Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Wednesday 18th March 2020
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
One Month Later
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
Dedication –
To Baroness Lola Young and Kevin Hyland for opening my eyes to Modern-Day Slavery … but mostly for all those victims of this appalling abuse of human rights.
‘Once you know, you can’t claim ignorance’ Baroness Lola Young
February 2019
A sharp rat-a-tat-tat somewhere near his head shattered his reassurance. Someone was out there banging on the side of the bin. Stefan held his breath and his body stiffened. Maybe it was one of the workers out for a smoke. He strained his ears. He couldn’t hear anything else – no dogs, no voices. Maybe whoever it was had gone.
Then it came – a coarse singsong whisper penetrating the plastic bin – taunting and at the same time chilling him. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’
This was followed by ferocious yelping and Stefan knew the game was up. The lid was thrown back and a bright torch shone into the inside. In a last-ditch attempt, Stefan remained still and silent, but it was no good. Whoever shone the torch followed that by pushing a long prod through the layers of cardboard. When it connected with his body, Stefan braced himself not to react, then the electric current from the Taser had him yelping in pain as his entire body shook for a moment and then became numb. Seconds later, two of Bullet’s henchmen dragged him from the bin and flung him in a heap on the wet ground. The dogs, salivating and over-excited, pranced and jumped close to him, taking the odd nipping bite before they were yanked back by their owners.
‘Oh dear. This makes me very sad, you know. It also makes my boss very sad.’ Bullet tilted his head to one side and laughed. ‘Actually, it doesn’t make him sad so much as angry.’
He waved his phone in the air. ‘He told me to hit you where it hurts and boy, am I going to enjoy doing that.’
DS Felicity Springer couldn’t wait to get home. She’d thrown her stuff into her case, and walked, red-faced, past her colleagues who lingered in the hallway making plans to extend the weekend. She exited the hotel on her walk of shame. It didn’t matter that no one was paying the slightest bit of attention to her – she had a vague recollection of what had happened, and she felt dirty. Why had this happened? She had Stevie after all – how could she have allowed herself to get so drunk … so out of control?
Straightening her spine, she dragged her trolley case over to her car, blinked back her tears – she didn’t do tears – shoved her luggage in the boot of her Kia Sportage and got in, just as it began to snow. Hidden from view, she rested her head on the steering wheel, wishing she could clear her brain; that the pounding at her temple would go. She wasn’t even sure she should be driving. Maybe she was still over the limit but there was no way she could remain for the rest of the conference.
She’d had an awful time anyway, feeling totally out of her depth at the multi-agency ‘Making Bradford Safe’ conference. It had been billed as a way of working together to get the drugs, the weapons and the gangs off the streets. The first step in flushing out any of those businesses who were employing trafficked immigrants. It smacked of lip service to Springer, because she knew fine and well there wasn’t enough in the coffers to finance their grandiose ideas. Still, it was worth it to get different agencies together … share ideas, break down barriers. On a personal level though, Springer was pissed off. Nobody, not even the bosses from her own agency, had given her contributions credence. It was all crap, crap and more damn crap. Perhaps that’s why she went off the rails, but that was just making excuses and no excuse could ever be good enough for what she had done. As she’d walked through the hallway, she had felt like she had the word SLUT tattooed across her forehead and she reckoned that by the time she walked through the front door to Stevie, SLUT would have morphed into CHEATER.
Her head pounded – just how much did I have to drink? Last night was a blur. She’d had wine with her evening meal, but she thought she’d only had a glass. Afterwards she’d forced herself to go to the disco and she vaguely remembered dancing – really? Felicity rarely danced. How much did I really drink? Surely not enough to account for that one very big mistake. The sort of mistake she was going to feel guilty about for a long time to come. She had someone at home who cared for her. So, why had she risked that for a sleazy fumble with a lecherous loser? He was always a bit of a dick, so she couldn’t quite make sense of how the hell she had ended up in bed beside him. She remembered vaguely chatting to him, and she’d ended up in his room … in his bed, so …
Thing was, she wasn’t a hundred per cent sure what had gone on. She barely remembered the post-conference party. It was all a blur of blaring music, flashing lights, gyrating bodies and loud laughter. Snapshots of it came back to her; laughter, drinking, chanting, ‘down it, down it, down it’, but none of it was in sequence. As for after the party … in the hotel room … well, that wasn’t clear either. She laughed humourlessly. So much for the session on monitoring binge-drinking in the Bradford district!
Her phone rang, and looking at the screen, she groaned. Feeling like a bitch, she let it go to voicemail. She couldn’t face speaking to Stevie. How was she supposed to act like everything was okay when she’d betrayed the person she loved?
A wave of nausea overtook her. She took slow, deep breaths to control it, then rummaged in the glove compartment for a bottle of water. After only a few sips, her stomach heaved, and she barely got the car door open before vomiting, the warmth of her puke melting the already layered snow. Aware