs on her cigarette, barely inhaling. The WPC smiled.

'You want to try working with him.' Her voice was low, conspiratorial. Desperate to establish some kind of rapport.

'Oh, fuck off, lady. You ain't playing your mind games with me. I know you and your sort. I know what you think and how you think. So cut the fucking crap and find my boy.' Regina was scared, and it showed.

Hart was saved from having to answer by a loud voice coming into the room from the cluttered hallway.

'Hello, love. It's me - Bobby.'

The voice was high-pitched and effeminate. A tall man walked into the room. He had dyed brown hair, worn rather long and with two-inch roots showing, and blue eyes in a friendly open face. He held his arms wide and Regina walked straight into them and broke down. WPC Hart watched them for a while, glad to see someone who could maybe help the situation.

'Are you a relative?'

Regina faced her and sniffed. 'He's better than a relative, love. He's me social worker.'

The man held out a limp hand. 'Robert Bateman, darlin'. Social worker to the stars.'

WPC Hart sighed heavily. This was all she needed.

PC Black came back into the flat and said loudly, 'A little boy, answering to the name Jamie, has been found on a building site on the other side of town. Blond, blue-eyed, fit and well.'

Regina visibly relaxed. 'That sounds like him. That sounds like my boy.' Her voice held relief though her face betrayed nothing.

'How did he get there?' WPC Hart's voice was suspicious.

Black shrugged. 'How should I know? They're taking him to the hospital for a once-over.'

'Oh, Bobby, run me over there, will you?' Regina asked.

The social worker smiled widely. 'Of course I will, dear. What about the other two?'

Michaela was standing in the doorway with a changed and sweeter-smelling Hannah in her arms.

'They'll be all right. Me bloke's asleep in the bedroom, he'll watch them.'

Robert rolled his expressive blue eyes at the ceiling. 'Do the kids actually know him, dear, or is he a transient?'

Regina closed her own eyes a moment. 'They know him well enough. Now can we go, please?' Her tone of voice brooked no argument.

Five minutes later they were gone.

Michaela was spooning Weetabix into Hannah's mouth when the man walked out of the bedroom, naked and with a half-erection from the need to urinate.

He looked at the two children in the untidy kitchen and said acidly, 'What the fuck you staring at?'

Michaela tossed back her thick golden hair and answered him in the same fashion. 'I could ask you the same bloody thing, mate.'
* * *

PC Black walked into Grantley Hospital with an air of righteous authority. He made his way through the A&E department and up five flights of stairs to the children's ward. WPC Hart was sitting outside an office there, drinking coffee. She smiled as he approached.

'What's happening then?'

'I have two witnesses who put Miss Regina Carlton and her son at the site at six-thirty this morning. One is a woman, a cleaner for Kortone Separates. She parks there and gets a lift to work with a friend. Another is a man who walks that route every morning for his paper. It seems she dumped the kid there.'

Joanna Hart frowned. 'Why would she bother getting in touch, then?'

Black shrugged. 'Perhaps she thought he'd be dead by then. They were about to demolish the building where he was found.'

'Oh my God! We'd better get in touch with plainclothes.'

'Already done it. They'll be here shortly. Let's see the slag get out of this one.'

He sounded pleased and Joanna was reminded of why she didn't always like him very much. He saw the look and shrugged.

'Attempted murder, ain't it?'

'Depends on whether she did it in her right mind. You can't convict her without all the facts.'

PC Black shook his head pityingly.

'You just don't see it, do you? She is so chemically enhanced she's in danger of being named as the first genetically modified human being in history. Yet you still try and defend her. All the times we've been to her drum for fighting, drinking and general arseholiness, and you can still find it in your bleeding heart to give her the benefit of the doubt?' His incredulous laughter was loud in the confines of the corridor.

'She has three kids, for Christ's sake, and this morning one of them was nearly buried under rubble and killed. How can you defend that? She needs locking up, mate. If it was left to me I'd throw away the fucking key.'

'I am sure you would, dear.' Robert Bateman appeared in the corridor behind them, his voice surprisingly firm. 'She also comes from a much worse background than her children's, believe me, and is trying to get herself together. Whatever Regina may be, she loves her kids in her own way.'

PC Black shook his head once more.

'Preach to the converted. As far as I'm concerned, she's a piece of scum. Those kids would be better off out of it. She's on the bash, she's an habitual drug user and she leaves them in situations that are downright dangerous. Her flat stinks . . .'

'You can't lock people up just for having a dirty flat.' Joanna's voice was high-pitched with annoyance.

'. . . her flat stinks and her kids walk around like rag bags. Every time we go there they're either in bed or just got out of it. Their lives are a nightmare, poor little sods.'

Robert Bateman sighed heavily. 'You're on your soapbox early this morning. Get out the wrong side of the bed, did we?'

Heels clicked down the corridor and they all turned towards Detective Inspector Kate Burrows who smiled lazily at them.

'So what's the score?'

She closed her eyes tightly as the three of them all began to talk at once. Holding up her arms for them to pipe down, she insisted, 'For Christ's sake, one at a bloody time, eh?'

As they all stared at her in annoyance, Kate sighed. What had started out as a bad day was slowly but surely getting worse.


Book One

He healeth those that are broken in heart:

and giveth medicine to heal their sickness.

147:1 Prayer Book, 1662



But God bless the child that's got his own.

Billie Holiday

('God Bless the Child', 1941), 1915-59


Chapter One


Patrick Kelly looked around him and sighed again. He hated it when people did this to him, though Kelly being who he was, people did not often let him down without so much as a phone call. He saw all the other diners taking surreptitious looks at him as he sat alone, with only a mineral water and a resigned expression on his face.

He was such a good-looking man, although he didn't realise it. His dark hair was well cut and conditioned, with just enough grey to make him look interesting, his deep-set blue eyes and excellent bone structure made both women and men take a second look. He had the build to match his looks; taller than average, he wore his clothes well. He was always immaculately turned out and he had the air of a man who knew what he wanted and would get it whatever it took.

Standing up abruptly, he walked from the busy room and made his way out to the foyer then through to the bar. He looked cross. Consequently no one approached him for a good while. Eventually he summoned a waiter and ordered a large Scotch, then taking out his mobile he punched in a number.

Two women sitting nearby watched the handsome man as he barked into an answering machine somewhere. 'Patrick Kelly here. You, Micky, have fucking blown it.'

The waiter placed his Scotch before him together with a bucket of ice.

'Bring me a ham sandwich and a newspaper,' barked Patrick.

The boy nodded and backed away.

One of the women, a petite redhead with toning table and fake tan written all over her body, called huskily, 'How can you get a ham sandwich in here? We couldn't.'

Patrick Kelly didn't even glance at her as he answered abruptly, 'Easy, darlin'. I own the fucking drum.'

The woman raised her eyebrows at her friend in a shocked manner and they resumed their conversation, while both keeping a beady eye on Patrick Kelly.

Patrick, for his part, had forgotten they even existed. As he wolfed down his sandwich he wished his Kate was with him. She calmed him, and today he needed calming. Though he wondered if even she could relax him after the morning he'd had.

The redhead tried one last time to get his attention. 'Do you eat here every day?' Her voice was coquettish, friendly, with a hint of promise. He stared at her blankly for long moments before rolling his eyes at the ceiling and then abruptly leaving the restaurant.

The redhead shrugged at her friend's shocked expression.

'Well, it was worth a try.'

They both laughed together to cover her embarrassment.

* * *

Regina looked into Kate Burrows's face and shook her head slowly.

'I wouldn't do that. I admit I might be a bit slapdash with them now and again, but I would never, ever hurt my kids. Least of all my Jamie.'

'Two people put you there early this morning.'

'They can say what they like, I was in bed at home with me bloke.'

Kate Burrows stared hard at the girl. 'This is the same bloke you met two nights ago in a local pub?' She held up a hand so she could continue uninterrupted. 'His name's Milo something or other - your words, not mine. And he was with you till this morning. You jacked up together late last night, and were out of it until then.'

Regina nodded. 'That's about the strength of it, yeah.'

Kate looked at the effeminate man sitting beside his client and raised her eyebrows slightly. 'And you are the social worker?'

Robert Bateman smiled faintly. 'I am. And I believe her, Miss Burrows.'

'Let's take a break and have a cup of tea, eh?'

Kate walked from the small interview room followed by Bateman. He accompanied her to the canteen and didn't speak until they were seated.

'I know how it looks, but she didn't do anything to that child. She wouldn't.'

He watched Kate's reaction and grinned.

'She gives them Valium sometimes to make them sleep so she can go out working. Now, to me and you that's awful, shocking, but to her way of thinking she's putting them safely to sleep so they don't wake up and go wandering off somewhere or start a fire. As she sees it, she is still sort of taking care of them, see?'

Kate shook her head. 'No, actually, I don't. On top of everything else she gives them prescription drugs to take - is that what you're telling me?'

The man nodded. 'But, you see, Miss Burrows, you're looking at all this from a normal person's point of view whereas Regina is not normal. She is an habitual drug user. Her life is chaos. Complete and utter chaos. She stumbles from one major disaster to the next. But - and this is the big but - she loves those kids. Her eldest, Michaela, actually looks after her mother. Keeps the other two in hand and tries in her own sweet little way to be a help. To make her mother's life that bit easier. They love her. Whatever we think about the situation, we have to think first of those kids.'

Kate smiled. 'My own thoughts entirely, and the sooner they're away from her the better.'

The social worker closed his eyes and sighed heavily. 'Away from her means in care. Split them up and they'll be unhappy. Don't judge everyone by your own standards, Miss Burrows. It never works, you know.'

He looked deep into her eyes, his gaze penetrating. She glanced away.

'I'm sorry, Mr Bateman. I appreciate you're trying to help your client but frankly I think that away from her is about as good as it's going to get for those children.'

He pushed his hair away from his face in a surprisingly female gesture.

'Regina's mother was a university lecturer in Ethics.'

He nodded at her surprise.

'She also systematically abused her two children by burning them, humiliating them and starving them. When Regina was nine she was found in a large detached house with a quarter-of-an-acre garden. She was suffering from malnutrition and her younger brother had been dead for five days. Their mother had left them to go on a trip to Finland of all places. There was no food in the house, nothing. But the children were too frightened to use the phone and get help. They were found by accident. A neighbour had come by to drop off some gardening catalogues of all things.

'That memory is what Regina lives with every day of her life. Now I'm telling you, Miss Burrows, she would not harm her kids intentionally. She can't cope with the day-to-day running of her life - being a normal person is beyond her - but I tell you again, she would never hurt a hair of those kids' heads. Believe me, I know.'

Pushing his chair back gently, he walked from the canteen.

Kate watched him go. He looked burdened down. It was in his walk, his eyes, his whole demeanour. But, unexpectedly, she found herself liking Regina Carlton's social worker.
* * *

Patrick Kelly sat in the back of his Rolls-Royce and listened to Willy Gabney, his driver and confidant, expounding on the advantages of having a girlfriend. As usual. Willy had been seeing a woman for a few weeks now and was happier than Patrick had ever known him. He looked almost handsome nowadays which for a man as ugly as Willy had to be a miracle.

Patrick let him prattle on; it saved having to answer any questions. He lay back against the leather upholstery and sighed. He wanted to get home and inside Kate as soon as possible. He smiled at the thought.

Just then, his mobile rang. 'Kelly here.'

He listened for a few seconds then, turning off the phone, yelled at Willy to turn round and drive back towards the West End. His face was like thunder.

Willy saw immediately that he had had bad news. 'Everything all right, Pat?' Silly question.

Kelly shook his head. 'No, Willy. Everything ain't all right.'
* * *

Estelle Peterson was not young though she looked it. Long black hair, dyed and conditioned to within an inch of its life, actually made her look quite innocent instead of hardening her features. It was a look the other women were jealous of though none of them envied her her large nose, squinty eyes set too close together and child's rosebud mouth.

She was also very short-sighted so that she habitually peered at people, making her seem interested in what they were saying - which she never was, unless it was a pimp or a customer.

Today, though, she looked frightened. She sat in the empty lap-dancing club, hands shaking as she sipped at a very large brandy. Her mascara had run into her eyes, giving her a clown-like appearance.

Tommy Broughton was staring at her as if he had never seen her before. She shuddered again, looking frail and haunted.

'I want to go, Tommy. I ain't getting involved with Old Bill.'

He topped up her glass and nodded. 'Kelly will be here soon. We'll take our lead from him, OK?' He tried to sound reassuring, but it was obvious to both of them that he was more frightened than she was.

'Can't you cover him up at least?'

Tommy sighed. 'As I said, it's best not to touch anything until Kelly gets here.'

Estelle started to cry again and he walked towards the phone.

'I'll ring him. See how long he'll be. OK?'

Estelle nodded, her eyes firmly fixed on the glass in her hand.
* * *

Regina looked terrible and Kate guessed that she would usually have had a little something to lift her by now, had she not been under arrest in the police station.

'Are you a registered addict, Regina? If so, I can get a medic to give you something to bring you up a bit.'

Regina stared at her blankly a moment before speaking.

'Listen to me, Burrows. I don't care if my own mother put me by that building site this morning - I wasn't there.'

'Then how did your son get out of the house and over to the other side of town? How did he climb up inside a building that was falling apart and which had no real staircases? He had to have been lifted bodily from floor to floor. So, if you didn't take him, Regina, who did? Now you say that even at two he's streetwise - but not that streetwise, surely?'

Regina began pulling at her hair, physically tearing at it in terror and distress. 'I don't fucking know! Someone must have taken him . . . I don't fucking know!'

She was crying now, a painful animal sound, repeating over and over, 'I don't know! I don't know!'

Kate Burrows stared down at the girl and unexpectedly her heart went out to her.

'Were you higher than usual last night? Could you have done this and not realised what you were doing? Was there anyone else at your place other than the man you'd picked up at the pub? Does anyone else have a key? Can you give me one reason not to believe you knowingly took that child and left him in a dangerous situation which could easily have led to his death but for the keen sight of a young girl?'

Regina looked up at her tormentor and shook her head. 'I don't know what happened. I swear to God, I really don't know how he got there.'

Kate looked into the haunted face. The eyes were pleading for understanding. The girl's whole body language screamed out, trying to make Kate believe what she was saying. Her hands, nails bitten to the quick, were trembling visibly as she attempted to light a cigarette.

And for a few seconds, Kate Burrows was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. But only for a few seconds. She had encountered liars of Olympic standards over the years. Had heard what she considered every story in the book.

This girl's story didn't add up at all, which was why Kate couldn't understand why she had not even tried to change it over the last four hours. Most people changed their story over and over. Others came well prepared and changed their story as and when a hole appeared in it. Regina just kept repeating hers over and over, different words but never deviating from the main point.

As far as she was concerned her kids had been in bed asleep. She had no idea how her son had managed to get to the building site. She was so out of it, she could not have walked across town, let alone carried her two-year-old son. She was also strung out, weirded out and tired.

Kate was wondering how she herself was going to get on with interviewing the boyfriend. She needed caffeine and nicotine soon. Her head was thumping, her eyes were aching and all she wanted was to wrap this case up and get home.

But it wasn't going to be that easy. She had a feeling that Regina was going to stick with her story, as implausible as it was, and that this was going to be one hell of a long day.
* * *

Patrick Kelly walked into his night club, Girlie Girls, at just after one in the afternoon, his face set into a mask of anger. Manager Tommy Broughton was sitting at the bar nursing a large brandy. At this hour the whole place looked rundown. No club ever stood up to the harsh light of day.

Tommy nodded at Patrick, his face ashen, teeth tightly clamped. Patrick walked through to the small back bar and stared down incredulously at the battered body of his old mate Micky Duggan. One hand over his mouth, he shook his head sadly.

Micky had been savagely beaten to death. His mutilated body would not have looked out of place at the scene of a train wreck or some other terrible accident. But lying in a pool of his own blood, face stuck to the plush carpet, he looked wrong. All wrong. His neck had been snapped, one savage twist of bone and muscle by a strong man the only explanation.

But why?

Everyone liked Duggan. He was a crack, a laugh. Hard enough when he had to be but basically a nice person. His main fault had lain in his natural talent for aggravation. With a drink in him he got lairy.

'Fuck me, Pat, he looks rough!' Willy Gabney's voice was high with shock. 'Do you reckon he's dead?'

Patrick took a deep breath and said through gritted teeth, 'Unless he's thinking of walking around with his face looking at his arse, I'd say he is dead, Willy, yes.'

His driver was offended and it showed. 'I was only asking, Pat.'

Patrick sighed heavily. Willy was loyal to a fault but about as intelligent as a gnat, and at times like this - especially at times like this - it could be wearing.

'Do you reckon he was murdered?'

Patrick did not even bother answering that one. Instead he sighed heavily again and walked back to Broughton and Estelle.
* * *

Regina's boyfriend was a scruffy, ignorant young man called Milo Bangor. As Kate looked at him she marvelled at the way people somehow always lived up to their names.

He looked suitably weird but then, as she knew very well, he was frightened. Terrified, in fact. It showed in the way his hands shook and his voice trembled whenever he answered her questions.

As she watched him making another match-thin roll-up she knew he had been in prison and that he was under the firm impression he might be going back there.

'So, Milo, I guess you know what I want to ask you about?'

He looked at her directly for the first time and smiled nervously, displaying brown crooked teeth.

'Do I need a brief, lady?'

Kate grinned. 'You tell me, Milo, you're obviously the expert.'

He sat silently for a few seconds. He was actually thinking. Kate was impressed. She would have laid money that actual real-life thinking was beyond him.

'I never touched no fucking kid,' he said finally. 'And if that cunt has, and thinks she can lay it at my door, you can tell her from me I'll break her fucking back.'

Kate raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. 'In those exact words, or shall I soften the blow a bit?'

Now he was talking he couldn't seem to stop.

'She treats them kids like slaves, man. I mean, she shouldn't even be allowed to have a dog, let alone those poor little bastards.'

'You sound like an expert on childcare. Now, can you tell me all your movements from yesterday lunchtime, please?'

Milo started laughing then. A low, scornful sound. 'I can't even remember getting up half the time. I mean, please!'

His arrogant yet frightened voice irritated her and she said loudly, 'Well, you'd better remember, boy. In fact, you can have a good bloody think while I get you a brief, OK? Suddenly I think there's a very good chance you'll need one.'

Kate stood up and was pleased to see a sober expression on Milo's face.

'I never touched no fucking kid, lady. You better believe that.'

She smiled again. 'I think you'd better convince me of it, don't you? After all, you were there, you were out of it, you are a prime suspect. I mean, for all I know, you and Regina worked a flanker. Did it together. I don't know, do I? But someone does. Someone was there, someone saw what happened, someone did the deed . . . and, Milo, I intend to find out just who the hell it was. Got that?'

Her hard voice penetrated his fogged brain and he looked very young suddenly and vulnerable and Kate felt a surge of reluctant pity for him. For Regina. For all the wasted lives she saw on a daily basis.

She ended the tape and quietly left the room.
* * *

Patrick Kelly sipped at his brandy. He knew he was in shock which didn't help dispel the trickle of fear that was slowly creeping over him. A man he had known all his life was lying dead in the club they'd owned together - a club where he had a feeling a serious amount of ducking and diving had occurred over the last few months without his knowledge. Otherwise why else would someone waste Micky?

He stared at Broughton. 'All right then, what's the scam? What has been going on?'

Tommy Broughton shrugged. 'I don't know, Pat. I take oath on that.'

Patrick finished his brandy in one gulp. 'Don't fuck me about. Not today. I really ain't in the mood.'

Broughton shrugged. 'You know what he was like, Pat. One minute he was all over you like a rash, the next he wanted to fight ya.' He held out his arms in supplication. 'Micky had more rows in here the last few weeks than fucking Adolf Hitler on a bad trip. Christ, his nickname was Wanker - that says it all, don't it?'

Patrick stared at Broughton. What he'd said was true enough. Micky had argued with everyone. Rumour had it he'd argued bitterly with his mother, brothers, wife, girlfriends - even with the lap dancers and he had trumped most of them.

That was how Micky was made, unreliable in many respects. But, Christ, everyone who knew him respected his foibles. They were part and parcel of Micky. He wound everyone up, but if you were in a tight corner, he was the man to go to. He would move heaven and earth for a mate. Even a mate he had cunted into the ground a few days before.

None of this made sense to Patrick.

'How about the dancers?' he asked. 'Any jealous boyfriends about?'

Broughton shook his head. 'Not that I know of. Most of them are sorts, Pat. You know the score. A few nice ones, a few slags. The usual. Nothing much for Micky to get his knickers in a twist about, though. You know he hated silicone tits and there's enough of the stuff here to keep Bill Gates in microchips until the next century. There was a bit of hag with the bloke dancers, but that's only to be expected. Micky hated them, especially the straight ones - I think a bit of jealousy was at work there. Some of them are right good-looking boys and we take more on the hen nights lately.'

'No faces been round? No one you noticed 'specially?'

Broughton thought for a few seconds. 'Only Jamie O'Loughlin. But they was mates of a sort. He was in the other night. Bought a bird, shagged it up in the office. The usual.'

Patrick's eyes widened. 'Shagged it up in the office? You mean, my office?'

Broughton looked shamefaced. 'Well, Pat, be fair. I wasn't in a position to argue the toss with Micky, was I?'

'What a fucking liberty! Good job he's brown bread. If he wasn't, I might have the urge to do the deed myself.'

Broughton, desperate to change the subject, said: 'Hang on a minute, Pat. I tell you who was in the other week, and he and Micky had a row - a loud one out the back - Leroy Holdings. You know, the coon with the white convertible? Drug dealer, tall . . .'

Patrick sighed heavily. 'I know who you mean. What did they row about?'

Broughton held out his arms again. 'I dunno, Pat. I can't tell you that one, mate.'

Patrick shook his head slowly. 'You are a fucking right good front man, you are. How much wedge are you collaring off of me? You're supposed to be my eyes and ears in this place. Helen fucking Keller could have done a better job! I'll tell you what, how about you tell me what you do actually know? That way we can cut the conversation by about nine hours and Micky can be moved before rigor mortis sets in, eh?'

Broughton looked offended. His bald head was shiny with sweat, his powerful body rigid with suppressed anger.

'No need to be fucking funny, Pat. I did me best. Wanker - I mean Micky - wasn't the easiest of people to work with.'

Patrick calmed down a little at his words.

'I know. But I mean, be fair, who needs this on a Wednesday afternoon? My own mate and business partner topped in the bogs and I am having dinner this very night with an Old Bill. Remember Kate, my old woman, the love of my fucking life? Cheer her right up, this will, especially as I'm supposed to have got rid of all my dodgy dealings. Good job we ain't married or I'd be in the divorce courts within the week.'

Estelle was listening to all this with half an ear. Patrick suddenly remembered her and turned to where she was, sitting at the bar with a bottle of brandy and a pack of Marlboro Lights.

'Comfortable, are we? Can I get you a sandwich or something?'

Willy, sensing Pat was about to blow, stepped in.

'We'd better get Old Bill in, Pat. Any longer and we'll have even more explaining to do. Just report it and go home. They can get in touch later and you can act all shocked like. That way you're out of it all, eh?'

Patrick nodded. 'Well, I wasn't going to pop round Soho Central meself, Willy.' He took a wad of money from his pocket and gave it to Estelle. 'Take this, piss off and keep your trap shut, OK?'

The girl nodded and slid from the stool. As she reached the door he called out to her, 'If I hear you have preached one word I will personally cut your tongue out. OK?'

Estelle nodded again and left the building.

'Where's Micky living now?'

Broughton relaxed at Pat's change of tone.

'I don't know, to be honest. Round here somewhere. I think he still keeps Marianne on the go.'

'That's all we need. She'll be straight round for her compensation. Mouthy mare she is. So we can't dump him at home and let someone else do the dirty then?'

Broughton shook his head. 'You get off, Pat, I'll deal with it from here, OK?'

'That's fucking big of you, Mr Broughton. Am I being dismissed by any chance?'

Willy took his arm gently. 'Leave it out, Pat, he's doing his best.'

'That's right, Willy, you cheer me right up.'

As he walked from the club Willy raised his eyes at the ceiling and Broughton nodded sadly. Patrick Kelly was strung out - and with Kelly that meant he wanted answers, and quick. Broughton wasn't sure what answers he was willing to give. He would play it by ear for a while.

Since the death of his daughter Mandy, Patrick had changed. He seemed harder outside, but there was now an inner core of softness to him that in their world spelled certain death. Maybe not physically, but definitely businesswise. Word on the street was that he was finished, over the hill, and that was just from the kinder of his peers.

Whoever had killed Micky Duggan was after the crown and Broughton hoped they had a head big enough to wear the bastard if and when they finally got it.

Patrick went home, devastated. Micky could be a handful, true, making more than a few enemies in the course of any average day, but it was part and parcel of him and his life. Someone had once said Micky could start a fight in an empty pub. But why kill him like that? Whoever it was had either hidden in the club or else Micky had let them in. Maybe even arranged to meet them there.

From what Broughton had said he had left Micky locking up alone the night before. Estelle said she'd come in for a quick fix from him and had found him there in the late morning. The place had been open all night. How they weren't robbed Patrick didn't know. Anyone could have walked in. Even the alarm was off.

The fact Micky had still been dealing was annoying. All of that ducking and diving was supposed to be a thing of the past. How could they front a respectable club when one of the partners was still banging out skag to prostitutes?

Micky never did have any class, that was part of his rather dubious charm. For charming he could be when the fancy took him. Now he was dead, and there would be an investigation, and Kate would know Patrick was still holding the reins in Soho even though he had led her to believe he no longer had any interests.

He was so annoyed he could happily have strangled Micky Duggan himself.

The phone rang and he ignored it. He already knew what the caller was going to tell him and he wasn't ready to do his big surprised act just yet. He had to sort out what he was going to say to Kate. Because she was going to launch him into outer space when she heard about this.

Willy came into the room with a pot of coffee and an uneasy smile.

'That was Kate on the blower,' he said. 'I told her you were on another call. She's cancelling dinner this evening. Has to work. Sounds like a terrible case, Pat, child abuse of all things. Life's a right bastard really, ain't it, for some people?'

Patrick nodded, relieved to be putting off the inevitable until later. He cared what Kate thought of him; her opinion really mattered. He could not bear the thought of seeing her face as she realised they had, in effect, been living a lie for the last few years.

Why did he have to get a capture now, when everything was going so well and they had even talked of marriage? It was so unfair.

He poured himself some coffee and looked around his beautiful drawing room. Kate's picture now sat beside that of his dead wife Renée on the mantelpiece of the Louis XV fireplace. Her presence was everywhere in the house. Her perfume lingered in the bathroom. Her clothes hung beside his in the closet. Her make-up and creams thrilled him every time he saw them on the dressing table. He loved her with an ache. After losing Mandy and Renée, the two people closest to him, he knew about love. About making the most of it as and when it happened.

So many people never learned to do that.

And he had jeopardised it all for the sake of a few measly grand a night. Money he didn't really need but couldn't resist earning. It was his nature.

As he sipped his coffee, Patrick knew that Kate's late night was only postponing the fireworks that would erupt at some point within the next twenty-four hours.
* * *

Kate was going to court to ask for another twenty-four hours in which to question Regina and Milo.

Her heart was aching. The Carlton children were now under a care order and were to go to a foster family for the night. They were all distressed without their mother as Robert Bateman had predicted, trying to make her feel guilty and succeeding only too well.

But Kate pushed that thought to the back of her mind. She needed to know what exactly had gone on, and she needed to know fast.


Chapter Two


Patrick opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, feeling apprehension wash over him. Turning, he pulled a sleeping Kate into his arms. She nestled into his body and he looked down at her face. Kate was everything to him. He adored her. Just looking at her lying beside him gave him a feeling of immense peace.

She slipped one slender arm across his body and nestled against him, and he instinctively pulled her even closer. He glanced at his watch. Nearly six-thirty. In a few minutes Kate would stir. That was another thing he loved about her. Most of the women before Kate wouldn't even contemplate getting out of bed before ten. They had been aimless, depending on men like him to keep them. Using their bodies as opposed to their brains to get what they wanted.

His respect for her was boundless, and he depended now on the respect she had for him in return. But how long would that last when she found out about yesterday's fiasco? The cold feeling around his heart returned. Kate expected everyone to be like her. What you saw was exactly what you got. Upfront, straight and honest. That was his Kate.

The alarm went off, clamouring in the quiet of their bedroom. She opened her eyes while he turned it off, lay back against the pillows and smiled at him. Then, closing her eyes again, she stretched dreamily.

Patrick watched her, enjoying the morning ritual. Willy would bring in a tray of coffee in ten minutes. By then Kate would have showered and washed her hair.

He was amazed at how well they fitted together. Life-long early risers, Kate and he both enjoyed this part of the day together. Reading the papers for ten minutes and chatting over the headlines was a great start for them both. He was even willing to have the Mail delivered so she could peruse the women's pages, exclaiming over the facelift trials, the alternative medicines and sundry other crap he would know nothing about but for her.

Every bit of it was a joy to him now.

The phone rang on Kate's side of the bed; it was her work line, especially put in for her use when she had come to live with him three years ago. For the first time ever he was glad to hear its shrill ringing this early.

Kate answered it, stifling a yawn. 'Burrows here.'

He watched the changing expressions on her face and saw how her eyes dilated at what was obviously distressing news. She replaced the receiver and leaped from the bed.

'What's up, Kate?'

'One of my suspects tried to commit suicide this morning. Bit clean through her own wrist. I'll have Dave Golding's balls for this. I told him to have her watched. I must get along to the hospital, see what I can salvage.' She disappeared into the shower.

Patrick toyed with the idea of jumping in with her, felt the usual stirring in his groin. Then Willy knocked on the door, and the coffee and papers were there, and Kate was dressing quickly. Kissing him and leaving.

As she walked to the door she half turned. 'You OK, Pat?'

He nodded. ''Course I am. You?'

She grinned. 'Never better. Speak to you later.'

Then she was gone, leaving him feeling bereft. He loved her so much, so very very much. But he knew that he was living on borrowed time.

* * *

Regina had been given six stitches in her wrist. Kate gazed down at her and wondered at a life that could at once be so complicated and yet so ineffectual. In repose, Regina's face showed a prettiness it lost when she was animated. The sour look was gone; the lines that anguish had imprinted there were smoothed out. She looked what she was: an attractive young woman with good bone structure and thick auburn hair that would probably have been glossy on another woman. One with self-respect, one who still cared about herself.

Kate took Regina's hand in hers and held it gently. The warm pressure was returned and the gesture made Kate think of her own daughter, Lizzy, when she had overdosed. Unlike Regina, her mother had been there for her; her granny had too. Regina, it appeared, had no one to depend on. To share things with. All she had was three children, a council flat and drugs. A lethal combination. Loneliness was the worst kind of unhappiness, something Kate herself knew only too well.

She saw the girl's eyes open. 'You're OK, Regina,' she said softly. 'Try and sleep.'

Regina was still half drugged. She nodded and said in a hoarse voice, 'I never hurt my baby . . . not my baby. The only person I've ever hurt is myself.'

Kate didn't answer her. She didn't know what to say.
* * *

Outside the hospital Kate lit a cigarette and sat on a bench while she gathered her thoughts together.

She remembered coming to this same hospital when Patrick's daughter Mandy had been attacked. Kate could still see her lying in the hospital bed after what they had hoped would be a life-saving operation. Her head had been opened up to relieve the pressure on her swollen brain. Mandy Kelly had taken a beating that had been as vicious as it had been random.

Kate would never have dreamed that night, as she waited in the hospital, that Mandy's father - a local hard man and local businessman to boot - would not only garner her respect, but also her love. Patrick's helplessness at his daughter's plight had struck a chord inside her. She had seen him vulnerable and frightened, as she guessed no one else ever had. Not even his wife Renée, or his daughter Mandy, who had died at the hands of the Grantley Ripper.

George Markham came into her mind then, his face. His little smile.

She had been on CID ten years then and she had learned so much since then that, these days, she could make sense of Patrick Kelly and his life. He was bad, she knew that. But he lived by a different set of rules and Kate had to admit that, against her better judgement, those rules worked for him. In fact, her boss Ratchet was in league with him.

But no matter what she had found out about him - she had known he was a villain from the off - his personality and his innate sense of right and wrong, however twisted it seemed to her, had drawn them together. She had forgiven him so much, had chosen to believe in him and in the fact that he had changed for her.

He had given up his various nefarious businesses. He had become legit for her. That was all the proof she needed to fall even deeper into his life and allow the natural love inside her to encompass them both.

For a man like Patrick to turn his back on his whole way of life spoke volumes.

Finally she had a man she could love and respect properly. And God Himself knew, she loved him with every ounce of her being.
* * *

Patrick sat in the conservatory listening to Willy in amazement.

'It seems, Pat, that Micky was dabbling with Joey Partridge and Jacky Gunner.'

'Who told you this?'

Willy shrugged. 'I hear a few beats off the street still, Pat. I ain't bleeding dead.'

'So it would seem. What business was he in with them, then? Christ knows, he was into enough of them.'

Willy grinned. 'The oldest profession. Be fair, Pat, it was always Wanker's forte, weren't it?'

Pat felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. 'Not European birds? Not that?'

Willy nodded.

'How did you come by this information?'

'A little bird told me.'

Patrick laughed at Willy's smug expression. 'Lived up to his name, didn't he? All this hag. I mean, the chances are Partridge or Gunner's done him then?'

Willy shrugged. 'Someone done him, Pat, and let's face it, Micky could be a ponce when the fancy took him. Even I've felt like cracking him one before now.'

'Everyone in recorded history has felt like giving Micky a dig before now. So where are they running the birds from?'

'Paddington as usual. They have a couple of flats there and other places all over the smoke and the South East. Right ropey some of them birds are, and all. Dosed up to the eyebrows a lot of them and that's not counting the HIV-positive ones. Micky offers them the earth, see. They pay up to a grand to get out of their country, he sorts it for them and then takes their passports and papers and tells them they have to work off the excess money they owe. It's a doddle really. He was earning off them all over the place. If they got a bit lairy like, they'd get a right fucking hiding to sort them out. I always said Wanker was a scummy bastard.'

Patrick sighed. 'So if he's out of the game, who'll be sorting it from now on?'

'Well, Partridge and Gunner will be looking for someone else to bring in, won't they? I reckon they'll want to see you.'

'Unless I see them first, eh?' Patrick said thoughtfully. 'Get the car ready, Willy. Me and you are going on a pussy hunt.'

Willy left the room and Patrick felt a hand tighten around his heart. Kate would have his balls and nail them to the dining-room wall if she got wind of any of this.

He knew that everyone thought he was off his trolley to take up with an Old Bill, even if she had found the murderer of his daughter. The daughter he worshipped, adored, who had been his whole life. He knew that people thought he was soft, losing it, that Mandy's death had left him lacking the natural aggression he needed to be a hard man. He was aware of all that, but over the last couple of years he and Kate had proved themselves to be a good partnership.

The only bugbear was, Kate really thought he was straight now. He had been in every kind of business under the sun, anything from massage parlours to debt collecting. She thought he had given it all up. She thought he was straight now.

He closed his eyes in distress. The moment she heard about this latest piece of skulduggery she was going to go ballistic - and who could blame her? He knew he was a lying toe-rag.

The day she had moved in with him he had promised her that he would be straighter than a Catholic nun having a vision. He had not kept his side of the bargain. In fact, he had never had any intention of keeping his side of the bargain. Not for a good while anyway.

Like the man crying in the courtroom, he wasn't sorry for what he had done, he was sorry he had been caught. Even he admitted there was a big difference between the two.
* * *

Harris Jenkins was a small man with large teeth and thick lips. His job was unhealthy but he loved it. Emptying bins was his life. He said he could tell what type of person lived in a house simply by the rubbish they threw out. And with his eagle eyes he readily saw things he could take away and sell on. A walking car boot sale, was Harris. A true believer that one man's crap was another man's treasure.

At the moment he was sorting through a pile of rubbish left by the bins at a small block of flats for old people. They threw out some great stuff. As he picked through the cardboard boxes he smiled happily. Let his colleagues wait. He needed to sift through this stuff carefully. Some of it was crockery and that could be worth a few quid.

Meanwhile Denny Gardener and John Piles were sitting in the bin van talking. They were used to Harris and his treasure-seeking. In fact, they welcomed it as an excuse for a break.

'Here, Denny, how do you make an Essex girl's eyes light up? Shine a torch in her ear!'

Both men cracked up with laughter.

Denny carried on rolling himself a cigarette. He placed a bit of skunk in it and John automatically opened the window.

'You get caught smoking that and you will be well up Shit Street.'

Denny shrugged. 'Who cares? What kind of job is this anyway? They call me a champion shit-shifter down the pub.'

'It's a job, son, remember that.'

Denny didn't answer. In the side window he watched a woman hurrying down the street, a small boy beside her. Then, lighting up, he took a deep drag.

'Fucking boring job and a boring life. That's me.'

They both laughed.

John grinned. 'Don't knock boring, boy. The sun's out and life is sweet enough if you think about it.'
* * *

Jason Harper was sitting in his brand new BMW looking through his Filofax. He had fucked up two meetings in an hour. He knew he should be more organised but it was hard. The glare of the sun was blinding him through the windscreen and he slipped on his Ray-Bans. A bin van was parked in front of him; it had been there for about five minutes. He watched as a woman with a small child walked across the road. She was nothing spectacular, and he only glanced out of habit. She was tallish with blonde hair but a very average face.

It was only when she stopped and glanced up and down the road that he looked again. Then, in pure disbelief, he saw her pick up the small child and tip him quickly into the crusher. For a few seconds Jason wondered if he was going mad. As he saw the woman striding off alone he catapulted himself from the driver's seat.
* * *

Harris heard the commotion just as he was carefully looking over a china fruit bowl. It was a good one or he would eat his binman's gloves.

A resounding shout made him fumble with the bowl and nearly drop it. Striding out of the alley he was amazed to be confronted by his two workmates and a bloke in a suit trying to climb into the back of the crusher.

'What the fucking hell are you lot doing?' He thought they had all gone mad. Carefully placing the bowl on the grass verge, he walked over to the men. 'What's going on, Den?'

'Christ knows, Harris. Do us a favour - go in the flats and phone Old Bill and an ambulance, will you? We have a kid in here somewhere.'

'A what?' Then he heard a faint cry and it spurred him into action. Running back to the flats he trod on the fruit bowl. The sound and feel of the fragile object crunching under his feet lent added speed.

His stars in the Sun had said he would receive a surprise today and they were right!
* * *

Jason was in shock and Kate realised that. She took him by the elbow and sat him down on the kerb. He put his head in his hands.

'I can't believe it,' he mumbled. 'What woman would do something like that to a child? I mean, suppose I hadn't been there? They would have crushed the poor little sod.'

He started crying and Kate put an understanding arm around his shoulders. He could smell Joy perfume and cigarettes, and in some strange way, was comforted by it.

'But you were there, Jason, and you saved his life,' she said gently. 'Without you he would have been crushed and so I think you should pat yourself on the back.'

He hastily wiped away his tears, suddenly aware of all the bystanders watching him. One of the residents of the street had phoned the local paper and Jason saw a scruffy young man with a beard taking a photo of him.

'You are a hero,' Kate said kindly. 'Now let's get you into the ambulance so they can have a look at you, eh? I think you're in shock, love.'

Jason's eyes were dark brown and Kate smiled into them. He tried to smile back but couldn't. She helped him get up and walked him slowly to the ambulance. Then she turned to PC Black and sighed.

'This is weird. Two cases like this in three days - what on earth is going on?'

'Beats me, Guv,' he shrugged. 'Weird's the word all right.'

All Kate could think about was the child's frightened eyes. If Jason hadn't been parked there it would have been a murder case. She hoped they found out who the child was soon. Bless his heart, he was well dressed and fed, they knew that much. A woman with long blonde hair, tallish . . . but that could have been because she was wearing heels. None of the men had looked hard enough. Which meant she wasn't all that special. One thing they were all sure about was the fact that she'd been in a hurry. But she would have been, wouldn't she? If she was dumping a child in a crusher she would have been as quick as she ruddy well could.

Kate looked at Jason's BMW and realised why the woman had not spotted him. The reflected glare of the sun on the windscreen made the inside of the car look dark and empty. So she had obviously thought herself unobserved.

Whoever she was, she had meant to kill the little lad. The knowledge left Kate feeling deeply depressed.
* * *

Caroline Anderson walked unsteadily into her small terraced house. She was still half drunk from the night before. Going straight to the bathroom, she had a long satisfying wee. As the strong-odoured water came out of her body she felt herself relaxing. She hated that smell. It was the smell of men. Strange men. It was bitter and acrid. The smell of her own degradation and the complete fuck-up her daily life had become.

After wiping herself, she ran a bath. She poured in half a bottle of Ralgex and watched the bubbles mounting, smiling in anticipation. A good scrub and she would let the kids out.

Stripping off, she stepped into the steaming water and lay back. She glanced at her watch. She was later than ever today. She had had an overnighter - and Christ, she had worked for the money! Three blokes and enough 'toys' to set up an Ann Summers shop.

She was sore everywhere.

Closing her eyes, she let the hot water do its work.
* * *

Kate watched as the little boy wolfed down another hot dog. He was obviously starving. A good-looking, golden-skinned Anglo-Caribbean child, he was bright and alert, with a fabulous smile. He seemed happy enough in the canteen with everyone making a big fuss of him. His big brown eyes were merry, and he had a sturdy little body. He was obviously well cared for, too, in his expensive clothes. A real little designer babe. But what was his name?

The child was no more than eighteen months old, though large for his age. The doctor had said he was in perfect health and none the worse for his ordeal. But he was a quiet child and would not or could not answer any questions. Kate found herself smiling at him again. He beamed across at her and shoved another large bite of hot dog into his mouth.

'Quiet, ain't he?'

Kate nodded at Black's observation. 'But someone knows who he is. Has Social Services arrived yet?'

'Nope. Handsome little lad, though.'

'Probably another poor little git with a waster for a mother,' Kate said quietly. 'I don't know. Why do people go through all the hag of childbearing and then not bother to care for the poor little fuckers?'

The little boy sipped at his orange juice and Kate felt tears prick her eyes. He looked so helpless, so vulnerable. So bloody small. She swallowed down her anger and her pity.

It was all she could do.
* * *

Caroline was sleepy; the heat of the water and the night's exertions had tired her out. She pulled herself reluctantly from the bath and wrapped a big towel around her body as she walked through to her lounge. It was as always pristine.

Lighting a Rothman's, she pulled on it deeply and absent-mindedly straightened a cushion that was already perfectly aligned. Opening her handbag, she pulled out £300 in twenties and another £150 in tens. She had the money for that coffee-table she fancied and for Christian's new trainers.

Caroline felt a glow inside. The night before had been worth it, after all. Something to put out of her head, like all the other nights she had so conveniently forgotten.

Yawning, she walked through to the kids' bedroom. After pulling back the big bolt on the door, she pushed it open, smiling in readiness. But it was empty. The small, designer-decorated room was completely empty!

Caroline felt her heart stop in her chest. Rushing inside, she pulled back the covers on the beds and even looked under them. Her eyes were darting around the room, expecting at any minute to see her children standing in front of her.

The plate of sandwiches she had left was still on the night table. The bottle of orange was still there too. So they had not had their breakfast or anything.

Then she tore from the room and searched the house from top to bottom, panic mounting in her breast. Finally she collapsed on the sofa. Picking up her mobile, she dialled a number and waited for it to be answered.

As soon as the connection was made she screamed into the phone: 'How dare you take my children, you rotten bastard?'

Her face drained of colour as she listened to Jiggsy Gaston explaining that he was currently in Liverpool with his sister and had not been anywhere near the kids. He sounded alarmed.

Realising that this was even more serious than she'd thought, Caroline broke the connection and phoned the police. Her heart was beating so loudly she could hear a crashing in her ears.

Where the hell were her two little boys? Where were Christian and Ivor?
* * *

Patrick walked into a small spieler in Custom House. It was practically empty except for two elderly men and a young woman who worked behind the bar. The girl was Lesley Partridge and as Patrick walked towards her she smiled to see him.

'Hello, Pat. Long time no see.'

He grinned at her. 'You look well, Les. Is the old man about?'

She shook her head. 'Dad's on the missing list again, I ain't seen him for three days. You know what he's like.'

'Joey's a lad all right. Give me a Beck's, love.'

She opened the bottle of beer and placed it on the counter with a glass.

'Me dad makes me sick, Pat. Still chasing strange at his age. But that's him all over. I expect he's still shagging some sort and will emerge eventually. He always does.'

Willy came into the small room and nodded at the two older men as he made his way to the bar. Lesley automatically poured him a Britvic orange.

'Hello, Willy. Me mum was asking after you the other day. How's things?'

He shrugged. 'OK, love. Kicking, as they say nowadays.'

She laughed. 'I'll see if I can track me dad down on his bent mobile, eh?'

Patrick nodded and she walked from the bar, her large behind swaying suggestively.

'He's gone walkabout, Willy.'

'He will, won't he, Pat? He don't want no one seeing him for a while. Wouldn't surprise me if he was abroad like. Tenerife or Marbella would be my guess.'

They drank peacefully for a few moments until the girl returned to the bar, shaking her head.

'Can't get him, he ain't answering.'

Patrick swallowed down the last of his beer. 'When you do hear from him, tell him I need a word, will you?'

She nodded and cleared away. As they walked out into the light and air, one of the old lags stopped them.

'Listen, Pat. I don't know what's going down but some foreigners were looking for Joey a couple of days ago. They were likely lads and all. No please or thank you. One of them was Frankie Oberzaki - and that is one dangerous cunt. He wasn't looking too thrilled either.'

Patrick nodded solemnly. 'You think Joey might have had a capture?'

The man shrugged theatrically. 'Who knows? But he's been ducking and diving a lot recently. Had a tear-up in Epping Country Club a week ago. Honestly, it's like he's going through a second childhood, the dozy twat. He was rowing with Dickey Dalton - the younger that is. Slapped him all over the place. Even the bouncers gave it a wide one. I mean, no one wants to be caught up in all that, do they?'

Patrick looked at him in amazement. 'He had a tear-up with a little nonce like Dalton, at his age? Has he finally fell out of his shopping trolley?'

The man sighed. 'It's the okey doke, ain't it? More goes up his hooter than on a dental association outing. Makes him paranoid. He's rowing with everyone, and let's face it, Pat, Mr Amenable he never was. One awkward ponce is Partridge.'

'Well, thanks for the SP.'

The man shook hands with them and walked to his brand new Merc. They both watched him pull away.

'That was a touch, Pat. He's normally very tight-lipped, old Tom Ellis. Must have been well annoyed with Partridge to spill that little lot.'

'He owes me a favour. His boy's doing life for murder. I gave him an easy set in Durham. Single cell, et cetera.'

Willy nodded. 'Least he can do then really. Where to next?'

'To be honest, Willy, I don't have a clue,' Patrick sighed.
* * *

Christian ran into his mother's arms and Kate was pleased to see there was a genuine closeness there. She was dreading the woman's next question.

'Where's Ivor?'

Caroline's pretty face was expectant and Kate sat her down gently before explaining how Christian had been found, and that he was alone.

'You're telling me that my son was thrown into a bin van and my other son's still on the missing list?'

Kate could hear the rising hysteria in the woman's voice.

'So where the fuck is Ivor then? Who's got my Ivor?'

Kate shook her head sadly. 'We don't know. Until we heard from you, how were we to know that two children were missing? Also, three witnesses gave a description of a woman who could be you at the scene. So we have a dilemma on our hands. Do you understand what I'm telling you?'

Caroline looked as if she had been punched in the solar plexus.

'How come you didn't notice you'd mislaid your children until nearly lunchtime today? Most kids are up and about by eight. And how come you don't have any idea who could have taken them from under your nose? In short, if you tell us the truth about what happened, maybe, just maybe, we can try and locate Ivor for you. But without you telling us the full story, we can't help you at all. A three-year-old child is wandering around out there somewhere and it's imperative we find him before he harms himself. So, Caroline, let's start at the beginning, shall we?'

The other woman looked into Kate's eyes and felt the tears welling.

'You think a nutter has him, don't you?' Fear was all she felt and tasted. 'Where is he? Where's my little Ivor?' she said frantically.

'I was hoping you could answer that,' Kate told her. 'Listen, Caroline, you were placed there at the scene. We're going to ask you to take part in an identity parade some time today. I suggest you get a solicitor and take advice.'

Caroline's eyes were terrified, giant orbs in a white face. 'You think I have something to do with all this, don't you?'

Kate shrugged. 'An ID parade could clear you, remember that. But as we have three witnesses who gave a description that sounded remarkably like you, we cannot rule you out of our investigation just yet. I feel, though, that there are a lot of unanswered questions here and only you can provide us with the necessary answers.'

Caroline's face changed. 'My boys are my life, whatever anyone might think. I admit I do a few things wrong but I love them boys and I do what I do for them. You must believe me.'

'I deal in facts. Plain and simple facts. The only ones I have now are that your children were taken from under your roof, one child was dumped in a bin van, the other is still missing. We need to find him. Fast.'

As Kate watched the changing expressions on the girl's face she wasn't sure whether the mother was behind the children's disappearance or not.

Suddenly, Caroline leaped from her seat and roared at the top of her voice: 'Where is my little boy? You're the police. Fucking go and find him!'

As she began screaming uncontrollably Kate bundled up the small boy who stood as if turned to stone by his mother's shrieks and hustled him from the room. She called a medic, watched as the girl was sedated, and then when she was under a modicum of control, Kate started to question her properly. At the back of her mind she was always aware that somewhere a three-year-old child was either dead, dying or being held captive.

Time was running out for Ivor Anderson. If it hadn't done so already.
* * *

Patrick looked around his office in Canning Town in sheer disbelief. The place had been well and truly trashed. All his papers were strewn across the room; his account books had been ripped apart. Even the photographs of his dead wife Renée and daughter Mandy had been destroyed, and this upset him more than anything.

Willy stared at the scene open-mouthed. 'Blimey, Pat, someone was after something.'

'You know what, Willy? You always state the fucking obvious. Sometimes it really gets on my tits.'

'I was only saying . . .'

'Yeah, well, don't in future. But I tell you one thing: whoever did this is on a fucking death wish. I will find out who is responsible and kill them.'

'Could it have been kids?'

Patrick shook his head. 'This is too professional for kids. My guess is they were after me holding books. Even the floorboards have been prised up. Luckily I keep them separate. What we need to know now is why someone wants them. I own the businesses so why are the books of any interest to an outside party?'

'Well, maybe whoever did this is after a slice of the pie themselves.'

'Precisely. Now we have to guess who that could be and rout the fuckers. Put the fear of Christ up them.'

Willy wiped one large hand across his face. 'My guess is either Partridge or Gunner.'

Patrick's voice was a sarcastic growl as he answered, 'Fuck-all gets past you, eh, Willy? Magnus Magnusson been on the blower yet for Mastermind?'

Willy was hurt and it showed. 'No point getting all bolshie with me, Pat. I'm on your side.'

As he spoke he picked up Renée's photo and tried to smooth it out with his big clumsy hands. 'Whoever did this will get a right-hander off me just for this little fiasco,' he mumbled. 'This is getting bleeding personal.'

Patrick saw that the big man was visibly upset and put an arm round his shoulders.

'I'm sorry, Willy, but all this is getting to me now. I have someone after me and I don't even know who for sure. I can guess, I can fight, I can hurt . . . but I still have to find out for definite who I'm dealing with and, more importantly, why.'

'My poke is on Gunner, Pat. I've never liked him, the ponce.'

'Well, whoever it is had better have some heavy weapons because they're going to need them. A joke's a joke, as my old mum used to say. But this is turning into a fucking pantomime.'

There was raw anger in Patrick's voice. Then the phone rang and they both realised it was the only thing in the room that had not been destroyed.

He picked it up. 'What?'

A woman came on the line. A quietly spoken woman.

'Mr Kelly?'

'The same.'

'You have two minutes to vacate the Portakabin. It is going to blow.'

He stared at the mouthpiece for ten seconds in incredulous silence before looking at Willy and saying loudly, 'This place is going to blow up in two minutes. Some sort just told me they were blowing up my fucking drum! Can you believe the nerve of that-'

Willy took him roughly by the arm. 'In that case, Pat, let's get out of here, eh?'

As they hurried outside Patrick stared around him at the yard he had had for over thirty years.

'This has got to be a wind-up.'

Willy pushed him into the car and backed it out on to the road. Then, parking as far away from the yard as he could, they sat and watched.

The yard blew all right.

Patrick could still hear the ringing in his ears when the fire brigade and police arrived, but by that time he and Willy were driving sedately along the A13, Patrick muttering over and over: 'Unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable.'

Willy kept quiet.


Chapter Three


Leroy Holdings was tired out. He had been up for two days speeding and knew he should go to bed but he had a meet with another dealer about broadening their horizons around the capital. Drug dealing and prostitution were more lucrative than he could ever have dreamed. Thank God for women and pharmaceuticals - that was his mantra these days.

As he looked around his state-of-the-art kitchen he smiled contentedly. He had come a long way from Manchester. He liked living in Docklands. There was an anonymity about the place that appealed to him, but his girlfriend Letitia had left the place in a mess and that irked him.

Lately she couldn't be bothered to do anything. Pregnancy was not doing her much good. In fact, since she had found out about the baby she had done practically nothing. That included the bedroom department as well.

When he heard the door open he shouted: 'Hey, Letitia, I'm in here.' His voice was loud and aggressive. He was going to bawl her out, he had decided. He might not have been home for a while but, hell, it was her job to see that the place was kept in good condition.

As he looked across the Thames he felt his usual stir of pride at living in a Docklands loft. Coming from a council estate in Manchester, he appreciated this turn in his fortunes more than the average dealer. Not for him a cage in a local authority flat where everyone came calling at all hours of the day and night. He didn't need to do that himself any more and certainly didn't live on top of the business. He had invested his money in property and cars, the latter being his first love.

When he went to friends' houses and saw the bars on their doors and windows he felt stifled. It was like being banged up again. No, he liked his smart new life, it suited him fine.

He strolled from the kitchen area into the large lounge. It was then he saw the two men with shotguns standing on his immaculate white shag-pile carpet.

'Hello, son.'

The man's voice was friendly. Friendly enough for Leroy to think all he was getting was a warning of some kind.

When the guns went off he was so shocked that the look of utter incomprehension was still on his face when Letitia found him there twenty-five minutes later.


* * *

Stingo Plessey was old. Very old in comparison with the other men who lived on the caravan site with him. As he walked carefully across the rubbish tip he was whistling. The smells of rotten food and stinking garbage meant nothing to him. He was used to it. Today he was keeping his eye out for stuff he could clean up and sell on. Anything, in fact, that caught his eye.

Seeing a child's brand new trainer he grinned, showing greying false teeth. Picking it up, he saw it was a Nike. Now if he could find the other one he would be set. A good clean and he had at least a fiver in his pocket. A nice bottle of sherry or fine ruby port. He rubbed his hands together in glee.

As he pushed the rubbish about with his thick yew walking stick he saw the other trainer. Only this one was bloodied and stained. He swallowed down fiery bile as he realised that inside the small trainer there was still what looked like a foot.

Glancing around the rubbish tip he saw the other sifters looking through the trash with the seagulls and the gypsies. He tried to call out but couldn't. His throat had seized up, his whole body stiff with revulsion and fear.

As the police turned up in three large minibuses Stingo realised he had just found what they were looking for. Digging his stick into the rubbish, he marked the spot and started to wave his hands in the air to let people know he had found something important.

No one took any notice.

The wind picked up and flapped newspapers and soiled nappies in its wake. It picked up the smell of the trash and forced it into noses and mouths. Stingo felt the prick of tears in his eyes as he started calling out with all his might. To end your days on a rubbish tip seemed a terrible fate.

It never occurred to him that that was exactly what he had to look forward to himself.
* * *

'Sweet Jesus. Have they found his head?' DC Golding was subdued even by his standards. 'Well, what have they got then?'

He listened for a few seconds before replacing the receiver. Then he made his way to the interview room with a heavy heart. This was going to put everyone on a downer. The death of a kid was every Old Bill's worst nightmare.

He slipped into the interview room and listened to Kate's interrogation, making sure he wasn't interrupting it at a crucial point.

Caroline had her solicitor with her, a woman called Angela Puttain. She was an experienced brief and Golding felt glad that at least the woman had some kind of support with her when she was told the bad news. He was actually sorry for her now, even though he still suspected that she was the culprit.

Caroline was crying as she gave her statement.

'I know what I did was wrong, Miss Burrows, but I was at the end of my tether. Their dad had jogged on. He only gives me money when he remembers. I started escort work last year and it sort of went on to prostitution. I never meant to go on the game, it just sort of happened. I don't have a sitter for the kids because I never wanted anyone to know what I was doing. People are streetwise where I live and they would have sussed it out quick smart. So I locked the kids in their room with some food and drink and that was that really. They were safe enough. I locked the house up after me and they were always asleep in bed when I left. They didn't even know I was gone half the time.' Her voice was low, full of pain and shame.

'Did you ever give them Valium to make them sleep?' Kate asked.

Caroline was scandalised at the thought of giving her children drugs. 'Never! What makes you ask that?'

Kate shook her head. She wondered if this was the new thing with some young mums. Knock the kids out, then if there was a fire or whatever they could sleep peacefully right through it.

Golding took his chance to tap her on the shoulder and ask if he could have a word. As Kate followed him to her office she felt depressed. It was as if all the effluent of the world was parading about as regular people. She wondered what went through the minds of women like Caroline Anderson. If she was earning good wedge - and Kate had never met a tom yet who wasn't - then she could easily have used a babysitting service.

'What've you got for me?' she asked the detective tiredly.

Golding looked her in the eye. 'We have a small pair of trainers from the dump. One still has a foot in it.'

Kate ran her hands through her hair in despair.

'It's murder, then? I was hoping we were wasting our time looking over the dump.'

'I had a feeling we'd find something there,' he told her. 'I think she did it. I think her and that Regina are a pair of murdering bitches.'

'If I were you I'd keep that particular gem of wisdom to yourself. Innocent until proven guilty in this station, mate. Now is there anything else I should know before I go back in to her?'

Golding shook his head. 'It was a Nike trainer. I'll keep you posted as to what else turns up. Do you want me to get you some coffee sent in?'

She nodded. 'Any calls for me?'

He shook his head again. 'Not a dicky bird.'

Kate watched him as he left the office. David Golding was a strange man. A good officer, he got the job done but he didn't really mix with the others. In fact, Kate could never remember him talking about anything personal ever.

He was a good-looking man in a boyish, intellectual way. He had the large blue eyes of an innocent that seemed to take in everything at once, and sandy-coloured hair and eyebrows which made him look amiable. However, after even a brief conversation, people were in no doubt as to his strong opinions and his rather aggressive personality.

Golding despised burglars and petty thieves and he hated sex offenders, but he seemed to have an affinity with what he regarded as career criminals - bank robbers, big-time hoods. He was a prime candidate for the Serious Crimes Squad; they were also renowned for their ability to like - even admire - the people they were going to bang up.

Kate dismissed Golding from her mind. She normally would have had a message from Pat by now. He hadn't been right for the last few days - he had seemed very edgy somehow. But she couldn't think about that at the moment. She had too much else to worry about. This was murder, and she was starting to get a bad feeling about it all. For starters, why would two women decide overnight to try and murder their own children, and in such strange ways? People battered kids, they lost their temper with them, some people even tortured or harmed them. But to her knowledge nobody just upped and dumped them on building sites or in bin vans. Not while they were still alive, anyway.

Nothing shocked her any more, or so she had thought until today. She had honestly believed she was past shocking. But something here was all wrong, and she didn't know what it was. Something was bugging her - really bugging her, but maybe it was just the circumstances. She thought of Christian and his little smiling face. Had his brother been dumped in a bin van too? Had he been alive when it had happened?

It was almost too awful to contemplate, the terrible fear young Ivor must have experienced. Kate became hot and clammy at the thought of it. Christ knows what the child must have felt, having it actually happen to him.

She shooed Golding from the room and sat alone, smoking a cigarette for a few moments. She needed to pull herself together and quick. She had some serious work ahead of her.

As she walked from the office her phone rang, but she ignored it. It would be Chief Inspector Ratchet for an update and at this moment in time she wasn't ready to share anything with anyone. Not until she had sorted it out in her own mind.

A picture of her daughter Lizzy in a white dress at her third birthday party came into her mind. Kate pushed it away. This case was emotive enough as it was without making it any harder on herself by starting to judge the women involved.

As she had said to Golding, innocent until proven guilty.
* * *

|s2 |s2 |s2Patrick heard the door shut and took a deep breath. Kate came into the drawing room like a gale-force wind. She kissed him hard on the mouth.

'I needed that, Pat. What a bloody day.'

She looked tired and as she sat down on the sofa he went to her and removed her shoes. He rubbed her feet and she groaned with pleasure.

'That is so good. I only have a couple of hours, for a shower and a quick change and then I've got to go back. A little boy was found at the dump - I expect you heard on the radio?'

He nodded sadly. 'Any idea who did it?'

'No - although it does seem as if the mother had something to do with it. She reckons she left her kids alone in their room - locked in, of course - while she did a moonlight as a prostitute. But whoever she works for must be pretty scary because she won't say how she gets her contacts. Came home before lunchtime and they were gone. We had one kid by then. He'd been dumped by a woman fitting the mother's description in a bin van. Looks like the dead child met the same fate. We've found his feet and torso so far.'

Patrick looked into her deep brown eyes. 'Come to bed with me,' he said softly.

Kate stretched out on the sofa and stared back into his eyes. She felt the pull of him. Ten minutes later they were in the shower, her legs wrapped around his waist while she had the climax of the century. As he came inside her she scraped her nails gently up his back, knowing it would drive him wild. When he collapsed against the side of the shower she started to laugh and he joined in.

'Put me down before you drop me.'

He looked into her face, the face he adored. 'I love you, Kate. Remember that, whatever happens.'

'I love you too, Pat. Are you all right?'

He placed her gently on her feet. Her face was so serious it reminded him of the night they'd first met, when his daughter had been attacked and raped by George Markham, the serial killer. Even to this day they didn't discuss the case. It was taboo between them.

Kate loved Pat but loathed his lifestyle. Now she was going to find out a whole lot more about it and Patrick was frightened of the consequences. Terrified, in fact, because she would walk out on him - he knew that as well as he knew his own name. He should be the one to tell her, but he couldn't. He could not bear to see the bitter disappointment in her eyes.
* * *

Leila Cadman was pretty, very pretty, and Kate had always liked her. Since she had come to Grantley as the new forensic pathologist the two women had become firm friends. Today Kate could see the strain of tiredness under Leila's eyes as she outlined her findings.

'It's a young male, about two years old. Been there maybe a week. I can be more accurate after some tests. He's Caucasian, well-nourished . . .'

'Hang on a minute, did you say white?'

Leila nodded.

'Not mixed race?'

'No way.'

Leila could see the confusion on Kate's face.

'And you think the body has been there about a week?'

'I can't say for certain the body parts were on the dump itself for that time, but the injuries on the limbs we have recovered were, in my opinion, caused at least seven days ago. As I said, I will know more after further tests.'

'Jesus Christ, we're looking for a little boy of mixed race. If this child is white, then who is he and why has no one reported him missing?'

Leila looked sad. 'Sign of the times.'

Kate nodded unhappily. 'So it would seem.'
* * *

Chief Inspector Ratchet was seething with anger. His eyes were darting around his office, taking in all the trappings of success. Would they be enough to get him out of the large and rather deep hole he seemed to have dug himself into? He didn't hold out too much hope. Even his award for bravery seemed to be mocking him.

Ratchet sighed and sipped at his coffee. It was lukewarm and a skin had formed on the top. He felt it adhere to his lip and grimaced at the disgusting feel of it.

Kate came through the door as he was wiping his face. She smiled at him and he motioned for her to take a chair. As she seated herself he decided she really was a good-looking woman. Her hair looked different; it was glossy and thick, longer lately than she had worn it before, and her eyes, though worried, were clear and bright. The deep red lipstick she wore looked sexy on her. All in all, he thought she looked well. The perfect advertisement for a good sex-life. He had a strong suspicion that was what put the spring in her step and the wiggle in her arse.

Feminism never was Ratchet's strong point.

He knew Patrick Kelly well and had been amazed when he had not heard any gossip concerning him and nubile young women since the start of the relationship with Kate. Patrick had been the slag extraordinaire of their mutual lodge, a byword among the other Masons in the getting of young crumpet and keeping of it. But since taking up with Kate he had turned over a new leaf and against his will Ratchet was impressed by the woman before him. She was keeping Kelly on the straight and narrow. Sexually anyway. If only the same could be said for his business dealings.

'How's it going, Kate?'

'Frankly, sir, it's a mess. We have a dead child who is apparently unknown. I have one of the team liaising with other nicks, to see if the body was brought here from another part of the country and dumped. We have another little boy still missing, though his brother was found. I have two perps, both of whom are the mothers and both of whom were placed at the scene yet each one denies any involvement whatsoever. One, I might add, tried to top herself. And on top of all that we're no nearer a solution than we were when we started. Psychologists are trying to talk to the kids but it's basically a waste of time. Both are too young and any good brief would argue that anything we got was put in the child's mouth to further our own agenda.'

Ratchet nodded, but Kate was amazed to see he wasn't really listening.

'Look - I have to talk to you about something else - something personal,' he announced awkwardly.

She raised one eyebrow and then frowned. 'What is it?'

Ratchet twiddled with some pencils before saying carefully, 'Can I get you a coffee, dear?'
* * *

Patrick was in Old Compton Street. He slipped straight through a sex shop and out into a back office, his face plainly registering disgust. A small woman in her sixties was sitting behind a wide mahogany desk there and she grinned at his obvious discomfiture.

Her thick guttural accent grated on his ears but he liked Maya, she was OK. A grafter, she always made sure that whatever job she undertook earned her and her partners money. She was trustworthy, honest by the laws of villainy, and hard. The three main attributes Patrick looked for in his business associates.

Today, though, he had the hump and Maya knew this. It was not hard to understand why either so she made allowances.

'Sit down,' she told him. 'Relax and we'll talk.'

He sat opposite her, and his dark countenance and steely eyes warned her that he was still a force to be reckoned with, and for only the second time in her life she felt real fear.

Maya Baker had come up the hard way. From turning tricks in her early teens she had gradually established a network of porn outlets and gentlemen's clubs. These exclusive little enclaves catered mainly for S&M and spanking, a pastime she found many rich older men rather liked. She made a fortune, adhered to strict rules and was feared by colleagues and workers alike. Maya's Achilles heel was her love of money. Real money. It was this that had led Patrick Kelly to come looking for her.

'You've heard about Leroy, I take it?' she began.

Patrick nodded.

'I take the blame,' Maya admitted. 'I had to remove him, he was getting to be a pain in the arse. I didn't know you wanted to talk to him or I would have left it a few days. Now, can I help in any way?'

Patrick was impressed despite himself. She had held her hand up, apologised and offered friendship, all in three sentences. Most men he knew would have spent ages beating round the bush before getting to the point. He also admired the way she didn't try to apologise for what she had done, only for the timing. It had happened, was over, and now they must try to repair the damage.

'Do you know anything about Duggan?'

'Enough. Women - Eastern European mainly - plus a few local brasses.' She grinned. 'He was third-rate, Patrick, you knew that deep down.'

'Have you any idea why he was topped and whether Leroy had anything to do with it?'

Maya clasped her heavily jewelled hands tightly together.

'Of course I know. I know everything that happens in Soho. Leroy was planning to branch out. He was putting new girls out and about. Not the usual brasses, Pat, more the Awayday type. You know what I mean: come up from the suburbs for the evening, do a bit of collar then go home again. None of them wanted to embrace the life full-time. Leroy was doing quite well by all accounts but he trod on a few toes. Yours and Duggan's for a start. A couple of the lap dancers were moonlighting for him. Duggan got annoyed, they fell out. That really is the crux of it. But the little black shit wouldn't have had the guts to kill Duggan.'

'So what made you remove Leroy then?'

Maya shrugged and lit a small cigar. 'That's private business, but I will tell you anyway. He was selling skag to a few of my girls. I warned him on more than one occasion and then he poached a couple. I had a word. He fucked me off so I had him wasted. Simple economics, Pat, nothing personal.'

He smiled and wiped his forehead in a comical gesture.

'That's all right then.'

She grinned. 'He was shit on our shoes. Better we finish him now before he became too rich and protected.'

He nodded. 'Who do you think wasted Micky, then?'

'Please, Pat, where do you want me to start? He had more enemies than me and you put together. He courted trouble. It was bound to happen. Plus he was a cokehead and that always causes trouble in business. With his temperament coke was the last thing he needed, don't you think?'

'Heard anything on the pipeline, anything at all?'

'Only speculation. I'll keep my ear to the ground and if I hear anything interesting you'll be the first to know, OK?'

Patrick rubbed his eyes. 'I suppose that will have to do for the time being,' he said tiredly.

Maya reached across the desk and took his hand.

'Micky was an accident waiting to happen. Remember that in all your other business dealings. No matter how good the scam, first look at the perpetrators and decide whether you actually want to be with these people. It's what I do and it's stood me in good stead. Take a hard look at all your workforce on a regular basis, and decide whether they are working for you - or against you.'

Pat liked Maya but her constant preaching gave him the hump at times.

'Good advice.' He forced a smile on to his face.

She smiled back. 'You know it makes sense.'

* * *



Caroline was in a small holding cell. Her make-up was gone, her skin was blotchy and her heart was rising and falling inside her chest so erratically she wondered if she was going to have a seizure.

She thought of Ivor, and tried to push the horrific images out of her mind. She saw him dead, disfigured, still smiling at her. And closed her eyes once more.

The cell door opened and she was given a thick white mug of tea and a sandwich, which she wolfed down hungrily. The cheap margarine made her grimace. She took a long noisy sip of scalding tea to compensate.

The sergeant watched her. So this was a concerned mother? He wondered what the world was coming to. When his youngest daughter had had mumps he'd not been able to sleep properly for a week through worry. This woman had mislaid a child, possibly killed it, and she was noshing away like it was a family picnic.

But that was what you were dealing with these days. Scum. None of them married. None of them with a man. He saw them every day of his working life and it depressed him. The whole fabric of society was broken and no one seemed to give a fuck.

He slammed and locked the cell door loudly, reminding Caroline of exactly where she was and how much shit she was in.

It certainly made him feel better.
* * *

Patrick walked into his house and ordered coffee, the newspaper and a sandwich from his housekeeper. As he settled himself in the conservatory and waited he looked out impatiently over his perfectly manicured lawns. This house got on his nerves at times; it was like a library, too quiet.

He picked up his messages and scanned them. Nothing he could be bothered with right now. Food and sustenance first then his thinking cap on. He was going to have to go into overdrive soon and start getting some answers.

He picked up a pad and started to make a list of people he was going to see. Something was niggling at him but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Sitting in his leather wing chair, Pat thought about Kate. She was going to go ballistic, but he was sure he could talk her down eventually. He only hoped he had the guts to explain everything to her before someone else told her. Kate was so good, so honest, that at times it grieved him.

In the past, he had always felt that people like her were mugs, to be taken advantage of. Now, though, her goodness was the basis for his love and admiration. Kate would never bat away from home, he was as sure of that as he was of his own name.

She was decent.

She had swallowed what had happened with his daughter.

She had known that he had tried to arrange the murder of George Markham. But she had understood his anger, his feelings of fear and loathing because he had not been able to protect his only child. She had seen first-hand how the death of his beloved Mandy had affected him. He had needed to relieve his feelings of inadequacy and hurt, and he had done it in the only way he knew how. He had made sure that George Markham would pay.

However, by a cruel twist of fate, Markham had died at the hands of a prostitute. A fitting end for him.

But Patrick would have had him murdered, and would have slept better at nights knowing he'd done it. He had paid a serious amount of money to see that man dead; it was money he would never have regretted, and even though Markham died a vicious death, an agonising death, Patrick still felt deep inside that he had lost out.

He would do it all over again. Kate knew that; and he thought she could accept it.

But that was the other thing he loved about her: she could see two sides to everything, and unlike most people could admit when she was wrong. If only he shared those attributes, life would have been a lot easier over the years.

He took some deep breaths and concentrated his mind on what he was doing. The list was growing longer, but held out little hope. It occurred to him then that he was clutching at straws. What he needed was one good kick and he was on his way. If he could tell Kate what was going down before she heard the official version, he would be halfway home. But just the simple fact he owned the lap-dancing club was going to cause him aggravation of the highest calibre.

He wished now he had confided in her about it sooner. She wouldn't have liked it but it was legal and above board, and she might have accepted it. Now it looked as if he'd been trying to get one over on her. That was what would cause the real hag.

The coffee had given him indigestion and he rubbed at his chest. This was all he needed on top of everything else. He glanced at the clock and saw it was getting late. Normally Kate had rung by now. A prickle of fear touched the back of his neck and he shivered. He shrugged off the feeling by reminding himself that she was working on a difficult case that was also very emotive, so he could not expect the usual banter and chatter two or three times a day. But that icy hand still seemed to be gripping his heart.

Hoping to lose himself in the news, he opened the paper. There was an article on the Internet and it depressed him. He had already been offered an in on over six different porn sites. Kate came into his mind again and he sighed. There was real money to be made on the net and he knew that if he got in now, he would coin in a fortune at some point. But for Kate, always Kate, sitting on his shoulder whispering reproaches in his ear.

He smiled. She was a good woman, none better, and since being with her he had not had a moment's inclination to stray, which was strange in as much as Patrick Kelly could have anyone he wanted. Most women he dealt with were there for the taking by the highest bidder. And therein lay the crux of his problem: he didn't want to buy sex, not even with presents and trips abroad as opposed to good hard cash. He wanted sex with someone he loved. Someone he cared about. Though he knew that most men of his acquaintance would have had him committed if he'd said that out loud.

But he would miss Kate so much if she weren't there. He could talk to her about anything. A little voice inside was saying: Yeah, except your lap-dancing club and the other businesses she knows nothing about. He forced the voice from his mind and concentrated on the newspaper article.

When the phone rang at last, it wasn't Kate. It was more trouble.

Taking a deep breath, Pat listened to a high-pitched female voice telling him that four of the hostesses had not turned in and that the others were all handing in their notice. Patrick slammed down the phone and quelled an urge to throw it through the glass window of the conservatory and into the pool. Instead he went up to his bedroom and had a long hot shower. It occurred to him then that he was waiting for something to happen. It was an oppressive feeling, bearing down on him all the time.

As he stepped from the shower he felt the stab of indigestion again. This time it was a slow burn. He went to the bedside cabinet and ate a couple of Remagels, chewing them furiously to try and counteract the pain in his chest. Then he picked up the phone and dialled Kate's extension. A recorded message came on and he replaced the receiver. He dialled her mobile and was once more greeted by voicemail.

He was getting annoyed now, and paranoid. Was she avoiding him? But he knew that was silly. He was getting things out of proportion.

Opening the wardrobe, he pulled out a dressing gown. Without knowing why, he opened Kate's side of the wardrobe and then he knew what was bothering him so much. Just seeing her clothes there had quietened his racing heart. For one awful moment, he thought she might have left him. It had been in the back of his mind all day. He had half expected to see empty closets.

When he heard the front door slam he felt faint with relief, listening with joy to the sound of her heels on the stairs. As she burst through the bedroom door he was smiling widely, so pleased to see her he felt his whole body would burst.

Then she stopped dead and stared at him coldly.

'You have some explaining to do, Patrick Kelly, and believe me when I say it had better be fucking good!'